#sniff sniff smells like hypocrisy

[tomboyyyaoi]

i can handle ppl not shipping what i ship. im not a child. im not insane. but what the fuck do u MEAN ppl just "dont see" vamery what the fuck do u MEAN i get so baffled when ppl go "theyr better as friends!" like what are u TALKING ABOUT bro how wrapped up in vashwood are u that u genuinely dont see them absolutely adoring and admiring eachother bro???????? how do u not see that care and warmth how the FUCK is that indirect kiss purely platonic to u how are u seeing vashwood and not also seeing vamery like they go hand in hand to me he loves them both and they both love him its so nuts to me that some ppl will be so head over heels for one but the other is purely platonic to them. how. literally how. the pairings are SO linked to me and the way they parallel is so beautiful and massively enhances the story. please. try again. ou my god. fuck man. what the fuck

[tmwwriting]

Title: Do you smell smoke? Rating: Teen & Up Chapter: 1/1 Word Count: 5.5K Tags/Warnings: Pre-canon. Olivia Hall. Lucas Grey. Olivia Hall & Lucas Grey. Light angst. Hopeful ending. A/N: This is an entirely self-indulgent Olivia-centric fic. Originally meant as a fic snippet, but then just didn't stop writing. Olivia also has her mother in this one <3

AO3: (X)

The Olivia Hall who signed herself up for early morning classes was an optimistic, highly motivated student devoted to the principles of higher learning. Not quite the Olivia woken up by the 5 AM alarm, who slaps the snooze button and only keeps from tossing the entire phone by the thinnest shred of self-control. That, and she's gone through enough phones this month already - there’s a small mountain of parts and half-modified screens and circuit boards across the room. Tinkering with them is what kept her up far past the time a wiser person would have gone to sleep, and now she's paying for it.

The snooze button gets a workout the rest of the morning. The sounds of other students - those not quite as pro-sleep as she is - come through the walls and the windows that look out over the poor excuse of a parking lot. The sun is up too, now, adding to the crowd. Olivia throws her forearm up over her eyes, the picture of some 18th century forlorn damsel. When that doesn't work, burying her face in the pillow gives her another fifteen minutes. She mutters under her breath, fighting the urge to bite the bullet and finally invest in some black-out curtains. Relying on the flimsy things the school gives her is like trying to stop the flow of water with a sifter.

Insulation also isn't high in the student apartment budget, Olivia notes, not for the first time as goosebumps prickle along her arms when she finally emerges from the mountain of blankets.

She starts a pot of coffee after giving the one she left out overnight a worried sniff and flips her laptop open while she waits.

There's news she needs to catch up on.

Someone - and impossible to say who, this someone is very good, very painstaking about covering their tracks - has been steadily leaking information to the local newspaper about a Senator knee deep in hypocritical bullshit. Some of the things this man says...Olivia grits her teeth. If people want to be assholes, that's one thing. Typical douchebaggery she's come to expect. The lies and the hypocrisy are what really get her and had put her onto this guy's case to begin with.

It was kind of him to provide her with so much material. He had weathered the first few volleys of leaks with the expected bombast and denial, but last night was Olivia’s coup de grace - a poor quality security video, but one that clearly shows some...activities he's partaking in in a hotel elevator. With someone who is clearly not Mrs. Piece-of-Shit-Senator and who looks a whole lot like his campaign manager.

Family values, my ass.

"Should've minded your own business."

Olivia flips the laptop shut. Even the black coffee tastes sweeter today, and she's in such a good mood she's only mildly bothered she’s missed her first class of the year.

--

The whole thing is trending by the time she's out of her next lecture and heading over to the library. Hashtags, stories, everything. The national news networks pick it up by lunchtime. 

Olivia gets back to her dorm in the middle of the unseasonably hot afternoon and wolfs down a half-eaten sandwich from the bottom shelf of the fridge. She'll need to run by the student co-op later - the only thing left for dinner is some jam that's turning funny colors. 

She's just finished washing her one dish when the Senator's office releases a resignation statement. 

Why do these people always claim it's to spend time with their family?

Olivia rolls her eyes and keeps scrolling through the results of her handiwork, admiring the utter indignation of the PACs who supported this idiot, when a notification pops up: a message from an unknown number.

Nice work on the senator.

Not the RA getting back to her on her renovation ideas, then. Olivia smiles so wide her cheeks hurt, and shoots a quick text back:

Cleaner than shooting him.

A few moments. Then a buzz.

Cheeky.

There's so much she wants to say. Been a while. Be safe. Where are you. When are you coming back. You try cleaning blood off carpet.

She decides on Always.

The message fails to deliver.

--

"Mama!" Olivia drops her bags in the hallway, crushing a pair of balding fuzzy slippers in the process. She makes a note to take her mom shopping this week, no matter how crowded the mall is or how much it makes her hair stand on end to hear the same five songs and see the same red-green color scheme everywhere.

The holidays have already infiltrated their property: the yard fell to the onslaught first, with sparkling lights draped artfully across shrubbery and roof alike, and now it’s inside the house, too. The smell of freshly baked gingerbread and apple pie was strong even before Olivia opened the front door, the scent mixed in with the sets of overpriced candles that she keeps telling her mom are fire hazards. "But they smell good" is only going to make the fire department and insurance company laugh.

“In here, Liv!” Mama shouts over the familiar whistle notes of Mariah Carey, and Olivia laughs at the exclamation of “Oh, shoot” followed by the sound of a clatter of pots and pans and some rather loud splashes.

"Is the coast clear?" Olivia peeks her head around the corner of the kitchen to a small battlefield, with her mother having lost the fight to some baking sheets and the Le Creuset pots and pans. They look to have settled quite cozily in the sink, whose water still sloshes from side to side.

Mama flicks some of the soapy suds at her, and Olivia ducks back with a giggle - the small pond of dishwater on their kitchen floor grows as laughter bounces brightly around the cramped space.

“Sheesh, we could go diving for pearls in that spill,” Olivia calls over her shoulder as she grabs a mop from the supply closet, then returns and gets to work. 

Her mom only shrugs as she wipes down the counter. “Well, welcome home, dear. Thought I'd be done by the time you got here, but..." She waves a hand at the small army of baked goods assembled in their kitchen, like she doesn't know how they got there. "Anyway, how are you?"  

“I'll be smelling cinnamon and holly for weeks, but other than that, I'm fine.” Olivia's only partly joking. The other part can feel her sinuses being seared with a cocktail of what Bed, Bath & Beyond's dreams are made of.

“And school?” 

“Boring. Easy, though.” Olivia's only kept going to lectures to get some fresh air. They're not uninteresting, she just...knows it all. She tells her mom about one of her professors, and how there's some fascinating work she’s doing with a grad student in the department. Mama doesn't get a lot of the finer technical details, but Olivia likes talking to an appreciative audience. Her rubber duck she keeps for troubleshooting doesn't quite have the same enthusiasm.

Their kitchen floor is probably the cleanest it's ever been after a few more minutes of scrubbing and mopping up; her mom's been finished with the counter and is back at work with more trays coming out of the oven and more dough slapped onto the baking board. It's quiet now, and Mama sighs, her entire body heavy and weary with that one exhale as she goes back to kneading. 

Olivia sets the mop against the counter and comes up behind her mom, and wraps her in a hug. The two rock back and forth, the lone dancers on a cheap, freshly cleaned linoleum floor. Olivia can feel her mother's tiredness like it's her own. The next few weeks are always difficult - and both have their own ways of dealing with it. Olivia makes life hard for jerks on the internet, and Mama...

Well, Mama doesn't go overboard with the baking on accident - she's very aware there's only the two of them now.

Olivia blinks back the sudden sting at her waterline. Her smile is a bit too forced, shows too many teeth as she turns her attention to the already filled trays and the cookies still cooling on the racks. 

"Hey, these look great!” 

She feels a little bad decapitating the gingerbread snowman. He is delicious, though.

--

The semester break means more free time, which means Olivia wraps herself in the family quilt and dishes out more justice from her couch. There’s a few more people knocked off their high horses - bleating, ashen-faced politicians squirming and issuing resignation letters, never knowing their arch nemesis wasn't a political rival, but some college girl with one hand holding a piece of her mom's peach cobbler. Then comes a target much closer to home - the dean of her college, who had been up to much worse than anyone knew, worse than the whispers had hinted at. 

There are no text messages for her about those, though. No "Good job" or "Nice work", and Olivia pretends it's not disappointment that's becoming a somewhat constant companion in the aftermath of her successes. She learned about this in an introductory psych class: how intermittent rewards are the most potent motivators; the reason slot machines are so enticing. And, apparently, why her crusade becomes this ceaseless quest for another bit of approval. The fact she's taking down assholes who deserve it is just icing on the cake, no matter how much she tells herself it's the other way around. 

She hadn’t really had plans to keep going - vigilante hacking isn’t going to pay the bills (ransomware groups are pieces of shit; Olivia refuses to do that on principle) and there are plenty of respectable 9-to-5s in software development or IT that she'd excel in. And it’s not in the hopes that he contacts her again (it's not, she thinks with a frown and unconvincing glance at her phone), but she ups the ante. 

The first company in her crosshairs is a local one. It seems like a logical next step: targeting companies instead of individuals, although it's something of an accident that kicks the plan into gear. It starts with some eavesdropping once she's back at school: there's a girl crying in one of the university bathrooms, telling her friend about her boss threatening her job among a host of other things. Olivia washes her hands discreetly as she gets the gist of it. It's a cakewalk to find the rest. 

Olivia sits in front of her monitors and the only witnesses to her commitment are her faithful rubber duck and faded Rubik's cube.

Start small, room to grow: the place is one of those chain restaurants off the main highway, caters mostly to tourists. Olivia passes it every time she leaves town. Locally sourced misogyny, straight to your table from angry, embittered assholes who think harassment and discrimination are acceptable business practices.

They're also too small to afford proper security. Olivia's in and digging around after the digital equivalent of popping open a latch on a battered garden gate. She finds what she's looking for quickly.

The harassment she'll never be able to prove, though she tries; they don't have security cameras, though, and the boss seems smart enough to not have emails and texts lying around bragging about it. But if they’re a piece of shit in one area of life, she can bet that stench is coming from other places, too. Their financials are the smoking gun - Olivia takes the proof she needs and skedaddles. 

A few months later, the state AG releases a press statement. These guys took a plea deal for theft and mail fraud, among other things. No jail time. It's a shame, but Olivia can keep tabs on them so if they so much as sneeze, her systems will pick it up. The restaurant has an "Under New Ownership" banner up within the week.

There’s no texts for this one though, either. 

Or the one after. 

Olivia keeps going anyway. Everyone needs a hobby.

--

This time it's not a text. It's an issue of a newspaper that Mama doesn't read, and Olivia knows they don't have a subscription to. "These places sell your information" and "I don't want them knowing where we live" were not winning arguments at first; when Mama worried about losing her daily crossword, Olivia went and got the biggest book of crosswords she could find. She buys one each time she notices her mom getting to the end. 

With Olivia winning that battle, there's been no paper subscriptions at their address for years. Yet there this newspaper sits, right on their breakfast table after Mama brought in the mail - a tribune from a few states over, the headlines blaring:

"CROSS-SELLING SCANDAL AT ARGENTINIAN BANK?"

It's him, it has to be. Olivia's pulse jumps into double-time at the thought, and she glances around the room like he'll emerge from the pile of fresh laundry she's just dumped on the sofa. Mama wouldn't let him in the house, though, and he's always respected that. He probably didn’t even cross the property line to drop this off. 

Olivia thumbs through the newspaper, teeth worrying her bottom lip. She tries to shove down an uncomfortable memory, one of adults speaking in terse, raised voices, and a strained goodbye she was too young to realize was for good. She remembers the door closing behind him like it was yesterday. The echoes of that thud snap her back into the present, and she works out a plan of attack - this company is no little mom-and-pop with limited resources and barely-there security.

This one takes a couple months of skittering around like a rat in the walls. As tempting as it is to start ripping out the wires that make the place work, Olivia bides her time. Little traps here and there, little alarms rigged and set once she has a layout of their systems.

When she has it though, the dossier is centimeters thick and utterly damning. She feeds it in tantalizing spoonfuls to both the public (there's one ferocious national reporter she's particularly come to like) and the relevant regulatory agencies.

Another issue of that newspaper shows up, this time with headlines about the company's utter crash-and-burn spurred by multiple investigations into their practices. That, and they haven't had any functionality since a system-wide collapse took down their entire digital presence. Hard to pillage money when no one at the company has a working electronic device. Olivia cuts out the article and files it away in a lockbox she hides under a panel in the bedroom closet.

No further targets are communicated, but Olivia has an active imagination and no intention of slowing down. It's an itch, now, over an open and angry wound. Olivia has never been a violent person, never so much as cusses out idiots on the road. There's just so many companies out there doing the same thing as this one, flouting laws with impunity and a brashness that would shame any normal person...it shrinks her world down to black and white. These people need to be stopped.

One by one. Piece by piece.

--

He's there at her graduation. Or he was at some point, anyway. Mama hosts a small barbecue after the commencement, and among the well wishes and messages and cards Olivia gets, there's one she knows is from him. She knows it the way her hands know her keyboard, the familiarity settling deep into her bones as her eyes glance over the messy scrawl.

There’s been no more newspapers over the years, no more texts, and he’s apparently trusted her judgement ever since he started her on this path. That's how she interprets his silence. It's more charitable than thinking that he doesn't care, and easier on her own ego.

The car ride home that night is quiet: the closing of a nondescript chapter in a nondescript book of a nondescript life. On the surface, anyway. Internally, Olivia teeters on the edge of a decision about that dreaded phrase that always seems to pop up at moments like these - The Future. As though she ought to have her entire life neatly planned out from now to middle age to the retirement home. 

She'd spent the previous summer interning at a tech company, and mainly because her mom had looked so excited for her to even get the offer. Even Olivia has to admit the experience was fun, the work interesting, and the people not quite as loathsome as she was afraid of. They had a job offer ready for her after her graduation - she really does need to reply almost as soon as she gets home. She's put it off long enough.

Olivia calls them the next morning, sitting at her desk, the email thread with the contact info pulled up on her laptop and a certain card gently opened and taped to the wall in front of her. The HR manager in their cushy office in Silicon Valley probably won't think twice about her refusal - just on to the next person in line. Olivia hangs up, smiles, and runs her finger across the ink in front of her, tracing over where the pen pressed so forcefully it indented into the cardstock.

It's the most satisfying thing in the world to give people a taste of their own medicine. She's just going to have to find a side hustle - the lights won't run off vigilante justice, no matter how much she wishes they would.

--

There aren't many like her. And there’s almost none as skilled as she is, and so she ends up breathing in some rarefied air in the community. Delriego is known, even if Olivia Hall is not. Olivia is merely a part-time electronic repair associate at a local co-op dedicated to reversing planned obsolescence. Delriego is a ruthless activist, ripping away shrouds of secrecy that certain companies have come to expect and rely on, and having a whale of a time doing it.

Olivia does love her day-job sticking it to the big tech companies - one repaired phone and one upgraded smart-whatever at a time. Anything that takes a bit of cash out of the loaded pockets of they-who-shall-not-be-named. But it's Delriego's work that has her up and fervent, energized even without caffeine, always burning from the seemingly limitless supply of shameless corporations. She supposes she should be thankful for the job security.

The hacktivism is a lot more glamorous than the tinkering, so Olivia's not all that surprised to realize that Delriego has amassed something of a cult following. People like her...they congregate. Bump into each other out there in their digital world. Never recognizing a face, but signatures and traces. Unique identifiers. Delriego leaves a signature the same way an artist would at the corner of a canvas. Banksy would approve.

So when she's invited in to a group of other hacktivists, it's both expected and flattering. Before engaging with anyone, she checks and triple checks the proverbial lock on the door. She knows her defenses are airtight - there can no tracing back to Olivia Hall. She sets up in a new location - a new country - and tentatively agrees to help with the project that requires some of the finest minds she's ever met.

The leader calls himself Hush.

And apparently, he’s going to change the world. 

--

When it rains, it pours. And when a criminal mastermind hunts her down, there's not much to be done other than run for her life. Olivia's only saving grace is that they've never met in person, no one has any idea what she looks like, and she has a head start. The odds are still terrible. She's quickly backed into a corner with no way of reaching the one person she trusts to deal with something like this. Options limited, she does the equivalent of blasting an emergency broadcast on all frequencies, then crosses her fingers and hopes he finds her before they do. Grey has never let her down, not ever, and it has always made her feel invincible - she walks through the streets with everyone else, but set apart, safe in the knowledge that there's a menacing guardian angel out there.

Her faith is rewarded: he shows up in person within the week. He looks haggard, rough, and Olivia's first thought is that he's in trouble of his own. But he doesn't ask any questions and neither does she. They run, disappear, and she thinks it's pride in his eyes when she tells him how careful she was. He helps her scrub the rest, the physical traces her computers can't reach into. She doesn't want to know how. She isn't going to like the answer.

The whole process takes a few weeks. Then they're back stateside, in her new apartment, when Olivia tells him all of it. Everything. The man named Hush. The hackers he recruited. The organ trafficking. The human experimentation. How there's blood on her hands now, and that no matter how many corporations or bad guys she takes down, it will never wash her clean; justice may be blindfolded, but she's not. She should’ve known. 

The tears come at some point, and Lucas, who had been watching her from across the kitchen island, comes around and pulls her into a hug. It's their first hug in a long time, and Olivia feels like that scared little girl again, running from monsters into the arms of something far scarier. Someone even the monsters are afraid of.

"It's not your fault," he says. He's hardly a moral arbiter, but he's the only one she needs any absolution from - the only one who understands.

Olivia cries until all she can feel is tired. She almost wishes she hadn’t gotten Grey involved - he’s always rescuing her, and she’d wanted so badly for him to realize she’s a perfectly capable adult now, on more equal footing than they’ve ever been. 

So much for that. 

His job is done, but the goodbye she's expecting never comes. For the first time since she's known him, he stays; he camps out in the living room with a wry smile as Olivia apologizes for the scant furnishings and armchair he's been relegated to for the night. 

"Made do with worse."

--

Back to working alone. Chin up. Eyes forward.

There’s a line she crossed a long time ago - back when she realized the law and the courts weren’t going to fix the endemic rot in society. In this world, the one she'd stepped into willingly, the only person whose motives she can trust is her own. It's a harsh lesson, and it's made her even more distrustful and crowd averse. The gravity of the betrayal still takes her breath away when she allows herself to dwell on it in the quiet moments. And they all were like her. Hush was brilliant, and she’d been so taken in by his genius, she’d missed the forest for the trees. And the rest of them…so much for camaraderie.

Speaking of, Grey's disappeared on her again. Nothing. Radio silence. She could try hacking CICADA to see if they kept up with former employees, but the image of Grey finding out stops her in her tracks. For all that she despises the PMCs, she could never quite find it in her to despise him or his work. Do what you're good at is a sentiment she understands. 

It’s none of my business, Olivia tells herself every time she gets curious. Eventually the curiosity deadens like a frayed nerve ending, and even her hope of a stray text goes dormant. 

More time goes by. More headlines that no one will ever know the full story of: of a girl and her undying sense of outrage, and her patience to pick apart anyone she sets her sights on. But Delriego doesn’t leave signatures anymore. Some art is best left uncredited. 

Now Olivia avoids other hackers like the plague - even the ones she admires, the ones doing excellent work. And especially the ones working for the scum of the earth, and there are plenty of them out there, too. She intervenes only once, when a ransomware group targets a medical debt relief foundation. 

Otherwise, Delriego becomes a phantom ship, quietly passing in the night. 

--

It’s a normal morning. Her neighbors are having a row about something again, and there’s a very loud pair of crows in the tree outside her window. But it’s comfortably dark inside – Olivia finally did go and buy those blackout curtains – and so she puts in her headphones and goes back to sleep. When she does wake up, it’s to three missed phone calls and another red bubble in her text messages; Olivia rubs at her bleary eyes, and can almost hear Mama tell her to stop that before it causes wrinkles and ruins her pretty skin.

Once the words on the screen register in her half-awake brain, the sleep falls from her eyes like the close of a curtain. 

From Mama: Call me when you get a chance.

Oh...shit. Not what she wants to see. The rationalizing starts at once. The first step is denial, everyone knows that. It's probably about Mitzi, got out again and had to be brought over by a brave neighbor with a thick pair of gardening gloves. Or maybe the dishwasher finally sputtered its last breath. She can send the plumber's info over, he's pretty good at same-day scheduling. Yes, that's probably it.

Olivia hesitates, like the aura of bad news will dissipate if she just stares at the screen long enough. When it doesn't, with her dinner from last night roiling her stomach and her heart stuttering painfully, she presses down on the screen and raises the phone to her ear like it'll bite her. 

Please be Mitzi. Or the fucking dishwasher.

The tremble in Mama's voice tells her the worst.

"Do you remember Mr. Grey, dear? He died a... a few weeks ago. A plane crash, they said."

--

There's no funeral. There’s no body, and no funeral, and no closure. Olivia leaves the house cloaked in her grieving, indignant rage, and buys a potted plant, the first one she sees at the store, and sets it on her mantle next to the only photo she has of her and Lucas Grey. It’s the closest thing to a memorial he'll get. She flinches at the thought, unsure where something so cold came from. He might have a family, for all she knows - they never spoke about things like that.

Mama worries. It only takes a few days of monosyllabic answers over the phone for her to come rushing over, inviting herself for a few weeks into Olivia’s drafty apartment and equally cold life. 

Olivia almost stops her work entirely. She has no air cover now. If something were to happen, she’s all she’s got and she’s learned that's not enough. The shame and bile from her one foray into the real world make her swallow hard. Hush, and plenty more people like him, are still out there.

Grey would tell her to even the odds. The house doesn’t always win, and it won’t - not if you burn it down first.

He wouldn't want her to quit. It's a knee-jerk reaction, a quick little thought with a shaky foundation - it's only later that Olivia rues with a sad smile that she has no idea what on earth he wanted. She'd never asked, and he'd never offered, and that really sums up their relationship.

She spends a few weeks ruminating about it, a sad little specter haunting a sad little home. It's slightly less sad now, through no effort of her own: her mother is trying to decorate the cheap shoebox that her landlord calls a townhouse. Olivia helps mostly by staying out of the way.

But the thought refuses to leave her alone: He wouldn't want her to quit. Whether it's true or not, it's enough to gently coax her back to her desk and her screens and her list of targets.

As far as taking care of herself…

There’s a range out past the suburbs on the other side of town. Olivia calls and makes sure they’re open tomorrow. Would someone be available for a private lesson? Fantastic. Then she flips her laptop open and gets back to work. There’re just a few things she needs to do first.

--

A banker...Olivia wrinkles her nose at the search engine results. Seems very low speed from the little she knows of Lucas and how he preferred to operate. 

He’s not in any of the news articles about Cobb's death, not by name anyway, though the reports had all mentioned multiple staff among the casualties. Olivia chokes back her kneejerk outrage that only the CEO was worth identifying to the public. The only one deemed to be of interest. At least that’s why none of the press releases pinged her alerts for Grey's name. 

It's silly what she's doing - she can't save him now. There's nothing to be gained by snooping around when the FAA has wrapped up their own investigation, pronounced it an accident and moved on. Sometimes planes drop out of the sky. Not terribly reassuring, but she's always preferred road trips anyway.

CICADA's security is the best she’s come up against so far, but she's better. No matter how much training they put their staff through, no amount of phishing prevention modules could account for one of their secretaries texting the unsecured line of one of her boyfriends. All it takes is one, and Olivia slivers into their network, thanks to a nasty fight the two are having. What a mess. 

Grey's been all over, Olivia learns as she traces his steps as far back as she can. Eastern Europe. South America. The Middle East. North Africa. The words “Sierra Leone” flickering on the screen makes something stab in her chest, but she keeps scrolling. 

He would've told you if he wanted you to know. The thought hits like a punch in the gut. It's almost enough to make her stop, but not quite. 

Olivia skims past the juicier details, although there's not much. She's tempted to dig further though, when a file comes up that has all of Grey's reports. It’d be like hearing his voice again. Her hands come to a shaky standstill over her keyboard. The screen becomes an ocean of blue and white, blurring and distorting, and something wet falls over her keys. She wipes her eyes, leaves Grey's words undisturbed in their home in some forgotten gigabytes somewhere, and continues on her way.

In the end, Olivia's forced to conclude that CICADA has nothing. Absolutely nothing on someone who used to run their entire Middle East North Africa division. He may as well have just dropped off the face of the earth after submitting a very brief resignation letter, which she finds and reads despite herself. That is, until somewhat recently, when a new entry in the CICADA personnel file showed up containing only the line: Executive protection. Eugene Cobb. New York. She gets the odd feeling not even CICADA had known where he had gone, until his death.

Full circle. Nothing immediately useful, but Olivia picks a lead and follows it. 

--

The image is horrifically grainy, useless by any standard, wouldn’t pass the sniff test of any respectable investigative agency. Olivia doesn’t care. The pixels may as well be etched into stone and carried down Mt. Sinai - she knows what she sees, and nobody will take the truth from her.

Not dead. 

Not dead.

Not dead.

She swivels excitedly around in her chair, and laughs loud enough to startle Mitzi and Mama, who look at her with identical befuddlement before going back to their quiet evening. 

Meanwhile, Olivia’s world tilts hard on its axis, but she grips onto the truth and finds hope nestled with it in the palm of her hand. 

Not dead.

[gortklatuubaradanekto]

*sniff, sniifff* Does this smell like hypocrisy to you too? . . . No? . . . Just me?

[lesbianklance]

so,,,, the others know what keith did at naxzela but,,,, didnt give a shit? or at least we never got them idk talking to him??? or it being addressed at all?????

[dreamii-yume]

How would the yans respond to a darling who confesses they've been kidnapped by a different yan before?

*sniff* You smell that? That’s high levels of toxicity in the air coming from your Yandere, Darling.

Yanderes who somehow still have their sense of moral compass would probably feel bad for you in some way—Yanderes like these are probably those that were victims themselves, people who experienced trauma enough that they could sympathize with you. They’re still somehow sane and is absolutely aware of their own unhealthy obsession and whenever they see the fear still lingering in your eyes from past experiences, they become more guilty of their actions—To the point of beating themselves up for it. They’re conflicted, different emotions running through their minds—They want to protect and to make sure something like that won’t ever happen again, but the only way that they could actually do that is to…swallow their own hypocrisy and do the same thing to you. But don’t panic! They swear they’re different! They’re never gonna hurt you, they’ll give you everything you want, they’ll talk and play with you all day! You will never be unhappy with them, look—You can even walk around the house if you really want to…Just—Don’t go outside the house, no talking to people, it’s for your own good, okay? You understand what they’re going for, don’t you? Surely…You, of all people, should understand how dangerous the world is. Don’t you…want to get out of that?

Meanwhile, we have Yanderes who uses your past trauma as a threat—They know what you’ve been through and frankly speaking, they aren’t afraid make you experience it all over again. Honestly, Yanderes like this enjoys that fearful look in your eye the moment they mention something that triggers your fight-or-flight response, which may or may not have been intentional. They like feeling in-control of your emotions, know which buttons to press to have you acting the way they want. If you don’t want to go back in being tied up down in the basement, then be good for them.

Probably will blame you for being the victim—You probably got treated that way for being bad, right? You probably wanted it, seeking attention or something. But that’s okay, people make mistakes and they’re nice, so from now—You’ll be in their care, they will absolutely make sure that no one else will treat you like this. This is about cooperation, after all—You be good to them, be on your best behavior, and be an obedient doll for them and only them and they’ll spoil you in return. Sounds like a deal, no? Wouldn’t want to experience anything worse than before, right?

But don’t get them wrong now, Darling. When they said they’re going to protect you, they meant it. In fact, they’ll be the one to actively make the effort to search for your past yandere and have a little…talk with them. You know, just to make sure they will never bother with you again. It doesn’t look like it, considering how sadistic and insane they look to you—But they feel genuine anger that something like that had happen to you before. Their pride just can’t take it, and they do love you enough to take action against that…They’re just a bit unhinged, that’s all. But if they’re willing to accept you in such a damaged state, you wouldn’t mind loving that little craziness in them, right?

[whirling-fangs]

timelostobserver​:

Hades simply stared at Kiba, a brow raised rather incredulously. What a feral child this was, though he’s hardly surprised when one acted like an animal.. when they looked like one as well.

“Oh, so our Lord doing the same thing is disgusting as well? Goodness, I should let them know you said that.” A twisted, terrifying grin pulled over the demon’s many all too sharp, all too perfect looking teeth. All the while, Hades looked over the young demon, chuckling a bit.

“Not even Hashira have been able to kill me.. but you? You wouldn’t stand a chance.” He seemed to sniff the air. A demon’s sense of smell was always top notch after all. Flames, sulfur, burning flesh. The tell-tale of a certain Rengoku.

“Ah, ran afoul of the Flame Hashira it seems. And you didn’t kill them either? My, how pathetic!” He chuckled before pulling away from Kiba.

“Mmm no sun here, no. Only an endless abyss into nothing. So if you want to run through it endlessly, lost in oblivion, be my guest. But if you want to go home, then you’re going to keep your annoying presence here until daylight outside has passed.” His smile faded, he didn’t look pleased over this either. Shadows casting over his eyes, causing the red-color of them to now glow.

“And trust me, it’s taking every ounce of patience I hold to not throw you right out into the sun as we speak.”

Kiba had to use every ounce of willpower he had, so he could stop himself from tearing this place down. The mere idea that this big hunk of worthless flesh would tattle to the Lord... it drove his little mind completely insane.

“The Lord does whatever they want. I know they don’t really enjoying acting like a human. They’re just doing that to fool them! But you don’t have an excuse! There aren’t any humans ‘round this place, right? So you could be living like a real demon!”

By that, he probably meant “in a cave, hiding from the sun”. That had always been his idea of a home.

Ire pumped a visible vein across his forehead. Oh, he was this close from snapping.

“Shut the fuck up. That bastard took me by surprise. He looked at me like... like I was some poor wounded animal! Like he didn’t really want to kill me!”

Emerald eyes shot to the taller demon, as Kiba crawled a little closer. The recent memories had distracted him from his urge to tear the big guy to shreds.

“Why would he pity me? Shouldn’t humans be jealous of us, because we’re so much stronger than them? You’re old as shit! I bet you’ve seen tons of humans die ‘cause they were too stupid to understand their place!“

Talk about hypocrisy...

[fabuloustrash05]

Do you smell that? *sniff* *sniff* It smells like... HYPOCRISY!!!

[stiltonbasket]

In which Wei Wuxian needs a break, Jiang Cheng is smitten, and Xiao Xingchen finally makes his way to a safe haven.

Unfortunately for Wei Wuxian, twenty-five-year-old father of two and co-owner of Lotus Pier Bakery, his days always start at four o’clock in the morning. 

Right after his alarm rings, he showers (sometimes) brushes his teeth (if he remembers to) and combs his hair (if he can’t get away with wrangling it into a messy braid, which works for three days out of every five) before stumbling down the stairs to the kitchen, where he spends the next two hours mixing pastry dough and preparing enormous rows of stuffed baozi. After the buns and pastries are done—and pastry is always finicky, even for him—he takes out his pans of bread dough and bakes until his hands are numb from kneading and mixing, right before whipping up a sponge batter and making four different flavors of cake with it: plain, chocolate, a green tea sponge that is ridiculously popular despite only smelling like tea (though it’s still a good cake, as proven by his sister’s fondness for it) and strawberry. He also puts on a pot of lotus and pork rib soup, since the bakery serves meals during lunch and provides a free cup of soup with every order.

At seven-thirty, he hears the sleepy sounds of his brother moving about on the second floor, going about his own preparations for the day. Jiang Cheng’s morning responsibilities include getting himself ready, making sure Wei Wuxian’s six-year-old-son (an actual ray of sunshine, brought to life in the shape of a boy called Wen Yuan) is dressed and packed for school, and giving baby Xiao-Yu his first bottle before the breakfast rush begins. 

Wei Wuxian’s children are utter delights, though, so he counts that part as one of the many privileges that come with being an uncle to the two most precious baby boys in the world. 

“There’s also A-Ling,” Jiang Cheng says grumpily, when he comes down with shaving foam still stuck to his ears and A-Yu wriggling in his arms. “And I don’t have to change his diapers, Wei Wuxian.”

“It’s only once a day,” Wei Wuxian coaxes. He grabs the baby from Jiang Cheng and gives him a smacking kiss on the nose, his heart melting all over again as Xiao-Yu tries to imitate him and ends up licking his face instead. “How’s the most perfect baby in the universe doing today, baobei?”

Xiao-Yu only babbles at him, since he only just passed his tenth-month birthday and can’t really manage speech outside of the occasional “baba,” (directed at Wei Wuxian, of course) or the odd “mama,” which is also directed at Wei Wuxian because he is, as he tells everyone who asks him out and then runs the second he explains, very much a single father. Parenthood’s very bad for the dating scene, but he’ll gladly remain single for the rest of his life to make sure he can give his best to A-Yuan and Xiao-Yu. 

Not that any of them but Yanli ever thought about anything like romance or marriage, after the Jiang estate burned to the ground with their parents in it and left them dependent on a family friend’s charity for the next year and a half. 

A-Yuan comes bounding into the kitchen five minutes later, dressed in a tidy little button-up and neat grey shorts with a backpack strapped to his shoulders. “A-Die!” he cries, flinging his arms around Wei Wuxian’s waist and nuzzling against his stomach until his father bursts out laughing at how much it tickles. “A-Die, I’m ready. What do I get for lunch today?”

“First things first,” Wei Wuxian tells him, as A-Yu observes them through the mesh walls of his playpen with one chubby finger in his mouth. “Did you and your shushu finish all your breakfast!”

“Mm, we did! Shushu made eggs!”

“Then you can go pick out one of the buns in the cooling rack for you, and one for A-Ling. And two for your peacock uncle, since he always eats too much.”

Once A-Yuan makes his choices—a soft baozi with mushrooms in it for him, and and a green onion pastry with tomatoes for Jin Ling—Wei Wuxian fills up two tiny thermoses with hot soup and then fills up A-Yuan’s Spiderman water bottle, which is completely covered in the rabbit stickers he hoards every time someone takes him to the doctor’s office. 

“Lunches packed,” Jiang Cheng drones, starting up the various drinks machines behind the bakery counter as A-Yuan grabs his cousin’s lunchbox and tries to pack it himself. “I am now going to make coffee. And tea. And milk tea, since my elder brother is a cruel, cruel man.”

“The McDonalds down the street would have put us out of business if we hadn’t started serving bubble tea,” Wei Wuxian scolds. “And Wen Qing likes the way you cook the tapioca, so don’t even complain.”

He leaves Jiang Cheng blushing in front of the gargantuan coffee-maker and hustles A-Yuan out through the little door that separates the staff-only area from the dining room just before a large, expensive car pulls up just outside the sign in the window that reads Lotus Pier Bakery. 

“It’s Peacock-uncle,” A-Yuan pipes up, still amazed by the sight of Jin Zixuan’s luxury sports car, as if he doesn’t ride to and from school in it every day. “And A-Ling, and Auntie!”

Yanli breezes in half a second later, pouncing on A-Yuan the moment she crosses the threshold and covering his face with kisses. “Good morning, Yuan-bao,” she sings, as A-Yuan turns into putty in her arms and tucks his face against her shoulder. “Are you ready for school?”

“I’m always ready,” he informs her, before proudly displaying the two lunchboxes hanging from his elbow and the brown-paper bag held carefully in one hand. “See, I packed A-Ling’s lunch, all by myself! And Peacock-uncle’s!”

“Peacock-uncle’s going to be hungry again by lunchtime,” Jiang Cheng calls, sticking his head up over the espresso maker. “And he’ll be here at noon with the rest of the Jin crowd, just wait.”

“A-Yuan won’t be here at lunchtime,” Wen Yuan says peacefully. “A-Yuan will be at school.”

After that, Wei Wuxian gets A-Yuan settled in his booster seat, squeezes A-Ling, and waves at his brother-in-law with Jiang Yanli until the car vanishes down the street, leaving Yanli to put up her hair and march back into the kitchen to start cooking for rush hour. 

“A-Cheng, you’ve got the drinks and the registers covered, right?” she asks, before grinning from ear to ear as a young woman with a badge clipped to her shirt comes in and stares at Jiang Cheng across the counter until his face looks more like a roasted beet than anything remotely human. “Good morning, Wen Qing!”

“I’ll take my usual coffee order and a spinach roll,” Wen Qing says, sending a short, small smile at Yanli—which is more than anyone else except Jiang Cheng ever gets, because Wen Qing is a medical resident with no sympathy for anyone but her patients, A-Yuan, and inexplicably Wei Wuxian’s bad-tempered brother, who loses most of his senses whenever she walks into Lotus Pier and only gets them back about an hour after she leaves. 

“You’ve just missed A-Yuan,” Wei Wuxian complains, stocking the display case next to the cash register. “He kept asking when we could see you yesterday, you know.”

“I’ll try to get up earlier tomorrow,” she yawns, carefully not paying attention when Jiang Cheng overturns a box of sugar packets in an effort to wrap up her spinach roll as neatly as he can. “Or you could video call me at night, when those of us who aren’t bakers are most active. Like normal people do.”

“I go to bed at eight o’clock like an old man, thank you very much,” he sniffs. “My schedule’s murder on my old lifestyle—”

“You mean spending all night gatecrashing sorority parties like you used to back in college?”

“—and I have children to look after,” he finishes sagely. “Do you want soup, too, Wen Qing? I can throw in a free bowl.”

“We won’t make any money that way,” Jiang Cheng scolds him, providing a wonderful show of hypocrisy as he hands Wen Qing a cup of coffee with three protective sleeves on it to make sure she doesn’t burn her hands, a heat-safe straw jammed down the side, and a warm paper bag containing at least one more fresh pastry than Wei Wuxian remembers her ordering. “Here. Good luck today, Miss Wen.”

Wen Qing tosses a mouthful of coffee down her throat and then turns to stare at Jiang Cheng.

“If it weren’t for you and your perfect coffee,” she says, “I would have dropped out years ago.”

And then she strides out the door and climbs back into her car, leaving Jiang Cheng dumbstruck in her wake as Wei Wuxian doubles over and screams with laughter until he cries. 

“Stop that,” Jiang Cheng mutters, when Xiao-Yu’s adorable baby giggles ring out alongside his father’s. “Look, now Xiao-Yu’s doing it.”

“He knows denial when he sees it,” Wei Wuxian tells him. “Honestly, A-Cheng. A-Yu’s just trying to help!”

The rest of the day goes on much as days at Lotus Pier Bakery usually do; happily, but so very busily that Wei Wuxian ends up staggering back upstairs for a second shower with Xiao-Yu when the lunch rush ends. The eatery serves coffee and baked goods from opening to closing, and is open for dine-in restaurant meals from eleven to two-thirty; Yanli does most of the cooking, while Wei Wuxian does the prep work, and Jiang Cheng handles the take-out baked goods sales and the drinks and helps wait tables until time comes to wipe down the tables in the dining area after the lunch customers finally finish eating—and the result of it all is that all three of them are so drained that they can hardly keep their eyes open, especially after dealing with parties bigger than about four or five. 

“How is it only three-thirty,” Wei Wuxian moans, slumping wearily over the counter with Xiao-Yu tied to his back when Jin Zixuan comes by to drop A-Yuan off and pick Yanli up later that afternoon. “I want to sleep, A-Jie.”

“Have you looked into getting any more part-timers?” his sister asks, pressing a cool, soft hand to his cheek. “I know Xue Yang’s doing well, but he only comes three times a week.”

“A-Yang’s a gremlin,” Wei Wuxian dismisses. “And he barely talks, it scares the customers. I was thinking of having someone move into your old bedroom, but of course it isn’t so easy with Yuan-bao and A-Yu here.”

“What about Wen Ning?” Jin Zixuan suggests, absentmindedly turning A-Yuan upside down and swinging him back and forth while Jin Ling begs for a turn on his other side. “A-Yuan’s his cousin, and he dotes on A-Yu, so it could work out, couldn’t it?”

“Not until he finishes his degree. And he’s got a job lined up after that, so there wouldn’t be any point,” Jiang Cheng shrugs. Wei Wuxian and his siblings all went to college, graduating with degrees in dance performance, mechanical engineering, and economics, in order of age—but then the fire came along and ruined everything about a year before he and Jiang Cheng were set to graduate, and all the three of them wanted to do after that was spend as much time together as they possibly could, so they ended up opening the bakery instead. “And we don’t know anyone else well enough.”

“Well, something will turn up,” Yanli soothes him, tiptoeing up to kiss his forehead and then Wei Wuxian’s before lifting A-Ling into her arms. “Promise me you’ll get some rest, A-Cheng. And A-Xian, you have to promise, too.”

“We promise,” they say dutifully, before watching her leave with her husband and son. 

Letting her go doesn’t seem half so bad these days, since they know how loved she is at home, and that she’s always going to come back to them in the morning. 

“She’s right, you know,” Jiang Cheng sighs, after a long pause. “We really do need to get some new staff, or we’ll run ourselves into the ground.”

“I’ll start making ads tomorrow night,” Wei Wuxian promises, sending A-Yuan upstairs for his afternoon nap and dearly wishing he could go have a nap, too. “Let’s get through the rest of the day, and then I’ll put in a call to the printers’ so we can put up flyers.”

___

As it turns out, however, the answer to their quandary comes about two hours later, after Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng put the “closed” signs in all the windows and shutter the blinds behind them. Jiang Cheng is just about to unroll the blinds on the reinforced glass doors when he takes in a sharp breath and shouts for Wei Wuxian, who comes rolling out of the dining room in five seconds flat before trotting over to stand beside him. 

“Is it just me,” he says, “or is there someone staring at me outside?”

Wei Wuxian looks. There definitely is someone outside, dressed in shabby, misshapen clothes and holding a dark little bundle to his chest, and that someone looks more than a bit familiar. 

Almost, he realizes, like a certain long-absent member of his family, from whom he has not heard anything in the past two years save for three very hurried phone calls. 

“No way,” he breathes, unlocking the door and running out into the street just in time for the someone to fall straight into his arms and burst into tears. “Xingchen!”

[megankoumori]

Frollo: You know I like you, Captain.

Phoebus: Well I don't like you. You smell like hypocrisy and (sniffs) Bengay?

Frollo:...It's Aspercreme.

[written-in-flowers]

Legacy: Chapter 4

Summary: “You’ll be surprised how many people don’t know they have Assassin’s blood in them.” Maelyn Dorian is about to find out exactly which person. (Assassin’s Creed/Deadly Class crossover)

Pairing: Marcus x Original female character

Genres: Action, Romance, Angst, Smut

Rating: M for mature (graphic scenes of violence, sexual content, drug and alcohol use, mentions of death)

Word count: 3k

A/N: If you want a link to chapter one or can’t find it in the tag either message/inbox me and I’ll give it. Idk why the Tumblr Monster isn’t letting me :( It’s also on my AO3 account.

Tagged: @sargesbestgirl @flowercrowns3438 (note: if anyone else would like to get tagged, let me know.)

Chapter 4: The Grey

A wonder. A wonder that intrigued him. Most people simply tolerated his rants about society’s hypocrisy and unfairness. She’d indulged him; bounced off his ideas like a tennis match. Her words and the way she'd said struck him. She too saw the world for what it really was and hated it. But, she did more than hate it; she wanted to do something about it. She wanted to kill the person who’d taken someone from her. She’d clearly learned a lot about him; he believed her when she said she’d kill him one day. Walking beside her up to Shabnam’s house, he felt stumped on what to say. He should say something suave and cool that gets her attention. But whenever he looked to her, the words bunched up in his throat. She looked heavenly. Her pink and blue midriff hung from one shoulder, teasing him with her stomach and waistline. The mini skirt didn’t help either; he nearly drooled over her soft thighs and legs. His hormones went into overdrive thinking of being between them.

“Wow,” she said as they reached the house, “That’s a lot of people.”

The entire school came. People hung outside on the lawn drinking beer, while the skater kids rode around on their boards. Drinks flowed around freely while he got hints of cigarettes or weed in the air. The music blasted from a brand new stereo system that they’d connected to two large speakers. He felt the energy in the room filling him up as he and Maelyn followed Billy through the house in search of his first drink. The day wore on him. Rory wore on him. Even the damned door preyed on his thoughts throughout the day. He planned to destroy the visions of what he’d done. He still recalled the pain in his arms from the bashing; the way his biceps burned and shoulders ached. The exact moment where pipe met skull came back to him in a horrible blur. He’d get rid of it tonight. They walked passed a small room of people dancing into the kitchen and through into a lounge area. Lex, as per usual, annoyed any person he could find before turning around to see them. He handed them their first beers of the night, and Marcus didn’t wait to drink.

Maelyn popped open hers, but didn’t drink immediately. She held it tentatively as if it might bite her. The three watched her give it a sniff, wrinkle her nose before Lex said, “Come on and drink it. One isn’t gonna hurt.”

Cracking under the need to fit in and the pressure of her new pals, Maelyn took a gulp. Billy and Lex cheered, but he only grinned. He saw her hide a gag from the bitter taste, and couldn’t help awe at her. She forced herself to keep drinking regardless of taste. Not that anyone drank beer for the taste. While the three chatted, he scanned the room for what he really wanted: drugs.  

“Well look who’s gracing us with her Legacy presence!” Lex said as she came to them, “And in public no less!”

“Rules are different outside of school.”

Saya. Shorted haired, slender, dressed in black, she’d initially been the reason he joined King’s. He’d tried running from it before. He’d tried running from it all. He’d been standing where his parents died until she came to his rescue. ‘What do you have to lose?’ she’d asked him that night. She’d kissed him. The taste of her lipstick, the smell of her hair in the wind made him dizzy standing on that ledge. He’d thought they’d continue talking; maybe they’d become friends. But once again, life proved him wrong. Sipping his beer, he forgot about her. At school, her Legacy status meant she couldn’t talk to him. The Kuroki Syndicate wouldn’t forgive her if she started hanging out with him at school. But strangely at a party it didn’t matter. He didn’t understand the point of the class system.

Maelyn. Now, Maelyn he can talk to whenever, wherever.

Saya noticed Maelyn right away, “Hey, you’re the new girl, right?”

“Um yeah,” she said, sticking out her hand, “Maelyn.”

“Saya.” He couldn’t help noticing her eyeing Maelyn. Another admirer? “I heard from one of my crew you aced Denke’s poison exam.”

“Well, it’s not like it’s hard, is it?” Maelyn shrugged. “It was a simple acid based poison at a low Ph level for minimum damage. I personally would choose some more plant-based if I poisoned anyone, since they’re harder to trace and can look more natural. But I suppose acidity works if you wanna get a point…” she stopped when she noticed them watching her. She gave a slight cough, “Um, sorry.”

“And have you?” Billy asked.

“Have I what?”

“Poisoned someone.”

She looked between the three of them before saying, “In a way? I used to make poisons for my dad whenever he wanted a clean attempt. Well, as clean as you can get with poisons.”

He’d blocked out the conversation at this point. He’d lost himself in trying to find anyone who might sell to him. There must be one dealer around here somewhere. He saw a group of Hessians-kids in black t-shirts with long hair-passing a joint amongst them, and knew.

“Do you always carry that katana?” Maelyn asked Saya halfway through.

“I do. It’s a sign of honor where I’m from.”

He spotted a large balding man in a green coat walking across the room. Yes! “Is that Shabnam’s old man?” he asked.

“Nah, he’s with the Hessians,” Billy answered. “Probably a pederast.”

“Let’s go make friends with him.”

“I am not getting buggered for a joint again,” said Lex.

Marcus made his way to the dealer. He stood by the fishtank teaching a long-haired Hessian about gravity bongs. Marcus didn’t care where his high came from, as long as it came. In a reflection in the window, the world went red again. His chest tightened and his head spun as Rory began laughing at him through a sea of crimson. No. No, wouldn’t let him get to him. Nihil est verum. Omne quod licet. Nihil est verum. Omne quod licet. He repeated the strange mantra in his head, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking Rory from sight. He needed a high. He needed another beer.

****

“....I post up, right? Tryin’ to do what I gotta. Comes at the dome, dodge that, hit him with one, pop right back up, back in my face. Dude had a screwdriver, so I did what I had to…”

Willie didn’t stop. He’d gone about what he’d supposedly done all day. Marcus immediately wished he hadn’t helped him. It’d been a class assignment: kill somebody who deserved it and bring back proof. Marcus helped him find Rory in their little shanty town under the bridge, but once Willie pulled out his gun, he backed out. He claimed to be a pacifist who didn’t believe in killing. He’d been forced to the school by his mother. Marcus did it for him. Marcus did everything for everyone. He always put his neck on the line for complete strangers. While Willie gloated, he leaned against a wall downing a bottle of vodka he’d taken from the bar. He forced himself to not think of Rory or the redness. He’d forget the entire thing ever happened.

Was he a bad person for doing what he did? He’d taken a human life. Granted, it’d been a horrible human, but still human. Rory no longer walked the earth because of him. In actuality, he was no different than regular murderers and thieves. He went to a school for assassins; he should expect that kind of assignment. The storm raged inside him with crashing oceans and thunder. He hadn’t gotten the high from the Hessian’s dealer, so he stuck to Shabnam’s bar which supplied plenty of drinks. The vodka bottle empty, he’d need another drink. Then another and another and another until any memory of Rory and that night left his mind. He’ll drink forever if it meant forgetting.

“...And then I grabbed that pipe and wham! Knocked his lights out!”

He wouldn’t shut up. Marcus needed him to shut up. He pulled out his walkman and on came the headphones. He’d planned on shutting everyone out before a flowery scent reached his nose again. Maelyn stood in front of him arms crossed.

“What kind of guy invites a girl to a party and then leaves her hanging for drugs?” she didn’t sound upset. In fact, she didn’t sound surprised at all.

Guilt hit him like a bullet in the gut. “An idiot, I guess,” he said.

She gingerly took the headphones from him and placed them over her ears. She snickered, “The Smiths? Not exactly party music, is it?”

“No, but it’s honest and brave...unlike some I know.” He forced himself not to look at Willie nearby.

“What do you mean?” she handed him back his headphones, which he held idly in his hand.

“Nothing. It’s nothing. Really.”

“Doesn’t seem like nothing if you’re drowning yourself in it,” she noted.

“Look, it’s not like you know me-”

“-But I know when someone is running from something.” Despite her height, she stood her ground. “Does this have to do with that Willie kid?”

“Wait, you know him?”

“We have Criminal History together,” she said. “He let me borrow his pen. He’s actually really sweet. He’d been bragging about his Black Arts assignment all day in class.”

“Probably because he wants to screw you. You know, like every other guy you run into.” Rory’s laughter filled his head. Willie’s story droned on and on nearby to anyone who’d listen. Nihil est verum. Omne quod licet.

“It’s not like I ask for it,” she replied. “Are you always this big of an asshole or is it because of me?”

It’d never be her. She shouldn’t be around someone like him who’s so broken and angry. He’d bring nothing but misery for her. “Like I said, you barely know me.”

Frustration went across her face, “But I would’ve liked to.”

The words made the entire thing even worse. She stormed away from him into the party. He felt like an idiot. She would’ve liked to know him. But would she like him once she did? Would she like him after hearing his whole reputation is a sham and he’s just another lonely kid? He hated imagining the rejection. He leaned against the archway, sticking the walkman back in his pocket and saw her. She stood with Petra and Saya looking annoyed. She wasn’t drinking the beer anymore; she’d moved to a red cup instead. He’d hurt her. He saw it in her snappy replies to Petra’s gentleness and Saya’s wisdom. He should apologize. He should go to her, take her in his arms and kiss her.

“You ain’t gonna get any if you just stand there lookin’ at her.”

Willie, dressed in a tracksuit with a gold chain, came up beside him. “I’m not looking at her,” he lied.

“I don’t blame you for it,” he said. He gazed in her direction, “She’s fine as hell. Hella smart too. She blew everybody away in Criminal History.”

“You take Criminal History?”

“Hey, a man can like crime documentaries, can’t he?” he defended. “Besides, we improve ourselves by learning from our mistakes in the past.” He observed Marcus a bit longer, then said, “You scared of her?”

“No.”

“There ain’t no reason to be. She’s little. She won’t bite-”

“-You’re the last person to talk about being brave,” Marcus snapped.

“Whining about not getting with some cute girl ain’t brave.”

“It’s hard to be fearless about sadness.”

“It’s hard to...what?”

“Some people hide it,” he’d change the subject to anything but Maelyn. “Like it’s a weakness.” He looked right into Willie’s eyes as he said, “Acting so fucking tough…”

Willie paused, looking at him back, “You ain’t got a rep. People will see you weak and come at you.”

“Let them. Better to expose your ankles and see which snakes bite.”

“Then you’re in the wrong place, because here at King’s Dominion, we all bite.” He added, “Now you better go talk to that girl before that other dude does.”

“What other dude?”

Willie walked away without answering. Marcus looked back to the bar where she’d been a moment before. He searched around the room for her, finding her dancing by herself. She went off like a firecracker to the music; moving her body along to the beat with everyone else. He liked the way she giggled off the feeling of her own giddiness. If he hadn’t known better, he’d thought she was drunk. Perhaps that’s what her pursuer thought. He glanced around the crowd and spotted him. The man wore a long black coat over a Whitesnake shirt. By his scraggly hair and beard, he must be with the Hessian dealer. He stood in a corner with a few of the headbangers, watching Maelyn closely. Marcus tried rationalizing even in his slightly tipsy state. He could be looking at someone else. He might be staring off into space in some kind of drug induced trance. But then he confirmed his suspicions when Maelyn made her way into the center of the room, the man’s eyes followed. The instinct jumped out of him. The same one that got him in trouble every time.

He strode into the flood of dancers and drinkers towards her. She gave a yelp when he grabbed her, spinning her to his chest. Immediately, Maelyn yanked herself from him.

“What are you doing?” she sniped.

“Dance with me,” he said quickly, taking her hand again.

“First, you ditch me to get high. Then you go off and sulk in a corner, and now you want to dance?” A little viper. That’s what she was. “You’re drunk, Marcus.”

He reached for her a third time and didn’t let go. He took her by the waist, put one of her hands on his shoulder and held up the other. All the alcohol and cigarette smoke filtered out her perfume; her lip gloss faded in the time since they arrived. For a brief moment, he wanted to kiss the rest off.

“Let go of me!” she attempted to free herself, but he held her tight.

“There’s a guy following you,” he hissed in her ear. He pretended to be kissing her neck as he said, “Willie says he’s been stalking you.”

Her body stiffened in his embrace. He heard her gulp thickly, “What guy?”

“Dude in a black coat and Whitesnake shirt,” he whispered in her ear. “Don’t-Don’t look at him. Just stay close to me, okay?”

“Oh, is Captain Superdrunk gonna protect me? That guy will throw you down like a rag doll.”

“I’m not going to let somebody hurt you.”

“Why? Do you have a thing with getting into fights with people?”

“No, I have a thing for sticking my neck out for complete strangers. Call it a hero complex.” Also, he’d never live with himself if he let anything happen to her. They kept a slow dance to the high-tempo music. He liked this, he realized. She felt different. He’d never danced with anyone before, but it came so naturally to him with her. He spun her around, earning a small giggle when he came back to him. Their bodies became magnets completely stuck together. Neither said anything for a while, not seeing the point considering the loud music.

“I don’t like the attention,” she suddenly said. “I don’t like people looking at me. It’s only my first day and three guys have already tried flirting with me.”

“Three?”

“Lex, this Hessian guy just now and that Russian guy, Victor. It’s disgusting. They have absolutely no shame or conscious. It’s like I’m a conquest they’re all fighting over. I showed a little bit of kindness and suddenly it means I wanna screw them.” She sighed, “Maybe I should start being a bitch. Saya says it’s safer like that; nobody touches you.”

“No, no,” he shook his head, “Don’t think like that. You shouldn’t change yourself because of other people. Shit like that works for Saya because she’s got that katana, but you...” He checked over her shoulder, seeing the creeper still standing there avoiding eye contact. “You’re not like that.”

“You barely know me,” she repeated his words back. “How do you know I’m changing who I am?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I just kinda get this feeling off of you. Call it a hunch.”

The music changed to an equally up-beat song, but they continued their slow dancing. When they made a turn, she spotted him. Fear hit her like a wave. Her hand quivered in Marcus’s and she stayed close to him. He held her tightly, leaving only inches between their faces.

“You know him,” he murmured, “Don’t you?”

“No. He’s-He’s just, you know, like creepy and stuff.”

All thought of drinking his sorrows left him when he saw it. The fear she desperately tried hiding. He knew it because he once feared the same way. Those late nights in the boys home, praying that he’d get to sleep a full night without hands touching him. The constant worry he might upset his bunk mate and be mutilated for fun. Worrying about being beaten or whipped for ‘disobedience’ brought on the fear Maelyn showed now. The fear of somebody chasing you; having to watch your back all the time. A single misstep and the danger caught you.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said to her, pressing his forehead to hers. This time she didn’t push him away. “Get lost for a while somewhere else.” He hardly knew her, but wanted her with him.

“Okay. Yeah. Let’s do that.”

She took his hand and led him through the crowd. He’d expected they’d go out the front, but instead she guided him into the kitchen. Consistently, she checked over her shoulder for the man. She made sure they stuck to big groups where they’d be less noticeable. He took in how silently she walked, like a cloud gliding through the air, yet kept a normal pace. He said nothing to her as they walked outside. She looked around again before reaching a side gate. He was about to tell her it was locked but then she withdrew a lockpick. More and more Maelyn continued amazing him.

“This way,” she gestured for him to follow her. Once he entered the small side entrance, she locked the gate behind them.

“Can you please explain to me why we’re sneaking around?” he asked annoyed. “The creeper isn’t gonna follow you for this long.”

“Just come on,” she said. “You can buy me ice cream for being a dick earlier.”

Shabnam’s parents kept the side way as a storage for landscaping equipment. The pair passed rows of potted plants, bags of manure, gardening supplies and a lawn mower. Even in the dimness, he had no trouble guiding through the way. He’d done it in the boys home all the time. While everyone slept, he’d creep through the dark corridors for his supplies like a mouse. His eyes adjusted to darkness easily, and he never questioned why. Nobody ever caught him. Just like they hadn’t caught him making the bomb.

“There you are,” a raspy voice said ahead of them. His body bumped into Maelyn’s and they looked at him. The creeper must’ve used the front entrance as Marcus first suggested they’d do. “He’s not supposed to be here,” he said, looking at Marcus, “You were supposed to be alone.”

“Stay back,” Maelyn’s sweet tone suddenly became cold. “There’s no point cornering me here. People will see you. Go back to your master, lapdog.”

“Nobody saw me coming in,” the man replied in a toothy grin. “They won’t see me coming out.” Marcus recognized a flash of silver glint in the light from the windows. He thought somebody might see them, but as the man said, the party raged on. “Now, you’ll come quietly with me, girl, after I handle your friend.”

Marcus blocked Maelyn from view. “Handle yourself, creep.”

“Oooh, saucey boy,” the man cackled. A deep wound opened inside Marcus. He knew another person who cackled like that, but no. He’s dead.

He was given no time for reflecting. The man gave a single swing of his blade but ended up missing Marcus by inches. The shock froze him for a second; a fight was the last thing he wanted. Marcus kept Maelyn behind him when the man took another swipe. He laughed at Marcus’s feeble attempts to dodge him. He won’t let him hurt Maelyn. The small space left him barely any room. At a third swipe, Marcus took his chance. He made to charge at him, but then something rushed by him. A few feet from them laid a rusty spade, blunt from years of digging into the earth. Marcus barely processed it before Maelyn ran and bounced off the wall, kicking the man across the head. When she landed, she threw a punch square into his face and then another to his jaw. He gathered his wits quickly and slashed the knife at her, but she dodged every swing. She moved so fluidly and quickly Marcus’s booze-influenced brain had trouble keeping up. She grabbed a nearby gardening fork that she used to block his knife. When the creeper thrusted it forward to her chest, she hooked the fork on it so it sailed out of his hand.

“Get out of here,” she told Marcus over her shoulder. She slammed the small gardening fork upside the man’s face, making him stumble to one side.

“No, I’m not leaving you.”

“Go!”

It all seemed too real. It couldn’t possibly be happening again. His heart pounded in his ears and he couldn’t steady his breathing. Rory’s menacing laughter came back to him in the redness; he was laughing at him. Scared. Frozen. Useless. He looked on as Maelyn fought off her attacker. The man swung a right hook that caught Maelyn in the cheek, causing her to nearly fall. She swayed for a second, leaning a hand on the wall to regain her breath. Seeing her cheek red in the light, a sudden rage went through him. Marcus charged past as the man moved to her and wrapped his arms around his torso. Hitting the center of his gut, the man doubled over Marcus and began punching at his stomach. Angry blows hit right on the older man’s kidneys, which made him jolt. He easily threw Marcus into the house wall and advanced to Maelyn, who was ready.

She moved like lightning, striking hard and fierce at the man several times. It was as if she’d been unleashed; as if she’d wanted to do this all day. The man didn’t go down easily. Eventually beating her to the ground, he pinned her down and put the knife to her throat. Reality snapped back into Marcus, who then rushed forward to them. A swift kick to his face distracted the man, making his head tilt upwards and blood spew from his nose. Maelyn took this opportunity to roll him onto his back. A single hit from the back of the spade knocked him out cold.

When Maelyn stood up panting and sweating, she met his eyes. “What the fuck was that?” he asked incredulously. “Who is this guy?”

“It doesn’t matter. Just go back to the party.”

She tried pushing him back down the side of the house, but he stopped her. “I’m not going until you answer me: what the fuck just happened? Was that guy after you? Why? Did your dad get in trouble or something? And where’d you learn to fight like that? You were super fast and took him down like nothing. I’ve never seen that. What’s going on?”

“Trust me, Marcus,” she said, “It’s better if you don’t know anything. If we’re lucky, he’ll forget he saw you.”

“Why would that matter?” he took her hand, “Is somebody after you? Do they want to hurt you?”

“Just go back to the party and forget it.” She freed herself from him and began going down the lane.

“Well, where are you going then?” he followed behind, his back beginning to ache from being thrown to a wall.

“Back to school.”

“A guy just tried to kill us and you wanna go walking on your own?” they reached the end of the side where they faced an opened gate. “Maelyn, what’s going on? Why did he try to kill you?”

She turned and looked at him imploringly, “Get back to the party, Marcus, please.”

He stayed behind her even as she sped up. Once they reached the large tree in the yard, he lost her in the group around it. He searched around the place for her. He wanted to talk to her, at least comfort her. Someone came at her with a knife; she went walking alone in the dark. She shouldn’t be by herself. What if she got hurt again?

As he looked around, the world changed. Not into the deep red Rory brought, but a ghostly gray. It came over everyone like mist. The partygoers turned nearly opaque in the fogginess, though he still made out their shapes. This had occurred twice before. The first time happened when he lost his parents at the fair. He’d cried like mad, looking around for them by a cotton candy station until the world turned misty. The second time had been that night in the boys’ home. He’d tried catching a glimpse of the guards stationed around the house; the world became a grey backdrop for the golden figures. As he’d done then, he stared around until he found her. A gleaming speck of gold stood out in the sea of gray far ahead of him. He wouldn’t catch her now. He let her go for tonight. The real world appeared before his eyes as if nothing changed, and he went back into the house.

He spent most of the night wondering about Maelyn Dorian and if she was who she said she was

[freddyabberline]

the world in its hypocrisy

rating: g characters: jacob, abberline pairing: sorta jacob/freddy word count: 1242 read on ao3

buy me a coffee!

“i burned down the alhambra,” jacob says before he’s even entirely inside the window.

had he been anyone else, frederick would have shot him; as it was, he slowly lowered his pistol, heartbeat thundering loud with adrenaline in his ears. he might still shoot him.

“jacob? you what?”

“i burned down the alhambra,” the assassin repeats as he pulls his leg over the window sill and sinks to the floor. “i... i burned...”

frederick can hear the misery in his voice, now, see the way his shoulders are curled inwards in the faint light from outside. he sighs and gently sets his pistol on the table near his bed, deftly flipping down the photo there as well before padding over to where jacob sat slumped against the wall just below the window, the wood floor chilly on his bare feet.

“take some breaths,” frederick urges, and he tries not to sound as tired as he feels. he puts a hand on jacob’s shoulder. “calm down and tell me what’s happened.”

for once in his life jacob listens, draws in a few stilted, shuddering breaths and tucks his head between his knees. this close frederick can smell the smoke and see the ash smeared across his face- but he smells alcohol, too, the faintest whiff, and he’d heard the slurring in jacob’s voice.

“i was at the alhambra,” jacob manages shakily. frederick settles down on the floor close to him, close but not touching, their only point of contact his hand on the other man’s shoulder. “it was... a trap, so obviously a trap, but i didn’t... i went anyway.”

he sniffs, loud. “it was my fault. evie was right- i shouldn’t have gone.”

frederick squeezes his shoulder, a comfort that jacob leans into even as he scrubs at his face, trying to hide the tear tracks that cut through the grime. “why were you at the alhambra, jacob?”

it’s a long, long time before he answers. “do you know the name maxwell roth?”

and, oh, does he. frederick draws in a sharp, hissing breath through his teeth, feels the way jacob tensed beneath his hand. the man had a rap sheet kilometers long, though no one had ever managed to keep him behind bars long enough to see him to trial.

something sinks in frederick’s stomach like a leaden weight. he was hardly intimately familiar with roth’s crimes, but from what he knew...

“jacob,” frederick says, “please tell me you didn’t.”

there was so much he turned a blind eye to for jacob and his sister, but aiding roth- in his murdering, his robbing, his wanton destruction and disregard for life and law, his cold-blooded callousness- was something he couldn’t ignore.

jacob make a miserable sort of sound, and that’s answer enough.

“christ,” frederick breathes and moves to pull back his hand, but jacob lashes out lightning-fast and holds tight, gloved fingers curling around frederick’s wrist almost hard enough to bruise.

“i killed him, freddy,” jacob says quietly, and then, “i think he loved me.”

frederick goes still. “roth is dead?”

jacob makes a noise in the affirmative.

“but you worked with him?”

“for a bit. he... he wanted to leave a warehouse to burn. there were children inside. we had a disagreement.”

“why, though?” frederick just can’t understand it. “he is- he was- a monster. why help him?”

“he wanted to take down starrick,” jacob answers, and then they’re quiet for a long time. when he continues, his voice is very small, “he called me a hero. the bravest man in london, he said.”

“oh, jacob.” he can’t stop the pity in his voice because it was pathetic, that jacob would be so starved for affection or a kind word that he’d involve himself with such a man.

“freddy,” jacob says suddenly, sitting up straight and turning to face frederick fully. his grip on frederick’s wrist tightens painfully and he looks desperate, wild-eyed. “freddy, i’m just like him, aren’t i? we’re the same, him and me, aren’t we?”

“not in the least,” frederick says, firm and immediate in a way that surprises them both. it was true, though, at least in frederick’s mind; while reckless and impulsive, jacob still had a heart. he still cared about others. he was still good. 

he’d never met the man, but frederick was fairly sure there hadn’t been anything good left in roth for a long, long time.

“i think he loved me,” jacob repeats his words from earlier, still sounding distraught, “why would he do that? why would he love me if we weren’t alike? and what does that say about me, that we’re both-?”

the assassin chokes up, and a strange roil of emotion gets caught in frederick’s throat, a tangle he doesn’t want to think too deeply about. “both men?”

jacob swallows thickly and nods. “it’s wrong.”

frederick is a police officer. he’s arrested sodomites, busted molly houses. he believed in god, too, and he prayed, and sometimes he even went to church. but that didn’t mean that either the law or the divine were quite so clear cut.

(loving martha had taught him that. god was meant to be benevolent, but he’d taken her from him after only a few scarce weeks of marriage.

he doesn’t know what to do with this confession from jacob, this almost-unreal moment of raw vulnerability. they were colleagues, and perhaps even friends, and yes, maybe frederick did find himself pleased when given a chance to speak with jacob and more flustered than he ought to be at his teasing, but his own feelings, own thoughts and turmoils- meant nothing, not here, not now.)

“if you think it is,” frederick answers eventually, uncomfortable and keenly aware of the distance between them, the warmth of jacob’s hand through his glove, the ash and gin smell of him. “but only if you think it is. only god can judge us, jacob, and i think... love is a thing so scarce in this world, it can’t possibly be bad.”

he feels almost embarrassed with the way jacob looks at him then, wide-eyed and wondrous as if frederick was something new he’d never seen before, and he tugs the arm still in the other man’s grip. jacob lets go as if he’d been burned, and frederick allows himself only a moment to rub at the bruises already darkening a circle ‘round his wrist.

“you really think so?” jacob asks, and federick eyes him a moment before nodding just once. “oh, freddy, you’re just so full of surprises.”

he can’t help the smile that twitches about his mouth at that, or the sparkle- however dull- that’s re-entered jacob’s eye. but then a thought occurs to him and it slips away, his expression falling into a frown. “the alhambra’s an hour’s walk from st. pancras.”

jacob stills. “so it is.”

“why did you come here, jacob?”

the man thinks about that for a moment, expression going distant. “i needed somewhere to go, somewhere i wouldn’t see any of my rooks or, or evie, or anyone. i can’t see them right now, i just can’t. it... hurts. i don’t know why.”

“start from the top, then,” frederick sighs, leaning to bump his shoulder against jacob’s. grief was a constant enough companion to frederick that it was almost refreshing to face someone else’s for once. “let’s get you cleaned up, and then you can tell me about roth and the alhambra from the beginning.”

[aerendil]

I've been hearing/ reading about how the voluntary relocation TO Martha's Vineyard was an unconstitutional political ploy by DeSantis. Conversely, deployment of the National Guard, and forced relocation to a military base, FROM Martha's Vineyard, apparently, was not unconstitutional. "Sniff sniff" smells like hypocrisy.

Either way, let's see what the Constitution has to say about it.

"We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America."

Hmmm. Seeing something about We the people of the United States... but nothing about illegal aliens in the United States. Soooo, they are not protected citizens, under the Constitution. That being said, basic human rights should apply. So now a lawsuit is being filed, on their behalf. Who is using this group for a political stunt, now?

DeSantis’ office hits back after class action suit from migrants, reveals 'consent form' they allegedly signed | Fox News

[1nkyl0re]

Hypocrisy

the word hypocracy is a word that somewhat describes double standards but also works as a insult to religions figures so perhaps next time your extremely religious friend comes to visit that your not too fond of perhaps open with a line like:

-sniff, sniff- " hold on what smells like hypocrisy in here"

" speaking of hypocracy and contradictions how is that book the church lent you, is it any good?"

or perhaps just mock there religious book by having a sarcastic conversation that heavily but ironically implies that the book is a work of fiction wondering when the next issue is coming out

[spockandawe]

sunderedstar asked:

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ ::::)

Song 5/8, and oh man, my penchant for traditional irish music and other related genres is coming back to bite me in the ass, because it turns out that all my favorite genres are the ones most heavily inclined to writing about stories. Anyways! it’s a fun challenge. So now we’ve got John Doyle singing Crooked Jack (lyrics).

I was tall and true all of 6 foot 2 But they broke me across the back By a name I'm known and it's not my own They call me Crooked Jack

God, I love the melody for the chorus in this song. It;s funny that I didn’t get Process Man or Dark As A Dungeon, because those are in a very similar vein but I know them much better than this one. But this one has a very personal edge that’s awful nice.

First of all, the low-hanging fruit. Terminus. I’d KILL to see the inside of his head while he’s reorienting on the universe after waking up in necroworld, and how he’s evaluating and adjusting for how Megatron’s gotten very old, very experienced, and very jaded since he last saw him. I want to see how he tries to use his old manipulation techniques, how he watches them fail, and how he adapts his approach. I’d love to take this all thew way up through the end of the functionist universe field trip, I want to see him genuinely caring for Megatron, and shamelessly using him anyways, and either ignoring or brushing off the hypocrisy of the whole thing. ‘we need to overthrow the oppressors because they treat people like objects and take their freedom. now do what i tell you, no i don’t CARE if you don’t want to do it’. I think.... I’d love to end it on some point when Megatron is parsing that he’s been left behind and is struggling a bit with it, and it’s so easy to turn to Terminus for reassurance and comfort. I want the smug satisfaction of winning, all while he’s so, so understanding and sympathetic on the outside.

Next up, let’s get some DOMINUS AMBUS up in here. This would be... so hard, man. Because I’d have to write it post-domestication for it to really fit. There was an idea I saw a while back, about how Dominus didn’t find Rewind II on the quantum duplicate Lost Light. And sure, maybe he couldn’t smell him when he was hiding inside another corpse. But I love love LOVE the idea of one of the last things he’s able to hold onto being that he knows Rewind, and he loves Rewind. Even now that he’s been made into the team pet, with masters who are very demanding and have been very cruel to him, personally, managing to draw them away from where Rewind is hiding, and convincing them he hasn’t been able to sniff him out. It would be hard to get the right voice to it, where the DJD has fucked over his brain to a horrifying degree, where even while doing that, Kaon still loves him, and he sure seems to care for Kaon. But Rewind. I want him trying to think and process through all the damage, and just... a very sad story, but one I’d love to get on paper.

Hmm. This wouldn’t be an exaaaact fit. But it has some interesting things I’d love to write about. So I’ve been really interested in Thunderclash lately. Because him just effortlessly being the perfect autobot, flawless in every way, I enjoy it played as a joke. I enjoy it even more if his private mental state very much DOES NOT support that idea. His image is crazy-intense, it’s unattainable. So... he doesn’t think he’s attained it. Crooked Jack wasn’t broken physically, it was emotional and mental. He’s failing everyone around him. And presenting himself in a dishonest light if they continue to believe it. But he’s an important figure to other autobots. He can’t afford to let the mask fall and take that from them. Even though it’s suffocating him, and it’s so frustrating nobody can tell something is wrong. I got at a little bit of this in the Thunderclash/Rung fic, where he tries to weasel around the whole safe, sane, and consensual thing and trick his partner into seriously hurting him for real. Because he deserves to be punished :) If he’d had more screen time and I was able to feel his specific damage out better, I’d love to have a continuation of that fic, where Rung gives him some of what he’s asking for, but stays within safe limits, and works out gradually drawing out of him why Thunderclash wants this thing, until eventually there’s an emotional crash even more significant than the physical crash. And a detail that I’d fit into that story somewhere: Thundercracker was tied to the Vis Vitalis as his life support system (that’s what got me onto the crooked jack connection). But that was... also.... his home? And the MOMENT he got free of the life support, he ditched and joined up on a new ship where he wasn’t in charge. He cut ties and bolted.