#did i sound enough like a politician? /j | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mariacallous · 2 years

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... “The Republican base is asking for very, very little,” he told me this week. “For all the stories we have about, like, the election deniers, from March of last year until now, their demands have basically been, like, ‘Please do something about the economy, please do something about immigration, please don’t let dudes participate in girls sports, and please do something about crime.’ ” When it came to independents, he went on, “It’s, like, ‘Please do something about inflation, please do something about crime, we’re pretty much with you on the girls-sports thing, just don’t be a dick about it.’ ”

He sounded a little gleeful. “It’s almost like we’ve fallen ass-backwards into the Contract with America,” he said, referring to the 1994 conservative agenda that fuelled the Republican takeover of Congress that year and elevated Newt Gingrich to House Speaker. “Certainly not because of any cunning or wit or foresight on our part. Let me assure you, it has not been because of the searing intellect of Republican leadership.”

Democrats were eager this week to point out how many seats the party in control of the White House typically loses in a midterm election—Barack Obama, the greatest politician the Party has produced in a generation, lost sixty-three seats in the House of Representatives in his first midterm. But many of the Republicans I spoke with saw this year as distinct. The pollster in Pennsylvania said that in 2010, “Obama got punished for overreach. That’s not this. This is incompetence.” When I asked the Republican consultant what the voters coming home to the G.O.P. in October wanted, he said, “Stop Biden. That’s it.”

Some elections are not complicated at all. As these Republican strategists saw it, their candidates did not get past unpopular positions on abortion with a tactical masterstroke, they simply absorbed the electoral hit and moved on. The economy is not good, and the President is both a Democrat and unpopular. If you looked only at those factors you might expect a result not unlike the Republican wave that these G.O.P. insiders have predicted. Maybe the race was simple enough that it could be sketched on a napkin.

On Wednesday afternoon, I spoke with a leading Republican political consultant about the Senate campaign in Georgia. That race is strategically significant for both parties, but it has a special symbolic importance for Democrats. The incumbent, Raphael Warnock, who for many years has occupied Martin Luther King, Jr.,’s pulpit at Ebenezer Baptist Church, in Atlanta, is seen as a potential national leader of the Democratic Party—and he may still lose to a scandal-ridden ex-football star, the Republican Herschel Walker. The Republican consultant told me that Warnock’s prospects were even bleaker than many recent public polls suggest. “There isn’t a single private poll in America that has Herschel Walker anything but ahead,” the Republican consultant told me. “Not one.”

The consensus among a number of G.O.P. pollsters and operatives I spoke to this week is that in the Senate races that are thought to be competitive, Republican candidates are heading for a clean sweep: Mehmet Oz will beat John Fetterman in Pennsylvania, and not just by a point or two; Adam Laxalt looks pretty certain to defeat the incumbent Democratic senator Catherine Cortez Masto in Nevada; even less regarded candidates such as Blake Masters in Arizona will be carried into office by a predicted wave. “He won’t deserve it, but I think at this point he falls into a Senate seat,” one Republican strategist told me. To these Republican insiders, certain high-profile races in which G.O.P. candidates were already favored now look like potential blowouts—Kari Lake’s campaign for governor in Arizona, J. D. Vance’s for Senate in Ohio. And some races that seemed out of reach, such as the Senate campaign, in New Hampshire, of the election denier Don Bolduc, now look like possible wins. The word that kept coming up in these conversations was “bloodbath.”

My interest in talking with Republican consultants and pollsters, those with their hands in many races around the country, was not only to collect predictions but to hear the G.O.P.’s story of the election. (I let them speak anonymously, and spoke with some of their Democratic peers, too, in order to provide a check on their accounts.) I wanted to know what they thought earlier polls had missed, and how a race that had seemed like a tossup for much of the year could turn into a Republican rout.

One thing was obvious in these conversations: many of these professionals had spent much of the summer working to manage the abortion issue, which became the election’s chaotic element after the Supreme Court’s decision in Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization, which overturned Roe v. Wade, in June. It supplied a burst of Democratic support and fury, but also changed polling in interesting ways. “What happened post-Dobbs was that progressives started picking up the phone at nineteen-nineties rates,” the Republican strategist told me. “Answering a political poll itself became a kind of expression of political identity.”

This Republican said that he and a colleague had examined polls in which they had access to individual voter data and concluded that as much as sixty per cent of Democratic poll respondents this summer were so-called super voters, those who vote in every single election, even though such voters normally compose about a third of the general electorate in each party. (He found no such effect among Republicans.) “This created an informational doom loop, where Democratic candidates get told, You should talk about January 6th, democracy being on the ballot, trans rights,’ ” he said, “because their primary super voters are picking up the phone and telling them this is what they care about.”

Still, crafting a winning response to the abortion issue was a fixation among Republicans. A pollster working in many races across the country said, “I had candidates who wanted to know the same thing, week after week, ‘How do we answer this abortion thing? They’re beating me up on it.’ ” The pollster went on, “And what they figured out is, we don’t have a good answer. It is what it is.”

In the end, Republicans didn’t find a way through the political fact that many of the voters they wanted to win were against them on abortion so much as wait it out. As a Democratic strategist pointed out to me, a flood of funding after the Supreme Court decision allowed Democratic campaigns to put ads on television “much, much earlier” in swing states. This created a unique situation, he went on, in which Democrats were disproportionately tuned in to politics, the Democratic base was overrepresented in polls, and swing voters were overwhelmingly seeing Democratic ads. “I think that’s what creates that blue mirage during the summer,” he said.

At the same time, the polls were likely underrepresenting certain segments of the electorate. In recent years, more educated voters, especially white women, have moved to the Democrats, and less educated ones, of all races and especially men, toward the Republicans. When it comes to polling, these shifts have created an imbalance, in which one of the most visible groups in politics, and one especially energized by the Dobbs decision, had shifted toward Democrats, and one of the least visible had shifted toward Republicans. “The fastest-moving portion of the electorate is Hispanic men, and the second-fastest-moving portion of the electorate is Black men,” the Republican consultant told me. You want to get them on the phone? “Good fucking luck.”

A Democratic pollster told me, “Arizona is, I think, like ground zero for that trend. I think you’re seeing a lot of Hispanic drift toward Laxalt.” This Democrat also noted that Stacey Abrams, the Democratic gubernatorial nominee in Georgia, is underperforming among Black men, and thought that Abrams’s opponent, Republican Governor Brian Kemp, “is going to do a decent job winning Black voters compared to his 2018 performance.”

If Republicans couldn’t wait to get away from the major social issues, the Democrats continued to focus on them. Speaking about the defection of Hispanics to the G.O.P. in Nevada, the Republican strategist told me, “The reason that Democrats have fucked this up is that they won’t stop talking about abortion. And the reason that they screwed it up with Blacks is they won’t stop talking about abortion. . . . It’s like they’re a two-issue party. It’s this and Trump. They can’t stop. I don’t think they have anything else.”

The evolving Democratic coalition has made the party at once more prosperous and more progressive, a trick that long seemed difficult to pull off. But it has also exposed the party to certain vulnerabilities, especially among working-class voters. Across the country, Republicans have tended to emphasize a simple story about inflation—that the White House had been inattentive to its rise and its impact on ordinary Americans. As the Republican strategist put it to me, “Inflation is the big federal story, and a lot of blame belongs on the White House, because the White House just wished this would go away instead of saying, ‘We know it’s real, we know it’s a problem, it’s happening everywhere, we’re going to do everything to fix it but we can’t fix it immediately.’ ”

In certain politically competitive parts of the country, especially the booming Sun Belt states of Arizona, Florida, Georgia, and Texas, Republican governors could also make some policy gestures to back up the way they spoke about inflation. In July, Kemp, the governor of Georgia, extended a statewide gas-tax holiday. In August, he committed to spend two billion dollars in state-budget surplus on property-tax and income-tax rebates if reëlected. The next week, he said that $1.2 billion in federal COVID aid would be converted to three-hundred-and-fifty-dollar checks for low-income Georgians. In the closing statement of his final debate against Abrams, Kemp celebrated what he called the lowest unemployment rate and the most people ever working in the history of Georgia.

The gubernatorial campaigns of Ron DeSantis, in Florida, Greg Abbott, in Texas, and Kari Lake, in Arizona, have similarly emphasized this contrast—between the sunny G.O.P.-managed economy at home and the darkening, inflation-related clouds emanating from Joe Biden’s Washington. If voters felt economically stressed, Kemp said during his final debate, “the problem is, [wages are] not going up fast enough to keep up with Joe Biden’s inflation.”

It probably isn’t an accident that the next generation of MAGA stars has come from growing Southern states. As the Democratic pollster put it to me ruefully, “Being a governor of a Sun Belt state is awesome, because your economy is growing so fast, because you don’t have to raise taxes, and tax revenue just goes up, and then you get to do popular economic stuff.”

Republicans also moved to capitalize on the flailing economy with declarations—at campaign stops, in television ads, on right-wing media—that the country was descending into chaos. As the Democratic consultant Stanley Greenberg wrote this week, Democratic candidates “faced a barrage of ads on crime starting in September and early October, a barrage aided by Fox News dramatically increasing its crime reporting.” This offensive seems to have worked: when Greenberg asked voters what they most feared about Democratic control of Congress, their top pick was “crime and homelessness out of control in cities and police coming under attack,” which ran thirteen points ahead of concerns about illegal immigration.

Even if Democrats had wanted to make their own pivot to economic issues, their window to do so, by the early fall, was closing. The inflation index in September was much worse than it had been during the preceding months, and quite quickly it was difficult for Democrats to find much to brag about economically. By October, the basic daily experience of the race, for the Republican consultants I spoke with, had changed. “Post-Dobbs, Republicans stopped taking polls,” a Republican pollster told me. “In October, my sampling guys came back and told me, ‘Republicans are taking polls again. Response rates are through the roof.’ ”

By then, according to the insiders, Democrats were too trapped in issues—abortion and the threat to democracy—that appealed to their most devoted and best-educated supporters, and had not done enough to reassure voters that they were addressing material concerns. The Republican pollster, who has been regularly surveying Pennsylvania, told me that, when it came to the Democratic focus on abortion, “there just doesn’t seem to be any specificity. You’d want to do it with high-education, high-income supporters. It’s, like, no, they’re running on abortion constantly in, like, Scranton.”

Back in the summer, I’d spoken with the Republican strategist, who then predicted that the Dobbs wave would be ephemeral. “The Republican base is asking for very, very little,” he told me this week. “For all the stories we have about, like, the election deniers, from March of last year until now, their demands have basically been, like, ‘Please do something about the economy, please do something about immigration, please don’t let dudes participate in girls sports, and please do something about crime.’ ” When it came to independents, he went on, “It’s, like, ‘Please do something about inflation, please do something about crime, we’re pretty much with you on the girls-sports thing, just don’t be a dick about it.’ ”

“I can show you the trajectory of all our races,” the Republican pollster told me. “We took a benchmark in July—O.K., this is going to be harder than we thought. And it looks like a ‘V.’ We went straight down. And then once we finally got to October, we have enough money, the electorate becomes more fully engaged, and then the other side of the ‘V’ is straight back up. I can show you the same story in probably twenty-five races.” ♦

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everyhowlmarksthedead · 4 years

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❛ ROJO ❜

Songfic with ‘Rojo’, J Balvin.

Translation of the lyrics.

with Nestor Oceteva.

Request #1: Can you maybe do a Nestor imagine where you're Emily's cousin or half sister and you're living with Emily and Miguel temporarily. You've been flirting and teasing him and it finally comes to a head. Smut involved please?

BY ANON.

Request #2: hi hi! I have a steamy request~! (If it's not a bother, of course) Nestor + reader are at a club and they keep teasing him,, maybe you can include lines like “shit, mami, you made a mess” and “you just want the others to hear me fuck you, huh?” 😗👉🏼👈🏼 thank youuu c:

BY @glitchinqhoul.

Warnings: nsfw, smut.

Word count: about 3.6k

Aurora says: this writing hasn't been edited, you may find some grammar mistakes, I'm sorry about that!

Gif credits: to the author, I found it on google.

Masterlist.

A quién le mientes si en tu soledad quieres verme otra vez. Por ti respondo lo que tú me das, lo que nadie sabe…

Being Emily's half—sister hasn't been easy. She was a good student, the modelic daughter, always being kind, correct and polite. You used to be like the day and the night. But you supposed that this has to be with the fact that your blood isn't the same. She's american, and you're half—mexican. Different cultures, different cities, different people… Different lifes. But that wasn't a problem to adore each other. Emily and you have been best friends since ever, and even if you're the wild side she doesn't have, you admire her temperance.

When your college in Mexico told you that you could do the MIR at Santo Padre, you both were screaming by the phone for two minutes non-stop, until you heard Miguel telling you to stay at his home. That wasn't a bad idea, keeping in mind that you also could see Nestor every day, for the next six month. That man drives you insane since you met him, and he isn't very sane either.

You're checking the hour on the clock of your car, almost reaching the border with California, checking again that your passport and your papers signed for the University are on the copilot seat. So, when you stop at the frontier, you just have to roll down the window and offer them to the agent. Once that you're actually in American territory, you speed up by the empty road a little confused from not seeing any cars. Actually, you're just tired after almost two days driving. Because yes, you could have flown to San Diego, and rented a car. But you like your old Mustang. He has been with you since seven years ago. Coming back to reality, you see through the rearview two big black SUVs coming closer until one of them places itself after you, making you a signal to stop.

Stopping by a side, you step out of your car as Emily does, both running to each other to collide in a happy hug, screaming again and almost jumping.

“Look at you, doctora!” She says laughing and holding your hands, pulling herself away some seconds, before hugging at you again. “C'mon, let Frankie drive your car, so you can rest a little in ours”.

To your surprise, Nestor isn't the one who is driving, supposing that he's in the other black car before yours. But you're sure he's as excited as you are, waiting to have five minutes alone.

Me decido por ti, te decides por mí, a la misma hora. Me dan ganas de ti, te dan ganas de mí, a la misma hora.

Miguel has organized a party with his sober friends. And you're not in the mood to partying, but the tequila helps a little. You're jumping from senators and other politicians, to lawyers and other rich men, just because your brother-in-law is proud of you. And that makes you feel good, but it's kinda boring. So, when you find a space to disappear, you do it at the speed of the light. Finding shelter in the big garage between expensive cars of different sizes and kinds. Resting your back against the classic red Porsche, you light up a smoke among your lips to take a deep drag. You appreciate all the love that Mikey feels for you, and all the help he always gives you, but you're not the kind of girl who has these kinds of parties.

Turning around for an instant, when you hear the door getting opened, to watch Nestor walking towards you. Rolling your eyes, you smirk at him.

“Ay, ya, no me digas que te pusieron en modo perrito guardián, flaco”. (C'mon, don't tell me that Miguel made you be a guard dog). You laugh shaking your head.

“Más o menos”. (More or less). He says taking you off the cig to smoke from it.

“Okay, ládrame, ándale”. (Okay, bark at me, go ahead).

“Soy más de morder”. (I'm more into biting).

“Mírale… Isn't too early to start with that game?”

“Nah”. He replies bowing to the floor to leave the cig, before placing both hands on your ankles, pulling up the long white skirt of your dress too slowly.

Your eyes are fixed on his, getting somewhat darker as his fingertips touch slightly your skin, until he's able to settle between your legs, that you have been opening for him unconsciously. Soon, his lips find your neck, twisting it enough to give him all the space possible. Your hands go to his head, uttering a soft moan when he nails his hands on your ass under the dress. This is your game. You have it since you met, and it's one of your favorite things. A tug of war to see who gives more.

“Fuck, Nestor”. You mutter biting your lower lip, at the same time his teeth catch your skin, putting himself somewhat closer.

Te quiero sentir aquí. Me dan ganas de ti, te dan ganas de mí, a la misma hora.

“Hey, teens in heat, we're going to serve the coctel!” You can hear Emily's laughs from the other side of the door, making you feel your cheeks burning.

“We're going!” You reply a little loud, with Nestor chuckling against your neck.

Pulling him away to put on your dress well, you arrange your mane behind your shoulders before starting to walk back to the house. But when you're about to open the door, he grabs your wrist to make you turn around. Crashing your mouth with his, the man kisses you trying to hide how much he has missed you after five month without seeing each other. Even so, it becomes softer, slow, as if you have all the time you need. His arms surrounding your waist, and yours the back of his head. You're sure that he has never kissed you like that, but it feels too good. Nestor's touch has been ever so warm that could melt the coldest heart, actually, more or less like yours.

Tres y cuatro de la mañana, ven, mata estas ganas. Vamos a llegarle a mi cama, que todo lo he ignorado por ti, todo ha sido por ti. Mi cuerpo sin saber te llama.

You like to eat. You enjoy eating, and that coctel wasn't enough for you. So, waiting by reading some emails until the family is already sleeping, you step out of your new room silent like a cat. Going downstairs, you walk towards the kitchen to assault the freezer.

“Bendito Miguel”.

You whisper finding all the chocolate ice cream he has bought for you. Grabbing one of the tubs and a big spoon, you sit at the island in the center of the kitchen, with the lights off. And you were so concentrated on your task, that you didn't hear Nestor coming. Not even noticing his presence until he nails a second spoon into the tub.

“Shit! Nestor! Fuck… You're gonna fucking kill me one of these days”. You mutter, placing both hands on your chest, with the covered inside your mouth.

The man chuckles almost in silence, having some ice cream.

“Seriously, you need to stop of being this fucking silent”.

“Yeah, I know you like me being loud”.

Raising your eyebrows, you finally shake your head before such an occurrence.

“What about the kiss?”

“What kiss?” He asks a little confused. “Oh! Ya. What happens with that? It was just a kiss?”

“Yes, for sure”.

“I was just happy for you being here. We're friends, it's been five month since we met last time”.

Right in the friend-with-benefits zone, while you were thinking that finally he was catching the same feelings you have for him.

“Cool”.

“Cool?”

“What?”

“It sounded as if I just stabbed you”.

“Why would my friend like to stab me?”

Y estas no son horas de llamar, pero es que el deseo siempre puede más. Podemos pelearnos y hasta alejarnos, pero cuando llega la hora.

You didn't know that Miguel was a friend of the director of the hospital you're going to work at. And he settled a dinner to meet him. Another boring one, and you start to think that your brother-in-law wants to kill you and doesn't know how to do it. You love your work and what you do, but the work stays in the hospital, and you were too distracted about Nestor's words last night. You have been avoiding him the whole day, not even looking at him in the dinner, placed some meters away from the table studying the perimeter. And you know that he's getting more nervous as the hours pass by.

After finishing the meeting, you finally can breathe again inside the big car, checking some messages from your father asking how everything is going. You better don't reply. Keeping it inside your small bag, before leaning towards the front seat with both arms on them.

“Hey, Cartel daddy”.

Your sister breaks into laughs because of the sophisticated name, while Miguel turns at you frowning.

“Listen. Why don't I pull out the stick inside your ass and we go to a real party, ah? There's a new club some minutes ago from Santo Padre, and looks cool”.

“Did you ca—”.

“Hey, Pocahontas, that's the address”. You say to Nestor, offering him your phone to grab it.

Emily is drowning with her own laughs by your side, making you laugh too, when she remembers that you're not allowed to drink red wine because of this. You have the mania of giving funny names to everybody around you.

“What? Cartel daddy and Pocahontas. Sounds like a bad netflix tv-show I would watch”.

Tratan y se caen de la mata, quieren comprarte siempre con plata, pero ese tesoro tiene pirata. Me voy a toda por ti.

While the men prefer a reserved, watching the whole dancefloor from there, and talking about business and appointments, Emily and you enjoy a bunch of mimosas among the crowd jumping and having fun. You really needed it. And you're aware that she already knows that something is happening between the head security and you. Something bad. She doesn't have to be the most intelligent person of the world.

“I would tell him what I feel!” Your sister says, trying to make you hear her above the noise.

“He kicked my ass to the friend zone last night!” The blonde wrinkles her nose confused, seeing you nodding and drinking by your straw.

“Are you kidding me?! He was super excited to see you again! Like super excited!”

“Yeah! He kissed me! But he kissed me like Miguel kisses you! Then he told me it was just a kiss!”

“He's in love with you!”

“No, sista! He's only in love with your husband and with himself!”

“Tell him you don't want to be just his friend!”

“Me?! Oh, no, darling! I'm not gonna humiliate myself like that!”

“C'mon! You fucking pendejos!” She pouts at you.

“You just want Nestor to have a girlfriend, so you can spend more time with your husband! Bitch, I know you better than anyone!”

“I want my little sister to be happy!”

“You want your Cartel daddy!” Breaking into laughs, you place an arm on her shoulders to come back to the reserved.

“What's so funny?” Miguel asks pouring some champagne on two glasses.

“Your wife wants to settle me on a blind date”.

Me decido por ti, te decides por mí, a la misma hora. Me dan ganas de ti, te dan ganas de mí, a la misma hora.

“I'm not going to let you go on a blind date”.

You were refreshing your nape and wrists with water, when you heard him coming closer after locking the bathroom door of the reserved Miguel rented. Looking at him through the mirror, you give him your back to grab some paper and dry your hands. Throwing it into the bin, you turn around to face him.

“Why?”

“It's dangerous”. He just says, tangling his hands on a fist under his abdomen.

“You stabbed me last night, and I survived. I'm pretty sure I will survive to a blind date”. Good point, taking the advantage to pass him away.

But he stops you with an arm surrounding your waist. His chest meeting your back, while his free hand wraps your throat. You're feeling the characteristic heat that Nestor produces in you being so close, running up your legs to your low belly. His thumb caresses your skin, over the jugular vein, leaning towards you to kiss the line of your jaw. Biting your bottom lip, wrapping his wrists letting the free hand goes down by your stomach with a clear destiny.

“We are made for each other”. Nestor mumbles into your ear with a horse tone of voice.

“Yes, to be friends”. You tease him, grabbing his wrist to make him stop, wanting to hear the reality coming from his mouth.

“To be together”. He corrects you then, without a single doubt hitting his vocal chords and turning you under his hands.

Crashing his lips on yours, he makes you walk backwards until your body finds the cold wall. He's as eager as you are, lifting up a leg to surround his waist, while his hand toures your skin until being able to squeeze your ass with a warm growl dying inside his throat.

“I want you in all the ways possible, (Y/N)”. He mutters, trying to hide the anger he feels imagining you with another man. “I want you with me. Only with me”.

Pulling him to the black and golden velvet armchair, you watch him undoing his belt and his pants zipper, noticing the rock under his clothes. Seeing him rolling them down his legs to his ankles, while you take off your dress to leave it over the sink, to sit over his lap with his body between your legs. You haven't taken off the white lace panties, because you know how much he likes the friction of them in every move he does, on a side of his sensible skin. While one of his big hands massage your breast with some strength, the ringed one strokes his needed cock, lying back on the couch.

“Do you wanna fuck me?” You whisper into his mouth, unbuttoning his shirt to stroke his bare chest.

“You don' know how much I need your pussy, cariño”. He just says, looking at you with parted lips grabbing his erection between your fingers.

“I don't think that's enough”. Teasing him, you guide his throbbing and warmth glans to your folds, pressing it against your wet clit and swinging softly your hips.

“I've been waiting five months for you jumping over my cock, mami. You know I am fucking desperate for your soaked pussy suffocating me and pushing me into the limit”. Nestor almost begs, placing his hands on both sides of your waist. “Ride your cock, baby. Look at how hard it's because of you. It fucking painful”.

“And what if I punish you about what you said last night… putting my clothes on again and leaving you there alone, ah?”

“Don't do that shit, (Y/N). I fucking implore you”. He quickly complains pecking your lips with short kisses. “You're already fucking killing me”.

Leading a little back his hardness between your legs, you dig it into you slowly, feeling every inch of his erection pressing your tight walls. He's thicker than you can remember, having passed too much time since the last time, needing some seconds to mold your body to his. A soft moan escapes from your mouths when his glans pushes your g-spot, urging you to spread more your legs forcing you to feel him completely. And you can't describe that sensation.

“Tell me you didn't miss my cock…” He chuckles, erasing that fancy smile from his lips by swinging your hips just one time.

His growl echoes throughout the bathroom, before catching your lips between his to bite them, making you dance on top of him. The pleasure is immeasurable, bouncing over his hard rock once and again. Once and again, arching your back under his arms, while his mouth now devours the skin of your neck, wetting it with his saliva and marking every inch with his teeth. The pace becomes rough and faster, slapping your ass with both hands to squeeze your buttocks so needed that you're desiring to feel his cum filling you up. But you like his cock pounding you.

“I'm going to make the others hear you being fucked by me, mi amor…” He bellows, making you beg when pulling out himself from you to get up.

Guiding you quickly to the sink and giving him your back, placing a hand on your nape, he makes you lean over the sink before putting aside your panties to thrust his soaked cock back to your pussy. The scream you utter when his pelvis hits you so rough, isn't normal. Being sure that your sister and Miguel already heard you. His hands nailed on your hips make each lunge deeper, watching him through the mirror the pleased look on his face, while his gaze is fixed in your. He enjoys seeing you bite your bottom lip and closing your eyes, every time he slaps you with his ringed fingers, knowing that this pleasure it's going to fuck you up tomorrow. But you love the way he has to uninhibit himself, after being the whole day following orders.

“Shit, baby… I want you all my fucking life”. He gasps leaning his head back with closed eyelids, impaling you against the marble counter of the sink.

Maybe you should have taken off the heels to not lose the balance, but you didn't think about it, and now you're fighting against your shaky legs.

“Look how good you take it all… my fucking god, (Y/N). You're fucking drenching me”.

Yes, you can feel it. You can feel your juices and his slipping down your thighs, producing a soaked dirty sound every time his body collides with yours so hard. Urging you to incorporate your chest from the sink with a hand grabbing your throat and the other arm surrounding your waist, Nestor arches your back, placing his face on your shoulder.

“Drown my fucking… dick with your cum, mi amor…” He begs you, biting your love, without removing his darkened orbs from yours, through your reflections.

“Shit, Nestor…” You're not sure when you start to cry because of the pleasure, needing more, needing to reach the orgasm. “Fuck me harder, I fucking beg you… Por favor”.

You can't barely breathe when his finger finds your clit, stroking it with the same pace he's embedding you against the furnishing. Your moans dance all around the bathroom, while he's gasping over your ear how much he wants to fuck you for the rest of his life, everywhere, at anytime you want it. And by crying out his name and clinging to him, a lash of heat evolves you, making your pussy twitch uncontrollably as the tears fall down your cheek. Your palpitating walls clenching his cock, making his vocals get louder as long as he continues diving his warmth hardness into you, closer from his own ecstasy.

You don't need to tell him that you want him to cum inside you, mixing it with yours, because he already has other plans. Pulling himself out and jerking off his dick, he spills his seed over your wet panties, bathing them on it as his throat collapses because of the pleasure. But don't waste time putting them to the side again to pound you again, pressing his body against yours as much as he can, holding your anatomy into his arms.

Te quiero sentir aquí. Me dan ganas de ti, te dan ganas de mí, a la misma hora.

It's four am and you can't sleep thinking about what he said to you. Sighing, you sit up on your bed, curling your knees against your chest and surrounding them with both arms. He already told you that he wants you, but was he talking or his jealousy? You're doubting about going to his house, or texting him, or doing anything. Grabbing your phone from the nightstand and a cig from the packet, you step out of your dorm to walk downstairs towards the terrace. Sitting on one of the sofas outside, you light the smoke to have a drag, unlocking your phone. Your trembling fingers touch the screen over the keyboard; writing and deleting, writing and deleting. But you're unable to send any message. Feeling stupid, you finally write him that you can't sleep, listening the ding of your own notification so close that makes you frown confused.

“Me neither”.

With your lips pursed and a leg curled over the sofa, you turn ashamed towards him. Nestor is wearing a pair of grey sweatpants and a white big shirt. You're sure that you have never seen him before without wearing a suit. And you are falling loudly for him much more than ever. Putting out the cigarette, you stand up on your feet to lead them towards you.

“Stay with me, at least tonight”. You mutter, tangling your fingers with his.

“But move with me tomorrow”. Nestor asks you then, before hugging you as close as he can.

“Deal”. You reply, placing your chin on his chest to look at him, receiving some short kisses all around your face that make you laugh.

✨ Tag list:

@starrynite7114 @chibsytelford @dazzledamazon @mara-mpou @sammskellington @gemini0410 @1-800-imagines @briana-mishell24 @sassymox @aquamento @sadeyesgf @viviansafizada @samcrobae @jade770 @witchy-wish @rebel-without-cause-x @xx--day-dreamer--xx @spiced-reads @tita127 @ifoundmyhappythought @enamouravecleslivresetlechocolat @angelxshiba @destynelseclipsa @sheeshgivemeabreak @abbiesthings @knowles-morgan @lady-pswrld @minnicelli @marquelapage @bigcreatorwombatdreamer @jadesamhart @mycupoffanfiction @claytoncardenasbabymama @thesandbeneathmytoes @phoenixhalliwell @thewarriorprincessxo @sugary-x-sweet @multiyfandomgirl40 @imanerdychubbyqueen @iambabyharry @firebenderwolf @itsanofrommesir

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#mayans mc x reader #mayans mc #mayans mc imagine #mayans x reader #nestor oceteva x reader #nestor oceteva imagine #nestor oceteva

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straydawg-writing · 3 years

Text

𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖌𝖊𝖙-𝖒𝖊-𝖓𝖔𝖙

ᴅᴀᴢᴀɪ ᴏꜱᴀᴍᴜ.

• bungo stray dogs series

chapter 3: 𝖉𝖆𝖋𝖋𝖔𝖉𝖎𝖑 — 𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝖘𝖔𝖒𝖊𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌

✥ ⊱ ────── ♔ ────── ⊰ ✥

┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊

┊ ┊ ┊ ✫ ˚✩

┊ ┊ ✫

┊ ┊

┊ ⊹ ☪︎⋆

✯ ⋆

˚✩

"COME IN."

it nearly took all of kita's might to push open the monstrous gothic-styled doors of the boss' office. as of late, mori had been assigning her more and more tasks that she readily accepted. she had nothing else to do, no other reason to live, except for dedicating herself to the port mafia.

daylight emanated from a long wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, brightening up the dark space and shining on the royal maroon carpet. ahead of her sat the boss, in all of his dignity and glory.

"you called?" kita began, standing tall when she spoke.

mori was not a man she wanted to appear frail in front of. kita was confident she would win over his trust and respect in due time, and was determined not to waste the chance he had given her when he had taken her in. as a woman in the port mafia, she had to work harder than anyone else to be taken seriously. many believed that she didn't belong there, but she was okay with that. after all, kita had no intention of being mixed with juvenile delinquent men.

"you did well on your last job. but of course, you know that i can't have you rest and let that eager spirit rot away."

"i'd expect that, boss. what did you have in mind?" kita asked, twiling a strand of black hair between her fingers.

"this job involves retrieving the marcello family's confidential files. they've attempted hiding a business of money laundering despite our... how should i say this? our 'small' warning example. the mission should be easy enough."

the sound of tall double doors parting open echoed throughout the room and interrupted kita's response. she felt the presence of someone else coming in, stopping only when they were right next to her.

"hey, boss."

"nice to see you dazai," mori greeted the boy, intertwining his hands and resting them on his desk.

dazai was here. why did she suddenly feel butterflies, when not even meeting the port mafia boss stirred nerves like these within her?

"i don't understand. if the mission is so easy, what is he doing here?" kita glanced his way, startled when she saw him staring back.

"did i forget to mention? although just one person is needed to steal the item, this mission requires two people. the marcello family enjoys their parties. you'll be infiltrating their next one, as an unsuspecting couple."

everything slowed down. kita was sure she misheard, mori's last words hanging on his lips and repeating in her mind like a mantra. go as a couple?

you could ask her to kill an army of men and it would be simpler than this. she had only just met him last night –no– it would be easier if she didn't know him at all.

"is that agreeable with you, kita?"

it wasn't like she had a choice, a job was an order in disguise. mori had that same look on his face that he pulled whenever he was picking out a new babydoll dress for elise. the man was up to something, and she wasn't sure how to feel.

"sounds good to me!" dazai answered for her, shoving his hands in his pockets.

then it was settled. looking towards the bandaged boy, kita shook off her wariness and cracked a smile. she wouldn't mind getting to know him better.

"alright. how bad could it be?"

kita's mirror reflection stared back at her, beauteous and sweet. a silk black dress hung daintily on her hips, and a laced corset traced her curves. ringlets of jet-black hair spilled over her collarbones, the midnight shades creating a striking contrast with her ivory pearl skin that was spellbinding. she sighed as she closed the drawer which held her lipstick. despite her natural desire to stand out in a crowd, kita knew that tonight she would be dressing to blend in. still, she couldn't help but ask herself in the back of her mind if she was dressing to impress.

'it's just a mission. just a mission. just a mission,' she told herself as she twisted open the doorknob of her room. little did she expect to see the man himself, standing right outside of her bedroom door.

"how long have you been standing there?" she rested her hand on her hip, pursing her lips.

"from my perspective, it looks like you were the one waiting for me to get here," dazai said, holding out a single red camellia flower.

"'you're a flame in my heart', huh?" kita observed, taking the flower in her pale hands.

"is that a confession?" he asked, with a cheeky grin.

oh, so he's a flirt.

"that's just what the flower means, stupid."

she took this chance to take in the sight of him. his hair was the same as always –tousled chocolate locks falling over his sweetly intense brown eyes– and you were glad he hadn't changed it. dazai's usual bandages were covered up by the sleeves of his black slate tux. the suit looked made for him, fitting his body perfectly in every crevice. you had to admit, dazai looked a little bit handsome.

"i know, i asked chuuya. who knew he spoke flowers too? although... he did try starting a fight in the middle of the courtyard, calling me an 'enemy of all women,'" dazai pouted, making finger quotations before he quickly changed moods again. it was something she had noticed he seemed to do often. his playful eyes were now dripping with a more flirtatious undertone.

"the boss ordered us to personate two fiances madly in love. so... let's play the part, shall we?" dazai mischievously bowed down to her height, gently taking kita's small hand in his and leaving a kiss on her smooth skin. he knew he had caught her in his trap- she couldn't argue with the boss himself.

kita let out a small exhale, interlacing his hands with her own.

"fine, you win. but drop the 'madly in love.'."

"mr. and mrs. iwazaki-to-be?" the doorman asked for confirmation, with a paper and quill to cross off guest names.

"that's us!" dazai enthusiastically expressed with an arm around kita, placing a kiss on her temple to sell the act.

the doorman, who seemed to be in his late sixties, looked up from his paper and sent the pair a warming smile.

"i miss my girl every day... congratulations." he held up his ring finger to show them, and motioned for them to join the party. "enjoy the night!"

the pair entered the party through a towering marbled creme archway. space had opened up to accommodate a grand scene of painted people with most likely debatable motives, drinking from their champagne glasses and dancing to a luxurious orchestra. a waft of expensive colognes and perfumes flooded their senses. it smelt like the rich. businessmen stroke deals, wives exchanged the newest slice of gossip, and old men watched from the sidelines, whistling for girls in their royal dresses of all colors.

kita suddenly developed an appreciation for not having come alone. the fake engagement ring decorating her ring finger marked her as claimed. in other words: kept the old, perverted, corrupted politicians away. not as if she couldn't beat them to a pulp if need be.

a large marble staircase that matched the entrance winded the perimeter of the main floor, leading up to the room which held their files. but for now, their foremost concern was appearing ordinary, becoming like everybody else of the night. to play the part of the happy-go-lucky-couple-in-love.

the boss had asked her first. this was her mission.

grabbing dazai by the chin who was distracted by the red-velvet cupcakes on display, kita turned his face down to look at her.

"dance with me."

"okey. but yowr sqwuisching mey fasce," dazai replied, face indeed squished as his lips were forced into a pout. she let go with a grin, satisfied with his response.

maneuvering through men in studded suits and women in extravagant dresses that took up half of the floor, a new waltz had begun by the time she pulled him onto the dance floor with her.

"i forgot to tell you earlier, but you clean up really nicely, dazai." kita commented, her arms loosely tangled around his neck.

they turned elegantly, in tune with the slow music, and standing closer than ever before. kita could feel his breath on her skin as he held her waist. this close to him, his natural scent was intoxicating. he was rich, like caramel. a breath of fresh air from the sea of headache-inducing colognes. if by the end of this dance, her breath was taken away, she would know why.

"you look... irresistible," dazai's eyes widened slightly. he kept his attention on her as he whimsically guided the girl across the dance floor, taking her anywhere he pleased– and she let him. no matter what dazai did, he always had the same fanciful air about him. even now, she felt he was taking her into a dream.

the warmth between them continued to increase, along with their rising heartbeats, until the song had faded into the distance and the only thing that mattered was their steps in sync, their breathing one.

'it's all an act.'

"let's find a room upstairs," he whispered in her ear, pulling her out of the crowd and up the staircase once the song had ended.

any guests attending the event were too engrossed in their own party and pleasure to notice them disappear. from where kita stood, she could see them all dancing like porcelain dolls in a make-believe show.

"this one." dazai pointed, opening a door with a plaque that read, 'j. marcello's office.'

time was of the essence, and yet dazai didn't seem the least bit concerned as he strolled over to the mahogany desk that sat underneath a window. he opened one drawer in particular with a mass of cigarettes the owner had never bothered throwing out, and tossed them all into the trash can.

"if he wants to meet his end with an insufferable death, this'll do it." dazai tsked and shook his head as he tossed another one behind him and scored. "couldn't ever be me..."

"don't you think he'll notice?"

"he'll also notice when his papers are gone. i'm simply doing him a favor~" dazai chuckled.

kita was digging through files and trying to distract herself from the taller male as much as possible, ever since the dance they shared so intimately lingered in her mind. she was so distracted that she didn't hear the sudden sound of a door opening, and just as quickly as the door opened, she had been pulled into dazai's embrace and leaned over the desk.

his soft lips crashed into hers, causing an obvious expression of surpise as she felt his warm hands riding up the side of her face, the other arm leaning on the desk behind her and trapping her underneath him– but she guessed it was only to give the mysterious person the wrong idea.

she only hesitated for a moment before kissing him back, going along with the act as she pulled on his tie to regain her balance. the kiss barely lasted about five seconds, but to kita it felt like an eternity. his kiss was so sudden she had already ran out of breath and was running on nothing at all but his own oxygen.

"s-sorry! you can't be in here!" an embarrassed voice called out, shutting the door as soon as it had opened.

when the door had closed, dazai swiftly released his hold on her.

"all that and still no files," he sighed, scratching his head.

"you sure about that?" kita smirked, running her tongue over the lingering taste of sugar-coated lips. peaking from behind her back was a folder that she had stolen from the drawer's hidden compartment.

"kita! oh i could kiss you," dazai's mouth opened in childish awe. if this were an animation, his eyes would have sparkled.

"you already did. guess you couldn't resist huh?"

"aren't you the one who kissed me back?" he raised an eyebrow.

"touché," she clicked her tongue, rolling the folder and hiding it in her bra while walking out of the room with dazai in tow.

"wow, you can fit that in there?" he pondered out loud.

"of course i ca-" she began, before being cut off by a horde of men in black suits, guns pointed.

"IT'S THEM! don't even TRY letting them escape," a voice boomed, with a round of gunshots firing all around them soon after.

kita sighed, uninterested in the new turn of events. she could use her ability now, but it wasn't worth it. they had gotten what they came for, so whatever happened now was of no concern to her. dazai slowly turned around, eyes coming to an emotionless standstill as he allowed the bullets their chance to plunge into him, but always missing.

"geez, your aim sucks." kita stated, pulling her own knife out of a leg garter that hid underneath her dress and sending it piercing through the cheeks of a full line of men.

they dropped, guns casting across the floor. dazai blankly considered them before picking one up for himself.

"i hope you don't mind if i borrow this," he drawled, flipping it over in his hands before stretching out his arm in front of him and shooting the men left. he aimed to kill.

with that taken care of, kita bent down and plucked her knife out of the unfortunate victim's flesh. she wiped it off on the fabric of her black dress.

"p-please. don't kill me," the timid cry of a sole survivor pleaded for his life.

he was bowed to the ground, blood seeping through his suit and making it an impossibly darker shade of vantablack. what a shame he still lived.

with one look from dazai who lazily reached a hand for a crimson-red cupcake, he aimed and shot with the other.

the party was all but dead now.

in the midst of the bloodbath, dazai had taken a bite out of the dessert, and now white frosting dusted the tip of his nose like snowflakes. using her thumb, kita wiped the icing away and licked the sweetness off of her finger.

"hey!"

"you took too long to eat it!" she explained after stealing the cupcake away from him, eating the rest of it as as they stepped out from the bloodied marble walls and into the black of the darkened night.

｡✣✤✥━━━━━━━━━━━━✥✤✣｡

❝𝙰𝙿𝙾𝙲𝙾𝙻𝚈𝙿𝚂𝙴❞

1:05 ──♡────── 2:53

|◁ II ▷|

— ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪᴘꜱ, ᴍʏ ʟɪᴘꜱ, ᴀᴘᴏᴄᴀʟʏᴘꜱᴇ

ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪᴘꜱ, ᴍʏ ʟɪᴘꜱ, ᴀᴘᴏᴄᴀʟʏᴘꜱᴇ

｡✣✤✥━━━━━━━━━━━━✥✤✣｡

#bungo stray dogs #bungo stray dogs fanfiction #dazai osamu x reader #dazai x reader #dazai osamu x oc #dazai x oc #bsd fanfic #bsd fanfiction #mafia!dazai x reader #mafia!dazai fanfiction

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diyunho · 4 years

Text

The Joker x Reader - “Trapped” Part 5

Almost one year ago, someone tried to kill The Joker in a speeding car and Y/N pushed him out of the way, getting hit instead. With a fractured skull and broken bones, she was out of business for 6 months; when she finally recovered, The Queen of Gotham wasn’t the same anymore. Trapped inside her own mind and exhibiting severe cognitive impairment, Y/N’s life switched upside down without any hope of ever returning to normal.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

4 Months Pregnant

“I need customized stickers that say Baby On Board for my purple Lamborghini and the other cars I drive,” The Joker growls at his own idea whilst sharing it with the person fulfilling his wacko trades: Franco Rossi, the leader of best underground supply chain in Gotham.

“When would you like them ready Mister J? After Y/N gives birth?”

“Nope! Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?...” Franco hesitantly inquiries about the sudden emergency since he can’t understand why The King of Gotham demands them so fast.

The Joker hates explaining yet certain people are obtuse thus they necessitate enlightenment.

“Y/N’s pregnant: when she gets in a car, the baby is also. Baby on board! Hello??” the father-to-be loses his temper.

Who can argue with The Joker’s logic? Nobody. It sort of makes sense anyway.

“Of course, Mister J. I’ll have them ready. If you drop by after 6pm, I’ll have your guns ready too.”

“Perfect!” the Joker hangs up among the ruckus coming from the office near the kitchen: sounds of shattered objects and yelling alert Richard aka Panda you’re at it again. He nonchalantly passes by in order to deliver the items to The Clown.

“Your drinks Mister J,” he gives one cup with Starbucks caramel latte to his boss and the other is placed on the table. Why does your boyfriend require 2 identical containers? It won’t take long to solve the mystery.

“Are the lids glued?”

Strange question but there’s a purpose in it.

“Yes sir. How is she doing?”

“She’s hormonal: breaking things makes her feel better which reminds me we have to hoard porcelain objects for her to wreck. NO glass!”

“Sure, I’ll tell the crew,” Richard leaves the kitchen while texting Frost. “Hulk needs more to smash,” he types the code name they gave you in the last weeks although The King knows about it: J’s the one that came up with it.

“Hey Pumpkin,” you are greeted as soon as you pop up from the office. “How’d it go?” he scrolls down on his phone and takes a sip of hot liquid.

“Ugghh!” a frustrated Y/N swings the yellow teddy bear The Joker stole for her on their first date, hitting his hand in the process. The drink flies near the fridge and splatters on the floor with minimal damage: only a tiny puddle instead of a disaster, that’s why the lids are glued.

Safety measure for The Queen’s unpredictability.

J grabs his reserve cup of coffee, paying attention now hence he dodges your renewed attack and keeps his coffee intact.

That’s why his drinks have the lids glued, in case you catch him off guard the second time it will result in negligible destruction.

It happened before.

“I don’t think so Princess,” The Joker strong grip on the container calms you a bit because you won’t be able to win this round. “Are you hungry?”

“No,” you pout and sit in his lap.

“I bet the baby is,” the secret weapon is unleashed: J discovered such a gem by accident and it works like a charm. How can Y/N say “no” if the baby is involved? She can’t.

A plate filled with a bunch of your favorite breakfast food is placed in front of you and strangely enough you’re instantly hungry.

“Extra bacon,” he purrs. “Plus chocolate dip and honey mustard for your pickled cherries. I added peanut butter olives as a bonus.”

In your defense, you’ve been having weird cravings lately.

You place the toy on the chair nearby and start eating, ogling a Joker texting back and forth with his business partners. He chews the morsel you just offered and shivers: waffle dipped in clam juice is disgusting. Maybe he should look at the food you shove in his mouth.

“Gross,” J washes the terrible taste with coffee and gets a kiss for encouragement, yet he’s aware of the connotations. Another kiss confirms it.

Let’s put it this way: besides the hormonal episodes and food demands, The Queen has had a fresh type of craving recently - The Joker kind.

More than usually.

That’s why he has to clear it up.

“I’m flattered for being the center of attention; we gotta keep in mind that contrary to the popular belief, I don’t have unlimited stamina, Pumpkin.”

You nod in agreement and unbutton his pants, then unzip them also.

“Y/N, pay attention!” J insists since you don’t give a damn about his woes. “Think about it as a two way street: The Joker Street and I Want To Break Things Street. Are you with me so far?” he double checks.

Why is he yapping so much??! I guess you should make an effort to comprehend: he’s even doodling patterns on his phone to emphasize the speech.

“When you get hormonal, Princess, let’s try and walk on the I Want To Break Things Street instead of The Joker Street, hm? The Joker Street is sometimes closed for repairs until further announcement.”

OK, OK, this is a lecture. Something about a Joker Street, he seems upset he doesn’t have one…?... Right?...

If you were him, you would be pissed Gotham didn’t name a street in your honor when you’re so important for the town.

Another peck on his neck, then your lips go down his collar bone.

“You’re not paying attention, are you?” J mutters when it’s clear his shirt won’t remain on his body for too long.

“I am,” you defend yourself.

“Oh yeah? What did I say then?”

“Ummm…” you try to piece together words among estrogen taking over. “No Joker Street?...”

“Bingo, that’s it Princess! No Joker Street, correct! Choose the other street, yes?”

This time he kisses you, excited his idea was well received when in fact, both parties are referring to unrelated concepts.

“Wait,” J dodges your touch, “Richard is calling.”

Because he’s on the phone ignoring Y/N, she is ensuring a nice surprise for later; concentrating to the maximum to avoid misspelling, the following message is sent to Franco Rossi from her cell:

“Make a landmark sign that says Joker Street.”

The King’s conversation is prolonged more than anticipated until he discerns you’re not wiggling: you feel asleep, softly snoring on his shoulder and he definitely can’t afford to wake you up.

The doctors said your body is trying to cope with the pregnancy the best way it can: if you doze off at random hours it means you ran out of fuel and you should rest. After cheating death and surviving the accident, the future mother is at high risk of serious complications which is why each day could lead to unforeseen problems.

The Joker rises from the chair holding you in his arms and after a few steps he realizes it’s difficult to walk: thanks to his unbuttoned and unzipped pants, they keep sliding lower and lower. There’s no way he will make it upstairs so maybe the sofa in the living room is the best option. He almost trips thus he begins to drag his feet on the carpet, the pants at knee level now.

“I’m reduced to a piece of meat,” J grumbles, finally making it to the couch and placing Y/N on it so she can have her power nap.

*************

6:02pm

You accompanied The King to a meeting with Seraphim, the best hacker/strategist J uses: they’ve been plotting for a while concerning D.A. Kevin Winchester. The politician is becoming a huge pain in the butt for Gotham’s underworld and something must be done; either annihilation or blackmail, it truly doesn’t matter since he’s bad for business. Due to a total lack of interest in the subject, you are exploring the surroundings quite angry The Joker dragged you here.

Luckily there’s stuff to do.

Bam! you punch the fragile glass sculpture and it splinters into a million pieces on the lavish marble floor.

Seraphim jumps at the noise, immediately recognizing his beloved possession:

“That’s…,” he gulps, appalled. “That’s a Vitriol!”

Yup, the one and only Degas Vitriol, the latest sensation taking the art universe by storm.

“She’s hormonal,” J sneers. “She breaks shit!”

“That’s valued at 150,000 dollars!” the hacker breaths in much needed oxygen regarding the atrocity unfolding at his hideout.

“So??!!” your boyfriend sucks on his teeth, irritated. “Serves you right for buying that asshole’s artsy fartsy crap!”

The Joker actually has 4 Vitriol masterpieces at the mansion yet you were strictly forbidden to destroy them, alas he gave you the office for your rampages.

You continue your exploration as they talk about God knows what until you perceive an alarming detail: Seraphim is literally screaming having a gun pointed at J.

You sneak behind him then in a split second you strike the pistol out of his hand and your fist lands on his temple with such brutality it knocks him out unconscious.

“What the hell are you doing, Y/N???” The Clown hisses at your erratic behavior.

“Hm?”

“What are you doing??!!!” he repeats, annoyed.

“S-saving you…,” you stutter, confused on why J is mad. “He was yelling and…mmm, had a gun,” you wince in pain because your knuckles hurt from the impact.

“The guy’s half deaf and sometimes he raises his voice without noticing, or did you forget??!! Now I have to wait until he comes to his senses and that’s a waste of my time, Y/N!!! Seraphim wasn’t threatening me, he was showing me his newest collectible!!! I suppose someone with half a brain can’t acknowledge the mess they’ve created!!!”

A lot of accusations thrown your way still… the last sentence brings tears in your eyes.

“I…” you bite your lower lip. “…I don’t have half of brain…”

“Wanna bet??” The Joker bites more instead of leveling with your logic: you though he was in danger and took action. If it was a real emergency, yes, you would have been the hero; it’s not and apparently he can’t appreciate your fast intervention in these circumstances.

“Y-you’re stupid…” you whisper, frustrated. “You don’t understand anything…”

Here it is -- the cataclysmic event of the century: someone called The Joker stupid. He’s beyond outraged with nothing better to utter besides a very childish:

“You’re stupid!”

Y/N turns around and stomps out of the house leaving a trail of destruction outside: she slaps the bottled water out of The Shark’s hand, kicks Panda’s shin and snatches Frost’s donut basically inhaling the sweet treat.

“I want to go h-home!!” you shout and enter the first vehicle you see, slamming the door so hard the window on the passenger side cracks.

“Jesus…” Jonny mumbles and being the sensible man that he is you are offered the whole box of pastries he purchased for his family. He can acquire more, but there’s no way in hell he wants to endure Y/N in the state she’s in.

Gotta keep Hulk calm somehow…

**************

3 Hours Afterwards

You sulk when The Joker strolls in the master bathroom frantically searching the cabinets.

“Did you see my shaver?” he asks.

“Hm?”

“Did you see my shaver?”

“I…I wouldn’t know. I only have half a brain,” the surprisingly eloquent phrase queues J his woman is holding a grudge for his earlier statement. Why wouldn’t she? He was a complete jerk.

At least you didn’t catch on to the obvious: The King of Gotham doesn’t own a shaver; hair just grows on his head.

He glimpses at Y/N soaking in the bathtub with a kid’s book in her left hand and the right hand fingers sunk into a bowl filled with ice placed at the edge of the Jacuzzi. The Joker leans over and switches your book since it’s upside down.

You huff at the unwanted help and stare at the pictures expecting he’ll look for his shaver and disappear.

You’re not that fortunate today.

“Imagine my surprise when I drove the main alley and detected a sign that says The Joker Street,” he brings up the topic.

Franco Rossi was super-efficient …sadly you ordered the item before J ran his mouth at the hacker’s place, otherwise you wouldn’t care he wants a street with his name.

“You said no… no Joker Street,” you stammer. “Now you have one,” the bitter tone makes him roll his eyes: Y/N’s brain got what it could from his monologue, he should have known better than to make it complicated.

“Excellent…” The King starts rubbing your tummy, “… precisely what I was aiming for. I’m washing the baby, not you!” he underlines when you move farther from him.

You scrunch your face displeased but let him do it because it’s for the baby.

“I know what you’re doing,” Y/N gives him a cold gaze. “U-using the baby… I’m not stupid!”

Busted, The Joker thinks. The schemer in him won’t accept defeat though.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“Yes you did!”

“You said it first!!!” he reckons, antagonized. “Therefore two stupid people put together gotta make up for a smart one!!’

“I… I don’t wanna make out…” you frown at his suggestion.

The Joker sighs, deciding not to correct the trajectory of your judgement; it sure sounds like an opportunity.

“Why not?”

“I’m tired and…and I h-hate you,” your heavy eyelids close.

“Both viable reasons, even if I have to admit you striking Seraphim like that got me quite worked up. He’s no small fry! I had to wait for one hour for him to recover; you got a mean punch, woman! The more I reflect on it, the hornier I get. Which reminds me, Pumpkin: guess what?... … … I’m hormonal too.”

No answer, Pumpkin’s out.

“Of course nobody gives a damn if I’m hormonal!” he complaints while grabbing you from the bathtub. You cling to him for a few moments prior to drifting back into your dreams.

“Thanks for getting me all wet,” J snarls at the cruel reality of having his favorite Prada suit ruined.

“You…you’re welcome…” his Queen replies in her sleep, somehow her mind clutching to reality amidst pure relaxation.

This is what two hormonal individuals are reduced to: one’s dozing off, the other is suffering in silence, although being the proud owner of the tiniest road in Gotham compensates for the mishap.

It’s a two way street.

Also read: Masterlist

You can also follow me on Ao3 and Wattpad under the same blog name: DiYunho.

#the joker x reader #the joker imagine #the joker fanfiction #the joker jared leto #the joker suicide squad #the joker #joker #joker x reader #joker leto #joker imagine #joker suicide squad #joker jared leto #mister j #mr. j #dc #dcu

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musette22 · 4 years

Text

Body Politics

Read on AO3

Paring: Chris Evans x Sebastian Stan (Evanstan)

Word count: 9.4k

Rating: E (so 18+ only please!)

A/N: Okaayyy! So it took a while, but I finally wrote the thing based on this prompt (which I unfortunately accidentally deleted, but I saved the prompt itself):"hello! I saw some pics of chris with various politicans for his new project and thought about a stucky/evanstan fic in which chris/steve wants to film a clip with a newly elected senator who turns out to be bucky/seb and chris/steve just can't deal with the hotness."

It’s… a bit longer than I intended it to be - surprise! As always, I’ve posted it to AO3 and I’d recommend reading it there because it really is quite long (that’s what she said). Hope you enjoy the filth 💖 N.B. I know you asked for Senator Sebastian, but it seemed to fit better with the story to make him a Representative instead! Hope that’s ok!

Body Politics

Chris has done dozens of these videos by now. In fact, he did two of them just this morning. He knows the drill, he knows what he’s doing, there’s really no reason to be nervous anymore. And yet, as per usual right before he’s going in, his anxiety is peaking, causing him to feel jittery and queasy, and like he’s suddenly forgotten everything he’s supposed to know about the American political system.

God, he’s going to make a massive fool of himself. What the fuck was he thinking? Should’ve just stayed in his lane, like plenty of people told him to. He sighs at his reflection in the mirror, splashing his face with cold water in the hope it will help him focus.

“Ready?” Mark asks him, as soon as he steps out into the hallway where Mark had been waiting for him.

“Absolutely,” Chris nods, all put on confidence and ease which he definitely isn’t feeling. “Let’s do this.”

Mark is well aware how bad Chris’s anxiety tends to get before this sort of thing, but he doesn’t comment. He knows Chris will be fine as soon as the cameras turn on and he can stop being Chris Evans, meatball and anxious mess, and start being Chris Evans, movie star and aspiring politician – or, as most people view him, real life Captain America. Chris doesn’t mind that image so much. He’s proud of what he’s done with the character and besides, Steve Rogers is a better man than he’ll ever be. Sometimes it’s a little frustrating when people seem to be more excited about meeting Cap than about what it is Chris is there to discuss with them – things that are important not only to him personally, but to the fate of the entire country. But on the flipside, his Cap persona has opened a lot of doors for him, and that makes the occasional flare of irritation more than worth it. Politicians and civil servants are just people too, after all. Well. Most of them.

Today, Chris is meeting with Democratic Representative Sebastian Stan. Stan is quite new on the Hill, and Chris was doubtful whether meeting with him would be worthwhile. But Mark had said he’d heard good things about the guy, plus he was willing to meet with them, so Chris had decided to give him a chance. Since it was all quite last minute, he hadn’t really had time to do much research on Stan and just read the notes that Mark had sent him earlier this morning.

Chris was impressed with the guy’s resume, and despite his usual nerves he was quite looking forward to speaking with him. It was undoubtedly going to be better than interviewing some stuffy old Republican. Again. Chris is well aware that he signed up for this whole bipartisan thing himself, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t occasionally get the urge to throw hands when he hears someone like Ted Cruz or Dan Crenshaw spout their conservative bullshit.

Chris walks into the office that’s set up like a small film set: two simple folding chairs set up on a worn rug in front of some antique, mahogany cabinets, giving the appearance of nonchalant sophistication. Next to the chairs are some studio lights and reflectors, and two cameras, one behind each chair.

Mark takes a seat on the far end of the room, there to observe and chime in if necessary, while Chris hikes up the knees of his dress pants before sits down on one of the folding chairs. He crosses his legs, tapping his pen against the papers resting on his knee while they wait for Representative Stan to arrive.

After a minute or two, the door behind Chris opens, and he gets up, ready to greet the Representative. He turns with a smile, which freezes on his face as he comes face to face with the guy he’s supposed to be interviewing.

Fuck, he’s gorgeous.

The thought flits through Chris’s mind, unbidden and very, very inappropriate, under the circumstances.

It’s true, though. Standing before him, wide smile on his face and his hand held out expectantly, is a man who wouldn’t have looked out of place on the kind of red carpet that Chris frequently finds himself on, too. Chris’s body moves on autopilot, greeting Stan and shaking his hand, while his brain produces nothing but static, helplessly stuck on a litany of holy shit he’s gorgeous what do I do what do I say.

Representative Stan is dressed in a perfectly tailored, aubergine suit, his chestnut hair slicked back in a way that could’ve seemed skeevy, but instead looks sleek and sophisticated. His steel-blue eyes are bright and intelligent, but there’s a glimmer of something almost mischievous in them, too – as if Stan knows something Chris doesn’t and he may choose to waylay him any minute. Stan’s jawline and cheekbones could cut glass, and his mouth… Chris has to make a conscious effort to look away from his mouth, or this could get really awkward really fast.

It’s only when both of them have taken place on their respective folding chairs and Gino, their camera guy, asks them if they’re good to go, that Chris’s brain decides to cooperate again. Not fully, but just enough to be able to focus on the questions he knows he needs to ask. He clears his throat and plasters on a smile, hoping fervently that he at least outwardly appeared like he knew what he was doing while he was inwardly busy having a melt down over a pretty boy.

He shakes himself. It isn’t just a pretty boy. Sebastian Stan is a United States Representative. One who is now looking at him expectantly from the chair opposite, ready to answer Chris’s questions about healthcare for all, gun control and gerrymandering.

Oh, Christ.

Stealing himself, Chris nods at Gino, signaling for him to turn on the cameras. He takes a deep breath, and starts.

“Representative Stan, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Thank you so much for sitting down with us today and for agreeing to answer some of my questions.”

“Please, call me Sebastian,” Stan replies, smiling. “And the pleasure is all mine.”

Chris swallows, trying hard not to get stuck on the word pleasure or the way Sebastian’s slight New York drawl sounds coming from that beautiful mouth, and asks his first question. “Sebastian. Could you tell me, in sixty seconds, what your stance is on gun control?”

---

Representative Stan’s – Sebastian’s – answers are all incredibly thoughtful yet to the point, and with every reply Chris feels himself sinking deeper and deeper into a state of despair. He’s pretty and he shares Chris’s opinions on basically everything? This guy is trouble. Heaps of it.

When Chris asks question four, he almost falters when he thinks he catches Sebastian looking him up and down, gaze lingering for a moment on his hands and shoulders. But surely that’s just wishful thinking? Just in case, Chris quickly checks Sebastian’s left hand: no ring. When he meets Sebastian’s eyes again, the corner of his mouth ticks up into a hint of a smirk, as if he knows exactly what Chris was doing.

Immediately, Chris feels his cheeks heat up. Not for the first time in his adult life he’s grateful for the fact that his beard covers most of his face. He clears his throat again and sits up straighter, trying to appear as if he’s listening intently to Sebastian’s next reply instead of freaking out about the possibility that Sebastian might be interested back. Just the idea makes Chris feel too hot under the lights suddenly, his collar too tight around his neck.

He holds it together relatively well for the remainder of the interview, only tripping up and staring at Sebastian’s mouth as he talks maybe two or three times, and honestly, he kind of feels like he deserves some kind of medal for that. When his final question, regarding constituencies, has been answered, Chris represses the urge to sigh in relief. As soon as the cameras turn off, he reaches up to loosen his tie just a tad, needing to get some air.

And, lo and behold, Sebastian’s gaze tracks the movement, before settling on Chris’s mouth for just a moment. A thrill of excitement runs through Chris’s body, head to toe. Is he reading this right? Fuck, he hopes he’s reading this right.

“Thank you, Sebastian,” Chris says, standing up and watching Sebastian do the same. “This was all very interesting. It’ll be a valuable contribution to A Starting Point, I’m sure.”

“Not a problem,” Sebastian replies pleasantly. “It’s been very” – he pauses to lick his lips, not breaking eye contact – “enlightening.”

Oh, boy.

Chris holds out his hand again and Sebastian takes it. There’s no mistaking it now: the handshake lasts too long for it to be entirely professional and there is definitely more eye contact than necessary. Chris’s heart is beating in his throat by the time he finally pulls his hand back, daring to subtly let his fingers brush Sebastian’s wrist. He watches in satisfaction as Sebastian’s eyes darken a fraction, a spark of heat flashing through them before he smiles pleasantly again and turns around to thank Gino and Mark.

Chris internally slaps himself in the face. Jesus, this is such an inconvenient time and place to develop a crush on someone. Still, he already knows he’s helpless against Sebastian’s charm and he’ll probably spend the next few weeks or so pathetically (and unethically) watching the footage they just shot and daydreaming about all the things he wish he could’ve done to him. It’s just not fair for someone so smart and dedicated to also be this hot.

When Sebastian turns to him again, Chris valiantly pretends he’s not in the middle of a mental breakdown and gives him a smile.

“So, Chris,” Sebastian starts, pensively rubbing his chin. “Can I call you Chris?”

“Of course,” Chris hastens to assure him. “I’m just regular old Chris.” Regular old Chris? Pathetic.

“Okay then,” Sebastian replies, and his eyes are dancing. “Chris it is. So, I’m sure you’re busy, but I’d love to pick your brain on something. I wonder if you have a moment?”

Well, damn. Maybe Chris won’t just be daydreaming after all.

Chris nervously rubs the back of his neck. “Sure, yeah. No problem. You were my last interview for the day anyway, so I’ve got time.” He looks at Mark, who’s standing over by the doorway. “Are you okay going ahead without me? I’m not sure how long this will take so there’s not need to wait around for me, I guess.”

Mark, who, unlike Chris, is not an idiot, looks far too knowing. “Absolutely. You take your time, Chris. Do what needs to be done, and all that,” he grins. “I’m gonna head back to the hotel, got plenty of work to be catching up with. I’ll see you later.” Turning to Sebastian, Mark adds, “It was a pleasure meeting you. Take care. Be safe.”

“Yes, sir,” Sebastian replies, giving Mark a playful wink.

Mark turns to smirk at Chris one more time before he grabs his briefcase and heads out the door behind Gino and his assistant, leaving Chris and Sebastian by themselves. The sudden silence is a little stifling, and Chris is the first to break it.

“So…” he says, like an idiot.

Sebastian inclines his head with a smile. “So,” he replies, looking back up at Chris from under his eyelashes. “My office is a little further down the hall, if you want to follow me. It’s not much, but at least it offers better seating than a couple of folding chairs.”

Chris laughs, a little louder than the comment warrants, but he’s nervous, okay? He’s not sure where this afternoon will take him, but he sure hopes he’s not reading this wrong and Sebastian isn’t going to break out some official documents for them to discuss the moment they step into his office.

Sebastian leads the way through a maze of corridors, occasionally raising a hand in greeting while Chris tries to keep his head down. He doesn’t mind being recognized or stopped, usually, but he’d rather not have to chat to some random stranger while he’s on his way to what is potentially a really hot and really inappropriate hookup. He gets a few looks, but he keeps his gaze fixed on Sebastian’s back, and fortunately it isn’t long before Sebastian opens a door on the left hand of the corridor, gesturing Chris inside.

It’s just a normal Capitol Hill office; not too big, all white walls and dark wooden furniture that’s seen better days but that still does the trick. The window looks out onto a lawn, high enough up to ensure no one is able to see inside when they look up on their lunchbreak walk. Sebastian’s desk is littered with papers, most of them organized into neat piles and held down by paperweights. A man after Chris’s own heart.

The door closes behind them with an audible click, and Chris stills. His instincts tell him to fill the silence with mindless chatter, but he knows he’s likely to say something embarrassing that could well end up jeopardizing this whole rendezvous. So he bites his tongue, and waits for Sebastian to speak first.

Sebastian takes his sweet time – whether because he doesn’t know what to say either or to rile him up, Chris isn’t sure.

“Take a seat,” he says eventually, gesturing to the sturdy, armless chair in the middle of the room, about two yards between it and the wooden desk near the window. Chris, starting to wonder if this is going to be just business after all, does as he’s told, expecting Sebastian to take place behind his desk.

Sebastian doesn’t. Instead, he perches on the edge of his desk, one foot on the ground and crossing his wrists on his left knee. Chris is having flashbacks to being called into the principal’s office, only much, much better.

“I really do admire your initiative and ambitions with this website,” Sebastian says, sounding genuine. “It’s always a risk for someone from the entertainment industry to venture into politics and usually I’d say it’s not a great idea.” He pauses, and Chris fights the urge to squirm in his seat. “But then, usually,” Sebastian continues, “people are after some kind of power or influence, whereas you’re concerned with making sure people are informed enough to vote, and vote wisely. I think that’s a very admirable aspiration.”

Chris sends Sebastian a grateful smile. “Thank you. A lot of people think I’m just sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong and I should stick to acting, but I care deeply about these issues. My career has afforded me a platform, an opportunity to make my voice heard, and I can’t not use that opportunity to try and make a difference.”

“That’s exactly it,” Sebastian agrees. “Sure, you’ve got a famous face and name, but you’re not taking advantage of it. You’re using it to do some good. And, um –” He pauses, biting his lower lip around a smile and tilting his head a little to the left, before finishing, “Well, let’s just say I think that’s very sexy of you.”

Chris barks out a surprised laugh. “Glad to hear it, Rep- Sebastian,” he corrects himself. Gathering his courage, he deliberately, slowly lets his gaze sweep Sebastian’s form, head to toe and back again. “And as it happens,” he goes on, deciding to throw caution to the wind and just go for it, “I think you’ve got many excellent qualities yourself.”

A slow smile spreads over Sebastian’s handsome face, lighting up his features and momentarily stealing Chris’s breath away.

“That so?” Sebastian looks down at the floor for a moment, then looks back up at him through his eyelashes – to devastating effect. Chris is pretty sure he lets out a quiet gasp, his heart tripping over itself in his chest.

Jesus Christ, where is his cool when he needs it? Or his game, for that matter.

“I’ve gotta say,” Sebastian continues, head still cocked and fixing Chris with his gaze. “You’re not at all how I was expecting you to be.”

“How were you expecting me to be?”

“I don’t know.” Sebastian gives him a considering look. “Less down to earth, less likeable, more Hollywood?”

Chris huffs a laugh. “Yeah, people usually tell me I’m a little disappointing in real life. Shorter than they were expecting, not as muscly, etcetera etcetera.”

Sebastian frowns, a little wrinkle appearing on his brow that Chris immediately wants to smooth out with his thumb.

“Oh no, I don’t think you’re disappointing at all. You’ve exceeded my expectations, if anything. I figured it probably took tons of make up to make you look as dashing as you do on screen, but if anything I think you’re more handsome in real life.” Gesturing at him, Sebastian clarifies, “The beard, the waist, the shoulders – it’s… quite something.”

“Oh,” Chris says intelligently. “Thank you.” He winces. “I mean-”

“You’re cute,” Sebastian interrupts, grinning.

“I –” Chris falters again, dropping his head into his hands. “Fuck, I swear I’m usually smoother than this.” He looks back up at Sebastian a little sheepishly. “You just kinda caught me off guard. I guess you surpassed my expectations, too. I wasn’t expecting a Representative too be quite so…”

“So?” Sebastian prompts, still watching him closely.

“Gorgeous,” Chris breathes.

This time, it’s Sebastian who sucks in a breath, his eyes widening just a little. It’s small, almost imperceptible, but Chris is watching him closely so he notices. Seems Sebastian isn’t quite as unaffected by all this as he first appeared. That knowledge makes something in Chris’s chest loosen, helps him regain his footing a little.

Keeping his eyes locked with Sebastian’s, Chris slowly uncrosses his legs, planting both his feet firmly on the ground. Sebastian’s eyes drop down to Chris’s lap before they flick up to his face again. His perfectly white, straight teeth – more Hollywood than Capitol Hill – sink into his plump bottom lip, right hand dropping to his waist to casually unfasten the button on his suit jacket.

For a few seconds, neither of them speaks or moves, the tension in the room almost palpable now. Chris suppresses a shiver when Sebastian slowly gets up and walks over to him with an air of a predator approaching its prey.

Unconsciously, Chris holds his breath, then lets it out again in a rush when Sebastian plants his hands on Chris’s shoulders and proceeds to straddle his thighs, sitting down squarely in Chris’s lap.

Chris makes a sound, somewhere between surprised and helplessly turned on, his hands flying up to rest on Sebastian’s waist. “Whoa, I- okay.” He swallows nervously.

“Okay?” Sebastian checks.

Chris nods, a little too quickly to be suave, but hey, this is kind of an unusual situation.

Sebastian relaxes infinitesimally, the only sign that he’s not quite as confident here as he appears to be. “God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, eyes drifting over Chris’s features.

From up close, Chris can count Sebastian’s eyelashes, can see the hint of a stubble on his jawline. He’s intoxicating, and Chris doesn’t dare move an inch as he lets Sebastian study him. Finally, after he’s looked his fill, Sebastian’s gaze comes to rest on Chris’s mouth. His tongue, pink and wet, flicks out to wet his own lips, and Chris’s mouth starts to water. He aches with how much he wants to kiss that pretty, pouty mouth.

After a long, loaded moment, Sebastian leans in, his breath ghosting Chris’s lips for a second and making his heart race in anticipation, before he finally presses their mouths together.

The kiss is soft, lush, almost sweet. Chris holds his breath, his stomach flipping like he’s some kind of blushing virgin being kissed for the very first time.

Then, Sebastian makes a sound – a tiny, throaty noise that’s almost a moan but not quite, and something inside of Chris snaps. He groans, parting his lips and urging Sebastian to do the same, and then they’re kissing, hard and openmouthed. Chris slides one hand up Sebastian’s neck, burying his fingers in his hair, pulling him closer. Sebastian moans for real this time, hands smoothing over the fabric of Chris’s suit jacket, lingering on his shoulders and arms.

“Fuck,” Sebastian mutters against Chris’s mouth, squeezing his biceps. “So fucking hot.”

Chris is used to being called hot, of course. It’s inescapable in his profession. But coming from Sebastian, quite probably the sexiest man on God’s green earth, the words mean a lot more than they usually do. It emboldens him enough to wrap an arm around Sebastian’s waist and pull him closer against him, pressing their groins together briefly.

“Uh,” Sebastian hiccups, pulling back a fraction to look down at Chris. His pupils are blown already, lips reddened and spit slick, and Chris wants. He wants this man so much and he hardly even knows him.

“God, look at you,” Chris breathes, staring in something close to awe. “Pretty as a picture, sittin’ in my lap.”

Sebastian swallows, his eyelids fluttering at the compliment, and then he slowly and deliberately grinds down. Both of them groan at the friction, Chris’s own hips jerking upwards of their own accord, and Sebastian does it again, simultaneously leaning down to capture Chris’s lips in another kiss. Soon, they’ve found a sort of rhythm, their hips rolling in time with the slow, luxurious thrusts of their tongues into each other’s mouths. It’s intoxicating - the smell of Sebastian’s aftershave mingling with fresh sweat and arousal making Chris’s head swim.

Already, he’s uncomfortably hard inside his slacks, the need to rut, to seek relief, becoming almost unbearable the longer they spend slowly grinding together on that office chair.

“Sebastian.”

Sebastian hums, dragging his mouth over Chris’s cheeks before taking his earlobe between his teeth, worrying it gently. Chris makes a pitiful noise. He throws his head back automatically, inviting Sebastian to attack his exposed neck next. Licking along the tendons that stand out, Sebastian presses wet little kisses to his throat and jaw, too much and not enough at the same time. It’s like Sebastian has a map to all of Chris’s weak spots, like he’s trying to tick them off one by one until he reaches the spot marked X.

Just when Chris thinks he’s going to have to beg him for some relief, Sebastian pulls back, placing one more lush kiss on his lips before he climbs off Chris’s lap.

On instinct, Chris’s hands fly up in a gesture of surrender. “I’m sorry,” he says, panting slightly. “Did I-“

But before he can finish his sentence, Sebastian has quickly taken off his suit jacket and thrown it carelessly to the side, sinking to his knees in front of him. He pushes open Chris’s legs with a hand on either knee, a question in his eyes as he looks up at him.

“I hope you’re alright with this, because I really wanna suck you off.”

Chris does absolutely not squeak. “Yeah, I’m – I’m alright with that.”

“Excellent,” Sebastian grins, feral and beautiful. Slowly, he runs his hands up Chris’s thighs until he reaches his belt, opening it quickly and efficiently. Chris lifts his hips a little so that Sebastian can pull down his slacks just enough to reveal the bulge of his erection, the tip, red and already wet, peaking out over the waistband. Sebastian let’s out a low whistle. He reaches up to press his palm to Chris’s dick through the fabric, squeezing lightly as if to get the measure of it.

Chris inhales sharply. Somehow, Sebastian looks even better from this angle than he had before, and he watches Sebastian’s every move with lidded eyes. “C’mon,” he murmurs, hoping he’s not overstepping.

Sebastian’s eyes snap up to his face, the look in his eyes is downright predatory. “You want it?” he asks, squeezing Chris again and licking his lips.

Chris can’t help but roll his eyes a little. “You know I do, Congressman.”

“Oh, that do it for you, huh?” Sebastian sounds amused, that cheeky twinkle appearing in his eyes again that gets Chris’s pulse racing.

“You do it for me,” Chris replies honestly, reaching down to card a hand through Sebastian’s hair. “I’ll admit it’s kind of hot that you’re in politics and have a lot of the same opinions as I do. But to be honest, if you’d been working at my local gardening center, I’d still have done a double take. You’re just really fucking gorgeous, Sebastian.”

Sebastian looks at him with big, round eyes, his mouth hanging slightly open. He swallows once, then licks his lips. Hoarsely, he asks, “How are you real?”

Before Chris has had a chance to reply, Sebastian is taking him out of his underwear, wrapping a hand around the base of his cock, and taking him into his mouth. Chris groans loudly, his mind blanking out for a second at the exquisite feeling of Sebastian’s hot, wet mouth around his dick.

“Jesus, fuck.”

Sebastian pulls off for a moment, just long enough to mumble, “Language,” before he reapplies himself to his task.

Blinking through the haze of pleasure, Chris stares down at him. “Did you just..?”

Sebastian just moans around him, but his eyes are laughing. Chris can’t help it – he laughs too, out loud, the sound quickly turning into another moan when Sebastian takes him deeper still. He swallows him down, all the way into the back of his throat, making himself gag a little. Pulling back to gulp in a breath, Sebastian keeps his slick, red lips wrapped around the head, gently suckling while his hand grips him with the perfect amount of pressure as he strokes along Chris’s shaft.

Chris hopes he’s not overstepping when he brings his right hand to Sebastian’s head and slides his fingers in his thick, chestnut hair, tugging at it experimentally. If the sound Sebastian makes is anything to go by, he’s more than alright with that development. Chris curls his fingers, messing up Sebastian’s perfectly styled hair and reveling in the effect it has on him, the way it seems to make him sloppier, more desperate.

Sebastian lets him fall from his mouth for a moment to lap at his shaft, before mouthing at the base of it, burying his nose in the coarse hair there. Chris isn’t sure what it is about that particular gesture that hits him, but suddenly the urgency he feels intensifies threefold. He gives Sebastian’s hair an unsubtle tug, pulling him back down, and Sebastian happily lets himself be steered, taking Chris into his mouth once more and beginning to suck him off with renewed vigor.

Sebastian’s mouth is exquisite. Chris has never felt anything quite like it, and it’s not long before he’s a panting, delirious mess. “Oh god,” he breathes, “if you keep that up, I’m not gonna last long.”

Abruptly, Sebastian stops what he’s doing, looking up at him with slightly wild, dark eyes. A gossamer strand of saliva still connects his wet, reddened lips to Chris’s cock.

“I want you to fuck me.”

The words ring out loud and clear in the otherwise silent room, and Chris blows out a quick, steadying breath. He strokes Sebastian’s cheek, thumb trailing over his slightly puffy lower lip.

“You have no idea how much I want that,” Chris says regretfully. “No idea. But I wasn’t exactly anticipating this to happen today, if you know what I mean.”

Sebastian’s eyes light up. A moment later, he’s getting to his feet and hurrying towards the built-in cabinet near the window. Chris watches in confusion as Sebastian produces a black, leather gym bag and rummages around in there for a second, reemerging with a triumphant sound.

“I’ve got stuff.” Sebastian sounds a little breathless as he holds up a packet of condoms and a small bottle of lube.

Chris grins, raising a single eyebrow.

“I’m a single, gay man,” Sebastian explains, rolling his eyes. “I do go out occasionally, you know. Plus I used to be a boy scout. Always be prepared, and all that.”

“Hey,” Chris says, holding up his hands. “I’m not judging.”

“You totally are,” Sebastian snorts. “You should stop that and fuck me instead. Deal?”

Oh, but Chris loves this. He loves the banter, the way the extreme sexual tension of just moments ago has shifted into something more lighthearted, though still undeniably charged. It’s been a while since he’s had anything more than a one night stand, and those typically leave little room for levity, in his experience. Usually, people are so preoccupied with the fact that they’re sleeping with Chris Evans, Captain America, and so desperate to please him, that it almost becomes a little off putting.

With Sebastian, there’s none of that. Yes, Sebastian’s clearly very attracted to him, but he doesn’t hesitate to crack a joke or make a smartass remark. Chris admires that kind of self-assuredness, that independence, if you will, while he also manages to make it clear how much he wants this.

How much he wants Chris. And the feeling, Chris thinks, as he slowly lets his eyes trail up and down Sebastian’s slightly disheveled form, his entirely mutual.

Purposely lowering his voice, Chris says, “Take off your shoes, socks and pants.”

A visible shiver runs through Sebastian at Chris’s commanding tone.

Chris smiles wolfishly. “That’s what I thought. Today please,” he adds when Sebastian doesn’t move immediately, just stands there like he’s frozen.

Sebastian jerks into action, going over to the desk where he puts down the supplies before turning back to face Chris. Slowly, he starts to toe off his shoes, which he kicks aside, followed by his socks. Chris watches intently as Sebastian’s hands drop to the buttons on his slacks, unbuttoning them one by one before hooking his thumbs in the waistband and pulling them down, past the modest swell of his ass. They fall to the floor and he steps out of them easily. Chris’s eyes glue themselves to the bulge in his dark grey briefs, where a wet spot has formed at the front. Next, he lets his gaze trail over Sebastian’s long legs, elegant and yet with firm, muscled thighs that Chris would love to feel wrapped around his waist one day. Or his head. He’s not picky.

Sebastian just stands there, letting himself be looked at, seemingly savoring the attention. Finally, he reaches up to loosen his tie, deftly pulling it off and dropping it. He starts unbuttoning his dress shirt, next, but Chris stops him after he’s opened the last one.

“That’s enough.” He goes to sit up a little straighter in his chair and beckons Sebastian closer. “Come here.”

Obeying beautifully, Sebastian walks over to him, but not before snatching the condoms and lube off the desk. He comes to stand in front of him, holding Chris’s eyes and waiting for further instructions.

“Take off your briefs.”

Sebastian lets out a shaky breath. Slowly, he slides his underwear down his legs and steps out of them. His dick isn’t too large, but it’s pretty, and makes Chris’s mouth water instantly. Reaching out, he puts his hands on Sebastian’s hips. He darts a quick glance up to his face to check if this is okay, when Sebastian just bites his lip as he looks down at him with a heated look in his slate grey eyes, Chris lowers his mouth over Sebastian’s cock.

He lets out a pleased little hum at the taste of him on his tongue, swiping it around the head to lap up the precome that’s gathered at the tip. Sebastian moans beautifully, hands resting on Chris’s shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle.

“Chris,” he breathes, letting his head fall backwards. Chris looks up at him through his lashes, marveling at how pretty Sebastian looks even from this unflattering angle. He bobs his head and sucks him off with relish, taking him down over and over, until Sebastian’s thighs start to tremble.

“Please.”

Chris pulls off with a wet sound. “Please what?” he asks, voice even rougher than it was moments before.

“I need –” Sebastian whimpers, hips jerking, and Chris thinks he knows exactly what he needs.

He sits back against the back rest and pats his lap. Sebastian takes the hint immediately and climbs on, straddling his thighs. His flushed, leaking cock presses against the front of Chris’s dress shirt, sure to leave a stain, but Chris couldn’t care less. He’s got a lap full of mostly naked Sebastian; he does not feel particularly worried about dry cleaning right now.

Chris allows himself a moment to take Sebastian in. With his flushed cheeks, and dark eyes, glossy with arousal, he’s breathtaking. His hair is mussed and his toned, tanned torso visible through the gap in his opened dress shirt. His cock is hard and flushed, the base surrounded by neatly trimmed pubic hair. Sebastian’s been biting his lips, it seems, because they look extra red – a little raw from the way his teeth have been worrying at them while Chris sucked him off. Needing to taste them more than he’s needed anything in a while, Chris leans in, wrapping an arm around Sebastian’s waist and pulling him into a deep, hungry kiss. He runs a hand along Sebastian’s long legs, which are remarkably smooth, like the rest of him. Sebastian balances a line between strong and elegant, and Chris is mesmerized by it.

“God, you’re stunning,” Chris rumbles, trailing a hand from the hollow of Sebastian’s neck all the way down his chest, abs, and then bypassing his cock to slide around to his backside. He grabs a handful of that small but perfectly formed ass and kneads it. Sebastian’s breath hitches, and Chris splays his hand over Sebastian’s tailbone before he deliberately dips his middle finger between his cheeks. When the tip of it brushes Sebastian’s smooth, tight hole, Sebastian gasps, his pupils dilating impossibly further until there’s barely anything left of the beautiful ocean blue of his irises. Their gazes lock while Chris gently teases at Sebastian’s hole with his finger, rubbing little circles there that don’t do a thing yet to loosen him up but that have Sebastian squirming in his lap nonetheless.

It takes approximately a minute of this before Sebastian breaks, whining in the back of his throat in a way that Chris is pretty sure is unintentional.

“What is it, baby?” The endearment is out before Chris can check himself, but the way Sebastian shivers against him shows he doesn’t exactly seem to mind it. “You need something?”

“Yes,” Sebastian breathes.

“Tell me what you want.”

“Want your fingers in me,” Sebastian answers instantly, though the way his voice trembles tells Chris it’s harder for him to say it than he’s trying to make it appear. “Please.”

“Anything you need, baby,” Chris assures him, leaning in to steal a kiss.

He takes the lube from Sebastian’s clenched fist, popping open the lid and reluctantly drawing his hand back from Sebastian’s ass to coat his fingers in the stuff. They’re back a moment later though, slick fingers rubbing over Sebastian’s hole with intent, before he starts to work the tip of his forefinger slowly inside. Sebastian sinks his teeth into his bottom lip as Chris slowly slides his finger in deeper, his mind bombarding him with signals of hot, tight, wet that go straight to his already rock-hard cock.

He can’t wait to be inside Sebastian, but first, he needs to make sure he does a thorough job opening him up. The last thing Chris wants to do is hurt him. In fact, he’s already ready to fight anyone who ever hurt Sebastian in the past or is planning to in the future, and he’s rather not have to kick his own ass.

“More,” Sebastian demands. His tongue darts out to lick his own lips, and Chris’s cock twitches at the sight. Lining up a second finger next to the first, he slowly presses it in as well, carefully stretching Sebastian’s tight entrance, readying it for his cock. Just that thought alone is enough to make Chris’s brain short-circuit for a second. Sebastian rests his forehead against Chris’s, his breathing picking up, but it doesn’t sound like he’s uncomfortable. So Chris doesn’t stop, instead slightly spreading his fingers to gently pry him open further.

“You’ve got – big fingers,” Sebastian pants, rocking back on them just a little.

“Sorry,” Chris says guiltily.

“No – ah. That’s, that’s really not a bad thing.”

Chris smirks. “I see. You want more?”

“Yes, please,” Sebastian breathes, the last word fading into a moan when Chris adds a third finger to the first two.

“There’s a good boy,” Chris says, kissing Sebastian’s cheek almost sweetly. “Asking for it so nicely.”

Sebastian sighs contently, melting a little further against him. Slowly, Chris starts to slide his fingers in and out while Sebastian’s fingers dig hard into Chris’s biceps. Since Chris knows sometimes the discomfort of the initial stretch can cause an erection to flag, he brings his left hand to Sebastian’s cock to stroke it tightly, just until Sebastian’s eyelids start fluttering from pleasure instead of tension.

Chris keeps him on the edge for a while, aware that he’s probably done enough to prepare him, but unable to stop staring at Sebastian, where he’s open and wanton and beautiful in his lap. It’s only when Sebastian whimpers and buries his face in Chris’s neck, breath hot and moist on his skin, that Chris remembers he’s working towards something here.

“Shhh,” he coos, rubbing Sebastian’s smooth back with his free hand. “It’s alright. I’m gonna give you what you need, okay?”

Sebastian nods shakily, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Chris’s throat.

“Please,” he pleads, somewhere between sweetly and desperately, and Chris’s heart does a funny thing inside his chest. He has to kiss Sebastian again then, deep and slow and consuming, swallowing his beautiful moans as he crooks his fingers inside of him to makes him cry out softly into his mouth.

Finally, Chris makes himself pull back, pulling out his fingers and wiping them on the bottom of his own shirt.

“Okay,” he says, feeling a little unmoored and shaky himself. “Alright, stand up for me, honey.”

Sebastian does, climbing off Chris’s lap, and standing there on slightly unsteady legs, like a baby deer, waiting to be told what to do next.

“Take off the shirt and bend over the desk.”

It’s an order, but Chris watches Sebastian’s face carefully so see his reaction, ready to propose something else if he isn’t comfortable with this. He needn’t have worried. Sebastian instantly turns around, all but ripping off his shirt and then pushing aside some of the papers on his desk before bending over it. He keeps his legs straight, making his ass stick up in the air a bit as he presents himself for Chris’s hungry gaze.

For a moment, Chris can’t believe his luck. He came here today with a purpose; to work on his project, his brain child that he cares about a lot, and it had gone well, and that was all Chris has hoped for from today. To find himself in this position now, with the most attractive man he’s ever seen laid out before him like some sort of fata morgana, patiently waiting for Chris to fuck him stupid, that’s something he could never have anticipated. It’s better than anything he could have dreamed up.

“Jesus,” he says out loud, too caught up in his feelings to have much of a brain to mouth filter left. “I can’t believe I got this lucky. Look at you.”

“Chris,” Sebastian says, sounding a little impatient now. Which makes sense, considering he’s naked in his office on Capitol Hill, draped over his own desk, while some actor guy with his pants open watches him from a chair.

Chris shakes himself and finally gets up. Taking off his suit jacket, he drapes it over the back of the chair, and calmly turns around. He walks closer but still doesn’t touch Sebastian, just stops a few feet away. Something tells him that despite Sebastian’s impatience, he probably quite likes being on display like this. Feeling bold, Chris decides to take it a step further and test him a little.

“Show me,” he says.

Sebastian goes still. “What?”

“You heard me,” Chris repeats calmly. “Show me.”

Chris thinks he hears Sebastian murmur a curse, but then he lifts his arms and brings them to his ass, grabbing his cheeks and parting them, spreading himself open for Chris’s inspection. Chris can’t help the soft groan that escapes him at the sight. Reaching out, he smooths his palm over Sebastian’s lower back, then over the curve at the top of his ass, thumbing him open a little bit further.

“Fuck, that’s pretty.”

And it is. Sebastian’s pink hole is wet and slightly relaxed with how long Chris just spent fingering him. It makes Chris’s mouth water. He briefly entertains the thought of eating him out, but then Sebastian makes another impatient noise, wiggling his ass a little.

“Come on,” he pleads. “Do it, Chris. Just- please.”

A new wave of arousal washes through him, fast and strong, making him feel a little lightheaded.

“Okay, yes, I’m – Fuck. Just one second.” Chris doubles back for the lube, then grabs a condom and prepares himself as quickly as he can with his shaky, fumbling fingers. He positions himself behind Sebastian, his clothed thighs pressing into the back of Sebastian’s bare ones. With his left hand, he grips Sebastian’s hip as the other lines up his cock, resting the tip against his entrance.

“Please,” Sebastian repeats, sounding more desperate than ever, and then Chris is pushing forward, slowly sliding into the warm, welcoming heat of Sebastian’s body.

He grits his teeth to stop himself from moaning too loudly. Despite the thorough preparation, Chris’s brain whites out for a minute at how tight Sebastian feels around him because of his muscles clenching instinctively at the intrusion. Sebastian is making aborted little noises that could be pleasure or pain, and once Chris’s brain comes back online enough to register them, he leans down over Sebastian’s back to press a kiss to his spine as he fully bottoms out. He stays there for a moment, trying to keep his breathing even and kissing up on Sebastian some more in an attempt to distract or comfort him, whatever it is he needs.

But it must not be as bad as Chris thought, because it’s only a couple of seconds before Sebastian starts to push back against him.

“I’m good,” he says hoarsely, “you can move now.”

“Oh, thank god,” Chris sighs. He pushes himself back up to his full height and draws out a few inches, groaning at the drag of Sebastian’s inner walls around his cock before pushing back in. He means to go slow, to let Sebastian adjust, but it feels so good that he can’t help but slide in deep and stay there for a moment, drawing tight little circles with his hips that have Sebastian shuddering below him.

Unable to help himself, Chris pulls back and snaps his hips forward again forcefully, burying himself deeper into Sebastian’s welcoming heat. Judging by the sound Sebastian lets out, he does not mind. In fact, as Chris starts pumping his hips and driving into Sebastian over and over again, Sebastian starts to become louder and louder, moans and curses falling freely from his lips.

Chris adores every single sound Sebastian makes as he lays into him, but part of him is still conscious of the fact that they’re at Sebastian’s place of work. The door may be locked – at least, he hopes it is – but he doubts the room is soundproof, and he’d never forgive himself if their little tryst ended up jeopardizing Sebastian’s job or reputation in any way. Since Sebastian doesn’t respond to Chris’s pleas to keep it down, Chris doesn’t see any other option than to bend forward and put his hand over Sebastian’s mouth, muffling his cries.

“I’m sorry,” he says, genuinely regretful. “If we’d been somewhere private I’d’ve let you be as loud as you want, sweetheart. But this is your office. We don’t want anyone to hear us, do we?”

Sebastian moans in a way that Chris thinks could mean that he in fact does want everyone to hear them, but while that may be true in the moment, Chris is pretty sure Sebastian would regret it hugely after everything was said and done and the whole wing knew of their sexcapades. So he keeps his hand where it is, even if it impedes his freedom of movement a bit.

When he feels Sebastian lick at his palm, Chris’s first thought is he’s just being a brat, but when he does it again, Chris takes the hint. He takes his hand off Sebastian’s mouth and puts his fingers to his lips. Sebastian immediately takes them into his mouth, lips closing around them as he suckles them like he’d sucked on Chris’s dick before, making content little noises.

“Oh, baby,” Chris groans, rolling his hips again as he feeds Sebastian his cock and his fingers at the same time. “You just needed something to suck on, huh? Being fucked not enough for you? You wish you had my cock in your mouth, too?”

Sebastian whines around his fingers, and Chris rewards him with an extra forceful thrust that has Sebastian scrambling for purchase on the edges of his desk.

Just so he can draw this out as long as he can, Chris takes it down a notch, slowing until he’s just leisurely sliding in and out, making his strokes long and deep and getting Sebastian to sigh in pleasure below him. Part of Chris wishes he could just stop time right here, stay suspended in this moment in time forever, buried inside in the most stunning man he’s ever had. Not that he’s had all that many men. He’s definitely bisexual, but he tends to lean towards women a little bit more – at least, he thought he did.

Being here now, with Sebastian, he genuinely can’t imagine wanting anything else ever again. Which is… something to be examined closer when he’s not balls deep, perhaps. To stop his mind from overthinking, Chris changes their positions, pulling his fingers from Sebastian’s mouth and ignoring his protests. He pulls him upright by the shoulders, plastering his clothed chest to Sebastian’s naked back.

“Oh,” Sebastian breathes, lifting his hands to grab at the arm that Chris wraps around his chest.

Chris buries his face in Sebastian’s neck, dragging his lips and beard over the sensitive skin until Sebastian is squirming against him. Chris groans in Sebastian’s ear, tongue darting out to lick around the shell.

“You feel so good around me, sugar,” he praises, free hand dropping down to press Sebastian’s leaking erection against his belly. “You feeling good, too?”

Sebastian shudders against him, clearly torn between whether to press back or push forward into Chris’s hand. “Please, please, can I-”

Chris hums, shaking his head. “Sorry, honey. Not yet.” He slides his hand down from Sebastian’s clavicle to his pectoral, flicking experimentally at his left nipple with his thumb.

“No, no, unnghh,” Sebastian moans, letting his head fall back against Chris’s shoulders.

“Ohh,” Chris chuckles, charmed. “Sensitive, huh? How’s it feel when I touch ‘em? Feel good?” Not waiting for Sebastian’s reply, Chris takes the hard little nub between his thumb and forefinger and tweaks it lightly.

“Oh fuck,” Sebastian curses, jolting like he’s electrocuted, before panting, “Do that again.”

Chris doesn’t have it in him to deny Sebastian anything right now, so he repeats the movement and tries not to come on the spot from the way Sebastian’s ass tightens around him when he does. In his experience, most guys’ nipples aren’t all that sensitive, but from Sebastian’s reactions, is sure seems like he’s a nipple kinda guy. Which works out perfectly, because Chris is too. He’s already dying to suck on them sometime, scrape his beard over them, worry them between his teeth and find out how far he can work Sebastian up just from playing with his pretty nipples.

When Sebastian whimpers and sighs, yes, please, yes, Chris realizes he’s said all that out loud. And even though this might just be sex-drunk ramblings, Chris’s heart leaps at the implication that there might be a next time.

Keeping up a steady pace, Chris continues to fuck into Sebastian from behind while he rubs and pinches at his chest. He relishes the high-pitched noises that fall from Sebastian’s lips seemingly without conscious thought: he’s lost in it, just like Chris is lost in him, and it feels so fucking good.

Finally, when he feels the tell-tale tightening in his balls, Chris almost reluctantly pushes Sebastian away from him, down onto the table. He’s loath to let go of him, would much rather keep him close, but he’s conscious that he’s not hitting the spot in that position, and he wants to make this as good for Sebastian as he possibly can.

With a hand on his lower back, Chris presses Sebastian down as he starts to finally give it to him properly, pulling almost all the way out on every stroke before plunging back in. He chances a look down, mesmerized at the sight of his cock sliding in and out of Sebastian’s hole, which hungrily draws him in over and over again. There’s something almost obscene about the fact that Chris is still fully clothed, just his dick out, while Sebastian is gloriously naked, unabashed and wanton, letting himself be taken.

“Oh Jesus,” Chris pants, crazy with it, his body feeling loose and too-tight at the same time. “You’re so fucking hot, you’ve got no idea. Driving outta my fucking mind, sweetheart, Christ.”

“Harder,” Sebastian pleads, trying to muffle his cries in his own forearm. “Fuck me harder, c’mon.”

A haze comes over Chris’s brain, the only thing he can see and feel being Sebastian and the buzz in his veins, the pleasure coiling in his gut, so close to release. He grabs Sebastian’s hips and pulls him back against him every time he fucks into him, and suddenly, Sebastian’s moans change. They become higher and breathier, littered with aborted curses, and Chris knows he’s hitting the spot.

“Like that, baby? You like it like that?” Chris doesn’t care that he probably sounds like a bad porno right now, his entire consciousness filled with the scent of arousal in the air and the slick, filthy sounds of their bodies joining mixed with obscene moans.

Sebastian isn’t much better, anyway, keeping up a near constant litany of Fuck, fuck, fuck, yes, in time with his beautiful, naked body being shoved up and down the table with every forceful thrust of Chris’s hips.

“Oh god,” Sebastian gasps suddenly. “I’m gonna come, I’m gonna fucking come.”

“You’re – like this?” Chris asks incredulously. “You don’t need me to-?“

“I need you to keep going,” Sebastian groans. “Just like this, don’t you dare fucking stop.”

“Yes, sir,” Chris grits out. Truth be told, he doesn’t think he could stop now even if he wanted to. He’s so close.

Sebastian seems to finally have lost the capacity for speech altogether, the little breathless ah, ah, ah, sounds that Chris punches out of him the only thing he can manage.

“I’m guh-” Sebastian tries futilely, but he doesn’t get further than that.

“Now,” Chris orders, aiming another trust right into Sebastian’s prostate and grinding down on it, his hips flush with Sebastian’s ass. “Come for me, do it.”

And Sebastian does. He keens, body seizing up, clenching tightly around Chris’s cock. Chris’s hips stutter, wanting to keep thrusting, but it’s too much. Before Sebastian has even finished, Chris’s orgasm slams into him like a freight train. He comes with a long, drawn out moan, losing all sense of place or time as waves of pleasure wash over him, cock pulsing as he fills up the condom with his release.

Chris isn’t proud of it, but he more or less collapses onto Sebastian’s back when he starts to come down, his heaving, dress shirt-clad chest against Sebastian’s sweat-damp back. Chris presses his lips to Sebastian’s shoulder blade, panting against his skin as he catches his breath for a good few minutes.

Finally, his softening dick slips out, and Chris is forced to get up. “Give me one second,” he murmurs, looking around and spotting a box of tissues that’s fallen to the floor. He quickly removes and ties off the condom, wrapping it in a tissue and tossing it in the trashcan, along with the one he uses to clean himself. Next, he tucks himself back into his pants and zips them up, before he grabs another hand full of tissues. He cleans Sebastian up carefully, mindful not to be too rough with his undoubtedly sensitive, softening cock.

“You okay?” Chris whispers, gently stroking the slight curve of Sebastian’s hip.

Sebastian just hums in reply, not showing any inclination to get up of his own accord. He seems pretty out of it, honestly, so Chris helps him up and then guides them both to sit down in the chair again. He pulls Sebastian into his lap, against his chest, the contrast between their states of dress even starker now than it was before. Somehow, Chris is a little moved by it, by how much Sebastian seems to trust him, even if he barely knows him. It makes him tighten his grip instinctively, murmuring praise and endearments into Sebastian’s hair as Sebastian’s head lolls back against Chris’s shoulder.

After a few minutes, Sebastian starts to stir, blinking open his eyes and shivering a little. Chris pulls him closer still, rubbing his hands over Sebastian’s arms and legs in an attempt to warm him up a little.

“You with me again?” Chris asks quietly, lips brushing Sebastian’s ear.

Sebastian swallows, then gives a short nod. “Yeah.” His voice comes out thick, so he clears his throat. “I’m- I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to let myself go quite so much.”

He sounds embarrassed, and Chris won’t stand for that.

“Are you kiddin’ me?” He grabs Sebastian’s chin, turning his face so he can pull him into a kiss. It’s soft, sweet, without much intent, and Sebastian hums into it. “You were perfect,” Chris praises as he pulls away. “You are perfect.”

Despite the fact that he’s been naked all this time, this is what makes Sebastian blush, and Chris watches the color appear in his cheeks with delight, chasing it with his lips and nuzzling Sebastian’s hot cheeks.

“You’re pretty fucking amazing yourself,” Sebastian breathes. He turns into Chris further, lifting a hand to run it first through Chris’s beard and then his hair, tugging him down for another kiss. This one is slower, deeper, and Chris lets himself melt into it.

“I couldn’t believe my luck when you looked at me like that, earlier,” Sebastian confesses, speaking against Chris's lips. “Never woulda thought you’d have been into guys, let alone that you’d be like this.”

He doesn’t have to specify what he means by that, because Chris understands. He never thought Sebastian would’ve been like that, either.

Chris gives a small shrug. “Yeah, I’m bisexual, but I don’t flaunt it. ‘Cause, you know – Hollywood.”

Sebastian hums. “Yeah, I do know,” he says, before adding, “Capitol Hill,” by way of explanation.

A giggle bubbles up inside of Chris that he can’t quite stop in time.

When Sebastian raises an eyebrow at him in question, Chris blurts out, “We just fucked on Capitol Hill.”

Sebastian laughs, bright and happy, resting his forehead against Chris’s. “We sure did, sweetheart.”

He probably shouldn’t push his luck, but Chris has never been very good at keeping his feelings do himself. Before he can question it too much, he says, “So, I know it’s all backwards, but… I’d love to take you out for dinner. If – if you want.”

A sweet, fond smile spreads over Sebastian’s face. “Well, as it happens, I could really go for a burger and a beer, right about now.”

Chris groans, squeezing Sebastian’s waist. “If only you could be naked for the whole thing, and it would be perfect.”

Sebastian laughs. “Maybe on our second date. If you’re lucky.”

It Chris crosses his fingers behind Sebastian’s back, no one needs to know.

Read (and comment?) on AO3 - Thank you! ❤️

#my fic #evanstan #rpf #chris evans x sebastian stan #chris evans #sebastian stan #evanstan au #smut #politics #a starting point #ao3 #meet cute #my writing

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purplepiratefaerywitchthing · 3 years

Text

Why One or Two Typos Don’t Matter (Much)

Well, today was an embarrassing day to be on the internet.

I’m sure you’ve had those, too – maybe you picked a fight or posted something you shouldn’t have, or misread a tweet and ended up setting a friend off on a tirade when you thought you were making a simple joke.

It happens.

Just like when we were all wondering around The Real World breathing on each other, we have good social days and… not so good social days.

But of course, the problem with the internet is that when you screw up, people can hold it against you FOREVER.

How many times have *certain dumb-ass politicians* tweeted something they shouldn’t have only to delete it for PR reasons, but it ended up not mattering because enough vengeful souls took screenshots of the post and ensured to keep *certain dumb-ass politician’s* failures circling the internet for days if not weeks to come?

As a writer, I can’t help but dream of becoming at least a little famous off my books, but if I did I think I’d have to pull a Sarah J. Maas and get off social media COMPLETELY in order to avoid those lovely foot-and-mouth situations that only look worse the more famous you are.

It’s the smart move, honestly. We’re all human, and we’re all bound to make mistakes – it depends on who we are and what mistakes we’ve made that determine whether or not we can be forgiven.

But I digress. Here’s what happened:

So I’m starting up this whole *freelance editing business*, right? Even though my LAST experience with freelance writing was… well, not a complete disaster, but certainly not something I want to re-live? (I’ll give you the short version: hours/days of work for like $15, if that).

But here’s why I decided to give editing a try: I get to talk to other authors and writers about cool books and stories, and then help those authors and writers make those already cool stories even cooler because I’ve been doing this for nearly 20 years and I’ve learned a thing or two about how to tell a good story.

Sounds a lot more fun than writing scripts for real-estate podcasts that hardly anyone will ever listen to, right?

Yeah. I thought so, too.

One of the things I offer (the first “tier,” if you will) is proof reading. Yes, that means turning the spell-check-o-meter on high and nit-picking sentences (something I loath doing in my own work) and copy/pasting words into Google dictionary to double check their meaning and spelling.

But the hope is that this level of nitting and picking leads to other forms of writing help that I love giving, like working on the actual meat and potatoes of a story in order to improve it overall which, in my most humble opinion, is really what matters.

And to market (which all good little creatives have to do if you even want a CHANCE to survive in our content-saturated world) this new thing, I took to Twitter to advertise these “first tier” editing services; what they entail, how much they cost, etc.

How else are people to know what I’m doing, after all?

And today, like the good little creative millennial I am, I re-tweeted my own tweet in order to boost awareness of this little business I’m trying to make.

Don’t JUDGE me; we’ve all done it, Carol.

Now, I have a little friend group on Twitter who’ve been loyally, loving retweeting and liking these posts in an effort to help give them a boost in Twitter’s savage algorithm, and I’d already commented once on this said tweet to laugh at myself for one mistake I made in the initial tweet: I put the cent sign in the wrong place next to an amount.

Jeez, it’s so weird how we talk about communication on the computer as much as we do. Can we pause and just think about that for a second?

But you know what else I screwed up? You know what else my dyslexic brain and skimming eyes missed?

I’d misspelled the word “grammar.”

Put and “e” where the second “a” should be.

My phone didn’t even pick it up because it’s probably something I do all the time (because let’s be real, phone keyboards and spellcheck < laptop and computer keyboards and spellcheck).

And do ya wanna know how I realized I’d made this mistake? A new follower of mine commented, “I wouldn’t have Rebecca do anything, she checks GRAMMER.”

Petty bitch almost made me cry while I was at my day job.

I admit I tried to play it cool, thanking her for pointing that out when several other people hadn’t, laughing about how this proves my point: no matter how good a writer you might be, it’s still a good idea to have another person NOT inside your head look over your work before you put it out in the world.

Aaaaand then I blocked her and deleted the whole thing. The thread, the comment – all of it.

Aaaaand had a nervous break down.

Because who in the world would want to pay an editor who makes a typo in a tweet advertising their own editing services?

The answer?

People who want/need editors.

Because here’s the funny thing about writing good shit: one or two typos don’t matter.

I see them all the time, even in traditionally published books. For some people it drives them up the wall, but these people are usually editors themselves, or agents or writers or teachers or someone who’s way way way WAY more involved in the book world than the average everyday reader.

I’ll say it again, for you, for me, for those editors and agents and teachers and writers and librarians out there:

A handful of typos scattered throughout a 100k book don’t f*cking matter.

I got all upset (and am still, honestly, a little upset) because this woman made me feel inferior over mistake in a made-up system of communication that we as a society just so happen to all agree to see as Truth.

Reader, I know what you’re thinking: “But if spelling and grammar don’t matter, when what does?”

The answer?

Or, at least, my answer:

The point, the content, the meaning – these are the things that matter in a story.

Now, you can’t submit a manuscript made up solely of little red lines and expect it to get picked up right away, (the exception being if you’re writing a fantasy or science fiction story with a LOT of made up names and places and words, and in which case I recommend that you add those all to your word processor’s dictionary so that YOU don’t accidentally miss-spell the name of your own kingdom or main character on page 2 of the first chapter) so do at least one or two read-throughs to make sure your typos aren’t so frequent as to mess up the flow of the narrative you’re attempting to convey.

But to be honest? One or two little things that your tired eyes miss after you’ve re-read 100, 200, 300 page story for the 18th time?

Yeah.

They don’t matter.

Odds are they’ll get caught and changed by an editor or agent or whoever. But they also might not. No big deal either way.

What matters is that your main character has a solid, believable, emotionally riveting arc.

What matters is that we can smell the smoke on the battlefield, hear the cries of dying men and monsters, feel the heat from the fire raging where the castle once stood.

What matters are the worlds you imagine in galaxies far, far away; how new species and races and cultures question and reflect our own.

What matters is how the first page hooks your reader to the point where they won’t stop turning the rest until they get to the last, and then rush to their phones to see if you’ve announced you’re going to be writing more in the series.

Don’t get me wrong, these are hard things to achieve. Even I can’t promise you your book will have that kind of affect on every person who reads it.

But if you write a solid story, then guess what?

Your chances of that happening improve. Drastically.

So yeah, lady – I miss-spelled “grammar” when trying to sell my editing services. Made me look like a temporary idiot to an imaginary audience.

But do you have a BA from a top Liberal Arts school, 36 credits of a Master’s Degree, three books and a dozen short stories under your belt?

Yeah.

Didn’t think so.

Also, it’s fucking Twitter. Get OVER yourself.

So writers, take comfort: One or two typos in your life, your book, your tweets don’t matter.

But what you’re saying?

How you’re saying it?

That’s gold.

(And if you ARE the type of person who worries about the one or two typos? All the more reason to hire an editor to be your fresh pair of eyes. Because, let’s face it – it helps. My rates are on the Welcome page of this website if you’re interested. )

#writing #writeblr #fiction writing #writers #writing advice #booklr #books #writing process #writing blog #writing help #writers helping writers #motivation

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pamphletstoinspire · 4 years

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Archbishop Vigano’s Warns Trump About ‘Great Reset’ Plot

Open Letter To The President Of The United States

DONALD J. TRUMP

Sunday, October 25, 2020

Solemnity of Christ the King

Mr. President,

Allow me to address you at this hour in which the fate of the whole world is being threatened by a global conspiracy against God and humanity. I write to you as an Archbishop, as a Successor of the Apostles, as the former Apostolic Nuncio to the United States of America. I am writing to you in the midst of the silence of both civil and religious authorities. May you accept these words of mine as the “voice of one crying out in the desert” (Jn 1:23).

As I said when I wrote my letter to you in June, this historical moment sees the forces of Evil aligned in a battle without quarter against the forces of Good; forces of Evil that appear powerful and organized as they oppose the children of Light, who are disoriented and disorganized, abandoned by their temporal and spiritual leaders.

Daily we sense the attacks multiplying of those who want to destroy the very basis of society: the natural family, respect for human life, love of country, freedom of education and business. We see heads of nations and religious leaders pandering to this suicide of Western culture and its Christian soul, while the fundamental rights of citizens and believers are denied in the name of a health emergency that is revealing itself more and more fully as instrumental to the establishment of an inhuman faceless tyranny.

A global plan called the Great Reset is underway. Its architect is a global élite that wants to subdue all of humanity, imposing coercive measures with which to drastically limit individual freedoms and those of entire populations. In several nations this plan has already been approved and financed; in others it is still in an early stage. Behind the world leaders who are the accomplices and executors of this infernal project, there are unscrupulous characters who finance the World Economic Forum and Event 201, promoting their agenda.

The purpose of the Great Reset is the imposition of a health dictatorship aiming at the imposition of liberticidal measures, hidden behind tempting promises of ensuring a universal income and cancelling individual debt. The price of these concessions from the International Monetary Fund will be the renunciation of private property and adherence to a program of vaccination against Covid-19 and Covid-21 promoted by Bill Gates with the collaboration of the main pharmaceutical groups. Beyond the enormous economic interests that motivate the promoters of the Great Reset, the imposition of the vaccination will be accompanied by the requirement of a health passport and a digital ID, with the consequent contact tracing of the population of the entire world. Those who do not accept these measures will be confined in detention camps or placed under house arrest, and all their assets will be confiscated.

Mr. President, I imagine that you are already aware that in some countries the Great Reset will be activated between the end of this year and the first trimester of 2021. For this purpose, further lockdowns are planned, which will be officially justified by a supposed second and third wave of the pandemic. You are well aware of the means that have been deployed to sow panic and legitimize draconian limitations on individual liberties, artfully provoking a world-wide economic crisis. In the intentions of its architects, this crisis will serve to make the recourse of nations to the Great Reset irreversible, thereby giving the final blow to a world whose existence and very memory they want to completely cancel. But this world, Mr. President, includes people, affections, institutions, faith, culture, traditions, and ideals: people and values that do not act like automatons, who do not obey like machines, because they are endowed with a soul and a heart, because they are tied together by a spiritual bond that draws its strength from above, from that God that our adversaries want to challenge, just as Lucifer did at the beginning of time with his “non serviam.”

Many people – as we well know – are annoyed by this reference to the clash between Good and Evil and the use of “apocalyptic” overtones, which according to them exasperates spirits and sharpens divisions. It is not surprising that the enemy is angered at being discovered just when he believes he has reached the citadel he seeks to conquer undisturbed. What is surprising, however, is that there is no one to sound the alarm. The reaction of the deep state to those who denounce its plan is broken and incoherent, but understandable. Just when the complicity of the mainstream media had succeeded in making the transition to the New World Order almost painless and unnoticed, all sorts of deceptions, scandals and crimes are coming to light.

Until a few months ago, it was easy to smear as “conspiracy theorists” those who denounced these terrible plans, which we now see being carried out down to the smallest detail. No one, up until last February, would ever have thought that, in all of our cities, citizens would be arrested simply for wanting to walk down the street, to breathe, to want to keep their business open, to want to go to church on Sunday. Yet now it is happening all over the world, even in picture-postcard Italy that many Americans consider to be a small enchanted country, with its ancient monuments, its churches, its charming cities, its characteristic villages. And while the politicians are barricaded inside their palaces promulgating decrees like Persian satraps, businesses are failing, shops are closing, and people are prevented from living, traveling, working, and praying. The disastrous psychological consequences of this operation are already being seen, beginning with the suicides of desperate entrepreneurs and of our children, segregated from friends and classmates, told to follow their classes while sitting at home alone in front of a computer.

In Sacred Scripture, Saint Paul speaks to us of “the one who opposes” the manifestation of the mystery of iniquity, the kathèkon (2 Thess 2:6-7). In the religious sphere, this obstacle to evil is the Church, and in particular the papacy; in the political sphere, it is those who impede the establishment of the New World Order.

As is now clear, the one who occupies the Chair of Peter has betrayed his role from the very beginning in order to defend and promote the globalist ideology, supporting the agenda of the deep church, who chose him from its ranks.

Mr. President, you have clearly stated that you want to defend the nation – One Nation under God, fundamental liberties, and non-negotiable values that are denied and fought against today. It is you, dear President, who are “the one who opposes” the deep state, the final assault of the children of darkness.

For this reason, it is necessary that all people of good will be persuaded of the epochal importance of the imminent election: not so much for the sake of this or that political program, but because of the general inspiration of your action that best embodies – in this particular historical context – that world, our world, which they want to cancel by means of the lockdown. Your adversary is also our adversary: it is the Enemy of the human race, He who is “a murderer from the beginning” (Jn 8:44).

Around you are gathered with faith and courage those who consider you the final garrison against the world dictatorship. The alternative is to vote for a person who is manipulated by the deep state, gravely compromised by scandals and corruption, who will do to the United States what Jorge Mario Bergoglio is doing to the Church, Prime Minister Conte to Italy, President Macron to France, Prime Minster Sanchez to Spain, and so on. The blackmailable nature of Joe Biden – just like that of the prelates of the Vatican’s “magic circle” – will expose him to be used unscrupulously, allowing illegitimate powers to interfere in both domestic politics as well as international balances. It is obvious that those who manipulate him already have someone worse than him ready, with whom they will replace him as soon as the opportunity arises.

And yet, in the midst of this bleak picture, this apparently unstoppable advance of the “Invisible Enemy,” an element of hope emerges. The adversary does not know how to love, and it does not understand that it is not enough to assure a universal income or to cancel mortgages in order to subjugate the masses and convince them to be branded like cattle. This people, which for too long has endured the abuses of a hateful and tyrannical power, is rediscovering that it has a soul; it is understanding that it is not willing to exchange its freedom for the homogenization and cancellation of its identity; it is beginning to understand the value of familial and social ties, of the bonds of faith and culture that unite honest people. This Great Reset is destined to fail because those who planned it do not understand that there are still people ready to take to the streets to defend their rights, to protect their loved ones, to give a future to their children and grandchildren. The leveling inhumanity of the globalist project will shatter miserably in the face of the firm and courageous opposition of the children of Light. The enemy has Satan on its side, He who only knows how to hate. But on our side, we have the Lord Almighty, the God of armies arrayed for battle, and the Most Holy Virgin, who will crush the head of the ancient Serpent. “If God is for us, who can be against us?” (Rom 8:31).

Mr. President, you are well aware that, in this crucial hour, the United States of America is considered the defending wall against which the war declared by the advocates of globalism has been unleashed. Place your trust in the Lord, strengthened by the words of the Apostle Paul: “I can do all things in Him who strengthens me” (Phil 4:13). To be an instrument of Divine Providence is a great responsibility, for which you will certainly receive all the graces of state that you need, since they are being fervently implored for you by the many people who support you with their prayers.

With this heavenly hope and the assurance of my prayer for you, for the First Lady, and for your collaborators, with all my heart I send you my blessing.

God bless the United States of America!

+ Carlo Maria Viganò

Tit. Archbishop of Ulpiana

Former Apostolic Nuncio to the United States of America

#great reset plot

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enygmass · 4 years

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Title: Caveat Emptor

Author: Ames

Wordcount: 3393

Warnings? : Everyone is an asshole in the end?

Characters: Jonathan Crane, briefly Oswald by mention, and the entire Irish Mafia

Synopsis: Jonathan discovers that undergraduate lessons can be applied to real life situations. He also discovers the saying that there is ‘no honesty among thieves’ is more real than anticipated.

AO3 Link can be found HERE

_______________________________________________________

There were seven steps to a sale that Jonathan Crane could recall from his brief venture into business during his undergraduate years. The first step to a successful sale was prospecting: one needed to find potential customers and decide whether they were in need of your service—and if they could afford what you had to offer.

Angelo Murphy was a chief for the Irish Mafia, down in the Cape Carmine area. In fact, word had begun to trickle down from the upper-class criminals to those residing within the rodent-infested alleys that Angelo Murphy was primed to take over upon the retirement of the current Skipper, James Synnott. Oftentimes changes of power such as this were handled swiftly, to prevent too long of a buffer period—or layover, as some liked to call it—which could allow another criminal to step into place. Angelo Murphy needed to prove to the other members of the Irish Mafia that he was more than capable of handling himself. Angelo Murphy needed to do something big.

Jonathan recently found himself becoming a fan of “big” things.

Not a new change of behavior, of course. Jonathan began elaborating his plans to make them “big” ever since names such as Two-Face and Riddler started getting thrown around. No longer was his typical method of subtle manipulation and toxin injection working. He couldn’t lean into politicians' ears and play the role of Judas anymore; Jonathan needed to step up to the plate and play as Pontius instead. He needed the starring role, and truth be told, this was the only way to gain recognition for what he was capable of in these new times. And Jonathan was capable of a lot.

Which is why the co-occurrence of both Jonathan’s need to change pace, and Murphy’s need to prove himself, seemed to be almost written in the stars.When Angelo Murphy’s subordinate approached him one evening and handed him a card that simply said ‘J. Crane’ with a phone number on the back, Murphy was not hesitant to call.

The second step of a successful sale is preparation. You have to prepare for the first contact with the customer, research and collect all relevant information, and develop a presentation tailored to the customers needs.

Murphy was a desperate man. Jonathan's practice had led him to become familiar with the scent of desperation over many years; it smelled of musk, of sweat and grime, of anger and adrenaline that was accompanied with shifty glances and trembling palms. One could almost taste the terror on their tongue if they looked upon a desperate man for long enough. It was a satisfactory flavor that pulled at your heart and your mind and left a desire in its wake. Once you've tasted terror, it leaves nothing but an empty hunger, and Jonathan was ravenous .

A warehouse in the Industrial District seemed a suitable enough spot for a meeting to occur. The Irish Mafia were known to be hesitant about meeting in areas that were not open and did not have more than two exits. Jonathan credited that particularity to the time they tried to strike an arms deal with Cobblepot that resulted in the death of the previous Skipper and the premature coronation of Synnott. Anyone with half a brain cell knew better than to try and skim money off the top in a deal with the likes of Oswald. Besides, the scent of rotting wood, the constant chill that seemed to cut through all of his clothes, and the low groaning noise of the wind passing through the exposed foundation made Jonathan feel almost like he was back in his lab again. It was incredibly therapeutic .

After you successfully prepare for a sale, there comes the stage of approach. This is when you first make contact with your client in a face-to-face (or face-to-mask, he supposed) setting. There are three ways to do this: a premium approach, in which the client receives a gift; a question approach, in which you prompt the client with a question; or a product approach, in which you give the prospect a free sample to review the service. Jonathan? Well, Jonathan always did favor the latter.

“Mr. Murphy, I presume?” Jonathan’s raspy voice sounded filtered by the tears in the burlap mask he wore over his head. Pulling his hand away from the various bags he had been oh-so-lovingly caressing moments earlier, Jonathan centered his attention towards the group of men approaching him now from one of the two exits. They all looked typical of henchmen—tall, broad-shouldered, with angry scowls on their faces that seemed to waver upon seeing Jonathan's lanky form. Henchmen usually had to be exposed to many things during their services, and Jonathan had no doubt that more than one in this group had been exposed to what he had to offer this day. All of them, of course, except the dark-haired man who stood front and centre.

Besides being desperate, Murphy was also the most common looking creature that Jonathan had the pleasure of regarding. Once one had been exposed to the flash and the flair that the rogues of Gotham so proudly carried themselves in, to come face-to-face with someone calling themself a crime lord while dressed as though they had just crawled from the couch was a bit of a disappointment. Murphy was short, with a beer gut, and his hairline was already receding. When he arched his eyebrows at Jonathan’s question, it brought much amusement to the rogue to see that the hair-line was capable of going back even farther.

“Mr. Crane, I presume?” Murphy’s parroting of his words only further proved to Jonathan that the man likely didn’t even have two brain cells to rub together in that head of his. The henchmen around him seemed to agree. Most people who had dealt with rogues before also knew better than to act disrespectfully in their presence—Jonathan, especially.

“Your presumption would be correct, Mr. Murphy. I’m so glad that you managed to make it here unharmed with your, ah,” Jonathan paused and allowed the words to hang in the air as he surveyed the men again. He then let out an airy chuckle, “Groupies in tow.”

Murphy’s eyes seemed to narrow a bit at these words, and his hands came to fold behind his back.

“Best believe we made it here unharmed, Mr. Crane. I got more pressin’ matters on my plate to deal with than any unwanted inconveniences, mind you.” Jonathan’s head tilted slightly at these words as Murphy’s gaze slid from him to the products he had displayed. A few steps forward, and Murphy’s hands unfolded to rest upon the chipped surface of the table. “Is this it?”

“Not all of it, of course. These are just test samples.” Jonathan’s hand shot out and hovered over the bags again, as though he were uncertain which one to grab. Truth be told, he was eager to show all of them, but Murphy seemed more keen on dealing with those other matters than allowing Jonathan to put on his show, and pointed to the bag nearest to him.

“Mitchell, c’mere.” One of the henchmen, a man with a mop of curly blonde hair and an uncertain expression, took a few steps forward to stand beside Murphy. “I want ya to open this one here.”

Mitchell looked as though he wanted to do anything but open that bag, and Jonathan wondered if he should advise Murphy against doing such things. Then again, he wasn’t responsible for the henchmans’ life, nor did he particularly care for it. So when Mitchell wrenched open the bag and a burst of putrid green dust shot up into his face, soaking through his pores and entering into his mouth, the only thing Jonathan could really do is sigh.

Then Mitchell started to scream.

The fourth and fifth steps of a successful sale include presentation and the handling of objections. The presentation allows you to actively demonstrate how your product meets the needs of the customer. Jonathan felt strongly that, given the manner in which Mitchell was now thrashing on the concrete floor, and how Murphy was spouting off slurs Jonathan could only dream about, his product had been aptly presented. The handling of objections was a more tedious process. This was where he was supposed to ask Murphy if he had any concerns. He felt like the presentation may have raised a few.

"Mr. Murphy, as you can see, the product is one of a kind, and incredibly effective.” Jonathan did his best to speak up above the howlings of Mitchell, but his voice had always been so soft and hollow, and raising it to anything above an indoor-level was not something he was capable of. So, without even taking a break from his speech, Jonathan pivoted and gave a swift kick to the fallen Mitchell’s head. The resounding crack echoed throughout the warehouse before blissful, and abrupt, silence followed suit. Murphy stared at him. Jonathan adjusted his sleeves as though this were a Sunday stroll and not a black market exchange.

“As I was saying, the product is incredibly effective. What you just witnessed here was merely a pinch of what I’m willing to negotiate for you. Do you have any concerns with what I’m offering?” Typically, this would be the moment where paperwork would be pulled out of briefcases and pens handed out, but Jonathan had done enough paperwork in his lifetime that he felt no sense of urgency to do more. Murphy continued to stare for a moment, his jaw clenching and unclenching, before he rapped his fist twice on the table.

“How long does it last?”

“46 to 72 hours. Of course, factors such as the victim’s body weight and health must be taken into consideration when calculating its longevity. I’ve found personally that those with heavier body weights tend to be able to tolerate higher doses as compared to those with lighter body weights. Also, a few patients of mine seemed to have an almost reduced susceptibility to the effects. I’m sure this won’t be much of a bother for whatever you have planned, however.” Jonathan pressed his fingers on the table in anticipation. He normally didn’t mind diving into the ins and outs of his product, but tonight he was the only rogue—to his knowledge—actually doing anything, which meant if anyone caught wind of his actions the Bat would be on him within minutes. This was why it was always good to plan crimes in coordination with someone, else in case one got caught.

Murphy seemed satisfied enough with that response and didn’t press any further. Nor did he bother to look down at Mitchell’s unconscious form by his feet. This was good. This was very good. It meant that they would be done soon.

The sixth step to a successful sale is closing. This is where you get the decision from the client to move forward, which Murphy’s curt nod assured Jonathan was the case. There are then three strategies to choose from: an alternative choice close, where the seller asks if the client will be paying upfront; the extra inducement close, where the seller offers something else to the client; or the standing room only close, where the seller emphasizes how time is of essence. Jonathan was short on funds and needed to establish himself as soon as possible, so the first option was the only viable one. Breakouts from Arkham were hardly cheap, after all.

“Excellent! If you would so kindly place the money on the table here, I’ll lead you to the rest of the product.” Jonathan gestured to a space beside the various bags.

A heavy pause filled the air in the moments after Jonathan had provided his instructions. It weighed down, pressing harder, and harder, as Murphy stared at Jonathan with a slightly wide-eyed look. Then, Jonathan understood. Oh, he understood.

“The money isn’t here,” was all Murphy offered.

“The money isn’t here.” Now it was Jonathan’s turn to parrot back the words. A shiver of unease stirred among the henchmen.

“The money won’t be here, either.” Another sound soon filled the room, one that Jonathan had also come to recognize from so many years in the business. A clicking of hammers being pulled back on guns. Murphy's big thing wasn't to buy Jonathan's product and use it, no. Murphy seemed intent on stealing the product, thus showing that the Mafia is above the rogues, and then using it to make it clear that the Mafia is also above Gotham. Devious. If Jonathan wasn't so unamused already he might've felt a trickle of respect for the man. Too bad he had delegated Jonathan as his scapegoat. An unfortunate mistake.

Oswald was not the first rogue to be crossed during a deal. In fact, contrary to popular belief, double-crossing was a common occurrence when it came to intra-underworld dealings. Criminals were dishonest by nature and God forbid that change when dealing with one another. This posed a great inconvenience, because many of the rogues regarded themselves as above criminals, Jonathan included. This was why over the years many of the rogues had begun to design their own foolproof methods to counteract such double-crossings. Riddler had his robots, Harley had her hyenas, Ivy had her plants, Oswald had an entire army of henchmen at his disposal, and Jonathan, well. Jonathan always liked to pick the locations he did his dealings at with a purpose.

“Mr. Murphy, think hard about this. Although that may be a bit of a challenge for you.” Jonathan couldn’t stop the rueful grin from splitting across his face at the sound of Murphy’s snarl in response. The henchmen he had arrived with were now pointing a variety of weapons at Jonathan’s form. They looked uncertain, unwilling, and their eyes told Jonathan that more than a few were terrified. This alone sparked that long-standing hunger in Jonathan’s gut that caused his grin to turn from rueful to damn near predatory. He bet they could see his teeth between the openings on his mask. He hoped that made things worse.

“Show us where the rest of it is, Scarecrow, and we’ll make sure you keep a majority of your straw within ya.”

It took a miraculous deal of self-restraint on Jonathan’s behalf to keep him from groaning at the man’s goad. He was getting quite sick of the jokes people kept mustering in association with his persona. If it wasn’t something about having a brain, then it was straw, or yellow-brick roads. It was, to be frank, rather demeaning.

There were more pressing matters to attend to, however. The henchmen had inched their way closer to Jonathan, who slid his hands off of the table and folded them behind his back. This was partially for comfort, and partially because he didn’t need Murphy seeing the silver remote he held before the surprise was ready to be revealed.

“This is incredibly unprofessional of you, you know? Synnott and I had a good standing relationship, and now? Well, Murphy, now you’ve gone and fucked it. ” There was a bite that came with the curse. Jonathan didn’t typically swear, but that comment about straw had really wormed its way under his skin. “I would like to keep all my organs arranged in the way they are, though. You want to know where the remainder of the product is?” Murphy gave a curt nod, and if Jonathan’s smile spread any wider, he would be giving the Joker a run for his money.

There were numerous benefits to always being permitted to pick the location of your meetings. One of them was convenience; the warehouse they were in now was located close to where Jonathan had established his lab. Another was time; it did not take long for Jonathan to arrive at the warehouse, nor did it take much effort to move the product. Yet another was the area itself. For example, Jonathan knew that there were numerous vents that led to the basement of the warehouse. These were used to filter air into the workers’ areas from the furnaces during the cold winter months. This also meant that if any chemicals were to spill in the basement, the toxins from those said chemicals would fill the entire warehouse in seconds— one of numerous reasons why the warehouse had been shut down.

Jonathan knew that he could elaborate on what he intended to do. He elaborated all the time with Batman—every rogue did—but that was because Batman was worthy. Murphy? Well, to Jonathan, Murphy was just a piece of shit someone forgot to clear out. Which was why when he had hit the button on the silver remote and putrid green gas billowed upwards into the room, Jonathan didn’t blink twice. He did, however, dive behind the table as a flurry of gunshots from terror-stricken men with weapons filled the room. Gradually, the gunshots reduced in numbers, and the screams that had been like a cacophony moments earlier began to fade away, until there were no sounds except Jonathan’s breathing and a few lingering, echoed groans. His mask’s built-in filtration device was suddenly appreciated a lot more.

He peered over the edge of the table. Several dark masses littered the ground, and numerous new holes decorated the warehouse walls. The green toxin had begun to move its way upwards out of the warehouse, and Jonathan knew it was only a matter of time before the Bat signal lit up the sky. He needed to get out of there, now.

But first.

The seventh, and final step, of a successful sale is key. Once a sale is closed, the job is not done. The follow-up stage keeps you in contact with customers, not only to repeat business, but to enable referrals as well. Maintaining relationships is both cost-efficient and key to expanding business.

Jonathan hauled himself up and carefully stepped around the bodies of the henchmen. They had done a good number on themselves. A few henchmen's heads had been shot open by their panicked colleagues, and the blood let out a sickening squelching noise as Jonathan carelessly stepped through it. There were pieces of brain matter on the floor, and it appeared as though there was a tongue lying not too far from a corpse. These things mattered little, of course. What Jonathan was most focused on was the still shivering body of a man with a receding hairline whose beer gut stuck out not too far away. A few steps, and a sharp kick, and Jonathan was once again looking down at the face of Angelo Murphy.

He had been shot in the leg, it seemed.

Tragic.

Jonathan leaned down and peered at the man.

“Looks like I’m not the one whose straw came out, am I?” Jonathan chuckled and patted the man's cheek, smiling at the way it prompted another groan. He then reached into his coat pocket and fished around a bit before pulling out a card and tucking it into Murphy’s own front pocket. The card was white, pressed, with a single black line of “J. Crane” on the front and a phone number on the back.

“Well Murphy, unless you have any questions or concerns, I think we’re ready to wrap this up. I’ve never been a fan of verbal sparring, and I think I’ve done enough to earn your business today. Give my regards to Synnott, will you?” At this, Jonathan straightened up and stepped past Murphy’s now-twitching form. He hadn’t taken enough time to enjoy the way Murphy had looked at him with so much horror in his eyes. He almost wished he had a spare minute to soak in it some more.

“Oh! And do remember to recommend me, yes?” He spared the man a flippant glance from over his shoulder. “My product is one of a kind, and incredibly effective. You’ll find nobody better than me.”

With that, Jonathan adjusted his sleeves once more and made his way to the second exit of the warehouse—the one not blocked by corpses. He supposed that until the calls for his toxin came in and he could begin generating revenue again, he could just request a loan from Oswald. The free drink that was sure to come with his arrival certainly beat what he had just endured here.

#jonathan crane #batman #dc #batman fanfiction #amy writes #ugh im back babies

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desolationofstephen · 3 years

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God I hate everything and everyone but I don't have the strength to go into further detail than that broad claim right now.

Edit: Fuck it. Can't sleep anyway.

Fuck the so-called 'news' sites who pump out clickbait filled with typos, unresearched stories full of disinformation, recycled stories from events that happened years ago in another country shared to local news pages with headlines that deliberately omit those details. Particularly fuck the Murdoch owned sites posting barely veiled political propaganda.

Fuck the idiots who share said articles, falling for the propaganda machine, buying into the outrage of 'cancel culture' and in turn getting upset with the "snowflake leftards" when the left aren't responsible for half the shit you think they are. Fuck those idiots defending the media and conservative politicians to the end without realising that those are the ones making up these lies simply to manipulate you into being mad at those who want a better world for all while the ones you're defending are fucking you over.

Fuck 99.9% of men. I'm ashamed to be a straight cis white man. Our demographic is filled with the worst of the scum of humanity, so I can't blame those who say "all men are trash". You fucking are. And I can't even say "not all men" during a rational conversation because it's been overused by the exact men that are being complained about. No, it's not all men but if you're saying "not all men" then it probably includes you and you're defending yourself because deep in your heart you know you're trash but you don't want others to know.

Fuck the people having children with partners they've known for 1 year who post about their "ups and downs". You still act like high schoolers and have the intelligence of primary schoolers, yet you think you're capable of raising a child? We don't need more children from broken homes, and we sure as hell don't need more of your gene pool being spread. I know of 1 baby that has been born and 1 on the way who might have a chance of being raised well and becoming decent people. Every other one I've seen announced on Facebook just shouldn't exist tbh. May sound harsh but whatever. Also most of them are as fugly as Deadpool but I digress.

Sick of the copy-paste people inhabiting this world (not "fuck them" though, some might not deserve quite that level of harshness). Dudes who drive a hilux to their tradie job listening to Triple J or Triple M, then wear a striped polo out to the valley with their mates where they can woo a girl they don't respect by talking about their staffy and the NRL. Girls who post to insta about their dog, the beach, their coffee, their salad, and the latest reality TV ep, and whom you've no idea which one they actually are because every photo of them is with the same 5 girls with the same hair, makeup and tight plain colour dresses holding alcohol. They have no discernible personalities or distinguishing features. Head to Splendour or any similar festival and you'll have a harder time finding people who don't fit that exact description.

Fuck the friends who've ditched me and/or fucked me over. I rarely care when trash takes itself out, but I've not deserved half the shit that's been done to me. Fuck that guy who just stopped opening my messages for no apparent reason after years of friendship. Fuck the girl who posted a rude sassy reply to a legitimate question I asked. Fuck both of them for associating with the fuckhead who backstabbed me. Fuck you who's probably reading this for how rude you were to me after everything I did for you. Fuck any person who's thinking of replying to this post with something like "maybe people are ditching you cos you're a bitter fuck" - I'm ranting on my own page not looking for your opinion, if I wanted a shit take I'd buy a mushroom and if I wanted to hear your thoughts I'd put my ear to a seashell.

Fuck just about everyone.

And for the record I don't see myself as anywhere near perfect, I've made plenty of mistakes and have my own issues, but it seems I'm one of about 0.1% of people who actually tries to be better and to learn from mistakes and make amends for my wrongs, etc. Most people are out here being narcissistic assholes with the intelligence of a baked bean but wear a mask of empathy because they comment "thoughts and prayers" and think they're geniuses because they can memorise a textbook long enough to get a sheet of paper but lack any actual critical thinking skills. No one tries to better themselves in any way besides going to the gym. I can't fucking stand you all.

End rant for now. This is tip of the iceberg but I could fill a book with my bitterness.

#rant #you all suck #so much more but cbf right now #legitimately feel like I'm not made for this world

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neshabeingchildish · 4 years

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League of Extraordinary Geniuses || Chapter 5

Mika, as developed in Mika Provides will be a background character, after all, I’ve decided. Check that out for a refresher or a first time read, if you wanna. It’ll highlight why she’s here, because I don’t know that I’ll be mentioning that much in this story. @kiddangers @sevenseashigh @junknstu1f @just-a-j-reallly @famousflowermagazine @verified-dumbass I am once again asking that you let me know if I’m not supposed to tag you to this.

Android Paranoid

The first few days were quiet as they monitored the obvious confusion of androids processing things without the innate obligation to remain dutiful to their owners. Chase was working on his video game. Max was working on processing twin powers into bionic chips. Charlotte was looking over the plans for a test of intelligence unaffected by standardized privilege. This was one of the hardest things she had ever done, because she knew that even her ability and history with receiving and interpreting information had been highly influenced by social convention. Androids were better at this, but they too were built by humans who were fallible. She was mumbling under her breath when she heard Chase say, "Just make billions of tests"

"That's impractical…" she said, over her shoulder, thought a moment, then asked, "Have you got the time?"

"I'll make the time," he said, smiling brightly at her. She winked and he blushed. Max… noticed, but he felt like he and Chase had definitely had enough budding of heads already and decided to just catalog it away and keep his eye on that guy. The truth was that Max was not a very patient person. Biding his time and waiting his turn were things that felt both uncomfortable and boring to do, therefore, if he couldn’t figure out ways to get to someplace quick, the goal lost its appeal and he moved on to other goals… This had NOT been the case with Charlotte.

Oh, he wanted it to be. He wanted to move forward, forget his emotions and never intended to pine, at all… But. He just couldn’t. Maybe she would never want to be with him, but that didn’t stop him from having to make sure that she was as happy and safe as he could from inside of her life. It didn’t stop him from falling or being in love with her and he was pretty sure that nothing would, whether or not it ever became a discussion again. He was forever wounded from the time whenever it DID become a conversation, and he sort of wished that he had handled it better at the time. He also wished that she had known better, too. He would never admit it, but a part of him had been waiting for her to come to her senses… waiting for her to see that he could be what they previously agreed that he wouldn’t be able to.

Chase threw him a glare and asked, “WHAT? What are you staring at?”

Max only realized just then that Chase had been within his line of vision while he was thinking. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not THAT good looking. I was in my own head.”

“THAT good looking?” Charlotte repeated with a smile. Max narrowed his eyes at her, but he was smirking, so she knew he wasn’t mad. Chase, on the other hand seemed quite flustered as he stammered over words and said that he was going to get back to work.

After about three days, the androids began to reach out to her. Androids were used to guidance, but they had the freedom to move on… BUT, then again… These technically were only a few years old. She arranged a meeting for them and Chase and Max escorted her to the site.

Her protege, Mika, was already there and speaking with the androids whenever they arrived. “Charlotte!” She cheered, excused herself from the androids and rushed over, “It’s been extremely hectic today. There has been multiple reports to Davenport Industries about defective androids and Mr. Davenport told me that if I don’t get you on the phone with him within the hour, he is going to shut them all down!” She laughed nervously and wrung her hands. “Donald. Davenport. Yelled at me today! Do you know what is happening with the androids?”

“I do. And, I’ll call the Dom while Chase catches you up,” Charlotte began tapping on her wrist and walked off.

Mika smiled at Chase. She had A HUGE crush on him, but he saw her as a little kid, and she was pretty small, but he wasn’t a large person himself, and she was young, but she was extremely smart and very mature, she felt for her age and… “Oh my God, I am so sorry! I didn’t hear a word that you said!” She admitted, wincing.

“Did the sound of your fawning drown him out?” Max teased. She glared at him, knowing that her face was slightly darker with the blood rushing through her veins. “It’s like this, Loudmouth, Charlotte freed the androids to make Jamaica better, and if all goes well, she’s gonna liberate androids all over the world.”

Her face was frozen as she stared at him, processing his words and stuck in place.

“That’s not what we agreed to tell her. Now, she’s faced with having to tell on us or be an accessory!”

“RELAX. It’s Mika. She’s not gonna tell. She knows Char’s a good person, she has the hots for you, and she’s like… if I had a little sister who annoys me as much as my twin sister. When she snaps back to reality, she’ll deal with it.”

“She shouldn’t have to deal with it, because it was supposed to be between the three of us,” Chase said through his teeth before scanning Mika. “She’s in shock. Are you happy now?”

Max rolled his eyes and whispered to Mika, “Chase thinks you’re the smartest non-bionic girl he’s ever met…”

“WHAT?” She said. Max was about to repeat the lie, but she continued, “CHARLOTTE HAS BASICALLY UNPLUGGED THE ANDROIDS?”

“Basically,” Max said with nonchalant confidence and Chase said reluctantly.

“Hooooooooh my God…” Mika said and waded through nothing in front of her but tense air to make her way to a seat.

“Hmmm. Maybe I shouldn’t have told her,” Max said. Chase just fumed, but a call was coming through, so he walked off too while Charlotte was coming back. Max would have to explain this Mika freak out.

Chase answered the call and it was Donald. “Chase! Thank GOD I reached you!”

“Mr. Davenport… is there an emergency? I’ve sort of went on a spontaneous trip with some friends…”

Donald laughed for a bit, then sobered up and said, “Oh. You’re serious. Okay. Well, I’m sorry, but you’ll have to cut it short. I need you to go to Jamaica and oversee an incident that Charlotte has.”

“Oh? Yes. Sure. I can do that. No problem…”

“You’re in Jamaica, aren’t you?”

“Charlotte is one of very few friends I have and everyone knows this,” Chase said.

“Well, she really screwed the pooch with her most recent launch of android models. Businesses are threatening to withdrawn MILLIONS from us because of it. All of the droids are defected and I tried to shut them down, but can’t. You’ll have to figure out a way.”

“What if there isn’t a way?” Chase asked.

“There’d better be. Or the Smartest Woman in the World will have to get off of her pedestal.”

“What if they aren’t defected? If they’ve just decided that they shouldn’t have to be slaves…”

“They’re androids, Chase. We decide for them with a few buttons and wires. Now! Fix Charlotte's mistake and honestly, we might need to rethink you spending time with her.” Chase furrowed his eyebrows, forced a smile and hung up.

It was gonna be a hard time when Mr. Davenport realized that he was in on this.

Davenport Industries lost A TON of money from this, but Charlotte didn’t seem the least bit worried about Davenport ruining her in response. In fact, she seemed pretty settled that she was about to become very popular and well respected for this. A lot of the businesses in Jamaica were being sold off to other companies and many resorts and such were cutting their losses. The idea of islands full of unpredictable androids was terrifying. That was much scarier than possibly going into a bad neighborhood and being treated like an outsider. Tourists started fleeing. Expats started reconsidering. Charlotte started rebuilding.

There were androids trying to figure out their purpose, now that they could, and this was a beautiful place to figure it out. But… also… They all had numerous skills. And they required some maintenance, but Charlotte and Mika made rounds speaking to elders and politicians and citizens to see what things they might be able to help with and find androids that were willing to help out in exchange for help with their maintenance.

After some of them found work and others boarded the ship back to the mainlands, to where Charlotte promised to help them out, Chase used this as a time to convince Mr. Davenport that it was good for business to take credit for this turnaround.

That whatever issues they had with the androids, He could say that he made the situation better and Charlotte would remain out of the narrative and continue to fix this for him. “I know losing money is tough, but you’ve got so much already and well… Do you want to lose all that money AND your reputation?” When all else failed, Chase knew he could probably intercede on Charlotte’s behalf with Tasha… but, Davenport agreed that it was better not to draw more attention to the failures and to quietly fix this.

Charlotte was unbothered. Jamaica was on the verge of healing and the androids on the ship would be able to go wherever they chose to.

Max and Charlotte were relaxing whenever Chase returned from his dealings with Davenport. “You two look at ease.”

“Why wouldn’t we be?” Max asked. Charlotte just made a face.

“I feel like we got lucky with this. Until we’ve been able to find placements for the androids, should we proceed with setting more free? Like… can we logistically pull it off?”

“We are the people who can logistically pull off anything,” Max said. “We’ve got the smartest man, the smartest woman and an extremely smart, handsome, powerful superhuman. We’ve all had moments where nobody else but us was gonna figure out what to do. With our combined strengths and intellects…”

“We’ve got androids in the process of freeing other androids either remotely, or headed for missions,” Charlotte said smiling.

“Have we forgotten about the hysteria of humanity?” Chase asked.

“We’ve got stuff in the process of combating that, too…” She pulled up a hologram from her wrist of all of the wonderful progress that the Jamaica androids were making in helping things. Mika was collecting hours and hours of positive footage in the event that opposition began to voice opinions.

Chase sat down and relaxed with them. Max passed him a glass, which he suspiciously looked at. “It’s a virgin daiquiri, Dude.” Chase accepted it, knowing that Charlotte would stop him if it wasn’t and took a sip. It was pretty delicious. Max picked up his own glass and lifted it, “To…”“Us,” Charlotte said. Both of them smiled at her, having very different imaginings of what “us” was, but agreeing, nonetheless. “To us!” They said and clanked glasses.

It took a few weeks for things to get the level of hectic that they expected. Chase had gone back to Elite Force. Max had gone back to T Force. Mika was almost wishing she was back in Danger Force, but GOD, being android liaison was an assignment that she had not anticipated receiving. Then again, it was giving her an opportunity to both show her linguistics expertise and also her political aspirations.

Before she went to college, she knew a couple of languages, but she wanted to learn more of them. She initially wanted to be a global superhero. Charlotte was. Max was. Chase was. She knew some pretty powerful people thanks to this job, but whenever she became Dystress’ sidekick and Charlotte’s pupil, Charlotte helped her to realize that putting herself directly in danger wasn’t the only aspect of heroism and that people with minds like theirs could save the world from a desk if they worked hard enough and felt passionately enough.

Because of that, no matter where they went or relocated, the first thing that she and Charlotte did was get desks. It was a little bit of a ritual, a little bit of a reminder. That no matter what role they would work, they’d be heroes because of their great minds and the greater good that they believed in.

Mika was at her desk whenever she heard the loud sound of something coming towards them. She rushed out of her office and saw what she could only guess was a... TORPEDO??? It was coming right for them and all she could do was cover her eyes and SCREAM!

The scream sent a huge wave towards the thing that she simply just knew for a few moments was about to make it explode right in her face, but instead it sent the torpedo back from whence it came and blew up the jet that launched it. Fiery wreckage fell into the water and she covered her chest with both hands in terror and shock.

She heard some of the bystanders speaking in patois and debating on what they had just seen. She answered to let them know that they were attacked, but were safe, for now. They hadn’t expected her to be able to sound like them. She was very clearly not from there, even though she tried to fit in and she knew that at least a few had to have seen her use her superpowers.

“Charlotte, we have a huge problem. Someone just tried to attack the android safe house, and I’m pretty sure that Shoutout killed them.”

“Are YOU okay, Mika?” Charlotte asked.

“I’m... shocked. Who would do this? A super villain?” Mika wondered.

“I wish. Super villains are easy to fight. This was very likely the government, or some sort of agency. See what androids you can round up to go on a search and rescue. I’m on my way back.” Charlotte lowered her head and muttered an affirmation. “You were right. You are right. And you will fight for what’s right, and you will win.” Moments later, she sent texts to Max and Chase, just to let them know.

Both of them arrived roughly the same time. Max with Billy and Chase with Bree. Bree and Billy looked at each other, then, before anyone could say anything, they were in a competition. Max catalogued the thought that whenever non supes were less terrible, they could create some sort of games where bionics verses supers. Charlotte walked out to her jet to see them, still in their hero suits and with nothing additional. “What are you two doing here? You should get as far away from this failure as possible.” She had one bag with her, either like she was going on a very short trip, or she didn’t expect to make it back.

“I don’t believe that you think this is a failure,” Max said, shaking his head. “You freed androids all over the globe in a matter of weeks.

“And somebody sent assassins to blow them up. I could’ve gotten a 20 year olf kid killed.”

“Mika’s not gonna die. She’s too smart!” Max said, trying to play off his own worry. “Come on. Let’s get into it. I resigned from T Force to help you.”

“You resigned?” Chase asked.

“Yeah, yeah... I know. Irresponsible and unthinkable, yadda yadda...” Max started.

“No... I quit too. I... had to see this through.” He reached for one of Charlotte’s hands and Max reached for the other. “To us,” Chase whispered and both of them squeezed her hands before they headed in to make sense of what had happened to Mika in Jamaica.

#Henry Danger #Lab Rats #The Thundermans #Chasing Thunderbolts Fic #League of Extraordinary Geniuses #LOEG Update #Nesha Fics #Multiverse Fics

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longitudinalwaveme · 3 years

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Villainy Squared

Dramatis Personae

Batman/Bruce Wayne, the heroic but grumpy crime fighting vigilante

Harley Quinn/Harleen Quinzel, the eccentric and dimwitted girlfriend of Joker

Harvey Dent/Two-Face, the angry D.A. turned mob boss who bases his decisions on coin flips

The Riddler/Edward Nygma, a childish, riddle-obsessed technological genius

The Scarecrow/Jonathan Crane, a psychopathic psychologist; obsessed with fear

Script

Act I

(Enter Riddler and Two-Face from different directions)

Riddler: Riddle me this, Gotham! What has- (Pause) Two-Face? What are you doing here?

Two-Face: Out of the way, Nygma. This is the Second National Bank, and I’m going to rob it.

Riddler: But this is my heist! I’ve been planning it for months! You can’t just interrupt months of detailed planning because of your obsession with the number two! Why, I’ve already set up my riddle-based death traps of doom in there!

Two-Face: Tough luck, Nygma. You should’ve known better than to gamble on the Second National Bank with me on the loose. Now get lost. (Shoves Riddler to the ground)

Riddler: Ow! (Stands up, brushes himself off) That was entirely uncalled for! And I’m not going anywhere until you find a different bank to rob. This one is mine! Mine! All mine!

Two-Face: Do you really want to tussle with me, Nygma?

Riddler: You aren’t so tough. I can take you. Probably.

Two-Face: (Laughs) A skinny little nerd like you? In your dreams, loser.

Riddler: I’m not a loser! Why, I’m Gotham’s greatest criminal mastermind and the smartest person in Gotham! You’re just a dumb thug!

Two-Face: I may be a thug, but I’m far from dumb. I was a lawyer before I turned to crime, remember? You have to be smart to get through law school!

Riddler: Whatever you say, Two-Face, whatever you say.

Two-Face: (Grabs Riddler by collar) Look here, punk. I’d feel bad fighting a weakling like you, so I’ll give you one last chance to leave. If you don’t, I’ll beat you to a pulp. Got it?

Riddler: But-but I can’t leave! I spent ten thousand dollars on this heist! If I don’t make a profit, I’m gonna be broke! Those riddle traps aren’t cheap, you know.

Two-Face: That’s your problem, Nygma, not mine. Now leave, or it won’t be just your bank account that’s broke.

(Enter Harley)

Harley: Hi, Two-Face! Hi, Eddie! What are you guys doing here?

Riddler: Hi, kid. I’m trying to rob this bank with the help of my riddle-based death traps of doom, but apparently Two-Face had a similar idea, and so we’re now having a difference of opinion regarding who should rob the bank.

Two-Face: (Shakes Riddler a bit) Yeah, and Nygma was just deciding to leave the bank robbing to a professional. What are you doing here, Harley?

Harley: Mister J sent me to rob the bank to fund our next comedy show.

Two-Face: Well, tell that green-haired freak that Two-Face beat you to it. This is my bank to rob, not his or anyone else’s. Isn’t that right, Nygma?

Riddler: Y-yes, sir. Just let me go and I’ll be out of your hair- (Aside) And out of money again! This stinks! How am I supposed to get respect when this keeps happening?

(Two-Face releases Riddler; Riddler rubs his neck)

Harley: Uh, I don’t think Mister J will like the idea of you taking his money, Two-Face.

Two-Face: Well, that’s too bad, because I’m taking it anyway.

Harley: Couldn’t the three of us just split the money, Two-Face? That way, we can all get what we want, and we don’t have to fight over it.

Riddler: Kid, we’re villains. We don’t share money with anyone, not even adorable little things like you. Sorry to disappoint.

Harley: But we’re friends, aren’t we?

Two-Face: No, we aren’t. At best, we’re acquaintances. Now you two had better get lost before I lose my temper. Like I said earlier, this is my heist, and I don’t share.

(Harley starts crying; Enter Scarecrow)

Scarecrow: Greetings, citizens of Gotham. You are about to participate in the largest experiment in mass hysteria ever recorded, courtesy of me, the Scarecrow! (Notices others) Wait- what are the three of you doing here? You’re not part of my experiment.

Two-Face: Go away, you sadistic creep. I don’t want anything to do with a sicko like you.

(Harley pulls out improbably long handkerchief to blow nose)

Scarecrow: Scared, Two-Face? You should be. And Riddler, how nice to see you.

Riddler: H-hello, Scarecrow. I-I was just leaving. See you around! (Tries to exit, only for Scarecrow to grab him and pull him back)

Scarecrow: Leaving so soon? Why, the experiment has only just begun!

Two-Face: (Mutters) Experiment, my foot. (To the others) I thought I told all three of you to leave! This is my bank robbery, not a fear experiment or a way to fund stupid jokes or a way to prove intellectual superiority! Now go before I get violent!

Scarecrow: Leave intimidation to me, Two-Face. You lack the proper finesse to be truly frightening to anyone-except for cowards like Riddler, of course.

Riddler: I-I’m not a coward! I’m a genius! (Aside) Why, oh, why did I have to pick the one bank in Gotham that three other supervillains wanted? It’s going to ruin me, and then I’ll never be able to prove that I’m better than Batman! It’s not fair! They cheated me! They cheated! (Pouts)

Harley: (Notices the Scarecrow, runs to him, hugs him) Hiya, Professor Crane! It’s nice to see you! How have you been?

Scarecrow: Good evening, child. I have been doing well, and I have conducted many fascinating experiments in fear. How have you been?

Harley: Great, Professor Crane!

Two-Face: (To Harley) You actually like this psycho?

Harley: Of course! He was my professor of psychology!

Scarecrow: And she was my favorite student. Her grasp of the physiological and psychological effects of fear, as well as the names and causes of many phobias, was astounding. (Pause) Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I have a fear experiment to conduct.

Two-Face: Oh, no, you don’t. No one’s committing a crime in that bank but me!

Harley: No, I’m robbing it for Mister J!

Scarecrow: Child, my experiments are much more important than petty thievery, and there are plenty of other banks for you to rob. Couldn’t you attack one of them instead?

Harley: Mister J specifically told me to attack this one, Professor Crane. Couldn’t you do your experiment somewhere else? Or just wait for me to rob the bank before you start your experiment? I really wanna impress Mister J, and he’ll kill me if I don’t do what he says.

Two-Face: Why do you stay with that clown? He’s such a creep!

(The three ad lib an argument)

Riddler: Fellow villains, I have a brilliant solution to our problem! (Pause) Hey, guys, I have an idea! (Pause) Is anybody listening to me? I said I have an idea. (Pause) BE QUIET SO I CAN TELL YOU ALL MY PLAN!

(Other villains stop arguing)

Scarecrow: So, you finally grew a spine. I’m impressed, Riddler. What’s your idea?

Riddler: We all want to attack the same bank, but none of us are willing to team up or take turns, right?

Harley/Scarecrow/Two-Face: Right.

Riddler: So why don’t we bet for it? I have a fine set of cards at home, after all. The winner of the game gets to rob the bank-or spread fear gas, as the case may be- and the other three have to help them. Does that sound like a brilliant plan or what?

Harley: I love games! I’m in!

Two-Face: Everybody has equal odds of winning. That sounds fair to me. But I’ll have to flip my coin to decide. (Flips coin) The coin says that it’s a good idea. Let’s play.

Scarecrow: I normally dislike games, but, as this one will allow me to spend time with Harley, study three severely disturbed individuals, and get assistants for my experiment, I will play your game as well, and study how much you suffer from Ludophobia- the fear of losing-by so doing.

Riddler: Terrific! Let’s go to my Riddle-Lair.

(Exit all)

Act II

(Enter Batman on the phone)

Batman: Hello? Hello, Commissioner Gordon. Is something wrong? (Pause) The Scarecrow’s escaped from Arkham, too? That makes four high-profile criminals on the loose. Do we have any leads as to where they might have gone? Mmm-hmm. Uh-huh. Make sure that Gotham’s citizens know not to attempt to engage them. The last time someone tried that, they ended up in the hospital. Thanks for telling me about his escape. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Well, I’ll start looking for him-and Arkham’s other three escapees-straightaway. Good-bye, Commissioner. (Puts phone away) Hello, audience. I am Batman, the guardian of Gotham City. I have been protecting the innocent citizens of Gotham City from its large collection of lunatics, mob bosses, corrupt politicians, psychopathic psychologists, and ordinary thieves and thugs, and I have also trained my ward, young Dick Grayson, to help me fight crime as Robin. However, he is in Washington, D.C. for a field trip, and so I am single-handedly striking fear into superstitious, cowardly criminals until he returns. However, I am currently facing a much more serious problem than usual: namely, the fact that Harley Quinn, Two-Face, the Riddler, and the Scarecrow have escaped from Arkham and are running amok. Each one is a dangerous criminal in their own right, and the idea of all four on the loose simultaneously would be enough to strike strong fear into the hearts of the good people of Gotham. Therefore, I must quickly defeat and recapture all four criminals before they can start committing crimes-or, worse yet, decide to team up. To the Batmobile, audience! (Batman pantomimes getting into car and then driving it) My sources tell me that the Riddler is hiding out in an abandoned publishing facility, while Harley Quinn is in an abandoned amusement park and the Scarecrow is in an abandoned haunted house. Two-Face is probably in one of his many apartments, but I’m not sure which one he’s in, so I should probably look for him first. Tell me if you see anything, audience. Thank you.

Act III

(Enter Riddler, Two-Face, Scarecrow, and Harley)

Harley: Nice place you got here, Eddie.

Riddler: I know, right? I took over this publishing facility after it was abandoned, added a few personal touches, and wallah! Instant masterpiece of home decorating!

Two-Face: If you like neon green question marks, maybe.

Riddler: Who doesn’t ?

Two-Face: 99.9% of people who aren’t you.

Harley: I like it. It’s so shiny and pretty!

Two-Face: That’s because, you, like Nygma, have the attention span, maturity level, and taste of a six-year-old.

Riddler: I do not have the brain of a six-year-old! Why, I’m the world’s greatest criminal mastermind! If I wasn’t a mature adult, I couldn’t be.

Two-Face: One, your claim to that title is very, very debatable. Two, even if you are a mastermind, your crimes are based on riddles, puzzles, and brainteasers. You’re an adult who uses children’s games for your crimes, and you throw hissy fits when you lose. Even I can’t deny that you’re a genius when it comes to tech and wordplay, but you have an extremely immature outlook on the majority of life.

Scarecrow: In other words, Riddler, you’re a technological and linguistic savant. Your skill in those areas far outstrips your capability in any other aspect of life, and in terms of social behavior you are extremely delayed to the point of it being clear that, emotionally and socially speaking, you’re still a small child. And Harleen has regressed to that point as well, in large part thanks to the Joker. Both of you are adults who act like children, and it’s why you’re insane.

Riddler: Whatever. You’re just jealous because neither of you has a brilliant mind like mine. (He grabs a box of cards and sits down at a table with them)

Scarecrow: (To Two-Face) And, of course, his delusions of grandeur make his mental issues worse. (Both laugh and sit down)

Harley: Professor Crane! Two-Face! Stop being mean to Eddie! (Sits down)

Riddler: Yeah, stop being mean to Eddie-er, me!

Two-Face: (To Riddler) Aww, did we hurt your feelings? Scarecrow: (To Two-Face) Knock it off, Two-Face.

Two-Face: Why? It’s fun to watch Nygma freak out.

Scarecrow: I told you to knock it off! I don’t particularly care for Riddler, either, but we’re upsetting Harleen by making fun of him, and I hate it when she gets upset.

Two-Face: Who are you, and what have you done with Jonathan Crane?

Scarecrow: Harleen is my only friend, all right? I’m allowed to be nice to one person, aren’t I?

Two-Face: So, the big bad Scarecrow has a soft spot, huh? How cute.

Scarecrow: Mock me again and I’ll give you a faceful of fear gas.

Two-Face: Okay, okay, I’m sorry!

Scarecrow: That’s better. So, Riddler, what are we playing?

Riddler: I was thinking poker, but it’s really up to you three. I mean, I’ll win no matter what we play, so it doesn’t matter to me.

Two-Face: (Flips coin) The coin says we play blackjack.

Scarecrow: I was hoping to play rummy, myself, but as I am here to win, not to enjoy myself, I don’t particularly care what we play.

Harley: Um, the only card game I know how to play is Go Fish. Can we play that?

Riddler: You’ve never played a card game besides Go Fish? Really?

Harley: Really really, Eddie.

Riddler: Why?

Harley: All the other ones confuse me.

Riddler: I see. Since I don’t feel like teaching you to play poker, I guess we’re playing go fish.

Scarecrow: Very well. As I said, this is merely an opportunity for me to study human behavior, nothing more. Go Fish is as good a game as any for that purpose.

Two-Face: No way are we playing Go Fish. That game is for little kids, not super criminals. Can you imagine how we’d look playing a game for little kids?

Riddler: Well, according to you, Harley and I act like children anyway, so why wouldn’t we play a kids’ game?

Two-Face: Okay, then, imagine how I’d look playing a kids’ game.

Harley: Aww, you’d be adorable , Two-Face!

Two-Face: Not the point I was trying to make. I wouldn’t look adorable, I’d look stupid, and nobody in the underground would ever take me seriously again. I am not playing Go Fish!

Scarecrow: All right, then you forfeit the game and have to help whichever one of us wins carry out our crime.

Two-Face: Fine! If that’s how you’re gonna play it, then I’ll ask my coin whether I should participate. (Flips coin; groans) Deal me in.

(Riddler deals and the four play Go Fish, ad libbing all the while)

Riddler: Yipee! I won! I won! I actually won! And you two thought I was a joke!

(Two-Face and Scarecrow grumble and glare as Riddler does an obnoxious happy dance)

Harley: Congrats, Eddie! Do you mind if I steal a little something for myself to keep Mister J happy while we’re helping you?

Riddler: Of course not. I may be a psychotic maniac, but even I don’t want to see you get hurt by that barbaric clown again. Speaking of which, you should really find a new boyfriend who treats you with the respect you deserve.

Harley: Whaddaya mean, Eddie? My puddin’ loves me!

Scarecrow: No, he doesn’t. If he did, he wouldn’t threaten to kill you for failing to fulfill his requests. I’ve told you this a thousand times before-he doesn’t love you, he’s using you.

Harley: Well, maybe Mister J is a little rough sometimes-

Riddler: A little rough? He pushed you out of a fourth-story window! What’s a lot rough for you, having him drop a nuclear bomb on you? Oh, wait-he was willing to do that, too!

Harley: But I l-l-love him!

(Harley starts crying again, Riddler pats her on the back awkwardly)

Two-Face: Does anyone else find it a little odd that three supervillains are lecturing someone about how they’re in an abusive relationship?

Scarecrow: Maybe a little. But then again, I used to be a psychologist. I know the signs of an abusive relationship when I see one.

Two-Face: You do? I thought you only cared about fear.

Scarecrow: I may be fascinated by the effects of fear on the human psyche, but that doesn’t mean that I have completely forgotten everything else I learned in order to become a psychologist. And besides, that poor child’s fear of disappointing the Joker, while invigorating for me in the abstract, is also what keeps her from leaving him. Fear plays a large role in such abusive relationships, and as such, I know a lot about it. (Pause) Poor child. Poor, poor child.

Two-Face: Why does her relationship with the Joker bother you ? You’re the psycho who deliberately makes people see their worst fears for your twisted “research”!

Scarecrow: That doesn’t mean I entirely lack standards, Two-Face. And, even if it did, that doesn’t mean that I want the only person in my entire life who ever wanted to be my friend to be constantly abused by the clown who claims to love her.

Two-Face: Okay, you have a point. (Examines his gun)

Harley: Why does everyone think that my puddin is abusing me? He doesn’t mean anything by what he does to me. (Blows nose)

Riddler: We think he’s abusing you because he is! He threw you out of a fourth-story window, drove you insane, got you involved in battles with a crime fighting ninja, throws you around, hits you, never listens to what you have to say, lies to you, makes fun of you, makes you do things against your will, and ignores you when you’re not convenient. What else would you call that?

Scarecrow: It’s simple psychology, really. He follows the standard pattern of abusers: he pretends he’s nice to win you to his side, then he makes you think that you can’t live without him, and once he’s convinced he can control you, he starts with the abuse.

Harley: But I love him!

Riddler: Is loving him worth him trying to kill you when he gets angry?

Harley: Yes.

(Riddler and Scarecrow groan)

Scarecrow: Child, if you stay with him, he will kill you. I am very similar to him, so I know that he is incapable of love. At best, you are a diversion to him. At worst, you are a punching bag. You need to break up with him and find someone else-preferably someone else who is less prone to creating gigantic explosions.

Riddler: My vote would be that you turn “puddin” into pudding, but that’s neither here nor there. Either way, you should ditch that creep and move on with your life.

Harley: But where would I go?

Riddler: Poison Ivy likes you. Maybe you could go live with her.

Harley: Thanks for the suggestion. You guys are the best friends a psychotic nutcase could ask for. (Blows nose) From now on, I’m done with that homicidal, abusive clown.

Scarecrow: Wonderful! And if he tries to bother you, I’ll give him a nightmare that he’ll never wake up from.

(Harley hugs Riddler, who looks thrilled, then hugs Scarecrow)

Riddler: (Aside) I got hugged by a girl! Score!

Two-Face: Can we go rob the bank now, please? I’m as fond of weird counseling sessions as anyone else, but if we don’t get going soon, I’m going to forget our deal and rob the place by myself using my own plan.

Riddler: Okay, okay, we’re coming. Don’t have a cow.

Harley: You know, now that I’ve broken up with Mister J, I don’t really need to rob the bank, so I’m going to go find Ivy. Good-bye!

Riddler: Atta girl, kid! Bye!

Scarecrow: Farewell, child.

(Exit Harley)

Two-Face: You two really are crazy.

Riddler: And we wouldn’t have it any other way. Let’s go rob that bank!

Commercial Break!

Act IV

(Enter Batman)

Batman: I’ve checked the hideouts of Two-Face, Harley Quinn, and the Scarecrow, but they weren’t at any of them. That means that they must’ve teamed up with Riddler for some reason, and they must be hanging out here, at the abandoned publishing facility Riddler uses. I hope that, whatever nefarious crime they’re planning, they’re still here now, because if they aren’t, I’ll have to deal with panicked civilians.

(Enter Harley)

Harley: Hi, Batman! (Does double take) Batman?

Batman: Surrender quietly and things will be much easier for you, Ms. Quinzel.

Harley: Great! I was just looking for you! (Hugs him) I’m breaking up with the Joker, so I need to go to Arkham to get away with him and meet up with Red.

Batman: (Confused) You’re surrendering?

Harley: Yeah! I’m breaking up with the Joker, so I need to go to Arkham so that he can’t get me, and this is the quickest way to do it.

Batman: All right. (Handcuffs her) Why the change of heart regarding the Joker?

Harley: Eddie and Professor Crane told me he was abusing me, and they made sense, so I decided to leave him and become my own person again.

Batman: I’m glad to hear that, Ms. Quinzel. I wish you the best of luck with your attempt to break the cycle of codependency and abuse.

(They pantomime getting into the Batmobile and driving to Arkham in it. Harley throws her hands in the air like she’s on a roller coaster)

Harley: WHEEE!

(Batman stops the car and lets her out. They ‘walk inside’ Arkham)

Batman: Good-bye, Ms. Quinzel.

Harley: Good-bye, Batman. (Hugs him) And next time, you can call me Harley. Everybody does.

Batman: Good-bye, Harley. (Aside) Now I just have to hope that the other three have kept out of trouble.

Act V

(Enter Riddler, Scarecrow, and Two-Face)

Two-Face: If this plan fails, I’ll make you eat your hat.

Riddler: Fail? I’m a genius! So long as Batman doesn’t show up, my plan can’t possibly fail!

(Enter Batman)

Batman: Hello, gentlemen.

Scarecrow: (To Riddler) Congratulations, Riddler. You jinxed your own plan. How predictable.

Batman: I assume that asking the three of you to come in quietly would be too much to ask.

Riddler: How did you solve my riddles, Batman?

Batman: I didn’t have to. The three of you left a trail so obvious that anyone could have followed you here.

Riddler: You didn’t solve the riddles I sent you? Then I won! I won! I actually won!

Batman: Sure. Whatever makes you happy. (Aside) It’s like fighting a six-year-old.

Riddler: And now, I’ll kill you with a riddle-based death trap of-

(Batman knocks him out)

Batman: There’s your prize, Nygma.

Scarecrow: Did you see Harleen, by any chance?

Batman: Yes, I did. I took her to the asylum myself, in fact. Why?

Scarecrow: I was hoping that she would find a way to keep herself safe from that lunatic. Good for her! (Pause; Brandishes fear canister) It’s time for you to face your fears, Batman!

Batman: No, it’s time for you to face the law. (Knocks fear canister out of his hands) Why did you willingly help Harley, Crane?

Scarecrow: That’s personal information, Batman. (Tries to grab fear canister, is knocked out by Batman)

Two-Face: (Makes a run for the bank) Looks like I get the money after all! (Is knocked out by Batman)

Batman: Good night, Dent. (Pulls out phone) Hello? Commissioner Gordon? It’s Batman. I have three criminals for you to arrest. They’re right outside the Second National Bank. Thank you. (Puts phone away) I can’t believe that the Scarecrow and the Riddler care enough about Harley to try to get her away from the Joker, but it’s beneficial anyway, as it means that I might not have to deal with Harley Quinn any more. Who would have expected that?

#batman #batman rogues #dc comics #fanfic #theater

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stevenbasic · 4 years

Photo

“Did you catch that, Dr. J?” Randi purred, sitting aside me at the table in the small room we used for meetings as Melissa continued her presentation at the head of the table, in front of us both, “72 percent? That’s crazy…”

We were about ten minutes in to the ‘quick’ talk Melissa had prepared for me, about a “new opportunity”, as she phrased it. She had asked Randi, as our “Director of Social Media”, to sit in as well...not that I really understood the plans for our Facebook page and all this mumbojumbo Melissa was spouting, but two pretty girls in high heels and tight everythings can be hard to refuse. And what could be the harm, right?

“72 percent and climbing,” Melissa added, reading off a slide she had projected up onscreen. Marisela had been nice enough to set up our ersatz multimedia equipment for us before she took off for the day, and then in the semi-dark of the room it was just us three...and these weird statistics. “Background information,” Melissa called it.

“Law school, medical school, business school…” she continued, “all are now dominated by a majority of female students. That-” She began reading verbatim, again, from the slide, “ - is projected to lead to even greater satur...saturation of already female-dominated professions in these areas.”

“Looks like you’re an endangered species, Dr. J…” Randi joked, “I mean - when two out of three medical students are female, and it’s soon going to be…” She looked up at her friend…

Melissa went to the folder of papers she had laid out on the table in front of her. “...4 out of 5 within 3 years. That’s, like, seventy-five percent,” she said.

“Yeah 4 out of 5. And I bet it’ll get even more like that, more girls,” Randi stated, “They’ll get the jobs, be the majority of the profession.” At that her voice dropped to a playful, syrupy pout. “Awww….poor Dr. J. There won’t many male doctors at all soon for you to play with...”

“Ha very funny…” I said, shifting in my seat as again I had to readjust and keep hidden the erection which had bloomed, early into this whole endeavor. Randi was sitting close, just behind me, and Melissa stood over me, smelling great and towering in 4-inch heels and her tight, figure-hugging dress, white with black details. And it was not just the scenery, or the florid promise of female company that had summoned my unwelcome arousal. Randi, at least for her part, knew from our time alone in her car together, that this was secretly exciting stuff to me. As dry as it sounded, it piqued deep submissive tendencies.

But what was this all for again?

“And women are not just succeeding and excelling in medicine, law, education,” Melissa continued, reciting word-for-word again from her notes, “But female-led small-businesses are now being shown to outperform male-run businesses in similar industries, growing at an average rate of 12.5%, where their male counterparts have seen their businesses actually shrink in gross revenue by almost 5%.”

“So…” I began, trying to ignore the pangs of male pride as a new slide with what again looked like professionally-prepared graphics appeared behind Melissa, “what does all this have to do with us?” I mean, I’d started hearing stats like this before, even in the mainstream media. But...

“Oh,” Randi chimed in, leaning towards me to put a hand on my shoulder, “Good question...”

“Yes, very good question sweetie!” Melissa lauded, “because I was just going to get to that, the fun part!”

“So, in this year’s upcoming elections,” Melissa began, reading again from her notes, “both local, state and national, women candidates outnumber male candidates for the first time in history.”

“And do you know why that is?” Randi asked, coming closer to speak into my ear.

“Well, that’s because of this new party, right?” I spoke up, feeling a bit like I was being quizzed like a simpleton. They were referring of course to the “New Women” Party (or “New Woman” Party...I couldn’t keep it straight), this political movement that had seen many female politicians from both parties caucus to a new, third-party group that had grown by surprising leaps-and-bounds over the past couple years. This year, in the elections that were now less than six weeks away, they looked to possibly make their first real, actual impact.

“That’s right!” Melissa lauded, smiling proudly down at me - her star student today, as Randi inched in closer. Randi had let her hair down a few minutes ago, and the smell of her shampoo brought back memories of that dark, illicit night in her car. At the same time Melissa’s perfume was powerful, a deep undercurrent keeping my attention.

“Everyone here at the office...all the cool girls, at least, are going to vote for them…” Randi quipped, letting her left breast press firmly into my right arm as she leaned in to look at my notes. “They’re super popular.” It was true, they were the “cool girls” of politics, of social movements, for sure. And not just among younger women. Even my wife Sheryl, who was usually a pretty level-headed woman (to say the least) was talking of supporting them, seriously considering giving them her vote in November. I knew she’d been to a couple meetings with her friend Olivia, who was working as some sort of consultant for Maura Weisman. It was this group, the national branch apparently, that had prepared all these statistics.

“Anyway, it’s so exciting!” Melissa said, excitement bubbling, “we’ve been approached by the party to be part of their new program supporting female-led businesses. They want to help companies like ours succeed, help women like us grow.”

“Wait a second,” I said, blinking through my confusion, “‘Female-led’…?”

“Well, I mean, look at this chart…” Melissa said, pulling up a graph - again, professionally prepared (by who?) - of our practice’s revenue by date…complete with the recent nose-dive, starting about six weeks ago. “You’ve been the head of the practice for a long time, but you do have to admit we need some help.”

“I-...” I began, but then stopped myself. Six weeks ago was when you started as our Office Manager, Melissss...Melissa!!!

“Shhh…” came Randi’s voice, from just behind my ear as a hand slid down my arm, onto my thigh. I saw Melissa’s eyes dart down and had trouble reading her reaction.

“It’s hard to see, I know,” Melissa continued.

“Your male pride hurt?” Randi purred.

“But female-run businesses just do better,” Melissa said, “and with the support of New Women, we can do even better still...if…”

“If w-what?”

“Well, if I’m more the face of the company. If we run it like a woman would,” she said, trying to be gentle, “And, if they can use us in their, like…”

“Social media, promotional ads, that sort of thing,” Randi added.

“Uh…” We were a medical practice...Did we really need all this??

“It’ll mean grants, assistance…”

My head was starting to spin, and when Melissa turned for the moment back to the screen, pulling up another slide-

Through my khakis and under the table, Randi’s hand grabbed my cock.

My stomach lurched, my belly tightened. I was, already, so hard. I pushed her hand away but within a second it was back on me, and she squeezed.

“I knew it…” she whispered covertly into my ear, massaging my hard shaft with her hand.

Just as Melissa turned back to us I slapped it away. Gritting my teeth and tensing my jaw, I looked up at her, pulse racing. Her gaze again was speculative, but after picking up her notes she turned back to her screen. Under my breath, I muttered to Randi: “stop it.”

I heard Randi chuckle, just over my right shoulder, and her breast press more firmly into me as Melissa flipped to the next slide...

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

Thanks all for your patience, and to my co-authors for their help in steering me on this one. Also big thanks to @womenwilldominate and @femsupleague-sl for graphics and advice.

#Growing Into the Job

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cinaja · 4 years

Text

Before the Wall - part 15

An acotar fanfic on the time of the War. For the summary and the entire story, click here

Disclaimer: The world and the characters belong to sarah j maas

TW: Suicide (not explicit)

----

There was no keeping what happened during the battle secret. Not when every healer saw Miryam run off and the Illyrians are, apparently, able to sense witches and have been close to revolt ever since they found out that one of the camp`s commanders is one.

Jurian feels horrible. He is well aware that this situation is almost entirely his fault. Miryam‘s most closely guarded secret is secret no longer. And she could have died. All because he pushed her. (Although if he is entirely honest, a part of him is also glad that it went this way. At least Miryam stopped hiding from her own power and can perhaps begin to use it properly. He doesn`t dwell on these thoughts too long, though, because they always make him feel like a prick.)

It is a good thing that the post-battle clean-up keeps Jurian extremely busy. That way, at least, he has reason to stay away from Miryam without having to admit to himself that he is too ashamed to face her. Instead, he gets into a fight with three Illyrians for hissing insults at her and sentences ten of his own soldiers to guard duty when he overhears them wondering if they want a half-Fae witch in their midst.

But - and this is the true surprise - the people hissing insults are outnumbered by far by those who seem awed by the news. He overheard more than one of them whispering of a blessing, a gift from the gods. It`s better than the others, but still somehow unsettling.

„Jurian.“

He turns around to face Tia, who is running towards him, waving a letter.

„This just arrived from the Alliance“, she says.

„For me?“

„And Miryam.“ Tia winks at him. “But I thought I‘d deliver it to you and have you tell her.“ Jurian takes a face at her. Tia grins. „What? I didn`t watch you dance around each other for months only for you to bolt because you messed up once.“

Jurian snatches the letter out of her hand. He inspects the sear, then rips it open and scans the content. He curses softly. Now he is really going to have to talk to Miryam. He doubts it will be a pleasant conversation, though.

„I have to go“, Jurian says.

„Have fun!“, Tia calls after him.

Jurian makes a rather rude gesture over his shoulder. Miryam, fortunately, seems to be in her tent, saving him from having to search the entire camp for her. He hesitates for a moment before entering. There are voices coming from the inside.

“-will cover that order”, Miryam is saying, “With the battle, no one will even question it.”

“So we`re out of trouble?”, Mor asks, sounding relieved.

“Which”, Mor`s cousin cuts in, “is sheer dumb luck, Mor.”

“Oh, shut up!”

Jurian has to admit, he`s curious. He`d love to remain standing before the entrance, but he has already crossed one line lately. Eavesdropping on a private conversation (especially with lots of Fae who are likely to catch him) doesn`t seem like the smartest move. Besides, he has news to deliver.

Everyone turns to Jurian as he enters. Mor and her cousin exchange a look.

“We were just leaving”, Mor says.

She takes her cousin by the arm and shoves him out of the tent. Miryam smiles wryly, Jurian shakes his head.

“Do they think”, he asks, “that we don`t notice what they are doing?”

“Oh, I´m sure they just don`t care.”

Jurian grins, but sobers quickly. “About the camp talk…”, he begins, but is unsure about how to continue.

Miryam`s face tightens. “Don`t worry about it”, she says, “I always knew it would happen. Honestly, I`m surprised they aren`t calling for my head.”

Jurian clenches and unclenches his fingers. He`s already trying to come up with a way to shut down the talk, no matter what Miryam says. He knows, though, that this will be damn near impossible once the news pass beyond their camp, which is bound to happen anytime now.

“You should be angry with me”, he says.

“Maybe. But I`m not.” Jurian is about to reply, but she shakes her head. “Can we just drop it? Please?”

Jurian sighs and holds up the letter. “They set the time for the meeting.”

He didn`t think that Miryam could grow any tenser, but she does. “When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“What?” Now, Miryam is staring at him with wide eyes, like she is searching for a hint of a lie. Unfortunately, Jurian is telling the truth.

“At least by then, news of your abilities likely won`t have broken yet.” It`s a piss-poor attempt at comforting her, but he really can`t think of anything else.

“She`ll be there”, Miryam says softly.

Carefully, Jurian reaches out for her hand. “You won`t be alone”, he says, “I`ll be with you and it will be fine.”

Miryam nods, but the look in her eyes tells her that she sees straight through his empty words. Because Jurian may be going with her to the meeting, but he is no politician. During the discussions, she will be on her own.

----

Drakon is not having a pleasant day. He thought it couldn`t get much worse after the nightmare of a meeting he had this morning with Sinna and the commander of the unit the Alliance sent to replace them. They are from Prythian, with membranous bat-like wings. So far, Drakon‘s experiences with their new allies have been... difficult. In their meeting, the Illyrian leader kept sneering at Drakon and calling him boy – which was still polite compared to how he treated Sinna. Unsurprisingly enough, the meeting ended with the Illyrian`s nose broken and Drakon having to keep Sinna from killing the male.

In the two hours since the meeting ended, he was already called in to break up three fights between his soldiers and the new ones. (Sinna seems more inclined to start fights than to stop them these days, so he is stuck playing peacemaker.)

This round through the camp seems to be going better than the last one, though. It looks like the soldiers learned to stay out of each other`s way at last. Besides, Drakon and his soldiers will be leaving tomorrow so the tentative peace won`t have to last long, anyways.

Drakon reaches the waste disposal area. It seems like the now soldiers are already digging new latrines. Drakon looks into the hole in construction and is surprised to find only one soldier working inside.

“Where are the others?”, he asks, “Surely you aren`t supposed to dig the latrine all on you own?”

The soldier puts down his shovel and gives Drakon a wild grin. “Oh, I`m more than enough for one such hole.”

He seems far more pleasant than the other Illyrians Drakon met so far. Younger, too, which is somewhat refreshing. (These days, Drakon is usually surrounded by people at least a hundred years his senior.)

“Want me to help you?”, Drakon offers, “Otherwise, you`ll be busy until past midnight.”

“You volunteer to spent your afternoon digging through hard dirt?” The Illyrian laughs. “Well, I can`t save you from yourself, then.”

Drakon takes that as a yes. He grabs a shovel that is lying next to the hole and jumps down. From there, he gets a better view of the male. There are seven red stones – syphons? – glinting on his armour. From what Drakon gathered, the amount of stones is usually related to a person`s rank.

„What did you do“, he asks, „to end up in this shithole?“

The male snorts at the pun. „Was born a bastard.“ He shrugs, grinning, „And mouthed off to Lord Devlon about getting his nose broken by a female.“

Drakon frowns. „If you knew half of the females I‘ve met, you wouldn‘t be surprised.“

The Illyrian laughs. „Oh, I know my fair share of scary females, too, so I wasn‘t surprised. But for Devlon, getting pummelled by a female is a new experience for him. Almost a pity you guys are leaving - maybe someone would be able to beat some sense into that thick head of his.“

„Well, as someone who has been stuck here for months, I`m looking forward to leaving.” Drakon thinks back to the look on Lord Devlon`s face after Sinna punched him and adds, “Although watching Sinna break that guy‘s nose might have been worth staying a while longer.“

“On first name basis with your general.“ The Illyrian whistles softly and throws a shovel of dirt out of the latrine. “You‘re highborn, aren‘t you?“

Drakon nods, unwilling to say any more on it. Maybe it‘s stupid, but it is freeing to be a normal person for once, instead of the Prince of Erithia. Like he isn‘t responsible for thousands of lives. The Illyrian seems to consider his answer for a moment, then nods.

„Where were you stationed before this?“, Drakon asks, happy to steer the conversation into a different direction.

„Further south.“ He wrinkles his nose. „Fighting these Black Land bastards. Fire magic really is no fun. You?“

„I‘ve been stuck here.“ Well, except for his brief visits to the other parts of the army and Erithia. „But we‘re leaving due north tomorrow. I can‘t say I‘m sorry to be leaving this place.“

The Illyrian laughs. „Oh, I can imagine. I‘ve been here for a day and already want to leave. It‘s-“ A bucket full of dirt hits him square in the face, cutting him off. Drakon spins around to the source of the attack.

„Hey, bastard!“, a voice shouts from above. Three Illyrians are standing at the edge of the latrine. „Enjoying eating dirt?“

Drakon frowns up at them. „Leave him be.“

„What is it to you?“, one of the Illyrians asks.

He kicks a bunch of dirt into the pit, but it bounces off harmlessly on the shield Drakon set up. For a second, he is sorely tempted to let the dirt they shovelled out of the pit in the last hours bury the soldiers under them. Unfortunately, getting into a fight with your allies is not a very prince-like thing to do. (Bad enough if Sinna does it.)

So instead, he does the mature thing and says, „I generally do not permit soldiers in my camp to provoke fights. So if you aren‘t here to help, I‘d suggest you leave.“

„Your camp?“, one of the soldiers snorts. “Sure. That`s why you`re digging around in the dirt.”

Drakon really doesn`t like most Illyrians, he decides. “Well, someone needs to dig the latrine, unless you`d prefer to take a shit in the middle of the camp”, he says, “And I`d not be a very good commander if I asked my soldiers to do something I`m not ready to do myself, would I?”

The soldiers exchange looks. Drakon is pretty sure that none of their leaders ever bothered with such undignified tasks. But they seem unwilling to risk a punishment, so they leave with barely any complaint.

Drakon turns back to his companion, who is watching him with raised eyebrows.

“You`re Prince Drakon of Erithia?”, he asks.

“Would you believe me if you said I`m not?”

The Illyrian laughs. “No.” He picks his shovel back up. “Well then, Your Highness. Better get back to work.”

----

Miryam barely recognizes herself in the mirror. If she thought she was dressed up for previous meetings, it is nothing compared to this.

The dress was a gift by the Grand Duke of Sangravah. It is all flowing silk, midnight black yet shimmering in the light. Around the hems, there are silver embroideries. With it came a necklace of diamonds glowing like stars and a diadem.

It makes Miryam look less like a girl of nineteen and more like a grown female. More than that. It makes her look like she belongs with these royals. An impression that couldn`t be more wrong.

From where he is sitting on her desk, Kiel lets out a shriek and puffs up his feathers. Miryam turns around to the bird.

“You`re wondering what I`m doing, aren`t you?”, she whispers, “Well, I don`t know either.”

Before she can change her mind and bolt as her entire body is screaming at her to, she steps out of the tent and into the camp. A bunch of passing soldiers stop short to stare at her. Jurian stops speaking in what appeared to be the middle of a conversation with Tia. Miryam blushes.

A few soldiers begin whispering amongst each other. “Witch”, Miryam hears, and “Gods-blessed”. She doesn`t know which word she loathes more. Before this can go any further, she steps towards Jurian. She doesn`t miss Tia giving him a nudge and Jurian quickly snapping back to attention.

“Let`s go”, Miryam says quietly.

Mor is tasked with winnowing them to the meeting place, although she herself is not invited to participate. She holds out her hand to Miryam.

“You look stunning”, she says, “Go show those pricks their place.”

Miryam manages a shaky smile, then Mor winnows them away. When they reappear, Mor only gives her hand a quick squeeze before she vanishes again, leaving Miryam and Jurian on their own.

The meeting is held in the Continent‘s neutral meeting space - a palace that was built by some long-ago king in the middle of a huge lake. It has been long since abandoned and after the three bordering territories spent centuries fighting over the island, it has been declared neutral ground.

The guards waiting at the gate belong to every territory, but it has been chosen that Alliance members are searched by Loyalist guards and vice versa. Miryam hands her dagger to a guard and then tries to keep a neutral look on her face as the guard begins searching her, hands lingering a bit too long for comfort. Next to her, Jurian looks like he considers punching the guard searching him. (Miryam wonders if it was perhaps a mistake to bring him along.)

But then, they are through the control. A far more friendly-looking guard points them to a glittering crystal bowl standing just before the entrance. Miryam takes a knife lying next to is and presses it agains ther palm lightly. A drop of blood wells up and falls into the bowl.

„I swear that while I am on these grounds, to do no harm to anyone here, not by action or intention. I swear it on my life and on my blood.“

The blood in the bowl turns to blinding light. Rays of it shoot up into the air and merge with the wards that encircle the palace. They are more complicated than any Miryam has ever seen. Far too complicated for her to ever understand. But when Miryam steps forward, the wards move aside to allow her through. A step behind her, Jurian whistles softly as they step into the foyer.

„Well, this is certainly impressive“, he mutters, looking up at the high ceiling and the ornate admonishments. Miryam nods, although she can‘t say she is overly impressed. Unlike Jurian, she has seen her fair share of Fae architecture and while she can usually still appreciate its beauty, today, the thrill is lost on her.

She barely spares her surroundings more than a glance and instead focuses on the assembled Fae. Her eyes scan the room with practiced ease, but the Black Land‘s delegation is not there yet. (A brief reprieve, Miryam knows. Still, she can‘t help feeling relieved.) There are other familiar faces, though.

Miryam knows most leaders of the Continent‘s bogger territories at least by sight. She recognises the Xian empress, dark-haired and light-skinned. She is deep in conversation with the Raskan king. Further off, she spots the current leader of Montesere‘s High Council, who is glowering at Jurian.

He isn‘t the only royal to spot their arrival. Quite a few turn and stare, some snarling, others seeming more curious than angry. Miryam lifts her chin and loops her arm through Jurian‘s. At the end of the room, she spots some of the other Alliance delegates and makes to lead Jurian towards them.

But before they are even halfway across the room, two females step into their pass. Jurian stiffens immediately. It takes Miryam a few seconds longer than him to recognize them. It‘s the red hair that makes the memory stir at the end - something she remarked already during the battle two days ago.

„Look at that“, one of the females drawls. She is the less beautiful one of the two, but somehow more terrifying. Not that it fazes Miryam much - even General Amarantha of Hybern could never even come close to Ravenia. „Two dirty little humans“, the General continues, „thinking they can hold up with their betters.“

Her mouth curles into a smile. Miryam‘s every instinct shouts at her to run at this smile. Or at the very least to lower her head, bow quickly. Make herself invisible. Instead, she squares her shoulder and smiles back.

„And here I was, thinking we were here because you had trouble holding up with us.“

Jurian rasps a laugh. „It certainly looked like it during our battle two days ago.“

Now, that is a blatant lie. They would have gotten their asses kicked if the Hybern soldiers hadn‘t run when that witch`s spell failed. The moment of surprise really did save them. Miryam doubts it will work a second time, though.

Still, the second female. -Clythia, Amarantha‘s younger sister, more beautiful but just as cruel - now watches Jurian with interest. There is an intensity in her gaze that makes Miryam bristle.

„So you are the General who pushed our armies back?“, she asks, „An impressive feat.“ Amarantha scoffs and Clythia pats her arm without tearing her gaze away from Jurian. „You must be a fine General.“

„Now, now. It‘s hardly skill “, Amarantha says, „unless you now count having a way to repel our spells as a feat of the commander.“

Miryam has to remind herself to keep breathing normally. She knows that her secret will be out within a few days, but for the span of this meeting, she`d prefer to keep it.

Clythia steps towards Jurian in a fluid motion. His hand darts for his belt, he, too, had to surrender his weapons. Clythia whispers something to him, to low for Miryam to hear. Then, she lets go and steps back. Amarantha is frowning, she grabs her sister by the arm and whispers furiously to her as she leads her away.

Miryam turns to Jurian. „What did she say to you?“

Jurian presses his lips together, his hands are clenching and unclenching. „That we‘d meet again. She said our lives are intertwined.“

Behind them, a laugh sounds and Helion steps up between them. „That‘s seers to you - always saying things to mess up your lives.“ He claps Jurian on the back. „Don‘t let it get to you.“ He grins at Miryam. „You look absolutely stunning.“

Miryam forces a smile, but still can‘t shake what Clythia told Jurian. She may not know much about seers, but even she knows that only a fool takes their words lightly. She wishes she could talk to Jurian in private, but then, the rest of their delegation is standing around them now and Miryam is busy greeting all of them, discussing strategies and playing confident leader. (What was she thinking, agreeing to lead this delegation?)

Finally, the clock chimes twelve and everyone files into a huge meeting room. Miryam, as leader of the Alliance delegation, takes the seat at the head of the table. The chair opposite her remains empty. Ravenia still isn‘t there. Miryam isn‘t surprised - she accompanied the female to enough meetings to know that she loves to flaunt her power by turning up late. By making everyone wait for her.

A few of the Loyalists look annoyed at having to wait, too, but when Miryam suggests to start the meeting early, none of them agree. They are all too scared of Ravenia to risk angering her by starting without her. So they sit in silence as the minutes tick by. Miryam feels her nerves beginning to fray. Next to her, Jurian is tapping his fingers on the table.

After half an hour, the door opens and Ravenia enters. The queen of the Black Land looks radiant, dressed in a white cloth so light she seems to glow, gold jewellery glinting in the light. Her gaze sweeps over the room with the disinterest of a female who knows that she is on top of the world and everyone is so far beneath her that she can barely see them. She is flanked by two advisors. And, behind her, three human slaves follow. Children, like all of her personal slaves. Miryam tenses. Next to her, Jurian hisses softly.

Ravenia takes her place and her eyes finally find Miryam. Her eyebrows lift ever so slightly, the only sign of her surprise.

„That belongs to me“, she says and jerks her chin towards Miryam.

Murmuring rises aroung the table. Miryam wants to reply something, but words escape her. All she sees is Ravenia at the other side of the table, her slaves standing behind her. She can‘t push the memories back. It`s like it is her standing next to Ravenia instead of these slaves. All that pain and fear and suffering. What was she thinking, coming here like she stood a chance against the female before her?

„She belongs to no one but herself“, Jurian says.

Miryam wants to shoot him a grateful look, but she can‘t tear her eyes away from Ravenia. She feels like if she does, she won‘t be able to hold it together anymore. She will just fall apart into a million broken pieces.

Ravenia smiles at her like she knows exactly what Miryam is going through. „That‘s not true, now, is it, Miryam? You may fool them all into thinking you their equal, but in the end, You‘ll always belong to me.“

Miryam just holds her stare. She prays that people will interpret it as defiance and not understand that she couldn’t speak if she wanted to.

The Xian empress saves her from thinking of something to say. „Could we get on with it, then?”, she asks, “No one cares about your runaway slaves and we are already late.“

There is an edge to her voice. The Loyalists may be allies, but that doesn‘t mean that they wouldn‘t throw each other to the wolves at a moment‘s notice if it benefited them. That‘s an advantage, but Miryam still can‘t find the words to take it.

The meeting is a nightmare. Miryam does her best to stir the conversation, but her words feel stiff and unwieldy. She is way out of her depth among these royals, all of whom don‘t seem inclined at all to go easy on her. On a good day, she might still have been able to stand her ground. But not today, not here. Because standing before these people, she isn‘t the emissary of the entire Alliance anymore - she‘s just a slave girl, alone in a room full of Fae.

The conversation spirals out of control far too quickly. Her allies have begun shooting Miryam questioning looks, but she can‘t do anything against it. They are losing, and losing badly. By now, some of the Alliance members look like they are inclined to agree with what the Loyalists are saying – promises of peace, of new trading deals and prosperity for all. If only the war ended. Utter rubbish, but some of the Fae seem to believe it.

„It isn‘t that we are fighting for slavery“, Ravenia says, „We are fighting for our freedom. Our freedom to choose how to run our countries. None of us wish to force you to start owning slaves, but we want to keep our property and our way of living.“

There are murmurs of agreement. To Miryam‘s horror, some come from Alliance members.

„What you call freedom“, she says, fighting to keep her voice even, „includes the enslavement of thousands of people. Your way of living destroys thousands of lives and what you call property are living, feeling beings.“

But it isn‘t enough. The words lack the punch they would need to draw the audience back on her side. Ravenia smiles and Miryam shrinks back in her seat. Jurian puts a hand on her arm and she only barely manages not to flinch.

That is when one of Ravenia‘s slaves moves. She lifts her head and takes a step forward.

„We are not property“, she says, staring at Ravenia, “You can beat us and chain us up and kill us, but you will never truly own us.”

Then, faster than any of them can react, she draws a knife from under her thin clothes. At first, Miryam thinks that she is going to attack Ravenia. But the girl just looks at Miryam. For a moment, their gazes lock. Then, she turns the knife towards her own chest and plunges it down.

„No!“

Miryam jumps to her feet, but the girl is already collapsing. Without thinking, Miryam rushes around the table and falls to her knees next to the girl. She knows that she is too late, but she still presses her hands on the bleeding wound on the girl‘s chest.

She is only a few years younger than Miryam, with the same curly dark hair and brown skin. Had things gone a bit differently, this could have been her.

„Please“, the girl whispers, her voice barely more than a breath. Miryam doesn`t know what she is begging for and the girl never gets a chance to say it. She doesn`t even get another word out before she dies.

Still, Miryam remains kneeling on the ground. There is blood on her hands, blood on her dress, but she can‘t tear her eyes away from the girl.

„Could we get on with it, then?“, Ravenia asks.

Like there isn‘t a dead child lying on the floor. Like this girl‘s life was nothing. And suddenly, Miryam isn‘t scared anymore. She is angry.

„You will never win“, she whispers.

„What?“

„I said“, Miryam says and lifts her head, „you will never win.“

Slowly, she stands up and turns around to face Ravenia. For the first time, she meets the queen‘s gaze without fear.

„Because we will never stop. Even if you win this war, even if you kill us all, you won‘t win. Because you create your own downfall.“ Miryam pints a bloody hand towards the dead girl. „You take everything from people until they have nothing left to lose. And as long as there is a single slave left, there will never be peace.“

„You seem to think“, Ravenia says, „that we would hesitate to kill every human in our territories should it become necessary.“

„You can‘t.“ Miryam shakes her head. „Humans are the ones who build your palaces and houses. The ones who grow your food and serve it. For all your power, you are nothing without us. And in the end, that‘s what you will be in the end: Nothing.“

The entire room is silent now.

Miryam says, „You are all doomed. Every territory that owns slaves is walking towards its downfall. Maybe you will win this war, maybe you will survive. But you are still doomed. Even if it takes centuries, in the end, you will lose.“

She turns back to Ravenia and takes a step towards her until she is standing directly in front of her.

„But you“, she says, „you will not survive this war. They say you create your own doom and it will be my pleasure to be yours. I will destroy you. When this is all over, there will never be slaves again in the Black Land.“ She dares a glance towards her allies on the other side of the table before she turns back to Ravenia. „And if no one will stand with me, I will do it alone. If it is necessary, I will march into your capital on my own and personally free every single man, woman and child you deem property. I will tear down the palaces you paid for with my people‘s blood with my bare hands and when you stand in the ruins and your land is burning around you, you will remember this moment and the fact that you have no one but yourself to blame.“

For a moment, something like worry flickers in Ravenia‘s dark eyes. But then, she tips her head back and laughs. A few of her allies join in.

„I‘m a queen“, Ravenia says, „and you are nothing. Just a human worm. And you think you can destroy me?“ She laughs again. „Go ahead, then. I‘d like to see you try.“

Miryam stares her down. And for the first time, she releases the hold she has on her magic. She doesn‘t let it do anything, just flow through the air. A few people gasp, but Miryam sees nothing but Ravenia.

In a voice she barely recognizes, she says, „I‘d like to see you stop me.“

This time, no one laughs. They just stare. Miryam holds the queen‘s gaze a moment longer. Then, she turns away.

„Unless you free your slaves, there will never be peace“, she says, „As far as I‘m concerned, there is nothing else to say.“ Miryam pulls open the door. “This meeting is over.”

For a heartbeat, she thinks that the others won‘t follow. But then, Jurian rises. The rest of the Alliance members get to their feet as well. As one, they leave the meeting.

----

Tags: @sjm-things

#miryam #jurian #drakon #clythia

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into-crazy · 4 years

Text

Man Under the Makeup Pt. 3

Arthur Fleck/Joker x Female Reader series

Warnings- Cursing, mention of carrying a weapon for protection, sad conversation

You can find the other parts RIGHT HERE and through the “Man Under the Makeup” tag lovelies!💘

Come 6pm, you were strolling to meet up with Arthur. Around this time, the sun normally sets, allowing you to walk just before the darkness of the night hits. How thoughtful of him not to have you roaming around too late. He of anyone would know these streets, after all. Although you can handle yourself, never leaving your home without your blade and some mase.

Few people seem to be making their way home after a grind filled day. Also those, who for a fact are heading straight to the bar. Judging by their distressed faces, they're in for a large amount of drinks throughout the night.

You're going through the route you normally take for work, keeping an eye out. Walking around the large piles of garbage scattered on some parts of the side walk. Covering your nose from the wretched odors which littered the air. These streets were disgusting! No wonder everyone in the city is pissed.

As you're nearing the spot you and Arthur encountered, you find him standing there waiting. Still dressed and with make on, Joker stands there with a flower bouquet. You find it quite cute how he's patiently awaiting your arrival.

"Y/n, you made it!" He starts excitedly.

"Of course I have," you reply, "why wouldn't I? Hope I haven't kept you waiting too long."

He offers you the flowers. "Not at all."

"For me? Why, thank you." Taking the bouquet made of various roses and lilies, you catch glimpse over at the crew he has behind him. About 15 members, gathered a few feet back. "You brought your men, I see."

"I did," he nods in their direction, "they're just for precaution. I got a lot a heat on me these days." He states anxiously shifting the weight between his slender legs.

"So I've heard." You reply waving at the crew who acknowledge your arrival. It's only polite to greet those who would be joining you, even if it's from a stretch away.

"I'll have them keep their distance. They won't interfere with our time." He assures pushing his green hair back.

"Oh no worries," you assure, "I have no issues with it."

The place wasn't far from where you'd met. It was a nice, quiet bistro. Well, maybe it was peaceful right now considering everyone left spooked when you and Joker walked in. His men also made sure the staff wouldn't try to leave or call the cops. So you weren't surprised when your waiter was practically trembling coming over to your table every now and then.

"So, Joker," you emphasize the name, "seems like you've made quite the image for yourself."

He chuckles, "It appears so. Ya know you don't have to call me that, right? We're by ourselves over here." Hinting towards his crew behind him- sat on the complete opposite side of the small eatery. They were doing their own thing, giving you both your respective privacy. Seated directly across him in the corner of the place. So you felt comfortable no one was eavesdropping in on your conversation.

"I'm aware," you tell him, "I'm simply addressing your new persona." Smiling, you take a sip of your drink.

"Right," he adds, "I've got so much to tell you."

"Hm, clearly." You reply removing your large coat, as it was increasingly warmer indoors. Revealing a red satin dress that hugged your body nicely.

"Wow." He was momentarily at a loss for words. "I gotta say, you look amazing my dear." Taking your sight in, admiring the beauty beaming off you. Not eyeing you like a hungry dog waiting for a treat- but genuinely appreciating what he's seeing. You're gorgeous inside and out, he couldn't help but think why you had agreed to dinner with him. Dressed up all so nicely, for him. "Red is definitely your color."

"I'm flattered," you accept his admiration, cheeks growing hot with delight. "You're quite charming yourself, Mr. J."

"Charming? Me?" He questions the word, seemingly confused. Unable to grasp the concept of anyone ever thinking such. He's been deemed the worst insults, in addition to horrifying and intimidating. But charming? And what about.. Mr. J? Oh, he can't deny loving the sound of that.

"Yes, you are. It's- you're different and I like it." You tell him. "But I have to ask, what happened since the last time I saw you?"

He sighs placing his hand on the table. "See before, I've got tired of being pushed around and stepped on. People are so awful, I finally hit my breaking point. This city's lost it's way. So I decided to do something.. differently."

"And what is that?" You give him your full attention as the topic becomes more serious.

"To show the people of this city what life really is." He amusingly states. "See, most haven't quite gotten it yet. They believe I'm doing it for a change in who's running the city. That I'm going to fix everything that's wrong." The sarcasm in his tone may try to sound amusing, but his eyes show something else. His eyes are dark with that last statement. Cold and dark.

"And you're not?" Briefly pondering his words. "No. No, you aren't." You say, shaking your head slightly.

"W-what was that?" He asks scanning your face.

"Of course that's what they believe. It's what they want, right? Some bold new guy comes around to make a difference. But from my perspective, that's not your intention."

He taps his fingers on the table, fighting the urge of a laughing fit. Rising up from the pit of his stomach- catching it in his throat, before it has a chance to emerge. "And m-may I ask what you think?"

"I haven't figured it out yet," you start, "but I know fixing the city isn't the case. The riots, the mobs, the brutality- which happen to be chaos you helped reign. I understand that the wealthy politicians and citizens have their fair part in it, too. But one does not simply seek for so called better change, when that's how they choose to take a course of action."

Joker adjusts himself so now he's leaning forward on the table. Closer to you, trying to show he's not intimidated. "That's a good observation," he acknowledges, "and it's got you wondering the real reason, right?"

"Yes," you reply softly. "Look, I'm not judging. I'm interested is all."

He embraces your curiosity. "I want to show them the funny side of the bigger picture. The world.. this terrible city, this life we're living-" he pauses, "It's a joke. And the sooner people realize that, the happier they could be. It's all simply for laughs, my dear." Shrugging his shoulders at the last statement.

All for laughs? Somehow you thought that wasn't entirely it.

Something else had to have happened. How could a man's eyes that once carried so much emotion go completely dark? Grasping the fact he wasn't telling you entirely why. Maybe it was this "Joker" persona, currently preventing him from letting you in. You'd have to ask these questions when you're speaking entirely to Arthur.

"And to make that work, you had to change?" You recall. "Adopt a new identity?"

"Yeah," he confirms. "As Arthur, I could never have it off. They wouldn't take me seriously and use everything to their knowledge against me- Gotham PD, politicians, those that disagree. But not with the Joker."

"No one knows who the Joker is," you almost whisper looking down at the table. If only the rest of the world could see him as you've seen him- still see him. Maybe if everyone wasn't so shitty with sticks fully up their asses, then perhaps they could've seen the man you thought him to be. Could things have turned out differently? Honestly, who knows.

"No one," he adds, "accept you." He brings your face back up to his- which is intensely close. The heat of his body enticing you further into him. The scent of cigarette smoke and soap strong on him. Gazing onto his bright red lips, you thought he was going to kiss you.

Only to be left surprised when he quickly shys back, leaving you in a bit of a haze. He sits completely back in his seat- seemingly entertained with your response to his withdrawal. You scold him for it.

"Nice to see you're so interested." He implies with a short laugh, flashing a killer grin.

Embarrassed, you lean back into the bar seat. Damn him. How could he make you feel so vulnerable when you'd least expect it? Along with the audacity to gloat about it with his ridiculously gorgeous smile. He knows. He knows exactly what he's doing.

"What makes you so sure of that?" You playfully question him crossing your arms.

"Well for one," he states, "you agreed to meet up with me."

"Yeah, and I was half expecting a man with a lot less makeup on then myself." You tease leaning onto the table.

"And yet, here you are. Sitting across, having dinner with me." He winks putting a cigarette in his mouth. "See the point I'm getting at?"

You huff at the remark. He's toying with you, he's gotta be. "Alright then, fair enough. I'll give you that. But don't sit there and act like I'm the only one."

"I didn't say that," he sneers flicking the lighter until it lights the stick. "I know you're wondering what it is about you that's captivating me."

You hum waiting for a response, "I am."

"I like how you're not afraid to say what you need to say. Mindful for others, but you don't take shit from anyone. I admire that. And also- don't mind me saying- your fascination with a freakish man like myself."

"I don't think you're freakish," you interject. "Different yes.. But I don't perceive you as a freak."

"You don't?" His reply comes out softly. His whole demeanor eases- relaxing his shoulders. It reminds you of that shy man he's holding inside. What a shame to think he might not fully come out anytime soon. Joker could not be seen as too much of a "softie" by the public or his loyal crew. Noo. It wouldn't be good for his image. You need to be completely alone with him if that were to happen. For now, your quiet corner conversation will have to do.

"I never have." You make it very clear to him. "I never thought of you as a freak Arthur. Not before. And not now." You lay both of your hands above the table. He melts with you calling him by his name for the first time tonight. Even more so when he's started coming out of it. He puts the cigarette butt out in a small ashtray by the side.

You take his speechless silence as a sign to continue. "I've noticed you were absent lately.. As I walked by that same spot everyday, and not seeing you there- it concerned me."

He moves his hands closer to yours atop the table. Hesitant in getting too close. "You.. looked for me?" Arthur's heart flutters at your caring words. The fact you noticed that he was gone. No one has ever paid attention to his existence like such- before the Joker that is.

"I did," you continue, "and I grew even more nervous after seeing that clip they played of you on the television.. with Murray making fun of your stand up performance.."

He gently lays his rough hands on top of yours, lightly squeezing with awe. Needing to feel that you were real. To know you are really here, and not an illusion of his mind.

You need a second, looking off to the side briefly before continuing. "I had hoped that it didn't destroy you."

"Y/n.." Realizing he doesn't have to put on this persona to impress you. You look past the clown- past the makeup. Because you've already admired him from the beginning, as Arthur. Heck, even as Carnival, because that's how he'd met you. You care for his well being and feelings. He cherishes your shared moment of silent intimacy. Which is he hasn't had the chance to experience before. It feels nice, refreshing. Like he's finally being seen.

He's the first one to break the stillness. "Well, let's not make this evening all about me," he rests back comfortably. "Please, y/n. How about we talk about you?"

He is all questions and ears for you over the next hour. You inform that you're an office secretary, often working the usual 9 to 5. Which is the only thing going on in your life right now. Having moved here some time ago on your own- no friends or even family. Needing to get away from your life before. However, you'd be lying if you claimed to love it here. You feel alone, trapped. Not just in Gotham, but trapped in your own state of mind. There was nothing in your life, you were simply existing. Only staying because you felt you were part of the few inhabitants that brought some form of color into this cold grey city. But things have only gotten worse for you since. Until now it seems.

"What about you, have you got any family here Arthur?" You ask him curiously.

His smile slowly drops while he thinks of an answer. "No.." he shakes his head, "no one." How? How is he supposed to tell you he killed the woman he grew up thinking was his mother? Who only turned out to be an enabler of his previous ongoing abuse.

No. Bringing her into discussion will only put a damper on such a great night. Eventually he might indeed tell you, but not at the moment. He's having an amazing time with you. Listening to the way you talk, hearing your sweet laugh. Why ruin it?

Towards the end of dinner, you notice Arthur has hardly touched his food. His plate looks as if he picked at it a couple times. Not that it was particularly strange. Perhaps he was too caught in conversation to eat.

"Hey, what do you say we get out of here?" He suggests needing a change of atmosphere. "One of my men over there could drive us. We'll get away from the rest of the crowd. Ride through the town?"

"Sure," you freely agree.

Before you leave, Joker pays the check. Actually pays. Leaving an overly generous tip for the waiter who served you both. Criminal or not, he feels that a gentleman should pay for a first date. Mean, come on, you know the money's stolen. But hey, it's the thought that counts, right?

End of part 3.

#Man Under the Makeup #joker #joker 2019 #arthur fleck #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck x y/n #arthur fleck x female reader #joker x reader #joker x y/n

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doomedandstoned · 4 years

Text

Are You A Bible Basher?

~By Billy Goate~

Art by J. Hannan-Briggs

Words from the Bible,

...riffs from Hell.

This is BIBLE BASHER, a lumbering, sludgey beast of a death-doom band, drawing its fellows from Kurokuma, Archelon, Spaztik Munkey, and a band whose name alone intrigues me enough to spirit them out: Temple of Coke. The debut recording before us is 'Loud Wailing' (2020), just released last month on the Sludgelord Records Label and it's good stuff.

Chances are good that if you're unfamiliar with the band, you're waiting for the other shoe to drop: what's the agenda here? It bears mentioning that "Bible Basher" is an almost uniquely UK term. In the States, we tend to use the more politically acceptable (though still insulting) "Bible Thumper." Getting to the point: a Bible Basher is not someone who subjects the big black book and the pages there to beating, maiming, or otherwise spilling syrup on its Holy Writ nor turning its sacred pages into roll paper for a cheap high.

No, a Bible Basher is someone single-mindedly determined to bash you with their beliefs, clean across the head. You gotta get you on board with the whole worldview, the Last Days manifesto, the 3 steps to this place, the 5 steps to somewhere else, and however many more steps to the sanctuary doors. Usually, this evangelism has all the clumsy subtlety of a Jack Chick tract left on the Gas Station john. Sometimes it gets a bit more intrusive, like a manic street preacher with a megaphone or, more annoying still, a brainwashed politician determined to fence you into their highly selective idea of "God's Will."

All culture warring aside, it might surprise you to learn that I hold a great deal of respect for the Bible and believe it has an important role in developing our understanding of what makes human beings so fundamentally religious. The Bible is just one expression of people's religious and spiritual identity, of course. There have been many volumes written, by the gods it was said, attempting to reconcile the real and the ideal, time and eternity, the drab and the divine.

All fancy preambling aside, I wonder why more bands haven't gotten into the Bible and other sacred/profane lit, you know kinda breathing new life into old words? You have to admit, the concept is fascinating and the medium of expression surprisingly fits the unsparing nature of the content.

Perhaps afraid of appearing sacrilegious or being denounced as a Deicide wannabe, bands have just decided to walk away slowly. That or they don't even know how truly bizarre and sometimes brilliant the Bible can be. True, there are bands like Trouble/The Skull who have adapted Scripture into music, even succeeded in crossing over to a non-religious audience. Hell, The Byrds practically immortalized the words of The Preacher in Ecclesiastes back in '65 with that folk rock classic, 'Turn, Turn, Turn." Bible Basher are definitely onto a thing here.

Regardless of where you find a band called Bible Bash on the meter between "disgusting" and "fucking awesome, dude," they really aren't here to mock Scripture or Christians, not even to pronounce a value judgement. This is an artful attempt at retelling the stories of old, allowing us to gaze upon their vision.

☩

So Samson Sang

Loud Wailing by Bible Basher

Out of all books, The Bible is perhaps most prized for its collection of ancient stories, many of which become embedded in our collective consciousness over time (if not the unconscious mind itself). The tale of Samson, for instance, is practically universal (Hercules, anyone?). Bible Basher invoke its powerful imagery for this Rage against the Philistines opener. The bulldog gruff of "So Samson Sang" suits the song unexpectedly well. Perhaps the impact is greater because we feel the punch of each word, measured and metered, calculated to leave the most indelible impact.

Simson verslaat de Filistijnen met een ezelskaak (1562) by Cornelis Massijs

Plagued

Loud Wailing by Bible Basher

You'll never hear the anguish of Job expressed with as much weight as you will in "Burning and Blackened," for example. And the death-mongers among us, you'll enjoy the swirling storm of blast beats that "Plagued" stirs up and whips around Egypt, 10 plagues in all it is said. As this topsy-turvy number swarms along, the song feels like it's burrowing itself deeper and deeper into the ground in a crazed hypnotic dirge, as if seeking some relief from this madness of rivers turned to blood and a head full of lice.

Seventh Plague of Egypt (1823) by Martin John

Burning and Blackened

Loud Wailing by Bible Basher

I'm really digging the Middle Eastern vibe of "Burning and Blackened," on the tape's flip side. I could all but feel the cool of dawn and that first burning lick of the sun's rise. As a die-hard doomer, it won't surprise you that I marked this my favorite song of the experience. The way this grand skeleton of chords suffles about had me thinking of Iowa City's Aseethe (I hereby wish an Aseethe-Bible Basher tour upon the world come 2021).

Job and his Friends (1885) by Gustave Dore

Sodom & Gomorrah

Loud Wailing by Bible Basher

By the time we reach "Sodom & Gomorrah," we're battered, basted, and baked, ready for a fine finish to this four-course nosh. The vocals seem harsher than usual this time, but you have to understand that's the prophet divining judgement upon the most infamous twin cities of history (we find out in the interview to follow that there are multiple vocalists).

The whole song's got a nice, chewy groove to it. Plenty of meat on them bones. The lyrics consist of nothing more than the Bible's words, adding as much expressive liberty as death vocals will allow. The thick, smoky atmosphere of this whole song gave me flashbacks to 71TONMAN's "Phobia" and Old Man Gloom's "Procession of the Wounded."

The destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah by Jules-Joseph-Augustin Laurens

If I've any gripe with Loud Wailing, it's the runtime. Okay, yeah, sure, it's appropriate for an EP, but I can't shake the feeling that this is actually more of a teaser for something even grander in scope. Perhaps this is a toe in the water for the band, to see how people respond? Well, it's enough to reassure us that this sound and subject matter is poised to make some mighty big footprints.

Heck, I'd do the whole Bible book by book, if I was in their shoes. 66 in all, right? No problem. Okay, 73 if you're Catholic, 78 if you're Eastern Orthodox. Whatever, bonus editions. Works either way, 'cause you've got a guaranteed record deal and freaks like me to follow you wherever this piper lures. The band can break up from the repetitive bore of the long-ass genealogies in Leviticus and Numbers, but then reunite again to take on Deuteronomy.

All kidding aside, the dramatic potential of this collaboration is unreal. Bible Basher's debut is a promising record that presents tantalizing artistic possibilities (perhaps even with a roving collective of performers). The EP wears well on its own terms with repeated listens and I never found myself disinterested, even for a moment. Loud Wailing is the brutal dawning of a New Age in dirty grunts and dank riffs.

Give ear...

Loud Wailing by Bible Basher

An Interview with Bible Basher

By Billy Goate

Intrigued by this hulking beast shrieking out in my backyard, I had to move in for a closer look. Following is my conversation with band member Joe E. Allen, who most of us know from Kurokuma and gives us insight as to who Bible Basher is and what the band is up to.

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Would you be so kind as to give me some background on the band, how you guys ended up coming together, basically the whole history?

Tich has recorded and helped produce most of the Kurokuma releases up till now, most of which you've heard or written about. Tich mostly makes electronic music and is pretty well known for it, but he was also in a band called Temple of Coke back in the day. Daft music with two guitarists and no bassist. Some big riffs in there.

They stopped doing much after one of the guitarists left Sheffield, but Tich still had a lot of riffs lying around. Obviously, he used to come to a lot of Kurokuma gigs in Sheffield -- and even saw us in Japan -- so he felt like getting back on writing some big guitar stuff and asked me if I'd give him some input. Over the course of a year or so we just reshaped those old riffs and added plenty of new ones and as we progressed it just kept getting bigger and heavier.

What's up with the name? You've got pretty distinct religious themes (love the motto). I come from a strict religious background myself (preacher's kid). What are your own backgrounds relative to the themes you explore?

I've always thought that some of the stories from the Bible, especially the Old Testament would make for perfect concepts in heavy metal. Unrelatedly, one day we were sitting around and Tich said let's call this Bible Basher -- it just came out of nowhere. I agreed, it just seemed to make sense. Here in the UK it's what you get called if you go to church, it's an insult. I had a really Christian upbringing with my dad being a vicar, as well, so was very into all that when I was younger.

Plus I went to a religious school, so I've definitely been called a bible basher quite a bit. It's actually taken me a while to remove that whole paradigm from the way I see reality, but that's another story. Tich wasn't like me in that aspect, but he did go to a religious school, as well. At this point, I think we're both not massive fans of organised religion, but that doesn't mean we're not into philosophy and more celestial concepts. We've both read quite a bit of things like Manly P. Hall and The Kybalion. We didn't wanna make a "statement" on anything with this, though. Just wanted to present it "as is."

I'm sure we'd all love to know how the individual tracks came together. The single on this one was "So Samson Sang," which met with some pretty positive reception.

I know the Bible pretty well and it wasn't too difficult to find concepts for the tracks. "So Samson Sang" was the first one we did. The lyrics are: "With a donkey's jawbone, I made donkeys of them. With a donkey's jawbone, killed a thousand men." And then "I have slain, heaps on heaps." They were from the book of Judges, when Samson slaughtered loads of Philistines, pretty much taken straight off the page. It was that easy. We got George in to do the vocals, for obvious reasons. We sat on the track for a bit and sent it round a few mates and everyone was like, "This is sick," which made us want to finish up the other tracks, which already were mostly done.

The other three tracks all came together in one night. We basically asked three mates from other bands to come over and figured out concepts for each of them. It was good to get their input and it was pretty collaborative. I think they all enjoyed being given a bit of a brief to work within and we were buzzing to end up with four different vocal styles for each track. So on track 1 you have George from Kurokuma, then on track 2 you have Bing who used to be in a thrash band called Psython and can obviously do the really fast/rhythmic thing and his death growls were just spot on. That track ended up sounding like Pig Destroyer or something to me. Obviously, it's about the ten plagues of Egypt and the fast/swirling nature of the riffs just seemed to fit.

On track three, we have Craig from Archelon and Holy Spider, so I know him pretty well. He did more of a Neurosis style on the track about Job. That one starts off with a zurna, which is a pipe from the Middle East area. There's a spoken word section in the middle, a conversation between God and Satan. I actually only realised what this was when we were going through the Bible for the lyrics.

God calls all his angels together, Satan being one of them, and they get into this conversation where God is saying he likes Job and Satan is saying if his life went to shit, I wonder if he'd still worship you. So God is like, "Okay, go for it." It's stuff like this that fascinates me. I think there's a fairly deep message to be heard in that if you read into it, but most Christians won't. As a text of folkloric wisdom the Bible is pretty meaningful to me, but most Christians don't treat it in that way in my experience.

And then we have the demented squeals of Chris from Spaztik Munkey doing the voice of God on track four which is about Sodom and Gomorrah. It worked out well that the ending riff fit perfectly with the syllables in the phrase "Sodom and Gomorrah."

In general, this release was a right laugh to work on. The songs just came together and it was good for us all to collaborate on something outside of our normal bands. And the response has been mega positive so far. Aaron sold out the first 50 tapes in three days so we're already on the second batch now.

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