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there-must-be-a-lock · 4 years ago

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Rain Check

Spencer Reid x (gender neutral) Reader

Word Count: 2860

Warnings: Lots of sexual tension and pining and ~heated glances~ or whatever but no actual sexy times. Author plays fast and loose with the canonical details of Spencer’s teaching sabbatical, as well as the logistics of grad school. There’s a teacher-student thing going on, but no weird age gap or whatever. Excessive objectification of Spencer’s hands, because really, what else do you expect from me?

A/N: For the “mutual pining” square on my @cmbingo card!

You trail off. Spencer’s staring like he’s waiting for you to say something else, even though you’ve been rambling for a while now.

“Sorry,” you say sheepishly.

“For what?”

“You probably didn’t need to know all of that.”

He blinks, shaking his head with a quiet laugh.

Something about him makes you want to open up; it’s been almost an hour of nonstop conversation, and you haven’t told him what you’re studying or even where you’re studying, but you feel like you’ve known him for years. You’ve talked about your favorite books and assorted high school traumas. He keeps insisting he’s not good at small talk anyway.

“I really like listening to you talk,” he says, soft and sweet. “I just… I like watching you talk, too. I noticed your eyelashes and — and I got distracted.”

Your cheeks feel hot, suddenly. You know the feeling.

“Oh,” you manage.

There’s something about his hands; they’re just very fucking distracting, and every time he tucks his hair behind his ears, you lose your train of thought. It doesn’t help that he keeps absently-mindedly twirling a pen as he talks, long dexterous fingers moving with precise little movements, and — yeah. Distracting is putting it mildly. There’s this constant low flicker of want in your gut.

“It’s been a long time since I enjoyed myself this much in a bar,” he admits, with a self-conscious little half-smile.

“Me too.”

Probably helps you’re not actually inside the bar. You’re tucked in the corner of the deck, leaning on the railing, and even though it’s crowded, you’ve barely noticed your surroundings. Every time you look at him, the rest of the world feels distant, like one of those perfect movie moments where the crowd parts and the hero and heroine walk toward each other in slow motion, meeting in a spotlight as everything else fades away.

It’s just… those moments don’t happen, not in real life and certainly not to you. It’s never as simple as that: see — want — have.

You can’t help but hope that this time might be different.

Spencer’s smiling, and the way he looks at you with those big soft eyes makes you feel like you’re standing in a spotlight. It’s not a bad thing, necessarily. It’s just unusual, this jittery, excited, not-exactly-stage-fright thing happening in your chest.

You have to remind yourself to breathe.

The pause stretches a bit too long, and in an effort to fill the silence you blurt out, “What are you thinking about?”

He hesitates, and his tongue slides along his lower lip, drawing your attention to his plush pink mouth as he says, “I was thinking—”

“Spence! There you are!” someone says loudly, and you’d be embarrassed by the way you jump, startled, if Spencer didn’t do the exact same thing.

“Hey. Emily. Um… what’s up?” His voice cracks. He looks like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar; it’s flattering and oddly endearing.

“We have a case.” The woman seems to be holding back a smile as she glances apologetically at you. “Meet you up front.”

Spencer is visibly disappointed as he turns back to you. He gives you a helpless sort of shrug, and for a second, neither of you say anything.

Your throat feels tight as your eyes lock on Spencer’s parted lips again. It’s been such a long time since you felt this drawn to a person; his closeness feels hypnotic.

“I’d like to see you again,” he says shyly. “I — can you—”

“Phone number?” you supply. His hands flutter and his eyebrows rise, like he forgot, for a second, that cell phones exist. Then he pats his pockets, pulls his out, and passes it to you. Once your number is saved, you give it back with a small smile.

“I’ll probably be out of town for a few days, and then — maybe next weekend,” he says.

“I’d really like that,” you admit, trying to make yourself take a step back. “This was — yeah. I’m glad I met you.”

“Spencer!” someone says, from the door, and he waves them off without turning to look.

“Earlier, when you asked—” He pauses, frowning, shifting his weight like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. “I was thinking about how much I’d like to kiss you.”

His voice is soft and husky, and it cracks on the last word like maybe his throat is tight too. You feel hot all over.

You never even shook hands; there’s been no physical contact whatsoever between the two of you, and now your head is spinning with the urge to reach out, to touch, to get closer... but it feels like you missed your opportunity for that — it doesn’t feel right, not when you know it’d be over much too quickly. You can tell Spencer feels it too.

Once two magnets snap together, it’s a lot harder to separate them.

“Rain check on that,” you say breathlessly, and he nods, raising one hand in an awkward wave as he steps back.

This is Spencer, by the way. I’m really glad I met you.

The text comes in just an hour or so later, when you’re sitting in the cab on your way home, and you smile so wide it feels like your cheeks might split with it.

The giddiness lasts until Tuesday morning, when you walk into the first session of your six-week-intensive graduate seminar and see Spencer at the white board, writing down page numbers for your reading assignment.

Your eyes lock, and there’s another of those moments where you can’t see anything other than him. It’s not so pleasant this time, though.

Spencer drops his pen, and you promptly forget how to walk, stumbling and spilling coffee down your front. You curse so loudly that the rest of the class turns to stare at you.

To add insult to injury, the only open seat is directly across from Spencer’s.

Fantastic.

You spend the next hour and a half trying very hard to avoid eye contact, and for the most part, you’re successful. He doesn’t seem to want to look at you either.

You do sneak one glance, though, and he’s just as pretty in the harsh fluorescent light of the classroom as he was in the golden glow of the bar lights. It seems really fucking unfair.

If it were any other class, you would consider dropping it, but you were lucky to get a spot; this is big for your resume. It’s a special, one-time-only class, and your advisor had described the guest professor as “a genius, and one of the leading names in his field.”

...fuck.

Spencer dismisses the class. You start packing hurriedly, convinced he’s going to ask you to stay back, but you get out the door without incident. You’re already halfway down the hall when you feel your phone buzz in your pocket.

Can we talk?

It’d be so easy to lie, say you have somewhere to be, put the rejection off for another day, but instead you take a deep breath and turn around.

Spencer is sitting right where he was, except now he’s cross-legged in the chair, twirling a pen and frowning at it like it contains the mysteries of the entire universe. He gives you a twitchy attempt at a smile, eyes wide with worry.

You move closer, sitting down next to him, trying to ignore those fucking fingers as he plays with the pen. This would be a whole lot easier if he would stop doing that, because it’s just like the bar — the same hot, fluttering sensation low in your belly, no matter how much you try to ignore it now.

“I thought you worked for the FBI,” you mumble and he lets out a laugh that sounds more like a sigh.

“I do,” he says ruefully. “I just — also teach, sometimes?”

“Yeah. I got that.”

His tongue does that slow swipe across his lower lip. You bite your own lip, trying not to stare, and Spencer drops the pen with a clatter.

“Sorry,” he says, shoving both hands through his hair. “I’m so sorry if I — if this is — is this going to make you uncomfortable?”

You frown, looking at him blankly for a second, because that was so not the reaction you expected. “Uncomfortable?”

“Knowing that I — that I’m attracted to you? I’m aware of the power imbalance inherent in the situation and I promise I would never—”

“Present tense?” you blurt out, and Spencer stops, blinking at you.

“Well… yes. I thought that was obvious. I meant it, you know; I don’t just meet people like that,” he says, agitated. “It’s usually difficult for me to talk to strangers, and you’re — you’re just — yes. I’m attracted to you.”

“I figured you would think I was immature, and — I mean, it’s such a fucking cliche,” you laugh, digging the heels of your hands into your eyes. “I usually try to avoid modeling my life on Van Halen songs.” He gives you a blank look and you add hastily, “Never mind. Point is, a student with a crush, throwing themselves at a professor? Seems like a recipe for embarrassment.”

“Oh,” he says, as a smile spreads across his face. “So… maybe after the class is over, we could—”

“Yeah?”

Spencer is blushing. Jesus pogo-jumping Christ, you want to kiss him.

“It’s just six weeks. We’ll keep it strictly professional — appropriate — for six weeks.” The words are quiet, all husky and promising, and you can’t tell whether it’s intentional or not, but something about that tone sounds very fucking inappropriate. “And then… we’ll take that rain check.”

You nod and clear your throat. “You’re on.”

SIx weeks, two classes a week, ninety minutes per class. Easy enough.

It’s not easy. Not in the fucking slightest.

Part of you wishes he could be a bad teacher, or something. If he was boring — if he had an obnoxious laugh — something. Instead, every goddamn minute spent in his classroom seems like another reason to fall for this guy.

And yeah, sure, he’s pretty. You catch yourself staring, sometimes: his long lashes, the hint of gold in his eyes, the sharp angles of his jawline, the messy hair… and you’re not the only one. It seems like the entire class is crushing on him by the end of the second meeting, boys and girls alike, and maybe you would make fun of the Indiana Jones-style lash-fluttering that’s aimed his way if you weren’t guilty of doing the same thing yourself.

Once word gets around that there’s a cute new professor in the criminology department, rumors start to fly left and right. You’ve heard other students talking about him, speculating about the apparently “way more badass than you’d think” Doctor Reid. You hear stories about how he got shot once — was kidnapped and tortured — overdosed on heroin — saved a train full of people by talking down a lunatic with a gun — hooked up with a movie star — went to jail for murder — you name it, every story more far-fetched than the last.

Well, he did mention getting shot one time, but you’re pretty sure the rest are too absurd to be true.

Either way, it’s not the looks or the legends that have you hopelessly head-over-heels.

It’s the way he lights up when he gets started on a subject that interests him. It’s the joy in his expression when a student asks a good question, or when they draw the right conclusion; his smile is bright and brilliant every time.

The first time one of those smiles is aimed in your direction, along with a half-shouted, “Correct!” and an excited wave of his pen, you’re just about blinded. It quickly becomes one of the driving goals of your day-to-day life: make Spencer smile.

He’s beautiful, in those moments when he’s grinning and enthusiastic, but the quiet moments are even worse.

Sometimes he stares as you work your way through a train of thought, eyes glinting as he fixes them on you with a breathtaking intensity and this fierce pride. Sometimes, his voice is firm and sharp, and sometimes when he says things like, “Yes, exactly like that,” it sounds so much dirtier than it should.

Sometimes — sometimes — once or twice or a dozen times — you fantasize about that voice. You’re only human.

You never realized there was such a thing as a “praise kink,” but… yeah. That about sums it up.

At first you worry that he’ll lose interest: that you’ll say something stupid or he’ll find someone else, because in your experience with men, they don’t wait around for six hours, let alone six weeks, once they’ve realized they can’t immediately have what they want. Instead, it only gets worse as the weeks pass.

It’s nothing obvious, nothing that could be labeled as inappropriate — you still haven’t touched Spencer, not so much as an accidental brush of his hand against yours when he passes back a graded essay. It’s just that his gaze lingers, whenever he looks in your direction, just a moment longer than it would on anyone else. Every time your eyes meet, you have a hard time remembering that the rest of the world exists. It might as well just be the two of you. There’s this heat between you, this crackling electricity, like touching a live wire every single time, like you can’t pull yourself away to break the current.

It’s the longest six weeks of your life.

“That’s our time,” Spencer says, glancing at his watch. “I’ll get your essays marked and returned to you before break, and on Sunday evening, I’ll submit your final grades, at which point—” His eyes flick to you, and you bite your lip. “— my responsibilities as your professor are complete. It’s been a pleasure.”

“Hi,” Spencer says, without preamble, when you pick up the phone on Saturday evening. “This is — um. This is Spencer?”

You roll your eyes, but you’re grinning so hard you can barely say, “Yeah, I know.”

“Right. Um… where are you?”

“Just dropped off a few library books.”

“I got grades done a little early,” he says hesitantly. “Do you want to… meet me at my office, maybe? We could go out for dinner?”

You’ve never been there before, but you know where it is. Open office hours with Spencer always seemed like a disaster waiting to happen, because your self-control only goes so far.

“Sounds good,” you say, voice strained, heart racing. “Be there soon.”

You walk fast.

The building is mostly deserted, at this hour, and as you walk quickly down the hall, the catch and release of breath in your lungs seems too loud for your quiet surroundings.

You might be panicking a little bit. There’s still a part of you that’s just waiting for him to change his mind, to realize how dorky and awkward you are, to find someone more polished or accomplished or… something — fuck, this seems to good to be true.

Spencer has one of the old, cramped temporary offices used by visiting professors, and even though he’s only been here for a month and a half, he’s amassed quite a collection of books in the small space. When you step through the open door, he’s got his sleeves rolled up as he places a couple books gently in a box. He runs his hands through his hair with a sigh, making it even more hopelessly touseled.

“Hey,” you say, and he turns around, wide-eyed and nervous for a moment before a smile — one of the brilliant too-bright ones you’ve become so fond of — transforms his face.

“Hi! Um, I’ll come back tomorrow to finish cleaning, I was just — we could go out, I don’t have to — dinner? Are you hungry?” He picks up a pen from the cluttered desk, twirling it like he just really needs something to do with his hands; he seems just as anxious as you feel. It’s comforting, for some reason. At least you’re both awkward dorks.

“Not hungry,” you say shyly. You close the door, slow and deliberate.

Spencer’s eyes widen and then go dark, all heavy-lidded and heated.

He drops the pen, closes the distance between you in two long strides, and cups your face in his hands before kissing you, deep and urgent, dizzyingly perfect. It’s desperate, after all this time, all that pent-up longing and suppressed electricity surging through you all at once, making you gasp at the sharp incredible sting of his teeth nipping your lower lip.

It’s one hundred percent worth the wait.

You’re both breathless when he breaks the kiss, but you sway closer anyway, trying to follow his mouth, and blink like you’re coming out of a trance. His lips are red and swollen.

“Rain check on dinner?” he asks. His voice is suggestive and smoky — there’s nothing appropriate about it.

When you nod, he just reaches behind you and locks the door.

Smutty bit is now here!

More CM fic here!

#cmbingo21 #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #spencer reid #spencer reid fic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction

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razrbladekiss · 3 years ago

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Tyrants | Chapter One - Disclosure

A/N: This was supposed to be a Jax x Fem!OC fanfic, but it took a little turn as I started to write more of it. So, it’ll be Tig x Fem!OC, but Jax does play a very important role in this.

SUMMARY: A sick turn of events sees Isla Telford thrown in at the deep end, battling to govern the sudden pressures of all that her father's club decidedly bestow upon her.

WORD COUNT: 2.7k

WARNINGS: Brief mentions of murder, the guy that got his ass shit is in this one. Jax and Tig get their own warnings, too, for obvious reasons.

The older I get, the more I realize that age doesn't bring wisdom. It only brings weary.

John Teller was always so astute.

His judicious character befell his son, too. Jax had that same perceptive nature as his old man--everyone would comment on that.

To Isla, it was admirable. For Jackson Teller to be a man of such stature--to hold such a reputation--and to remain somewhat level-headed through it all, was only something she could commend.

She'd seen many of her father's friends crumble under the pressure of Samcro, unable to balance the weight of living with the responsibility and commitment to the club, and meet their unfortunate demise--in some not-so extreme cases.

But Jax was different. He'd always been different.

Maybe that wasn't so great, however.

"You're fucking insane, Isla."

"Not insane." She mumbled, sifting through the box of shitty medical supplies that Gemma had left atop the pool table last night.

"Just trying to patch this shit up so Hayes doesn't kick the fucking bucket before Jax gets back here."

Tig snarled. "But it might be infected, and the bullet is still in this dude's ass--"

Isla whipped her head to glare at the man, her eyes wide, forehead slick with sweat--and a little blood, too.

"Shut the fuck up."

"Isla--"

"Tig, with all due respect, unless you're gonna help, please get the fuck outta here."

"That's not gonna suffice," he pointed out, referring to the medical tape, ignoring her scolding.

She wanted to throttle him. Truly, Isla was willing to wrap her crimson-coated fingertips around Tig's neck and squeeze the absolute life out of that man.

"I know." Her lips kneaded together in frustration, watching her father dab an alcohol-infused pad on the wound. "But unless you've got any better ideas, then we're just gonna have to keep reapplying this shit."

"But the infection, Isla."

"But the lack of medical equipment, Tig."

He slapped his palm against the table and glared at her, pointedly. "Why've you gotta be such a bitch all the time, huh?"

"Watch it, Trager." Piqued, Chibs growled.

"I'm not a bitch all the time," she dismissed her father, wiping at her palm with a wet rag. "I'm actually able to control the way I act around other people."

"Oh, fuck you--"

"Christ!"

The Scot's yell was muffled by the cap of his whiskey bottle, his hand pressing against Cameron's skin as the man screamed into the cloth Isla had placed underneath his head.

"God, for fucks sake, both of you just pack it in."

"Chibs--"

"Shut the fuck up. You're a fucking geriatric and you're spending your morning bickering with an almost thirty-year-old. Grow up, Tig."

Despite laughing at his comment, and enjoying the irritation wash over the other man's face, she felt bad.

For riling her father up--who was simply trying to help the innocent Irishman caught in the literal crossfire--she felt fucking awful. Especially because he never seemed to get mad at her all too often.

Tig, though...That was a different story entirely.

"I'm gonna go see if Clay has any more shit lying 'round here." She declared, throwing a damp towel onto the table, backing out of the room.

Her heart was in her throat, stomach in damn knots. Isla wasn't confident that Cameron was going to make it--not with such a deep wound.

And in his ass, too? Jesus. She wasn't confident at all.

Of course, she'd seen men get shot. Her own father, for one. But she hadn't seen somebody have to go so long without actual medical attention.

Chibs was ex-army med, but there was only so much a man could've done with a bottle of liquor, gauze, and a towel.

She was relieved that the bullet hit Cameron and not Clay, though. As sick as it sounded, she was so fucking glad that he'd managed to dodge the line of fire--initially intended for his own skull--and come out completely unscathed.

But for every ounce of relief she'd felt, an even more fervid sense of anger prevailed at the thought of Jax taking so damn long with those medical supplies he'd sought to get last night.

Gemma mentioned something about heading to the hospital--or a friend's house, or something--but Isla wasn't paying any mind to the woman as she, and Chibs, were trying all ways to stop the bleeding coming from Cameron's ass cheek.

It was the most bizarre turn of events she'd ever experienced.

One minute, Isla was sipping on a glass of wine while she eagerly awaited the spirited ping of her tiny microwave oven, ready to spend a rare--though well fucking deserved--night alone.

However, things took a drastic turn when she received a call from Tig--on behalf of a very busy Chibs--casually requesting her assistance because the Mayans had tried to assassinate Clay.

But Tig failed to mention that the man was completely fine.

She'd spent fifteen minutes on the way over mentally preparing herself, wondering what hell she'd walk into when she set foot into the clubhouse. But it was normal--strangely so.

Isla wasn't a professional, she didn't exactly know how to handle such a trauma, but she trusted her father and she just wanted to make sure he had a helping hand.

God knows that Tig wouldn't have been very much use, and Juice was a little nervous--though, he was doing incredibly well throughout the ordeal regardless of his internal apprehension.

"How's it looking?" Gemma threw at Isla, getting to her feet.

"Bloody."

She quickly scanned the room, taking in the uncomfortably sparse bar. It wasn't usually so empty, so quiet.

Clay, Gemma, and Juice. That was it. Not even Piney--not even Epps.

"Is he doing okay?"

It was still early in the day, though. She guessed that they'd pop in once they properly came around.

"He's better than he was last night." The brunette nodded. "Dad is certain the laceration is gonna get infected if we leave it any longer without trying to get the bullet out--"

"You've gotta wait 'til Jax gets back here, Isla, we can't risk Hayes dying on us."

"I know, Clay. He's just fucking tired--he's been up all night. We need a real medic on the scene before something bad happens. It's only a matter of time."

He mumbled something to himself that only Gemma seemed to catch, but Isla didn't particularly give a damn at that point. Like Chibs, she was exhausted.

The tattered and torn plaid shirt she had thrown over a random tank top--now smeared with another man's blood--was wrenched between her fingers as she pulled it off, folding it not-so-neatly.

She hadn't dealt with such a bloody wound in a while. Not since her mother's palm, decorated with shards of glass, was in dire need of stitches and her father was across the country, unable to offer his medical assistance.

"I'll grab one of Jax's shirts for you--"

"No, Gemma, it's okay," she smiled, taking a seat on one of the couches opposite her.

The older woman pinched her eyebrows together skeptically, watching Isla shift. "I insist."

"It's fine." Isla was adamant. "I'm gonna head home as soon as Jax gets back here--if he gets back here--so, really, it's fine."

A minimal amount of already dried blood was spread over her wrists and fingers, and the excess had been rubbed off on her crimson flannel, so she didn't particularly feel bad about making any mess.

Though, she shouldn't have felt bad. Not after she'd been coerced into helping and eventually receiving that shitty reception from Tig.

"Aren't you cold?" She questioned, waiting for Isla to capitulate, but she never did.

The thought of wearing one of Jax's shirts--after it being given to her by his fucking mother--didn't sit right with her for some reason. Plus, she didn't particularly feel like walking out of that building wearing the damn reaper on her back.

She didn't want to flaunt their patch. Not any more than she already had been for the last ten years.

"Where the fuck is he?"

Clay glared at the clock on the wall, realizing they'd been without the Vice President for hours. In an attempt to put him at ease, Gemma ran a hand along his shoulder.

Isla could only watch them--admire, perhaps.

"He told us he was gonna swing by Tara's place for the equipment. But that was last night, man." Juice shrugged, circling the lip of his beer bottle with his thumb.

She felt her throat thicken with a sick sense of trepidation. She hadn't heard that name in years.

"Tara?" She stuttered, feeling Gemma's piercing glare.

The woman hated Jax's first love, though she never said it aloud. Isla knew her perception of her, however, and she'd started to feel the exact same as the years went on.

Bitch.

"Yeah, y'know, Tara Knowles--"

Her heart sank--fuck that, it dove straight to the deep caverns of her chest, throbbing away into nothing. Until she felt completely void of all emotion. Completely fucking numb.

"I know her, Juice." Her response came hastily, snappy. "I'm sorry. I just didn't expect you to say that."

He shrugged it off. "It's alright. I wasn't expecting her to be back in town, either. I thought you already knew."

Suddenly uncomfortable, Isla's head shook.

The crow situated at the bottom of her spine began to smolder, blistering away at her skin until she physically flinched.

It was a brilliant idea at the time, getting a matching tattoo with Jax's old lady--the one woman she truly adored and trusted, never once feeling an ounce of malice toward.

Because that was a rare thing for Isla, and she wanted their friendship--and relation to Samcro--to prevail for eternity, she supposed.

But as time went on and Tara decided to distance, and eventually alienate, herself from the club, an ample sense of regret persisted for fucking months.

Isla loathed her ink. She hated the negative connotation of the crow she once lauded, and the mere idea of that thing being slapped above her ass forever churned her stomach.

It wasn't one of her finest moments, she had to admit. But she was young and extremely fucking dumb. She'd bet top dollar that Tara felt the same--if she hadn't gotten the crow covered up already.

"Jesus, Jax, where were you?!"

Her eyes flicked upward, attention on the blonde as he sauntered across the wooden floor of the bar.

She hadn't even noticed his presence until Clay spoke, but she soon started to heed how Jax was trembling a bit with every step that he took.

It wasn't obvious. To most people, the slight shake of his wrist would've gone completely unnoticed. But to Isla--to the most observant woman in Charming--his discomfort was striking.

Jax ignored him, stomping his way toward the back room. His line of sight never satisfied Isla's. It didn't even come close to it, either.

Something had happened. It was obvious that, in the time he had been with Tara, he'd encountered something grizzly enough to chill him to the bone.

Which was saying something, what with the horrific shit that he'd already seen in his time.

"Jax!" Clay yelled, following closely behind him. "Hey, asshole, where the fuck did you put the bag--"

"I've got it."

If she had the option, Isla would've allowed the floor to swallow her fucking whole.

"Tara." Pissed, Gemma acknowledged. "You're here because?"

"I asked her to help, mom."

"But Chibs had it covered. He just needed some actual instruments--"

"Gemma, quit it."

She simply nodded at her son, not wanting to cause another problem that she'd have to fix later--which, honestly, Isla was shocked to see.

"He's in there--"

"I know." Jax cut her short, ushering Tara to the back of the clubhouse--striving to get her into the room before she heeded Isla.

But she did.

The first person she clocked--aside from Clay--was Isla Telford, the woman she had purposely alienated herself from ten fucking years ago.

It wasn't anything that she'd particularly done to Tara, more like the crowd she ran with--and the way her loyalties never seemed to lay very closely to her friends, or anything outside of the club.

Isla wasn't a part of Samcro--she didn't want to be a part of Samcro--but her coalition was strong enough to convince anybody that she was more than merely a daughter of a Sgt. at Arms.

She had been brought up around the Sons--her father's choice, of course--and when her mother passed, she had no choice but to dive a little bit deeper into that world. But, as expected, it was constantly under the watchful eye of her old man.

She was dedicated to them. They were, essentially, family, and she was an honorary member.

"Isla." Jax mumbled, nodding his head toward the entrance of the clubhouse as he closed the back-door. "Outside."

He pulled a carton of cigarettes out of his leather vest, shaking the box as he strived to seem a little less suspicious to Clay and his mother.

The blonde wobbled to her feet--knees weak after hours of standing--while simultaneously pulling her bloodied flannel back onto svelte, freckled arms, recognizing that the chill was to hit her the second she stepped onto the gravel.

Jax was casual while he strutted ahead, taking long strides that Isla found fucking impossible to keep up with.

He pushed the door to close behind her, offering a cigarette that she hastily declined.

"What's she doing here?" Was how she decided to break the silence, her eyes searching for a hint of something written on his face.

But there was nothing. Not an ounce of emotion--scarily so.

"She's fixing Cameron up--"

"Not at the clubhouse, Jax. I meant back in Charming."

He ran a thumb across his lower lip, trying to soften his gaze on Isla, but it was futile. He looked discomposed--unsettled.

"She's uh--she's workin' at the hospital now." She started to nod, waiting for his elaboration. It never came, however.

"Oh, that's nice. I wonder what happened in Chicago...Do you know why she's back here? Or how long she's gonna be staying in town--"

"You sound like my fucking mother--give it a break with the thirty-seven questions about Tara, damnit."

He snarled, heeding the distaste of his words the second she glowered at him.

"Excuse you?"

"I didn't call you out here for a sweet little conversation, Isla, I called you 'cause I need your help--"

"With what?"

Jax's hand hooked onto the back of his neck while he tilted his head to look upward, thinking of a way--any fucking way--to explain just what damn mess he'd found himself entwined with over the course of the last twenty-four hours.

He didn't know what to say or how to say it--if he should've fucking said it. He trusted Isla with his life--always had--but sometimes he appreciated that she mightn't have appreciated finding herself tangled within Jax's boisterous, at times frightening, life.

But it was too late for that. She'd been dragged through the deepest shit and wasn't crumbling that easily.

"Jax--"

"Kohn." He stated simply, waiting for the cogs of her brain to begin turning.

"What about him? You got in trouble with the ATF or something? Because we can handle that--"

"I already did." Jax laughed humorlessly, finally meeting Isla's line of sight.

The skin underneath his eyes was red raw, blotchy and irritated after he had used the sleeve of his hoodie to scrub away the tears he'd shed.

The tears he hadn't wanted to shed, but had fallen freely--uncontrollably--from those cerulean hues Isla never tired of looking at.

"What do you mean by that?" Nervously, she quizzed.

He didn't even have to say anything. She fucking knew. She knew exactly what he meant by that, but there was a tiny morsel of something within her that hoped and prayed that he'd declare that her gut feeling was wrong.

But he couldn't. Because it was right. Like always, Isla's intuition didn't fail her.

"Jax, honey, what did you do--"

"I killed Kohn."

#sons of anarchy #sons of anarchy fandom #sons of anarchy fanfiction #sons of anarchy fic #tig trager #tig trager fanfiction #tig trager fic #tig trager x oc #jax teller #jax teller x oc #jax teller fanfiction

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moontheoretist · 3 years ago

Quote

When she and Tony Stark meet it is very clear that he was not expecting her there, “Jesus Christ, who the hell are you?” he asks, hand pressed to the space over his heart. His right arm is in a sling and that does not look good. “Is there something wrong with your arm?” she asks. It did not appear to be in a cast and she saw no bruising. His breathing was restricted though and that did not bode well either. She narrows her eyes at the thought of someone harming her King’s soul mate but she blinks, letting the anger go. Now was not the time or place. “None of your business, and you are?” he snaps, glaring at her suspiciously. “Dora Milaje,” she responds vaguely, “and I am here on the behalf of King T’Challa.” “T’Challa can fuck off,” Tony snarls viciously and her eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me,” she says in a dangerous tone. Soul mate or not she would not allow him to insult her King. “Anyone who is involved with Steve Rogers is no use to me,” he snaps. Her eyebrows remain raised, “I understand that Steve Rogers has caused you pain, but I do not understand how that extends to King T’Challa,” she says calmly. Perhaps too calmly but Stark either does not understand the danger or he does not care. Stark rolls his eyes, “I’ve spent the last five years dealing with people who blindly follow Steve Rogers around like a bunch of fucking lap dogs, I don’t need to have one more person tell me that I can never compare. I know that. No need to have anyone else remind me,” he says bitterly, his lip curling up in disgust. That changed things. “I here because the King is not sure what to believe about you. He and the Dora Milaje agree that the information about you is too conflicting to draw a reasonable conclusion. So I am here to try and find the truth, to see what you’re really like. I must admit that I do not like you,” she says honestly. Perhaps the man would take the honesty well. He does not, instead he flinches hard but the expression is gone very quickly. “Great, then you’re just like everyone else. Go report back to your king, tell him I’m as worthless as everyone says I am,” Tony says, turning and walking towards his kitchen. “I do not like many people, that does not mean that you are not a good person. And my personal opinion of you means little when you are not meant for me,” she says. Tony’s shoulders tense at that but he turns slowly to face her. “What do you want to know?” He looks exhausted, like he hasn’t slept in days and she supposes that it is very likely that he has not. The man had chronic insomnia and she suspected it made his very obvious PTSD worse. The dismissals from everyone else around him, including his closest friends, probably did not help the situation. “Why did you support the Accords?” she asks bluntly. Cutting to the heart of the issue was what she was good at, and it saved her time and effort beating around the bush. “Steve told me that I needed to trust people, to listen to them. He was right, so when the opportunity came to listen I did, or at least I tired but apparently that wasn’t right either,” he snaps bitterly, that disgusted look back on his face. “You feel guilty for Ultron,” she says and it is not a question. He flinches at the bot’s name, he certainly felt guilty for being the creator of such chaos. “Of course I do, who the fuck wouldn’t? I nearly ended the world when I ran that program and I should have said something to someone,” he says. She finds that curious, his anger at Steve and his acceptance that Steve was right in his conclusions about his communication skills or lack thereof. “But you did talk to someone, Dr. Banner. I know that he is currently missing but surely you count your communication with him as something,” she says. Banner appeared to be the only Avenger who was not adverse to Tony. The two bonded over science and Tony’s lack of fear of him. “Lot of good that did,” Tony mumbles. “But you spoke to him and he agreed that it was a good enough idea to try,” she says. “So what if I did? Everyone blamed me for it anyways, might as well take the blame. Bruce said it could go wrong and I didn’t listen, I should have.” He leans against the counter and sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just because your team blamed only you does not mean it was fair. It is not like they are lacking in recklessness and stupidity themselves. What kind of moron releases a brainwashed assassin onto the world? Steve Rogers is very lucky that seems to have had no consequences. And his taking the word of Bucky Barnes as proof of five other Winter Soldiers was not wise either, the man hardly knows what is real and what is not, he is still partially under the control of HYDRA conditioning. Only a fool would take the man’s word at face value. I believe that your holding off until you found real proof of the Winter Soldiers’ existence made you the most intelligent and clear headed of the group, at least in that moment. The rest of the team has far too much faith in a man who is living in nostalgia. Bucky Barnes does not, nor will he ever, exist again as Rogers knew him. He should accept that,” she says bluntly. It was a harsh truth, yes, but a man would never be the same after a trauma like that. Rogers himself was more than likely not the same man he used to be so he should not expect Bucky to be. He should also accept the reality of that trauma on his friend because living in his memories was not going to help Bucky Barnes. Accepting reality, no matter how harsh, was the only way to help Barnes heal from his wounds. It would not be easy for anyone but it was the most beneficial. “You… think I’m the smartest and most clear headed of the group?” Tony asks, looking beyond shocked. “In that moment, yes. You are not without your mistakes but that was not one of them. Tell me more about why you chose to support the Accords,” she says. This time Tony pauses for a long time and she lets him gather himself. It was important to make an accurate judgment. Finally Tony looks up, “Steve was right about listening to people. Sometimes I go too fast and I don’t think things through right, I’ve done it time and time again, even when I was supporting the Accords. I’ll make a snap decision that looks good at the time but I don’t talk to the people I’m supposed to be helping, I just make a decision and assume it’s for the best when it isn’t. I had one hundred and seventeen countries telling me to slow down and stop and I didn’t think that was something I should ignore. They weren’t making unreasonable requests, they just wanted a say in how we ran things and you can’t help people if you aren’t willing to listen to what they need you to do. I’ve learned that now,” he says. “Rogers thinks the best hands are still your own, you do not agree?” she asks, curious. Tony rolls his eyes, “no, he thinks the best hands are still his own, not our own regardless of what he says. You saw what happened when someone said no, it didn’t line up with his beliefs and instead of reaching out and asking to change things, or asking why things looked the way thy did he threw the whole damn thing out. Besides, if we’re talking histories here I have a near one hundred percent fail rate. The best hands aren’t my own so I thought maybe if I had someone else vetting my decisions they might be better but if that person isn’t Steve Rogers Steve doesn’t think it’s good enough.” Harsh words, but they were mostly true. She, too, found the Captain too rigid in his values. “And the agendas he spoke of?” she asks. He was not wrong for being suspicious of the government. They were corrupt, as near all systems were outside of Wakanda and even there they had their issues. At this Tony looks down, “I put too much faith in a system I know doesn’t really work that well. But we aren’t apolitical people, we know what the UN’s agendas were, they were clearly written on paper and we could have worked with that, used it to our advantage. But the fuck if I know what their agendas are. Natasha flip-flops more than a fucking fish out of water, so does Clint, I have no idea what Wanda’s thinking, you already know what I think of Steve, and Sam… well he’s an alright guy. I think he’s an idiot for following Steve around like a lost bird but he’s a good man. I know I made mistakes but that bullshit letter Steve sent me proves he doesn’t care.” She did not read the letter so she is unsure what he is talking about, “would you care to explain?” she asks, trying to be gentle. The man was raw, in pain, and it was bound to end badly for him. She was sure she had her answers but she was curious about the letter and more information would not hurt. “Oh he’s glad I’m back on the compound, obviously I moved back out, but he doesn’t like to think of me being alone because the Avengers were more mine than his. Pretty sure the fact that they’ve all always hated me minus maybe Bruce indicates that that’s a bunch of shit but whatever. And he has faith in people, in individuals? Really? Because I didn’t see any of that faith when people, individuals, were reaching out to us to talk to them and he slapped them down because what they wanted wasn’t what he wanted. And he’s never had faith in me. Never. I find it really hard to accept that he gives a damn about hurting my feelings, especially when he’s always assumed that I didn’t have any. And his stupid ‘I wish we agreed on the Accords but we didn’t so fuck you’ at the end was a real nice touch. He might as well have wrote ‘lol everything before this was a joke because I don’t really care what you think was right, it wasn’t what I think is right so you’re wrong’. At least we can both agree that he was a selfish prick keeping my parents’ deaths to himself,” he mumbles. So Tony Stark fell somewhere in between his public image and someone she did not know. He was clearly emotional, in pain, and that was not going to go well for him but he was not a bad person. He was not what the Avengers thought he was either. “You’re parents’ deaths?” she asks. “Yeah, I mean I can’t keep secrets or so he reminded me about a million times with that Ultron bullshit, but he can keep the fact that Barnes killed my parents to himself. Guess all the shit I do is totally fine if he does the same damn thing. I don’t listen and accidentally create Ultron I’m a problem, and that’s fair, but he can ignore the whole fucking world and that’s totally A-Okay with him. I can’t keep secrets, but it’s fine if he does. I can’t be suspicious of government structures without being labeled ‘insubordinate’ and ‘arrogant’ but when he does it it’s fine!”

The Truth Never Set Me Free (I Did It Myself) by TenSpencerRiedPlease

#mcu fanfiction #oh my if that doesn't ring true #whenever I do something it's bad #but when someone else does it it's ok #tony stark #steve rogers critical #mcu steve rogers critical #tony stark critical #?#he critiqued himself here so

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rosartemis · 4 years ago

Text

Get green man out of prison

To clarify before this starts, Dream is my favourite character. This doesn’t mean I am a c!Dream apologist, but I am sympathetic to his motivations. Objectively, he’s done horrible things, and he needs to be in prison with a life sentence, but looking at all the things that’s come out of this prison arc--

c!Dream needs to leave prison NOW. All this shit that’s been happening hasn’t been excusable since we found out Sam was abusing him in prison and it’s just getting worse.

Before y’all come at me with “but Dream designed the prison to be that way so he deserves it”. Consider this: if we are justifying the “hero’s” actions because that’s something the villain would have done, then maybe we need to think long and hard about how much of a “hero” this character truly is.

As much as we want to see Dream get his comeuppance, nothing he did justifies TORTURE. Treating him as sub-human is beyond wrong and doesn’t help ANYBODY. When he gets out, he’ll only be worse, and all of you are just gonna use his actions after this arc as justification to continue viewing him as the Devil incarnate.

An eye for an eye and the world goes blind, right?

Overall, I need this season to come to a point where the other characters (especially Quackity) finally acknowledge that Dream wasn’t the root of ALL problems on the server. They need to see that they themselves also have “villainous” sides to them, and that they’ve also caused conflict. I need their righteous fucking high horses to be shot down. They need to reflect and grow from this in a positive direction.

I have many thoughts about different characters so I’ll put a break here. Continue if you want to, I just need somewhere to vent

QUACKITY-- he’s done the exact same things Dream has. That’s not even up for debate at this point. Yes, it was to a lesser extent, but his entire character is that he wants power, and he’ll do almost anything to get it. Sounds familliar?

Well now you’re asking me: “why do you hate him and not Dream?”

Because Dream at least knows he’s the monster. Quackity doesn’t get to go to Dream and act all righteous and mighty in front of him, as if he’s not just as bad as Dream is. I’d even argue that HE’S A BETTER MANIPULATOR, because LITERALLY EVERYONE on the server has fallen for his heroic act. His behaviour just pisses me off to no end.

SAM-- listen. His character may be kinder than others, but he’s not as good of a person as the fandom paints him to be just because he sounds soft. He was neglectful of Tommy’s safety when he got trapped in the prison, and he’s willingly going against Dream’s safety now. Heck, he literally supported Quackity’s plan to torture Dream, and he abused Dream beforehand.

No matter how bad the prisoner was, it’s Sam’s DUTY as a guard to keep him safe, just as it’s his duty to keep him contained.

He sure picks and chooses which rules he follows, doesn’t he?

What does he think he’s going to accomplish by treating Dream like this? He’s literally affirming Dream’s belief that the only way to be safe on the server is to have power.

PUFFY-- I don’t watch Puffy’s streams often, so correct me if I’m wrong. I think she’s a pretty good character, but of course there are flaws to her that I think she needs to grow from. I hear she said that she wants to be a therapist, but that she won’t give Dream therapy because she believes he doesn’t deserve it. Newsflash, Puffy, everyone deserves the chance to go to therapy. I love how casually you’re dismissing his trauma.

If anyone needs therapy the most on the server, it’s Dream.

Why do I prioritize Dream’s therapy arc over Tommy’s? Because Dream’s trauma tends to manifest in a way that gets everyone around him hurt or killed. Once he leaves prison, it’s just going to hurt more people.

(Don’t tell me Dream doesn’t have any trauma. When the server began, Dream was THE mediator, he was THE pacifist. Clearly all wars and conflict that went on changed him into the person he is now.)

DREAM-- Dream’s been a scapegoat ever since Wilbur painted him as the villain in the first war. But I do not believe he was a villain until season 2 began. In short, I am a season 1 Dream apologist and a season 2 Dream sympathizer.

While Quackity parallels Dream in all his terrible actions, I think Ranboo’s Dream’s parallel in the sense that Ranboo is what Dream could have been.

Both Ranboo and Dream began as pacifists who were forced into facing war and conflict. Ranboo was able to handle it in a healthier way, and it allowed his character to grow in a positive direction despite his trauma. Dream was painted as the villain, and instead of proving everyone wrong, said fuck it and fell into the role.

I really hope Dream isn’t beyond changing his world view. While I know the writer probably won’t go down this route, I would love to see him navigate the hardships in order to escape the role of a villain. Granted, if he ever gets a “redemption arc”, it must be handled in a very carful manner, and he should have to work hard for it.

Jesus Christ I wrote a whole essay. I doubt anyone made it this far down, but I’d be happy to have a civil discussion in my asks or replies. Let’s roleplay English majors. I wanna talk

#dreamwastaken #quackity #awesamdude #dream smp #dream smp prison #pandora's vault #captain puffy #dream smp analysis

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pumpkinpaix · 4 years ago

Note

*waves* Hi! New(ish) follower, I followed for your posts about translation which are beautiful (especially the one about the imagery of "Zewu-jun") and thought-provoking; I don't have a good segue so here are some Salty Asks I'd like to know your answers to concerning MDZS: 5, 9, 10, 12, 23

oh, that’s so sweet of you!! thank you I’m really happy you enjoyed them 💛

okay salt incoming let’s see--all opinions are my own, no one has to agree with me, etc! and in true cyan fashion, this ask meme response actually needs a readmore l m a o

5. Has fandom ever ruined a pairing for you?

fandom has not ruined any ships in mdzs for me, but it has made me way more critical of both wangxian and xicheng interpretations. not in the sense that like, I think they are bad! i love wangxian and xicheng, but I have very very specific feelings about them that I rarely see reflected in popular fandom interpretations. (because i am a picky bitch lol)

wangxian tends to get the “they did no wrong and their love is righteous” treatment which I find disingenuous and believe directly contradicts the point of mdzs. i think that wangxian is fundamentally a very selfish relationship, and that that is, in fact, a good thing. i love that about them. i care so much about the assertion that your desires do not have to be perfect and righteous to still matter and be worthwhile. i don’t understand the impulse to make wangxian into a pure ship that triumphs and “deserves” a happy ending because they were right all along. I always felt like the entire point of mdzs was that--you can be the most terrible person, you can do unspeakable harm, and still be loved and deserving of that love. i think wangxian is compelling and moving specifically for that reason, and I often have to back out of interpretations that don’t acknowledge it in the way that i want them to. a lot of interpretations tend to idealize wwx and lwj in ways that I disagree with, and I’ve seen a lot of vitriolic pushback over anything that’s seen as even vaguely critical of either of them, when the point isn’t that “wwx/lwj is a bad person because he is selfish” the point is that “wwx/lwj’s choices are selfishly motivated” -- that’s not meant to be a value judgment, at least for me.

(i understand that a lot of this has to do with CQL’s influence, in which wangxian IS narratively rewarded for their righteousness, but as I’ve discussed at length, I think that positioning undermines what makes mdzs so powerful to me in the first place. not that i don’t love CQL!! i do love CQL--they have made a beautiful thing within the constraints that they had. but I think the novel is much stronger thematically.)

as for xicheng: i think that their relationship could be extraordinarily interesting if done in specific ways--I do not think they are well-suited to each other at any point in the canon timeline, but that they could be something really good maybe 10 years post-canon. I used to really like the idea of xicheng romantically, but as time goes on, I’m leaning harder into friendship. I think they have a lot of uniquely shared life experiences, and that it would be really good for both of them to have a person that they knew understood those experiences intimately: the pressures of leading a sect before adulthood, the grief of losing your family in a massacre and being unable to save them, the betrayal of someone who was once so close to you--that’s a lot. and i think there are very few people in their generation who could truly understand that. (for this reason, I also think lxc and xxc would be a very interesting relationship to see many many years post-canon, if xxc were ever revived) but during canon? no, absolutely not. i don’t think lxc has the slightest interest in jc, and i don’t think jc is particularly moved by lxc either, beyond a distant “yeah i mean, he’s the first jade everyone loves him sure moving on” kind of way. they both have their own shit to deal with, and before lxc’s seclusion and also before the core reveal, i think jc is too angry and vicious for lxc and lxc is too soft and toothless for jc. for someone to really convince me on xicheng, jc has to move towards some kind of self-forgiveness and peace and lxc has to move towards self-assertion. then I think they can meet somewhere in the middle of all that.

and like, it’s not that i won’t read silly fluffy aus or like canonverse stuff with them in a ship, but i admit that because it’s grown so popular but not at all in the ways that i personally want, I’m frustrated with and have retreated from reading it. unless it’s done in the specific way i like, it has too much of a pair the spares vibe for me to get behind it anymore.

9. Most disliked character(s)? Why?

jin guangshan, obvious reasons, next

ok well, i guess to elaborate even slightly: jin guangshan, to me, is the embodiment of the systems within mdzs that cause tragedy. he and chang ci’an are similar in that respect? like, the callousness with which they treat people they consider beneath them. what is nothing to them is ruinous for another, but why should they care? but jgs really had every advantage handed to him and chose to use that advantage to hurt others in really insidious ways and i can’t forgive that. jin zixun is also on this list, but like, still ahead of jgs bc he’s younger. -_- i suppose in that respect, i also very much dislike chang ci’an, but that’s a bit harder to quantify, given that we know almost nothing about him.

10. Most disliked arc? Why?

huh. uhhhh. i think i actually really like all of them? in the novel anyways. if we’re talking CQL, yin iron plot ugh.

12. Is there an unpopular arc that you like that the fandom doesn’t? Why?

I think for similar reasons to 10, not really! I don’t see a lot of hate for any specific plot arc. Oh, maybe the incense burners? I completely unironically love those. people rag a lot on mxtx’s smut, but it’s very important to me for a number of like, personal mental health reasons lol.

23. Unpopular character you love?

xue yang! i think xue yang’s character raises a very interesting point about equivalent justice that kinda gets swept away in all the uhhhh murder. and it’s a point that has really big thematic repercussions, I think? but the way it’s worded makes it very easy to dismiss.

very briefly: xue yang is right when he says that 50 lives cannot pay back his finger, because there is nothing that can pay back that finger. no vengeance or sentence visited upon chang ci’an will ever be equal to the injustice that he visited upon xue yang. i think there’s a bit of naivety in the way xxc says “why didn’t you cut off his finger then? or his whole arm, if that wasn’t enough?” and the answer I think is very obvious--xy cutting off cca’s finger would not in any way be the same kind of trauma that xy losing his finger was, esp if chang ci’an knew who xue yang was. there would be an understanding in that: i am losing my finger because this man blames me for the loss of his finger. but to xue yang, a 7 year old? the pain he experienced was completely senseless and cruel and terrifying.

does that mean xue yang was justified? no jesus christ, but i do think it ties very neatly into the general themes of what it means to get vengeance, what it means to get justice, and how cycles of trauma eventually end. so i love him for that.

on a lesser note, but a similar one: i rather like su she, I think. there is something about like, jgy’s “all i had to do was remember his name and he was willing to die for me” that gets to me. there’s a huge tragedy in that somewhere.

wow i have no idea if any of that was coherent im very sleepy

salt asks

#cyan gets too deep in the weeds #ask meme #mdzs #rip i hate that the 5 tags thing doesn't work anymore rip to me i guess #the untamed #nice people saying nice things #ajax-daughter-of-telamon #asks and replies

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tinyboxxtink · 4 years ago

Text

Helpless *Part 5*

Note: I appreciate the support guys, you have no idea. You believe in this story and it makes me SO happy!! <3

Masterlist:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 6

Tag List:

@wanniiieeee

@chasingeverybreakingwave

@word-scribbless

@dumauier

You promptly followed Arianna to the back, practically stepping on her heels.

"You're WRONG about him, Arianna. He's too smart for this, for me-- for us," You warned. "AND he works for the MAYOR. Do you really want to go to prison when he figures out our game?!"

"See but THAT'S how much faith I have in you babe," She didn't even hesitate to shut you down. "I know you would never get us in trouble..." She wrapped an arm around you.

"...EVER," The arm going around your shoulder was soon pushing you back out into the restaurant, where a now composed Rafael sat, watching you intensely.

"....What the fuck was that?" He said in an eerily calm voice.

"W-What are you talking abo--" You tried to speak but he immediately jumped over you in an angry voice.

"What the FUCK, was that?!" He asked again, then proceeded to talk not waiting for you to answer.

"I have never, EVER spoken ANYTHING about my father out loud. To ANYONE. I have spent my entire adult LIFE making sure of it. And here 30 minutes with you and I'm making a flippant comment about my childhood trauma?!" His fist pounded the bar.

"What, the fuck...did you do to me?" he growled.

Alright, keep calm. You had this.

"What did I DO to you?" You snorted, like it was the stupidest question in the world.

"Rafael 10 minutes ago you didn't even BELIEVE in the science, and now all of a sudden I put a SPELL on you? Are you out of your mind?!" You rolled your eyes with a dismissive laugh, clearly agitating him more. People tended to be easier to read when they became emotional, and certainly easier to manipulate.

"Then how do you explain it, hmm?" He licked his lips, signs of disgust. God you hated this.

"Gee, I don't know Rafael. You ever stop to think maybe it was something MORE than science, some kind of different 'voodoo'?!"

"Like what...?" He blinked at you, trying to figure out what you were implying.

"Something about you just makes me feel...safe," You placed your hand over his once more, playing with the hair on his knuckles.

"Look, I understand why you're upset. But-- you know, it's not only you who's vulnerable right now," You lowered your voice into a soft, soothing tone.

"You know, I've never told anyone else about me and Ari before," you bit your lip and looked at the floor. Sure you hadn't, except every other guy Ari had made you scam.

"You ever think that's why you just blurted out stuff about your dad? Maybe that we had a connection that was bigger than some emotional reading bullshit?" Gaslighting was always a great way to knock someone down real quick.

You saw Rafael's anger dissipate from his face; you watched as his eyes filled with hope. You knew you were preying on his very obvious need for acceptance and affection, and you hated yourself for it.

"I...well, maybe..." he rubbed the back of his neck, you saw the logical side of him fighting with his emotional side, trying to remind him that 'soulmates' or 'connections' didn't actually exist. And you watched it lose, as a beautiful smile crawled across his lips.

"Maybe you're right," He now took both your hands, and looked deep into your eyes. Right then you could see every little bit of trauma, hurt, anguish, wanting, all being pushed down by the growing look of hope, and security. And suddenly, you couldn't do it anymore.

"No, I'm not," you dropped his hands, unable to look at him anymore.

"Wh-What? Seriously?" He shook his head in utter disbelief, trying to figure out how the hell you were so hot and cold from one second to the next.

"Look just, take this," You scribbled on a check and handed it to him. "Go pay at the register, and get out of here. And don't come back,"

"What the fu-- are you on something?" he stared at the check, then you, then the sky like he was looking for answers.

"Look, I'm--I'm begging you, Rafael. Walk out of here RIGHT NOW, before Arianna comes out here," you almost whispered, praying she wasn't listening.

"....Why do you not want--"

"Just, forget it. Please, go. PLEASE," Your voice was shaking, tears lined your eyes. You had literally never been this unhinged emotionally in front of someone other than Arianna before, EVER.

"I..." Rafael was clearly shocked and disturbed by what was unfolding, but he didn't want to see you like this. You could see him backing off because he pitied you, he felt sorry for whatever inner turmoil was happening with you, even if he didn't understand it. He put his hands up and walked to the register, pay and give you one last sad look before disappearing into the night.

You felt your legs shaking, your heart beating outside of your chest. You had NEVER let Arianna down before, ever. You had never just...broken, like that. Lying was your LIFE. You barely had a moment to process what just happened before Arianna came storming out from the kitchen.

"What the HELL, Y/N? Where did he go?!"

"H-He caught on, Ari," you looked at the ground, terrified to meet her eyes.

"HOW is that possible, you never--"

You jumped over her words immediately, defensively yelling at her:

"I DON'T KNOW, okay?! He--He came from the bathroom all freaked the fuck out because he had literally never told ANYONE about his dad, and then he-- he accused me of DOING something to him! Like I was a witch or something!" Well, you weren't lying. Not like she could've been able to tell, like she said she didn't have your skills.

"He wouldn't let me say ANYTHING. He just grabbed his check and stormed out of here! I didn't have TIME to work him over, okay? I'm sorry. I failed you," The tears around your eyes now dripped down your cheeks, little did Ari know they weren't for her.

"Aw...honey," Arianna's anger vanished, you knew she couldn't stand to see you cry. She wrapped her arms around you and coddled you like a mom to a toddler.

"I know, you tried your best. And I know it must've been hard, giving up your abogado like that," she stroked your hair.

"You'd just better pray we find another benefactor, FAST" her strokes turned into her acrylic nails running down your face, mildly aggressively. You looked into her eyes, she knew something had happened. She didn't know what and she would never accuse you, but you knew she knew. She always knew.

"I'm on it," You quickly tried to get away from her. "I promise,"

------

The night wrapped up pretty routinely, and the evening went about the same. The next day, you and Ari were walking up the subway towards Fazzoli's when you saw him-- Rafael was waiting, discreetly. Well, discreetly to him anyway.

"I uh-- You know what I forgot to make change before we left, I'm gonna hit the bodega real quick. I'll meet you inside, okay?" You quickly moved in front of Arianna as you talked, praying to God she hadn't noticed him. Luckily, she was thoroughly engrossed in a game of CANDY CRUSH.

"Mmmkay," She nodded and waved you off, not looking up from her phone.

As soon as she was inside, you walked straight up to Rafael and pulled him around the corner into an alleyway.

"What did I say?!" You hissed.

"Well first of all, this is my favorite restaurant, and I was here first, so you're not gonna 'ban' me from eating here," he stated. "And second, you need to tell me what happened last night,"

"No I don't have to tell you anything," you scoffed.

"But you want to,"

"HOW do you know that? You don't know that," you crossed your arms and rolled your eyes, signaling him to back off.

"Then what was that insane Dr. Jekyl/Mr. Hyde act? One second you're batting your eyes at me and the next you're literally throwing me out! Are you nuts?"

"YES. Yes, I am unhinged and a psychopath, Rafael. Clearly. So you need to--to stay away from me," You huffed and turned to leave, but he grabbed your arm.

"I was right last night, wasn't I? That's why you freaked out,"

"...What are you talking about?" You stopped and turned slowly to face him again.

"You're not the only one who can google," he pulled out his phone and began reading an article he had found.

"...Behavioral scientists are hesitant to teach micro-expression reading to the masses, as it can be used for nefarious purposes,"

Your face fell-- You were right, he WAS too smart for you.

"People with these skills can easily manipulate any sort of information out of anyone, if trained properly," He continued, looking you straight in the eyes.

"I...Um.." Jesus Christ this had never happened to you before-- you literally COULD NOT lie to him.

"YES, okay? Yes, I manipulated you last night, are you happy?" You threw your arms up, starting to walk away again.

"No, I'm not! I wanna know why," He jumped in front of you preventing you from leaving the alley.

"Why? You wanna know-- does it matter?" You tried moving past him, but he wasn't budging.

"YES, it matters! For fuck's sake Y/N you-- you had me thinking-- I..." He trailed off, you saw the pain in his eyes. He had actually started to fall for you, and you had crushed him.

"Because it's what we do, okay?" You sighed. "It's not personal,"

"NOT personal? What 'we' do? What, you and Arianna?" he narrowed his eyes.

"Yeah, but you don't understand ok? We, we lived in our CAR, Rafael. We didn't eat for WEEKS at a time, we started going through garbage like actual rats,"

"And then I found this book, and I studied it, and I just tried it ONCE--Just for a meal," you looked up, trying not to get emotional.

"And Arianna latched on to it. HARD," you looked everywhere but Rafael's eyes.

"She--She grabbed anything she could with information on micro-expressions, she quizzed me, she coached me-- she helped me," Finally, you let yourself look at him.

"So you could help her," he looked at you seriously.

"So I could help US," you argued.

"In six months we had enough money for a nice little studio apartment in the Bronx and a full refrigerator!" you heard yourself defending you and Arianna's life together, but saying it out loud you didn't know how much you believed it yourself anymore.

"...And what exactly do you do," His words made you shift uncomfortably on your heels.

"Y/N....." ," He lowered his voice, emphasizing his seriousness.

"I...we...Arianna picks a target, someone who's in the public eye and has money. and I...sweet talk them," you glared holes into the ground.

"...And then I get something out of them, something they don't want the public to know, that they don't want ANYONE to know," You could literally feel how these people must have felt because this was the last thing that you ever wanted Rafael to know, for anyone to know.

"...And she finds out more information about it and--"

"And shakes them down," He finished your sentence, you could hear the disgust in his mouth.

"Look I'm sorry, okay?" Your voice shook a bit.

"I know you are," He stepped closer to you.

"....Okay? Just like that? You're just gonna believe a professional liar?" you half laughed, rolling your eyes.

"Yeah, because if you really wanted to-- you wouldn't have kicked me out last night," a very small micro smile came across.

"I--Yeah, well um-- I...I couldn't," you bit your lip.

"Which makes me think you don't ever really like doing it at all, do you?" he looked at you with knowing eyes.

You shifted uncomfortably, not willing to verbally agree.

"So why do you let Arianna manipulate YOU?"

"Because she's all I have, Rafael!" You cried.

"She's literally the only person I have. It's been me and her against the world since high school, I can't...I can't just, abandon her! I can't let us starve,"

"You have honest jobs now, do you not?"

"Yeah I know, that's why I was pissed she asked me to do you-- I mean, use you," you bit your lip over your Freudian slip.

"She KNEW I was in love with you, and she just--" you stopped talking, noticing a smirk spreading across his face.

"I'm sorry, what?" He asked you with a shocked expression. You looked at him in confusion, then realized you had just spoken without thinking.

"I--It's a figure of speech. Like, "oh my god I'm so in love with Justin Beiber I could just die","

"...Don't like being compared to the Beebz like that but okay," he chuckled.

"Just...shut up. She knew I LIKED you, and she-- she just-- PERVERTED it," you spit out the words, your anger bubbling up. You knew from the moment he caught you sniffing his glass that you and him had something pure, and she just made it into something dirty, something evil.

"So...what EXACTLY happened, last night Y/N?" He stepped even closer, lowering his voice but his tone was soft not serious.

"I...You...You came in, and--everything was fine. It was just me, and-- and you, and we were--" You waved your hands, trying to be casual about it, but he grabbed them and made you look directly at him.

"...It was real," you whispered.

"And THEN, Arianna started telling me that I needed something out of you," your face went red again. "That-- that she hadn't 'planned' on using you, or me, but when she found out you were the ADA she just-- snapped," you went on again, feeling your anger rise again.

"She thought that she could use my actual feelings for you to get what she wanted, and I played along," you folded your arms, ashamed of yourself. You looked away, but Rafael's hand cupped your chin and turned you back to him.

"...But you didn't,"

"I COULDN'T," you could barely speak, tears choked your throat. Suddenly, feeling very uncomfortable having any kind of kindness being shown to you right now, you once again backed away from Rafael and paced around the alleyway.

"I...you don't get it. Lying is my THING. And--And usually okay maybe I have moral qualms about seducing dudes and exploiting them but I get over it, and I do it anyway!" You shook your hands into the air.

"B-B-But you, with you--your stupid eyes, god dammit those eyes!" you paced faster, shaking your head. Those fucking eyes.

"These eyes?" He pointed to his eyes, a very small smirk on his face.

"This isn't funny, okay? You--You made me betray my BEST friend," you stopped and stared into those eyes.

"With my eyes," he couldn't stop a smile.

"YES! I-I gave you that sappy load of bullshit about us having a 'connection', because I knew that was exactly what you wanted, what you ," you looked away in shame.

"Wow..." Rafael shifted uncomfortably, you did know what you were doing.

"A-And you just, you ate it up! YOU, the most level headed, narcissistic, pessimistic lawyer, you just-- believed me," you almost laughed, the thought was actually unbelievable.

"And you were so happy," you added sadly, feeling the guilt rise in your gut.

"...And I think I started to believe it myself. And then I just...I couldn't--" You walked back up to him, this time taking his face in your hands.

"With everyone else I am a shark, but with you I just felt...helpless," you pressed your forehead to his for a brief moment, an intimate moment to say goodbye.

"So I sent you away. And I told you to stay away!" You literally pushed him away, gesturing out of the alley way.

"Why send me away though?"

"Because Arianna will KNOW now,"

"So? Let her know," he scoffed.

"NO," You stepped back into his face, trying to show him how serious you were.

"She's given up on you, because I told her you figured us out,"

"And she bought that?" he raised an eyebrow.

"Well not figured figured out, just that you knew something wasn't right and we couldn't risk going to prison or something,"

"But if she knows that I just...let you go, she'll start digging on her own," your eyes grew wide with fear for him.

"And she will dig until she finds something. Something other than 'daddy issues'," you rolled your eyes.

"...And you think she'll find something?" he asked.

".... You're really telling me you don't have ANY skeletons in your closet, counselor?" now you raised an eyebrow.

"...I'm not leaving you alone with her," he took your hands again.

"Oh come on, I told you. She's my PERSON, she's not gonna hurt me. I don't need protection from her," you rolled your eyes, the thought of being afraid of Arianna was ridiculous. Kind of.

"That doesn't mean I won't fight for you," he touched your face.

"Raf please--" you pleaded once more.

"Give me your phone," he ordered, and you obliged.

"Wha--Okay..."

He took it and programmed his number into it, then handed it back to you.

"Arianna is NOT the only person you have now," he took your hand and kissed the back of your knuckles, before winking and walking away.

...What just happened?

#rafael barba #rafael barba x you #rafael barba x reader #rafael barba imagine #law and order special victims unit #law and order svu #law and order svu fanfiction #helpless

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shelby-love · 5 years ago

Text

JAY HALSTEAD

Stalked.

Requested: yes

Prompts: none

Warnings: angsty

Authors note: Y/S1/N (your older sisters name), Y/S2/N (your younger sisters name)

"Your labs came back negative... I'll make sure to get you discharged immediately." You stand next to your patients bed, scrolling through his charts and scanning the monitor.

The man that lied on his bed looked lost and confused. He came in today saying that he was experiencing sharp pain in his stomach. He kept telling you he was in pain although there weren't any possible medical explanations for what he was feeling.

You consulted with Dr. Charles and you decided to discharge him.

"No...no, no, no, no. You have to do them again! Please..." His body jumped and his rough hand found your wrist. Your eyes opened wide as you snatched your hand away immediately. "I...I don't feel so good."

You watched him carefully. This wasn't the first time he forcefully grabbed you.

You almost reported him several different times but you decided against it because now you were getting rid of him. That man was sick in his head.

"Doris make sure to change the dressing on his shoulder then send him off after that." You hand the tablet to the nurse who does as you say and then you walk out.

"Tough one huh?" Dr. Charles leaned against the desk as you typed your password into the computer to access your doctors ID.

"Is it wierd if I say that I was afraid to treat that man?" A big tortured sigh escapes your mouth. "I didn't let that affect my professional judgement but still...it was horrible."

"I believe ya." He replied and stole a glance at the trauma room your freak patient was in. "I mean... He comes in with stomach pain, then he requests to be under your care specifically and after all of that...when you want to discharge him the first time suddenly there's blood pouring out of his shoulder by accident." You nod your head in agreement. "I can confirm something. You...you're not crazy. He's the one who's crazy."

His words left an uneasy feeling settle over you.

***

"Hey girls," You sing into your phone. It's 8 P.M. and your shift just ended. "What do you two want to eat? I can stop by Manny's and get us some food."

Your two sisters agrue about what to eat and whilst they're doing that you get into your car and buckle up. You then fix your rear-view mirror and notice something really odd. There's a blue sports car parked not to far away from your car. The car looks really exotic. So exotic it just doesn't blend with the other cars around yours.

"What the..." You watch closely. A man in a black hoodie is sitting in the car. The whole car is lit up like a soccer field at night and that freaks you out. This parking lot is for Chicago Med workers only. "Who's car is that?"

"What did you say Y/N??" Your sisters screech pulled you back into reality.

"Nothing." You reply quickly and take the phone in your hand. "I just though I saw something."

"Girl you spend way to much time with Jay and now you're starting to sound just like him." Your two manic sisters giggle. "Where is Jay anyway? He hasn't stopped by much lately."

You wonder off to sad places after what she said. "He's been busy." He hasn't been home much at all. Usually he always picks you up from work and drops you off at work too.

After they start to gush over you two you decide to hang up and go to Manny's whether they want to eat there or not.

***

"I'm home!" You voice as soon as you enter the house. You recognize your younger sisters footsteps as she marches down the stairs like a champion.

She snatches the food out of your arms and runs towards the dining room. "You're welcome by the way!"

You kick off your shoes and hang the car keys onto the key holder. When you make your way in the dining room you notice your other sister. She's stiff like a statue with eyes glued to the window. You poke her head, "What's up with you?"

"She's been looking out of the window like a hwak for God knows how long," Y/S2/N says while munching her sandwich.

"Because I've never seen that car before," She defends herself. You stand behind her and look out of the window yourself.

The blue sports car.

"Like that car is too exotic to be owned by someone from this neighbourhood." Your sister continues to blabber. "I just wanna see who the person is."

"Did you see someone come out?" You ask and sit down, slowly you start sinking in your chair.

"No I didn't, oh my God people that's why I'm looking!" She swings her arms in the air.

"Stalking." Y/S2/N coughs into her shoulder.

They giggle for a little bit but you're confused and scared. Jay always told you to be careful when you see the same car wherever you are. You could he paranoid but he always said that its better to be save than sorry.

You shake your head and dismiss the red flags.

"Pass me the food would you?"

***

You stand in front of the window. You hear your siblings making popcorn for your movie marathon in the kitchen.

You still feel uneasy.

Y/S1/N dropped the subject of the blue car but still looks out of the window herself a few times but you took her spot as a permanent watchman.

Your heartbeat spikes up drastically when you see the lights in the car turn on and reveal a masked man. You're reminded of the parking lot and your blood runs cold.

The car moves until its directly across the road.

You check if your windows are all locked.

***

"Did you close the window Y/S2/N?" Your sister asks casually. The three of you are sat and cuddled on your giant sofa.

"It's hot in Chicago for the first time ever, let the breeze in." She replied and stuffed her mouth with popcorn once again.

"More like let the burglars in," You couldn't laugh with them at the jokes they kept throwing. The odd feeling in the pit of your stomach just wouldn't go away.

"I'm cold." You announce and stand up. They don't bother to stop you from going upstairs so you slowly make your way up the stairs.

You walk slowly, almost tip toeing, with your breathing leveled and controlled and nervous sweat breaking out everywhere. Your instinct told you to run, call Jay, ask him to come, but you decided you were paranoid and walked in regardless. No sooner had you hit the light switch did a man grab you and you went tumbling down the flight of stairs.

There was a man standing in front of you. You couldn't make out his face, as he was completely unknown to you.

Unknown until he took the hood of his head. You screamed and tried to get away but he grabbed your ankle and yanked you towards him. By the time he fought you into his arms your two sisters stood in front of you with a phone and a number typed into it. Jay's number.

Your pajama top was ripped but it still somehow hung onto your torso like a loyal soldier.

"Drop the phone or she dies!" He yelled and pressed a knife to your throat. Your sisters shook with fear but after seeing you nod with tears in your eyes they did as they were told.

"Gavin please let me go," You begged but he didn't have any of it.

"No! Do not try to get into my pants now doc. You had your shot!" He yelled into your ear and pressed your back into his harder.

"Gavin please... We can talk about it..I-I can look at your charts again. Help you feel better." You wince as you feel the sharpness of the blade against your neck.

"I wanted to do so much to you..." He whispered, "After you helped me feel better I was going to please you to return the favor... But you did nothing!" He smashed your body against the pastel colored wall but didn't let you sink to the ground. "Nothing!!"

And that's when he did it. When he pressed the knife into you three times. Only the third time he did it and your sisters jumped on him did he notice what was going on. He dropped the knife to the ground and ran.

"Y/S2/N CALL JAY NOW!" The oldest sister after you screamed. She dropped to the ground with you and took her shirt off. She pressed it against your bleeding belly in hopes of calming down the stream of blood that was coming out of three different holes.

You felt dizzy. Your stomach burned and you slowly felt numb all over but you were still able to hear yours sisters sad cries. "C'mon Jay hurry up... Y/N please stay awake."

You lost count of time. You didn't know if you were just stabbed or if you were awake for hours with a bleeding belly.

Commotion builds up in the small neighbourhood. You make out the sounds. Police.

"Chicago PD where is he?" Voight asked your younger sister who managed to choke out that he ran away.

"Y/N? Y/N!!" Now you really felt numb to voices. But fortunately, the last thing you're ever going to be numb for is Jay Halstead. "Jesus Christ Y/N baby are you okay? Y/S1/N? It's okay don't worry I got you now..I got you."

Then you blacked out.

***

"Hey... Go easy." Jay had his strong arm wrapped behind your back as he fixed your pillow so you can lean against it and sit up.

Your whole stomach was bandaged, you had bruises all over your body and somehow you still managed to break a finger.

"How are you feeling?" Jay grabbed your healthy hand in his own two and kissed it countless times.

"Like I just came back from yoga class," Your soary laugh lit up the room.

"I'm happy your humor didn't go away." You can see the gloss in his eyes. He really really was afraid that he lost you.

"Jay..." You were cut of with an emotional kiss. Jay leaned towards you so quickly you didn't have time to process it. You cup his small subtle beard covered chin and return the kiss with just as much emotion.

You tried to push away the bad thoughts and memories from what happened. You wanted to forget it all and the first step forgetting is being able to laugh and joke about it.

And that's what you are going to do.

With Jay.

#jay halstead x reader #jay halstead fanfiction #jay halstead imagine #jay halstead #chicago med #chicago #chicago pd #chicago med imagine #chicago pd imagine

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frosteee · 4 years ago

Text

Undertaker & Ciel’s Relationship (so far)

I’ve mentioned before in previous posts, and other people in the fandom have talked about it also (way before me, so I’m tagging on lol) that UT doesn’t see the Phantomhive twins as individuals, but simply members of the Phantomhive family.

That got me thinking about how UT has treated O!Ciel so far, leaving R!Ciel to the side for now.

Talking with @frederickabberline got me to realise that, aside from maybe one or two exceptions, UT refers to everybody by some title or other, usually their job (e.g.: ‘Mr Butler’ for Sebastian, ‘Earl’ for O!Ciel). And when he does refer to someone by name, which is exclusively or pretty much exclusively the Phantomhives, he always attaches that last name.

For example, most recently, when addressing Frances, even though she married out of the Phantomhive family and became a Midford, UT still addresses her as ‘Lady Frances Phantomhive‘. It’s as if the man is incapable, or unwilling, to personally recognise anyone who is not a Phantomhive.

In our discussion, frederickabberline mentioned that this detachment could be a deliberate/subconscious act for UT to protect himself from further heartache. His glee at other’s expense, leading to very, very problematic comments, could also be an extension of this. Still not excusable, but it’s an explanation.

So, how has this mindset affected his relationship with O!Ciel so far?

The Phantomhives are interchangeable to him (AKA The Amorphous Blob of Phantomhives)

On the surface this can be seen as a good thing. After all, to favour one twin over the other for x reason, as Lizzie acknowledges to herself, is inherently selfish and unfair to the other person, no matter how much of an honest or natural feeling it is.

UT does not have such a preference. When he meets O!Ciel in the Chapter 131 flashback, he calls him ‘Little Phantomhive’ and cannot tell whether he is the younger or elder brother, before stating that he doesn’t care which, not because he likes them equally but because they are Phantomhives.

As far as he is concerned, the twins are mere parts in the amorphous, ever-growing Phantomhive blob. They have no identity outside of being Phantomhives, the same as Frances. He had no special bond with either twin because the only connection between them and himself that mattered was their family name.

If UT was interested in getting to know either twin as a person, like the opportunity he had in the Ch.131 flashback, he would have attempted to seriously differentiate the two.

While he does ask which twin O!Ciel is, he does it as a rhetorical question, a joke, and then immediately follows it by dismissing the question altogether as he has already decided it doesn’t matter.

More unsettlingly, it appears UT is so disinterested in the development (physical and otherwise) of the individual Phantomhives, that to his eyes they are unchanging. Though UT does remark on O!Ciel’s small stature a few times, this is spoken like/treated as a joke more than an observation from interest.

[There are very rare exceptions to this, but I’ll get into those later.]

This is shown when he responds to Frances commenting on his lack of visible aging by stating that she still looks as if she was ‘born yesterday’.

Even Vincent, whose death UT has lamented the most openly, even shedding tears, is not exempt from this treatment at all. He is no less ‘a Phantomhive anyway’ than his children/relatives, I realised (thanks to frederickabberline again!).

Yes, UT regrets his death, but whenever he has brought it up it is always in the context that he can no longer revive him because his bones were burned to ash. (x and x). He never says anything like ‘He was a dear friend, how could I have failed him’, ‘He was a good man, why was he given such a death?’, ‘We had such good times together,’ - something to indicate an attachment to Vincent as a person.

And then, immediately following his lament, UT once more depersonalises Vincent, just like he did the twins, by stating that at least “the ‘Earl of Phantomhive’ is still with us”. It always comes back to that, as if it’s the only thing keeping him from wallowing in grief for those individuals.

As long as one Phantomhive is alive, he can deal with/suppress/channel his grief of personal losses into a goal which will keep him from losing more, and dwelling on what he has already lost.

Even when he comments on how much he dislikes the Phantomhive Watchdog work, while he mentions O!Ciel he talks about the ‘karma’ or ‘fate’ than hangs over every Phantomhive, the things every Phantomhive Watchdog deals with.

As we hear later, he is resentful of the path the Phantomhives walk, their inability to rid themselves of it (by listening to him/heeding his warnings), and the Watchdog life in general, so he doesn’t care about the effects on Ciel, but the effects the ‘chain of fate’ has on the Phantomhive family and their legacy.

This more recently extends to his statement of ‘I didn’t want to lose anymore Phantomhives’, which is as blatant an explanation as you like. It confirms where his mind has focused all this time.

UT regularly teases/dismisses Ciel regarding the trauma of his past.

@frederickabberline kindly shared with me the moment where UT describes the ‘proper’ method of killing that Jack the Ripper probably used, to O!Ciel, using O!Ciel as a prop - even though he had a human dummy to use for this purpose.

He may as well have whispered “I know what you did three years ago!”. He’s even gesturing to the boy’s abdomen/stomach area with his ring hand! With his phrasing, and the Japanese text confirms that he literally refers to “steal[ing] the precious thing”, he echoes R!Ciel’s ‘Who stole the candy from my tummy?’ message.

Oh yeah, and he does this while knowingly allowing O!Ciel to sit on the coffin with his dead/bizarre doll twin inside!

Thankfully, O!Ciel doesn’t catch on, but Jesus Christ, UT!

If UT truly cared about O!Ciel’s emotional well-being, just cared about him as an individual, why would he reference one of the most painful moments of O!Ciel’s life in such a sneaky, tactless manner, even if he knew he could get away with it here?

He does it again in Ch. 24, where UT doesn’t even hide what he’s talking about under the context of a different subject, like he did in his first appearance. Here, after remarking that dead children are commonplace in the underworld, he directly tells O!Ciel “The Earl knows that very well, doesn’t he?”.

JESUS CHRIST, UT!

He doesn’t consider O!Ciel’s feelings at all. He cares about his own amusement at O!Ciel’s expense, which extends to basically anyone else. But O!Ciel is a Phantomhive, part of the family UT is so concerned with/attached to he is literally trying to overturn the law of death for them to continue living.

But as I outlined earlier, UT does not care about any of the Phantomhives, at least the ones currently living and the previous Earl beyond the fact that they are Phantomhives.

Therefore, he does not consider O!Ciel’s trauma, or care to know about it. He didn’t care to know how he was different from his twin, they were all the same to him, so why would he care now?

Even if we consider that this black/gallows humour is UT’s personal way of coping, anyone with an ounce of tact would still not do this in front of others who they know such humour will hurt. Maybe UT has too many screws loose to care, or he is so detached he simply does not have room for it in his head.

UT does advise O!Ciel to take care of his soul, as he only has one - which considering his history with R!Ciel (who is still chilling in the zero gravity float spa coffin in the room somewhere), makes sense. But he’s still speaking to O!Ciel as a Phantomhive.

While UT is very well aware of O!Ciel’s contract to Seb the demon, and aware of the danger O!Ciel has placed his soul in, he later contextualises this as the result of O!Ciel holding the same ‘great power’ as his ancestors, which leads to them forgetting the importance of their lives/their souls.

So again, it’s about the Phantomhives as a whole, and how O!Ciel is repeating the same mistakes as his ancestors. He isn’t concerned with O!Ciel’s feelings here, even though he is clearly re-living that traumatic event front the past.

The final, and most damning, is UT’s attitude towards O!Ciel when the existence of R!Ciel is revealed. He reacts to O!Ciel’s obvious disgust, grief and terror with a shrug and exasperated “What? How can you not like this? Does it really matter if he’s alive or dead?”

UT is so detached from O!Ciel as a person, and detached/disinterested in general from human feelings beyond his own - consciously or otherwise - that he cannot fathom how the twin of the zombie twin he brought back might have an issue with what UT did.

UT is projecting, I think, his own feelings/expectations onto O!Ciel in this scene. Easy to do, because he had detached himself from the boy personally. If UT were in O!Ciel’s shoes, he would be delighted, because at this point that it does not matter to UT in what form such and such returns, human or bizarre doll, just so long as they do, and that it will be as if they never died.

And this comes before the revelation that R!Ciel’s dead body was ‘watching’ him the whole time!

Again, it’s unclear whether UT is simply bonkers and doesn’t care anymore or if he’s genuinely unable to focus on anything other than his end goal to acknowledge how messed up it is and how it’s hurting O!Ciel.

Exceptions to the rule

So far, I can point to two incidents that deviate from the usual detached manner in which UT deals/relates to O!Ciel.

The first comes in the Campania arc when UT entrusts his treasured funeral lockets to O!Ciel. Ch.64.

The look UT gives O!Ciel is important, and it is the first of two key moments which could lead to their relationship changing perhaps for the better. He looks surprised, shocked, and the light/roundness/look in Ciel’s eyes give him a more innocent, childish look.

The close up between them indicate that they are really looking at one another. Or, if this is purely UT’s POV, he is really looking at O!Ciel.

I couldn’t swear to it, but this could indicate that finally, UT is seeing O!Ciel as a little boy, not merely an extension to the Phantomhive legacy, and that this reassures him enough to entrust his most treasured possessions - the last remaining pieces of the people he cherished - to O!Ciel.

This, and his expression as he tells O!Ciel that the item is his treasure, is the first time UT shares anything personal with O!Ciel, and they share a connection for a moment, after so many years - many more for UT - of being detached/distant from one another.

The second time comes exactly twenty chapters later (may not be relevant, but I just noticed that) in the Weston Arc, where UT remarks how O!Ciel is different from his ancestors for saving Harcourt in from the rampaging bizarre dolls instead of just himself, as his predecessors would have done.

This is the first time UT acknowledges something about O!Ciel’s personality that makes him himself, and not merely an extension of the Phantomhive family or another Phantomhive making the same old mistakes on the same old path. UT seems pleased to see this.

Of course, these incidents happen before the whole ‘Hihi, your dead brother’s corpse was by your side this whole time, Earl!/’Your dead brother is a zombie, why aren’t you happy?’ event, in which he describes the twins as ‘mirrors of each other’, which harkens back to his inability/disinterest to tell the twins apart and all the issues that come with it.

UT himself

It’s difficult to say at this point whether UT is aware that how he is acting/what he is doing is wrong. If he knows that how he is treating/has treated O!Ciel is not the way the child of the family he cares for so much should be treated, and whether he justifies this in his own head (’ends justify the means’ type thing) or whether he is too insane to care anymore.

He does not deny to Othello that he has a few screws loose, so there’s that at least as far as self-awareness goes. He has likely been severely traumatised by the losses he suffered in the past, and whatever else we can theorise about his reaper past, and has done all he can to prevent more - event to the point of alienating and depersonalising the members of the same family he once deeply loved.

Whatever the case, I think enough groundwork has been laid for there to be a conflict later down the road on this point, focusing squarely on how he has viewed the Phantomhive family members for some time, the twins included.

Conclusion

While he has remained largely detached from O!Ciel and only interacted insofar as it suits his goals and his obsession, there have been moments where UT and O!Ciel have shared a personal connection where UT was forced to see O!Ciel as an individual. An individual deserving of more attention and care - PROPER attention and care - than UT has been willing to give in a long time because he has been so focused on his own goals and his own wishes for the Phantomhives.

He may for the first time actually start to consider what is truly best for the twins, instead of simply what he wants.

How he responds to this conflict within him between a newfound personal care for O!Ciel and the goal he has been working so ruthlessly towards for years is definitely interesting to think about.

It could completely throw off-balance how he has thought/operated for so long, and bring back painful memories and force him to confront ugly things about himself that he has either been too blind/mad or single-minded to acknowledge.

He might question a lot of things he’s done, his current plan even, and maybe consider working with O!Ciel and allies rather than separately from them, as he has always done. He might realise that his detachment, disinterest, and depersonalisation are flaws rather than self-protection, that do more harm than good, and realise he needs to change.

Funny, when he goes on so much about how little the Phantomhives change and how it always comes back to bite them - UT is guilty of the same, in his own way!

Anyway, I’m sure his and O!Ciel’s dynamic and relationship will change, possibly quite dramatically, soon!

What do you guys think?

#undertaker black butler #undertaker kuroshitsuji #kuroshitsuji spoilers #kuroshitsuji #black butler #black butler spoilers #ciel phantomhive #Ciel Phantomhive Black Butler #Ciel Phantomhive Kuroshitsuji #theory #discussion #meta

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consumedkings-archive · 4 years ago

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@shallow-gravy jess..... jess jess jess...... where do i even begin huh? what do i even say? you are the sweetest, the most obnoxiously talented, and i just!! hm!! i just really adore you all to tiny bits and pieces. merry christmas my beloved friend, thank you so much for all of your love and support and listening to my ramblings, for loving my girl elliot, for letting me gush over diana. the list really do be endless!! i could probably wax poetic about how grateful i am to have made a friend as wonderful as you, but in the interest of time, i will just say: thank you thank you thank you! and merry christmas!

ii. a venom dripping in your mouth

elliot honeysett/john seed/deputy diana baker, the unholy trinity, in full-fledged terroristic force. this is pure self-indulgent trash, and i can’t believe this is an acceptable christmas gift to give you but i so hope you like it!

canon? who is she. i don’t know her. herald!elliot au, largely canon divergent but like it doesn’t REALLY matter bc i don’t go into detail that much. idk man just roll with it

words: 8.8k because i’m incapable of having any Chill

warnings: naughty language, some blood warnings, mentions of past trauma. nothing super explicit but like idk when elliot and john set their sights on diana i do think they need a warning of their own lmao. also, i guess i should warn i don’t know how anything works ever and don’t come for me, don’t drag me, this is supposed to just!!! be fun!!! thanks!!!

“Who the fuck is that?”

Burke’s crossing the street with Pratt and the rookie in tow. Diana drags a few feet ahead, smoking and attempting to not be a part of the conversation, which is hard to do when there’s only a handful of them at the office anyway.

Pratt glances up at the blonde they’re about to pass. She’s propped against the hood of a jeep, the hem of her daisy dukes barely reaching mid-thigh, taking a long drag of a cigarette. He notices the head of a snake tattoo coming down her thigh. It’s hot; the air is buzzing with bugs and heat from the midday sun, and Burke can feel the sweat collecting in the hollow of his collarbones and at the nape of his neck.

From here Burke can tell she’s not looking at them—she’s looking at Diana. Hungrily.

“Elliot Honeysett,” Pratt replies, keeping his voice low, and he spits on the ground. “John’s wife. Fucking psycho.”

Ah. A Seed, Burke thinks, with no absence of venom. A Seed but with her own last name. An uninteresting but unexpected detail.

“You know her, rookie?” Burke asks, looking over at Diana. The brunette stares at him and drops her cigarette to the ground, grinding it out with her shoe.

“No,” Diana replies shortly. “I’m not from here.”

She says it like that’s supposed to explain it, like that’s going to make it make sense why the blonde’s eyes are fixed on her, and of course it doesn’t.

“I went to school with her,” Pratt offers up, and Burke looks at him curiously.

“Yeah? She a psycho then, too?”

“Nah.” The deputy crosses his arms over his chest, refusing—pointedly—to look at Elliot even once after identifying her the closer they get. “John made her that way.”

Diana’s been quiet, lighting up a second cigarette, when she says, “I dunno. To join a cult you've probably gotta have that shit in you all along.”

Burke makes a low noise of agreement. He watches Elliot wiggle her fingers at Diana in a little wave as the cluster of them nears, flashing a most pretty smile; at first glance, he thinks that the blonde looks more bubblegum than cyanide, all curled hair tucked up in a high pony and red cupid’s-bow lips and white, white teeth.

“Howdy, deputy,” she calls, Southern drawl honeyed.

Diana visibly grimaces, pointedly pushing her gaze forward and fixing it on the office. There’s a split second where Burke thinks he sees something flash across her face, but she’s stuffed it down and the sharp lines of her expression smooth out.

And then Elliot looks at him. Burke waves, but he doesn’t smile—it’s not meant to be nice, it’s meant to relay the message that he sees her. When she regards him expectantly, he goes ahead and greets, “Mrs. Seed."

I fucking know you. No surname fuckery is going to throw Burke off the scent. There are so many boogeymen and monsters in the world that don’t want you to know their name, and he thinks Elliot Honeysett might be one of them.

She doesn’t stop smiling at the misnaming, necessarily—her expression smooths out into mild amusement—and then she opens her mouth and pushes the lit end of her cigarette onto her tongue. Pratt says, under his breath, “Jesus Christ,” and Burke thinks he can hear the sizzle for a split second before it’s out, and then she tosses the cigarette to the side.

“Marshal,” she greets him, and he slows his walk for just a moment. “Lookin’ a little flush. You not used to the hot weather, honey?”

“It’s cooling off up in D.C.,” he replies, keeping his tone conversational despite the urge to punch those pearly whites in, “but I used to come here every summer. Nothing I can’t handle.”

Elliot smiles. It’s all teeth. Burke thinks about how most animals do that as a threat. “Good. I’d hate for you to be uncomfortable.” And then her gaze turns to Pratt, and she says flatly, “Pratt.”

“Honeysett,” Staci returns, and he might not have been able to sound more disingenuous, but it’s well-deserved—the blonde makes no effort to hide her disdain. She rolls her eyes, mouth twisting in amusement before she swings around the front of her jeep and into the driver’s seat.

Like he can’t resist the blatant dismissal, Pratt tacks on, “Tell the hubby I said hello.”

The engine revs. Burke watches her pop a pair of blue shades on, leaning against the rolled-down window. “Eat shit, bud,” Elliot says, and smiles just before she kisses the air in Burke’s direction and pulls a hard u-turn. The tires squeal on sizzling pavement, and she waves at them through her open window before she speeds off.

Burke watches the receding vehicle and says, “They all that peachy? Can I plan on Joseph being a fuckin’ breeze?”

“Fuckin’ whatever,” Pratt says, biting the words out as Diana swings the door open. “She’s all golden princess until you get close enough to see she’s picking the wings off of flies. Why’s she so interested in you, rookie?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Diana snaps. “I don’t know what goes on in that psycho’s brain.”

Burke grimaces.

“Might do well to find out,” he says, “before we learn the hard way.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“John.”

He makes a low noise, staring at the map stretched out before him; it’s his first mistake, because Elliot has never been very patient when she has something to say, and this time is no different. She ducks under his arm and settles herself on the table, on the map, effectively breaking his eyesight with the thing which is keeping him perfectly and completely unfocused on her.

“Do you remember what you said to me when we got married?” she asks him, her voice suspiciously light and unfettered by the usual components of her timbre—like venom, or sharpness. Elliot skims her fingers along the skin exposed by the undone buttons of his shirt.

He watches her. She’s up to something. “I remember every single thing I’ve ever told you,” he replies, stifling his amusement, “and I said many things. Which are you referring to?”

“Pick one and try.”

The neckline of her tank top brushes the bottom of her Wrath scar, the jagged lines marring what was otherwise perfectly unblemished skin. What game are you playing? he thinks, but not without affection, digging his thumb past those little shorts she likes so much. “How about... ‘I can’t wait to rip this fucking dress off of you’?”

“Try again.”

Ah, so that kind of game. Not the sexy kind. “‘I’m going to give you anything you want’?” He says it with a border of cautioning, because Elliot doesn’t cash that line in very often, but when she does it’s almost always for something big. She’s in a mood tonight, this wife of his, the kind of mood that he’d normally like to take advantage of if he wasn’t busy trying to make sure they keep eyes on the Marshal.

Elliot beams at him. “You know me so well, handsome,” she murmurs, and tugs him down by the front of his shirt for a kiss; luxurious, open-mouthed, and slick, and then against his mouth she says, “I want the deputy.”

“For what?” John asks. “Dinner? She’s been around that Marshal, who’s almost certainly here for something to do with Joseph.” When the blonde blinks at him, as if this has no bearing on her request, he barks out a laugh. “You’re asking too much.”

“You said anything.” Elliot pulls back to look at him, fingers still fisted in his shirt.

“I did,” he says, slowly.

“So,” the blonde murmurs silkily, “get her for me.” And then, as though she is the most gracious: “Consider her a belated wedding gift.”

John exhales out of his nose. He’s hard-pressed to say no to Elliot, but he’s got the sneaking suspicion that this is one of the instances where he should. It’s not like Elliot ever asks for anything that’s really unreasonable—not usually—but this? He could get her just about anyone, and she wants Diana Baker?

“For what?” he asks again, brows furrowing as Elliot undoes the rest of the buttons of his shirt so that she can drag her nails against his abdomen. “What could you want the rookie deputy for, hm?”

“Does it really matter?” she prompts, looking up at him through her lashes, and he thinks no, not really, but he knows better.

“Yes,” he replies, the corner of his mouth ticking upward. “It does matter. Really. I’m going to have to pitch this to Joseph and Jacob.”

“I like her,” Elliot says without hesitation. That’s how it always goes—John will push as long as he has to, until he doesn’t anymore, because they always give each other what they want. In the end. “And we could use her.”

He scans her face. Elliot doesn’t say she likes someone without merit. He’s come to trust that she’s got an eye for people, even if he can’t always see it—and he doesn’t see it, not really, in a fresh-in-town junior deputy that’s in over her head.

For a second, he thinks about it; it wouldn’t be the first time that they’ve allowed a third party, but it would be one of few times that she’s chosen, which is different in and of itself. If he knows her at all—and he does—she doesn’t usually pick unless she intends to keep them around for a long while.

“I’ll consider it,” John says finally. “After tomorrow.”

A smile curves her mouth. She slides her arms around him and kisses his sternum, just beneath his own sin, revealed—a pair, the two of them, closer than just lovers.

“That’s all I ask,” Elliot murmurs sweetly as his thumb sweeps the slope of her cheekbone.

It’s not, John thinks, but he thinks it with love, because he does—he loves his wretched little viper, this monster that looks at him through her eyelashes and says things like, I want her, so get her for me.

It’s not all you ask, but that’s just fine.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Absolutely not.”

Jacob is the first to speak after John’s proposition, which is not uncommon. The eldest brother does tend to be the most unforgiving, John finds, of his wife’s aspirations; even though, between all of his siblings, Elliot and Jacob get along the best.

John heaves a sigh. “Elliot is convinced that the deputy can be of use to us, if she’s allowed to—”

“Your wife,” Joseph interrupts, “shows a great lack of self-control asking such a thing.”

John bites back the gut-instinct response—that Elliot shows the most control for asking, rather than just taking what she wants, because as a woman capable of it, she can—and instead swallows back, “She would like to serve the Project, Joseph. In this way.”

“Maybe I wanted the deputy,” Jacob drawls. “Didn’t you ever think of that?”

Turning his gaze to his eldest brother, John says, “Well, have you expressed that to our brother, Jacob?”

“It didn’t occur to me until now,” the redhead replies, feigning an air of innocence. “But now I think I do.”

He can feel his teeth grinding. “Funny, that until Elliot showed an interest—”

“Yes,” Joseph acquiesces after a moment. “You and our most holy sister may pursue the deputy by your own means, but you must—” And here he looks at John, pointed. “—let the love into your heart, brother.”

A wash of relief crashes over him; after the fucking shit show that the last evening had been, John thinks that it’ll be good to bring some good news back to Elliot, who’s been itching to get out into the thick of the madness. Even if Joseph seems to be implying he doesn’t want their typical means used, that’s fine. Open to interpretation, right?

“I want the deputy brought to heel, John,” Joseph continues. “It is crucial for the survival of not only us, but also our people, that you show you are capable of doing this.”

“Of course,” John replies, smiling. “Elliot and I would do anything for you.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

When the junior deputy finally comes to, Elliot is sitting across from her. Diana makes a low, vicious sound as she lifts her head and fixes Elliot with her eyes—lovely eyes, Elliot thinks admiringly, while her molars grind and the noise vibrates through her head. John’s reluctantly left her alone; he thinks he should be the one to soften Diana for her, but Elliot thinks John’s just going to push her farther away.

“Good morning, sugar,” she greets, and Diana spits onto the floor.

“Fuck you.”

“Yes,” Elliot replies sweetly, “if you behave.”

Diana’s eyes flutter for a moment, like she isn’t expecting that so soon and so fast—but certainly she expected it in some respect, because Elliot’s been purposefully obvious about her intention for the deputy, to both Diana and John. She doesn’t want a mindless convert, dulled and emptied out by Bliss and agreeing blindly.

Her fingers itch. She tugs absently at the sleeve of her sweater, rolling her chair forward as the brunette pulls at her binds.

“What the fuck did you do with Hudson?” Diana grinds out.

“I wouldn’t worry about her,” Elliot dismisses, and waves her hand. “She’ll be just fine.”

There’s a brief moment where the brunette looks at her, sweeps sharp, green eyes over Elliot and she cocks a half-done smile at her before she says, “Yeah, Joey told me all about you.”

Elliot smiles. “Only good things, I’m sure.”

“Said you’re a fucking bitch.” Diana arches a brow loftily. “A nutjob.”

“That checks out.”

Diana spits on the floor again, ridding her mouth of the blood from her rough handling, but this time she spits it out at Elliot’s feet. Elliot sighs and tucks some hair behind her ear just before Diana asks, “So, what’s the plan here, princess?”

She blinks at the deputy. She's a little pleased at the pet name, but she doesn't want to let it show. “Plan?”

“Yeah,” Diana says, rolling her eyes. “C’mon, I’m not fucking stupid. What’s the plan? What’s the dynamic? John sends you in because you’re the pretty one, soften me up, and then he comes in to finish the job and cleanse my sins or what the fuck ever it is he thinks he’s doing?”

Elliot feigns bashfulness and flutters her lashes. “You think I’m pretty?”

“Fucking come on,” Di bites out viciously. “Whatever the ploy is, get it over and done with.”

It’s no fun when you say it like that, she thinks, but she can tell Diana’s sort of at her limit—not quite, because if this was her limit, then Elliot would have greatly overestimated her—but she’s getting there. Residual Bliss still burning through her system, and for what? For her to have more of an attitude? How well she’d chosen.

“There’s no ploy, Diana,” Elliot says after a moment, leaning back in her chair. “John wanted to cleanse you his way—I told him no.”

The deputy regards her for a moment, tugging absently at the binds on her wrists. “Why?” she asks, warily.

“Because it wouldn’t work,” Elliot replies. “You can’t make someone get better. They have to want it. And I don’t think that you do, honey.”

Diana’s eyes flicker for a moment. Elliot can tell that she’s trying to regulate her breathing, trying to smooth it on the way in and out of her so that it isn’t so laborious, but it’s hard to do when there’s Bliss wreaking havoc on all of your defenses. She would know—she tries not to expose herself to that shit if she doesn’t have to.

“You’re right,” she says after minute, “I don’t want to “get better”, and I sure as fuck don’t want anything you’d give to me.”

“I don’t want that either,” Elliot tells her. “Not through any kind of religious baptism or cleansing, anyway.” She waves her hand and settles back against the seat, fishing a carton of cigarettes out of her pocket and sticking one in her mouth before she wiggles the box at Diana. “Smoke?”

The brunette regards her hatefully, silently, and Elliot shrugs before she lights her own, tosses the cigarettes onto the nearby workbench and takes a drag. When she blows the smoke out through the corner of her mouth, she says, “I don’t think we’re that different, Diana.”

“No?” Diana prompts, her mouth twisting around the words ruefully. “I could count the ways. One of us is a married to a fucking psychopathic kidnapper...”

“Colorful.”

“... and one of us also is a psychopathic kidnapper....”

Elliot smiles, but she doesn’t show her teeth, not the way that she smiles at Burke or Pratt because she wants to make them squirm. Diana rolls her neck.

“So if you don’t wanna cleanse me,” she begins, barely modulating the venom in her voice, “why the fuck am I here?”

“I like you,” Elliot says plainly, because she’s never been able to beat around the bush, not really. She’s not as sneaky as John, as brutal as Jacob, as smooth as Joseph. She’s not like any of them, and sometimes, that’s lonely.

The deputy regards her with something close to a poison-riddled look. Instead of addressing I like you, Diana seems to take advantage of this and makes a demand, instead.

"That Bliss shit makes me feel like garbage," she says. "Don't give it to me anymore."

"You did puke it up quite a bit, didn't you?"

Diana grimaces. She looks like she might want to say something, perhaps regarding Elliot's explanation, but the blonde waves her hand to stop whatever is about to come out of the deputy's mouth. She's not there to argue the logistics of a cosmic pull, anyway.

“I moved out of Hope County straight after high school,” she explains, “and back home to Georgia. Big city. Very exciting. I was tired of this little town and how few opportunities it had. Atlanta? That shit had so much going on.” Elliot pauses, crossing her leg over her knee.

“So glad,” Diana seethes, “that I’m getting a fuckin’ origin story.”

Elliot sucks her teeth. “Anyway, I date a shithead, I break up with him, and then he breaks into my apartment and holds a knife to my neck.” Elliot waves her hand again, because these details are so inconsequential to her at this point; she can barely remember the boy’s face, or anything about that moment except for a few key details. The color of his sweater sleeve (cream); the smell of his cologne (expensive); the paint chipping around her doorframe (small, baby blue chipping to white plaster underneath).

The brunette stares at her. Elliot takes a drag of the cigarette and taps the ash off of the end.

“I’ll spare you the details,” she continues, “but do you know what I was thinking that whole time? And after?”

Diana’s jaw works loosely, absently, like her brain is firing off neurons without needing to. “I don’t fucking know.”

“Try and guess.” She pauses, and then says meaningfully, “I’m sure you’ve got an idea of the kinds of things your mind says when you’re in a moment like that.”

When she watches Diana and smokes her cigarette with leisurely, relaxed movements, the brunette’s eyes flicker over the smoke cloud and she manages out in a wobbling sneer, “Probably something like—like that it wasn’t your fault, or some other kind of psychological-drivel to make you feel like you were in control.”

Elliot comes to a stand. The deputy’s closer than she thinks; it is about control, but just a different path.

“No,” she says, planting a hand on the arm of the chair Diana’s tied to so she can lean down. “I kept thinking, ‘this isn’t going to ever fucking happen again’.”

There’s a strange suspended moment between them. Diana’s lovely—more lovely than she’d let on, probably—but more than that, watching the deputy claw and rake her way through group after group of Eden’s Gate members, causing them problem after problem, Elliot can only think, aren’t we a little pair, the two of us?

A person didn’t get used to killing so fast unless they’d at least thought about it before. Maybe done it before.

“Do you know what it’s like, Diana,” Elliot continues, “to realize that you’ve reached a point of being able to do anything to stop something like that from happening again? It’s not oppressive. It’s liberating. Why do you think an animal stuck in a trap will chew its own foot off to get out?”

She straightens up. She wants to touch—tuck the hair away from her face, trace the lines of her face—but she won’t. Not yet. She’s more patient than John is, more willing to wait for that moment of satisfaction.

Diana says, “It’s real fucking liberating knowing Hudson’s chained up somewhere.”

“You have to stop giving a shit,” Elliot replies, “about other people’s freedoms before you’ve gotten your own.”

The brunette opens her mouth to say something, but before she can, Elliot plunges on. “We’re the same because we’re both going to get it done, whatever it is for us,” she says. “By any means necessary.”

Diana’s staring at the wall. She’s silent, and spitefully so, and she won’t look at Elliot; maybe because she knows that’s exactly what Elliot wants. In fact, that’s almost assuredly what it is.

“I want a cigarette,” the brunette says after a moment, petulant.

Elliot smiles thinly and brings her own to Diana’s mouth. More enunciated, Diana says, “I want my own cigarette.”

“It’s nice to want things, deputy,” Elliot idles. “Take it or don’t, it’s up to you.”

She does, after a moment of deliberation. Elliot drops the cigarette to the concrete floor as she breathes the smoke out and stamps it out with her foot. Diana takes a long time to blow the smoke out of her mouth, and she shifts in the chair; her eyes flicker up to meet Elliot’s, and she’s sure she can see something wicked in them.

“Animals chew themselves out of a trap because they’re animals,” Diana says after a second, not exactly the profession of attraction Elliot was hoping for. “Not because it’s liberating.”

Elliot laughs and pushes the chair she’d been sitting in back and out of the way. She picks up her carton of cigarettes from the tool bench and replies. Glancing over her shoulder, she can feel her expression softening when she looks at the deputy—soaking wet, rattling with cold and what Bliss they’d manage to pelt her with. Not much, they told her, whatever “much” meant.

“We’re all animals, deputy,” she acquiesces after a moment. “In the fucking end, anyway.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Glad you’re getting along with your deputy.”

John knows he sounds petulant. He knows, and he still can’t stop it from coming out of him as Elliot peels her sweater off over her head and drops it onto the floor. She glances at him over her shoulder.

“Green with envy looks good on you, baby,” she idles, and he feels his molars grind.

“You could play a little hard to get,” John says, trying for lofty and failing. “She’s a fucking menace, after all. She’s been causing problems nonstop, she took Fall’s End from us—”

Elliot says, “Our,” without stopping her undressing, which is two parts frustrating and one part endearing because John knows she’s trying to disarm him. She’s not stealthy about her tactics, and she doesn’t try to be.

“Our what?” he asks her, barely containing his irritation.

“Our deputy,” his wife replies sweetly. She turns, finally, to look at him—giving him her eyes, because she knows that he hates when she doesn’t—and leans against the dresser. “You called her my deputy. She’s not mine. She’s ours.”

John presses his lips into a thin line. He knows Elliot. He knows what it is she’s doing, because even though Diana has been nothing but a fucking thorn in his side, hearing the blonde say she’s ours gives him a pleasant, wretched kind of thrill writhing slick and hot in the pit of his stomach. As much as he knows her intimately, so too does she know exactly the kind of thing to keep him interested.

But it is a little different, if she’s considering sharing. If Diana isn’t her own private conquest.

“Is that so?” he asks, managing to keep his voice conversational now despite his piqued interest, sidling over to her. “I seem to recall that she was supposed to be my belated wedding gift to you.”

Reaching up, he drags his fingers along the inked scales of the serpent curved around her hip, swallowing up some of those gossamer-fine scars she had given herself and stretching down her thigh.

“Well,” Elliot murmurs demurely, “would I be a very Godly woman if I didn’t share with my husband?”

The words push the corners of his mouth upward.

“No.” He sweeps his eyes over her face. “I suppose not.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Joseph quickly comes to think that the deputy is more trouble than she’s worth. John hates when he says things like to Elliot with him still in the room, because he knows that Elliot isn’t going to cow to his brother—even though she should. It’s one of the most irritating traits of hers.

“She’s making a mess,” Joseph says, standing in their kitchen, watching Elliot with his eyes—the same way that he watches Jacob, sometimes. With wariness. “More of a mess than the good she would do us if she were converted.”

Elliot replies tartly, “It’s a good thing you don’t lift a finger to clean up a mess then, isn’t it? John does it for you, no questions asked, and by proxy, I do too.”

“If you have an issue with the way things are,” his brother articulates carefully, “then perhaps you should discuss the expectations that have been set out for you by God, with God.”

Elliot’s jaw sets. The contention sits there, her death, locked in her jaw.

Oh, John thinks, and he says, “I’ll be back.” She gives him a sharp look.

“I think that’s best,” she bites out. He knows what that means—she wants to be alone to argue with Joseph as she pleases, without having to worry about Joseph going, well, what do you think, John? Because he will, inevitably. He will, and John will have to look at Elliot and say, you know that he’s right, Joseph knows best, we’re here to shepherd.

As he descends to the lower bowels of the ranch, he stops at the bottom of the stairs.

“... do more for you than you fucking realize...”

“—refrain from speaking to me like—”

“—deserve to have this, Joseph—”

They should have taken Diana to the bunker, not kept her here. Not where there is so little space between them and her. The lack of distance lets Elliot feel close to her, and like any unloved animal, when she has something to keep, she guards it viciously. This is no different.

Diana is no different.

“You’re quite the conversation piece,” John tells the brunette when he walks into the room. She’s been with them for three days, and in that time she’s nearly escaped; unfortunately, the only exit from the basement is to go up, and she’s easy to catch up there.

The deputy regards him with a half-lidded gaze that reeks of impudence. “What’s it like?”

“Having a conversation piece?”

“Being so pathetic you have to kidnap someone to be able to have conversation,” Diana drawls venomously. The words spike a bout of irritation in him, hot and wretched, and he thinks he doesn’t know if it was worse to come down here to avoid Joseph and Elliot’s argument or if he should have stayed.

“My brother thinks you’re more trouble than you’re worth,” John bites out.

“I’m really fuckin’ concerned about Joseph’s opinion of me.” She smiles, all teeth, and the gesture strikes him as eerily reminiscent to Elliot. “So what, you’re gonna baptize me now or whatever instead?”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” he snaps, circling the chair that has been her home. “He doesn’t even want you cleansed. I’m thinking he’s just going to have us kill you. Stick your head up somewhere to send a message to all of your little friends in the resistance.”

Diana’s quiet at that for a minute, before she says, “Wifey won’t let that happen.”

“You—” John sucks in a sharp breath. “Don’t call her that.”

“Why not? She’s been making fucking bedroom eyes at me every second, that’s not my fault.”

Diana’s goading him, but it’s hard to see around the irritation. She’s impertinent, and impudent, and there’s nothing that he wants to do more than to just break that inside her—until she’s saying his name and begging and begging and begging. It’s the part of him that Joseph wanted him to cleanse and cut out, but that Elliot tells him she likes the best.

We’re closer than lovers, she would say, digging her nails in hard enough to draw blood, the same sin binds us.

The same sin that she sees in Diana, too. Wrath, he knows, even though he hates it.

“She has taken a particular interest in you,” John relents after a moment, though he doesn’t like to, “deputy.”

“I’m a catch,” Diana agrees. He sucks his teeth.

“My wife has always been a purveyor of wretched things.” John leans against the tool bench, narrowing his eyes. “I suppose she must think there’s something salvageable about you.”

“Is there a point?” the deputy asks, sounding tired. “To this... Monologuing? It’s very Marvel-villain of you, but I don’t have any popcorn or alcohol, and it makes it a lot less enjoyable.”

“Look,” he hisses, pushing off from the tool bench, “if we had it my way, you’d have your sin revealed and you’d be on your fucking knees begging us to keep you, you wicked little—”

“John?”

Elliot’s voice drifts down from the stairwell, and he snaps his mouth shut. She’d be furious if she knew he’d lost his temper. Maybe. Probably.

“Uh-oh,” Diana sing-songs, just low enough for him to hear, “here comes the ol’ ball and chain. Isn’t that right, buddy?”

The insinuation hangs there, between them, that Elliot is their ball and chain, and he feels his blood pressure spike. “Shut. Up,” John grinds out between his teeth, just as he hears footfalls descend the stairs above. When his wife does finally turn the corner, there’s a lovely high colour in her cheeks, and her eyes look a little wild.

“Bonding time?” she asks.

“Hardly,” John replies, just as Diana says, “Oh, you know it,” and he shoots her a look. Elliot had called her their deputy, their shared conquest, but both he and Diana look at Elliot more than they want to look at each other.

He does want, he thinks. He feels that tell-tale itch. It wouldn’t be so strong if Diana didn’t just buck against them all the fucking time, but he does want, which makes it all the more frustrating when she turns that venom on him.

“We should give the deputy a little blissful encouragement,” John remarks, turning his gaze to Elliot. “It might make her behave.”

“I don’t think so,” the blonde idles, as he reaches up and tucks a strand of hair away from her face. Oh, yes—she is furious. He can feel the tension from the grind of her molars against each other. The conversation with Joseph didn’t go well, then.

“Joseph wants to speak with you,” Elliot tells him as he runs the pads of his fingers down the column of her throat. There’s a nasty, jagged scar there—he’s trying to remember where it’s from, but he can’t.

“About what?” he says, brows pulling together.

“Wives, submit to your husband as to the lord,” she intones, the obedience in her voice cloying and all-too-sweet to be genuine, “for the husband is the head of the wife as Christ is the head of the church, his body, of which he is the Saviour—”

“Fucking unreal,” Diana says from the chair, and Elliot’s mouth ticks upward.

“As the church submits to Christ,” she finishes, fixing John with her eyes, “etcetera and so on.”

John is filled with dread. He thinks maybe Elliot’s mouthed off one too many times—she’s never liked Joseph, never even been particularly religious, and her own heritage is such a violent mishmash of religion and criminal activity that she’s hardly got the track record for piety. Scarlet is a practicing Catholic and Ambrose’s opinions on religion are unknown, considering that he’s been vanished for so long, so it’s no surprise that Elliot views religion as something like ambiguity.

“I’ll be quick,” he murmurs, which they both know isn’t true, but he says it anyway.

“Don’t rush on my behalf.” Her eyes are dark—he can see the pupils eating away at the baby blue of her irises, and when she reaches up and brushes his hand away from her face, there is a tiny tremor in her hands.

Not good at all, he thinks, stepping around her and looking at Diana. Her eyes are on Elliot for a heartbeat longer, and then she looks at him, and he knows that she’s seen it too. She’s too sharp not to have.

As he approaches the stairs, John says, “Play nice, hellcat.”

“I always do.”

Near the top, he hears Diana say, “I don’t think you’re capable of playing well with others, princess,” and Elliot says, “He said play nice, not play fair, and I can be plenty nice,” and he feels a little surge of warmth at the playfulness in her tone. It’s a timbre that he doesn’t hear out of her often, and almost exclusively with him, so to hear it now not only makes him a little envious, but also pleased.

The deputy is a wretched, wicked thing, yes; she should be cleansed, but there is also a part of him that knows Elliot would not want her any other way, just like he wouldn’t want Elliot any other way.

And that’s good enough for him.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The deputy escapes.

It’s not a surprise to Elliot when he tells her, and he thinks maybe she was waiting for it all along, considering that Joseph had conditionally allowed them their pursuit of Diana as long as they can keep her under control; it would not be completely unfounded to think maybe Elliot gave her a way out, to keep the chase fun. To keep it fresh.

She takes Fall’s End back. She takes the fucking plane back. She takes Hudson back. She takes, and takes, and takes, and that’s all Diana Baker is capable of doing, John thinks—fucking taking, even after he and Elliot had been so gracious with her. It grinds against his patience as though his nerve endings have been exposed; it shreds the last of his control, sinks its claws into him like nothing else.

Sunrise Farm. Rae Rae’s. The Lamb of God Church. One after another, they play this game of existential tug-of-war; where Diana takes one and moves on, Elliot surges back in to take it back again. He thinks that his wife should be able to crush the Resistance under her bootheel, but he has the sneaking suspicion that she doesn’t want it to be done so quickly. And, in many ways, Diana outfoxes them with what appears to be little effort; their supply trucks get mowed down. The silos burn. Men keep dying.

These are all things that should disparage Elliot, but each time John points it out to her—“She’s wicked, Ell,” he’ll posit—she regards him loftily and says, “Well, she can’t be anything less than us, can she?”

Diana gets pulled back to them. She escapes. It happens over and over, until the lines start blurring, until John thinks maybe, sometimes, she lets them catch her—like she’s looking forward to those moments. When she’s there, at the ranch, things feel different; Elliot moves with a strange surety around the deputy, like they know each other already, deep in the marrow of their bones. Maybe, in a way, they do.

And in those moments, there’s a shift. Elliot allows her freedoms on good behavior, which run on such thin ice considering Diana herself, and are almost always immediately broken at first. But no matter how many of their things she destroys or spits on or takes, no matter how many times John finds himself disgustingly exasperated with her—he is always happy to see her back.

In part because he knows Joseph has given Jacob and Faith both leave to kill her if they have the misfortune of coming across her, and in part because he sees the way Elliot leans into her like a flower to sunlight; her fingers ghost over Diana’s skin, and she pulls Diana into her lap and kisses her, hot and open-mouthed, and sighs when Diana petulantly sinks her teeth into her lower lip.

It draws blood, and John knows from the way his wife looks at him that it delights her.

“Wicked,” Elliot murmurs then, tongue peeking out to swipe the blood from her lip, reiterating the word that John favors Diana with the most. “Don’t you think so, baby?”

“Incredibly,” John agrees. He climbs onto the bed behind Elliot, sweeping the hair from her shoulder and pressing a kiss to the junction of her shoulder.

“How well we chose,” the blonde purrs, dragging her fingertips along the column of Diana’s throat, and he can see the goosebumps rise in her skin. Diana’s eyes flicker, dreamily, and their gazes meet over Elliot’s shoulder. She’s tame, like this—or nearly-tame, close to domesticated, at least for a little while. It’s only ever for a little while. And though they fall into a strange, tentative routine every time she’s here—even though John can lean over Elliot’s shoulder and pull Diana into a bruising kiss, until he feels her breath hitch.

He loves it. He loves the feeling of Diana’s mouth parting under his, loves that their fingers meet, tangled, in Elliot’s hair, grounding Diana to them. At night, when Elliot has contented herself with enough of a taste of Diana and John both, when they lay tangled together, Diana kept between them.

Our deputy, Elliot had said; in moments like these, it feels true.

“You missed us,” the blonde says against Diana’s neck. “We missed you, too. Especially John.”

Her eyes are sly when she looks at him, when he pulls back from Diana to regard his wife curiously. She takes the brunette’s chin in her grip and guides her back, brushing their noses together.

“Missed having both of his little vipers,” she murmurs silkily, and John sees the flicker of her tongue against Diana’s lips. “Didn’t you, John?”

Yes, he thinks, but does not say, because his mind is encompassed with the way Elliot kisses Diana; reverently, with the intent to worship. Never rushed and never urgent, only ever luxuriating in it.

At first, he and Diana get along for Elliot’s sake—as much as they can, anyway, because even Elliot is not enough of a bridge to force them to get along—but when they have the deputy, and his wife gets called away, they fall into a kind of rhythm with each other. It’s not a familiar cadence. It’s daunting, and a little jarring, the way they bite and scratch at each other for comfort, both missing their girl.

“I’m not going to stay,” Diana says then, against the blonde’s mouth, the same way that she said it into John’s mouth. Her neck and shoulders are littered with the remnants of their time together, and he wonders if the Resistance members ask.

“We know,” John says, leaning down and grazing his teeth across the fading bruise of a love bite. He drinks in the way Diana hisses and squirms. “You’ll always leave.”

“And always come back,” Elliot agrees. She noses past the hair gathering in the crook of Diana’s shoulder.

“Like you were never gone at all.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It becomes her mantra. I’m not going to stay, Diana says every time, and every time she only sticks around for a day or more before she dissipates into the air like a wraith. He doesn’t know how long it goes on like this, but he does know that each time Joseph becomes more impatient. Each time, the act of losing her strikes a chord of panic in John—she won’t come back this time, he thinks, or maybe this time she’ll come back with more than just her, or or or—but Elliot doesn’t feed into his panic; she treats it like anything else, with the confidence that the deputy will come back. He desperately wants to keep Diana there with them, where he can see and touch and taste her, where he is certain Jacob hasn’t gotten her, but she always follows through on the promise of leaving.

“Aren’t you at your limit?” John asks, late in the evening, watching Diana from across the island counter in the kitchen. This time around, Elliot has been gone for most of the time Diana has been here, which makes it more difficult to know that her tolerance for sticking around is going to be running out soon. By the time Elliot comes back, Diana might already be gone.

“I’m always at my limit,” she replies, her idle venom more a comfort now than ever, “with you.”

“You’re a real comedian, deputy.” He saunters around the island, his hands finding her hips and his mouth finding her neck. He likes hearing the way her breath slides out of her when he does. “Though I seem to recall a specific instance in which you were not at your limit, and couldn’t stop asking me for more—”

He’s about to follow through on the insinuation, because Diana’s eyes narrow when she looks at him but she’s warm and close and he watches her gaze flicker down to his mouth, but the sound of the front doors to the house opening startles him out of the dreamy haze the brunette tends to put him in. John pushes off from the counter and walks out of the kitchen, brows knitting together at the impudence of someone to come barging in without being announced.

“Herald.” It’s one of the men, and his face cloudy. “It’s—I’m sorry, we—”

“Spit it out,” John grinds out between his teeth. He hears the sound of Diana rustling in the kitchen behind him, and then from outside, Elliot’s voice.

“Don’t fucking touch me—”

The blonde shoulders her way through the doorway as someone flutters nervously behind her. John takes in a number of details very rapidly: she’s clutching at a spot close to her shoulder, just below her collarbone, there is blood coming out of her mouth, and she’s fucking pissed.

“Get a doctor,” John barks out, just as Diana steps around him and goes to Elliot. He does, too, but mostly to clear the members of Eden’s Gate out of the room because he knows Elliot’s going to come unglued if they stick around.

“Fucking Pratt,” Elliot seethes, even as Diana’s hands go to her, trying to guide her to the couch. The blonde jerks when she feels hands on her, looking wild, and John tenses for just a second; in moments like these, his wife’s ability to differentiate between threat and non-threat is almost non-existent, and he’s suffered the consequences of it plenty of times. “Don’t—fucking—”

“It’s me, you monster,” Diana snaps. “Sit the fuck down.”

The blonde’s breathing is labored. She swallows back what he can only assume is a mouthful of blood before he says, “Hellcat.”

“I’m going,” she bites out, and then she does. Diana touches her elbow, and she stiffens, and then sits down where the brunette tells her to. When she pulls her hand away from her shoulder, it’s sticky and wet with blood.

“Jesus Christ,” Diana says, a little wrench in her voice that she quickly snuffs out. “Getting sloppy?”

“Eat shit,” Elliot wheezes. “I hate that fuckhead. Can’t wait til I—” She sucks in a sharp breath. “—til I g-get my fucking—hands—”

Diana is circling Elliot, trying to get a good look, as John grabs a first aid kid from under the kitchen sink. He keeps thinking about all of the blood coming out of her mouth; it’s not the first time he’s seen her like this, but it’s definitely not any easier, either.

“Exit wound?” the deputy asks.

“Fucking shot me with a 9 milli FMJ,” the blonde says between her teeth, “there’d better fucking be an—”

“Stop,” Diana interjects as John returns with the first aid kit, “being unhelpful.”

It’s a torturous amount of time between Elliot’s arrival and the arrival of the doctor they have for such occasions. In the meantime, Diana does what she can—she knows probably more than both of them, even Elliot with her close proximity to violence, about how to stabilize a gun wound; she cleans it and stops the bleeding as much as she can, her face set in a grim, tight expression.

The brunette packs the wound with gauze and says, “You’re a goddamn idiot.”

“Cute one though, huh?” Elliot asks, her voice a little hoarse and her eyes fluttering. “Be cuter if someone could get me some fucking oxy.”

“Save it for the doctor, princess.”

“So glad,” John manages out tartly, Elliot’s fingers loosely curling against his palm, “so glad we have your calming presence here, deputy.”

Diana regards him for a moment, and she looks about to say something when the doctor chooses precisely that moment to arrive. He doesn’t do much by way of conversation; he works silently, intensely, his fingers moving a sort of surety that comes with many years of practice, but he hardly looks at John or Diana while he works.

It’s probably odd. People know that Diana is around, but they don’t know-know, in the sense that there’s never been an official announcement or acknowledgement of what’s going on. Occasionally, the doctor’s eyes furtively flicker towards the brunette; but if he’s feeling pressed to ask, he doesn’t let it show.

By the time Elliot is stitched-up, drugged-up, and planted into the bed, the heat and bubbling fury have died out of her, the embers smothered by the painkillers. Diana lays in the master bedroom next to her while the doctor talks to him outside in the hall.

“Bed rest, minimum three weeks,” he says. “If she keeps coughing up blood, call me. No strenuous activity, no stress—”

“Doctor,” John says tightly, “with all due respect, let’s keep the expectations under control.”

The doctor grimaces. “Bed rest, three weeks. Everything else, just—try your best.”

John nods, short and impatient, and dismisses the man with a gesture of his hand before he steps into the bedroom. Elliot’s murmuring something to Diana, but the words are slurring and her voice is pitched so low beyond normal volume he can’t make it out, even from there.

He wanders to the side of the bed, sitting down on the edge by Elliot’s hip.

“What’d he say?” the blonde asks, her words slurring and her fingers tangling in strands of Diana’s dark hair. “Two days, ready—go?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Diana says irritably.

“Three weeks bedrest,” John tells her. “He thinks you have a collapsed lung.”

“Fuckoff,” Elliot groans, the words blending together.

“He also said no strenuous activity, no stress—”

At that, Diana laughs, the sound billowing out of her in a short, disbelieving bark. “Fucking what?”

“That...means you t-two have to….behave,” Elliot mumbles, her eyes flickering. “No stressin’ me—no streeeessin’—”

“Stop.” Diana sounds almost affectionately exasperated. “You are so painful to listen to.”

“—no stressin’,” Elliot finishes stubbornly, “me. Out.”

Later that night, when she’s finally drifted off into sleep and John and Diana have her settled between them, John props his head up in his hand and sees Diana still awake. She’s looking at the window. It’s open, and the late-August breeze comes drifting in, bringing with it the smell of pine and wilderness.

“At your limit?” John asks as he did before, keeping his voice soft so as not to stir Elliot. Normally, he wouldn’t ask—he would just wait to realize that Diana’s not there, and go from that point on. But it’s different, now, with Elliot like this.

The brunette turns her gaze to him. For a second, her eyes flicker over Elliot, who stirs a little.

“She always this annoying?” Diana says, instead of answering, and by annoying he thinks she means worry-inducing.

“Like it’s an Olympic Sport,” John replies.

She exhales out of her nose. They sit like that for a little while, until Diana settles back against the pillow. Elliot’s fingers are knotted loosely into the sleeve of her t-shirt, and the blonde’s breathing stutters and hitches in her chest.

“Not yet,” she answers, finally. “Not at my limit yet.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“How many days has it been?”

John’s voice breaks Elliot out of her reverie. She blinks, and realizes that she’s been checked out. The painkillers make her brain foggy, and if it weren’t for the excruciating, searing pain in her chest and shoulder, she’d just stop taking them.

The sound of the shower running in the bathroom adjacent to the bedroom trickles in through the fog. That’s right: she’s in bed. She’s in bed, and John is next to her, his fingers tracing the coil of the tattooed serpent on her thigh, the cigarette in her fingers burning for who knows how long since the last time she’s taken an inhale of it.

“Since what?” Elliot asks, looking at her husband. John slides his hand up and snags her fingers, bringing the wedding ring she sports to his mouth.

“Since our viper came back to us.”

She tries to think back that far, but it’s hard. Elliot reaches over with a wince and taps the cigarette out into the ashtray. In the bathroom, she can hear the water switch off.

After a moment, she replies, “Must be over two weeks.”

Her husband makes a low noise. She brushes her fingers through his beard, and he murmurs, “Longer than usual.”

“What are you two gossiping about?”

Elliot’s gaze flickers up sluggishly to Diana, standing in her towel, propped up against the doorway. She’s such a far cry from the girl that she was when they first got their hands on her that it’s almost easy to forget she ever existed in a place where she wasn’t theirs. How absolutely dreadful, Elliot thinks, just absolutely fucking dreadful, to think she was once not ours.

“How long we have to wait for you to come back over here,” John says easily. “Not only are you using up all the hot water, but Elliot’s pining.”

“Oh, yeah?” Diana sounds amused as she makes her way to the bed. “Poor little bed-ridden snake, aren’t you?”

Elliot laughs, because it should be absurd—it should be, that Diana is here, leaning in when Elliot beckons her, the brunette’s mouth soft and sweet against her own. It should be absurd, but it isn’t, because this isn’t the first time Diana’s kissed her like this and it won’t be the last, either.

“Every time we’re apart,” Elliot confirms resolutely, “I wallow around. Just ask John.”

“I have a hard time picturing you wallowing.”

“She does,” John says, planting a kiss on Elliot’s jaw. “She wallows around and says, when do you think our Di will be back? Does she think about us?” And then, grinning wickedly, he adds, “Do you think if I ask nicely, she’ll shove her fingers in my mouth?”

Elliot laughs, grabbing John’s jaw and jostling him. “You fucker.”

“I will,” Diana says, and now she sounds sly, and in the way that Elliot does. “If you ask.”

Pausing, Elliot feels her chest tighten a little. Mine, she thinks tiredly, glancing between John and Diana both. They’re here, and hers, and even though she told John the deputy is for them she thinks maybe they’re both for her.

“What else?” She turns her gaze back to Diana. “What else will you do, if I ask?”

Diana’s gaze flickers. Her lips press into a thin little line. I’m not going to stay, she looks like she wants to say, but she doesn’t. She just says, “You’re chatty as fuck tonight, aren’t you? Sounds like it might be time for you to pop another painkiller,” and goes to fetch the pill bottle.

Elliot settles back against the pillows and watches the brunette rifling through the dresser. This is when Diana says, I’m not going to stay, her little mantra, but she doesn’t, and John tangles their fingers together and squeezes her hand.

The deputy always leaves, and she always comes back. She hasn’t said yes, she’ll stay, and she also hasn’t said no, she’ll go, and in this instance maybe that means exactly what Elliot wants it to.

Maybe, it means this time, she’ll stay.

#my writing #2020 christmas electric boogaloo #jess!!! jess!!!!#im not hiding in the tags but i hope u like it #ik you just proofed it but guess what?#it's probably still got spelling errors #<3 #just ash things #otp: the unholy trinity #anyway hi i love you #i can't believe i actually got this shit done in time for christmas #i hope..... the vibes are good #and the flow #ahhhhh lmao #ksjfskadjf #OKAY BYE LOVE YOU #fc5 fic

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wanna-b-poet31 · 5 years ago

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An (at this point certainly more than) 4-part Meta on Good Omens Part 3: The Dubious Coping Skills of Aziraphale

Sooooo! Surprise surprise, I have lots and lots of thoughts on the ineffable husbands and their respective trauma/abuse recovery arcs. Sorry if anyone expected different content from me.

Before I get into how the abuse the ineffable husbands endure affects their relationship with each other or how through their relationship together, they are healing, helping both of them recover their issues, I want to examine their current coping skills.

Aziraphale, the loveable bastard

Aziraphale is many things. Loving, kind, naive, powerful, and forgiving. Which, is why the audience and Crowley love him. He’s so gosh darn good at being good (and a bastard). However, Heaven is a highly emotionally abusive and manipulative place and Aziraphale is traumatized by his experiences.

God openly admits that interacting with her is like playing a game in a dark room where the dealer is always smiling and changing the rules. Essentially, the “parental” figure is distant, and often unsupportive of the “child’s” needs or thoughts. I already explain in Part 1 how Heaven’s angels (cough cough Gabriel the asshole cough cough) are explicitly emotinally abusive.

This is compounded not just by the threat of expulsion, but the reality of it. On no uncertain terms, dissenters (demons) are cast out, ultimately denied the love and care supposedly implicit in being a child of God. They’re all typecasted as evil, bad, wrong creatures unable to do the right thing. Although abuse is a complex, often fluid, mix of manipulation, intimidation, and aggression, the lack of communication and implicit expectation of compliance, breeds abuse and instills trauma. God’s threats of abandonment, coupled with the intimidation by archangels with their own agenda (see part 1), and a lack of any healthy support system loom low over the head of our favorite angel.

For example, in the beginning, he already knows the difference between kindness and cruelty; right and wrong; good and evil. Instead of he simply “does” his little rebellious act of giving humans his flaming sword, no questions, no permission, no bureaucracy, just action out of kindness and compassion for these creatures who had just gone against a direct order from God. Aziraphale is doing good at this moment. His only concern is with their ability to protect themselves and their children. He knows that not doing so would put these creatures in harm's way. He doesn’t hesitate, he doesn’t ask questions, he doesn’t doubt himself, he simply acts.

However, everyone else around him who he is expected to trust, would not think his actions are just. God angrily confronts him, Gabriel belittles him, and the guard preparing him for battle insults and shouts at him (calling him a pathetic excuse for an angel). This all causes him significant anxiety because of the threat of real loss. Not just of love and home and family, but of identity. Aziraphale’s defining defining defining trait is his joy of helping others and pride at being an angel. He loves being “good”, and damn it is he good at the job (if not a tad naive at times).

But, several times (with God, Gabriel, and the guard respectively), we see the impact of this decision to give away his sword results in a spike in Aziraphale’s anxiety, fear, and denial. All of which are byproducts of his abuse. Unfortunately, his instinct for deflection from a problem is the perfect recipe for several shots of top shelf levels of repression, his primary coping skill.

Based on his conditioning, he should have shunned the humans just like everyone else. He should have smitten the demon Crowley and turned his back on humanity. He is an angel, after all, and he can’t disobey orders. But he doesn’t hate them, he can’t hate them. He loves them all.

Aziraphale constantly shows that he loves hard and honestly. He must have been the only one listening when God said to love all of her creatures because he genuinely wants to help them. But, based on the lack of communication and distinct power imbalance between him and the other angels, he’s not sure HOW to do it all the time.

He’s constantly fearing that he’ll be punished for his compassion, for his love of humanity. Which, in many ways shows the complexity of his abuse at work. He doesn’t hate Heaven or God, not really, he’s a firm believer that they are the purveyor of good up until it’s obvious that no one (save Crowley) ever intended to treat him like an equal. Instead, throughout the series, he deflects from Heaven’s actions, believes them when they say that demons are evil, that giving his sword away was wrong, that God is unquestionable, that he is soft (read: pathetic). Even, and often frequently, when he knows that the information is wrong.

He knows through Crowley that demons aren’t (all) bad. It is evident when Crowley performs miracles for him unprompted, or when they go for lunch, or when they time and time again try to save each other. He also knows he loves Crowley based on the fact that he actively seeks out his companionship and is terrified of someone “destroying” his best friend.

He knows from Pepper and Adam and Eve, that giving humans a way to protect themselves is necessary (even if War is bred from it) otherwise they wouldn’t have been able to survive.

He knows that God IS questionable ANDD that you should be questioning her because drowning!! a whole bunch of people!! including kids!! is wrong!! and he knows as much when he distances himself from Her choices.

He knows he’s not soft (even though Gabriel tells him he is) because he’s willing to do the difficult thing when the cards are down, and even then he believes fighting a war is not the solution to Armageddon. Hell, he knows neither killing the kid or going to war is going to solve all his problems. But being compassionate, or young, or naive isn’t a bad thing, it makes him stronger and able to identify with Adams’ fears about being able to stop Satan.

But just because he can see the truth, no, rather ESPECIALLY because he can see that this is true, he knows he’s woefully underprepared for any sort of confrontation on his feelings. He doesn’t know how to cope with the mental disconnect between his heart and Heaven. How can Heaven be right if they’re wrong about smiting, and safety, and him, and Crowley? The short answer is they can’t. But, he doesn’t know what to do with this paradox, and the doubt scares him to the core.

At first, he denies there’s anything traumatic going on. There is nothing wrong with the constant fear of falling by stepping out of line. That there is nothing what’s happening or how Crowley is being portrayed as evil when at best he’s wily. He buys the “there’s nothing to see here” mask of Heaven.

He is clearly more than willing to internalize the dismissive nature of Gabriel (see parallels between being called soft and calling himself soft). He can excuse the fear tactics of Uriel (just trying to prevent the wily snake from doing bad like demons are supposed to do). He can even rationalize the destruction of Noah, Sodom, Gamorah, and Jesus (all part of the ineffable plan). However, none of it is healthy for him, because it requires him to distance himself from the good he wants to do and the abuse he’s suffering.

But, once it’s too overwhelming to handle, and the cost of acknowledging that there is a problem with the system is too high, he starts repressing his desires.

For example, he represses his instinct for action allll the time. Where in the garden he just DID give humans his flaming sword, he has to physically restrain himself from action and calling Crowley the moment he learns the truth about Adam. He goes as far as LIE to Crowley that he’d tell him the news when he got it because he’s unable to coordinate the conflicting ideas that demons are bad, but Crowley is good. Subsequently, he represses his love for Crowley down, because the only supportive thing in his life Also is the biggest thing that goes against everything else he’s been conditioned to believe.

Whenever there’s a whisper of doubt, he falls back on the dogmatism of “I’m an angel”, as a reason for action or inaction and represses his instinct to do anything about it. But a denial of a problem isn’t solving the problem. Repressing his issues aren’t coping with the underlining abuse that the whole power structure is based on.

Let’s take the break-up scene where shit had hit the fan.

The end of the world is coming and Aziraphale KNOWS where the anti-christ is. He’s figured it all out, and he needs to act, the thing he is more afraid of doing than anything else. He acted in the garden, had done what needed to be done, and for his efforts was shamed into denying what he had done, and lied to (almost) everyone about giving it away. He got lucky he didn’t fall then (lying to God and all) and he simply doesn’t have the support system to risk her or Heaven’s wrath.

So, he can’t just act on it. He doesn’t just go in on a Bentley on fire or run away with Crowley, or even just admit that there’s a problem with heaven. He’s to a point where he’s been conditioned into thinking anything but Heaven’s side is wrong. He’s clinging to the only thing that feels stable when he’s scared. Put simply, he can’t admit that the right thing to do here is to tell Crowley, tell him, fix the problem, or fight Heaven and Hell trying. He’s too afraid of the real consequences. He’s too afraid of being alone, without anyone to lean on. And, it doesn’t help that he’s been manipulated for 6000 years into not questioning procedure.

But then he’s confronted by Crowley. Crowley tells him (under the assumption they were always on their own side) that if they can’t solve Armageddon they’ll run away together and try their best avoiding the war. But to run away would be admitting that Heaven is >gasp< wrong. That there is a flaw with his home, his family, with God’s plan and he doesn’t have the tools to do that. Sure, by this point he’s questioned everything they’ve told him about Demons, but it’s ingrained into his psyche. He either has to trust Heaven or be damned to hell. There is no middle ground for Aziraphale.

So he does the only thing he knows how to do in a traumatic situation. He deflects. He reverts back to 6000 years ago when he should be horrified by Crowley. He says “we’re on opposite sides” and that he doesn’t like Crowley. He says they aren’t friends. He lies. Because it’s easier to lie than to confront his trauma. It’s easier to lie and say there’s nothing there (it’s easier to repress) than to admit that yes, he wants to run away, he wants to be with Crowley, he wants to be on their own side. It’s easier than the alternative which is a loss of identity and safety.

All of this to say that his reaction is the consequence of repressing his doubts about heaven and his love for Crowley. He explodes at the demon. He says harmful, hurtful, things to his best friend because he doesn’t know how to reconcile the abusive power structure of heaven and the support Crowley has given him. So, he chooses not to act. He can’t leave. No matter how much he wants to go with Crowley at that moment, his repressed feelings won’t let him. Even as he’s days away from Armageddon, he can’t work through his feelings yet. He doesn’t have the tools or security yet. He doesn’t feel safe.

If he weren’t repressing his actions -- if he would look the abusive gift horse (Heaven) in the mouth -- he would see that Heaven is manipulating him, intimidating him until they get what they want -- war. But, he doesn’t know how to cut the cord, or to do the right thing without falling. And falling, without anyone to catch him, is too scary, too daunting. He’s traumatized into believing the only one capable of loving him, even if it’s conditionally, is Heaven and God, and losing that support is out of the question. What he doesn’t realize is that Crowley is head over heels in love with him, and (even if he weren’t in love) prepared to catch Aziraphale from falling.

Because it’s always Crowley. It is only Crowley -- the supposedly “bad” character -- who supports him about the sword. Only Crowley reassures him his actions and justifications are valid and soothes his anxiety, reaffirming that his position matters. For all the fanfare Crowley makes about being “not nice”, or jabs at Aziraphale’s love of magic, he never once belittles his angel. Sure, there’s light-hearted banter, but nothing he says really has a bite to it. Nothing he does is to harm or degrade Aziraphale. There’s mutual respect, care, and active love oozing off of Crowley towards Aziraphale.

The only caveat is that due to Crowley’s own dubious coping skills (see next installment) he clashes with Aziraphale’s understanding of the world at the park. Consequently, it and makes Aziraphale’s coming to terms with his own Heavenly abuse harder, because he can’t be sure Crowley will be there to catch him.

It is not until he tries to go to the top, go directly to God, and met with indifference, and then is confronted by the guard who tells him he’s pathetic does he realize that there is, in fact, a problem with the way he’s being treated and the way the system is built to fail. It’s built to harm humanity and destroy everything Angels are supposed to love. It is until he cannot deny it any longer, or risk everything he’s trying to say, that he finally stops repressing his instincts AND HE GOES. He leaves Heaven, a man on a mission style. And it’s not that he falls so much, that he jumps.

The terror of falling is the lack of control and concent. If he’s pushed, falling backward into the hellfire, he loses his identity, he loses his home, and he loses his only sense of self. If he jumps, however, he’s on his own terms (for the first time in the whole blessed series) and he can make choices about who is in his life and how. If he jumps, he’s not at the mercy of his distant “parent” or his blood-lust fellow angels. In short, if he jumps, he’s free of the power imposed onto him. If he jumps he’s able to make his own decisions. If he jumps he’ll end up with Crowley.

So he jumps.

The bottom line is that repressing his behaviors is harmful to his own mental health and nearly destroys the only meaningful, and unconditional relationship he has. Since the dawn of time, and perhaps before then, Heaven has made it perfectly clear that he is disposable. Aziraphale is just another name on a roster who is causing too much trouble for the strict dogma of Heaven, Gabriel, and God. Those in charge treat him like a half-rate idiot who is missing the point of their war because he’s soft, or naive, or too human. They all treat him as lesser because he’s different, and believe they hold all the power over him.

Which brings me to the whole point of unpacking how Aziraphale fails at coping with trauma. Equality. When he goes to heaven with his news, he’s met with dismissive coddling and outright insult. When he >spoiler< masquerades as Crowley, he is 3 against 1, horribly outnumbered, and not expected (well Crowly’s not expected) to get through the “trial” alive. God herself literally speaks down to him when asking about his sword. There is, ultimately, no winning for Aziraphale in Heaven or Hell’s systems. He has to cobble together his own side to truly be able to move forward and past the trauma.

AND there is ONLY 1 single character in the whole series sees eye to eye with Aziraphale (quite literally). Only 1 character who treats him as an equal on the same level. 1 person who recognizes Aziraphale as a force to be reckoned with in his own right, and someone who is so worthy of love and trust without question.

Crowley.

It is only when he is fully vulnerable to Crowley, that he can stop repressing his doubts and, as it were, put all of his cards on the table. Once Heaven shows its hand, it is painfully obvious that no one ever intended to help or support Aziraphale’s efforts to save humanity. Once he commits to Crowley he can no longer repress his doubts or ignore the reality of the abusive situation he’d been living through. He is forced to reconcile the idea that he is loved as he is with Crowley, whereas in heaven, he is simply a disposable soldier to them, not an equal who deserves to be heard and whose concerns should be considered.

However, despite the trauma and abuse, and more incredibly, despite his repression, he is able to cope with some of his issues throughout time with his relationship with Crowley. He is able to work through his concerns about Noah and Jesus with Crowley by his side, listening and validating his experience and concern as something to be taken seriously like no one else had ever done before. Together, they treat each other with mutual respect, and more than losing his status as an Angel, Aziraphale is terrified shitless at the idea of losing Crowley. The aforementioned break-up scenes are catalysts that force Aziraphale to make a choice and resist the intimidation and trauma caused by Heaven. And, once he commits to Crowley, there’s no going back, because, for the first time in over 6,000 years, he has a support system ready and able to help him cope with his issues.

And so, Aziraphale begins his road to recovery thanks to the help of his loving and supportive relationship with Crowley which I will do a deep dive of soon.

Sooooooooo this section went on wayyyyyy longer than intended. Look out for a Crowley-centric version tomorrow and a few more than 4 installments of this meta over the next week. #sorry.

TLDR: Aziraphale’s abuse doesn’t allow him to cope with the fact his bosses and his instincts are telling him to do 2 very different things. He manages to cope but only by using denial and repression. It is only when he finally puts down his defenses and being honest with himself that he is not in a good place in Heaven, but he is in a good place with Crowley, that he can start working toward recovery.

Thanks for coming to my Ted talk.

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