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Chapter Three. Conversion

Thus there is such a thing as human absorption. It appears in all the forms of conversion wherever the superior power of one person is consciously or unconsciously misused to influence profoundly and draw into his spell another individual or a whole community. Here one soul operates directly upon another soul. The weak have been overcome by the strong, the resistance of the weak has broken down under the influence of another person. He has been overpowered…. —Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Life Together[57]

Dr. D. James Kennedy, tanned and dapper in a dark brown suit with a white handkerchief in his breast pocket and meticulously combed silver hair, stands to the side of the podium and shares with us the most important tool in winning converts to Christ: becoming a friend. The seminar I am attending is being held in a hall of the Coral Ridge Presbyterian Church complex at Coral Ridge, Florida. Three spindly, white spires, all topped with crosses, tower above the cut-rate shopping centers and convenience stores stretched along North Federal Highway in Fort Lauderdale. The five-day seminar is designed to train us to teach Evangelism Explosion. The program was begun by Kennedy in 1967 and is designed to train evangelists in the tactics and methods used to save souls for Christ.

“I would always go in first, introduce myself, Jim Kennedy,” he begins. “I’m checking the lay of the land, and I will look around the living room and see if there’s something there that I can comment about. Frequently, there will be a large picture somewhere and where did they put it, this picture? Why would they put it over the fireplace? Significant.”

“In Fort Lauderdale you don’t find too many fireplaces,” he adds, smiling, “but there’s some kind of central focus. Maybe…golf trophies…I’m over here looking at these golf trophies…painting…I say, ‘Beautiful painting. Did you paint that?’ The first rule about looking at trophies: don’t touch them…‘Did you win all those trophies?’ So we have a little conversation about golf, but I know enough about golf to have this conversation. Now what have I done? I’m making a friend.

“Compliment them on whatever you can,” Kennedy says. “Discuss what they do. You’re going to find out what are their hobbies, maybe right there in the living room. Then you’re going to ask them about what they do, where they’re from, how long they’ve been there…something to discuss with them…In doing this, you have made a friend.”

We sit with our green marbled Evangelism Explosion workbooks open to the chapter titled “Making Friends.” We are being taught how to get prospective converts to open up and feel at ease. The manual suggests asking questions such as: “Tell me something about yourself.”[58] We are instructed to listen attentively, since “people usually are most interested in what they themselves have to say.”[59] Evangelists should “look the prospect in the eye, move your head up and down, echo what he says by repeating his words and voice inflection. Be sensitive to his felt needs and respond appropriately. Remember and use his name often in the conversation.” And, it adds, “Pay a sincere compliment.”[60]

Kennedy warns us not to carry a large Bible, but to keep a small one hidden in our pockets: “Don’t show your gun until you’re ready to shoot it.”

Metaphors of war and sex saturate the lectures and the readings. Kennedy says that the primary task of Christians is to recruit “soldiers in the army of Jesus Christ who are absent without official leave (AWOL).”[61] He speaks of himself and other pastors as generals or admirals and of evangelists as soldiers. And he warns that it is Satan who convinces believers not to take part in the battle.

What is [Satan’s] idea? It is this: that wars are very dangerous, complicated operations, and ordinary persons could get hurt needlessly; therefore, they should go home and let the generals and admirals fight wars…in the church this, in essence, is exactly what Satan has done![62]

Sexual metaphors are also sprinkled into the bellicosity of the conversion message. A “functionally mature, responsible, reproducing Christian”[63] should be producing others like himself. Christians who receive the gospel for themselves but do not convert others “are like immoral seducers.” “The seducer,”[64] Kennedy writes, “is satisfied merely to exploit and then tell of his exploits rather than entering into a meaningful marriage commitment.” Kennedy recalls the difficulties he had one night during which he was unable to “consummate the witness”[65] with a new disciple’s wife.

Conversion is a form of sexual warfare, a form of seduction and finally a form of physical conquest.

You must “seek to identify with your prospect. If that person would talk about the fact that they were lonely and you had a lonely experience, man, you want to tie into that, you jump onto that…get all over that with your testimony…because they’re going to identify with you,” Kennedy says.

The tactics of conversion come with layers of deception, including, we soon learn, false friendships and cooked testimonies, the promise that the evangelists are giving the “free gift” of eternal life and that what they preach is the inerrant word of God and cannot be questioned. Conversion is supposed to banish the deepest dreads, fears and anxieties of human existence, including the fear of death. This is the central message we are told to impart to potential believers. But along with this message comes a disorienting mixture of love and fear, of promises of a warm embrace by a kind and gentle God that yearns to direct and guide the life of the convert toward success, wealth and happiness, and also of an angry, wrathful God who must punish nonbelievers, those who are not saved, tossing them into outer darkness and eternal suffering. The message swings the faces of this Janus-like God back and forth, one terrifying and one loving, in dizzying confusion. The emotions of love and fear pulsate through the message. God will love and protect those who come to Him. God will torment and reject those who do not come to Him. It becomes a bewildering mantra.

Conversion, at first blush, is euphoric. It is about new friends, loving and accepting friends; about the final conquering of human anxieties, fears and addictions; about attainment of wealth, power, success and happiness through God. For those who have known despair, it feels like a new life, a new beginning. The new church friends call them, invite them to dinner, have time to listen to their troubles and answer their questions. Kennedy tells us that we must keep in touch in the days after conversion. He encourages us to keep detailed files on those we proselytize. We must be sure new converts are never left standing alone at church. We must care when no one else seems to care. The new converts are assigned a “discipler” or prayer partner, a new friend who is wiser than they are in the ways of the Lord and able to instruct them in their new life.

The intense interest by a group of three or four evangelists in a potential convert, the flattery and feigned affection, the rapt attention to those being recruited and the flurry of “sincere” compliments are forms of “love-bombing,” the same technique employed by cults, such as the Unification Church or Moonies, to attract prospects. It was a well-developed tactic of the Russian and Chinese communist parties, which share many of the communal and repressive characteristics of the Christian Right. This intense showering of affection on an individual, as psychiatrist Margaret Thaler Singer described in her 1996 book Cults in Our Midst, is often very effective:

As soon as any interest is shown by the recruits, they may be love-bombed by the recruiter or other cult members. This process of feigning friendship and interest in the recruit was initially associated with one of the early youth cults, but soon it was taken up by a number of groups as part of their program for luring people in. Love-bombing is a coordinated effort, usually under the direction of leadership, that involves long-term members flooding recruits and newer members with flattery, verbal seduction, affectionate but usually nonsexual touching, and lots of attention to their every remark. Love-bombing—or the offer of instant companionship—is a deceptive ploy accounting for many successful recruitment drives.[66]

The new convert is drawn gradually into a host of church activities by his or her new friends, leaving little time for outside socializing. But the warmth and embrace soon brings new rules. When you violate the rules you sin, you flirt with rebellion, with becoming a “backslider,” someone who was converted but has fallen and is once again on the wrong side of God. And as the new converts are increasingly invested in the church community, as they cut ties with their old community, it is harder to dismiss the demands of the “discipler” and church leaders. “Backsliding” is a sin. Doubt is a sin. Questioning is a sin. The only proper relationship is submission to those above you, the abandonment of critical thought and the mouthing of religious jargon that is morally charged and instantly identifies believers as part of the same, hermetic community. The psychiatrist Robert Jay Lifton describes this heavily loaded language, the words and phrases that allow believers to speak in code, as “thought-terminating clichés.”[67] “Jesus is my personal Lord and Savior” or “The wages of sin are death” are used, in this instance, to end all discussion.

Rules are incorporated slowly and deliberately into the convert’s belief system. These include obedience to church leaders; the teaching of an exclusive, spiritual elitism that demonizes all other ways of being and believing; and a persecution complex that keeps followers mobilized and distrustful of outsiders. The rules create a system of total submission to church doctrine. They discourage independent thought and action. And the result is the destruction of old communities and old friendships. Believers are soon enclosed in the church community. They are taught to value personal experience over reason, and to reject reason. For those who defy the system, who walk away, there is a collective banishment. The exit process is humiliating, and those who leave are condemned as “backsliders” no longer favored by God.

There is a gradual establishment of new standards for every aspect of life. Those who choose spouses must choose Christian spouses. Families and friends are divided into groups of “saved” and “unsaved.” The movement, while it purports to be about families, is the great divider of families, friends and communities. It competes with the family for loyalty. It seeks to place itself above the family, either drawing all family members into its embrace or pushing aside those who resist conversion. There are frequent prayers during the seminar for relatives who are unsaved, who remain beyond the control of the movement. Many of these prayers, including one by a grandmother in my prayer group for her unsaved grandchildren, are emotional, and it is not unusual to see saved Christians weeping over the possible damnation of those they love.

This control, while destructive to personal initiative and independence, does keep believers from wandering back into the messy situations they fled. The new ideology gives the believers a cause, a sense of purpose, meaning, feelings of superiority, and a way to justify and sanctify their hatreds. For many, the rewards of cleaning up their lives, repairing their damaged self-esteem, and joining an elite and blessed group are worth the cost of submission. They know how to define and identify themselves. They do not have to make moral choices. They are made for them. They submerge their individual personas into the single persona of the Christian crowd. Their hope lies not in the real world, but in this new world of miracles. For many, the conformity, the flight away from themselves, the dismissal of facts and logic for magic, the destruction (even with its latent totalitarianism) of personal autonomy amount to a welcome and joyous relief. The flight into the arms of the Christian Right, into blind acceptance of a holy cause, compensates for converts’ despair and lack of faith in themselves. And the more corrupted and soiled they feel, the more profound the despair, the more militant they become, shouting, organizing and agitating to create a pure and sanctified Christian nation, believing that this purity will offset their own shame and guilt. Many yearn to be deceived and directed. It makes life easier to bear.

The most susceptible people, we are told in the seminar, are those in crisis: people in the midst of a divorce; those who have lost a job or are grieving for the death of a close friend or relative; those suffering addictions they cannot control, illness, or the trauma of emotional or physical abuse. We are encouraged to target the vulnerable. In The Varieties of Religious Experience, William James wrote that those who experienced dramatic conversions might have been born with a “melancholy disposition,” a chronically “divided” mind—or else, he suspected, they had drunk “too deep of the cup of bitterness.”[68] It is easier to bring about a conversion when the person being proselytized is in crisis. Indeed, the goal of the conversion is to generate a sense of crisis by stressing that all who are unsaved are lost and in desperate need of help.

When he speaks, Kennedy exudes the oily charm of a traveling salesman. He is meticulous about his appearance: never a hair out of place, his face tanned to a leathery brown and his suits finely cut. He talks in a low, sonorous voice, one he uses every Sunday when, decked out in his robe and academic hood, he stands behind his massive mahogany pulpit at the start of the service and announces, “This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it,” at which point the thunderous organ erupts in pulsations that rock the church. He is a rigid fundamentalist, determined to defend and prove the truths of the Bible through what he sees as intellectual, rational and scientific argument. His sermons can often be pedantic, filled with windy discussions about what he says are historical or scientific facts that illustrate the inerrant truth of the Bible. He is one of America’s most public and vocal dominionists.

Kennedy was born in 1930 in Augusta, Georgia, and raised in a neighborhood on the South Side of Chicago by a glassware-salesman father, rarely at home, and an abusive, alcoholic mother. It was not a happy childhood. Kennedy moved with his parents to Jacksonville, Florida, while he was in high school and by his own admission spent most of his time surfing and water-skiing. In his early 20s, he taught the fox-trot at an Arthur Murray Dance School in Tampa. He met his wife, Anne, there in 1952. But the official literature reads, “It all began on a Sunday morning in 1953, when he [Kennedy] was startled awake by a preacher’s stern question on his clock radio: ‘Suppose you were to die today and stand before God, and He were to ask you, “What right do you have to enter into My heaven?”—What would you say?’”[69]

Kennedy explains he was unsure of his answer. He says he went to a bookstore and bought The Greatest Story Ever Told, the 1949 novel by Fulton Oursler that chronicles the life of Christ. Kennedy had little experience with religion. He did not attend church regularly. The book, he says, opened his eyes to God, and he enrolled in seminary. He, unlike some of his charismatic or evangelical counterparts, did real academic work. He studied at Columbia Theological Seminary and the Chicago Graduate School of Theology, and received a PhD from New York University.

He began modestly with a small church, affiliated with the Presbyterian Church in America, which split with the mainline Presbyterian Church over what the schismatic sect branded its liberal theology. It had fewer than 100 members. But Fort Lauderdale proved to be fertile ground for the young preacher, with families moving in droves into sprawling new developments. The population influx helped swell his congregation, although the church literature portrays its growth as the result of successful proselytizing. He slowly built a massive multimedia empire. Kennedy’s weekly broadcasts of The Coral Ridge Hour can be seen on more than 600 television stations and four cable networks and heard on the Armed Forces Network. It is the third most widely syndicated Christian program in the nation, reaching more than 3.5 million people. His radio show, Truths That Transform, is on more than 744 stations, six days a week.[70] He runs a lobbying group in Washington called the Center for Reclaiming America, as well as the Center for Christian Statesmanship, which evangelizes those who work in Congress. He hosts monthly luncheons, for members of Congress and their staffs, which feature conservative speakers. Kennedy believes that “the Christian view of morality and life is the one that should prevail in America.”[71] He is fond of quoting John Jay, the Chief Justice of the first U.S. Supreme Court, who said that “God in His providence has given to us a Christian nation, and it behooves us as Christians to prefer and select Christians to rule over us.” Kennedy argues that this “was the Christian perspective of most of the founders in the beginning of this country.”[72]

“Our job is to reclaim America for Christ, whatever the cost,” Kennedy has said. “As the vice regents of God, we are to exercise godly dominion and influence over our neighborhoods, our schools, our government, our literature and arts, our sports arenas, our entertainment media, our news media, our scientific endeavors—in short, over every aspect and institution of human society.”[73]

Kennedy is opposed to abortion, homosexuality and the study of evolution. He rails against the values of the Enlightenment. He says that theories of evolution were the basis for Nazism, communism and fascism and that “these are the views of men that have resulted in millions and millions of people dying.”[74]

He once told a reporter he’d never had a gay friend, adding, “I believe one was working at the dance studio [where he worked in his 20s], but I couldn’t tell for sure. They are very good at blending in.”[75] Still, despite having no personal interaction with gay people (he says only ex-gays are members at his church), Kennedy formed Worthy Creations Ministry, a branch of Exodus International, in 1998. Worthy Creations preaches that homosexuality is a sickness that can be healed.[76]

The cultural decline in America is the result, he says, of straying from Christian values. In The Gates of Hell Shall Not Prevail: The Attack on Christianity and What You Need to Know to Combat It, a book Kennedy wrote in 1996, he writes that although the United States was once a “Christian nation,” that is no longer the case because today “the hostile barrage from atheists, agnostics and other secular humanists has begun to take a serious toll on that heritage. In recent years, they have built up their forces and even increased their assault upon all our Christian institutions, and they have been enormously successful in taking over the ‘public square.’ Public education, the media, the government, the courts, and even the church in many places, now belong to them.”[77]

The goal is not simply conversion but also eventual recruitment into a political movement to create a Christian nation. But this process is riddled with lies and deception. In the seminar, evangelists are told to pretend at first that they are taking a survey of religious belief to get people to talk and that proselytizers should hide their Bibles so their targets do not know they are being proselytized, and should ignore “No Soliciting” signs, since what they are giving people is “a free gift.”

Kennedy begins to talk about the godless character of liberal churches. He dismisses the members of these churches as “nominal Christians.” Referring to a potential convert whom he calls Scott, Kennedy tells us that since Scott had previously attended Grace Baptist Church, the word “grace” being a popular term within the Christian Right, he was probably a real Christian.

“Suppose we’ve got a lot of liberal churches in this area, and if you just named a church in this area that you go to, probably 90 to 10, I could tell whether or not you’re a Christian,” he says. “And how could I do that? Simply because these liberal churches don’t preach the Gospel. I can tell you a big liberal church in this area where you can stand outside the church, Sunday morning after service, and say, ‘Excuse me, sir, I’m lost, I wonder if you can tell me how to get to heaven.’ And I would venture to say that 98 percent could not tell you, and that’s because the pastor is a liberal and he doesn’t believe in heaven. He doesn’t believe in salvation; he probably doesn’t believe in sin. Certainly doesn’t believe in hell.

“There are millions of people in this country who attend church regularly,” Kennedy tells us, “trying to live a good life and follow God’s teachings, and yet somehow—now underline this next phrase—the church has failed to communicate to them how they can know for sure that they have eternal life and they’re going to heaven.”

At the Evangelism Explosion workshop we must write and rewrite our personal testimonies and practice delivering them in front of our assigned prayer partners, who critique them according to the manual. The testimony is an illustration to the nonbeliever that the converted are absolutely certain of eternal life and have been freed from all human anxieties. The testimony, we are told by the instructor, must state explicitly that the fear of death has been banished forever. We must describe moments in our lives when death appeared certain and we felt at peace and certain of eternal life. The testimony has to stress and repeat this total certitude of our belief in eternal life and freedom from fear. We turn our testimonies in for correction by the instructors to make sure our essays have not deviated from the two approved outlines of conversion, and we rewrite them when they come back with “errors” marked in red.

Freedom from fear, especially the fear of death, is what is being sold. It is a lie, as everyone who works to write and rewrite their testimonies has to know on some level. But few people would have the firmness of mind to admit this in front of other believers. Such an admission would be interpreted as a lack of faith. Yet creation of this internal conflict is also part of the process, for it fosters a dread of being found out, a morbid guilt that we are not as good or as Christian as those around us. The process, from its inception, is not only dishonest but cruel. The dissonance between individual sensibility and the group does not go away with conversion or blind obedience or submission. Belief systems that preach a utopian and unachievable ideal drive this angst underground, forcing the convert to measure him- or herself against an impossible ideal. This system ensures continuous feelings of inadequacy, self-doubt, guilt and self-loathing. That many converts feel deep remorse for past actions, for mistakes and cruelties, for the despair that has gripped their lives, only makes them more insecure.

The proper form for a conversion testimony is detailed for us in the Evangelism Explosion workbook:

Stage 1: What I was before. “Select one life concept such as loneliness, strife, guilt, fear of death, emptiness, rejection, insecurity, depression. Then include it (only one life concept per testimony) in an opening statement, saying, ‘Before I received eternal life, my life was filled with a paralyzing fear of death.’ Next, move from the general statement to a specific illustration out of your own life experiences. Give concrete details to make your illustration come alive.”[78]

Stage 2: How I received eternal life. “At this point, you may want to say something like, ‘Not many months later, a friend shared with me the most wonderful news I’d ever heard—that God had provided eternal life for me and what the conditions were to receive that life. As a result, many things changed in my life.’”[79]

Stage 3: What eternal life has meant to me. “At this point, you may want to share the life concept in reverse. If you selected fear of death as your life concept, you will now want to speak of courage in the face of death. If you chose the concept of guilt, you may now want to speak of forgiveness. The reverse of depression is hope; of emptiness, purpose; of rebellion, obedience, etc. Then you will want to illustrate the reverse life concept with another illustration from your experience. For instance, you may want to say, ‘The fear of death is now gone, and in its place is courage when facing death situations or thoughts about death.’”[80]

“As you prepare your testimony,” Kennedy says, “realize that you are fashioning an evangelical tool, so that you will be a more proficient witness.”

There are two possible types of conversion experiences, the class is told: a childhood conversion and an adult conversion. Those who have experienced childhood conversions are told by the instructors not to state in the testimony that they were converted as a child. It will hurt their credibility with adults.

A childhood conversion testimony starts with the sentence “I’m glad I have eternal life because it’s given me the certainty of knowing where I’m going when I die. And because of this, I have no fear of death.”

The instructor gives us an example of an effective childhood conversion testimony:

“‘Not long ago we were driving north on Interstate 57 during an ice storm that put a sheet of glazed ice on the highway…. We were easily easing along at 25 miles per hour, looking for a place to get off the highway to find shelter for the night, and as we were driving we came alongside a semitrailer truck.’ They’re painting a picture here. ‘The wind was blowing very hard, and the trailer truck became like a sailboat, catching the wind.’ Got this picture? ‘Whoa. The truck was gradually being pushed across the center line, and steadily toward the car. There was nowhere to go. We couldn’t go to the right because we’d run into the truck; we couldn’t go to the left because we would eventually end up in a ditch with the truck on top of us. And as we waited to see the outcome, our tragic injury seemed certain. My whole life came before me, and yet God gave me complete peace in my heart, knowing that even in light of this almost certain tragedy, I knew for certain that if I were to die, I’d go to heaven. What a joy and a difference that made as I faced that danger. And it’s the same today. I know that if I were to die right now, I’d go to be with God in heaven.’

“See?” the instructor goes on. “He captured your attention with a story, and that’s what we’re wanting you to build into your story, because all of you have that. I teach my trainers that they should be able to write a testimony like that. As they’re listening in the introduction, the Lord will capture them with something in their own story with which they can build a testimony.”

The adult conversion testimony, however, is different, although it too focuses on overcoming the fear of death. A stocky instructor recounts it for us:

“‘Before I received eternal life, I had a fear of death and dying.’ Same concept: the thought of death terrified me. ‘I had no idea what lay beyond death’s door for me. When I was in college I was living in a small home alone. One night, a terrible storm arose with wind gusts over 50 miles per hour. Kind of like Wilma down here; she was packing some heavy winds. The wind was so strong that the rain was pouring horizontally across the ground, our little mobile home was rocking on its concrete block foundation, and a bolt of lightning struck a tall oak tree right next to me. I was frightened, and I set up near to the sofa, fearful that I was going to die. Not many months later, a friend shared with me something very wonderful, and I received eternal life. Many things changed in my life. And now that I have eternal life, the fear of death and dying is gone. Not long after I received eternal life, we were driving north on Interstate 57 during an ice storm that put a sheet of glazed ice on the highway.’…Same illustration, only in the life of a person who’s accepted Christ, you know? And what happened before and then what happened after. ‘As we waited to see the outcome, death or tragic injury seemed certain, and my whole life came before me.’”

The class has their workbooks open to the chapter “Sharing Your Testimony.”

“Now here’s not how to give a testimony,” an instructor says. “‘I received blessing when I became a Christian! I received deliverance through the Sinners’ Prayer! I was unsaved and needed to be saved! My conversion happened when I put my faith in Jesus Christ, my savior, who died for the sins of those who trust Him. Praise the Lord! Hallelujah! Amen! I received salvation when I believed the Gospel and was washed in the blood of the Lamb, and I was born again when the Holy Spirit spoke to me at the altar of God. I lost all my friends and I lost my job, but God has looked after me ever since, and praise His name! The trials and tests are unbearable, and I just hope I can hold out until the end, and then maybe I’ll be able to go to heaven!’

“You know,” he says, “really, all of those things are true. All of those things are true of what happens in our lives. ‘The blood of the Lamb,’ that’s a great, great phrase. ‘The Gospel,’ ‘washed in the blood of the Lamb,’ ‘born again when the Holy Spirit spoke to me at the altar of God.’ What’s wrong with those statements? Way too churchy. Now you think how lost people think, and they don’t think that way. They don’t understand that. That is a jargon, and they just don’t have any clue…. We use phrases like that and toss them back and forth, and a lost person thinks we’ve dropped off another planet. So what we want you to do, we want you to go into your prayer groups and we want you to talk them through your story.”

The class of 60 evangelism students, many of them pastors, breaks up into preassigned prayer groups to practice their personal testimonies again.

We are told to always emphasize the positive and to find common interests, experiences, or viewpoints that will allow “your prospect,” as the potential converts are called in our manual, to identify with us. We are told to pepper our talk with uplifting thoughts, such as the comfort we have of going to bed every night and knowing that if we do not wake in the morning we will be in paradise with God. We are instructed to paint detailed pictures of terrible personal tragedies that have been solved by God. As an example, the manual quotes a parent saying that they had “a Christian son killed in Vietnam” but they are at peace with the loss because the parent knows that, since the son was a Christian, he has eternal life, and the parent will be reunited with him in heaven. Our testimonies and conversions must be sprinkled with words like “love,” “peace,” “faithfulness,” “hope,” “purpose,” and “obedience.” But the core of the message, the point we must impart to the potential convert, is that conversion has obliterated our fear of death, not only for ourselves, but the fear we have of losing those we love. This is what is being sold. And we, as the salespeople, are meant to stand as proof that humankind’s deepest fear, the fear of nonbeing, the fear of death, can be banished from life.

Two women from the church walk up in front of the group to role-play the conversion process. One sits in one of two green leather chairs on a raised platform. The other stands and pretends to knock on an imaginary door. The woman in the chair gets up to greet her visitor and welcomes her inside. They sit. The evangelist exchanges a few banalities about how nice the house looks and compliments her hostess on her taste in home furnishings. She “makes a friend.” She then gives her personal testimony. After the testimony, in quick succession, she asks the two questions that have to be asked early of every potential convert. The class has been cautioned that “when two people are present, begin by asking the person who seems least likely to have the correct answer.” The goal is to elicit incorrect answers, answers that allow the evangelist to push home the message that time is running out, sin is accumulating. The gift of eternal life waits to be taken, but without salvation everyone is damned to eternal punishment.

“‘Have you come to the place in your spiritual life where you know for certain that if you were to die today you would go to heaven, or is that something you would say you’re still working on?’” the evangelist says, repeating verbatim the first question.

“I would say I am still working on it,” the other woman answers.

The evangelist launches into the second question.

“Suppose you were to die today and stand before God and He were to say to you, ‘Why should I let you into My heaven?’ What would you say?”

Her mock recruit fumbles, talks about having lived a good life.

The evangelist repeats the answer, because, as the instructor has told the group, “this will help preclude the prospect saying at the end of the Gospel presentation, ‘I’ve always believed in Jesus Christ and trusted Him alone for salvation.’”

This is an important moment, we are told, because the conversion process depends on potential converts saying they are not sure they will be granted eternal life and they have not placed their total trust and faith in Jesus Christ for salvation.

“When you answered that first question, I thought I had some good news for you,” the evangelist says, lifting the sentence verbatim from the manual. “But after hearing your answer to this second question, I know that I have the greatest news you have ever heard.”

The workbook, lying open in front of the onlookers, instructs the evangelist to say this sentence with “great enthusiasm,” since, the workbook adds, this “precludes a hostile reaction.”[81]

Heaven, the potential convert is told after the questions are asked, is “unearned, undeserved, and unmerited. It’s free.” But it can come only through a commitment to Jesus Christ.

And then the discussion in the conversion process turns to sin. The evangelists are told to disabuse converts of the notion that sin is limited to robbery, murder, adultery or other specific acts. We are informed that sin “is anything that doesn’t please God or is a transgression of His law.”[82] Sin, the convert is to be told, is “the fatal malignancy which infects the soul of the entire human race.”[83] The convert is to be told that there is no escape from sin and that even the most righteous commit innumerable sinful acts.

This definition of sin is a subtle and pernicious twist to the traditional Christian concept of sin. As defined by Paul in his letters, sin is a state of being, a split between our conscious will and our real will, between us and something strange and alien within us. Sin is not, as Kennedy claims, a scorecard of rights and wrongs. For Paul, as well as many theologians such as Paul Tillich, there is no action, no matter how moral and good, which is totally pure or moral, totally free from sin. Sin is, rather, a way of describing our estrangement from others and ourselves, from what Tillich calls “the ground of our being.”[84] It is estrangement from the origin and aim of life. When we carry out acts that further this estrangement, when we violate our relationships with others and with ourselves, we sin. But Kennedy paints sin as something quantifiable, as if there were a digital counter that recorded one sin after another and stored the information in some heavenly bank account.

An instructor turns to a church member and illustrates how to speak about sin to a potential convert:

“Suppose I could get to the point where only ten times a day or five times, or let’s say three times a day, maybe one attitude [of] sin—jealousy or anger or bigotry—maybe one thing…slips from my mouth that’s hateful,” he says. “And maybe I miss doing something that I know I should do, like help my neighbor when they’re having a special need. What do you suppose would happen if I got that good? Man, I’d practically be a walking angel! But do you realize that at the end of the year I [would] have a thousand violations against God’s law? And if I live to be, well I’m 59 right now, so I’d have 59,000 violations against God’s law. What would happen if I died right now, or not died right now but stood before a judge right now with 59,000 traffic violations? Think what would happen. He’d say, ‘This is a habitual offender; let’s get him off the road.’ And he’d basically take my license and I wouldn’t be able to drive. Well, imagine standing before the judge of the universe with 60 or 70 thousand violations against God’s law. And that’s at the very best, that’s at the very best! But what we’re really trying to say with this is, you know, not only does a little add up to a lot, but our sin problem is serious. And then you can move right in.”

At that point the pairs form again to practice delivering the message about sin.

After the practice session, the instructor asks: “Why do we put the three-sins-a-day illustration in there?” Several people call out answers.

“A little bit of sin turns into a lot of sin,” he says. “All right. It’s that multiplication again.”

The point the evangelists are instructed to make is that eternal life cannot be achieved through good deeds or even a good life. It is impossible to earn your way into heaven. We must accept that we have sinned, will always commit sins, and ask to be born again so Jesus will take our sins upon Him. Once this is done we can learn to live a new way, a way that, while not totally free of sin, allows us to live a life approved by God, a life in which, with the help of the church, we learn to reject sinful acts. The believer can learn to condemn and avoid sinful acts—acts defined for him or her by church leaders as anything that doesn’t please God or is a transgression of His law. The leaders determine these acts, rousing the believer against what they label as sins, such as abortion or homosexuality. The emphasis, once the conversion is made, is on acts, acts that please or displease God. The believer can delineate these acts only with the aid of church leaders. There is a calculated destruction of individual conscience. All must submit to the will of those godly men who define the communal good. Sin, in short, is anything the leaders do not like.

“Because He is a just judge, He must punish our sins; His law declares that our sins must be punished and that He ‘will by no means clear the guilty.’ There is no doubt about this!” the instructor tells us.

The potential convert is to be told, finally, that Jesus came to earth and died “to pay the penalty for our sins and to purchase a place in heaven for us” and that “to receive eternal life you must transfer your trust from yourself to Jesus Christ alone for eternal life.”[85] The convert is asked whether he or she is willing “to turn from what you have been doing that is not pleasing to Him and follow Him as He reveals His will to you in His Word.”

The evangelist and convert bow their heads and pray, with the convert repeating each line after the evangelist.

“Lord Jesus, I want You to come in and take over my life right now. I am a sinner. I have been trusting in myself and my own good works. But now I place my trust in You. I accept You as my own personal Savior. I believe You died for me. I receive You as Lord and Master of my life. Help me to turn from my sins and to follow You. I accept the free gift of eternal life. I am not worthy of it, but I thank You for it. Amen.”

When this prayer is over the believers are told, “Welcome to the family of God.” They are told to read a chapter a day in the Gospel of John and that they will be visited again in a week to talk about the Bible. They are encouraged to pray because God “promised to hear and answer our prayers.” They are told to find “a good Bible-believing church and become a part of it.” They are told to join a Christian fellowship group. And they are told to witness to their families. With this, the process of deconstructing an individual and building a submissive follower is begun.

The goal is more than building the church; it is building a Christian America. Kennedy talks often about the recruitment of legions of new believers to the political as well as the religious arena. He claims to have brought in millions through Evangelism Explosion.

Kennedy insists that America was founded as a “Christian nation.” The denial of the Christian roots of the nation, he says, is a “great deception [that] has been used to destroy much of the religious freedom and liberty this country has enjoyed since its inception.”[86] And Kennedy’s crusade is well funded and well organized. He is backed with grants, often for millions of dollars, from conservative trusts such as the Orville D. and Ruth A. Merillat Foundation and the Richard and Helen DeVos Foundation, which has over the years given nearly $6 million to his church organizations.[87] The drive to bring in new souls is also an open drive to broaden the political base of the movement and impose a theocracy.

The prayer partners are told to separate into clusters. Those in the room take turns practicing their testimonies in front of their group of three or four, with the other members critiquing the performance. The final version of each participant’s written testimony is to be turned in the next day. My prayer group has three other people, including one of the few African Americans, a thoughtful man who grew up in the church and was converted as a child; a middle-aged man who overcame drug and alcohol abuse as an adult through his conversion; and a grandmother, who said that as a child she had a morbid fear of death that was overcome only when she was saved and assured of eternal life. I pair off with the grandmother, who is chatty and friendly. We read our testimonies, trying to get them exactly right.

A woman from the church tells us how to share the Gospel with a person who suffers from dementia or Alzheimer’s disease. She heads teams that go into 24-hour nursing homes and assisted-living facilities.

“These precious people are basically confined to these types of facilities,” she says. “Now they say by the year 2025, there will be two seniors for every teenager on the face of this earth. And with multiplication and with people living longer, in the United States they say pretty soon there will be about 50 million people that are alive [who] will end up spending their final years in some type of facility. So this is an untapped resource.

“They’re always there,” she tells the group. “And so we get to go back and we get to see Miss Mary, week after week after week, and share with her.

“The other thing that we’re dealing with is different forms of dementia,” she adds. “The most common form is Alzheimer’s. So for most of us—and I mean, I forget things easily—we have to go back and repeat ourselves. But that’s OK. Maybe the first week we’ll just get through an introduction and maybe share our testimony, maybe the two questions. The next week we’ll go back, we’ll pick up with Miss Mary, maybe we’ll have to refresh her memory.

“One thing that we get a lot with the elderly,” she says, “they are so works-oriented because of the culture in which they were raised and having gone through the Depression. So we really have to talk about eternal life as a free gift. That has to be emphasized over and over and over.”

Disruptions, reluctance to accept the message, open hostility and interruptions during the evangelization process are always blamed on Satan, part of what is described to us as “spiritual warfare.”

“The devil is so obvious,” an instructor says. “I mean, he’s so easy to figure out.”

The instructor recounts the story of a house visit. The evangelists were sitting in the living room of a woman who asked the team to convert her unsaved husband. At the moment the evangelists were about to get him to accept Christ, the phone rang.

“It was an old-fashioned message machine where you could hear the person,” the instructor says. Through the loudspeaker on the machine, the group heard a child call out, “Daddy, Daddy, I know you’re in there.”

The group sat and listened to the plea of the child. Finally the father said, “‘Excuse me,’ and he walked over and just clicked it back off,” the instructor tells us. “He came back over, and my trainees at the time were just praying so hard, great drops of blood…that that guy could receive Christ. We got ahead of the distractions.”

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kristalllkula · 6 months ago

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I’ve been yapping about this on other platforms for a few days now but I’m sick to death of rancid takes coming out of izzy canyon about how ed is DESTINED to murder stede when they’re alone in the inn because of ed’s propensity for explosive, uncontrolled and unprovoked violence.

I’m literally begging y’all to shut the fuck up and stop using examples of REAL abuse dynamics in order to justify your sanctimonious moral grandstanding and racism. stop pretending to advocate for victims of abuse while pissing all over the lived experiences of real human beings. this is MY fuckin lived experience!! I was in an abusive relationship for 18 months where I heard all the stories about his crazy exes and I thought I was special. you’re not advocating for people like me who have been harmed in relationships by trotting out pop psychology PSAs about FICTIONAL CHARACTERS IN A TV SHOW.

here’s a true thing about me: when I was in a relationship with my abuser I put my fist through the drywall in my bedroom multiple times because I was being abused and headfucked. before I met him I had only lashed out like that one other time in my early 20s and after I left him I never did it again. I have never laid hands on someone out of anger as an adult (I did once, as a child, hit my much older brother with a wooden meat tenderizer but he also treated me like shit all the time and I got put in time out!!!).

does that mean that I, too, have a propensity for being unstable? am I capable of explosive violent outbursts? is whatever partner I have going forward at risk of intimate partner violence from me? I guess they must be because i punched a wall so many times!

(fwiw it was self-harm more than anything else.)

god I’m so fucking tired of y’all. it’s so fucking obvious to me that y’all refuse to engage with canon objectively because you cannot reckon with your own capacity for abuse/harm. go to fuckin therapy or do some volunteer work jesus fuckin christ. dont fuckin @ me.

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that-weird-skeleton-bastard · 1 year ago

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i put Psychonauts characters into the hunger games simulator

and this is how it went

Bloodbath

Franke Athens sets Chloe Barge on fire with a molotov.

dr caligosto loboto and Vernon Tripe fight for a bag. dr caligosto loboto gives up and retreats. (bro bored him so much he just.gave up)

milla vodello falls into a frozen lake and drowns. (c'mon girl, YOURE BETTER THAN THIS-)

Benny Fideleo, Phoebe Love, and Dogen Boole work together to get as many supplies as possible.

Clem Foote is unable to convince Kitty Bubai to not kill him.

morceau oleader grabs a jar of fishing bait while Elton Fir gets fishing gear. (elton's gonna need some earplugs to not hear the poor fishes's thoughts)

lili zanotto stabs hollis forsythe in the back with a trident.

Nils Lutefisk and Milka Phage work together to drown ford crueller.

Quentin Hedgemouse shoots an arrow at Chops Sweetwind, but misses and kills J.T Hoofburger instead. (oh shit 0_0)

Elka Doom severely injures Crystal Flowers, but puts her out of her misery. (i guess she got what she asked for???)

Mikhail Bulgakov overpowers Maloof Canola, killing him. (ironic)

sasha nein finds a canteen full of water.

bobby zilch cannot handle the circumstances and commits suicide. (good riddance lmaooo)

augustus aquato falls into a pit and dies.

raz aquato grabs a backpack, not realizing it is empty.

Day 1

lili zanotto constructs a shack.

morceau oleader, Nils Lutefisk, and Kitty Bubai track down and kill Quentin Hedgemouse. (poor lil dude stood no chance TwT)

Milka Phage, Chops Sweetwind, Elka Doom, and Franke Athens form a suicide pact, killing themselves. (DAMN)

sasha nein severely injures Mikhail Bulgakov and leaves him to die. (COLD, SASHA. COLD)

Vernon Tripe injures himself. (of course he did)

Benny Fideleo overhears raz aquato and Dogen Boole talking in the distance.

Elton Fir kills Phoebe Love with a sickle.

dr caligosto loboto searches for firewood. (SOMEHOW HE'S BEING THE MOST NORMAL-)

Night 1

Nils Lutefisk tries to sing himself to sleep.

Elton Fir fends Vernon Tripe, dr caligosto loboto, and Benny Fideleo away from his fire. (cal didn't find firewood so he tried to take elton's lol)

Dogen Boole, morceau oleader, and sasha nein get into a fight. sasha nein triumphantly kills them both. (not a surprise)

Kitty Bubai throws a knife into lili zanotto's chest. (NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO-)

raz aquato attempts to start a fire, but is unsuccessful. (HE'S COMPLETELY OBLIVIOUS TT0TT)

Day 2

Vernon Tripe diverts dr caligosto loboto's attention and runs away.

Elton Fir severely injures Kitty Bubai and leaves her to die.

raz aquato is pricked by thorns while picking berries.

Nils Lutefisk sees smoke rising in the distance, but decides not to investigate.

Benny Fideleo shoots a poisonous blow dart into sasha nein's neck, slowly killing him.

Night 2

Elton Fir throws a knife into Vernon Tripe's chest.

raz aquato sets an explosive off, killing dr caligosto loboto, Benny Fideleo, and Nils Lutefisk. (DAMN BOI HE FINALLY FOUND OUT ABOUT LILI AND HE'S PISSED-)

Day 3

raz aquato tries to spear fish with a trident.

Elton Fir camouflages himself in the bushes. (sNeAkY BoI~)

Night 3

Elton Fir sees a fire, but stays hidden. (sNeEeAaKy bOiIi~)

raz aquato attempts to start a fire, but is unsuccessful. (dang he sucks at starting fires other that squirrels-)

Feast

raz aquato bashes Elton Fir's head against a rock several times. (JESUS CHRIST-)

The Games have ended

❤️The winner is raz aquato!❤️

well that was fucking violent :D tell me if you want another one!

#psychonauts #psychonauts raz #psychonauts razputin #hunger games simulator #the hunger games simulator #psychonauts campers

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thequietmanno1 · 7 months ago

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TheLreads, Vigilantes ch 109, Replies Part 1

1) “Last time McBee turned out to be a fucking beast, quite literally in fact, and even so, that was not enough to catch up to Koichi. The Crawler sprints through the depths he’s just tiptoeing around.”- Koichi’s so good at out-speeding Nomura, he has to forgo using pure speed to beat him, and instead try age-old tactical warfare – superior numbers and Gun. 2) “I mean, is he? He turned into a monster not that long ago, I find it hard to see him sticking to the same style with that body type.”- He’s still using a semi-humanoid body shape to fight, which is what AFO’clock was referring to. By discarding that, he gains powers and tactics that start to out-strip what Koichi’s powers can achieve, little by little. 3) “jesus fucking christ McBee

You really didn’t got what your imaginary friend there tried to tell you”- Well, he does try to use them In a different way – and a good thing to, because not only will the extra limbs slow him down now, but they might get in each other’s way when he’s trying to unleash a rapid-fire flurry of attacks. 4) “Oh okay now that one could work instead. Atta boy, you at least is trying something new, rather than just make a fuckton of arms to try to punch him”- In a battle of speedsters, introducing a minefield or environmental hazard is actually a far more devastating tactic than merely trying to out-do the other guy in pure speed. How many times did you get wiped out in Mario cart by the environment over another player?

5) “Okay, now tell me, are you using that to distract him and make him worry about saving people in need, or are you waiting for them to drop on top of him?”- The good thing about flexible tactics is that they can work in multiple way. Nomura could wait for them to fall down on Koichi whilst he distracts him…or he can just force Koichi to jump upwards into their range, either option works and puts pressure on him. 6) “yeah Koichi, that’s nothing new, you’ve seen him blowing up stuff before, it shouldn’t be surprising that he can also yeet it at you”- Nomura’s been a very “hands-on” guy in fighting Koichi so far, it’s not surprising that Mr “No Thoughts, Fight Mode” lacks the imagination to properly react when he starts literally throwing his explosive matter at him instead. 7) “No I don’t think it was. I think that will still come down eventually, he just needs to get you focused enough that you forget about it for a while.”- Come down, or….Koichi goes up instead.

8) “Oh I see, it wasn’t even waiting for it to reach Koichi, it was counting on Koichi getting to them by accident first.

…

So, what if Koichi had dodged back rather than up?”- Nomura would have arced his further shots upwards whilst advancing on him to ensure Koichi would eventually have to Jump Good to get out of the blast radius. Extra limbs means he can keep mobile whilst simultaneously launching an assault on Koichi. 9) “Alright that did rough him up a bit. Nothing serious, but it was something at least. There we go, now we’re making progress, soon we’ll finally be able to draw some blood.”- Whilst individually minimal, the force of each blast does rattle Koichi’s body, and as long as Nomura has enough resources to out-last Koichi’s vitality, eventually, one will get through and land a lethal him 10) “And that’s a whole wave of bombs McBee wasted I’m afraid. Hey, maybe he did got something up his sleeve- scales? Maybe he has a move ready”- The move is “use the backup bombs” – though in fairness, I don’t think he was counting on them being so effective because of their humanoid shape against Koichi’s crippling Guilt issues, he just lucked out on that one. 11) “Oh right, there’s still that thing. I’m still wondering about this limitation, or rather, I’m wondering how long until furuhashi removes it as well.”- Pretty sure that Koichi only needs a little bit more pressure before he realises that he’s able to fire the shots and shields off beyond his breathing limit – he’s on the threshold, but not quite there.

12) “My dude, that’s not a new strategy, that’s the same strategy with a new coat of paint”- Well, these bombs are more the mobile tracking sort- and their humanoid forms actually makes them harder to deal with for Koichi than any of Nomura’s regular attacks. 13) “…

OH WAIT

IS THE OTHER NOMUS? HE’S GONNA USE THEM NOW?

McBEE, THEY DON’T EVEN HAVE A SPEED QUIRK, HOW ARE YOU EXPECTING TO CATCH UP TO kOICHI?”-They don’t have to. With Nomura’s speed pressuring Koichi and his mental control over them, all Nomura’s got to do is position the Bomus wherever he’s herding Koichi towards with his attacks, and they can pincer him between them both.

14) “And there we go, time to chase dat crawly boio”- So, these guys are restrained right beside the duo, and with Nomura losing all rationality and detonating explosives all over the place, there’s a chance they may yet blow up the peanut gallery by accident 15) “Yeah because AfO didn’t had better shit to do rather than make a small army of nomu and give them to another Nomu that wanted to get done with a petty revenge

also, now that I think about it, those Nomus are black, which was supposed to be the strongest, most powerful, and also most difficult to produce Nomu.And they are here as cannon fodder.”- I think these Bomus are black merely to help obscure their features and blend into the shadows better, rather than an indicator of their power level. Their current usage aside, they’re not supposed to be attack drones, but massive and disposable distractions to support Nomura in his “missions”. @thelreads

#my hero academia #bnha #chapter replies #thelreads #bnha vigilantes #vigilantes 109

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the-single-element · 11 months ago

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Good morning. Just a short thought for today.

Hot on the heels of Jesus's first sermon, and first public miracle, we hear today about his ministry continuing its explosive debut. And today's account is, on some level, archetypical of how Jesus's ministry tends to go - all four Gospels, at some level of detail, portray a mix of Jesus teaching, healing, and then moving on as soon as he can.

Why was this the right format for Jesus's all-too-short time on Earth? Given the choice of all the possible plans for the life of a religious teacher at the time, why did he choose for his ministry to follow this one?

Consider this: the aforementioned "first public miracle" was designed to decelerate Jesus's rise to fame. He was trying to keep the man - in that altered state - from blurting out to the whole world who Jesus Christ truly was.

He's trying to slow down the rollercoaster acceleration of his ministry, the "immediately" that Mark uses again and again.

And yet... when he gets out of the synagogue and comes to stay with one of the families of his newly forged inner circle... what does he do?

He performs another miracle. A miraculous healing, one that, despite his efforts, gets talked about so quickly that the whole town is at his door by nightfall. He has to sneak out of town the next morning.

If he's trying to keep a low profile, why do this? Why not stick to his preaching, which is apparently distinctive enough, even without the miracles?

The answer, I think, is that - as we've discussed a few times - you can't really separate the message from the ministry here.

Jesus taught, so that he could rescue as many people as possible before his time ran out.

Jesus healed the sick and drove out unclean spirits, so that he could rescue as many people as possible before his time ran out.

He can't do one and neglect the other. It wouldn't make sense, because it's all one thing, even if it doesn't look like it at first.

And (again, as we've discussed before) having the sort of love that drives you to action - which Jesus showed when he healed and fed the crowds, and when he taught them - is the proof that you're already living in the Kingdom that Jesus was trying to get us to understand.

And this is a proper approach to the praxis of our faith and the building up of the Kingdom - to answer, where and when we can, the unjustness of the logic of the world in which we live today. To answer the cry of Job, who was a righteous man who didn't deserve his afflictions. And to answer it for the sake of answering it - not for money, not for clout, not for some ulterior motive, but by letting our hearts be moved and recognizing (like Paul in his letter to Corinth when he explained why he doesn't take money for his preaching) that this is the role we've been sent to play. That "for this purpose we have come", as Jesus puts it today. And this will sometimes be an answer in words, and sometimes will be an answer of actions.

This is the template of Jesus's ministry because he practiced what he preached, and what he preached was the Kingdom of God.

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from-a-reckless-writer · 3 years ago

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RE: the tags about being tempted to post a half finished fic and guess the ending, well you are a reckless writer for a reason

this is long overdue, so here have a fic.

It has come to the point that nothing fazes her anymore.

A kidnapping? Been there, done that. It means calling Sam Arias to intimidate the board of members into temporary submission.

An explosion at the office? Just a typical Tuesday. It means relocating to the 23rd floor and sharing the desk with two other interns for 2 months tops.

An assassination attempt? It means bracing herself for at least 3 deliveries of donuts and coffee for the two following weeks that Kara Danvers would be protectively hovering over L-Corp, until her boss snaps and shoos her away back to CatCo.

She’s seen it all, endured it all and she sure as hell is prepared for it all. She’s got three different ironclad statements ready to publish for whatever PR disaster will most likely turn up that week. She’s got contacts from the FBI, DEO, CatCo, Daily Planet, Gotham Gazette-- hell she even has Lillian’s personal cell (just in case the Luthor matriarch ever tries anything y’know? ) and yes, even the number of that 'Mexican place at 5th and Spring, you know the one Kara likes, Jess?'

She’s got two pairs of heels, a raincoat and four sets of outfits neatly folded in a duffel bag, at the back of the office, reserved for any emergency that requires a change of clothes.

The point is, she is an independent Asian-American woman who has worked her ass off for the better part of the decade and has long learned to take no shit from anybody.

Not even stupid superpowered Kryptonians.

See, it takes a lot to be her. It takes unlimited patience to put up with a woman like Lena Luthor, not because she’s a terrible person. Oh no, no, the complete opposite, actually. She is so overwhelmingly kind to a fault, and she doesn’t want nor let anybody see it. It’s infuriating to see sometimes. Okay, fine, she sides with the Krytonian on that one matter. But oh, ho, ho, not today. Today, she’s mad.

She’s livid, actually and it’s all Supergirl’s fault. (and Lena Luthor's too.)

Jess has had her fair share of ‘I-Should-Not-Have-Been-Here’ moments, like that one time she forgot to knock and stumbled unto Lex mid-yell with Lena whose eyes were shimmering but was still keeping a rigid posture.

Or that one time when she thought her boss had long left the office, only to be greeted with quiet sobs and an empty bottle of scotch rolling on the floor. Or that time she happened upon Lena, skirt and sleeves on fire with fumes rising from a green solution.

Apparently, her staff from the lab refused to let her in after three days of their CEO holding herself in isolation with the experiment. Lena had gotten the great idea of smuggling the chemicals to her office instead. Luthors are nothing but determined. Jess still remembers the adrenaline rush of holding a fire extinguisher—as if she were the chosen 5th grader for a school fire drill—and shoving her boss out of the way.

Like she said, nothing fazes her anymore she’s seen it all, except maybe, this one. Yep, definitely this one. This one just made a hot ball of fury unfurl at her very core. This one might just take the cake.

Jess was just going about her day, returned from a hearty lunch and feeling reinvigorated from that dose of sunlight and fresh air. It was a quiet day today, she noticed, which should’ve been a foretelling.

Nothing really is ever quiet. Well, when it comes to L-Corp, at least.

She’s been sitting on her desk for about a good fifteen minutes and finished with screening a few papers from their new contractors, when it occurs to her that the latest blueprints from R&D are still on her desk instead of already being reviewed by her boss.

She grabs the drawing tube and quickly makes for her boss’s private office. They’ve spent enough time with each other that Jess could just come and go as she pleases, instead of having to knock each time. Saves both of their time, that way.

Although, usually, she buzzes through the intercom first to double check, but it was 1:20 P.M and she knows Lena doesn’t have anything scheduled after lunch. So, she pushes the door, confidently strolls in and promptly stops in her tracks.

Jess stops breathing for a moment, blinks once, twice, stares at the scene before her.

Lena Luthor sat atop her work desk; blouse open, eyes closed, cheeks flushed, neck currently being ravaged by Supergirl with legs wrapped around the waist.

She probably should’ve just turned and left while they haven’t seen her yet. That would’ve been the smart decision, right? Yes. Yes, it was so very clearly The Right Decision.

Of course, she doubts she could look Lena in the eye for the next few weeks after that, but at least she wouldn’t know that Jess walked in on them during an er- make-out session? Office tryst? Oh God, she shudders internally. It sounds even worse.

Incident? Yep. Yeah. She’s sticking with incident. Indecent incident sounds more apt really.

She should’ve left. Would have left, if her eyes didn’t just land on the desk—well, more like Miss Luthor’s as- backside—and felt the stirrings of rage make itself known. Because there, underneath Lena’s ass (Backside!! Jess, that’s your boss!) is the squished—probably crumpled—pages of a contract.

A contract they’ve spent 5 months securing!!

Jess decides to do what everyone else would have done in a situation such as this; she clears her throat. Loudly.

Classic move.

Supergirl’s head immediately shoots up and Lena’s eyes snap open.

“Jess!” Supergirl squeaks and she sees the exact moment the realization hits Lena. Her eyes widening at her girlfriend’s exclamation, whips her head to the side, spots Jess, hands scrambling to a panic to close all the buttons of her blouse.

She hears Lena hiss, “Fuck, shit. Oh my God. Shit. How did she even- You have superhearing!!!” as she pushes Supergirl—who lets herself be pushed, stunned by the intrusion, face redder than a tomato.

Lena gets off the desk, fixes herself all the while to futile results. Her hair is tugged down from her usual ponytail, her neck and chest is marked, her lips swollen.

Supergirl's hands twitch at the sides and Jess sees her gulp as blue eyes frantically dart to Lena and her, and then Lena, and then back to her.

Lena finally turns around after those few awkward beats.

"Jess," she begins, clearly trying hard to put on her business bitch persona, but come on, there's a hickey under her jaw for fuck's sake.

"It's not what you-"

Jess doesn’t let her finish, she stomps her way across the office and forcefully puts the drawing tube on the desk. It makes a hollow thump.

“Jess I-”

“Supergirl, do you know how long it takes to finalize a business proposal, pitch it to the board, persuade the board and finally have a contract drawn?”

Supergirl gulps again. Lena’s eyes are wild next to her, she doesn’t like not knowing what the next best move is, Jess knows this all too well.

“Uhhh- no?”

Jesus Christ, you’d think after years of shadowing Cat Grant, she'd had at least learned a thing or two. Then again, if somebody is full on glaring at her after getting caught red-handed, Jess doubts she could answer coherently too.

“That’s right,” Jess says, “You don’t.”

“Jess,” Lena repeats pointedly. She knows that tone. It’s a warning.

“Ms. Luthor.”

A period not a question mark. It’s a challenge.

"I've spent all my evenings working late on that, do you know how many dates I've had to cancel? Just so I can secure a meeting with Qatar and simultaneously sync it with Beijing's time? My boyfriend hasn't seen me in two weeks!” Jess bursts out.

“Two weeks, Supergirl!” She gets close enough to jab a finger to the Girl of Steel’s chest. A feat she will gladly tell all her coworkers later when she’s calmed down enough.

“Not to mention, the 10 other people who worked their ass off trying to make sure that Miss Luthor's presentation is airtight, bulletproof and waterproof!” Lena has the decency to look a little guilty at this point, nothing big though, just a slight tug at her lips, but it was enough for Jess.

“IT TOOK ME 3 FUCKING MINUTES TO PRINT THAT GODDAMN CONTRACT WHICH MIGHT NOT SOUND LONG—” Jess raises a finger in emphasis, “BUT BELIEVE ME WORKING IN L-CORP? A 3 MINUTE DIFFERENCE CAN MEAN AN ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT OR PSYCHOPATH PRESS!”

Supegirl of all people should already know this! For fuck’s sake!

Jess’s chest is heaving. She takes a deep breath, kneads her knuckles to her eyelids, “So, please if you're gonna have sex in the office, please, pleaseeeee clear the desk first. And at least, lock the door.”

She stares them both down, till Lena gives her a solemn nod; cheeks and ears still red. Supergirl squeaks out an, “U-understood, Ma’am.”

“Good. Glad we’ve come to an agreement.” Jess gives them one final nod before finally fulfilling what she came in here to do, “Miss Luthor,” She turns to Lena, “here are the R&D blueprints. Good day, to you Supergirl. I'll be going now. "

When she finally goes home, tells her boyfriend, and wonders aloud if she’ll still have a job the next morning, he tells her she’s such a badass.

And well, Jess can’t disagree with that.

*****

"Did I just- Did I just get yelled at by your secretary?? D-did she just chew us out?"

"She did, and she deserves a raise."

#i call this fic how many commas can i use in one sentence?#i think this is by far the most crack thing ive written #poor jess #in this house we worship and praise jess the secretary and her thrity second cameo in that ONE scene #if u see a typo no u didnt #the reckless writer writes #a supercorp ficlet of sorts

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celestialholz · 3 years ago

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Celestial Live-Reacts: STP 2.2, 'Penance'

Well I've already seen at least twenty very interesting gifs of this episode, let's fucking goooo

The red grid's everywhere?

"How 'Yesterday's Enterprise' of you." This man's been on the screen for three seconds and he's already breaking the fourth wall, I fucking adore him 😍

"You're the very board upon which this game is played." Q into roleplaying confirmed? Entities You Don't Want As Your DM include 😂

"Old, yes! How unfair time is... so many wrinkles. So many disappointments." Ah well, good to see that three decades hasn't harmed de Lancie's ability to sell the absolute shit out of a scene, my god. The bitterness is almost tangible 😭

That almost face-touch was him stopping himself because he doesn't want to actually confirm his own words and touch the wrinkles, I'm fucking done

"The chase is cut, Picard; the chase is bleeding, the chase is dying in your arms, and I am but a suture in the wound." Jesus H. Christ John, your acting sir? Honestly, you don't just come along and be a perfect foil to the brilliance that is Patrick Stewart, and this man's always managed it effortlessly ❤❤

This whole scene is so gay, I adore it to tiny pieces 😍😍

Today on 'Celestial Hazards a Guess': this situation is putting Q under considerable mental strain to amend because it's so widespread. I don't actually think it's a physical health issue? I'm going with PTSD. 🤔

... He didn't want to tell him that did he, oh dear

He's saving his fucking life and entire timeline because he loves him and Picard still won't look twice at him, I am dead my dudes 😣😭

We're in an AU fanfic boys, get hype

"You see, I thought to myself, I thought - I really must see Jean-Luc." This whole exchange is ice-cold, but this? Yeah no, this is the only honest thing here

"So I simply sought out the nearest explosion." 😂😂 Valid

"Oh I could tell you, but you're far too clever to listen." Very Tapestry...

"We're never too old to be students of our own behaviour, Jean-Luc..."

... And then he hits him? Actually fucking PHYSICALLY?! Brooo, there is DEFINITELY something wrong with this entity's psyche, as if he would ever 👀

"And I've had enough of your obstinance, your stubbornness, your insistence in changing in all ways but the one that matters!" You, erm... way to show a guy your heart there, good lords above ❤

'Penance'... a punishment laid upon oneself for their transgressions. This man has not done his homework and Mr Q is angry 😶

I'm kinda loving these clicks where nothing much seems to happen until it does - I'd say it was lazy, but I'm thinking it's indicative of the mental state now. No flashiness, all substance - his usual opposite 🤔

Mirrorverse? Are we really mirrorversing right now

"Through a mirror, darkly - and here, the man who holds the glass is darker still." I get that this is Picard's horror story, but the 'man who holds the glass' here is Q in showing him all this, and I love that dichotomy

... That's Gul Dukat? Oh shi -

Martok and Sarek? Mirror!Picard is pantomime levels of evil, damn sir

A girl needs to write a Qcard mirror fic, clearly

"This is the only life you understand"????? What

"But don't worry - I won't let you do this alone." My heart. 😍😍

"Do you wish for me to respond to the designation 'Q', sir?" Look what your nonsense has wrought Picard 😒

This really do be Tapestry 2 my dudes, fuck

This is still a James Bond intro sequence

The roses, though, murder me personally - rose-tinting, Tapestry roses, symbol of general love, and courage...

... Hang on, all of that was just the cold open? Fucking damn son, this series goes hard lmao

Picard is space Hitler now. Okey-doke 🙃

"Colombian roast, black." "... This really is the circle that Dante overlooked." 😂😂

... I mean this timeline's garbage, buuuut Picard also doesn't suddenly have a random romantic interest from nowhere, so...

'Eradication Day'. Oh fuck

Oh hello Seven, you beautiful lady you 😍😍

Is she married?

Where do I get me an electronic candle that realistic

If they had to give Seven a husband, it should have been Robert Beltrane for full and complete levels of sitcom nonsense

General Sisko, god fucking help us all 👀

Love this bloody friendship between Rios and Seven, it's so wholesome ❤

What did you do to my son's girlfriend

The matriarchal love 😍😍

"I want this one kept alive - for questioning!" "I don't know anything!" 😂 Precious child, bless him ❤

Even in the mirrorverse, Agnes is operating on -100% and I feel that spiritually

Spot-73 is an icon. He's giving me absolutely nothing and I love him 😍

... Are they about to finish exterminating the Borg? Oh, very good - I await Picard's split opinion with great interest 👀

Even the Queen thinks Agnes is too quirky, damn 🤣

'The Borg Queen has a kind of trans-temporal awareness' - ahhhhhh, intriguing

That is a spectacular villain HQ

These little interlinks to how they reconnect are wondrous

"Say what now?" Oh Raffi ❤

Ohhh, so she has 'commitment issues'? Well, that explains something in this show, for once

... It's not an AU?

'Mr Alphabet' 😂😂

"This morning, even for Q, he seemed... unstable. Not quite sane." Is that concern I detect Jean-Luc, good lord - a writer might think you care... 👁👄👁

Elnor completely missing sarcasm gives me life

"A friend, a foe, and now..." Now what exactly

Spirk mention, hurrah!

Jeri is on fire here, this Queen chemistry's glorious

Annika 'Seven Shots'? Up your game sweetie, you'd never have survived my university 😂

Noooo Elnor 😣

So many relationship issues in this show, so little build-up

YES ELNOR 😘

"Time travel is not a way to make me feel better, about anything" - me during 95% of Trek time travel storylines

I'm with Rios here, fuck connecting that to my ship

NOOO ELNOR 😭😭

"Killed whilst rescuing a Borg." I, Borg Picard would never

... Wow, guys.

Celestial Rating: 8/10.

Whatever the fuck the space husband's up to, it's hugely compelling - and this new, dystopian alternative future's beautifully realised. Even Agnes didn't irritate me this week. Very promising.

#star trek picard spoilers #star trek picard 2.2 #jean-luc picard #q of the continuum #cristobal rios #agnes jurati #raffi musiker #seven of nine #colour me impressed... and fascinated #celestial live-reacts #celestial reviews #qcard

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whythinktoomuch · 4 years ago

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ii. apocalypse now & again

(pt. i)

Kara woke up and realized that she was going to die.

Too many of the drones had survived the explosions and were still closing in on her. What little strength she had left after quite literally digging her own grave was presently and painstakingly strained just from her efforts to climb onto her knees. And on top of all that—of everything that possibly could have gone wrong for her in this moment—her helmet was cracked.

The abstract red numbers warning Kara of the kryptonite levels in the area seemed redundant now, what with that unmistakable chill already flooding her bloodstream.

“… Alex,” Kara gasped out, barely able to hear herself over the ringing in her ears. “Hey, Alex… Are you there?”

Her words were met with not one whisper or even a crackle of static, and for once, Kara was inconsolably disappointed to hear no one yelling back at her. With her teeth gritted, she shoved herself off the ground as hard as she could, drifting barely a foot into the air before the first drone crashed into the back of her head.

Kara toppled back onto the ground, knees skidding across the rubble in a shower of hot sparks. The impact had her head reeling, her mouth filling with a taste that she was now idly recognizing as blood. But there was no time to consider any of that as the drone doubled back. Kara scrambled out of the way, narrowly avoiding another collision, only to be struck by a second drone smashing right against her ear.

Out of breath but swearing, Kara whirled around and snagged the fast approaching drone into a bear hug, squeezing and squeezing until it crunched in her arms with a frantic whir. Then with a burst of heat vision, she shattered the other as it came straight for her face.

Kara used her heat vision to pick off several more drones from a distance, but of course, more and more just showed up to take their place, never wavering, never slowing… and eventually, Kara just had to laugh. Because her exhaustion was catching up to her. And Alex was hundreds of miles away. And to get out of here alive, Kara would have to somehow defeat the entire horde of drones, while all they had to do was wreck her suit a little more.

Though admittedly, it’d be overkill at this point, given the crack now spiderwebbing across the glass visor of Kara’s helmet.

Either way, it was over.

So, Kara laughed, grabbed at her chest in a reflexive gesture only to meet the unforgiving metal of her suit, then dropped to her knees. “Alex!” she shouted herself hoarse, because maybe if said loudly enough, the words would still be lingering in the air by the time her sister arrived. “Alex, I’m sorry, okay? You were right, and I’m sorry!”

Then she just waited—chest heaving, eyes narrowed but never blinking despite the heat pricking at the corners—because she definitely had to see this through to the bitter fucking end. That much, she owed everyone, including herself.

Except the end didn’t come.

Not this time anyway.

No, instead came a silver sphere, emerging seemingly out of thin air to hover right before Kara’s face. It flashed a blinding white just once, and everything fell absolutely silent and still. Kara’s suit powered down completely, the drones collectively dropped from the air like marionettes with cut strings, and all the lights in the immediate vicinity blinked out.

Laughter welling up all over again, Kara could only collapse onto her side in something akin to sheer relief.

The first person to occur to her, of course, was Alex, who had already saved her ass from similar scrapes on many occasions. But that couldn’t be it. Alex was too far away. It’s why Kara had to take on this mission on her own in the first place.

Then she considered maybe Winn or James, which made even less sense, given how the deceased hardly ever came back to do things like save people’s lives. Not even hers. Not even in the most dire of situations. That’s, unfortunately, just not how life worked these days.

Then she considered Alex again because the kryptonite was clearly bleeding into her brain now, and it was getting rather difficult to remember why it couldn’t have been Alex who’d just saved her. Maybe Kara did shout loud enough after all…

But then, a set of footfalls drew near, metal scraping against metal at a steady pace until a heavy boot struck Kara firmly in the chest, flipping her onto her back where she settled with a grunt.

“So glad I got to you first,” came a self-assured drawl, and Kara promptly found herself face to face with a handheld cannon of sorts. “Would be a pity to come all this way and not get to kill you myself.”

And… Kara’s jaw just dropped.

Not because of the words, nor the intentions behind them—though perhaps they both merited some attention as well—but that voice.

Kara gaped up at her supposed knight in shining, lead-lined armor because her voice—that low, husky tone paired with that very specific lilting cadence—was making her reconsider some very fundamental things about how the world might work.

Namely, that people wouldn’t come back from the dead just to save her life.

Mind still reeling away, Kara tried to sit up, only to be slammed back into the ground, hard.

“Down, girl,” Lena said, grinding her boot into Kara’s chest, the weight of her entire body behind the gesture. But that was fine.

It was fine because Kara could still draw some breath into her lungs, could still use some of that breath to talk, and she could certainly still say some things that she hadn’t uttered aloud in many a year. Like her late wife’s name, for instance.

The cannon in Kara’s face wavered, but didn’t lower. “Shut up,” Lena hissed down at her. “Don’t talk. Don’t even think.”

“So… it is you…” Kara said, and she gently wrapped her fingers around Lena’s ankle—the only part of her that she could still reach from her position—and just cried.

With a startled gasp, Lena stumbled away, wrenching herself out of Kara’s grip. “What the fuck…? What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Kara sobbed out, trying not to choke on her own tears and snot and the slight taste of blood still lingering on her tongue. She suddenly, irrationally, wished that she could just take off her clunky suit. Just to eliminate some of that distance between her and Lena. Just so she could touch the chain hanging around her neck without any hindrance. “Just… just wanted to say, hi.”

Lena kept her distance, studying Kara in a stony silence, and Kara started to see things that she should probably would have noticed sooner if her body weren’t actively shutting down on her. Like the green glow of Lena’s weapon and the kryptonite cartridges strapped to her belt. Or that she was clearly wearing a lexo-suit. Or how the swirly edges of her own vision were starting to darken, and how the chill of kryptonite was currently all she could feel.

“Hey,” Kara called out, sniffling only slightly now. “Am I dreaming?”

“… No.”

Kara nodded thoughtfully to herself. “Okay, cool, cool… So, I think I might be dying then.”

“Yeah,” Lena said, after a brief pause. “Probably.”

“Cool.” Kara tried to flash a thumbs up, but no part of her body wanted to cooperate anymore. Her exhaustion had eaten up all her drive. “Hey, can you tell Alex something for me?”

Lena sighed, but she finally stepped closer, practically in reach. “Okay, sure.”

Kara fumbled for some words and the correct order that one might put them in, but then Lena took off her helmet, and nothing else mattered anymore. Because Kara was perfectly content to just watch that ripple of dark hair, streaked with a light gray that was just… nice to look at.

She never got to see her Lena’s hair do that.

Kara’s shoulder was being shaken so violently that she had no choice but to open her eyes and see Alex’s worry-creased face peering down at her.

“Dumbass…” Alex grumbled, releasing Kara’s shoulder with a dirty scowl. “That’s the last time I let you go anywhere without me.”

“Whatever you say, director.” Kara laughed, but it hurt. She then tried to do a salute, but her everything was still too weak to move apparently. But at least she was still alive.

… Wait.

Kara repeatedly tried to sit up on her bed, and Alex repeatedly shoved her right back down until she gave up. But still, she had to check, had to know that it wasn’t all just a dream.

“Where’s Lena?” she demanded, and the look that Alex gave her in response was so deeply pained that Kara almost felt pathetic for asking.

“… Kara.”

“No, I saw her, Alex,” Kara said, shaking her head, then immediately stopping when her entire body somehow got dizzy from it. “Shit. Ow, ow… But wait, no—But seriously, I saw her, okay?”

“I’m not surprised that you did. You almost died, Kara. Actually, I’m pretty sure that you were dead for a few minutes back there. Again, I say, you fucking dumbass.”

“But I didn’t die. Because she saved me,” Kara insisted. “No, seriously! She took out all the drones with some sort of EMP device, and, and… we talked! And she had gray hair, and I think maybe laugh lines? And yeah, I almost died because my helmet got cracked and stuff. But now, I’m here and I’m fine, so… everything’s fine, right?”

Alex frowned, then somehow settled on the least important part of Kara’s briefing, “You cracked your helmet?”

“Ugh, yeah. The glass visor part. When I fell,” Kara said, waving her hand dismissively. “So sorry about that, by the way.”

“Suit looked fine when we got to you,” Alex said with a shrug, before irritably exclaiming, “Jesus christ, Kara, enough! I’ll just have a guy get the helmet for you, okay? So, just stop trying to get up already.”

Huffing, Kara fell back onto her bed with her arms folded and waited. But when someone eventually showed up with her helmet in tow, she was surprised to see that it was somewhat worse for the wear but perfectly intact. Even up close, with the helmet out the tech’s hands and in her own, Kara couldn’t detect even the slightest blemish in the glass.

Pouting ever so slightly, Kara shoved the helmet back into the tech’s arms.

“… Satisfied?” Alex asked, rolling her eyes when Kara just shrugged one shoulder. “Great. Listen… You just need to get some rest, okay? Once you’re back to full strength, we can work through your… you know, memories together. And hopefully, it’ll make more sense by then. Sound good?”

Kara just nodded, suddenly all too willing to be left to her own devices in the relative quiet and darkness. She accepted a gentle shoulder squeeze and the promise of another session with the sun lamps within the hour, and just curled up under the sheets.

It’s not like she hadn’t conjured up images of Lena before. Kara had been close to death enough times that it was only inevitable that she’d fall back onto memories of her dead wife at some point or another. But this was different. Whenever her brain was just playing tricks on her, Lena appeared to her the way Kara remembered her: warm and loving, bright green eyes, long dark hair smelling of lavender, and alive and young.

Never before had Kara encountered an appropriately aged version of Lena, with creases gathered around her eyes and forehead, hair gloriously faded into the most lovely blend of light grays and white amongst all that black… The Lena that could have been if only she had lived out all these past years alongside Kara.

And she was never in a lexo-suit, of all things. Lena was always wearing one of her classic pencil skirts or Kara’s NCU sweatshirt, or something. Oh, and of course, her wedding band.

Instinctively, the same way she always did when it occurred to her, Kara reached for the chain around her neck, seeking out the familiar weight of the rings that hung from there… only to jolt upright with a gasp that dried up her entire throat.

She ripped the necklace off her head, almost snapping the chain, which in and of itself was telling. Because her chain had been forged out of an extraterrestrial metal amalgamation that not even the Girl of Steel would have been able to break. The one now clutched in her hand, however, was just plain white gold.

Heart pounding in her ears, Kara stared down at an engagement ring fitted with a modest cut of diamond, somehow occupying the very spot where two simple wedding bands—hers and her Lena’s—should have been. Then something drove her to check for an inscription, and sure enough, engraved on the inside of the ring was a series of kryptonian characters, denoting a term of endearment that Kara had never used, but apparently could have in another world altogether: my dearest heart.

#2222 words because that's how i get my kicks n' giggles hue hue hue hue #will there be a part three? who knows #better question is Should there be a part three amirite?#my words.

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sideofmango · 4 years ago

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Okay, I know I already sent you another request, but this one...I just had to drop this one on ya. Can I request Bakugo, Hawks, Shinsou, and Dabi’s reaction to seeing their black s/o getting hit on in the most cringiest, fetishizing way while they’re standing next to them? Since the s/o is dating them, they know the things that should and shouldn’t be said to a black person, but the weirdo goes to them and says things along the lines of:

“Do you taste as chocolatey as you look?”

“Lemme conquer you in the bedroom”

“Twerk on me like Megan Thee Stallion”

And “Our kids are going to be great athletes”

Like the she is just stunned into mortified silence since she couldn’t process the audacity for someone to say something so disgusting. She’ll let her man’s handle it cuz the last thing she needs is to be charged with homicide.

(Trust me, writing those lines hurt me but not as much as it hurt when I was told these things 🤢)

“Why Don’t You Just Do Us All a Favor and Shut Up?”

You don’t understand how many times a trashy guy has said something like this to me thinking I would find it cute or attractive. So gross! As a society we need to do better and stop sexualizing and fetishizing black women and girls.

also the gif has nothing to do with this, I just thought it was cute.

Anyways...starts below the cut!

Warnings: swearing, fetishization of black women and girls, sleazy trashy guys, protective boyfriends, sexual implications

“Katsu, can we get ramen at that new place that just opened up the street?” (y/n) questioned, her (eye color) eyes wide with anticipation.

“Ok.” The usually explosive blonde agreed, snaking his larger hand into her slightly smaller one. (y/n) had finished training earlier and since it was a light day, Bakugou had suggested they walk around the downtown area. “It’s over this way, right?” (y/n) nodded simply, looking around at the different shops they passed on their way to the new ramen restaurant.

Ever since Katsuki had begun dating the black girl, he had calmed down significantly, though only around her...with everyone else he was just as explosive as he always was. The black girl was fiercely protective over her friends and especially Katsuki, though he didn’t really need it; probably a part of her tiger quirk, though it came off as more endearing than annoying.

“What are you gonna order?” She wondered, making small conversation as they waited to cross the street.

“What I always order.” He answered simply.

“The spiciest thing on the menu.” (y/n) and Katsuki said at the same time, (y/n) rolling her eyes with a smile.

“You won’t have any taste buds left if you burn them all off.” She teased as Katsuki rolled his crimson eyes at her, holding her close to him as they continued to wait.

A whistle caught the couple’s attention, Bakugou’s eyes narrowing as they fell on two boys standing at a shop located behind where they were standing. The two boys looked the same age if not a little older than (y/n) and Katsuki, the taller one had lime green hair and matching lime colored eyes. His pale face had a smirk plastered on it. The slightly shorter of the two had pink hair the color of bubble gum, lavender eyes focusing on the black girl, a smirk on his face also.

Despite (y/n) usually being confident, there was something highly uncomfortable about the way they were eyeing her that made her uneasy.

“Hey Riku, you think she’d go for someone like me? You know I have a thing for exotics.” (y/n) turned around, deciding to ignore them, they weren’t worth the time. She gripped Bakugou’s hand, turning him around, trying to think of something to say to distract them both from the annoying boys.

The ash blonde sent her a bewildered look, confused as to why she wasn’t going to say something to them. “They aren’t worth it. They’re extras, right?” She joked, flashing a half smile at her boyfriend.

Bakugou tched, but decided not to say anything since (y/n) didn’t seem to want him to.

“You know why exotics are the best?” The lime green haired boy questioned, loud enough to make sure Bakugou and (y/n) had heard it.

“Why Riku?” The bubble gum haired boy said, a creepy glint in his eyes.

“Because of that fat ass.” He snickered. “You think she’d let me get a taste of that chocolate?”

(Jesus Christ, I cringed writing that. 🤢)

Bakugou’s head whipped around to glare at the two boys, (y/n) turning around to look at them, holding herself back, but too shocked by what she had heard to catch Bakugou before he did something that would attract the attention of police.

“You two fucking clowns better shut the fuck up before you get a taste of my foot shoved so far up your asses it’ll be coming out of your fat fucking mouths.” Bakugou growled, punching them each in the face, making sure to heat up his hand so that it would definitely leave a mark.

(y/n) looked around to see a few people watching, as she let Bakugou beat up the boys before she finally decided it was enough. She placed a hand on his shoulder, as he looked up, the feral look in his crimson orbs dissipating to a gentle one.

“I just wanna go. Can we please, before the police get here?” She questioned as he punched them and kicked them a few more times before standing up and nodding.

“You won’t be fucking needing these either.” Bakugou said, going through their wallets, taking the money out before snapping the cards in half and tossing them on the street next to the boys who remained on the ground. “Let’s go.” He held out his hand, as she grabbed it and they walked across the street. “I hate these fucking extras.” He grumbled as they got to the ramen restaurant. Bakugou Katsuki had every intention of using the money he had just taken to pay for everything, it was the least they could do.

The woman was on her way to her apartment, getting off early from her patrol because not only was it a Friday, but the day after was her 23rd birthday and her pro-hero boyfriend seemed to have planned something, despite her telling him he didn’t have to.

Her phone rang, taking (y/n) out of her thoughts as she slid the answer button seeing her boyfriend’s picture pop up. “Hey Kei.” She answered happily, stopping at the corner, waiting to cross the street.

“Hey, Kid.” Came his response, causing the black woman to smile. “You got off early right? You wanna get (your favorite food/ drink)?”

“Really?!” (y/n) grew excited, her voice raising an octave as a laugh bubbled from her full lips. The couple was usually very busy and that meant they didn’t have a lot of time to just go to restaurants and walk around the downtown area, but since they had managed to get the afternoon and weekend off, Hawks was going to take full advantage of it.

“Yeah.” He laughed back. “I’ll meet you there?”

“Ok! Love you.” She told him.

“Love you too, Kid.” He said back before hanging up. (y/n) crossed the street, walking towards their favorite restaurant, her hero costume folded in the black backpack she wore on her back. She too was a pro-hero, though she wasn’t as popular as her boyfriend, she had recently gone pro in Japan, already a famous pro in her native country. She slid her phone into one of the pockets of her black jeans, her simple white t-shirt half tucked into her pants.

She increased her stride, her smile widening as she saw the crimson wings of her boyfriend up ahead. He turned around his own smile growing as she got closer. “How was patrol?” She asked him as he hugged her, the pair pulling away and intertwining hands.

“It was fine...kinda boring.” Hawks answered as they walked inside the establishment.

“Woah.” The cashier said softly, after ringing up your orders. Hawks paid, even though she protested though he responded by saying it was her birthday weekend and she wasn’t allowed to pay. The cashier, who seemed a little older than the two of the pros, named Ukyo, handed her her drink practically ignoring Hawks.

Keigo frowned, growing slightly annoyed, though he wouldn’t really peg himself as the jealous type, Ukyo just made everything very uncomfortable and Hawks was growing irritated that (y/n) was uneasy. It was the protective nature in him, which he would admit could get a little intense at times.

“Um, thanks.” (y/n) replied with a slightly awkward laugh before looking at Hawks to say she was ready to go. They had planned to walk through the park nearby. As they were stepping away, Ukyo called out.

“Hey wait, pretty girl!” He called out, catching the dark skinned woman off guard. “You forgot something.” She turned, raising an eyebrow before going back towards where Ukyo stood behind the counter. He held out a napkin to her, his messy chicken scratch handwriting on the piece of paper. “It’s my number. You should call me sometime, I’d love to get to know you more.”

“I already have a great boyfriend.” (y/n) replied, giving him a smile as he still pushed the napkin to her, managing to stuff it into her bag. At this, Hawks stepped closer, still remaining silent, wanting to let her handle it because he didn’t want to come off as overbearing or suffocating. “Really, I’m not interested. I love my boyfriend.”

“Who? Him? But our kids would be so cute! They’d be great athletes, you know?” He smiled widely at her, grabbing onto her wrist to stop her from leaving. Hawks had heard enough, at (y/n)’s silence and the way her eyes seemed to bore into his own, he dislodged some feathers, sending them at the cashier, stopping them a few centimeters away from him.

“Let her go, before you make me really mad.” Hawks said, glaring at the male, sharpening the feathers into blade-like devices, his golden eyes shining with anger.

“Chill out, Man! She’s hot! She was practically asking for it!” Ukyo put his hands up, Hawks’ eyes narrowing as a growl almost sounded from deep in his chest.

“You’re lucky my girlfriend’s here.” Hawks chuckled darkly, as (y/n) placed her hand in his own. “I would’ve cut your disrespectful racist ass.” Hawks walked away with (y/n), sending the feathers at the wall behind the cashier, just narrowly missing him.

Hawks smirked as he stepped outside, hearing the high pitched scream that came out of Ukyo at the feathers going near him, fearing he was about to be sent to the hospital. Hawks glared at him through the shop window, his wings flapping behind him as if he was about to send more feathers causing Ukyo to scream again, though this time a wet spot began to grow in his khaki colored pants.

Hawks’ eyes lit up as a loud laugh fell from his mouth causing (y/n) to laugh lightly. “Fucking bitch.” Hawks muttered as they walked towards the park. “I should’ve sent the feathers into him.”

“No, you did enough Kei.” (y/n) giggled, Hawks growing happy that he had gotten her to laugh after that rude cashier incident.

Every week after that Hawks would purposely walk past the shop, launching a feather through the window and into the wall, an adult sized diaper held to the wall by the sharp crimson feather, a note usually attached saying:

‘just thought you might need to start wearing these.

I hate you,

Hawks.

Ps: Show this to anyone, tell anyone about this, or do something like that to another person again and I’ll send the next feather so far up your ass, you’ll need surgery to remove it. xoxo’

(i decided to insert another character, like Mineta but 100x worse and not jokingly either. His name is Shintani Narisuke.)

(y/n) was sitting in the common room where everyone from the general studies class usually hung out during their down time. Although, surprisingly it was empty except for the purple haired Shinsou and his lavender haired girlfriend, (y/n). It honestly was just a coincidence that the pair both had purple hair, though the girls from their class thought it was the cutest. (y/n) placed her head on one of Shinsou’s shoulders as they watched a random movie on his laptop, pushing her goddess braids so that she could be more comfortable.

The common room was empty only because one of (y/n)’s friends and classmates had told everyone that they couldn’t go into the common room because Shinsou and (y/n) were on a date. Everyone obeyed her...she was kind of scary when she was determined about something.

“How can he just get away with that?” (y/n) questioned, placing some popcorn into her mouth, pausing to place some in Shinsou mouth as they continued to stare at the screen. The pair alternated, the next time Shinsou threw some into his mouth and then fed some to (y/n).

“I hate that guy...he reminds me of that annoying little grape kid in 1-A.” Shinsou mumbled, causing her to laugh.

“Mineta?”

“We don’t speak his name.” Shinsou joked as the pair broke out into laughs again.

“Hey (your nickname)!” The pair turned, Shinsou pausing the movie, to see Shintari Narisuke enter the room. (y/n) raised an eyebrow at the use of her nickname, that ONLY Shinsou used for her.

“It’s (your full name).” She corrected him.

“Aw, don’t be like that.” The average height boy pouted, sitting down next to her, causing Shinsou to sit up more, a frown on his face.

“What do you want, Shintari? We’re busy here.” Shinsou chimed in, slightly annoyed as he rolled his tired purple eyes.

“Not that busy.” The aqua blue haired boy responded, flashing a fake smile at Shinsou. His eyes narrowed as the frown on his face deepened.

“What do you want?” Shinsou repeated.

“Hey (y/n)...” Shintari dragged out, looking at the black girl with big eyes.

“Yes?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you kind of look like Megan Thee Stallion?”

“No…” The girl answered, confused as to where this was going. To her they looked nothing alike, though she was one of her favorite female rappers. “We don’t even look alike.”

“Your ass does though.” He answered smugly. “You think you could split on me like she does?” (y/n)’s eyes widened as she tried to process what he had just said. She was at a loss for words, completely surprised that he would go that far.

“What the fuck did you just say?” Shinsou grew angry, standing up and getting in the blue haired fool’s face. He had noticed that she was still slightly shocked, which is why he decided to handle it, because normally she was the one that would jump to put someone who needed it in their place.

“She heard me. Right, (your nickname)?” He said teasingly, his eyes not even looking at Shinsou. The usually disinterested male grew increasingly more angry, at being ignored and at the boy for using his nickname for his girlfriend.

“Do you think you could answer something for me?” Shinsou questioned catching the boy’s attention as Shinsou’s grip on his shirt tightened.

“Yeah, what do you want, Villain?” Shintari asked, falling for the trap. Shinsou’s purple eyes glowed softly as he activated his quirk.

“Shut the fuck up and…” Shinsou paused, really wanting to tell the kid to go take a long walk off of a short pier, but he knew he would probably be in trouble if he did that, so he took a deep breath. “Lock yourself in your room for the rest of the week and don’t come out.” Shinsou ultimately decided, letting the boy go with a smug smirk watching him walk down the hall.

The purple haired male turned, his focus going to his girlfriend who had a sick look on her face. “You okay, kitty?” He asked softly, sitting beside her. She simply wrapped her arms around him, listening to his steady heartbeat.

“I hate that asshole.” She mumbled.

“I do too.” Shinsou agreed. “I’m sorry he said something like that to you. That was fucking gross.”

“Thanks for handling it.” She half smiled at him. “I think I would’ve killed him...then he really would’ve called me a villain.”

“Who gives a fuck, let’s finish the movie.” Shinsou laughed lightly, causing her to laugh too. “Besides, he already calls me a villain.”

(For this one (y/n) works in a bakery)

The black girl came from the back of the shop, a tray of fresh cookies in her hands, the sweet smell filling the store. She opened the glass cabinet, carefully transferring the cookies inside before going to return the tray to the back of the bakery.

Customers sat throughout the store, reading books from the bookshelves in the corner, drinking their coffees and teas while working, or simply just enjoying the warm atmosphere with their friends. (y/n) came back to the front, taking her place behind the register after washing her hands.

She looked up from where she had been adjusting a machine to the door, the sound of the ringing bell meaning someone new had entered. “Hi Baby.” The deep gravely voice said. She could hear the smile in his voice as she looked up, her own smile growing as she immediately recognized the voice.

“Hi Staples.” She teasingly replied. “What are you doing over here? I thought you were busy today.”

“I needed more.” He replied, holding up the bag at his side with the black hair dye inside.

“You want my help when I get off?” She clarified as he nodded, his blue eyes looking over her appearance. “What? You don’t like my uniform?” A soft smile on her face as she wiped down the counter.

“No, you look good.” His signature smirk appearing on his burned face. (y/n)’s heart fluttered slightly, the fiery boy never failed to make her heart skip a beat even after two years of dating.

“I get off in 50 minutes. You wanna hang around? I just made a fresh batch of cookies.”

“The ones I like?” His eyes seemed to sparkle like a kid in a candy store. Dabi loved to act big and bad, and that side of him was definitely...hot, but you loved to see the goofy childish side of him as well.

“Yeah, your favorite.” She replied, a large smile on her face as he nodded quickly, the dark hood of the sweatshirt pulled up on his head. “Alright. Here. I’ll be done soon.” She handed him a few cookies, pressing a kiss to his cheek as he slinked off to the seat he usually took in the corner of the shop when he waited for you.

(y/n) watched as he stood, picking up a book he had already started last time he came, sitting back down and flipping to the page he had left off on. Dabi...Touya wasn’t a bad guy, no matter what anyone told her, otherwise.

She was pulled out of her thoughts at the chime of the bell, a blonde man walking into the store. He must’ve been a traveler because he looked lost, especially with the way he had pulled up directions onto his phone. (y/n) gave him a friendly smile, “Hi, what can I get you?”

“I’ll take a...hot chocolate.” He said weirdly, giving her a smirk as his light eyes trailed up and down her body, at least the part that wasn’t hidden behind a counter. She nodded uneasily.

“Anything else?” Her mood had dropped, already tired of the male customer.

“How about your number?”

“No, sorry. I’m working and I-” He cut the girl off as she handed him his drink, ringing it up after she had made it.

“Come on, if it’s because I’m white...I’m hung like a black guy, if you know what I mean.” He said to the girl, Dabi’s eyes narrowing as he practically glared a hole through the blonde man.

“E-excuse me?” (y/n) repeated, blinking as she ran her hands over her apron, stepping back from him. She wasn’t even sure that had just happened, nothing that bad had ever happened at work before, just the occasional Wow, so pretty or Your hair is so fluffy, like a cloud from a few children when she wore it in an afro, that made her smile though, the kids were cute and everyone was generally respectful.

“If that’s why you won’t give me your number, you don’t have to worry about that.” He repeated.

“Yeah, I’m gonna need you to shut the fuck up.” Dabi chimed in, catching his girlfriend completely off guard. She hadn’t even noticed he had come up behind him or moved from his seat.

“What’s your problem man? I don’t think this involves you at all.” The blonde guy shot him a glare before turning back to the black girl behind the counter and stepping closer. Dabi’s blue eyes seemed to hold small flames in them as his anger grew. A dark chuckle left his lips as he harshly brought his hand down onto the blonde shoulder, heating it up until the man’s jacket was practically smoking.

“That’s my girlfriend, man.” Dabi told the man mockingly, his voice low and his eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t mind you calling her pretty, because she’s gorgeous but if you disrespect her, then you’re gonna deal with me.”

“Ew you fucking creep. I’ll call the police.” He threatened after turning and seeing Dabi’s face. Dabi tilted his head to the side slightly, a slow smile growing on his face, though it seemed more eerie than anything.

“I’ll give you something to call them about.” Dabi threatened. “Now, why don’t you leave and if I see you around here again, I’ll burn your ass so bad you’ll be virtually unrecognizable.”

“Fuck all of you. This place is shit anyway and the bitch behind the counter looks like a fucking monkey.” The guy announced going to walk out of the bakery.

“Not acceptable. Apologize.” Dabi demanded, his hand going around the blonde’s neck as he heated his hand up, making sure it would leave a burn.

“Sorry.” The guy cried out, Dabi rolling his eyes before shoving him towards the door, a scoff leaving his lips as the guy tripped on the way out.

“You know you’re gorgeous right?” Dabi questioned as (y/n)’s best friend and coworker told her to go home after that incident. Dabi grabbed (y/n)’s hand, waving back at her coworker before the couple walked towards their apartment, (y/n) excited to dye Dabi’s hair.

Tags:

#bnha x poc!reader #requested #katsukisblackteddy #dabi x reader #hawks x reader #shinsou x reader #bakugou x reader #bnha x black!reader #ewww men are so trashy sometimes 🤢#pls stop fetishizing black women and girls #it’s not cute #bnha x reader

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maldito-arbol · 3 years ago

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Kasey made me do it so I finished the tiny sasharcy angst ficlet I wrote in *checks notes* MAY 2021??!!!!?? Jesus Christ now u know how long things sit in my docs. And by ‘finished’ i mean I literally wrote like two more lines why was this so hard back then. Okay ANYway enjoy my old writing I didn’t feel like editing much.

TW for Major Character Death(s) and Marcy Harm oops

Sasha couldn’t quite process what was in front of her.

One minute, she and Grime were fighting with sword and warhammer desperately, fruitlessly, against the massive form that was King Andrias, and then his tail was swinging right into her field of vision just before she found herself sent flying into a nearby pillar, sudden explosions of pain blooming both from her front and back. And she knew she had to shake it off, had to get back to the fray, but when she clumsily lifted herself onto her feet and attempted to adjust her eyes to the spinning room, she realized it was too late.

“Now, look what you made me do.”

She couldn’t tell if she detected remorse there, or if he was once again defaulting to manipulating her friend, but the sword in Marcy’s chest was never supposed to be there, searing through her flesh, her heart, her very bones. It didn’t belong. Yet he put it there anyway.

It took but a fraction of a second for Marcy to peer down and understand what had just pierced through her completely and entirely, but once she did, she apologized. To Anne, to Sasha, to all of them, really, for simply acting out of selfish wishes—something Sasha knew all too well. She could hear her voice crack, break into pieces as she just barely managed to squeeze the words out, as her body fell limp and hit the ground with an audible thud, and Sasha lost the ability to breathe.

Anne disappearing into the portal barely even registered in her brain as she fumbled to sheathe her swords and half-run, half-drag herself to her now motionless best friend. Neither did she notice Grime also back on his feet and fighting Andrias, nor Yunan joining him now, horrified at his betrayal. The entire rest of the world faded away into nothing, and only the image of Marcy’s bleeding, dying form remained.

“Marcy!”

Marcy’s eyes cracked open when Sasha put a shaking hand on her shoulder, and a tiny wave of relief washed over her. She was alive. At least for now.

“S-Sasha…” she mumbled, attempting to crack a wobbly smile. “So you were right. All along.”

“Yeah, but only this time,” Sasha told her, her own voice cracking. “And I couldn’t even stop that guy. Look what he’s done to you.” She tried not to let her eyes wander over the hideous, gaping hole in her friend, but they moved without her consent anyway. It was horrifying. She thought it would be no matter how many times she looked at it.

“I know.” Marcy’s voice was faded, exhausted and deeply pained. Sasha could hardly imagine what kind of agony was roiling around in her small 13-year-old body now. “It’s my fault,” she rasped a little desperately, more tears welling up in her eyes. “I trusted him. Even when all the red flags were there, I ignored them. And worse, the only reason we even got here in the first place was because of me.” She coughed roughly, wetly, because blood had made its way up her throat and now spilled upon her lip.

“Marcy.” Sasha’s grip on her tightened, and she pulled her closer, cradling her fragile form close with one hand wrapped around her back and the other holding the side of her head off the ground. Seeing her friend like this, seeing her unable to even look up at Sasha without assistance, stirred her heart painfully so. “It’s okay. You were scared, and you made a mistake. We all do that sometimes.” She reassured her, because she didn’t know what else to do. Because she didn’t care about what Marcy did anymore, all she cared about was her life now, the life that was slowly sapping away, that was stolen from her by someone she deemed a father figure.

“But I put you both in danger,” she went on, the beginnings of hysterics dripping through her voice. Maybe she was in shock, or maybe she was just feeling the entire weight of her decision pressing down on her wound just as harshly as the sword. “You could’ve died here. And all I could think about was myself and how lonely I’d be.”

Sasha scoffed sadly. “And which one of us three hasn’t? I’m so scared of losing you guys I tried to kill Anne’s family.” She wiped away the streak of blood on Marcy’s lip with a thumb. “It’s okay, Marcy. We’d all do crazy stuff for each other.”

A tiny giggle broke free, Sasha could feel the rumble beneath her hand as she brushed it along her neck. “Yeah, I guess. Think I went overboard though. I mean, really? That was my grand idea? Trap my friends in a different dimension I had no way of knowing existed?” She had to pause to catch her breath this time, but even it was fading, her voice growing smaller.

“Marcy,” Sasha said her name again, softly, and she moved her hand to settle on Marcy’s cheek again. “It’s okay.”

Her friend leaned into her hand, at least as much as she could muster, and Sasha felt the effort it took for her to even breathe. She’d gone pale, sickly, like the pain was simply so great she hadn’t the strength to even scream. “It hurts,” she mumbled, and Sasha’s heart only continued to sink. Obviously. Of course a wound like that would, but maybe she wasn’t quite registering it in her brain that Marcy was dying. Because that’s what happens when you lose your life, right? You die.

“I’m sorry, Mar-mar,” she apologized, because that was all she could do. Because there was nothing she could do to ease her pain.

“How much longer do I have?” She went on, strained, aching. “A wound like that…kills very fast.”

“You’re not gonna die,” Sasha blurted, her hold on Marcy tightening. She was still in denial. Marcy was not dying, she was just hurt, and any hurt could be fixed with a bit of hospital time and a giant bandaid, right? “You can’t. We’re supposed to be together, the three of us forever.”

Marcy’s eyes met hers, half-lidded and dangerously close to shutting for good. “It’s impossible,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, Sash. I really am, but I…” the first tear finally slid out of her eye, ran down her cheek slowly, and it broke Sasha’s heart all over again. “I wanted it so bad I ended up destroying our chances of staying together.” More tears followed, and a sob bubbled up with her next shallow breath. “It’s not fair. All I ever wanted was you.”

In a moment of hysteria, of impulse and frantic emotion, Sasha turned Marcy’s face with her hand just a little, just enough so she could lean down and press her lips to Marcy’s, trembling but full of desperation. Marcy’s were cold by this point, but she gasped quietly at the gesture, shocked but not at all offended.

“Sash—” she began, but Sasha pulled her ever closer, curled her arms around her, and Marcy shut up fast, relaxing in her arms without complaint. Maybe it would help distract her from the pain she felt. That was all Sasha could hope for.

She released Marcy when she felt her shiver, and she realized she was almost gone.

“I love you, Mar-mar,” she breathed hastily, terrified that she might’ve messed this up, but instead Marcy was smiling through the tears still pouring down her face. Maybe she’d gotten something right for once in her life.

“I love you too, Sash.” And it was so quiet, so faded Sasha could just barely hear it. “I’m…sorry.”

Sasha brushed her thumb across Marcy’s cheek, affectionate, reassuring. “I told you it’s okay. You don’t have to apologize anymore. Please, Marcy.” And she finally felt the beginnings of a full on mental breakdown rising up her chest, starting with her very first sob coupled with water spilling upon her own cheeks. “Please, stay with me.”

“I want to,” Marcy rasped, and her arm moved, slowly, shaking with the effort, reaching, until Sasha finally understood and moved her own to grab it. “I want to so much it hurts.”

Sasha rested her forehead against Marcy’s. “But I don’t want it to hurt,” she practically whimpered. “If it’s too much, you don’t have to. You don’t have to hang on just for me.” Even if letting Marcy go was the absolute last thing Sasha wanted, she couldn’t shake the guilt that her friend was suffering just to appease her.

It would be better…if she’s released as soon as possible. And tragically, this time, that meant death.

Another tiny hiccup broke from Marcy’s throat. “Kiss me again?”

She nodded at once and obeyed, hand still cupped around her friend’s cheek, and she hoped Marcy could feel her warmth through the lips brushing gently against hers. She lingered there, felt Marcy’s hand curl around her own, felt Marcy trying so hard to lean up into the sensation, and she obliged by pulling her close again.

Don’t push yourself. Don’t hurt yourself anymore. Leave it all to me. I’ll give you everything I can, and if this is what you want now, then by frog I’ll make sure you have it.

She tilted her head to accommodate Marcy’s need for proximity, rubbed her thumb against the hand still in her own, and she felt her heart slipping out, the understanding that this was it finally beginning to hit her.

Oh, Marcy. I don’t know if I can go on without you.

And suddenly, the tiny breaths she’d felt from Marcy’s end between the kiss…stopped.

Sasha’s eyes opened, she pulled away just an inch to peer at her friend’s face. Despite the vacancy of life, she was still smiling softly.

Gone, her Marcy was gone. But Sasha could still hold her in her arms here, still study her smile until it was burned into her memory, still pretend as though she had more minutes left before she was truly gone.

If Andrias was standing behind her this time, flaming sword raised, Grime and the others somewhere on the same cold tile floor several meters away, that didn’t matter.

#amphibia #sasharcy #mal writes #oops #i never posted this cause I felt like it’s been written a million times already #but hey it’s kinda cool seeing my old stuff again #this was way before we knew about the Marcy possession shit #and I was like ‘nah I’m just gonna kill her’#but i wanted to write sasharcy at the same time lmao #the gay yearning #i also want u to know i was thinking about this fic while writing the ibybf finale #:)

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justjuiceyboy · 4 years ago

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bruised

in which Juice’s best friend goes to him for help after an abusive relationship

word count: 1,397

warnings: blood, swearing, abuse, toxic relationship

———————————

Wincing, you grazed two fingers along your forehead, each collecting some blood that had stained the side of your face. You huffed, knowing what was about to go down as soon as your best friend saw this. Juice was always getting himself into trouble and almost bleeding out like the mad man he is but as soon as anything happens to you - its the end of the world as we all know it.

You and Juice had been best friends for as long as you can remember. When your parents passed, he was there for you and became your rock. You had upped and left Queens with him, which was a good decision, but on your first day here you had met someone. That someone turned out to be Matthew, your future boyfriend. He was lovely in the beginning, everything anyone could want: sweet, funny, helpful. But now, three years later he was mean-spirited, angry and explosive. Anything that you did incorrectly in his eyes was seen as an issue. An issue that violence was the answer to. You hadn’t told Juice about it and made up stories, “Oh I tripped and took a tumble on the stairs” you laughed, or, “I was trying to put a book back on the shelf but instead it came back down and hit me in the eye!” Juice never really bought the excuses.

But now you had nowhere else to go so you found yourself speed walking towards the clubhouse. Matthew had made it awfully clear that he didn’t want you in the house and the open wounds on your face could back up that statement. You didn’t want to leave him, when he had good days he was great, often bringing home flowers with some sort of cheesy note attached. However you knew in your heart that the bad days were now outnumbering the good and no matter how clean the house was, how much laundry you did or how little noise you made, it was never enough. You were always afraid of what Juice would do if he found out. You knew he would be hurt by you lying to him swell as what you were lying about.

The cold air hit your flushed skin, which provided a sense of relief on one hand but pain on the other as blood was still oozing from the cut above your eyebrow. The walk was short and you were glad that you didn’t run into anyone on the way, not feeling the urge to discuss your war wounds with anyone other than your best friend, and even then discuss was a loose term. You just wanted somewhere to stay that you wouldn’t be thrown out of the bed and be in fear of a man towering over your frame.

It looked worse than it felt. You had one gash above your eyebrow that no matter how much pressure you applied, wouldn’t stop bleeding. Your eye socket was in immense pain, definitely going to bruise up in a nice purple colour tomorrow. Your other cheek was bright red, probably having the imprint of a man’s hand on it, except you really didn’t have time to check in the mirror before you left your own home. The dried blood made it look like you were in some sort of street fight, which probably would’ve been a nicer explanation than the one you’d have to give now.

The gate was open, not many bikes parked outside the clubhouse. You recognised Juice’s, along with Jax and Chibs. You pushed on the door and were met with a warm gust of inviting air. You shuffled into the room, keeping your eyes at a low level. You barely had a chance to even look around the room until Juice spoke first, “what the fuck?” He got up quickly, coming over to you and placing his hands on either side of your face, “who did this to you?” Suddenly your eyes filled with tears as he examined your bloody form. The other two boys rose from their seats with concern, fearing this was some sort of club retaliation.

“It doesn’t matter. Can y’fix me up?” You hiccuped as you talked, now the tears freely flowing down your face, expecting him to lose the plot and start going mental. But he didn’t. He looked into your eyes, his soft brown eyes making you melt and cry harder as you could see that he was hurt. He led you over to a bar stool and sat you up on it to examine you further.

He reached around and rustled under the bar, pulling out a mini first aid kit. He kneeled down in front of you, grabbed an antiseptic wipe and warning you, “will sting a little”, he held it onto your gash, finally stopping the blood but still making you jump slightly. He wiped all the dried blood off your face and he applied a white plaster to the area. You all let silence fill the air, him wanting answers but you not being willing to give them to him.

He finally spoke, “was it him?” The last word was almost spat with venom. The two boys in your life had no problem with each other in person, but Matthew often taunted you about Juice, saying he was “good for nothing, will never amount to anything”. What you didn’t know is that behind closed doors, Juice wasn’t overly fond of Matthew either, hating that he got the chance with you when it should be him. But he could admit it before now, being too afraid of both rejection from you but also due to his line of work, being close to someone never really worked out well. It still didn't stop him from loving you.

You nodded, not being able to keep up with the lie anymore. Your tears were still falling down your face. He put his arms around you without saying anything and leaned your head into his shoulder. You choked out an “I’m sorry” to which he shushed you. He picked you up and brought you back to his dorm, careful not to bump into anything or make your injuries worse. Once he lay you on the bed, he took off your boots and helped you change into a pair of his sweatpants and a shirt, discarding yours that were stained.

He lay down next to you, slowly reaching for your hand to hold it with his own. “You can’t go back, not after this” he stated, as more of a fact rather than a suggestion. You knew he was right so you gave his hand a squeeze. He let out a sigh before posing the question, “why didn’t you tell me?”

“He told me no one would ever want me, that I was lucky to have him” you breathed softly, letting out a quiet yawn along with a few more tears. Juice was furious with rage but wasn’t about to take it out on you. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to the top of your hair, making sure not to go near any hurt areas. “Get some sleep” he advised, but he could tell you had already drifted off, tired from the events of the day, “I’ll be back soon.”

Juice left the room, now in the presence of the two boys once again. “What d’ye want t’do about this Juicey?” Chibs asked, trying to figure out what the plan of action was without putting any ideas in his head. But he already knew what Juice was thinking purely by the look on his face.

“I’m gonna fucking kill him” Juice seethed, “scumbag”.

The three boys grabbed their kuttes and made their way out of the clubhouse, locking the door so you’d be safe when they were gone.

“It’s her isn’t it?” Jax smiled slightly as he threw his leg over his Harley.

Juice looked at him confused, not knowing what his question meant.

“She’s the girl you’re in love with. It’s so fucking obvious Jesus Christ, how did we not realise that!“

Juice paused, finally ready to let go of the secret he held tightly for so many years, but he wanted the first person he told it to to be you so he simply stated “Nobody hurts my girl” as he kicked started his bike, ready to serve justice.

#juice #juice ortiz #Juan Carlos Juice Ortiz #soa #sons of anarchy #sons of anarchy x reader #juice x reader #reader x juice

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paperpocalypse · 4 years ago

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crackers and jam.

50 Cliché Tropes and Prompts: 41. Overhearing they have feelings for you.

Pairing: Five Hargreeves x Reader

Word Count: 1,703 words

Warnings: Swearing

Some time back, not long after he got stranded in the post-apocalyptic world and perhaps a year and a half before running into you, Five’s only companion was Delores.

It had been a meeting of chance (as everything is) in the middle of a destroyed department store. She had been looking at him. And maybe that’s why he was so drawn in – that stare; it was a lifeless stare, yeah, but it was not by any means a dead stare like the ones he had met too many times before. No life had been lost to create that stare. She was smiling, too.

Five had lifted her carefully out of the chunks of concrete, greeting her because there was no one else. For the first few weeks, he just placed her at the corner of her store and visited every once in a while, then took to occasionally toting her around the City when he needed to talk. He liked to pretend that she answered back – sometimes. After a few months, he named her Delores.

Then he met you.

Unlike Delores, you were human. Breathing. Alive, somehow. And you had thoughts and feelings that weren’t always connected to his and – and it was weird. It was home.

You didn’t question his friendship with Delores. Five had seen the half-burned stuffed frog in your wagon, so you wouldn’t have had anything to hold over him anyway. He knew that you knew that he still went to the department store in the middle of the night. And, shit, deep down Five also knew that Delores was, in the end, just a hunk of plastic with eyes. But after a year and a half of having nobody else, she had become something of a comfort. And a confidant. Burdening you with his issues was not an option, so when things became a little shittier than usual, he would slip out from underneath his blanket, make sure you weren’t having a nightmare, and head downtown to voice his thoughts aloud.

Over time, though, he learned that you were willing to listen. You listened, and you were always kind about it even if you didn’t always understand. His nightly visits decreased. And it was okay for a while.

But then Five began to struggle with a new issue – one that was a little different than the usual mess of stress and anxiety – and one night, he finds himself looking down at Delores again because talking to you about it is definitely off the table.

Unfortunately, Delores’s kindness is different from yours.

Well, here we are. Again.

“I’m just here to think,” he snaps, combing a grubby hand through his tangled mess of hair. The lantern beside him glows weakly as he plops down onto a slab of concrete. “Mind your business.”

Your business is everyone’s business here, Five. And to put my own two cents in, I think that you’re scared of your own feelings.

Blood travels to Five’s cheeks, unwarranted, as he narrows his eyes at Delores. “For the last time, that’s not what this is about. It’s – Jesus Christ, I’m gonna get over it. This isn’t a life-or-death issue.”

Then why have you been ranting about it like it is?

“I’m not.”

Ha! Rich.

He grits his teeth. She stares back at him, unperturbed. Bastard.

You know, maybe you’ll feel better if you say it out loud. Air it out. Test to see if it’s real.

“I’m not doing that.”

Do it.

No.

Say it.

No.

For god’s sake, Number Five, take a goddamn look at yourself –

“Fine!” Five hisses, though it feels more like an explosion. He throws his hands up. “I like [Y/n], alright? We’re the last people on this goddamn planet and I like them, and I shouldn’t care this much but I do. Happy?”

Delores pauses. Five looks away.

Very.

Ugh.

Did it feel real?

He clicks his tongue, crossing his arms, and doesn’t answer. The smile on Delores’s face seems a little smug, and it makes him want to hurl. He shouldn’t have said it out loud. Relieve some of the pressure and everything starts to boil over …

Breathing in deeply, Five forces his shoulders to relax. He bids a soft goodbye to Delores, then heads back to camp.

—

A week later, Five’s visit comes back to bite him in the worst way possible.

You’ve been having a hard time starting the fire for tonight, so he finishes splitting the evening rations to help you out with the bow drill. As he does so, you watch in silence, both of you waiting patiently for the smoke and dust.

“Do you think we have enough wood?” you eventually ask.

“It’s enough,” he murmurs, only half paying attention. After a while, a few chalky wisps of smoke begin to rise from the charring wood. He leans in to blow the ember carefully once it forms, then puts it into the tinder and coaxes out a flame. “Get the kindling?”

You oblige, and within a few minutes, a healthy fire starts to dance atop the wood, scorching his face and fingers with heat. Five stares intently at the oranges and yellows for a moment, lips pressed together, intrigued in a tired sort of way. Warmth. Then he backs off and grabs a portion of crumbled up crackers, handing it to you.

You spread the cloth over your knees. “Now all we need is some jam.”

“What kind?”

A soft hum escapes your throat. You contemplate unhurriedly, dabbing up some stray crumbs with a finger. “Blackberry,” you reply after a few moments. “Or strawberry. The kind that’s sort of chunky.”

It’s been a long time since he’s tasted either of those things. The simple thought of whole crackers spread with fresh jam, sweet and dark and sticky, is a luxury in and of itself. Five tries not to think about it too much, munching on his third fragment of stale cracker. It makes his mouth dry. “Hm,” he says, picking up the canteen for a few drops of water.

The fire pops. A few sparks fly out into the air and die just as quickly. You finish your supper and wipe your mouth, stretching your legs out in front of you as you sigh.

Five tilts his head at you. “What?”

“What?” you parrot back, though he sees the way your fingers fidget.

“You have something to say.”

Your facial expression shifts just the smallest bit. “How can you tell?”

(Simple – because he knows you. He knows your ticks; knows how you tick. He knows your smiles and all the subtle ways that your voice rises and falls. He’s memorized you because he fears forgetting, and it’s a problem.)

“Kind of hard not to,” Five replies.

“Oh.” You chew the inside of your cheek, still seeming unsure. “Well, um … I just wanted to talk to you about something. And please don’t be mad.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Um. A couple nights ago, I had a bad dream.”

“I know.”

“Not the one you woke me up from. A different one,” you mutter. “The night after we found the pillows.”

“Oh,” Five says.

“Yeah.” You look down at your hands. They’re dusty and rough, littered with small scars from climbing and falling and holding. “I … um, that night, I woke up and you weren’t there. And I sort of panicked, and went looking –”

The blood drains from Five’s face.

“I went looking for you, and I found you. Talking to her.” You glance at him for a split second. “About me.”

Oh, fuck.

Five stares at you as you fiddle with the scrap of cloth on your lap. You know. You weren’t supposed to know. You weren’t supposed to ever know, and now you do.

“Five?” Your voice is curious and small.

His voice is raspy. “How much did you hear?”

“Almost everything.” You grab the cuff of his coat sleeve as he attempts to stand up. “I’m sorry for eavesdropping. I really didn’t mean to, but –”

“It’s not your fault. Look, I don’t want to talk about it,” he replies tersely. “We need more firewood, anyway.”

“We have enough,” you say, though you relinquish your hold when he tugs a little harder away from you. You sound hurt. “Five, it’s okay to feel like that.”

“It’s not. It makes things more complicated.”

“How?” Standing up, your brow furrows. “I like you too, Five. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

His chest tightens. “That just makes it worse.”

“I like you,” you repeat. Your hand moves down to take his gently. “A lot. And it’s okay.”

(Did it feel real?)

Five meets your gaze solidly despite not quite wishing to, a familiar sense of guilt washing over him when you squeeze his hand.

Sometimes, he wishes he hadn’t met you. Then he would’ve gotten what he deserved for his recklessness – nothing – with nothing to concern himself with other than equations and survival and time. That, he’s fairly sure, would have been easier to manage. He hadn’t been taught to care for someone else. Not like this, at least.

But you. You. Five swallows the lump in his throat.

“I might have to leave you behind,” he murmurs, more hoarsely than he’d like to admit. The words burn like ice on the roof of his mouth. “One day.”

You don’t reply for a few seconds.

Then, for some inexplicable reason, you step a little closer. “But not tonight," you say. "Right?”

For shit’s sake, you’re so optimistic. Five chuckles dryly, hand still engulfed in yours, blinking away the vague stinging in his eyes. “Of course not.”

“Then I forgive you. If you feel like you need it.” With a mild exhale, you smile at him. Your eyes are glossy. “So can we sit back down? I like doing that.”

He quietly agrees.

So you bring him back down to sit before the fire, closer to him than before. No more words are left to be said. A heavy silence settles in their place, neither good nor bad, and almost comfortable. For the first time in a long time, Five tries not to think.

You lean against his shoulder. He welcomes it.

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henrysfedora · 2 years ago

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hi it's almost 4am and i have been sitting in silence for the past three hours and anyway i need to ramble about vito and his tragic war time okay

idk, it hit me after watching a war movie just a couple hours earlier how really tragic it must've been for vito. like firstly he's a paratrooper- this bitch flew into the warzone by plane, which is already a loud thundering piece of metal in the sky, this bitch also jumped out of a plane thousands of feet in the air into the muddy warzone below. you know the loud explosions, gunshots constantly going off around him, tanks, fighters, flamethrowers, stukas, like yeah i really believe those headcanons about vito having hearing damage and selective hearing. the moments vito would've been pinned down behind something with bullets constantly flying around him, explosions going off, mud hitting him, stone hitting him, blood hitting him, jesus christ how many tanks nearly ran him over.

this sounds so rude but i kind of wish we got to see how vito was affected by the war more throughout the game because we really only see his scars and from what we can only assume his change in behaviour and personality. how did an eighteen year old, twenty when he finally gets out (which is still fucking YOUNG) just seem to brush it off? and i only say this because 2K did JACK. we the fans have thought about a lot but in game vito's just, sad and scarred... bitch let me see the horrifying trauma he faces, let me see his nightmares, give me joe feeling guilty, give henry another reason to realise what vito's been through and how young he really is. make henry feel worse about lying to vito and bringing him in on the drug deal and causing him to go through another big shootout. make vito a little deaf, is he nervous when everyone always expects the best from him when it comes to firearms?

did vito ever have to hold a dying brother out on the field? how many times did he see someone lose a limb, or have their head shot off, or their stomachs torn open, or hear them cry for their mother, or see them bleeding profusely on the ground, how much time did he really spend driving jeeps.

like i think vito would especially be terrified of things with buildup, the sound of tanks eventually getting closer, the astronomical speed of planes that were quiet two seconds ago but now ear-shattering, especially stukas i feel like vito would be terrified of stukas those things are scary, they just keep getting closer and closer and louder and louder.

and how scared shitless was vito when he got shot? blood starts going fucking everywhere, instantly, like was he thinking about joe when he was trying as hard as he could to put pressure on his wound? was he convinced he was going to die? did he think about his mother, his father, francesca, and joe?? all of them? only joe? was he content or did he feel like he hadn't done enough in life yet? did he call out for his mother or did he just lay there quietly? how many friends did he have in the army, how many died right in front of him, how many left him alone, how many sacrificed themselves for him, how many helped him. how guilty did he feel when they saved him but they died after doing so, how guilty did he feel when he couldn't reach someone in time. he's always had it in him to be giving but is this a big contributor to why he'd sacrifice himself for his friends in a heartbeat because the guilt would be too heavy for him to handle if he couldn't save joe or henry.

LIKE JUST BREAKDOWN VITO and for gods sake someone give him a hug

like i know vito's our badass protagonist but did he really not cry while out in service? is it really not this bad was he having a good ole time driving his jeep around or what WELL WE'LL NEVER KNOW WILL WE 2K

#anyway i am so tired right now #and yet so sad #call me weird but i kind of wish mafia 2 was even more gory #like bitchhh make one of them hold the other while they bleed out on the floor telling them everythings gonna be okay #IM SAD MAKE ME SADDER #make them bleed #make them cry

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neonponders · 4 years ago

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I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself @hoegrove your Bond!au is just too strong.

Based on their post here ~

I hope you like it 🥺 🌹 it’s on ao3, if that’s easier for anyone to read 🌹

• • • • • • •

013.

Fucking 013. Not 00.

Which meant he’d have to wait for whoever got the 00 status he deserved to either die or become incompetent.

“Congratulations, Hargrove. Report to HQ for briefing.”

He’d rather be headed for the private plane that would take him to some tropical location, where capitalist monsters waited for his bullet.

Hargrove stepped out of the elevator onto the spacious floor. He really wished HQ would renovate. The concrete floors, glass walls, and metal beams were urban but not chic.

He found the corresponding desk of his... “partner” of sorts. Every number had a letter. The computer and the muscle. As Hargrove removed his outer garment, though, only the computer desk was present, while the person -

“Could you not dump your nasty jacket on my work station?”

Hargrove sighed and found the loon - on a bicycle. He frowned. “What the hell are you doing on a bike inside?”

“It helps me think,” Q said, riding slow laps in between the cubicles. Granted, there weren’t many of them, and Hargrove was pretty sure he’d only ever seen Q and maybe three other people on this entire floor, unless there was a crisis.

Maybe that’s why he had yet to be promoted to 00. Too much peace.

“Take your jacket off my seat!”

“Jesus Christ,” Billy cursed. He balled up the ruined jacket and threw at the bastard’s head. To his credit, he didn’t crash into anything. “Clean freak.”

“That’s Q to you,” he barked, dumping the raggedy garment into the nearest bin.

“Sure, Steve,” he purred, knowing his partner loathed the fact that he had figured out his real name. Hargrove wouldn’t work for just anybody, after all. And he was a detective first. Hired gun second.

He didn’t actually need Q. So he told himself. But Steve sure came in handy.

“So help me god, Billy. Did you at least keep my pen intact?”

“Your what?” He landed in Steve’s spinning chair, forcing the guy to lean his bike against his cubicle and stand with his hands on his hips.

“My pen, dip shit. You know, the one that’s basically a Swiss army knife. The one sanctioned by HQ to one Asshole Hargrove - ”

“Oh, that,” he said distantly, gazing out at the city around them. “It broke.”

Not surprised, nor impressed, Steve remarked, “You realize that if some nerd civilian reverse-engineers half the shit you lose, we might be genuinely compromised, right?”

“Then make better stuff.”

“Stop losing it, and you might actually be 00 one day.”

Billy glared with all the menace a man could while having his chair rolled out of the way. Steve shoved him aside with his foot and entered his computer password before navigating to the corresponding case briefs. Billy let his head recline on the seat while Steve went through the list.

“Target?”

“Deceased.”

“Car?”

“Totaled, but returned.”

“Pen: lost in action. Suspect?”

“Null. Excellent in bed, though.”

“You’re a cliche.” Steve glared from behind his glasses.

“Stop giving me cases with attractive people, then,” Billy smirked. “Who’s my next target? Tell me they live somewhere expensive and sunny.”

“Like a desert?”

“No, like Marseilles.”

“Oh, Marseilles is nice,” Steve chirped distractedly. “If you like French people.”

Billy snorted, but it evolved into laughter. “What’s wrong with French people?”

“They’re French.”

“Wow. Picky.”

Steve giggled under his breath and said, “I’m sorry I don’t have a gig for you in France.”

“I’m sure I’ll managed,” Billy sighed. “What do you have?”

“Something more domestic.”

Billy exhaled through his nose, warranting a curious peek from Steve. “Yeah, that’s what I’m stuck with. One zero and domestic jobs.”

“You’ll get there,” Steve reassured. Softly. Which was...odd.

Billy’s head rolled over the back of the chair to stare at him. Steve quickly added, “If you stop breaking the shit I loan you.”

Billy looked toward the ceiling, pressing his lips into an impertinent line...

“Q.”

“Hm?” he asked while typing away.

“There’s a bird in here.”

Steve looked at him. “What?” and followed his gaze up to the metal rafters. A grey bird gazed right back at them. “Oh shit - ”

Billy already had his pistol out. One shot knocked the bird off its perch. It landed with a loud, metallic clatter.

Steve's body doubled over when Billy wrenched his arm in the direction away from the device, and not a second too soon. The force of the explosion knocked them both over one cubicle and roughly onto the concrete floor.

"Q," Billy growled when the guy scrambled to his feet and back to his desk. He reached underneath it, uncovering a baseball bat of all things, and swung right over his hard drive. Metal and plastic debris rained over the floor, and then he ran to the router standing on a low piece of furniture along the wall. He wrenched its cables out and smashed the thing too.

Then he looked up at Agent Hargrove. "We're compromised."

Billy was already moving toward the scattered carcass of the spy bird. They didn't have a lot of time. Already, another explosive rumble sounded beneath their feet, on another floor. Billy quickly found the piece he was looking for, and pocketed it before yanking Steve in the direction of the stairs.

"I need a car."

"You know where the garage is."

"You're coming with me. That thing heard both of our names."

Steve defended, "We both lost our original identities when we signed up for this bullshit."

"We don't know what we're dealing with yet," Billy reasoned. "Until then, you're safest with me."

"Well that's pathetic." His words might've landed better if they didn't rattle out of him while they did their best to sprint down several dozen flights of stairs.

"You're really sassing me right now? What are you gonna do with that bat?"

Steve ignored that to proclaim, "We need to get to my place. I have a backup computer connected to the system."

"And how do we know it's not compromised too?"

"Because it's mine. Not the system's."

Billy could only frown at him ever so briefly, but he pocketed that information away for another time. For now, they descended into the belly of their organization, where the garage of vehicles rested beneath the city. There, another argument awaited him.

"You're not taking the goddamn Camaro."

"I'm taking the goddamn Camaro," Billy retorted, already ripping the keys out of the cabinet Steve unlocked for him.

"It's loud as all hell!"

"So are you. Get in the car."

Another explosion shook the concrete columns of the garage. Steve ducked his head and coughed on the dust while he threw himself into the car a millisecond before Billy left tire tracks on the floor. "What are you doing?"

Steve was pressing buttons on the dash. Somewhere behind them, a mechanical part was moving in the car. "We don't know how many birds infiltrated the building. I'm rotating the license plates - egh!"

He collapsed against his seat when the car angled up to speed onto the city streets. Billy mused, "And what can you do for speed trap cameras?" and held up a middle finger to the camera angled over the four-way intersection.

"Nothing yet. We'll have to trade cars eventually."

"Not soon enough."

"What?" Steve all but screeched, and turned around to see behind them. "At least you're not the only stereotype in this business."

He got the words out a moment before the large, black SUV rammed into the back of the Camaro. "Put your seatbelt on."

"IT IS ON!"

Steve provided his own chorus of swears and exclamations while Billy navigated through the city, tossing his partner left and right in his seat, avoiding another collision with the SUV that would spin them out of control. When Steve began digging through the glove box and lowering his window, Billy bellowed, "What are you doing?"

"A PEN!" he yelled before throwing something behind them. A second later, the SUV's front lifted off the road so the whole thing fell onto its side.

It was Billy's turn to exclaim, "Those things explode?"

"YES THEY EXPLODE!"

"YOU NEVER TOLD ME THEY EXPLODE!"

"WHY DO YOU THINK I TOLD YOU NOT TO TAP THE PEN THREE TIMES?"

"YOU ARE SO GODDAMN LUCKY MY DICK HASN'T BEEN BLOWN OFF."

Steve pointed out the front windshield. "BILLY!"

Another SUV narrowly rammed them from the side, but Billy pulled on the brake and swung the car into a 180. Some civilian took the brunt of that particular attack, but Billy officially needed to get them the hell out of here. Whoever wanted their heads for trophies didn't care about national news.

Which was possibly the most dangerous piece of this mess. Arguably the most powerful component of a country was its press, and these assholes didn't care if they earned the media's or internet's attention.

It was another aspect in itself that Billy had ridden in one too many black SUV's. That would also account for someone's ability to install too many explosive birds in the building.

"Billy?" Steve piped when he drove down the stairs leading to the boardwalk along the river. Billy focused on the new car behind them. He looked across the river at the opposite riverbank, where the walls sloped up. He needed to get over there.

The car rattled as he sped up a flight of stairs to the street once more, but did a hard left onto the bridge that crossed the river.

Down the stairs again, this time slaloming over the ramped wall, keeping an eye on his rearview to see how tunnel-visioned the SUV behaved.

A hand gripped the wide bell of his forearm. "Billy," Steve rasped. There wasn't a stairwell at the end of this riverbank. Just a concrete wall.

Billy went up the ramp, and braked with a hard turn on the steering wheel. The SUV tried to brake in time, but the Camaro clipped the back tire, and it spun right over the side into the river.

Billy k-turned back in the direction of the stairs. He drove seamlessly into the midday, traffic, turning on his windshield wipers against the heavy drizzle. He glanced at Steve, who had not let go of his arm. At a stoplight, Billy's other hand overlapped his, earning a pale, ghostly stare.

"We need to get to the subway. Then your place."

Despite his shock, Steve nodded and said, "Two blocks down."

Billy found the station, lodged their car in a back alley between a Polish restaurant and a laundromat, and circled the car to help Steve out. "I'm fine," he said even as his knees gave out and he hung between his arms on the car door and roof.

"I see that," Billy replied. He nestled in close to wrap an arm around Steve's softer waist. "Put your weight on me."

He did, and Billy kicked the door shut behind them. "Do you have a metro card?"

"Do I have a metro card?" Billy snorted on their way to the entrance.

"You can't jump the turnstiles."

"I'm not leaving a paper trail. I don't know if my cards are compromised too. That bird sat right over your desk, pretty boy. Someone wanted a real close eye on you. Maybe even kill you. We can try and figure out who else was under surveillance later."

They did not earn approving looks from vaulting the turnstiles, but they made it to the train, and then forty minutes or so later, Steve's apartment. By then, his color had returned to his face, and Billy couldn't help but tease, "Do you always bring colleagues home?"

Steve sighed and didn't grace that with a response. He unlocked his door, and Billy perused the living room and its bay window. The place was nice. White walls. Light wooded floors. Colorful dish ware. A bedroom off to the right with an unmade bed, and a dining room to the left with an array of folders and a laptop on it.

Billy placed the broken bird piece beside the laptop. "I don't know how much you can get out of this. But it's a start."

Steve maneuvered around him and sank into the chair. "Help yourself to the kitchen."

Billy did exactly that, and only found a few hints at the neurosis of a tech genius: Steve's pantry was entirely filled with bags of chips and hot sauce. His apartment also wielded the same characteristic Steve used at work: cleanliness. There wasn't so much as a lingering cereal dish in the sink.

Billy went about scrambling some eggs, frying up some bacon, and heating up a box of leftover diner hash browns. He poured a bottle of white and brought the dishes to the table. He set the glass of wine in view of the laptop. "For your nerves. Try to eat something."

"Thanks," Steve murmured. He didn't touch his food, but Billy sat opposite him and plunged his fork into his eggs.

After he cleaned his plate, he started tapping the back of the laptop screen, causing whatever Steve was reading to bounce. As if tossed out of a reverie, Steve inhaled sharply and took his glasses off to scrub his face. Naturally, Billy chuckled and plucked up the glasses to see how the other half lived...

"Steve."

"Hmm?" he mumbled from inside his hands.

"Explain to me why your glasses are asking for 004 authentication?"

His hands lowered so he could see Billy wearing his glasses and the nearly invisible screens layered inside the glass. The muscles of his jaw ticked as he reached across the table. Billy let him remove the glasses, but his stare did not waver until Steve relented, "I'm not 004 anymore."

Billy blinked, hard, as he absorbed that. "When were you an agent?"

Steve pushed his fork around his plate. "Right as you joined."

"Am I really going to have to pull your teeth for this? Because someone must know who you are, or were. Knows enough to keep an eye on you. How many other 00s are retired into office work?"

"My whole team," he heaved. Surrendered. "It all happened too fast. I was elevated to 00 status and just as quickly flunked out of it. Then they gave me you."

Steve exhaled as if there was a whole lot more there. Then he added, "Consider this a mentorship."

Billy huffed and relaxed against his chair. "So my guardian angel is the one keeping me from my promotion."

It took a second, but Steve processed that and lifted his head. "What?"

"You. I don't get to be a 00 until a 00 gives me the okay."

Something shy of a grimace flitted across Steve's features. "Maybe you'd be one, if you learned how to say thank you. You're not god. I've saved your ass at least twice without even being in the same country as you."

"You're a P.T.S.D. case with a laptop. That's all."

"And you're a gun with childhood trauma and abandonment issues. Welcome to the fucking club. We have special glasses."

He stabbed his hash browns and started eating. Billy crossed his arms and brooded in silence.

Abandonment issues, my ass, he mused, but could not help but watch the man opposite him eat. He'd never actually seen Steve eat. He'd certainly always been available whenever Hargrove called, regardless of timezone or courtesy of sleep.

It's hypocritical to call him an angel and treat him as disposable...after you hauled him around like precious luggage.

Billy didn't like that thought one bit.

This job wasn't actually a business. It was a lifestyle. One that didn't grant angels or precious items. And the same voice that called Steve, Angel, kept whispering in Billy's mind.

Compromised.

Something moved in his periphery and he had his gun out before he even thought twice. "What the hell is that?"

Steve, to his credit, hadn't flinched. "The cartoons refer to it as a pussy cat. She wants your bacon."

The fluffy ginger that had jumped onto the table stared Billy down until he relinquished his last piece of bacon. "Why am I not surprised that you have a cat?"

"Considering your reaction, I'd say you were petrified."

"Shut up, Steve."

"No guns on the table."

Billy groaned and set the device on the console table behind him. "Yes, dear."

It was going to be a long case.

#they're married already #harringrove #007!au #hoegrove #neonponders #pondermoniums

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