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gotnofucks · 3 years

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A Man’s World

Pairing: soft!dark!Andy Barber x Reader

Summary: To advance in a man’s world, you must allow one to own you. He promises you success, as long as you give yourself to him.

Words: 3.1k

Warnings: Dub-con (at the beginning), smut, language, implied age gap, poor knowledge of law and legal system, 18+ ONLY

A/N: This is my late entry to Berry’s Sugary 4k Challenge (everyone go and send some love to @donutloverxo for being so awesome. I am also dedicating this fic to Lexi ( @bluemusickid ) who’s had a difficult few weeks recently. I hope you feel better my love.

Sweat was building under your top hat, the urge to itch making you frustrated with the delay. The officer before you was young, probably your age and fumbled with the papers you had handed to him. You tried to relax, almost as nervous as the man in front of you and tried to console yourself with the fact that he was far too jittery to look at you long.

No one will find out, you’re safe.

“Sir?”

You chewed your chip, feet tapping irregularly on the ground in agitation.

“Sir?” The officer said again, peering at you worriedly. You quickly pulled down the rim of your hat, still not used to being called ‘sir’.

“Uh, yeah. Yes.” You said, clearing your throat and trying for a deeper voice. The officer handed you your papers back, all signed and stamped. “Thank you.”

He nodded slightly and motioned for you to wait while your client was brought out. This was the first time you’d been out in the open alone, the fear of discovery clashing with the freedom that ran in your veins.

“Did you bail me out?” A rough voice asked. You looked up at Mr. Lane, a huge mountain of a man who towered over you. You nodded and offered him your hand to shake, wincing as his rough palms scratched against your soft ones. He looked doubtfully at you and you could understand why. You barely looked like a person who belonged in the police station, no matter as a man or woman.

“I am Mr. Barber’s assistant. He was busy with a hearing and sent me to bail you out. If you’d follow me to his office, he’d like a word before we proceed to your trial next week.” You explained, a little more confident. You knew the work, you knew the ways. You only needed to sell your lies to make your truth valid.

Mr. Lane nodded, following and entering the coach outside the station after you. He sat across from you, eyes narrowing as he ran over your soft features, the clip clop of the horses the only sound within.

“You old enough to be an assistant, boy?” Mr. Lane asked, and you scowled. Oh, how you’d like to tell him you were old enough and good enough to be not just an assistant but also a lawyer. You could be the one representing him in court and making him a free man. You should be that one. But, alas, this world doesn’t see women doing much rather than peeling potatoes and popping out a child every second year.

“I am.” You replied in a gruff tone that made it clear you weren’t about to entertain more questions. Your companion nodded, looking out the window and into the streets where peddlers screamed about discounted watches and handkerchiefs and buttons. Not many people had cushioned coaches like this, but Mr. Barber insisted one for your travels.

The journey to the office was quick and silent and you gestured Mr. Lane to follow you up to the top floor where your boss sat in his office. Some people nodded at you, now getting used to seeing you here though they didn’t stop to talk. You had never spoken much to anyone here outside of the receptionist who was deaf in one ear and considered every man under the age of 40 was a boy.

“Wait here, I’ll let you in in a moment.” You said and had Mr. Lane take a seat on the benches outside. Then, you knocked softly and entered, shutting the door after you. Andy was sat behind his desk, frowning at some paper, and beckoned you closer without looking up from them. You walked over to him, licking you lips softly.

“Sit.” He said, taking your hand and pulling you into his lap. You positioned yourself on his thigh, squirming a little. He scribbled something in the corner of his paper before pushing it away with a sigh, turning his face to you. His eyes, bluer than the ocean at the docks, glittered at you and a small smile curled on his lips. With a practiced move, he removed your top hat and released the band that held your long locks tied together at the top.

Running his fingers through your hair, he leaned closer to press a kiss on your lips. You instinctively kissed back, holding onto his shoulder and moulding your lips to fit his.

“How did it go?” He asked, caressing your cheek softly. You fingered his collar, not looking in his eyes.

“I was worried someone will see through me.” You softly murmured. “There were so many men out there.”

Andy chuckled, pressing another kiss on your lips as his hand sneaked around your waist to bring you closer.

“There are always going to be men around. But you must remember you’re better than them. Better than any other son of a dick out there pretending he is the boss.”

You looked at him at that, taking in his beautiful face that had you smiling and crying in equal parts. You could tell exactly how that well-groomed beard felt between your legs, how those lips could make you utter the filthiest of sounds and curses and how those large hands touched you in the dark of the night.

“Better than even you?” You tentatively asked and Andy smiled, taking your hand and bringing it to his mouth.

“You’ve always been better than me.” He said. You blinked and looked away, his gaze far too intimate to hold. Try as you might, you could not figure this man out. Months you’d spent with him, living, and working and being his any way he asked, and yet he was as much a mystery as he’d been the first time you met.

“Uh, Mr. Lane is waiting outside. Should I call him in?” You asked and he nodded, squeezing your side before releasing you. You put your hair up again and wore your hat, hiding your face under its shadows and calling the client in.

When a girl turns a certain age, she is expected to find the most eligible bachelor and flutter her eyelashes in a bid to secure a match. Your mother threw grand balls for your sisters and was planning an even grander one for your introduction to the society. But you had had enough of dancing with lecherous bastards with as wandering hands as their eyes. You couldn’t stomach the thought of being bound to one of them, so you took your chance and ran.

Leaving behind your quaint town, you entered the bustling city with an assortment of clothes and a heart full of hope. It took you a week to understand that this was no place for you, no place for a lady who dreamt of being her own person. No one wished to employ you, a young girl who had no business demanding pay and rights.

However, in this bustling city of strangers, you found a man who wished to own you. Andy Barber told you in no uncertain terms that he would not hire you as long as you dressed like a woman, but he also promised that he could train you to be better than any other man. Provided, you give yourself to him. You weren’t naïve enough to pretend to not know what he was asking for, but you were desperate enough to say yes. This was better than a marriage anyway. There too, a man would have parched his thirst over your naked chest, but at least here you could learn and get paid for it without being bound to him.

Andy was not unkind. As a mentor, he was strict and meticulous. He worked you hard, taught you well, gave bitter feedback but praised you just the same. As a lover, he was exacting, exploring your chaste body with touches rough and soft, demanding response and reverence. The first night you laid with him, he spent hours worshiping you. His lips, lined by his bushy mustache, traced your face and neck, roving over each contour of your body until his mouth had tasted all.

The modesty you had guarded forever was bare to his gaze, but he didn’t lust like a man who cornered women in dark alleys. He had knelt before your open legs like men of cloth did at the lord’s altar, kissing the dewy folds of your sex with so much passion and delicacy that you had indeed felt like a goddess. Never had you imagined a man to put his mouth there, not when your mother had told you it was unclean. Andy, on the other hand, tasted it like he tasted absolution in your nectar.

He taught you more than simply law. The pleasures of flesh, of learning to please yourself and your companion were lessons that took place in the dark of night. He whispered things that Satan preached in your ear, seducing you into sin that you soon came to crave.

“Touch yourself”, a command he gave often. Nothing pleased him more than seeing you bring yourself to completion with your eyes trained on him, thoughts full only of him and how his body rocked yours.

You had done a great many things with him, things that had you flustered for days on end whenever your thoughts would turn to him, but what you were doing now was nothing short of scandal. It was blasphemous, something that would ruin you way more than if people found you falsely parading as a man in the city.

“Andy!” You hissed, pushing against him to no avail. He had dragged you into the men’s room inside the courthouse, cornering you against the wall and pressing his body flush to yours. He was wearing his best clothes today, about to represent an important man in a case that had made the front page for two weeks straight. Time together had been more work than pleasure, and it seemed Andy had reached his breaking point right before the trial started.

He started working on the buttons of your waistcoat, a frenzy in his eyes. “I need to take you now. This might as well be the most important case of my career, and I’ll begin it by being inside you, and end it just the same!”

You moaned, letting your hands roam his body as he finally undid your waistcoat and shirt, frantically ripping away at the bandages that bound your breasts. As he took one of your hardened nipples in his mouth, you palmed his pulsing hardness from over his pants, shivering at the thought of feeling it inside you again.

He scared you like this, for someone could walk in and see the illustrated Andrew Barber making a beast with two backs in the male room with someone who greatly resembled a man. He will be ruined. You would be ruined. And as of now, the very thought of that caused wetness to pool in your underpants.

“Get on your knees and taste me.” He urged, pulling out his cock and pumping it. “As you sit beside me today, I want you to have my taste in your mouth. One day, I’ll sit beside you too.”

You were a gently bred lady of impeccable reputation, but you sunk to your knees with the practiced move of a street woman to take him eagerly in your mouth. Oh, if your proper mother could see you, sucking a man like a whore in the damp men’s room, her teachings of propriety and modesty all but forgotten. But nothing made you feel more than a woman that receiving Andy like this. His desire, his need for you burned in his eyes and you lapped on those flames to quench the thirst in your heart.

His hand moved behind your head, easing you into taking him deeper. “Look at me” He whispered, and your eyes met his, shining with unshed tears. He did this to you, reduced you to who you loathed to be and yet loved. Swirling your tongue over his soft skin, you bobbed over his length, the squelching sounds filling the small room.

Just like always, you tasted his power and his yearning. The milky drops of precum coated your tongue, your nose taking in the smell of his musk as he groaned above you. He reduced you, but then why did you feel raised?

“Touch yourself, let me taste you too.” He ordered, and you complied. Your hand slipped inside your pants, finding your moist core. Generously lubing your fingers in your slick, you rose on shaky knees and presented your wet fingers to Andy who sucked them eagerly in his mouth. Warm, wet, his tongue took in your taste with relish.

You couldn’t stop but stare into his blue eyes, eyes that should have haunted your nightmares, but you only saw them in sweet dreams. “Kiss me” You begged, and he did. He kissed you like a man starved, like a man who could suck out your soul and draw it in himself. He kissed you like dew kissed the morning grass, like the colours of rainbow that scattered in the sky to paint it pretty.

“Tell me where you want me, how you want me.” He said, surrendering control. You stilled, hands resting on his chest. How were you to lead him when he was infinitely more experienced about the art of making love?

“I – I want you inside me.” You softly said, eyes fluttering as you shy looked away. Why was saying what you do so many times so difficult.

“Inside where?” Andy asked, tilting your chin up again. You gulped, your face and chest flushed.

“In my – in my” You stuttered, fearing to speak the word he spoke often. “In my pussy.”

You would have thought he would ravish you as soon as you said the words, instead he brought you closer and nudged your nose with his. His breath came out in erratic spurts, his need evident in his gaze. “You will put me inside you, however you want. It’s time I let you take some lead.”

Holding his gaze, you pumped his length gently before turning around and presenting him your ass. You struggled to position him, trying to place his tip at your opening. He didn’t move an inch to help you, only chuckling slightly when you huffed in frustration. Finally, you felt him at your slit, and you slid him between your folds carefully, trying to coat him in your wetness like you’d seen him do.

“What if someone walks in?” You asked, hesitating for just one moment.

“They’ll have to wait while we finish. You’re not walking out of here unsullied, so how about we hurry up?”

You pushed back into him, taking him inside your pulsing sleeve with ease. The stretch of his cock had always felt good, a pain that had a lasting effect and reminded you of him. As you moved back and forth, urging him to meet you halfway, you wondered why the self loathing never came. Andy had a way of making you feel like a queen when others may suspect you of nothing more than a whore.

“Andy” You brokenly said as he thrust inside you faster, “I want more. Please.”

He gave you more. He took over, holding onto your waist and sliding home inside you in deep, powerful strokes. You whined under his assault, jerking when his fingers found your nub and mashed it. Praises, curses, words of love and lust that had the power to destroy hearts and armies flowed freely from his mouth, as if the only thing tethering him to this earth was your body.

Your hands went to play with your breasts, a strangled moan caught in your chest. Suddenly, even when he moved inside you with such passion, you craved more intimacy than his cock could offer. You tilted your head to the side, offering him your mouth that he took in a sensual kiss. You were so close that you couldn’t decide what limb was yours and which was his anymore. In the age old dance of sensual love, you became one.

“What do you want?” He asked, and your eyes met his. He asked you this every time, and you had always answered the same thing. But today, this felt different. You were in the courthouse, a lawyer’s battleground and also the place of worship. He was more than your mentor and boss, he was also the man who you had grown to care for so deeply it could only be called one feeling.

“Inside me. I want you to finish inside me today.” You answered and his hands clutched you tighter. You’d never allowed that before, never allowed him to call you his so completely. But you felt compelled by his heat today, by the desperation he never bothered hiding from you. Once, this may have felt like a chore. Today, it was your blessing. “Andy, make me yours.”

He groaned, pumping in you with abandon and bringing you over the edge with his fingers that were running circles around your clit. You moaned loud, blubbering in pleasure that spilled from you, uncaring if someone were to walk in. His thrusts were getting irregular, hips jerking until you felt him twitch and release inside you in hot spurts. Warmth bloomed in your core, your essence mixing with his.

He hugged your sweaty body to his, the wool of his coat scratchy against your flesh. “You were mine, even before. Now, more so than ever. And one day, when you’re ready, I’ll claim you in front of the world as fully as my heart has done in private.”

You felt him run his thumb over your ring finger and licked your lips. He wasn’t asking, and you weren’t answering. But one day, maybe you will. Until then, you were happy to be his beautiful secret, posing as his assistant and learning from him.

“Don’t,” He whispered hotly in your ear, turning you around swiftly. “Don’t think too much. We’ve got a case to win.”

He helped you dress again, buttoning your shirt and waistcoat with nimble fingers. He was getting back to being your boss, and you couldn’t have been prouder of him at this moment. One day it will be you in his spot, you knew it.

“Just one question.” You said, fixing his tie and smoothening the wrinkles on his clothes. He raised an eyebrow at you, softly smiling at the mischievous look in his eyes. “What will happen once I am a lawyer too?”

Andy chuckled, pressing the softest of kisses on your lips. “Whoever wins more cases gets to be on top of course.”

You exited the men’s room with him, head high as any other man’s. As you entered the courtroom, you licked your lips and smiled as you tasted him on your tongue.

#sugary4kchallenge #soft!dark andy barber x reader #andy barber x reader #andy x reader #soft!dark andy barber #andy barber

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agent-yolk-writes · 2 years

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Friends Like You and US - Venom!Reader - Chapter 8

No, I did not forget to update on Tumblr. Totally all according to plan. Expect me to catch up with what's left to post throughout the week as a christmas gift of sorts. Thank you for your continuous support!

Read in its Tumblr entirety here*

Previous Chapter*

AO3 Version here

*Link functionality may vary. Please send me a message if you're having issues. Also I'm aware of the odd spacing between words, I tried fixing most of it but there's definitely still some there

Peter Porker was many things. A pig-spider with cautious foresight was not one of them.

By all the tricks in the book, this should’ve been the part where all the scientists would conveniently step out talking about something relevant to his search (“Hey Tresse, did you see the Bets game last night?” didn’t count.) and then he kicks out the grate and begins snooping. Once he finds it, he’ll have to make a daring yet stealthy escape outta there.

Hmm...Talk about a lack of security. Not even a barely functional security camera in the corner. For a lab owned by some kajillionaire, they’re really skimping out on the security budget. Where’s the laser tripwires? The pizazz?

Good golly, this is the most boring science lab he ever had to break in! Where’s the rube goldberg of fragile lab equipment? The questionable experiments shoved in mason jars? The foreshadowing? The complex machinery and the convenient outdated computer with ‘Password’ as the password? All there is in this lab is microscopes, disappointment, and that file with a huge ‘CLASSIFIED’ stamped on the manila folder in bold, red ink sitting unattended by the fax machine.

...Oh, that might be important actually. He should take a look at that.

With careful footing, Ham zips on over to the file. Overall, the file doesn’t look too thick. If he scums through it, then he’ll be able to read all of it. What information he’ll actually retain will be a problem only future Peter can take on.

The moment he opens up the file, his mind goes blank. It practically snaps in half trying to figure out what all these long words are let alone what they actually mean. It’s going to be a lost cause if he tries to cram it all in his head like he’s studying for an exam the night before...ah, screw it! He’s going to steal it! Peni is the one with the brain cells, not him!

Does anyone object to this?

…

...

The silence is not objecting, so he should totally steal it! He slips it in his handy dandy bag of tricks for safekeeping.

Missions success! Man, this was a walk in the dog park. He should web his way back up the vents and tell the oth-

It was a miracle no one else was in the elevator when the spasms started again. You remembered gripping one of the handles before it happened, and for a moment you thought you saw your hand going through it. And for one second too many, you lost touch with all your senses.

It was another miracle you didn’t clip through the elevator.

By far, this was the worst episode you’ve experienced. If this is what you’re going through, you can only imagine what the others are going through. Not to mention the way the pain lingers for a little longer than normal. You can only hope the others are okay.

You managed to regain your senses by the time the elevator door opened. You ignored the concerned looked of the scientists that were waiting for the elevator as you pushed through them without a word. There was no time for barely passing persuasion checks, it’s time to put on your serious face and power through like a law office intern.

You only know about Alchemax in your home life because they would sometimes send contract help to your aunt’s company should they need additional hands despite interns being a thing. Mary would do it on occasion just for the extra cash and that was it. It was usually clerical work or double-checking someone’s math from what she told you. Very disappointing in prospect, but it is what it is.

The only thing that’s preventing you from getting into the actual lab is yet another card swipe away. Who would’ve thought that your own guest ID, programmed primarily to get around Mary’s workplace, wouldn't work here?

“Well...I didn’t think this far.” You muttered. As much as barging in there sounded so tempting, you don’t want to ruin this for all the bystanders that’ll be involved. Plus your aunt won’t have her specialized job anymore if they were smart enough.

You were about to phone Peni to see if she can hack her way had it not been the soft sound of entry confirmation. In a bout of confusion, you looked at the hand that had a very stolen ID from one of the scientists you passed by. Whoever this Treece person was, you hope they don't realize what was missing.

But how…

You’re welcome.

Ah, you shouldn’t be too surprised by that now. Looks like you’re in the belly of the beast, and there’s no telling if you can make it out as safely as you got in.

Still, there’s no way of telling where in the world your teammate could be. You tried to consult your artificial sixth sense, but all you get is a dull tingle in the back of your neck. Wait, that might just be your anxiety. Looks like it’s going to be that kind of day, it seems.

You press into your ear. “C’mon, Ham. Tell us something...please.” You muttered. Of course, all you get in response is nothing...not even static. All you could do was quicken your pace, hoping you could outrun the fear before it has a chance to settle in your shared stomach.

As you turn a certain corner, your nose picks up something that almost sends you reeling. You had to close your nose as the onslaught of unknown chemicals mixed together in the once sterile air. It’s so potent that it made you gag. Guess this Alchemax branch wasn’t all cubicles, it seems. With chances of smelling your swine companion dashed, you pressed on.

Unfortunately, your eyes (Venom’s eyes?) began to wander over the passing lab doors. It, in all honesty, was disappointing that it was just thick doors with a small tinted glass window built in just above all the safety procedure signs. And of course, they all require an ID card to get inside. You could try opening all the doors willy nilly, but that could be more of a risk than anything.

“(First Name), look.” Venom whispered into your unplugged ear. “Over there.” He guides your head to something on the floor just a few feet away. It was small, possibly broken. It absolutely stood out from the bleach-white floor. Getting a closer look at it gave you a realization that you really didn’t want to know at the moment. You crouched down to pick it up.

You know what it was, there’s no use to denying it. As if your mind was craving for some kind of closure, you pinched your earbud out to get a side by side comparison. True to your intuition, it was indeed the matching earbuds Peni provided for all of you. Small, but just big enough to have that spider logo that mech of her donned.

Before the morbid clarification could really sink in, you felt your phone vibrate in your pocket. Not the most appropriate time to be checking your messages, but it’ll make you feel better just in case the files you sent somehow didn’t go through.

maryyy: Tysm dear! youre my hero :-D you can pick dinner when i get back

maryyy: (thinking emoji) A dr. lester? (thinking emoji) no clue. asked some co-workers here if they know but theyy said nothing about a

maryyy: BRB, alarm’s going off

You: are u ok?

maryyy: Yes, but this doesn’t sound like a fire alarm.

maryyy: Sounds more frantic, like there was a robbery or smth. (shrug emoji) probably no big deal, but I have to follow procedure.

maryyy: Will call you l8r, love you! <3 (kissy face emoji x2)

While her answer sounded innocent enough, you could feel the goosebumps forming on your skin. Outside of the scientists you encountered earlier, there hasn’t been any notable signs of life in this lab. The holidays happened weeks ago, so who-

Look out!

You’re unable to process your body bending backwards in such an inhuman way, the wall to your right starting to open up with a myriad of bullet holes decorating it. The suddenness of it all made you lose your grip on your communicator in favor of Venom using it to support your shared body up. You could feel your voice making a sound equivalent to a surprised shriek, but the frantic beating of your heart was louder in your ears.

Oh, now your spidey-senses go off. This damn thing needs to get recalibrated.

It was a struggle trying to get back on your feet as more bullets ripped from the wall. It was starting to become a dangerous version of Twister at this rate. Some did manage to scrape your arms and legs, but it was healed as quickly as the damage was inflicted.

As the wall began to open up more, you could see more clearly the violent shenanigans that were occurring on the other side. The bouncing ball of red and blue, who you can only deduce to be your very alive swine companion, was up against someone who really needs to practice his aim. Through the holes, you can see the primarily black with white decal suit that practically screamed he’s a bad guy.

There were two notable things about this guy. The first thing you notice is that black and white bullseye logo that practically stands out right on his forehead. The second thing...the realization of it filled your shared body with dread. He smelled strongly like sulfur, charcoal, and potassium nitrate. If you remember correctly, those are the main ingredients used for gunpowder.

Dr. Lester also smelt like gunpowder when he entered your aunt’s office.

That’s no doctor. That’s a villain, and he tried to steal something from your aunt while she was away. The thought alone almost made you see red.

“A little help here, new kid!” Ham notices you through the wall, interrupting your internal buildup for carnage. “I’m starting to run outta jokes! Believe me, I’m not a good punchline either!””

Vee, mask!

On it!

You charged towards the tattered wall, breaking it down completely the moment Venom encased your body with your signature suit. You could only hope the dust and debris was enough of a distraction to grab Spider-Ham and high tail it out of there. Fingers instinctively reached for your communicator when you realized- shit! You realized that you dropped it so you wouldn’t get shot. Ham, on the other hand, could only blow a raspberry at the assailant from under your armpit.

Why couldn’t things be easier?! You screamed internally.

This floor is like a goddamn labyrinth all the sudden. There’s no indicator on where a possible exit could be. All you can do is shoot webs blindly and hope it lands somewhere important to the crazed killer behind you.

“What do we do?” You asked at Ham pretty loudly.

“I don’t know! I just do something that I think is funny!” He fired back. “We gotta ditch this guy first! I can’t think while being shaken like a baby.”

“What do you think we’re doing, then?!”

You pivoted on your heel to face your pursuer. In a fit of frustration, you threw Ham at him like a football. That’s right, you yeeted the pig right on the enemy's noggin. You could hear your partner’s confused screaming and the sound of the collision of cartoon meeting bones. Bullseye, his name henceforth, was obviously caught off guard by the sudden attack. You could see him stumbling back and grabbing at his head. Ham’s body squished and bounced off him like a rubber ball, making it easier to catch him and continue your escape out of here before Bullseye’s ass made contact with the ground. It wasn’t enough to punch his lights off, definitely, but it’ll give you two some extra time before he hunts you down.

It became clear, however, that there’s no way of getting out of here safely. Not in this direction, at least. So now the two of you ran into the closest lab and promptly barricaded the wall using whatever was available. Once it was clear that there was no way anyone could get in, you let out a sigh you didn’t believe you were holding.

Holy shit. You didn’t want to do that again.

The moment of silence and clarity was quickly ruined by Ham karate chopping you right in the middle of your forehead. “Ow! What was that for?” You complained.

“For using me like a boomerang! Do you know how much it cost to animate and render all those moves I had to do?”

“Uh…” For two beings sharing a body, your mind is practically empty. “Got me. Look, sorry that I used you as a weapon. We-We panicked, okay? Hopefully we didn’t, like, break anything important.”

Ham’s facial expression lit up as he remembered something. He dove his hand into an unknown pocket and pulled out a manilla folder. It’s a little bent in the corners, but going by the big, red, and bolden text that read ‘CLASSIFIED’ on the cover, it had to be important.

“I managed to snatch this!” He exclaimed. He opened the folder and skimmed through the pages nonchalantly. “And if I’m reading this right, it looks like Kingpin’s up to something.”

“Define ‘something'.”

“Hang on, there’s a whole lot of mumbo jumbo about quantum physics and nanomachines...Aha! Here it is...in collaboration with Dr. Olivia Octavius and Wilson Fisk, Alchemax is working on a…’Super Collider’? That would...open a window to parallel worlds...” He continues reading, eyes slowly scrunching up. “...It is unknown at this time if retrieving personnel from one of these parallel worlds will have any consequences, short-term or long-term. Testing is currently being conducted.” Both of you stare at each other with bewilderment.

“Parallel worlds?” You repeated. “Could it be...why all you guys are here? And-” Your arms spasmed out in it’s typical glitchy fashion. “...That? Hold on.” You crawled over to Ham to take a look at the files. “There has to be a way to stop it. Like a-a-a switch or something?”

“I’m getting there, I’m getting there.” Ham flips a few more pages. “Let’s see...there is a failsafe inside the Collider just in case, but…”

“But what?”

The barricaded door rattled abruptly, making you let out a small shriek. God damn it, how did he find you guys already?!

“Shit, we have to get out of here. Now.” You said as you got up. “There has to be a way out of here.” With frantic steps, you look around the lab to see what you can use with Ham in tow. There’s a vent up on the ceiling, but it’s too small for you.

You got to be shitting me!

Calm down.

I am calm!

You're not calm at all. Let’s be real here, you can’t overpower Bullseye without exposing Venom. It’s been too long since you’ve properly ‘ate’ too, so even then you’re not at full power. Your back, quite literally, is against the wall this time.

Ham, meanwhile, had his head against the wall. It was like he was searching for something. Before you could even think about asking, a literal lightbulb turns on above him.

“I got it!” He said. “I know a way out! Rookie, put your ear to the wall.” You did so, trying to push away the nickname he gave you for another time.

You tried to ignore the rampant thoughts of your internal companion asking you why you are putting an ear to the wall. You weren’t sure yourself. All you can hear is pipes, machinery, electricity, and the howling wind.

Wait…wind?

“...Oh. My god.” You couldn’t help but blurt out. “Ham, don’t tell me…”

Ham looked pretty smug at his idea. “That’s right! We’re breaking out of this joint!”

“But-But how?” You flinched when the door gets slammed again, this time you definitely heard furniture being moved.

“With this!” He pulls open his pants with one hand and searches for something with another. You couldn’t believe it when you saw it, but he pulled out a battering ram. It even had the face of a ram at the end. “The ol’ reliable!” He spat on his hands and lathered them up grossly. “Alright, rookie. It’s time for your first lesson. Ever heard of the rule of threes?”

“No?”

“Well too bad. The best way to learn is by doing it on the job while under intense pressure!” The door got slammed again, this time you could hear the audible groans of the furniture being moved from the force. “Now come help me. This thing’s heavy.” With an annoyed sigh, you complied.

Good lord, this thing weighs a ton! How did this pig manage to move around with this in his pants?

“Alrighty. When I say ‘go’, we’re going to ram this into the wall as hard as we-GO!” Ham didn’t even wait for you to process what he said as both of you proceeded to try and knock the wall down.

The first strike made a lot of damage to the wall, and certainly a lot of noise, but it wasn’t enough to tear it down, much to your chagrin. You didn’t have time to finish cursing under your breath as the door gets closer to being kicked down.

Thankfully you were prepared mentally for the second go about on the wall. The hole was definitely starting to cave in, but it needs more force to really crack it open.

“Alright. This time should do the trick.” You tried to convey a panicked expression through your mask as Ham spoke. “We gotta give it our all, or else we’re gonna be chop liver.”

You, ever the ray of sunshine, asked “But what if it doesn’t?”

“You gotta believe in yourself. That’s all it is, kid, a leap of faith.” Those words rang in your head for only a second, but it was enough to adjust your grip on the battering ram. With a nod to your semi-mentor, the two of you faced the soon to be broken wall.

“Okay, on the count of three. Ready? One…”

“Two…"

“THREE!”

You could only hear your heart thumping hard as you charged towards the wall. You didn’t not stop, you couldn’t stop. You just kept running until you heard a louder crack than the first attempt. You thought you could hear the door behind you finally forced open, but you couldn’t look back as there’s nothing under your feet to stop you from free falling.

Before you could shoot a web to stabilize yourself, a painful spasm tore through your body. If you thought every nerve in your body lit up before, then you’re practically on fire now. Under the roaring whips of wind, you could hear Venom making a noise before going quiet. As you reached your hand to shoot a web again, an ice-cold shock formed in your belly as you saw your skin rather than your Venomized suit.

This isn’t funny, Vee. We need the suit. You said with panic laced in your thoughts.

He doesn’t respond. You could still feel him bonded to you.

Vee? You called to him again.

Nothing. Tears form on your face, but they are quickly dried by the wind smacking at your unprotected face.

“VENOM!” Your cry out to your unconscious friend was drowned out as you plummet to your demise.

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princessfbi · 3 years

Note

I love all these prompts so much. May I request 26. kissing the top of their head, maybe with some whump/recovery?

26. Kissing the top of their head with some whump/recovery you got it!

Someone put something in his drink. Someone put something in his fucking drink.

The breath that Eddie pushed out through his nose might as well have been steam. His blood was boiling as he stormed through the winding halls of the hospital with one singular focus in mind: get to Buck.

Get to Buck because someone had put something in his fucking drink and now he was in the hospital.

The fury that started the moment he hung up the phone and grabbed his keys had festered with every second Buck wasn't in his sights but Eddie knew he needed to rein it in. Even if he was so pissed off he could scream, Eddie knew he had to pull it together because the way Taylor described it on the phone... He needed to save it. It wouldn't help Buck. It wouldn't help anyone.

They'd met up for a drink, Buck and Taylor, and it was good for Buck to have a friend that wasn't necessarily a part of the team. Someone he could talk to that didn't always have to be the neutral party. Eddie got it. He was happy for Buck. Happy that he was opening up to someone else that wasn't wrapped up in their world. Eddie knew, from personal experience, how hard it was for Buck to make friends. Eddie just wasn't so sure on Taylor at first.

Buck and Eddie were still trying to figure what a them meant. It was slow going but they were going on their own time. While not many people knew-- and Eddie didn't think Taylor did-- she still knew enough to call Eddie while Buck was out of his mind on whatever it was that he'd been slipped. She still knew that of all the people Buck would want, it would be Eddie.

Taylor might not be his favorite person but she had called him and for that he couldn't be more grateful if he tried.

Eddie forced himself to unclench and turned the corner where Buck's room was. He spotted Taylor's gleaming red hair as she did a pace in a room to check out the door. He knew the moment she spotted him. Relief washed over the tension in her face and she said something over her shoulder.

"Hey," Taylor said, sounding awkward and stretched thin as Eddie approached. "He's starting to sober up."

Eddie appreciated the update, he did, but he needed to see Buck. He gave her one clipped nod and turned into the room where Buck had been admitted.

He stopped and felt almost all his resolve slip to the floor at the sight.

Buck looked... so small on the bed. Small and too big at the same time with his legs curled up to his chest and his arms wrapped tight around his knees. The first bruise he saw was the handprint around his wrist and then another on his jaw where he'd landed face first on the bar top before he fell. Buck's blue eyes were red rimmed with heavy shadows beneath where they were sunken into his skull. His hair was wild and curled as if he'd run his fingers through the strands over and over again like he did when he was stressed out.

The cut that disappeared into his hairline from when he hit the floor was still weeping blood but had been pinched together by three butterfly closures.

Buck flinched at the sound of Eddie's footsteps and it ricocheted right into Eddie's heart.

"Buck," Eddie breathed out.

Buck's gaze jerked up at Eddie and his expression, animated through the drugs still in his system, was like a flip book of emotions. Shock, relief, fear, and then sorrow. So much sorrow.

"Eddie..." Buck croaked as his face shuddered into a cry. "Eddie, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I-I-I..."

Eddie crossed the room in two steps, mindful of the IV that was in his hand flushing Buck's system, and took Buck into his arms before he could even finish that sentence. Eddie pressed his lips into the crown of Buck's head and kissed him through all of Buck's trembling, stuttered apologies.

"You have nothing to be sorry about, Buck. It's okay. I'm here."

He held Buck through the worst of his comedown, through all the sobbing nonsensical sentences, and kept pressing kiss after kiss into the crown of his head until he'd calmed down.

"You're here. How are you here?" Buck asked, his voice pitchy in his confusion as he clung onto Eddie.

"I called him, Buck. Remember?" Taylor said, sounding like it wasn't the first time she'd repeated herself that night.

"Oh," Buck said, small and quiet. "You okay?"

That part was directed at Taylor and Eddie swung his gaze to take her in because she hadn't said anything about being hurt. Taylor's smile was small too but wiry and just on the edge of bitter that she was desperately trying to swallow back.

"I'm fine." Taylor rolled her eyes, playing off like Eddie couldn't see just how shaken she was too. "The guy that did this thought he could get away with the whole 'I'm his date. Back off' thing and pushed me when I wouldn't let him pick Buck up off the floor."

Eddie felt the rage in his chest flare up again and did everything he could to stamp it down. He'd seen Buck in a lot of close calls. Hell, he'd been with Buck during a lot of those close calls.

But nothing felt as close as this.

"Thank you," Eddie said and meant it.

Something fierce crossed Taylor's expression like a spark of flint being struck with a stone.

"Any time," she promised and Eddie knew that she meant it too.

Eddie felt more tears dampen his skin and he pressed another kiss against Buck's head to remind him that he was still there. Buck sighed at the kiss and melted against Eddie.

"Eddie," Buck mumbled. "I-I don't feel good."

"I know, Buck. I know."

"Thanks for coming," Buck whispered and Eddie nuzzled into his hair as he held him tighter.

"Always."

#Evan 'Buck' Buckley #Eddie Diaz #Taylor Kelly #Buddie #Buddie fic #Touch Prompt Game #Hurt/comfort #TW: Non consensual drug use #renecdote #answered #my fic writing

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littleoldrachel · 3 years

Text

"well, it's the thought that counts"

for the wonderful @rachfielden-xo who literally sent this in a month ago (sorrrrry and thank you!!) and asked for well, it's the thought that counts with scott and alan from this prompt list.

this legit turned into scott teaching alan to make pancakes and i'm not even mad about it. the recipe the boys are using is [here].

[if you wanna prompt me, hmu!]

*~*~*~*~*

There are lots of things Alan doesn’t understand.

Black holes. Why his momma isn’t coming back ever again. The reason a Mars sunset streaks blue. Why Virgil has become some soulless cavity and John won’t say a word. How, despite year after year of technological advances, there’s still no evidence of alien lifeforms out there.

Why Scott never has time for him anymore.

It’s been days since Scott even said more than a few words to Alan, weeks since he last crushed Scott at videogames - he hasn’t even taken him to the park since -

Well.

And it’s not that he doesn’t love spending time with his other brothers; Gordon annoys the heck out of him on a daily basis but makes him laugh till it hurts far more. John is the one who gets him, who refuses to dumb down scientific explanations, who shares his passion for all things space. And Virgil - Virgil Before, that is - is the only person who knows how to hug him just right, who listens no matter how banal Alan’s worries are.

He loves them so much his heart might explode apart like a zombie’s head meeting his videogame character’s bazooka - except Alan’s not ever leaving them, not ever, not now he knows what that does to them all.

It’s just that Scott is fast turning into Dad, notable only by his absence.

And Alan doesn’t need another one of those.

More than that though, he can see the way his brother is running himself ragged trying to be mother and father and everything in between, and despite Virgil’s interventions and John’s best efforts, it’s not getting any better.

Which is where Alan comes in.

Alan is going to save his brother because he’s no baby, despite what everyone thinks.

What he lands on is simple but effective: he’s going to make Scott his favourite breakfast and draw him a card to say thank you, because he wants Scott to know Alan sees everything he’s doing to keep them afloat.

The card is straightforward enough - he’s no Virgil, but he’s pretty sure it’s clearly a rocket that he’s drawn. His tongue pokes out as he colours in as carefully as he can, only going over the lines a few times. He draws himself and Scott in the window of the rocket, grinning wildly (perhaps a little manically if he’s being honest) and adds Mars to the background.

Inside, in wobbly, looping script he prints:

Deer Scotty

Thanks for bing the best. I love you.

Love

Alan

Mission: Amazing Card - completed.

Now he just needs to make the pancakes.

Right then. First step is the ingredients.

In theory, this should be straightforward enough. Alan has seen Scott do this numerous times, had half-listened when Virgil taught John, and has eaten more of these pancakes than he can begin to count (but never enough!).

Alan pushes a chair against the counter, uses it to hoist himself onto the surface, and scrambles to the cupboard.

He knows that there’s a mountain of flour involved, because the little puffs of white powder always fluff through the sieve and make him sneeze. What he didn’t anticipate was that there would be different types of flour, in neat colour coded packages. He picks red, because it’s his favourite colour, and dumps as much of it as he can through the sieve, poking at it with his fingers to push it through.

It doesn’t look as neat as when Scott does it, and the entire surface is already dusted with flour, but most of it is in the bowl, so he’s doing okay.

He goes for brute strength with the eggs, smashing them into the side of the bowl. Little pieces of shell slide into the mixture with the yolk, but it’s so slippery he can’t get them out. Fingers coated in sloppy flour, he retreats. Maybe Scott won’t mind the crunchiness.

The milk carton is far heavier than Alan anticipated, and he loses his grip on the condensation-slick handle, watching in slo-mo horror as a glug of milk hits the side of the bowl, ricochets off it -

And splat!

It lands straight on top of Alan’s card, and Alan -

He’s not going to cry, he’s not -

His mom always said he shouldn’t cry over spilt milk, except this time it’s ruined everything.

Milk drips off the counter and Alan clenches his fists, willing the baby inside him to shut up. Eventually, the upset reassembles itself into a grumpiness that has him whisking furiously. The mixture slops all over the place, decorating the floor, countertop and his too-big apron with splatters of batter. It’s a lot runnier than Scott’s usually is, but by now Alan Does Not Care, he just wants to get this done and hug Scotty.

He’s just standing in front of the oven, wondering which dial is for which of the flame things, when the kitchen door opens.

Sixteen-year-old Scott, whose eyes have circles far deeper and greyer than they have any right to be, is standing there, and Alan becomes Very Aware all of a sudden of what the kitchen must look like through Scott’s eyes:

Flour absolutely everywhere (he can feel on his eyelashes and tickling his nose), little pools of batter all over the floor, Alan with his hand on the stove to work out how to make the fire come out -

“What the hell.”

Scott takes a deep breath, presses the heel of his hand to his eyes and says, “what are you doing, Alan?”

Alan forces himself to stand up tall like Dad always says. “Making you breakfast.”

There’s a pause, and Scott surveys the disaster zone once more. “I can see that,” he says finally, voice a little faint.

Alan swallows because this isn’t at all like he wanted it to go, but he brandishes the bowl of batter and does his best to peel the card from the surface. “For you!”

Scott stares, but takes the bowl. “Is this.... pancake mix?”

Alan nods eagerly, “your favourite! And here.”

The cursed milk smudged his amazing drawing, but it’s still sort of a rocket. Scott carefully prises open the card, and his whole body softens as he reads the message inside. “Allie,” he manages, “Allie, this is so -”

He presses a fist to his mouth and Alan watches in horror as his Neptune eyes shine overly-bright. This was supposed to be a nice thing, but he got it all wrong -

“I’m sorry,” Alan cries, flinging himself at Scott in a hug. “Don’t cry, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to make such a mess -”

“Allie, no -” Scott’s voice is firmer now, but Alan can’t bear to look at him falling apart like Virgil and John and Dad, because Scott is Scott and he can’t fall apart. It will obliterate Alan’s heart like a grenade in a zombie hideout if he has to see Scott cry.

Scott crouches though, and Alan’s forced to make eye contact. He’s relieved to see that Scott’s face has lost its sadness.

“Thank you so much for all of this, Allie,” Scott says, so sincere and so strongly, it washes something warm and safe over Alan’s shoulders.

“But it’s t-t-terrible! The pancakes are all wrong and I don’t know how to cook them and the card got milked and - and -” Alan can hear the wail in his voice and he resents it; it knocks hard into the defiant figure inside him that insists I’m not a baby!

“It’s not terrible, Allie. It’s - it’s lovely.”

“You’re saying that to make me feel better.” He can’t help but pout.

“No, I mean it. I love it - all of it.”

“Even the mess?”

“Even the mess.”

“Why?”

“Because… Well, it’s the thought that counts, Allie.”

Alan wrinkles his nose and Scott grins, using his sleeve to wipe off some of the stray flour. “I mean it. The fact that you wanted to do something nice for me makes me really happy.”

Alan hmphs, but tucks himself into Scott’s side and Scott obliges, squeezing him tight in one of those cuddles Alan has missed so much.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been around much, Allie, but I love you and I’m gonna do better, ‘kay?”

Alan stiffens and pulls away. “Wait no! That’s what this was for, Scotty.” He wants to stamp his foot in frustration so bad, but knows that’s Baby Behaviour and so he settles for a scowl. “I don’t want you trying to do more when you already do everything! I just miss you, I don’t need you to do anything better. I just need Scotty.”

Scott is blinking too fast for the second time in ten minutes. “Did Virg put you up to this?” he says a little hoarsely.

Alan frowns. “No. But if he thinks the same thing, shouldn’t you be listening?”

Scott’s eyes widen, and he ducks his head, covers his eyes again.

Alan goes back in for a hug, presses his cheek into Scott’s chest and listens to the steady thump-thump of his heart. He feels Scott take a deep breath and put his armour back up, and Alan’s heart makes a sad little clench.

“What do you say we make some pancakes together? Ones that are actually edible?” Scott clambers to his feet with a grin.

“Hey! They would be!” Alan protests, but then he looks back at the mixture, which is congealing in watery lumps and he fights a smile.

“But first,” Scott flattens the card and clips it to the fridge with a magnet, and Alan -

Alan’s heart skips.

It’s been a long time since any of them - even Virgil - have had anything hung on the fridge. But his little card - his silly, ruined card - is up there in pride of place and that means more to him than he knows what to do with.

Scott ruffles his hair, dislodging the flour that’s gathered itself there, and for once Alan doesn’t have the words to protest. Scott half-turns, catches Alan’s lost expression, and shoots him the gentlest of smiles.

“Ready to make the best pancakes in the world?”

As if he even needs to ask.

Scott easily sorts through the cupboard, drawing out the blue flour, a pot of baking powder, and some sugar. It’s all white.

“Why do they have to make all the important stuff the same colour?” Alan complains, and Scott laughs, loudly and easily. It’s a wonderful sound.

“Here’s something that’s a different colour,” Scott says, tossing eggs between his palms with an assured ease. “It’s egg time.”

He passes one to Alan, and Alan goes to smash it against the bowl, when -

“Wait!”

Alan pauses, mid-swing, and Scott plucks the egg from him.

“Gently, Allie. Like this.”

Scott repositions his hands so that his grip on the egg is looser, then gently moves his wrist to give one sharp tap against the side of the bowl. The egg breaks, golden yolk dripping out, but miraculously, no shell escapes.

“Reckon you can do the next one on your own?” Scott asks, and Alan nods at once. He looks to Scott to check he’s doing it right, and every time Scott is there to meet his gaze.

(As he always is, always will be).

Scott helps him to lift the milk carton, and between them, they pour it into a little well that Scott instructs him to dig in the mixture. Scott hands Alan a whisk with a solemnity that Alan recognises from Gordon’s pranks, and sure enough, no sooner than he’s taken it, Scott is brandishing a spatula and yelling “en garde!” and then it’s all out war.

“Loser has to whisk the mixture!” Scott says between parries, and Alan knows he’s being deliberately slow and clumsy but if that’s how he wants to play, then so be it. Alan blocks a few of Scott’s easy strikes, and feigns left, before darting right to jab him in the ribs.

“Victory!” he yells.

Scott crashes to his knees in mock agony. “You got me!”

Alan pushes the bowl towards him smugly. “Your punishment.”

“So merciful.”

“No talking! Only whisking!”

With Scott’s expert hands, the batter turns into a smooth, creamy mixture, and he guides Alan as the chocolate chips are poured in. “And now we fold.”

“Fold? Like paper?”

Scott grins, and Alan scowls. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“Sorry kiddo. Like this.” Scott shows Alan a gentle scraping motion that turns the mixture towards the centre of the bowl.

“Are we there yet?” The chocolate chips are making Alan’s mouth water, and as messy and inaccurate as his recipe might have been, it was at least quicker.

“Nearly. Let me just heat the pan.”

Scott dashes the pan with a blob of butter, and smiles softly as it begins to sizzle and melt, before he turns sharply to Alan.

“Hey, Allie?”

“Mm?”

“Please don’t use the stove without me or Virg there, okay?”

A ladle of pancake batter goes into the pan, and Alan stares at it in anticipation.

“But it was an emergency.”

“And you could have asked Virg, even if you wanted to surprise me.”

Alan frowns, crosses his arms. “He wouldn’t have helped, he’s always in bed these days.” Scott swallows, the crease of concern back between his eyebrows and Alan’s heart sinks. “I didn’t mean that. He would help, really.”

“He’s just really sad, Allie. Give him some time.”

“We’re all really sad,” Alan says, in a smaller voice than he intends.

There’s a pause, and Scott says, equally small, “I know.”

Scott removes the pan, passes it to Alan, and gently adjusts his grip, until -

“One, two, three, flip!”

The pancake does a perfect somersault, landing uncooked side down in the pan, and Scott beams, even though his eyes look so sad.

Silence falls once more, and Alan finally looks up at Scott, surprised when he’s already watching him.

“I love you, Allie. So much.”

Alan blinks, but the words come easily - he’s not yet at Gordon’s age where such declarations are Deeply Embarrassing. “Love you, Scotty.”

“I know the last few months have been really rough,” Scott says slowly, as though he’s measuring each word out like ingredients. “But never forget that I love you and all of us love you. It’s okay to be sad, but you don’t need to deal with it on your own, okay?”

Alan nods, tucks himself into Scott’s side once more, because the contact feels more important than words right now. Heck, he doesn’t even know what he could say to that. It’s everything he knows technically, but hearing it said out loud? It hits different in a way that knocks all the words right out of his head.

On cue, the pancake has turned into a golden-brown puffed up beauty, and Scott grins widely.

“Bets on who’ll be the first to smell this and make their way down to join in?”

Alan laughs. “Definitely Gordon.”

“Nah, Virg has a weird sixth sense about pancakes.”

*~*~*~*~*

They’re both wrong as it turns out.

John slinks into the kitchen, followed shortly after by a bright-eyed Gordon (“that doesn’t count, Allie!” “Does too!” “Does not!”) and a dull-eyed Virgil.

Whilst Scott and Alan stack up the pancakes, Scott corrals the others into beginning the clean-up process. There’s some good-natured ribbing about the Disaster pancake mixture, which has started solidifying alarmingly quickly, and Virgil spots the card on the fridge, turning to Alan with the first genuine smile he’s seen from him in so long.

Everyone is ravenous by the time there are a sufficient amount of pancakes for them all, and then it’s every man for himself as they wrestle for sauces and squabble over the last pancakes.

It’s the first time they’ve all eaten a meal together in so long, and it’s the best gift he could have ever given Scott, even though he couldn’t have planned the highs and lows of this particular adventure. Virgil is actually laughing about something with Gordon, and John is inserting the occasional comment with a smile, and Scott -

Scott meets Alan’s eyes with a proud smile.

Alan’s heart feels like it’s actually glowing, a soft, golden light in his chest, because he did that - he and Scott.

They make a good team.

And they always will.

#thunderbirds are go #littleoldrachel writes #scott tracy #alan tracy #fluff

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stevenbasic · 3 years

Text

“Hi Dr J, I’m glad we finally get to chat…”

Holy shit.

——

Earlier that day, I’d been told at the front desk that there was a lady from Evolution Pharmaceuticals on the line, and that she’d like to speak with me. Aubrey had always been good about screening out the sales pitches, the irate patients, the people with whom I really never needed to actually talk. So that she was pulling me aside for this call told me that this one might be something I should probably take...

But - ugh. No. I didn’t want to. This had been a long day, a long week so far - and it was only Tuesday! God, the past few months had been more and more exhausting, humiliating and emasculating with each passing hour. And the more I learned, the more it seemed that this company was at the heart of my troubles. Yes, it offered the opportunities of great financial rewards for the practice with this clinical study trial in which we were going to be participating. Since Jeanette, my previous Office Manager, had left, the mismanagement of the business had us in dire straits. Without the money from Evolution’s study and the “Lean In” grant from the women’s advancement group, I’m not sure we’d still be afloat. So, yeah, maybe I should have taken the call.

“I’ll call them later,” I told Aubrey, and grabbed the films I needed for my next patient.

That had been three hours ago, before my little hallway meeting with Melissa. Since then Gianna - some woman who’d wanted to speak to me about the trial - had called two more times. Left messages. Really wanted just fifteen minutes of my afternoon. Needed to speak with me. I refused each call.

Finally done with patients, sitting in my office at the end of the day as darkness crept in from outside, I sighed as Brittni from the desk buzzed me. She said that Gianna was on the line again. “Can I transfer her?”

“No,” I replied on the intercom, noticing that a little green light had blinked to life on the camera I had clipped to my monitor. I hadn’t seen it before, this light. In fact...when did I get a camera on this computer?

“Tell her I'll call tomorrow...” I finished.

I had set back to finishing some patient notes on my desktop when, suddenly, my screen flashed to black. For a quick moment I thought - oh no, a crash - but then a new, unfamiliar window appeared, and my mouse pointer began moving on its own accord. What the…? The window went full screen and next thing I knew I was in a video chat with-

“If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were avoiding my calls…” the woman onscreen spoke, laughing casually as she tossed her hair...

“oh, uh…” I was immediately agape. This was who’d been trying to call me all day??

“Anyway...Hi Dr J, I’m glad we finally get to chat…”

Holy shit. This girl was gorgeous. Look at those tits.

As I stared, still shell-shocked and speechless from having my computer hijacked out from under me by a bosomy corporate careerist, she went on to introduce herself as Gianna Albertini, from the clinical trials department at Evolution Pharmaceuticals. She explained how excited she and her team was to get the study off the ground at the practice. Things had been fast tracked at the FDA, they were just waiting for some rubber stamps, and everything looked very promising for their product. She apologized for not being able to meet in person, at least for a while. “I’m on some new retroviral treatment, and they have me quarantined at home,” she explained with surprising nonchalance, “yadda yadda yadda…”

Finally, after a good several minutes of watching her talk - and she held my attention easily, her rack possibly rivaling Melissa’s - she let me get a word in edgewise. I was still confused by how in one moment I was working on my patient charts, and then in the next I was in a video chat. “H-how did you…?”

“Sorry,” Gianna laughed, casually waving away any privacy concerns I was currently about to voice, “I had to remote in, take over your desktop. I really needed to speak with you.” Beyond the blatant intrusions tactics she was obviously willing to employ, there was something in this woman’s eyes, her demeanor, that was making me more and more concerned as the conversation - such as it was - continued. She may have been acting relaxed and friendly, decidedly informal, but there was a seriousness just below the surface that even I could see, even through the screen, and even in the face of those enormous tits. “Plus, maybe it’s actually better we do it this way, rather than on the phone,” she said, as she sat up nice and straight, “So we can see one another’s...smiling faces.”

Gahh...

As she got down to brass tacks, this young woman went on to describe to me some of the details of the new wings in our building into which the office would be expanding, how much more space we and Evolution be acquiring to fulfill the needs of the trial, and when it would all be ready. “Construction is ultra-fast tracked,” she said, “should be done within a few weeks.”

Weeks?? I marveled, silently incredulous. I’d seen the plans; it was a huge project. I’d figured months, if it ever really got done at all. But, the teams did seem motivated, and there were a lot of them, working day-in and day-out, all through the night. Maybe, perhaps? Could they pull it off in weeks?

We also talked about the structure of the trial, what it would involve day-to-day, and the long-term forecast. Evolution seemed ready to set up permanent shop with a clinic in the building, by taking over much of the lease of the new space, with the study just the first step in the door.

“You’ll be listed as the lead investigator,” Gianna explained, continuing on to detail the ins-and-outs of the trial, “but don’t worry. We’ll have plenty of people in place. You really won’t have to do too much, or deal with anyone at the main office. You’ll be reporting just to me...”

“r-reporting to you?” I asked, trying to ignore the impressive bosom which filled the screen, cowed me. That had taken me back a bit...'reporting to her'? I had noticed something in this young woman’s tone, through our chat, that led me to believe that she and I possibly had different views as to the, uh, hierarchy of this whole thing. I was the doctor around this place, and had gotten used to expecting a little respect, being top of the food chain. She, on the other hand, maybe had other ideas.

“That's right,” she said, “we’ll do these chats once a week, more if I feel like we need it. I’ll expect a report from you every day, but again don’t worry. It’s basically something you just have to sign, the girls will do it all. Our other providers will be handling most of the work with the patients in the study, entering data, keeping the FDA happy, blah blah blah. Maybe we’ll ask you to go in and talk to, examine a few of the subjects, just to keep things interesting for you.”

If I hadn’t felt totally emasculated and marginalized, my authority crippled by the horde of women who’d apparently taken over my practice recently, this was the clincher. It would appear that for this study I was going to be not much more than a coddled figurehead, a token man of straw, expected to satisfy the whims of some half-rate pharm company and this woman, at her beck and call. No way!

“I’m going to have to insist on directing care for, uh, the trial subjects,” I asserted, finally getting a moment to exert my will, “they will, technically, be my patients.”

“Oh, of course!” Gianna replied, smiling and throwing her hair over her shoulder, “Allowing for some oversight from the other providers we’ll have in place, you’ll have lots of medical-decision-making to keep yourself busy!”

What did she mean, ‘oversight’?

“They’ll be different than your usual patients, the subjects that we’ll be bringing in for the study, but I think you’ll like them,” she continued, trying to reassure me, “maybe a younger crowd, and of course all female. But in general all you’ll have to do is sit back and watch the money coming in.” She sat, looked into the screen for a moment, in thought. “Though I guess we have some people there handling that for you, too, hm?”

That gave me pause, made me rethink the litany of arguments that were beginning to boil up in my throat. I’d seen some of the paperwork, quickly, as it had moved past my desk for my signatures. It involved a lot of money for the practice. Like, a lot of money. I thought of my bills, my expenses, what I still somehow owed on my student loans. If Sheryl wasn’t going to be there to provide for me, help me pay these things…

If any of it remained, there was obviously some pride I was going to need to swallow.

“S-speaking of money,” I began, “what's my compensation going to look like?“

Something about my question, something about how I was holding myself, made Gianna smile again and then sigh, a sigh that told me she knew something I didn’t, I couldn’t help but think. With that she leaned in, her eyes locked on mine through the camera, and a shiver went up my spine. “Oh don’t worry, Dr. J,” she spoke, “you’ll be well taken care of...“

===================================

Muchos Gracias to long-time friend, supporter of the story and behind-the-scenes ninja Antares for helping me assemble these clips.

Newer posts and other goodies at my Patreon

#growing into the job

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literallymechanical · 3 years

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Well, are you going to fill us in on "why we are morally obligated as a species to some day blow up the Earth"? Sounds like a supervillain backstory

(This was originally inspired by qntm’s fantastic satirical essay, “To Destroy The Earth,” but I disagree with him on a few key points. I highly recommend checking out qntm’s fiction, particularly Ra, Fine Structure, and There Is No Antimemetics Division. Disclaimer: this is a thought experiment, I’m not actually going to destroy the Earth.)

Let us begin with this: you want to destroy the Earth.

That’s not a question or an instruction, that’s an axiom. A fundamental truth from which a logical system is built. It’s your Statement Zero, the singular concept from which the rest of these instructions are built: you want to destroy the Earth. You might not know why, and you certainly don’t know how. Trust me, you really don’t know how. Take all of your cultural knowledge of Death Stars and hyperspace construction crews and throw it out the window, because it’s not worth a clipped penny.

That being said, here are a few reasons to somebody might want to destroy the Earth:

You want to wipe out humanity

You want to wipe out some other species

General misanthropy

It’s obstructing your view of the Moon.

You want us to colonize Mars or Venus, and you figure this is the best way to get everybody on board.

These are bad reasons to destroy the Earth. If any of these sentiments resonate with you, please stop reading this essay. This isn’t for you.

Anyway, let's put a pin in the “why” for now. We'll get to it later. Let's tackle the "how" first.

To destroy the Earth, you need a Plan, with a capital P.

The shape of the Plan is extremely simple to define, much simpler than the relatively detailed (and, in my opinion, fragile) instructions others have outlined. It has just two parts.

Figure out how to destroy the Earth. This is defined as the Earth not being there when you're done—any chump with nuclear weapons can scour the Earth, you're trying to make the entire thing go away.

Destroy the Earth.

However, a lot of shapes are simple to define, but hard to draw. The Mandelbrot set can be defined by a single equation and a couple of instructions, but the result is a fractal. This Plan will be fractally intricate as well. We certainly can’t draw up the full Plan right now. We can barely even begin to draw the outline. Let’s take a quick stab at it anyway.

First of all, I don’t know how to destroy the Earth. We can speculate a bit, but we certainly can’t choose a method yet—you'll likely need multiple redundant strategies anyway. “Blow it up” is one idea, but the gravitational binding energy of the Earth is about 2*10^32 joules, and there is no conceivable technology that can handle that sort of power right now. “Launch bits of it into space one by one until there’s nothing left” sounds promising, though it will take a while. “Mess with its orbit until it’s close enough to the Sun’s Roche limit to get ripped to shreds” is a fun idea. Or maybe in the next million years, you'll come up with a better way.

The most important part of that statement is “the next million years.” It will take a very long time to figure this one out. A million years is a pretty good estimate, though if you'll proactive it might take as little as a couple hundred thousand.

That brings us to the hardest part of the Plan: making sure the Plan survives a million years.

Right now, you're in a precarious position. Climate change probably won’t entirely wipe us out, but it will likely disrupt civilization enough that the Plan will be lost. Nuclear war might actually cause us to go extinct. A killer asteroid certainly would. Therefore, the first thing the Plan needs to do is save the world. Reverse climate change, or at least halt it. Nuclear disarmament. Peace, or as close as we can get to it. Medicine, spaceflight, art, prosperity, happiness, survival—all part of the Plan.

Colonizing other planets, and eventually other solar systems, is also in the Plan. Not just for a backup in case of killer meteor, but also because when you do destroy the Earth, you’ll need somewhere to stand. Remember, you're not trying to wipe out humanity here! Just destroy a planet. This will be tricky. It’s very likely that there’s no such thing as faster-than-light travel, so it will take a while to spread across the galaxy. This might take up the bulk of the million-year timeline.

(Quick note: you may be tempted to conquer the Earth, or set yourself up as some sort of galaxy-spanning God-Ruler. In my personal opinion, this is a bad idea. Right now, empires typically last a couple hundred years before falling. Do you think it would be easier to hold on to multiple planets than just a bit of land around the Mediterranean? I believe that it’s best to have your Plan set up a system where people can survive and thrive without needing you.)

But as tricky as interstellar colonization may be, it’s still the easy part. The hard part is that the entire Plan has to reconstruct itself from scratch if everything goes wrong.

The Plan has to be the most massively redundant, self-repairing, and robust project humanity has ever undertaken, or will ever undertake. The Plan needs to be able to resurrect our entire species on its own, without human intervention, in case something goes wrong (e.g. nuclear war) and we all get wiped out. Here’s one idea: computerize the Humanity Reboot Protocol, stamp the code onto platinum bricks, launch a million copies into deep space and onto every rocky body in the solar system, and have it check back in every once in a while. You can have that one for free.

The Plan also needs to have a way to re-motivate humanity to destroy the Earth. Maybe that’s as simple as posting it to tumblr and having a lot of people read it, but it will probably be a bit more complicated. Crucially, the Plan does not have to be visible. Nobody actually needs to know that the Plan exists, if you’re clever enough. You might be tempted to turn it into a religion, but religions change and die. Remember: the Plan has to eventually pop off, no matter what we do to ourselves.

The Plan is now its own entity, both distinct from and deeply intertwined with humanity.

(As a side note, this begs the question: What if the Plan is already in effect? If it’s a good Plan, we wouldn’t be able to tell. What if some sufficiently motivated creature set things into motion ten thousand or a hundred thousand or a million years ago? Food for thought.)

Alright. So, enough time has passed, and you’ve figured out how to destroy the Earth. I use “you” loosely at this point. Maybe, against all odds, you’ve figured out immortality, or mind-uploading, cloning, whatever. More likely, you’ve been dust for a million years. That’s not important. Regardless, “you” are standing on Mars or wherever and your metaphorical finger is hovering a metaphorical big red button marked “DESTROY THE EARTH.” Step 2 of the Plan.

Let’s pause here and go back to that pin from before: Why? Why are you destroying the Earth?

Well, a lot of reasons. If I were doing this, my Plan would include abandoning the Earth for other star systems and setting it up as some sort of museum. I'd take all the biosphere with me, of course, and make better Earths elsewhere. Imagine a hundred Earths, each of which are perfect nature preserves, or more! Imagine finding a good silica-heavy planet, turning it into molten glass, and sculpting it into something beautiful. Imagine spelling your name in an Oort cloud. Imagine an ocean planet full of whales.

Imagine coming back to a deserted G-type solar system with a few dusty rocks, an asteroid belt, and a handful of gas giants. Imagine breaking them down to make raw materials for a Dyson sphere.

Bam! Earth destroyed! You did it!

Maybe a paleontologist somewhere will figure out that this might be the planet where we first evolved, and it would be nice to put it somewhere safe. Hey, does that count as destroying the Earth? Where the Earth once was, there is now empty space. No more Earth! That sounds pretty destroyed to me. Bam! Earth destroyed! You did it!

Maybe your Plan is different, and the Earth is still inhabited. For what it’s worth, I hope you’ve made it a paradise, one of a thousand Edens across the galaxy. It would be a shame to blow it up… but if Sol-3 is just one paradise among many, what makes it significant? “Earth” is our homeworld, but now there are a thousand homeworlds, so what is “Earth?” What makes this one rock special? Nothing! You’ve successfully destroyed the entire concept of “Earth.” That might be harder than blowing up a planet! Well done! You did it!

In conclusion, here is why I say it’s a moral imperative to destroy the Earth:

Eventually, a baby bird has to leave the nest. Somebody needs to be the mom bird who lures her chicks off the edge, and it might as well be me.

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dukeofonions · 3 years

Text

“Because I was one of them.”

“Oh, okay cool.”

Or alternatively: Why Virgil’s confession has lost it’s impact.

Exploring the Dark Sides (Part One)

Something I realized the other day is that a lot of my current issues with this series wouldn’t exist if there was a consistent uploading schedule.

You see when there’s a steady stream of new content flowing I’m more inclined to just go with the flow and not spend so much time looking back analyzing things I’ve already floated past because why should I when there’s so much new stuff ahead?

But say that stream suddenly comes to an abrupt stop and I’m left sitting with nowhere else to go. At that point I start looking back, noticing little things that I hadn’t noticed during my initial trip down this metaphorical river. I now notice all the jagged rocks, how shallow the water actually is, etc.

And while this doesn’t necessarily ruin my experience over all, I’m left scratching my head wondering whose idea it was to come to this place anyway. Sure it’s not the worst place to go floating, but surely there’s a better place with deeper water and less hazards. Just an easier way to float along where one doesn’t have to worry about the stream suddenly ending.

I don’t know where this metaphor came from but to sum it up: since there are such long waits (years now) between actual Sanders Sides episodes and there’s a lack of new content to take in, I’m left looking back over what we have now and during my little look backs I’ve begun to notice some things that cause issues with the latest additions to the series.

Some of the more interesting things I’ve noticed revolve around the three resident “Dark Sides” and how they’re written in the series. While a lot of it is really good and I think they’ve got some of the best moments in the series, there’s also a lot of little things that pop up that, when looking at the series as a whole, don’t make a lot of sense.

Which is why I’ve begun this little series where I do a little deep dive into some of these things I’ve noticed and break them down to see if I can try and make sense of it, and this post is going to focus on Virgil.

More specifically, Virgil’s confession to being a former “Dark Side” and how it’s kinda lost it’s thunder.

As per usual, this is all my own opinion and you’re free to agree or disagree as you see fit. Of course I get pretty salty but I try to avoid getting too negative because where’s the fun in that?

Anywho, on with the show!

I’ll admit, despite my problems with the concept of “Dark Sides” as a whole, I genuinely loved the subplot of Virgil hiding that he used to be one of them from Thomas.

From a story telling standpoint they do a good job with the foreshadowing, leaving plenty of clues for the audience to find and it all pays off at the end. It’s also unclear at first whether Roman, Logan, and Patton know (Spoiler alert they do) and there’s some close calls via Janus and Remus dropping hints in front of Thomas which cause Virgil to freak out and adds some tension to the series.

It also provides a bit of a mystery around Virgil, Janus, and Remus as while it’s clear that the three have some kind of history together we’re never told or shown explicitly how their relationship was. Of course, we’re given plenty of hints, but we have yet to know what life was like when Virgil was “one of them” and it gives the audience more to look forward to and theorize about.

And of course, the actual reveal itself is amazing. The acting, the music, the complete silence after Virgil confesses and him looking like he’s about to cry as he sinks out is just *cheff’s kiss* perfect.

So what exactly is the problem here?

The foreshadowing? There’s just enough to get people theorizing but still plenty of room for people to speculate without spelling everything out.

The reveal? What can I say, I don’t have any complaints here. It’s definitely one of my favorite scenes from the series and I can’t find a single thing wrong with it from a technical stand point.

But as mentioned before, I started thinking about it more, and after taking everything we know about Virgil and "the dark sides" into account, this question suddenly came to mind:

Why is Thomas so shocked by this?

Think about it, when Virgil first appeared he was a little bitch. He was kind of the first antagonist of the series. Not evil per say, but compared to the other Sides he was a little shit who enjoyed bringing Thomas down. He was very much what one might consider a "dark side."

He wasn't ever trying to act like a "good guy" in order to earn Thomas's trust or anything, he was very open about what his role was and how it’s just who he is. So really, Thomas's reaction should have been something along the lines of, "Oh, okay. Makes sense."

Of course, we do see Virgil change over time and we learn that he isn't as bad as he seems (even though that seems questionable now) but that should have made his "past" even more obvious.

Like, Thomas, the guy had a whole acceptance arc because he was a bitch and no one liked him. You were literally there throughout his entire journey, it shouldn't surprise you that he was once part of a group you consider to be "evil."

Well okay, maybe Virgil just wanted to be honest regardless of whether or not the "dark sides" are actually evil or not. Who knows? Maybe he chose to confess when he did because he saw how horribly Remus had been affecting Thomas and seeing as he felt as though he'd failed to protect Thomas from Remus and Janus, figured he might as well try to protect Thomas from himself as well.

Which, okay, if that were the case then that could explain Thomas's reaction. He'd just met Remus, saw him at what could he his worst (we've only had one actual episode with Remus so who knows how bad he can get?) and while he learned that he's actually pretty easy to deal with and isn't as scary as he thought, who's to say the reverse couldn't happen with Virgil?

He saw that he wasn't as bad as he thought, but when you look at how nasty Virgil's been lately, who's to say that couldn't happen? It's been said that Virgil, as Thomas's anxiety, is manageable and isn't as bad as others. But we've literally seen Thomas say that he's afraid of what Virgil could do and so he just kind of has to let him do his thing in order to avoid all the "bad stuff" he could do.

According to Thomas: "There's a lot that Virgil could do that I don't want him to do. He knows exactly how to push my buttons. But he is who he is. All we can do is try to listen to him as best as we can and adapt to his needs."

(For anyone who wants to watch the clip here's the time stamp Embarrassing Phases 20:31)

Uh, yeah, that sounds super healthy there. But I'll get into my issues with that little message in another post.

Just before this though, Roman had asked Thomas if "He's (Virgil) going back to being scary can I go back to calling him names?"

Thomas responds by telling him as he's leaving that he still has to be nice to him, before Logan expresses that he's glad (or relieved) that Virgil didn't go into Thomas's "girl phase" which just hearing it being mentioned seems to stress Thomas out. Then finally after Logan leaves Patton explains that while he's trying to respect Virgil's wants and still be a good friend, he feels like he just makes things worse which is where Thomas attempts to reassure him.

Except his advice is to just, let Virgil do what he wants so he doesn't hurt them? And while he says they need to work with Virgil it doesn't seem like he's requiring Virgil to work with him as well in order to not make his life miserable?

Hm, is it possible that my answer as to why Thomas reacts so strongly to Virgil being "one of them" lies within my least favorite episode in the series?

Perhaps Thomas was already starting to be afraid of Virgil before the whole confession in DWIT, and has gotten to a point where he's forcing himself (shown by him telling the others to keep "being nice to Virgil" despite how he treats them) to just take whatever Virgil throws at him in order to spare himself from whatever worse things Virgil could do to him?

That, added with everything that happens in Dealing With Intrusive Thoughts, where Thomas witnesses a Side of himself that appears to be worse than Virgil, could have set him on edge. And if Remus, who he considers a dark side, who he openly admits to hating and is so afraid of him that he loses sleep, then just how bad could Virgil be if he was ever at his worst?

With all that in mind, yeah. It does make sense why Thomas would react the way he did and why he'd be cautious of trusting Virgil in the future.

Except, none of this has actually been confirmed within the series and is purely speculation and since we still don't have the season two finale, we really have no idea what Thomas actually feels towards the situation since he kinda brushes it off at the end of DWIT by doing the outro.

But wait... we actually do know how Thomas feels. In fact, we already know how the issue is resolved!

Looks like it's time for-

How Asides Ruins Everything!

You all remember when Asides was first announced, right? These were meant to be shorter, lighter videos that took place outside of the current series and were meant to give us content in between the long breaks for regular Sanders Sides episodes that also wouldn't get in the way of filming said episodes.

Well we all know how that little idea turned out seeing as it's now been a year since Putting Others First and they decided that we needed to have two Asides episodes before the finale that were apparently essential to the "plot" even though the current plot in Sanders Sides has nothing to do with Thomas getting a boyfriend but I digress.

But you know, I wouldn't be as upset about the Asides causing us having to wait longer for the actual story to pick up again, if the Asides episodes didn't ruin the actual series!

How did it manage this? Well, let's just look at Virgil here and the entire point of this post which is, as the title states, why his confession has lost its impact.

And the answer? Well, at some point the writer's decided that the best way to resolve the new conflict between Thomas and Virgil was to have them indirectly make amends by using some random character that is clearly just a stand in for Virgil and use this character's "confession of a past they weren't proud of" as a way to discuss the situation and Thomas's feelings on the matter just to have Thomas indirectly assure Virgil that they're still "okay" and it doesn't bother him.

So according to Asides, Thomas is just fine with Virgil despite his confession. And as we see in the following Asides episode, they're still cool with each other!

So what was the point of that dramatic confession, which was being built up towards throughout pretty much all of season two, just to have the characters indirectly discuss it and make amends like it was nothing???

Why should the audience care when it all just gets brushed aside (ha) like it's no big deal?

Everything was in place for Virgil's reveal before the Asides came into the picture. You had the build up, you had the pay off, there was the suspense when Virgil was completely absent from POF, and then you would have had him confronting Thomas and the two having to directly come to terms with this new information.

But nope! Let's just have them sit awkwardly by each other on the couch while they watch Frozen in onesies while everyone keeps talking about some random character whom the audience has never heard of before that we're supposed to figure out is meant to represent Virgil and Thomas is all "Nah we're still cool bro."

What's supposed to happen now? Janus is supposedly a "good guy" now so why would he bring up Virgil's past to get under his skin? And if he still does why would it bother Thomas since he's already come to terms with it?

Look, even though I've got my problems with the concept of "dark sides" as a whole, it wouldn't have mattered to me if they'd at least committed to telling a good story here with Virgil's past because I was genuinely interested in that.

I freaked out when he told Thomas, and initially I thought we weren't going to see those two interact again until the finale where Virgil would finally have to face Thomas and we'd get to watch how he comes to terms with it. And if Asides hadn't been a thing and we had gone straight from DWIT to POF it looks like this was the direction they were headed.

But instead we're basically told (not shown) by Thomas that he's fine with Virgil. And the reason as to why Virgil's not in POF despite being on good terms with Thomas?

"There was just no reason for him to be there."

Really? There was no reason for Virgil, who was directly part of the discussion that led to POF in the first place, to be present during the aftermath of the decision they all had helped Thomas make?

There was more reason for him to be there than Logan and he still showed up! They had the perfect explanation set up for them in DWIT: Virgil had just revealed his past to Thomas and due to being afraid of how he'd respond (or just wanting to give Thomas space and not stress him out more) chose to remain absent from the conversation.

That actually makes sense and lines up with the story but nope.

The "Dark Sides" and Virgil's past with them was one of my favorite things about the series. The mystery surrounding it all and Virgil trying to protect Thomas from them while keeping his own history with them a secret was a brilliant concept thats just kinda fallen flat on its face.

The long waits between episodes don't help, and how they're rushing through certain aspects within the series itself along with Asides coming in and muddling things up, I don't really care to be invested anymore.

Why should I when there's a chance anything interesting they come up with will just be glossed over like it's no big deal?

It's hard to make a final judgment here in regards to Virgil's current arc when we still have no conclusion in sight. But from what we've seen from Asides, which is now integral to the plot of Sanders Sides, we kinda already have our answer.

Thomas and Virgil are just fine with each other. We learned that Flirting With Social Anxiety takes place right after POF and that Virgil already knows about Janus getting on Thomas's good side so there's no suspension with him finding out about that either.

All that's really left with him is his troubling relationship with Patton but I don't even care about that anymore. They've hardly addressed it at all and given what we've been seeing I doubt the conclusion to their strained relationship won't be satisfying either.

I don't know what the finale, or the rest of the series, will hold concerning Virgil. While I hope that things will turn around and get better, at this current rate it doesn't seem likely.

Episodes are still taking years to make, and the ones we're getting are just distracting from the main plot or taking things away.

Virgil isn't the only character suffering from this, but at least he's not as worse off as others.

Which is why in the next installment of this series, we'll be taking a look at a little, yellow snake and how one of the characters with the most potential ended up being the most underwhelming parts of the series.

#dukeofcritical #exploringthedarksides

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yukidragon · 3 years

Text

Our Life Snippet - Meet Jeremy

Yep, it’s time for another clip of my novelization first draft for Our Life: Beginnings & Always by @gb-patch. This clip, as the title for this post might suggest, is from Step 2 when Cove, Jamie, and Derek have the misfortune to meet Jeremy for the first time.

I think it’s appropriate to bring out this meme again for the occasion, don’t you?

Glad you agree, Jeremy.

...

The trip was spent in comfortable silence as the three teens walked to the beach. From there, they traversed the familiar path to the old playground. Once almost there, they quickly spotted the newcomer in question. His bright, neon green hair and colorful clothing made him stand out like a beacon beneath the rays of the sun.

Jamie found her steps slowing as she noticed the erratic way the boy moved.

The newcomer scuttled back and forth, his face twisted up unpleasantly. He kicked up sand as he paced around the playground like a caged tiger. He was upset, clearly, but it wasn’t sadness written all over his scrunched up face.

No, this boy was angry.

Jamie started to have doubts about talking to the newcomer now. Offering sympathy to a stranger who was sad was one thing, but trying to approach someone who looked ready to go off at the slightest provocation was something else entirely. It was probably best not to bother him and let him sort himself out before attempting to greet him.

Cove hadn’t exactly been eager for this entire expedition in the first place, but seeing the agitated boy with the neon green bowl cut fume and stamp around made what little curiosity he held about the stranger disappear completely. He turned to Jamie as she did the same to him, both of them sharing a look that let him know she was just as reluctant to start up a conversation as he was.

Derek didn’t notice his friends’ hesitation as he continued to walk swiftly closer. He waved wildly to get the boy’s attention, a big welcoming smile on his face. “Hey, guy! Over here!”

The kid with the bowl cut whipped around, his already impressive scowl carving deeper into his face. His orange eyes were tired, but cutting as they pierced Derek with a fierce glare. The friendly greeting almost seemed to make him more agitated, a strong hostile energy practically radiating from him.

“What?” the kid snapped, excessively loud. “What is it? What do you want?”

Derek flinched at the sharp tone. The wind left his sails, and he stopped his approach, instead shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. “Uh… What’s your name?”

“Jeremy,” the boy spat. “Was that it?”

Derek tried to keep his expression friendly, but his smile broke apart a little more the longer Jeremy glared at him. “No I’m Derek, that’s Jamie and Cove.” He gestured to each of his friends in turn. “We were just walking around and saw you. We wanted to say hi.”

It was too late to retreat, so Jamie knew she needed to back Derek up and engage with this angry little boy despite her reluctance. She slipped on the pleasant smile she always wore back at school whenever she had to deal with one of her more unruly peers or stern teachers and raised her hand in greeting. “There aren’t a lot of kids our age in the neighborhood.”

“Yeah!” Derek said, some of his confidence returning from the backup. “So, you know, it’s cool to see someone else here.”

Strangely, the explanation only served to make Jeremy even more furious. His already rigid glare twisted further as his face turned an angry shade of red. If it was possible for steam to erupt from a person’s ears, he would have done it.

“They did bring me somewhere stupid!” he yelled. “Of course! I knew it!”

Jamie winced at the way Jeremy shouted at the top of his lungs and took a step back from him to spare her sensitive ears.

“What?” Cove blurted out, surprised by the enraged reaction.

“My parents!” Jeremy fumed, still shouting but not quite as loudly as before. “They’re the ones who brought me. I didn’t walk to this town! Can you not figure that out on your own?”

“Right,” Derek said, still trying his best to remain friendly in the face of such hostility. “My dad brings me to Sunset Bird too, when he has to come for work and all that stuff. It’s not bad.”

That had apparently been the wrong thing to say, as that earned him a poisonous glare from Jeremy. Derek winced and had to look away, his smile turning into a grimace. It was a struggle even for him to remain friendly in the face of such naked hostility.

“I mean…,” Derek said after a moment, fumbling for a way to recover. “I wouldn’t want to come here for a real vacation, probably, either.”

“That’s an understatement,” Jeremy snapped. “This doesn’t count as a vacation! It’s a waste of time - a chore! My parents’ family is nearby, and we just had to come see them.” With that he let out a wordless noise that encapsulated his frustration and disgust.

Cove awkwardly cleared his throat. “If they’re your parents’ family, doesn’t that make them your family too?”

Jeremy stared at Cove for a moment before he threw his folded arms up into the air. “I guess!”

“That’s… a pretty good reason to come by,” Derek said after a moment’s hesitation. “Did you wanna go somewhere else?”

“No!” Jeremy spat. Once more he crossed his arms before turning away with an indignant huff. “They should’ve gone by themselves, since they cared so much, and left me home. But I’m not allowed to be by myself.” He snorted. “It makes no sense. They’re the ones who don’t know how to do anything. And I’m the kid?”

It was a struggle for Jamie to figure out what to say to diffuse the situation. She didn’t know this Jeremy kid at all, which meant that she had no idea what he wanted to hear right now. Derek’s attempt at empathy was rebuffed, and Jeremy certainly didn’t appreciate Cove poking holes in his illogical arguments. Chastising him for the temper tantrum he was throwing was certain to set him off even more.

“Sorry,” Jamie finally said as she fought back a sigh. “It must suck being forced to do something you don’t want.”

Jeremy flicked his piercing orange eyes at Jamie before looking away. “As if that does anything,” he grumbled.

Well, that was probably the best Jamie could hope for. At least her offering of sympathy didn’t result in another blow up.

Jamie looked from Jeremy to Cove. Derek had made the two sound so eerily alike, but seeing them together made it clear that they were more like oil and water.

Stepping closer to Cove, Jamie lowered her voice. “The two of you aren’t that similar after all.”

Unfortunately, the little aside didn’t go unnoticed. Jeremy clearly had good hearing, as he fixed Jamie with a poisonous glare and scoffed as though insulted. “Uh, of course we’re not similar. My eyebrows aren’t stupid!”

“What?” Jamie said, taken aback.

The clear shock at his assertion threw Jeremy, and he outright gawked at Jamie. “What ‘what’?” he repeated. He then threw his arms out in Cove’s direction. “Look at them! I don’t have to explain.”

Oh. No. He. Did. Not.

It wasn’t the first time Cove heard someone make fun of his eyebrows, but that didn’t mean the insult didn’t hit him hard. An unpleasant heat flooded his cheeks. He was well aware of what a distinctive feature his eyebrows were - far too many people, particularly kids his age, were quick to notice and make comments about them.

Derek grimaced, wincing in sympathy for his friend. “Come on…”

Jamie was angry. All shreds of sympathy she held for Jeremy disappeared the second he insulted Cove. It was taking all of her restraint not to glare down at the gaudy boy and keep her expression neutral as she took a step towards Jeremy. “Apologize to Cove right now,” she said with frost coating every word as she fought not to raise her voice. “You can’t treat people like that.”

Jeremy simply scoffed at the reprimand, not fazed in the slightest by the older and taller teen looming over him. “Okay,” he said snidely. He glanced at Cove. “I’m sorry your eyebrows are so terrible.”

Jamie wanted to punch Jeremy. The fingers of her free hand curled into a fist at her side, but she forced herself to unclench as she shook off the unwanted impulse. This brat was just like the bullies that she sometimes had to deal with at school. It was pointless to rise to the bait; a target was usually what toxic people like Jeremy wanted, and firing back at him would give him just that.

The only thing Jamie would give Jeremy was one parting glare that projected her dislike towards him before she turned her back on him completely.

Jamie shifted her focus instead to Cove. One look into her best friend’s watery ocean blue eyes melted most of the anger from expression away, and she met his gaze with sympathy. She drew in close to give his shoulder a reassuring pat. “Ignore him,” she whispered close to his ear, taking care to be quieter this time. “He’s not worth it.”

Cove couldn’t manage more than a small nod and a feeble smile in gratitude. Although he didn’t like anything that made Jamie mad, somehow it made him feel just a little bit better to know that she was angry for his sake.

Derek was dumbfounded. They had been nothing but nice to this kid, yet all Jeremy could seem to do was rant at and insult them. “Wow, what is wrong with you?”

The pointed question didn’t seem to offend Jeremy. Instead, he parrotted Derek’s words back at him in a nasally voice. “‘Wow, what is wrong with you?’ Waah, waaah.” A distasteful scoff escaped him. “This is dumb.”

With that, Jeremy stuck out his tongue at the three older teens before skulking away, kicking up sand with each step.

Jamie glared over her shoulder at Jeremy’s retreating back until he became a speck in their vision and then was gone completely.

A weighty silence hung over the trio with Jeremy’s departure as they were left to process the unpleasant encounter.

Derek was the first to speak. “I can’t believe it. What a mean kid.”

“No kidding,” Jamie muttered before shaking her head. The worst part was, by the sound of those earlier complaints, that bratty boy Jeremy was going to be in the area for at least a while. Talk about starting the summer off on the wrong foot.

Derek slumped his shoulders and let out a sigh of dismay before plopping down onto the crowd. Jamie joined him in sitting on the sand and Cove followed suit shortly after. The encounter had drained the three of them.

“This suuucks,” Derek groaned. “I was hoping we could meet someone fun. Hang out, maybe.” He shook his head.

After a moment, he turned to Jamie. His depressed expression had shifted into one a little more hopeful. “But… you know what would really improve the day?”

“What?” Jamie asked.

Derek flashed Jamie a small grin as he pointed in her direction, specifically at what she held in her hand.

Jamie blinked down at the fruit bouquet. In all the drama that had unfolded, she had completely forgotten she had been carrying it. She took a moment to look it over; the protective wrapping had gotten a little crinkled, but otherwise nothing seemed damaged.

Lifting her gaze, Jamie saw that both boys were looking hopefully in her direction. She focused on Cove in particular as he gazed longingly at the fruit.

Jamie knew that she shouldn’t, but also she knew her family wouldn’t mind if three of them had just a little bit of the fruit. They did just have a really awful time after all, especially Cove.

“Why not?” she sighed fondly as she gave her friends a smile. “Let’s eat.”

#Our Life Beginnings & Always #Our Life #ourlifeba #Cove Holden #Jamie Last #Derek Suarez #Jeremy King #My Writing #Jamie Leimomi #XOXO Droplets

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bluejaytaco · 3 years

Text

What up? it DND wit Jay!

(We return to the realm where we are standing in front of a giant gold gate. There's a dwarf standing in front of it with a clip board in their hand, just flipping through.)

Alabaster: (walks up) H-Hail and well met, my friend.

Dwarf: Names?

Alabaster: Oh! Um, I'm fine.

Dwarf, flipping through his clipboard: Fine.... Fine.... Nope, not seeing any "fine" here.

Art: (Walks up)....What about Ebony?

Dwarf, flipping through: Uh, yeah. We got an "ebony".... He's an orc. And considering none of you are Orcs, I doubt any of you are Ebony.

Art: Uh, that's racist.

Theodora:... Quite a detailed guest list...

Koejin: (Walks up and points at a random name) That's me.

Dwarf, looks down at the name: Your Grenadine Ceriph? High priestess in Calor? (Context: Calor is a Tiefling city. Koejin is human... well... was)

Koejin: Yeah, that's me.

Dwarf, getting sick of us: Look, I don't have tie for you people messing... (looks up at Koejin and goes silent).... You're not supposed to be here. This isn't your realm.

Koejin: Uhhh... Well, I have business with the man in charge.

Dwarf: I'm gonna have to call Pelor.

The entire group: (various ways of saying, "You do that" From "yes, please do" to "yeah, get that fucking bitch here! I wanna speak to the manager!")

Dwarf, mumbling into a sending stone before looking back at us: Is one of you named Theodora?

Theodora: Uhh.... Yeah.

Dwarf: You guys can go in. That's all I needed because now I know your names. But thanks for lying to me!

(The gates open and we all walk through. It's less blinding, but only slightly less on the other side of the gate. We see people walking around and just enjoying their afterlife. In the far off distance, there is a silhouette of a giant castle. We can also see the opening to a large garden where Pelor is standing with his arms crossed. Some of us see Alabaster's daughter, Eris, stomping on the flowers.)

Pelor, voice booming towards us: Everyone, front and center!

(All of us go with different levels of reluctance. Hennessy leads the way while Art and Jaquine kinda trail back.)

Pelor: So, what is it you need from me? (He's still standing over us while Eris continues to stamp through the flowers.)

(For a moment, we're all silent.)

Theodora: We want to speak to Thia.

Pelor: Thia is not in a place to speak. She is in my castle now, practicing her abilities for the Cleanse.

Hennessy: Is she okay? You don't have her locked up somewhere, hurt, right?

Pelor: Hennessy, my dear boy. Would you lock up a tiger in a small cage? No, you would respect the animal. Thia is in a place of comfort and has free reign.

Hennessy: She's got free reign? So she can go smoke in every room of the castle?! Even your room?!

Pelor: uhh....yes...

Hennessy: Ohh that just won't do. That smell of recreational drugs gets into the fibers and it can be a bitch to get out.

Pelor, suddenly giving off the impression he would like to hurry this along so he could go clean: It doesn't matter. She is my key to cleansing the world and making it all light. And I can save you all, if you kneel before me and accept me as your true god.

(No one kneels but Hennessy does raise an eyebrow at the "kneel" comment.)

Koejin: So how do you promise our safety.

Pelor: Well, you are excluded from this. Your friends, however, are protected because my followers will all survive.

Art: Don't you need the dark to have the light?

Pelor:... You would think that. Ticket Master would have you think that. And you, specifically, reek of him.

Art: Uh, rude?

Pelor: You know what he wants, don't you? He wants me dead so he can be the god of light. His best friend being the god of darkness would mean the two of them would take over everything. The two of them would rule all.

(Art was trying really hard to not say how he didn't see this as a bad thing, considering his bias. But somehow, as everyone was arguing against the cleanse, it was returned to the subject of Art and Ticket Master.)

Pelor: I think we've had quite enough of this talk.

Art: Yeah, let's stop talking about Ticket Master and the guy who may or may not have had sex with him.

(Pelor reacted in disgust which just turned into Art shouting "Sex with Ticket Master!" at the god of light. The tiefling was really aiming to make the god throw up.)

Koejin, joining in: There were definitely tentacles involved!

Art: Lots of tentacles! Sooooo many tentacles!!!

Pelor: Enough! All of you! (grabs Eris by the hair) If none of you will take this seriously, there is no longer a reason to speak with you.

Eris, punching at the hand: Let go! (turns to Alabaster) Daddy! I don't wanna go!

(They walk through a wall made of marble that Hennessy tries to reach through to grab for Eris. He just barely pulls his hand back before the wall solidifies again and he loses his hand.)

Vincent, rushing up to Hennessy: What did you think you were doing?!

Hennessy: The girl didn't want to go with the man! And when the girl doesn't wanna go, you don't let her go!

Vincent: You're gonna make such a great dad!

(behind the garden and before the castle there was a massive labyrinth. We walked up to see two different entrances. Koejin ends up smelling something familiar but can't really pick where it's coming from.)

Art: Hmmm (turns to Red) think you can turn into a dragon and fly up? maybe we can see where to go.

Red, not all that enthused by the idea: Uhh, yeah, I guess. Step back.

(Everyone stands back to give her enough room to transform. She flies up to the edge of the maze, but once her talons hit the edge, they shoot up another hundred feet and knock her back down.)

Red, turns back into her base form and glares at everyone: Well, that didn't help!

Art: (shrugging) well, my plans aren't ever without fault.

(Hennessy casts detect magic and, aside from nearly having his brain explode from all the god magic around, he discovers on direction is dark magic while the other is light.

We end up going towards the dark side because we figure that's where Thia might be hiding.)

(First stop is a room with a sword in a stone. Hennessy can sense that the magic is dark, but it isn't the source.)

Koejin: (climbs up and pulls the sword from the stone and holds it up in the air. She then hears the sounds of us screaming in agony.)

What we see: Koejin pulling the sword out and standing with it like she's posing.

Art: Uhhh.... what is happening?

Theodora: Koejin? You okay?

Koejin vision! Art: (melting away and falling apart) You killed us!!!!

Koejin vision! Theodora: (Also melting) You let us dieeeee!!!!

Koejin, turning to see all this: No! No, I saved Art's life so many times! (Turns to Theodora) I'm sorry! I'm sorry!

Art: Koejin.... we're fine!

Koejin: (runs up to start trying to put Art's face back together. To everyone else, she'd just smooshing his face while still holding the sword.)

Theodora: (dispels the magic from the sword and a little imp pops free)

Koejin: (can now see that everyone's okay and it still just kinda groping Art's face.)

Art:....uh, Koejin?

Koejin: Yeah.... sorry. You were melting just now.

(We talk to the little imp briefly to find that he is a prisoner in the maze. He asks if he's free to go but as soon as he does, he's struck by lightning.)

(We continue down the path for a little bit before Koejin figures out that we're going the wrong way because she can no longer smell the "smelly smell that smells." In that time, Hennessy incinerated some talking furniture which the DM disappointedly let us know that we wouldn't be seeing the IKEA Lich. I have a feeling the IKEA Lich might pop up in a future one shot.

But also, we got this exchange.)

Theodora: (casts a spell in attempt to sober Koejin.)

Koejin: (starts screaming as her skin starts to burn) Stop!

Theodora: (stops immediately) I... I was just trying to help..

Koejin: I'm the God of intemperance, Theodora! You can't just sober me up!

Theodora: What?!

(This starts into a fight about how this isn't the weirdest thing we've been through while she continues to talk about how she wasn't expecting to hear her daughter was a god.)

Red: If I may, I can see where Theodora is coming from here. Be it the weirdest thing or not, finding out your child is involved in some affair with the gods can be surprising. (Shoots a look at Art) Like your son being intimately involved with a tentacle monster god.

Art:.... you weren't supposed to know about that....

Red: You were shouting about it just before while I was standing there.

Art:... right..... forgot you were there....

Red: Either way; something for us to talk about later, Sweetie.

Art rolling his eyes, sarcastically: But Mother, I love him.

((Koejin's Player: And I have to remember to write proper notes about what everyone knows and doesn't know.

DM: Eh, it's all out now))

(We head from the dark part to the light part and find ourselves walking down a hall for hours. It gets to the point where Mrs. Red starts to complain.)

Red: Ugh... when is this fucking thing going to end? Doesn't anyone have a way to move this along faster?

Art: It's going to feel like longer if you keep bitching.

Red: I don't even wanna be here!

Theodora: None of us want to be here!

Art, agreeing: Yeah, and yet, here we are! So, how about you shut your mouth for a bit while we figure out how to get home and make sure there's even a "home" to go back to!

Red:.... Actually, Art. Considering that, I think this might be a good time for you and I to talk....

(Art is pulled off to the side by Mrs. Red, Reita following. Theodora tries to usher everyone a respectful distance away to try and ensure privacy. She does her best, but pretty much everyone is still eavesdropping.)

Red: I know I haven't been the best mother... In fact, I might be the worst... But know that I will try to make this all better and I'm just looking for your forgiveness.

Art:.... you might remember us as a nice, happy little family, but let me tell you what I remember.

Koejin: You tell her, Art!

Art, ignoring her and pretending he doesn't know people are listening: ....you slicing off Reita's face, blowing up Thia's bar, threatening the lives of my friends, destroying the lives of countless different people; I could go on! You barely get to claim the title "mother!"

Red: I did what I thought was best!

Art: You entrusted your children to the God of Death and Deceit!

Red: I didn't do that! (long pause)....I did do that.

Art: Yeah, you did. So, this is how things are gonna go. We're going to go through here and make sure there's a world to get back to, we're going to go to Calor and you are going to fix this. Then we can talk about forgiveness.

Red: ....That's another thing I wanted to talk to you about. I would love... to return to our people. I know I'm a tiefling, but I still feel the rage... of a red dragon. Someone would need to take care of our people.

Art:.... the people that treated me like a pariah....

Vincent, butting in: Like Hell I'm gonna let that happen! (storms over to them and looks at Art) Look Art, I'm willing to admit you are not evil. But do you really think you can run Calor? As soon as everything gets hard you run away! Hell, you abandoned your own sister-

Reita, with a surprising amount of clarity: He didn't... abandon me. He thought I was dead.

(The remaining three tieflings turn and look at her.)

Reita: And you're not exactly one to talk; you created weapons for a tyrant and turned a blind eye to the problems in Calor. We've all done things we regret, but we learn and grow from them. How can you stand there and judge him from running from a bad situation when he was a kid? Hypocrite (shoves a slug into her mouth)

Art, smiling and a little misty-eyed: I'm so proud of you! (hugs Reita)

Reita: Uhhh, yeah. Sure.... (doesn't push him away, though)

Red:.... You're not supposed to be talking like that... how are you doing that?

Art, pulling away: Yeah, that was going to be the next part. You feeling okay?

Reita, shrugging: I feel good.... Like, really good.

Red: (grabs Reita and rips open the back of her cloak to see the stone in her spine is not glowing) This.... this isn't working. It should be working.

Art:....We should keep moving. Put a pin in this for now.

(We keep moving ahead with different twists and turns leading into random encounters. One of which is a growing garden gnome that we put Wreybar on top of so she could see over the walls. She tries to say what she sees, but speaks in a way only Wreybar understands.)

Theodora: Okay, but now how are we gonna get her down?

Red: I could probably fly up an-

Wreybar, jumping: Catch me!

Hennessy: (rushes to cast feather fall on her.)

(She floats down and lands nicely on the ground as we hear Thia's booming voice "Giant garden gnome? Goodbye giant garden gnome!" And the gnome just vanishes.)

(Wreybar starts talking in her gibberish and Koejin asks for a translator. Reita steps in and kneels down to her, nodding along by what she's saying.)

Reita: Wreybar says there's a latter coming out of a hole on the other side. It's right next to the castle. How do you guys not get that, she was speaking clearly.

Theodora: Maybe to you. Not all of us can speak Wreybar.

(We ended up getting into a few more shannanigans. At one point, Art attempted to use mislead in attempt to move through faster only to have Reita get impatient and run ahead. Art and Reita had a quick little spat about that along the lines of "by the time we find her, she'll have destroyed everything already!" "We can't find her at all if we're dead! No running ahead!" There was also a bit with Hennessy and Koejin teleporting out of the maze where they met a murder horse and a weird inky blob creature.

At that point the latter was the literally the next turn. But possibly the worst moment.)

DM: You guys come to a dead end. The smell is still coming from over it.

Koejin: Shit....

(We all check the wall to find no traps. But then... Alabaster touches it and a had grabs hold of him. It pulls itself out with his resistance and Alabaster is looking at a marble version of... himself.)

Alabaster: O-oh! Hail and well met... uh, me!

M! Alabaster: Oh! Hail and Well Met! How are you, my fine friend?

Alabaster: I'm quite well, thank you! How... who are you?

M! Alabaster: Oh, I am what remains of you. The you left behind when you left the Pelor faith!

Alabaster: Oh, I see.

M!Alabaster: Have you killed your daughter?

Alabaster: oh, no. That is.... no longer apart of the plan.

M! Alabaster: (grabs hold of Alabaster) I will do it then. I will kill your daughter. She is born of darkness, thus she must die!

(Everyone around him tenses up, but he somehow knows if he looks away, the creature will fade from his sight and go to kill Eris. He can only stare at it to hold it in place.)

Alabaster: (puts his hand to the copy's mouth and uses Create or Destroy Water)

M!Alabaster: (starts to crack and burst under the pressure. The amount of water forced inside kills the creature.)

((Create or destroy water has been a running gag in the campaign. It's been used a few times, but nothing really dark. Not like this.))

Alabaster:....(Still holding his marble copy with a stunned look.)

Art:....(walks up and pats him on the arm) You did what you had to do... Eris is safe now.

Theodora, nodding: Think of it as... you made the right choice.

Alabaster: (nods to both of them and closes the creatures eyes)

Koejin:.... we should destroy it. Just in case.

(They then proceed to break the thing into dust and we continued on our way.)

( We found the latter that brought us up to the castle. As we walk around to the entrance, Pelor stands by the door with his arms crossed.)

Pelor:.... what are you trying to accomplish here? Do you really think you can stop any of this?

Theodora: We're here to talk to Thia. Where's Thia?

Pelor, sighing: Look, last chance before I wipe you out of existence; kneel before me or leave my land and accept your fates.

Red, arms crossed(as is usual for her): Yeah, I'm not one for bowing to people. People bow to me.

Pelor: This goes for all for all of you?

(All of us agree. There will be no bowing.)

Pelor:....then so be it.

(Before he can move in to fight us, he is turned inside out and sucked into a little stone. Thia then drifts down, takes the stone, and crushes it.)

Art: ....hi, Thia....

Thia, glaring: Shut up, Art.

Art, nodding: Hmmm, mhm.

Thia: (turns to Theodora) Go home, Theodora.

(for a moment, her powers work on Theodora, but all of us stop her. This turns into a conversation about why the wipe is unnecessary. Koejin leads the conversation, then turned and asked for someone more "charisma based" to lead.

Art couldn't speak. Probably for the best. He and Thia have never really gotten along.)

Theodora: If you wipe out all existence, we won't be learning from our mistakes. Everything will end up being repeated! The war will be repeated!

Thia: Not if I don't allow free will.

Theodora: And then what is life? that's not a world; that's a simulation.

Thia:... better that than allowing a kid to grow up in the woods all alone.

Theodora:.... Thia, we can make this world better. Create a place where something like that doesn't happen. But this.... this isn't the way.

Thia:....Do all of you agree? Should I.... give up my power?

(This was a major turning point in the story. Because this is where the end boss was decided. And we told Thia to give up her power.)

Thia, nodding: Alright... let's go back home. No reason to strand ourselves here. (she opens a portal)

(We walk through to find ourselves in the tavern Thia owns. She wills away her power, but it's no big ta-do.)

Koejin: Did it work?

Thia:.... I don't know.... Art, give me some money.

Art:..... no....

Koejin: It worked!

(We all celebrate before we all notice the portal hasn't closed. When we turn and look, we see Pelor's face.... on Ticket Master's body. He throws it away like a mask and grins at us.)

Ticket Master: Guess who's the new God of Light? (smiles and waves as the portal closes)

(Outside, we hear loud banging. When we run out, we can see darkness and light bouncing off of each other before they begin to swirl and spread. They head for us.)

Theodora: (hears the voice of Bahamut and an open blue portal) Everyone! We have to go!

(Everyone dives into the portal. Art takes a moment before diving in with the group.)

(There will be one last session and we can all really feel it now. I'm kinda sad that Ticket Master is now the BBEG, but we all saw that coming. There's just a lot to figure out here.)

#adventures of art the bard #tiefling #dnd #dnd bard #dnd barbarian #dnd druid #dnd paladin #dnd cleric #dnd ranger #dnd wizard #homebrew gods #dnd gods #Art and Reita had a Blitzo and Loona moment and I don't think it was on purpose #That contract on Art and Wreybar's gonna screw them #Well... also Art's gonna be kinda heartbroken by all this #I'm feeling bad for my boy if you can't tell #shut up jay

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kazoo5480 · 3 years

Link

Killian startled awake to music coming from his living room, it was jarring as the loft was usually quiet and Emma was usually next to him soft and warm. He got up rubbing his hand over his face and put some pants on. Walking towards his kitchen, the scene he walked into was not one he expected.

Emma was in one of his tee shirts and nothing else, swaying her hips and dancing. August next to her doing the same, what he assumed was breakfast left in a heap of ingredients forgotten for the moment on the island. Fleetwood Macs “Little Lies” blasting out of the speakers, the two of them wore the biggest grins he had ever seen.

Killian leaned against the doorframe while he watched August spin her around his kitchen and sang the chorus with her dancing like no one would be watching them. It was an odd picture to take in, but he loved it so much.

August brought out that carefree side of Emma out-one he had yet to see, and he was absolutely delighted by it. She looked gorgeous, laughing, and smiling- her blonde curls swinging and bouncing with her movements.

“Good morning” he called out, and August winked at him, and continued singing and smiled totally unashamed and swung his hips as he began to beat the eggs. Emma’s cheeks were flushed pink, and she grinned at him, dancing her way towards him, throwing her arms around his neck, and sang to him as she swayed her hips. He leaned down and kissed her and released her bouncing form.

“Hi babe. We are making breakfast” she said, and danced her way back towards August, his tee shirt swaying dangerously close to the bottom of her ass. Killian struggled to peel his eyes off of his girlfriend and grabbed a cup of coffee seating himself at the island.

“I can see that. I am enjoying the entertainment very much- both of you” and August blew a kiss at him, and turned to sing to Emma, using the whisk like a microphone. Killian shook his head, his body shaking in laughter.

She looked so happy; her smile alone might crack her face in half. Toast popped up and Emma shimmied her way to grab it, swaying as she spread butter on the slices, tossing the plate in his oven.

The song ended, only for Whitney Houston to start up, the familiar synth beat of “how will I know” and her melodic voice coming out. August started singing, obviously they each had portions they sang, Killian thought laughing.

Emma grabbed her spatula, turned and began singing to Killian.

“How will I know if he really loves me?

I say a prayer with every heartbeat,

I fall in love whenever we meet,

I' m asking you what you know about these things!”

Killian swallowed thickly and winked at her with a beatific smile on his lips, and she spun continuing to sing with August who watched and smiled at her dance towards him.

August grabbed Emma’s hand dragging her back to the island twirling and dipping her. Emma’s head thrown back in laughter, her curls nearly brushing the floor, and August released her breaking out into full song and dance while Emma stirred the eggs. Killian felt like an intruder on this, but it washed over him- they were including him. His heart cracked wide open, this was Emma letting him in.

He knew the words, so he surprised both Emma and August by standing, and jumping into song with them, pretending to play the saxophone in the background while August and Emma impersonated Whitney’s portion. August laughed hysterically, and nodded at him- welcoming him into the fold of their pseudo family. Killian grinned like an idiot until the song faded.

Emma plated the eggs up and swayed to their playlist as she stood and ate. She watched Killian and August laugh back and forth, she felt something in her chest twitch unnaturally. August’s surprise text at the crack of dawn about a breakfast dance party had made her world light up, and watching the two of them made it pound in her chest.

August wanted to meet Killian, spend time with him in his space on his turf, and see her life- or what it might look like. Emma was touched, and it had been far too long since she let loose for their classic breakfast dance parties.

She rinsed her plate and left them to wash up and by the time she got back they were in a debate over music. Emma laughed, danced along to “A-Ha” while she washed and rinsed their plates. Killian stood and walked to her, kissing her on the neck. “I’m heading to open the shop love” and she grinned and nodded, kissing him quickly and watched him walk out.

August began drying the plates, placing them back in their places, as Killian came out pulling his jumpsuit up, a cigarette behind his ear. August’s eyes widened, and he shot Emma a look. “Jesus Christ, no wonder you fell for him in a day” and she scoffed slapping his arm.

“Hands off, Jones is mine” and August laughed at her.

Killian shook his head, lighting his smoke up while he opened the garage door and the entry door. He looked at the list, he had a few in the lot for pickup today, but they were done. So, he turned his own music on, and grabbed his clip board, figuring out what else he needed to get for Emma’s bug, and the sedan he was repairing.

He noticed Augusts Porsche out in the lot and shook his head. Emma and August appeared a few minutes later fully dressed and made up, and she kissed him goodbye as they made their way out to Augusts car.

Killian had just turned “fat bottomed girls” up on his radio, as Graham pulled in the lot in his wrangler. August lowered the soft top on his car and peeled out of the lot with Emma’s laugh carrying on the wind, Killian smiling after them. Graham got out and came towards Killian shaking his head.

“Humbert, it’s too early for you to look like you have a stick up your arse- Sheriff or not” Killian said laughing at his friend and stamped out his cigarette.

“Who was that?” Graham asked him sternly.

“A guest” Killian replied cryptically, just to mess with his friend.

Graham sighed, “seriously Jones.”

“August. Emma’s brother and best friend” Killian said smirking. “Why? Do you plan to arrest him this early for going slightly over the speed limit when no one in town is even awake aside from us?” and laughed walking away from Graham.

Graham rolled his eyes “you’re not making this easy man” and Killian shrugged.

Facing his friend, he lit up another smoke, and sat on a stool. “You want to talk, then talk Humbert.”

Graham stood across from him. “I’ve been a real asshole, I apologized to Emma, but I can see she obviously doesn’t care one way or the other that I apologized.”

Killian took in his rigid posture and inhaled the smoke deeply. “Why do you care if she accepts your apology for being a wanker? She is my girlfriend, not yours mate” Killian said exhaling.

He was trying to get under Grahams skin, a tested method that usually yielded results in deciphering Grahams mood swings.

Grahams eyes widened at that comment. Bulls eye, Killian thought.

Killian’s eyes twinkled mischievously, and Graham balked at him. “Your girlfriend!? That’s just bloody perfect, isn’t it?”

“Emma seems to think so, so yes” Killian said back, poking the bear, he was spoiling for a fight and he smirked as “black betty” came on the filling the garage and his adrenaline began pumping.

Graham groaned, “Yeah? well maybe Emma is…”

Killian was up so fast and had Graham by the neck of his shirt and against the door before Graham could even say it. Killian’s eyes flashed murderous, “You will want to tread lightly before those words leave your mouth Sheriff” Killian shouted an inch away from Grahams face, his forearm across Grahams windpipe.

Killian released his hold “Whatever your issues with her and I are, deal with it mate!” Killian barked out, and Graham glared at him.

Graham looked deadly, rubbing his throat he pulled back his arm, his sucker punch cracking Killian’s cheekbone before Killian had a moment to register what had just happened. He looked at his friend and charged at him, tackling him to the ground landing halfway into the lot.

He punched Graham in the mouth, and the sheriff spat blood across the ground. “Fuck you Jonesy. You don’t deserve a girl like that, and you bloody well know it!” Grahams accent stronger than he may have ever heard it sober.

Killian punched him again in mouth, and Graham flipped him landing a punch to Killian’s jaw. They walloped each other hard, anywhere they could reach that was open on the other. Killian felt blood running down his nose, and he spit it on the ground where it joined a mix of both of their blood splatters.

August pulled into the lot, and killed the engine blocking the exit as he took in the scene unfolding him. Emma looked up, and she stopped talking mid sentence, and August smiled at her. “Interesting scene” he mused and exited the car leaning against the hood. Emma leaned next to him, watching Killian beat the shit out of the Sherriff, and she would bet that it was over her.

August grinned at her, “Two men fighting over you? Pft. I expected more” he teased, and she elbowed him.

“Should I do something?” she asked watching them, and August grabbed her elbow “Nope. Let’s see what Jones is working with.” Neither man noticing Emma and August sitting on the hood of his Porsche watching them pummel each other.

“Get it out Humbert. Say it!” Killian shouted at him, and cracked him a punch to the ribs, feeling the skin on his knuckles split open. Graham landed a punch to his lower back. “The fucking kidneys you arse. What the fuck!” Killian shouted as Graham tried to chokehold him. Killian slammed the back of his head against Grahams face and heard the telltale crunch of a broken nose.

Graham released him, blood running down his chin. “You fucking wanker. You couldn’t just leave the lass alone, you had to put your filthy hands all over her. You don’t deserve a girl like that you fucking arsehole, fucking anything with a cunny up the entire eastern seaboard!” Graham growled out cracking Killian in his side with his fist.

Killian doubled over, hand on his knees, spitting blood as the pain radiated through his ribs. “That’s precious Humbert. I love her you asshole. What the fuck would you know about it? You wouldn’t know love at first sight if it bit you in the bloody pecker” he shouted breathing heavy.

Killian looked up from the blood covered cement, noticing the look on Grahams face he bent his neck to follow Grahams line of sight and spotted Emma and August.

“Bloody Hell” he mumbled. Emma’s eyes were wide, and August looked like he was about to eat a bowl of popcorn and settle in for a show.

Killian watched her step forward with deliberation, her beautiful face filled with anger as she gave him a once over and got right in Grahams face. “What the hell is your problem Graham? I don’t care if you think I am a whore, but you don’t have any right to hit your friend you asshole!” She shouted and her fist connected with the sheriff’s eye, and Graham hit the cement hard landing on his ass and elbows, groaning in pain.

August began laughing hysterically, and Emma shouted at him to shut up. Killian collapsed on the cement, and began laughing too, his lip split, and it bloody hurt. It was only too perfect that this small woman cold cocked the sheriff who lay feet away from him, hand over his eye.

August strolled up, extending his hand to Killian, and helped him to his feet. He stood over Graham, a wicked gleam in his eye. “Hello Sherriff” he sing songed, and Graham looked up at the stranger with a deadly glare. “I see you aren’t in a welcoming mood” he said, striding back to Emma and Killian’s sides.

Killian bent and cracked his neck and stepped forward extending his hand to Graham. Graham glared at him, his eyes flashing murderously, but he grasped Killian’s hand and he helped his friend to his feet. “Feel better Sherriff?” He said seriously to Graham. Graham looked at Emma and August and back to him, giving a stiff nod.

Killian nodded, “Good. Now get your ass out of my lot before I have to call your deputy to pull Emma off of you.” Graham looked at Emma, with something like regret all over his face.

“Emma...” Graham started, and she glared at him.

“Go! Now!” She shouted, her voice cracking, and Graham headed toward his Jeep as August moved his car. Killian watched Graham peel out of the lot, his tires squealing.

“Come on Rocky, let’s clean you up” August said leading Killian inside and Emma shutting the gate to the lot. August looked him over, “you got a first aid kit Jones?” and Killian pointed at the red case on the wall. August grabbed it, and grabbed some things out, wiping at Killian’s cuts. Killian winced when he dabbed his lip with an alcohol wipe.

“Bloody Christ!” He jerked, and August apologized and continued. Killian watched Emma pace back and forth, and as she grabbed the hose and began spraying the cement, rinsing the blood away. She didn’t come inside until she was done and slid the garage door down. When she met his eyes, she looked mad.

“Emma, I’m sorry. He had it coming though” and Emma nodded silently.

“Well, I am deeply entertained, here I thought this was a quiet sleepy town, and Emma would be fine here, away from trouble. Who knew you were the cause of the trouble” August teased her.

Emma nailed her brother with a glare. “Not another word August.” She sat on a stool and looked at Killian, guilt washing over her face as she looked at him, her green eyes sad.

“You really thought it was a good idea to beat the shit out of the Sherriff?” she accused him. “I told you I didn’t want you to fight with your friend, his opinion doesn’t matter” she said.

Killian shrugged, and winced as August cleaned a cut on his brow. “Alright stop nightingale, bloody hell.” And August tossed the wipe sitting on the stool by Emma.

“What shall we do with him” August asked Emma, and she smirked.

“Sandbag?” and August shook his head in disagreement.

“Waterboard?” August replied and Emma shook her head at him.

“Confinement?” Emma said smiling.

“Short Shackles?” August countered, and she nodded grinning.

Killian watched them, “are you two talking about bloody torturing the Sherriff? You two are completely mental!” he said, and Emma giggled.

“Just joking Killian” August said and bent to put Killian’s arm over his shoulder, his arm wrapping around Killian’s waist, and he got him up the stairs into the loft. “We need to work on his sense of humor Swan” August said to Emma, and Killian rolled his eyes.

Emma went to start the shower, then helped Killian undo his jumpsuit, as August steadied him while she stripped him. He heard August whistle lowly as he walked straight into the bathroom shutting the door behind him.

“Stop gawking Aug” she said and gathered Killian’s bloody clothes taking them down the hall to the washer and started it.

August leaned against the kitchen island eyeing her, “You are absolutely sure you want me to leave you here?” and she nodded.

“He does have an ass you could bounce a quarter off of” he laughed, and Emma laughed.

“Told you!” Emma said gleefully.

August nodded, “Do I need to worry about the Sherriff? Is he going to pull me over on my way out of town?” and Emma wasn’t sure.

“I don’t know, I don’t think so” she said.

“And you? Will I be wiring bail money to Jones? I have his account information already, maybe I should throw a few grand in there in case” he joked.

Emma rolled her eyes. “This is absolutely not how today was supposed to go” she said shaking some Tylenol into her hand and filled a glass with water for Killian.

August walked to her, pulling her into his chest. “Oh? You mean you didn’t foresee your boyfriend pummeling the town Sherriff in defense of your honor? Lets not forget the part where he said he loved you at first sight” and he felt Emma bury her face further into his chest. He smoothed her hair, holding her tight. “It’s ok Emma, really.” She leaned back and looked at him skeptically.

“Don’t run. I am telling you not to. I see it all over your face, you don’t want to drive two friends apart, and you’re looking to remove yourself from the equation. Do you know how destroyed Killian will be if you do that? And you? You are in just as deep as him” he said softly pushing against her walls.

She scoffed, and he grasped her arms not letting her go. “August” she said exasperated, and he nodded.

“I like him, he is crazy over you, and how could you not relish in the idea of two hot men with matching accents fighting over you? I would be bathing in that attention if it were me!” He laughed.

Emma rolled her eyes, “I just don’t want conflict; it is messy, and I don’t need that.”

August spotted Killian walking down the hall towards them and eyed him, and Killian stopped and leaned against the wall listening.

“I love you Em, I will be here for you if there is a dumpster fire at the end, but I have to tell you I don’t think that is what this is, or where this is going.” He said and stroked her cheek.

“You don’t?” she asked him in a soft voice.

“No, my dear, I don’t. It’s time you let Killian be your morning dance partner, and I will visit whenever you want me to so long as the Sherriff won’t be writing me a speeding ticket or keep a holding cell empty for me” Emma laughed and nodded.

August almost asked her if she loved Killian, but knowing he was listening wasn’t fair to Emma. He wouldn’t betray Emma like that, and he probably knew before Emma even realized it herself. “Hey slugger!” he called out to Killian.

Emma spun and saw Killian. She grabbed the Tylenol and the water, and he winced as he smiled and kissed her, “Thanks” he said and moved to the couch.

August clapped his hands together, “Well as you have Florence Nightingale here for your sponge baths, I do believe I should get going.” Emma looked up at him sadly.

“No Swan.” August said without Emma having to say a word. Her lip trembled, and August wiggled his finger, “you manipulative little duckling. No.”

Emma stood and wrapped her arms around her brother, “I love you. Will you come back soon?” and he nodded embracing her. She went to the kitchen and was grabbing more water.

He bent next to Killian “Take care of her” he said lowly.

Killian nodded, “I will. Thank you.”

August stared at him with an arrogant smirk “I’m serious. Take care of her or let her go. Don’t hurt her, or those torture methods will be used on you and the Sherriff both. I am holding you responsible for her wellbeing entirely.”

Killian swallowed, “the theatrics are overkill” and August smiled clapping him on the shoulder. “See you soon Jones” and waved, closing the doors behind him.

August made his way down the steps, spotting her bug, and slipped the envelope out of his coat pocket, placing it into her glove compartment, it should be enough he thought and quietly closed the door of her car, exiting the shop.

Emma watched him walk to his car and waved to him from the balcony as he backed out. He blew her a kiss, and she blew one back. She was going to miss him; she hated the goodbyes with him.

She looked at Killian who had a bag of peas draped across his eyes and cheek. She lightly rubbed his head, “are you ok?” she asked.

“Aye.” Killian responded.

“Thank you. For defending me, and August, just thank you. I am sorry you and Graham fought” she said grimly.

Killian removed the makeshift ice pack and looked at her, he cheek bruised. “I knew what I was doing Emma. It had to come out or we weren’t going to move forward” and she looked at him curiously.

“You purposefully antagonized Graham? Why?” she asked incredulously.

“We have been friends for a long time. I knew his jealousy ran deep, so I needled him until he blew, let it out. Him and I will patch it up, but it had to happen. I just didn’t know how you were involved exactly until today” he said and placed the peas back over his eye and cheek.

Emma heard her phone chirp; she went to it and saw Ruby texted her.

RL: “What the fuck Emma?” Emma sighed, and dialed.

“Emma?” Ruby asked.

“Hey Ruby” she replied.

“What is going on? Graham looks like someone hit him with a bat, said it was you. What happened?” She asked.

Emma sighed, “August and I came back from grabbing coffee, and saw Jones and the Sherriff pummeling each other in the lot. Graham said some shit about me, so I cracked him in the face for it. I only hit him once, Jones did the rest.”

Ruby cackled, “Ah, you were just the thing I was hoping for. We were too boring before” she said excitedly.

Emma huffed out a laugh “I live to be your entertainment Ruby.”

“As you should. So August is gone?” She sounded sad Emma noticed.

“Yeah, just left, but he will visit soon” Emma said.

“Ok, well I will drop by with some food later for you guys” Ruby said, and Emma agreed hanging up.

“So, the whole town knows?” Killian asked.

“Appears that way” Emma sighed.

“It isn’t your fault Emma” he said.

“Feels like it is” she said.

“Why duckling?” he asked.

Emma blinked. “Augusts nickname?”

“You can tell me only if you want to” he said.

“We were both scrawny kids when we ran. He used to read me the ugly duckling when I was smaller, he said I was the ugly duckling who believed she was a Swan. I legally changed my name to Swan when I was 18. The nickname stuck” she said quietly.

“I see. I think you’re beautiful” he mused.

She smiled, he was bloodied, and cut, defending her, he loved her. She recognized the unfamiliar twitch in her heart. She was in love with him too, but she wasn’t going to say that if she could help it. She leaned down next to him and placed a light kiss to his other cheek, and he smirked. “Get some sleep” she said, and he nodded.

Emma grabbed her purse off the stool in the garage and walked into town. She was going to find the Sherriff right now and end this today.

She went into the diner, and Ruby looked up surprised. “Hey slugger” she laughed at Emma.

“I need Grahams address” Emma said.

“He is at the station” and pointed kitty corner where his Jeep was.

“See you later, text first” she smirked.

“We need a sheriff, remember that” Ruby called out as she walked out.

Emma climbed the stairs and pushed open the door. “Graham” she called out.

“Here” came his voice and he was laid on a cot in a holding cell with an eye pack over his eye. Emma smiled satisfactorily.

“We are going to talk; I am going to talk, and you are going to listen. Understood?” She asked, and he nodded not moving the ice pack but struggled as he sat up.

“I don’t know why you hate me so much, or why you went after Killian today; you have been an asshole since the moment that you saw us together, and it is none of your business. I want to know why, because your friend is hurting, and you caused it. You really want to throw your best friend away like that? she said.

Graham lowered the ice pack, his orbital bone purple and swelling. He looked at her, “you have a wicked right hook” he said, Emma laughed.

“I was-am jealous. But you didn’t deserve me to say anything about you, I don’t even know you. I just knew there was something about you the moment I saw you. Killian- he doesn’t deserve you Emma” he said sounding resolved.

“You don’t even know me Graham. I am flattered, but I am with Killian, I am happy with Killian. I don’t know what else to say” she said.

He nodded, raising the ice pack back up and laid back down. “Well, that is my problem, not yours Emma” he said.

“Are you going to fix it with Killian? You guys cant be that dumb to fight over a stranger and throw away your friendship” she said.

“Jones and I will fix it Emma. You and I, no hard feeling I hope” and she laughed sarcastically in response.

“Sure, right” she said.

Graham looked over at her, “I am serious Emma. I deserved your punch. I am putting my feelings aside; I just haven’t felt this way in a really long time, you caught me off guard and I had hoped that maybe I made you feel something too. I just hope we can be friends at some point if you’re staying” he said and turned his head back away from her.

“Are you going to continue talking shit about me? Because that isn’t fair to me, or to Killian” she said resolutely.

“I have no hard feelings over anything today with either of you. I mean it. Going forward I wont either, but with a hook like that I suggest you apply for the deputy position” he said quietly with a smirk.

Emma sat next to him on the cot and nudged him in his rib which made him wince, “okay. Apology accepted. And no thanks on the job” she said and put her hand over his.

Graham smiled at her “he is a lucky guy. I hope he knows that.”

“He does, I am lucky too. He surprised me just as much.” She stood, walking out of the station without waiting for his response, heading back towards the garage.

Her phone chirped; it was August. “Look in your glovebox. JIC.”

Emma made her way toward her car and popped the glovebox open. She opened the white envelope, counted it and laughed.

“Five grand? You think I need bail money just in case?” she replied.

“You never know, and I didn’t want you stuck. Love you.”

She smiled and typed out “I love you too. Visit soon!”

She made her way up to the loft, and Killian was sound asleep. She went to the closet and tucked the envelope in one of her bags and zipped the pocket. August was always looking out, she thought and smiled. She grabbed her book and went to sit on the balcony while Killian slept it off.

Killian woke up, and everything hurt. He pushed himself up and noticed Emma out on the balcony. He smiled, despite the ache over his entire body it was worth it. She was absolutely worth it. He thought to this morning, to Augusts words to her. He wanted to be her morning dance partner, see that side of her, and he was fine with sharing her with August like that.

Killian also understood by August acknowledging him earlier, letting him hear what he said, he was saying to both of them. Screw Graham and his self-righteousness, he thought. He made his way out the door and sat next to Emma, and she smiled up at him, cupping his cheek.

“Are you ok?” She asked as he sat and kissed him lightly, trying to avoid the cut on his lip. He nodded at her. Emma swallowed, he looked incredibly sexy all roughed up. She swung her legs over and stood grabbing his hand. Killian looked at her confused, “Come on Rocky” and led him toward the bedroom.

She dropped her skirt and pulled her top up and off. Killian’s eyes darkened, and he winced when he accidentally bit the cut on his lip. Emma stepped into his arms, kissing all the cuts and bruises on his face. He caressed her back, and unhooked her bra, his hands trailing down her exposed skin, and she cupped his cheek, kissing him as soft as she could.

He moaned, and his hands flexed and cupped her ass, lifting her up and she wrapped her legs around his hips. Emma tried to not grab onto him too hard but giggled when he dropped her on the mattress.

She leaned up on her elbows watching him strip off his tee shirt and drop his jeans and boxer briefs to the floor, chewing her lip as she watched. He knelt over her, his blue eyes burning into hers and leaned down to kiss her, his tongue stroking hers, as she gently cupped his jaw.

He leaned back, pulling her panties clear off of her, and she nudged him to lay back, hovering over him on her forearms, her long blonde curls a curtain around his face as she kissed him. He tangled his fingers in the curls, bringing her closer, licking deeper into her mouth as his free hand gripped her narrow hip.

She moaned softly and he pulled back looking into her green eyes, he saw fire and lust breathing in them as she gazed at him. “I need you” she said, and he swallowed, nodding.

He nudged her hip and she scooted back, hovering over his cock, and she gripped it in her small hand, angling him before she sank down on him. Killian groaned at the sensation, how wet she was, and Emma leaned forward keeping her weight off of his chest and kissed him, sliding up and down his cock.

“Fuck” he said tightening his grip on her neck and hip. She kissed him lightly and her eyes stayed on his, he was lost in her, the sensation of her surrounding him, flooding through him. He leaned up, his cock hardened, stiffer than ever before.

The pressure point that Emma hit had so much blood flowing to his dick that his brain began to feel fuzzy, his head light. “Emma” he growled out and she moaned in response speeding her pace.

He traced his palm over her stomach, his thumb rubbing at her clit just above where they were joined, and Emma’s body shook, a tremor shot through her.

Emma was lost in the sensation; she was trying to hold back her weight not placing any more of it on him than what was needed. His voice cracked as he cried her name and she arched, hitting that spot deep inside her, and he continued pushing her higher with every swipe of his thumb.

Emma bit her lip, and began squeezing her tits, rolling her nipples as she rode him hard. She felt her orgasm coming, it crackling through her veins like a riptide, and Killian pinched her clit and she exploded screaming out his name as it took over her whole body.

Emma clamped down around him with her orgasm, her legs shaking and her hands gripping her tits as she slowed her pace, and his rushed out tearing through him. It was so intense it sent his hips arching into her, his hands holding her still as he pulsed deep inside of her.

He heaved for air, his lungs burning. Emma looked wrecked, and so bloody gorgeous. Her nipples rosy from her attention, the swells bouncing as she gasped for air. She rose off of him and laid next to him on her side smiling.

He rolled to the side, and he stroked her cheek. She placed her hand over his and turned it kissing his palm. He smiled and just laid there looking at her, don’t say it Jones, don’t do it, “I love you.” Emma smiled at him widely and her cheeks grew pink.

He knew by the look in her face she felt it too, but he was ok with her not saying it back. When she finally let him win her heart, it would be worth the wait to hear those words spill from her perfect lips. He kissed her forehead and pulled the sheet over them as they laid there staring at each other, wide smiles and she snuggled into him gently. He kissed her hair, letting exhaustion claim him.

Emma sat there, not surprised completely, but still a little shocked. He just said it, like it was the easiest thing in the world. He never stopped surprising her, and she believed him when he said those words to her.

She felt the same, but it wasn’t as easy for her, he seemed to understand that. The fact that he didn’t look sad or disappointed at her lack of ability to be as open made her fall even harder for him. She snuggled as close as she could without hurting him and felt Killian kiss her hair before she closed her eyes for a nap.

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#emma swan #august booth #killian jones #graham humbert #ruby lucas #once upon a time #ouat

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ollieofthebeholder · 3 years

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leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

Read from the beginning on Tumblr || Also on AO3

Chapter 50: Jon

“Do you have anything to declare?” the rather bored-looking man behind the counter asks without looking up from the paperwork.

For a brief second, Jon oscillates between how would you react if I told you what was in my pocket and yes, I declare this to be a complete waste of time, but he’s anxious to get this over with, so he simply says, “No, nothing.”

The man rattles off a few more standard questions, which Jon answers with only about half his attention. His eyes keep wandering over to the gates, just a dozen or so yards away. It’s so close, he’s almost there…

“Right, that’s everything,” the man says at last. He stamps Jon’s passport and pushes it, along with the requisite forms, over the counter. “Welcome to London. Next!”

Jon moves towards the down escalators, awkwardly attempting to stuff the papers back into his bag as he walks. Well, technically walks. He’s moving at a fast clip that doesn’t quite count as a run but could probably keep up with one. Part of his brain wanders off down the path of linguistics and semantics, trying to figure out what distinguishes a run from a fast walk, but most of it is preoccupied with what’s on the other side of those gates. Through the portal, down the stairs, outside and to the Tube station; he’s not thrilled about it, actually, but under the circumstances, it’s the best he’s going to be able to do.

Damn Julia for destroying his phone. Again. Nowhere has pay phones anymore, either. God, they’re going to be so worried, he promised to check in and he didn’t and now he’s a whole day overdue from what he originally said would be the latest he’d be back. The trains should be running, even this early, he should be able to get home before they have to leave for the Institute, and if he doesn’t he can just go the rest of the way to the Institute and meet them there…

He’s tired, he’s jet-lagged, he’s stressed. He’s used up too much of himself, given in to the Eye more than he should, and it’s overwhelming. He’s learned virtually nothing useful on this trip and he just wants to be home. He feels like he could sleep for a week. Or at least like he wants to.

When this is all over, he promises himself. When it’s all over, after the Unknowing, if Elias is still around, Jon will insist on vacation time for himself and his team members. They need the downtime, and Jon won’t lie, the idea of getting to spend a few weeks with just Martin and Tim is appealing. For the moment, though, he’ll have to settle for a few hours.

He would dearly love to take the day off. But Elias has made it clear that he wants them to think time is of the essence, so he can’t tip his hand and stay out too long. Maybe they can come in late. On second thought, though—he glances quickly at the outsize clock on the wall—he’s not going to make it home in time for much more than a quick nap, if that, before they have to leave. Maybe he should just go straight to the Institute, use the phone in the Archives to call and say he’s back, and curl up on the cot he still keeps in the storage room. He can at least get some rest, maybe—

“Jon! Jon!”

Jon’s head jerks up and whips around. He doesn’t have any checked luggage, so he just kept going and he’s crossed the line from the passengers-only area to the public area, but he hasn’t been paying attention to much around him. There’s a bit of a crowd, but not so much of one he can’t see Tim and Martin watching him from a few yards away.

Jon breaks into a run, never taking his eyes off of the two people he’s wanted most to see as they do the same towards him. He somehow manages to avoid tripping on a small child dragging a rolling suitcase and flings himself into their arms.

For the first time in almost two weeks, he feels some of the tension leave his body. Martin is soft, Tim is solid, both of them are warm, and he’s safe here. The song the Primes danced to, the night the three of them moved into their house, floats through his head, and he clings to Tim and Martin and inhales the scent he’s come to associate with home. For a long time, they just stand there clutching one another.

“Melanie’s right,” he says at last. “Jet lag sucks.”

Tim and Martin both laugh, a little desperately. Jon laughs, too, and looks up. Martin has at least a day’s worth of stubble growing on his chin and Tim’s shirt is inside out. It looks like they just rolled out of bed and came straight for the airport, or…oh, God. “Tell me you two haven’t been sitting here waiting for me since yesterday.”

“We thought about it, but no,” Tim assures him. “The Primes called and said you’d be coming in this morning.”

“We got them one of those throwaway phones,” Martin adds. “Honestly, we should’ve done that a long time ago, but…it’s a long story. We’ll tell you about it when you’ve had a chance to get some rest. You look exhausted.”

“So do you.” Jon looks from Martin to Tim and back again. “I’m sure we can take a half-day without anyone getting too upset. Do you think Sasha and Melanie will handle things for us?”

“Sasha owes us,” Tim says. He eases back but keeps one arm around Jon; Martin does the same. Jon shifts his arms so they’re behind Tim and Martin’s waists. “She’s taken a fair bit of time off these last couple weeks—and it’s for good reason, so don’t think I’m saying otherwise. But she owes us. I’m sure she’ll hold down the fort for a couple hours.”

“I’ll text Melanie when we get to the car and see what she says,” Martin offers.

They walk out of the terminal together and to where Tim has parked his car. Jon half-expects they’ll talk on the way home, but they don’t; he really is exhausted and he can tell they’re tired, too, so the ride is made in silence. None of them speak when they get to the house, either. They just head inside, where Tim and Martin pull Jon into the bedroom and none of them really bother to change into their sleep clothes, just shuck their outer layers and collapse into bed together.

Jon is plagued by his usual nightmares, plus a couple new ones, but honestly, at this point he’s used to them. He wakes up abruptly, but not screaming, and is momentarily disorientated by the brightness of the room and the awareness of another presence in the bed before he registers that he’s back where he belongs, safe and secure between Martin and Tim. Well, between is stretching it a bit; among might be a better word to use. They’ve somehow managed to end up in a tangled pile of limbs and extremities. Jon’s cheek is pillowed on the soft, warm fleshiness of Martin’s upper arm, his neck fitting easily into Martin’s elbow, and one of Tim’s legs is hooked over Jon’s hip. He normally doesn’t like the sensation of skin against skin, or at least he hasn’t with anyone he’s ever been with, but this feels…right.

Something clicks into place, all at once, and it makes his breath catch in his throat. When he called to talk to Tim and Martin because he needed to hear their voices, he didn’t expect to get so relaxed and comfortable that he stopped thinking before he spoke, and as soon as he heard the words love you both slide out of his mouth he panicked and ended the call before giving them a chance to reply. He’s spent as much of the last three or so days as he can—when he can spare the brainpower for it—turning his feelings over and over and trying to analyze them. He doesn’t doubt he meant those words, but he’s been trying to parse out what he meant by them and what it means for them all. Everything he’s been through between then and now has meant he’s been a bit stressed, a bit on edge, and hasn’t really had a lot of time to think about it clearly.

Now, though, he thinks about the safe and secure feeling he gets when he’s in their arms like this, about the desperate way he’s mentally cried out for both of them every time he’s been in danger, but also about the moments of deep and utter happiness they’ve shared over the last year, the nights they’ve laughed so hard they start crying, the afternoons they’ve spent with Charlie in their kitchen. He thinks about falling out of Helen’s tunnels into their arms and the perfect moment of joy when he saw their faces in the airport. Most poignantly, he thinks of the yawning chasm that seemed to open up the minute he crossed beyond the security barrier when he left London two weeks ago—the empty blackness that separated him from Martin and Tim—and for the first time, everything coalesces into pure certainty.

Love you both. Of course he does. He loves both of them with a depth he’s never felt before, and it scares the hell out of him because he runs the risk of losing them both to what’s coming. At the same time, it fills him with a sense of utter peace, because he has them now.

He wishes they could just stay like this a little longer, but an alarm he hasn’t realized someone set goes off and both Martin and Tim stir with varying noises of dismay. They’ve got to get up, got to get to the Institute. Still, Jon clings to them both for a moment more before, reluctantly, he climbs out of bed to go take a shower.

Tim drives them to work, and none of them argue.

Sasha meets Jon with a huge hug when he walks in. Surprisingly, Melanie offers him one, too. It’s a bit stiff, but it feels genuine, and Jon takes it willingly.

“I’m sorry you’re trapped here,” he tells her. “But for what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here.”

Melanie shrugs. “My choice. Maybe one I shouldn’t have made, but still…my choice. Glad I can help. Now tell me what I need to do.”

Jon’s more grateful to her than he can express. Looking around at the Archives, at the assistants, at his family, he can see now what he wouldn’t let himself see before: Sasha’s hunger, Tim’s exhaustion, Martin’s strain. They’re all on edge and they’re all walking a fine line. Melanie hasn’t fallen as hard as they have; she’s still just a regular assistant. Still a bit of an outsider looking in. She’s far enough away from all of this that she can…well, she can’t walk away, but she’s at least not having her soul sucked out of her body with every step she takes. And she’s choosing to be here, choosing to help. She’s someone he can trust to protect his people without reservation or hesitation.

And if what the Primes have said is even half true, which it seems to be, she can probably handle herself almost better than the rest of them.

“For starters, I’d like to hear what you’ve been up to while I’ve been gone,” Jon says. “Then, perhaps, I can tell you what I’ve been up to. We—we need to make plans.”

“War room or downstairs?” Sasha asks. “Either one should be fine. Elias left sick about twenty minutes ago, so we can all convene without him knowing.”

Jon is startled. “How do you know?”

Melanie looks gleeful. “Sasha went up to tell him you were back and that you’d be in later today and all that, and while she had him distracted, I distracted Rosie and mixed laxatives in with the creamer she was putting in his coffee. A lot of laxatives.”

“The whole building heard him, practically.” Sasha smirks. “Rosie wanted to call him an ambulance, but he insisted he’d be fine to get home on his own and that he just needed rest or something like that. I didn’t read his mind,” she adds, evidently catching something in Jon’s expression. “Or hers. Manal told me.”

“See, this is why I drink tea,” Martin says with a straight face.

Jon is torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to scold them both for recklessness. Instead, he says, “If you’re sure…let’s go ahead and do this up here. The seating’s a bit more comfortable.”

Melanie turns on her heel. “I’ll go get them.”

Jon ducks into his office only long enough to grab a couple of things, then joins the others in the War Room. There are a couple of additional pins on the board and a new color of string; considering it stretches from London to Beijing to start bouncing around the States, Jon guesses it’s tracing his journey. The whiteboard has a list of the most common names and places they’ve seen in the statements, with tally marks indicating how many statements they’ve come up with for each, but Sasha begins erasing it with the explanation that they’ve already made a more permanent copy of those notes. They’ve also set up a secondary tea station in the room itself, which Jon appreciates, since it means Martin doesn’t have to be out of his sight for the length of time it would take him to brew tea for them all.

God, the separation anxiety is terrible.

Melanie arrives with the Primes just as Martin finishes up the tea; Jon Prime crosses over to where Jon stands, smiling wanly, and pulls him into a hug. “I hope your trip went better than mine,” he murmurs in Jon’s ear.

“I doubt it,” Jon mutters back. Jon Prime sighs regretfully and lets him go.

He gets a hug from Martin Prime, too, and then they all settle into seats in a rough semicircle around the boards and single desk. Jon brings the mug of tea to his lips and inhales for a moment. Jon Prime is right, it doesn’t taste as good when Martin doesn’t make it. “Right,” he says at last. “Fill me in. What have I missed?”

“Not much, honestly,” Tim says. “A few live statements, Elias being a dick, and…whatever that mess was on Tuesday. But we haven’t been able to find much about the Unknowing.”

Jon is instantly on edge. “Tuesday? What happened on Tuesday?”

“Pick something,” Melanie mutters, with just a bit of an edge to it.

Martin sighs. “Peter Lukas was here.”

“What?” Jon barely manages to stop from dropping his mug. “I-I thought—I thought the deal was that he had to stay away from you.”

“The Institute doesn’t show up in those pictures in the Light, apparently, so there’s no way for the Keeper to actually know he violated the contract,” Martin says. “Unless someone tells him, which, well, if I can figure out how to find him, I’m going to. I got it on tape, at least, so there’s evidence. But yeah, apparently he had a meeting with Elias and made a trip down here first.”

Upset, Jon reaches over to touch Martin’s arm lightly. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’ll admit it was a bit rough, but that’s just because I was already kind of…not at my best. I took a live statement two days in a row,” Martin admits, wincing under Jon’s look. “But anything he did to me, I got over pretty quickly.”

Jon doesn’t like the emphasis Martin places on the word me, but when he turns to scan the others, he realizes the one who looks the worst off is Martin Prime. Jon Prime meets his eyes, and his lips flatten. “Peter Lukas trails the Lonely after him. I wasn’t here,” he says softly. “Martin woke up alone and…”

“It was a bit touch and go,” Martin Prime says. “But we’re all right.”

“Where were you?” Jon asks his counterpart. It’s not like him to go haring off around London, especially during the day.

“Hill Top Road. Your team found a statement I remembered…when Martin brought it to me the first time, I remember being tempted to investigate but feeling very strongly that I shouldn’t. I had the same feeling this time, so I went,” Jon Prime answers. “I thought I might get some…useful information.”

“Did you?”

“Not about the Unknowing.”

Jon waits a second, but it’s obvious Jon Prime isn’t going to say further, and he decides not to push him. Sasha evidently comes to the same conclusion. “I feel bad that I missed all of this, but I was out for the afternoon. My uncle called and wanted to talk to me, so everyone told me to just go.”

“Is everything all right?” Jon asks.

“Depends on your definition of ‘all right’,” Sasha replies. “He’s being released next week. Which is great, and I’m actually quite excited about it. But he also—he had a statement.” She points at the shelves. “Tape’s in there if you want to listen to it later, but short version, the Corruption killed my parents and grandparents. Uncle Wade and I probably had a lucky escape ourselves.”

“Sasha, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. Anyway, that was basically all that happened with us while you were gone. What about you?” Sasha pushes her glasses up her nose with her middle finger. “Did you learn anything useful while you were gone?”

“Maybe? Not by actually following Gertrude’s path, though.” Jon takes a sip of tea to brace himself, then sets it on the desk and takes a deep breath. “Did Martin and Tim tell you about what I found in Chicago and Pittsburgh?”

“Fat lot of nothing,” Melanie says. “Except for the fact that Gertrude Robinson managed to not actually get charged with anything after being arrested.”

“Essentially, yes.” Jon glances from Martin to Tim and back, knowing they’re going to be upset. “As you know, then, I planned to take the bus from Pittsburgh to D.C., then fly home. I should have been home yesterday. But…well, the bus I was on made a stop to allow us to stretch, and I was…accosted.”

“Jon,” Tim says, “did you get kidnapped again?”

“Only a little,” Jon protests. He knows how feeble it sounds, but it does at least get a surprised laugh out of Martin. “I’d—I’d had a feeling I was being followed since I landed in Chicago, but by the time I got to Pittsburgh…I’m sorry I didn’t say anything while we were on the phone on Monday, but I-I didn’t want to worry you two unnecessarily. But by then I was sure. I had hoped the cop that was stalking me would be left behind, but no, he was still after me when the bus stopped.”

“You got kidnapped by a cop?” Martin’s voice rose a bit in pitch.

Jon shook his head. “No, by someone chasing that cop. Alleged cop, anyway. You recall that statement last year, the—the anatomy professor with the students with the strange names?”

“Wh—oh, yeah, the Stranger statement. First live one after…” Martin waves a hand around the room, indicating the Primes, the timeline on the whiteboard, and his own scars.

“Well, apparently one of them was hiding out as a Chicago beat cop. Must have recognized me, or at least spotted the Eye’s influence on me. But he didn’t actually manage to get to me. I got kidnapped—or escorted, as she would have it—by Julia Montauk.”

Sasha’s eyes widen. “Robert Montauk’s daughter?”

Jon nods. “She’s working with Trevor Herbert. The vampire hunter. He’s still alive…somehow. They’re over in America hunting…monsters. Mostly.” He shivers slightly, remembering the smug sneer on the man’s face: The line gets blurrier every day. Could he…no. No, he won’t think about that.

Martin and Tim both reach for Jon’s hands at the same instant. He clasps them both, grateful for the connection. Melanie frowns. “Fill me in. Who are these people?”

“Robert Montauk was a serial killer, but he was also working with the Dark,” Sasha tells her. “Julia Montauk was, well, his daughter. She gave a statement a few years back. Trevor Herbert was a man who spent basically his whole life hunting vampires. Or at least that’s what he calls them. There’s this whole…thing. We thought at first he died of lung cancer, like, literally in the middle of making his statement, but apparently he survived.”

Melanie taps her finger on her mug. Her eyes go vacant for a moment. Before Jon can continue, though, she turns to Jon Prime. “So is he part of the End or the Hunt?”

“The Hunt,” Jon Prime says, looking surprised. “Why do you ask?”

“I thought so, but the whole cheating-death thing made me wonder, that’s all.”

“A lot of—of avatars have cheated death, in one way or another,” Jon Prime says slowly. “But it’s their patrons, I suppose, keeping them alive. One more favor.”

Melanie hums. “’S irrelevant, I guess. Anyway, I’m up to speed now. Go on. You got kidnapped by a Hunter and—the daughter of the Dark?”

“She’s with the Hunt now, too. I got their statement while we waited for Max Mustermann to—well, regrow a body.” Jon shudders a bit again. It was all a bit grisly. “They obviously didn’t know anything about the Unknowing, but I was hoping Mustermann would.”

“Did he?” Martin asks softly.

Jon sighs. “Mostly what we already knew. He didn’t even know when it was set to happen, just ‘when things are ready.’ I’d have tried more questions, but Trevor and Julia decided they weren’t going to get anything else useful out of him and dispatched him.”

Tim sighs, too. “So you got a net total of…nothing.”

“Not quite. Julia and Trevor offered me a—a thank-you of sorts, for helping them catch Mustermann. Apparently they’d been after him for some time.” Jon lets go of Tim and Martin’s hands and reaches into his pocket. “I made a deal at the time. Bring this back to England, promise to dispose of it after, and I’d get all the information I needed.”

Jon Prime chuckles slightly. “That sounds familiar.”

Jon pulls out the folded page he’s been carrying for two days. Martin eyes it apprehensively. “Jon…what did you do?”

Melanie leans forward. “Is that—leather?”

“Technically, I think leather has to be tanned first. It’s just skin.” Jon studies it. “There’s a book—Mary Keay had it. It’s got pages on it with—it’s hard to explain, but the pages are sort of…possessed by the spirits of people who’ve died. Technically, mostly people she murdered. Gertrude Robinson knew how to do it too, and…she bound Gerry into it. Uh, Gerard Keay.”

Sasha’s eyebrows shoot up. “Gertrude Robinson murdered Gerard Keay?”

“No.” Jon reconsiders. “Not technically, but I’m inclined to hold her responsible. She had to have known how little time he had left—his cancer was incredibly advanced when he was admitted to the hospital. But I-I don’t think violent death is necessarily a prerequisite for being bound into the book, just…fresh death. I wouldn’t know.”

“You’re right.” Jon Prime massages his temple with one hand, eyes closed. “I would rather not know those details, but unfortunately I do.”

Martin Prime slides a hand between Jon Prime’s shoulder blades and rubs gently; Jon Prime leans into him and sighs, almost inaudibly. Martin studies the page in Jon’s hand. “So what did he tell you? I—I’m guessing you…summoned him.”

“Nothing yet,” Jon answers. “Like I said…he promised to tell me everything he could if I would just bring him back here, and then burn the page after we’re done.”

He unfolds the page, takes a deep breath, and begins to read aloud. As the last time, the air grows thick and heavy, and the words taste bitter on his tongue. He aches with sympathy for the dying—technically the dead, but reading it, he feels there, the same way he does when he reads the statements.

“‘And so Gerard Keay ended,’” he concludes, lowering the page. And just like last time, there the figure is in front of him, with no clear idea of when he appeared or how he got there. Martin makes a strangled noise of surprise. Jon can’t help but smile a bit as he makes eye contact with the specter. “Welcome home, Gerry.”

Gerry grins and makes an ironic little half-bow. “Archivist.”

“My friends call me Jon.” Jon waves a hand around him. “And speaking of…this is my team.”

He introduces each one of them in turn, including the Primes. Gerry is particularly startled to see them. “Time travel? I didn’t know that was possible. How’d you do it?”

“Spiral,” Martin Prime says succinctly. “Not the best option in the world.”

Gerry studies Martin Prime for a minute, then gives Jon Prime a meaningful glance with a raised eyebrow. Jon Prime rolls his eyes, but there’s a fond smile on his face as he kisses Martin Prime’s temple. Martin Prime relaxes a little, and it occurs to Jon, all of a sudden, that he’s jealous, at least a little bit.

Turning back to Jon, Gerry folds his arms across his chest. “All right. I suppose you’ve got questions.”

“Just one,” Jon answers. “How did Gertrude plan to stop the Unknowing?”

He knows what the Primes did, but he’s hoping against hope Gertrude might have had a different plan. Blowing up a factory will work, but he’s afraid to let Tim get that close to an explosion in the name of revenge. Unless there’s a way to do it long-range…

“Don’t know,” Gerry says casually.

Melanie throws up her hands dramatically. “Great! Just great. Big help.”

“Hey, now,” Gerry protests. “Okay, I don’t know exactly, but…Gertrude reckoned it couldn’t be stopped ahead of time. It could be delayed, but nothing we could do would actually stop it properly. Even the Dancer could be replaced. But once it starts, it might be vulnerable.”

“Vulnerable to what?” Melanie presses.

“I dunno.”

Melanie lets out a string of profanity that would have had Jon’s grandmother washing his mouth out with soap and salt water. Sasha hides a laugh behind a cough. “Seriously, she never said?”

Gerry’s eyes twinkle. Jon’s pretty sure he’s enjoying teasing them. “She did say she had something that might disrupt it.”

Sasha rolls her hand in a go on gesture. “What?”

“Not long before I went into the hospital, she told me that if something got her first, I was…” Gerry pauses, and there’s a flash of pain in his eyes. Jon realizes he really, truly did care about Gertrude, in his own way. “There’s a storage unit on an industrial estate up near Hainault. She said she rented it under the name Jan Kelly, and hid the key somewhere in the Archives.”

Jon remembers the key he found under the floorboards with Gertrude’s laptop. “Oh. Uh, I think I found that, actually.”

“Well, it’s in that storage unit,” Gerry says. “Whatever she thought might disrupt the ritual, stop the Unknowing, that’s where it is.”

“But you don’t know what it is.” With a sinking feeling, Jon realizes it has to be some kind of explosive.

“No,” Gerry answers. “When I asked her, she said she’d show me when we got back to London. Mind you, she had this weird look in her eyes, like it was some kind of joke.”

Melanie sighs. “So we’ve got a net gain of…a storage unit.”

“Hey, at least I know where to go now,” Jon points out. “It’s something, at least.”

Gerry looks around at them, then turns to the Primes. “Did it work when you did it?”

“It did,” Jon Prime says quietly. “But we lost a lot in the process. We were hoping there might be another method.”

“I reckon if there was, Gertrude would’ve had more than one plan set up,” Gerry says. “She was like that. Never put all your eggs in one basket unless you only have one basket, or you’re damned sure of it.”

“Or you don’t have that many hens,” Sasha says.

Jon sighs and nods. “Thank you, Gerry.”

“Sure. Glad to help what I could.” Gerry studies Jon thoughtfully. “Don’t forget what you promised.”

“As soon as we’re done here.”

Gerry nods. “I think I’m ready to go now. Thank you. For bringing me home.”

“Of course. Uh…I dismiss you,” Jon says, a bit awkwardly.

Gerry sighs in relief and smiles. He gives a wink and a thumbs-up to Martin and Tim, and then he’s gone.

Jon sighs, too. He folds the page back up, then goes over to the metal trash can in the corner, drops it in, and fishes out the spiderweb lighter he keeps finding in his pocket even though he has definitely quit smoking. “Right,” he says, mostly to himself, then lights the page on fire.

None of them speak while the page crumbles away to ashes. Once it’s done, Tim exhales heavily and slumps in his chair, rubbing at his temples with his eyes closed. “Christ, that hurt.”

“Hang on.” Martin grabs Tim’s mug and brushes a hand gently against his cheek before hurrying over to the tea station.

Jon barely stops himself from dropping the trash can and hurries back to Tim’s side. “Are you all right? What’s wrong?”

“I’ll be okay. Just—lot of power, you know? It’s getting harder and harder to stop from seeing the marks without trying, and the—the page itself was bad enough, but watching it burn—I don’t know why, but it was painful.” Tim takes a few deep, slow breaths. “I’m okay, Jon, honest.”

Jon doesn’t move from Tim’s side until Martin comes back with the tea and slides it into his hands. After a few moments of inhaling the tea, with Jon on one side of him and Martin on the other, Tim finally looks up and manages a smile. “Sorry for worrying you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Tim.” Jon takes a chance and brushes the hair on the back of Tim’s neck lightly. “How are you feeling?”

“Bit drained,” Tim admits. “Should be okay tomorrow.”

Jon Prime sighs. “Tim, if you’re using your abilities…whether you mean to or not, you’re going to need a statement to really recover well.”

Melanie half-rises from her seat. “I can go try and grab you one. Then you can, I don’t know, read it while we go look at this storage unit?”

“We can do that later,” Jon says, waving her to sit down. “Look at the storage unit, I mean. As for the statement…” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the tape Tim locked in his desk drawer weeks ago, the one labeled in Gertrude’s distinctive handwriting with nothing more than a date and location. He holds it up to show everyone. “This is the statement we’re pretty sure is my father’s. Anyone who wants to can leave…but I think it’s time we listen to it.”

#ollie writes fanfic #leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)#tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #jonmartim #(yes both are applicable here shut up)#Gerard Keay my beloved

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stillness-in-green · 3 years

Text

Spinaraki Week Level 2, Day Four: Control | Edge

A return to a scenario I brainstormed up last time with/for @codenamesazanka: the “Shigaraki and Spinner Karma Houdini their way out the end of the series and run off to be vigilantes in BNHA!Macau” AU. That and, “Shigaraki’s hanging onto Mr. Compress’s quirk while he lays low,” is all the context you really need for this, but if you want more, it’s here.

Of course, back in August, there was still a lot we didn’t know yet about Shigaraki and vestiges...

(Content Notes: sleep paralysis, some body horror, AFO being Too Close.)

———– ———– ———– ———–

“So how are things going with you?” Compress asks him, the wind snapping so loud in his coat that he has to raise his voice to be heard over it. Somehow his hat doesn’t blow off, though, despite the fact that they’re having this conversation on top of New Oumun’s high-speed monorail. “Putting me to good use, I trust?”

Shigaraki sits sprawled across the roof of the train car, watching the buildings blur past, old alternating with new. It’s too bright out, but that’s how Compress’s dreams usually are—all vivid colors and frivolous moving parts to distract from what’s going on below the surface.

He shrugs in answer. “Used you to help us jump a high roller in his own suite last week. Threw all his chips out the window when we were done. We figured it’s what you would have wanted.”

Compress laughs, twirling his cane. “I hope you saved enough for a lobster dinner. I would have considered that an important component of my evening.”

“Would’ve had to pay for dry cleaning first,” Shigaraki replies, the smile tugging at his face still feeling strange after all this time.

“Ah, yes, the spectacle of you in a dress suit. You—”

Shigaraki looks up when the vestige breaks off with a hum of dissatisfaction. “What?”

Compress tells him, “Hold on.”

Movement in the corner of his eye, something broad-chested but quick, and then the cane’s hitting him dead in the chest. Pushed over the side, he plummets, catching just a glimpse of the form as it jumps after him. Overhead, the train flickers by, light rebounding off the windows, the sound of it a high, sibilant humming.

There’s a flash of black; the wind dies.

In the dark, the whistling movement of the monorail transitions to the long, even sweeping of a blade over a whetstone. There’s a familiar heavy sensation in his chest. Shigaraki’s eyes flick open.

Sensei. Ass planted on Shigaraki’s chest like it’s just the nearest patch of clean ground available to sit on. The weight burns, clips his breath short. Sensei looks down at him, head wreathed in smoke that doesn’t quite cover the edges of his hair, the brightness in his eyes. He smiles—a fitful, twitching little quirk of his lips like he’s trying not to laugh at something—and raises one finger to his mouth.

Get out, Shigaraki tries to tell him, but his lips won’t move. Sensei just reaches down and brushes at his hair, combing disarrayed strands out of his eyes. The boundaries of the room throb in time with his depressed heart rate. The cool rasping of metal on stone continues unabated.

Shigaraki’s body pulls up into a sitting position. His head swims with vertigo. Sensei’s sitting behind him now, chest to his back, arms wrapped around his shoulders. The edge of the cologne he used to wear back before All Might collapsed his skull worms its way into Shigaraki’s nostrils, warm musk and a hint of sage.

“A little walkabout, Tomura,” he breathes. A gnat in Tomura’s ear, one he can’t lift an arm to swat at. “For old time’s sake.”

Get out. Shigaraki’s eyes burn; his shallow breathing stays regular, level, even through the rising of frantic anger in his throat. His heartbeat roars low in his ears, rattling through the walls of their tiny apartment like a tidal wave about to make landfall.

All For One stands him up, tugging his loose shirt into place from where it got twisted around in his sleep. His heart pounds harder, but still so damn slow; dull clouds of red afterimage drift around the ceiling as his arms stretch up, fingers kneading at empty air.

Sensei fists his hand in Tomura’s shirt—his flesh twists in the grasp; he can’t breathe—and pulls him forward, and finally the whetstone sound scratches to a halt.

“Shigaraki?” Surrounded in knives and polishing cloths, Spinner looks up at him from the low table in front of the couch, his favorite katana fallen still mid-stroke halfway across the stone.

“Be it ever so humble, hmm?” Sensei asks, his tone amused as his glance takes in the peeling paint, the uneven floor, the clutter. Shigaraki’s eyes move away from Spinner and over to the window. “Ah, Tomura; what to do with you?”

Let me go, old man! You lose this every time! He tries to force his eyes closed, to focus, but between All For One and the damn sleep paralysis, he’s apparently not authorized for use of his muscles right now. As his feet walk him over to the window, the smells of the city spin free association images across his vision—the tired smile on the woman running the gai daan jai stall on the corner; Spinner working polish into his and Toga’s blades in their downtime during those weeks against Machia; Sensei sitting down beside him in his old bed and rubbing his shoulder until he could move again, winding a supportive arm around his back as he shook through the remnants of panic afterward.

In the distance, the casino towers climb over everything, obelisks stamped black against the sunset, periodically caught in the sweeping beam of their own spotlights. Sensei leans in from behind him, fingers knitting together over the top of Shigaraki’s head, elbows on his shoulders, and sighs appreciatively. The vibrations of it buzz through him in a steady thrum.

“We should be up there, you know,” All For One says. “And that’s just for a start.”

Spinner says something behind him, specific words muffled by the blood rushing in Shigaraki’s ears.

The feel of the sword resting on the side of his neck is a lot clearer.

All For One chuckles, and Sensei slides his arm down Shigaraki’s clavicle, fingers hooking in beneath skin and bone, flesh melting into flesh. He pivots them around to meet Spinner’s stare, steady at the other end of an outstretched sword-arm the apartment only barely has room for.

“Still so dedicated, Iguchi-kun,” All For One drawls, the grin stretching wide to show teeth. “But are you really satisfied with the one you chose to follow just scraping by in a place like this?”

Like the Doc’s lab was any better, Shigaraki thinks at him with all the vitriol he can muster. The katana isn’t quite turned all the way in, the flat of the metal cold and grounding, its freshly honed edge just a reminder of a promise.

“We have our own kitchen and enough space to curtain off the bedroom. That’s luxurious compared to how some people here live,” Spinner answers, curt anger in his eyes.

“But fear, too,” Sensei says, easy bordering on idle even as All For One is responding using Shigaraki’s tongue, Shigaraki’s mouth. Sensei’s broad fingertips trail one at a time over Shigaraki’s ribcage, and if Shigaraki couldn’t breathe before, he barely wants to now, trying to keep his lungs from so much as brushing up against those probing hands even as pain starts to clang between his temples. “He’s never been able to hide how afraid of us he is.”

And that’s not even worth arguing with. Shigaraki stares into Spinner’s eyes—the anger, yeah, the fear, sure, but there’s awareness there, too, because they talked about this before, and Spinner knows what he’s doing, beyond just keeping himself out of grabbing distance.

Spinner’s mouth moves, and the motion of it doesn’t match what Shigaraki hears—“Shigaraki, you got this?”—but it’s what his eyes are saying anyway as the edge of the blade turns in.

It’s barely anything, hardly even enough to raise the white line of a papercut, much less draw any blood. But, hyper-aware of his locked-up body, Shigaraki latches onto it, the impossibly fine variegation of the blade pattern pressing into his skin with as much clarity as Spinner’s open hand, the scales a rough, insistent comfort.

He reaches up and closes his good hand around the bare blade. Pain, sweet and hot and real, scores his palm and the insides of his fingers, and there’s a tsk of annoyance from Sensei as All For One falls away under the sudden sensation of slick wetness oozing past his knuckles.

Spinner catches him as his knees give out and the sword clatters to the floor.

“Shit,” Spinner breathes, and, “Let me see.” He lowers them down to the ground, one arm clutching Shigaraki tight around the waist. With his other hand, he gingerly turns Shigaraki’s palm towards the light.

“S’fine,” Shigaraki mumbles, rubbing at his face with his left hand. He’s trembling, which is annoying, but typical of coming out of a sleep paralysis spell—all that strain he was putting on muscles that couldn’t respond right until just now. The pain’s already fading, his regeneration kicking in just like it was designed to.

Spinner watches the wounds close up anyway, and conspicuously exhales once they do.

“He still talking?” he asks in an undertone, knitting their fingers together and dropping their hands back into their laps. His thumb rubs absently over Shigaraki’s knuckle, claw scratching across his skin.

“Nah,” Shigaraki answers, tucking his head up into the curve of Spinner’s neck. “He’s pretty quiet these days.”

“Not quiet enough,” comes the grumble, and Shigaraki huffs in agreement. They sit that way for another minute, quiet as the noise of the city carries on around them. Shigaraki breathes it in, lets it ground him—as he’s been finding for the last couple years, the more he’s got to ground him, the better. Wanting to tear down everything doesn’t give you a very stable foundation to fight for control from—go figure.

Finally, as the first moth finds its way in to start fluttering around the lamp, he straightens up, tugging free of Spinner’s hands. His partner gives him a plaintive look, at which Shigaraki grins.

“Scum of the city’s not gonna off themselves, Spinner.”

Spinner shakes his head, but he’s already fighting off a grin himself. “Yeah, yeah. Let me clean my sword off and I’ll be good to go.”

#spinarakiweeklevel2 #shigaraki tomura #iguchi shuuichi #spinner bnha #all for one #afo bnha #boku no hero academia #my writing #ficcing #bnha manga spoilers

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janekfan · 4 years

Note

Hello friend!! I thought of a prompt, and if you like it, it's yours!! What if Tim was kidnapped by the circus with Jon?? They're having a bad time together; Tim is hostile. Eventually, Jon starts to get quieter, and Tim thinks he's in a mood. Jon complains of a headache, and Tim thinks he's being a baby. Until he finds out he's burning up and was just too afraid to say anything because he didn't think he could take Tim telling him he didn't care 😭 (but, begrudgingly, he DOES) 💖

oooooooh this prompt! Had me feeling things! Thank you @taylortut!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26400745

It was Tim who woke up first, unsure of where he was, still with the residual anger he’d had on his way to confront Jon about all of this nonsense still burning incandescent. Hindsight being 20/20, he probably should have taken the anonymous tip on Jon’s location with a grain of salt and a fistful of caution but he was just so angry it was filling him up like a poison, overflowing with nowhere to go, and it was so much easier to focus on his boss because it was his fault they were in this mess.

It was his fault Sasha was gone.

It was his fault they were all trapped.

“T’Tim...” Barely an exhale and if the room they were contained in hadn’t been dead quiet, he’d ignore Jon. Still might. Let him sit in the guilt and shame of having inflicted whatever this was on yet another assistant.

If he even cared.

“Where...are we?” There was some light to see by, but not nearly enough to determine the answer to that even if he’d wanted to speak to him in the first place. Based on his own headache, Tim assumed that Jon had been knocked unconscious as well and corroborated it with the hiss of pain drawn sharply between his teeth.

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking that?” Snapping callously and surprising even himself at the harsh bite in his voice, Jon flinched hard, turning with it to examine the space.

“We’re tied up.” He remarked, nonplussed, and Tim heard him pulling at his bonds. It wasn’t rope, but something softer and before he could think on it further a shaft of light fell upon Jon as a being, not quite a person, stepped through a door. “Nikola.”

“Well acquainted are you?” Tim scoffed.

“Not by choice.” And he didn’t look anywhere except straight at the thing he’d named, vitriol in his eyes, in the firm set of his jaw.

“Oh, Archivist. Don’t be like that.” Her smile was inhuman, too many teeth, not quite right. “And please do stop frowning like that.” Jon turned away from the fingers claiming his chin and Tim had once been so close to him that he knew he didn’t like to be touched unless he trusted you. Like Tim had trusted him. “I want you in pristine condition for the show.” She snapped once and several mannequins surrounded and released Jon from his bonds. They tried to drag him through the door and Jon fought like a beast possessed, wild and feral and loud and no match for their sturdy yet gentle grip as they carried him off against his will. It left Tim alone in sudden silence, a little stunned and more than a little worried and he’d take that to his grave, thank you very much.

With nothing else to focus his attention on, Tim could only think of how awful Jon looked illuminated in that cold beam with that monster leering down at him. Could only think about how hard he fought before he was hauled away in cold, plastic hands and wondered if that was the last of him.

But he was returned, quiet and haunted, still and silent when they tied him back down and resisting the water they held to his lips until they forced it on him by holding his nose, sputtering and hacking as they poured it down his throat. Calm, Tim took his ration, puzzling over his strange behavior and trying to get a closer look, but Jon just hid behind his overgrown hair, using it like a curtain to shield his face and visibly shivering.

“Given up already?” He sneered, trying to get a rise out of him.

He failed.

Time waxed and waned, strained and stretched, dilating like a pupil in the dark whenever Tim tried to keep track of it. Eventually, he gave up. It didn’t seem like there was any rhyme or reason regarding when they took Jon, but he assumed it was at least once a day. Each time he raged against them with everything he had and each time they overpowered him like he was a child and hurried him off to god knows where. Each time he was tied back down he had an odd blank look in his eye that gradually cleared until it didn’t, trembling finely and Tim used it as a way to needle him, goad him, tried to make him do something, anything. Without a response he didn’t know if he was getting through to him, but it made him feel better to take out his frustration on Jon.

Days passed. Inexorably slow with nothing to do save yell at his sole companion. Jon still tried to make his taking as difficult as he could, but he was slowing down, losing strength on a diet of bread and sips of water. Now when he returned he shook with the effort of weeping without sound, turned away as far as he could and spilling sorrow down the front of his shirt.

“Oh, little Archivist.” Nikola purred one day, lifting his face with a delicately placed fingertip. “Do you know why he hates you?” A new game they were forced to play. Because they were held captive by the Circus. And the Circus had taken Danny. And Tim screamed himself hoarse demanding answers from Jon when he'd been told.

“You’re lucky I’m tied down, Jon! I would take my answers by force if these fuckers would let me!” Jon never said anything other than apologies and it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t fair and when Jon cried it made him that much more furious because what right did he have to be upset when he was the one doing all this to them!

“We can’t have that, Tim.” She would smirk, placing her hands over his shoulders in a mock massage, tone soothing and so understanding. “We need him to be perfect.”

“Perfect.” Tim spat. Perfect. And Jon shook harder at Nikola’s cryptic words until she turned her machinations toward Tim because, after all? If he’d kept a closer eye on his precious family, would he have lost him at all?

“It’s really your fault if you think about it.” Tim tried his damndest to get closer, grappling so hard with his bonds he fell over and still tried to take a chunk out of her with his teeth. She merely laughed, ridiculing them both.

“Leave off!” Jon shouted, Tim’s chest was heaving against the floor as he twisted and bent himself into all manner of shapes in a fruitless attempt to attack her again, blind with rage and hate.

“Only because you asked so nicely.” Nikola caressed his skin and Jon bit his lip until blood ran in rivelets but she left.

“I’m so sor--”

“Save it. Don’t think this changes anything.” Uncomfortable and sore and still seething, Tim laid there until they came for Jon.

Whatever they were doing was taking a visible toll and Jon’s resistance began tapering off and he became too tired to put up a fight. He’d developed a cough that kept them both awake. It began small, chronic and dry, but no less obnoxious and only Jon could find more ways to make this captivity more difficult.

“Stop it.” Clipped and bitter.

“Sorry, sorry. Smoking, you know.” Tim didn’t answer and Jon’s attempts to stifle it were sorely lacking, bursting from his chest like a gunshot.

“You know what they want, don’t you.” Surprised, he looked up, nodding slowly, brow furrowed. “Well?”

“It’s. It’s.” Real fear raced across his face before he could stop it and he swallowed thickly.

“Lemme guess. It involves you.” Tim’s ire began to rise because of course it did.

“Yes.”

“And you won’t just give it over to save us?” Jon looked away, eyes shut tight.

“No.” He tried to take a deep breath and it lodged somewhere in between. “But it’s becau--”

“Save it. Coward. It’s enough that you won’t consider it.” Resentful, Tim again wanted to get his hands on him because of course he’d refuse. There wasn’t a more selfish man in the archives. “So this is it then? We go the way of Sasha?”

“I--”

“Because you didn’t help her either. Didn’t even notice.” It was his turn to hide because he’d be damned if Jon saw him cry. “Maybe if she’d been the Archivist, it would have been you.”

Jon didn’t, couldn’t fight this time and was more lifeless than any time before when they secured him which seemed to please Nikola and she praised him, dragging fingers through his messy hair, pulling sharply on the tangles.

“Ah, you’ve finally learned, Jon." And she tapped his cheek, sickeningly tender, before finally leaving him alone.

“Giving up so soon?” Tim scoffed; ‘so soon’ being weeks into their capture when Jon was clearly exhausted, sleeping more and more in between waking enough to hack up a lung. He could hear the wheeze on his breath from where he was across the room. “Figures.”

“Jus’… m'head hurts.” Laughing bitterly, Tim told him to keep it to himself. Dealing with Jon when he was in a mood or whining for the sake of it hadn’t made it onto his agenda. But the part that cared, that he’d tried to stamp out and fill with hate, reminded him that they were both dehydrated and hungry.

Reminded him that Jon was getting quieter and quieter, going long stretches between speaking and this time when he was carried away, he was frighteningly lax and loose, head thrown back and gasping, overbright eyes half lidded. This time, when they dragged him back and tied him up, he was crying openly, shaking fit to fly apart and eerily quiet. But the tears were there, streaming down his face and gathering on his chin before his trembling got the better of them.

“Jon?” If anything, he sobbed harder, the sound choked off as he tried so, so hard to be quiet.

“Please s’stop, Tim.” And his whisper was so broken, so small and sad, that Tim shut his mouth, because Jon was at his breaking point and he’d helped push him to it.

Now Tim couldn't stop looking at Jon and it made the other man self conscious when he was awake enough to notice, trying to keep his head turned away when he had the strength and it wasn't thrown back over the chair while he gasped like a fish out of water.

The few times Tim caught him looking his way were fraught with weariness. Jon's red rimmed eyes, bruised and ringed with shadow, held a constant question and reminded him too much of his paranoia. Truthfully, the stare was heavy and he was uncomfortable with the weight of it leveled across his shoulders.

"What're you staring at?" But it was a half-hearted attempt at inflicting hurt and Jon shrugged, blinking and a few times as if to clear his vision.

"You okay?" It sounded like he'd been swallowing gravel, rough and low and painful.

"What do you think?" And Tim couldn't stop responding in anger, swearing to himself that Jon's defeated expression meant less than nothing.

Jon wasn’t well.

He’d been unconscious for the better part of a day and Tim hadn’t been able to rouse him; shouting at him from the other side of the room wasn't enough but he tried once more out of desperation.

“Jon, buddy. Jon!”

“Mmwha'Tim?” Cracked right in the middle, it was forced through a deep wet cough that sounded bad. Really bad. The effort left his narrow chest heaving with every difficult pull for air, like he was breathing through a straw.

“Oh, thank god.” Even with the distance between them Tim could see his face twist up in confusion. “You weren't answering me.”

“Talkin t'me?” Panting and pale in the weird light, Jon’s features seemed carved from shadow and sweat.

“Yes, who else??” More than used to Tim’s frustration and annoyance, Jon just let his chin tip forward on his chest. “Jon, what's wrong.”

“Head hur's.” Slurring badly, Jon gave up words altogether in favor of letting his dark lashes flutter closed.

“You've said! What else?” Yelling and angry and helpless, the guilt rose in him like a slow and deadly tide when he saw tears slipping down his face. Tim was scared and he was mean, shouting and demanding, because of it. Because he thought he was done caring about this paranoid menace who had posed as his friend and gotten them into this mess. And he wasn't, oh he wasn't and something was seriously, seriously wrong and he was tied to a chair two meters away and couldn’t do anything about it. “Jon! Don’t, hey! Don’t go to sleep!” But it didn’t matter, he was already gone.

“Well, don’t you look tetchy.” Tim ignored Nikola’s jab the next time she and her clowns came to visit and through a surge of protectiveness he hadn’t felt in so long for anybody, he spoke on his behalf.

“Please. Jon, he. Something’s wrong.” She didn’t look impressed.

“He’s stopped his fighting.”

“Let me check on him. Whatever you need him for, he won’t be any use if he’s dead, right?” Nikola laughed, cruel smile striking fear into Tim’s heart for the first time.

“It wouldn’t matter, truly. But. Well," grabbing a fistful of hair, she forced his head back and forth to get a good look at him. "I just don’t think he’s done yet. And that would be a shame--I do so wish to look my best.” Tim was no closer to figuring out what was happening but it didn’t matter anymore. “I assure you, if you try to run.”

“I won’t.” Swiftly promised, they’d escape another time. Somehow, someway. “Untie us?”

“Us?” She chuckled and in the end, only released Tim but it would have to do, and once he was sure she was well and truly gone, he stumbled on numb legs to stand over him.

“Jon?” Gently, like he might break under the weight of his hand, Tim laid it over his forehead, brushing back through his tangled hair when the heat of it met his palm. He was a furnace, burning away to nothing and very sick. “Jon?” He tore a strip off the bottom of his shirt, wiping away the sweat because there was nothing else he could do until he finally came around. “Hey, Jon.” Jerking away with enough force that Tim had to catch the chair, he coughed with his shoulders hunched around his ears like--

Like Tim was going to strike him.

“Oh, no, no.” What a mess they’d made. “Hey, none of that.” When he went to apply the compress again, Jon flinched, shaking, muttering breathlessly:

“Don’touch, please, don’touch me any’anymore. Pl’please.” So now he was free, free to see up close the terror and fear, faced with it plainly enough to question that Jon wanted any of this at all, or if he was just as caught in it’s spiraling web. He wore himself out, body slumped uncomfortably where he was tied as he lost consciousness and Tim was at a loss as to what to do. He wasn’t able to pick apart the knots, didn’t have anything to slice through his bonds. No medicine, no water. Nothing, and so he finally relegated himself to pounding on the door, shouting, pleading for water because Jon was out of his mind with fever and wouldn't let Tim touch him. Of course it went unanswered, and instead he found himself sitting crisscross at Jon’s feet. “Don’...don’touch…”

“I won’t, I promise. Not, not until you say I can.” Wringing his hands, remembering every time they'd helped each other through a sick day at the institute. Remembering when he was free to touch and free to comfort. Jon ruined that. But it shouldn't mean he was afraid of him.

“T’tim?” The whimper of recognition made the fist around his heart squeeze. “They...they’re. My skin. Take it. G’g’gonna take it.”

“Calm down, you’re not making sense.” And shaking so hard with chills his teeth were chattering.

“It’s going to, to hurt. She, Ni-she.” Worked up, Jon was hyperventilating, barely getting any air between his coughing and rambling but he wouldn’t listen to Tim. “It’s, it’s. I, I, I don’wan’to h’hurt anymore…” Delirious, he had to be, paranoid and ill and delusional and he said as much.

“Okay, Jon? That’s not going to happen.”

“Why Tim!” Nikola’s delighted voice rose up behind him and he startled. “He didn’t tell you? This ritual requires a special ingredient, a costume! Of special power and distinction and you,” she tapped his forehead sharply, “just don’t fit the bill!”

“Costume?”

“Of course!” When she clapped her hands together it made a sharp plastic clatter. “Our Archivist here will have the most lovely skin when we’re through with him.” Tim felt sick to his stomach. Jon. He’d. He’d called him a coward. Wished awful things on him and maybe it would be impossible to be friends again but, but they’d been friends once. Been close once. And.

“Please. He, he needs water.” His voice shook. “His--” skin “It’ll be better if he’s had enough water.”

“A wonderful idea!” She turned away from where she was tracing lines over his body, “to think I wanted to kill you upon arrival, when you’ve been so useful in keeping our mutual friend in line!”

“Slow, slow Jon.” He pulled the cup away when it seemed he’d try for the whole of it at once, “you’ll make yourself sick.”

“T’Tim...need.”

“I know, be patient.” Jon’s brown eyes were piercing even glassed with fever, all his limited focus directed at Tim.

“N’no.” He paused to get enough breath to speak. “Run. You n’need to run.” Days ago, Tim would have done so in a heartbeat but the thought of abandoning him now. He couldn’t.

“I cant.”

“Tim”

“No, not without you.” His gaze was devastating and he dropped his head.

“Why?” He didn’t have an answer and thankfully didn’t need one because at that very moment a yellow door appeared where one had never been before and through it stepped a man who both was and wasn’t, face ever changing, limbs elongating in strange intervals and he had to look away.

“I’ve come to kill you, Archivist.” A distorted echo that was also not an echo filled up the room.

“Get in line, you’re not the only one who wants a piece.” The being seemed taken aback, tickled that a human would even dare, and Jon used the gap in their conversation to draw its attention.

“Michael.” The thing that was Not What It Is shifted focus, oil on water. “Tell me.” And while Jon couldn’t say anything more than that, he did and instead of killing the archivist, Helen saved him, using sharp fingers that warped and writhed to slice the bonds and send him sprawling to the ground. Or would have, if Tim hadn’t caught him. He wouldn’t respond to Tim’s shaking and shouting and when Helen offered to grant them both safe passage as a favor to her favorite Sims (her only Sims, Tim figured) he lifted him into his arms and stepped through the door.

And into his own flat.

“Do tell him I say hello, would you?”

“Uh, yeah. ‘Course.” Awkwardly, he waved with his arms still full of Jon. “Thanks.” When he was sure his flat had only the same number of doors it came with, he laid his burden down on the couch, heading to the medicine cabinet for any fever reducer he could find and filling a glass with water on the way. It took too much time to wake him and he wasn’t aware enough to parse the instructions Tim was trying to explain, that dreadful whistling almost deafening this close and the crackling in his lungs like dry leaves in autumn. So he propped him up against his shoulder, body blazing through their clothes, and slipped the pills onto his tongue one at a time so he could swallow them with small sips. Replacing himself with several pillows shoved behind him, Tim wrung out a cool flannel and smoothed it over his forehead, ignoring the sluggish, enquiring gaze until it disappeared behind heavy lids and his face relaxed into sleep.

There wasn’t anything in the fridge that survived his absence save for the bicarbonate of soda and beyond that, Tim didn’t want to take a chance opening anything. The bread was moldy, but a packet of biscuits with peanut butter helped dull the hunger and, though he would never admit it, gave him a reason to stay up to watch over Jon. Flushed and fevered, he mumbled nonsense in his sleep, and Tim recognized enough that he soon decided not to listen, the horror of it too much to bear just yet. He fell into his own bed, relaxing sore muscles and glanced at the clock blaring too bright numbers that he didn’t want to read, his last conscious decision that they’d been gone this long, what was one more night before telling everyone else they weren’t dead.

The sun, blessed sun, fell across his face and he let himself have a lie in until he remembered who was passed out on his couch and he dragged himself towards responsibility, a knot of apprehension tight in his throat, relaxing when Jon looked, well, not well, but better. Apparently sensitive to being watched, their eyes collided briefly before ricocheting away and Tim was irritated by it and the way Jon was avoiding him again.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were that sick?” Though Tim stood over him, Jon continued to look at his hands, tracing a finger over the rough scar spanning his whole palm. He took his time, thinking, so long that when Tim shouted “well?!” he jumped, eyes wide, breath catching.

“You. You said.” Coughing into his elbow, he needed a moment to recover. “Said t’to keep it to myself.”

“When you were complaining about a headache!” Jon shrugged with one shoulder, curling into himself small and fragile, somehow more so in the late morning light.

“Didn’t think--”

“No, you didn’t, you never do, Jon!”

“--you’d want to know.”

“Jon.” But would he have wanted to know? Would he have ignored it like he had his anguish? What reason had Tim given him when he’d used everything he experienced in that room and out of it as a weapon against him? Jon was looking up at him, wan and pallid, waiting for whatever Tim had to say and he knew he would take it like he’d taken it in their captivity. He sat on the low table in front of the couch. “Jon. I’m. You know I’m angry with you.” He nodded. “I’m sorry for, I took it too far. But, I’d still have wanted to know.” He pressed the next dose of medicine into his unblemished hand and made sure the water glass was within reach. “Take those.” Before he slipped into the kitchen and away from their shared mistakes, but he could still hear.

“Thank you, Tim.”

“Oh,” he popped his head back into the sitting room. “Helen says hello.” And chuckled when Jon threw an arm over his eyes with a groan.

#Tma #the magnus archives #sick jon #Jon Sims #tim stoker #Headache #Fever #non con touching #Kidnapping #Threats of bodily harm #Prompt

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dontasktheradiodemon · 3 years

Text

King Cake (2/12/2021)

Alastor sends a hostage letter to Sir Pentious @hiss-and-vinegar letting him know that his king cake is ready. Sir Pentious boldly tracks down Alastor at his secret lair (the hotel he hangs out at every single day) to retrieve the hostage cake.

They hang out in the kitchen, chat, and hatch a dastardly plot to break into another ring of Hell and steal scrap metal.

And there’s an exciting surprise at the end!! You should read it! It’s exciting!!!

Alastor

There's a pompous trumpet fanfare out of nowhere to call attention to a small portal opening up in midair, just in time for a folded paper to drop through.

Unfolded, there's a Polaroid of a chocolaty-looking Bundt cake with careful stripes of gold colored sugar, with the tip of a knife looming threateningly over the innocent cake. The polaroid is paper clipped to a letter made of words cut and pasted from a newspaper, reading: "meet me tonight or the cake gets it !"

The letter is signed with Alastor's KTRD stamp, which begs the question of why he took the time to cut up a newspaper rather than just write the letter himself.

Sir Pentious

Sir Pentious knows exactly why Alastor did it this way. Because he's EXTRA. Just like Pentious is. In fact, when Penny reads the letter, he's SNICKERING to himself.... until it's a FULL BLOWN CACKLE!

Receiving a letter? Excellent. RECEIVING A RANSOM NOTE??? HAHAAAAA!!! He LOVES IT. Their humor is based on PACKAGED BOMBS, after all. Sir Pentious slithers over to his planner, and begins jotting the information down. Just in case!!! You never know if you'll get distracted. Hee hee.

Alright Alastor, he's going to go take a bath and make sure he's all ready for tonight.

Alastor

Alastor, in all his vast wisdom, totally neglected the most important part of a hostage letter: a time and place for the hostage exchange to take place. He sort of thought that Sir Pentious would message him to arrange a pickup. Someday he'll learn not to assume anything.

At any rate, since he doesn't hear from Sir Pentious, he figures maybe he hasn't seen the letter yet or else doesn't have time to pick up the hostage tonight. If he doesn't hear from Sir Pentious by midnight Alastor will message him to make sure he got the note and that he didn't misinterpret it as a real threat instead of a joke, but in the meantime he distracts himself with hotel business and his other Mardi Gras plans.

Sir Pentious

Yep, it never even dawned on Sir Pentious to just... message him. Likely that meant to meet at the Hotel! Isn't that where Alastor often hung out anyway? It was just easier to meet there anyway, with its strange dimensional ways.

When the time comes, he's slithering into the lobby, still wearing his usual outfit. Should he have dressed up? WELL, there was nothing about dressing up so... Anyway here he is, tongue flicking and all. Slimther slimther.

Alastor

It's not going to be hard to find Alastor—just follow the sound of accordions and loud French singing. He's been playing almost nothing but this song for over a week. Seriously, he's got a dozen different versions of this song.

He's taken over the hotel lounge with various sewing junk: colorful fringes made of scrap fabric, scissors, half-hemmed squares of fabric. At the moment, he's attaching strings of pearls to a fancy-looking dark blue-green coat.

Sir Pentious

Oh! Look at THAT! His eyes widen, ALL of them, and he *beams*, all of his sharp yellow teeth gleaming. A party! Le Carnaval est commencé! He's going to slither in more fully, as he takes in a *deep breath*.....

"*JOYEUX CARNAVAL, MON AMI!!!*" Yes, nothing like screaming during festivities.

Alastor

Alastor starts and jumps out of his seat—oh, Sir Pentious is *here*—and hollers back, "Joyeux carnival!" Why is he hollering, they're in the same room. He tosses down his project and prances across the room to Sir Pentious, half dancing to his music before he finally stops it so they can talk properly. "Look at you, tracking me down in my secret lair—some hostage-taker I am! That'll teach me to send ransom notes."

Sir Pentious

"WELL, YOU COULD BE BETTER AT IT IF YOU INCLUDED A MEETING PLACE AND A MORE APPROXIMATE *TIME*, BUT ALL YOU SSSAID WAS MEET YOU AT MIDNIGHT! WHERE ELSE WOULD I CONCLUDE TO GO?" He lids his eyes, smirking, "ROSIE'SSSS? I THINK NOT!"

They can tease each other about that. *It's allowed.* He straightens his posture and gestures about, "YOU'VE DONE A VERY GOOD JOB DECORATING! BUT I SHOULD HAVE EXPECTED AS MUCH FROM A SHOWMAN SSSUCH AS YOURSSSSELF!"

Alastor

"Well—! I thought we were going to arrange a time and place. I didn't want to say 'let's meet at so-and-so,' I didn't know what your availability was. Say, what kind of a victim of a terrifying kidnapping doesn't go and *ask* when and where to meet for an exchange?" Tisk tisk.

He surveys his mess. "Oh, yes—I'm not finished. Most of this decoration is for *me*, believe it or not!" He picks up a battered leather coat, onto one side of which he's messily sewn about half of the colorful fringes that are scattered around the room; and then tosses it back down. "I always start preparing too late, I never figure out what I'm doing for Mardi Gras until the last minute!"

There's a ding like an elevator arriving. "Ah! But you're not here for costumes, you're here for a cake!"

Sir Pentious

.... OH it's for a COSTUME? And here Sir Pentious thought Alastor was decorating.... He kind of looks sheepish a moment, then clears his throat. The reminder of cake has him smiling again.

"YES!! I ENJOYED THE PHOTOGRAPH VERY MUCH, IT LOOKSSS TASTY. I AM EAGER TO TRY IT."

Alastor

"Then by all means!" He leads Sir Pentious toward the kitchen.

"Do you want to try it here? Hard to play the whole king cake game without enough participants to eat the whole thing at once, but! There's no reason you can't eat it bit by bit, really."

Sir Pentious

.... He makes a face......................

"I DON'T WANT TO *SHARE* MY CAKE....." Squint, "I WILL EAT IT WITH *YOU*, BUT IT'SSS MY CAKE!" A real gentleman, truly.

Alastor

"All right! It might take you a few days to find the winning slice, then. But hey! That guarantees you'll be the one to get it!" It's not the traditional way to play, but they're celebrating a Catholic holiday in Hell, who gives a fuck about tradition.

Sir Pentious

Who gives a FUCK indeed. He purrs, and gives Alastor's shoulder a *squeeze.*

"I IMAGINE IT MUSSST HAVE BEEN DIFFICULT TO MATCH MY SPECIFICATIONSSS, BUT YOU WOULD BE THE MAN TO DO IT!"

Alastor

He leans into the squeeze and beams at the praise. "I worked it out! It *was* a challenge, but I'm proud of the results! Just don't eat the cake in the dark."

Sir Pentious

Blink.

"WHY? THAT SSSOUNDSSS OMINOUSS."

Alastor

"What, do you want me to ruin the surprise?" The sweetest, most innocent smile.

He manages to maintain it for a couple of seconds before he cracks and laughs at himself. "Ha! No, I'm kidding, I haven't done anything to it, there's nothing you need to worry about—but you *do* need to eat it with the lights on."

Sir Pentious

He makes a RATTLING sound, face VERY close to Alastor's before he pulls back, "YOU GOT MY HOPESSS UP FOR SSSOMETHING, ALASSSTOR! BUT A TASSSSTY TREAT WILL HAVE TO DO. WOULD YOU LIKE TO HAVE SSSOME WITH ME? I HAVEN'T BROUGHT ANYTHING MYSELF."

Alastor

"I don't tamper with friends' food." He tilts up his chin, as if turning his nose up at the very *thought* of such a thing.

Here's the kitchen and there's the cake, under a little lid to keep it fresh; he removes the lid with a flourish. It looks like the picture. Sans the knife hanging over it. "Oh, maybe a bite or two if you don't want your whole slice, but I don't really like cake." Says the guy who's been constantly baking cakes for the last week and a half. "Anyway! It's designed to be cut into eight sections, you can see from the ridges formed by the cake pan. Take whatever slice you want."

Sir Pentious

Hmmm.... Alastor doesn't like cake! Penny squints at him.

"YOU KNOW WHY YOU DON'T LIKE CAKE? BECAUSE YOU DON'T LIKE TEA. IF YOU LIKED TEA, YOU'D BE MORE CULTURED." He's got the shit eating GRIN. THIS MAN IS IN A GOOD MOOD.

He takes a plate, then a slice.... What does this cake taste like? Time to take a bite and find out!

Alastor

"Oh, is that the reason! Is that why it is! That's the cause and effect chain, enjoying tea causes you to enjoy cake." He elbows Sir Pentious lightly as he passes on the way to a cabinet. "You're lucky I'm not cultured, then. It's more cake for you." He grabs a bag of homemade jerky out of a cabinet—see, he's eating something too—and plops down in a chair near Sir Pentious.

The cake is, unsurprisingly, chocolate—but with a slight citrusy flavor mixed in. Although it was clearly made in a Bundt cake pan, Alastor took the trouble to slice it in half and add an extra layer of chocolate frosting in the middle, with additional colored sugar dyed black mixed into the frosting that makes it shimmer a little.

Alastor watches intensely as Sir Pentious takes his first few bites of the cake; but he loses interest after a few seconds and monches his jerky.

Sir Pentious

Alastor losing interest in watching Pentious eat? THE NERVE!

Sir Pentious is DELIGHTED by the flavor, and he's actually humming out "Mmmm"s as he eats it, eyes closed in pleasantness.

He's doing that thing where he rubs a cheek while he chews. Yumby.

Alastor

HAHA NEVER MIND it's cute and now he's interested again. "I take it you like it!"

Sir Pentious

"I DO, YOU ALWAYSSSS FIND A WAY TO OUTDO YOURSELF. HOW DID YOU COME BY THESE INGREDIENTSSSSS? HAVE HELP SSSSECURING THEM?" He gently dabs ( <:dab:618107764211712020> ) a napkin to his mouth.

Alastor

"All box mix, actually! Chocolate and lemon. I got them at one of those upscale grocery stores where the demon nobility goes, they've got a fairly well-stocked section of mortal realm imports. It just takes a couple of substitutions from the box recipe."

Sir Pentious

"HMMMM.... BOX RECIPES, HMMM...." He's going to eat more of his slice. It is rather filling.

"WE SHOULD HAVE TEA! OR, *I* SHOULD HAVE TEA."

Alastor

On his feet! "We've got *some* running around. What kind?" He opens a cabinet and pushes aside like five varieties of coffee looking for tea behind it.

Sir Pentious

"EARL GREY." He swivels his head to watch Alastor dig around.

Alastor

“Earl Grey,” Alastor muttered. He shoved aside a half dozen boxes of herbal tea. “Ah-ha! Here we are!” He retrieved the tea triumphantly, then went looking for the other supplies they’d need.

Once he had the water heating on the stove, he plopped down next to Sir Pentious again. “What teas *do* you like? Besides Earl Grey.”

Sir Pentious

His tongue wiggles as he thinks, and he begins cutting another piece of the slice with his fork.

"ENGLISH BREAKFAST!" Prr prr prr. "HAVE YOU HAD IT? NO OF COURSE NOT. IT HAS A SWEET, ALMOST FRUITY TASTE TO IT."

Alastor

“I’ve had it! At some point. As I recall, it tasted quite a bit like tea.” He smirked. “I’m not a fan of sweetness, either.”

Sir Pentious

"BOTTOM OF THE POT, *GRAINY* BLACK COFFEE FOR YOU ONLY, EH? HOW *DO* YOU SURVIVE." Snort, "OH RIGHT! DEAD, TOO! NYAAAA HA HAAAAAAA!"

Alastor

With great dignity, Alastor said, “I drink the *highest quality* of coffee. Look at this.” He leaned back in his chair to open the cabinet and point at a coffee bag with a skull and crossbones on it. “Look at that! This is almost pure caffeine!” Studio laughter. “But seriously! I have a refined palate, and it applies as much to coffee as it does to anything else.”

Sir Pentious

"ALASSSTOR, YOU EAT PEOPLE, HOW REFINED CAN IT GET? OR IS IT SSSSIMPLY SSSO BECAUSE YOU SSSAY IT ISS?"

Alastor

“I don’t eat people because I have *low standards.* If I had low standards, I’d be willing to choke down whatever hellish fauna’s ground-up offal is used to make the patties in fast food joints.” He sticks out his tongue, bleh. “I eat people because my standards are *high.* The simple fact is that quality ingredients are hard to get in Hell, and meat is no exception! Hell’s native game is *incredibly* difficult to hunt—and not particularly delectable, at that. Imported meat is expensive, rare, and often spoiled when you get it from the long trip to Hell. On the other hand, sinner meat is flavorful, *much* easier to hunt, self-replenishing, and comes in varieties that taste very similar to familiar mortal domesticated animals. I’ve *discussed* it on my *blog.*” He says this all self-importantly.

Sir Pentious

HEE HEEEEEE! He's giggling to himself while Alastor goes on his rant. It IS very informative, and he's certain he's read that before.

"ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT! THOUGH ONLY IN HELL COULD IT BE ARGUED IN THAT MANNER! CANNIBALS ARE NOT WELL REGARDED IN THE LIVING WORLD."

Alastor

“Well of course not, cannibals in the living world kill people! Cannibals in Hell only *inconvenience* people.” He started counting off on his fingers: “Now, granted, almost all the premortem cannibals I’ve talked to have been Americans—that’s what you’ve got in the area—but generally they were eating people for one of four reasons: starvation; hatred; a fetish; or Catholicism.” Studio laughter. “That’s a communion joke for you—but the first three reasons stand. Plenty of postmortem cannibals started for one of those three reasons, sure—but more than you’d think got into it for the culinary convenience of it! Especially if they’re buying from the butcher instead of doing the hunting themselves.”

Sir Pentious

Alastor you probably intended that communion joke to be a fly by or maybe a light chortle, but Sir Pentious was also a catholic, and instead of just snorting, he launches into a full fledged WAAAAAH HAHAHAAAAAAA at the joke.

"*CATHOLICISM!!!!*" Look at him clap his hands together. Glee. He loves a groaner.

Alastor

He politely pauses for the uproarious laughter. A comedian is never going to complain when his audience finds his joke *more* funny than he expected them to—especially if he’s performing in front of his favorite audience.

Sir Pentious

Don't mind him, wiping tears from his eyes at that one. Fuck catholics!

"APOLOGIESSS, YOU WERE SSSAYING?"

Alastor

“Oh... I didn’t have anything to add to the point. Just the differences between antemortem and postmortem cannibalism.” A shrug.

He takes advantage of the slight lull in the conversation to hover over a teapot and the box of Earl Grey to set in front of Sir Pentious. Here, dump your own tea in, Alastor sucks at tea prep.

Sir Pentious

He's going to do just that, humming as he does. None of that 10 second steeping!!! DISGUSTING..

Once the bags are in, be gets back to finishing off his slice. No prizes in that one!

Alastor

And Alastor returns to his jerky. Ah, a moment of peaceful, companionable silence—haha just kidding. When it’s obvious neither of them is about to say something else, Alastor starts playing a peppy march.

Sir Pentious

Sir Pentious is *happy* for it, though he attempts to change the channel by flicking Al's ear tuft.

Alastor

That’s not a dial, but he gets what Sir Pentious is attempting to do. The music switches from a march to the Mysterious Axman’s Jazz.

Sir Pentious

PREFERABLE.

Sir Pentious purrs, and once the tea has brewed long enough, he's going to pour himself a cup.

And then DIP some cake in it, HEE HOO we're living wildly.

Alastor

"I see why a tea-drinking man of *culture* also eats cake. So they go together, do they?”

Sir Pentious

"OH, SHUT UP, BEAN GUZZLER." Says the Leaf Drinker. He's laughing.

Alastor

“Oh, am I the one here who consumes beans! Where do you think chocolate comes from?” He’s laughing too.

Sir Pentious

"*COFFEE* BEAN GUZZLER!!! BUT, AH, TOUCHE."

He's done eating cake for now, and he's sipping the rest of the tea. He can handle the bits of crumb, he did this to himself.

"SSSO AFTER THISSSS, BACK TO YOUR COSTUME MAKING?"

Alastor

A long, *long* tired sigh. “Probably. I’ve only got—it’s still Friday, right?” He tilts his head, as if he’s *listening* for the time. “Yes, Friday—so, two days until the ball that one costume’s for. And the fancier costume, at that. Although I might need a break, my productivity is plummeting.”

Sir Pentious

Tongue flick.

"OHHH, DON'T YOU WISH YOU WERE A SNAKE LIKE ME? MY MIND CONSTANTLY IN A STATE OF *FLUX* OVER IDEAS AND INSSSSSPIRATION!" HEEHOOHEE

Alastor

“Ideas, I’ve got. It’s the inspiration I’m missing. Inspiration and patience for the repetitive bits. I’ve been sewing pearls for *days.*” He laces his fingers to stretch his poor aching hands and mutters, “I should delegate this.”

A bright smile! “Is that your way of subtly hinting that you’ve got some recent inspiration you’re dying to share, or are you going to disappoint me?”

Sir Pentious

Oh, he HAS inspiration alright. He leans in closer, his Pentious Breath right in Al's face.

"YESSS, INDEED. YOU SSEEE, I'VE COME INTO A SSSPOT OF *KNOWLEDGE.* I'VE HEARD THAT LOO LOO LAND, YOU KNOW, THE AMUSEMENT PARK IN THE GREED RING? IT'SSS BEEN BLOWN TO SSSMITHEREENSSS. LOTSSS OF METAL JUSSST FOR THE *TAKING.* WHILE I HAVE IDEASSS, I DON'T HAVE MUCH TERRITORY AND ACCESS TO METALSSS IN HELL." He sits back, "ALASSS, I'VE NO WAY TO *GET* TO THE DAMN PLACE. NOT ENOUGH POLITICAL SSSWAY, AS IT WERE. NOT SSSINCE I ARRIVED IN HELL, ANYWAY."

Alastor

Smells like tea and cake.

Alastor blinks in surprise. "Lucifer's park?" Who would fuck with Lucifer's park—? "Oh, no—Greed ring. The knock off."

That sounds like a solvable problem. Alastor leans forward, chin propped up in his hand, grinning wider. "Well, I wouldn't be much of a dancer if I didn't have sway!"

His mind is already working—what's an amusement park going to have in it? Roller coasters? Elaborate moving games? Lots of good mechanical bits and bobs, no doubt. And this Sir Pentious isn't the only one Alastor knows who'd benefit from those supplies. "If I get you in there, I get to salvage anything *you* don't want. Sound fair?"

Sir Pentious

"WELL, YESSS, NOT LYU LYU LAND. LOO LOO LAND!"

HMMMM? He leans closer. Their faces could be TOUCHING.

"AND WHAT NEED HAVE YOU FOR SSSSSCRAP, ALASSSTOR?"

Alastor

“*Lyu Lyu.*” Wheeze. Is that how it’s pronounced? “*I* don’t need it. But the other you that’s been around lately does, and I promised I’d help him get fresh materials at a discount. No better discount than free!”

Their faces ARE touching. Alastor closes the last little distance to squish their cheeks together and flings an arm around Sir Pentious’s shoulders. “Now, this is your little expedition—you’re putting in the research and the labor, so of course you get first pick, I’m not going to ask you to hand over any of the good stuff to an alternate who isn’t even coming along. But! Anything you *don’t* want, I don’t see any harm in hauling it over to him and asking whether he can make use of it!”

Sir Pentious

Ah, the CHEEK SMOOSH. Cheeks can smoosh other cheeks!!! Sir Pentious puts his own arm around Alastor, and Grins wide.

"AH, WHAT A *GOOD SSSSAMARITAN* YOU ARE, ALASSSTOR!" Hee hoo. His tongue flicks in thought..... No maybe don't tease him right now.

"VERY WELL, THEN! WHATEVER I DON'T WANT, YOU CAN HAVE! ANOTHER QUESTION IS METHOD OF *RETRIEVAL.* ARE WE RELYING ON YOUR FRIEND HENTAI FOR THAT?"

Alastor

“You know me! Utterly selfless! The most helpful man you’ll meet!” He knows he’s left himself wide open for teasing. He’s very grateful Sir Pentious didn’t take the opportunity.

“With the airship still out of commission, I suppose we’ll have to, won’t we?” He pokes Sir Pentious, “That’ll be the other way you pay me—bring snacks for me. Working with Hentai is hungry work.”

Sir Pentious

SNORT.

"WHAT TO BRING FOR THE MAN WHO HATES EVERYTHING! NO SWEETS, NO TEA! ONLY FISTFULS OF MEAT!"

Alastor

A scandalized hand over his heart. “Sweet and tea are the *only* things I hate! Have you ever seen me turn down one of your sandwiches? *Really,* now.” He pokes Sir Pentious’s arm. “Are you just having fun at my expense, or do you really think my tastes are that limited?”

Sir Pentious

"WHY *ALASSSTOR*, WHEN HAVE I *EVER* HAD FUN AT YOUR EXPENSE?" He's saying it ever so dramatically, very sarcastic as he even winks AND nudges him.

"SSSSANDWICHESSS IT ISSSS. SSSTILL NO ALCOHOL, MMM?"

Alastor

The most *dramatic* eye roll. He arches his brows and tilts his head to get more eye rolling in.

“Oh, social drinks are fine right now—but I don’t think alcohol mixes well with moving heavy metal or communing with eldritch deities. Maybe once our work is finished.”

Sir Pentious

He's beaming suddenly, and he gives Al a KISS on the forehead before backing up.

"A *DEAL!* ALTHOUGH, I MAY REFRAIN FROM ALCOHOL AS WELL. PERHAPSSSS GINGEMBRE INSSSTEAD!" GOLLY he's in a good mood. Look at him smiling!

Alastor

Hold on, give Alastor a second, fireworks are going off behind his forehead and he’s trying to enjoy the show.

“What is that, some kind of ginger ale?” His brain translates *gingembre* as plain old *ginger,* and he doubts Sir Pentious is suggesting that a chunk of root is an adequate substitute for alcohol. “Sure! We can drink while we work that way.”

Sir Pentious

Prrr prrr.

"YESSS, GINGER ALE! I HAVE A REFRIGERATOR ABOARD THE AIRSHIP, KEEPSSSS THEM PRACTICALLY *FROZEN.* YOUR LIPSSS WILL SSSTICK TO THE BOTTLES, NYA HA HAAAAAAA!"

He's finished off his tea! Pours himself another cup...

Alastor

Static static.

“Now that sounds like a trap! I guess the only way to find out for sure is to try one, isn’t it!”

He gives Sir Pentious enough space to drink his tea—but, as long as he’s already over here, decides to keep leaning their shoulders together.

Sir Pentious

He's fine with this, he's still purring in that terrifying way. Habby.

"SSSO WHO ARE YOU DANCING WITH TO GET US INTO THE GREED RING, ALASSSTOR?"

Alastor

“Oh, I’ve got a few people I can call on! I hear Paimon’s been looking for a way to spite Mammon; Stolas is usually pretty lax with sinners, he’s easy to bargain with; perhaps Tommy, he owes me one... I’ll narrow it down!”

Sir Pentious

HMM! Exciting. Sir Pentious is about to SPEAK when his phone VIBRATES against his breast. OH!

Time to grab his phone and INVESTIGATE....

Alastor

Time to lean over and EAVESDROP.

Sir Pentious

Well, he's obscured the screen enough from Alastor, but....

```Congratulations on your imminent fatherhood, Sir Pentious. Please come collect your wife at your earliest convenience. Which had better be now.```

OH. OH. GASP. JELLY EYES. All of his eyes are JELLY EYES. Look at this man, he's looking like he might COLLAPSE!

"*OHHHH* I HAVE TO *GOOOO*!"

He's STILL holding the phone but, YOU KNOW. He's going to show the screen to Alastor, listen that's his best friend he wants him to KNOW!

Alastor

*Oh!!* Alastor grabbed Sir Pentious’s arm. “*Really* this time? Not unfertilized eggs?”

Sir Pentious

"REALLY, THISSSS TIME!" *SNIRFFF.*

"WE WEREN'T SURE, BUT HILDA ISS RATHER THOROUGH...." His voice is all SQUEAKY.

"I'M GOING TO BE A DADDY!!"

Alastor

Alastor squeezed an arm around Sir Pentious’s shoulders. “Well, *congratulations!* Oh, you must be *thrilled!* How many is it?” He had to raise his voice to be audible over the cacophony of invisible party noisemakers and an old song that started singing in the background: “—*pretty baby! Won't you come and let me rock you in my cradle of love, and we'll cuddle all the time. Oh I want a lovin' baby and it might as well be you, pretty baby of mine—*”

After a good long squeeze, he let go and swatted Sir Pentious’s arm. “What are you still doing here, you’re supposed to be with your wife! Go, get! Get out of here! Take your cake!”

Sir Pentious

He BEAMS, Sir Pentious is GIGGLING. How many?

He goes red faced, raising a finger to speak, UNTIL HE'S BEING SWATTED! "OH, YESSS, AT ONCE! AT ONCE!"

He gathers up the cake! And he gives a TIP of his hat to Alastor before he's HURRIEDLY slithering out the door!

... Peeks back in. "THISSSS ISSS JUSST THE CONFIRMATION, BY THE BY! NO EGGSSS YET! OKAY, TA TA!" The door closes!!

Alastor

He waves. “Give Valera my congratulations!”

The music slowly peters out once the door closes.

... Hold on, how were there no eggs yet if Valera was already pregnant? He should have asked. Whoops.

#hissandvinegar #chat log

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whenimaunicorn · 4 years

Text

The Heart of Admiration

Black Sails Fic: Charles Vane x Reader

Drabble combining two requests: “Imagine the moment Charles Vane realizes he’s fallen for you” and “ Vane falls for a highly competent female pirate, maybe from a rival crew? Maybe some mutual pining before they get together?”

There it is. That way you bite your lip, when you pause to consider your next words. That plump little lip bounces free as you take a breath to answer Jack’s question, and Vane feels his body warm. That must be the reason he’s so drawn to you.

“But the manufactured items are harder to fence,” you’re telling Jack now, your fine brows knitting together adorably as you haggle with the Ranger’s quartermaster. “So despite what you’re saying about the division of the plunder, the value is not in fact equal, not in practice, because the factory stamps make them easier to trace. Especially the silverware. My contacts don’t pay well for that sort of trouble, those that would even take them at all.”

You’re smart, too. Captain Fisher was quite fortunate to have landed you as his quartermaster, Vane muses as he nurses his ale, running his thumb back and forth across the edge of his cup. It’s always a pleasure to listen to you negotiate. Perhaps you’re even the reason why Vane agreed to work with your crew on this job in the first place.

Not that his own quartermaster isn’t quick-witted, too. “Melt down the bloody silver then,” Jack snaps at your quibbling.

“Another expense,” you retort, “see what I mean?” You sit back, adjusting your coat. The brocade is quite fetching, and flatters you well as you lean arrogantly on one jaunty elbow. Just feminine enough to stir a man’s loins, but there’s nothing that looks weak about you. Vane knows that’s something that draws him to you, too. “We’ll take the tobacco, instead. Easy enough to ‘damage’ the customs stamps.”

Jack scowls. Vane has half a mind to lift you into his lap right here, though he knows you’d strike him directly across the face for it. And probably try to call off the whole deal, at that.

Not that you’re negotiating from a position of strength. “Why should we give you the more profitable portion of the take?” Vane asks, leaning forward and regarding you from under his brow. He sees your eyes widen for just a moment after they meet his. He’s not sure what the reaction means, but it’s something, and Vane thrills at having the power to shake you. “We were the ones that emptied our hold to haul it all back. A rushed job, that wasn’t without loss of value.”

You take a deep breath before answering him, your breasts swelling tight and high above your corset. God, his palms are just itching to cover them and then make you do that again. “That,” you arch one perfect brow, “is not my problem. You have the bigger ship, it made sense that you would carry the plunder back to Nassau, but we have just as many guns as you, and just as many fighters.”

“Is that a threat?” Vane growls. Not because he’s truly feeling belligerent, mostly just because he enjoys riling you up.

“Charles, please,” Jack interrupts with placating hands, before you can respond to the escalation with more than a dark flash of your eyes. “Two against one is hardly sporting, for a civilized negotiation such as the one we are having right here. Why don’t we just order another round, and wait for Captain Fisher to arrive.” One expressive eyebrow raised, he flashes a look at you. “Your captain is joining us, is he not?”

Vane barely suppresses a shark’s smile. Everyone here knows that your captain is currently otherwise engaged. Though, outmaneuvered little thing that you are, you do not know that Jack and Vane are already wise to the reason for your captain’s absence, and have already taken measures. All Vane is waiting for now is a signal from his men.

“Of course,” you say in a clipped tone. “I can’t imagine what the delay might be.” Your eyes flit from Jack to Vane and back again. “Shall I go fetch him?”

You start to rise and Vane’s hand shoots out, clamping your wrist into the table. “No need for that, love.” He holds on a little longer than is necessary, even as you sit back down. He finds that he is both aroused and ashamed at his ability to make you nervous. If he wants a woman, he wants to conquer her, but some small voice inside him is whispering that with you, this should not be the way. He lets your hand go. “We can negotiate without him.”

You fix him with a level look, gathering your confidence as your posture straightens before him again. You nod. "What I was saying was, regardless of the larger size of your ship and the logistical consequences on the cargo storage, we were equal partners in the take. I am simply making certain we are compensated as such. The Ranger would not have been able to subdue the merchant’s escort without us.” There’s that fire in your belly again. That, that’s what it really is, Vane muses as he watches your lips form hot words. The reason that he cannot stop thinking of you at night. “Which brings me to my next point: adjusting the shares based on my crew’s heavier losses.”

Jack’s brows knit together again. “Are you suggesting we should be creating something other than an equal split now, after the job is already done?” He looks to his captain for support.

Vane sits back, taking a long pull off his tankard of ale. None of this matters anyway, not if Jack’s hunch about Captain Fisher turns out to be right. And look, there’s his man now, giving him the high sign from the doorway of the tavern. Vane stands up abruptly, letting his body crowd your personal space. “Let’s take a walk, shall we? And then we’ll come back to the idea of what kind of shares your crew deserves.”

He looks down to see the blood draining from your face as you follow his eye to the ugly grin on his crewman’s face. He offers you his arm, and you have no choice but to take it.

“Don’t be afraid, dove,” he says as he marches you to the front door, though he regrets the condescension of the pet name instantly. You are much more than a shivering bird. “Jack and I are open to striking up new negotiations with you, personally. Your captain, however…” he trails off as the two of you step out into the street, Jack close behind. Several of the Ranger’s best men have your captain held between them, his bloodied head drooping in defeat.

“Caught ‘im and his crew sneaking onto the Ranger, Captain,” Vane’s man reports. “Just like you said.”

Captain Fisher coughs, a wet and ugly sound that suggest internal damage. Vane smirks at the justice of that, and turns to you.

You are scowling up at him, that delicious lip thrust out in a last defiant effort. “Couldn’t let you hold all the chips while we quibbled over how they’d be split up,” you explain. There is very little remorse in your voice. “The captain was only attempting to secure our fair share.”

Vane presses a hand to his heart, pretending to feel a wound. “You didn’t think you could trust me?” He had already told himself it didn’t hurt, hours ago when he had figured out what you crew was up to. Why should you behave any differently than anyone he had ever met? You were only protecting your own, as any good leader should. His grip on your arm tightens.

“We were, in point of fact, going to deal fairly with you,” Jack interposes. The anger is showing on his face as well. “But now…”

“Now you get the monster you were expecting,” Vane finishes for him, voice low, purring over the rage that always feels so good to indulge. He nods toward his men. “Kill everyone that was caught boarding our ship. Don’t make a scene, but don’t take too long with it. Then board the Starling and seize her. No one takes over Fisher’s crew. The men that are left will have to find work elsewhere.”

Vane sees real fear in your eyes now. You swallow it, and face him calmly. “Am I to die too?”

Your bravery. Your spirit. Perhaps that, that is what is at the heart of his admiration for you. Warmth tempers the high of Vane’s rage, the spiraling emotions conspiring into a rushing feeling he hopes will never end.

“I believe there is room to talk about that,” Jack says to you, stepping closer and making Vane realize you two have been locking eyes without speaking for a potentially awkward length of time. “Seeing as your attempt to distract us with a false negotiation here in this tavern did not, in fact, distract or mislead us at all, given that we were wise to the ploy all along, a case could be made that you have not, in fact, done us any ill that must be answered.”

You tear your eyes away from Vane’s to regard Jack with suspicion. “Why?” Your voice is sharp and true. Shrewd even when others would be begging and desperate. What a woman Vane has found in you.

“Join us,” Vane blurts, feeling like his tongue is tripping over his heavy need for you to say yes. “You deserve a better crew than that one.”

Part Two

Black Sails Masterlist

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