#op you’re a god among men
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Gone Too Long
Summary: Joel embraces you after you had gone missing for some time.
Joel Miller x Male Reader
Word Count : 1.2k
Tags: Angst, Comfort, Soft!Joel
A/N: Here's a short one for you! Took me a couple hours to write, so hope it turns out enjoyable.
Still nothing, still the gates stayed shut just as they were three days ago.
You, and a few other residents in Jackson, had yet to return from your patrols. The objective for your group was quite simple, clear out any infected in your assigned area. The danger levels were not as high, since Jackson would routinely send out their finest members to keep infected from coming into the radius of their walls, mitigating any chances of anyone getting hurt. The odds were stacked in their favor, but it wasn’t certain.
Tommy and Maria were standing among an ever growing crowd close by the gates of their town. Both arguing with his older brother, Joel, and a few other of the residents who insisted they send a search party for their missing loved ones.
The people shouted, “How long until we do something”, “My daughter is out there!”
Concern was rising, tensions were high but Maria opped to calm the people down. Using her hand to assert some level of control, she tries settling the worried crowd while Joel and Tommy were arguing just behind her.
“I already told you, we don’t have the guys to be sending out there, right now,” Tommy explained.
Joel shook his head, “It’s been days Tommy, days since we’ve heard from them”.
“What can we do? We already advised our patrols to be on the lookout. Even the ones that were sent out this mornin’.”
Joel scuff, “They ain’ looking for them, they’re just doing their damn job.”
“And that's the best we can do” Tommy says.
Joel opened his mouth but closed it after, turning his head in frustration. He knew by this point that continuing a dispute with Tommy was just a waste of time. He felt every second that wasn’t dedicated to finding you was a waste of time. In fact everything felt that way to him, why bother getting people involved when he could just do it himself.
“I’ll go,” Joel concludes, his back turned to Tommy making his way to the stable.
Tommy quickly chases after him, “Joel. Hey!” He grabs his brother’s arm, who shooed it away. “You have no idea what you’re doing. You don't know where they are…how you're going to get to them…”
“I’ll find a way, I always do”, Joel states sternly.
“You’ll find a way to get yourself killed.”
Joel stops where he’s at and turns to Tommy, “Yeah? At least someone actually give a damn around here! If-” Joel halts his words gathering up his thoughts, “I can’t lose him. If..if something happened to him I…god,” his breath was unsteady.
There was a brief change in Joel's expression, one Tommy hadn’t seen in a long time; desperation. It was quick though, so fast that he would’ve missed it if he’d blinked, before Joel changed back to his almost demeaning expression.
Tommy knew how much you meant to Joel, how much he cared for you. The man’s heart seemed to be growing back, to take that away from him…again…Tommy definitely didn’t want to see that. Maria came to mind and how he’d react if she was in your predicament. Maybe he’d do the same too.
Tommy pursed his lips, grasping the weight of the situation from Joel’s perspective. He nods his head, allowing his brother to go through with his plan. However, Joel wasn’t looking Tommy in the eyes anymore. His attention was caught by something just over his brother’s shoulder. He moves forward, with Tommy following him with his eyes, Joel stops after a few steps.
Now in the same direction of Joel, Tommy could now see it too. The gate was beginning to open. The watchers were waving down to the people below that something was wrong. The two men wasted no time making their way over to the gate.
Maira quickly got the crowd to back into the sidewalks, “This way, this way people.” With everyone clear for those on the other side of the gate, it continued to open until stopping at its limit.
Your group, the ones that had gone missing, finally made it back to town. The group trotted into town, looking as if they had all seen a ghost. Only three horses had returned instead of four, with one of the patrol members mounted on your horse completely battered. Things didn’t look too good.
You dismount your horse, careful not to knock your comrade off with you. “Come” you say, pulling the injured member down. A random lady had called out to her, claiming her as her ‘daughter’. She cries out along with the injured lady as they hug one another. A smile running across your face, happy that you saved a family member from having to deal with the loss of a loved one.
Maria came up to you with concern in her face, “You alright?”
You titled your head momentarily, “Could be better.”
“I feel it might be too soon to ask what happened," she replies.
You appreciated her concern, as you didn’t really want to talk about it, at least not right now. You watched as the other members dismounted from their horses while coming up with a response, “It was awful, a couple of raiders got us and-” you didn’t bother to finish your statement since Maria didn’t push you to complete it. You sigh, looking about the subsiding crowd, “Is Tommy here? Joel?”
Maria, “Uh, they were just here not long ago…oh…right over there.”
Your eyes gaze in the direction she points. Your heart jumps, seeing him. Joel, standing still while his brother began toward you and Maria. Tommy’s frame was starting to block your view of Joel, so you paced over to him. You collide with Tommy, shaking his hand as he places his other hand on your shoulder. You exchange greetings without saying a word, he motions to Joel who still was stunned. Tommy’s gaze and small smile telling you to, ‘Go hug your damn man’. Letting go of his hand, you make your way to Joel in strides. He finally started moving, your name escaping his lips as he started jogging toward you.
Next thing you know, you two are embracing. Like magnets, you latch onto each other dearly. Your vision blurred, watery, swearing that Joel was the one squeezing the tears out of you. You wished that were true, only it wasn’t and you were just ecstasy to see him again.
A tear rolled down your face, as you huffed, “Joel” sounding like you questioned if he was even real.
Joel’s rough hand ran up your back, leading all the way to the back of your neck. “I’m here, baby…I’m right here”. His voice, so close to your ears, it was enough to take all your worries away.
For Joel, he trembled, more so than you were for different reasons then you. He could tell your time out there was nightmare fuel, hellish to an extent. The man wanted nothing but to tear down everything that brought harm to you out there. If it meant a few people, multiple gangs or the whole damn world, he'd do it. But now, you needed him, and Joel wasn’t planning on going anywhere.
He turns his head to place a kiss along your cheek, continuing to reassure you of your safety. With his free hand going in circles around your back, he softly states, “Let it out, you’re home now”.
You did just that, silently tearing up into the man's shoulders. Hearing his words made you relax further into his hold, your head resting against his cheek. You close your eyes, letting the warmth of Joel’s jacket consume you. His heat grounded you, ensuring that you were in fact, home.
#joel miller x male reader#joel x reader#joel miller imagine#joel miller hbo#joel miller#joel the last of us#the last of us hbo#the last of us#tlou hbo#tlou#pedro pascal
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Gay man calls out Pope for “deigning” to bless same-sex couples: “Not a blessing, it’s an insult”
LGBTQ+ advocates are excited about the Vatican’s declaration that same-sex couples can now be blessed – but one gay man is not celebrating at all.
In an op-ed for The Guardian, Matt Cain (former editor-in-chief of Attitude) said the Church has merely “deign[ed]” to bless gay couples and that it’s “not a blessing, it’s an insult.”
Related:
Pope Francis approves blessing same-sex couples in “major step forward”
The Catholic Church still maintains marriage can only be between a man and a woman.
“You can stick your blessing, Pope Francis,” Cain declared. “It’s a fig leaf, a PR exercise, a means of laundering your prejudice to make it seem like a step towards acceptance.”
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Cain’s piece delves into the deep shame and internalized homophobia he felt for decades as a result of Catholic teachings. He explained how the Pope’s continued condemnation of same-sex marriage (despite his approval of the blessings) shows the Church hasn’t actually changed.
He detailed his 1980s childhood attending a British Catholic school, where the other kids called him “poof,” “pansy,” and “queer.”
“It didn’t occur to me to report them to a teacher,” he said. “The last thing I wanted was to draw attention to my sin. It was my own fault I was being bullied. I was consumed by guilt.
In school, he learned that AIDS is God’s punishment for gay men. He never imagined a future for himself that involved marriage or happiness.
“The belief that being gay was morally abhorrent was widespread. But it was worse in my Catholic schools,” he continued. “Because homophobia wasn’t just sanctioned by the government… it was apparently sanctioned by God. And nobody could argue with that.”
All of this, he said, led to years of “self-destruction” involving alcohol abuse and excessive partying. “Then I had five years of psychotherapy to work through my feelings and undo the damage. By the time we were given full marriage equality in 2013, I’d started to think that maybe one day I might just find love – and deserve it.” He finally found love in his 40s.
All of this, he said, is why the Church’s halfhearted acceptance of same-sex couples won’t cut it. He blasted the religion for the fact that it now “grudgingly offers to ‘bless’ unions that it explicitly cannot ‘approve’ of. It’s almost hilariously hypocritical.”
While Cain no longer believes in God, he expressed empathy for the LGBTQ+ people who still do. “Shouldn’t the Catholics among them be entitled to the same marriage rights as everyone else?” he asked.
He then spoke directly to Pope Francis, telling him “nice try” but that “nothing less than equality will work for me.”
“And I’ll take a full apology while you’re at it. Because that’s what I deserve. And only then will my wounds truly heal.” http://dlvr.it/T0YRDn
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One year ago yesterday, the United States Supreme Court made a ruling on abortion that has further alienated the Court from the American public. The ruling is not in synch with the opinion of a majority of our citizens, most partcularly women.
This conflict has been going on for many years in America. Even George Washington, while deciding how to cross the Delaware River asked himself do we row or do we wade? According to history, he decided to wade.
Rochester, like all cities has been embroiled in this argument for many years. One of the most controversial figures in the debate was Doctor Morris Wortman. Wortman was viewed as a notable figure among abortion activists and served as a figurehead in the challenges of practicing abortion in America. His office has been regularly protested against by pro-choice advocates. He began receiving regular death threats after he defended his practice in an op-ed article that he wrote for Newsweek magazine but in 2021, Morgan Hellquist, the daughter of a former patient, sued Wortman, claiming that he used his own sperm to impregnate her mother in 1984 — when he had claimed that he was using the sperm of a medical student for the fertility treatments.
After the suspicious visit, a DNA genealogy test found that she had at least nine half-siblings. A test comparing Hellquist’s DNA to that of Wortman’s daughter from his first marriage confirmed the matter, according to the suit alleging medical malpractice, lack of informed consent, battery, fraud, negligence, and infliction of emotional distress. “He knew the whole time who he was and I didn’t,” Hellquist said on Good Morning America last year. “He took away that choice for me.”
In 2012, after the birth of her first child, Hellquist became a patient of Wortman, inspired by the work that allowed her parents to conceive after her father was paralyzed after being hit by a drunk driver. For the next nine years, Wortman was her gynecologist — performing annual pelvic and breast exams and talking with her about her sex drive. The lawsuit states that while conducting a vaginal ultrasound in April 2021, Wortman asked Hellquist to take off her mask because she looked prettier without one. He also brought his wife into the room to meet her and see if there was any resemblance between them. “You’re really a good kid,” he allegedly said after the procedure. “Such a good kid.”
What a creep. What a monster. God knows how many other women had suffered the same fate. How many semi-Wortman's are walking around and discovering the root of their parentage.
The posse was closing in on the Doctor. He decided to take a ride with his friend in his buddy's home made airplane. Yet another bad idea. While in flight, the wings of the do it yourself plane became disengaged. It's never a good thing when you look out the window of your buddy's plane and the wings have fallen off. I imagine whatever conversation followed was short and uncomplimentary as the wingless junk heap crashed to the ground taking the life of both men.
Public opinion has now shifted with Wortman now being portrayed as a monster. Within this tragic, sad and absurd story there is a metaphor regarding the rise of genealogy websites and at-home DNA tests, there have been more than 20 cases in which doctors have been accused of fertility fraud.
May they all take a plane ride on a wingless plane and die screaming and swearing in open fields while the debate continues.
A prominent New York doctor accused of fertility fraud died over Memorial Day weekend after the hand-built plane he was on catastrophically fell apart mid-flight and plummeted to the earth. The doctor, 72-year-old Morris Wortman, was killed, as was the pilot and plane’s owner, 70-year-old Earl Luce Jr.In the late 1990s, Wortman began receiving suspicious powders in the mail after he defended his practice of performing abortions in a Newsweek op-ed following the murder of Dr. Barnett Slepian, who was shot at his home outside Buffalo in 1998 by an anti-abortion militant. For a while, he was a notable figure among abortion activists, appearing in a sympathetic light in magazines and in a documentary highlighting the challenges of practicing abortion in America. But in 2021, Morgan Hellquist, the daughter of a former patient, sued Wortman, claiming that he used his own sperm to impregnate her mother in 1984 — when he had claimed that he was using the sperm of a medical student for the fertility treatments.
In 2012, after the birth of her first child, Hellquist became a patient of Wortman, inspired by the work that allowed her parents to conceive after her father was paralyzed after being hit by a drunk driver. For the next nine years, Wortman was her gynecologist — performing annual pelvic and breast exams and talking with her about her sex drive. The lawsuit states that while conducting a vaginal ultrasound in April 2021, Wortman asked Hellquist to take off her mask because she looked prettier without one. He also brought his wife into the room to meet her and see if there was any resemblance between them. “You’re really a good kid,” he allegedly said after the procedure. “Such a good kid.”
What a creep. What a monster. God knows how many other women had suffered the same fate.
The posse was closing in on the Doctor. He decided to take a ride with his friend in his buddy's home made airplane. Yet another bad idea. While in flight, the wings of the do it yourself plane became disengaged. It's never a good thing when you look out the window of your buddy's plane and thed wings have fallen off. I imagine whatever conversation followed was short and uncomplimentary as the wingless junk heap crashed to the ground taking the life of both men.
Since the rise of genealogy websites and at-home DNA tests, there have been more than 20 cases in which doctors have been accused of fertility fraud. But as the lawsuit states, Wortman’s alleged conduct “shocks the conscience.” In 2012, after the birth of her first child, Hellquist became a patient of Wortman, inspired by the work that allowed her parents to conceive after her father was paralyzed after being hit by a drunk driver. For the next nine years, Wortman was her gynecologist — performing annual pelvic and breast exams and talking with her about her sex drive. The lawsuit states that while conducting a vaginal ultrasound in April 2021, Wortman asked Hellquist to take off her mask because she looked prettier without one. He also brought his wife into the room to meet her and see if there was any resemblance between them. “You’re really a good kid,” he allegedly said after the procedure. “Such a good kid.”
After the suspicious visit, a DNA genealogy test found that she had at least nine half-siblings. A test comparing Hellquist’s DNA to that of Wortman’s daughter from his first marriage confirmed the matter, according to the suit alleging medical malpractice, lack of informed consent, battery, fraud, negligence, and infliction of emotional distress. “He knew the whole time who he was and I didn’t,” Hellquist said on Good Morning America last year. “He took away that choice for me.” (Hellquist did not respond to a request for comment.)
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Dorothy Freeman facts
By facts I of course mean headcanons, because Nile's mom doesn't get a first name in canon (or even confirmation that her last name is Freeman). All we know about her is the picture on Nile's phone lock screen (which is Kiki Layne's real-life mom and brother!) and a few lines that Nile tells Andy about her. I’ve been collecting my Dorothy headcanons for a while now to eventually make a post, and @mprosperossprite‘s excellent post giving non-Americans context for what it means that Nile is from the South Side of Chicago prompted me to go ahead and share this. Disclaimer that I’m white and I will absolutely make corrections if it’s pointed out that I’ve caused harm with any of this.
So here have some fun facts about the version of Mama Freeman who lives in my head rent-free:
Her family and growing up:
she was born in the mid-'60s and named after Dorothy Dandridge
I can’t decide whether she was born in Chicago or moved there later on (maybe with Nile’s dad?) and when in the waves of the Great Migration her family left the South
she came of age in the "post"-Civil Rights movement and went to college in the mid-80s when a lot of what are now the foundational classics of Black feminism were being written
she was a young adult when Anita Hill risked so much to report that a Supreme Court nominee had sexually harassed her, and as a result she HATES Joe Biden
Marriage and babies:
she met Nile's father — I can’t decide how they met and I have two competing headcanons for his name, either Gideon for the hefty Biblical masculinity vibes (Giddy for short among family, that man loved to laugh) or Carl, which started out as a shitty Carl’s Jr burger chain joke that turns out to be perfect (it means free man!), and @knoepfchen used it in the sequel to if you do take a thief where Carl is alive!! — and Dorothy was a little skeptical of his near-religious devotion to the military but he was really hot and really devoted to her and they made it work
she's a little pissed that she was right but it's unbearable if she thinks about it too often
it's going to be a long, long time before she can look back on pictures of Baby Nile stomping around the house in her dad's combat boots (this is a Gina Prince Bythewood headcanon, whyyyyyyyy can I not find a link to where she said this)
she named their second baby Indus, Indy for short (this is nearly as established fanon in Book of Nile circles as how much Booker loves eating pussy, and Indy Freeman as a young adult is portrayed by either Aldis Hodge or John Boyega I don’t make the rules)
Work:
Dorothy did some office jobs but nothing really grabbed her, and she was probably gonna have to move for her husband's career, so she decided on teaching — high school humanities
she’s been active in CTU (one of the strongest teacher’s unions in the US) her whole career and one year she was on the bargaining committee and her babies know damn well never to trust a boss, not even one who says all the right things — if she ever finds out the way Nile said "like Quynh?" when Andy promised to protect her, she will lose her mind with pride
(Nile was 18 and freshly graduated from high school in 2012 when CTU went on strike for the first time in a generation and she brought her mom snacks on the picket line)
one of her very favorite things is getting her students to laugh despite themselves at her "oh my GOD you're so EMBARRASSING" old-people jokes
she's one of those teachers who can get 30+ teenagers to go dead silent with judicious application of body language
she's known to occasionally go easy on grading subjective things like essays when she knows students are having a particularly rough time at home, but the second she gets the feeling they're taking advantage and not trying their best that shit is over and they better mind their Ps & Qs
she's the kind of person who says old-people shit like that
she gives her students assignments like "help 5 neighbors register to vote" and "write a compare/contrast table about the candidates in this local election" and "research 5 different ways you could get grant money to do X" and other practical civic-minded shit
standardized testing is her supervillain origin story, just kidding it’s Rahm Emanuel, why the fuck did Obama trust that asshole
After her husband died:
she would have lost her goddamn mind if it weren't for her church friends after her husband died, people from the church raised money so they could make ends meet while his pension paperwork was taking forever, church friends watched Indy so Nile could go out for the soccer team, etc etc
she sold her and her late husband's house and moved to a 3-bedroom co-op unit when Nile started high school, it's more affordable and it meant she didn't have to worry about household repairs in the same way, she can use a wrench if she needs to but she doesn't have time and it just makes her grief flare up (co-op housing has a long history in Chicago and other US cities (like Washington DC where I live) as a way for Black people to access decent, affordable housing in the face of entrenched discrimination)
the move meant putting a longer commute between her and church, but she didn't even bother looking for a church closer to their new home, she loaded the kids into the car on the weekends, parking is hell in their new neighborhood but it's worth giving up a hard-won parking spot to not have to wait so long for the L on Sunday mornings
Indy lived with her through college and he was gearing up to get his own place when Nile died, Dorothy was planning to move into a one-bedroom in the co-op building because she doesn't need so much space anymore, Indy took a day off from his new job (not so new anymore, her baby's so grown!) to help her sort things to donate when those dress-uniform Marines came to their door
part of her wishes she could've been home more and not had to rely on Nile so much for help with Indy, but he's turned out such a kind young man, and he's a much better cook than his sister is (was, oh God — no wait, is! she’s alive! what do you mean you’ve been alive all this time??)
some of the girls from church are encouraging her to check out this social dancing thing, nobody's pressuring her to date but there's definitely been some ribbing, and with Indy out of the house... maybe? probably not, but maybe
Her feelings and beliefs and likes and dislikes:
she's an absolute badass and also she's a soft human woman with lots of feelings
she's very, very traditional in some ways, and part of her mixed feelings about Nile following in her dad's footsteps is gender stuff, she's proud of her daughter and would never stand in the way of what Nile wants to do with her life, and if Nile came home and told her she's a lesbian she would never reject her, but if Nile came home and told her she's bisexual maybe she can just try focusing on men? “I love you sweetheart and I want you to be happy I just know how hard it is already for us in this world” type shit
she has been on team natural hair basically her entire life and one of the worst fights she and Nile ever had was over Nile wanting to straighten her hair as a pre-teen
Indy takes more after her and Nile takes more after their dad, she's so proud of both of them, but Dorothy's activism was mostly wearing her natural hair to work and daring bosses to give her shit, Indy's out there marching in the streets like her parents had and she WORRIES
she teases Indy for going to so many protests like he's using it as an excuse to meet girls, but she WORRIES
when she turns 60, she gets box braids with streaks of dark purple, subtle enough that it's still work-appropriate but it makes her smile, she may be old now but damnit she’s still pretty!
she loves Grey's Anatomy and Star Trek and she watched Bridgerton all in one day
she has a dirty-old-lady celebrity crush on Chris Hemsworth
if she's ever masturbated thinking about Donna Summer, well, that's nobody's business but her own (do non-Americans know about the queen of disco??)
If you want to read fic featuring Dorothy:
I won't have to leave alone, 1000 words, Nile has a nightmare and decides to go tell her family she's immortal
I See Your Eyes Seek a Distant Shore, 65k, Nile adjusts to immortality and does a lot of soul searching about what it means to "do what we think is right", Booker goes to grad school for trauma studies, the working title of this fic was Booker Reads Edward Said and Gloria Anzaldúa and Goes Down on Nile and the final product has an annotated bibliography in the author's notes if you’re into that kind of thing, a lot of my Dorothy Freeman headcanons were born of my process writing this
Gather round the table, we'll give you a treat, 2279 words, college AU, Nile brings her Jewish boyfriend home for Christmas
a contribution I made to Shitty Old Guard Deaths: (Booker, USA, 2025, cause of death: a mother’s righteous wrath)
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bandit like me | criminal!bucky
warnings: language, violence, references to criminal behavior, allusions to sexy shit, bucky being a cocky asshole
word count: 2197
summary: if you and bucky are doomed, you want to see the glorious fallout.
note: this is the start of a bucky au series which will eventually be based on the heist from oceans 8! this is just an intro to bucky’s history with the reader, and their dynamic, but i’m so excited to continue!
enjoy! <3
god, you love vegas.
there’s a certain sort of dirty glamour that you can’t find anywhere else, you think-- and while you spend the majority of your time in new york these days, you find that your heart always has a certain tug to las vegas. after all, it is where you got your start as one of the finest pickpockets and swindlers on either side of the mississippi.
among other things.
it’s where you met james buchanan barnes for the first time.
you’d heard his name like a whisper in the wind for years before you met him in person. james “bucky” barnes, criminal extraordinaire. of course, you were young, and you had stars in your eyes and you had not yet been hardened by the world. you had not yet had to kill your way out of a shady job, had not yet conned a man of everything he was worth.
that was your favorite part, you think.
taking from men what they had earned unfairly.
if justice wasn’t coming for them, you would bring it upon them yourself. you would take it all and you would feel no remorse. their wealth, their assets, their connections.
sometimes, even their wives.
but those were petty games that you had played when you were young. you like to believe that you are more mature now; both in your swindling and in your personality.
sometimes, you miss those days. you miss running with natasha and chewing up men and spitting them back out. you miss the high of pulling off a real good job. you miss watching a man crumble beneath you, begging for mercy. of course, you would never give it. but you would make a show of thinking about it, and natasha would laugh, and she would say, “stop playing with your food, honey.”
that’s another thing.
you rarely reveal your real name.
not even to your closest confidants. not even to natasha.
no, you find that there are two ways that you introduce yourself. you either stare straight with a narrow gaze, murmuring something along the lines of, “your worst nightmare.” or, you smile sweetly with an outstretched hand and your head gracefully tilted. “call me honey.”
there’s only one person that you’ve worked with who knows your real name.
and he’s sitting at the hotel bar.
already, you can feel your annoyance begin to bubble. you can do one of two things-- you can saunter over there and properly ignore him, knowing that he will notice you instantly. or, you can go up to your room.
you decide you need a drink more than you need your sanity.
somehow, you’re sure that he already knows you’re here. you approach the bar and tap on it, smiling at the bartender. “cosmopolitan.” you turn your head to the right and he’s already looking at you.
“i thought you’d never show, doll.”
a smirk begins to play on your lips, and you thank the bartender as you slide your drink to yourself. “i should get a restraining order,” you muse as you lift your glass to your lips, taking a lengthy sip. “you creep.”
bucky laughs and he takes a sip of his own drink, and you don’t even have to look to know what it is-- whiskey coke. god, you always gave him shit for it. told him he should at least drink his whiskey neat. he would always give you that same stupid smirk and he would say, “what, i can’t have a little sweet, honey?”
“that’d be no fun,” he says and god you know that he’s right, but you hate to admit it. “who you here for?”
all the attempts of not looking at him are futile, and you throw a glance in his direction. he looks as glorious and handsome as ever. the man drips with luxury. from his suit to his hair to his beard which has grown out slightly since the last time that you saw him-- everything about him tells you that he is expensive. “you think i’d tell you?”
“i’m here for pleasure, darling. i’m not going to infiltrate on your job.”
you scoff. “i have a hard time believing that. when are you ever not thinking about work?”
bucky’s desire to work is the cause of all of his success, as well as all of his problems, you think.
part of you feels sorry for him, knowing how much stress he places upon himself. another part of you can’t help but resent it, knowing it is the reason that you two would never, ever, ever possibly work as something more than easy flirtation and a good night between the sheets.
“i’m a changed man, honey.” bucky gestures to the barstool beside him. “you gonna stand and drink that all night?”
a pointed look is thrown in his direction and you finally take a seat. “you knew i would be here, didn’t you?”
“heard from nat,” bucky takes a sip from his drink. “i’ve got some intel on your hit.”
your hit isn’t your normal vegas regular. no, your hit is alexander pierce, one of the highest ranking government officials you could sink your claws into. you’d met him networking at an event in dc and he had been quite interested in you, which you always liked to use to your advantage. luring him out to las vegas took little effort and much amusement, buying you time to do your research.
you’d clear his room of all his belongings and sell off the paperwork to your government contacts who would purchase them for a steep price, and you would be on your way.
without a trace.
you were good at that part. going off the grid. no social media footprint, nothing to track you by-- you were living in the world partially invisible. you like to keep it that way.
though, sometimes it gets lonely.
no one knows that better than the man who sits beside you now.
“spit it out, then.”
bucky smiles and for a moment, you think he might say something else, but he begins to divulge quickly. information about his security detail, shift rotations. information you could’ve found out easily, but don’t mind having handed to you. but you’re less interested in that. your brows furrow as you look at him. “how far out of your way did you go to get this intel?”
he gives a nonchalant shrug. “far enough.” he smiles. “gotta help out my girl.”
“i’m not your girl,” you say with a smirk. “if anything, you’re my bitch. getting me intel, following me around to tell me.”
this gets a laugh out of him and you look forward again, finishing off your drink. “now that’s my girl.” he throws a hundred dollar bill onto the bartop and follows suit, tipping his head back to empty his cup of its contents. “walk with me?”
you stare and watch as he outstretches his hand to you. despite your better judgement, you take it. the pair of you walk side by side until you’re stepping out into the still warm air, but the breeze offers enough of a chill that the hairs on your arms stand up. bucky looks over at you and begins to shuck off his jacket, making you immediately protest. “bucky, no--”
but he’s already draping it over your shoulders, and you are tugging it just a bit closer to you, and you note that it smells like him. like that stupid ysl cologne you bought him all those years ago.
well, you didn’t buy it. you’d stolen it.
no words are exchanged as you move along on the sidewalk, watching on at people busking and performing on the street, ignoring the elsa’s and spiderman’s who try to pull you in for photo ops. one of them gets particularly aggressive and bucky pulls you into him, as if you’re not a woman who has driven a dagger into the gut of a man for far less, saying, “move along, pal.”
“so touchy tonight,” you purr, leaning into him slightly when he doesn’t remove his arm from your waist. “like the good ‘ole days.”
“oh, you remember?” bucky jokes, and it already has you laughing. “you were acting so coy back there in the bar, i thought that you might’ve forgotten me altogether.”
you shake your head and you stop in the street. you wear his jacket and he straightens his tie and he smiles down at you. “of course i didn’t.” you jut your chin up. “doesn’t change anything, though.”
what doesn’t it change, exactly?
it doesn’t change that the last time you saw james buchanan barnes, you had told him that you loved him. and he had told you that he loved you in return. and you had both agreed that it needed to end now before either of you caused irreversible damage to the other.
criminals being with criminals never ends well.
“not a thing,” he agrees with you. he pushes a piece of hair back and it’s getting harder to remember why you were so stubborn when it came to him. why, exactly, you felt the need to push your feelings away so desperately. “wish it would, though.”
“yeah.” a small, almost shy, smile works its way onto your lips. “me too.”
bucky’s jaw slacks and his fingers trail your cheek, and you can feel the cool metal of his rings against your flesh. “it’s not like this with other people, is it, honey?”
“of course not,” you nearly hiss. “is it like this with other people for you?”
bucky has a knowing sort of smirk. “no.” he wets his lips, his eyes settling on your lips for just a beat too long. “it never will be.”
the tension surrounds the both of you, and you’re the one to break it. you press your hand to bucky’s chest and push on it slightly, pushing him away, pushing away all of the feelings and confusion that comes with him. “we’re not doing this tonight. i’ve got a job to do in the morning.”
you begin to walk, and bucky is on your heels. “so our pillowtalk can be about work,” he says, and you can practically hear the cocky and sly charm in his words. “i made sure to get a king bed. and a bottle of moet.”
again, you stop, and you turn to him. you’ve nearly walked a circle around the block, and you can see the hotel not far off. “you really got info from nat about my job, got me intel to butter me up, and then want to take me to bed?” you huff and even you can’t help but laugh. “nothing’s changed, barnes.”
you set off again and he groans, following after you. “you know it’s not like that.” he catches your wrist and he spins you, getting you to face him. “it’s never that that… simple with you.”
you rip your wrist from his hand and make your way into the hotel lobby, making sure your hips swing just a bit more than usual. you remember bucky laughing and gripping those hips on a late winter night in new york city, nearly three years ago now-- “such a tease,” he had said into your ear.
“bucky,” you say as you both approach the elevators. “it’s not happening.”
he sighs and he hangs his head. “yeah.” he looks up at you. “i do miss you, doll.”
“yeah, i know.” the elevator doors open and you step into them. bucky tries to follow after you, but you hold your hand up. “i’ll be seeing you, james.”
“see you, honey.”
the doors click shut and you practically collapse. the effort of pretending to not love bucky is exhausting.
in a blur, you go to your room and unpack your things. you take off your makeup and your expensive jewelry that you plucked off the wrists and necks and fingers of random passing civilians during all of your worldly travels. when you pick your phone up, you notice that you have a text from an unknown number.
floor 45, room 7.
you roll your eyes and toss your phone back onto the bed. you’re a strong woman-- certainly strong enough to resist the temptation of knowing exactly where to find the one person that you want.
one hour passes. you scroll through instagram.
another. you finally crawl into bed.
three hours. it’s nearly three in the morning and you cannot sleep.
by four, your feet are in slippers and you wrap a silky robe around your body.
you don’t move. 4:30am blinks at you on the clock.
at five, bucky is opening the door, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and staring at you.
“don’t say a word,” you hiss before you’re grabbing for him, pulling him to you, and pressing your lips to his.
but bucky is a smug asshole. as you move through his suite, his hands are everywhere, and he pushes you back onto the bed. once he’s hovering over you, his lips just a ghost above the shell of your ear, he can’t help but whisper…
“looks like nothing’s changed.”
#bucky barnes x reader#bucky x reader#bucky barnes x you#bucky x you#bucky barnes fanfic#bucky barnes imagine#bucky barnes au#bandit like me
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This will be chapter one of the Fyodor×female!SO amnesia fic that I am working on. I haven't posted a fanfic in who knows how long so the quality is probably on the poor side. Any feedback is appreciated! I'm hoping to continue this, but it will probably be on the back burner of my schedule. I also am not used to tumblrs platform, so any advice for formatting would be greatly encouraged. I'm not adding character tags to this since I don't want it to clog up the fandom, but if you end up liking it and would like me to tag you in future updates, don't hesitate to ask. Anyways, I think that's about all in the way of introductions!
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She glanced over at the dark-haired man as he worked, yet again, into the early hours of the morning. The pale blue of his various monitors was the only thing to illuminate his snow-white skin. His tired eyes barely blinking as they scanned the database in front of him while his long slender fingers danced along the keyboard. She sighed knowing that arguing his work schedule would prove futile. In all the years she'd known the man, he would never put himself before his cause, even for a few hours of needed rest. Still, she wouldn't sit well with herself without at least a half-hearted attempt.
"Fedya", the shorter woman lightly placed a scarred hand on the back of his swiveling desk chair, "you'll never create a promised land without proper sleep." Her tone was sharp and came out as an order as opposed to a suggestion. The woman winced upon realizing her terse composition, a remnant of her time as a child soldier. "Hmm?" The man hummed his response, inflection rising as a question. He was being gracious with her, giving her a chance to correct herself. There was no doubt he had heard what she said, but this was a mercy he spared for only her. "I mean to say, that your promised land will wait for you, but I worry that your health may not," She turned his chair to face her, pleading eyes betraying her stoic expression. "Please come to bed." Her eyes were always a point of weakness for the Russian. Her straight posture, tight jaw and tense shoulders could never take away from the pure wealth of emotion her eyes gave away. "This is important work," Fyodor began as he already saw those precious eyes relax in resignation. So, she was fully prepared for him to reject her offer. Noticing the puff of air she let slip, he decided that perhaps he had been too persistent in his goals the past few days. He tilted his head thoughtfully, stray black hairs like a silk spider's web swaying over his crimson orbs. "But, since Decay of Angels will be moving into its next phase soon, it couldn't hurt to prepare myself and rest." He punctuated his decision with a soft smile, grabbing her hand from the chair to lead her to bed. Eyes widened the faintest amount, the only hint of shock she portrayed. "Thank you, sir." She nodded while examining his pale elegant hand in her much rougher calloused digits.
Everything about him spoke of grace. An angel among men, with the unfortunate disposition of a demon. But that's what she admired in him. When they met all those years ago, her rifle placed directly at his temple. Even then, she couldn't fathom the young man in front of her leading such a dangerous life. But, when their eyes met, he had just chuckled lightly, grabbing the barrel. "Would you like to see this world burn?" All it took was one question from his lips and she knew she would follow him to the depths of hell. Being a soldier, recruited for her ability that never let her miss a mark, forced to kill from such a young age, the world to her was a pile of rubble, but this man, this god, would show her paradise. When she stared back into his eyes, she knew it was the truth. That was the day she left the Russian Special Ops. That was the day she massacred the rest of her division and escaped. That was the day she vowed her body and mind to Fyodor. At the time, she believed she no longer had a heart and so it was not something she could offer, but now, looking up at his tired profile, feeling that tightness in her chest, realized that he already possessed it.
She followed him wordlessly through the corridors until they came to their shared bedroom. Her hands moved to his shoulders, lightly massaging his exhausted body, while removing his jacket. "What is it that's on your mind, Milaya?" The deep voice disrupting her thoughts. "I was just thinking of all we've been through. I truly would do anything for you, Fedya." She stared straight into his eyes, and any lesser man would've cowered under her gaze. Instead, he let out an airy chuckle "You say such sweet things as though you are about to kill a man." An amused smile played at his lips while tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "If all goes according to plan, there shouldn't be much for you to do in any case." Fyodor dismissed the though with a wave of his hand as he dropped to the bed, all his muscles giving in to the plush bed and warm blankets. "If all goes according to plan, you'll be tucked away in a cell in Europe." She smirked playfully pushing him until his head hit the pillow. Her smile faltered briefly at the thought of how far away he would be. Sure, he'd been gone on missions before, but she always knew when to expect him back. This time was different. This time relied on the other members of the organization to play their part.
"And if I'm captured? I've heard that there are abilities that could extract information about you from me. Similar to Sigma." Her brows furrowed as she continued "I've been thinking a lot and I believe that if I am to be found, I will need to forget you.... to protect you." She finished and looked up at him, seeing the faintest trace of worry etched in his face. "Don't be ridiculous. It will never come to that." His voice was even, though his agitation was apparent to her trained eye. "Now isn't the time to discuss such matters." She nodded in agreement. "You're right, you need to rest. We'll talk about this in the morning." She wrapped herself around him, laying her head on the space between his shoulder and chest. He rolled his eyes at the prospect of continuing this discussion at any point in time but planted a chaste kiss to her temple regardless, as they both drifted off to sleep.
The warm smell of steeping Lady Grey roused the young woman from her slumber as she blearily rubbed at her eyes. Sleeping next to Fyodor was the only way for her body to relax as she rested. She knew that she was safe. Her training had taught her to always be on alert and for a long time she could have awaken at the drop of a pin. But, whenever she slept with him next to her, she would wake to find him already dressed for the day, tea on the bedside table and she would not have the faintest inkling of how long she must have slept through his routine. "Good morning." Fyodor's voice sounded like honey to her as he traced a gloved finger underneath her jaw. She lazily scanned the room before her eyes settled on his form sitting next to her bedside. "Good morning, Fedya. How long have you been sitting there?" Pressing her cheek lightly against his hand before straightening her posture, slowly reverting to her tense state of being. The raven haired man smiled watching the remnants of his dazed princess slip away into the strict stance of his loyal soldier. "Not long." He gave a quick reply, his façade nearly perfectly covering the truth. He'd been watching her for about 32 minutes at this point, memorizing her rhythmic breathing and the delicate parting of her lips. He wracked his brain for every possible scenario of how last night's conversation would play out this morning and every route led him to the same conclusion: he wasn't going to change her mind. She was his soldier after all and she was loyal to a fault. If she believed her own mind could put him in danger, then she would destroy it. If she believed her love for him would put him in danger, then she would let go of her own heart.
"Milaya, I-" "You've already deciphered how this conversation ends, haven't you?" She cut him off before he could even start. The way his eyebrows slightly contorted on his soft features relayed his worry. He must have been recalling last night and she knew if she gave him too much room to talk, there was a chance his silver tongue could change her mind. "I have." Lowered voice, clipped. He was unhappy with her decision, but he wasn't going to waste time arguing around a pre-determined outcome. Maybe he could change her mind, but not without manipulating some aspect of their conversation, not without toying with her emotions and using her like a pawn. He frowned bitterly at the thought. She was a queen in his chest set and he could never allow her to be set like a pawn. A queen was always there to defend the king, roaming the board freely, but always returning back by his side. Against the odds, he would have to trust that she would do just that. That if she were to throw away their past, throw away her memories, that she would still find him again and return to his side.
A squeezing pressure against his hand brought him back out of his own head as she gripped his hand with hers. “I promise you, I will return to you. We will stand together in the new world. Just promise me, no matter how long it may take, that you will wait for me?” The sincerity held in her eyes shown brightly before him. Not just sincerity, but something else. Love. The most basic and most complicated on the spectrum of human emotions. It had the ability to make weak men strong. To make strong men crumble. To make a feeble man think. And to make even the most genius of men fall into stupidity. And here he was, staring into the eyes of the only being he gave merit to, stupidly agreeing to let her follow through with her plan. He stared into her eyes with such intensity she was sure that her soul was bared naked before him as he made his promise. “ya obeshchayu tebe, moya lyubov.” The air in the room hung heavy, and it almost seemed as if time had stopped as the pair gazed, entranced by one another. She felt her jaw clench and tighten with an emotion she wasn’t sure how to name, lost somewhere between heartache and contentment. “Thank you, Fedya.” Standing abruptly, she wrapped her strong arms around his slender frame, face pressed firmly into his chest. A rare display of raw emotion from the woman, fighting her natural composure. It was only in these moments, just the two of them, that she could be this weak. It was only times when they were alone, that he could allow himself to be this warm. And, as much as the lovers could wish that time had actually stopped, it would continue on regardless. “Of course, that is only in the event that I even be captured.” She straightened, fixing herself with a quiet confidence. “I never miss a target. I would never be taken easily.” Her expression remained void of any defining emotion, but her eyes held the credence and self-assurance that a soldier of her caliber is sure to possess. “Good.” The simply reply held the acknowledge of her skill and all the weight of an order. The implication that she would raise hell and only enact this contingency plan as a last resort was not lost on her. Cool lips brushed delicately over hers in a chaste kiss, faint and fleeting as though it were a ghost. Her lips were warm like fire against his as she chased the kiss adding the slightest pressure. The pair exchanged one last fervent glance before regaining their aloof composure and exiting to continue their work.
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Hi there Sarc' ;) I am sorry if the question has already been asked but I thought it could be interesting to have your opinion about this. While I love most of the female characters in OP and think that most of them are well developed and can be truly good role models for girls I still feel that Oda sometimes has a sexist view on female characters (the jokes about the naked bath scenes for example or Kororo being considered ugly make me really uncomfortable). What do you think about it?
Ah, I wondered when I would get this question.
When people talk about sexism in One Piece they typically are referring to two different things: How women are drawn, and how they’re treated within the narrative. While there’s some overlap here, there’s enough distinction that I want to address them as two separate points in two separate posts, because I guess I had Opinions, and by god there should be a limit to how much text one tumblr post can be expected to hold. Consider this an introduction.
Buckle up, kiddos. This is gonna be a long one.
Nami Face Syndrome Isn’t the Problem...
An important thing to remember with Oda’s art and storytelling style is that almost everything is hyper exaggerated for effect. You don’t go into One Piece looking for realism. You don’t go into One Piece expecting the characters to act like normal people. Everything--from the art to the humor to the battles--is stretched and pulled to its absolute limit in hopes of garnering a particular reaction. When a character is sad they cry big bubbly tears with dribbles of snot coming from their nose. When they laugh their mouths take up half their face.
And when a girl is hot, her tiddies are two great big watermelons stuck to the center of her chest.
What is often dubbed “Nami Face Syndrome” within the fandom is somewhat misleading. After all, why was Wanda, who is a literal dog that walks on two legs, decried as yet another Nami clone at her introduction? I would postulate it’s less to do with her face and more to do with the fact that from the neck down they are virtually identical, something that’s made more obvious because Wanda is literally wearing Nami’s clothes
What makes this frustrating for a lot of people, myself included, is that it’s not that Oda is incapable of drawing more diverse body types, but that he often chooses not to. Take for example the Kuja tribe
or the Charlotte family daughters (thanks to Arthur at Library of Ohara for the resource). It’s pretty clear Oda has the chops to make his women as weird as the men, and he often does! For important characters, even. And yes, as the Kokoro example given above sometimes the gonkness is brought attention to, but for others like Lola and Chiffon it’s...not.
(more on mermaids later)
But Sarcasticles, one might protest, even Oda’s “ugly” characters have ginormous boobs! Where is my itty bitty titty committee representation >:(
To which I can only shrug. For Oda, boobs on a woman are like abs on men. It doesn’t matter if it makes sense, they’re gonna have ‘em
Seriously, Oda. What the fuck.
...So What Is?
I have a theory that’s impossible to prove, and that the problem isn’t so much Oda’s character design so much as the ratio of his male to female characters in general. It’s not that every female character is a Nami clone, but Oda has a template he uses for attractive female characters ages 16-25, the same way he uses Robin as a template for attractive women ages 26-35, which is how you get cases of mistaken identity like Viola for Robin or scenes during Reverie where one could be forgiven for thinking Nami’s supposed to be an identical triplet
Oda does this for his men, too. It’s not as obvious because 1) Even men with similar facial features can have a wider variety body types due to Oda having a sliding scale of buffness he’s willing to attach to a pretty face and 2) There are more men.
There are a lot more men.
In groups where the male to female ratio is more or less equal (Baroque Works, Big Mom’s kids) you get a wide variety of designs. But there’s only one female Supernova. There’s one female Warlord. CP9 only has one female agent. Only one of the Revolutionary Commanders is a woman. There are very few female background characters in crowd shots, especially among marines. Big Mom might be the only female Emperor, but she’s not young, In fact, when drawing her at age 28, Oda defaults to a much more generic “pretty girl” face before giving her much more striking, memorable features in her 40s
If you look at Oda’s male characters, the ones that are supposed to be hot are often given the same square jawline and the thin-bladed nose that at one point in time was reserved for Robin. Both Coby and Sabo had very distinctive noses before their glowups, while Ace must have had a laser treatment done on his eyebrows sometime between Alabasta and Marineford.
But the biggest difference on the men has got to be muscle mass. The overgrown noodles of early One Piece are lost to the annals of time. Shanks alone must have gained 30 pounds of pure muscle from the time Luffy got his first bounty to his appearance at Marineford.
Now, I will acknowledge that there is a difference between the increasing sexualization of female characters and the male power fantasy of giving Zoro bara tiddies post-timeskip. While I do think there are certain male characters specifically designed to be the Hot Dude, what I’m trying to emphasize here is that Oda works with templates for both men and women, and both of those templates have been exaggerated over time. Bigger boobs for women, more muscles for men. And when you’re only slotting for one girl in any given group, and that one girl has to be The Hot One then you’re going to have a lot of ladies that end up looking the same.
My love for Otohime on this blog is well known, and I want to use her as an example of what Oda can do when he works beyond this template, because it’s really freaking good
Otohime is neither conventionally attractive nor gonk. She’s dressed in very conservative, traditional clothing and has a narrow waist and small chest.
There are no sharp edges on Otohime. Not her eyebrows, not her jaw, and most of the time not even her hands, emphasizing her gentle nature. You don’t see it as well in this panel, but Otohime’s head is often drawn wider than her shoulders, emphasizing her frailty. Oda gives her a longer neck to compensate, and the overall effect is a very soft, willowy figure.
Her headpiece looks like a sunburst. The audience never sees her fins, so Oda gives her a scale patterned kimono-dress-thingy (my knowledge of Japanese clothing is, uh, not good) as a visual reminder that she’s not human. The sash that circles around her head harkens back to Japanese mythology as a symbol of divinity, similar to a halo in Western culture. And fun fact: Otohime is named after a god, just like Neptune, while her goals and ideals are pure enough to be heaven-sent.
I’m not an artist, but this is a really damn good character design. A lot of Oda’s older female characters are. Dandan, Tsuru, O-Tsuru, Shakky, Kureha, Big Mom, and Nyon are all instantly recognizable and have strong designs, even if a few of them fall into the hourglass figure that Oda often defaults to. It’s just...there aren’t that many of them.
So the question becomes why aren’t there more women, and I think the answer is because, ultimately, One Piece is a series geared at boys. While I wish there were a few more important ladies, I can understand why there aren’t.
Note, that doesn’t mean I think it’s right or that Oda is obligated to include more women. It’s just one of the facts of the shonen manga industry at this point in time.
A more important question, I think, is why does every younger woman have to be attractive? And why do the attractive ladies have to wear outfits that are blatant fanservice? This is something I don’t have an answer for. Oda has said on more than one occasion that he writes One Piece with his twelve year old self in mind. It could be that it’s a calculated move to appeal to his audience, in which case it’s certainly worked because said Hot Ladies are constantly used in marketing and merchandising. It’s the Hot Ladies that top the popularity charts (although, to be fair, who’s there for competition?). In the most recent chapter a new Hot Lady was introduced, and the fandom went batshit crazy for her.
Even the fans who are very vocal about how Oda sucks at drawing women. It’s interesting how that works out sometimes.
Or maybe I’m giving Oda too much credit, and he’s just horny. Not having direct access to Oda’s mind, I don’t have an answer. If I had to guess I’d say it’s a little of Column A, a little of Column B, because that’s usually how life is.
But in a vacuum big tiddies are just a design choice. An exaggerated aesthetic, in a series full of exaggerated aesthetics. It’s when that design choice is paired with in-story comments, actions, and decisions where things really start to get heated. But that’s a whole other ball of wax, and there should be a limit to how much one tumblr post can be expected to hold. I promise I’ll get to the meat of your question next time.
Thank you so much for your patience. I really do think it’s important to start here before diving into everything else, if only because it helps keep my thoughts organized. I hope you’ve found this helpful, and if not, I hope to do better next time.
#long post#dear lord what a long post#Character Design#one piece#I don't know why tumblr fucked up with the formatting of my answer#but I apologize in advance#sexism#sarc talks
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His Time In The Commonwealth III: Deacon's Story
so as my beloved fanfiction, The Black Widow’s Waltz, comes to an end, i’ve decided that i am going to re-release the backstory chapters as their own stand-alone fic, since they read well as their own story. before that, i thought i might do a fun little thing where i release each of the companions backstories as their own post here on tumblr under the tag #his time in the commonwealth.
it is now time for part three of this little mini series i have. now that we’ve seen what happened to nick, let’s see how good ol’ deacon ended up where he is...
Deacon stood in the center of the burning remains of the Mercer Safehouse, staring at the man who set the place on fire not two hours earlier. The arsonist's back was turned, cropped black hair shining in the red-and-yellow flashes of the house fire. A woman crawled out from the debris - a synth who’d arrived just weeks before. She was shouldering a sobbing agent with cracked, bloody glasses and leg twisted backward. The man raised his rifle and gunned the two women down with an honest-to-god smile on his face.
Nate, you are one fucked up guy, Deacon thought as he stepped over the burning remains of an agent trapped under a beam.
“Deacon? Is that you?” Nate turned, eyes shining against the flames illuminating the light. “I thought I’d run into you sooner or later.”
“Yeah,” Deacon snarked, unstrapping his shotgun from his back, “I’ve been a little hard to pin down lately - Dez was always the one who assigned my ops in my downtime, but she’s been pretty distracted lately. You know, being dead ‘n all.”
“Morbid.” Nate chuckled. “I always did like your sense of humor.”
“I’ve been told I’m one hell of a comedian.”
Deacon pressed the barrel of his shotgun against Nate’s chest. The man stared at him, seeming far more interested than worried about the twelve gage of death aimed at his sternum. Nate was tough shit - but even he couldn’t survive getting all his organs blasted out by a point-blank shotgun round. At least, that was the hope Deacon clung to. “So, you wanna die here? Or is there somewhere else you want me to shoot you?”
“A surprisingly generous offer,” Nate said, lowering the gun with a finger, “but I’m afraid I have to decline. I have more important things to do than help you get some petty revenge.”
“Sorry, not happening,” Deacon cocked the gun, raising the barrel until it rested just beneath Nate’s chin. “Actually, you know what, nah - I’m not sorry at all.”
“I assumed not,” Nate said, raising his hands. “Fine, Deacon.” He said with a sigh. “If this is really how you want things to go, then shoot me - but wouldn’t you rather know why I’m doing what I’m doing?”
“Nope,” Deacon said as he blasted the fucker’s head off his body.
Except, that wasn’t entirely what happened. Nate stumbled back, almost fell over entirely, but despite the scattershot tearing through his throat just seconds before, his head was still stubbornly attached to his body. Nate laughed, slowly rolling his head forward until it was back on top of his shoulders, smiling widely. Deacon’s own vindictive smile dropped as he lowered the gun. “Shit… you really are immortal.” He said.
“That’s right,” Nate said in a sing-song voice. “Immortal and invulnerable. I’m basically the closest thing this world has to a god,” He laughed as he took a step forward, and Deacon took one back. “Now, since your idea was a miserable failure, let’s try mine.” He said, stretching his legs on the tips of his toes and clasping his hands behind his back. “Don’t you want to hear the reason behind my supposed betrayal?”
Deacon answered Nate’s question by bashing the butt of his gun against the psychotic killer’s face. Nate, momentarily stunned, staggered to the side and Deacon was able to retreat back towards the woods that surrounded the safehouse. At the very least he could act as bait to lure Nate away from any possible survivors. It was the least he could do for them, since he was the one who brought their murderer into the fold.
All of this was Deacon’s fault; he’d accepted the risk when he brought Nate on board. Desdemona had told him it was a bad plan - hell, P.A.M had reservations about it. Deacon should have listened to the future-telling robot instead of trusting his own chronically poor judgment. It had just seemed too good to be true - a supposedly immortal killing machine who resented authority and had a major bone to pick with the Institute? It was like the Atom itself had popped down into the Commonwealth and built them a savior out of clay and nuclear ash. Deacon couldn’t have let an opportunity like that go - and really, he’d asked himself, what was the worst that could happen?
Apparently, the worst that could happen was that the Brotherhood of Steel made their little savior an offer he couldn’t refuse. Now Tom, Desdemona, Glory, P.A.M… hell even Cartington ! They were all gone. Deacon hadn’t been at the base at the time of the attack - Nate had seen to that. Told him to head over to Sanctuary for a surprise. Well, surprise! Everyone Deacon loved was dead. He didn’t know - nor did he care - why he was spared; the only thing that mattered now was putting a stop to Nate before even more lives were lost, both synth and human alike.
Deacon dodged and weaved through the trees. He could hear Nate following him not far behind. It wasn’t long before Deacon’s lungs were straining and each breath was like a stab in the chest - god dammit he was a spy , not a runner. His body was not designed for prolonged exercise. Deacon’s heart was beating in his throat by the time he was forced to slow down. He’d put some distance between him and Nate, but it wouldn’t last. Nate never exhausted, Deacon had seen evidence of that. His stamina was endless - must come standard as part of the whole ‘god among men’ package.
Deacon reached into his pocket and pressed down on a button. It was the last stealth boy he had, and it wasn’t entirely full. It gave him only a few seconds to breathe while he tried to figure out his next move. To his right there were woods, to his left… more woods, and in front of him was, as one might guess, a large expanse of woods. Deacon wasn’t nearly as familiar as he needed to be with this part of the Commonwealth, his basic mental map was insufficient for a midnight life-or-death sprint.
He had less than ten seconds left on the stealth boy. Deacon could hear Nate closing in, so he did the only thing he could think of and backed himself up against the bark of an irradiated tree. He pressed his lips together firmly as Nate wove through the clearing, head swinging back and forth like an attack dog. It was as if he was tracking Deacon down by the scent of his fear. Again, considering Nate's otherworldly nature, not entirely out of the realm of possibility.
“I know you’re here,” Nate said, a manic laugh following the words. He drew a silenced 10mm pistol from his jacket pocket, showing it off to the seemingly-empty clearing. “Recognize this, D?” He said. Deacon did - it was Tommy’s gun, Deliverer . The very same handgun that Deacon had gifted Nate on his official entry to the Railroad. “Seems poetic, don’t it? Whispers died hiding in the shadows, and now I’m gonna kill you while you’re curled up with a Stealth Boy in your pocket.”
Deacon lunged for Nate just as the effects of the stealth device wore off. He caught the man off guard, at least, wrapping both arms around him in a bearhug of death and tackling him to the ground. Deacon had no idea how he was going to kill his target if even a point-blank shot to the neck wasn’t enough to do it, but at the very least he was going to make Nate suffer .
Deacon grabbed Nate’s arm and yanked, using his foot to pin down the man’s back and dislocate the appendage with a swift movement. Nate choked on a cry - it was the first time Deacon had even seen the man externally express pain. Maybe it was the first time he’d ever been hurt - good. Deacon slammed the heel of his boot into the back of Nate’s head, aiming for the spine. Nate’s good hand darted up, snatching Deacon by the ankle and pulling him to the ground.
Suddenly, their positions were reversed, and Nate was on top of Deacon, pilling him down with the gun pressed to Deacon’s cheek. The dislocated arm was already back into place, its hand closed around Deacon’s neck and choking him. Deacon clawed at the fingers, trying to pry them off. Nate was unbelievably strong - even with how thin and nimble his fingers appeared they were perfectly capable of crushing Deacon’s windpipe.
“Tsk, how disappointing,” Nate muttered, probably to himself. Deacon snarled as the 10mm dug into his flesh. “I really did hope I would have a chance with you. You have such a pretty face.” Deacon felt the silenced barrel trail down his cheek and press against his left breast, “be a shame to ruin it.”
Six silenced shots rang out. Deacon seized as he felt the bullets slide through him, tearing his heart to ribbons. The delicate organ came to a spasming, sudden stop in his chest, and before Deacon realized what had happened he was dead.
Once the spy had stopped moving, Nate put the gun back into his pocket. Deacon's fists relaxed and fell away from the hand still clutching his throat. Nate's fingers lingered on the bruises he’d put on Deacon’s neck, savoring the feel of indents on the other’s flesh. Nate reached up and gently removed the sunglasses from the dead man’s face, folding them up and putting them in his pocket. “I never did understand how you could see out of these things when it was dark.”
Deacon’s eyes stared back at him, expression still caught between rage, terror, and agony. Nate frowned, reaching over to shut Deacon’s eyes for him. “Pity. You really were cute.” Nate leaned over and pressed a kiss to Deacon’s still warm cheek, then stood to leave.
Seconds after his heartbeat could no longer be detected, the auto-stimpack anklet Deacon was wearing deployed. There was no blood flow to carry the medicine through his system, but through the power of osmosis, defusion, and several other pre-war science words Deacon didn’t understand, the contents of a dozen stimpacks made it to the shredded remains of his heart. Veins reconstructed themselves, weaving together tissue and cells to produce a mass of blood vessels that would just barely manage to function as a pump. Five minutes after the drugs did their best to fix a literal broken heart, the taser went off, sending waves of electricity through the corpse of one Johnathan Deacon and starting up his pitiful excuse for a new heart.
The first breath Deacon took after dying was both the single best, and most painful breath of his entire life. The bright lights and sense of calm that death had brought him were replaced with an agony that the words ‘living hell’ didn’t even begin to touch. He couldn’t even scream, the pain in his chest consuming him so completely that all that was left were small, gasping whimpers as he curled onto his side and clawed at himself.
Every muscle burned as his body worked to repair the damage of going several minutes without breathing along with all the other things that were wrong with him. Nearly half a gallon of blood was misplaced in him, and there were still at least three of the six bullets still somewhere inside him pressed up against his recently revived nerves. Deacon’s vision went black and every muscle in his body was tensed. Part of him wondered how long this would last before he died again because there was no way he could be in this much pain without something being vitally wrong with him. The other, much larger part, trusted his friends’ genius and reminded him to wait the pain out.
“So, you guys want me to wear this thing?” Deacon said, holding up the ankle brace that had been given to him by Tom and Carrington. “Like, on my person?”
“Is something wrong with the design?” Tinker Tom asked, genuinely concerned.
“It’s kind of a fashion disaster,” Deacon said, fidgeting with the thick, untreated leather that made up the strap.
“It is a highly advanced revival device, not a fashion statement.” Dr. Carrington said with a roll of his eyes. “Since when have you cared about your appearance anyways?”
“Hey, my appearance is my life,” Deacon countered. “You should know - you’ve done, like, at least three of my face jobs.”
“Four,” Carrington corrected.
“It’s meant to be worn under your clothes anyways,” Tinker Tom said. “The design was my idea - Carrington’s work here is nothing short of genius, but if we wanted any practical use for this thing with our field agents we needed something easily concealed.”
“Easily concealed, right,” Deacon said as he snapped the brace around his leg. “Unless I want to wear shorts. Man, there goes my summer plans.”
“Would you at least try to take this seriously?” Carrington snapped. “This is just a prototype, but if we can verify that it works it could save the lives of countless agents. Unfortunately, the only way to test it is for one of our agents to become mortally wounded while wearing it.”
“And so you’re giving it to me? Gosh, guys, I’m honored, really.” Deacon placed a hand to his heart. “Voted most likely to die on a mission by his peers.”
“You are the one Dez assigns to the most dangerous operations,” Tinker Tom said with a shrug. “Don’t take it too personally. If anything, it means we want you around the most.”
Deacon couldn’t admit it, but that did make him feel a little warm in the chest area, but he and ‘genuine emotions’ hadn’t seen eye-to-eye in years, so Deacon gave his co-conspirators a wink and a smile and said, “Alright, but don’t expect me to run head-first into danger just to give you guys some data. If this thing actually works like you say it will, I’ll buy the first round of the night when I get back to the land of the living.”
“Hmfph,” Carrington huffed, predictably. Then, less predictably, he smiled and said. “I’ll hold you to that, you know.”
Deacon laughed as he came down from the high of agony that was recovering from a mortal chest wound, the sound pitiful and weak. The worst of the pain wasn't done yet, he could tell, this was just a short reprieve while his body geared up to continue its tantrum. “Carrington, you crazy bastard,” He muttered against the blood-soaked grass. “When I get to hell, remind me to buy you that drink.”
Deacon laughed and sobbed and spasmed until the sun was high in the sky.
#fallout 4#fo4#fallout#fallout 4 fanfic#fallout 4 fanfiction#fo4 fanfic#fo4 fanfiction#fallout fanfic#fallout fanfiction#fallout deacon#deacon fallout#fallout 4 deacon#deacon fallout 4#deacon#my writing#fanfic#fanfiction#the black widow's waltz#his time in the commonwealth
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Had the absolutely unhinged idea of a Transformers Antigone!AU
Optimus as Antigone, Megatron as Creon. And Starscream(?) as Haemon?
Megatron makes a fantastic Creon with "Am I to rule this land by other judgment than mine own? Is not the city held to be the ruler's?" and
... disobedience is the worst of evils. This it is that ruins cities; this makes homes desolate; by this, the ranks of allies are broken into head-long rout; but, of the lives whose course is fair, the greater part owes safety to obedience.
Against OP's self-sacrifice and determination to do what is right at any cost:
not such are the laws set among men by the justice who dwells with the gods below; nor deemed I that thy decrees were of such force, that a mortal could override the unwritten and unfailing statutes of heaven. Not through dread of any human pride could I answer to the gods for breaking these. Die I must,-I knew that well - even without thy edicts.
And to Ismene "Save thyself: I grudge not thy escape." But Antigone is written as like, literally insane with anger, which doesn't really work that good for OP.
I couldn't think of a Haemon that worked in the original sense of the character, but a Starscream!Haemon is maybe even more interesting.
Creon is constantly accusing Haemon of betrayal, which I think works great with Starscream actually being a traitor, and then there's Creon dismissing Haemon for his age and irrelevant things, and Haemon's anger at that.
But also Starscream! Haemon because Haemon trades barbs so easily, every word off his lips is cutting and clever.
Then obviously it ends with Optimus and Starscream both dead, and Megatron realizing what he's done.
oh and, in case you're not familiar with Antigone, this means that Strarscream and OP are engaged.
#transformers#antigone#hate putting those tags next to each other#roles i haven't cast: Ismene????#Ismene is the hardest I think#Eurydice is I guess Skywarp or Thundercracker#both?#is Teiresias Soundwave?#a blind seer as Soundwave is I guess the obvious choice#the chorus is just every other high ranking decepticon#LITERALLY CANNOT IMAGINE AN ISMENE HERE
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Dissonance (Ch.1) | jjk (m)
⭄ Pairing: Jungkook x OC
⭄ Genre: Superhero!au / Enemies-to-lovers
⭄ Warnings: explicit language, minor character death, mentions of blood, mentions of violence
⭄ Word Count: 2,955
⭄ Disclaimer: Hi, everyone! This is my first ever attempt at writing a BTS fanfic so please be nice. I’ll probably continue the series even if this doesn’t get many likes. I wrote this based off a dream I had, but it is also inspired by X-Men and the show The Boys. Enjoy! :)
Mutants have been living among humans since the dawn of time. Across all cultures, religions and legends, mutants were seen as gods and miracle-workers. Overall mutants were viewed as benign, altruistic beings, gifted with special abilities. However, in this modern social and political climate, the world now perceives mutants in conflicting ways. Some people feel entitled to their gifts, given to mutants through the alterations in their DNA. They expect mutants to use their powers for good and to protect human-kind from the dangers of the world. However, others consider mutants freaks of nature and even menaces to society. Political leaders spew mutant versus human rhetoric, only fueling the hatred that humans feel towards mutant-kind. This ideology is derived from fear of the unknown. Although most mutants are capable of killing humans, most of them wish to pursue normal lives. Like getting an education, finding a career, blending into the crowd. Most of them. Until recently…
Mutants often face discrimination and even violence from humans because of their fear-derived convictions. This has led to the formation of radical mutant groups, rallying up their bloody masses and promoting the belief that mutants are far superior to humans and should be treated as such. The government has deemed these groups as terrorists and a threat to the general public. Because of the immeasurable powers some mutants possess, human strength nor human weaponry stand a chance to eliminate this threat. With this in mind, the government has initiated a military-trained task force called the Mutant Special-Ops (MSO). They are given mutant-related assignments that would otherwise go unchecked. Government collaboration with mutants is very controversial in the media. Some believe mutants have a duty to fight the bad guys while some think all mutants are inherently evil, and will turn against mankind.
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☽ Bangtan City. District 7 Railway. 1:42a.m.☾
Nara. ID number 5407. Telekinesis. These were the only three things listed on her MSO portfolio along with the red letter ‘M’ in the corner, signifying her mutant status. She never understood the need for this distinction, as if the word ‘telekinesis’ didn’t give away what she was. She also couldn’t wrap her mind around what had become of her life. It felt like yesterday that she was just 17 years old, disowned by her family, homeless, with no prospects when a government official had approached her. A sleek, black car pulled up beside her as she walked along the sidewalk. The back, tinted window was rolled down. A man wearing a suit peered at her over his sunglasses. “Get in,” he had said. Wanting no trouble with the law, Nara cautiously entered the vehicle. She pressed herself against the leather seat across from him, attempting to put as much space between her and the man, and stared at him warily. “Don’t worry. You’re not in trouble,” he said with a slight smile. Knowing how mutants were systematically killed by law enforcement, Nara still felt doubtful about the man’s intentions. “What is it that you want from me then?” she asked. The man’s smile grew wider, “I have a proposition for you.”
That day had changed Nara’s life for the better. Along with the rigorous 4-year military training and the scientific experiments she had undergone, she had also been given a home, a family, and a purpose in life. Now she sat beside two of her fellow teammates, Jimin and Taehyung, several feet away from the city’s train tracks. It was very dark out sans the lights illuminating the track. Nara looked up at the starless sky; the city lights swallowing up their light. A cool breeze lifted Nara’s midnight hair off her shoulders and she relished in the feeling. Although she had been assigned missions countless times, she still felt on edge.
Taehyung sighed and glanced at his cellphone again for the nth time that evening. “My patience is wearing thin. This train was supposed to be here 10 minutes ago,” he said in annoyance and slipped his phone back into his pocket. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and stared off towards the tracks in the direction the train was supposedly arriving from. Jimin placed a hat over his head in order to cover his silver blue hair, a phenotypic mutation that came along with his powers. Although it wasn’t too strange to see a younger man with unnaturally colored hair in the city, the team was required to look as ordinary as possible. “Complaining about it isn’t going to make the train come any faster, Tae. Besides, where do any of us have to be right now?” Jimin asked. Taehyung shrugged and smirked, “I was hoping we could grab drinks after our mission. Maybe enjoy a night for once.” They were about to kill a man, a fellow mutant, and Taehyung was thinking about grabbing drinks as if they worked in some stuffy office all day. With each completed task, these things became easier and easier to do. The only solace they shared was that all of this was for the good of humanity and the rest of the mutants who didn’t want a bad rep because of a few sour apples.
Nara placed her brown color contacts over her violet eyes. She glanced over at Taehyung who was sporting his signature pedestrian garb, all black clothes topped off with a leather jacket. Mutants often exhibit physical abnormalities like Jimin with his natural blue hair and Nara’s violet eyes. Taehyung, however, was blessed with black hair and brown eyes, making it easy for him to pass as human. He never needed a disguise while on missions or in life for that matter. “Let’s go over the mission one more time,” said Jimin, pulling up the file on his phone. “Target is on board a District 7 high-speed train heading east-bound towards Bangtan City to meet with the mutant terrorist group: Supremus. Target is mutant, but powers are unknown so execute the mission with caution. Target is in possession of top-secret information disclosed in a briefcase. Assassinate the target and retrieve the briefcase without any human casualties. Dispose of the body.” Jimin slips his phone back into his pocket. “Easy enough,” Taehyung said nonchalantly.
The rumble of the approaching train pulled them out of their thoughts, “It’s here.” Taehyung groaned as he stood, “About time.” Jimin and Nara stood as well and they stealthily made their way towards the train. As they approached, the wind from the speed of the train whipped their hair and clothes, making Nara wince. “Which car is he in?” Jimin asked nonchalantly as he began to stretch his limbs. “According to Namjoon, he should be in car sixteen,” Nara replied. Taehyung groaned again, “When is Yoongi gonna stop this train?” Yoongi, the MSO’s hacker and shapeshifter, was tasked to hack the high-speed train’s operating system in order to stop the train instead of letting it take its intended route. A few seconds later the train came to a gradual halt. “We shouldn’t enter car sixteen immediately. We should enter from the back, it’ll give us enough time for a distraction,” Nara said. Jimin nodded in agreement. Taehyung sighed, “We’re just wasting more time by doing this! Why can’t we just kill this guy and get it over with?” Jimin nudged him and gave him a look which seemed to silence him.
Nara approached one of the back cars, most likely empty due to the time of night. She raised her hand towards the train door. Using her power of telekinesis, she forced the door open and stepped inside. Jimin and Taehyung followed closely behind. “How’d you three get on here?” The three whipped their heads around to face a man in a uniform, most likely someone who worked on the train. Dammit, Nara thought to herself. She only considered the possibility of passengers seeing them, not an employee. However, slip ups such as this were easily fixed by Taehyung, possessing the power of memory manipulation. He approached the man and waved his hand in front of the man’s eyes, in a calm voice he said, “You never saw us here. Continue with what you were doing.” The man’s eyes seemed to glaze over as he nodded and turned away from us. Taehyung turned around and smirked at us, “Still got it.” Nara rolled her eyes, “Get serious, Tae. That could’ve blown this whole operation.” Taehyun tsked at her and shook his head, “You have such little faith in me.” Rather than contributing to their bickering, Jimin began making his way towards the sliding doors, separating them from the other cars. Nara and Taehyung followed behind as they all made their way towards car sixteen.
The team finally came upon several confused passengers. Jimin, feigning concern, asked a couple why the train had suddenly stopped. “I don’t know, but someone came back here and told us it would start running again shortly.” They’re window of opportunity was narrowing. “We need a distraction,” Nara whispered to the others. “I have an idea,” Jimin replied, “but let’s get closer to our target.” They continued walking and slipped into car sixteen. Nara scanned the area and noticed a man, sitting by himself, holding a briefcase. He seemed inconspicuous enough, passed as human, except for the gills he was attempting to hide under his shirt collar. He could have the ability to manipulate water or even the ability to swim at inhuman speeds. Either way, he was potentially dangerous and the team needed to execute this perfectly. “Get on with this grand plan of yours Jimin, we don’t have much time,” Taehyung urged. Jimin glanced at Nara, “You got this?” She nodded. Jimin sat down close to a window and the others sat beside him. Jimin placed his hand against the side of the train, shooting volts of electricity from his fingertips. All of the lights on the train sparked and busted, encasing everyone in complete darkness. Passengers screamed and ducked for cover. This was their chance. The man with the briefcase, seeming to know something was off, shuffled out of his seat quickly. Taehyung and Nara followed after him. The man sprayed water from his hand onto the floor, causing Taehyung to slip and fall. Nara easily avoided the water and jumped over Taehyung. “Dammit! Get him, Nara.” The man clutched his briefcase to his chest and ran to the next car. Nara chased after him, shoving away distressed passengers trying to run the opposite direction. Outstretching her hand, she forced him in place. He grunted and struggled in her telekinetic grasp. She approached the man and withdrew her knife from her boot. The man’s eyes widened as if she was squeezing them out of his head. His gills seemed to be gasping for air and sweat dripped down his temple, “P-Please don’t do this. I’m one of you!” Nara felt her stomach churn at his words and grimaced, “You are not one of us,” she said and slit his throat. He made a gurgled sound as blood spurted on her face and chest. Losing her concentration, she released the man from her hold and he fell to the floor with a thump. She wiped her face and looked down at her hands. It was dark on the train, but she could still see the man’s blood on her hands. She felt sick to her stomach from the sight. Taehyung and Jimin finally reached her and lifted his lifeless body. “Let’s go.”
In their hysterics, the passengers had run to the opposite end of the train so thankfully no one had witnessed the man being killed. Nara pried the door open with her power and helped the other two drag the man’s body out. “What should we do with the body?” Nara asked. “Let the train run over him. That should be sufficient enough for disposal,” Taehyung said and shrugged. Jimin grabbed the suitcase, “This is all we need. Let’s get out of here.” As the train began to move again, the team ran away from the tracks and into the city.
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“Thank god this bar stays open late!” Taehyung exclaimed as he downed his drink. After the mission was completed, the team reported to their leader, Namjoon, and delivered the briefcase they were asked to retrieve. Getting the thumbs up from Namjoon, Tae believed celebratory drinks were in order. Nara glanced at her phone, it was 3 am. Most human bars were closed by then, but mutant nightlife lasted much longer, sometimes into the early hours of the morning. Mutationem, a popular mutant-only bar in the city, was a place the team would frequent after missions. Nara sipped her beer and chuckled as she watched Tae flirt with the bartender. She turned to her left and noticed a fluffy grey cat sitting beside her on one of the barstools. “Hi, Yoongi” In a blink of an eye, he shifted back to his human form, clothes somehow intact, “Hey.” Yoongi preferred walking around as a cat, little chance for any verbal interaction but a lot of chances for petting. “That hacking thing you did was pretty convenient. I thought we might have had to jump on top of the train to get in,” she said with a laugh. Yoongi shrugged, “It wasn’t too hard for a genius like myself. Run into any other problems?” Nara shook her head, “Other than having to listen to Tae complain, it went fine.” Yoongi scoffed, “Figures.” Nara watched as she swirled the contents of her bottle around, curiosity consuming her, “So what was in the suitcase?” Yoongi shrugged, “I don’t know. Namjoon didn’t tell me and I didn’t really care to ask.” Nara thought this was strange; it wasn’t like Namjoon to keep things hush hush from the team. As if Yoongi could read the concern on her face, he said, “I’m sure it’s nothing too important. Probably just some info on their next move.” She nodded. “Anyway, I think I’m gonna go back to the base. I’ll see you later.” And with that, Yoongi transformed back into a cat and jumped down from the barstool. Before leaving, he rubbed his head against her leg, making her smile. Nara looked back at her bottle which was still almost full. Deciding it was time for her to go back to base as well, she chugged it and exited the bar.
She regretted her decision to down her drink so quickly, feeling her head buzzing from the alcohol. Base was only a few minutes away so she decided to walk instead of calling for a government vehicle to pick her up. She shivered as the cold, night air whisked her hair around. Wrapping her arms around herself, she began walking in the direction of the base. As she walked along the sidewalk, Nara could sense someone trailing her. She couldn’t tell if they were actually following her or if her tipsiness was making her paranoid. Deciding to take a shortcut home, she made a b-line to an alley. As soon as she turned the corner, the man following her grabbed her around the waist from behind. Thanks to her military training, Nara easily broke free from his grasp and used her telekinesis to push him back several feet. Stunned, the man fell to the ground and stared at her as if he saw a ghost. “Fucking freak!” he yelled as he scrambled to his feet and ran off. She winced at his words as she watched the man run away. She knew she should be used to this kind of treatment by now, but interactions like that always left a bad taste in her mouth. And these were the people she had sworn to protect, she thought to herself and continued walking back to base.
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☽ Bangtan City. Supremus HQ. 3a.m.☾
The small room was dark except for the lamp that illuminated the desk. The mastermind behind Supremus, Bang Si-hyuk, sat broodingly behind the desk, a scowl on his face. Jungkook lounged across the leather couch situated in the shadowy corner of the room, watching the other man that just entered the room.
“Intel has just informed us that our assailant from the group outside of the city is dead,” he said to Si-hyuk. “Fish boy?”
“Yes, sir.” The man behind the desk scoffed. “Of course he got himself killed. He was one of the weakest among us. I can’t believe they trusted him with such an important task,” Si-hyuk rubbed his face in exasperation. “What about the supplies?”
“Gone, sir.” Si-hyuk slammed his fist on the desk. Jungkook closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “God dammit! MSO?”
“Yes, sir. Three of them.” Jungkook sneered at the mention of the MSO. He couldn’t comprehend why any mutant would risk their life for the sake of humans. Humans all had unwarranted arrogance about them even though mutants were obviously the more powerful beings. They exploited these mutants for their own personal gain and still treated them like dirt. Jungkook didn’t understand and he never would. That’s why he had decided to join Supremus. They were considered terrorists by the state, but he didn’t see it that way. It wasn’t a question to him who was more superior.
“We need the supplies back. If they figure out exactly what we’re doing, the government is going to crack down on us even harder.”
“What do you suppose we do, sir?” Jungkook stood from his position, “I can get them back.” Si-hyuk eyed Jungkook and shook his head, “No, you’re too valuable of an asset.” Jungkook smirked at him, “You underestimate me.” Si-hyuk considered Jungkook’s words carefully, “I trust you, Jungkook. Do what needs to be done.”
“Yes, sir.”
#BTS#bts fanfiction#bts fanfic#bts scenarios#bts smut#bts fluff#superhero!au#jungkook#jeon jungkook#bts x oc#networkbangtan#series
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The Battle Roar of Sekhmet
Egypt, 1350 BC
I entered the sanctuary area at the back of our hut with a bowl of gazelle meat. Beside me, my little niece Nebet hugged her miniature drum as if it were a doll. The likenesses of our forefathers and mothers watched our passage with painted eyes, their altars adorned with weapons and the gold flies their valor had earned them in life. But it was the gilded likeness of Sekhmet, she of the lion mask and blood-dyed gown, who awaited our arrival against the wall. Despite the dimming of the sunlight through our hut’s narrow windows, Sekhmet’s amber eyes blazed with the same fire that had emboldened generations of our ancestors.
Many times I had knelt before her as I did now, lighting the meat I laid at her feet. The scent of its burning recalled battle after battle of blazing tents and enemies being speared, shot, or cleaved into pieces. The warmth channeled the sun’s blazing heat, which glossed my dark brown skin with perspiration. Even the crackling of flesh breaking down into ash became the cracking of bones and shields as I yelled the battle roar of Sekhmet in my memories.
This evening I would consult our matron for a different battle. This time, our enemies were not Kushites with ochre-reddened hair and leopard-belted kilts. Nor were they easterners like the Hittites or Babylonians, with pale skin and loosely curled beards. No, they were Egyptians like us, fellow children of the Black Land who had fallen under the influence of the false Pharaoh Akhenaten.
Already they had dragged little Nebet’s father away to slave away in the lair that tyrant had built for himself and his cult of lies. I did not even want to guess what his minions had done to her mother. Only I remained to protect and teach the girl over the past year, and never would I let her suffer the same fate as her parents.
I gave her a nod and she pounded her drum with more unbridled passion than a temple ensemble. Together we sang our prayer for Sekhmet’s vigilance, for her guidance, for the courage with which she would imbue us in the face of war and persecution. The fire on my offering continued to flicker on our ancestors’ faces as their spirits’ voices joined ours in a greater chorus. The thumping of my heart became a rhythm complementing Nebet’s drum, as did the war drums that had thundered before all my past battles. Alongside the music’s growing fury there rose an energy within me that flamed as hot as Sekhmet’s gaze. As she opened her jaws to bare her fangs in my vision, so did I.
It built up from my breast to my throat, ready to be released over a climax of cracking drums and shrieking cries.
Instead came the hoarse bray of a royal trumpet. Then followed silence, and finally the rapping of a bony knuckle on our door.
Nebet embraced the drum with shivering arms. I murmured to her that it would turn out alright, for you could never tell a frightened child anything else. Even I didn’t want to believe otherwise.
Outside the door, as expected, awaited Vizier Ay with his leopard-skin mantle, accompanied by royal guards with spears and cow-hide shields. He greeted me with the usual sneer on his dark, wrinkled date of a face, and the night-black dreadlocks of his wig clashed with the scruffy white stubble around his mouth. But judging from the way his eyes ran up and down my figure, he had more than uppity pride spreading that filthy smile of his.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Egypt’s distinguished champion, Takhaet,” Ay croaked. “I understand you’ve earned yourself a whole swarm of flies, yet your beauty remains unworn after so much combat.”
I scoffed. “Most men say my beauty is enhanced by that. But maybe strong women are too much for you to handle, old Vizier.”
“Don’t you dare disrespect a servant of Pharaoh, young lady!” The Vizier spat into my face and banged his staff against the dirt road. “This business is so important, may I inform you, that defiance could cost you your very life — -or your adorable little niece. Tell me, O Takhaet, was it to our Aten that you were praying to?”
If I were to lie, I could spare myself and Nebet whatever this ancient monster and his master had planned for us. But I could not deny our lyrics had named Sekhmet rather than Akhenaten’s pet demon. Nor could I deny that our drumming had spoken in her favorite rhythms rather than any other god’s. And even if it would save my family, I could never betray the men and women of my village by pointing to them. A painful truth was better than a lie that hurt others.
“No, but it’s neither your business nor Akhenaten’s! You can prostrate before that devil you call Aten all you want, but you can never claw out your subjects’ deepest beliefs, no matter how you try!”
The sneer returned to Ay’s face. “But I can silence them. And I have, many, many times. Why, I must’ve…disciplined more commoners like you than all the barbarians you’ve ever slain, Takhaet. But, this time I’ll be diplomatic.”
I was not surprised when I saw one shriveled hand of his glide back and forth over his crotch. That gesture wrung my stomach like a wet rag inside.
“I know what you’re thinking, withered son of a jackal’s bastard. And I could rip out what remains of your manhood with my bare fist!”
The Vizier stepped back, cackling like a sickly hyena. “Excuse me, I didn’t mean that kind of deal. I meant something that would strike closer to your heart. Get the child!”
One of his soldiers shoved me aside and marched into our hut. Nebet screamed and flailed her arms when he yanked her up between his arms.
“Isn’t this a sweet, plump young piece of crocodile bait!” he said. “Hopefully they’ll leave one piece for my supper!”
“You savage!” I lunged after him, but one of his comrades wrapped his arm around my neck and pulled me away.
“So what shall it be, O Takhaet? Your little Nebet or your loyalty to dead gods?”
I could not allow my niece, all that remained of my blood-kin, to fall into the clutches of men viler and more wretched than any Babylonian or Kushite I ever slew. Too many children, probably thousands, must have already been tossed to the crocodiles at Akhenaten’s behest. If either her father or mother still lived, only knowledge of their child’s survival could keep them going.
Caving into Ay’s demands would keep her alive. It would also further fuel his swollen Vizier’s pride and embolden him to seek out more victims, more children to threaten and kill. Sekhmet could never die, but both Nebet and all the other children of Egypt could.
I answered his dilemma with a kick of my heel into my arrester’s shin.
Breaking myself free of his chokehold, I tore the knife out from under his belt and chucked it into the brow of Nebet’s captor. My niece hopped and clung onto my back even as I caught the soldier’s fallen spear and used it to pole-vault over the rest. On the other side waited Ay’s personal chariot. After knocking the driver out with the spear’s butt, I grabbed the reins and whipped the horses into a neighing gallop.
Driving the chariots was always my favorite part of battle.
Huts, villagers, and trees blurred past me. The wind blew in a cool gale against my face. I couldn’t help but yell with girlish glee as I relived the thrill of a chariot chase, even with all its bouncing jolts and veers.
Nebet, much to my joyful surprise, squealed and laughed with me. “Can we do this again sometime, Aunt Takhi?”
“Next time he comes, I promise!” I said.
Our fun ended with the bang of a thrown spear against the chariot’s wheel. It threw us into the sky over the skidding horses until we crashed onto a hut’s thatched roof. Only by the mercy of the old gods did I catch Nebet before she hit something harder.
Ay’s thugs encircled the hut and hurled more spears at us. As I dodged their throws with Nebet on my back, I observed we had reached the village’s edge. Beyond the outer palisade sprawled a grassy field with scattered acacias, which in turn gave way to forest on the horizon’s edge. The shelter under those trees would be our only hope.
I picked up another spear and vaulted from the roof, over the palisade, and into grass that stretched higher than my knees. I sprinted as if I were racing a cheetah, but Ay’s cursing guards were closing behind me. My calves and thighs flared like a bush fire under my skin. A slung stone grazed my hip, but it made me stumble a couple of steps.
Ahead grazed a herd of gazelles. I ran straight through them, and they scattered in all directions. I hoped their stampede would run over my pursuers, or at least that they would lose us among the panicking animals. I did not hear any men scream death cries, but neither did I see them behind me anymore. It was better than nothing.
I had burned away so much of my energy that evening that I slowed into a panting stagger upon entering the forest. I put Nebet down and collapsed into the low crotch of a sycamore fig tree, letting out a relieved exhale. The darkness under the treetops would be our sanctuary this night, because I had worn myself out for the day.
“Cower all you want in those woods, traitor!” Ay’s croaky voice, muffled as it was by the foliage, was unmistakable. “The leopards shall do our work instead!”
Nebet buried her head in my bosom like a baby nursing her own mother’s milk. Her teary eyes and cheeks reflected even the little waning sunlight that shafted through the canopy. “We’re never going back, are we, Aunt Takhi?”
I stroked her disheveled puffs of hair and gave her my most motherly smile, because I could not give her anything else. Not even a lie. “Only the gods know what lies ahead, my sweetheart.”
“But they failed us. Sekhmet failed us, they all failed us! That old man was right, the old gods are all dead!”
“But his god never existed. Why else would we be able to get away from him? We even killed at least one of his minions!” I wrapped my arms around my niece. “Besides, our prayer got interrupted. What if we were to finish it? This time, we’ll pray on behalf of all Egypt against Akhenaten’s oppression!”
“But we don’t have my drum. Or her idol!”
She was right, we could not go home to our hut’s sanctuary. And Akhenaten had robbed all the temples in Egypt of the gods’ likenesses in favor of that Aten monstrosity. Or rather, all the temples still in use. Egypt’s history, with all its chieftains and kings with their various works, ran many centuries further in the past than those. Many of those past works lay buried under wilderness like the forest around us. “We may not need them,” I said. “I can think of something even better. And it shouldn’t be far from here at all.”
##
The white gaze of the moon, surrounded by innumerable stars, had replaced the sun in a blackened sky. Its light, faint as it was, guided me and Nebet through the maze of sycamore and palm trees. She tightened her grip on my breast with every bird squawk, monkey hoot, or coughing roar of the leopard. I myself felt cold serpents of fear slither up my spine despite the balmy humidity.
A twig cracked. Nebet yelped, and I spun around with hands clenched onto my spear. Across a nearby clearing bolted the shadow of a small antelope. Wait, once we had found what we were looking for, I might need that. With a singular throw, I managed to spear that duiker through the head.
“Is that for us?” Nebet asked.
“It’s for Sekhmet,” I said while hauling the carcass onto my shoulder. “Keeping hanging on there, little one. We’re almost there.”
From the corner of my eye, I spied paw-prints bigger than most leopard tracks on the leaf-littered ground — -tracks almost as big as a lion’s in fact. But lions were creatures of the open plain, not the forest, and Nebet had been scared enough times as it was.
We passed a vine-entangled falcon sculpture with a disc and a cobra mounted on its head. This was the likeness of Ra, the god of the sun which Akhenaten’s devil Aten tried to usurp along with all the other gods. Behind it a stout limestone obelisk towered up into the treetop canopy from a high slanted platform. Between them and the statue of Ra rose overgrown walls with a gatehouse bisecting them.
“This is a Temple of the Sun, like those built during the Fifth Dynasty,” I whispered to Nebet. “That would make it, what, over a thousand years old?”
“Whoah, that’s even older than Grandmother!” Nebet said. We chuckled together.
“It’s older than any of our grandparents, little baboon. Temples like these were built in honor of Ra, and was Sekhmet not born from Ra’s eye? We might speak to her through him!”
We pried open the door in the temple entrance and entered an open courtyard blanketed with undergrowth. The giant obelisk reared on its platform at the court’s opposite edge, with another likeness of Ra chiseled into its based. This time Ra was not all falcon but instead a man with a falcon mask who trod the python Apep underfoot. He did not watch his temple alone but shared it with other animal-masked gods standing along the courtyard’s sides. I recognized Anpu the jackal, Sobek the crocodile, Hetheru the cow, Khnum the buffalo, Sutekh the aardvark, and Djehuti the ibis.
And then there was Sekhmet, she of the lion mask.
Her representation was over thrice the height of the one back in our hut. Not even centuries of erosion, or the creepers wrapped around her, could hide the glint of her ivory fangs or inlaid amber eyes. Under the moon, her glare blazed with more predatory brilliance than I had ever seen on her images.
“Look here!” Nebet had run over to a niche underneath the surrounding wall and was tapping on something wooden. “Drums!”
And she was right. Drums of all sizes had been cached in there, some as small as her own miniature one and others big enough for a grown woman like me. My niece and I could drum together now!
I laid my duiker kill at Sekhmet’s feet and lit it with a makeshift torch. It blossomed into a huge ball of flame that made my previous offerings look miserly for the comparison. And with both Nebet and I holding drums between our legs, we recited our prayer with the full force of our voices.
All our ancestors must have been among the chorus that chanted with us, but the gods around us sang loudest of all. The beats came in many rhythms from both our drums, from my heartbeat, and from my memories. Entire armies thundered beside us, hooting and roaring, women shrieking and whooping like hyenas on the warpath. And as our larger offering crackled under the fire, so too did whole hordes of our enemies have their bones cracked and shields split asunder.
Again, it was building up from my lungs into my throat. I was ready to let it out like I never could at home.
What came was a roar. But not from myself, or Nebet. It wasn’t even Sekhmet’s roar, but that of a real, mortal feline.
There were three of them that had bounded into the temple’s courtyard. They were big and heavily built as lions, but had the hides of leopards, with two having spots and one a pure black coat. The larger of the spotted ones had a short mane like a young male lion’s. I had heard stories of rare crosses between lions and leopards, but never had I seen one on all my hunts. Never mind a pride of three!
Blocking the way between Nebet and these half-bred cats, I jabbed my spear at them with a hiss and snarl. The male of the trio bared his fangs and answered with a deep, coughing roar that froze my flesh to the bone. At his sides his mates crouched, rolling their shoulders with glowing green leopards’ eyes on my niece.
We were outnumbered, but even I could not outrun half-lion, half-leopard felines in the woods at night. All I could do was teach them the fear of humanity. So I chose to charge them head-on.
The male cat met my challenge with the lightning quickness of his leopard parentage and the lion’s brute might. He had me pinned back-first under his paws, the weight of his muscles nearly crushing mine. He would have split my bones had I not gotten one stab of the spear into his flank. It did not fell him, but in his roar of pain he relaxed his pressure enough for me to roll free.
I jumped to make another thrust, aimed at his skull. Again his mixture of lion’s strength and leopard’s reflexes defeated my attack with a swat of his paw that took off the spear’s bronze head. The sudden force of his blow threw me off my footing into one of the statues’ bases.
Nebet’s scream of terror and pain pierced into my heart as well as my eardrums. The spotted female cat had already caught her by the skirt in her fangs! I threw my decapitated spear into the beast’s shoulder, saving my niece from the crunch of death, but the male of the pride had sprung for me. I darted out of his way, letting him collide with the statue behind me, and put Nebet onto my back. I beat away the spotted female half-breed’s next attack with the duiker’s charred corpse and hurried for the temple entrance.
From the head of another idol, the cat with the pure black coat shot down paw-first in my way and slashed its claws across my breast. I reeled back until all three of the pride were circling us like vultures over a kill. I had been a fool. There was no way to beat these cats in battle. The best we could do was break out of their trap and shut them in.
After one kick into the male half-breed’s face, I rushed past him through the entrance’s doorway. Together with Nebet, we slammed the old door closed. Though it throttled back and forth with the felines roaring behind it, the hard wood it had been hewn from withstood their attacks with resilience belying its antiquity.
I scooped my whimpering niece up and mumbled thankful prayers that the night’s violence had not inflicted fatal damage on her. “It’s all right, my sweetheart. We’re safe now.”
“Not any longer, O Takhaet!”
Ay and his squadron of soldiers had found us! Ringed by all their spears and axes, I had spent too much energy to defy them any longer.
“This time, I’ll make it simple. Surrender your dead faith or die!” Ay’s sneer had widened to an open grin of malevolent joy. “Choose rightly, and we’ll bring you home and act as if this never happened!”
It would have meant defeat for my cause, for the traditions I and all the people of Egypt had followed before Akhenaten’s ascent. But Sekhmet and her brethren had failed us twice. No, if those three half-lions were any sign, she must have turned on us, never mind all that we’d done for her. And if my niece’s life was no longer at stake, it no longer mattered whether we swore by Aten rather than the gods who had deserted us.
“How about this, old man?” It was Nebet who spoke. Not even the tears in her eyes could extinguish away the determination in them. “You tried to kill us, so why don’t we do the same to you?”
She tugged the handle on the door. I helped her, and we ran straight through the confused soldiers the moment it banged open again.
The clamor of feline roaring, splintering spears and shields, and the screams and death cries of men echoed between the trees. So did our laughter together.
“You are a clever little baboon, aren’t you? How’d you hatch that one so quick?”
“They came when we prayed to Sekhmet. She must’ve summoned them for something. And besides, you used gazelles on those men earlier.” Nebet was beaming with the fierce pride of a triumphant warrior, a beam I had shown myself many times in my career. Like aunt, like niece.
“All right, you win!”
A gagging Ay, with wig fallen off and a blood-sprayed leopard-skin mantle, had tripped on his cane behind us. “I’ll tell Pharaoh you surrendered, and have your whole village left alone. Truth be told, that bloated fool would rather laze around in his new ‘palace’ than run his kingdom as he should. Sole representative of Aten’s will, my smelly ass!”
After helping him up, my niece and I nearly exploded into laughter from the hilarious irony of it all.
##
When we returned to our village after daybreak, the people welcomed us with cheers, hoots, and songs of praise. The headman thanked us for driving back the tyranny of Akhenaten and his false god, promising to reward us with the greatest feast the village had ever known.
And so it was held that evening. Hundreds of drums cracked and rumbled as we roasted whole cattle and antelopes in Sekhmet’s honor, firelight dancing to the many rhythms. Hundreds of men, women, and children sang her praises, adding to the drumbeats with clapping, stamping feet, and the banging of spear butts and walking sticks. This time, I did not need memories or imagination to enhance the music. It was real, it pulsed all around me, and it even made me dance beside the flames.
Finally, I could let it flow from my lungs, up my throat, and out of my mouth. And for once, it was my own voice from whence came the battle roar of Sekhmet.
#Takhaet#short story#short fiction#writing#fiction#historical fiction#ancient egypt#egyptian#kemet#african#original characters#ocs#black woman#women of color#woc
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You’re my Little Secret Chapter Six
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: F/F
Fandom: The 100 (TV)
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Characters: Clarke Griffin, Lexa (The 100), Octavia Blake, Bellamy Blake, Anya (The 100), Mountain Men (The 100), Raven Reyes
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe, Forbidden Love, Secret Relationship, Grounder Clarke Griffin, Sort Of, Opposite of slowburn, More tags to be added
Language: English
Words: 21,046
Chapters (as of 4/6/2020): 8/?
Previous Chapter: Lexa could feel herself seething. How dare that insolent boy treat Clarke like she was some branwada goufa who needed a caretaker. It was blatant disrespect, and Lexa had to restrain the urge to knock him in the head to see if it would put some sense into his brain.
Lexa began her return to her own camp, pondering over what it was about the skai girl that made her feel such emotions.
It came out of nowhere.
The first sign that it came was the scream, then the sound of ripping flesh. Clarke jolted awake, scrambling out of the dropship into the night.
You couldn’t see it at first; its coat was as dark as the sky. But you could see the movement. Two people sprinted for the dropship, one of them falling down at something leaped onto their back. They screamed as claws dug into their back, pulling them to pieces.
Clarke grabbed her knife, charging in the direction of the mysterious assailant. A reckless, stupid move on her part, but what else was she to do? With a yell, she stabbed her knife between the shoulder blades of the four-legged beast. It yowled, turning so fast that she lost her grip on the hilt. It was on her before she could blink.
It was heavy, she noticed as it stood on her chest, claws tearing at her stomach. Its yellow eyes gleamed in the darkness, tell-tale signs that it was a feline. With this discovery, it took a second for the pain to hit. But when it did, it hit full blast.
She couldn’t hold back her screams. It wasn’t on her for long, though - someone, some stupid, wanna-be heroic kid tackled it to the ground. She rolled over, attempting to stand but collapsing back into the dirt. She could hear the shrieks of the big cat, far too big to be normal, and the chortled wail as it died, but she was only aware of the excruciating pain, the blood leaking from her torso and soaking the ground.
In all the confusion, someone grabbed her by the armpits, pulling her back. She bit her lip hard enough that it bled. Eventually, they slipped their arms beneath her, lifting her to their chest, and the shock of pain that went through her was enough to send her spiraling toward the darkness. Hushed whispers filled her ears but she was gone before she could hear.
-
She woke up more comfortable than she’d ever been.
Unfortunately, she was also in agonizing pain.
It had dulled since she was last awake, and there was something cold smeared over her wound that soothed a bit of the heat, but it still hurt to even breathe. She groaned loudly, opening her eyes and immediately closing them.
She heard a quiet laugh and slowly blinked awake. Sitting beside her bed, dressed in a way she’d never been before, was Lexa.
She flinched, wincing from the pain. “Lexa?” Her voice cracked harshly. “Where am I?”
“You’re in Tondisi.” She reached over to rest a hand on Clarke’s arm. “I brought you here after the attack on your camp.”
TonDC. The Trikru capital. She remembered Lexa telling her about it. “Why am I here?”
“The Skenripa did great harm to you. I feared the skills of your delinquents would not be adequate enough to care for you.” She looked at Clarke, slightly nervous but hidden behind a mask that she hadn’t seen for a while. “I had to use the ruse that you were a prisoner. I hope you do not mind.”
Prisoner? “Will I be able to leave?”
“Assuredly,” Lexa replied. “I will have you back to your people as soon as you are healed.”
“I need to get back to them now.” She struggled to sit up, the bandages around her stomach keeping her stiff. “They’re probably worried.”
“Oh, they are. They’ve sent out search parties for you. But you cannot go back to them as you are.”
“I have to.” She threw her legs over the side of the bed, gritting her teeth painfully. “There are probably a ton of injuries. I’m the only healer there.”
“Yes, but none are on the same level as yours,” Lexa argued. “The others can survive with what they have until you are fit to travel.”
“Which would be days, maybe weeks. I have to get back.” She rose to her feet, swaying unsteadily for a second before her knees crumpled. Lexa lunged forward and caught her, helping her sit back onto the bed.
“Klark, you cannot even stand. There is no hope for you getting back to your people today.” Lexa pushed her into the furs. “Rest.”
“No, Lexa, I can’t!”
“Heda?” They both froze, Lexa’s face instantly turning emotionless. A guard peeked his head through the entrance. “Em ething ait?”
“Sha, Gostos. Em’s ogeda ona rak op.” He dipped his head respectfully, backing out of the tent.
Clarke was frozen in place. “Who was that?”
“My guard.” Lexa sat down next to Clarke, thinking carefully about how to word this. “Klark, there is something about me which I haven’t told you.”
Clarke knew that she was uninformed about Lexa’s life, very much so, but the way she spoke made it sound huge. She stiffened, nodding for Lexa to continue.
Lexa took a deep breath, schooling her face into apathy. “You have heard me speak of the commander, yes?”
“Of course. She was the one who kept us alive.”
“Yes, well…” Lexa, always one to keep things blunt, pushed right ahead. “The commander - is myself.”
It took many long moments for her words to register. Clarke’s face turned from something akin to concern to confusion. “You’re the commander?”
Lexa nodded mutely.
“But then -” Clarke inhaled long and deep, struggling to keep her mind in one place. “You were the one who spared us? Who ordered us to be watched? Who was the one observing us?”
“Yes.” Lexa pursed her lips. “You have to understand, Klark - I am revered as a god among my people. If you were to tell the other Skairku, not that I believe you would, but if you had, it is entirely possible I would be evicted from my position. To have friendly relations with what my people consider to be an enemy is sacrilege.”
Clarke thought over it all in her head, leaving Lexa waiting anxiously. Finally, she answered. “Then why tell me now? Why bring me to TonDC?”
“Because I need you. Out of all the Skaikru, you are by far the most promising. To lose you would be to lose the most powerful influence they have that is keeping them from starting a war with us.”
“Oh, so this is all about politics?” Clarke knew that it wasn’t, deep in her heart, she knew, but the way Lexa was speaking of her as if she was only cared about because of her influence- it got to her. “I don’t matter, of course not, just that you keep a handhold over my people.”
“Klark, no, that’s not all it is.”
“But that’s part of it. A big part, probably. Why would the great commander want to befriend a measly Skaikru girl?” Clarke narrowed her eyes. “It was all a part of a plan, wasn’t it? To use me as a pawn in your scheme?”
“It’s not like that at all!” Lexa reached out to take one of her hands, feeling a pang of hurt at Clarke’s rejection. “Maybe it was at first, but I trust you, Klark. In ways I should not. I consider you a friend and hope it can stay that way after this.”
God, Clarke wanted that, too. Every moment she’d spent with Lexa had been one of the best. Never before had someone treated her the way Lexa did, not like she was the daughter of Jake and Abby Griffin, but like she was Clarke. Lexa didn’t know of her past, and what she did know, she didn’t judge her on. It was a feeling she’d soaked in every time she was in Lexa’s presence. But to learn that all this time, Lexa had been lying to her-
She took a deep breath. She needed to look at this from Lexa’s side. And, even through the feeling of betrayal, she could see that Lexa was right. It was a smart move.
But still-
No. She couldn’t.
“I don’t forgive you.” Lexa’s face dropped even more, her emotionless facade completely gone. “But I’ll give you another chance. I want to be your friend, Lexa, I really do, but I have to know that I can trust you. Even if you are the commander.”
Lexa nodded. “Of course, Klark.”
“Then get me back to my people.”
Lexa sighed. “I cannot convince you to stay, can I?”
“No.”
“Then I will have it arranged to be taken back to your people as soon as I can.”
Clarke paused at that. “You won’t be taking me back?” No, of course she wouldn't, she’s the damn commander. Then again, she had been the one watching them.
Lexa cocked her head. “Do you want me to?”
“I’d… prefer that, yes.” As much as she despised Lexa right now, she still trusted her more than anyone else that might be in the town. At least she knew her.
“Then I will. Let me inform Indra that I will be taking you back myself, and then we shall depart.” Clarke nodded, unsure exactly of what Lexa’s position as commander entailed for this, but deciding now wasn’t the time to ask. Not when it would only delay them.
Lexa left, and Clarke waited impatiently, left alone to her thoughts. Why had Lexa been watching them personally? She had scouts to do that for her. And then why had she of all people decided to try and make friends with one of the Skaikru? It would’ve been easier for her to have someone else do it. Unless she didn’t trust her people to do it correctly.
She pondered over this for the entire time she was alone, her mind filled with questions about Lexa. If she had been lying about this, who knew what else she was lying about?
Lexa finally stepped back into the tent, walking over to the bed. “Come, Klark. If you are ready, we are prepared to leave.”
Much to her dismay, she needed Lexa’s help to make it out of the tent. With Clarke leaning heavily against her side, Lexa led them out of the tent over to the stables.
Clarke took one look at the horses and shut down. “Oh, no. I can’t ride a horse.”
Lexa sent her an inquisitive look. “Why not? They will hasten our journey.”
“I don’t know how. Plus, it wouldn’t help my injury.”
“Neither would walking the entire way there. It is a day’s walk, Klark. The horse will at least lessen the pressure placed on your injury.”
Clarke frowned, her mind searching for an alternative. “But what about crutches?”
“Crutches.” Lexa’s mouth contorted awkwardly around the word. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“They were things that you put under your arm and acted as legs. You’d step forward with them and then use them to walk.”
Lexa cocked her head. “I have never heard of such a device. Is it like your tek?”
“No, it’s… nevermind.” She sighed loudly. “Do you at least have painkillers?”
“Sha. I asked a sekon to retrieve them for me earlier.”
“You mean the girl currently sprinting toward us?”
Lexa looked in the direction and had to hold back a chuckle as the girl skidded to a stop, holding out a bag of herbs. “Thank you, Tris. Do you remember what Anya told you about running through the village like that?”
Tris flushed. “That it is undignified of me.”
“Sha, it is. It could also cause harm to yourself or others. You are not a child, Tris.”
She ducked her head. “Moba, Heda.”
Lexa nodded. “Good. Now run along.”
The girl scampered off. Lexa opened the bag, plucking out two of the berries. “Eat these. They should take effect soon.”
Clarke took them from her hand and bit into them, grimacing at the bitter taste. “Now can we walk?”
“It will take longer. On the herbs, as long as you have a steady mount, your injury should be able to handle a lope. It will cut the time in half.”
Clarke bit her lip. As much as she hated the idea of riding a horse, she couldn’t deny the benefits. “Fine. But we leave them behind once we get close to camp.”
Lexa nodded. “Of course, Klark.”
A stablehand brought out two horses, a mutated two-headed mare and a large, regal white stallion. The stablehand helped her onto the horse while Lexa easily mounted hers. Lexa quickly briefed her on how to ride a horse while she guided them both through the streets, nodding politely to the guards as they opened the gates for her.
Before they could make it out of the gates, a loud boom rocked the earth. Clarke’s horse reared up, still held in place by Lexa, who had its reins in her hands. Clarke gasped at the sudden pain but quickly forgot it as she watched something come flaming down, outlined by the setting sun. A thwump so strong they could hear it from there sounded as a parachute sprang out behind it, slowing it down until it crashed behind the trees.
Lexa wrapped the reins of Clarke’s horse tightly around her hand. “Hold on.”
Clarke had to hold back a yelp as Lexa kicked her horse into a gallop. She grasped at her horse’s mane, leaning over its shoulders and watching the trees fly past in a blur. The jolts made her wince with each stride, but she could hold it together. She watched Lexa instead, the way her braided locks sailed out behind her, how the red sash flickered and whipped in the wind, the way her jacket flared out behind her.
They rode through the setting of the sun and past the starry twilight, only stopping when the starlight dimmed so low that it was impossible to see the trees around them. Lexa dismounted, tying both horses to a tree. “I hope you are comfortable sleeping on the ground,” Lexa said, helping her off her horse. “You will have to tonight.”
“I’ll be alright,” Clarke said, hovering awkwardly. Lexa sat down with her back to one of the large oaken trees. Watching. Waiting.
Clarke leaned against her horse, eyeing Lexa back. Lexa nodded to the ground. “Are you going to sleep or not?”
“Are you not?”
Lexa shook her head. “Dangers lurk in the night. If we both slept, we might never awaken.”
Oh. That wasn’t at all worrying. Though after last night’s attack, she supposed she couldn’t argue. With slow, careful movements, she stumbled away from the horses, dropping down onto the forest floor. She hadn’t realized how much her legs ached after riding for hours, and she was thankful to succumb to sleep.
-
Clarke woke to the smell of cooked meat. She rolled onto her back, groaning as her injury stretched. Eyes opening blurrily, she could see that Lexa had lit a fire, and had a rabbit cooking over it. From the other side, her eyes met Lexa’s.
She sat up slowly, her hand reflexively clutching her stomach. Lexa smiled politely at her. “The food is just about ready. We’ll mount up immediately after. I hope to reach the new skaiship before your people do.”
The other ship! Clarke looked up at the sky, noting that it was just barely dawn. She doubted any of the delinquents would be awake. They’d probably reach it before them unless they had to ride for another couple hours. Whether she wanted her and Lexa to reach it first would depend on what was inside.
Neither she nor Lexa spoke as they ate, both avoiding the other’s gaze. Clarke clearly remembered yesterday, Lexa newfound position as commander of the twelve clans. For someone so powerful, she seemed oddly affectionate, at least toward Clarke. She wondered if that was on purpose, and if so, why.
Or maybe Lexa genuinely wanted Clarke to like her.
With such a large political divide between them, it was hard to be sure.
Back on the horses, Lexa set a slower pace, more comfortable but still speedy. Clarke was thankful for that,whether or not Lexa did it for hert. Her thighs already ached from last night’s sprint.
They reached the ship within the hour. Lexa had left their horses behind, two people falling from the trees to take them, people who Clarke now knew were Lexa’s guards. She had no doubt some were following them now. They’d probably had eyes on the ship since it landed.
The ship had mostly settled, a bit of smoke still leaking from the engine. It looked untouched. Lexa hung back at the tree line and watched Clarke approach it, a hand reaching back to settle on her sword. She had no idea what the Skaikru could send in the Skaiship.
Clarke opened the door, ducking inside as soon as she could. There were no supplies, no stores of food or blankets for the cold, but what there was…
Clarke clambered into the ship, kneeling on the adjacent seat and shaking the shoulder of the girl inside. Her helmet had been completely fogged up with her breath, cracks running all across it, leaving the face obscured. Blood leaked from the top. A concussion, most likely, if not something worse. She was alive, at least. Clarke could see that much.
The girl moaned in pain, head lolling to the side as a hand reached up to touch her head. Clarke caught it. “Hey. Leave it.”
The girl removed her helmet, shaking her sweaty hair out of her face. She blinked up at Clarke. “Where am I?”
Clarke couldn’t help a grin. “You’re on the ground.”
She helped the other girl out, first noticing that Lexa was nowhere to be seen. The next thing she noticed was Finn bursting out of the trees.
Finn froze, staring in disbelief. The other girl stared right back, a huge grin stretching over her face. Clarke hesitantly let her go, watching her waver a bit but was otherwise fine. “Raven?”
Newly-named Raven laughed. “Finn!”
They rushed to each other, embracing heartily. They spoke softly, too low for Clarke to hear, and she watched with rising disgust as they kissed.
Breaking apart, Clarke wandered closer, listening to their conversation. From what she could gather, Raven had rebuilt the ship from scrap, coming down to the ground… to be with Finn. “I would do anything for you,” she said, voice filled with adoration. “Just like you would for me.”
At Finn’s glance toward Clarke, she knew that Finn would, in fact, not do anything for her. Not when it came down to obsessing over another girl.
Raven faltered, knees collapsing, and Finn carefully set her down. Jogging back to Clarke, she handed him a medkit. He looked at her guiltily. “I’m sorry.”
Ha. Like that would cut it. “Let’s not talk about this.”
Finn nodded, pursing his lips and turning back to Raven. She followed him. “This is Clarke,” he said. “She was on the dropship.”
Raven looked back to her, eyes widening in recognition. “Clarke? This was all because of your mom. This was all her plan. We were trying to come down together, we were waiting, but…” Raven’s smile sank. “Oh, no. We were waiting because the council was voting whether to kill three hundred people to save oxygen.”
Clarke felt her breath rush past her lips. “When?”
“Today!” Pushing past them both, she stumbled over to the ship, grabbing hastily for it. “We have to tell them you’re alive!”
Ducking under the door, Raven leaned against the control panel, bending over to see the radio. She was still for a moment, unmoving, before she turned back to them. “The radio’s gone. It must have gotten loose during reentry.”
Shit. Shit, shit, shit, that was bad. If the Ark was going to slaughter three hundred people and they had no way to tell them otherwise? They’d stay up in the sky forever, slowly losing oxygen until there was no one left alive.
Raven cursed, pounding her fist against the side of the pod. Clarke put a hand on her shoulder. “Hey. We have someone at the dropship working on a way to communicate with the Ark. If you’re as genius a mechanic as you claim to be, maybe we can have it done before they start the killing.”
“Is it close to done?”
“I have no idea.” She looked at Finn. He shrugged. Clarke swore under her breath. “Last time I checked, no, but I’ve been gone all day. I don’t know.”
“Speaking of which,” Finn said, drawing both their attention. “Where have you been?”
Clarke pursed her lips. “The middle of the forest. Don’t ask, because I don’t know either.”
Not very believable, but it would have to do.”
“Well, let’s get going!” Raven said, grabbing Finn’s arm and pulling him. “Which way?”
Finn led her away, looking back at Clarke with perhaps the most pitiful expression on his face. She scoffed. If he thought he could get off the hook just from that, he was sorely mistaken.
She followed behind them, watching Finn and Raven talk softly, grinning like they were crazy in love. One of them was, at least.
She felt something brush her shoulder and turned, startled to see Lexa, feet planted against the side of a tree, one hand gripping a branch above her. Clarke felt both relieved and annoyed. “What, was I not walking quietly enough?”
Lexa ignored that, leaning closer. “We have a bit of a problem,” she muttered, so quietly that Clarke had to strain to hear her. “My scouts reported that one of your people had wandered a distance from camp and fell down a slope, injuring herself.”
Clarke glanced warily back at Finn and Raven, but neither were paying attention to her. “Where are they?”
“That’s the problem.” Lexa’s eyes followed hers to the other skaikru. “One of my scouts disobeyed my direct orders to leave the Skaikru alone.”
Clarke felt dread settle in her stomach. “And?”
“He took her. I’m afraid one of my people has one of yours hostage.”
Chapters 1-8 up on ao3 here.
First chapter on Tumblr here.
Previous chapter here.
Next chapter here.
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Stark: An American Musical
So this is an idea I dreamed up a while ago: a series of loosely connected one-shots based on the songs from Hamilton. I have no explanation for it other than, like, it sounded fun? And I kinda want to rip your hearts out with It's Quiet Uptown. Pre-Endgame. Post CACW.
Track #1 // Anthony Stark
"Holy mother of—you bastard, orphan, son of a—good God that hurts," Rhodes hissed through through his teeth as Tony tightened the metal device around his leg.
"I thought cripples weren't supposed to feel pain," Tony said, feeling Rhodey's nails sink into his skin, "and didn't you go through special ops training? Shouldn't this feel like nothing to you?"
"You want to try it on and see how it feels?"
"If it means I get to be the one digging my ridiculously long fingernails into your arm, then maybe. Seriously buddy, when's the last time you trimmed these talons?"
Rhodes dug his nails in deeper.
"Fu—okay, that was uncalled for," he winced as he rubbed his arm, "and you know what else was uncalled for? The orphan comment. Little soon, don't you think?"
"It's been over thirty years."
Tony frowned, now working on tightening the device on the other leg.
"God I'm old. Which means you're even older. FRIDAY, remind me to look at nursing homes for my geriatric pal here later this week." He grinned as Rhodey narrowed his eyes and smacked him across the chest.
"Just because I'm a paraplegic doesn't mean I won't kick your ass Tony."
He just laughed. "Alright buddy, all done. How does that feel?"
His friend stood up and took a hesitant walk down the hallway.
"You know, I feel like I should write down the date, maybe put it in a scrapbook. Rhodey's first steps. This is such a proud father moment for me. It's exciting for you, too, of course, but mostly for me."
Rhodes rolled his eyes. The injury was still fresh, and he was still coming to terms with his decreased mobility. It was hard, for both of them, but they had hope.
Tony had been working on the contraption, forgetting to sleep at times, designing and creating in a guilt-ridden, coffee-driven haze. A smirk never failed to light up Tony's eyes, but Rhodey would never not notice the dark circles drooping just below. He knew better.
He also knew better than to try and tear Tony away from a project, especially one driven by the overwhelming sense of responsibility he never seemed to shake.
"Save the proud father moments for your protégé. Don't think I haven't seen the new models of his suit lying all over this complex while mine, I might add, is still parachute-less. Traitorous bastard."
Rhodes had slid carefully onto the floor, the act of walking taking a lot more energy now that his limbs were rather uncooperative. It killed Tony a little bit, to see his best friend drained from a task that had once been so menial. At least it was progress.
He wordlessly joined him on the ground.
"Actually, I think it was bastard, orphan, son-of-a-bitch," he corrected. "I think that'd be a good title for my autobiography. Maybe I'll write it on my headstone... actually, that's definitely what I want. Make a note of that for my funeral plans. And as long as we're making plans, I want you to give the eulogy."
If there was a look for 'you've finally crossed the threshold to insanity', it was emanating off of Rhodes right now.
"You must be out of your damn mind."
Tony feigned hurt, pressing his hand over the spot where his arc reactor used to rest.
"Why? Because you think you'll die first? Come on, I've got a death wish and, like, zero regard for danger. You live ten years longer than I do, minimum."
"I don't have a parachute."
"Exactly! You didn't even have a parachute and you're still a living, whining, pain in the ass."
He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Can't Pepper give the damn eulogy?"
Tony's face twisted exaggeratedly, like that was the most absurd comment he'd heard in his entire life.
"What, and put her through even more than she'd already have gone through? We both know I'm going to go out in spectacular, gut-wrenching fashion, don't tell me you'd actually make her get up there and give a whole speech after that. She'll have enough on her plate."
"Oh, so she'll be too emotionally vulnerable but, sure, let's make your best friend get up there and do it instead."
Tony's mouth pulled to the side of his face. "Careful, pal. I never fully committed to you being my best friend. I do live with Pepper, tell her all my dark, dirty secrets. You're easily a close second, though."
His eyes narrowed in a glare.
"You say something stupid like that again and I'll be the reason you're having a funeral."
"Rhodey, you know I love you both—just in different ways." A smirk was practically eating his face, but his friend was having none of it.
"Oh yeah? Who'd you give a suit to, Tony? I don't see Pepper up there kicking ass next to you."
"One—if I recall correctly, you stole the suit. Two—I'm pretty sure Pepper has killed at least half of the guys I've gone up against. And three—if we're basing friendships off of suits, as you mentioned earlier, then Peter Parker is my best friend... speaking of, he should be here any minute."
Tony lifted his watch to his face, the screen lighting up as he checked the time.
"Remind me again why the fifteen-year-old is always over here now?"
"He's helpful. He helped me design that," he pointed at the metal device Tony had been painfully tightening onto Rhodey's leg a few minutes earlier. "It's much more ergonomic than the last one."
Rhodes raised an eyebrow. "The kid helped you design this?"
"Don't doubt him, he's practically a genius—probably smarter than you."
He punched Tony in the arm.
"I went to M.I.T. too, remember? Degree in Aerospace Engineering? Give me some credit, man."
"Huh. See, I have vague memories of that, but I was busy having fun in college—,"
"You were busy destroying your liver."
"I was living out my glory days."
"Oh, trust me, there was nothing glorious about puking all over our bathroom every other weekend."
Tony pressed his lips together. "Yea... let's maybe not bring that up in front of Pete."
A look that Tony couldn't decipher passed Rhodey's face. "What exactly is the deal with you and this kid? Did some of that fun in college have some permanent, teenaged consequences?"
His friend had noticed several different trials of red and blue Spider-Man suits lying around for a few weeks now, but he hadn't questioned it because Tony had always outfitted the team and, well, the team was pretty sparse as of late.
Of course, Tony still had a new prototype for Captain America's shield in the works and some upgraded arrows for Clint lying around on a workbench somewhere, among other things.
He could only work on them for so long, though, before the gadgets just became glaring reminders of the faces that were now absent from the Compound.
Making suits for Spider-Man kept Tony busy. It made him feel productive. Worthwhile. He wasn't left with such an empty feeling in his chest.
Tony scoffed. "Jesus, Rhodey, he isn't mine. Thank God. I've already screwed with his life enough." He took his tinted glasses off and fiddled with them in his hands. "I just found the kid online, but no one was going to take him seriously in his homemade Halloween costume, so I gave him a little upgrade."
Rhodey might've believed that, if it weren't for the Midtown High sweatshirt draped across one of the couches or the newspaper clippings of the spandex-wearing superhero clandestinely taped to Tony's desk.
"That still doesn't explain why he's over here all the time."
"I was just going to give him the suit and let him go back to doing his own thing... but he managed to break all the security locks I set in a little over a week and then decided to single-handedly take on Sam Wilson's evil alter-ego."
"You gave a child genius a million-dollar toy and you didn't think he'd play with it?"
Tony turned to face him before deadpanning, "I don't have a lot of experience with teenagers, okay? It was stupid, I know, but I'm trying to make up for that by having him over here—letting him have a say in the design process and actually teaching him how to use it—because he has little regard for my built-in training protocols. And he's good help."
Rhodey was about to ask if Peter's more frequent visits had anything to do with the quiet silence that now haunted the compound whenever he or Pepper were out, but he was interrupted by one-hundred and forty-one pounds of pure excitement practically bounding out of the elevator.
"Mr. Stark! So there was this guy on the subway today who tried to swipe a phone from this other guy, and I saw the whole thing happen but I couldn't do anything about it because he was too far away and I couldn't squeeze through all the people, but—oh, h-hey Mr.—Mr. Col. Rhodes, Sir."
Tony looked amused.
"Pete, I'd like you to my best pal Mr. Col. Rhodes, also known as Rhodey, also known as War Machine... it is War Machine, right? We're officially over the Iron Patriot thing?"
He ignored Tony, pushing against his shoulder to stand up, before reaching out to shake Peter's hand.
"It's nice to meet you, Peter." He shot his attention over to the other man in the room. "And what happened to 'Pepper's my best friend', huh, Tony?"
Tony held out a hand to Peter, who obligingly helped him up to his feet, while maintaining eye contact with Rhodes.
"I mean, you are the one giving my eulogy."
"Am not."
"Rhodey, come on, you give the best speeches. Remember that one you gave in like 2009? At the White House? FRIDAY, play the speech."
"No. FRI—,"
"Playing Colonel Rhodes' Presidential Medal of Honor Introduction Speech."
Peter stood awkwardly in front of the two men, terribly confused, as a familiar voice rang out over the speakers in the compound.
"I've been asked over and over again if I ever suspected my best friend was a superhero. The answer to that is—I've always known that he was different, and not just because he's a hell of a lot smarter than the rest of us. He grew up in the legacy of Howard Stark. No one was surprised when he turned out to be a genius—at fifteen, they placed him in advanced classes at M.I.T-,"
"FRIDAY, mute."
"FRIDAY, override."
"...but there's more to Tony than just brilliance. He's a self-starter. The only thing standing between him and what he wants is himself. When he saw his future dripping down the drain in Afghanistan, brought to his knees by weapons his company he'd created, left with nothing but ruined pride—something new inside broke through. Anyone else might've been dead in a week but Tony—he wouldn't let himself go out like that."
"FRIDAY, stop."
"FRIDAY, don't even think about it."
"...he put a pencil to paper and with nothing more than some scrap metal and the help of a new friend he plotted his way out of hell. He overcame certain death in a cave, but he didn't stop with self-preservation. He rewrote the game in the defense private sector. He saved his own life and then he saved countless others, and because of him, the world will never be the same."
"FRIDAY—," Rhodes threatened.
Tony cut him off. "Oh, come on, this is the best part." The recording kept playing.
"I know you already know his name, but it is my honor to present the medal of honor to my best friend, Tony Stark... Or, as many of you may know him: Iron Man."
"FRIDAY, off," Rhodes said, and Tony finally didn't protest. "Tell me you don't keep that around just to boost your ego. You know I only did that because the President asked me to. It wasn't for you."
"You keep telling yourself that."
The two men kept bantering, but throughout it all, Peter was eerily quiet. It only took a few seconds of his silence for Tony to realize something was up.
"Hey Pete, you look like you swallowed a frog. Everything all right up there?" he asked, raising his hand to gently pat him on the head.
The kid shook as if coming out of a trance. "Yea—yea, everything... everything's fine, it's just... aren't eulogies, like, the things you say at funerals?"
Rhodey answered, "Yes, they are. See, Tony, he thinks it's weird too."
Peter still looked like he had gotten kicked in the shins.
"No... I mean yeah, kinda, but that's not—Mr. Stark... are you dying?"
Tony looked confused for a second before... oh.
"God, kid, no—I'm not dying. I was just trying to mess with Rhodey here, I didn't mean to—."
"Oh thank God," Peter said, visibly relaxing, "don't scare me like that."
Then, he did something that made Rhodey nearly slide to the floor. Again.
His deceptively small arms wrapped around Tony's torso, and Tony hesitated for half of a second before tentatively and quickly returning the gesture.
For a second, it was a picture-worthy moment. But the second passed and the moment came to an end as both parties seemed to realize instantaneously that they were crossing boundaries.
"Right," Tony coughed, "Peter, why don't you show Rhodey some of the new features you dreamed up. I'm going to go get... some coffee. Try not to talk his ear off, he's the only one who still sometimes listens to me around here."
James Rhodes had known Tony for what felt like an eternity. He fought with him. Trusted him. And if the situation ever arose, he would die for the damn fool.
But the man who exited the room as if the soles of his shoes had caught fire, a wisp of crimson warmth on his cheeks, looked like a new man entirely.
There were a million things he suddenly wanted to ask Tony, a million places to prod, and he couldn't wait to do exactly that after the boy returned to his apartment in Queens for the night.
Right now, though, the kid was showing him the new thrusters Tony had built into the heels of the devices.
"...and if you do this, then the repulsors activate—,"
Peter pressed a button, and the chorus of T.N.T. came blaring through the room as the repulsors sent Rhodey crashing into the wall behind him.
Tony sauntered back into the room, a cup of coffee in hand and a snort on his face as he surveyed the scene. A flustered Peter Parker tried to hold back a laugh as he attempted to help a cussing, high-ranking military official up from a muddled heap on the floor.
"Oh yea. There's a bit of a learning curve. You'll figure it out," he garbled, mouth stuffed with a muffin that he had hidden in his other hand, "For now... consider this recompense for the orphan comment." He clapped a hand on the boy's shoulder, ushering him toward the shop, his friend still lying in an annoyed mess on the ground.
He'd help him later, of course, but the look on Rhodey's face gave him a pure, childlike joy that few things could. If Rhodes kicked his ass later—paraplegia and all—it would have been worth it a hundred times over.
So he led a mildly concerned Peter Parker away, chuckling as his best friend's voice faded into the background.
"Don't you even think about walking away without teaching me how to use these things. Tony... Tony Stark you better not be walking away from me. Don't be a dick. Come back here, you heartless, pompous, snowflake... I know you know I'll get you back for this... quit acting like a teenaged punk... Anthony Stark!"
Tony laughed under his breath and kept walking. Rhodes always came up with the nicest things to call him.
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In Defense of Desdemona
There was a criticism of Desdemona as the leader of the Railroad, and since I sometimes run across people criticizing her actions, I thought I would explain why I disagree with this particular critique.
Generally, I’ve often read people cite Deacon’s dialogue about wishing that Desdemona would greenlight some ops to help humans, but we also take into consideration that Glory tells you that she might have a night off now that you’re on the team, and Carrington laments that he has never known a time when the numbers of the Railroad were so low. They simply don’t have the people to take on a myriad of missions to help humans, and even Deacon mentions that some of the humans who help them only assist them “once or twice a month”. Let’s be clear about the Railroad: they are not a large group like the Brotherhood, which is why we only build one single safehouse and not a myriad of them throughout the Commonwealth.
She upholds the tradition of wiping synths even after it has hurt and even killed several synths and done nothing to stop the railroad from being compromised. This is a problem with the entire railroad imo. I get that they put their safety first and this is their “best” way to do it, but it’s not. Their contacts are all 1 step removed. Their safehouses are not tied to the home base. Even their tourists don’t know all the agents or safehouses or even where the homebase is. There is literally no reason to wipe synths other than they want to.
The Railroad is a small group of people comprised of humans and synths; something Deacon mentions during Tradecraft when he cites how Railroad synths like Glory don’t take on ops that involve the early model synths due to their conflicted issues over how they should be treated. We know from our own experience when playing through the Railroad storyline (and even Glory’s dialogue if you decide to help Curie achieve their goal) that synths optionally chose to undergo this (they aren’t forced), and some have nightmares about their time in the Institute.
Taking the position that the Railroad allows this procedure simply because they “want to” is also disingenuous; Coursers hunt down runaway synths, as we know from the narrative when we encounter an entire building of Gunners who were wiped out by a single Courser hunting one single synth.
Arcadia, admittedly, offers another solution, but it’s one that’s divorced from the Commonwealth, with neighboring people who don’t have the centuries of ill will towards the Institute and their synths to color how they feel, and unfortunately, Far Harbor never explores any real changes with this (it’s ridiculously limited to Boxer heading to Arcadia, and that’s it, while the Brotherhood and Institute offer more content - which I find really odd).
Can Arcadia afford to house all of these synths? Would the denizens of Far Harbor take issue with any potential conflicts that might erupt from the Institute hunting down synths, especially if it was more than the occasional synth? None of these issues are explored.
Her plans are garbage. She’s honestly the worst at planning any kind of operation. She has no foresight, it’s all about immediate results. In this, she compromises and betrays people willing to help (such as Patriot.) It makes zero sense. Not only does it ruin the synth pipeline, but it also kills off the entire institute. Something that could SAVE the commonwealth if taken over because it’s resources are so vast.
This is contradictory. After the protagonist speaks with Patriot, Desdemona’s long-term plan involves helping all the synths escape from the Institute, and betraying Patriot is a necessity because this person would not support helping free all the synths; it’s a matter of knowing that Patriot would chose the humans over the synths, and this is explicitly told to you if you inquire from Patriot about it in a hypothetical scenario. Also, the Railroad isn’t in support of the manufacture of synths, but in freeing existing synths from a form of servitude; this kind of criticism (which I’ve often read from people) shows a fundamental misunderstanding of the Railroad.
Furthermore, the proposal to take over an entire society like the Institute is not feasible. You’re going to force into submission an entire population of men, women, and children who are ideologically opposed to you, synths who ideologically align with the Institute, and a myriad of Coursers - one of whom, canonically, took out an entire building of armed and armored Gunners? I feel like people don’t take into consideration ludonarrative dissonance between story and gameplay when they question why the main character doesn’t forcibly seize control over an entire society without taking into consideration that absolutely no faction can realistically accomplish this.
Even the Brotherhood of Steel, with potentially thousands of troops, is in no position to feasibly accomplish this task without hemorrhaging most of their troops and resources.
Also, “get on the pridwyn by stealing a vertibird (who no one can fly) and then blowing it up killing every man woman and child no matter if they are guilty or not.” ??? dude. Thank god this is a video game. Literally, 1k things could go wrong with that plan. It’s purely reactionary and put 3 of her best agents at extreme risk cause she wills it.
I find this criticism odd because the Brotherhood and the Railroad are ideologically opposed to each other; the point isn’t that the Brotherhood are villainous (they aren’t), it’s that (when it comes to the artificial intelligence that are synths) the two factions want the exact opposite of each other, and conflict is inevitable (Kells Prydwen terminal message if you defeat the Railroad for the Brotherhood of Steel reads that the Railroad were “hampering” Brotherhood operations, and that’s representative of the ideological schism that exists between the two groups).
The stealth operation for the Railroad is also fairly realistic to me in terms of a small group defeating a larger group, especially given Kells’ terminology that suggests the Brotherhood troops could number up to the thousands, although ludonarrative dissonance makes it hard to properly gauge how many troops they would have (I feel it’s an example of how the Railroad, and also the Brotherhood, were more thought-out as factions). It isn’t difficult to imagine a stealth operation achieving victory for the Railroad.
Should Desdemona have written a strongly worded letter to the surviving members of the Prydwen asking them to please ignore what everyone in the Commonwealth is saying about synths because they know better? And yeah, things could go wrong - that’s the possibility with any operation, but the point is that the Railroad are up against the odds to accomplish a goal no one else wants to achieve.
She’s all about winning the battle, but in this, she’s gonna lose the war and the whole commonwealth will suffer. (this can be said for all the faction leaders except Preston, but we are talking about Des here)
The whole Commonwealth isn’t going to suffer if Desdemona frees the synths. Each faction provides something unique to the table (with the exception of the Minutemen since they can serve as a secondary faction to every other faction): the Brotherhood are fighting raiders, Gunners, Super Mutants, ferals, and Institute synths, but the Railroad are the only ones who will protect synths and keep them safe, and that’s largely due to how unpopular such a mindset is among most people in the Commonwealth.
Similar to New Vegas, there is no golden path: you don’t get everything with one faction. Even the Minutemen Ending involves synths dying. None of the factions are perfect, and there is an appeal to joining different factions because each one affords you something the other doesn’t.
While the Railroad Ending is primarily focused on synths, if you helped Preston, then the Minutemen are still around as a group to help people. It’s not like they vanish into thin air.
She doesn't listen to her team. It’s canon. She thinks she knows best but can’t see that sometimes (many times during the story) she is very shortsighted. Any good leader knows their own limitation and knows when to listen to their trusted advisors.
Desdemona is the leader; she’s the one who gets to make the top decisions because she is in charge. It’s not her place to constantly defer to the people under her command. We also see that she speaks with other members of the Railroad - she engages in dialogue with Glory about potential casualties in dialogue we can randomly hear, and we see that P.A.M. and Carrington are consulted in a discussion about the Institute blocking a path for H2-22 during “Memory Interrupted” (and this is an example where Desdemona concedes to follow through with Carrington’s recommendation).
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RULES
On the Muses -
Hidan is a priest with extremist tendencies. You will often find him with some sort of weapon in his body as a part of ritual self-mutilation. Body horror, existentialism, and general violence is to be expected, and will be tagged accordingly.
Hidan is mostly friendly and contemplative, but easily slips into teasing that can be cruel. He isn’t looking for relationships that aren’t between him and the Big Guy Down There. Please be patient with him. Don’t force anything. If you want him to be gentle or soft, please DM to plot out something with the mun.
The only holy thing this blog recognizes is Jashin, so please - no god modding.
† . † . †
Jashin is a god of life and death. He can often be found among the suffering, judging souls and setting them right. Psychological horror, existentialism, and general creepiness is to be expected, and will be tagged accordingly.
Jashin is calculating, and stares at men as if they are cogs in the grand scheme of his perfect universe. To him, everything has a balance, and so pain and pleasure are two sides of the same coin. He favors very few.��Please be patient with him. Don’t force anything. If you want him to be gentle or soft, please DM to plot out something with the mun.
Being a god, he will occasionally intervene in the lives of mortals. Mun will contact you ahead of time as needed. Note that Jashin will not intervene on Hidan’s behalf: his follower will reap what he sows.
† . † . †
On the Mun -
Basic Info: Mun has no pronoun preference. Use whatever you like.
Shipping: Mun is open to almost all pairings where characters have chemistry.
Hidan/Konan: 🚫
Noncon and domestic abuse: 🚫
NSFW: Mun is 21+. Will write 18+ ships with 21+ RP partners.
Interactions -
Unless otherwise discussed, Mun usually answers queries assuming that the relationship between characters is that of canon. Muses will interact and ship with everyone, so long as they are compatible! Friendships, rivalry and hateships are also sought after.
Style: Paragraph/Prose, usually present-tense.
Length: Match quality not word count.
Asks:
Put IC dialogue in quotes.
Indicate applicable verses, muse(s) and/or characters.
If not specified, Mun will choose whatever is inspiring.
Mutual RP Blogs: ❤️
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Likes & Reblogs: ❤️
All likes are good likes.
Ask before reblogging an RP thread.
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Please DM a VERY detailed bio prior to interacting.
Over-Projection & Kins: 🚫
Callouts/Vagueposts: 🚫
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FAQS:
Who are you?
I go by “Akat” on my roleplay Tumblrs, @akatdollie, @akatdeity, and @slcklecell.
If you know my fandom main do not mention it to others, please.
Are you affiliated with Akatzombie?
No. Akatzombie—though my friend—is run by another wonderfully talented mun.
Why didn’t you follow me back?
First, this is a side blog. I may have followed you back from my main, “akatsings”. You do not have to follow that blog for me to interact with yours.
Second, I don’t automatically follow back. If I do, I may unfollow at will—nothing against you, I just aim to keep my dash focused for my muses.
Third, if you don’t see that in your follower list, don’t worry! I still answer casual asks (ooc and easy interactions) from anyone, both rp and non-rp blogs.
How selective are you in general?
I will not respond in detailed prose to any rare, crossover, or OC character without an easy to find biography/intro. I am not researching your muse. That is not fun—it’s homework.
OOC and headcanon asks are fine, though.
I will not answer shipping, violent, or sexual asks for anyone but my mutuals. Even then I only answer what inspires me.
The reason for this is that my muses tend to respond aggressively to unsolicited advances, and I don’t always feel comfortable answering in character.
I won’t thread for anyone but long-term friends or those who respect and understand the dynamics of my characters.
I reserve the right to determine who does and does not meet the above qualifications.
How selective are you in shipping?
It usually takes me two to three sentences of a reasonable argument/AU to ship something, but I won’t do all the work to make it “happen.”
Further: Just because I generally ship something, doesn’t mean that I will automatically ship my muse with yours. Different muns have different portrayals and different writing styles for the same muses; sometimes these portrayals click. Other times they don’t.
What if my character doesn’t meet yours in canon?
That’s fine! Just ask or dm me with how you want them to interact (friends? Rivals? Comrades? Etc), plus a scenario where they do meet, and I will tell you how my muse will react in that situation, and then we’ll move on from there.
What if I want to make an AU for our muses?
Same as above! Give me an idea and we’ll talk about it.
I generally have a lot of open-ended verses that I adapt to fit other people’s muses and ideas. You are free to propose a variation on them, or another verse entirely. However, I won’t be doing all the work in order to get our characters to meet, interact and like/dislike each other—that’s unfair, and too much work on one mun.
If you’re having trouble, start with— “I really think it’s cool if X and Y character—“ etc. Or how you think our characters would work together.
What if I accidentally break a rule of yours?
If you’re a mutual, I will take a screenshot of the rule and kindly remind you to abide by them. If you’re a stranger, I will automatically soft block or block, depending on how badly the rule was broken and how uncomfortable I feel.
I don’t make these rules to be mean, but to save the time and energy of us all. So if these rules are disregarded, then we will have to cut our losses. I will unfollow when I feel like someone has not read my rule page, and not be inclined to interact.
If you’re unsure if you have broken a rule, please politely ask. I don’t bite really.
How do I interact with you more?
Send! 👏 More! 👏 Asks!
OOC, or IC, I promise to return the favor.
Can I have your discord ID?
Nope! This is reserved for long-term friends and mutuals that respect my characters.
If you are one of these people, do not give out my ID without asking, please.
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Thank you for reading my rules! Mun will extend the same courtesy to you, and will be reading your blog information prior to following or interacting.
† . † . †
Note: Mun works eight to six job Monday through Friday, in addition to running several sideblogs, so replies may be slow. Feel free to poke them if you haven’t heard from them in a while.
About † Verses † Rules (here)
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A Queen and Her King || Tom Holland x Reader [Part 1][Gang/Assassin AU]
IMPORTANT NOTE: This is my very first action AU, so I apologize for things that seem oddly unrealistic in the crime world. I obviously don’t know much about it. If you have tips or feedback, please message/ask me about it! I created the idea for this fic through a song called Natalie by Bruno Mars, but I also want to credit @hollandroos for her fanfiction, Blow A Kiss, Fire A Gun. It was the very first Mob!Tom fanfiction I read (The first AU like that I’d ever read, actually.) and it still inspires me as I hope to continue this series. I hope for this to get better as it goes along. Just so you have the basic knowledge, this is kind of like a Mobster!AU meets Assassin!AU and a lot of wild crossover shit.
TRIGGER WARNING: Violence, language, guns, knives, suggestive sexual actions, mentions of pedophilia (It’s not any more graphic, it might even be less, than basic horror movies you might’ve seen. The description is mostly about action, not in depth detail of what it looks like. It’s an assassin/gang/mafia AU, so it’s kind of fucked up anyway.)
DISCLAIMER: This story contains content that I am just writing for the sake of the story. I do not condone/support it. Your “character” as the reader, may also do things you personally would not do. Please don’t read if you can’t handle that. THIS DOES NOT ACCURATELY REPRESENT TOM, HIS MORALS OR ANYONE HE’S ASSOCIATED WITH. I’M MERELY USING HIS IMAGE AND A NAME TO CREATE THIS STORY. PLEASE DO NOT EVER TAKE THIS AS AN ACCURATE PORTRAYAL OF TOM. (This is more of a movie in my head, and a character Tom is playing)
I have trigger warnings at the scenes that should need them. Please let me know if there are other subjects that need warnings!
Prologue
As three shrill beeps replaced dialing noises, Tom’s anger skyrocketed. He began to pace and repeatedly clench his fists at an attempt to hold back everything he was feeling.
“We’re sorry, you’ve reached a number that is either disconnected or no longer linke-“ Tom spun around and threw the phone, sending it flying into his bedroom wall and crashing to the floor. “Goddamnit!” He sat down on the corner of his bed, staring out through the wall-to-wall glass pane that separated him from the rest of the world. The skyline was a vibrant dark blue, turning to purple and black.
Every dollar in his safe he’d worked his ass off to get was gone. There was no trace, no logical reasoning as to how it got stolen. That safe was one of the most protected vaults in the world.
Natalie, or Natalia as Tom used to call her endearingly, was gone too.
Disappeared. No word, no warning.
Not only had she cheated on him, she robbed him.
“Tom, what do you want to do to respond?” His best friend and co-leader Harrison asked, frustration clear in his voice.
“I don’t fucking know. Nothing yet, we’re too vulnerable. We’ll...need alliances.”
She took his heart out of his chest and walked all over it, puncturing it with her stiletto heels.
He found out everything she’d done after she left. Of course the man was riddled with sadness and hurt, but the only feeling he let control him was anger.
He couldn’t be weak. Not now, not ever.
After willingly letting her in and finally bringing his guard down, she wrecked him. You know what everyone says? That Natalie Rose Giovanni can never be overthrown. She’s notorious for the lives she takes and everything in between. That she’s untouchable. But in the end, the greatest revenge is going out and accomplishing what is said to be impossible. And that is exactly what he would do.
This was personal now.
Natalie, Europe’s top drug queenpin with a terrifying hidden past, versus Thomas Stanley Holland, the most notorious mafia leader in almost every corner of the northern eastern hemisphere.
She took everything he had, even some of his very best men.
His team.
His power.
His reputation.
His empire.
Soon enough, he was going to take every single bit of it back, even if it meant ruining her fucking life.
Even if it meant killing her.
One
“Hang on,” you giggle softly, looking up at the man in front of you. “Why don’t we go back to your room?”
His hands had made their way under your thighs and he had you up against a wall, giving him easy access to touch your body. “We’re not exactly in the most private area of the hotel.”
“If it gets that dress off you, then that’s fine by me,” he replies, kissing down your neck.
“Eugene!” You push his hands down and stand straight up, smiling coyly at the millionaire while listening for any instructions in your earpiece.
“You’re doing good. Get the card to his room and be quick with this, (Y/N). This operation has some complications.”
“I’m just telling you how I really feel, Allison.” Of all the names Felix could pick for an undercover op, why choose such a plain one?
You slip your hand into his pocket, pulling out the key card and tucking it into your bra, all without breaking eye contact with him. “I’ll meet you there in ten,” you whisper in his ear, running a finger down his chest as you walked away.
“Fucking pig,” you mutter to the man behind the earpiece, making quick time to the elevator.
“Right?” The man in question is Felix Sternberg, (Known as Judas by his “enemies”) one of the most elite proxy murder directors in the world, or at least the most famous among federal government organizations and operations that do things not commonly associated with the human moral code. (Murder, drug dealing, etc.) He’s one of your newest co-workers. The brains behind your newest weapons, technology and escapes. It’s possible that without him, you would’ve been in a supermax prison by now.
The most intensely protected in the U.S filled with the worst kind of people imaginable.
People like you.
“What’s his deal again?” You ask, shaking your head away from the doubting thoughts that often plagued you.
“Rape, robbery, embezzling, pedophilia, the usual.” Felix says nonchalantly.
“God, I cannot wait to shower tonight, that’s disgusting...”
“You’re also technically a contract murderer for a living, so I don’t know if you’re one to judge, (Y/N).”
“But I’ve never done shit to kids or forced myself on a person. I only kill people who deserve it.”
“That last part is debatable, but we’re moving on. Wait for the bellboy in the elevator to leave before going up.”
“Sounds good.”
The red silk dress draped on your body was apart of the job, a request made by the contract. The person who hired you was actually his wife, Valerie Pence. She wasn’t much better than him when it came to money, but once she found out what he’d done, the decision was easy. There also might’ve been infidelity involved in her reasoning.
She’d informed you that the best way to get to him was probably seduction and that his favorite color was red. The combination of the two would make it easy to get him alone. She took you shopping for the dress herself, an odd way of saying thank you (other than money) for the favor. When you stepped out of the changing room to show her, she simply smiled, but her watering eyes displayed a different emotion.
“You look stunning. This’ll work.” You wonder what her thought process was with hiring you, how their relationship came to be and everything in between. Getting personally involved with clients was a beginner’s mistake, but in some cases it was incredibly hard not to even think about what happened between some duos.
“He’s gone, move fast.” Felix interrupts your recollection, snapping you back to your work.
Eventually, you end up in his room, only stopping for a minute to marvel at the lavish decor and to peek around. White silk sheets dressed the king sized bed, complimenting the other colors in the room. Dark reds, black and grey all combined to give the room a sensual and eerie feeling.
Eugene appears soon after, hastily moving toward you, lust in his eyes. “Hang on, let me just go get something ready okay?” You stopped him, one hand steady on his waist the other over his shoulder.
“Alright...”
“I want you to wear this, though.” You found some questionable fabric, presumably left behind the last hotel-goer, and started to tie it around his eyes as a blindfold. “Now lay here,” you pushed him down on the bed, a little too roughly, but he didn’t question any of it.
You enter the bathroom swiftly, the door clicking behind you.
“Felix, where’s my stuff?” You whisper.
“Underneath the sink. There’s a silenced pistol. The bag has a change of clothes in it and some sunglasses. Put your hair up, too. I have someone ready to tamper with the security footage, but just in case I want you to try and be very discreet and exit through the fire escape. No one should see since you’re on the back of the building. Your ride will be waiting to take you home.”
“Thanks.” You grab the bag and begin to undress, leaving only your satin gloves on. This replaced the fancy dress and heels with what you could only describe as an outfit straight off if 2015 grunge tumblr, doc martens and all.
Not the worst, but not the best outfit choice.
“I have one more...treat for you you, Mr. Pence.” You call out through the door, smirking to yourself. 4 sets of handcuffed glistened in the bag, and a gag.
“Thanks for leaving them in there Felix. Did you put her fingerprints on them?”
“You’re sadistic, but yes. The police and FBI will likely arrest Kathryn and any of her employees. I planted stuff to lead them to the kids. You’re in the clear but you need to get a move on, even if that includes speeding up your ‘process’.”
Kathryn Moseby, a “friend” of the millionaire. She holds a position in congress. She’s also the ringleader of a pedophilic sex trafficking ring.
“Like I said, he deserves my ‘process’. They all do. I’m doing the world a favor right now.”
“Whatever you say.”
You sigh, plucking the bag off the ground and walking back to the bedroom. “I hope you like your girls dominant, Eugene.” You quickly click the handcuff onto his hand and to the bed frame before he could even respond. His breathing started to become uneasy, but he nodded.
“It’s new...but I’ll try.”
“You don’t have a choice.” You whisper, clicking the second handcuff shut. The other two might’ve been too loose, but they’d restrain him. “Final touches,” you smile, climbing into the bed and almost straddling him. He seems taken aback as you jerk the gag tightly to make sure it stays on. “We don’t want anyone to hear us, now do we?” He shakes his head nervously in response.
As an extra precaution, you switch on the TV to a music station, turning the volume up just enough to mask loud conversations. “Alright Eugene. Let’s begin.” You pick up the pistol and a small knife, crawling on the bed.
You run your fingers along his chin, feeling less gross about touching him because of the fabric between you two.
“I fawt yoo changfed?” He tries to ask in reaction to feeling the gloves, barely audible or intelligible.
“Oh, I did.” You giggle, removing his mask.
[TW: Violence]
He’s shocked, confused, and now scared. His eyes take in your figure and then the gun in your hand. He starts to panic.
“You didn’t think I was gonna let you off easy, did you?” The knife from earlier now glints menacingly in the soft lighting. “I don’t normally do it this slowly, but you’re a special kind of messed up. We’re all fucked up, especially me, but you, you’re a rapist and a pedophile. A cheater. Kind of the scum of the earth.”
He still wasn’t processing his situation entirely, but his chest was rising and falling rapidly.
He wasn’t screaming.
He wasn’t begging.
Yet.
You jabbed the knife directly above his knee. Angling it towards the bone. This time, his entire body jerked and he started to yell, but the music drowned out his shouts.
“That was for every child and person you’ve ever touched.” You pulled it out, watching the tears stream from his eyes, then ripped past the buttons on his suit shirt. “And this is for Valerie.”
You slowly carve the knife into his skin, toward the right side of his stomach. It was a number that you carved. 334.
“I wonder who my 335th will be?”
“Hey (Y/N), as much as I enjoy tuning your weird shit out and waiting for you, you need to be fast. Like now. We’re cutting our time too close.”
“I got it.” You frown sarcastically at the pathetic, convulsing man beneath you. “I’d love to stay and chat, but I have to go.” You pull the knife away, wiping the blood off with your gloves.
The red contrasts the starch white in a disgustingly satisfying way. You stand up, brandishing the pistol excitedly. His screams are becoming increasingly louder, and more annoying.
Watching him writhe in pain and desperation filled you with a twisted sense of pride. You keep telling yourself that he deserves it to justify your actions, but there’s still that one ounce of innocence in you that rejects those thoughts.
Then you remember Valerie’s voice on the other end of the phone when she called, tearfully begging for help. She sounded desperate and sad, not angry.
She just wanted him gone.
Had she tried to divorce him, she might’ve been endangered. If she turned him in for his crimes, he’d send people after her.
That’s all you need to get the job done.
“I’ll see you in hell.”
Bang.
Please leave feedback! I will gladly accept civil/kind worded constructive criticism. -Ciel
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