#i have to write a 3 page report by next week despite the fact the ppl already have my fucking thesis
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Life update if anyone cares.
I only post this bc i was posting my depressing shit for months and a lot of people were reaching out in concern <3
cw sever depression, self harm, suicide, csa, SA, all the bad. but also lots of good <3
TLDR: Despite a god-awful semester, i got all a's and b's
Everyone thats been following me the last few months has seem my personal posts about how fucking awful things have been for me.
I've dealt with fact I can no longer deny that what happened to me was CSA, despite being on a milder side of things. That sparked an absolutely spiral. I didnt sleep for months which made things worse. School, I got an F on a midterm and i NEVER get F's on writing assignments.
Work had its complications and i quit and then rescinded that quit two days later. I was so constantly depressed in my dorm my roommate literally told me i needed to go to the basketball game with them bc i was sitting in a depression hovel none stop. I only went to services twice this whole time, one shabbat and once for Rosh Hoshannah.
I burned the ever living fuck out of my fingers, yall remember that one? lol.
In novemeber i had relapsed so severely on self harm i thought i had accidentally killed myself. I should've called 911. I thought I was bleeding out and/or going into shock. I then worked myself up more by going down pages of the internet about medical shook and people dying from it. that did not help my heart rate. I couldn't stand, I couldnt see straight for a while.
I could not afford an ambulance or a hospital stay as i am uninsured and only ork 25 hours a week. not a lot of money.
All this happened and I didn't miss work. This is not a brag, this is me not being able to makegood choices for myself.
Finally, thanksgiving break hit. Thank fucking god. I WANTED to use those 4 days of absolutely nothing to get to my TWO BIG RESEARCH PAPERS I HADNT STRTED YET but alas, I was SICK. I was so sick, in fact, and so hoped up on cough medicine for 3 days i was incomprehensible.
I was so physically ill, i couldnt even think about how mentally ill i was. I slept and slept and slept. And by the time sunday hit, I felt so recharged.
My failed midterm was so bad and so not me my professsor reached out to me. Im close with him (in a v appropriate way lol, hes a bruce springsteen fan too) and i felt comfortable telling him essentially that for a few months there things were severe, and I really should've gone in for a 72 hour hold multiple times and i was not safe. through a few lines of resources, I ended up back in therapy bc my school added a new therapist that is a woman (i stopped going last year bc i didnt like seeing a man)
I like my new therapist.
Anway, in about 2 weeks I wrote 2 12 page research papers, 2 book report papers, 1 science paper did 2 presentations, took 2 finals, wrote 2 more finals with essay questions, and at the end of it all, not only did I not fail any classes...
I GOT ALL A'S AND B'S! Which means my gpa is still high enough to renew my scholarship for my last year
I am so fucking proud of myself for accomplishing all this despite suffering so fucking badly. I havnt felt pain like that in years, just agony.
I had a down turn again over christmas bc my siblings were literally ass, upto and including making fun of me for not ating (i am multiple accounts of sexual trauma from several people, so im scared of dating), making fun of my eating, and my sister slapping me and my older brother hitting me. Was a bad time. But for right now, im in the place im staying for break (all january) im back at my old day care and they love me, and olive garden at this store has been going great
Im hoping next semester to be better, im hopful at least
Anyway, thank you so much to everyone who has supported my writing has supported me through these times. It makes me happy that i came her to share my silly little moon knight x reader series, not really intending on writing a whole lot, but next thing i know, i have friends and a lil community. so thank you <3
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...
#im so tired :-(#and i have so much to do :-((#and i leave again tomorrow for more field work :-(((#i have to write a 3 page report by next week despite the fact the ppl already have my fucking thesis#plus i just threw together a shitty poster which i have to fix some stuff on and that just seems fucking impossible rn bc i keep crying#and i have to put together a prezi presentation for another thing. like i could just do a PowerPoint but a prezi would be nicer so i guess#im just not gonna sleep next week rip#and i have to input a fuckton of data so i had do analysis on the data i spent 3 weeks collecting#and i have to redo 1 sample and work on writing papers#plus draw a bunch of figures for various things#and fill out reimbursement paperwork even tho i start crying when i think abt it#and find a hotel and logistics for a conference#which like i shouldnt have said yes to that. i just. like i had a full on meltdown bc i cant seem to be able to take the steps to sort it#out and its looming up and im so tired. i dont even want to go but i already said yes and its for a group project#like seriously just ask for help. but i just keep laying on the floor crying#which does not bode well for this weekend bc i have to share a room on Saturday night rip me#and i need to take care of lots of tedious little adult things that my brain wont let me do#and coordinate going home for Thanksgiving which i really want to do but again it seems so impossible rn#how am i supposed to 'take a break and recover' when the universe is trying to crush me to pieces?#whatever i have a 3.5 hr car ride with 2 ppl that i have to emotionally prepare for#this is prob just the product of not enough sleep but like why do stupid little things have to be so hard?#why cant i not work on stuff for like 10hrs over 2 days and not feel horribly guilty?#oh god and im gonna be the one in charge of the feild work. i just realized bc i am the most important person for the measurements we have#to take. i hate it. im tired#but i have to work on this stupid ugly poster. the topic is fucking boring and i dont want to do it#but whatever its fine. im only paid for 29hrs a week but its fine#god i dont even want to kno how many hrs ive actually been doing#unrelated
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Feeling Deeply: Chapter 3
Genre: Fluff so much fluff. Arranged Marriage Fic.
Pairing: Namjoon x OC
Summary: The story of two deeply feeling nerds who find themselves in an arranged marriage. Something neither of them really wanted but are now discovering just how much each needed. Away from their childhoods, their families & their homes, Namjoon & Brishti (the OC) are privileged immigrants who slowly build a home, a family & a true sense of self, together in 1960s London. Please note this is not the typical immigrant experience of that timespace and I’ve taken many-a-leap to write the fluuuufffiness I wanted to write.
A/N: It’s unabashed fluff. And eventual smut but I hope you’re okay with a really slow burn. Like, reaaaally slow. Both our characters are introverts & met as strangers so it’s going to take them a while to get the *ahem* fire going.
Big big big love to @sahmfanficbts, @mintjoonlep, @holdinbacksecrets, @sunshyngal, @xjoonchildx - who give me so much love and encouragement & whose straight up genius writing makes me swooooon!
Characters: Brishti is our OC. She’s a feminist, obviously. She’s Indian, wheatish in colour, curvy & slightly short. Brishti is bengali & her name means ‘Rain’. Her pet name is RimJhim which means the sound of rain. (Namjoon calls her Rim & she calls him Joon) This whole story is a tribute to Forever Rain.
The Namjoon in this fic is what I imagine he would have been had he not followed his dreams at the age of 13. Hopefully, I’m able to do justice to the idea as I write ahead.
Current Chapter: London, late 1963. Brishti & Namjoon meet her colleagues. They listen to the then-rising band The Beatles & take a strong liking to one particular track, if you know what I mean. Again, sorry to spoil but there’s no smut yet. I was not kidding when I said it’s a slooooow burn. Next chapter, it’s happening. There's not much conversation in this chapter, either. Is this almost 3k words of just CONTEXT to the actual smut or just a tease - you tell me!
Also, someone else we love is also introduced in this chapter!
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Previously in Feeling Deeply: Preface Chapter 1 Chapter 2
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Namjoon loved his weekends now. They were like a real couple, Brishti and him… setting the never ending “final touches” in their home, together. They went out to pubs and gardens, libraries and cafes together. And yet, to both their secret dismay, they hadn't moved ahead from that one hug they had shared. They'd played, instead, with words and been more and more intimate in their conversations.
Brishti introduced him to her colleagues - her group among the staff at the British Library. Working there was her pride & these folk were her joy. This was nerve-wracking for Namjoon because he knew how much she loved them. These were her people. Her true tribe. It was almost like he was meeting her parents. Instead of two indian elders (whom he had spoken to on the only international call she had made since their wedding), he found himself faced with a weird band of strangers. An English couple Harry & Kate who had adopted the library instead of a child, an elder woman from Japan, Sayuri-san - whose stories Brishti narrated to Namjoon all the time, a Korean guy (his age!) & Yana, a girl, Brishti’s age who was half English, half Iranian & completely in love with Sam, the black historian from America, as Brishti had reported. As they settled in for their picnic in Hyde Park, Namjoon tried his best to hide his shock when he found Sam was - one, a girl & two, as tall as him. He wondered which attribute threw him off more. Still, he was completely enjoying himself with Brishti’s Unlikely Gang of Weirdos that Will Save The World. That’s what she called them. Sayuri-san agreed - They were all groovy outcasts who had somehow clawed their way into the (apparently) cutthroat world mainstream librarians.
Brishti was glad to see Namjoon really hit it off with the only other Korean she knew, the guy who’d told her about the only place in London that sold black bean noodles, made the right way. Namjoon had almost cried when she had brought them over from work. The two of them spoke as if they had been thick as thieves for years. They talked about Korean poetry and the folk music they had to participate in their childhoods. They spoke about the music archive section of the library, which was heaven for Min Yoongi. The passion in Yoongi’s eyes when he spoke about maybe someday taking a class about world music appreciation was something Namjoon wished to have too, but wasn’t yet ready to admit.
As they were packing up their picnic, the conversation flowed to a new band in the country. Brishti spoke about how every young girl she had met recently just could not stop talking about how groovy The Beatles are. The elders in charge of the music archive brushed them off as a fad but she was insistent to bring it up every meeting - after all, it was teenage girls that had popularised & helped usher in the lyrical music of Vivaldi. Or of Lisztomania - that popularised the soft romantic tones of Liszt which formed the base of the modern love song. Namjoon loved to see her almost up in arms, struggling to find a better word for the admiration that girls had for music and musicians.
“It’s not hysteria… or fanaticism… it- it’s just love.” She had said. No one disagreed. In fact, everyone in her group was persuaded to (at least) give The Beatles a listen over the weekend.
And so, This evening, A Hard Day’s Night played as they arranged books & records at home. Brishti was arranging the books, apparently not having had enough of the task despite working as a full time librarian. Namjoon’s heart ached when he thought about how Brishti loved her job. Thankfully his mind never stayed on that thought for long. Namjoon wished he could pay attention to the song. These days, paying attention to anything but Brishti was almost impossible. The smallest movement in her, the smallest stir intrigued him.
Meanwhile, Brishti had been trying to figure out a way of getting him to touch her &… as silly as that sounded to her rational mind she couldn’t really come out and say it. Night after night when they’d stayed up talking about things or listening to music or just simply reading their respective books, on the floor or by the window with their legs sprawled out in front of each other, she wished he’d touch her… that somehow maybe he’d notice her feet. Strange as it was, she kept thinking about his hands, his fingers tracing the contour of her ankle while she didn’t turn one page of her book for almost an hour.
She understood the problem - both of them were so hyper-aware of each other while pretending not to be that an accident couldn’t really occur. Things had to be done & Brishti thought about how she shouldn’t let tradition dictate who makes the first move. She also kicked herself for not following tradition and stopping him from taking his pillow & blanket away to the couch on their wedding night they were supposed to sleep on the same bed. It made her heart race that she could sleep next to this Korean Greek God-like feminist man. Ufff. She was covered in tense knots everywhere and anytime she even thought of making a move, the fear in her would make her do something else - like unpack all the books into a makeshift bookcase.
They were facing in opposite directions in the same room and Brishti couldn’t help glancing back at Namjoon again and again. The broad expanse of his back made her long to hug him again. They hadn’t touched each other since she let go of the hug. It made her ache, the memory of him moving away from her. Next time they touch, she wouldn’t let go first - of this she was certain.
Brishti looked at him again & smiled, wondering how someone so tall could look so tiny & cute. Namjoon did look surprisingly tiny, poring over the vinyls & neatly arranging them. She smiled thinking about how he had spent some time wondering if the records should be kept chronologically or alphabetically.
Finally, he had announced, “Ofcourse! I have it! The category has to be mood! The...” Brishti loved the small pauses Namjoon took to find the perfect word. “The story of each album and the feeling it brings out!” The way he smiled, pleased with his decision created a flutter in her heart.
Looking at him poring over each song in each album trying to discern what the overall feeling of it was, she felt an unbearable urge to tease him, to disturb his cataloguing. She would go over and irritate him… probably tickle his waist or blow in his ears. Or maybe just nuzzle his neck. Brishti wondered if these things would actually irritate Namjoon or perhaps lead to something else... The thought made her blush so fiercely, she turned to face her pile of books. Brishti wished she could walk over, silently demand a space in Namjoon’s lap, he would throw out anything that crowded his lap & she would sit there, being cuddled, enveloped in him & talk about songs… if she could talk, at such a moment that is.
She needed to stop staring at him and yet, she couldn’t help but look... She was a warm-blooded woman after all. And Kim Namjoon was a particularly delicious man. It wasn’t so much that he was tall… plenty of men were tall. (She rolled her eyes thinking how most everyone was taller than her.) Unlike other men, though, Namjoon was not awkward or gangly. He had wide shoulders and a gorgeous neck. She had to actively keep her eyes focussed on something else when she could see the contours of his chest.
In that first week of them living together she wanted him. She felt the heat of being seen by those sharp beautiful eyes that held a deep fire in them. Brishti found herself thinking more and more about how his back looked, how it would feel to be cuddled up against that broad beautiful chest, how it would feel to touch him and to be touched by him. She blushed & laughed to herself when her spontaneous thought was that she’d like to “climb that tree” - whenever Namjoon stood up after being scrunched over his table, writing. That yearning awakened a much fiercer part of Brishti -
Why couldn’t she?! He was her husband. They have to come closer at some point, so what was she waiting for? Without a second thought, her body moved to get up & walk over to him. But as it had happened every time, her mind caught up to her at the very last minute. As Brishti walked over, bent, stretched out... for a pile of books close to him. She was close enough to touch him. And still, she just picked up the books & walked back. Thankfully for Brishti, she had a natural sort of nonchalance. Something Namjoon envied. Brishti did not know what this little stunt of hers did to him. Namjoon, with his fists balled, had to hold himself back in that moment. He had to stop himself from grabbing her; from pulling her into his lap and having his way with her.
The gentle thread-like tug he had felt when he’d first seen Brishti’s photos... it had become a magnetic pull now. Shocking and also somehow inevitable.
It had been more than a month of them living together and Namjoon was wrestling with something. An idea, apparently. It was as though an idea was caught in a vast net that he had laid out across the ocean of his mind. But he was having trouble fishing it out. He understood there was no point forcing it, that the idea, the thought would emerge when it, or when he was ready.
Taking his time, slowly, Namjoon was understanding how he had done the perfect thing for her, accidentally. He was confused too, when his instinct told him to let his bride sleep alone on their marital bed the first night they had moved in this flat. He had reasoned that it was the decent thing to do. Unknowingly, he gave her the time to explore, to own that space; Not crowding her with his body. Not invading her with expectations that, no matter how silent, would be blaringly evident. That was the right thing to do. Then.
Now things felt different. Now, it felt like she had made that space, this whole home hers. But then that’s where his thought-net felt stuck. The thought he wanted to fish out kept pulling at him, telling him she needed something else now. Like Brishti craved something else now. He wondered if she, like him, craved touch. Was that why her body instinctively moved, stretched, inched closer towards him these days. Was this why he’d found his shirt among the blanket instead of the laundry basket the other day?
Namjoon tried to shake off these thoughts again - they felt dangerous, explosive. What was happening? He looked back at his beautiful wife and saw her stretch her arms, then her abdomen, all the way till her hips and then bend forward to touch her toes. She mewled, very softly when she did that. Namjoon felt the familiar flip in his stomach again. This time, thankfully, the thought leapt up within reach too.
Namjoon suddenly understood just how feline Brishti is. Somehow, it was a key he needed. The idea surged through him & made him stand up. Because it wasn’t just an idea, it was an epiphany. Brishti looked at him, her eyes asking, saying, expecting something he didn’t understand fully.
The tingle that ran down his spine told him he was about to.
“You okay?” Brishti asked, concerned & embarrassed because the move she expected hadn’t come. But then again, it was probably too much to think Namjoon had stood up to carry her & throw her on their bed. Wasn’t it?
He was standing awkwardly in the middle of the room looking confused. Namjoon recovered & asked, “Coffee?”
Brishti smiled & nodded. Namjoon rushed to the kitchen. The catching of this thought excited him. Because after living with her for almost a month, he had just now realised it is this attribute - of being feline-ly feminine or femininely feline - that is what makes his body almost overpower any semblance of restraint his mind had imposed.
At first it seemed silly but soon Namjoon realised it isn’t. Not at all. It really clicked in place like the right key, the precise note does - he understood how to BE with her. Be there for the feline creature-like woman that Brishti was revealing herself to be: The way she walked, slowly almost moodily… letting her feet touch and caress each surface her feet felt. She would be walking across the room but would stop just to walk back and forth, softly, in a way that one can’t really call pacing at all. And everytime she touched something she liked, or saw or tasted something she loved, she made these small sounds that would make Namjoon’s heart melt. They were always half-way between a purr and a moan and they made him wonder what pleasure would make her sound like. Namjoon thought about how Brishti is graceful but her grace, like the curves of her beautiful body, aren’t timid; How, it’s a grace that announces itself... sometimes even before she walks in.
It isn’t the only thing that attracted him to her, not by a far cry. Namjoon thought about how he loves her mind, her words. But this felt, somehow, more… more visceral or... wanting to be. Could something formless long to be touched?; To become tangible, touchable? This feeling, in his chest and his gut. This feeling within him, it jumps, flips every time she walks by. These days it seems like Brishti walks by closer and closer each time she passes him. Like she needs to feel the texture of his skin the same way she needs to feel the slight drag of the rug on the soles of her feet. And it just adds more depth to this deep cavernous feeling within him. Instinctual whispers echoing within-
Why does it feel like he needs to touch a fragrance?
Like all he needs to do is reach out?
Like the moment he will reach out, an essence, an aroma will become an experience?
It felt like Brishti was calling out to him silently. That magnetic pull was stronger than ever and it was pulling him, drawing him to her, telling him to reach out, so she can find her way to him. That feeling, the way he was being pulled… that was feline. Like she needed him to reach out so she could make him hers too. And then, then it happened. The first four notes of ‘And I love her’ played and pulled him to her.
In that moment, in their 7th week together, as Brishti was tracing the lines of Namjoon’s back, gawking at him, thinking about this man - this gorgeous, curious, wonderful man - as her husband… a thought so fantastical it would make her squirm in her seat. Just as she was recovering from the thought, releasing the tension in her shoulders. The knots he didn’t know he caused, Namjoon kept the cups of coffee aside and extended his hand.
‘I give her all my love, that’s all I do…”
To him, the instant she did it again, - the stretching her arms all the way up. The little moan she made every time she did that, the way her back arched and highlighted all her curves… it drove him, his body, his instinct to reach out.
“And if you saw my love, you’d love her too.”
The stomach flipped, again. This time, though, his instinct acted before his mind knew what he was supposed to do. Thankfully, his mind caught up -
He had just reached out. Reached out for her to claim him. But to one who didn’t know everything that had been going on inside both their hearts, it would look like he was inviting her to dance. Brishti looked at his hand and then at his eyes and suddenly Namjoon understood the reason for this magnetic pull... these lyrics is what she was saying all along -
“A love like ours could never die, as long as I have you near me...”
She took his hand & left no distance between them. Brishti realised there was music playing in the room only after she took Namjoon’s hand. Before this, she could only hear her own heartbeat, sharpened to an intensity never before experienced. Sharpened to a glint in a way that only love can. Love… and unmistakable, undeniable lust. Her heart had been beating with so much longing it had clouded everything else.
Now, in this moment, with his heart so close to hers, she could finally hear the music. This is what she had needed. This is what her heart had been pining for. And she knew. Without the shadow of a doubt she knew... he had heard her.
Brishti moved to the simple guitar strings that were tugging them both. The melody deepened each time the same four notes played. And each time they rooted deeper in the soil of her heart, she moved him too. His hands on her waist, caressing her curves everytime the four notes played. And they played over and over again… Namjoon followed the lyrics and sang along with his beautiful deep dark chocolate voice in her ears, saying -
“And I love her...”,
And his strong arms around her. How could she… Brishti, even if her name didn’t mean the rain, how could she have resisted pouring?
“Bright are the stars that shine, dark is the sky,
I know this love of mine will never die...”
This evening was the first time they’d really touched each other. Stood so close to each other. Moved together.
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Oooooh god you read it?! Thank you so much! Please let me know what you think! Get into my messages about it! I would love to hear what you felt about this!
This is the song that's mentioned here in case anyone is curious.
#bts kim namjoon#fanfic#namjoon fluff#namjoon arranged marriage#namjoon x oc#arranged marriage#slow burn#slow burn fic#fluff fic#bts fanfic#bts#indian oc#red thread fics#forever rain
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You Better, You Better, You Bet - Chapter 9
As Long as You’re Mine
Ron Speirs x Juliet Fletcher
Summary: Juliet Fletcher reaches a breaking point in her life. When she is at her absolute lowest, she meets Ron Speirs, and something happens between them that neither of them will ever forget.
Word Count: 4.1K
Tag List: @vintagelavenderskies @how-are-those-nuts-sarge @iilovemusic12us @hesbuckcompton-baby @tvserie-s-world @whovian45810 @50svibes @cagzzz107 @evelynshelby @piano-isnt-my-forte
If you’d like to be added, let me know!
A/N: Hope you guys enjoy this update!
Warning(s): None :)
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8
AO3 link
Chapter 9 let’s go!!!
“Okay, how does this sound?” Juliet asked Ron, who sat on her bed as she put together her story of the trial. He was careful not to recline, lest he disturb her pages of notes carefully organized atop the quilt. “Meredith Fisher confessed to the murder of six-year-old Peggy Lee in front of the courtroom before her trial began. Mrs. Fisher was arrested and charged with the murder in September of last year. Her lawyer, Mr. Harvey Cooper, originally planned to plead not guilty, but in a shocking turn of events, Mrs. Fisher herself admitted to the jury she killed Peggy Lee before even opening arguments could be made.”
“I’d read that,” Ron replied.
Juliet huffed and looked around her room at the Blue Boar. Papers littered the floor, pens were nowhere to be found, and her typewriter was mocking her. Now that the trial was finished - with such a dramatic twist - she was hard at work, trying to ensure she reported it just right. An impossible task, it felt like.
“Okay, but would you read it because I’m your girlfriend or because of the writing?” she asked.
“The writing,” he told her. “It’s simple, it explains everything.”
“It feels a bit long for the lead,” she said. “Perhaps I should put the bit about her arrest in the nut graph.”
“That does feel more like background information,” he agreed.
She pulled a pencil from behind her ear, scratched out the sentence, and began again. “So, it’d go like this - Meredith Fisher confessed to the murder of six-year-old Peggy Lee in front of the courtroom before her trial began. Her lawyer - I’m gonna take out his name and have that later - so, Her lawyer originally planned to plead not guilty, but in a shocking turn of events, Mrs. Fisher admitted to the jury she killed Peggy Lee before even opening arguments could be made. Then I’ll go into when she was arrested, the details of the murder, then the evidence the prosecution had prepared, and finish with her sentencing date. How’s that?”
“I think it’s perfect,” he said.
She chewed her lip. “Should I use the word shocking? I don’t want to tell the readers how to feel.”
“When she confessed, what was the first thing you heard?” he asked.
“Gasps,” she answered.
“There’s your shock,” he said.
Juliet had to concede that point. Ron almost didn’t believe her when she told him the story. The judge had barely gotten the words “How do you plead?” out before Meredith let out a wail like wounded animal and confessed to the whole gruesome thing. She sobbed that she was sorry, but she knew she had to be punished. She wasn’t safe. And truthfully, Juliet felt bad for her. It was truly one of the most pitiful things she’d ever witnessed.
But the one thing Juliet could never forget, the image that would stick with her for all her days, was the look on Peggy Lee’s parents’ faces. The Lees watched, dignified, proud, yet misty eyed as the person who killed their daughter begged for mercy. Their grief was profoundly felt, despite their stately manner. They said nothing. They did nothing. And they spoke to no one upon their exit from the courtroom.
“Jules?”
Ron’s voice brought her back to the present, his hand on her shoulder making her turn to look at him.
“Sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “Just...it’s so unfair. If anyone had a right to be screaming and crying it was the parents.”
“They must be very English,” he said.
“Oh, they were proper English,” she agreed. “Stiff upper lips and all. The mother did at one point hide her face in the father’s arm, but other than that, they were stoic.”
“Thinking about including that in your story?” he wondered.
“God, no,” she replied. “I’ll mention that they were there and offered no comments, but this isn’t that kind of article.”
“Just the facts, huh?”
“As usual.”
“Juliet.”
“Yeah?”
“The article’s gonna be great,” he said.
“How can you be so sure?” she asked.
“Because you care this much,” he said. He accentuated the point with a kiss to the top of her head. “I’ve got a staff meeting. Are you alright here?”
She nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for being so patient with me.”
He kissed her again. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“See you later, Ron,” she returned.
With that, he left. Juliet started trying to condense the lead again, still feeling like it was too long. There had to be a better summary. But it was a lot to try and fit into one sentence, so she resigned herself to making it more than one line. She hadn’t chosen a headline yet, either, but she usually liked to write the article first. That way she could pick out the singular most newsworthy part and headline with that. As she organized further, the phone rang.
“Hello?” she answered.
“Juliet, it’s Lottie.”
“Hey, Lottie, how are you?” Juliet asked.
“Fine, same as usual,” Lottie returned. “Otis just rang and told me about the trial. I hope you’re hard at work.”
“Absolutely,” Juliet assured her. “I’ve nearly got the lead down. I’ve just got to get the facts organized. I’m thinking of doing a follow up story about the shortcomings of Operation Pied Piper, since Cooper’s little tidbit did prove to be true.”
Sad as it was, Harvey Cooper was right. There was no process for vetting the families agreeing to take the children. The committee had been in such a hurry to evacuate, they had not even considered that some children could end up in more danger than they were at home in the cities. Juliet found the whole thing fascinating, and it could open up a conversation about war time protocol - be meticulous or swift?
“I think that’ll be fine,” Lottie said. “But have you gotten any war news? I know I wasn’t enthusiastic about it initially, but you’re the only reporter I’ve got with the Airborne.”
Juliet bit her lip. While the prospect of war news had originally driven her to accept the Peggy Lee story, she found herself conflicted about it now. Her relationship with Ron threw a wrench in it.
“I think it’s a conflict of interest for me to cover the Airborne,” she said.
She could practically hear Lottie’s eyes roll. “Oh, come on, Juliet, don’t be absurd.”
“It isn’t right, Lottie!” Juliet insisted. “I’m in an intimate relationship with one of the soldiers, there’s no freeing me from bias there.”
“You could use it to your advantage,” Lottie said. “Obviously, you can’t use him as a source, but couldn’t he lead you to the right person?”
“I can’t ask that of him,” Juliet said. “I don’t want him to get the wrong idea.”
“What wrong idea?”
It was something Juliet had already put a lot of thought into. As badly as she wanted to cover the war - and it did seem like things were ramping up even more in Aldbourne - she was hesitant. She had actually considered asking Ron for a source and then immediately hated herself for it. She would not use her relationship to get ahead in her job. She couldn’t. It just wasn’t right, simple as that.
“That I’m using him,” Juliet explained. “If I ask him to get me a source, he might worry that it’s the reason I entered the relationship, and that’s not the case.”
Lottie sighed. “So, you just want to give up on covering the war?”
“I didn’t say that,” Juliet returned. “I’d be happy to cover something else once I get back to London, but-”
“Forget it,” Lottie cut across her. “Just focus on the trial for now and then Pied Piper, if that’s what you want.”
“Lottie -”
“Good afternoon, Juliet,” Lottie said harshly, hanging up before Juliet could protest any further.
She sighed, hanging up as well, and sitting back in her chair. She had a feeling the conversation wasn’t quite over, but she’d hear more about it on her next trip home. For now, she wanted to focus on what happened at the trial. The sentencing would be in another few weeks, so she needed to get this done.
***
Ron was right of course. The article was published and the London Pursuit sold the most copies it had in years. It surprised Juliet a little, but perhaps people were tired of war news and what better than a dramatic murder trial for a change of pace? It was morbid, sure, but Juliet knew she’d handled it as well as she could.
Lottie called, absolutely elated by the circulation numbers. And honestly, Juliet was thrilled too. She found Ron later that day and leapt into his arms as a display of her unmitigated excitement. She’d done it, and done it well! It was cause for celebration. So they went to London for the weekend - staying with Nancy of course, since she would have had a fit at missing an opportunity to see Ron - and they went to a nice dinner, champagne and everything. Juliet could hardly believe her luck. Everything was going so perfectly.
And that night, as they lay together in the afterglow, she looked at his face and knew she loved him. The kind of love she read about in books and poetry. The kind that crooners sang about on the radio. She’d found it. It was scary enough to admit to herself, but she determined that she would - one day soon if the opportunity presented itself - admit it to him.
He caught her gazing at him.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she replied. “I’m just happy you’re mine.”
***
The sentencing hearing was not as interesting as the trial itself, but Juliet was relieved to report that Meredith Fisher was going to prison for life. There would be no chance for parole, either. So justice was served.
However, Juliet couldn’t help but notice the look on Mr. Lee’s face. Mrs. Lee had not come for the sentencing, so it was just father. When the judge announced Meredith’s fate, Mr. Lee only closed his eyes and let out a long breath. He nodded, put a hand over his heart, and inhaled again. A single tear rolled down his cheek. It made Juliet look away so that he could have that moment for himself. To take in whatever feelings came to him. To remember Peggy and take some solace in that her killer was going away.
“I thought I’d be happier,” Juliet told Ron as they prepared for bed that night back at the Blue Boar. “But it still just feels...rotten.”
“Nothing can bring the girl back,” he said matter-of-factly.
“I know,” she replied. “But I just....I suppose you’re right. What else could anyone have hoped for in this situation?”
“Right,” he agreed.
“I’m also grateful we didn’t have to hear that lawyer make that ridiculous argument in a courtroom,” she said. “I don’t think I could bear the looks on the parents’ faces at that.”
“That would have been awful,” he said.
“Even so, it feels rather anticlimactic,” she said. “Especially for the prosecution who spent months putting everything together.”
“They still got the result they wanted,” he pointed out. “So what does it matter?
She shrugged at that. She still felt unsatisfied, as if there was something more to be done. Even though logically, she knew there wasn’t. She would write an update for the paper, and that would really be the end of it. That was when it hit her. What was really upsetting her was that now that this was over, there was no more reason for her to be in Aldbourne. Especially now that she didn’t want to cover the Airborne. It meant that she would go home to London, in turn reducing her time with Ron significantly. And that was a dreadful thought.
***
“What do you mean you aren’t coming back to London?” Lottie cried through the phone. “What about the Pied Piper story?”
“I reckon it can wait,” Juliet said, entirely unconvincing, but she hoped Lottie was buying it. Her reasons for remaining in Aldbourne had nothing to do with her job and everything to do with the man she was in love with. “And maybe with some time, I can find my own sources on war news.”
Lottie remained silent for several minutes. “So, you’ve just changed your mind all of a sudden about covering the Airborne?”
“Not completely,” Juliet lied. “I...I’m just not sure I’m quite finished here. And what if there’s something else about the Peggy Lee story that comes up? I could -”
“Give it a rest, Juliet,” Lottie groaned. “I know you want to stay for your boyfriend.”
“That’s not -”
Lottie cut across her protests. “Please do not insult my intelligence by suggesting otherwise. You want to be near him.”
“You don’t sound quite as sympathetic as I hoped,” Juliet said, giving in.
“You have a life in London, Juliet!” Lottie reminded her harshly. “You have a job to do, your mother is here, and you want to put everything on hold for some man?”
“He’s not just some man!” Juliet argued indignantly. “He’s...different from any man I’ve ever known. And what we have means more to me than anything I’ve ever known.”
She glanced down at the necklace that sparkled against her skin. A constant reminder of how much she meant to him as well.
“Oh, come off of your cloud, will you?” Lottie snapped.
“Lottie,” Juliet said seriously. “The whole time I was with Arthur, did you ever know me to put him before work? Or my family?”
“No, so why is this Ron fellow -”
“Because it is different,” Juliet emphasized. “This is it, Lottie. He’s the one.”
That seemed to stump her. “Has he...proposed?”
“No, he hasn’t,” Juliet said. “I don’t even care if he does.”
Lottie scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous, you can’t just carry on living in sin.”
Juliet rolled her eyes. “Could you please pay attention to what's important here? There’s a man in my life who I genuinely see a happy future with and I just...I want to focus on that. Is that so wrong?”
“I suppose not,” Lottie sighed, and Juliet inwardly celebrated a moment of victory. “But I can’t pay you if you aren’t working. At least be making the proper phone calls to follow this Pied Piper story. Conduct interviews of other families there who have taken in children from the cities. Part of the story is there if you know where to look.”
“No problem,” Juliet said. “You’ll be glad to know I’ve already begun. I’ve got an interview with the Barnes family next week, who are housing a little girl. I’ll ask them about how the process went for them.”
“Perfect,” Lottie said. She paused for a beat. “And, Juliet?”
“Yes?”
“I really am happy for you.”
Juliet smiled softly. “Thank you, Lottie.”
***
Spring fully thawed the winter out by the time April arrived. Aldbourne was rather charming in bloom. But Juliet wasn’t sure if it was the flowers or that she was in love. She found herself humming a lot more than she used to - these days she didn’t even need food to start a merry tune in the back of her throat. She had more energy, despite spending rather long nights in Ron’s arms. And she found her enthusiasm for work - even though her priority shifted - a great deal easier to come by as well.
The interview with the Barnes family went splendidly. They were also housing a couple of lieutenants from the Airborne, though they were not in Ron’s company. Juliet only exchanged brief greetings with them, as they were heading to work just as she was entering the house. She nearly melted at the connection they had formed with the girl - Ann - which was clear in their goodbyes to her for the day. She seemed particularly close to the tall redhead.
Juliet told Ron about it that evening over drinks.
“Yeah, that’s Winters and Welsh,” he told her. “Good officers.”
“Do they spend much time here?” she wondered, indicating the Blue Boar.
“Welsh does, but Winters doesn’t drink,” he said. “He spends most nights there with the family.”
“I can tell,” she said. “I mean, it was seriously precious. She hugged his knees and he patted her on the head and I think I fell a little bit in love with him for a moment.”
He scoffed. “Good luck, I think he has a girlfriend.”
“Has he?” she questioned.
“Yeah, the nurse,” he said. “She works for the regiment.”
“You lot have your own nurse?”
“She’s got some connection to Colonel Sink,” he said with a shrug. “I’ve never actually met her.”
“And what about the other chap?” she asked. “Welsh?”
“He’s engaged,” he told her. “Her name’s Kitty.”
“You know that but not the name of the nurse?” she questioned.
“I only know because Harry never shuts up about her,” he said. “The whole regiment knows at this point. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if the Krauts knew.”
She giggled. “I think that’s sweet.”
“It’s obnoxious.”
“You mean, you don’t brag about me to the whole regiment?” she teased. “Romance is dead.”
“Sorry for your loss,” he retorted as he took a swig of his drink.
“Not as sorry as I am,” she returned. “Now I’ll have to spend God knows how many hours in mourning.”
“At least you look good in black,” he said.
“My saving grace,” she agreed with a smile. She paused for a beat. “Seriously, you don’t talk about me at all?”
“I do if you come up,” he told her.
“And what do you say?” she wondered.
“Whatever’s relevant,” he said.
She rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“I prefer not to broadcast my personal life,” he said. “All they need to know is that you’re mine.”
She smiled as she leaned over to kiss his cheek. “That’s true.”
***
April was drawing to a close. Juliet stood in her room, preparing to go and interview another Aldbourne family about their process in fostering a child from London. These interviews were restoring the bit of faith she’d lost in covering Peggy’s story because most of the families were very kind, and doted on the children. They were proud of doing what they could to ensure the future of England. And the children were mostly happy. What happened to Peggy was a tragedy and an outlier.
She was just getting ready to leave when Ron entered her room. A grim shadow of doubt on his features made her smile disappear as fast as it had come. Something was wrong. He definitely had bad news.
“We’re moving out,” he told her.
She had expected this at some point, but she still blinked in surprise. Her shoulders drooped as the reality of it percolated through her.
“Oh,” she said. “Well...when?”
He hesitated. “This is off the record -”
She scowled at him, momentarily offended that he felt the need to clarify.
“Everything between us is protected, Ron,” she said sharply. “You and I are always off the record unless stated otherwise.”
“Sorry,” he said quickly, picking up on her tone. “I know that, I just -”
“When?” she demanded again.
“End of May,” he said. “I don’t know when we’ll be back.”
The if hung in the air, but remained unsaid. This was it. The moment she had been dreading since she met him. Well, maybe not that long, but since they had started getting to know each other there in Aldbourne. The war was taking him from her, like it took everything.
“I see…” she trailed off, her annoyance easing up. That was sooner than she had hoped and she didn’t want to waste any precious time being angry at him. “Um...where - wait, I can’t ask you that.” She bit her lip. “When - oh, no, you’ve just told me, that’s right -”
“Juliet.”
“Yes?”
“Wait for me.”
Once again, Ron failed to disappoint her. Despite all the reassurance, she worried that when they shipped out, he would take the opportunity to break it off with her. Instead, he was asking - in his way - for a commitment from her. She held his gaze for a long moment, waiting for him to say more. But he didn’t.
“You really want to stay together?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said assuredly.
“Oh, thank God,” she sighed, and she threw herself into his arms for a kiss.
He returned the kiss with enthusiasm, his lips fiery and desperate against hers. As if he were leaving the following morning instead of a couple of weeks. But Juliet wanted the intensity. She wanted to savor every touch, every kiss, every moment she had before he was gone. She also wanted to let him know that she absolutely would wait for him. She would do anything he asked of her. She just wanted him. Forever, if possible. And if the war robbed her of that, she would at least have the memories of kisses like these. Of nights in his arms. Of his unwavering dedication to her.
***
The arrangements were made for Juliet to return to London once Ron and the rest of the Airborne were off. On his final morning in Aldbourne, they of course made love again, only it was the after that they relished even more. Juliet etched into her brain the feeling of his embrace, the warmth of his skin, the sound of his voice. She wished desperately that she could freeze time and hold onto him for just a little longer. She had found something so wonderful and now it was being dragged away from her.
“Jules,” he said, voice low as if there might be someone listening on the other side of the door.
“Yeah?”
“We’re going to France,” he said.
She blinked and adjusted her position so she could look him in the face. “France?”
He nodded. “I wanted you to know.”
She couldn’t explain why that felt more intimate than anything they had just done in her bed.
“Why tell me now?” she asked, curious.
He swallowed, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, but his arm gave her shoulders a squeeze.
“Trust,” he said.
She pressed her lips tenderly to his chest to let him know how much she appreciated his trust. There was no longer a need to specify on or off the record. His statements were privileged. Anything he told her would remain between them.
For a fleeting moment, she considered telling him right then that she loved him. Because if he was going to France, there was a chance he would never come back. And shouldn’t he know just in case? But her heart told her to play it safe. If she didn’t tell him now, perhaps whatever power there was would protect him enough so that she could say it later. If there were still things left to be said, hopefully that would keep him alive.
There were no guarantees, of course. All they had was each other and their promise.
That afternoon, the trucks began rumbling out of Aldbourne. Juliet walked Ron as far as she was allowed. Her chest felt tight as the impending goodbye hung in the air. She hated this. It was too painful. How could it be that the very war that brought them together would also be the reason for their parting? What was fair about that? Nothing, that’s what.
A kiss from Ron drew her out of her thoughts. He held her firmly against him, almost as if he were afraid she would disappear right out of his grasp. When they parted, they were both breathless.
“Be careful,” she said.
His eyes searched hers. “You too.”
Her brain was practically screaming at her to tell him now just what she felt. But she was too afraid. Too afraid it would doom him. Too afraid he wouldn’t say it back. Or even worse, say it only because of the passionate nature of the moment. It had to be when they weren’t so desperate. When they really meant it because whatever was coming was not a threat.
“I’ll write,” she told him.
“I’ll respond when I can,” he returned.
She nodded. Her throat was dry and thick. The lack of tears in her eyes surprised her. How could she not be crying when she could feel her heart breaking so badly? She kissed him again. Just to prolong the last moment where he was only hers.
“Stay safe,” she told him.
He nodded.
With one last kiss, they said goodbye without saying it. Juliet went to the train station and headed home to London. And Ron went to war.
#band of brothers#ron speirs#juliet fletcher#ron speirs x ofc#hbo war#you better you better you bet series#Easy Company#band of brothers fic#hbo war fic
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A Spark in the Commons [Yugyeom x Reader]
Pairing: Got7 Yugyeom x GN Reader
Genre: Fluff, Hybrid au, College au, 13+
Word Count: 5.2k
Warnings: Mentions of a panic attack
A/N: This was done for @got7writerscollective‘s flightlog project! It’s my first official got7 fic! So please enjoy!
Summery: You help an anxious deer shifter in the shifter union commons and a friendship buds.
The Shifter Union commons of Seoul University was empty aside from you and the occasional guard who would sweep through to make sure that nothing amiss was happening. Of course nothing ever was on evenings like these where the only person in the commons was an employee getting paid to make sure any shifter in need had someone. Some nights were more wild and full of shifters who were in various states of shifting, but you didn’t like to work those nights. You prefered staffing the less crowded times when there were next to no one in the commons and you could work on homework while getting paid. Even with the occasional person who would come in, the quieter nights were best in your personal opinion.
This evening was one of those quiet nights. You’d been alone in the common space for almost an hour, the last shifter having left after the two of you had a conversation about a class they were taking. It was just as you finished writing your tenth page of your peace studies essay that you felt the strung and pungent smell of burnt toast and something more bitter made you look up to see an anxious deer shifter, his antlers parting his hair as he approached the open common’s room.
“Hello! Welcome to the Seoul University’s shifter union!” You said cautiously, your eyes meeting his large, blown out ones with worry as he finally entered the commons.
The man stopped stiffly, tightly gripping his bag and not breaking eye contact with you, his nose flaring as he sniffed the room. Breaking eye contact first, you gave him a once over, struck by how still he was. You were glad that you took blockers this morning, your predatory raccoon pheromones not filling the room this moment and making the poor shifter feel more anxious and he didn’t need that. Poor man was working himself up enough already.
“How can I help you?”
He didn’t move, a small squeak leaving him.
“Would you like a private room to shift in?” You pointed to a door to the right of you that led to some small rooms sterile for shifters who needed to engage with their animal form privately for a little, “The union has some rooms for people right over there.”
He lowered his eyes which were looking more and more deer-like by the second and quickly walked over to the door that led to the private rooms, closing loudly behind him. A sigh left you as you tried to return to your paper. Many times shifters needed space when their stress and anxiety forced them to shift, but you knew that before the man left you’d need to talk to him.
Part of your job at the shifter union required you to record his use of the room, check in to make sure that he was ok, and that the emergency need of the space wasn’t due to any issues on campus. You worried about him trying to run off the second he calmed down enough to return to his human form, having dealt with many shifters who feared using the union for its help or felt like they had to return to class immediately after a forced shift. They never had to. The union worked out a deal with the school to make sure forced shifts were seen as excused absences if filed through the union. You loved this job and how it allowed you to help your fellow shifters. You’d be damned if you didn’t take your work seriously.
In fact, part of the reason you got on pheromone blockers was to make prey shifters more comfortable around you (the other part simply due to you not enjoying the feeling of heat and regular blockers kept your heat at bay). At the thought of pheromones, you got up, opened one of the windows and lit a candle in an attempt to start breaking up the stress pheromones that hung in the air.
What sounded like a constant clatter of hooves made it hard to focus on your paper. It wasn’t like you could look at what was happening, the rooms had windows high up to allow light in but not let people see what those who were decompressing were doing. Somehow, the noise of the anxious shifter became background clatter and you managed to carve out a good chunk of your essay before you started to hear more… human-like movements in the back space.
Your mind drifted to how you could get his attention without scaring him when he finally exited. There was a chance that he was informed about the processes the commons tries to have when the rooms are used but there is also a chance that he is completely unaware of them. There were many shifters who didn’t know the protocol. Plus, if you did need to get his attention, you didn’t want to startle him or make it look like he was in trouble for using the space for three hours. The decompression rooms were here for moments like this after all. You heard the telltale click of the door opening but before you had time to try to get his attention, he spoke.
“I… thank you for letting me use the room for so long.” His voice was soft and smooth and, unlike last time, you were the one whose eyes widened and felt frozen in place.
He was good looking and smelling when he wasn’t sending off stress pheramones every which way, and his voice… it was so soft.
You floundered for a second before coughing, “N-No problem. They’re here for all shifters. Which room did you end up using? I will want to tell the next person working the union commons to make sure it gets cleaned.”
“I used the room number… 3,” He said while leaning back to verify.
A silence hung in the air after he spoke, he was clearly waiting for you to speak but you were still frozen. He hesitated before slowly walking past you, his eyes trained on you as if waiting to see if you kept talking or if he was free to go.
“Before you go… may I ask…”
You froze… you knew how you were supposed to go about getting the information. You needed to ask for his student ID, name, and why they needed the room… but something about this man was making words hard for you. Your mind was blanking and stuttering as it tried to function.
“Yes?”
“I-If you have time, we like to keep a record of who uses the rooms and why. Mostly just to keep track… but also if you were using it because of…”
Come on, Y/n! You knew this stuff! Why were you struggling so much now?
You sighed, “If it was caused by a staff member or a fellow student, the union can take action to protect your rights as a shifter. There are also options to message professors or coaches to excuse possible absences if the room was used for a stress shift. Also… I, as a worker, um… I work here and part of my job is to be an ear for venting and… all that… I am not a mandatory reporter too so if that is a worry… uhh… don’t.”
He nodded slowly, “Uhh… I have a class… now,” He mumbled and pointed back to the entrance of the commons, “was on my way to it when I got a little… overwhelmed…”
Did he not check his phone yet? Any evening class was going to be done at this time you thought, checking the clock on your computer just to verify.
“Sir, you were in the room for three hours.”
“What?!” His eyes widened and you noticed his pupils grow once again.
Quickly, you jumped up and walked over to where he was standing, “Don’t worry about it! If you give me a list of your professors, I can email them! This can count as an excused absence! There’s no need to worry.”
His eyes seemed to gloss over as he stumbled back slightly, his breaths coming out shift and fast. Quickly, you moved to guide him back to one of the nearest chairs that was only a few steps away and plush, gently rubbing his arm as he took a sharp intake of air and collapsed onto the chair, his horns slowly growing again and pushing some hair back.You got up and locked the door to the union entrance before returning to help. While it was normally policy to keep the door open and unlocked all times a staff member was in, you could risk making sure no one interrupted this moment to make sure this student felt safe (especially since you were a fairly small school and there were only 1000 shifters… out of 5000 students in the school and it was dinner rush).
By the time you did make it back to him, he was starting to hyperventilate, his eyes distant and his antlers growing by the second. At this point, his distress pheromones were making the air heavy and hard to breath in and you were thankful that the window was open. You simply sat next to him and waited. At this point, if you tried to touch him, he would likely feel even more panicked and you didn’t want to do anything that could possibly harm him. Panic attacks were hard enough without any extra stressors.
The panic attack came in waves and you sat with him through it until he was able to speak some, but instead of letting him even think about apologizing, you simply started to ask him about the room. How many grey items were there? Purple? Green? And so forth until his breathing was calmer and you stopped being showered in his stress pheromones.
“My name’s Yugyeom, by the way.” He said after a minute of silence when he finally calmed down more.
“Nice to meet you Yugyeom, I’m Y/n.”
As it turned out, Yugyeom was a transfer just a year below you and had just declared his major the day he came in. You could easily see how the stress of being a transfer, with a human roommate (who didn’t want him to shift), delaring, and the start of a seven week night course could compound. That night, the two of you talked until Yejin, one of your coworkers came for her shift and forced you out so that you could get some sleep. The two of you left in a fit of laughs and then walked around campus and talked even more until you barely had enough money to drive back to your apartment. Despite how the night started, it was probably the best night of your whole week and you were hoping to talk to Yugyeom whenever you saw him next to get his number and hopefully hang out… Although you were tempted to try to pursue a romantic relationship as well.
The thing was, that after that night you didn’t see him for a whole week! You’d see his name on the record of people who used the shifting rooms, would sometimes have to clean up after him, and even saw him around campus some. Sadly, it seemed as if your schedules never matched up to see eachother again and despite all the near meet-ups, you didn’t have a chance to talk to him again. You wanted to as well… you were worried about the anxious transfer student and wanted to make sure that he was doing ok.
Part of you wanted to seek him out. The campus was small and you were fairly positive that the two of you saw glimpses of each other (and just didn’t realize) so seeking him out wouldn’t be too hard to do. That part of you was overshadowed by a worry that he didn’t want to try to have a friendship with you or the little flirting you did near the end of the night was too much and now he never wanted to talk to you again. Of course it was a mostly irrational fear (hopefully), but it kept you from trying to find Yugyeom.
. Just as you were starting to give up hope of seeing him again, you were proven wrong. It was another late shift at the shifter union and since you didn’t have any dier work that needed to be done, you simply sat one one of the couches and read.You were still present in case anyone wanted to be in the space, but you were trying to relax. It was somewhat hard though as you were also very aware of the security guard who was slowly meandering around the unions commons and making sure that everything was ok. As the guard spent more and more time slowly walking around the commons, you started paying less and less attention to your book, instead your senses honing in on the guard. It was likely due to your raccoon part that you felt so cautious around the guard but the longer he stuck in the union commons, the worse you felt about him.
He was taking glances at you. Maybe he was just double checking to make sure all was alright but your mind started to wander. You hadn’t had issues with this guard but you knew that some of the security guards were iffy around the shifters they thought they could dominere. Part of you wished that you weren’t on pheromone blockers so you could show him that you were not a shifter to be messed with. That you could be intimidating and a force to be reckoned with. Technically raccoons were apex predators.
Before your mind started to wander further about how you could intimidate or protect yourself against the guard, the union door opened and the smell of Yugyeom filled your senses. Almost as soon as it hit your nostrils, you felt yourself relax. Part of you told yourself that it was simply due to having another person in the room and a male shifter at that (another part of you swooned when you caught a glimpse of Yugyeom in all his glory).
The guard huffed and, as Yugyeom started to settle into a seat somewhat near you, the guard left the room. As he left, you wondered what he was thinking and if he actually wanted to try something or if your anxiety was all in your head. You really hoped it was all in your head.
Slowly, you relaxed in your seat, part of your brain still focusing on Yugyeom while you tried to continue reading. His smell comforted you. You didn’t know why, but you didn’t feel the need to question it. Instead, you simply settled further into your chair and focused on your book again, taking deep breaths all the while.
As the night dragged on, you occasionally checked on Yugyeom to make sure that he was ok (and maybe see if he was looking at you. During all your “sneaky” glances, you were once again struck by how handsome he was. Even as his brows furrowed in confusion and got ink on his nose, he was so good looking. No one should look as good as he looked while doing school work.
At one point, you had to stifle a small laugh when you saw him reach for some drink he brought with him only to realize that it was empty. The shocked face he made when he realized made you want to swoon and get him another drink as well, but you didn’t want to speak and further break the delicate silence. Apparently Yugyeom must have heard your laugh because he looked up and met your eyes. Both of you simply stared at each other in awkward silence.
Fuck.
“Uh… what were you drinking?” You asked, cringing as each word was spoken.
A sinkhole would be wonderful at this point. You really didn’t want to answer and yet he was simply looking even more confused as the silence festered, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to think of what to say in response.
Fuck.
Without even giving him time to answer, you excused yourself hastily, embarrassment filling you to the brim as you practically ran out of the commons. Now you had another issue to worry about as well… what would be your excuse for leaving?
You were such a dumbass for leaving.
Fuck.
Yugyeom was surely going to answer if you hadn’t left, and now that you suddenly left he probably thought you were rude and most definitely wouldn’t want to be your friend. All your stuff was still in the commons as well and you still had another two hours that you were supposed to be working the commons before your shift was done. It wasn’t like you could just leave and not return for the night.
The only plus you could see was that you had your lanyard with you. At least you could get something at a vending machine or something. It wasn’t the most acceptable reason to walk out of the commons before he could answer but at least it was something.
At that thought, you briskly walked to the closest vending machine, hoping no one who was still working late in the building wouldn’t look at you or try to talk to you. It was just down the hall so it wouldn’t take you too long to get something and return as long as no one talked to you.
Before you punched in a number for one of the foods in the machine though, you found yourself realizing that you had no idea what he liked to eat. As if tonight couldn’t get any more embarrassing. It was like part of you was dying as you stared angrily at the vending machine for help (not like it was sentient and could suddenly shout “This is the food Yugyeom gets every time!”).
In the end, you settled for getting him one of your favorite snacks from the vending machine and praying that Yugyeom had some sense in food. As you slowly walked back to the commons, different scenarios played through your mind depending on how he reacted. It wasn’t until you almost entered that you wondered if he was even still in the commons.
He was, thankfully.
When you entered, you stopped at the door though, suddenly worried about going up to Yugyeom and giving him the snack… It wasn’t a big deal… but what if he was allergic to what you got? Or what if he…
“Are you just going to stand by the door?” His voice cut through your thoughts.
You coughed awkwardly, “No… Sorry for leaving so suddenly earlier… I… uh… I had to pee. Badly. To make it up though…” You shuffled to him and quickly set the snack in front of him, “Here’s a snack. I didn’t know what to get you so I got my favorite.”
He looked shocked, “Thank you! I love this snack! I was drinking a matcha latte by the way. The cafe downstairs makes a really good latte. I’m addicted.”
“They are so amazing.” You laughed and nodded, quickly sitting in your seat again as relief filled you, “I remember having like five a day until I ran out of swipes for it on my card and had to struggle without them for the rest of the semester… which had like two months left.”
Yugyeom snorted and you felt a jolt of excitement at hearing it, “Yeah. One of my friends is that way with their coldbrews. Loves their honey and vanilla one.” He scrunched up his nose cutely, “It doesn’t taste good to me though.”
“You know… if you want really good matcha stuff. There’s a cafe off campus near the town’s library that is all matcha themed. They have some other stuff but almost everything uses matcha in it and it’s amazing.”
“That sounds amazing… I’d love to go sometime… maybe…” Yugyeom stopped and you noticed a deep blush grow on his face, “Maybe we could go together sometime.”
“I’d like that a lot.”
You felt positively giddy as you waited for Yugyeom outside of the union commons the following day, your mind racing as you tried to look calm and collected. Of course, almost every shifter in the room could smell the anxiety wafting off of you as you waited but all of them had the decency to act like you weren’t anxious… well except for Yejin who was another shifter who worked at the union and was probably your closest friend that you also worked with.
As soon as she saw you show up with nothing but a small backpack that only held a few things and smelled your anxiety, she knew right away that you weren’t in the commons to relax. When you told her that you were meeting with a… a friend, she got all excited (even more excited when you confessed that you were here earlier than needed). You weren’t normally someone who was overly worried about time, especially when it came to hanging out, but Yugyeom made you nervous and you wanted to impress.
While Yejin started to complain about you not telling her sooner, you felt thankful that you hadn’t. She was amazing and you loved her, but you knew that if you told her that you were hanging with a guy you had a crush on, she would try to style you up. You didn’t think that this was the type of occasion for that. Besides, Yugyeom probably meant it as a friendship hang out and not a date hangout. Your gay ass never knew how to handle good looking people who wanted to be friends… especially when they were as sweet and good looking as Yugyeom.
You so had a crush on the guy.
Fuck.
“Haha. Looks like we both had the idea of arriving early.” Yugyeom’s laugh broke you from your train of thoughts.
You looked up to see him enter the commons and make a b-line to you, and you were struck with how handsome he was. Not that he wasn’t normally. He always looked good, but he looked amazing in the large blue sweater and skinny jeans. What topped it off was that his hair was swept back in a graceful windblown manner, unlike the past few times where it rested in a simple bowl cut that still managed to make him look amazing.
Like you, there was also a smell of nervousness that radiated off of him, but neither of you mentioned the nervous smells. If anything, his anxiousness made you feel more excited and comforted. Maybe Yugyeom thought of this as something more than two potential friends hanging out… just like you did.
You tried to smile as naturally as possible (although, it probably looked slightly pained), “Yeah! I mean… I had a shift here just before this.”
“Oh.” Yugyeom’s smile faltered slightly and you immediately knew you messed up.
“Not like I wouldn’t have arrived early if I didn’t have a shift,” You laughed awkwardly, the two of you now walking to your car to go to the matcha shop, “Honestly, I am so bad with time, if it wasn’t’ for my shift, I would have probably been here two hours early instead of just thirty minutes early.”
“I thought you just got off of a shift?” Yugyeom smirked and you blushed.
“I… Yeah. I mean… I got off two hours ago, went to get ready, and then I returned… not…”
Yugyeom laughed loudly and shook his head, effectively cutting you off. Before either of you had time to respond, you made it to your car and in a somewhat awkward silence, the two of you got in and drove to the matcha place. The actual time in the cafe was… amazing.
Laughter and amicable conversation filled the whole evening as the two of you tried multiple foods and drinks together. Before you knew it, the sun set and you had to drop Yugyeom off at campus before returning to your apartment for the night, a pile of reading waiting for you to work on the next day. All throughout the next day, you felt as if you were floating on cloud nine, a dazed smile stuck on your face when you thought back on the time at the cafe.
It was only after not seeing Yugyeom around for a few days that you started to feel anxiety pool and bubble in you once again.
Did you do something wrong?
You’d given him your number… he knew where he could find you… why hadn’t you two talked since?
Suddenly, you started to feel jumpy and worried, reliving the moments at the cafe over and over again so see if there was something you possibly did wrong to make Yugyeom not want to associate with you again. Maybe it was because the two if you barely talked about shifters�� You weren’t a common shifter and people often had trouble guessing normally but you are now on pheromone blockers as well and that adds a whole extra layer of befuddlement, but what type of shifter you were shouldn’t matter… unless was Yugyeom one of those shifters that didn’t like associating with predators?
No. Surely he couldn’t be that way.
Prey shifters didn’t often use pheromone blockers in the first place… he had to have known that you were some sort of predator… so that couldn’t be it… right?
Surly…
You sighed and shook your head to try to release some of the anxiety you were holding. It wasn’t good for you to hold it all in like this. There was barely any time for you to shift and relax lately and at this point. It would probably give you less stress to just find Yugyeom yourself and ask instead of dwelling on why the man hasn’t messaged you yet. You didn’t need people stress along with the regular school and shifter stress. But damn, you couldn’t stop dwelling on how stupid you were for not asking for his number in return.
Tiredly, you picked at the dinner in front of you, your body feeling the stress building. This wasn’t how you wanted to spend your Friday. You planned to go out later in your racoon form and run around for hours on end, but now that you were thinking more about it, maybe it would be good for you to spend more time in your shifter form this weekend. You didn’t want to return home yet. The apartment was empty and while normally you enjoyed the alone time, you felt the need to be around people today.
Maybe you could put your stuff in the shifter commons and wander around campus… although many humans didn’t enjoy seeing raccoons around so maybe it would be better if you stayed in the shifter commons so that no one got too startled by you. Most people wouldn’t bat an eye at an animal in the commons.
After picking at some more of your food, you put your dishes in a bin for the cafeteria staff and walked off, each step making you more excited for spending some time in your animal form. Inside the shifter commons there were probably a handful of people, some half-shifted and some chilling around in their animal forms.
“Hey Yejin!” You said with a smile as you made your way to Yejin (who was staffing the common today).
“Omg! Y/n! It’s so good to see you here today! I was meaning to ask, do you think you could take my shift Monday? Jisoo asked me out and Monday works best for them.” Yejin was smiling broadly as she spoke.
“Sure. Can you watch over my stuff? I want to shift and while I can still watch over it myself, with you here, I can wander more.”
“It’s a deal!” You responded eagerly, already putting your bag under her desk, your ears excitedly popping out.
Fairly painlessly, you shifted, your clothes falling around you as you grew smaller and smaller. As soon as you fully shifted, you felt relief flood you. In the back of your mind, there was still stress to worry about, but right now, you felt relaxed and relieved. You weazled out of your heap of clothes excitedly and watched as Yejin nudged them under the table with the rest of your stuff before running off to explore the commons. In your human form, the commons were a usual gathering place but as a raccoon, it was a jungle of excitement. Soon enough, you found yourself following your nose which had locked onto some tasty smelling food somewhere in the room. You weren’t likely going to get to eat the food but you’d be damned if you weren’t going to try. The smell led to someone you didn’t expect to see in the commons.
Yugyeom.
He hadn’t noticed you yet though and you had half the mind to turn around and explore elsewhere when someone he was next to pointed at you and started excitedly shouting.
“A trash panda! Omg! I’ve never seen a raccoon shifter before! Omg! This is so cool!” The man kept gushing as he stood up and looked at you closely, his eyes wide.
You got a strong dog wiff coming off of him and his intensity made you freeze. The man must have gotten the hint because the next second he was whimpering and closing his eyes slowly. Part of you wanted to laugh because most shifters still understood what people were saying but another part of you was comforted at how he tried to communicate with you. Slowly you closed your eyes as well before making grabby motions with your hands. You wanted to sniff him more.
He extended one of his hands, clearly understanding what you were saying, and you sniffed him slowly.
“Yugyeom! Come introduce yourself! It’s rude to just stare!” The man said, ushering Yugyeom to join the both of you in the ground.
Yugyeom slowly blinked at you and extended his hand which you happily sniffed, enjoying the comfort that washed over you with his smell. At this point, you were fairly positive that he knew who you were but he didn’t say anything.
“Oh! Would you be willing to at some point tonight, we will be here all night,” The man shot Yugyeom a look at that addition, “Come talk to us in your human form? I’d love to be friends with you!”
“Their name is Y/n, Jackson. We’re… we’re friends.” You relished as blush spread across his face as he spoke and nodded.
“Omg! This is the person that you were telling me--”
“Nope! Don’t continue!”
“That you want to ask on a date?”
Your world stopped and you felt your eyes widen in shock and excitement.
He wanted to ask you out.
You started to jump around and made excited squeaking noises, before you could stop yourself you jumped onto Yugyeom, excitedly scenting his arm.
Jackson started laughing happily, “I guess that means they want to go on a date with you too dude!
#got7writerscollective#wkcnet#got7#got7 yugyeom#got7 x reader#got7 hybrid au#got7 fluff#got7 college au#yugyeom fluff#yugyeom x reader#yugyeom hybrid au#yugyeom college au#got7 angst#yugyeom angst#w: panic attack#flightlogproject
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the webs we weave
For @jitsukawaa as requested for a Raffle prize!
Warnings: noncon/dubcon elements (oral, intercourse)
This is dark! (aged up) Peter Parker x Reader and explicit. 18+ only.
Summary: The reader is a journalist at The Bugle but she finds not all her co-workers are what they seem.
Note: This is a bit of a long one but I got a bit carried away. I tried to fit the request as much as I could. Anyway, hope y’all enjoy. Leave some feedback, like and reblog if you can <3
Another late night. Those were common as of late. Early mornings, too.
Given the content of your days, the stories, it was expected you’d be sleepless. A string of assaults across the city. All of them women. The perpetrator, according to the limited input of the police and the hesitant interviews of the victims; a man, masked, faceless. The descriptions varied, skewed by fear, by trauma. Neither you or the authorities had a concise picture of the suspect.
The first few incidents were reported by a senior report, Colin Rusk. But once the novelty ran dry, Editor-in-Chief Jameson, redirected Rusk to ‘more pressing’ stories and dropped the serial assaulter in your lap.
You were new with little more under your belt than lifestyle articles and the occasional fluff piece on fleeting fads. Your inexperience made it difficult, if not impossible, to say no. And despite your resilience, your ongoing investigation, the cases would likely go cold and be shoved to the back of the paper until there was no room left for them. Your singular goal was to prevent that cynical end. Making your name as a reporter was secondary.
That morning, you raced down to the latest crime scene. A woman, blonde like most of the others, sat with her legs hanging out of a police car as she gave her statement. Visibly shaken and with bruises on her face, she was just the latest in a string. You’d not be permitted to speak with her until the police took her to the station and filed their report. For the time, you documented the scene as it was.
You were pulled back to your desk. It was almost as if you could still feel the dampness in your bones. It rained overnight and the streets had been slick and shiny in the afterglow. You pored over your notes, the little diagram you’d drawn of the alley way. The minimal details gleaned from the officers on sight. It was all so grim. And sadly familiar.
The attacker had a pattern; a demographic. Lone women, unsuspecting, vulnerable. Blonde, or light brunettes, small enough to be overpowered. You sighed and rubbed your eyes. There were thousands of women fitting that description in the city. Impossible to predict the perpetrator’s next move when it could happen anywhere.
You closed your eyes and leaned back. If the police couldn’t solve this, you surely couldn’t. But that didn’t mean you stopped. It didn’t mean you quieted the voices of the victims as so many others had. No, you kept going. Kept writing their stories down.
You were jolted as a folder slapped across your desk. Your eyes shot open and you looked up into the warm brown eyes before you. Peter mirrored your fright and gave a nervous smile. He pulled his hand away from the folder he’d just laid before you.
“Sorry, I thought you heard me,” He said. “I figured I’d give you a print of the photos I got this morning.”
“Really?” You reached for the folder and peeked inside at the glossy paper. “Thank you.”
“No problem.” He preened. “Jameson won’t want them anyway. Just the ones of the fire on the next block.”
You nodded and set the folder down with your notes. You ran into Peter by chance. He was passing by on his way to his own assignment. He stopped and snapped a few shots, made his usual awkward small talk, and moved along. He’d only been full-time at the Bugle for a year; before he’d been a freelancer throughout his schooling. He was a kid, even compared to you.
“Jameson doesn’t even want this,” You scoffed at your messy desk. “I swear, he’s just trying to force me out. I mean, I guess it’s better than writing about the mayor’s new wallpaper.”
“Jameson’s an idiot but you’re a good reporter. Besides, the Bugle is just your beginning. I know it.” He smiled. He was always so optimistic. It made you feel old.
“Easy for you to say,” You shook your head. “I’m almost thirty and just starting out. You’re still a kid and...Sorry, Peter. I’m just frustrated.”
“Hey, it’s okay. I might be young, but I know how you feel.” He leaned on your desk. “You know, everyone thinks I’m a kid and they just don’t take me seriously but I’m not, you know, a kid. Age is just a number, not a deadline.”
“Peter, I didn’t--”
“I know you didn’t mean it like that. You’re not one of them.” He shrugged and pushed himself straight. “Not like Rusk.”
“Rusk?” You wondered aloud.
The man was stern, business-minded. A tenured writer. But you’d never had much issue with him yourself. In fact, he’d been most helpful in your early days at the Bugle. You might be picking up his scraps but it was far better than writing a tenth of a page on a dog show.
“Yeah,” Peter blinked at you. His smile changed, as if he knew something you didn’t. “Oh, alright.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Peter.”
“Well, I...you’re not that naive, are you?” He asked.
“Am I? What do you mean?”
“Rusk never worked for his job, he’s the son of an old friend of Jameson’s. He came on full-time with top billing from the start.” Peter lowered his voice, cautious even though the office was empty.
“Oh, but...I mean, he’s still a good reporter.”
“Good but not entirely...professional.” Peter scoffed.
“Do I sense jealousy?” You teased.
“Me? Jealous of him? No.” Peter’s smile fell. “I’m doing just fine and the Bugle definitely isn’t it for me. I’m starting school next year and then one day, I’m out of here. I don’t wanna be a camera jockey forever.”
“I don’t know, this might be it for me.” You said. “A little late to be starting over a third time.”
“It’s never too late. Just don’t let yourself get sucked in by Rusk and his cronies.” Peter urged. “They’re no good.”
“Thanks, Peter.” You said lightly.
“Really,” His face darkened. “I mean it. He has...a record in this office. With the women. And I’ve seen how helpful he is with you.”
“Peter, it’s not--”
“I know, I know, I’m young, clueless,” He raised his hands defensively. “I get it. Just...advice. You don’t have to take it but it’s there.”
You nodded and tapped your fingers on the folder. You thought for a moment on your work with Rusk; his insistence that you take over his story; the way he offered to proofread your back page drivel. Peter might be young, but he was smarter than his age belied. There was nothing wrong with being cautious.
“Thanks, Peter,” You flicked the corner of the folder as you looked up at him. “These will help a lot.”
“Really, it’s nothing.” His smile resumed. “Let me know if you ever need a lens. I’d be more than happy to help.”
“You’re too sweet.” You said.
“And you’re too humble.” He tucked his hands in his pockets. “And it’s late so...I’ll leave ya to it and see ya tomorrow, maybe?”
“Yeah, maybe,” You chimed. “See ya, Peter.”
“See ya.” He slowly backed away. “Oh, and let me know if Rusk gives ya any trouble.” He gave a comical flex. “I got your back, newbie.”
You laughed and he did too before he turned away entirely. You turned back to your desk and sighed. How was it that he made you feel young and old all at once? You shook off the cloudlike feeling and grabbed the folder. You’d go through the photos and call it a night. Hopefully, the morning wouldn’t bring a new victim.
🕷️
Your door was open. The chain was snapped and the lock busted in. Worse, you hadn’t even heard the disturbance. Hadn’t even sensed the intruder as you slept in the next room. A rude awakening as you got up and found the door ajar but your apartment otherwise undisturbed.
You called the police and waited in the hall. When they arrived, they asked you their usual questions, the same they asked the women you’d been documenting. Then they investigated you apartment. Nothing was out of place; nothing taken or moved. It was all very peculiar. Almost, the insinuated, as if nothing happened.
When they left, your landlord arrived. You stood by as he called the maintenance man and a locksmith. By the late afternoon, your door was repaired but your wits were fractured. Weeks spent tailing a monster had you paranoid. In your overwrought mind, you wondered if perhaps their attention had turned on you. It all felt too circumstantial. Too farfetched.
You locked yourself inside and submitted your write-up from home. You spent the night on the couch, sleepless, listening for any movement from the other side of the door. Nothing. Exhausted and nervous, you fixed your coffee and dressed. You set off for the day, though the sound of your lock sliding into place gave you no reassurance.
There was another assault. You spent five minutes at the office before you were back out on the street. This one happened only a block from your building. Was that another clue? A confirmation of your outlandish suspicions. You shrugged it off as you came upon the police tape; the scene all too familiar.
You went through your usual routine. Rebuffed by the police as you examined the sight for any clue. Listening to any morsel that slipped carelessly from officers and onlookers alike. You finished your notes and tucked them in your bag. You took one last look at the dumpster, the shadowy fire escape, and the cracked pavement. The image was burned in your mind. An omen of your new fear.
When you returned to the office, you were shaking. You didn’t realize it until you were sat at your desk with your bag in your lap, staring at a dead screen. The voices and typing all around you buzzed in your ears and you shuddered as you hugged you leather bag to your chest. The bright fluorescent bulbs burned your eyes and it felt as if they were watering.
“Hey,” You snapped your head up as Peter greeted you. His face was creased with concern. “You okay?”
“Ye-yeah,” You stuttered and let your bag slip to the floor. You kicked it under the desk and hit the power button of your computer. “Just...thinking.”
He didn’t look convinced. “I didn’t see you yesterday.”
“I...had to take a personal day.” You signed in and shuffled through the papers on your desk. “I’m here now, though.”
“Are you?” He asked. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Fine, just...it’s a heavy story, ya know? Starting to get old.” You bent down to reach into your bag blindly, awkwardly craning your head up above the desk as you fished around.
“Hey,” A voice had you sitting up quickly. Peter’s eyes narrowed as you turned to Rusk. He wore his usual striped button up and skinny tie. “You rushed out this morning. I didn’t get a chance to ask you how you were?”
“Hmm, I’m f-fine.” You stuttered. “Just fine.”
“Yeah? Heard about the break-in. Scary stuff.” He put his hands on his hips. “You need anything, to talk, an escort, let me know.”
“Really, I’m fine.” You insisted. You glanced between Rusk and Peter; the latter watched you closely. “It was nothing.”
“Well, just know, I’m here for you. Whatever you need.” Rusk winked before he turned away and you watched him stroll back to his office.
You sighed and looked to Peter. His eyes were on Rusk’s door. You’d never seen him anything close to angry but he scowled dangerously after the writer.
“Break-in?” He said as his eyes drifted back to you. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I...I don’t even know how he found out,” You sniffed. “Really, the police didn’t even take it seriously. There was nothing stolen, they didn’t touch me. I don’t --they think it was a drunk or something.”
“It doesn’t matter. You should be safe.” Peter insisted. “Look, I don’t blame you for turning away his offer, guy’s kinda a skeez, but let me walk you home.”
“I take the subway.”
“Then let me ride with you.” He said. “I know I don’t look like much but it’s better than being alone.”
“Peter, you don’t have to--”
“I want to.” He asserted. “Just humour me.”
“Why?”
“Because...we’re friends, aren’t we?” He asked. “Haven’t got many of those around here.”
You considered him and leaned on the arm of your chair. “Yeah, we are, Peter.” You grabbed your mouse and looked to your screen. ��I hope you don’t mind staying late.”
“I’m a night owl,” He assured you. “Have to be in this line of work.”
🕷️
Peter was true to his word and waited for you until well after office hours. You were quiet as he walked you to the station and sat with you on the train. He didn’t hide his glances over his shoulders and his fleeting eyes, as if he expected to catch your intruder then and there. It was almost endearing.
You were tired. You needed sleep and were ready to doze on the train. Peter nudged you awake at your stop and followed you out onto the platform. He let you lead him up the steps to the street and you stopped at the corner.
“I think I can handle it from here,” You said. “Building’s just across the street.”
“No, I insist. For my peace of mind, please.”
“Peter.”
“What’s a few more steps?” He prodded.
“What if I’m worried about you getting home?” You teased.
“I don’t live far.”
“Still. It’s late.” You chided. “You didn’t have to come all this way.”
“I did.” He said. “I’ve been out much later than this.”
“Ah yes, I forget. Youths.”
“I’m not much younger than you.” He insisted.
“Young enough.” You remarked.
The street light glared in his eyes. For a moment, you were taken aback. The way the shadows cast his face. The innocent boy looked almost sinister.
“I’m an adult. I can take care of myself.” He said. “So let me walk you to your door.”
“Alright,” You relented. His tone was disconcerting. So unlike the carefree upstart. “Come on.”
He walked with you across the street and you bit your lip. You could feel the tension rising off of him. Was he mad at you?
“Peter,” You turned to him just in front of your building. “I’m sorry if I--”
“Sorry?” He looked genuinely confused. “For what?”
“Uh, nothing.” You shook your head. “I’m tired. I thought--Thank you. Really, I feel a little better.”
“Not at all,” He smiled. “You good?”
“Yeah,” You replied. “Good night, Peter.”
“Night,” He said sweetly. “Just…” He hesitated before he could step away. “...remember that you’re not alone.”
“Yeah, thanks,” You nodded and took your keys from your pocket. “See ya.”
You listened to his light footsteps recede as you unlocked the front door. Inside, the elevator bore a staunch out of order sign. You grumbled and headed for the stairs. Ten floors up and you were out of breath and even more exhausted.
Your lock was still in place. That was slightly reassuring. Inside, it was dark and you didn't bother to flip the light. Too tired despite your paranoia. You dropped your bag as you neared the bedroom. There, you flipped the light switch and felt an unusual breeze across your front.
The window was open. The curtains stirred as the air washed in and your heart clutched. You rushed over and slammed down the window with a defeaning bang. You twisted the lock into place and turned back to the room.
Your top drawer hung precariously from your dresser. Your panties were messed, as if they'd been rifled through, and you felt the bile in your throat.
You ran back into the front room and turned on all the lights. Nothing else had been touched. It all stood as you left it and no other sign of your intruder remained. Not a speck of dust out of place.
You searched high and low; in each closet, beneath the furniture, even behind the shower curtain. Nothing. You were alone, but you didn't feel it.
Should you call the police again? Let them laugh at your paranoia? As it was, you were certain they'd tossed away their last report.
You went to the kitchen and grabbed a knife. You sat on the couch and pulled your knees to your chest. You hugged them as your eyes flitted nervously at each shadow. The knife shook against your leg as you counted the minutes until daylight.
🕷️
The morning saw you at the office, bleary-eyed and baffled. The night seemed a haze to you; dreamlike and distant. Before you was the final draft of your latest article on the city's terrorizer. The words were real, the events real, and the letters read bolder than before.
Your habit of spacing out at your desk once more had you jumping in your skin. Colin Rusk stood beside you. His grey-blue eyes peered down at you as he clicked a pen casually in his hand.
"You got a moment? Need to see you in my office." He asked but it wasn't a question.
"Sure," You stood and he reached past you. He leaned so close you could smell his cologne as he snatched the article off your desk.
"I'll take this." He spun with the papers in hand and led you across the office.
You glanced around as you walked between desks. Peter's brows were high on his forehead as he watched. He frowned and you turned away to follow Rusk into his office.
He closed the door after you. He waited for you to sit before he did. When he faced you, he was nonchalant. He dropped your article on his desk and smirked.
"You've done some good work." He said. "You should really be proud of yourself."
"Uh, thank you." You gripped the arms of the chair. Tired. Ready to keel over.
"Really. You're coverage is thorough and compelling. Riveting…" He huffed as he smiled piteously at you. "You're a good writer but this story isn't going anywhere."
"No…" You breathed weakly.
"Jameson wants it cut. Three months and no leads. Police are close-lipped as nuns."
You frowned. You couldn't help your disappointment.
"But I've got you a new assignment." He announced. "A grassroots movement in the ghetto. Silent protests. Real underground."
"Really?"
"As long as you don't mind sharing. It's kinda my story but I could use a hand." He offered. "That sound okay?"
"Y-yeah." You smiled. "I'd love--"
His phone chirped and his brow arched. He grabbed it and checked the screen. He shook his head and slowly stood.
"Pardon me. Jameson." He waved his phone. "Right back."
He rounded his desk and passed you. You watched him go then sat awkwardly in his office wringing your hands. Your eyes bounced from corner to corner. Awards framed on the wall, a plaque on his desk, fancy pens and a leather folder.
His bag sat on the table against the wall. Unzipped and on its side. Papers threatened to spill out and a shock of cornflower blue. You tilted your head at the familiar shade.
You peeked over your shoulder. The door was open a crack but you saw no movement on the other side of the frosted glass. You stood and cautiously neared the table. You looked again. Nothing.
You lifted the bag to peer inside and ripped your hand away. It was as if you'd been bit. Those were yours, at least they looked like yours. You shook and heard footsteps near the door. You lifted your head and pretended to read the framed certificate on the wall as Rusk entered behind you.
"That was my first year here," He preened as he neared. "I'm sure you'll have one of your own soon enough."
"Uh, yeah," You stepped away from him slowly. "Um, can I... think about it?"
"Huh?"
"Sharing the assignment."
"Sure. Only a day though. I, rather we, have a deadline," He reached out and pulled a string loose from your sweater. "That enough, sweetheart?"
You watched his hand a nodded. You bristled on the nickname and backed away. "Anyway, I'll let you get back to work." You sidled along to the door. "Thanks."
"No problem," He purred. "This could be it, you know? You're big break. Your name next to mine."
"Mhmm," You skirted out quickly and closed the door behind you.
Peter was at your desk. You didn't notice at first and stopped yourself from sitting in his lap. He watched you curiously. You held back a yawn and leaned against the desk.
"Peter." You crossed your arms.
"What was that about?" He asked.
"Just…my assignment got pulled."
"Oh?"
"But Rusk offered me a new one. Dunno if I should take it." You played with your mouse.
"Sorry, I'm in your seat." He made to stand.
"No, no, it's fine." You waved him off. "I don't really have anything pressing, do I?"
He considered you a moment as he swiveled in your chair. He stopped and sat up. "You okay?"
You blinked. After a moment, you nodded. You pushed yourself off the desk and rubbed your forehead. "I gotta use the restroom."
You walked away hurriedly and almost tripped over the loose laces of your heeled oxfords. You quickly hid yourself inside the restroom and tried to rein in your reeling nerves. You were crazy, you had to be.
Rusk definitely hadn’t broken into your apartment. That was ludicrous. Maybe it was a pocket square or a random sock. It wasn’t your panties. That was just...creepy. You were just paranoid.
You couldn’t believe entirely in your own delusion but you had to push it aside. You had work to do, albeit not much. You breathed shakily and swallowed down your anxiety. Just be normal. Just relax. Act like it was nothing and it would be.
You pulled open the door. You almost crashed into Peter as you stepped into the small hall between the restrooms and the office. You caught yourself against the wall.
“Woah.” You squeaked.
“Sorry, I...just wanted to make sure you were alright.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m...just disappointed.”
He narrowed his eyes. He didn’t look so innocent anymore. He looked as if he could see right through you. “What is it?”
“It’s nothing.”
“I know you think I’m blind but I can tell when you’re upset.” He prodded. “I swear, mum’s the word.”
You sighed and looked out into the office. You turned back to him and pointed down the hall. You sidled along with him and lowered your head. Your stomach flurried wildly as you mustered the words. How could you say this? You’d sound crazy.
“I think you were right about Rusk,” You kept your voice soft. “He...He offered me to share an assignment but I don’t think he really cares about the story.”
Peter blinked. An exaggerated bat of his long lashes as he huffed. “I won’t say it.”
“I know, you told me so, but Peter…” You looked over your shoulder before you continued. “Peter, weird things have been happening. Last night, after you left, I went upstairs and...my window was wide open and...I don’t know. My dresser-- someone was there. Someone broke in again.”
“Did you call the cops?” He asked.
“No, I-I was embarrassed. I thought...when I called them the first time, they were laughing at me. They thought I broke the lock myself, I know it.”
“You should’ve called them.”
“Why? So they can mock me?” You caught yourself before you could raise your voice. “Look, that doesn’t matter what matters is...I think it was Rusk. I mean, it’s stupid but, I think he has...something of mine. Something that would connect him to the break-ins.” You gulped. “The more I think of it, the more I think of how he passed this story off on me about all these attacks, I wonder…”
“You don’t think it’s him?” Peter asked.
“Of course not. I just think, maybe, he...might have gotten an idea or two.”
Peter’s eyes were wide. He looked as frightened as you felt. “Can you confirm that what you saw, that what he has is really what you think it is?”
“I didn’t notice it missing but I didn’t really look. I was too scared.” You confessed.
Peter’s jaw set and his eyes darted down the hall. “I’ll walk you home again and we’ll see if you’re right.”
“You don’t have--”
“I do. Don’t you realize how dangerous this all is? How do you know you won’t walk in and catch him in the act? Or maybe he decides to visit while you’re home?” He gently touched your elbow. “You’re leaving on time tonight and I’m going with you.”
You scratched your head and looked away. You were embarrassed. You were being comforted, protected even, by this boy. Well, maybe you should drop the ruse. He was braver than most men you knew. And he was technically an adult and you really weren’t that much older. That became even more obvious when he was with you.
🕷️
The subway ride was long. Silent and tense. You fidgeted beside Peter, embarrassed and reassured by his presence all at once. He sent you small glances; stifled smiles meant to calm you. But they only served to remind you of why he was there.
Up the concrete steps and across the rush hour street, you had to stop at the front door of your building to catch your breath. Your chest felt as if it was being crushed.
Peter patted your shoulder and said softly, “It’s okay,” and you carried on.
Your apartment door still bore signs of the previous break in. The new lock was shiny against the flaked paint and torn wood. You slid your key in and turned. You opened it slowly as you peeked inside, certain you’d find your tormentor within. Nothing.
Peter followed you in and chained the door behind him as if to assuage you. You looked away ashamed. “I’m crazy, aren’t I?”
“No.” He said. “I don’t think so. Just scared, and why wouldn’t you be?”
You nodded and turned away from him. Warily you walked across the front room and glanced around. Nothing seemed out of place. Peter followed closely as you neared the short hall that led to your bedroom. You spun back to him.
“I’ll go see if--if I was right.” You stopped him. “Wait here.”
“Wait here? Shouldn’t I--”
“I’ll scream if I need you.” You replied. “Okay?”
“Of course,” He relented. “I’ll be here.”
You left him there, a concerned furrow in his brow. You entered the bedroom, the dresser drawer was still open but the window was locked and in place. The sight reassured you. You slowly walked across the room and stopped before the drawer.
You sifted through the messy contents, your hands growing frantic as the cornflower panties were nowhere to be found. Next you checked the hamper, maybe you’d worn them that week. They weren’t there.
You stumbled back out to the hall numbly. You felt hollow and worn. You caught yourself on the wall before your legs could give out.
Peter was by the coffee table. You watched as he reached for the knife you’d left there and he lifted it to the dim light peeking in through the windows. He turned to you with a question curled in his lips.
“It’s not there...he took it.” You pushed yourself straight and stepped fully into the room. “I can’t believe--It can’t be, Peter.”
“But you do believe,” He said and he turned the knife in his fingers. “You must. I mean--” He gestured to the blade. “You wouldn’t be so scared if you didn’t believe.”
“Should I call the cops now?”
“You could but...You’ve corrupted the scene, right? It’s been what? A day?” He set down the knife and sighed.
“So what do I do? I--Jesus, why am I asking you? You shouldn’t be dealing with all this.”
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to deal with it.” He assured you as he neared you. “There’s only one thing you can do. You have to wait for him to try again.”
“What?” You reeled. “What if--”
“With me.” He gently reached out and took your hand. He squeezed it as he spoke. “You can’t stay here. Not alone. So either you come stay with me or I’m staying here, but I can’t let you be alone.”
“Peter, you’re too nice. You shouldn’t--”
“But I am, so I’m either going to settle in or you’re going to pack a bag.” His grip tightened on your hand before he released you suddenly, as if recalling that he was touching you.
“It’s too much.”
“Anyone would do it. Anyone who cared.” He shrugged. “So what’s it gonna be?”
“I can’t sleep here.” You said.
“Alright,” His jaw set determinedly. “So, grab a change of clothes and let’s go.”
You nodded shyly and let your leather shoulder bag fall to your elbow. Your lips parted to ask if he was sure and he tilted his head sternly.
“Come on,” He intoned. “I’m hungry. Once we’re outta here we can grab something.”
“O-okay,” You gave a weak smile and he mirrored it.
You turned away and dragged your feet back to the bedroom. Every time you entered, you were reminded of the open window, the ghastly breeze, and the stab of fear deep in your gut. You went to your dresser and blindly grabbed for a set of clothes to shove in your shoulder bag. A night away from this place would be good; safe.
🕷️
Peter’s apartment was small but cozy. Lived in but neat. It was almost endearing. The Playstation controller on the coffee table, the throw still curled in the shape of his body on the couch, posters of his favourite comics on the walls. He apologized for the mess but you assured him, you seen worse from men older than him.
He was courteous. He took your bag and led you to the bedroom. He insisted on taking the couch. He dug out his second set of sheets from his closet and placed the piled neatly atop with a promise to fix up the bed after you ate. He didn’t listen to your protests, merely brushed you back through to the living room.
You sat beside him on the couch. You felt welcome but uneasy. You always found it awkward to be in anothers space. Peter pulled out his phone and tapped the screen with his thumb.
“Sorry, I’m not much of a cook.” He chuckled. “You like pizza? Chinese?”
“I’m not picky,” You replied.
“Easy to please?” He ventured playfully.
“In certain ways,” You squinted at him. “How about Mexican?”
“Sure,” He scrolled on the screen and turned the phone to you. “Here. Pick something.”
You took his phone and browsed the menu. You realized you hadn’t eaten since the day before; nothing more than your usual morning coffee. Your stomach growled and you restrained yourself to a vegetarian dish. Overdo it and you’d wake up in agony. Thirty loomed closer every day.
You handed his phone back and he quickly picked his own dish and hit confirm. You rubbed your hands together nervously. You looked around his small apartment. It reminded you of college; of the useless degree hidden in the back of your closet.
“I’ll send you the money.” You offered.
“You won’t. My treat.” He insisted.
“But...you’ve already done so much.”
“What’s a couple bucks?” He shrugged. “So, you like video games? I got a second controller around here somewhere.”
“Does Tetris count?” You teased.
“I have Tetris,” He smirked.
“I was kidding.” You took the controller from him as he handed it to you. “But no, I don’t play very much.”
“That’s okay.” He grabbed his own controller and switched on the t.v. “I’ll take it easy on you.”
“Oh yeah?” You challenged. “You wouldn’t be talking shit if we were playing Tetris.”
“We’ll see who’s talking shit at the end of the night.” He jibed as he sat beside you.
You shook your head and laughed at him. You could almost forget that he was the upstart kid with his oversized camera. Or the break-ins. Or that you were here hiding. The fear seemed to dissipate when faced with his perennial optimism.
🕷️
After you ate, you found yourself even more tired than before. You didn’t recall dozing but Peter woke you with a nudge and helped you up. He showed you to the bedroom where he’d made up the bed for you. You thanked him groggily, your fatigue catching up to you, and he left you with lingering good night.
When the door closed, you grabbed your bag and clumsily pulled out the loose tee and pair of booty shorts. You changed and draped your worn clothes over the bag and shoved it aside. You got up to turn off the light and stumbled back to the mattress, landing stomach first across it. You hugged the pillow as sleep beckoned you forth.
It hit you all once. You slept so deeply your head felt full of sand. Your body too. Your mind was murky. Shadows rose from the depths but never fully formed. You forgot your existence, the open window, the missing panties, and Rusk’s open bag. Hours passed like seconds and eternity felt possible.
You awoke to fingertips on your cheek. Gentle as they coaxed you back to the surface. As you emerged from the depths, your chest clutched. Your eyes fluttered open, your lids heavy and lashes sharp. There was a dim light in the room, soft and eerie. A shadow laid beside you, its fingers traced the line of your jaw as it watched you awake.
Your vision cleared a little at a time. You recognized Peter through the haze. His warm brown eyes were dilated and dark. You reached up and caught his hand as he pressed his body against yours.
“What are you doing?” Your tongue was thick and your words awkward.
“Shh, it’s okay,” He pulled his hand away and dragged his fingers over your lips as he leaned in to smell your hair.
“P-Peter,” You grabbed for his wrist. “Stop.”
Your hand missed his and hit his shoulder instead. You shoved against him but he didn’t flinch. He was stronger than he looked. You tried to sit up but he caught your neck and held you to the pillow.
How long had you been asleep? How long had he been there?
“Peter, please,” You reached for his hand as it stretched across your throat. “What--”
“I won’t hurt you. I only want to keep you safe.” His breath was hot against your cheek as his lips brushed your skin. “Don’t you want to be safe?”
“Let me go, Peter,” You squeezed his wrist. “Please, you’re scaring me.”
“I’m scaring you?” His hand didn’t move but he pulled back to look you in the eye. “I’m protecting you.”
Your hand trembled as you pleaded again. His name died in the air.
“From the city.” He breathed. “From Rusk.”
“You-you are,” You rasped. “You’ve kept me safe, but...this...don’t you want me to feel safe. This isn’t--”
“You can’t see it. You aren’t safe. This city is dangerous and you need me.”
“I do need you, okay?” You bartered. “Of course I do, Peter, but...I need sleep, too. I’m very tired.”
“You don’t have to be afraid of me.” He shifted closer and your body tensed. “I’ll take care of you.”
“Peter--”
“Let me take care of you.” He moved lithely over you as he pulled your hand from his. He framed your face with his fingers and held your head in place. “Why won’t you let me take care of you?”
“Peter,” You exclaimed as the tears threatened to rise. This felt like some horrid nightmare. “W-We’re fr-friend, aren’t we? Friends don’t do this.”
He blinked. He glared at you and his face slowly softened. “Friends...no, we’re more than that.”
“Wh-what?”
“You’re mine. We’re meant to be. Can’t you see that?” His thumbs ran along your cheeks as his breath glossed over your lips. “In a city this big, to be brought together, it’s fate.”
You stared at him. Stunned, horrified. You didn’t know what to say.
“I’m not like him.” He hissed as his eyes turned dark. He focused on your lips hungrily. “I won’t use you, like him. Manipulate you.” You gulped as his lips hovered just above yours. “Violate you. Invade your space...steal from you.”
He pressed his mouth to yours and you squirmed beneath him. Your hands were caught under him. His torso was bare and the heat of his body shrouded you. You struggled to breathe as he kissed your forcefully, as he crushed himself against you. You felt his arousal as it poked you and your eyes rounded desperately.
He pulled away at last. His lips made a trail along your cheeks as he spoke between little pecks. “Can’t you see how much better I am than him? Than anyone?”
You wriggled under him but it only seemed to encourage him. You slipped your arms from beneath him and pushed against his sides. He drew his hands away from your face and caught your wrists. He pulled them up beside your head and pushed himself up as he pinned them to the mattress.
“Who does that, hmm? I’m better than him. I’d never...take your panties like some pervert. I’d never--”
“Panties?” You croaked and his eyes flashed. “How do you--Peter?”
“He’s just a pervert, don’t you understand? But I love you. I love all of you. I want all of you.”
He squeezed your wrists and you watched the muscles of his arms draw taut. His chest was broader than you imagined and his torso was finely lined. You stopped your eyes before they could venture further. He was naked.
“If you love me, Peter, you’ll wait. Wait for me, won’t you?” You cooed.
“Wait? I’ve waited.” He sneered. “I’ve watched you fawn after Rusk and I’m done waiting.”
“Peter, I don’t care about Rusk, I swear, but I’m not ready. I’m tired. I need... sleep. Can’t you wait for me…” You stared up into his dark eyes. “I-I--” Your nerves flurried wildly. You’d never been so afraid. “I love you, too.” You lied. “So won’t you wait?”
He exhaled and his lips parted. He blinked and a smile crawled across his lips. “You--Say it again.”
“I-I love you,” You whispered. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
He bent and kissed you again. This time harder, deeper. He didn’t stop until you were out of breath. Until your eyes were damp with tears. He sat back and straddled you between his thick thighs. You quickly looked away from his hard cock. He let go of your wrists but you didn’t move. You were too afraid.
He lifted himself slightly as he tugged the hem of your shirt free. He inched it up, his fingers feeling along your skin as he did. Your strength returned and you caught his hands before he could bare your chest. You were shaking.
“I want to wait, Peter.” You begged. “Don’t you love me?”
“I do, I do,” He rocked atop you, almost frantic. “I do but I can’t. I can’t wait. I need you. I love you so much.”
You whimpered as he twisted his hands away from you. His thighs pressed against you and reminded you of his strength. You closed your eyes as your arms fell to the mattress. You were so weak. So afraid. And you could do nothing.
He shoved your shirt over your chest and you heard the gasp fall from him. He pulled the fabric past your head and tossed it aside. He bent over you as he cupped your tits, his thumb circled your nipples. “Beautiful,” He groaned as nuzzled your skin.
His lips tickled along your cleave and the curve of your chest. His tongue teased your bud as his fingers played with the other. He closed his mouth around your nipple and teethed it softly. He purred and you bit your lip.
His touch stoked something within you. It wasn’t him, just the basest of your instincts. A carnal reaction long withheld.
He kneaded your flesh with hand and mouth. He tended to you as if you were delicate and yet so firmly you could not resist. You couldn’t think to. Was it fear? Was it weakness? Was it a latent desire you refused to accept?
Then he moved lower. His lips and teeth made the treacherous crawl along your stomach. The dread built as he moved further and further, as he lifted himself from your waist and his fingers tickled you. As he slid your shorts down your thighs and legs. As you let him.
You still didn’t move. You pressed your legs together but he easily wrenched them apart. Another confirmation of your helplessness.
His nose brushed along your vee and his warm breath crested your pelvis. His hands slipped up and he pressed his thumbs to your hip bones as he settled between your legs. You closed your legs around his head in an effort to keep him away but you only welcomed him closer. You looked down at him, eyes sparkling as he gazed back. Then slowly his focus descended.
He dipped his head and you writhed. Tried to get away but it was just as futile. He rubbed the tip of his nose along your pussy and his tongue followed shyly. He dragged it slowly along your lips then back down. He pushed between them and flicked over your clit.
You spasmed and his hands squeezed your hips. He repeated the motion and you cried out in surprise. His tongue was cool against your warm folds. It felt good even when your head told you it shouldn’t. He swirled around your bud and pressed his lips around it. He sucked and lapped then slipped his tongue down again. He drank you in and savoured your taste.
You covered your face as your other hand clawed at the blanket below. You whined, weak and wretched. You felt the rise. The ripple as it rolled along your spine. The buzzing in your thighs. The pulsing of your core. Every nerve wound together and his tongue untangled them all at once.
You rocked your pelvis into his face as you came. Wanting him to stop but not. You needed more. The release was overwhelming and left you dizzy. And he kept on. He teased your overly sensitive clit so that you squirmed. Until another climax rose and you bit into your hand to keep from screaming. And still he kept on.
You were breathless and baffled when he finally lifted his head. Your sight was blurry as you shyly looked down at him. His lips glistened as they came into focus and he crawled over you. He kissed you; wet and warm. You could taste your sweetness as he forced his tongue against yours.
He snaked his arms up under your back and hooked his hands around your shoulders. He pushed his thighs to yours as he lifted you. He sat up with you against him. You hung from his grasp as his lips wrestled with yours. He kept you aloft with one arm as he felt around between you.
You flinched as you felt his tip against you. He grazed your clit and you twitched. He pressed along your folds and stopped at your entrance. He pulled away from your lips and looked into your eyes as he pushed his head inside of you. You grabbed his shoulders and tired to shove yourself away from him. His arm clung to you tightly.
He eased into you until he bottomed out. He sighed and his hand grasped your hip. He began to rock you against him, his own pelvis tilting with yours. He hummed and kissed your jaw, nibbled along your neck, and bit into the flesh of your throat. He sucked as he moved you against him. And you were horrified as you let him.
He felt good. He shouldn’t, but he did. You slung your arms over his shoulders without thinking and chased the peak before you. He moved you faster, harder against him. You felt your juices spreading between your bodies. His hand slid down your back and he stretched his fingers across your ass. He guided your body and you followed his lead.
You were panting, desperate for another orgasm. Your clit rubbed against him with each rock of your hips. With each thrust, you moved faster, eager to reach the pinnacle. You gasped and groaned. A voice told you it was wrong but it didn’t feel wrong.
Peter buried his head in your chest. He hummed as he took a nipple in his mouth and bounced you against him. Your fingers dug into the muscles of his back and you threw your head back. You came with a sharp cry. Your body shook against his and the world dissembled. The worries in the back of your mind drowned beneath the waves.
He fell forward until your back was to the mattress. He thrust into you as your legs curled around him. His hand was at your chin again, cradling your face as he lifted his lips to yours. He kissed you, consumed you.
He moaned into your mouth and his hips stammered. His motion turned erratic and he lifted his head to grit back a roar. The tension squared his jaw and drained from him all at once. He sank into you as deep as he could go, long soft strokes as he came.
He dropped down over you, his head beside yours as he panted. He shuddered and groaned. His body went limp atop you, his fingers lazily caressed your cheek. The glow sloughed away and the room grew darker. The lines were bolder, the shadows more sinister, the colours greyed.
You pulled your arms back and pushed on his shoulder. He didn’t move. Didn’t even react. You tried again and slowly he lifted his head. He pushed himself into you as deep as he could go and you whimpered.
“Can’t you feel how much I love you?” He didn’t relent. Didn’t pull back as your walls strained around him. “Can’t you?”
You nodded, unable to speak. He was stabbing your cervix painfully and you just wanted him away from you.
“I can feel your love.” He thrust and poked you again. You squeaked. “You love me.” He began to move steadily. “You love me.” He repeated with each tilt of his hips. “You love me.” You closed your eyes as the mantra filled the room. “You love me.”
“I love you,” You croaked through your tears. “I love you.”
But he didn’t stop. He wouldn’t.
You were trapped in the spider’s web. Live prey paralysed as he wrapped his legs around you. As he devoured you entirely.
🕷️ 🕷️ 🕷️
#peter parker#dark peter parker#dark peter parker x reader#dark!peter parker#dark!peter parker x reader#spider-man#mcu#marvel#fic#dark!fic#raffle#raffle fic#dark fic#dark!verse#aged-up peter#darkverse#au
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license to kill - nakamoto yuta | part 2
part two to my yuta bodyguard!au. heres the link to part one if you haven’t read it yet :)
2.7k words, fluff&angst, slow-burn <3
You woke back in your room, with (surprise, surprise) Nakamoto inches from your face. Gasping in a breath of air, you shot upwards in bed as the boy jumped back with cat-like reflexes. You immediately let out an involuntary groan as pain shot through your leg. Closing your eyes to bear the brunt of your injury, you asked, with gritted teeth,
‘What happened?’
‘You got in the car and passed out.’ Nakamoto replied, infuriatingly neutrally.
‘How did you-’
‘97% of hostages always make a attempt at escape within the first twenty-four hours of captivity.’
‘So you admit it?’
‘W-’
‘That I’m a hostage!’
Nakamoto let out a puff of air. You supposed that was the closest he ever got to a sigh. ‘You’ve added a month of recovery time to your leg.’
‘Why won’t you let me go home?’
‘This is my job.’ He ran his hand through his slicked-back hair. You took the moment of silence to look around the room. Your entire suitcase had been unpacked, from your Burberry trenches in the cupboard, to your stack of Vogue’s fanned out on the desk. Nakamoto himself was still wearing a hideously dad-like knitted sweater, an item of clothing you were beginning to fear he possessed an extensive collection of.
‘Do you want anything?’
‘Huh?’ You snapped your gaze back up to his face.
‘I’m making dinner.’
You were taken aback. ‘Um. Pasta?’
‘Oh. I’ve made curry.’
You swore you could see the first glint of humour in his eyes as he turned around to attend to the kitchen.
-
Three weeks into being quarantined with Nakamoto, and your leg had still not healed. Apparently you had at least six months before it was normal, and another three until you could even walk with crutches. At the moment, you were being carried around the cabin by your silent bodyguard - which hadn’t stopped you from asking questions at any hour of the day.
You had decided on a different plan of attack. Get to know Nakamoto, butter him up, and then manipulate him into doing anything you wanted. It had worked on every nanny or other bodyguard you had had previously, so there was no reason why it wouldn’t work on him. Besides, without your electronic lifeline to the real world, what else was there to do?
‘What’s your star sign?’ You asked at breakfast.
‘Are you a cat or a dog person?’ As he cleaned the kitchen.
‘What's your favourite Taylor Swift song?’ Whilst piggybacking to the living room.
‘Can you ride a bike?’ Over veggie burgers at lunch.
‘Were you better at Maths or English at school?’ As he hoovered around the sofa.
‘What’s your go-to karaoke song?’ As you tried to peer over his shoulder to peek at his laptop screen.
‘Who’s your celebrity crush?’ Kicked off the (one-sided) dinner conversation.
‘How many languages do you speak?’ As he flicked off your bedroom lights.
You asked questions constantly, relentless in your delivery. You lost sleep wracking your brain to think of new ones to ask the next day. Your persistence had continued for just under a week before finally-
‘Murakami.’
‘What?’ You had been lounging in your favourite armchair, curled up by the fire, but you shot straight up, ignoring the pain in your leg at the sudden movement, to twist around in shock.
Nakamoto had been sitting at the desk in the corner, hunched over his laptop, as always - so still you weren’t sure if he had actually spoken at all.
‘My favourite author is Murakami. You asked this morning.’
‘Oh!’ You felt a grin creep onto your face. ‘Cool!’ You dared not ask another question, for fear of scaring him into silence again.
‘He writes in Japanese. Translates the novels into English himself.’ Nakamoto stood up, walking smoothly across the room to you. He deposited a book on your lap.
‘Colourless-’
‘-Tsuru Tazaki-’ He joined in with you as you finished reading the title together.
‘-And his Years of Pilgrimage.’
‘It’s short.’ You remark, pleased.
‘It’s not my favourite, but its,’ he paused, picking his words, ‘probably more accessible for you.’
You huffed, pretending to be offended in an attempt to hide your relief. You didn’t think you’d read a book since English class in Eighth Grade.
‘Guess I’ll read it then,’ You sighed, as he made his way to the kitchen to start preparing lunch. ‘It’s not like I have anything better to do!’ You called after his retreating figure.
Staring down at the book on your lap, you groaned. Great. You thought. As if my life couldn’t get any worse. Now I have to read to make this stupid boy fall in love with me.
-
A week later, however, you were singing a different tune. You put the book down, more or less for the first time since you had first picked it up, and screamed at the top of your lungs.
‘NAKAMOTOOOO!’
You could barely finish the word when he materialised at the door, visibly out of breath.
‘What’s wrong? Has someone broken in? Is it your leg? I told you not to slide down the stai-’
‘I finished it!’ You squealed, watching him slump against the doorframe.
‘Jesus, I thought you were-’
‘It was amazing! The best book I’ve ever read! Do you have any more?’
Nakamoto straightened and blinked a few times, frowning at you slightly. ‘Well- I, um- yeah. What did you like about the book?’
‘Oh, um, everything! The characters were amazing, and the dreams were sick! Do you have any more?’
‘Ok.’ He paused, seeming to be mulling over something in his head. ‘How about you write down what was good - on a post-it note. Or whatever. And I’ll find you another one of his books that’s similar.’
Now it was your turn to blanch. ‘You want a book report?’
You thought you could see Nakamoto’s cheeks flush a minute shade darker, however you couldn’t be sure from across the room. ‘No, not like- If you don’t want to, I’m not going to force you, it would just be easier if I-’
‘No, no, that’s cool!’
A pause.
‘Ok. Um, get it to me whenever.’ Nakamoto slowly turned, and left the room. You realised that was the first time you have ever seen him even close to flustered.
Damn. You thought to yourself. Who would’ve thought that reading was the way to that man’s heart?
-
Colourless Tsukuru Tazaki and his Years of Pilgrimage
- Characters multi-dimensional, complex, well-thought-out
- Mystery within plot - ambiguities
- Dreams presented in an unusual way
★★★★★!! Thank you Nakamoto! ☺
You sighed, staring down at the note. For what was essentially three sentences, it came as a surprise to you that it had taken you the majority of the afternoon to craft. You found yourself asking again, whether or not it was too friendly, or too cold. You leaned back in your chair, groaning loudly.
‘Everything ok?’ Nakamoto had materialised in your doorway.
You jumped out of your skin. ‘What?! Oh, um, yeah.’ You let out a vapid giggle. ‘Here’s the review!’ You shoved the book into his hand, staring determinedly down at your feet.
-
Three months into your prison sentence, you had read pretty much everything Murakami had written. You had surprised even yourself - reading so avidly you were pretty much one of his biggest fans now. This week, you were going so far as to read his memoir.
However, the one thing within your literary awakening that had, frustratingly, stayed completely the same, was Nakamoto’s silence. He stayed stoically monosyllabic despite the fact your persistent questions had continued at the same force as that first week. Your only form of communication was limited to the post-it notes you shoved into the pages of your novels. You had expanded your reviews to include reactions to the happenings within the pages. Every time a character reacted, or event occurred, you added a small post-it note with your shock, elation or anger in response. The books were then returned to Nakamoto in silence, and after a week or so, appeared back on your desk, with tiny, capitalised responses to your post-its.
What?! Noo, Toru, why?!!
ʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ ɢᴏ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴇʟʟ - ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴄᴏᴠᴇʀ ʜɪs ᴡɪғᴇ!! ʜᴏᴡ ᴅᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ɪɴsᴜʟᴛ ʜɪᴍ
Sumire and K better get together - I swear!!
ᴏғ ᴄᴏᴜʀsᴇ ʏᴏᴜ sᴜᴘᴘᴏʀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏsᴛ ᴜɴʜᴇᴀʟᴛʜʏ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴsʜɪᴘ ᴏғ ᴀʟʟ ᴛɪᴍᴇ.... ᴛʏᴘɪᴄᴀʟ
Your banter went on for chapters and chapters. You had discovered Nakamoto was surprisingly smart, not to mention witty - he always had a sharp retort for your comments: it was very rare that the two of you agreed on, well anything. He was infuriatingly stubborn and cynical - always expecting the worst from the characters, always rooting against the couples.
However, that didn’t prevent, despite Nakamoto’s clear resistance, the two of you developing - not a friendship, exactly, but more like a... comradeship, you supposed. He refused to engage in live conversation, but was clearly eager to discuss literature. You suspected he was just as bored as you were.
You were able to walk by yourself now, shuffling around the cabin on crutches, thanking your lucky stars that your bedroom was on the first floor, and so the main contact you had with him was when he brought you meals, and of course, the dialogue you sustained through the post-it notes.
That’s why you were surprised when one evening he paused before leaving your room. He seemed to be internally debating on whether or not to say anything.
‘Nakamoto?’ You dared.
‘I’m going down to the village tomorrow.’ He blurted out, avoiding your gaze. ‘We’re almost out of food, and well, books.’
‘Oh.’ You had to agree, as your dinner for the past few days had essentially consisted of some kind of bean stew, which, no matter how delicious Nakamoto made taste, was starting to get slightly repetitive.
‘You could come. No one will recognise you, and it’s easier than worrying-’ He cleared his throat. ‘-wondering if you’ve tried to kill yourself walking down those steps again.’
Your eyes widened. ‘Really?’
He shrugged. ‘As long as you wear a coat. You seem to reject the cold weather as if catching hypothermia is optional.’
‘A hoe never gets cold!’ You breezed back, out of habit. It was a response you were used to giving when traipsing around cities in the winter in your mini-dresses, all for the pursuit of fashion.
You did not anticipate the way Nakamoto choked, red flushing into his ears. ‘Um, just-’ He collected himself, smoothing back out his posture and facial expression. ‘8AM tomorrow. Be ready.’
And with that, he was gone.
-
That next morning, you were up by 6:30, dragging yourself to your bedside table to get organised. The majority of last night had been spent picking out an outfit - you were surprised at how much effort you were putting in to go meet a bunch of primitive villagers in the middle of nowhere, But hey, you guessed to yourself, being trapped inside for three months changes a person.
By 7:30 your makeup had been completed, and your outfit donned, aside from the Dior gilet, hat and gloves which you had picked out as a compromise to Nakamoto’s berating. This had surprised you - you were not exactly a person who compromised. It felt strange, but not in a bad way - which surprised you even more.
As soon as Nakamoto walked into your room at 8:55 he scoffed at your outfit.
‘What?’ You recoiled at the twinge of hurt that had stung your stomach.
‘Do you really think walking into that village with a monogrammed-designer-sleeveless-coat-thing is going to help you blend in? Take this.’ He tossed you the plan black coat that had been draped over his arm.
‘What about-’
‘I have a spare. I’ll go get it.’
You sighed, turning towards your mirror as you swapped your coats. You looked... ordinary. A pair of (albeit perfectly tailored) jeans that could easily be passed off as - you shuddered - off-the-rack, a nondescript black coat, and a singular snow shoe - your other leg covered with a medical boot. Applying another coat of lipgloss, you rolled your eyes. Whatever. At least Nakamoto won’t laugh at me again.
-
Walking through the village, you were forced to lean on Nakamoto’s arm, as he half-dragged you through the snow. You made slow progress, stopping at various butcher shops, bakeries and delis in order to stock up on food for the next few months. It was almost an hour before you had completed your purchases, walking down the singular high street. You were about to turn around, when-
‘Nakamoto! A bookstore!’ You gasped, turning to him with shining eyes.
‘We’re only here for foo-’
‘Oh, don’t be silly.’ You dragged him along, hobbling through the door in your excitement.
Brushing the snow off of your good foot, you abandoned your bodyguard, hopping around the store in pursuit of more Murakami. The small building was deceptively large on the inside, boasting multiple floors, and countless shelves. After having searched for just under ten minutes, you were infuriated to discover you had already read all the Murakami novels in stock - which meant Nakamoto definitely had. Disappointed, but undeterred, you kept sifting through the bookshelf, eagerly searching for something - though you were not sure exactly what. After another few minutes, you turned around triumphantly, ready to barge over to Nakamoto, only to discover he was standing right behind you.
‘Naka- oh!’ You exclaimed, staring up at him. ‘I found this for you - we should read it together!’ You shoved the book into his hands as you rambled on. ‘It’s called Out, and though it’ll be different stylistically it looks like it explores themes that act as the antithesis of-’
‘Thank you.’ He murmured, taking the book from your grasp.
Your gaze shot down as you watched his fingers brush against yours. You almost jumped out of your skin at the electric shock that zipped through his touch.
Nakamoto had turned to bring the book to the cashier, but you were frozen in place. This was like nothing you had ever felt before. Sure, you had had crushes, and boyfriends, but nothing had ever felt the way Nakamoto’s fingertips on yours had.
What the fuck.
‘Are you coming or not?’ He called from the counter, and you limped to his side, now hyperaware of the inches of distance between you.
‘You two look so cute!’ The old lady working the til enthused. ‘You reminded me of my husband and I, right when we first started dating.’
‘Oh, we’re not-’ You tried to clarify.
‘-That serious yet!’ Nakamoto beamed at the woman, throwing his arm around you, and sending another shockwave through your body. ‘But thank you for the compliment, it’s very nice of you!’
He grabbed the paper bag and whisked you out of the store quicker than you thought humanly possible.
‘What was that about?!’ You spluttered, cheeks heating up.
‘What’s going to look more suspicious - a young rich couple holidaying in the alps, or two random strangers appearing in the village?’ He asked.
You didn’t know how to respond, lost for words with your bodyguard for the first time in your entire life. You followed him to the car in silence.
What did this mean? All this time, you had thought that you were skilfully manipulating Nakamoto into developing feelings for you, when it suddenly seemed like all this time, he had been doing this to you. This wasn’t like you. Feelings didn’t sneak up on you like tax payments - you were always the one initiating, and then ending relationships, without a care in the world for consequences. You didn't understand what these new feelings for Nakamoto meant, and you sure as hell didn’t like them.
Dealing with all of your newfound emotions, you barely noticed your stoic bodyguard until the car was parked, and you realised with a start the two of you had been sitting in silence for at least five minutes.
‘Yuta.’ He muttered.
‘What?’ You turned to look at him,
‘It’s my real name. Nakamoto is my surname, but Yuta is my first name.’
You stared into his eyes, his electric gaze crackling the air in the car around you.
‘Yuta,’ you murmured, leaning in slowly.
#Yuta#yuta fanfic#yuta nakamoto#yuta boyfriend#yuta fluff#yuta nakamoto x reader#yuta scenarios#yuta slow burn#nct slow burn#bodyguard au#yuta bodyguard au#nct fic#nct scenario#nct fluff#nct au#yuta au#nakamoto yuta#yuta nct
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Alone Amongst the Gum Trees Part 4 - Digital News Report: Australia - A Murdoch Review
NOTE - this article has been migrated to Medium. As of 2021, A Taswegian Abroad will be closed down, and all of my writing will be published on my Medium profile.
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After seeing a significant public outcry to my story based on a response to Sally McManus on twitter - I recently spoke with the ABC on being an Aussie overseas and the challenges we’ve faced getting home. The failure once again of Morrison’s government to provide enough vaccines and a proper quarantine system (covered up by the Murdoch Press protection racket) is having real implications on everyday Australians.
I strongly believe that for this to change, the media needs to perform its function of holding both elected officials, and their peers in the press, accountable for such actions.
Until Australia has reestablished media fairness among the press, improved media literacy amongst its citizens, and have mostly removed the cancer of Murdoch’s News Corp dominating mainstream media, we will never break this cycle of government ineptitude, gaslighting, negligence, and outright corruption with little to almost zero accountability.
You don't need to look far for proof. The ones that immediately come to mind for me:
2020 Bushfires and consistent climate change denial - "I don't hold a hose mate"
Freedom of speech is threatened where internet comedians get arrested in their own homes for making jokes about a LNP Deputy Premier
Kate and the horrendous Christian Porter alleged rape case
The four stage plan to make a plan about having a plan for Covid, 18 months into the pandemic, with literally no dates or vaccination targets.
Back in March, I caught onto calls for a Murdoch Royal Commission by former prime minister Kevin Rudd, and since then I’ve been keeping a very sharp eye on the Australian media landscape.
Despite over 500,000 petition signatures and the ramping exposure by Rudd online (leading to a full senate enquiry), the Murdoch press is doing its best to discredit, misdirect, or, blatantly ignore the storm that’s brewing. A couple of major things have caught my attention since that date.
News Corp outlets are still consistently cowing their competitors at Nine, Seven, the ABC, and more into towing the pro-Coalition narrative THEY choose, or, risk facing character assassination. This applies to everyone who dares step out of line: reporters, ministers, producers, senators, editors, presenters, janitors��� no one is safe.
This sort of behaviour and influence is not easy to show on graphs and charts, but if you read between the lines, you can see it. Let me show you.
The ABC Presents the Data
In April of 2021, the ABC published a fact-file article outlining the power of the Murdoch press - the first article from an at least somewhat reputable source addressing this that I’ve seen on this topic.
The biggest things I took from it are that despite there seeming to be a diverse ownership pool across many mediums, News Corp (Murdoch) newspapers significantly dominate the national market for print papers, and, have recently been crowned leaders of the #1 source of news for Australians: social media (via mostly viral, opinion, and video based content primarily from News.com.au and Sky News pages on Facebook and YouTube).
Remember this point - spoiler alert: it’s important.
At the recent senate enquiries, News Corp claims there is in fact diversity - focusing on different mediums such as online, social media, radio, television etc. available to represent “diversity”. This is response refers to medium diversity, and is quite frankly a misdirection based on a technicality to avoid the real question. Classic News Corp.
Rudd says “each story published online or broadcast over the airwaves finds its point of origin in a print story, often a Murdoch print story". The former PM is referring to content diversity where factual reporting reigns supreme, and different points of view are given equal time in the sun without the blurring of opinion and fact.
As Kevin likes to say: “pigs might fly”
While you might be thinking “so what? News Corp is strong in print and social, Nine is strong for television and online news, ABC is strong on radio and social, Seven is strong on radio and television etc” - I’d like to ask you a question: where then is the accountability for elected officials in the media?
The Murdoch press won’t say a word about the Coalition’s ever growing laundry list of corruption, negligence, ineptitude or incompetence, but if a Labor politician sneezes, they’re likely to be labelled a Covid super spreader on the front page of 15 national and state papers the next day.
How about this doozy from the Herald Sun in May 2021 after Dan Andrews quite literally broke his back and took medical leave:
I didn’t see one peep from the Murdoch reptiles about Morrison's three day actual disappearing act only last week after his bogus "AstraZeneca is OK for under 40’s / go to your GP” comments.
The key thing to point out here is that the news provider who ranks number one in Australia's largest news medium (social media) is a well known right wing protection racket that doesn’t show any signs of slowing down, and there's mountains of evidence that exists to prove they don’t play a fair game.
Let’s Go To the Numbers
To really drill down into how important online media control is, I found the Digital News Report: Australia 2021 (i.e “the report” for the rest of this article), recently published by the University of Canberra by way of the Reuters Digital News Report: 2021
Below I've outlined a number of key headers from the report, and more specifically tried to point out exactly where Murdoch and News Corp are exploiting and manipulating their way into control. The data shows us both what has been going on, and the direction it will likely continue in.
Having worked in digital marketing for the better part of the last four years, I couldn’t wait to dive into this data and explain just how much of a rort this all is for the sake of profit.
1: Local News
Replaced by Murdoch Sky News, Invests in Social Media
“For ‘hard news’ such as local politics, economy, crime and health, local news consumers continue to turn to traditional local news outlets, such as the newspaper or TV. However, for most other news and information, consumers are using internet search and other internet sites to get localised information.”
The report tells us that:
“2020 was a difficult year in Australian news sector, with news companies closing or suspended. This is in part a response to the COVID-19 pandemic, but it reflects a longer-term gradual decline in newspaper consumption that is replaced by online offerings”
So why did the BBC report in 2020 that Murdoch shuts 112 Australia print papers in major digital shift? CNN covered it too, as did the Guardian. I couldn’t find anything on a Murdoch owned site or outlet. That’s because Rupert is rolling out “Sky News Regional” to replace them all.
The report outlines:
“This year’s data highlights the important role of newspapers in generating a sense of community, particularly among older news consumers . Further, newspapers are perceived to be the best source of information about local government and politics, which is central to the functioning and accountability of local communities. It is important for industry and government to remember that the closure of a local newspaper not only leaves a gap in the provision of quality news, but also a loss of critical information that is connected to people’s sense of attachment to their community”
How on earth does one far-right Sydney run “news” channel represent hundreds of regional communities? Answer: It doesn’t - it’s designed to influence regional voters to think the way that suits the Murdoch press agenda.
2: Impartiality of News
Murdoch Cuts ABC Funding via Coalition, Ramps-Up Online Polarisation
The report tells us that
“traditionally, values of independence, and impartiality — or ‘objectivity’ — have been central to journalism’s mission and deemed important to perceptions of trust in news. However, in the digital media environment, former demarcations between news, features, opinion, and advertising continue to blur.
“News audiences are becoming more polarised and are increasingly attracted to news brands that offer partisan perspectives.”
What you’re seeing here is that while the data reveals a strong desire for news outlets to attempt fairness, balance, and an impartial approach to reporting - the demographics more likely to use social media (the medium that Murdoch now leads, mostly containing Millennials and Gen Z) are less supportive of impartiality, neutrality and giving equal time. More on this in Part 8.
On the flip side:
"news consumers who prefer impartiality are much more likely to say they distrust news on social media.”
“Both the 2020 and 2021 data highlight that these traditional journalism ideals are more strongly supported by older generations and those who use traditional sources of news."
You need not look further than the blatant defunding of the ABC to see how the Murdoch Cancer continues to take over.
So, if the majority of Australians believe the ABC is impartial and does a “good job”, why has the ABC had $783m in funding cut since 2014 by the Coalition government?
Seems to suit the Murdoch agenda pretty nicely.
3: News Representation
Low Media Literacy in Under-Represented Demographics
“Importantly, a large proportion of Australians say they don’t know if the amount of media coverage of ‘people like them’ is sufficient or fair. Those who have low education are much more likely to say they don’t know. This indicates a lack of engagement and adequate media literacy to identify misrepresentation and bias in the news.
“Combined with a lack of awareness about misinformation, lower interest in and consumption of news, these findings confirm the ongoing need for targeted media literacy interventions"
The only way the public can push back against misinformation is by knowing they’re witnessing it first hand. That does not suit what Murdoch is selling.
Misinformation breeds confusion, smoke and mirrors, and is aided by political spin, gaslighting and stone throwing to keep people moderately confused and ultimately giving up on understanding the “truth”, or, deciding their own convenient version of truth.
The closure of the Australian Alternative Press due to revoked funding by Nine and News Corp in 2020 should be enough to tell you the media landscape is gravitating consistently to the right.
4: News Access
People Losing Interest, Murdoch Keeps the Elderly Onside
As traditional mediums (television, radio, and print) are on the decline, social media and online news is on the rise with the aid of mobile device popularity (45% of Australians preferred news devices).
It's not a surprise to learn that during COVID-19, older Australians have increasingly turned to social media platforms to get news.
“The percentage of 75+ who use social media as their main source of news has more than tripled in two years from 3% to 10%. Among this age group, social media is now comparable to print use.” the report states.
While it’s hard to point this as a direct plot by News Corp, this is still great news for Murdoch. All News Corp had to do was weaken the traditional mediums that aren’t making them as much money, and push the audience toward social media. It worked.
75+ votes still count, and they are more likely to click the “clickbait” articles to make News Corp that sweet, sweet ad platform revenue.
5: Emerging New Habits
Murdoch Funds the Fuel for the Fire
Despite people being somewhat varied on their social media usage for news specifically, the important statistic here is that more than half of Australians consume news videos.
The below statistics from the ABC should set alarm bells screaming. To put it plainly:
More people on social media than ever before
Murdoch ramps up social media content (Facebook posts / videos & YouTube videos mainly), then mega-funds paid advertising on said content
Drives subscribers and views through the roof
Overtakes ABC (yes, the one he’s got his politician friends/puppets actively defunding)
Don’t believe me? See for yourself.
The ABC outlines that:
“Fact Check has analysed audience data for media accounts on what Canberra University found were the two most popular platforms: Facebook (used by 39 per cent of news consumers ) and YouTube (21 per cent).”
“Data from the analytics site Social Blade shows that Sky News Australia's YouTube channel had more than a million subscribers at the start of 2021, having doubled its following in just six months. Its subscriber base began to pull ahead of Channel 7 and Channel 9 from mid-2020, and by March 2021 Sky had overtaken ABC News”
The University of Canberra report aligns to these trends, and summaries that:
“Australian news consumers are accessing news online from a diverse range of sources including news videos, podcast apps, and numerous social media platforms alongside traditional branded news websites.”
“Although social (media) is the most common main pathway to news online it is common for consumers on Facebook, Twitter, YouTube and Instagram to say they mostly see news incidentally while they are on those platforms for other reasons.”
6: Trust and Misinformation
Rupert’s Bread & Butter
“Tackling disinformation and misinformation is complex and won’t be solved by platforms alone. Responsibility must be shared across governments, digital platforms, users, news media and society to make sure Australians can access accurate and reliable news and information online, while ensuring rights to freedom of expression are protected.”
Creina Chapman, Deputy Chair, Australian Communications and Media Authority
This in part ties back to my earlier points in part 3 regarding media literacy - the report indicates that trust remains high where people use both multiple mediums AND multiple sources for news. This is further compounded by the evidence that low educated readers are less likely to know they’ve encountered misinformation.
The report confirms this by indicating:
“The differences between high and low educated Australian consumers in relation to concern about COVID-19 misinformation and their ability to discern it, points to an ongoing need to boost media and information literacy among socio-economically disadvantaged groups in Australia”
The ABC and SBS still continue to be the most trusted brands, however, it needs to be highlighted that “Local or Regional Newspaper” comes in third (62% trustworthy) - the vast majority of which Murdoch owns.
In 2020, survey participants were most concerned about Australian governments and politicians being sources of general misinformation (35%), followed by activists or activist groups (20%).
Despite this, 2021 shows that trust in news has increased in 2021 (43%), rebounding off trust associated with COVID-19 news reporting. The report breaks this down further:
“The data show(s) that concern about journalism as a source of misinformation about COVID-19 is very low (9%). In 2018, we asked about ‘fake news’ and 63% of news consumers said they were concerned about poor quality journalism as a source of ‘fake news’, and 40% said they had encountered it. This signals a possible positive shift in perception of journalism after 12 months of reporting expert health advice about the COVID-19 pandemic.”
"The data also highlight(s) ongoing low levels of trust in news found on social media (18%) compared to trust in news generally. Given much of the news encountered on digital platforms is the same as that which appears on the homepages and front pages of well-respected news brands, the findings suggest that the nature of the online environment itself is one the factors lowering perceptions of trust, rather than the news content."
Creina Chapman, Deputy Chair, Australian Communications and Media Authority states in the report that:
“In the context of online news, nearly two-thirds of Australians remain concerned about what is real and fake on the internet. And a variety of surveys over the past 12 months have shown a concerning portion of the population believe dangerous falsehoods about COVID-19 that have been circulating online.
"Any lack of trust in authoritative or reliable sources of news and information is particularly worrisome during a global pandemic, as it may drive people to spaces where misinformation is more prevalent. This, in turn, increases exposure to false conspiratorial narratives that can result in real-world harm to both individual users and broader societal institutions”
Where does Murdoch benefit here? Same as always: smoke, mirrors, confusion, and spin all wrapped into enormous volumes of social media content.
7: Paying for News and Funding Journalism
Conveniently Avoiding the Issue
“To ensure media diversity and plurality in Australia, a mix of substantive, fiscal measures is necessary to support, transition and stimulate existing news businesses and encourage new entrants”
Anna Draffin, Chief Executive Officer, Public Interest Journalism Initiative
Despite a fair and balanced media being a must-have for any democracy - this is not surprising, given the low amounts of trust for online media content. Overall, given that Australians are not concerned about the poor financial state of news outlets, it’s sad but not surprising that many feel the government should not step in to help.
What is the most dangerous here is the simple fact that when there’s no money to fund decent and ethical journalism, we end up with tabloids, opinion pieces, shock jocks, and anything that just gets you to first: SEE it (an “impression” in the marketing world) and second: CLICK on it. Both of these things make News Corp richer.
Here’s the report evidence:
“A quarter (25%) of left-wing news consumers and 27% of centre-leaning are supportive of government intervention (to assist struggling journalism). However, more than half of right-wing (58%) news consumers are opposed to government assistance for financially struggling news companies."
“This is consistent with the findings that left-wing news consumers are more likely to say they are concerned about the financial state of news businesses (41%) compared to centre (37%) or right-wing (34%) news consumers”.
News consumers who think their political views are represented fairly for online news are another win for Murdoch. This is compounded by the fact that those who think news should take a position are also more likely to pay for that news.
That means if the mainstream media is pro-right wing, for example, then more people look at right wing news and pay for right wing reporting, ultimately leaving the left without funding, and fighting a losing battle. All Murdoch needs to do is discredit who he deems as “left” and it’s game over.
But Murdoch doesn’t need subscriptions. That’s just pocket money for him. With the introduction of the News Media Bargaining Code, Rupert & News Corp continue to improve their financial revenue streams through digital marketing strategies (views and clicks) without needing people to pay for fact based, objective journalism.
8: Political Orientation
Stealing the Centre & Making Opinion the “News”
Of all the elements of this report, this one shocks and upsets me the most.
The majority of Australians (61%) identify with the centre-left of politics (30% political ‘centre’ and 31% identify as either ‘very left-wing’, ‘fairly left-wing’ or ‘slightly left of centre’).
Only 22% of Australians align themselves with the right wing, and 18% don’t know their political orientation.
Younger generations have historically been the drivers of progressive social change, and younger Australians are more concerned about the environment and the impacts of things like climate change and equality.
Clare Armstrong, National Political Reporter at the The Daily Telegraph outlines in the commentary that:
“many young Australians may rightly feel their futures, livelihoods and social activities have been either jeopardised or overlooked by a centre-right government, and subsequently a larger cohort has been pushed toward the left”
To begin in closing, based on this - how do Conservative/Right Wing parties keep winning federal elections?
It’s by doing exactly what we’ve mentioned in the first 7 sections:
Flooding the online and social media landscape with non-factual spin and confusion
This is aided by the bedrock of owning the majority of national, capital city, and regional papers which in turn steer the daily political narrative on television/radio
This is all driven home by bullying competitors into following suit, or, suffering the consequences
There is no governing or peer run body with teeth (or guts) to hold Murdoch and News Corp responsible or accountable
According to the report;
“Younger generations, who say they feel less attached to their local community, and who also access social media widely for general news, are more likely to seek local news and information from the internet and online platforms.”
As Clare Armstrong also states:
“Social media has significantly fuelled political polarisation in the last decade as its algorithms, by design, show users more of what they want to see, rather than a broader mix of ideas presented in traditional media.”
In summary - this quote from the Political Orientation trends leaves a long-lasting impression on my psyche:
“Left-wing news consumers (61% of the country) are more comfortable with news that takes a position rather than maintaining neutrality.”
Rupert has them right where he wants them: thinking that opinion is news.
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The Last Thing
Pairings: Y/N Stacy & Peter Parker
Summary: Peter is not dealing with his friend’s death very well.
Loosely based on true and personal events.
Words: ~2900
Warnings: Mentions of death. Yelling. Blaming.
A/N: AU, Peter and Gwen are friends. Y/N is Gwen’s older sister. Gwen is an Avenger and has been in all the fights instead of Peter.
This is for @jbbarnesnnoble‘s mental health awareness challenge. I chose “How do you even begin to move on?” It won’t be a quote, but it’ll be in bold. Takes place after Endgame.
Dear Peter,
I’m not going to beat around the bush. I’ve never been known to anyways. If you’re reading this, that means I’m either dead or in some sort of close-to-death coma, probably the former.
I’m writing this the day before I leave for Berlin. Sorry I didn’t tell you about it but Tony Stark came to me so I’m assuming it has to stay on the DL. Yeah, you read that right. Tony freaking Stark! He hasn’t told me much but I’m assuming some sort of drama with the Accords. Why he came to me and not you, I’m not sure. Maybe just because I go out more and there’s more youtube videos of me than you. Or maybe he didn’t want the “friendly neighborhood Spiderman.” He wanted someone tougher. Haha just kidding.
Anywho... back to the reason for this letter. I want you to take my place. Queens still needs someone to take care of it, and since I’m no longer around, it’s gotta be you. We were both in that lab and got bit by those radioactive spiders. Who thought making spiders radioactive was a good idea anyways? We went through all the weird hardships with these new powers together and managed without anyone finding out….except my sister. (and apparently Tony Stark.)
Speaking of Y/N, I’m putting her in your care. You are now responsible for her. I’m only kind of sorry. She’s the only one that knows about this letter.
Hopefully you don’t have to read this immediately following this impromptu trip to Berlin, or at all in 2016. Or, you know, ever. Hopefully I can grow old and retire SpiderGwen. Wait, those are two different things, let me rephrase that: hopefully I can stop saving the day around 25 and then retire when I’m old and wrinkly and burn this letter so you never have to even know it existed.
If you are reading this and made it this far, I want you to know that I believe in you. It is hard being a hero. Sometimes you have to make tough decisions, but you’re a smart guy. I know you will be great. Better than me, probably.
You’re the best basically-brother I could ever ask for. Spiderman is destined for great things. I know it.
Gwen
Present day, May 2023
When it first happened - when half the universe was brought back - Y/N came looking for Peter immediately. After that first weird day back to school, she found him..and that was weird too. She used to only be one year older than him and Gwen, and now she was clearly 6 years older than him. She’d asked if he’d seen her in class, and he said no. She covered her mouth and started crying right there. It confused him at the time, but in hindsight, he realized she knew at that moment that Gwen was dead. Her family got the call from Nick Fury himself that night.
Besides the big bad, Thanos he thinks, there were only two casualties. “Only” two on the heroes side, when there’s usually zero. They were Gwen and Tony Stark. So not only did Peter lose his best friend, he lost his idol as well, and even though he never got to meet him, it still hurts. A little. He died bringing back the half of humanity that was blipped, a truly heroic act, but Gwen died so that that could happen. She’s hardly ever mentioned in news reports or anything.
It’s been almost two months. TWO.
Peter read the letter again. He did almost once a day. The fold creases were already very worn and the page had been stained with tears many times over. He still just couldn’t believe she was actually gone. Being brought back after getting blipped was enough to deal with but now his closest friend was dead. What was the most frustrating was that he didn’t know how. He wasn’t allowed to. SHIELD classified it and only the immediate family could know. You hadn’t told him everything, but you did say something about her getting caught in some crossfire. That’s all you were allowed to say.
He sat in the stairwell of his and Aunt May’s Queens apartment while he waited for you to arrive. He was zoned out thinking and didn’t even hear you come up the stairs.
“Peter?” he snapped back to reality and looked at you, eyes sad, “you ready?”
He nodded and stood up, shoving his hands in his shorts pockets. He trudged down the stairs and met you at the landing, then walking side by side down the rest to ground level. Exiting the complex, you put your arm around his shoulders walking the already too familiar route. What had happened was still fresh and you two had decided to visit Gwen’s grave once a week, tell her what had been going on, if anything.
The first few times were okay, but recently, Peter hadn’t been saying anything. He just kneels in front of her grave, head down, and cries. You really felt for the kid, you did. His parents died when he was 6, his uncle Ben 3 years ago (since he was blipped), and now his best friend-basically-sister. He’s only 16 and has dealt with more death than anyone at that age should. How do you even begin to move on? The gaps are big, but that doesn’t make any of them hurt less. Especially when they’re all family.
After a few minutes of silent sobs, you place your hand on his shoulder. He stands up and steps aside, so you can have your time. You look at him and give him a soft smile of thanks. He looks at you for a millisecond before looking back at the ground, wiping away stray tears.
You approach her gravestone, putting your hand on it, brushing your fingers along it and tracing the letters of her name. You speak softly, as if just to her. “Gwenny, I need help. Your help. This has been hard on Peter. You were his best friend and now he just seems like a lost puppy without you around. I know he has Ned and MJ, but a big chunk of him is missing without you here,” you cough out a sob, “I just want the old Petey back. I don’t expect it tomorrow, or next week, or even next month, but I need it. I want some sort of normalcy back in my life,” your next sob comes out with a little bit of a laugh, “look at me, talking to a grave like I’m talking to an actual human. You’d totally give me crap for this.” you sigh, “It’s just-- being six years older than him now instead of just one makes it hard. We’re in such different places in our lives. He just finished his freshman year of high school, and I’m in college now...” you trail off, forgetting where you were going with it. Standing up, you give one last tap to the gravestone. “Bring him back. Oh-” You dig in your purse and pull out a charm bracelet. You crouch back down and lay it right next to the base where the grass is a little bit taller. You wear an identical one. “Mom and dad are doing fine..well, as well as you could expect. There are some rough nights, but we’re managing.”
Emotions were still running high at home. You’d lost your sister, and your parents, their youngest child. There was a lot of fighting and blaming, despite heroism being Gwen’s choice. She’d told you once that she’d been given the powers for a reason. If bad things happened and she did nothing, it was basically her fault. You never really agreed with the sentiment, but she insisted and went on helping out the people of Queens, eventually roping Peter into it.
A lot of the time the blame fell on you, your father wondering why you weren’t with Gwen and Peter the day they got bit. You take it, as it’s his way of mourning and relieving his anger. He’s looking for answers that he’ll never get. Your mom is mostly silent, save for the fights. You two usually end up drinking a bottle or two of wine before tottling off to bed, drowning your sorrows.
The walk back is silent, as usual. You were both mourning and it was always emotionally draining after a visit and hard to make conversation. You’re about 2/3 of the way back before you decide to try. “I, uh, noticed you had the letter in the stairwell.” You feel a shift and see as his hand goes to his pocket. “Pete, why?” You sigh, not in disappointment, mostly in exhaustion but a little bit of curiosity too.
He looks down, an exhale coming from his nose, “It’s the last thing I have of her.”
You let out a soft gasp. That hadn’t even crossed your mind, it was the last physical thing Gwen had touched and given - by way of you - to him. “Oh, Petey.” You run your fingers through his hair a few times before letting your arm rest limply over his shoulders. He pushes it off, stopping in his tracks and looks at you with an expression you don’t recognize. He mumbles something and you stop waking as well, leaning forward a little. “Peter?”
“Tony did this.”
“To-”
“Tony Stark! He’s the one who recruited her. He’s the one that put her on this path.” he paces back and forth in anger. “If it weren’t for him, she wouldn’t be a part of the Avengers and she wouldn’t be dead.”
“Peter...” you know what he’s doing. In fact, you went through and did the same thing just a couple weeks ago. “You know he’s not to blame. She’s the one who wanted to help the community, just like you,” you reasoned, “it was only a matter of time before she caught the eye of the Avengers.”
He ignored you, turning on his heels. “I need to talk to him.”
“Y-you can’t. Peter..” you stand there, stunned for a moment, “Peter.” you call out. He doesn’t respond and you quickly move from your place on the sidewalk and jog a little to try to catch up. You forgot how quickly he could walk when he was on a mission. “Peter!”
“What?!” he turns around, fire in his eyes. You actually cower a little, never hearing this tone come out of his mouth before.
“Uhm..” your voice is meek at first as you try to figure out what to say and recover from the surprise his outburst gave you, “you can’t go talk to Tony.”
“And why not?”
“He,” you swallow the lump in your throat, speaking softly not out of fear now, but to bring down the information as delicately as you could, “he died that night too. Remember?”
He blinks and there seems to be a flicker of remembrance and realization. It quickly changes back to anger and he looks you dead in the eyes, pointing. “Then it’s your fault!”
“W-what?”
“Yeah. You’re the one that let her go to Berlin. She would’ve listened to you. If you had told her no, she wouldn’t have gone. It’s your fault!” he continues pointing his finger at you, his voice rising as he talked. You hadn’t even realized you were moving until you were suddenly backed into the wall of a corner store, or maybe a restaurant, you didn’t really take the time to figure out where you were on the street.
You could feel your breath beginning to shallow the more he talked. You had no idea what was going to happen, and with him being enhanced, he was unpredictable. “Peter...” was all you could muster up, hoping just saying his name would somehow take him out of this trance he was in. It didn’t work and if you hadn’t looked down to look away from his face, you wouldn’t have noticed his other hand beginning to ball into a fist. Your eyes widened and you looked back at him, tears threatening to fall. “Peter, please.”
It didn’t phase him. “It’s your fault!” he yells and you see his fist rise and you dodge out of the way in the nick of time, now in a crouched position.
You hear his fist connect with the wall, “Fuck!” Under different circumstances, you’d be surprised and sarcastically scold him because you’ve never heard him swear, ever. At the moment though, you’re now seated against the wall, breathing hard and tears falling silently.
“Y/N?” He crouches down and puts a hand on your shoulder, which you slink away from. At this point, as if it were a movie, mother nature decided it had to rain. All you hear is the soft pattering of the rain on the sidewalk for a moment before you hear some soft whimpering. You look around, and see a few feet from you, Peter sitting and hugging his knees, head down.
You stand up, and walk over to him, not announcing your presence in any way, and sit next to him. Taking his hand in yours, you begin inspecting his knuckles. “You’re lucky you have super strength. Otherwise that wall would have done a number on your hand. More than just some scratches and it looks like probably some bruising.” The only reply you get is some breathy sobs. “Okay,” keeping his hand in yours, you stand up and urge him up too, “let’s get you home.”
He doesn’t argue and slowly begins to walk home, with your aid. Your arm is once again around his shoulders and he doesn’t push it away this time. The whole walk back is silent, as expected. The both of you now more tired than before, physically and emotionally.
When you arrive back at Peter’s apartment, you enter, May leaving it unlocked. She’s on the couch watching tv. She turns around with a smile to greet you guys, but it quickly turns to a frown when she sees the state the two of you are in. You see her mouth open about to ask a question and you shake your head. She closes it and stands, walking over to Peter’s bedroom door and opening it for the two of you. You nod a thank you and walk in.
Peter still seems to be in a daze when you sit him down at his desk. You scan his room looking for a towel, seeing clothes and books strewn about, assuming he ‘lost’ his backpack again. “Well, I see you have a project for tomorrow,” you try to joke, despite the fact that you began picking up his clothes and putting them in the hamper in his closet. You hear a soft hmm? and look over at him. He’s looking at you, eyes red but only a little puffy.
You finally find his bath towel, halfway under his bed. Picking it up, you shake it a couple times to get any dust bunnies off and walk over to him. You can feel his eyes on you as you dry the rain off his arms and legs, but you continue. You dab off his neck and rub his hair a few times, getting as much off as you can before moving to his face. He jerks away and wipes his forehead with his arm before looking at you, as if studying you. You sit back a little, unsure, wondering what he’s going to do.
He takes a deep breath like he’s trying to gather the courage to speak to you. It takes a couple more seconds before he does. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh Peter,” you coo softly, “it’s okay.”
He slaps his hand on his desk, “No it’s not!” seeing you jump, he realized what he did, “s-sorry.” he says barely above a whisper.
“It’s not,” you agree, “but you’re mourning. I’m going through the same thing at home. You know this. I can take a few angry words.”
“But I blamed you, tried to hurt you.”
You nod, “I will admit I was a little scared when you tried to hit me,” he looks down, scared to make eye contact, “but,” you use your finger to lift his chin, “I got out of the way and you didn’t. Guess I gotta thank Gwen for taking me to some of those self defense classes so I could help her train.” You say the last part with a smile.
For what you’re pretty sure is the first time that night, Peter smiles too. You use your hand and wipe away the remaining tears on his face. “There he is.”
You get up on your knees, about to stand up, when he pulls you into a hug. You let out at squeak of surprise but quickly melt into it. Then, you suddenly begin to cry.
“Y/N?” he doesn’t pull out of the hug but you can hear the concern in his voice.
You sniffle and wipe away your tears, letting out a kind of cry-laugh. “I’m just glad, that at least for tonight, you’re back to the Peter that I know. I’ve missed your smile.” You feel him hug you a little tighter.
For Avory
#JBBNNMHAMChallenge#Peter Parker x reader#(platonic yall)#peter parker & reader#gwen stacy#spiderman#spider man#spider-man#spidergwen#spider gwen#peter parker
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Keeping Me Alive
Chapter 3: Nothing’s Fair in Love and War
by @dracusfyre
Weeks later, Tony was staring at the picture of Maria, Ana, and Jarvis on his nightstand while he waited for the woman in bed beside him to fall asleep, listening to her breathing until it steadied and slowed. The picture was barely more than a square-shaped shadow in the darkness of his room, too dimly lit for him to see it properly, but he knew what it looked like, the curve of every smile and the lines at the corners of his mother’s eyes. Sometimes, if he closed his eyes and concentrated he could remember how happy he’d been when this photo was taken; on good days, the memory made him smile, but on nights like tonight he was reminded that this photo came from a whole other lifetime and that all the people in it were dead. Nights like tonight he wondered if he’d ever be that happy again and debated whether he should keep the damn thing at all. With a silent sigh, he rolled over to stare at the ceiling and tried to think of the woman’s name so that he could write her a note for the morning, but it wouldn’t come to him. He wondered if he could get away with something generic or not mentioning a name at all, and finally just decided to have Ms. Potts deal with it.
When he was sure she was asleep, he slid out from beneath the sheets and grabbed a shirt, pulling it on as he slipped out of the bedroom. He went to the kitchen and scrubbed his face with his hands as he turned on the coffee pot; he’d hoped to get some sleep tonight, but apparently no such luck.
He stood in the dark kitchen for as long as it took for the coffee to brew, watching the green digits on the oven tick away the minutes. The spitting and burbling of the coffee pot and the slight hum of the refrigerator kept the silence from being too oppressive, while moonlight from the windows cast an intermittent streak of bright white over the floor and countertop as clouds came and went across the sky. Nights were always the worst because the ghosts always came out at night; the quiet stillness made his thoughts that much louder and the loneliness that much harder to bear.
Finally the coffee was done; he filled up a thermos and went down to his workshop, breathing a little easier as JARVIS turned the lights on as he opened the door. He sipped on the coffee as he wandered through the projects in various stage of completion, running idle fingertips over pieces that needed to be attached, parts to be machined, circuits assembled; some of these were for Stark Industries, some for Tony’s own curiosity, but one or two were for Stane. He avoided those for now, not interested in making his dark mood any worse.
On the far side of the workshop that doubled as his garage, Howard’s classic hot rod was still partially disassembled as Tony tried to find the source of a persistent oil leak. That was as good a project as any to pass the hours, and maybe if he was lucky, he would be able to catch a few hours of rest on the couch before morning.
Tony woke up as Ms. Pott’s heels rang out on the stairs coming down to the workshop, jarring him out of an unpleasant dream that dissipated upon waking. Sitting up, he stretched, wincing at the crick in his neck and the headache behind his eyes.
“Late night, Boss?” Ms. Potts said, voice cool. Tony’s eyebrows drew together; usually when she found him asleep in the work shop she greeted him with brisk sympathy and a soft smile. Then he remembered the lady upstairs that he’d texted her about in the middle of the night and let out a silent sigh.
“Good morning to you too,” he said. Her only response was to give him a dry look as she made room for a stack of papers and started going over his schedule for today. No mercy from her, then, he concluded with a quirk of his lips. He stood and shuffled over to the half-drunk thermos of coffee from last night and drank it cold, rifling through the papers as he listened with half an ear.
Partway through the stack, he froze. It was a newspaper, folded innocuously amid quarterly reports and departmental audits. He reached out to pick it up and realized his hands were shaking. Closing his eyes, he inhaled and exhaled slowly, trying to get his heart to stop racing. Ms. Potts was still talking as he spread out the newspaper and flipped through it quickly; whatever Obadiah was trying to tell him, it wouldn’t be subtle.
There – page 10. An article circled twice in black pen. Defector Assassinated in Trafalgar Square. Tony didn’t need to read the article to get the message. The only way out of Hydra is death. Obadiah liked leaving him these little reminders, tugging Tony’s leash a little so he wouldn’t forget that it was there.
“And then, of course, you have the flight to Afghanistan this afternoon,” Ms. Potts said, and Tony barely kept himself from cursing. “Remember?”
“Of course,” Tony lied. “The, uh..."
"Jericho demonstration,” Ms. Potts finished for him.
"Right." He put the coffee down, suddenly queasy. The demo was ostensibly for the US military to sell the weapons, but Tony knew that they weren't the real audience; the Russians, the Iranians, and every other little tin-pot dictator would be sent videos and specs from the inaugural firing of Stark Industries’ latest missile tech, and then the real bidding war would start. Hydra would rake in more money and influence, Stane’s star would continue to rise, and then Stane would come over with a pizza and some whiskey and talk about how glad he was that he hadn’t killed Tony when he was younger (Pierce wanted me to, but I said no, this boy’s got a gift. Tony had heard it many times).
“I have a few things for you to sign before your trip,” Ms. Potts said, reading off the titles of the documents as she set them in front of him to sign. “And there are some charities that are asking you for personal donations, did you want to-”
“Sure,” Tony said, flipping through the documents to make sure he’d signed everything, the blanks helpfully highlighted for his convenience.
“Sure? What does that mean, ‘sure’? You haven’t even looked at the list.”
Tony handed her back the papers and smiled brightly. “Send them all a donation, however much they are asking for.”
“All of them?” Pepper asked skeptically.
“Do I have enough money?”
“Well, of course, but-”
“Then send them all something,” Tony said. It was blood money anyway, might as well do some good with it. “Pick your favorites and send them double.”
“Whatever you say, Mr. Stark,” Pepper said after a moment, clearly deciding that it wasn’t worth the fight.
“Anything else?” He asked, pasting a smile on his face.
She checked her watch. “You’ve got thirty minutes before London calls,” she said pointedly, and Tony got her point and went to take a shower and get dressed.
The fact that he was flying to Afghanistan with Rhodey was the only thing that made the trip bearable; dread was a rock in his stomach, a weight on his limbs, growing worse every time he looked at the clock. The next day, as the wind from the Jericho’s blast ruffled his clothes, Tony felt a chill despite the heat of the Afghan desert. Amidst the excited chatter of the military officers, Tony moved mechanically to the portable bar, pouring himself a stiff rum and coke to try to wash the taste of shame from his mouth.
“Good job, Tones,” Rhodey said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Everyone’s going to be talking about this for weeks, we’re all very excited.”
“It’s what we do,” Tony said with a thin smile, saluting his friend with his glass. Behind his dark wraparound sunglasses, the world seemed one step removed, muffled and dim; he felt like he was watching himself as he smiled and shook hands with the Army and Air Force brass, as they all climbed back into the Humvees, as he joked with the awed soldiers riding with him (keep them laughing, they don’t see when they laugh. He’d learned that in college).
But when the vehicle in front of them flipped over with a bone-rattling roar and burst of flame, he was thrown back into his body with a gasp. Suddenly the world was too close, too loud, too much; the roar of gunfire, the painful glare of the sun on white sand, the acrid scent of burnt metal. The screaming and shouting, the heat of the sand, and the way the S of Stark Industries stood out against the silver metal of the missile as it ticked loudly next to him-
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Chris Hedges: The Price of Conscience
Drone warfare whistleblower sentenced to 45 months in prison for telling the American people the truth.
Daniel Hale, a former intelligence analyst in the drone program for the Air Force who as a private contractor in 2013 leaked some 17 classified documents about drone strikes to the press, was sentenced today to 45 months in prison.
The documents, published by The Intercept on October 15, 2015, exposed that between January 2012 and February 2013, US special operations airstrikes killed more than 200 people. Of those, only 35 were the intended targets. For one five-month period of the operation, according to the documents, nearly 90 percent of the people killed in airstrikes were not the intended targets. The civilian dead, usually innocent bystanders, were routinely classified as “enemies killed in action.”
The Justice Department coerced Hale, who was deployed to Afghanistan in 2012, on March 31 to plead guilty to one count of violating the Espionage Act, a law passed in 1917 designed to prosecute those who passed on state secrets to a hostile power, not those who expose to the public government lies and crimes. Hale admitted as part of the plea deal to “retention and transmission of national security information” and leaking 11 classified documents to a journalist. If he had refused the plea deal, he could have spent 50 years in prison.
Hale, in a handwritten letter to Judge Liam O’Grady on July 18, explained why he leaked classified information, writing that the drone attacks and the war in Afghanistan “had little to do with preventing terror from coming into the United States and a lot more to do with protecting the profits of weapons manufacturers and so-called defense contractors.”
At the top of the ten-page letter Hale quoted US Navy Admiral Gene LaRocque, speaking to a reporter in 1995: “We now kill people without ever seeing them. Now you push a button thousands of miles away … Since it’s all done by remote control, there’s no remorse … and then we come home in triumph.”
“In my capacity as a signals intelligence analyst stationed at Bagram Airbase, I was made to track down the geographic location of handset cellphone devices believed to be in the possession of so-called enemy combatants,” Hale explained to the judge. “To accomplish this mission required access to a complex chain of globe-spanning satellites capable of maintaining an unbroken connection with remotely piloted aircraft, commonly referred to as drones. Once a steady connection is made and a targeted cell phone device is acquired, an imagery analyst in the U.S., in coordination with a drone pilot and camera operator, would take over using information I provided to surveil everything that occurred within the drone’s field of vision. This was done, most often, to document the day-to-day lives of suspected militants. Sometimes, under the right conditions, an attempt at capture would be made. Other times, a decision to strike and kill them where they stood would be weighed.”
He recalled the first time he witnessed a drone strike, a few days after he arrived in Afghanistan.
“Early that morning, before dawn, a group of men had gathered together in the mountain ranges of Patika province around a campfire carrying weapons and brewing tea,” he wrote. “That they carried weapons with them would not have been considered out of the ordinary in the place I grew up, much less within the virtually lawless tribal territories outside the control of the Afghan authorities. Except that among them was a suspected member of the Taliban, given away by the targeted cell phone device in his pocket. As for the remaining individuals, to be armed, of military age, and sitting in the presence of an alleged enemy combatant was enough evidence to place them under suspicion as well. Despite having peacefully assembled, posing no threat, the fate of the now tea drinking men had all but been fulfilled. I could only look on as I sat by and watched through a computer monitor when a sudden, terrifying flurry of hellfire missiles came crashing down, splattering, purple-colored crystal guts on the side of the morning mountain.”
This was his first experience with “scenes of graphic violence carried out from the cold comfort of a computer chair.” There would be many more.
“Not a day goes by that I don’t question the justification for my actions,” he wrote. “By the rules of engagement, it may have been permissible for me to have helped to kill those men — whose language I did not speak, customs I did not understand, and crimes I could not identify — in the gruesome manner that I did. Watch them die. But how could it be considered honorable of me to continuously have laid in wait for the next opportunity to kill unsuspecting persons, who, more often than not, are posing no danger to me or any other person at the time. Never mind honorable, how could it be that any thinking person continued to believe that it was necessary for the protection of the United States of America to be in Afghanistan and killing people, not one of whom present was responsible for the September 11th attacks on our nation. Notwithstanding, in 2012, a full year after the demise of Osama bin Laden in Pakistan, I was a part of killing misguided young men who were but mere children on the day of 9/11.”
He and other service members were confronted with the privatization of war where “contract mercenaries outnumbered uniform wearing soldiers 2 to 1 and earned as much as 10 times their salary.”
“Meanwhile, it did not matter whether it was, as I had seen, an Afghan farmer blown in half, yet miraculously conscious and pointlessly trying to scoop his insides off the ground, or whether it was an American flag-draped coffin lowered into Arlington National Cemetery to the sound of a 21-gun salute,” he wrote. “Bang, bang, bang. Both served to justify the easy flow of capital at the cost of blood — theirs and ours. When I think about this, I am grief-stricken and ashamed of myself for the things I’ve done to support it.”
He described to the judge “the most harrowing day of my life” that took place a few months into his deployment “when a routine surveillance mission turned into disaster.”
“For weeks we had been tracking the movements of a ring of car bomb manufacturers living around Jalalabad,” he wrote. “Car bombs directed at US bases had become an increasingly frequent and deadly problem that summer, so much effort was put into stopping them. It was a windy and clouded afternoon when one of the suspects had been discovered headed eastbound, driving at a high rate of speed. This alarmed my superiors who believe he might be attempting to escape across the border into Pakistan.”
Now, whenever I encounter an individual who thinks that drone warfare is justified and reliably keeps America safe, I remember that time and ask myself how could I possibly continue to believe that I am a good person, deserving of my life and the right to pursue happiness.
— Daniel Hale, of learning about children killed by indiscriminate US drone attacks he participated in.
“A drone strike was our only chance and already it began lining up to take the shot,” he continued. “But the less advanced predator drone found it difficult to see through clouds and compete against strong headwinds. The single payload MQ-1 failed to connect with its target, instead missing by a few meters. The vehicle, damaged, but still driveable, continued on ahead after narrowly avoiding destruction. Eventually, once the concern of another incoming missile subsided, the driver stopped, got out of the car, and checked himself as though he could not believe he was still alive. Out of the passenger side came a woman wearing an unmistakable burka. As astounding as it was to have just learned there had been a woman, possibly his wife, there with the man we intended to kill moments ago, I did not have the chance to see what happened next before the drone diverted its camera when she began frantically to pull out something from the back of the car.”
He learned a few days later from his commanding officer what next took place.
“There indeed had been the suspect’s wife with him in the car,” he wrote. “And in the back were their two young daughters, ages 5 and 3 years old. A cadre of Afghan soldiers were sent to investigate where the car had stopped the following day. It was there they found them placed in the dumpster nearby. The eldest was found dead due to unspecified wounds caused by shrapnel that pierced her body. Her younger sister was alive but severely dehydrated. As my commanding officer relayed this information to us, she seemed to express disgust, not for the fact that we had errantly fired on a man and his family, having killed one of his daughters; but for the suspected bomb maker having ordered his wife to dump the bodies of their daughters in the trash, so that the two of them could more quickly escape across the border. Now, whenever I encounter an individual who thinks that drone warfare is justified and reliably keeps America safe, I remember that time and ask myself how could I possibly continue to believe that I am a good person, deserving of my life and the right to pursue happiness.”
“One year later, at a farewell gathering for those of us who would soon be leaving military service, I sat alone, transfixed by the television, while others reminisced together,” he continued. “On television was breaking news of the president giving his first public remarks about the policy surrounding the use of drone technology in warfare. His remarks were made to reassure the public of reports scrutinizing the death of civilians in drone strikes and the targeting of American citizens. The president said that a high standard of ‘near certainty’ needed to be met in order to ensure that no civilians were present. But from what I knew, of the instances where civilians plausibly could have been present, those killed were nearly always designated enemies killed in action unless proven otherwise. Nonetheless, I continued to heed his words as the president went on to explain how a drone could be used to eliminate someone who posed an ‘imminent threat’ to the United States. Using the analogy of taking out a sniper, with his sights set on an unassuming crowd of people, the president likened the use of drones to prevent a would-be terrorist from carrying out his evil plot. But, as I understood it to be, the unassuming crowd had been those who lived in fear and the terror of drones in their skies and the sniper in this scenario had been me. I came to believe that the policy of drone assassination was being used to mislead the public that it keeps us safe, and when I finally left the military, still processing what I’d been a part of, I began to speak out, believing my participation in the drone program to have been deeply wrong.”
Hale threw himself into anti-war activism when he left the military, speaking out about the indiscriminate killing of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of noncombatants, including children in drone strikes. He took part in a peace conference held in Washington, D.C. in November 2013. The Yemeni Fazil bin Ali Jaber spoke at the conference about the drone strike that killed his brother, Salem bin Ali Jaber, and their cousin Waleed. Waleed was a policeman. Salem was an Imam who was an outspoken critic of the armed attacks carried out by radical jihadists.
“One day in August 2012, local members of Al Qaeda traveling through Fazil’s village in a car spotted Salem in the shade, pulled up towards him, and beckoned him to come over and speak to them,” Hale wrote. “Not one to miss an opportunity to evangelize to the youth, Salem proceeded cautiously with Waleed by his side. Fazil and other villagers began looking on from afar. Farther still was an ever present reaper drone looking too.”
“As Fazil recounted what happened next, I felt myself transported back in time to where I had been on that day, 2012,” Hale told the judge. “Unbeknownst to Fazil and those of his village at the time was that they had not been the only watching Salem approach the jihadist in the car. From Afghanistan, I and everyone on duty paused their work to witness the carnage that was about to unfold. At the press of a button from thousands of miles away, two hellfire missiles screeched out of the sky, followed by two more. Showing no signs of remorse, I, and those around me, clapped and cheered triumphantly. In front of a speechless auditorium, Fazil wept.”
A week after the conference Hale was offered a job as a government contractor. Desperate for money and steady employment, hoping to go to college, he took the job, which paid $ 80,000 a year. But by then he was disgusted by the drone program.
“For a long time, I was uncomfortable with myself over the thought of taking advantage of my military background to land a cushy desk job,” he wrote. “During that time, I was still processing what I had been through, and I was starting to wonder if I was contributing again to the problem of money and war by accepting to return as a defense contractor. Worse was my growing apprehension that everyone around me was also taking part in a collective delusion and denial that was used to justify our exorbitant salaries, for comparatively easy labor. The thing I feared most at the time was the temptation not to question it.”
“Then it came to be that one day after work I stuck around to socialize with a pair of co-workers whose talented work I had come to greatly admire,” he wrote. “They made me feel welcomed, and I was happy to have earned their approval. But then, to my dismay, our brand-new friendship took an unexpectedly dark turn. They elected that we should take a moment and view together some archived footage of past drone strikes. Such bonding ceremonies around a computer to watch so-called “war porn” had not been new to me. I partook in them all the time while deployed to Afghanistan. But on that day, years after the fact, my new friends gaped and sneered, just as my old one’s had, at the sight of faceless men in the final moments of their lives. I sat by watching too; said nothing and felt my heart breaking into pieces.”
“Your Honor,” Hale wrote to the judge, “the truest truism that I’ve come to understand about the nature of war is that war is trauma. I believe that any person either called-upon or coerced to participate in war against their fellow man is promised to be exposed to some form of trauma. In that way, no soldier blessed to have returned home from war does so uninjured. The crux of PTSD is that it is a moral conundrum that afflicts invisible wounds on the psyche of a person made to burden the weight of experience after surviving a traumatic event. How PTSD manifests depends on the circumstances of the event. So how is the drone operator to process this? The victorious rifleman, unquestioningly remorseful, at least keeps his honor intact by having faced off against his enemy on the battlefield. The determined fighter pilot has the luxury of not having to witness the gruesome aftermath. But what possibly could I have done to cope with the undeniable cruelties that I perpetuated?”
“My conscience, once held at bay, came roaring back to life,” he wrote. “At first, I tried to ignore it. Wishing instead that someone, better placed than I, should come along to take this cup from me. But this too was folly. Left to decide whether to act, I only could do that which I ought to do before God and my own conscience. The answer came to me, that to stop the cycle of violence, I ought to sacrifice my own life and not that of another person. So, I contacted an investigative reporter, with whom I had had an established prior relationship, and told him that I had something the American people needed to know.”
Hale, who has admitted to being suicidal and depressed, said in the letter he, like many veterans, struggles with the crippling effects of post-traumatic stress disorder, aggravated by an impoverished and turbulent childhood.
“Depression is a constant,” he told the judge. “Though stress, particularly stress caused by war, can manifest itself at different times and in different ways. The tell-tale signs of a person afflicted by PTSD and depression can often be outwardly observed and are practically universally recognizable. Hard lines about the face and jaw. Eyes, once bright and wide, now deep-set, and fearful. And an inexplicably sudden loss of interest in things that used to spark joy. These are the noticeable changes in my demeanor marked by those who knew me before and after military service. To say that the period of my life spent serving in the United States Air Force had an impression on me would be an understatement. It is more accurate to say that it irreversibly transformed my identity as an American. Having forever altered the thread of my life’s story, weaved into the fabric of our nation’s history.”
Feature photo | People carry the shrouded casket of a villager killed by a US drone attack on the Afghanistan border in Bannu. Ijaz Muhammad | AP
Chris Hedges is a Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist who was a foreign correspondent for fifteen years for The New York Times, where he served as the Middle East Bureau Chief and Balkan Bureau Chief for the paper. He previously worked overseas for The Dallas Morning News, The Christian Science Monitor, and NPR. He is the host of the Emmy Award-nominated RT America show On Contact.
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Forest Fires || Geralt x Reader || Pt. 8
Summary: Now that you’ve made it to the Temple of Melitele, the hunt for the Princess Cirilla begins—with an unlikely team at its head: A Witcher, two and a half sorceresses, one Huntress, and a Priestess of Melitele.
Word Count: 2,645
Warning(s): None for this chapter.
A/N: Alright, so I know this chapter is a lot of setting up for the next few chapters, but I actually really had fun writing it, so I hope you all enjoy it!
If you enjoy my work and want to check out more of it, you can check out my masterlist, and if you’d like to be added to any of my taglists, comment or message me and I would be happy to add you 😊. Also, I do have a ko-fi page now, and I would really appreciate if anyone is able to give a little; it would really help me out with this whole transitioning careers and still pay off medical bills thing. But of course, the best way y’all support me is just by reading and sharing my work. I appreciate it more than I can say.
Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6 || Part 7
The Hunt Begins
You are surprised when you wake up to early morning light filtering through the windows; it had been afternoon. You don’t even remember the last time you’d slept so long. There was always so much to do back at the cottage—there was never time. Well, that, and the fact that even hunting all day and then taking care of everything else when you got home was less exhausting than opening one single damn portal. All those years of being a sorceress—of it being your entire identity—and you’d still forgotten how damn exhausting using magic truly is.
You sigh, kicking back the covers. Even with the evening damp still lingering in the air, you feel too warm. The Witcher laying beside you is likely contributing to that factor, but you wouldn’t dream of kicking him away. For some reason, you are surprised that he is there, even though you realistically shouldn’t be. Perhaps you just imagined him staying up all night planning things while you were lazily sleeping away, but you are happy to see that he is sleeping. You have no idea what the future will bring, but you are certain that you’ll all need the rest.
“Good morning.” The Witcher’s soft, low morning voice pulls you from your thoughts. You smile slightly, turning to look at him, eyes drinking in the familiar sight of the white haired Geralt of Rivia. His hair is pulled loose, and his eyes are heavy-lidded and sleepy. You’ll never get enough of the sight, you’ve decided.
“Morning,” you mumble back. You are frustrated at the way your voice sounds; all tired and scratchy and haggard. While you certainly feel much better than you did the previous day, your body is still catching up.
“Did you sleep well?” Geralt asks, his amber eyes all warm and full of concern. You are simultaneously touched and annoyed by it. Though, you suppose, there are worse things than someone being concerned for you.
You nod, blinking slowly. “Yes. I hardly remember falling asleep at all.” You’ll have to remember to thank Yennefer later. The tea must have worked wonders. You don’t remember waking up covered in sweat, trapped within a nightmare, either. Finally, you ask, “What time did you go to sleep, Witcher?”
“Late,” he grumbles a response. You raise your eyebrows in a question, which he picks up on right away. “We’re not the only ones trying to track down the girl.” Obviously.
The girl. You sigh at the use of the phrase, even though you couldn’t bring yourself to call her anything else.
“Do we know who else?” You ask, pushing yourself up into a sitting position but making no move to actually get out of bed. But you’re already prattling off possibilities before he can answer you, “Nilfgaard, obviously. And I bet the bounty on her head is pretty high. I’m sure the elves are looking, too. Lara Dorren’s blood and all that.”
Geralt just nods gravely, confirming your suspicions. “There’s also a mage,” he adds, “Vigelfortz.” You don’t bother to ask how he is certain of this specific information. Yennefer would know, you suppose, even if she had turned away from the Brotherhood years ago like you had.
“Nilfgaard wants a marriage with the blood heir to the Cintran throne. The bounty hunters just want money from the highest bidder—which I’m guessing is also Nilfgaard. The elves want Dol Blathanna back the way it was… So who is this mage working for?” Honestly, it was too early to be having this conversation, but you brain won’t let you focus on anything else.
“That’s the thing,” Geralt mutters, lifting a hand to play with the ends of your hair idly as he continues, “Seems like he’s working for himself. Yennefer is with the Brotherhood—Vigelfortz cut ties a few weeks before Nilfgaard sacked Cintra.”
You can already feel a headache coming on. None of it makes any sense—you only remember Vigelfortz from your late days at Aretuza. He hadn’t stood out much then. He was just another mage—not even a court mage, if you remember correctly. You look at Geralt, “He used to study antiquities, old civilizations and buried secrets or whatever.”
“Buried secrets?” Geralt asks, propping himself up on his elbows. Your eyes scan his scarred chest for a moment before finally meeting his eyes.
Definitely not the right time, you tell yourself.
“Yeah—he’d work on archeological digs and things.” The memories start to flow back faster than you expected them to. “And he taught at Ban Ard,” you add. “Probably about the same subjects.” Your mind is spinning at a dizzying speed. What the hell would a scholar want with the girl?
And then it snaps into place.
“The gir—Cirilla is supposed to have the blood of Lara Dorren.” Geralt looks at you, confused, as if he is still trying to catch up. “An ancient bloodline that supposedly possesses great power.” To be honest, you’d thought the whole thing was bullshit; some made up fairy tale. It might be just that; but to someone like Vigelfortz, you are certain that it isn’t.
You watch Geralt’s face harden as realization washes over him, “So he’s just trying to collect another ancient secret.” His words are tinged with the same disgust that you feel. It hurts, thinking about the young girl being pursued by several parties, all wanting someone from her—wanting something she may or may not have and certainly didn’t ask for.
“Fucking mages,” you hiss, voice dripping with venom. Granted, this was just one mage and however many worked with him. Though, you are certain the Brotherhood has its own reasons for hunting down the girl. If you know one thing, it is that the Brotherhood hardly does anything out of good will.
“Treating a human like a fucking old vase,” the Witcher’s warm amber eyes have turned cold as he stares off toward the window.
Silence settles over the two of you for a moment, broken only by the sounds of people speaking outside and the wind blowing through the open windows. When you saved the Witcher’s life in the woods that day, you had not expected this—some crazy suicide mission across the Continent to find a missing princess and, what, save her from the grasps of evil?
“Maybe Yenna’s found something,” you say, mostly just to fill the empty space. If the woman you reunited with yesterday is anything like her past self at Aretuza, it was unlikely she’d slept at all. Once she was focused on something, there was no deterring her for any reason. “She’d know more about Vigelfortz than me. I haven’t had contact with the Brotherhood since before I left Nilfgaard.”
And now, the thought of facing them again filled you with dread. You’d failed your duties as a court mage, failed to protect the girl when you had the chance, and failed to report to the Brotherhood about any of it—letting them think you were dead for the last eleven years.
You stand up and stretch, grimacing at how sore your muscles are for no particular reason, and also at the fact that you are still wearing yesterday’s clothes. “Before we go ask, though, I need to bathe.”
“No time,” Geralt grumbles, glancing out the window at the sky. “We’re to meet down in the hall at seven.”
You huff, running a hand through your tangled hair and looking down at your filthy clothes.
“They brought up clean clothes.” Geralt points to a neat little pile folded atop one of the old dressers. You sigh, as you pad over to the dresser, wishing you’d have woken up an hour earlier. You’d like nothing more than to scrub all of the last few days off of you. But, you suppose, clean clothes will have to do for now. Thankfully, upon further observation you see that they are not much different from the clothes you were already wearing.
You’re the soft material of a shirt rumple in your fingertips, studying it for a moment before offering Geralt a small smile “At least they aren’t making me dress like a nun.”
You are shocked by the soft seriousness in Geralt’s gaze as he looks at you for a moment before finally saying, “You’d look beautiful in anything.”
Despite the circumstances, the response still makes color rise in your cheeks. You offer him a soft smile, before deciding to finally slip out of your clothes and pull them on. You don’t bother to go behind the dressing screen—it’s not as if Geralt hasn’t seen all of you already.
Just as you are tucking the loose tunic into the high waisted, you feel Geralt creep up behind you, wrapping a strong arm around your middle. You sigh, tilting your head back to rest against his shoulder as he presses his lips to the place where your shoulder meets your neck. The kiss is slow and careful, as if the two of you have all the time in the world to just stay in this room with one another.
Unfortunately, you don’t.
Geralt gives you a small squeeze as he presses his lips to the side of your forehead with gentleness that conveys an unspoken promise—everything will be okay. We’ll figure this out. We’ll do what must be done. We’ll live.
At least, those are the thoughts that flood your mind, even if you don’t quite believe them. It seems a little foolish for the two of you, Yennefer, and whoever else is involved in this particular search party to go up against all of those others; especially the Nilfgaardian Empire. It seems stupid for anyone to go after Nilfgaard—and yet here you are.
***
Despite the fact that hunger had been absolutely clawing at your stomach for some time now, you are finding it difficult to make yourself do something as mundane as chew and swallow. The food looks and smells delicious, but everything seems to turn to ash in your mouth.
The table, though quite large, is empty save for yourself, Geralt, Yennefer, and the woman that you’d been introduced to a half hour before—Mother Nenneke. You can’t help but feel dread creep up on you even stronger as you pick up the mug of hot coffee with fresh cream and swallow it down. There are entire armies looking for Cirilla—not to mention scary mages and at least a few bounty hunters. All of those people, and four of you.
“Triss Merrigold has also promised aid,” Yennefer says, cutting into the silence. You catch yourself wondering at how it was as if she’d read your thoughts for more than a few seconds before you remember that she likely is.
You’d read Geralt’s mind yesterday, for only a moment, and yet you’d forgotten that many sorceresses did that all the time. You didn’t tend to do so much—mostly because you were afraid of what you’d find in those thoughts. It wasn’t as if you were well-respected in any circles; you’d rather not hear about it.
Mechanically, you put up the magical barriers they’d taught you about all those years ago, a wall around your thoughts. And yet, when you do, you do not feel anything pushing against the barrier. Perhaps she hadn’t been reading your mind, after all.
“So that brings the grand total to five.” The worried words slip out of your mouth before you can stop them, drawing three pairs of eyes to you. You chew on your bottom lip nervously.
“Less people means less of a chance of someone turning on us or letting something slip,” Geralt points out, in the middle of devouring some sort of omelet.
“Exactly,” Yennefer remarks.
“Three sorceresses, a Priestess, and a Witcher—seems like a find team to me.” Mother Nenneke is much warmer than you’d imagined. She even says the words with a small grin. It just… was not how you imagined a Priestess to be.
“Two and a half sorceresses,” you mumble, taking another large sip of your coffee.
Yennefer laughs, tilting her head back as she does so. “Oh, Y/N, you act as if you’d really died.”
You find yourself smiling lightly as you look back at the raven-haired sorceress, shrugging. “I may not have died, but I certainly haven’t used magic,” you sigh. Brief flashes of the previous afternoon threaten to bubble to the surface of your mind, but you push the thoughts down.
“Alright, then we’ve got two and a half sorceresses, one archer, a Priestess, and Witcher,” Geralt says, a sly grin also appearing on his face. “Even better.”
You suppose it is true—you learned to hunt silently and efficiently. Though the thought makes your stomach turn, you suppose those skills would be equally useful against people… And perhaps better. As evidenced by the fact that you literally had everyone convinced you were dead, it was a lot less… attention grabbing.
Despite feeling relatively reassured by this, you still find yourself anxiously drumming your fingers on the table.
“But how do we even know where to start?”
At least you are feeling more comfortable, so talking doesn’t make your throat want to close anymore.
Your eyes land on Yenna first, for some reason expecting that she was the one who had the answer—but it is Mother Nenneke that smiles. A slow, almost mischievous smile that has you watching with bated breath, waiting to hear what she is about to say. You can tell by the gleam in her eye that it is important.
“We ask Iola the First.”
Geralt’s eyebrows tick up in recognition, and Yennefer nods gravely. You, on the other hand, have no idea who this, apparently very impressive, woman is. That fact is evident on your face, but the other simply carry on with their conversation, earning an annoyed glance in Geralt’s direction from you.
“Doesn’t she need something that belongs to Princess Cirilla? If she’s going to… you know?” Geralt asks, eyes narrowed in thought as he looks intently at Mother Nenneke.
“Yes,” Yennefer cuts in, “And we’ve got it.”
“What is it?” You are surprised at how quickly the words slip out, and how eager you are to learn exactly what it is. Some of your annoyance has melted away, as you’ve figured out at least something about the mysterious Iola the First. She must have some sort of visions—you’ve heard stories of Priestesses being gifted with things like this. Though, you have to admit, you thought it was mostly bullshit. But if Yennefer and Geralt both trust her, you are suddenly finding yourself putting more stock into the rumors.
Yennefer turns, gingerly pickup up a green cloak that you hadn’t noticed draped over the high back of the chair next to her. You don’t bother to ask how they know its hers—you suppose that isn’t important, but Geralt seems more curious than you yourself are, because he asks precisely that.
“She was seen at two refugee camps following the attack on Cintra, always wearing this cloak.” You can’t seem to take your eyes from it, extremely drawn to the clearly very expensive and well-made cloak.
“The cloak was found in the forest, just outside of Brokolin,” Yen continues, “And Triss confirmed with the dryads that Cirilla had been there and stayed with them for a time.”
Everyone at the table has their eyes thoroughly fixated on the cloak in Yennefer’s hands, likely all thinking the same thing—there is no sign of blood on the cloak, meaning the chance that she is alive is quite likely. Though, the thought that the girl is now out wandering without even a cloak to keep her warm makes your chest tighten uncomfortably.
It is Geralt who finally breaks the silence, turning his attention to Mother Nenneke.
“Right,” he clears his throat, “Let’s go speak with Iola.”
***
To be continued.
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Valid paranoia
**Disclaimer: I am not stereotyping or putting down autistic people or those with other mental conditions at all, I am only giving examples of some struggles I’ve had with certain individuals.**
I’m not going to pretend that I’m totally stable or better than anyone else, but I have had this blog for 10 years now with almost 900 followers. Because it is a public display of my writings and photography, I cannot control who views it. And unfortunately I have been stalked.
The first instance was in real life with cops and courts involved and I have never been able to hide my blog from that person for the aforementioned reasons. So that is reason enough for paranoia, but then there’s these people online that have repeatedly messaged me on dating sites, including one guy that saw me in person and confronted me. My best friends have said “why though, you’re not that great?” and I am NOT offended by them saying that because it’s true. I’m not a celebrity I’m an average hick with a rather grubby history. But another friend I had said it’s because I’m “confident” and then one of the digital stalkers said my “confidence” made him obsessed with me. His obsession going far beyond demanding dates on every new profile he makes but also threats of physical harm and calling me a c*nt.
So, yes, I am a ball of arrogance (confidence) but no means no and these people fixate on others largely due to mental illness it seems. Throughout life I have had unpleasant run-ins with people diagnosed with bipolar disorder for instance. One coworker would want to hug you one day and the next she would glare at you with hate for no reason. It’s scary. And I would never judge anyone for being mentally ill but when you become predatory and violent I will judge your actions.
A huge part of the problem is people with serious mental disorders refuse to take meds and accept their behavior as normal to them or being “okay.” This ranges from energetic mania where they obsessively do art or whatnot to smashing their car into a wall, no exaggeration. I had a neighbor that did that due to some issue he had. The guy babbled really really fast and eventually ended up hospitalized. It’s sad. Again, I got my own head shit, but if I started to do reckless things and endanger myself and others, that’s where the line is drawn.
Anyway, most of these people have made multiple new profiles to harass me on dating sites, and yes, my blog here. That is why I rarely respond to private messages, I’m cautious of people making too many attention-seeking comments, and blogs with no image of the user creep me out. On top of the fact that I want nothing to do with these predators, any form of attention gratifies them, even threatening to call the police. That is why I am paranoid. This morning I just blocked the 2nd account of a person pretending to be Morgan Wallen. I think I mentioned being a fan of his music a while back, before he got in trouble for saying the N-word which I obviously do not condone. I think I last mentioned that artist last year? So last week I get added by a fan blog based around him and the person messaged me, saying they were him. I said “okay, sure, send me a selfie holding the peace sign” and he said he was too good for that. I laughed and blocked him (or her). Today, same shit.
People that obsess with celebrities or impersonate them have mental problems obviously, so is this some random that just seeks attention, or one of the creepos I’ve blocked dozens of times? The fact that it’s based on Morgan Wallen who is currently being boycotted makes me think it was designed for me, but if others are being added by “Morgan Wallen Official” or whatever, please report and block.
It’s not just manic disorders, or whatever you want to label them, but I’ve struggled with the socially inept (stunted upbringings?) and those with autism. The last autistic person I was around worked, drove, and appeared mostly normal but would break down into a humming, rocking, crying, and yelling mess in a split second. Like are you okay? Are you going to calm down? Or are you going to smack me and not even know you’re doing it? :(
I was friends with a guy online for years; all of my online friends are platonic unless otherwise mentioned (such as an ex). He had seemingly mild autism and worked, drank, and paid his bills. I opened up to him about my life and valued our friendship but one night I lost some meds, they had rolled under my bed. I freaked out because you can’t easily replace prescriptions, especially since I was paying out of pocket at the time. I told him I was freaked the fuck out and he said “I love you.”
Well that freaked me out even more, but I just said I did not share those feelings, sorry. I tried to put that aside but things felt creepy after that because I think I was one of his only friends despite being an online person he’d never met.
Shortly after that I posted on my FaceBook page that it was my birthday, was some 18 year old going to eat my ass out? On my private FB I often post crude things because it’s people I know that get my sense of humor. Sadly on my blog here and other formats I can’t make sexual jokes or men assume I’ll sleep with anybody (yay for shaming women for their sexuality). The autistic guy messaged me later saying “I’d eat your ass out.” I told him I was through and blocked him on all formats. He had already started being too attentive and that comment was the end for me. That shit literally makes me cringe. WHEN SOMEONE DOESN’T WANT YOU, ACCEPT IT.
Since then, which was like 3 years ago, he’s messaged me on a dating site and then another place where he said “I know you hate me” and asked me to talk. I don’t hate him, I think a better word would be “fear.” I think he may stalk my blog here as well, but like I said, boundaries have to be drawn, we can’t just feel sorry for someone because they have a mental condition. I have the right to feel uncomfortable around someone and I have the right to cut them off.
Stay safe my people.
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Writing Commission - Where I Want To Be - Chapter Seven
Summary: Yamada Hizashi, better known as the Voice Hero Present Mic, is a busy man. He has classes and students to teach English to, an agency that always seemed to be in the middle of a disaster to help deal with, and a radio station that was one bad show away from being cancelled to run. He doesn’t have time for a bad day triggered by nightmares and fears and anxieties that just never seem to stop.
Luckily for him, his partners are Aizawa Shouta and Yagi Toshinori and neither of those two are very good at leaving Hizashi to suffer alone.
Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Relationship: Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic/Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic/Yagi Toshinori | All Might, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead/Yagi Toshinori | All Might
Characters: Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Yagi Toshinori | All Might
Rating: Teen Audiences
Word Count: 29,323
Transaction Amount: $200 (USD)
WARNINGS FOR: Past childhood abuse (both emotional and physical) and anxiety attacks verging on panic to PTSD episodes. Please read with caution if needed.
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Chapter Index
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The brief hour-long respite Toshinori had blessed Hizashi with had been just enough to keep him from trekking up to the roof of his agency and either jumping or throwing a couple of idiots off, but the hour had ended and Hizashi was once again contemplating either suicide or murder. He was leaning towards murder since no one would really fault him and, plus, Shouta and Toshinori would even be proud of him for picking that option out of the two!
“Alright. Explain this to me again.” Because Hizashi, despite what people thought, could be patient and understanding. Even on his bad days he did his best to keep his own emotions in check and hear out the people he worked with when a problem occurred. “How did you end up setting one of the lower labs on fire?”
Two support engineers, one support intern, and the director of the lab in question all exchanged looks with one another. The director clutched his clipboard as if he were about to break it in half due to fear and stress before he cleared his throat, “Well, sir, it’s actually a rather intriguing scientific act that caused the… commotion.”
Hizashi resisted the urge to faceplant on his desk and instead cursed everyone in his agency for leaving him to deal with this mess. Typically, in cases like lab destruction, it would be dealt with by someone who actually worked in the support labs. The problem with that, however, was that that person was out sick and that left Hizashi, who understood how the support labs and the items inside worked, to deal with the problem.
Hizashi should have taken the day off sick, too. He should have just finished at school and then gone straight home, but no. He had to be stubborn and noble and care about his job. He was regretting his choices in life more and more with each passing second.
“Present Mic, sir.” The intern, a sweet little thing that looked equal parts nervous and excited with hair sticking up in all directions, gave an encouraging grin. “We actually managed to contain the fire to 67% of the lab, as well as keep all volatile projects safe and discover a quicker-burning fuel that gives a more intense burn for Wildfire. With a bit more tweaking, I have no doubt we could have a fuel that would burn through all three layers of skin, barring any quirk changes or effects, within 2.7 seconds!”
Quiet for a long moment, Hizashi looked up at the lab director, who gave a weak, nervous smile before opening his mouth. He then must have realized that nothing he could say would help the situation because he then closed his mouth and gave an apologetic smile. Hizashi felt his headache, which had been coming in and out all day, give a throb of pain.
“Alright. You,” Hizashi pointed to the director. “Write up a report of this and send it to whoever is in charge of your lab this week -- not me. Include the fact that not everything was destroyed and you’ve discovered something to better help Wildfire. That’ll take some of the heat off of you.” The only one to appreciate his joke with the intern, who gave a snort of startled laughter.
“You two.” Hizashi pointed at the engineers, who straightened up nervously. “See what the damage was to everything and draw up a plan to deal with it. Don’t worry too much about cost right now but do what you can to minimize any losses. Try to reuse any supplies that didn’t end up too bad off in the fire, too. And you.”
Hizashi stared at the intern, who gave him a cheerful, happy little grin. The kid was one of their only first-year interns who had been brought in as a special case and Hizashi could feel himself waver at the bright enthusiasm. Well, no one had said he was strong, really. “Excellent work today, but I want you to write up a one-page essay on fire and lab safety and hand it in to the lab director by your next workday. I also want you to send all the data you collected today to my email with everything you learned.”
While he didn’t need the data, it would be interesting to see those numbers. Typically a fire that burned that hot and that fast only came about through quirks, so it would be interesting to see how far they could push the effectiveness of it. If they did a good enough job then they could have some support equipment that was on par with some of the quirks that came out of Endeavor’s agency, and it was always nice to knock him down a peg or two.
“Yes sir, Present Mic sir! I’ll even be sure to write two pages about the lab and fire safety!” The intern was out of the room like a shot, Hizashi feeling a twitch of a smile before one of the engineers cleared his throat.
“Um, sir?” Oh. Oh, Hizashi did not like that tone. “One of the projects that was, uh, compromised today was meant to be Sonic Whip’s.” Ah. Right. Sonic Whip. One of the most terrifying women that Hizashi had ever had the displeasure to meet and who had a temper shorter than a deranged villain’s. “It was of a rather sensitive nature and… She’s expecting the first prototype tomorrow.”
Hizashi resisted the urge to climb out his office window and escape, instead sucking in a calming breath and grabbing his phone before heading towards the door, “I just remembered I have a meeting.” It was a very important meeting, too; one with his face and a brick wall in the half-forgotten hidden lounge on the bottom floor of the agency.
Thankfully, Hizashi had long since mastered the art of looking like he was on his way to an important meeting, which meant no one tried to stop him as he marched himself through the agency and threw himself down on the first couch he saw in the empty lounge. It was dark, from no one having repaired the lights in a while, it was quiet, where it was tucked away into a back corner with thick walls, and it was always empty where everyone forgot to refill the fridge. It was heaven.
At least, it was heaven until he heard someone collapse on the couch across from him, the sound of a grunt barely being finished before it turned into a surprised, “Yamada! I wouldn’t have thought you were in here with how quiet it was!” Oh, god, it was the only other person in the agency who could be as loud and cheerful as him. This was punishment. It had to be.
Inching his gaze to the side, Hizashi mourned the peace and quiet he had gotten for only a few short minutes as he looked at Shima Hikari, the hero known as Radiant; a light-quirk user that was no doubt going to make his light sensitivity even worse if she felt even the slightest uptick in excitement. She was looking far too cheerful considering her, and the sidekick Hizashi hadn’t even heard at first, looked like they were a few seconds away from hitting the ground in a puddle of exhaustion.
Taking a moment to weigh the options between responding and ignoring her, Hizashi finally let out a sigh with a quiet, “Alright, you two?”
“Peachy keen!” Shima chirped, crossing her legs and then looking over to her sidekick, who had her own legs thrown over one end of the couch and her head resting near Shima’s thigh. Poor kid looked exhausted and Hizashi took a moment to be grateful his own sidekick days were over. Sometimes, even if he truly hated to admit it, he’d rather take the paperwork over dealing with stupid villains and angry cops. “Isn’t that right, Stardust?” The kid gave a pathetic groan that sounded half exhausted and half pained. “That’s the spirit!”
“I think you’ve killed your sidekick,” Hizashi snorted, pushing himself up and biting the inside of his cheek to stop a groan at the throb in his head. “We’re supposed to be careful with those, you know. We only have a limited supply of them.”
Shima huffed, placing a hand against her chest, “Excuse you, I take the utmost care of my sidekicks, thank you very much. At least I don’t load them full of caffeine and sugar and energy drinks and hope they don’t die of exhaustion before the end of a patrol like you do.”
“And yet they love me anyways,” Hizashi snickered, readjusting himself against the couch as he flicked his eyes over the two again. They were both covered with dust and rubble, scratches across all visible parts of their skin. Stardust had one of her ankles tightly wrapped, and Shima had a bandage around her head, but neither of them looked too bad off. “Interesting patrol, then?”
“Started with chasing a purse thief and then he led us all the way to a drug den where a deal was going on between some pretty important figures,” Shima snorted, pulling out her phone and starting to type on it at once. Hizashi couldn’t really blame her since his phone, and Shouta and Toshinori, were the only reasons he was no doubt still sane. “Seriously, though. You’re quiet as shit. What happened? Another lab blew up while you were stuck on report duty?”
“Fire, actually,” Hizashi responded, watching with amusement as Shima’s head snapped up, eyes narrowed and studying him. They then widened with sympathy. Even Stardust, half-asleep as she was, made a noise that sounded sympathetic.
“Oh, fuck, I thought I was just joking.” Yeah, that’s what made it even worse, really. “Everyone alright? Any injuries?”
“No injuries, thankfully.” Hizashi collapsed back on the couch, groaning at the flash of pain in his back. “It’s not the worst lab disaster we’ve ever had but add that on top of everything else that’s been happening, and it’s been a long day.” Plus, his sensory overload, flashes of memory, and trauma were all acting up to make the day try and kill him once and for all.
“We told you, right back at the beginning, to not take that job at U.A.,” Shima lectured, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “You already had a full-time job here and with that radio station of yours, and what did you do?”
“I took the job at U.A.,” Hizashi mumbled, wincing as Shima repeated the words even louder. She truly was his punishment in life.
“You took the job at U.A.! Being a teacher is a lifestyle and you’re doing that with two other jobs! Which are also lifestyles!” Shima made a very dismissive tsking noise, Hizashi cracking an eye open to glare at her. “What? I’m right and you know it. Right, Stardust?”
The kid cracked her eyes open, blearily staring between the two of them before looking back to Shima, “Sorry, Shima-san, but I refuse to take sides in an argument with pro-heroes when all three of us work in the same agency.”
Hizashi snorted, the serious tone of voice lifting his mood for a few moments, “Smart kid, Shima. She’s gonna be better than you one day.”
Shima scoffed, beaming and radiating pride as she turned back to her phone, “Yeah, yeah. Oh, you might wanna go get your stuff and get ready to leave, by the way.”
“What?” Why would he leave? Hizashi still had another two hours of his shift at the agency before he had to head over to the radio station. “Why would I-?”
A loud ping from his phone had Hizashi frowning before he was looking down at it, seeing an incoming message from one of the higher ups. It only took a quick scan of the message to see that he was, not-so-politely, being told that he was done for the day, already clocked out, and that his husband was on his way to pick him up so he could ‘get some goddamn rest.’ Shima gave a proud, beaming grin when Hizashi looked up at her. “You’re welcome!”
“I hate you?” Hizashi looked from her to his phone, feeling a shock of warmth at how much the people in his life cared for him. The fact he was already clocked out meant he legally couldn’t even try to get back on his computer and do anymore work for the day without getting into legal trouble. He was legally being told to get out and go get some rest. “Why are you so mean to me?” Which meant once he finished at the radio station he could go home and cuddle up with Shouta and Toshinori and let their warmth and safety drown out everything else.
“Aw, I see you as a friend, too,” Shima cooed, voice softer and quieter. When Hizashi glanced over, he saw she was petting at her sidekick’s head, the girl halfway to being asleep as she breathed softly. “Seriously, though, Yamada. I know what a rough day looks like, so just… take care of yourself, yeah?”
“Fuck,” Hizashi breathed out softly, pulling himself up with a groan. “I’m going to have to actually get you something decent for Christmas, aren’t I?” The ugly snort of laughter had Hizashi managing a larger smile as he shook his head. “Make sure to get some rest yourself, Shima.”
“Just as long as you do, Yamada,” she winked, shooing him out so she could coddle her sidekick even more than she already did. Honestly, Hizashi was waiting for Shima to come in with adoption papers with how she was about that kid.
It wasn’t until Hizashi was halfway to his office that his phone dinged again, this time a message from Shouta with a laughing emoji and a simple, ‘Got kicked out huh?’
‘I was politely told to get the fuck out and get some goddamn rest before I had a heart attack and would need to be replaced,’ Hizashi texted back, trying not to snort as Shouta sent a row of more laughing emojis. It was hilarious that everyone assumed Hizashi was the emoji abuser when Shouta’s texts typically contained an emoji with each line or sentence. ‘You don’t have to come get me.’
‘Too late. Already omw.’ Which meant Shouta had probably left to come and check on him just like Toshinori had even before he had been texted by Hizashi’s agency. ‘Get your things before they lock you out of your office workaholic.’
‘You have no rights to call me that considering your own work ethic.’ Hizashi sent a little emoji of his own before tucking his phone away and heading to get his things. Considering the type of people he worked with, he truly wouldn’t be surprised if they kicked him out before he could so much as grab his bag. They wouldn’t even feel bad about it, they would just laugh at him.
Thankfully, it didn’t take him long to gather the files he needed and head back down towards the lobby, everyone soundly ignoring him. It wasn’t the first time an agency wide message had been sent out to warn people that Hizashi was getting kicked out and, knowing him and his co-workers, it wouldn’t be the last. Hizashi hated and loved every last one of them.
Hizashi was on the sidewalk when a pair of footsteps fell into step with his own, Hizashi feeling something in him soften and relax at Shouta’s quiet laugh, “Radiant was the one to kick you out, huh? How’d that feel?”
“Like the universe was throwing everything I’ve ever done back in my face,” Hizashi snorted, smiling when Shouta’s shoulder brushed against his own. “I could have finished my shift, you know. It’s not a patrol day.”
“You could have,” Shouta agreed, looking at him with that look of his that was far too understanding. “But you don’t have to. You’re the one always yelling at me about teamwork and cooperation with others, after all, aren’t you?”
“That’s because you try to take on two dozen human traffickers without any backup.” That had been far too nerve wracking of a night, in Hizashi’s opinion. Nemuri, at least, had shared in his suffering when Shouta had ended laid up in the hospital with a concussion and a broken wrist.
“Mm, you all were running late.” Ass, Hizashi thought to himself fondly. “I’d ask if we were going home, but…”
“Radio station,” Hizashi finished, closing his eyes for a moment. As much as he craved going home and finally resting, he still had work to do. He wouldn’t let a bad day ruin all the work he and everyone else he worked with at the station had been doing. Besides, it wasn’t a recording or live day, so there was at least that much.
“You’re lucky you don’t need to record today,” Shouta snorted, reading Hizashi’s mind as he always did. “Alright. Let’s go, then.” Hizashi half-wanted to argue that Shouta didn’t need to come with him, but he knew it was a fight he wouldn’t win.
Hizashi took a breath anyways, getting ready to gather up the energy he would need to ask about Toshinori, and dinner, and how the students were after Shouta had checked on the dorm. Stupidly, though, Hizashi forgot that he was talking to Shouta.
He hadn’t even gotten a word out before Shouta was talking again, firm enough to be heard, but soft enough to make it easy on his headache, “Toshinori made it home alright, by the way. He also started digging up American Sign Language books, but I decided I didn’t even want to ask since I knew I’d hear about it from you later. He’s also starting dinner. For a man who doesn’t eat food typically, he’s a better cook than I would have thought.
“Oh, and I think the kid is gonna kill all the troublemakers in 1-A if they keep trying to kidnap him like they have been,” Shouta continued, Hizashi feeling tension drain out of him as he listened to the man’s voice. “They actually had him trapped in the dorms when I went to check on everything before Nemuri took over watch. He was taped to the chair and making at least two of them do handstands.”
Shouta didn’t stop for a moment, talking softly and damn near rambling as his steps kept time with Hizashi’s, not expecting him to say a single word back in response. It was a routine that was years old and familiar enough that Hizashi could let himself get lost in the words as Shouta led them along to where they needed to go.
His eyes slipped shut for a moment, the phantom feeling of pressure around his throat and leather cutting into his skin damn near gone. He was still exhausted, and stretched thin, and felt like too much at once would put him right back where he had been, but…
The day was almost over and he had Shouta by his side. As far as he was concerned, he would be just fine for a few more hours.
#bnha#boku no hero academia#where i want to be#allerasermic#mha#my hero academia#original#my writing
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Laptops, Chaos and Irritating Professors
Parkner Week prompt 3: “I am very small and have no money”
Read here on: AO3
SUMMARY: Harley meets Peter on his first day of college. Peter wants to be friends, but Harley is extremely busy focusing on his research paper, scholarships and extra-curricular work, to pay him any attention.
That is, until Professor Stark pairs them up for the research project.
Harley realises that Peter isn't as bad as he seems.
Harley walked to class with a warm cup of coffee in his hands. His mind was whirring with thousands of thoughts on his first day of college.
Harley wondered if all his classmates felt weird, waking up in an unknown bed. Or was he the only one feeling out of place?
Though Harley didn’t want to focus on it, Harley knew that he was quite different from his classmates. The bed he’d woken up in, at the frat house was much bigger than the bed he had shared with Abby as a kid.
Harley sighed. Joining the frat had been the last thing he had wanted, but it had been the easiest way to cut down on accommodation charges. He didn’t want to be associated with the constant partying lifestyle of frats, but such was his life.
Harley stared at the building in front of him and took a deep breath. He dropped his empty cup in a trash can and walked in. This building was in the easternmost area of the campus, where his Introductory Dynamical Theory class would be held.
Harley tried to regulate his breathing as he walked towards room 208, He had no reason to be scared, he had gone over the course outline a week ago.
Professor Anthony Stark was teaching this course. Hw was one of the most renowned mathematicians in the world.
Harley opened the door slowly, peeking his head in. The class was mostly empty, a few students sat scattered around the room, busy staring into their phones or laptops.
Harley took a seat in the relative front of the class and sat down, pulling out his laptop.
Slowly, students began to trickle into the class. Harley kept his head down and stared at his laptop screen, a grainy photo of Abby grinning, with her crooked teeth smiled back at him.
They had taken the photo when she had won a blue ribbon at the science fair. Abby had claimed that she was going to become a scientist like him.
Harley was pulled out of his thoughts when a boy sat down next to him. Harley looked at the seats around him, which were all empty. Why did this boy sit next to him?
Against his better judgement, Harley turned to look at the boy. He was wearing brown trousers, a formal white shirt and a fluffy sweater with broad blue and green stripes.
It was the first class of the day, but the collar of the boy’s shirt was crumpled and the cuffs of his shirt were unbuttoned and poking out of his sweater.
The boy maintained their awkward eye contact as he took an obnoxious bite out of the green apple he was carrying. Harley stared at the boy, with his mouth hanging open, hoping that his blush wasn’t visible.
The boy then wiped his lips on his sweater’s arm, and Harley was grossed out of his stupor.
The boy swallowed his bite and extended his hand, “Peter. Peter Parker.”
Harley nodded jerkily, ignoring the boy’s hand, and faced his laptop again. The boy, Peter, nudged Harley in the ribs and said, “Usually, people introduce themselves in return.”
Harley barely suppressed the urge to wipe his shirt, where Peter had touched it; He only had a few clothes and didn’t want them to get apple stains.
Harley replied, “No thanks.”
Peter laughed, “That’s a unique name. Who chose it?”
Harley rolled his eyes. Before Peter could pester him more, Professor Stark walked in.
It was a strange experience for Harley to see the man outside a photo on the cover of a book. Harley attributed the feeling mostly to the fact that the professor had walked into class wearing jeans and a faded AC/DC shirt, with questionable marks on his face and arms.
Harley hadn’t been to any other class yet, but he assumed that this wasn’t the normal attire for a teacher.
Due to the professors unexpected attire, it took a moment for the class to notice him. Then a hush fell over the class.
The professor studied them all as he leaned his back against his table, his arms crossed over his chest.
He spoke as he gave them a once-over, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be late for our first class, but I got busy in the lab.”
Harley discreetly checked his watch as the professor spoke, “Anyway, let’s begin. This is Introduction to Dynamical Theory, I’m your professor. You can call me Tony.”
Harley realised that their professor, Tony, was almost 15 minutes late.
“I assume all of you have made yourselves familiar with the course material...” Tony asked an open-ended question.
After receiving a vague affirmative from the class, Tony continued, “Very well.”
He turned around and walked to the board, on which he wrote in block letters, “Birkinhoff Research Team”.
He faced them again and clapped his hands once to gain the attention of the few students who’s focus had wandered.
“The mathematics department has started a new research team this academic year, we will be taking on grad students as assistants. Which means all you have a chance. To be eligible for the position, you will have to submit a research report on one topic from our course work of this semester.”
The entire class erupted into excited whispers.
Harley wanted this badly. Working with Anthony Stark on a research project, even if as an assistant. He was going to get this. His eyes travelled subconsciously to the last topic in their course work, The Bifurcation Theory.
--x--
Harley walks into the library with purpose at the end of the day’s classes, his mind working over the different ways in which he can study The Choas Theory. He picks out all the books he thinks are necessary and sits down on a table in a secluded area of the library.
He starts opening the required pages in each book as his laptop switches on. A person blocks the light in front of him. Harley looks up from his book.
Peter Parker.
Harley rolls his eyes, “What do you want?”
Peter shrugs, “Your name.”
Harley squints at him, when Peter moves a little, and the light hits Harley’s eyes, “Why?”
Peter rests his hands on Harley’s table and leans across, “Because I want to be friends.”
Harley huffs, “No thanks.”
Peter looks a little unnerved which makes Harley feel quite content.
But the satisfaction evaporates when Peter walks around the table and sits down in the seat next to him.
“What are you doing?” Harley asks shortly.
Peter shrugs, “Studying.”
Harley groans and turns back to his laptop, to start writing. In his frustration, he gets easily irritated with his slow laptop. He clicks on his folder multiple times, as expected, the laptop hangs and promptly shuts down.
Harley rubs his temples with both his hands. His laptop is old and needs patience. Harley tries to calm down.
Peter’s presence doesn’t help. He whispers from next to Harley, “Oof, that’ rough buddy. Where’d you even get this laptop?”
Harley ignores Peter, which turns out, is worse than responding to him. Peter takes his lack of response as an invitation to poke around with the laptop.
Peter mumbles, “I could use some of its parts for my mechanics class.”
Harley whisks the laptop away from Peter, “Stay away from it. I know you rich kids don’t understand, but this is the only thing I can afford. Leave me alone.”
Without waiting for Peter’s response, Harley hauls his bag onto his shoulder and walks out of the library, leaving him to clean up the table and put the books away.
--x--
Over the next month, Harley fixes his routine. He does his work in the house, according to the chart, every morning. The heads to his classes or the library, before meeting his study group at lunchtime and finally spends an hour every alternate day, tutoring his classmates.
He strikes up a tentative friendship with the boys at his frat house and even talks to a few of his classmates. Part of his routine also includes interacting with Peter Parker, despite his best efforts. As it turns out, they share a lot of the same classes.
Monday morning, when Harley walks into class, Peter is already seated in the front of the class. Harley hopes that the shorter boy doesn't try to strike up a conversation. But his pleas are ignored by the gods above.
Peter grins at him, "What's got you in such a lovely mood today?"
Harley rolls his eyes and sits down, a couple of seats behind the aggravating boy. But on this day, with none of his friends around, Peter is bored enough to pursue Harley.
"No, seriously. At first, I thought you weren't a morning person, but how do you manage to maintain this shitty mood throughout the day?"
Harley is saved from answering when Tony walks into class, on time for once.
As it turns out, Anthony Stark is quite a weird teacher. He is always sleep-deprived and his erratic, coffee-induced behaviour is always the talk of the physics department. He regularly asks them to meet him in the lawns for classes.
"Alright, children," Tony says patronisingly, "I had asked for an overview of your research this weekend. And I realised, that quite a few of you have similar topics. So, I'm going to group all of you who have similar areas of focus."
Harley rolls his eyes. Great, a group project is exactly what he needs.
Tony claps his hands to gain their attention and says, "So the groups are..."
He hears Peter say in the front, "Oh great."
Of course, he's excited. Rich kids like Peter, who get in through donations, are more interested in making friends than they are in studying.
Harley watches as his classmates get grouped. Their excitement is palpable. Against his better judgement, Harley wonders how cool it would be if, he were able to make friends through this project.
His hopes get dashed before he can even properly start day-dreaming.
Tony adds, "Harley Keener on Bifurcation Theory with..." Tony scans his list, "Peter Parker."
For his part, Peter looks a little less enthusiastic at having been partnered with him.
--x--
Harley opens the door when the doorbell rings at their decided time. Peter smiles at him, "I didn't think you'd be a frat boy!"
Harley winces at his volume. Peter's lesser enthusiasm is still quite a lot for Harley to stomach.
Harley steps aside and lets Peter in. Outside, the sky rumbles. The rain has been sparse throughout the day, but the humidity is awful.
They walk into the house, Peter stopping to say hi to almost every housemate of Harley's.
When they finally reach Harley's room, Peter plops down on his bed, making himself very comfortable.
Harley closes the door and Peter quips, "Hey, I didn't get the memo for bedroom activities."
Harley turns around to see Peter wiggling his eyebrows, he scoffs, "Shut up."
Peter sighs, "Look I know that you aren't very fond of me, but we have to get this project done."
Harley feels uncomfortable at such honesty from Peter.
He pulls out his laptop and sits down on the bed next to Peter. Peter comments abruptly, "I didn't mean to make fun of your laptop. Sorry about it."
Harley nods. Peter's genuine comments are making him feel weird.
--x--
Harley and Peter spend the next few hours from lunch to dinner on their project, eating ramen, typing on their laptops, pulling out different reference articles and such.
Harley realises that Peter isn't exactly like he had assumed. The boy is whip-smart, quick enough to pick up the half-baked ideas Harley thinks of.
Of course, Peter is still snarky, over-enthusiastic jokester. Harley has to keep drawing the conversation back to their research at hand from whichever pokemon Peter starts ranting about.
As they finally finish outlining their draft, Harley's stomach rumbles. Peter checks his watch, "It's just 10, we can finish touching this up."
Harley grumbles, "No."
Peter looks up from his screen, a smile on his face, "Have I found your weakness, Harls?"
Harley rolls his eyes at the nickname. Peter's smile widens, "I think I'm going to stay."
Harley glares at him, "I have to sleep, go away."
Peter laughs, "Make me."
This is the easiest choice Harley has ever had to make. In under 4 minutes, Harley has dragged the shorter boy to the door of their frat. Each step he takes to the door brings him closer to the solitude he wants.
As expected, Harley's hopes go down the gutter when he opens the door. It's raining. The part of the pathway in front of the house, visible in the light of the porch, is submerged in water.
Peter looks at him. Harley averts his eyes from the shorter boy's face. He didn't know Peter could pull off such a good kicked puppy expression.
Peter whispers, "Don't make me go..."
Harley chances a glance at Peter's face. Peter uses the opportunity to lay on even more guilt, "I'm really small and have no money."
Harley rolls his eyes but lets go of Peter's hoodie.
The change in the shorter boy's mood makes Harley's head spin.
In a moment, Peter is running back up the stairs, whooping.
Harley walks to the kitchen and picks up whatever's left in the fridge before following Peter.
When Harley enters his room, Peter is already lying star-fished on his bed.
Harley sets down his food on the bedside table and shoves Peter out of the bed. Peter lets out a terrible groan, but Harley assures himself that the carpeted floor would have broken his fall. Just in case, he throws Peter two pillows and a blanket.
Maybe Peter isn't as bad as he seems...
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The Curse Of One For All (Part 1 of ?)
The Global Security Council meeting convened. Obviously, it was not the official one. They saved the minor issues to distract the press, with their cameras and reporters jotting down every word or action by the leaders.
This meeting was done in secret, at a location undisclosed, with no cameras except surveillance both within the room and outside. Dubbed “The Room Where It Happens” as a little cultural joke, the real matters were settled here.
A figure stood up, a grey-haired lady dressed in a black dress with an opal necklace adorning her neck. Her eyes were like iron as she surveyed the room full of the people who decided life and death like they ordered breakfast. Some were presidents, some were leaders of conglomerates – but others, like her, were in charge of their national hero associations.
Codenamed Jackal, she spoke, “I believe the matter I brought to the table tonight was sent to you prior to this meeting, but I’ll repeat myself because I’m aware we can’t be bothered to do a little pre-reading.”
A low chuckle spread through the room. Jackal changed the slide to show a picture of a young boy, with green hair and freckles, no older than eighteen, it seemed.
“This is Nine. His real name is Izuku Midoriya. My Commission has kept his life under wraps, and only a room of people knew him before this meeting.”
“You came here to do a Show-and-Tell, Jackal?” Phoenix snarked, his crisp American voice sending another round of laughter through the room.
Jackal responded coolly, “I came here with a request and a proposition. It is, after all, what we do here, no?”
“Let her finish, Phoenix…” Dragon droned, sounding bored or lethargic – likely both.
“Firstly, my request,” Jackal said, “I would like some resources for improving this subject.”
“Like what?” Demon said from the other side of the room. “Awakening his quirk? Toss him in the jungle for three nights. The panthers will do the job.”
“We did. For a week. He was under a life-and-death threat throughout, and he only awakened more and more.”
“How many? Wasn’t the record by Rubik…” Blizzard snapped her fingers at Phoenix. “What did your guy do?”
“Three awakenings, each with empowered and expanded usage of his Chaos Theory.”
“I’m not referring to a static awakening, not one power spike after a near-death experience. It’s the fact that this quirk gets more and more powerful on a seemingly exponential rate.
“Why?” Phoenix said.
Jackal muttered something under her breath the council didn’t quite catch, only “Read...email...redundant…”
She changed the slide to a list of faces of men and women, with Nine’s face at the bottom. “Put simply, this quirk, codenamed Alpha, stockpiles power and can be passed on, giving future wielders all the quirks of previous wielders.”
Demon whistled. “Jackal, you sly dog. How long have you been keeping this from us?”
“Long enough to get a good idea of how this quirk works. I’m assuming you’re interested to learn more.”
“Eh,” Phoenix shrugged. “I don’t see how that kid’s any better than Comet.”
“Yes...I’m sure the people in Nevada enjoy even more craters in their backyard,” Jackal deadpanned, causing a rowdy laughter that reddened the man’s face. “But Alpha has the power rivalling Comet, plus the versatility. We’ve identified about three quirks so far, which is a milestone given how poorly the previous holders performed.”
She pointed at the people above Nine, to the face at the top. “This is Daijuro Banjo, the person we obtained Alpha from. The subsequent holders were all people whom we ran tests on. He is the fifth user of Alpha, based on the information he provided from our interrogations of him.
“Six, Seven and Eight. They didn’t accomplish much in terms of awakening Alpha. In fact they all perished early, just in time to transfer it to the next,” Jackal said, her tone neutral.
“But Nine is where it got interesting. So far, he’s managed to unlock the quirks of Five, Seven and one more unidentified user pre-Five. His power output also jumped from a constant 5% to 40% after the training we put him through.”
She played a video. “This is him at 5%.”
It showed Nine punching a tree. One hit, and it collapsed at the impact point, like an amateur woodcutter.
“And this is 40%.”
A similar punch, from ten feet away, sent a shockwave rippling through the ground like it was soup, sending chunks of rock and soil flying through the air. It was as if Nine had summoned a hurricane with his fist. The tree was nothing more than collateral damage, disappearing in the next few frames as the punch was thrown.
When the clouds of dust cleared after half a minute, there was a cone of barren ground ending where Nine was standing.
“So?” Jackal’s voice echoed in a silent, shocked room.
“That’s nice. So Japan’s got a powerhouse. You want resources, but you still haven’t said what we get out of this.” The deep voice of Leviathan rippled through the room after an age of silence, which sent some unease given Leviathan’s usual taciturn demeanour. If he spoke, it meant he was interested, and Jackal responded coolly.
“What about an army of soldiers wielding Alpha?” Jackal said.
Demon leaned forward with renewed interest. “How?”
“Alpha has a unique quirk factor, in that it’s not tied to a singular location on the body. It is the body. With the help of our surgeon, we’ve managed to transfer one of Nine’s arms onto another subject, tentative code name Ten. But it wasn’t...successful.”
“What’s the difference between the transference of Eight to Nine and Nine to Ten?”
“Eight to Nine was done with the genuine belief of being a hero. Both were quirkless, but had the ‘heart of a hero’, as the two liked to say. We’ve postulated that might have had some effect in terms of the power of Alpha. It’s a nebulous, frankly fantastical theory, but a plausible one nonetheless. After all, the transference from Nine to Ten was done...artificially. So it’s likely the tenth user could not handle the power.”
“What happened?” Demon asked.
“It’s on Page 65 if you would like to view the experiment. I’ve decided not to show it because of certain peoples’ weak stomachs.” Jackal’s eyes flickered towards Phoenix for a brief second.
Turning the page, Demon’s eyes widened for a moment before his face turned pale. “Ah, I see.”
“So…will you be able to replicate this quirk factor duplication successfully? I’m not sending my soldiers to...that.” Blizzard made a face.
“Well, that’s where I need a certain country’s research on quirk factors to make this successful.”
A new voice groaned at the corner of the room. “I figured it would come to this,” said Ouro. “Fine, you will have it, but I want a treaty that these never be used on German soil.”
“With your quirk, I don’t think you’ll need to worry.” Phoenix snorted.
“I’ll make the arrangements,” Jackal assured Ouro, who nodded.
“Anything else, Jackal?” Leviathan pressed on.
“If all goes well, no. Maybe some of your training grounds if the research reveals something new to use for Alpha’s improvement. I’ve yet to collate a list, but Siberia seems like a useful location.” Jackal looked to Blizzard, who waved dismissively.
“Which it never does,” Demon added. The others gave murmurs of assent.
“Are we done here?” Dragon chirped.
“I suppose,” Jackal said, and sat down. Despite obtaining everything she needed, there was no hint of satisfaction visible on her face.
––––––
Hi, sorry for the silence. Exams. One last paper tomorrow, and I guess things might resume as per normal, but the pace is picking up so I suppose writings will be, on average, slower.
Also, I know this isn’t a story a lot of people would be interested in? It’s not a shipping fic, but it’s one I really liked to write, as I thought the premise of “What if the HPSC discovered OFA early?” was too good to not write. So all you HPSC haters get to see Izuku’s hellish life and hate them more, I guess. And yeah the HPSC isn’t going to come off well in this story. Like, at all. Not a fun AU.
I definitely have more planned, it’s not going to be a super long story like ATDS or TFTA, but I’m thinking 3 chapters or so.
#bnha#mha#bnha fanfic#bnha fanfiction#mha fanfic#mha fanfiction#boku no hero academia#my hero academia
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