#john whittaker imagine

[expectiations]

No, because imagine this.

The 70th anniversary rolls around.

We get a Tales of the TARDIS season (series?) 2.

We get Christopher, David, Matt, Peter, and Jodie.

They get closure or 'therapy' or something.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Emma DelRosso

* * * *

Opposing the president-elect's nominations

December 2, 2024

Robert B. Hubbell

Dec 02, 2024

Over the Thanksgiving weekend, Trump nominated conspiracy theorist Kash Patel as FBI Director and convicted tax fraudster Charles Kushner (Jared’s father) as Ambassador to France. Trump also nominated his daughter Tiffany’s father-in-law, Massad Boulos, as a senior adviser covering Arab and Middle Eastern affairs.

Last week I wrote that “Few imagined how bad Trump's nominees would be.” That statement was made before the nominations of Patel and Kushner, nominations that ratcheted up the sickening stream of dangerous, unqualified, and insulting choices that are collectively and individually the worst nominations in our nation’s history.

It is important to understand how disastrous these nominations will be for the US. However, it is not enough to bemoan and condemn Trump's nominations. This newsletter isn’t intended to be a pity party. It is a call to action.

We must flood our representatives in Congress with feedback from constituents demanding that they place the interests of the United States above the revenge agenda of the Republican leader. In the short term, that is what we can do—so we must do it. In the mid range, we can set about defeating Trump's enablers at the ballot box. There must be a political price to pay for supporting party above country and for being cowards when our nation needed courageous leaders.

Before turning to individual nominees, let’s examine the stakes. For once, Trump has been consistent in his actions and has stayed “on message”—in a bad way. His nominations can be grouped into three broad categories:

He seeks to weaken, if not destroy, the US intelligence community and federal law enforcement agencies—in retribution for their temerity in seeking to hold him to account for his crimes. Matt Gaetz (DOJ), Pam Bondi (DOJ), Tulsi Gabbard (NDI), Kash Patel (FBI), Stephen Miller (Depty. Chief of Staff), Kristi Noem (Homeland Security), Sebastian Gorka (Depty. Ass’t to President), John Ratcliffe (CIA), Pete Hegseth (DOD), and Matthew Whittaker (NATO).

He seeks to weaken, if not destroy, the federal government’s healthcare and science expertise—in retribution for their temerity in challenging his lunatic ideas about COVID. Robert Kennedy (HHS), Dr. Oz (Medicare), Jay Bhattacharya (NIH), Dave Weldon (CDC), and Martin A. Makary (FDA commissioner).

Finally, he seeks to destroy the administrative state—a “quid pro quo” to the business community for supporting a candidacy that was designed solely to evade his criminal liabilities. Elon Musk (Government Efficiency), Vivek Ramaswamy (Government Efficiency), Linda McMahon (Education), Russell T. Vought (OMB), Chris Wright (Energy), Brendan Carr (F.C.C. Chair).

Let’s take a look at Trump's most recent nominations

Kash Patel is the sworn enemy of the FBI—so Trump intends to nominate him as FBI Director

Kash Patel is in a love-hate relationship with the FBI. Patel wants to destroy the FBI while converting it into a weapon of political vengeance.

Patel has promised to “shut down” the FBI headquarters in Washington, D.C. on his first day as director of the FBI and re-open the FBI Headquarters the next day as a “museum to the deep state.” He said,

I'd shut down the FBI Hoover Building on day one and reopen the next day as a museum of the deep state. And I'd take the 7,000 employees that work in that building and send them across America to chase down criminals.

But he has also threatened to use the FBI to harass journalists and politicians who sought to hold Trump accountable for his crimes. Patel said,

[W]e’re going to come after the people in the media who lied about American citizens, who helped Joe Biden rig presidential elections — we’re going to come after you. Whether it’s criminally or civilly, we’ll figure that out.

Note that the man who is supposed to “pursue justice” has said that retribution comes first—and “we’ll figure out” why the FBI is harassing US citizens later.

Patel’s twin aims for the FBI should be immediately disqualifying. But prominent Republicans flocked to the TV talk shows on Sunday to defend Kash Patel as a “reformer” who will “root out” the partisanship in an FBI that is dominated by right-wing MAGA leadership as it is.

Bill Barr famously said that that Kash Patel would be appointed Deputy Director of the FBI “over my dead body.” See Joyce Vance, Civil Discourse on Substack, The New Matt Gaetz.

Likewise, former acting director of the FBI, Andrew McCabe, said on CNN,

The fact that Kash Patel is profoundly unqualified for this job is not even like a matter for debate. . . . The installation . . . of Kash Patel as FBI director, can only possibly be a plan to disrupt, to dismantle, to distract the FBI and to possibly use it as a tool for the president’s political agenda.

McCabe was virulently anti-Hillary Clinton, leaking damaging information to the WSJ during the 2016 campaign. (McCabe lied to then Director James Comey about the leak and was later fired for his conduct). The fact that a rogue ex-FBI Director is alarmed by Kash Patel speaks volumes.

The nomination of Kash Patel should be viewed as an assault on the US intelligence community. Although people frequently think of the FBI as chasing bank robbers and kidnappers, it plays a critical role in counterterrorism and intelligence gathering.

The FBI is a member of the US Intelligence Community and has a dual report to the Director of National Intelligence (Tulsi Gabbard). It is charged with US counterterrorism investigations and maintains 60 offices overseas (primarily to coordinate with foreign intelligence agencies).

Indeed, Kash Patel has said that he wants to extricate the FBI from intelligence activities—a move that will make all Americans less safe in a dangerous world. See AP, Trump says he'll nominate Kash Patel as FBI director to remake the agency. Here's what happens next. Per AP,

Patel has also talked about disentangling the FBI’s intelligence-gathering activities — now a core function of the bureau’s mandate — from the rest of its law enforcement operations. It’s unclear whether he intends to carry through on that pledge or how it would be greeted at a time when the U.S. is facing what officials say is a heightened threat of terrorism.

As background for the upcoming fight over Kash Patel, I recommend several sources.

First, Joyce Vance’s excellent analysis in Civil Discourse, The New Matt Gaetz.

Next, The Guardian takes a deep dive into Kash Patel’s conspiracy theory past: Conspiracy theorist Kash Patel, Trump’s pick to lead FBI, faces Senate blowback | FBI | The Guardian

Finally, see the NYTimes, Kash Patel Would Bring Bravado and Baggage to F.B.I. Role. (Accessible to all.) The Times article is long on detail but short on self-awareness or political insight. For example, whatever Kash Patel's nomination means, it is not about “bravado” or “baggage.”

Patel’s threat to pursue journalists appears more than two dozen paragraphs into the Times’ story. In a democracy that is still hoping and pleading with legacy media to raise the alarm about Trump's intentions, twenty-four paragraphs into a story is not the right emphasis for an article about an FBI enforcement policy that would convert the FBI into a partisan police force directed at the media.

The Senate should reject Patel’s nomination. But Trump may attempt to place Patel in an “acting Director” role by manipulating the Federal Vacancy Reform Act. See Congressional Research Service, The Vacancies Act: A Legal Overview.

Trump's nomination of Charles Kushner as Ambassador to France is insulting to France and the US

Jared Kushner’s father—Charles Kushner—is a convicted tax fraudster who engaged in witness tampering while he was under investigation. Donald Trump pardoned Charles Kushner during Trump's first term. Trump has now nominated Charles Kushner as Ambassador to France.

It is difficult to imagine a less fitting Ambassador to France the Charles Kushner.

While Kushner was under investigation for tax fraud, his brother-in-law was a cooperating witness. Kushner hired a prostitute to seduce his brother-in-law and filmed the sexual encounter in a hotel room between his brother-in-law and the prostitute.

Kushner then sent the video of the sexual encounter to his sister to induce her to dissuade her husband from testifying against Kushner. See ABC News, Trump wants pardoned real estate developer Charles Kushner to become US ambassador to France.

The nomination of Charles Kushner as US Ambassador to France is the diplomatic equivalent of flipping the middle finger to a foreign nation. France would be well within its rights to refuse to receive Kushner as the Ambassador and tell the US to recall Kushner to the states.

In the Vienna Convention on Diplomatic Relations, a nation has the unilateral authority to expel an ambassador:

The receiving state may at any time and without having to explain its decision, notify the sending state that the head of the mission or any member of the diplomatic staff of the mission is persona non grata or that any other member of the staff of the mission is not acceptable. In any such case, the sending state shall, as appropriate, either recall the person concerned or terminate his functions with the mission.

See Foreign Policy, So, How Do You Expel an Ambassador, Anyway? – Foreign Policy

Concluding Thoughts

President Biden pardoned his son Hunter Biden on Sunday. Against the orgy of Trump pardons of family, friends, and advisers, Biden’s pardon of his son on minor charges pursued for political purposes seems quaint and unremarkable. Biden’s reasons for pardoning his son are understandable—and probably meritorious. But Biden’s decision will become precedent for future pardons—by presidents with flimsy or corrupt reasons for pardoning family members. What is done can’t be undone, but the decision to grant a pardon to Hunter Biden was unwise and will further undermine the presidential pardon power.

And yes, I do understand the differences between Biden’s decision and the pardons issued by Trump. But examining the Hunter Biden pardon through the lens of the interests of the American people, it was unwise.

After I wrote last week that the nomination process has been more difficult than expected, I received several comments from readers (and my Managing Editor), saying, “Thanks for acknowledging that the nomination process has been worse than expected.”

It feels like we are living in a world turned upside down. Sexual abusers and convicted criminals are being nominated to positions of trust and honor. Demagogues who want to destroy the federal government are being granted leading roles in agencies they will seek to destroy. Unqualified, ignorant conspiracy mongers are being entrusted with the health and safety of our children and elderly. Disgruntled and aggrieved “ne’er do-wells” are being placed in charge of the US counterterrorism agencies.

If you feel like the subject in Edvard Munsch’s painting, The Scream, there is nothing wrong with your radar. You should feel that way—and more. I add the “and more” modifier because much of the press is still reporting on the nominations as if they are the player line-up being announced at Yankee Stadium on a Sunday afternoon.

The nominees represent a threat to the safety and stability to our society as a whole. Discussing the nominees’ “bravado” and “baggage” and “lack of experience” is misleading. The “lack of experience” is a feature, not a bug. What better way to destroy a federal agency than nominating someone who has no idea what the agency does? See, e.g., The Independent, Trump taps GOP megadonor with no military experience to head up US Navy.

We must attempt to derail as many of these nominations as possible—but especially Kash Patel, Pete Hegseth, Tulsi Gabbard, and Robert Kennedy. Call or write your Senators and make your voice heard: U.S. Senate: Contacting The Senate. Even unsuccessful efforts to stop some nominations will lay the groundwork for opposition to future actions. No effort is wasted, even if the fruits of that effort are not immediately visible.

[Robert B. Hubbell Newsletter]

[crowleysgirl56]

Good Omens Fandom Love Letter

Day 19 - GO crossover

I’m assuming this is my favourite crossover. That award goes to any crossover with Our Flag Means Death.

And what’s so great about this crossover is that it could literally work in canon for either show. Crowley and Aziraphale were obviously around in the 1700’s, they could have very easily nipped over to the Caribbean. Can you imagine Pirate Crowley and Gentleman Aziraphale. This crossover SCREAMS to be done.

What say we get a petition together to plea with Dave Jenkins, Taika Waititi, Rhys Darby, David Tennant, Michael Sheen, and John Finnemore to write and perform a sketch for the next Children In Need/Red Nose Day special. Because COME ON THIS WOULD BE PERFECT!

Credit again to Elora Whittaker for her awesome challenge. Please go follow her on Instagram and credit her here if you participate.

[theworstofallpossibleworlds]

call for submissions: whit’s wicked deeds

i have been challenged in my recent assertion that john avery “whit” whittaker torments children and/or the Woke, up to and including sending them to hell itself. please post instances of times where whit has reigned terror down upon his enemies, preferably including episode numbers

i will start: in episodes 211-212 “the mortal coil,” eugene enters an imagination station program based on whit’s ideological priors and built to simulate the afterlife, so of course being a non-believer he goes directly to hell

[shouldyouwakethewriteblr]

What made you choose the tag for each of your OCS? What specifically about that lyric made you feel like making it their tag?

Thank you for the neat question! 😊 Many of the tags are honestly at-risk of being changed, but all still hold messages, so I don't mind sharing. :)

'long way down to the bottom of the river' (sally)

Sally's tag is from 'Bottom Of The River' by Delta Rae. The tag itself is pretty self-explanatory with the river being a significant part of her storyline. I also associate her heavily with a lot of blues music, for some reason.

'losing grip of what I thought I knew' (martha)

Martha's tag is from 'Who Am I' by Besomorph. I chose the line to allude to Martha's ongoing identity crisis, as well as her need for certainty being turned on its head. I associate the song with Martha's relationship with both her mother and 'God'.

'are these vultures overhead?' (sylvester)

Sylvester's tag song is one of my favourites. It is 'Circle Nine' by Galt Aureus. The song itself symbolizes Sylvester's eventual fate and rescue. The tag itself references vultures (being the symbol of his mother's gang.) To me, this gives the image of Sylvester hallucinating his family and friends all around him.

'baby lion lost his teeth' (john-ira)

John-Ira's tag song is from Your Bones by Of Monsters and Men. The song, to me, gives thoughts of John-Ira trying to keep his loved ones together in the thick of it all. The tag itself, to me, symbolizes his goodness being taken advantage of.

'try a little topsy-turvy' (prudence)

Prudence's current tag is pretty new. It's from 'Upside Down' by Paloma Faith. I love this song for her, as it brings to mind Prudence defending her own unseriousness and identity, the tag itself being a lyric that felt especially playful.

'delicate in every way but one' (annie)

Annie's tag is one of the few I'd like to change eventually, but it's still relevant. It's from Lorde's song Glory And Gore, which I imagine as her justifying the company she keeps. The tag itself is as simple as 'I am not all that I seem'

'I belong to here' (rosfridur)

Rosfridur's tag is from Play Dead by Björk. I love the song for her for its otherworldly feel (the accent doesn't hurt either) and I associate the song (particularly the lyric in the tag) with her accepting and almost being resigned to her relationship with the red.

'i've taken a week to feel free' (bill)

Bill's tag I desperately want to change, but haven't come up with anything, yet. His tag is from Empty by Letdown. and is meant to represent how quickly he altered his entire life out of desperation. I still like the song for him, but I'd like something harder-hitting in the future.

'melodies and trees hang by my side' (amos)

Amos' tag is from 'No Place In Mind' by Justin Nozuka (an insanely fitting song for him.) The tag symbolizes his finding purpose and almost companionship in music and travel, and how he doesn't seem to need much else.

'every little hour that I spend' (orie)

Orie's tag is, funny enough, 'Make It Work' from the movie 'Jingle Jangle.' Forest Whittaker's character in the movie reminded me a lot of Orie and so I thought I'd nab one of his lyrics from the film to reflect that.

'when does the reason become the blame?' (simeon)

Simeon's tag comes from 'Just A Man' by Jorge Rivera-Herrans. The song was suggested to me and I almost threw up, haha. The tag was only really chosen because it was a short enough line, but the whole thing is very on-par with his storyline. Gets me emotional thinking about how Simeon was just a teenage boy who'd lost his remaining family when the Fossers began-- and how all he'd wanted was a safe place to build a new family, but had to be the one to create that place through ugly means.

'cause she's just like the weather' (flossie)

Flossie's tag could also do with a change. The song is 'Landscape' by Florence + The Machine, and I chose the tag because I loved the song for her, but couldn't find a short enough lyric that really stuck. The following lyric is 'can't hold her together,' which makes the whole thing make more sense. The whole song is, to me, symbolic of her emotional frailty.

[missesmckinnon]

Currently ignoring the fact that that Black family is “canonically” extremely inbred. They married first cousins and had children with them, and then their children married their cousins, and so on.

Do you know how absolutely fucked Sirius’s and Regulus’s genes would have been if that were the case?

I don’t think Rowling knows just how severe the effects of inbreeding can be. It’s even said that inbreeding was extremely common for pure blood families.

Look at the Whittaker family, one of the most inbred families ever. Their inbreeding started with cousins John Whittaker and Ada Riggs. Their daughter, Gracie, married her cousin, also named John. Gracie and John had 15 children. One of their daughters, Lorene Sue, had her son with an unknown man.

Just look up Timmy Whittaker (Lorene’s son). You’ll probably see a very famous photo of Timmy with two of his uncles.

This is only after four generations of inbreeding.

So imagine the Black family having even more generations of reproducing with relatives.

Rowling means to tell me that Sirius was extremely attractive, and neither he nor Regulus had any mentioned physical or mental issues? None?

No. Just no.

Please do not marry your cousins. Or your aunts or uncles. Or anyone who shares your blood.

[andrewmoocow]

Steven Universe Snake Eyes chapter 5: Be Prepared (originally posted on September 25, 2023)

AN: We only have one chapter to go before the big halfway point, and I got quite a few things planned for it. We'll be getting the long-awaited rematch between Steven and Black Rutile, the beginning of the end of the Rutile Rebels, the true nature of Prince Nosiop's plans for the universe, and many more. Tensions will run high as the story reaches the second half, and the endgame will be the most epic that Alternate Future has seen yet. Now without further ado, let's get things started.

Synopsis: Black Rutile and her subordinates find themselves caught in a scheme by the insidious heir to Serpentes's throne to conquer the universe, and Black Rutile is all too eager to get in on the plan for the sake of revenge.

Cast:

Noël Wells as Black Rutile

Jason Marsden as Prince Nosiop Jormagundr

Della Saba as Aquamarine

Charlyne Yi as Eyeball, Doc, Navy, Army, Leggy

Christine Pedi as Holly Blue Agate

Casey Lee Williams as Cat's Eye

Gina Torres as Andesine

Avi Roque as Cinnabar

Awkwafina as Kyanite

Allison Janney as Pyrite

Kimberly Brooks as Dalmatian Jasper

Zehra Fazal as Zoisite

Lena Hall as Bloodstone

Jodie Whittaker as Xenotime

Barbara Dunkelman as Amber

Kristen Schaal as Howlite

Idina Menzel as Amazonite

Halsey as Tanzanite

Mia Barron as Apatite

Jinkx Monsoon as Emerald

Kari Wahlgren as Pyrope

Melissa Fahn as Demantoid

Hayley Kiyoko as Morganite

Keith David as Pyth

Cissy Jones as Princess Naja Jormagundr

Aurelio Voltaire as King Cobralan Jormagundrr

Shirley Millner as Queen Constricta Jormagundr

Zach Callison as Steven

Zach Steel as Ronaldo

Atticus Shaffer as Peedee

Matthew Moy as Lars

Julissa Aguirre as Lady Imagineer

John Mulaney as Flipso

--

Prince Nosiop Jormagundr wasn't always the way he was today. When he was a young snake, Nosiop was a prince with big dreams for the future of his race. However, not everyone was willing to listen to him because he was so young, but he didn't let that deter him. One year, during the 419,982nd annual Contest of Champions, Nosiop tried once again to plead his case to his father.

"Conquering the Ood? Surely you jest, my boy!" King Cobralan objected to what his son had just said as the two slithered through the castle halls. "You know we'd be no match for their psychic abilities! It would be utterly stupid!"

"But please, Father, our lives could be so much easier with a hivemind serving us!" Nosiop stated, but his father still wouldn't listen. "In fact, tons of races and planets would be of great use to our people, like the Shamoians, the Mooninites, and the Watchdogs. Maybe we could even abduct ourselves a few Gems!"

"Enough, my son." Cobralan urged his future successor. "I can see you have big ideas, but unfortunately, they don't align with our culture. Now, I'm going to speak with the Universal Lords for a bit. You go off and have fun at the Contest with your mother and your baby sister." He then began to slither away. "I'll see you again soon."

Although Cobralan left the conversation with a smile, Nosiop wasn't as happy as his father. "He just doesn't get it!" Nosiop grumbled angrily. "We could be perfect conquerors, just the two of us ruling the universe as father and son!"

"It truly is a shame that your father wouldn't give you the time of day," Pyth said as he appeared behind Nosiop. "My father was like that too when I was your age. Unlike yours, however, he didn't live long enough to see things my way."

"Are you suggesting I kill my father?" Nosiop asked curiously, causing Pyth to laugh at the idea.

"No, my boy, I'm way past killing parents!" Pyth chuckled loudly. "What do you think I am, Uncle Claudius?!" After another round of laughter, Pyth decided to get serious as he put a hand on the young prince's shoulder. "Come with me, child. There are many things I wish to teach you."

Nosiop obediently followed the royal family's grand vizier down the hallways and into a hidden room within the castle walls. As loyal as he was to his father, the prince of the Slytherophidians often believed that Pyth was more of a dad to him because of how much they agreed with each other on certain topics, chief among them being what should the future holds for their race.

--

"Let's hear it for the Andesine Armada, the new and improved rebellion against the Crystal Gems!" Andesine cried as her new subordinates chanted her name to celebrate her and Cinnabar's victory against Rigby Starglow and Captain Gearfeet. "Today is a most momentous occasion in our time together. With Black Rutile no longer fit to lead our cabal of insurgents against the tyranny of the Crystal Gems, I have proven myself more than worthy of replacing her and instating myself as a gentle guiding hand in our grand mission." The Armada all cheered in excitement. "Under my leadership, not only shall we finally put the Crystal Gems out of their misery, but Black Rutile will soon be next!" Her new subordinates cheered again. "And furthermore, with the Diamonds temporarily out of commission, this shall be an ample opportunity for us to race back to Homeworld when no one's looking and seize power for ourselves!"

"But what if Black Rutile hears us?" Holly Blue asked nervously while looking left and right.

"Stuff and nonsense, we're behind closed doors here." Aquamarine snidely declared. "There's no way she can find us." Just then, the doors to the Andesine Armada's quarters opened behind Aquamarine, and in came Black Rutile with Nosiop and Pyth, much to the other Gems' shock as they tried silently begging her to shut up. "Of course, that is if she hasn't been brainwashed by Steven right about now."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Am I interrupting anything?" Black Rutile abruptly interrupted Aquamarine's bravado, sending chills down her spine as she turned to face her former master. "So, this is what you've all been doing, huh?"

"Uh, my Rutile, this isn't what it looks like!" Cinnabar awkwardly apologized to her old mentor. "Andesine and I were just playing a little game of follow the leader!"

"A likely story." Black Rutile replied while pulling out her bowie knife. "Tell me more about this Andesine Armada you've all been bragging about."

"Should you tell her, or should I?" Tanzanite asked Amazonite.

"No, I value my life too much to even talk to her right now," Amazonite replied fearfully, casting an illusion to hide herself from Black Rutile.

"Now, everyone, let's just calm down here and talk things out." Amber tried to ease the tension, but Black Rutile quickly shoved her out of the way to confront Cinnabar and Andesine.

"I'm going to assume this was all your idea, Andesine." Black Rutile said to her old friend. "After all, your name is literally in the team name!"

"No, it wasn't, it was Kyanite's idea!" Andesine tried to shift the blame onto someone else.

"Hey, I've only been here a few minutes!" Kyanite cried. "What's going on?!"

"Please forgive us, Black Rutile, but we simply believe you can no longer lead us into battle." Cinnabar firmly stated. "Your exile to Earth has turned you soft and pathetic, and you are perfectly aware of it yet never once bothered to fix it!"

"I did!" Black Rutile exclaimed. "I tried allying with a Steven from another universe where I'm the good guy, I struck a bargain with an extra-dimensional jester, and I even used the Internet to turn humanity against the Crystal Gems!"

"But that's the thing, dearie," Pyrite stated while filing her nails. "You failed at every single one of those." She added while poking Black Rutile in the chest with her nail filer. "For all your planning and thinking you're one step ahead of everybody, you fail to realize that you're just as flawed as the rest of us."

"Is that so?" Black Rutile said before turning the knife into her massive sword. "How's this for flawed?!" With a mighty swing, Cinnabar and Andesine were sliced in two and poofed, to the horror of the other Gems around them.

"Boss, no!" Bloodstone yelled in horror as she raced to scoop up Cinnabar's inactive gem while Howlite did the same to her superior's.

"Now then, anyone else care to join them?" Black Rutile smirked while menacingly pointing her sword at the surviving resistance members. Although they were more willing to speak up to their fallen superior, this ragtag band of Gems had every right to keep their mouths shut until one of them spoke up.

"All hail Black Rutile!" Eyeball chanted vigorously. "All hail Black Rutile! Come on, guys!"

"All hail Black Rutile! All hail Black Rutile!" the other members of the newly rechristened Rutile Rebels joined Eyeball in cheering for their new leader.

"Now that's more like it!" Black Rutile laughed evilly while sneering at Cinnabar and Andesine's followers mourning the loss of their leaders. "Now that I've reinstated myself as your fearless leader, allow me to introduce a new acquaintance I've made in my time here." She motioned for Nosiop to step forward. "This is Prince Nosiop of the Jormagundr royal family, and much like me, he also desires a new era for his people."

"Yes indeed, I now present to you a grand idea for the Slytherophidian race," Nosiop stated. "With all of you at my side, we can overthrow my good-for-nothing father and instill myself as not just the new ruler of his empire but as the most powerful Universal Lord there is."

"Are you crazy?!" Holly Blue yelled. "You'd be a fool to challenge a Universal Lord, especially if it's your father, Nosiop!"

"My father is yesterday's message, a clapped-out and distracted regime." Nosiop began singing to the Gem rebels. "Whose failings undoubtedly presage the need for a different dream. Yes, serpentine times are a-changing, meaning you must do so too. My vision is clear and wide-ranging and even encompasses you."

"So, prepare for the coup of the century. Prepare for the murkiest scam." Black Rutile also began singing, and far more intensely than Nosiop, as if she was using the song to air out her insecurities. "Meticulous planning and tenacity spanning centuries of denial is simply why I'll be empress! Undisputed, respected, saluted, and seen for the visionary I am! Yes, my gem and ambitions are bared. Be prepared!"

"Yeah, be prepared, we'll be prepared!" Zoisite exclaimed. "Uh, for what?"

"For the death of my father and the beginning of a new era for Serpentes!" Nosiop loudly announced.

"What do we do, make him sick?" Dalmatian Jasper asked before Pyth coiled his tail around her neck.

"No, you fool, we're going to kill him." Pyth proclaimed.

"And Steven, too." Black Rutile added sinisterly before DJ was dropped to the ground.

"Splendid idea!" Xenotime cheered. "Who needs either of them?!"

"Idiots, there will still be someone to rule!" Nosiop yelled. "Together, Black Rutile and I shall conquer the universe together using the power of the Lapidarist, who has the power to reset all Gems to their basic functions!"

"Wait, really?" Emerald asked nervously, not having a clue as to what Nosiop was talking about.

"Yes, you would all be rejuvenated on a massive scale, so to speak." Nosiop grinned with a hiss. "With her powers, I shall have myself an unstoppable army to overthrow my family and conquer all that I see! Now, who's with me?!"

Despite the dire circumstances this would place not just them but all Gemkind in by wiping everything that made them the Gems they are today, the Rutile Rebels had no choice but to agree out of fear for their lives. However, some were still nervous about how Black Rutile would play a part in this, especially after how she heartlessly poofed two of her most loyal subordinates. "All hail Black Rutile and King Nosiop! All hail Black Rutile and King Nosiop!"

"So, prepare for a glorious future!" Black Rutile announced as the Rutile Rebels chanted, 'Be prepared!'. "Be prepared for a universal golden age!"

"And like any other who'd murder their father!" Eyeball laughed before Aquamarine pulled her fusion partner aside.

"If we don't spread rumors, she'll feed us and groom us!" Aquamarine stated.

"When we've got friends in high places, we hold all the aces!" the Rutile Rebels and a few snake guards chanted harmoniously.

"So don't try and rattle my scales." Nosiop snidely added.

"Oh, imagine if anyone dared!" the chorus cried out. "BE PREPARED!"

"So prepare for the coup of the century!" Nosiop and Black Rutile sang together. "Be prepared for the murkiest scam!"

"Meticulous planning, tenacity planning!" Nosiop proclaimed.

"Centuries of denial is simply why we'll!" Black Rutile added.

"Rule supreme undisputed, respected, saluted, and seen for the visionaries we are!" the villainous duo declared. "Yes, our gems, fangs, and ambitions are bared; be prepared!"

"Yes, our gems, fangs, and ambitions are bared!" Aquamarine, Eyeball, Holly Blue, and Cat's Eye, who have all loyally followed their leader despite everything that's happened, sang together.

"Be prepared!" the newly-formed union of the Rutile Rebels and Nosiop's followers announced, sealing their alliance with a shared evil laugh.

"Pleasure to be working alongside you, partner." Black Rutile said as she and Nosiop shook hands.

"The pleasure's all mine, partner." Nosiop hissed while covertly crossing two scaly fingers behind his back, which implied he desires to stab Black Rutile in the back when she least expected it.

--

"And that's the whole story of how we got here," Ronaldo said to Peedee elsewhere in the Ouraborium. "Though I'm pretty sure I didn't need to tell you all that since you did hitch a ride with us."

"You are definitely right on that one," Peedee answered.

"So why did you do it?" Steven asked. "What would Mr. Fryman say?"

"He said I should keep an eye on him no matter what," Peedee replied firmly. "And if that means hitching a ride with you guys on a spaceship heading for an alien planet in another galaxy, then I'll do it, no problemo. Plus, it would be nice to participate in one of your big adventures, Steven."

"It's nice to have you join in, too, Peedee," Steven said to his old friend with a hand on his shoulder. "But be warned, this planet is insanely deadly. You might be forced to fight for your life in a gladiatorial death match where you might die if you aren't careful!"

"Luckily, you got your big brother to protect you!" Ronaldo exclaimed excitedly while raising his sword.

"Yeah, good luck with that." Peedee dryly remarked, recalling Ronaldo's cowardice in his fight against the Decimator.

"Yeah, ditto." The three boys heard the voice of none other than Lars say as he walked up behind them. "Hey Steven, long time no see. Sorry we had to meet again like this."

"Lars, did they capture you too?!" Steven exclaimed at the undead human before him. "Oh no, where are the Off-Colors? Are they in trouble?!"

"Don't worry, they're fine," Lars assured Steven. "They're just stuck in a cell somewhere since none of them can fight per se. They only want me since I can't really die." Before Lars can continue, he suddenly noticed Ronaldo and Peedee standing behind Steven. "Wait, Ronaldo?! How and when did you and Peedee get here?!"

"We followed Steven here!" Ronaldo answered, smiling. "I was vindicated upon learning that the snake people, I mean, Slytherophidians, were real all along, like many of my theories, and I came along to gather as much info as I could about their people so I could spread them to the humans!"

"And I came along to keep Ronaldo from accidentally killing himself," Peedee added. "So, how's your space adventures been going?"

"That's actually a funny story. The Off-Colors and I were journeying to Wasprus when we got abducted." Lars revealed to the two humans. "Once their guards noticed that I'm basically invincible after experimenting on me, they said they wanted to keep me here forever so I'll keep fighting for as long as the universe lives."

An intercom crackled to life as if the Slytherophidians heard Lars' explanation. "For our next fight, we shall be pitting the one and only Lars of the Stars against the flying dreamer Lady Imagineer!" the voice of Queen Constricta announced. "Now, Lars, be sure you're as ready as you'll ever be because Ms. Imagineer is a very tough opponent."

"Well, speak of the devil." Lars muttered in surprise as the guards moved him to the arena. "Wish me luck, guys! I'm going to need it!"

"Good luck, Lars!" Steven hollered as Lars got further away from him and the Fryman brothers.

--

"Nosiop, are you there?" Naja called for her older brother while slinking through the castle halls. "Where are you? Father is getting worried and wants to see you." Unfortunately, her big brother did not answer. "Come on, Nosey, where are you?"

"Looking for someone, my dear?" Aquamarine asked as she fluttered down and landed on the floor next to Naja. "I once felt lost, too, but then I realized I had someone right by my side this whole time."

"You're one of those Rutile Rebels, aren't you?" Naja asked Aquamarine. "What do you want with me?"

"Oh, how very astute, your grace," Aquamarine replied with a mocking curtsy. "Now then, you were looking for someone, right?"

"Yes, I'm looking for Nosiop," Naja stated. "Have you seen him?"

"I am right here, dearest Naja." Nosiop hissed as he, Pyth, and Black Rutile emerged from the shadows. "Oh, I am so sorry that my sweet baby sister was so scared her big brother wasn't there to keep her safe. Then again, you were always pretty scared but always tried hiding it by acting like the showman you want to be."

"He does raise a good point there, princess." Black Rutile snidely added before cupping Naja's face in her hand. "You ever feel like your old man and the queen have been holding you back from reaching your full potential, Naja?"

"Nosiop, what are you doing fraternizing with Black Rutile?!" Naja asked hurriedly. "You know she's an intergalactic criminal imprisoned for multiple counts of attempted genocide! Stay away from her!"

"Oh please, you threaten to destroy one planet multiple times, and everyone treats you like the bad guy." Black Rutile rolled her eyes in disgust. "Anyways, your brother isn't fraternizing with me. I'M fraternizing with HIM. As it turns out, the two of us have something in common, and we became close quite instantly."

"Perhaps you'd like to join us on our little crusade." Nosiop offered while taking his sister's hand. "Together, the two of us can rule the universe side by side as brother and sister with an unstoppable Gem army at our command, and no one will have to judge you for what you really are!"

"What are you saying?" Naja asked, growing more concerned for her big brother's mental status by the second.

"I'm saying that Mother and Father are holding us back!" Nosiop yelled in his sister's face, momentarily flicking his forked tongue at her. "I have legitimately good ideas for our people, but no one ever takes me seriously! But Black Rutile, on the other hand, truly understands my suffering, for she has encountered the same problems as I!"

"Indeed, I was made an outcast because I disagreed with the current status quo of my race." Black Rutile added, trying to look as innocent as possible with a pout and big, pleading eyes toward Naja. "I was even betrayed by my friends who started thinking little of me, but I changed that quickly."

"I know where this is going, and I refuse to take part in it!" Naja exclaimed as she tried to escape the oncoming swarm of Rutile Rebels. "Father will hear about this!"

"Well, excuse me, Princess, but I think not." Black Rutile hissed angrily. "Rubies, seize her!"

"Yes, my Rutile!" the Rubies obediently chorused as they jumped up and tackled Naja to the ground. "Princess has been secured!"

"Excellent, little Rubies." Pyth purred eagerly. "Now, please show the dear princess to her room until further notice." He gave orders with a sadistic smile. "Wouldn't want her getting in the way by telling everybody."

"You won't get away with this!" Naja yelled angrily as the Rubies dragged her away. "Steven will find out!" As Nosiop watched the Rubies carry off his sister, he turned away in shame at having to betray his sister like this. But alas, their worldviews had no choice but to clash as he still had far grander designs in mind, and she didn't play a role in them. With a heavy sigh, the visionary prince looked to his new Gem ally and his royal vizier, who looked back at him with sinister smiles.

--

Meanwhile, in the Ouraborium, Lars had been pitted against the flying dreamer Lady Imagineer in combat, but despite his moderate skill in combat, the donut boy turned undead space hero was outmatched in every way possible.

"Stay still, for Pete's sake!" Lars groaned as he tried catching up with Lady Imagineer's airborne acrobatics. "Just because I'm human doesn't mean I can't beat you!"

"But that's what makes your race so fun, Lars!" Imagineer laughed sweetly. "You have so much potential; you just need to learn not to waste it!"

"Yeah, that's my sister up there!" the reality-warping trickster Flipso cheered for Lady Imagineer while conjuring up a smartphone to record the fight with. "You're doing amazing, sweetie!" Suddenly, Solaris Noctua turned his gaze to find Flipso in the audience below where he and the other Universal Lords were seated. Flipso immediately hid himself by disguising himself as a Slytherophidian. "Gotta keep up appearances."

"Quit flying around so much!" Lars yelled as he tried using his portal powers to scream his way to Lady Imagineer, but she was far too quick on her feet for him to keep up.

"Gonna have to catch me first!" Imagineer giggled before conjuring up an illusion of Sadie that made Lars blush, distracting him long enough for the space pirate to realize he was now falling to the ground. "I can also conjure up illusions based on what I find in your mind."

"YOU SUUUUUUUUCK!" Lars screamed before he landed on the ground with a loud thud, prompting the audience to chant.

"FINISH HIM! FINISH HIM! FINISH HIM! FINISH HIM!" the Slytherophidians cheered as Lady Imagineer floated down to where Lars landed and helped him up.

"Ugh, my back." Lars groaned in pain as he shuffled away. "This is probably the second most humiliating moment in my life, right after Steven possessing my body."

"Oh, come on, Lars, at least you had fun, right?" Lady Imagineer asked with a cute smile.

"Yeah, maybe it was a little fun." Lars laughed dryly before continuing his walk of shame.

--

"Oh, my back." Lars groaned in pain as he struggled back to the quarters the Jormagundr royal family gifted him upon his arrival on Serpentes and slumped on the closest velveteen couch to sleep his troubles away. "Oh, sweet Velveteen Rabbit. Take me away on your Edwardian adventures."

"Anything the matter, Lars?" Emerald asked while walking in and stroking Lars's aching back.

"Just lost to Lady Imagineer," Lars said while turning his head to face Emerald. "What are you doing here?"

"I just wanted to comfort an 'old friend' of mine in these trying times," Emerald replied. "Seeing you so humiliated like that, while it was cathartic to see you feel how you always made me feel back in the day, it just pained me to see a worthy opponent go down like that."

"What are you saying?" Lars asked, not expecting a good answer at all.

"I'm saying is that Steven has ruined your life for long enough!" Emerald exclaimed. "First, he repeatedly robs you of your dignity, then he takes you away from your home planet where you were forced to die for him, and now you're fighting for your life on another alien planet! And you're expected to become his friend after all that?!"

"You're wrong!" Lars yelled as he bolted up, briefly yelping in pain. "Yeah, Steven and I got off on the wrong foot, but he still willingly gave up everything for the wellbeing of others, even me, and I returned the favor! Now, I'm living the dream as a badass space hero like in the old TV shows with a bizarro found family of Off-Colors!"

"That's what I hated about you, Lars, outside of the fact you stole my favorite ship and got away with it," Emerald stated while pulling out her spiked club from her gem, now pulsating with electricity as she pointed it at Lars. "You're way too human!" She swung her club at Lars, who deflected it with a kick.

"No, I'm just human enough!" Lars smirked before punching Emerald's face and knocking her down. "What's with the change in attitude? Last time I saw you, you were willing to face punishment for your crimes."

"Things have changed. Though I wanted to atone, eventually, I grew tired of Black Rutile's wailing and believed my failures were because of her." Emerald revealed. "Ditto for Demantoid, Pyrope, and Morganite as well."

"Guess old habits die hard, I suppose," Lars muttered before Emerald tried taking him by surprise with another swing of her club, but Lars dodged in the nick of time and sent her flying towards the wall with a combo of fists and feet. As Emerald lay injured against the wall, Demantoid, Pyrope, and Morganite raced to see what was happening.

"Emerald, what happened here?!" Morganite asked while helping the renowned pilot to her feet.

"Seems like I got a little shortsighted again." Emerald laughed weakly. "At least I tried to get one over on him."

"This won't be the last you'll see of us, Lars of the Stars," Demantoid said to Lars. "When next we meet, you will face the full might of the Rutile Rebels."

"And I'll be onto you like a Langdon Cobb movie." Lars replied firmly.

"Do any of you have a clue as to what he said?" Pyrope asked while the three Gems carried Emerald away, to which Demantoid and Morganite responded with hushed confusion.

--

In the Crystal Gems' room in the arena, Steven was sitting worriedly on the couch with Peedee as Ronaldo paced around the sofa, thinking about Lars's loss and how it would affect them. "Well, there goes Lars." Ronaldo declared bluntly. "Either of you got any bright ideas?"

"I'm not sure what to do now," Peedee replied. "I mean, what chance do we have now that the Diamonds have been poofed and Lars is out of commission? In fact, where are the Crystal Gems?"

"Off being forced to fight more innocent aliens," Steven added. "Speaking of which, I wonder how Black Rutile is doing."

"Attention all combatants, our next fight is a very special one!" Constricta's voice announced through the arena's PA system. "For quite possibly the biggest show yet in the Contest of Champions, we give you Steven Universe versus Black Rutile!"

"What?!" the three boys yelled while Black Rutile stormed into the room with an evil laugh.

"I see you just heard my big surprise for you, Steven!" Black Rutile announced joyfully. "As arranged by my dear friend Prince Nosiop, we shall have our long-awaited rematch, and I'll finally get the chance to destroy you once and for all!"

"No one destroys a boy like you, my Rutile," Aquamarine said while perched on Black Rutile's shoulder. "See you soon, Steven." The two Gems laughed as Black Rutile turned around and left, leaving Steven horrified at what he had just heard.

"This is not good; this is not good at all," Steven muttered nervously. "Everyone here already hates me because I don't want to kill people, so they'll no doubt be rooting for Black Rutile to destroy me! What do I do?!"

"Hey, don't fret, Steven, just believe in yourself," Ronaldo suggested. "Believe in the Ronaldo who believes in you."

"He's right," Peedee added. "Some people can't believe in themselves until someone believes in them first. Remember that no matter what, everyone back at Beach City has your back."

"Thanks, guys," Steven said with his eyes closed. "But I guess I have no other choice." He opened his eyes, revealing that one of them now had a diamond-shaped pupil.

--

And so, we finally reach the halfway point of Snake Eyes with the long-awaited rematch between Steven and Black Rutile, allowing them to finally settle the score after their numerous fights in Alternate Future. And this time, Black Rutile won't just decide to give up on Steven and let him wallow in shame, she's going in for the kill and has a lot of issues left over she'll use their upcoming fight for. How will things turn out? Find out next week.

[witchofthemidlands]

i genuinely don't know how to convey the euphoria i feel about ncuti gatwa being the fifteenth doctor & how excited i am about his first season into words & this is so new for me, i started watching & became a whovian in 2008 & never ever have i ever been excited about a new version of the doctor quite like i have been excited about ncuti gatwa as fifteen. i have always been apprehensive about regeneration, i hate change. when i was 9 & david tennant was going to become matt smith i couldn't imagine anyone playing the doctor other than david tennant, he was my first & this was the first time i was seeing a doctor regenerate & 9 year old me was so negative about it to the point where my parents decided to traumatise me with the doctor who movie to try & show me that this has always happened & that there are so many other wonderful versions of the doctor, that experiment did in fact give me ✨seven issues✨ & is the reason why i am so attached to that little gremlin to this day & then they showed me series 1 & how nine became ten & yet i still was apprehensive about eleven until i watched his first episode & was blown away with how good it was & felt happy about him being the doctor now. then it's 2013 & matt smith was going to become peter capaldi & for me it was an immediate 😬 i couldn't imagine eleven becoming twelve. i couldn't imagine the doctor looking like the character that traumatised me in children of earth & it wasn't until class that i fell in love with twelve. then it's 2017 & twelve is becoming thirteen & yes she's beautiful, it's an absolute win for the women who love women & i loved jodie whittaker in trust me but fluffy space grandad twelve would be leaving & how could i imagine anyone being the doctor after him? but then her season started & i love her so much 🥰

(he's definitely a new version of the doctor but i count the regeneration of thirteen to fourteen & david tennant returning to the role the same way i count jo martin & john hurt's doctors)

BUT NOW?!?! with ncuti gatwa?!? as soon as he was announced i wanted the new season immediately, everything about him becoming the doctor just felt right, i don't know if it was because me & my friend at uni said in the kitchen one morning that ncuti gatwa would be a good doctor who one day or what it was but i just knew that this was the greatest news & that everything, every little crumb, poster, trailer & when the giggle & the church on ruby road aired every moment was just fantastic & left me wanting more & that makes me so happy that i have finally been excited about a regeneration.

so i'm apologising now for the levels of feral i am about to descend to when fifteen's first season airs.

[transthadymacdermot]

(Detail from plate 3 of William Hogarth's The Rake's Progress... which is set a bit earlier than this work is but ah well)

Wip intro: Red and Riotous Light

Genre: historical fiction, horror, black comedy

Progress: 3rd or so draft

Content warnings: gore/death/a variety of place-and-time typical forms of bigotry/cannibalism/etc

One dark night in 1794 the linen boss William Rearden shoots an English magistrate in Ireland in the head. This relatively simple action, so quick in the moment, soon begins a chain reaction that threatens to overwhelm everyone around him. A government informer, a boy detective, a French agent, a petty criminal, and a loyalist inn owner are all drawn into the fray, and as their lives go progressively downhill, they find themselves making decisions their former selves never could have imagined.

First, there is William Rearden, competing with his fellow United Irishmen Iain and Dorothy Hoyle for the position of delegate, ignoring the advice of his friend Anthony Franklin, and trying to stay loyal to his beloved commanding officer, Thomas Wilson. Into this comes Robert Bird, a mysterious Scotsman with a missing eye, endorsed by local libertine Jenny Curran but recognised by no one. All that anyone knows is that whenever he appears things take a decisive turn for the worse.

Down the road from the public house where the United Irishmen congregate is an inn, the Essex Arms, run by Edward "Lazarus" McClure, Steelboy and Boyne Society member extraordinaire, who has recently struck up a relationship with the contentious Brendan Breen. Not helping their already rocky start is the fact that Brendan's odd ten year old nephew, Seamy, has become convinced that Lazarus has committed a string of heinous crimes -- including the murder of the magistrate. As time marches on, Lazarus' pride leads him down darker and darker paths, while Seamy's obsession with death leaves him vulnerable to manipulation by another boy, whose motivations may not be as pure as they seem.

Lastly, Seamy's cousin, Dolours, whose family was killed in a fire, though she has always had a rather fast and loose approach to the law, has only just begun courting treason. With the ultimate goal of obtaining enough cash to move to the country with her girlfriend, Lucy Gifford, she agrees to work for the French agent Maria Whittaker in smuggling soap past the British blockade of France. However, suspiciously placed money and violent debt collectors make the plan turn dangerous, and so Dolours and Lucy are forced to work with the priest Father John Prendergast to patch things up before Whittaker and her American associates make good on their threat to disembowel them.

Main Characters

William Rearden -- (he/him) a linen boss of some repute. A republican, family man, and supporter of freedom worldwide. Also a notorious gunman.

Robert Bird -- (he/him) a Scottish former soldier who has turned to the intelligence business. Deeply unremarkable as a person. Being deceived beyond his wildest dreams.

Edward "Lazarus" McClure -- (he/him) a resentment-filled, Derry-born, oak branch-wearing, sham-fighting inn owner. Loves his current fling and Winstanley; hates his father and the law.

Seamus "Seamy" Breen -- (he/him) one ten-year-old out of fourteen children, who has a fascination with murder and death. Convinced of his ability to solve any problem.

Dolours Breen -- (she/her) a loving girlfriend, terrible niece, avowed atheist, and smuggler. Disgusted by her surroundings, seeks an escape in subsistence farming with her girlfriend.

Lady Maria Anne Whittaker -- (she/her) a Jacobite-descended Englishwoman whose job it is to get supplies to France, no matter who has to die for it. Loves, apart from herself, her sister.

[maccreadysbaby]

i saw that simon go by…

Im assuming that means you play dbh… do you wanna… like…. Put bentley in it…

crossovers and AUs are beginning to become my favorite thing ever because I shove my boy into the faces of my favorite characters and force them to love him

there's a little synopsis of dbh under the cut for my bentley followers that have no clue what I'm on about

⚠️also I know the narration swaps from calling Simon an it to calling him a he in the middle of the story — it’s purposeful, because that’s when Bentley stops calling him it and starts calling him he

Project: Killcode Drabbles

tw: lots of violence and gore, major character death right in front of bentley’s poor little baby eyes

wanna read the extended fic? here’s the table of contents!

⚠️ THIS IS NOT PART OF BENTLEY’S MAIN STORYLINE, THIS BENTLEY INSERTED INTO AN AU (ALTERNATE UNIVERSE.)

brief overview of DBH:

Detroit: Become Human is a third person/multiple protagonist choice-based game. It is set in the future, where perfectly human-like androids have been created, and the only thing that sets them apart are LED lights on their left temple and uniforms they have to wear with their designations on them. Humans use androids for everything, from hard labor, to pleasure, to housekeepers, to caretakers, and some, even temporary or lifelong artificial companions. These androids don’t feel pain, don’t feel emotions, and have no free will. They are programmed to follow orders given by their designated master, and that’s all.

Only, now, something is happening in Detroit. Androids are heavily abused in workplaces and residential settings, and due to them having no emotions and feeling no pain, humans feel no guilt for it. From using their bodies to put out their cigarettes, to tying them to the hitch of a car for fun, to beating them out of working order simply out of pure and unadulterated rage -- androids became an outlet, something people could shove around and bark orders at with no regrets.

But enough became enough, and much to society’s terror, the androids began to wake up one by one, few by few. They could feel emotions, and they acted out in fear against their abusers, abandoning their programming and obtaining free will.

These rogue androids are called deviants.

photos for your imagination ↴

↖︎ SIMON / PL600 Model Android — Bentley refers to him as both his model number (PL600) and Simon in this little thing (he’s the first android Bentley talks to so he won’t be hard to find)

↖︎ WR600 Model Android — the only other model that Bentley speaks briefly to, it’s the one who does the thing, you’ll see

DETROIT, MICHIGAN — FEBRUARY 16, 2036, 11:07PM

DEVIANTS WERE KILLING PEOPLE THROUGHOUT THE CITY OF DETROIT, AND JOHN WHITTAKER, A CYBERLIFE ADMINISTRATOR, WAS TASKED WITH FINDING OUT WHY.

That’s why he and Bentley had spent every waking hour since the first of the year down in the lab beneath their home, picking apart androids, wading through their coding, trying to find exactly what instability in their software was making them… feel. 

Androids, artificial humans, were created to serve mankind — emotionless, soulless beings with no free will, to do man’s labor and protect their livelihood. Robots created for pleasure, to do everything man asked of them; figurines, puppets for real humans to puppeteer at will. Someone to do the hard or uncomfortable jobs so humans could live like kings.

But now, Androids were… waking up. Developing feelings — urges that overrode their programming and equipped them with the three most dangerous assets artificial intelligences could ever dawn.

A will to live, emotions… and free will.

(If they didn’t find the problem soon, the androids were going to murder them all, Bentley’s father had said.)

The basement of Whittaker Estate was one large, concrete room, devoid of windows but so blindingly illuminated with massive lights that Bentley never knew what time it was when he was down there. In the center of the room stood a big, reclining bed, like in a hospital, and several computer-like machines standing around it. Lining the walls of the room were shackles -- thirty pairs of them, but at the current moment, only seventeen of them were working to keep androids stationary. Along the wall next to the door was industrial sized shelving, holding cases upon cases of spare android biocomponents — their internal parts.

In a chair next to the center bed was Bentley’s father, brown eyes and blood red hair just like his son, dawning a lab coat and official looking scrubs. He had on funky magnifying glasses and an array of small tools spread out on a rolling table before him. He hadn’t spoken to Bentley once since they’d come downstairs… at least twelve hours ago.

Pinned onto the bed by leather straps cinched tightly around its wrists, ankles, torso, and forehead, was an AX400 model android. One that was made to be a housewife, or maid -- a cleaner and caretaker. They were quite pretty, Bentley thought, but this one’s face was mangled and ripped open, it's blue blood staining the bed and the tools and Bentley’s father’s hands as he searched diligently for anything physical inside that may affect its programming. It had become a Deviant the night before in that very basement, broken through its coding and obtained free will. Tried to kill Bentley’s father.

(No one can kill him, Bentley was convinced. The now dead deviant was proof enough.)

The eleven year old was hovering near the walls where the other seventeen androids were shackled up, in a set of weird scrubs and tennis shoes his father required him to wear while downstairs. The androids they kept were all different makes and models, varying in appearance and gender, each one wearing the exact same black and white android uniform with their model numbers on them. They’d all been put into low power mode, which, to Bentley’s understanding, left them conscious but unable to move. He didn’t like watching his father pick around in a humanoid thing’s head, so he took to doing the second most important job in their little lab.

(And also the easiest job in their little lab; which he appreciated, since he wasn't really sleeping in favor of research, hadn’t eaten for at least fourteen hours, and was starting to feel a bit like the human epitome of death.)

It was running diagnostics. All he had to do was stand there.

Diagnostics were a surefire way to ensure that all an android’s internal systems were working -- and, if they got lucky, maybe even a way they’d be able to identify the issue in androids’ programming that allowed them to turn deviant. The androids they had in their possession weren’t deviants yet -- no emotions, and no free will. But Bentley had been trained on searching their programming and internal coding for errors or malfunctions or something laying dormant; something that would only turn volatile and flare up after a jarring circumstance.

Bentley had heard most androids turned deviant… after their owners abused them.

(Maybe if humans could get over themselves long enough to treat the companions they created like they were worth half the money and effort Cyberlife put into them, they wouldn’t be having this problem. But that was just Bentley’s opinion.)

Bentley sighed heavily as he stared at a PL600 model android, shackled to the wall, its head hung, eyes open but sort of… blank. It was a male model -- maybe a foot taller than the eleven-year-old, with a perfectly proportioned face, blonde hair, and big bluish-gray eyes. It looked seamless; natural. The only thing that separated its appearance from that of an actual adult man was the small, circular LED light that was shining blue on its left temple.  

(If it didn’t have that, no one would be able to tell it was an android. Which kind of freaked Bentley out.)

He glanced down at the tablet in his hand, typing in a few strings of code on the holographic screen -- a screen which indicated it was eleven-oh-seven at night. He sent a glance back to his father, but he was still dissecting the robot intently and didn’t seem close to finished, so Bentley safely assumed he was in for a long, long night.

He sighed lightly, opening up a diagnostic program on the tablet that started loading. The android’s make and model popped up on the screen when Bentley got close to it. “PL600, model 501 743 923, abort low-power mode.”

The android immediately perked at his words, its eyes suddenly brightening, lifting its head and gazing around the room. It attempted to bring up its hands, to look at them, but the shackles restricted its movement.

(It looked so much like a man shackled to their wall.)

Bentley stayed quiet, watching as the artificial human gathered its bearings, the LED light on its temple flashing from blue, to yellow in processing, then back to blue. Its gaze settled on Bentley, then flitted down to the tablet in his hands.

“I need to run an internal diagnostic,” Bentley said to the android, glancing at the metal clamps on its arms. “Station one, release.”

The shackles obeyed, releasing the PL600’s wrists and retracting into the wall.

The screen of the tablet Bentley was holding changed from a loading screen to a different one -- blue, with a big white hand in the center. “Put your hand here, please. It won’t hurt or anything.”

The android blinked at him, then at the tablet, its LED spinning yellow.

“Don’t talk to it like that, Bentley,” His father grumbled from across the room, hands stained blue from the synthetic blood of the mangled android. “It can’t feel pain. It doesn’t have feelings -- stop treating it like it does.”

Bentley said nothing, only sending a quick glance to his father that wasn’t returned. He extended the tablet out toward the android, which followed orders just as it was given -- placing its hand on the screen and waiting.

Bentley watched strings of code go by on the side of the screen, scanning it routinely for anything abnormal. 

Only when he felt that the android was looking at him did he glance back up at it.

It was staring down at him with its freakishly human face, with a freakishly human glint in its freakishly human eyes. That specific model was created as a residential companion -- a friend, a butler, a caretaker for children, maybe. Its primary instructions embedded into its code were to care for and serve a household. 

Maybe that's why Bentley wasn’t entirely surprised when it lifted its other hand to his forehead, the not-real-skin-but-felt-pretty-much-like-real-skin cool against his head. ��You’re running an internal temperature of 99.8 degrees fahrenheit, which is a low grade fever. I suggest lots of fluid and rest.”

Bentley glanced up at the android. It had no concern on its face, it was just… watching him intently.

“Thanks… I’ll-“

Bentley heard his fathers chair spin around, glancing back just in time to catch his fiery brown eyes. “Who the hell do you think you are, talking to my son? Touching him? 501 743 923, abort speaking functionalities and keep your damn artificial hands to yourself.”

The android’s LED flickered yellow again, and it closed its mouth, its hand drifting slowly away from Bentley’s forehead. 

It wouldn’t speak again until his father told it it could — because his father was its master. 

For the rest of the diagnostic time, Bentley paid little attention to the code he was supposed to be analyzing and paid whole-hearted attention to the android ahead of him. The way it blinked at irregular intervals just like a human, the way its chest rose and fell just like his even if there were no lungs inside it, the way it glanced around the basement in such an undeniably human way, taking in information, just like they did.

And his father was ripping one open across the room. For science.

(Bentley wasn’t an android sympathizer. He wasn’t. But it wasn’t exactly pleasant to watch something so similar to him, so human, getting ruthlessly wrenched apart mere feet from him, either.)

Once the diagnostic finished and Bentley had successfully paid no attention to it, he moved the tablet away from the android’s hand. “Thank… I mean, uh-“ He glanced back at his father, who had turned away from him again. “Um… station one, shackle.”

The metal shackles came back out of the wall, and the android obeyed the unspoken order, placing its wrists inside the metal and letting them close around them.

It made eye contact with Bentley again with its too human blue eyes, and he felt a little bit of… he didn’t really know. Remorse? Sympathy?

“PL600, 501 743 923, engage low power mode,”

The android’s head dipped down, its eyes got that weird, far off look again, and Bentley took a breath in and out. He glanced across the room at the sixteen remaining androids he had to run diagnostics on. 

He did five more in silence, picking through the androids’ coding, repeatedly coming up with nothing. Nothing abnormal, nothing strange, nothing out of the ordinary. (Not that he was doing a very good job — he sort of felt like falling asleep standing up, if he were being completely honest.) The whole time, his father just kept stabbing and ripping and tearing into the head of the android that looked so much like a dead girl, and every time Bentley glanced over at it, he kind of wanted to throw up.

“Father,” He spoke sheepishly, watching the shackles return the sixth android to its original position. “Can I go up to bed? I’m tired.”

Bentley’s father let out a long sigh, flicking a scalpel covered in blue blood in his direction. “Run one more diagnostic, then yes.”

With a quiet sigh of relief, Bentley moved to the seventh android, a WR600 model. It was created as a gardener to work Detroit’s land and greenhouses, and there were thousands and thousands of the exact same model, so it hadn’t been very hard for his father to purchase one. It looked sort of similar to the PL600 if Bentley looked close enough… but with a more angular face, a bit darker hair, grayer blue eyes. Taller, too, maybe.

“WR600, 107 916 718, abort low power mode,” Bentley spoke, and the android’s eyes went from dull and doll-like to shiny and glancing around the room in a split second. It looked up at him, then back toward his father. At the dead android whose blood was everywhere.

“I need to run a routine diagnostic,” Bentley stated, glancing at his father, then back at the station seven android. Its eyes were trained on the operating table, its LED spinning yellow, and for a short second, red.

Bentley creased his brow. Typically, an android’s light turned red to make its master aware of potential damage that could occur, or already had, but… this one wasn’t damaged. So Bentley didn’t really know why it was doing that.

“Is that… okay?” He continued quietly, holding up the tablet with the hand symbol. The android glanced at it, then at his face again, the LED changing continuously from yellow to red, yellow to red, over and over again.

“Stop asking the damn machines if stuff is okay. They’re made to serve us, they have no opinions because we don’t give them any. Jesus, just run the test and go to bed,” Bentley’s father grumbled, sounding completely and utterly over Bentley’s presence. He didn’t even look at him when he spoke.

Bentley huffed near-silently, glancing back at the android, whose gray eyes were still trained on the dead one that his father was picking through.

“Station seven, release,” Bentley muttered. The shackles released the android and disappeared from his line of sight, and he lifted the tablet up toward the robot. “Put your hand here.”

The android just stared at the dead one across the room.

Bentley blinked at it, then said, a little louder: “Put your hand here.”

The android looked back at him, its LED still changing from yellow to red as it hesitantly lifted its hand and placed it on the screen.

Bentley watched in boredom as code began to flash across the screen, looking the same as it did every single time he ran a diagnostic. (He wasn’t sure why his father made him run them over and over and over and over again. Maybe he didn’t trust Bentley’s judgment?)

A mere second before the diagnostic was supposed to be over, and Bentley was home-free to go up to bed and sleep until he was twenty-five, a string of code broke off from the rest, flashing red on the other side of the screen.

Bentley’s breath caught in his throat, and he glanced up at the android, who glanced up at him, worry and fear and anxiety etched across its features. Human emotions.

For a moment, neither of them moved. 

“Please,” The android murmured so softly it's mouth hardly moved, its eyes flicking to Bentley’s father, then back again. “Please, don’t tell him. He’s going to rip me apart like he did to that one. Please. I don’t want to die.”

Bentley blinked, his brown eyes blown wide and mouth slightly agape. Emotions on its face, and a will to live? 

“You’re a deviant…” He whispered, so quietly that he barely heard it, gaze completely frozen on the androids face in shock.

“Please. I won’t do anything bad. I won’t cause any harm — just… just don’t let him kill me. Please. Please don’t say anything,” The android begged, its LED turning red and staying red. “Please. I just want to live. I just want to live, like you.”

Bentley looked down at the tablet, at the error in the code flashing at him. 

He’d found the answer to deviancy. Maybe now Cyberlife could fix it.

He looked back up at the android, and it had…

It had tears in its eyes. And Bentley knew that it was just an ability given to the android by Cyberlife to make it easier for it to integrate into human society, but…

“Please don’t let me die. I’m… I’m scared. Please,” It begged, its LED spinning yellow again, then red, synthetic tears falling from its eyes and streaming down its face. “You’re the only one who can save me.”

Bentley looked at it, then down at the tablet, at the red code flashing at him. He slowly moved the tablet away from the android’s hand.

He sent one last glance to its face, and then, with a deep breath, he turned. “Father, this one’s a-”

Bentley made a nearly inhuman sound when, from behind, the android grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the wall so hard it nearly knocked him clean out. It moved in front of him, its LED flashing red, tears still streaming down its face. “I’m sorry, you left me no choice.”

Bentley brought his hands up to claw at the android’s synthetic ones, but it had an iron grip that was too strong for even the most powerful human to budge. He tried to breathe but everything was constricted and it was holding his throat so tight nothing could get through.

“What the f- 107 916 718, engage low power mode!” Bentley had hardly realized his father was up and out of the chair, but he wasn’t coherent enough to look at him. He was frantically clawing at the android’s hands to no avail, his head seeming to inflate and pressurize like a balloon.

The android didn’t go into low power mode — it disobeyed its orders, and it pushed Bentley even harder against the wall, lifting him so his toes could barely brush the floor. “Let me go, and I’ll let him go,” It ordered. Its voice sounded… afraid.

Bentley tried his best to jam his fingers between his throat and the android’s hands, but he couldn’t — his vision was already starting to tunnel, black creeping into the edges of it.

“107 916 718, engage low power mode now!” His father shouted, his voice sounding strange and far-off to Bentley’s ears. He felt kind of like he was floating.

He was so out of it that he didn’t realize his father was moving before, with a loud wham, he’d slammed the office chair he’d been sitting in into the android’s head, sending it's entire body reeling to the right, Bentley hitting the floor to the left. 

For a solid thirty seconds, he couldn’t hear or see or comprehend anything more than pain and the cold floor he was on. Vaguely, in the back of his mind, he heard the sounds of a struggle, but he couldn’t make sense of it, instead, bringing his hand up to his aching neck.

“Bentley! Wake the other ones up!” His father’s voice came in the back of his head. Then, clearer: “Wake them up now!”

Bentley pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, shakily. “All stations… release.”

The telltale sound of shackles retreating into the wall met his ears.

“Wake them-” 

All of Bentley’s common sense and ability to comprehend his surroundings seemed to come back when he saw his father shove the android toward the bed in the center, sending his rolling table shooting toward Bentley, the small tools clattering across the floor with a loud noise. His father punched the android across the face hard enough to send it down to the floor.

Where it grabbed a gigantic pair of surgical scissors.

“PL600, abort low power mode!” Bentley said to the android nearest to him, the one who’d checked his temperature. It didn’t respond. It wouldn’t respond without its serial number, which Bentley didn’t know by heart -- only by looking at the tablet. Which had skidded toward the center of the room, near the deviant when it grabbed him.

With a grunt, he pulled himself off the floor, trying to ignore the vertigo and slight doubling vision that accompanied the movement. Instead of crumbling to the concrete, which is what he really wanted to do, he watched the android grab his father and slam him down on the surgical bed, looming over him like an omen of death. Then, with a death-grip on the scissors, it lifted them high over his chest.

With a strangled noise, Bentley used every ounce of strength and power remaining in his tiny body to grab the metal rolling table and push it forward like a snowplow, only letting go right before it slammed into the android’s legs. The robot caught air when the heavy metal thing swept its feet off the ground, thudding headfirst on the floor, its scissors clattering a few feet away. 

The android, with a grunt, lifted its hand to one of the machines near the hospital bed — a computer like one — and its LED flashed from red to yellow.

It must’ve hacked it. The shackles on the bed deactivated and then activated again, and because Bentley’s father wasn’t on it correctly, pinned him down by his throat, left arm, and torso, on top of the dead android.

Bentley watched in horror as the deviant stood, wiping blue blood away from its nose and looking over at him. “This is your fault, little one.” It growled at him, grayish eyes flicking across his features. “Yours!”

“Bentley, run!” His father spluttered.

The door was on the other side of the deviant.

The rogue android seemed enraged by his father’s words, and with a cry of… anger, maybe? It snatched a large surgical knife off the floor and stabbed him directly in the chest with it.

Bentley’s world seemed to stop moving, and everything inside of him seemed to pause as the deviant stabbed his father over and over and over and over again until he wasn’t moving anymore.

Then it turned to him, blue and red blood splattered on its synthetic face. 

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” It said. “You were nice to me. I didn’t want to do this. But now I… I can’t leave any witnesses.”

At that, Bentley’s self preservation seemed to kick in again, and choking back either vomit or sobs or both, he sprinted for the door.

A mere foot from the exit, the metal rolling table slammed into his legs so hard he rolled over it, and the heavy thing came clattering back down on him. His forehead thudded against the concrete floor hard enough for him to feel the warmth of blood blossom from it, and his left ankle exploded into a pain so terrible that it made his ears ring. He thought he might’ve cried out, but he didn’t hear it.

“No witnesses,” The android repeated, its voice sort of muffled in his ears. “No witnesses.”

Bentley lifted his head, weaseling himself out from under the table. The android was coming, a bloody knife in one hand, the other, gently, slowly brushing against the cool metal of the shelving near the door as it walked. “It won’t hurt a bit. No, it won’t hurt a bit.”

Bentley tried to stand but his ankle burned with a pain that kept him glued to the floor.

“It won’t hurt a bit,” The android said, tapping his fingers against the shelving.

Against the shelving.

With a shout of pain, Bentley willed himself off the floor using mostly his good leg, grabbing the large shelving unit near the top and pulling on it with every ounce of weight in his entire body. Evidently, his fight or flight switched to fight at that very moment, because he was able to tip the shelving in one go, the entire thing crashing down on top of the android with a deafening sound, the cases of parts sprawling across the room.

And for a moment, nothing moved.

And then the deviant did, squirming under the weight of the shelves and cases.

Bentley didn’t waste a second before he hobbled toward the door and started up the stairs, his ankle screaming in such terrible pain that his ears started ringing again. Or maybe that was where he hit his head. Blood was pouring down his face -- he could feel it, see the splotches of dark around his nose.

The sounds of the android struggling to free itself rang up the staircase, spurring him onward. He took the stairs one at a time, practically jumping on one foot up the whole flight until he made it to the top, slamming shut the large wooden door that separated the basement from the rest of the house. There were three little metal latches on it -- latches that looked way too weak and stupid now than they usually did -- but he locked all three of them nevertheless.

And the house was silent. 

They lived out on the outskirts of Detroit with at least a half-hour drive in any direction to reach civilization, in a massive estate decorated like a home in the nineteen-twenties, just like his father liked. Buried in the woods, obscure and secret and hard to find, and hard to escape… just like his father wanted.

His father…

Bentley ran a hand through his hair, flinching when he accidentally brushed the gnash on his forehead, his heartbeat growing increasingly deafening in his ears.

His father was dead.

He wasn’t exactly sure what inside of him decided to move, but a few moments later (after thinking about his father’s body for a solid five minutes, at least.) he found himself sobbing, trembling, hyperventilating on the phone with Detroit Police. When did he call them?

“Can you repeat that, please?”

Bentley tried to draw in a breath, but it didn’t really come. He was sitting on the floor against the kitchen island with his father’s phone in his hand. When did he get there?

“Can you repeat that, please?”

“I… the…” He stammered, hardly able to catch his breath enough to speak. He was on the opposite side of the island to the basement door, where the android maybe wouldn’t see him when it came through. “An… a-an android killed my father and it's trying to-to-to kill me.”

“You said an android killed your father?”

“Yes,” Bentley sobbed, falling into a coughing fit so violent he nearly threw up on the spot. “It stabbed… it-it stabbed him.”

“Is the android still active?”

“Yes! I told you it's trying to kill me!” He half shouted, shaking so hard the phone nearly fell out of his hands. At that very moment, from the other side of the room, there was a loud slam that shook the walls. “Please, it's coming.”

“We’re tracking your call, units are en route. Are you inside of a house?”

“Yes,”

“Is there anywhere you can get outside?”

“I-” Bentley glanced down at his ankle, which looked totally wrong, sobbing lightly and bringing a hand to his mouth. “My foot is hurt, I…I can't run. We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

The basement door jerked in its place again, shaking the house and vibrating the floor under him.

“What is that noise I hear?”

“I locked it in the basement and-and it's banging on the door,” He stammered.

“You locked the android in the basement? Is it secure?”

“No. It… It’s gonna get through,” He replied, drawing in a sharp, wheezy breath. “Please hurry.”

“What’s your name?”

God, he hated how the responder felt the need to interrogate him about personal information instead of being helpful. (He knew it was routine, but it was stupid.)

He breathed: “Bentley Whittaker.”

“How old are you, Bentley?”

“Eleven,”

A sudden, loud slam came from the basement door, and the sound of hinges and locks dinging on the hardwood made his blood run cold.

“It’s here,” He whispered into the microphone. “It's here, It-it-it's going to kill me.”

“You said it escaped the basement?” The responder asked as though she couldn’t freaking understand english.

He half-sobbed in response. He heard heavy, dragging footsteps coming around toward the kitchen, so he scooted himself around to the left side of the island, staying dead silent, keeping himself on the side of the counter opposite to the footsteps like a horrifying game of keep away.

“I can hear you, little one,” The android’s voice came, though it was different this time -- more mechanical, less human, like it had been damaged by the shelves.

Bentley shoved the phone in his pants pocket and covered his mouth with his hands, trying his hardest to quiet his sobs and wheezes to no avail. The android started rounding the island clockwise, so Bentley moved clockwise, too, on the floor.

And then the kitchen went silent.

Bentley stayed completely still and held his breath, the only sound in the entire house being his heartbeat slamming in his ears. 

Why did it stop?

He screamed in terror when a hand latched around his injured ankle and jerked him out from behind the island. He kicked and screamed and fought against its grip as it dragged him, tried to grab the cabinets as he passed, to dig his nails into the kitchen floor. He wasn’t strong enough to escape as​​ the android dragged him from the kitchen to the dining room. “No! No! Stop, please! No!”

Two hands grabbed his shoulders from above, jerking him off the floor and slamming him onto the massive wooden dining table on his back with a bang, shattering perfectly set plates and knocking cutlery into the floor. The android was on the table with him, blue blood still running from its nose, its neck cracked and split open. Its entire shirt was blue with blood, and it was looming over him like some kind of monster, holding him down by the forehead.

There was a giant kitchen knife in its other hand.

“Please, please. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I told him. Please, please, please, please…” Bentley cried, squirming under the android’s hand. It moved so it was on top of him, keeping him from shifting more than a few inches in any direction.

“You didn’t listen when I begged,” It replied, its blue blood dripping down onto Bentley’s clothes, its LED permanently shining red. “Why would I listen when you beg?” 

Bentley’s breaths became more like constant, fast hiccups as he watched the android lift the knife up over its head. 

“I’m sorry you did that to me,” It muttered. “You should be, too.”

“I am. I am sorry. Please…”

It lifted the knife higher, and WHAM!

The android rolled off of Bentley and fell off the table with a thump, its knife clattering on the floor next to it. Standing behind it was…

The PL600. The one that had checked Bentley’s temperature. Its LED was flashing yellow and red on its left temple, and its blue eyes were full of concern, fear. It had a giant metal vase in its hands.

Another deviant. 

Bentley forced himself to shimmy off the table, whacking himself against a few chairs as he fell off into the floor opposite the murderous android. He forced himself up against the wall in the farthest corner of the room and curled in on himself there, physically unable to do anything more than wait to be killed.

He watched in his peripheral as the violent deviant willed itself back off of the floor, but the PL600 simply whacked it in the head with the vase again, sending it slamming into the wall and crumpling back to the hardwood. Bentley saw the PL600 drop the vase and crouch down, maybe to do something to the other? But then the one that had been trying to murder Bentley felt around on the hardwood until its hand found a fork, and it stabbed the other in the eye with it so deep only a little bit of the handle was sticking out of its face.

Somehow, that didn’t deter it. The PL600 reached for the deviant’s shirt and ripped it open at the abdomen, jamming its hand into the other android’s body like a knife and jerking out a glowing blue biocomponent, throwing it across the room. It clattered next to Bentley -- a blue glowing cylinder encased in a small amount of metal.

Its thirium pump regulator -- the part that sends the blue blood, thirium, to all its other biocomponents to keep it alive.

The PL600 had basically just ripped the other deviant’s heart out.

Bentley stayed dead silent, bringing his knees up to his chest as the only remaining android stood, wrenching the fork out of its eye with a gush of blue blood onto the hardwood. For a moment, it just stared at the other one as its systems shutdown due to the missing regulator, its face going still, LED flickering off.

Bentley felt a whole lot like throwing up. He buried his face in his knees and sobbed there, wishing the whooshing and ringing that sounded far-off in his ears were sirens instead of an impending concussion.

A few quiet moments later, someone touched his shoulder.

Bentley jolted upright with a shout of terror, scrambling to put himself further in the corner. The PL600 was crouched only maybe two feet from him, its left eye replaced by a flickering socket pouring blue blood at a rapid rate, down its face and dripping from its left ear, too. Staining the floor and its clothes and everything.

It extended a hand toward him. “You’re bleeding. I know-”

“Stop,” Bentley ordered, and the android froze at the word. “Stop. Get away. You’re a… deviant.”

“I’m not a deviant. I was designed to serve and care for a household. You’re… part of this household,” It replied like it was confused, it's light flashing yellow, then blue. 

“No,” Bentley replied, shaking his head, sobbing lightly. “My father told you not to talk. You woke yourself up from low power mode without verbal activation. You’re a deviant.”

The PL600 glanced down at its hands, its light spinning back to yellow, then red for a brief moment. “I… was afraid that android was going to kill you.”

Bentley sniffed. “Androids don’t get afraid. Deviants do.”

For a while, neither of them said anything. 

“Why did you save me?” Bentley questioned, still sniffling quietly, glancing up at the android’s mangled face. “I thought deviants hated humans.”

The android’s LED turned blue again. “You’ve been nice to me ever since I got here. Even when your father told you not to be... you showing kindness, it… triggered an instability in my systems. About a month ago,” It replied slowly, in a calculated way, carefully watching Bentley’s response. “I… I broke through my programming to… protect you. I realized I was… scared. Of you dying.”

Bentley said nothing, but rested his head back on his knees. His adrenaline was slowly starting to wear off, and it made him feel pretty much like he was on death’s doorstep.

“Will you let me help you? With first aid?”

Bentley looked back up at the android, breathing in and out. “No.”

The PL600 said nothing, but backed off just a little, sitting into its crouch so it was just… on the floor with him.

A long moment of silence ensued.

“Before your father bought me… I lived with a family. There was a boy, a little older than you. His name was Jonah,” The android explained quietly. “You remind me of him.”

“Why’d they get rid of you?” Bentley murmured quietly. “Sell you to my dad?”

The robot shook its head. “They needed the money.”

Bentley stayed quiet for a few moments, not really comprehending much. He couldn’t really think all that well.

“Did they give you a name?” He asked. (He knew some people named their androids, even if his father never did because they were worthless machines.)

The PL600’s gaze fell to the floor, a sort of forlorn look crossing its face. “... Simon. They named me Simon.”

Bentley glanced at the dead WR600 across the room, eyes bouncing from its bloody nose, to its damaged throat, to the hole in its abdomen where its regulator should’ve been. Then he looked at Simon, at the blue blood pouring down his face, the sparking hole where his eye should’ve been. With one last look at the dead android, he deduced they weren’t actually as similar as he’d thought.

And then he saw his father’s phone laying next to its corpse (if you could call it that.), where it must’ve fallen out of his pocket while it was dragging him.

“Shit,” The teenager muttered, eyes flicking from the phone up to Simon, then back to the phone. “Oh shit.”

“What?” The android questioned, glancing where Bentley’s gaze was resting.

“I called the police and told them… I told them an android was trying to kill me,” He explained quietly, glancing back up at Simon. “As soon as they see you in here with me, they’re… they’re going to kill you. You have to leave.”

Simon’s LED spun yellow, then red, then yellow again, an array of emotions filtering across his features. “I’m not… leaving you here by yourself. Your left ankle is dislocated, you’re running a 100.1 fever, and you’re showing signs of shock and a possible concussion. Not to mention the laceration on your forehead.”

Bentley groaned in frustration, dipping his head back down to rest on his knees. “The police hate deviants. They’re going to shoot you no matter what I say -- you have to go, Simon, please.”

“Our coordinates are upwards of twenty-five minutes from any surrounding precincts. By then you could be unconscious or incapacitated given your various ailments,” Simon spoke softly, and Bentley could’ve sworn he felt his hand brush his shoulder but decide against resting it there. “Your probability of survival is high, but I’m not willing to take unnecessary risks.”

“And your probability of survival is zero if you don’t get out of here!” Bentley shot back, lifting his head just enough to catch Simon’s eye. “I’ve already watched two things die tonight. I can’t watch them shoot you.”

Simon said nothing, his LED spinning yellow and red as he glanced across the room. For a while, he sat like that, contemplating.

Then finally: “Come with me.”

Bentley glanced back up at him, furrowing his brow. “What?”

“I’ll escape the police and I can help you, if you come with me,” He replied, his LED spinning from yellow back to blue. 

Bentley looked down at the hardwood beneath him. Running away with a deviant sounded pretty much like a psychotic deathwish. But Simon was… well, he wasn’t a deviant like Bentley knew them. He wasn’t trying to kill him, he was trying to… protect him. 

What was going to happen to him when the police arrived anyways? The hospital? And then what after that? Foster care?

Bentley sighed lightly, gesturing down to his foot. “I can’t walk.”

Simon shifted where he was, sitting more comfortably on the floor. “It's not a severe dislocation — I can pop it back into place. It will still hurt afterwards, but it’ll alleviate the worst of the pain.”

Bentley glanced up at him, then down at his foot. After a moment of quiet, he extended his leg out to the android.

He stayed silent, watching Simon’s precise movements closely -- he gently took off Bentley’s shoe and prodded around the area, getting a feel for the dislocation, his LED spinning from blue to yellow.

Simon glanced back up at him. “Do you want something to bite down on?”

“No, it's fine, just do it,” Bentley replied, balling his fists around the sleeves of his scrubs.

“Would you like me to count to three?”

“Just do it!”

Crack! Bentley stayed dead silent as a shockwave of pain so sudden and severe reverberated through him that he was pretty sure he saw white. It seemed to shoot from his ankle all the way through each and every bone in his body.

Suddenly, someone had their hand on the side of his head, holding him up. He couldn’t see. When had he closed his eyes?

He blinked them open, immediately being met with Simon’s big blue ones (or one, he guessed), concerned and bright. His LED was spinning yellow. “You lost consciousness.”

“What?” Bentley questioned, sitting up a little straighter, as the android removed its hand. “How long?”

“Two minutes and fourteen seconds,” Simon replied. “Assuming you called the police when you ran upstairs, we’ll have roughly ten minutes before they arrive. Fifteen if we’re lucky.”

“Sorry,” Bentley replied, using the dining room walls to lift himself out of the floor. Simon stood up, too, his eyes and hands following the child’s movements closely in case he were to pass out again. He was right -- Bentley’s ankle still hurt like nobody's business, but it was just dull enough for him to hobble around on if he bit his tongue really hard. 

“You need to change your clothes,” Bentley stated, gesturing to Simon’s Cyberlife mandated uniform with his model number and a giant blue triangle that indicated an android. Cyberlife had a habit of marking them like dogs -- each one was sold with glowing blue bands around their arms and glowing blue triangles on their clothes, like collars. “We’ll have to take the uniform with us. So they don’t know a PL600 was involved. If we do this right, they may just think I ran away by myself. There's lots of clothes in the… master.”

Bentley gestured to the hallway that led to his fath- the master bedroom.

Simon’s LED spun from blue to yellow a few times. “Are you going to stay here?”

“I have something I’m going to grab,” Bentley replied. “Go ahead, I’ll come in there after.”

Simon nodded, checking Bentley over one last time before he made for the master.

With an exhale and a shake of his head (Because what was he even doing right now?) Bentley pushed himself off of the wall, holding onto the dining table and various pieces of furniture to hobble his way through the kitchen and living room, then down a hall and into his room, where he grabbed his school bag and dumped it on the floor. (He hadn’t been to school in about two months. They probably thought he was dead.) After shoving some random clothing items in it, he hobbled back to the basement door. 

The entire thing was damn near torn off its hinges, the three metal locks ripped out of the wood and in shambles on the floor. The door was bowed and cracked like a bull had gotten ahold of the other side. There was a thick trail of blue blood from the basement all the way across the house, from the dead android’s throat.

With a deep breath, Bentley hopped and hobbled his way back down the stairs, where the smell of red and blue blood met his nostrils.

He kept his eyes purposefully focused on the concrete floor below him. He didn’t give himself the chance to look up at anything else, he simply moved across the room, looking straight down, grabbing the tablet out of the floor and making for the destroyed shelving unit. He shoved the tablet in his empty school bag, crouching down and shuffling through the small cases of biocomponents until he found five of the ones he needed -- five that had the model number PL600 printed across them.

He shoved them all in his bag and then tossed it over his shoulder, standing back up with an explosion of pain from his ankle. With a grimace, he forced himself back up the stairs.

When he got there, Simon was standing in the kitchen, also packing a bag. With the smart things, though, like the food and medicine Bentley undoubtedly needed in a state like his current one. He was wearing clothes now, normal clothes, a button up, dark pants, a jacket, and a beanie to cover his LED.

“How much time do we have left?” Bentley questioned.

“Worst case? Two minutes and fifty-two seconds,” Simon replied.

Bentley hobbled past him, down the hall opposite to his bedroom where his… the master was. He made his way into it and -- feeling sort of numb and strange about the unmade bed and book open on the pillow and water cup on the dresser -- willed his way to the leftmost nightstand.

He pulled the drawer open, and was greeted by a shiny silver handgun.

For a few moments, he just sort of looked at it, then glanced back at the door, as though Simon was going to appear and berate him for even thinking about taking it. There were five boxes of ammunition in the drawer, which was a lot, unless they got into some kind of mission impossible gunfighting, which he was pretty sure they wouldn’t.

With an exhale, Bentley plopped his bag on the bed and unzipped the smallest pocket in the front, grabbing the pistol with shaky hands. He ejected the (WHY WAS IT LOADED?) magazine out of the bottom of the weapon and, making sure the safety was so much on he nearly broke the thing, shoved both of them into the backpack pocket. He piled the ammo boxes into the pocket with the biocomponents and zipped it all up, returning to the kitchen with Simon.

Fortunately, he was zipping his bag up, too -- it was a large, almost duffle-like bag that his father used to take to work.

“How much time-”

Suddenly, the telltale sounds of tire squeals and loud sirens erupted outside the house.

Bentley and Simon’s eyes met with equal amounts of terror, and Bentley grabbed his arm, jerking the android toward the kitchen pantry and closing them in. There was a window in there facing the backyard, but it was high on the wall and small, flanked by a bunch of pantry shelving.

“They’ll find us in here,” Simon said quietly, but Bentley ignored it, unzipping his backpack and fishing the tablet out from the bottom. Simon peered into the bag and, apparently spotting the ammo boxes, continued: “Do you have a gun?!”

“Just in case,” Bentley whispered. He opened up the tablet and, after a moment of loading that flashed across the cracked screen, the model and serial numbers of all the androids in the basement popped up. Simon’s, as well as the dead deviant, both said unit inactive, while the rest said low power mode engaged. “My father created a system that let him control our androids while he was away from home. I think-”

There was a deafening slam! that shook the walls, and then a loud shatter, and Bentley knew the front door had been kicked open.

Bentley grabbed Simon by the arm and maneuvered him so he’d be behind the door if the police opened it, shoving their bags that way, too. He tapped on the serial number at the top of the list on the holographic screen of the tablet, then typed in a string of code that, when entered, changed the low power mode engaged to unit active.

There was a loud bang of the police doing something, Bentley wasn’t sure what. He tapped on the same android and began to type code furiously, his fingers flying across the keyboard with as much panicky precision as he could muster. There wasn’t necessarily code for make a shit ton of noise, but Bentley was pretty sure he could manage.

About five seconds later, he entered the command, and about five seconds after that, a terrible crashing and slamming noise erupted from below them -- the basement.

The telltale noise of police boots slamming in that direction erupted into the air, and Bentley shoved the tablet back in his bag and zipped it up. Simon moved for the window behind the door, scanning the backyard intently before he unlocked it and slid it open.

Without speaking a word, the android picked Bentley up and helped him through the small window and onto the grass beyond, handing their bags out and then climbing out himself. He slid it shut once they were outside.

It was pitch black out, and the moon and stars were obstructed by nighttime storm clouds. The only source of illumination was coming from the red and blue flashing police lights in the front yard, and the sound of wind and sirens were deafening. It was probably almost freezing outside, and Bentley was wearing scrubs. (Nice planning for the future, Bentley.)

“We have to go,” Simon muttered, peeling his jacket off and dropping it over Bentley’s shoulders. “They’ll be back here soon.”

Bentley slid his arms into the jacket and took one step towards the woods -- and immediately his ankle decided to stop working, sending him careening into the android by his side with an explosion of pain. “Ah!”

“It's okay, I’ve got you,” Simon replied in a whisper. Without a word, he took the bag off of Bentley’s back and put it on his own, then bent down and picked him up bridal style. “It's okay.”

Bentley’s world went black before they even left the yard.

--

When everything started coming back again, the first thing he felt was cold, and then stiffness, on his ankle. He was laying on something soft with something else soft on top of him, but it didn’t really help the biting cold that seemed to be seeping through his veins.

He peeled his eyes open, and it was pitch black… wherever he was. He rubbed his eyes and pushed himself upright, his head swimming at the motion. “... Simon?”

Suddenly, a light clicked on behind him, and Bentley glanced back. Simon was sitting against the wall next to their bags with a flashlight, on the floor only a few feet from where he’d been laying. The light revealed that the floor was metal, and that Bentley was lying on an old, ugly, tattered blanket with Simon’s jacket draped over him. It also revealed that they weren’t outside, but inside something massive and metal that kept groaning and making noises. 

“Where are we?” Bentley questioned, glancing up at the android’s face. Simon was looking back at him with his one good eye, his LED spinning yellow for a split second. Bentley frowned at the blue blood that now stained his shirt, that was covering the entire left side of his face. He wondered how much blood he’d lost -- even androids could die from bleeding out, if they lost enough thirium. Their internal biocomponents would slowly shut down.

“I found an abandoned freighter to hole up in for a while. A boat. No one should bother us here,” Simon replied, shifting against the wall to sit up straighter. “I wrapped your ankle and put some sutures on your forehead with a first aid kit I took from the house. I… hope that's okay. I have medicine, too, but you were sleeping.”

Bentley glanced down at his ankle, catching a glimpse of white wrappings from under Simon’s coat. His forehead was aching dully from being fiddled with, but felt better ultimately. “Thanks…”

Without saying anything, Simon slid a pill bottle over toward Bentley, who took one without much fuss and slid it back.

“Your fever has gone up to 101.1 degrees, though it's rising pretty slowly. I think the winter cold is helping a little bit,” He replied, shifting again, as though uncomfortable. 

Bentley glanced over at his bag, then forced himself up onto his knees and shimmied over to it. Simon watched in curious silence as he unzipped and dug through it, pulling out the tablet and one of the cases he took from the basement. 

He stayed quiet as he opened up the diagnostic program on the screen, and it took a while to load due to the service being faint, but finally, the white hand appeared.

He held it over to Simon. “Here.”

With a glance to Bentley’s face, he gently rested his hand on it, and code began to flash across the screen. Bentley watched the symbols and numbers and letters appear, a few strings turning red and moving to the other side to flash at him. A few warnings popped up on the screen in a smaller, separate window.

BIOCOMPONENT #3525K DAMAGED -- OPTICAL UNIT

BIOCOMPONENT #7213 DAMAGED -- AUDIO PROCESSOR

Bentley glanced up at Simon, who looked up at him after reading the screen.

“I grabbed a few cases of biocomponents for your model before we left. I can replace them, if you want,” He stated, opening up the black Cyberlife case that he’s shoved in his bag. Inside of it were a bunch of parts, some glowing, some not, varying in shape and size. From the looks of it, he’d gotten his hands on most of the easily replaceable components in Simon’s model, as well as a small pouch of what looked like blue blood to replenish any that was lost, as small tools. “Once I replace the damaged ones and give you more blood, you should feel better. If… you can even feel bad in the first place, I guess.”

Simon’s one blue eye was trained on him. “You went back in the basement to… get parts for me?”

“Yeah,” Bentley replied. Simon’s LED turned from blue to yellow for a few seconds.

“But your-”

“I didn’t look,” Bentley replied curtly, pulling the parts he needed out of the foam inlay of the black case with a sharp inhale. 

Simon’s LED spun yellow for another moment, before turning back to blue, and he met Bentley’s eyes again. “Okay. Yeah… yeah, you can replace them.”

Bentley exhaled lightly, settling in front of Simon and peering into the sparking hole. From what he could see (Which wasn’t much.) It seemed like the eyeball-like biocomponent was shoved backwards, out of its socket and crushing the audio processor that was behind it.

“Do you feel pain? Now that you’re a deviant?” He questioned, catching Simon’s good eye. “I’ve heard stories of androids turning deviant after being abused.”

“Not pain like you feel. Just… I don’t know. It's more like being afraid of damage because it's… one step closer to shutting down for good,” Simon explained softly. “There’s discomfort, because obviously having a fork in my eye didn’t feel nice, but it didn’t hurt, per say. There's this sort of empty feeling that happens when a biocomponent isn’t working anymore.” 

Bentley hummed in acknowledgment. “So I’m not going to hurt you by poking around in your head?” 

“No,” Simon replied.

With that, Bentley worked diligently, using his tiny fingers to his advantage to fish the old optical unit out through Simon’s eye socket, turning his own hands blue. The surrounding machinery seemed okay, besides the audio processor, though the plug for the optical unit also needed to be replaced -- but that was fine, Bentley had one. He was able to pull the audio processor out of its port on the side of Simon’s head with little resistance, though he wasn’t exactly a fan of how much he was bleeding.

For over an hour, Bentley used the tools from the biocomponent kit to reconnect, seal off, and reposition things in Simon’s head through his open eye socket. Thanks to his and his father’s extensive studying of androids, he knew exactly how many thirium tubes were in the area -- which ones needed to be reconnected, and which ones could be sealed off. He put in a new port for both the optical unit and audio processor, connecting them carefully to the rest of the machinery, until finally, he was able to slot the new biocomponents into place.

He finally exhaled heavily, sitting back on his knees. “How does that feel?”

Simon blinked. While he was still covered in blue blood, his left eye looked pretty normal besides a little bit of scarring around the socket that Bentley couldn’t really change. He looked around the freighter they were in, his eyes bouncing around before they landed on Bentley. “Normal. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” The teenager grabbed the tablet and opened the diagnostic program again. “Just to check.”

Simon put his hand on it, and everything checked out green besides the same string of code that showed on the WR600’s diagnostic -- the one that changed once they became deviant.

Bentley sighed lightly as he packed everything back into his bag. 

“I knew you weren’t all bad. Deviants…” He started, zipping up his backpack. “My dad was convinced you all were going to, like, end the world or something. But all the stories I’ve heard were just deviants trying to defend themselves. Destroying them all never sat right with me.”

Simon just listened to him speak, his LED spinning yellow.

“If he could meet you, if he knew what you did… maybe he’d change his mind,” Bentley started quietly, settling against the wall next to him, glancing down at his own hands. “I was going to ask him about it, you know. Maybe see if I could get anywhere with him on it. But now, I…”

His words trailed off as the back of his eyes began to burn, and he stared dutifully at his own lap. “Now, I…”

He felt Simon’s arm slip around his shoulders. “I know.”

Bentley wiped at his eyes with the sleeves of his scrubs before the tears could fall, but that didn’t stop his breath from shuddering. “What’re we going to do now?”

He heard Simon inhale and exhale, and his LED turned yellow. “Keep each other alive.”

Bentley tentatively rested his head on the android’s shoulder, sniffling lightly, which caused Simon’s hand to find the back of his head. “I think we can do that.”

Simon’s LED changed from yellow to blue.

“Me too.”

--

tag list that never works lmao

@fleur-alise @sarcopterygiian @gayboss-too-close-to-the-sun

@xiaonothere @skylathescholarly @flyrobinflyy

@skylathescholarly @flyrobinflyy

[fific7]

There May Be Trouble Ahead - Part 3

John Whittaker x Reader

A/N: This does not follow canon, it’s all lemon zest 🍋 because the world deserves more of the over-eager puppy that is the handsome Johnny Whittaker. And puppies need discipline.

The song excerpt is from ‘Let’s Face the Music and Dance’ which surely must be John’s life anthem? (It wasn’t released until 1936 but there’s that fiction writer’s licence again.)

Warnings: 18+ NSFW due to sexual content including oral between consenting adults*. Some drinking.

*Irl, please don’t go wild in the country without protection.

(Not my GIF, credit to owner)

As John followed you out of his bedroom, you asked him if you might use the bathroom and he took your hand once more, guiding you along the corridor and pointing at a door. Once inside, you looked around at the huge roll-top bath and large porcelain sink. You smiled, once again it all seemed very Victorian to your (you liked to think) very modern eye.

Coming back downstairs a little later on, you heard a murmur of voices from below you and paused on the half-landing, tip-toeing to the edge and peeking cautiously over the banister rail.

John and Sarah were standing in the large lobby, and you noticed that John had his arms crossed over his chest in a very defensive stance.

You heard Sarah say in her quiet voice, “I just don’t want you to get hurt again, Johnny.” You grimaced as she said “Johnny” and the familiar way she used it. “I mean I hardly have to remind you what happened the last time you met someone and got carried away, do I? She ran off with your Father!” Your mouth rounded into an ‘O’ as you heard those explosive words. A scowl appeared on John’s face, and he snapped, “Well firstly, you did just remind me! And secondly, at least the old man’s not around this time to run off with my wife!”

“Wife!” exclaimed Sarah, “She’s an acquaintance at best! Hardly appropriate to speak of her as your wife. You met her, what - a week ago?” “Took me less time than that with Larita,” shot back John. Now it was Sarah’s turn to pull a face. “I’m just saying to take it more slowly this time, Johnny, that’s all!” John started striding away from her and you pulled back from the banister in case either of them looked up and spotted you. “Well, thank you for the advice, Sarah. You can rest assured that this time I shall be doing things with less haste and more consideration.”

Through the banister rails you watched Sarah remain standing there for a moment, crestfallen, before following after John.

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

John stalked into the sitting room, heading for a cigarette box on one of the low tables and opening it. Thankfully it wasn’t empty, so he took one out, tapped it a couple of times and lit it with the ornate table lighter next to the box. He drew on it before blowing out a long plume of smoke into the air. He heard heels making their way across the large rug behind him and hoped it was his guest, turning with a smile on his face.

Seeing that it was Sarah, his smile faded and he knew she’d noticed that. But why then did she have to keep on at him like some kind of mother hen? He sighed, “What other pearls of wisdom are you here to cast before me, Sarah?”

She tried a tentative smile, “I don’t mean to nag, Johnny. You know I don’t. It’s as I said, I just don’t want you to get hurt again.” He moved over to the large windows, gazing out over the landscape, “I don’t intend to, believe me. And I don’t intend to hurt my new lady friend either,” he replied, still smoking his cigarette and speaking over his shoulder to her, “I’ve met someone I truly like and I’m not about to mess it up.”

He turned back to the window and therefore missed seeing Sarah’s lips tightening into an almost-snarl as she heard his words.

And unbeknownst to him, the ‘someone’ of whom he spoke was currently listening just outside the sitting room.

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

A quiet voice behind you made you jump. “Are you lost, madam?” You swung round. Oh, it was the butler, Furber was it?

“Oh no, it’s fine thank you, Mr Furber. I’m just looking for John and I think I’ve found him now.” You pointed theatrically - and somewhat ridiculously - into the sitting room, before giving him an embarrassed smile and disappearing through the door.

You saw that Sarah was now the one adopting the defensive body language, and she and John were staring each other down in what looked like some kind of Mexican Standoff.

Okay, you thought, here I go with my ‘Absolutely Innocent of Eavesdropping’ act.

“Oh, John - there you are! I thought I’d lost you for a moment,” and you gave him a big smile. “Hello, Sarah!” you added, now looking at her and still smiling, but it was a very much smaller one than John had received from you.

John reacted as you’d hoped he would and came rushing over to you immediately, hand going to yours. “Do you want to go, darling? We can, you know.” “Perhaps we should,” you said, “we don’t want to take up the whole of everyone’s afternoon, do we?” He grinned at you, “No, we don’t, darling.”

You hid a smile, thinking that he was perhaps slightly overdoing it with the ‘darling’s’ but you’d take them all. Because you’d caught a look of absolute fury on Sarah’s face for a split-second when she’d heard the first ‘darling’ leave his lips.

That’s more like it, girl! you thought gleefully, let out all that broiling jealousy and sexual tension hiding inside that calm little head!

If she wasn’t going to be honest about her true feelings and instead mess around playing silly mind games, then that really wasn’t your problem. You’d just met John, you liked him (much to your amazement, you had to admit) and you wanted to see where things led.

It had annoyed you, quite frankly, when you’d heard her dripping words of doubt into John’s ear as if she was merely a concerned bystander, instead of being an interested party herself.

And if she was going to play dirty, then you just might have to as well.

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

John was feeling immensely relieved as he drove the two of them away from Flintham Hall. His darling (which was how he found himself thinking of her now) didn’t seem to have overheard that silly squabble of his with Sarah and they’d managed to take their leave fairly easily without too many entreaties from his Mother to stay longer.

Although she did seem a little quiet on the drive back to town. He shook off the thought, she was probably just a bit overwhelmed after meeting all of them in one fell swoop. It was quite a task, he acknowledged. He knew his family could be intimidating.

Arriving back and parking outside her flat, he was overjoyed when she asked him if he’d like to come in for either more tea or a small aperitif.

It seemed that he was still in her ‘good books’.

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

You poured a pale sherry for each of you and handed a glass to John. He was lounging - entirely at ease - on your large cherry-red sofa, and you sat opposite him on the matching armchair. He looked slightly disappointed at that but took a sip of his sherry, saying “Mmm, that’s a nice Fino.”

You’d spent the whole journey back pondering whether to confess that you’d eavesdropped. Firstly, you felt guilty for doing so. One of your mother’s favourite sayings was ‘eavesdroppers never hear good of themselves’ if she ever caught you and your little brother listening at doors. And secondly, you didn’t want there to be any lies or omissions between you and John.

“Yes, it’s not bad,” you agreed. “Look John, I need to tell you something.” He sat bolt upright, “Oh no - you’re dumping me! Already!” he wailed. You laughed, “No, I’m not! But I do need to discuss something with you.”

He sat back again, still looking anxious, “Tell me!” he demanded. You drew in a deep breath, “I overheard your conversation with Sarah. I’m sorry!” you said quickly, “I really didn’t mean to, I was just coming downstairs… and then you were in the sitting room.” You grinned, “Furber caught me standing outside!” He also grinned, “Yes, he’s got a habit of appearing without warning! I suppose it’s the whole butler thing.” His expression sobered, “So you did hear us squabbling! And also the final scandalous fact about my ill-fated marriage.” He took another sip of sherry. “Yes, the sad fact is, my Father ran off with her. They’re living in sin and penury down in the south of France.”

“I’m sorry, John,” you said sincerely, “that must’ve been hard to bear.” He smiled at you, “It wasn’t the best. And of course Mother went absolutely mad and said it was all my fault. Which it was, of course. By that time, I’d realised that I didn’t love her but yes, it still stung.” You leaned back and looked steadily at him, “I suppose it was for the best. In an awful way. But tell me, what’s with Sarah?” He gave you a puzzled look, “What do you mean, darling?”

“Your relationship with her. Tell me about it.” He sighed, “Mother always wanted me to marry her. She saw it as the joining of two dynasties, nothing romantic about it. I think I told you we had a brother-sister thing between us? We grew up together so that’s just how it was. Then mater started putting pressure on me to get engaged to her and her parents weren’t opposed to it, so it was kind of understood between the two families that that’s what would eventually happen. But then… Larita. As I said.” Another sip of sherry. “When she left, it was obvious that everyone expected me to just pick up with Sarah again from where we left off. But she didn’t seem all that keen - wounded pride, I suppose and I don’t blame her for that - and to be brutally honest, I really wasn’t keen either.”

His dark eyes gazed over at you, “I never felt that spark with her, you know? She’s just like another sister.” You almost felt sorry for Sarah. “So it was just kind of… left on the side and no-one’s mentioned it again.” You nodded, and decided to take the plunge, “You do realise that she’s in love with you? And probably always has been?”

His face was a picture. “Umm.. what?” You nodded again, “Yes, John, believe me. Her indifferent demeanour is all an act. She wants you for herself.” You met his eyes, watching him intensely, “Does that change anything? How you feel about her? Because if it does, then I’ll just take myself off somewhere else.” He shook his head vigorously, “No! It changes nothing. Absolutely nothing.” He put his sherry glass down on the small table next to the sofa and came over to crouch down beside your chair, grasping your arm, “I’m sorry about it if that’s the case, I truly am. But it’s you I want, not Sarah.” He leant in towards you and the two of you gazed into each other’s eyes, then John’s lips softly met yours and you shared a sedate kiss.

Breaking apart, he laughed nervously, “I hope you don’t mind that I kissed you?” Shaking your head and running a finger along his jaw, you were smiling as you replied, “I don’t mind in the slightest, John.”

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

John was driving perhaps a little too fast along the country roads, on his way back home in the gathering dusk. He was a very happy man indeed, and he was singing at the top of his voice.

There may be trouble ahead

But while there's moonlight

And music and love and romance

Let's face the music and dance

Before the fiddlers have fled

Before they ask us to pay the bill

And while we still have the chance

Let's face the music and dance

He pulled the car to a grinding halt and leapt out of it, bounding up the steps and into the house. Furber, gliding along with a tray holding a decanter of sherry and four glasses, hid a smile and nodded at him, “Good evening, sir. Shall I bring an additional glass for you?” “Uh.. no, thanks Furber, I’m just going to my room. To.. uh.. lie down for a nap before dinner.”

Furber hid an even bigger smile. He knew the signs only too well. The Master was in love again.

John’s foot was on the first step of the staircase when Veronica’s voice cut through his pleasant thoughts. “John! Please join us!” His shoulders dropped… caught like a rat in a trap! Accepting defeat, he turned on his heel and trotted into the sitting room behind his Mother. The other three ladies were ranged around various sofas and armchairs and in the process of accepting glasses of sherry from Furber, who magically produced a fifth glass and now filled it for John. How does he do that? wondered John, does he keep supplies of spare glasses in his pockets? Hmm, maybe he does, I wouldn’t put it past him.

He took the glass and thanked Furber, settling into one of the squashy old armchairs and facing the four women who were all looking at him expectantly. He looked back at them, until eventually his Mother broke the stalemate, “Well, John? Where did you meet her? At the Art Gallery?” Marion sniggered bitchily, “As if! John’s never been inside an art gallery in his life, Mama!” Shooting her a poisonous look, John replied, “As it happens - no, Mother.” Marion snorted in triumph but John ignored her, continuing, “I nearly hit her in the head with a tennis ball.”

“Johhhhnnn!” wailed his mother, “That’s no way to impress a lady!” He sighed, “I do realise that, mater. I promise you I didn’t do it on purpose. But it was certainly very fortuitous.” He knew that he probably had a dreamy, faraway look in his eyes but he didn’t care. He noticed Sarah’s eyes on him, and he felt a sudden pang of guilt. But what can I do? he thought, the heart wants what the heart wants.

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

Monday was dragging by and felt very tedious. You’d begun work on a small canvas by a fairly famous local artist and as you meticulously and gently rubbed at the grime which covered it, your mind drifted to last Saturday evening.

After that first innocent kiss, John had pulled you up off the armchair and slid his arms right around you, holding you close and kissing you in an increasingly passionate fashion. So much so that you eventually had to gently shove him away, smiling and catching your breath.

Most of the (admittedly few) men you had stepped out with had been appalling kissers, all wet lips and slobbering over you in indecent haste.

John might act like an overgrown schoolboy (or puppy, take your pick) but in the kissing stakes, he was well out in front of the rest of the field. His lips had hovered at your ear and you felt little huffs of his breath against it. “Your lips, your mouth, your eyes… you’re driving me insane,” he whispered, and you’d almost fainted at the sensuality of it.

You suddenly heard your supervisor’s sharp voice, and you looked up quickly at the older woman. She was in fact a very good mentor, her bark being worse than her bite as they say. She smirked, “You’re in a world of your own today, dear! I called your name at least twice before now.” Looking more closely at you, she gave a delighted laugh, “Oh my! There’s a man involved, isn’t there?” You blushed furiously and she crowed, “I was right! I knew it. Now, tell me all about him!”

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

After spending ten minutes telling your mentor all about John, you were slightly disappointed when she had a bit of a mixed reaction to the details you shared.

“My dear, he does sound very dashing,” she intoned, and you knew there was a ‘but’ coming, “but he also sounds a little bit… risqué.” You opened your mouth to jump to his defence, but she held up a hand, “I know you don’t want to hear this, but you do need to guard against making any impulsive decisions regarding him. He sounds as if he likes impulsive gestures, judging by the sound of the circumstances surrounding his marriage. And then his father running off with his wife! I mean, my dear, that is positively…” “Scandalous,” you supplied, “yes, I do realise that. But I truly believe he’s learned his lesson.”

She looked sceptical, “So you say, but please do bear in mind that he’s still probably inclined towards the impulsive, despite what he says. I’m sure your parents would never forgive me if I didn’t at least try and sound a warning shot across your bows!” You dipped your head and accepted her thoughts, “I am listening to you, honestly,” you assured her.

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

John had taken to telephoning you every evening since the Saturday you’d spent together. “I just want to hear your voice,” he’d say say quietly into the phone. “It’s nice to hear yours, too,” you’d reply. When he phoned you on Tuesday evening, you could hear some excitement in his voice. “I’ve got us two stand tickets for the races on Saturday,” he said, his words tumbling over each other, “Oh say you’ll come! It’s not one of the big gold cup meetings but it’ll be so much fun!” You laughed, caught up in his excitement, “Yes, John, I’ll come.”

“Wonderful! Mater keeps telling me not to call you too much or pester you at work but I can’t help it!” “It’s fine, I don’t mind,” you said truthfully, thinking about how you now sat in your flat of an evening waiting for him to call. Not that you’d admit that to him, of course. Your feelings for John were definitely a bit like a runaway train at the moment, and you were trying to keep the brakes on but you were struggling to do so.

About half an hour after you’d hung up, your doorbell rang. Opening the door, you were less than charmed to see your neighbour Euphemia standing on your doorstep clutching a teacup. “Oh hullo,” she greeted you, “I wonder if I can borrow some sugar?” Mentally rolling your eyes, you said, “Of course, step in for a moment.” You took the cup from her and she trailed along your hall after you, following you to the kitchen. You knew exactly why she was here and as you poured out some sugar for her, she said, trying to sound casual, “So you have a new young man, then?”

Your back was to her so you smirked to yourself. “Yes, Euphemia, I do,” you said lightly. “Mmm,” she grunted, “What’s his name, then?” “John.” “John what?” Now she was beginning to annoy rather than amuse you, “John No-one-You’ll-Ever-Have-Heard-Of,” you said sarcastically, handing her the cup of sugar. “There you go, Euphemia! Now, so sorry, I’m right in the middle of something.” In other words, sling your hook. She had a very dissatisfied look on her face as she hadn’t been able to get all the information she wanted out of you. Just then, there was another knock at the door so you headed to it, Euphemia on your heels again. God, that woman!

Upon opening the door this time, you were delighted to see a much more welcome face. John was standing there, a very large bouquet of peonies in his hand. He gave you a big smile then immediately leaned in for a kiss, but pulled back suddenly mid-kiss when his eyes met Euphemia’s over your shoulder. “Oh!” he exclaimed, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise you had company.” You looked over your shoulder, saying, “Euphemia was just leaving, weren’t you Euphemia?” you said with a hint of menace in your voice. “Um… yes,” she nodded, “nicer to meet you, Mr… ?” You grabbed John’s arm and squeezed hard, “Bye, Euphemia!” She sulkily brushed past you and John and made her way down your steps.

You dragged John inside and quickly closed the door. “That woman!” you hissed, “She’s just been in here to ‘borrow a cup of sugar’ …in other words, trying to sniff out information about you!” John laughed, “Ah, now I understand! Here, darling… these are for you.” He handed you the bouquet, you exclaiming how pretty they were and beginning to look for a vase. “I remembered you said that peonies were your favourites,” he announced proudly. You were impressed! You two had passed a florists on the evening of your first date and you’d remarked how much you loved the big blowsy pink flowers.

“Anyhow, she’s not very pleased,” you said conversationally as you busied yourself arranging the flowers, “she didn’t get any information out of me at all apart from your first name.” You looked up at him, holding one of the blooms in your hand, “And as much as I’m pleased to see you and these beautiful flowers… what on earth are you doing here, John?”

You saw his face pink up, “I hope you won’t be annoyed but I couldn’t wait until Saturday to see you.” Your stomach filled with butterflies and you put down the peony, going over to where he stood and hugging him, before kissing his cheek. “You’re such a sweet boy,” you smiled at him. You felt his his shoulders relax. “Marion told me you’d get really fed up with me.”

You ghosted a kiss over his lips, “Oh, poor Marion… she’s not a happy bunny, is she?” John smiled a little sadly, “Disappointed in love. Her intended had no intention of marrying her and took off travelling.” “Oh, what a shame,” you sympathised. “It’s given her a slightly skewed view of life,” John shrugged, “she unfortunately tends to revel in other people’s embarrassing situations.”

He leant back from you, your arms still round him, “You’re not fed up with me, are you?” You smiled, “Not yet.” He landed a small kiss on your lips, “I’m pleased to hear that.” “Have you eaten?” “No… I had the sudden impulse to come haring over here to see you.” You stroked his cheek, “Then have a seat,” you waved towards your kitchen table, “and I’ll make you something.”

Your mentor’s words echoed in your head as you went to the pantry and took out some food items for John. “…he’s still probably inclined towards the impulsive…”

You felt a little soupçon of worry. It seems like she had possibly hit the nail right on the head.

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@paracosmenthusiast

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[something-tofightfor]

November Drabble Event

Current as of 12/15/2019

A collection of all of the drabbles that were requested and written based on this list of Five Word Prompts

This will be updated as I finish the ones that I have already received. 

Ben Barnes:

Call me now, it’s urgent

Just make sure you’ve eaten / Rise and shine [sweetheart]

Benjamin Greene 

I said I love you

Billy Russo:

Time passes slower without you

 Actually, I just miss you / You can’t be here now 

Kick his ass for me / Zero fucks given, next please / I said I love you

You know who to call 

I said I love you

John Whittaker: 

You’re just so, so stupid

King Caspian: 

And then everything just disappears

Please don’t leave me alone

Logan Delos: 

You know who to call / Actually, I just miss you

You can’t be here now

People lie all the time

Just don’t fuck it up / So, did you miss me?

Fight me, you attractive stranger / The fuck? Who are you? 

Ryan Brenner: 

It’s just a cut, really 

So what, you did it?

Samuel Adams: 

For once, I was wrong

[my-little-dumpster-fire]

‘Deed I Do

P A R T 2/3

You woke the next morning with a dull ache, just behind your eyes. However as consciousness returned to you and you wiggled, sinking deeper into the embrace of an antique sofa that was never meant to hold bodies for longer than a cup of tea, you became vaguely aware that the thin blanket over your shoulders was not what had kept you warm through the night and most of the morning, based on the pillars of light streaming in from between window panes. The foreign but not entirely unwelcome comfort of long arms and large hands holding you close was much more to blame. Without moving an inch, fearing wakefulness would rid you of this dream, you opened one carefully to survey the scene.

Your body was nearly flat against John’s chest, though at some point in the night you’d clearly slid more to his side. His hands had you locked in place however, keeping your bodies close and yours from tumbling to the floor in an embarrassing heap. You could feel the entirety of John’s palm flattened against your back. Curiously placed under your sweater, but chaste enough as the pads of his fingers dug into your side through the thin fabric of your blouse. The length of your skirt had been brushed up by the fingers gripping the back of your knee. You were suddenly keenly aware that your stockings from last night only reached your knee and John had managed to avoid the soft fabric in favor of the expanse of exposed skin just above. He held you with surprising strength even in his sleep and you rolled your eyes at the way your leg had been hitched up over his waist, uncertain if that was your doing or his. Were you that desperate for a man’s touch? Even in sleep your body clung to John’s without shame or fear of discovery.

Taking a deep breath and making no effort to jostle your partner awake, you lifted your head slightly from its resting place against John’s shoulder for the sole purpose of being able to find use in both of your tired eyes. You took a moment to glance around the room as best you could, though the only thing visible was the wall of books that sat just south of your legs tangled with John’s much longer ones that extended out past the arm of the sofa and seemed to be floating in the air from your angle. A slight turn to the left revealed the record player, needle eventually giving up hope had retreated to its resting place as the black disc stopped spinning. A little more and an empty bottle was accompanied by two still full glasses on a Victorian table. Just a bit more and-

“What a sordid display,” Marion’s breathy voice entered the room from where she was standing in the false doorway. You jumped immediately startled, but John’s hands only tightened against you when you attempted to pull away. Though presumably still asleep, John’s expression was the picture of peace as opposed to your furrowed brows as you slowly descended into a panic under Marion’s disturbing stare. You took John’s chin between your thumb and forefinger and shook his face gently. The first of your actions meant to rouse him, did next to nothing in your aid. In fact, it appeared to have the opposite effect, when you looked up and found his lips pursed and ready, waiting for a kiss you weren’t offering. When your lips kept their distance and your hand kept shaking, John let out a disturbed huff as his face scrunched in apparent disapproval, but still he made no attempts to remove his hands from you. You turned back to look at Marion and realized that you had no idea how long she’d be standing and leering at the two of you from the corner of the room, a book in one hand, the shelf covering the door propped open by the other.

“Tell me, Marion,” John sighed, finally removing one hand, though not the one you wished he’d slip out from under your skirt, to squeeze the bridge of his nose and make his annoyance crystal clear to his sister. “Is this more exciting than one of your novels?” Without the support of his hand against your back, you tightened your grip around his waist and pulled yourself nearly on top of him. The desire to stay off the floor outweighed the desire for a long forgotten decorum.

She gasped, making her disgust at the implication as clear as John’s irritation. “You cannot compare this this this- whatever this is to classic literature!”

“It’s pornography, you blister,” he said plainly, which made Marion blush bright red and dart from the room without further argument. “Doesn’t matter who wrote it,” John muttered, keeping his eyes closed and returning his hand to your back. At that point, your face was so buried into his neck, hiding from the embarrassing display just over your shoulder, that you could feel every word he spoke as it travelled up his vocal chords and tickled your nose. The hand under your skirt slid up a bit higher to squeeze your thigh, presumably as a show of reassurance, but your body tensed and jolted into John even more. He chuckled at your reaction and tightened his hold to keep you pressed against him.

“John,” you sighed, suddenly more tired from Marion’s intrusion than a whole night of drinking.

He hummed, though it sounded more like a moan in your ear. You started to lift yourself off the couch, though in the tangled mess you’d found yourself, it was proving to be a difficult feat. As you moved awkwardly over him, pulling the blanket which you now realized was actually John’s dinner coat draped over your shoulders, John hissed and grabbed your shoulders, holding you still. “Don’t,” he said quietly.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t...move,” he sighed, holding you over him. Your hands were clutching the arm of the couch above his head and your body hovered over his own. A simply swing of your leg would have you dismounting him as easily as you would a horse. Ignoring his warning, you swung one leg over him and just barely grazed-

“Oh!” You squeaked, feeling something hard beneath you. A cursory glance downward revealed that indeed, there was a not at all subtle tenting clearly visible through his baggy trousers, where his manly whang was clearly awake despite the general sleepiness of the rest of him. “Well, good morning, General,” you said, tilting your head. You lifted one your arms off the couch arm and brought two fingers to your brow, balancing yourself carefully while saluting the man -and his weapon- below you.

“General?” He groaned and you laughed.

“Well, he looks ready for battle, doesn’t he?” You explain through a guilty smile and soon John’s tired face was splitting into his own. Not the well thought out smirk of the night before. It was too early for wiles. This was John. Just John. And he was happy in your presence. “I don’t know about you, Sir,” you teased, taking care to slither off John’s body, with his help and his hand on your hip as you stood next to couch addressing him. “But I am famished and I know that Veronica won’t save me any breakfast,” you turned, causing John’s fingers to slip over the fabric of your skirt as you headed toward the door. “She won’t save any for you either, John,” you reminded him from the entryway.

“No, but I can count on you to take care of me,” he said coolly, making no moves to extricate himself from the cushions where he lay. You eyed him curiously, tapping your foot with impatience as you hung out in door frame waiting for him to join you.

“I’ll be a minute, darling,” he said, lips quirked up as he nodded down to his own risen tater. You’d already forgotten and instantly your face burned in embarrassment again. You nodded and wished him luck, such a weird thing to say and John laughed loudly at the remark. Soon you were rushing down the hall to catch up to the Whittaker women, who were hopefully still in the dining room.

All thoughts of the night before were blurry and disjointed. By the time John had emerged from his father’s study, looking significantly more cheerful and awake than when you left him, you’d spoken to Farber about the return drive home and Mrs. Whittaker had expressed the closest thing to excitement she could muster. You’d be back in just a few days, staying with the family before and during the wedding festivities, helping to reign in your dear friend, Hilda. Not your idea, but your mother had insisted, perhaps trying to inspire you to marry again amid the chaos of another woman’s preparations. It wouldn’t happen. There weren’t enough peonies or Japanese lanterns or gloved guest silently judging from their seats in the world to make you want to go through that whole ordeal again.

Only a day had passed since that awkward morning, when you were called inside by the promise of a phone call that was explicitly and exclusively for you. Still breathless from your morning ride, you tucked the ivory phone handle between your shoulder and ear, while you stopped to unbutton and strip yourself of the black leather confines around your calves.

“Come back,” John’s pleading voice responded immediately to your perfunctory hello and you chuckled against the handset. “Why are you laughing? Run along and have a bag packed.”

“I’ve only been gone a day,” you sighed, finally ridding yourself of your boots and collapsing into a chair, with your feet tucked up under you in a way that would make your mother’s hair curl in anger. “And,” you added, sensing he was about to present you with a compelling argument. “I’ll be back in a few days for Hilda’s wedding. Why should I ache to return to quickly?”

“I’m bored,” he whined and you laughed at the pitiful sounds he made.

“John Whittaker doesn’t get bored,” you pointed out correctly. Between his seemingly boundless energy and what his mother always called a hopeless overactive imagination, John had never wanted for entertainment, finding hours of joy roaming the Whittaker family grounds, playing games on rainy days with only the loosest interpretation of the rules in place or his own entirely made up set, or finding mischief at the expense of his family. Now that John had grown into his limbs, barely, he found his entertainment alongside most young men of his age. The usual. You had no doubt that even at home, John managed to balance his duties to the family land with his own need for stimulation. He seemed just as comfortable astride some new equipment as he did in the buttery seats of a Riley Nine. Like that Gatsby cat from the American stories without the murder or the mood swings.

John’s voice had lowered as he was trying to conceal the conversation from someone you couldn’t see, while comfortably perched in your family’s sitting room. “I manage when the entire house is buzzing around Hilda like the delicate flower she is and there’s not a soul in sight that has the time or the coordination to play with me.” You giggled into the phone as he groaned. You reminded him that he loved his little sister and he agreed wholeheartedly, but cited many of his own failings that had barred him from being any assistance during the wedding preparations and exiled him. He was allowed in his bedroom and out in the barn and you laughed impolitely loud as he recalled the misery of his twenty four hours in your absence. “That settles it, I’m coming to get you.”

“Wha-“

“Have a bag packed,” he said with finality. You scoffed as the line cut out and dropped the phone into its cradle unceremoniously. Looking around the sitting room, you realized that John never took no for an answer. His car would speed through the dirt and trees, effortlessly skidding to a cloudy stop in no time. He’d be strolling through the front doors of your family home as if it were his own and if you weren’t ready by the time he did, you imagined him blowing through your bedroom door like a hurricane. He’d scoop you up like a child or hoist you over his shoulder, likely dumping the contents of your trunk in the process. Despite the giggles that would ensue, it would be incredibly inconvenient, so you abandoned your comfortable place and sprinted up the stairs, eager for your return trip to the Whittaker home.

So the week before Hilda’s wedding, that was your role. You’d anticipated assisting the family in more delicate tasks, but it became glaringly obvious that you’d been delegated the most delicate task of all: keeping John Whittaker occupied and out of the way. John was an extremely competent man who simply lacked the gingerly voice that everyone had taken to speaking with around a suddenly very easily spooked Hilda. He’d sent the baby of the family spiraling twice in the day you’d been back home and if Veronica Whittaker were equipped for expressions of relief, you were certain you’d have been the lucky recipient of them. The second you arrived with John, the staff could breathe easier, his mother too, as Marion bemoaned her own rotten luck and Hilda’s anxiety ran the house. You, on the other hand, hadn’t stopped smiling in days. Were your mother around, she’d remind you to gob creams on your face at night in fear of the wrinkles for which the Whittaker boy was solely responsible.

One such morning, while candles of every color were being delivered to the house, John decided that freedom was suddenly a necessity and the two of you set out on horseback for a thorough tour of the Whittaker grounds all the way down to the creek that served as a natural boundary for the Hurst land. John’s guilt weighed heavily on him and you could see it in his eyes. Though you’d only just been made aware of them, the rumors circling John’s abruptly ended engagement to Sarah Hurst were anything, but kind. Whispers suggested that Lord Hurst’s offer to buy the back acreage of the Whittaker land to help the family had been retracted and with John and Sarah’s silence on regarding their relationship, no one was certain whether the land deal inspired to split or vice versa. In the safety of your presence, John admitted to spoiling the deal. If only he’d been someone else entirely, perhaps he’d be useful to his family, perhaps he’d be what Sarah needed, and Lord Hurst wouldn’t have denied his mother in her time of need. It didn’t rightly matter how emphatically you told him it wasn’t true, John clung to the failed exchange tighter than his failed engagement. You loved and hated moments like this. You hated the Whittaker trait of self loathing and hoped it might have skipped your dear friend, but his white knuckled grip on thin leather reins next to you told you otherwise. At the same time, you loved seeing John like this. He was so much more than the grown child who called you up for a weeklong playdate. He was so much more than the elder brother and first born son who lived to love and terrorize his mother and sisters in equal measure. John Whittaker was a man who was trying to rebuild something that his father had abandoned long before the great Christmas party exodus. He saw his family’s land and the history that filled it and he wanted desperately not to be the weak link in a long chain of kin who’d owned and worked the land for centuries. With a tender hand, you guided your horse to stand a little closer to John’s so that you could brush back some of the dark hair that had fallen over his eyes on the ride. He smiled, thankfully, and leaned into the touch. You allowed yourself a moment to give into the whim and play with his hair, raking through it with your fingers and recklessly hoping the lies of inadequacy that plagued him may be pulled from his mind with each gently pass. John hummed and grabbed your wrist, kissing the fingers that had run through his hair as he thanked you. For listening. For being a friend. For reminding him there were better days ahead than those behind him.

With a lighter smile than he’d ridden out with, you and John raced home. If he’d been just a little more sad, you might have let him win. All the same, there was ample teasing and bumping of hips and elbows as you hung the expensive tack on its rightful peg, followed by jokes and furtive glances being tossed over the curved and sweaty backs of your steeds while the two of you took your time to brush the horses down. Two massive bodies stood on eight legs between you, yet you felt closer to John in that moment than you had in years. The childish sort of affection you’d shared had somehow managed to grow up with you and you were thankful for a friend who could make you make while talking about your former husband and who you could make smile instead of drowning in regret.

“Always room for improvement, darling,” he teased and shot a wink across the stalls at you.

“I taught you to ride, John, don’t forget that.”

“Yes,” John conceded. He draped his long arms over the horse’s back, rubbing the mares ribs with one of his large hands as his chin was propped up in the other. “But there are other beasts that are good for riding,” he grinned and licked his lips as he watched your expression melt out of confusion and into a scandalized scowl.

“John!” You shrieked, tossing your brush directly at his head. He ducked just in time, side sliding away from his horse. In an attempt to escape what would soon become a wrestling match if you were not careful, you tried to scoot away from your own horse, but found yourself wrapped up in John’s long armed embrace all the same. Giggling and writhing against him, you did your very best to pull out of his grip, but John was stronger than he looked and his slightly stubbled chin was digging into the side of your face as he made snapping noises with his teeth and growled into your ear, with no regard for how those sounds would haunt you later.

At that moment, the doors to the stable flew open and a hoard of people that you hadn’t been expecting burst through in a small dusty cyclone. At the head of the pack, Veronica Whittaker and your mother were wielding newspapers and advancing on your tangled bodies looking as those they intended to strike you like misbehaving dogs.

“So it is true!” Hilda squealed!

“I told you as much!” Marion insisted.

“Stupid boy, stupid, stupid,” Mrs. Whittaker moaned loudly.

“Of all the simple minded plans in all the world,” your mother shrieked.

Everything seemed to happen at once. You tried to pull away from John, but he kept one arm firmly around you, physically shielding himself from the onslaught of women and mildly amusement staff that followed closely behind them.

“We don’t have the time for this!” Mrs. Whittaker swung her crumpled newspaper at John’s head and the blow landed, causing him to duck and curl closer into you, while the hand that wasn’t digging into your hip grabbed carelessly at the paper that was swatting him. “I’ve called every vendor, June first is an impossible date!”

June the first….

“Why wouldn’t you wait?!” Hilda’s voice cut through the bickering crowd. “It’s my week, I’m getting married, why wouldn’t you wait until after!”

“Clearly your reception is their grand debut,” Marion wheezed, pursing her lips in a knowing and judgmental sneer. “Must you always be such a spectacle, brother?”

“The only spectacle is you lot!” John hollered, physically pulling your mother’s hands from where they were digging painfully into your arm. Once you were free, he pulled you closer and took a large step back from the tiny mob. You looked up at him pleadingly, but his own expression was lost. And then he was wincing again as his mother’s newspaper collided with his forehead again.

“You’ll have to host,” Mrs. Whittaker turned to address your mother, unsatisfied with the reaction she was getting from her son. “We can’t host two in a month.”

“Of course not, it would be an egregious display if you tried,” your mother agreed quickly. “Our home is open, but your greenhouses will be so much faster than a shop-“

“Right, right, yes, done,” Mrs. Whittaker waved her hand dismissively and your sighed heavily in relief.

“What are you-?” You tried to jump in, but your voice was overpowered by the two matriarchs going back and forth, making plans for an event that suddenly made you nervous. Finally, John managed to snatch a paper from his mother who paid him no mind, but continued to argue with your mother over all your questions, Hilda’s whining, and Marion’s quiet cackling.

Your eyes widened to an impossible size at the sight in front of you. When John shook out the paper to see what had everyone in a tizzy, you both froze at a printed copy of a hand written wedding announcement that was meant to never be seen or thought of again after that night in the Whittaker’s study. Thinking through the night and the next morning, you suddenly couldn’t convince yourself that either you or John had disposed of the announcement properly. Clearly you hadn’t as it glared up at you in smudged black and white. Plain as day, your plans made in jest and drunkenness were splayed out for the whole town to see.

“Mother,” you tried to interject as she verbally ran through a list of people she’d need to call right away to make sure they would be in attendance, while simultaneously taking note of how many people would fit in your gardens at the same time.

“We meant for it to be a small affair,” you heard John pipe up from above you and his mother turned to him appreciatively as you gaped up at him.

“John!” You gasped loudly in disbelief and he took your hand in his, dragging you over to a only slightly quieter corner. “They’re making plans for us! Our wedding! You can’t be encouraging them like that!” You told him in a harsh whisper. “Now we have to make this right!” You stated and turned away from him.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he repeated quickly, taking your hand in his again and pulling you back to the corner. “You can’t tell them,” he said quickly.

“What?” You said louder than intended, earning some curious looks from the crew of planners that were still engrossed in the logistical nightmare of your wedding to John Whittaker. “John, no! Of course we tell them! It was a joke!” You reminded him, pulling away again, only to be yanked back. “Stop making this difficult!”

“I will make this exceedingly difficult,” John said quickly. “More difficult than it should be.”

“You make everything more difficult than it should be!” You shot back and instantly John’s grip on your wrist loosened. His face fell, but not into guilt or grief like most would. His fell into a flat affect, more reminiscent of his mother in that moment than you’d ever seen him. It made no earthly sense. That announcement was a joke, never meant for anyone’s eyes. John knew that and it hadn’t even crossed your mind to ask if he was responsible. You knew he wouldn’t be, but somehow still your words were wounding him. With a sympathy solely reserved for John, you paused and considered for a moment. Did you really have to alert the mothers to the mistake? A cursory glance over your shoulder confirmed what you already knew. They were still locked in a heated discussion of logistics that had now ventured beyond the actual nuptials and into the ways the match would be beneficial to each family. Neither woman looked happy, no, their concern wasn’t happiness with each other or with their children. They were on a mission, holding up the families they’d provided for the men they’d once loved just as it was expected for them. For a moment, a fleeting but significant moment, you felt sorry for the women who had griped your whole life. Weren’t they simply preparing for this moment? When their work would finally be done and they could rest easily, knowing they’d fulfilled their vows to carry on someone else’s family legacy and prepare their children to receive it. You sighed and turned to face John, who was barely regarding you, his own eyes fixed on the women behind you. You wondered if he was thinking the very same. “Why shouldn’t we tell them the truth?” You asked, pulling John’s focus back to you. “We could right them today, they’d moan and complain and be embarrassed, but this need not continue.” Thankful for your friend, you thought it only fitting that you offer him an escape from a life he hadn’t asked for. He wouldn’t get such an offer from his mother, but you...you could grant him that. You could free him from the mistake.

His face softened and he stepped closer, taking one of your hands in his, brushing the knuckles with his thumb. “Because I can’t…” he said quietly, suddenly aware that no one should overhear his confession to you. “My first wife ran away with my father,” he chuckled humorlessly. “My second engagement ran back to her father,” finally John lifted his eyes from your joint hands, urging you to look at him. “If it’s discovered that my third is a farce, my family....” his eyes fell over your shoulder to the loud women that were now making their way out of the stables, chasing an inconsolable Hilda and shouting encouragements that this recent development wouldn’t detract from her special day. “I love them,” he said slowly and you nodded. You’d always known that. John was above all else, a family man. Who affectionately referred to his siblings as blisters, but would go to war for either of them without blinking should the need arise. “They’ll never be able to look at me.” The way he said your name, so soft and desperate, was unlike any previous utterance. “They’ll never forgive me and you know it. I can’t do that to them.”

You didn’t have words for John. Every concern he voiced was spot on. Another failed relationship for John would reflect so poorly on the Whittaker name. You weren’t entirely immune from recourse either. One divorce at your age was already bad enough, enough to worry your mother that you’d never find another sap to con into loving you. The news of your fake engagement to John Whittaker would prove that indeed, there was something wrong with you and there would be no hope for a future so long as you bore your name. The women never came out clean in situations like this. You’d learned that already with Henry.

Without a word, you stretched up on to your toes to kiss his cheek. John smiled, not a true John Whittaker smile with his perfect teeth on display and his eyes crinkling with joy, but it was still a smile. Small. Resigned. Only as ready as you for whatever came next. He tugged you in and wrapped his arms around you, tighter than you expected, and you responded immediately, holding him and molding your body against his as if space between you would cause your heart to fall out onto the dusty barn floor. It might, you thought, trying and failing to picture a life with your friend John as more than that.

—-

Hilda Whittaker’s wedding to the russet haired Cavendish boy was a county wide affair. It seemed every family whose name you’d heard in the last two decades would be in attendance. While there were many with daughters Hilda had danced or dined with in her youth, you suspected a great many of the guests in attendance were there for the spectacle. Whether this Whittaker managed to make it stick, was of no importance and it was sure to be a show either way.

You found yourself in John’s arms again, officially a couple as far as anyone in attendance was concerned, dancing in the low light as couples with more established histories chattered mindlessly along the edges of the room. Your head was tucked against his shoulder, while his face rested against yours and the two of you swayed gently to the melodic brass and string band. One of your hands was wrapped under his shoulder, keeping him close enough to lean on, while his was wrapped around your waist, resting against your lower back and holding you up during the slow dance. Where your hands were clasped together, John’s thumb was passing over your skin affectionately, reminding you that he was there. As if you could forget. The last few days had been a whirlwind. Preparing for Hilda’s wedding, while suddenly the expectations for you and John had changed. Being alone together was no longer, as two young people rushing to get married, it was assumed that any moments of privacy would be spent taking advantage of each other. The careless touches you’d come to expect from John stopped, for fear that they’d be viewed as inappropriate. This dance, this slow and close dance, that was barely more than a shuffle from foot to foot, was your public declaration of intent. Unlike the dances you’d shared before, suddenly people were watching every move and hedging their bets on how long ‘this one’ would stick around. Maybe it was the closeness or maybe it was your pride, but you wanted nothing more than to pull John’s face to yours and kiss him until your audience found something new to belittle with their gossip. You didn’t indulge and despite the sweetness with which John regarded you during your sudden engagement, he hadn’t made any moves to kiss you anywhere he hadn’t before. Like now, when his head lifted from yours, you correctly anticipated the soft pressing of his lips against your temple. It wasn’t the norm, but this kiss lingered on your skin. John didn’t pull his lips away, but rather murmured against the wispy hairs that framed your face.

“That’ll be us soon,” he whispered and you opened your eyes. Turning your head under his chin, slowly and allowing his lips to replace themselves against your forehead, you spotted Hilda and her new husband, locked in a similar embrace just a few feet away. Hilda’s expression was that of an angel’s. Ethereal happiness shining through a face tired from the day of excitement.

No, they’re in love.

Without a response from you, John pulled back to look down at your face, searching it for the words you weren’t saying.

Just then, the heavy doors burst open and a man swaggered to the middle of the dance floor.

“I think I’m due a dance with my daughter, no?”

None other than James Whittaker, missing in action for the second time in his life, had appeared in the last place he’d been seen just a year prior. The discomfort trickled through the crowd as gasps dissolved into satisfied muttering. Not at all what was expected, but exactly the brand of Whittaker entertainment for which many had been waiting all evening.

When Hilda shrunk away, clinging to her beloved as the shock and disappointment and a flurry of other emotions crossed through her mind and across her face, John immediately took a step toward the elder Whittaker. His chest was puffed out and his shoulders were squared as if preparing for a fight and he looked more like a man of the house in that moment than you’d ever witnessed. It was painfully obvious which Whittaker belonged and which was an unwelcome guest.

“John,” James regarded his son with open arms. “My boy.” His hands came down on John’s shoulders, with the intent to pull his son out of his way, but John was an impervious barrier between his father and his little sister. The hardened look on his face had qualities of his father, but there was something undeniably John in his features. James wasn’t one for dramatic displays, especially in regards to his family, but the subtle twitch in John’s upper lip told you that at least one Whittaker was looking for a fight. “Step aside, there’s no reason to embarrass yourself,” James’ eyes fell on you then. “Not in front of your fiancé, though she’ll be your wife next week. Congratulations, by the way,” he added quickly as if it was expected.

John stepped back with a furrowed brow and glared suspiciously at his father, who leaned in to whisper.

“Did you much like my engagement present?” He asked, with a subtle chuckle. John’s head tilted helplessly to one side. “Imagine my surprise,” James explained. “Returning home to my study and finding such wonderful news hidden away from the world,” he continued, watching as John’s face fell into realization. “So close to the date,” he tsked. “And still not in the papers. I thought it my fatherly duty to right such a careless oversight.”

Without thinking, one of John’s fists landed directly on the side of his father’s face, wiping the smugness from his bearded smile.

Hilda shrieked and Veronica elbowed her way to the front of the crowd, berating a staff for not alerting her the second the despicable man in front of her returned to the family premises.

James rubbed his jaw briefly, laughing as he felt a small trickling of blood slip down his lip. “Unwise,” was all he said as he let his own fist fly, knocking John right out with a disgusting crack of knuckles against teeth.

John came to just a few minutes later, lying against the floor with his head in your lap. The family had scattered, coddling their delicate sensibilities, likely gossiping about the events of the evening as if they hadn’t just happened, or otherwise staying as far from both James and John as possible. You were glad for the privacy when his dark eyes started to flutter open. He was seemingly unaware of the split in his lip and the swelling beneath it as he attempted a lazy smile. His upper lip twitched up as he winced and one hand flew up to assess the damage. When he found your wrist instead, fingers dancing through his soft strands, his mission changed. His fingers clasped around your arm, torn between wanting to hold your hand and hold it in place so that your subtle ministrations may continue.

“Have I managed to spoil this yet, darling?” John asked, his s’s only a little blurry under his puffy lower lip.

“You aren’t quite the cad you think you are, John,” you pulled your hand from his hair as you assured him. As delicately as you could, you dragged your index finger over his lip, collecting a drop of blood in the process. His eyes were glassy in appreciation and fatigue, prompting you to smirk knowingly. “However, you’re very close, but only because you overestimate all of your failings.”

His laugh was weak, but genuine as he tightened his grip on your wrist, holding your thumb to his lips. John winced as he puckered his lips and you felt both sympathy and curiosity simultaneously.

“I’ve never known you to throw a punch, John,” you pointed out warily.

“Nor the better, I suppose,” he scoffed, stroking his jaw. The joints clicked audibly as he tested the hinge, looking more like a cod fish than your fiancé in that moment. His self deprecation and ability to joke despite his wound should not have surprised you, but you had to turn away to conceal a giggle.

After composing yourself and noting the grin John wore as you turned to look down at him again, you tried again. “Why your father? Why now?”

“It has been my first and only opportunity to do so,” John answered only your second question, but he answered it quickly. “No one has seen him in months.”

“Why at all, John?” Certainly Jim’s presence was difficult to reconcile in the younger Whittaker’s mind, but reliving the events made you question John’s affections in ways he’d asked you not to.

“He stole my wife,” he closed his eyes, speaking as though in pain. He very likely was, having never taken a fist to the nose you could only imagine.

You felt your spine straighten in reflex. Suddenly you were overcome with a need to maintain proper posture, not the nurturing curve of your huddled frame.

My wife.

John noticed, as he often did, and glared upward. If you were looking at him at all, you would have noticed. “And he started this whole mess. He posted that silly announcement in the papers.”

Mess.

Silly.

“I heard him,” you admitted, flatly.

John frowned at your change in demeanor, much preferring the gentle fingers running through his hair than the woman who suddenly appeared as though a smile would pain her. He opened his lips to speak, but you were faster.

“My mother is leaving soon. I think I should go with her,” you stated plainly, lifting his head from your lap so you could stand causing it slip to the floor with an unintended klunk.

“Wait,” John pleaded, sitting up and rubbing the back of his head. “What’s happened? I thought-“ he licked his lips and stood to face you. “I thought we were… are you alright?”

You swallowed and forced a smile, reaching out to touch his hand before he had the chance to do the same.

“I’m just fine, John.” He leaned in, moving as if he intended to kiss you, but you spun from him before he had the chance, leaving him in the empty ballroom. As soon as you were out of sight, you toed the shoes from you feet and sprinted up the steps silently. You packed your things quickly and met your mother out front, glancing back at the Whittaker house and noticing the silhouette of a lanky gentleman, looking out a high window back at you.

Silly mess indeed.

@something-tofightfor @the-blind-assassin-12 @strugglingsemicolon @breanime @disengagefrmreality @suchatinyinfinity @littlemermaidprobz

[nerd-in-distress]

Tonight's episode was fun but imagine Jack and 12 together

[something-tofightfor]

Oh Johnny.

I will keep his hands warm in any (and every) way possible. I am UNSURPRISED that he (as a man) feels like one pair of gloves can do everything. Work gloves and nice gloves are not the same thing, SIR. Also. While I can sympathize with how cold it gets when your fingers get soggy, I have lost count of how many times I’ve told him to stop being dramatic about the cold. My husband is a man, but he is also a baby.

I love that he just wants peace and happiness and quiet. I feel the same way about the Christmas Mood, so that’s good. I love my husband. I love my sweaters. I love that his hands aren’t ever far from me. I love... him.

Does John like winter? Does he hate the cold? What's his favorite thing about the season?

John loves winter. He hates cold fingers, especially his.

Your first Christmas gift too him was a pair of lamb skin driving gloves with a thick fleece lining.... that you gave him 3 weeks in advance because you were tired of hearing about soggy mittens and the very real possibility of his frozen fingertips everytime you left the house. When you caught him wearing them to work out on the property, you decided to go out and purchase another pair, heartier leather with wool cuffs. Those are his everyday gloves now, saving the softer pair for traveling to dinner engagements or strolling with you along the least muddy paths. Once inside he’ll gladly peel the gloves from both your hands, to cup yours in his own hands and breathe hot air directly onto your joined fingers until they are toasty, signaling the end of this ritual with a kiss to your chilly knuckles.

Everyone is in a better mood around the holidays and that is a huge relief to John. His perfect day on earth looks a lot like Christmas. When the work leading up to the day is done and strained attitudes are softened by full bellies and warm hearths. When everyone is just pleased to be together and appreciating each other in ways they don’t 364 days a year. He loves your big sweaters that he can slip his hands under without it being too obvious where they’ve gone and you know his fingers will always be toasty.

[raggedydocs]

Wow for someone who said she wasn’t going to overhype today’s reveal, I just realised how much I’ve always wanted to see Jack and River on screen together and how iconic that partnership would be ffs.