#interrogations are conducted so on and so forth

[darudedogestorm]

google docs experimentation has taught me that it is in fact possible for me to sit down and write however the only style i actually enjoy writing in is fake news articles and documentation

[theaverageptncasualenjoyer]

The garden. (Fem Priv investigator reader)

An: Oh god... I hope that this wouldn't FLOP 😭 I made this blog entirely for practice writing in the 🌹 romance 🌹 department 😨 And in honor of choosing miss Coquelic as my pfp... I'll make her the first experiment for this fic... Slight nsfw/suggestive towards the end... After receiving orders from the chief, you wind up investigating the Garden. A secret assassin organization that was run by a sinner, that sinner being Coquelic, who is the one that you are NOT supposed to meet, since you do not have enough resources to defend yourself from the sinner, but also have not been given permission to arrest the suspect. You found out the FAC commissioner that was supposed to investigate this case was killed of by the members of the Garden, making you feel a little uneasy. They're going to be after you next if you were to overstep their territory... Which, you don't plan on doing at all. You were only to investigate and figure out how they were able to commit such crimes in a short amount of time. You are very aware of the gap between you and the others, you were not like Adjutant Nightingale, and definitely do not have the shackles of the chief... You feel insecure. Insecure about how you do not have the abilities of the others, enough to protect yourself from any imminent danger coming from the perpetrators... You heaved a deep sigh. Reeling from the fact you were brooding and weren't doing what you were supposed to at in the first place. Making you snap out of it and get back on track. At the sudden notice from the chief that I'll be facing the Garden's leader, I began to pace back and forth due to the sudden turn of events a day after being assigned to investigate the Garden. I couldn't resist asking that why it wasn't her...? You didn't have anything to defend yourself from such a strong sinner, so how are you supposed to deal with her when you are in fact, powerless? The chief picks up on your nervous state, then the chief assured that she'll be there to stop her from doing anything to me. That wasn't reassuring at all. Regardless, I attempt to keep a cool demeanor, masking my anxiety. In an hour or two, I will be facing the Mentor. I have to calm down. An hour later, the time has finally arrived. You began to make your way into the interrogation room to see chief before starting the interrogation. The chief and I had a small chat, she as always, gives me that gentle smile, it almost alleviates my anxiety, but the nerves were starting to get to me. It didn't go unnoticed by chief, who patted my shoulder as if to ward off the nervousness that plagued both my thoughts and body. She hands me important documents, I thank her and asked her a question. "Chief, before I enter the room... Is there a reason why it should be me instead of you...?" You cursed inwardly at the way you sounded a little too timid... The chief's soothing voice registered in your ears, soothing the soul and making your shoulders free from the stiffness it once held. "It is because Coquelic asked for you specifically. She didn't state the reason why." It made me feel weird hearing it, especially the fact that I never have even met the Mentor before, so how did she come to know me? Could it be there is an ulterior motive behind this? Had she planned to kill me to taunt the chief...? They have intelligence on everyone, so it wasn't far fetched to assume that way. I am the weakest link in the MBCC, after all.

I heaved a deep sigh. Finally entering the room. Her eyes immediately met mine, making me tense up immediately. It had this... Peculiar glow that made me feel odd... But alas, I still had an interview to conduct so, I sat down in front of her, and started asking a series of questions. Taking notes at the chief's advice and notes about previous interrogation, I made sure to avoid asking questions that can provoke anger from the Mentor. Her eyes had not once left my figure during the whole interview, making me overthink things once again. Perhaps she is waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike... But I wouldn't give her the benefit from inviting herself in for an easy kill... After finishing up the interview, I hear her speak. "You seem to be tense during the whole interview. I do not bite." I stayed silent, eyes on the papers still. "Look at me. Am I not good enough for you?" I snapped my eyes at her, blinking rapidly, and my mouth agape from shock. The Mentor smiled widely. She enjoyed your reaction very much... "Good. I'll have you know that you should feel blessed that I have graced you with my presence. It is uncommon for people... Especially for you to see me in broad daylight." I gave a small nod. Replying politely. "...It's an honor to meet you." I kept it short, as I didn't want to do something that can make her feel displeased with me. "Loosen up. You're doing it again." The mentor attempt to soothe me, standing up from the chair and inched towards me. Making me stiffen more at the slowly approaching figure. "You should know that I don't intend to harm you, dear. I only want to get closer to you..." Her voice is silvery. Making me cautious of her true intentions... "Thank you for the assurance, Mentor." Making her look a bit frustrated at the mention of her title. "Oh, don't be so cold... Investigator. You can call me by my name..." In a honeyed tone. I don't buy it. "As you wish, Coquelic..." Coquelic can sense the hesitance from your tone, making her brows furrowed in sadness(?) "What does it take for you to trust me that I mean what I said about bringing you no harm...? Do I not seem trustworthy at all...?" Her tone was thick with emotion, I was alerted by the chief about her surging mania level... I had to diffuse the situation. I needed to act fast. I looked back at Coquelic, who seemed to be growing more and more affected by my silence... I hastily responded, "I... I am not used to meeting people like you... Coquelic, I am nervous about dissatisfying you due to my bland persona, I didn't mean to upset you." Her eyes then softened, returning to it's usual state instead of the hostile expression. "I see... Then, you don't need to act so stiff around me. I wouldn't think less of you if you somehow managed to anger me." She sounded so sure about it, that I couldn't help but tilt my head slightly in confusion. She smiles at the action, before standing right in front of me, grabbing an orange blossom out of nowhere, my eyes follow her hand, as she tucks it on my ear gently. "An orange blossom, a flower that symbolizes chastity, purity, and loveliness. Do you perhaps see me as pure..?" I inquired, reaching to touch the flower. She warmly smiled. "You can think of it that way, but I prefer... The definition being, lovely. I think you are as lovely as a flower. This flower describes you best." Making my cheeks have a slight tint. Coquelic doesn't miss the effect she had on me. "...Thank you for the gift." She waves a hand dismissing my thanks. "No need to show much appreciation for such a small gift. There will be plenty more from where it came from. Visit me in my garden, I can provide you with something far more better." Her inviting voice enchants me, prompting me from being unable to decline such a lovely offer. "I'll see to it if I have the time..." Her next response caught me off guard. "Oh, dearest... You needn't not to worry about such trivial matters... What is important to me, is that I'll ensure it, that you may be able to come to my garden, no matter what.."

She sounded almost possessive, that broke the romantic aura that had surrounded the room. I cleared my throat, shoving my gloved hand on my pocket, as if to reach something in my coat pocket, but in reality, I was calming my rapidly beating heart. I didn't want to fall for her charms too easy, I had to get a grip of myself. For all I could know her sweet words are tainted with poison. I'd rather not engage in such matters... But the hearts speaks for the soul. It does not calm down after my attempts to get it to beat normally. I stood up, dusting off my coat and adjusted my tie... "I must go now, the interrogation is over. You may resume to what you originally sought after, miss Coquelic." She frowned, at the sudden formalities being reintroduced back to the conversation, again. I flinched as a cold hand reaches to grip my wrist. Preventing me from leaving. "I thought we've already established a relationship? One that excluded formalities, dear?" I suppressed the urge to shiver, my pulse speeding up once more... "I... Apologies... I am not feeling well." She replied, shooting me a knowing look. "Are you perhaps not feeling well after I had flirtatiously asked you on a date, dearest investigator? Is that it?" Her bold proclamation had made my cheeks burn. Now, it was obvious that it is likely. "I... This is inappropriate. I cannot engage in fraternization, especially pursuing a romantic relationship with someone who is... In a higher standing than me." The way you worded it made you more appealing to the woman, causing her to caress the flesh on your wrist, making an effort to breach your defenses, her hand gliding through the fabric of your coat, making you feel more of her touch... You swallowed thickly, pushing away invasive thoughts about... Her actions. "This is what I like about you, darling... You don't see me as less, you see me as more. Better than the others who do not see me in the way that YOU do." She purred, invading my personal space. "Can't you see that I desire you, dear investigator? I've been watching you for a while now... The moment I laid my eyes on you, you were always mine to possess. From the start, and until the end, you are mine." I couldn't help the way that it frightens me and makes me feel things at the same time... Making my breath uneven at the confession... "H-how long have you been stalking me?" She grins, unfazed by my poor word choice. "Ever since you were at the FAC... You got promoted into a higher position, you saw how Sinners were being mistreated, you resigned from your position immediately after the incident... Beloved, can't you see? I've fallen for you. It goes deeper and deeper the more I get to see you..." I couldn't help but tremble at the realization that she had been watching me for awhile now. She is responsible for my paranoia. Her eyes had glowed darker, seemingly growing more infatuated at the officer, her hand gripping her wrist in a manner that held a deeper meaning that had the officer feeling caged. "Do you remember visiting a greenhouse? Where you take care of the flowers day by day, unknowingly charting towards the garden's territory... Do you recall the day that you had chosen to gift me with such, beautiful flowers? I swooned at the way you cared so much about them. Thinking that there will be someone who are to take care of the flowers... You left the greenhouse, full of life, and I couldn't resist accepting such gifts..." She sighed dreamily, clearly recalling the moment. The chief had used her shackles to restrain Coquelic and calm her mania level. I hyperventilated as the chief went inside and pulled me out of there. I thanked her, and immediately handed her the files, I abruptly left the room. Coquelic glared at the chief for interrupting her precious time with her investigator, demanding angrily to take her to the officer. Chief uses the power of the shackles to calm her down. After managing to bargain Chief into seeing her dear investigator once more, she finally complied with the Chief, happily thinking of her dearest...

After a week, I was tasked by the Chief to accompany Coquelic outside of MBCC. On a mission. I was hesitant to accept but Chief had convinced me to take the mission. So, I met up with Coquelic... And she had disguised herself as an officer... You were still pretty shaken up about the whole event last week, so it was only natural that you became tense at her once again; making her feel frustrated at going back to square one. But of course, she didn't want to show it, it might scare you away from her again. So she decided to approach it with a different strategy this time.

"I dressed up as a fellow officer just for you, investigator." I feigned surveying our surroundings just to not meet her eye. She notices, making her mania level slowly rise up again. But you can tell with the way she is looking at you, making you let out a shaky sigh. She did not miss the way your attempt to calm your shaking hand... Making her feel more... Incompetent and feel her efforts were in vain. I attempt to lighten up, chuckling awkwardly. "For me? Hahaha... I see. You wanted to replicate my occupation as a private investigator?" She smiled, satisfied at her own actions. "You may interpret it that way, but I did it to rid you of the tense atmosphere that had once clouded the room during last week." I wasn't trying to think about what had happened in that time. But to think about her efforts in wanting to get close to me, I feel... Oddly touched in a way. Coqeulic felt that her plan is working, making the atmosphere lighter than before. We carry on with the mission; the mission being to stop a riot nearby... After stopping a riot nearby, with minor injuries, we were now walking back to the MBCC. I can feel her eyes on me, staring intensely at my figure. "Investigator, your hand... It's bleeding." She pointed out, I took notice a second late. Her eyes was starting to darken. Someone had lay a hand on their darling. They wouldn't let that slide. I watched as Coquelic took a hold of my injured hand, swiftly cleaning the cut, and bandaging it neatly. I thanked her, to which she responded "Anything for my dear investigator." It made my cheeks turn slightly red. She was happy at the result. "Do not fret. I shall deal with them accordingly when they are to meet me back in the MBCC." I shook my head, wanting no conflict. "It is alright, Coquelic. It is merely a small injury." Making her gasp in disbelief. "My dear...! It is not a minor injury... It is a large cut in your palm...! Do not perceive it as if it was a paper cut..." She sternly scolded, making me sheepish. "I... You're right." We were now walking in an empty, abandoned alleyway, making the atmosphere between us... Feel... A little hot. Again, Coquelic takes advantage of this situation to talk about... You. "Dear investigator, have you picked up gardening again? I saw the arrays of rare, and unique type of flowers in the Garden that I have never seen before in the MBCC's mini garden. Making me freeze up at the mention, as if caught like a deer in headlights. "I... Yes, I have picked it up again once more." I say in a small voice, failing to hide the embarrassment at the mention of my hobby. "I enjoyed the display. It was neatly arranged, almost as if you meant to woo me once again unknowingly. You and I have a shared affinity of flowers, my dear. You know very well that I am also well versed at the language of flowers, just as you are..." She affectionately said, making my cheeks grow more redder than before. She continued, "The arrangement were a ray of basils for good wishes, then a ray of red carnations, a sign for deep affection, the last one being pink camellias; longing." Making my blush worsen at how she was able to figure it out. "There's no escaping you, is there?" She softly purred. "There isn't, my dear. I now know how you feel about me..." She takes a step forward, cupping my cheek delicately. "I return the same affections as well, but I would add red camellias for being a flame in my heart, white clover for you to think of me all the time, heliotrope for eternal love, and lastly red salvia symbolizing that you are forever mine..." She whispered so sweetly, making me tremble at her touch. "Isn't it romantic that we reciprocate feelings of love towards one another? But my love is different from yours." Her face inched closer to mine. "My love, I want both of your heart and soul. Your body is a temple that I aim to worship." Making my knees weak at the statement.

"Coquelic... You know that we mustn't engage in romantic affairs... It is forbidden to enter in such a relationship." My breath hitched, putting my hand above hers that caressed my cheek. She had gotten rid of her hair tie, the police cap, and the sunglass she wore earlier. She stared amorously, further strengthening the growing intense atmosphere... "You don't understand... I want you. Badly. I ache for you to surrender yourself to me. I desire deeply to claim you as mine." I couldn't take it anymore. I smashed my lips against hers... Making the first move. She smiles onto the kiss, deepening it further. Her kisses stole my breath, deeply imprinting how deep her love had went for me... I whimpered in her mouth as she prodded her tongue into my wet cavern, making her hum in approval. We finally pulled away for air. She craved for more. I want her too. I let myself be enclosed by her body, leaning against the cold wall of the back alley... My cheeks were now scarlet red, mouth agape, enticing her to dive back in... "You look so endearing... It's like you are asking me for more..." I surprised her with my response. Voice laced with need and want... A plead that had activated her carnal desire... "More... Please?" Her scarlet eyes had darkened. Her next words arousing me more... "I'll make love to you in a manner that will make you come crawling back for more..." I couldn't resist to pull her back in for another heated round of making out.

[anika-ann]

Back and Forth - part 3.1

Part 3 - Bounce Back - 1/2

Type: series; agent!reader, inhuman!reader

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader    Word Count: 6000

Chapter summary:  In which there is a Hate on Spectre Day. There's no other explanation.

Series masterlist

Warnings: brief mention of canon-typical violence, mention of A+ godawful parenting and its consequences, issues of self-worth, language

A/N: ALWAYS MIND THE WARNINGS; dividers by @firefly-graphics 💕; moodboard is for the vibes and does not necessarily reflect reader’s appearance

A/N2: So. This was supposed to be one chapter but, to the surprise of no one, it’s not. The first half is to blame, because that was supposed to be mentioned in passing and then it just… spilled out like this. Oops.

Natasha Romanoff was a force to be reckoned with.

Now, that was hardly any news to you; besides her reputation preceding her, you had seen her in training, in action during missions, observing her in an interrogation room from behind a thick glass and sometimes even wishing for the poor bastard at the end of her treatment to get punched as an act of mercy, a relief from the wolf-like smile on her perfectly painted lips and brilliant tongue speaking words that should not have been more effective than physical torture but they were.

Projecting in front of her to save her from catching a bullet did not change how highly you regarded her; and it certainly didn’t make you feel any more like you could compare to her than before. That had never been your goal however; trying would have been just as foolish as try to compare to Agent Melinda May or other legends of the spy world. You had mad respect for Natasha Romanoff’s work, no matter the path she had walked to earn her skillset.

But between her dedication to her friends and her attempts at making you feel at home in the team, you had learned to appreciate her as a person too, trusting her; it was a paradox that exactly that was the part of your perception that changed after the attack. Or, more precisely, after what followed it.

As it turned out, the Avengers did very much care about their own; no surprise there. The Avengers also didn’t sleep on the little intel you had been able to provide and much like you believed, they did suspect a leak from within their own ranks given how advanced and detailed the retrieved research on Steve’s biology was.

They had lunched an internal investigation.

The attack on Natasha on The Avengers’ Day was now believed to be an unfortunate consequence of her being in charge of the very investigation and squeezing information from anyone who even remotely appeared they could be connected to the leak or at least might have the smallest piece of information leading to discovering the mole. The attack was thus linked to the Hydra facility raid – even as the perpetrators appeared to be a pair of hired muscle; in fact, even more so for that.

Natasha Romanoff informed you of all that casually as you were pouring yourself a coffee in the communal kitchen and made the mistake of lingering there to learn more. You only realized the error in your actions as it gradually dawned to you why Natasha told you she herself was conducting the investigation and why she was sitting with you face to face.

Up until that point, you had not been asked questions about the incident with the data retrieval beyond trying to put together as precise of an image of the gathered intel as possible. In fact, no one had questioned your allegiance to SHIELD since you had been graduating the Academy – but you sensed that was about to change.

Something about the feign casualness of Natasha sipping her own coffee as you were seated opposite to her begun to rub you in the worst way possible – and that was when you realized.

“Is this an interrogation then?” you asked, heart pounding as you tried to sound at least a bit like you were joking. Because, certainly, this could not be an interrogation, could it? That would be absurd.

A brief smile that didn’t reach her eyes in the slightest passed over her lips, gaze intent on your face. Reading microexpressions, you realized, your blood running cold.

She couldn’t be serious.

“You tell me, Spectre. Maybe this is what you expected to come at one point or the other. Maybe you already knew that I was the one to take lead on this. Maybe it put you into a tight spot and you realized it was just a matter of time before I’d come and question you – and you knew, like you do now, that I always get the information I want,” she said calmly, a thin layer of ice coating her words as she continued to examine your expression, every minuscule move of your muscles.

You hoped that whatever she read in your body language, she liked. The wild pulsing of your carotid, as your fear spiked along with your heartbeat. Yes; you had witnessed enough to know that she could dissect a person without touching them, reaching for their darkest secrets and retrieving them with a figuratively bloody hand as she ripped them out – she had known quite a few secrets of your own already. And yet. You hoped that your fear was all she could see, because the feeling that slammed into the most was hurt. She could have slapped you, hell she could have dashed the hot coffee to your face and you’d be less stunned.

Did she really think that? That you’d be capable of something like this?

You sat there frozen, hand resting limply by your cup, heart threatening to burst out of your chest. But hey – good news, right? At least they were investigating and they were very thorough about making sure Steve was safe.

Comfort had never felt so cold.

“Maybe you needed a heroic safe to maintain cover,” she continued, titling her head to side a fraction. “And conveniently, if you failed to step in in time, you’d have the person in charge of the internal investigation eliminated.”

The switched inside you flipped without any conscious effort – and perhaps even against in – the fear and hurt was consumed by anger and spite, the lump in your throat turning into a burn.

You didn’t seek gratitude from her, not really – you had indeed only been doing your job yesterday and that was it, no matter Rogers’ initial reaction that had made you feel not only useful but appreciated beyond what you deserved – but hostility and accusations were a touch a bit too far. Especially since hadn’t it been for you, she could have been shot at best and shot dead at worst.

“You’re welcome,” you said flatly, expression free of any emotion at all.

The anger inside you felt empty.

Her expression didn’t change, not even a twitch of her brow – of course it didn’t. This was Black Widow. The legend. The ruthless spy. Perfectly deadly.

“Have you been playing for the other team the whole time you’ve been here? Is the only reason why Steve isn’t dead yet because you caught feelings and can’t bring yourself to do what you’re supposed to now?” she kept questioning and you couldn’t keep the indifferent face anymore – you must have slipped, because you felt like your breath had been knocked out of you.

Forget slaps and burns – those words felt like a stab straight to your gut with a wicked twist of the blade for maximum damage.

It shouldn’t have shocked you, it truly shouldn’t have. But for a second, you felt the suffocating burn of betrayal in your chest expand with every heartbeat, filling your entire being.

You’d been taught better. And yet... Not only implying you were a traitor, but also hitting exactly at the spot of our biggest insecurity – not being good enough at anything – and using the knowledge of your rather complicated relationship with Steve Rogers was the one low blow you hadn’t expected, even from a woman of her reputation, because she had seemed genuinely kind the last time she had mentioned it. She had seemed understanding, caring and invested; and apparently, she was well-aware of that. She read you like a book and used your trust to her advantage. You should have known better and perhaps deep inside, you had anticipated a stab in the back – but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt like son of a bitch.

You hadn’t even begun to be friends, you reminded yourself, so there was no reason to be upset. In addition, she was also being perfectly reasonable, only doing her job; it was only natural she hadn’t treated you in kinder gloves, didn’t pull any punches. Steve was her friend, the best friend of her boyfriend no less. She was only protecting someone she cared for deeply. You knew all these things and yet – it stung.

You leaned on your elbows, hoping your voice was steady and neutral, rather than razor sharp – because she didn’t need to know, didn’t deserve to know, that she had hit exactly where it hurt. And you didn’t need her to evaluate you as unstable on top of clearly suspecting you were a traitor.

“Why don’t you tell me, Romanoff. You seem to know everything,” you whispered, the words burning like acid on your tongue.

It was funny really – it was that, you feeling yourself break from the naïve hope that you could ever be more than just an asset to the team, that had her face slip back into a friendly mask, whatever test she had prepared for you ending. Her hard eyes softened, face relaxing.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’re a traitor. But I have to make sure and get a rise out of everyone either way, to get a good read on whether they could know anything even remotely useful based on their reaction, try to have them remember anything that wouldn’t come up unless when in raw emotion. With everyone,” she repeated slowly, looking straight into your eyes to show she meant every word, a silent apology, “whether they are my friend or not.”

Your smile felt foreign on your lips as you reached for your coffee, sipping at it to neutralize the bile rising in our throat, to fill the hollow in your chest with the bitter taste of the dark warm liquid. You understood. You truly did. You had just been an idiot, even as you hadn’t been fully aware of your hopes until they were crushed.

“It’s okay,” you assured her, rising to your feet and setting the mug down, “with me anyway. But I’m not sure your friends will feel the same way when you ask them.”

You all but registered a flash of what you imagined could be regret as you spun on your heels and walked out, a pit of dread in your stomach. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You had no right to feel wounded.  You have been taught better. Skills. Abilities. Assets. Those mattered; not people. Not in S.H.I.E.L.D., not in the AI. Barely anywhere; Coulson’s team had just been full of unicorns, keeping up the illusion that every individual was worth more than their resumé, the illusion of a loose family.

There was no place of that kind for you in the Avengers team. The fact Tony had gone and protected you was the exception to the rule and you had made the mistake of thinking it was anything but pragmatism. They needed your powers; that was why you had been brought onto the team. The team might have been relatively tight-knit, but granted entry to no outsiders, welcomed no newcomers – not into their own strange family they had grown into.

You shouldn’t have been disappointed; and yet, even as you were aware that all Natasha had done was indeed following protocol, protecting fiercely one of her closest friends at that, it was the blatant use of information she had gained by taking a closer look and trying to make conversation, that allowed her to cut deep. You had been raised well to be aware of this approach and still you committed the error, even if unconsciously, of ignoring one of the few things your parents had tried to drill into you so hard. You shouldn’t be this careless.

Shaking your head at your own naivety, you rounded the corner, telling yourself that the slight shake to your hands was neither rage nor grief; just caffeine overdose, since you had poured a cup from Tony’s pot. You nearly groaned when you noticed the unmistakable tall broad figure walking the very same corridor in the opposite direction. Facing Steve Rogers of all people right now sounded like a thing from nightmares; especially since the moment he spotted you, a peculiar look appeared on his face, the kind of expression that told you a conversation awaited you which you’d very much rather not have. You swore that if he was going to have a single thing to say about yesterday, if he was about criticise you at least, to ask you anything at all-

You weren’t proud of it, but you did it anyway. Pulling out your phone from the back pocket of your jeans, you pretended you had felt it vibrate with a text, fully immersed in whatever was on your screen. You barely looked up when you were three steps from him, but nodded with the respect a man of Captain Rogers’ standing deserved regardless of anyone’s personal opinion on him, the ‘Captain’ firm on your lips as a formal greeting you hoped was all you were going to exchange. He returned the courtesy, sounding all but a little taken aback, and – thank heavens – continued walking past you. You gritted your teeth as not to release a relieved breath you were certain he’d hear.

Whirlwind of emotion pushed aside by suffocating emptiness, you continued your path and headed to your room, deciding breakfast simply wasn’t in the cards for your today. As you entered the familiar space, your gaze fell on the gym clothes you had tossed over one of your chairs yesterday when you needed to release the pressure after being tense ever since the attack.

Releasing tension now felt like a good idea, as the sting of betrayal and self-loathing simmered in your ribcage despite your attempts to make it all go away.

Without a second thought, you grabbed after it, ready to loosen the messy bundle of emotion the only way you were ever allowed.

By punching it out.  

The scent of leather and sweat had been bringing you an odd sense of comfort since your rather early age. Even as it was associated with heavy breaths, soaked t-shirts, competitiveness and shouts of various trainers you had encountered over the years, it was also an epitome of solace and familiarity; a reminder that you could always improve and you had done that more than once. It was a sanctuary to broken shards of a soul, where one let all the nasty things buried inside tear the body apart, only to feel like they started to build yourself up again. You had learned a long time ago that fighting was far from being about rage or any other wild emotion; but if one got the flow right, they could release all the suffocating emotions through it either way until peace – relative peace at least – took over again.

So after exhausting your body almost to its limit, you moved onto your mind; after kicking and punching and sweating through your clothes, you cooled down, stretched, and sat down cross-legged only to do it all over again. This time through your spectre.

The quiet gym was an unusual luxury, making for an easy projection and making it almost laughably easy to maintain it; you had tested it in training before, keeping focus even as your fellow agents shoved you around or even punched your gut – or in Daisy’s case, sent quaking vibrations through your body with increasing intensity, enough to almost rattle your bones. You were aware of the sensations, always, naturally seeing its benefit as a fail safe in whoever was in charge of protecting you failed to do so – not that Mr. Captain America had that problem. But at the same time, pushing the limits of how much you could take in case of such complications and in the face of needing to hold on despite of it was essential – as much as being able to take a hit to your spectral body without losing focus was.   

It took time, but it had become a second nature to perceive sensations from both your bodies, recognizing which came from which and separating them. The real trial, the most surreal feeling which took some time getting used to was seeing yourself and touching your actual hand with your spectral one, simultaneously being the initiator of the sensation and its receiver on the very same part of your body. The first time you tried it, it knocked you out for over half an hour, your brain unable to handle the contradiction. However long path you still had to walk to perfect your skills, you remembered that handling this one had been a win and eventually, the sight of yourself and the touch turned almost mundane.

However, others didn’t feel that way.

The visual of Tony Stark entering the gym, gaze flickering between your sitting form and your punching form several feet away from each other, as if he couldn’t decide which one to address despite only one of them levitating and emitting a faint glow, brought a sad ghost of a smile to your face, renewing the tense feeling in your gut you tried so hard to punch and kick away. Usually, you couldn’t help it; perhaps it was mean, but the bewildered, and admiring look in people’s eyes, was not only pleasing but also entirely hilarious. But today, the satisfaction wasn’t coming – and unfortunately, Stark approached your very conscious version.

Couldn’t the world just leave you alone for a bit? You were alone; you’d appreciate if the number of people in the room reflected the reality of your life.

“What did that poor bag did to you?” he lamented as you caught a glimpse of his frown and pursed lips between focusing on every hit to the heavy bag. “You hit it any harder, you’re gonna rip it off the hinges like Cap does.”

Right. For sure.

You swallowed the scoff threatening to escape you, gritting your teeth as your punch landed even stronger than intended, sending painful vibration through your arm. You added a knee and an elbow, speeding up to distract yourself form the sensation.

Focused on your workout, you couldn’t see his raised eyebrow; but you could definitely hear it in his annoyed and slightly amused voice.

“Same attitude too, I see.”

This time, you did scoff as you continued punching. Yeah, right. You and Steve were practically twins now, weren’t you.

“Too bad, Casper, you are not getting away with ignoring me,” he insisted, peeking from behind the bag on your left. “Cease fire for a sec.”

You kicked hard with a loud huff, making the bag swing wildly, catching it with your hands as it returned to hit you in the face and only then dropped your hands, turning to Tony.

Despite your rudeness – one he didn’t quite deserve, you reminded yourself guiltily – you found him grinning at you as you paid him attention at last. It only made you frown. He seemed too gleeful to be a bearer of bad news – but way too gleeful to bring any news that would be good for you.

“Pick up your Sunday shoes, Casper. You’re going out tomorrow!”

You sighed, already feeling the wholesome effects of your workout evaporating. “Hello to you too. What on Earth are you talking about?”

Given the mischief in his eye, you felt like you should be worried – and yet, despite your better judgement, you felt a small smile tug at your lips at his antics.

That said, if he had set you up for a blind date or something of that sort – because you wouldn’t put it past him if he did that – you’d be out before you could get in. But the fact that he simply announced that you were going out couldn’t mean anything good. Why didn’t he ask? Because Tony Stark, you thought, as bitterly as affectionately.  

He waved his hand in a too innocent greeting, pulling out a light blue envelope with golden framing from his hoodie pocket.

“Hi. This is yours. You mind?” he hummed as he beckoned to your paraconscious body, already throwing the paper its way.

With a sigh, you snapped back just as the envelope landed in your lap, ignoring the low thud of your boxing gloves hitting the mattress since you couldn’t take them back with you and they suddenly didn’t have anything to hold them up. You pushed yourself to your feet, ignoring the slight sway of the world as you suddenly changed both body and positions, turning the envelope in your hands with a frown and an unpleasant feeling of anticipation in your gut.

“Tony… what is this?”

“An invitation.”

“Right.” Knowing there was no scenario in which you’d get away with never opening it, in which he’d leave before you did so, you slipped your fingers under the edge and tore it open. Fancy paper, you observed. As your eyes quickly scanned over the text, Tony spoke up again.

“Shake hands, rub elbows. Make the Avengers look good. Have a drink or two.”

You frowned. The words Tony Stark was stringing together made perfect sense individually, but not together. Then, they made sense together and then even more sense in connection to the invite. But none of that made them make sense in connection to you.

“A charity auction at the Smithsonian?” you asked dully, voice full of the scepticism you felt upon imagining yourself doing what he had suggested, parroting his words dubiously. “Me, making the Avengers look good? I’m not even a--- Stark, what the-“

“Please,” he cut you off with a scoff, “you literally saved Natasha’ ass and several kids, very publicly, just yesterday. Plus, me and Pepper can’t make it and everyone else is either on a mission or has already said no.”

You perked up in an instant. Could you say no then?

“No, you can’t say no, nope,” Tony blurted out before you could even open your mouth. You glanced down at the invite again. The last thing you wanted right now, or ever, to be honest, was to go to some stupid function, meeting arrogant wealthy and sadly influential assholes with a fake smile on their face, one that held even as they insulted your choice of wardrobe in a way you couldn’t really return because they had the power to make your life a living hell. “It’s your mission now, no veto rights.”

You resisted the urge to stomp your foot and whine; but for a very good reason. Many, many good reasons. You genuinely despised those thighs, hating them on a visceral level. You could survive them if there was an important mission objective like gathering intel that could save countless lives, securing a sample of a virus and preventing a global pandemic, locking up an arms dealer – but socializing? Networking? Useless chitchat with pretentious jerks? Bootlicking? Because that was what awaited you, whether you were representing the Avengers or not – which itself truly was an absurd concept.

You ran a hand down your face, skimming over the text once more, resigned.

Much like there hadn’t been a scenario in which Tony would leave before you’d listen to what he had had to say, there was no way you’d get away with not attending.

“Couldn’t they have at least hold it at the NYC building? Does it have to be DC?” you muttered under your breath, annoyed further. That meant flying and many complications in case you’d try to pull an early disappearing act.

“Yeah, one of the reasons why the others said no. The disgrace of these people – a free ride on the quinjet with a pilot assigned and they still scoff at this. Heathens. If you weren’t hiding out, I’d stumble over you earlier and the can’t-say-no would fall on someone else, but here we are. I mean honestly, who would think finding two people willing to go drink expensive champagne could be such an issue?”

Your head snapped up to his face, horror and relief seizing you at once. You wouldn’t be alone; then again, you wouldn’t be alone.

You really wanted to call Tony on his bullshit about finding you last, because if he found you last, it was because he asked FRIDAY about you as the last, but your whole brain capacity was overtaken by a single thought and a prayer to heavens. You weren’t sure whom you’d want as a company, but you still prayed it was someone bearable.

“Two people? Who’s the other one?”

Please let it be Wilson. You were sure he’d feel almost as uncomfortable as you. Rhodes too, even though he was good at politics and would snatch all the attention to himself. You doubted Vision or Wanda were the ones and you could hardly imagine one without the other; similarly, you doubted Barnes, with his past still lingering in the minds of many, had been chosen, and even if he had, you doubted he would go without Romanoff. Thor was off to Asgard, Banner would be, bless him, probably even more distressed than you, and Tony and Pepper were literally the ones handing over the invitation. Clint could be a nice option – you didn’t talk much, but his easy-going nature would probably make for a good company. Honestly, probably anyone would be better than-

“Capsicle, obviously, they love the guy. Have a big exhibition on him and all that,” Tony said as if it was clear as day and as if that didn’t make him sound like a lunatic. And as if that didn’t send your heart racing like mad, eyes widening, throat tightening.

Headache started to build in above your brows as you imaged the horror-like scene. As if the function itself wasn’t bad enough – Tony wanted to make you suffer through it with the one person from the Avengers whom you fought the most often?

Tony was, naturally, completely blind to your reaction – or more likely, pretended to be, because he might be an owner of what kids these days called a galaxy brain, but he was two halves of a whole genius – continuing his monologue at the speed of three hundred miles a minute.

“…and he’s good at rubbing elbows, even if he hates it. So, focus, my dear Ghost of Christmas Past,” he snapped his fingers in front of your face, only to start counting on his fingers. Mutely, you watched him, still hoping this was a very badly constructed prank. “Make us look good, look good, buy something nice on my card in the auction and try not to kill each other. Easy as American pie. All four objectives of the mission are equally important by the way… I think.”

“Tony…”

That was all you manged to force out, a disapproval and a plea.

“What?! You shouldn’t have been hiding in a gym! I’m innocent!”

You were not impressed with his antics in the slightest. It was a Hate on Spectre Day, you were sure. First Romanoff with her accusations about Steve, then Tony-

Oh. Oh thank god.

It was blasphemy to be grateful for such thing, but you were not picky about your salvations as an important thought occurred to you – a fairly reasonable one at that, one that didn’t only serve as a convenient excuse.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea for Steve to make a public appearance like that?” you questioned. “I know he made a public appearance just yesterday, but that was different. We’re still… working out how to deal with the Hydra cell and their antiserum. The investigation is still active and pretty intensive at the moment as far as I can tell.”

No kidding.

Tony’s eyebrows shot up, something akin to compassion appearing on his face, probably in reaction to something that you involuntarily let show on yours. Fuck.

“Ah. Got bitten by Black Widow, huh? It stings, doesn’t it?” he said, scrunching his nose and almost shocking you speechless.

You were slacking if Tony, living in his own world for at least eighty percent of the time, with his mind usually lightyears away from where a conversation had originally started, read you so easily.

That, or he watched the footage, perhaps even with Natasha herself, to evaluate whether you were indeed a mole or not. Was this another test? Was Natasha the proverbial bad cop and Tony landed the role of a good cop? Were you supposed to open up to him? The thought of Tony playing you like this was somehow even more nauseating than Natasha’s game had been. With her, you should have seen it coming; with Mr.I Don’t Need to Watch My Mouth, not so much. He was direct. He spoke his mind, always. You liked that about him. Or used to.

What would he know about Black Widow’s verbal bites?

“Like you’d know.”

One of his brows creased, lips curled by a smirk full of snark.

“What, you think the original six was spared? Please.”

Despite yourself, you blinked and perked up. Because Tony seemed honest – much like most of the time, frankly.

“Rogers was the only one who wasn’t questioned by Romanoff – or in her case, by Barnes – though some of us might argue that when it comes to saving his dumb ass, Rogers’s the one most willing to serve it to HYDRA himself on a silver platter.” He paused, a grimace twisting his features. “That was a weird imagery, forget I used those exact words.”

A tiny smile tugged at your lips. Tony was hard to stay mad at if he did something relatively harmless like this – he was direct and slightly chaotic, but that was just part of his charm, one might say. And honestly, since you trusted him that he had spoken the truth, the fact that Natasha had gone down at everyone as hard as she had on you, learning that you weren’t the only one under scrutiny did make you feel a bit better. Though for a brief moment, you allowed yourself the luxury of questioning the reliability of Barnes interrogating Romanoff and vice versa, given their enormous bias. How had the mutual interrogation even happened? What, did they just hold a knife to each other’s throat instead of a foreplay?

You shook your head at yourself, earning a grin from Tony as he probably assumed you reacted to his antics. He wasn’t completely wrong.

Leaning onto his wannabe-friendly behaviour had a strong scent of fool me once, since you had literally had got burned today, but it was hard to resist it despite all the rational voices in your head screaming. You were an asset. You had a mission and that was it – and protecting this team was a big part of it. Tony did make an excellent point when it came to Steve’s tendency to overlook the magnitude of threats posed to him. Which had you go full circle – that besides pairing you and Steve off for a public appearance was an awful, terrible, no good, very bad idea, it was almost as bad of an idea as sending Steve out there in the first place.

“I still think letting him do this is too risky. I’ll go, even if I’m going to curse you the entire time,” you noted matter-of-factly, “but honestly. I think Steve really shouldn’t go.”

If it was possible, Tony's face lit up further, much to your chagrin.

 “Aww, are you worried about him?” he teased you. You deadpanned. “Kidding. Relax, Spectre, it’s a museum, not an underground casino. And it’s a charity auction, not an arm deals convention, those are more up my speed. There are no suspicious names on the guest list, FRIDAY doublechecked. The most dangerous people there will be you and him.”

You breathed in to protest further, because one, he was literally just giving out his invitation to someone dangerous, which other people could do as well, and two, there were still so many crazy things about what he was suggesting and your stomach was in knots just trying to imagine it-

A quick clap of hands startled you, Tony’s hands suddenly palms up.

“Alright, great, thank you for accepting. It’s settled then-“

Your horror returned, mouth opening uselessly as he began to walk back, still facing you. “I didn’t-“

“Oh and it’s only black tie, but you should still buy something nice,” he continued, smiling conspiratorially as if he was sharing an inside joke you were supposed to be a part of but did not understand one bit, except for feeling like you were the subject of it.

“Tony-“

“’cause representation and all that. And don’t worry about the cost, ‘cause it’s on the Avengers, so in fact, go wild, Cinderella. I gotta run now-“

He cut off his wild gestures with another clap of his hands to drown the sound of you calling out his name, the stupid invite still in your hands, feet frozen to the ground when the automatic door opened behind him and he spun on his heels, walking out.

“But Stark!”

He was already gone.

You massaged your forehead and the skin above your eyebrows as your headache grew, your shoulders sagging. You eyed the invitation with distaste, inspecting it as if it could burst in flames any second; that was how nuclear you felt the evening might get, for multiple reasons.

Oh. Speaking of the invitation going up in flames, perhaps the museum would require the actual paper rather than an e-invite. Fire might be the best possible solution for-

The sudden voice sounding from the speaker cut off your inner musings, and crushed your hopes, fuelling your anxiety in the process.

“Agent Spectre, Mr.Stark wants me to inform you that the charity auction is assigned to you as any other mission and not participating would thus be considered a serious breach of regulations and a breach of your contract with the Avengers Initiative, which would result in corresponding disciplinary action.”

You scowled, tossing the envelope and its content aside. Low blow, Stark. Really, really fucking low blow.

“Bastard,” you muttered under your breath.

“And that his explicit orders, as he is one of your superiors, are to, I quote, have fun,” FRIDAY added, causing you to roll your eyes and look at the ceiling as if your glare and your next words dripping with sarcasm could be delivered to Tony himself. Which they could – they just wouldn’t have the desired effect, you were sure.

“Gee, Stark, thanks. I’m sure I will.” Not.

Grabbing your gear with a sigh coming from the very depth of your soul, suddenly tired despite the clock claiming it was still before noon, you tried to steer your mind away from the tight feeling in your gut.

The one upside was that your mission might be to have fun and rub figurative elbows, but one never knew when he needed to use actual elbows to punch someone in the face in your line of work.

That meant that if you were to follow Stark’s explicit orders, you should get yourself a special dress for the occasion – something at least black-tie worthy. But you were truly about to spend a public evening with Steve, who would be putting himself into nonsensical danger by merely showing up, you needed a sensible dress. Long enough to have it pass as fitting for the dress code, but with a slit high enough to not limit your range of movement if you needed to kick out or run. Nothing too revealing, because you’d rather not worry about your cleavage if you were about to punch and duck. Shoes would be a pain – heels were a necessary evil, but you’d need to dig up some with thick straps at least, to feel like you were actually wearing them and not like you were trying to keep them on by the sheer power of your will with every step.

It seemed you had some shopping to do. If Tony was so inclined on you to follow his orders, you would. You would go wild with his credit card indeed. And because you had a glutton for punishment, you tried to contact a distant ally to help you with that, even as you doubted that she’d have time to answer.

Next chapter

Series masterlist // S.R. masterlist

Yeeeeah, I know that I promised you a bit of trip to fluffville as well, but it’s only coming in the second half… then again, the moment with Tony was kinda sweet too, no?

Happy New Year, loves 💕 May it be kind to you ✨

[cinebration]

The Darkling’s Shadow (The Darkling x Reader) [Part 13]

Six months later…

Prologue | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Epilogue

Tagged: @don-daygamerz​​, @weallhaveadestiny​​, @kaqua​​, @sinful-wxrld​​, @ashdab2611​​, @ultarviolence​​, @chodingcreature​​, @demonenotturno​​, @crowssixof​​, @mxacegrey​​, @dreamlandcreations​​, @s-r-reads​​, @byulsrecs​​, @peleksstuff​​, @seraferna​​, @imtherain​​, @vex-et-soleil​​, @rayrlupin​​, @peakyispunk​​, @itsyaspwr​​, @adajoemaya​​, @b1bbles, @rockintensse​​, @adharanotfound​​, @allinestarr​​, @pumpk1n-writes​​, @seronsalk​​, @sarcasticlittlebook​​, @muushmeg​​, @littlebugs​​, @xmariahwasax, @idonia-dovahkiin​, @themermaidscales82​, @moonsficrec​

Warnings: mention of blood

Gif Source: katherineebishop

For six months, you wandered the realm, blending in among the otkazat’sya, ear open to rumors about the Darkling and the Sun Summoner. She was real, Alina Starkov. Inexperienced and unaware of how to control her power, but real nevertheless.

You could only imagine the Darkling’s joy to discover his equal.

Equal in power, perhaps, but not in disposition. If the universe craved balance, than Alina Starkov would be as moralistic as the Darkling was amoral.

You clung to this thought, a seed of sharp bitterness that kept you roaming the countryside, avoiding Grisha as you had up until you revealed yourself to them those months before.

You only consolation was that the Darkling continued to send soldiers to find you. You overheard them in taverns, asking after a woman of your description.

“If she smiles, you feel terror,” one said.

That one almost made you turn around, fling off your hood, and grin.

But the Darkling thought you couldn’t be subtle, a spy rather than an exhibitionist. Had he taken the time to learn more about you, as you both had been on track to do, he would have learned you were capable of many things.

So you slunk away, keeping an eye out for more soldiers looking for you. You didn’t delude yourself to think that the Darkling wanted you back by his side, not with his precious Sun Summoner. Nor did he want his Shadow back, though you briefly considered that he may actually wish to have his Dark Hand at work while he played nice in front of the orphan.

No, he wanted to find you and imprison or kill you.

Cold comfort that offered, knowing that he thought of it only as a loose end.

When news that the Darkling and the Sun Summoner were going to enter the Fold to disperse it once and for all, you were tempted to return to Kribirsk—or to stand on the other side of the Dark Sea—to witness its failure.

You knew it would fail. If he had listened to you, the Darkling would not give up the most powerful, terrifying weapon he had.

When the inevitable happened and rumors flew that the Sun Summoner and Darkling were dead, the Fold only ever having expanded outward, you stopped roaming.

You returned to the abandoned place where you had conducted your interrogations. The men that had been there were long since gone, taken elsewhere or buried. You hunkered down in what had been your office.

And waited.

A week.

Two weeks.

At last, the shuffle of feet. You sat cross-legged atop your desk and listened to the feet approach.

The door to your office creaked open.

Your iron control slipped. A laugh burst forth. “My, my, how far the mighty have fallen.”

The Darkling’s scarred face, still brutally fresh and unhealed, contorted into what was meant to be a snarl but turned into a grimace. Your name dripped like acid from his tongue.

“Such hatred,” you muttered, clicking your tongue and shaking your head. “And for what? I did nothing to you. Your precious Sun Summoner did.”

Anguish and rage pulled at his features. His proud bearing stood slightly stooped, injuries weakening him. You could feel the weakness pervading his body, feel the sheer willpower he exerted to keep himself standing.

“You ran away,” he spat.

“You didn’t need me anymore. You made that clear, as I recall.”

“And all your grand pronouncements about being my shadow and being where the power is?”

A wicked grin split your lips. “The power isn’t with you anymore, Black Heretic.”

Blood drained from the Darkling’s ruined face.

“You showed her the way,” you continued, glancing down at your nails and the dirt that had accumulated beneath them in your days here at the hovel. “The amplifiers are hers now, or they will be very shortly.”

Teeth grinding, the Darkling shifted on his feet, trying to stabilize. “I took your advice.”

“Oh really? I can’t imagine which one.”

“To control others, to wield the Fold.”

“I see you botched it.”

“You were wrong.”

“No.” Your voice snapped across the room like a whip. “You didn’t execute it right. You see, my advice to you was always predicated on one thing.”

Scorn dripped from his words. “Enlighten me.”

“That I would be there by your side, helping you.”

“You think so highly of yourself.”

“So says the Black Heretic.”

You both stared at each other across the empty room. The Darkling swayed unsteadily, but his eyes never left yours.

“Imagine,” you said, gesturing vaguely, “what a bone manipulator could do to someone with bone amplifiers in them. My, my, controlling the Sun Summoner would have been easy.”

The Darkling’s expression flattered.

“Yes, see, for all your years and vision, you don’t quite have as clear a view of the big picture, do you? I told you would need me. And when the time came, I wasn’t there. Look how poorly it went.”

He swallowed thickly. “Why do you think I sent men looking for you?”

A harsh laugh tore from your lips. “You wanted to kill me. You feared I would take the Sun Summoner from you, perhaps out of jealousy or pettiness.”

He didn’t answer, confirming your suspicions.

“I don’t answer to my own feelings,” you groused, the muscle in your jaw flexing. “There are higher things to consider.”

“And what do the higher things say will come of all this, oh grand prophet?”

You slipped off the table but didn’t move away from it. “That you will fail.”

Rage transformed his face. His hands moved suddenly, the cut in the air almost instantaneously.

You were ready.

Moving before it launched, you were ducked rolled under it as it sheared toward you, slicing the table in half.

You rolled up onto your feet in front of the Darkling and lunged.

The sliver of bone in your hand punctured the flesh beneath his lung. You drove it forward until it bored into the nearest rib.

The Darkling screamed.

Kicking his legs out from under him, you let him drop to the floor.

“It won’t kill you,” you assured him. “But please take this piece of me as a reminder. You’ll feel it acutely when the time comes.”

You left him lying on the dirt floor, gasping as blood poured through his fingers.

[ansbobcar]

EP 8. Business as usual

WORD COUNT. 1371

Link to overview

_ _ _ _ _

“Welcome back, Ms. Ontarin!”

She waved at some of the employees with gratitude, she was allowed to continue working within the Bureau until their blood supply recovered. “It doesn’t help that we usually rely on you to make them,” her nurse muttered under her breath with apologetic look. “It’s bad management on our part.”

It can’t be helped. To put to waste the efforts of all the personnel, as she was thrown back and forth between the shores in her dreams, was not worth it. She can’t overthink it. ‘Quite the idiotic curse compared to my mother.’

008 handed over the general outline of what had been covered by Orter which was quite a fair amount. Including a stack of notes about the content covered and outcomes. Comprehensively succinct. The schedule also significantly changed in preparation for the next few months. “Actually, what is Orter doing right now, 008?”

“There was a missing report about this one potion business a few days ago.” Flipping through the notes, written boldly was ‘DO NOT FOLLOW ME TO INVESTIGATE.’ 

“That’s why he asked if he wanted me to lead him out,” she mumbled remembering their footsteps outside. He was doing it alone by the lack of any staff loitering at the typical rendezvous. “There’s no point in keeping them from performing their duties elsewhere,” readjusting his glasses before he looked back at her. Her robe’s colour was still something he couldn’t get used to, as its bright yet heavy hue encompassed her. She smiles  “Do well then, Orter Madl.”

“I will.”

It’ll run smoothly.

_ _ _

It’s unassuming. A shop located on the outskirts of a town outside the capital, as he entered with the bell chiming like any other shop. Although the owner’s face seems delighted by his visit it shifts with a simple paper. A search permit. There’s no fight as a result and the two go behind the shop to check on the working conditions... that is, if there wasn’t a sudden break into a sprint from the man.

“The audacity to do so is incredible,” holding onto his wand with a calm expression. Not even a double-liner magic user would have the guts to mess with him as he tugged onto his shoe. Tumbling down the spiralling stairs, the owner’s feet were bound with compressed sand to prevent the inner workings of his business from being covered up. Unlocking the door revealed another race, dwarves, haggard yet snappy in their craftsmanship. “Didn’t we illegalise dwarf slavery?” Eyes scrutinised the owner who scrambled down to his knees in tears was the seemingly clear-skinned fellow with slightly wrinkled eyes. “Please! I beg of you! It was against my will!” Pathetically claiming their innocence in such a situation. He wanted to scoff. The rule wasn’t even new.

“Even if it was against your will, housing and enabling such a practice violates both their rights and our laws.” But more importantly: “Who convinced you to do this? Clearly you aren’t capable of this feat.” In spite of his burning questions, it was more important to shut down the business and escort both suspects and the dwarves. Utilising teleportation magic at a distance with multiple targets isn’t his specialty but he was still rather adept at it, slight hysteria erupted from the overworked mass at their sudden change in position.

After handing over part of the matter to the Magical Creatures Administration, they began to conduct questionings on everyone involved. To summarise: only the owner knew of their existence, the staff who worked and maintained the shop had never managed to even step foot beyond the initial storage room, and the dwarves had been held there for the length of the business forging weaponry. The causation was a different answer. Even amidst possible interrogation methods and torture, he, now identified as Osfor Slagturn, was reluctant in providing any. “Surely you can at least tell us who it is.”

Slagturn muttered in a clammy manner, “then he’ll kill me if I say it…”

“If you ‘say’,” he repeated to himself. “How about this, let’s play hangman,” taking out a notepad and a feather. “If I fail to name the culprit, you’ll receive the hefty fine instead of the lifetime prison sentence.” That’s not how these deals work?! “I didn’t make this law for your information.” With no other choice, Slagturn folded and picked up the writing instrument.

‘_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _    _ _ _ _’

Two words. Vowels came first then. There was no ‘a’, an ‘i’, two ‘e’s, and two ‘o’s.

‘I _ _ o _ e _ _    _ e _ o’

No ‘u’ was present. The rest were consonants. There was an ‘n’ in this wasn’t there? Deducing the culprit or rather mastermind behind the whole ordeal with more ease.

“It’s Innocent Zero, isn’t it?”

His eyes seemed to only confirm them.

“Thank you for your cooperation, we’ll be holding you in the mean time,” leaving the room.

Why is Innocent Zero investing in weapons? Are they planning on a war soon? This is of great concern. An audience will be needed with the director and Wahlberg soon.

When he walked back, he was greeted by 008 again. No sign of the blonde vice-head. “Where’s Rinka?”

“Mr. Gehenna asked for her when the break started.”

_ _ _

The tea was still warm as the man before her uttered those words. His expression and posture were inviting, if she were still 17 they would’ve betrayed her expectations in a heartbeat. A constant in the mundanely fickle life she had. If she were indebt to him, she still wouldn’t do such a thing though as it was right now.

“You’re being irrational.”

“The same applies to you, Rinka,” he countered. “That’s the third time you’ve… nearly killed yourself,” unable to talk about it freely even with a light tone.

“What does that have to do with me being in love with Orter?” Clearly fed up of his tactics. After all, why stick to it if it isn’t working? She has no reason to agree to his whims, of all people, even if it’s a ruse they made up. The thought of inconveniencing the Desert Cane more than she already had, made her snuff out any doubts and reasons to state it. None of the other Divine Visionaries were good candidates for keeping such a secret without divine intervention after all.

“Whether you both made a deal, which I hope you haven’t, or your relationship is truly genuine,” he began, sullying his gloves hand with dripping honey. “You will be in a precarious position. You know what Orter is like. I doubt he’d favour his heart over his duty when the time comes.” Her eyes averted away from his implicating gaze and back towards her teacup.

“Or maybe they’re the same?”

What a way to ruin her appetite.

“What do you have against Orter to begin with?” She watched as he picked up some slice of bread with his messed glove. “It’s not like he needs my position to get more power like the others who tried.” The two were already on odd terms when they met. She presumed it might have to do with the fact he wasted 2 years in his new programme as a promising candidate to enter the Magic Police and became a Divine Visionary instead. But Kaldo doesn’t care about wasting resources like the others. So it was perplexing. 

‘She didn’t remember it. That’s good,’ unable to disassociate her from being drenched in scalding tea amidst laughs. Her hands curled into fists, restraining themselves from a violent outlash with her magic. Whether it came from estranged faces or unknowns, she kept quiet and with sincerity, did a tight lipped smile.

“You can’t…”

The door opened unexpectedly, revealing Orter. “It took longer than expected to find your office,” refraining from scratching his head. The oldest closed his mouth without another word uttered. “Were you guys still talking?”

“You killed the pace.”

“Apologies for disrupting you then, feel free to schedule another time,” he added, dragging out the blonde who seemed just as confused as he was. She waved before shutting the door though. 

_ _ _ _ _

Uhm. What do you think Kaldo was actually tryna say? You'll never get this answered for a while.

[kankuroplease]

pleeease give us some headcanons for Oro and Misaki's relationship/shenanigans!!

Oro doesn’t get to see Misaki in person often with her being in Yugakure

Oro’s killer intent made her giggle as a baby

But ever since she learned to read and write, they have been sending messages back and forth

Oro got the feeling that Misaki may have her great grandmother and grandmother’s wits mixed with his own, pretty early on by the subject matters she would write about in detail

So a little experiment was in order; he’d write in code and see if she could catch on

It didn’t take Misaki long to decode her grandfather’s letter and laugh about the silly request for a drawing of a snake

When ever her family would visit, Oro and Misaki would work on this coded language and corrections and suggestions would be given by both of them

From there on, their coded lingo only got more advanced

Misaki will often conduct her own research on others around her by collecting their DNA from brushes, cups, cigarettes, trash, forehead protectors, you name it. She then goes over it with Oro

Oro found out she’s similar to a Dubois' sea snake in that she can extract oxygen from both air and water after a tank scare and thus can stay underwater for extended periods of time.

She knew she could be underwater for a long time from swimming with her Hoshigaki cousins, but never really thought much of it.

She has tried to convince suigetsu to walk over hot coal because she’s curious if he’d burn or boil

She’s replaced the lens in Karen’s glasses to see if she’d notice the difference in her vision

The collectively found out she’s capable of producing an “acid mist” (nice way of saying she can spit acid as a jutsu), and can ingest things that would make most people deathly ill and create a deadly bacterial infection if she bites someone after doing so

Her and oro will often comb and style each other’s hair to similar styles

Sometimes Oro will help her darken the purple marks around her eyes so the really match

Orochimaru doesn’t tell her no because it’s more interesting to see what she will do

She asks Oro if he had a favorite vessel out of all the bodies he’s swapped

Misaki will stare back at Yamato and oro usually has to close the window

They share a parasol when they go out together

Oro tries not to laugh when Misaki connects the dots that Lady Tsunade is the big chested cousin her grandmother is always talking about and begins badgering her as to why isn’t she wrinkly and saggy like her grandmother

Can’t help but laugh when the interrogation unit brings her back and she said it was fun

Also got a good laugh when she asked if he could make that clone bf of hers. Like, little one, he killed that man’s father and he wasn’t always the tame young man he is today. That won’t work to well now would it?

[esta-elavaris]

Flufftober Day 2: Family, friends, loved ones. ~ Aemond Targaryen/OC [1,243 words]

My Flufftober '23 masterpost can be found here 💜✨

A/N: So I do intend to write a full-blown Aemond fic one day, I have vague plans in place for how it’ll go, and it’ll probably be with this OC. That being said, as of right now I probably wouldn’t recommend going into that with whatever oneshots I write for him now in mind, because there’s every likelihood that there won’t be any consistency plot-wise between these and that, other than bare bones characterisations – which is why I’m using the same name here for the OC. Sort of test-driving her character, if nothing else.

Also, her name being Jeyne was something I went back and forth on because of Jeyne Poole in the ASOIAF books, who this character is definitely not, but we’re in a world with twenty Viserys’ and fifty billion Aegons, so we can deal.

Though Jeyne would never admit it, she had – when she was younger – fallen into the pastime that many other young ladies did of imagining what her wedding celebrations might look like. Occasionally. When there was nothing else to do. For a moment or two.

Not that interrogation under threat of torture could ever pry that fact out of her.

Still, in her imaginings there were two things she’d never once dreamed of, both of which were now a reality. The first was the groom in question. As the firstborn daughter of a House of some significance, it was expected that she’d marry reasonably well. Lord something-or-other with either gold, good land, or useful connections. Perhaps two of those three.

If she was very lucky, she would like her husband. Somewhat lucky, and he’d leave her to her own affairs beyond seeing that their duty was conducted. Mostly she felt herself daring when she hoped for the latter.

Which was why she was left pinching herself when it was announced that House Greenstone would join with House Targaryen, through the marriage of Lady Jeyne to Prince Aemond. There was no shortage of tittering over her House name when it was announced, but she was much too distracted to heed it much because it turned out she actually liked the Prince. Not even in spite of his notoriously surly demeanour, but perhaps because of it.

Were he his older brother, she would find herself more inclined to distrust the surprising rapport she’d built with her intended throughout their carefully orchestrated courting process. Yes, she was not so naïve as to think that there wouldn’t been a bit of artifice to it in the beginning. Prince Aemond was a man of duty, and if his duty was to behave in a courtly manner to her in the run-up to their wedding, then he would do so. But could the same not be said for any who were polite to those they hoped to one day call an ally?

But polite, if not awkward and stilted, conversations, had – to her shock, as well as that of everybody else – morphed into real conversations. One where her mind was on simply talking to him, and not what Lady Jeyne should be saying to Prince Aemond.

If she had to mark when exactly the change had happened, she would have said it was during their third meeting. They’d exhausted the gardens, and the galleries, and so he’d asked her where in the Red Keep she might like to see next. Without thinking, she’d answered the library – and then faltered, wondering if the correct answer wouldn’t have been the personal sept used by the family here. But Prince Aemond had blinked at her, watching her carefully with his one violet eye, and then slowly informed her that the library housed historical accounts, factual accounts, more than they did song and legend.

Something in his prim and proper princely act had threatened to slip through then – not that all that came beforehand had suddenly felt false, but his words to her in that instance hadn’t felt quite so pre-prepared and indifferent.

Then, the unamused expression had slipped onto her face in response to his assumption before she could think better of it – and he’d liked it.

Which was how, over the weeks of their long engagement (for short ones led to rumours of accidents, as her mother liked to insist), they’d gotten here. To Jeyne sitting by her intended’s side – situated to his right, so he could easily look in her direction - at their final engagement feast in the run-up to the wedding, blushing as he looked at her like she was some sort of strange and wonderful phenomenon that he had yet to figure out. He kept his face impassive, gazing straight ahead as whispers reached them of how some gathered felt sympathy for her despite her sharp rise in station, for he would surely eat her alive. Jeyne followed his lead, and offered no reaction when other whispers floated by that while she was not bad looking, a prince surely could have found a fairer bride. It was easier to do when his fingers found hers beneath the table, tentatively toying with them, growing bolder but never inappropriate when she did not quickly pull back.

The crowd, she reasoned, would likely blame all of the eyes upon her for her blushes.

No, she never could have foreseen this.

The second thing, however, was something she should have seen coming. Her family. Although, to be fair to herself, it was no wonder that they held no place in her idealised daydreams.

So great was the royal family, even without Rhaenyra and her branch present (apparently Prince Daemon’s response on behalf of he and the princess to the wedding invitation did not bear repeating), there was no room for any of the Greenstones to sit. Bar herself, of course. Which meant that Jeyne was afforded the opportunity to watch in horror, from her seat at the high table in her pretty mint-green dress, as her kin made fools of themselves.

Her mother, it seemed, was determined to pick apart every aspect of the event – the décor, the bards, the gowns of the other ladies; the latter of which she made a distinct point of looking up and down with a wrinkled nose…before quickly becoming meek as a mouse the moment any of them looked back. Her father, meanwhile, was attempting to swap war stories with the seasoned knights in attendance…despite never having swung a sword in his life. Not at a moving target, anyway.

Her younger sister – who clearly felt a particular way about plain Jeyne being betrothed to a prince, even if it was “the dour one who’s missing an eye” and not the “funnier, handsomer” Aegon – was doing everything she could to commandeer the attention of all within a twenty foot vicinity of her. Prince Aegon openly laughed at the spectacle at the other side of Prince Aemond…but in a way that seemed to be laughing at her sister, rather than with her. Her brother, at least, seemed to feel much the same way Jeyne did, his head down, enduring the feast as best he could. When he met her gaze, he offered a rueful smile and lifted his cup to her.

Jeyne breathed a laugh, but that was enough to get the prince’s attention.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

Before she could think better of it, too. For would it be worse to acknowledge the spectacle they were making of themselves? Or would politely pretending not to see it make him think she really did not see.

“For laughing?” he responded, just as quietly, his fingers still toying with hers. “It’s a feast.”

“For…” she trailed off. “All of that. My friends, family…loved ones…”

She did love them. Truly. She had to, did she not? They were her family. At the moment, however, she just wasn’t much of a fan of their behaviour. Prince Aemond was silent for a moment, and she was too nervous to look over and see how he responded to that. But then he made a low sort of hm noise in the back of his throat, and properly took her hand in his then beneath the table.

“In less than a week’s time, you’ll have new friends. New family…”

New loved ones. The words were unsaid, but her cheeks blazed all the same.

Links: AO3 -- FF.net -- flufftober masterpost -- dividers by cafekitsune

[loving-n0t-heyting]

(deep breath) L WAS AN IDIOT SAVANT WITHOUT THE MORAL COMPLEXITY TO CONSIDER WHETHER THE ESTABLISHMENT DESERVED HIS EFFORTS TO DEFEND IT. LIKE SO MANY KNEE JERK WHITE KNIGHTS WHO DELUDE THEMSELVES INTO BELIEVING THAT DOING GOOD SIMPLY MEANS IMPLEMENTING THE MORES OF WHICHEVER SOCIAL AUTHORITY THEY ENCOUNTERED FIRST IN THEIR LIVES, HE PRACTICED THEIR AGENDA WITH ALL OF THE COW EYED, PASSIVE ACQUIESCENCE OF A CHILD EATING A BAG OF FROSTED ANIMAL CRACKERS WHILE STARING AT THE TELEVISION. IT'S EASY TO CATCH THE BAD GUYS. IT'S MUCH HARDER TO KNOW WHO THEY REALLY ARE.

I think this is a pretty cookie cutter "insufficiently revolutionary!" criticism that falls flat on both doylist and watsonian grounds

On the doylist side: political structure and authority are just not really an overt thematic focus. It deals with them a little, kind of perfunctorily, but those arent the questions that really animate the narrative. If L has opinions on them the story would not bring them up, just bc its interested in other things. Which is fine! Not every story needs to be about tearing down the System and questioning authority. That would get boring fast

Watsonian voice: is the idea supposed to be that... there should be no detectives in high level law enforcement? That any budding detective should instead become a revolutionary? That would be a pretty fucked up world, i think! If there were a vigilante mass murderer remotely conducting dozens or hundreds of slayings every day and no govt of any country affected devoted serious resources into investigating them... that would be a pretty scary, lawless setting!

L does some pretty fucked up stuff, too! The surveillance and the interrogation under torture and so forth. But that doesnt really seem to be yr objection, yr objection seems to be that he is doing state detective work at all. Which, again, seems perfectly reasonable

And also

Obviously its not very easy to catch the bad guys. He fucking doesnt succeed at it. He gets murdered and dies before hes able to catch kira. This is a pretty memorable event in the story. Ik that last line is supposed to be a snappy summary instead of bearing the actual weight of the argument but it bothers me quite a bit how it is trivially false??

[karatekels]

Disorderly Conduct - Chapter 3

...This is a bit of an amuse bouche - the next chapter is where the kinky shit happens!

Previous Parts:

Part 1 | Part 2

TW: (This chapter) Police corruption, violence, teasing (could be sexual, could be not), nudity, bondage

---

Chapter 3 - Interrogation:

---

You wake up in the early morning hours, the small amount of almost-green light streaming through the boarded-up windows and hitting your face as you sit slumped in an uncomfortable kitchen chair. Groggy, you go to rub the sleep out of your eyes with your fist but quickly realize that your hands are bound behind your back. That has you pushing yourself to wake up even faster, taking in your surroundings. You can feel the goose-egg on your forehead from when Cash had shoved you face first into the floor.

Speaking of which, where the hell was he?

An obnoxious, grating noise starts behind you, and you shift the best you can to turn and look for the source. Still clad in his ski mask, Cash drags a second chair, scraping its legs across the floor, bringing it across the room to sit maybe five feet away from you.

You feel a headache coming on.

He swings the chair around, sitting on it backwards, long legs to either side, his arms crossed as they wrap around the top of the backrest, surveying you with his bright eyes. He doesn’t break the silence between you, and you’re certainly not feeling up to whatever conversation was undoubtedly coming, so you instead focus on mapping out the cuffs around your wrists that held your arms around the back of your chair. They don’t feel like the standard issue departmental ones that officers were given, but they also aren’t some cheap kink toy that you could snap with the right movement.

Annoyed with your silence, Cash decides to concede and speak first.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he snarls in a rough voice, and before your brain can remind you of the dangerous situation you currently find yourself in, your mouth is already spitting a thoughtless response back at Cash. You couldn’t help it; sarcasm and insults were how you had spent the majority of your time speaking to one another... when you were speaking to one another.

“Oh, you know, just visiting a friend. You can cut the bullshit and lose the mask anytime, Cash – you’re not fooling anyone.”

In one sudden move the chair he’s in is tossed to the side with a bang, and he’s tipping your chair back, balancing you precariously on its hind legs. If he dropped you, you would definitely crush your hands and forearms, and possibly dislocate your shoulders, and you yelp.

But Cash holds you steady, one hand brushing the outside of your knee as he grips one of the chair's front legs, the other ghosting past your shoulder to grab the top of the backrest. He looms over you, his face dangerously close, blue eyes intense and angry.

“Want to say that again?” he breathes, alcohol on his breath, and you mutely shake your head, relieved when he slams the chair back on all four legs before returning to his own. He replaces it in its original position in front of you, but can’t seem to bring himself to sit in it, instead pacing back and forth across the tiny kitchen.

“What are you doing here, Y/N?” he asks you again, frustration evident in his voice.

“I’ve been following you.”

“For how long?”

You stay silent for a moment too long and he sneers at you.

“Y/N…” Cash growls your name warningly.

“A few days. Since my last shift ended,” you answer him quietly. There’s really no point in you lying about any of this.

“Who else knows you’re here?”

“Nobody,” you say, the word bitter on your tongue.

“Really.” It’s not a question, but you answer anyway.

“Really, Cash, nobody knows. Nobody wanted to hear it, so I covered my tracks and did it anyway,” you tell him emotionlessly, despite the building frustration within you. You can’t even look at him, dropping your head and gazing down at your lap. As you do, you notice something that fills you with disgust and rage even as it sends a shiver down your spine.

“Cash, why aren’t the buttons on my shirt lined up?” you demand, snapping your head up to lock eyes with him. Even if he was a lying, drug-smuggling dirty cop, you couldn’t believe he would stoop so low as to touch you while you were unconscious.

He rolls his eyes at your expression, digging around in his jeans pockets and fishing out two devices with long cords: your microphone and camera.

“Oh,” is all you can say in response. You’re certainly not going to apologize for your suspicions, considering the current situation. He drops the devices to the ground, and you try not to wince as he stomps on them with his boots.

“So nobody knows, huh? Then why exactly did you come here wired?” he asks, snorting in disbelief.

“I needed something to show to the Chief, to get him to believe me.”

“Believe what, exactly?”

“That I was right to be worried about you–”

You don’t even see him move, you just feel the pain bloom along the side of your head as he backhands you hard across the face, your head whipping to the side and your chair nearly tipping over with the force of it.

“Don’t even think about going that bullshit route,” he snaps, his back to you as you try to recover from the strike, watching his fists clenched at his sides. Unable to raise a hand to your face, you settle for mashing your cheek into your shoulder, wincing as the sting is alleviated somewhat by the contact.

“Tell me the truth, Y/N, or this is going to get a lot worse for you.”

“I thought you were going to do something desperate, try to go out in a blaze of glory or put yourself in danger to get back in the department’s good graces. I came here to talk you out of it,” you insist, flinching instinctively as you worry he’s going to hit you again. He doesn’t, he just stands there looking down at you with a blank expression.

“If I knew you were just some low-level drug dealer, I wouldn’t have bothered,” you tell him honestly, forcing yourself to look into his eyes, and hoping that he can see and recognize the sincerity in your explanation. “I just wanted to help you, Cash. I thought you were in trouble.”

You drop your head again, tears falling into your lap – from the pain or the confession, you’re not sure. You see his feet as he moves to retake his seat, but you still can’t bring yourself to look up.

“Let me get this straight. You spent nearly a week following me because you thought I might be doing something to get myself hurt?”

“Yes.”

“You, the epitome of duty and honour, decided to go directly against an order from the Chief based on a hunch?”

“Yes.”

“All for someone you haven’t talked to in what, a year?”

“We were partners,” you reply almost automatically, like that explained everything. To you, it did.

Cash is silent for a long moment.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Y/N.”

You bark out a humourless laugh. “Clearly.”

“I don’t think you fully understand how much of a mess you’ve made by coming here.”

“Oh please, do enlighten me,” you ask him airily, crossing an ankle over your other knee, as though this was a pleasant conversation. “How long has this grand scheme been in the works?”

He glares at you, raising an eyebrow that lets you know you haven’t gotten away with trying to turn the tables on him.

“You’re somehow forgetting who’s interrogating who here. What exactly do you know?”

You take a deep breath, weighing your options. What exactly would lying to him do for you? Even if you claimed to know nothing and he believed you, he couldn’t exactly let you go after assaulting you and keeping you here against your will. If you just told him the truth, he’d be less likely to hurt you again, and might grant you a quick and easy death. You’re feeling strangely numb about the whole situation.

“It sounded like you – and some other officers, I don’t know who – are swapping out drugs out of the evidence locker and replacing them with fake stuff so you can sell them on the street. Someone will be by in the next day or so to drop something off here,” you reply flatly, trying to keep the judgement out of your tone.

“What?” he presses you, giving you a look. You shake your head.

“Nothing.”

“No, not 'nothing'. I know that look from you; I got it enough when we worked together. You’re thinking I’ve done something stupid, so spit it out,” Cash demands, his tone getting more forceful. You flinch reflexively, and his eyes track the movement, his lips flattening into a thin line.

“I won’t hit you for telling me,” he adds, guessing the reason behind your jumpiness.

“How generous,” you snap back sarcastically, and he glowers at you but doesn’t make a move to hit you again.

“It just doesn’t seem like a very well thought out plan,” you admit after a moment, and Cash just raises an eyebrow at you. “I mean, the evidence room is covered in cameras, you’ll be caught in a sec–”

Something is niggling at the back of your mind.

“Ray’ll take it to his connection to get it distributed,” Cash had said on the phone.

Ray. Raymond.

Raymond Cardoza, surveillance specialist.

“Cardoza is in on it,” you groan out the realization, and he gives you a smug but pleased smile, as if impressed that you’d come to the conclusion on your own.

“So you can figure that out no problem, but you couldn’t be bothered to listen when I told you to forget all of this?” he hisses at you, seeming more upset about it than you were.

“How exactly is this my fault? You’re the jackass who ignored everyone for a year and went dirty.”

“Well now I have to figure out exactly what the fuck to do with you, and doesn’t that put me in a fun position.”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure that this is really uncomfortable for you,” you spit out, trying to twist your body in a way that will help you free yourself while he stomps over to the kitchen counter. Returning with a brown paper bag, he pulls out a burger wrapped in foil. Taking off the wrapper, he approaches you, holding it out in front of your lips.

“Eat it,” he demands, and you look up at him like he’s lost his mind. “Eat it, Y/N,” he repeats threateningly again.

“Why?” you ask suspiciously. He gives you a tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You know as well as I do that chloroform won’t fuck you up as bad if you’ve got something on your stomach.”

Your eyes widen. “What?!”

“I’ve got some calls to make – you’ve caused a bunch of problems by coming here, and I’ve got to fix them. I’m not going to waste my time babysitting you, and I don’t want you hearing shit. So do what you’re told, like you’re used to doing, and then you’re going to sleep.”

When he brings the burger to your lips again, you try to snap at his fingers with your teeth. He pulls away in time, yanking your head back by the hair with his free hand.

“Suit yourself,” he says with a shrug, taking his time as he eats the burger right in front of you, his grip on your hair never loosening. You seethe silently, glaring up at him, and he smiles at you once he’s finished, licking ketchup off of his thumb. He turns, rifling through a duffel bag on the kitchen table, walking over to you with a brown glass bottle and a cloth. Your body stiffens as he approaches.

“Cash, I –”

“Don’t.” He cuts you off, and your jaw snaps shut. “Don’t bother. It’s happening.”

“I hate you,” you hiss at him through your teeth, and he smirks at you, pouring some of the liquid on the cloth.

“Both of us could have avoided all of this if that was true,” he murmurs quietly, holding the cloth over your mouth and nose. You try to shift your head away but he holds you still, firmly but gently, stroking your hair once you stop resisting and the chloroform does its job.

---

Your mouth feels like cotton and tastes like pennies as you wake up to the sound of men shouting. Keeping your eyes closed, already feeling dizzy, you do your best to pay attention, committing as many details to memory as you can.

“I said I’ll take care of it!” you hear Cash snarl at someone, sounding like he’s reaching the end of his patience.

“How could you let this happen?!” yells another man, the voice familiar. “We haven’t even got the ball rolling yet, and we’re already completely screwed!”

“Do you think I wanted this to happen? That I don’t realize how serious this is?” Cash asks.

“For it to be her, of all people? I’ll give it to you straight: I have my suspicions.”

There’s a loud bang, and you suspect Cash has just laid into the wall with his fist.

“That’s bullshit, Glen, and you know it. You’ve seen how long I’ve stayed away for, you know I never wanted her anywhere near this.”

“So what are you going to do about her now that she’s a liability?” hisses Glen. You force yourself to listen in, though you think you’d much rather just lose consciousness and not have to hear about it.

“I said I’ll handle it,” Cash growls, his tone final, and while that certainly sounds ominous, you can’t say you’re surprised. “Now go. She’ll come out of it soon, and she doesn’t need to know about your involvement in this.”

“Cash, are… are you sure you’re up for this?” Glen asks hesitantly. “I’m sure we can find someone to… take care of it.”

“I know what I signed up for. We don’t need any more people involved.” Cash insists, his voice tight. “Just keep covering for me, and keep an ear out for anyone else who may be suspicious.”

The two voices fade away, and you hear the front door close. Taking a steadying breath, you force yourself to open your eyes.

As you had suspected by the feeling of springs underneath you, Cash had moved you onto the bed in the other room at some point while you were passed out, one of your wrists cuffed to an iron bar of the bed frame. You try to sit up slowly, but apparently not slowly enough, your head spinning and your stomach roiling with nausea.

You quickly move to the side of the bed, trying to hold your hair out of your face with your one free hand as you vomit onto the floor, not that you had much on your stomach to begin with.

“I told you so.”

Wiping your mouth with your sleeve, you turn to glare at Cash, who is surveying you from the doorway, leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded.

“Thank you so much,” you spit out with a venomous sweetness.

He approaches the bed in just two strides, climbing onto it on his knees, and your body seizes up. Leaning over you, his large hands wrap around the cuff on your wrist.

“Don’t. Move.” he warns you in a whisper, and you incline your head slightly. You feel your arm come free as he takes the cuff off of the bed frame and you roll your shoulder to ease the ache, but before you can get too excited about it he’s reattached the cuff to your other wrist, your hands bound in front of you this time.

Without a word, he grabs your upper arm and pulls you with him off the bed, walking you to the bathroom and pushing you inside. There’s a new toothbrush on the counter.

“Brush your teeth and clean yourself up. If I hear anything I shouldn’t, I’ll break the door down, and then I’ll break you.”

“Such a gentleman,” you mutter under your breath.

“Such a gentleman, in fact, that I’m going to go grab you a change of clothes; you know you need to get out of those ones.”

You nod once, tightly. You knew that chloroform could linger on clothes, and are surprised that he’s even affording you the option to change and brush your teeth. Cash had always been mercurial, but to see it even in this context was strange. He leaves, closing and locking the door behind him – adding locks to every door seemed to be the only changes he’s made to the place.

You wash your face and hands before brushing your teeth, taking in the ugly bruise that now covered one side of your face in the mirror, and your gratitude for his accommodations falls quite a bit. You couldn’t let memories of the Cash you knew influence your opinion of this Cash, this violent criminal.

He knocks at the door as you’re finishing brushing your teeth, and you make a noncommittal noise, hearing him unlock the door in return. You accept the armful of clothes without a word, and he seals you in the room once more.

You get the sense he’s lingering just outside the door.

Stripping down, you rifle through the clothes, realizing that they all look like they belong to Cash, and therefore are far too big for you. You manage to put on a pair of pyjama pants that have you blushing, tightening the drawstring as much as you can to keep them from sliding down. You roll the pant legs up what feels like a hundred times until the bunched up fabric is at your knees; you’re sure you look ridiculous, especially considering your bra is still hanging from your elbow since the cuffs kept you from removing it completely.

You also can’t put another shirt on, and can’t tell if this is Cash’s cruel attempt at a joke or if he just didn’t think this through.

“Are you done yet?” he complains through the other side of the door.

“Oh, I’m sorry – am I keeping you?!” you snap at him, glaring at where you imagine his big, dumb head would be. “I can’t put a shirt on when I’m cuffed, dummy.”

“Oh. Right.”

Cash opens the door, and you have just enough time to lift his shirt to your chest to cover yourself before he comes into the room.

“Cash!” you complain, and he smirks, though his eyes stay locked with yours rather than drifting further downwards.

“I need to get the cuffs off, princess,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “And I hope you don’t think I’m stupid enough to leave you to your own devices, so get to it!” he commands you as he removes the cuffs before moving to block the door with his large body.

“Can you look away, at least?!” you scowl at him, feeling your face heat.

“You are so uptight. I’ve seen tits before, Y/N; yours are nothing special.”

You seethe silently, turning around in the cramped space before lowering your hands and grabbing the shirt. Perhaps you were being a bit immature; you’re both adults, and you’re sure that he has been with more than his share of women. Cash snorts, and you freeze as you start to do up the buttons. Had you said all that out loud?

“What?” you snap, not trusting the noise.

“Nice shorts,” he jeers from behind you.

“Oh, shut up,” you growl, buttoning the shirt quickly; it’s practically a dress on you.

He walks up to you suddenly, and you turn, coming face-to-chest with him not even five inches away from you. You gasp, jolting back and away from him as he suddenly snatches both of your wrists from your sides, reattaching the cuffs. Leading you back into the bedroom, you see that the mess you’d left has disappeared. You look up at him questioningly.

“What, like I was going to be able to force you to clean it up? I’ve seen your desk at the precinct.”

You open your mouth to tell him off, but he grips your chin, keeping it shut. With his other hand, he reaches up to his temple, mirroring where your injuries are with his own body, and tapping it meaningfully, his eyes bright.

You repress a shudder; he was not the Cash you had known.

“Now, if you are hungry, I will take you down to the kitchen to eat; otherwise, you’re staying in here.”

“I’m hungry,” you say quickly. You didn’t want to be chained to a bed with him around; the thought has you swallowing thickly with nerves. He nods, gesturing for you to leave first, following you closely.

You make it around ten minutes and through almost an entire slice of pizza, trying to get information out of him in-between bites. Tired of listening to you, Cash drags you down the hall and into the bedroom, refastening one of the cuffs back to the bed, and leaves you in there, slamming the door shut despite your protestations that you were still hungry.

You suspect Cash has returned to the kitchen to eat. You give him a minute or so to think that he’s won and can enjoy his meal, before you take a long, deep breath.

“IT’S A SMALL WORLD AAAAAFTER ALL,” you bellow with all your might, singing the song as loudly and obnoxiously as possible. It doesn’t take long before you hear his heavy boots stomping down the hall, throwing the door open with a slam.

You fall silent immediately, scurrying up to the head of the bed and bringing your knees to your chest. Cash pounces on you, slipping a hand past your knee, underneath the shirt of his that you were wearing, and you start to thrash and shout.

He merely snatches one of the rolled-up legs of his pants, tugging it down your body and pulling it past your leg again. Gripping the fabric, he tears a section off your leg and quickly ties it around your head, tying it in a knot that he forces into your mouth, gagging you.

“Keep pissing me off, and I’ll use the chloroform again,” he warns, his forehead nearly touching your own. “And I’m all out of favours for you. So shut the fuck up, or I take these back,” he snarls, tugging pointedly at his clothes on your body. You stay perfectly still and completely silent, and it’s clear that his message has gotten across, so he storms out without another word.

You could use your free hand to try to work the gag off of your head, but you’re too worried about the repercussions to bother, instead curling up in a ball and waiting for a miracle.

[His tongue in that upper right gif... my goodness]

---

Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

[lesmislettersdaily]

A Tempest In A Skull

Volume 1: Fantine; Book 7: The Champmathieu Affair; Chapter 3: A Tempest In A Skull

The reader has, no doubt, already divined that M. Madeleine is no other than Jean Valjean.

We have already gazed into the depths of this conscience; the moment has now come when we must take another look into it. We do so not without emotion and trepidation. There is nothing more terrible in existence than this sort of contemplation. The eye of the spirit can nowhere find more dazzling brilliance and more shadow than in man; it can fix itself on no other thing which is more formidable, more complicated, more mysterious, and more infinite. There is a spectacle more grand than the sea; it is heaven: there is a spectacle more grand than heaven; it is the inmost recesses of the soul.

To make the poem of the human conscience, were it only with reference to a single man, were it only in connection with the basest of men, would be to blend all epics into one superior and definitive epic. Conscience is the chaos of chimæras, of lusts, and of temptations; the furnace of dreams; the lair of ideas of which we are ashamed; it is the pandemonium of sophisms; it is the battlefield of the passions. Penetrate, at certain hours, past the livid face of a human being who is engaged in reflection, and look behind, gaze into that soul, gaze into that obscurity. There, beneath that external silence, battles of giants, like those recorded in Homer, are in progress; skirmishes of dragons and hydras and swarms of phantoms, as in Milton; visionary circles, as in Dante. What a solemn thing is this infinity which every man bears within him, and which he measures with despair against the caprices of his brain and the actions of his life!

Alighieri one day met with a sinister-looking door, before which he hesitated. Here is one before us, upon whose threshold we hesitate. Let us enter, nevertheless.

We have but little to add to what the reader already knows of what had happened to Jean Valjean after the adventure with Little Gervais. From that moment forth he was, as we have seen, a totally different man. What the Bishop had wished to make of him, that he carried out. It was more than a transformation; it was a transfiguration.

He succeeded in disappearing, sold the Bishop’s silver, reserving only the candlesticks as a souvenir, crept from town to town, traversed France, came to M. sur M., conceived the idea which we have mentioned, accomplished what we have related, succeeded in rendering himself safe from seizure and inaccessible, and, thenceforth, established at M. sur M., happy in feeling his conscience saddened by the past and the first half of his existence belied by the last, he lived in peace, reassured and hopeful, having henceforth only two thoughts,—to conceal his name and to sanctify his life; to escape men and to return to God.

These two thoughts were so closely intertwined in his mind that they formed but a single one there; both were equally absorbing and imperative and ruled his slightest actions. In general, they conspired to regulate the conduct of his life; they turned him towards the gloom; they rendered him kindly and simple; they counselled him to the same things. Sometimes, however, they conflicted. In that case, as the reader will remember, the man whom all the country of M. sur M. called M. Madeleine did not hesitate to sacrifice the first to the second—his security to his virtue. Thus, in spite of all his reserve and all his prudence, he had preserved the Bishop’s candlesticks, worn mourning for him, summoned and interrogated all the little Savoyards who passed that way, collected information regarding the families at Faverolles, and saved old Fauchelevent’s life, despite the disquieting insinuations of Javert. It seemed, as we have already remarked, as though he thought, following the example of all those who have been wise, holy, and just, that his first duty was not towards himself.

At the same time, it must be confessed, nothing just like this had yet presented itself.

Never had the two ideas which governed the unhappy man whose sufferings we are narrating, engaged in so serious a struggle. He understood this confusedly but profoundly at the very first words pronounced by Javert, when the latter entered his study. At the moment when that name, which he had buried beneath so many layers, was so strangely articulated, he was struck with stupor, and as though intoxicated with the sinister eccentricity of his destiny; and through this stupor he felt that shudder which precedes great shocks. He bent like an oak at the approach of a storm, like a soldier at the approach of an assault. He felt shadows filled with thunders and lightnings descending upon his head. As he listened to Javert, the first thought which occurred to him was to go, to run and denounce himself, to take that Champmathieu out of prison and place himself there; this was as painful and as poignant as an incision in the living flesh. Then it passed away, and he said to himself, “We will see! We will see!” He repressed this first, generous instinct, and recoiled before heroism.

It would be beautiful, no doubt, after the Bishop’s holy words, after so many years of repentance and abnegation, in the midst of a penitence admirably begun, if this man had not flinched for an instant, even in the presence of so terrible a conjecture, but had continued to walk with the same step towards this yawning precipice, at the bottom of which lay heaven; that would have been beautiful; but it was not thus. We must render an account of the things which went on in this soul, and we can only tell what there was there. He was carried away, at first, by the instinct of self-preservation; he rallied all his ideas in haste, stifled his emotions, took into consideration Javert’s presence, that great danger, postponed all decision with the firmness of terror, shook off thought as to what he had to do, and resumed his calmness as a warrior picks up his buckler.

He remained in this state during the rest of the day, a whirlwind within, a profound tranquillity without. He took no “preservative measures,” as they may be called. Everything was still confused, and jostling together in his brain. His trouble was so great that he could not perceive the form of a single idea distinctly, and he could have told nothing about himself, except that he had received a great blow.

He repaired to Fantine’s bed of suffering, as usual, and prolonged his visit, through a kindly instinct, telling himself that he must behave thus, and recommend her well to the sisters, in case he should be obliged to be absent himself. He had a vague feeling that he might be obliged to go to Arras; and without having the least in the world made up his mind to this trip, he said to himself that being, as he was, beyond the shadow of any suspicion, there could be nothing out of the way in being a witness to what was to take place, and he engaged the tilbury from Scaufflaire in order to be prepared in any event.

He dined with a good deal of appetite.

On returning to his room, he communed with himself.

He examined the situation, and found it unprecedented; so unprecedented that in the midst of his reverie he rose from his chair, moved by some inexplicable impulse of anxiety, and bolted his door. He feared lest something more should enter. He was barricading himself against possibilities.

A moment later he extinguished his light; it embarrassed him.

It seemed to him as though he might be seen.

By whom?

Alas! That on which he desired to close the door had already entered; that which he desired to blind was staring him in the face,—his conscience.

His conscience; that is to say, God.

Nevertheless, he deluded himself at first; he had a feeling of security and of solitude; the bolt once drawn, he thought himself impregnable; the candle extinguished, he felt himself invisible. Then he took possession of himself: he set his elbows on the table, leaned his head on his hand, and began to meditate in the dark.

“Where do I stand? Am not I dreaming? What have I heard? Is it really true that I have seen that Javert, and that he spoke to me in that manner? Who can that Champmathieu be? So he resembles me! Is it possible? When I reflect that yesterday I was so tranquil, and so far from suspecting anything! What was I doing yesterday at this hour? What is there in this incident? What will the end be? What is to be done?”

This was the torment in which he found himself. His brain had lost its power of retaining ideas; they passed like waves, and he clutched his brow in both hands to arrest them.

Nothing but anguish extricated itself from this tumult which overwhelmed his will and his reason, and from which he sought to draw proof and resolution.

His head was burning. He went to the window and threw it wide open. There were no stars in the sky. He returned and seated himself at the table.

The first hour passed in this manner.

Gradually, however, vague outlines began to take form and to fix themselves in his meditation, and he was able to catch a glimpse with precision of the reality,—not the whole situation, but some of the details. He began by recognizing the fact that, critical and extraordinary as was this situation, he was completely master of it.

This only caused an increase of his stupor.

Independently of the severe and religious aim which he had assigned to his actions, all that he had made up to that day had been nothing but a hole in which to bury his name. That which he had always feared most of all in his hours of self-communion, during his sleepless nights, was to ever hear that name pronounced; he had said to himself, that that would be the end of all things for him; that on the day when that name made its reappearance it would cause his new life to vanish from about him, and—who knows?—perhaps even his new soul within him, also. He shuddered at the very thought that this was possible. Assuredly, if any one had said to him at such moments that the hour would come when that name would ring in his ears, when the hideous words, Jean Valjean, would suddenly emerge from the darkness and rise in front of him, when that formidable light, capable of dissipating the mystery in which he had enveloped himself, would suddenly blaze forth above his head, and that that name would not menace him, that that light would but produce an obscurity more dense, that this rent veil would but increase the mystery, that this earthquake would solidify his edifice, that this prodigious incident would have no other result, so far as he was concerned, if so it seemed good to him, than that of rendering his existence at once clearer and more impenetrable, and that, out of his confrontation with the phantom of Jean Valjean, the good and worthy citizen Monsieur Madeleine would emerge more honored, more peaceful, and more respected than ever—if any one had told him that, he would have tossed his head and regarded the words as those of a madman. Well, all this was precisely what had just come to pass; all that accumulation of impossibilities was a fact, and God had permitted these wild fancies to become real things!

His reverie continued to grow clearer. He came more and more to an understanding of his position.

It seemed to him that he had but just waked up from some inexplicable dream, and that he found himself slipping down a declivity in the middle of the night, erect, shivering, holding back all in vain, on the very brink of the abyss. He distinctly perceived in the darkness a stranger, a man unknown to him, whom destiny had mistaken for him, and whom she was thrusting into the gulf in his stead; in order that the gulf might close once more, it was necessary that some one, himself or that other man, should fall into it: he had only let things take their course.

The light became complete, and he acknowledged this to himself: That his place was empty in the galleys; that do what he would, it was still awaiting him; that the theft from little Gervais had led him back to it; that this vacant place would await him, and draw him on until he filled it; that this was inevitable and fatal; and then he said to himself, “that, at this moment, he had a substitute; that it appeared that a certain Champmathieu had that ill luck, and that, as regards himself, being present in the galleys in the person of that Champmathieu, present in society under the name of M. Madeleine, he had nothing more to fear, provided that he did not prevent men from sealing over the head of that Champmathieu this stone of infamy which, like the stone of the sepulchre, falls once, never to rise again.”

All this was so strange and so violent, that there suddenly took place in him that indescribable movement, which no man feels more than two or three times in the course of his life, a sort of convulsion of the conscience which stirs up all that there is doubtful in the heart, which is composed of irony, of joy, and of despair, and which may be called an outburst of inward laughter.

He hastily relighted his candle.

“Well, what then?” he said to himself; “what am I afraid of? What is there in all that for me to think about? I am safe; all is over. I had but one partly open door through which my past might invade my life, and behold that door is walled up forever! That Javert, who has been annoying me so long; that terrible instinct which seemed to have divined me, which had divined me—good God! and which followed me everywhere; that frightful hunting-dog, always making a point at me, is thrown off the scent, engaged elsewhere, absolutely turned from the trail: henceforth he is satisfied; he will leave me in peace; he has his Jean Valjean. Who knows? it is even probable that he will wish to leave town! And all this has been brought about without any aid from me, and I count for nothing in it! Ah! but where is the misfortune in this? Upon my honor, people would think, to see me, that some catastrophe had happened to me! After all, if it does bring harm to some one, that is not my fault in the least: it is Providence which has done it all; it is because it wishes it so to be, evidently. Have I the right to disarrange what it has arranged? What do I ask now? Why should I meddle? It does not concern me; what! I am not satisfied: but what more do I want? The goal to which I have aspired for so many years, the dream of my nights, the object of my prayers to Heaven,—security,—I have now attained; it is God who wills it; I can do nothing against the will of God, and why does God will it? In order that I may continue what I have begun, that I may do good, that I may one day be a grand and encouraging example, that it may be said at last, that a little happiness has been attached to the penance which I have undergone, and to that virtue to which I have returned. Really, I do not understand why I was afraid, a little while ago, to enter the house of that good curé, and to ask his advice; this is evidently what he would have said to me: It is settled; let things take their course; let the good God do as he likes!”

Thus did he address himself in the depths of his own conscience, bending over what may be called his own abyss; he rose from his chair, and began to pace the room: “Come,” said he, “let us think no more about it; my resolve is taken!” but he felt no joy.

Quite the reverse.

One can no more prevent thought from recurring to an idea than one can the sea from returning to the shore: the sailor calls it the tide; the guilty man calls it remorse; God upheaves the soul as he does the ocean.

After the expiration of a few moments, do what he would, he resumed the gloomy dialogue in which it was he who spoke and he who listened, saying that which he would have preferred to ignore, and listened to that which he would have preferred not to hear, yielding to that mysterious power which said to him: “Think!” as it said to another condemned man, two thousand years ago, “March on!”

Before proceeding further, and in order to make ourselves fully understood, let us insist upon one necessary observation.

It is certain that people do talk to themselves; there is no living being who has not done it. It may even be said that the word is never a more magnificent mystery than when it goes from thought to conscience within a man, and when it returns from conscience to thought; it is in this sense only that the words so often employed in this chapter, he said, he exclaimed, must be understood; one speaks to one’s self, talks to one’s self, exclaims to one’s self without breaking the external silence; there is a great tumult; everything about us talks except the mouth. The realities of the soul are nonetheless realities because they are not visible and palpable.

So he asked himself where he stood. He interrogated himself upon that “settled resolve.” He confessed to himself that all that he had just arranged in his mind was monstrous, that “to let things take their course, to let the good God do as he liked,” was simply horrible; to allow this error of fate and of men to be carried out, not to hinder it, to lend himself to it through his silence, to do nothing, in short, was to do everything! that this was hypocritical baseness in the last degree! that it was a base, cowardly, sneaking, abject, hideous crime!

For the first time in eight years, the wretched man had just tasted the bitter savor of an evil thought and of an evil action.

He spit it out with disgust.

He continued to question himself. He asked himself severely what he had meant by this, “My object is attained!” He declared to himself that his life really had an object; but what object? To conceal his name? To deceive the police? Was it for so petty a thing that he had done all that he had done? Had he not another and a grand object, which was the true one—to save, not his person, but his soul; to become honest and good once more; to be a just man? Was it not that above all, that alone, which he had always desired, which the Bishop had enjoined upon him—to shut the door on his past? But he was not shutting it! great God! he was re-opening it by committing an infamous action! He was becoming a thief once more, and the most odious of thieves! He was robbing another of his existence, his life, his peace, his place in the sunshine. He was becoming an assassin. He was murdering, morally murdering, a wretched man. He was inflicting on him that frightful living death, that death beneath the open sky, which is called the galleys. On the other hand, to surrender himself to save that man, struck down with so melancholy an error, to resume his own name, to become once more, out of duty, the convict Jean Valjean, that was, in truth, to achieve his resurrection, and to close forever that hell whence he had just emerged; to fall back there in appearance was to escape from it in reality. This must be done! He had done nothing if he did not do all this; his whole life was useless; all his penitence was wasted. There was no longer any need of saying, “What is the use?” He felt that the Bishop was there, that the Bishop was present all the more because he was dead, that the Bishop was gazing fixedly at him, that henceforth Mayor Madeleine, with all his virtues, would be abominable to him, and that the convict Jean Valjean would be pure and admirable in his sight; that men beheld his mask, but that the Bishop saw his face; that men saw his life, but that the Bishop beheld his conscience. So he must go to Arras, deliver the false Jean Valjean, and denounce the real one. Alas! that was the greatest of sacrifices, the most poignant of victories, the last step to take; but it must be done. Sad fate! he would enter into sanctity only in the eyes of God when he returned to infamy in the eyes of men.

“Well,” said he, “let us decide upon this; let us do our duty; let us save this man.” He uttered these words aloud, without perceiving that he was speaking aloud.

He took his books, verified them, and put them in order. He flung in the fire a bundle of bills which he had against petty and embarrassed tradesmen. He wrote and sealed a letter, and on the envelope it might have been read, had there been any one in his chamber at the moment, To Monsieur Laffitte, Banker, Rue d’Artois, Paris. He drew from his secretary a pocket-book which contained several bank-notes and the passport of which he had made use that same year when he went to the elections.

Any one who had seen him during the execution of these various acts, into which there entered such grave thought, would have had no suspicion of what was going on within him. Only occasionally did his lips move; at other times he raised his head and fixed his gaze upon some point of the wall, as though there existed at that point something which he wished to elucidate or interrogate.

When he had finished the letter to M. Laffitte, he put it into his pocket, together with the pocket-book, and began his walk once more.

His reverie had not swerved from its course. He continued to see his duty clearly, written in luminous letters, which flamed before his eyes and changed its place as he altered the direction of his glance:—

“Go! Tell your name! Denounce yourself!”

In the same way he beheld, as though they had passed before him in visible forms, the two ideas which had, up to that time, formed the double rule of his soul,—the concealment of his name, the sanctification of his life. For the first time they appeared to him as absolutely distinct, and he perceived the distance which separated them. He recognized the fact that one of these ideas was, necessarily, good, while the other might become bad; that the first was self-devotion, and that the other was personality; that the one said, my neighbour, and that the other said, myself; that one emanated from the light, and the other from darkness.

They were antagonistic. He saw them in conflict. In proportion as he meditated, they grew before the eyes of his spirit. They had now attained colossal statures, and it seemed to him that he beheld within himself, in that infinity of which we were recently speaking, in the midst of the darkness and the lights, a goddess and a giant contending.

He was filled with terror; but it seemed to him that the good thought was getting the upper hand.

He felt that he was on the brink of the second decisive crisis of his conscience and of his destiny; that the Bishop had marked the first phase of his new life, and that Champmathieu marked the second. After the grand crisis, the grand test.

But the fever, allayed for an instant, gradually resumed possession of him. A thousand thoughts traversed his mind, but they continued to fortify him in his resolution.

One moment he said to himself that he was, perhaps, taking the matter too keenly; that, after all, this Champmathieu was not interesting, and that he had actually been guilty of theft.

He answered himself: “If this man has, indeed, stolen a few apples, that means a month in prison. It is a long way from that to the galleys. And who knows? Did he steal? Has it been proved? The name of Jean Valjean overwhelms him, and seems to dispense with proofs. Do not the attorneys for the Crown always proceed in this manner? He is supposed to be a thief because he is known to be a convict.”

In another instant the thought had occurred to him that, when he denounced himself, the heroism of his deed might, perhaps, be taken into consideration, and his honest life for the last seven years, and what he had done for the district, and that they would have mercy on him.

But this supposition vanished very quickly, and he smiled bitterly as he remembered that the theft of the forty sous from little Gervais put him in the position of a man guilty of a second offence after conviction, that this affair would certainly come up, and, according to the precise terms of the law, would render him liable to penal servitude for life.

He turned aside from all illusions, detached himself more and more from earth, and sought strength and consolation elsewhere. He told himself that he must do his duty; that perhaps he should not be more unhappy after doing his duty than after having avoided it; that if he allowed things to take their own course, if he remained at M. sur M., his consideration, his good name, his good works, the deference and veneration paid to him, his charity, his wealth, his popularity, his virtue, would be seasoned with a crime. And what would be the taste of all these holy things when bound up with this hideous thing? while, if he accomplished his sacrifice, a celestial idea would be mingled with the galleys, the post, the iron necklet, the green cap, unceasing toil, and pitiless shame.

At length he told himself that it must be so, that his destiny was thus allotted, that he had not authority to alter the arrangements made on high, that, in any case, he must make his choice: virtue without and abomination within, or holiness within and infamy without.

The stirring up of these lugubrious ideas did not cause his courage to fail, but his brain grow weary. He began to think of other things, of indifferent matters, in spite of himself.

The veins in his temples throbbed violently; he still paced to and fro; midnight sounded first from the parish church, then from the town-hall; he counted the twelve strokes of the two clocks, and compared the sounds of the two bells; he recalled in this connection the fact that, a few days previously, he had seen in an ironmonger’s shop an ancient clock for sale, upon which was written the name, Antoine-Albin de Romainville.

He was cold; he lighted a small fire; it did not occur to him to close the window.

In the meantime he had relapsed into his stupor; he was obliged to make a tolerably vigorous effort to recall what had been the subject of his thoughts before midnight had struck; he finally succeeded in doing this.

“Ah! yes,” he said to himself, “I had resolved to inform against myself.”

And then, all of a sudden, he thought of Fantine.

“Hold!” said he, “and what about that poor woman?”

Here a fresh crisis declared itself.

Fantine, by appearing thus abruptly in his reverie, produced the effect of an unexpected ray of light; it seemed to him as though everything about him were undergoing a change of aspect: he exclaimed:—

“Ah! but I have hitherto considered no one but myself; it is proper for me to hold my tongue or to denounce myself, to conceal my person or to save my soul, to be a despicable and respected magistrate, or an infamous and venerable convict; it is I, it is always I and nothing but I: but, good God! all this is egotism; these are diverse forms of egotism, but it is egotism all the same. What if I were to think a little about others? The highest holiness is to think of others; come, let us examine the matter. The I excepted, the I effaced, the I forgotten, what would be the result of all this? What if I denounce myself? I am arrested; this Champmathieu is released; I am put back in the galleys; that is well—and what then? What is going on here? Ah! here is a country, a town, here are factories, an industry, workers, both men and women, aged grandsires, children, poor people! All this I have created; all these I provide with their living; everywhere where there is a smoking chimney, it is I who have placed the brand on the hearth and meat in the pot; I have created ease, circulation, credit; before me there was nothing; I have elevated, vivified, informed with life, fecundated, stimulated, enriched the whole country-side; lacking me, the soul is lacking; I take myself off, everything dies: and this woman, who has suffered so much, who possesses so many merits in spite of her fall; the cause of all whose misery I have unwittingly been! And that child whom I meant to go in search of, whom I have promised to her mother; do I not also owe something to this woman, in reparation for the evil which I have done her? If I disappear, what happens? The mother dies; the child becomes what it can; that is what will take place, if I denounce myself. If I do not denounce myself? come, let us see how it will be if I do not denounce myself.”

After putting this question to himself, he paused; he seemed to undergo a momentary hesitation and trepidation; but it did not last long, and he answered himself calmly:—

“Well, this man is going to the galleys; it is true, but what the deuce! he has stolen! There is no use in my saying that he has not been guilty of theft, for he has! I remain here; I go on: in ten years I shall have made ten millions; I scatter them over the country; I have nothing of my own; what is that to me? It is not for myself that I am doing it; the prosperity of all goes on augmenting; industries are aroused and animated; factories and shops are multiplied; families, a hundred families, a thousand families, are happy; the district becomes populated; villages spring up where there were only farms before; farms rise where there was nothing; wretchedness disappears, and with wretchedness debauchery, prostitution, theft, murder; all vices disappear, all crimes: and this poor mother rears her child; and behold a whole country rich and honest! Ah! I was a fool! I was absurd! what was that I was saying about denouncing myself? I really must pay attention and not be precipitate about anything. What! because it would have pleased me to play the grand and generous; this is melodrama, after all; because I should have thought of no one but myself, the idea! for the sake of saving from a punishment, a trifle exaggerated, perhaps, but just at bottom, no one knows whom, a thief, a good-for-nothing, evidently, a whole country-side must perish! a poor woman must die in the hospital! a poor little girl must die in the street! like dogs; ah, this is abominable! And without the mother even having seen her child once more, almost without the child’s having known her mother; and all that for the sake of an old wretch of an apple-thief who, most assuredly, has deserved the galleys for something else, if not for that; fine scruples, indeed, which save a guilty man and sacrifice the innocent, which save an old vagabond who has only a few years to live at most, and who will not be more unhappy in the galleys than in his hovel, and which sacrifice a whole population, mothers, wives, children. This poor little Cosette who has no one in the world but me, and who is, no doubt, blue with cold at this moment in the den of those Thénardiers; those peoples are rascals; and I was going to neglect my duty towards all these poor creatures; and I was going off to denounce myself; and I was about to commit that unspeakable folly! Let us put it at the worst: suppose that there is a wrong action on my part in this, and that my conscience will reproach me for it some day, to accept, for the good of others, these reproaches which weigh only on myself; this evil action which compromises my soul alone; in that lies self-sacrifice; in that alone there is virtue.”

He rose and resumed his march; this time, he seemed to be content.

Diamonds are found only in the dark places of the earth; truths are found only in the depths of thought. It seemed to him, that, after having descended into these depths, after having long groped among the darkest of these shadows, he had at last found one of these diamonds, one of these truths, and that he now held it in his hand, and he was dazzled as he gazed upon it.

“Yes,” he thought, “this is right; I am on the right road; I have the solution; I must end by holding fast to something; my resolve is taken; let things take their course; let us no longer vacillate; let us no longer hang back; this is for the interest of all, not for my own; I am Madeleine, and Madeleine I remain. Woe to the man who is Jean Valjean! I am no longer he; I do not know that man; I no longer know anything; it turns out that some one is Jean Valjean at the present moment; let him look out for himself; that does not concern me; it is a fatal name which was floating abroad in the night; if it halts and descends on a head, so much the worse for that head.”

He looked into the little mirror which hung above his chimney-piece, and said:—

“Hold! it has relieved me to come to a decision; I am quite another man now.”

He proceeded a few paces further, then he stopped short.

“Come!” he said, “I must not flinch before any of the consequences of the resolution which I have once adopted; there are still threads which attach me to that Jean Valjean; they must be broken; in this very room there are objects which would betray me, dumb things which would bear witness against me; it is settled; all these things must disappear.”

He fumbled in his pocket, drew out his purse, opened it, and took out a small key; he inserted the key in a lock whose aperture could hardly be seen, so hidden was it in the most sombre tones of the design which covered the wall-paper; a secret receptacle opened, a sort of false cupboard constructed in the angle between the wall and the chimney-piece; in this hiding-place there were some rags—a blue linen blouse, an old pair of trousers, an old knapsack, and a huge thorn cudgel shod with iron at both ends. Those who had seen Jean Valjean at the epoch when he passed through D—— in October, 1815, could easily have recognized all the pieces of this miserable outfit.

He had preserved them as he had preserved the silver candlesticks, in order to remind himself continually of his starting-point, but he had concealed all that came from the galleys, and he had allowed the candlesticks which came from the Bishop to be seen.

He cast a furtive glance towards the door, as though he feared that it would open in spite of the bolt which fastened it; then, with a quick and abrupt movement, he took the whole in his arms at once, without bestowing so much as a glance on the things which he had so religiously and so perilously preserved for so many years, and flung them all, rags, cudgel, knapsack, into the fire.

He closed the false cupboard again, and with redoubled precautions, henceforth unnecessary, since it was now empty, he concealed the door behind a heavy piece of furniture, which he pushed in front of it.

After the lapse of a few seconds, the room and the opposite wall were lighted up with a fierce, red, tremulous glow. Everything was on fire; the thorn cudgel snapped and threw out sparks to the middle of the chamber.

As the knapsack was consumed, together with the hideous rags which it contained, it revealed something which sparkled in the ashes. By bending over, one could have readily recognized a coin,—no doubt the forty-sou piece stolen from the little Savoyard.

He did not look at the fire, but paced back and forth with the same step.

All at once his eye fell on the two silver candlesticks, which shone vaguely on the chimney-piece, through the glow.

“Hold!” he thought; “the whole of Jean Valjean is still in them. They must be destroyed also.”

He seized the two candlesticks.

There was still fire enough to allow of their being put out of shape, and converted into a sort of unrecognizable bar of metal.

He bent over the hearth and warmed himself for a moment. He felt a sense of real comfort. “How good warmth is!” said he.

He stirred the live coals with one of the candlesticks.

A minute more, and they were both in the fire.

At that moment it seemed to him that he heard a voice within him shouting: “Jean Valjean! Jean Valjean!”

His hair rose upright: he became like a man who is listening to some terrible thing.

“Yes, that’s it! finish!” said the voice. “Complete what you are about! Destroy these candlesticks! Annihilate this souvenir! Forget the Bishop! Forget everything! Destroy this Champmathieu, do! That is right! Applaud yourself! So it is settled, resolved, fixed, agreed: here is an old man who does not know what is wanted of him, who has, perhaps, done nothing, an innocent man, whose whole misfortune lies in your name, upon whom your name weighs like a crime, who is about to be taken for you, who will be condemned, who will finish his days in abjectness and horror. That is good! Be an honest man yourself; remain Monsieur le Maire; remain honorable and honored; enrich the town; nourish the indigent; rear the orphan; live happy, virtuous, and admired; and, during this time, while you are here in the midst of joy and light, there will be a man who will wear your red blouse, who will bear your name in ignominy, and who will drag your chain in the galleys. Yes, it is well arranged thus. Ah, wretch!”

The perspiration streamed from his brow. He fixed a haggard eye on the candlesticks. But that within him which had spoken had not finished. The voice continued:—

“Jean Valjean, there will be around you many voices, which will make a great noise, which will talk very loud, and which will bless you, and only one which no one will hear, and which will curse you in the dark. Well! listen, infamous man! All those benedictions will fall back before they reach heaven, and only the malediction will ascend to God.”

This voice, feeble at first, and which had proceeded from the most obscure depths of his conscience, had gradually become startling and formidable, and he now heard it in his very ear. It seemed to him that it had detached itself from him, and that it was now speaking outside of him. He thought that he heard the last words so distinctly, that he glanced around the room in a sort of terror.

“Is there any one here?” he demanded aloud, in utter bewilderment.

Then he resumed, with a laugh which resembled that of an idiot:—

“How stupid I am! There can be no one!”

There was some one; but the person who was there was of those whom the human eye cannot see.

He placed the candlesticks on the chimney-piece.

Then he resumed his monotonous and lugubrious tramp, which troubled the dreams of the sleeping man beneath him, and awoke him with a start.

This tramping to and fro soothed and at the same time intoxicated him. It sometimes seems, on supreme occasions, as though people moved about for the purpose of asking advice of everything that they may encounter by change of place. After the lapse of a few minutes he no longer knew his position.

He now recoiled in equal terror before both the resolutions at which he had arrived in turn. The two ideas which counselled him appeared to him equally fatal. What a fatality! What conjunction that that Champmathieu should have been taken for him; to be overwhelmed by precisely the means which Providence seemed to have employed, at first, to strengthen his position!

There was a moment when he reflected on the future. Denounce himself, great God! Deliver himself up! With immense despair he faced all that he should be obliged to leave, all that he should be obliged to take up once more. He should have to bid farewell to that existence which was so good, so pure, so radiant, to the respect of all, to honor, to liberty. He should never more stroll in the fields; he should never more hear the birds sing in the month of May; he should never more bestow alms on the little children; he should never more experience the sweetness of having glances of gratitude and love fixed upon him; he should quit that house which he had built, that little chamber! Everything seemed charming to him at that moment. Never again should he read those books; never more should he write on that little table of white wood; his old portress, the only servant whom he kept, would never more bring him his coffee in the morning. Great God! instead of that, the convict gang, the iron necklet, the red waistcoat, the chain on his ankle, fatigue, the cell, the camp bed all those horrors which he knew so well! At his age, after having been what he was! If he were only young again! but to be addressed in his old age as “thou” by any one who pleased; to be searched by the convict-guard; to receive the galley-sergeant’s cudgellings; to wear iron-bound shoes on his bare feet; to have to stretch out his leg night and morning to the hammer of the roundsman who visits the gang; to submit to the curiosity of strangers, who would be told: “That man yonder is the famous Jean Valjean, who was mayor of M. sur M.”; and at night, dripping with perspiration, overwhelmed with lassitude, their green caps drawn over their eyes, to remount, two by two, the ladder staircase of the galleys beneath the sergeant’s whip. Oh, what misery! Can destiny, then, be as malicious as an intelligent being, and become as monstrous as the human heart?

And do what he would, he always fell back upon the heartrending dilemma which lay at the foundation of his reverie: “Should he remain in paradise and become a demon? Should he return to hell and become an angel?”

What was to be done? Great God! what was to be done?

The torment from which he had escaped with so much difficulty was unchained afresh within him. His ideas began to grow confused once more; they assumed a kind of stupefied and mechanical quality which is peculiar to despair. The name of Romainville recurred incessantly to his mind, with the two verses of a song which he had heard in the past. He thought that Romainville was a little grove near Paris, where young lovers go to pluck lilacs in the month of April.

He wavered outwardly as well as inwardly. He walked like a little child who is permitted to toddle alone.

At intervals, as he combated his lassitude, he made an effort to recover the mastery of his mind. He tried to put to himself, for the last time, and definitely, the problem over which he had, in a manner, fallen prostrate with fatigue: Ought he to denounce himself? Ought he to hold his peace? He could not manage to see anything distinctly. The vague aspects of all the courses of reasoning which had been sketched out by his meditations quivered and vanished, one after the other, into smoke. He only felt that, to whatever course of action he made up his mind, something in him must die, and that of necessity, and without his being able to escape the fact; that he was entering a sepulchre on the right hand as much as on the left; that he was passing through a death agony,—the agony of his happiness, or the agony of his virtue.

Alas! all his resolution had again taken possession of him. He was no further advanced than at the beginning.

Thus did this unhappy soul struggle in its anguish. Eighteen hundred years before this unfortunate man, the mysterious Being in whom are summed up all the sanctities and all the sufferings of humanity had also long thrust aside with his hand, while the olive-trees quivered in the wild wind of the infinite, the terrible cup which appeared to Him dripping with darkness and overflowing with shadows in the depths all studded with stars.

[xtruss]

What is Publicly Known About JFK's Assassination - So Far

© Photo : Public domain

— Andrei Dergalin | Sputnik International | December 15, 2022

The death of US President John F. Kennedy nearly sixty years ago gave rise to quite a few conspiracy theories as many people were not convinced by the official narrative of the tragic events.

The US government is expected to release a trove of documents related to probably one of the most infamous assassinations of political figures in the 20th century – the murder of the 35th President of the United States John Fitzgerald Kennedy – this upcoming December 15.

The president’s (alleged) killer was swiftly identified and apprehended by authorities, and several official investigations were conducted in order to shed light on this tragic event. Nonetheless, JFK's murder spawned a number of conspiracy theories, with quite a few people in various corners of the world expressing their doubts about the official narrative.

Who Shot JFK?

John Fitzgerald Kennedy was murdered on November 22, 1963, while visiting the city of Dallas. As the presidential motorcade was moving through Dealey Plaza, Kennedy was shot twice – once in the back and once in the head – while he was riding in an open-topped limo and waving at the crowds greeting him.

The POTUS was promptly rushed to Parkland Hospital where he was soon pronounced dead.

The shooting was apparently carried out from the sixth floor of the nearby Texas School Book Repository where authorities found the murder weapon – a Carcano M91/38 bolt-action rifle.

Lee Harvey Oswald, a former US Marine who worked as an order filler at the book repository and who purchased the aforementioned rifle, was arrested later that day on suspicion of murdering police officer J.D. Tippit shortly after the shooting at the Dealey Plaza, and was eventually charged with Kennedy’s assassination as well.

Oswald, however, denied shooting either man. Authorities soon found themselves unable to interrogate him further on account of his own death: on November 24, Oswald was shot and killed by nightclub owner Jack Ruby when the cops were transferring the suspect to another jail.

Ruby himself was charged with the murder of Oswald but managed to successfully appeal his conviction, only to die of cancer in 1967.

How US Government Investigated Kennedy’s Assassination

On November 29, 1963, Kennedy’s successor Lyndon B. Johnson established the Commission on the Assassination of President Kennedy chaired by Earl Warren, US chief justice, via executive order.

The commission, which became informally known simply as the Warren Commission, presented its findings to Johnson in September 1964, arguing that both Oswald and Ruby were acting alone and weren’t part of some bigger conspiracy.

The Warren Commission also brought forth the so-called single-bullet theory, which essentially claimed that both JFK and Texas Governor John Connally - who was also riding on the presidential limo at the time of the shooting and who likewise sustained a gunshot wound (but survived) when the president was fatally shot - were both hit by a single bullet.

A subsequent investigation by medical experts appointed in 1968 by then-Attorney General Ramsey Clark, however, established that Kennedy was hit by not one but two bullets.

The matter of Kennedy’s murder was also brought up about a decade later in 1975 by the Rockefeller Commission (officially known as the US Presidential Commission on CIA Activities within the United States) which was established at the behest of US President Gerald Ford and whose goal was to investigate the Central Intelligence Agency’s activities within the country.

Having reviewed claims and allegations of the CIA involvement in the assassination and the spy agency’s relations with Oswald and Ruby, the Rockefeller Commission found little substance to them, essentially upholding the version of events brought forth by the Warren Commission.

However, the US House Select Committee on Assassinations, which was established in September 1976, pointed at the likelihood of Kennedy being killed as a result of a conspiracy, as well as the probability of a second shooter being involved in the plot.

Lee Harvey Oswald! Surrounded by detectives, Lee Harvey Oswald talks to the press as he is led down a corridor of the Dallas police station for another round of questioning in connection with the assassination of US President John F. Kennedy, November 23, 1963. © AP Photo

Why Some People Doubt Official Narrative of JFK Assassination

While US government officials and lawmakers spent quite some time looking into the matter of Kennedy’s assassination, a considerable amount of documents related to it remained classified.

This situation, along with the fact that the only suspect was killed shortly after the president’s shooting and before being able to divulge any potentially sensitive information, as well as the apparent inconsistencies in the government investigators’ findings, led to the creation of many conspiracy theories primarily dealing with who might have masterminded the killing.

In light of the mounting public skepticism regarding the official narrative of the president’s killing, the US Congress in 1992 passed the so-called Kennedy Assassination Records Collection Act ordering the collection and release of the materials pertaining to the case in question.

Sen. Lyndon B. Johnson, Blanco County Democratic chairman, signs the minutes of the county convention on May 8, 1956 at Johnson City, Texas. © AP Photo / Ed Kolenovsky

While the US National Archives started releasing these documents in 2017, US President Joe Biden suspended the release of the remaining records in 2021 under the pretext of the coronavirus pandemic.

The Biden administration did, however, promise to release the documents on a later date, with the deadline being December 15, 2022.

[heliads]

Helloooo! I hope you're doing great! was wondering if could do a Loki x fem reader in which she's the daughter of a powerful Mafia family, and she happens to be in the city when a member of the rival family - one whom she absolutely loathes and has been in a feud with for years - is captured by Shield. She approaches Fury when she hears that he won’t cooperate, and he lets her interrogate him. Of course, Stark being a bloody git decides to have the whole team watch how exactly she gets him to crack, and even Loki’s intrigued. Being the skillful manipulator she is with extensive knowledge on torture methods, they have a bit of a back and forth about pain. He says he won’t crack, that he’s dealt with all sorts of torture, and this prompts her to fire a shot that soars right next to his head, managing to even scratch his cheek in the process. “Pain has its limits. Fear, however, does not.” So she whips her gun to face hus forehead and does Russian Roulette with him, taking turns with the gun. He eventually cracks, and Loki’s impressed - even more so when she reveals that she was using a gun that only had a single bullet ( the one from before the Roulette when she was scaring him). They eventually get on good terms, and it ends with her inviting him over to the Manor in Italy before leaving with a handful of guards.

me and the squad after determining that fear isn't real for us

masterlist

Loki is staring at the woman sitting across the room. Black booted heels crossed matter-of-factly, she’s eyeing the door to the interrogation cell with a resolute gaze. According to S.H.I.E.L.D. principles, interrogations don’t happen within the agency’s halls, only cleanly cut interviews. The truth is that agents do whatever they damn please, and Y/N L/N is no exception. There are no rules, not for her, not as long as she keeps getting the information that all of them need.

The Avengers were supposed to be handling this case. The Gallants make up a well-known crime ring; one of the toughest mobs in this side of the country, or this side of the globe, for that matter. Loki and his partners managed to bring in the youngest one, Tom, for questioning, but they haven’t been able to crack him.

That leaves only Y/N. Loki knows that the rest have been reluctant to involve Y/N, too afraid of what she’ll do to get the answers they require, but they have no more options. Y/N is a L/N after all, the only natural counterpart to the Gallants. This city is split by a gang war between the two families, as much as the Avengers hate to admit it, and they’ve got the best of the L/Ns running amongst their numbers. If you’ve got that good a tool under your belt, why not use it?

Steve Rogers has been pacing back and forth for a while in the adjourning room. He’s still not sure about this, too used to the ‘40s codes of conduct that are now just as obsolete as the friends’ phone numbers he keeps tucked away in his cracked wallet. Loki is used to the changing of the times; no matter what, violence always stays the same. Y/N speaks his language, and that’s why he’s here, the same as the rest: to see what she does.

At last, Y/N receives the sign she’s been waiting for. A burner phone by her side buzzes with a new text from Nick Fury, and judging by the pleased lock of her jaw, it’s the all clear. Y/N stands, briskly folding her dark coat back around her, and heads towards the door.

Steve, Natasha, and Tony move to intercept her before she can head inside. They may be handing over the role of investigator, but they won’t do it without feeling like they can maintain some semblance of control.

Steve holds up a warning finger. “Remember the rules, Agent. You can’t lay a finger on him.”

Y/N smirks. “I don’t need to.”

Natasha arches a brow. “Even as a mafia gang leader who’s notorious for her torture methods?”

Y/N flashes her a particularly rakish smile. “Come on, Romanoff. You of all people should know that there are ways to make people crack without resorting to the usual ways of inflicting pain.”

Natasha shrugs. “Do your worst. We’d like to see it happen.”

Tony chortles. “Damn right we would. We’ll be watching the monitors outside. Technically, I have to tell you that if we see anything suspicious, we’ll come bursting in guns blazing, but mainly I just want to see what you do.”

Y/N shrugs, reaching for the door. “I hope you enjoy the show.”

She glances at Loki over her shoulder, a dagger-sharp glint in her eye the only sign that she’s been onto him since she first arrived at the Avengers complex, then disappears inside the interrogation room. The cell door clicks shut behind her, and just like that, they’ve got a performance to see.

Tony hurries over to the bank of monitors. “Oh, I’m excited for this one. I mean, the Godfather can only teach you so much, right? This is sure to be much more modern.”

Natasha laughs dryly. “Try not to seem too excited, Tony. We’re supposed to be unhappy about this.”

Loki drifts closer so he can see over their huddled shoulders. Tony messes with a few of the controls, and the sound starts to flicker in through glitchy waves of interference.

Tom Gallant is strapped to a chair in the room, only separated from Y/N by a standard issue table. His hands are cuffed to the surface in front of him, and Loki can hear the alarmed clink of his chains when he flinches upon seeing Y/N for the first time.

She takes a seat opposite him, evidently pleased to have created such a stir. “Already desperate, Tom? I mean, I haven’t even gotten started yet.”

Tom schools his expression back into solid stone. “I’m surprised they let someone like you in the building. I thought dogs were meant to stay back on the streets.”

Y/N scarcely reacts to the jibe. “Clever, Gallant. How long did it take you to come up with that one?” She folds her arms across her chest. “You know what we want. Give us the answers, it’ll be much easier for you.”

Tom remains silent, although this seems to add to Y/N’s glee more than if he had just started talking.

“Wonderful, I was hoping we’d get somewhere. It’ll only be fun from here on out.”

Tom scoffs. “I know the rules, L/N. You can’t lay a finger on me. How are you supposed to get anything from me without trying to bleed me out?”

Y/N’s grin is frightening. “I’m so glad you asked.”

She reaches inside her coat to pull out a phone. “Here’s how this is going to work. I am going to ask you some questions, and every time you don’t answer me, I’m going to mention a name to a couple friends of mine who are very eager to get back at your family. You lie, or hold anything back, and you’ll start losing allies. Do we understand each other?”

Gallant rolls his eyes, although he seems worried. “Do your worst.”

Y/N laughs once, the sound abruptly ending as if cut off by a guillotine. “How melodramatic. Well, let’s get started. What were you doing on S.H.I.E.L.D. premises on the night of the twelfth?”

Tom says nothing, and Y/N sighs. “Alright, then. You know Ariel Rollins? That’s your brother’s girlfriend, if you forgot. I believe your brother said that he really wanted to marry her, and I also know that he’s one spell of bad luck away from quitting your gang.”

She sends a text to someone, then holds up a photo on her phone. Even over the blurry security cameras, Loki makes out the figure in a pool of blood in the photo, and also Tom’s startled jerk against his chair.

Gallant sputters for a moment before he manages to control himself. “What have you done?”

Y/N lifts a shoulder, allowing Tom to gaze at the photo for a moment longer before tucking her phone back away again. “I’m following the rules. I can’t hurt you, but I can hurt many other people. I have quite a long list, if you’re interested. Anyways, my question still stands. Why were you trespassing on S.H.I.E.L.D. property on the twelfth?”

Tom swallows hard. “It was business.”

Y/N presses a finger to her temple. “Obviously. You need to be more specific.”

Gallant looks around, as if hoping for some sign of help. Nothing comes, and he falls silent again.

Y/N shrugs. “Fine. How about Randall Benjamin? He's been your best friend ever since the second grade. Randall is the only one you trust, right?”

Tom’s breathing stiffens. “You wouldn’t. He's innocent.”

Y/N stares at him. “Ah, but I am not.”

She sends another text, and holds up another photo. This time, Tom can’t stop the choking sob that freezes somewhere in his chest.

Y/N smiles at him helpfully. “The next on the list is Leon Brennan. If you want to see him again, I’d suggest that you get talking.”

Tom grimaces, then starts speaking in a rushed whisper. “I needed to go because we heard a tip. We know you have alien tech, we know you have money. We have a deal with the Cervones, and they say they’ll get our men out of prison if we help them find a couple things.”

Y/N nods solemnly. “How did the Cervones know about the S.H.I.E.L.D. access codes?”

Gallant wavers, but lapses into conversation again when Y/N holds up her phone. “They have a mole on the inside.”

He falls silent. Y/N taps the side of her phone against the table. “I need names, Tom. You do want Leon to survive this little talk, don’t you?”

Tom shudders, but stays quiet. Y/N allows him a moment longer to change his mind, then holds up a new photo of a different man, dead on the ground. Tom’s eyes widen in horror. 

“Val! Val Jensen! That’s their mole. I don’t know anything else, I swear. Stay away from my friends.”

Y/N furrows her brow. “Why should I? How do I know you’re not holding anything back?”

Tom is visibly sweating now. “I have nothing else, I promise. I’m just the youngest kid, you know that. I’m not supposed to do anything except stay alive in case the rest of my brothers die out before they can take over. They don’t tell me anything if they don’t have to, really. Please don’t kill anyone else.”

Loki can sense that this is true. Tom Gallant is the least threatening of all the mobsters in this city; he’s been forced into it by familial duty, but he’s kept on the outskirts of the action enough that he doesn’t have to act with the same caution and heartless rage that permeates the rest of his gang. No wonder Y/N could break him so quickly, although Loki does have to admit that she has considerable skills.

Y/N stands slowly. “In that case, Tom, I think we’re done here.”

He looks pleadingly up at her as she goes. “Wait, you can’t just leave me here! You know what happens to chatterboxes.”

Y/N glances back at him, smiling. “They get killed, don’t they? I wish you the best in staying alive.”

With that, she sweeps from the room. The door opens across the hall, and Y/N walks over to them. She takes in the horrified looks on their faces.

“What, disappointed you didn’t think of that earlier?”

Steve seems ready to kill her himself. “Those were innocent people that your friends murdered. That was wrong.”

Y/N sighs. “They’re not actually dead, Rogers. Those are actors. I had the photos staged before.”

Loki frowns. “Wouldn’t Tom be able to tell that they were fakes?”

Y/N smiles again, and Loki can’t decide whether he thinks it’s beautiful or frightening. Then again, why can’t it be both?

“Fear can turn even the most hardened criminals into believers, Odinson. All you need is to figure out what they can’t lose, and take it away.”

She walks away, leaving the Avengers awestruck. Loki, however, is still fascinated, and follows her out.

“Is that why you took this job?” He asks, curious. “Not just the fact that he was a rival gang member, but because you wanted to figure out how to make a Gallant crack?”

Y/N nods. “Something like that. I will admit, the no torture restriction troubled me at first, but it wasn’t actually that important.”

Loki raises a brow. “Not that important? Sweetheart, pain can make cowards out of the best of us.”

She looks back at him as they walk. “Even you?”

He shakes his head. “I’ve had enough experience with torture that it doesn’t work on me.”

They’re alone in a S.H.I.E.L.D. meeting room, so nobody except Loki notices when Y/N whips a revolver out of nowhere, firing it right beside his head. He doesn’t flinch, even when the bullet streaks past him, scratching his cheek from how close it came.

Y/N extends a hand, and it comes back tinted with his blood. The blood of gods, that is, so easily drawn by a stunt. He loves it.

She studies the blood, then turns back to him. “Pain has its limits. Fear, however, does not.”

Loki wants to laugh. “Are you free of fear as well, then?”

Without warning, Y/N turns the gun back on her own forehead, spinning the cylinder so the one remaining bullet is randomized in the chambers. Just as she pulls the trigger, Loki recognizes the game as Russian Roulette. He hasn’t had the chance to engage with a player such as her before.

“None of us are, but we try to hide it, don’t we?”

Loki takes the gun, pointing it at his own head and pulling the trigger. “You hide it quite well, I must admit. I consider myself impressed.”

Y/N grabs the gun from his hand, not even hesitating. She gets a blank as well, but the odds are slimmer and slimmer each time they trade roles.

Loki isn’t about to back down, though, not now. He carefully removes the gun from amongst her fingers, pointing it at his head. Nothing happens, though, so he hands it back to Y/N. It’s suicide to take it now, they’ve gone enough times. Y/N still pulls the trigger, though, holding Loki back when he tries to take it away from her head.

Loki stares at her, confused. “How did you do that? Why did you stay in it so long?”

She grins, flippant as always. “There was always one bullet. I already fired it at you, remember?”

Loki looks at her for a moment longer, then breaks out into a smile mad enough to rival hers. “I think I like you.”

She laughs. “That’s funny, I was about to say the same thing about you.”

There’s a murmuring in the halls, the sound of footsteps starting to find them. Y/N pulls him close for just a second longer so she can whisper something in his ear.

“I have a manor in Italy. I wouldn’t mind if you joined me there every once in a while.”

She smiles at him one last time, then leaves the room, disappearing in a cloud of guards that seem to have arrived out of nowhere. Loki watches her go, wondering just what he’s gotten himself into. For once, he isn’t worried about where this will lead, only excited for what is to come.

marvel tag list: @thatfangirl42, @rogueanschel, @mycosmicparadise, @ellobruv-blog, @caswinchester2000, @with-inked-solace, @sherlokid7, @amortensie

[hetahonda]

dename murder-mystery au

hc list commission for the lovely @ameriden​, thank you sm for your kind support! :)

Alfred is a final year college student, backpacking through Copenhagen with college buddy Davie, and his brother Matthew. When a sudden snow storm forces them to seek cover in a dodgy motel, Alfred finds himself bunking with Mathias, a former homicide detective who has just been relieved of his post. 

Mathias was once a top Criminology student in one of the best universities in Denmark, headhunted for a top position in a detective’s office fresh out of graduation. After a brief stint as a homicide detective, and a false accusation of a politician in his last case, he was dishonourably discharged from the detective’s office. 

Alfred wakes up to a frantic hammering on his door from Matthew - someone had come in the night and slit Davie’s throat. Matthew’s panicking, so Alfred volunteers to go into the room to check with Mathias. It’s his first time seeing a dead body, and he almost pukes.

The snow doesn’t let up, effectively locking them all in the motel for another day. Mathias steals the guest book from the motelier to round up their list of suspects, and Alfred finds a knife in the coat room - in the coat pocket of one Berwald Oxenstierna. Berwald is an old friend of Mathias’s, but Mathias is adamant that he couldn’t have done it. 

When the snow starts to clear, police are called to investigate what is essentially a locked building murder. Alfred and Matthew are told to extend their stay in Copenhagen to assist with investigation. 

The investigation seems to be closing in on Berwald, and Mathias tries to fight the case. He isn’t taken seriously with the recent loss of his post in the detective’s office, and decides to conduct an investigation by himself. After breaking into coroner Natalya’s office, they retrieve a coroner’s report that reveal that the cause of death was poison, rather than a wound to the neck. 

The knife wound is a red herring - and Alfred is ready to spring this on the motel chef, but Mathias wants to take a safer way out of proving their suspicions. They book a room at the same motel to snoop around, but don’t find anything. They still don’t eat any of the food, though. Going on a gut feeling, Alfred sets up a trap by their door for the night, rigging a contraption that makes a noise when the door is opened. The alarm is triggered when someone enters their room with a knife - it’s the motelier. 

Turns out, someone connected to Mathias’s last case as a detective had put a hit on him that night, and Davie was just unlucky to have bunked with someone mistaken for Alfred when hit orders were given. With the real culprit caught and his last case forgiven, Mathias is extended an offer for his post back from the detective’s office. Alfred gets to go home. They promise to keep in touch - all is well. 

Alfred looks into homicide detective work after college, just like Mathias. As a junior detective and American envoy to the Danish Homicide Investigations Department, he’s sometimes posted back to Denmark for any relevant cases. 

As a detective, Alfred is known in his department as a prodigy in the ‘extreme dumb luck’ sense. It’s not all luck, though - he’s good at reading people, and his gut feeling very rarely lets him down. He’s a big believer in justice, and it’s hard to get him to put down any cold cases (which he probably continues to work on in secret anyway). He’s more of a do-first-check-protocol-later kind of guy, but it usually works out for him. He’s still queasy around dead bodies, but Mathias is usually there to help him out with it. 

Mathias is welcomed back to his old post in the Copenhagen detective’s office, but he’s a little bit more careful with the way he handles investigations now. For his work, he’s ridiculously optimistic - he’s a good mentor who treats junior detectives and subordinates like friends, and he pushes everyone to go for drinks when the mood gets too low. His style of interrogation is always to play good cop (to Alfred’s bad cop, who is also very bad at that), even if that doesn’t work most of the time. 

Matthew graduates college to work in a criminal defence law firm - he’s gotten used to the occasional homicide case every now and then, but they still make him uncomfortable - he phones Alfred for help most of the time, even if the conflict of interest between their professions make him no help at all. 

Natalya’s work has her eventually strike up a begrudging friendship with Mathias and Alfred, even after all that breaking and entering they did from that one case - they annoy her to no end, but they’re the two detectives she’d trust the most with her evidence. 

They still go backpacking together from time to time - sometimes with Matthew or Natalya, sometimes with just the two of them. It’s taken a lot of hopeless back and forths (and a mutual inability to tell when the other is hitting on them) during these monthly hikes together to even realise how fond they are of each other, and if it weren’t for Natalya’s exasperated bluntness during particular one trip together, they would have probably stayed in the friend zone forever.

Protocol and general status quo professionalism suggests that you shouldn’t really date your co-worker, but they’ve never been one for following rules anyway. They like to push how far they can go with not getting caught without actually getting caught, be it through the occasional butt smack as they pass by each other or constant ‘joke flirting’ in front of their other co-workers. 

It doesn’t matter. Most of their colleagues know. They have no idea that it’s the biggest open secret in the office.

Alfred and Mathias working together has always been a sort of wild card and ‘source of headache’ for higher ups - they’re both just as headstrong (if you’re asking Matthew) and frustratingly reckless (if you’re asking Natalya), and usually end up breaking some sort of rule even for just the smallest of tasks, but they’re just about the detective duo with the highest success rate in both Danish and American departments. 

[aperrywilliams]

New blurbs-series: 10 days to my birthday!! (Day 8)

(Not my gif)

Author Masterlist - Series Masterlist

My birthday will be in 8 days from now. So I’m going to celebrate myself with 10 Spencer Reid’s blurbs. Enjoy!

Day 10 | Day 09 | Day 08 | Day 07 | Day 06 | Day 05 | Day 04 | Day 03 | Day 02 | Day 01

Day 08: Spencer Reid hold your hand for the first time.

When you made the decision to apply at the BAU, you knew so well what you were getting into. You knew you would see horrible things and meet despicable people. Moreover, you knew you'd have to get into the minds of serial killers in order to stop them. That was basically your job. But human behavior never ceased to amaze. Even after working on Aaron Hotchner's team for over a year, it seemed like a every week you will face an even more twisted case compared to the last one.

One of the first things they told you when you were accepted to the BAU is that you shouldn't take cases personally. They told you that it’s okay to empathize, but that once the case was over, you have to move on. You tried to do that as best you could, but like your co-workers, there were times when was too hard to do that. There were cases that affected you more than others. There were unsubs who managed to settle in your mind more persistently than others.

John Rogger was an example of that kind of cases for you. He was a murderer of young women in Alabama. When the BAU was called to investigate, Rogger already had more than 15 deaths in tow and at least 3 more women kidnapped. In addition to identifying and arresting him, the purpose was to be able to save the abducted women alive. That meant that once arrested, the team had to apply several and intense interviews to obtain information, but Rogger didn’t say a word. So far, only Hotch and Rossi had conducted the questionings. According to the profile the team built, they concluded if someone of the opposite sex and young questioned him, a better result could be obtained. Given the physical resemblance and closeness of age to the victims, Hotch decided that you were the best option to do that.

So you found yourself locked in a room with one of the most despicable murderers you had ever met, trying to obtain information. Hours and hours passed, where your patience, your temperance and your profiling skills were tested. To gain his trust, you said things about yourself that you wouldn’t have told anyone. You had to 'empathize' with a serial killer. You navigated his disturbed mind revealing details that you would have preferred not to know. Every time you took a break between questioning, Spencer made a point of checking how you were feeling and if you needed anything. He knew - or at least suspected - that this case was draining what little energy you had left so far. In each new interrogation, Rogger tried to find out more about you, your family, your private life. It was as if he wanted to get into your mind in the same way that you tried to get into his. You felt vulnerable, exposed. Even knowing that the one who was handcuffed and locked up for life was him and not you, every time his eyes fell on you, you couldn't help but feel fear. Even so, you didn’t waver and continued with the interrogations until after 2 intense days, Rogger broke and you managed to obtain the kidnapped women’s location.

The team quickly mobilized to the rescue. When you were about to put on your FBI vest to go with them, Hotch stopped you.

“You won’t go with us. You'll stay here at the station until we get back,” he told you immediately as he saw how you were getting ready, fastening your weapon in the holster attached to your belt.

“But sir, I have to go. I'm the one with the most details about the location and the things that can be found there…”, you tried to convince him. But Hotch wasn’t going to back down on his decision.

“I told you (Y/L/N). You will stay here. The extraction team is now ready. You've done enough, it's not safe for you to go with us”. Clearly Hotch was trying to prevent you from collapsing on the field, already knowing that Rogger had absorbed all your energy, but you didn't see it that way, and you interpreted it as punishment for some mysterious reason that you didn't know. According to you it was unfair, you wanted to save those women as much as everyone else, why deny you that option?

Reluctantly you nodded and watched as the whole team rushed out of the police station towards the location where they expected to find the women kidnapped by Rogger. With a lump in your throat and a defeating feeling you sat on one of the benches that were in the hall of the station. You felt useless, why you had to sit and wait while everyone was doing their job? The same job you could be doing.

You were deep in thought when Spencer sat next to you. You hadn't even noticed that he hadn't gone with the team.

“Spencer... I thought you would go with...,” you trailed off in confusion. Spencer looked at you and shook his head.

“I think this time it’s better I stay here. Just like you,” he replied. You let out a frustrated sigh.

“Do you too think I would be an obstacle in the field? Like Hotch?”. You asked sadly. Spencer frowned and rushed to reply.

“I don't think that (Y/N), and I’m sure Hotch doesn’t think that either,” Reid said, staring at you and trying to read your micro expressions.

“So why did he leave me here? I don't get it...,” your trembling voice revealed that you were about to cry overwhelmed by frustration.

“Because you've already done all the work you could do (Y/N), that's why,” Spencer replied simply. You looked at him with teary eyes trying to understand what his words were referring to.

“What does that mean? Does it mean that I have to wait and do nothing?...”

“Do you think it’s nothing you participating in Rogger's arrest and spent two whole days in and out of that interrogation room, doing everything in your power to break him… and finally achieve it? I think you did enough (Y/N),” Spencer pointed out, not losing eye contact with you.

“But... what if they are not found alive? If they can´t save them?...”. Just thinking about that scenario made your stomach clench.

“It would be a bad outcome, no doubt, but sadly it’s no longer in your hands (Y/N), nor in mine. I know waiting is excruciating, but there are times when it’s inevitable. We must wait and trust the team will do the right decisions on the field. That's as teamwork works”.

Thinking of Spencer's words you could only sigh again and come to the conclusion that he was right. You put your whole heart in for hours and days to get some clue to help the case. You just wanted it not to be too late.

Your mind tried to convince itself that you should wait for news. But your body told you otherwise, you couldn't stop bouncing your leg, you sighed uneasily every two minutes, with the fingers of one of your hands you squeezed the fingers of your other hand, you rocked back and forth on the bench. Your entire body expression screamed unease and disturbance. Spencer was silent to respect your own process, but seeing you like this hurt him deeply. He just wanted you could regain some serenity and peace of mind, but he also knew that the body was capable of betraying you over and over again, ignoring your own will.

Without saying a word, one of his hands that was resting on his knee reached for yours and gave it a gentle squeeze to remove it from its task of digging your nails into your own palm. The first contact startled you a little, but you gave in to the touch and let him guide your linked hands, making it rest in the space of the bench that was between you. After squeezing it slightly, with his thumb he began to trace soft patterns over your knuckles, looking for to relax your fingers. The warmth of his hand and the softness of his touch made you give in as the minutes passed and the tension in your body managed to dissipate in part. Your breathing also returned to a fairly normal rhythm. Both in silence. But it was not an awkward silence. It was the waiting you both had to face. It was fate that was no longer in your hands. And that was the first time Spencer Reid held your hand and taught you about there are times you just had to let it go. And that there are times when you don’t have to wait and face destiny alone.

[sevfanfic]

A Touch in the Dark - Chapter 12: The Ministry Visits

Warning: Smut, NSFW

Word count 1,686

“When analyzing the case study, remember the steps we’ve been learning about.” You stood at the front of your classroom and then pointed to the writing on the chalkboard, “please write at least one page for next class, have a good day!” The class began to shift as the student packed up to leave. 

You had been sitting at your desk grading exams when a loud knock echoed, breaking the silence. Before you could answer a tall thin woman with silver hair and bony cheeks entered and approached you. She loomed over you for a moment and you watched her lips twist in a forced smile.

“May I help you?” You raised a brow at the intruder. 

“My name is Irma King, I’m from the Ministry of Magic.” The woman spoke as if she was insulted that you did not recognize her. Her eyes darted from you to your desk and then she glanced around the room. “I assume you are free to answer a few questions?” 

“Of course,” you sighed as you obliged, “let's sit in my office.”

“Wonderful.” Irma followed you. She moved swiftly like she was floating slightly above the floor. Her lanky frame reminded you of a spider and the way the angles of her bony prominences jutted out gave you a chill in your chest. You had forgotten the Ministry was supposed to be visiting the school. An overwhelming feeling of unpreparedness fell over you. You offered her a cup of tea as she sat across from you and she accepted with a curt nod. 

“Now,” the woman paused and gave you a questioning gaze.

“Y/N.” You answered her unspoken question.

“Y/N,” she moved her lips in what was supposed to be a smile but looked more like she had just tasted something awful, “you seem to be a ghost in this world. We have no official records linked to you, can you tell me why that is?” She spoke slowly. 

“I only recently discovered all of this,” you waved your hand lazily, “I grew up in the muggle world.”

“Your parents, they are muggles?”

“Yes.”

“I see,” she nodded and pursed her lips, “and where did you learn magic?

“I traveled all over and learned from anyone willing to teach me.”

“Your powers are undeniable strong for someone who only recently discovered magic.” Irma’s voice rang with an accusatory tone. She was looking for something specific, a flaw in your story, maybe even a downright confession. But you were oblivious to what she was incriminating you of. 

“Are you accusing me of something?” The sudden sharpness of your voice made her beady eyes glow.

“Of course not, I’m merely making an observation.”

“Well, like I told my colleagues, I got lucky.”

“Is that so?” Irma’s teasing tone made you scoff. 

 She was obviously taunting you and you were beginning to get angry with her. You managed to conceal your emotions and not blow up on this woman. What a bitch, you thought as you sipped the hot tea from your cup. That’s when you heard him.

“Where is she?” his demanding voice and loud footsteps grew increasingly thunderous as he got closer to your office door. 

“Severus, please. Wait.” McGonagall’s frantic voice trailed behind the booming man. The door swung open and the tall man looked between you and Irma. You shot him a thankful glance. 

“I was hoping to conduct this interview in private.” Irma stood and approached Severus. He eyed her with a suspicious look. 

“Will you be interviewing all of us?” He spoke between his teeth. 

“No, only Y/N.” 

“So this is an interrogation,” he pushed past her and stood before you as if attempting to shield you, “she did nothing wrong.”

“Not yet,” she stood in the doorway and looked over her shoulder, “we’ll be watching.” When she left she gave a quick nod to McGonagall. The air seemed to settle as her eerie presence dissipated. The hairs on the back of your neck stood straight. What did she mean by we’ll be watching?   

  Winter blew over the land and encased everything in a shroud of white and ice. The halls of Hogwarts were lined with holiday decorations. Candles warmed the small spaces and the smell of cinnamon lingered. Your last classes before break were spent outside with your students. The lesson included important spells to help with frostbite and hypothermia. But most important was the snowball fights that eventually ensued. You laughed as you watched the hunks of snow hurling back and forth and joined in.

“Alright, go warm-up before your next class!” You called for the students to follow as you walked back inside. To your surprise, Severus was standing at the door. The kids flooded past him and you greeted him with a smile.

“Good afternoon, Professor.” 

“Good afternoon,” he grinned, “do you have a moment to discuss something?” The sound of his voice vibrated with mischievous tension. He admired the rosiness of your cheeks from the cold winter air. 

“What did you want to discuss?” You asked as you both began to walk down the hallway. 

“It’s something very important,” he motioned for you to follow him. You watched him curiously but moved in his direction. He turned down an empty corridor and as you rounded the corner yourself you felt a hand grasp your wrist. A small gasp escaped your lips when you were tugged against Severus’ body. 

“What are you doing?” you giggled as he pushed you behind a large column and against a wall hiding you from view. 

“You’ll see.” He purred close to your ear. A shiver coiled down your spine as a fire erupted in your belly. He planted kisses against your neck and you tilted your head to give him more room. His hand gripped at your waist pulling you close. 

“Severus.” You moaned quietly. He smiled against your skin, then you felt his teeth as his bit your skin. The wave of lust that rushed over you took your breath away. He squeezed you tighter, then you felt one of them sliding towards your inner thigh. His hand rubbed against the sensitive spot between your legs. You tried to keep the moans coming from you quiet. 

“You’re going to get us caught.” He teased then pressed his lips against yours. His tongue pushed into your mouth and you let him take control of you. You wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him deeply. 

Then before you realized it, he had lifted your skirt and found his way into your panties. His fingers slid against your clit and you moaned into his mouth. You felt the wetness from your cunt dripping against the skin of your thighs.

“Wet already?” Severus murmured close to your lips. You drank the warmth from his voice and breathed shakily. Suddenly, he pulled away from you then turned you and pressed against your back. He held you closed again and his erection pressed against your ass.    

“Please.” You whined, begging for him to take you. You felt him unbuttoning his pants then he pulled down your panties and stockings and pressed against you. His arms wrapped around you and one of his hands finds your neck. The pressure you felt on your throat made you melt into his hold. When you felt him push himself into you you gasped and put your hands on the wall for support. Your heart fluttered at the fullness you felt and a small smile formed on your lips. When he began to move his hips you moaned again and he quickly brought his hand to your mouth. 

“Shh.” His lips pressed against the curve of your ear and began to thrust with more force. You winced at the sudden movement and whined softly against the palm of his hand. He pounded his hips into you in quick thrusts and your fingernails dug at the cold stone wall. Your eyes closed and your blood boiled with pleasure. Muffled grunts came from Severus’ lips as his own pleasure grew. He kept his hand tightly pressed over your mouth and brought the other down to your clit. The stimulation built up at the base of your spine. Your eyes fluttered open in surprise when he pushed his cock deeper into you, hitting the sensitive spot that sent electricity shooting down your legs. 

“Cum for me,” Severus whispered in a low purr. The demand was overwhelming, the combined sensations brought you to the edge and when you felt him nibble at your ear your legs grew weak as a powerful orgasm rushed through you. He supported you with his strong arms and continued to desperately thrust into you. Soon you felt him tense as he reached his climax. His breath hitched as he filled you with his warm cum. You smiled against his hand and reveled in the feeling.

When he released you, your hands remained on the wall for support as you collected yourself. He buttoned his pants and then helped to straighten out your clothes. Then he looked you over and brought a hand up to fix your ruffled hair. 

“Was that all you wanted to talk about?” You teased.

“Yes, thank you for your help.” The sarcasm in his voice made you smile. You both stepped out from behind the column and looked around before continuing to walk. He walked you to your classroom where you knew your next class had been waiting for you. Before entering you pulled Severus close and kissed him quickly before entering the room. You didn’t mind being late and you quickly began your class. But you were distracted. The warmth of Severus’ cum that slowly dripping from your cunt mixed with your own juices made your skin tingle with excitement. 

 Severus reluctantly made his way to his potions lab and gave his students quick instructions. His mind wandered to the thought of you going about your day with his cum still inside you. He had never felt this excited about someone. You made his heart warm and softened his resolve. He needed you.

TAGS: @ayamenimthiriel @marvelschriss @debiraquel @mitsuhkai @the-not-so-iconic

[thatbloodymuggle]

the one with the compass

Tongue Tied (jj maybank) 7/?

masterlist

word count: 4.3k

warnings: crappy writing, major filler chapter

playlist

-

"This is empty. You took empty tanks?"

Rosie watched in disbelief as Kie examined the scuba diving gear John B had stolen from Ward. She stared dumbfounded at the black-eyed boy. John B merely hung his head in response.

The water around them was calmer than usual, and the sun was setting, making it a picturesque sight. The calm of the water and the sky contrasted what they were about to do.

"Okay this one's a quarter full. That's enough for one of us," Kie sighed. The five teenagers looked at each other.

"Love it when a plan comes together," Pope quipped.

Kie ignored him, "Does anybody know how to dive?"

Rosie looked down at her stitched hand and frowned, "I mean I've been diving before," Kie, Pope, and John B look hopeful. "But I can't get in the water right now," she held up the injured hand, and their shoulders all slumped.

Silence followed.

"It's kind of a Kook sport," JJ sighed.

Pope cleared his throat, "I, uh, read about it?"

Kie huffed and threw her hands in the air, "Great! Pope read about it, so someone's gonna die."

"You put the thing in your mouth and you breathe. How hard can that be?" JJ looked to Pope.

Rosie rolled her eyes and opened her mouth to argue, but Pope beat her to it.

"If you come up too fast, nitrogen gets into your blood and you get the bends."

John B and Kie seemed to understand the risk, but JJ wasn't so quick.

"You mean bends like," the blond bent over, sticking his ass out in a suggestive manner, "bend over and..."

"The bends kill you, dumbass," Rosie deadpanned.

"I can dive," John B interjected, though his voice was full of uncertainty.

Kie cocked an eyebrow at him, "Since when can you dive?"

"I'll do it," he affirmed.

The group looked at each other and paused for a moment, before Pope broke the silence, "Let me do some calculations real quick. So that boat's about 30 feet down, right? So it'll take 25 minutes at most at that depth, which means you need to make your safety stop at about... 10 feet for two minutes."

John B nodded. Rosie watched Kie strip herself of her t-shirt and jump into the water. Rosie caught onto what her friend was doing, but the three boys ogled at her like idiots. Rosie rolled her eyes, and pulled her legs up into her seat. JJ instructed John B on how to get inside the cargo hold and Rosie found herself zoning out fairly quickly. She stared out at the horizon, admiring the pristine line between the blue water and the orange sky.

"Diver down?"

Rosie was pulled out of her thoughts and watched with a smug grin as Kie gave John B a kiss on the cheek.

"Diver down."

John B jumped into the water and slowly sank down. Rosie turned back into her seat in the boat and stretched her legs out. Her bare feet nudged against JJ. He shot her a look and shoved them off, but she put them back up on the seat with a smirk.

"Shit. Guys!" Pope cried out as the wailing of a siren filled the previously peaceful air.

Rosie's head shot towards the source of noise to see a boat heading towards them.

"That's the police," JJ stated the obvious.

"Just act frickin' normal," Kiara flung her hair back and situated herself into an unnaturally natural position.

Rosie's heart raced, but she remained in her relaxed position as to not raise suspicion.

"Evening, officers," Pope addressed them.

"Evening."

"How you kids doing? You know the marsh is closed?"

The teenagers all looked at each other with faces of mock surprise.

"No, wow."

"Why is it closed?"

"We're conducting a search out here. Boat went down," the officer replied.

Rosie remained silent while the officer interrogated them some more questions before asking if he could take a look around their boat. She sat up in her seat and moved out of the way so he could inspect it. Rosie's worry-filled eyes met JJ, who held a calm expression; though she knew he was freaking out internally too. Rosie's leg shook with anxiety as the officer stood at the edge of the boat and looked down at where John B had to be waiting. The teenagers waited..and waited.. and waited. Finally, the officer deemed it acceptable and moved back into his own boat.

"Let us know if you see anything on your way out," the officer called out.

"We'll be gone soon, sir," Pope replied as the police drove away.

As soon as they were headed in the other direction, all four teenagers raced to the edge of the boat and peered down. Rosie watched the water expectantly. Sure enough, seconds later, John B floated to the surface and the tension in her shoulders deflated.

"Thank God!" she cried.

"There he is!"

"Did you find anything?" JJ asked in excitement.

John B threw a soaking duffel bag onto the boat. JJ, Rosie, Kiara, and Pope all cheered and helped their friend out of the water.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I ran out of air," John B panted.

Kie sighed, "You scared the shit out of me."

Pope and JJ explained the situation with the cops, but Rosie and Kie's attention was elsewhere. Rosie watched a boat with two men approach from the distance. Something about them sent an uneasy feeling crawling up her spine.

"Hey, guys? Bogey two o'clock," Kie directed the boys' attention to the boat.

"What are they doing back there?"

"The marsh is closed," Rosie mumbled.

"Let's not stick around to find out," JJ moved to get the bowline from the water.

In an instant, the atmosphere shifted to one of panic as JJ fought to get the line out of the water as fast as he could. The boat was rapidly approaching, and it didn't seem very friendly.

"JJ hurry up," Rosie urged the blond.

The boat was getting closer and closer.

"Don't wait for me, go!" he worked as fast as he could. John B raced to the drivers seat and revved up the engine.

"Go go go!"

"Go into the marsh!"

"I'm going," John B shot back at his panicked friends.

He steered the boat into the marsh in an attempt to lose them. Rosie watched in anticipation as the boat followed them into the marsh and started to gain speed.

"Guys, they're following us!" Kie called out in panic.

"John B, you gotta go faster!" Rosie urged him on, the anxiety spreading through her body.

"Gun it!" JJ added on, looking back and forth between his friend and the boat.

The two boats raced down the strip of water, both going as fast as they could.

BAM

Rosie jolted at the noise while simultaneously being shoved down by JJ. She turned her head back to see that one of the men was now aiming a gun at them. Her heart was pounded painfully against her chest.

"John B, get down!" she cried at the boy who was still up and steering the boat.

BAM

BAM

Gunshot after gunshot rang throughout the air, and the fear in Rosie's body increased with each one. She locked eyes with Kie who was pointed at a fishing net at the end of the boat. Rosie nodded and moved to get up with her, but was pulled back down again by JJ.

"JJ, let go," she hissed at him, but he tugged her down harder.

"Kie, get down!" John B yelled at the other girl who was moving towards the back of the boat. Rosie glared at JJ for keeping her from helping her friend, but he was unmoving.

Rosie jumped when another shot sounded through the air. She watched Kie restlessly as she threw the net into the water and immediately ducked down. Seconds later, the boat chasing them got tangled in the net and stopped abruptly.

"Holy shit," Rosie breathed.

The teenagers all sighed in relief.

"Whoo!"

"Pogue God, man!"

John B raced the boat away from the two men and towards the Chateau. As the sun set and the last light left the sky, he pulled the boat into the dock outside his house. The Pogues all hopped off the boat as soon as it was close enough to the wood. They were jittery in anticipation of what was hidden inside the mysterious duffel bag.

"What do you think is inside?"

"It's gotta be money, right?

"Can we please just open the bag?" Pope nearly yelled.

The other four paused to look at him, wearing matching expressions of amusement.

"Wow, Pope, that's a rare outburst of emotion," John B laughed.

John B zipped the bag open in a hurried manner and pulled out a silver, tube-like container. The Pogues all remained silent and watched him twist it open. They had nearly been shot over this, so whatever was inside had to be of great value.

Excitement turned into confusion as John B emptied the tube to reveal an old, rusty compass.

"A compass?" Rosie questioned in disbelief.

"Oh, wow. Great job, everybody. We found a compass," Pope threw his hands up.

John B remained silent.

"This was my father's."

-

"We were right outside like this, and then all we hear is just BAM, BAM, BAM!"

Rosie rolled her eyes at JJ's dramatic reenactment of his afternoon with John B. The blond was all fired up and bounced in excitement. John B, on the other hand, stood stoic against a beam on his porch.

"Knocking paint of the wall from the inside! And I'm just lookin' at him like--" JJ moved to the couch where Pope and Rosie sat. He shook his hair out over them, sending white flakes everywhere. "Look at this shit!"

Rosie scoffed and shoved him away, "That's dandruff."

"Disgusting," Kie added.

"Look at all that? That's paint!" JJ pointed to his white mess. "At that point, I was just, like.. I'm waiting for death!"

Rosie cocked an eyebrow and looked back and forth between John B and JJ. "So you saw the guys that shot at us, right?" Pope ended JJ's tall tale.

"Yeah."

"Did you get a good description of them? What did they look like? Anything we can bring to a police report?"

JJ paused and gazed out of the window in contemplation before replying.

"Burly."

He turned around to lock eyes with three sour faces.

"Burly?"

"That's not helpful," Kie stated the obvious, but JJ was quick to continue talking. He must really enjoy the sound of his own voice, Rosie thought.

"Like the type of guy at my dad's garage," JJ pulled out a cigarette and lit it before continuing. "I can tell you with full confidence that these boys, these killers," he took a drag, "they're square groupers."

"Like narco square groupers?" Pope asked.

Rosie sighed while Kiara voiced her own thoughts, "You guys, not everything is a kingpin movie."

"Okay so what does this square grouper look like specifically? Because apparently, you don't know what to look for!" Pope egged JJ on for better answers.

"Dude!" JJ screamed, "I wasn't taking little mental Polaroids the entire time, man, I was under duress, okay?!"

If they were in any other situation, Rosie wouldn't have hesitated to make fun of his voice crack. But now was not the time.

"But I can tell you that by the way Ms. Lana was screaming that these guys are serious hombres, man," the blond finished his rant.

"Why would they want the compass?" Kie brought them back to the task on hand.

"Yeah, that thing's a piece of shit. You couldn't pawn it off for five bucks," Pope added.

Rosie watched John B flick the compass open and closed in contemplation. He looked up from the device. Realization clouded over his face.

"The office."

All eyes were on John B.

"My dad's office. He always kept it locked because he was worried about his competitors stealing his Royal Merchant research," he led them inside the house and to the forbidden room.

The office was full of papers, maps, and pictures taped on the wall, scattered on the desk, and strewn about the room. John B went straight for a cork board full of pictures, and laid it across the desk for all of them to look at. He pointed out the same compass that had been passed down in the Routledge family for generations. Rosie listened intently, as did the others. John B's eyes widened and he pulled out the compass from his pocket.

"My dad used to talk about this compartment in here. Soldiers used to hide secret notes," he spun the top of the compass and removed a piece from the inside, revealing an engraving.

"What's that?"

Redfield

"That wasn't there before," John B trailed off. "This is my dad's handwriting!"

The teenagers immediately began throwing out theories in an attempt to decipher the meaning, but Rosie shifted from the conversation. She wandered over to the book case and ran her hand over all of the labelled binders. She then inspected the maps. The rooster outside had begun crowing, so she pad towards the window and slowly peeked out from between the blinds. Her eyes widened at the sight before her. A large, black truck had pulled into John B's driveway.

"Uh, guys?" she called out, but they continued talking.

"Guys!" she yelled. They all looked over at her. "Somebody's here!"

Rosie's heart sunk as two burly men exited the vehicle.

Kie's voice trembled, "Is that them?"

JJ walked away from the window muttering under his breath. John B followed him and pushed the blond up against the door.

"JJ! Where's the gun?"

"Gun? I-uh-I can't-"

Rosie widened her eyes in disbelief, "Now you don't have the gun? The one time we actually need it?"

He ignored her and began to retrace his steps, "It was in my backpack and then I-- it's on the porch."

JJ swiftly exited the room to retrieve the weapon, but came running back seconds later at the screams of the two men.

"John Routledge!"

He quietly shut the door behind him and locked it.

"They're on the porch," JJ whispered.

For the who-knows-what-time in the past few days, Rosie's heart beat out of her chest. Her eyes widened in terror as the men shouted again and busted into the house.

"Routledge!"

"Where you at, boy?"

The teenagers all looked at each other in panic.

"Window!" Kie directed JJ and Pope to open the window while John B leaned against the door and Rosie held her ear up against the wall to listen.

"Hurry! They're getting closer," Rosie hissed at JJ and Pope who struggled to get it open.

Rosie went back and forth from having her head against the wall to looking over at the two boys.

"It's painted shut!" JJ panicked, but kept trying to force it up.

Kie found a knife which she handed over to the boys to pry the painted window open.

"Check the back room!"

Rosie's eyes widened, "Everyone shut up!"

While JJ worked at the window, the doorknob rattled. Rosie ran over to the blond to help by adding more force. Finally, by some miracle, the window gave in just as the door knob was shot by a gun.

The teenagers piled out of the room and sprinted towards the chicken coop to take shelter. First Kiara, then Rosie, JJ, Pope, and John B. The space was cramped and they had to squat together, but Rosie couldn't complain. She was too focused on not getting killed.

They waited with bated breath for the men to leave. No one uttered a word. Finally, the men exited the house with all of John B's dad's files in boxes. But the rooster had begun crowing louder and louder, and wouldn't shut up no matter what they did.

"Do something, Pope. Shut him up," JJ gritted to the boy who sat closest to the screeching bird.

"What do you want me to do?"

Tears leaked from Kie's eyes, "Pet it, or talk to it, I don't know!"

The crowing increased, and Rosie watched through a crack as one of the men looked over to the chicken coop.

"Fuck, do something," Rosie hissed menacingly at JJ, but the fear in her eyes bore through.

JJ shot forward and grabbed the rooster by the neck, holding it to the ground. The dumb bird continued crowing. Rosie watched in horror as JJ snapped the rooster's neck, pulling its head from its body. Kie was crying silently and Rosie was trembling.

JJ leaned back against the wall of the chicken coop to keep himself hidden and Rosie subconsciously gripped his hand in her own. Both of them shook violently. No one dared to move a muscle, or so much as exhale too loudly.

The men turned away and piled back into their truck. Finally, Rosie felt like she could breathe again. Kie was still crying. Despite the relief flooding the small space, no one spoke a word. JJ subtly squeezed Rosie's hand, which was still in his, before letting go and crawling out of the coop. Rosie followed, and eventually the others.

"That's enough adventure for me for one day," Rosie nearly whispered. "I have a shift at The Wreck I need to get to."

Pope nodded, "We'll let you know if anything happens."

Rosie shot him a sharp nod and a tight-lipped smile before starting down the dirt road towards her car. She felt bad for leaving so abruptly, but she had really had enough insanity for one day. She longed for some normality, even if it meant working.

So Rosie continued on her way, preparing herself for the next six hours of impatient customers, sticky sweat, and greasy food.

-

"He kissed you?!"

"Yes. But don't tell Pope or JJ. I stopped it anyways."

Rosie squealed in excitement at her friend's news. Kie had stopped by the last hour or so of Rosie's shift to help her clean while simultaneously filling her on on all she'd missed from the rest of the afternoon with the Redfield lighthouse.

"What, was he bad or something?" Rosie laughed.

"No!" Kie was quick to defend John B, and blushed upon realizing that. "No it's just--no Pogue on Pogue macking, right?"

Rosie rolled her eyes at the dumb rule, "Whatever you say." Her eyes shot to the door as it opened. A smirk took over her lips at the boy walking towards them.

"Speaking of the devil," Rosie shot Kie a look before moving over to a different table to give the pair some privacy.

She watched for a few minutes as Kie and John B spoke amongst themselves. She waited eagerly for some sign of affection--a hug, a kiss, anything--but was let down as the most she got was an awkward handshake.

John B and Kie walked over to a disappointed Rosie. "We've got a mystery to uncover," the boy spoke. "Come on!"

He lead them out to his van, where Pope and JJ sat waiting.

"Took you long enough!" the JJ as Rosie hopped into the back and Kie took the front seat.

Rosie leaned closer to him and whispered in his ear, as to not embarrass her two friends, "Kie was busy friend-zoning him. They did a handshake and everything."

He let out a louder-than-necessary laugh. Kie and John B stared at JJ expectantly.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing. Rosie's just dumb but we all knew that," he covered, earning a glare from the short girl. She sharply elbowed him in the ribs, and Pope groaned.

"Why do I get stuck in the back with you two? It's like I'm third-wheeling a failed marriage."

This earned him laughter from the two teenagers in the front seat, and glares from the two in the back.

John B continued driving down the empty road while JJ dug out a pre-rolled joint from a case in his pocket.

"You mind if I just relax on this one? It's been a long day, a lot of weird stuff's gone down," he pulled out a lighter. "Oh, did you want a hit of this?" he purposefully skipped over Rosie and held the joint out to Pope.

"I keep the signal clear," Pope pushed it back. Rosie attempted to grab it, but JJ held it out of her reach.

John B intervened before another fight could ensue, "I know I was wrong about the lighthouse, and wrong about everything else going on. But I was right about one thing. Okay? My dad is trying to tell me something."

He parked the van outside the gate of an unlit cemetery and they all piled out, flashlights in hand. It was eerily quiet, but it didn't bother Rosie as much as she thought it would.

A cemetery is just a bunch of dead people, she thought, they can't do anything. They're dead.

"This place is scary," Kie voiced the opposite while they walked towards the rows of graves. "John B, what are we doing?"

"Okay, so you know how you're trying to remember a song and you can't remember who sings it?" he lead the group towards a large mausoleum "So, Redfield. This whole time I thought it was a place, right? But it's not a place," he held his lantern up to the name Redfield engraved on the stone, "It's a person."

"Voi-effing-là"

"It's my great-great grandmother, Olivia Redfield," John B faced the rest of the group.

John B, Pope, and JJ all moved to wedge the door open, but the stone wouldn't budge. Rosie watched the boys fail miserably. A large snake came hissing and slithering out of a large crack in the door, making Rosie and Kie jump back in shock.

"Holy shit!"

"Woah!"

Pope, John B, and the girls all backed away from the animal, but JJ continued walking towards it, "That's a moccasin, alright. Ye olde, Dr. Cottonmouth!"

Rosie watched in alarm as the blond idiot began barking at the snake.

"JJ!"

"Shut up!"

Rosie pulled the elastic of his head flashlight and snapped it back, effectively cutting off his barking.

"What? They're afraid of dogs!" JJ proceeded to argue back and forth with Pope and John B, while Rosie eyed Kie's flashlight which was pointing to a huge crack in the door.

"Wait, guys, look!" Rosie directed the boys towards the opening. "We can get in through the crack."

"By we, you mean you, right?" John B raised an eyebrow at her.

Rosie frowned, "Why me?"

"You're the smallest. Best chance of fitting through," Pope spoke as if it was obvious

She sighed, but complied. With a boost from the boys and some light from Kie, Rosie found herself inside the stone structure. She scanned the area, and her eyes landed on what looked like an unopened package. She picked it up and scanned it. For Bird.

"Found something!" she called out and handed the envelope package to John B through the crack. With a leap of faith and some help from Pope, Rosie found herself back on the ground next to her friends.

"Holy shit," John B mumbled, "this is from my dad."

His moment was cut short by the sound of a vehicle approaching. Rosie whipped around to the source of the noise just as JJ warned them, "Code red. Code red. Square groupers!"

The teenagers hid behind the mausoleum. Rosie shut off her light and the others followed but John B's lantern was still shining bright.

"John B, your light!" Kie urged him, but it wouldn't go out.

Rosie peeked over the edge of the wall, and widened her eyes as two men came out of the car holding what looked like a gun.

"Guys, he's got a gun!"

"Screw this," Kie shot up and ran, the others right behind.

The teenagers sprinted towards the fence. First John B climbed over, then Kie. Rosie went to haul herself over, but instantly flinched back. She'd forgotten about her stitches.

"Shit!"

Before the panic could set in, JJ lifted the small girl off the ground, giving her enough leverage to hop over with just one hand. She glanced back at him while he hopped over the fence with ease. Rosie ran towards the van, but was stopped by Pope who was sitting on the top of the fence.

"Guys, guys! I'm stuck!"

Rosie, John B, and Kie ran back over to help pull him off. JJ stepped back and pulled out his gun, which Rosie was quick to smack out of his hands.

"JJ, no!"

Before the two could bicker, John B had yanked Pope off the fence, leaving his pants hanging behind. The teenagers laughed at their pants-less friend and piled into the van.

The adrenaline pumping through Rosie's veins was exhilarating. It was an ecstasy like no other, and she couldn't get enough. Over the past few days, Rosie had experienced the most adventure she'd felt since she was a little kid.

Rose-Ann Mae Connolly was developing a taste for adventure, and craving adventure can be a dangerous thing.

But as John B drove away and JJ passed her a joint, she didn't care. She didn't care that she was living alone, and she didn't care that she had work the next morning. All Rosie cared about was what was inside that package.

So as she took a long drag of JJ's joint, she let the craving take over.

-

taglist:

@tangledinsparkles @lovelymaybankk @my--heroine @thelonelyumbrella @floretsoleil @flick24 @books-netflix-and-pizza @dad-ee-drea @dolanfivsosxox @anahgiedd @love-bean @my--heroine @maleriefay @mrs-maybank @shawnssongs @downbytheouterbanks @lostwnoah @2410slb @daygiowvibe​ @thesailbells​

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IM SO SORRY THIS IS ALL FILLER I PROMISE THE NEXT CHAPTER WILL BE MORE EXCITING BEAR WITH ME