#this is the second time my writing plans for the day have been hijacked by sexy rexy | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

exovapor · 3 years

Note

I'm OBSESSED with your writing. Can you try.. Maybe, Donnie being a filthy boy being an 'stalker-ish' of his long time crush? Be checks their FB for new posts, saves every picture of them he finds? He doesn't mean to be a creep, feels guilty, but just doesn't know how to ask for more than friendship?

Good afternoon Anon. Here is my short story in relation to your ask.

I wasn't sure where you wanted me to take this, so I had to do a bit of guessing on my part. I hope this something like you were wanting.

I will admit that this ask was a bit of a struggle for me, not knowing a clear direction to take it outcome made me a little unsure of my writing and guessing abilities LOL. However, I will admit to crying along with the characters in this story more than once.

Thanks again for the ask and the initial compliment. I hope to continue to earn your favor in future posts.

· Stalker [noun]: 1a person who harasses or persecutes someone with unwanted and obsessive attention. 2a person who hunts game stealthily.

· Donnie stared at the definition on his one of his monitor screens while his various other screens were busy flashing receipts of files downloaded, text trail streams from your phone, notices of any social media post/update/like/heart/emoji, a GPS line grid of your routes today (overlayed over the routes you’d taken previously), and data search hits of anything and everything that pertained to you.

· At this point, the boy had literally every picture you had ever posted, anywhere, of yourself. In fact, he had all the pictures that other people posted of you in them. He had even gone through the effort of designing a face recognition program that picks you out of the background of total strangers’ pictures and, yeah, he had those in a file too.

· He has special file folders that compile things that you like, things you don’t like, things that make you happy, things that make you sad. He is your own personal Pinterest and you didn’t even know it… and maybe that is the part that keeps bothering him so much.

· He sits staring at that word and definition and chewing his bottom lip. True, he knows the word and the meaning, but he needed to LOOK at it, analyze it, mull it over in his guilt ridden brain.

· He just KNEW the word Stalker couldn’t apply to him.

· After all, he isn’t harassing or persecuting you, you don’t know! So, it isn’t necessarily ‘unwanted attention’. It is just…unknown attention.

· Stealthily, hmmmm, did that part apply to him? Well, He isn’t EXACTLY being stealthy.

· If you knew about technology like him, then you would probably see his programs running on your devices and be alerted to his activities. AND, if you shared his love and view of technology, then you would probably be more understanding of his activities and not consider them stealthy…just data mining. In fact, you might applaud him.

· ‘Ok, that was taking it a bit too far’, Donnie thinks to himself and he feels a band tighten and squeeze around his infatuated heart.

· He is almost certain that you would be shocked to learn of his extra curricular activities and how they revolve around every aspect of you.

· Regardless of how he tried to spin the truth and wiggle out of the definition of stalker, Donnie still felt guilty for invading your privacy. However, he honestly couldn’t help himself…at least not anymore.

· He has fought the urge, the nagging thoughts and the burning need, to know more about you for what seemed like an eternity.

· Listen to him, he is starting to sound dramatic like Mikey! What is his turning into? He is losing his rational edge!

· To be accurate, it hasn’t been an eternity. In fact, he has known you 1 year, 36 days, 14 hours, 11 minutes, and 23 seconds to be exact. However, you started occupying space in his mind 2 minutes into meeting you and your claim over his mind has grown exponentially over time.

· You were quiet and reserved during that first meeting, so there wasn’t much to go on. It started as a simple visual interest with a thought of ‘Oh. She’s pretty’.

· However, then you started talking and that changed everything.

· You opened up more and more each time you hung out with their little group, revealing layers and layers of interests and personality. You were fascinating…and that’s when his thoughts about you really started to snowball and spiral out of control.

· You went from being a simple pretty face to being a walking embodiment of everything he seriously ever dreamed of having in a mate.

· Early on, there were three sticking points that really made Donnie’s feelings problematic. 1. He was a nearly seven foot tall walking talking turtle and you weren’t. 2. You had a boyfriend that you were deeply in love with and adored. 3. Donnie was too insecure about #1 and how you felt about inter-species dating to let you know that you had started to OWN his heart.

· Now, thanks to his surveillance, there were only two sticking points….#1 and #3.

· He still remembers the feelings of that day, 44 days ago, when the blip of information popped up on this screen alerting him to the fact that your boyfriend was starting to stray.

· Donnie had severely conflicting feelings bombard him at once and it was overwhelming.

· The initial knee jerk reaction was elation, one of the problems blocking him from you may soon be null.

· However, the feeling of elation only lasted for a second or two before the intense anger and sadness set in. Donnie was honestly shocked at the depth of his anger, he didn’t even know he had that level of malice in him. Had he been in physical proximity to your boyfriend at that moment in time, Donnie isn’t sure that he wouldn’t have hurt your guy…or worse.

· How COULD this guy do this? WHY would he? He HAD YOU! What the heck was this guy thinking? Not only did he have you, but you thought the world of him. When you spoke about him you would smile so genuinely, your eyes would shine and gaze off into a bright imagined future. Donnie was always so jealous to watch it happen, he wondered what it would be like to be THAT GUY. And here the idiot was throwing it all away and meeting up with another girl!

· WHAT THE…(yes, this called for a curse) HELL…IS WRONG WITH HUMAN MEN?

· As the anger set root in his heart, the sadness engulfed Donnie like an all-consuming wave. He realized he was going to have to share this information with you, somehow, and that he was going to have to watch as it destroyed you.

· At first, Donnie had a plan to try and save you both from that fate. True, it would hurt him more to save your relationship, but he would rather be the one facing the pain and not you.

· He TRIED to circumvent the situation. He sent anonymous messages to your boyfriend stating that he knew about the infidelity and that he would tell you if needed. However, it didn’t seem like your boyfriend cared because he sent messages back stating Donnie could, basically, go fuck himself.

· Life had cruel sense of irony, thought Donnie, that is exactly what I do since this moron has the woman that I love.

· So, after trying for nearly two weeks to stop what was happening behind your back, Donnie had no choice but to let you in on the secret.

· Donnie couldn’t come right out and tell you that he caught your boyfriend cheating by hijacking your data streams and the data streams of those around you. So, Donnie intercepted some texts between your boyfriend and his mistress and he then sent you a text, under the guise of your boyfriend, telling you to meet him at a specified restaurant for a date.

· It had been a gut wrenching night for Donnie. He remembered watching it all play out on camera feeds from around the restaurant and street outside. He watched you dressed up in your pretty dress get out of your cab in front of the restaurant. You had such a lovely smile on your face, you must have thought you were in for a romantic evening.

· He watched as you walked inside and how the hostess got flustered and confused by a 2nd girl showing up for your boyfriend’s seated-for-two table.

· Donnie stopped breathing as your eyes found the new couple holding hands and giving each other sweet kisses across the table. Hands and lips that were supposed to be yours were touching some stranger.

· Donnie watched your smile and eyes die…the light of your inner sun go out…

· …and it killed him.

· He’s not sure who was crying the hardest, you standing there in that restaurant witnessing the scene or him back at the lair watching your world crush around you on his monitor.

· It had taken a while for you both to recover from that night.

· His brothers noticed his melancholy mood for a couple of weeks but Donnie wouldn’t tell them what was bothering him. And you stayed in your bed, refusing to face the world, for nearly as long.

· Eventually, the group began to notice your silence and absence, so April stopped by your apartment to check on you. She was the one to pull you out of bed, get you to shower and eat. She visited everyday and made sure you had someone to vent to and a shoulder to cry on.

· Donnie was glad that April could be there for you when he couldn’t. He didn’t think it was appropriate for him, a male, to be your confidant at that time. Especially since he felt so much guilt over having to be the one to expose you to that pain.

· No, he didn’t CAUSE the pain, but he did have to make you face it and he didn’t like not being able to protect you from it. You were such a rare, precious creature and watching you in pain felt like he was suffocating slowly.

· There were some points during those first few weeks that he questioned if he did the right thing, but logic told him it would have eventually come to pass with or without his involvement. It was better to rip the bandage of quickly and let you start to heal than it was to let you linger and drag out the inevitable.

· Donnie did secretly check on you every single night during patrol. And, of course, his surveillance feeds were always running. He watched from a distance as his beautiful phoenix burn down to ashes and, eventually, started to rise again.

· Now, it’s been over 3 months and you’ve begun to be more like your old self. Donnie can tell there is a silent sadness there, but you are able to laugh and smile with the group during your get togethers. And each time you two are left alone, his mind nags at him about those last two sticking points.

· Would you be at all interested in him? And HOW does he go about telling you that you have become the center of his world?

· Still staring at the monitor and the Stalker definition, Donnie sighs and rubs the bridge of his snout to release of the pressure now pushing against the inside of his head. The memories of what has happened, the emotions of what was and what is, it was all starting to be too much.

· “Bro, what’s all this?”, Mikey says standing behind Donnie’s chair, talking around a mouth full of pizza.

· “NOTHING!”, says Donnie, voice breaking from the stress of being caught. A startled Donnie quickly taps some keys on his keyboard and the screens revert back to the standard lair camera feeds.

· Mikey may look or even come off as naïve at times, but he’s no fool, he can sense that his older brother is trying to hide something. “Dude, seriously, what was that? I’ve been standing back here reading the screens. I saw Y/N’s name and that looked like her phone number on that other file…, you know the file that looks like texts messages. And why is there a plotted map of the area around her apartment, her work, and to the lair? What’s up?”, Mikey said giving a disapproving look at being thought a pushover.

· “Just standard surveillance, Mikey, nothing to worry about.”, Donnie says trying to placate Mikey’s curiosity. Donnie hates lying, especially to Mikey, but he’s feeling so guilty about being such a…(inward sigh)…stalking creep that admitting the truth is hard to do.

· Mikey stands there staring at Donnie and, as he does, Donnie begins to fidget with his computer chair armrests.

· Mikey stuffs the remnants of the pizza slice into his mouth and does his best Leo impersonation by crosses his arms and staring down at Donnie as sternly as his jolly face can achieve, “Dude, I’m not going to ask you again. You’ve been weird for months. We’ve let it go for the most part but now you are hiding things from me…from ME, dude! You and I, we’re like peanut butter and jelly, we’re ice cream and chocolate fudge, we young dudes have got to stick together. Trust me, bro, I’ve got you!”.

· Donnie stared at the floor, too ashamed to meet Mikey’s eyes any longer. He gave a heavy sigh and reluctantly started to speak, “Sorry Mike, I…I honestly don’t know what’s come over me lately. I’m doing things I never thought I would do, I’m feeling so guilty about it, but I don’t know if I can stop doing it either. I feel…lost.”.

· Mike relaxed his leader stance and leaned against one of Donnie’s lab tables, “Bro, I can tell you’ve been carrying some heavy stuff lately. You need to let it out.”

· Donnie felt the heat rise up through his body like he was suddenly being consumed by a fire and he ripped his glasses off his face and drew them down on the desk in frustration, “Mikey, I’m in love with Y/N. I have been for a while. I have been…”, Donnie hangs his head in shame, “…tracking all her digital foot prints and watching her. In fact, I’m the reason she found out that asshole boyfriend of her's cheated.”

· Mikey’s mouth drops open at Donnie’s demeanor and use of the word ‘asshole’, “Whoa, dude, why didn’t you say something earlier?”.

· Donnie can feel a stinging at the corners of his eyes, this was so embarrassing, so frustrating, so…..so many things at a once. He didn’t have a response for Mikey, all he could do was shake his head.

· Still with his head hung down and staring at the floor, Donnie starts to hear Mikey chuckle. Donnie looks up to see Mikey’s eyes on him and for some reason they are full of merriment at his painful dilemma. Donnie stares at his, normally, very considerate brother in astonishment, this isn’t like Mikey at all!

· “Mikey, I’m more than serious here, now is not the time to make fun of me. What is so funny?”, Donnie asks exasperatedly.

· Mikey shakes his bald head and claps his brother on the shoulder with his green hand, “Bro, she thinks you’re cute.”.

· “W-What?!”, Donnie stammers out.

· Mikey, still chuckling, says, “Yeah, dude, that’s why I asked WHY you didn’t say something about liking her sooner, she’s always thought you were cute. She and I talk about it all the time.”.

· Donnie just stares at his jolly brother in silence. His mind is too blown to form a sentence.

· Mikey turns to leave stating, “And by the way, dude, stop watching her like that…that’s just creepy.”.

@turtle-babe83 @tmntspidergirl @kokokatsworld @nittleboo @the-second-circle-of-shell

#tmnt donatello #tmnt #tmnt donnie #tmnt fanfiction #tmnt x reader #tmnt bayverse #tmnt 2016 #tmnt fandom

305 notes · View notes

homosexuhauls · 3 years

Text

15 JUNE, 2021 by Chimamanda Ngozi-Adichie

IT IS OBSCENE: A TRUE REFLECTION IN THREE PARTS

PART ONE

When you are a public figure, people will write and say false things about you. It comes with the territory. Many of those things you brush aside. Many you ignore. The people close to you advise you that silence is best. And it often is. Sometimes, though, silence makes a lie begin to take on the shimmer of truth.

In this age of social media, where a story travels the world in minutes, silence sometimes means that other people can hijack your story and soon, their false version becomes the defining story about you.

Falsehood flies, and the Truth comes limping after it, as Jonathan Swift wrote.

Take the case of a young woman who attended my Lagos writing workshop some years ago; she stood out because she was bright and interested in feminism.

After the workshop, I welcomed her into my life. I very rarely do this, because my past experiences with young Nigerians left me wary of people who are calculating and insincere and want to use me only as an opportunity. But she was a Bright Young Nigerian Feminist and I thought that was worth making an exception.

She spent time in my Lagos home. We had long conversations. I was support-giver, counsellor, comforter.

Then I gave an interview in March 2017 in which I said that a trans woman is a trans woman, (the larger point of which was to say that we should be able to acknowledge difference while being fully inclusive, that in fact the whole premise of inclusiveness is difference.)

I was told she went on social media and insulted me.

This woman knows me enough to know that I fully support the rights of trans people and all marginalized people. That I have always been fiercely supportive of difference, in general. And that I am a person who reads and thinks and forms my opinions in a carefully considered way.

Of course she could very well have had concerns with the interview. That is fair enough. But I had a personal relationship with her. She could have emailed or called or texted me. Instead she went on social media to put on a public performance.

I was stunned. I couldn’t believe it. But I mostly held myself responsible. My spirit had been slightly stalled, from the beginning, by her. My first sense of unease with her came when she posted a photo taken in my house, at a time when I did not want any photos of my personal life on social media. I asked that she take it down. The second case of unease was her publicizing something I had told her in confidence about another member of the workshop. The most upsetting was when she, without telling me, used my name to apply for an American visa. Above all else was my lingering suspicion that she was a person who chose as friends only those from whom she could benefit. But she was a Bright Young Nigerian Feminist and I allowed that sentiment to over-ride my unease.

After she publicly insulted me, it was clear to me that this kind of noxious person had no business in my life, ever again.

A few months later, she sent this affected, self-regarding email which I ignored.

Friday September 15 2017 at 4.35 AM

Dearest Chimamanda,

Happy birthday. I mean this with all my heart, even though I know I have fallen (removed myself?) from your grace. It would be impossible for me to stop loving you; long before you gave me the possibility of being your friend you were the embodiment of my deepest hopes, and that will never change.

I think of you often, still – stating the obvious. I grieve the loss of our friendship; it is a complicated sadness. I’m sorry that I caused you pain, or to feel like you can no longer trust me. There’s so much that I wish could be said.

I pray this birthday is the happiest one yet. I wish you rest and quiet and abiding stability, and of course more of the kind of success that means the most to you.

I hope mothering X is everything you hoped and prayed for and more.

Have a wonderful day today.

Love always.

About a year later, she sent this email, which I also ignored.

Thursday November 29 2018 at 8.42 AM

Dear Chimamanda,

I realise this is long overdue and vastly insufficient, but I’m really sorry. I’ve spent so much time going back and forth in my head and my email drafts; wondering whether to write you, how to write you, what to say, all kinds of things. But in the end, this is the thing I realise I need to say.

I’m sorry I disappointed and hurt you by saying things publicly that were sharply critical, unkind and even disrespectful, especially in light of all the backlash and criticism you experience from people who don’t know you. I could have acted with more consideration towards you. I should have, especially given the privilege of intimacy that you had offered me. There are many reasons why I chose to behave the way I did, but none of them is an excuse. And I clearly realise now, after many, many months of needless sadness and angst and hurt and actual confusion, that I did not treat you as a friend would—certainly not as someone would to whom you had offered unprecedented access to yourself and your life.

You’ve meant the world to me since I was barely a teenager. It’s been very hard navigating the emotional fallout of the past several months, knowing you were displeased with me but truly not quite understanding why, then deciding I didn’t care, then realising that would never be true. I’ve always cared. But I was too mixed up about the situation to be able to make sense of it, or properly see past my own justifications. I’m sorry it took me so long to grasp how I let you down.

I realise that I don’t have room to ask anything of you, but I would be grateful for a chance to say this in person. Still, even if I never get that, I really hope you believe me.

Congratulations on restarting the workshop, and on all the other amazing successes of the past several months. I think of you often; it would be impossible not to. You look so happy in your pictures. I really hope you are well.

All my love,

I hoped never to hear from her again. But she has recently gone on social media to write about how she “refused to kiss my ring,” as if I demanded some kind of obeisance from her. She also suggests that there is some dark, shadowy ‘more’ to tell that she won’t tell, with an undertone of “if only you knew the whole story.”

It is a manipulative way of lying. By suggesting there is ‘more’ when you know very well that there isn’t, you do sufficient reputational damage while also being able to plead deniability. Innuendo without fact is immoral.

No, there isn’t more to the story. It is a simple story – you got close to a famous person, you publicly insulted the famous person to aggrandize yourself, the famous person cut you off, you sent emails and texts that were ignored, and you then decided to go on social media to peddle falsehoods. It is obscene to tell the world that you refused to kiss a ring when in fact there isn’t any ring at all.

I cannot make much of the hostility of strangers who do not know me – fame taints our view of the humanity of famous people. But the truth is that the famous person remains irretrievably human. Fame does not inoculate the famous person from disappointment and depression, fame does not make you any less angered or hurt by the duplicitous nature of people. To be famous is to be assumed to have power, which is true, but in the analysis of fame, people often ignore the vulnerability that comes with fame, and they are unable to see how others who have nothing to lose can lie and connive in order to take advantage of that fame, while not giving a single thought to the feelings and humanity of the famous person.

And when you personally know a famous person, when you have experienced their humanity, when you have benefited from their kindness, and yet you are unable to extend to them the basic grace and respect that even a casual acquaintanceship deserves, then it says something fundamental about you.

And in a deluded way, you will convince yourself that your hypocritical, self-regarding, compassion-free behavior is in fact principled feminism. It isn’t. You will wrap your mediocre malice in the false gauziness of ideological purity. But it’s still malice. You will tell yourself that being able to parrot the latest American Feminist orthodoxy justifies your hacking at the spirit of a person who had shown you only kindness. You can call your opportunism by any name, but it doesn’t make it any less of the ugly opportunism that it is.

PART TWO

When I first read this person’s work, which was their application to my writing workshop, I thought the sentences were well-done. I accepted this person. At the workshop, I thought they could have been more respectful of the other participants, perhaps not kept typing dismissively as others’ stories were discussed, with an air of being among people below their level. After the workshop, I decided to select the best stories, edit them, pay the writers a fee, and publish them in an e-magazine. The first story I chose was this person’s. I wrote a glowing introduction, which the story truly deserved.

They sent this email.

Fri, Aug 7, 2015, 8:20 AM

Thank you so much for that introduction. It means so much to me and I’m going to keep reading it to get through the rest of my stay at Syracuse. I sent it to my mother and she got nervous about the piece because you said ‘it disturbs’, said she’s not sure how she’s going to feel when she reads it. But she’s also one of those ‘let’s leave the past in the past’ people. My sister approved, which meant a lot because our childhoods were each other’s.

All that to say, I’m so grateful you gave me the space to write the short version of this piece, the encouragement to write the longer piece, and now, a platform for it. I definitely have plans to write more about Aba.

Thank you, with all my heart.

PS- I wanted to sign off gratefully + gracefully in Igbo but I said let me not fall my own hand 🙂

About a year later, they sent another email to let me know that their novel would be published.

Wed, Jun 8, 2016, 8:20 AM

Greetings!

I hope all’s been well with you this past year. Belated congratulations on the baby’s arrival, I hope she’s being a delight (I’m sure she is), and on the Johns Hopkins honors.

I was thinking about how this time last year, I’d just received the email from you about Farafina and I wanted to reach out with a quick update. I’ve just accepted an offer for the novel I excerpted as my application and it feels like the workshop was a catalyst for the events that’ve led me here. So, thank you, for the workshop and your words and the Olisa TV series and listening to me babble on about my story at the hotel. I deeply appreciate all of it and you.

All my best,

Before the novel was published, I spoke of it to some people, to help it get attention. I had not been able to finish reading it. I found the writing beautiful, but the story false-hearted and burdened by bathos. When I spoke of the novel, however, it was the former sentiment that I expressed, never the latter.

After I gave the March 2017 interview in which I said that a trans woman is a trans woman, I was told that this person had insulted me on social media, calling me, among other things, a murderer. I was deeply upset, because while I did not really know them personally, I felt they knew what I stood for and that I fully supported the rights of trans people, and that I do not wish anybody dead.

Still, I took no action. I ignored the public insult.

When this person’s publishers sent me an early copy of their novel, I was surprised to see that my name was included in their cover biography. I had never seen that done in a book before. I didn’t like that I had not been asked for permission to use my name, but most of all I thought – why would a person who thinks I’m a murderer want my name so prominently displayed in their biography?

Then I learned that, because my name was in the cover biography, a journalist had called them my “protegee” and they then threw a Twitter tantrum about it, calling it clickbait, viciously disavowing having received any help from me.

I knew this person had called me a murderer, I knew they were actively campaigning to “cancel” me and tweeting about how I should no longer be invited to speak at events. But this I felt I could not ignore.

I sent an email to my representative:

From: Chimamanda Adichie

Date: Wed, Feb 14, 2018 at 2:06 PM

I’m writing about X

She attended my Lagos workshop two years ago and I selected hers as one of a few pieces I published after the workshop.

Apparently I was referred to as her ‘mentor’ and/or she was referred to as my ‘protege,’ in some articles, which led to her tweeting about it. Her tweets were forwarded to me by friends. In them, she reacted quite viscerally to my being called her ‘mentor’ and her being my ‘protege.’ To be fair, she is not technically my ‘protege,’ and it is perfectly fine that she feels this way, but her ungracious tone and the ugliness of the energy spent on her tweets surprised me.

I recently received her book and noticed that my name was included in her official book bio. I was stunned. Surely if she is so strongly averse to my being considered a person who has been significant in her career, (which is my understanding of the loose use of protege/mentor) then it is unseemly to make the choice to include my name in her bio. I found it unusual, as I don’t think I’ve seen it done before in a book bio, but I also now find it unacceptably cynical.

It is only reasonable for a person who sees my name as it is used in her bio — ‘her work has been selected and edited by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’ — to assume some sort of mentor/protege relationship.

To publicly disavow this with a tone bordering on hostility and at the same time so baldly use my name to sell her book is utterly unacceptable to me.

I’d like you to please reach out to her publishers and ask that my name be removed from her official book bio. I refuse to be used in this way.

After contacting her publishers, my representative wrote:

They have asked whether your preference would be to remove the Acknowledgment to you in the back of the book also, in future reprints.

I replied:

I don’t think that is my decision to take, and so will not answer either way, although it would be ideal if she herself made the decision to do so.

On the subject of how to go about it, I was absolutely determined not to be used by this person, but I was also sensitive to the costs the publisher might incur, as this was not in any way the publisher’s fault. Instead of pulping the already printed copies, I asked that the jackets be stripped and rebound. To my representative I wrote:

I’m completely determined that I not be used in this opportunistic and hypocritical way. But I want to make sure to proceed reasonably.

I was assured that my name would be removed and I moved on.

But from time to time, I would be informed of yet another social media post in which this person had attacked me.

This person has created a space in which social media followers have – and this I find unforgiveable – trivialized my parents’ death, claiming that the sudden and devastating loss of my parents within months of each other during this pandemic, was ‘punishment’ for my ‘transphobia.’

This person has asked followers to pick up machetes and attack me.

This person began a narrative that I had sabotaged their career, a narrative that has been picked up and repeated by others.

The normal response would be to ignore it all, because this person is seeking attention and publicity to benefit themselves. Claiming that I have sabotaged their career is a lie and this person knows that it is a lie. But if something is repeated often enough, in this age in which people do not need proof or verification to run with a story, especially a story that has outrage potential, then it can easily begin to seem true.

My addressing this lie will indeed get this person some attention – may they bask in it.

Here is the truth: I was very supportive of this writer. I didn’t have to be. I wasn’t asked to be. I supported this writer because I believe we need a diverse range of African stories.

Sabotaging a young writer’s career is just not my style; I would get no benefit or satisfaction from it. Asking that my name be removed from your biography is not sabotaging your career. It is about protecting my boundaries of what I consider acceptable in civil human behavior.

You publicly call me a murderer AND still feel entitled to benefit from my name?

You use my name (without my permission) to sell your book AND then throw an ugly tantrum when someone makes a reference to it?

What kind of monstrous entitlement, what kind of perverse self-absorption, what utter lack of self-awareness, what unheeding heartlessness, what frightening immaturity makes a person act this way?

Besides, a person who genuinely believes me to be a murderer cannot possibly want my name on their book cover, unless of course that person is a rank opportunist.

PART THREE

In certain young people today like these two from my writing workshop, I notice what I find increasingly troubling: a cold-blooded grasping, a hunger to take and take and take, but never give; a massive sense of entitlement; an inability to show gratitude; an ease with dishonesty and pretension and selfishness that is couched in the language of self-care; an expectation always to be helped and rewarded no matter whether deserving or not; language that is slick and sleek but with little emotional intelligence; an astonishing level of self-absorption; an unrealistic expectation of puritanism from others; an over-inflated sense of ability, or of talent where there is any at all; an inability to apologize, truly and fully, without justifications; a passionate performance of virtue that is well executed in the public space of Twitter but not in the intimate space of friendship.

I find it obscene.

There are many social-media-savvy people who are choking on sanctimony and lacking in compassion, who can fluidly pontificate on Twitter about kindness but are unable to actually show kindness. People whose social media lives are case studies in emotional aridity. People for whom friendship, and its expectations of loyalty and compassion and support, no longer matter. People who claim to love literature – the messy stories of our humanity – but are also monomaniacally obsessed with whatever is the prevailing ideological orthodoxy. People who demand that you denounce your friends for flimsy reasons in order to remain a member of the chosen puritan class.

People who ask you to ‘educate’ yourself while not having actually read any books themselves, while not being able to intelligently defend their own ideological positions, because by ‘educate,’ they actually mean ‘parrot what I say, flatten all nuance, wish away complexity.’

People who do not recognize that what they call a sophisticated take is really a simplistic mix of abstraction and orthodoxy – sophistication in this case being a showing-off of how au fait they are on the current version of ideological orthodoxy.

People who wield the words ‘violence’ and ‘weaponize’ like tarnished pitchforks. People who depend on obfuscation, who have no compassion for anybody genuinely curious or confused. Ask them a question and you are told that the answer is to repeat a mantra. Ask again for clarity and be accused of violence. (How ironic, speaking of violence, that it is one of these two who encouraged Twitter followers to pick up machetes and attack me.)

And so we have a generation of young people on social media so terrified of having the wrong opinions that they have robbed themselves of the opportunity to think and to learn and to grow.

I have spoken to young people who tell me they are terrified to tweet anything, that they read and re-read their tweets because they fear they will be attacked by their own. The assumption of good faith is dead. What matters is not goodness but the appearance of goodness. We are no longer human beings. We are now angels jostling to out-angel one another. God help us. It is obscene.

#chimamanda ngozi adichie #femimism #nigerian feminism #radfem safe #gender critical #radical feminism #cancel culture #forgot the link oops

209 notes · View notes

weasleylangs · 3 years

Text

lightweight - g.w

Pairing: George x Fem!Reader Summary: Y/N’s never been the best at holding her alcohol. Luckily, George is always there to help her. Warnings: Alcohol, a drunk confession, fluff, brief mentions of underage drinking, one line about throwing up. Word Count: 1.9k

A/N: Short Georgie fic today! I have work so I didn’t want to commit to any of my super long ideas but I still want to keep writing! Also, I’m not promoting excessive drinking whatsoever. As always, constructive criticism is appreciated and requests are open!

This is also being posted while I’m asleep because I’m stuck on the other side of the world to the rest of you. Any asks will be replied too when I’m up!

-------------------------------------------------------------

George stands in a corner of the Leaky Cauldron, firewhiskey in hand as he looks at the crowd. Their yearly reunion has been going on for a few hours now, and George has finally started to feel the alcohol buzzing around his head. Despite having already downed quite a few whiskeys, he’s barely been feeling it all night considering he’s always been a heavyweight, given his large stature.

The same can’t be said for the girl George’s eyes are trained on. Y/N Y/L/N. She’s currently dancing with Angelina Johnson, the rosiness in her cheeks evident from both the exertion from dancing for hours on end and the alcohol in her system. George has fond memories of Gryffindor parties, when Fred, Lee and himself would flirt their way into buying alcohol from Madam Rosmerta to sneak into parties that would eventually end with the girl he’s watching dancing her heart out.

“Babysitting already, mate?” Lee asks as he takes a swig of his beer and George chuckles, shaking his head. “No, not quite yet. I probably will be in, say…” He checks his watch and the time reads 1am, “... half an hour.”

George developed a habit when they were sixteen, of looking after Y/N at parties. The girl never seemed to learn her own limits and more often than not, drank herself stupid at parties. Y/N was one of George’s best friends, and he’d never forgive himself if he ever let her get hurt at a party, so he happily settled for basking in the party atmosphere while keeping a close eye on Y/N. And then, in the morning he’d tease her while she threw up the contents of her stomach and she’d apologise profusely before they’d walk to breakfast together.

It’s been 10 years and they’re still dancing and drinking and George is still looking after her, but instead of walking her up to her dorm, George drags her back to his apartment above Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes and tucks her into his bed while he takes the couch. Granted, Y/N’s has developed some better limits than when she was sixteen years old, but it’s a force of habit at this point, and besides, George rather looks forward to it nowadays and his night would feel incomplete without knowing Y/N is 100% safe and sound 100 meters away from him.

Fred approaches them, and they aimlessly stand around and chat. Mostly about quidditch, very rarely about work. These days, the hot topic of conversation is about how Lee’s been splitting his time between London helping the twins out with the shop and Romania, where his dragon trainer girlfriend lives. Sometimes, a few people approach them and ask the question if they’re the ‘famous Ginny Weasley’s twin brothers’ which always causes them to laugh and their chests swell in pride for their little sister.

It’s probably only twenty minutes later when he hears a squeal come from the dance floor as some muggle band’s song comes on. George thinks Y/N probably convinced Tom to let her hijack the music and he vaguely recognises the song as one she’s played before. He searches the dance floor for her, and when their eyes meet she winks at him and quickly spins around to dance with Angelina again.

“I can’t believe she’s not even your girlfriend and you practically babysit her, mate. We’re 26, when are you making a move?” Fred teases but George ignores him. He notices Y/N catch his eye again and when she goes to wave him over, he sees her wobble slightly and her eyes widen out of fear of losing her balance.

Truthfully, George is too scared to admit his feelings for Y/N. While he knows their friendship entails more than what a normal one does, George has never been the best at reading signs when people are romantically interested in him so he well and truly does not know where he stands with Y/N. He never wants to make people feel uncomfortable, so he lives blissfully unaware until someone yells in his face they’re interested in him.

“Piss off, Fred. Like you can talk about me not making a move. You’ve liked Angelina since what? Sixth year?” He pushes Fred slightly at the shoulders as he scowls and slowly makes his way over the tiny girl in his sights.

“Hi Georgie,” she slurs as he finally makes his way over to her and she’s quick to slot herself into his side. George is well aware Y/N is both a sleepy and clumsy drunk the second she stops dancing, and as George checks the time on his watch again, it now reads 1:30am and it’s well past intoxicated Y/N’s bedtime.

“Hi, love,” he can’t help but use the nickname for her, especially when her cheeks flush an even deeper shade of red when he uses it, “time to get you to bed?”

She pretends to think for a second but George knows she’s all danced out when she sighs and tucks her head into his neck. He spots Lee and Fred, who are now imitating whips at him, and shakes his head as he waves goodbye. He makes sure to tell Angelina, Katie and Alicia they’re leaving as well so they don’t worry, and George pretends to miss the giggles and winks they give Y/N as he holds onto her.

Thankfully, the Leaky Cauldron isn’t far from 93 Diagon Alley and soon enough George is placing Y/N in his bed and finding a change of clothes for her. It’s the middle of November, so he grabs a random old sweater his mum knitted him a few years back and while he looks for the pair of leggings she left here last time, he hears her soft gasp.

When he turns to look at her, her eyes are fixated on the sweater in his hand. “That one’s my favourite.”

George has a million sweaters, enough to fill a whole drawer full of them all in different colours, so he’s confused how Y/N knows which one this even is.

“It’s the one with the frayed hand-holes, right?” George laughs at her usage of ‘hand-holes’ and unfolds the sweater to take a look at the sleeves, and sure enough, right where your hands pop out, the sleeves is fraying.

“Why is this one your favourite, darling?” He questions, passing her the sweater. He turns his back to her, giving her some privacy as she takes her top off and she hums happily as the scent of George engulfs her senses. “It’s one of your oldest ones. So the Georgie-scent is the strongest.”

George feels his cheeks heat up as Y/N slips the leggings up under her skirt and then struggles to undo her buttons. “Georgie-scent?”

She hums in agreement as she finally gets the skirt off and drops it on the floor next to her. She’s curling herself up under the blankets when she looks at George and before her sober thoughts can catch them, drunk words are tumbling out of her mouth, “Reminds me the most of my Amortentia.”

George pauses and stares at her, processing the words she just said. George only received three O.W.L’s during his time at Hogwarts and none of them were potions, but of course, he’s well aware what Amortentia is. He sells them at work, after all.

The most powerful love potion in the world.

“Firework smoke, Molly’s home-cooked meals and… Alcohol.” She mumbles when George doesn’t speak and she looks like she’s fallen asleep but George knows she isn’t.

“Sure it isn’t Fred, love?” He laughs as he asks but his insecurities are there, shoved way down into the pit of his stomach, threatening to spill out. Firework smoke and his mum’s home-cooked meals scream both of them without a doubt, and George can’t help but convince himself that Fred could definitely have an explanation for the alcohol.

Now she’s realised what she’s said, and she takes one look at George and she shoves her head into the pillow. “God, this isn’t how I was planning to tell you.” She’d actually never planned on telling him, convinced someone as perfect as George Weasley would ever love her back, but her brain had other plans.

“Tell me that you like my brother?” He jokingly questions, the insecurities fading but still feeling the need to tease her. When she laughs and rolls her eyes, George knows he’s calmed her down from a perch she didn’t realise she was on. She sits up quickly and her face looks a little green at first for how quick she moves. “Who looks after me when I’m drunk, George? I don’t see Fred anywhere.” She’s smirking now and George has to resist the urge to crawl into bed with her and kiss her senseless.

“My Amortentia smells like you as well, by the way.” The smile Y/N gives him is bright enough it could light up the City of London. “Really?” she questions, and the way she sways in bed George can tell she’s still intoxicated and he can only hope she remembers this conversation in the morning because he knows he won’t be brave enough to initiate it again.

“Really. Sunflowers, chocolate and…” He hesitates, laughing at how dumb they both are, “Firewhiskey.”

She screeches in embarrassment and before he knows it, Y/N’s dragging him into his bed and she’s giggling. “That’s so embarrassing!” she exclaims, “But so expected.”

They roll around in the sheets for a few seconds, trying to grab at each other and laughing at the coincidences before George gets up and changes. Y/N watches him intently, trying her best not to objectify him in her mind but he’s just so damn gorgeous she can’t help it. She wants to kiss every inch of his skin and let everyone know the wonderful man standing in front of her is her's.

And when he goes to slip out of the room, thinking she’s fallen asleep, she pouts and clears her throat, causing him to turn and face her.

“You. Me. Bed. Cuddling. Now.” She says, nay demands and he has no choice. He slips into bed beside her and once again, for the second time that night, she’s slotted herself next to him.

“I really do love you, you know.” She mutters against his neck and she feels his breath hitch. “I’m not just saying it because I was drunk. I mean, like I said it because I was drunk, but it’s true.”

George pauses, not wanting to upset her with what he says next, “Are you going to remember in the morning?” He’s trying not to let his fear be known, but with how close Y/N is, he knows she felt his body react subconsciously. Y/N’s had nights when she doesn’t remember anything she’s said- not because she’s drunk too much, but she’s naturally a forgetful person and the alcohol doesn’t help.

“Of course, and if I don’t because I don’t remember tonight… I’d hope you’d tell me.” She reassures him, looking up at him and pressing a soft kiss to his chin from her position in his arms.

George lets out a breath and looks at the girl in his arms and decides that he can’t keep it to himself anymore and that he’d shout it from every rooftop that he’s in love with Y/N Y/L/N. So he presses a kiss to her forehead, next, her nose, then her cheeks and lastly, a soft kiss on her lips.

“I promise I will. You and me forever.”

#george weasley #george weasley fanfiction #george weasley imagine #george weasley one shot #george weasley x reader

480 notes · View notes

londonskies · 3 years

Text

DON’T SAY THE S WORD!!

https://images.app.goo.gl/JKKNVtwZNGAVVwzB9

In which Corpse has a secret girlfriend and his insomnia is driving them both up the wall, putting precious Sykkuno in danger because he said the word “Sleep”.

Hi! This is just a once in a blue moon, feel good, fluff fic cause I have commitment issues on my writing lol.

Yes, my writing style is long winded, I’m really sorry, but I hope you enjoy it!

credits to u/balderdash_lee on reddit

Corpse had not slept for close to 50 hours by the time that they had started their latest month prior pre-planned plasmophobia session with Rae, Sykkunno and Toast, but it was like he was hyped up on sugar for the last hour or so and Y/n was really beginning to get worried.

This was a tattletale sign of the huge crash her boyfriend was about to go through, and yet the stubborn man just would not step away from his computer.

She had tried everything, from luring him with pizza (to which he had snatched a few slices and had just retreated to his gaming room once more) to telling him that there was a fire in the kitchen (to which he replied was virtually impossible given how meticulous Y/n was in the kitchen) to faking an injury (which corpse called bullshit on without even looking at her).

It was getting really frustrating and she knew for a fact that the longer her boyfriend was going to wait this out, the worse he was going to feel.

And the worse he was going to act.

He would never hurt anyone, ever. The man was the definition of a soft boi beyond his brain meltingly amazing voice. But when he was beyond bone dead tired like he was right now, he had the tendency to act mean, and the only person who had the capability of calming him down in the middle of the pandemic was Y/n, and she would have to hijack his stream.

The stream that was filled with hundreds of thousands of people who didn’t even know that their precious Corpse was in a relationship with anyone.

Would she have the chance to mute him before he went on his tired, angry, borderline crazy monologue? She would try, but probably not.

Y/n had to bring out the big guns.

Rae and Toast were pretty easy people to conspire with and were almost always down to do pranks and other shit that Y/n came up with, and always, always down to do whatever it took to get Corpse to take care of himself.

Sykkuno though, bless him, the cutest, most clueless person Y/n had ever met.

He was always very concerned for Corpse’s health but was the worst at going incognito. So Rae and Toast were the ones who used their code word (lights out) and had always been the ones who had the role of making sure Sykkuno knew what to do.

“Aaaaaaaaaaanddd, lights out baby!” Rae screamed as she made her way past Sykkuno at the entrance of the house they were in at the moment, but Sykkuno, the precious little boy that he is, just watched Rae with a bewildered face, getting even more confused when Toast made his way past him as well, whispering “Lights out.” and moving back to the truck in the game.

From inside, Corpse’s character was busy laughing at a joke he made about a picture in the wall and had not noticed the other two missing. He did notice though, when Sykkuno appeared near him to ask him what was up before convulsing and dropping to the floor.

Corpse’s laugh was noticeably more manic now, getting a lot more high pitched and erratic. For a second, Sykkuno laughed with him, then when Corpse’s went on for too long, suddenly looked confused on his stream, turning to face the general vicinity he Corpse’s character was.

So he spoke through their always open discord chat. “Uhh, Corpse? You okay there buddy?”

The stubborn man just kept laughing, Y/n increasingly getting concerned as she watched all 4 player’s streams on different devices one room over. Rae and Toast were chatting about the pills in the truck, so as to not alarm Corpse of the lowkey distraction they were doing to finish the game easy (aka getting at least 3 of them killed), and then giving excuses to stop streaming and giving Y/n a chance to haul his ass to bed.

Sykkuno on the other hand, was now (against all plans spoken about prior) continuing to talk to Corpse.

“Corpse?” the timid man spoke once more, finally reaching the ever more manic Corpse.

All of a sudden, an eerie silence fell around the two of them, settling for a few seconds before getting filled by a flat “Yea?” from Corpse.

Y/n could almost hear the sentence that Sy would reply to that, and at that moment, she knew, they were fucked.

With a quick “Fuckin shite” to both Rae and Toast’s chat, Y/n bounded over to Corpse’s office, hearing tail end of the question that was about to make Corpse’s brain go kaboom.

“You sound tired man, maybe you should sleep for a bit?”

She knew he only meant good. Sykkuno was just one of those guys that would never want to hurt anyone. She knew it, Corpse knew it, everyone knew it.

But her secret boyfriend was sleep deprived and going batshit crazy because of it, and currently, his trigger word was the word Sleep.

Y/n would give poor Sy a viking funeral if she can’t stop this.

“I am not tire-” Corpse was pretty intimidating when he wanted to be, and I knew that that low voice of his would scare every single hitman in a 1000 mile radius when used in a booming, angry way. And the way his voice was escalating was sure to end in said booming, angry way.

Y/n sprinted into his recording room, only partially wincing at the horridly loud bang the door made when she wrenched it open to fling herself at her boyfriend. The world seemed to slow as she soared through the air, uncaring if she knocked things out of the way.

Gotta make sure their baby Sy would never be at that end of Corpse’s fury.

She partially landed on his lap, torso hanging off the side. It hurt as her ribs made contact on the armrest of his computer chair, but it stopped his tirade with a surprised “Ooof!” and knocked him away from his PC.

“Honey!! Don’t yell at Sy!”

“Y/n???”

Oh shit.

Of course Sykkuno had to yell out her name during a stream. She had bet Toast 200 dollars that Sy would be the one to drop her name, and it was high time she cashed in.

Y/n fixed herself on Corpse’s lap, shoving his headphones off of him and forcing him into a hug. Of course he protested, but eventually relaxed in her grip, muttering about how his eyes and wrists hurt now but he promised to play with the OTV peeps and his insomnia hit him too hard these past few days.

“Baby,” he whispered hoarsely, his grip tightening on her as well. It only took a moment for Y/n to realize that her boyfriend was shaking, trying not to fall apart. “It hurts.”

She ran her fingers through his hair, putting a kiss on the top of his head as he relaxed even more. They had to move to a more comfortable space soon or else Corpse would fall asleep here and she would have to move him (which at 5 feet, is not very easy.) but he was relaxing and Y/n couldn’t make herself distract him from that.

“I know babe, it’s okay. We’ll breathe through it. You can do it, I know you can.” Corpse would never fess up to crying, but the growing patch of tears on her sweater was evidence of the amount of pain that he was experiencing.

His dedication was amazing, but a lot of the time he sacrificed his health for it. So as much as she didn’t want to hold him back, sometimes she really just had to step in and meddle to save him from himself.

They stayed like that for a while, Y/n occasionally having to coach him through his breathing, but overall, they were doing fine.

Y/n smiled into his hair when he finally stopped shaking. “That’s it babe, you’re doing amazing.” she whispered, moving to get off his lap. She wasn’t the lightest person despite her shortness, her curves never letting her be skinny, so she was sure that her sitting on his lap was making his legs go numb. Corpse, on the other hand, only held on tighter, basically turning into a koala at this point.

“Corpse, Honey, your legs are gonna go numb, babe.” she giggled. She tried to put him at arm’s length, but her apparently octopus boyfriend had planned to never let her go.

“No.” he mumbled, pressing his face ever tighter into her sweater, making her giggle, in turn, making him smile.

Eventually, he detached his face from her sweater and peeked up at his girlfriend, the visual of his tousled hair, pout, one sparkling eye and the other now only partially covered by his falling eyepatch, but both with smudged eyeliner and mirth, made her melt. “Don’t go, please?” Y/n giggled at him. “I’m not gonna leave babe, I just gotta get off your lap before I make your legs undergo hypoxia.”

“I’d let them cut off my legs if it meant having you here forever.” if she hadn’t already fallen in love with this man, she would say that this was the moment that she fell in love with him. But falling in love with him over and over again was probably something that she would never stop doing, even if Corpse ever decided to not love her back one day.

They were jolted out of their happy little bubble when they heard a loud screech coming from his headphones making a sound more akin to blasting speakers than headphones, which had apparently fallen just beside them on the table instead of the floor like Y/n anticipated. “STOP YOUR LOVING AND GO TO SLEEP CORPSE!” Rae screeched, making the both of them laugh out loud, but one look at his screen stopped them at their tracks.

Corpse was miraculously still alive in game, Rae’s character moving back and forth in front of his.

Rae… was streaming, right?

Oh shit numero dos.

One look at the chat showed that they had just outed themselves. The sappy couple making everyone watching go absolutely bonkers at the chat.

“WHO IS THAT?” -ijustlovemakingsounds

“HONEY???? BABE?????” - corpseybae

“WHAT IS HAPPENING??” -randomuser

“IS CORPSE OKAY?” -ShinigamiEyes

“CORPSE??” -corpsekkuno28

“BABY?????” -honestlywtf

“HE’S SO SWEET OMGOMGOMGOMG!!!!!!!” -cutiepiecorpsey

“WAIT WAIT WAIT IS HE OKAY????” -omgilovehim

“WHO THE HECK??” -wifeyyyycorpse

Both parties were staring wide eyed at the screens. Even with slow mode on, the chat was going a hundred miles per hour and all they were seeing were screaming chats in all caps zooming up.

For a second Y/n just kept staring quietly, and then the first giggle escaped her and soon, both of them were a giggling pile of sweaters and limbs on Corpse’s computer chair, not even trying to stop their antics. Rae screamed another “YOU’RE BOTH CUTE AND WE ALL KNOW IT STOP AND SLEEP!!”

The laughter seemed endless.

It was the sound of Y/n’s phone ringing from the other room that finally got her up from the warm confines of Corpse’s lap. But before she left, she was going to make sure that Corpse was not just going to continue streaming in her absence.

“Sooo….” Y/n turned them over so that she was facing the screen and not him, talking directly into the mic as she scrambled for the headphones she had shoved off of his head. “Yes Corpse Husband has a Corpse wife and she’s now taking him back to their coffins because the hubby is a stubborn piece of shit and has not slept in more than 50 hours.”

The casual information drop made the chat go even crazier, people now freaking out about her, trying to find out who she was, what she did, when and where they met, stuff like that. “I’ll see what I can do to answer your questions, you simps. But I gotta knock him out for now, and I promise you won’t be left hanging.”

She felt him wrap his arms around her waist once more, feeling him press his face tightly against her back. “Baby,” he started to say, but Y/n cut him off with a few pats to wherever she could reach behind her.

“Sorry, but the jackass is now cut off from the mic and shall be cut off until he sleeps, so I shall be the one to say, good day to you sirs and madams, he shall see you on the next one! Bye!!!!”

Then a pause, and a quietly frustrated “Hun, how do you turn it off??”

The chat was flooded with variations of “She’s so cute!!” and as tempted as he was to keep it going for a bit, he knew that it would upset and worry his adorable girlfriend to do so.

So from his vantage point, he just mumbled a quick “Bye!” before cutting off stream. Normally, he would stay and read superchats and see how many new members he had gained, but this time, his tiny, but determined girlfriend was dead set on getting him to chill his ass out.

And he let you.

He watched as you dragged him off to bed, tucking him in all the fluffy blankets you’d gotten for his comfort, smiled as you eagerly burrowed yourself under the fluff with him, sighed contentedly as your warmth surrounded him as you cuddled into him.

He basked in your presence as he held you back just as tight, feeling you plant a kiss in his hair and smile as he relaxed ever more. From across the room, the mirror reflected the image of the two of you, touching the deepest recesses of the soul he would never claim to have.

And as he drifted off, he watched as you glowed in the streaks of the fading afternoon sun, peeking through their heavy curtains, he thought:

What more was there to ask for?

435 notes · View notes

sisterspooky1013 · 3 years

Text

Only One Choice, Part 2, Chapter 19

Read it here on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

While at first the days and nights that Mulder is away on a case feel lonely, she soon comes to appreciate the time to herself. She reads more, watches the rom-coms that he despises, has one-sided conversations with Priscilla, and gives her vibrator, long since relegated to the back of her bedside drawer, a second lease on life. When Mulder is home he’s more animated and energetic, their sex exciting and passionate. The things she loves best about him magnified, but also some of the worst. There have been a few nights he’s missed dinner without so much as a phone call, and her worry quickly gave way to irritation when he waltzed in the door raving about secret storage facilities hidden in mountains. They create new routines, new boundaries and expectations, and as time wears on, they adjust. He’ll call if he’s going to miss dinner, and she won’t guilt trip him when unexpected cases ruin their plans.

The day before Thanksgiving, he gets a tip from one of his sources about a UFO crash site in Utah and books himself and Monica tickets for that night. Scully questions whether he’s going to miss Thanksgiving dinner at her mother’s and he grimaces, saying he hopes to be back but as usual, can’t make any promises.

The last she hears from him is around 8:00 am on Thanksgiving day when he asks her to send his regrets to her mom. She tries to keep the disappointment out of her voice as she promises to pack up some leftovers for him to have when he gets home. When he hasn’t called by Friday afternoon, she’s a little bit worried. By Friday night, she’s panicking.

Not knowing what else to do, she goes to the Gunmen’s, using her own special knock that spells out “doc” in Morse code.

“Hey, Sis, are you okay?” Missy greets her with a worried frown, now an honorary fourth member of the trio.

“I haven’t heard from Mulder in over twenty four hours,” she answers, breezing past Missy and into the tech room. “I need you to find him for me.”

The Gunmen work their magic while Missy pours her drink after drink. They track his flight into Salt Lake City and then ping his cell phone just outside Provo around 8:00 pm Thursday night. After that, nothing.

“What do you know about the case he was investigating?” Byers asks, perched behind a computer with Missy’s arms draped over his shoulders, her chin resting on his head.

Scully rubs her hands over her face in frustration. “Nothing, other than an alleged UFO crash site. He didn’t give me any other information.”

“What about his partner, Agent Reyes?” Langly asks, “do you have any way to get ahold of her?”

“I’ve tried her cell a hundred times, it’s off,” Scully replies, feeling tears coming up again.

“Does she have a family, someone else you could contact to see if she’s been in touch?” Byers adds.

“She has a partner, Dahlia,” Scully explains, “but I don’t know her last name to look up her number. I’m sure it’s in Monica’s file as her emergency contact, but the whole Hoover Building is shut down for the holiday. I know that her first name is Dahlia, she works at a flower shop in Alexandria, and they live in Palisades. That’s it.”

“Well we can work with that, why don’t you go home and get some rest?” Frohike offers, resting his hand on her shoulder.

She shakes her head, quiet tears slipping down her cheeks. “I don’t want to be alone,” she whispers, her voice small and afraid.

“I’ll come with you, Sis,” Missy says, replacing Frohike behind Scully and wrapping her arms around her sister’s shoulders.

After Missy has gathered her things and kissed Byers goodbye, she drives Scully’s car back to her apartment and plies her with more alcohol. They hold hands as they sleep, Scully’s dreams plagued by visions of Mulder detained, hurt, or worst of all, dead. If she’d had any idea that having the X files reopened would put his life at risk, she never would have entertained the idea.

Please come home, she begs God, the universe, Mulder himself if he’s somewhere listening. Please be okay.

The phone shrieks and she sits up abruptly, her head spinning. Early dawn light is just beginning to seep into the room and she feels like she hasn’t slept at all.

“Mulder?!” she blurts out, a thousand prayers on the tip of her tongue.

“No, it’s Langly, sorry. We got a number for Agent Reyes’ partner.”

Missy is now awake, and scrambles to the hallway to get a pen and paper so Scully can write down Dahlia Vidales’ phone number.

“Thank you Langly, bye,” she says and hangs up without waiting for a response. She dials Dahlia’s number with shaky hands, repeating please please please in her head over and over.

“¿Hola?” says a creaky voice, and Scully glances at the clock to see that it’s only 6:00 am.

“Dahlia?” she asks desperately, her head feeling thick and muddy.

“¿Si, Quién es?”

“This is Dana Scully, have you heard from Monica recently?” Her throat feels thick and dry, her ears ringing in protest of what they might hear.

“Oh, Hi Dana. Yes, I spoke to her last night around ten pm.”

She lets out a shaky breath, feeling a wave of relief.

“Was Mulder with her?” she questions, her jaw quivering.

“Si, she said their cell phones were confiscated and they had stopped at a diner to get something to eat. She called me from a payphone. Is everything okay, Dana?”

She’s shaking, her body suddenly freezing even under her down comforter. The tension she’s been holding for the last two days erupts in a wave of tremors and she starts sobbing.

“Did she say when they’ll be home?” she forces out around her tears.

“They were hoping to get a flight this morning, so sometime today, should be.”

“Thank you, Dahlia. Sorry to wake you,” she says, and hangs up.

Missy holds her as she shakes uncontrollably, her head aching as her racking sobs jostle her dehydrated brain. Missy runs her a hot bath and after some ibuprofen, two big glasses of water, a set of warm clothes and a hot meal, she feels physically much better.

Mentally, she has shifted from worry, fear, and despair to white hot rage. When he walks in that door, she is going to kill him.

———

“Later, Reyes, sorry to hijack your Thanksgiving,” he says with a regretful smile as Monica slides into a cab. He grabs the next one, chucking his duffel bag into the trunk and slumping into the back seat with an exhausted sigh.

It’s been a long few days. They’d located the crash site and even got a little peek at it from behind a utility shed, but soon after they were loaded up in a paddy wagon and interrogated for six hours in a place that was definitely not a police station. When they were finally released, it was without their cell phones, though the suits were kind enough to let them keep their FBI badges.

He needs a shower and a shave, and a good night's sleep. He hopes Scully has gone grocery shopping, and if he's really lucky, there will still be Thanksgiving leftovers. He’d tried calling her from the terminal but she hadn’t answered. At least he has a full day off tomorrow before getting back to the daily grind on Monday.

The cab drops him off outside Scully’s apartment building and he tosses some money over the seat before retrieving his bag. Once inside, he’s fitting his key into the lock when the door swings open and he finds Melissa on the other side.

“Oh, hey Missy,” he says with a touch of surprise.

“I was just leaving,” she replies with an icy stare, and he wonders if something is up with her and Byers.

“Okay, see ya,” he says as she brushes past him and down the hall.

The apartment is dim, a fire crackling in the fireplace the only source of light.

“Scully?” he calls out as Priscilla trots up to him, rubbing her flank against his leg. He picks her up and scratches under her chin, letting her rub her cheek against his two-day stubble.

“I’m here,” Scully says flatly, and he realizes she’s lying on the couch.

He picks up his bag and walks it to the bedroom, dropping it on the floor and discarding his suit jacket on the bed. Returning to the living room, he leans down to kiss her on the cheek and then stands between the fire and the couch, facing her.

“Did you have plans for dinner?” he asks, “I’m starving.”

She scoffs, but he can’t make out her face in the dim light.

“Make your own fucking dinner,” she spits at him, and he physically recoils. Scully very rarely swears, so when she does, it means something.

“Whoa,” he says with a concerned tone, “What’s going on with you?”

“What’s going on with me?” she repeats, moving to sit up. “What’s going on with me? Hmm, let’s see,” she continues, her voice shifting to angry sarcasm. “Perhaps, Mulder, what’s going on with me is that my boyfriend skipped town just in time to miss Thanksgiving dinner with my family and I had to answer questions all night about where he was. Or maybe,” she says as she leans over and snaps on the lamp on the end table, illuminating her face. Her eyes are red and puffy, pronounced bags resting underneath them. “Maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t heard from you in over fifty hours, not a single phone call, or email, nothing. Maybe what’s going on with me, Mulder, is that I have barely slept in two days.” She stands, moving towards him, her voice rising in volume and her bottom lip quivering. “Maybe what’s going on with me is that I thought you were fucking dead, and I had to track down Dahlia to learn that not only were you alive and well, but you were also perfectly capable of calling me, but simply chose not to. MAYBE that is what is going on with me, Mulder!”

He stands there shell-shocked as she pushes past him, slamming the bedroom door shut as wails of agony erupt from the other side. Priscilla jumps up on to the coffee table and quirks her head at him with a meow.

“I have no idea,” he says to the cat.

He cautiously opens the bedroom door and finds Scully sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, a wad of tissues in her hand and tears streaking her face. She looks up at him with a wounded expression that he’s never seen before, and would never like to again

“I’m sorry, Scully, I didn’t mean to make you worry,” he says softly, approaching her.

She gives him an incredulous look.

“How the hell would I not worry if I hear nothing from you for two days, Mulder? What was I supposed to think? And why didn’t you call me?”

“They took my phone, Scully,” he offers, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“What about the phone in your hotel room, Mulder? Or a pay phone, or a goddamn stranger’s phone. Your cell phone is not the only device available for you to contact me with.”

He’s starting to feel like he’s being lectured by his mother for staying out past curfew.

“Okay, Jesus, I get it. I’ll try to call next time,” he says with an irritated tone.

“You’ll try?” Scully asks him, the anger taking center stage again.

He shrugs. “Shit happens, Scully. You don’t know what it’s like out in the field. Sometimes you don’t have access to a phone, or you’re running down a lead and just can’t waste the time to make a call.”

The shift in her demeanor tells him that was the wrong thing to say.

“Waste the time?” she asks in a tight whisper. “Calling me so I know you’re okay is a waste of your time?”

“God, no, Scully, that’s not what I meant. You’re twisting my words around. Look, I’m exhausted, I’ve barely gotten any sleep, can we talk about this tomorrow?”

“YOU’VE barely gotten any sleep?!” she screams, then stands and walks towards him. Even with the ten inches he has on her, she looks larger than life, imposing, and scary. “I have been lying awake crying for two days worried about you!” she shouts up at him. “Get the fuck out of my apartment!”

He’s dumbstruck. He can’t remember the last time she referred to it as her apartment instead of theirs.

“Scully, you can’t be serious, all my stuff is he-”

“I said get OUT!” She cuts him off. She picks up his bag and walks it to the front door, tossing it into the hallway.

He walks slowly towards the door, waiting for her to say she doesn’t mean it, that they should get some sleep and talk about this in the morning. She stands beside the open door, her chest heaving and her jaw set, eyes focused on some far-away point but most certainly not on him. He steps into the hallway, opening his mouth to speak, and she slams the door in his face.

He hears the thunk of the deadbolt, and the sound strikes him as similar to the final nail in a coffin.

#the x files #txf #dana scully #fox mulder #gillovny #msr #sculder #x files fanfic #alternate universe

39 notes · View notes

cblgblog · 3 years

Note

Imagine Mildolyn, "Illicit Affair", Modern AU. Where Gwen's campaigning for Congress and all the meet and greets, showing up for charities for publicity, her 'cause'. At one for special needs children and their foundation she meets a very young CNA named Mildred and sort of falls head over heels in the dumbest of ways, both just love struck. Except she's campaigning to be in Congress, she's a politician, she cannot be queer and chasing after 19 year old ex-foster kids whos brothers are set to be the youngest executed on Death Row in California in decades for appalling crimes. But there she is, in hotel rooms her supporters pay for, with someone she shouldn't be with, trying to find ways to overturn cases that turned stomachs with their brutality, because a pretty girl smiled at her and called her 'ma'am' while showing her around the foundation/care home she worked at with children no one else had the time/patience to care for. Of course it goes terribly with 'dirty little secret' vibes, the breast cancer diagnosis announced on twitter before she tells Mildred in person, even if it's such a minor case ('so they say') and caught so early that it'll barely leave a scar, radiation won't be much of a deal at all. She doesn't get to tell Mildred that, she just gets to hear on Fox news about how the democrat's gonna die a horrible death and panic.

Mildred who has no patience for politicians and their fake concern, using patients as photo ops. It’s manipulative, it’s distracting to the staff, it’s awful, okay, she hates it. She is, in fact, a tad bit rude to Gwen when they meet. Gets her a death glare from Betsy Bucket, gets Gwen intrigued.

“Republican?” only half-joking.

“No.”

“Is it the suit? Should I have worn a different suit? I wanted to, but I’ve been told this one tested better.”

“The suit is fine.” It’s more than that, actually, but Mildred will not be saying that aloud, nope, uh-uh. “I don’t much care for politicians.”

“Ah, we have that in common then.”

“I doubt we have much of anything in common. Ma’am.”

And look, Gwen doesn’t usually go in for the chasing, the hard to get. She’s got enough trouble chasing votes. But this woman is so good with the kids on her ward, so patient. She’s got Disney scrubs on and as much as she’s got no time at all for Gwen, she seems to have infinite amounts for those kids. She stays with them individually, longer than any of the other staff Gwen sees, but she still manages to get a dozen things done in half as many minutes. And she’s also gorgeous, there’s that.

And Gwen has no good reason to ask her out for lunch. Honestly, none. Nothing good can come from this. Mildred asks if the citizens of California will be paying for this meal and Gwen swears that isn’t the case, no, absolutely not. Even still, Gwen doesn’t expect Mildred to say yes. She doesn’t think Mildred expected Mildred to say yes.

But she does. Tells herself it’s for Edmund, maybe this’ll be the one politician who listens, who’s willing to look past the surface facts, willing to help. Except she gets there and they don’t talk about Edmund. It’s not because Mildred doesn’t know how to bring it up, she’s made her case dozens of times. She just…they don’t talk about him, and that feels like a betrayal, but Gwen’s kind and funny and fascinating (much to Mildred’s annoyance), and she just…doesn’t feel like getting into it.

Meanwhile Trevor, Gwen’s campaign manager/law school buddy/best friend/lavender marriage soulmate, if they were in a different time, is like bitch, what’re you doing? Yes, everyone knows you’re gay as hell, but you can’t be chasing girls right now, you can’t afford to be distracted. You especially can’t afford to look distracted. And you can’t be robbing the cradle while looking distracted.

“She’s not that young.”

“Uh-huh. She wears Winnie the Pooh clothes.”

“Scrubs, those are scrubs. Scrubs aren’t clothes.”

“Uh-huh.”

“She works in a children’s ward, Trevor.”

“Uh-huh. I really wish you wouldn’t do this, but since you care nothing about me and my mental state and all the hours and hours of hard work I’ve put in for you—”

“After badgering me into hiring you over someone more qualified.”

“Hey! More qualified. I resent that. Anyway, if you insist on ruining my day, at least wear that face cream I gave you. Should make you look less like you’re robbing the cradle.”

“Go to hell.”

“And don’t do the oyster thing. Not on a first date, in the middle of the campaign.”

“It’s not a date, it’s just lunch.”

“Uh-huh.”

Gwen doesn’t do the oyster thing. Not on the first date, which neither of them acknowledge as a date, for entirely different reasons. But then there’s a second and a third, and sex, lots of sex, and it’s harder to pass off as just friendly.

And yeah, the sneaking around that Gwen hates. That Mildred says she doesn’t mind, and she actually doesn’t seem to all that much, which Gwen finds slightly concerning. Mildred’s good with secrets though, she’s good with being kept a secret. Mostly. Which again, Gwen finds concerning.

There’s pillow talk and Mildred admitting more about herself than she has to anyone, ever. Which still isn’t nearly as much as what Gwen admits, but it’s a relative thing. And still, Mildred doesn’t talk about Edmund. Gwen finds that one out on her own, stumbles across some old photos, a scrapbook of Edmund’s crimes. Gwen’s briefly concerned that Mildred is one of those people who’re deeply attracted to serial killers, but the truth is…something else.

Mildred tells her things. Some of the deeper, darker stuff, but not much, not yet. Tells her how she’s written to everyone she can think of because he’s a boy, okay? He was in an impossible situation, they both were, no one ever helped them, so Edmund decided he had to die. No one helped them before, no one helps them now. There’s anger and tears and Gwen holding her and she can’t help asking why Mildred didn’t talk to her sooner, if she’s had no problem asking for help from strangers.

“Because you aren’t,” Mildred says in a way that makes it clear she’s figuring this stuff out as she says it. “A stranger, you aren’t. You never were and I couldn’t…I didn’t want to become one to you. I didn’t want you to look at me like that.”

“Oh Mildred…”

Mildred doesn’t actually ask her to help. She doesn’t want Gwen to think that’s what it’s all been about. It was supposed to be, but it isn’t. She doesn’t ask. Gwen digs into things herself, digs into this kid who was barely double-digits when he did these things. Made all the headlines at the time, but that was over a decade ago, he’s been locked up ever since. Most of Mildred’s money goes to him, one way or another.

Gwen hides it from Trevor—the murderer, not the sex, he knew about the sex before she ever said anything—for as log as she can. But he’s always been nosy, and now he has a paid excuse to be nosy, and he nearly has an aneurysm when he hears why it is that Gwen’s suddenly digging into this case instead of kissing the babies of gay couples, like she should be.

Gwen cannot do this. Nope, absolute no. She cannot be sneaking around with the younger sister of the kid they’ve made all the documentaries about. Doesn’t matter that she’s running on a platform of prison reform, especially as it pertains to juveniles, this is not the case to start with, especially when she hasn’t won yet.

And Gwen knows. She knows. She argues with Trevor about it until he decides they both need to stop because Gwen has a speaking engagement tomorrow and she can’t sound hoarse. There are many further arguments, arguments about principles over politics, but Gwen knows he’s right. She cannot, should not, be doing any of this, at least not yet. It’s dangerous, it’s selfish, Mildred deserves better than being someone’s secret again. Gwen should break it off, at least until the election. She’s not being fair to either of them like this. They should stop, at least for a few months.

Except it’s Mildred and she’s totally hijacked Gwen’s everything, and the thought of stopping makes her ill, and everything about this is terrifying, the most terrifying thing ever.

And then there’s the checkup and the routine mammogram. Gwen started those earlier than most because somebody’s aunt on somebody’s side of the family got sick, somebody’s cousin on the other side did too.

Scratch that, there’s a new winner for most terrifying thing ever.

It’s good, they say. She started early, they caught it early, this is good, they have treatments for this. Good, they say, while Gwen damn near passes out. She’s got a campaign to finish, she can see the Too Sick to Serve headlines already. A bald look would not test well, she’s sure it wouldn’t. She talks to Trevor about that, about the campaign, until he tells her to shut the fuck up, yanks her into a crushing hug. He cries, damn him, and that makes her cry.

She’s glad he’s there.

She wishes Mildred was.

She is also relieved as hell that Mildred isn’t, that they’re on opposite sides of the state right now. No point having Mildred see her like this, having her worry. She’s got enough to worry about, enough to hurt about.

Not that Gwen isn’t planning to tell her. She is. It’s only been a few whirlwind months, but Gwen knows enough to realize that a lie of omission would be a bad, bad, bad idea where Mildred’s concerned, regardless of intention. Gwen doesn’t think of hiding it anyway, not really. Mildred deserves better then that. When and how to tell the public…that’s a completely different clusterfuck of a situation, but Mildred, Gwen just wants to tell her in person. That way Mildred can see her face when she promises it’s no big deal (hopefully without seeing how terrified she actually is), and Gwen will have all the paperwork and things she knows Mildred will want to see, and they can hold each other, and it’s just, it’s not phone call news.

Except then it’s headline news, because somehow it’s leaked. Fox News is having a field day, certain corners of the Internet are already gleefully writing her obituary, and she’s missed literally hundreds of calls by the time she gets a look at her phone. At least half of those are from Mildred. Mildred who actually sounds hysterical for the first time since Gwen’s known her, that bastard on the news with the hair, he says you’re dying, why aren’t you answering, how long have you known, please, please pick up the phone, just pick up the phone god dammit.

She’s managed to keep Mildred a secret for months. This? This doesn’t last three days before it’s everywhere. Gwen does get an I love you for the first time ever, but seeing as Mildred’s sobbing over her voicemail when it happens, the joy is somewhat muted.

#Ratched #ratched au #mildred ratched #gwendolyn briggs #mildolyn #Mildred ratched/gwendolyn briggs

38 notes · View notes

miracle-sham · 3 years

Text

Die Like the Butterfly Shoot With Their Guns.

| {Jasonette July 2021, Week 2, Day 7: Guns} |

Chapter 1 of Sheltered by Darkness not yet Moths to the Flame.

———

| Sometimes a family can be a gang comprised of eleven vigilantes, and their AI robot, fighting against the father of one of their own. |

| Or alternatively: after falling through the cracks, they do what they must to survive. And if that means committing crimes in order to bring down the Big Butterfly and all the other corrupt businesses in the city, then so be it. |

———

| Tonight's the night. Half of them will strike one of the Big Butterfly's warehouses that just so happens to contain some fancy new gun tech. Besides, it'll be in better hands with them than the Big Butterfly or his associates. Now all that matters, is that nothing goes wrong! |

| Word Count: 3,322. |

| Warnings/Tags: Cyberpunk/Criminal/Gang Au, Explicit Language/Swearing, Hacking, Breaking and Entering, Theft, Mentions of Bombs and Guns, Mentions of corrupt/shady businesses, Fluff, Gang/Team as family/family dynamics, Found Family. |

———

| A/N: It is Cyberpunk Au time! This is a twoshot, so have a looksy to see if you can find all the snippets of foreshadowing I've set! Also this is mostly Action/Fluff but beware of the warnings regardless. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy! |

| Also side note, Don’t Like? Don’t Read. Also also, please do not criticise any of my writing. This was written for fun and receiving criticism, even in a compliment/criticism sandwich, is the exact opposite of fun. |

———

Rain patters against the concrete, sound mixing with the low hum and high buzz of electricity. The ground is slick with murky puddles that never seem to clean the pavement. Still just as filthy as before, permanently dyed with dried bloodstains, mud stains, electric scorch marks, and far worse. The air is heavy with the smell of cigarette smoke, ozone, and that ever underlying decay that clings to the city.

It's dark—dead of night—but the streets are awash with flickering neon lights. There are a few others haunting the street though most of them are sticking to the areas of light, avoiding the shadows.

Which is where Marinette, also known as the ruthless gang leader Fantôminou, is lurking.

Jason—Red Hood, her co-leader—snarls as he drops down onto the shadowed fire escape beside her. “We've got a rat. Someone's tipped off the big Butterfly and security has been increased around the perimeter. Most likely interior security increased too.”

Fantôminou flexes her glowing clawed gauntlets, “I suppose we should check in with our local pied piper, before we strike, hmm?”

There's a bzzt in her earpiece as the channel is hijacked by the familiar voice of their gang's hacker, Max aka Raijack. “I wouldn't worry about that if I were you, our pied piper has already been contacted. Whoever they were, they didn't reveal which location we were targeting, so it's just a general security increase.”

She hums. “Raijack, link us up with the rest of the strike force.”

“Got it, 'Minou.” He responds, and not a split second later, the earpiece makes another bzzt and there's the faint ping of the rest of the channel being alerted at someone joining.

“Look, I think you could totally pull off the—oh, who just joined the channel?” Adrien, Cheval Mallet, asks in surprise.

“Just me and our anthill tiger.” Red Hood announces, snorting at the glare Fantôminou sends him.

Silence echoes across the line before a scrabble of hushed but excited voices causes a ruckus.

Fantôminou sighs, “I know we're all excited to hit the big Butterfly hard by stealing some of their new fancy gun tech. But let's leave the yelling for when we inevitably set off the alarms!”

“Hey!” Raijack protests. “I'll have you know I have produced a new virus that has a ninety-eight per cent chance of not setting off any alarms!”

Red Hood rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, but you've still not worked out how to get your viruses to deactivate the bombs in the crates yet, huh?”

“I will one day, until then it's your job to stop the bombs from triggering the rest of the alarms!” Raijack counters with a huff.

Fantôminou sighs again, this time with an added sprinkling of are-you-kidding-me. “Red Hood, Raijack. I can and will kick your asses if you do not shut up so we can discuss final prep before we begin the pesticide protocol.”

Bumping shoulders with her, Red Hood snorts again. “I've got nothing against being beat up by someone as pretty and buff as you Minou, you know that!”

“Oh, I think we can all agree to wanting to get crushed by Minou's guns.” Cheval Mallet pipes up once more.

Fantôminou sighs very wearily. “Nevermind, are you all ready?”

Red Hood salutes at her, and despite his mouth being covered, it's easily telling that he's grinning cockily underneath. “I'm ready. My guns are ready, and I've got the bomb defusal kit at the ready.”

“I may be holding my horses but I'm saddled to giddy-up on the go!” Cheval Mallet cheerfully announces.

“This has to be one of your worst attempts at horse puns yet.” Raijack comments, “otherwise, I'm in position and ready to hack on your call, Minou.”

Red Hood exchanges a glance with Fantôminou as silence falls over the earpiece channel. “Hold up, where's Arsenal? Shouldn't he have checked in by now?”

Taking his hand gently, Fantôminou gives it a reassuring squeeze.

“He already did but because you two had your issues getting into position and avoiding the unexpected police patrol, Arsenal had to deal with another issue that popped up which would've threatened our plan,” Raijack informs, sounding nonplussed.

“Well, you don't sound concerned.” Fantôminou points out the obvious. “Has he got back up?”

There's the faint tapping of a keyboard through the earpiece channel before Raijack responds, “Chèvrapide is on her way to back him up, don't worry.”

“Then that's everyone accounted for. Let's rock and roll.” Red Hood orders, dropping from the fire escape and landing in the rain-slick alleyway with ease, conveniently right beside the hoverbike they had stashed here.

Fantôminou hops down after him, except she manages to flip and expertly land in the driver's seat. “I'm driving Jay, you're the one with the guns after all,” she all but states, putting one gauntleted hand up and flexing just to hammer in the point, “I'm close range only right now and you know it.”

Red Hood throws his hands up in mock surrender. “Hey! I'd never complain about getting to watch you drive this beauty of a hoverbike.”

Fantôminou snorts. “Just get on, pretty bird!”

“Well, if you say so, pretty kitty!” Red Hood teases back, vaulting onto the back of the bike behind her. He wraps an arm around her waist and rests the other hand on his sheathed-for-now gun.

She revs the engine of the hoverbike and steers out of the alleyway with practised ease. There's no directions on the hoverbike's holoscreen, but it's not like they need any—the directions to where they need to be outside the warehouse have already been memorised by each and every one of them.”

Down the left street, take the right at the T junction, pass under the flyover street, then take a further two lefts and then straight on until the block of office buildings forming a protective extra layer between the warehouse electric razor wire tipped fencing and the road. Easy.

“All networks in the office buildings have temporarily shut down. As far as the tech will be concerned, it'll look like the networks just decided to not work today.” Raijack announces through the earpiece channel, voice coming through slightly more robotic than usual.

“So no security cams?” Fantôminou checks cautiously, circling like a hawk around the small stretch of street between her and the office building she and Jason will be entering through. The rain has slowed to a drizzle but that doesn't make the circling in it any less mildly uncomfortable, at least inside it'll be dry.

There's the familiar clack of keys once more. “Not quite, they're a little harder to crack than entering in through the backdoor via someone's unprotected webcam in the office. Thank you, Shodan.” Raijack pauses, keys continuing to clack in the background. “Unfortunately, the Big Butterfly's got tech security smart enough to keep the security system on a closed network so I can't hop from webcam to computer to network to cams. However, they didn't account for Markov, suckers!”

Red Hood snorts. “Isn't Markov a little obvious for this kinda mission?”

“Oh, did I forget to tell you?” Raijack says, in a voice that very clearly conveys he didn't forget so much as purposefully neglected to mention, “I recently upgraded Markov, outfitting him with the currently most highly advanced cloaking system. Thanks to some help from Fantôminou's knowledge of cloaking and camouflage fashion.”

Red Hood leans his head onto Fantôminou's shoulder. “I'm hurt, you knew and didn't tell me? I want cloaking guns! Think of how much cooler I'd look with them!”

Fantôminou merely hums in an unamused response. “Raijack wanted it to be a surprise.”

He huffs. “I see who your favourite person in our gang is then!”

“You're right! It's me!” Cheval Mallet cheers, jumping into the conversation.

“Fucking 'ell!” Red Hood curses under his breath. “I thought you were gonna mute whilst getting in position.”

Cheval Mallet's laugh cuts in and out across the earpiece channel. “And when did I hay that!”

“Hacker voice, I'm in!” Raijack interrupts. “Looks like the security system was perfectly untouched by whatever minor error caused the main networks to crash, how lucky. Which is to say, looping is in process, and we now have free entry.”

“Got us a place to park yet, though?” Red Hood asks.

Raijack doesn't immediately respond, but the sound of the garage door connected to the office building opening, is answer enough. “I might.”

Fantôminou snorts. “Thanks, Raijack. Hood and I need to split here right, just until we get past the fencing right?”

“That's right.” Raijack responds, “good luck, and Markov and I will see you all on the other side.”

“Break a leg, or three!” Red Hood calls over the earpiece. “Preferably some else's though!”

Fantôminou pulls the hoverbike into the garage, keeping her gaze ahead. “If I could elbow you without fucking up my parking, I would.”

Red Hood cackles quietly in response, trying to at least keep to the stealth part of the mission plan.

In the blink of an eye, the hoverbike is securely parked. Perfectly hidden in plain sight but easily accessible for a quick and clean getaway should nothing go wrong. And well, if something were to go wrong, there's not going to be any hoverbike left for evidence. Though, that's not to say a small part of Fantôminou's brain doesn't anxiously hate how they're practically sitting on top of bombs ready to blow up at the slightest hint of things going wrong. However, they've been through enough strikes like this for the concern to be mostly easily ignored.

———

With the hoverbike parked, Fantôminou and Red Hood part ways.

Fantôminou heads up through the internal stairwell connected to the garage, whilst Red Hood takes one of the external doors leading to the office building next door.

The stairwell is like any other maintenance stairwell. Grey concrete walls, metal railings and steps. Even Fantôminou's light footsteps clang loudly against the ridged metal stairs. It's cold, just as cold as the garage was and barely warmer than it is outside in the rain. The air is stuffy but at least the respirator hidden beneath the bandana wrapped around her mouth makes it bearable to breathe. Other than the aforementioned clanging of steps, and her breathing, Fantôminou is alone with the ominous silence of a liminal space.

The stairs stretch on upwards for what seems far longer than it should, but eventually, Fantôminou reaches the final steps to the roof entrance door.

The door is unlocked, and so Fantôminou opens it as quietly as possible. She walks out into the rain once more and scrunches up her nose. A quick glance of the roof yields no immediate signs of danger or anything of note, so she continues to the edge of the roof.

Fantôminou rests one foot on the lip of the roof and flexes her gauntlets, lights switching off for stealth. Carefully, she turns around and crouches on the lip, gauntlets gripping the edge and toes of her boots braced against the wall. Bit by bit she descends, gauntlets making it more than easy to stay attached to the wall.

Two-thirds of the way down, Fantôminou climbs onto a window sill. The fence is only a metre below, with a further four-metre drop. No security drones in sight, yet—but no alarms have been triggered yet either.

A shadow drops down the building and over the fence on the other side of the compound. Not a second later is the double buzz of the earpiece signalling that someone is in position.

Fantôminou smirks beneath her face coverings, not one to be so quickly outdone she leaps forwards in a dive—spinning midair as she begins to plummet. Clearing the razor wire fence with room to spare.

She hits the ground in another diving roll, and immediately uses the momentum to throw herself up and run towards the nearest warehouse building. As soon as she reaches the wall, she double-taps her earpiece to send the double buzz signal to others.

A moment later comes the third double buzz, soon followed by the fourth and final signal.

“Markov is covering our air support.” Raijack's voice clips across the earpiece channel, “Fantôminou, you and Red Hood are on opposite ends of the same warehouse. I've unlocked the doors for you. You know the drill.”

“Thank you, Raijack. Entering now.” Fantôminou responds, she slinks over to the warehouse doors and cautiously pries open the now unlocked door.

Fantôminou heads straight for the terminal, and knows Red Hood is doing the same. Slipping Raijack's new and improved virus into one of the terminal's ports. Seconds pass.

“Interface secured,” Raijack informs.

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Red Hood prowling over to her. She nods to him and taps into the terminal with her gauntlet.

Red Hood readies his bomb defusal kit as she instructs the internal warehouse drones into delivering the goods to them.

The drone, blinking yellow—a sure sign of Raijack's virus in effect—hovers over and drops a large black cased crate before them.

As soon as the claws of the drone release the crate, Red Hood is immediately on it, pulling it open and weeding out the bomb.

They wait with bated breath. Red Hood tinkers away. The earpiece channel is silent as the team focuses.

He hisses through his teeth, and Fantôminou tenses—ready to grab him and run, in the worst case—but he only packs the kit back away and sighs in relief.

He taps the earpiece thrice—signalling success.

Raijack and Cheval Mallet don't respond, so Fantôminou and Red Hood stuff their haul into Fantôminou's Miraculous, for ease of transport, and begin making their way towards the warehouse the other two were hitting.

By the time they reach the nearest warehouse doors, the earpiece triple buzzes. Success, again.

They pause only to exchange a nod between the two before continuing to meet up with Cheval Mallet and Raijack—no rendezvous needed this time so far.

It takes forty seconds to cross halfway to the other warehouse, where they meet the other two along with Markov in the middle.

Cheval Mallet waves a hand and the five of them skulk over to a small shed off the side of another warehouse. He raises his horseshoe weapon and calls out, “Bon Voyage!”

The portal forms and Markov flies through first. The remaining four exchange glances then bolt forwards, racing to see who can get through first.

The blue light blinds them all for a second, despite how used to the power they are.

“Mission success!” Fantôminou cheers breathlessly once the blue fades, throwing her hands up in celebration.

“WOOH!” Cheval Mallet yells, jumping up and punching the air.

Red Hood snorts, “but more importantly I so won!”

Raijack hums, “let's see what Markov has to say about that.”

Markov makes a series of boops and beeps, yellow LEDs flickering. “Red Hood is correct, he won the portal race.”

“YES!” Red Hood crows.

“Oh come on!” Raijack grumbles.

Footsteps and clapping approaches. “Well done,” Félix praises, “but perhaps leave the celebration until after you've all gotten into jammies.”

Cheval Mallet giggles, “Flicks, I can't believe you can somehow still sound pretentious whilst saying something as childish sounding as "jammies"!”

Félix raises an eyebrow, “you say this every time I call pyjamas that. Now come on, I've ordered pizza and Roy, Alix, Luka, Artemis, Kori, and Bizarro are already waiting for you lot, in the lounge, so we can get the party started.” He turns on his heel and walks out of the utility-changing room.

Markov, as the only one not needing to change, shows the tongue-sticking-out emoji on his LED screen and zooms after Félix.

Jason, Marinette, Adrien, and Max all start changing out of their gear as quickly as possible.

“Oh no!” Adrien gasps, half undressed, suddenly remembering something. “We forgot to take the motorbikes back!”

Marinette groans, “I knew I was forgetting something!"

Facepalming, Jason sighs. “We were all too caught up in everything going well for once.”

Max snorts. “Oh don't worry! I anticipated this, all it took was a little hacking into our hoverbikes and now they're on autopilot to one of our empty storage bases.”

“Oh. Well, that's good then.” Adrien says, looking a little embarrassed.

“Yeah… anyway come on, we don't want to keep your cousin and the others waiting any longer! They'll eat all the pizza!” Marinette exclaims.

They all finish changing into loungewear and pyjamas just as music starts to play from the lounge and so frantically, they all dash towards it, trying to shove each other out of the way and laughing playfully as they do so.

They've won a battle, they've successfully gotten in and out with a good haul of gun tech. No alarms tripped, nothing went wrong. Hoverbikes undamaged and on the route home. For once, everything went smoothly. And that, is cause for an evening of celebration.

Leaving the worries of the rat for tomorrow.

———

In a dark observatory with a closed butterfly window, a folder is tossed across a desk.

Papillon glances down at the folder with indifference. He rests his elbows on the expensive polished wood and steeples his fingers. “You said you had acquired information that you believe will interest me?”

The man in a black suit sitting opposite Papillon, smiles patiently. “My informant went through quite the lengths to acquire this. Why not take a look inside.”

Papillon purses his lips, “this better not be a waste of my precious time, Lex.”

Lex Luthor raises an eyebrow in amusement. “I assure you, Gabriel, you will find what is inside most interesting.”

There's a moment's pause as Gabriel waits. Nothing happens. He nods and then opens the folder. He spreads the papers inside in arc across the desk. In the middle of the papers, is the photo of a smiling teenage girl with bright blue eyes, and blue-dyed hair. “Marinette Dupain-Cheng?” He reads out, lips curling into a contemplative frown.

“Poor little girl,” Lex croons mockingly, “missing—presumed dead—after her parents' bakery was destroyed in an Akuma attack. Her name should be familiar to you though, won your one-day derby hat competition at her school.”

Gabriel's fingers still mid-steeple, and he moves one hand up to his chin in thought. “Ah yes, I remember that designer. The one with the feather derby whose design was stolen and copied. That signature embroidery was impressive work.” He recounts.

Lex grins, “yes, however most distressingly, it would seem this up and coming star of a designer has lost her glow.”

“How so?” Gabriel responds, furrowing his brows.

“Well you see, my informant has found… evidence, that our poor little designer here fell through the cracks into the shadows after the loss of her parents and bakery. It's rather obvious that the larvae have taken her as their own, some of their masks and clothes fit perfectly with what we know of her unique incorporation of her signature, as well as stitch work.” Lex explains, waving a hand towards the rest of the photographs and documents spread from the folder.

Gabriel frowns and eyes a few of the other papers with interest. “I see, that is most unfortunate.”

“But.” Lex cuts in before Gabriel can say anything more. “I'm well aware you're plenty familiar with fixing larvae with damaged wings and frayed wires. As such, a strange little cold case brimming with potential for your program, would do quite nicely for your collection, wouldn't you say?” Lex insinuates, rising from his seat as he continues, “rescue the poor larvae, craft it a chrysalis, and nurture the Pupa into something radiant. Not unlike what you did with the Macrothylacia Rubi, and your replacement wife.” With that, Lex smiles smugly down at Gabriel and then strides out of the observatory, not giving Gabriel a chance to respond.

And leaving Papillon to the folder and his musings.

———

| Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this little fic! Comments, likes, and reblogs are much appreciated! |

| Behind the Names: Fantôminou is a portmanteau of Fantôme (Ghost/Phantom) and Minou (Kitty). And she's called that because I thought the Black Footed cat fit her, and they're nicknamed Anthill Tigers. They also have the highest successful hunting rate! |

| Raijack is a portmanteau of Raiju (lightning dragon) and jack plug (the connect-y bit on headphones into a phone for example) but is also a play on the word Hijack. |

| Cheval Mallet is an evil horse spirit that offers rides to weary travellers and kidnaps them. Yes, there is a reason behind this. It's covered in Chap 2 |

| Chèvrapide is a portmanteau of Chèvre (Goat) and Rapide (Fast). |

| Also feel free to send me any comments with any questions you have regarding this fic, I’ll be more than happy to answer! |

| @jasonette-july-event |

20 notes · View notes

katnissmellarkkk · 3 years

Note

what about ~ general ~ #48?

Gravity

Heyyyyy, so uh, remember sending this? Well, sorry this took 100,000 years. And uh, sorry, this got so long imma break it up into three separate parts. Because, ya see, the prompt you sent sparked a three chapter growing back together story. And... your prompt, which was general #48 “I won’t hurt you”, actually doesn’t appear until the final chapter 🤦🏼‍♀️... we love an overwriter, right?

Okay so anyways, hopefully part two will be out soon. And forgive this for not being my greatest writing ever.

And thanks, love, for sending me a prompt to start with!

Peeta and I grow back together.

"How long are you going to waste those paints?" I tease wryly, announcing my presence as I lean against the doorframe.

Peeta doesn't even glance back at me, but I can see from my angle his expression turn sardonic. "Until this shade of green is exactly right."

I chuckle, coming further into the room—using extra caution to not startle him as he can be easily triggered when his mind is preoccupied elsewhere—and attempting to peer over his shoulder at the canvas.

It's covered with a cloth though and this time he turns to look at me before laughing softly. "Trying to sneak a peek?"

I glance at him, a little ruffled, before my eyes find my feet. "I didn't know it was supposed to be secret," I defend, for some reason feeling embarrassed by my curiosity.

Our dynamic is still tense some days. We haven't kissed since we were in the Capitol and that was only to fight off his hijacking. We haven't genuinely kissed, kissed because we wanted to, for nothing but our own simple pleasure, since the Quell, on the beach, the last night before we were separated.

Since before Peeta was taken by the Capitol. Since before he was hijacked.

But his memory is better now and the clouded, haunted look is long gone from his eyes. In it's place is the same brightness, the same instinctive kindness, the same gaze I used to see even in the worst of circumstances.

Still though, I don't always know what to say or not say. I don't know what our boundaries are now.

I know that his house and mine are always open to the other one. I don't have to knock or announce myself when I come over, and more times than not I return from hunting to find him situated at my kitchen table, waiting for me before cutting our breakfast bread.

I don't always know where our trauma ends and our friendship begins. I don't honestly know where we even stand anymore. From allies to friends to unconscious lovers to enemies and back, I get whiplash practically trying to decipher it, and I can't even imagine how much more confusing it must be for him, still after all this time.

He is more committed to that stupid over-the-phone therapy we've both had forced upon us though. He is committed like an old dog to a rotten bone to healing himself from the wounds Snow inflicted.

I'm about to find an excuse to leave the room, to more than likely leave his house altogether and go out to the woods, like I too often do when I'm at loss for words or things grow awkward, when his fingers touch under my chin. He gently lifts it up to meet his sky blue irises. "Come help me mix colors," he implores, his eyes enthusiastic and genuine.

I nod tentatively after a moment, following behind him, like a wide-eyed child. Like my sister used to follow behind me when we walked from the Seam to town and back.

He makes room for me at the table he's turned into his painting palette. On it resides papers upon papers, each covered with dozens of green variants.

"Peeta," I gap at him, my eyes getting wide. "How have you made all these shades?"

He scratches the back of his neck, blushing a little, and managing to get a moss color on his neck from the wet paint still situated on his fingertips.

I have the most insane urge to clean his neck off myself, to touch him there, as though a spot that's always displayed in plain sight could suddenly be so intimate.

I squash that desire so fast, I feel my temples pulse.

"I've been working on getting this color right for a few days now," he admits sheepishly.

I raise my eyebrow at him, a little more coy than I was only a minute ago. "A few days?"

"Okay, so it's been a couple of weeks."

I laugh then, really laugh, from the bottom of my stomach. It only last for a few seconds but it's such a rarity still that I ever feel that kind of unadulterated joy, and I choose to bask it for all it's worth.

It doesn't escape my notice though that I only ever have these rare moments in Peeta's vicinity. Not that I plan to openly share this—with anyone, really, but especially with him—but it's something I can't help but clock, even if just to myself.

Apparently I'm not the only one who finds my laugh significant, because when I look up at him again, Peeta is staring at me with a look of awe now shining in his gaze. A look I didn't realize until he was back in Twelve, until he was back mentally, until we had started on the memory book together, that he'd lost in his hijacking. It was a gaze I had seen in thousands of moments before, on the train, in the beds we shared at night, in the arenas, in my living room.

That shining look of awe in his eyes is just another thing I didn't realize how much I missed, how much it meant to me, until it returned. Another thing I didn't even realize Snow took away from me.

He breaks the silence between us again, his mouth turning up on one side, his eyes suddenly glazing over. For a moment I brace myself for a flashback, something that I have become accustomed to witnessing on a regular basis. He never loses his mind, he never snaps or thinks I'm a mutt or anything of the sort, but he'll grow quiet for a long moment and he'll clutch the underside of the table or the back of a close by chair, and shut his eyes until it's over.

But he isn't having a flashback now. Instead, his words are wistful and full of longing. "I miss hearing you laugh like that," he quietly says, unashamed. Like he's always said everything. Confidently, even when he wasn't.

I offer him a small smile in return before turning back to the paint covered table, segueing not as subtly as I wish. "Okay, so how am I supposed to help you make your ideal green color?" I turn to him and add in a teasing tone, "I'm not quite as experienced in frosting as you."

It has the desired effect and he comes to show me how to mix the paints properly, how to add in other colors to make a lighter or darker shade of green.

"So this is why the frosting on the cakes were always so intricate?" I ask after a couple of hours of us just blending paints together.

"Because I'm a perfectionist? No. Because I needed to get the cakes to sell quick enough that I wasn't forced to have the stale, crunchy ones for dinner. Over-the-top frosted cakes sells faster."

I shoot him a sad look at that. I always forget that while I had to work hard from a young age to bring food home to my family, Peeta got stuck with the leftovers no one from the entire district claimed.

Hours pass and I get so lost in mixing colors—okay, actually, I'm playing after a while, as Peeta continues to mix paints—that I don't realize until the sky outside turns dark that we skipped lunch and dinner.

"Peeta," I say, tugging at his arm with my now paint covered palm. "We have to eat."

He shakes his head though. "I've almost got the exact right shade."

I huff. "You need to feed yourself. Or else you'll pass out and I'll have to drag you to your bedroom and it'll be rough on us both."

"So it won't be any different than Sunday at Haymitch's?"

I laugh at that again, really laugh, and my stomach aches and cramps from the unused muscles waking back up after their long hibernation. "Come on," I urge.

"Katniss, I swear, I'm almost finished," he insists again, very solemnly. "Go get food from the bakery for both of us and I'll be done by the time you get back."

I let go of his arm, feeling myself deflate as I realize he's truly not budging. "I can't be the only one who goes to town with paint covered hands," I throw out there, as a last resort.

Without even looking away from the table, he adds, "and a paint covered face."

My brow furrows, confused, when he taps my nose with his wet finger. "Peeta!" I try to exclaim but it gets eaten up by my giggle, which is quickly overpowered by his.

"You told me once green was your favorite color!" He defends, holding up his hands.

I swipe my still wet sheets of paper off the table and fling them at him, effectively covering his cheek and the shoulder of his shirt in a soup of green.

"Oh, you aren't getting away with that," he promises and grabs me around the waist when I bolt for the door. "You couldn't even beat a man with one leg," he teases as he hoists me up and propels us both towards the wet paints again.

"Don't you dare," I threaten but my smile, one I can't repress, isn't letting me give the correct authenticity to my tone and in the end, he only smirks at my words.

A half hour later, I exit Peeta's house, having scrubbed my face the best I could in his bathroom sink. I only made the green fade from my cheeks and nose, not completely evaporate, and my neck is still strewed with flicks of the forresty shade.

My stained shirt is covered though as I pull on Peeta's jacket, having for once left mine in my own doorway, three houses down. Instead of going to fetch it, I choose take him up on the offer to borrow his, pretending it's about convenience and not because I like the way his smell of vanilla and cinnamon and something entirely his own lingers on all his clothing.

I use the key he gave me to the freshly rebuilt bakery and let myself in the backdoor, more so because that's where I'm most comfortable entering. Peeta's new bakery is almost identical in structure to the old one, and his mother would have never let me come in through the front, let alone trade my game over the counter instead of in the chilly back alleyway.

So many times I peaked inside the back, peered over the old baker's shoulder while he examined my squirrels. Majority of the times it was only to see the blazing hot oven, to fantasize about how it must feel to work with that kind of heat in the winter, to have heat so easily accessible at your fingertips that you can take it for granted. But sometimes it was also to catch a glimpse of what the inside must look like, my curiosity getting the best of me.

Being from the Seam, you so rarely had reason to enter a Merchant business. Being from the Seam, there was always a part of you that wondered what the other side of the community must live like.

Well, now I know. I have, really, since I became a victor and Peeta took me with him here on a seldom occasion to chat with his dad while he mother was gone.

I can't help but admire the handiwork of Thom and of many others in the community. They rebuilt the bakery—with assistance, both creatively and manually, from Peeta himself—in only a few months time and it looks like it was never decimated. The woodwork of the wall panels, the marble tile of the floor, the cream color of the walls.

It was like the old bakery, but made newer and fresher.

However, as I grab a loaf of bread and pastries—Peeta did say to get whatever I craved—I spot something out of the ordinary.

The walls visible to the customers in the front are reserved for Peeta to paint murals on, whenever he finds himself in the right mood to create whatever idea he has sitting inside his head. But the walls in the back are typically full of notes and lists and customer orders and—Peeta's own idea—thank you notes and cards from members of the community, who adore him even more now than they did before the war.

But all those things have been cleared away from a section of the wall space. There is a noticeably large blank space, right above the oven and counter, where no one else but Peeta will be able to view it.

It's maybe a little thing to be hung up on, but it strikes me as so strange I cannot stop thinking about it.

I choose to stop at the rebuilt Hob after I finish at the butcher's, offering Greasy Sae an extra pastry for her and her granddaughter.

She takes the offer with a sly look, handing me a container of soup to go with the bread.

"What?" I ask, unsettled a little by her glance, like she knows something I don't.

"I see someone's been painting," she just simply notes, gesturing with her chin to my green stained hand and wrist.

"Oh!" I catch on now. "Yeah, I was just helping Peeta."

The excuse doesn't seem to diminish the glint in her eyes. "Helping. Yeah, I'm sure."

I roll my eyes in her direction as I walk towards the door, calling out, "goodnight," evenly over my shoulder.

When I get back to Peeta's though, he isn't in his art studio. Instead he's in the kitchen, grabbing silverware and plates for us to eat. "Grab bowls too," I call as I plop our food down on his countertop. "Traded a pastry for some."

He shoots me a sardonic look now. "You know you don't have to trade for everything, right?"

"I like it more than spending money," I retort easily, slipping off his jacket. "I'm going to go scrub my hands in the bathroom again before we eat," I say, glancing at my still green digits.

"Well, hurry," he urges teasingly. "You have gotten me so used to eating things when they're fresh, I almost can't stand waiting anymore."

His hand playfully pushes on my back, propelling me towards to the stairs, and I have a hard time denying even to myself the thrill that runs through my body when him unexpectedly touches me.

I quickly wash and scrub as much paint off my palms and wrists as I can, drying hastily on the towel Effie definitely sent from the Capitol.

But I find myself with a sudden irrepressible urge, one not even the food downstairs or Peeta waiting can quench. As I pass by the art room, I see the painting he was so meticulously working on now sitting on his drying table, leaving the canvas empty.

I know I shouldn't invade his privacy but, after everything else we've been through, there isn't much he would keep from me.

At least, that's what I tell myself to rationalize my prying away as justifiable.

I walk to the table, as quietly as I do in the woods when hunting prey, as not to tip him off in case he is listening from the kitchen. I'm unprepared to offer my excuses for snooping to his face, despite the fact I can't picture him being too put out with me.

I am also utterly unprepared for the vision that awaits me in the now finished painting.

Laying flat on it's back, the painting stares directly up at me as I approach. The canvas displays a beautiful girl, with black hair and large grey eyes and a very endearing, bashful smile. There's a variety of flowers in her hair and in her hands she's holding a small bouquet of dandelions. There's a warm, glowing sunset behind her and a willow tree in the distance. It takes me a moment to realize, but her sweater is a dark shade of green, more pleasing to the eye than any leaf or shrub I've ever come across, even on the Victory Tour, in the most lovely botanical gardens the country had to offer.

The girl in the portrait is beautiful and shy and happy and you can see, even in a painting, that she doesn't enjoy having her image captured.

I have to blink six separate times before it finally registers that the girl is me. Her skin is a multitude of colors, varying shades from where something ate a part of her flesh away. But instead of that making her less attractive, it only serves in making her all the more stunning. Her skin is a gorgeous vision and I don't know how Peeta managed the impossible. I don't know how he managed to make me beautiful, but he did.

"Katniss?" I hear him call, and I jump at the sound of his voice ripping me out of the moment. His tone is light and playful, and I have to swipe my hand across my eyes to rid myself of the moisture that's leaked out before he sees. "You coming to dinner?" He asks from the bottom of the stairs and I give the lovely work of art one last look before I follow his voice, a rare, uncontrollable smile forming on my mouth as I shut the door behind me.

After everything else that's happened, only Peeta could make me feel like this.

A few weeks later.

I admire the bright yellow primroses, now in full bloom, the lightly blowing wind only complimenting their beauty and elegance instead of disturbing it.

I stare blankly at the flowers planted in my sister's honor. My sister who should be here now, should be stitching bleeding wounds and helping with the reconstruction of the town. My sister who should be admiring Peeta's frosted cakes and convincing me to dance with her in the living room by the fire. My sister who should have never been in the Capitol that day, should have been tucked away in Thirteen with our mother, should have never grown up as quickly as she was forced to or had her life stolen in a split second.

Peeta's fingers sift through my hair, unconsciously sensing the tension building in my body as I feel a rise of anger at all Coin and Snow took from me in the name of power.

I turn my head up to glance at him, craning my neck a little. I'm about to say something, I'm not sure what yet, but something to convey that I'm fine. Something to brush off what I assume are his concerns. But I'm surprised by what I see when I peer up. His face isn't what I expected.

Instead of concerned or curious, he's having his own sort of contemplation. Instead of even looking at me, he's staring up at the clear blue sky, watching the white puffs of clouds floating microscopically slow across the the way.

But his brow is furrowed and his mouth is turned down and he seems uncharacteristically miserable.

"What's wrong?" I ask, sitting up now. We'd been laying beside each other—maybe a little too close but neither of us seemed to mind—on the grass in my backyard, just trying to rest. We'd planned on working on new entries for the memory book today, but I hadn't slept at all last night and when he came over this morning to find me, still home and not in the woods, with my fingers pinching the bridge of my nose, it was him who'd suggested a day off, relaxing in the grass under the sun.

He barely glances at me now, not really acknowledging my inquiry. "Nothing," he states simply and his hand touches mine for the briefest of seconds before pulling away.

"No, tell me what's bothering you," I insist defiantly. I don't know if it's the crankiness from lack of sleep or if I'm just fed up with having words left unsaid between us, but I'm not backing down.

"Katniss, come on," he says exasperatedly and his tone irks me further.

Instead of snapping and saying something I may regret later, I just shake my head at him, pushing myself upwards and beginning the walk back to the house, with every intention of abandoning our afternoon plans of relaxation. "Okay, wait!" He calls in retaliation and I feel him stretch to grip my hand in his again, only this time not dropping it after only a moment.

I relent and move backwards, sitting down to face him cautiously. I'm not worried that he's going to snap or harm me, not even in the slightest, but I am worried that both of us in foul moods-with our minds that are already teetering just on the edge of sanity-will lead to a painful, heated argument.

The last thing I want is to fight with Peeta. As much as I hate to admit it, even to myself, I've come to rely far too heavily on his presence in my daily life. Driving him away is too agonizing to consider right now.

Peeta doesn't let go of my hand for a long beat and when he does, he does so in a slip so awkward it leaves me believing he didn't even realize he was still grasping it. "I was just thinking about Gale," he blurts out, his eyes wide and a little nervous.

I just stare at him though, waiting for him to elaborate. "You were thinking of Gale?" The name burns the inside of my mouth, the face of the person I once called my friend now only bringing the gut-wrenching image of my sister's last moments of life, as the bombs he potentially built floated from the sky down towards her and hundreds of other unexpecting children. "Wh-why were you thinking of Gale?" I press, my voice caught between shocked and angry.

But Peeta seems prepared for my strangled query. "I guess, I was thinking of every which way... I guess, I was really thinking of the possibility of Gale returning," he explains, and my blood turns to ice. My vision swirls at the very thought and I have to force myself to swallow as my throat suddenly feels very dry.

"Did you hear something I haven't? Do you know if he is coming back to Twelve?" I press as evenly as I can. It's fruitless though, as he shoots me a sympathetic—but still somewhat distracted—look.

"No," he promises, shaking his head. "No, I haven't heard anything about him. I'm just assuming that he will at some point-"

"Why?" I can't help but implore, my voice more aggravated than I intend.

Peeta gives me a look like the answer to my words is blatant. "Because this is is his home, Katniss. You're his home," he emphasizes.

"No," I instantly repel. "No, I'm not his home. Don't even say that. I-I'm not..." I can't seem to make the words come out intelligibility. Instead, I find myself choking on the sounds and syllables. "What even brought this on, Peeta? Why would you be thinking about this?"

At that, he shrugs and breaks his conflicted gaze away, leaving me boring deep into the side of his skull as if the answers I craved would be visible there. "I was happy," he offers quietly, after a long stretch of silence. "I was happy here with you and it got me thinking of all the ways this could be taken away from me."

Oh, I realize as his words hit me. Of course. Of course that's where his mind went. Because not so long ago, every single good thing in his life, from his family, to his home, to his freedom, to his sanity itself, were all viciously and mercilessly stolen. Of course Peeta has such little faith that anything good will last for him anymore.

Still though. To think of Gale as the thing to ruin our days together, our growing friendship, would almost be laughable if it wasn't so insane.

"Why him though?" I press, unable to comprehend his line of thinking. "Why did you think about him coming back?"

He shoots me the same look again, like he can't understand why I even have to ask. "Because that is one sure way you'd be done with me."

"What?" I exclaim, like he was speaking in a language I'd never heard before. "Why would that mean I'd be done with you?"

Now his expression turns downright exasperated and I feel like mine must match. "Because, Katniss. He's-he's..." He struggles with finding the proper wording again. Something that is so incredibly rare for Peeta Mellark that I don't even register it. "He's the one for you," he continues softly after a moment, no malice in his voice, just what he believes to be facts. "I knew that—I've always known that. Long before I knew much else about you, I knew that Gale and you were practically-"

"Peeta, stop," I cut off, maybe not soon enough. "Gale and me... no," I insist venomously. "No, he..." And if Peeta is struggling to speak, I'm know I'm obviously doomed right now. I take a breath and just stare into the blue pools in his eyes and force myself to speak, even if it's difficult, even if I'd rather be choking on a rusty nail right now. "I will never have anything to do with Gale again," I declare gently, doing my best to remain calm and steady.

Peeta shoots me a wary look and I suddenly have to question if he knows about Gale and the bombs. The question that can never be answered, the connection I'll never be able to prove or disprove, but know in my gut what the answer likely is.

He can't know, if he thinks there's a chance that I'd ever have any sort of relationship with Gale again.

"Peeta," I struggle to get out, feeling breathless before I've even began to utter any of it. "Gale is the one—or he might be the one, I don't know, I'll probably never know—who built or created or wha-"

But he's shaking his head rapidly, comprehension flickering across his face. "Katniss, I know," he says, and reaches out to squeeze my palm again. The unexpected touch sends a shock wave through my body but I'm too overwhelmed to really notice. "Haymitch told me about Gale's part in Prim's death."

I rip my hand away so fast, acting before thinking, betrayal spreading through my entire being before I have the chance to even process his words. "If you know that, why do you think I'd ever have anything to do with him again?"

Peeta is starting to really grind on my nerves with that incredulous look he keeps giving me. It's as if he cannot follow what I'm saying or thinks that I'm not seeing his side of the argument or something else that is quite obviously wrong.

How on earth could Peeta ever think that I would be able to look Gale in the eye after what he did? After what he might have done? Does the might of even make a difference? If there's any discrepancies between if he did or didn't murder Prim, how could I ever hold a conversation with him while that hangs between us? How could I meet his eyes and always be reminded I can never meet her's again? How could I ever trust someone like that, that made callous decisions in the heat of righteous anger? Someone who had no idea what it was like to be forced to murder and have it labeled a game. Someone who actively ignored the warnings of those who had? Who actively allowed himself to be used as a puppet for a radicalist who was no better than Snow himself?

Peeta's voice yanks me from my thoughts. "Because, Katniss," he starts gently, looking rather mournful, effectively softening my anger against him just a bit. "You forgave me. How am I any better?"

I just stare at him. "You couldn't help what you did, Peeta."

"Wasn't Gale used too? Just by Coin instead of Snow?"

"It's not the same thing."

"Why not?"

"You didn't possibly kill my sister. And God knows how many other kids," I finally say, the fight in my voice still hanging on.

"I almost killed you," he reminds me, as if I have forgotten.

"It's not the same thing, Peeta," I whisper again, my eyes more compelling, more insistent, than my voice now. He sees that, as he's gazing deeply into my steel colored irises.

He takes a deep breath, mulling over his words before speaking them aloud. I realize then he must have been thinking about this for a while. The concept disturbs me for some reason. Like he's been having this debate in his head without me and I'm late to the event. Like he was actively having this argument already and didn't think to even get my side of the story first. "What if Snow had programmed me to kill Prim instead of you? Then would you have forgiven me?"

I have to look away at that moment because I outright don't know what to say. Would I have been able to ever forgive him for it, for trying to murder my little sister while not in his right mind? Would I have been able to look past it, to see that he was used and abused and destroyed to get to me? Or would I have been so stuck on the idea of anything hurting Prim that all his trauma would have become background noise? Would Gale be the one here now, having this conversation with me, while I was denouncing Peeta's name?

I can't give him an answer and we swore not to lie to each other, in light of everything we've been through, so instead I turn my eyes up to look into the forlorn blue skies I've become so accustomed to and say the only thing I know is true. "I honestly don't know, Peeta."

He nods at that, almost immediately accepting my honestly. Almost like he anticipated those words from me. And he offers me a small smile before standing himself up off the grass and walking towards the backdoor to my house. "I'm going to head home for the day," he says quietly, with no resentment in his voice.

My heart sinks at his words, as some long stifled string inside of me wishes to attach onto him and hold him here with me. To refuse to let him leave until that forlorn edge evaporates from his gaze. But something more prevalent, more powerful, is also churning inside of me, something that cannot stand being withheld even for a day, and I find myself calling out his name against my better judgment.

"Peeta!" I exclaim urgently, my voice rocky and scratched.

He turns and looks at me, his eyes curious to what I could have to say. And I don't know what else to utter, but the truth. The misunderstanding I'm irrationally unsettled by, the misconception that I can't continue to let fester inside his head.

"Gale was never the one for me."

Peeta blinks in surprise at the blatant assertion. He opens up his mouth to speak several times, confusion marring his features, but nothing comes out.

And in case he somehow wants to rationalize my statement away, in case somewhere in his head the demon Snow planted is trying to squash any assurance my statement may inspire, I repeat myself again.

"Gale was never the one."

A month later.

"Haymitch, come on," I mutter, pushing my old mentor towards the front door. "Go home. Sleep off the alcohol."

The older man murmurs something equally unintelligible and also somehow still undoubtedly rude at me, shoving my hands away from his back, where I'm trying to aim him in the direction of the exit.

"The boy is much gentler," he snaps, swaying heavily with his vigorous words.

"We have always agreed that Peeta is superior to me. You can go to his house if you want him to tuck you in tonight."

Haymitch guffaws at that, out of his skull. "Now wouldn't that make you jealous?"

"Get out!"

"Night night, Sweetheart."

After he's gone, I lock the door in case he tries to come back, tries to raid my kitchen again or use my couch as a free bed.

Nothing is more freighting than thinking I'm alone in my house and then seeing a man sleeping in my living room, first thing in the morning.

As I head upstairs though, I realize what I just did. Giving Haymitch the idea to go to Peeta's house, to torture him with his inebriation like he does me, and I wonder if Peeta's angry with me now.

Not real, long lasting anger, of course. Just simple irritation. But still, as I change into my pajamas and brush out my braid, I wonder if I've now destroyed Peeta's night.

At first the idea of our mentor giving Peeta a hard time tonight still doesn't seem like a too terrible situation to me. Peeta's definitively the one that will put up with the tiresome antics of the old drunk until he can't any longer. He's the one who will be more likely to have mercy on a sloshed Haymitch and let himself lose sleep, too kind for his own good.

But then it hits me that when Peeta loses too much sleep, when his insomnia kicks in, or when commotion keeps him awake, he surely has a flashback the following day. Resting later into the day doesn't help either, as any disruption to his sleep schedule can really mess with him good.

I feel myself rush to the window across from my bed, peering out to look three houses down, to see if I can spot the paunchy old man heading in that direction.

I see nothing and no one. It's the black of night, in the middle of winter. No one else lives in what used to be Victor's Village, aside from us three. The road between our houses is cold and wet and entirely void.

Still, I try to squint, to see if I can make anything out over at Peeta's.

His light is off. That much I can tell. The light in his bedroom is turned off, the room is too dark to see into, porchlight is turned off, and all this indicates he's fast asleep, Haymitch went home to his own house and I have nothing to worry about.

However, something else catches me attention then. Peeta's window. It's open. Just like it used to be. Just like before the Quarter Quell. Even in the middle of winter, in the darkest part of the night, he's always kept his bedroom window open.

I tell myself it's paranoia, or it's neighborly kindness. But I decide to open my window as well, in case I hear Haymitch pounding on Peeta's door and disturbing him at an ungodly hour. In case I hear Haymitch causing a ruckus outside Peeta's house and I have to go get him before he causes any massive disturbance.

I tell myself it's because I feel guilt and not because I miss Peeta, even in my sleep.

Especially in my sleep.

I doze off, desperately forcing myself to believe that lie.

When I wake up three hours later, it's not because Haymitch is making noise. No, he hasn't made a peep that I could hear since I kicked him out.

No, I wake up because of a wholly unexpected cacophonous sound.

I wake up because Peeta is screaming.

Peeta is screaming loud, on top of his lungs, like someone is holding a knife or a gun to his throat at this very moment.

It's a sound I recognize instinctively. And not because it resembles the version of him that was rescued and brought to Thirteen.

No, I recognize the sound because it sounds eerily similar to the noises I make from nightmares of the same events, because of flashbacks of the same memories.

Most victors understand each other to varying degrees. We've all lived through literal hells, we've all had our trauma projected across the country, we've all been through horrible ordeals that almost no one else could ever empathize with.

However, most victors didn't win their games together. Most victors don't know what anyone else's personal nightmares are about. Most victors can't even imagine what any of the others are seeing, in any shadow of a dark room. In a the cobwebs of our minds that not even the most proficient doctor can clear. Most victors can't see the haunting reflection in the dark smeared glass that remains unique to each individual victor.

Except me and Peeta. Except us, the once Star-Crossed Lovers, the girl on fire and the baker's boy, the two mouthpieces of opposing sides of war.

The two of us understand each other on a level deeper than anyone else on the planet can even begin to imagine, and it's this fact that draws me thoughtlessly out of my bed at the sound of his cries, and over the threshold and down the street before I even realize what I'm doing. Before I can contemplate it and think my way out of doing it.

I pound on his door, turning my palm pink with the applied force. "Peeta?" I exclaim but all I hear in response is a gut-wrenching howl in pain. I worry for a moment that he's managed to injury himself somehow. That he's lost his prosthetic in his own frenzy and now is lying helpless on the ground.

I take a chance, pleading silently for the door to be unlocked as I turn the knob.

I'm not sure if I should be grateful that Peeta doesn't lock his doors before going to sleep—he doesn't even close his windows though, so how can I be surprised?—but for the moment I bask in the one lucky instance and make a mental note to yell at him tomorrow for it.

My tired, cold legs shoot up the stairs, racing towards his bedroom blindly through the darkness. "Peeta?" I call out again, quieter now than before, not wanting to give him a heart attack.

After all, an intruder, just about any intruder-even my own mother-appearing in my house in the dead of night, would probably knock me unconscious from the adrenaline overload that would surely overtake me.

Because unlike Peeta, I do lock my door—every single door in my house—at night, the image of anyone coming to hurt me while I'm asleep and at my most vulnerable too powerful for me to rationalize away.

But Peeta doesn't hear my voice now and even without any light, I easily locate his bedroom. Despite the fact I've never been in it before. That revelation occurs to me as I'm about to open the door.

Even in our closest and most sacred moments together, I never once set foot inside his bedroom. I'd barely even walked into his house prior to coming back to Twelve after the war. And when I did come here now, we typically stayed in the kitchen or art room for some reason.

All this races through the back of my mind as I push the door open and reveal Peeta, tangled up in his bed sheets, bare-chested and sleeping in only his pajama pants. His fingers clawing at the wall ferociously, his eyes wild as the deer I hunt, when they realize I'm there at the very last second before the arrow pierces their hearts.

"Peeta," I whisper now, my concern for what must have set him off overtaking any qualms I may still have. I try to tell myself to be careful and keep a safe distance, as I don't know if he's himself right now or if he's once again the loaded weapon Snow broke him down and turned him into.

But when he looks at me, his blue eyes wide and wet and terrified and awed, like he thinks I'm nothing but a dream, I can't make myself believe he's anyone but the boy who saved my life years ago. So many years ago now, it seems.

And when he whispers my name and blindly, instinctively, desperately, reaches for me, I just can't make myself stay away. Without hesitating, I lunge forward and for the first time since the Quarter Quell, I throw myself straight into his arms, like I belong there.

My arms wrap around his neck and I feel him pull my body to his, pulling me down against him, molding our two shaky forms together as one. He pulls my legs around his waist and wraps me in a hug so tight my ribs physically hurt and I can't even breathe.

I burrow my face into the skin of his throat, inhaling his scent in an unabashed, reckless act, and turn my cold cheek to lay against his rapid beating heart.

"I thought you were dead," is the first thing he whispers, as the tears still running down his face hit my forehead.

"I'm not," I promise, trying to make my voice convincing, even as I'm reeling by this sudden turn of events.

I never, in a million years, thought I'd ever end up in his arms like this again. This embrace, this comfort, is something else I truly believed Snow had stolen away from me.

"I dreamed you died," he whimpers again, like he didn't hear me.

"I'm here, Peeta. I heard you having a nightmare and I came. As fast as I could." I don't know why I feel the need to tell him this information, but when his trembling starts to lessen I feel slightly validated.

"I lost you," he whispers, his voice hoarse and broken.

"You couldn't lose me if you tried." The words come out without warning, and I'm glad somehow. I'm so tired of words being held back or dropped between us, of neither of us knowing what to say to the other. Of shoving down what we're both really feeling.

Even if right now may be the worst time for declarations, with Peeta exhausted and upset and visibly traumatized, I still feel relief spread all over my body, for having the guts to say what I'm thinking for once.

I see the wheels beginning to turn now, in his bloodshot, puffy eyes as he slowly begins to process the last couple of minutes that's brought us back into the position we held nightly only one year ago.

Has it really only been a year?

I expect then for him to recoil away from me, or apologize even, citing that he doesn't know what possibly came over him. But, to my surprise, he does none of that. Instead Peeta hugs me tighter to him, pulling up the covers he'd kicked away, effectively sheltering us beneath their protective warmth.

"Stay," he whispers into my hair, his arms shaking as they become a soothing balm around me, leaving me feeling safe in a way I refuse to ask for. Giving me back a refuge I considered all but gone. "Please, Katniss, stay with me?"

Without thinking twice, without giving myself a chance to second-guess the words, I whisper into his chest, exactly where I can feel his beating heart, "Always."

#everlark #thg #everlark fic #the hunger games #prompt #play with me 🥰#ask #fanfic #my writing #fanfiction #gravity ♥️ 🌅 🥖#cate 🦋🧸💗💐

80 notes · View notes

lady-divine-writes · 3 years

Text

Kurtbastian one-shot “Surprise Guest Stars” (Rated PG13)

Summary: Chaos ensues when some uninvited performers show up to Thomas's Christmas pageant ... (2221 words)

Notes: Blaine friendly. Assume this happens in a world that hasn’t met Covid yet. A re-write for @kbweek2020 Day 4 prompt Parents.

Part 60 of Daddies.

Read on AO3.

“You tell him!” Sebastian whispers.

“No, you tell him!” Blaine whispers back fervently - a huge fail if he was trying to keep Kurt from hearing him. For a man who’s been working in theater professionally since college, how could Blaine forget that Kurt would be able to hear him from every corner of the stage? Rule number one of working backstage - no shushing and no whispering.

“Why me?” Sebastian asks.

“Because you’re his husband! You have a child together! If I tell him, detectives will never find my body! He won’t hurt you!”

“Yeah, right. Wanna bet?”

“Sure. Can you break a hundred?”

“For God’s sake!” Kurt snaps, too overwhelmed this close to curtain to handle anything that might go hand-in-hand with those two and their whisper fighting. “Would one of you just tell me what the heck is going on? What are you arguing about?”

Sebastian looks at Blaine, waiting for him to give Kurt the explanation he’s demanding while Sebastian searches for a place to hide. He’s out of luck when Blaine catches him off guard with a huge shove towards center stage right in the path of the steely-eyed man walking aggressively toward them, the thick heels of Kurt's Jimmy Choo loafers pounding against the wood floorboards marking down the remaining seconds of their lives.

Blaine may have made his living on the stage, but Kurt takes theater much more seriously than he ever has.

“We might have a problem,” Sebastian says.

“What? What problem!? It’s fifteen minutes to showtime! Don’t talk to me about problems!”

“O … okay ...” Sebastian smiles sheepishly, splaying his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Let’s call it a hiccup then.”

“A hiccup is a safety-gated synonym for problem, and I refuse to accept that there are any problems.”

“And yet, we still have one.”

Kurt sighs, throwing a hand to his forehead to shield his already blooming headache from whatever stupidity this is, and ends up smacking himself with his clipboard. “Fine!” he groans, rubbing the sore spot. “What is it!?”

“Look up there.” Sebastian reaches out to take his husband’s shoulder and redirect his attention. But after considering the possibility of getting his hand bitten off - a hand that will become most important if Kurt decides to never sleep with him again after this - he motions with his chin instead.

“Up where?”

“Up … up there. In the Christmas tree.”

“What? Is Mrs. Popson complaining that the ornaments are unbalanced again? Are we going to have to re-Feng Shui the lights to better complement her third graders’ angel piglets?” Kurt allows himself a snicker as he follows Sebastian’s instructions and gazes up. Eight dozen ridiculous things have happened so far, and their little pageant has yet to even open. That’s probably all this is - something ridiculous. A minor inconvenience blown way out of proportion.

At least, that’s what it had better be.

But as he peers through the branches of their picturesque twelve-foot Fraser fir, he realizes no. This isn’t a little thing. It’s a rather large thing. So large, he wonders how come he didn’t notice it before now.

“Oh … shit,” he mutters.

“It's Blaine's fault. I didn't see it until he pointed it out,” Sebastian says, passing the blame off on an offended Blaine and leaping quickly aside in case this revelation has consequences.

“This,” Kurt hisses, jabbing a finger upward, "is why I told you I wanted an artificial tree for the Christmas pageant! Where did we get this thing anyway?”

“It was donated by Father Bruno at St. Adalbert’s Parish to show support for the school's LGBTQ+ inclusive program. He went out to the woods and cut it down himself!”

“Right!” Kurt folds his arms over his chest. “He probably planned this! Did it on purpose to sabotage our pageant! You can’t trust the Catholics! Don’t I always say that!?”

Sebastian looks at Blaine, and a confused Blaine looks back, each wondering if this is some inside remark directed at the other.

“No!” Sebastian pulls a face. “I have never heard you say that!”

“Well, you can’t,” Kurt sniffs. “And whether I said it or not, it’s generally implied.”

“I don’t think the man did this on purpose,” Blaine says, but does so in that soothing tone he used so often on Kurt in high school. A bad decision, Blaine realizes, the moment Kurt's head pivots his way, and he sees everything from Kurt’s neck to his scalp turn a bright, crayon red.

“Really!? Then let me ask you this - during the time it took the good father to cut this tree down and drag it over here, he never once noticed there was not one, not two, but three nests inside!?”

“I guess not! But neither did y---we,” Sebastian corrects, his life flashing before his eyes when he comes close to implying his husband is at fault. “We got the tree last minute. I guess they slipped through the cracks.”

“Obviously.” Kurt closes his eyes and drops his head, searching for an answer in the dark behind his lids.

Five minutes.

By now, they only have five minutes. He hears the children lining up with their teachers backstage while he and his husband argue. But they need to stop arguing and come up with a solution.

Fast!

He takes a deep breath in and exhales out, the inklings of a plan forming in his head.

“It’s okay,” he says, reassuring himself more than anyone, the headache simmering behind his eyes threatening to become a full-blown migraine. “It’s going to be okay. They haven’t let the parents in yet. They’re still in line outside. We can fix this. We can still fix this. We can move them, right? Just … shimmy up there and get them down?”

Blaine and Sebastian shoot each other anxious looks. This time, Blaine starts, choosing to jump on the grenade for Sebastian. “Uh … no. We can’t.”

“Yes, we can,” Kurt counters, over-enunciating consonants through teeth clenched so hard they’re about to pop from his skull. “Figure out a way to skitter up there and pluck them out. It can’t be too difficult.”

“I’m sorry, Kurt …”

“Or come at them from above. You can reach down from the catwalk. That might work out better seeing as they’re so high up.”

“No, Kurt …”

“We’re not going to hurt them,” Kurt interjects as if that might be the big hold up. “We’re going to relocate them.”

“Kurt …”

“There’s a cat carrier in the fifth-grade room,” Kurt continues desperately, unsure why it is this can’t be done, why Blaine can't say, "Brilliant, Kurt! I'll get right on that!" He’s seen people do it before. The Crocodile Hunter (God rest his soul) rescued birds left and right. That nice Officer Kevin from the SPCA who rescued the deranged pigeon from his father's auto body shop. And wasn’t there a famous Vine where some guy got an owl out of his kitchen using a broom? It can’t be that difficult. “We’ll toss them in there for the time being and then …”

“Kurt!” Blaine cuts in, raising his voice a tad higher than advisable considering the situation. “We can’t move them!”

Kurt's glare nearly takes the top of Blaine's head clean off. “And why can’t we?”

“Because those aren’t just any birds.” The three men look up at the exact moment nine fluffy faces peek over the edges of their nests and look down, probably wondering what all the commotion below is about. “Those are loggerhead shrikes.”

Kurt and Sebastian both look at their friend with confusion on their faces.

“How do you know that?” Sebastian asks.

Kurt puts a hand on his husband’s shoulder and shakes his head. “That question is going to require a longer answer than we have time for. Plus, there are children in the building. Just accept that Blaine has a thing about birds.”

"PG? Or R?" Sebastian asks, needing clarification regardless.

"Try X," Kurt says in a lowered voice.

Sebastian looks at a blushing Blaine with wide, disgusted, but somewhat amused eyes.

"Continue," Kurt says, "from the part where you tell us why these birds are about to ruin our pageant.”

“Loggerhead shrikes are threatened. That means they’re protected. We can’t move them ourselves. We might not be able to move them at all without taking the tree with them.”

Kurt’s eyes bug. “We can’t … we can’t … the tree!? Oh great! This keeps getting better and better!”

“Relax.” Sebastian takes the risk and puts a hand on Kurt’s shoulder. He tries to massage it, but it’s hard as a rock. “It’s okay. We can still sort this out.”

“And how do you suggest we do that!? Huh!? Our Christmas pageant, which your son is starring in by the way, and is supposed to start in …” Kurt spins around in search of a clock. When he can’t see the one on the far wall, ironically because of the tree, he fishes his cell phone out of his pocket and checks the screen. His eyes bug out farther “… two minutes! has been hijacked by birds!”

“Look, Kurt, they’ve been chill so far. Maybe we can have the pageant with them there and move them after. Problem solved.”

“Yeah,” Kurt agrees optimistically, trying to force his heart to slow down, seeing how, with no time to spare, this could be a feasible option. “You're right! We’ll let them stay! Problem solved! I mean, what’re a few birds? It doesn’t look like they can even fly yet. And they’re cute! They’ll add realism. They won’t be any trouble.”

“Not exactly,” Blaine says, and Kurt has never wanted to punch him in the face so hard in his life. Wait … come to think about it, there may have been one or two other times. “There may be a whole other bigger problem.”

“And that is?”

“Those are babies. Juveniles, specifically. I don’t see any moms. Or dads for that matter.”

“I know I’m going to regret asking this,” Kurt moans, resigned to whatever fate Blaine’s knowledge is about to bestow upon them, “but … that’s a problem why?”

“Because loggerhead shrikes are protective. Being separated from their chicks, the parents will get aggressive. Also, if the babies don’t know where their parents are and they get nervous …” A series of jarring screeches interrupt Blaine’s explanation. Kurt glares up at the birds, mouths open wide, cawing loudly into the air. Blaine points up. “They’ll do that.”

“Great!” Kurt yelps, at the end of his rope. “So we have potentially agro birds loose in the theater, baby birds that spontaneously scream bloody murder, and a play set to start in half-a-minute, which we may have to postpone indefinitely in case we need to call animal control - do I have that right?”

“Basically, yes.”

“Well, skippidy do! Is there anything else!? Anything at all you’ve forgotten to tell me!? Because what else could possibly go wrong!?”

The doors at the back of the auditorium fly open, and Kurt blanches, knowing that right then and there, his question is about to be answered.

“Kurt! Sebastian!” the assistant principal yells, looking a little too much like Tippi Hedren in The Birds for anything good to come from her sudden appearance. “Come quick! It’s an emergency!”

“What? What, what, what is it now!?” Kurt asks, sounding less than sympathetic.

“Insane birds are dive-bombing parents in line outside! Three people have already been pecked! Everyone is scattering!”

With the auditorium doors thrown open, Kurt can hear the panicked yells of parents banging on the steel doors outside, begging to be let in. Above that, the shrieking of the birds searching for their babies echo through the halls, their screams so high-pitched and piercing, they make their way through the thick stone walls and double-layered storm windows. Hearing their parents’ cries, the baby birds respond, frantically flapping their wings in an effort to take flight themselves and reach them.

Bitterly Kurt thinks all of his problems might be solved if they give it a go, plummet to the ground, and break their little birdie necks.

How un-festive of him.

Sebastian looks at his done-in husband. “Do you want me to go outside and handle this one alone?”

“No.” Kurt straightens his back, squares his shoulders, hands his clipboard over to Blaine, and makes for the stairs to the stage, head held high like a gladiator going off to fight an unwinnable war. “I’ll go. Blaine? Tell the teachers … there’s been a bit of a delay.”

“Will do,” Blaine says, leaving the stage with a solemn salute and a sigh of relief.

“And Sebastian?”

“Yes?” Sebastian says, falling in behind his husband, unwilling to let him walk off into the bird battle alone.

“Do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“The next time I ask what could possibly go wrong - gag me.”

“Absolutely.” Sebastian smirks, preparing to die on the hill of bringing a smile back to his husband’s face. “Just so I can plan appropriately … will you be asking that anytime tonight, perchance? Because I can get a babysitter and rent a room in about five seconds.”

“Great,” Kurt replies humorlessly. “Do that. Let’s pray I’ll have enough blood left in my body to enjoy it.”

#kurtbastian #kbweek2020 #kurtbastian fic #sebkurt #sekurt

23 notes · View notes

sam-roulette · 3 years

Text

rip to the alt Sasha survives s3 “the slaughter ritual is a battle of the bands wherein one of the 4 main mechanisms albums has the key to ending the world” crack au for being quite literally impossible to write

so here’s how it was meant to go down:

- Jon gets kidnapped by Alfred Grifter himself and when he’s returned to the archives he has all 4 Mechs albums and also punches Tim in the face in a slightly slaughter-induced haze

- Jon immediately snapping out of it and being so apologetic he tells Tim to punch him back so they’re even. Tim, tiredly, tells him that no. He is not going to punch him back. “You don’t have to worry about if it hurts,” that’s. Not The Point.

- there’s some slaughter juice on the albums so everyone starts getting a little bloodthirsty, a fact that becomes apparent as the Archives splits along party lines- Jon is convinced High Noon Over Camelot is the world-ender, while Sasha insists that it’s The Bifrost Incident. Tim’s on Sasha’s side; Martin says he’s impartial but implies Jon may have a point, and only chooses Once Upon A Time to keep up the veneer of not being biased.

- Sasha manages to convince Tim to grab Ulysses Dies At Dawn so that none of the other possible combatants have it Just In Case that’s the one that ends the world so that she can stop him. Tim questions who’s gonna stop Sasha if he can’t get close once Red Signal starts and she says not to worry, I’ve got a plan

- the plan is she gets Not!Sasha out the basement to be her bandmate, promises it that it can eat her after the competition and (it can’t because of ) threatens it with a suspiciously high voltage taser. She has no plans to let it eat her later. She is a liar

- Tim, predictably, does not take this well. Sasha tries joking that he doesn’t get her “artistic vision” and Tim says he doesn’t know what he’ll do if Sasha gets taken again. The argument gets more heated from there.

- Turns out, things between Sasha and Tim didn’t get magically better once Sasha was spat out the table at the start of s3

- and in fact Tim has been more distant and unsure of how to act around her, since even if she’s His Sasha, he has NO memories of her- just what Sasha says and vague half-recollections that he can’t tell if its something the Stranger put in him or if its the hazy remnants of this woman that he loved once.

- Sasha finds herself being treated like a stranger by Tim, and while it’s not really bad per se- Tim isn’t cruel to people- it still Hurts when she tries to reach out to him, when it looks like he’s obviously hurting, and he just. Doesn’t Open Up. It doesn’t help that he can’t be in the same room as Jon for long and that he can’t look Martin in the eye, and it doesn’t help that it’s only after Literally Threatening To Leave that Jon cracks and admits everything that happened in s2

- The day of the contest is getting nearer. Martin is suddenly very suspiciously good at the violin despite never having lessons growing up, which he jokes is a “natural affinity for strings”. He’s been on the phone a suspicious amount.

- The day before the contest and tensions are high in the Archives. Jon’s locked himself in his office to do “vocal exercises”. Martin hums everywhere. Tim and Sasha are coordinating on The Bifrost Incident, but Tim keeps it strictly professional and terse, and it’s slowly driving Sasha up the wall.

- Finally, Tim says, “During this... we won’t hurt each other, right? While we’re in there- we can keep our heads on straight.”

- “Of course not.” Sasha replies, immediate. “You’d never hurt me.”

- “... Right.”

- The day arrives and it’s revealed that Jon, Martin, Sasha, and Tim are the Only combatants. It was Grifter’s game to get them to fight each other the entire time, in a strictly organized battle-like way. Not!Sasha gets a pass as Sasha’s “pet” and Sasha very quickly steps on its foot to keep it from saying anything that might disqualify them.

- Listen the actual battle itself ? Is messy as fuck to figure out. like we never actually properly figured out the rules. we have a spreadsheet of like which number placement every song in all 4 albums were and everything and while some combinations would’ve made for some SICK turn based combat would’ve been an absolute Nightmare to actually carry out

- each song actually has an effect and transforms both the stage and audience as the show goes on- so there’s a bit where Jon has The Hanged Man Rusts and that garners complete silence as it accidentally prophesies the rest of the story, Thor causes Sasha to actually begin to spark with lightning, cool stuff

- the only truly comprehensible bit was round 4. Hellfire, Sirens, Cinders’ Song, and Sigyn.

- Hellfire sees Jon give into the Slaughter energy more than any other point as the entire audience starts fighting each other in religious ecstasy, the other stages where the assistants are isolated beginning the melt and warp. Sasha helps Tim back up just before he slips into the flame below and Martin tries to climb higher as the hands of congregation reach for him, or past him, or to grab Anything

- Sirens cuts through the last bit before it all goes truly to hell as Tim picks up a guitar and starts lulling everything down to a sense of normalcy. There’s a moment, at the intersection of when Jon stops trying to scream the last dying cry of Gallahad’s maddened ramblings and the audience returning to their seats and his voice acapella filling the hall- we can chase away your worries- where there is Perfect Clarity. Tim could stop after this moment. Before the end of the verse, he could stop, and maybe it’d put an end to this.

- His eyes land on Sasha. Before he can stop himself, the verse is finished. Sleep in peace and serenity. Then he can’t stop singing anymore, and Sasha watches the drowsy smile suddenly bloom across Tim’s cheeks

- It’s when Martin, never once looking in Jon’s direction, jumps from his platform to Tim’s that Sasha knows something’s wrong. Because she wants to do the same thing. So she takes a page out of the real Ulysses’ playbook- she has the Not!Them tie her to one of the beams on her stage and promise, no matter what she says next, to never untie her. Not until someone else starts singing

- Just as Sasha predicted, she starts getting odd herself. Tim is looking in her direction, so longingly as he sings that she Knows it could only really be for Her, that he wants her to just lay in his embrace and be well taken care of- and she stops wanting anything beyond it. So she struggles. She hisses and bites and kicks and screams to try and break free of the rope while Tim smiles, beckoning, so they can finally have that reunion they’ve both wanted. The one where they hold each other and say that it’s okay, that they have each other, that it’s Safe

- Someone unties Sasha. It feels like Tim’s arms around her and she melts, no longer recognizing the pretty man singing on stage. Not!Tim looks back at Tim from across the gap, holding Sasha tenderly, and grins. Tim stops singing, for just a moment, surrounded by legions except for the sole person he wants to see most in the world, in the arms of something that doesn’t even look remotely like him

- The moment’s enough and, as Martin sees Jon looking strangely adoringly at Tim, he realizes that wait a fucking minute. And immediately gets so jealous he hijacks Tim’s spotlight and restores actual equilibrium with Cinders’ Song. Tim is once again left alone on stage, strangely desolate against the large setting.

- Sasha regains her balance and tries to answer it all with Sigyn, but the Not!Them refuses to stop looking like a mockery of Tim. Jon is kind enough to take Lyf’s narration while Not!Tim is “kind” enough to take Loki’s lines. Sasha tries to appeal- why back away? This time I’ll stay; come stand at my side as we make them pay...

- When she sings “remember your wife!” Not!Tim says, “I don’t recall,” playfully, mocking. He mocks when he says “She’s still enthralled,” one part disgust for Sasha’s feelings and one part gleeful accusation to Tim- look what you did to her. She still feels the effect of your song, even now.

- anyway long story short everything gets more and more screwy as everyone is magically made to forget that they’re supposed to be stopping this thing and start only wanting to be the one to get to their finale quickest. Blood and Whiskey sees Sasha nearly lose an ear from a bullet. Underworld Blues has Tim nearly causing hell to freeze over with his chilling plea as Orpheus. No Happy Ending signals the first of the audience member deaths.

- It also signals when Grifter leaves weapons on the stage and has the team go at it. It’s not really so bad, at first- Jon and Martin forget about fighting somewhere along the way and kiss, Sasha is knocked out for a few seconds and is somewhat conscious, which is Not a good state to enter Red Signal in, and Tim is trying desperately to figure out where to go next

- Tim has Ties That Bind as a last attempt to gain control of the situation and very nearly manages to snap Sasha out of the absolute maddened hell state she’s about the enter. If only he could find it in himself to omit some lyrics- if only he could find it in himself to be less bitter when singing I was betrayed by the one I was to wed.

- There was no more love there - my heartstrings long since cut...

-There was no more love there.

- “Ah.” Is Sasha’s last coherent thought, “I see.”

- “So that’s how it is.”

- Martin’s mic cuts out. Jon’s mic cuts out. Tim’s mic cuts out on the last line.

- Sasha picks herself off the ground, slowly. Far more slowly than the words falling out of her mouth. Not words- an incantation. A Chant.

- y’ai ngah Yog-Sothoth...

- turns out Jon’s not the only one who can do a mean incantation. And unlike Jon, Sasha’s had some vocal training at some point in heavy metal. Make of that what you will

- The guitars kick in at the end to dive straight into Ragnarok I and Alfred Grifter announces that the winner is Sasha James amidst the screaming and destruction of the roof caving in reverse, showing a blood red sky. The Not!Them has disappeared, presumably already running into the faceless crowd to find a new body for the incoming new world Jon’s trying to get to safety and Martin’s begging Tim to hide, that there’s not gonna be getting through to Sasha now

- But Tim knows the album because he worked with her on this. For this scenario. Just in case. He knows it’s safe enough to move when Sasha-as-Sigyn questions I know this man, why is he here...? Knows to hold still, make himself as small as possible, when she begins Ragnarok II. The crowd isn’t so lucky and they melt into each other, a mosh pit of rock n roll violence that flashes and gleams with pocket knife and piercing and heels and nails. Just barely manages to make a run for it as Sasha takes on the final lines as the Void.

- Envy your dead for now unfurled / this madness follows to consume / your world.

- Tim is just close enough in ear shot to yell, not even attempting to sing at this point with a throat as dry as his is, “You- don’t I know you?” The world tries to skip Ragnarok III to get to IV. Tim tries to be louder even with the rubble giving way under his hands, “Weren’t we friends?”

- The gentle piano kicks in instead. Tim could nearly cry with relief when Sasha turns his way and, even if she doesn’t look like she fully gets it yet, answers, “Once- I remember. And now, when it ends...”

- In harmony. The first they’ve managed in a long while. Where are you going?

- “For vengeance...?” Sasha left uncertain. Answered in a songbird lilting voice, “For love.”

- There is no mention of death. Only an immediate harmony as they both sing Perhaps that’s enough!

- The guitar that comes on isn’t the end of Ragnarok III. It’s the lonely riff of Thor as Sasha hauls herself up with a drum mallet she steals from the broken down remains of backstage. Sung, almost like a tune a soldier marches to, fury like thunderbolts burns in my veins...

- She smashes Grifter over the head and feeds him into the mosh pit to be torn to shreds. As his shriek of laughter echoes off of the walls, she takes the mallet to the lonely speaker at the back of the hall, playing the final riffs, and destroys it.

- The world stops ending. Everyone is left in the wreckage, passed out and bloody. Jon pokes his head out from a trap door in the ground. Martin mutters from offstage somewhere. Sasha is heaving out breaths as she stares at the broken equipment, still clutching the hammer she threw in the works.

- Cue the moment where she finally turns to face Tim. They look at each other. Then, they’re grinning, and they’re starting to run. They end up toppling onto the ground together, laughing with wild relief, arms tight around each other the entire way through as Tim’s the first one to let loose the first catharsis tears.

- Tim tells her that was the coolest damn thing he ever did see. Sasha says she’s sorry for almost ending the world to have him see that, and Tim’s just going are you kidding ??? This was the best way this could have ended up!

- And Sasha says that it wouldn’t have happened if not for Tim stepping in like he did. And Tim says he’s sorry too, for everything. For the way he acted, and Sasha says that none of them were in their right minds, but Tim still insists that being in right mind or Not, he made some shitty choices there-

- and of course Sasha kisses him. Tells him he was simply brilliant. And Tim grins and kisses her and tells her that no no no SHE was absolutely brilliant, she had TRUE star power-

- and it’s not like before. Tim still can’t remember everything, and the memories Sasha has of the Archives before the Not!Them leave a sour taste in her mouth after she’s released. Tim is gonna need a long time before he can really go back to being his cheerful self, and Sasha needs time to come to terms with missing so much of her own life. But

- But at least they can lay together at night and find a little peace and serenity in the interim.

#tma #man we had so much planned it felt like a waste not to tell anyone #use this idea if youd like i guess but also hgvjb good luck doin it buddy #also ev erything's below the cut bc there is truly. So Much oh no

3 notes · View notes