#{ system scan; status }

[bots-basket]

Yo, I dare you to try Grimace shake?

"...- the stupid thing keeps cutting out."

"...-I think I've fixed it now.."

" oooh lookie! A slurpie!"

"-WAIT DO-"

Bass: " Finally got the stupid thing working and the first thing yall do is kill Roxas. Definitely feels like old times."

Onyx: " There's still plenty to do nowadays. Like revamping this place now that everything's changed."

Venom: ".. Let's not forget to remind master to schedule things aswell.."

Bass: " Well yeah. I suppose things are still gonna be lively as of late. Let's get things situated then."

[nvuy]

hijacked — boothill

summary. a mission to retrieve some files from a banquet hall goes wayward south when a galaxy ranger shows up to ruin your night—and score some bonus kisses while he’s at it.

notes. save me space cowboy… save me… remembered his entire body is robotic except his head. the possibilities to hack it and take over……….. ngh

HEY YOU!! there’s a sequel now.

warnings. little bit of threatening, mind control/hacking/hijacking? you take over his body for like a few minutes? is that a warning?

“Hey, pretty thing.”

Target locked. Your scanners had already tracked him before you could even realise he was speaking to you.

You swiftly hid away the USB drive in your purse.

Did he know?

It seemed his own eye enhancements—although a lot less subtle than yours—were scanning you down as well. How transactional. You’d hoped the walls you’d put up were enough to keep whatever technology he had at bay. Or at least, not trigger any alarms.

“You looked lonely. Was g’nna buy you a drink. Help you loosen up a bit.” He swished his own drink in your face for good measure. The coupe glass in his hands looked odd. He didn’t seem like a cocktail man. Not at all.

He looked like a whiskey man. Hard whiskey. With ice. In a tumbler with ribbed glass. You could picture it.

He just looked so out of place at the banquet.

He wasn’t even following the dress code. He was wearing boots, and a pair of old pants with zips along the calves. A hat with a white feather woven into the fabric rested on a head of long white hair with splashes of black around his face.

“No thanks,” you said with a wave. You tried to discreetly scan down his body, searching for any sort of hint of how you could get into his system.

His pants and what little material of his jacket hid most of the metal of his body. Internally, you cursed at it. He had no clear openings in his neck or arms. His head seemed entirely organic.

No weak spots.

“N’aww. Shame.”

The front door felt a lot further away now. Even more so, knowing he was most definitely here for you. He hadn’t even introduced himself yet. You had a feeling he knew he didn’t need to.

“Was g’nna ask ya to dance.”

You laughed awkwardly. “I can’t dance in these shoes.”

“Take ‘em off. Who cares?” he bantered playfully. “I’ll watch out for ‘em if they’re expensive.”

“They’re priceless,” you quipped back. “All of me is.”

“Good. You know your worth.”

You were actually worth about fifteen million, as according to your wanted status by the IPC. You weren’t sure if this man was a part of them, though members of the IPC were always very adamant on letting you know that, yes, they did work at the IPC. It was usually the first thing that came out of their mouths.

Questioning if they actually worked at the IPC opened another entire can of worms.

You didn’t feel the need to ask. Not in that moment, at least.

“And what’s yours?” you asked him with a bat of your lashes.

He winked. “Guess.”

You smiled and scanned him down again. “Depends. I’d have to see what you’re made of.”

“Naughty.” He leaned back against the wall with you. “You sure you don’t want that drink? It’s a cosmopolitan.”

Very sure. You were convinced that he’d just taken the drink from one of the server’s trays. You couldn’t imagine he’d walked up to the bar and requested it for himself.

“You strike me as a whiskey man,” you eased. It came past your lips like butter.

He flashed his teeth in warning.

Then, he sipped his drink. “You’re good. Anything else you can read with your fancy eyes?”

You stopped short.

He did know. It wasn’t a surprise, not at all. He wasn’t entirely human. He must have been equipped with similar technology to realise just how advanced yours was.

You realised then with a shaky breath that you had the same vision enhancements as he did. An even match, unable to read through to each other.

He must have had so much more, too. You only had so many enhancements, whereas he was made almost entirely of metal. The thought of amount of different codings and technology he had crammed into every wire of his body gave you a headache.

Bad idea. You shouldn’t have provoked him. You needed to retreat. You needed to get home, preferably safely, with the USB stored nice and snug in your purse.

You tried not to let your nervousness show, but by the way he was staring at you, you knew he could read your face.

“That’s it, then. You’ve figured out my party trick.” You got up from the wall. “Thank you for the offer. The drink, I mean.” You cleared your throat. “I’ll be going now.”

“I’m not scaring you off, am I?” He got up off the wall too.

He hadn’t taken his eyes off of you.

“Not at all.” When you turned to face him, he was smiling so wide his eyes had crinkled. “Have a good night.”

“At least let me walk you out,” he insisted. He also offered to hold your purse, to which you quickly declined. That only made him smile impossibly wider. “What sort of man am I to not see a pretty thing like you get home safe?”

You headed towards the hallway, knowing he was right behind you.

The banquet was still in full swing, barely even close to ending. Most of the cast were drunk or getting there. Heels had been discarded, some missing their pair, skewed all over the dancefloor like glitter.

The golden chandelier in the main room was yet to be pulled from the ceiling. You were surprised nobody had tried to swing from it yet.

You dodged chattering groups and couples in the hallway—one of them had decided to put on a full display while right next to an unoccupied bedroom, right there in the centre of the hall.

Another one was gagging dangerously close to your feet.

You shouldered past them. “Stop following me, Ranger.”

“Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be.” You felt his hair brush over your shoulder.

You knew he had a weapon. He wouldn’t have come to threaten you without one.

Before you could reach the door handle, he grabbed your wrist, pulled you backwards, and into the unoccupied guest room that the couple hadn’t bothered to take.

He shut the door with a loud slam, though not before hearing someone whistle out in the corridor.

Your head snapped towards him. He was leaning on the door, his arms crossed, looking almost unbothered.

“We can play this game all day, pumpkin. I got time.” He waved you off with a grin. “Give me the files. I’m askin’ nicely. I won’t force ya to hand ‘em over. Yet.”

You gritted your teeth.

You were so fucking close. So close to getting out of here, and then he had to come—this walking hunk of metal and scrap—and ruin everything.

Nothing ever went your fucking way anyway. You shouldn’t have been shocked something like this would happen.

You held your purse tightly in your hands. All of this was pointless. The dress, the heels, the hair, the nails, the makeup. All of it.

You just hoped by some miracle that he hadn’t found your locator beacon yet. You’d hidden it well; within the bushes outside away from anyone’s line of sight, but he wasn’t just anyone. He could see things a lot of people couldn’t.

“C’mon. You know you wanna…” He smiled sweetly for good measure. It looked like a threat. When he leaned to the side, the golden barrel of a gun flashed beneath his belt.

You could try to make a backup. Right then. You had what you needed in your watch. He’d probably stop you before it was complete.

Or…

Or what? What else could you do?

Your locator beacon wasn’t responding, though it hadn’t been broken. Most likely deactivated temporarily. You bounced on your heels.

You then formed the worst idea of your life.

With shaky hands, you walked towards him slowly. You reached into your purse, feeling for the cold plastic of the black USB he wanted to get his grubby hands on.

“Knew you’d come ‘round.” He held out his hand expectantly.

You fished the USB from your bag.

Then, before you could place it into his palm, you tripped and almost broke your nose on his torso. Your hands splayed desperately onto his chest to keep your face from shattering on impact.

He was quick to grab your arms to steady you with a surprised grunt.

There was a whirring sound, and then the sound of something mechanical and wrong. Foreign. Not from his body, but from yours.

The spaces beneath his joints lit up abright yellow for a moment before his hands loosened from your arms.

You grinned. Gotcha.

When you pulled back, he witnessed you pull a strange light from beneath his skin before you held it along your fingers.

When he blinked, you had an entire copy of his body in the palm of your hand. A hologram formed of his entire artificial makeup. Every crevice of his body, all of the metal that weaved to make him who he was.

All of it in your hand, with puppet strings attached.

It was missing just his head.

He froze. And then, he rushed out a simple, “what did you do?”

You tapped on his holographic arm on the screen. “Hijacked.”

When you moved it, his arm twitched to life.

Against his will, he pulled the gun from his holster and dropped it to the floor. It clattered uselessly onto the carpet.

He could only simply stare as his body moved against his will. There was no way to even twitch a finger with all his might.

It was like you had shut down all of his systems and replaced them with your own.

He should’ve seen this coming.

You whistled as you studied the model of him in your hands. When you tapped onto his neck, it zoomed in to show every single wire and thread of metal, as well as an accompanying string of coding.

“I don’t need any special enhancements to read you. What sort of cyborg comes in alone to try and stop me? You know who I am, don’t you?”

He wasn’t able to move his body. He said not a word.

“Somebody clearly doesn’t understand their body.” You patted his chest. His fans had kicked in. You could hear them whirring.

He was glaring at you.

“Did the IPC send you?”

After a moment, he scoffed. “Hardly. I don’t work for those… people.” It seemed like he wanted to say something else, but decided against it.

“Huh.” You didn’t think he was lying. “So… you’re not concerned about my bounty?”

“You said yourself you were priceless,” he countered easily. Despite his position, he was still grinning. “And besides, I’m sure my bounty is heaps bigger than yours.”

You almost snapped. He’d come to gloat, even at a disadvantage.

“You look better with your mouth shut,” you spat. You shoved the lining of code in his face for him to see, making the holographic blue screen as large as you possibly could. “I could make you tear yourself apart. I could make you forget who you are. I could alter whatever sort of brain you have in there. Watch yourself.”

Still glaring, but this time his lips sealed almost instantly.

You made him stand ram rod straight as you turned around, now eyeing a golden vanity next to the bed. The bedroom was surprisingly clean, save for a few empty glasses strewn about. No stains, no messes.

You sat down in the chair and angled the mirror so you could keep your eye on him.

You breathed out, trying not to stare at him for too long. You could feel your irritation growing, and it was showing on your face. If you stared at him for any longer, you feared you’d pull his limbs off with your own bare hands.

You fished out the powder from your purse and leaned closer to the mirror.

Maybe if you looked better, you’d feel better.

“You’re seriously dollin’ yourself up right now?” he asked, briskly annoyed.

You dabbed the sponge beneath your eyes. “Can’t let anyone think I let you put your hands on me. I have standards.”

He had nice hair. You weren’t sure if it was real, though. You weren’t sure if he could even grow hair. He was almost entirely artificial, save for his head.

He didn’t seem to age—his face, at least. You weren’t sure how old he was supposed to be, but his organic skin still looked fresh, as if left untouched and well taken care of.

Maybe it’s because that was all he had left of him.

You snapped the powder shut.

The ranger sneered. “Yeah, yeah. I’d beat you in a fight anyway.”

“‘Course you would,” you answered easily. You pulled a stick of gloss from your bag. You swiped the lipgloss over your lips, fixing it with the tip of your nail. “That’s not what I’m talking about, though.”

You stood from the chair, placing the gloss back in your purse.

“You’d never hit me, would you?”

His face almost lit up with fury.

It was absolutely hilarious.

“You’re so lucky I can't move,” he threatened. “You wouldn’t recognise your pretty face in the mirror.”

“Such a gentleman.” You stood on the tips of your toes to press your lips to his cheek. You hoped the sticky gloss bothered him, knowing he would be unable to wipe it off of him. You hoped it stained his milky skin a nice glittery bubblegum pink.

You hoped the scent of your perfume lingered on his skin, and he never forgot your name.

“Of course, gorgeous.” That same mocking tone. “Anything for you.”

You held the USB up to his lips. “Open.”

Begrudgingly, he did so.

You slipped the stick past his lips until his teeth caught onto the plastic and held it still.

“You can have it. I already got what I needed anyway.”

You kissed his other cheek for good measure, lingering for a moment before you pulled away. Two pink glittering stains on his face now; perfectly symmetrical.

“I’ll be thinking of you.” And that you would. You winked at him. “Bye, Boothill.”

Then, with sudden grid lines of yellow forming over your figure, the locator beacon buzzed to life, and you disappeared.

In the blink of an eye, you were outside in the cold night air. There were few people out in the front garden of the building, and none had spotted you.

You picked up the gadget and quickly left. A copy of his body and the USB were now a collection in your own personal belongings.

As soon as you vanished, Boothill regained control of his limbs and fell to the floor, trembling with the after effects of your invasion. His teeth were gritted as he pulled himself up onto the guest bed.

He spat the USB out before he could bite down and damage it.

He held it between his thumb and index finger.

There was a smear of your lipgloss on the side of the USB stick.

Mission accomplished, he supposed.

He also had two matching lipgloss stains on his skin as a trophy. He could see how stupid he looked in the vanity mirror.

He snickered with clenched, shaking fists.

You smelled like strawberry.

[schrijverr]

It Just Hits Different When It’s Batman

5 times a League member heard Batman use slang + 1 time they knew where the fuck he got it from.

This fic is based off this post by @wednesday-if-it-was-tuesday bc it was just too good! Hope you don't mind :D

On AO3.

Ships: none

Warnings: none

~~~~~

1. Flash

Barry is pretty sure he has to get his hearing checked as he speeds through a city, trying to find a series of bombs, courtesy of a new alliance of villains. He and Batman are on bomb duty, thus sharing a private com line as to not distract the others or be distracted as they coordinate.

However, Barry is very much distracted by his own partner in this whole mess, because unless he’s gotten a few too many hits to the head in recent years, he’s pretty sure Batman just reported: “The bombs look like yassified thermos flasks.”

“What?” Barry chokes, nearly tripping over his own feet as he does.

Batman doesn’t seem to notice, instead explaining the bomb, not his wording: “The casing looks to be made from plastic, likely to escape Superman’s notice. Start checking water pipes, I found this one near a toilet. I’ll report again once I figure out how to disarm it.”

Okay, questing his sanity later, finding bombs, now.

So he zooms off again, having to agree with the fact that the bomb does look like a yassified thermos flask. He wonders if he can use that in his report or if Batman will scold him for language. He has worked with the man for long enough that he knows Batman isn’t above hypocrisy.

Then he wonders again if he even heard it right. In the heat of battle, the brain sometimes does weird things, especially when someone thinks at the speed of light. Or faster.

He’ll put it out of his mind for now, maybe tell Hal about it just so he’ll have someone to share the bizarre experience with.

Clark probably has a thesaurus, he should probably also find a synonym for yassified. Does a thesaurus have slang too?

2. Green Lantern

It’s true that Barry had told him about Spooky saying yassified in that one battle, but Hal hadn’t truly believed that Bats was capable of something like that. I mean, look at him. The guy might be a weirdo who dresses up as a Bat, but he’s not a weirdo who says shit like yassified.

However, at the moment it is starting to look more and more likely. Fuck, Barry is gonna give him so much crap for not believing him.

The moment in question is Batman working with him on the stealth mission. It’s one for the Green Lantern Corps, so Batman is doing him a favor. Though Hal is starting to wish that he hadn’t done him that favor, because Batman has just said: “It looks like Luthor is being thristy for Superman again. For someone who hates the guy, he sure wants his attention a lot. That’s Kryptonian honing device.”

Hal doesn’t react, still thinking about the fact that he’s just heard Luthor, thirsty and Superman in one sentence. In Batman’s voice no less.

“What?” he says.

“A Kryptonian honing device,” Batman repeats, sounding as if he thinks Hal is stupid, not uncommon. “So he can hone in on Superman, find him. Something we need to do something about.”

Hal decides to take the smart way out and lets the whole thing drop in favor of focusing on the mission. He’s not just telling Barry, but Ollie about this as well.

3. Cyborg

Being in the Justice League isn’t much different than being on the Teen Titans. Like right now, being in a building that could explode at any moment unless he hacks into the system and stops that from happening.

Ah, good old life-threatening pressure.

Batman is fighting some of the goons in the background. They’re on their own here, with the others fighting through an army outside to get to them. But it’s mostly up to them. Batman yells: “Cyborg, status.”

“I’m getting through, but something is bugging me about this whole thing,” Victor calls back. “I think there is someone I’m missing that will allow me to crack this.”

There are a few grunts in the background as Batman fights on, while Victor starts to scan through everyone who worked for the organization, trying to find the missing link.

He is interrupted by Batman, who says: “I took a tour here once. There was an intern, Kyle Paulson, he was kind of sus. Look him up.”

For a second, Victor is thrown by the sus in that sentence, but he quickly focuses back on what’s important. Indeed finding Kyle to be the missing link that gets him to disarm the bomb. While Batman is taking out the last of the bad guys.

In fact, the whole thing slips his mind until he’s writing his mission report, going through the footage to get accurate information in there. Then he pauses again, before dismissing it. Those who trained under Batman are always prepared, maybe it’s not slang but shorthand to be useful in the moment. Or he’s trying to include him, sweet, though unnecessary.

Victor puts it out of his mind.

4. Green Arrow

Ollie doesn’t believe Barry or Hal for a second. Like, really? Batman using slang that the sidekicks are using?

Sure, Nightwing sometimes uses some here and there, but Red Robin is always very professional and Robin is closer to a Shakespearean actor than a TikTok teen. There isn’t anyone else he could have gotten it from and it doesn’t make sense with his whole ‘I am the Night’-persona.

Victor suggested it was to make the newbies more comfortable when he overheard them talking, but that’s even more ridiculous in Ollie’s opinion.

So, he’s not at all in the slightest prepared for Batman’s reaction when he shows him the new arrows he developed. Because Batman’s reaction is: “Hm, serves cunt.”

“Excuse me, what?” Ollie says, his eyes nearly bulging out of his skull.

Batman just stares at him, then in a confused sort of voice goes: “You know, it slays? It’s, you know, good? Positive.”

“Huh, what? No, I- I know what that means. How the fuck do you know?” Ollie splutters.

“I’m Batman,” is all he says. Then he walks away and leaves Ollie to stand there, still frozen in time, because what the hell was that? Batman can’t just do that, can he? That’s illegal. How does he even know that?

What Ollie doesn’t know, is that this was a calculated move. Bruce had overheard the three talking as well and decided to have a little fun. All the times before, it just slipped out in the heat of battle, but this one was purposeful.

Bruce knows Ollie would know what it meant, because billionaires Bruce Wayne and Oliver Queen have done TikTok trends in the past and try to keep up to date, despite their age. Not that Ollie knows it’s him under there.

And last gala, he left Bruce for the wolves – Vicky Vale – so now Bruce is dealing psychological damage to him as petty revenge.

5. Superman (and Practically the Entire League)

They’re in a meeting with most of the Justice League members that are present on earth at the moment. It’s not often they hold such meetings, since they are a little overwhelming and tend to drag on more than be productive.

However, Clark thinks it’s important to ensure there are avenues through which ever member can state their piece and be heard. So, here they are again.

Booster Gold is complaining about always being on the sidelines and never in the heat of the action, even though he’s a great hero. He’s claiming that there is a bias against younger heroes, despite the fact that the ‘old guard’ will have to give it up eventually.

Apparently, Batman has had enough, because he gets up and snaps: “We don’t have bias based on age, we have one based off skill. Maybe if you stopped abandoning your post and being someone reliable, you might get put out in the field more often. Now stop being salty about it.”

It’s silent.

Clark is scrambling his brain, to figure out the meaning. As a journalist he tries to stay up to date on current language use, however, the only person he’s heard use that word is Jon. The boy never explained, but Clark guessed what it means. Doesn’t explain why Batman knows it.

Then the silence gets broken by a snort, everyone’s head whipping towards the source. It’s Nightwing, a newer addition and one affiliated with Batman himself. The only one there brave enough to laugh at Batman, mirthfully asking: “Did you actually say salty?”

There is no change on Batman’s face, but as a longtime friend, Clark knows he isn’t emotionless. Indeed, when he listens close, he can hear the blood rush to his face, blush hidden by the cowl.

“That was not the point of the sentence, Nightwing,” Batman counters, the name a little bit pointed on is tongue.

“Okay, okay,” Nightwing grins easily, showing his hands in surrender, an act which is made null by him adding: “Just pointing out that this is an official meeting. You’re on the record and you know I’m reporting this to the others.”

Red Robin and Robin, Clark fills in mentally, the other two known associates. Everyone already guessed that Nightwing must be close to them as well, since the younger two are closer to being Batman’s children. Now that is confirmed.

“Thank you for reminding me,” Batman says tersely, before quickly pivoting to the next point on the agenda. No one calls him out for it.

However, just because no one calls him out on it, doesn’t mean they drop it. In the weeks after the incident, whispers make their way through the halls of the Watchtower as people speculate why or how Batman came to use the word salty and how out of character it is.

Clark can hear the gossip all over the Watchtower and he’s sure Batman is aware of it too, because some brave souls have asked about. Especially when some of the others talked about the incident not being the first one.

Batman hasn’t replied yet to any of the questions or rumors. Clark thinks he likes the mystery and chaos, likes that they don’t know why the hell he sometimes lets slang slip. Even Nightwing has been seemingly silenced, never commenting with a sort of professional ease at evasion.

Nightwing is the only clue they have, along with Robin and Red Robin, but none of them seem like the culprit.

It just doesn’t make sense and Clark can’t help but have his reporter brain itch.

+1. The Batfamily

There is going to be an attack somewhere in a major city in America tonight. They cannot figure out where, so there is a nation wide stake out at all the important places. Nearly the entire Justice League has been pulled out for it and even then they don’t have enough.

Batman insists on having a skeleton crew remain on the Watchtower in case the threat turns out to be a distraction. And when it is protested, he pulls out an army of associates none of them have ever heard about to fill out the last gaps in their observational net.

The sudden introduction of about six new Gotham vigilantes, which have apparently been operating inside the city as well as outside of it, would have been the main shock if it weren’t for how they are on coms.

Red Robin and Nightwing are known as professionals like Batman, while Robin isn’t a known entity in missions, though those who have met him, know him to be serious. However, with the introduction of the others all of that professionalism melts away.

It starts about 45 minuted into their mission when Spoiler’s voice suddenly crackles over the coms: “I fucking hate stake outs, they’re so boring.”

“I know right, my ass is starting to hurt,” Red Robin – to everyone’s surprise – replies.

“No chatter on the coms,” Batman dutifully reproaches like he always does, but he sounds less stern this time. It’s as if he knows they won’t listen, but says it because it’s his role to do so.

Red Hood ignores Batman completely, idly commenting: “I don’t know, stake outs always hit different for me.”

“That’s just because you’re boring AF,” Spoiler says, an eyeroll practically audible.

“Oi, take that back,” Red Hood says, offended. “I didn’t die to have you slander my name like that!”

This is horrifying news for most of the other people stuck on the coms, however, there is a cacophony of annoyed groans as well. Why anyone would be so blasé about someone mentioning their death, they don’t know.

Until, Robin says: “Cease mentioning your death as excuse. It’s unbecoming to be so reliant on one measly event. You’re not the only one who has died, don’t be – what was it? – ah, yes, don’t be basic, Hood.”

“Yeah, Hood, don’t be salty just because you’re becoming a boring old man,” Red Robin pipes up, sounding smug. That solves the salty mystery.

“Shut up, Replacement,” Red Hood huffs. “I can talk about my death as much as I want to and you can’t stop me.”

“Hood, please, stop talking about your death, you’re going to make B sad,” Nightwing suddenly interjects, stopping the conversation before it can get out of hand.

Those with super hearing will hear Barry mutter in a shocked manner: “Is he talking about Batman?” But he is overshadowed by most of the newly introduced (and already) known Bat-associates booing loudly.

“Don’t be a fucking suck up, Dick” Spoiler hollers, only those in the know picking up on the fact it’s his name. It’s the only time Batman won’t correct them, because not everyone will know it’s a name unless it’s pointed out.

“Periodt,” the quiet voice of Black Bat supports Spoiler.

“Hell yeah, that’s what I’m talking about, BB,” Spoiler cheers when she hears the other girl.

“That was the correct usage?” Black Bat asks.

“It was, well done,” Oracle’s kind voice comes over the coms, from where she is in her lair helping with coordination.

After that it all quiets down again for about half an hour, then Bluebird breaks the quiet again, complaining: “I can’t believe I had to stay behind in Gotham of all places.”

“You live there. Willingly,” Signal answers. “And I had to stay behind too, you know.”

“They’re sleeping on us, Signal, be upset with me,” Bluebird exclaims, indignantly.

“Okay, but tea though,” Spoiler says, most of the Justice League listening in are starting to learn she likes stirring the pot a little.

“Don’t be a simp, Spoils,” Red Robin says.

“Oh, look who’s talking about being a simp,” Red Hood snorts loudly. “I observed you, loser boy, you’re the simp.”

“It’s not as much of the serve you think it is to admit to stalking me,” Red Robin deadpans.

“RR, not to be that bitch, but you’re the OG stalker, maybe- maybe don’t do that,” Nightwing says cautiously, which is apparently funny enough that multiple people start laughing.

Meanwhile Red Robin complains: “Stop laughing at me, when I did it was totally different, I didn’t plan on killing any of you.” Which is mildly disturbing

“Oi, I never planned to actually kill you-kill you either,” Red Hood protests, even more disturbing. The Justice League is starting to wonder why Batman works with the man.

“Stop with the chatter,” Batman interjects again, before it can go further. “It’s not just us on the com lines now. At least try to be professional.”

And much to the horror of the League, who could never imagine doing such a thing, Batman gets booed. Again. This time directly.

Then to add to the horror, Batman doesn’t explode in anger, like everyone would have imagined, instead he just sighs. Defeated. Batman is like a cockroach, he doesn’t get defeated. However, these kids are managing.

Batman remains defeated too, because the Gotham vigilantes continue to idly chat all throughout the next hour. They are definitely bat associated, because they never reveal any information that could be tied to their civilian identity. Instead discussing other missions, general news, funny things they saw on patrol and personal grievances with the others on the line.

If this is what Batman deals with on the day to day, some are starting to see why he would prefer the heroes of the Justice League to keep their mouths shut on missions unless it’s important.

Most try to tune it out and focus on their own stake out, though the voices keep them awake. But they notice when Spoiler’s voice suddenly becomes serious as she reports: “Sus individuals moving towards the Mayor’s office.”

“Received, getting visual on your location,” Oracle’s voice replies, also snapped back into professionalism.

Spoiler reports their appearances and currently location, until Oracle has them, running a check on them, before confirming they have a criminal record and might be thugs for hire. Spoiler says: “I am going to move in.”

Batman says: “Do not engage, Spoiler, they could be a decoy. Try and get more information first.”

“Alright, alright,” Spoiler huffs. Then adds petulantly: “I’m not gonna do it, I was just thinking about it.”

Which sounds pretty reasonable for most listening in, who aren’t of the right age group to know the meme. Batman, however, does know, because he’s been subjected to it multiple times. So, he yells: “Spoiler, no!” startling some members.

A second later, there are sounds of a fight and Spoiler gleefully saying: “I did it.”

Batman lets out a frustrated growl, but Spoiler pays it no mind and she can’t truly get chewed out, because more and more start to report suspicious individuals moving in on the targets they’re watching.

Within minutes of it starting, Nightwing reports: “They’re decoys with targets. Not the main attack, but will do damage if they succeed.”

“Everyone make sure to take out the decoys,” Batman says. “Those without decoys, keep your eyes peeled, you might be at the real target.”

“Done with my targets, moving to help the others now,” Nightwing reports seriously, before he adds: “And can I just say that I’m the GOAT. Dibs on cookies for finishing first.”

“Okay, shade much,” Bluebird says.

“Don’t be arrogant, it’s unbecoming,” Robin retorts as well.

“Yeah, stop flexing,” Spoiler adds. “I’ve wrapped up too, by the way. You’re not special.”

“Let me have this,” Nightwing complains. “You already took all my shit, let me be cool. You all used to think I was cool.”

“Yeah, used to,” Red Hood scoffs. “Then we all realized you’re a looser.”

“Ha, get wrecked,” Red Robin snorts.

“Baby bird, wasn’t I your favorite?” Nightwing asks hurt, though over the top enough to show he is faking it.

“No, sadly, that was Hood,” Red Robin replies, sounding a little like he’s grimacing.

“No cap?” Red Hood asks, surprised.

“No cap,” Red Robin confirms.

“Now I feel kind of bad for you,” Red Hood says, before some bullets are fired. “Wrapped up here, moving to help.”

Red Robin seems glad to not have to reply and none of the other Gothamites do either. With what the League has heard so far, they’re also kind of happy the topic is being dropped, unsure what to think.

Batman’s associates are among the first ones cleaning up, however, soon others are joining them and the true battles grounds – yes, there are multiple targets, these people are organized (Batman will likely obsess until he has tracked down their organization afterwards) – are discovered and heroes move in to fight them.

Throughout the battle, everyone catches snippets of this strange, newly introduced group. A group, who works well together, like an oiled machine, yet obviously made up of highly competent parts that can act on their own as well.

Like Black Bat calling out: “Red Hood, yeet,” before those fighting alongside them see Red Hood boost her into the air, so she can come flying at the terrorists.

But they also make comments about the people they’re fighting and the others that are fighting alongside them.

Signal calling out: “Bluebird is pulling some sick ass moves. Another one for her on the slay-board, Oracle.”

Or Spoiler commenting: “Okay, not to be like that or whatever, but these terrorists are kind of looking snatched.”

To which Batman sighs: “Spoiler, please, no chatter,” in a vain attempt to get them under control.

“What?” Spoiler says. “I can appreciate when they’ve at least tried to pull a fit instead of that usual para-military, ninja type BS.”

“Go off,” Black Bat pipes up again and Spoiler cheers while Batman drops it. Defeated again.

They also check in on each other, with Red Robin hissing in pain, which is immediately followed by Nightwing going: “RR, you good, fam?”

“Gucci,” Red Robin replies. “Just low-key got stabbed.”

“There’s nothing low-key about getting stabbed!” Nightwing exclaims, getting called a hypocrite by many people, while Batman is already calling for Oracle to get a visual and for a medic to head Red Robin’s way.

By the time the battle is over, the Justice League understands how different the team is that Batman usually works with. If they were surrounded by heroes who talked like that continuously, they would have probably picked up some things here and there too.

Still, it fucking weird when Batman checks over his horde, before declaring: “You were all lit out there,” causing multiple of the kids around him to groan loudly, with Bluebird calling Batman a boomer.

Clark, however, sees a small uptick in Batman’s mouth. And in that moment, he knows Batman is doing it on purpose, that he’s enjoying it. That he’s fucking with them. He doesn’t know what to do with that, nor does he think that anyone will believe it. So, he decides to share the amusement and drop it.

They’re never going to figure out Batman.

~~

A/N:

This work is going to get dated so so so fast lmao, but it’s fun rn (if ur commenting in the future, welcome to outdated slang vibes from someone who wasn’t that up to date with current slang when writing it, bc im secretly a grandpa).

Hopefully I didn’t overdo it to an unrealistic degree, but if I did, such is the story that was being told oops

Also this whole fic is just an excuse for me to write batfam banter bc I love it lmao

I didn’t include Batwing, Batwoman and Flamebird here, sorry, but writing the batfam is always so hard bc there are so many characters T-T

[butchhamlet]

i said i was going to arrange a list of my favorite articles/criticism about shakespeare, so here’s my first little roundup! obligatory disclaimer that i don’t necessarily agree with or endorse every single point of view in each word of these articles, but they scratch my brain. will add to this list as i continue reading, and feel free to add your own favorites in the reblogs! :]

essays

Is Shakespeare For Everyone? by Austin Tichenor (a basic examination of that question)

Interrogating the Shakespeare System by Madeline Sayet (counterpoint/parallel to the above; on Shakespeare’s place in, and status as, imperialism)

Shakespeare in the Bush by Laura Bohannan (also a good parallel to the above; on whether Shakespeare is really culturally “universal”)

The Unified Theory of Ophelia: On Women, Writing, and Mental Illness ("I was trying to make sense of the different ways men and women related to Ophelia. Women seemed to invoke her like a patron saint; men seemed mostly interested in fetishizing her flowery, waterlogged corpse.”)

Hamlet Is a Suicide Text—It’s Time to Teach It Like One (on teaching shakespeare plays about suicide to high schoolers)

Commuting With Shylock by Dara Horn (on listening to MoV with a ten-year-old son, as modern jewish people, to look at that eternal question of Is This Play Antisemitic?)

All That Glisters is Not Gold (NPR episode, on whether it’s possible to perform othello, taming of the shrew, & merchant to do good instead of harm)

academic articles

the Norton Shakespeare’s intro to the Merchant of Venice (apologies about the highlights here; they are not mine; i scanned this from my rented copy)

the Norton Shakespeare’s intro to Henry the Fourth part 1 (and apologies for the angled page scans on this one; see above)

Richard II: A Modern Perspective by Harry Berger Jr (this is the article that made me understand richard ii)

Hamlet’s Older Brother (“Hamlet and Prince Hal are in the same situation, the distinction resting roughly on the difference between the problem of killing a king and the problem of becoming one. ... Hamlet is literature’s Mona Lisa, and Hal is the preliminary study for it.”)

Egyptian Queens and Male Reviewers: Sexist Attitudes in Antony & Cleopatra Criticism (about more than just reviewers; my favorite deconstruction of shakespeare’s cleopatra in general)

Strange Flesh: Antony and Cleopatra and the Story of the Dissolving Warrior (“If Troilus and Cressida is [Shakespeare’s] vision of a world in which masculinity must be enacted in order to exist, Antony and Cleopatra is his vision of a world in which masculinity not only must be enacted, but simply cannot be enacted, his vision of a world in which this particular performance has broken down.”)

misc

Elegy of Fortinbras by Zbigniew Herbert (poem that makes me fucking insane)

Dirtbag Henry IV (what it sounds like.)

Cleopatra and Antony by Linda Bamber (what if a&c... was good.)

[kentopedia]

𝐈. 𝐊𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐀 𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐄 ❤︎༻°₊ ｡ villain!nanami + f!reader

series masterlist

chapter summary . . . it's been a year since the death of gojo satoru, and it seems that geto's plans have slightly changed.

chapter warnings . . . none other than jjk typical dark themes. see masterlist for series warnings!

author note! this series is my exploration of some of the themes and aspects about jjk that i find intriguing, but this story will be an alternate timeline, and will diverge from the jjk canon, lore, power system, etc. pls don't correct me if i get something about jujutsu or the current timeline wrong! <3

“𝐖𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐚 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐚𝐳𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐛𝐲𝐬𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐲𝐬𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐠𝐚𝐳𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮” 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐍𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐳𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐞

The sheet wrinkled between your fingertips, your grasp far too tight for the thin piece of paper. Words smudged into a pool of black from the oils that danced across your palm, but it didn’t matter much… You didn’t need to read them anyway. 

Those lines were as familiar to you as your own name, scribbled down in Utahime’s neat calligraphy, a daily report of new information gathered. The length of the list never changed, but, really, seldom changed, these days. 

The same could not be said of the numbers beside the names, the words that followed. They were altered, on occasion. Often when you least expected it.

Directory of known sorcerers residing in Japan, as of December 24, 2017. Most recent grade of every sorcerer identified. Status identified. Bounty set by Nanami Kento and Geto Suguru identified (if applicable):

GOJO SATORU . . . Special Grade . . . Deceased 

TSUKUMO YUKI . . . Special Grade . . . Deceased 

OKKOTSU YUUTA . . . Special Grade . . . Deceased 

GETO SUGURU . . . Special Grade . . . Defected 

NANAMI KENTO . . . Special Grade . . . Defected 

SHOKO IERI . . .  Grade 1 . . . Reward: 35,000,000

FUSHIGURO MEGUMI. . . Grade 1 . . . Reward: 50,000,000

Your name was next on the list. 

Immediately, you stopped reading, the anger consuming you as quickly as your eyes scanned the words across the page, crumbling it in your palm. 

Every two weeks, like clockwork, your bounty raised. It was the same with Megumi and Maki, as descendants of the Zen’in clan, and children that the higher-ups were so desperate to obtain. But no one else’s reward held quite the same inconsistency as your own, which never seemed to raise by a set amount.

Today, nothing was surprising about the list, no new deaths, no numbers that seemed otherworldly. You threw the wadded ball of paper over your shoulder, slumping forward as your head fell into your hands. 

Everyone was getting desperate, it seemed. Not just the Zen’in clan, but Geto too. Perhaps even you were losing your last shred of rationality, of hope that things would change. The only ambition you still had was keeping Maki and Megumi out of the disgusting hands of their clan leaders. 

You swore to protect them… And you would protect them, now that Gojo Satoru could not.

Glancing up, your gaze fell from the ceiling to the window, rays of sunlight clearing through a dark curtain of storm clouds. The sky had begun to open up into a steely gray abyss, but it never looked natural, with the curtain of curse energy that shimmered across the horizon. It encased the entirety of the country, unbroken, from each shore to the beaches, sinking into the seas. A navy hue that sealed your home into a prison, out of hatred and fear, and every twisted feeling that Geto Suguru had settling in his heart.

There was hardly anything that passed through the curtain; only things that were predetermined by Geto, who saw himself, surely, as your great benefactor. No communication to the world outside, no alarming any foreign sorcerers of what had become of your country. Maybe no one cared enough to come to your defense.

It was shield that did little to protect, and it would remain there until someone was strong enough to break it. But without Satoru alive, even that had become an impossible task. 

Month after month, the strongest sorcerers attempted to break it, to take it down, and collapse the cursed energy that was compacted into a swirling wave. Every one of them failed. There were only two special grade sorcerers left, and they were the ones that had trapped you in the circle of hell, to begin with. 

You let out a heavy exhale, turning away from the window to slink back into the darkness of your bedroom. Thinking too hard about the state of your survival only served to depress you further.

At least you still had the rain. The drizzle that maintained the farmlands, kept the rivers from drying out, and you and the rest of the country from dying. Geto had been kind enough to give you that.

As if in response to your dismal thoughts, a dreary rainbow unfurled across the sky, brightening it like a beacon. The colors were still muted, though, swallowed by the darkness of an energy created by hatred. It did little to draw a smile onto your face, and you collapsed onto a chair instead, wrapping yourself up in whatever dusty blankets covered it.

Satoru’s name lingered in your mind like he was whispering it there, his lighthearted, arrogant tone seeping through your eardrums, nestling into your brain. You could still see his smug smile, almost as if he’d been standing in front of you all this time, the image of it painted onto the wall across from you. 

The mere whistle of a memory of him sent a twinge of regret and longing through your entire frame. He was always a pain in your ass, and yet, you were certain that no one missed him more than you. What a pity it was, to have been the strongest. 

So caught up in your memories, you were ignorant to the door unlatching, footsteps padding through the threshold as Shoko came in. Although you hadn’t heard her, you saw her out of the corner of your eye, the shadow of her before she spoke. 

“Everything okay?” Shoko asked, and while things hadn’t been okay in months, there was no other question that could have been asked in place of it. 

You looked over, nestling deeper into the blankets, as you observed her stature, which only seemed to shrink with time. A cigarette was balanced between her fingers, nails painted a light shade of pink; a way to counter the dismal reality of her situation. Shoko’s dark hair had been cut short again, a shadow of her teenage self, a shell of that girl she’d once been, hollow and empty. 

Just like you, you supposed. A burnt image of someone who’d once longed to visit her friends in Tokyo, who’d looked up to all of them like they’d hung the moon. 

How sick you felt, knowing you’d once adored the men that did this to you. Nauseating, even, that you held a shred of love for them still. 

“You could’ve knocked,” you said, rolling your eyes as Shoko puffed out of a cloud of smoke, one that wafted over to the nest you’d perched yourself in. It didn’t quite reach you, but you coughed dramatically anyway, waving your hands around your face.

“Would it have made a difference?”

“For starters, I could’ve looked a little less like I was brooding.”

Shoko laughed, and her tiny little smile caused you to crack one of your own, grateful that you could still experience a fraction of joy. There was still hope, somewhere, even if you buried it deep. Without it, you would’ve given yourself up to Geto months ago, or died trying to escape. There was no point in fighting with nothing to live for. 

“I’ve been under the impression that that’s all you do up here,” Shoko remarked, taking another long drag of her cigarette. “Sitting so seriously in your dark, cold room, all alone. Perhaps thinking of the things that might have been.”

Although she was teasing you, you feel a stab within your chest at the remark. You’d been shy as a girl, and you’d grown into a quiet adult — something that someone as obnoxious as Satoru had always teased you about. But you’d learned to accept his remarks, as annoying as they were, because for all Gojo Satoru talked, he was, really, quite horrible at communicating. 

It just seemed like a punch to the gut, that Shoko sounded like him now. That her mouth twisted up in the same way Satoru’s did, even though it was unsurprising that she’d picked up on some of his quirks over the years.

You just didn’t like seeing a reminder of him everywhere you went. As much as you missed him, you hated him for leaving you in a world where the unthinkable came to light. Even the strongest flame had been put out, and there was no safety in that sort of place. 

Silence remained Shoko’s answer, and she sighed, accepting it as her eyes dimmed. Looking past you, the last of the day’s rays burned through the glass panels, coating the room in a purple haze. “Utahime wants to have a meeting,” Shoko said, resigned. “Be downstairs in ten.”

The curt response was the end of your conversation. Once you nodded, your old friend left, letting the door slam behind her.

Meeting was hardly a name that could qualify for your meager gathering of sorcerers, especially since almost everyone had been stuck together for months, with no other options. Yet, Utahime continued to put on a brave face, calling it a formal congregation, as if to instill the hope that you all could become enough to incite a rebellion. As if, maybe, you could train and strengthen yourselves, overthrowing two of the most powerful curse-users in the world.

It was laughable, really, and you saw why Shoko and everyone else thought that. Why they rolled their eyes at the flimsy sheets of paper that Utahime passed out every day, because, maybe, there wasn’t a point to any of it. 

You, though, were happy to indulge Utahime. It gave you just a few moments to pretend like things hadn’t changed. You could listen to her lecture to your measly group of sorcerers, and pretend that she was still a teacher in Kyoto. You could pretend that Satoru was still by your side, that you were still fighting nothing worse than grade one curses, and that everything was normal.

It painted a pretty peaceful image, even if it wasn’t real. 

Throwing the blankets off your body, you finally left the room, your breathing seeming far too loud for the empty halls. Papery hotel walls loomed over you as you trekked down carpeted stairs, sliding your hands along the banister. The elevators were never used, and lights were only on when necessary. It was a risk to use up any resources, when none of you were certain how much longer they’d last.

Really, it was a mystery that you’d made it this far. For all of his theatrics and grandiose plans, Geto Suguru was not an idiot. If he was allowing you all to live, for anyone who opposed him to live, then there must have been a reason. Society was likely blooming within the four walls of Geto’s cult following, and those who stood with him received all the finest things in life. 

And it may have been a ridiculous notion, but it seemed more realistic than the alternative. Whoever Geto was now, he was still a man who cared deeply for his new family. You couldn’t imagine him forcing them into a life where they had to fend for scraps off the streets.

When you got downstairs, to the lobby of the hotel that you were all inhabiting for the week, the room was already lit with candles, flames so high that you could tell they’d been burning for a while. With the sun already setting on the other side of the building, very little light filtered through the vast windows. 

Despite the cold outside, the building remained relatively warm, a heating system kicking on regardless of your precautions. However, you were grateful not to have to face the winter in a small town without some source of warmth. Even if it died out on you by the end of the night. 

Nearly everyone had gathered when you arrived downstairs… But at this point in your battle, the numbers were never very staggering. Many of the sorcerers never bothered to show up, despite knowing the severity of the position that you were all in. 

Not that you could blame them, though. Oftentimes, in these meetings, you just repeated the same information; it was rare that you stumbled upon anything noteworthy toward your survival.

The would-be third years sat huddled in a circle, and Utahime and Shoko talked amongst themselves in hushed whispers. At the far side of the vast table, one you’d created from various smaller ones, Takuma Ino sat, beanie covering his forehead, eyes closed as he leaned back in the chair. 

Something relaxed inside of you, at the sight of him sitting there so calmly. Since Stour had died, Ino had become something of a comfort to you. His steadfast optimism and energy were hard to match in such dire times, bringing a new life to people who might as well have been dead—including yourself. Despite the few years difference in age and the differences in your experiences as sorcerers, he’d become one of your closest friends. 

You approached him, quietly; though he heard your subtle footsteps nonetheless. A dark eye popped open, and he smiled, lips pulling back, eyes crinkling at the corners. Ino was still so young, but there was more evidence of happiness on his features than many of you; wrinkles were already obvious around his eyes and mouth. It was admirable how deeply he could hold onto joy, and you found yourself latching onto that, longing for it, even. 

“You left your cave!” Ino remarked, pulling his beanie off, dusty brown strands falling onto his cheekbones. “This must be really important if Shoko pulled you out of there.” 

As you took the seat next to him, you made an effort to poke him in the shin with your shoe. A kick, almost, with how hard the pressure landed. “I always come to these meetings,” you said, rolling your eyes. “If I remember correctly, it was your seat that was empty during the last one.” 

Ino’s lips tugged upwards again, not quite a smirk but close enough. He sat up a little straighter, less relaxed than before, when the rest of the sorcerers began filing into the room. “Well, it’s never me that those bastards looking for.” Ino shrugged, wiping a hand over his face, hiding his weariness of the entire situation. “They don’t need everyone. Some of us, they just want to capture to eliminate.” 

An objection rested on your lips, but you knew that it was fruitless. Sorcerers that didn’t have a technique inherently useful to Geto’s agenda would be imprisoned — or killed. The rest of you… Well, you’re certain you’d be used for something far worse. Dying seemed, almost, like the better outcome. 

“Well, it’s a good thing that none of us have been captured, then,” you settled on instead. 

Ino looked away, his dark lashes fanning over the hollowed shadows beneath his eyes. “It’s only a matter of time, though. Isn’t it? We can’t run forever.” 

You didn’t bother to respond. Ino was right. Of course, he was right. You’d all fought like hell to keep everyone alive, and though a few had willingly left, sworn their allegiance with a betrayal of information, no one had been captured. The defects never really mattered, though. There were very few secrets kept amongst you. What secrets could be kept, when your goal of escape was more than obvious?

Finally, Utahime drew all your focus with a dramatic clearing of her throat. She stood tall, proud before you, like you were all first-years, oblivious to your own talents, and far too naive for the world of Jujutsu. 

It seemed a realistic comparison, though, as all of you still trained like students, trying to learn something from others that you hadn’t known before. A disappointing concept, considering many of you were beyond growth in your technique, and your abilities would remain stagnant. But the grades of sorcery meant nothing anymore — hardly anyone referred to themselves as such, these days. 

“As you all know, for months, we’ve been trying to anticipate Geto and Nanami’s next move,” Utahime began, as always, with the obvious. There was a brief pause, and whether it was for dramatics or for Utahime to gather her thoughts, you weren’t certain. “Our infiltration attempts have all failed — The bounties tell us little, except that the clan’s children are wanted more than everyone.” 

You glanced over at Megumi, whose eyebrow only twitched in irritation. He would be eighteen soon, but he would remain your responsibility. A life you’d always protect, dying before the clan could ever attempt to take him away, sell him for whatever he was worth. You’d promised Satoru that much, hadn’t you? 

“Although,” Utahime started again, with renewed vigor in her voice, “we think we’ve gained some new insight into their operations. Or, at least, what their next ambition is.” A frown took over her face, then, slowly, curled to every corner of her expression. Wrinkles formed between her brows, and she licked her lips, pointedly avoiding the far end of the table where you sat. “But there is nothing proven in the information. It is a gamble — one we’re not sure we’re willing to take.” 

“What options do we have left?” Todo said, mouth drawn into a tight line. “Risks are all we have now. Every other plan has led to nothing, and Geto is a complete basket case. You act as if any of his goals are rational — as if we can predict them.” 

Utahime opened her mouth, but faltered, looking at Shoko, who had already begun to take over. She was onto her second cigarette since you’d last seen her, the habit only erupting after Gojo had been killed. Clouds of smoke rose above her as she exhaled smoothly. 

“No, Geto is not rational,” Shoko agreed. “But Nanami is. There’s a reason that those without cursed energy still reside in Japan. That Geto has not wiped them out entirely.”

“To supply him with curses,” Todo argued, fists on the table. It did little to faze Shoko, who was already so numb. “And money.”

“No,” Shoko paused, gathering her thoughts. “That may be part of the reason, but it isn’t the entire truth, I believe.” 

Although she took a few more breaths, no one interrupted, letting her expel whatever was residing in her mind. When it came to Geto, evwryone entrusted her entirely. There was no one else alive who knew him as well as she did. Even if Gojo had been the only one to ever know him completely. 

“How many sorcerers do you think are left in Japan?” she asked, staring Todo down with a flat gaze, shadowy eyes only growing darker by the day. “An estimate.” 

He shrugged, glancing around the table, and counting heads. Thinking of the clans. Of those who had joined Geto before that evening in Shinjuku, and those who joined him in the two years since. “I don’t know. Perhaps two hundred?”

“I’d argue less,” Shoko hummed, taking one more drag of her cigarette before she dropped it on the floor of the hotel, stomping it out. “But let’s stick with your guess. Two hundred is hardly a feasible number to sustain a society, without setting all of us back centuries. Geto’s goal of murdering anyone without cursed energy… Well, it’s not feasible, really. Not unless he wants the human race, including sorcerers, to cease to exist.” She smiled, though it was sad, exhausted. Things had never stopped being hard for her. Not since the day she’d met the two special grade sorcerers that had once been her best friends. “That’s why they’ve stopped. That’s why the rest of the world moves along, why there are still curses haunting Tokyo, even when Geto hates them. If his plan fails here, then how will it succeed in the rest of the world?” 

Utahime took her seat beside Shoko, bowing her head. Silence arose across the table, as the words sank in. How often you’d thought the same thing, how rational it seemed that that was the case. Yet, none of you had ever been brave enough to say the words out loud. 

Perhaps it didn’t matter, really, when all of you were helpless to stop them.

 “So this is a test run?” Megumi interjected, not allowing Todo to supply any more questions out of his fearful rage. “If Geto can build his utopia here, then he will continue everywhere else?” 

Shoko nodded. “Well. That’s what I think anyway. No one needs to believe me.” 

But her statements were never up for debate. They settled around the table like the word of God, bestowed upon unwilling servants. Giving to the last of you; people who needed to continue on a path that seemed to lead to nowhere. 

“What are we supposed to do, then?” Maki threw her hands up, standing as the chair screeched across the floor. “We’ve run and we’ve hid, and we’ve planned for a year. We’re cowards, aren’t we? Just trying to get by while a lunatic takes over the entire world.” 

Shoko flinched at the word, at the brashness of the teenager’s tone. But she sat tall, face neutral, never letting anyone see how deeply she was truly hurting. “I don’t know. I don’t have all the answers.” 

“Well let’s do something. I’ve lost so many people. We’ve all lost so many people. I’m starting to think that maybe their deaths were in vain.” 

Megumi’s eyes snapped over to her, muttering something darkly under his breath. In a failed attempt, Nobara tugged on her wrist, guiding her back down to her seat. But she flicked him off, sitting on her own, breathing heavily. You’d always liked Maki Zen’in. It was a pity you’d never get the chance to teach her as a third year — you would’ve promoted her to grade one sorcerer, given the chance.

“I agree, Maki,” Utahime spoke up again, softly, coaxing her anger back down. “We think that we might have a plan, though, as I have said, it is a gamble. And…” she blinked, glancing over at you before avoiding your gaze. “I’m not sure that everyone would be willing.” 

The statement started a chorus around the table, of those who would do anything to help, those who were tired of living as you had been living — if you could even call it a life. The students, more courageous than you’d ever been, were the first to offer up their lives. But it was not them that Utahime needed, and deep in your gut, you knew that to be true before she even said it. 

“Utahime,” you said across the wave of speakers, trying your best to make your voice louder than everyone else’s. “It’s me you need, isn’t it?” 

As quickly as the words had left your mouth, everyone was silent, blinking at you. And for a moment, you hesitated. How embarrassing it would be, to believe yourself so important to Geto that you must be the willing victim. 

But you weren’t a fool, and Utahime knew that. Geto knew that, and Nanami Kento certainly knew that. Your bounty had raised just as heavily, and the numbers were staggering. The price on your head was almost as high as Maki and Megumi, despite having very few sorcerers in your long line of descendants. 

It was just — your technique was rare. So rare, in fact, that other curse users had come for you before, when you were but a child. It was something that Geto could easily use to achieve his end goal, if he were able to use your technique to his advantage. 

Thinking of it now, it was logical and seemed almost ridiculous that you hadn’t thought of it sooner. He’d surely attempt to convert you, perhaps promise you a life of grandeur, whatever security he could provide you. 

Yet, the realization hadn’t made you any more prepared for when Utahime’s face fell. Everyone around the table seemed to have come to the same conclusion.

She sighed, looking over to Shoko before nodding. “I’m sorry.” 

Momentarily, your heart stopped. 

Ino flew out of his seat beside you, arguments spewing from his lips in an uncertain stutter. “What? What does that mean? You’re just going to ship her off to Nanami and Geto? Because I’m not going to stand by and watch you hand anyone over to the people that ruined our lives,” he shouted. The heat had risen in his body far too quickly, painting him the image of someone who could only be your lover. 

Your cheeks grew warm, your body hot all over from Ino’s words, from all the eyes that were on you, the dread of what was to come. You’d do it — of course, you’d do it, whatever they needed. Whatever it took to save Megumi and Maki, and the rest of the children. Whatever it took to save the world. If you were to be a sacrifice, well, so be it. There wasn’t much of a choice. 

“Calm down, lover boy,” Shoko laughed, and though Ino’s cheeks grew red, his anger didn’t subside, features pinching up tight. “We’re not going to do anything she doesn’t want to do. There could be another way, we can get someone else but…” Shoko looked at you, studying you for any fear. “You are the best option, aren’t you?” 

“What the hell does that mean?” Megumi asked, eyebrows narrowing. “I’m with Takuma. You expect us just to watch her walk straight into the lions’ den?” 

“It’s okay, Megumi,” you said, schooling your face into a neutral expression. All these months, you’d been promising yourself that you would do whatever was necessary. You’d become a loud voice against the tyrants that controlled what was left of the Jujutsu society, and you couldn’t go back on your word now, could you? “What did you have in mind, Utahime?”

She blinked, dark lashes fluttering over her cheeks, brown eyes wide. Almost like she’d expected you to say no — like she’d hoped for it. But, even though you knew in your heart and soul that you were a coward, you refused to let yourself act like one.

Megumi said your name again, an argument, as Maki became flustered beside him. How noble the two of them were. They were just kids, and already, they reminded you so much of Satoru. The good qualities, of course. Always standing up for what was right, fighting against the system that threatened to topple them. 

Geto had been like that once. Nanami had too.

Sadly, you smiled to yourself as Shoko cleared her throat, cooling the argument that had sprung up among you. Besides the students and Ino, no one had much to say. All of you were too tired, it seemed, to want to fight. To breathe life back into yourselves and your convictions, which seemed to barely be there at all.

“What we know for sure is that Geto has employed Mei Mei as a bounty hunter,” Utahime said, lips drawn thin. Her defection had never really come as a shock. Mei Mei could easily round up sorcerers with her technique, and Geto would supply her with millions; she’d never once put anyone first but herself. “We’ve managed to stay ahead of her, but…” 

Her voice trailed off, dark eyes drifting between Megumi and Maki, innocent children who had been dragged into it, simply because of their lineage. They’d fought bravely the past few years, had trained mercilessly, but they shouldn’t have been weapons in a war of this scale. 

Oh, Satoru, you thought, what a mess you’ve left us with.

“We won’t let any of the children get involved,” Shoko said, brushing her short hair out of her face. “They’ll be safe — away, with the rest of us. There might be casualties. We don’t know who else Geto has employed, or if Mei Mei will be on her own… I’m sorry, but we don’t know much.” 

“It’s okay,” you said again, but the wave of arguments had erupted once more.  

Shoko dropped her head, shaking it, as her chin fell against her chest. Under the table, Ino grabbed your hand, squeezing it gently. 

“You can’t expect us just to do nothing,” Maki argued, fists clenched by her side. “Last time you set us all on the bench, three students died. This is a ridiculous plan. Why don’t we just kill the bitch, and we’ll be down one less curse-user that wants us all dead!” 

“It’s not that simple.” Utahime, for the first time in a while, shouted at the former student. Her cheeks were flushed, bright and pink, her nose flared with the force of her breathing. 

For a moment, Maki seemed taken aback, but erased the emotion from her face, twisting it up before she sat back down. Utahime regained her composure quickly after.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Maki, but we need to be willing to do whatever it takes. We’ve spent a year playing it safe, and it’s gotten us nowhere. This time, we need to take a risk.” 

“If that’s truly the case, then I’ll help,” Ino offered beside you, threading his fingers through your own, palms clammy against yours. You let him run his thumb along the back of your hand, calloused and warm, even as you wanted to twist away. How often you’d gone to him for comfort, crawled into his arms… and yet, the subtle signs of affection made you want to writhe away and put distance between you. Sometimes, the dissonance of your emotions made you want to never speak to him again. 

It was a hard pill to swallow. Once, you’d been full of love, accepted it easily. But it was harder to give these days, and harder to take. Just a sign of how much you’d changed since Satoru had died. 

“If you need sorcerers, I’ll help, Utahime. I don’t mind giving my life so that the rest of you can live.” 

“Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

You sighed, looking around the table at all of the faces of people that had once been your friends, your colleagues, your students. Now, you were just a group of survivors, people who wanted to escape the miserable future you’d been given. How you loved them, even now, and it stung, to know this might be the last time you’d ever see them.

“Alright. Tell me what I need to do.” you said, putting on a brave face, swallowing away your fear. The little girl you’d once been, so terrified of curses and Jujutsu, threatened to slip back into your body. You pushed her away, refusing to let her in.

Shoko pulled another cigarette out of the box. “I think we should speak alone.”

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tags: @killlerqween @chilichopsticks @voids-universe @createyourmoriarty @ifuckinghateschool @deadmarygolds @deffenferofjustice

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[darkdemeter]

BY THEIR LEASH

— WANDA MAXIMOFF COLUMN

Wanda Maximoff x Werewolf! Female Reader x Natasha Romanoff

—- gifs/images found on pinterest, credit to original posters -—

| A/N | DISCRETION |

Long overdue, finally knocking this one out before it gets retired to permanent draft status ughhhh... *proceeds to fall face first in tired raccoon*

Mafia stuff — mention of death — alcohol consumption (like a lot) — 18+ SMUT, MINORS DNI — Porn with plot? — lesbian sex — threesome — may be some grammar errors and such — slight bondage — little bit of muscle/stomach riding if you squint your eyes, turn your head that way... — I think that's it?

────────────────

| M-LIST | TAGLIST

@alexawynters @alyciaddict @simpforlizzie @literaturedog @maladaptive-daydreamz @mathxa @blackbirdv98

────────────────┘

  An expensive investment. A broad term to use for a werewolf broken in by the system at a young age. But it’s true. 

  Alexander Pierce, the finance manager and ringleader as a whole, did all he could to break you in, and to say he did is an understatement. He exceeded the limits you once believed you had and once you were ready, he put you out in the field to garner your reputation. 

You had no limits. Ruthless in your endeavour to complete whatever task was required of you, prepared to do whatever it took, your peers could only look at you with both fear and admiration. 

When all was said and done, you were given your collar, then sold through the underground hub for criminals: the black market. 

  That’s when you learnt in the span of the few minutes that the auction lasted for, that you were either a trophy to those of the higher class of crime, or a very wanted source of security and war. From black funding operators that had their hand in the military’s pit on the hunt for a war hound, to the gangster overlords who controlled territories in the differing states and countries, requiring some form of high end security, there was a very rapid increase in the price they were each willing to pay. 

  At a total of twenty-five million, your collar and services were sold to Mr. Tony Stark. From the sleek fit of a light grey, three piece suit and bright pink tie, Stark had a brighter outlook on the window of his underhand activities. He was the type that lounged back in the severity of his criminal dealings.

Unlike his fellow company who each wore darker palette suits of either navy blue or jet black. He stood out for sure as his auburn tinted glasses did little to hide the one question on his mind: Was his money well spent?

  Well, to say at the very least, you wouldn’t be here tonight if you weren’t worth every single cent he spent on you three years ago. 

  Thinking about the memory now, this is a different tone entirely. Dark and neon is how you remember the black market scene, stalls and cube stores with an assortment of supplies anyone in the business would need, whether that be for the amateurs - which were the usual target customers - or the smaller businesses which belonged to small cluster gangs. 

  The big time runners had designated storehouses to spare where they obtained their supplies, and ran other dealings and hand-offs in and out of private rooms in the clubs. 

  Here, the scene is warm, lavish and made for those who seek the comfort in living in marble halls and pristine white pillars, short cut grass and elaborate parties such as this one. 

“Shit, this party is awfully chipper for someone who died last week,” you huff, eyes scanning the crowd from the smooth, darkly polished bar, which you incidentally found very comfortable to lean back on when told for the hundredth time, “Just sit tight, just a little bit longer.” 

  You didn’t have the time nor patience to sit around getting older by the damn minute. Thankfully, Tony put his card behind the bar so that meant an endless river of drinks. Because you needed the alcohol. A lot. 

  Not a moment too late is your glass refilled with your refreshment. And not too soon after is it halfway downed.

  “Please, Y/N,” sighs Steve from your right side, arms folded over his chest, navy blue suit straining just a bit too tightly against his body, “have some respect for the Maximoff family. They lost their only male heir to a deal gone wrong. They need our support.”

Your shoulders rise with a particularly deep inhale before falling lax, you swirl the sliver of whiskey left in your glass and with a jerk of your wrist you finish it. Ice rattles in your glass as you shimmy it, indicating you need another refill and pronto. 

  “People live, people die. You cross someone and you get shot in the back. It happens.” 

  “He was gunned down in the streets with a fucking machine gun, Y/N. You consider that a mere shot in the back?”

  You shrug in response to Sam’s question with a pout of your bottom lip. “Pietro thought he was the shit. That’s what got him killed by Rumlow.” 

  Sam runs a hand over his face, now distressed by the lack of sincerity you show for the grieving family. “For fuck sake…”

  In the three years of your loyal work to the Stark family and those of his brotherhood - his allies - your colours shone through immensely to reveal a shining personality. Excluding the fact you’d become something of a playful rogue with the women. 

  You simply chalk it up to your animal magnetism. Something that leaves them wanting more whenever in the presence of your company.

  In fact, that was how Tony came to own unclaimed establishments and clubs in the boroughs, ones he wasn’t able to get his hands on before, but after he had you as a playable card in his hand, you provided club goers the relief of being harassed and drinks being spiked. Territorial take over schemes from rival gangs were second guessed when they saw you watching over the joint.

  The after hour visits for your libido were just the perks. But you left a lot of lustful and broken little hearts in the wake of your work. 

  For a werewolf, you were always assumed to be a means of security, and that much was true. Didn’t mean it excluded you from taking on other odd jobs for the families from time to time. Debt collection, assassinations, tailing and blackmail ops, the list is endless. 

  When Steve casts a hardened stare your way, you mockingly raise your hands up in surrender. 

  “Alright, I’ll offer my condolences to the heiress, but I ain’t weeping at her feet for her brother who got himself into that mess because he thought he was too big for his own shoes.”

  “Just behave yourself, alright? The last thing we need is the entirety of Europe at war with us.” You roll your eyes and salute the captain. “Yessir.”

  You bring the glass rim to your lips and draw a small gulpful of your renewed liquor, the fiery taste rolls over your tongue, you savour it to keep your sanity intact lest you go insane from the waiting. Where was the heiress? 

  “Well, well, I thought I wouldn’t see any of you again. Especially you.” Your head, as well as those of your group, direct their gaze to the new voice. The corners of your lips twitch up and you flash her a wolfish grin, chin tilting up slightly in your relaxed position against the bar. You looked like a cat happily laying in the sun. 

  “Miss Romanoff,” each of the men greeted with a nod of their heads. You, however, pat your thigh as an invitation for her to sit. “I had work to do the next morning.”

  “Mm, that’s what you tell the other girls, I’m sure.” You clap a hand to your chest with a wince. “You wound me, sweetheart. If I had the chance, I would have stayed.” 

  She hums but it’s obvious she doesn’t believe you by the rise in her brow. 

  Natasha Romamoff is a hard fish to catch. One of the more established families that control practically the entirety of Europe, alongside the Maximoff family, the two were partners and crafting an empire strong enough to stand on their own without any dire need for support. 

  Yes, her family had prior dealings with the brotherhood. The Starks, Wilsons, Barnes and Rogers and more, whether to collaborate on a bigger criminal project to the smaller portioned deals. Smuggled goods and weapons, blackmail intel deliverance, international bribery to keep the feds off your backs.

  But she never committed to joining forces. 

  You suppose it’s a good power move on her part. She doesn’t have to abide by any of the family creeds, in the end, you’re all loose ends that may potentially be severed if need be. She had the ball in her court and the mysterious Maximoff heiress. 

  Even your animal magnetism wasn’t enough to charm her into joining forces with Stark and his powerhouse of families, but they were surely enough to charm her into a wild one night stand. 

But as you told her. You had work to do. And now she appears to spurn you with her eyes and cruel words, but still entertains your flirtatious advances and indulges the empty space of your thigh.

  For a well respected mob boss such as herself, she definitely liked to play it risky; dressing included. 

  Last you saw her, she was dressed in a more professional manner. But here at this funeral party, whatever the fuck it was, she chose to wear a black, spaghetti strap cocktail dress that’s short enough to be skimming the mid of her thigh. The slit riding the dress up higher is just plain dangerous. 

  She’s facing you, back arched and arse resting on the cliff of your knee. Your clawed hand supports her at the small of her back. Her perfume is strong and complimenting, a sweet bouquet of lavender which rolls over the exposed tops of her breasts from her even more exposed neck. Her plump, red lips move in a way that’s hypnotic. “So I hear you’re going to be a bargaining chip for Wanda Maximoff.”

  “Where’d you hear that?” you scoff with a flick of your chin. 

  “I have spies who whisper to me,” she answers with a swift quirk of her brow. 

  Of course she overheard the news. She then chuckles softly, and all eyes watch her with a level of suspicion. “She won’t take any deal you offer her. She’s determined to steer clear of your little gang wars over in the states.”

  “Rumlow killed her brother and he has bases around our territories. Wouldn’t she appreciate the extra hands in catching the rat?” Bucky poses the question with a dark brow angled high and clenched jaw, the muscles in his cheeks flex harder when Natasha offers no affirmative response; a mark to hopefully land you in the door and good graces with the heiress. 

  “You really think she wants a guard dog?” 

  “Hey,” you growl with a wrinkle of your nose, fangs on the precipice of baring at her. How she used the term in a condescending manner made the fur beneath your skin bristle. Sam claps a hand to your shoulder, somehow able to sense the seething anger within you. 

  “We just want to help. Offer support for her loss and bring Rumlow down.”

  “No. You want a foothold in Europe. And I’m sorry but…” She looks you up and down, drinking in the sight of you and you know she can see you without your clothes on. “You’re not going to cut it, babe.”

  She turns her body to make her getaway but you don’t let her slip away just like that. She gasps and looks to you with a furrowed glare when your arm circles her waist and tugs her back until she’s flush against you, the men in your company watch with trepidation of your next course of action.

  “I will cut it because whether she wants to admit it or not, she needs us.”

  Natasha’s eyes, true to her fashion, darken with a challenge. “You’re wasting your time. She’ll get Rumlow herself.”

  “And if Rumlow plans to get her first?” For a moment you see the doubt cross her face. “That’s where she needs me.”

  “Tony Stark.” Each of the men turn to the voice behind them and their once cool and collected selves turn rigid, nervous under the power one woman can hold so absolute, her green eyes scan each of their faces before they land on you. 

  You finally look and meet her stare, still holding Natasha against you even as she tries to push away from you. 

  “Unhand her,” the woman commands with an accented tongue. 

  At first, you wanted nothing more than to play this out a little, see what makes this woman tick. But both Tony and Steve look at you, silent in their order, you sigh heavily and release Natasha. Once you do, she wastes no time in joining Wanda’s side with a bow of her head. 

  “I hear that you wished to have an audience with me.” 

  Wanda is the sole survivor of this ordeal. Her parents were assassinated two years ago and now her brother was killed. This is the stressed matter at hand, her empire could crumble to the ground, all that hard work put into the grave because she’s being so fucking stubborn with this deal.

  “I will not sign my family, nor any of my shares, to Stark Industries. Enough have I done to keep you out of the hands of law enforcement. I will handle Rumlow myself.”

  This isn’t how any of you hoped this would go. The grief has made her stronger than before. It wasn’t exactly you were waiting for the chance for her to have a weak spot and try your luck, but you all had thought she might even be at least a little desperate for extra help. 

  Natasha’s face says it all: I told you so. You can only roll your eyes and resume with what you’re doing. Refilling your empty glass with more liquor. You’ve yet to scratch the surface of being tipsy. 

  “Miss Maximoff, we only wish to help you. All we ask in return is that you grant us some territory to work with for our trade deals as payment, for support lent to you to catch Rumlow.” Steve is calm in his approach to reason with her, but if anything, her raised hand indicates her refusal, unswayed by the honey of his words. Your tongue rolls the rounds of your mouth, each time measured by your impatience as you slowly circle around the dealings table, unable to find yourself comfortable against the stiffened wood of your seat. 

  “You do realise that you’re asking for more than your so-called ‘support’ is actually worth.” You blink several times, the blow of it a downright attack on their egos. 

  “No, I want something more.”

  “And I want alcohol to affect me so I can sleep well at night,” you mutter to the glassy rim against your bottom lip. Wanda’s eyes flicker to you, bearing down a sinister glare. “Excuse me?”

  “And we were just about to suggest that very thing!” Tony interjects with a grin, eager to utilise his card, his Ace Wolf as he liked to call you. He gestures to where you stand now at the table’s other end.

  She directs her eyes to look you up and down slowly, gaze polished with keen observation. She hums thoughtfully before she looks to Natasha. 

  “E atât de bună?”

  The red haired chuckles and sitting back in her chair, chest heaving with a breathy sigh, she nods. 

  “Exceptional de bun. Cu o limbă ca asta…”

  Bucky shifts in his seat, a hollow whistle on his lips over the exchange of heated words, and you flash a grin at both women. The words of foreign tongue, however, pass over the heads of the other men, their eyes looking to either you or Bucky only to be answered with a shrug, but knowing that look in your eyes, they can take a good guess as to what’s being discussed. 

  With another passing frame of time, both women pull away from their engrossed conversation. “I’ve been made aware that you intend to bargain your wolf to me,” she says, once again letting her sight fall on you. 

  “And if that is the case, and what I have been told…” She trails off momentarily, finding to correct herself in the midst of something you can smell very clearly on her - or rather between her legs. “Then I’ll accept.”

  Each man present in the room is given pause to revel in the stun before them. Wanda Maximoff, the heiress of Europe’s biggest family, accepts their deal. All at the price of you. 

“You’ll have your answer by tomorrow, Mr Stark,” Wanda says, standing from her chair, she beckons you to follow with a kink of her fingers. One by one and following in unison, their eyes turn to you as you shuffle back on your heel with shrug your shoulders and fanged grin.

  “Animal magnetism, boys.”

  Wanda’s heels bound a steady beat as she wanders over to the foot of her bed, making an elegant show of swaying her hips and drawing your attention to her form. From behind, Natasha slips the dark suit jacket from your shoulders. Tosing it aside, her hands play the form of an enchanting guide, ushering you forward while tracing the hidden curves of your muscles. 

  “As per courtesy, Miss Maximoff wants the first claim.” 

  You huff in reply, “And you?”

  Natasha hums softly and plucks your belt loose from your trousers. “I have you two, I won’t go unsatisfied tonight.”

  Tilting your head to view Wanda who stands idle, fingers playing with the lining of her dress above her breasts, you stalk towards her, her back arching under your touch with a breathless whimper, you trail the zip of her gown down slowly. Falling around her ankles as a fabricated halo, she turns suddenly and your lips collide together in hunger.

  She sinks down to the bed, laying back until her hair fans around her, spreading her legs apart. That feverish hunger boils within your blood, running it hold and thick, the fur beneath your skin bristled in your excitement as you take care to roll the sleeves of your skirt to your elbows. To your knees, you’re brought to the sight of her soaked underwear, the dark patch evidently giving away just how badly she required you between her quivering thighs. Natasha’s hands rake through the length of your hair and scratches at your scalp, earning a low purr of pleasure to rumble in your chest. 

You lean forward and all it takes is a single inhale and you’re let loose of your chain of control, claws shearing the fabric that dares to confine her awaiting cunt any longer. She gasps upon contact, your lips smothering her moistened, slick lips and she gives a deep-noted moan, arching her hips up, your hands wrap around her thighs to drag her to you more. 

 She tastes like the fine wines of heaven, a forbidden savour on the tongue that which you greedily lap, your eyes close as you succumb to the wolf’s hunger, tongue lapping heavily at her clit.

  She whines and cries, breath hot and light in her lungs as her nails rip into the sheets to no damaging avail.  Natasha hovers above, watching on in her own longing and desire. She dips a hand beneath the hem of her dress, aside she pushes her own soaked panties and delicately dances her fingers over the sensitive bulb with a keening breath you hear catch in her throat. 

  Natasha leans down low until the scape of her breasts brushes against your shoulder blade, lips a tantalising thing and moving sinfully to mouth, “I’m touching myself to you.”

  “Watching you please her is making me so wet, Wolf.”

  “Make us both cum.”

  You growl deeply and Wanda’s body visibly shudders in response to the wild vibrations that course through her abdomen, shaking her whole and off centre, her hips begin to jerk as she nears her climax. Both women mingle in their euphoria and your own core comes to life, sparked by the noises they make in unison, an orchestra of pleasure. Suckling and licking at her core, she cries out and the lips of her pussy shrink around absence and she sighs in bliss. In tandem, Natasha moans loudly from behind and you feel her body press against you as her hand works hard as fucking her fingers into her cunt, the sound of slick and skin melding together addicting.

  “You weren’t… kidding, Nat,” she says between laboured breaths. 

  Slowing your advances, you finally pull away with a sigh, her juices glistening on your lips. Wanda looks at you and her cheeks flush at the sight before Natasha’s other hand forces your attention to her. Her lips connect with yours and her tongue darts over the bottom of yours, tasting Wanda with a delicious sound that you swallow. 

  After she pulls from you, she then shares a look with Wanda and the two of them grin. “Shall we reward her?” 

  “I think she’s been a girl.”

  Oh, how the wolf loves that. Praise for a job well done you can hardly suppress your proud smirk. Buu before you can do much else, Natasha pushes you and your knees are knocked out from beneath you, Wanda having rolled to the side only to follow Natasha’s lead as they both halfway straddle you, otherwise keeping you pinned to the mattress below. 

  Together they peel away your dress pants, giggling and muttering to one another in that alluring tongue, your mind in a haze to catch barely a sentence shared between them but you gained awareness of what they intended when they each stroked their tongues over your stimulated pearl. 

  “‘Sh–shit!” you hiss sharply and your hips buck, the two women giggling at the sight of you writhing. 

  They give no further warning as they duck down. Their mouths work together against your clit, suckling it to draw pathetic whines from that deep part inside you dare not let anyone see, their voices trespass the air with betraying praises that speak only of teases and their tongues lap at the slick of your pussy that clenches at the attention. Your hands grapple the sheets and tear hard, the damage unnoted and not cared for. 

  “Girls– fuck!” you groan at the rise in your core, oh so ready to reach that climactic end that you have been denied for the past several weeks. It’s not too long that your first release has you whining, the nois a higher pitched sound that does slowly in broken notes as you cum, the girls moaning and allowing their lips to graze one another as they lapped and sucked you. 

  Wanda is the first to make eye contact and move towards you, her leg swoops over to fully straddle your stomach, in her hands is your belt. She rips the centre of your shirt apart, buttons flying to discarded corners of the room to be mere pebbles of disregard.

  You see the way her eyes drink in the sight of your toned muscles, the pinky tip of her tongue darting over her wet lips. 

  She adores the way you tilt your head to the side, a curious whine on your lips. “I’ve always wanted something on a leash. May I?”

  You don’t particularly care for the way her question hits a mark submerged deeper into your heart, reaching for something you denied was there. Dignity. Usually people just took from you and you came to accept that. Expect it. 

  You nod up at her and she fixes the belt around the column of your neck, the leather cool against the blazing heat of your skin, but something inside you flutters. Quickly, you push it down. 

  Natasha moves into the same position behind Wanda, your larger size very much able to accommodate both of them, Natasha trails light kisses along Wanda’s shoulder as she fastens the belt and gives an experimental tug. A soft grunt kitchen in your throat in retort and you flash her a grin, the sharpened points of your fangs perched against your bottom lip. 

  “The wolf never let me tame her, Miss Maximoff.”

  “Oh, she just needed some reassurance,”Wanda replies gently with a smile. For a moment, you wanted to believe her words were sincere. Your hands run along Wanda’s thighs until they reach her hips and with a roll forward, she grinds her pussy against your torso, feeling the defined muscles press and tense against her, bringing her to moan under her breath. Natasha drapes a hand over your own to roll and pinch Wanda’s swollen clit, her eyes finding yours.

  “Watch her,” she commands breathlessly and you do so, amber glows in fluorescent pulses as Wanda biomes slick with her arousal. The fine artistry of their bodies moving together as they roll and grind against you, you cannot help but reach a hand up, claw catching the thin silk of Wanda’s bra and severing the contraption into two, letting it fall and reveal her plump breasts; her nipples erect. 

  Wanda circles an arm behind her and behind Natasha’s head, her back arching to the pleasure she becomes lost in, and you purely enjoy the show above, admiring the glow of sweat collecting on their skin, groaning as their slick covers your stomach as they ride you. The hand working Wanda’s clit speeds up and then slows, teasing the heiress, she gives you a sly grin. 

  “Do that thing with the claws,” she says and Wanda’s eyes open, as if awakening from her bliss and becoming enlightened with wonderment. 

  “W-what thing?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  You sit by the bed, elbow propped up on the chair’s arm with a glass in your grasp, imagination lost in the reverie of last night’s events with a smirk carved into your mouth. Both women lay wrapped together, bodies nude and pressed up to each other as they continue to sleep. You surely tired them out. 

  Thankfully and mostly dressed whenTony came wandering in, the band of his fellow brothers staying just beyond the room’s threshold, though it still didn’t make to hide the snarl creeping up your throat as the sudden intrusion. You take a sip of your drink as Tony scans the room, gaze flickering between the two women and you who bares an illuminated glare at him.

  “What the hell happened last night?”

  “We got her affirmative answer on the deal,” you answer with a raise of your glass in cheers before downing the last of your drink.

[your-bestamericangirl]

Midnight Love - ch. 5 PREVIEW

Paige Bueckers x Reader

previous: .4 - april || masterlist

a/n: cuz ik i've been taking SO fucking long getting this chapter done heres a little snippet <3

Competition was essential.

 That sole fact compelled her to push herself to her limits. One foot rested precariously on a plateau's edge, a product of the unsolicited perceptions built by those around her. She had grown accustomed to the imbalance that came with this position—a constant threat of being toppled down by a mere grain of salt, reducing her to someone deemed unworthy by those with gold running through their veins.

What was silver in comparison to gold?

Who could she be, if not the best? Maybe there was an answer, somewhere stored within her future mind. 

But right now, time couldn’t be wasted. 

“The excitement has been building all summer long and now it’s opening night for the UConn women’s basketball team!”

The stadium was swarming with white and blue. At a different time, the display would’ve fuelled (Y/n)'s play, her energy weaving through theirs with a force strong enough to propel her to victory.

But now, the sight had been unwillingly injected into her system. Unfortunately, within the swarm, there was a bug. She knew it was there, camouflaged among the hive created around her and her teammates. An unwelcome bug, disguised within a perfect girl.

“Headline number one of the night is the return to play for the Huskies for the former national player of the year Paige Bueckers missing most of the last two seasons.”

(Y/n)’s eyes swept to the side, locking onto the blond.

Paige had been born to perform for others. Her hair weaved into delicate braids radiated her essence, forming the halo relaying her status. (Y/n) watched her blue eyes scan the crowd, consuming the hive that had been built for her. One look at the expression the blond held would have people aware that she had already won. Poised on the halfcourt line, the essence of confidence, she stood back straight, eyes back focusing on the ball.

“Headline #2 is seeing how Uconn’s newest addition, The People’s Princess-- (Y/n) (L/n), can impact this already powerhouse of a team. Let’s see how she’ll prove herself today.”

Heavy is the head that wears the crown.

Chin up, eyes steeled to the court, (Y/n) felt her rubber soles grip the hardwood floors with vigor, anchoring her in place. The thrumming of her heart melded with the crowd’s cheers, overwhelming her senses. The true impact of today's game would only reveal itself later. In this moment, She was ensnared by the weight of insignificant perceptions deemed imperative. Throughout her life, she had emulated those who had succeeded before her. As a child, she layered multiple socks just to fit into shoes she wasn’t made to wear. She played pretend, adorning herself with medals she wasn’t yet worthy to wear.

 She may not have been born to perform, but either way, (Y/n) wasn’t born to lose.

taglist: @kenzie-luvzz , @juphey , @h34rtsformilli , @pinkandlilacroses , @i-bribri-i , @thatonemarvelfan03 , @girlokwhatever , @ihrtthotdads , @kc88888888 , @nfleditsrjustbetteridk , @imsobabygiirl , @vi0lentb3rry , @sejus-wife , @katemlk , @littlelesbianinternujung, @ktaerssoi, @evangelinexo , @c999sh , @yazmunson , @choibeomkai , @ekisokay

[ohnoitstbskyen]

Hello TBSkyen, I have a question for you. I myself am a person who's interested in making videos about art and posting them on youtube but have heard pretty much every youtuber I watch complain about youtube's unfair copyright system. So I would like to ask, how do you typically deal with that? What do I need to do to decrease the chance of a video getting claimed/struck? I know you don't have all the answers but I would like to hear the opinion of someone who has had to deal with this.

*deep breath born from long history of frustration*

Okay, so number one, you can't protect yourself fully from that. Anyone can file a copyright claim on anything you upload for any reason, they don't have to have evidence that they own the work being claimed, and all of the onus is on you to prove you didn't commit infringement by disputing the claims being made.

Which sucks.

It's a very frustrating thing to deal with, and it can make it nearly impossible to discuss certain properties or media because the owners (or a bunch of shitty grifters abusing the copyright system) will strike and claim anything and everything they can possibly identify.

Having said that, there are some tips and tricks. First, understand the principle of Fair Use (which is American law, and which is usually what you have to deal with on YouTube, but not always), which Casey Fiesler has a good video primer about here:

The broad strokes are that you can use as much as is needed to make a transformative point and then no more than that. The spirit of the law is that you can't use Fair Use to simply repost and profit off of other people's work, and the reality of how it's enforced is that bots scan YouTube for instances of videos using Too Much of the media they're protecting, and claim it as infringement.

So. If you're discussing any kind of video media - film, TV, animation, etc. - use clips of no more than 5-8 seconds of continuous footage, and do not use the original audio of the show unless it is necessary. You can sometimes get away with longer stretches of footage, but anything over 10 seconds is just begging for an automated copyright claim.

Shrink the footage down on screen and put a frame around it so it doesn't take up the entire screen, edit something on top of the footage like animations and other edits that transform the footage, maybe slow the footage down to a lower speed so that your video can't be construed as a meaningful replacement for watching the original media.

If you're discussing static art - comics, paintings, etc. - make sure to double check the copyright status on them, and keep in mind the principle of using what is needed to make a point and no more than that. If you discuss a manga or comic, be careful about simply showing whole pages unaltered on screen if it's not necessary. Show the panels or dialogue as you discuss it, but don't put whole pages or issues or chapters up on screen in sequence.

There are other tips and tricks and guidelines and hacks also, but if you're discussing any popular form of media you do have to be ready to have to fight a ton of spurious copyright claims on anything you do, especially if it gets views and becomes popular. It's a long process of filing disputes and waiting 30 days for them to get dropped before you can publish your video, it sucks.

[buckets-and-trees]

Fandom: MCU Title: The Pool Party Op Characters/Pairings: Bucky Barnes x female!Reader, Sharon Carter Word Count: 1.2k 

Summary: Post TFATWS. The Power Broker hasn't made any major plays, but finding out who they are is still a priority. Bucky has been working on and off with Sharon to track them down as there are potential leads. This mission has them attending a luxury pool party in The Maldives.

Content Warnings: sexual situations (kissing, vaginal fingering, vaginal penetration), strong language Logistical Notes: Filling my twelfth square for Bucky Barnes Bingo @buckybarnesbingo - Y5 "Pool Party" - and Hot Bucky Summer Week 8 - "How did you meet?" undercover mission, high stakes op.

↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

“You’re sure that–“

“Yes, I’m sure, Bucky,” Sharon cut him off over the comms. “I’ve told you a hundred times. Everyone here lives in the grey area and after everything you were technically responsible for leading with the Thunderbolts team, the status of you as the reformed and squeaky-clean good boy is not a widely held belief anymore.”

“I know you managed to get me on the Power Broker’s guest list, but I still think this is too easy,” Bucky murmured loud enough for Sharon to hear.

“Tell me when you haven’t been able to trust me.”

He sighed. “I know.”

“And if things go sideways and you have to go full Winter Soldier mode on someone, all the better for convincing them you’re back in the Big Bad Business.”

“It just feels weird to know I’ll be strutting around with the arm on full display.”

“So that’s the real problem. It’s a pool party. People will look at your arm, but then your abs are going to steal the show.”

Bucky could feel the immediate flush of heat rushing up his neck, over his ears, and cheeks.

“I’ll get you in. The plan will work. Just be ready to improvise – I only told you half the plan because I knew you would argue with me over the rest of it. I’m going radio silent now so you can’t bitch at me and because that was already part of the plan anyway. Make good choices, Buck. I’ll check in with you in twenty and see you at the extraction point in forty-five.”

Bucky closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and took a few deep breaths. This was, in fact, not the first time Sharon had gone rogue on a mission, but he did trust the track record they had together. He would never tell her a part of him reveled in the challenge that went with working blind or having to improvise. She didn’t need that kind of encouragement.

And he trusted her, which was more than he could say for most of the people he got assigned to work with or who assigned him to missions these days.

Bucky was always wary of putting operatives who were basically civilians into the field during missions, but he understood that sometimes the objective required it to ensure they achieved their objective.

Sharon had told him that much – that he would be working with a desk agent and providing cover for the mission in addition to actual security and extraction if it came to it. She said she would be talking to his assignment when he arrived, they would make eye contact, and then Sharon would move out so Bucky could move in.

They still didn’t have credible leads on the identity of the Power Broker, but merely being at the party, Sharon was going to mingle and grab facial scans for as many people as she could with the photo-contacts she’d been issued while Bucky assisted with the other key objective.

The Power Broker’s communications were behind an impenetrable wall that the team at the CIA had been unable to hack for over a year, so when they got a tip the Power Broker was hosting a glamorous end of season pool party at their luxury vacation home – or in this case, summer fortress. The play was to bring one of the CIA’s top hackers to a party Sharon was tapping into some of her old Madripoor experience to get them on the list for, and access and bleed whatever information they could from inside the system.

That hacker was you.

He sighed when he saw it was going to be a standard meet-cute play, sneak into the house to find someplace more private, and clearly that place would be the home office. He excused himself from the present company he’d been an idle party to conversation with and moved to the steps out of the pool, grabbed a towel from the rack, and wrapped it around his waist, then grabbed two drinks off a tray one of the servers was circulating around the crowd and approached you.

The plan was good. He didn’t like it at first, but he was sold on it now.

His lips on your neck, his right hand cupping your mound and his left hand palming the delightful weight of your breast in his left hand, grinding his hips against your ass, this plan was perfect.

The soft, broken whimpers escaping your mouth were satisfying, indulging a hunger he didn’t know he’d been suppressing until it was finally unleashed in this moment. Now he didn’t want to stop.

It seemed like you didn’t want him to stop either. 

The person who had come to check on the room and “caught” them was long gone, wouldn’t be coming back any time soon, and if they did they seemed too mortified to do more than check for noises and maybe knock on the door, but Bucky could tell they wouldn’t open the door again, so… he could stop, but there seemed no reason not to carry on.

He pressed hot kisses along the column of your throat from the base up to just below your ear, then paused to ask, “This okay?”

“Yes, yes,” you managed.

“You want–“

“More,” you moaned, putting your left hand over his to encourage him to continue his ministrations there, and clutched at his bicep with the other.

He didn’t need more encouragement than that. Bucky sunk two fingers into your slick cunt, and you rocked up against him. He smiled and licked the shell of your ear.

“Bucky…”

Your tone seemed almost hesitant, so he slowed for a moment. “What is it?”

“I mean more, Bucky,” you said.

“Fuck,” he groaned as you pushed back roughly against his hard cock. “You can have it, doll.”

Your hands reached back to tug his swim trunks down. He took over, pushing them down his thighs, and you hooked your own fingers into your swim bottoms to drag them down, and you leaned forward, resting your forearms against the desk, presenting your pretty pussy for him.

Fuck.

Okay.

He lined up the head of his cock with your slit, then pushed in and gripped your hips. The first full thrust he took slowly, sinking in balls deep. You were such a shy thing, and half of the fun once he’d discovered that had been flustering you, standing too close – because he needed to in order to keep the cover intact, the intentional but not strictly necessary touches, and now to have you decidedly not shy any longer as he pumped in and out of you.

He could do more missions like this.

↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

[officialclangen]

March Update!

March update is available on itch.io! Check out the changelog below:

New white patches: MAO, CHESTSPECK, PAINTED, WINGS, and BLACKSTAR.

Skin color now affects the inside of cats' ears.

New nylon collars - plus indigo and white variants of all color types.

You can now delete saved clans on the Switch Clan Screen.

New camp background: Grotto

New fading effect. Previously, cats became more transparent as they got closer to fading. This has been replaced with a three-stage "unraveling" effect.

Added many new kittypet and loner names.

Grief system has been expanded to give more unique death reactions based on the trait and mate status of the living cat.

New backstories!

"Bee sting", "headache", and "severe headache" are now potential injuries. "Persistent headaches" have been added as a permanent condition.

Lost cats can now return to the clan via moon events!

Lost cats can now die randomly, rather than just from old age.

New background for the Unknown Residence Screen.

Kittypets, loners, and rogues have a chance to appear in the "Cats outside the Clan" tab. These cats have a chance to join the clan during patrols.

Returning to the main menu or closing the game will now cause a pop-up window to appear, which will ask if you want to save your clan before proceeding.

Lots of new patrol art!

Added a setting to control the display of gore in patrol art. Gore is turned off by default.

New patrols!

Added a handful of new mediator moon events.

If there are no warriors that have trained apprentices in the clan, a random warrior will be selected to be deputy. A special event text will be displayed for this situation.

New scar system for patrols on Classic Mode.

Previously, a bug was preventing patrol outcomes that rely on traits or skills. This bug has been fixed. This doubles the amount of accessible patrol outcomes!

Allow more variety in tortie base colors, including ginger-on-ginger torties.

Many new ceremonies, including special ceremonies for dead mentors and parents.

The code for moon events has been rewritten to allow for more flexibility and utility.

The limit on mediating has been reworked. Each mediator may mediate once per moon, rather than a global "one mediate per moon" limit. However, a single pair of cats can only be mediated between once per moon.

Murder events are now affected by relationship values.

Moon events regarding other clans now trigger based on your relation with the other clan.

A variety of game-chances have been moved game_config.json, in the resources folder. This will allow players to more easily edit chances, if they desire.

Star is no longer a possible prefix for clanborn cats.

When a kittypet that has a multi-word name joins the clan, there is a chance for them to pick only one word from their previous name to use as their prefix.

Cats who cannot work are no longer eligible mentors for new apprentices.

Male tortie chance has been significantly lowered - they now occur at a similar rate to shinies in pokemon games.

Affairs now work!

Mediate will now correctly affect trust, romantic like, and platonic like.

Mediators and mediator apprentices will no longer retire due to permanent conditions.

Clicking on a cat on the family page will now take you to that cat's family page, allowing for easier scanning through family lines. You can still access their profile by shift-clicking.

Reduced age at which cats fade to 202 moons.

Chance to develop "Lasting Grief" has been reduced.

And many other bugfixes!

[blueiskewl]

US Returns $80 Million-Worth of Stolen Artifacts to Italy

It looked more like a museum exhibition of Italian art than a crime scene, but in the Central Institute for Restoration’s offices, located inside a former women’s prison in central Rome, some 600 works of art were put on display Tuesday morning.

Ranging from life-sized bronze statues to tiny Roman coins, from oil paintings to mosaic flooring, the pieces span the 9th century BC to the 2nd century AD and amount to just one year’s stolen and trafficked art confiscated by Manhattan prosecutor Col. Matthew Bogdanos’ team and returned to Italy.

The trafficked works, pillaged from the Italian regions of Lazio, Campania, Puglia, Calabria and Sicily, were sequestered in New York and New Jersey last year.

The returned works, together with 60 items repatriated last year, are worth more than $80 million (or roughly €73.6 million) — but are just a drop in the bucket when it comes to artwork still hidden away in private warehouses and on display in museums in the United States, Bogdanos said on the sidelines of a presentation to the media on Tuesday.

Bogdanos said the $80 million of items does not include a further 100 items his team has just seized in the US.

What makes the seizure and return of stolen artifacts so difficult is that authorities often have no idea what they are looking for, according to Gen. D. Francesco Gargaro, commander of the Carabinieri for the Protection of Cultural Heritage.

“When artifacts are taken from clandestine graves, they have never been cataloged,” he said. That means that, in addition to the items themselves, their historical context was stolen, robbing archaeologists of valuable information. (Instead, investigators work backwards, assessing paperwork and provenance claims for artifacts provided by their owners, as well as undertaking technical tests to best confirm a piece’s true origins.)

Most of the recent items returned to Italy were dug out of clandestine excavations or stolen from churches, museums and private individuals, Gargaro said.

Among the items on display on Tuesday was a cuirass and two bronze heads dating back to the 4th-3rd century BC that were confiscated from a gallery owner in New York.

There was also an Umbrian bronze statue depicting a warrior stolen from an Italian museum in 1962 that was found in a well-known American museum.

And a mosaic floor depicting the myth of Orpheus enchanting wild animals with the sound of the lyre from the mid-3rd to mid-4th century AD was recovered after being stolen from a clandestine excavation in Sicily in the early 1990s. It was confiscated from the private collection of a well-known New York collector.

Italy’s Carabinieri Cultural Heritage Protection unit uses artificial intelligence to search for stolen cultural assets under a new program called “Stolen Works Of Art Detection System” (SWOADS), which searches for taken items by scanning the web and social media for images.

“The return to Italy of cultural assets of such importance, both for their numerical consistency and for their historical-artistic value, is another significant achievement, Italy’s culture ministry undersecretary Gianmarco Mazzi said Tuesday.

“In addition to being works of art of inestimable value, they represent the high expression of our history, our culture and our national identity.”

In 2023 alone, 105,474 pieces of art worth more than €264 million (or $287 million) were found and confiscated worldwide thanks to the artificial intelligence project, according to Gargaro.

By Barbie Latza Nadeau.

[bullet-prooflove]

Gunpowder & Lead: Filip 'Chibs' Telford x Reader

Tagging: @corruptedcoffin @anime-weeb-4-life @redpoodlern @ravencrow83 @kishie8 @nu1freakshow @oureternalbond

Companion Piece to Safe

You’re gone when Chibs wakes up and so is the gun on his nightstand. It doesn’t take him long to connect the two things. You’re smart, you know the serial numbers have been removed, that none of what you do will blow back on him. He knows exactly what you’re going to do, he kicks himself for not seeing it sooner.

“Fuck.” He snarls, snatching up his cell phone and dialling your number. He gets your voicemail immediately. He snaps his phone shut so hard, he hears the plastic creak.

You’ve taken away his options, left him no room to manoeuvre. It both impresses and infuriates him. He can’t believe he underestimated you. He’s seen you in the courtroom for Christ’s sake, you’re fiercely intelligent, with nerves of fucking steel. You’ve kept him and the entire MC out of prison over your tenure as their lawyer, utilising a broken system and wielding it as if it’s a tool crafted especially for your hand.

He sits on the edge of his bed and clasps his hands together for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts and string together a plan because this shit is gonna end up with you dead if you aren’t careful.

He goes to your house, he knows you aren’t there despite the fact your car is in the driveway, you aren’t stupid. He picks up the cat statue your mother bought you, the one that you absolutely hate, and removes the spare key from underneath it. When he steps through the door, the stench of urine hits him straight away.

It’s only now that he realises the reality of your situation, what forced you to his house last night.

The living room is destroyed, the glass coffee table has been smashed, shards scattered throughout the carpet. All of those precious little artifacts, the ones from your travels, that used to rest upon the mantlepiece are in smithereens, fragments ground into the plush fabric underfoot. Your bookshelves have been yanked from the walls; pages scattered across the floor from being torn out. It’s when he steps into the affray that he sees the stain on the couch, the damp puddle marring the fabric and sinking into the cushions.

“The dirty bloody bastard.” he hisses as he stares at the spot the two of you made love a couple of days ago, the one that’s now drenched in piss.

He remembers the blanket draped over his hips as he smiled down at you. Your fingertips trailing over the scars on his cheek.

“Filip.” You had murmured as you looked into his eyes, his thumb ghosting over your lips. He’d silenced you with a kiss, one that was loving and tender, because as much as he wanted to hear those words on your lips, he wasn’t ready. He couldn’t vocalise how he felt for you, but he could show you with his body. He could worship you the way you deserved, express it with his actions.

It’s as he stands there, reliving that moment that he spots the wadded up ball of paper. He reaches for it, grasping it in his hand before he smoothed it out upon the sideboard that used to hold a picture of your niece and nephew.

It’s a divorce decree.

He scans over the document, processing the information as he studies it.

After months of delays and frustration, your divorce had finally come through yesterday.

You’re a free woman.

There were teeth marks on the decree, he could imagine it being shoved into your mouth with two fingers, stifling your agony as he stubbed that cigarette out just under your collarbone. The fingertip bruising on your jaw made sense to him now, the piece of shit had forced it shut as he seared your skin a second time and then a third, marking you.

His gaze lingers on the name and address at the top of the paper, it isn’t yours. It’s your ex’s.

Chibs can see how it all played out. That scumbag getting the letter in the mail, after fighting you for so long, avoiding court dates, challenging your assets. The document was probably still clutched in his hand when he’d come to your house, to teach you a lesson, to remind you that a piece of paper meant nothing, that you still belonged to him.

There was a fury whipping up inside him, it swirled like a hurricane, building and building and building until the rage and indignation erupted through his system like an IED. He was going to kill him; he was going to wrap his hands around that vicious son of a bitch’s throat and choke him until his eyes bulged and his face turned slack.

His gaze strays to the address in his hand, he knows where it is, he knows that is where you’ll be.

When Chibs arrives, he finds you sitting in a chocolate brown La-Z-Boy, smoking a cigarette over a corpse. His Beretta has been carefully placed on the end table, alongside a marble ashtray.

The bruising on your face is more predominant that it was last night, the true extent of the damage revealing itself. Your eye is bloodshot, the vessels around the iris blossoming with crimson. You look a right state, but there’s a calmness in you, one, that he knows comes in the aftermath of neutralizing a threat.

“You shouldn’t be here.” You tell him, crushing the butt of the cigarette into the base of the ashtray.

“Aye.” He says before gesturing to the body of your ex-husband. “What was the plan?”

You shook your head as your gaze came to rest on the dead man, sprawled out on the laminate in front of you. You remember the surprise on Peter’s features when he turned around and saw the gun. The dumb fuck had let you in, thinking you were going to fucking grovel. He had expected you to get on your knees and beg for forgiveness.

“There wasn’t one.” You tell him as Chibs crouches down beside the body to examine it. “I just knew he wasn’t going to stop.”

“Christ love, you emptied an entire clip into him.” he remarks, with the shake of his head. “I doubt we could argue self-defence.”

You remove another cigarette from the pack on the end table before putting it between your lips and lighting it. You take a long drag before exhaling.

“Just go Filip.” You urge him. “I’ll make sure none of this leads back to you.”

He tilts his head examining the size and built of the body. There’s not a chance you’ll be able to help lift it, not in the shape you’re in. He can tell the painkillers have worn off from the slight clench of your jaw. He still has that hook up in the crematorium, he can get Juice to drive the van down from the garage, help with the clean-up. He trusts the other man to keep his mouth shut unless asked about it directly. He raises to his feet, clapping his hands together before he turns his attention onto you.

You mean it, he can tell from the steely look in your eyes as you watch him.

Right now he’s in the clear, if he gets on his bike and leaves, it’ll be like he was never here. You on the other hand, you’ll be facing 25 to life for the murder of your ex-husband. There will probably be extenuating circumstances from the beating you took, you’d get time shaved off for pleading out, a reduced sentence in Central California’s Women’s Facility.

The thought of it kills him, you serving time, your ex husband getting the last laugh form beyond the grave. He hopes the fucker is burning in hell, getting ass fucked by the devil himself.

“Alright love. I’ve got a plan.”

Love Chibs? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[firefirefruit]

Steel in Her Veins, Chapter: Twenty-Eight

Read On: AO3 | Table of Contents | Next Chapter

Characters: Fem!Reader x Roronoa Zoro

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Sugar and Spice and Everything… Sooty

Raya races all the way up the ladder, her breath staggering in her lungs like a hellhound set on a bedevilled chase. She leans against the door, lips parting for the sharp and successive breaths to leave her system, her arms firmly curling over the heavy crate of alcohol she’s managed to swipe from the kitchen.

A heavy quake stammers across the surface of the crate, vibrations pulsing through the glass bottles like a fissure ready to spill. Almost unwillingly, she cranes her neck downwards to the mysterious assault, and when she realises the source of the ruckus, her lips fold into a heavy grimace.

Across the surface of the box lies the shattered remnants of Kikoku, humming and shuddering in such a startlingly low pitch, that its voice could raise devil spawn to grace human land.

Fuck, she hisses to herself. What has she gotten herself into?

Through the brown strands of her windswept hair, her eyes pierce down at Roronoa who reluctantly grabs the ladder by his firm hands as he heaves himself forward.

This is all his fault, she thinks to herself - a thought she finds herself repeating more and more often as a source of respite.

“I don’t get what you want me to do,” he grumbles out, a tied bottle of sake dangling from in between his teeth. His feet smoothly trace along the next ledge of the ladder. “I don’t know how to make swords. I don’t know how to -”

“Don’t try to weasel your way out of this, Roronoa. You’re guarding me,” Raya instantly replies, leaning over the high ledge of the crow’s nest. Her eyes briefly scan through the crowd of pirates, impatient fingers fumbling over the bannister like a worried mother.

“Guard?” Zoro immediately bursts into a scoff. He climbs the last ledge with one effortless leap, his boots creaking against the wooden panels of the floor. “You’re actually being serious?”

Raya doesn’t look at him - instead, she squints her eyes even harder, trying to filter through the mass of drunken moving bodies. “Look – he’s there.”

You subtly nudge your head downwards to a certain narrow-eyed pirate’s direction. Thankfully, after begging for Nami’s help to keep him distracted, it seems like he’s actually starting to loosen up. You notice there’s a beer curled within his inked fingers, and every so often he lifts that same bottle up to his lips, liquid pouring into his mouth with a sharp swig.

Into a smiling mouth, to be precise.

Raya gapes at him a little, and despite the hellish circumstance she’s in, a little grin appears on her lips as she takes in his countenance.

He’s actually been smiling for more than two seconds so far – isn’t that some sort of new record for Law or what? Raya thinks to herself.

"Look, he's all tipsy right now," she explains, turning back to face Zoro with a frown reserved only for the likes of him. "But we both know he'll snap out of it soon enough. And when he does, he's going to climb all the way up here and beat both our asses up. You're here to make sure he doesn't catch us off guard."

Zoro stares at her, clearly unimpressed with his designated role. "So, I'm the one who has to deal with his whining while you get to…?"

Raya stares back at him, clearly unimpressed with his reaction. “Roronoa, I’m fixing the goddamn sword you fell on. You guarding me sounds like a walk in the park compared to what I have to do.”

And for a moment, they’re locked in a silent staring contest.

Raya's eyes are narrowed in determination, her gaze like twin laser beams boring into Zoro's skull. She looks like a furious wet cat ready to swipe her paws at the source of her irritation - or maybe more like a stubborn toddler refusing to back down from a standoff with a particularly dead statue.

Zoro, on the other hand, looks like he’s trying to channel his inner rock, his expression stony and unyielding. But there’s a twitch in his eyebrow, a hint of something dancing in his eyes, as if he’s secretly enjoying this absurd standoff with her.

But just when it seems like the silence might go on forever, a small, involuntary twitch at the corner of Zoro's mouth gives him away. Raya catches it immediately and can’t help but smirk triumphantly, knowing she’s won this round.

"Glad you agree," she replies, her voice laced with sarcasm. She throws him a bottle of beer, flipping her hair in his face.

With an irritated grunt and a shuffle away, Zoro instinctively catches the bottle and takes a long swig, his gaze fixed on Law as he monitors his movements. For a while, the two of them stand in silence, the only sounds being the distant ruckus of music and voices and the gentle creaking of the ship blending beneath them.

“Whatever. Let’s go inside before he sees us fucking around up here,” he murmurs. And with a swift spin and snatch, the crates of clinking alcohol disappear from Raya’s arms and into the swordsman’s. While he casually strides into the crow’s nest. Raya remains standing there blinking stupidly, completely taken off guard by his quick-handed thievery.

With that, the realisation rises, a growl set on her face as she stomps after Zoro, hot on his heels.

“Don’t forget we’re sharing those!” she hisses.

In response, the swordsman rolls his eyes but doesn't protest, knowing that arguing with Raya will only prolong their time on deck where they risk being spotted by Law. He sets the crates down with a thud, and they both settle into a comfortable silence as they crack open the bottles and down their drinks.

Zoro’s expression is unreadable as he surveys the mess before him. "So, what's the plan?" he asks, his voice gruff but curious.

Raya sighs, running a hand through her thick hair as she tries to gather her thoughts. "First, I need to assess the damage," she says, leaning her elbows over the table above the broken sword. "Then… I guess I’ll get cooking…"

Zoro nods, leaning on the table beside her as he examines the poor mess of Kikoku. The once formidable blade lies in pieces before them, the jagged edges reflecting the dim light of the lanterns overhead.

"Well, it's definitely broken," Zoro says straight-faced.

"Thanks for that insightful observation," Raya snaps, reaching for one of the broken pieces of the sword. “Really, what would I do without your thought-provoking commentary, Roronoa?”

“Well, what else am I supposed to do?” He retorts, laying lazily against one of her stools. “I’m trapped in here, doing fuck-all.”

Raya looks at him indifferently and shrugs. “Sleep?”

“I’m not tired, I’m bored.”

Raya smirks, a sudden mischievous glint appearing in her eyes. Whatever idea she’s cooked up is getting her excited, with the way her teeth are gleaming in their full glory.

"Weeeell, lucky for you, I've got just the thing to cure your boredom," she says, reaching under the table and pulling out a tattered colouring book and a handful of crayons. She sets them on the table in front of Zoro with a playful grin. "Try this. I'm sure Chopper won't mind if you borrow it for a bit."

Zoro eyes the colouring supplies sceptically, his brow furrowing in disbelief. "You've got to be kidding me," he mutters, picking up one of the crayons and turning it over in his hand. Raya offers him a shit-eating grin when he raises an eyebrow at her.

 "Come on, it'll be fun!" she urges, nudging the colouring book closer to him, repeatedly pushing it into his elbow like prodding a wad of lettuce on a stick to an unimpressed tiger. "And who knows, maybe you'll discover a hidden passion for art."

Zoro hesitates for a moment, then sighs dejectedly and takes the crayon, flipping open the colouring book to a random page.

"You’re gonna be the end of me," he mutters, leaning back in his chair and starting to colour in a picture of a pirate ship.

Raya watches with amusement as Zoro tentatively starts colouring - his movements, cautious at first before he gradually gains confidence, his strokes becoming bolder and more deliberate. She can't help but snicker at the sight, finding it oddly endearing to see the idiot swordsman engaging in such a seemingly childish activity.

For a while, they work in companionable silence, the only sounds being the scratching of crayons against paper, the clinking of metal and the occasional chug of beer as they take breaks to de-sober themselves. Raya finds herself relaxing as she focuses on the task at hand, the tension of the earlier confrontation with Law fading into the background.

But as they work, she can't shake the feeling of Kikoku's presence beside her, the broken pieces of the sword humming with a furious energy that seems to seep into the air around them. Raya glances at the shattered remains of the once formidable blade, a frown tugging at her lips as she tries to make sense of the strange sensation.

Kikoku seems to be muttering to her, the fragments of the sword vibrating with an intensity that sends a shiver down Raya's spine. She strains to make out the words, but they're muffled and indistinct like whispers carried on the wind.

"Kikoku, what are you saying?" Raya murmurs, reaching out to touch one of the broken pieces of the sword.

In immediate response, Kikoku screeches from underneath her fingertips, making Raya flinch her hand away in shock.

‘What do you fucking think, you incompetent excuse of a human being?’ It screams in Raya’s head, rattling her very bones in her body.

Raya clenches her teeth, anxiously running a hand through her hair. "I’m sorry, Kikoku. I really am. I don’t know how it all… If you let me, I promise I’ll be able to fix you."

Kikoku hums angrily in response, the vibrations of her broken body resonating against the desk. It swirls around on the wooden surface, almost trying to will itself to spiral around into a flurry of blades.

‘Not enough. I seek for revenge. Not enough. Not enough.’

"Kikoku, please," Raya pleads softly, her voice laced with desperation. "I understand that you're angry, but I can fix you. Let me help you.”

Again, the sword vibrates with an almost manic energy, its broken edges glinting ominously in the dim light of the lanterns.

"I’ll find a way to make things even, I promise," Raya continues, her voice tinged with determination. "But for now, I have to focus on fixing you. Once you're whole again, we can figure out what to do next."

‘What are you planning, human?’ she spits, her voice sharp and demanding. ‘Let me listen to your pathetic attempt at salvaging my trust.’

The swordsmith takes a deep breath, steeling herself for what comes next. "First, I need to assess the extent of your damage," she says, reaching for another piece of the broken sword. "Then, I'll figure out a way to repair you. And if that's not enough... well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

Kikoku's response was a begrudging silence, the vibrations of her broken pieces slowly starting to calm. Raya took it as a small victory, a glimmer of hope in the midst of uncertainty.

Raya offers a tentative smile to the sword. “I won’t let you down.”

Hours pass in a blur as Raya meticulously fits the broken pieces of Kikoku back together, her hands steady despite the weight of the task. It's slow progress, but with each piece she adds, she can feel Kikoku's energy shifting, becoming less volatile and more... resigned.

"I'm sorry," Zoro blurts out suddenly, the words tumbling from his lips before he can stop them, his voice slightly slurred from the amount of alcohol in his system.

Raya’s head snaps up, surprise flickering in her eyes as she meets Zoro’s gaze. Her fingers pause in the momentum of her work, work now being the last thing on her mind.

 "I… For what?" She mutters out.

Zoro leans over the table, his fingers gently spinning the bottle around in his hands.

"For...for breaking the sword," Zoro admits, his voice tinged with regret. "I didn't mean to...I mean, I know that doesn't excuse what happened, but I just...I'm sorry."

Raya pauses, taken aback by the unexpected apology. She stares at Zoro, seeing the sincerity in his eyes despite the haze of alcohol clouding his judgment.

His lone grey eye remains steadfast on her, and although he tries his best to mask himself into indifference, a flicker of something breaks through when Raya really looks at him with her soft brown eyes.

Something breaks within him – or more so, something loosens up within him, and his control over himself - albeit hanging on by fragile and intoxicated threads - has finally been torn apart.

Raya doesn’t know why, but her breath catches in her throat when he does this. When he really looks at her. With that grey eye, intense and relentless with feeling.

In a panic, she immediately disengages from the stare and looks down to her lap, one hand fumbling with a hammer, the other shrouded in a red-hot flame for blade-tempering.

For a moment, silence envelops them, broken only by the faint sound of their breathing and the occasional crackle of flames from Raya's hand. She's not used to hearing such sincerity from him, especially not when it comes to admitting fault. It catches her off guard, leaving her at a loss for how to respond… and now, she doesn’t know what to do.

Instead, she focuses on the task at hand, the broken pieces of Kikoku spread out before her like a jigsaw puzzle waiting to be solved. She takes a deep breath, trying to steady her hands as she reaches for another piece of the sword.

"It's... I know, Roronoa," Raya finally manages to say, her voice barely above a whisper. She can feel the warmth of Zoro's gaze on her, his silent offer of forgiveness hanging in the air.

Raya can’t control it any longer. She has to look up at him again, and when she does, her warm brown eyes latch onto his enraptured gaze with such ease, with such naturalness.

And then, Zoro’s stare softens.

Raya doesn’t even recognise this… look on the swordsman, this out-of-place soft glint that consumes his face, like he’s finally uncoiled his hands from the tight reins of his self-restraint.

Zoro doesn’t know what else there is to say. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to feel at this moment, either. But in his drunken courage, his hand acts out of its own will, lifting up and away from his bottle as his eyes flicker down to her mouth.

Raya’s breath halts as she remains still. Her own senses have vanished away, along with her train of thoughts, and all she wants to do is to lean into his hand.

And they do. Zoro’s fingers press against her jaw, deftly lifting her chin up. He makes her stare straight at him with no room to escape. And Raya is completely breathless. She gives in to the pressure of his fingers, blinking at him curiously, observing the all-consuming focus on his face. His eye flickers down from her gaze to her mouth, his thumb laying idly only a few millimetres away from her skin.

And with no thought in those eyes, his thumb reaches and presses to the corner of her lips, swiping in one circular movement. For a moment, Raya’s lost in the intensity of Zoro's gaze, the heat of his touch lingering on her skin like a brand.

A subtle breath releases from his lips when he touches the corner of her mouth.

He moves his thumb again, unsatisfied with the singular touch, now placing it ever-so softly over Raya’s lips. He looks at her in the eyes, his gaze darkening and unwavering, as he brushes his thumb over her mouth, parting them ever so slightly, so softly, so slowly.

But then, as quickly as it came, the moment passes. Zoro pulls away, his expression once again hardened into a mask of indifference. He picks up his bottle, taking a long swig of sake as if to wash away the lingering traces of emotion.

He shows his thumb to you, a layer of dark black powder coating his skin.

“You had soot on your face,” he mutters out roughly.

Raya blinks in surprise, her heart pounding in her chest as she processes what just happened. She can still feel the lingering warmth of Zoro's touch on her lips, the ghost of his thumb brushing against her skin, the heat of his breath hitting her skin.

And for a moment, she's at a loss for words, her mind reeling from the unexpected intimacy of the gesture. She looks up at Zoro, her gaze searching his face for any sign of what he might be feeling, but Zoro's expression remains impassive. His eye remains unreadable as he wipes the soot from his thumb with a nonchalant air - it's as if the moment never happened, as if he's already moved on from whatever fleeting emotion prompted his actions.

She swallows hard, trying to push down the heat that surges within her. She knows that she should say something, to retort back with a typical Raya joke or simply say something really sarcastic, but all of the tricks in her conversational mind die right at the tip of her tongue, right at the entrance of where his fingers were laying against only a few moments ago.

But before she can do anything – to recover any tiny piece of dignity that still remains within her, a sudden crash from outside the crow's nest shatters the moment, sending them both scrambling to the porthole with hushed breaths.

As they silently peer into the window, they’re met with the sight of Law stumbling towards the door, his movements erratic and unsteady, a wild look in his eyes.

"Shit," Raya curses under her breath, her heart pounding in her chest. "He’s early."

[sentientcitysurvival]

Basic Linux Security

Install Unattended Upgrades and enable the "unattended-upgrades" service.

Install ClamAV and enable "clamav-freshclam" service.

Install and run Lynis to audit your OS.

Use the "last -20" command to see the last 20 users that have been on the system.

Install UFW and enable the service.

Check your repo sources (eg; /etc/apt/).

Check the /etc/passwd and /etc/shadow lists for any unusual accounts.

User the finger command to check on activity summaries.

Check /var/logs for unusual activity.

Use "ps -aux | grep TERM" or "ps -ef | grep TERM" to check for suspicious ongoing processes.

Check for failed sudo attempts with "grep "NOT in sudoers" /var/log/auth.log.

Check journalctl for system messages.

Check to make sure rsyslog is running with "sudo systemctl status rsyslog" (or "sudo service rsyslog status") and if it's not enable with "sudo systemctl enable rsyslog".

Perform an nmap scan on your machine/network.

User netstat to check for unusual network activity.

Use various security apps to test you machine and network.

Change your config files for various services (ssh, apache2, etc) to non-standard configurations.

Disabled guest accounts.

Double up on ssh security by requiring both keys and passwords.

Check your package manager for any install suspicious apps (keyloggers, cleaners, etc).

[pearls-and-vignettes]

Spaceway 70 - Pablo

The Marlin heaves out of the darkened dock, whining with unwarmed engines. A simple objective:

- Assess damages, neutralize threats.

I've done it a million times before. Come to think of it,—

Red lights blare outside and the station's distress call is picked up by the radio. I fly around the cylindrical body—perform a systematic scan. How would the incident report be written?

- Upper hull damaged in a hit-and-run bombing; station status unknown.

- Soldier casualties: ...

Soldiers. They never chose to lay down their lives—to fight for an uncaring ruler—not them.

- Assailant(s): Unknown vessel, presumed solitary. Heat signature detected, actively pursuing.

Ambiguous language. Open to litigation. Sarge would be sad.

- Disregard previous entry. Chasing assailant via engine heat; infrared reading with 0.87 certainty. Monitoring radar.

- Radar confirms a small ship. Moving at 75% of own velocity. Distance 2000 mi.

-

-

- 1500.

-

-

- Approaching civilian zone

-

-

- 1000.

-

-

- 500.

-

- 250.

-

- 175.

-

- 100.

- 50.

- 25.

- Contact.

They pull up and to the left, attempting to get above and behind me, though it's too little, too late.

- Assailant neutralized with ballistics. Assumed to have hit engine.

- Upon visual examination, there appears to have been no pilot. Control is either automated or remote. No outstanding radio frequency detected.

Darn...

Out and ahead of me are markers indicating a commercial route. Safe for traders.

A transponder on one of the markers pings my ship. Something about remaining in place, a unit arriving soon. I don't make it a good hundred miles before a squad comes in with weapons hot.

I dodge a few shots and they graze me with a laser. I'm not about to make war with a whole task force.

The Marlin is a ship of esoteric construction. It has a hull constructed for incredibly heavy salvos—granted you have enough sealant [1] aboard. It comes with a cloak [2], more a scrambler than anything, which uses up insane amounts of power, and an EM pulse [3] which likewise drains my batteries. It's a perfect ship for an early retirement [4], as long as my encounters are few and far between.

With the push of a fader I turn my radio into a tool of war, creating a streak of white along their IR imager and making their radar unusable. Similarly, with a press of a button the magnetron pulses on, disabling their steering and warming up their cabins.

- Three combatants neutralized; nonlethal means

Two more pull down and in front, shooting and missing. I pull up and turn around, hoping to hit them with more microwaves.

< -#- VACDETEC V1.4 -#- >

< ALARM >

<HULL BREACH | d.0s>

<HULL BREACH | d.1s>

<HULL BREACH | d.2s>

I begin to sweat as the laser weapon dissipates as heat into my cockpit.

< HULL SEALED >

< SEALANT AT 25% >

I need to leave.

I reach up to grab a solar compass [5] and scribble my heading onto the cockpit glass.

- Taking extratactical measures: Magnetron shielding angle set to 175.8 degrees

< ## Are you sure? Use of EMP with current settings may cause systems to misbehave. ## >

[ YES ]

Navigation goes dark as two more ships behind me lose steering. I launch a wide-range RF jammer [6] and a hot net [7]. I cut my engines and seal the exhaust [8].

This is a special dance they taught us in Academy; " . . . each ship has its own precise limits, though with them come potential," they had us memorize old literature, "that is why you must know yours more intimately than the body of your lover . . . " I positioned one hand over the exhaust control and another over the ignition. Two seconds, three seconds, and

< -#- SHELL -#- >

< ALARM >

<ENGINE OVERHEAT>

The ship rattles as I rocket dead ahead in the direction of home. Another alarm blares on my monitor,

<CHECK ENGINE>

A few milliseconds too late. I hear a faint whisper—a hiss—join the chorus of the Marlin's song. I'm sorry. I'll fix it soon. It'll be ok.

" . . . for each time you take up the helm, you partake in a romance far more real than any other, for no other can see the terror

of a deprivation so terrible, or a death so swift."

[1]: A chemical formulation which undergoes an extremely exothermic reaction when exposed to the vacuum of space. Akin to tire sealant from when vulcanized rubber was used for land vehicles.

[2]: A system consisting of telescoping antennae and an ultra-high amplitude RF generator. Hides a ship's exact location within a much broader, irregular radio signature.

[3]: A high-powered magnetron capable of producing strong microwaves with multiple miles of range. Temporarily scrambles navigation systems, causing affected ships to veer off-course.

[4]: I can't keep doing this

[5]: An indicator which points in the direction of the closest star, when properly calibrated. Detects the unique products of nuclear fusion.

[6]: Akin to the cloak, a disposable projectile which blanks out vast swathes of a ship's radio imager.

[7]: A large, mechanized retroreflector which concentrates heat from all directions, and shoots it back at the viewer, making infrared imaging of a ship nearly impossible.

[8]: In reference to a mechanism which seals the exhaust vents of the Marlin. This turns the entirety of the engine tract into a bomb. A stupid idea if held closed for more than a few seconds.