#the toilet caught clark slipping

[owl127]

Would love to read about young alpha omega (Kara being Clarke’s sister), their first time and getting caught at the end somehow, like just when they finish and start cuddling kara barges in the room or she hears them and she waits right in the kitchen

(Previous)

Ao3

Lexa held her breath as she heard someone climbing on the roof. She stood, hands fisted, and looked behind her to check how height was the jump.

Still damn high, that was for sure.

But instead of golden fury, what peeked from the side of the house was Anya’s head.

“Oh God, don’t give me a heart attack like this!” Lexa laid back on the dark roof shingles.

“How are you holding up?” Anya brought a blanket and Lexa wrapped it around her underwear. Clarke’s t-shirt was a little loose on her, but it had been all she could grab in her run for her life.

“Could be worse. Is she still looking for me?”

“Like a hound. Lena is on her way, and the hope is that she will de-escalate the situation.”

“How’s Clarke?”

“She’s been following Kara to make sure that, if she finds you, she won’t castrate you or anything like that. But then Kara keeps looking back at her and grunting and swearing, and it starts all over again.”

“Aren’t you supposed to protect me?”

“Have you seen Kara’s biceps?”

“Fair.”

The sisters lay on the roof, watching the sunset from atop the Griffins’ house. Day birds sang their farewell song, unaware or uncaring of the dangers that Lexa faced.

“So,” Anya said, eyes on the horizon. “How was it?”

Lexa wanted to roll her eyes at her sister, but the smile splitting her face was too large to be ignored.

4 hours before

One word to describe being inside Clarke was bliss. Lexa tried to pay attention to every detail, like the way Clarke’s breath hitched as she slipped inside, how Clarke’s nails would leave marks on her back, or the stuttering of Clarke’s hips against her eager ones. But all her alpha brain could process was warm, wet, and tight, and Clarke, Clarke.

She only realized she had been saying the name when Clarke whispered to her, “I’m here, babe. I got you.”

Lexa wouldn’t last, and it did not bother her. Going down on Clarke before had been the right choice, otherwise even this endless bliss would end up in embarrassment.

But as is, Lexa was in heaven. Her hips were singing their own ballad, and Clarke was picking up to match her pace.

“It’s okay,” Clarke said after a deep thrust, her sentence ending in a shared moan. “I want you to come.”

Lexa wasn’t hiding her impending orgasm as well as she thought, and now with her girlfriend’s blessing, she tucked her face into Clarke’s neck and continued an increasing pace in search of that final, explosive bliss.

It didn’t take long to find it.

In Lexa’s late-teens brain, people underestimated sex, because this was awesome.

She shuddered over Clarke as she emptied what felt like all her essence on the condom, sighing in content finality as Clarke held her close, murmuring soft nothings into messy curls.

“You okay?”

Lexa mumbled something close to an affirmative. Clarke kissed her cheek, nuzzling the fresh sweat there. “Good. Can you go again? I liked it.”

That got Lexa’s attention.

“Yeah. Yeah, let me just get a new condom.”

Clarke moaned as Lexa slipped out, and the dark eyes that followed Lexa's hips as she stood showed want and hunger.

“I’ll be right back!” Lexa grabbed Clarke’s shirt from the floor and her own underwear before heading to the bathroom in the hallway.

“I’ll be waiting for you!” Clarke called from the bed, and Lexa almost tripped in her hurry. With Clarke’s parents out of town and Kara away for the weekend, they had time for themselves.

And by “time for themselves”, Lexa meant time to finally fuck.

She stared at the mirror, adjusting her hair and puffing out her chest just enough to realize it’s better to leave it be. Balling the used condom in an overindulgence of toilet paper, she grabbed a new package from under the sink and she was ready to go.

She heard Clarke’s scream, and the best day of her life took a turn.

Lexa opened the bathroom door to what possibly would be the scariest moment of her life. To date, at least.

Kara Griffin had always been a protégé in sports. Tall, muscular, and charming, the young alpha rose to the highest ranks of any sports she played, achieving a full lacrosse scholarship in college. On the field, she was magnificent. Shining in golden glory under the sun, she led her team to victory in impressive, awe-inspiring performances. However, like most alphas, Kara also showed her teeth when the game delved into bruising intensity. In games like that, sweet Kara transformed into a feral leader that would stop at nothing. Due to those courageous, and a tad violent, displays, Kara earned a nickname: Red K. She would jest it was about her cheeks that turned red under the sun. How cute. But it wasn’t about her cheeks, even though they bloomed in a lovely shade of crimson and freckles under summer season sun. But no, Red K wasn’t about the famous Griffin cheeks. It was about her eyes.

Red, murderous eyes that now stared at a barely clad Lexa from down the hallway.

“You’re dead, Woods,” Kara said in a simple, final tone, and sweat pooled at the back of Lexa’s neck. Clarke, covered in her bedsheets, jumped from her room to hold her sister’s arm. Kara barely flinched, pushing her sister away.

“Lexa, run!” There was desperation in Clarke’s voice. There was death in Kara’s stare.

Brave, young Lexa did what any brave young alpha would do.

She ran for her life.

Kara’s heavy steps echoed behind her as Lexa entered the closest bedroom—destiny would make it to Kara’s—and locked the door. The thunderous kick on the door from the outside made the wood cry in protest, and Lexa knew it wouldn’t hold Kara for long. Clarke’s furious voice echoed from the hallway, but Kara was not responding.

Lexa’s strategic mind was in a loop of shit shit shit, and she looked around the room for anything that would help her, like a baseball bat, or, if she’s lucky, a gun. But the Griffins were notorious followers of a no-gun policy, and Kara kept her gear in her sacred corner in the garage. So, understandably, Lexa searched desperately through the pile of bachelor alpha stuff for anything that would save her almost exposed ass. At least the entire thing had killed her boner, which was a plus when running for your life.

Kara’s drawer had nothing but neatly folded polos and socks, and the closet was a colorful palette of button ups. Cute, but not what Lexa needed. She looked around the room while the door creaked at another kick, Clarke’s voice begging her sister to stop joining the cacophony.

Then, on Kara’s nightstand, flashing a beautiful smile in a digital picture frame, the solution.

“Call Lena!” Lexa yelled from the door, watching in horror as a wooden panel gave away and red eyes stared at her from the crack. Lexa did not squeak, but a mouse-like sound made its way out of her throat. “Clarke, call Lena!” Lexa yelled before her huntress could go for the final blow at the door.

Before Kara could bring the IKEA door to the ground, Lexa swallowed her courage and sneaked out the window.

What ensued was a shameful pursuit that neither woman would ever speak of again, which ended up with a bruised, but alive, Lexa hiding on top of the Griffin’s roof.

It was close to eight at night when Clarke climbed onto the roof with a sandwich. “Hi.” There was a beautiful rose to her cheeks, and Lexa opened the blanked so they could share its warmth. “How’s it going up here?”

“I’m alive, so it’s good. How’s everything down there?”

“Lena controlled the situation, but now Kara is being petty and hanging around the house, so you, and I quote, ‘freeze your ass up there’.”

“Fair. Will she be here all night?”

“Lena promised to take her out of the house around ten. She said Kara needs to feel it’s a win for her.”

Lexa suspected she was the one winning, but okay.

“Lena was pretty nice.” Clarke snuggled into her girlfriend, kissing her cheek. “We’re having an omegas brunch tomorrow.”

Lexa kissed Clarke’s forehead, inhaling the scent of her citrus shampoo. “Are we okay? No regrets?”

“No regrets. You?”

“I could go without almost being beaten to death by your sister, but everything else was fantastic.” She kissed Clarke softly, holding her close. “At least we can watch the starts from up here.”

“We can’t see anything from here because of the city.”

“Oh no, babe,” Lexa leaned for another kiss, this time lingering. “My favorite star is right here.”

“Ugh, stop!” Anya broke the moment by surging from the side of the house. “Go flirt somewhere else. Lena convinced Kara to leave with her. You’re safe.”

“I think we’ll stay here for a few more minutes.” Lexa looked at her sister and hoped the pull of her lips conveyed the message that she was about to get some serious smooching and Anya should leave. Immediately.

“I’m going home, and try not to die tonight,” Anya said on her way down the ladder Clarke had used. “And girls?” Her voice came from the side of the house. “Don’t fuck on the roof.”

Clarke laughed freely, and Lexa yelled a profanity.

#ask the owl #drabble #clexa #abo #fanfiction #clexa fanfic #happy friday my loves #I love the idea of Kara and Clarke being sisters #a golden retriever kind of family

[svpe]

‘ you can relax. we’re safe here.’ 

Clark puffs as if he's out of breath, sliding down the wall into a seated position. What he really needs is an excuse to slip away, to don his hero attire, however, his present company has been glued to his hip supposedly for his safety. Excusing himself for a toilet break during what seems to be some kind of outer space attack? Something tells him that excuse won't cut it this time. There's nothing else to do for now except to try and help as Clark Kent. He peers over the frame of his glasses, x-ray vision confirming the fact that they are very much not safe. "Um-I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I-I think they might have caught up to us."

@timesense | meme

#timesense #v. show the world that metropolis has a heart ▬ main #you know where to find me ▬ inbox #[ clork rent as a companion mayhaps askdaldf ] #/ big text

[deenoss]

Dreamcatcher Chptr. 51

"What do you want?"

Those were the words Nathan greeted Clark with as soon as he spotted him enter the girl's toilets. They both knew that it was reasonably a good spot to go to, knowing that with how all the girls behaved at school, they never went straight after their final class for the day.

"I want to know where Chloe is." Clark demanded authoritively.

"Your punk-ass bitch sister? Who gives a fuck? I'm actually glad she's gone."

Irately, Clark shoved Nathan's shoulder, forcing his attention solely onto him. A cross expression painted on Nathan's face, disguising the struggle he was dealing with deep down. The last thing he needed was Clark to interrogate him.

"Don't you ever talk about her like that! Now answer the question, you spoiled brat! Where's Chloe?!"

"You just don't get it, Price. Your sister probably got in deep with her dealer and they killed her. Or, maybe she just ran away and left your stupid ass behind, just like Rachel did. What kind of people are they?" Nathan mocked.

Gripping his fist as tightly as he could, Clark lashed out and punched Nathan square in the jaw. In response to his lashing out, Nathan threw himself at the faded blue-haired boy and tackled him into the door while Clark slammed his elbow on his back a few times until Nathan threw his head up, hitting Clark in the jaw with the back of his head.

Clark grunted, left dazed as Nathan punched him in the gut, causing Clark to burst out coughing as he fell on one knee with one hand on that knee and the other across his stomach. He looked up and caught Nathan rearing his fist back to punch him in the face. Nathan got one punch in until he found himself dazed when his opponent uppercut him with his dominant fist. This caused Nathan to stagger backwards.

Before he could allow Clark to close the distance, he resorted to the weapon stowed in the back of his pants with the upper half concealed by his jacket.

Clark gasped upon setting his eyes on the handgun pointed straight at him.

"You don't know who the fuck I am or who you're messing with! Don't ever tell me what to do! I'm so sick of people trying to control me! I ain't telling you shit about your stupid sister! I'm glad she's gone! In fact, I hope she's dead! And if you don't back the fuck off, you're going to see her again!" Nathan snapped, verbally lashing out at Clark as he boldly approached Clark, backing him into a wall beside the door.

"Get that gun away from me, psycho!"

In an attempt to break free from the compromising position he was in, Clark shoved Nathan backwards, which, as a result, caused his trigger finger to pull back on the trigger of the gun just enough that it allowed a bullet to exit the chamber, embedding itself into Clark's lower abdomen.

"NO!" A feminine voice cried helplessly.

A girl reached her arm out, wishing deeply that she could have prevented this crime.

Little did she know, that's exactly what she'd been granted.

Time slowed down. The gun that slipped out of Nathan's hand and Clark's body falling reversed. It all happened within a matter of seconds that when Max's brain could register just what exactly was happening, she found herself jolting awake in her chair back in her Photography class.

Nobody but Victoria noticed Max jolt awake so suddenly. Everybody else were thinking about other things or desperately trying not to fall asleep.

"How? How can that be? I was in the bathroom... he shot Clark. I held up my hand... and then I was back here. I already heard this lecture." Max thought to herself.

"... these pieces of time can frame us in our glory and our sorrow; from light to shadow; from colour to chiaroscuro..."

Max spied the two popular girls at the table to her left where she caught Taylor Christensen toss a scrunched up ball of paper at Kate Marsh's face.

"Now Kate is being hassled again. And if Victoria's phone rings, this is real."

Intently, Max focused on the phone on the desk beside Victoria. She painstakingly looked at it until it went off, but to Max's shock, it caused her to physically jump. As a result, her arm knocked her Polaroid camera off her desk, causing it to break on impact with the floor.

People in the room craned their heads around to stare at Max and her broken camera. Nobody could possibly give a damn - not even Kate - except Clark. He even went out of his way to get out of his seat and pick up the few loose pieces lying on the floor and laid it on Max's desk before returning to his seat so Jefferson could resume his lecture.

"Okay. If I'm crazy, I might as well go all the way. Can I actually reverse time?"

To test this, Max reached her hand out towards the floor where her camera got smashed and focused just enough so that she could prove to herself that she had the power to reverse time. Everything around her sped up, or in the opposite motion as by being reversed, where Clark's getting out of his chair to pick up the loose pieces from Max's camera was all scratched out from history and reality, to the point where the camera was exactly where it was moments ago before it was broken unintentionally.

"I did it. I actually did it! I'm a human time machine..."

Max then relived the last ten minutes of her class up until the bell rang. But for what was supposed to be ten minutes was an extension by several more as a result of Max having to reverse time in order to claim the correct answer and evade embarrassment in front of her favourite teacher and idol, Mark Jefferson.

Once the bell rang, Max packed her things and walked to the door after everyone else had left when she was halted in her tracks.

"I see you, Max Caulfield. Don't even think about leaving before I see your entry." Jefferson's voice sang out, abruptly ending his conversation with Victoria. "I'd never let one of photography's future stars avoid handing in her picture."

"Uh, yeah, I'm not sure I have one."

"Given your selfie output, I'm sure you must have a thousand pics by now."

"It'll take a long time to find a really good one."

"Max, don't wait too long. John Lennon once said, that 'life is what happens while you're busy making other plans.' Go on now, don't let me stop you."

While she wasn't quite in a rush to get to the girl's toilets, Max felt the urge to rectify her mistake. Given that she'd only just inherited her newfound 'time rewind' powers, she decided to put it to use.

With Jefferson and Victoria having a conversation, Max butted in and raised her voice but at a minimal level that was barely higher than an audible murmur.

"Um, excuse me, Mr Jefferson. Can I talk to you for a moment?" Max spoke up shyly. Knowing that this was her idol she was talking to, Max had every good reason to feel intimidated.

"Yes, excuse you." Victoria snarked.

"No, Victoria. Excuse us." Jefferson fired back before giving Max his full attention. "I'd never let one of photography's future stars avoid handing in her picture."

A proud smile formed on Max's face - the type of bravery she didn't often find around others she didn't feel comfortable being around, which was a large number, especially in front of Mark Jefferson.

"I'm on top of it," said Max. "I think John Lennon once said that 'life is what happens when you're busy making other plans.' "

Her response pleased Jefferson so well that he practically forgave her for not handing in her picture. Additionally, he encouraged her to not give up on her dreams as he, of all people, had faith in Max, and it made her zealous.

As soon as he removed his attention from her, Max bolted out of the classroom and down the hall as fast as she could without causing too much of a scene. Fortunately, people were too distracted to notice.

"I hope I have enough time to get to the bathroom. Please, please... I can't tell anybody. They'll think I'm crazy. Come on... come on!"

Retracing her steps was the first thing Max accounted upon discovering her newfound rewind power. Once she stepped foot in the bathroom, she analysed the scene and paused for just a minute to gather her thoughts. The first thing she did was wash her face. Then, she tore her contest photo and looked over in the corner of the room where she spotted a rare blue butterfly flutter into the room. She followed it and then took a photo, which, by then, she realised she had company.

"Your punk-ass bitch sister? Who gives a fuck? I'm actually glad she's gone."

"Don't you ever talk about her like that! Now answer the question, you spoiled brat! Where's Chloe?!"

"You just don't get it, Price. Your sister probably got in deep with her dealer and they killed her. Or, maybe she just ran away and left your stupid ass behind, just like Rachel did. What kind of people are they?"

With the aggressive dialogue coming from the other side of the toilets, Max scrambled to trigger the alarm bell that she knew she could use to interrupt the brawl. In haste, Max found a hammer and used it to smash the glass protecting the emergency bell, thus causing an alarm to go off throughout the entire campus.

The interruption forced Nathan into a bad situation where had to escape as quickly as possible to avoid a calamity. He stared down at a wounded Clark Price before grabbing his hair and threw him into the wall, effectively moving him out of his way so he could rush out of the toilets.

Clark moaned in pain from getting beaten up by Nathan Prescott. He didn't notice Max straight away until he distinguished her shoes beside him as a pair of soft, small hands grabbed him and pulled him up to his feet.

"Max...?"

"Let's get you out of here, quick!"

Anxiously, Max clutched onto Clark's shirt sleeve and half dragged him out of the toilet and towards the front door. As soon as they were about to reach the door, they heard someone shout at them.

"Hey, do you hear that fire alarm? That means you should be outside." A masculine voice warned the two teenagers. "Oh. Clark. What the hell happened to your face, boy?"

Clark sighed in frustration.

The head of security, David Madsen, was not at all impressed with Clark's and Max's tardiness. On account of hearing the alarm go off, David expected all personnel to evacuate the building immediately. But with Clark and Max failing to get outside just in time left David all too suspicious of their behaviour.

"Nothing. I'm fine." Clark answered, expressing attitude in his voice.

"You don't look fine to me. Who did this this to you? And don't you dare defend the little snake."

"I'm not defending him!"

"Yes, you are. Clarkson William Price, you'd better tell me this instant, or I will-"

"You might be my father, but you'll never be my dad!" Clark snapped.

"Why you-"

"Thank you, Mr Madsen!" Another male voice boomed, coming from behind David. "The situation is under control. There's no emergency here. Please turn off that alarm since that's your job. Mr Price, Miss Caulfield, would you come here please?"

David stared at the two teenagers on his way out, while Clark and Max were left to deal with Principal Wells.

Given that this was one of many confrontations between Clark and Raymond Wells, there was nothing short of disappointment and annoyance shared between the two, while Max was in for a show.

"Why is it that every time we meet, you're always up to no good, Mr Price?" Wells said, deadpanned.

Clark shrugged his shoulders and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

The initial response didn't at all bode well for Raymond as his eyes fondled over Clark's bruises, wondering whom he got into a fight with this time.

"Are you feeling alright, Max? You look worried." Wells asked concerningly.

"I'm fine." She replied dismissively.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

Raymond nodded his head half satisfied before permitting the two to leave.

Not for one second did Max give Clark a break from physical contact. She felt so concerned about his health that she refused to leave his side, even if his injuries weren't at all severe. In spite of that, Clark appreciated her concern for his wellbeing.

It was Clark's idea that they leave the school for the rest of the day and go visit his mother. Since it was heading towards quarter past four, it would have been close to the end of Joyce's work hours.

Clark escorted his old friend to the parking lot. Along the way, Max spotted a friend of hers and realised that she'd forgotten to acquire the flash drive he let her borrow to watch movies he'd downloaded off the internet. Max experienced no delays on her way to her dorm, except on her way back, she stumbled upon a compromising sight.

"... so don't think I'm blind! I see everything here at Blackwell! Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Out of everything that was going on that day, catching David Madsen harass Kate was the last thing she needed. From behind a wall separating Max from the front of the school, Max spied on the two and decided to intervene without a second's hesitation.

"Hey! Why don't you leave her alone?" Max intervened.

To hear another voice shout caused Kate to jump out of her skin, but when she realised it was Max coming to help her, she felt some relief seeing the brunette stroll over towards them.

David, however, was another case entirely. To disapprove of Max's tardiness over an alarm bell ringing was one thing, but to watch her step in and interrupt a personal investigation he was conducting, mainly on poor, innocent Kate Marsh.

"Excuse us, this is official campus business-"

"Excuse me, you shouldn't be yelling at students. Or bullying them."

A smile cracked on Kate's face for but a moment until she realised her place and dropped it when David glared at her disapprovingly.

"Hey, hey. Nobody is bullying anybody. I'm doing my job." David argued.

"No you're not."

"You're part of the problem, missy. I will remember this conversation. And I don't care if either of you are my son's friends."

David walked off in defeat but kept his chin up, knowing that having one student have the courage to stand up to him was not going to stop him from doing his job.

Kate expressed her gratitude for Max stepping in to defend her, whilst also pointing out how much it meant to her without truly emphasising exactly how much it truly meant. Giddily, Max watched her friend walk off whilst experiencing a strange feeling develop. Due to rarely getting herself involved to protect those whom she cared for, Max felt the adrenaline rush bleed out of her system until her heart rate was at a normal pace.

#life is strange #max caulfield #victoria chase #mark jefferson #david madsen #security guard #blackwell academy

[dreamcatcherfication]

I just realized that Mattie says “cause I don’t think I killed those girls” in Mattie’s Lament, which implies they didn’t frame her for Clark’s murder, just the murders of Chess and Farrah. so what did they tell the police about Clark?

Fun fact, @nightingale6374 brought this up to me a while ago and it’s been a pet peeve of mine for a long time. But if we’re debating it, the police (if they investigated) probably would have figured out that Clark’s death was some sort of an accident, because he died of a head wound on the toilet, not a stabbing. Therefore, it could be passed off as him slipping or something.

#galactic-doodles #if we're being completely honest #i think it's just a line that was used #and isn't meant to imply anything #but who knows? #the toilet caught clark slipping #rip

[takadasaiko]

The Ache (a Superman & Lois oneshot)

FFN II AO3

Summary: Clark can still feel the ache that lingers even after shards of Kryptonite are removed. Set at the end of 1.06. Clois.

The Ache

After all these years it still amazed him that the fractured pieces of his own home planet could cripple him like they did. It hurt. It always hurt. The moment that the Kryptonite touched his skin it felt like he was on fire. From the point of contact spreading through his veins, it brought him to his knees every time. And if it broke skin the ache lasted long after the Kryptonite had been removed. Even after everything else had been returned to normal.

It was second nature to push it back. To be strong. First to handle the situation with the military personnel who had been deployed to handle Tag Harris, then to have a much needed conversation with his father-in-law about the fact that he'd approved his people firing Kryptonite rounds at a teenage boy, and then Jonathan's broken wrist, courtesy of his brother. Not to mention Lois nearly getting killed that day while he'd been in Metropolis with the boys. Couldn't forget that one. The adrenaline from the day was just starting to wear off as he stepped out of the shower and he had to catch himself as the ache that had lingered for hours now caught up to him like he was being shot all over again and he stumbled, barely catching himself against the bathroom wall. He looked down, half expecting visible signs that Kryptonite bullets had pierced his shoulder, and even though there weren't any, he could feel it deep in the muscle.

"Clark, you okay?"

He pulled in a deep, steadying breath at the sound of his wife's voice and realized he still had one hand against the bathroom wall to keep himself upright. The intake of oxygen only managed to focus the pain and he exhaled sharply, squeezing his eyes shut as he leaned heavily, right hand going to his bare shoulder and his fingertips ghosting over solid skin carefully. No, it didn't feel like there were any shards left behind. This was just a general ache. The aftermath of getting hit with Kryptonite.

"Clark?" Lois called as she eased the door open, peeking in.

"Hey. Sorry."

Her brows drew together instantly and she moved forward, her long fingers reaching out to cover his and inch them away from his shoulder that looked like it had never taken a hit. She knew, though. She always knew. "What happened?"

Clark tried for a reassuring smile and caught her fingers, bringing them up to his lips to press a kiss to them. "Somewhat-friendly fire."

Lois dragged in a sharp breath and he saw her jaw clench in frustration. "Only one kind that doesn't bounce off without a problem," she murmured, taking a closer look at the unmarred skin. "I'm trying to give the benefit of the doubt…. What do you mean by somewhat-friendly?"

"Military."

"With Kryptonite ammunition?"

He made a small sound of acknowledgement as he took a tentative step forward to where his clothes were laid out on the toilet, shedding the towel unceremoniously on the floor for his boxers and t-shirt. He stepped into the boxers and carefully pulled the t-shirt over his head, grimacing against the strained muscles in his shoulder.

"And who were they planning on using live, Kryptonite rounds on?" Lois asked, her voice tight. She knew Tag Harris had been in Metropolis and she knew that Clark had had to step away when he'd taken Sarah Cushing with him, but he'd missed the part about the Kryptonite. Thankfully she wasn't focusing in on that accidental omission. It wasn't like it hadn't been a busy night.

"The kid," Clark breathed as he bent slowly for the towel and tossed it towards the waiting hamper before shuffling out the door towards their room.

"My dad authorized Kryptonite rounds for a kid," Lois seethed. "Just when I think I've heard how far he'll go."

"Believe me, I let him know exactly how I felt about it," Clark assured her as he flopped out on their bed, burying his face in his pillow. Well, he was never moving from this position again. That much was obvious.

The bed dipped to his left as Lois climbed on after him, straddling him rather than climbing over. He felt her hands press gently on either arm as she leaned in, a kiss gentle between his shoulder blades before moving to what would have been an exit wound if he'd been human. The touch of her lips sent a warm sensation flooding through him and he breathed out a content sigh that he wouldn't have thought he could manage after a day like the one he'd had.

"We knew he was stockpiling Kryptonite," she murmured, rolling so that she was laid out on her side next to him.

He turned to face her. "I never thought your dad would authorize use against a kid."

"What was the alternative? Authorize use against you? Tell me a scenario where that makes sense."

"I don't know," he sighed and wrapped an arm around her middle, pulling her close against him. Her touch helped ease the ache. He felt her fingers tease the edge of his t-shirt, slipping under it so that her nails barely touched the skin at the small of his back along his spine. A shiver ran through him and he inched just a little closer. Yep, that was definitely what she was going for. It's like they'd been married for over fifteen years.

"I'll talk to him."

"No," he sighed. "This has to be between him and me."

"If he's hoarding weapons that can hurt you, then it's just as much my fight as yours."

Clark finally let his eyes slide open to find a pair of hazel ones fixed on him. "I love you for that," he breathed.

"Just that?"

He cracked a grin and inched up to kiss her forehead. "And so much more," he promised, "but this is General Lane and Superman."

"I think those lines between family and hero'ing blurred a long time ago, babe. He certainly doesn't see them."

"Maybe not, but I have a responsibility."

"So does he. Hey." She waited until he met her gaze again. "Don't let him hide behind his bullshit. He will if you give him half the chance."

"I know."

"See, you say that, but it's only because you're a softy and you'll let him do it anyway."

That pulled the smallest of smiles from him. "I've been finding ways to handle your dad long before you and I even got together. He wasn't exactly my biggest fan when we met."

"He wasn't your biggest fan when he found out we were dating either, but he respects you now. Does he know they shot you?"

"It would have been in the reports. I was focused on Tag."

"Fair, but he doesn't know Tag. Next time try a more direct approach. When you're in red and blue he doesn't see you as his son-in-law, he sees you as an asset. Make him see that his orders put an asset in danger and maybe next time he'll think twice about it next time."

"You know they weren't aiming for me, right?"

"Maybe not, but both Dad and I know that you'll always get between an oncoming bullet and an innocent person." She propped herself up on her elbow so that she was leaned over him and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. "I'm sorry he hurt you."

"I'm alright."

"I'm glad."

He reached up, his touch gentle against her face as he guided her down to meet him in a kiss. She shifted her weight to lean in and he felt the remaining ache start to ease from his body. It had been a terrible day, there was no denying that and there were lessons to be learned all around, but they could be learned. They would be. Jordan would gain control over his strength, Jon would forgive his brother, and Clark knew that with Lois' guidance he could find the best way to get through to her father when it came to the newly talented Tag Harris. It was a journey, and they were on it together for better and worse. And if they remained on it together, he had to believe it would always be better in the end.

----

Notes: I wanted to write last night so I opened up my two open one shots that I have in progress and guess what? I wrote a third.

Hope everyone is having a great week!

#Superman & Lois #Superman & Lois fanfiction #Superman & Lois fanfic #Clark Kent #Lois Lane #Clois

[emilystoryspot]

Bruces Baby pt.2

Link to part 1 HERE

Link to the inspiration HERE

word count  5367

Months 2 and 3

I hate sleeping in with a burning passion but Bruce read to me that exhaustion was one of the symptoms of pregnancy along with a bunch of other stuff, so I slept in. Dick liked to enjoy watching movies with me, Tim and Damien on the weekends. Eventually I started to develop a baby bump one morning. I noticed it as I was buttoning up my blouse, “How long are we planning on hiding this from the tabloids?” I asked Bruce who was slipping on his shoes.

“They find out when they find out.” Bruce finished putting on his shoes and walked over to me and placed his hands on the small spot where my stomach began to stick out, “I'll send Alfred shopping for more clothes for you, to keep it hidden.” He kisses me on the cheek and buttons up my maroon blouse for me, “When you're ready, i'll have lunch with Lois and Clark, if any tabloid are gonna find out it's gonna be them, then I'll tell the justice league because Clark will already know.” 

“I think I'm gonna wait.” I looked at myself in the mirror just like that the bump was gone with a loose shirt and a skirt. “I think i'm gonna wait.” The bump tiny was still not noticeable with dresses, but i figured If I start wearing more blouses now they won't question it later. 

Everyday at work went smoothly and instead of going on steakouts or patrol Bruce and I would sit at the comms with Babs even though with Bruce there, he ran coms me and Barbra talked about the baby, who has since been dubbed, the baby bat.

Over the coms that's all everyone talked about, Dick hung up the Nightwing suit to don the Batman and other than that everything was the same. 

“How soon until you know the gender?” Stephanie said as she threw a knife at someone.

“That's if they want to know the gender,” Babs said into the comm. Her and I were answering these questions while Bruce stayed strictly to the mission comms.

I let out a laugh, “Beginning of the fourth month. so two months we should know.”

“You want to know?” Damian asked.

“I haven't really thought about it.” 

“Easy you want to know so you know to buy the dino toys or the other -” Jason gets cut off.

“Jason!” Bruce hollers into the comms, 

“I'm good, someone just tried to stab me so I stabbed them.”

“Okay then Cassie just said you're sexist.”

I let out a laugh as Steph and Jason had a fight through Cassie, “I might choose to not know and get a little bit of everything.”

The next morning I had morning sickness for the first time in awhile, Bruce woke up when I did, but the bathroom was already ready for me, even though it hasn't happened in a while he still prepped the bathroom, for this exact reason. He tied my hair up in a bun and held it as I heaved over the toilet. With one hand he had opened the water bottle and handed it to me, keeping his hand on my head he placed one on my back. I sat on my knees and took a sip of the water, i took a deep breath and let myself fall backwards into Bruce, he caught me. His legs were spread apart and I fit perfectly between them, i maneuvered my legs into a crisscross situation. One of Bruise's legs is stretched out and the other is up, I lean into the knee, pressing my forehead on it. “I hate this” I say shutting my eyes knowing that a second wave is coming.

“I hate this too.”  Bruce lets his hands slip from my hair and back and onto my shoulders. I take another sip of the water and twist the cap on setting it down. I then feel it coming and then I'm on my knees again and more puke comes out of my more, my lungs feel hoarse. I cough over the toilet before falling back on the floor. The drop from my knees caused my whole body to shift and before my head hit the floor, Bruce caught me, suddenly I was crying and I didn't know why. He wiped my face and held me. 

“I don't think…” I coughed into my arm, rolling the side of my onto Bruce's chest, “That I can get back into bed.” I felt his arms bear hug me as he stood up so that I rose with him. He didn't pick me up like he did before but instead we waddled with me secured to his chest, my arms were wrapped around his neck, both of Bruce's arms were attached to my back and it was less of a waddle more like he was carrying me without moving me too much. When I felt the bed on the back of my knees I gently let go of Bruce and sat on the edge of the bed, he bends down and picks up my legs. I lightly moan as I roll over. He gets back into bed with me and i feel him stroke my hair eventually I fall asleep and when I awake again he's gone most likely he went to work, I check my phone, I don't have to go today, I stay in bed

The next few weeks go smoothly and both me and Bruce have decided to wait until its born to know the baby's gender, that conversation caused Jason to yell and TIm broke a cup and  coffee is now everywhere, DIck just laughed and Cassie was the only one who agreed with us, there is now a list on the fridge of boy and girl names, dino nugget made the list in the subcategory of gender neutral. These lists are the highlight of my mornings, with my morning sickness having subsided me and Bruce now spend our mornings reading through the names crossing out the ones they don't like. They've caught Alfred a few times taking photos of them. My stomach is now bigger and I've switched to elastic waistbands. Tomorrow me and Bruce have a doctors appointment for my five month checkup and then we're having lunch with Lois and Clark. 

part 3??

#bat fam #bat family headcannons #bat family #batfam #batfamily fanfic #dick grayson #jason todd #bruce wayne #batman #baby #fanfiction #damian wayne #pregancy #love intrests #dc universe #dc comics #dc #stephanie brown #cassandra cain #batfam headcannon #alfred #onceshot #headcannon #story #creative writing #batfam fanfic #fanfiction writing tips #fanficton

[atths--twice]

Tests of Faith

A year has passed since IWTB. Life has carried on and some worries and memories have come calling. 

“I’ll be back to see how you’re doing later this afternoon, okay?” Scully said with a smile, touching one of her youngest patients, Katie Thompkins, on the shoulder. She nodded at her parents, rubbing her mother’s arm quickly, before she walked out the door. 

Walking down the hallway, she sighed, pushing her hair from her eyes, and stopped walking. Dizziness and then a wave of nausea washed over her and she feared she might be sick. Goosebumps rose up and she felt instantly sweaty, a sure sign that vomiting was inevitable. 

Walking quickly to the nearest bathroom, she was glad to find it empty as she hurried into the largest stall and locked the door behind her. Dropping to her knees in front of the toilet, she emptied her stomach, which was not hard to do as she had not eaten yet that day, save for some coffee and a quarter of a muffin. 

Retching until she was only dry heaving, she flushed the toilet and rested against the wall. Breathing deeply, she walked out of the stall and rinsed her mouth and washed her hands. Wetting a paper towel, she used it to dab at the back of her neck and then down the front. 

Looking at herself in the mirror, she shook her head, not wanting to face the thoughts swirling around in her head. Dabbing the paper towel quickly to her forehead and cheeks, she tossed it in the trash. Looking in the mirror again, she fixed her hair, trying to keep it all contained in the ponytail, but pieces still slipped out. Taking a deep breath, she stepped away from the sink and out the door. 

She kept her eyes down as she walked down the hall to find the items she needed to quiet her racing thoughts. Making sure no one was looking, she grabbed a blood collection kit and put it in her coat pocket. Finding an empty room, she closed the door and sat down. Taking the items out, she lay them on the exam table. 

Quickly, she readied her arm and placed the needle in, filling a small tube with blood and bandaging her arm. Cleaning up, she tossed everything in the biohazard container and slipped the blood sample into her coat pocket, her heart pounding. Steeling herself, she opened the door and left the room. 

She walked down to the lab, looking for one of the technicians she had recently worked with and liked. Seeing her, she walked over, holding tight to the small vial 

“Good morning, Cheyenne. How are you today?” she asked her with a smile. 

“Doctor Scully! Good morning! How are you?” Cheyenne smiled at her and Scully could not help but laugh softly. She was a newer technician, with big green eyes and shoulder length reddish hair. She always had different funny pins on her lab coat and wore a fantastic shade of red lipstick Scully knew she would never be able to pull off. 

“I’m fine, Cheyenne, thank you. I uh, I have a favor to ask of you, if you don’t mind.” She took the blood sample out of her coat pocket and handed it to Cheyenne. “Could you run a test on this for me?” 

“Absolutely. Am I looking for anything in particular?” 

“Yeah. Could you run a quantitative hCg test?” Cheyenne looked at her, and Scully held her gaze. 

“There’s not a name on it, Doctor Scully,” she said quietly, her eyes concerned. 

“No,” she said, looking down. Lowering her voice, she glanced up again. “It’s… it’s mine and… I don’t think it will be positive, but I’d like you to run it to be sure. And I’d appreciate it being kept quiet, hence the lack of a name. Please.” Cheyenne looked down at the vial and back to her with a nod. 

“Okay, I can do that,” she said quietly. “Give me a few hours.” Scully touched her arm and nodded. 

“Thank you.” Cheyenne nodded again and Scully smiled. Putting her hands in her coat pockets, she walked out of the lab and headed to her office. 

Closing the door, she sat at her desk, putting her head in her hands. She took a deep breath and moved a hand to her stomach, knowing it was more than unlikely she was pregnant, and yet… 

She had been feeling odd for the past couple of days: dizziness, loss of appetite. She had chalked it up to being overworked and overtired, but it had never reached the level it had that morning, causing her to vomit. 

Rubbing her hand across her stomach, she tried to stop her tears but to no avail. She thought of how she felt before she found out she was pregnant with William; dizzy, passing out, the chills… the symptoms were very similar. Covering her face, she held onto her stomach, praying for what she did not know. It was a long shot. An impossible impossibility. But...what if it was not so impossible? She let the tears fall silently until she could breathe again. 

Reaching for a tissue, she wiped her eyes and blew her nose. She picked up the phone, intent on calling Mulder, but knowing she could not share any of this, not yet. She needed to be sure and she should tell him in person, regardless of what the test revealed. Placing the phone back in the cradle, she sighed and shook her head as she stood up. She opened the door, took a deep breath, and went to check on the rest of her patients.  

The day passed by slowly. She was not dizzy again, and she made herself eat some food even though she did not feel hungry, her stomach too nervous as she waited for any news from Cheyenne. 

Two patients were due for surgery the next day, and as a result there were many last minute questions and discussions. It helped to take her mind off her own worries, but not completely. Her eyes strayed to the clocks on the wall repeatedly, the hours ticking by at a snail’s pace. 

Coming back to her office later in the afternoon, her shift nearly over, she paced the room knowing a result had to be ready soon. A knock at the door made her jump, and when it opened, Doctor Clark stepped in with a smile. Scully smiled back and as she began to speak, Cheyenne appeared in the doorway, and Scully’s breath caught. 

“Oh! I’m sorry,” Cheyenne exclaimed, looking at them both, with a pointed look at Scully. “I was actually looking for Doctor Hastings. Someone said he was up here. It looks like they were mistaken, please excuse me.” 

“It’s okay. I think I actually just saw him downstairs,” Doctor Clark said with a smile. Cheyenne nodded and turned to go, but then stopped and stared at Scully, giving her a very slight shake of her head, her eyes apologetic. 

Cheyenne walked away and Doctor Clark continued speaking, but Scully did not hear her. She knew the test would not be positive, but she had hoped, at least a little. Nodding as Doctor Clark finished speaking, she gave her a strained smiled, praying this would end their discussion. Smiling in return, she walked out of the room, leaving Scully alone. 

She closed the doors and slid to the floor, silently crying harder than she had earlier. Believing and knowing were two different things, and now that she knew, she felt broken. It was not fair. That little house of theirs should be filled with children learning about aliens and science. 

But there were no children and there never would be, not again. One miracle child… that was all they had been allowed, and he… 

Shaking her head, she pushed herself up, needing to leave. She quickly took off her lab coat, grabbed her gray jacket and her bag, and walked out the door. 

She stopped at a park near the house and sat in the car, closing her eyes and running her hands over her stomach. It was foolish to even consider the possibility, but the same could be said for the last time. When the doctor had come in and smiled with the results of her blood tests, she had not believed him. In fact she had made him check again, needing to be absolutely sure. 

But it had been true. She had been pregnant against all odds. 

Opening her eyes, she saw a mom and her little girl playing on the play structure. They were bundled up against the evening chill and they both laughed as they ran around. She smiled sadly as she watched them, imagining herself doing something as simple as chasing William around, pushing him on the swings, and teaching him how to do it himself. 

But the past could not be changed. She had done what she had to do to protect William- to protect all of them. It did not mean she did not question her decision, worry about him every day, or regret that she had not been strong enough to take care of him. 

She sat for a few more minutes, watching the mother and daughter, and letting go of those thoughts, not wanting to discuss that particular subject with Mulder. No, he was a subject for car rides home alone, solitary showers, and late night worries as Mulder slept beside her. It hurt too much to vocalize the pain and so it stayed silent. 

Mulder had been right; William had left them with an emptiness that could not be filled, and discussing it was too hard and they rarely attempted to do so. 

Breathing deeply, she started the car and drove home, opening the gate when she arrived and shivering as she closed it and jumped back in the car. Pulling up the driveway, she parked and picked up her jacket and bag. Stopping at the door, she took a deep breath before she opened it. 

It was warm inside and something smelled delicious, making her mouth water. Mulder was in the kitchen, music playing softly, as he hit his hands on the counter in time to the beat. She smiled, holding back tears, as she watched him and set her things down. Stepping over to him, she saw the table was set with candles already lit. 

“Something smells good,” she said, smiling as he turned around in surprise. 

“Hey! You’re home early. Are you?” He looked at his watch and then back at her. “You are early.” 

“Are you not happy to see me here early?” she teased, and he stared at her in disbelief, reaching out to pull her close. 

“You can’t possibly be serious,” he said, holding her face in his hands, his thumbs stroking her temples. “Should I embarrass us both and tell you how much I miss you during the day?” She smiled and raised up on tiptoes to kiss him softly. He deepened the kiss, one hand moving to her hip, the other to the back of her head. 

Pushing back, she smiled, glancing at the counter. “So, what smells so good in here?” 

“Well, I went out and got some things for dinner. We haven’t shared an actual meal in awhile, and I wanted to change that.” He smiled, and she wrapped her arms around him, closing her eyes as she hugged him. “Thought maybe you’d appreciate a relaxing evening. You’ve been working a lot lately, and I wanted to do something to alleviate some of your worry and stress.” Swallowing down the lump in her throat, she nodded against his chest, squeezing him tightly. 

“What’s on the menu?” she asked, stepping back, keeping her back turned as she quickly wiped at her eyes. 

“Steak, baked potatoes, and a salad.” She turned around and raised her eyebrows at him as he wiggled his own. 

“Well… I am impressed.” 

“And…” He lifted a finger and walked to the refrigerator, opening it and showing her the two pieces of pie he had bought for dessert. She smiled, tears just below the surface, and nodded her approval. 

“You never cease to amaze me,” she said, walking close and kissing him again. “How long until it’s ready?” 

“Oh, I’d say, maybe twenty minutes?” 

“Okay. I’m going to take a shower, put on some comfortable clothes, and I’ll be back down.” 

“You got it, Doc.” He winked, stealing another kiss. “You wanna take a glass of wine up with you?” He pointed to the open bottle on the table, and she felt a moment of panic that she should not drink alcohol. Brushing that thought aside, she nodded, pouring a generous glassful, and walked upstairs. 

Waiting for the shower to warm up, she downed half the glass before stepping inside and letting the falling water cover the sound of her tears. 

Dressed in pajama pants, a long-sleeved shirt, and warm socks with her hair dried and loose, she came downstairs, her empty wine glass in hand. The table now held a bowl of salad and the foil wrapped potatoes. Mulder was carrying over the plates, each holding a piece of steak. 

“Perfect timing. Take a seat.” He set her plate down as she sat down, putting her napkin in her lap. Setting his own down, he refilled her wine glass before sitting down beside her. 

He served them each a bowl of salad and placed her potato on her plate. The music was still playing, but now it was something softer, almost jazzy. He grinned at her, pouring himself a glass of wine and nodding at her plate. She smiled and cut a piece of steak, finding it done to perfection. 

They ate, discussing the day, with her leaving out her main worry. He recounted a story of his adventure at the grocery store and she smiled, but did not feel her heart was in it. He laughed at his story, obviously not sensing her discomfort. 

“I’ll get these,” he said when they had finished, standing up and stopping her from doing the same. 

“Mulder, you cooked, I can-”

“None of that. You were working all day, I wasn’t. You take this…” Pouring the last of the wine into her glass, he handed it to her, and smiled. “And go sit on the couch and relax. I got this.” She sighed as he walked past her, kissing the top of her head as he did. 

She stood and watched him, singing along with the music as he scraped their plates and cleared the table. 

“Go,” he said, gesturing with his chin. She nodded and decided she wanted to sit outside instead, craving the cool fresh air. Putting on a jacket, she stepped onto the porch and sat down in one of the chairs with a sigh. 

Taking a drink, she closed her eyes and leaned her head back. She was feeling better; Mulder’s company, food, and some alcohol warming her belly seemed to right the world. Still though, she had to tell him about today, and she was not sure how to bring it up. 

Years on the run, living in this house, they had not had a thought of pregnancy, and it was not as though they were using any protection. With pregnancy not possible, they had not needed to be concerned about it.

Laughing bitterly, she shook her head, opening her eyes. That was what they had thought last time and… 

The door opened and Mulder stepped out with a smile, shrugging into his jacket. “It’s cold. Why are you sitting out here?” He sat next to her and she smiled with a shrug. “You want me to open another bottle?” 

“No,” she said with her brow furrowed. “No, this is enough. But thank you.” She smiled and he nodded, staring at her, his eyes searching. He looked away, out across the field and sighed, both of them falling silent. 

“Talk to me, Scully. Something is weighing on that beautiful mind of yours.” 

She smiled softly, looking down at her wine glass, thankful for the opening he had given her. Licking her lips, she nodded, setting the glass down beside her on the porch, and closed her eyes. “I had a blood test done today.” 

“A blood test? Is something wrong? Scully?” She felt his hand on her neck and opened her eyes, looking at him. His thumb stroked across her scar and she shook her head. 

“No, Mulder. Not that,” she said quietly, touching his arm. “I don’t think we have to worry about that.” 

“I will always worry about it, Scully,” he breathed, his eyes serious and his thumb still stroking as she nodded. 

“I had a blood test because… I thought… I thought that I might possibly be pregnant.” His hand stilled and he stared at her, his mouth opening and closing. “It was negative.” She looked down and he squeezed her neck, his thumb rubbing again. 

“Why would… have you… did… I’m at a loss for words here…” He sighed loudly and moved his hand from her neck, reaching for her hand instead. “Scully?” 

She sighed and squeezed his hand, lifting her head to look at him. “I’ve been feeling different. A couple of times… I’ve felt lightheaded, uninterested in food, but I just thought it was work related.” 

“You’re working too hard. That’s what I was saying earlier, Scully. You need…” He stopped when he saw the look on  her face. “I’m sorry. I interrupted you.” 

She squeezed his hand again and sighed. “This morning I… I threw up. A lot.” He stared at her hard and she shook her head. “It was like how I had felt before and I…” She sighed, looking down and closing her eyes. “I knew the test would be negative, but I had a small sliver of hope, you know? That there might be a chance.” She sobbed out a breath and let go of his hand to cover her face. 

“Oh, Scully. Come here.” He put a hand on her arm and stood up, bringing her to her feet and sitting back down with her on his lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck and cried against him. 

He held her close, his arms around her waist, silently letting her cry. She let it all out, though she was unsure how there could be any tears left at this point. Thoughts of William; his smell, the weight of him in her arms. She thought of him now, and the years she had missed. Of the children she had been denied, that they had been denied. 

She cried until she was empty, holding onto him, her face on his shoulder, his scent calming. She felt him rocking softly, his hands running slowly up and down her back. Taking a deep shuddering breath, she loosened her hold on him, keeping her head on his shoulder. He was quiet, his breathing slow, which helped to calm her further. 

“I don’t know what to say, Scully. I truly don’t,” he whispered a few minutes later. “I’m sorry sounds wrong, even though I am sorry. So sorry.” She exhaled and he nodded, their past conversations forefront in their minds. “Do you… there are other ways… we could…” 

“Mulder, it’s not about that. It is, but it isn’t. There is so much… I…” He stopped rocking and pulled her closer, her own grip tightening around his neck. They sat silently, so many words unspoken. Words that hurt to say and hurt to hear. “I don’t want it to happen another way. I didn’t expect it to happen at all, and today… I just thought…” 

They fell silent and she let those thoughts in again. Thoughts of a baby sleeping in the spare room upstairs. Of a curious little boy planting rocks, believing that was how a rock garden came to be. Of a brilliant little girl lying between them on a blanket, naming the constellations as they looked up at the night sky. 

She wanted to give that to him, not have it any other way, but she was not able to do it. After Emily, after the failed IVF, after William… no, another way would not do. 

“Never give up on a miracle,” he whispered, and she let out a bitter laugh. 

“Miracles are in short supply these days.” 

“Maybe.” He put his hands on her hips and pushed gently. She pulled back to look at him as he smiled sadly and brushed her hair back from her eyes. “But I’d say we thought the same was true eight years ago and look what happened.” He held her face, his fingers tangling in her hair. “Don’t lose your faith, Scully. Sometimes miracles take a while to reveal themselves. Don’t give up.” 

She stared at him, knowing that another miracle pregnancy was impossible, for so many reasons. “I don’t know if I have much faith in that area, Mulder.” He nodded sadly, and she lay her head back on his chest. His arms once more went around her waist as she closed her eyes. 

She had been stripped of her ability to have a child, and yet… she had created life, carried a child, and brought him into the world. It was not supposed to happen before, who was to say it would not happen again? 

Never give up on a miracle, she thought with a sigh. Faith alone could not be the answer, but she would place it there. For now. 

On faith. 

#fanfic #msr #xfiles #sadness #angst #comfort #love

[hockeylvr59]

Proving Your Worth || Jonathan Toews

Requested: [ ] yes [x] no

Authors Note: So this is the other series that I had started writing a while ago. Editing it a little bit and moving it over here for your reading pleasure. It was originally written in first person with both y/n and Jon’s POVs but I’ve switched it to be second person so Jon’s POV may feel a little bit off. It shouldn’t hamper anything too much though. Currently have 8 parts written that just need edited so hopefully, I can move them over at a reasonable pace. 

Here’s a quick synopsis of the series as a whole: 

When you joined the Chicago Blackhawks organization you were planning a future for yourself...alone. But the life you were carefully crafting was thrown into a tailspin when none other than Jonathan Toews insists that maybe your life could be even better than your plans. It's certainly not going to be easy but he's going to prove to you just how much you are worth.

Warnings: none

Word Count: 1445

The start of the season was always the busiest times of year. Between making sure that contracts are completely squared away, visas are obtained and up to date, and that all of the appropriate tax information is filed, the first few weeks of the season usually left you drowning in paperwork.

Today was no different in the Chicago Blackhawks business office. The season was two weeks old and thankfully you were finally almost caught up on the majority of the work you’d been assigned. Going into year two of your tenure, you were certainly more familiar with all of it and while it wasn’t difficult, it was utterly time-consuming and it wasn’t long before your head was pounding.

Deciding that you could afford a five-minute break from your office, you headed down the hall to refill your water bottle. Five minutes had quickly turned to ten by the time your boss found you squatting by the water cooler, head in one of your hands while the other pressed against the wall for support so that you didn’t completely pass out.

“Y/N...you alright?” Your boss Denise inquired, her voice soft. Nodding slowly, you forced yourself to your feet, stomach twisting again as you did.

“I’ll be fine, I just need to go sit down,” You replied, though your voice didn’t sound all that self-assured. She didn’t seem entirely convinced, though you didn’t see her again until she popped her head into your office to check on you an hour later. Though it wasn’t the most office-appropriate wear, you had tugged a Hawks sweatshirt over your dressy blouse needing the warmth and comfort. Honestly, you hadn’t accomplished much, having to read and reread the same sentences over and over of one of your folders of paperwork. You were certainly ready for it to be five o’clock already so that you could head out for the day.

____

Jon was just getting ready to head out after a meeting to go over his charity work this season when Denise, one of the ladies in the business office, stopped him.

“Can you do me a favor, Jonathan?” She asked the expression on her face a mixture of worry as well as authority. Though Jon obviously didn’t spend a whole lot of time with the people in this part of the organization, he was familiar with them. Usually, they didn’t ask for favors though so he was slightly confused as to what she might need him for. Shrugging he shoved his hands in his pockets before speaking.

“Sure what’s up?”

“Can you go give y/n a ride home, she’s not feeling well even if she insists she’s fine. She’ll go home if I tell her to, but I know she took the ‘L’ in this morning and I really don’t feel comfortable with her riding it back home when she looks as rough as she does,” Denise explained.

Jon knew you had joined the organization the year before and thought that you were certainly something.  He thought about your long light brown hair that you’d dyed red at least once last season and how your eyes flickered between blue and green depending on the day. He had only met you a handful of times but he knew that you often came back at the end of a long workday to watch the home games from the boxes and that when you had bumped into each other you’d been nothing but polite.

“Sure. I think I can handle that.” Jon finally stated, after realizing that he’d lost himself in thought and was being rude. Heading down the hall he rapped his knuckles twice against your door before popping his head in. Denise saying that you looked rough was an understatement and he frowned slightly. “Grab your things, Denise asked me to take you home.” He directed as he stepped inside the small room, looking around.

There were a few pictures of what had to be your family on the shelves in the corner and mixed into your personal mementos were Blackhawks posters and trinkets.

____

It wasn’t long after Denise had come to check on you that the pounding in your head got worse, blurring your vision. You closed your eyes in hopes of a respite but after a few minutes of darkness, you were jolted back upright when a knock on your door was followed by a strong male voice. Looking across the room you were surprised to see the Blackhawks captain, Jonathan Toews, and even more surprised when he insisted that he was taking you home.

Your head hurt too much to argue and so after logging out of your computer, you closed the file you had been attempting to work on neatly before sliding your feet back into the heels you’d kicked under your desk and grabbing your purse and water bottle.

“I know Denise put you up to this but thank you,” You whispered as you walked down the hallways of the United Center and he led you to his SUV. Slipping inside the vehicle, you quickly buckled up before leaning your head against the window.

“So...where are we going?” You heard Jonathan ask you and you blinked a few times, your mind slow to process the question, before answering.

“Oh...um..I’m on Clark Street, North Side.” You murmured, silently pointing which way for him to turn when he pulled out of the parking lot. With it being midday, traffic wasn’t horrendous and you just did your best to relax although your stomach was not having the movement at all. When he pulled into the lot of your building you unbuckled yourself and moved to open the door after gathering your things only to find Jon had beat you to it and was offering a hand out to you.

“Thanks.” You whispered once again.

____

“No problem, I’ll walk you up.” While Jon certainly wanted to be a gentleman, he wasn’t offering for that reason, he was offering because he wasn’t sure that you would be able to make it yourself without passing out. He’d seen you turning slightly green during the drive and was thankful you hadn’t puked in his car because he would have been a little annoyed.

Flicking your key fob over the lock to the building you allowed him to follow you inside and soon you were riding the elevator up to your floor. Your door was halfway down the hall and as soon as you got it open he saw you stiffen before you dropped your things and dashed inside. For a moment he wasn’t sure whether he should leave now that you were home but seconds later he heard you puking and found himself moving toward the sound and stepping into the bathroom to hold your hair back, his hand moving toward the base of your spine where he rubbed his thumb hoping to soothe you.

When it seemed like you were finished, he moved to grab a washcloth that was sitting on the sink, wetting it slightly before handing it to you. “You okay?” He inquired before gently pulling you toward his chest and then lifting you up to carry you back to the couch. “Can I get you anything before I go?” He then added not sure that leaving you here alone was any better than you being at the office. At least it was quiet and a bit darker, but you would also be left to your own resources.

When you didn’t respond, he headed to your kitchen and didn’t stumble upon crackers or ginger ale to soothe your stomach. So though he’d only been asked to bring you home he decided to run out to the store to grab you a few things that would hopefully help you feel better. “Hey..I’ll be right back. I’m going to go grab you some Ginger Ale and crackers, anything else you’d like?” As he spoke he squatted down on the floor in front of the couch and placed his hand to your forehead checking for a fever.

“Really I’m okay. You’ve done enough Jonathan, I’m sure you have other things to do.” You mumbled, turning your head back into the throw pillow, clearly trying to get the way your head was feeling under control.

“Well, I insist so I’m going to snatch your keys and I’ll be back in a few.” He declared, standing up and moving to grab the keys you’d let fall to the floor in your race to the toilet. It wasn’t until he was back in the hallway that he wondered just what the hell it was that he was doing.

#jonathan toews #jonathan toews imagine #chicago blackhawks #nhl imagines #nhl imagine #hockey imagine #hockey imagines #cblackhawks #008

[magewriter]

Baby Danvers

Kalex Day Six: Kink Alphabet

Friday, 11/22 - Kink Alphabet - A kink from any letter from the word “Supergirl”: pregnancy

I own nothing. I also apologize for nothing.

Words: 2,729

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Alex stared at the little stick in her hand.

It was positive. She was pregnant.

The procedure had worked.

She was pregnant.

Alex sat down on the closed toilet seat and tried to remember to breathe. She was pregnant. She needed to let it settle in her mind before anything else.

Kara was going to be ecstatic. The Kryptonian was also going to put Alex’s overprotective tendencies to shame. The agent didn’t even want to contemplate what her mother, J’onn, and the rest of her insane family would do.

She was going to end up killing someone by the end of this. She just knew it.

At least her family would help her get away with it.

Well…Kara would at least.

“Alex?” Kara’s voice drifted towards the bathroom from the bedroom. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” She called back to her wife.

“Fine as in okay of FINE?” She asked after a moment.

“A little bit of both I think?” Alex admitted uncertainly.

“Can I come in?” The door was closed. Alex was well aware that Kara had undoubtedly already looked through the door.

“Yea, please.” Alex held up the test.

Kara’s face fell. “Oh, Alex…I’m sorry.” She had her human wrapped in her arms before she could say anything.

“No, no, Kara,” Alex shook her head. “Look at it.”

Kara took the test from her, reading the result. She read it again before looking up at her partner.

“You’re pregnant?” Her voice and face were filled with something akin to awe. “It worked?”

Alex nodded, feeling tears come to her eyes. “Yes, I’m pregnant.”

“We’re going to have a baby.” Kara dropped the test in the sink so she could gently wrap Alex in the tightest hug she dared, her own happy tears trailing down her cheeks. “We’re going to be parents.”

“We are,” Alex nuzzled into Kara’s neck. “We really are.” She chuckled. “Everyone’s going to fight over who gets to be godparents.”

“We’ll figure it out.” Kara swept Alex into a bridal carry. “Now, we celebrate before we tell everyone.”

It took them a week to decide how to tell their extended friends and family the good news. They had decided to wait until after Alex’s doctor’s appointment to confirm it, just in case the test had been wrong. It would not have been the first time.

“Maybe we should just send out a mass e-mail instead,” Alex looked over the stacks of boxes. “Did your mother’s get there alright?”

“It did, and Lena’s already got everything ready to go.” Kara said, reaching for one of the stacks to double check they hadn’t forgotten anyone.

Who knew one could privately buy bulk key-chains?

“Of course she does,” Alex rolled her eyes. Lena had been watching her like a hawk for the last three weeks. She and the doctors involved were the only ones who knew they were trying again. “At this rate, we’re going to need to name the baby after her.”

“Alexandra Lena Danvers is a perfectly suitable name,” Kara defended.

Alex rolled her eyes at the thought of naming her child after herself. “She’s going to argue that it should be Lena Alexandra for having to put up with both our shenanigans.”

“We already decided she gets to be godmother.” Kara said with a smile. “Along with Winn, Lucy, Sam, and Jess.”

“Our kid will be able to get away with murder and no one will ever know it even happened.” Alex joked, leaning back against Kara.

“Kids,” Kara corrected absently, arm wrapping around the woman in her lap.

“Right,” Alex touched her still flat stomach. It wouldn’t remain that way for much longer. “We ready for this?”

“Yes,” Kara replied. “Let’s go.”

The trip to L-Corp (because the security there put even the DEO to shame at times) was short. Alex briefly mourned the loss of her ability to drive her bike, but it was worth the trade off.

Lena was waiting for them when they got there. She hugged both of them.

“Most everyone is hear,” she told them, “we’re still waiting for J’onn and the rest of the PIBs to get here.” Ruby had coined the term ages ago; the rest of them had simply adopted it.

“Good, but why are you down here?” Kara looked her over. “Did someone say something?”

Lena shook her head. “No, but if I had to listen to one more theory about this meeting I was going to throttle someone. Or possibly throw them from the balcony. I haven’t decided yet.”

Alex laughed. “Come on, before someone does something stupid.”

“I already had Jess lock all the liquor cabinets in the building. No one can get in the labs either.” Lena had taken every precaution she could think of. With their group, there was no such thing as overkill.

“Finally!” Sam spun in her chair. “Are the rest here yet?”

“Calm down, we’ll be told eventually.” Eliza spoke calmly. “J’onn just texted that they are on their way.”

“Yea, but we want to know now!” Ruby pouted at them. Yes, she was getting to miss half a school day for this but that didn’t mean she wasn’t curious.

“Not going to work,” Kara told her. “But, you can help me pass these out.”

Glad to be given something to do, the teenager got up and took one of the bags Kara was carrying. She was even more curious now that presents were involved. Presents of varying sizes even, given the ones for Eliza, J’onn, Winn, Lucy, Sam, Jess, and Lena were larger than for the rest.

James and Nia arrived shortly after they were done passing out the boxes. The group from the DEO was next. With everyone who could be there in person had arrived, Lena turned on the monitors. Clark and Lois, little Jon balanced on his dad’s lap, and Martha Kent took up one screen. Barry and Team Flash waved from another. Felicity grinned at them, her own daughter on her lap as Oliver and the rest of Team Arrow were arrayed behind her. Sara, Ava, and the rest of the Legends were dressed in period garb but were all clustered around the camera on their end. Alura was by herself, but her smile was wide and genuine as took in her daughters and their found family.

“Alright,” Kara was fairly bouncing in place. “Everyone can open their gifts now, and then we’ll tell you what this is about.”

Permission given, everyone with a box tore into them. Lena nearly burst into tears when she read the t-shirt her box contained. Eliza, Alura, and J’onn did start crying.

“Are you serious?” Winn squeaked.

“It worked?” Lena looked at them. She was clutching her ‘World’s Smartest Aunt’ shirt to her chest. At the moment, she didn’t even care about the ‘godmother’ and ‘aunt’ keychains still in the box.

“It worked,” Alex confirmed. “I’m ten weeks as of today.”

“Congratulations!” Barry hugged Kara tightly. “I’m going to hug you, please don’t kill me.” He hugged Alex as well. She laughed at him, amused that she still terrified him after all this time.

Team Flash was laughing over their connection. Barry had barely gotten his ‘uncle’ key chain before he had run out in excitement.

“Congrats Skirt,” Mick muttered, turning to search for a beer. He slipped the keychain into his pocket. It wouldn’t due for them to see that he was touched at the gesture.

Alura held the t-shirt as if it were made from the finest silk. She didn’t have words to say how happy she was at this turn of events. Her only child was to be a mother! She was to be a grandmother!

“Your father would be so proud of you,” she said, “you both must come visit once she is born.”

“We will,” Alex promised. “After all, one of the twins will be named after you.”

“TWINS!!!” Several people shouted.

“Twins,” the couple confirmed.

“Alexandra Lena and Alura Elizabeth Danvers-El,” Kara announced. She smiled at her wife. It had taken some effort, but she had won Alex over on the names. Both of their mothers were honored, as was their best friend.

“I am going to make so many clothes,” Winn whispered to himself. He was clutching his shirt and ‘godfather’ keychain to his chest as if someone was going to snatch them away from him.

“Are you certain that they’ll both be girls?” Ava asked. She still wasn’t used to being around tiny children, so the ‘aunt’ keychain she had received was causing her some anxiety. She had no idea how to be an aunt.

“No male chromosome,” Alex explained, motioning between her and Kara. “So unless something happens we didn’t think to account for, they’re girls.”

“Good, then we’ll start out numbering the batboys.” Ruby declared.

Clark laughed. He would need to forward that comment to Bruce. “We’ll save Jon’s baby things to pass down.”

“Same,” Oliver agreed, not to be outdone by the Boy Scout in blue. He was honored to be named honorary uncle, just as he was touched that they had included William and Mia both as ‘cousins’.

“Have you chosen Godparents yet?” J’onn asked. His granddaughters would be the most protected babies in the city.

“Lena, Winn, Sam, Lucy, and Jess.” Alex told them. “Non-negotiable.”

The ‘meeting’ further devolved into a party. Jess actually unbent enough to hug Kara, touched and honored that she was chosen to be godmother. A smart move on their part, she thought.

Someone would need to make sure the rest didn’t go overboard.

It took two and a half months before someone got the bright idea to try and kidnap Alex for leverage over Supergirl.

They lasted all of two minutes once Supergirl and the Martian Manhunter caught up to them.

At five months, someone else tried to do the same for revenge against Kara Danvers.

It didn’t work any better for them.

Everyone got a bit of stunned laughter when it was learned that Lillian Luthor sent a ‘strongly worded’ reprimand to both parties outlining why they were idiots. That put them all on guard.

Lena nearly drove Alex around the bend with the amount of security features she tried to add to their apartment. Alex firmly drew the line when the woman outright offered the entire floor below her penthouse for them to move into.

“Lena, no.” Alex turned to her wife. “Kara, no.” She turned to everyone else gathered for a family dinner. “No. We’re not doing it. Both attempts were nowhere even close to here.” She crossed her arms over her rounded belly, feeling one of the babies kicking. She hoped in agreement and not reprimand.  “Need I remind you, Lena still has at least monthly assassination attempts. I’m also mostly on desk duty, not even lab work and nothing in the field.”

“Those are just the two that were successful,” Jess pointed out. It had taken some doing, but she had finally accepted more of an active role in the Superfamily. “At current, there have been a total of seventeen attempts to kidnap you as an ally of Supergirl and nine as the wife of Kara Danvers.” She continued to tap away at her tablet. “My mistake, one of the kidnap attempts for Mrs. Danvers was actually the dropping off of a pre-baby shower gift from the Sirens.”

Alex thunked her head on the table. “I’m perfect capable of protecting myself and my babies.”

“We know that,” Kara was quick to reassure her. “We’re just concerned. Alex, Poison Ivy offered to plant killer plants as a security feature after the first attempt. Livewire offered herself as a guard under house arrest. Half our friends have offered either security measures or pre-emptive strikes.”

“All of you are blowing this out of proportion.” Alex tried to argue. “Pam makes that offer to pretty much everyone she considers a friend at some point. Livewire gets bored and like to bother us. All of our friends are being over-protective.” She looked up long enough to glare at all of them. “I never want to hear another word from any of you about me being overprotective.”

“I don’t think they are,” Jess flipped her tablet around to show Alex what she had brought up. “Agent Vasquez just updated the information.”

There was a thump and a curse outside, a cheery ‘I got it!’ that sounded as if it were Barry, and then silence. A moment later, both Kara’s and J’onn phones chirped with an incoming text.

Alex thunked her head to the table again. “This is ridiculous.”

Lena sipped her glass of wine. “It might be, but we all have perfectly valid concerns. Need I remind you, that my mother has yet to make her play.”

“Fine,” Alex felt well played. “We’ll do it. But this is it. No more.”

Kara patted her shoulder. “We’ll do our best.”

When Alex saw the well-appointed nursey, she grit her teeth and said nothing. She hacked into the security system to run her own tests instead.

At seven months, she was put on bed rest. She growled the entire time, but Kara stood firm.

“It doesn’t mean you have to stay in bed the whole time,” she tried to reason. “It just means that you need to slow down.”

“I’ve already slowed down!” She glowered at the blonde. “Now I can’t even do fucking paperwork! None of the recruits are even slightly terrified of me anymore. I can’t even put on my own boots!”

“Hey, hey,” Kara hugged her. “The recruits are totally still terrified of you. And you needed new boots anyway.” She kissed the side of Alex’s head. “You hate paperwork.”

“It was something to do,” Alex pouted. “What am I supposed to do all day?”

“Well…”

“Kara, what did you do?”

“It’s more of a gift from Mom?” Kara dashed out of the room, coming back with a medium sized dog following her.

“…Alura sent us an alien dog.”

“Yes,” Kara nodded. “His name is Krypto, and he’s already housetrained. You already know all the commands, even if your accent is terrible.”

“Gee, thanks.” Alex eyed the dog eying her right back. “Does he have powers?”

“He does,” Kara said. “But I already thought of that! Kryptonian dogs are slightly telepathic and very intelligent. He understands where and when to use his powers.”

“…this is your addition to the already obscene amount of security features.”

“Technically it’s my mother’s addition.”

“Technically,” Alex rolled her eyes. “Okay. He can stay.” The dog began wagging his tail, approaching Alex now that he knew he could. She stroked his head, sighing. At least she wouldn’t be by herself.

Krypto proved his worth when Lillian finally made her move at eight months.

The woman had taken into account Supergirl, Lena, several of their wide group of friends and allies, and even a few of the ‘villains’.

She did not take into account a furious canine that decimated the entire group she sent to take Alex into custody while she was engaging Supergirl elsewhere.

“Good boy,” Alex praised him, scratching his head.

Krypto wagged his tail hard enough to shake his whole hindquarters. He knew he was a good boy who had done a good job. It was still nice to be told so.

“Alex!” Kara flew in thru the window. “Are you…” she trailed off. “Good boy.” She patted the dog on the head. “I’ll take them in.” She smiled widely at Alex. “Lucy and Vas have already taken Lillian into custody.” She quickly texted Lena and J’onn. “And now they can inform her that her goons failed.”

“Um…Kara?”

“What?” Kara looked up, taking in her wife’s paling features. “Alex?” She dashed to her side. “What is it?”

“I think my water just broke.”

“Oh Rao.”

Alexandra Lena and Alura Elizabeth Danvers-El were born seven hours later in the DEO Medbay. Alex, exhausted, leaned against Kara as they held their daughters. They both already had tufts of dark hair and people were betting on if they would keep the blue eyes or not.

“Their perfect,” Kara whispered softly. “You’re perfect.” She pressed a kiss to Alex’s head.

“Yea, they really are,” Alex was holding her namesake. “I kinda want to do it again.”

Kara chuckled. “I think that might be the meds talking.”

“Maybe,” Alex agreed. “But next time, it’s your turn.”

#Kalex #kalex week 2019 #kalex fanfic #baby fic #day 6

[almostafantasia]

Lancelot (2/14)

Lexa Woods, an impeccably dressed British secret agent for the covert Kingsman organisation, whose latest mission sees her sneaking through the corridors of the White House in the middle of the night, finds herself having to seduce the daughter of the newly elected President of the United States in a bid to save the world. It’s a surprise to Lexa when she ends up falling for her target as fast as she does, meanwhile Clarke doesn’t expect her gorgeous date for an international political gala dinner to drag her into a world of thrill and danger where one wrong move could cause a global disaster.

a clexa kingsman au | chapter 2/14 read on ao3

“The heads of government of the twelve countries involved in the Green Planet Initiative have started arriving in Paris for the final negotiations on the agreement. Amongst those arriving is the newly elected President of the United States, Abigail Griffin, in what is to be her first official visit to Europe since her inauguration in Jan-”

The car radio cuts off mid-newscast as Lexa parks her Bentley at the side of the road and removes the key from the ignition. Leaning over the central console until she can see herself in the rear-view mirror and check her appearance, Lexa combs her fingers through her long hair to sweep it out of her face, then reaches up with the other hand to touch the knot of her tie, adjusting it until it sits centrally at the collar of her crisp white shirt.

Once happy with her appearance, Lexa opens the car door and steps out onto the pavement, hooking her finger under the collar of the tweed jacket that has been draped across the passenger seat. Outside the car, Lexa slips her arms into the jacket and does the button up at the front, smoothing the fabric down and extending her arms out so that the sleeves fit just right, showing a perfect half-inch of shirt at her cuffs.

Kingsman Tailors might be a front for a covert intelligence organisation, but there is no question about the fact that they make damn fine suits too.

Inside the shop, there is nothing that wouldn’t be out of place in a normal high-end tailor’s. The dark green wallpaper and mahogany panelling provides an elegant backdrop for shelves of suit trousers and ties, as well as the mannequins that model well-cut suits. There’s an assistant working on one of the suits, his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows and a tape measure dangling around his neck as he carefully pins the sleeves of the jacket he works on.

“Morning Fletch!” Lexa greets the tailor with a smile.

“Good morning, ma’am,” says Fletch, looking up from the jacket that he’s adjusting and nodding his head in Lexa’s direction. “Your new suit is waiting for you in the dressing room at the top of the stairs. Somebody will be up shortly to check that it fits.”

Though she knows full well that there is no dressing room at the top of the stairs, Lexa smiles her thanks to keep up the pretence and climbs the stairs at the back of the shop to reach the upper floor, then pushes open the heavy double doors to enter the meeting room. At the far end of the long table that dominates the room, Anya sits in quiet conversation with Arthur, the head of the Kingsman organisation, while Merlin waits just by the door, his fingers tapping away at the screen of his tablet.

“Ah, Lancelot,” says Arthur, lifting his head as he hears the door open and smiling warmly when he sees Lexa. Gesturing to the chair to his right, the one opposite Anya, he continues, “Please do take a seat.”

Lexa does as instructed, unbuttoning her jacket as she sits down, before looking around expectantly as she waits for one of the others to speak.

Merlin steps closer, lifting his attention from his tablet as he says, “I’m afraid our debrief of last night’s training exercise is going to have to wait. There are rather more urgent matters to discuss.” Looking at Lexa, he adds, “Your glasses, Lancelot.”

Lexa reaches inside her jacket to retrieve a pair of dark-rimmed glasses. No ordinary pair of spectacles, when Lexa puts the special Kingsman-issue glasses on her face, she is greeted with holographic projections of ten other agents filling the remaining seats around the table.

Merlin taps once on the screen of his tablet and an image appears on the screen positioned on the wall. Lexa turns in her seat to look at it, and finds herself looking a photograph of a familiar building; white walls lined with windows, four tall columns, and a fountain in the middle of a well-kept lawn.

“The White House,” Merlin tells the room, though there will not be a single agent who doesn’t recognise the building in the picture. “The official residence of the President of the United States.” Merlin taps his tablet and a smaller image appears in the top corner of the screen, which Lexa recognises as a photograph of President Abigail Griffin, before he continues, “Since President Griffin began her term in office, there have been three security breaches at the White House. The US government has been trying to keep it hushed down, but somehow the press has caught wind and it made the headlines this morning.”

“So the Americans have a faulty security system?” asks Anya, raising a single dubious eyebrow. “Why is that of interest to us?”

“Because it’s happened three times in the last month,” answers Merlin.

“Once is a mistake,” Lexa muses aloud, “twice could be a coincidence, but three times is suspicious.”

“Exactly,” agrees Merlin. “But there’s no indication of what might have caused these breaches. As far as we can tell, there has been no sign of an intruder on any of these occasions, nor has anything been taken or damaged.”

Lexa’s curiosity is piqued and she leans forward in her chair, though Anya remains sceptical.

“So a ghost who can hack through government systems is taunting the US President?” shrugs Anya. “What can we do about that?”

“There must be a reason behind the security breaches, even if we don’t know what it is,” speaks up one of the other Kingsman agents.

“The best case scenario is that whoever is behind these breaches is doing it just because they can,” says Merlin. “Perhaps a bored computer science student with too much time on their hands.”

“But if they can hack into the White House, who’s to say what they might attempt next?” interjects Arthur.

“What’s the worst case scenario?” Lexa asks Merlin, an unsettling feeling starting to develop in the pit of her stomach as she tries to imagine what kind of nefarious scheme could be being orchestrated by somebody who can break into what must be one of the most secure buildings in the world.

“That it’s not just a security breach,” answers Merlin. “That somebody has used the system’s downtime to get into the White House and done something undetectable inside before making their escape.”

Anya, who still doesn’t seem to think that the situation needs to be taken seriously, smirks to herself as she chuckles, “What like taken a sharpie pen to graffiti their initials on the inside of a toilet cistern for some poor sod to find when they refit the bathroom in twenty years?”

“Probably more like they planted a bomb,” says Lexa.

She intends it as a throwaway comment, something a little more serious to counter Anya’s general ridicule for the situation, but it sounds a lot darker aloud than it did in Lexa’s head. When Merlin grimaces and nods, the upset in Lexa’s stomach is replaced by an empty dread as she realises that her words could be closer to the truth than anticipated.

“So our ghost might be a terrorist?” winces Anya, finally understanding the potential weight of the security breaches.

“Like I said, that’s the worst case scenario,” says Merlin, though his words do very little to comfort Lexa from the thought that some unknown opponent might be plotting to blow up the White House. “There are any number of motives. We just need to find out what the right one is before it’s too late.”

“And who is behind it,” agrees Arthur.

“But there are thousands of people who could want to hurt Abigail Griffin or cause irreparable damage to her career,” Lexa reminds the rest of the room. “After four years of fascism, it’s probably a big shock for a lot of her opponents to have to accept such a liberal President.”

“Not to mention the fact that there are probably a lot of very narrow-minded people unhappy with having a female President,” adds one of the other agents.

“So President Griffin has a lot of enemies, at least one of whom is actively taking steps against her,” says Anya, a slow grin spreading across her face, though Lexa can’t understand what reason she would have for smiling when there is a threat against one of the world’s most influential leaders. “And we have no idea who it is or what their plan might be. You know what, I’m liking this more and more. I love a good mystery.”

“Good,” says Merlin. “Because I’m assigning this mission to you. And Lancelot,” he adds, turning to Lexa. “You make a great team and we’re sending you both to Washington to find out what’s going on. We trust you’ll be able to work it out before it’s too late.”

Lexa’s eyes widen in surprise. She knows that she’s a good agent, and that Anya is too, but everybody at Kingsman is a highly skilled intelligence operative. The rigorous training and selection process ensures that. But she’s still surprised that Merlin and Arthur have chosen her to accompany Anya to America for this job, rather than any of the other agents that are currently projected around the long table.

Lexa has been involved in some dangerous and often high pressure situations during the three years she’s been a part of this organisation, but she can’t think of a single one that beats flying to America for a mission that could potentially save the life of the President. She thinks that it’s the unknown that is what will make this mission her most challenging one yet, the fact that they have no idea who or even what they are up against. This could just as easily be a bored hacker having a bit of fun with a complex security system as it could be a plot to assassinate the leader of the free world.

And Lexa is determined to do all she can to make sure that nothing happens to President Griffin. Which is why she turns to Merlin, swallows down her nerves, and then asks, “So when is our flight?”

Clarke flings the final item of clothing into the already too full suitcase just as she hears a knock on the door. She flips the lid shut, not bothering to zip it up yet because she knows that she's going to struggle to manage on her own, then rushes over to the door, unlocking and opening it. She's so enthusiastic with the door that it swings open and hits the wall behind it with a thud, but Clarke doesn't care about that when she sees her father's smiling face looking down at her from the corridor outside her dorm room.

"Daddy!" she squeals excitedly, surging forwards with her arms held wide and nearly knocking Jake Griffin over with the force of her hug.

"Whoa!" Jake stumbles back in surprise, before his arms encircle Clarke and draw her into a tight embrace. "Hey there, monkey!"

Clarke inhales deeply, relaxing as her father's scent engulfs her. He smells just the same as he always has done - coffee and cologne and something earthy that reminds Clarke of lost summers playing in the backyard, of Jake seeing how high he could push Clarke on the rope swing before the thrill got too much and he would chase her inside for homemade lemonade. So many things have changed in Clarke's life since elementary school, but the way that Jake smells, the way that his strong arms feel wrapped around her, is just like it was when Clarke was a seven year-old who thought her father was a superhero.

"I missed you," she tells him truthfully.

"I missed you too," replies Jake. "We both have."

Jake releases Clarke from the hug, though not before ruffling her hair with one of his big hands, and she lets out a whine as a few of the messy blonde locks tumble across her face.

"Dad!"

"Clarke," Jake quips back, mocking Clarke's whiny tone, and she sticks her tongue out at him in response. "Are you ready to go? The cars are parked outside and I don't want to keep them waiting too long."

Clarke nods as she does a final sweep of the room for anything she might have forgotten, picking her laptop up off the bed and sliding it into its protective case before putting it and the charger into the backpack by the door.

"I still don't understand why I couldn't just get a train home," complains Clarke. She looks up at Jake with as much seriousness as she can muster, before continuing, "Do you know how embarrassing it is to be the President's daughter without being escorted home for spring break by a fleet of cars?"

"It's only protocol," shrugs Jake. "Your mom's job is stressful enough without having to worry about you getting stalked by the press on the way home from college."

"I'm a big girl," pouts Clarke, swinging her backpack over one shoulder and then hooking the other arm through the second strap so that it sits comfortably on her back. "I can look after myself."

"I know you can, sweetie," agrees Jake. He points at the suitcase, with its lid barely hiding the fact that it is overflowing with clothes, and asks, "Is this the bag you're taking home?"

Clarke nods, and gestures to two small duffel bags that are zipped up and placed in a neat pile beside the door, then says, "And those two over there."

Jake crosses over to her suitcase and bends down next to it, leaning on it with all his bodyweight as he attempts to wrestle the zip closed.

"Are you coming home for two weeks or moving out of the dorm permanently?" he asks, voice slightly breathless from the effort of trying to close a suitcase that Clarke has crammed way too much into.

"Ha ha,” Clarke deadpans. “Very funny. Carry the heavy one, will you?"

Clarke picks up one of the duffels in each hand and watches as Jake finally triumphs over the zip of the suitcase. He gets to his feet and stands the suitcase up, extending the handle so that he can wheel it along behind him.

"What did your last slave die of?" he teases.

"I locked him up and left him to die when he refused to carry my bags,” grins Clarke. “Come on!"

"You're very bossy today, young lady,” says Jake, following Clarke out of her dorm room with the suitcase being towed along behind him, and he waits as Clarke drops one of the bags she’s carrying to fish around in the pocket of her jeans for the key to lock her door.

"I'm a pretty big deal, you know,” Clarke tells him, locking her dorm with a click and putting the key back into her pocket, before she picks up the bag again and leads the way towards the staircase at the end of the hallway. “I don't know if you've heard, but my mom is President of the United States."

"You sound just like her,” says Jake, shaking his head at Clarke, though the smile that graces his lips tells an entirely different story - that he wouldn’t change the recent events and how it has affected his family’s lives at all. “She likes to remind me that she could have me thrown in prison for treason if I do so much as make her a bad cup of coffee."

"Oh!” exclaims Clarke, her eyes widening in glee as she continues, “I am so using that one next time I get approached by some creepy guy in a bar!"

"You get approached by creeps?” asks Jake, and Clarke’s insides sink as she realises that she’s just revealed one of the less appealing sides of college life to a very protective father. “Perhaps we should up your security..."

"No, no!” says Clarke, quick to correct her mistake. “I was just kidding! It's already bad enough having two secret service agents dressed as college students following me around everywhere I go!"

They reach the ground floor of Clarke’s accommodation block and Jake pushes open the glass door and holds it open for Clarke so that she can bring her bags outside. As soon as she makes it out of the building, she notices the three cars parked at the side of the road, all jet black and with darkened windows, and it finally hits her that she’s going to be travelling to the White House in some kind of presidential convoy.

They load up the luggage quickly and get into the back of the middle of the three vehicles, and when the cars start to pull away, they are barely on the move for a minute before Jake pulls out his phone and searches through it for some music. He finds a playlist called Clarke and leans forward to ask the driver if he can connect the phone to the car’s speakers, and as soon as he gets an affirmative the car is filled with the sound of songs that remind Clarke of her youth. It’s like her dad knows exactly what to do to make Clarke feel like she’s still at home, even when her entire world has been upended.

She voices this to Jake.

"I was worried that everything would change after Mom got elected,” she tells him.

"We're always going to be Mom, Dad, and Clarke,” Jake replies. He grins and then adds, “No matter how many followers I get on the Twitter."

"Dad,” says Clarke, letting out a monumental groan, “for the last time, it doesn't matter how many followers you get, if you call it "the Twitter" then you're still a hideously uncool fifty-two year old."

There’s a twinkle in Jake’s blue eyes as he quips back, “Tell that to my fanbase.”

“Do you remember the last time we went to America?”

Lexa glances up as they shuffle forward in the check-in line at the airport, passports in hand, and racks her brain to remember the time that Anya is talking about. Lexa has visited America a few times in recent years, though never with Anya as a companion. In fact, the only time she can remember travelling to America with Anya was a ten day visit to New York with their school choir way back when Lexa was a scrawny fourteen year old and Anya was the gorgeous sixth former that all the younger girls aspired to be like.

“The choir trip?” she asks Anya.

“Ah, the memories,” Anya sighs nostalgically. “Do you remember the last night?”

“When you snuck half the choir into your hotel room after lights out and we passed around a bottle of vodka?” Lexa winces at the memory, specifically at the memory of the struggle to survive the seven hour flight back to England the following day whilst trying to conceal her first ever hangover from the choir director. “I wish I didn’t.”

“You know, that was the night that I started to like you.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Lexa’s friendship with Anya goes way back to their shared days at an elite girls’ boarding school in Oxfordshire, when Lexa moved up to the senior school from the junior preparatory school across the road and was assigned Anya as her student mentor. To find out that Anya didn’t actually start liking her as a friend until more than two years later, frankly, has Lexa feeling a little offended.

“Are you really so surprised?” asks Anya. “You hardly said a word to me for two years, even in our mentoring sessions.

“You were intimidating,” Lexa attempts to justify the actions of her younger self.

“And you were gay.”

Lexa flushes a deep red, as she always does when Anya chooses to remind her of the fact that Anya was one of the first girls Lexa was attracted to. Lexa often wishes that she never confessed that to her older friend, something which happened on another occasion after being plied by Anya’s alcohol, many years after that first instance in the hotel room in New York as teenagers.

Thankfully, Lexa is saved from having to reply when they reach the front of the line, and they step forward to the check-in desk.

“Girls’ trip away?” asks the attendant behind the desk, making friendly conversation as she weighs their bags and checks their passports.

“Something like that,” Anya smiles elusively.

Both of them know full well that they can’t admit their true reason for travelling to the States. Lexa thinks that confessing we might attempt to break into the White House would probably have them taken away by airport security before they can even board the plane.

“Have a nice flight,” says the check-in attendant, returning their passports and boarding cards to them as she presses a button beneath the desk to send their bags onto the travelator behind her.

“Thanks,” Lexa says with a sweet smile.

Lexa hoists her carry-on bag up onto her shoulder as they move away from the check-in desk.

“Do you want to get some breakfast or should we go straight through security and hit up duty-free?” grins Anya.

“You do know that this isn’t just a holiday, right?” Lexa asks, raising her eyebrows at Anya’s casual approach to a potentially critical mission. “It’s not going to be like that choir trip. We have something very important to do.”

“I know!” Anya insists. “Of course I do. Just because I’m not as ‘work, work, work’ as you, it doesn’t mean I don’t take this job seriously.”

Lexa immediately regrets ever calling Anya’s integrity into question. Anya has been in this business for longer than Lexa has and is one of the finest agents that Kingsman has. Not that you would be able to tell from the way that Anya has arrived at the airport in sweatpants and with a travel pillow under one arm, compared to Lexa’s fitted tan-coloured chinos and a loose white button up with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows.

And maybe that is what makes Anya such a fine agent. Sure, Lexa has an impeccable track record on missions and you would be hard-pushed to find somebody more devoted to their job. But not a single person in this airport could possibly look at Anya right now and suspect that she’s a secret agent on her way to Washington DC to foil a nefarious plot crafted by an unknown evil.

“Sorry,” says Lexa. “This could be a really crucial mission and I want it to go well.”

“And it will,” Anya assures her with a smile, “because it’s you and me working it. The dream team.”

“You’re right,” agrees Lexa. “We’ve got this.”

#clexa #clexa fanfic #clexa fic #clarke griffin #commander lexa #kingsman au

[bellarke-addict]

Loyal Soulmates

Wrote some stories long ago on ff.net, finally gave in and got a Bellarke specific tumblr. 

It had been coming for some time now.

She had known this, everyone had guessed but the part of her, deep down that was intrinsically linked to her partner had known without a doubt.

Bellamy Blake was dying.

His days had been growing shorter, his movements slowing and he would be lost in his thoughts for hours, hardly speaking as he went about his chores.

They never spoke of it, but that night as they lay in bed, he had taken her hand and whispered,

"I'm glad I didn't drop you into that stake pit, Princess."

She had chuckled quietly and then stared up at the ceiling of their log cabin and counted the seconds between his exhalation and inhalation until he slipped away.

                                               Bellamy Blake.

                              Born on the Ark 2222 Died on Earth 2272.

                                   Leader, Brother, Warrior, Husband

The tombstone is too empty.

Clarke wants to add more, she wants to detail his life, this man who had risen and fallen so many times.

Son to Orphan, Guard to Janitor, Criminal to Leader, Enemy to Lover, Outcast to Saviour.

She wanted everyone who saw his grave to know exactly who he had been, it wasn't enough that he was famous for his exploits among the Sky people and their Grounder allies, it wasn't enough that his deeds had been recorded in the archive somewhere to be read alongside hers when the later generations were taught about how they'd returned to Earth. It wasn't even enough that they'd already been immortalised with their names on the statue with the Hundred who'd first set foot on terra firma after all those years.

She needed more words to describe him.

She starts when she hears the bark and her heart breaks when the wet tongue licks her wrinkled fingers.

She supposed if she could only put one more word on that tombstone, it would be Owner.

Fifteen years ago, Bellamy had emerged from the forest acting secretive, sneaking away from dinner and carrying around his backpack like it contained ancient relics stolen from the Tondc museum wreckage. When Clarke had stormed into their cabin that night to ensure that he wasn't a thief among all his other crimes, she'd been startled to find a red faced mammal poking its head out of the top of his backpack.

"I tracked him to a cave" Bellamy explained in a rush, hurrying across the room with a roll of gauze in his hands,

"I found some fox carcasses nearby, I reckon they were hunted by something bigger than them…he's just a pup and wounded and I couldn't…"

If Clarke hadn't already been married to Bellamy for ten years, she probably would have got down on one knee and proposed to him then, which would have been a lot more romantic than the first time around, when she'd stormed across the ruins of Mount Weather, hugged him and then simply told him that he was never leaving her again.

In fact, now that she thought about it, she'd never actually asked him to marry her, or even spend the rest of his life with her.

Oh well.

He'd seemed to have got the message.

Slowly, trying to remember which herbal remedy was best for animal bites, Clarke extended her fingers to the red fox to sniff. There was a cautious noting of scent and then a tentative lick, an offer of friendship in his dark little eyes.

"What his name?" she asked her husband as she sat on the bed and treated the gash on the creature's hind leg.

Bellamy leaned back in thought, his hands on his knees before giving her his one sided smile,

"How 'bout Cesar?"

She rolled her eyes but scratched the puppy's chin, "Cesar"

As with every aspect of their life in Sky Village, their secret was soon discovered.

Bellamy and Clarke had gone to pains to hide Cesar in their cabin while he recovered, sneaking him food and smuggling him in and out of the village for toilet breaks but they'd come home one day to find Cesar in the midst of an admiring crowd. Sitting on one of the long tables, several different hands stroking his fur simultaneously while the whole village seemed to be arguing about what kind of fox he was. The argument seemed firmly divided between Ark survivors and the refugees from Mount Weather, all that could be agreed upon was how cute Cesar was.

Bellamy had waded into the crowd, scooped up the fox and proceeded to explain to everyone how he had come across the pup and assure them that Cesar would not be taking any food from their mouths or inconveniencing them in any way.

The speech might have had more effect if Jasper hadn't been making funny faces at Cesar, causing him to squirm playfully under his owner's arm and delight the crowd.

From that day on, Cesar was an honorary member of the village and never strayed from Bellamy's side. When he'd recovered, the two of them would go hunting together, Bellamy returning with a sack full of game, Cesar with a rabbit in his mouth. They'd sit by the campfire together, their eyes lowering in contented exhaustion. Only under suffrage was Cesar relegated from the prime position on Bellamy's marriage bed to a pile of furs under it when Clarke steadfastly refused to have sex around the fox's sleeping form.

One night when Bellamy failed to return from hunting, Clarke grabbed her medicine kit, her gun and followed the prints of man and mammal to a ledge that had collapsed under Bellamy's weight, his leg was trapped under a rock, he was barely conscious.

But Cesar was standing on his chest, legs spread out, haunches up and teeth bared.

Growling into the night and daring any predator to approach.

When Clarke caught his eye she saw the animalistic gleam and knew in that instant that Cesar would give his life to defend Bellamy.

For the next fifteen years he was the greatest constant in their lives, providing unwavering loyalty, companionship and endless amusement for the people of the village.

The night Bellamy passed, he had one hand linked with Clarke's and the other dangling over the edge of the bed, just touching Cesar's fur.

"Come on boy" she tells the now grey and aging fox, turning away from her husband's tombstone "Let's go home"

Cesar whines unhappily and looks around with milky eyes, searching out his owner, sniffing the air with confusion when he can't find him.

Clarke sighs and crouches down, "I know" she whispers, scratching his ears,

"I miss him too, but you and I have to make do with each other now"

His tongue rasps slowly across her wrist and she pulls herself up slowly, "Dinner time"

Their life is quieter now, there's still the hustle and bustle of village life, there's always someone that needs medical treatment or some possible disease to gather herbs against.

But during the days when she's in the medical hut, Cesar- who once bounced and bounded everywhere- now naps on his worn fur in the corner, and at night the two of them retire early and go to bed.

After the first two nights, Clarke finally relented and allowed Cesar the privilege of sleeping on Bellamy's side of the bed and when the sorrow becomes too much, she wraps an arm over him and weeps into his fur as he whimpers and nuzzles her face.

Clarke Griffin might have been the only woman Bellamy had ever loved but in the end, she'd known that he'd had two soul mates.

Her and Cesar.

When Clarke isn't in her medical hut that morning, James knocks politely on her cabin door and realises immediately that something is wrong.

It's not the fact that it's too quiet or even the fact that it's too cold but it's something.

Ten minutes later, Jasper hurries inside to the first double bed that had been fashioned by the Sky-people, the one Bellamy had been so proud of, to find Clarke curled up on her side and Cesar in a matching position with his paw on her hand.

The romantic part of him wonders if they died at the same time, both eagerly going to meet the man they loved.

                                               Clarke Griffin-Blake

                                   Born on the Ark 2227 Died on Earth 2278.

                                       Leader, Healer, Diplomat, Wife

                                             Cesar (Red Fox)

                                            Died on Earth 2278

                                     Loyal companion and protector

#the 100 fanfiction #The 100 #bellarke #bellarke fanfiction

[gendercraft]

Outlast: Revisited [Chapter Six: Waylon]

Read on ao3

Synopsis: I’m rewriting Outlast where the first game and Whistleblower are combined, Miles and Waylon are more connected, and also they kiss

Trigger warnings: Sexual assault plus everything already in the game; eye gore; the gore actually gets kinda intense here; let me know if i missed anything

    The furnace roared to life. Waylon scrambled backwards, as far away from the flame as possible, but it was futile. It caught his pants, chasing his leg.  

    “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He pressed his back against the brick wall. 

    Orange climbing up his pant sleeve, he thrashed his leg out, over and over again. The heat burned through. The pain wracked up his leg, rippling and angry. He screamed and knocked his head against the wall. 

    Something rattled. He gasped and turned around—the wall was crumbling. He could break that. He could. 

    Holding back a moan of pain, he turned onto all fours and rammed his shoulder into the wall. It jostled, but not by much. Again, again, come on, don’t let me fucking die here. The pain was climbing. If he didn’t get out of here soon, he wouldn’t even be able to walk. 

    He launched himself at the wall again, again, again, then finally—CRASH! He oofed as he smacked to the concrete, landing atop the loose bricks. 

    “No! NO! You were MINE!” 

    Gasping for breath, Waylon staggered to his feet. There was no telling how quickly the Cook could find his way to Waylon—he had to leave.

    He hobbled through a door and found himself in a makeshift chapel. A glowing red exit sign hung above a door. His heart stopped. He raced forward, ignoring the burning pain in his leg, and turned the handle—locked. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. He pulled and yanked but nothing. 

            Looking around for any way of escape, he brought his burnt leg off the ground to relieve the pressure. His breathing was slowly steadying. 

    In the back of the chapel, he found a transcription from an employee of Mount Massive, Dr. Bruce Newhouse. 

     Father Clarke— 

        Far be it from me to lie to a man of God, so let me at least say that I will do my personal best to improve the safety of your working conditions...if you feel threatened by anybody in particular, simply let us know and we can either increase chemical restraints, or administer a lobotomy or similar calming procedure. 

     Waylon grimaced and flinched. 

     Not all of our poor unfortunates have families to call upon, and so the burden, (and calling,) is yours. We are all of us relying on your faith and hard work. 

     DBNR

    Dr. Newhouse, MD

    May 20th, 1961 

     Surely they weren’t still administering lobotomies. And ‘poor unfortunates…’ it was so distant, so condescending. These weren’t ‘poor unfortunates.’ They were people, people that Murkoff decided to torture. 

    Everywhere else was a dead end, and there was a creeping feeling in his gut that the Cook was getting closer, so Waylon headed back to the furnace. There was a ladder to the top of the ovens, which opened up to a huge chimney full of half-put-together scaffolding and skinny ledges. It went up pretty high. He doubted the Cook would follow him, if he even knew that’s where he went. 

    On the ladder, he dragged his useless leg behind him, relying on upper body strength to get himself to flop atop the ovens. His arms burned, laying like jelly next to him. A scream rained down. 

    Waylon leapt to his feet, gritting his teeth and holding back a hiss. THWAP! Waylon covered his face as the Variant smacked to the brick and cracked their head open. Hesitating, Waylon stared. Blood seeped through the cracks, viscous and crimson. 

    Glancing down at his leg, he sighed. Don’t fail me. 

    He scaled the chimney slowly and carefully. As he inched across a ledge, his vision blurred as Morphogenic rorschach images swam and splattered. He groaned… and his foot slipped. 

    Gasping, his entire body jolted to the ground—then he caught himself, planting his foot firmly on the ledge. 

    “Motherfucker,” he snapped under his breath. He grit his teeth. “Come on, come on… just fucking do it.” 

    He made it halfway up the chimney, where a vent opened into one of the upper floors. Crawling inside and hopping down, he brought up his night vision and looked around carefully. He explored the Administrative section of the hospital block, all dark and empty. 

    Across a boarded up door and through the glass, a group of people ran past. 

    “There!” One of them cried. “I told you it would be open. I told you.” 

    Were they… escaping? Waylon would pry those boards off with his bare hands. 

    “Keep moving, Graham, we’re almost out!” 

    Waylon picked up the pace, limping towards the door and grabbing hold of the board. He pulled, planting his bad leg against the wall, and yanked, yanked, pulled, pulled, pulled until his hands were raw and scraped. He dug at the screws until his nails cracked and his fingers bled. 

    Growling, he slammed his elbow into the glass, over and over until tears came to his eyes. It ached horribly, and the glass didn’t so much as crack. 

    “Fuck!” His voice cracked. Sobs rose in his throat, and he swallowed them back. Don’t you dare fucking cry. 

    If he had to cry—which he didn’t—he could do it while he was moving. He had to get home. He had to expose Murkoff. 

    The only way further was through a small library, so he pressed on, only to freeze as a buzzsaw sounded. 

    “Dinner bells!” The cook cackled as he rounded the corner. 

    Waylon gasped and ducked behind a shelf just as the man entered the room. Shit. Could he still run? He’d been able to block out the pain in his leg, but if he so much as moved wrong, it was overwhelming. Black spots appeared on his vision and he had to grit his teeth to keep himself from crying. It was the worst pain he’d ever experienced. 

    He’d have to be quiet, and quick. 

    The Cook buzzed his saw a few times as he entered the room. Waylon gripped onto the shelf to keep himself upright. In the quiet tension, he couldn’t ignore the pain anymore. It ripped through his skin, pulsing and wet. God, was it blistering? He couldn’t bear to look at it. 

    “I can smell you,” the Cook sung through closed lips. He chuckled. “I know you’re around here…”

    He blocked the light from the hall as he passed the missing spaces in the bookshelf. Waylon held his breath. The pressure on his leg was becoming too much, too much, too fucking much. A few tears trickled down his face. 

    He couldn’t hold it anymore. 

    Falling against the shelf, books scattered onto the ground with a clatter. “Fuck,” he groaned. The Cook had already heard him, so fuck it. 

    The Cook whirled around with his saw in the air. Waylon shoved himself against the shelf as hard as he could and it tipped over. Letting out a choked yell, the Cook stumbled backwards, only for the shelf to take him to the ground. Waylon screamed as he scrambled over the shelf to the door, black spots coating his vision. He sprinted down the hall as the Cook struggled to get the bookshelf off. 

    He sprinted through the halls until he couldn’t anymore. Smacking to the ground, he dragged himself forward. The buzzsaw was getting closer. He gasped and choked for breath, pulling himself towards a barricade of filing cabinets and hospital beds, trying to squeeze through the gap. 

    “You are mine!” The Cook yelled. 

    He was gaining. Waylon’s leg was dead at this point, he was in too much pain to even feel it anymore. He got through the gap just as a slash came down on his leg. He pulled himself through and the Cook tried to squeeze through himself, only to get stuck with a growl. 

    “Get back here!” He screamed. 

    Waylon staggered to his feet and hobbled, practically hopping on one foot, down the hall. He struggled his way through and found himself in a bathroom. Collapsing to the tile, he pressed his back to a closed stall door and pulled the fabric from around his leg. He bit back a scream as the fabric dragged across the burns. It was blistering bad, and the Cook had opened one with his saw, the pus dripping and running down his red skin. The burns covered from his ankle to his knee. 

    “Come on, Waylon,” he whispered. “Keep going. Get out.” 

    It took all of his strength to get to his feet.

    “See me now,” someone growled, their voice raspy. “Just try!”

    Waylon straightened up. It came from right behind him. He hesitated, then took out his camera and swung open the stall door. A Variant stood, holding a doctor on their knees, slamming their head into the toilet over and over again. 

    “What do you see?” He snapped through the blubbering and gurgling. “Who am I? Idiot.” 

    Waylon stumbled over to the sinks and set the camera up to face him. The Variant was barely in frame. 

    “Lisa,” he said cautiously, glancing at the Variant through the viewfinder, “or whoever finds this, know that Murkoff is creating monsters. I’d never seen the patients after they’d gone through that German’s so-called therapy. The Engine. So much worse than I could have imagined. They may still be human, but something’s been ripped out of them. And too many… other things pushed back in.” He repressed a shudder. “They were not all murderers. They were sick, but they weren’t killers. Murkoff made them monsters.” He reached out to grab the camera, then hesitated. “Dr. Roset said the engine had ‘varying effects,’” he made air quotes, “the variant outcomes too erratic for any sort of prediction.” He huffed a laugh. “I took it as idle cafeteria small talk, Raul’s endless chatter.” He swallowed and pursed his lips. “I should have listened.” 

    With that admission, he picked up his camera and hobbled out of the bathrooms. 

He found himself back in the fucking labs again. He made his way to a decontamination chamber full of gas. A man pressed himself to the glass. 

    “Shut it off!” He begged. “Shut down the gas, please, I can’t…!” 

    He had to get through that airlock to make his way to the prison. He’d have to find the valve to shut off the gas. And quickly, if he wanted this man to live. Through the green, he couldn’t tell if he was a patient or doctor, but he couldn’t waste any time. 

    He found a sheet of paper on a desk and snatched it, but didn’t bother reading it yet. While exploring for the gas room, he came across a Variant smacking his head into the door until it bled on the wood. Waylon grabbed his shoulder. 

    “Hey, man, come on, stop,” he said firmly. He looked into the Variant’s eyes and tried not to flinch away. His voice came out a little weaker. “Just… Don’t do that to yourself, okay?” 

    He hesitantly took his hand back. The Variant stared. Then continued. 

    Waylon sighed. These people are broken. 

    The buzzsaw picked up again as he hobbled down the hall. He grit his teeth so hard something cracked. 

    They met eyes through the darkness. Waylon whipped around and hobbled down the hall. The footsteps raced after him. Slamming the door behind him, he pressed himself to the wall next to the door and panted. BAM! BAM! The door nearly came off its hinges. BAM! BAM! 

    BAM! 

    The Cook barged into the room a few steps in and Waylon ducked back into the hall. Before the Cook noticed where he was, he hurried into another room with two beds and an open vent. Could he get up there with his leg? He hopped onto the bed and leapt. Fuck, that fucking hurt. Groaning, he pulled himself up into the shaft, barely biting back a scream as his leg dragged against the metal. 

    He dragged himself through the shaft, only to fall through a grate and land hard on the floor. One of the two doors slammed against its lock. Waylon leapt to his feet and rushed to the other door, swinging it open into the bathroom and slipping through a crack in the wall. He explored the halls a bit, staying low to the ground and in the shadows, until he passed by double doors into a lab room. 

    There was a patient file on the counter. 

     MURKOFF PSYCHIATRIC SYSTEMS 

    PROJECT WALRIDER 

    Patient: Frank Antonio Manera 

    Page age: 36

    Gender: Male 

        THERAPY STATUS: 

    Minimal Morphogenic Engine activity, and only at extreme (stages 5 and 6) levels of hormone therapy. Dream states return repeatedly to images of isolation and betrayal. Zero lucid state. 

     INTERVIEW NOTES: 

    He was lethargic and largely non-responsive, exhibiting interest only in the hypnotherapy script pattern 9 (Wernicke), concerning drinking blood from the chest of sleeping men. He continues to refuse baths or the attention of a barber outside of general anaesthesia, stating, “if I cannot partake, I cannot share.” 

     Recommended forced nutrition for Manera if we cannot find something he likes to eat. 

     MURKOFF PSYCHIATRIC SYSTEMS PROJECT WALRIDER

    MOUNT MASSIVE CO 

     The Cook. Frank Manera. 

    He continued through the room, jumping as he found a bloodied security guard curled in the corner. “Get out of here. This is my place.” 

    Waylon stared. 

    “You’re going to get me killed! Fuck off!” 

    Waylon crumpled the file in his hands. He hoped Manera came through here. He continued on, in the wallway finding the signs for the gas room. Following the signs, he continued through the labs, blood and corpses spilled over the slabs of metal. 

    “There you are!” Manera cackled, growing closer from behind. 

    Waylon hobbled forward, his leg burning under the pressure. “Leave me alone, you fucking creep!” 

    He cornered himself against a closed, gas-filled decontamination chamber. Manera stalked the halls. 

    “I won’t be hungry for much longer.” Manera grinned. 

    Waylon looked around for any sign of exit. I have to get home to Lisa. He looked up. A wooden panel hung over the top of the decontamination chamber. 

    Manera lunged. Waylon barely got out of the way in time, lurching to the left, then stomped on Manera’s foot. As Manera howled and doubled over, Waylon nearly lost his balance, vision blacking out for just a second. He regained his footing and shoved Manera as hard as he could. Grabbing the edge of the wood, he hauled himself to the top of the chamber. 

    The gas room was on the other side. He turned the valve and the chamber cleared. He sighed. 

    Now that he had a moment, he pulled out the file from earlier. 

     EXCERPT FROM 1957 AND COMMENT ON IG REPORT “OPERATIONS OF TSD” 

  Influencing Human Behavior 

  The potential use of psychochemicals in political action operations is well recognized...Chemical Division includes it as an objective of its programs to be prepared to support or make such operations possible. Non-chemical methods of accomplishing political action operations are also included in the program. 

     Note: (J.Lawyer/April 15, 1958) Present the above MKULTRA excerpt to Technical Services Division for budgeting and authorization of continued research of Dr. Rudolf Wernicke...and project WALRIDER. Autopsy of recovered test subjects show chemical content of bodies (metallic tumours, evidence of sub-dermal combustion) that indicate heavy psychochemical dosage. 

     MKULTRA? Waylon pocketed the note with shaky hands. That’s why they were experimenting on the patients? As much as he worked on it, he had no idea what Project WALRIDER really was. 

    He placed his hand on the door. He just had to get back to the decontamination chamber, see if that guy was still alive, and get into the outside recreational area. Then he could get to the prison and use the radio.

#outlast #outlast whistleblower #waylon park #miles upshur #camerashipping #outlast revisited

[deenoss]

Dreamcatcher Chptr. 44

This had been the cruellest he'd ever been, to say the least.

To push away somebody he once cared about did not go as intended for Clark. So instead of seeking personal space, he got more space than he intended. Now Max was truly hurt by what he said, and she hadn't even been at Blackwell for not even two days and she wanted to leave. She felt as if returning was a big mistake, that she should've just stayed away.

Shortly after the bell for first break, Clark headed for the boys toilets for isolation.

He burst in and approached the middle sink and ran the cold tap, cupping the water into his hands and splashed his face. His breathing quickened as he looked up at his reflection and distinguished his blue hair and the exhaustion behind his eyes.

"Get ahold of yourself, Price. Snap out of it! I should probably go and apologise," Clark mumbled to himself. "I've got to be nicer. I hurt her feelings. But she hurt mine. I can't hold a grudge against her forever. I mean, it's not like I still have feelings for her. I don't. I totally don't. I'm still in love with Rachel. Not Max. Not... oh God. Not Max freakin' Caulfield."

Clark groaned obnoxiously loud and grabbed ahold of his hair and pulled on it out of frustration.

Thoughts ran through his mind regarding something he'd seen just a couple days ago. He'd been going about his own business coming heading out of the cafeteria to head back to his dorm for the rest of the afternoon when he caught sight of Nathan Prescott acting suspiciously around the campus grounds. At the time, Clark took it upon himself to snoop on Nathan where he stumbled upon a controversial sight.

Nathan had conducted a secret meet-up with his sister, Chloe.

At the time, Clark was unable to catch on to what they were discussing due to not having enough cover to conceal his presence eavesdropping on them, but all he could do was make out that it could've been a possible drug-deal. However, when he attempted to leaned over around the corner more to get a better view of the items being exchanged, Clark almost lost his balance and stepped on a twig, instantly snapping it beneath his foot. So without wasting another second, Clark fled with the intent to confront his sister later that afternoon.

But she never showed up at home.

She never answered his calls.

She refused to answer his texts.

Clark knew his sister and he knew something was very wrong.

Nobody could've been aware of the disturbance inside the boy's toilets. Clark had still lingered in there when he reached for his phone and made another futile attempt at contacting his sister. He put the phone on speaker and placed it on the sink and listened to it ring.

Ring, ring...

Ring, ring...

Ring, ring...

Ring, ring...

Ring, ring...

Ring, ring...

Ring, ring...

Ring, ring...

Ring, ring...

Ring, ring...

Ring, ring...

Ring, ring...

Ring, ring...

On the thirteenth ring, Clark gave up and ended the call.

It vexed him unfathomably that his sister went completely dark on him. All he wanted to know was whether she was safe or not.

But one thing that he could not get off his mind was seeing Nathan Prescott with his sister.

He always hated Nathan for what he'd done to others, and now Clark could only fear the worst as to what ill harm could have befallen his sister. He'd already lost his father, his best friend abandoned him, his mother chose to spend more time with her boyfriend than he or his own sister, his girlfriend left him for her own pursuit and now he potentially lost his sister.

Clark gripped the edges of the sink and bowed his head, his eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to suppress the flood of emotions that hit him so suddenly that tears swelled in his eyes. Those tears turned into sobs as the strength in his knees turned to jelly and he'd completely lost balance and collapsed, using the sink as his support from not falling down and smashing his chin on the edge of the sink. Slowly, he pulled himself back up to his feet and found firm footing as he slipped his phone into his pocket and walked out of the boys toilets.

There was no sense of direction as to where Clark wanted to go. All he knew was that needed to clear his mind and find something to distract himself with.

Clark ended up heading up to the boys dormitories to isolate himself from others and the support of his friends. He was yet to cross paths with a friendly face but there was no regard for that, for by the time Clark was in his room, he had already established the desire to not converse with anybody. He approached his desk drawer and stared down at a tape recorder he'd taken from home.

It had never been used by his family, only by Max when she left a message for he and his sister. What memories it brought back by staring at it made Clark all the more miserable. Especially when he hit 'Play.'

"Hey, Chloe, Clark... this is Max. I guess I just wanted to leave you one more message. Because I know this was the absolute worst time for me to go. I thought maybe... if you heard my voice, it could be a little bit like I was there. I don't know. Maybe this was a dumb idea. I would give anything to be there with you now. It's so hard, trying to say what I'm thinking. If I could just see you... But we'll get good at it, great at it! We'll write and talk all the time. And then you'll come visit and it'll be like I never left. I mean it, you don't have to worry about anything changing. You're dealing with so much other stuff. Neither of you deserve any of this. Guys, listen. Even if I never, even if we're moving for good, we're always together, okay? Even when we're apart. We're still Max and Chloe and Clark. I will always, always love you both. Goodbye..."

Tears streamed down Clark's cheeks as he punched the floor three times to express his pain before gently lying down on his side and wrapped his arms around himself.

"I need you, Chloe... I need you," Clark uttered to himself through mixed sobs and hiccups.

#life is strange #max caulfield #angst

[marystucki12]

So If I Survive, Then I’ll See You Tomorrow 

The ship was on fire as the dinghy with three people sailed away. Screams and growling could be heard from the decks as the escapees slipped further away from the the inferno and illness. The young woman was in total shock. Her parents and brother were on that ship. And here she was, in the middle of the ocean with two men who were practically strangers- were actually strangers not even two days ago. 

    Georgia Leigh Hamilton. Eighteen and alone save for an old crotchety FEMA officer and young kitchen chef. People she had just met in the last forty-eight hours, and she was trusting them with her life. No- more than that. She and the kitchen boy, Kent Clark (Jack called him Mansuper), were both putting probably too much faith in Jack Mullally A.K.A. FEMA.

    “So much for my last paid vacation,” Jack said to himself.

    “Best job ever, my foot,” Kent groaned.

    “Happy graduation to me,” Georgia said.

    “You say something, Scarface?” Jack asked Georgia, suddenly broken from his trance on the dying ship.

    “Just some sentiment,” Georgia replied, playing with the puckered scar on her clavicle- an absent minded habit- the benefits from cutting her own hair from boredom, dropping the scissors and cutting herself with them while trying to catch them. 

    “We are on the water. We’ll make it. I promise. Back to shore in a couple of weeks unless we are rescued,” Jack said. “Government will rescue us. Why, back in the Ebola outbreak of ‘95...”

    “What if that broke out on the mainland?” Kent interrupted. “What if one of us has it, but hasn’t shown symptoms yet?”

    “We will sleep in shifts,” Georgia suggested in a haze.

    Have I only been out of high school for a week? So much for my graduation gift. A Caribbean cruise will be fun they said. That sounds like a start to a fun little story.

    “...besides, we can wizz over the side. Scarface isn’t so lucky. She’ll need our help.”

    “What?” Georgia asked.

    “I said that we should sleep in shifts to keep an eye on each other. Plus, you will need help going to the bathroom...you know...you’ll have to submerge your lower half to go...Kent and I can just go over the side.”

    “Yes, the glories of being a man,” Georgia agreed. 

    The ship was barely a glow on the horizon now, and Georgia shivered. Her thin sweatshirt, t-shirt, dark-wash jeans, and steel-toed boots would not be enough to keep her warm at night, especially now, as cold as she was dripping wet from the dive. She blew on her hands and said a brief but sincere prayer, “Lord, help us survive this ordeal.”

    “I had a nap today while you guys put down the fuel. I’ll take first watch,” Jack volunteered as he slung a blanket and jacket over Georgia’s shoulders. She exhausted, did not protest. 

    Georgia laid her head on her arm on the edge of the dingy and sighed. Initially, she tried to comfort herself by reciting scriptures in her head, but as her brain began to slip, her mind drifted to song lyrics from her “Bad Mood Music” playlist. “I never bought a suit before in my life, but when you go to meet God you know you wanna look nice.”

****

Graduation. Georgia was finally out of high school, that horrible place, once and for all. She never had to set foot back onto that property again if she didn’t want to. Her open house had been the day of her graduation. After she opened her graduation cards, her mom made her deposit the checks, but she was allowed to keep the cash. Her older brother, Dakota, bought his first new car, and gave Georgia his Wrangler as a graduation gift. Her parents decided that they should take one last vacation, and even Dakota was able to go. Tickets were booked for a cruise to the Caribbean. The Hamilton family was ecstatic: they wanted to make the most of what could potentially be their absolute last family trip.

 There had been some weird things happening in China, India, and Nepal but that wasn’t in America. The reports of people attacking each other didn’t seem real, and thus far had been attributed to drugs and mental health problems. None of the countries released official statements, only that they were gathering information to make accurate statements at a future date. 

On the first of July, the family boarded the ship just a ways from Cocoa Beach, FL. Four days later, Georgia was sitting in a deck chair writing in a Darth Vader notebook when the first  outbreak started in the ship’s kitchen, which, at that time believed to be a flu virus, and was even announced by the captain over the ship’s speakers. The passengers were just told to make sure that they washed their hands and took showers every morning and night.  Everyone had to report to sick bay to be checked for marks and take a nose swab for a flu test. 

The chef who had gotten sick died, and that was believed that was the end of it. No one else was sick. That is, until he suddenly jerked awake and bit the ship’s doctor on the hand, a nurse in the jugular, and another nurse in the leg. At first, security managed to keep the victims contained in the brig, but that didn’t work for long. The virus mutated and became airborne,  making several people ill with the initial flu symptoms. Passengers were told to stay in their staterooms and a box of canned goods would be delivered by staff, as well as toiletries as needed. Most of the people on the ship became ill, including Dakota and Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton. 

****

    Weeping, growling, and screaming could be heard from the staterooms on either side of the Hamiltons. Karen, Georgia’s mother, said she was getting a headache. There was a sudden knock on the door. Dakota answered the door after seeing the crewman through the peephole. 

    “How is everyone doing in here?” he asked. 

    “Mom’s getting a headache and we are almost out of toilet paper.”

    “I’ll bring some by. Meantime, here are some tools. Keep the sharp ones very handy.”

    “What for?” Carl, Mr. Hamilton, asked. 

    “Just in case. It’s for the best.”

    “What’s your name?” Carl asked.

    “Kent Clark. I’m one of the kitchen staff.”

    He looks exhausted. Those bags under his eyes look blue on his pasty skin.

    “Thank you, Kent.” Dakota said as he closed and locked the door behind him.

    ****

    Around the Hamiltons, the weeping and screaming stopped. There was only growling every once in a while. They prayed and sang quietly together, but Karen’s condition grew increasingly worse. She was burning up and in agony. Georgia wrote when it was quiet and could concentrate enough. She used the cover of the book to write down changes in her mom’s condition. None of the Hamiltons had any luck getting through to sick bay on the phones. There wasn’t even a dial tone after a while. Karen moaned from the pain often, and her children would help her drink water and eat small bites of crackers from the supplies Kent dropped off. 

They heard a staff member out in the hall open the adjacent stateroom door. Then they heard him screaming, and the growling next door was suddenly loud and violent. This excited the other family in the room on the right. The growling was intense. 

    At some point during the din, Karen expired. Once they realized, Georgia began to cry, and Dakota tried to comfort her. To their shock, Karen began to groan, and Carl went to check on her. Karen wasn’t groaning in pain. She snapped to attention and chomped her teeth into Carl’s hand. On reflex, Dakota shot up, grabbed the screwdriver, and drove it through Karen’s eye. She stopped squirming. 

    Blood oozed from the wound on Carl’s hand. Georgia did her best to treat it with the first aid kit in the bathroom. Georgia cried as she bandaged her father’s hand. Carl traced the scar on Georgia’s face with his finger. 

“I’m sorry, Gigi. That mark on your face is my fault. If only I’d looked before I pulled out into that intersection..”

“Daddy, no. It wasn’t your fault.”

It was true. She and her father had been visiting family in North Webster, Indiana to check out Camp Crosley as a possible place to hold a two week “preacher training camp,” when he pulled out into an intersection in North Manchester and they were T-Boned where Georgia was sitting. By the grace of God, both of them escaped with minor injuries and concussions. She had to get stitches in her face. It was an accident. She never blamed her father and she had forgiven the driver after it happened. Thankfully, the driver, had been okay, too. 

                                                              **** 

Carl died. Dakota piked Carl. Dakota caught “flu” and died. Georgia didn’t pike Dakota in time. She was sitting in the corner crying when he rose from the bed and lunged for her, his eyes cloudy and teeth bared. She grabbed the screwdriver and her recently packed brown “bug out backpack” and fled to the hallway, shutting the door behind her.

Just as the door shut, another set of hands grabbed her arm and pulled it toward his gaping maw. Georgia pulled her arm, trying to get away, but the thing was too strong. 

Just before the teeth could touch her skin, a bullet zinged past her ear and hit the monster in the head. As she turned, her rust-colored bangs fell in her blue eyes, but she could see an older man, wearing a Hawaiian shirt, khaki pants, boots, a red backpack, and a surgical mask.

“Are you okay, Scarface?”

There wasn’t time to flinch at the insult.

“Yeah. Thank you.”

“I’m Jack Mullally, a FEMA officer. Did you get any blood in your mouth? Are you suffering from flu symptoms? Do you have any bites?”

“No. I’m fine, Mr. FEMA,” Georgia replied just as Kent rounded the corner down the hall.

“RUN!” He yelled. 

Jack and Georgia heard the moaning and growling. At least fifteen violent creatures were ambling behind him, reaching out for Kent, bloodthirsty. 

“Follow me. We are getting off of this boat if it’s the last thing we do!” Jack said while turning the other way. 

****

The group made their way to the deck with the lifeboats, gathering supplies along the way and hiding where they could. It took a day and a half to make it.

Kent had led them to the kitchen, where Mr. FEMA gave Kent a sack and filled it with non-perishables. He did the same to Georgia and himself. Inside the freezer, he found an ax, a hammer, and a cast iron skillet. 

“I’m keeping the ax, Mansuper. Don’t even try it,” Jack said almost jokingly.

“Then I want the hammer,” Kent said.

“What, those things will think you’re a sissy for using a skillet? Give me a break,” Georgia said as she took the tool from Jack and gave it a few practice swings.

From the kitchen, they made their way to a maintenance closet, where all three of them could sit if they tucked knees to chins in three different corners or all against one wall. Jack suggested they all sleep against one wall, Georgia in the middle and Kent in the corner. Kent and Georgia agreed.

In the morning (according to Jack’s watch alarm), they looked through all the boxes in the maintenance closet, searching for supplies. Lighter fluid, two diesel fuel cans, duct tape, matches, and toilet paper were the rewards. 

“Why is there diesel in a maintenance closet?” Jack asked Kent.

“According to Bill, who was the maintenance director, it’s here in case the engine was just short of fuel. Though, I’m not sure if he was serious, since it doesn’t seem like quite enough to do anything or go anywhere. Hard to tell with Bill.”

When Jack opened the closet door, there were two infected there. He shut the door, but the beings began pounding on it earnestly.

“Mr. FEMA, Mansuper, look up. The tiles.”

“Through the ceiling. I like this brain of yours, Scarface. Alright, Mansuper, get up there. And help pull Georgia in. I’ll bring up the rear.”

Using the wire shelves like a ladder, Kent hoisted himself into the ceiling. Georgia started after him and he pulled her up. 

A fist broke through the door as Jack started up the shelving. Seeing a meal, the freaks doubled their efforts on the door, and were joined by some more. The door couldn’t hold the pressure. 

Jack pulled his feet into the ceiling just as the door gave way. 

The survivors looked at each other, relieved. As Jack replaced the tile, both beings ambled in, looking around for what they thought would be prey. 

From there, they found their way over the staterooms, in disgusted awe of the carnage and sorrow. They saw a handful of other survivors, all of which refused to leave their rooms or were dying from bites; of course with so many decks, they knew it was likely there were others, but no way to reach them. 

****

They reached the lifeboat deck as dusk was settling in. Miscreations were meandering around the deck. 

“We will need to distract them,” Jack said, “so we will have to decide on a diversion. If we can find something that will keep them occupied long enough for us to get a boat over the side and in the water.”

“I’m not so sure that we can, though we know they like noise, because the screaming riled them up…” Georgia said. 

“What if one of us stayed here in the ceiling and made noises over there on one of the ducts? It would draw them to one side. They can’t climb, so it’d probably be okay. Then, when the boat splashes down, they drop behind the zombies and dive over the side?” Kent suggested. 

“It’s good in theory, but in practice? What will stop them there. There has to be a way to slow them down more than that, you know, to give the bait a fighting chance,” Georgia whispered.

“The diesel and lighter fluid. This duct goes in a circle, but there is probably enough of fuel and lighter fluid to make a trail all around the deck and on the crowd. Then, start the noise. Then, jump down and just before diving, drop a match,” Mr. FEMA said. 

“The only thing wrong with that plan is we are losing daylight, and spreading the fluid will take time,” Scarface said. 

“And it will take both of us guys to get the lifeboat off of the side. Georgia’s strong, but not that strong.”

“Since we won’t find anything else, I’ll be the bait,” Georgia agreed.

“I know it’s supposed to be women and children first, but I think this our best chance,” Jack said almost apologetically.

Time to prove that women are just as good.

****

Kent and Georgia spread the fuel over the deck and monsters. Kent and Jack took Georgia’s supplies. Georgia used her boots to bang on the duct, and while the noise kept the creatures occupied, Kent and Jack managed to get the boat over the side of the ship. Georgia could just hear the splash over the cacophony. She stopped banging. And the growling dispersed. 

Perfect. Now, all I’ve got to do is get far enough away quickly and quietly, drop the match, climb, and then dive. Seems easy enough. 

The joke was on her. She dropped down between two of the freaks. She managed to dodge and light a match all at the same time (by the grace of God), drop it, climb onto the railing and dive. As she swam for her companions, the screams began.

           ****

    After being on the water for nearly 14 days, Kent smiled suddenly and jumped up. The boat rocked. Jack was about to scold him, when he yelled, “Another ship! We are saved!” 

    Jack looked out and agreed to that conclusion. Nearly starving but incredibly thirsty, Kent and Jack used the oars to manipulate their capsule toward the ship. Georgia was holding up her sweatshirt like a flag and waving it. 

    It took time, but the three finally made it close enough to the ship that someone on deck would be able to hear them. 

    “HEY! HELP! PLEASE!” 

    Two women and a man jumped off the deck toward them, and landed in the water. Then five more people. Those five did not come back up. And three sacks plopped aboard the lifeboat and the three survivors helped the newcomers aboard.

    Georgia looked up, and saw a zombie pacing the deck.

    “Mr. FEMA. Kent. Look up there.”

    They did. Jack and Kent groaned. 

    Georgia reached out to help the last newcomer aboard, and a strange hand came up from the water and scratched her. 

    “Georgie…” Kent said.

    “Now, Mansuper, we don’t know about scratches…” FEMA started.

    “Yeah,” Georgia said with a shaky voice and a forced smile, “just air and bites…”

    “I know how to amputate, but I don’t think we have the equipment here,” Jack said sadly. 

    The three new bodies sat in the boat and shivered and looked Georgia over as if looking at a body in a casket.

    “It’s okay,” Georgia said as she handed the screwdriver to Jack, fighting the shake in her voice. “If need be, pike me. It’s okay. Meantime, it’s my turn to nap.” And make my peace with my life and talk to God. 

    Georgia laid her head on the side of the boat as it floated away from the second lost ship. 

    “If I don’t make it, I’ll see if God will let me come back and let you know if the cake is a lie,” Georgia said, knowing full well that was not a possibility, and Heaven is not a lie.

    “What is she talking about cake for?” Jack asked Kent quietly.

    “It’s from a videogame, Jack.”

    “Oh. I see.”

As she closed her eyes the refrain from Bullet came to her mind: “So if I survive, then I’ll see you tomorrow, Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

[gyrlversion]

Indian cashew processors on £2 a day left with burns from superfood

The pain is usually worse in the evening, when angry, weeping sores start to appear. 

Washing does little to alleviate the agony, it just opens old wounds.

And there are plenty of those — six years’ worth, mapping her hands like scorch marks. She winces as she prepares dinner for her husband, daughter and two sons.

Chopping onions and chillies is torture. And because she eats with her hands — there are no knives and forks here — the spicy curry can make her cry out in pain. 

This is the life of Pushpa Gandhi, 30, in southern India, who supports her family as a cashew nut sheller. She’s an unseen face of the industry feeding the UK’s voracious appetite for the nuts — we ate 17,000 tonnes in 2016, 35 per cent up on 2012.

Cashew nut processors in India have been left with burns on their hands from the superfood

The rise in veganism is thought to have played a part in our increasing consumption. Cashews are in energy bars, butters and salads as well as vegan alternatives to milk, cheese and creamy puddings.

A good source of protein, magnesium, potassium, iron and zinc, the monounsaturated fats they contain help protect against heart disease.

But there’s a catch to cashews. The nuts — nearly all processed in India or Vietnam — are difficult to extract and are therefore shelled by hand. A cashew has two layers of hard shell, between which lie caustic substances — cardol and anacardic acid — that can cause vicious burns.

Burns are a fact of life for up to 500,000 workers in India’s cashew industry, nearly all women. They are employed without contracts, with no guarantee of steady income, no pension or holiday pay.

Many don’t even get gloves, and if they did, they probably couldn’t afford to wear them. Gloves would slow their shelling down, and they are paid by the kilo. When their pain becomes unbearable, they need medicine — and, of course, they must pay for it. So they soothe the acid burns with ash from their fires.

I was horrified when I found out my diet might be funding this misery. I’m a vegan, and the dairy-free ‘cheeses’ I love typically use cashews. The creamy sauces I love in pasta bakes do, too.

Cashew nut shells have cardol and anacardic acid — that can cause vicious burns. Burns are a fact of life for up to 500,000 workers in India’s cashew industry, nearly all women. They are employed without contracts, with no guarantee of steady income, no pension or holiday pay

Cashew nut production in India. Yashoda Arumurugan, 48, shells cashews in a processing unit in the village of Pudhukuppam in the southern state of Tamil Nadu

Pushpa Gandhi, 30, in southern India (pictured right with Femail reporter Emily Clark), supports her family as a cashew nut sheller. She’s an unseen face of the industry feeding the UK’s voracious appetite for the nuts — we ate 17,000 tonnes in 2016, 35 per cent up on 2012

The youngest girl at the unit: Suganthi Ramalingami, 13. She is taking time off school to shell cashews

But I had no idea about how they were being produced. And so I travelled to the village of Pudhukuppam in the Indian state of Tamil Nadu to meet the nut shellers.

When Pushpa was younger, she wanted to study English at university and become a teacher. Her parents didn’t approve, so she married at 18 and started work — first as a farm worker, then here.

Sitting on the ground among heaps of cracked cashew shells, she says her life is over. It’s not just the repetitive work that has worn her down. Her face and arms bear similar scars to her hands, caused by the cashew acids.

‘It’s already starting to burn,’ she says, five hours into her day. ‘Today when we go home and wash, we will see the boils on our skin. It takes about a week for them to heal. But as the old ones heal, new ones keep coming.’

The charity Traidcraft Exchange blames these conditions on the way European buyers — including UK supermarkets — aggressively push down prices, forcing cashew companies to hire cheap labour.

Follow cashew supply chains back and you will find women and children in unregulated shelling units all over India. 

Many don’t even get gloves, and if they did, they probably couldn’t afford to wear them. Gloves would slow their shelling down, and they are paid by the kilo

The charity Traidcraft Exchange blames these conditions on the way European buyers — including UK supermarkets — aggressively push down prices, forcing cashew companies to hire cheap labour

A tub of cashew shells and cashews ready to be separated at the production plant in India

The youngest working with Pushpa was 13. There are regulated factories where conditions are better — for example, in the adjacent state of Kerala. 

But when buyers squeeze suppliers, shelling is outsourced over the border to unregulated units. Pushpa earns just 200 rupees a day, or £2.15. A broker pays her 7p per kilogram of unshelled nuts, and she produces 10kg of shelled cashews a day.

A 200g packet of cashews in Tesco is £3, so had the nuts Pushpa shelled been destined to go there, at this price, just 1.4 per cent of the money we pay would go to her.

The salary is meagre, but enough to survive — when work is available. The women at this unit say there can be breaks of up to two months when crops suffer.

Competition from Vietnam, where the whole industry has been automated, has seen hundreds of Indian factories shut.

The Vietnamese designed and built all their own cashew machinery to cut labour costs, but India just doesn’t have this machinery, because most growers haven’t had the chance to invest in it.

The youngest working with Pushpa was 13 (pictured). There are regulated factories where conditions are better — for example, in the adjacent state of Kerala

Pushpa earns just 200 rupees a day, or £2.15. A broker pays her 7p per kilogram of unshelled nuts, and she produces 10kg of shelled cashews a day. The salary is meagre, but enough to survive — when work is available 

Pushpa’s husband is a builder, whose income is also unstable. When they struggle to pay bills they take out a loan with an interest rate of 3 per cent per month. So far, they owe £550.

This puts pressure on workers like Pushpa to shell faster to earn extra cash — meaning accidents are more likely. Pushpa has caught her fingers several times in the blades of the shell cutter.

Uma Jayamurthi, a nurse at the local Cuddalore medical centre, says she has seen several patients in the past year who have chopped off the top of a finger.

Around 40 per cent of patients at the centre have cashew-related injuries. ‘The main reason people come here is when the cashew acid goes under their nails and it gets infected,’ says Uma.

But she adds they only come when the pain is ‘unbearable’, because of the cost.

There would be fewer infections if shelling units had basic washing facilities, but many do not. At Pushpa’s, there is neither a toilet nor a sink with soap and water. 

Co-worker Yashoda, 48, who has asthma, says: ‘As children, we questioned why the hell we were born into such poverty. Every day we live our lives without any kind of financial stability and that is always weighing down on me.’

Uma Jayamurthi, a nurse at the local Cuddalore medical centre, says she has seen several patients in the past year who have chopped off the top of a finger. She said: ‘The main reason people come here is when the cashew acid goes under their nails and it gets infected’

The hands of Yashoda Arumurugan, 48 as she uses a pebble to crack the cashew shell, instead of a cutting machine

Pushpa Gandhi, 30, a cashew sheller at the unit in Pudhukuppam. She wears an old shirt to cover her arms and sari. It is covered in dark spots where the cashew acid has squirted out from the shells

Pushpa Gandhi has cut the shells in two with a machine and now has to pick out the nuts from a shell. She wears two gloves, or one for better dexterity, and has cut the fingertips off

We play our part in this cycle of despair. So, how can we change it? Boycotting cashews is not a solution — women like Yashoda and Pushpa would lose their jobs. 

Fairer pay from supermarkets would be a start — as would a transparent supply chain. The ‘country of origin’ on Sainsbury’s cashews says ‘packed in France’ — hardly enlightening.

British supermarkets should also better police their supply chains. All the major UK supermarkets, including Sainsbury’s, Asda and Tesco, have voluntarily signed up to the Ethical Trading Initiative (ETI). 

In order to do so, they had to say nine ‘base code’ rules — including safe and hygienic working conditions, no child labour, living wages and regular employment — were already in place.

The British Retail Consortium, which represents supermarkets, said they have ‘robust safety and welfare standards and support suppliers in meeting these through audits, training and in-depth interviews with workers’.

A spokesman added: ‘Retailers are conscious of the problems that exist in parts of India’s cashew industry and therefore are careful to work with suppliers who provide decent working conditions.’

A spokesperson for The British Retail Consortium said: ‘Retailers are conscious of the problems that exist in parts of India’s cashew industry and therefore are careful to work with suppliers who provide decent working conditions’

But Fiona Gooch, of Traidcraft Exchange, says producers ‘are under too much [price] pressure’ to comply with the agreements.

She says finance experts should cross-check wage slips with a sample of workers, and super-markets should send health and safety teams to inspect factories.

However, factory visits can only do so much as workers cannot always speak freely.

As customers, we can act too. By contacting supermarket head offices by email, phone or letter we can demand that they are meeting their obligations.

So this morning, as you dig into porridge with pomegranate seeds and cashews, or spread cashew butter on toast, think of Pushpa and Yashoda. It’s time our major supermarkets did, too.

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