#plexiglass desk chair

[slusnicesi]

Eclectic Kids in Indianapolis Mid-sized eclectic girl carpeted and beige floor kids' room photo with white walls

[ccchauffe]

Indianapolis Transitional Kids Example of a mid-sized transitional girl carpeted and beige floor kids' room design with white walls

[americanpipedream]

Transitional Kids - Bedroom Remodel ideas for a medium-sized transitional girl's room with white walls and a beige carpet.

[littlexdeaths]

mile high club - s.r.

spencer reid x bau fem reader

18+ ONLY MDNI

warnings: secret relationship, public sex, soft dom spencer, very jealous reader, doctor kink, praise kink, unprotected piv sex, cream pie

a/n: this is based on a request i had gotten a while back on my old account for spencer. plane sex is one of my favorite scenarios with him so i hope you enjoy. also please go easy on me, it’s been a WHILE since i’ve written for our little genius. xx

word count: 2.2k

“Shh, love. We wouldn’t want the others to hear you, now would we?”

His lips brush against your ear as his hand reaches up to cover your mouth, the other slipping further into your panties. Your breath hitches as he slides another finger inside your entrance, letting your body mold against his in the small space.

Out of all the places he could’ve done this— you never expected the jet bathroom.

But even Dr. Spencer ‘kissing is more sanitary than shaking hands’ Reid could only resist your teasing for so long.

It had started earlier that morning while you were still at the precinct. Subtle brushes of your fingertips against his back as he worked on his geological profile, his eyes continuously finding yours through the plexiglass screen. You found any opportunity to invade his space, your perfume overwhelming his senses. But that wasn’t enough for you.

Once the rest of the team had left to chase down a possible lead, you made your move. Purposefully leaning over the desk across from him as he went through the case file again. Your eyes sparkled in amusement as his adam’s apple bobbed, hazel eyes locked on where your blouse was undone. The lace of your push up bra just barely peeking out.

You were driving him insane.

But this was your way of getting him back, after having to watch the lead detective on this case blatantly flirt with him. She batted her doe eyes at him, volunteered to help him any chance she could. It was embarrassing really, how much she threw herself at him. But you couldn’t help but feel that surge of jealousy clawing at your throat.

Because to anyone else, he was free game.

You had been sneaking around together for well over a month, after a mishap on a previous case. The hotel had mistakenly booked you a single bed room, and there were no other rooms available. And none of your team was willing to switch. “He snores too much,” Morgan had all but insisted.

While Spencer was adamant he would sleep on the floor, or the chair in the corner, you wouldn’t allow it.

After two nights of unbearable sexual tension it was him who finally snapped, after you crawled into bed in a pair of sleep shorts that barely covered your ass. His body melted into yours as he kissed you, effectively stealing the air from your lungs. He rolled your body beneath him, your fingers lacing together as he buried himself inside you.

The chemistry between you was always there, but neither of you were quite willing to cross that line of professionalism and friendship until that night. But now that you had a taste of him, you were downright insatiable.

You could barely keep your hands off of each other, in private and in public. Which for someone as non touchy as Spencer Reid… people quickly began to notice. Regardless, you both tried to keep it a secret from your team, knowing agents in the same unit weren't allowed to fraternize.

But that didn’t stop you from pulling him into an empty office for a quickie at Quantico, or him sneaking into your hotel room while on a case. Your relationship was becoming harder and harder to hide from everyone, but this might have been your final straw.

The case had wrapped up later that evening, the unsub was caught and you were beyond relieved when you left the station and that detective behind. But that relief soon bleed into irritation as Morgan plopped down across from you and Spencer on the jet. A megawatt smile was stretched across his face as he slid one earbud out of his ear.

“So kid, heard you landed Detective Reynold’s digits,” he chuckles.

Spencer can feel the way you tense up, but you keep your gaze focused on the case file in front of you. Feigning disinterest in their conversation, but your boyfriend knows better.

“Uh, I did. But I politely declined.”

Derek’s scoff has you nearly rolling your eyes, gripping your pen tighter in between your fingers as you tap it on the table.

“Now why is that, pretty boy? Got some secret girlfriend that we don’t know about?”

Spencer groans, running a hand through his tousled hair. What you don’t notice is the way Derek eyes the two of you suspiciously.

“No— she’s just not my type,” he sighs.

“A beautiful woman isn’t your type?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, closing the case file with a little more force than necessary. Both males turn to look at you now, unable to hide your irritation anymore.

“I have a killer migraine so if the two of you could shut it for the next hour that would be wonderful,” you huff.

Before either of them have time to reply you lean your head back against the seat and close your eyes. Finding yourself holding back a grin as Emily echoes your sentiment. The jet settles into a comfortable silence then, the lights dimming in the cabin.

When you dare to peek your eyes open Morgan has already moved back to his original seat, leaving you and Spencer alone again. You had felt his eyes on you long before you met his gaze, his dark hues boring into yours with an intensity that has your stomach fluttering.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you whisper under your breath, letting your eyes drop to your lap.

“Like what?” He answers tensely.

“You know what, Spence.”

You shift in your chair, thighs pressing together as you cross your legs. Now was not the time. Not in the jet with your nosy coworkers surrounding you. As much as you’d love to climb into his lap and muss up his hair more, that would be far too risky.

So you both remained silent for a while, but the air between you was taut with tension. Just waiting for one of you to break it, but you refused to let it be you. As much as you reassured yourself that Spencer rejected that woman’s advances, it was still hard for you to watch.

Spencer must have seen that flash of hurt pass over your features, and he is unable to hold back anymore as he leans further into your space.

“Bathroom,” you feel his lips at your ear then, a shiver passing through you as he speaks. “Right now.”

From the authoritative lithe in his tone you know not to disobey him, carefully rising from your seat to head to the small bathroom. The rest of your team look as though they are asleep when you pass them, a sense of relief floods as you gently shut the door behind you.

You lean your palms against the countertop, glancing at yourself in the mirror. It’s a few minutes before you hear the door click open, and your eyes fall as you feel the heat of his body behind yours.

You both don’t utter a word as he cages you in, his forearms grazing your own. The veins in his hands protrude as he grips the edge of the counter and his chin rests on your shoulder.

“So,” he hums, his breath tickling your neck. “Someone’s feeling a little jealous?”

You scoff, finally meeting his brooding gaze in the reflection of the mirror.

“I am not jealous.”

Spencer just chuckles, one of his large hands splaying over the curve of your hip.

“You sound a little defensive, agent. You wouldn’t be lying to me now, would you?”

The dark edge to his voice has your body tingling and your heart hammering against your ribs.

“N-No.”

He tsks softly, his hands wandering toward the edge of your pencil skirt.

“And to think, I was going to reward you, despite your incessant teasing earlier.”

The feeling of his rough palm on the inside of your thigh breaks your resolve, body melting against him as you whine.

“No, Spence— please.”

He grips the hem of your skirt, slowly hitching it up your thighs.

“You know that’s not my name, angel,” he taunts as his teeth graze over your earlobe.

“Please, Doctor.”

You quickly correct yourself, which earns you a deep groan, “Good girl.”

Spencer wastes no time in tugging your skirt the rest of the way up your legs. His large hand cupping your cunt through the soaked lace of your panties. He presses the heel of his palm against your clit, quickly shushing you as you mewl pathetically in response.

But once his fingers have slipped past the lace and are buried to the hilt inside you, you are unable to hold back your pleasured whimpers. His other hand quickly moves to cover your mouth, but his hushed words only aid in turning you on more.

The thought of one of your colleagues catching you both in this position sends an excited jolt through your body, your walls tightening harder around his dexterous fingers. Spencer groans at the sensation, letting his thumb brush over your swollen clit.

“Oh, you’d like that wouldn’t you?” He chuckles, “You want them to hear us?”

You nod your head, grinding your hips back against his to feel his hardened length straining against the fabric of his slacks. Spencer curses under his breath, meeting your half lidded gaze in the reflection before he’s yanking your panties down your thighs.

He removes his hand from your mouth and the clink of his belt sends another rush of heat through you. Spencer eagerly guides your legs apart, before bending you over the sink.

“Then let them,” he mutters as he guides the tip of his cock through your drenched folds, and sinks into your warm heat with a strangled grunt.

A gasp leaves your own as he bottoms out completely, your head lolling forward at the sheer fullness. But your boyfriend doesn’t let that slide for long as his strong hand coaxes your chin up to meet his hazel eyes in the mirror.

“Eyes on me.” Spencer instructs, guiding his hips back and plunging them forward.

His thrusts are fast and sharp, nearly knocking the wind out of you from his urgency. You grip the counter harshly, willing your eyes not to roll in the back of your head as you whimper. Spencer’s lips are back at your ear again, his ever darkening hues never once stray from your own.

“Look how pretty you are, baby… how well you take me,” he groans, gripping your hips tighter.

You’re far too gone to answer him, managing a small whine as you angle your hips back to take him even deeper. His hand drifts lower, over the bunched fabric of your skirt to circle over your clit. Soft mewls continue to spill past your lips as he buries himself inside you, hurtling you faster towards that precipice.

“As if I could ever want anyone else.”

That admission is spoken under his breath and although Spencer didn’t intend for you to hear it, you certainly did. But those words are your undoing, your body trembling in his strong hands as you lose yourself in him. The feeling of your cunt fluttering around him breaks what is left of his composure, spilling into you as you cry out his name.

You both are silent as you come back down to earth, only the sounds of your heavy breathing filling the small space. His hands are gentle as he pulls you further into his chest, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

“Feeling better?”

You giggle softly, “Much.”

You catch a glimpse of his smirk in the mirror as he slips out of you to tuck himself back into his slacks. The brunette quickly drops to his knees before you have a chance to protest, letting his fingertips glide along your skin. Spencer smiles sheepishly as he guides your panties back up your legs, peppering gentle kisses along your inner thighs.

You can feel his cum beginning to soak into the already damp fabric as he helps you adjust your skirt, pressing one last kiss to your clothed hip before he rises to his feet.

“Think you can manage getting back to your seat without my help?” He teases, clearly noticing the way your legs were still shaking as he helped you re-dress.

“I can manage fine, Doctor Reid.”

You can see the flash in his eyes when you call him by his title again, a wicked smile on your lips when you lean up to press a chaste kiss to his cheek.

You exit the bathroom without another word, getting comfortable in your seat. It’s a few minutes later before Spencer returns to his seat beside you, in an attempt to not raise any suspicion. The seatbelt sign clicks on once he takes his seat, signaling the beginning descent to Quantico.

He pulls a novel out of his satchel as you rest your head on his shoulder, feeling your eyelids starting to droop.

“Pay up, Morgan.”

Emily’s hushed voice cuts through the silence not long after you’d both taken your seats again. You feel Spencer stiffen beside you, his fingers freezing on the open page of his novel.

“Damn, couldn’t keep it in your pants for twenty more minutes, pretty boy?” The male grumbles, getting up to toss a couple twenties in Emily’s direction.

She grins widely, waving them around before tucking them in the pocket of her dress pants.

“So you’re betting on us now?” you ask, unable to hide the exasperation in your voice.

“Oh, we’ve been betting on you the second you both started sneaking around,” Rossi’s voice sounds from behind you, amusement littering his tone.

“You two aren’t subtle.”

tagging some spencer loving moots: @xxbimbobunnyxx @babygorewhore @hippiegoth97 @take-everything-you-can @alialuvsreid @angel-eyes-and-devil-hearts

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

the girl next door 15

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as age gap, manipulation, chronic illness, noncon/dubcon, coercion, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: A new neighbour moves in and upends your already disarrayed life.

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself.

This lewk but silverfox

You sit in the car, staring through the windshield. All you can hear is your own breath. In, out, in, out. The traffic passes you by, signs blurry, the air foggy despite the crisp sunlight. Headlights blear around you and the big H over the hospital is nothing more than a blue orb in your peripheral. 

“Sweetie, please, calm down,” Steve squeezes your arm, stilling you as you rock. You didn’t even realise you were moving. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” 

You look over at him and blink, lip trembling. This isn’t happening. Your mother’s going to be okay. It’s okay. He keeps saying so. 

“We’re here,” he rubs your shoulder then brings his hand up to your cheek, his hand forming a vee around your ear, “I’m here for you.” 

Your heart leaps into your throat. Your eyes singe and you sit back, staring ahead as your hand lock around your knees. What are you going to do? The doctors always said your mom would have years left. She’s sick but she has time. You only ever planned to take care of her. Tomorrow was always far away. 

“Honey, please,” Steve says more firmly, shaking you, “you’re going to pass out if you don’t slow down. Breathe. Count.” 

He slips his hand back to rub your back. Your heart beats wildly and emphasizes your shallow breaths. You nod and gulp, following his numbers as he begins; one, two, three...  

When you’ve calm, he taps your thigh lightly. 

“Now, sweetie, we’re gonna have to be there for your mom when she’s ready to see us, right? So let’s go.” 

You reach to undo your seat belt and let it repel as you sit stalk straight. He gets out and comes around to your side. He opens the door and takes your hands, guiding you out of the car. He walks with you across the lot, his hand a vice around yours. He must be just as afraid as you, the way he’s clinging to you. 

The automatic doors open before you and the lobby is a haze of faces and noises. You approach the front desk behind the thick plexiglass and Steve speaks. You only make out your mom’s name. You carry on; down a sterile hall, then onto an elevator, followed by another bright hallway. 

You sit in plastic chairs against a wall. Steve keeps a hold on you, his palm sweaty against yours. You peer down at the meeting of your skin. His hand looks ginormous. You wiggle yours and slip free as he reluctantly lets go. You turn your palms up and fold over your lap, holding your head. 

You don’t want to be here. You can’t be here. You’re not, you’re not, you’re not. It’s a nightmare. It's a bad dream. It isn’t real. 

“Steve Rogers,” a voice calls. You turn your head as Steve stands. A woman in scrubs approaches. “Holly? She’s stable. She’s not awake right now, it’s going to be a few hours.” 

“Right,” Steve says as you watch the sideways scene above you, “what was it? What... happened?” 

“A... combination of factors. A poor chemical reaction,” the nurse says. 

Steve glances over at you, “do you mind if we talk somewhere else?” 

The nurse peeks over at you and arches a brow. 

“Her daughter,” Steve explains, “she’s... she’s very upset right now.” 

“Oh, of course, sir, just step this way,” the woman beckons him over to the nurse’s station and you turn your face down again. 

You can’t remember if your mom was drinking. You checked her medicine and it said ‘do not consume with alcohol’. You should’ve reminded her. Why didn’t you say something? You feel your chest filling again. It hurts. It's all your fault. 

“Sweetie,” Steve touches your shoulder and you sit up so hard, the chair hits the wall. You look up at him with round eyes, “alright, let’s count again.” He helps you calm, gripping your shoulders as he bends to your level and counts to twenty. “Everything’s fine. Mom’s gonna wake up and she’s going to come home. Nurse says we should hit the caf while we wait. And I don’t disagree. I didn’t get my coffee and we got a long day, right?” 

You nod, not sure what you’re agreeing to. He takes your hand again and you stand. He leads you down the hall and back to the elevators. The descent leaves you dizzy. Another hall and another until you enter a large cafeteria that smells like coffee and bacon. 

“Right, you sit,” Steve gets you on a rigid plastic chair, “I’ll be right back. Okay? I’m here for you, honey. I'll always be here for you.” 

He cups the back of your head and bends to kiss your hair. You don’t react. You just watch the blank tabletop. He walks away, leaving you to float away. 

Time skips, like a record under a broken needle, and Steve returns. He has a tray in hand. He puts it down and lifts a cup over the lip to put it in front of you. It steams as a tab hangs over the edge. 

“Chamomile, you don’t need any caffeine right now,” he girds. 

You put your hands around the hot cardboard. It burns. You keep your palms against it until your eyes water. 

“Thanks,” your murmur dully. 

“I got you some food, too. You need something.” 

He moves a bowl in front of you and the scent of cinnamon draws the room into focus. You look down at the oatmeal as he unwraps a spoon and dips it in. He lets it rest against the side. 

“I’m going to take care of you. Mom too,” he crosses his arms on the table and leans in, “you do know that’s all I want? To take care of you both.” 

You reach to clumsily stir the oatmeal. Your body feels detached from your brain. Your eyes flick up to Steve as his stare bores into you. 

“You’ve worked so hard, sweetie. I see it. I see all you put into being a good daughter. And what do you have for it, huh? I just wanna give you all the nice things you never had.” 

You feel as if you might shatter. You understand his words but what he’s saying is a riddle. You look at the bowl and scoop up the oats. He huffs as you take a bite. He stays quiet through several bites. 

“Did I... Did I tell you how nice that dress you wore was?” He says. 

You look at him, stunned. Dress? You peek down at your loose tee shirt. 

“That night I came for dinner. The polka dots,” he smiles and reaches across the table, “it fit you really good.” 

You shake your head. Why is he talking about that? 

“Too small,” you mutter blankly. 

“Was it?” He scoffs, “could’ve fooled me. Well, would you like a new dress?” 

You scrunch up your brow, “I don’t... need one.” 

“But do you want one?” 

You don’t understand. 

“And your drawings, you’re very talented. I know I said so before but I just... you’re a very special girl.” 

You look around the bright white walls then back to him, “okay? Why are you saying these things?” 

He sniffs and tilts his head, “sweetie, you’re totally out of it. What’s going on? You’re acting so strangely.” 

You put the spoon down and sit back, hands on the edge of the table, “am I?” 

“I didn’t say anything,” he looks genuinely confused. “You’ve been rambling this entire time,” a crease forms over his brow, “talking about your mom and dresses and I don’t know.” 

“I have?” You close your eyes and rub your cheeks, “I’m sorry, I... my mom... she’s sick. In the hospital.” 

“I know that, sweetie,” Steve says, “I’m right here with you. I think maybe we should get you in to see someone. You’re obviously in shock.” 

He must be right. You can’t remember saying anything. You can barely parse out how you got to this table. Something is off. 

You sit up, your fingers splayed against your cheeks. You nod, “I’m scared.” 

[lincolndjarin]

fine art

javi gutierrez x moviestar!reader - installment #1 of sparrow's spectacles

main masterlist - other spectacles - kofi

summary : you were an up and coming actress, javi is your biggest fan, he'd do anything to have meet you.

word count : 3.9k

warnings, tags : dead dove do not eat, !! dark fic !! mdni 18+, noncon, stalker!javi, kidnapping, capture, stockholm syndrome, m&f masturbation, sex toys, briefly mentioned periods, exhibitionism, voyurism, so much internal thought processing regarding readers situation, briefly referenced suicide, reader is undescribed other than briefly being mentioned as young in her acting career, in my head she's late twenties, probs other tags i missed sorry. tldr: you have spent so much time with javi against your will that you unwillingly start fantasizing about him and give in to destructive urges in an attempt to escape him, everything is bad here.

a/n : is this stupid and probably bad? who knows, i have a terrible sense of self judgement lately so i'm just gonna post this and hope it's good. also can you tell that i blatantly stole the set from You LMAO. anyhow this is the first installment of my little 'horror' series. but it's less horror and more just odd little stories i wanted to write tbh

Desk, bed, lamp, television, door, chair.

Desk, bed, lamp, television, door, chair.

Desk, bed, lamp, television, door, chair.

On days where you’re feeling particularly bored you list the things you can see. Unfortunately for you, your surroundings rarely change. Of course you could change that, if you asked him for something he’d give it to you, anything you wanted. Unless of course it was something he thought you could hurt yourself with or contact the outside world with. 

You didn’t often ask. 

Whenever you can have a conversation with him he always says the same thing. 

“If you stopped being so stubborn you might actually be happy.” 

“I would do anything for you.” “Then let me out.” “Anything but that.” 

“It’s not as terrible as you make it out to be. It isn’t an actual cage, it isn’t so bad.” 

So you don’t talk to him unless you have to. 

But some days you’re just so painfully, agonizingly, bored and you can’t help yourself. So you scream at him, or you pound on the unyielding plexiglass, or you hold your hand up against it, hoping he’ll touch the other side and you can briefly imagine yourself having physical contact with another human being. 

Sometimes you’ll even play his games. 

You’ll read the scripts he slides through the small square opening in the cage that can’t be more than a foot wide, and act out scenes with him simply because it gives you something to do and for fucks sake you’re desperate for something to do. It’s so easy to get caught up in him, if it wasn’t so easy you’d probably let yourself do it more often, thankfully, it’s so fucking scary. If you spend too much time in the box you’re worried that eventually you’ll forget that you aren’t a doll and you'll grow to like your box. So you do your damndest to maintain a wall between the two of you, but when that wall is glass it is destined to break eventually. So you scream and you fight until you get tired, and then you let the walls down as you rest, before returning to your struggle. And everytime you let the walls down they take longer to put back up. 

At the end of the day it never matters how you treat him, he loves you all the same. 

Even on days where you scream your throat raw and throw your furniture against the walls, if you ask him to get you takeout from your favorite restaurant, or watch a movie with you, he always will. You asked him about it once. Why didn't he just make you do what he wanted? Why didn’t he just make you obey? He had looked genuinely offended, as if he couldn’t believe you thought him capable of such a thing. 

And he told you that he loved you.

More than anything. 

That you were his most prized possession. 

That he would never do anything to hurt you, it would be like if he were angry and he threw a priceless vase, the only person it would hurt is himself. 

You had nodded as if he was making any sense and you’d turned back to the movie he’d picked out. 

You were a vase. 

You were a collectible. 

A priceless, collectable. He kept you in perfect condition and never took you out of the box. Not even to play with you himself. A small, rather demented part of you, is starting to wish that he would. Of course you don’t want him to force himself upon you, you aren’t that far gone. (Yet.) But it’s been so long since you’ve touched another person. You would give your left arm just to be held. If your calendar serves you well, it’s been just over two years since you last saw someone who wasn’t Javi. 

And Javi wouldn’t touch you. 

Not ever. You were too perfect to be defiled in such a way. He would sometimes hold his hand against the glass when you held up your own, he even kissed you through it once. (Although it had been rather awkward and neither one of you ever talked about it again.) But he never touched you. 

Sometimes you can’t help but wonder what would have happened if you’d met Javi in a social setting. He is rather handsome, and though you hate to admit it, when he isn’t leering he’s almost charming. 

Almost.

Everyday you slip further into the fantasy where Javi does something to break up the monotony. Is that his goal? To make you so desperate for human connection that you eventually snap and beg him to touch you? You shudder as you wonder how long that would take. After the first year you stopped wondering what would happen when he got bored of you. You know deep down that that will never happen. If anything his devotion  for you only continues to grow with each passing day. If it’s possible he probably loves you more now then he did at the start of your stay here. Despite everything he takes care of you, in his own strange sort of way. 

Like how he tracks your cycle, always making sure you have anything you need on those days. Sometimes he even knows it’s starting before you do, he’ll bring you baskets with blankets and candy and any other little trinket or gift he saw that made him think of you. 

Jewelry, little plush toys, and books. Anything to try and make you feel anything other than the misery that constantly loomed over you as you waited for his next visit. He never goes more than a few days without seeing you and he always apologizes when he does. He returns with your favorite shampoo or lotion to make it up to you, but it never really changes how you feel about him. It’s nice to fantasize a world in which you enjoy your only source of company but you’re careful to never let that fantasy bleed into reality. 

If he were actually your partner you’d have locked him down ages ago. A part of you knows that he doesn’t want that kind of relationship with you though. He doesn’t want a girlfriend, you’re much more than that. You’re more like a goddess in a cage to him than an actual human being. A beloved pet bird. It’s clear he feels something more than simple love for you. It’s a devotion, a conscious effort to worship you. 

You are to be kept in pristine condition. 

Of course that doesn’t mean he can’t look. 

Two and a half years. 

That’s how long it took for the looking to escalate into something more. You were watching a movie. 

50 First Dates

You had picked it out, Javi liked action movies but would never complain when you wanted to watch a rom-com. You were on your bed, curled up under the blankets in a hoodie and sweatpants. You haven’t worn makeup since he took you, you rarely brushed your hair, you never put much thought into your appearance, and Javi wouldn’t give you a mirror. 

You had one, a long time ago. Within the first week you’d smashed it, threatening to slit your own throat if he didn’t let you out. All that resulted in was you no longer being allowed to have breakables. Plastic cutlery and paper plates were wordlessly passed to you from that point forward.

You had been watching in silence, he sat on the couch outside the cage like he always did and it wasn’t until you heard a shuddering groan that you turned around to see him kneeling beside the cage, one hand pressed up against the glass, steadying himself, the other wrapped around his cock.  

You were frozen in place. 

What are you supposed to do in that situation? 

You watched, slack jawed as he took his time. His gaze made you feel naked, like he could see through the layers of blankets and baggy clothing. 

He had looked you in the eye when he finished. Briefly staring wide eyed before his eyes squeezed shut and with a long, drawn out moan and a strained cry of your name. His cum painted the glass and before you could form any sort of response he was already stuffing himself back into his pants and standing. You want to say something, anything. Something to hold him accountable for what he just did, but you can’t think of anything, and he’s already leaving. 

Before you can even blink he’s gone, without so much as a glance in your direction. And you’re left alone, in the lamp light, unable to escape the sight of his filth on the glass. Covering your head with a blanket as you waited for it to be late enough for the power to cut out and leave you in a safe, and comfortable darkness. 

A part of you hoped that the white speckles would be gone when you woke up but you weren’t that lucky. 

You faced away from that wall, with your head buried in a book until you looked at the clock and knew it was almost time to face him again. When he returned he had an aura of shame around himself, his arms were full of grocery bags and his eyes were red rimmed and teary. 

“I’m so sorry- I just- I love you so much, I don’t know what came over me.” If this was a normal relationship and the two of you had maybe gotten into an argument or something you would have forgiven him. After all he looked genuinely remorseful as he stared at you, going through the bags before setting down several takeout containers with labels you recognized. He had gone out and gotten all your favorites. Your favorite fast food place, as well as a high end chinese restaurant you loved for special occasions, and a clear plastic case with a slice of your favorite flavored cake from a small bakery near your apartment that you frequented. (You’d never asked him to get you anything from there before, you’d never even mentioned the place to him.) 

Through his mumbled apologies he set down your favorite bubble tea flavor and a water bottle. 

He had passed everything to you through the opening in the cage with trembling hands as he sniffled. Once you had everything he sprayed the drying remnants of his release with Windex, pulling several paper towels off the roll and wiping it until it was as if it never happened. By the time he was finished his cheeks were red and big tears rolled down his face. 

“Hey, it’s okay.” Before you can stop yourself you’re comforting him, as if he’s the victim in this situation. 

“It’s not okay, I don’t want you to think that that’s why you’re here.” He mumbles sadly, letting his forehead hit the glass. Through your disgust for your own words you sense something else.

Opportunity. 

The only chance you’re going to get for escape involves him unlocking the door. Something he hasn’t done since he put you in here in the first place. You’ve tried in the past. Not often, there weren’t very many chances, you had everything you needed here, running water and a bathroom, any other sustenance was provided by him through the little opening. There was so rarely an opportunity, and when there were he always anticipated your plans before you got to put them into motion. But you’ve never tried deception. You think you would have, considering you’re an actress but it had never crossed your mind until just now. You can’t half ass this though. If you decide to do this you will get one chance to do it right. 

Go big or go home. 

“No really, it’s okay. It’s sort of… flattering.” His face drops the second you say it and regret starts creeping in. You’re going to die here. He’s going to keep you here until the day you die and no one will ever know what happened to you. A young starlight, taken out in her prime. 

“It’s not, it’s disgusting.” He tosses the paper towels away, sniffling to himself as he stands with his hands clasped in front of him, swaying anxiously back and forth. You take a seat on your bed across from him, fighting the urge to put your hand on the glass. You don’t want to lay it on too thick, he’ll see right through that. 

“It’s fine, it’s- it’s natural.” You’re struggling to find the right words that make it feel real. At one point you were a rather talented actress but you’re out of practice. “Seriously. Especially from you. It’s really sweet.” Fuck, are you doing too much?

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he chews his lip as he stares at you, you can tell he’s skeptical. He should be. You so rarely speak to him and when you do it’s never to be kind. 

“Actions speak louder than words.” 

Someone said that in a movie Javi picked, you had sat and let him read the scene to you afterwards. 

He wants an actress, you can give him that. You can perform, as long as that’s all it is. If it’s a performance you can keep your wall up. You stumble off the bed, your legs feeling like jelly as you pull open the drawer on your nightstand. 

This plan feels stupider by the minute but you need to commit.

He didn’t gift you sex toys the way he did with other little things to make you happier. But they were always just sort of there. In their original packaging, shoved in your nightstand drawer with a few batteries he’d left as well, they’d been here when you woke up in the cage. You doubt you’ll be able to relax enough to do this without a little help, and you have to be convincing. If you aren’t believable he’s unlikely to trust you in the future. If you fuck this up now you’ll never get another chance. 

It’s a pale pink rabbit. You’d probably never buy something like it for yourself, it looks… expensive. The silicone is smooth against your fingers as you rip open the packaging, twisting the base open to pop in two batteries. Rushing in an attempt to not lose your nerve. When you gather your courage you risk a glance up at him, just fast enough to watch his tongue dart out and wet his lips.

So he does want this. 

Good. 

Pressing the button on the toy makes it buzz to life.  

Okay. 

This isn’t so bad. It’s just masturbating, if you do this for him you can take advantage of the obvious attraction he has for you. Even if it doesn’t work immediately, eventually this ends with him letting you out, or at the very least letting himself in, which is all you need. 

So you get back into bed, and you lean on a stack of pillows before really focusing on him. 

And you ask him the question he didn’t bother to ask you.

“Is this okay?” You hope the trembling in your voice comes off as endearing. 

His throat bobs as he nods. Maybe he doesn’t mind that you’ve been laying it on a little thick. Maybe you’ve denied him your affections for so long that he doesn’t want to risk rejecting any advance from you. No matter how out of the blue it seems/.

You push your sweats down to your ankles before kicking them off the bed. No time for embarrassment or regret now, if he senses hesitation none of this will be worth it. He’s moved to be sitting on the couch directly outside the cage now. His knees pressed together as he sits with his hands in his lap, looking almost comically polite. 

No sense putting off the inevitable. 

It’s been a while, there’s a camera in the corner of the cage so you don’t masturbate often, and when you do it’s late at night, once the lights are off and you can hide under your blanket. You can’t do that now though, that would defeat the purpose. 

You leave the toy off as you shove it down the front of your panties. Pressing the soft head of it against your slit, finding it surprisingly easy to tease your entrance with it. 

Are you wet? 

It’s been a while, that’s why. 

Javi certainly hasn’t wasted any time. If he were sitting any closer he’d be fogging up the glass, his hand is shoved down his pants, his face already flushed red. His usual rigid posture is lost as he leans back into the couch cushions, refusing to tear his eyes off of you. Pulling your bottom lip between your teeth you push the toy into you, holding back a gasp as you swallow. At least it feels sort of good. Good enough to make you wish you’d swallowed your pride and used this before today. 

Your body moves instinctually as your free hand reaches forward to push your panties down and turn the vibe on in one motion, the silicone attachment pressing against your clit as you press the toy deeper into your pussy. It’s a little too easy to relax suddenly. Javi now slowly strokes himself, his cock in his hand, looking painfully hard as he squeezes the base of his shaft, almost as if he’s scared of blowing his load too soon. 

Good. 

The less time it takes the better. 

At least that’s what you tell yourself as you angle the toy, letting the tip of it brush against your g-spot and drawing an authentic moan from you. Fighting the urge to cover your mouth in surprise, you repeat the motion. The combination of sensations making your toes curl and your back arch into the mattress. 

“Fuck-” Your voice catches in your throat, your fingers twitch against the button to turn the vibrations up a level. 

Once you find your rhythm it’s easy to forget about the nerves and what’s at stake. It’s easy to get lost in the sensation and the sight of Javi shuddering as he gasps. It’s easy to focus on the attractive parts of him for a brief moment, to make things easier. And it’s easy to wonder if his cock would feel better than the toy that hums and makes your body tense up deliciously. 

It’s actually terrifying how easy it is. 

It’s enough to make you horrified for just a split second. He wasn’t lying when he said you could be happy if you stopped fighting. Twisted into the pleasure you’re feeling is something else. Relief. Relief for the peace you find when you stop fighting him. You could feel this good all the time if you wanted, you and Javi could have your favorite food for dinner, you could watch your favorite movies, and act out your favorite scenes. 

You could feel good. 

You could have nights like these where you watch him jerk off his pretty, thick cock and know that someone loves you enough to take care of you like this. You could let him buy you pretty things and toys that make you feel so so so good. 

And that thought terrifies you. 

If you stayed in this cage you would eventually become entirely complacent. 

It might not be tomorrow, or next week, or next year, but eventually.

You will be happy to flutter about your cage once you’ve forgotten how to fly. 

His pretty little bird. 

It’s your orgasm that snaps you out of that living nightmare. You hadn’t even realized you’d still been fucking the toy, pleasuring yourself to that little daydream. This wasn’t a good idea and you shouldn’t have done it but it’s too late for that now especially when you’re groaning out his name as you remove the still buzzing toy, now slick with your wetness. Javi’s eyes are wide as he clearly can’t hold back any longer as he dirties his shirt and pants with his own release. 

As you quickly reach for the toy, turning it off, you pull your panties up in a hurry. Maybe you should push your luck and ask him to come into the cage now. A sense of dread is settling in your stomach as you realize that you can’t be here much longer, who knows how quickly you’ll crumble if you keep letting yourself do this. It’s best to make this a swift process where you don’t have any more time to sink into the hell that is acceptance of these four glass walls. 

You’re about to do it. About to tell him that he should join you, that it would feel better for the both of you if he was in the cage as well but you don’t get a chance to as he zips his pants back up.

“Go to bed, when you’re asleep I’m gonna leave you a gift.” He stands abruptly, giving you a reassuring smile before pressing his hand up to the glass. You don’t hesitate to crawl up the length of the bed and press your own to his, it’s brief but you can feel the connection here. 

This is just the beginning. 

After today you’ll put more effort in. You’ll make it happen and you’ll make it happen fast. You can put the time and effort in, it’s not like you have anything better to do. You’ll convince him that it’s real before you lose yourself entirely and when the day finally comes where he opens the door you won’t waste the opportunity. 

You’ll leave your room. 

You can figure out the logistics of it later but for now you take the sleeping pill he slides through the opening every night he visits. You don’t usually take it but you need sleep and this will be easier if he thinks you’re compliant. With a sip of your drink the little pill goes down and your eyes close. 

And you dream that you’re a bird, flying through a blue sky.  

You sleep better than you ever have before in the cage. 

Until you wake, the lamp being on is the only indicator you have that it’s daytime. Your hair stands on end as you sit up. He was here. Things have been moved, little things, noticeable things. Your empty drink is tossed in the bin and it smells of cleaning supplies. He doesn’t ever come inside the cage, that goes against everything he tells you. Your head is spinning as you try to figure out what’s different. How long were you out? The pills have never made you feel this fuzzy before on the rare occasions that you’ve taken them, you do your best to focus but it’s difficult when everything’s so muddled. So you do the one thing you know will clear your head and you list the things you see. 

Desk, bed, lamp, television, chair.

Something’s wrong, different. 

He said he was going to give you a gift. What the fuck did he do? Did he leave it in here? Was it too big to fit through the opening? Is that why he came into the cage? 

You don’t catch it immediately, but there is a note taped to the inside of the glass. 

I knew you’d learn to be happy : ) 

See you tonight.

Love, Javi 

You look back around the room, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

Desk, bed, lamp, television, chair.

Desk, bed, lamp, television, chair.

Desk, bed, lamp, television, chair.

Oh. 

i no longer have a tag list, follow @lincolndjarinnotifs for updates on my writing!!

[safeturnip]

excerpt from a shinyduo space au thingy i was writing that idk if i'm gonna get around to finishing

---

Something about space that Gem could never get used to was how quiet it was. The quiet was even more pronounced at night—or, at least, what passed for night in this strange realm of existence hundreds of light years away from Earth and the sun. Sure, there was the constant low clang of the inner workings of the ship, working tirelessly to pump oxygen through the interior, keep the pressure constant to prevent the ship from crumpling into a tangled ball of metal, keep the ship stabilized so that she was properly facing what her crew had traveled all the way here to study. There was the soft hum of the overhead motion-sensor fluorescent lights that had flicked on and off as Gem had shuffled through the empty halls, the low whirr of fans from computer monitors found on practically every available desk, their screens dark in sleep mode. Yet this low buzz of mechanical movement was not enough to drown out the silence of the vast expanse of black darkness without the ship. It was a silence that was so utterly foreign to Gem, who had grown up with the muffled sound waves cresting against the shore, the distant rumble and screech of cars at two in the morning, the low voices of family members in other rooms through thin, off-white coloured walls. 

Huddled in the vacant cockpit of the Possibility, Gem rested her chin against her kneecap, wrapping her arms tighter around her shins. Despite her not being officially authorized to pilot this ship, the cockpit was as familiar as an old friend, familiar as the insomnia she’d found herself plagued with ever since she was a child. That eager to see the night sky, are you? her mother had said fondly whenever younger Gem had crawled into her bed in the middle of the night, squinty-eyed and cranky from exhaustion, yet unable to fall asleep. She would grumble something back, and her mother would laugh, tucking the soft material of her ocean-coloured quilt around Gem’s shoulders. Most of the time she would lay awake until the sun began to laboriously pull itself over the horizon, but it was comforting listening to the sound of another person’s breathing, slow and even in a way that only deep slumber could produce. 

Now, Gem was surrounded by the night sky, an endless swath of inky black and the bright pinpricks of distant stars, with sleep still cleverly evading her. While the rest of her crew members all retired to their rooms during what passed as night on this ship without a sun, Gem took to wandering aimlessly around the Possibility. She’d wander until every part of her body ached with exhaustion, until her eyelids physically couldn’t keep themselves open anymore. Until the next thing she’d register was one of her crew members gently shaking her awake from where she’d collapsed in a random corner of the ship, having less found sleep than crashed head-first into it. She sometimes felt that she was more familiar with the layout of the Possibility than the people on it. 

Out of everywhere on the ship to tuck herself away in, the cockpit was her favourite. Although she wasn’t the ship’s pilot—or even co-pilot, for that matter—she found an indescribable sense of quiet contentment in the dark metal floor, the smooth plexiglass windows, the fake-leather pilot’s chair that seemed like it was made to cradle her body. The door to the cockpit was closed and the fluorescents in the ceiling were off. The only source of light came from the buttons that lined the dashboard and the entity floating in space before her.

[haravath0t]

Beautiful Stranger

(college au!alhaitham x f!reader - inspired by laufey’s “beautiful stranger”)

Alhaitham would be the type of man to double major. As a man that loves to see connectivity from the very root of things, he’d definitely be a History/Linguistics Major.

He’s definitely the type of man to just show up to classes and leave the minute the system says it should end. A lecture ends at 10:50 AM? He’ll be out the door the minute he sees his watch change numbers. If he finds his professor to be terrible on “rate my professor”? He’ll simply come on syllabus day and test days.

The man is busy! He surely would find a way to sustain himself. He’ll probably start off as a tutor in the student center to teach students within his majors. If there’s empty days, he’d surely be the type to simply catch up on his work.

His phone would be on “Do Not Disturb '' 90% of the time. The remaining 10% is due to an argument his roommate Kaveh strikes about not seeing emergency notifications. Not that taking off the mode would make a difference anyways. The only people actively contacting him are Kaveh or other classmates from pre-requisite classes like Tighnari or Cyno.

He practically graduates with perfect grades and a stellar GPA from undergrad. It’s almost astonishing how a man that’s rarely around manages to be graduating with Summa Cum Laude honors.

By the time he joins a master’s program, he’s seeming to be set on what he wants to do now. He doesn’t seem to enjoy tutoring all too much, so professor is out of the question. However, the idea of conservation and working on archives catches his interest. Preferably, a library preservation technician. Yes, a job with minimal communication, yet a close up look at documents that he has either studied or not? It seems almost ideal!

He has already found a path to graduating with a masters degree too, already having planned out how to tackle writing his thesis with ease unlike his peers. However, there’s been a string of inconveniences he’s been experiencing lately in his own place: Kaveh. Kaveh has been hammering away at making his own architectural models. While Alhaitham didn’t really see this as a dealbreaker of living conditions, he won’t deny how his precious sleep gets lost, even if his soundproof earpieces are on his ears.

Two weeks and no improvement, he decides to go against his usual decision making and decides to make a late night stop to the library of the university. He finds it to be easy enough; he lives quite near it, and certainly no one would be there. It’s almost perfect. He finds the floor with the study rooms, finding a desk with the outlets and sitting on it with what he considers a content look on his face. However, it’s when he takes a quick look around that he realizes that he’s not the only one. There’s you.

Now, you were definitely quite the sight. You were in the study room across his, the clear plexiglass separating you both. You two were technically facing each other, yet the laptops you two were typing away at were enough to cover most of what you two were doing. He saw you with a comfortable appearance of a sweatshirt and some sweats, your position on your chair quite comfortable as you hacked away at your own work. The only time he managed to fixate on your workspace was when he was deciding to stretch his arms. He took in all the formulas on your papers, all the charts and plots you’ve made, and the handwritten notes with long words and arrows between them. He saw the word “metabolic pathways” and deduced that you were a science major at the very least.

“Alright. Cool. Back to work.” He told himself. And he was working quite well. However, he wouldn’t lie, he found the way you studied to be quite amusing. He’s passed by a good amount of students in the library when he was tutoring. Some people were quiet and worked away, some people probably brought in food, some people even cried and slammed their laptops shut. However, you seemed to be in your own little world. You had your tablet being your own main source of brainstorming, you had your papers scattered by chapters, and you had brought some food for yourself and…coffee?

The sight of the huge cup slowly being drained by your constant sipping almost made him want to chuckle. Almost. His long fingers stayed idle as he watched you quietly mouthing the words to whatever song you had in your headphones, your head bopping along with the tune.

“Hmph.” He’d grunt, going back to his work. The next time he’d look up at you is when you went to tap him on the shoulder. “Excuse me?” A voice asks, making him take off an earpiece and look back. Sure enough, it’s “science lady”, as he has dubbed you. “Yes?” He asked. He wanted to look amiable enough for you to talk to him, but you saw his plain look on his face. He almost looked…unamused. You suddenly felt so embarrassed to disturb him at this ungodly hour. “Do you mind watching my stuff? I’m going to be using the bathroom.”

The question made him scoff before he realized: Why would he need to watch over it? Everyone looked like they’d be doing nothing of the sort, but still, seeing the look on your face made him realize it was an earnest question. And so, he decides to agree. Seeing your face brighten accompanied with an earnest thanks almost made him want to smile. Almost. He saw the way you briskly walked to the bathroom, which only amused him more.

The coffee only gets to you after how much you’ve been drinking it. Though, you couldn’t get over how cute this guy looked! Did he look kinda scary? Yeah, but you couldn’t deny that he looked quite cute. Though, you couldn’t help but wonder if it was because you were cooped in your research lab so much that you found anything amusing nowadays, including this mystery guy. Still, he had interesting eyes, you had to admit it. You liked his shaggy silver hair, the way he casually came in and seemed so fixated on his work. What a shame it might be a one time thing. Oh, how did this library crush become part of your thoughts so quickly while you washed your hands.

You thank him as you return to your seat with a little thumbs up, and he only sends you a little smile back. You would be lying if you said that the little curve at the edge of his lip made you wanna squeal. What you didn’t see was that his green eyes were staring at you as you sat down, waiting for you to see a particular item. And you saw it, alright. He can tell just by the raise of your brows and your wide eyes. It was right on your keyboard of the laptop, a paper torn out of the corner of his notebook. His penmanship was quite remarkable, and the contents of it amused you: “Maybe a little water would be more efficient than that coffee you’re chugging, no?”

Alhaitham practically was curious to see how you’d react. He could only gauge your reaction from your eyes, seeing your hand reach for a piece of paper before your head disappears behind the screen. He didn’t know what you were thinking either when you passed back a paper to him. It was a blank page which only contained your handwriting: “My water bottle actually spilled on my way here.” Next to it was a little sad face next to it.

Now, Alhaitham wasn’t prepared for that type of wholesome response. In fact, he’s surprised that it went as well as it did. He saw you practically scurry back to your studying table with a tiny smile on your face, your eyes back to focusing on work. However, it did not go without you making a little scene of taking yet another sip of your coffee from your large cup. It didn’t occur to him till you gave him a tiny smile that he was stealing glances your way a little too much. He was long done with his workload for the night, yet something bolted him to his seat. There was something that kept him in this crowd of procrastinating students.

Though, it’s clear that you were trying to be diligent despite your antics. He couldn’t deny that he found the way your lips pout as you concentrated on an endearing sight, or that you were the one he’s been oddly eyeing in this busy space. He was a bit let down seeing that you wouldn’t be looking his way for a while. You didn’t look at anything but your work until a push of a chair is heard, the tall man is seen making his way out. Your eyes carefully watch him with some sort of melancholy stirring in your heart, wishing he stayed longer, or that he wrote even just one more note to you.

Little did you know that as Alhaitham kicks off his shoes at his house’s foyer, he’s left thinking of a particular science girl chugging on coffee, clinging onto the post-it with a particular someone’s scribbles and sad face. Little did you know that the man was thinking of an excuse to visit the library tomorrow night, wondering if you’d be there.

[poisonheadcrabsalesman]

Special Treatment

Or: John Halo vs Space Tricare

Thanks to @bloodgulchblog for encouraging me to follow this idea. It's a critical piece based and could have been a lot longer to be honest. Here's 2.1k words of John trying to navigate the average military clinic, many liberties taken, many details experienced.

-

The stilted conversations of the waiting room quiet at the first sign of potential movement. Mothers quietly clutching their crying babies or holding hands of children with ear aches and runny noses look up with tempered hope and frazzled nerves. Toddlers fascinated by the brightly colored show on the room’s single silent screen blink at the new person in the doorway. An elderly person with a cane and a fistful of paper documents frowns and shifts in preparation to stand. John’s own eyes scan the room in periphery, noting the changing body language and access to the exits. Hope was a fickle thing in a clinic. It’d been 15 minutes since the last person had been ushered back down the hall.

His appointment was scheduled for 20 minutes ago. He’d arrived 50 minutes ago. His doctored paperwork claiming his status and identity had been submitted 45 minutes ago. 45 minutes since his approach had been met with shocked stares and scrutiny before being dismissed back to the waiting room with its plastic and metal chairs with fading teal patterns and water-stained tile ceilings.

Somewhere Kelly was laughing at him. He could have sought medical help on board the UNSC Infinity. But the way people outside his team treated him rankled his sense of what he really deserved. He only did his duty-he didn’t want special treatment. But John was learning what planet-side military healthcare was really like - the hard way.

"Smith, John."

A nurse in plain blue scrubs holding a clipboard calls from right outside the front desk. The other nurse and tired looking security officer don't look up from behind the plexiglass as she blearily scans the room.

John stands before she calls his name again. He tries for a slow measured pace, but her eyes widen as he approaches. She recovers quickly and holds out her hand, "ID?"

He hands her his military ID, freshly made and slightly warped from its time in his pocket. An awkward photo and the issue date marked as the same day did him no favors. The cheap laminate flashing the holographic symbols of the UNSC over the fine black print. It had his real birthday on it, and he’d already memorized his benefits and DoD ID number. Part of him thought that it would help, but the other part of him wondered if it made him even more suspicious.

"Uh huh." She nods and looks him over. He knows he hasn't done anything wrong, but this is new territory for him. By seeking to avoid special treatment, John has stumbled into a world of suspicious admin and medical professionals. His own last name is classified, and though he might look like a walking cadaver he was thankful the ID office agreed on John Smith rather than John Doe.

The tired nurse turns and walks away, only looking back in frustration and waving for him to follow. He maintains a polite distance, but nothing seems to help her mood. Thankfully, it's not a long walk. Down the crowded hall past the clinic's tiny lab and waiting area to another gray and white room with an examination table. She tells him to sit and that someone will be by. The paper crinkles beneath him, but he bears it. There's more than a little doubt in his mind that the metal and plastic seat in the corner would support his weight. There’s barely anything else in the room; another uncomfortable chair, a stool near the logged out computer, a biohazard bin and some out of date infographic posters warning about common illnesses and a bizarrely detailed model of the inner ear.

There aren’t any signs of information for the usual suspects that John’s seen in the Infinity’s medical wing the few times he’s allowed himself to be wrestled there. Her crew having more civilians in the mix meant that the infirmary was different than he was used to. John looks and wonders where the vaccine information was or the signs of getting someone help. All he’s left with in this clinic are the signs of mesothelioma symptoms and law offices.

He sits and he waits and he wheezes slightly. The mask he’s wearing both for his own health and comfort and for others is a flimsy barrier compared to what he’s used to, but it’ll do for now.

The nurse didn't lie. Someone does come by, eventually. There's no clock on the wall, but without looking at his datapad John estimates that at least 30 minutes have gone by.

Another person in scrubs comes in, takes his vitals, and makes awkward small talk. He's a corpsman, Jones, and he tries to hide his reaction upon seeing John. Blue overalls and Navy are familiar enough he should put John at ease, but Jones is between him and the door.

John’s been on enough campaigns where waiting took the majority of his time. He’d been at the mercy of the decisions of others his whole life. But something about this clinic, lacking even the facade of care and bogged down in the bureaucracy of out-of-date admin set his teeth on edge. These people weren’t his enemy, but he could not count them as allies. He felt more secure in the waiting room with the blinds blocking the midday sun and the coughing child holding a Spartan action figure in their tiny fist.

The others must have talked because he enters the room with a polite knock and a burning curiosity in his eyes. John's not the Master Chief right now, for which he's grateful, but he misses the armor. There's no buffer between him and humanity.

Jones asks him the same questions he was asked by the nurse at the counter, and the nurse on the phone, and the administrator at the ID office, and Kelly when she found out he was going planet-side for treatment. Why?

At this point, John regrets trying to follow his new instinct to not let things get so bad he ends up in the infirmary. It’s not like he hasn’t toughed out illnesses before. But being sick and miserable amongst his team, and his crew felt worse. Master Chief couldn’t have a cold or be lain low by a respiratory infection. He had a job to do.

But that didn’t mean it was easy. Jones mangles his arm trying to find a vein to draw blood. Even after commenting on John’s paleness helping him locate some good ones. He palpates him and tries and misses. John bears it, and wonders distantly if he’ll get comments on this too from teammates and overbearing techs.

Jones leaves with two vials and an apologetic smile that is soured by some joke John forgets five minutes later. It’s not until another 15 have passed that someone in a lab coat flutters in, introduces himself, chides John to take better care of himself, makes an assumption about the illness and gives him a prescription. He’s halfway out the door before telling John where the pharmacy is.

Another body enters his space and he sidesteps out of habit. Smaller people seem to think Spartans are less like people and more like features in a room to work around. The nurse eyes him and goes back to his job of restocking the room and ripping off the paper where John had sat for most of the last hour.

“Did you need anything else?” He says more than asks.

John shakes his head and leaves, back down the gray and white hallway, past the lab where his blood is being tested. Jones told him to check his patient portal in the next week or so. Might be longer.

He makes it to the pharmacy unscathed, save for his arm, and sits down with a clear view of the exits.

A few rows over he overhears a whispered conversation between an adolescent and their guardian. He doesn’t mean to listen in but John’s never been big on reacting before understanding. He understands his world, but this was new and all the other patients weren’t giving him much to go on. Surely this wasn’t an acceptable level of care for the family, dependents and service members of UNSC? This facility alone was overcrowded, out-of-date, understaffed, and rundown to such a degree that John’s anxiety spiked when he arrived. But the same could be said for the base housing he passed, and the ID office, and the shipyard itself. The entire base was made to function a certain way for a certain amount of time, and it was obviously past that.

The adolescent complains to their guardian, hands fisted in some over sized jacket. “But the doctor didn’t even figure it out?”

The guardian looks stricken but rallies quickly.“The steroids are to help you recover and your body fight whatever caused the reaction. The doctor didn’t think the allergic reaction was severe enough for testing. It’ll be okay.” They try to comfort the child.

John’s perfect posture deflates a millimeter. It goes unnoticed by everyone around him, and for the first time that day, he’s glad his team isn’t here. To see him worn down so quickly, or to see the state of the people they are trying to protect.

"Now serving - at window number 2." A woman's synthetic voice rings out over the muted din of the clinic's waiting room. Tile floor that once might have been white and gray squeaks under the shoes of the next person in line.

John sits and stares at his datapad and the newly downloaded app that bears his own number. The lone screen displaying the number being served ticks upward and the woman speaks again. "Now serving - at window number 4." Another body shuffles out of the sea of people sitting under the baleful fluorescents.

He finds it strange that the Dumb AI doesn't actually announce the number, and that she's only saying the phrase in English. After 45 minutes waiting and watching, John doubts she's even an Dumb AI. This place doesn't seem to have the resources to justify one. Just a synthetic recording playing over and over, cool and impersonal, over the dull roar of illness. Sniffles and coughs and John’s own tired wheezing behind his mask.

He fidgets, on purpose of course, since they trained the fidget out of him. That and Mjolnir doesn't take kindly to twitchy Spartans. John was finding that civilians were intimidated by tall men in masks and sunglasses that sat still as statues. He was a polite statue, but that didn't help with the staring.

More time passes. It feels like he arrived at the clinic yesterday and five minutes ago. Windowless walls and water-stained ceilings close in with a sense of a stagnant forever-present. Never moving forward, never being helped, just shuffled around and waiting somewhere else. Buzzing fluorescents and strained breathing complement the clacking of analog keyboards and soft rough voices of pharmacists and techs working in their own hives located behind plexiglass and locked doors.

Another hour passes and the rhythmless dance of synthetic announcements, pharmacy techs, and doctor’s notes trickling through the computer system lands on John. His number is called and he shuffles to the window.

Name, ID, Birthday-here’s the meds, take twice a day with food. Instructions on the bottle. The rustle of a brown paper bag to hide the results of half a day.

And then he’s shooed away.

The dull red exit sigh points back the way he came all that time ago, past the security checkpoint and front desk, past the coughs and wheezes and crying babes of the waiting room, and out the shuddering, squeaking automatic doors and back into the sunlight.

Cars honk in nearby traffic. A single sickly tree provides some shade in the patchy yellow grass nearby.

Mission accomplished.

John heads back, feeling heavier than he did that morning when he woke with full sinuses and a productive cough. The pills in the bag rattle. 10 days of a treatment, refills as needed. He won’t be back. John has that choice, has more access to care, and for that he is both grateful and concerned. It wasn’t often he got to see what he was protecting, what he was a symbol of. A great machine slowly turning good people into good soldiers, but also a slow wave of ineptitude unable to help the ones keeping it running. Something like that would surely die a slow death.

But John doesn’t think about that. He can’t. That would require a more critical awareness of his role in this great dying thing that consumes all in its path. Cortana would have helped. She would have hacked the computers and fixed everything, but that was a fantasy.

[maccreadysbaby]

A Hundred Ways to Become a Wayne

batfamily + oc insert

tw: none

wanna read more? here’s the table of contents!

want to read the first fic in the hundred days series so you understand what’s going on here? here it is!

and john’s back at it again ALSO one of his lines is FORESHADOWING babdmdkdkfjsn

part thirty-seven

❝ PLAN B ❞

THURSDAY — SEPTEMBER 3 — 12:00 PM

BENTLEY WAS PRETTY SURE HE’D NEVER MET ANYONE, NOT EVEN THE PUPPET MASTER, WHO COULD PULL STRINGS LIKE A WAYNE. Because, less than four hours later (with Bruce’s blessing), Bentley Whittaker and Jason Todd were waiting to get called into the visitation room at Blackgate Penitentiary to see his father.

Bentley hadn’t expected to be so nervous. Maybe he should’ve, since he was going to talk to the man who’d abused him for ten years, kidnapped him, poisoned him, and was now turning people into terrifying monsters whose only soul purpose was to murder his family. Not to mention that he’d just been patted and scanned and checked all over by people who, he was pretty darn positive, were carrying guns. And he was in a prison. Full of, like, murderers and stuff.

Before they’d left the house, he’d been a normal amount of nervous, but now, sitting in the empty prison hallway, he was downright horrified. He and Jason were sitting in uncomfortable metal chairs, staring down at old tile. Bentley’s knee was bouncing at a pace that might rival Nico’s superpowers. Honestly, as dreary as it was, he’d rather be back at the Manor sitting on the same loveseat watching Asten puke his guts out every ten minutes. (Because, yes, that was happening again.)

Bentley heard Jason breathe in and out. “You know, it’s not too late to back out.”

Bentley glanced over at him. They were both a little more presentable now, mirroring one another in varying colored jeans and hoodies. Jason had fixed his hair in its typical upward fashion, putting the white streak on full display. He was looking back at Bentley, a serious look on his face, his greenish-blue eyes gleaming oddly under the fluorescent lights. 

Bentley looked down at his ratty red tennis shoes, at his vigorously bouncing knee. “No.”

He felt Jason’s eyes on him, and could practically feel the smirk on his face when he replied: “You sure? Because you look like you’re trying to pedal a broken bicycle.”

Bentley forced his knee to stop moving. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Jason said, patting Bentley’s knee once, quickly. “Just… really think about it. I can’t come in with you, so it’ll just be you, him, and a cop. If you really don’t want to do it, that’s okay.”

Bentley let out a puff of air. “I’m going to do it.”

“Okay,” He saw Jason nod in his peripheral, and after a moment of silence, he leaned in close and continued: “But if anything happens, I’ll blow that door off its hinges before the cops even know what’s happening.”

Bentley cracked a smile at that, and Jason sat back with a triumphant smirk.

Waiting felt like both an eternity and a split second. One minute, he and Jason were sitting alone in the hall, the next, he was being ushered through a big, thick door by a female officer who was relaying ground rules and reinforcing the fact that Bentley only had twenty minutes to talk to his dad.

“You don’t have to stay for all twenty,” Jason interrupted as Bentley was whisked down the hall, which the officer didn’t really appreciate. The woman kept talking but Bentley couldn’t really focus; he was too busy trying to peer into the visitation area. 

The long, barren hallway turned into a long, barren room, lined with plexiglass booths. There were no other people in there. Each booth had a phone and desk on either side, separated in the middle by a wall of glass. There was a sign above every window that said: please don’t scratch the glass!

Bentley steeled when he spotted a mop of red hair that matched his to the tee, sitting behind one of the windows. He breathed in and out. His father couldn’t get to him behind the glass, right? Bentley didn’t see any holes or doors or ways for him to get into the room. The police officer, whose hair Bentley could now see was black, closed the door to the room and went to stand along the wall.

With a final quick glance up to her, Bentley made his way to the rickety spinning stool across from his father. Third booth from the right.

He looked… different. Not so clean cut. His hair was longer — he’d always been so anal about trimming his hair that Bentley was thoroughly shocked at the sight of the shaggy red mop that looked a lot like his own now. He had a little facial hair, too, patchy and strange looking. He was wearing a matching set of gray clothes, not a pressed suit, and when Bentley sat down, his shiny brown eyes bored into the child’s head like an electric drill.

Bentley, when he sat down, moved his feet up to the highest rung on the stool in an attempt to make himself smaller. Cut the head off the snake, right? That’s what he was here to do; stop the operation in its tracks. So… how was he supposed to manipulate the manipulator? (In hindsight, maybe he should’ve thought a little bit more before he decided to go to the prison.)

His father picked up the black wall-phone on his side of the glass and brought it up to his ear. Talking openly about, like, crime and stuff was pretty stupid, though, wasn’t it?

Bentley lifted his hands, finger-spelling: sign.

His father put the phone back.

A moment of silence passed where Bentley’s father just sort of watched him closely; contemplating. His eyes scoured what had to be every inch of his son’s appearance before he lifted his hands and signed: ‘You’ve grown.’

Bentley thought long and hard about how he should respond. He considered saying: Yeah, food helps with that, but decided against it. Instead, he just bobbed his fist yes. This was already way harder than he’d thought. How was he supposed to talk to him? After he’d… you know. After all, his father never really gave up, even in jail.

Bentley kept his gaze trained on his father’s hands like he used to, avoiding eye contact like the plague. He didn’t want to see his face. 

The hands moved. ‘How is school?’

Bentley breathed in and out, fingerspelling: ‘Fine.’ Well, besides having a murdering mad scientist (who moves at his father’s command.) for a teacher, and a bully who thought it would be funny to lock Bentley in the janitor's closet. That and the fact that he was now in the public eye for living with Bruce. He didn’t even want to know what the news reports looked like lately. Bruce Wayne’s newest child, gone without a trace?

John nodded. Another brief moment of staring ensued, before he brought his hands up again. ‘Made any friends?’

Not besides the ones you tried to kill. Bentley blinked a few times, moving his fingers calculatively. ‘Yes. But you already knew that.’

His father’s expression grew curious, in an arrogant sort of way, like he was raising his brows to say oh, really? Bentley only looked at him for a second before his eyes drifted back to the table his father’s elbows were resting on. 

‘I know you’re still talking to Dr. Keene,’ Bentley signed subtly, glancing at the officer behind them, who looked anything but engaged. ‘And I’m sure you know by now that he had us at the facility. Then he didn’t.’

His father said nothing. Typical, and a great way to piss off an already sort of simmering-in-his-own-silent-rage kind of child. 

Bentley kept his hands moving, lest they stop. ‘You’re hurting innocent people just to get back at me? I never did anything to you.’

John lifted his hands, his fingers twitching oddly for a moment before he signed: ‘It wasn’t about you. It was about Bruce.’

Bentley fought the urge to roll his eyes. ‘But-’

‘Bruce is the reason your mother and sister are dead. And then he came along and took you away from me, too,’ His father’s hands were sort of trembling, now, his expression intense and hard. Bentley could feel his eyes but still wouldn’t look right at them.

‘You didn’t even want me. What sense is there in attacking someone who got the kid you never wanted? Now you don’t have to deal with me,’ Bentley signed, looking at his father’s hands, shaking his head subtly. ‘You hate me, and now I’m somebody else’s problem. You should be happy.’

‘I don’t hate you,’ Was his father’s reply. Bentley saw his expression change. ‘I love you.’

The child breathed in through his nose. Not this, not again. Get the conversation back on track — control it. ‘No, you don’t.’

‘You can’t tell me what I do and don’t love; you don’t know,’ His father signed. ‘I love you.’

‘No, you don’t, and I don’t care. That’s not what I’m here to talk about,’ Bentley tried, but his signs went unnoticed. 

‘I do, Bentley. I love you,’

Bentley inhaled sharply, looking down at the table with a few blinks. The last time his father had said that, it was a big fat lie. What had Bentley ever done to deserve all of that? All of this? What did he do not to deserve his father’s love?

Still, he caved for the patented back-and-forth arguing game. ‘You don’t.’

‘You just don’t want to accept the fact that maybe you’re wrong.’ His father signed, lowering his head so it was more in Bentley’s view. ‘You don’t want to accept the fact that I can change. That I can be more than the monster under your bed.’

What if his father could change? Not that Bentley thought he was. He was still a crazy psycho killer. But what if, one day, he wasn’t? What if, one day, he really was more than the monster from Bentley’s past? What if one day he really wanted to love him? 

What if he wanted him back one day?

Bentley tried to push the thoughts out of his mind — he was on a mission. He was the Puppeteer. Right? His father couldn’t really love him. Right?

‘You asked me in the warehouse why I didn’t love you, and I’m telling you now, that I do,’ His father continued to sign, and Bentley’s eyes began to burn. He tried to push it away with everything in him, but something didn’t want to let go of the hope. The hope that maybe his real dad could love him again. ‘I did some awful things to you out of my own pain. Terrible things I would never wish upon any child in this world. I don’t know if I’ll ever do enough good to make up for it, but the one thing I can make damn well sure I do is let you know that I do love you.’

Bentley looked down at the table. It had been almost a year. Could someone change so fast? A year was long enough, wasn’t it?

‘You’re not lying this time?’ He signed in return.

‘No, Bentley. I didn’t see it before, but I see it now — getting you taken away, coming here, spending my time thinking, reflecting… It helped me realize that you were the best thing that ever happened to me. The only thing I really wanted. Needed.’

Bentley shook his head, blinking away the beginnings of tears. Rational thought and logic said he was lying. Hope said something else. ‘I don’t believe you.’

To the child’s surprise, his father smiled. Actually, literally smiled. With teeth and all. Teeth. Bentley’s father never smiled, let alone at him. ‘That’s okay. I’ll just keep saying it. I love you.’

Bentley shook his head, breathing in, swallowing thickly. ‘Stop.’

‘I love you, Bentley. I love you so much,’

‘Stop lying,’ He tried again.

‘I love you,’

‘Stop it,’

‘Look up at me. Please?’

That strange little sliver of hope had Bentley lifting his head on command, his brown eyes meeting the identical ones of his father. His father had tears — actual, honest tears — beginning to glimmer at the bottom of his eyes, a smile playing on his lips.

‘People can change, Bentley. You’re surrounded by them. Damian Wayne went from being a murderer to a superhero. Jason Todd went from rage-killing to a full-time older brother,’ He explained with his hands, smile staying all the while. ‘I can change, Bentley. I want to change. I just need you to have faith in me.’

Bentley stared, dumbfounded, vision slightly obscured by the liquid in his eyes.

‘I,’ His father separated the signs for emphasis with a smile, and an honest to goodness tear went down the man’s face. ‘Love. You.’ 

All that reliable rational thought and logic went out the window, and Bentley brought a hand to his mouth. Of all the things he expected to do while talking to his father, crying was not one of them. But here he was. Crying. (He probably should’ve expected to cry anyways. He was basically a professional at it.)

For a moment, he just rested his elbows on the table and put his head in his hands. So many red flags were waving in his mind, alarm bells sounding, lights flashing, telling him his father was lying, deceiving him, but he couldn’t really bring himself to accept it. He couldn’t. Not when his father had just told him he’d loved him ten times in one conversation. Not when Bentley was so close to feeling what he’d always wanted to feel. His father loving him was different from Dick or Bruce, it was… more. It didn’t feel the same. Different, long overdue, and… really, really, really, really good.

So, there he sat for a solid five minutes at least, his palms buried in his eye sockets in an attempt to keep the tears in. (It didn’t work. When did it ever?) He was biting his tongue to keep silent in fear Jason really would hear him crying through the wall and come break it down. 

Logic told him to stop. To pay attention. To use his Puppeteer mind to see through everything his father was saying. That if he really had changed, if he really loved him, he wouldn’t be doing all of this.

The part of him that wanted so badly to be loved didn’t let him. 

Because what if his dad really did love him?

There was a subtle peck on the glass, and Bentley looked up again, finally letting his (watery, and red.) brown eyes meet his father’s and stay there. He was still smiling, kind of like Bruce always did. 

‘It’s been a year, and you still crumble under the weight of three small words. I thought I taught you better than that.’

Bentley sat up, wiping at his eyes, and glanced around the room warily. His father’s smile fell into nothing — something cold, like Bentley was used to. This wasn’t… he hadn’t… again?

‘You were lying?’

‘I thought you lived with detectives, Bentley,’ He signed, one eyebrow raised in a triumphant manner. He leaned in close to the glass, and Bentley instinctively moved away. ‘Listen, and listen closely, because this is the last thing I’m saying to you.’

Bentley looked down at his shaky hands. That strange feeling came again, the same one he felt at the Manor. He heard water moving through the pipes in the ceiling. He felt his blood pumping.

‘Even if you get Dr. Keene arrested, even if you kill Charlie and release the other children and destroy this entire operation from the ground up, you’re going to lose. If I can’t destroy the Wayne’s alone, I’ll just watch all of Gotham burn instead,’ He signed, a strangely competent look coming across his face like he was having a normal business transaction. ‘We have a plan B that you won’t touch, that you won’t even know about until it’s too late. Think of it as a boss fight in a video game. It’s coming. And you can’t stop it.’

Bentley exhaled a shaky breath, wiping at his eyes.

‘If you find a way to stop this — if you make us change to plan B, all the thousands of lives lost here in Gotham are on your head,’ His father smiled a crooked smile, different from the last. ‘There’s no way for you to win, Bentley. This is the end. It's your choice how many people come out of it.’

Bentley’s hands were shaking when he signed: ‘You’re not going to win.’

His father laughed. Literally laughed, out loud. ‘If you really think so, then keep your eye on the news channels. If you keep your ears open you might hear the warning call before the end comes.’

Bentley looked down at his own lap. 

‘And Bentley…’ His father signed, and the child looked up one last time. ‘Just to clear things up… not a single atom of my very being has ever loved you… and not a single atom ever will.’

That was the moment a part of Bentley… died. Something inside of him shifted. The little boy that wanted his dad to love him so badly faded away to nothing, and left something oddly empty and wrong in its wake. Something like rage, but muffled by something else he couldn’t place right then.

Bentley stood up from the stool, letting out a breath of air. ‘That’s okay. Bruce loves me better than you ever could. Don’t you ever get tired of being second best?’

He didn’t wait for his father’s reply, but turned to leave the room.

“Oh, and Bentley…”

He turned back to his father one last time, who was standing now, with a smile. “When the elements are pitted against one another, fire always wins.”

Bentley said nothing. The officer led him out of the room.

When Bentley made it back into the hallway and Jason noticed his red rimmed eyes, he looked like he was going to kill someone.

“Bentley?” He questioned, standing up when they got close. “What happened?”

“I think they had a heartfelt conversation. I couldn’t really hear it, of course — I didn’t know the boy didn’t talk,” Said the officer, patting Bentley’s shoulder. “He’s all yours. Make sure you check up with security on your way out.”

Jason took Bentley’s shoulder and replied with a: “Yeah…”

The walk out of the prison felt like an eternity. Somehow, Bentley was feeling everything and nothing at all. It felt like everything negative inside of him — rage, sadness, despair, desperation, terror, loneliness, disappointment, frustration, a whole entire life’s worth of guilt — it was like it was all broiling and fighting to get out, but the lid of the pot was closed too tight. Like it was seeping out of crevices and waiting for the day Bentley Whittaker breaks.

“What did he say to you?” Jason practically demanded, his hand staying firmly on Bentley’s left shoulder as they walked through the not-very-crowded parking lot. He had a very deadpan, sort of pissed off look on his face. 

Bentley looked everywhere but at Jason, dutifully shutting down the urges to cry or throw a tantrum or punch something or burn down a house. “I just… can we just go home? Please? I don’t want to be here anymore.”

“Did he threaten you?” Jason continued, squeezing Bentley’s shoulder as they split to go on either side of the car. Jason climbed in the driver’s seat, and Bentley hopped into the passenger’s side.

“No,” Bentley replied once they were both in Jason’s car, buckling his seatbelt. Not directly, anyway…

“Why have you been crying?”

Bentley looked down at his lap as the car started up. “Can we just go home?”

Jason didn’t argue.

—

dedicated to @sassenashsworld 💚

—

tag list! (If you want me to remove or add you, ask in comments!)

@fleur-alise @sarcopterygiian @flyrobinflyy @skylathescholar @gayboss-too-close-to-the-sun @xiaonothere

[iliterallydecepticanteven]

Hey y'all remember Eat Shit & Live, Blitzwing? Y'all want a fun short thing I churned out that takes place sometime after that fic? Here you go! Punched out while waiting for my nails to dry and not spellchecked or proofread at all, have fun!

💜

The day is cool, a soft breeze wafting off the lake and the sun peeking out from scattered clouds. Alexandria had babbled the entire car ride, insistently pointing out the window and shouting, “Cloud! Cloud, mommy!” 

Emily had just replied that yes, that was a cloud. When they neared the air base, she started shouting out other things she saw, like planes and helicopters. She shouts an enthusiastic greeting at the guard who checks Emily’s ID when they arrive at the gates of the base. 

When she’s finally released from the confines of her carseat, she jumps up and down excitedly, already knowing what their little trip entailed. 

“Hand, hand, give me your hand!” Emily shouts, chasing after her daughter who is practically skipping towards one of the hangars. She finally slows down and grabs the outstretched hand, but continues to bounce up and down as they walk into the hangar. 

It was a newer building, built for use by Decepticons. Much higher than those used to house military and passenger planes. They walk past the massive desks and chairs towards the back, where there’s an elevator. It takes them up to an upper level filled with human sized desks and chairs, at perfect eye-level with Cybertronians. 

“Bitz! Bitz!” Alexandria starts shouting, looking down at the hangar. 

“He’s coming! Calm down, honey,” Emily says as she drops her purse on a desk. 

“Bitz and Lug-ug?” Alexandria asks. She takes an offered stuffed elephant from her mom. 

“Yes, they both should be here,” Emily replies as she sits in a chair. She checks her phone as Alexandria runs about, looking around the office space. The barrier between the work area and the drop into the hangar is solid thick plexiglass that comes up to Emily’s chest with no gaps, breaks, or small spaces a kid could squeeze into. The triple reinforcement also means that Alexandria is able to push her whole body against it without it so much as budging. 

Various work emails talking about changing the shift schedules and overhauling the tech in the tower to be able to better communicate with the Decepticons. She’s punching out response when she hears the large door of the hangar whining open. 

Emily gets up, standing next to Alexandria as she squeals and bounces. The most interesting thing Emily had experienced from being around Cybertronians was their smell. Those that flew smelled like ozone and burning metal and something she couldn’t quite put her finger on but was this faint chemical smell. Those that drove smelled of dirt and burnt carbon and that faint chemical smell as well. 

The smell of burning ozone drifts over before Blitzwing comes into view, his calm face smiling at them before snapping to his jack-o-lantern one. He cackles excitedly as he approaches, Alexandria jumping up and down in excitement as he approaches. 

“Hello, hello, hello! How are you little one?” he laughs as he stands right next to the barrier. 

“Bitz! Bitz!” Alexandria shrieks. “Mommy, up please, please up!” 

Emily reaches down and hoists her daughter into her arms, just high enough to rest her tiny hands on the edge of the plexiglass. She looks over to watch as Lugnut walks in the hangar as well, clawed hands holding a stack of metal rectangles. Megatron steps in a moment later, instantly drawn to the commotion. 

“Your sparkling is growing well,” he comments as Emily sets Alexandria down to run along the edge of the plexiglass. 

“Oh yeah. She went through a growth spurt recently and completely outgrew a bunch of clothes,” Emily replies. She knows that this likely means nothing to him, given the major difference of species and societies, but he and the other Decepticons she interacted with regularly appreciated the updates regardless. 

“Out of curiosity, what do you feed human offspring that young?” he asks. She’s running up and down the length of the plexiglass, Blitzwing following her with his gaze. 

“Same food I eat, organic stuff, just mashed down or cut up so she doesn’t choke on it,” she replies. “She’s loving white cheddar cheese right now. She’d eat a whole block if we let her.” 

Emily thinks for a moment before asking, “What do yours eat?” 

“Specialized formulations of energon, made to have more minerals and easier for the tanks to digest,” Megatron replies. “As we age, our fuel tanks can handle less processed energon. I could eat raw energon crystals and be perfectly fine.” 

“Wow,” she says. Lugnut has since walked over to wave at Alexandria. 

“You grow stronger every time we see you, tiny puny human!” Lugnut shouts. Alexandria squeals in response and jumps up and down. 

“Heard the Autobots might re-enter the picture,” Emily says, looking over at Megatron. 

“Discussions are occurring,” he admits. “For the obvious reason of not wanting to share the energon crystals popping up, I’m not impartial to it. However, Governor Nakamura is the one making the final calls in regards to who does and does not aid in protecting this state from the Quintessons threat.” 

“She’s not talking to the ones who bailed, right?’ Emily asks. 

Megatron chuckles. “Of course not. She is, although, talking to the only Autobot who has ever bested me in battle.” 

“Optimus?” Emily asks. 

Megatron nods, slowly and reverently. “Correct.” 

Emily pauses for a moment, thinking. “He wasn’t the one to pull Autobots out of Michigan when the Quintessons attacked?” 

“Of course not. He loves this stupid mudball too much to even think about leaving it defenseless.” 

“Then who made the call?” Emily asks. 

“The Autobot government is run by various bots, all assembled into one unit known as The Autobot High Council. In the absence of the Magnus, who is the highest leader to the Autobots, the Council can make a decision without their input, so long as they have a two-thirds majority vote.” Megatron pauses, glancing over to gauge Emily’s reaction. “From my understanding, Optimus Prime, now the Magnus of the Autobots, was dispatched to the planet of Nebulos to aid in clean up and recovery of Quintesson attacks. He could not be reached by the Council when the attack on Earth began. And thus, the Council unanimously voted to pull all Autobots and Autobots forces off of Earth, leaving you with only your military forces to fight back the surprise attack.” 

Emily’s jaw drops. “I’m sorry, unanimously?” 

Megatron nods. “Perhaps there was one bot who voted against it. But my current understanding is everyone who was present voted to abandon your planet.” 

Emily opens her mouth to say something but loses the words. She rubs at her face and mutters, “Fuck.” 

“I can assure you though that Optimus does respect your planet and, so long as there is no additional meddling from the fools running his faction, he won’t turn and run,” Megatron says. “Honestly, even if the Council told him to turn and run he wouldn’t. He’s quite stubborn.” 

Emily just nods in response, looking at Alexandria, watching as she holds her stuffed elephant up to them and babbles about it. She remembers the day the Quintessons attacked. Everyone in Detroit, even the whole state, remembered. She remembered the fear that gripped her tight and every horrible scenario that ran through her head. To think that it could have all been avoided if a bunch of alien robots on a completely different planet hadn’t made the call to abandon them. 

It didn’t make the Decepticons better, per se, as she also remembers the Battle of Detroit. But the difference was they were here, fulfilling their end of a contract, and not turning tail at the sight of danger. Hell, some of them were even nice enough to take time out of the day to make faces at her toddler and ask about her development. 

Megatron breaks the silence, saying, “Regardless of how their plan pans out, I can assure you everything is going well on our side. You, and the rest of your gross species, will be allowed to continue to live in safety.” 

Despite his words, Emily can’t hear any malice in Megatron's voice. She snorts, “Thanks.” 

“You’re welcome,” he replies with a wry smile. 

[theherdofturtles]

Fandom: Hetalia Prompt: therapy session Rating: G Word Count: 6,412 England goes to family therapy and regrets everything. Especially when Ireland shows up. This had more comedy in it than I expected. @badthingshappenbingo

It was in Haltwhistle, in a grim grey gloom of early morning mist from an earlier morning drizzle. The pale street was darkened by the moisture, and the sun added a silvery tinfoil glow to the cold concrete through the thinning clouds. England was waiting outside the building, about six minutes late to the appointment.

An all-morning headache throbbed behind his eyes from what he knew was to come and England stared dead at the doorknob.

His fingers touched the cold brass and opened the door painfully slow, resonating every ear scraping squeak of the hinge through the waiting room inside.

This was not appreciated by the blank-faced human, who stood behind the counter, and ever-so-slightly dropped their fake smile.

England closed the door behind him, approached, and tapped his fingers on the desk.

“Sir Kirkland,” the human nodded. They were straight laced, holding a practiced pearly smile that anyone could choke on. Every non-English human looked almost exactly the same to him… this one was no different. German. England only entertained this for Germany's sake.

The person clicked diligently on their computer, then gestured for him to follow, “right this way." They stepped in front of him to lead him to a hidden, deeper door down the hall. "I must remind you that you are not permitted to harm any living being in these premises or carry a weapon.”

England scowled. He wasn’t unreasonable, he asked beforehand to be certain was all. Having no weapon made him feel naked.

They came to a door, which had the homeliness of an office space. On the white, plexiglass, clouded window door were the printed and unimpressive block words, "The work you do today determines where you will be tomorrow." England stared at it with half-lid judgement for a moment.

England reluctantly steeled himself for the upcoming migraine. It took him a moment to mentally prepare, focusing on the words being spoken in two different, but familiar, accents behind the door. The memories came back, the sentiments, listening very carefully. Then he pulled himself forward. The human opened the door.

“Take a seat…” the human said.

He entered with a sigh, and sat down with a firm resolve.

"This was your idea," Scotland growled.

England scowled.

This was a mistake, was what. England wished he'd never brought it up, he wished he could go back in time and slap himself with a brick. Who thought any of them were capable of sitting still and talking about feelings for an hour? Why did he consider it could even help? Some things were so broken they didn't deserve fixing.

And now the three of them were flopped onto light grey therapy couches rather ungentlemanly, sinking into the cushions as if throwing off a long day. Unfortunately, this day wasn’t even close to finishing and he couldn't deign himself to treat this activity with respect.

"It was a good idea," Wales encouraged. His eyes were brighter than everyone elses and he swayed as if dancing in his chair.

Of course he thought it was a good idea. He'd given England the final push to mention it to the Prime Minister. He couldn't backtrack, now. This was Wales's fault, too.

"Blame Wales." England tossed his brother under the bus. "He said I should bring this off-hand idea to the PM."

Scotland tossed Wales a betrayed, questioning look, as if asking for a defense or for the real truth… maybe he was even willing Wales to give him a lie.

Wales gave him the sheepish, apologetic half-shrug he didn't want. "It was a good idea."

Scotland rolled just enough to face away from both of them, unseen, looking suddenly rather weary behind a blank shuttered mask.

Wales went to stare at his feet, and England went to stare out the window.

The day was middling in more ways than one and if the therapist didn't show up soon a war would start. The peace of the British Isles was unhappily in the hands of one human with a measly pHD. Sorrows. Story of the modern world. England should've stayed in bed today. A thousand things that were better left alone were spinning in his head, and above all those writhing half-baked thoughts hung the rather large and block-like fear of potentially having to share the thousand things that were better left alone.

This truly had been a miserable idea.

When the thought to try therapy had first struck him, it had been suggested by a human being at a pub and drunkenly accepted as sound. He'd written the whole idea out in barely legible letters on a stained napkin: a two way plan to be a normal family. He'd almost tossed the paper into a bin the following day, certainly would've if Wales hadn't found it first, managed to read it, and then went and mentioned it to one of his former EU peers. After which the news travelled down low through the ranks. 'Very mature,' they said. Everyone was shocked. Out of character. Then the boss found out and considered the gains. Everyone except England loved watching him squirm his way into an awkward family dinner, but then he felt a need to prove them all wrong.

The door opened. He casually looked up, expecting the therapist. Instead England almost choked.

A man strode in with the doctor, mid-speech. "The lads caught the fish foaming at the mouth, thinking it was cursed. Once beached they pelted it till it dried out in the sun and I haven't seen so many spiders in one place since," the last man England wanted to see explained with flapping hands to the therapist.

Ireland. In all his lacking glory.

He hadn't taken his tweed coat off inside, he kept one hand shoved into a pocket and had a pair of sunglasses sitting on the bridge over his nose. Mind you they were inside while the weather was currently clouded. His dark red hair scattered windswept over his face and was fully unbrushed as if he'd rolled from bed and then let a cow lick it for good measure.

How was he here?!

England gaped and stared and Scotland and Wales jumped to their feet like proper siblings.

"Ciarán!" Wales shouted. He nearly tripped over the table to clasp Ireland's outstretched hand, giving it a hearty shake before falling into a sideways hug. "Whatever are you doing here?"

"A rumor caught the butt of my lung and I couldn't miss a day as dour as this." Ireland turned to grin. He quickly found England, and looked down on him. He flipped his useless sunglasses up to meet England's cold, sharp eyes. "He's destroyed, surely," Ireland muttered.

Just because he signed for therapy didn't make him destroyed.

Scotland grinned and said something fully unintelligible to England, but which made Ireland laugh.

He didn't know what they said. Habit knew it had to be at his own expense, though. He straightened in his seat and squared his shoulders. “What is it?! Say it to my face,” England growled.

“Would you like to see a health specialist?” Ireland asked.

“What does that mean?!” England pushed himself up from his comfortable spot on the couch.

But nobody got another word into the budding fight. At least, nobody worthwhile. The human being who'd been given the grand task of fixing the mental discord of the United Kingdom plus Ireland, apparently, politely interceded.

"Thank you all for coming today. I am doctor Christal. If you are prepared to begin, I will start by asking if you know about different psychotherapy techniques, or if you are fully new to therapy," the human said. She carried herself tall and casual, with a rather impartial tone that was obviously trained. It must be their default response to derail conflict. England felt he was three steps ahead of this human, and therefore, he felt he'd be too intelligent for therapy to work on. He felt the discord between his siblings would be too much to fix, anyway, which added two more reasons to why this had been a terrible idea.

“Yes… I'm sure I know the basics…” England sat down once again. He never had to do a thing to his siblings, yet his actions were always received negatively. That was fine with him… he'd lived with it for years, he could live with it longer. Especially after the day inevitably fixed nothing.

His siblings also came to sit, two to teach side of the room, turning the therapy lounge into a four way staring competition.

Wales sat next to England, quietly in the corner and carefully keeping the attention undrawn to himself. Scotland faced across from England with every limb on his body crossed, and Ireland, facing Wales, sat with his head leaned back over the top of the couch letting the air dry his tongue.

"Everyone's progress in treatment is subjective," the therapist said. She sat at the head of the table, turning their staring square into a five-star circle of tension. "And the best results come if you do your best to cooperate. Today, I would be happy to support you in addressing improving meaningful family communication, but you should not be discouraged if progress is, at first, slow. Learning how to communicate in any relationship can be difficult."

Scotland had a great interest in the wall; Wales listened intently to the therapist; Ireland had an incomprehensible smirk on his face.

He just knew he was going to hate this day forever.

"Structured exercises that encourage communication can benefit relationships. The exercise I've prepared today can help start to strengthen abilities of expression. Each of you will be given an equal number of legos-"

"legos?" England raised a brow. "What do toys have to do with anything?"

"Honest to God, this'll be a great game," Ireland promised without looking at England. His head still lay tilted back, still staring at the ceiling with his stupid smirk. Under his sunglasses England had no clue if his eyes were closed for a nap or wide alert.

"Shut up, you weren't supposed to even be here," England retorted. Ireland clearly wasn't taking this seriously. He didn't know how or why Ireland had even shown up if it was a game to him, but England would get to the bottom of it. One of his brothers must have tipped Ireland off to this event… he suspected Wales. Wales tossed him under the bus and a tooth for a tooth would do the trick. England wouldn't let any of them get away with this.

"Your boss gave me an invite," Ireland simply said.

"Lies."

The therapist patiently waited, but the therapist also did not care for their spat. "I will explain their usage in a moment," she said, cutting between them, back on track. "The player who starts first will draw a card, read it aloud, and respond to it. If two or more other players decide the response is appropriate, the player gets to place a lego piece on their base. If less than two decide the response is appropriate, no lego piece is placed. Play moves to the next player. The next player draws, and we repeat. We play until one player has his base covered, and that will be the winner."

"What's the prize?" Scotland finally pitched in. He briefly put his attention into the room, dragging his brooding thoughts from whatever depth of detail on the wall they'd fallen into.

"One month of no government paperwork."

Audibly someone sucked in a breath.

One month of no paperwork? England hated paperwork. Paper cursed the modern world, he missed being able to do anything and go anywhere without filling out boxes or filing requests. Back then, the king or queen just waved everything off, the perfect system. Who would do his paperwork while he was free? Decidedly, England did not care. His heart already lurched greedily after what it wanted, and England had to have it. He did more than his siblings, it was only fair. He worked late nights breaking pencils and ruining his eyes on pixels. They did so much less for this country.

England cast a quick glance at Wales, and Wales cast one to him, then to Scotland. Each cast glance was precarious, hesitant, but determined. Everyone wanted a blessed free month. Nobody was sure they were willing to sacrifice what it took to get it. England steeled himself for a new type of fight: bonding. Ug.

Over in his corner, nobody could tell what Ireland was thinking hidden behind his sunglasses.

England was starting to think him a clever bastard.

"Is there a volunteer to go first?" The therapist asked.

"I can," Wales half lifted his hand. It withered back a bit, shrinking before even being protested against. "I'm just curious. I could also wait."

Wales was rarely first to anything, or one to speak out about opinions. It almost surprised England how quickly he'd responded. But then he remembered that Wales was the most willing to trip over himself in order to save another person any level of discomfort. It meant Wales was usually the first of his siblings to fall and least likely to leave.

She gave an encouraging nod and nobody else protested. They all eagerly watched to find out what would happen.

A stack of cards was proffered to Wales, which Wales took and placed onto the centre table. Wales slid the top card off and flipped it over to read:

"Tell about a time that you were emotionally hurt."

Wales nervously smiled, slightly. Wales, equally nervous, chuckled. "Not sure what I expected? Therapy couldn't be easy." He shrugged.

He placed the card down into his lap and tapped his thumbs together in thought, staring off, but leaving just enough of himself present to indicate he was participating.

England could tell the moment he latched onto a thought to begin.

"This happened several times…" he paused "I've never been invited to a meeting. Or asked for a diplomatic opinion, of course. Because I don't have official autonomy. But I've tried to give diplomatic advice at least once, and you've all said… that I wasn't a real country. You don't even hear me out. I think that stings."

Wales looked to each of them, and his fingers slowly creased the edges of the card in his lap.

They were all quiet for an awkward moment. No one dared say anything. As a matter of fact, if no one ever spoke again that would be grand. England didn't know why hearing Wales share his personal struggles sucked the air from him because England didn't even really care. He felt annoyed and—he wanted to dig out of the room. Why'd he ever think this was a good idea?

"Thank you for sharing," the therapist said.

Wales smiled, half shy and relieved for any response at all.

England was going to toss himself out of the window before the day ended. There was no way he'd survive this. Oh, but he wanted that month of vacation—but the thought of sharing anything with his siblings sounded worse than a paper cut to the eyeball. But he wanted that vacation.

"Now we're started," Ireland said, "very sorry about that, Wales. We'll have a drink sometime and I'll hear you." He waved at the therapist. "Give the man a lego."

Scotland gave a nod of agreement, and England gave the stack a sliding, terribly wary eye as Wales put down the brick on his plate. A terrible restlessness crawled under England's skin, compressing his itching chair into a stringed cage, taunting him with the stupidity and uselessness of this whole game.

Everyone looked at him.

He felt the stares and the restlessness grow worse, but England had the guts- or stubbornness- to not fall short under anybody else's expectations. He resisted the urge to tap his foot.

Reaching for the card and turning it over to read, England stared at the prompt and silently read. The quiet, hidden tension slowly left his shoulders.

That wasn't bad. That was so easy. England could easily do that. This was stupid as he thought, he could easily survive the day.

"Compare this family to a musical instrument," he read aloud.

He gave a little pleased smile to the therapist, as if he'd won a lottery and had some fortune to show for it, and was beating the house at their own game.

Wales hummed with sincere attention all on England. England's smile shifted into a more hesitant mirroring frown and he discarded the card in his lap.

Why was Wales looking at him like that? How could a question like this garner that kind of attention? It wasn't important, was it? Surely not.

He cleared his throat. "An untuned kazoo."

Wales looked less happy, like the answer wasn't what he wanted and England had no idea why.

"Does one need to tune a kazoo?" Ireland mused.

"I don't know," England snapped, "we've managed to untune it."

"Managed most the work yourself," Scotland said.

England seethed quietly and folded the card in half. "Well, that's my answer. Live with it."

"No lego for the man," Ireland declared. He announced with the same smile and volume he'd commended Wales with, and Scotland, once again, nodded agreement to the eldest's judgement.

"What?! I answered fairly!"

"But why? Why's it an untuned kazoo?" Wales asked. "You have to explain at least."

No. He shouldn't need to explain, it was straightforward enough—they all annoyed one another, and nobody wanted to listen. A kazoo was equally annoying and nobody listened to it in their free time, either. No respectable instrument would be caught in a composition with one, and if another instrument happened to be forced to work with them, their family wouldn't even be tuned enough to make the proper harmony.

He crossed his arms and turned his head away. "I don't have to explain anything."

"Mr. Kirkland, creating a meaningful experience today may require attempts at difficult or seemingly unnecessary communication."

Screw the therapist, too. His brothers were all going to gang up to keep him from winning.

"We can wait as long as it takes for you to form an answer," Wales helpfully informed. England felt like shooting someone.

"This is pointless," he muttered, "pointless. But if you have so little ability to solve it out, it's because untuned instruments fail even when performed to the exact instruction; they're unable to play in a composition. And kazoos are annoying."

Ireland nodded in mock serenity. "You're still a caterpillar. Break up your boy-band. Solo should do you kinder."

Wales snorted a laugh, and Ireland smiled at Wales, pleased with himself.

England had no clue what he meant, but once again, he knew this was at his expense. England felt his cheeks flush with hot blood, blooming red, and skin being whiter than white, everyone knew every time anyone got to him. He was going to shoot more than one someone, and he didn't know if he'd spare himself in the aftermath.

"Give me my brick," England demanded.

He got his brick. It was only fair, Wales had said. England added the child's toy to his plate and noted the off-colourness between brick and base, and found the film of the brick's unwashed surface highly agitating. Both heightened the noise of restlessness in his body, traveling up through his fingers.

Next was Scotland, who took a card as calm and bored as he'd take a cigarette.

"What do you like about the way you fight?" Scotland read carefully. He put the card back down onto the table and crossed his arms. "I don't talk words," he said. "Only do action."

His cold green stare steadily focused on England before boredly drowsing back to the wall.

England held his hands closer. Scotland fought more in actions, but at the end of the day, that was Scotland's weakness, too. He learnt that long ago. Scotland got to fighting before he'd even read a room, he struck quick and clean, which made him venerable but easy to out-maneuver with a document and speech at Whitehall.

Back when England was backwater and weak he used his words to his advantage. England had always been best and warfare in language, and that made Scotland's answer one England, too, appreciated.

Never change, England snidely thought.

He didn't like the bruises their scuffs got him, though. He should nag at him. "Make him explain more, he didn't give enough words," England said.

If England should suffer, so should the rest.

"… I think that one explained itself," said Wales.

Ireland gave Scotland a thumbs up. "I'd drink health to that. Simple, easy, and the type of spat that can be done with quickest in this family."

This response affirmed all of England's obviously correct calculations. His siblings were gained up on him. Irleand and Wales had backed Scotland but failed to back him.

England should not lose in the field of words.

Therapy was his antithesis… the plain, true speech of morons stripped the power of information withheld. Nobody kept their cards close. England thrived so long as he kept his cards close… all warfare was deception.

Scotland added his brick, and Ireland rubbed his hands together before taking his card.

"What is something that you would not give up?" Ireland read and shook his head pleasantly. "Several things, though one presently needing declaration. So I'll have you a riddle! There are two skulls in Ireland, one of a person when he was a boy of ten years, and the other of the same person when he grew to be a man." He raised two fingers in demonstration as he said it. "They sit kindly side by Cromwell's under a loose stone in my wall."

England blinked. His brows furrowed.

An indignity caught a spark and burned into a sudden blaze.

"I asked you to give me my skulls back! You said they were lost!" England stood to his feet.

"I'm your devil when your head's astray. You shouldn't've lost a head twice at my house."

England was shooting himself first. Then he was shooting everyone else.

"I can't believe you--"

"Why do you want to keep those?" Wales interrupted.

"Because he's psychotic," England said. He was psychotic and orderless.

Irleand tapped two fingers to his lip in thought.

"At his age ten, I was an island born from druids and fed by Catholics. Call it indulgence… I even kept mother's finger. We like our dead." Ireland, oddly pensive, frowned. "But at his adulthood, I wanted to curse him." Ireland suddenly fell from his odd spiel with a grin.

Curse?

"What did you put on me?" England narrowed his eyes.

"You would love to know, wouldn't you?"

Pressuring would prove him correct and England felt particularly petulant. An injustice had been committed against him. He brought a quick hand to his current skull to feel it, flat against his forehead.

"That first part was oddly touching," said Wales, "the second one wasn't, but it was understandable. We've all cursed one another at least once. Nothing debilitating."

Who put Wales in charge of mediating? What was the therapist doing?

England looked at her and she looked at him.

Her blank, unreadable face bore a hole in him.

England looked away.

The sight that greeted him was worse: Ireland got a brick and Wales got a new card.

"Do you say 'I'm sorry' before you are ready?" Wales put the card down. "I think so… or… I'm not sure. Sometimes I say it to end a fight, that may be readiness. I don't want to be responsible for perpetuating any hurt or conflict."

Once again, the reigning choir of crickets arose gloriously from three completely dead silent brothers. Nobody wanted to say anything to Wales. Each time Wales spoke, England irrationally wanted a shovel. For himself. To get out of the world.

"That must have been uncomfortable," the therapist said, saying what no sibling wanted to say.

She could be interacting with Wales the most. England tried to remember how she'd responded to each of them, and he suspected he was right, as usual.

"When we apologise before the time is right, we can still feel empty inside afterwards. But holding onto our anger can gave us a harmful, and false, sense of control in difficult situations. We should acknowledge that we apologise in order to help us forgive ourselves. If we cannot forgive ourselves yet, or feel no need to do so, an apology may be too early."

England wanted to snap any response of denial possible.

"I don't believe in apologies," England said. He couldn't stand this pat-on-back seasick sharing fest. "Apologies are selfish. People do it to feel good about themselves."

"Is feeling better about oneself bad?" She asked.

"It's selfish," England repeated.

Ireland stared at England, and England could already hear his voice. Bold words from a selfish man. England knew what his brother thought of him. He knew what all of them thought.

"Just give Wales his lego so I can fail to win a week off paperwork," he grumbled and swiped a card from the deck.

"Are you so determined to win that you don't listen or really look for a solution? No. I'm not. I listen, I find a solution, then I win."

"Load of shite," Scotland said, staring at his wall.

"Has yourself, or another, been put in danger to achieve one of your victories before?" She asked.

"Ha! I'm a soldier, what do you expect the answer to that is? That's all I ever do." He ought to leave. This day was indeed a waste, he was determined to remain unsubdued. Why? He never had to think about why. He didn't know, he couldn't stop throwing words away. He hated a comfortable smile, it wouldn't be reasonable to accept. It wouldn't change anything. He hated anyone who promised otherwise. Those moments he felt he was being lied to, and he only entertained a good lie when too smashed drunk to remember it.

"Do I get a brick or not?" He demanded.

The circle of silent, undisturbed faces said the answer was no.

He was right. They disliked him because he was right. An apology wasted breath… he couldn't count how many words and treaties everyone had broken. A spat ended with never again,, I'll change,, we'll make it better, but the very next day the war continued. They should skip the formalites.

"Forget it, go on, Scotland," England snapped.

The unbearable moment sponged into the resuming, tense air. They were acclimated to it, they didn't bother with it.

Scotland took the next prompt and read, "Do you fight someone else's fights?" He shook his head. "Not if I can't help it."

His finger tips rubbed together as if he wanted to roll tobacco into his mouth. Instead Irleand rolled a lego into his hand.

Ireland, ever untouched, moved freely despite the tension. He escaped the world without leaving the world, tearing England's speech from his tongue. The air was warm for him wherever he went, so privileged and natural like nature itself had given him an edge over everyone else. England didn't matter to him. No voice, decree, or weapon could damage the high head he carried and each room he entered he navigated easily as water changing shape.

England breathed through his nose and focused on his empty hands.

"Tell about one of your most frightening experiences," Ireland read. He dropped the card and leaned backwards, hands laced behind his head, falling to where his sunglasses caught a glint of the artificial lights. "Ah, there was a year at Colman's college I took, passing for a student, when I realised the boys hadn't got a word of gaelic. All my years before that day, there never came a minute I thought of Gaelic as being in danger. It struck me so sudden. How the old people were heading off, and there would be a generation with both languages, and then a generation that hadn't got gaelic at all. Then my island sounded like a foreign country. I almost preferred going to a foreign country, living there rather than see a land without a word of Gaelic in it. Ah well-- I did what any would do, finding sudden isolation on their brink. I dug me heels in. Never going to let the amount of my own language fall to nothing. Do chum glóire dé agus onóra na hÉireann. I'll keep the words close to heart until the people have them again."

Both Wales and Scotland would agree. They did agree. Every problem Ireland had they had also had, because both of them were stuck to England. And every problem they had had, they had either conquered or learned to deal with through an imitation of one another.

England was the only odd one out, because England had no common problems with them… nothing he had discovered or would share.

Everyone was then one piece ahead and England had no more reason to entertain this place with his time other than for show.

"What was one of the happiest moments of this last century. Oh. Hm. I don't know." Wales never said he knew. Wales continued onward with what he knew. "Sri Lanka sat on a bench with me in Rome, we argued over who had the better flag."

"Alright, and then?"

"That's it."

"But who won?"

Wales shrugged. "I don't remember if we did."

"Ah, I see." Ireland leaned over the table with his grin. He did most of the interacting today, the therapist did some pointers but had lost interest in her job compared to Ireland. Scotland engaged only if he had no other choice.

The bricks kept stacking.

And then it was England's miserable turn again. The only comfort he had was the lack of initiative he felt for this so called 'game.' England had no reason to answer with the truth, or answer at all.

His new card read: I wish I were less __ with a big, awful blank on the end. One short void for one short answer that he could never fit on a card. The space provided was too small and England didn't have enough graphite to fill it. It burned through his fingertips.

He blinked at it several times, resisting the urge to tear it.

"I wish I were less blank," he read. Agressive, incompetent, well-known, difficult, vocal… England scowled. "Short."

He should never have to answer this question.

He could use an extra few inches.

Shave himself away, replace it with a new stature. Maybe he'd find the respect he wanted to give himself and take from others, then. Maybe that would fix it. He crumpled the offending question in his hand.

The council reluctantly gave him his little lego brick and moved on without pressure or questioning.

Scotland's next card had to do with quotes, and he said something in a language England didn't know.

After, Irleand talked about a riot in Dublin, and a trial, against him the council written in the English law. He bragged of denying his guilt before the unclever court.

And the brothers talked, barring England. He skipped his next turn and Scotland got his question:

Tell about your greatest concern for this family.

He flatly informed them all that it was England which earned them amusement.

Another story came around about an idiot who flew through Iranian airspace, and required international attention.

England was having a strenuous day, and was becoming wary of any voice at all.

Each click of a tongue or shuffle of a foot scraped under his skin. England couldn't settle it, his head tilted slow, very slow, side to side as if trying to escape it.

"Do you pretend that the fight isn't important or laugh about it?" Ireland immediately agreed. "Of course. Most spats aren't worth losing a year to the pain."

England sunk deeper. He didn't know what he wanted. He wanted to leave.

Wales got another card about fighting, yet another, all about fighting. He knew the day was to adress family fighting and communication, he didn't want to talk about fighting again. Who do you fight with best/worst? Wales didn't understand how he could answer the question and took his first veto.

That left him second to last, and only Ireland and Scotland to fight for a first.

For the hell of it, England took up his next question and regretted it immediately.

I will feel accepted and part of this family group when _.

He felt the same, familiar, irritated muchness with the world filling his stomach. It felt empty, full of nothing. Everything was distorted, out of proportion to the cause. England didn't want to continue this. Not for two rounds.

He folded it in half and leaned back into the couch.

"Play on," he said.

Nobody questioned him. He hated that worse, he was so, deeply, terribly relieved. Instead there was a huff and a sense of patience wearing thin. The noise rubbed worse on his eardrums.

Scotland began his next reading:

"I feel most loved when, blank." He grumbled under his breath. "when I have scotch, a fireplace, and m' dogs."

His fingers rubbed the couch armrest. England didn't want to be here. Any moment spent longer in the room while he could think of nothing else became intolerable. He saw the cards, each scrape of paper scratched his ears. England didn't want to be here. His feet planted stiff on the office floor and England had to, he couldn't be here longer. They'd talk about it but he couldn't stay. England stood.

Several gazes hit him at once. Ireland's hidden gaze was worst of all because he couldn't tell. England hated being unable to tell. What he was thinking, if he was actually gazing.

He held his breath under their gazes, and only breathed easily when he slipped through the door to leave.

England felt a thin pin prick of annoyance in his chest. His frown deepened.

In the warm artificial light outside, in the hall, England stood straight in a firm immobile stance, in the usual strung-up orderly manner, keeping his appearance composed. Everything itched. The room behind him murmured. His siblings maybe talked about him. They maybe said nothing about him. Two outcomes England immediately noticed and decided he couldn't take. He didn't even know why he had to leave. Nearly two thousand years of life and these were the things that bothered him through it all. What a pathetic existence.

The door opened again.

Wales steadily closed it, carefully. England never realised his carefulness until the world burned and every sound was too much on his nerves.

"You lied," England said.

"I didn't."

"You said you apologise to end fights. Nobody does. Not in this family."

"Do you want an apology, Arthur?"

"Do it. I don't care. I'll keep accusing you of being a liar. I'll bring it up tomorrow. This family doesn't drop anything."

Wales came forward and- and- hugged him.

He flinched. It travelled like a jolt through his spine, quick and shocked and discontent. The jolt settled and spun and then it vanished, like seafoam fizzling away after a wave. England was left stiff.

Stop.

Don't ever leave.

England relaxed.

"I can't stand you," England said. And he meant it. He couldn't stand anybody, he always wanted them around when he was terribly alone and always he wanted them gone when they were with him. The isolation got worse the more people he had in his life, the isolation got worse and he looked for more people and ruined his hopes worse.

"Then we have a conundrum. Because I can stand you, and I like you, even," Wales said. He let go of England and took a step back. "But I think you like us too. I don't want to believe otherwise."

England thought, standing in the hall, under an artificial light, he didn't want to think about it. The world had been a better place and the ice thickened only just enough to keep war from cracking through between them, but he imagined the plunge was but a few reckless inches away. It was thirty years ago he shot Ireland… Ireland had peeled him off by pretending he didn't notice; Ireland got a certain perverse joy from continuing to remain indifferent to his existence. Like it didn't matter. Like England wasn't but a minor inconvenience, a slapable fly. The taste for righting wrongs was in Europe's reluctant air.

England turned down the hall to leave, walking out and into the same lobby past the same human who barely acknowledged them with a customer nod. Wales followed.

"He wants to annoy me to death, he didn't have to be here. I give him a bullet he gives a grin—came to screw with me, that's why he's here." "He wants to support your choice to sign for therapy." "He could've done that with a card." England crossed the threshold into the street.

A wet glisten sparkled in the road where his foot landed and England blinked. Water. Yes, water, always water, but glinting water. The road sparkled in the sun.

He looked up at the sky.

Blue sky.

A clear patch cleared through the early white grey wisps of clouds overhead, receding the early morning haze into the lime-green earth.

He heard Wales sigh behind him. "What a day." Wales smiled, breathing in the clay-wet air, basking in the golden sun. His palm cupped flat to the open sky, feeling for an already fled rain.

"Indeed… what a day," England murmured, watching him.

'I don't know why you're still around,' he thought.

[skyler10fic]

Ready to Rock

Summary: Maria Hill assigns Carol and Daisy to a bold initiative: a training program for the Young Avengers.

Notes: Whether this is post-canon or canon divergence (or a Marvel Rising Secret Warriors AU!) is up to you and whatever comes next in the MCU. :D

Written for the @ficwip All Ships Ship Week daily prompts. The idea is that I'll post one ficlet a day. We'll see! (Monday: Forced to work together.)

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

In a boring Shield lab, Carol sighed at her boring space rock and spun in her boring desk chair. She'd been without her powers for two weeks, after stopping a nuclear warhead high in the atmosphere. It had sapped all she had to send it into a jump point to deep space. 

The door opened behind her and she welcomed the distraction, especially when she saw it was her boss, deputy director Maria Hill.

“Good news. I have an assignment for you.” Despite the opening line, her tone told Carol it wouldn't be easy. 

“Ready for anything.” She set aside her tablet, which she'd been using to record the unexplainably odd energy readings. She'd discovered the specimen while walking along the beach with her niece Monica, who had been sent off to space to investigate the source while Carol was stuck in a lab on the ground. Staring at a rock. 

Maria noted her boredom. “Look, I know this isn't what you had in mind working for Shield, but until your powers come back, we could use your help with this Young Avengers initiative.” 

Carol was ready for action now. “So Kamala got it approved?” 

“Everyone has a soft spot, and Fury's is you and your protege.” 

Carol’s lips turned up in a wry smile. “Don't let Kamala hear you say that. She'll explode from excitement.” 

Maria laughed, but Carol could tell it wasn't the whole story. 

“But?” Carol prompted. 

“It's not just Kamala. Hawkeye has one too: Kate Bishop. And Ant-Man has a daughter with a Pym suit. There are a couple of others, like Iron Man’s intern, the Spider kid. And more we're hoping to bring in. But don't worry. You'll have a partner to help train them.” 

Right on cue, a woman in a tight black and purple suit knocked lightly on the open door and entered the lab. 

“Ma’am,” the woman addressed Maria. “I heard you wanted to see me?” 

Maria gestured to Carol, who stood. “Daisy Johnson, Carol Danvers, you two will be the welcome wagon and trainers for the Young Avengers initiative.” 

Daisy's warm smile and dark sparkling eyes dissolved any protest Carol had about being partnered with a stranger instead of Monica. 

“I heard about your powers,” Daisy said empathetically as she shook Carol's hand. “I've been there. That sucks.” 

“You have powers?”

Maria interjected: “Daisy is an inhuman, naturally born with abilities, though they were unlocked as an adult. Carol is enhanced, born fully human but absorbed the powers of the Tesseract.” 

“My experimental plane’s engine exploded,” Carol explained in short. She decided against mentioning the Kree to an inhuman. Famously sore subject.

“Damn, that’s intense.” Daisy frowned as she saw the space rock. “You have one too. Terrigen crystal dust is showing up in meteorites and creating more inhumans like me. Not strong enough to kill humans, just enough to leave a few people really confused about their new abilities.”

Maria explained, “That's why this project is so urgent and can't just be you and Kamala and Monica this time, Carol.”

Carol absorbed this flood of information. “Okay, first, you think this rock is the same thing giving people inhuman powers or something? It’s just so… ordinary. Aside from the readings and what it looked like where it landed, I wouldn’t think it was anything weird at all.” 

Instead of answering, Daisy shut the lid on the plexiglass box the rock was in and extended her hand toward it from a foot away. The rock exploded in shimmering blue. 

“Oh.” Carol felt a bit silly for being unable to make heads or tails of it for so long. 

“I can sense and manipulate the vibration of pretty much anything,” Daisy explained, “but terrigen is easy since that's what gave me my powers.” 

Carol folded her arms and admired Daisy more fully. “Wow. And I thought my powers were cool.”

Maria clapped Carol on the shoulder. “Good to see you two are on board. See you both tomorrow morning at the training center. Dr. Banner will email you the enhanced and inhuman medical evaluations. Good luck.” And with that, Carol was left alone with her gorgeous new partner to prepare for a crop of fresh rookie superpowered teenagers and 20-somethings. 

Daisy hopped up on Carol’s desk and swung her legs. “People try to make it a rivalry between inherited powers and acquired ones, like sports teams or something, but I think inhumans and enhanced agents can work together, don’t you think?” 

Trying to channel her “cool girl” side, Carol brushed her fingers through her hair and leaned back in her desk chair. “We don’t have much of a choice, but if we did, you’d be my pick to try it out.”

Daisy scooted closer to Carol and read her like a book. “Wanna come over to my place and prepare? We could order a pizza, hang out, get to know each other?” 

As she said it, Daisy shrugged casually but sent Carol a demure once-over that spelled trouble for Carol's professional detachment. 

The biggest challenge of this assignment wouldn't be helping recruits learn to be superheroes. It would be not falling in love with her flirting, distractingly sexy new coworker. 

[roxy206]

a vent that tbh I just need to get out of my head

It’s wild just how quickly the honeymoon phase of this job ended. I had a few weeks of wow this is great, there’s no stress, I come in & do my job & leave!

Then it was oh wow my coworkers are horrible people who are transphobic & homophobic & misogynistic and and and …

And I cried on my way home too many times to count because it all felt so toxic & I didn’t know what to do. And honestly it’s so unprofessional that those conversations were even taking place on the work floor. I shouldn’t know all these opinions that these people have!

So I settled on my first step being bringing in a progress pride flag for my desk, which has resolved a lot of those issues

But the office set up is still horrible. I don’t know who the fuck thought an open concept office was a good idea — at all, but especially in an office where we’re all on the phone all day long. It’s so loud. You can hear at the very least 4 rows ahead or behind you. Forget how that impacts people trying to concentrate; it’s a fucking disaster for background noise on the phone

On top of that, yesterday they took down these plexiglass dividers they had put up in 2020 & it’s fucking horrible. First of all, I would still like that barrier for it’s intended purpose. Right now I don’t have anyone sitting opposite me, but this office plays musical chairs constantly with moving desks so who knows how long I’ll be at my desk or how long it is before someone is at the desk facing mine. But besides that, the noise level is even worse because now there’s nothing stopping voices from traveling. It’s an absolute sensory nightmare & frankly I think I’m going to say something to the office manager even though I don’t think it’ll make a difference

Also they had EMPLOYEES remove them! We have to move our own equipment, filing cabinets, etc when we move desks. Also people throw shit in the office all the time. There’s candy or balls or water bottles being launched over desks & it’s only a matter of time before someone is going to get hurt & I will be beyond furious if I’m the one who gets hit

And none of that is even related to the actual job

Which is just not working out. I feel so naive & dumb & betrayed for having had such a good feeling about this opportunity in the interview. I took the job knowing the base pay wasn’t great, but with the idea that it would be easy to make commission & easy to meet the goals for the first two base pay raises; with the idea that I would start having that billing in 2 weeks to at most 3 months.

I’ve been here for over 5 months now. I’ve done better than any of my peers in terms of production. None of us have had billing. And now it’s oh it takes 6-12 months to really get this job.

I work my ass off during the work day. I’ve found clients. And despite all of the effort, things aren’t going anywhere. And I’m losing motivation.

And there’s pressure coming down from higher up because things aren’t happening, & it’s making for a miserable environment. The past two weeks it’s felt like every morning meeting has been my manager asking why things aren’t happening & making it seem like we aren’t working hard enough or we aren’t doing things the right way. But then there’s no guidance or reasonable recommendations to make any changes

I genuinely don’t think there’s much that I could change to make any difference, but I think there are people on the team who would benefit from having their questions answered because the training you’re promised in the interview is far from the reality

This week in particular has been really bad. I’ve had a lot of disappointment with things I’ve been working on. I feel like I wasn’t as productive, which for the most part is because I had to shift some of my time to administrative shit because they keep asking for all of this data & I’ve been there for FIVE MONTHS so going through thousands of calls takes time. But then it’s why aren’t you making more calls, why isn’t your phone time higher? And then when I’m answering those questions & clearly frustrated it’s oh it’s okay, sometimes you have a bad day

But when all the days are bad days?

I don’t think I can stick it out much longer. The PTO system is bullshit though so I probably have another month before I’ll be able to have the time accrued to use to be able to go for interviews

In the meantime, I’ve been doing my best to maintain boundaries. I refuse to ever get close to burnout again. Honestly I’m still recovering from my existing burnout. Fighting the workaholic & perfectionist tendencies is hard. But it helps — kind of* — knowing I’m the person counted on the most out of my peers. I don’t need to give 150%; I don’t have the irrational fear that I’m going to get fired. I know my worth & I know that this place in particular is really fucking lucky to have me

I just wish that the potential that should have been there with this kind of role was actually there

*It does suck that every month my manager flat out tells me that it’s down to me to try to get billing. I try not to take on that pressure of it all coming down to me

Anyway. Might delete this later, but I needed to dump those thoughts somewhere

[graveboundink]

The Clinic

Daniel’s head pounded as he pressed a trembling hand to the door. A bright red ‘OPEN’ sign flickered above, buzzing faintly in the dim alleyway. His credit had run dry weeks ago. The state hospitals had turned him away. This was the only place left.

The door swung inward, revealing a narrow hallway lined with sickly green tiles. The receptionist – if that was the right word – looked up from her station behind a scratched plexiglass window. Her eyes lingered on him for a moment, scanning his gaunt frame, the fevered sheen on his skin.

‘Do you have a referral?’ she asked.

Daniel shook his head.

‘Private or state-sponsored insurance?’

Another shake. He had neither.

She sighed, sliding a form through a gap in the glass. ‘Sign here. Payment is expected upon completion of services.’

His fingers hesitated over the pen. He didn’t have anything left to give. But it didn’t matter. If he didn’t get treatment, the infection would kill him. He scrawled his name.

A door beside the desk clicked open. ‘Room three,’ the receptionist said without looking up.

The hallway stretched impossibly long, a series of numbered doors on either side. The lights above hummed, casting shadows that seemed to shift as he walked past. His legs ached, joints burning with fever.

Room three was small, clinical. A single examination chair dominated the space. Stainless steel cabinets lined the walls, doors locked tight.

A doctor entered moments later, dressed in a crisp white coat. His name tag read Dr Ulrich, but there was no insignia, no logo. Just the name.

‘You need antibiotics,’ the doctor said, as soon as he’d examined Daniel. ‘Sepsis is settling in.’

Relief flooded Daniel. ‘Yes, please – I’ll figure out payment, I just -‘

Dr Ulrich raised a hand. ‘We have an alternative option for patients with financial limitations.’

‘What kind of option?’

The doctor gestured to the chair. ‘Sit back down, please.’

Something in his voice was soothing, practiced. Daniel obeyed, too weak to question further. A mechanical arm lowered from the ceiling, a smooth, sterile needle sliding free.

‘This won’t take long,’ Dr Ulrich assured him.

The needle pricked his arm. Cold seeped into his veins, unlike any antibiotic he’d ever received. His vision blurred at the edges, his limbs heavy.

‘Your contribution is valued,’ the doctor continued, voice distant. ‘We ensure that every patient can afford care. In one form or another.’

Daniel tried to speak, but his tongue wouldn’t obey. Darkness curled at the edges of his mind.

As his consciousness slipped, he thought he heard movement – doors opening, soft footsteps in the hall. The shadows outside flickered strangely, as though something watched from within them.

The last thing he saw was Dr Ulrich making a note on his clipboard, murmuring, ‘One more for the program.’

Then the light dimmed, and Daniel knew nothing more.

[acrylicplexiglass]

What are the top uses for orange Plexiglass in modern furniture?

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