#hes a bastard of a rather high caliber

[electrasev5nwrites]

Ninja Daily: Vapors 32

"This is a bad idea," Chojuro muttered. "I don't like having high-level foreigners in the village when tensions are so high. He fidgeted, shoulders drawn in like he wanted to sink into himself.

Ao gave him a disgusted look. "Oh, man up already."

"Ao, don't be cruel, and stop your gender policing. It's very unattractive." The Mizukage pouted at her bodyguards. "Chojuro, don't you trust my judgment?" He went scarlet and began sputtering as if to deny that. "Everything will be fine," she soothed, ignoring his overreaction. "Konoha is our best bet for fixing our little problem." She closed her eyes and leaned languidly against her palm. "Whether they give us help as allies or we take it by force, the first step is gathering information. And how better than to have them readily give it to us?"

Chojuru still didn't like this idea, but he said nothing else. It was undeniable that something had to be done about the three-tailed beast that had been sealed in Yagura. The revelation that he had been controlled was slightly reassuring—it meant that the violence and insanity of the 'Bloody Mist' years had not entirely been the influence of the beast that was one of their best weapons. They could ill afford to lose it, even if its container had to go.

There was also no way around the fact that they had no one capable or willing to perform the seal to make a jinchuuriki for them. They had personnel who worked with seals, yes, but nothing of that caliber. It was possible that they could cobble together a seal that would work after a few months of scrabbling to make something work before the container the beast was held in failed.

It was also entirely possible and rather likely that they would fail and the beast would be released wherever they tried to seal it, angry after years of imprisonment and with its full power available. The casualties might be even worse if the amateur seal workers they had were incorrect about how long the beast could be contained in an inanimate object and it was released in the village.

Most of the other major villages had sealing 'experts', but even the best of Sand and Rock could not compare to Konoha's sealing experts. The only group that could possibly best Konoha's Jiraiya were the defunct Uzumaki clan… who, according to a rather recent bounty, were not quite so defunct after all.

"Those sneaky bastards were hoarding them all along," Mei had breathed out with an air of resigned amusement and utter relief at what seemed to be the solution to one of their largest problems, other than that fucking rebel faction that wouldn't give up and die already. If they could get a hold of an Uzumaki, who had reputably been sealing experts to the last man, woman, and child, then they could easily re-establish one of their most powerful assets and turn their attention to other problems. It wasn't as shocking in retrospect—they had one in the last war, and Konoha had always been closest to Uzu.

Without getting hold of a seal master, they would be better off throwing the container with the beast into an ocean and hoping no one else managed to take advantage of the resource.

If they were allies with Konoha, they could negotiate the sealing as part of their conditions for a mutual protection pact. It could benefit them as well to have stronger allies, so such a move would not be entirely altruistic.

Of course, Mei wasn't putting all her money on that bet. Senju Tsunade could take the view that it would be foolish to improve the military capacity of a village with a history of in-fighting, isolationism, and aggression. She could even be right. In the event that that Konoha refused to help them seal the Three-Tailed beast, then the next course of action would be to snag an Uzumaki, probably the one that had been so helpfully plastered on wanted posters. The kid was reputed to be a B-class shinobi, but a kunoichi of that level could be controlled. When their other option was kidnapping Jiraiya of the Sannin, it looked downright reasonable.

(They'd only just gotten the village under control. It would be a damn shame to have it destroyed by toads and be laughed at to boot).

Of course, that was assuming that Rock's information was correct. For all they knew, she could be a useless genin or the second coming of the Shodaime. Generally speaking, Rock couldn't find their asses with both hands, and the picture they'd scrounged up to accompany the entry had looked out of date. There was no way that they were looking for a B-class ten year old with a goofy smile. (and who smiled for official photos, anyway?)

A masked shinobi in the uniform of a Kiri hunter-nin knelt in front of Mei, holding out the copy of the admission verification that had just been processed at the front gate. She took it eagerly, having been anxious to find out who the Godaime Hokage had sent. Mei hadn't really expected that the woman would come herself, a fact that she was prepared to pretend to be slighted by if she needed more leverage.

The three shinobi waited silently on their Kage. Thankfully, she was a fast reader. Mei didn't bother to censor her expression as she read, vacillating between interest, irritation, and finally surprised humor.

She had to laugh with genuine amusement, wiping a tear from her eye and flicking it across the room with a delicate finger. "The Godaime Hokage sends her regrets that she cannot meet in person, but she sends her two apprentices in her place. Along with the escort team of Hatake Kakashi, two men with no last names, and one Uzumaki Aiko."

"Well, that's convenient," Ao muttered.

"They may as well have sent gift wrap," Chojuru half-laughed, reaching up to touch the handle of his sword reflexively.

Mei tutted. "Now now boys, play nice. That may be completely unnecessary." She stood, flicking a lock of hair over her shoulder. "Let's go meet our guests, hmm? They must be tired from their long trip. It would only be polite to greet them and send them to bed instead of forcing them to the negotiation table now."

'This place is sketchy as shit.'

Mist was everything she'd dreamed and more, sort of. Aiko stayed close to her shishou's side, doing her best to keep her gaze on Shizune and Sasuke's backs and fought to keep a neutral expression. It was a rare situation that made her feel like this—if she'd been a fresh genin, she might have cried.

It was just… well. It couldn't be pinned to any one thing. Perhaps it was the obviously years old bloodstains on streets and building faces. Maybe it was the fresh splatter over that- weeks at the oldest. It could have been the low-hanging fog that reminded her uncomfortably of how close Zabuza had come to killing her all those months ago.

But it was probably the combination of ambient killing intent and the way that every single person they saw stopped and stared silently, expressionless but somehow cold and evaluative.

She felt warmth against her side and realized she'd leaned so close to her shishou that she could feel his ambient heat. He gave no comment, but she reluctantly pulled back. As much as Aiko wanted to either turn around towards Fire Country or hide behind Kakashi, she had a job to do.

Besides, none of her companions seemed to be having trouble. She could understand why Kakashi didn't mind (he was the baddest fucker on the whole block, that's why, and probably the coolest, strongest, best-smelling person in the world); Sai had been brain-washed into near emotionlessness, and Shizune and Yamato were both elite ANBU shinobi in their own right.

But Sasuke? She couldn't let Sasuke be braver than she was. She had two years of experience on him and had probably killed more people than he'd said hello to in the past year.

Of course, he did have the benefit of being young and malleable enough for Konoha's military minded indoctrination and desensitization program to have worked. Aiko wasn't stupid enough to claim that she was the same person she had been when she first came to awareness, but she could be certain that if she were to point out every instance she saw of structural inequality or unethical behavior, she would be sent to a Yamanaka mind healer to get her head on straight. She couldn't afford that, so she was stuck patching together whatever coping mechanisms she could to deal with the stress of her job.

Usually, she found refuge in humor. Often it was dark humor. But it was hard to find even gallows humor right now when she felt like she could hardly breathe and the Mist was going to choke the life right out of her.

It was probably for the best that Shizune and Sasuke were the focus of attention, listening to their escort at the front of the group talk quietly. They passed into what had to be an administration building, and Aiko did her best to look like muscle—that was her job here. Thankfully there was some form of heating inside, and she relaxed a bit. As much as she complained internally about Konoha's awful heat, she'd gotten used to it and the damp chill here was very uncomfortable. It curled up into her lungs like it would never leave.

A woman who could only be Terumi Mei was waiting inside a spartan room with a muscled man at either shoulder like the best sort of accessory. "Greetings," she purred. And it really was a purr. Aiko knew immediately that this was a woman who wielded sex as a deadly weapon. "You are Tsunade's representatives, I take it?" She spent just long enough eying up Shizune and Sasuke to make it clear that it wasn't really a question. "I would like to personally thank you for coming, and hope that you enjoy our hospitality. You will be staying nearby, actually."

"I'm sure we will both benefit from this," Shizune smiled. It was false. "Konoha would like to extend congratulations on your ascendance to Mizukage and wish you the best. As a token of our thanks for this invitation, we would like to offer you a gift."

Mei raised an eyebrow. The bulky man on her right stiffened, glaring at Shizune suspiciously with his one visible eye. Kakashi stared back at him with a bored expression and his one eye. Aiko rather suspected that if things dissolved into some bizarre optical pissing match against the stolen Byakugan she was sure was hidden under that, Konoha would come out on top. (Granted, she couldn't be sure and her memory was fuzzy, but one of the other villages definitely had a bodyguard with a stolen eye).

"How generous."

Shizune held out her left hand, accepting the scroll that Kakashi passed into her grip without either of them so much as looking away from their respective glaring counterparts. Effortlessly, she pulled off the seal and unrolled it, passing a green-tinted hand over it in a rather impressively casual way and extracting an enormous sword that she pulled backwards and over her head, flipping it so that she held it in front of her sideways with both hands.

Eyepatch guard had flinched forward and pulled out a weapon sometime while Shizune had extracted the sword. His companion had cursed, but stilled with wide eyes to stare at the sword Shizune was holding. It was menacing and significantly taller than the woman holding it, easily out-weighing her by at least 20 lbs. She very noticeably didn't look the slightest bit strained by it.

"This was confiscated by one of our teams against Momochi Zabuza."

Mei had tensed. She was putting up a good show of nonchalance, to be sure. Nothing in her facial expression or body language from the torso down was hinting at anything out of the usual. But the delicate muscles in her neck were pointedly still, all but shouting that she was intentionally not reacting.

Shizune gave a sharp little smile, with more than a hint of, 'You didn't know that he was dead, did you,' behind it. As much as it was a generous gift, it was also a slap in the face with a reminder of the difference in their villages' respective power. It would only be better if…

"If I may be so bold, what team do we have to thank for ending our most infamous missing nin?"

Yes. It would only be better if Mei gave that opening. She must really be off-guard, Aiko mused. It was really sort of fun watching the back and forth exchange and guessing at the subtle undercurrents.

Shizune knew the opening was too easy to pass up as well. She gestured easily at her companions. "That actually would have been the genin team led by Hatake Kakashi here."

"I see." Mei gave a very fake smile. "Then I should extend my thanks to you in person."

"No need," Kakashi said with a held up hand and an eye-smile. "It was actually my apprentice here who killed him." Then the bastard who'd sold her out in front of a room of S-class ninjas helpfully prodded her forward so that he didn't have to deal with them anymore.

'Fuck you, shishou,' she thought darkly as the room became quiet and something strange passed over Mei's face when she looked at the girl. But only for a moment, then it was gone. Aiko didn't risk words, giving only a slight incline of her head that could pass as a bow or acknowledgement and raising her face to look directly into Mei's eyes. They were hard and considering.

Then she smiled and the room lit up. "Well then, thank you, Aiko-chan. I expect great things from you."

Unnerved by the tensions she sensed but didn't understand, she just nodded. 'Why does the Mizukage know my name?' her mind shrieked helplessly.

"Well, I'm sure you are all tired from your long trip. Hana, please take our guests to their chambers."

The shinobi who had taken them through the village nodded blankly, turning around and leading them out.

Later that night, Aiko relaxed onto the bed in the room she would be sharing with Shizune. This was of course after Kakashi and Yamato had swept the whole apartment for listening devices and techniques, traps, and all manner of explosives. It had been so clean that they had become suspicious and ran a second sweep. That also turned up nothing.

Understandably, they had been on edge since.

Aiko had taken advantage of the luxuriously oversized tub and taken a bath with Shizune. They'd intended to talk about how the meeting had gone and debrief, but had ended up just enjoying the soak. After about an hour and a half, she had trailed out of the bathroom with a blue towel piled on her head and another around her torso, passing her grumpy-looking teammate on the way out.

Sasuke had gotten stuck with Sai as his guardian shadow, a proposition he was much less pleased about than Shizune was to have Aiko or that Yamato was to be able to room and work with his senpai. Sasuke had apparently been crabby enough to snap at Yamato about his obvious enthusiasm to sleep with Kakashi. Poor guy. ('In the same room,' he blustered, ears burning, 'not 'together' together or anything, unless- I mean… I'm going to go patrol.')

"It took you two long enough," he all but growled. Shizune came out of the room after Aiko and poked his nose shamelessly.

"Don't be a grump, Sasuke-kun. It doesn't suit you at all. The bath is free now, you should go have a soak." He looked as though he wanted to heave a sigh, but merely got to his feet and picked up the pile of clothes he must have gotten ready while they had been in the bath.

Sai looked up from where he was seated cross-legged on the floor with a sketchbook. "Are we bathing together as well, Dickless?"

Sasuke gave him an acidic look that could burn through metal and slammed the door behind him.

"I suppose not," Sai hmmed, sounding slightly disappointed.

Aiko rubbed her towel on her hair, crossing the room to pat his shoulder. "Don't worry about it. Sasuke is a little hard to get to know." She gave him an easy smile, disengaging effortlessly to go put on new clothes. Sasuke would probably sneer at her oversized red t-shirt and the loose blue pants paired with them, but they were comfortable.

In the hours before it became late enough to go to bed, she pulled out her supplies and worked on the sky-blue book of movie transcripts. She was on a bit of a roll and having a lot of fun expanding on Haku's background (hey, she wasn't bound by time limits or a budget, so she may as well include the scene where Yubaba tricked him into her service when he was trapped in the spirit world instead of edging it in at the last minute). She curled into the couch with the notebook resting on a pillow on her lap, taking a page off of writing to fill in one of her stylized depictions of Haku as the river spirit.

"You draw."

She looked up at Sai, mildly startled. She'd all but forgotten that there were other people in the room. "Um, yes. Mostly just people. I'm no good at scenery or animals."

"You're not that good at people either," he monotoned, gaze focused on her paper. "This detailing is highly unrealistic. The eyes are too large, and the proportions are all wrong."

Aiko seriously considered reaching out and shoving her pen into his gut just to watch him bleed. 'That won't help anything,' she reminded herself. 'You decided to go with 'calm' and understanding. Stick to it. He might respond well to reason.' Out loud, she let just a hint of irritation color her next words. "Actually, it's meant to be that way. It's a stylistic decision on my part, not a failure to understand human anatomy."

"Why." Yamato, the only other person in the room, looked up and gave him a slightly disbelieving look. She felt a strange, sudden kinship with him.

"It's just how my art looks. I take it you're more interested in realism?" Maybe turning the conversation around on him would give her a better idea of where to take this or get him to back off so she could go back to work. This picture wasn't going to color itself.

The ANBU just stood there, unresponsive for a moment. "I am not aware of this terminology."

"Right," Aiko muttered, turning back to her work. "Of course you aren't."

How long was that goddamn diva going to spend in the bath? Things became silent and awkward. When Sasuke finally flounced out in his fancy silk pajamas (decorated with one of those enormous, garish fans on the back), she gave him a downright filthy look. He looked confused.

"Sai, go take a bath."

Tsunade groaned, rubbing at her forehead and wishing that everyone else would just drop dead. It hadn't been clear until now just how much Shizune ameliorated her obscene workload. She had been able to keep up, of course, but she had a massive stress headache. Poor Keiko was on the verge of tears. Tsunade only wished she could have made the poor secretary's day less stressful, but she had a question she needed answered while she was thinking of it.

Besides, she needed to get out of the building or she was going to snap and level it. It was ugly anyways.

It wasn't hard to find her former mentor, although she was slightly haunted by the betrayed look on her secretary's face when she had cancelled all appointments and escaped. He hadn't been leaving the family property lately, apparently content spending much more time with his grandson than he'd been able to before.

Tsunade pulled up a seat beside his position overlooking a fragrant garden, fingering the latest update from Jiraiya. He seemed to be engrossed in bird watching. She glanced at the avian cleaning its wings on the central pond, unimpressed by the view. "Sensei."

He didn't react. She frowned.

"Sensei." He blinked gummily, turning to look at her.

"Did you say something, my dear?"

An alarm started going off faintly in her head. Unnerved but not exactly certain what was wrong, Tsunade shelved the unease and showed him the letter. "I just got a letter from Jiraiya, asking why you tested Aiko on fuinjutsu but never followed up on teaching her after she showed promise."

Hiruzen frowned slightly, turning to look at her with a puff on his unlit pipe. "Aiko?"

Tsunade rolled her eyes and snapped at him. "Yes, Uzumaki Aiko, remember? The redhead."

He gazed blankly at her for a moment, before seeming to understand. "Ah! You mean Kushina-chan. She's being trained, of course."

The fifth Hokage stared uncomprehendingly. Then she stood and cursed thoroughly, managing to startle the ducks in the pond. "Well, this explains a lot, like those exhaustive notes," she sighed. Her stress headache was suddenly compounding and turning into a migraine. How had no one noticed that the Hokage had been having memory lapses? How long had he been hiding this?

She felt pity swell up, and felt like the worst kind of traitor. The stress her mentor had been under for the past ten years or so was largely her fault. She had known that he was too old for such a stressful job. He had never wanted to retake his position, but no one capable and willing to take the job had stepped forward. Konoha had very few S-class nin at any point in time, but in the wake of the Kyuubi attack and the end of the war Tsunade had been fifty percent of that group. With Orochimaru turned traitor and Jiraiya in avoidant mourning, Tsunade had been the obvious choice.

Not only had she not stepped up when she first should have, she had even failed to provide support for her aging mentor. Tsunade sank down into her chair again, cradling her head in her hands. She had been highly critical when she had left to become a missing-nin in all but name. She had abandoned him in his time of need almost as thoroughly as Orochimaru had. And yet he had never lost faith in her, knowing that she would return home years before she did.

Tsunade tiredly patted her sensei's bony shoulder as she left, silently resolving to do better by him. But first things first, she was going to parse through his old notes to figure out what else she had missed.

Hatake could start the Uzumaki girl on sealing, she decided. He wasn't exactly going to be called a master anytime soon, but he knew enough to stop a rampaging Jinchuuriki. (She was relatively certain that fact had factored highly into the decision to make him Naruto's sensei).

She'd send him a message via slug. He may as well make himself useful while he was lounging around in Mist. Lazy little shit. She valiantly ignored that she'd been the one to send him there in favor of being irritated that he wasn't here to yell at.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Karin fiddled with her glasses in lieu of fidgeting more obviously, feeling the nervous urge to twist her fingers in her skirt.

Hinata took a deep breath of the afternoon air, obviously feeling some nerves but bolstered by having the support of her best friend at her right side and both her mentors, although Kurenai and Anko weren't there with them at the moment. The hope was that in the rush to get out for the day, the office workers wouldn't have time to gossip about what she was about to do.

She had gotten advice from both of her mentors and talked over her options. Anko had been surprisingly calm and fair-minded about the whole thing, abandoning her usual devil-may-care act and showing an analytical intelligence. Kurenai had been less knowledgeable, but her unconditional support had been just as helpful. Hinata knew that when she told her other teammates, Kiba and Shino would be just as supportive.

Sometimes she had to stop and marvel at just how much her life had changed. Now that she had been branded and disgraced, no one cared about how she performed anymore. No one seemed to judge her, and Hanabi had no reason to work her fingers raw practicing to defeat Hinata. Getting the brand might be the best thing that had ever happened to her. Her little sister was now safe from it, and had no reason to feel competitive. It was a weight off her shoulders.

Her new freedom was exhilarating. For the first time in her life, Hinata had friends who supported her unconditionally. Sometimes she laid up at night and felt so happy that she wanted to cry. So many people saw potential in her where her blood relations had seen only failure.

Kurenai-sensei had always been kind. Shino wanted what was best for her. Kiba wanted her to be happy. Anko-sensei offered tests that she understood in things like teamwork and self-discipline for the good of the whole. And Karin…

She turned a watery smile on her favorite person in Konoha. There must be something very special in the Uzumaki line, something a hundred times better than the Hyuuga eyes or an Inuzuka nose. They never gave up or cared what anyone else thought. Karin had seen her at her absolute worst, after a month of hospitalization, and seen something no one else had. She would always be grateful. This… this was what it was like to be family and not a clan.

"I'm certain." Hinata clenched her fingers tightly around the paperwork that would declare her intentions to sever all ties and obligations to the Hyuuga. It would cause uproar, of course. It was a very aggressive, hostile move.

But the Hyuuga's practice of branding their branch families with controlling seals had caused disquiet in the early days of Konoha's founding. It had been the very first Hokage who had pointed out that this system amounted to slavery, unless there was a way to discard one's name and leave the clan.

The logic was that choosing not to do so would constitute implicit agreement to the system, although it was certainly coercive and unethical according to Aiko. (She had said something that Hinata hadn't really understood in a very impassioned way, but she appreciated the support nonetheless). She'd claimed that the practice of branding clan members while they were toddlers completely undermined the system and then dissolved into incoherent ranting in that funny made-up language she and Naruto had used back in school. The Hyuuga had been willing to make the concession for the protection of a fledgling village, drastically weakened after their own fighting with a clan that no longer existed.

It had never been used before. The consequences were harsh, after all. She would have no name, like an orphan or whore's child, and the Hyuuga would likely curse her and her family forever. That was likely to be a moot point, because she would have to agree not to ever have a child of her blood and pass down the Byakugan. Karin had been outraged by that point. It made Hinata sad too. She had always wanted to be a mother one day. But… Did she really need to dream of one day building a family when she had one now?

Omake –did this happen? Maybe. Maybe not.

After the door had slammed shut behind the Konoha nin, the placid look had fled from the Mizukage's face. She stood and flipped her desk, tangling her hands in her hair and stomping immaturely for a few moments. Ao watched impassively, but Chojuru looked downright alarmed at the fit of temper. He fiddled uncomfortably with the second famous sword in the room, swiveling it slightly against the floor.

"Those fuckers," Mei hissed when she had calmed down enough to use words again.

Used to this more common expression of irritation, Chojuru shifted slightly in place and wondered when he was going to get to go home for the night. He'd forgotten to bring his warmer haori with him to work that day, and it looked to be ugly out there.

Mei began to pace like a caged cat. "That Senju woman is rubbing her strength in my face."

"Hey, senpai," Chojuru whispered to his comrade. "Do you have a coat I can borrow?"

"She's mocking me."

He cringed away from the scathing look Ao directed at him.

"Just because I am young and beautiful and she's a dried out hag!"

"It's not that cold," Ao mumbled to his comrade with a condescending eyeroll. Not quite quietly enough, however.

Mei whirled on him, eyes narrowed. "Old? I'll kill you, Ao."

He blinked, confused.

"I'll kill you."

"Okay?" he said a bit uncertainly.

#vapors #uzumaki aiko #electrasev5n #ninja daily #fanfiction #naruto fanfiction

[nabaath-areng]

" I'm a whisper in water, Secret for you to hear ... "

#ffxiv #ffxiv screenshot #ffxiv edit #duskwight #elezen #nabaath-areng #aie levandi #aie #i forgot to make them matchy but dont wanna make separate posts #so heres all at once #hes a bastard of a rather high caliber

[cerastes]

So Chen Gong finally showed up in NA FGO and if I recall correctly you love that bastard man in all things.

Sure as hell do, that man was a freaking character.

Initially a civil servant and tactician for Cao Cao, a rather lofty position, even when Cao Cao had yet to accrue the peak of his military and political might, Chen Gong had a little secret: He Just Didn’t Like Cao Cao At All.

One day, Lu Bu and Cao Cao end up in conflict, and that’s when Donkey Gong, who was already familiar with this walking catastrophe, this invincible general, this peerless warrior, finally saw his tactics be on the receiving end of Lu Bu’s might. It was all he needed: He liked Lu Bu, he did not like Cao Cao, some treason was in order.

So he made the offer to Lu Bu to become his tactician and strategist, which Lu Bu initially thought was a Cao Cao ploy to destroy his army from within, but Chen Gong’s sheer disdain for Cow Cow pulled through, and they joined forces.

So a whole lot of shit happens, which we won’t cover, involving some high degree treason from Lu Bu to Liu Bei, and the thing is, Chen Gong kinda notices Lu Bu was not very smart at all, but by god he was living his best life and Gogu fucked with that, so he stuck around. Eventually, Lu Bu ends up crossing spears with Cao Cao again, but this time, it was against Unlimited Tsao Tsao, boss version, Lv.99, with fully maxed generals, officers, +10 equipment, filled out Sphere Grid, and ALL Overdrives.

So, basically, Lu Bu got horribly bodied. He, Zhang Liao (a noteworthy individual that deserves a whole other post for himself) and Chen Gong get captured, and the Lu Bu Army is dealt its final, decisive defeat.

Lu Bu had a reputation for treason by this point, so Cao Cao ordered his execution immediately. Zhang Liao was a VERY skilled warrior, capable leader, and renowned for his honor (his treatment of his men was fair, he never looted or harmed civilians, etc), which Cao Cao respected, so he brought him on board. All that was left was Chen Gong.

See, the thing with Cao Wei was that Cao Cao had a Golden Rule: If you EVER left Cao Wei, you were never allowed back in, and your punishment, should you be caught, was death. Chen Gong, thus, HAD to be executed... But Cao Cao, Ruthless Mother Fucker Extraordinaire himself, wanted to make an exception for Chen Gong. Cao Cao was keenly aware of how immensely skilled Chen Gong was not only at warfare, but also at domestic management! Chen Gong was, as mentioned before, a civil servant in addition to being a tactician and strategist, he knew how to settle provincial issues, handle logistics, my man Gongaga was a Limited 5* meta-defining officer, he was Your Friend’s Merlin, FEW men of his caliber roamed the land, and what other few Cao Cao knew, were in service of his rival Liu Bei (notably, Zhuge Liang and Pang Tong). So for sure, Cao Cao wanted his own game-breaking officer.

Chen Gong’s answer? “Haha suck on my entire dump-truck, Cow Boy, you HAVE to kill me because your very own law says you have to, you can’t go against it, buddy! You gotta kill me! Chop chop, get chopping!”

Chen Gong, in a display of pagoda-sized testicles, threw Cao Cao’s own law at his face, because he hated his guts so much that he preferred dying over serving him again, even if he was making a never-in-a-lifetime exception just for him. Lu Bu might have been a dumbass that was really good in a fight, but he lived his best and worst life, and again, Chen Gong REALLY liked that. So Cao Cao, absolutely devastated, had no choice but to execute Chen Gong as well, who went out with both middle fingers pointing skywards.

Absolutely LOVE the sheer gall of this asshole. Go big AND go home. Chen Gong a real one.

#e-rankluck #chen gong #chen? gongaga

[kadeuxhyeonju]

A LEAP THROUGH TIME ~ When do we begin to hope?

5 October 2021

Idris,

I’ve arrived back in Kadeu safely. I have firmly planted the Vega Gem’s doors shut for the last six months and it is taking everything in me not to swing them wide open this very instant. I’m sure you’re chuckling now, insisting it would have been like this anyway given that that ridiculous winged oaf threatened me into keeping it closed for at least four of those months. Nonetheless, you silly creature…it’s good to be home.

Home. I’d never thought I’d say that about Kadeu without all the vitriol I’ve always—and still do—feel for this gods forsaken continent. Especially after the tensions of that civil war that was brewing in Club earlier this past summer and the other factions’ subsequent reactions to such chaos. But it is. Home. I’ve come to terms with this truth. In part thanks to you. I still laugh thinking of your shocked expression when we met face-to-face after decades apart. It seems that all it took to surprise my favorite, silly Fae was to sail across the sea in search of your whimsical heart. And look at all the trouble it’s caused me. I have dreams now, Idris, you bastard. I have hope.

How close was I to staying by your side, across the sea so far from these lands? Remembering the ever-so-slightly faded tattoos marring my skin—far closer than anyone can imagine. So much hope born in me partly in thanks to you and the realization that even these marks were not permanent.

Perhaps, it is also partly due to my mother no longer having a hold of me. After all, how can the dead grip us with rotted fingers? No longer, Idris. No longer. I want to forget that part of my life, and with her gone I hope that I can. But this ache…what is this ache? I have discovered so much in that time I was by your side, but it seems I have still more to learn.

’Til next time Old Friend,

Hyeonju

25 September 2022

Idris,

I can’t help but think of our time together during those six months. Those apprenticeships I took on simply because I could. Not for survival. Not in your name or honor, nor anyone else’s. Doing what I wanted for the first time in my 153 years simply because I could. It was…freeing. I’ve never used that word for myself. Gods, I sound so whimsical. I sound like you. 

That time has changed me. It makes me want to open another shop, maybe two. For clothing. Creating fashion suited for any rank. Clothes that compliment the jewelry I craft with such care and adoration they might as well be my blood-born children.

Idris, what have you done to me? I tell you this in every exchange and in every exchange you mock me in that knowing way of yours, but I’ll say it again. You have ruined me to the life I had grown accustomed to in Kadeu. I thought this feeling would die naturally on its own after a few weeks. But here I am still dreaming hopeless dreams.

Hopeless because that bastard of gold has set his sights on me. Or rather, he refuses look my way. He hasn’t said in so many words, nor does he need to. He no longer uses my shop. He walks around in gaudy jewels fashioned from jewelers of far lower caliber than you or myself—all for his pride. All because he knows I despise him. So be it. I rose to this rank without him. And while he may set the precedent for much of Heart, I take pride in knowing I set the precedent for its continued refined appearance.

Ah. I’ll end the letter here. Another letter from Luke has reached my doorstep. I should answer before he thinks I’ve all but cast him away again. And before you put quill to paper, Idris, no I have yet to forgive him for Lita.

…but I’m not adverse to having him in my life again.

’Til next time Old Friend,

Hyeonju

7 July 2023

Idris,

It is so quiet and calm this year. Boring, even. Yes, I dare say that despite only being halfway through. The Resistance is silent. Clubs are far more reasonable and less prone to violent tantrums in the street. Spade is as dull as it’s always been, stiff and musty like waterlogged wooden planks. I daresay the Diamonds have become almost bearable in attitude (the low and midrankers, at least) thanks to Ms. Moon’s much needed hand to guide their wayward, gaudy souls.

They still dress like they fashioned clothes from their grandmother’s lint balls and bags of misshapen enchanted confetti, though. In other words—there’s room for significant improvement. But it’s better than it was just a few years prior.

I wish I could say the same of Heart. Idris, my friend, that beast in gold has been starting up Fae-run businesses and education. That in itself is not a bad thing. In fact., I’d welcome it from any other person if it didn’t originate from the mind of someone as calculating and cruel as the one I shall not name. But because these wonderful ideas were founded by him I do not trust them. I do not trust his motives, nor do I trust the gradual influx of Fae migrating under his rule.

From what you’ve told me of Fae and their realm, I’m suspicious of why they’d come here despite preferring their own realm. I doubt they’re all like you--actually enjoying and preferring the company of this world. What his he up to? I don’t like these murmurs of his guards growing in size and strength. I worry for Heart—and the rest of Kadeu with it.

I’ll spare you more morbid talk. I know how much you dislike it. Let me tell you instead of the of all the plans I’ve made for those shops I’ve spoken of so many times. Wonder at the names I’ve created for each…!

**The rest of the letter’s writing is faded with time and illegible.**

9 August 2024

Idris,

This heat is no good for my fur. Even my ears are frizzing in this humidity. The customers and Alexei have told me I look “cuddly”. Disgusting. A child with her mother waltzed right up to me and began to give my tails too-hard thumps with her little Strongarm fists. You will be proud to know I did not growl at the sudden and violent touch. I am better at reminding myself not every hand coming at me will bring me harm. Still hurt like hell, though.

I am finishing up a commission today. It’s beautiful and will fetch a high price. The money is being set aside, as always, for my new shops. I hope to open the first one by the end of this year if all goes well. I’d ask for you to wish me luck, but we both know it’s my blood, sweat, and tears that have gotten me this far and will continue to do so.

Idris, you silly creature. My old and dearest friend. I hope this letter finds you well. That you are taking in the world. That you find what you have been looking for all these years. Just as I know you wish the same for me. And as always I hope even if we should meet again many, many, many centuries from now we are still comfortable companions in whatever way it takes shape.

Now excuse me while I go and chastise this overly energetic Shapeshifter trying to tell tall tales about ghosts haunting my jewelry. For a Spade, I’m amazed I see her wandering this faction so often. Shamelessly even. I like her. As much as I can like any Spade, I suppose. But she needs to stop alarming my customers.

’Til next time Old Friend,

Hyeonju

#kadeu: task #kadeuxhyeonju #Headcanon #: a leap through time #a look into the idris' box of letters from juju he keeps in a special chest #yes i said chest #this took me way longer than it shouldve #juju has gotten just a tad soft #A TAD i said #it's called getting away from your toxic environment and gaining perspective #he still dislikes most diamonds tho sorry #and spades #and clubs #and joui #what #i really like this letter style #maybe i'll this for eva and idris too #oh god im seeing double im so sleep deprived #off to bed i go gnight #hashtag 14 to 16 hour workshifts are not recommended #self para

[walkerwords]

“The Savior Sessions” Part 32 of 33 - Negan x GN!Reader

IMAGE CREDIT: AMC

SERIES MASTERLIST

Summary: In the confines of a Tower, conversations are held as the survivors prepare to face Beta and the horde.

Word Count: 4681

Warning: Swearing

Song I Wrote To: “Outlaws of Love” by Adam Lambert

Note: I can’t believe I have been writing this since AUGUST. Only one more after this and I think it is going to wrap up nicely. Enjoy a little down time before the big battle and yes, Maggie will make an appearance in the final part. Thanks!

—————

For as long as you could remember, you loved being up high.

You could remember climbing trees as a kid and jumping off the rope swing at summer camp as soon as school got out. Nobody in your family ever understood why you felt more comfortable off the ground, but the truth was, you felt safer there than down below.

No matter how high, it was almost as if you were untouchable, immune from the world around you. When the world ended, you found yourself searching for the highest points possible. It was exactly why you had decided to pick up a sniper rifle in the first place.

The guard towers at the prison, the top of the barn at the Greene farm, and even the old clock tower that once stood in Alexandria, were all your comfort places.

The tower you now stood in, however, felt more like a trap rather than a place of freedom.

Daryl, Michonne, and you had realized that with Negan declaring war on the Whisperers by killing Alpha, Beta would be coming for everyone with an even more vicious vendetta. Negan was docile when it came to the decision. He said ‘yes ma’am’ and ‘yes sir’ as he moved through the community. Nobody dared say anything negative towards him, but they weren’t praising him either.

They knew that no matter how he did it, Negan had saved more lives than not when he killed Alpha. The only one who was still dealing with the fallout of it all was Lydia.

As soon as Negan told everyone what he had done, Lydia had shut down. She still stayed with you when it was time to rest, but she didn’t say much. From all the time you were a teacher, you recognized the anger that she was feeling. You also knew that it was only a matter of time before she unleashed that fury on Negan.

Then, there was Daryl.

You couldn’t get a proper read on him and it was starting to worry you. Daryl was a smart man, but when it came to facing down an enemy at this caliber, he tended to get reckless. If he didn’t get it together soon, Beta would have the upper hand and you were not going to let that happen.

Beta had to die and you were going to be the one to do it, no matter what it took.

Looking out the window of the tower, you braced your hands on the window sill and waited for the horde to move in because you knew one thing for sure, Beta wasn’t going to stop until you and Negan were both dead.

—————

“Did you get any sleep?” Michonne asked Negan as she joined him against the wall as they watched the room before them.

“Not a bit,” he said. “You?”

“RJ snores like his father,” Michonne said fondly. “So, no, not much.”

“He’s a good kid,” Negan said as he watched RJ pet Dog who was curled at his feet.

“Yeah,” Michonne said with a sigh. Negan looked over at her, raising a brow.

“What’s up?”

“I can’t see how we get out of this one,” she admitted.

“And so you’ve come to me for comfort?” he asked with a snort.

“That’s what you get for playing hero,” she said.

“Nah, I ain’t a hero,” he said as his eyes scanned over to Lydia who was playing with one of the stray cats that occupied the building. “I’m just trying to knock some years off of my eternal damnation.”

“I didn’t peg you for the religious type,” she said.

“I’m not,” he said. “I’m just covering all my bases.”

“Do one of those bases include (Y/N)?” she asked. Negan sighed, leaning further back against the wall, crossing his ankles

“I don’t know why they even bothered to forgive me,” he said, rubbing a hand along his jaw. “I would have sent my ass packing.”

“Guess that makes them the better person,” Michonne proposed.

“Ah, well, that was never in question,” he said. “(Y/N) was the only thing that kept me going while I was out there. You know when Beta came back and said that someone with a sword had nearly ended him, I knew it was them and that terrified me. I always knew they were a total badass, but hearing how close they came to being gutted by that bastard…”

“I know that fear,” Michonne said. “There was a time during the war with your people that I thought Rick had died.” Negan was patient as she began to tell her story. “We were at this old fairground looking for weapons and we became overwhelmed by Walkers. We started to make a game out of how many we could get before the other,” she said with a small smile. “Rick climbed up onto this rickety Ferris wheel, taking aim with his gun. I was on the other side of the yard when the mechanism broke and he fell.

“I saw him disappear into a crowd of Walkers and as I ran towards him I saw those things tearing at flesh and blood. I remembered that I stopped breathing, unable to even comprehend what I was seeing. I had dropped my katana and everything was moving in slow motion. It wasn’t until I heard his voice calling my name that I knew he was alive. Rick had found a way to survive and then he threw me my sword and we fought together. I had never been happier to see him than at that moment.”

Negan smiled softly at that, thinking of the man as well. “Wait,” he said, “if they weren’t eating Rick…”

“It was a deer,” Michonne said. “He owed me one after you and the Saviors took the one I carried into Alexandria.”

“Ah,” he said. “Always the gentleman, huh?”

“Yeah,” Michonne said as her eyes were on her children. “ You know, I once asked you to do for (Y/N) what they were doing for you,” Michonne continued. Negan nodded, remembering.

“Not sure if I ever completed that task,” he said, thinking back to the night you lay in the infirmary recovering from the blizzard. Michonne had asked him to help you as you had helped him.

“I disagree,” Michonne said, surprising the man next to her. “I thought that (Y/N) needed to be coddled or helped through all this trauma, but I was wrong. They just needed a reason to fight through all the shit in their life. That reason ended up being you.”

“I’m not much to fight for,” Negan said casually.

“Since when do you see yourself like this?” she asked. Negan could tell that his sudden self-deprecating attitude was confusing to her, just as it was to Gabriel or Rosita.

“I guess,” Negan began, taking a deep breath. “I guess I just got tired of trying to be a somethin’ I’m not. I’ve spent too long actin’ as if I got my shit together when in truth, I’m just fucked up as everything else in this godforsaken world.”

“Ever think that’s just the way it’s supposed to be?” Michonne offered. “If any of us were completely sane or normal, we’d all be dead.”

“There’d be a lot less bloodshed if we were,” Negan offered, but Michonne was shaking her head.

“No, I think there’d be more,” she said. “Negan, regardless of what any of us have done, we have all believed in one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“That people are the future and in order to survive, we gotta start savin’ them. No matter what.”

--------

“Since when do ya hide from your problems?” Daryl asked as he approached you. 

Standing by the window, you cast your eyes towards him. “Who says I’m hiding?” you asked. 

“Negan’s out there trying to be helpful and you’re all alone in here waiting for a war,” he said. 

“Isn’t that what we’re all doing?” you asked. 

“Nah, I’m preparing for one, not wishing for it.” Sighing, you fully faced him. The new scars on his face were stark against his face and you knew that you didn’t look much better. 

“All I want is Beta,” you said. “Then, this will all be over.”

“It will never be over, (Y/N). You know that and so do I. There’s always going to be another problem to deal with. The world doesn’t stop tryin’ to end just ‘cause we beat another enemy.”

“Remember when Walkers were the only enemy?” you asked. 

“We all knew that wasn’t going to last long,” he said, bracing his hand against the wall.

Over the past year or so, you had begun to see Daryl differently. He was no longer just the right-hand or the hunter. He was now a leader and one that had stepped up to the role that Rick always knew he could be. There wasn’t anyone else that you respected more than Daryl Dixon.

You had grown into a new version of yourself as well. For a long time, it had felt as if you were the outsider, the one who never quite fit, but now that felt as if it was changing. You used to think it was Negan who was bringing out this new side of you, but the truth was, it was just you. 

You had become stronger because you had always been strong and resilient, you just hadn’t allowed yourself to break through that shell. 

“What happens now?” you asked.

“We fight,” Daryl said. “We may not all get out this, but we’ve never given up and we ain’t about to start now. I know you want Beta, (Y/N), but you gotta survive first.”

“You’re on his hit list, too,” you said. 

“And if he comes for me, I’ll be ready,” Daryl said. You both were quiet for a moment, letting the stillness of the tower surround you. 

“Aaron and Alden shouldn’t be out there alone,” you whispered. 

“They know what they’re doin’,” he assured you. “I’m about to do a perimeter check soon.”

“Need some help?” you asked. 

“Nah,” Daryl said, shaking his head. “You gotta stay up here. You’ve always seen better up high.” 

“Maybe the thinner air will help me work things out,” you said with another sigh. 

“Don’t think that just cause you want to forgive him, that you have to right now. You’re human, not a damn machine.” 

“Have you forgiven Carol?” you asked. 

“I ain’t turning my back on her if that’s what ya mean,” he said. You gave him a look. “Of course I forgive her. She’s my best friend, (Y/N), and if that stops meanin’ something then we’re all lost.” 

“I lost my best friend,” you said, fighting back the lump in your throat. 

“He ain’t completely gone,” Daryl said, tugging on the sleeve of the duster that you wore. Your hand slid to the pommel of your sword, too, feeling Paul’s memory in your mind. “He loved you and he always believed in you. Sasha, too,” he said and you closed your eyes at that. “I know ya still miss her like crazy. Next to Maggie, you were the closest thing she had to another sibling after Tyreese.”

“Maggie never saw it that way,” you said. “She and I… we were close once. Then, after Glenn… Maggie stopped coming to me. I always wondered if I did something wrong or if she blamed me because was one of the first people to agree with Rick about the satellite station. Whatever it was, our relationship was never the same and Sash got caught between.” 

“Maggie has her own demons just as you have yours and Sasha had hers. You can’t compare them. That ain’t how it works,” Daryl said. 

“Then how does it work, Daryl?” you asked. “In case you haven’t noticed, Maggie’s demon is the man that I fell in love with.”

“Negan ain’t the same that he was back then. Even I can see that the son of a bitch has changed. I don’t like to admit it, but what he did, takin’ out Alpha like that, that proved somethin’. He could have run when Carol let him out. He could have joined up with them and took more of us out, but he didn’t. Why? Cause he’s in love with you? Maybe. But I think it's more than that. I don’t think the bastard ever wanted to be what he was. He thinks so, too.” 

“Is there a lesson in this speech, D?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he said, “get out of your damn head, stop thinkin’ about what Maggie would think, and start thinkin’ for yourself. We know better than anyone that the future ain’t always certain. There’s no time to overthink shit when you already know what you want. So tell me, what do you want, (Y/N)?” 

It had been a long time since someone had asked you that question. Before, you would have brushed them off and made some lame joke about wanting to watch TV or go to a concert again. However, now, you didn’t feel the need to hide at all because you knew what you wanted and you were damn well going to fight for it. 

“I want Beta dead, my family safe, and I want Negan by my side for all of it. I don’t care what people think of him because I love him and if that makes me some sort of outlaw within this group, so be it. Enid once told me that I have lost too much to feel guilty for loving someone and she was right. I love him, Daryl, and I am done feeling ashamed about that.” 

Daryl nodded, standing up straighter. Reaching out, he laid his hand against your shoulder. 

“Finally,” he said. “Finally, ya understand.”

“Understand what?” 

“Yourself.”

---------

Negan had been dancing around it all day but he had to speak to Lydia. 

He had seen her wandering around, playing with the cats or speaking with Carol. He wasn’t entirely sure what that relationship was all about, but it made sense for the two of them to connect. Lydia had loved Carol’s son. Negan had been worried about talking to the teen especially since she seemed to be avoiding you as well. 

You had become like a parent to Lydia and Negan thought perhaps she had begun to see him like that as well. However, now, after what he had done, Negan wasn’t sure of anything. 

Approaching her, he waited for her to look at him, but her eyes remained on the dirty floor. “Hey. I, um... I don't think you've eaten anything today,” he tried, feeling like an idiot. 

“I'm good,” Lydia said dismissively. 

“You know,” Negan continued. “I can't tell if it's just one of those things or the craziness of us all moving to an abandoned tower... or if you're just avoiding me.”

“I'm avoiding you,” she said plainly, causing Negan’s brows to rise quickly.

“Well, shit, that's honest,” he said. 

“You want me to lie? Make you feel better?” Lydia said, getting to her feet and narrowing her eyes at him. 

“No, I don't,” Negan said. “I’d rather you were always honest with me.” 

“Okay. Well, then you can give someone else the rat stew,” Lydia said. 

“It's not rat. It's possum. I mean, yeah, it is basically a big rat.” Lydia looked at him as if she was wishing he would just go away, but he had to say his piece. “Look, kiddo, your mom, I mean, she did some horrible shit and there's no excusing any of it, but there were things about her that were complicated. In some ways, I wish you could have seen some of the truth that I did. Maybe then you would understand why I did what I did.”

“We all know why you did it,” Lydia said. 

“I know, but if there's something that you wanna say to me, then you should say it cause this whole silent treatment shit ain’t working.” 

“Fine,” Lydia said. “Most of us wish you'd died, too.”

“Don’t you say that to me,” he said. “Not me. There was a time when you and I respected one another, when you would talk to me. Now I get that you’re pissed, but don’t act like you’re a founding member of my hate club cause you’re not.”

“You don't get to tell me what to do,” Lydia snapped. 

“You're right, I can't. I am not your father, but I sure as hell ain’t your enemy,” he said. 

“Then what are you, huh?” she said, getting angrier. 

“I am trying to be someone who is there for you.”

“You tied me to a chair and left me alone in some swamp!” she hollered. 

“To protect you!” Negan said before lowering his voice. “Your mother was going to kill you as some sort of animal kingdom ritual. I couldn’t let that happen.” 

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Lydia rasped out.

“I know, I know,” he said, “but you gotta try to. You have to let this anger out. Otherwise, you are gonna drift further from these people, and I know you don't want that.”

“The hell do you know what I want, huh? Tell me. You're a selfish asshole,” Lydia shot at him. “You only killed her so they'd think that you're a hero. But nothing you do will ever make you that here! Because you only care about yourself.”

“That's not true,” he said.

“Right, I forgot that you wormed yourself into (Y/N)’s heart. Though, that may say more about them than you, huh?” she said as the tears began to well in her eyes. “Why do you even care?” she asked. “Why do either of you care,” she said. “You and (Y/N) look at me as if I need fixing.” 

“Is that what you think? That we want to fix you? Jesus, Lydia, how could you think that?”

“I know you see her when you look at me,” Lydia said. “You see my mother in me.” 

“I see the good parts,” he said with a nod. “You have your mother’s strength and resilience. No matter what she did with it, she passed that on to you and that means something,” Negan argued. “Lydia, you have to mourn her. You know, you need to say goodbye. Otherwise, it's gonna eat you up from the inside. Just trust me on this.”

“Good parts? How the hell can you tell me that there were good parts? I hated her!” she yelled, lashing out at him, hitting him in the chest. She breathed in a shaky breath, trying to control her anger, but she couldn’t. “I want to hate her, so screw you for telling me I can't even do that!”

“It's okay, Lydia,” Negan said as Lydia began to cry, her shouts of anger turning into sobs.

“No! It's not okay!” she said, hitting him in the chest. “It's not okay! It's not okay!” Negan grabbed her into a hug, holding her close to his chest so she couldn’t keep lashing out. Lydia quickly fell against him, clutching at him as she cried. 

“It's okay,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “It’s okay.”

As Lydia sobbed in his arms, Negan held her and tried to make everything seem as if it was going to okay, but not even he could promise her that. 

--------

It was well after Negan had calmed Lydia down that you found him at one of the watchpoints. 

“Dianne, give us a second?” you asked the archer who nodded and excused herself. You sat down on an old crate and invited Negan to join you. He did, his bat settling next to his feet on the floor. You grabbed it, feeling its weight in your hands. Negan didn’t say anything as you examined the weapon, wondering what its namesake was truly like. “Lydia seems like she’s settled a bit,” you observed. 

“She just needed to get it out of her system,” Negan said. “It’ll be a while before she’s better.” 

“I know,” you said. “I remember what it’s like to lose a parent.” 

“So do I,” he said. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” you said, spinning the bat in your hands. 

“Wasn’t plannin’ on being any place else,” he said. 

II know,” you said with a nod. Looking over at him, you handed him back the bat. He took it from you and placed it back on the ground. “I was thinking about something earlier.”

“What was that?” 

“There was a line in the letter that Carl left me,” you began. “It said, ‘stop trying to see everything through the scope of your rifle and start seeing what is right in front of you,’.” 

“Sounds incredibly wise for him,” Negan noticed. 

“Well, that was Carl,” you said. “That line has stuck with me since I first read it. I never really understood what he meant until his dad died and then more recently when you came home.” Negan was quiet, his eyes focusing on you completely. 

“For so long I was trying to stay three steps ahead of everything,” you went on, “but I never took the time to match pace with anyone. I think that’s why it took me so long to realize that you and I are never going to be the perfect couple. We’re not going to be the couple that takes nightly strolls or agrees on everything. We are, however, going to be the couple that fights like cats and dogs and who are willing to risk everything for each other. I finally see that is what this,” you gestured between the two of you, “is supposed to be and I am sorry if you ever felt as if I was pressuring you to be someone you’re not.”

“You weren’t,” he assured you. “I was pressuring myself into not screwing everything up because you are right, we are not normal in any sense of the word. But you know what?” he asked, reaching over to take your hand. “Fuck normal. It’s so goddamn overrated anyways.” 

“That it is,” you said as you leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.  He kissed you back before leaning his forehead against yours. “So, we can be not normal together, right? Cause I am not ready to go any further into this screwed up world without you.” 

“You don’t have to,” he said. “You’re stuck with me.” 

“Good,” you said, smiling softly. “I just hope we can do that without someone breathing down your neck with a weapon.”

“So do I,” Negan said with a soft chuckle. Suddenly, something dawned on you.

“Hey, do you have any idea what happened to Brandon?” Negan froze. “He sort of disappeared after you did.” Leaning back, he gave you a sheepish look. 

“Well…” Negan began. “The little psychopath found me on the road.” 

“Seriously?” you asked. 

“He was some sort of ‘fan’ of mine, apparently. His old man was a Savior and he wanted to be just like daddy. Problem was, he was fucking crazy.”

“Go on,” you urged. 

“We came across a mother and her son. I helped them and that’s when Brandon told me that he wanted to either rob them or kill them. A fucking woman and her kid…” Negan said, rubbing at his brow. 

“What did you do?”

“Told him to get lost,” Negan said. “Tried to offer him some decent life advice, but it clearly didn’t stick. When I came back after looking for some firewood for the mom, Brandon had bludgeoned them to death with a tire iron.” 

“The kid, too?” you asked, shocked. 

“There was more blood on the ground than in their bodies, (Y/N),” he said. “So, I picked up a rock and beat in his skull before he could murder any more innocent people.” You were silent for a moment as Negan’s word resonated. Eventually, you just sighed and shook your head. 

“Shit,” you swore.

“Yeah.”

“Fucking Brandon,” you said with a roll of your eyes.

“Fucking Brandon,” he agreed, but then was confused. “Are you not mad that I  killed him?”

“Why would I be? I’d have done the same thing,” you said. “You don’t just get to kill a kid in cold blood and move on with your life. Though, I am surprised that you let him tag along as long as he did.”

“You and me both,” he said. 

“Were you going to tell me about that if I hadn't asked?” you wondered. 

“Eventually,” he said. “I just couldn’t find the right time.” You nodded. “And I should have told you about a lot of things.”

“You’re talking about your deal with Carol?” 

“Yeah,” he confirmed. “I know you’re pissed at me over that.” 

“I am,” you said, “but if I can overlook everything else, I can overlook this.”

“I am so sorry,” he said. 

“I know you are,” you assured him, rubbing his hand between yours. “You did it because you were doing the right thing. You should have told me though. I would have been on board in helping you. “

“I couldn’t risk it,” he said. 

“You’re a moron,” you said. 

“I know,” he said with a wink. 

“And I really, really wanted to hate you when I saw you in that mask.”

“But you couldn’t,” he reminded you. 

“Never,” you agreed. Negan smiled and then reached up and placed his hand on your throat, running his thumb over your pulse point. 

“You do that a lot, you know?” you noted, gesturing to his hand. Negan shrugged. 

“Your pulse calms me,” he said softly. 

“Oh, and here I thought you were just into choking,” you joked.

“Don’t give me any ideas,” he warned and this time it was you that winked. “You know, we never did have make-up sex.”

“Now is not really the time,” you said, gesturing around at the chaos of the tower. 

“Jesus, Teach, not now. What kind of man do you think I am?” you laughed, rolling your eyes. 

“Like you weren’t thinking about it,” you said with a knowing look. Negan just shrugged again.

“Sorry, I just really missed you,” he said. 

“What have you told you about apologizing,” you whispered. 

“Habit,” he said back before kissing you again. When you pulled back, you took your face in your hands and then your right hand slid to the side of his neck, feeling his own pulse. 

“He’s coming for us,” you said. 

“He’s all yours,” Negan said. “I will make sure of it.”

Just as Negan was about to bring you closer, Gabriel ran into the room. “Gabe?” you asked, leaning back from Negan, but not letting go of him. 

“The horde is coming,” he said, breathing heavy. “It’s time.” He then rushed from the room as you and Negan went to the window.

It was as if a tsunami was moving in, but instead of water, Death approached in the form of the largest herd you had ever seen. 

“Negan,” you said, worried. 

“I know,” he said, taking your hand in his as he beheld the sight. “Can you promise me something?” he said, turning you so you would look at him. 

“Anything,” you swore. 

“Just survive,” he said and you were reminded of something similar you had said to Lydia before the Hilltop battle. “I know what you are going to do and I will not stop you from taking your revenge on him, but for me, please survive.”

Reaching up, you took him by the shoulders and pulled him in for a hug. Negan buried his head in your shoulder as you took one last moment to be with each other before the fighting began.

“I promise.”

--------

As Beta moved through the horde, his guardians protected him as they always had, but elsewhere, a guardian in their own right read a letter sent from an old friend. As Walkers approached the tower, Maggie Rhee picked up her bow and went in search of her family.

Note: One more to go...

TAGS: @not-too-tall-for-trick @lucillethings @cameronsails @stark-dreams @amaroho @thanossexual @yes-sir-hotchner @boom-bunny @delusionalteenagewhispers @scootankle @ritajammer21 @writteriguess @tea-atfive @jennydehavilland @waspyyy @yespleasejayhalstead @hoemadegrace @writingdeadangel @huffledor-able541 @pulplorrd @felicisimor

#the walking dead #walkerwords #twd imagines #the walking dead imagines #negan imagine #reader insert #savior sessions #the walking dead imagine #twd imagine #twd #negan x reader #negan x you #negan x y/n #negan x gn reader

[wylanvnneck]

This 2 part fic was written for the Secret Snusband Gift Giveaway hosted by @jurdannet​ and @jurdannetrevels​ for my lovely Knife Wife @lilacs-with-lavender​.

Rating: T for Tyrannosaurus

Summary: Inspired by an episode of my favourite Cop TV show, ‘Castle’, in which a bet takes place with pretty high stakes, although the plotline has been tweaked to fit this fandom. My Knife Wife said she loved the Enemies to Lovers trope so that’s what I’ve (tried to) write here and I hope you enjoy the story of Homicide Detectives Jude Duarte and Cardan Greenbriar and their mutual enmity.

Warnings: Not so graphic descriptions of murder and mention of drugs. (Really not sure what I need to tag, so please let me know if I’ve missed something.)

Posted as a Gift on AO3 | Part 2 | Masterlist

Part 1

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“Victim’s name is Taryn Santorini, a metal sculptor by trade, she was found by her doorman fifteen minutes before we traced the address in Chloe’s hand back to her.” 

Detective Jude Duarte looks down at the motionless face of a scared looking brunette, a crimson splatter painting the tiled floor around her lifeless body. The room around her is a mess, clothes scattered everywhere, bed ruffled and unmade and metal figurines placed haphazardly throughout the little apartment.

“Lil, talk to me, what are we looking at?”

Before the white-blonde haired medical examiner crouched on the floor by the body can answer, a smooth dark voice that Jude so detests cuts through the air behind her.

“Why, Duarte, I’d say that the fact that Tara What’s-her-name was shot and killed is rather obvious.” The despicable excuse of a detective steps forward, a smug grin pasted to his face. Cardan Greenbriar, entitled little rich boy, over-confident bastard and sadly, her partner.

Patience, Jude reminds herself, patience was a virtue. 

“I meant, as I’m sure Lil knows, with what model was she killed and when?”

Liliver shoots her an amused sympathetic look before turning her gaze back to the victim.

“Looks to be a gun with a 45 caliber, same as the one used to kill Chloe Tatterfell. I’d say Taryn here has been dead for about 12 hours so pretty close to Chloe’s time of death, maybe just a half hour or so afterwards.”

“So chances are it’s the same killer.” Cardan interjects, the smug smile a little less vibrant now. 

“Yep. I’ll have to get her back to the morgue so  I can do a full inspection, see if I can find anything helpful.”

Jude steps back from the crime scene to give her some space, almost bumping in to the officer taking pictures of the area for later use. 

“Thanks, Lil.”

“Just doing my job, sweetie.”

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Jude clips a glossy picture of their latest victim onto the precinct’s murder board. “Garrett and Van questioned practically all known associates of both Chloe and Taryn and none of them could recognise the other victim. There’s no obvious connection between the two and yet, for some reason they were both killed on the same day, by the same person.”

“And with the same gun.” Cardan is leaning back in his chair, his posture insouciant and his curly black hair falling lazily over his forehead. Surely that was a violation of precinct dress codes? Not that he’d care either way, rule breaker that he was. God knew it was only because of his daddy’s clout that he’d even graduated from the academy in the first place, whilst people like Jude had to work hard and save every penny and fight to get anywhere in the field of Law Enforcement.

“Ok, I’m going to head to the morgue whilst Van and Gare check through the victim’s phones and financials, see if Lil has anything for us.”

“I suppose, being the dutiful partner that I am, I should come with you?” Cardan’s drawl is as irritating as usual and Jude can hardly wait to get out of the proximity of his stupid raven locks and smoldering eyes.

“Please, you’d be doing us both a favour if you didn’t.”

“Aw, come now Jude you know you’d miss me.” He lets out a dramatic sigh as he half heartedly stands from his chair to join her as she speeds by towards the exit and she just barely resists the urge to throttle him.

Lil bustles around her examining room as she adjusts the fluorescent lamps shining down on both the victim’s bodies’. 

“So, apart from the type of bullets that killed them, the only similarity that I could find between the two victims is the fact that they both have tattoos.”

Jude raises a brow. “Everyone has tattoos.”

From across the autopsy table Cardan’s eyes gleam as he smirks. 

“Oh really? You got some ink on you, Duarte?” 

His tone is disbelieving and Jude can’t resist messing with him a little.

She pastes an obviously fake flirtatious smile on her face and drawls in a sugar sweet voice, “Guess you’d have to find that out on your own, Greenbriar.” 

She bites at her lip for good measure and thinks once more of how bad she would be at flirting in earnest. Lil certainly couldn’t keep the laughter out of her gray eyes. Cardan, however, has a strange look on his face, one that Jude can’t quite decipher, but she’s pretty sure she’s just one-upped him and she can’t deny the slight sense of triumph that the thought gives her.

 She turns her attention back to the victims. “You were saying, Lil?” 

“I’m saying that these tattoos seem to have been done by the same artist. Look,” she pulls back the white cloth covering the body of Chloe Tatterfell, gently pushing a strand of brown hair off of her shoulder to reveal the cartoonish character of a rose, inked in with dark black ink.

She then turns to Taryn’s body to reveal a similarly styled tattoo of a mermaid on her wrist. Just as she’s pulling back the cover Jude’s back pocket vibrates and the sound of her plain ringtone travels through the air. Quickly she swipes upwards to answer the call and it’s Garrett.

“Yo, so we looked through the victims’ phone records and found a connection. Both Chloe and Taryn made a phone call on the day that they were killed to the same number, belonging to a Locke McCutchins, he’s got priors including robberies and domestic assault.”

By the time he’s finished speaking she’s already waved a quick goodbye to Lil and turned to walk out the door, not bothering to check if her partner was behind her.

“Alright, text me his address, let’s go pick him up.”

“Locke McCutchins, open up, it’s the NYPD!” Garrett bangs on the door and the force is so strong that the wood vibrates as Jude clutches her pistol in her hand, body flat against the wall of Locke’s apartment with Cardan right beside her.

There’s no answer and the door is broken down as she, Cardan, Garrett and Van file into the room in a practiced motion that’s as familiar to her as breathing.

Right in front of them, sprawled across his couch, lies the dead body of Locke McCutchin, his tawny eyes still open and gazing unseeingly up at his ceiling, a dried red patch visible on his shirt.

Garret drops to the floor beside the couch, his sandy hair falling over his face as he leans over to check Locke’s pulse whilst the rest of them look on after having taken note that the apartment was clear.

“Body’s cold, he’s been dead for hours, entry wound looks to be about the same size as the other victims.”

Jude scrunches her eyebrows as she stands in front of the murderboard for the second time that day.

“So, Chloe Tatterfell, Taryn Santorini and Locke McCuchins were all killed within the span of 24 hours, all with the same gun, presumably by the same killer and yet so far the only connections we’ve found are Taryn’s address that was found written on Chloe’s hand, the phone call from both women to Locke and the similar tattoos on both Chloe and Taryn, but not on Locke.”

“Hmm.” Cardan seems to materialise out of nowhere, carrying a paper cup of what smells like freshly brewed coffee. Jude was convinced that he took his coffee with added alcohol but she had yet to prove it.

“What’s with the glare?” he asks.

“It automatically deploys itself when you're around.”

He scoffs. Twirls his coffee around. Takes a long, slurping sip.

“Hey, Duarte? Don’t get me wrong, I mean, the feeling is mutual, but what exactly is it that makes you despise me so much? I’d like to know so I can make sure to keep doing it.” 

Jude barely deliberates over her answer before she responds. 

“Being an overly cocky, obnoxious jerk who has only managed to get this far thanks to his Daddy’s fat purse will definitely be the best way to make me hate you, trust me.”

He grins but there’s no humour in the curve of his sensual lips, his eyes are cold metal.

“You think that the only reason I’m a detective is because of my father?”

“Yup.” She makes sure to add plenty of emphasis to that one word.

Cardan opens his mouth as if to speak, stops, presses his lips together so hard that they turn pale before the colour returns to them when a slow smile spreads across his face, this time full of humour, but the decidedly darker kind.

“Let’s make a bet. If you can figure out what the connection between our three victims is before I do, I’ll go right up to Captain Madoc myself and request a change of partners so you can be rid of my ‘overly cocky, obnoxious’ self. Deal?” 

He was extending a challenge and Jude was never one to back down from those. Besides, the chance to be rid of him with no cost to herself or her reputation was too good to pass up on. Still, there had to be a catch, with Cardan, there was always a catch.

“And on the complete off-chance that you figure it out first? What happens then?”

“If I figure it out first...you have to come with me as my date to this party that my dad’s having in a couple days.”

Those last few words come out in a rush and Jude has to take a moment to decipher their meaning. Followed by another moment to wonder if she’d somehow completely misunderstood what he’d said.

“You want me to what?”

“Be my date to a party. Honestly Duarte, do you have any idea how many women would jump at this opportunity?” His tone is disgustingly nonchalant. 

“I-” she struggles to find the words. “Take one of them then! Don’t you have a girlfriend, Nicasia or something like that? Blue hair and eyes? High pitched voice? Talks a lot about how much she gets seasick?”

“You know, for someone who’s only met Nicasia once you do remember quite a bit about her.” His steady gaze on her is intense.

For some incorrigible reason Jude has to resist the urge to flush.

“I’m a detective. It’s my job to study people.”

“Right. Sadly, Nicasia and I are no longer together, if we ever were. I got bored. Hence, why I need a date.”

“I’m sure you could just take one of your scores of female admirers, you don’t need me.”

“Is that jealousy that I detect in your voice?”

“Cardan.” 

“Look, the point is, I can’t be bothered having to deal with yet another simpering female who thinks that one night on my arm means a promise to a life-long relationship complete with marriage, a fancy mansion and exactly 2.5 kids. All I want is a companion for one night so I don’t get hounded by my mother for not having a girlfriend by which she can procure some grandchildren.”

“Oh so now you want me to be your fake girlfriend?”

He rolls his eyes up at the ceiling and she fights the urge to slap him. 

“It’s just for one night! Besides, I thought me winning was barely even a possibility to you.”

She makes a noise at the back of her throat. “It is.”

“Then I don’t see what the problem is. Do we have a deal, or not?” He holds out his hand, sculpted eyebrows raised in confrontation.

She doesn’t really think he has much of a chance of figuring it out before her, but he had admittedly also proven adept at figuring certain things out in previous cases so there was definitely no certainty that he wouldn’t win, for all her bravado. Yet, her competitive nature couldn’t bear the thought of surrendering, so she pushes her unease aside and grips his hand in a firm shake. 

“Deal.” 

There’s an awkward moment when he takes a little too long to release her hand from his grip. Once he finally does, the rather pointy tips of his ears reddening, they both turn back to the murder board and the view of their murder time line and crime scene pictures, furiously trying to connect the dots in their heads.

A random thought intrudes in her brain.

"Wait, what if Garrett and Van figure it out before we do?”

As one, she and Cardan both turn towards the opposite side of the office where the two officers in question sat in front of their computers.

Van was typing in data on his computer, eyes glazing over and the tuft of black hair atop his head trembling whilst Garrett, or, The Ghost - as he was sometimes called thanks to his tendency to take months before answering non-work related messages - stood eating glazed donuts with one hand and speaking to someone on the phone held in the other. Jude loved the both of them but she had to admit that they didn’t exactly paint the most inspiring picture. 

Once again she and Cardan are in sync when they promptly turn back towards the murderboard and proclaim, “Nah.”

Van’s excitement is clearly written on his face when he walks straight up to Jude’s desk the moment she arrives at the precinct the next morning, slamming down a manila folder with the NYPD crest printed on it onto her neatly arranged table top.

Immediately she reaches out to open it, desperate for a break in the case that would not only put a three time killer behind bars but also ensure that she herelf wouldn’t commit murder if she lost the bet and had to pretend to be Cardan’s girlfriend for a night. The thought makes her want to shudder.

“So, I was looking into all of our victim’s financials and I noticed an anomaly. Two weeks ago on the 7th they each deposited 95 hundred dollars into their savings accounts, but we’ve got no way of tracing the money back because the amount is under the IRS’s investigative limit” Van takes a quick pause before continuing, “but that’s not all, both Taryn and Chloe have credit card charges for small amounts at a tattoo place called Fair Folk Inks down in Queens.”

“Great, that’d be the place where they both got tattoos, I’ll go down there and ask the owner a couple questions, thanks Van.” She puts the sheaf of financial accounts back into the folder and takes a quick swig of her usual morning coffee, black, no sugar before preparing to head out once more.  

“Going somewhere, partner?” 

She’d bumped straight into Cardan when stepping into the elevator and she lets out a small groan of frustration as she steps back from his sturdy form. He looks annoyingly chipper, usual cocky smile in place and laughter in his tone as he looks down at her slightly shorter self. His cologne is strong and emanates the scent of the woods and sunlight in the small elevator. The woods and sunlight? Clearly foregoing the rest of her morning coffee hadn’t been a good idea.

She’d thought she could make it out of the building before he finally arrived, necessitating in having to take him along as well, but clearly fate had other ideas. 

“Tattoo parlour. Queens,” she grits out.

“Let’s go then,” his tone is sickly sweet.

“Hi there, you guys lookin’ to get inked?” asks the pink haired girl behind the counter in fishnet tights and a tank top, looking up from where she is perched on a stool behind the counter when she hears them enter.

The parlour itself is shiny and white, the smooth metal counter and two spaced out black leather tattoo chairs complete with wheeled stools are the only pieces of furniture in the small space. Mounted on the walls are designs, each of them evoking a sense of fantasy. A pixie there, a selkie here, an ornate dragon, all staring right back at Jude as she takes in their surroundings. She takes note of the fact that the pictures staring back at her were very reminiscent of Chloe and Taryn’s tattoos, solidifying her suspicion that this was where they had got them done.

Before she has time to explain the reason for their visit, Cardan pipes up.

“You know, I’ve been thinking of getting one of a slithering snake, maybe across my back? I believe it would add to my already abundant sex appea-”

“Actually,” Jude cuts him off with her most scathing glare, to which he irritatingly responds with a grin. “We’re here on official business, NYPD, we need to speak with the owner of this establishment.” She holds up the badge that she’s just extracted from her plain black wallet as she speaks.

“That would be Vivi, hang tight a sec I’ll go get her.” With a sway of her hips Heather trounces off behind a curtained section at the back of the parlour. 

Unable to stand still for even a few moments, her partner has already wandered over to the corner of the room, pointing at a pinned up design, ““That goblin over there reminds me of Van.”

She ignores him. 

“Oh come on Duarte, you have to admit, there’s a definite resemblance.”

She spares the quickest of glances at the design and it’s true, there’s a striking similarity, but she isn’t about to give him the satisfaction of agreeing so she simply makes a non-committal grunt of recognition.

“Tell me, are you always this tightly wound or is it just for the majority of your day?”

“Excuse me?” Her eyebrows have inadvertently traveled upwards on her face and she can’t believe he has the audacity to say what he just did, although really, she shouldn’t be so surprised.

“Come on Duarte, we’ve been partners for quite a while now and I don’t think I’ve ever even seen you laugh.” He’s standing a few feet away from her, his expression serious, not backing down.

“It’s called being professional.” She can feel the muscles working in her face as she hisses out the words through gritted teeth, blood pounding furiously. 

“Ahem.” She whirls around to find a tall bronze haired woman with striking cat-like eyes that were currently meeting her gaze wearing a lazy look of amusement.  

“Heather said there were some policemen who wanted to ask me some questions?”

Jude cannot believe that she had just gotten so sidetracked by her insolent partner that she’d forgotten why she was currently standing in the middle of a Tattoo parlour in Queens, clutching a set of regular sized close ups of three now dead people. She tamps down the irritation at her own actions as she thrusts out the photos in front of the woman facing her, Vivi, the pink haired girl had said.

“Yes, ma’am, do you recognize these people?”

She watches intently as Vivi carefully peruses the pictures before answering, “I know the two girls, Taryn and Chloe, we’re friends, I’ve even tattooed the both of them. I’m not really sure who he is.”

“Are you sure you don’t know him? Look carefully.” Cardan is all business now, stepping up to Vivi.

“I’m sure.” Vivi’s tone is almost defiant, daring him to question her again.

“You said that you were friends with the girls, how close were you?” 

“They came into the tattoo parlour at the same time about a month ago and we started up a conversation, we exchanged numbers and would meet up for a drink from time to time.” 

“Did they ever meet up with just each other?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Can you think of any reason as to why they’d both be killed by the same person?”

“They’re...they’re dead?”

Jude had intentionally asked the question in a way that would require a reaction and she wasn’t sure that she was entirely convinced by the shocked undertone of Vivi’s voice.

 “I’m afraid so, ma’am.”

“She’s hiding something.” Once again Jude is back in front of the murderboard, furiously capping and uncapping a whiteboard marker as her mind whirls. She’s full of nervous energy, on the brink of a precipice and she wants nothing more than to be able to push herself off of it.

“Agreed.” Cardan is pacing the floor between her and the murder board and his posture indicates that he’s just as worked up as she is.

“But what I can’t understand is why she would kill two of her acquaintances plus a random vending machine operator, I mean, there’s no clear motive.” She’s barely conscious of the slight pain that tingles as she worries at her bottom lip.

Cardan halts in front of the board, takes a hard look at the scrawled timeline on it before once more resuming his brisk walk.

 “And what the hell is the connection between these three victims? They lived in opposite neighbourhoods, worked in completely different areas and fields, never seemed to have been in the same place at the same time and yet somehow they were killed by the same hand. Also, where did all that money come from?” 

His phone chooses precisely that moment to start ringing and the sound of ‘Horns’ by Bryce Fox cuts through the tension. 

“It’s Liliver,” he mouths as he swipes upwards to answer and puts the medical examiner on speaker phone.

“You got something for us Lil?’

“You bet I do. I had scraps from the victims’ clothings tested to try and find a common link. What I found were traces of bleach, acetone, sodium chloride and ammonia.”

“Drugs. They were making drugs. That would explain all the money.” Jude is burning and luminescent with victory, until Lili’s next words cut her down.

“It’s not drugs.”

“How can you tell?”

“Because of what isn’t there. If your vics were making drugs, there’d need to be a couple more ingredients. That being said, they were definitely up to something.”

She lets out a sigh of defeat. “Thanks, Lil.”

Cardan hangs up before bringing his fingers up to his temples, massaging the sides of his head as he burns a hole into the board in front of him.

Jude bites back a scream. “This is like the start of a bad joke, a teacher, a sculptor and a vending machine operator walk into a tattoo parlour…”

He scoffs, “Yeah, except we don’t really have a punchline.”

“Other than ‘they made a bunch of money and got themselves killed.’”

There’s a lull in the air and the frustration is palpable. There was so much more than just their bet at stake here, there was the need for justice for these three victims, who regardless of their crimes likely didn’t deserve what had befallen them. Besides, there was no way that they could let a ruthless killer roam the streets freely.

Suddenly, Cardan whirls around to face her, once again bringing his pacing to an abrupt stop, with a speed to rival that of the animal that was his tattoo inspiration.

“Made a bunch of money,” he repeats. 

He sounds like he’s just jumped off of the precipice. She, on the other hand, remained firmly mounted to the ground. 

“What?”

“A sculptor who works with metal, a chemist and a vending machine operator...I know what they were up to.”

Slowly, the light starts to dawn on her and her pulse speeds up. Yes, she thinks.

“Think about it, when counterfeiting money, what’s the biggest problem you face? Finding the paper,” he continues.

“And a vending machine operator would have an endless supply of one dollar billls!”

“Exactly, then the chemist would come in, using the chemicals that were found on the vic’s bodies to white wash those bills.”

“And then the sculptor would be able to fashion a set of metal plates with which to type in fake serial numbers’ so they can get larger denominations of money…”

“Right! So, plates, paper, there’s just one missing ingredient.”

Beaming smiles break out on both their faces when, in unison they reach the same conclusion. 

The 12th Precinct’s interrogation room had contained many suspects from the time it was built. Some were innocent and some were guilty, but there was no doubt in both Jude and Cardan’s minds that the feline woman currently seated across from them with her legs up on the table was one hundred percent guilty. 

“So you think you’ve figured it all out, huh?” Vivi’s drawl is deceptively flippant.

“I think so.” Jude answers calmly. “For instance, we’ve figured out that you were involved in and likely the mastermind behind a counterfeiting operation that raked in a substantial amount of money. You provided the last ingredient needed, the ink from your tattoo parlour stocks that was used to print on the bills.”

Cardan leans forward. “We’ve also surmised that you killed your partners in said operation; Taryn Santorini and Chloe Tatterfell, both of whom you met through your tattoo parlour, just like you said.”

“And our third victim, Locke McCutchins? Yeah, we know he was your cousin, once removed on your mother’s side wasn’t it? A distant enough relationship for you to not be flagged when checking his family, but close enough for you to enlist him in your scheme so you had access to vending machine bills.” Jude continues, she and Cardan having perfected the art of interrogating together ages ago, their tactics working smoothly together alongside each other. 

Vivienne sneers. “So what? You have no proof.”

“On the contrary, ma’am, we do. You neglected to hide the metal plates that you got Taryn to make for you in a place that wasn’t under a loose floorboard of your room, easily found with the aid of a search warrant.” Cardan smiles.

“You also tripped up when you stored your used gun with matching ballistics to the weapon that killed our victims in the same place as the plates.” Cardan’s smile is copied on Jude’s face.

Vivi’s skin pales and her cat’s eyes narrow into slits as she bangs the table, hard, before slouching back in the metal chair, the fight leaving her.

“Well, I suppose the jig is up, as they say,” she drawls.

Satisfied, Jude stands up and gathers the notepad and pen that she’d left on the desk and then bends over the interrogation table to meet Vivi’s gaze.

“What I can’t understand, though, is why? Why would you kill them if you’d already paid them?”

The Accused smirks. “It was all that idiot Lockes’s fault. He’d gotten himself into debt with some mob shark and needed more dough to bail his sorry self out. I wasn’t about to give it, he had his cut and that was all. But then, he threatened to go to the cops and tell them about what we did. Couldn’t let that happen, so I figured I’d kill ‘em all of. Just to be safe.”

The casual way in which she speaks of her deeds chills Jude to the bone. Wordlessly, she turns her back on yet another cold hearted murderer and exits the room with Cardan right behind her.

They come to a stop in front of the now empty murderboard, its surface shiny and white, devoid of words, but not for long. There was always a murder happening somewhere or the other, Jude had been a detective long enough to know that.

“So, now that Vivienne Insmire, tattoo artist, mastermind and ink supplier of counterfeiting operations and killer of ‘friends’ and distant male cousins is safely behind bars, I think you and I have a certain matter to settle, Duarte.”

She’d been trying hard to avoid this moment all day, pushing back thoughts of her close defeat and what its consequences would be. It seemed like now, she'd run out of time. She gulps.

“I suppose-” she almost can’t bring herself to say the words, “I suppose you won our bet, then.”

“Yup.” He’s not even trying to hide his gloating, “and you know what that means.”

The noise she emits is one that is resigned. She knows what’s coming.

“I’ll pick you up at eight tomorrow.”

“Or I could just take a ca-”

“Don’t be late, Duarte,” he calls over his shoulder as he leisurely strolls towards the precinct exit, slinging his leather jacket over his shoulder.

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If you’ve made it all the way down here, congrats! Here’s a link for part 2.

Tagging the lovely people on my short but treasured TFOTA taglist; @cupcakesandkittens​ (who helped immensely during the writing of this fic and who suggested adding in the interrogation scene❤) and my very own talented Secret Snusband, @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln​

Please let me know if you’d like to be added to or taken off of my taglist💕

#anyways Liles I hope you enjoyed! #dd writes #secretsnusband #tfota fanfic #the folk of the air fanfiction #the folk of the air #jude duarte #cardan greenbriar #castle #cop au #enemies to lovers #i would also like to say #that i absolutely love vivienne duarte #but she was also badass enough to make a murderer #and i couldn't resist #hopefully this first part was intriguing #and the second part is cheesy in all the right ways #jurdannet #jurdannet revels

[umbralrosarchive]

@uchiha-madara​ summoned The Achromatic Despot

玫:

Otsutsuki... That’s all they referred her as when they not only found, but encouraged her enough to follow them back to their village. The entirety of playing mute and complicit was what she wanted, and now she had it in her favor. They didn’t try to fight, after a while of her just dodging everything, but they put odd seals on her cage. An intent to keep her locked up. None to get in, none to get out. This was all she received from picking through their thoughts and memories, from the contact she had with each person that handled her.

Walking through the corridor, she didn’t miss the shadow of a very sickly-looking man, someone of high caliber, had he not been detained for the period of time it took to wear on the body. In particular, he was held tight by chains so very close to the wall, wrapped tight in the jacket to restrain him from any use of jutsu. More importantly were his eyes being the only covering to his face... A man of high warning with his ocular prowess, perhaps?

After they’d briskly made their way back to the innermost space of this bunker of sorts, she tapped into the walls... Something about acquiring the Hokage, another man designated to peer into the mind for answers, someone to interrogate mentally and physically. Perhaps on her, as they seemed rather frantic in their false compose. Nothing but the image of retold memories of a white haired woman with opal eyes, an odd pattern of sharingan on the forehead... Ah, she remembers, that Otsutsuki... Kaguya, was it?

It proved to be boring here in her week-long stay of silence, how they came in and questioned her, demonized her more than anything, and they came to find that she might be mute and deaf too, or assumed such from just how deathly quiet she’s been. Nothing but an empty black space to be found in her subconscious, which frightened the investigator. 

They came to the man across her cell frequently. To question him, feed or water him poorly, and assess his bindings were thorough. She caught the name early on, how they only referred him as bastard. He must have done something to be in here, firstly, but also in the additive surprise that he still lives.

He is the only interesting spectacle in this boring place, and he may not live long at the rate they treat him...

This will not pass in her presence.

#uchiha-madara #玫Naruto [After Death Verse]

[chinatea]

Jikook Sexy Alien AU Part 1

Personas are a product of @satellite-jeon​ ‘s beautiful mind.

This is WIP and still pretty drafty, and I’ll be posting new parts to tumbler as I finish them. I’m planning 4-5 parts overall. 

For my best girl @kmheart​ <3333 Thank you for loving this mess. <333

Warnings: Coarse language.

Jungkook doesn’t know exactly when his life took a dive from awesome to downright shitty.

And even if he did, he wouldn’t be telling that story any time soon ‘cause no one gives a rat’s arse about good ol’ boy Jungkook who scrubs pools for a living. 

It didn’t start that way. In high school, he was a local superstar. The golden jock. The whole fucking trope, baby. With titties of all caliber following him everywhere. Boy did love him some pussy. Dicks, too. He loved everything to do with sex, drugs and rock’n’roll.

He believed himself invincible and it was only a matter of time before he mingled with the wrong crowd. Only back then, he thought of them as friends. His bros for life.

Well.

Now, he cleans pools - the only kind of gig he can scrounge up nowadays, what with a criminal record and whatnot - and trusts no bro. 

And when he’s not cleaning pools, he’s stuck at the garage being bossed around by a dirtbag who happens to be his uncle. His uncle, Sunmu, hates his guts - one of those stupid homophobic fucks who can’t mind their own fucking business. Needless to say, no love lost.

As much as Jungkook wants to punch his stupid teeth out - what’s left of them anyhow - he needs the money and it’s not like his uncle can do much more than run his smelly farthole of a mouth. Which he does. At lengths. The dude just never shuts up. Until one day, Jungkook made him shut up - even his golden-boy patience has its limits. And the dude blew up, called the police, the neighbors came a-running, the whole nine yards.

One hell of a shitshow, that night.

So now, Jungkook has taken to bringing guys to fuck in his garage instead. Totally intentional. He knows the geezer, like the sick fuck he is, had cameras installed all over for his own perverse pleasure. So Jungkook lets him enjoy it while he can.

‘Cause once the summer ends, Jungkook will burn down his fucking shack and hit the road, because he’s this close to being done with the shitfucks that are hell bent on ruining his life.

Another day. Another mindless grind.

Luckily for him, the client has vacated the house for the day, leaving their big pool in his capable hands. A much welcome break from those rich fucks being all smug and pissy and all up in his grill about every little nothing. 

Rich tits always think they know everything.

Not to mention their shitty kids running around, destroying his equipment and yapping his ear off. Or worse yet, their old haggy wives flashing their saggy tits at him - goodness gracious, does his face say he’s into wrinkled-ass pussy or something?

He thinks the fuck not.

Jungkook plops down on a deck chair and pops a can of coke open, taking a long chug. When he doesn’t have people looming over his ass, he prefers taking things slow. At his own pace. That’s what he’s all about. 

As much as he could wrap things up faster and call it a day, he’s not looking forward to trudging back to the garage. Sunmu the dipshit would be there, of course, nagging at him with this shit or that and he’d rather chill out here - the house is off-limits, locked tight, but the scenery is gorgeous. The house sits on a cliff, with the pool area overlooking the city below. 

It’s private and quiet and damn therapeutic. Like, he could just close his eyes and pretend it’s all his. That he’s not a broke-ass dude about to keel over any day now, but someone who is in control of his life. 

And he does just that. Closes his eyes and leans back, cradling the coke to his chest like one does a lover.

Mind blank of any thought.

The sky above crackles in warning, too close for comfort. And it wakes up goosebumps along his skin as he jostles awake from his little moment of inner peace. His hands flap around, knocking his coke over - it drips all over his tank top. 

Nice, Jungkook thinks. 

Of-fucking-course, it must rain today of all days. He scrambles up to his feet, ready to start hauling all the gear back into his truck when IT happens.

At first, he is not even sure what IT even is. One moment, he’s one grouchy mess, spewing dozens of profanities at no one in particular while tugging at his stained top in a retarded attempt to shake the mess off. And the next-

Something, fairly massive and spherical, materializes a few inches above the pool before plunging into water like a dead weight. Jungkook can only manage an undignified squawk before the impact wave sends him flying into the thorny shrubs framing the pool.

Mother-fucker.

When he drags his ass back from the shrubs, drenched from head to toe and covered in scratches, all he knows is that his stained shirt is the least of his problems now, because this…

What the fuck is this? he thinks, staring agog at the offender, hogging the pool now.

It looks like…something.

Maybe a futuristic car or a flying vessel of some sort. He has no clue, really. What it is or where it came from, but it’s here, right in his face, obstructing his work. Like a bastard.

He’ll have to call up a tow truck or something to pluck this sucker out, which will take forever and there go his plans for Friday night out.

Jungkook walks around the pool, inspecting the strange contraption from all sides. It’s slick and round and very, very chrome. Perhaps - a submarine. Some ultra-slick technology with masking abilities. Which apparently can fly, but not very well, otherwise, how the fuck it’d ended up stuck in his pool.

Those rich fucks and their stupid malfunctioning toys, eh. 

Jungkook sighs and kicks the empty coke can lying about. It flies off towards the pod, ricocheting right off its shiny cask with a sharp clank. And now he has even more trash to dredge up from the puddle bellow. What joy.

As he is about to roll over and wail in self-pity, the pod wakes up with a tremor, sending shallow ripples over the water. Jungkook freezes, frantically thinking over his choices - his gut reaction is to hightail the fuck out of here, because the thing is starting to show signs of life and it doesn’t sit well with Jungkook, not one bit.

He better scram and scram fast. Fuck the money and his uncle - especially his uncle - no one told him scrubbing pools involved close encounters of the third kind.

He makes to do just that but doesn’t make it too far as he bumps into someone, loosing his balance and sending them both to the ground. With a groan, he opens his eyes to stare at the unfortunate soul who had to bear the brunt of the fall on their- his. 

It’s definitely a he. A he so stunning Jungkook’s jaw goes slack and his brain radio-silent. Meanwhile, the he doesn’t waste any time making the most of their proximity as he slithers his hands around Jungkook’s neck and presses against him in a soft sweet kiss.

A supernova goes off at the back of his skull. 

It was awesome.

“Hello,” the other says, a quality to his voice that is out of this world. He must be out of this world, because how?

“I’m Jimin.”

“Hi,” Jungkook says.

A dumb grin takes over his face.

He’s tingly all over. He thinks he’s in love. 

“You’re gorgeous, Jimin-ah. Will you marry me?”

“Marry?” Jimin says tentatively as if testing the word on his tongue. His lips are pretty and full, forming a perpetual pout. It’s adorable. “I can’t marry. I need to mate.”

“Oh.” That throws Jungkook for a loop, as his heart swells with emotion. “Mate who?”

“You,” Jimin smiles. “Serendipity has chosen you as the most suitable candidate within this quadrant of our galaxy. We’re compatible.”

“Wow,” Jungkook whispers. He understands jack shit, but it does feel like serendipity, doesn't it. Just a moment ago, he was one miserable son of a bitch and now…he’s the luckiest son of a bitch in the whole fucking quadrant of their galaxy. 

“You do know I’m scrubbing pools for a living, right?”

He props himself up on his hands, hovering over the gorgeous Jimin and eyeing him like a candy on a stick. Jimin has pretty dainty hands. They are always in motion, feelings up Jungkook’s arm muscles, bulging all prettily just for him - this shameless little minx.

“I know everything about you,” Jimin says, his voice washing over Jungkook’s mind like a gentle summer tide.

Turns his brain all mush-mush. 

“Every second of your waking moment. Every dream, every thought you’ve had. Serendipity has shown me all of it.”

Whomever this Serendipity is, Jungkook hopes it didn’t show every single thought he had. After a certain age, they’d gotten rather repetitive and tended to fixate mostly on things below the belt - which is not the image of himself he wants to project into this world. 

“You’re thinking too much,” Jimin purrs, tapping his temple lightly.

His hands wind up in Jungkook’s hair, massaging the scalp and down his neck. His touches are flitting, almost shy and it kindles longing in Jungkook like never before. It tramples all of the questions budding in his head. Melting reason away. Before he knows they’re kissing again and it plays out like a dream. 

He’s doing something, but he’s not really in control. It feels good. Peaceful, he’s in a safe place. Jimin’s touches are weightless and tender as he maps out his body with the very tips of his fingers. 

Like he can reach everywhere - can touch anywhere.

The moment something prods his mind, gentle and soothing - akin to a light breeze caressing the leaves - Jungkook shivers. Falls under. A feeling like no other. Floating, like a little air bubble. 

It’s gone as sudden as it came and Jungkook finds himself yearning.

“We can’t do it here,” Jimin says as they both move upright in sync. He grabs Jungkook’s hand. “Let’s go. Serendipity will have to stay here for now.”

“Serendipity?” Jungkook asks, shaking off the drowsiness as his brain slowly kicks back into gear. “You mean that pod thing?”

“Don’t call her ‘a thing’,” Jimin chides. “She has feelings. Quite a temper, too.”

“Damn, a she-pod with feelings”.

They’re standing now with Jimin plastered against his chest and nuzzling his mighty pec. Not awkward at all. 

“She’s a ship. The most intelligent ship in the whole galaxy. Completely self-aware,” Jimin says, exploring the vastness of Jungkook’s chest with his curious palms now. Jungkook starts to notice a certain obsession here of a tactile nature, but can’t find it in himself to complain. “Be kind to her.”

“I am kind,” Jungkook says. “I’m like...wait, who are you?”

“I’m Jimin.”

“Okay,” Jungkook nods. “But what kind of Jimin are you? Where did you come from? You’re not with the Joneses here, are you?”

With the burden of rational thinking, Jungkook slumps into a realization that he has questions. And he must ask them. 

“No, I’m from space,” Jimin says like it’s not big deal. “We need to go,” he commands, taking charge and dragging Jungkook along.

“Space? Wow,” Jungkook says. “That’s, ah, nice, I guess. Never been myself, what with the radiation and minus fuck-ton degrees, you know. Transportation kinda sucks, too. I don’t know if you’re aware but we’re kinda still in the stone age or whatever, but, ehm...remember when I was lying on top of you, with our private parts perfectly aligned? That was nice too, wanna, ehm, do that again?”

“Here is not safe,” Jimin says and at least, it’s not a no. “Serendipity can hide herself well enough, but it’s a matter of time before he tracks me down. And if that happens, I don’t want him to track me down right next to her.”

“Who’s he?” 

“Just a man who never gives up what’s his.”

“You mean, like, ex-boyfriend?” Jungkook asks, swallowing down an annoying spike of jealousy. “Do you even have boyfriends in space?”

“I meant Serendipity, not me,” Jimin says. “And yes, we do have boyfriends up there in space. You don’t have to worry though, he’s been mated for the past five hundred years. He’s that boring.”

Jungkook lets out a low whistle.

“If his mate looks anything like you, that’s understandable.”

#jikook #jikook au #personas au

[trillhouse-lh]

Mask

The Avenue. One of the most prestigious clubs in Great Lake City, a local legend in the nightlife scene. Those who weren't living it up on the dance floor mingled near the bars, combatting the pulsing music with casual conversation and laughter. The atmosphere, as always, was electric; to one man however, it was little more than an annoyance. Just endless, meaningless noise.

He kept his distance from the throngs of partiers, seated at a booth with a glass of scotch-Johnnie Walker Blue Label, at $65 a shot-which he sipped at slowly, looking out upon the herd with disinterest. Practically attached to his side was a younger woman, a blonde bombshell of the caliber that most men would kill for. Young, shapely body, luscious lips, tight sequined dress that left little to the imagination… and of course, a head full of air. She leaned into the man's side, checking herself in a pocket mirror and freshening up her cherry-red lipstick. Once she was sure she looked perfect, she closed the mirror with a snap and placed it in her pocket book.

"I wanna dance," She said. Her boyfriend didn't respond, nor did he give any sort of indication that he'd heard her at all. The woman frowned and gave his arm a little tug. "Babe, I wanna dance."

"I heard you the first time," The man grunted. "I'm not in the mood." His companion gave an almost childish pout.

"But I am. You promised we could dance…"

"Later, then." He said cooly. The woman sighed and crossed her arms, giving the busy dance floor a longing gaze. The man didn't care. He simply sipped his drink, his attention focused nowhere in particular. Most would assume that his pensive stare was that of a man lost in thought, but that was far from the case… he was simply existing, present in body but not in mind, barely even cognizant of the beautiful woman latched to his side. She was meaningless to him, after all; just another idiotic young tart barely out of high school, all too happy to leech off an older, wealthier man rather than make something of herself. She was no different from those who had come before, nor those who would come after. Good for a bit of fun and nothing else… to be used and then discarded once he'd had his fill.

A toy. Nothing more than that.

"Babe, come on," She huffed, giving his arm another tug. "It's a nightclub! Are you really going to just sit here all night?"

"I said, no."

"But I'm bored!" The young woman whined; it was clear from her tone that she was starting to get frustrated with her boyfriend. "I want to dance now-"

"Go, then." He said plainly. "I'm not stopping you."

"Ugh!" She scoffed and turned away from the man. "You've been a real jerk lately, you know that?!" She waited for a response, but received little more than a vague grunt of irritation. "...Fine. Fine!" She snapped, pulling away and sliding out of the booth. "I'll go dance by myself, then. Come find me when you're ready to stop being-"

"Won't be necessary," The man cut in, leaving her words to die on her lips. "You go right ahead and enjoy yourself. I trust you'll be able to find someone looking for an easy fuck." She stared at her boyfriend in disbelief, as though she'd somehow misheard the man's words.

"E-excuse me…?!"

"Do I need to simplify it for you?" He muttered. "I'm tired of you. Fuck. Off." The woman glared at him in silence, her body quaking in indignant rage. Nobody had spoken to her like that before… what man in their right mind would reject her? She grit her teeth and reeled back, her palm open to deliver a forceful slap.

The man caught her by the wrist without even looking.

"Ow!" The woman hissed, trying to pull away from the man, but he didn't loosen his grip in the slightest. On the contrary, he only squeezed tighter, so tight that the woman swore she could feel her bones creaking. "Y-you're hurting me," She gasped. "L-let me-" Her protests faded to a faint croak as, for the first time since they'd arrived that night, the man looked her in the eye. His gaze was cold, empty, devoid of life… as though there were simply nothing behind those gray eyes. No compassion. No anger. Nothing. It felt like he was staring into her soul, daring her to make a scene. Finally he let go and the woman grasped her aching wrist, shrinking back under his icy gaze. She lingered only a moment before her lip started trembling and she turned, hurrying off to God knows where. Not that he cared; he simply scoffed as she ran away, and with that little annoyance dealt with he turned his focus back to the crowd. None seemed to have noticed what happened, or at the very least if they did they knew better than to do anything about it.

With that, the man simply continued sipping his drink as though nothing had happened at all. It was nothing new, after all… he'd kicked far, far better women than she to the curb before, and he had no doubt he'd do so again. It was all part of the game, and it was a game he knew how to play better than damn near anyone.

It was also a game that he'd grown tired of as of late.

He'd learned from a young age that the world's pleasures belonged to those willing to take them. It was something his father had quite literally hammered into his skull as a child… in truth the sole thing he was grateful to the piece of shit for. The strong came out on top, while the weak were rightfully trampled underfoot. So he became strong. He rose to the top while his father fell to the bottom… meeting his end at the bottom of a staircase, his neck broken after the drunk bastard took a tumble.

A tragic accident, of course.

Since then, he had come to live by those words. He rose to his station. Money, power, good looks, women, he had it all. That which wasn't given he was all too happy to take. Those who challenged him would soon come to regret it. And yet, through it all, he maintained his public image… that of a legitimate businessman, gentleman, and generous philanthropist. Because he knew how to play the game. He knew how to get what he wanted, and was willing to wear whatever mask he needed to do so. As such, winning over brain-dead bimbos like her was child's play. And much like a child's plaything, he was growing increasingly bored. Perhaps it was time to mix things up a bit.

The man scanned the crowd, his lifeless gray eyes flicking between the offerings with little apparent interest. The club attracted a fairly diverse crowd, from young to mature to everything in between. Some were there with friends, others to meet new people, and of course there were those just looking for some company for the night… hussies, as far as he was concerned. He had little time for them.

...Oh?

The man stopped, his gaze lingering on one figure in particular. He could see her through the crowd, standing at the bar in an attractive blue dress and a lovely pearl necklace. She seemed to be glancing around, as though looking for someone, and as she turned her head he took a moment to study her face. She was a beautiful woman, not too old nor too young; her makeup, while tastefully applied, was just excessive enough that it was clear she had something to hide. No doubt she was starting to show her age and feeling particularly self-conscious about it.

Next, her body language: she was shifting in place anxiously and looking around, chewing her lower lip with a forlorn expression. She was upset, clearly. Her hands? No ring. Unmarried and aging, how sad. Her drink? Cranberry juice, from the look of it… not a drinker. Recovering, perhaps. Still, very peculiar for a non-drinker to be standing around at a bar unaccompanied. Perhaps she was waiting for some friends to return? No… she looked too upset for that. Nearly heartbroken, in fact. As if to confirm his suspicions the woman took out her phone and checked the time, taking another futile look among the crowd before sadly putting it away. Though his expression remained impassive as ever, his mind got to work piecing together the puzzle. This woman intrigued him. He would have her. And in a matter of seconds, he'd worked out how. With that, he polished off his drink and slid out from the booth, flexing his neck before straightening out his posture. As he weaved his way through the crowd, politely apologizing to those around him, his lips curled back in a friendly smile and his glare softened into a gentle gaze that made his cold grey eyes almost seem like a sparkling blue under the lights.

He put on the mask.

The downtrodden woman stared idly into her glass, lightly swirling it and watching the cranberry juice ripple within. She should have known this would happen… he'd been so non-committal when they'd set things up, but she'd been foolish enough to convince herself things would be different this time. Well, no point in lingering here alone… she may as well pay for her drink and head home to drown her sorrows in a pint of ice cream. She tried getting the bartender's attention, only for some red-headed seductress to call him over for another round. The woman sighed again and took a sip of her cranberry juice. Typical.

"Guy stood you up, huh?" The woman was snapped from her self-pity by a low voice beside her. She glanced over, finding a stunningly handsome man leaning on the bar. He was tall and barrel-chested, with perfectly-styled blonde hair and a strong jawline. Clean-shaven. Well-dressed. Million-dollar smile. For a moment, she was simply taken aback by his sudden appearance,

"I… excuse me…?" The man raised his palm and let out a chuckle.

"Sorry if I'm being presumptuous. You just looked like you could use some company, that's all," He said. "I'd offer to buy you a drink, but…" He flicked his eyes towards the cranberry juice, and the woman seemed to snap out of her stupor.

"Oh, um… n-no, it's quite alright," She said with a small smile. "You're not wrong. On either front, sadly." The man frowned and shook his head in empathy.

"I'm sorry to hear that. Can't say I haven't been there myself…" He muttered before that charming smile appeared once more. "Well, if it's not too bold of me to say, anyone who would leave a woman like you hanging must be out of their damn mind." The man shot her a wink and her cheeks flushed a light pink.

"Oh, stop…" The woman said, giggling into her palm. The man chuckled again. She took a moment to study him, taking in his chiseled features and masculine physique. He almost felt like a model straight out of GQ, the epitome of class in addition to his naturally good looks. Not to mention that he seemed to be an absolute gentleman to boot… and, perhaps most importantly, he seemed interested. She averted her eyes and took another sip of her drink, her cheeks reddening by the second.

"You know…" The man said as he pushed away from the bar and glanced over towards the dance floor. "I may not be the guy you're here to meet, but-"

"Yes," The woman blurted out, to her chagrin; she clammed up as the man looked back at her with a cocked eyebrow and a smirk, and cleared her throat before continuing. "I-I mean… I'd love to dance, if you're offering." The gentleman smiled and gave a small nod.

"It would be my privilege. Shall we, miss…?"

"Lori. Lori Loud." She said with a bashful smile, extending her hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you…"

"Chester Richards." The man said with a broad, gleaming smile. He took her hand gingerly and gave it a gentle shake. "The pleasure's all mine."

#sin kids #what she'd been missing #trillhouse #fanfiction #my work #chester richards #Lori Loud

[halfofmysoulistrees]

I’m excited to share a preview from my hitmen AU, Steady, sure hands for the good AUmens event! Look for the first chapter June 2.

Aziraphale shivered against the breeze blowing across his face from the open window. He was dressed appropriately for the chilly evening, but he had pulled his mask down away from his cheeks and eyes to better see through his scope. Separating Aziraphale from his target’s posh penthouse flat was a large construction site, where the skeleton of a high-rise building was taking shape with bare steel beams rising skyward, forming the ribcage for the beating heart of some future corporate machine. He had a clear view of the target’s flat through the bare cage of the beams. He adjusted his scope, magnifying his view. A quick sweep of the dark flat told him his target still wasn’t home. He shuffled his legs around in an attempt to stretch his stiff muscles. He’d been laying in his current position, prone on top of some executive’s unforgivingly hard desk on the fortieth floor of an office building, for the better part of an hour. Aziraphale let out a resigned sigh, watching his breath puff and wisp away into the night air. Still no sign of the bastard. He’d certainly had more comfortable assignments and while he loved Ophelia, his bolt-action, .50 BMG caliber sniper rifle, dearly--she was hefty. He’d had to lug her up more sets of stairs than he personally cared to remember. And the desk really was rather uncomfortable.

A small flash of light from the bottom corner of his vision caught Aziraphale’s attention. He dialed the magnification on his scope back, broadening his view, to investigate the source. It looked to be coming from somewhere in the unfinished building in front of him. The flashes were cycling through a pattern in longer and short bursts that were clearly Morse code. Aziraphale kept searching for the source as he deciphered the message. LONG-LONG-SHORT, SHORT, SHORT-LONG-SHORT-SHORT and on it went until the cycle repeated and Aziraphale deciphered the message as “ANGEL.” His heart fluttered with excitement as he finally discovered the source of the light. A figure with a high-power flashlight, lounging on one of the steel beams, one foot dangling over the edge of it with seemingly no care for the fact that he was hundreds of feet off the ground. Aziraphale didn’t even want to think about how he’d even gotten up there. He knew who it was, of course he knew, but it had been so long since he’d last seen him. So long since he’d seen the crooked smile, the red waves of his hair, that he had to be sure. He trained Ophelia’s scope on the figure and magnified until he could see that it was a man holding up a pair of binoculars and smirking at him. His heart raced. It was one of his favorite smirks, from one of his favorite people.

Crowley.

#good aumens #good omens #good omens fan fiction

[moro-nokimi]

March 9, 2010

AN: 

TW: Joke about alcohol, death of a loved one, guns, pregnancy, vomiting to be safe, crimes against children.

I got my timeline all fucked up, sorry for that. You'd think that I'd be able to keep track of all that, considering that Raye and Naomi would be the same age as my mother... Whoops. 

Yes, they are that couple where Everyone Can See It. See my post about Umi Ga Kikoeru vs. this fic and the relationship dynamic.

ffn.online 

Smirnov whistled. “What are you wearing, Misora? Come on, it’s March, and you’re wearing leather?”

“It’s my bike clothes. Give me a moment before you talk my ear off,” Naomi replied. She was surprised that the lack of caffeine and sleep had left her semi-coherent.

“You own a bike?” Sheridan said. “Sounds like you’re more of a rebel than we thought.”

“It’s not rebelling to own a motorcycle, Sheridan. What are you doing in here anyways, Smirnov? Need a hangover remedy?”

“Ha ha, Misora. No, check your work email.”

“If it’s a joke, I’m asking to be reassigned.” She pulled off her jacket and reached for her laptop, then opened her work email.  

“Agents Misora, Sheridan, and Smirnov:

You all are being recalled to Washington D.C. I expect to see Agent Misora in the briefing room at 10am sharp on March 12. Plane tickets are being mailed as of now.

Best wishes, Director Mason”

She whistled. “For whatever reason we’re being recalled, it’s probably confidential.” She scrolled down. “It takes an hour to get from here to Narita, light traffic at best. It’s probably best that we get going in an hour.”

“But what would he want with you alone?” Sheridan asked.

“Beats me. But right now, I think we should just get packing and all that.”

“Nope, just you,” Smirnov said. “My stuff’s ready to go.”

“Good to hear. I’ll be a bit. Grab me some breakfast while you’re down there, will you?”

“Sure.”

⁂

“So, who has any ideas as to what Mason’s thinking?” Sheridan asked as they boarded. Naomi hit her on the forearm. “Keep quiet. For all they know, we’re just a bunch of tourists visiting. We can discuss this later.”

“It’s technically later right now,” Smirnov said. “So, anyways--hey!”

“Pay attention to what I said. If someone who has access to Kira knows that the FBI is--was--in Japan, then all of us are at risk. Which means the both of you need to shut up until we’re in the car with Mason.”

“I was only joking around! You didn’t have to hit me that hard!”

“Even a joke can get someone hurt. The both of you should know better by now.”

“All right, all right.” Smirnov huffed.

Naomi Misora has never had the habit of sleeping on flights. As her colleagues dozed, she stayed wide awake.

Sometimes, I wonder what would’ve happened if we hadn’t met, she thought.

“Naomi, please, don’t you want to start a family someday?” Audrey said.

“Sure, but on my own time. I’m not unfulfilled--I’ve got a great job,” Naomi replied.

“But no boyfriend.”

“Oh, look at that, I’m choosing not to date a man, the world is ending. I’ve got nothing to lose by not dating.”

“You can say that when you’re 40 and don’t have any kids.”

“More reason to spoil yours, right?”

“Do I really need that much help, Director? The both of us know that I’m perfectly good at my job alone,” Naomi contested.

“Sure, but you’re lacking in base knowledge of firearms--which Agent Penber has,” Director Mason said.

“While that’s nice, Director Mason, I don’t need the help.”

“You can say that when you can’t ID the gun or caliber at a crime scene,” Raye said. They were friends in the academy, but apparently the fact he knew he was useful had inflated his ego to the size of Jupiter.

And there she was, at the stalemate. Either she accepted the help and continued on her job, or she continued to go the route of arrogance and end up crawling back to him. Fine.

“Fine,” she said, jerking her head outside of the Director’s office door. “Come on, jagoff, I’ll show you the ropes.”

“I’m not a rookie. I joined when I was 23,” he said, as she walked him to the unit’s office.

“I'm aware of that, you dork. You haven’t worked in this unit, so you’re a rookie. Jesus, you're 24 right?”

“25 in a month. Shouldn't you know this?”

“It's been a while, go easy. And it's nice to know.” She stopped at her desk and pulled up photos from the latest crime scene--exhibit B showed at least a clip of bullets. “Show me what you know.”

“Excuse me?” he said, both eyebrows raised.

“I know you're a good agent, but I don't know about you as a firearms specialist.”

He narrowed his eyes and leaned over the desk, clicking through to the body and then back to exhibit B. “That’s at least a clip of a 10 millimeter Auto.”

“Stats?”

“Six inch barrel, an average of 546 foot-pounds per square inch of energy. Velocity. This cartridge was used in the Miami shootout seven--dammit, eight--years ago. After that, the FBI issued new cartridges--this one--to each agent in Hostage Rescue and Special Weapons and Tactics teams.”

“So you could easily say that this person has connections to the FBI. At least, these specific branches.”

“Mhm. Against something like a .40 Smith and Wesson, the .40 has better recoil, and it’s better for both civilian and law enforcement use. Not for the 10 millimeter, though.” He stood straight. “What's that tell you?”

“I think you’ve given us a new lead. Don’t go letting that get to your head, though.”

“You’re letting it go to your head,” she said.

“I am not!” Raye replied. “Okay, maybe a little, but still.”

“Either way, it’s going to your head. Call in the interrogation team for me, I’m gonna go grab lunch.”

“Hey! I’m not your errand boy!”

“Sure, but you’re still doing your job. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

“I better get something,” he said.

“I’ll see about that. You're not very imposing, you know.”

She returned five minutes later indeed. “So, what’s going on right now?”

“He did actually have a connection to the FBI--cousin, I think. Poor dude’s probably agonizing over it. Where’s my food?”

“In the breakroom. You can tell me more when you get back.”

“You could’ve at least brought it back.”

“I already tried, but I couldn't balance anything for shit. And I could eat a whole person.”

He sighed through his nose. “Dahmer. I’ll be back.”

She shook her head. "The one time my coffee takes precedence and you compare me to a serial killer."

"Oh, does it suck?" he asked. He smiled and she felt like she got punched in the chest.

She blinked as the plane landed. “Wake up, we just touched down,” she said.

Sheridan groaned. “Have you been awake this whole time? Dude.”

“It’s not like I haven’t stayed up over a day before. Wake up Smirnov for me while I grab our luggage.”

“I never pegged you for the guy who liked to cook,” Naomi said, leaning on the doorframe.

“My mom made sure,” Raye replied. “As for my dad, he just taught me the German and Russian stuff. And I’m a tad sick of takeout.”

“I can’t say I blame you for that. I gotta give a high five to your mom, though, you’re a stubborn bastard.”

“Hey! First of all,” he said, pointing the tongs like a weapon, “I took to it rather nicely. And second of all, I resent that statement.”

“You can take it. What are you making anyways?”

“Spaghetti. Not what you expected, hm?”

“Not really.”

“I won’t introduce you to the German and Russian stuff yet. Kinda heavy, if you catch my drift. Our favorite food is potato. Wait, no it isn’t. Either way. Do you wanna help?”

“Nah, I’m good.” She hopped up onto the counter anyways. "But tell me you can make Japanese."

“Oh, so you’ll stay around and potentially get in the way but not help? Tch. I see how it is. And of course I can, what kinda mother do you take mine to be?”

“Hey, I could’ve just left, but I decided to grace you with my presence. And I don't know her, dork.”

"Watch it, I might take that as flattery."

"Get a room already!" Suruga said.

"Shut up!" they shouted.

“Naomi?” Sheridan said, snapping her fingers inches from Naomi’s nose. “Dude.”

“Sorry, I spaced out for a second.” She pulled Sheridan’s luggage down and handed it to her, then Smirnov’s, and then her own.

“Yeah, lack of sleep does that to you.”

She inhaled. “Come on.”

⁂

“Glad to see you, Director,” Naomi said. “Is this a matter you can discuss as we ride to HQ?” 

“And you as well, Misora. Unfortunately, I cannot. This is to stay confidential, between the people I summoned, so Sheridan and Smirnov cannot hear as well.”

“Understood.” The ride lapsed into silence. She said, “Is it related to Kira?”

“Yes.”

She settled into her seat, desperately trying to keep her eyes open until she got into her hotel room.

“I see some familiar faces,” Director Mason tried.

March 12, 2010

Naomi wiped her hands on her slacks as the door clicked closed. She could count at least ten people.

Immediately, whispers started.

“No, kid, he doesn’t mean you,” a blonde woman said to her colleague. She rolled her eyes.

“The Bureau handed me over to the Agency, you know,” her colleague replied. “And he knows my dad. Of course he means me and a handful of other people.”

“Sometimes, I wish I didn’t know your tragic backstory.”

Mason cleared his throat and stepped aside to reveal…

A teenager. Playing with robots.

“This is N. He’s L’s successor. The both of us hand selected all of you for your respective skills, from both the CIA and FBI. This is the organisation known as the Special Provision for Kira.”

“And what if we don’t believe that?” one man said, crossing his arms.

“Tucker,” Naomi said, “don’t be stupid. What reason would Mason have to lie about that? Use your head.”

“After the original L died, he was replaced,” the teenager said. “The L that we all know of is a front put up by the Japanese Task Force.”

I wish I could be surprised, she thought. Their styles are too different.

“Fine, fine, I believe you,” Tucker said.

She shook her head.

“As you were saying, N?” she said.

“Thank you. As you all know, the Kira case first appeared in 2003--six years ago. I trust that you all know the basics of how Kira first appeared and what his MO was.” N pulled up his--Gundam?--transformer and using it as a puppet, and said, “But, as the case progressed, Kira had went on a two week hiatus. Then, all of a sudden, it was white collar criminals that were being killed in addition to the typical criminals. The MO had changed.”

“So then the weapon changed hands,” Naomi said.

“Correct. Then, after roughly five months, Kyosuke Higuchi--the Kira behind the crimes--had dropped dead after a car chase that brought down even my predecessor, who was famous for having never shown his face. The killings stop for one week. Then, they pick up again. The MO had changed--back to the original MO, but then murdering bank robbers and the like. The weapon had changed hands again.

“The day after the killings resumed, my predecessor had died, and was replaced by the Japanese Task Force, who did not want to cause alarm.”

“So can we assume that Kira had accomplices?” the blonde woman asked.

“Indeed. If you all remember, there was the Sakura TV incident.”

“What happened?” McEnroe asked.

“The Second Kira had made a broadcast on Sakura TV, which is known to be your typical yellow journalism hotspot in Japan,” Naomi informed him. “She held the entire station hostage, and called out to the original Kira.”

“She?”

“Women’s speech patterns vary from men’s. I don’t remember how, but it’s rather different. Where do we go from here, N?”

“That’s a good question, Naomi Misora. From here, we’ll be moving to headquarters in New York, downtown Manhattan. I’ll probably get into contact with the Japanese Task Force, and then we can share information back and forth.”

Somehow, she didn’t think that he was telling them the whole thing.

“Meeting adjourned,” Mason said.

Sheridan and Smirnov were waiting outside the door, and ambushed her just as soon as she got out.

“So, what was all that about?” Smirnov asked, one arm around her shoulder.

“Get off of me,” she said. “It’s confidential for a reason.”

“Aw, come on! It’s not as if you’re a civilian.”

“It’s still confidential, Smirnov. I’ll hear none of it.” She ducked under Smirnov and Sheridan, and said, “I’m going to ask the Director about possible arrangements for my apartment and… other things.”

“Of course. Don’t keep us waiting!” Sheridan called.

She scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Director, a word?”

“Of course,” Director Mason said.

“I’m going to have some issues moving my things across country. See, my apartment is in Los Angeles--my--” she swallowed and forced herself to say it, “Raye’s brother is currently staying there, and I need a couple days to transfer the lease and move all of my things out, as well as make arrangements for therapy and the like.”

“Take as much time as you need. The building won’t officially be finished for another couple months. September, at least.”

“Oh, that’s later than I thought. Well then. Thank you for answering. I’m going to go and arrange a flight.”

She walked out of the building, and narrowed her eyes at Dunleavy asking a civilian for her phone. She made note of it and climbed into her car. She’d barely buckled when she almost backed into someone.

“You know, it’s usually considered good form to check your mirrors,” the blonde woman from earlier said.

“Sorry about that. I haven’t had much sleep,” Naomi said, after pausing for a second. Wow, she is… really pretty.

“Mhm." Halle nodded. "I look forward to it. You’re a legend.” Halle smiled.

She leaned onto the wheel and said, “I don’t know about legend. Though, I don’t think this organization needs one.”

Well done, Naomi, already venting to a woman you don’t know. Scratch that, barely know.

“You’re not known as one for no reason, Misora. I’ll see you around.”

Naomi nodded, and made sure to check her mirrors before backing out this time. She fell face first onto her hotel bed with a sigh.

“Totally blew that,” she muttered, peeling off her jacket. Her phone buzzed. “What’s up, Adrian?”

“Nothing much. Sorry that it’s taken me so long to call. I’d wish you a happy late birthday, but…”

“It’s bad luck. I know the superstition. Sorry, you were saying?”

“Anyways, I just wanted to ask, since this apartment’s lease is coming up, are you going to renew it?”

She swore. “When is that?”

“The 27th.”

“Gotcha. I’m going to renew it. By the way, you and your wife are going to need to move out sometime--I’m heading back to LA. I can stay with your parents for a while, but I’ll need to get back into my apartment before I lose my mind.”

“Naomi! Why do you never tell us these things…”

“I’m in DC right now, actually. I hadn’t learned that I was going to be coming back to DC until the ninth, so I couldn’t have told you and your family.”

“That’s fair. And confidentiality laws. Anyways, when are you going to head back here?”

“A day or so.”

“That’s not a lot of time to pack.”

“You won’t have to, not for a while. I’ll transfer the lease over before I leave, and then you and your wife will officially be renting it, not me. That’s when I have to move to New York.”

Adrian whistled. “You sure do move around a lot. Though, I remember Raye did that too. Comes with the job, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” she said. Somehow, it didn’t hurt as much when he says it.

“Where in New York, out of curiosity?”

“The Big Apple, actually.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I am not. How’s your wife doing?”

“She’s all right. End of the seventh month--officially at 28 weeks, now. Are you planning on being the gay, spinster aunt?”

“Bye, Adrian.”

⁂

“I’m sorry mom and dad couldn’t make it. They’d love to see you,” Michael said. Naomi climbed into the car. “And, of course, Adrian and Laney are in the same boat.”

“What’s going on with Laney?”

“Morning sickness is back and worse than ever.”

She winced, though she had yet to experience that. All plans of it had went out the window when he died. She pursed her lips and forced all thought of Raye from her mind.

“Yeah, after her bout with HG the first time… Anyways, I heard you had to move to the Big Apple for work. Tell us how it is.”

“Providing I can get a chance alone, ha.”

“Trying to remain busy?”

“Busy as I can get, yeah.”

He tapped out the beat to the lyrics of All Apologies. “It’s weird to realise that you’re outliving your oldest brother.”

She smiled wryly. “I was all of six weeks younger than him. It’s weird to think I wouldn’t have died six weeks after.”

Michael was silent. The only resemblance that him and Raye bore was the cut of their eyes and their stature. Beyond that, it was hard to tell they were brothers at all.

“Naomi… You are in counseling, right?”

“I’m not suicidal.”

Scratch that. Same personality.

“You’re depressed, at best.”

Raye scowled. “I don’t like this guy.”

“Then kick the damn door down and let’s be done with this,” Suruga replied.

Even a glance at his face, cool but barely restrained anger boiling beneath the surface, could’ve told you his thoughts. He braced himself against the brick a la Rorschach in The Watchmen, and with one quick, almost stablike jam of his heel by the doorknob, it burst wide open. The children in the house recoiled from the door.

“Oh, Jesus,” Gardner muttered. “Raye, go upstairs with Naomi and search the house.”

Gardner's knees popped as he knelt to talk to the kids. Naomi cast an anxious glance behind her and followed Raye up the stairs. He was muttering darkly under his breath, about what he’d do to the guy if he weren’t with the FBI.

“Don’t beat the dead horse here,” she muttered, not intending the pun of the perp’s display name on the dark web.

“It won’t be a dead horse until he’s dead or in prison forever,” he replied. The clack of the slide being jerked back punctuated the statement. If he did do something rash, she wasn't keen on holding him back.

“Yoohoo, Naomi? Anyone home?”

She blinked. “Sorry.”

“He is the worst kind of person, and I’m not even a little sorry about saying that. Making snuff films of children,” Raye muttered, rubbing his temples.

“Agreed. Children are the one thing you should have restraint on,” Suruga said. “But at least we're not talking, like. Fetal abduction.”

Always the optimist.

"Dude, don't. I'm already sick to my stomach." (And he was looking a little on the green side.) The ME passed him a can of flat ginger ale.

“It just, uh… reminded me of a joke I made. By accident.” 

Michael shrugged. “All right.”

⁂

“So, how long are you going to be in California?” Nana asked.

“With the rent as is? Good luck,” Michael said.

“Oh, I know, it’s horrific. Luckily I make a decent amount of money each month, so I can make rent. And if I can’t, then I have lots of money in savings.”

“Or you could board with someone.”

She shrugged. “Maybe. Once we get to know each other I can ask. I wouldn’t feel comfortable encroaching on a stranger’s space.”

#tw alcohol #tw death of a loved one #tw guns #tw pregnancy #tw emetophobia #tw crimes against children #vd.writing #long post #the entirely italicized parts are flashbacks #naomi has a lot of those. i love one traumatized lady <3

[kyber-ghost]

dressed in all your finery

Also on AO3

Summary: The perks of saving a governor from being assassinated means getting a new outfit to wear to dinner. Wolffe isn't the most excited about this, but if Plo likes it, then he'll deal with it for tonight. 

Wolffe thinks he looks like a damn civvie. Or worse, a young senator dressing up for a late-night party, where the only saving grace is the alcohol. Of course, Wolffe would be the one to dress up for a dinner party, and not Fox, who lived and breathed in the half-truths and hyperbole of Coruscant politics. 

For a moment, Wolffe wonders if Fox knows about this. Wolffe could easily imagine Fox grinning at Wolffe's discomfort and denying him any pity. Hey, at least you're not wearing the dress grays.

Wolffe tries not to fidget as he continues scrutinizing his reflection in the mirror. The outfit is a simple suit ensemble with the foundation consisting of a pair of black pants tucked into black boots and a black dress shirt. Over it is a light charcoal gray vest that matches the tie that hangs untied around his neck The buttons on the vest shine in the light, as do the ones on the dark gray suit jacket draped over the chair. It's... nice, Wolffe supposes. The tailor didn't do a bad job, but it's just not his style. Too soft, too silky against his skin, and now one of the most expensive things that Wolffe owns. At least there hasn't been any mention of payment yet. Otherwise, Wolffe just might go to the party in his armor.

There's a soft knock at the door at the same time Wolffe feels a warm familiar brush against his mind. "Come in," Wolffe calls. The general enters, and Wolffe frowns. Other than his vambraces looking shinier than usual, Plo isn't wearing any sort of new clothing. "Cutting it short, aren't you, sir?" he asks.

"I'd hope not," Plo says, "unless I am mistaken about the dinner starting in twenty minutes."

"You're not dressed."

Plo smiles at him. "Not in anything of your caliber, yes. But since I was not the one to save Governor Tal, I think my Jedi robes seem a reasonable thing to wear to dinner."

Wolffe pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. After a moment, he lets out a slightly annoyed huff. "So you're saying I'm going to be the only one there dressed like this?"

"Is that such a bad thing?" the general says, as he moves toward Wolffe. Even with his goggles, Wolffe can feel Plo's eyes wandering along his body appreciatively. Normally, Wolffe might show off under his gaze. Maybe cock a hip, raise an eyebrow at Plo suggestively. But they have only twenty minutes until they're expected at the dinner, and as much as Plo seems to like the outfit, Wolffe can't wait to be back in his armor and bucket.

"Just hoping no holos of me will get back to Fox," Wolffe mutters as he turns back to the mirror. "I'll never hear the end of it from him." He starts fumbling with the tie and ends up with something that looks like a mangled mess. There were too many loops and now it was too long and skinny. Wolffe scowls in frustration and pulls the thing loose to start over with a sigh.

Before he can start again, he feels a hand on his lower back begin to climb its way to his shoulder. Plo turns Wolffe around, and he can see amusement written all over Plo's face. "Let me," Plo says, as he smoothes the tie down on Wolffe's chest. Wolffe tilts his head down to watch Plo's handiwork but lifts it back up when Plo taps the bottom of his chin lightly. His deft fingers begin to gracefully wrap the tie around itself, careful not to catch on the soft fabric with his claws. Plo's face is scrunched up in concentration, while his hands are sure and decisive, like the way he fights against droids on the battlefield. Wolffe gets the impression that it's been a while since Plo has had to do something like this. He wonders if, on top of lightsaber training and meditation, the Jedi take classes in etiquette and formal dress. He tries to imagine Plo as a padawan, sitting impatiently as someone like General Yoda or General Windu demonstrates the different ways of tying a necktie.

Now that would be a holo he'd pay to see.

Being close to the general also allows Wolffe to feel the emotions of the general in the Force. It takes a little focus, but Wolffe can identify Plo's presence and the way he feels at the moment. There's the initial layer of concentration, but underneath that is a center of still calm that Wolffe imagines like the surface of a pond. It will ripple and flow with Plo's emotions as a reflection of himself. When he's around Wolffe, it's still, but the water is inviting, like dunking his face in cool water on a hot day.

The desire is new though. It's nothing intense or impatient. Rather, it's the pull of ocean's tides, ebbing and flowing between the two of them, trying to pull Wolffe deeper. It's warmer too, and Wolffe can almost see the desire sitting low in Plo's stomach and starting to spread as he continues working on Wolffe's tie.

"See something you like, General?" Wolffe asks, his voice low. Plo's fingers still their movements, and he feels one of Plo's claws brush against his neck. The sensation sends a shiver shooting up his spine, and he barely manages to quiet the choked sound that rises in his throat. But Plo, the damn bastard, grazes his claws against Wolffe's skin, and it makes Wolffe breath hitch.

"I do," Plo says. Wolffe feels Plo's hands pick up where they left off, and eventually, his tie sits elegantly at the base of his neck. It's much better than anything Wolffe could ever do. Plo smoothes the tail of the tie Wolffe's chest, leaving a burning trail of desire in its wake. Then, he picks the end of the fabric and begins to play with it, sliding it in between his fingers. "I do hope they let you keep this," he says. "I'd very much like to see you wear it again."

Wolffe laughs dryly. "You'd have to do some real convincing for me to wear this again," he says.

Plo smiles. His hand slides up and settles against Wolffe's neck as his fingertips slide into Wolffe's hair. Wolffe closes his eyes at the sensation as Plo rests his forehead against Wolffe's. The desire in Plo's presence rises like the high tide, threatening to surge around the two of them. And Wolffe would let it. He would let himself drown in this man, in all that he is. If there wasn't a war, if there weren't the ranks of Commander and General between them, Wolffe would spend every waking minute in his presence, getting to know him mind, body, and soul. He wants Plo to take him apart and put him back together again. In some other time, in some other life.

Then it recedes. The desire in Plo's mind is still present, but it's subdued, gently lapping at the shores rather than trying to pull Wolffe under. It's controlled, but like the tides and Plo, it'll come back eventually.

"I'm sure I could come up with something," Plo murmurs, as he pulls back, his claws leaving lingering trails along Wolffe's neck. "But, in the meantime, how about we go thank Governor Tal for providing such a wonderful outfit?"

Wolffe rolls his eyes, but he smiles at Plo as he does it. He picks up his jacket and throws it over his shoulder. He nods to the door. "After you, General," he says.

Plo smiles back at Wolffe, and they walk, side by side, as they have since Plo first became his General. And they will, for all the time they have left together.

#my fics #my writing #plo koon #commander wolffe #swtcw #cw #plowolffe

[doctorlaelia-ffxiv]

speechless.

Throughout my life, I have been told to be silent.

My father didn’t tolerate me from the day I started to form my own opinions. Maybe I should have spared myself the headaches, but I would hide when he had his other warmongering friends over for drinks. I would listen to the ideas that this man I was meant to trust with my own life spew about the subjugation of others, listen to him toasting to the genocide and slaughtering of a nation.

And I was not able to hold my tongue.

My mother took to crying whenever my father and I argued, and it was often. Despite the doors of his office being closed, our voices rose through the house, and even when he hurled books and glasses at my face, I found that I could not stop myself from drilling my points down until my throat hurt too much to keep shouting. I always wanted to go in with a level head, and initially, I always did, but no one provokes me so much as Remus tol Caelius. 

I showed him military strategies that I had studied that could bring both peace and prosperity to the nations he’d rather see razed, as well as our own. I tried to be calm, quiet, and bring my point across without raising my voice. I raised the level of my arguments. 

He didn’t take me seriously.

“You’re a child,” he’d spit, and he was right. In age, I most certainly was a child. But I was smart. And I knew that I was right. Even if I wasn’t planning to become a great military strategist, I knew, at least morally, that I was right. 

As I rose higher and higher in the world of medicine, the men around me continued to resent me. I was better seen and not heard. It was better for me to be quiet and work hard rather than point out if ever my male colleagues were wrong. They told me I would get further if I smiled and was more agreeable, if I stopped being such an “ice queen” and let the professors and doctors above me advance my place in the hospital for me in return for a small fee. 

I never slept with anyone for a position. Not once. I worked, with my own blood, sweat, and tears. I worked so hard and was so valuable that no one could deny me, as much as they wanted to. I did not smile for anyone I did not want to smile for, I did not let up on my less skilled peers and colleagues, I didn’t relent. 

They all hated it. Still... No one could deny me. No one could deny that no one in that hospital was as good as I was, considering my age and relative experience. I was on par with the surgeons, professors, and doctors that had studied for far longer than I had. 

No one likes to see a woman succeed and be better than the men around her. It especially stings when that woman is young, when is attractive, and when she can confidently say that she earned everything she had by her own merits. 

I would not be silenced. Not by anyone. None of them were ever given permission to make me feel lesser, no matter how they tried, no matter the comments they made or the stumbling blocks they put in front of me. 

And now, now, after all of that...

All they want is to hear me speak. To make me justify my actions. 

To watch me fail.

I sit in a makeshift courtroom within a warzone, still dressed for surgery. My back is straight as I stare ahead at a point on the cloth tent, and the voices around me are just background noise. I am recanting why I’ve been brought in for questioning to begin with, recalling each and every reason I had for the course of action that I took.

If I was not Laelia lux Caelius, this meeting would not have been called. 

They’d not have made anyone else explain themselves for this.

“Laelia lux Caelius.” I look up as I hear my name spoken.

A steel beam that had slanted as it fell in a building that had been blown up. It was through the chest of one of the Doman conscripts who had been assigned to the building project, just missing his heart, while it just barely propped up a mass of rubble that would, ultimately, kill the foreman beneath it if shifted even a single ilm. We were running on borrowed time... 

“Do you know why you’re here today?”

The lights are so bright on my face that I can barely see the council of men who are gathered to question me to begin with. My jaw tics. 

“I was asked to make a medical decision as regards the two parties who were caught in the collapse of the new medical facility, sir, after a steel beam trapped both of them in the building.” 

I lift my eyes to zero in on who has addressed me, who is in the center.

It was a room full of damn mal Up-Your-Asses and mal I-Love-Killing-Savages. 

“And you made the decision to save the life of a Doman conscript rather than the life of kir Drusus, a most valuable architect and engineer to this project.” 

“Yes, sir.”

“Explain yourself.”

Explain myself? Fuck you, you crusty old bastard.

“I’m sure any medicus in this room would be able to answer this question easily, sir,” I reply, my voice tight. 

Kir Drusus was my friend. He was my friend, who had known me since I was just a little girl. I held his bloodied hand and sobbed as I told him the decision that had to be made, and he smiled at me with his face covered in dust and blood, told me that this was the right call, that it was okay. He had squeezed my hand. They think I killed a Pureblooded Garlean because I wanted to, because of my reputation and political alignment. 

“I’m an old, old man, Laelia,” kir Drusus had managed to laugh. “And I have lived a good, long life. I trust you. I trust you, above anyone else in this Legion.” 

They don’t know a damn fucking thing about me. 

“I was given two choices, sir, because it was simply not viable to save both parties involved in the accident. It was my job to assess each party and to assess who had the higher likelihood of surviving after the beam was moved. And it was Hansuke oen Watanabe who had the better odds of survival.” 

I had seen a lot, but I hadn’t seen anything like Hansuke’s situation in the field before. He was still gasping for breath as blood gushed out from around the beam that had gone through his chest, missing his heart just barely. He was white as a sheet, but he was... younger. Stronger. And he was on the high ground, on the second floor rather than the ground floor, where kir Drusus was. It would be easier and safer to extract Hansuke. 

There was only five minutes to make the decision. I had never felt such deep panic or such grief. But the beam could move at any moment. We had to work quickly. I couldn’t afford to hesitate.

I had to do what I knew was right.

“And why is that we expended resources to save a conscript that could easily be replaced rather than do everything we could have to save a valuable Garlean life, Miss Caelius?”

“Lux,” I said, looking back up at again. The silence that filled the room was so stifling, so still, that you could have heard a pin drop. 

“I’m sorry?”

“Laelia lux Caelius. That is my title, and it is a title that I have earned. I was given a decision to make, as a woman that has earned her place that she’s in, and I made the choice that I made because I am good at what I do.”

I shift, leaning closer to the microphone. 

“Hansuke oen Watanabe is a man who has served as a conscripted individual for twenty years. He is a valuable soldier, and now that he’s gained citizenship, could prove to be a valuable strategist, as we have - several times - followed his guidance and his knowledge in the field and come out successful. Know thy enemy, sirs, and he knows our enemy.”

Our enemy. His people. Doma, a people who did nothing to anyone. But I have to say this. I have to say this to keep Hansuke safe. To keep me safe, too. 

“Cyrus kir Drusus was a man that is far older than Hansuke, with a body that was weaker and less able to withstand trauma. He was also on the lower floor of the collapsing structure, and as with all things, the odds are better for those on the high ground. Even attempting to move the rubble off of him could have been disastrous, as it would move the beam likely directly into Hansuke’s heart. Instead of losing one man today, I can confidently say that if I had made any other decision, we would have lost two.

“You will address me as Laelia lux Caelius, and I hope with utmost sincerity that, since I have been granted this title and this responsibility, that you will acknowledge that I take it seriously and respect my decisions, as a medical professional, moving forward from today. The casualties of today are far higher than they should have been, and with all due respect, that is because the integrity of the building was weak. An explosion of that caliber should not have brought it to its knees like that, even if it was just in the infancy of its construction.”

Still the silence persists. I hear a ruffling of papers after a moment, a few murmured words, and I close my eyes, steady myself. 

“Cyrus kir Drusus was a friend and a man that I admired greatly for his devotion to his work, his family, his friends, and to seeing this war end peacefully.” I should stop. I should stop now. “He believed in a Garlemald that is better than the one we have now, and so do I. Hansuke oen Watanabe and Cyrus kir Drusus were like father and son. He did not see a conscript from a foreign land lesser than the men of his own. He simply saw another man of honor, and of integrity, who he could drink with and laugh with. 

“I have patients to attend to, and after that, I will be taking a day to mourn for the people we lost in this terrible accident today. I trust there will be no further issues. My decision today was made with a sound mind, and I am happy to say that oen Watanabe will make a full recovery and be able to return to the field.”

“Lux Caelius--” one of the men began, and I rose to my feet.

“Yes. That is my title. Thank you for recalling it, sir. Is there anything else?”

“...No. You’ve made your stance on this issue very clear. We... commend... your quick thinking under such a stressful situation.”

“If your intention was to commend me, then you’d not have a spotlight shining on my face and would not have pulled me in here for questioning before I could wash the blood off of my hands. Excuse me.” 

I will not go quietly into that good night, you motherfuckers. You shouldn’t have asked me to speak. Was this what you were afraid of? 

Were you afraid of the words I would speak once you gave me permission?

#i wanna be laelia when i grow up #ffxiv rp #ff14 rp #writing #garlemald #garlean #cw blood #cw death mention

[randomwriteronline]

Double Crossed

a collab between the incredibly wonderful @insane-control-room and me, set in their Pathogenink AU.

Silvestro Agnes belongs to one of my AUs.

Silvestro had a specific type of way to walk. His gait was smooth, slow, and all (far too) important. It was the kind of walk that makes one’s hands itch terribly as soon as he came in their line of sight, barely resisting the urge to slap him across the face to wipe it clean of its damn cockiness. He knew very well who he was - the best, most handsome, most perfect person in the whole damn world. Sure, he might have worked for someone; but that someone wore a stupid, ugly, misshapen mask, hiding himself from fame. What kind of fool would do such a thing? Resist the limelight so violently?

(An example came to mind, and he gave a single, loud, contemptuous laugh. Birds of a feather, weren’t they, the weirdos and outcasts of the world? Although he had to thank his brother’s choice. At least, his wonderful face would have never been associated with a monstrous creep of his caliber.)

Silvestro decided that he wore a mask to hide his vile face - he had seen Mr. Joey Drew slip white gloves onto dark hands, marred with heavy scarring. It seemed likely to Silvestro that those scars were all over his “boss”’s face as well. And the pin on his chest solidified that - he was afraid. Silvestro almost laughed as he walked home. How could that poor, nervous, and gay fool not be terrified? Silvestro knew about the death threats as much as anyone else did, but he also knew that Joey could care less about them.

He was just a walking paradox, Silvestro decided. So scared, yet so fearless.

Naive.

A car pulled up beside him.

“Silvestro Anges?” a low and dangerous voice spoke to him from the window of it, the being wearing dark sunglasses. “We have a proposition for you.”

“A proposition?” he inquired, raising an eyebrow. His blue eyes evaluated his interlocutor, and concluded that he was far better than anybody that might have been. “You don’t really think I will just accept anything from the first who comes by, do you now?”

“Sir, I’m certain you’d like to hear this one,” the person said, covertly showing him a stack of money. “This is… very important.”

Silvestro spared the dollars a quick disgusted glance: “That is the best you can do?” he mocked, lips rising in a joyless smirk.

Might have not been a prostitute, the agent thought increasingly angrily, but God if he wasn’t one expensive bitch. 

“If your eminence would please let me give him a lift,” they hissed through gritted teeth, “We might just find a compromise.”

Finally. Someone who addressed him rightfully.

Silvestro opened the car door unceremoniously and stepped inside.

“So.” he began, “Who wants me?”

“You’ll see soon, your highness,” the agent replied, trying desperately to keep the sarcasm from dripping into their monotone. They pulled up to a fancy looking hotel, and Silvestro was bowed out of the car. “Right this way, my liege. He’s waiting. He’s heard much about you and is very… anticipatory to work with you.”

The smile on Silvestro’s face was beautiful - at least, it looked beautiful, as did his visage and body and whole being. But it wasn’t beautiful, not in the slightest. There was something that must have once been hidden deep within the person that he was, now taking the form of a revolting mucus oozing from his every pore, making his natural beauty slip and melt off his skin. And underneath it remained only a nasty, viscid, annoying, insufferable little man who believed too much in something he wasn’t ever going to be close to being.

They entered a room together, and Silvestro recognized the faces of Disney and his current co conspirer, Fleischer. They both studied him as he sat with self importance, splaying himself with his legs spread far and wide to assert his position in the room as the greatest one there. 

“So, Mr. Anges…” Disney began, and pulled out a briefcase, sorting through a few files. “You work at Joey Drew Studios. I assume you see your boss often. Now, a man of your caliber certainly shouldn’t even be under someone, isn’t that right?”

Silvestro grinned. At last, someone knew who they were talking to. 

“Undoubtedly,” he cooly replied, knowing it was he that should be on top, not Joey. “And?”

“We’d like to help you with that,” Fleischer leaned back, steepling his fingertips. “We can offer you quite a bit of… resources, to get the job done.”

“You want me to do your dirty work for you and kill him?” Silvestro rose an eyebrow and bent forward, making a motion to leave. He might have been a lot of things, but he was not some animator’s hitman. He hated getting his hands dirty as much as anyone else. “I think I’ll decl-”

“Not kill,” Disney interrupted him, looking at him with dark indifference. “Expose.”

For once, Silvestro shut his mouth. His eyebrows rose higher and his eyes widened ever so slightly, intrigued. He leaned back on the chair slowly, a cat contemplating whether to eat the mouse or play ruthlessly with it, head reclined in a silent order to continue. 

“You see, Mr. Anges,” Disney smiled, glad to have his attention. “This Joey Drew is a menace - not a threat or problem, but clearly, if he was known for who he was under the mask, he would obviously lose his status, otherwise why would he hide himself? He must be a villain or bandit beneath it. And so, we’d like to hire you to discover who he is and spread the knowledge to us.”

“And once you do have that knowledge?”

“We will drag him into the dirt and make him regret he had ever decided to enter this business.”

Humiliation.

Silvestro’s grin grew wider and wider, face grimacing grotesquely at the thought of Drew’s impending, inescapable misery.

“I see we’ve got a deal.” he chirped, white teeth gleaming malicious from the small space between his parted lips.

Joey was not at work the next day. Or the one after. Silvestro managed to track down Henry, the elusive secondary owner of the studio, and asked where Joey was. 

“Out,” was the only answer he got, Henry shrugging. “Don’t worry about your checks, though, I know how to sign my name.”

Neither did Bertrum or Cohen answer him, both apparently clueless. 

Silvestro began to think of it as a covert team up against him, and so, one day, he went to work early, thinking that the rest of his coworkers showed up before time, and Joey gave them orders and vanished for the day.

The door of the studio opened noiselessly, and Silvestro put that to the younger twin. Of course that Franks lad would spend extra meticulous time to make sure that each and every door would be silent. Still, in this moment, he was glad about it - he was less likely to be noticed by any of the lunatics that bothered working at that studio. He strutted through the halls, finding them all eerily empty, not a soul around. He made his way down to Joey’s office, to check if the man was actually there and secretly leaving orders. He opened the door, expecting to catch him red handed, but found the office completely empty. He frowned. Where could the bastard be?

He grumbled to himself, handsome features now soured by not only that repulsive internal disgustingness, but also his annoyance with the situation.

Wandering about the silent and empty halls, he decided to do a bit of exploring. He knew the studio was quite vast, and nearly all of it was designed by Joey. A hint of where said man lived must be hidden in the architecture of the place, and so he began inspecting the area with a hawk’s eye.

Yet he found, to his growing frustration, absolutely nothing.

The building was as plain as Joey was.

It infuriated him, and he stalked upstairs to leave, when he suddenly noticed something strange.

Was there always an attic of the studio?

Part of him laughed at the thought, the other found it absurd, and at the same time, it made perfect sense. Where else would useless old things be stored? Of course Joey could not bear to part with anything. Being sentimental felt just pathetic enough to be right for the kind of person he was. Silvestro smiled as he made his way up the ‘extra’ set of stairs, already envisioning what he would find in the rooms above - everything neatly sorted away into little piles, each one hand marked with what they were, carefully and cautiously. And of course, among the mess, there were bound to be traces of Joey Drew’s elusive private life - little forgotten hints nobody thought would ever be found again, like letters, cards, anything that might have had an address printed on it. A bountiful chest of treasure awaiting none other than him and him alone.

Like a treasure chest, the door to the attic was locked. He smirked and rolled his eyes at the simple contraption, pulling a filched ring of keys from his pocket, and tested them one by one, and found that not a single one of them fit the lock. Perplexity turned swiftly into anger, and he went down to Lacie’s workstation, snatching a hammer.

At first, he wanted to smash through the whole thing, until he remembered he wanted to keep this covert. As a sentimental old fool, Joey would be bound to check the attic often, and once realizing that it was broken into, he would also understand that his situation was compromised.

So he set to work of carefully removing the door from its hinges, slowly lifting it away when he finished, excited to open up the trove and dive right in, discover all the hidden details of Joey Drew’s life.

But once he actually got into the attic, he found nothing of the sort: instead, his dismayed and stupefied eyes beheld what seemed to be a fully fledged apartment. He recognized a living room, a kitchen, a lunch table, a couch, pictures, flowers. Everywhere he turned he was assaulted by the feeling of having just broken into someone else’s home while they were away, not that he truly minded.

Honestly, he felt rather offended.

What kind of fucking joke was this?

He passed a hand over his eyes, blinked them a couple times, pinched the bridge of his nose, and then looked at his surroundings again. No, he found that he was not dreaming. The attic was a house. And somebody was living there, right above everybody else’s heads.

This felt like something out of a mystery novel, a hidden alcove in plain sight.

He shook his head: well, if this was someone’s apartment, the owner would have left something behind. Now, he thought. Who would be so desperate to sleep above an animation studio? Certainly not some decent fellow, oh, goodness, no. Nobody would stoop so low. Unless of course the ‘decent fellow’ was truly an efferate criminal, hiding under Drew’s wing and roof. Oh, that would have been perfect for Mr. Disney. Or perhaps… Agh, there it was again. That bony, unhealthy, disgusting face with bicolored eyes came to the forefront of his thoughts.

Of course. Of course! Of course Karpos would be the perfect candidate for being found living in some random guy’s basement. Or in their attic, in this case. No wonder he had not seen him often lately.

And wouldn’t you know it, as Silvestro tiptoed through the apartment and into a snugly furnished bedroom, there he was, on a bed far too comfortable for what he deserved, cuddling against another lanky being like the lizards he so disgustingly adored. Revolting.

Silvestro glazed over him, looking for clues.

An eaten bowl of soup on the side table, some papers scattered on the floor-

Then he realized what he had seen and - no no no, he slapped his cheek to wake up fully and checked again.

That was his twin brother, sleeping soundly just underneath the all too fluffy blanket. And next to him was a body, a human body, or at least it looked human, with an arm wrapped around him sweetly and gently and a book on its lap. He was seconds from having a stroke. Masks covered both beings’ faces, both of which were well known for Silvestro.

No way.

It was just so, so impossible, but all the pieces fit into the puzzle like so many intricate knobs and keys, fitting in so perfectly. Of course that gay artist would-

Hold up.

Gay. Brother. NO WAY. NOPE.

He recoiled. His brother. His twin. Gay. Having sex with his boss. Was it contagious? He’d spent more time than he would have liked - oh stop that, you know it isn’t. Gay brother. Gay brother… Well, it made sense. It made perfect sense, actually. He had to be gay, honestly, because Silvestro was the normal one, the perfect one, and he was a horrible mistake of nature full of awful perversions. It made perfect sense. He would have had to teach him a lesson, now that he had found out. The thought of beating his stupid brother senseless calmed Silvestro down a bit, allowing him to consider the situation a little better. Joey Drew, laying on a bed with the crazy handyman. Clearly, this wasn’t a coincidence. Oh no, it wasn’t. This was perfect slander to spread.

‘How could I phrase it?’ he wondered as he peeked at a sliver of Joey’s face that poked out of his mask. It had to be something shocking, something completely and totally demolishing, bringing Joey’s reputation down to the very depths of hell. ‘Let me see….’

Famed animator Joey Drew hires mentally retarded men to have wild sex with them, keeping them around for more.

No, no. That was not quite right, he knew there was a detail off. He inspected the strand of deep blue hair that framed his boss’s dark face from around his mask, and that slender arm around his brother: Joey clearly was not nearly strong enough to deal with that devil of his twin. He couldn’t have possibly forced himself into the damn animal even if he had tried with all of his strength. Ah, no, that was it! He wasn’t the one on top, no, he could never be! He liked the feeling of dick in his ass too much! And who would be better to pound mercilessly into his thin and pathetically weak frame than a mindless savage beast like Karpos?

Oh, it made such perfect sense, and was so good for anyone wanting to ruin the thin animator’s secretive reputation. 

Famed and beloved animator Joey Drew pays mentally retarded men to fuck him mercilessly, then housing them in the attic of his animation studios and keeping them around under the cover of ‘employees’.

No wonder he had trouble walking. Oh, that sounded so good. He smirked, oozing maliciousness as his eyes trailed over what he could see of the man’s sculpted cheekbone, his mask tilted just a bit to keep off of Karpos, so gentle. Absolutely grotesque.

That mask needed to go, both figuratively and literally. As did those damned blankets and whatever kind of clothes he might have been hiding that voluptuous frame under.

Hold. Hold on. He frowned. What the hell? What the hell. Sure, he had seen his boss’ body before, but could only imagine what it was like under clothes, though he was certain of slender hips and slim muscles, but there was no reason to, to see it for himself. He shook his head, his eyes falling on the sleeping man’s neck, a small, thin, creamy scar peering over his dress shirt. He shook it again, more harshly, and again he stared at that inviting throat, gently moving with motions within deep and mysterious skin, just waiting to be claimed with a sharp and digging bite -

He leaned his head back, inhaled, and exhaled, shaking his shoulders out, slapping his cheeks slightly to snap out of his infectious thoughts. He was getting himself worked up thinking of the malicious, awful, simply delightful slander he was going to spread about the animator. He smiled to himself as he gripped the curve of the mask covering Joey’s face, ready to learn who he was.

Joey stirred slightly as Silvestro was taking the mask off, but he did not wake up. His head turned gently on the pillow, his dark skin streaked by a few fragile looking scars, one on his neck, another on his forehead, and a final one barely noticeable on his lip, fine china patterns on delightful night skin, turning into a sculpture of brown agathae. Silvestro’s mouth went dry as he bit his lower lip, eyes hungrily, predatorily tracing his boss’s features as he breathed heavily, from his blue eyebrows to the tired heavy eyelids and then down, down, down the slope of his nose to reach beautiful full lips that were just begging to be forced open and bitten and left hanging as the soft voice of Joey Drew moaned his na -

WOMEN. HE LIKED WOMEN. THIS WAS UTTERLY DISGUSTING. GOD, THE NERVE OF THIS MAN. TO SEDUCE HIM EVEN AS HE LAID SLEEPING.

He would have fucking torn him apart. He would have shredded his reputation into confetti, just like he would with his clothes and then fucked him in the a- NO! JUST THE REPUTATION. NOT THE ASS. Mental and social destruction. Not physical. Not physical. No shoving him on his dick for a whole night, keeping him awake and fully aware of his plight. Just slander.

Just slander.

Ok, maybe a bit of ass too - NOOO. Reputation. Only reputation.

Actually you know what? Fuck him. Fuck him hard. Goddamnit, he deserved it, Joey negatively and he positively. He had been denied by every single woman in the bastard’s damn studio (and also was slightly afraid of asking again because last time the manager had nearly killed him, as had the engineer, and the singers, and the writers - damn, every woman nearly sliced his head off, be it with a microphone, saw, or deadly sharp pen, or just… straight up nearly decapitated him with a punch… God that crazy Irish bitch of a manager was scary) and he had been too lazy to actually get himself some company for two whole weeks. If he wanted to get off, this was his chance. It did not even make him gay. He was just taking advantage of a shitty, lowly, handsome piece of fiery hot meat and teaching the pervert a lesson. He could twist the whole story and claim he was forced to do this. Perfect. More slander. All according to plan.

He was so caught up in his inner machinations that he barely noticed a groan (though his skin prickled from it, goosebumps breaking out on his arms), and a rustle, and finally bright, wonderful red eyes opening, still hazy from the long sleep.

And god, those eyes were so gorgeous and alluring, and Silvestro wanted them half lidded and misted over with pleasure and salacity, looking like that at Silvestro as he raked his hands over his sides and pulled away from deep lecherous kisses….

“‘ska…” Johan called, breaking the intruder’s fantasy, his voice like hundreds of star songs, suffocating a yawn, touching his face, silently questioning where and when his mask had vanished from it. “Whu'r’ y’ doin’…?”

Silvestro jumped back, finally aware of what was happening. As red as a bleeding heart robin, he mixed his anger and lust in a big, messy and nasty bomb that began the countdown to its detonation immediately. He undid his tie with haste, positively furious.

Joey’s eyes found him in the room, squinting to recognize him in the late moonlight.

“… ‘vestro?”

“Shut the fuck up.” he hissed in warning, his free hand going to press against Joey’s mouth as fast as he could. “Not a word.”

Johan muffled something, a confused request of explanations maybe, but Silvestro ignored it. He leaned quickly towards the other man’s face while trying to undo the buttons of his shirt.

“Look at you,” he sneered. Joey’s eyebrows knitted together in question, so Silvestro took it upon himself to explain, leaning closer, his hand going down to Joey’s neck, feeling and relishing in the sensation of his palm against his beard, pushing on his gullet just enough to keep him from making noise, but giving him just enough air to breathe. Their faces were mere inches apart. “Disgusting. How could you sleep in the same bed as Karpos? You’re such a loser, you know? You make me sick. That’s why you’ll be having me tonight, to learn what it’s really like, to be fucked silly. Won’t you like that, a big fucking dick in your ass? Even if you say you don’t want it? Even if you say it hurts? Even if you tell me, beg me, to stop? You know what that will get you? A good old beating, choking every single little breath out of you - oh, won’t you be trying to scream tonight! You thought Karpos was a beast, you faggot? You thought he fucked you good? God, you have no idea what the hell is in store for you.”

Joey’s eyes were so wide, shocked and confused and hazy with sleep, and yet his chest shook with slight coughs stolen by Silvestro’s pressing hand, his mouth open with the need for air. Silvestro leaned closer, opening his own mouth to taste Joey’s, already thinking of all the delicious flavors and whimpers he’d get from him, their lips brushing for a moment, Silvestro tasting a hint of cinnamon, sugar -

- and TONK, went his head against an equally hard one.

The headbutt nearly sent him tumbling to the floor. Upon the bed a paranormal silhouette perched up on all fours to shield Johan with the little mass of his skeletal body, the artist gasping feverishly, rubbing at his throat, but looking at Karpos gratefully, and Karpos - Eska, his name was Eska, no matter what his brother insisted on calling him - Eska hissed at him violently like a murderous feline. He couldn’t bare his teeth, for they, much like the rest of his face, were carefully hidden, but those of his mask gave a pretty good idea of how he would have looked.

Silvestro shivered, but his ego didn’t give in: “You fucking animal!” he barked at his twin, and Johan covered his face in fear and shame, “Go jerk off somewhere else! You’ve had your turn!”

“EVERY LAST WORD COMING OUT OF YOUR GODFORSAKEN MOUTH IS BUT ANOTHER BRICK PAVING THE ROAD TO YOUR INEVITABLE AND UNSPEAKABLY PAINFUL CANNIBALIZED FRATRICIDE.” Eska thundered in response, his deep, raspy, crackling voice tearing at his throat. One of Johan’s hands searched for Eska’s arm to rest on it, trying to keep  him calm and grounded.

Silence fell for a couple of minutes. All parties in the attic remained perfectly still, aside from Johan’s trembling hand on Eska’s arm, and Silvestro felt a pang of envy, but it was quickly quenched by the recalling of his brother’s terrifying words.

Finally, Silvestro’s voice rose, horrified: “Since when are you capable of complex thought?”

“SINCE EAT SHIT AND DIE, YOU FUCKING BASTARD.”

“Good point, Eska,” Joey rasped, coughing slightly. “Silvestro, you’re fired.”

The man stared at him with his blue eyes open wide. Never, not once, never before had someone had the gall, the audacity, the sheer rudeness to fire him. It… scared him, not that he would let that be known. He spat on the floor.

“Bullshit!” he screamed. He scrambled back onto his legs: “BULLSHIT!” he yelled again, a bit of drool dribbling down his chin, as if cursing a second time would have helped prove a point which he had not specified. He lunged at Johan’s throat with hands like claws, ready to tear him apart and bend him to his own will, completely forgetting Eska until he was being pummeled into the floor by his twin once again. He felt as if the realization of just how strong Eska could be had hit him as hard as his head had crashed into the pavement.

Johan shouted something, he could not exactly tell what, something in fear and worry - and then his mouth was agape and the air in his lungs was gone. He kicked his brother back as best as he could, screaming his head off, there were rushing footsteps from below, and he could hazily sense Johan running toward the door to pull it back into place from where Silvestro had leaned it against the wall, shouting that everything was under control. Silvestro felt his arm getting wetter and wetter, hurting like hell for no reason, no reason at all, he simply couldn’t get it, had that bastard bit him, had he fucking dared biting him hard enough to make him bleed, but it wasn’t on his arm or forearm because he could feel it all dripping all over, was it on his palm, he had to check, he had to run his fingers over it, his fingers, fingers, fin… Fingers…

He choked on his gag reflex.

Silvestro looked up at his brother, shaking like a leaf.

Eska stared back at him. His breath was even through his occupied teeth.

“Eska!” Johan shrieked, petrified. “O-oh god, oh no….”

Questions were shouted from behind the door Johan was holding shut.

“Good god!” Joey barked, his voice raspy and authoritative. Silence fell. “I have this under control, go to work or there’ll be hell to pay!”

The crowd that had gathered by the closed door ebbed away.

The man took a few gasping breaths, closing his eyes for a moment, then leaned off the wall, walking over, cane in hand, assisting his weary footfalls, head held high, looking down at Silvestro from his great height in heaven.

The gears in his head turned rapidly, and Silvestro could see a burning wisdom within those eyes, bright, blazing, compassionate and gentle. The eyes of a god. He could see judgement and repentance in those eyes.

“Silvestro, I have three things that I can do with you,” he spoke so softly, like the final judge of everything that ever was. “One, I can kill you, seeing as you clearly planned to sell me out.” (Silvestro’s eyes were as wide as a small child’s in front of something far greater than himself. They were scared, and shocked, and pleading.) “But I don’t want to. No, I can’t. I’m no executioner. Two, I can wipe your memory, completely and totally. Or three, we can work together, and swear you to secrecy; magically, in a way you would never be able to speak of this ever again, except with those I deign allowed. The choice is yours, but if you pick the first option, I will do the second.”

Silvestro looked up at the man, and saw compassion and care in his exhausted eyes.

He made his choice.

Silvestro had called in beforehand. They had arranged the meeting, the day, the hour, the place. Disney sat in the armchair of a hotel room, sipping a glass of liquor, ignoring all laws, being the rule breaker he was. Fleischer was standing and looking out the window restlessly, silently contemptuous of the alcohol in Disney’s hand, resisting the urge to slap it out of his hand or chew at his nails. There was no reason to be nervous, Disney thought to himself. Silvestro was such an unscrupulous man, he would have gotten all kinds of information on the menace that was Joey Drew, one morally and legally ambiguous way or another. With that narcissistic diva at the job, they were in safe hands.

Two quick knocks got the two business mens’ attention. They were fast and nervous. Tock-tock, followed by silence.

Far too uncharacteristic. Disney and Fleischer exchanged a glance.

“Mr. Agnes?” Fleischer called, moving from the window. “That you?”

A deep inhale, a bit fearful, maybe. 

“Yes.” Silvestro’s voice answered. “It’s. Me.”

“Come in.”

The man who came through the door was indeed Silvestro Agnes… but something was oddly off. He had the same dark auburn hair and the same light cinnamon skin. Actually, Disney noticed, slightly confused, it was too light a shade of cinnamon. He was very pale, and he appeared to be shaking. His back was hunched forward, his shoulders closing in on his chest. His eyes were concentrated on the ground, terrified. Everything about him - his movements, his looks, his demeanor - chronically lacked the superb disgust towards everyone else which he had constantly displayed throughout his life.

He closed the door behind him and simply stood. His head bent a little downwards, nearly shameful. He did not say a single word.

“Well?” Disney encouraged him, though was somewhat… anxious of what the reply could be, “What do you have for us?”

No answer.

And Disney might have pressed further, if Fleischer had not risen his eyes above the trembling man before them and let out a horrified “Jesus Christ!” as he almost fell on the floor, leaping backwards in what could be described only as pure terror. Disney’s attention went first to his partner in crime, then to the silent Agnes, then behind him. And while he did not shout, his jaw and eyes fell open wide.

He could not have understood how he did not notice it. A giant dirty skeleton dressed in tight skin and enormous clothes, towering over Silvestro’s head. Hairs so thin they might have been made out of beams of light surrounded a naked skull in a dirty, brown and reddish halo, a pair of lone will-o’-the-wisps standing perfectly still deep in the recesses of empty eye sockets, to lead the wicked away to their just slaughter. Despite its hunched back, it was still taller than the doorframe; Disney would have bet it had just phased through solid matter like a ghost.

“Joey Drew knows you.” the skeleton said. The jaw did not move; a deep, crackling, croaking voice seemed to come directly from the depths of the earth. “Knows you well. Wiser than you.”

Fleischer and Disney were frozen in place. They did not dare breathe a breath, a sound, a word. They did not even know if they could.

The skeleton leaned towards them, Silvestro lowering with it, trembling as he tried to keep it from touching him - almost as if mere contact might have killed him. The voice grumbled from behind the skull once more, slowly and carefully articulating every word: “He will not have any of your threats. None. Not one.”

Those wild irises glowed without emitting the faintest hint of light. Demonic. Did Joey create the thing before them? Bendy was, after all, a demon. So was this as well?

“Your flesh tastes no worse than anyone else’s.” it advised, and Fleischer could imagine a macabre grin behind the skeletal mask. “I promise you that.”

The businessmen did not respond. They did not know how to respond. How could they? How could they have known, what exorcism would they have screamed? What can one say after being presented with a threat that implies the horrifying supernatural being currently standing in front of you has had a bite of your kind before, and maybe even more than one?

The skeleton’s long fingers slowly crept up Silvestro’s shoulder and closed their iron grip on it, making the man shiver harshly and attempt to mute a cry of pain under the pressure as his arms jolted upwards. His hand clawed at the air, missing the stump of the other arm’s wrist as if there had been something attached to it.

Disney paled as he noticed that.

“H-he says it’s a m-message,” Silvestro managed to say through chattering teeth and blurred vision, silently wishing the pain go away. Eska gave a drooping nod, too boneless, too bony. His voice added to the words, “So heed it.”

Eska decided he had already said a frankly excessive amount of words for today, so he thought it well not to allow a single one more to be spoken. He only turned slightly, dragging his twin with him in a silent yet angered order, hand still on his shoulder possessively as though Joey deigned him reign over his brother, and then they were both gone. Out of the room, out of the hallway, out of the building entirely (standing on the sidewalk, staring at each other with empty eyes on one part and a sinking fear on the other, strangers to everything about the person they were looking at, not even brushing against one another as the taller figure dragged his feet away, slowly, rhythmically, and his brother just stood, waiting for something before quickly heading home), leaving Fleischer and Disney stunned, fearful and less than inclined to try and disturb Mr. Drew again.

#bendy and the ink machine #joey drew #johan ramirez #eska (batim) #swearing #random writing #silvestro tries to fuck up johan's reputation but finds out he's hot and gets his ass kicked instead: the movie #disney and fleischer can go fuck themselves #cannibalism mention #rape attempted #blood tw #physcal abuse mention #homophobia tw #ableism tw #violence tw

[lady-divine-writes]

Klaine one-shot “Consequences” (Rated NC17)

Summary: At a formal dinner thrown by a good friend, Kurt encounters a man he'd rather forget existed. He handles the situation with his signature cool, but his pet might not be quite so disciplined. (2529 words)

Notes: Okay, so, right off the bat, there are a few things I will admit are slightly problematic about the way Kurt and Blaine handle things here, but I know people like Kevin personally, and sometimes, a good old-fashioned revenge fic can make your day xD Plus, before anyone comes at me about hating switches, that isn't what this fic is about. I love switches. I know tons of them. But I also know people in the kink community who's behavior give switches a bad name. Kevin happens to be one of those. Dom Kurt, sub Blaine

Part 69 of Taking a Journey Together

Read on AO3.

“Why, if it isn’t Kurt Hummel!”

Those words slide unappetizingly through several sour notes of a single rusty octave range, volleying towards their target (in this case, the back of Kurt’s head) and striking with the messy precision of a hot mustard sandwich.

“Well, well, well …” The distastefully tipsy voice becomes louder as its owner slinks closer “… look who the cat dragged in! Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

Blaine, holding his Master’s drink with eyes trained on the floor, feels Kurt sigh through every fiber of his being from four feet away.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Captain Cliché. God save us all,” Kurt mutters under his breath. He reaches for his drink - a half filled glass of champagne – which Blaine obediently hands over, and knocks it back in one gulp.

Blaine takes the empty glass, prepared to hand it off to the next serving slave that passes by. He keeps his eyes lowered, disallowed to lift them as a submissive, but he doesn’t need to see this man to know who he is, though they’ve never been introduced.

Kevin Dale.

Not Kurt’s only ex, but the dreaded ex.

Blaine knows all about him. He’s the only sub Kurt had who doesn’t gush over him the way his other subs do. Worse, he does anything he can to cut Kurt down behind his back. He identifies as a switch, and is more than likely painting himself as a Dom for this particular occasion, which is why he can approach Kurt like they’re equals. He’s an egotistical ass who is more into fetish than BDSM, but he’s also an attention whore - a difficult thing with Kurt by your side. It’s one of the reasons Blaine can travel in BDSM circles with his Master and not worry too much about being noticed for who he is in real life.

On Broadway, Blaine’s the star, but in this arena, all eyes are on Kurt.

And even if they weren’t, they should be, because Blaine’s Master looks stunning.

They’re attending the first formal dinner they’ve been able to go to since Blaine started his new show. The dress code is evening gowns and tuxedos for the Dominants, clean-cut and slightly more casual attire for the subs - anything from the grey dress slacks and eggplant cashmere sweater Blaine has on to completely nude and collared applies. Blaine doesn’t have permission to look in the faces of the Dominants around him, but there’s two things he can tell about Kevin off the bat without looking:

The man is leering at his Master like a cat staring at a plump pigeon perched too high out of his reach.

And he’s drunk as a skunk.

Which leaves Blaine with a lot of questions, first on his list being where did their host go? It stated quite clearly in the invitation that it was against the rules to get drunk at this function. Inebriation was grounds for immediate removal.

Someone should have carted Kevin out of here a bottle of champagne ago.

“Oh, Kevin,” Kurt says, frustration embedded in his tone. “And just when I thought I’d never see you again.”

“Looks like today’s your lucky day!” Kevin slurs, but his attention wanes quickly when he sets eyes on Blaine. “And look who we have here!”

Blaine can’t see when the man’s eyes find him, but he knows his gaze lingers. He feels it like oily fingers trailing down his skin. He shivers in disgust.

“I heard you had a beautiful new boy, but I didn’t realize he was that beautiful.”

“Yes, he is. I’m incredibly lucky. And before you ask, no. I don’t share.”

“I wouldn’t even think of it,” Kevin replies, but to Blaine’s ears, he sounds disappointed. “I’d have no way to reciprocate.”

“So, you’re still unattached?” Kurt asks. To the outside observer, it would sound like small talk, but Blaine knows his Master took a dig.

“Sadly, yes. I’m far too busy to deal with anyone these days – Master or sub.”

“Pity,” Kurt grumbles, grabbing another glass of champagne when a tray passes by. “And yet you managed to find time in your schedule to show up here. To what do we owe the honor?”

“What’s the good of being part of the kink community if you don’t mingle from time to time? And being single is, uh … a great time to mingle.”

Kurt takes a possessive step in front of Blaine, a sign that Kevin must have given Blaine another lecherous once over. But Kurt changing positions draws Blaine’s gaze to his right, to his Master’s hip and Kevin’s hands gesticulating in and out of his line of sight. That’s when he sees it – a gold chain on Kevin’s wrist holding a complicated silver key. Blaine has seen those kinds of keys before. He knows what they’re for.

Kevin having one doesn’t make sense.

Kurt notices it, too, when Kevin dramatically reaches for his own glass of champagne, flashing it before Kurt’s eyes, waiting for Kurt to mention it. “So, you’re a key holder now?”

“Yup.”

“But I thought you said you didn’t have time for anyone.”

“I don’t.”

“So … whose is it?” Kurt sounds downright exhausted when he asks, but Blaine knows why he does. Not because Kurt cares who Kevin’s seeing, but because he wants to make sure that any soul who turns themselves over to Kevin’s quote-unquote care, even casually, knows what they’re getting themselves into.

“My own.”

Kurt’s breathing stops short in a shocked way that makes Blaine want to laugh, but he holds himself together.

“Come again?”

“I couldn’t find anyone worthy of being my key holder so I’m doing it myself.”

“O-kay.” As a masochist himself, Kurt can’t judge. He has a cage of his own. Several, if he’s being honest. There are many things he does to himself that stricter purist Dominants would consider crossing a line into submission. And Kevin’s a switch. Different rules apply. Still, what Kevin does, he does mostly for show, so Kurt would face palm himself if it were socially acceptable. “Whatever floats your boat.”

“Yup. I bought the heaviest, most restrictive cage I could find. Expensive, too,” he exposits even though no one asks, grabbing himself in the crassest way possible to emphasize his point. “It’s special made to my specifications, one of a kind, with only the one key.” He holds up his wrist, dangling the key in front of Kurt’s face like some sort of enticement. “I’d have to go see a locksmith if I lost it. Maybe even the ER.”

“You don’t say.” Kurt grabs another flute of champagne when another tray goes by out of habit now, sounding less interested in this conversation than he would talking about the average velocity of snot traveling through space. “You’d better pray it doesn’t go astray then.”

“The only way someone’s going to get ahold of this baby is to cut off my hand.” Kevin growls, sounding excited that someone might actually fight him over that key. Maybe he’s hoping Kurt will just so he has an excuse to mess with him again.

The assumption that he could sets Blaine’s back teeth on edge.

Kurt sighs. Blaine knows that sigh. It’s Kurt’s beyond done sigh. “Well, as exciting as this has been, I’m afraid it’s about time that my pet and I run along.”

“Ooo,” Kevin coos, stepping purposefully in Blaine’s way as they begin to walk off causing Blaine to run into him. “Feel like moving this party somewhere else, then? Somewhere more intimate?”

“Not in the slightest.” Kurt takes Blaine’s elbow and maneuvers him around the swaying bastard grinning in front of them. “You stay here, Kevin. Here ...” He thrusts his untouched glass of champagne in the man’s hand “… have a drink. I’m going to find Adam and confer with him about the caliber of his guest list. Have a lovely rest of your evening.”

“You as well, mon ami,” Kevin says with a clumsy wave, watching Blaine’s ass in particular as the two men leave, hand lewdly reaching for his caged cock again.

***

“Jesus Christ! That was the longest, dullest dinner Adam has ever thrown!” Kurt laments, shoving Blaine against the first wall he can find the second they walk through their hotel suite door. “I don’t know why he chose to change party planners, but they had no clue what they were doing!”

Blaine doesn’t get a word in before Kurt claims his mouth and kisses him hard, smacking the back of his head against the drywall. Not that he would have said anything … or had permission to speak. None of that matters anyway because he enjoys this – enjoys Kurt’s control, a control he doesn’t even have to surrender to. One only needs to surrender control when they have it, and as Blaine’s control is limited, there’s nothing to surrender. He just gets to be and that’s all he really wants.

“You know, I thought our evening was shot when that asshole Kevin showed up, but with you there …” Kurt breathes his pet in deep, letting the clean smell of Blaine’s skin fill his nose and mouth “… you make it all bearable.” He grins against his pet’s lips, crowding him further against the wall even when there’s no more room, pressing the whole of his body against him. “You were such a good boy tonight, pet.” Kurt giggles, reaching for the buckle to Blaine’s slacks. “Such an obedient boy. I think that deserves a reward. Don’t you?”

“I …” Blaine squeaks. God! Now is so not a good time to speak up, but he has to! If his Master finds out he was keeping something from him after receiving a reward, Blaine won’t see another one until the year’s out. And it’s only February. “Sir, I have a confession to make. An important one.”

“Oh?” Kurt steps back, annoyed at the interruption, but mostly at the idea that his pet may have disobeyed him behind his back. “And what’s that, pet? Tell me now.”

But Blaine doesn’t say another word. He reaches into his pocket and slowly pulls out a gold chain. He holds it up in front of Kurt’s face, gulping down air with a dry throat, aware that this might have serious consequences. Kurt’s eyes spring open wide.

The gold chain twists in front of his eyes from the weight of a single silver key.

A complicated key.

A familiar looking key.

“What the …?” Kurt stares at Blaine, surprise mixed with confusion swirling within his gaze. “When did you …?”

“I … I didn’t, Sir. Not intentionally. When Kevin bumped into me on the way out, the clasp must have caught on to my sweater and broke. It was stuck to my sleeve. I didn’t notice until we were in the parking lot. I suppose I could have told you in enough time to return it, but I ...” Blaine’s bottom jaw snaps shut, and with it, Kurt’s already wide eyes open further.

“But what, pet? Finish.”

“But I …” Blaine inhales in and exhales out, mentally preparing to end this night taking whatever punishment his Master sees fit to give him. “I don’t like Kevin. I don’t like the way he talked to you. I don’t like the way he talks about you. I don’t like the fact that he disrespects you. You’ve told me how he acted when the two of you were together – how he insulted you, manipulated you. Obviously, he hasn’t changed. I know that those concerns shouldn’t be mine, and that I should just obey. You give me rules, and I should follow them without question. But I wanted to get back at him. And this seemed like a fitting way.”

Kurt grabs the chain from Blaine’s hand and examines the clasp, not because he doubts his pet’s version of events, but so he can grasp the extent of what happened. He holds the chain closer to his eyes and sure enough, the clasp has snapped, rendering it permanently open. Kurt muses over this turn of events, contemplating what he should do, how he should handle Blaine. Considering the condition of the chain, it’s not really Blaine’s fault.

And yes, Blaine shouldn’t carry those concerns. They’re for Kurt to bear. But Kurt can’t punish Blaine for his loyalty. That would be like setting him up to fail. Kurt confided in him to begin with. Did he expect his loyal pet, this man who loves him unconditionally, to be able to push those things aside without any opinion on them whatsoever?

Kurt isn’t able to. Blaine has confided in Kurt, too, about demon exes from his past. Kurt hasn’t set any of that information aside. On the contrary, he’s created a hit list of sorts. On occasion, he takes it out, Googles a name, looks at a picture, memorizes information, dreams about the kinds of punishments he’d dish out if the two ever crossed paths …

Blaine shouldn’t disrespect a Dom by keeping his key from him. Losing keys are anxiety fuel for Kurt. But no one they know really considers Kevin a Dom worthy of respect anyhow.

Very few people consider him a Dom at all.

According to Adam, the man wasn’t invited to his soiree tonight. He finagled himself inside by taking advantage of his overwhelmed party planners – another point against him.

But regardless of feelings and people’s opinions, in the end, Kevin should have opted for a sturdier chain to carry his super important key.

The irony of Kurt finding himself unexpectedly becoming Kevin’s key holder makes a grin burn from cheek to cheek.

“You know, I should probably be upset at you for this,” Kurt says, unable to keep the snicker out of his voice. “And you’re right. The responsible thing would have been to tell me about this earlier, when I could have done something about it.”

“I know, Sir,” Blaine says, pressing his chin to his chest to hide the smile that won’t go away, relieved when he hears his Master’s playful tone. However Kurt decides to punish him over this, Blaine will deserve it.

But for the moment, he feels fucking great.

“Stay here, pet, while I take care of … this,” Kurt says, sneering at the key, thoughts of having to see the distasteful man again sullying his mood.

“Yes, Sir.” Blaine assumes Kurt will put the key safely away and text Kevin about it, letting him know when and where he can pick it up. After all, that’s the responsible thing to do. Kurt crosses the room to the bathroom and disappears behind the door. The next sound Blaine hears is the toilet flushing. Kurt comes out, brushing his hands together, the chain and key nowhere to be seen.

“Master?” Blaine says, raising an eyebrow.

“You know nothing, and neither do I, pet,” Kurt declares, returning to the matter of Blaine’s belt buckle. “Are we clear?”

“Crystal, Sir,” Blaine says, biting his lower lip the second Kurt slips his hands downs his pants.

“So,” Kurt hums, vibrating with satisfaction, “where were we …?”

#klaine fic #klaine #klaine fanfiction #dom/sub #frankie writes

[shyflowery]

So I put my middle finger up

As a child, Katsuki had a fierce and determined temperament, what he wanted he got by his own hand and did not apologize for it, being Deku the only exception to that rule and just sometimes.

He grunted loudly at the memory of his childhood friend; he tried to stamp his fists against the wall behind him, moving the chains connected to the small metal prison where his hands were confined, however, they had long since reduced his range of motion to make it impossible.

He clearly remembered the weak green-haired boy and, more vaguely, his cries the day they took him away, how long ago? Who know it, measuring time in that shoebox was impossible; the last time he had heard of the year that was running was when they brought Kirishima and that was already a while ago.

Going back to the Deku matter, although maybe he should not be thinking about it, if there was something that that weeping boy was, he would definitely say "stubborn"; no matter how much he failed to do something for the first thousand attempts, he never got discouraged and eventually dominated.

That's why he was so frustated when he thinked about him. He knew him, in those precise moments he knew he was looking for him and he was going to get himself killed, no matter what the Quirk he had, he could not be more powerful than him.

"Stupid Deku, you stupid bastard, you motherfucker!" He shouted, stirring more violently, his words slightly muffled by the muzzle around his face; explosions leaped from his hands, not caring that, in that very small space, he burned himself too.

"Baku, stop that" Kirishima's worried voice came from the other side of the wall; they had started talking (or rather, the idiot started talking to him) since they had been put in continuous cells "you are only going to get hurt and you know they are not going to-"

At that moment, like to demonstrate that Katsuki was superior, the shackles gave way, their pieces falling with a crash to the floor, blackened and deformed inside for years of being exposed to heat. The restrictions had never been removed since he had burned the face of one of the Guards and that had been they mistake.

The next thing that him got rid of was the muzzle, with hands stained with dried blood and small scars here and there.

"What was that, Bakugou?" Kirishima asked in an incredulous voice while he exploded the restrictions on his legs "Y-You will not tell me that you-"

"If you do not want to die, you'd better get away from the wall" he warned a moment before trying a larger explosion on the concrete wall.

His hands protested, stinging painfully. Shit, they were sensitive, but they would have to put up with it until he got out of there, it was not the time to loiter.

"That was dangerous!" Kirishima claimed.

At last he could see the other boy, not really interested: Big constitution, black hair falling down, red eyes and shark teeth. Nothing particular, except for a detail that had nothing to do with his appearance.

"You're not even tied up, Shitty Hair, how weak are you? " He questioned, even though it did not make sense that they had someone like that locked up.

"W-Well, I could try to smash the walls with my fists, but I doubt I have enough strength ..." the other replied showing how he could harden his skin.

It seemed a pathetic response to Katsuki.

"If you want to stay to rot here is your fucking problem, I'm out" he growled giving him his back, it was time to break through.

"Wait!" Kirishima jumped to his feet. "I'm going with you! I'm not sure ..." a determinated expression took the black-haired man's face "You're very manly, Bakugou! I want to help you!"

"Do whatever you want" he answered a sideways smile on his mouth "And remember not to have mercy, because they will not have it with us".

//

The alarms had begun to sound shortly after they left Kirishima's cell, however, barely any obstacles had been found along the way. He was beginning to believe that the alarm had not been for them.

It was not until they were in the upper levels that they came across real Guards, armed with high-caliber pistols and projectile Quirks. Weak and not a challenge neither for his explosions nor for the Hardening of Kirishima; those were the lowest level of the force, which meant that the strongest were dealing with something else.

That other thing almost hit him head on when he turned into a corridor and he recognized him right away.

"DEKU!" He screamed at the top of his lungs.

"Kacchan!" Although most of his face was covered by a mask that simulated a huge smile of monstrous teeth, his happiness was obvious.

"What the hell are you doing here?" He demanded to know.

"I came to rescue you! But I should have known that you would free yourself!" replied the green-eyed one practically jumping in his place.

"You should not have doubted it for a damn moment" he said with a smile "Although I suppose you've been a good distraction or whatever".

Deku radiated light and he was sure that he had tried something silly, like hug him, if it had not been for Kirishima:

"I'm really sorry to interrupt your meeting" and he was sincere "but I think the reinforcements are coming".

He shared a look with his old friend and both put themselves in battle position, like how they had said that someday they would do as children.

#anarchy au #bnha au #bnha #villain bnha #villian deku #villain bakugou #villain au #kind of #childhood friends #bakudeku #my writing #kirishima eijirou