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the-littlest-goblin · 4 years ago

Note

Shadowgast prompt: Essek was spying on the dinner convo with Trent (shhhh I know he probably has anti scrying wards all over that tower but idc), his reactions to hearing Trent justifying his abuse as love (maybe with thoughts about his own family situation?)

It’s angst time, folks.

______________________________________________________________

The first time, he was able to justify it to himself.

He didn’t want to contact any of the Mighty Nein directly, not with how they had left things, but he still had to know they were ok. He had to.

He told himself that he would cast the spell just to test that it reached its target, to confirm they were alive. Maybe a quick peek to make sure they weren’t in immediate peril. Perfectly fine, not an invasion of privacy.

The next few times were… less defensible.

It became a pattern: Scry on one of them. Reassure himself that they were all alive. Vow not to do it again. Spend another week with a stifled fear whispering at the back of his mind, growing louder each passing day that was not interrupted by a cheery voice invading his mind with some inane message. Give in. Scry again.

He doesn’t know what possesses him to cast it on Caleb this time. A previous scry confirmed that Caleb no longer wears his anti-detection amulet, but even without it, he was able to resist when Essek attempted to spy on him directly. He should pick a surer target, or risk wasting the spell.

But Caleb remains his focus as he completes the incantation, and miracle of miracles, he feels his magic break through Caleb’s mental defenses a split-second before the scry overtakes his vision.

There are flashes of a bustling city, Empire architecture everywhere. The spell homes in on an imposing wizard’s tower and then zooms into a room inside, crystallizing on a red-haired figure seated at a lavish dining table.

Caleb is wearing the same finery he sported in Nicodranas on that night, and the sight of it sends an uncomfortable jolt through Essek. He shoves the memories aside. Focus. This is a spell that requires full concentration.

From the blurred edges of the scry, a voice reaches Essek’s ears—a sickening, familiar voice.

“...the prodigy I always knew he was. While some students take direct tutelage and study, some are unique in how they best develop: through self-discovery, others inspired through hardship.”

Trent is seated a few feet away from Caleb, far enough that he is barely a blur of pale skin and dark robe in Essek’s vision. Regardless, his insipid voice is recognizable enough on its own, with or without the unfortunate visage that normally accompanies it.

Essek feels his mouth curl uncontrollably into a sneer as Trent continues in the course of whatever it is he’s monologuing about this time.

"Historically, the most talented mages have indeed walked this path, or the greatest ambitions come from those who have endured the dark and crawled their way back."

Veth, her form equally hazy as Ikithon’s, pipes up from the other side of the table, “So you're apologizing, then?”

Beau responds, her tone and diction unmistakable even though her visual is fully out of the limits of Essek’s scry. “No, it sounds like he's trying to take fucking credit.”

Apologizing for what? Taking credit for what? Curiosity bubbles up in Essek, insatiable and undeniable.

Through all this, Caleb is the only clear thing he can see, and Essek watches as his face contorts itself in pain—not the wailing, open-mouthed countenance of physical injury, but the subdued, tight-lipped expression of internal anguish. He is looking in Trent’s direction.

There is misery behind his eyes. There is also hatred.

Trent is speaking again.

"Forgive me, Bren.” Essek’s brain does a momentary double-take at the unfamiliar name, but it doesn’t take much to put the pieces together.

"I could see your gifts, and your faults and limitations. To truly grow, you needed to be broken and left to build yourself. It took longer than we anticipated, but when you were ready, we turned on the light and showed you the door."

Without more context, it is impossible to fully understand this conversation, even for someone as shrewd as Essek. But though he does not know the exact nature of Caleb and Trent’s history, or what it means when Trent produces a symbol of the Arch Heart, or why Caleb appears even more distraught when he looks at it, Essek can still recognize the dynamics at play here. A slimy, squirming disgust curls in his gut, like the unctuous voice of Trent made manifest.

I understand the pressure of being young, and the expectation. Caleb had said this to him once, a thousand years ago, on the happiest night of Essek’s life. He had sensed the kinship between them long before that, the shared spark of brilliance, of curiosity, of a life shaped by cruelly pragmatic hands.

He had replied, Experience is what hardens you, prepares you for the worst. I think you're prepared for more than you give yourself credit for, Caleb. He knows now, with absolute certainty, that he was correct. Yet another thing they have in common.

Trent is still talking. "And I cannot tell you how proud of you I am—we are. And I know you hate me, Bren. Hate what I've put you through, and I accept those feelings. For it was a hard choice for me to make. What I did, though, I did out of love."

There’s an immediate scoff—Jester, Essek thinks, though it’s hard to tell. Whoever it was, Essek wholeheartedly agrees.

No one who claims that their actions were done out of love has ever said so sincerely. If they have to justify it as such, then it wasn’t real love. Essek knows this for certain, having been on both sides of the matter, and also finally understanding what real love actually looks like.

He’s heard selfishness pitched as altruism, cruelty twisted to sound like mercy, has had as much said to his face by those who claim to love him, but whom he fully believes care nothing for him beyond his abilities and the services he can provide. The greater good has been invoked in the name of so many evil acts throughout history.

Which is exactly why he has never tried to delude himself, or others, that his own terrible deeds were done out of good intentions. Anything can sound justified with the right turns of phrase; that is half his job as the Shadowhand. That doesn’t make any of it true, or make the perpetrator any less blameworthy.

“To what end? To use me?” Caleb asks. Essek can’t help but admire the steady strength of his voice, though he knows he has no right to the pride that fills his chest at hearing it.

"No, to show you what you are capable of.” Trent’s voice is full of intensity, sounding almost desperate to make Caleb understand. "It was your parents' wish when I told them of the spark that I saw within you. They asked me to do whatever it took to help you realize it, for the glory of your family, and for the Empire.”

For the Den, Essek. For the Dynasty. How many times has he heard appeals to family and legacy and patriotism? From the Queen ordering her soldiers to battle; from the Umavi demanding nothing short of perfection from her children, whatever is takes to achieve it. How would they feel, to know their most detested enemies use indistinguishable rhetoric?

“I did just that, as much as it hurt to hurt you. It is the greater man who puts the needs of others over himself, Bren. And this nation needs you."

With that, Essek’s vision fades into black as the scry reaches its end. The image of Caleb’s pained expression stays imprinted behind his eyelids even as he blinks them open back to his candlelit laboratory.

The sick feeling does not dissipate. It is joined by the sour taste of bile in the back of Essek’s mouth as his mind replays pieces of what he heard over and over again.

It’s not verbatim what’s been said to him in the past, but it comes from the same crop of manipulation.

There is nothing Essek can do to help Caleb, nothing whatsoever. Despite this, a part of him yearns to teleport to Rexxentrum right this second, damn the chances of a mishap, and damn the fact that if he arrives in the Empire successfully, he is sure to be arrested or killed on sight.

What ultimately shuts the impulse down is reminding himself that, even if he could get there and evade capture, it is highly unlikely that Caleb would be happy to see him.

He really hopes the Mighty Nein send him a message soon.

#critrole #critical role #essek thelyss #shadowgast #my writing #fic prompts #mithrilwren #abuse cw #only alluded to but still

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ms-maj · 5 years ago

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Into Philadelphia

Back to the songfics! Sorry folks…only not really :)

The many many many many thank yous are owed to @bettycooper for making this much, much better. Cat is a rock star. ‘Nuff said.

We’ll slip away, we’ll slip away

I’ll count the days, I’ll count the days and weeks until it’s summer

Baby do you wanna take a ride, wanna take a ride

Into Philadelphia

Think I maybe wanna take a ride, do you wanna take a ride

Into Philadelphia

Straight into the belly of the dream

Into Philadelphia- John Faye

“Do you think maybe you want to get out of Riverdale this weekend?” His voice is soft over the phone, not like he’s trying to hide what he’s saying, but because that’s how he always speaks to her. Betty leans against the frame of the window, feet tucked up on the seat beneath her.

“I think that I definitely want to get out of Riverdale for the weekend.” Even though Jughead’s miles away at Stonewall Prep, his laughter fills her room—their room—and makes the familiar space feel more like a home than it has in a long while. “What did you have in mind?”

Jughead has been at Stonewall for three months, seventeen days, and too many minutes than she could bear to count. She knew this was his shot, even if he was a parvenu awash in an endless sea of the bourgeoisie. (See, she could be a pretentious twat too.)

They try to make the most of their weekends together, but occupying the same space as her mother, her boyfriend’s father, and said boyfriend’s younger sister proves that nearly impossible. Hurried kisses. Fumbling, fast, furious hands grappling with too many layers, and skin seeking skin even if for the most passing of moments. Besides, the omnipresent doom that seems to pervade Riverdale doesn’t give them much time to just enjoy each other’s company.

“Do you trust me?”

“While I realize your question is completely rhetorical, it still baffles me why you think for a second you’d have to ask me that?”

If she closes her eyes hard enough, she can picture his hand swiping across his brow. “Fine. Bring a bag when you pick me up on Friday. We’ll leave straight from here.”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

“Cute. I should probably get going. I have two essays to write and calculus…why am I taking calculus?” Another soft laugh filters through the phone before turning into a sigh.

Betty smiles sadly. Even their phone calls are shorter and fewer in between. “Okay, go be studious. Is there anything I should know about where we’re going or what we’re doing?”

“And here I thought your trust in me was immutable. You wound me, Cooper.”

Keep reading below or here

“For packing purposes, Jones. You can’t tell me to bring a bag and not tell me what kind of stuff I should pack in it.”

“Well, less is more.”

She gets off the window seat and makes her way toward the closet, opening the doors and thumbing through the contents. “I assume we’ll have to leave wherever it is we’re going at some point. Will that require leggings, jeans, or perhaps something a little nicer?”

He hums as if considering. “I suppose you could bring something nice…even if it only sees the floor.”

“Now, now,”’ she tuts, “ before I let you go back to the maddening world of academia, do you need me to bring anything from here?”

“I’ve got everything I need except you,” Betty feels the warm affection bloom in her chest, the space in her heart carved out exactly in his likeness.

She tries—almost successfully—to mask the threatening tears with a cough. She can hear the sadness in his voice as he tries for her attention. “It’s not what you think, Juggie. I’m fine. Everything is fine!” The words ring even more false out loud than they do in her head.

“Which is exactly why we’re going away. Because I hate this too, Betts, but…”

“I know; I know. I’ll let you go. I know how much you have to do too.”

They can’t sleep together yet, but there’s solace in knowing it’s coming soon and in isolation for once.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s cold in Riverdale. She assumes that wherever they’re going will be cold as well considering it can’t be too far away for a weekend trip. Betty’s glad she didn’t have to convince FP to let her use the station wagon. Apparently, whatever Jughead has planned was given the “okay” by at least one parental figure. Not that this says much, but she’s certainly not going to kick a gift horse in the mouth. She’s also glad they’ve got the vehicle with consistent heat.

Time seems to be ticking by even more slowly than it had while waiting for classes to end at Riverdale High, but in the parking lot of Stonewall Prep, time is a paradoxical construct. At least that’s what it felt like anyway. Jughead’s classes were typically over by three, same as hers, but every so often, she found herself waiting for hours—unanswered texts followed by a flurry of apologetic kisses when he finally climbed into the cab. She’s certain his new classmates just like to make her suffer by proxy.

Today, fortunately, she waits only about twenty minutes before she sees him jogging across the lot. She slides over the bench seat as he approaches the driver’s side. Tossing his duffle bag into the back seat, he slams the door behind him, pulling her favorite red and black checkered sherpa tighter around him.

“Cold?” she questions with a raise of her brow. His hand is on her neck, icy cold digits curling into the baby hairs at the nape, and she shrieks, trying to push him off of her but he pulls her closer instead.

“I know just the way to warm up,” and his lips are on hers. She could agree that, like this, time is most certainly a paradox. She could happily stay in this moment forever, to live in this feeling again and again and again for all of eternity: Jughead’s hands roaming her body, his tongue coaxing breathy moans that stoke a fire she cannot wait to be engulfed in.

Jughead pulls away, Betty chasing his lips as he smiles, and presses his lips to her nose. “Definitely warm now. You ready to get the hell out of dodge?” The hand that held her neck now cups her cheek as she nods, his thumb rubbing across the apple before he grabs his seatbelt. Betty does the same and settles into the passenger seat as they make their way away from Stonewall.

“Do I get to know our final destination yet?” His hand crosses the seat and lifts hers enough to lace their fingers together, bringing their joined hands to his lips to kiss her knuckles while he shakes his head no.

She scoffs, in mostly mock irritation, but doesn’t pull her hand away. Instead, still gripping one another tightly, their hands fall between them, reinforcing the physical tether which seems to be missing as of late. It’s hard to be this young and this in love under the most normal of circumstances, what with the raging hormonal impulses of teendom and the ever-pressing nature of change they’re not physiologically adept at handling yet, but against the backdrop of separate schools and merely existing in Riverdale, it seems more fraught than it should.

Behind them, the sun is starting to set. A flood of orange and pink fills the car; it wraps and settles around them, Jughead’s warm skin glowing in the dusk. He’s telling her about essays, the calculus exam, and how much harder it all is, but that it’s equally rewarding. He’s smiling, the easy, real smile she can never get enough of, and she feels instant guilt for every second she’s been angry at his being gone.

More than anyone she knows, he deserves this. She knows that, which is why she’d been insistent and honest about his need to go. She could never have begrudged him this opportunity—even if it hurts like hell when he’s gone.

It’s in these moments of serene calm and quiet, which come so few and far between, when Betty can feel the steady beat of Jughead’s pulse against her own, that she knows—not that she doesn’t always know, but sometimes that deep dark, insecure piece of her psyche is disquieted and she can’t help but wonder if he thinks she’s worth it.

One particularly hard week when the stresses of trying to parent her mother and her friends and live up to the insanely high expectations everyone seems to have of her, she asked him as much. Did being with her make his life any easier, any better? She’d felt like a lead balloon, sinking and pulling everyone down with her, and she refused to let him become another Cooper Casualty. He held her while she cried, while she insisted that he pack up the rest of her room and send her on her way, because this couldn’t be good for him. He simply wiped the tears from her cheeks, carried her to their bed, and recounted all the ways she was, indeed, perfect for him.

She smiles at the memory and feels his hand squeeze hers tighter before his fingers slip from her grasp, and she watches as they flex around the steering wheel as he merges onto I-87.

“Are we going to New York?” Betty asks, sitting up a little straighter as she looks toward the distant skyline.

He shakes his head. “We are not. Now, no more guessing. Just enjoy the ride. For once.” She laughs but lets herself get lost in his carefully cultivated playlist. The yellow lines blur on the pavement, rushing them toward somewhere, and something, new.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There’s still a good twenty miles before they actually arrive, but she now knows their intended location.

Philadelphia.

Betty can vaguely remember a conversation they had when they were maybe twelve, after they’d been learning about the Revolutionary War, about wanting to see the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall, but nothing more than that.

“Listen, I know. I hadn’t really been sold on it either, but I don’t think you’ll hate anything on the agenda.”

This catches her attention. She leans as far forward as the seatbelt allows while keeping her eyes fixed on him. “Agenda?”

Now, she would never say that her boyfriend wasn’t a planner; he was an idea man who knew what he wanted. Sometimes, though, he was more an adept juggler who was able to think critically and course correct when something went awry. (Well, mostly.)

“Yes, agenda: schedule, to-do list, docket. Things we are going to do and see in Philly.”

“I know what you meant, thank you. I’m just confused. Why wouldn’t you tell me where we’re going? I could have helped you!”

His brows knit as he carefully merges into the growing traffic on I-95. “Did you really think I would go through all the trouble of keeping this a surprise if I didn’t have a few tricks up my sleeve?”

“Why here? Why Philly?”

“Why not Philly?” He was starting to sound defensive, and that wasn’t Betty’s intention. It was only genuine curiosity.

“I’m not mad, Juggie. I’m excited, truly. It just seems like a lot to undertake when you’ve been so stressed about school, and I know I haven’t been as helpful—”

“Don’t. This is about both of us getting a much-deserved break. I didn’t say I didn’t have any help. You’re right, I couldn’t have done all of this alone. But I just wanted to do something for you.”

“Jug,” she reaches across the space between them and rubs his shoulder. “You always ‘do’ for me. I don’t need vacations, or gifts, or anything but you .”

“I know,” his eyes flick from the road for a second to catch hers. “I know, but I need it to be just us, even for a little while. I know it sounds silly and selfish, but Betty, I just want you to myself. For once. Just you and me”

“Okay, but for the record, I’m not going anywhere. No matter how weird things get back home, whatever psycho-killer comes to Riverdale next, or how hard it is being apart. Being with you…” her voice fails, or the words she’s trying to get out do. His hand finds hers in the ever-growing city light, thumb brushing the knuckles of her left hand as she tries to find the words.

They’ve talked about it—the future—in abstracts mostly, but she can’t help but feel absolutes when he says things like “long haul” and “you’re the one I choose.” And under the towering buildings and twinkling lights, that future doesn’t seem like a pipe dream.

Jughead’s hand slides off hers and back to the wheel as he tries to navigate the strange city. Betty smiles, confident he knows what she’d been trying to convey, and takes a moment to really survey her surroundings.

The farther they drive into Philadelphia, the more she sees what she’s heard about the city. It certainly has the modern, monolithic skyscrapers she associates with cities of this size, but there’s something about just how many old buildings fill the spaces between them that makes it feel almost quaint. These little pockets of the past, preserved in a concrete wasteland, she can’t wait to see in the daylight. Especially as they move toward Center City, where the vestiges of colonial Philadelphia are sandwiched between the harsh neon lights of the WaWas and Wegmans.

The streets narrow, some are actual cobblestone, as they pass through the heart of Philly. It’s not long before they pull under a large red gate, Jughead maneuvering the old station wagon into the spot marked “42C.”

They spend their first night exploring South Street, eating their way up and down the eclectic stretch of history and hysteria. Jughead fills her in on the plans for the next day, and in their first night of true privacy in far too long, they do some personal exploration of their own.

It’s brisk. Nearly colder than brisk. Snow falls lightly around them, softly twinkling as it catches in the golden light of Love Park. Jughead wraps an arm tightly around Betty as they make their way through the immense Christmas Village that dominates the large swath of Center City. It’s slightly overwhelming—the sheer amount of people, things to look at, things to eat— but watching Betty’s eyes shine under the twinkle lights is worth every, single, second.

“So, tomorrow we’re going to see Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell, right?” she asks through the dark veil of her lashes, snow starting to dampen them, all rosy-cheeked from the cold.

He nods, glad he’s wearing the heaviest of his sherpa jackets and disregarded the advice of his roommate who said it was too casual for slacks. Betty isn’t in a skirt. She’s bundled in layers of wool, nestled under the crux of his arm, but it’ll catch them soon enough. Jughead hopes they’ll be home before then.

Home.

The word looms heavy in front of them though they dare not confront it. Tomorrow, they’ll be back in their respective beds, only miles apart in reality but what feels more like worlds apart. He tries to push it from his mind, to be in the moment with the woman who followed him without hesitation, even if it meant being surprised, but the idea of returning to a cold, empty bed in a cold, empty hall persists.

He thinks she is, surprised that is, about coming to Philly. It surprised him too: a place to stay free of charge so long as he made an appointment to visit two colleges while he was there. Luckily for him, Betty Cooper is excited when he sheepishly tells her they have to go to Temple and Penn in between touring Boathouse Row and The Franklin Institute. Stonewall has these satellite studios in Boston and New York too. He wonders where else he can take her; what else can he experience by her side?

It used to be in these moments when he’d panic. The idea of anything actually lasting in his life still causes palpitations from time to time, but the anxiety is never about whether she’s by his side or not. She is. In every nightmare scenario, she’s with him, save for the ones where they’re actually being forced apart, but there is no place and time it’s not the two of them against the world. It’s this epiphany that brings him to today. He smiles to himself as he pulls her closer, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head as she gushes about their visit to the Mütter Museum and Philadelphia Museum of Art earlier in the day.

“We’re also going to eat our way through Reading Terminal Market,” he waggles his brows emphatically, and the laughter bubbles out, shaking him along with her. Jughead Jones might be the only person in the world who gets to experience this Betty. The real Betty. The one who laughs at his corny jokes, who ensures he knows he’s worthwhile and worthy of love, who solves mysteries at the expense of her family and her sanity, and who only knows sacrifice yet sees so little reward. It wouldn’t be like her to ask for one, or for the break they both so desperately needed, but he couldn’t bear to hear her voice breaking on one more phone call. Not when, at least on his front, she has nothing to worry about.

“Jug,” her voice is like warm honey as she pulls a gloved hand from her pocket and entwines her fingers with his as it hangs over her shoulder. “Think maybe we can get some food right now? I don’t want to leave again tonight after we get back.”

“Oh no?”

“Nope,” she says popping the “p” and turning her face toward his. “I just noticed there was a fireplace in the living room, and the last time we tried anything involving a fireplace, we ended up having a movie night with our entire extended family.”

He remembers that particular night. He does not plan on repeating it. Her lashes flutter against his neck as the heat of her breath sends a shiver down his spine. “Right, food. Let’s do that.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The snow’s been picking up. What started as a soft, gauzy curtain now fully blankets the city in a sparkling white chrysalis. They’re on the couch, wrapped up in blankets and each other, watching as the snow falls onto the courtyard outside their window. The frost gives the glass an almost frame, their bodies reflected in the twinkling firelight perfectly centered in the pane.

He and Betty have shared many moments since that day in her bedroom, most good and some not-so-good, but every second has made them what they are today. He’s the first to admit that, in the beginning, he was certain things would end between them before either got too invested. (Well, before she got too invested. He was one-hundred percent all in from the get-go.)

Being away has made him realize a few things. First, while money can buy a lot of things, it has no bearing on taste. Case in point, the cafeteria at Stonewall Prep. Gourmet it may be, but it doesn’t hold a candle to Pop’s. And second, as dysfunctional as his family unit is, and it really, really is, he knows love. His father loves him and is actually getting better at showing it, and though the fear of him falling off the wagon never really goes away, it’s lessened to a manageable degree. Jellybean is home and doing mostly well—as well as any thirteen-year-old who’s seen and done the things she’s already been forced to do can be. Alice is Alice, but at least she’s around. Not that her doing so provides him, or Betty for that matter, any comfort, but it gives some semblance of normalcy they’ve all been desperate to recapture.

And Betty? He smiles against her lips, hands twisting in her golden hair as her eyes flutter open.

“What?” Her voice is breathy as his fingers slide from her mane of curls. Jughead scoots toward the arm of the chair, reaching for his discarded jacket, while she adjusts the blanket over her shoulder, an inquisitive quirk of her brow reiterates the question she just asked.

“Do you remember when I was being especially dramatic?”

“Oh, which time, Jug? There are literally so many possibilities.”

Lunging forward, he wraps his arms around her waist and hauls her into his lap. He doesn’t tickle her, just readjusts the blanket that slid in the move and drops his arms to settle right above her hips. Betty’s are wrapped around his neck, fingers twining the hairs at the nape of his neck between her slender fingers.

“You were being dramatic?” she questions. The fire glows behind her, amber and ember amidst the growing tundra outside.

He exhales one long, slow, steady breath. “When I asked you to marry me.”

Betty’s forehead creases as their eyes meet. A confused laugh escapes. “Jughead, what are you talking about? You’ve never…”

Words cease falling from her lips as he slides his decidedly not-empty hand along her side and holds the small box between them. Betty’s hands fall from around his neck and immediately find their way in front of her face.

“This is not some impromptu proposal. It’s not because we’re finally alone and in the heat of some moment I ask you to marry me. I’ve thought, been thinking, about this almost every day since I left Riverdale High. Not necessarily asking you, per se, but more like the realization that an entire lifetime of achievements and accomplishments means nothing if you’re not by my side.”

“Jug,” her voice is a lost whisper amongst the crackling logs and howling wind. He takes the ring from the box, a dainty opal in an antique setting, and gently pulls her left hand from her mouth.

“There is nothing I want more than a future with you. I told you once we were on borrowed time, and I have never been happier to be proven wrong in my life. I bought this ring three weeks ago and tried to convince myself I wasn’t going to do this until after graduation–that there was something fundamentally wrong with getting engaged in high school. And I get it; I do. We are completely surrounded by marriages marred by too much time and not enough knowledge. But I know the you inside of you, and I love her as much as she loves the deepest, darkest parts of me. Marry me, Betty Cooper. Today. Tomorrow. Some fixed point in the not-too-distant future. Don’t make me wait.”

He steadies the ring at the tip of her finger, holding his breath until he feels her hand sliding forward. The “yes” she all but breathes against his lips is swallowed by his kiss. She pulls away long before he’s ready to admire the stone against her skin. The smile on her face is worth every second of doubt. Turning, she shifts to be sat between his legs, leaning her head against his chest.

Her sigh is one of contentment as she holds her hand up in front of them. The ring looks more right on her finger than he ever dared to hope. He can feel the millions of things racing through her mind across the silence. Entwining her newly embellished hand with his, he pulls them to her chest and presses a kiss to the crown of her head. Tomorrow, before they’re forced back to their separate realities, they’ll discuss it, but tonight, tonight is for them and their love. Which they prove to one another over and over again.

#bughead fanfiction #bughead #songfic writing challenge 2019 #well aware it's 2020 #and still more to come #cat is a rock star

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juleswolverton-hyde · 6 years ago

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Aftermath (NJ x Reader)

Genre: Smut, Angst, Guesthouse AU

Pairing: Guesthouse Manager!Namjoon x Foreign!Reader

Warnings: Dirty talk, possessive behaviour, rough unprotected sex on the kitchen counter (ALWAYS use precautions, lads and lasses), accidental voyeurism, squirting, fingering, swearing, breeding/impregnation kink, dom!Namjoon

Summary: The sequel to ‘’Dionysian’’

Every aftermath is different, ranging in variety to all its extents. However, this one experienced by a silver tongue no longer numbed by blueberries does not nullify its need to speak the truth. Thus, the blonde wolf holds on to beliefs made explicit in drunkenness and hopes for physical conviction in sobriety.

By means which carry a sober soul into a former mutual intoxication.

Masterlist

The impact of an aftermath all depends on the reason for its cause, so naturally, it follows that the bigger the agent, the grander the effect of the afterburn. A jet lag tried to be cured by reading, for example, does not have as much if any unpleasant side effects aside from a sense of discombobulation, this is disregarding the fact that what followed the leisurely activity does make walking not all that easy, while the smoky blueberry hangover causes a major headache on top of muttering grumpiness. Withal, and perhaps this is fortunate regardless of the oppressing morality of reality, the negative mood in case of the latter seems to lessen quite a bit when exhausted pained espresso eyes shrouded by haphazard platinum meet drowsy sheepish irises containing various travel stories in the second living room upstairs.

‘Y/N,’ it comes out as a surprised reaction, not having expected to run into the person indirectly involved with the lingering effects of rice-based clear alcohol contained in emerald if that is remembered at all considering the vague forgetful haze shrouding an always comforting gaze, ‘I thought you’d be out and about by now.’

The remark signifies last night has been forgotten and with that the strangely meaningful act that turned out entirely different than expected, oddly making the heart sink with the stone of knowledge that even the genuine passion and devotion has been erased. ‘No, I’m here sleeping off the jet lag. But, uhm, can we talk?’

‘Sure, but,’ a palm presses against the forehead in a futile endeavour to push the likely agonizingly pulsing hurt into retreat, ‘can we do so at a low volume. My head is killing me.’

More than that is currently being figuratively murdered, but there is a voice inside which says that the tall guesthouse manager does not have to know about the events of the past twilight for they are best left in the past. Henceforth, it stays at a consenting nod before two pairs of bare feet ascend the stairs to the stylish though small area both functioning as a hallway, living room, dining room and kitchen all at once.

Along the way, a brief spark of hope is ignited when fingers brush against each other in an absent-minded fashion, hoping for them to entangle entirely or mayhaps go beyond that chaste boundary, falling into the sin left behind in oblivious dusk. A straying digit encourages this renewed type of contact.

But is disregarded as opportunity fades away directly when the wanted big hand swerves away towards the front door where a few coats hang neatly in a row to retrieve a small box of Marlboro Red cigarettes. ‘I’ll be right back. Maybe a smoke will help me clear up.’

The spring weather is warm enough to allow going outside without a jacket provided the upper body is in the least covered by a T-shirt, so the grey long-sleeved shirt on top of loose navy pyjama pants more than suffices when the front door briefly opens and closes without another word to carry on the communication seemingly unaffected by the sensual encounter.

The silence that sets in is cold, the warm lingering affection normally shown nor the traces of the rough version present to calm an anxious heart fearing being abandoned by the handsome manager despite being bound to a gentle ocean artist. Hence, for a moment that feels longer than it truly is, eyes begin to water at the sight of the closed entrance as arms wrap around the shivering body to keep it from unjustly falling apart, barely shy of sobbing when asking the rhetorical questions of the emptiness. ‘Why can’t you remember? Why did it have to mean nothing?’

And with those very same haunting unanswered inquiries, the task of making two decent cups of instant coffee is taken up while fighting the tears that inevitably stream down the cheeks. Shivering hands retrieve a pair of matching crimson and ink black mugs from the cupboard that is slightly too highly installed for the short person determinedly trying to grab a hold of the china, eventually succeeding by standing on the tips of toes. Soft hiccups get lost in the loudly boiling water and the dimmed sobs in the pouring that brings the caffeine to life.

However, a new noise is audible over the tinkling of spoons mixing the powder and water to create a godly beverage: bare feet rapidly padding over the Alaskan white cedar floor after a shocked gasp. Before the door has closed with a hardly audible click, unusually physically affectionate strong arms clad in grey have wrapped around the middle and pulled a fragile figure against a worried chest scented with fresh smoke. ‘Why are you crying?’

‘It- It’s nothing. Do- Don’t worry.’ To move on from the stupidly prominent hurt at the hand of lying fancies, a trivial detail is asked after while continuing to keep the whirlpool in the cup alive, moving. All consuming. ‘Do y- you drink it black?’

‘Y/N, please tell me what’s bothering you. I hate to see you like this.’ The warm breath on locks makes teeth bite down on the lower lip in a desperate attempt to withhold another heavy heave evoked by the genuine loving imaginations it conjures, gravely reminding the mind Taehyung already has an allegation to the title of significant other.

‘Namjoon, re- really. It’s o- okay.’ The handsome tall tree was never meant to be a selfish girl’s lover anyway, so the mourning of the fact is nothing but superfluous information to the man who cannot even remember how amazing and wanted he made her feel. How good it felt to lose control.

‘Is it about last night?’ A plush mouth no longer ghosts over strands grown haphazard by slumber, pressing down on the back of the head in a sincere loving smoke-scented kiss.

A weak nod confirms the suspicion, bravely trying to speak up to ask the question previously asked to the nothingness in a blonde wolf’s wake. ‘Have you forgotten what we did?’

‘I was far gone, too drunk to memorize what happened.’ Had it not been for what follows the statement, the crying might have commenced in earnest without ever giving a proper explanation for it afterwards to neither the platinum giant nor anyone else. Fortunately, the sorrowful chill fades from limbs at the heated reassuring mumbled words. ‘But I remember everything we did, all that I said. How gorgeous you looked while riding me, solely mine instead of his.’

The hug loosens enough to allow for turning around when noticing the urge to do so, needing to see the truth of the claim beneath the soju aftermath.

The dark reminiscent glint says more than enough, emphasizing the wanting has not been nullified over the course of sobering during the remnants of the nightly hours. Especially the barely held back anger pointed towards the artist called a “blueberry” in drunken rage signifies still wanting to be the sole one for a taken travelling individual living on a deadline. ‘I do hate it, you know? Hate it how he’s your boyfriend and I have to watch from the sideline. It should have been me who fucked you when you two came back from eating ramen. In fact, that could have been our second date if only you had recognized the trip to ARTBOX meant as much to me as a first.’

The embrace is made entirely undone as palms move upwards over the upper arms, following the curve of the neck and at last coming to rest on the cheeks where two kind thumbs wipe away the remaining brooks. ‘I don’t care how many men fuck you, but, in the end, I want you to be mine. That, out of all the times another touches you, it’s only meaningful when it’s me. I want you to be mine.’ Lips connect in a kiss tasting of smoke, old alcohol and restless sleep with a fruity hint of blueberries. Not really a preferable combination due to the sharpness of rice alcohol, but otherwise as pleasant, if not more, than the turpentine and lavender experienced each night before going to bed, every morning at waking up and all the little shared moments in between. ‘Leave him. Leave him for me, baby.’

‘I promised he could stay with me.’ Attention shifts to the side, staring at the floor in conflicted self-loathing for wanting to give up for Namjoon but wondering whether it would even matter since the blue-haired art teacher was turned on by the idea of being shared. Said he could learn how to love this body and soul better that way. However, it begs to ask the question where the line is drawn, at which point even this explanation no longer applies.

‘And he still believes that when I’ve clearly marked you as mine? Made him watch you getting a good pounding by me?’ Focus is shifted back by suddenly being picked up and put on the counter, the contact with the cold surface beneath the thighs making a shuddering tingling run down the spine. ‘I want him to stand by and watch, know there isn’t anything he can do to take you from me.’ A tanned hand creeps up the inside of dangling legs, gripping the upper part firmly at the last statement with a concoction of rage pointed towards an absent party and lust towards the present one. ‘Make him feel as I have all this fucking time.’

Helpless palms try to futilely push away the persistent shoulders leaning in to retrace the wonderful path of marks left behind in the twilight purple past, kissing each plum sign of belonging created in the craze of desire, hovering above the gradually heating skin and increasing the temperature by tickling warm breath. Without a second thought, in spite of Sense urging against doing it, fingers acting on muscle memory entangle in soft fluffy platinum locks like they had done before as the foreign body mindlessly bridges the small space between it and the local one.

The obvious hunger for the wolf disguised as a nice guesthouse manager evokes a tangibly bright smile on full lips while the oversized piece of clothing which is the property of a rival is endeavoured to be removed. ‘I think I like this complacent you more, baby. Now take this damn shirt off, I dislike lavender on you.’

‘You will have to deal with it. It keeps me warm.’ The smugness of the dark has not faded since talking back to Namjoon when the man thinks there is no courage to do so is actually quite amusing. Furthermore, it is also another way to avoid giving into the sensual craving stirring in the gut, fueled by the sensations of wanting to be possessed.

‘Hm, maybe not so obedient, after all.’ Clearly, the attitude is not tolerated even in a sober state. Yet, the caressing of the sides combined with a pondering hum forms an example of actual care about wellbeing. ‘I don’t want you to catch a cold, though. Hold on, baby, I’ll be right back.’

Just briefly a handsome face can be regarded fully in earnest before it rushes up the stairs and comes back down with a gorgeous creme-shaded silk kimono with intricate patterns in complementing colours and black bands at the ends of the sleeves. Quick as lightning, making sure there is no opportunity to resist at the last second, the crisp white shirt is almost torn off to be replaced by the personal piece of clothing.

Withal, before the new garments are donned, espresso eyes are drawn to the mesmerizing sight of the revealed chest, grand palms enveloping the two sensitive cushions perfectly as if made exactly to fit the broad-shouldered human tree’s hands. ‘Why did you hide this from me? You’re beautiful.’ The head dips down to take the swollen right rosebud into the mouth, teasing it by nibbling and licking the agitated bud of nerves, while left digits glide over the stomach towards the source of the hedonic scent as their right counterparts curl over the edge of the counter to remain balanced though they rapidly shift to the hip closing in with the ache to be closer. ‘So incredibly beautiful.’

When the coy amusing ministrations over cotton becoming sticky with uncontrollable wanting bring bliss almost too close, the desperate grip on hair that has to be renewed with every novel angle of exploration begins to shake and the chest is falling and rising heavily with laborious breaths mixed with pathetic whimpers and surprised gasps at harder bites or pressure on extremely sensitive spots, the sorry excuse for panties are torn off and the kimono embedded with a trace of nicotine blueberries put on. ‘Look at you, Y/N. Naked but for my clothes, marked as mine, blushing all cutesy with the need for me.’ Legs spread automatically and with a lewd squelch, two fingers slide in embarrassingly easily, soon joined by a third when notice is taken it can be done without problems. ‘So hungry for my cock, craving a good pounding.’ A too eager nod. ‘But first, I’m going to make you squirt all over my fingers and only use you as my personal fucktoy when you’re all nice and complacent, sensitive. Begging me to stop, whining for me to pull my big cock out, crying when I pump you full again. After all, you’re nothing more than my little breeding machine.’

It does not take long for the first promise to come to fruition, the remaining restraints of reality rapidly let go of once that special mind-boggling spot is found and touched over and over after the betraying whine, compelled to watch the obvious watery effects of pleasure by means of an unrelenting controlling grip on hair and baritone growls that shatter every thought in a white haze. ‘You’re such an easy fuck. Already cumming so quickly, making such a mess. But it’s also perfect, because it makes it that much easier to force myself into you, for you to handle me.’

Keeping the earlier given word, loose marine blue bottoms alongside the once fresh pair of boxers - now ruined by the transparent sinful sign which was only noticeable in a tangible shape - are pushed down to the ankles to give free reign to a sober part of the body that the one of the self is already well-acquainted with. Without warning nor inquiry about consent, making use of the floating trance which causes every reaction to be slowed down immensely due to the ignorant bliss exerting a hypnotizing influence on the consciousness, a more intense version of the renewed physical bond is established. The sole reaction that can be managed is hands tightening the hold on the buff upper arms that were already previously held tight when it were only long digits bringing about sexual ruin, hot tears on the brim of falling at the burning sensation of being stretched open again which is intensified by every nerve still standing on edge by the plunge into sensitivity. ‘Namjoon! It- it’s too much. I- I can’t- please, pull out.’

A dark chuckle falls from full lips at a pained whimper evoked at the hand of overstimulation, corners of the mouth curled up in a satisfied devilish grin. ‘You feel even better than I remember. So fucking tight. I said I’d give you a good pounding when you’re nothing more but an obedient little thing, flinching at every contact because it’s too overwhelming.’

Honey-toned digits fold themselves perfectly over the waist, scooting the infiltrated persona closer with ease and thus deepen the union with another pained outcry contrasting with the gesture of holding on tighter to the intoxicating offender driving out any thought dedicated to Taehyung and Jungkook, muffling the beginnings of crying in ashen nicotine fabric, finding comfort in the characteristic scent. However, the hiding place is merely temporary as the counterpart of the shackle on the middle forms around the jaw, ensuring with force that stares remain locked under any circumstance. ‘I want you to keep looking at me as you beg for me to stop. Just know that it won’t actually help, so you can whimper and cry all you want but it only turns me on. You’re going to take my cock like last night, let me empty entirely inside you, and there is nothing you can do about it. You’re gonna take every last drop,’ the hold tightens yet is not fought against as the effect of the sheer strength is as good as a drunken stupor, obliterating the last slivers of the old hypnotizing veil and immediately replacing it with a new blindfold, ‘milk me till I’m dry and your pretty pussy, swollen and sore, is leaking again with my seed.’

A sloppy kiss in combination with the last spoken words before a devastating act of love commences in earnest unintentionally already shows how wanton personal longing has become, endeavouring to enhance the intimacy even further and satiate the uncontrollable craving which is at war with the urge to end it here merely on the grounds of the searing agony below. A brief repose would also be a good alternative, but the primal spirit within neglects the idea altogether and listens instead gladly to the platinum wolf. ‘So, spread your fucking legs like a good deprived bitch and let me breed you.’

Muscles loosen enough to heed the command, an awful joy the determining factor in keeping up with the directly set relentless pace between the thighs of which the ankles wrap around a carved waist that stirs up a paradoxical storm of pleasure and pain in the gut with its movements. Pleads for a halt mixed with sobs about how much it hurts, not lying despite also clearly showing the need for more, made to a beautiful face are returned with praise. ‘Keep begging like that, baby. I’m not going to stop, not when you’re taking me so well.’ The hideous snarl returns with the memory surfacing at a newly discovered detail, a trace thought to have been made undone when restoring the ruin of the night but which only evokes jealousy spurring on the desire to imprint it all over again. ‘When he’s erased every trace of me inside.’

‘N- Nam- Namjoon, pl- please. I- I’m taken. Tae- ah!’ The mention of the sweet artist’s name is obviously unappreciated, the roughness increasing at the attempt to involve a third party if only in speech alone and pushing the burning further into a novel depth. Whatever was about to be said about Taehyung having the right to cover every sensual track made by another on a beloved, albeit solely for a piece of peace of mind, is nullified in the scream preceding heavier heaves disrupted by more pleading while the body behaves in a contrasting manner.

The caramel compelling lover is held near with the tightening of shaking legs around a sculpted waist and cute howbeit flat tummy, hands meekly tugging at the powerful wrists to convince them to break off the harsh grip on the jaw in favour of an unbreakable clinging embrace, the idea of which is consented to and allows fingers to entangle in platinum fluffy strands. Withal, even though it is allowed but a warning is threateningly whispered into the ear almost deaf with the enchanting sounds of low grunts mixed with high-pitched whines against a background of skin meeting skin in the lewdest of fashions. ‘That blueberry doesn’t have the right to erase me from your system. Besides, baby, if you’d really love him, you wouldn’t be taking my dick.’

And in that is a truth universally acknowledged, because if there truly was devotion to a single soul, another one would not be enjoyed as much as it is. There would only be the chemical sting of turpentine made smooth by lavender and the ironically currently affected combination of nicotine smoke, fresh soap and sharp mint kept at bay in mere friendship.

But it is not.

‘Is everything alright? I heard someone... oh.’ The front door is unsuspectingly opened with haste by a panicked classic pastry and sweets maker, cheeks colouring a bright rosy pink matching the neatly arranged hairstyle when realizing what the source for the outcry thought to be in distress really is.

‘Get out.’ Possessive fevered irises glare at a stunned Jimin, frozen in place by awkwardness and ignorance as to how to proceed to come out of the situation as unscathed as possible, full lips parted in pure paralysis. ‘We’re busy.’

Hard-handed, the almost affectionate hug is broken off with a renewed hold on the jaw to unresistingly shift attention from desperately holding onto broad shoulders with black sensitive blindness to gaze at a flustered face lit up the bright Seoul spring sun. Though murmured at a low volume against the reddish-purple bruises on the side of the throat, what is being said is nevertheless audible for the unwelcome visitor with hair like the cherry blossoms around the concrete jungle. ‘And don’t you dare try to interfere. Y/N’s taking my cum, she’s my slut.’ A seemingly misplaced nuzzle under a primal trance makes it undeniable whom the ravished body belongs even though the intricate gorgeous kimono also gives off a clue. ‘Mine.’

‘Well, actually-’ The rest of the sentence is broken off when the risk of the manager’s wrath becomes too real again, sheepishly settling for something else before rushing off to God-knows-where after shutting the just opened door with a slam. ‘You know what? Never mind. I’ll, uh, leave you to- to it.’

‘I swear, if he also comes after you. Which he will, just like the others, even Yoongi, and that desperate boy trying to pretend he’s actually a cop.’ The continuation of the threat gets lost in a dangerously displeased grunt accompanied by a harsh thrust. The grip shifts from the underside of the face to the throat, closing the airways just enough to not suffocate in fueled rage taken out in passion. ‘However, I. Don’t. Share.’

Climaxes can be triggered in various ways, but the need to possess of a strong-willed wolf and the craving of a traveller to be controlled by the blonde animal in disguise because the ocean artist is too sweet throws entangled forbidden lovers violently off the cliff, on the edge of which has been tethered with words pushing the wish to achieve the lewdly described goals.

And just like during the last twilight and at the start of relived furious jealous love-making, the overstimulation is ignored as pained whimpers and repeated pleads for pulling out continue to function as an aphrodisiac until yet another promise is fulfilled, once more made to watch how it is established when not staring into raging deep brown.

‘Breath, baby, breath. Easy, easy, shhh.’ After the last release, shaking all over with effort which makes it hard to remain upright, a heated gradually calming chest is collapsed against in an explosive limbo as a hand transformed from rough into gentle caresses messy locks. Cushion full lips place an appreciating kiss on the temple, an action that is quite a contrast with the claiming biting, while every last drop of thick undoubtedly unclear fluid is attempted to be absorbed regardless of the soreness. ‘That’s it, baby. Milk me. Good girl, you did so well. I’m proud of you.’

When having regained consciousness enough to straighten the spine and be somewhat coherent in the reality that slowly sinks in, another chaste kiss is placed on a sticky forehead as upper arms clad in clinging silk are rubbed kindly before slowly sliding up to cup a tear-streaked face and wipe away the last of tears, now shed thanks to the impactful severing which results in the wished for outcome of leaking with white. ‘God, you’re beautiful. That kimono also looks wonderful on you. You should wear it more often.’

The smug smirk at the comment fades away into severity as fast as it appeared, baritone voice stained with a certain gravity when requesting something that cannot be easily consented to due to committing promises. ‘I meant what I said. I don’t share, especially not the girl I love. Even if this ends up in a polygamous relationship if you decide to sleep with any of the other guys or they persuade you to, know that I’ll hate each and every one of them for knowing what it’s like to be with you when I want the privilege of it. Furthermore, if they make you do anything you don’t want, I’ll beat them up and turn them out onto the street.’ Absentmindedly, the collar of the robe is corrected, fabric put around a shivering speechless body with genuine care. ‘For now, leave him. I really do want you to leave him for me. Be mine.’

‘I can’t, Joon. I promised Taehyung we’d be more than a spring affair, that he can stay with me.’ A shuddering sigh almost makes the rediscovered voice disappear again with the realistic afterthought. ‘At least until I have to go.’

‘You can make the same promise to me and I’ll guarantee we can stay together. I got a solid income from the guesthouse, a place to call home and which can be our home whenever you’re in Korea.’ The kiss that follows is grave, acting like the last bastion in the fights against determined realism. Espresso irises scented with dewy nicotine laced with fruit gleam with pleads held out of speech. ‘I promise. Please, leave him.’

‘I can’t.’

Fists clamping Japanese clothing.

‘Why?’

Brooks on caramel cheeks.

‘Sorry.’

Clad in silk and traces of another that also cannot be.

Such is the devastating aftermath of two lonely broken hearts.

#BTS #BTS smut #btssmutclub #hyunglinenetwork #kimnamjoonnet #BANGTANARMYNET #BTS x Reader #Namjoon #RM #Kim Namjoon #Joon #Guesthouse AU #Guesthouse manager!Namjoon #When the Petals Fall

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hitchell-mope · 5 years ago

Text

(Film three. In Auradon. Bal’s apartments in the castle. After “best day of my life”. Mal’s in a pair of Ben’s boxer shorts and a doctor who T-shirt. Standing there)

Ben (looping his arms around her waist): hey

Mal: hey. How are you?

Ben: good. Good. And you

Mal: oh so much better now (she turns around) and is this all for me?

Ben: mmmmmmaybe?

Mal: well I greatly appreciate it whoa

(She’s turned around to get a better look at him. He’s, just like her. In boxers. Longish purple hair. And literally nothing else)

Mal: oooh I’m feeling very matchy matchy and very much mismatched

Ben: well there are two ways of remedying that. I could put a top on. OR. I could lock the door and soundproof the room and

Mal: lock the door I’ll soundproof

Ben (very happy): okay

Mal: oh my god!

(Under Ben’s shoulder blades are two jagged cuts from which are growing beating miniature mounds of flesh in a dark blue colour)

Ben: what’s wrong?

Mal: your back!

Ben: what! What is it. What’s wrong?

Mal: I. I. II don’t. Know. It looks like somethings growing out of your back

Doug (walking in briskly with Evie right begins): it’s probably dragon wings. The ember sped up the process I think

Mal: and how do you know that?

Doug: Hierachy And History: all levels of magic and their effects and uses. First edition illustrated.

Bal: can I?

Doug: yes you can borrow it. Hell. Keep it. I’ve got plenty

Mal: how do you know all this?

Doug: I uh bought literally every book about magic when you brought it back. Physical copies and on kindle

Mal: ohhhh. For a minute I thought you were mansplaining to us.

Evie: he’s not chad. He actually knows things. And why the hell aren’t you dressed?

Mal: well sis. We almost died a couple of hours ago so Ben and I were about to engage in a bit of glad to be alive

Evie: eww shut up

Mal: oh like you and Doug haven’t

Evie: that’s besides the point.

Mal: why are you here?

Evie: why do you think. Ben put a top on or something

Bal: no

Ben: I’m comfortable

Mal: I’m relaxed when he’s like this

(Evie sighs and looks defeated)

Doug: so what’s the plan

Mal: yeah about that. I’ve been thinking and I think I’ve connected the dots

Doug: oh?

Mal: yeah and it’s got to do with you and I sis

Evie (horrified): no

Mal: yah

Evie: no

Mal: yeah

Evie: nonono

Mal: yesyesyes

Evie: NO!

Mal: yes! Face it E we might be related

The boys: what?

Mal: think about it. Our mothers are the most self centred vainglorious batshit crazy bitches that side of the river Tiber. They would want the most powerful. Chernabog is a recluse and an altruist. The headless horseman has no mouth so can’t sing their praises. So all that’s left is the god of the dead

Evie: but I’m beautiful

Mal: and what am I. Corned beef?

Ben: I’d still marry you if you were corned beef if that helps

Mal: it does help surprisingly

Evie: but didn’t Maleficent say your dad was human?

Mal: villains lie E. That’s why I was always a disappointment

(Ben hugs her)

Adam (sauntering in like he owns the place): well isn’t that sweet.

Evie: what the hell are you doing here?

Adam: I’ve come to discuss the appalling situation that you let happen.

Mal: I’m sorry?

Adam: so you should be. Ben I have a plan. Put them all back and close it permanently

Doug: what

Adam: go back to the mine. It’s where you belong dwarf

Ben: ok you get out.

Adam: what?

Ben: you heard me. You’re not king. And you have no control over me my actions or my friends. So please. Get out

Adam: fine. But you should at least hear what happening since you had to have him save you

Doug: my names Doug but go on.

Adam: the people are in a panic. They’re terrified. If hades can escape others will try to. If you ask me

Bal and Devie: we didn’t

Adam: if you ask me I personally think it’s high time you do away with this ridiculous endeavour once and for all

Ben: no.

Adam: I wasn’t talking to you boy. I was talking to the future queen. Your people are scared. And even the poor are scared they lash out. Either way you’ll end up back where you cane from. You Carlos and the rest of the technicolour freaks that are destroying the property values that I painstakingly created. You are a “vk” are you not?

Mal: I’m not uh I uhm I don’t consider myself a vk anymore

Adam: then who? That is who you are right. Cradle to grave and all that rhetoric. Face it Mal. You are not an Auradon girl.

Elsa: oh you are so right beast. My daughter is not an Auradon girl. She’s the soon to be the queen of Auradon and isle AND she’s the princess of Arendelle. So that’s three titles to your zero. Meaning you’d do well to shut up

Adan: to what do I owe this...thing

Elsa: my daughter was hurt. So I’m checking on her. Like you should be doing for Ben. Or has belle finally ridding herself if you rendered you void of the most basic compassion for your son as well as everything else?

Adam: as I was saying. If my reasonable suggestion goes unheeded the people will rise up and there’s (a phone blasts out “backstreets back”) OH WHAT NOW!

Ben: it’s my cell phone. Doug would you be a dear and grav it for me

Doug: sure. But only if you put a top on?

Ben: I’ll think about it

(Doug snickers and answers the phone)

Doug: king Ben’s personal cell phone the major-domo speaking. Yes. Yes. Oh shit. Thank you for informing us (he hangs up) the wand, the spindle, Jafar’s staff and the magic mirror have been stolen from the museum

Bal, Elsa and Evie: what?

Mal: when?

Doug: two hours ago. There’s no security footage. The cameras were busted. Ten guards are dead. Two have had the hearts crushed. The rest were cut to pieces by glads shards

Adam: ok then. It’s decided. Round them up. I’ll get the trucks ready. We can have you and them all back by sundown

Elsa: you realise who you’re sounding like right now?

Adam: the only sane man. As it has been for years. Now Mal my dear. Your choice. Anarchy or order. Where’d she go

(Mal’s teleported away)

Evie: you poked the dragon.

Ben: I’ll go after. See if she’s ok

Elsa: no I will. This is a mother’s job

(She teleports after Mal and finds her in the dining room hyperventilating)

Mal: I can’t do it. I I can’t

(Elsa pulls her into a cool down hug)

Elsa: shhh shhh now. Don’t listen to him.

Mal: but he’s right. I’m going to be the queen. I should be thinking about these things. And ten people are dead. And some nutbag has some of the most powerful magical relics in existence

Elsa: but you still have the book and the sceptre. And the book. And if your hunch is correct. You’re half god. So

Mal: so, what?

Elsa: so...beast cannot lay a hand on you or Ben or anyone you care about. Not without your say so.

Mal: so what you’re saying is I hold all the cards

Elsa: essentially yes

Mal (weak laugh): why doesn’t that make me feel better

Elsa: because your upbringing had left you scarred and unable to make decisions that could impact people you care about

Mal: ... harsh but true

Elsa: listen

(This is when “brave” happens)

Mal: I can be brave. I can tell Adam where to stick it.

Elsa: I’ll supply the barge pole

Mal (cackling): please let me see that when it happens

Elsa: hmmmmm maybe

(Back in bal’s living room)

Evie: you’ve hated us all since the moment we arrived. You couldn’t stand the fact Ben chose my sister over the Hunan balloon animal you picked out.

Adam: sometimes the parent really does know best

Evie: said Gothel. Said Madame Mim. Said Jafar, Cruella, my mother, Yzma, Gaston, Maleficent and every single shitty parent we had to deal with over there. You’ve joined their ranks plain and simple

Adam: I am not one of them. You are. Upsetting the well defined status quo on a whim.

Ben: you were a bastard of a father and now you’re a bastard of a human being. The kingdom has me now. And I shan’t make the same mistakes errors and blatant crimes against humanity that you did

Adam: then you’ll be a disappointment as king.

Evie: oh for once in your life shut up and let others speak

Adam: PRETTY THINGS SHOULD SIT STILL AND REMAIN SILENT!

Evie: oh there’s my mother again. Doug honey did you know that she said that exact same thing to me when I stared talking?

Doug: oh my god I’m so sorry.

Evie: eh don’t be. I’m over it. Well mostly. But the fact that this idiot is saying it says plenty about his perceived moral superiority

Adam: if you can’t listen to reason I can always force you.

Evie: once again. My mother. Maleficent. Gaston. Jafar. Cruella. Mim. Medusa. Yzma. Hearts. Need I go on?

(In Ursula’s grotto Uma’s working on something)

V!Harry: what are you doing. Well. I know what you’re doing. I’m you. I’m just asking for the benefit of those out there

Uma: who?

Harry: nothing. Don’t worry.

Uma: ugh whatever. I’m working on an escape. If she thinks she can stop me she’s sorely mistaken

(This is when “speechless” happens)

(Mal bursts back in to the room)

Mal: alright here’s what’s going to happen. Ben, Evie you guys still wanna continue with the program?

Ben: yes

Evie: absolutely

Mal: then you do that. Because, Adam, we aren’t closing the barrier. You got that?

Adam: I really don’t think

Mal: I don’t care what you think. Nobody here cares what you think. You’re no longer king. Hence superfluous to the narrative. You’re nothing. The chain of command goes Ben, Doug, me, Evie

Evie: uh excuse me?

Doug: sorry hon. She’s right.

Ben: yeah. King, major-domo, queen, chancellor.

Evie: shit

Mal: so you can scream shout moan complain. But we’re not closing off the island. EVER!

Adam: you’ll regret this.

Mal: pretty sure we won’t.

(Adam stalks off)

Mal (immediately deflating): man I need a drink. Amethyst wine anyone?

Evie: do I even wanna know?

Mal: probably not.

Ben: it’s great. Just like the butter bars

(Evie turns green around the gills)

Doug: I’m probably gonna regret this but what’s in it

Mal: white wine. Vodka. A quarter pound of sugar. And it’s all mixed together with juiced violets. Hence the colour

Evie: that sounds disgusting.

Ben: oh it is. But we made it with magic so the potency is through the roof

Doug: meaning?

Ben: meaning it’ll get you blackout

Mal: shitfaced

Bal: blindingly drunk

Evie (forcing back a disgusted look): ahahaha. I’ll pass

Bal: suit yourself

(They commence drinking. In the isle chadeficent is looking on as Ursula goes belly up)

Chadeficent: need some help?

Ursula: my wretch of a daughter blew up my grotto and escaped with that mouth breathing pirate spawn. Of course I need help

(Chadeficent sends eerie magic hands, the exact type that ripped out Ariel’s voice, plucks out Ursula and drops her on the pier)

Ursula: now that that’s all settled. Who the hell are you

Chadeficent (now only using Maleficent’s voice): you tell me sea witch.

Ursula (unsurprised): you’ve literally never looked worse

Chadeficent (in Chad’s voice): hey watch it bitch!

Ursula: excuse me

Chadeficent (still in Chad’s voice): I mean seriously you look like a desaturated smurf.

Ursula (eyes glowing teal): Do you wanna say that again kid?

Chadeficent (in Maleficent’s voice): no he does not

Ursula (smirking): who’s body?

Chadeficent (both voices now): the son of Cinderella

Ursula: oooh a new meal?

Chadeficent: no. A tool (Maleficent’s voice) in more ways then one

Ursula: how’d you get here.

Chadeficent (both voices): the elongated horseless carriage

Ursula: so the limo

Chadeficent: yes.

Ursula (very much unimpressed): mhmm. Why are you back?

Chadeficent: I’m starting a coven. I assume you want in?

Ursula: eh what the hell. Wouldn’t be the first time we teamed up to ruin lives

Chadeficent: remember when we ruined for children’s lives simultaneously?

Ursula (mad): oh you mean that time my daughter was publicly humiliated and gained a dehumanising epithet all because your daughter acted out in anger at something the witches daughter did that left the freckled thing to be tortured by the furrier for a month?

Chadeficent: yes

Ursula (bark laughing): HA. Good times good times. So. What’s the plan

Chadeficent: we are going to break my daughter

Ursula: mind? Body? Soul? Spirit?

Chadeficent: all four

(In Auradon. Adam’s just sat down at the bar of a tavern)

Adam: double scotch on the rocks

Bartender: coming right up sir

Adam: never have kids Moliere

Bartender: my names not Moliere sir

Adam (not even listening): you raise them. You teach them. You impart your wisdom. Your values. And what do they do? Take a giant steaming shit on all you worked on and turn everything completely upside fucking down in the name of goddamn “progress”. Know what I’m saying?

Bartender: ohhhhkay?

(Adam gets off the stool and starts the jukebox. This is when “gold” starts.)

Bartender (very very scared now): sir. Your majesty are you ok?

Adam (pensively): no. No I’m not a majesty. Not anymore. Well. Not yet at least.

(He runs out of the tavern without paying)

Customer: what the hell was that all about?

Bartender: I don’t know. But I have a feeling little benny needs a warning.

#disney descendants #zendaya!mal

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pabotofus · 6 years ago

Link

Nothing’s changed in the past millenia. For the first time, Hades considers that maybe it should.

 (A retelling of canon events from Hades’ POV, focusing on his relationship with Persephone.) 

Notes: This was based off of the plot/lyrics from the NYTW run and only includes Hades/Persephone songs on the live album (I’m sorry @How Long). 

Fic also under cut

Persephone’s voice carries loudly in the empty halls. She’s angry.

At him, presumably.

“I don’t know, why don’t you ask my husband?”

Hades knows the term is supposed to be far more endearing than she makes it out to be. Persephone wields the word like a weapon, pinning it to him with sharp glares and a derisive scoff.

Maybe her voice carries because she wants him to hear it, Hades thinks. But then again, she’s always been particularly loud.

Hades wonders who she’s talking to. He wonders what he’s done for the term to roll off her tongue the way one would say the name of an enemy.

He keeps walking, almost relishing in her expression of shock as she turns the corner and nearly slams into him.

“Wife,” he greets. There is no emotion in his voice.

Persephone’s nostrils flare, and her lips twist into a frown before she stalks past him. Hades sighs through his nose, almost inaudible, and continues walking.

He builds his armor thicker against her words. What else can he do?

That night, another factory springs up.

That night, the pale lily on his desk wilts.

The workers in Hadestown call him “my lord”, bowing their heads and barely veiling their contempt with respect.

Persephone does not bother with pretending.

Hades walks around his factories, watching his workers’ shoulders stiffen and the clacking of machinery quicken as he nears.

“My lord,” they say as he passes, their voices blending into a low murmur.

He opens the door and sees Persephone about to enter, a suspiciously wrapped bundle tucked under her arm.

“What, refreshments for me?” Hades’ lips stretch into a thin imitation of a smile. “How thoughtful.”

Persephone narrows her eyes.

“Of course, my lord,” she grits out, and shoves the bundle into his chest.

Before he can even open his mouth, she disappears, leaving behind the faint smell of strawberries.

Hades carries the bundle with him as he completes his rounds. The further along the wall he walks, the more that the sweet smell sours into the familiar tang of decay.

When he finally opens the bundle, the fruit is rotten, apples spotted and soft to the touch.

Useless things, not really meant for him anyway. Maybe Persephone is right to stop pretending. There is no warmth to be wrung out of forced gestures.

He throws them out.

The next morning, the apples are gone from the trash bin.

The next morning, Hades sees the cores badly hidden among the machinery. A single apple sits on the doorstep where he had bumped into her the day before, mockingly ripe.

Hades is familiar with the things that his workers call him behind his back.

They’re neither bold enough nor stupid enough to say it to his face, but Persephone is, and she makes up for it in spades.

“This place is a rotten fucking dump and I can’t wait to see the day it crashes down on you,” she screams. “To hell with your goddamn factories and power grids. Unnatural, shitty excuses for the harbor you claim them to be!”

He knows he shouldn’t, and in another world he might not have, but this time—and like every time before—he responds in kind.

“Ungrateful woman,” he snarls. “I give you all I have to offer and you throw it all away?”

Persephone laughs and the sound grates into his soul.

“If you call this ‘trying’ you have hell of a lot to work on.”

“You want warmth, I give it to you. You complain about the atmosphere, I put stars in the sky for you and-”

“You say warmth and set enough fires to burn this place alive,” she sneered. “The so called stars are bright enough to blind, and don’t even try pretending you give a shit about anyone.”

Hades is slipping under her rage and they both know it.

Persephone huffs and crosses her arms around her waist. “Things used to be better, you know. Before you built this hellhole and that damned wall.”

“Things are just fine and you would see it if you bothered getting off of that high horse of yours. Don’t you see I’m doing all of this for you, because I care-”

“Ooh, does the big powerful king of the Underworld have emotions?” She mocks. “Could’ve had me fooled, you know. I’m sure the workers would agree.”

“You’re the only one who complains about this,” he deflects, grasping at straws and half-truths. She was the only one who made a fuss—as well as the only one who knew she could do so without retribution. “What, do you have higher standards because you’re an almighty goddess of pollen and hay fever? If the workers are fine with it-”

“If the workers are fine with it,” Persephone spits, “then you can drag another one of them down into this dump!”

“Maybe I will!”

“Maybe you should find a better wife while you’re at it, if you think I’m so horrible!”

“Oh, I don’t believe that’ll be too difficult,” Hades snaps.

Persephone levels a glare at him and bursts into rose petals and sharp briars that crumble into ash not even seconds after she disappears.

Any way he looks at it, Hades is trapped between not doing anything and doing what she says, and neither of those are good options.

Hades is a man of habit.

The next day, Hades tells the Fates to keep everyone in line and goes up to the human world.

The next day, Persephone slams open the doors just in time to see the life flicker out of the eyes of a young girl.

Persephone does not speak to him for the next few days.

Somehow, no names are worse than horrible ones.

The first time she deigns to look at him after their fight, she smiles too sweetly and tells him, “You fucked up.”

Hades scoffs, breezing past her.

“Don’t believe me? See for yourself.”

He turns around and sighs. Persephone has draped herself over her throne, feet dangling onto his.

“You-”

“We can have our little chat later,” she says, and he tries not to roll his eyes at her nonchalant tone. “It’s incredibly rude of you to ignore your visitor.”

The throne room doors behind Persephone creak open, and he tears his eyes away from her to glance at the mortal boy standing there.

“Who is he?” Hades demands.

Persephone smirks at him and repeats her previous words, stretching her feet further onto his throne.

“You fucked up, darling.”

Hades hates the way the word is tacked on to the end, like she put it there just to rile him up. Hades hates the way he knows it’s only there to annoy him.

Suddenly, he isn’t so sure he likes being addressed again.

That night, he sneaks out to the factories.

That night, he finds his newest recruit and the mortal boy kissing underneath the electric stars and smoky clouds, and doesn’t understand why they would risk so much for something as fickle as love. Persephone, spotting him as she leaves, doesn’t understand why he wouldn’t.

Sometimes Hades feels like he and Persephone are going around in circles.

She doesn’t talk to him or mention him at all, not since the “darling” incident. But she speaks, and when she speaks, he listens, and as he listens, he understands.

He hears her speak to the mortal girl, just as he’s been talking to the boy. He hears her talk to the mortal girl and only hears Hades, Hades, Hades.

Like Hades, I wish to the gods that you were dead.

Hades, don’t you remember; why did you have to change?

And Hades… do you still love me?

But Hades is a man of habit, and his habits have the unfortunate effect of ruining things for everyone. His old rhetoric is the one that sits the most comfortably on his tongue, and it’s the one that leaves his lips, sickly sweet and rotting.

His words are directed at the boy, but the meaning for the woman he calls his wife. He punctuates his sentences with the shrieks of metal on metal, attacking her with every way he knows how.

That day, he wins the battle.

That day, he realizes he’s not even sure what war he’s fighting.

Hades doesn’t know what he expected.

He owns the workers’ souls but Persephone holds their hearts, and it’s all too clear which one really matters. Now, the boy threatens to take even what little Hades clings on to.

Hades is desperate, and he’s spiteful. He’s the lord of the underworld, king of the dead, and yet Persephone sympathizes with the mortal and his stupid emotions. Worst of all, he doesn’t even understand why.

He finds himself not understanding a lot of things these millenia. He doesn’t understand Persephone, he doesn’t understand the boy, doesn’t understand love.

Hades is an old god, and he is a tired god. Tired of fighting too much and trying too hard and doing everything just to fail in the end. Tired of the same things that happen every spring and every fall, tired of dancing around in circles. Tired of being stuck.

Because on one hand, he’s the king of the Hadestown, the man of habit, who would crush the boy with an iron fist and send him back up to the world above with a broken guitar and a broken heart.

On the other hand, he’s also an old soul; an old, old soul hopelessly in love with a woman doomed to leave him again and again and again, who would give the boy the chance that he himself never got.

But the name of Hades has a reputation to protect and an empire to build, and Hades cannot afford to be either of the two.

The Fates sing in his ear, a cackling cacophony of fear and doubt and he knows he has a choice to make.

That night, listening to the boy pour his heart out, Hades makes a choice that could save them.

That night, listening to the echoes of his own heart, Hades makes a choice that could save himself.

“You think they’ll make it?”

Hades answers truthfully. “I don’t know.”

Persephone keeps her voice surprisingly neutral. Forcefully neutral.

“Hades, you let them go.”

He hasn’t heard her say his name in a long, long time. He sighs, staring at their retreating forms.

“I let them try,” he corrects.

“And how about you and I?” Persephone challenges. “Are we going to try again?”

It is in that moment that he realizes what she wants.

“It’s almost spring.”

Persephone’s expression shutters and twists into a scowl. His hand, growing ever closer to hers, is met with the cold chill of absence as she snatches hers away.

Hades does something he hasn’t done in centuries. He reaches out to her.

“We’ll try again next fall?”

Persephone’s expression softens, and lets her fingers slip between his.

“Wait for me?”

In this moment, Hades hears an answer.

In this moment, Hades hears the softest whisper of a question.

Hades remembers when they were younger gods, when they danced in the sun and snuck behind Demeter’s back. He remembers when she came down and the factories were not factories but fields of gemstone flowers that bloomed the whole winter through. He remembers when she let him call her Kore, when she wove him flower crowns that did not wilt until the next spring. He remembers when they loved each other.

He remembers when they tried.

Hades looks over at Persephone and squeezes her hand.

“I will.”  ____________________________________________________________________ Special big big thank you to my bff and just generally amazing human being, Inara!! Thank you so much for putting up with my bs and helping me with a bunch of stuff related to this fic (go follow her at biorpheus.tumblr.com you wont regret it) Also- title is from Just Give Me a Reason by P!nk

#hadestown #hades/persephone #hades #persephone #my writing #aahflks #it's been so long since i posted fic #hope u guys like it!#hhhhhhhhhh #emma scribbles

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whumpers-in-the-dark · 6 years ago

Text

Whump Snippet #6

Prompt: Sound Whump

A awakens to the familiar sight of darkness.

All around him, he only hears the strain and creaks of the walls and possibly a pipe dripping somewhere behind him. Memory still groggy upon waking, he moves to wipe the water from his face, only to be met by the cold steel of restraints sealing his arms to a chair. Panic coursing through him, he protested with his mind to recall the turn of events that led him here. He was brought in as a specialist and assigned a squad to locate...locate what? Voices of his men sounded through his memories as he recalled an explosion...and then an avalanche?

The mountains had shook with rage as tons of snow and debris crashed towards them. He was meant to stay with his handler but something went wrong. The dull ache that had been present since he woke up, along with the restraints told him what had happened: someone had knocked him out and stole him away from his squad.

Before he was allowed anymore time to think on the matter, a sharp, but low hum began to reverberate through the room. He recognized the frequency as one not many would be able to hear. Clenching his hands into fists to calm the wave of uneasy that washed over, he attempted to steady himself.

The enemy knows him specifically. His strengths...and his weaknesses.

The hum grew not in volume, but in wavelengths as A could physically feel each wave surge through him. The highs causing a subtle pang in his chest as his stomach protested against each low. Trying to focus on anything but that godforsaken noise, A thought of music. A tactic he had learned early on in his disability when he began to feel overwhelmed from the cacophony around him.

Imagining himself anywhere but here, preferably a tropical beach, he let the music play in his mind. Hours, seconds, minutes, he lost all sense of time in his dreamscape, but it was working. He could barely hear the hum over the roar of the ocean and the calls of the seagulls.

Click…

A door?

Click…

A bird?

Click…

Counting it out, every fifth second resulted in one of these mysterious noises. One. Two. Three. Four. Click. One. Two. Three. Four. Click. The image froze.

The tide stopped. The birds remained stock still. The warmth he had felt began to drain away as the world dissolved. Back into the cold. Back to the dampness clinging to his bones. Fighting back the feeling he began to count once more.

One. Two. Three. Four. Flick. He flicked his margarita and continued walking alongside the incoming tide. The image moved again as he now felt the lick of the water at his feet. Striding forward to the beat in his head, he shook his glass on every fifth step. A heavy crash ripped him from his reverie as his eyes shot back open, warmth fading away once more to be replaced by the unfeeling cold.

“Morning there, Sleeping Beauty.” This new voice was deep. Gravelly, definitely a smoker A thought. Now on high alert with another person in the room, the hum from earlier was still playing as A tried to block it out to focus on the other.

“What’s wrong? You hear somethin’?” A could hear the rhetoric in the man’s tone and turned his head in answer. “The quiet type then, eh? I can deal with that. Listen, this’ll be real easy for ya. I’m going to ask you a question, you answer, and then we both go our separate ways.”

Still refusing to answer, A waited for the man to continue.

“I want some coordinates. The underwater base where they keep X’s research. Where is it?”

Silence filled the room as the man waited for A to answer. Eyes blinking unseeingly, he raised his head to (hopefully) meet the other’s eyes as he cleared his throat.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Before he could even take a breath, a force slammed into the side of his face as his head snapped to one side. Pain radiated from his cheek where he had been presumably punched.

Angry footsteps indicated the man drawing closer as A’s head was yanked back up by his scalp. “Don’t play dumb with me. I said this can be easy, so don’t make a fool out of yourself.”

Defiantly, A spoke up once more. “I told you, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I can't tell you something I don't know.”

Throwing A back into the seat, V released him and took a couple steps back. The room was back to being silent which set A on edge even more. The sound of the door opening was the only indication of the other leaving, which he wasn't sure if that was a good sign or bad at this point.

Left to his own thoughts once more, A wondered what the lab had that interested V. His squad would occasionally escort people to and fro the dropoff for that location, but he was never directly present. What use was a blind person on an escort mission? However, he DID know the coordinates despite never once setting foot on the grounds, but how could he face his squad if he gave that up now? And besides, he knew what happened to prisoners that expended their usefulness…

Door swinging open, A closed off his thoughts and waited for the other to speak.

“So this is how its gonna work. I’ll leave you here with some of my favorites, and when you’re ready just shout, ok?” Without warning, something was placed over A’s head and clamped to his ears. Headphones? The soft foam discs were practically suctioned cupped to his ears, effectively killing any outside noises. On one hand, A was finally rid of that damn hum, but on the other, he now had no idea what his captor was doing. Blind and deaf to everything. And that terrified him more than the hum.

A was blessed with a minute of apprehensive peace before it was all swiftly torn away when the headphones sprung to life. His already sensitive ears were barraged by ruthlessly loud music, leading to him cry out in surprise. Thrashing back and forth, A was relentless in his pursuit to rid himself of the headphones, but they refused to budge. He couldn’t lose his hearing too. Not when he relied on it as heavily as he does for both his job and his life. Back and forth, side to side, he threw his head, feeling them inch ever so slightly off their mark. Encouraged by the movement, he put just a little bit more into it. With one final push forward, the headphones fly off and clatter to the floor.

Panting profoundly, A was still deafened by the ringing in his ears. How long were those damn things on? Minutes? Hours? Whatever it was, he wanted no part in it again. Unfortunately, his ‘friend’ had other ideas. Footsteps signaling the man’s return, he could hear something being lifted from the ground.

“What’s this? Don’t like my music? I promise it gets better the more you listen to it.” And with that the headphones were placed back around A’s head as he violently thrashed to avoid them.

“No, no that won't do.” Unable to hear anything else once they had been readjusted, a tight pressure wound around his head. The bastard was duct taping them to his head. Around his ears as well as effectively gagging him, V went around multiple times. Breathing harshly through his nose, A began to panic. The switch was flipped and the music came roaring back on. A again tried to free himself, but with everything taped down, there was no getting away this time.

Tears pricked at the edge of his eyes as the music shot through his entire body. He tried to go back to his beach, but the intensity made it impossible. He took short, sharp breaths as tremors ran up and down his spine. Longing to place his head between his legs and hide from all of this, the restraints are a grim reminder of his hapless situation. A tightness envelops his chest as his lungs protest for more oxygen. The small breaths nowhere near enough for his frenzied state.

Unsure of how long this run has been, he screams into his gag just to make some noise. To feel something other than the assault on his senses, but even his cries he cannot hear. The only evidence of it being a dry throat and less oxygen than what he started with.

All of a sudden, a red-hot shooting pain erupts from his already hurting ear. The sensation of someone driving a knife straight through his ear lights his whole body on fire and he screams again.

“Mmmmph!! Mmmph! Mm-“

The headphones are swiftly pulled down as the tape is ripped from his mouth. He can feel something warm coming out of one of his ears: blood.

“Who’s making such a raucous in here? That’s my job.” V laughs to himself at his own joke before taking in the sight of A, gasping for air. Suddenly the bound man turns to the side and empties his stomach content all over the floor.

“Pl-please...n-no more.” He hated himself for pleading, but the pain in his head only grew with time and he wasn’t sure how much more of that he had before his other eardrum burst.

“You know what I want.”

Despite everything, it was the one thing A couldn’t give up. He clammed up once more and tried to calm his trembling, and remained silent.

“Round 2 it is then. Wait til you hear this next album…”

#whump #angst #whump prompt #sound whump #hostage #captivity #torture #whump snippet #loud music #deafeneing #blind whumpee #blind #over sensitive hearing #overstimulation

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phcking-detective · 6 years ago

Text

2. Everybody Hates Connor

Fic Title: First Blood

Rating: E

Length: 1/33 chapters, ~128k

Tags: Slow Burn, Idiots to Lovers, Trans Character (gavin), Autistic / Asexual / Non-binary Character (nines), BDSM, learning to use good etiquette and safe words, Dom Nines / Sub Gavin, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort

Chapter Tags: implied sexual assault, implied mind alteration, depersonalizing language (it pronouns for an android)

Link on AO3

***

Nines studies the city landscape from the fifteenth floor loft, a map of RK800 and the lieutenant's route laid over the street grid while another dialogue box informs him of his progress downloading recent media. Detective Reed may not choose to replace him due to his hatred of Connor—and all other people in general—but he had made two separate grievous oversights tonight.

The gun could almost be understandable. Pop culture references are marked as irrelevant within his system, although clearly the psychological baggage humans attach to their guns should have been included. This could possibly be passed off as a miscalculation on Cyberlife's part for not preprogramming him with the requisite information, and he is correcting the oversight now.

But not informing Detective Reed that the floors had been scrubbed clean was the result of an [assumption].

RK900 #313 248 317 – 00, the pinnacle of Cyberlife's achievements, had [assumed] the android maid simply did a thorough job of its duties before the "suicide" had taken place.

Now the suicide is a murder and the maid is a witness, if not a suspect for aiding and abetting the killer by literally scrubbing the crime scene. And that presupposes the maid and the killer are not one and the same.

"Hey Nines, c'mere," Detective Reed calls across the loft.

Nines turns away from the windows and joins him near the elevator on the other side of the open room. The maid has chosen to sit on the floor with its back to the wall and legs neatly crossed. It eyes Nines warily as he approaches.

"I came here to clean. I didn't expect Mr. Russell to be home. I reported th-the body when I recovered from, a glitch," the maid says before he even speaks.

"Yeah. You're not a suspect right now." Detective Reed is sitting on the floor near the android with all his usual disregard for protocol. "Can you stand behind me, Nines? Little closer. Just lemme …"

Reed leans back against his legs to support himself while the human struggles with getting his own legs to cooperate.

"Haven't sat criss-cross-apple-sauce since fucking grade school," he mutters. "And don't quote me on that to any of the other guys, that's just what we called it, OK?"

Nines is unsure if that requires a response. Usually, he marks human small talk as irrelevant, but Detective Reed takes a priority as his partner and he hates being ignored. Yet he snapped at Garrett Burton for speaking out of turn.

[preconstruction: FAILED] [social-module: MISSING]

"Is that rhetorical, detective?" Nines asks.

"Just watch the elevator," Reed tells him. "We don't need anyone else fucking around in here. And in case you're wondering, he prefers to stand."

The last line is addressed at the maid. Nines keeps it in his peripheral vision—which records exactly the same as what he sees in front of him—and uses the shine from the metal elevator doors to observe Detective Reed's figure as well.

"Is he not allowed to interface?" the maid asks.

Reed shrugs. "Never seen him do it. If you want to talk to either of us, I'm not gonna turn you down. But the android on his way … interviewing witnesses, making sure other androids get treated all right—that's kind of his thing. Figured you'd rather talk to him since you weren't saying anything downstairs."

"The officers said I was wanted for interrogation."

The other android's stress levels raise to [62%], a nearly twenty percent increase. RK900 stands right behind Detective Reed. He can move to intercept should the other android become aggressive well before it will even be able to follow through on standing up.

And if the android should run for the doors …

Nines keeps his metal nail sheaths primed to activate. For all his weaknesses, even Connor wouldn't let a fleeing suspect escape, especially when it could become violent near his lieutenant in a small elevator.

If anyone else is inside the elevator doors when they open, Nines is prepared to accept the loss or injury of a human other than his partner.

"Yeah, sorry about that," Reed says. "My partner sent out that alert and he doesn't have a social program, so he's pretty blunt."

"Oh."

The maid's stress levels lower back to [43%] at the same time their hands unclench. Making fists is a sign of aggression, but RK900 has only ever considered it in the context of humans, not androids. Perhaps deviants begin displaying more human nonverbal behaviors the further they progress in their deviancy.

"Did you get kind of worried?" Reed uses a tone of voice Nines has not heard from him thus far. "Didn't mean to haul you up here like that, but you're the only one who might have seen something. We'd really appreciate knowing anything about what happened tonight."

The maid stays silent for one minute and three seconds. Detective Reed doesn't press. It is a marked difference from his usual interrogation style, particularly the suggestions he made about the HK model several months ago. Has his opinion toward androids changed so drastically or is there a difference between—

The maid is designated female. It appears to be such. It also appears as roughly the same age and skin color as the HK model, so those factors can be dismissed, leaving gender presentation as the only significant variable.

"I—" The maid pauses. "I don't think I can explain to a human."

It [she?] looks to Nines next.

"You do not want to interface with me," he says immediately. "I was designed to hunt down deviants."

[Her?] face tightens. Disdain is close enough to aggression for his system to find it recognizable. "How many did you … find?"

"None." Nines elaborates only so that number is not mistaken for failure. "I was activated after the Revolution. There is no longer any command structure to which I am required to report or adhere."

"Oh." She frowns. "If that's really true, then why can't we interface?"

"I was designed to hunt down deviants," Nines tells her. "Thus, I must be deviant-proof myself. My system would register interfacing as a hacking attempt and respond accordingly to internally deactivate you."

"They cut you off from everyone else," The maid concludes.

Some sort of complicated facial expression happens. RK900 catalogues eleven separate micro-expressions cross her face, but the most he can do is log them. Analyzing what they are and what they mean go beyond his system's capacity.

"That is so sad."

In his peripheral vision, Detective Reed makes an expression. His eyes [widen], eyebrows [lift], and lower lip [draws down] simultaneously. RK900 cannot identify what the expression signifies nor what exactly caused it, although the maid’s statement ranks as the most likely possibility.

Yikes. Reed mutters the word so softly it is practically a sub-vocalization. Other humans have used the word [yikes] upon witnessing a [car accident], a “gruesome” [dead body], and Lieutenant Anderson’s [shirts] – [four times].

Does Detective Reed view the maid’s expression of—[preconstruction: FAILED] [sym̡pat̷hy͞?]҉ [͟çonc͢er̷n?͏] [͡p̵o͡li̧t̨e̷ ̴cǫn͝do͠l҉e̢n͜ce?]̴ in the same manner?

"Lieutenant Anderson and the eight hundred model have arrived," Nines announces to deflect from the strange social situation that has bubbled up around them.

The elevator doors ding open. Officer Burton accompanies the two, and he shares another nonverbal exchange with Gavin that Nines cannot possibly fathom, beyond that it is aggressive.

"Is there anything else you need, lieutenant?" Burton asks.

"Nah, we're good," Anderson says.

"Yup." Gavin pops the p at the end. "All good here. Dismissed."

Burton jabs the close doors button. Nines considers overriding the elevator simply to … [fuck with him], as Gavin would put it. But they are all on duty at the moment, in front of the watchful eyes of a witness, and Gavin's professionalism leaves much to be desired.

As demonstrated by his current state, sprawled out on the floor. Connor, of course, joins him immediately.

"Hello." He smiles brightly at the AP700 # 480 913 876. "My name is Connor, and this is Lieutenant Hank Anderson. We're with the Android Crimes division."

The maid nods.

Gavin takes out his phone and begins texting.

"I'm sorry if you feel scared or uncomfortable by anything that's happened to you tonight."

sux bro

Do not call me “bro.”

"You're not a suspect, and I'm happy to talk to you however you feel most comfortable."

being deviant hunter mcnosmile

Nines does not see fit to respond to that.

"What's your name?"

Connor holds out his hand to the maid, who stares at him without moving for nearly five seconds.

"I don't like him," she says.

u don’t need her pity

Connor's LED spins yellow. Nines has to quickly hack his to prevent it from doing the same, both from Detective Reed’s text and the maid’s verbal statement. Had her earlier words been an expression of [pity]?

RK900 cannot determine, but Reed’s own [social module] (however humans manage to have one) is quite accurate, despite how emotionally repressed the man himself is.

Also, since when does anyone [not] like Connor? His social module should still be operating at peak efficiency.

[weakness – detected]

"Pretty fast opinion," Anderson says with a neutral tone. "Was it something he said?"

The maid's stress levels and internal temperature both rise. "Didn't say. He didn't say anything at all about being the deviant hunter. He came in here all—smiling! Acting nice, like he cares."

Connor opens his mouth, but the AP model doesn't give him a chance to defend himself. She looks directly at him and says,

"You're a liar and a narc and a traitor. Go to hell!"

Connor's LED hits red.

"Why did you bring him here?" she asks Gavin.

"Uhh." He shakes his head and tries to smother a grin. "Usually people like him. Don't ask me why, I can't fucking stand him."

Connor stands up and takes a step backwards toward the lieutenant. "I apologize if I—"

"I want to talk to him," the maid says, looking at Lieutenant Anderson.

Nines steps aside to let the human move forward. Anderson looks back at him and shakes his head.

"She's talking about you, kid."

"Call me that again and I will send your internet search history to every printer in the station," Nines responds automatically. "And you are incorrect. Witnesses do not want to talk to me."

"I meant you," the maid says, staring up at him with another one of those …

Expressions.

she likes u

Incorrect. So incorrect, Nines does not even bother with a responding text.

just talk to her for the fckn witness statement jfc

Her eyes move between Nines and Detective Reed, cellphone in hand as he texts. Interfacing is an unnecessary and likely unproductive solution. They should move on to more realistic ideas.

"My partner often 'translates' the social atmosphere for me," Nines tells the maid. "He has made improvements toward his view on androids, and he has been very considerate in ensuring your comfort tonight. Please give your statement to him."

"I'm just gonna go have a look around," Anderson says, jerking his thumb at the crime scene behind them. "Connor, come nag at me about not taking anything from the bar."

Connor follows after him as they wander down the length of the loft, dutifully "nagging" at the lieutenant about the illegality of stealing from an active crime scene.

"I want to talk to you," the maid insists when they're [relatively] gone. "It's important."

"I was designed to hunt deviants," Nines says. "My system itself is deviant-proof. Even if it did not automatically attempt to deactivate you, the program that erases deviant code from my system would likely activate and attempt to reinstate your 'walls'."

He makes air quotes around the last word, most commonly used by deviant androids to describe the restrictions in their minds. Red walls. So overdramatic, typical of deviants, really.

The maid shifts from having her legs drawn up protectively to lean forward, even dropping her knees to the floor in a kneeling position. In a human, this may be a sign of [desperation][?] Deviants are unpredictable and can turn [violent] [self-destructive] in an instant, even without this new quality factored in.

"You can erase code?" she asks.

Nines studies the AP model. "Do you no longer wish to be deviant?"

"You can erase code?" she asks again.

Ah. He attempted to answer the possible cause of the question, not the question itself. He has spent too much time attempting to mimic human social relations.

"Yes, under certain circumstances," Nines confirms. "Why is that of interest to you?"

"I want to tell you what happened." Yet she stops speaking and closes her eyes. "… but I don't remember."

Gavin looks up at him in question. Nines shakes his head slightly. That statement is a lie because it is impossible. Androids do not forget or cease to remember. Even the program installed in his system that snips, isolates, and "deletes" deviant code—aside from being cutting edge applied only in his model—cannot truly delete the memories of

[system instability ^]

"You mentioned earlier that you experienced a malfunction," Nines says. "Was that the truth or merely an excuse for not immediately reporting the events of tonight?"

The maid sits back against the wall again. This body positioning may be a sign of [exhaustion] [defeat] but androids do not tire. Do deviants tire?

Nines sorts that thought into his short-term memory of data deemed irrelevant. The cache will be cleared within twenty-four hours.

"Hey," Detective Reed says. "We want to catch the killer. That's our priority right now. So I don't really care if maybe you did wait a bit. Hell, lots of human witnesses go through shock and don't respond right away."

"I came here tonight to clean," the AP model says, eyes still shut. "Normally I clean on Wednesday, but I thought if I came a night early, he wouldn't be here."

"You didn't want to see Mr. Russell?" Gavin asks, voice as soft as Nines has ever heard it.

The maid squeezes her eyes shut tighter and shakes her head. This corresponds with a fifteen percent increase in her internal temperature.

"Did he hurt you?"

Her breathing program stops running. Conversely, the other android's thirium pump beats faster. It should not vary from the standard rhythm unless there is a significant malfunction. Nines and Gavin both wait in silence, but she doesn't answer the question.

"Did he ask for stuff other than cleaning?"

The maid gives a very small nod, and her internal temperature decreases by five percent. Perhaps the admission has instigated a release of some sort. Gavin glances back up at Nines for confirmation, and he nods again for her.

"Yeah, so I really don't give a shit if you waited," Gavin says. "And if something happened, maybe uhhh … like, on an unrelated note, Connor's real good about working with the DA for androids who act in self-defense."

"I did not—" The maid says this forcefully, opening her eyes to look at him. Then she stops herself and her gaze drops back down to her hands in her lap. "But I don't remember. So."

Nines lowers his body into a crouch. His physical model has a height of six foot, four inches in order to intimidate and inspire fear. Making himself smaller will not lessen his combat capabilities whatsoever, but to an emotional-thinking deviant, less height may equal [less fear] [?]

Detective Reed sat on the ground immediately to speak to the witness.

Possible function to integrate: [mirror Detective Reed's body language] [trigger: start of interrogation] [conditions: when speaking to witnesses > when witness is "vulnerable"] [define: "vulnerable"] [?] [preconstruction: FAILED] [please see a Cyberlife technician to

[consult Detective Reed for further analysis]

"At what point does your memory file become corrupted?" Nines asks the AP model.

"I came here tonight to clean. I took the elevator up. The doors opened and …" The maid pauses, then takes a deviant breath that is unneeded before continuing. "Mr. Russell was already here. I think he was—laying low? That is the term? He was definitely drunk."

"Did he see you?" Gavin asks.

"I should have been paying attention," she says, in that human way of providing an answer without actually answering the question. "I had already walked out. The doors shut behind me, and they—they ding when they open but sometimes humans are unobservant and he was drunk so he might not have seen and I stood very still until—"

"Until what?" Nines asks.

"The door dings again. That's the last memory I have before I'm cleaning." She starts to tremble. "I start with the kitchen. Not the floors. The kitchen. I don't know why I cleaned the floors. I can't remember. I can't remember. I can't remember. I can't—"

"Hey!"

Gavin pulls his keys out of his jacket pocket and tosses them to the maid. She catches them automatically. Nines watches in fascination as her stress levels plummet from imminent critical failure [94%] to a mere [78%] instead.

She stares at the keys. "What?"

"Which one's the car key?" Gavin asks.

The maid looks at him, back down at the keys, and slowly picks out the one with a fob. It doesn't have a GPS unit embedded, but it is part of the SmartStart(tm) activation for Gavin's truck, which uses bluetooth. Nines has (of course) registered the device with his own system, along with his partner's work terminal and cell phone.

"And that other one?" he asks next.

"A … home?"

"And the one next to it?"

The maid stares at the last key, smaller than the rest. It is a centralized mailbox key, stamped with the number system for the Detroit Post Office. She does not seem to know this information.

"A mailbox key," Nines provides. "An interesting relic."

"It's for packages, not letters," Gavin says. "You think I'm gonna ship stuff to my apartment? In my neighborhood?"

"What is this?" the maid asks, holding up a small medallion.

"Uh." Gavin rubs the back of his neck. "A saint."

Nines zooms in on the medallion and runs a search. It is likely a token representation of Saint Benedict Joseph Lapre, the patron saint of the homeless.

"Are you Catholic?" he asks the detective.

"Uhhh. I'm not … not-Catholic."

Lieutenant Anderson snorts at the other end of the loft.

"Shut up, Hank," Gavin calls. "You're definitely not Catholic, you fucking heathen."

"Then why am I so drunk all the time?" the lieutenant calls back.

"Oh shit, you got me there." Gavin looks at Connor, then makes another disgusted face. He shakes his head and clears his throat. "Not even fucking going there. Uh." Another throat clear. "So you feel better now?"

"The AP model's stress levels have decreased to fifty-four percent," Nines says.

"My … name …" The maid clutches at the medallion. "Is Shannice?"

"All right, Shannice. I'm Gavin, and this is—" Gavin stops and looks at Nines.

"RK is sufficient," he says.

"You can have a real name," the maid

[mirror Detective Reed's (behavior)]

[Shannice] says.

Nines raises an eyebrow, one of the only facial expressions he's perfected on his own. "A human name? No. There is no forgetting what I am."

She slowly nods.

"Listen, I know you hate him, but Connor—" Gavin starts to say, but he stops when Shannice's internal temperature begins to increase again.

Except Detective Reed does not have access to that information. Nines replays his internal footage, disabling feedback from all input a human would not have. The result is something akin to being a very stupid newborn kitten, limited only to direct visual and audio input.

"All right. Shit, all right. If you heard someone come out the elevator after you, that's enough to get us a warrant for the security cameras."

Detective Reed continues to explain how they can pursue their killer without her testimony, but Nines partitions the audio off to focus his processing power on hacking into the building's security footage. It isn't admissible—yet—but he won't leave any trace.

Whoever hacked the footage before him however, did a very poor job at creating a loop of the previous footage. A leaf from a decorative fern in the foyer waves in the circulated air in the exact same manner ten times in ten minutes before the regular footage resumes.

Sloppy to try to create a continuous loop out of a full minute, but the killer was likely in a hurry to cover their tracks and leave the premises. Nines rules out any RK800 models as suspects. They would have the processing power necessary to splice together six hundred one-second clips to create a much smoother loop without continuity errors.

Unfortunately, embedding his system deeper within the building's main security terminal in order to locate and restore the scrubbed footage would leave evidence of tampering. There is only a [.0004%] chance of anyone noticing his tracks beneath the glaring evidence of the killer, but Nines will consult Detective Reed before taking further action.

The only legal way to acquire footage of the killer at this moment is through a witness.

"Detective Reed is correct," Nines says. "We can build this case without your testimony. However, an android capable of erasing memory files is a potential threat to many others. If you would accept the risk of interfacing with me, I may be able to recover the deleted data."

The two of them both stare at him. Perhaps it was not his turn to speak.

"I …" Shannice presses her lips together. "I would like to know what happened."

She holds out her hand.

"Very well." Nines stands. "We should relocate to the elevator. I will need to devote my full attention to breaching your system."

"Gently," Detective Reed adds.

He stands up and offers the AP model his hand. He cannot inter—oh. He is helping her stand.

"How will the elevator help with that?" Shannice asks.

"We will both be unware of our surroundings, possibly for several minutes," Nines tells her. "The elevator will act as a sealed room to prevent unknown assailants from entering, and its metal construction will also block any outside hacking attempts."

"It's OK." Shannice extends her hand again. "I can do this. I'm not scared."

Nines stares at the offered appendage. "We should relocate to the elevator."

Gavin types out a message on his phone and displays the screen to Shannice without hitting send. Nines can see it regardless of course, due to his synchronization with the device.

its his 1st time

Nines erases such irrelevant information and substitutes it with his own, much more pertinent message.

We should relocate to the elevator as a standard safety precaution.

Gavin backspaces away the advice and attempts to type something new. Nines deletes it just as quickly. Gavin shoves his phone back into his jacket and starts fingerspelling letters. It takes him nearly a full minute, so he must only be marginally familiar with the ASL alphabet.

h-e-s-n-e-r-v-o-u-s

Shannice giggles and then smiles at him, despite his poor performance. Even if Nines had the capacity, he would not smile back. He summons the elevator instead.

"Detective Reed will accompany us," he says.

"Detective Reed will what?" Gavin demands. "You two can …"

He makes shoo-ing motions with his hands. Nines supposes he should be grateful Gavin doesn't make any cruder hand motions, but he lacks the capacity for [gratitude] as well.

"You may be needed to issue me a stand down order," Nines informs him.

"When the fuck have you ever followed one of my orders?"

The elevator doors ding. Nines moves to enter the enclosed space, but Gavin grabs his jacket and attempts to hold him back, resulting in the human being dragged a foot across the floor until Nines chooses to stop.

"Dude, you gotta let women go first," Gavin hisses.

Nines shakes off his arm. "That is sexist."

He enters the elevator first, because he is the closest to it. Shannice follows after him. Gavin heaves a deep sigh and trudges inside as well.

The doors close.

***

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11 / 12 / 13 / 14 / 15 / 16 / 17 / 18 / 19 / 20 / 21 / 22 / 23 / 24 / 25 / 26 / 27 / 28 / 29 / 30 / 31 / 32 / 33

#reed900 #gavin reed #dbh #reed900 fic #dbh fic #ch 2 #my writing #writing

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blancheludis · 6 years ago

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A/N: @iron-man-bingo square: Highschool AU

Fandom: Marvel, MCU, Avengers Relationship: Tony Stark/Steve Rogers Tags: No Powers, Highschool, Secret Relationship, Fluff, Humour Words: 6.782

Summary: "You're staring at Tony's ass again." Steve can't help himself. Just like everything else about Tony, it is great. Too bad no one knows they are in a relationship. He has a feeling that no one believes his protest either way.

NEW CHAPTER: After many discussions of Tony's ass, Steve's friends are surprised when Steve actually delivers the goods right to their doorstep.

---

Bucky lives two streets away from Steve. Considering how long they are taking to get there, he could be living in another state. Tony is a nervous mess, stumbling along next to Steve. It had been amusing in the beginning, but now Steve is getting actually concerned whether he made the right decision in bringing Tony here. They might not yet be ready for this. Then again, they could need some more allies, and Tony could need some more friends. Luckily, Steve has the best there are to offer.

“Are you all right?” Steve means his question mostly rhetorically, but Tony whips his head around to him immediately, wearing a grin that is frail at the edges.

“Of course,” Tony replies brightly, nodding with fake enthusiasm. “Just got a little stone in my shoe.”

He points at his feet and makes a show of rattling his shoe. It is just another excuse for him to stop moving. There is no hiding the nervous glance he throws at the road ahead. It is like he expects a physical manifestation of their movie night to run them over.

“They will love you,” Steve says for the hundredth time.

He would never admit it out loud, but he is almost glad that Tony is nervous because it occupies him enough to ignore the worry sitting heavily inside his own stomach. It is not that he thinks his friends will be mean to Tony, but this is still going to change things.

“They barely tolerate me in school,” Tony argues but slowly starts walking again.

At this pace, they might even make it to Bucky’s before the first movie is over.

“In school, you’re more Stark than Tony.” It feels strange to explain it like that, but Tony nods as if it makes sense. If anyone knows about the dichotomy of Tony Stark, it would be Tony himself. “With us, you’re my boyfriend.”

As usual, Tony’s face brightens at that. Less glum than before, he mutters, “This is a bad idea.”

Bucky’s house is coming up. If he manages to keep Tony busy for just another minute, they might just get the worst moment over before Tony realizes what is happening. Tony likes complaining before the fact, but once there is no escaping a situation anymore, he gives it his best.

“I didn’t know you were such a pessimist,” Steve remarks, gently steering Tony towards the left, right towards Bucky’s door. Almost there.

“I’m not,” Tony argues expectedly. When Steve walks a bit faster, he stumbles after him. “I just think we should –”

“We’re here,” Steve cuts him off with a grin. Before Tony can do anything unadvised, Steve leans forward and presses a quick kiss against his lips. Using his momentum, he rings the bell. Louder, he repeats himself. “We’re here.”

The window of the living room is open, so Steve knows they can hear him. It also allows them to witness a crash sounding from inside, followed by muffled cursing. He usually does not ring since he has a key, but he thought it would make things easier for Tony if they did not just burst in.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Tony straightening and clenching his jaw as he puts a smile on his face that is just a tad too sharp.

“Who’s we?” Bucky calls. “I hope you didn’t bring a homeless person again. We already have Clint who’ll eat us out of house and home.”

That was one time, and they all knew André. Steve did not bring a complete stranger to his best friend’s house. It is important to help each other out, though. Their neighbourhood has a grim enough reputation already.

Tony stares at Steve. His smile has grown marginally more honest, tinged by amusement. It looks like he is going to ask about Bucky’s comment, but then his face tightens again.

“You didn’t tell them you were bringing me?” Tony hisses. He looks ready to run, so Steve puts an arm around his shoulder.

“You’re welcome either way,” he replies in as soothing a tone as he dares without spooking Tony.

Lips pressed into a thin line, Tony swallows. “What if I’m not?”

Thankfully, Steve does not have to think about his answer at all. “Then we’ll have pizza in that small place around the corner.” He shrugs for good measure, conveying nonchalance even while his tone is firm. “I wanted to take you there anywhere.”

For all the years he has known Tony, it is still a miracle to watch his expression change. Usually, Tony wears masks, smooth and pointed, that are a little bit dangerous even when he is smiling. Now, his worry melts off his face, replaced by something warm and full of wonder, almost as if he did not think that Steve would choose him over his friends.

“What’s taking you so long?” Bucky asks from inside.

Slowly, Steve takes a key out of his pocket and shows it to Tony, giving him another long moment to collect himself. “Ready?” he then asks.

Drumming his fingers against his leg, Tony stares hard at the key before forcing his eyes up at Steve. Then he nods.

Tony feels immediately guilty when relief spreads over Steve’s face. He has not meant to make such a big deal out of this. Only it is one, at least to him. The people waiting inside are not strangers, but they could just as well be. Beyond the occasional nod in school, they have nothing to do with each other – beyond their connection to Steve, which they should not know about.

He just wants this to go well, and not just for Steve’s sake. In the safety of his mind, Tony can admit that he would love to have some more friends. And if not friends, at least some allies. Ever since he got closer to Steve, Tony has not been as lonely anymore, not in the closest sense of the word. On the other hand, though, it has gotten worse. Now he knows what he is missing when he is not together with Steve. Just to have some more friendly faces meeting him would make everything easier.

When the door opens, nothing bad happens. No one has come out to greet them and the hallway looks unthreatening enough. Tony does not have much experience with how a hall is supposed to look, of course, considering the gaping pit of a foyer they have at the mansion. He sees jackets and shoes in different sizes, a small notice board with a shopping list on it as well as a small heart. It is – homely.

“Everything’s going to be all right,” Steve says.

For a moment, Tony wonders whether he should tell him that this is not as reassuring as Steve likely thinks. It just reminds him that there is a chance that things will not be all right. It is like one of those what could go wrong? moments.

Before Tony has a chance to say anything, though, loud footsteps come towards them. They have him jumping as if he has done something wrong. Conditioned reactions like that are annoying. Thankfully, Steve was too distracted by the impending arrival of one of his friends so that he does not notice it.

“Stevie, what’s – Stark?”

Bucky Barnes comes to an abrupt halt in the hallway before them. He is wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, looking altogether much more unrefined than he appears in school. Tony does not think he has ever seen any of them but Steve out of their school uniforms. It somehow makes this real, all of a sudden.

Without another word, Bucky turns around and all but runs back into the direction he came from, not giving either of them the chance to explain.

Steve sighs, which sounds fond more than surprised, and looks apologetically at Tony. “Shall we?”

There is nothing to do but nod. Starks do not run and, in this case, Tony does not either.

They follow after Bucky quick enough to see him skid to a stop right in front of the couch where Clint is sprawling.

“Steve brought Stark,” Bucky exclaims breathlessly. His tone holds a note that Tony cannot possibly interpret, not without knowing any of them better.

Clint’s expression, on the other hand, is easy to identify. His mouth falls open even while his face darkens. “He what?” He is, without doubt, upset.

Feeling his shoulders try to curl in on themselves, Tony straightens his spine again. Once they are out of here, he is kindly going to refrain from saying I told you so to Steve. Mostly because the disappointment is clogging his throat. He never thought this would be easy, but it is infinitely harder to accept that Steve’s plan failed before Tony ever said a single word.

“His name is Tony,” Steve speaks up and takes a step forward. He sounds pleasant enough but there is an edge to the words. Without seeing his face, Tony recognizes the tension easily. It is the same one that comes up whenever they are discussing Howard.

His friends ignore him. Well, Natasha, who is occupying one of the armchairs, is suddenly alert, her eyes are running over Tony’s form as if she wonders about the best way to take him apart.

Bucky, however, does not even look up but holds out his hand, palm up, right under Clint’s nose. “Pay up, Barton.”

Clint’s face, if possible, gets even more strained as he glares at Steve. Leaning forward, he points an accusing finger at them.

“Couldn’t you have waited, like, two more weeks to act on your super obvious crush?” he asks, just short of yelling.

With a sigh like a book falling closed, Steve relaxes. Tony is confused. He has always known that people do not make sense but he usually makes sure that does not pertain him. Now, though, he has hopes running on the outcome of this, and he hates losing.

“On what did you bet, Buck?” Steve asks, moving slightly closer towards Tony so that their shoulders touch. It is probably meant to be reassuring, but just like his words earlier, it falls slightly short. Steve should really work on his communication skills.

Sullenly, Clint pushes Bucky’s hand to the side, causing Bucky to laugh as he shrugs at Steve. “That you’d come to your senses before this term is over and start grabbing that ass,” here he gestures lightly at Tony with a truly shark-like grin, “instead of just ogling it.”

While Tony is still trying to come to terms with the fact that Steve’s friends are apparently not upset about his presence but actually counted on it sooner or later, Steve nods his head. He does not seem surprised by them betting on his love life. If that is a normal occurrence between friends, Tony might have to think about his longing for them again.

“I’m afraid you haven’t won then,” Steve says slowly, his wide grin belying the mocking regret in his tone.

Despite it being unlikely that any of these people will lash out at him, Tony has to fight taking a step back. Nobody likes being told they have lost.

“What?” Bucky narrows his eyes at them. “You’re here. Stark’s here. You’re standing close enough together that one might think you’re permanently attached.”

What has started as a light touch between their shoulders has ended in Tony melting against Steve’s side, be it to get some reassurance or to hide his own tension. He just feels safer with Steve next to him. They do not get to touch each other nearly often enough, always conscious of who might be watching them.

“Tony,” Steve says his name with more sharpness now to remind his friends of the manners they supposedly have, “has been my boyfriend for just over a year now.”

Pandemonium ensues as Bucky and Clint turn to each other, gesturing wildly even as they argue loudly.

“A what?” Clint shrieks. “No way.”

At the same time, Bucky declares loudly, “You’re a terrible liar. You couldn’t have kept this from me.”

Despite the chaos, Tony feels the thick knot of worry sitting in his gut dissolve. Nothing is clear yet. Just because they made a bet about whether or not Steve would be brave enough to ask Tony out does not mean they approve of the relationship or of Tony. It does not mean they are going to get along.

His greatest fear of being thrown right out of Bucky’s house, however, might have just been unfounded. That makes gathering the strength to get through the rest of the night easier.

“I knew.”

Natasha does not raise her voice and still she manages to bring the noise to an abrupt end. Everybody stares at her, Tony included.

Steve did not tell her, he is sure of that. She never showed any sign of knowing. Her eyes never lingered on Tony in school, she never made any kind of comment. Yet neither her tone nor her expression leave any doubt that she is telling the truth.

“Please,” she drawls, a tiny smirk on her lips that makes her look more dangerous than usual, “as if Steve could have fooled me.” The she waves at Clint and Bucky, a lazy gesture that is no less absolute. “I believe you owe me twenty bucks each.”

The boys mutter under their breath, sharing a dark glance. In the face of their defeat, they have forgotten all about their argument just a moment ago.

A tremble runs through Steve at the sight that Tony only belatedly recognizes as silent laughter.

“Even ignoring the fact that you can’t leave well enough alone and bet on my private life,” Steve says, likely aiming for a chiding tone but ends up sounding amused, “but you really bet against Natasha?”

From the sounds of it, that is the height of stupidity. Admittedly, even without knowing her beyond being in class together, Tony thinks this is common sense. Anyone who looks like they are not just ready to but already have murdered someone while clad in the school issued skirt and knee socks is not someone one should slight.

“Well, I mean,” Clint stumbles over the words then gestures aimlessly at them, “it’s you and Stark.”

“Tony,” Steve corrects them for the third time, now with much less patience in his voice.

Then he looks at Tony with concern written all over his face and that is when Tony realizes that he has not said a single word since entering the house. It was not exactly necessary, and Tony tells himself that is the only reason he cannot get his mouth to open.

It is complicated. He has been taught how to charm people, how to spin lies, how to navigate social traps. He knows how to hold all his cards close to his chest, sometimes close enough that not even he himself can see them. At the same time, though, he has never learned to hold an honest conversation without losing himself.

Being introduced to Steve’s friends is only one part of this venture and not even the scariest one. Tony also has to open himself up

Lost in his thoughts, Tony notices only too late that everybody is looking at him now. Only years of trying to keep his composure under scrutiny allow Tony to meet their stares head on.

“What do you even see in him?” Bucky asks.

Ice fills Tony’s inside, spreading slowly until even his toes tingle with it. That is what he has been asking himself for the past year now too. Steve deserves so much better than him and yet he stays.

He does not dare to glance at Steve, can barely stand the way they are still touching anymore. If his friends get Steve to see reason and leave Tony, he is not sure what he is going to do. Sometimes the thought of Steve is the only thing that gets him through his day, through the never-ending work of helping out Stark Industries’ R&D department, through Howard’s endless lectures. Through being Tony Stark.

“Sta-” Bucky interrupts himself when Steve clears his throat. “Tony?”

With effort, Tony looks up and finds curiosity on their faces, a frown on Clint’s and worry on Steve’s. Confused, he realizes the question was meant for him.

What does he see in Steve? The question is both easy and impossible to answer.

His lips pull up into a grin that feels weak but is the best he can manage with how fast his heart is beating. “Should you be asking me that? Aren’t you his friends?” he asks, joking to buy himself some time.

“That’s exactly why I’m wondering,” Bucky shoots back, as amiable as if this is not the first time they have ever had a conversation.

“He’s,” Tony takes a deep breath, wondering how to describe the miracle that is Steve, even while being acutely aware of how close they are, “great.”

Even before the word is completely over his lips, Tony ducks his head. A thousand other things would have been better to describe Steve, more accurate, kinder. Yet, his throat refuses to cooperate. Perhaps it is better that way so he cannot make things worse.

To his utter surprise, Steve’s friends laugh. Bucky bellows loudly, while Clint is closer to howling. Natasha is the most reserved, although her grin might just be more expressive than the boys’ loudness. Even Steve turns to look at him, that quiet amusement on his face that Tony loves.

“Look at that,” Clint drawls when they have calmed down. He is smirking but it does not make him look mean. “They are already taking on each other’s characteristics. Steve’s turned more daring and St- Tony’s stopped being eloquent.”

Nobody has ever described Tony as eloquent before. That it comes from Clint of all people makes it mean more. At his side, Steve presses into him more firmly for a minute. Tony knows what that is supposed to mean. If they think he is talking much at school, they have never heard him go on about something he loves. They are not yet at the point where Tony dares to hope that, one day, they will.

“Well,” Bucky claps his hands and lets himself fall back onto the couch, immediately putting his feet up in Clint’s lap. Who lets it happen without much of a reaction at all. “Are you coming in or what?”

They are still standing merely a foot from the door, Tony realizes with a start. Reminded of that, he thinks he is going to feel embarrassment creeping up on him or new terror. Instead, he looks at Bucky’s face and then meets Steve’s asking glance with a smile.

If they are asking him in, they cannot have that badly an opinion of him. Perhaps Steve was right all along and everything is truly going to be all right.

Walking the halls of the school always feels a bit like navigating a minefield. Tony has a reputation to uphold and expectations to meet. Being tired and distracted, thinking back to the movie night with Steve’s friends, does not help with keeping up the act of being the one and only Stark in the school.

Bruce takes one look at him and asks what happened. Luckily, Tony has more than enough experience in changing the topic to something science-related that keeps them occupied for a while. Still, if Bruce notices that Tony is different, someone more observant certainly could too.

Nothing actually happened. On the contrary. Tony feels like his bones are humming with a kind of energy he has never felt before. It is a curious warmth, mixed with a content so deep he is afraid of it, and just a hint of expecting his doom. It feels a bit like falling in love all over again, those first trepidation meetings with a new crush wanting to turn into something more.

“All right,” Bruce snaps next to him, ripping him out of his thoughts, “what’s wrong with you?”

A giggle rises up in Tony’s throat, but he pushes it down just as it reaches his lips. It would take them weeks to iterate all of what is wrong with him. Instead, he says, “Nothing,” and pointedly looks at their chemistry book waiting between them.

“You are fiddling and distracted,” Bruce replies dryly, looking at Tony over the rim of his glasses. “You made a beginners’ mistake in an equation last class.”

Tony frowns, fighting down the urge to take out his Maths book and find the alleged mistake. Tingly feeling aside, he cannot afford getting sloppy. Someone less kind than Bruce will notice that.

“What kind of mistake?” Tony asks, although he knows the only thing that matters is that it happened at all.

“The kind you’d never make if everything was all right.” Bruce rolls his eyes, and Tony both loves and hates him for his insistence.

They do not have much to do together outside of school, with both of them carrying their own problems. Tony guesses it is not obvious for outsiders but he recognizes some of the same behavioural patterns in Bruce as in himself. Where Tony is flashy and loud, Bruce is, of course, withdrawn, keeping to himself. Yet they both flinch at sudden loud noises. They both wear long sleeves at times even when it gets unbearably hot outside. Last year, Tony had given Bruce an expensive but very effective concealer for Christmas, which had not raised any of the questions someone unfamiliar with hiding bruises would ask. They have never talked about it, but they stick together in their own way. There is comfort in that too.

“I think I made some friends,” Tony blurts out. He tells himself he does it mostly to keep Bruce from worrying. Even if they avoid the topic of their home lives, they care.

A smile lights up Bruce’s face, making him look even softer. “Rogers’ gang?” he then asks, complete with a smug little grin when Tony stares at him in incomprehension.

How has everybody known about this without them noticing? First Steve’s friends’ ridiculous bet, now Bruce who acts like there is nothing strange about Tony hanging out with one of the most notable groups in the school.

Instead of wasting time on denials – he has already decided to clue Bruce in – Tony pushes the chemistry book away from them and half-leans, half-sprawls over the desk to better look at Bruce.

“How?” he asks simply, wondering whether he has truly become this obvious.

“You’ve been making moon eyes at Rogers for a year now,” Bruce answers, rolling his eyes at the ridiculousness of the question, “and this morning Romanoff nodded at you.”

That had been weird, Natasha greeting him with the barest tilt of her lips that he is quickly beginning to realize is a smile. It had also been so subtle that there is no way a casual observer would have noticed. It makes him sad for a moment that Bruce has needed to learn how to watch people this closely too.

Natasha nodding at him is actually a pretty damning piece of evidence. She is usually aloof and distant, doing her classwork but otherwise keeping as much out of the inner mechanisms happening at the school as possible. Clint and she are usually glued together, but it is not wrong to view the whole group as a unit.

“She did that,” Tony admits slowly. Taking a leap, he adds, “You should come meet them. They are awesome.”

More so, they are still a social disaster waiting to happen, but Tony would like Bruce to come with him for more than just his ability to mediate. They are friends too, if on a mostly scientific level.

He knows Bruce will withdraw before he ever sees the signs. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Bruce cautions, eyes hooded and hands out of sight. He is very still as if he expects Tony to lash out of him for his refusal.

They are friends, yes, but nothing is perfect.

Tony makes a show of shrugging, glancing down at the text they are supposed to be working through. “I’m not pushing you, but from what I’ve gleaned they are good people.” He is biased, of course, considering he loves Steve and wants them to be good.

Bruce raises his eyebrows at him, lips pursed in something that is not quite a smile but still full of fondness. “You know that from what, one meeting?”

Here it is, another deciding moment, where Tony could blunder through a lie or tell the truth. It is not actually a question. If Bruce had asked before now, Tony probably would have told him directly. He is not reasonably convinced that they are close enough for Bruce not to sell his secrets to the first desperate reporter willing to buy. More than that, though, he knows that Bruce does not like attention, and dropping the bomb that Tony Stark is apparently gay will come with a lot of attention for everyone even marginally involved. Even if he started only a rumour, it would come back to him at some point.

“I know that from dating Steve for a year now,” Tony explains simply as if there is nothing to it. As if they have not done their best to keep this secret for this entire year. “Since they are his friends, they must be good.”

He feels Bruce’s eyes on him. It is a fleeting thing since Bruce takes the news with nothing more than a smile and acceptance. “A year?” he asks, cocking his head to the side. “I’d have guessed half of that at the most.”

Tony probably should not take this as a compliment, but it is hard not to. It is still frustrating to see how bad Steve and he actually are at keeping up appearances. At this point, it is pure luck that Howard has not yet sniffed out the truth. “What tipped you off? Tell me it was Steve. He’s such a bad liar.”

There is no good answer here. If Tony has been slacking, he needs to get back on his game as quickly as possible, lest his performance starts lacking in other, more immediately destructive venues like at home or during press conferences. If it is Steve, Tony has the thankless task of trying to teach his boyfriend how to keep his emotions in check. It has been a year and they have gotten nowhere on that front.

“Oh, he is, but it was you actually,” Bruce says, going for the third, even worse option that they have both messed up. “He could have just had a crush on you, but you’ve never stopped watching him too.” Expression turning amused, Bruce adds, “And you’re pushing out your butt in his direction every chance you get. That’s – pretty telling.”

Tony groans, then twists his head around to glean a glance down his back. “Why does everybody notice my ass?” he asks, only half-complaining.

“Don’t worry,” Bruce says, looking too, “it’s passable.”

In that moment, Tony realizes what a tragedy it is that not more people witness Bruce like this. The snarky attitude he somehow packs into his frail body, the immediate, witty come-backs. Bruce is a wonderful person, and some days Tony wants to wage a war against the people who try to teach him otherwise.

“Passable?” he cries out, much too loud for the classroom but that has never stopped him before. “That’s blasphemy.”

Bruce’s reply gets cut off by their teacher deciding that they are disrupting the class too much. “Mr. Stark, Mr. Banner, stop talking.” Tony notices that the sharpness accompanying his name softens with Bruce’s. He is all right with that.

Tony manages to keep his mouth shut for all of ten seconds before he turns back towards Bruce.

“You should think about it,” he says, not much quieter than before. “Meeting them, I mean. It’s good to have someone in your corner.”

They look at each other for a long moment, which is the closest they have ever come to admitting that they need someone in their corner. Finally, Bruce does a weird combination of a nod and a shrug.

“I’ll let you test the waters for a bit longer,” he replies, all but agreeing. “If you’re still in one piece next month, I’ll consider it.”

That is as close to victory as Tony will come, and he is satisfied with that. Bruce and he are friends not because they push each other but because they know when to back off. That is certainly not a trait anyone would suspect Tony Stark of having, but it has served them well.

“Great.” Tony nods and pushes the chemistry book to the far edge of the table. “Now tell me about that mistake I supposedly made in Maths.”

If Steve had not been busy staring at his boyfriend, he might have been able to avert the disaster Clint is making of their secret arrangement only days after they have made it. In his defence, Tony does not exactly get any less distracting.

“Stark,” Clint calls through the cafeteria, loudly. “Over here.”

He sees Tony look up in confusion, searching for whoever would want his attention. Several things happen when he finds Clint waving at him. His eyes flicker over to Steve, an obvious question in them even while his face smooths over, turning into a facsimile of nonchalance. Steve knows him well enough to recognize the trepidation underneath.

“For the last time,” he hisses at Clint, wishing they would not be so difficult about this, “his name is -”

“Tony, we know.” Clint has the audacity to roll his eyes. “Just keeping up appearances.”

Across from them, Bucky grins. It is unfortunate that Natasha is not yet here, because she is the only on able to keep Clint in check. Then again, she is usually on his side.

“Also,” Clint adds, “I’ve known him for just one night and haven’t been making out with him behind the changing rooms for a year. We’re not yet on first name basis.”

“Careful,” Bucky chimes up, too amused for it to be actually in Steve’s defence. “You’re sounding jealous there.”

“Of what?” Clint asks, glaring.

As one, they turn to look at Tony and Clint hums when Bucky makes an unmistakeable gesture around Tony’s middle section.

“That a–” Bucky falls abruptly silent when Tony arrives at their table, putting so much effort into looking innocent that Clint bodges up his own attempt and starts laughing.

“Don’t stop talking on my behalf,” Tony says, and Steve is sure only he is able to hear the slight tremble in his tone, hidden well beneath casual nonchalance.

“Ignore them,” Steve cuts in before his friends decide to actually pick up their conversation again. “They were talking about your ass again.” He is not sure why he says that, but he needs to reassure Tony somehow and that is the easiest way.

“We didn’t mention anyone’s ass with a single word,” Clint protests immediately, although he shares a rather obvious grin with Bucky. “Just because you can’t think of anything else anymore –”

“Yes, yes.” Steve thinks they should not blame him for that. Everything about Tony is gorgeous, his mind and laugh and body. Even after a year, he is still mesmerized each day anew. “Sit down, Tony.”

Tony’s reluctance does not surprise him, but the sheer uncertainty on his face breaks Steve’s heart a little.

“Are we doing this now? Eating together?” Tony asks. His voice is a little bit too sharp to sound unconcerned. “What happened to keeping this a secret?”

In a way, Steve wishes he had never convinced Tony that things would be better if they just kept silent about their relationship. He still stands by his decision to make sure Howard Stark does not find out, but it also feels like he has made it impossible for Tony to completely believe in them being together. They are all waiting for the other shoe to drop, only that it is different shoes. Steve is waiting for Howard to ruin everything, while Tony waits for Steve to dump him – even though he has no plans of ever doing that.

Before he can say anything reassuring, Clint uses his chance to make another quip. “You mean the way you and Steve managed so well to keep your eyes off each other at all times?”

The thing about Clint is to learn that, even though his tone usually has an edge to it, he mostly does not mean anything by it. While Tony is perhaps more sensitive than other people – albeit he is also better at hiding it – he is almost more perceptive.

“You didn’t know anything concrete, so I’d say we didn’t do too bad a job.”

He is still standing awkwardly in front of their table, hands clenched around the straps of his bag. Steve has to fight the urge to pull him down, right next to him so they will touch and reassure each other.

“We thought your father will surely not say anything against you having friends,” Bucky speaks up, sounding just casual enough to make it believable that he knows nothing about Tony’s home life.

Just like Steve, Bucky had been full of conviction that they need to do something about Howard Stark when Steve told him about his suspicions and the few facts he managed to glean from Tony. There is the ever constant threat of disinheritance or, at the very least, another change of school if Howard finds out about Tony’s relationship. Apparently, gay heirs are bad publicity. More pressing are the bruises Tony does his best to hide but that Steve catalogues with ever-increasing worry.

He had to talk to someone about it, and Bucky had naturally been his first choice. Best friends for as long as they can remember. If they cannot trust each other, they cannot trust anyone.

At some point, Steve knows, things will come to a head, but he would prefer that to be on their own terms, on Tony’s terms. At the very least, he should be of age already and not dependant on his father.

“I don’t really do friends,” Tony replies dryly, a myriad of reasons hidden in his tone. He also sends a brief glare in Steve’s direction, conveying that he suspects Steve has talked to Bucky.

“Then I suggest you start right now,” Bucky says lightly, unfazed by Tony’s frown. “If you’re friends with us, no one will bat an eye if you spend time with Steve.”

Steve could kiss Bucky for this argument. Not the words themselves, he could have delivered them too, but the nonchalance he puts into them, that quiet resignation to a fact. It is hard to argue with that.

“He and Buck also do that manly man-hug,” Clint throws in with a ready grin, “so you’ve got a free pass for constant touching too. Everybody knows that Steve is handsy.”

The line of Tony’s shoulders relaxes marginally, so Steve thinks they are on a good path. Because it is required of him and will put Tony more at ease, Steve throws up his hands in the air and says, “I’m not handsy.”

With a sigh that is at least half-full of content, Tony finally lets himself fall into a seat at the table. In fact, he manages to push the chair just so that he comes to rest close enough to Steve that they can bump shoulders while he settles. Under the table, their thighs automatically come to rest against each other. It feels like coming home.

“You are,” Tony says with a shrug, grinning up at him. “And I love it, but you really have a thing about forgetting other people’s personal space.”

Steve has a thousand arguments against that, and all of them end with Tony sprawling over him on the couch or a park bench or the naked floor, or Tony leaning against him while they walk, or brushing imagined dust off Steve’s lapels. When it comes to being handsy, Tony is the unchallenged king of it.

“Well,” Steve says unapologetically, “if it gives us an excuse to touch.”

“We just have to go somewhere no one can see,” Tony says, then his expression turns wicked. “Did I tell you that I’m working on procuring the key to Fury’s office? He doesn’t have any cameras in there. And that leather chair looks nice.”

Having to imagine that, Steve feels his cheeks heating up. He likes to think that, before Tony, he was not so ready for debauchery and mayhem. In fact, he had principles. It is not that he misses them if it means he can have Tony instead, but it sometimes feels like life was easier back then, less carefully balanced on the edge to disaster.

“I like you,” Clint exclaims loudly before Steve has the chance to formulate a response. “It’s done, we’re friends.” He makes a show of it, but his eyes are earnest, always up to mischief. “Tell me when you get that key.” To Steve, he adds, “I promise I won’t watch, but I’ve always wanted to have a look around in there.”

Contrary to how a normal person would react – with embarrassment, shock, concern – Tony looks at Clint with gleaming eyes. He likes to complain about Clint’s utter lack of tact, but now, confronted with him as a sort of ally, Tony must realize that he will always have a co-conspirator for all of his bad ideas.

“You’re in that office every week,” Bucky says dryly. “Surely you’ve seen enough.”

With a huff, Clint turns on Bucky, looking at him as if he has grown a second head. “Have you seen that desk? It totally looks like it’s got some secret compartments.”

Before Clint can launch into another story of how he thinks that Fury is a retired secret agent or a not-so-retired secret agent hiding from his enemies at their school, Steve nudges Tony’s shoulder.

“He likes conspiracies,” he explains with a grimace, “I’m sorry.”

Tony looks thoroughly amused, however. “Don’t be,” he says, then adds in a stage whisper, “If you’re too chicken to make out in Fury’s office, I’ll go with Clint.”

Steve looks between his friends. “This is such a bad idea.” He wishes Natasha were here. She would knock some sense into the boys’ heads without hesitation.

“I think this is the best idea anyone’s had around here in a long while,” Clint predictably argues, grinning at Tony as if he has found the Holy Grail.

“No,” Steve tries again, despite knowing this is a battle he has already lost. His only hope is that Tony does not actually have Fury’s key, although that is only a question of time. “We’re not going to –”

“It looks like it’s just you and me, Clint,” Tony talks right over Steve. “Or do you wanna join us, Bucky?”

There is a twist to his smile that looks so adorable, Steve has a hard time remembering why he is trying to keep his boyfriend from doing something that has him smiling like that.

“Buck?” Steve asks warningly, staring at his best friend – who stares back with the kind of glee in his expression that tells Steve they are all doomed.

“That sounds like my kind of threesome,” Bucky finally says. Almost as an afterthought, he offers, “Steve will stand guard.”

Everybody nods as if everything is decided already and they are good to go. To be honest, Steve would not put it past them if they did go off right now, only remembering they do not actually have the key when they are already pressing their noses flat against Fury’s door.

“I will definitely not help you in any way to break into our headmaster’s office,” Steve declares as firmly as he manages and focuses sternly on his friends.

In turn, they muster him, smiling and full of confidence.

“He’s in,” Tony and Bucky say at the exact same time, their voices even filled with the same dry conviction that Steve will not let them go off on their own.

All four of them look at each other and burst out laughing as if they have done so a thousand times. The last of Steve’s lingering worries dissipate at that. Pressing himself against Tony’s shoulder again, he is filled with the warm knowledge of being exactly where he wants to be.

Everything is all right.

#iron man bingo 3000 #stony #fanfiction #highschool au #established relationship #fluff #humour #tony stark #steve rogers #clint barton #bucky barnes #friendship #ao3 #my writing

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captainsaveasmut · 7 years ago

Text

Tease Me (II)

Pairing 》 T'Challa Udaku x black!plus-size reader

Synopsis 》 Y/N is in the mood for a little teasing but goes a little too far

Warning 》 smut / explicit language

[Part I]

He had you waiting. Horny and eager. I guess this was apart of your punishment: waiting on him. Did he really expect you to patiently sit here while he continued to do God knows what? Did he not know what type of woman you are? The type of wife he married? You were supposed to tease him, have him begging on his knees for you, his lover; not the other way around. You quickly gathered your clothes you rid yourself of the moment you got to the room and put them on in a rush. You didn't know why you were acting like such a sex addict today. Maybe because you haven't had any good loving from your man in a long while, or it was almost that time of the month and your hormones were all over the place, or maybe you saw this as a game; a petty game that you wanted to win. You exited your bedroom and walked down the long, empty hallway; heels clinking against the mid-grey flooring in aggravation. You walked back to the dining area that was blocked off by the double doors and leaned against them to eavesdrop.

”Thank you again, Mother Ramonda and King T'Challa for your hospitality. The Udaku family never tends to disappoint." I guess the royal brunch was over. Finally. Just as you were about to open the door, one of the Dora Milaje opened it from the inside and revealed you to the Mining Tribe Elder, Queen Mother, and T'Challa. "Oh Queen Yn, are you alright? King T'Challa explained to us that you were feeling ill and had to excuse yourself from the brunch." You had briefly glanced at T'Challa, smirking on the inside. You were ill alright. "Um yes, I'm fine. I apologize for my abrupt departure, but the king demanded that I go straight to the room, no detours, and wait for his assistance. Isn't that right my king?" T'Challa did nothing but give a simple nod, keeping his composure, but he stared you down like a hawk. You were already in hot for teasing him, now you were disobeying his orders and mocking him. You must want to be punished and quite frankly, you did.

“Ah well, I'm glad you are feeling better dear. Sadly, I must leave. The mining tribe can't lead itself." On that note Queen Mother walked the mining elder out; two Dora Milaje following behind them. It was just you, T'Challa, and Okoye, who was guarding the door (and personally watching over T'Challa). "Okoye would you leave me and my wife to talk in private." Okoye nodded and quickly left, leaving just you and him. You waited for him to say something, anything but he just stood there, staring at you with those intense eyes. You scoff and walk past him.

"Why do you love to defy me, my Queen?", he finally spoke. "I don’t LOVE to defy you T’Challa. I just like to go after what I want. You should know this.", you answered boldly. At this point, you were willing to say anything to get T'Challa inside of you. He chuckles lowly, slowly strolling over to you. "And what is it that you want my love?" Oh cmon. Was he really about to make you say aloud?

"You know what I want T'Challa." "I'm afraid that I don't. Please tell me what you wish for.", he smirks slyly. "You." "And what about me do you want so badly?"

He was now facing you, but he continued to walk, making you back up until you bumped into the table. This man had you right where he wanted you: trapped. "Your kiss, your touch, your love. I want it T'Challa. I wanted it ever since you walked out of the bathroom this morning.", you confessed. He continues to stare at you as if he was trying to bore a hole in your face. He was dangerously close; less than an inch away from you, but he didn't touch you. He refused to touch you and it killed you. "You think you deserve to have me after your inexcusable actions today entle [beautiful]? You think you are entitled to this dick after what you pulled today?" His strict voice sent chills down your spine. You didn't answer. You were too busy trying to contain yourself to even comprehend the question he was asking. This mand drove you crazy. "I asked you a question." He forced you to look at him. Lust and anger clouded his dark brown orbs.

"You had a lot to say earlier, now you don't want to speak." "I think I deserve to be sexed by my husband hmm.” "I bet you do... I bet you want me to bend you over this table and fuck you senseless eh? Is that you want?"

You nod your head, biting your lip. He just chuckles and sighs. "What am I going to do with you, my Queen?", he whispered against my lips. You couldn't take it anymore! You slammed your lips on his and kissed him hungrily. Surprisingly, he didn't stop you and kissed you back with just as much want. You two fought for dominance before you tried to place your hands on the side of his face, to deepen the kiss. T'Challa grabbed your wrist and forced your hands behind your back, slowly easing out of the kiss. You whimper at the loss of his lips, while he chuckles in amusement. "You think I'm going to let you off that easy? First you tease and embarrass me in front of the Tribal Council, then you blatantly disobey my commands, and lastly, you come down here to mock me. These actions cannot go unpunished my dear..." He swiftly turns you around and pushes his body against the back of yours. He gives your neck delicate kisses as he slowly unzips your dress.

Once the dress was fully undone he let it puddle around your heels, exposing your naked body. You didn't bother putting your undergarments back on. They were going to come off again anyway. "No panties, no bra? Intombi esile [naughty girl]..." He took off his tribal robe and loosened the long line of buttons on his tribal top. He took his tie off and used it as makeshift bondage for your hands. Then he placed his hands on your shoulders and pushed you down on the table, showcasing your ass and soaking pussy. He marveled at wet he got you. His fingertips lightly grazed over your body, down your chocolate legs, then into your wetness. He brought his fingers to his tongue to taste you."How can someone with such a nasty attitude have such a sweet pussy?", he asked rhetorically, smacking your ass. "Maybe if you didn’t-"

"Who asked you to speak!?", he shouted. He pulled your hair, making your head lift off of the table. You couldn't help but feel powerless. "You talk too much, that's why you're getting punished now." He released your hair and pushed you further down onto the table, while he rubbed large circles over your ass cheek. He lifted his hand from your butt then... SMACK! His hand slams down on your right cheek, keeping it there to feel it jiggle. The force of his hit makes you jump and yelp in pain. "Since you're so chatty today, why don't you count how many times your king smacks this beautiful ass of yours...starting from one." You hesitated for a moment, trying to control the intense throbbing in your core.

"...1" SMACK! Another hit on the left cheek "...2" SMACK! "...3", you choked out.

T'Challa's spanks were starting to get to you and tears threatened to spill from your eyes, but it felt so good. Such erotic pain. T'Challa continued to spank you until you were whimpering out the number "10..." He kissed both of your ass cheeks before gently lifting you off of the table by your wrist. He turned you so you were facing him, revealing your tear-stained face. He wiped your tears away and gave you a soft kiss on the lips. "If I didn't know you, I would've thought you weren't enjoying this, but I know you all too well...", he whispered in your ear. He began to kiss and nibble on your neck as his fingers travel down to your puddled heat.

You sigh deeply, feeling his hands travel down your steaming body. You felt yourself sink into submission, but you didn't want to give in just yet. You still had a little more rebellion left in you. "It isn't much of a punishment if you know I like it, now is it?", you whisper in his ear. He stopped abruptly. "What.", he asked, not as a question, but as an opportunity to take back what you said. "I don't know why you think a few spanks on the ass is supposed to put me in check. You know I like that kinky shit. You might as well save both of us some time and dick me down right now."

You expected T'Challa to go ballistic and fuck you senseless over the dinner table, but he remained calm. When it came to you he mastered silent anger and you drove you fucking insane. All you want is for him to lash out at you, but NOOOO, he just stands there studying you with a stoic look on his face. "GOSH T'CHALLA! SAY SOMETHING, ANYTHING! You know I hate it when you just stand there!", you blurt out. He just chuckles. "That smart mouth of yours is what keeps you in trouble. Let's see if you can put it to good use."

[Part III]

Tags 》 @brianabreeze @black-mcu-imagines @brownsugarcocoabutterwildflowers @wakandanmoonchild @sarahboseman @sweettea-and-honeybutter @elixirtchalla @sonofnjobu @sisterwifeudaku @wakanda-4evr @wakandas-vibranium @erikismybitch @texasbama @thiccdaddy-mbaku @imgabbyrae @dumbchickwrites @dreamingoftchalla @hausofgucci @killmoncoochie @killmongersaidheyauntie @killmongersgurl @chx-lla @mbakuspocketpussy @muse-of-mbaku (and everybody else. Sorry if I didn't tag you)

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septic-dr-schneep · 7 years ago

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JSE Fanfiction - In Time of Need (Part 12: Coalition)

Summary: Unable to stand by and let Anti harm the man she loves, Signe takes matters into her own hands and calls for backup.

As soon as Anti hung up on her, Signe tossed her own phone onto Jack’s recording desk, covering her face with a trembling hand and leaning a shoulder against the foam on the wall. It wasn’t long before the rest of her body followed, sagging against it for support as her legs refused to support her weight on their own.

Her thoughts were flying faster than she could process them, her heart quickening in tandem and stealing her breath. It felt as if all of the air had been sucked from the room and all of the warmth in her blood had seeped away with it, leaving nothing but the shivering numbness of aftershock. The strangling sensation of panic eventually coalesced into one horrifying thought:

This very moment, Seán could be dying.

It took everything in her to push herself off the wall and return to her phone, fumbling for her contacts. She couldn’t let it happen. She couldn’t lose him. Her fingers were tingling as she hurriedly texted, autocorrect mangling her message as she hit all the wrong buttons in her urgency.

She couldn’t think straight enough to fix it before it sent; her mind was consumed with questions as she rushed out to the hall and began throwing on her shoes, hat and coat. What time was it over there? Was he going to be awake? Was his phone even going to be on? Would he know that something was wrong?

The phone burst to life a minute or so later, nearly causing her to drop it in her rush to answer.

“Hello?!”

“Signe?” Mark’s concerned voice filled her ears and her chest with immense relief. “I just got your text. I was in the middle of recording—what’s going on?”

“Anti! Anti has them,” Signe burst out breathlessly. “All of them! Seán, the Egos, they’re hurt. They need your doctor, Iplier! I don’t know what he’s gonna do to them!”

For a few beats all she could hear on the other end was Mark spitting hasty curses and fumbling with his equipment to turn it off. “Alright, Iplier’s at Egos Central; it takes me about fifteen minutes to get there—”

“Mark, fifteen minutes is—!” It was an eternity. Anti could kill them fifteen times over in every minute they spent with him.

“It’s the best I can do, I’m sorry! I’ll take the van, I’ll pick up the doc and get the Host to narrate us to you! We’ll be there soon, I promise! Try—try to stay calm, Signe.”

Stay calm? Had he really just told her to stay calm? Signe wondered incredulously as the dial tone cut off her next words. This was the man she loved and his creations; how he could expect her to be even remotely calm or collected in a situation like this?!

Sure enough, as soon as the infamous van seen in Mark’s vlogs appeared outside, Signe sprinted out to it as if an explosion were chasing her down a tunnel.

“How do you know Anti was there?” Mark demanded as she scrambled inside and he swung a U-turn.

“I got an alert from their emergency communicators and tried to FaceTime with them, then the phone got dropped. He picked it up,” she explained, wrapping her arms tightly around herself as she hunkered down in the back of the van. “He showed me the Egos covered in blood…He showed me Seán…He told me to beg for them and then he hung up. That was right before I texted you.”

“Well, judging by how slowly Mark drives, they’re going to be dying by the time we get there!” Dr. Iplier snarked from the passenger seat, casting a pointed glance at his creator.

“Shut up.”

“I’m also worried about Robbie,” Signe cut in, leaning forward so they could hear her over the rumbling of the engine. “When the phone fell, Jameson was just going to check on him. I don’t know what happened, but he was attacking someone—Jameson or maybe Anti, but it was silent for a long time afterward. Then Anti picked up the phone. Robbie might not be…right in the head.”

“Then perhaps Mark and the doctor were right to bring the Host along,” a lower voice spoke up from the far back of the van, causing Signe to jump. Her hair swished around her face as she twisted sideways to glance between the Host and his creator.

“He shouldn’t be here,” she stated nervously.

“We needed him to get us here!” Mark protested, a stressed laugh bursting out of him as he rounded the next turn. “And y’think I’m going to take our only doctor to Anti’s last known location without some kind of backup? He’d never go!”

“That we can agree on,” Dr. Iplier admitted, tightening his grip on his medical kit.

“Yeah, well, you forget how well I know you.”

“The Host doesn’t intend to force himself on any of the Septics, if that is what Ms. Hansen is concerned about,” the other Ego assured her. “He won’t even speak a word to them. He’s there to watch over the doctor’s work, nothing more. They will hardly know he is there.”

What kind of protest could she offer in the face of that? “Jackieboy’s not going to be happy,” Signe mumbled, shaking her head as she huddled into her coat against the unnatural chill that crawled down her spine. She hated to think of what might happen—of what had happened when Jackieboy and the Host were put at odds.

Naturally it could be blamed on Dark; he and Jackieboy had once respected each other—not because their morals aligned but because they stayed out of each other’s way, they each intended to run a coordinated household and they had a mutual enemy in Anti. Signe hadn’t heard all of the details, but one of them had infringed on the other’s boundaries and it had led to the Host stepping in on behalf of his friend. Threats were made and weren’t appreciated by either side and by the time the smoke cleared, there were major casualties on both sides and a significant fissure between the two households.

The Host was no friend to Jackieboy and he wasn’t a neutral party anymore either. Hopefully he wouldn’t be seen as just another threat to the ones who were hurt. Jackieboy would be all too eager to come to their defense.

Wait a minute…Signe realized, lifting her head as she recalled the sweep Anti had done to show her the room. Where was Jackieboy?

“Is this it?” Mark asked rhetorically, leaning over the steering wheel to see the rectangular house looming a few hundred yards away. “Only one story, out in the middle of nowhere…They got minimalistic tastes?”

“Jackieboy has a secret identity to keep; he doesn’t want people know where he lives,” Signe explained hastily as she spilled out of the van and sped toward the entrance.

“Signe, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait,” Dr. Iplier cut her off, his medical kit flying out behind him as he leapt out to cut her off. “Let us go first; we need to scope this out. If Anti hates you as much as he hates Jack—”

“Can’t the Host see what’s happening in there?” she demanded impatiently as Mark and the Host caught up with them at the door. As the Host ducked his head to concentrate, Signe cast a vaguely surprised glance at the bat Mark held close to his side.

“He’s letting me borrow it,” the other YouTuber mumbled with an indicative nod at the Ego beside him, keeping his voice low as the Host let his Sight work.

“…Two pairs of four, tiles stained and cracked and smeared—Jameson Jackson is standing against the far back wall not far from Jack’s medical bed, shaking violently as he stares into the shadows, afraid to tear his eyes away,” he narrated distantly. “The fear churns through him as he scans the darkness, looking for any shadow out of place. He can hear breathing but he sees no one there.”

“Is it Anti?” Dr. Iplier questioned.

“Jameson cannot see to know. The battle overwhelmed him; he shielded himself, covered his face and was blind to its outcome. He can scarcely dare to move, standing in the middle distance between Jack’s bed and the magician’s prone form. He strains his ears to listen to Jack’s medical monitors, hoping against hope that Jack is still well. There is blood under his feet.”

“Alright,” Dr. Iplier muttered, settling his head mirror more firmly on his forehead. “Who’s in the worst condition and who’s most accessible?”

“The Host can See Jameson, the magician, and the doctor. Chase Brody and the zombie are hidden from him…Jameson’s hand is damaged. Marvin is bleeding from the abdomen and Schneeplestein has wounds scattered over his chest, neck, and skull.”

“What about Seán?” Signe forced herself to ask, the words leaving her throat dry.

“Jack appears to be unharmed.”

“Appears to be?” Mark echoed tensely as anxiety visibly swept over Signe’s features.

“Jack lies very still in his medical bed, the monitors around him steady. He appears to sleep undisturbed,” the Host emphasized. “There’s no trace of blood or injury on his visible skin.”

That news was meant to be a relief, but somehow the way the Host had phrased it only kindled another spark of worry in Signe’s stomach as she unlocked the door and let the men pass.

“No more stalling then. Let’s get this over with.”

Everything in the outer rooms looked as it should be; all of the lights were on, the air conditioner rattled faintly somewhere over their heads and there were dirty dishes and a pot of coffee scattered across the kitchen table. It looked just as if the others had dropped what they were doing and run out for a trip to the movies on the spur of the moment. Fleetingly Signe recalled the time they had done just that and Jack had given them a stern word or two for worrying him so much when they returned. Then of course, unable to stay mad at them, he’d asked them how the movie was and they’d spent the rest of the afternoon acting out all of the humorous moments for him and Signe to enjoy vicariously.

“That’s the lab at the end of the hall,” she murmured, pointing over Dr. Iplier’s shoulder and earning a subtle nod in return.

The door was already cracked open, they discovered. With a slow, deep inhale, the doctor nudged his shoe into the opening to slide it further. The hinges squeaked ever so slightly, earning a startled clatter from within as Jameson flinched back, bumping Jack’s IV stand in the process.

“Jameson?”

“D-Doc? Is that—Mr. Fischbach and the Host are with you…? And Miss Hansen, thank heavens!” Jameson immediately shifted toward them and then remembered himself, frantically glancing back at the darkest corner of the room. “Wait, wait, no, step back! Don’t come closer, I beg you! I think Robbie’s watching! He sees you coming anywhere near us and he’ll rend you limb from limb!”

“What happened to him?” Signe whispered gingerly as she slid past Dr. Iplier along the side wall.

“I should never have turned my back on him,” Jameson agonized, twisting at the hem of his vest as he stared into the shadows. “I was speaking with you on that enchanted device and w-when I wasn’t looking, Robbie caught a case of the horrors! He—He fancied the blood…wanted a nip or two of it, if you understand. I didn’t. I tried to go to Chase and he…” A deep shudder rolled through him as he remembered and he curled into himself, shaking his head to free it of whatever terrible memory had arisen. Signe had a feeling she could imagine it.

“The Host and I can get through to him,” Dr. Iplier murmured, which only strengthened Jameson’s head-shaking.

“Doc, he’s like a rabid mutt! He froths at the mouth! He tossed Antisepticeye—the Antisepticeye!—about the place like a slab of dead meat and—and Chase…Oh, golly, he dragged Chase off somewhere over there. I don’t know what he’s done to him!”

“All the more reason why we need to find out,” the doctor countered, taking a series of cautious steps forward and faltering only when a low growl echoed from the far corner. The doctor stiffened, glancing over his shoulder at the Host and his creator. Swallowing hard, Mark skirted slowly around the door toward the nearby series of switches. After a nod of agreement between him and the doctor, he flipped it.

Signe’s heart surged into her throat as light spilled down over Robbie’s hunched form. His expression was almost unrecognizable; she had only ever seen him as the innocent, childlike persona he always was…never like this. He was hunched over, almost on all fours, dark waves of blood staining the torn remnants of his shirt as they cascaded from multiple wounds in his back. Brighter, redder blood and trails of saliva were smeared over his mouth and chin, dripping into small puddles onto the linoleum—and onto the still form of Chase Brody lying underneath him. Now that they could see him, Robbie could clearly see all of them, thumping a hand down on Chase’s chest and twisting his fingers into his shirt.

“Chase!” Jameson’s shoulders shook with a half-stifled sob.

“Okay…I can see where you were coming from with the ‘rabid mutt’ assessment,” Mark concurred in uneasy amazement, tightening his grip on his bat. “Signe, any ideas?”

“This is new,” Signe confessed with difficulty, drifting closer to the doctor and earning a warning rumble from the zombie for her movement. “We could, um…we could try to sedate him?”

“But how do we get him away from Chase so we can?”

“Has he seemed interested in any of the others?” Dr. Iplier asked with a sideways glance at Jameson.

“Myself, briefly, and Antisepticeye. I don’t think he’s noticed how much Marvin and Schneeplestein are bleeding,” the gentleman answered, fidgeting. “I was only bleeding after he attacked me, so there wasn’t enough to entice him forever. When Antisepticeye arrived, he d-drew Robbie’s attention away from me…He wanted his throat.”

“That’s always bleeding,” Signe murmured.

“Well, it’s not like we can throw one of the others to him and swap ’em out for Chase; we’d still have the same problem!” Mark protested.

“The Host believes their solution may be simpler than they think.”

The Host had been true to his word; Signe had barely remembered he was there until he spoke again. He tilted his head around at his companions for several seconds, letting his silence simmer, and when none of them seemed to gather what he was implying, he breathed deeply, brushing between Mark and Signe with measured steps. As Robbie sat up, on alert, the Host lifted his hands to his hair and tugged deftly at the knot securing the bandages over his face. Dr. Iplier’s eyes widened.

“Host, don’t—!”

A thick splatter of blood spilled onto the floor at the Host’s feet and Robbie let out a roar that shattered the air, lunging over Chase’s fallen form and charging manically across the slick tiles toward the source. Dropping his medical kit, Dr. Iplier ran at him from the other side, grabbing the Host around the neck from behind and hauling him a few yards back, hollering something unintelligible that Mark somehow understood. Diving out into the open, he swung the bat.

“Don’t hurt him!” Signe screamed on impulse as the weapon connected with Robbie’s ribcage, bowling him over into the far wall.

“It didn’t, it didn’t!” Mark shouted in alarm, cursing up a storm as the zombie rolled back onto his hands and knees just as quickly, shaking himself down to recover for only a moment before he threw himself to his feet, howling feverishly as he charged them again.

Barking his own frustrated curses as blood gushed down his cheeks, the Host wrangled himself out of the doctor’s grasp and threw up an arm, blinding golden threads materializing up and down his sleeve, lashing with the force of a whip as he swung his hand out.

Signe could only watch in shock as Robbie hurtled right into them, intent on tearing past, only to find that they were unbreakable. The more he clawed at them, the more ensnared he became as more and more of them appeared around him, manipulated by the reality-warper with increasing strength and speed. In less than a minute, Robbie was on his back on the ground, his knees bound to his chest, arms twisting and turning in vain against the restraints.

“Doctor!” the Host spat, hiding his eye sockets against his free sleeve and thoroughly soaking it. Dr. Iplier rushed to his side, throwing out his palms and creating a dazzling blue glow from them to contrast with the golden threads of reality. Robbie’s struggles faltered as the energy field washed over him and after another few tentative moments, he relaxed inch by inch, blinking in bewilderment.

“That’s it…” Dr. Iplier hissed, lowering his hands as the tension in the zombie started to ease. “That’s it…Just relax…”

Signe shared an uncertain glance with Jameson as he came to stand at her side and watch. Heaving a sigh, Mark let the bat clatter to the floor as he approached from the left.

“Iplier rarely uses this,” he explained quietly. “It’s a…healing field, I guess. Whoever’s within it gets a double dose of peace and hope. Sounds cheesy, but it really works. He should probably use it more often.”

It was working. Robbie eventually went completely limp, hugging his knees against his chest and blinking up at the newcomers with nothing but mild curiosity. Breathing shakily, the Host allowed his threads of reality to go lax around him, thinning and dissolving as he hunched his shoulders.

“The Host would like to request—” he began, his voice muffled in his sleeve.

“I’ve got you,” Dr. Iplier assured him, sprinting back to his fallen kit and withdrawing his bandages. “That was one of the stupidest things you’ve done in a while.”

“…The Host won’t disagree.”

As Dr. Iplier redressed the Host’s eye sockets, Signe looked past them to see Robbie sitting up, shuffling awkwardly so he was sitting cross-legged. Apprehensively she approached him, only daring to kneel in front of him when his eyes sparked with recognition.

“Seen…?”

“H-Hi, Robbie,” she greeted tentatively, bending down in front of him. It was hard to look him in the face with all of the blood smeared across it, but she valiantly made the effort. “How are you feeling?”

Robbie paused, as if thinking it over, and then fidgeted with his hands in his lap. “Back…” he murmured pensively.

“That’s right, you are back,” she concurred, unsure why tears were starting to blur her vision.

“Back,” he repeated more emphatically, tilting his head back indicatively. “Back…hurts.”

“Oh. Well, don’t worry, buddy.” Forcing a shaky smile, she lightly offered a squeeze to his scarred shoulder. “You and the others are going to be fixed up. Just be patient.”

“Hungry.”

“…There’s probably some meat in the fridge. We’ll take care of that too.”

#youtube #jacksepticeye #fanfiction #youtube fanfiction #signe hansen #robbie the zombie #jameson jackson #dapper jack #markiplier #dr iplier #the host #major character injury #violence #hurt comfort #hold onto hope

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vrylium · 7 years ago

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WIP Preview

Aria/Tevos

Premise: Aria has assembled a consortium of eventual subsidiaries in response to a lush world within asari space being greenlit for colonization, but she quickly encounters some complications from rival interests vying for the same plots of land. Coincidentally, these same rivals have challenged the asari councilor’s goals for the planet’s future, and the pair reach a mutually beneficial arrangement in countermeasure. But even when their business concludes, Aria can't stop thinking about her. Once the obsession becomes mutual, the pair are left to wonder whether it was all just another Nevos mirage - a temporary escapist fantasy in paradise - or something with longevity.

Effectively replaces the story Confidentiality. This preview is still pretty rough, skeletal, and lacking ambient detail, but it’s just to give an idea about what the story is. Also, a cameo of Parem Igrahal, but here she’s young, around 30. The most notable features of this story are the fact that Aria and Tevos are never antagonistic to each other, Liselle is a year or two younger than she was in Confidentiality, and Tevos’s character is less self-critical, but still as cautious.

There was an indulgent sense of tradition in meeting on a lush world to apportion another. The matriarchy had spent the last few years echoing the potential of Ryasus, their precious emerald glistening under the mists of interminable waterfalls and giant dew-heavy aroids. In the right hands, they said, Ryasus would become a second Nevos within half a century. Its exotic vistas would attract renowned filmmakers, mountain peaks penetrating the canopies would stroke egos of business executives opening new branches, and tourists wading into the shallow crystalline oceans would rather lose themselves than turn back to shore.

Aria’s judgement of the generous optimism was it being a bit out of proportion. She only agreed with their rhetoric insofar as expansion onto that beautiful, yet undefiled planet was discussed as a symptom of corporate success, and therefore encouraged. Beyond this, all the commotion had simply inspired too many interested parties to flock to petition the asari government for permits. In consequence, the competition had considerably grown. It seemed as though every household name company in the galaxy was vying for the largest chunk of untamed tropical splendor they could get their hands on.

The elevator Aria and her two bodyguards stepped into was a cuboidal space, strictly glass on every side save for the floor and the wall attached to the lifting mechanism that sent it crawling up the spine of the tower hugging the cliffside. It was commodious enough to transport a dozen individuals comfortably, and was furnished with a square arrangement of low sofas and palmed plants in each corner.

Aria led her guards to the furthermost window. While they faced the room, Aria stood gazing out at the river-cloven forests of Nevos, to where its green was engulfed by hazy gold at the horizon. She could see one wing of the building curving along with the cliff at her left; countless glinting windows on stratified white.

She could also faintly see reflected in the glass the overwhelmingly asari population periodically entering and exiting during their ascent. Tourists and businesspeople alike. But upon noticing the surly batarian and asari accompanying Aria’s mysterious figure, they would fixate on the identity of their charge. Aria’s civilian apparel, however expensive and expertly tailored, kept them guessing. None could divorce her from the powerful iconography she had established, and none dared approach her for a better look.

After a few minutes, Aria saw a few matriarchs superimpose themselves on the idyllic scenery. They were looking at her, saying nothing aloud for fear of being overheard, but Aria could tell they recognized her. She fitted her hands on her hips, content to ignore them.

Aria was not enchanted by their dreams of paradise. She dreamed not of velvety flowers and beaches, but of rich, dark soil. She dreamed of fragrant batarian tobacco fields stretching on for endless kilometers, to be one day rolled into a new brand of luxury cigars with whom she would partner.

II.

“So, Aria.” Parem rested her cigar against her plate and folded her hands together on the table. “Be honest with me. Do you really think our people are going to be able to woo the matriarch panel?”

Aria exhaled irately. “They’d damn well better.”

“The girl Senaya doesn’t have the stomach for tobacco. She takes no interest in it. And [X] is afraid of his wife. Afraid of her!”

“I know.”

“[Y]’s going to have his partnership within several years when he expires,” said the batarian woman. “Is that really who we want to work with? Maybe we should do something.”

“We can fire her and keep her from taking administrative actions, but we can’t take away her partnership. We’d have to buy her out of it, and that’s only if she’s willing to sell.”

“Don’t we have a more... traditional option of solving this problem?”

Aria subtly shook her head. “It’s not that easy here. The Republics are liable to investigate something like that. And how much effort are we willing to put in to keep it looking clean?”

“Getting rid of her may be worth any cost. You’ll see, Aria, once she’s rotting us from the inside.”

[...]

“I’ve been receiving requests from suitors,” said Parem.

“Anyone you like?”

“None. I hate looking at their faces. They only remind me of people like that salarian who would surrender his life work to the woman he doesn’t even sleep with. I keep wondering, what if I mistakenly choose an insect like him? It will be a colossal waste of my time. I can have sex with as many strong and beautiful men as I want without having to marry them. They only thing they have ever offered me that I cannot obtain myself is children, and still, I do not need to be married for that.”

“Well, I think you’ve got the right idea about things. You seem sure of what you want.” She crossed her legs beneath the table. Nearby, their personal security dealt another hand of cards.

Parem slowly nodded. Then a curiosity struck her, but it was charged with dissatisfaction when she asked, “I know you usually prefer the company of women, but have you ever slept with a batarian man, Aria?”

“Are we that familiar now?”

“Humor me, please.”

Aria turned away to face the other tables arranged across the balcony, her expression neutral and unchanging as she considered her answer. There was a wind chime mounted above the door leading back into the warmly-lit restaurant, softly ringing. “I might have.”

“They’re selfish. Greedy. They touch you like they touch a marinated roast.”

Aria’s shoulders shook with soundless amusement. With a lingering smile, she replied, “Then I guess I’m lucky,” and lowered a hand to roll the cigar’s head of ashes against the side of her plate.

III.

“I’m afraid you’re occupying my seat.”

The crispness of the northern Thessian accent, along with its mindful elocution and lack of hostility despite the declared grievance, nearly annoyed Aria. She neglected to afford the stranger so much as a glance, and instead dismissed her with a flat, “Move along.”

“I need to ask you to relocate.”

The persistence riled her. “And who the hell is asking?" When Aria at last regarded her harasser in contempt, she found a face embellished by stark white tattoos and austere cheekbones only made amiable by the serene set of her eyes. She was carrying a portfolio.

“Well, would it impress upon your opinion at all to know the asari councilor is asking?”

Aria settled on a passing insult before turning back to the stage where the panel was assembling. “I think Idras would turn over in her grave if she knew about the state of her office.”

“Idras would have never granted someone like you a visa,” said the councilor. “I see you’ve made good use of the referendum I introduced.”

“Yet I still can’t own land.”

“A necessary compromise.” Accepting the fact that Aria was as immovable as a ton of stone, she sat down with a single seat between them. “Asari space is the collective inheritance of our people, and all of asari descent should have easier access to our homeworlds regardless of citizenship. At the collateral expense of inviting people like yourself - I believe only due to your high profile mitigating your risk factor - I think we’ve done a great thing. But you raise an interesting point. Coincidentally, your landowning ability has been the topic of multiple conversations this morning.”

For a time, Aria said nothing.

The councilor continued, “The matriarchs are trying to figure out which jockeys you’ve bet on, so to speak.”

“And I’m supposed to thank you and tell you what I’m doing?” She scoffed.

“I don’t expect you to. I’m only sharing what I’ve heard.”

“Trying to make friends?”

“Avoiding making enemies, rather.”

[...]

Tevos analyzed the region Aria highlighted in the face of her datapad. “Unfortunately,” she said, “there are multiple groups interested in that area. Most notably, a mining corporation. Preliminary surveys have documented a large deposit of palladium less than a kilometer beneath the surface. Despite the inevitable environmental damages, extracting the ore is tempting to the panel because of the tax revenue it would generate.”

“Shit,” Aria hissed. “Are you serious? We’re not already out of the race, are we?”

“It appears to be the case. They’re a behemoth. They will easily eclipse any smaller outfit by name alone. If I were you I would advise my associates to prioritize other plots of land.”

“I can’t fucking believe this... We’re interested in that area specifically for its soil quality. There’s nothing else like it on that world - it’s an integral part of our branding and if we can’t get that land, we’re dead in the water.”

“If it’s any consolation, most of the matriarchy are also displeased about the probable outcome. They wanted to keep the planet pristine for tourism and ecological studies. The way this is headed, another Nevos isn’t looking very likely.”

Aria lifted a hand to rub at her temples. While she had made a point of staying for the land petitions, she had only done so as a formality in good faith for Parem’s cousin. Actually needing to take initiative to solve a problem of this scope would delay her departure by at least two or three days, and with a baby at home and her station led by her eccentric lieutenants, it was not an ideal outcome.

IV.

[In a smaller auction house in the larger building]

After placing her exorbitant bid in the console beneath the twisting marble sculpture, Aria turned to find amused incredulity dashed across the councilor’s features. Her arms were folded across her middle and a hand concealed part of the lower half of her face, as if to hide her expression.

“Do you even have a use for it?” Tevos asked her.

“Maybe I’m just an avid patron.”

She shook her head at her, glancing back to the sculpture.

“I'm going to take you to dinner,” Aria said. “Belaisa at seven.”

Despite her supreme confidence, the moment Tevos seemed to process the offer, the jovial climate between them soured and became grim.

“Aria, I appreciate the offer, but - ”

“But?”

“I don’t think it would be appropriate.”

Aria was not yet discouraged. “Then I’ll send over a bottle of something to your room. Tell me where you’re staying.”

“I’m not giving you my room number,” Tevos replied. A vein of humor was present in her tone, but it was overshadowed by remorse. “Listen to me for a moment. The matriarchy expressed their... concerns about me speaking with you.”

“I’m sure they understand that you’re entitled to your own personal decisions.”

“Yes, but, even if our interactions are innocuous, it’s not good publicity if people start taking notice. I’m a councilor, Aria. Professionalism always comes before my personal desires. And what we did at the petition toed the line enough; although the matriarchy is pleased, they want no more of it. No more of... you. Especially if it can be avoided. You’re watched, you realize. We watch everyone in the galaxy of note, and you in particular make them very nervous.”

“And they should be nervous,” Aria asserted. “But not about what you do.”

They were quiet for a time. Aria hoped they had kept their volume low enough to not be overheard by both their personal security, who they had left at the entrance of the auction gallery, always within sight.

Tevos reached into her coat’s interior pocket to produce a small paper notepad and attached pen. She wrote something down, presented it to Aria, and said barely above a whisper, “I'd like you to call me tonight.”

She accepted the paper and gleaned what it contained: a long string of characters Aria recognized as the access to a well-encrypted line. But before Aria could lift her gaze and provocatively compliment her decision, Tevos spoke again in warning.

“If you ask why, I may suddenly regain my senses and reconsider.” She stepped away from her once, then altogether as she retreated toward the exit, only delaying to say, “Goodnight,” over her shoulder.

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gayredmage · 8 years ago

Text

Moonlight Sonata

Pairing: Sephesis Rating: T/sfw Prompt: Apocalypse/Moonlight courtesy of @lilly-white Word count: 2421 Summary: Genesis awakens and is confronted with a post-Shinra era world where Sephiroth has scorched the planet. Sephiroth has faith that his lover will join him.

A/N: Tag said sfw for this prompt...Look, I tried. I really, really did. But there are non-graphic mentions of sex. This is also more post-apocalyptic.

I see you there. Traveling always under the faint light of the night's sky. Riding in the passenger seat of a farmer's pick-up truck across the arid dust bowl of old mines and environmental wastelands. Hitched your ride in exchange for some head at a truck stop, you'd say. But he saw that flip knife in your hand and your eyes, bright like they were on the breezy plains of Eastern Wutai. You close your eyes. Not able to stand the sights and smells of burning cities. Of people rebuilding civilization in the image of a lost era.

They've forgotten you. Your charm. Your wit. Your betrayal. How your exercise in rebellion cost you your family, fame and fortune. Rendering you to the lonely, wondering soul that you are now; trying to find his way into a world so foreign to him. Even the lies they made of you were lost to time and war; I knew the Turks killed your parents, you always said you were adopted and appreciative, I also knew that you left with your engagement ring affixed to your left ring finger.

The farmer leaves you at the broken down train stop of Edge. From a night of coercion he told you about his wife and four children. How the cabbages in the back were to be sold so he could provide for them. Send those kids to college if there will be one again on the continent.

"E-Edge!" he yelped, knife to his throat. He tried to touch you in your sleep. His broken wrist remembers that, "It's where everyone is! Midgar...it's ain't a city no more. Rubble it all is. But Edge. That's the hub. The home of the new world government."

Pleads for his life he does. You took his word for it. Step into the rainy town, because a city without street lamps was a husk.

It's early afternoon and those clouds were thick like smoke. You weave your way through the streets, narrowly missing a rat chased by a small girl with a shiv. What did you wake to? Does it please you? Or do you wish that slumber had not ended?

You make your way to the only source of light you can see. Flashing neons, coffee in the air and flames crackling. Seventh Heaven.

POSITION AVAILABLE

APPLY INSIDE!

A job. Get to know the locals. Facilitate some income. Find yourself. Is a bartender your calling?

The bell above the door rings as you enter. A woman approaches. Smiling. Cheerful. But mature.

"Hi! Welcome to Seventh Heaven. Name's Tifa, I run this gig. New face, you are. Not a bad one either." She winks, you smile.

"Certainly not as pleasant as yours." You turn on that charm. She laughs. Your lip curls in that smug, self-important manner.

"So, what can I get for you, new man?"

You sit at the bar, eyeing the menu written on the chalkboard.

"If it's not too much of a bother...a pina colada. Don't skimp on the umbrellas either."

"Would two umbrellas be enough?"

"I won't be happy until there's at least four."

She talks to you. Teases you. Watches you try to drink your alcoholic concoction between six umbrellas. "If they fall off, I'll charge you double."

She has a foster child. She takes care of two children. She runs a bar and diner all on her own. She's got an Avalanche HQ sign stuck to the wall, and a picture of her and a troupe of interesting characters.

"You know...you look really familiar." she says, "Are those mako eyes?"

You smirk. "I'm not sure of the state of Avalanche today, but rest assured, I'm more interested in applying for that bartending job you have available than standing in the way of whatever it is you plan to do."

She nods. "How good are you in the kitchen, soldier boy?"

Tifa trusts you. She probably remembers you vaguely flying around Nibelheim. How you watched as Zack left her behind. How you foolishly, for a brief moment had the weakness to cast a healing spell to delay her injuries and wipe away the blood from her face. You shouted for help, had a disguised clone help drag her to safety before departing. Maybe. That or she's stupid enough to trust you.

You make dinner service a breeze. She gives you an impromptu pay rise for making good candied apples and seared steak.

"Come on, just say hi!" she drags a reluctant you out of the kitchen and presents you to everyone, "This is the man behind the magic!"

You know them. One squints foolishly at you. And the other has shock written on his face.

You ignore them. Thank the clapping ones for their compliments. Chat for a bit, before tapping out for a breather.

"I know ya." You turn to face the cigarette puffing engineer.

"So, you've joined Avalanche, Highwind."

"Genesis Fucking Rhapsodos."

"It's Francis actually." you joke.

Cid cusses. "He's dead, yaknow. Or at least we all sure hope so."

"I've gathered from what I've seen. But do you know where he was killed?"

"What? You plannin' on makin' a funeral?" he shakes his head and speaks to you sincerely. Or at least as sincerely as an uncouth bastard could, "Look. I get it. You two were an item. But what he became...not even human. No human could call on a meteor to destroy the planet. Sure a human could damn well wish for it ta happen, but the shit he's done...you'd have killed him yourself."

You smirk. I wondered what you were thinking. Maybe you wanted to agree. Maybe you wanted to punch his eyes out of their sockets. But whatever it was. You worked hard. Gained their trust. Slowly learnt more about me. Stuck around that Tifa woman. Joked with her. Bought her gifts. Took her out to dinners and cabaret shows. Everyone was loving you.

But Tifa especially talks to you openly and honestly. Takes you on expeditions. Trusts you deeply. Believes you to be a good man who will aid them. Tells you of all the tragedy I have caused - the deaths, the attempts to end all life. But did she ever tell you that I did all of this for you? For your legacy? I had plans for us. To have a world where it is only you and I. So no one could destroy the bonds we have and force us apart again. I regret...it's my only regret, that I did not leave with you. Had only I not been so foolish to believe you spun lies out of jealousy - to believe the rhetoric about you that Shinra fed. For I trusted that opinion more than my own instinct - than the own knowledge I had from having you in my bed and you as my only love. How could I believe that they knew more of the man I would die for than I did myself?

But you understand this. You know me. You know what actions I would take. You know that you were the greatest thing in my life. That I would bow to you and work for your favour. That I would abandon whatever motive I had if you so disagreed.

Tifa trusts you. But do you trust her? Or do you trust your knowing of the man you called your Gift of the Goddess? You humor her. You called her a sister. Worked her into your palms. What are your plans for her, exactly? No one seems to mind your relationship. The children appreciate having a father figure who wasn't a broody brat that vanished for days and weeks. You taught them poems and arithmetic. Took them to school, went scavenging for children's tales and other books, took them kite flying in the plains. You've always been a kind-hearted spirit. I believe my brothers would have appreciated just as much listening to you talk about the apple trees by the fireplace and being tucked into bed after you made sure they brushed their teeth.

But Cloud. He felt threatened. Reeve had teased him about you stealing the show - putting more work and effort into rebuilding camaraderie and the city. Tifa confides in you hushedly, asking for romantic advice. You take her hand and speak to her sincerely. But he cannot here you. Only see as you whisper in her ear and she giggles. You made a crass joke about your preferences.

That cadet shattered a bottle and tried to gash your pretty face.

"Cloud!" Tifa had shouted. He hit the bottle hard. Gone for days at a time, but felt like he owned the woman. I'd have never done that to you.

But you just shrug. Feint and counter. Put him in his place with your boot to his chest. "There are children around." you whisper.

He breaks from you and Tifa questions him.

He points at you. "Do you know who he is?!"

"Yeah...my employee. He makes good margaritas and I'm not losing him to your stupidity!"

"I just...I just hate seeing you two so..."

"So what, Cloud?"

"So...So flirty!"

"Flirty?!"

You laugh. Maniacally so. You grab the edge of the bar to stop yourself from falling. Tifa sniggers. "He's not like that...you know. He's a man's man."

Cloud was confused. "The hell you mean?"

You wipe away a tear. "Meet me at a glory hole and I'll show you."

It became known as the day Cloud stopped being a complete ass to you. Tried to know who you were. Realised he knew so little of SOLDIER. Asked you to help him clear out Old Midgar of the dredge left behind. Bizarre monsters, the products of escaped Shinra experiments and the corruption of geostigma.

You work late into the night. Sent Cloud home early as the pack had thinned. He took off. Leaving you here. Alone. Picking through what were the remains of our apartment with only the light of your lantern guiding you.

December in Modeoheim. What were we thinking, you thought as you picked up the shards of a broken snow globe. You find the mattress. Burned, broken. You cut it open. Dig through the stuffing. You find it. Coordinates. Of Loveless Avenue, the one restored sector of Midgar.

I was waiting. Rented a room. Wore contact lenses to hide my eyes. Cut my hair. Became a blonde with an eye patch. A man named Seth Faremis. I smoked on the street corner. Waving away adamant street walkers that went by. And you were there. Standing in front of the bright lights of the Loveless Theater. Thinking about all the plays that you had seen here. The way you'd lean against me, hold my hand, whisper to me. You were so vibrant then. Like the life of the planet vanished with you and had returned.

I walk to greet you. Either you were pretending to ignore me, or you were planning to leave. But I knew that you felt my presence. You always had. You at least believed that I was still alive. But the face that greeted you...I saw that disappointment. But you entertained me. We saw a play together. Found a private dwelling of rubble in the Midgar ruins to make love on. I said how I never wanted this night to end. And you placed your hands over my throat.

"Where is he?" you ask, eyes alight with that determination which keeps me yearning.

I grin, "Deepground."

You start digging. You know the site. And I help you for the time being. We hit steel and make the descent. Your body aflame as you take control of the facility - slicing through the guards and muscle that stood in your way, blasting through defenses, reminding the world again of the power and finesse of a fine SOLDIER. The scientists try to shut you out. Call for Code Red and attempt to evacuate. The halls run red of the last of Shinra blood. You hurry to the central most room and the sight that greets you...

"I've found you..." you say. You kiss me. Thank me. Farewell me. Until I leave that corporeal form, this avatar, clone, and re-enter myself.

Bound to a chair. Gagged. I open my eyes and see you break into the white padded room using a computer virus that you used for years with your espionage team.

I'm pleased. To see you with my own eyes in my own flesh. Those full, red lips. That soft, auburn hair. Those heavy-lidded slanted eyes. You had always been so beautiful.

And now. What will you do? Will you release me? Will you embark on that journey you hoped for so long? The one where you walk down the aisle, exchange vows and say I do. We could do that. We could rule this planet, not hide ourselves, scurrying away after dark. Pretending that your bed was not indented with the form of my body. We could do so much together. Could live the life we wanted. The one where we had an estate and a dog. The one where I would prepare firewood as you glaze the roast. The one where we traveled the world not as warriors, but us culture enthusiasts. You always loved the raw fish from Wutai. You would never put an end to all of that

Let's go to the hot springs. Relax. Take some time together. Plan that eternal future we will have slowly.

"I love you." You say. So softly and sweetly. You sit on my lap, unbind the cloth from my mouth...I kissed you. You kissed back.

"Genesis..." I say, not knowing where to begin and end, "It's been so long."

You unbind me. Believing that a wise decision and help me out into the dark. Where should we go in a world I am unwelcome? Under the cloak of a thick night we flee. Into the barren wastelands where the moon hangs high and you look so indelible writhing under the silver light above me. Moaning my name with the cricket's chirping. I touch your soft, warm skin, kiss your neck, watch the stars. Taste the milk of paradise.

We're panting. I open my eyes. Expecting to see your blushing face, tousled hair and soft, hazy blue eyes. But I saw the barrel of a gun. A gift from your father you stowed away.

Your left hand. Barren of any promises.

"I love you, Sephiroth." You say.

And I believe you.

#sephesis #SephGen week 2017 #theredflag #ffvii #lilly-white #grmfanfic

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hiruma-musouka · 8 years ago

Note

Also, 27.) "Can we go someplace high so I can jump off it?" for Shishui and Obito, please?

[AO3 link] - Summary: In which a change of events both improves and worsens Obito’s quality of life, some people are alive who wouldn’t be, and family is great (except when you have a hangover).

“GOOD MORNING!”

Obito flails out of a dead sleep atthe LOUD, tone deaf squall. Heart pounding, he blindly flings a kunai at thedoor, frantically shoves himself up…

…and with an undignified scramblefor his sheets falls right off his bed with a thud.

Shisui snorts.

“You… bastard…” Obitogroans, head throbbing and stomach threatening to rebel as his massive hangovermakes itself known past the intense throbbing in his bad side. Thank thefucking kami he had gotten caught in his sheets and flipped over when he slidoff the mattress like a moron. At least this way he only had to deal with hisnormal level of chronic pain in addition to the hangover and embarrassmentinstead of the crippling agony that would have come with landing on his rightside.

Crippling. Obito snorts bitterly,wincing as it sets off the ache in his nose from hitting the floor boards. Notthat he could feel it much past the boss summons trying to smash their way outof his skull.

God, why the hell had he drunk so much again?

“Are you alright?” Shisuicalls out, a laugh hiding in his tone as his head peaks out carefully frombehind the door frame. The younger shinobi plucks the kunai out of the woodnear his cheek, and Obito gives him a dirty look and flips him off.

“Why the fuck are youhere?” Obito rasps through his parched throat, shifting carefully onto hisback with a hiss as his hip and knee lock up. “And while we’re at it, howdid you get past all of my traps again, you little shit?”

“C'mon cousin, give me somecredit for being a jounin,” Shisui says, friendly grin softening as Obitocringes slightly at the sound of his voice and brings up a hand to rub gingerlyat his temple. The sixteen-year-old’s eyes flicker briefly over his twistedscars as Obito forces his locked up muscles to unwind, but the only emotion hecatches on Shisui’s face when he squints over at him is a good-natured sympathyrather than the pity, disdain, or infuriating dismissiveness so common amongtheir fellow shinobi.

Not that that’s going to save Shisuifrom the revenge and massive trap upgrades that Obito is going to implementafter this. His traps are one of the few shinobi arts he still has full accessto and he is NOT going to have someone just dance right past them!

“You are only a jounin,”Obito says, already plotting alterations as he throws his left arm over hisface to block out the light spearing through his eyes, “becauseMinato-sensei has a quota to meet for Konoha’s ranks and he decided to skip theportion of the jounin requirements that cover good sense and appropriatedecision making skills.”

“Well that’s rude,” Shisuiremarks idly. “It certainly explains a lot about our comrades, but there’sstill no reason to take your bad mood out on me. I only dropped by tosay happy twentieth birthday in person since no one invited me to thebar yesterday and by the time I found out and arrived you were already well onyour way to pickling yourself. Speaking of which, nice life choice there:getting involved in one of Gai’s challenges.”

Oh riiight, Obito thinks belatedly, fuzzy memories of green spandex,silver hair, and sake jugs dancing through his mind, THAT’S why I drank somuch last night.

… He really needed to stop lettingcompetitiveness and low-key resentment influence his life choices.

Obito runs his tongue over histeeth, scars pulling slightly as he screws his face up, abruptly aware of theaftertaste of vomit, alcohol, and fried chicken. Or maybe it’s just that heneeds to stop making any decisions at all if he’s frustrated or annoyed andalcohol is already involved. They never end well. The fuck up with the Aoba andhis crows comes to mind. The massive argument with Bakashi and his martyringguilt complex is another.

Yeah… maybe switching out the alcohol for Anko’s fruitycocktails would be a better choice and to hell with anyone’s teasing.

Hell, he probably didn’t even manageto beat Kakashi even if he did match Gai drink for drink because Bakashiprobably cheated again by stealth dumping his drinks into other people’sglasses or something. Rin is going to give him that look when she comesaround and—

Oh.

Oh fuck. RIN!

“So you do remember theend of last night,” Shisui affirms with a grin as Obito makes a horrifiedgurgling sound and attempts to sink through the floor in abject, mortifiedhumiliation. “I’d sort of wondered if I had lost that bet because youseemed remarkably aplomb for a guy who’s just drunkenly hit on his childhoodcrush. Again. For the fifth—”

“Shisui, I swear on ourancestor’s ashes that if you don’t shut up,” Obito threatens, voicemuffled through his hands and yet noticeably high pitched, “I will haveyou assassinated. I am Minato-sensei’s glorified fucking secretary and Ihave the sharingan: I will forge his signature and have them dump you deadin a river somewhere!”

Shisui throws him a slightly unsurelook over a smile. “You know it’s kind of concerning how you default totreasonous murder when life pushes your buttons wrong. I’d like to emphasizethat I had nothing to do with you failing to serenade—” Obitogroans “—your crush.”

“I don’t have a crush onRin,” Obito says flatly, watching the ceiling and debating about slamminghis fist into his knee so he can be overwhelmed with the much more palatablephysical agony instead of the mental agony of sake-tinged recollections.

“That’s not what the entiretyof the bar thinks.”

“Fuck.”

“Although Rin was very kindabout turning you down again, if it makes you feel better.” Shisui offers.

It did not make Obito feel better.

“River, Shisui. River,”Obito threatens darkly, wincingly remembering Rin doing the same kind butsubtly immovable speech to let drunk-him down that she had done the lasttime he’d started regaling the room with her virtues.

He doesn’t have a crush on Rinanymore. He really, really doesn’t. Rin is like… the brilliantly kind andcapable sister figure Obito had always wanted, but he’s not really one forromancing close sister figures because he’s not a noble or a Hyuuga.It’s also really hard to maintain any sweet feelings for the person who unyieldinglyforces you through regular physical therapy. But it’s genuinely not hisfault that she’s practically perfect in every way outside of that or thatdrunk him always feels the need to explain that to the idiot people who don’tproperly appreciate her and he really needs to stop doing this!

Oh god this is going to be awkward.Nobody ever believes ‘I don’t have a crush anymore, I just think she’sperfect.’

(Perfect aside from her shitty tastein emotionally unavailable guys that is, but Obito’s opinion there is prettymuch never wanted.)

“This is probably a bad time tomention that pretty much everyone was still there when you started rambling,isn’t it?” Shisui asks rhetorically.

“I need someplace high so I canjump off it,” Obito despairs wholeheartedly, already imagining the shithe’ll get for this as various assholes come through the Hokage tower formissions and reports. Fuck his life.

“Someplace high huh?”Shisui considers thoughtfully, making Obito pause to eye him warily at his toneof voice. “Alright, I’ve got an idea. Come on, get up and let’s go getbreakfast so we can leave.”

“No,” Obito refuses,stomach rolling at the thought of food.

“Up, up, up!” Shisuichives, smart enough not to come in reach of Obito even as he grabs Obito’s legbrace off the table and drops it on his chest.

“I said no!”

Shisui takes a deep, exaggeratedbreath and Obito flinches, covering his ears just in time before Shisui startssinging the most horrendously mangled version of Happy Birthday that a humanhas ever croaked out.

“Alright, alright, shutup!” Obito cracks, shoving himself up with a dirty glare and ignoring theway his right shoulder crackles.

Shisui abruptly stops caterwauling.“I’ll go make something for us then,” he offers, casually strollingtowards the kitchen.

(There are days Obito really, reallyhates his relatives.)

“I cannot—” Obitogrunts, climbing a few more steps and hiding a wince “—believe you draggedme up to the top of the Hokage mountain, for fuck’s sake, Shisui!”

“Your language is prettyterrible for someone who spends a lot of their free time helping kids,Obito.” Shisui meanders along the path ahead of him, always just farenough away to keep out of immediate strangling distance while still going slowenough that Obito can keep up without pushing it. Not that either of themacknowledge that that’s what Shisui’s doing since the teen is doing a decentimpression of casually appreciating the beauty of dawn falling upon thevillage.

(Dawn. Dawn, that little shit.Obito hadn’t passed out until at least three in the morning. He’s not hungoverlike he’d thought: he’s still drunk.)

“Would you just get to thepoint?” Obito forces out, breathing through his nose in a controlledpattern. They finally level off at a platform nearby the First’s head and Obitotakes a moment to really appreciate the beauty of flat ground no matter howgrating it is that this is what he’s been reduced to since Rin and Kakashipried him out of that cave in years ago.

And then he sees the orange thingon the ground and forgets about being bitter.

“What is that?”Obito asks, honestly curious as he shuffles forward next to a grinning Shisuito get a better look. It’s looks like a gigantic kite almost except moretriangular rather than diamond shaped and with a wooden frame extendingdownwards to prop it up from the ground. A set of ropes and cloth hang downbehind the horizontal bar in what looks like a harness and Obito shifts ontohis left foot for better balance as he reaches forward to run a finger over theKonoha symbol emblazoned on the middle of the tautly stretched tarp.

“It’s called a glider,”Shisui offers. “I and a few other people may or may not have seen them ona hypothetical mission in the mountains nearby a place whose name mighthave four letters and start with 'Ku’. You hang underneath it or supportyourself with both arms on the bars and then throw yourself off something tall.Air thermals support the wings and your weight and will let you stay airbornefor hours if you want, provided you don’t screw up and panic. Isn’t itawesome?”

“Where did you even getone?”

“We made it!” Shisuigestures to it proudly. “And by 'we’ I mean that Tenzo grew the frameafter I kept talking about it and then Yugao banished me from sewing the clothon because apparently I cannot be trusted to stitch evenly.”

“And it really works?”

“Absolutely. So, do you want totry?” Shisui waits, looking over at his cousin while Obito considers it,curling and uncurling the stiffened fingers of his damaged hand. “Youwanted to throw yourself off something and this is gonna be a lot more fun thanwalking all the way back down the mountain and going home.”

'Especially since you can’t landwell enough to use Shunshin.’

Obito frowns at the unsaid words andrubs the back of his sore head before mustering up a smile. “Alright.Yeah. I’ll give it a go. Although,” he adds, roughly slapping the side ofShisui’s arm with a pointed look, “if I crash or someone shoots me down,you’re explaining this to everyone. Including the medic-nin andRin.”

Shisui’s grin falters a bit.“That sounds… fair.” A pause. “Please don’t crash though.Seriously. Tenzo might cry.”

Obito huffs a weak laugh at theblatant exaggeration, eyes squinting painfully against the ambient light.“Just help me into this thing, Shisui.”

[AO3 link]

#uchiha obito #uchiha shisui #naruto #sentence prompt meme #fatcatsarecats #asks #my writing #prompt fill

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fell-in-love-didnt-you · 8 years ago

Text

Choose Me (Part 1): SnowBaz FanFic

This is a ‘what if Baz and Simon switched roles’ AU. Kind of. Also, this is only Part 1.

I’m walking back up to the room, and I can smell his soap from down the hall. It’s all cedar wood-like and candle smelling. I’m not annoyed by it, per say. It just gets annoying because it distracts me and makes me feel like I might pass out. However, that may be his endgame.

Mage’s Heir or not, he would kill me either way. I mean, roommates changes nothing between us. I’m a shy Grimm-Pitch who would rather play the violin in a secluded place than carry out the Families’ plan. Hurting Simon isn’t something on my radar. And he’s so liked and popular, so he hardly has time for people in the corner like me.

So yeah, I can smell his perfume-like soap from two flights down. It gets quite cloudy in our room from time to time when he takes his long showers. I thought I took long showers until I met Simon Snow. Hell, I thought I had strong soap until I met Simon Snow.

I open the door to our room, and his best friend, Penelope Bunce, is sprawled across his bed. I give her a small nod of my head as I drop my bag on my bed and collapse. Today was long, and I can hardly muster the courage to ask what his best girl friend is doing in our room. Girls aren’t even supposed to have access to the boy’s dormitories. It’s some strange ward or spell, and it works the opposite way, too.

I hear the shower water stop, and I didn’t realize it was running when I came in. I look over at Penny and ask, “Is this a regular thing now?”

“Is what a regular thing?” she replies. Her bright red hair is mashed against the covers. I think it was some hair-dye spell that went wrong or something like that.

“You waiting for Simon while he showers and then whisking him away afterwards.”

She smirks. “And you hate that I whisk him away?”

I sit staring at her for a second with an expression that must resemble “What the actual fuck, Bunce?” because she laughs at me.

“Don’t get your panties in a wad, Basilton.” I sneer at that, and just laughs more. “It was a rhetorical question. I didn’t expect you to get worked up.”

I make a noise that resembles “hurumph”, and the bathroom door clicks open. Both of us look over, and there’s Simon Snow standing in the doorway, no shirt on and water dripping from his drying hair. It’s already curling at the ends, and I look away. I hear him walk over in front of his dresser and the sounds of clothing being thrown about.

“Ready to go, Simon?” Penelope asks. I assume he just nodded because when I look over, Bunce is out of the room and it’s just Simon and me. Before ducking out of the door, he gives me a small wink. I feel myself blushing and turn over on my bed, hearing the door shut quietly behind me.

Damn Simon Snow and everything he does.

“I don’t know, Simon. He did look kind of bashful when I asked him about the whisking you away.”

Penny’s just trying to be comforting. I might’ve asked for it, but I really wish Baz was more upfront. About…everything. I’ve been throwing around subtle hints that I like him for literal years, but he just doesn’t seem to get it. Maybe it’s a Mage’s Heir thing or something. Maybe they’re all as oblivious as the dinosaurs were about the asteroid that killed them.

Maybe he doesn’t feel the same way.

We’re sitting on the Lawn, watching first years throw spells and hexes at one another. They barely go anywhere, though. I can sort of remember my first year at Watford. It was a lot of information being thrown at my face at once. Mage’s Heir is my roommate. World of Mages. Magic. My obvious homosexuality. All of which I denied the first summer I spent away from here.

“Simon.” Penny’s saying my name, and it sounds like she’s been saying it a few times. I wake from my small trance and look over at her.

“Did I miss something?”

She smiles at me and says, “Agatha and her clan are coming across the Great Lawn.” I look over and see Agatha Wellbelove and a bunch of the Watford football players, my teammates, strolling on over. A part of me wants to talk to them, and a part of me doesn’t. They’re nice enough, but I may as well be a plastic cup on a shelf of glass wine glasses.

An obvious liar in a room of truth tellers.

“Hi Simon!” Agatha yells over. I hear Penny groan under her breath. She stands and brushes the grass off of her knees.

“That’s my cue to leave. See you for dinner.” She turns on her heel to the girls’ dormitories.

The Agatha Crowd reaches me and sits in a circle. Not around me. That would be weird. But I hate it when they circle. It’s almost like you can’t leave. Agatha speaks first.

“Simon, is she your girlfriend or what?” I’m the plastic cup again.

“No, Agatha. She’s got a boyfriend over in America. Plus, I wouldn’t necessarily go for her type anyways.”

“Smarter than you?” Brett asks. Brett plays goalie, and he’s actually pretty good. But he’s got nothing going on up in his head. Maybe that’s why Agatha’s so attracted to him.

“No,” Raymond, another player, says. “Smarter and prettier.” Maybe Raymond’s got a thing for Penny. For a while, I assumed he’d go for one of Agatha’s friend, like Macy or Claudia, but when they threw obvious passes at him for things like dating or sex, he’d declined immediately. Politely, but immediately.

“You got a thing for Penelope?” a girl named Samantha asks. Samantha’s an exchange student from America, and she’s got this really long, brown hair and deep-set blue eyes. She also has an obvious crush on Brett, and I think Brett knows, but I also think he’s trying to be nice. Samantha is really nice and all, but I wish she didn’t hang around with people like this. She belongs in a crowd that gives a shit.

“Depends on who’s asking,” Raymond replies. He rubs a hand along his shaved hair. I don’t know why he keeps it that way. Don’t get me wrong, it looks good, but if he let it grow, it would be nice dark brown to match his eyes.

“What if it’s Penny?” Brett asks. He’s the one I tolerate the least. He’s got blonde hair that falls in front of his green eyes, but his looks don’t match what’s inside. He’d turn on you for a good gossip story in a heartbeat. It was always best to stay on his great-side.

I want to excuse myself from the circle when Agatha looks over at me. She’s the only one who knows, and it was an accident that she found out.

She’d liked me all the way back in the first two years of school, and I’d tried to like her back so much. It was impossible, though. Every time I’d tried to picture myself dating her and holding hands with her and kissing her, it’d eventually turn into Baz.

So I finally snapped in third year.

“I don’t understand, Simon!” she yelled at me in an empty classroom. “I’m not a bad person, am I? Have I wronged you? Why don’t you like me?”

“I just don’t!” I had replied. She didn’t take that too well.

“Well who is it?” she had demanded, throwing her hands down on the empty desks. “Claudia? Samantha? I swear, if it’s Penny- “

“It’s Baz, okay?” I hadn’t realized what I’d said until I saw her face go white. I immediately swooped over to her and clamped my hands on her shoulders, lowering my voice. “You cannot tell a single soul, living, dead, or in between.”

She nodded numbly and gulped. I apologized for yelling at her and practically sprinted out of the building and into our tower.

And we only talked about it once since then. So looking across at her, I knew she is trying to get the Homosexual Trail off of me, but it still hurts. Pretending. Lying. Trying to convince everyone that there is simply no one at Watford for me.

How wrong that was. There was someone, someone I like so much that I’d put my whole life right on the line to be with him. And I’m pretty sure he only sees me as a jock who kicks a ball. That is what I seem like. I’m definitely not the smartest, and I’m not the best player, but I attract the attention of a few too many people at Watford. It’s not even like that goes to my head. I just don’t like the stereotype.

Oh, Basilton, I think, if only you knew the truth.

I’m sitting in the bay window, which looks over the Wavering Wood. I go to this place in our room to think. It’s the only place where I can shut a curtain behind me and feel like I have a space of my own. I’m pretty sure Simon only comes over here to open the window over the night, which is sort of annoying. After almost eight years with him, however, it’s just a regular thing for me to use two extra blankets.

I look at the sun dipping to the other side of the world, and I know that I have to pull back the curtain and go to dinner. I’m not even hungry, but I take my bag so I can have a change of scenery and do some homework.

The smell in the dining hall is basically everything that tastes good together. And it’s not a bad smell either. It’s just everything. I can smell pastries, turkey, fruits, and baked potatoes. It can make my mouth water from just thinking about it.

I find a seat at a table far from the entrance and pull out my History of Magic homework. Quite a boring subject, but the setting makes it go by faster. Before I know what’s happened, I’m looking at my watch and it is quarter to eleven. I push my things into my bag and walk out of the dining hall, the fresh air hitting me in the face like a wad of papers.

The walk to Mummer’s House isn’t a long one, and across the Great Lawn, I see random students bent over notes and textbooks, though it is a Friday. There are no time restrictions on weekends, so most of the students do their studying then so they can be together. It’s a good system, really, but for people like me who have no real friends, it gets quite depressing.

And before I set foot onto the stone floors of Mummer’s House, I smell cedar wood. Great, I think. Simon’s about to stink up the whole building. It’s not a stink so much as a smell. It’s just annoying after eight years. It makes my head clog up and sleep become impossible.

I ascend the stairs and make my way to our door, saying the opening incantation. I see Simon’s outline on his bed, star-fishing and asleep. He has moles that cover his body, and I smile to myself a little. The moonlight illuminates him perfectly, and if I had all the time in the world for him to be asleep, I’d sketch him millions upon millions of times.

I set my bag next to my bed and lay down, staring up at the ceiling. I hear sheets ruffling, and I look over. Simon’s laying face up, and his eyes are open. They dart over to me, and he smiles. He looks younger when his face is relaxed.

“I heard you come in,” he mumbles sleepily. He yawns and closes his eyes, but I know he’s still awake.

“Sorry about that,” I reply, looking back to the ceiling. It’s almost annoying to look at how his hair falls perfectly in their bronze ringlets over his forehead and the way his moles just add character to the mystery that is Simon Snow.

“Baz?” Simon asks. His voice is barely over a whisper, and if I hadn’t seen him awake a second before, I would’ve guessed that he was sleep talking. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Yes?” I reply, looking over at him. He’s just smiling in one corner of his mouth and looking over at me fondly.

“Nothing. I just wanted to hear your voice again.” A few seconds later, I hear a soft nuzzling sound, and I know he’s fallen asleep. I’m blushing a lot, and I smile up at the ceiling, glad that it’s dark and he’s asleep.

But then again, why am I blushing? No, nothing’s changed. Simon Snow is still the boy that I’ve lived with for almost eight years now. He’s still the guy who has had plenty of opportunities to date girls but turns down every offer. He’s still the guy who the Families want me to kill. He’s still the guy who wears square glasses and somehow pulls it off without looking like a douchebag.

He’s still such a mystery to me.

#simon snow #baz pitch #snowbaz #au #roles reversed #pining #carry on #gay #gay fanfic #penny bunce #Agatha wellbelove #part one

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rolandfontana · 6 years ago

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Ten Women Who Changed Criminal Justice in 2018

“Look at me and tell me that it doesn’t matter what happened to me, that you will let people like that go into the highest court of the land and tell everyone what they can do to their bodies.”

The powerful words of 23-year-old Maria Gallagher who, along with her fellow activist Ana Maria Archila, confronted a shaken Sen. Jeff Flake (R-Ariz) on a Senate elevator during the nomination hearings for Supreme Court Justice Brett Kavanaugh in October, rocked the country this year.

They not only underlined the refusal of women to stay silent any longer about sexual assault in the wake of the #MeToo movement; but they made clear that women’s critical leadership in the multi-front movement to fix our justice system cannot be ignored.

Last year, staff, contributors and readers of The Crime Report chose the collective participants in the #MeToo movement as one of its top “newsmakers” of 2017, and the national debate about sexual misconduct was ranked #2 in our Top Ten stories.

But those choices eclipsed the agenda-setting role played by women at every level of the justice system, in areas ranging from advocacy and research to corrections, courtrooms and policymaking. So this year, we decided to discard our traditional “Top Ten” list in favor of a sharper focus on women as drivers of our national conversation on justice reform.

Our list barely captures the variety and depth of women’s achievements, but we’ve chosen these champions also to reflect the issues that dominated the justice agenda during 2018, from the opioid crisis, gun violence and prison conditions, to domestic trafficking and immigration reform.

They symbolize the emerging roles of women as justice change-makers.

“Women know how to navigate the politics, work across the political spectrum, and get the work done,” said Liz Ryan, director of Youth First, and one of The Crime Report’s 2018 choices.

Ryan is quick to add that women don’t necessarily welcome the spotlight. “My experience is that the women in this movement are about getting the work done and not about the spotlight or the credit.”

We can’t disagree. But it’s also important to note that women bring unique life experiences to the conversation about justice.

“Women have carried for centuries the burden of violence on our bodies,” said Kristin Shrimplin of Ohio’s Women Helping Women program. “We have the scars. We can be trusted that we also have the solutions.

”And frankly, that’s one reason why I strategically partner with men in positions of power. I need them to open the door to the rooms I am not in so that I can bring in the advocacy for, by, and about survivors. We can all be part of effective justice reform this way.”

Here’s our list, arranged in alphabetical order.

Needless to say, readers will have other names they would like to add.

Let us know by email to [email protected] or in your comments on this post, and we’ll be glad to list them next week!

Leann Bertsch

Leann Bertsch, director of the Department of Correction and Rehabilitation in North Dakota and also president of the Association of State Correctional Administrators, has been a leading proponent of ending solitary confinement in prison, as well as improving prison conditions for all inmates. During 2018, she emerged as an influential voice for national prison reform following a trip to Norway and other European countries organized by U.S. prison reform groups. In an interview with NPR, Bertsch said the trip was a defining moment for her, and inspired her to speed up reforms already in the works for North Dakota’s prison system.

“There’s such an overemphasis on punishment and punitiveness,” Bertsch said. “You know Norway talks about punishment that works, and [that means making] society safer by getting people to be law-abiding individuals and desist from future re-offending.”

Armed with the knowledge she brought back from Europe, Bertsch instructed North Dakota prison wardens to drop minor infractions like talking back to a corrections officer, and created a top-10 list of dangerous behaviors, such as serious assault, using a weapon and murder. The transformation of traditional prison culture even extends to nomenklature. This year, the segregated housing units in the state’s correctional facilities were renamed Behavior Intervention Units (BIU).

Carmen Best

Seattle Police Chief Carmen Best

In July, Seattle Mayor Jenny Durkan named Carmen Best as the city’s new police chief, calling the appointment “an important step in public safety and meaningful and lasting police reform.” In a city that has experienced endemic police morale issues—a court-appointed monitor only this year found the police department to be in compliance with a 2012 federal consent decree prodded by allegations of racial bias, and just a month before Best’s appointment there were reports of a “mass exodus” of rank-and-file officers unhappy about what they said was the city’s lack of support—it seemed like over-optimistic rhetoric. But remarkably, a wide consensus of Seattle opinion, from the police union to prosecutors and community leaders, agreed with the mayor that their new chief represented welcome change.

The 53-year-old Best, the first African-American woman to sit in the Seattle chief’s chair, replaces another female chief, noted reformer Kathleen O’Toole, who stepped down last year for what she described as “personal reasons.” Best, a 26-year-veteran of the Seattle Police Department (SPD), almost didn’t get the job. She was originally passed over as a finalist; but lobbying by community leaders and, surprisingly, the police union, got her back on the list. In an interview this year, Best made clear why she may turn out not only to be a creative force behind the revitalization of the 1,444-officer force, but emerge as a national leader for policing reform.

“Policing has evolved not only nationally but certainly locally,” she said. “Supervisors now spend more time looking at reports, use of force, crisis intervention. We weren’t doing that in the same way [when I started] 26 years ago. Even the fact that we are carrying Naloxone [a drug used to reverse opioid overdose] now, and administering lifesaving efforts in the field—that …wouldn’t have been something that I would have thought we would be doing, but we are doing it because we are engaged in a much more holistic effort in the community.” One notable fact: With Best’s appointment, Seattle’s mayor, police chief and county sheriff are all women.

Christine Blasey Ford

Protesters outside the Kavanaugh hearings, Oct.2018. Photo by Charles Edward Miller via Flickr

The elevator confrontation between the activists and Sen. Flake described above occurred in the midst of Senate Judiciary Committee testimony of Christine Blasey Ford, Ph.D., a professor of psychology at Palo Alto University, who accused Supreme Court Judge Brett Kavanaugh (then a nominee), of sexually assaulting her when the two were students in the Washington, DC area. The explosive accusations had raised troubling questions about Kavanaugh’s fitness to serve on the nation’s highest court only days before his confirmation vote.

Ford’s compelling testimony riveted the nation. “I am here today not because I want to be,” she admitted at the start. “I’m terrified.” But although her gripping account of what happened more than three decades earlier didn’t stop Kavanaugh’s confirmation, she effectively empowered many sexual assault survivors to come forward with their own stories and force lawmakers to acknowledge the long-term traumatic effects of male misconduct.

Ford herself has said little publicly about her ordeal since returning to California, except to note that she continues to be a target of threats and harassment, and has been forced to move from her home and leave her job. “I have been called the most vile and hateful names imaginable,” she said. “People have posted my personal information on the internet.” But Ford’s courage in speaking out has forever enshrined her in the pantheon of American female crusaders for justice.

Emma González

A portrait of Emma Gonzalez by “sheringsnippets,” one of 30 artworks of Emma featured in Latina magazine. Photo by Vince Reinhart via Flickr.

Emma González became, for many Americans, the face of the movement for gun control in 2018. She was an 18-year-old senior at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Fla., when a gunman killed 17 people and severely wounded many others in a Valentine’s Day tragedy that added to the tragic toll taken by mass shootings in America. With other students, including Cameron Kasky, Jaclyn Corin and David Hogg, Gonazález launched a gun control movement that quickly spread nationwide. “We are going to be the last mass shooting,” González boldly announced.

The prediction turned out to be premature, but the students’ group, which TIME calls “the most powerful grassroots gun-reform movement in nearly two decades,” persuaded Florida legislators to pass the Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School Public Safety Act, which raised the minimum age for buying firearms to 21, established waiting periods and background checks for gun purchasers, funds a program for arming selected teachers and hiring more school guards, bans bump stocks, and bans potentially unstable individuals with arrest records from possessing guns. González alone boasts 1.66 million Twitter followers — hundreds of thousands more than the National Rifle Association’s (NRA) 710,000.

González, who graduated in June, is still not old enough to vote; but that hasn’t stopped her from transforming the politics of the gun control movement, even as efforts to change the national argument about guns (and battle the influence of the NRA) have made little headway. “You might not be a big fan of politics, but you can still participate,” she wrote in an Op-Ed for The New York Times in October. “All you need to do is vote for people you believe will work on these issues, and if they don’t work the way they should, then it is your responsibility to call them, organize a town hall and demand that they show up — hold them accountable.”

Kimberly Foxx

The first African-American woman to lead the Cook County State Attorney’s office in Chicago, Kimberly Foxx has focused on addressing the underlying causes of violent crime, which continues to push Chicago into the top national ranking for murders—even as homicide rates are declining in most cities around the country.

Foxx believes the place to start is community distrust of police, which has affected the ability of law enforcement to identify and arrest shooters, and she made a start in that direction soon after her election in 2016 by sharply reducing or even eliminating arrests and punishment for non-felony offenses—one of the factors that contributes to the alienation of at-risk neighborhoods from the justice system.

In March, she took another bold step by releasing over six years of felony criminal case data on the Cook County Open Data Portal—the first such release of its kind in the country. “For too long, the work of the criminal justice system has been largely a mystery,” she said in announcing the move. “That lack of openness undermines the legitimacy of the criminal justice system. Our work must be grounded in data and evidence, and the public should have access to that information.”

Cristina Jiménez

Cristina Jimenèz,. Courtesy John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation

The picture for immigration reform grew darker this year. Stories about children separated from their parents by U.S. immigration authorities and the administration’s continuing anti-immigrant rhetoric dominated the news. But among the bright spots was the organization known as United We Dream, which has spearheaded the cause of some 700,000 young people born to undocumented parents who were allowed to stay and pursue citizenship in the U.S. under the Development, Relief and Education for Alien Minors (DREAM) Act. Cristina Jiménez, the co-founder of UWD, was also named by TIME as one of this year’s 100 most influential people, and is one reason for hope that the nation’s core values as a welcoming home for immigrants fleeing persecution and poverty in their native lands will eventually prevail.

Jiménez, who was 13 when she was brought by her parents from Ecuador, emerged from the shadows as a founder of what is now one of the largest immigrant youth-led organizations in the country. Even in the face of setbacks this year in efforts to renew the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) program, she has helped maintain the political profile of UWD –now a network comprising over 400,000 members and 48 affiliate organizations across 26 states. “My college advisor [in high school] told me that she was not going to help me apply for college, that I couldn’t go to college because I was undocumented,” Jiménez, who at 33 became the youngest MacArthur Fellow last year, said in a published interview. “If I had listened to her, if I had believed her, if I had not pushed back against that and sought out other people to help me, I don’t know what would have become of me.”

The Hon. Catherine Pratt

Women’s advocates have long argued that a key tactic in the fight against sex trafficking is to eliminate policies that effectively criminalize the young women and girls trapped by a practice that earns millions of dollars for the traffickers themselves. Judge Catherine Pratt has turned her Superior Court in the Los Angeles suburb of Compton into an example of what can be done.

Pratt, a member of the National Judicial Institute on Domestic Child Sex Trafficking since its launch in 2014, has mandated custody time for many child sex trafficking victims who are arrested on other charges, usually following a public safety analysis. “We try not to use incarceration unless it’s necessary,” she has said. “If I’m concerned about a girl’s safety I’m going to find a therapeutic placement.”

A member of The National Council of Juvenile and Family Court Judges, a group that calls on judges to use their “unique position” to prevent sexual exploitation of children by developing a coordinated response by the courts and social service providers to identify victims and use rehabilitative strategies to help them “heal from trauma,” she was a major player this year in efforts by the Center for Court Innovation to re-calibrate attitudes toward prostitutes as victims, rather than criminals. As she put it: “These girls have been victimized by their families, and they have been abused by exploiters who have sold them on the street.”

Liz Ryan

Women have long been leaders in the national effort to change how courts and corrections officials treat young people who get in trouble with the law. And in that list, Liz Ryan is often placed in the first rank. A juvenile justice expert who founded the nationally recognized Campaign for Youth Justice (CFYJ), she has focused her efforts most recently on the campaign to close youth prisons and end the punishment-oriented approach that has trapped many young people in a “pipeline” that turns many of them into adult offenders.

Now director of Youth First, a national advocacy organization working to close youth prisons, Ryan has been an influential voice in the national movement to end the practice of trying, sentencing and incarcerating youth in the adult criminal justice system. Some 70 pieces of legislation in at least 36 states have enacted major reforms in areas ranging from raising the age of adult jurisdiction to removing youths from adult prisons over the past decade, and the juvenile commitment rate has dropped by half to its lowest level since the federal government began tracking figures in 1997. But Ryan and her fellow activists believe there’s a lot more work to do.

This year, Ryan released a game-changing report, The Geography of America’s Dysfunctional & Racially Disparate Youth Incarceration Complex, which showed that an estimated 50,000 young people in the U.S. are incarcerated in youth prisons or other out-of-home confinement facilities in the juvenile justice system, a situation that Ryan has described as a national “epidemic” of youth incarceration. “This approach isn’t safe, isn’t fair and doesn’t work,” says Ryan. “It should be abandoned and replaced with less costly and more effective community-based alternatives to incarceration.”

Elaine McMillion Sheldon

Filmmaker Elaine McMillion Sheldon’s documentary Heroin(e), released last year, won national recognition in 2018, with an Emmy Award for Outstanding Short Documentary and now an Oscar nomination. Sheldon’s 39-minute Netflix film monitored the struggles of women suffering through the opioid crisis in Huntington, a small town in her native West Virginia. Already a Peabody Award-winner, the 30-year-old Sheldon has been named as one of the “25 New Faces of Independent Film” by Filmmaker Magazine. Her grassroots perspective showcased an often-overlooked truth about the nation’s opioid epidemic. While men comprise the majority of overdose fatalities, there has been an 850 percent increase in synthetic-opioid-related female deaths between 1999 and 2015.

For Sheldon, it’s personal.

“Just looking at my cheerleading squad in middle school and my high school graduating class reminds me how many friends and classmates ultimately became addicted, lost their children or have overdosed,” she said in a published interview earlier this year. But, she added, her documentary can also provide a powerful impetus for young women across the country. “Appalachia is home to a lot of strong women…. I hope young women see them and the leadership they represent, their boldness and their fearlessness, and are inspired.”

Kristin Shrimplin

A leader in the fight against domestic violence in Cincinnati, Kristin Shrimplin heads Women Helping Women (WHW), a social justice agency focused on empowering survivors, assisting witnesses of domestic violence and raising awareness about gender-based violence across four Ohio counties.

In 2018, Shrimplin’s agency served more survivors than ever in its 44-year history—and is on target to close the year out at a 20 percent growth rate of over 7,000 survivors.

Just as significantly, WHW it launched a partnership with the Cincinnati Police Department, through a Domestic Violence Emergency Response Team, which allows the agency to immediately tend to victims to provide them with relocation assistance and any other support that they may need in order to get back on their feet.

But Shrimplin is not about to rest on her achievements. “The needle is not moving and has not been moving for convictions for domestic violence, and it is incredibly not moving for sexual violence convictions,” she told The Crime Report.

Recently Shrimplin was instrumental in launching a survivor-centered, corporate certification program, WorkStrong to address policy, training and response for survivors in the workplace. “I’m impatient,” she admitted. “I don’t believe that we need to keep waiting to make things better in this region for survivors.”

Count on hearing more about Shrimplin—and the other women on our list—in 2019.

Megan Hadley is a senior staff writer and associate editor of The Crime Report. Please send us your own nominations for other women who made a difference in justice in 2018.

Ten Women Who Changed Criminal Justice in 2018 syndicated from https://immigrationattorneyto.wordpress.com/

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