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rboooks · 10 months

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The Adoptive Son. Part 2

Dick tries his best to keep his smile as Danny Crowne fumbles with his laptop, attempting to show Dick all the fantastic features he programmed onto it.

Don't be wrong; he enjoys new software, and the stuff Crowne made was awe-inspiring. He just wished it wasn't being used for one of his most disgusting crimes.

Babs, who was recently super into coding, had been all but foaming at the mouth when she got access to the new writing application Crowne Industries put out.

Yes, she got access a bit earlier than most since she hacked into the system attempting to find evidence of criminal activity, but she had tested it out and wanted it for herself.

"This writing program has an automatic save option after a certain amount of time goes by." Crowne blushes a little, looking bashful when Dick sends him a winning smile. "I-ugh, I forget how often computers crash, taking with them hours of work, so hopefully, this will help tired college students. It even has a way to retrieve lost files, just in case something does get deleted."

"Wow, you made all this by yourself? That's so impressive." Dick purrs, allowing his hand to land on Crowne's knee. The other man jumps slightly, looking down at the hand like he's never seen one before. At least this mission was easy.

Crowne's had plenty of people flirt with him over the years of his adoption. Dick had watched him at galas, sidestepping any courtship attempts like a well-practiced waltz. He charmed so many would-be suitors simply by his prince-like mannerism, silver tongue, dripping good looks, and of course, very large wallet.

He had thought it meant that Crowne was experienced in this sort of thing. Imagine his surprise at the beginning of the mission; Crowne fumbled through his flirtations and seemed so awkward it was almost endearing.

Danny Crowne didn't make much sense to Dick in this way.

He quickly became one of Gotham's most eligible bachelors and one of the first openly bisexual ones. Despite his adoptive parents less than ideal views on the gay community, Crowne never hid that part of himself. Once he had taken over the company, he had even gotten charities set up to support the gay youths of Gothams. He practically funded the Pride Celebrations, even more than Bruce, which showed how he became the new head of Crowne Industries

In four short years, he had snatched the company from the jaws of bankruptcy and dragged it to the top again. Everything they made was so revolutionary, even Bruce had been tempted to ask Crowne to join him for the first two years.

Back then, Dick had thought Crowne was weird.

All the guy did was talk about tech, and when he wasn't, he was staring into space or attempting to get into different equipment so he could take it apart and figure it out.

Crowne had been invited to his birthday party a few months after his adoption. Dick had seen him arrive, but he vanished from the room not long after- at the time, he didn't blame the other. The rest of their classmates were snobbish and a pain to be around- he later found Crowne pulling out one of his light sockets to check the wiring in Bruce's house.

It may have been the cheap light he was using, but Dick swore he had seen the guy's eyes glowing while he muttered to himself in an unknown language.

The Crownes had been mortified, forcing Crowne to apologize profoundly for ripping Bruce's things. Bruce had to play his part of Brucie, so he had laughed it off, asking the boy why he had done it in the first place.

" I meant no offense. I apologize for allowing my curiosity to cross a line. I was only interested in how advanced your home is. I figured the Wayne's would indicate where the world's leading systems would be." Fourteen-year-old Danny Crowne had told Bruce with a sweet smile that was far too wide and eyes that were far too bright.

It creeped fourteen-year-old Dick out so much he actively avoided the adoptive son of the Crowne for the last four years.

Now he wishes he had paid a little more attention. Maybe then he would have caught on to Crowne selling street kids on the black market.

"It's nothing, really." Crowne laughs nervously, flushing read as Dick gently rubs his knee. He smirks inwardly as the other man fumbles. "I couldn't have done it without Tim so-"

"Tim?" That's a new name. Dick quickly pressed the recording device that Bruce had installed into his bracelet. He hated that he was working with his ex-mentor again, but this was too big of an issue to allow his hurt feelings to get in the way. There were so many kids at stake.

"Tim Drake. His parents are out of the country a lot, so I started babysitting him when he was eight. He's thirteen now, but I got temporary guardianship of him when I turned eighteen. He's my pride and joy. " Crowne clarifies with a growing smile. Dick wanted to punch his teeth in for acting so loving, so caring, so fucking kind when it came to children.

He swallows the urge with incredible difficulty. "He sounds great."

He did know Timothy Drake, actually. The boy was his neighbor for years but didn't stand out much. He always looked like a little doll at the galas, vanishing from sight once his parents' backs were turned.

Dick often thought the boy was out of the country with his parents, primarily when they enrolled him in homeschool when he turned eight.

To think the Drakes were working on making a good relationship with Crowne since he first showed up, and no one within the Bats noticed. It was a little troubling.

Were the Drakes involved with the trafficking ring? Were the world trips just a means to smother out poor victims? Were they using their son, or was Tim Drake part of the scheme?

More questions and not enough answers.

"Y-you could meet him if you want," Crowne coughs, playing with a specialized keyboard- it was so flat. Dick had never seen a slimmer design- his face was a lovely red hue. "I have him for this month, so he's back at my apartment with his babysitter."

Perfect an opening.

"Mr. Crowne, are you inviting me back to yours?" Dick asks, allowing his voice to turn husky with sinful promise.

Crowne face turns even redder. "I didn't mean to assume, but...ugh, are you hitting on me?"

Dick almost laughs.

"I am." He says even as he thinks If only you weren't a scum bag. You are not ever going to get this lucky, you disgusting pig.

"Thank the Ancients. I was worried I may have interpreted your intentions. I would be honored if you accompanied me home-but, not for sex! I mean, I wouldn't be opposed to sex at a later date-just dinner? I can cook." Crowne closes his eyes as if pained, and Dick wishes he was the person he was pretending to be.

Oh well.

They all have their own masks.

Dick just happens to be someone who was bestowed with a criminal. He slips it on as quickly as his NightWing one, throwing an arm over Crowne and placing a tracker on his neck. The bastard didn't even notice. Good.

"I would love that Crowne."

"Danny." The man says with a warm relieved smile. "You can call me Danny."

"Then you can call me Dick"

Dick will have this man rotting away in a jail cell soon. He swears it.

(Part 1) (part 3)

#dc x dp crossover #The adoptive son #Part 2 #Danny Saw the way Tim was being treated and went You Mine Now #Dick thinks Danny is evil at this point #Danny may not want to leave anymore #Flirting #misunderstandings #Anyone confused this was just after Jason was taken in #Dick and Danny are 18 #Jason is 15 #Tim is 13 #Sorry if the ages are off the comics

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curryalley · 5 months

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I need Clint Barton to meet Dick Grayson.

I need Clint to roll into a SHIELD ops assignment meeting having absolutely not read the briefing materials before the meeting. I need Phil Coulson to explain that there has been a serious threat against the life of Dick Grayson. Wayne Corp is about to announce some new initiatives. Intelligence confirms a criminal syndicate plans to kidnap Dick Grayson to force Bruce Wayne to call off the plans. SHIELD needs Wayne Corp to go through with it (and kidnapped sons of billionaires are always a headache) so Clint, we've created an identity for you as a Wayne Corp employee to keep an on things.

And Clint has to be like, "Yeah that won't work."

The analysts immediately take offense. "It's an airtight identity, you've done worse undercover work than babysitting a billionaire's kid."

Clint interrupts. "I can't pretend to be someone else around Dick Grayson. I know him. Me. Clint Barton. We were friends when we were kids."

Everyone at the meeting is losing it and Clint stares at them all. "How many circus kids do you think there are? Haley's and Carson's didn't tour together but our paths crossed in the offseason."

That explains why during his afternoon walk home, Dick Grayson comes across his childhood friend, Clint Barton, wearing jeans and a purple tank top, juggling and doing tricks for cash on the street. SHIELD has adjusted Clint Barton's identity so he's down on his luck, busking for spare change because it's hard to get a job when you're a deaf former circus performer with barely a GED.

Of course Dick wants to help and they reconnect. Dick asks Clint to perform at a Wayne gala. The same gala where the goons attempt to grab Dick Grayson. Dick keeps trying to slip out and change into Nightwing but? Somehow? Clint is always behind him? They're both trying to fight off the goons, still in their civvies, each trying to rescue each other while also not giving away their secret idecities,

"Where did you learn to fight like that?"

"I used to be a cop. Where did you learn to fight like that?"

"Would you believe me if I said bar fights?"

When it's all over, there's some disagreement about who is walking who home but Clint insists since Dick was almost kidnapped. Clint gets into his Hawkeye gear and plans to spend the night watching Dick's building for trouble when he sees Nightwing go swinging away from it.

Naturally he follows. Nightwing is meeting with the bats to report on the kidnapping attempt when there's a wild bit of confusion and mistaken identity as one of the bats slams Hawkeye to the ground and demands to know why he's following Nightwing.

Clint's lying there partially stunned at being nearly splattered by one of the robins or something when Nightwing leans over him.

"Clint?"

"Hey, Dick."

Clint and Dick were already friends but that's the story of how Hawkeye meets Nightwing.

(In the sequel, Clint turns up outside Dick's apartment months later. He's wearing multiple bandages, drinking a coffee with the name on the cup horribly misspelled with a K and holding Lucky's leash. He looks at Dick and says, "The Tracksuit Mafia has moved to Bludhaven, you got any plans tonight?")

#hawkeye #clint barton #nightwing #dick grayson

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spacedace · 1 month

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Got inspired by the below tiktok and the idea of the Rogues killing the Joker in revenge for Jason instead of Bruce and had to write about it.

Here, have probably way too many words (with more to come most likely, this really won't leave me alone) of the Rogue's feelings about Jason's death at the Joker's hands and everything that followed.

(also I know the timeline is a bit screwy, shhh just go with it, we're going on vibes with this one lol)

Childhood was not held universally sacred in the dark streets of Gotham.

The city was hard and cruel and she didn’t care about the ages of those that were ground up and spit out in her oily black heart.

A kid could slit your throat as easy as a man grown in a place like their fine city, maybe easier even for those who still fell for the ideal of children being incapable of anything but innocence and sweetness. Children learned from the world around them though, they learned from the savagery that filled their world, the hard scrabble desperate attempts to survive. They learned what dark corners to avoid, which ones were safer to skitter down.

It didn’t mean there weren’t still some rules of decency to be honored though.

Most folks, even those in the circle of the Rogues, largely left kids out of the equation. Crossfire happened of course, hitting busy city centers always meant some kind of collateral. But there wasn’t much that they got out of purposefully hurting kids outside a black mark on their name in most levels of the grungy underbelly of the city and one hell of a big target on their back. Both from the Bat and those criminals in the dark with them that took offense to those kinds of things. They were crooks, but with few exceptions they weren’t complete monsters.

Robin had always held an interesting place in their grungy little ecosystem. Anything to do with the Bat was generally ruled as gloves-off, do what you do without hesitation. And Robin - both of ‘em - had no problem hitting hard and being ruthless. The first one in particular had a feral sort of rage to him that was a terrifying thing to be on the business end of.

But they were still kids.

Defending yourself from any kid swinging on you was fair game, a person had the right to defend themselves. Grabbing up Robin to hold hostage or bait Gotham’s local cryptid, that was all fine and dandy. You could even get away with roughing the kid up a little here and there, so long as you made sure not to go too far and always kept hits to where the kid’s armor was the thickest. No hard and fast written rules, mind, but general rules of thumbs. Lines indistinct due to the shaky ground a child dancing through the night as a vigilante left all of them on, but ones clear enough that you knew when you were at risk of going too far.

Besides, the Robins were good kids. Fucking feral little shits, of course, able to leave you bleeding just as easy from a kick as they were a sharp word. But good kids. Even most the Rogues in the Gallery liked em. It was hard not to be at least a little fond of a gutsy little punk like that.

Though they were all maybe a tad less nervous around Robin II than they were the original.

Robin I had a lot of anger burning in him, a lot of anger in him, but he was still a cheerful boy with a bright attitude that was refreshing in a world so bleak and dark as the one they all lived in. It was up in the air which was scarier about the kid: The smiled he gave when he was about to give a hands on demonstration about how much force a tiny ten year old could put into a kick when they had half a dozen spins shoved into a flip to wind up to 80 miles an hour, or the flash of his teeth when he was demonstrating the knife sharp brilliance of his belief that Batman was only as frightening as Robin was hopeful.

They weren’t sure if he realized that sometimes they felt a helluva lot more hope at the sight of the Bat when the little bird was putting the hurt on them, or if he’d simply folded that fact neatly into his core philosophy without issue.

Robin II on the other hand had this kind of quiet shyness to him - even as he was shouting the most inventive swears ever heard by human ear at someone while he kicked them in the balls hard enough to make ‘em see not just the face of their own god but a few dozen besides. He was just as unhinged as the Robin before him - seemed to be a requirement for the job really - but there was a distinct different in how the two birds flitted about the darkened skyline of the city. Where the first Robin’s smile was as much danger as it was dazzle, a fanged declaration of victory against the dark, Robin II’s was a sunny, stubborn declaration of perseverance. Kid was sassy and smart, and never - ever - flinched away from extending a hand to those he thought in need of it.

Even if the folks he offered that hand to were in the middle of an attack on some fancy Gala or Wayne Enterprises or whatever target of the week it was. Even knowing the offered hand was likely to be slapped away and followed by a right hook. Kid still always tried.

They all knew why.

The Bat was big on offering chances, on rehabilitation rather than damnation. Some of Robin II being the way he was came from the broody cryptid he followed around. But Batman couldn’t claim to be the sole reason for Robin II being the way he was, couldn’t even pretend to be the cause of most of it. Nah, they knew why the little bird was the way he was.

That unmistakable thick accent. That frame that was always a little too thin even as he got older and stronger. That unshakable, headstrong spirit.

Robin II was an Alley Kid.

A true child of Gotham.

Her polluted waters in his veins. Her smoggy air in his lungs. Her shadows clinging to his edges less like a beast looking to swallow a small bird up and more like a protective mother hiding her hatchling. He understood the world most of them came from. The one they all lived in. Knew it in a way anyone who hadn’t been swallowed up by the dark never really could.

Everyone had their favorite, but even those that claimed the first Robin as theirs couldn’t deny that Robin II was someone to be respected. Nor could they deny a fondness for the chain smoking, classic lit referencing, perpetually baby-faced little shit. They’d all had knock out drag out fights with the kid and knew how fucking unhinged the puny motherfucker could be in a fight, but he always tempered it with offers of resources, of a listening ear, of understanding.

He visited them after they’d been arrested sometimes. In Arkham, or Blackgate or wherever else they’d been locked up in after being stopped by the Dynamic Duo. The little bird would make the rounds whenever he had a broken wing or was stuck waiting as the Bat interrogated someone else or for any other reason he wasn’t out flitting about the city skyline at night. He’d bring cookies or snacks and even cigarettes from his own secret stash on the rare occasion, mask unable to hide the furtive glances around to check for the living shadow that was the disapproving Bat.

The Rogues and their Goons always had a soft spot for the Robins. And Robin II made it especially easy to let fondness bleed out of them from time to time. He was a good kid.

But childhood was not held universally sacred in the dark streets of Gotham.

Bad things happened to good kids all the time.

And some of the monsters that lurked in the city’s darkest shadows took the black mark of a kid killer as a point of pride.

Robin II disappeared one day. Just after that piece of shit Garzonas took the fast way down from the top of a tall building. There were a lot of Rogues with doctoral degrees to their names but even those Goons that dropped out of school before they learned to spell their own names could do that math.

The big bad Bat had benched the boy after the fierce little bird had done what any decent member of the criminal underbelly would have. There were those that thought maybe it’d been an accident, that the kid was pulled off duty because of being too upset at unintentionally crossing the heavy line the Bat drew in the sand. Those voices were drowned out pretty quick though.

Sure, Robin II was all about second chances, of doing better, of redemption. But Garzonas had chances to spare and only ever spat in the face of those offering them. Doubled down on being a monster in a way very, very few of the Rogues Gallery would. The kid was a sweetheart, but he wasn’t no push over and there were some things so heinous that there was only one way of handling them. Crime Alley had its own kind of justice system, and when faced with a monster that was beyond even Batman’s jurisdiction, Robin II did what he always did: fell back on his roots.

Or so the rumors said, at least.

That was the thing about Gotham’s seedy underbelly. It was a grimy, wretched nest of vipers and cut-throats, but it was also worse than any beauty parlor when it came to gossip. No one actually knew anything other than that piece of shit motherfucker took a dive while Robin was chasing him and that he’d not been seen on the streets since. But most had a fondness for the kid, and a distaste for the kind of cruelty Garzonas reveled in and there was no proof that Robin hadn’t gone and done the world a favor by drop kicking that barbaric sack of shit off a roof. So as far as most in the Gallery were concerned, the little bird had stepped up and been a hero.

Time passed. Not a lot. But enough. The Bat disappeared too, popping up on an entire other continent in a way that was awfully tempting. Even with other Masks playing baby sitter while the local cryptid was away. Rogues were scrambling to set plans in motion, Goons getting hired en masse, weapons and weird chemicals getting delivered to shady places across Gotham by the truck-full. The criminal underbelly was abuzz with the same excited energy of children the day before a big birthday party.

And then the news came in.

There were people in the dark who made their living finding things out. Knowing things that no one else did or could. Some even specialized, keeping tabs on Batman and Robin better than anyone else in the business were able. And when the information they found wasn’t anything handy to have tucked into a back pocket or a secret they were paid extremely well to keep? They held on to with the same tenacity a sieve clung to water.

Robin II had run off across the globe and ended up in Ethiopia. Something to do with a doctor doing aid work, the same something that had the Bat end up there was the assumption. Kid ran off to handle things himself or was sent on a separate path on purpose for some plan or other the Bat had cooked up on his hunt.

Whatever the reason, the kid crossed paths with the Clown.

Alone.

Childhood was not held universally sacred in the dark streets of Gotham. The city was hard and cruel and she didn’t care about the ages of those that were ground up and spit out in her oily black heart. But Robin II was hers, the child of her heart, an exception to the rule. And besides, most folks - even those in the Rogues Gallery - largely left the purposeful harm of kids out of the equation.

The Joker wasn’t most folks.

And the little bird was a long way away from the protective shadows of his mother city.

The Rogues and their Goons always had a soft spot for the Robins. And Robin II made it especially easy to let fondness bleed out of them from time to time. He was a good kid.

When the news broke, it broke most of them right along with it.

Plans stalled. Schemes ended. Gotham, for an unnervingly quiet stretch of time that neither its civilians or the world at large understood, went still. Crime continued, of course, but the big names weren’t seen. It was only right, by the standards of those that lived their lives in the dark, that they hold off and give the man that fought them all so relentlessly over the past years the time he needed to focus on hunting down the monster that killed his son. He didn’t need the distraction, and they all owed it to Robin II not to interfere while the Bat at last put a final end to the Clown.

And the hellish cryptid would need his full focus on this one. The Joker wasn’t one to take lightly at the best of times, but he’d set himself up neatly in the middle of a nasty bear trap. Ugly and complicated in the way everything with the Clown was. Interference from the CIA, from the UN, from Superman.

Shit went down. People heard about the Bat and the Clown throwing down in a helicopter plummeting from the sky in one hell of a water landing. Big Blue fished Batman out of the drink before he could drown but there’d been no sign of the Joker.

But the Bat would find him.

They all knew the relentless bastard would find him. It was just a matter of time. With the hellish drive of a demon straight from Gotham’s darkest shadows, the Bat would track the grinning, child killing ghoul down and make right the terrible wrong the evil motherfucker had done. Batman would hunt him to the ends of the earth and enact the justice he held up so fiercely. Robin II would have the vengeance the kid so rightly deserved.

It was just a matter of time. So they waited. And waited.

Days.

Weeks.

Months.

The Clown still lived.

The world, impossibly, began to move on. The Bat returned to his lurking in the night, picking off gangs and petty crooks and no-name gangsters as if nothing had happened at all. More vicious, more savage, but failing to turn that rise in brutality into the killing blow against the one figure that so rightly deserved it.

No one knew what was happening. There were rumors and theories, as there always were in the underground. Some thought that it wasn’t the Bat at all back in Gotham but someone else pretending for awhile, looking after his neglected city while he continued his pursuit of the Joker. Other held that it was the Bat but the whole thing was a ploy to draw the Clown out into the open. A pretense at not caring meant to get under the Clown’s skin, make the asshole mad enough to get stupid and sloppy and reveal himself.

That the man simply had given up was beyond comprehension. Beyond what any upstanding Rogue could accept. So it simply couldn’t be true. There was a trick being played. Some brilliant game of 4D chess that none of them had been able to parse out. It’d be revealed in time, and they see the brilliant trap that had been set. The Clown would be lured out, the Bat would put him down for good, and then they’d all at last raise a glass to the little bird that had been shot down far too soon and smoke shitty cigarettes and quote literary masters and mourn the loss one of Gotham’s own true children.

They just had to play along. Stumbling forward back into their usual habits, pretending that it was a choice and not the world just forcibly dragging them along. It’d make sense, eventually. The Bat had a plan. Robin II wasn’t forgotten, his killer not left free to roam and ravage unpunished for what he’d done.

And then one day there was a new bird flitting across the rooftops.

Chasing the Bat’s looming frame like a reverse shadow. Bright flashes of color in contrast to the bleak darkness of Gotham’s grimy nights. Small and thin and young.

Not the first Robin. With his showman bright grin and bloody rage and unwavering belief in the terrifying power of hope. Not the brilliant, vicious little boy that they’d seen grow over the years into the fierce and fearless Nightwing.

Not Robin II either.

Not Gotham’s soft hearted little bruiser with his unshakable belief that people could be better if given the chance, shinning so bright in the dark as he held out a hand that even the Rogues had no choice but to believe right along with him sometimes. Not the tough little songbird they’d never get to see grow up. Unavenged and unhonored. Put in a box and buried in the ground with a name none of them would ever know carved into a stone they’d never be able to visit.

No.

It was a new Robin.

A new child with the R emblazoned upon his chest.

Sharp and quick and young in the way the birds always were when they started flying at the Bat’s side. Every inch of the boy’s tiny frame a tragedy and an insult. One very, very few of Gotham’s vicious underbelly were willing to tolerate.

Childhood was not held universally sacred in the dark streets of Gotham, but there was a damn big difference between holding something sacred and not giving a damn about it at all. There were rules unspoken but understood, a way things were done. Nothing so solid or concrete as a code of conduct, more a collection of time honored traditions. Blood for blood was among the oldest and truest, and the more precious the person taken the more vital and vicious payment was to be made in kind.

The Clown had killed Robin II.

Beaten the kid half to death and then finished the job with a bomb.

Everyone knew he’d done it laughing all the way.

The Bat should have done the same in kind. Done worse. It was justice, it was what was right. You kill a kid you’re marked forever. You kill one so well liked and kill ‘em like that and you’re destined for a cruel and cold death. The Bat had first dibs. It was his kid. It was his right to put an end to that awful laughter and let his son have peace at last.

But he never did.

Nightwing had. For a bit. For a moment.

Robin I, who half the time had scared them all more than the Bat ever could. Dazzling and dizzying and dangerous. Gave back the pain and hurt the Clown had forced upon him with clenched fists and bone shattering hits. They were glad for him, that he was able to beat the monster who had taken his little brother from him to death, that he was able to have such justice.

And then the Bat stepped in.

Revived the fucking Clown.

A slap in the face. The snapping crack of a spine beneath one straw too many. The final, unforgivable insult the man had dared visit upon not just the child taken from him but the entirety of Gotham.

The Rogues and their Goons always had a soft spot for the Robins. Respected their ferocity, admired their moxie, marveled at their ability to keep shining in the dark like they did. Robin II made it especially easy to let fondness bleed out of the city’s dirty criminal underbelly from time to time.

He was a good kid.

He deserved better.

Better than the silence and peace he should be granted in death to be marred by the mad cackles of his killer still running around alive and unpunished. Better than his father giving up, returning to the same old routine as if nothing had happened at all. Better than the Bat snatching up a new bird less than a year later.

Gotham and her Rogues had given the Bat time enough to do what needed to be done.

It was their turn.

#batman #batman au #batman rogues #batman rouges gallery #dc penguin #dick grayson #jason todd #jason todd robin #dick grayson robin #bruce wayne #the joker #tim drake #dc robin #gotham city #open season au #i don't go in for Jason being the 'angry' robin or the 'violent' robin #he was the lil chainsmoking ball of sunshin robin that made sure to do his homework first before going out to fight crime #dick was the scariest robin because he was BOTH incredibly violent & full of rage AND a ball of sunshine & unrelenting hope #Jason was a Gotham kid (an Alley Kid) and I think a lot of the rogues would have respected that #dick got his respect by teaching them how many of their bones a tiny 9 year old could break in a single kick #feel like there's a scene in the extended au in which Tim gets kidnapped but instead of being held for ransom or threatened #it's just the Rogues aggressively mother-henning him and trying to make sure he's alright #Dick gets a call from Harley later that the newest Robin is fine he and Riddler are coming up with deadly traps together #No she doesn't see anything wrong with that - it's just some enrichment activities for them - why do you ask?

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sucroseswife · 7 months

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Seriously, don’t break the law

Wriothesley x gn! Reader [part 1]

Wriothesley with a reader who keeps breaking the law on accident, continuously getting multiple small sentences. Despite being a relatively good citizen, your run ins with Furina’s more obscure laws repeatedly lands you in the Fortress.

It started off small. Wriothesley didn’t pay much attention to your first arrival, as he receives many criminals every day. You were in for the small offense of naming your dog “furina”, thinking it would be cute.

He got a good laugh out of reading your trial record though. You had no attorney and no defense other than demanding why such a stupid rule was even in place (“it’s not even offensive!” You had cried to the court to no avail)

Poor Neuvillette said nothing, sentencing you to 2 nights at the fortress of meropide with a sigh

(He had found you later, offering a small apology and suggesting you read up on Fontaine’s… stranger laws to avoid such accidents again.)

During your two night stay, you only met the duke once—

You peaked your head into the infirmary, subtly trying to check if this was the right room. The cut on your hand throbbed with pain but you ignored it the best you could. Those machines were more dangerous than you thought. Inside were two figures, one significantly shorter than the other.

…was that a kid? You honestly couldn’t tell, but she looked no older than 11. Perhaps she was the child of that much taller figure who was- quite good looking, actually-

“Gonna stand there all day?” The good looking man asked, raising an eyebrow. Fuck.

“Sorry!” You said, rushing in. “Are you, uh… the nurse?”

Before he could respond, your attention was drawn to the smaller figure who swiftly took your hand, an expression of concern on her face.

“I am the head nurse, Sigewine. Please have a seat and I’ll start treatment right away!”

You couldn’t help but swoon over how cute the little melusine was, her professionalism contrasting her appearance. As she ran away to fetch some gauze, your eyes trailed back to mr. Tall Hot Man. He was observing you silently. When you met his gaze, he smiled in a wolfish manner.

“You’re y/n, I take it?”

You nodded. “And you are…?”

“Wrioth-” “He’s the Duke of the fortress of meropide, Wriothesley!” Sigewine butted in, beginning to clean your wounds. You paled. Had you really been thinking about your warden like a piece of meat? …maybe you were a criminal after all.

Wriothesley looked mildly annoyed at being outed as the Duke, but quickly let it go. His smile returned.

“I’ve read your file… seems you’re only with us for another day. We don’t usually see such short sentences around here.”

“Oh, yes… well I hardly committed a crime at all!” you said, anger and indignation returning to you once more.

“Hm…” he said, pretending to consider. “breaking the law is breaking the law, I’m afraid.” Wriothesley took great satisfaction n the way you spluttered, rushing to defend yourself.

“No really, what kind of laws are these?! Even the Iudex couldn’t explain— and the legal codex he gave me… ‘ketchup shall only be used as a condiment and not consumed by itself’? Are you serious?”

Wriothesley wanted to laugh at the image of the overworked Chief Justice having to enforce Furina’s questionable laws, but held back. Sigewine had finished her work, patting your hand gently.

“Y/n, please use this medicine to clean your wound twice a day. And don’t forget to change your bandages.”

You nodded. “Thank you, miss Sigewine. Am I all set then?”

She nodded happily. “Yep! Stay safe please!”

You smiled at Wriothesley, slightly sheepish after your outburst. “Sorry, please don’t extend my sentence for yelling.”

He didn’t look like he was going to extend anything, though. His expression was one of amusement and something else you couldn’t quite place. Before you could leave, he gently took your injured hand in his, inspecting the cleaned and covered wound. He made a small noise of disapproval before speaking.

“If you ever end up back here— which I hope will not happen… there’s no need for you to work at the production zone. Just find me and I’ll figure something out.”

You blushed slightly before nodding. “Alright”

Was that normal? Didn’t all prisoners have to work?

Well, it didn’t matter. Not like you were planning to get arrested again. You said your goodbyes to the very beautiful and generous duke before leaving the infirmary.

Sigewine immediately knew something was up. The girl is an expert in reading human emotions

From the moment you had stepped in, your eyes were practically glued to Wriothesley, and his glued to you

Not to mention how the duke’s demeanor had softened considerably as he continued talking to you… and his suggestion at the end?! She had never seen him offer anything like that before.

Yes, there was no doubt in Sigewine’s mind that his grace was more into you than he was letting on

It’s such a shame you would be released the next day, never to come back to the fortress again!

…or so she thought

Unfortunately for you, your bad luck with Fontaine’s law had only just begun.

Notes: I want him sooo bad omg. Ignore the fact that neuv would probably never sentence someone to meropide for a crime this small it’s for the plot ok

#wriothesley #wriothesley x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact #fluff #comedy #crack

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tarjapearce · 4 months

Text

Chapter 5: Another Pillar Crumbles

WARNINGS: Emotional distress, confrontations, awkward truth and talks, mentions of adoption, Implied mentions of abortion, character background, No Proofread.

Summary: Karma has begun it's harvest.

A/N: Thanks for the wait, had so much fun writing this one ❤️. Feedback is highly appreciated ☺️.

As much as hiding temporarily from society and their stigma seemed a too comforting getaway, the world and time didn't stop. Ever perpetual, ticking unceasingly through your daily basis. Withering and eroding everything within it's endless realm.

A pregnancy was just one of the many creative ways human beings had came up to measure the unstoppable force. Ten weeks. You were now ten weeks pregnant, even though baby bump was barely noticeable, you knew a creature grew and latched within. Depending completely on you.

Blissfully ignorant on the fact that you depended on many other things to keep you and itself alive. You sometimes yearned that blissful sort of cluelessness back. But plucky you had managed through the tides like an unwilling champ. Reluctant but victorious.

Alot was a limp and short statement of what you've gone through, but MJ, your rock, voice of hope and invaluable help have kept you afloat when you were drowning in a sea of uncertainty.

With a sigh and somehow nervous hands, you smoothened back the rebel baby hairs in the sides that stood proud and open to meet the air and sun. Image code still vividly present in the current underpaid job.

Once you were done looking less spooked and anxious, you entered your manager's office, to try and get some knowledge about the perks of your current condition and see if there was any changes, income wise. Maybe the benefits were as good as you've heard through indistinct conversations around the cafeteria, and mindless talk passing by your work station.

And perhaps you'd have the chance to actually increase a number on your paycheck or at least, see if you had any chances in that administration program.

Gotta dream a bit.

-----

Unlike the outcome of David and Goliath, David, meaning you, weren't able to defeat the giant behind the corporative desk and machines filled with shared data.

You didn't give details, just shared enough to get what you needed. Even though sharing pregnancy news before the twelve week mark was considered a tabboo and bad luck, it was merely out of precautions to deem the pregnancy certain and safe to continue.

Like an official confirmation since miscarriage lurked hard around during those weeks, you wanted to see if staying in Alchemax was worth the criminally offensive side eyes you'd get either from Dana or Miguel.

But this Goliath had been merciful enough to spare some slack and explain you a couple of tiny benefits that would serve somehow in a future. If you ended up being elegible for it that is.

Twelve weeks of paid maternity leave, protected job and reintegration to labor as soon as it ended. But even so, the talks about a raise were futile and the program had been postponed until further notice.

Optimism was lacking in big strides, not that you used it by feeling it constantly, but in this predicament you needed it. Specially upon looking at the expenses of giving birth to a baby the other day after MJ left.

Thousands after thousands over birth. If it wasn't for the community women care centers that helped you to ease the blows in your wallet, you'd be inevitably and irremediably financially fucked. Insurance could only cover up so much, and accepting aid from it's irresponsible sperm donor wasn't a choice.

Like if I would.

In truth, you hoped he'd forget about it and leave things as they were. It was clear Miguel didn't want you or his mistake snooping around his already tarnished illusion of a perfect man, for once you were mindful of his needs and kept yourself away in every possible chance, going to the extent to look up into his schedule to avoid him, even if accidentally for your mental sake.

The answer was clear so try and reason with him was a waste of breath. Not that you needed him, and if you did, you'd get help somewhere else. Nueva York was full of willing hands to aid.

As soon as you came out from the manager's office, your phone buzzed, MJ's contact number shining in your screen as you took the device and opened her message.

Got some interesting adoption program's information you might like to take a look.

Just as she had promised, her help was unwavering, solid as the role she played in your crumbling life. Adoption didn't weight on your shoulders, after all, it was an all too familiar yet difficult old friend of yours.

Only one family from the previous five you had sojourned in had met the requirements for the paperwork, back when the sixteens were still a thing on you. But even so, the adoption wasn't available since mother was nowhere to be found to relinquish the full custody of your rights.

Eyes raked over and over the screen, rereading and learning unintentionally the message as your feet guided idly back to your work spot through the long and devoid of people hall, the sound of heels clicking echoed through closer and closer, but you didn't pay attention to the road ahead, until you collided with an unexpected someone. The smart device slipped off your hand to bounce on the floor.

"Shit-"

"No, no. Let me."

Dana wiggled her hands to prevent you from squatting as she quickly picked up the phone as she held a clipboard on the other hand. Her own meeting in the agro-market department had just finished, and she took the hall as a shortcut. Mind filled with mental notes of what she just discussed with her peers that quickly vanished upon stumbling on you.

Throat went immediately dry as the palpitations in your heart rumbled within the bone enclosure of your ribcage. Eyes darted downwards while accepting the trinket back, unable to meet her eyes; stomach churning at her undeserving and selfless act. Your eyes darted both ways of the hall, there was none around to prowl over the conversation that unavoidably was about to unfold.

You knew Dana was looking, seizing your presence with perusing eyes. Neither of you moved, either too unsure and stunned on what to do next, or too aware of what the accidental meeting epitomised.

Dana's lip twitched to speak but stopped, instead her hand rubbed her face, an habit Miguel had projected on her after so many years of living together.

Your jaw had clenched so hard your teeth ground together, breath hitched on on your windpipe. Palms began sweating, and still no visual contact.

Dana braced herself, and averted her sky blue eyes away from you for a second, only to land at your abdomen. The burn of her unceasing stare made you cover that area in a meek attempt to conceal your shame.

"Nine weeks, right?"

A shaky breath was released from you, to finally nod. Her shoes were the same as that fateful day you released her from her curse. Voice nearly a hushed whisper only you were able to hear.

"Ten, actually. But... I'm so sorry, Miss D'Angelo."

"Stop. Jesus, stop apologizing."

Blue eyes adorned with wispy eyelashes blinked away the emerging tears, to stare at your face.

Blameworthy, ashamed, confused and definitely scared. The remnants of her slap long vanished; and still you looked ready to take another.

"Sorry for the slap. Should've-" Dana swallowed with difficulty. The name in her mind brought too many memories that she still struggled to flush away out of her system through an emotional detox. Mess still way too piping hot to swallow. But even so, guilt from that slap had chipped away her conscience.

"Should've slapped Miguel again."

"It was never my intention to come between you two."

"I know. I" She paused before heaving a defeated breath, "I believe you. You didn't fight back. I wished you did though."

Of course you didn't, if one thing you were taught through your different stays at the fosters homes was to own your mistakes. Even if them costed you big time and consequences were hard.

"That way I wouldn't be feeling guilty for hitting you."

Dana's lips pursed once she locked eyes with you. Both pairs full of mutual pain and a twisted sense of understanding, empathy and a guilt. Her once misdirected hatred and resentment had returned to the original source, leaving her with a cautious and curious gaze when it came to you.

"You... Will you get rid of the baby?"

You had to blink a couple of times before eyes widened at her, to then look down. Letting the new wave of shame wash over you with its coldness. The windows rattled softly as a gust of air blew over them, dividing your attention in their direction for a second before returning to the woman before you.

"I-I tried."

Dana couldn't help but let the tears she was trying with all her might to keep inside to flow, quivering mouth covered with her dainty palm, while her perturbed gaze turned into a judging one that faded on your next words:

"But I couldn't. I... I can't." Another sigh, "I won't."

The brunette voice cracked as she wiped her eyes, "Why?"

"Not to spite you, that's for sure. I was too much of a coward to do so."

"Then why keep the baby? It makes no sense, unless-"

"No, no. Let me stop you right there, Dana."

She flinched at the way your voice pronounced her name. It wasn't disrespectful but rather firm, drawing a boundary she clearly was pushing by the implicit accusation between lines.

"I've worked in this place for two and a half years. In those years, I've never seen Miguel. Hell, not even you knew who I was until you heard my conversation with him in the parking lot."

Dana's throat also became arid upon remembering that all too vivid scene she hoped to forget one day.

"You really think I'd like to involve myself with him after what he did? Miguel never explained what truly happened. Hell, I was on contraceptives and he used protection, but here I am, knocked up. You really, really think I'd want someone like that?"

Dana kept wiping away her eyes the more she listened to you. Truth permeating her to the core, and it proved to be too much for her squishable heart.

"I don't, and I mean it. I don't know what kind of relationship you two had, but I'd never, ever would pursue something with a compromised man. Let alone with one that was about to get married! I just wanna be left alone."

Your hands moved while gesturing as Dana's hand raked a bit rough on her scalp. She wanted to rip her hair and cry until her tear supplies were dry. She had been the winner to wear the fool mask Miguel invested upon her.

"You think it's easy to see you around? Knowing that you'll be a mother of the man I loved?"

Although her words were clearly trying to provoke, you didn't bait into them, since you knew that she was also having issues assimilating these too hard to swallow pills.

"I know you're angry. I understand, but what would you do if you were in my position? Let's stop being hypocritical and pass the blame ball to eachother for a moment. What would you do?" Dana's arms crossed on her chest, she was now the one unable to meet your eyes

"I'm not scared. I'm terrified! I wanted to disappear forever when I saw the results. But that won't solve shit. You think I don't feel bad? I feel dirty, ashamed, used even!" The hushed whispers evolved into a firmer tone

"Cause every time I see you, I feel like a fucking homewrecker! But I had no idea!" You hissed, trying to keep the conversation between the two of you, "And now I am to see how the fuck I'm gonna deal with all of this mess the coward of your ex did, cause he was thinking with his dick, until adoption comes."

"A-Adoption?"

The word alone had frozen the brunette's raging and conflicting emotions almost instantly.

"You're-"

"I'm giving the baby for adoption."

This made Dana stare almost too incredulous at you.

"A-Are you?"

Your head gave a brief nod.

"I promise that I won't come close to you or Miguel. I truly don't want anything to do with you or him."

"No, no.... You... You must keep the baby. I could never-"

"You could never, that's true! You. But not everyone wants to be or knows how to be a mother, Dana. I'm so sorry if you aren't able. I wished, believe me, I wished this" you pointed at your abdomen, "Was where it belonged. Inside you. Not me."

Dana's reasoning bubble had been popped with your words. An abysmal difference from your own progenitors. While yours had tried to strangle you in a frenzied and abstinence episode from her addiction, Dana's was brushing her hair and showering her in affection.

"Not everyone is a good mother. And keeping the baby to find out is not only selfish and stupid. But so very damaging, you have no idea" Your own voice cracked, trailing off in a muffled whimper upon the last syllables, it took you some seconds to regain the strenght in your tinge, "That's why I'm giving it for adoption."

The pain behind your final choice prevented her from doing more questions. Your own musings had tugged her heartstrings.

"I'm truly sorry you had to know this way. I wanted to tell you but, he always intimidated me."

Dana truly didn't know whether to thank you or shut you up, because every time you opened your mouth to speak, a new trait of Miguel she never knew and he never exhibited appeared. She had been gulled the past few months to believe that everything was going alright.

But she didn't need convincing words from others, not when she had experienced and heard in the very front seats, live and on spot, the true colors he hid underneath his sultry exterior.

She was about to marry a liar, deceiver, cheater and phony coward, that attempted to pay you to erase his biggest fuck ups. And now, said outcome gestated within you, growing stronger and taking shape with each passing day.

Dana wondered briefly if the baby would look like him, but the road ahead you had started to pave was everything but easy. The implications of your disturbing awareness made it clear there was something else in between lines, but it would mean to push a boundary she had no right to cross.

Not when you were assuming the consequences, unlike Miguel, that had tried to talk her through it. Really believing he still had a chance to win her back.

Dana knew that there were times when Miguel thought her stupid, but bright enough to keep his ego stroked on the constant praise she gave at his intelligence, that rightfully had earned him a spot at the lab research department.

Her father, Darko D'Angelo, was one of the council members in Alchemax. One of the few that actually had a final say on everything. He'd demote Miguel to a lesser charge, but sadly, firing was not an option for him. The eldest O'Hara had proven to be one of the most proficient agents within.

Sadly, his personal life was an ugly and jagged mess, and if anyone knew, many things surely would change.

"I don't know the reasons, nor your circumstances, but good luck."

It was all Dana could say before leaving you alone in the hall. Each parting in opposite ways, the talk had been talked and hopefully this gave a better perspective on each. Your feet hurt from the standing.

She wanted a child, but you didn't. Yet was civil enough to empathize for a moment with you to not pry further behind your choices.

You returned to the reception and Dana to her office.

The elder men didn't understand why they were gathered in one of the meeting rooms, instead of a lab.

The projector was turned on as each was given a fresh copy of a paper file by Miguel. Some of the higher ups had greeted him with enthusiasm, others were genuinely confused at their presence there, but were polite enough to remain quiet and watch the exposition unfolding before them.

The Biosynthesis of Insulin Within The Human Body

The title said. The window's electric curtains were drawn, leaving the room in a dim light to redirect the focus back on the enlightened board.

Miguel stood proudly on a side, with a laser pen, ready to show his investigation through.

"Good evening, gentlemen. Thanks for making a time in your busy agendas to be here this evening."

The men smiled politely at him, one of them took a swig of the bottled water as Miguel continued talking.

"I've been working on this research on my own for quite a time. And now that it has reached it's completion, it's fair to share it with you. Let us begin."

The sterile air in the room was polluted by the variety of colognes trying to make their presence known, some smelled like expensive whiskey and cigars, others like sweat and anxiety, but most smelled like power. A smell Miguel sure believed it'd be better on him.

He was already the third in command in the lab, a manager of the sorts, but he wanted the chair the old retired man left vacant. That's where he felt more comfortable in.

Not his simple and secluded office, like the rest of workers. He deserved more, so it was his turn to get it. Miguel was set to get that chairman position, and his confidence only grew when he saw Darko among the powerful lot.

He started the exposition by giving a simple context that slowly and with the right words evolved into something that would definitely make Alchemax a main supplier to a bunch of pharmaceutical chains.

Miguel then explained the pros and cons, and how the pros weighed more than the cons. In simple words, how using a bacteria would make them richer.

And all thanks to him. Miguel's heart bounced in joy whenever he saw the higher ups discussing and making numbers, and nodding to eachother.

Almost there.

He could already feel the different airs of a new office in the upper floor, the vacant spot for a new assistant, and the new title in his paycheck.

He was already Dr. O'Hara, a PhD backing him up, hung on his dull white office wall.

By the time the presentation ended, the round of applauses filled the room. Miguel's lips stretched in a fake modest yet proud smile.

"In my long career years here in Alchemax, never have I known a collaborator that offers so much potential, like you do, Dr. O'Hara."

Miguel ignored the collaborator part and nodded politely at the chairman as they shook hands.

"It's one of the many projects I have under my sleeve, sir."

"Oh please, I'd be more than willing to put this one in my agenda. Have you presented this to your boss?"

Miguel stared at the shorter man, confusion fogging his mind.

"Excuse me, uh, what? What boss?"

"The Chairman from the Lab Research department."

An awkward titter escaped Miguel as he removed his glasses.

"I... I think there must be a mistake, as far as I know, the chairman position for the Lab department is still available, right?"

Most of the men before him frowned briefly to then chuckle, finally getting the hint at where his words and the whole thing was going.

"Oh no, Dr. O'Hara. That position has been already occupied by Dr. Delgado."

De todos los que pudieron elegir, escogen a ese pendejo... (From all they could've picked, they choose that dipship)

Miguel forced a gentle smile in his face, "Ah, I see. Excuse my confusion-"

"Still, I'm sure this project would make a fantastic addition to the main files in the headboard."

"We'll let you know about the upcoming meeting."

Darko spoke as Miguel tried with all his might to not look as rigid as the marble statue in the corner of the now emptying office.

Some even dared to pat his shoulder and congratulated him for being a remarkable employee. That only fueled his rage.

One of them, Sully McCain, the one that had fed his hopes up approached cautiously, with a sigh.

"I tried my best to suggest you-"

"Suggest!?"

Sully flinched visibly upon having Miguel’s glare on him.

"You think that we're all taken in consideration when it comes to big decisions? Ha..."

The elder man pulled a small whiskey container and took a nervous swig.

"That's not how it works, Miguel."

"You said that I was going to be the next chairman."

"That until the rest had a secret meeting and the new chairman for your department was picked."

Sully shrugged nonchalantly.

"I really tried to bring you in, but-"

"But what?! You think I worked on this to get a well done star on my fucking forehead, Sully?"

"I think you are starting to forget one little detail that can screw you over."

Miguel's hands fisted into tight balls in each side of his hulking and ready to pounce form.

"Are you threatening me, Sully?"

"No. I'm just reminding you that even though we're somehow colleagues, I can still fire you."

Sully didn't know if it was the alcohol pushing a bit of more bravado in his veins, or the constant push and trample he often received from the rest that finally made him lash out. Miguel's arrogance had been the last drop.

"But let's not dwell into it. I'm sorry that I couldn't fulfil your goal. But based on your reaction, I can tell you're not ready for such responsibility yet."

Pouty and meaty lips gaped in disbelief, Miguel could only watch Sully go, leaving him alone with his turmoil.

Without knowing, McCain's talk had touched a sensitive nerve within. A nerve that had him heaving infuriated breaths, baring his feet to none in particular but himself and his mind racing with so many things it was impossible to shut it off.

Fuck him.

Shaky hands squeezed the projector's remote a bit too tightly to turn it off, to then be passive aggressively placed where it belonged.

Paper files long forgotten on the desk, except for one. All of it a waste of his money. He threw one at the trash.

His resources, he tore another. But most importantly, his time. He slammed the rest of files to the trash.

All to waste. His shoulder's rose erratically as he closed a bit too forceful the briefcase. The insides of his cheek were chewed to the point of copper blooming in his taste buds.

The petty in him wouldn't share the project, in fact, he'd make sure to delete the emails with the digital copy he sent to the old bunch. If they wouldn't have him as an equal, they wouldn't have his ideas nor his intellect.

But Sully, oh fucking Sully McCain. How could he be so gullible enough to fall for promises of power when not even he was considered in the decision making of Alchemax. When he was mere a public figure that occasionally displayed the little power he had.

But how dared he threatening him? How that old sag of flesh and bones had dared to threaten with firing him?

One of his main pillars crumbled, the opportunity of growth he was promised when he started working for the multinational, laid shut in a casket, that he was forced to bury, since the rest just gave him a pity but mocking look.

He was the fool for them, a buffoon to believe in such politician-like premises. And now, he was left empty handed, intellectually drained and physically strained.

Idle walks wired his way to the parking lot. Steps nearly turned into jogs, he needed to get away from that office and from the building. His car came into view but also something else. You.

Too absort with the bagel in your hand and eating against your car's door that didn't notice his glaring across the parking lot. Eyes raked over your stomach.

Have you gotten rid of it? Probably. You couldn't also fail him in being even more stupid, but a little voice in his head, echoed inside his mind with a simple word.

Karma.

He scoffed while deactivating the alarm in his car.

He didn't believe in such foolishness. To what people called karma, he just called it people being stupid and taking the wrong decisions. Maybe he was stupid to believe that a weakling in the chain of command would get him places instead of trusting in his instincts.

But the adventurous and subversive part of his brain that harbored his intrusive thoughts, wondered if everything was more than a coincidence.

It is not.

It was not. He refused to believe in anything that wasn't measured, quantifiable or supported by facts.

You had supported every single word that came out that pretty mouth he enjoyed devouring, but that now bit him and his ego so hard that he could still feel the wound pulsating and

He wasn't whoring around like you assumed. That's why he had Dana for. He was selective, even when it came to women, and to his luck, you had been exactly just that. His type. Gorgeous and ready to get what you wanted.

It only added a new wave of heat to his already scorching fury.

You weren't his karma. And certainly didn't believe in such buffoonery that had people acting righteous in order to avoid it.

No, the people he had the mistake to confide in were simply morons to not take him instead of that Delgado guy. Aaron Delgado. He had worked with him before, and if there was something life could give Miguel some credit for, was that he actually worked unlike the bastard that surely had to sell out either his ass or his competence to get that position.

The bootlicker could finally brag about it to the rest of the lab. The briefcase was tossed in the passenger seat, while his eyes remained on you.

You looked concerned, but the little piece of bread smeared in something sweet seemed to comfort you enough while you now scrolled through your phone. Cheeks a bit chubbier than the last time he recalled, a natural process of pregnancy, but even so, you looked good, lovely even.

He glared.

You'd get rid of it, he knew so. You had to. Even if the rest of his life was taking a sour turn, he knew you would get what you needed to live your life the way it was.

If he could, he'd pat himself in the shoulder for such feat. If he was a different kind of man, he wouldn't even had offered his help. You got inside your car while taking a call.

He huffed, and got inside into his. He had to pack in and return to his old place. Roomier and more to his likings, secluded from prying and judging eyes.

Maybe one day this whole fiasco would be forgotten and he'd find a better position within the Alchemax hierarchy.

But right now, he needed to get some plastic containers to start officially his move out. Even though relearning how to manage on his own proved a tiny inconvenience, he was more than capable of surviving alone.

His engine purred alive, and he drove off, hoping that Dana's place was alone. He didn't have the mind for her accusing yapping.

But little did Miguel knew that life had him on his sight, and karma had already indicted him. And he was found guilty.

---

Taglist:

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#miguel o'hara #t writes✨#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #atsv miguel #Of Flowers and Hummingbirds #spiderman 2099 fanfiction #miguel ohara #miguel o'hara fanfiction #miguel x y/n #miguel x you #miguel x reader #miguel o'hara angst

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hotchfiles · 3 months

Text

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ❝ 7 minutes in heaven hell ❞ ─ a kiss with a fist blurb ; NSFW!

pairing: lawstudent!aaron hotchner x lawstudent!reader. summary: getting a law degree is a pain, especially if you end up sharing the same classes with someone as competitive as you. or: academic rivals to lovers get heated up on a game of 7 minutes in heaven. content warnings: foul language. alcohol consumption. weed consumption. very steamy make out in a dark locked small room. this is an AU (i was lazy to make it year appropriate, so it's set today). relationship status on this blurb: academic rivals on the same friend group. word count: 1.5k

one spot. you read the notice by the door and feel your insides burn, your eyes search for something and it's easy to find it, he's glancing back not far from you, the same passion, the same burn crossing his face.

the best internship had opened one spot. you could have the chance to work under the best professor on campus. hotchner was thinking the same thing as you, you knew it: there was no way you would let him take your spot. you two weren't competing with the rest of the second years, you were competing with each other.

"i saw the notice first, don't fucking dare." his threatening tone comes between gritted teeth and it makes you laugh as you enter the classroom.

"hotch darling, i'm not even going to pretend to listen to that." your reply comes in teasing as it always did, your eyes glued to your phone as you typed in your information in the website provided on the notice.

your little feud began during the first year, very early on as you two competed to get professors' attention when questions were asked, each trying to come up with a response faster. but it was solidified when you scored slightly higher than him on your criminal law test–his path of choice after graduating. of course the problem wasn’t really the fact you scored higher, but it was how you decided to smear it on his face every time the opportunity came to you.

the thing about constantly fighting for the top that not many people talk about is how isolating it can be, that was probably why the top 7 of your classes ended up flocking together, the bunch of you were always the ones at the library, always the first ones to get to class and the last to leave, it got to a point that talking to each other and being friends was the natural course of action, even if you all knew there was no limits when it came to sabotage if necessary, no offense taken.

you didn’t mind it, you didn’t see them as competitors, the only one in the group who had the same drive and the same talent as you was aaron hotchner, he was the enemy. your only real rival.

and at this moment your rival was right in front of you, sitting in a circle on the floor of two of your friends’ apartment, cheap beer in hand and stupid smile across his face. his cheeks are red from how much he’s drunk already and it annoys you how sweet he looks like this when you know he can be an absolute asshole when he feels like it. and he always feels like it when it comes to you.

“guess all of you already signed up for the selection, yeah?” one of the girls comments, coming back to the circle with chips and a joint to pass around. every single one of you hums. “joseph’s dad works with her, don’t think any of us have a chance.”

“joseph? who’s that?” aaron is annoyed already, why even ask students to sign up if this type of connection was always the winner? at least with you the fight was clean, it was fair, just two nerds pulling all nighters to get good grades.

“mcsleepy.” the same girl answers, the living room gets loud in complaints and groans, there were too many students so nicknames were the way to remember, joseph mcsleepy was always sleeping during classes because he didn’t care enough. he had the money, the parents and the connections.

“oh fuck off, that’s really… just–fuck off.” you take the joint from someone’s hand and hog it for a while, taking more than a drag of it. “and what happened to not talking about school when we’re here?”

“real, let’s play something and forget about our upcoming failure.” one of the boys tells the group while stealing the joint from your hand and you go back to cheap beer, waiting for the group to decide what to do with your evening.

again the whole room gets loud, some think karaoke is a good idea, others just want to get to some bar. and then some idiot suggests 7 minutes in heaven.

“fun, so we’re all teenagers now.” hotchner speaks your mind before you can, not an unusual thing to happen, but it was always awful to notice how similar you two could be. his tone is dry as his humor usually is, but it doesn’t stop the others from placing a bottle in the middle of the circle.

you could leave, as could he, but the alcohol, the joint and the sad truth that your friends would be making your life hell for not being a good sport kept your asses glued to the floor and your eyes on the bottle. the moment it began spinning around the realization that you could be trapped in a closet with aaron spinned your brain around, preparing yourself to get up and leave before it could happen.

if only luck was on your side.

as if the object could read your mind, it stopped pointing to you and back to hotch, a loud cheer came from your friends as he shook his head, trying to argue to spin it again, they wouldn’t let that happen if it were anyone else even, but being the two of you just made it more fun to everyone involved.

for one, the two of you were the most academically gifted and hardworking, so they enjoyed making you squirm, the no offense taken rule made it okay for them to gang up on you two at times. but more than that, the bickering was annoying to them, especially when they were trying to study, so for them it was like a bit of a punishment you and aaron deserved.

you gulped down the rest of your beer in a mouthful and before you could even try to fight it you were pushed to the smallest and darkest closet you’ve ever seen, let alone been in. it was warm and you could feel his breath down on you along with his imposing presence.

“so this is it? we just stay here for 7 minutes?” you’re not sure why he’s whispering but you are about to agree with him, but something comes to mind and maybe it’s the beer but you get to thinking that if mcsleepy was the only competition you could maybe convince your professor you were a better pick than someone for their name only. but you needed to get hotch out of the way, he needed to give it up.

you're both already close enough, but you pull him by his shirt either way, tip toeing to get to his ear. “we could have some fun too–” you place one knee on his crotch making him groan, “if–and only if, you give up trying for the internship.”

his scoff to your proposition throws you off slightly, maybe it was your mistake to think it would be easier, he’s a man, it shouldn’t be too hard to get what you wanted with the right offer, right? “sweetcheeks, you’re gorgeous, don’t get me wrong. just not enough to make me quit anything.”

your cheeks redden with anger from the rejection and you’re glad it’s dark so he won’t see it. you won’t insist on it, that would be too humiliating, but your gears shift and it’s like a lightbulb turns on in your brain: make him suffer. get him begging.

instead of replying to his little insult, you move your lips to his neck, keeping your knee exactly in the same spot as it was originally, slightly putting more pressure on him as your lips work on leaving wet kisses on his neck.

aaron can sense what you’re doing but he prides on bring a self-controlled man, not usually the type to let anything cloud his judgment–especially not you. but this is a different situation than normal, it’s a game, a game where he could simply take what you’re willingly giving and forget about it later. he didn’t promise you anything, after all.

again, he groans by your ear, very much enjoying your touches, his hands gripping by the sides of your hips under your shirt, as one of yours begin palming his already stiff cock over his jeans, your mouth never touches his even though he tries and each of his attempts to slide his hands higher to your breasts are met with obvious rejection, your hands pulling them back down.

“c’monnnn… i know you’re torturing me but fuck.” his whiny voice through the complain makes you grin, especially when he once more shifts your face to him with his hand, again trying to connect your lips to his and failing as the door unlocked showing the 7 minutes had passed. you peek down to his bulge and laugh because even though you’re definitely wet, he’s the one who’s gonna go straight to the bathroom to either calm down or jerk off.

“think you might need some time alone, hotch darling, see you back at the living room.”

#lari writes sometimes #i gotta create the masterlist too gosh #aaron x reader #aaron x you #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotch x you #aaron hotch imagine #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner imagine #criminal minds x reader #hotch x reader #hotch x you #hotch imagine #hotch scenario #lawschool!hotch #hotch smut #aaron hotchner smut

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leighsartworks216 · 8 months

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My Sunshine

Astarion x gn!Tav/Reader

Part 2 Here: Tumblr link - AO3 link

This is probably definitely ooc but I needed to get it out of my brain anyway. I also have not seen any actual gameplay (aside from the romance scenes) so this won't be 100% canon compliant

For @niermortem bc I need you to read this and suffer (affectionate)

Warnings: alcohol use, swearing, grief/mourning, blood, injury, fluff and angst, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 3,146

Masterlist

AO3

You raised your goblet of wine in the air, smiling blindingly bright at your best friend. "To another case solved, and another criminal behind bars!"

He laughed and clinked his goblet with yours. The red liquid sloshed against the edge, almost spilling into yours. You each drank deeply.

"You make that toast after every trial," he bemoaned, but a stray chuckle ruined his disapproval. "It's a minor court for minor offenses - It's not like I locked up a serial killer."

You huffed and nudged his shoulder. "Don't sell yourself short! What you do is incredible, Astarion. It's so rare for an elf as young as you to get appointed as a magistrate. That's worth celebrating."

He hummed, smirk dancing across his face. "You're younger than me, my dear, and from what I've heard you're doing just as well." He gestured around the room.

The light of the fireplace cast odd shadows of your figures against the wall. Between the flickering shapes, Astarion could see the several paintings hung up on the wall. Portraits, landscapes - all formed with careful brush strokes and intense patience. It was no mean feat. He'd grown up alongside you, witnessed your struggles with charcoal and accuracy. He'd even posed for a few so you could study anatomy and shadow. Pride swelled in his chest thinking of those shaky, rough sketches and seeing the confident, soft strokes that composed the paintings.

You avoided looking, staring into the fire. For the briefest moment, he wanted to smooth out the crease in your brow and remove the frown from your face. Instead he gripped his goblet tighter and took another drink.

"I wish I could be as proud of them as you are, my sunshine. But when I look at them, all I see are mistakes."

He sighed quietly. "Your parents still don't approve, then?"

"They approve my profession - finally - but they think my execution is lackluster. I paint like a human."

"You paint like a god, darling."

“Ah,” you chuckled, “is the praise being turned back on me now?"

He smiled and raised his goblet. "A toast to the greatest artist Baldur's Gate has ever seen and will ever see again."

After a moment's hesitation, you raised your glass and knocked it against his. He threw back the last remaining contents, a drop of red falling from the corner of his mouth and down his neck. He finished off the rich alcohol with a contented sigh.

A clock on the mantelpiece chimed. You leaned back on your hand to look up at the old thing. It was a gift in lieu of payment, handmade, from its gears to its wooden casing. It chimed 11 times in all. Astarion sighed.

"One last drink for the road." You offered him the last of the wine in your goblet, and he drained it easily. “We can finish the rest tomorrow.”

“Mm, and what will we be celebrating tomorrow?”

“Anything and everything.”

He smiled fondly. What gods could have been kind enough to create you?

He rose to his knees and held your cheeks in both hands. “I look forward to it.” You closed your eyes as he planted a kiss on your forehead. It was almost a ritual, after so many years of doing it. Once he pulled away, you rose to your own knees, held his face the same way, and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“Stay safe on your way back.” You pulled away to look him straight in the eye, an exaggerated expression of seriousness on your face. “If anything happened to you, I wouldn’t have anybody to absolve me in court.”

He chuckled. “I’ll be fine, my dear.”

“You’d better.”

You stared numbly at the headstone. Your eyes scanned the words over and over and over again. You could recite it if you wanted to.

'Astarion Ancunin 229 - 268 DR'

He was only 39. He was just a child. A child buried 6 feet under your boots, hidden away, wrapped in sheets and sealed in a wooden coffin. Thirty-nine. He was only thirty-nine.

The sun was beginning to set. There was not a cloud in the sky. No chance for rain. The only water that fell were tears, and yours had long since dried up. Everyone else left hours ago. They'd touched your shoulder, shared in your grief, promised to pray for you and Astarion. If you were perhaps a bit more naive, a bit more desperate, you would have pleaded to the gods to bring him back, no matter the cost.

You inhaled shakily and tilted your head back. The sky was so beautiful; a vibrant array of orange and yellow and blue. You cursed it, for your best friend would never get to share in its beauty with you ever again.

When you looked back down, you forced your eyes not to trace the carved stone any more. It wasn't safe at night. If you looked again, you'd never make it back home.

A hint of white in the corner of your eye stole your attention. A flower. Its petals curled back and around, almost touching itself. Blue and yellow mixed within its center, but the very tips of its petals were bright white.

Your feet felt like lead as you moved toward it. Deep prints were left behind at the end of the dirt mound. Your legs were stiff and creaky from standing so long.

When you reached down to pluck the flower, you stopped. Hand outstretched toward its stem. You'd be killing it to mourn your friend. And in an hour, it will be droopy and wilted, dying on top of the grave. But if you left it, come two days from now, it would be closed and dried up anyway.

Your frown dug creases into your skin. Lines around your mouth and between your brows. You never realized before how quickly beautiful things die. The lines smoothed slightly when you brushed the delicate petal with your fingers. It was as soft as his hair had been.

"Look after him for me," you croaked, voice raw and unused. It cracked when you whispered desperately, "Please."

You rubbed your eyes as you backed away. The burn of tears stung the back of your eyes, but no water was produced. And you needed to get out of here. It hurt too much to stay.

You allowed yourself one last glance at the grave, before you turned and left. Your home never felt so cold, so uninviting, and so empty.

You’d never been much further than the city’s limits before, yet here you were. Lost, infected, confused. The blood on your hands terrified you, but if you hadn’t fought, you would be dead. A voice in the back of your mind haunted you with memories. Unbidden, you often recalled tidbits of your life 200 years ago. This time it reminded you of Astarion, flipping knives and sneaking up on you for a laugh. He would have been much more suited to this awful situation than you were.

Your hand fell to your pocket, pressing against a hidden journal tucked safely away. You would be lost without it. It’s all that’s kept you sane all these long years.

A shock of white hair up ahead caught your attention. A man, searching down a hill, beckoning. “Hurry,” he urged in a whisper, “I’ve got one of those brain things cornered.” He kept his back to you, but something in the way he spoke seemed familiar. Or maybe you were just so tired. “There, in the grass. You can kill it, can’t you? Like you killed the others.”

You flinched, frowning at the way he said ‘killed’. It shouldn’t have bothered you as much as it did. Perhaps it sounded too confrontational. Perhaps it was the dark turn his voice took. But you swallowed down the discomfort. You weren’t going to abandon someone in need.

“I can.”

You stepped forward, ready to grab at your dagger. It was quiet. The soft rustle of dry shrubs was all you could hear. You stepped a little further.

A loud squeal made you jump out of your skin as a frightened boar ran from the grass. You stumbled backward. Before you could trip yourself up, a rough arm wrapped behind your neck and dragged you down to the ground. A knife pointed at your throat.

On pure instinct, you grabbed at the blade. It dug into your palm and fingers, but you couldn’t let go. You could feel the man applying pressure to keep it at your neck. If you let go… You shuddered to think what could happen.

“Shh. Not a sound. Not if you want to keep that darling neck of yours.” Deep crimson eyes stared into yours, contrasted by the pure white of his hair and the smirk toying his lips. He looked oddly familiar, too. Had you passed him somewhere before? No, you would remember a man like him. “Now, I saw you on the ship. Didn’t I? Nod.”

The command has you nodding with no hesitation.

“Splendid,” he purred. His voice turned serious then. “And now you’re going to tell me exactly what you and those tentacled freaks did to me.”

“I haven’t done anything,” you grit out. Blood trailed down your wrist and stained the cuff of your sleeve. His eyes flickered toward it for a moment. “They took me prisoner, too!”

“Don’t lie to me! I- Argh!”

Behind your eyes the tadpole squirms. It’s jarring and uncomfortable, and so are the images that come with it. Dark city streets seen through someone else’s eyes. They scan every passerby, studying them. But just as you urge to see more, it’s gone. All you’re left with is the sensation of fear.

The man grunts again. “What was that?” he demands. He pushed the knife even closer to your neck, despite your best efforts to keep it away. “What’s going on?!”

The fear from the memory quickly intermingled with your own terror. Your heart thumped in your ears. The words came tumbling out of you before you knew what you were saying. “Please, please just put the knife away and we can figure this out.”

For a moment, he just stared at you. Calculating. And then the pressure faded and you could let go of the dagger. His arm let go of you, and he watched as you scampered away one-handed and struggled to your feet. He stood defensively, keeping his hold on the knife.

“You’re… not one of them.” You could feel his eyes searching you up and down. “They took you, just the same as me. And to think, I was ready to decorate the ground with your innards.” He laughed weakly. “Apologies.”

You cradled your hand to your chest with a frown. Nobody would blame you if you shouted insults, left him to deal with this on his own, took care of your own issues. But you couldn’t. “Apology accepted,” you sighed.

He smiled. It felt plastered on, like an actor’s during a play. “I’m out of wine and flowers, so I hope an introduction will suffice. My name’s Astarion. I was in Baldur’s Gate when those beasts snatched me.”

The last of his words was drowned out. Your heart raced, flooding your ears as a tidal wave of emotions swirled in your chest. That name. In all your years, you only knew one elf with that name. What were the chances of another carrying the same one?

Slim to none.

But it can’t be him. He died.

It has to be him. It has to.

“Darling?” He chuckled nervously, waving a hand in front of you. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

If you weren’t so dazed, maybe you would have laughed. But you just stared, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Your eyes burned. A lump crawled up your throat and you weren’t sure if it was bile or a sob.

“You died,” you finally gasped out. It was only a whisper, but Astarion’s ears picked it up as if you’d shouted it out. His grin faltered, entire aura of confidence and sexuality falling with those two words alone. “You died… My sunshine.”

Astarion stepped back, holding his dagger up as a warning. It still dripped with your blood. His face was dark. You’d never seen it as gravely serious as this. “Who are you? How do you- How do you know that?”

Your old name - the name you had as a child - lingers in the air. He stares at you with eyes hopeful and distrusting. There is a war in his mind. You can see it in the way his dagger wavers in his hold. How he looks you up and down, studies your face. He’d grabbed you, even made you bleed - you weren’t just a fucked up figment of his imagination. But he still couldn’t fathom it.

“Prove it.”

“How?”

“I don’t care how! Just prove it!” The shout is broken and desperate.

You fumbled. Everything you knew about him fled your brain in an instant. You searched for memories in the dirt, in the dry bushes, in the curls of his hair…

Cursing, he watched as you ripped a book from your pocket. Even though you’d grabbed it with your uninjured hand, blood stained the leather binding. You held it out to him.

“These are sketches I have made every day for two hundred years.” You stepped forward, urging him to take it. “All of them are of you.”

A part of him didn’t want to listen. It wanted him to remain unaware and oblivious for the rest of his godsdamned life. The mere idea of the truth - of his past being exposed to this corrupted thing he’s become - terrified him. How easy it would be to run away. To hide away forever.

But he would never be free. Always a slave to the burning questions. Forever wondering just who you were, and if you were telling the truth.

He reaches past his knife and takes the journal. With use of his leg as an aid, he’s able to remove the string tying it shut and flip open the book.

On each page is his face. Several of them. Smiling, laughing, pouting, focused, and a thousand more expressions. After 200 years, he doesn’t quite remember what he looks like. He couldn’t recall if his hair had always been white, nor the shade of his eyes. But tucked away is a crude sketch, not of his face, but of yours. It looks like a child closed their eyes and scribbled. At the bottom of the page, in what is undoubtedly his handwriting, is his signature.

You watch desperately as he puts his knife away. He’ll have to clean it later, but he isn’t thinking about it now. Both hands freed, he flips through each page. At the beginning, the portraits are unrefined and rough. The lines are sketchy and smudged, as though someone had tried wiping away their mistakes. With each page, they get better. The lines become confident and smooth. Even further still, the style is almost elegant, but the face has become unfocused. The eyes begin losing form. The mouth feels off on the face. On one, the face has been erased and redone several times over; so much so the paper has begun crumbling. The last drawing held little resemblance to him anymore. This one was freshly done. The lines were sketchy once more, uncertain. The only recognizable features were his ears and the curls of his hair. Even the shape of his face was lost to time.

“After you… After I buried you, I…” You take a shaky breath, fighting back tears. “I didn’t want to forget you. So I sketched you, every day. I thought I’d always remember that damn smile of yours, but… I didn’t. Little by little, you were stolen from my memories, until all I had left was a vague impression of who you were, what we did together. Even looking at the old sketches couldn’t bring it back. But I kept trying.”

Astarion’s face is the epitome of sorrow when he looks up at last. There are deep set creases around his mouth and eyes, aging him - an odd concept for an elf. He looks so lost. “Where did you go?”

You frowned, and Astarion wished he could smooth out the crease between your brows. How could he forget your face? After all Cazador did to him, made him do, how could he forget you?

“After you buried me,” he clarified.

“I couldn’t bear to stay. I sold all my paintings and I left. I didn’t get very far.” You chuckled weakly. “Just stayed with my parents.”

His face lights up. “What name are you going by now?”

“Tav.”

“Tav,” he repeats. The name is different in his mouth. Not good or bad, simply there. New. He wishes he could have been there when you chose it.

You took a deep breath. It was time to ask the big question, the one burning a hole in your chest. “How are you alive?”

The corner of his lip twitches up, somewhere between amused and dismayed. “It’s a rather long story, my dear.”

“I’ve waited 200 years to hear it.”

He chuckles at that. It’s genuine, but a sour note still lingers. He closes your journal, deftly ties the strings, and saunters to stand in front of you. The intoxicating scent of your blood drives him mad. It’s so close, but he could never forgive himself if he told you the truth and you ran away. Truthfully, after so long, he wasn’t sure how you’d react. But it still felt too heavy an admission.

He slips the book back into your pocket. With both hands, he reaches to cup your face, but he stops. The motion feels wrong. He wants so desperately to hold you again. You even lean toward his palm. The tip of your pointed ear brushes his fingers. But he can’t. His hands fall back to his sides, and he plasters a smile on once more.

“Come on, darling. Let’s get you cleaned up before you attract something.”

You nod and follow alongside him as he begins leading you toward water. The bleeding has mostly stopped by now. The cut still stings, exposed to the air. But the pain feels distant. It hardly matters when the man you’ve spent two hundred years mourning is alive and with you again. And he’s changed - there is no way to deny it. His hair, his eyes, even the way he spoke had more of a lilting tune to it than it once did. But he’s here. He’s real.

“For the record,” you begin, stepping close enough to brush arms as you walked, “it’s good to see you again, my sunshine.”

And, oh, if that didn’t make him feel alive once more.

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fatehbaz · 2 years

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In September 2022, the Australian High Court upheld a law that effectively allows “preventative incarceration,” or the imprisonment of people even after their sentence has been served, based on whether or not a court thinks the prisoner might be at risk of committing a future crime.

Indigenous people make up 4% of the population of Western Australia, but 40% of the state’s prisoners are Indigenous.

At Western Australia’s Banksia youth prison, 75% of incarcerated youth are Indigenous.

Australia allows for the imprisonment of children as young as 10 years old.

---

Excerpt:

Casuarina prison is a sprawling, concrete jungle on the southern outskirts of Perth, Western Australia (WA). It is a maximum-security, adult facility, home to people who may never leave its confines. However, on July 20, the penitentiary “welcomed” a new cohort of prisoners: 17 kids under the age of 18, who had been moved from the Banksia Hill Juvenile Detention Center to Casuarina [...].

When current WA Premier Mark McGowan was elected in 2017, his Labor party promised to lower the rate of Indigenous incarceration in the state, which is the highest in the nation. First Nations people are 16 times more likely to be incarcerated in WA than non-Indigenous people, a number that has only risen despite the promise of the government.

Dr. Hannah McGlade, a Noongar academic and human rights lawyer, isn’t surprised by the state’s failure to uphold its promise. “Our government cares little for Aboriginal lives,” McGlade told The Diplomat. [...]

In the past month, the Australian High Court upheld a law designed to keep the worst offenders in prison indefinitely, even after their sentences have been complete.

Known as the High Risk Serious Offenders Act (HRSOA), the legislation was challenged in Australia’s apex court when Peter Garlett, a 23-year-old Noongar man, was imprisoned after stealing AU$20 and a necklace while pretending to be armed. Despite this being his first adult offense, when his sentence was up, the Western Australian government asked the High Court to keep Garlett, now 28, in prison.

The court agreed, effectively paving the way for preventative incarceration in Australia.

Though five of the seven High Court judges upheld the constitutional validity of the HRSOA, many academics, lawyers, and activists who deal with the lives of First Nations people inside the legal system on a regular basis, note that this will only further trap Indigenous Australians in the carceral system. Garlett had been in near-continuous detention since he was 12, and this became the rationale for keeping him in prison beyond his criminal sentence.

One of the judges even hypothesized that the law could “potentially lead to the imprisonment of one seventh of the entire prison population of Western Australia for offenses that they have not committed.” [...]

“This is a crystal-clear example of an indirectly discriminatory law: one that is not discriminatory in its express terms but is discriminatory in its practical effect.” [...]

Though Indigenous people make up less than 4 percent of the state population, nearly 40 percent of Western Australia’s prison population is Indigenous. That is particularly troubling given the horrific record of Australian prisons. Since the Royal Commission into Aboriginal Deaths in Custody in 1991, over 500 First Nations people have died while imprisoned in Australia. In 2020-2021 alone, 13 prisoners died in custody in WA – five of them Aboriginal.

No custodial or police officer has ever been found criminally responsible for any of these deaths.

The structural forces pushing Indigenous people into Australia’s prisons start early. In the Banksia Hill Juvenile Detention Center, three-quarters of the inmates are Indigenous. Despite its mandate to rehabilitate people for their eventual release, reports show some of the prisoners receiving as little as five hours of education a month. In April, the state’s prison watchdog outlined a series of “cruel, inhumane, and degrading” treatments in the facility’s Intensive Support Unit. Children have reportedly made suicide pacts due to their treatment, with some being kept in isolation for 23 hours a day. [...]

Penglis and McGlade point to the age of imprisonment in Australia being only 10 years old as devastating. [...]

---

Text by: Dechlan Brennan. “How Western Australia Criminalizes Indigenous Children.” The Diplomat. 7 October 2022. [Italicized first lines/heading in this post added by me.]

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hobiebrownismygod · 6 months

Text

Analyzation of Hobie Brown's sexualization on Tumblr (Also a little bit of ranting cuz it pisses me off like crazy)

Summary:

I'll be going over different stereotypes but I'll focus on the sexualization of black characters in the media specifically. Then I'm gonna relate it back to Hobie Brown and give a little lecture/stern-talking to at the end.

TW: Mentions of sex and sexuality, stereotypes, some mentions of pedophilia

Hobie Brown is not the only hyper-sexualized black man in the media. Almost every attractive black man from a TV show has been turned into a toy for fan fiction writers, including Prowler Miles/Earth-42 Miles (That's a whole other post). The same thing happens with POC characters like Miguel O'hara.

The hyper-sexualization of black characters has been around since the beginning of the integration of POC characters into the media. However, racist perceptions/stereotypes of African-Americans and other POC people in general have been around for even longer, results of white supremacy and "white man's burden"-based imperialism.

African-Americans specifically have been subject to stereotypes such as "being unable to control themselves" since the 1500s, during which black men in particular were being characterized as almost "animalistic." This translated into stereotypes which are still common today, like the stereotype that black men have more sexual prowess than other races.

Bell & Harris (linked below) find that many of these modern hyper-stereotypical images of Black folks have historically depicted them as violent, involved in criminal activity, deadbeat drunks or drug-addicts, or unable to control themselves sexually, financially, or physically. These images render the Black middle class invisible and reduce Blackness merely to pejorative categories. Such descriptions of Black masculinity are problematic for media consumers and emasculating for Black folks. For media viewers, such images relegate Blacks and/or Blackness to the role of being “the problem” and Whiteness as what is normal, typical, and ideal in comparison. Further, portrayals of Blackness juxtaposed against the backdrop of “Whiteness as the ideal” are problematic. They enable the media to influence how audience members construct and/or “view” members of various cultural communities and impact how traditionally marginalized community members may view themselves.

So in summary:

Black characters are sexualized because of stereotypes that have been around for centuries, results of extreme prejudice and blatant racism, which people continue to spew today. By sexualizing black characters in the media so freely, writers are emasculating their black readers and being casually offensive without even realizing it.

By writing about black characters like they're objects, especially black men, you are disrespecting the image of African-Americans in the media, and harming the media's interpretation of them, which eventually leads to worse stereotypes and worse situations for them to have to deal with.

Now let's specifically talk about Hobie Brown.

Why exactly is he so sexualized on Tumblr? The same reasons listed above. He's an attractive black man, so many fan fiction writers find him fair game to create their stereotypical smut-ridden stories, and completely disregard his entire character.

Despite him having zero romantic interests and not even being displayed as a sexual character, people are automatically assuming that he would have a high sexual prowess and would be very sex-motivated.

Do you see the similarities? Blatant racism.

The stereotype that black men have a higher sexual prowess is translating into Hobie Brown's character, which is why there's so much smut written about him. This is also the reason why there's not as much fluff written about him. Because according to these stereotypes, African-American men don't have emotions. They're so masculine that they would never talk about their feelings. They're sexual toys and nothing else.

Do you see the problem with this?

Now this is all without even addressing the fact that his age isn't confirmed. He could be anywhere from 16-25 years old. I personally think he's a teenager, because of the fact that he hangs out with Gwen and Pav who are canonically 13 and 16, and because he looks like a teenager and acts like a teenager.

Overall, the message of this post is-

The hyper-sexualization of black men in the media has to be addressed. Hobie Brown is only the latest victim of sexual stereotypes and this isn't okay. No character should have their entire storyline, plot and characterization stripped down to their sexuality. It's disgusting.

The writers spent a lot of time and put a lot of effort into Hobie's character. By stripping him down to his looks and his sexuality, you are disrespecting the writers and you are feeding into stereotypes. Don't be a supporter of casual racism. Don't be a supporter of stereotypes. Don't be a supporter of sensualizing characters. Don't be a supporter of casual pedophilia.

Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk. Here's a pretty picture of Hobie.

He looks so done 💀. Me after seeing people continue to write smut about him.

Note: I'm not African-American, so if anything I said needs editing or if any of the stereotypes I mentioned are inaccurate in any way, please reach out to me! I'm trying to be a better writer and any type of feedback would be very helpful <3

Sources:

https://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=10057104

Bell & Harris:

https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/pdf/10.1080/17513057.2016.1142598

https://fabulizemag.com/adults-thirsting-over-underage-characters-is-weird/

@ignocubo

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verkomy · 10 months

Text

okay so I’m rereading the hobbit and I want to make a list of my favorite quotes and parts so here we go:

“bilbo (…) got something a bit queer in his make-up from the took side” I chuckled

“mr. baggins was very fond of flowers” of course he was he’s a blorbo

“it was a beautiful golden harp, and when thorin struck it the music began all at once, so sudden and sweet that bilbo forgot everything else” bombastic side eye

“as he lay in bed he could hear thorin still humming to himself in the best bedroom next to him. bilbo went to sleep with that in his ears, and it gave him very uncomfortable dreams” criminal offensive side eye

“the explanation did not seem to explain” my brain 24/7 (but also when someone’s trying to explain the rules of any board game to me)

“bilbo was wearing a dark-green hood and a dark-green cloak borrowed from dwalin. they were too large for him, and he looked rather comic” bilbo in dwarven clothes, just throwing it out there

“bilbo baggins, a bur — a hobbit,” said poor bilbo, shaking all over, and wondering how to make owl-noises before their throttled him” this one made me laugh

“trolls simply detest the very sight of dwarves (uncooked)” this one too

“his house was perfect, whether you liked food, or sleep, or work, or story-telling, or singing, or just sitting and thinking best, or a pleasant mixture of them all” I want to go to there

“dori, who was at the back next to bilbo, and a decent fellow. he made the hobbit scramble on his shoulders as best as he could with his tied hands, and then off they all went at a run. (…) that sent them on faster than ever, and as poor bilbo could not possibly go half as fast, they took it in turn to carry him on their backs” WE WERE ROBBED

“why, o why did I ever leave my hobbit-hole!” said poor mr. baggins bumping up and down on bombur’s back “why, o why did I ever bring a wretched little hobbit on a treasure hunt!” said poor bombur” comedic duo

gandalf answered angrily “I brought him, and I don’t bring things that are of no use” we love a supportive friend

“(gandalf) gave bilbo a queer look from under his bushy eyebrows” live gandalf reaction

“you ought not to be rude to an eagle, when you are only the size of a hobbit” good life advice

“here they sat on wooden benches while gandalf began his tale, and bilbo swung his dangling legs and looked at the flowers in the garden” a short king <3

“that only makes eleven and not fourteen, unless wizards count differently to other people” I LOVE BOOK BEORN SO MUCH and this whole chapter is probably my favorite by far

“the hobbit felt quite crushed, and as there seemed nothing else to do he did go to bed” what a mood

“long noses are sometimes useful you see” do with that information what you want

“they knew only too well that they would soon all have been dead, if it had not been for the hobbit; and they thanked him many times” AS THEY SHOULD, too bad thorin didn’t see any of what happened

“he did not like being dependent on by everyone, and he wished he had the wizard at hand” honestly, same

“never laugh at live dragon, bilbo you fool” another hopeful advice

“you are more worthy to wear the armour of elf-princes than many that have looked more comely in it. but wonder if thorin oakenshield will see it too” ouch

“then bilbo turned away, and he went by himself, and sat alone wrapped in a blanket, and, whether you believe it or not, he wept until his eyes were red and his voice was hoarse” this one hurts

“he was in fact held by all the hobbits of the neighbourhood to be queer” of course he was :D

#this is going to be a long post #hope you’re ready #the hobbit #the hobbit book #the hobbit reread #tolkien reread #tolkien #favorite quotes #text

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starsandhughes · 6 months

Text

Penalty Box Series— Trevor Zegras Edition (Six)

23-24 Season Masterlist

previous: five

next: seven

OCTOBER 28, 2023

these have been short lately i’m so sorry

yourusername

liked by trevorzegras, leocarlssoon, and 15,688 others

yourusername welcome back to my postgame penalty box update show: MY BABY DADDY SCORED HIS FIRST GOAL OF THE SEASON EDITION!

tonight, my duckies won 7-4 against the flyers! coincidentally, the only time the ducks scored 7 goals last season was also in a 7-4 win where trevor scored and stromer assisted on it! isn't that fun? yay stats! that's my mans and my hero!

you'll notice that i put 0.5 as the penalty count, and that's because z sat for a too many men bench penalty, which don't count towards his personal minutes, but he was still in the box!

and our son! he's taking after his father with his second penalty of the season! i’m so proud of you, leo! i love you! we love criminals in the zegras-hughes family <3

i’m so proud of you guys! you're 3-0 on the roadie so far, with one more game to go! this is your season, boys! i love you!

my love, i’m so incredibly happy for you, and beyond proud! here's to the first of many! (i chugged my drink when he scored to celebrate btw so if you're currently drinking— chug! chug! chug! chug!) i love you, always, sweet boy🧡

p.s. FRANKY TANKY! MY BOY! CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR SECOND HATTY! YOU AND AUSTON PAPI MATTHEWS ARE NOW THE ONLY TWO IN THE NHL WITH TWO HATTIES! IT'S YOUR YEAR, BESTIE! I'M SO PROUD OF YOU! I LOVE YOU! MWAH!

p.s.s. coachy cro, never stop sending z in as the default criminal! it brings me immense joy!

tagged trevorzegras and leocarlssoon

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trevorzegras i love that you love stats, my precious little weirdo! i wouldn't know my accomplishments without you telling me them🧡 i love you, forever

yourusername y/n "sissy" soon to be zegras-hughes: professional event planner, professional nerd, professional fiancé supporter

trevorzegras damn right

lhughes_06 JUST fiancé supporter?

jackhughes sissy, your brothers exit

colecaufield sissy, your friends exist

yourusername @/lhughes_06 @/jackhughes @.colecaufield i’m an amateur supporter of the rest of you <3

jamie.drysdale you two are bad influences on your son

yourusername YOU TAKE THAT BACK, DRYSDALE! HE CAME THIS WAY AND WE LOVE HIM!

trevorzegras we're trying our best!

leocarlssoon i take offense to this

yourusername SEE! YOU BROKE THE BABY! YOU BUMBLE FUCK BITCH!

jamie.drysdale @/yourusername okay okay i’m sorry! you're doing great! you'll be a great mom to your twins! i didn't mean it!

jackhughes @/yourusername does this mean i’m your favorite ex husband?

yourusername @/jackhughes no <3

user59 when sissy says chug, you chug!

frank_vatrano thanks, y/n/n! i love you, too! your new hat trick medals are definitely a plus

yourusername ya girl has a big brain!!

frank_vatrano she does😂

maxjones98 @/yourusername how much stuff for goodie bags and awards do you actually have on hand right now?

yourusername @/maxjones98 a lot! i have so much faith in my duckies! and my other boys!

trevorzegras @/maxjones89 her craft room has a bookshelf full of the stuff she includes with drawers labeled individually for all of us

frank_vatrano @/trevorzegras doesn't she also give bags to canucks, devils, and habs when we play them?

trevorzegras @/frank_vatrano it's a huge bookshelf

jamie.drysdale @/trevorzegras don't forget the stack of boxes to mail first goal trophies and personal record awards

trevorzegras @/frank_vatrano what he said

maxjones98 @/trevorzegras your girl is so amazingly sweet it's insane

yourusername @/maxjones98 JONESEY! YOU'RE GONNA MAKE ME CRY!

user40 the ducks?? on a win streak?? somebody made a deal with a god

_quinnhughes i think z should be at -1

yourusername 2 minute penalty for being a rude head. go sit in your bathtub.

trevorzegras you heard my baby mama! go!

_quinnhughes @/trevorzegras @/yourusername STOP WITH THE BABY DADDY AND MAMA

trevorzegras @_quinnhughes NO

yourusername MAKE ME

_quinnhughes oh dear god

user6 sissy and z are gonna make quinn go grey at 24😭

leocarlssoon i love you too mom😂

yourusername you're swimming so well!! you're such a good duckling!!!

leocarlssoon i try

yourusername you're succeeding!

user61 z pulled a quinn after he scored fr

colecaufield @/trevorzegras THAT'S MY MAN!

trevorzegras PLAY INSANE IN THE BRAIN!

yourusername his goal song might be by vanilla ice, but my mans is not vanilla

colecaufield @/yourusername why? just why?

jackhughes MY EYES

lhughes_06 AHHHH

trevorzegras @/yourusername ;)

_quinnhughes @/yourusername MINORS! THERE COULD BE MINORS READING THIS!

jamie.drysdale this is why i moved

yourusername @/jamie.drysdale stfu no it's not

colecaufield @/jamie.drysdale you were a tough soldier

user75 sissy gives no fucks about a digital footprint oh my god

_alexturcotte our boy is giving the rockettes a run for their money

yourusername his true dream is to be a vegas show girl

_alexturcotte shame he had to settle for hockey

yourusername truly

trevorzegras @/yourusername you're my new dream

yourusername @/trevorzegras that's sweet but we were teasing you and you ruined it

_alextucotte @/trevorzegras MOMENT RUINER

trevorzegras i can't win

jackhughes @/trevorzegras about time! that's my boy!

trevorzegras got these flashing lights on me🚨

yourusername that... i think made sense... i might have cracked the hockey boy code with this one!

jackhughes @/yourusername big brain

trevorzegras @/yourusername that's my girl!

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