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bennetsbonnet · 1 month ago

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Much has been made of Mr Darcy's "confession" to Elizabeth that he does not converse easily with strangers. It is repeatedly used to support neurodivergent interpretations of his character. And I suppose that when taken at face value, a character confessing that they do not easily converse with strangers and struggle to catch their tone or appear interested in conversation can absolutely scream AUTISM! (I say as an autistic person myself)

But this line is often taken in isolation. When considered in terms of the passage in which it appears in Chapter 31, it appears far less of a smoking gun than may initially be suspected. After some discussion about Elizabeth and Darcy's prior acquaintance in Hertfordshire, Colonel Fitzwilliam asks Elizabeth for information about Darcy's behaviour there. She readily supplies it:

'Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of,' cried Colonel Fitzwilliam. 'I should like to know how he behaves among strangers.' 'You shall hear then—but prepare yourself for something very dreadful. The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know, was at a ball—and at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain knowledge, more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a partner. Mr Darcy, you cannot deny the fact.' 'I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly beyond my own party.'

What Darcy leaves out here is that it was he himself who chose not to be introduced to anybody. As we learn from the description of his behaviour at the Meryton assembly in Chapter 3:

Mr Darcy danced only once with Mrs Hurst and once with Miss Bingley, declined being introduced to any other lady, and spent the rest of the evening in walking about the room, speaking occasionally to one of his own party.

Anyway, Elizabeth correctly does not buy his excuses. Not only does she respond with a cutting sarcastic remark, but she tries to bring the discussion with an end by speaking to Colonel Fitzwilliam:

'True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball-room. Well, Colonel Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders.'

But Darcy does not get the hint and continues conversing with Elizabeth rather than quitting while he's ahead. However, I don't believe him to be missing a social cue here. Rather, this is an exceedingly conceited man who cannot conceive that anyone would not want to speak to such a Superior Being as he and more-so, is determined to defend himself from a perceived slight against his impeccable character.

Then we come to the passage containing the oft-cited line which allegedly contains proof of his neurodivergency:

'Perhaps,' said Darcy, 'I should have judged better, had I sought an introduction; but I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to strangers.' 'Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?' said Elizabeth, still addressing Colonel Fitzwilliam. 'Shall we ask him why a man of sense and education, and who has lived in the world, is ill-qualified to recommend himself to strangers?' 'I can answer your question,' said Fitzwilliam, 'without applying to him. It is because he will not give himself the trouble.'

Once again, Elizabeth does not buy his excuse for even a single second. She's fully aware of all the advantages a man such as he will have received in society (opportunities not open to women, might I add!) and draws attention to that fact. It's a brilliant, cutting line from her and she really set that one up for Colonel Fitzwilliam to deliver the knockout blow.

Not only do we have the testimony of Mr Darcy's cousin, that 'he will not give himself the trouble,' to appear cordial to strangers, but we have evidence from Wickham too. Although after this statement, Wickham quickly goes onto misrepresent Darcy's kindness to the poor, which contradicts Mrs Reynold's later testimony, I do believe Wickham to be telling the truth (for once!) here, when he tells Elizabeth in Chapter 16:

'Mr Darcy can please where he chooses. He does not want abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he thinks it worth his while.'

Which, again, demonstrates that Darcy is capable when he wants to be. That is the crucial point. Autistic people fundamentally lack the ability to understand social cues, they cannot turn it on and off as they please because they are snobs.

So, now we come to the infamous line about Darcy's supposed social struggles, and I hope that I've provided enough context to the line to make you see that it should not be taken at face value:

'I certainly have not the talent which some people possess,' said Darcy, 'of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done.' 'My fingers,' said Elizabeth, 'do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many women’s do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault—because I will not take the trouble of practising. It is not that I do not believe my fingers as capable as any other woman’s of superior execution.'

Again, Elizabeth is not buying his excuses for even a single second and tells him if he feels like that, maybe he should put the effort in. She has seen him in numerous social settings and been thoroughly unimpressed with his behaviour which, when you consider his rudeness to her at the Meryton assembly, she has every right to be.

So, what do I make of the line?

Well, I think it's abundantly clear that Darcy absolutely can speak to people when he wants to. Perhaps, in his mind, he struggles to make that deeper connection and make friends easily. But making friends is not always easy, it's a process you must invest time and effort into. If you do not do that, it stands to reason that you will struggle. Plus, if you hold others to ridiculous standards (as Darcy does) without recognising and fixing the flaws within yourself, you're not going to have deep, lasting friendships.

While this quote may appear to be a moment of vulnerability where he does confess a fault of his, which is astounding given his pride, personally I do not think it was not a soul-searching exercise. It was to make Elizabeth stop grilling him. It was self-serving. Although, I don't think he's entirely lying. Darcy is veeeery careful with his words and though this statement is not considered and perhaps comes out rather abruptly, it doesn't necessarily follow that it isn't true. I can imagine that it is probably something he's felt for a while, yet it is a rather desperate attempt to defend himself from a woman who sees right through him.

I think perhaps Darcy does realise that he isn't as naturally gifted as other men he knows (such as Wickham, Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr Bingley) when it comes to forming acquaintances. However, he looks outwards and turns that bitterness against the world rather than looking inwards, reflecting upon himself and improving his manners which would be the correct thing to do. Thankfully, he later does this, but it took him twenty eight years...

In addition, Darcy appeared to have been under the illusion that he could coast by on Pemberley's reputation... which has always worked... until he met Elizabeth. For perhaps the first time, he encounters a woman who is not awestruck by him and his reputation and delivers the rebuke that he always needed.

So, while personally I'm inclined to believe there is some truth to his statement, as Mr Darcy is many things but he isn't a liar, I think it is said in desperation. His feeling stems from him knowing what he should do, but he can't be bothered to enact it... rather than any inherent social deficiency stemming from being neurodivergent.

Although, even if he does struggle socially, it's still no excuse for the rudeness he displayed to Elizabeth! My main issue with neurodivergent readings of Darcy is when they are deployed to defend his behaviour, when they attribute his rudeness to any potential neurodivergency and when they excuse his laziness. That is an awful message! Autistic people who struggle with social cues often do not, nor should they, go around insulting others. They should and often do put plenty of effort into being considerate and polite. In fact, I think, if anything, a love of rules makes us more likely to have good manners, rather than the reverse.

Ultimately, I'm not sure this line makes Mr Darcy the sympathetic-poor-sweet-innocent-shy-boy-autistic-representation that people want him to be. In fact it makes him look even worse, if anything. On matters such as these, he is every inch the conceited proud man he was widely believed to be at the Meryton assembly. Luckily, Elizabeth is an incredibly smart woman, who doesn't fall for it and immediately calls him out on his behaviour in a way that he has never experienced before. As she should!

#mr darcy #pride and prejudice #jane austen #elizabeth bennet #colonel fitzwilliam #mr wickham #my analysis #nd things #let darcy be flawed you cowards #<- but we don't necessarily need to pathologise him lol #now i'll whisper quietly in the tags lest the ableist sections of the austen fandom tear me limb from limb #(not saying EVERYONE who disagrees with nd readings of some of darcy's behaviour is ableist just some ways it's countered are... Not Great)#that i don't actually MIND nd!darcy headcanons when done WITHOUT a view to excusing his behaviour #and being clear that it is NOT what the author intended but. autistic boys get away with murder even today so it isn't hard to imagine that #especially with someone with as much wealth and status as darcy... his worst traits could've gone unchecked for so long #but he main reason i don't inherently have an issue with nd!darcy is because nd people existed back then but we weren't accommodated #i get that if he was nd there is an argument the narrative is just about him learning to mask but... a) the concept of masking didn't exist #and b) if he was a woman he'd have had to do it long before 28 sooooo. let the big boy face consequences for his actions!#i think there's something in darcy interpreting his fathers advice so literally with no room for nuance #that it leads him down that path of conceit when he's not actually a bad man at his core and never has been #bc that's very black and white thinking which makes me wonder... but on the whole i'm not sure #i'm not saying either way and ultimately it doesn't matter but it's fun to consider #within reason ofc... it's comforting to see evidence of autism in classics it's one of my FAVE things #but not sure darcy is the best example of this #if you want autistic characters in p&p mr collins and mary are RIGHT THERE lmao #but perhaps they are even worse representation so maybe not lmao #anyway wanted to make this post for a while and the Words came to me today so yay #also i didn't mention adaptations but they don't help... especially A Certain One but i've moaned enough about it for one week #and not in a fun way

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criibibi · 8 months ago

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Synopsis: After losing so much, Spider-woman learns to just keep moving. Only for her to end up somewhere far from home. Her first agenda is figuring out where she is, and how to get back. The only problem is that she ended up somewhere fictional (to her). Playing hero with Batman was not in her bingo cards this year. Hopefully she will be able to make it back home before she catches unwanted attention.

Masterlist: Prev; Next;

Chapter 5 - No Time to Waste

It’s been a week and a half since the last power surge incident and so far everything was quiet. Too quiet for Batman’s liking. It definitely increased his paranoia which in turn causes him to be extra moody. The culprit? Whoever was behind the power surge in the Narrows. They became an anomaly to Gotham. Unwanted, an eyesore in the eyes of Batman.

And the issue is, there hasn’t been any news at all. No sightings, no suspects, nothing. Bruce felt challenged in a way. Something is in Gotham, living in his city and he feels like he’s still so far from discovering who or what it is. For the world's greatest detective is having a hard time solving this case. How frustrating.

With no news of another quantum breach, big or small, nothing. It’s frustrating. What’s even more of a headache about this unsolved case, is another thing that has come to his attention- thanks Jim.

Bruce started hearing more reports of a new ‘vigilante’. But there are no pictures, no camera footage, no evidence, just testimonies, occasional sightings and witnesses. Nothing concrete, nothing solid, just no proof. So frustrating.

And there is a pattern.

What he does know is that they are always quick and efficient, never staying too long, leaving once or before the police arrive, and it’s always low level crooks like muggers or thiefs. Respectful and polite (from those they saved) and they mostly keep to the shadows of the night.

Whoever this new problem is, is trying to stay hidden and Batman doesn’t like that at all. Not. One. Bit.

Despite the Narrows being Duke’s territory, he is just one person who patrols in the daytime, so some of his sons and daughter help patrol at night. But it seems this newcomer has incredible luck and scurries off everytime they are even close to their location.

But this doesn’t mean Batman will just let it go, oh no. Of course not silly, he’s going to find this new vigilante and see what they are about. He’s going to evaluate them, judge them, and all it takes is one mess up. Just one and he will make sure they are locked up in Arkham.

A bit extreme, possibly. But he will take no chances, not when it comes to the safety of his city. Gotham is his to protect and defend, he’s keeping many eyes out for this intruder. Watch your back.

“Sorry to interrupt your brooding hour B, but I have something I think you want to know. Also you have a message from Commissioner Gordon.” A new voice spoke through his comms.

“On my way.” He replied.

“No, I think it’s best you go with-”

“I am fully capable of handling it myself just fine. I don’t require father’s assistance.” a third voice snapped. “I’m here with Kent, we’re fine Drake.” And the line was turned off.

“Explain.” Batman demanded.

“So you see…”

After the failed attempt at contacting Miguel, you spent a couple of all nighters in advancing your beacon. This time, it would require even more energy but now it won’t cause a potential blackout. But it will notify the bats of your location like last time.

You know you have to be extra fucking careful this time. You might have gotten lucky those days ago in not getting caught, but you know your luck is shit anyways and Batman is one paranoid mother fucker. Him and his wards.

You have to be very cautious in where you go and how you will do this. This new connector is a bit more sturdier than the lightweight one you made before, but this time it also won’t require you to be stuck in one place. Actually, your signal will ping in more than one location. It will bounce off the cell towers and throw a fake location.

This will certainly tip the scales to your favor in avoidance of detection. Now, you won’t have to rely on your (shit) spider luck!

All you have to do is to connect it to a phone or computer, and connect that to any service in the area and manually set it off- which you can easily hack. There is only one tiny itty bitty problem. Guessed it yet? No? Well it’s simple, the only problem is- YOU DON’T HAVE A PHONE.

You could theoretically use the library computer but with civilians around you is a big major no. You’re also pretty sure the library closes at like 8 or something.

No worries. You have a solution for this baby problem. Is it build one yourself? Pfft- fuck no. You don’t have time to build a phone and even less for a computer, you still have to tweak your god damn watch for fuck sake. So, you’re just going to buy one.

And with what money- I hear you ask. Simple. You’re going to make some. Time to become Spider-woman again.

Only until you have enough for a decent phone- you said. It’ll be easy- you said. Until you were proven wrong.

You spent two days hunting and defeating crooks, webbing the worst ones up, while the not so bad but are making shitty choices were let go (with the promise of hunting them down should they go back to doing bad stuff). Some advice here and there, pickpocketing criminal’s money, you know, the usual shabang.

Can’t forget you’re avoiding all cameras so as to not give yourself away. Though you almost got caught by the police once, haha. You never stick around long enough to get spotted by the bats or the cops.

Until one night, dressed as a normal civilian, you were coming back from a shelter, turning a corner and you were immediately surrounded by a group of thugs wanting to rob you. You literally have nothing, so the only thing they would be robbing is your backpack with extra clothes and your suit. And maybe like two granola bars.

You tried to charm your way out of this situation because first of all, youre fucking tired, two, you don’t have time for baby shit, and three, you’re about to start tweaking. Of course the five men didn’t take your sarcastic remarks lightly and decided that their knives would do the talking.

So you beat them up. All five of them. 60 seconds was all it took. So to recompense wasting a minute of your time, you loot their cash discreetly.

Unfortunately (or fortunately) a well dressed man popped out of nowhere, getting close to you and you warned him you would break his wrist if he touched you- he still came but didn’t touch you. Holding out a black card he presented it to your face.

“You fight well, kid. If you want to make money fast,real money, call me and go here.”

“Um, I’m not a k-”

“You’ll make hundreds.” He cut you off. Rude. ”And if you impress the boss like you did me, you can make more.”

Spider luck?

Oh well that got your attention. Eyes narrowed. “Fast money, how?”

“Did no one ever teach ya about ‘stranger danger’? It’s a fight club, if you will. A tournament if you’re interested.”

Spider luck.

After pondering it for a quick second, here you are, getting a card with a free invite to a ring, probably filled with big, crazy, and most likely wanted criminals, and you get paid to beat them up? Sign me the fuck up. “I’m very interested.” you nod.

The man gave a crooked smile. “Perfect. I’ll see you tomorrow, kid.”

“I’m not-” The man walked away and inside a white limo car. Fuck you.

So you went the next day. Making sure you wore your normal clothes, just sweatpants, a sweatshirt, and your face mask, you called the guy.

Meeting him was uninteresting, conversations were nothing exciting, just asking you your fighting style, can you take on a big guy, and whatnot.

Upon entering the place (behind a well known bar) you were led to a ring, two fighters going at it. You watched how one was clearly more experienced than the other, while the other guy was battered and bleeding but still fighting. Blood spraying everywhere with every hit until he hit the ground cold.

It certainly is a sight.

It was that very day that you had your very first fight.

Stepping into the ring with no prep, no bandages, no helmet, nothing, this was a raw fight through and through, you were immediately booed and laughed at. Tough crowd.

Of course you were not going against a stereotypical big muscular guy that looks like he could bench press a tank. No, in fact you were against a young military deserter as your first opponent. Scars and all. Across his neck laid an identification tag (also known as dog tag). Christopher Conner.

The man in front of you sneered, laughing at you. “No way they sent me a kid. I will break all your bones. Don’t start crying too soon.” he cooed.

He taunted you and the crowd loved it. You, on the other hand, were pretty bored and unimpressed.

“I’m not a kid…” you huffed behind your face mask.

What was able to be seen on your face must have told him that because he didn’t like being ignored.

So he swung, a clear hit to be a knock out. You swerve.

This time he kicked, you parried.

He did not like that. Soon a game ensued. Hit attacking and you either blocking or dodging. You didn’t even need your spider sense, you got this in the bag, honestly this was quite sad. The crowd went from booing you to insulting Christopher.

“What the fuck man?!”

“Hit the kid!”

“My money’s riding on you dickface!”

“Don’t you dare lose motherfucker, or I’ll shoot you!”

It seems their insults were getting to the man. You on the other hand kinda started to feel bad.

“Stand still you fucker!” Christopher growled, throwing punches.

You scoffed, “My aunt throws faster punches than you Chris.” You can almost taste the bloodlust seeping from his pores. “Hey man, it's been three minutes, surely you can end this, right?”

Chris’s jaw clenched in anger. He was about to explode. A voice called out your name.

“Nada! Stop wasting time and finish it kid. Or you won’t get paid.” What? What a scam! You’re trying to entertain yourself too y’know, guess this will be a way to relieve stress.

Facing the military man you didn’t give him a second to process when you blew him a kiss and then a fist made contact with his chin, effectively knocking him out the second his back hit the ring walls. “I’m not a kid.”

The crowd was silent before chaos broke. Half the crowd booed and threatened the fallen man, while the other half started cheering.

With how unsatisfied most people were, you had to fight three more times. Each time, you won, with no scratches on you (you did pretend to get hit at times for realism). Each victory secures you cheers and hype.

By the end of your last fight, it was dark out and you were walked off by the same man that brought you here. “Good job kid. I know you were the right call.”

“I’m not-” A thick envelope was thrown. Catching it, you opened it up to find money, lots of money. “Woah.”

The man in the suit chuckled. “Like it? You can make more the more you win.”

Still entrance by the stack of green you nodded. “Same time tomorrow?”

“Same time.” The man walked off and you stared at the money.

“Booyah baby!”

You bought a phone the next morning.

And so it’s been five days since then. You weren’t in a desperate need for money anymore, so you cut your fights down from five to two a day. You still needed time to continue fixing your beacon. Spider-woman sightings have also significantly decreased the more you noticed the increase in security.

You were not taking any chances.

Walking towards the somewhat empty bar, you greeted the bouncer and headed inside to an ‘employees only’ door to meet the guy in the suit. He did tell you his name, but you call him ‘Suit’ in your head regardless.

“Hey there Nada,” He hears a sigh from behind the mask. “Listen, kid, you’re one of my best fighters, but I need you to lay low for a while. Here.”

Catching a burner phone you tilt your head for an explanation, pocketing it. “Cops?”

“Worse.” he sighs, slicking his hair back. “Bats.”

Fucking spider luck.

Like a bucket of ice and cold water was dumped on you, blood turning cold. You froze in terror. You should have guessed that a hidden fighting ring would not be kept hidden for long. The criminals that you fought and were downright nasty, you made sure they were caught outside and far away from this location.

And it was random from a list you composed. Enough to make sure you weren’t a suspect. But fuck now you have to erase your presense here. You’re a nobody, Nada, nothing. Guess it really is time to lay lower than low, like a ghost. “I won’t come back then.” Voice serious and cold.

He laughed, pulling out an envelope from his suit's inner pocket. “S’that so?” Handing it out for you to take, his eyes burn into yours. “Then I’ll just have ta hunt you down, kid.”

Taking the envelope (it felt thicker and heavier than usual) and placing it in your pocket you chuckled, cold, fake, calculating. “Try. I’m good at hiding.” Walking away, hands in pocket, feeling both the envelope and the burner phone, turning your body to avoid bumping into a familiar guy speed walking in. “I’m not a kid…” you mumbled to yourself.

You didn’t bother glancing at the man you dubbed ‘Suit’, real name Jacob Sullivan Jones. It seems it’s time for JSJ to have a run in with the Gotham City Police Department.

It is truly fortunate that Jacob doesn’t know where you're staying. Although he might not know about the warehouse inside the junkyard, he does know you are not a resident with no permanent home. He had stalked you for a bit after the first meeting (the bouncer was so easy to spot really), believing you’re homeless, alone, and a nobody (someone who nobody would miss or look for). You’re using that (somewhat of a mis)information to your advantage.

Leaving the desolate bar, thoughts consumed by the written list of criminals you drafted and plan to anonymously give it to the GCPD. How you got the other criminals caught was simple, you always used a payphone and gave anonymous tips. That won’t work here. At least not fully. Knowing the corruption, maybe you should hand it to the one of the cops you know isn’t corrupt.

Now, do you hack the police and email it? Print it/fax it and send it? Or hand it directly but as spider-woman? Well for starters, the second option is garbage because if the right person doesn’t see it first, it will just get covered up. Hacking into the GCPD and emailing it directly doesn’t sound like a bad idea, the only issue is, if they decided to forward that information to the bats, you’re fucked because then you know they’ll dig in and somehow find out about you.

It seems like going in as Spider-woman is the best bet, but then again, the bats are real close, too close for comfort. Should you take the risk? But if you don’t turn these criminals in, it will stay in your consciousness of letting innocents down. Guess you have to suck it up and do it then.

“This sucks” you mumbled, deep in thought.

Suddenly you felt your body freeze. Feeling your spider sense go haywire, you looked up and hard swerved to the side, avoiding bumping into a stranger.

It seemed that your sudden change in direction caught the stranger’s attention and the person next to him, both heads snapped towards you.

Hands out of pocket awkwardly waving in embarrassment. “I’m so sorry!” Taking a look at the one you almost bumped into, he is tall, with black hair and vibrant blue eyes.

Taking note of your embarrassment the stranger chuckles, looking into your eyes, “No worries! Nice reflexes though!”

The stranger’s partner scowled in your direction and you could feel his eyes burning you alive. “Watch where you walk, you buffoon.” Venom.

“Don’t be rude, Dame.”

“Don’t call me that. We don’t have time for this tomfoolery.”

Alrighty then, guess it’s time to fuck off. “Yes, thank you- again, so sorry.” You don’t even spare the other guy a glance, quickly scurrying off. Your spider sense hasn’t shut off and you don’t like where this is going. “Good bye.”

“Hey wait a minute!”

“What are you doing Kent? Our priority is there.”

Not turning back, you quickened to a brisk walk away from this nauseating area. This whole goddamn experience is so nauseating. You just wanted to go home. Was that soooooo much to ask? Regardless, you did not want to know what those strangers wanted, and you were taught ‘stranger danger’ and it certainly applied here.

After a certain distance later, your senses dulled into a small buzz as you turned a corner and entered the public library. Taking your usual empty seat, you let out a deep sigh. This was what you were used to since coming into this world. Since being yoinked from another dimension and plopped in this universe, your senses never really shut off. It was like everything in this world was a danger, and it only spiked when reacting to blood lust, danger of a certain radius, and people who are incredibly strong.

Recalling that one stranger, who looked too innocent enough for it to be bloodlust, just that their presence caught you so off guard. But your senses screamed at you, and it terrified you to an extent. This is why you can never really relax being here, even when you’re alone in the warehouse, you just feel so out of place, and in danger constantly. It was beginning to eat you up honestly.

You miss your innocent youthful days. God you sound old. But you really do miss having a home to go back to. A home where once you step inside, it’s warm, and two people would always greet you like a warm embrace.

Now it’s cold and desolate, barely anything inside, empty and lonely.

But now, you can’t even go there anymore. Even if it was painful to live in the same home that had more members, then reduced to just you, it was still home.

You can’t even go home.

Remembering the words Jacob Sullivan Jones spoke to you earlier, you fish out the envelope. Taking note of the weight, it was decided to open it and find more than usual.

Picking up a small zip-lock bag, your eyes widened. It was an ID, an ID and a passport. Just what the fuck was Jacob going to do with giving you this? Why did he make this for you? What were his plans? No, you can’t think about that. This is a blessing for sure, and you’ll take it- but, you have to put Jacob in prison. Now.

This is a gift and you know that with criminals, all gifts are never for free. This is a ‘you owe me’ gift. “Fuck, this sucks.” You just want a moment of peace.

Think, you have to think. Now you have an identification, but, you don’t know if you’re in the system, since once again, incase you forgot, you don’t fucking exist here. Whatever Jacob was thinking, you definitely don’t want a part of it. You’re going to put a stop to this now.

Though, recalling the two strangers earlier, you don’t bother with the rude one of the two, more focused on the one with blue eyes. Something about him just stuck out to you. He looked vaguely familiar.

Okay, let’s take this from the top. You felt a strong sense of precaution, thus causing your spider sense to alert you. Your sense only went away when you were a considerable distance away from those two, so you know it’s about the strangers. Bases covered, perfect. What’s next?

You only really focused on the one who you almost touched, so let’s continue from there. He is tall, a welldefine body, black hair, and vibrant blue eyes. That’s all you remember seeing now for what you heard. His friend/partner/acquaintance/fellow party member said ‘Kent’, this could be his name or surname but the name ‘Kent’ makes your throat clogged. You only know of another Kent and it’s a superhero.

It couldn’t be…right?

Turning the computer on, you started typing away, fingers trembling, heart thumping loudly, head spinning, and body sweating. Please, please, please, be wrong. You prayed.

The window search lands on a somewhat recent news. Superman and Superboy save hundreds during bridge collapse! By Lois Lane Kent.

In the photo, on the front page was a scene, both Superman and Superboy. The older one was holding a piece of a bridge while the other younger one was using his heat vision. This was Superman’s son. And you came into contact with him.

You were royally fucking screwed.

Fuck- fuck! No, no nono!

All the anxiety you tried to lock away came like a tsunami. You were reminded of how small you are in this world. How easy it is to find trouble even without looking. You wanted no part in this world but it seems the gods wanted to fuck you over and over again.

And, as much as you wanted to curse out the Spot for yeeting you far faaaaaaar from your universe, you only blame yourself for latching onto him and getting lost on the way to his next destination.

God this sucks! You wanted to curl up and cry, but you can’t. You’re a big girl and so, you’ll deal with this fuckery later. After all, your best trait was putting your issues to the side and focusing on the bigger picture. This- meeting Superman’s son can wait. After all, you haven’t run into any bats besides Signal- yes you researched him when you had free time (you only knew of him but not really who he was), so for now, your spider luck has been blessing you thus far.

You need to focus on the bigger picture, getting Jacob and the other criminals caught.

Getting to work, you begin to type away your list that you memorized, the location of the bar, the owner of the bar was still a mystery but the one who runs it is Jacob, schedule of the bouncer shifts, and the names and alias of those who you encountered as well as the situation of misguided teens. You type it all, making sure to keep your real and fake identity out, you did put in your alias Nada, as a picked up street kid. Enough for it to be a ‘misguided’ teen situation but not enough to catch someone’s attention unless they were looking for it.

Now that you know you ran into Clark Kent’s son (a deduction), you know you can’t risk encountering him as spider-woman. Knowing that Superman can (somehow) memorize and identify someone based on their heart beat or whatever, so fuck no are you going to parade as spider-woman any time soon.

You swear to god that you will do everything you can to avoid meeting them in both their civilian personas and alter egos.

Calming yourself, you get ready to hack the GCPD, and leave a message.

‘They know. Scatter.’

It hits you. The epiphany of why Jacob had an ID and passport made for you. They were moving locations. Abandoning fort, and taking anyone who they wanted. Basically a trafficking ring for those who weren’t onboard, and a new opportunity for those who they saw potential in.

Shit, you should have stopped this when Jacob found you, but you didn’t know anything then. Now it could be too late. But Jacob did say to lay low, so they’re mostly biding their time. Probably erasing, hiding, and misplacing real and fake evidence.

They need to get exposed now, ‘strike while the iron is hot’ as the saying goes.

It seems like it’s time to meet the commissioner of the Gotham City Police Department, James “Jim” Gordon, as Spider-woman. How fun…

Way to contratic your fucking promise so soon. Well, at least it’s a civilian and not a hero/vigilante. “This fucking sucks.”

Damian scoffed when Tim wanted to force his father the Batman into his lead. It’s not that he doesn’t want his father, it’s just this is an undercover sort of situation. He got a lead when he went to interrogate a pathetic military criminal. He can handle this mission on his own.

“No, I think it’s best you go with-”

“I am fully capable of handling it myself just fine. I don’t require father’s assistance.” Damian heard Jon chuckle, most likely overhearing this conversation with his super hearing. What a nuisance. “I’m here with Kent, we’re fine Drake.” And the line was turned off.

“Well that was something. So, what’s the plan that you didn’t want Lizzie to be involved in?”

“Focus, Jon.” Damian explained their stakeout first, before going to don their costumes. Deep in their conversation, Damian caught sight of one of the suspects speed walking past them. He brings this to Jon’s attention. “It's him, the mercenary Christopher Conner.”

“Okay, so this bar is the place. Let me check real quick.” Using his vision, Jon’s eyebrow furrows. “Next door is styled like a wrestling ring, only two exits. From here and from an office. This is the place.”

“Then we’ll change and apprehend the criminal. Watch and hear what he is saying.” Jon followed Damian’s lead when someone jumped out of his way like he was burning them, causing Damian to also turn his head.

“I’m so sorry!” Despite the mask covering their mouth, their voice of this buffoon sounded androgynous, their clothes didn’t help to differentiate a gender either. But what he can see were this stranger’s eyes, and he can’t look away.

It seems neither can Jon as he chuckles and waves off the encounter. “No worries! Nice reflexes though!” Jon makes it very obvious he’s staring hard.

Just what is it about this total insignificant stranger that caught Damian’s undivided attention? From what he can see, they look normal (can’t really tell with that face mask though), but there is just something that has him unable to take his eyes off of them.

Jon has the same issue, and Damian narrowed his eyes in suspicion and scowls. “Watch where you walk, you buffoon.”

Jon, without breaking eye contact, scolds Damina. “Don’t be rude, Dame.”

Snapping out of this trance, he snaps back,” Don’t call me that.” That’s right, they are on a mission, no distractions allowed. “We don’t have time for this tomfoolery.”

Jon looks at Damian, as he too, regains his focus, eyes staring into each other as if communicating, he nods. They can come back to this after they finish their assignment.

“Yes, thank you- again, so sorry. Good bye.” The stranger quickly scurried off.

Caught off guard Jon impulsively extended his arm out to grab their shoulder. “Hey wait a minute!”

Damian acted faster, grabbing Jon’s arm. “What are you doing Kent? Our priority is there.” Pointing towards the bar with his head. This isn’t good, they’re getting sidetracked.

Jon didn’t turn to look at Damian, no he was still staring at the stranger. “I just wanted to ask…” He trailed off as he strained his ears, focusing on their heartbeat, their breathing patterns, anything he could to commit to memory. “For their name.”

Damian, too, side glanced at the retreating figure, dissecting the way they moved, their tensed shoulders, everything until they were out of sight.

Jon wanted to ask their name. Was that weird? Their situation didn’t require him to ask their name. How would he even go about it, ‘Sorry for almost bumping into you, hey can I ask for your name?’ Yea, no.

“Damian, I-” Jon began before getting caught off.

“I know. We’ll deal with that later,” His eyes narrow, glancing at the bar. “Focus.” But he too was entranced. But he was much better at pushing that to the side, but he knows he won’t be able to hold it off for now. The best he can do is rein in Jon’s attention to the assignment.

Moving to a cafe nearby with a good view of the bar’s entrance, they ordered some drinks. This wasn’t Damians idea but he’ll let Jon have his way for cooperating.

Jon nodded, getting back into focus, using his super hearing to overhear the conversation inside the bar.

His stomach tingles at the thought of asking the stranger for their name.

Hand discreetly on his year Damian spoke, “Drake, look into the time of now and send it over to me.”

“Hey- wait-” Tim was caught off guard, “What’s this about? I thought you didn’t ‘require assistance’ for this.” He teased.

“I don’t.” He shut the comms off. Now, back to work. “What’s going on Jon?”

“This is our guy. He’s getting assigned to deliver a package. This is serious. He’s upset.”

Damian clicked his tongue. “Tt. Follow.”

Jon tunes into the conversation again.

“The police aren’t the issue. It’s the costumes that have been spotted close. We already lost a couple of our men to the cops.”

“And you don’t think that’s suspicious? We have a traitor!”

“You don’t think I don’t know that, Chris? Ever since Sebastian was caught by the fucking commissioner, the others have been getting caught like flies here in Gotham. He’s spilling, so I need to silence him.”

“The usual?”

“No, not you this time. We’re leaving so I need you to focus on one more thing.”

“Is it about them, the one you want to recruit?”

“Yes, I want them-” a phone rang interrupting the conversation. “It’s the boss. Dismissed, I’ll send ya the rest later.”

“Understood sir. I’ll deliver the packages tonight.” The mercenary walked off, no longer as upset as earlier.

Jon, processing the information, becomes visibly upset. “They’re recruiting, and based on the conversation, it's the runaway and homeless teens that have been reported by the shelters. This is bigger than just Gotham. I think they’re leaving, moving somewhere else.”

“Let’s follow.” Damian’s attention was caught at the mercenary leaving the bar. “There.”

“The guy he was talking to said he would ‘send the rest later’, I think it will be on his phone.” Jon informed.

Damian absorbed the information. “We’ll follow and catch him red handed.”

“What about ‘the package’?” Jon questioned.

“What about them? I’ll forward the intel to the rest. We focus on this guy. The evidence on his phone is all we need.”

“Dame, I can’t with good conscience leave those vulnerable kids on their own.” Stressed Jon.

“And we’re not. The others will take care of it.” Damian replied. “When we apprehend the mercenary, acquire the intel, we go after this guy while the others detain their accomplices and rescue the runaways. They will all fall tonight, Jon, so focus.”

Jonathan Kent wanted to bite back, but he knows Damian ran this plan at least three times before bringing him along. Damian is just that strategic. And he places his full trust in him, god does this leave him unsatisfied. He knows those kids are trapped somewhere and if taking this mercenary and the manager from the bar out gets them safe faster, then he will do as he is told.

Something just feels out of place, this has been too easy so far. “Alright, he’s heading north.”

Damian nods, slipping away to change into his suit.

As if connected, Damian as well feels like things have been progressing smoothly. And when it comes to crimes committed in Gotham, when things are going good, then something isn’t right.

Ever since the first the GCPD have been arresting some low and decent levels of this new crime syndicate, news of some human trafficking organizations have been slowly getting uncovered as if by overnight. It started around five days ago, low level members were caught, and just two days ago, a higher member was arrested.

Ever since his father the Batman (he tagged along) interrogated him, he spilled like a waterfall. Since they have been cracking down on the case, they know this criminal organization is trying to get on the levels of Black Mask or The Penguin.

The only issue is, this was only exclusive to Gotham, now based on what Jon relay to him, this is just a small base, there are others. He refuses to let this go on any further. Not to his city, or his people. Yet, there is this itch in the back of his head. These captures were by far too easy, and these people aren’t sloppy. No, they had been operating for some time, and yet they were getting caught like moths to a flame due to anonymous tips being called in. Someone out there is deliberately getting these scumbags caught.

And Batman believes it could possibly have a connection to the other pressing issue that’s consuming his thought. There has to be a connection to the quantum disturbance from a little over a week ago. It’s just too coincidental for it not to be.

Something is happening in Gotham, and he will get to the bottom of this.

You know, people say to plan for everything, thus making Batman a force to be reckoned with since he is the master of having contingency plans and backup plans for those backup plans. And yet, here you are, with a plan and life just wants to fuck you over and expects you to just deal with it.

No.

After coming up with spider-woman handing the commissioner Jim Gordon a list of criminals and misguided teens, you just needed to go and change. But here you are, running into a situation if you will.

You see, after running away from Superman's son, and a printed list folded neatly in your pocket as you head ‘home’, you started to feel the icky sensation of being watched. Years of experience and knowing how not to tip off that you know, you head away from your place of operations and head up north.

Though despite not giving signs of how utterly fucking tense and anxious you are, you rationalize that it can not be any of the birds because you haven’t done anything suspicious. That, and the fact that your spider sense isn’t screaming at you of danger so for now, that’s calming you down.

On the other hand, you still have no clue who is following you. It was like, thirty minutes since running into the super, and no call from the burner phone. This whole ‘being followed’ is a fucking nuisance, putting a wrench in your plans.

The only good thing is that, since you are technically surrounded by civilians walking about, they can’t really do anything to you, unless they want to cause panic amongst the innocents. Though, that wouldn’t stop someone from shooting you if they wanted you dead.

Still, regardless if you are wanted dead (highly unlikely) or alive (for whatever reason) you don’t want to lead innocent civilians into this, so away you go! Informing Jim Gordon can wait (not it can’t), you’ll lose your pursuer and then catch them!

Turning a corner, into alleyways, zig zagging, you hear their footsteps pick up. Persistent.

While running away, you form theories. We crossed out the batsonas, you haven’t done or got caught with anything to be on their radar afterall, it can’t be a random crook because for one, you look poor too, and second, they’re chasing you for a reason. Another idea was maybe it has something to do with Jacob. But that doesn’t make much sense since you just got a burner phone.

Something just isn’t adding up.

Your spider sense spiked as you turned down a corner. Despite this, you kept going straight, ready to take on whoever was going to appear in front of you.

With a very good distance between you and your pursuer you took this chance to discard your mask and sweatshirt (thank god for having a tank top) ontop of a parked motorcycle as you turned another corner, there stood a man near the end of the alleyway, tall and (once again) wellbuilt, with black hair just standing there, phone in hand.

Quickly you jogged towards him (he glanced your way) and grabbed his arm, startling him. “Sorry, please play along!” you whispered and pulled him.

The stranger only had one second to figure out what was happening. In that split second though, he heard a plea for help. The next thing he knew, he had his free hand on the wall above your head while the other one was moved to your waist. Back towards the wall and having his big frame engulf yours, you let his arm go and wrapped them around his neck, pulling him towards your face.

It's only then that you take in his appearance, handsome from what you can see, and your heart dropped. “I’m being followed,” you muttered, noticing the stranger’s eyes roam your face before settling on your eyes. “I don’t know who they are.”

The man in front of you nodded, kept in place as footsteps hastily turned the corner, running past the both of you. Your body tensed up watching the hooded figure stop at the end of the alleyway. Taking the chance to observe the guy, he pulled out a phone while looking both ways before exiting from your view.

While you were distracted the stranger in front of you pulled back, making your release your hold. He was quiet. “Once again, I’m so sorry! Thank you!” You nervously backed away, in the opposite direction your pursuer went.

He grunted, watching you walk back away. He opened his mouth to speak but the phone in his hand began to ring. He glanced down at the caller before looking back up.

You were already gone, picking up your sweatshirt and mask, donning them on and running away. Your heart was pounding so loud, it rang in your ear. That was Jason mother fucking Todd. You ran into the Red Hood. What the fuck was he doing in the Narrows?!

Recalling the words Jacob spoke earlier, it echoed through your head. ‘Bats.’ That’s right. The fucking bats are intown, and this was too close for comfort. This sucks balls!

“Focus, focus. Officer Gordon, here I come.” To the junkyard you go.

Jason watched the very pretty woman leave him with his thoughts. Getting pulled into caging someone against a back alley wall was not in his cards today, but with Gotham, one always has to expect the unexpected.

Speaking of the unexpected, he let himself momentarily get distracted recalling the bold stranger from earlier. Something about this woman, rendered him quiet. But at the same time, he took note of just how anxious she was. Tensed body, eyebrows furrowed, worried expression, scared eyes, and over all the way she held onto him while losing her pursuer. He wondered just what kind of trouble found her. It seems crime really doesn’t stop during the daylight.

He committed her face to memory, and will touch upon her situation once he finished his current assignment.

“You still there?” the voice spoke from his phone.

“Yea, I’m still here. I’m in the Narrows, following the lead.”

“Good, while Damian follows the mercenary, you got the manager. I’m seeing some suspicious moments. Turn on your commlink, Bruce is already moody as he is.”

“When isn’t he like that.” Jason rolled his eyes as he walked back to his bike that he parked further in the alley. Before taking off, he glanced in the direction the stranger went. Her actions and the sound of her voice repeated inside his mind like an echo, burning itself in his memory.

Prev; Next;

I realized everything I wanted for this chapter did not happen. So now it's split into two parts- oops. Side note, this will not be a yandere series, though I do think they get 'possessive' sure, not yandere though. I finally know how I am going to end the Act, the issue is the in between that I struggle with.

Yay, you met Jon and Jason. Next up are Cass, Steph, Dick, and Tim the only ones left.

Web Bound Secret Corner!

Spider-Woman had an eidetic memory.

Spider-Woman does not know about the trafficked kids.

Spider-Woman did not notice Damian.

If Spider-Woman had to choose between saving a life and going home, she'd save the life.

Spider-Woman's is bad at grieving and worse with failure.

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didalexiabreakupwitholgaisback · 5 months ago

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el caso rubiales: headlines from day 4, in which we heard from alexia, irene, laia codina, ana ecube, and the defendants' attorneys were so rattled they asked few questions in return. oh, and javier puyol, ex compliance officer for rfef spoke too.

*also i have and will delete all comments from anons "judging" the "performances" of irene, alexia, and laia today. this is not a football match where you critique them. have some decency, madre mía!

this was a another important day for the prosecution as we heard from many big names in the world of women's football that came to jenni's defense. today was one of the shortest days of testimony, at less than 2,5 hours and the defense had few questions for the witnesses, especially after getting chastised by the judge on a few occasions.

alexia spoke first via videoconference from barcelona. she testified for less than 30 minutes and looked and sounded like she was getting over a cold (she said as much to the court). most of her testimony had to do with jenni's state of being after the kiss, how she was so overcome by what happened and did not enjoy the celebration and in ibiza. she testified that on the plane, jenni was angry. the players tried to cheer her up saying 'forget it, we are world champions'. but jenni was overwhelmed and after the meetings she "began to cry with exhaustion."

in ibiza, jenni told alexia that she didn't know what she was doing here and started crying saying 'i can't take it anymore.' she also corroborated what misa said yesterday that where defendant albert luque would have contacted jenni's friend ana ecube to encourage the soccer player to help rubiales, and that rubén rivera insisted that jenni talk by video call with the "integrity" group at rfef.

like others have said before, alexia called montse's decision not to call up jenni post the world cup, "unfair."

the defense didn't ask many questions of alexia. luque's attorney had a baffling question that wasted 2 minutes trying to get an exhibit of sms messages to be displayed properly and then basically gave up when the judge become irritated. 🙄

irene spoke next and testified for about 15 minutes. she confirmed that she heard some players joking about the kiss and told them to stop and said this is "something very serious."

she also testified to a conversation with rubiales on the plane back from sydney. he told irene: 'it's incredible, they're calling me a rapist." and irene replied: "i understand that this is due to what happened yesterday and i think it's magnifying things, but, honestly, i didn't think what happened was right."

irene also confirmed seeing jorge vilda speaking to jenni's brother on the plane back from sydney and she said: 'wait, i'm going to tell jenni because she didn't want anyone to go talk to her family.'

next came laia codina who testified in person in madrid. codi testified that she was the person who held jenni's mobile when, ana álvarez asked her to go talk to the president as soon as they won the world cup. she said that jenni was assimilating what had happened, which was something serious, but she had not processed it.

codi said that she and the others told jenni not to make the video helping rubiales, that she is very clear about what has happened, that there are images and that she is calm. but "there were meetings in the first two rows of the plane that distressed jenni."

jenni also told codi that rubiales asked aitana to make a video.

codi also testified on the plane back to madrid that rubiales told her and jenni that his daughters were having a hard time. in ibiza, codi witnessed to rubén rivera speaking to ana ecube several times because she was acting as the intermediary between her and albert luque.

then came ana ecube, jenni's friend and a former footballer. ecu spoke about what happened in ibiza where she was the intermediary between jenni and rfef officials trying to speak to her. jenni did not want to talk to them and was upset. so ecu said she would try to help. she said that luque was angry when he saw that jenni didn't talk to go down with him. he said 'if you help us you already know that luis is going to treat you both very well.'

then the court was shown whatsapp messages between luque and ecu and they were pretty damning and disparaged jenni's attitude and said what she was doing to rubiales was "unfair."

ecu testified that she was always with jenni and that jenni was worried, because she saw that no one in the whole rfef environment was protecting her no one cared about her. not even the psychologist."

the last witness of the day was puyol who testified that the situation was "tremendously abnormal", that instead of an integrity file, a normative administrative one should have been opened and that "the rfef had a rusty and ineffective protocol."

youtube

#jenni hermoso #alexia putellas #laia codina #ana ecube #caso rubiales #rubiales trial #rfef ruins all the good things #futfem #woso

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spicyschemmenti · 4 months ago

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NEEDING A BREAK ➫ alex cabot

pairing: alex cabot x sassy bimbo!fem!reader

synopsis: a high-profile case has alex more stressed than usual and you take it upon yourself to do what you do best: drive her insane until she finally admits she needs a break

warnings: unprofessional behaviour/banter, heavy flirting, teasing, suggestive comments, and physical closeness, reader is alex’s assistant, creating a dynamic where professional boundaries are blurred

word count: 2.7k

author's note: lmk if you wanna be added to future posts of this pairing!

The click of your six-inch Louboutin heels against the cold tile floors of Alex’s office is a sharp contrast to the scratch of her pen against paper, the only other sound filling the otherwise silent room. You don’t even need to announce your presence as she always knows when you’re there, but she keeps her head down anyway, pretending to be engrossed in whatever ridiculously complicated legal document is spread across her desk.

From what you can see over her shoulder, it’s a deposition transcript, something dense and wordy, full of legal jargon that would bore most people to tears. But not you. You understand every word. Not that Alex ever gives you credit for it.

Her glasses have slid down the bridge of her nose, blonde hair slightly mussed from the countless times she’s raked her fingers through it in frustration. The lines of exhaustion are starting to set in around her eyes, and if you had to guess, she’s been sitting at that desk for at least six hours straight without so much as a sip of water or a single second to breathe.

You prop yourself against the doorway, tilting your head as you take in the sight of Manhattan’s most intimidating ADA looking way too overworked for her own good. With a dramatic sigh, you push off the frame and strut forward, the pink latex mini-dress hugging your curves in all the right places.

The color practically screams Barbie, especially with the way it glistens under the office lights, paired with your glossy nude lips and the French tips that have just the right amount of sparkle. It’s not exactly office attire, but when have you ever cared about that?

You plant a manicured hand on your hip, tapping one perfectly filed nail against your thigh. “Alright, boss. Enough.”

Alex, still pretending she hasn’t noticed you, merely hums, flipping another page of the deposition. “Not now.”

Oh, she’s adorable. Like that’s ever stopped you.

You roll your eyes, stepping closer until you’re practically looming over her desk, catching a proper glimpse of the papers in front of her. Oh, it’s that case, the one with the Wall Street CEO who thinks his money can buy his way out of a human trafficking charge.

The guy’s lawyer, some smug Columbia-educated asshole with a penchant for twisting witness testimonies, had just filed a motion to suppress key evidence, and judging by the way Alex is ruthlessly highlighting passages in the affidavit, she’s gearing up for a legal battle of epic proportions.

Still, she’s exhausted. And you? Well, you’re annoying when you want to be.

Alex finally sighs, removing her glasses with that exasperated little motion you love so much, pinching the bridge of her nose like she’s already regretting entertaining you. “I have deadlines, and unlike you, I don’t have the luxury of ignoring them.”

You gasp, offended. Hand to your chest, lips parted dramatically. “Are you implying that I don’t work hard?”

Alex doesn’t answer, which is probably for the best because you’re not about to let her win this one.

Without hesitation, you snatch the file right out of her hands, watching in delight as her mouth parts in pure disbelief.

“Excuse me?” Her voice is low, controlled, and just a little dangerous.

You flash her a smug smile. “Boss, you need a break.”

Alex reaches for the papers, but you hold them above your head, your six-inch stilettos giving you just enough height to keep them out of her reach. Her jaw clenches, that sharp blue gaze narrowing like she’s considering whether or not she could legally kill you right now and get away with it.

“Give. Those. Back.”

You shake your head, blonde curls bouncing slightly. “Mmm… no, I don’t think I will.”

And because you never know when to quit, you take it one step further. With all the grace and confidence in the world, you drop down into her lap, swinging your legs over the arm of her chair like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Alex freezes.

Like, fully stops breathing for a solid five seconds. You feel it—feel the sharp inhale, the tension that coils in her muscles, the way her hands tighten into fists against the arms of the chair because she refuses to put them anywhere near you. Which is a shame, really.

Her voice, when she finally finds it, is strained. “You have five seconds to move.”

You hum, tapping your nails against her silk blouse, letting them trace lazy circles just over the first button. “Or what? You’ll arrest me?”

Alex swallows hard, her tongue darting out to wet her lips just for a second, but you notice.

You always notice.

She exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose for the second time in the last five minutes. “I hate you.”

You grin, leaning in until your lips are just inches from her ear. “No, you don’t.”

There’s a long pause, filled only by the distant hum of the city outside. For a moment, you swear she might actually snap, might finally give in to whatever tension has been simmering between the two of you for the past several months, might grab your waist and yank you closer like she wants to. But instead, she sighs, leaning back just slightly, eyes flicking to yours with something unreadable — something that makes your stomach flip.

“Fine.” Her voice is quieter now. “Ten minutes.”

You beam, victorious.

Still, you don’t move.

And neither does she.

After a long moment, she raises a brow, her hands still firmly gripping the arms of her chair. “Are you going to get off of me now?”

You tilt your head, pretending to consider it. “Hmm. I dunno. I think I’m quite comfy.”

Alex exhales slowly, like she’s actively resisting the urge to throttle you. But beneath the frustration, there’s something else—something dangerous and slow-burning that makes your grin widen.

She tilts her head slightly, her voice dropping just a fraction. “You’re playing a very risky game.”

And oh, do you love it when she talks like that.

So you just smirk, settling in just a little closer, letting your fingers trail up the lapel of her blazer with an infuriating slowness.

“Oh, boss,” you murmur, voice saccharine sweet. “I always win.”

Alex’s jaw is tight, her perfectly-manicured nails digging into the armrests of her chair like she’s trying to physically restrain herself from reacting. You can see the conflict in her eyes, the push and pull of annoyance, attraction, and exasperation swirling together in a way that has her this close to snapping. But because she’s Alex Cabot, because she’s made of pure ice and self-control, she doesn’t do anything.

She just stares at you.

You stare right back, lips curled into a smirk as you lean in just a little more, fingers still tracing along the edge of her blazer, pink acrylics standing out against the dark fabric. She could push you off. She could order you to move, threaten you with termination, or even physically remove you herself. But she doesn’t.

Because she likes this.

Because she likes you.

But Alex isn’t going to admit that. Not now. Not ever.

So, after a long pause, she simply exhales sharply, her head tilting slightly as she studies you with that sharp, assessing gaze that makes defense attorneys crumble in the courtroom.

"If you're going to waste my time, at least be useful."

You gasp, hand flying to your chest in mock offense. "Boss, I am always useful."

Alex doesn’t dignify that with a response, but the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth betrays her amusement.

Still perched in her lap like you own the place, you lazily reach over and grab the file you’d stolen from her earlier, flipping through the deposition notes as if they were a tabloid magazine. “Ugh. Men are so predictable.” You scan the text with ease, your painted nails skimming over key sections, cherry-picking the ones that actually matter.

Alex arches a brow, arms folding across her chest. “Oh? Enlighten me.”

You flick your eyes up to hers, a cocky grin playing at your lips. “First of all, Mr. Rich-As-Fuck-And-Twice-As-Stupid over here is lying his ass off. He contradicts himself three times between page two and page six. The defense is hoping you won’t catch it.” You flash Alex a knowing look. “Spoiler alert: you already have. But they don’t know that yet.”

Alex’s lips press together, but you see the satisfaction in her expression.

You continue, kicking one leg playfully in the air, your heels catching the light. “Second, they’re trying to suppress the security footage because the CEO’s mistress is in the background. They’re gonna argue it’s ‘prejudicial’ to show the jury because it could make him look immoral.” You roll your eyes. “As if being a cheating, greasy old man is somehow worse than human trafficking.”

Alex lets out a quiet scoff, but she still doesn’t interrupt you.

You smirk, tapping the page. “But here’s where they fucked up. They claim their client wasn’t even at the hotel that night, right?”

Alex nods slowly, eyes narrowing. “Yes…”

You beam. “Then why did his lawyers just submit a motion to suppress footage of him being there?”

Silence.

Alex’s gaze snaps down to the document in your hands, then back to you.

Then, she smiles.

Not her usual, tight-lipped, polite courtroom smile. No, this is something different. This is something genuine, something fond.

And fuck, if that doesn’t do something to your heart.

She exhales, shaking her head slightly. “You are… infuriating.”

You grin, flipping your hair dramatically over one shoulder. “And yet, you love me.”

Alex doesn’t answer. She just watches you for a moment, studying you like you’re some kind of enigma she hasn’t quite figured out yet.

And then—very slowly, very deliberately—she rests a hand on your thigh.

Not in a sexual way, not in a way that immediately suggests anything inappropriate, but in a way that tells you she’s not pushing you away.

She’s letting you stay.

Her fingers are warm against the sleek material of your dress, and for the first time all night, you’re the one who freezes.

Alex tilts her head slightly, voice lower now. “You done yet?”

You swallow, blinking once before regaining your composure. “I mean, I could keep going, but I don’t wanna show off too much. You might start feeling insecure.”

Alex lets out a soft, amused scoff, shaking her head.

She still doesn’t move her hand.

And neither do you.

Instead, you just smirk, flipping the file closed with one hand while the other casually traces up Alex’s arm, your nails lightly skimming against her skin.

“Admit it, boss,” you murmur, tilting your head. “You’d be lost without me.”

Alex’s fingers are warm against your thigh, resting there like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like she didn’t just spend the last five minutes pretending she wasn’t one wrong move away from snapping.

And the worst part? She knows what she’s doing. She knows exactly how much space is between the two of you (barely any), she knows exactly how her palm feels against the sleek, latex material of your dress (smooth and dangerous), and she knows exactly what kind of effect she has on you.

But two can play this game.

Your smirk doesn’t waver, but it does shift—just slightly, turning into something more smug, more challenging, more I dare you to keep this up, boss.

You lean in, slow and deliberate, just enough to close that tiny bit of distance between you, your lips hovering close to her ear, close enough that if she just turned her head half an inch, you could...

But she doesn’t.

Of course she doesn’t.

Because Alex Cabot is nothing if not disciplined, and she would rather die than let you see her crack first.

So instead, she does what she always does. She exhales through her nose, slow and controlled, like she’s beyond exhausted by you, like she can’t believe she lets you do this to her every single damn day.

Her fingers twitch against your thigh for half a second before she finally moves her hand, dragging it away from you like she hadn’t just been resting it there like she belonged.

You watch as she leans back in her chair, rolling her shoulders before running a hand through her perfectly styled blonde hair, messing it up just enough that it makes her look a little less put together, a little more like someone who’s been dealing with your bullshit for way too long.

"You finished?" she asks, tilting her head slightly, voice dry as ever.

You let out a little hum, tilting your own head right back. "Depends. You admitting that I just did your job better than you, or are we still pretending like you didn't just get your ass saved by your favorite assistant?"

Alex scoffs. Full on, outright scoffs, like she cannot believe the words that just left your mouth, like she's so done with you, but she’s not, not really. Because if she was? She wouldn’t let you get away with it. She wouldn't let you stay like this, sprawled across her lap, your hands casually playing with the lapel of her blazer like you own her, like you can do whatever you want and she’ll just sit there and take it.

And the thing is? She does.

She always does.

"You are a menace," she mutters, shaking her head as she reaches for the file you so rudely snatched from her earlier, flipping through the pages like she’s actually going to go over the notes, like she’s not just double-checking them because she doesn’t want to admit that you were right.

You flash her a sickeningly sweet smile, one that’s all lip gloss and trouble, and tap your nails against her desk. "And yet, you haven't fired me. Wonder why that is."

Alex doesn’t look at you, doesn’t react, but you see the way her lips press together, the way her jaw tightens just a little, the way she turns one page too fast like she’s trying so hard to ignore you.

And god, it’s so cute.

"If you were any other employee," she finally says, tone calm, measured, the way it always is when she's trying not to let you get under her skin, "you would’ve been escorted out of this office a long time ago."

You just smile, propping your chin on your hand. "But I'm not any other employee, am I?"

Alex pauses.

It's only for half a second, barely long enough to register, but you notice it.

Because you always notice.

She lets out a slow, quiet breath, then finally glances at you. And there’s something in her expression, something heavy, something unspoken, something that makes your stomach flip way too fast for your own good.

But then, just as quickly as it came, it’s gone.

And she’s back to rolling her eyes, shaking her head like you’re nothing but a headache in six-inch heels.

"Go file those case notes," she says, waving a dismissive hand toward the stack of paperwork sitting at the corner of her desk. "And for god’s sake, get off of me before someone walks in."

You pout, dragging your nails lightly against her blazer as you finally—reluctantly—move off of her lap, making a show of stretching like you were so comfortable there, like it was so inconvenient for you to leave.

Alex doesn’t react.

Not really.

But you see the way she exhales, the way she rolls her shoulders again, the way she doesn’t immediately meet your gaze when you stand up.

Interesting.

You make your way over to the desk, your hips swaying just a little more than usual as you pick up the stack of case files, flipping through them lazily.

"You know," you say, tapping a manicured nail against one of the pages, "if you'd just let me handle these from the start, you wouldn't be so stressed all the time. Maybe then you wouldn't have to pretend you don't enjoy me sitting in your lap."

Alex doesn’t look at you, doesn’t even glance up from her work, but you see the way she stiffens, the way her hand briefly tightens around her pen.

And god, if that isn’t the best part of your day.

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milk459 · 2 months ago

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Some thoughts have been simmering in my mind and my Twitter is a bit much to be saying all of this so I thought I’d share it here :3

For a while I was a bit iffy on more bad things happening to Green just because they were not in a state at all to fight back or be silly and evil and it was just all memory loss and depression 😭. But now that we’re back on our feet I’m so down for the back and forth starting again. We need more silly stupid pranks, and cartoon villain shinanigans. And I’m not just talking about from Green Faction, I think Yellow and Blue and even Orange should get in on this as well :3c ! I Miss stuff like the honey incident and the bridge war, we need a lot more of that. I love the more serious conflict too, but I think the more light hearted side of things is good for the health of the vibes on the server and the fandom as a whole tbh. I saw some one posting about how they were frustrated irl about the Yellow Castle being greifed with sand and I was a little surprised ngl because I thought it was just all silly vibes but if you feel a bit frustrated that’s fine! My suggestion however, is why dosent yellow take this as an opportunity to grief Green Castle👀? Like come on it would be so funny and tons of them have Nirvana they could get it done real quick and it would be a fun faction bonding activity :) . Genuinely After the Blender explosion and this with yellow castle I’m so serious when I say I think it’s about time that Yellow gets to be silly back. PLEASEEEE, start scheming!! Place snow all over the Cathedral! Take a Green faction member to Court over Damages! Place signs all over the spirit Halloween! Get Revenge for the blender explosion >:)

I just want more silly conflict on the server, and I hate to see green / yellow faction beef amongst fans. I may be a strong green faction main but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love Ros, Pili and Zams POVs. I think the varying perspectives is what makes the server so fun to watch. I know the long length of vods makes watching multiple POVs near impossible at times but I do genuinely encourage ppl to watch an opposing sides pov when you get the chance, it adds more depth to the story and makes things a lot more fun to watch in my opinion.

( And also just as a general reminder don’t get to concerned about stuff outside of rp, if there’s a genuine issue on the server between CCs they can talk it out and handle it themselves👍🏾✨)

But yeah more silly shenanigans and pranks and dumb arcs now that everyone is alive and … somewhat well 😭🙏🏾, plz and thank you 🙂‍↕️. Also I heard somewhere that tr!Beky had make a court house 👀, I’m so serious when I say that I want a Court Case arc, plz it would be so funny, I need to see tr!Lukey become Green Factions Lawyer while tr!Pangi and tr!Bad make defending their cases absolutely impossible. And I know tr!Zam would give a FIRE and hilarious speech in Court, not to mention all the objections and Witness testimony’s. With tr!Beky as the unbiased judge, god it would be so perfect 🙏🏾✨😭. I need it BAD.

Ok that’s all! I just needed to get that off my chest, I hope some one understands what I’m talking about😭, but if you disagree that’s completely fine too, it’s all pixels at the end of the day :) 👍🏾✨

Time to work on assignments all night LOL.

Byeeeeee

#the realm smp #trsmp #green faction #kingdom of fools

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defire · 6 months ago

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As an abuse survivor, you are just fetishizing child abuse. Plain and simple. Call it a coping mechanism or a power take-back all you want, but it's just an excuse to write porn about child abuse. I pity people like you, truly, I do. I can only pray that you eventually see a therapist about your internalized pedo behavior.

Cw: RANCID ask ⬆️

I'm so glad you brought this up because I don't like to speak for people like you--I'd rather combat these opinions directly.

Since you're praying, I'll feel free to make biblical allusions. (Tw)

First, the word "fetish". My opinion: I don't find fetishes or porn too helpful for processing trauma--it's more like exposure therapy. At some point you do need to actually grieve and process what happened. I don't judge those who do that (you're not hurting anybody♥️), but that's not what Survivor Fiction is for.

When you're judging whether something is bad or good, you can use the "tree by its fruits" concept. Basically, if a tree produces good fruit, it's a good tree. If it produces bad fruit, it's a diseased/bad tree.

So let's look at what Survivor Fiction does for survivors specifically.

It brings healing. I (a new author!) have already received five testimonies that have said how much my writing helped them move through some of their trauma and see things in a different, calmer way.

Survivor Fiction brings peace. A surprising amount of the community--90.5% in a poll involving 1,543 voters--use whump stories to go to sleep at night. (Many trauma survivors have difficulty sleeping from flashbacks. Fiction along the same lines can offer an appropriate sense of distance from the fear.)

It helps disabled people. It appears that a strong majority of our community is autistic. Part of the diagnosis is emotional dysregulation. We need to be walked through how to do things in great detail. Survivor Fiction often walks the reader through the process of trauma, reaction, ptsd, and recovery.

It spreads awareness. Survivor fiction is often more accurate to real-life abusive situations instead of glossing it over--in other words, LYING--about what goes on. This can bring a 3rd party perspective to a current victim too, giving them the understanding that they are being abused and need to escape if possible.

For a more thorough explanation of why fiction about survivors is good and necessary, see this post.

Okay, so would "bad fruit" look like? Do you see any of the following from our community? ↙️

Doing these things in real life

Being generally hurtful of others

Hurting children in real life

Harming emotions by pushing unwanted content to people who would be triggered by it? (Quite the opposite, we tend to post exhaustive content warnings before the content.)

Something else that's actually wrong and not just a thought crime?

And here's the fruit of your words, which I'm sure we all heard the jist of many times before:

You encourage covering up evil. Trying to hide fiction that more accurately describes pain, abuse, and PTSD means hiding the truth. Stifling the exposure of just how evil it is to abuse someone like this. The righteous walk in the light, but the wicked hide their deeds in the darkness.

Your words are shaming. Shame causes pain to fester and act out in harmful ways, such as repeating abuse cycles, self-harm, and dangerous overreactions. Christian ideology here--shame is what caused Adam and Eve to hide from God.

You are lying. You implied that we harm people in real life without any reason to think so. And also implied that we want to be in the aggressor's position. Generally speaking we identify most with the victim.

Referencing Christianity here, if you're christian--Your words condemn the Bible. The bible is full of stories much darker than most of what is written here. You'll read about rape, and the cannibalism of one's own children in Lamentations, among other things.

You're hurting yourself. You will be judged with the measure you judge others with. This is because if you judge others harshly for their thoughts, you'll instinctively judge yourself just as harshly. You end up hurting yourself and others over something that wasn't even doing any harm in the first place.

Causing confusion. What you said was illogical. If it's fiction where the damage occurs, we should be blaming the fictional aggressor--not the writer reporting it. If it's reality where the damage occurs, we should be blaming real criminals--not the journalist. The truth is that writing about survivors isn't generally harmful.

In short, you're creating a lot of problems and not helping. Did this ask come from a loving place?

This answer I'm giving, does.

#bible #tw religious themes #rancid ask #religious ocd #bullying #harassment #survivor fiction #whump meta #abuse awareness #ptsd awareness #autism awareness #whump community #praying #disability awareness #complex ptsd #shaming

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echoes-of-a-dream · 4 months ago

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matthew "matt" murdock | daredevil

back to mcu masterlist

ONE-SHOTS

mini-me

a slice-of-life of mom!reader x dad!matt, in which matt has two new favorite superheros, even if they do attack him, figures out parenting, and can't quite keep his hands off you.

marriage of genuine fradulence

you and matt have been best friends since being raised at st. agnes together, since he beat up a bully for you. now, you work for him at nelson & murdock. but when matt is framed for a crime, and you're the only witness, and there's no way you can give your testimony in a way that both exonerates him and keeps his vigilantism safe... there's one solution anyone can come up with: marital privilege. the only way to keep you from having to testify and matt from prison? marriage.

tatted up, tied down | 18+

you really can't be blamed for what you're doing. if you were in a court of law, you'd plead insanity and win, because really, it's not your fault. it's your husband's, coming home with a new tattoo when he knows what it does to you. but judging by the smirk on his face, he doesn't mind the reaction at all, the smug bastard. which is when you decide to wipe that stupid expression off for good.

ONE-SHOT SERIES

like father, like lover (aka: daddy issues 101) | bruce wayne's daughter reader

if you're being incredibly honest, you have absolutely no idea how you ended up here, in a different world, where the heroes are different and vigilantism is... illegal? and entirely unstructured? the closest this world has to the jla is the avengers, some group that you have a gut feeling is about to go down the toilet, and you've never been so disappointed to be proven right. luckily, there's a brightside, a law firm you've started working with where one of the partners is really cute. and knowing your luck, also a vigilante or something. once again, you've never been so disappointed to be proven right.

BOOKS

for richer or for poorer | wilson fisk's daughter reader

(loosely based on the broadway musical "newsies") in the days of the gilded age, trusts, bosses, and political corruption rule new york city. wilson fisk resides at the top of the pile and doesn't appear that he will come crashing down any time soon. but matt murdock, aka daredevil has had enough of his city being destroyed and the people in it trampled on. so he decides to do something about it. lucky for him, he has an in--someone who is equally as passionate about changing the status quo: wilson fisk's daughter, you.

blind instinct

when you find matt unconscious and bleeding out, your instinct is to take him to the e.r.: good instinct. when they won’t release information on his condition to anyone outside of kin, you lie and say you’re his wife: bad instinct. when matt wakes up from surgery with amnesia, believing when the doctors say you’re married, you play along to keep him safe: you don’t even know how to categorize that one.

the skeletons in my closet, they're resurrecting | wilson fisk's daughter reader

you have been running from your past from as far back as you remember; you want to be something good, something better than how you were raised, want to block out the part of you that's bloodthirsty and ruthless and choke it out of you. but when your father comes knocking, you are unaware of just how much you'll be pulled to the middle of a battle between your closest friends and your closet skeletons.

BOOK SERIES

legally blind ‘verse | mcu!peter parker’s sister reader

(legally blond au, with a sequel and a prequel) reader, the daughter of richard parker and half-sister of peter parker, has always been a little too stubborn for her own good, held on to things a little too tightly. so when her boyfriend tells her he’s done with her, because she isn’t ‘serious’ enough, well… parkers don’t give up. so clearly, the only logical option is to completely deviate from her career plan leading up to this point and go to law school to get him back. and probably fall in love with the cute defense lawyer interning for her professor landman. wait, what?

#masterlist #navigation #matt murdock x reader

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opencommunion · 8 months ago

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a voteblue told me the other day that if I don't vote, my government "won't know I exist" and therefore won't know my grievances. I had to laugh because my governments at the state, federal, and local level have longstanding documented policies of surveilling my ethnic group! the government knows very well that I exist — from the moment I was born they identified me as their enemy, an "anchor baby" and "sleeper cell," a demographic threat and a national security threat. before I was old enough to form any opinion about my government they had already labeled me an enemy of the state. they know all about Arab grievances and have 0 interest in listening to us because they do not see us civilian constituents who they serve, they see us as hostile foreign others.

you have to get this through your head if you want to understand how Arabs in the so-called US move politically. we move with the understanding that this country is by default antagonistic and hostile towards us on the basis of our race, and to whatever extent we engage in electoral politics, we do so knowing that our government is fundamentally not on our side and getting our perspectives heard (much less empathized with) requires a lot of extra work beyond casting a vote. policies of surveilling Arabs are consistent across red and blue states and admins, and at every level of government (which is why I roll my eyes when I'm told to vote down-ballot — all the candidates at the local level hate me too!)

to give you a glimpse of how our relationship with our government actually works, here are some excerpts from a 2022 congressional testimony by Maya Berry (executive director of the Arab American Institute):

"The federal government has justified counterterrorism and other law enforcement practices in the name of national security for what is a seemingly endless 'war on terror.' In the process, the government has viewed specific communities, including Arab Americans and American Muslims, as a threat to national security and in so doing, has securitized their relationship. ... While not an attempt at a comprehensive list, the following are select examples of government and law-enforcement policies that have targeted Arab Americans (and in some cases, American Muslims and South Asian Americans) or viewed them through a securitized lens. .... In each of these cases, government or law-enforcement policies can be seen as facilitating discrimination rather than functioning as policies of a state actor obligated to safeguard and defend the rights of its citizens. In the wake of the killing of Israeli athletes in a terrorist attack at the 1972 Munich Olympics, the Nixon Administration created the surveillance program known as Operation Boulder. The program sought to silence Arab and Arab American voices within the United States through investigation, surveillance, and harassment. It 'specifically targeted Arabs with U.S. citizenship, resident aliens of Arab descent, non-Arab Americans sympathetic to Arab causes, as well as the relatives, neighbors, friends, and employers of Arab individuals.' Operation Boulder officially ended in 1975 after it was deemed 'not worth it' by law enforcement, though its demise would be announced in a major media outlet as 'A Plan to Screen Terrorists Ends.' In 1987, seven Palestinian men and a Kenyan woman were arrested in Los Angeles for distributing a magazine of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, an organization then considered an advocate for world communism. For the students, known as the 'L.A. 8,' this was a deportable offense under the McCarthy-era McCarran-Walter Act. In 1989, a federal judge declared the charges unconstitutional and, in 1990, Congress repealed the Act. However, two members of the L.A. 8 faced the continued threat of deportation for decades until the government finally ended their effort to deport them in 2007. ... The case of the L.A. 8 is well known among Arab Americans. First, it targeted pro-Palestinian activists and raised the question of whether Arab immigrants or Arab Americans who advocated for Palestinian human rights were indeed protected by the same constitutional rights to free speech and association. Further, in proceedings of the case, it was discovered that the DOJ had a plan for a detention camp called, 'Alien Terrorists and Undesirables: A Contingency Plan.' ... In 2004, it was learned through a Freedom of Information Act request that the Census Bureau had shared demographic data about Arab Americans with the Department of Homeland Security on at least two occasions, in 2002 and 2003. Without a Middle East and North Africa (MENA) category on the Census, it is well documented that Arab Americans are an undercounted community. Yet, DHS was provided with data showing cities with more than 1,000 Arab Americans and zip code-level data broken down by country of origin.

In 2011, the Associated Press published an investigative report on New York Police Department (NYPD) counterterrorism and surveillance programs that directly targeted Arab American Muslim businesses, mosques, and communities in New York and New Jersey in the immediate aftermath of 9/11. The revelations of the breadth and depth of the NYPD’s surveillance program were shocking, with use of widespread 'ethnic mapping,' and reporting on innocent people going about their daily routines. The NYPD’s spying program and others like it are not only unconstitutional, but are also ineffective and significantly harmful to the communities they infiltrate. Not a single lead on terrorist operations resulted from NYPD’s spying activities. In 2011, the Obama Administration released the 'Strategic Implementation Plan for Empowering Local Partners to Prevent Violent Extremism in the United States.' The plan was introduced as a domestic counterterrorism strategy and became the foundation for the federal government’s Countering Violent Extremism (CVE) programs. In 2016, DHS began the Interagency CVE Task Force, which essentially approached community outreach to American Muslim communities as part of counterterrorism programming. Beyond the serious issue of the lack of an evidence-based foundation for CVE, these programs sought to deputize local community members and organizations to surveil their own communities on behalf of the U.S. government.

In 2011, a series of reports by an investigative journalist exposed biased FBI counterterrorism training material. Characterizing American Muslims and Arab Americans as prone to violence, some of the material’s 'highlights' include statements that 'mainstream American Muslims are likely to be terrorist sympathizers,' comparisons between Islam and the Death Star from Star Wars, and assertions that the 'Arab mind' is 'swayed more by ideas than facts,' and that unlike the 'Western Mind' being 'even keel,' in the Arab world, ‘Outbursts and Loss of Control [is] Expected.'

... In 2021, the Biden Administration established the Center for Prevention Programs and Partnerships (CP3). While appearing to be an extension of the Obama Administration’s Countering Violent Extremism (CVE) programs, Biden Administration officials have distanced themselves from previous CVE efforts saying they have taken a new approach. However, like its predecessors, CP3 seems to rest on flawed concepts about 'radicalization' that perpetuate stereotypes of communities and undermine public trust in government."

the US government pays very close attention to us, and it's only to our detriment. invisibility is not the issue here, white supremacy is, and you can't vote white supremacy out of a nation built on it

#library

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smilingformoney · 5 months ago

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Die With a Smile

Chapter IV. Turpin Victorious

Elliott/Mary (OC) | Turpin/Mary (OC)

Summary: Judge Turpin has a very, very good day - and Elliott's going to have to act fast if he wants to keep Mary around.

Read on Ao3 or below the cut:

As eager as Mary was to tell Lord Turpin what she’d found, she knew he wouldn’t appreciate her drenching his carpets with sewer water, so she went with Tommy into the staff entrance of the house, and stripped bare to use the wash basin there to clean herself up while the maid fetched her some clean clothes from Johanna’s room.

When the door to the staff washroom opened behind her, Mary thought it was the maid returning with her clothes, so she was surprised when she heard Elliott’s voice.

“Thank God you’re both alright. We’ve been worried sick.”

“Elliott!” Mary cried. She dropped the sponge in her hand, and promptly fell into his arms. “Oh, Elliott, I’m so glad you’re here. It was so frightening.”

Elliott held her in his arms, apparently unfazed by the fact that she was soaking wet. When she stepped back, she noticed first that she’d left a large wet patch on his shirt, and second that she was still stark naked.

“Oh!” she cried, her hands flying to cover her intimate parts, as if Elliott hadn’t already seen them up close. “I’m so sorry.”

“Nothing I haven’t seen,” Elliott smirked in a low voice. “But now’s not the time for that. I just wanted to make sure you were alright. Get yourself dry and dressed, then come and meet us in the parlour room, okay? His Lordship’s eager to know if you learned anything.”

Mary’s stomach twisted slightly as she remembered what she’d learned.

“Yes, of course. Thank you, Elliott.”

A few minutes later, Tommy showed Mary the passage that led from the staff rooms up into the house, emerging in the hallway. She knocked on the door to the parlour room and led Tommy inside when she heard Turpin’s voice call them in.

“Miss Taylor, at last,” Turpin said with relief. He’d been standing by the fire, but crossed the room now with a purposeful stride to approach her. He took her chin in his hand and raised her head to examine her, as if checking for any damage. “When Todd and Lovett left early, I feared they’d find you mid-search. Did you manage to evade them?”

“Yes, my Lord, we were in the cellar when they returned. We managed to escape through the sewer. I don’t think they saw or followed us.”

“Through the sewer?” Turpin repeated, wrinkling his nose with disgust at the thought. “Elliott told me you’d washed before coming to me. No wonder. Come, sit, tell me everything you learned.”

Mary let him lead her to the fireside and sat in one of the armchairs. Tommy stood at her side, ready to speak only when spoken to, and Turpin sat in the other chair. Elliott, who’d been watching out the window when Mary arrived, moved over to stand by the mantle.

Both men listened carefully as Mary explained what she’d discovered, and both men baulked visibly when she described her discovery in the meat bin.

“Did you see this too, boy?” Turpin asked Tommy.

“Yes, sir. They was definitely human bodies, sir.”

“As foul as such a thing is, the good news is we have plenty to arrest Todd on,” Turpin said with certainty. “Lovett too. Possibly the boy as well.”

“But, sir, won’t they hide the evidence now if they think someone’s been snooping around? We left the door to the cellar open, and the trap door in the barber shop.”

“They can dispose of the bodies and the clothing, yes. Cleaning up the blood stains you mentioned might be more difficult. But they can’t dispose of the most key evidence, Miss Taylor - your witness testimony. You will speak in court if necessary, yes?”

“You can’t ask that of her!” Elliott interjected. “To put herself at risk of Barker’s vengeance —”

Turpin waved a hand dismissively. “He won’t be able to exact much vengeance when he’s dead. And I intend on sending him to the gallows immediately. I’ll send the Beadle to arrest him now, in fact; then he’ll be safely behind bars.”

Turpin stood, took a step in the direction of the door, then paused. He put a hand on Mary’s shoulder, then said, “You’ve done very well tonight, Miss Taylor. Very well indeed.”

He granted her a small smile, then strode out of the room. Elliott stared after him with narrowed eyes; when he saw Mary looking up at him, his expression softened and he took the now-empty armchair.

“You’re sure you’re alright, Mary?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m fine. Shaken up, but… I’m okay, really. I’m more worried about Tommy.”

She turned to her brother and took his hand, but he just shrugged and smiled.

“I’m okay too. Just glad you’re safe.”

“Well, we’re all okay, and we’re all glad for it,” Elliott said with a nod. “Now, there’s food leftover from dinner and quite a bit of it, so let’s get you both into the dining room, you must be starving. You’ll eat at the table tonight, Tommy, and I’ll hear nothing less of it. If Lord Turpin disagrees, I’ll remind him that it was both of you that brought him the information he needed. The least he can do is afford to feed Tommy some leftovers.”

“Oh, thank you, sir!” Tommy said with wide eyes. “That’s most kind!”

If Turpin did have any issue with Tommy eating at the table, he didn’t voice them when he joined them sitting at the table as Mary and Tommy finished off some of the leftovers.

“You’ll be glad to know Barker has just been arrested,” Turpin said smugly. “As have Lovett and the boy. I watched from across the street as the Beadle arrested them, it was too sweet not to witness it myself. He’ll be brought before me first thing on Monday, and he’ll hang shortly after.”

“Happy news indeed,” Elliott said. He took a sip from the glass of whisky he’d been nursing while Mary and Tommy ate. “Looks like we’ll all be sleeping soundly come Monday night.”

Thinking of his plan to wed Mary, Turpin smiled as he looked at her. Yes, he’d be sleeping very soundly on Monday night. He’d sentence and hang Barker, then propose to Mary, all in the space of a day. Monday was shaping up to be a very fine day indeed - but first, tomorrow was Sunday, and he had church to attend.

- - -

Mary woke up on Monday in Elliott’s arms. It was fast becoming her favourite part of the day. As much as she enjoyed the ways they’d kiss and explore each other’s bodies at night, her favourite moment was still when she’d wake up in the morning, soft and comfortable in the bed with Elliott’s arms around her protectively. When he woke, he would kiss her sleepily, and the way he smiled when he’d see her in his arms was enough to make her heart burst.

“I love waking up like this,” Mary said, her voice still heavy with sleep.

Elliott hummed in agreement. “Yes… it makes me never want to leave.”

Mary’s heart dropped at the word leave. She’d forgotten Elliott was only visiting London.

“Are… are you leaving very soon?” she asked in a quiet voice.

“Wednesday.”

“Oh, that is very soon!” Mary sighed and held him a little tighter. “I hoped you’d stay longer. I don’t want this to end.”

“Perhaps it doesn’t have to… you could come with me.”

Mary gasped and looked up at him, eyes wide. “Really? Do you mean that?”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean. Come to Sussex with me, Mary. My uncle’ll be glad to have you, I’m sure. He has daughters and granddaughters you can make friends with. And his manor is out in the countryside — you can finally see the world outside of London.”

“The countryside! Oh, I’d love that! Will there be animals, do you think? I’d so love to see some animals.”

Elliott smiled at her endearing enthusiasm. “Yes, I’m sure you’ll be able to see some animals. They’ll have horses, for certain. I could teach you to ride, if you like. Is that a yes?”

“Oh, yes, Elliott, please!” Mary squealed, peppering his face with grateful kisses. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Elliott chuckled and countered her kisses with kisses of his own. They ended up in fits of giggles, trying to shush each other lest their laughter carry down the hallway.

They managed to make themselves presentable just in time for breakfast, which was a more jovial affair than usual. Mary was happy because she was going on an exciting trip with Elliott, who was happy in turn because he was going to get out of London and bring Mary with him. Turpin, meanwhile, was in a good mood because that morning he’d be sentencing Sweeney Todd, who’d been in gaol since Saturday.

The sentencing itself went smoothly. Mary and Elliott sat in the gallery, Mary ready to speak and give evidence if necessary, and Elliott ready to support her. The news of the accusations against Todd and Lovett had spread quickly, so the gallery was packed full of Londoners hoping to see justice done against the man who’d murdered so many of their own and the woman who’d fed them back to them through the pie shop. The busy gallery meant that Mary and Elliott could sit close without raising any eyebrows, though just to be safe she placed her shawl between them to hide the fact they were holding hands.

When both Todd and Lovett pled not guilty, an angry roar came up from the gallery, and Turpin had to call for order. Elliott squeezed Mary’s hand comfortingly, and when she was called up to give evidence, he wished her good luck as she stood and an usher led her to the witness box.

She swore her oath on the Bible, then turned her attention to Turpin, who looked at her with the stern expression he’d been wearing all morning, giving no indication that they were familiar.

“State your name for the court, please.”

“Mary Taylor.”

“Miss Taylor, please describe the events that took place at number 62, Fleet Street on Saturday last, and spare no detail.”

The entire court sat in rapt attention as Mary described what had happened, and when she came to describe the human body parts she’d found in the bin of the meat grinder, audible gasps came from the gallery.

“…and so we escaped through the sewer, my Lord.”

Turpin nodded and made a note. “Thank you, Miss Taylor, that will be all. You may withdraw.”

Mary went back to the gallery, trying to avoid Todd’s glare as she passed, and was grateful to be by Elliott’s side again as she sat down.

“Well done, Mary,” Elliott whispered. He placed the shawl over their laps again and took her hand. “You were marvellous. Very brave.”

Mary smiled shyly, and she squeezed his hand in thanks.

“Benjamin Barker, Nellie Lovett, please stand up,” Turpin’s authoritative voice boomed across the courtroom. “You have both pled not guilty to the crimes accused, however, on the overwhelming evidence and the persuasive witness testimony, I am bound to find you both guilty. Due to the egregious nature of your crimes, I sentence you both to hang by the neck until you are dead. You may go down.”

The public in the gallery cheered, but Mary just felt relieved. Soon, Todd would be executed and she’d no longer be in any danger from him.

Todd and Lovett were escorted away, and Turpin called for the luncheon adjournment. The public began to file out of the courtroom, and Mary prepared to follow once their row emptied, but instead she was approached by the Beadle, who informed her Judge Turpin wanted to see her.

“I’ll wait for you outside,” Elliott said, squeezing her hand one last time before letting go and handing her back her shawl.

Mary followed the Beadle to Turpin’s chambers at the back of the court, wondering what he could want from her at a time such as this.

The Beadle closed the door behind her when she entered the room, leaving Mary alone with Turpin, who had taken off his wig and was now taking off his robe.

“Ah, Miss Taylor,” he smiled. “Just the lady I wanted to see. Come here.”

He beckoned her over as he sat at his desk, his chair pushed out slightly so he could face her as she obeyed his order and stood before him.

“You did marvellous today, dear,” Turpin said, his eyes raking her up and down as he spoke. “Just as you did on Saturday. Without you, Todd would still be out there, murdering people and poisoning others. You should be very proud.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m glad to have made a difference to London, sir. And… and I’m glad to have been of assistance to you. I understand you and Todd had a history.”

“History is one way of putting it,” Turpin snorted. “He was Johanna’s father. It was because of his crimes fifteen years ago that she ended up alone. Fortunately I had the fortitude to take her in. Committing any sort of crime is one thing, but what sort of man commits a crime knowing when he’s sentenced he’ll be leaving his child without her father?” He shook his head sadly.

“My Lord, might - might I ask a question?”

Turpin reached out to take her hand in his and smiled. “You may ask me anything, my dear.”

“What happened to Johanna?”

Turpin sighed. “It’s a very sad story, Miss Taylor. She betrayed my trust by trying to leave without my consent. I had no choice but to send her away to… think on her sins.”

Mary frowned, confused. “She tried to leave? Why would she do that, sir?”

Turpin looked at her curiously, as if her response had been entirely unexpected.

“She was led astray by a rogue sailor. I tried to protect her, but…” He sighed. “Some people, it seems, don’t appreciate the kindness they’re shown.”

“Well, I hope you know how grateful I am for your kindness, sir,” Mary said earnestly, taking a step towards him. “I may have spent the last few days in hiding from a madman, but I never once felt unsafe so long as I was under your roof.”

Turpin smiled and sat up slightly, leaning towards her in his seat. “Yes, I’m sure you’re very grateful, Miss Taylor. You appreciate what I do for you, don’t you? We’ll have to think of a way you can show your gratitude… Tell me, have you ever kissed a man?”

Mary’s cheeks blushed. “Y - yes…” she said trepidatiously, worried Turpin knew about her nights with Elliott.

“How many?”

“Just - just one, sir…”

“Just one. Hmm.” His eyes flashed dangerously, and he pulled her closer with hunger in his eyes, until she was standing between his thighs. “Why don’t you show me what he taught you?”

“…Sir?”

Turpin let go of her hand and cupped her cheeks with both hands, holding her face firmly in place.

“Kiss me, Miss Taylor. Show me your gratitude and kiss me.”

Tentatively, Mary leant forward to give him a peck on the lips - and he tightened his hold on her, keeping her from moving her lips away from his.

He kissed her fiercely, tongue demanding entrance at her lips, and she had no choice but to acquiesce. His tongue explored her mouth as if he simply had to cover every inch of her mouth with his spit.

Mary had no idea what to do with her hands, so she placed them on his shoulders. Turpin grabbed her right hand and brought it down between his legs, forcing her palm to sit over the very hard bulge that was threatening to escape from his trousers.

He unstuck his face from hers to say, “You know what this is?”

Mary nodded.

“Feel how hard it is? That’s all your doing. Ever since my cousin brought you to me last week, I’ve been plagued by this. Now, what do you propose we do about it, hm?”

He didn’t need to elaborate; Mary knew exactly what he meant.

She obeyed automatically, sinking to her knees between his legs to begin unbuckling his belt. Turpin groaned as the tension eased, and when she unbuttoned his trousers and pulled his cock out, her eyes widened instinctively. Elliott’s was large enough, but Turpin’s cock was definitely bigger.

Turpin chuckled when he saw her reaction.

“Don’t worry, darling. I know it might seem too big, but — ohhh.”

He cut himself off with a groan when Mary licked a line from the base of his shaft, then wrapped her lips around the tip. He gripped the arms of his chair tightly, trying to resist grabbing her head and guiding her. She seemed to be a natural born cocksucker, and he wanted to see just how skilled she was.

“Oh, yes… yes, that’s it, Miss Taylor… you’re a fucking natural.”

She wrapped her hand around the base of his cock, holding it at a comfortable angle as she slipped a little further down, her tongue lapping at his tip to taste the liquid that was beginning to drip from it. She began to panic about breathing, then remembered Elliott’s tip about breathing through her nose, and carefully took steady breaths through her nostrils as she eased Turpin’s cock further into her mouth.

When she’d taken him as far as she could go, she was hardly even halfway down his shaft. She’d have to use her hand for the rest of it.

“Oh, good girl,” Turpin growled when Mary’s hand began stroking his shaft. She kept moving her hand steadily while her breathing evened out and her jaw adjusted to his size. When she felt comfortable with her breathing, she began slowly bobbing her head, running her tongue up and down his shaft as her lips tugged on the skin of his cock.

“Fuck, Miss Taylor… who taught you to do this, hm? Or are you just a natural? I bet you are. Just made to suck cock. Mmm, that’s it, suck harder - faster —”

He couldn’t resist any longer. Turpin grabbed Mary’s head by the hair, holding her in place as he thrust his hips upwards, fucking up into her mouth. His tip teased at the entrance to her throat, and Mary began to panic. Elliott had promised to teach her slowly how to open her mouth, and she was nowhere near ready yet. So with Turpin’s cock getting dangerously close to her throat, Mary began to choke, her eyes watering as she struggled to breathe through her nose.

“That’s it, Miss Taylor, good girl… yes, take your Lord’s cock… take my cum too, take all of it… ugh… fu-uck!”

Turpin cried out incoherently as he came, his warm seed filling Mary’s mouth, and she had no choice but to swallow around his cock; she didn’t think he would appreciate it if she let it leak back onto him.

He stayed still for a few moments as he came down from his high, his hands still holding Mary’s head in place as his cock softened in her mouth, and she realised he was savouring the feeling of her swallowing the last of his seed.

Finally, he tugged on her hair and pulled her head back, letting his softened cock fall limp as Mary gasped for air. Turpin wiped her chin with his thumb to clean up his cum, then slipped his thumb between her lips to have her lick it clean.

“Fucking incredible,” he groaned with satisfaction. He closed his eyes for a moment, then sighed. “Unfortunately I can’t keep you here all day. I must get back to work. Get yourself home, darling. We’ll discuss your future tonight.”

“Y - yes, sir,” Mary mumbled, standing obediently. She wiped her lips, then smoothed down her hair, hoping she didn’t look a mess.

Turpin gestured for her to leave, but when she was halfway to the door, Turpin said, “Are you a virgin, Miss Taylor?”

Mary froze, but she turned back to Turpin to look at him with a blush. He was standing now, pulling his judge’s robe back over his shoulders.

“Yes, my Lord. You know I’ve never been married, sir.”

Turpin hummed with amusement. “Yes, of course I do. Saving yourself for marriage, yes? Well, I dare say you’ll make an excellent wife.”

“Th - thank you, sir,” Mary said shyly. She gave him a small curtsey, then left the room, her mind reeling at what had just happened, confused and bewildered at the feelings that were running amok inside her.

Turpin, however, had no such uncertainty. He knew how he felt, he knew what he wanted, and he knew what he was going to do to get it.

He knew what he was going to do to get her.

- - -

Judge Turpin was, for the first time, distracted in court. He was usually so focused, listening carefully to counsel in order to make the right decision. Yet, today, his mind was elsewhere.

How, though, could he be expected to concentrate on such dull matters as the afternoon presented, when he had more important things in mind?

More important things such as the image now seared into his mind of Mary with her lips around his cock, yet still she blushed afterwards when he asked about her innocence. What a natural she was. And what a natural she would be.

The afternoon stretched out for what felt like an eternity, but finally 4 o’clock came around, and he was able to adjourn court for the day.

He hummed to himself as he made his way down the steps of the Old Bailey, his purposeful strides telling any passing lawyer that might have had a question for him that he had business to attend to, and they’d be smart to stay out of his way.

The only person who dared to speak to him was Beadle Bamford, but as they could walk and talk, Turpin allowed his old friend to converse with him.

“You’re in a merry mood today, my Lord,” said the Beadle. “I suppose you’re glad to be rid of Todd, sir?”

“Yes, very much so. Make sure his execution is prompt, will you? Not least because the public will be eager to see my justice be done.”

“Very good, sir. If I might inquire, sir - what business did you have with the girl at lunch?”

Turpin smirked. “Gorgeous little thing, isn’t she? And so eager to please. I’ll be proposing to her tonight.”

“Ah, sir! Happy news indeed. I’m sure she’ll be more loyal than Johanna ever was, sir. Might I suggest —”

“No, you might not. Last time I asked your advice on proposing, you sent me to a barber who was hellbent on murdering me. Mary will give me her hand, of course. She made it quite clear to me today that she would be a willing wife. And why not? She’s nobody. She knows that only by marrying me does she have a chance of becoming somebody.”

The house was quiet when Turpin arrived; while taking his coat, the butler informed him that Elliott was at the Post Office, and Mary was in the parlour room.

Turpin had no reason to wait. He headed straight for the parlour room and entered to find Mary sitting by the fire, a cross-stitch in her hands. She looked the very image of perfection, like a dutiful wife waiting for her husband to come home.

“Oh, Lord Turpin! I hadn’t heard you return.” Mary put the cross-stitch aside and stood to greet him. “I found a half-finished cross-stitch of Johanna’s, I hope it’s okay I was working on it. Is there something I can do for you?”

“Why, yes, there is, Miss Taylor,” Turpin said as he stepped into the room, his hands behind his back as joined her at the fireside. “Did you enjoy our walk last Saturday?”

“Oh, yes, I did, sir. It was ever so lovely.”

Turpin smiled. “Good, good. I enjoyed your company greatly.”

“Why, thank you, sir. That’s very kind of you to say. I also found your company enriching. If I may say, sir, I find you ever so interesting to talk to. You always have a fascinating tale to tell.”

Turpin took a step closer to her and brushed her cheek with his knuckles, stroking her face gently. “I also enjoyed our little visit today.”

Mary blushed, her face immediately flushing red.

“I, erm… I also enjoyed it, sir,” she said quietly, glancing away.

“I’m sure you did. You’ll recall what I said to you on Saturday, that I might allow you to stay with me?”

“Yes, sir…”

“Well… it seems you’ve definitely proven you can give me something in return for my generosity.”

“Sir…”

Turpin’s gentle touch on her cheek turned suddenly fierce as he pulled her close to him and took her head in his hands. He leaned down, his lips close to hers, almost touching. Mary found herself wishing he’d close the gap, but she daren’t do it herself…

“Marry me.”

“…Sir?”

“You heard me. Marry me, Miss Taylor. What better show of gratitude than your very self, hm? Your heart, your soul… and in time, children. I’d certainly be agreeable to the four you desire.”

Mary stammered, flabbergasted. She hadn’t expected this at all. Lord Turpin, proposing to her? But why? She was nobody, she could offer him nothing that another woman couldn’t.

And - it was crazy, she knew, but part of her had harboured hope that Elliott might propose in time. She liked Lord Turpin well enough, although she was terrified of him, and she had to admit she found him attractive. But she had something with Elliott she had never had with anyone else.

Then again… Elliott would be leaving. He had a home and a business in Australia. Whatever they had between them would be nothing more than a passing fancy.

“Sir, what - what about my brother?” Mary managed to stammer once the shock had worn off, although the way Turpin was now kissing her neck suggested he’d already taken her stunned silence as a yes.

“Your brother is not your father. He has no say in these matters,” Turpin said between kisses.

“No, but I’m his only carer. What would happen to him if we marry?”

“I suppose his care falls to me. I’ll send him off to school.”

“Really?” Mary gasped. “Sir, do you mean it?”

“Yes, yes, why not? Don’t make me wait any longer, I implore you. Give me your answer.”

“Yes,” Mary breathed. “Yes, my Lord, I’ll marry you.”

Turpin grinned, then grabbed her by the waist and spun her in the air. She squealed in surprise, never having expected the stoic Lord Turpin to make such an expression of joy.

“Oh, darling, you’ve made me so happy. Now, you know by now I’m not a patient man. Arrangements have been made already; we’ll be wed next Monday at St Dunstan’s.”

“Next Monday!” Mary repeated in surprise. “But that’s so soon!”

“Yes, but I don’t wish to wait any longer. Now, there’s a wedding dress in the wardrobe you might have seen - it was meant for Johanna, but I wish for you to have it. You can take it in to fit you, yes?”

“Oh, um - yes, I think so.”

“Excellent,” Turpin grinned. “Oh, my darling, you’ll make such a wonderful wife…”

He kissed her, his lips consuming hers possessively, and though Mary was taken aback, she quickly melted into his touch, allowing his strong arms to wrap around her waist and hold her tightly against himself.

Mary wrapped her arms around his shoulders, clinging onto him desperately, and from the desperation and passion of the kiss, she wondered if he’d have the patience to wait for the wedding night to have her.

“Interrupting, am I?”

Mary gasped for breath as Turpin’s lips suddenly detached from hers. He put a little distance between them, but still kept one arm firmly around her waist as he turned to greet his cousin.

“Not at all, cousin. You’ll be the first to hear the happy news: Mary has agreed to be my wife. We’ll be wed next Monday.”

“Really?”

Mary could hear the annoyance in Elliott’s voice. She looked over at him, but had to look away quickly when she saw the way he was seething at the sight he’d walked into.

“I believe the word you’re looking for is congratulations,” Turpin said firmly, drawing Mary closer to him.

Elliott gave his cousin a smile that didn’t quite seem genuine. “Of course. Congratulations to you both. Monday, you say? Well, a shame I’ll miss it. I’m leaving for Sussex on Wednesday; I’ve just now written to my uncle telling him to expect me. I suppose you won’t want to come along now, Mary?”

“Oh, um… I would still like to come for a few days, if that’s alright.”

Turpin looked at her sternly. “Leaving me so soon, my darling?”

“Well, if it’s alright with you, sir… Elliott did invite me to visit Sussex with him, and I would so love to see the countryside.”

Turpin pondered for a moment. As much as he wanted her close by… perhaps spending the week apart would do them good. It would give him cause to resist taking her before their wedding day, at least.

“Very well, you may go.”

“Oh, thank you, sir! You’re most kind.”

“Yes, yes, I know I am. I want you back no later than Saturday evening, you understand me? I’ll be expected to bring you to church on Sunday morning.”

“Yes, of course, sir.”

“Good. Now, if you’re to be away most of the week, you should get a start on your dress now, shouldn’t you? Go on, I’ll see you at dinner.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mary gave him a small curtsey, then left the room, but not without passing Elliott first - who refused to look at her as she went.

She worked all evening on the dress, pausing only when dinner was called, and once she’d eaten she begged Turpin’s leave to return to working on the dress. Glad to see her eager to perfect the dress she’d marry him in, Turpin allowed it, and Mary spent the rest of her evening concentrating on taking the dress in, though her thoughts kept wandering back to the whirlwind of a day. Not only had Lord Turpin proposed to marry her, but he seemed positively enthused about it, eager even. What qualities could she possibly possess that would make him so giddy to marry her?

Whatever it was, Mary had only one priority in mind, the same she’d had since she was very small: Tommy. And if Lord Turpin would put Tommy into school, then her hand in marriage was the least Mary could offer him in return.

- - -

She was so tired by the time she finished the dress, she was acting on instinct more than anything when she got ready for bed and crossed the hallway to sleep in Elliott’s bed. It was only when she was woken by his opening the door that it crossed her mind that perhaps he wouldn’t want her there now she was engaged to his cousin.

“Now, this is bold of you,” Elliott murmured as he climbed into the bed beside her. He wrapped an arm around her torso and pulled her close against him. “Do you expect to marry my cousin and have me on the side?”

“I’m sorry, I - I didn’t even think,” Mary confessed. She tried to turn over to look at him, but he was holding her too tightly for her to move. “I’m so used to coming to this bed… I’ll leave if you want…”

“Absolutely fucking not,” Elliott growled against her ear. “If I only have five more nights with you, Mary, I’m going to make them count.”

He hitched her nightgown up around her waist, and she felt his erection pressing up against her thighs. It was then that she realised she couldn’t feel a nightshirt against her back - only his bare flesh. His arms were bare too.

“Elliott, are you… naked?”

He chuckled. “Oh, yes. Not much point putting any sleeping clothes on since I do very little sleeping when you’re in this bed.”

Mary could feel the tip of his cock prodding between her thighs. Elliott rocked his hips against her, and she felt it slip between the flesh of her thighs.

“Elliott —”

“Shh, don’t worry. I’m not going to put it in. I’m just going to show you a clever little trick… hold still for me, Mary.”

He pushed against her again, and she felt his cock slide past her thighs… she looked down and, sure enough, it was poking out the other side, his tip pressed against her sweet spot.

“Mhm… this won’t take long, sweetheart. I’ve been thinking about doing this all day.”

He began thrusting his hips against her, as if he were taking her from behind… but his cock simply slid over her entrance, close enough to pick up the slickness she made so easily for him, but instead of slipping inside, his tip rubbed up against her clit, causing her to let out a small moan.

“Shh, now… we don’t want your dear fiance hearing us, do we? God forbid he think - ugh - you’re not the sweet little virgin he’s been lusting after. Don’t want him calling it off, now, do we?”

“He - he wouldn’t call it off for that —”

“Oh, come now, sweetheart. Why do you think he proposed? He wants this. He wants you to give him your virginity, and he knows you won’t give it freely unless you’re married. Ohh, this feels so good, and I’m not even inside you…”

He began moving his hips faster, apparently unperturbed by the sounds of their flesh connecting. He was too lost in the feeling of Mary’s warmth pressed against him, the sound of the moans she muffled into the pillow. He squeezed her nipple, causing her to squeak, and it only spurred him on.

He found he suddenly didn’t care if Turpin heard them, or even caught them. Let him find them - let him see that Mary belonged in Elliott’s arms, that she was already so easily wet for him… maybe he should take her virginity anyway, claim her for his own as she should be. Turpin would never want her then, and she’d be Elliott’s for the taking… his to fuck, his to marry, his to love…

“You’re mine, Mary,” Elliott growled into her ear as he felt his cock ready to burst at any second. “He may marry you, but you’ll - always - be - mine.”

He bit down on her shoulder as he came, his seed spilling onto her stomach and onto the sheets, and if he hadn’t muffled himself against her skin he might have cried out her name loud enough that their host most certainly would have heard him.

Elliott relaxed as he came down from his high, and he withdrew his cock from between her legs, leaving a trail of sticky cum across her thighs as he did so. He sighed with relief, glad the tension had left his body, and was just about ready to fall asleep right there, Mary in his arms and his seed left across her skin.

He could feel her fidgeting in his arms though, and Elliott opened his eyes to see that she was squeezing her thighs together, her arse inadvertently rubbing back against him.

“Oh, darling, did I leave you wanting?” he cooed.

Mary whined, and Elliott knew exactly what she needed.

“Well, you’re going to have to learn to look after yourself soon enough. Lord knows my cousin won’t give you any relief. I doubt he even knows where the clitoris is.”

“Elliott, please…”

“No, no. You know where it is now. Use your fingers. Make yourself cum. I want to see you pleasure yourself.”

“I - I don’t —”

“Here.” Elliott took her hand in his and guided it between her legs. He took her index finger and placed the tip against her little nub, not so little now as it was swollen with arousal. “Go on.”

He pulled his hand away and watched as Mary tentatively ran her finger in a small circle. It was a glorious sight, watching her explore herself and learn how she liked to be touched… Elliott had to resist touching her, letting her figure it out for herself, and he grinned when of her own accord she fondled her breast with her spare hand.

“Yes, that’s it… good girl… you’ll think of me whenever you do this. Even with another man in your bed, you’ll think of me every time you touch yourself… think of the ways I gave you pleasure that he never could…”

“Elliott…”

He could feel his cock twitching back to life, but who could blame it when she was making such sweet sounds? Moaning his name quietly, because she didn’t want her fiance to know she was touching herself to another man. It would take all of Elliott’s strength not to just take her.

“Elliott, would - would you kiss me?”

As if she needed to ask. Elliott leaned down and kissed her just as she requested, and when she muffled a moan against his lips, Elliott knew his cock was ready to go again. He took it in his hand and tugged on it, inelegantly jerking off to the way her body began to tremble as she brought herself to her peak.

She muffled her orgasm by grabbing the back of Elliott’s neck and holding his face firmly against hers, trapping her moans in her throat; that was the final straw for Elliott, and he came a second time, his seed spilling into his hand as he kissed Mary through both their muffled orgasms.

Her lips were red and swollen when finally they parted from his, both of them hot and sticky with hands covered in themselves, and it was only when they’d each cleaned up and she’d climbed back into bed with him that either of them spoke.

“Elliott?”

“Hm?”

“I… I just want you to know… I’d have preferred you.”

He frowned. “What?”

“If - if I had a choice - I’d have preferred to marry you. I know you probably wouldn’t ask, but —”

“Mary. Are you daft?”

She looked up at him with confused eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“Are you saying you only said yes to my cousin because you thought I wasn’t going to ask?”

“Well… he promised to put Tommy in school. I couldn’t risk it… if I said no, I couldn’t change my mind. And, well, what are the chances you’d both ask?”

Elliott shook his head incredulously. “You silly girl, Mary. Of course I wanted to ask.”

“You… you did?”

“Yes! Why do you think I took you out to dinner? Why do you think I invited you to Sussex? I wanted you to get to know me, to show you I could be a good husband…”

“Oh, Elliott!” Mary sobbed, tucking her head against his shoulder to hide her face. “I didn’t think you’d want to marry someone like me… I thought I was just a passing fancy, that once you left you’d forget all about me…”

“Who could forget about you, Mary? I want you to come with me… I hoped to propose in Sussex and you’d move to Australia with me as my wife.”

“But don’t you see, I can’t!” Mary cried. She looked up at him, her big doe eyes wet with tears. “Tommy’s here, I can’t just leave him!”

“Well, obviously he’d come with us.”

“R - really?”

“Of course. Oh, Mary, you daft thing. Do you think I just wanted to stick my cock down your throat a few times and leave? I want you, in every way, and I’m not such a fool to think that doesn’t include Tommy. Hey - hey, come now, none of that.”

She was crying now, sobbing against his shoulder, and Elliott carefully wrapped his arms around her, rubbing her back soothingly.

“It’s alright, sweetheart. It’s alright. Shh.”

“I thought - I thought it was my only chance - he promised —”

“Shh, shh, I know. I know. He’ll say anything to get what he wants. Maybe he’d follow through on it, I don’t know… but I assure you I would give you and Tommy the best life I can. And I will, if you’ll let me.”

Mary sniffed and looked up at him. “You mean…?”

“Well, I’d hoped to ask you in a more romantic way, but yes. I want to marry you, Mary. If you want me… I’m yours.”

“Oh, Elliott, I do want you! But - but I already said yes to Lord Turpin. I can’t rescind that!”

“Why not? You’ve not married him yet.”

“No, but… he’d be so angry, and he’s so powerful. Who knows what he would do?”

“Then we don’t tell him. We marry in Sussex before the week is out. I’ll write back to him, tell him he’s too late, I’ve already claimed you as my own. He won’t be interested once you’re no longer a virgin, that’s all he wants you for.”

“No, that’s - that’s not true… he likes me, he told me so himself…”

“I’m sure he does, you’re very likeable. But he’s not interested in liking you, he just wants to fuck you.”

Mary opened her mouth to deny it, but she remembered the conversation she’d had with Turpin on Saturday. Insufferable, that’s what he’d called women. The thought of having to care for a wife didn’t appeal to him at all… not until today, apparently. Not until she’d sucked his cock and inadvertently shown him what he’d get out of her as a wife.

Elliott grunted with surprise when Mary suddenly climbed on top of him, her lips on his. He didn’t protest, happily kissing her back, anything to show her that she ought to be with him. Her nightgown was still hitched up around her waist, so he could feel her heat pressing against his cock, which was having the time of its life as it began to get hard again as she rubbed herself up against him, seemingly trying to wake it back up again.

“Mary, what are you doing?”

“Making my choice,” she whispered.

She reached between them and took his cock in her hand, trying to guide it to the right spot, and Elliott grabbed her shoulders to still her when he realised what she was trying to do.

“Mary, stop.”

“You said he won’t want me if I’m not a virgin,” she explained. “So take it. Take my virginity, Elliott, please. I want to give it to you.”

Elliott groaned in frustration. If there was a God, He was seriously testing his patience.

“Not like this, Mary. I don’t want it as some sort of… strategy.”

“But you want it, don’t you?”

“Yes, I want it. You don’t know how much I want it, Mary… but we’ll wait until we’re married. Alright? It’ll be just a few days. Please, Mary, I need you to get off me, I’m not sure my actions can match my words right now…”

Mary nodded, and she climbed off him, rolling back onto the bed.

“And I… I think you should sleep in your bed tonight. The temptation’s too strong for both of us.”

“…Alright,” Mary agreed reluctantly. She climbed out of the bed and pulled her nightdress back down past her knees. “Good night, Elliott.”

“Good night, Mary. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Quietly, Mary snuck out of Elliott’s room and crossed back to hers. She’d barely closed the door when, unbeknownst to her, Turpin’s bedroom door opened and he stepped out. By the time he’d taken down the painting and put his eye up against the hole in the wall, Mary was back in the bed.

When she pulled her nightdress up to reach between her legs again, Mary had no idea she was being watched. And as he saw her begin to pleasure herself, Turpin had no reason to believe she was thinking of anyone other than him. Elliott didn’t hear the sound of the other man rubbing his cock in the hallway; even if he had, he might have confused it for the sound of his own cock in his hand.

Mary had to muffle herself when she came, with no idea Elliott and Turpin were both touching themselves to her, Elliott to the fresh memory of her rubbing herself against him and Turpin to the sight of her touching herself, thinking she must have been having thoughts of him.

Turpin came into his hand as he watched Mary’s body trembling in her bed, and he was gone by the time Elliott came shortly after, spilling his seed for the third time that night, and all three of them went to sleep separate but satisfied, none of them any the wiser to the other’s actions.

#alan rickman #judge turpin #sweeney todd #elliott marston #quigley down under #die with a smile

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cometomecosette · 3 months ago

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Standout moments from "Les Mis" recordings, 1993-'96

My Les Mis watch- and listen-through has reached the mid '90s. Once again, I'm citing the moments both from complete video and audio bootlegs and from official cast recordings that stand out the most for me. Again, thanks to @professorspork with her Wicked Punctum Project for inspiring me.

1993 South Korean proshot video

(unknown cast)

Valjean's death tableau from the novel recreated onstage.

Like the original Israeli and Hungarian productions, the original South Korean production of Les Mis was non-replica, and heavily cut too. But some of its inventive staging choices are worth noticing. This is one of the smaller ones, but it stands out the most to me. In the final scene, Marius is much more anguished than usual as he begs Valjean’s forgiveness and recounts how he saved him, fairly breaking down in remorse as he kneels by the dying man’s side. Meanwhile, Cosette is already kneeling at her father’s other side, and Valjean comforts them both. The result is a near-perfect recreation of the way Hugo describes Valjean’s last moments, with Marius and Cosette kneeling in tears on either side of him and holding his hands. A tableau that was one of the novel’s iconic images in its day, which inspired many 19th century illustrators to draw it, but which isn’t featured in most productions of the musical.

Honorable Mentions:

*In “Who Am I?” the courtroom appears behind Valjean from the beginning of the song’s main verses. As Valjean sings, we see a pantomime of Javert delivering his testimony, Champmathieu pleading in vain, and the judges listening impassively, in front of a red curtain that adds a hellish ambience.

*In the “Waltz of Treachery,” when the Thénardiers are pretending to fawn over little Cosette, Mme. Thénardier gives her Éponine’s doll. Cosette thinks the doll is really hers to keep and cradles it adoringly, but just before she leaves with Valjean, Mme. T. heartlessly snatches it back from her. This makes it all the sweeter when Valjean gives her a real gift (an anachronistic teddy bear instead of a doll, but whatever) a few moments later.

*In “Look Down,” Éponine works as a flower girl, like an even poorer and grubbier Eliza Doolittle. When Valjean and Cosette enter, she tries to sell them a flower, and in doing so, she glimpses Cosette’s face and recognizes her from their childhood.

*Javert wears a fake beard to the barricade, which Gavroche rips off during “Little People.” Really.

*During the wedding, Cosette is with Marius and the Thénardiers during their interaction, and Mme. Thénardier feigns excessive friendliness to her. Thus, she gets a shocking reminder of her childhood trauma, she hears the whole revelation of how Valjean saved Marius (although Marius still explains it to her in the next scene – presumably because she didn’t know that “Jean Valjean” was her father), and since Marius’s lines about Éponine are uncut, she’s visibly shaken to hear of Éponine’s death too.

1994 Japanese Red Cast Recording

Takeshi Kaga (Jean Valjean), Kunio Murai (Javert), Yuhko Ema (Fantine), Takashi Sasano (Thénardier), Rika Sugimura (Mme. Thénardier), Kaho Shimada (Éponine), Kazutaka Ishii (Marius), Akira Tomemori (Enjolras), Yuhko Miyamoto (Cosette)

Kaho Shimada’s “Attack on Rue Plumet.”

Of the six Japanese cast recordings of Les Mis, this one seems to be the only one easy to obtain in the US, and it features Kaho Shimada reprising her role as Éponine from the original 1987 Tokyo cast and from the Complete Symphonic Recording. As a seasoned performer in the role, and this time singing in her native Japanese, she brings a whole new level of passion and vividness to her performance on this recording, especially in “Attack on Rue Plumet.” Her (Japanese equivalent of) “I’m gonna scream, I’m gonna warn them here!” sounds frantic and feral, as does her half-spoken “Well, I told you I’d do it! I told you I’d do it!” Her raw fear, anger, and desperation transcend language, and though she’s never been an Éponine who can do a classic high-pitched scream, the fierce animalistic screech she utters instead is fully effective. Adding to the scene’s rawness is the fact that during Claquesous’ “What a palaver…” we hear Thénardier slapping her twice!

Honorable Mention:

*The Javert of Kunio Murai (a.k.a. the Japanese voice of Harrison Ford) softly yet madly laughing after “I am reaching, but I fall” in “Javert’s Suicide.”

10th Anniversary Concert

Colm Wilkinson (Jean Valjean), Phillip Quast (Javert), Ruthie Henshall (Fantine), Alun Armstrong (Thénardier), Jenny Galloway (Mme. Thénardier), Lea Salonga (Éponine), Michael Ball (Marius), Michael Maguire (Enjolras), Judy Kuhn (Cosette)

The moment of Éponine’s death.

Most Les Mis fans seem to agree that Lea Salonga and Michael Ball give us an especially poignant rendition of “A Little Fall of Rain” in this concert. And of that rendition, it’s the very end that stands out for me. The way Lea draws out her last note on “…flowers…” so that her voice sweetly blends with Michael’s, then gives him one last tender glance before her eyes close and her head falls lifeless against his chest. Michael’s soft, short “…grow,” which sounds as if Marius is so overwhelmed with emotion that he can barely utter the word. And the way he tenderly caresses her hair and kisses the top of her head, then mournfully cradles her body. Even though this is a concert with the performers standing in front of mics, this moment is just as tender and poignant as it is in any fully staged performance.

Honorable Mentions:

*Colm Wilkinson’s fearsome “I will see it DONE!!!” at the end of “Fantine’s Arrest.”

*Ruthie Henshall’s shimmering, ethereal tone as she trails away her final note on “…and I’ll see her when I wake!” We seem to hear Fantine’s spirit rising to heaven on that note.

*Hannah Chick getting startled by an accidental balloon pop during "Castle on a Cloud," but continuing the song without missing a beat.

*Alun Armstrong and Jenny Galloway’s pantomime bickering as the Thénardiers at the end of “Master of the House.”

*Michael Maguire’s “Lamarque is dead…” in which at first, he seems to reel in grief, but then suddenly realizes that this can be the catalyst for their revolution, and then rallies his friends with mounting excitement that finally becomes ecstatic fervor.

*Lea Salonga’s fierce and angry “Without me, his world will go on turning” in “On My Own.” The melancholy waif Éponine of the ‘80s is gone: this girl is a fiery urchin and she’s mad at Marius for not returning her love.

*Michael Maguire placing his hand on Anthony Crivello’s shoulder after the latter’s solo in “Drink with Me.” It’s a small gesture, but it shows that by this time in the musical’s history, everyone seems to agree that Enjolras and Grantaire should have some meaningful interaction in this moment.

*Philip Quast loosening one lock of his hair to convey the unhinging of his mind during “Javert’s Suicide.”

Original Duisburg Cast Recording

Jerzy Jeszke (Jean Valjean), Hartwig Rudolz (Javert), Cornelia Drese (Fantine), Tom Zahner (Thénardier), Anne Welte (Mme. Thénardier), Sanni Luis (Éponine), Felix Martin (Marius), Martin Berger (Enjolras), Deborah Dutcher (Cosette)

The Foreman’s “Right, my girl. On your way!” (or rather “Tja, mein Schatz. Raus mit dir!”)

Again, it’s not easy to choose a standout moment from a highlights recording. But I finally chose one, although it doesn’t involve any of the leads. It’s the way that Steffen Friedrich as the Foreman delivers the German equivalent of “Right, my girl. On your way!” (Which literally translates as “Well, my darling. Out with you!”) In my experience, very few actors deliver “On your way!” as a full-blown ferocious shout: yes, Michael McCarthy and Jeff Nicholson in the anniversary concerts both roar it, but that seems to be precisely because those performances are grand-scale concerts. Most actors in my experience either just snap it or else speak it in a chillingly quiet voice. This German actor is the first Foreman I’ve heard outside of a concert who truly shouts the line, in a vicious snarling tone. Poor Fantine.

1996 Duisburg proshot video

Felix Martin’s reserved grief for Éponine.

I’ve chosen the same moment here that I did for the 10th Anniversary Concert, but here it’s played very differently. Felix Martin is a reserved and gentlemanly Marius, nowhere near as amiable and effusive as Michael Ball, and Sanni Luis’s ruggedly vulnerable Éponine clearly belongs to a different world than he does. He treats her with amusement and sympathy, but not as a close friend. But as she brings him to Cosette, protects them from the gang, and ultimately dies for him at the barricade, he sees her in a new light and learns her true value. His reaction to her death suits this arc and his personality in general. At first glance it might seem cold: no tears, no kiss, no cradling, just a long, motionless, sadly disbelieving stare at her body. But as he stays in that stance even after she’s carried away, it becomes clear that he’s shaken to the core by her passing. Especially when he finally picks up her hat and gently presses it to his heart.

Honorable Mentions:

*At the end of "Master of the House," instead of the standard closing comic business (i.e. Thénardier drinks his own bad homemade wine, runs to the kitchen, and throws up), Mme. Thénardier withdraws into the kitchen gulping the wine, and her husband follows her, angry that she just humiliated him in front of everyone. He snatches the jug from her, and they get into a vicious pantomime argument, seeming about to come to blows as the turntable sweeps them out of sight.

*Felix’s Marius putting his hand on Enjolras’s shoulder as the latter sings “…before the barricades arise?” and smiling idealistically at Enjolras’s vision. This one quick moment establishes Marius’s devotion to Enjolras as a friend and to their cause, setting the stage for his inner conflict when romance threatens to interfere.

*Valjean hugging Cosette on “Cosette, my child, what will become of you?” and Cosette resting her head on his chest, as if she really did just have a bad fright and wants comfort. A sweet, tender father/daughter moment in a scene that’s not always played for tenderness… yet with a double edge, because Cosette is lying to Valjean to hide Marius’s presence.

*Enjolras rallying his friends during “One Day More!” Martin Berger doesn’t just stand with his rifle aloft throughout his solo lines: he does it briefly at first, but then he turns and interacts with the other Amis, touching their shoulders, addressing them individually, and actively being a leader and friend to them, not just a figurehead of revolution.

#les mis #les miserables #musical #standout moments #recordings #bootlegs #audio recordings #video recordings #1993 #1994 #1995 #1996 #south korea #tokyo #10th anniversary concert #london #duisburg #tw: violence #tw: death

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greenleaf4stuff · 4 months ago

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Eregion Tea & Coffee

Based on this awesome picture by @teawithtrop, and the ensuing back and forth between @themalhambird, @biodead-on-the-biobed and me in response to it, as well as @themalhambird’s own little one-shot (read it, it’s fantastic!). Also in part a very belated prompt fill for the Give Him Nice Thing 2025 Adar Valentine’s Bingo by @wowstrawberrycow.

Coffeeshop!AU, hinted future silverscars (Adar/Celebrimbor) and veeery lightly hinted possible silvergifting (Celebrimbor/Annatar). Celebrimbor is the owner of cozy yet very successful tea & coffeeshop, and a highly beloved boss among his employees. Adar, a down-on-his luck, former general manager of Mordor Coffee Ltd, begins to show up to the aforementioned coffeeshop, in order to keep an eye on 'Annatar', his fomer boss, who is up to no good as usual. Except well, he may or may not also start to like the coffeeshop owner and his generous, kind demeanor, too.

One day, Adar is spending time at the coffeeshop as usual, when Celebrimbor approaches him with an unusual offer – as well as some tea and coffee. Adar cannot believe his luck. Annatar is probably fuming in the background somewhere.

Adar sat in his usual spot, at the smallest table in Eregion Tea & Coffee, back to the wall so he could have the whole interior within view. He was scowling at the counter, where he could see the owner, Celebrimbor Curufinion, puttering about and talking to an employee with a bright, but tired smile.

Usually, Adar’s severe expression would have been due to the early hour and the fact that his current gig at the local bar had messed with his sleep schedule. Again. Today, however, was different.

He could tell that something was going on with the owner – Tyelpe, as everyone who worked there called him. And as the aforementioned owner had encouraged Adar to call him as well.

The former general manager couldn’t yet say exactly what was wrong, except that over the last few weeks, there had been...incidents.

Small ones at first. Problems with card-based or by-phone payments, or the register straight up not cooperating at all. Things going missing from storage, employee’s possessions disappearing, the last bulk of milk being beyond the expiration date when they checked for it, even bills not getting paid on time.

Judging by the reaction of the baristas that Adar had been able to overhear, the way they talked about the situation – and did not even care that someone might listen in, which was a whole different problem – told him that this was very much out of the norm.

He could tell it was taking a toll on Celebrimbor already, who appeared more dismayed and frazzled each time something like this happened.

The worst of it, by far, had been an incident with a coffee machine that had left the young blonde, Mirdania, covered in hot water and coffee grounds. That one had required medical attention for the girl, and nearly caused Celebrimbor to burst into worried tears, believing this to have been his fault.

He was a good boss, from what Adar could tell. Caring, considerate, generous. He also took his work very seriously. Adar didn’t think for a second that the owner was to blame for the 'accident'.

No, this was all too familiar, those underhanded and highly dangerous tactics. He’d seen them before.

Unfortunately, he still didn’t have any proof to bring to Celebrimbor’s attention, aside from his own word and – if he was lucky – perhaps some testimonies from other, former employees of 'Annatar', as Mairon liked to call himself now. Adar drew a face and tried to hide it in his coffee as he took a drink.

He had to admit, the coffee was indeed exceptionally good, especially for the price Celebrimbor had set for it. Adar understood why Mairon was so intent on taking over Eregion by any means neccessary.

Back to the problem at hand, Adar would have liked nothing better than to walk up to Celebrimbor and his employees and tell them all he knew, but as it stood, Annatar was well-regarded and especially Celebrimbor seemed to have been utterly charmed by his flattery and lies. His word, and the awful reputation Mairon had created for Adar via well-placed rumors, standing against the word of a put-together, well-spoken, sophisticated 'friend' of the owner?

Adar wouldn’t stand a chance.

He had to play the long game, and remain patient, though that was particularly difficult at the moment.

Various of his friends and acquaintances back from when he’d been working at Mordor Coffee Ltd had been letting him know that they, too, suspected that Mairon was in the middle of planning something. Whether it was Gurlak and Szanorsh, Driss or Garnnok, everyone agreed that the happenings at Eregion had been more than a little suspicious.

Those of his friends that worked at Eregion tried to collect evidence, of course, at least as best as they could without running the risk of becoming the target of Mairon’s ire. Too many of them relied on keeping their job and its benefits, and he didn’t blame them in the least; compared to Mordor Coffee, working here sounded to like a dream come true.

It was, perhaps, fair to say that Adar was a little jealous of those who had found a new job here, after their failed attempt at a union and subsequent firing from Mordor. Even if he was glad about every one of his friends who was well taken care of.

It was a weird state of mind, worrying and caring about them while trying not to envy their luck. That was a way of thinking that caused division and disharmony, and he wouldn’t let these thoughts tempt him into being uncharitable, even with how difficult his own life tended to be at the moment.

He was torn from his reverie when he registered a familiar voice, and looked up from his coffee, which gone luke warm by now, to see none other than Glug slink from the coffeeshop in a hurry. Their eyes briefly met across the distance, and Adar could just barely keep himself from jumping to his feet in an effort to chase his former co-worker off.

'Rat,' he thought darkly. He only hoped Glug hadn’t come back to make a second attempt at applying for a position at Eregion. Adar could sit out a lot of things, but the prospect of that lying traitor coming here and working with Mairon to achieve who-knew-what insidious goal incensed him enough to almost forego his usual restraint.

He threw a cautious glance over towards the counter, where he could see Celebrimbor stand and look after Glug with a downright baffled expression, hands still on the coffee machine as if to prepare an order.

He remained in the same position for a few seconds longer, before he looked over at Adar’s table. Adar himself felt a small, by now familiar, electric shock go through him as their eyes found one another, and had to fight hard not to avert his gaze on instinct. Rather, he kept staring for several long moments before he deliberately broke eye contact, and then took a slow drink from his coffee.

'Trying to play it cool,' his friends would have called it. He resolutely pushed the thought away.

Out of the periphery of his eyes, he continued to watch Celebrimbor even as he pretended to study the inside of his cup. The coffeeshop owner continued looking in his direction for a few more seconds, before he suddenly sprung back into action.

Adar had seen first-hand how fast the other could be when preparing multiple orders at once during the busiest hour of the morning, so it stood out to him when Celebrimbor now seemed to consciously slow down, and instead took great care as he worked.

Adar chanced a look around the coffee shop. Rush hour was long over, and aside from him, there were no other customers. He frowned, trying to figure out whose order the other was preparing; maybe something for his employees?

Adar tried not to be too nosy, but going by the familiar sounds, Celebrimbor was preparing a simple coffee – no milk, no sugar, no fancy nonsense – and a tea, as well as a small plate of baked goods.

He then put the drinks and the plate onto a tray, and made his way over...towards Adar’s table.

Who found himself holding his breath as Celebrimbor came to a stop before him and asked, "Could I sit and talk to you for a minute?" He looked hopeful, and with a small smile, he showed Adar the tray. The plate held a few scones, biscuits, and even two of those phenomenal, home-made triple-chocolate muffins that Adar would deny enjoying on principle alone. "I have brought some offerings, if that makes you more amendable."

The way Celebrimbor said it made it clear he was joking a little, but the core of his question remained the same. With anyone else, Adar would have feared this to be a precursor to something unpleasant, like getting told to leave and never come back, that he wasn’t welcome anymore, that Mairon had managed to turn yet someone else against him.

But Celebrimbor wasn’t one to do that. Even with how close he and Mairon seemed to be, he had brushed off every attempt by the latter to chase Adar off, had in fact put himself in between the two several times and made it clear that he would like for Adar to come back to the coffeeshop and ignore Mairon’s words, please.

Heck, at this point, Adar didn’t even have to pay for his own coffee, partly in response to yet another instance during which Annatar had not-so-subtly tried to threaten Adar into leaving.

Adar nodded at Celebrimbor, and used his foot to gently push out the chair from opposite himself so the other could sit. Celebrimbor smiled gratefully at the gesture and gently put down the tray, then placed the new coffee in front of Adar, the plate in between the two of them, and grabbed a hold of the teacup for himself.

Adar raised a curious eyebrow. "What kind of tea are you having today? One of your special blends?"

Celebrimbor’s smile grew mischievous as he sat back and cradled the cup in his hands. "No. Just a simple black tea today."

Adar grinned back. "Darjeeling?"

"Not quite. Assam."

"Ah," Adar replied, and nodded approvingly. The other somehow always managed to surprise him. He finished his leftover coffee before pulling the new one over gratefully. "Thank you, by the way. Mine had just gone cold."

Celebrimbor drew a face and stared at Adar’s empty cup as if it had personally offended him, which caused Adar to chuckle despite himself. The other rarely found anything to be offended by. "You know you didn’t have to finish that, right?"

"Hm," Adar nodded, and took a sip of the new cup, then decided to indulge himself a grabbed a biscuit off the plate as well. That, at least, seemed to help with Celebrimbor’s expression, which slowly morphed back into the smile he’d previously carried.

Adar tried to ignore the funny things that smile did to his stomach. "I know. It’s still good though, even cold. I told you, your coffee is very special."

The other’s cheeks suddenly turned a bit pink. Maybe it was due to the hot tea? "No coffee is so good it can be endured like that, surely," Celebrimbor mumbled and brought his tea to his lips.

Adar ignored him, and gently changed the topic. "So, is there a specifc reason you came over here, aside from the fact that things have gone quiet for now?" His tone was teasing, grin still on his face. He was good at hiding the apprehension he couldn’t help but feel.

Celebrimbor perked up at his question, as if he had almost forgotten why he’d joined Adar in the first place, and quickly put down his cup again. "Oh, right, about that-" He put his elbows on the table, folded his hands, and smiled brightly. "There was a nice young man at the counter just now. Glug, I think his name was?"

Adar tried very hard not to frown, or clench his hands. "Yeah, I noticed. Former co-worker of mine," he slightly tilted his head. "He didn’t cause you any trouble, did he?"

Celebrimbor blinked at him in brief confusion. "What? No. No, not at all," he briefly looked as if he wanted to dig into Adar’s remark further, then thought better of it and continued with his previous line of thought. "He was actually really nice. He too mentioned he worked with you in the past."

A slight pause. Celebrimbor raised his eyebrows and his smile became lopsided. "In fact, he asked me why I hadn’t hired you yet."

It was Adar’ turn to still and stare at the coffeeshop owner, wide-eyed, completely taken off-guard.

When he didn’t reply, Celebrimbor’s expression softened and he grabbed a biscuit of his own, discreetly giving Adar the time to collect himself. When he still didn’t reply, the other seemlessly picked up the thread of the conversation again. It was another one of Celebrimbor’s skills that Adar admired.

"I suspect we never found the right time, or topic, for you to tell me that you’d worked as a general manager at a chain before," he was deliberate in his wording, but his eyes were twinkling with interest. "Unless the young man lied to me about that?"

Finally, Adar found his voice again. "No, that- that is correct," he cleared his throat and drank more of his coffee, well aware that the caffeine was helping him wake up properly, but also served to put him even more on edge than he already was. He couldn’t quite grasp what Celebrimbor was up to yet. "I worked at Mordor Coffee Ltd for several years, but it’s been...quite a while since I left."

Well, he’d been fired, but unless Celebrimbor asked him directly, he wouldn’t advertise that fact.

The other slowly nodded and folded his hands, as he studied Adar intently. "And do you currently work in that position somewhere?"

Adar shook his head, cautiously. "No. I haven’t had any luck finding a position like that again. I mostly work in bars nowadays." He was almost tempted to motion at his outfit and general appearance; few coffee places would let him work at the counter, the way he looked.

Whether it was his scars potentially scaring customers away, the long hair not being 'appropriate' or his choice of attire disqualifying him before he even opened his mouth, there was always some bullshit reason why he didn’t fit the criteria. Nevermind that Mairon did his best to tarnish his reputation whenever he caught wind of Adar applying for a position anywhere.

Celebrimbor didn’t look like he cared about any of that, however. He mostly looked curious, and sincerely interested, when he asked, "And would you want to?"

There was an inkling, in the back of Adar’s mind. A hunch. But- he had to be wrong about that, didn’t he? It was far too good a possibility for it to be true.

"Depends," he tried not to let hope grow in his chest. It was bound to be squashed again, he’d learned this painfully. And yet his traitorous heart insisted on beating faster. "Not if it’s the conditions I worked in back then. But on principle? I would quite like that, yeah."

He wanted nothing more, in fact, than to work that job again. Even with all the awfulness of Mairon and that workplace, he’d liked his job. His coworkers, the location – it had been great. Admitting as such, even only to himself, made him feel far too vulnerable.

Celebrimbor’s smile grew brighter. He pulled his chair closer towards the table and then placed his elbows onto it, wholly focused onto Adar now.

"What about here? If I-," the coffeeshop owner paused, as if unsure, and then leant closer and pushed on in a rush, trying to get out the words before his forwardness deserted him. "If I offered you a position, with conditions and benefits equal to the other employees. Would you want to work here? With me?"

This time, Adar had no chance to hold back the rush of hope that coursed through him.

Much later, he would realize how much closer this would bring him to keeping an eye on Mairon and his antics. How he could help protect those of his former co-workers who now worked at Eregion from suffering a fate similar to the one at Mordor. How he could finally have a set, steady income again, a schedule he could follow, perhaps even one that suited his own needs.

For the moment, however, he could only see Celebrimbor’s face, the expectation, the smile, could only focus on the way his body felt warm at the thought of coming here every day and getting to work side-by-side with this man, who had treated him with kindness and respect from the moment they first interacted.

Could only hear the last part of Celebrimbor’s question loop in his mind, over and over.

'With me?'

He wasn’t sure who of them was more elated when he opened his mouth and simply replied, "Yes, I would." But he knew his own smile grew without his say-so as Celebrimbor downright beamed at him in response.

"Well, in that case, consider yourself officially hired," the other said. He made it all seem so easy – no application, no interview, no background check, no nothing. Just- someone who cared about his shop and his people, and who wasn’t afraid to trust his own gut feeling.

Adar vowed that he would do his best to prove the other right in trusting him, and followed Celebrimbor without a second thought as the other got up and motioned him to follow, taking their drinks and baked goods with them behind the counter, to draw up the paperwork and 'talk business', as Celebrimbor called it while chuckling and clapping his hands in obvious delight.

He couldn’t quite believe his luck yet, but he certainly wouldn’t question it. Or...Tyelpe, for that matter.

#i listened to the Disco Elysium soundtrack again while writing and editing this one (Whirling in Rags 8 AM is great for writing it seems)#(honestly perfect soundtrack for a coffeeshop AU that one tbh imo. Polyhedrons is great too!)#i am very much in love with this little AU - it's so cozy and cute and I enjoy how it has grown the last two days #once again such a wonderful collaborative effort of the fandom <3 #adar #adar trop #adar the rings of power #celebrimbor #adar x celebrimbor #silverscars #trop #the rings of power #the coffeeshop au #coffeeshop au #fanfic #my fanfic #my trop fanfic #mine

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yuta-nakamots · 9 days ago

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Sherlock - C.Minho

Pairing - Detective!Minho x Assistant!GN Reader, featuring Key as Inspector Kim and Jessica Jung as victim Jung Suyeon

Genre(s) - Fluff, Action, Thriller, Mystery, Detective!Au, 1920s!AU, established relationship!AU

Warning(s) - crime, description of blood and injuries and violence, mention of murder and manslaughter, supernatural activity (ghosts), court trial

Summary - In a city shrouded in soot and secrets, forensic science is still in its infancy, and so is the truth. As Minho’s brilliant but often-overlooked assistant, you help to unravel a case that refuses to stay buried, where facts blur with instinct and justice isn't always clean. Sometimes, it takes more than logic to find what haunts us.

Word Count - 7.4k

Author’s Note - This was based on a dream I had when I was still heavily overwhelmed with assignments from my microbiology lab, haha. I tried my best to keep it accurate to the 1920s, but I fear there may have been some historical inaccuracies (I literally had to search up ‘were cars in the 1920s?’)

Taglist - @k-vanity @k-films @cinneorolls (join my taglist!)

Written for the SMCU Collab hosted by @taem-min-archived.

Now playing: Sherlock - SHINee, CØDE - SHINee

The clock ticks softly in the corner of your shared apartment with Minho. Rain beads along the glass, catching the morning light. Your pencil scratches quietly against paper as you cross-reference case notes from last month’s arson incident. Across from you, Minho sits half in shadow, the day’s paper spread open in front of him, his brow furrowed just enough to mean something.

Both of you exist within this kind of silence, only possible when two people have shared dozens of mornings just like this. Comfortable. Practiced. Yours.

You’ve been with Minho for some time now. It was nothing flashy. Instead, it was like a deep bond. The kind of love that fits into coffee routines and coat buttons, into short shared glances and the quiet rhythm of touch. In the lab, he brushes your wrist when he passes. At home, you loosen his tie while he reads over your notes by lamplight. What you share isn’t spoken of. It’s a quiet secret between the two of you in a city too eager to judge.

Minho flips the page, then stops. His eyes don’t follow the words. They narrow, scanning the same headline twice. “A woman’s body at the Marquette Grand Hotel. Explosion from the inside, no witnesses close enough to matter. But the perpetrator, James Hall, ran from the scene.” His voice cuts through the quiet, not loud or urgent. Like a line dropped into still water.

You don’t bother looking up. “They always run,” you murmur, circling a line of faulty witness testimony with your pencil. “Doesn’t mean he’s the one who killed her.”

Minho doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he taps the edge of the page twice like Morse code between the two of you. This time, you look up. The tension in his jaw tells you everything you need to know. “Pack your kit,” he orders.

You’re already moving before he stands. You close your notebooks with one hand, balancing your half-empty coffee in the other. You gather your belongings and your forensic kit from your shared office. By the door, Minho is shrugging into his coat, tugging his gloves on with the same steady precision he uses to smear a microscope slide.

You reach up to straighten his collar, fingertips brushing his neck. He leans in just slightly, forehead against yours, breath warm. The moment is brief but grounding. “Try not to get in another shouting match with Inspector Kim,” you chide as you hand him his scarf.

His mouth twitches, half amusement, half promise. “Only if he deserves it.”

Minho opens the door, and you follow. It clicks shut behind you, leaving you exposed to the foggy morning air.

Another case. Another body. Another ghost waiting to be named.

The Marquette Grand Hotel stands as a shadow of its former opulence, too much smoke, not enough polish. Police lights flicker like a broken neon sign, reflecting off the rain-slick marble floor as you step into the atrium. The air is heavy, thick, and damp, as the ventilation system has been turned off since the explosion. It’s as if the hotel’s grandeur had been suffocated by the same dark secrets that linger in the city.

A crowd hums behind the police line, the kind of people who thrive on scandal, some curious, others hungry for a story. Meanwhile, you and Minho pass through the officers with ease, your credentials held high, having both been summoned by the investigation team. The noise of the crowd falls away as the air between you sharpens into something clinical, the way it always does when the work begins.

Minho’s quiet, focused energy envelops you as you make your way toward the grand staircase. The body is still, cordoned of, but barely covered. The woman’s body lies too neatly at the foot of the stairs, positioned with her head turned in a way that feels wrong. The scene doesn’t match the story you were given.

Your instincts click into place. You kneel beside the body to get a closer look, movements deliberate. You can’t help but notice the smear of blood up the banister behind her. Someone tried to wipe it clean, but they only made it worse.

Minho doesn’t speak for a full minute. He scans the scene, his gaze sharp and distant, like he’s already picking it apart in his mind. His jaw tightens, and his brows furrow. You feel his presence next to you. He’s there, but his mind is elsewhere, sifting through the evidence. It’s a pattern you know well.

Finally, he looks at you. When he speaks, his voice is low, almost a whisper against the quiet of the crime scene. “It’s wrong.”

You’re still kneeling, careful not to disturb anything. Your eyes follow the path of the blood smear, noticing the subtle details of the smudging that others might miss. You hand him your magnifier from the forensic bag without looking up.

“It’s because it was supposed to look like a fall.” Your voice is steady, but there’s a flicker of doubt in it, too. This isn’t right.

Minho exhales, fingers brushing yours for the briefest of moments. His touch is the softest thing in this cold, sterile place. Then, he stands and looks over the scene again, eyes scanning the room.

“They’re rushing to charge Hall. But this…” He gestures toward the bruising on the woman’s neck, his tone turning into something more intense, something you don’t hear often. “No staircase does this.”

You swallow, knowing he’s right. The bruising doesn’t add up. It’s too uniform, too precise. No fall could have done this. And the blood smear, the misplaced angle of the victim’s head, none of it tells the story that people are already eager to tell.

You both stand there for a moment, letting the silence settle between you before you pull your thoughts back into focus. Minho always moves intensely, sharply, until the puzzle starts to come together. You won’t leave his side until it does.

And for now, all you can do is help him find the pieces.

The forensic team has taken over the east end of the lobby, laying out hastily labeled samples and fingerprints. Everything smells like smoke, damp velvet, and harsh disinfectant. The on-site evidence team is a disaster. Gloves poorly fitted, instruments half-sterilized, and DNA swabs laid out like someone’s afternoon picnic.

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Do they even know what they’re collecting?”

A technician waves you over with a grin too casual for a murder scene. “You’ll want to see this. It’s weird.” Minho joins you, a hint of unease in his expression. The technician holds up a glass slide under a magnifying glass. “Sample from the stair railing. It’s…not clean, it has mixed cells. Possibly two or more sources, but the boundaries are irregular. It could be contamination. We’re calling it a mosaic.”

You take the slide delicately, squinting through the lens. Within the smear, the pattern of cells is erratic with slurred edges and inconsistent nuclei sizes. “Contamination?” you echo flatly.

The technician shrugs. “Could be. Or faulty tools. Maybe the victim was fighting someone.”

You glance at Minho. His expression sharpens into something colder than focused. “No. This isn’t from a fight.”

You crouch again beside the body, this time gesturing to the smear of blood at the third step. Your voice drops as your finger hovers just above the dried streak. “If she were alive when she fell, the bruises would’ve bloomed differently. And this…” You point to a separate arc of blood, too clean to be the first impact. “This came after.”

“He didn’t kill her there,” Minho says, barely audible.

You know that tone. Controlled fury. He straightens slowly, shoulders squared, eyes already scanning for whoever’s leading the charge to arrest James Hall. You know that look. He’s ready to fight the entire force to prove his point if he has to.

Of course, that’s when you hear the voice you least want to hear. “For a man who works with facts, you sure enjoy fighting with ghosts.”

You both turn to see Inspector Kim, dressed immaculately as always. Not a speck of rain touched his long coat and his ivory gloves. He walks like someone with nowhere urgent to be, which means he’s exactly where he needs to be, all while wearing that signature smirk of his.

Minho’s lips tighten. “Kim.”

Inspector Kim raises a brow. “Choi.” He gives you a nod, almost deferential. “Always a pleasure,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to the slide in your hand. “Let me guess. Contamination. Happens more often than you’d like to admit.”

You cross your arms, careful not to disturb the slide. “Or it’s exactly what it looks like. Sloppy cleanup and cross-contaminated fluids, mixed tools. Someone tried to stage this.”

The inspector wore a smirk on his face. “Ah, you two and your little crime romances. Makes the paperwork so much more dramatic.”

Minho takes a slow breath. “This wasn’t a heat-of-the-moment act. James Hall didn’t push her. Not here, not like this.”

Inspector Kim gestures broadly to the bloody staircase and the woman’s body. “And yet…here she is. Here he was, too, running like a man with something to hide.”

“You’re building your case backwards,” you say, sharp now. “Start from the evidence, not the headlines.”

The inspector’s smile fades just slightly. “I’m building the case that gets a conviction. And if you think the city wants nuance, you haven’t read the morning edition.”

Minho steps forward, not aggressive, just solid. “She deserves better than expedience.”

Inspector Kim looks between the two of you, then sighs like a man forced to babysit his enemies. “Fine. Take your samples, write your poetry, but don’t come crying to me when your ghosts don’t testify in court.” He turns on his heels, coat sweeping behind him like a curtain call. You watch him disappear into the swarm of people outside the atrium.

Minho doesn’t speak for a while, only watching the staircase, jaw set. You had the slide back to the technician, handling it gently. “We’re right,” you tell Minho quietly. “I just don’t know what we’re right about yet.”

He exhales through his nose. “Then we keep looking.”

You nod once, then offer him your notebook. “Want to start with the blood splatter radius or the floor access logs?”

Minho takes it from you, fingertips brushing yours. “Both.”

Outside, the street is slick with rain, lamp posts blurring in the puddles. Minho walks beside you in silence. Your coats are wet at the hems, your shoes are soaked through. The only light comes from a flickering street lamp just ahead, throwing fractured halos over the sidewalk.

Minho doesn’t say anything until the hotel is well behind you. No police chatter, no cameras. Just the slap of your shoes against the concrete, your breath curling in the cold.

Under the lamplight, he stops. You stop with him. His jaw works for a moment before he speaks. “Something is missing,” he says finally. “I can’t tell what it is yet.”

You pull your coat tighter around you. The rain has seeped in at the collar, tracing cold lines down your spine. “We’ll find it,” you assure. “We always do.”

He looks at you then, the same way he does when the lab is quiet and he thinks you’re not paying attention to him, when he’s halfway through untangling a case and forgets to blink. There’s something raw behind his eyes tonight. Not fear, exactly. Something sharper, like he knows this case could shift something he won’t be able to put back.

“That’s why I told them you had to be on this case,” he admits. “Because if I miss something…you won’t.”

You reach out, brushing a drop of rain from his temple with your knuckle. He leans into it, barely a breath of contact, forehead resting against your hand in the way he does when the world is just a little too loud in his head.

For a second, the pattering of rain fades, and there’s only the quiet between you. “I’ve got you,” you tell him. You don’t have to say more.

The moment breaks when the streetlamp above you flickers once, twice, then dies completely. You’re both left in the shadows, headlights glinting in the distance like the eyes of something watching.

Minho straightens, breath fogging in the night air. “It wasn’t just a murder,” he says. “It was a story someone tried too hard to rewrite.” He steps off, continuing his pace from earlier as you follow along.

The city doesn’t stop. Not for rain, not for bodies, and definitely not for the truth. But you do.

The lab smells like old coffee and acetone. The clock on the wall has been stuck at the same time for three months, though Minho still glances at it out of habit, yet refuses to fix it.

He’s hunched over the evidence table, sleeves rolled to his elbow, hands bare aside for the cover of latex gloves. A thin film of powdered residue clings to the thin gloves, a burn trace from the carpet near the victim’s shoulder. His notebook lies open but is mostly ignored. You can see the tension in his shoulders again, the same taut line of frustration he carried out of the Marquette.

You didn’t ask. You just hand him his coffee like always. It turned bitter hours ago, but he takes it anyway and drinks it like penance.

“The heat damage on the railing doesn’t match the others in the radius of the blast,” he mutters. “So either the explosion was secondary, or someone lit this in a separate incident.”

You perch on the edge of the desk beside him, flipping through the elevator access logs. “The elevator on the east end skipped the fifth floor three times in the hour before the police call came in. Too clean, like someone was timing it.”

He hums low in his throat, the sound of a mind chewing through thoughts. Your arm brushes his as you turn a page in his notebook. He doesn’t move away.

Across the room, the corkboard is littered with half-solved sequences. Blood splatter arcs, estimated fall velocities, and a list of possible contaminants, all illustrated in Minho’s handwriting. There’s an open case folder to your right. You scan the victim’s name, Jung Suyeon, then the short, polite letter from her family, a request, not even official, but handwritten and sincere.

‘Please consider testifying. We know you’ll find the truth.’

You read it twice, then again. Minho notices the change in your posture. “What is it?” You pass the letter to him wordlessly.

He reads it, jaw tightening, then he rubs his hands across the small of your back, thumb tracing a slow line. It’s instinctive, a gesture to ground you, even as his own balance tilts.

“She trusted someone,” you say after a moment. “Enough to turn her back to them on a staircase.”

He exhales and leans back in his chair. His tie is yanked loose around his neck, collar open. You reach forward, fingers working the knot back into place with practiced efficiency. “If you ruin this one too, I’m not buying you a new one.”

His mouth quirks. “You say that every time.”

“And every time, you get dramatic.”

There’s silence for a while after that, not tense, but tired. It’s the kind of quiet that settles between two people who have learned how to grieve inside fluorescent light. You both scribble through separate pages, comparing notes only with glances, small nods, and the occasional touch when your hands pass over shared tools.

At one point, you leave a note in the margin of his analysis draft. ‘You’re brilliant. Don’t forget that.’

As the night drags on, you don’t tell him you saw him slam the bathroom door shut, or that his eyes were glassy when he came back out. Instead, you return to the table with another stack of notes, fresh gloves, and your chin held a little higher.

“Look at this,” you say, tapping the third page. “The burn patterns curve inward. Like something blocked the initial blast.”

Minho leans in, eyes scanning. “Fabric?”

“Maybe. Or a body.”

He doesn’t say anything for a beat. Then, “you think someone left her there.”

“I think someone wanted it to look like she was alone.”

He nods, slowly. “We’re missing a player.”

Your hand traces down his forearm to his palm, pressing into the table, slipping beneath, and interlocking your fingers with his. You stay like that for a second, then squeeze him, a reminder. “We’ll find them,” you say.

Minho closes his notebook with a thud. “Not tonight. Your eyes are red.”

“So are yours.”

“You go first,” he insists.

“Not a chance,” you insist, shaking your head. “I leave you alone in this state, and the whole building burns down, for sure.”

He huffs something that might be a laugh, then pushes back his chair, rubbing at his eyes. “Five hours of sleep. Then we trace the blast backwards. Someone must have left a footprint in it. They always do, metaphorically or not.”

You nod once and begin to gather the evidence back into labeled folders. Outside, the sun is beginning to stain the skyline with a dull orange. Morning again. But you don’t leave just yet, not until he’s packed up, not until his hand brushes yours as he turns out the desk lamp.

The elevator logs don’t lie. But they also don’t tell the whole truth.

Minho stands with his hands braced on either side of the recording machine, eyes flicking between timestamps and floor numbers, scanning with the kind of intensity that turns silence into gravity. You stood next to him, both of you packed tightly into the hotel’s managerial office, a space normally meant for just one person.

“Fifth floor access,” you mutter, thumbing through the notebook in your hand. “The logs say the elevator skipped it three times between 10:31 and 11:12. Explosion was logged at 11:15 by the police. But look,” you tilt the screen towards him, “Hall’s card was scanned on the rooftop at 11:08.”

Minho’s brow furrows. “That’s seven minutes before the explosion. But the only way to the rooftop aside from the elevator is–”

“--through the stairwell,” you finish, already tracing it out on the building layout prints pinned beside the emergency evacuation plans. “And he couldn't have planted an explosive in a hallway and gotten to the roof in that window of time.”

“So unless he teleported or split in two–”

“He had help,” you conclude. “Or someone else wanted the same outcome for different reasons.”

Minho doesn’t respond. He just exhales, slow and deliberate. Then his eyes darted to another log, the hotel guest records. Logged in Room 525, a woman had checked in earlier in the afternoon. No blatant connection to either James Hall or Jung Suyeon. But her checkout time? Two hours after the blast, past midnight, much too late to be accidental. Maybe a possible witness. You make a mental note.

By the time you leave the lab, the coffee machine is sputtering steam, and the sky has turned bruise-purple, signaling the approach of night. The air outside is thick with afternoon heat, and for the first time in hours, neither of you speaks.

You don’t talk much back in the apartment, either. You both move around each other like clockwork, dropping bags, stripping off coats, brushing teeth side by side in the small mirror, shoulders touching without comment.

By the time you crawl into bed with him, it’s well past midnight. The world outside is too quiet for a city this size, the kind of stillness that feels like holding your breath before disaster strikes.

Minho curls toward you, an arm slung loosely over your waist, but you can feel the tension lingering in his muscles. He doesn’t quite fall asleep, not all the way.

You drift off first, until something jerks you back. A jolt, a sharp inhale.

You open your eyes to find him sitting up, breath coming quickly, fists clenched in the sheets. “Minho?”

He doesn’t answer at first, staring ahead at the wall. The room was bathed in a soft amber from the hallway light spilling through the cracked door, a stark contrast to his rigid state.

You reach out to him, your thumb brushing the pulse at his wrist. “Hey,” you murmur. “Talk to me.”

Still dazed, he mutters, “she pushed me.”

You blink. “What?”

His hand rises to meet yours, slow and uncertain, like the echo of the dream is still tingling through his nerves. “Not hard,” he says. “Not to hurt. Just…to show.” You wait. “I saw her,” he continues, eyes distant. “In the dream. Suyeon. She didn’t speak, but her eyes were clear. She led me down the staircase and at the bottom, she stopped, turned, put her hand right here,” he touches the center of his chest, “and pushed me off the last few steps.” He paused, then added, “it didn’t feel like dying. It felt like being told ‘look again.’”

You stare at him. The logic part of your brain wants to file it under stress, just another product of long hours and impossible timelines. But something about the way he says it, that quiet certainty, sinks under your skin.

He lies back down after that, an arm flung over his eyes, body slowly relaxing into sleep again. But you don’t. Not for a long time.

You lie beside him, staring at the ceiling. You think of the staircase, the elevator logs, the burn pattern. And a woman who trusted someone enough to turn her back. Your gut twists.

Minho twitches beside you, muttering something you can’t quite catch. You turn toward him, one hand resting over his heart as if to anchor him to the present. He continues to sleep, but the unease clings to you both, silent and patient.

The lab looks different in daylight. Less haunted, more hollow. Sunlight slices in through the narrow windows, catching on steel trays and dust motes. Everything looks too real, too clean. Like the truth should be easier to find in the light.

But the city has moved on, as it always does. The headlines about the explosion have faded. The front desk at the Marquette is back to answering questions about room service delays instead of death. Only you and Minho are still orbiting the explosion.

He’s hunched over the evidence table again, still in the shirt he wore to sleep, now with a fresh stain of iodine blooming near the cuff. His hair is damp from a shower but already tousled, as if sleep hadn’t quite finished with him.

A surveillance report lies flat in front of him. You watch him read it for the third time. “New timeline,” you offer, breaking the quiet. “James Hall was last seen sprinting away from the fifth-floor stairwell. That was 11:12.”

Minho’s head snaps up. “That’s three minutes before detonation.”

“Exactly. No way he set the device and got out that fast. Not unless it was on a time.”

He leans back, arms crossed. “But there was no timer. No delay device was found at the site.”

You nod slowly. “Then he wasn’t the one who lit the fuse.”

There’s a beat of silence before Minho slams a folder shut with more force than necessary. “Then who the hell did?”

The question hangs in the air like static. He picks up a set of lab slides, examining them under the microscope one by one with increasing veracity. When the fourth sample doesn’t sit right, he curses under his breath.

You step closer. “Hey,” you say gently. “Try again. Slowly.”

He doesn’t look up. Just mutters, “none of this makes sense. The samples are clean, too clean. The soot residue on the victim’s collar doesn't match the burn pattern on the wall. It’s like…like someone reset the room.”

“Minho.”

“I’m missing something. I know I’m missing something.”

“Minho,” you repeat, more firmly this time. “You can’t fit ghosts into a crime scene report.”

He stops, shoulders stiff. He doesn’t meet your gaze. “I’m not trying to,” he says, voice quiet. “I’m trying to listen. Maybe that’s the same thing to you, but it isn’t to me.”

You study him. Drawn, tired, buzzing with unspeakable energy, the same look he wore after a bridge collapse case, when he spent three days reconstructing a faulty railing just to prove the victim hadn’t jumped.

You reach for the autopsy photographs still clipped together in a folder. “Look at the bruises on her arm again,” you urge, pulling them free. “Too even. Too centered.”

He squints, leaning in. “Not a fall pattern. There’s no torsion. No imbalance.”

You nod. “The body wasn’t twisted, it wasn't tumbling. It was placed.”

He grabs the photographs from your hand. “If she’d been conscious, even for a second, she’d have braced instinctively. But she didn’t. No defensive injuries.”

“She was out before she was ever on the ground,” you say. “Unconscious or drugged. Then moved.”

He exhales through his nose. “Someone wanted it to look like she fell.”

“Or wanted it to look like an accident,” you propose. “That’s the part that doesn’t feel like murder. Not clean, not controlled.”

Minho’s gaze meets yours across the table, bloodshot, but lit from within. “Then we’re not chasing a murderer,” he leads. “We’re chasing shame.” He steps back, running both hands through his hair. “Someone panicked. She saw something, or said something, and they overreacted.”

“Which makes it sloppier,” you add. “Sloppier means traceable.”

“And whoever helped Hall,” Minho continues, “is starting to slip.”

The corner of your mouth tilts up, tired but real. “There’s our crack in the glass.”

He huffs a sound that’s almost a laugh. “About time.”

You both pause there, standing amidst scattered notes and samples and grief disguised as science. His eyes drop to your hands, one resting on the corner of the table, the other tracing over the edge of a folder.

He doesn’t say it aloud, but he looks like he wants to reach for you. Instead, he turns back to the microscope, voice quieter now. “Let’s start with the woman in 525. Maybe she didn’t see everything, but maybe she saw enough.”

The stairwell replica creaks faintly as you balance another crate at the approximate height of the Marquette’s third-floor landing. String lines the descent–marked angles, calculated falls. On the floor, you’ve drawn chalk outlines where the body should have landed.

Minho circles the setup, jaw clenched in thought. His shirt sleeves are rolled to his elbows, and there’s ink on his wrist from your last round of measurements and calibrations. He drops a small paperweight down the makeshift steps. It lands too far. Again.

You catch it before it rolls off the final step and hold it up. “That’s the second time it overshot,” you note. “Unless she had propulsion–”

“Something pushed her further,” Minho finished. He kneels beside the landing, adjusting a string. “That explosion…it wasn’t just a distraction. It changed the trajectory.”

You move beside him, unfolding your notebook and running the numbers again. “Here. The angle of the descent, the impact marks on her body, and the soot radius. If James Hall was standing here when the blast hit…”

“He would’ve been knocked backward,” Minho concluded. He rises to his feet, pacing. “He didn’t intend for her to be at the bottom. He didn’t even know she was dead.”

You blink. “Wait. You’re saying Jung was already gone? Before the blast?”

Minho turns to the corkboard, taps a photo. “Look at the bruises again. Her face, her neck. That wasn’t an impact. That was controlled force.”

Realization crawls up your spine. “Then she wasn’t a casualty.”

“She was an obstacle.” He spins to face you, eyes sharp. “James Hall wasn’t alone.”

You nod slowly. “Room 525.”

He exhales, the air leaving his lungs like a weight falling. “She checked out past midnight, after the scene cleared. No reason to stay unless she was watching.”

“And she didn’t see everything,” you add. “But she saw enough.”

“No.” Minho’s voice darkens. “She did everything. Hall planted the explosive to force an evacuation. Standard smash-and-grab, targeting the vault during the chaos. But she…” He trails off.

“His wife,” you finish. “And she went after the mistress.” Silence sits between you, thick and electric. “She killed Jung Suyeon,” you breathe. “And when Hall realized what she’d done…”

“He panicked.” Minho crosses to the crate-staircase again, shoulders taut. “He ran. Not because he was guilty of murder, but because he wasn’t ready to be part of one.”

You run a hand through your hair, trying to keep up with the weight of it all. “So the explosion wasn’t just a cover-up for Hall’s crime. It was for her, too.”

Minho throws the paperweight again, this time from a new angle, compensating for a shockwave from behind. It lands exactly in the outline. You both freeze.

“That’s it,” he says. “That’s it.” he turns to you, and before you can speak, he cups your face with ink-stained hands and kisses you. It’s brief and breathless, but sure. It tastes like coffee, graphite, and the first clear answer in days. He pulls back, laughter catching in his throat. “We can prove it.”

You smile against his palm. “Then let’s write it down before the ghosts come back.”

Practically any wide surface in the lab was filled edge-to-edge, evidence tags clipped like warning flags across corkboards. You’ve been working for hours, evidence spread out like the inside of someone’s brain spilled onto the table. The replica stairwell stands in the corner, half-shrouded in shadows, a monument to the moment it all went wrong.

You blink against the fatigue in your eyes and stretch, only now realizing you’ve nodded off at your desk. A warm weight rests on your shoulders, Minho’s coat, heavy with the scent of rain and coffee. When you lift your head, he’s across from you, watching.

A faint smile plays on his lips. “You push yourself too hard,” he murmurs, voice low like it’s not meant to disturb the room. He has a mug in his hands, half-empty, and a folder open beside him.

You rub your eyes. “You know me too well.”

Minho’s gaze flicks back to the data. “While you were out, I found that the mosaic wasn’t contaminated.” He pushes his notes towards you, pointing towards his layered analysis of a smear taken from the banister of the third stair. “It’s residue from two separate cleaning agents. Same spot. Same surface.”

You frown. “So someone cleaned it…twice?”

Minho nods. “Clumsily. First with one tool, then another. But not to make it pristine. Just to make it confusing.”

You run your fingers along the margin of his notebook. “Multiple bodily fluids. But not from a crowd. From a fight.” You pull up the folder of Jung Suyeon’s profile. “Her. And the woman from 525.”

Minho exhales slowly. “Suyeon was the mistress.” He leans back, staring at the ceiling like the pieces are falling into place too fast. “I did some digging, and Hall’s real wife, Rebecca Hall, was in 525. She found out.”

“And followed Suyeon,” you say. “Cornered her. There was a struggle. Then a death.” You pause. “James didn’t plan for that, did he? He only planted the explosive, targeting the vault. But she–his wife–took it further.”

“She turned it into a murder scene,” Minho finishes. “Then tried to erase it.” The room is suddenly too quiet. The conclusion lies heavy in the air. Minho doesn’t speak for a while, but when he does, his voice is soft. “If James didn’t mean for any of this to happen…if all he planned was a robbery…do we still call it justice when he’s sentenced?”

You shift in your seat, watching him carefully. “Justice isn’t always clean,” you answer. “But clarity…” You reach for his hand, steady. “Clarity can still be kindness, especially to the deceased.”

He looks at you then, not like a colleague, not like a fellow investigator, but like someone remembering why he fell in love in the first place. His eyes are quiet, full of awe and something unspoken.

Outside, dawn threatens to rise. But here, there’s only the two of you surrounded by truth finally bleeding through the silence.

The lab smells like old binders and caffeine. You’ve been camped out here for hours, the walls covered with timelines, annotated autopsy photos, and a sequence of red circles around inconsistencies only you and Minho can now read like a second language.

He stands by the board with his sleeves rolled and tie loose, voice going hoarse from too many run-throughs. You sit opposite him, notes fanned out before you like tarot cards. Together, you’re refining a narrative, not just for the court, but for the truth itself.

“Again,” you command. “Walk me through the final five minutes.”

Minho nods. “Suyeon is already dead. Rebecca Hall killed her in the suite. James walks in, sees the aftermath, the blood, the angle of her neck, and panics. He thinks, ‘I can’t be here when this is found.’ He drags her to the staircase.”

“To stage a fall,” you add. “He thinks it’ll look like an accident. Maybe a misstep on her part. But he’s sloppy, doesn’t know how to move a body.”

Minho paces. “He’s running out of time. The explosives’s already been planted. He thinks if he moves fast enough, no one will ever know she didn’t die in the blast.”

You both look at the simulation diagram again. The chalk outline. The calculated distance.

“But he miscalculates the detonation radius,” you state. “The shockwave catches him.”

Minho turns to you. “He didn’t mean to kill her.”

“But he didn’t mean to save her, either,” you follow along.

The line settles between you like the click of a lock turning. He comes to sit beside you at the table, picking up your notes and flipping through them slowly.

“I don’t like courtroom work,” he muttered, half to himself.

You nudge his shoulder gently. “That’s why I wrote half your speech. Just don’t forget to breathe between points.”

He huffs a laugh, then scans the notes again. “And the pivot…when do we introduce Rebecca?”

You tap one of the folders. “After the access logs. The moment everyone thinks James is the monster who pushed Suyeon down the stairs. That’s when you say her name. ‘Rebecca Hall. Room 525.’” You pause. “Let them gasp. It’s earned.”

He nods, but goes quiet again. Not with doubt, with gravity.

You lean closer. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Minho stares at the pages, then lifts his gaze. “We’re not just telling a story, are we?”

“No. We’re correcting it.”

There’s a beat of stillness between you. Then, as he flips through the final page, you both say it at the same time. “She wasn’t supposed to die.”

You meet each other’s eyes, startled but not surprised. You grin, he laughs under his breath, head tilting as if hearing you echo his thoughts is the only thing keeping him going. When he takes your hand in his, it’s not dramatic, it’s steady and solid. Like every crime scene sketch, every bruise pattern and misread timestamp has led to this.

Minho squeezes your hand once. “We did right by her.”

You stare down at your joined hands before whispering, “and by us.”

The courtroom buzzes with sweat-damp tension. Reporters line the benches, pens poised midair, their eyes flicking between James Hall at the defendant’s table and Minho taking the stand in a freshly pressed suit with a thread of ink still smudged at his cuff. You sit on the plaintiff’s side, next to the Jungs, who had profusely thanked you and Minho for coming.

James Hall keeps his head bowed, fingers clenched into fists, knuckles turning white. Three seats behind him sits Rebecca Hall. Her lipstick is perfect, her gaze is unreadable. She wears grief like a borrowed coat. Elegant, clean, and ill-fitting. No one but you and Minho knows she has blood under her nails. You sit poised, not just as an observer, but the architect behind the case he’s about to unfold.

Minho takes the oath with a calm that doesn’t come from ease, but from exactitude. Every word he’s about to say, he has practiced with you, every chart, every diagram that your hands helped him build.

The prosecutor nods at him to start. “Mr. Choi, can you walk the court through your findings?”

Your heart pounds, not with nerves, but with tempo, matching Minho’s cadence beat for beat as he begins. He starts with the elevator logs, moves to the time stamps, shows where the fifth floor was skipped, and how Suyeon’s body landed too far for gravity alone to explain. Then comes the pivot.

Minho draws a breath, steady and even. “The woman found at the base of the stairs, Jung Suyeon, was not killed by the explosion.” He lets the sentence hang. “She was already dead when she fell. Her body had been moved. Her injuries were consistent with strangulation and blunt force trauma…not a fall. And the person who inflicted those injuries…” He turns, meets the jury’s eyes, and says it.

“Rebecca Hall. Room 525.”

The gasp you predicted rushes through the gallery like a storm surge, and even the defense flinches. Rebecca doesn’t blink.

Minho goes on. The smeared residues, the clumsy cleaning attempts, the way James panicked and got caught running from the scene. “He didn't know,” Minho continued. “He walked in after the fact, found her, realized what had happened, and instead of calling the police…he chose to stage the scene. To flee.”

You hear the line again in your mind. ‘He didn’t mean to kill her. But he didn’t mean to save her either.’

The defense tries to poke holes, tries to twist timestamps, to suggest contamination or projection. But your argument is airtight, your visuals are clean, and the simulation tests hold. Minho doesn’t waver. Neither do you.

When it’s over and the final witness has spoken, the jury takes less than a day. The verdict arrives in a room even more silent than it had been before.

James Hall: Guilty of destruction of property, unlawful possession of explosives, and obstruction of justice.

Rebecca Hall: Guilty of voluntary manslaughter.

Rebecca doesn’t look at her husband. James only lets out one sharp breath and closes his eyes.

You and Minho don’t cheer, don’t collapse onto each other. You simply turn to each other in the heavy hush that follows and find relief in the smallest things, like the warmth of his palm finding yours and the quiet in his eyes now that the noise is over.

As reports shout outside and court officers begin ushering the press away, Minho leans toward you, voice low enough to hide inside the shell of your ear. “We did right by her.”

You turn to meet his gaze, throat tight, and answer. “And by us.”

As you take your leave with Minho, the press crushes at the courthouse steps like waves, but Minho guides you to the side exit, away from flashing bulbs and loaded microphones. Your shoulders ache and your lungs feel burned, yet the air is clean in a way it hasn’t been in weeks.

A voice catches you just before you leave the building. “Wait–please.”

You both turn to find the Jungs not too far behind, formal clothes rumpled, eyes rimmed red. Suyeon’s father steps forward first, hands clasped tightly before him. “We…we weren’t sure we’d get to speak with you.”

Minho straightens beside you. “It was an honor to help with the case.”

Mrs. Jung steps in, her voice fragile but resolute. “We didn’t come today hoping for justice. We’ve sat through too many papers and headlines that turned our daughter into something small. Into a footnote.” She swallows. “But what you did…what you both did together…” Her hand covers her mouth for a moment before she reaches for yours. “You made her whole again.”

Minho lowers his head respectfully, but it’s you she’s looking at when she speaks next. “Suyeon hated lies. Even the small ones. She always said if she died, she’d rather people speak badly of who she really was than praise someone she never got to be.” She gave you a bittersweet smile. “She believed truth was the only form of love that lasts.”

You squeeze her hand gently. “Then we gave her exactly what she wanted. The truth.”

Mr. Jung nods, tears glinting unshed. “Thank you. For making sure she wasn’t buried in someone else’s story.”

Minho nods and pushes open the door for you. They didn't follow. They said what they needed to. You and Minho step outside together, the hush between you thick with something sacred.

Rain patters softly against the windows of your apartment like a metronome ticking slower than time itself. The apartment feels different now. Lived-in but no longer weighed down by maps, photographs, grief, and silence.

Minho shrugs off his coat with practiced ease and hangs it on the rack by the door. He sets down the final bound copy of the case report on your study desk. It lands with a quiet but decisive thud.

You don’t speak right away. You watch him from the threshold of the bedroom, your hair damp from the rain, your body pulled toward him by instinct rather than intent.

He pours two glasses of something dark and amber before taking a seat on the couch. You join him, settling against his side as if it were second nature. The lamplight glows gold between you, catching on the curve of his jaw as he exhales.

You lean your head on his shoulder, and he tilts slightly to meet you. Neither of you moves to turn on the TV or speak above a whisper. You both just breathe.

After a long moment, you ask, “why do you think she pushed you?”

Minho is quiet for a beat. “Because I wasn’t meant to find her killer.” You tilt your head up to meet his eyes. He’s not looking at you, he’s looking at the window, at the rain. “I was meant to see the truth.”

The silence that follows is not empty. It’s full of things unspoken. Sadness, clarity, gratitude, and love, too, in a shape neither of you knows quite how to name.

Later, you sit at your desk again, this time without the chaos. No diagrams, no maps, just the final case file, its cover crisp and clean, your handwriting steady as you pen the last few lines.

The window next to you is open an inch. The gaslights outside cast flickering halos on the cobblestone below. Somewhere, a streetcar groans to a halt. The city breathes in the hush between storms.

Minho stands behind you, his presence quiet but grounding. He’s not reading over your shoulder, just watching the skyline, arms folded, the rise and fall of his chest steady beneath his shirt. There’s weariness in his frame, but peace, too, like something has finally settled.

You finish the last sentence, dot the last period, and close the file. The slap of the papers landing on top of each other sounds final. You look up, out the window, following Minho’s gaze. “Do you believe in ghosts?” you ask without a hint of speculation.

He doesn’t answer right away. For a moment, you think he did hear you. But then he speaks. “No,” he pauses. “But I believe the dead don’t always rest when we get their story wrong.”

Your hand goes still on the desk. Minho reaches down and finds it without needing to look. His fingers hook into yours, warm, familiar, and steady. You hold onto him, and neither of you says anything more.

Outside, the rain has stopped, but the streets still glisten. Street lamps glow through the mist. Together, you watch the city breathe. And somewhere, someone like Jung Suyeon, someone who loved the truth, even when it hurt, can finally rest in peace.

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