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thesleepy1 · 3 years

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Bundle Of Joy

A/N: A nine hour shift and five hours of sleep later, this fic is based off of a headcanon by @riddlersboyfriend Go blame him for the angst because it's not my fault this time! Hahaha, the power I hold and the lack of sleep behind my eyes makes a perfect combination for fic writing. Unbeta’d because of obvious reasons. :D

“i am currently thinking VERY hard about a post-reichenbach mormor au where,,, idk, sebastian finds a baby?? somewhere?? decides to raise them?? just sad heartbroken sebastian putting his all into caring for this tiny little scrap because he doesn't know what else to do (help me)”

Pairings: past Sebastian Moran x Jim Moriarty

Summary: Jim Moriarty is dead, Sebastian had people confirm it. With his handler gone, there isn’t much reason to go on. Picking up a gun is too difficult for Sebastian these days so he decides on a high bridge, but before he can go through with it the sound of a crying baby draws his attention from the railing.

Word count: 4,688

Warnings: post-reichenbach, suicide attempt, alcohol abuse, smoking abuse, mention of child death, foul lanague,

It was cold and foggy, that much Sebastian could recall from that night. Windy from his memories, because he had forgone a coat, he was planning on jumping off a bridge, a coat was useless in that situation. The cold was accepted. The sound of the river far underneath him could be heard because of the ungodly time or night. Or very early in the morning. Sebastian couldn’t tell before and he could hardly tell now.

There was frost on the railings, so cold underneath his hands that his fingers grew numb. Sebastian didn’t know why, but he had chosen to do this sober. Less chance of surviving the fall if he had to guess. A good beer would only loosen his body, he’s survived car crashes before from over drinking. Best if he did this quickly, no need to prolong his suffering anymore than he had.

Jim had granted him some extra years that he would not have originally given himself, and while they were not the happiest of memories, he had lived a life worth giving a damn about. Not enough to keep the great consulting criminal alive, but enough to look back upon and think, “I did this, I’ve lived this life.” Not anything to be proud of by any means, but it was a life worth considering.

Perhaps that was one of the reasons Sebastian hesitated then, on the other side of the railing. Or perhaps it had been the sound of a shrieking baby.

His head had whipped around, assuming that some mother on a late walk was trying to convince him not to take his own life. But he came up short. There was no one there, just the endless sound of tears and a scream that belonged to powerful lungs. It just won’t stop, the crying. The tears from this helpless thing that he could not see. He was going insane, that was the only explanation. The shrieks of the babe sounded too much like the ones in his own head, the sharp thrill of it that assaulted his ear drums.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

The crying didn’t stop, instead it was spurred on by his yelling. Sebastian didn’t know why but he swung his leg back over the railing to investigate where exactly the noise was coming from. Quite frankly he had nothing better to do and he could jump off the bridge at any given time. This mere intervention won’t take long to deal with.

He walked the concrete path besides the road, hand on the railing so when he was done looking around he could fling himself over with a jump. The rush of water against his ears would be a welcomed sound instead of the racket of some overgrown sperm. The relief of it would have him smiling.

“Mama!”

Sebastian followed the distinct word like a bloodhound, the babe’s voice becoming more and more clear as he neared a little wicker basket next to a rubbish bin. It was stereotypically really, something out of one of Jim’s dramatic French films. An abandoned baby in a basket.

But it wasn’t a baby. At least not anymore. Sebastian didn’t have much experience with kids, except with his younger brother. But they were twins with a smacking difference of twelve minutes. However, Sebastian knew enough to know that this was at the very least a toddler, a no less than a year old kid.

That someone had left to die next to a literal trash can.

The kid looked up at Sebastian when he approached. She had these big beady brown eyes filled with tears that made her look so small. They drew you in like quick sand and before Sebastian knew it, he was stuck. He stared at her as much as she stared at him. Her dark brown hair was ear length, matted and covered with dirt and grime. There were little puncture wounds on her earlobes like she had earrings once upon a time; but there was a slight tear at the edge as if they were so hastily removed that her ears were a little ripped. Someone must have been very desperate to be so rash with a little kid that could barely talk.

Sebastian’s fists curled at the state this kid was left in. Even her clothes looked like patchworked rags with poorly sewn seams. Tears made streaks through a dirty face. The night was so cold without a drink. It felt numbing with a jacket a size too large. The kid must be paralyzed. Anger radiated off of Sebastian before he knew what he was doing, a low frustration growl left his chest.

How dare they be abandoned.

The little girl sucked in a breath at the noise Sebastian made. He imagined what he must look like to her, a big, tall, scary blonde white man with enough scars on his face to be mistaken for a pin cushion. But instead of bursting into more tears like most people did, most grown adults did, her mouth curled up into a smile before the most heart wrenching sound had Sebastian on the ground.

Sebastian Moran picked up the little kid with as much care as a train assassin had. He cradled her close to his chest, tucking her head underneath his chin. She laughed again against the funny feeling of his months-old beard. It was contagious, her snuggling close and laughing as if she was not left for dead. This kid barely learned how to process words and she was already twice the man Sebastian will ever be. Sebastian joined her laughter, the sound was so foreign in his mouth that he surprised himself with the sound.

“Joy Moran isn’t that bad of a name, is it?”

-----

Sebastian’s flat was not equipped to handle a kid. It was hardly equipped to handle him on a good day and with how long he had been without Jim, his house was in a worse state than he was. Which was saying a lot because he had just adopted a kid from the dumpster.

Suffice to say, some changes had to be made.

Sebastian had brought the basket from the bridge. He’d made a note to burn it after he got a better carrier but for now that was where Joy was currently laying down for a nap. Her own clothes were dirtier than he was after missions so they had to go. For the time being Joy was wrapped up in his own clothes, the few clean ones still left hanging. He left her on his sofa after clearing away some of the beer bottles for room.

Then he turned up the radiator and began the most torturous thing known to man, cleaning after his own mess.

Joy softly cooed in her sleep and while it was the cutest thing, she was no help to Sebastian. “Traitor,” he muttered under his breath so as not to wake her.

Blaming a toddler wasn’t going to make himself feel any better, so for the first time in a long time, Sebastian did something for himself. He went around his small flat picking up trash; beer bottles to six different brands because the depressed man needed variety, too many empty cigarette boxes, the butts themselves, old take-out boxes to the three same places that had grown mold, dirty laundry, and the most important thing to pick up, his weapons.

By the time he had locked all of his equipment in the space between the walls the glaring sun was up. It was around noon if Sebastian had to guess. Never being the type of person inclined to cleaning, it had taken him much longer than most to go through the list of chores, cleaning the dishes, tidying the kitchen, making his bed, doing the laundry, and onwards. A truly endless list that Sebastian gained respect for the people who did this on a daily basis.

Fortunately, Joy had slept through it all, surprisingly soundless when she had made it very evident that she had a voice that demanded to be heard. She was just silent through it all. Sebastian didn’t vacuum because he was afraid to wake her, but he wasn’t being quiet either. Worry grew from the pit of his stomach like a lead beanstalk. He had never ran so quickly to the couch, to the too still wicker basket with Joy laying in the middle wrapped in his clothes.

Silence. He couldn’t hear a single coo or little baby gurgle. No movement. Sebastian reached out his trembling hands, pulling the bundle of clothes and the still body out of the basket. Sunshine came in through the open windows, but Sebastian felt as cold as the early morning. She was so small. And Sebastian could count the times he held her on one hand. They had only known each other for hours, perhaps half a day, but Sebastian had hoped for more.

He-

He thought he had more time. That he would watch this little bundle of goodness grow into her own person. Watched as she experienced the world and made it her own, watch the light in her big brown teddy bear eyes. Be her guide when he was without anyone to confide in, be the person he had needed when he was young. Make damn sure that she had the best life that he could provide because this kid deserved the world and more. When Sebastian needed her the most she was there. And the babe didn’t even realize it, couldn’t even comprehend how much she meant to him in such a short amount of time.

Sebastian was violently shaking. His little bundle of joy. Why wasn’t he allowed this one mercy? When so many before him had done what he did, had killed more than he could begin to imagine. Worse men who twisted and nurtured human greed and malice like animals; who’ve done so much worse. Why did they get to feel like they belong? Why did those monsters get to feel loved and remembered? All Sebastian wanted was to do one good thing. One selfish, greedy thing.

Tears fell from his eyes as he brushed the dark wisps of her hair from her face. Dirt still clung to her face, the tear streaks showing soft brown skin underneath. Sebastian brushed the grime from her chubby cheeks, his burning tears trickling down to her face. Once the tears had started, they couldn't stop. He was sobbing, sucking in air like he was drowning and in a way he was already dying.

“I’m- I’m so sorry,” he croaked to the babe in his arms, to the little bundle who shone like glass in the sunlight. “I didn’t mean for it to end this way. I’m so sorry, Joy. I couldn’t do more for you.”

The loudest sneeze Sebastian had ever heard made his heart fly out of his chest. Joy was so small but her lungs were too big for her little toddler body. She took one look at Sebastian’s hideous crying face and began shrieking herself. Sebastian had never been happier to hear her cry.

“It’s okay, Joy, it's okay,” he cooed in a soft voice he didn’t know he was capable of. The crying must have done someone to his voice box. “Papa’s got you.” He gently rocked her as he stood up. “No one can hurt you,” he soothed, walking over to his quaint kitchen. The kitchen sink was filled halfway with warm water and soapy, scented bubbles for sensitive skin. Sebastian had once liked to treat, had cared about how his skin smelt and felt.

“We’re going to get you cleaned up, okay?” Sebastian made sure the water wasn’t too hot and gently set Joy in the sink. He wiped his tears away with a dish rag and faced his little bundle of joy with a soft smile on his face. It contoured his scars in a funny way, he knew from pictures Jim had kept on his phone. Joy seemed to like it as well because she had stopped crying in favor of splashing bubbles onto Sebastian to keep the smile one his face. “Papa loves you so much, kiddo.”

-----

There used to be a time where Sebastian was hyper aware of time. The very passage of it he could feel under his feet, the turning of the world made known by the twisting sun and moon. Every second was accounted for, his way of coping then. A little stopwatch to see how long he could last before the thought of some good, strong rope became too tempting to pass up. But with Joy Moran in his life, time flew by in the blink of an eye. A year had passed since the day Joy had entered his life and he barely felt it.

He could see it though; could hear it every morning when he woke up, every afternoon when he ate, every night before he went to bed. In the blink of an eye Joy had grown a year older. She ran through their little flat any chance she got, she sang from the top of her lungs so everyone could hear, and she grabbed for anything she could get her little hands on. And for a two year old with a pair of lungs twice the size they needed to be, she was quite quiet when she wanted to be.

Especially, when a stranger with her papa’s face showed up at the door.

“What’s wrong, Bundle?” Sebastian asked from his hiding place behind the currents. He had yet to win a round of hide-and-seek ever, and while Joy liked to go easy on him in the fourth round or so just to make things fair, she was never this quiet when they played. “Joy?” Sebastian called out again, leaving his hiding place in favor of going down to his knees to be on Joy’s level. “Everything alright?”

Joy shook her head, the ribbons that Sebastian spent too long on flapping like bunny ears. “You’re at the door,” she whispered, which was an occurrence once in a leap year.

“I’m right here, Bundle,” Sebastian tried to reassure, pulling her in for a hug just to prove his point. He let go and patted her head teasingly. “Do you want me to hide in the doorway?” Sebastian joked, glancing at the door just as the handle turned.

In a heartbeat Sebastian had Joy in his arms and sprinted to the wall where his equipment was kept. He positioned himself against a corner with a vantage point over the door and the windows, a loaded handgun sliding into his waiting hand after he pounded the wall. Joy hid her face in the nook of his neck, her arms wrapped around his neck. How she had known there was someone at the door when even Sebastian hadn’t heard the tell tale signs was a topic for a different day. Right now, his focus was on the intruder that could pick his locks without making even the smallest of sounds.

“You should-”

Sebastian pulled the trigger before he realized who was in the doorway. Joy shook in his arms in fear but she held in her yell like a champ, not giving herself away to the enemy. He was so damn proud. And even more impressed that she wasn’t joking when she said he was at the door. Sebastian guessed a part of him was.

Severin Moran kneeled in their doorway, getting his blood all over their shiny purple rug. Joy had picked it out herself. “I love you too, fucking cockhole,” cursed Sebastian’s twin.

“Oh, dear, I heard a gunshot. Is everyone alright?” came Richard’s voice from down the hallway before the man came into view. “My god! Severin, what happened to you?”

“That fucker shot me!”

“Hey, watch your mouth. There’s a kid here,” Sebastian scolded, putting the safety on his gun and tucking it back from where it came. With his free hand, he rubbed soothing circles on Joy’s back. She didn’t make a peep, still wary of the pair in the doorway. “Shhh, it's okay, Bundle. They’re family.”

“Awww, Sebby,” Richard grinned like a puppy, ignoring the fact that Severin was still hissing on the floor. “You think of me like family?”

“You two are married, right? Or did I have to spend six months planning a wedding for nothing?”

“They’re married, Papa,” Joy piped up, her silent spell forgotten in exchange for pointing out the obvious. Though for someone who only had two years of experience in the world, it was quite impressive. Joy turned her head to face Sebastian head on, urging her papa to listen to her. “Look, look, they have rings!” She pointed at Richard’s left hand and the golden band around his finger. “Ten karat gold, I think, because the diamonds are placed all weird.”

Three sets of surprised eyes whipped to the little girl in Sebastian’s arms. She tugged at her ribbons to straighten them without a mirror. Richard’s dark beetle eyes widened in recognition, the two Moran twins had their mouths slightly ajar, confusion painted their faces as reflections. “Kind of cheap,” Joy stuck out her tongue in disgust. “Get a pretty blue diamond on a silver ring next time. Those are pretty.”

“Next time?” Severin asked in confusion, his hands clutching at his leg to stop the bleeding. “What do you mean next time?” The younger blonde shook his head, whipping away sweat using his sleeve. “Kid, it was a miracle I pulled him,” he pointed to Richard who closed the door shut behind them. “Do you really think anyone else would put up with me?”

“Everyday I’m surprised he hasn’t strangled you in your sleep,” Sebastian chuckled, tousling Joy’s hair. Her little hands smacked his hand away when they got too close to her ribbons.

“Believe me, I’ve been tempted,” Richard said in a mock serious tone, walking over to get the medkit from underneath the couch. Sebastian always had it fully stocked, just in cases like these. This was hardly the first time Severin had tried to break into his flat. The previous time Sebastian smashed half a dozen beer bottles over Severin’s head before the dumbass took the hint and left. Richard was more than qualified to patch his husband up at this point.

“Nuh-uh!” Joy shook her head, crossing her arms at the implication. “You’ve never been. You love him.”

“You’re not wrong, kid,” Severin said between huffs of pain as Richard ripped off a section of Severin’s pants with the swiss army knife Severin kept in his pocket. The ruined cloth came out with crude drippings of red. Richard positioned himself so his back was to Sebastian, using his body as a cover so Joy didn’t have to see his impromptu surgery. “But you don’t even know who I am. I didn’t even know Sebastian went out and got some b-”

“Don’t make me wash your mouth,” Sebastian warned, the teasing tone in his voice all gone. Severin knew damn well that Sebastian was a man of his word. They had grown up together after all.

His twin rolled his eyes, gladly taking the balled up rag into his mouth. Richard was quick and experienced with his hands. He had the bullet out in a matter of minutes, the stinking little thing landing on the destroyed rug. “First you don't tell us you have a kid. Second, you don’t tell us how much of a push over it made you? I thought we were friends, Sebastian.”

Joy nodded and hummed in agreement. “Papa can be a stick in the mud sometimes.”

“Who told you that?”

“The lady that takes your money. But she used words you don’t want me to use. She’s pretty mean, Papa. I bit her once.”

Richard finished up wrapping the wound on Severin’s leg, getting up to clean the mess they had made. “Haha, she’s definitely a Moran,” Severin laughed, letting Richard wipe me off without his usual complaint.

“Of course I am,” Joy stated proudly.

Richard smiled at that, wiping his hands clean with a rag and warm water. “I believe introductions are in order.” He raised an eyebrow at Sebastian to object. The older Moran twin merely sighed in resignation knowing when he was defeated. If only he was defeated with a knock at the door instead of his brother bleeding out in the doorway. “I’m Richard Moran, but you can call me Richie. It's nice to finally meet you.”

Richard held out his hand to shake. Joy took his hand in her small one and turned it over, tracing every line with her free hand. Richard allowed her to analyze his hand, curious to see what she could deduce.

“Was it your mama or auntie’s banoffee pie recipe?” Joy asked curiously, a knowing glint in her big brown eyes.

Richard had seen the look before. Oftentimes when he had looked in the mirror. And many more times when watching his twin. “It was my mother’s sister's recipe,” Richard answered, “But you already knew that.”

“Did you bring any for me?” Joy asked hopefully, eyes darting around Richard and Severin’s persons for the tooth rotting pie. Severin held out his hands to show her he had nothing. She slumped in disappointment at being overlooked. “Next time you cover over, please bring some for me. Oh! And you could draw my name with caramel. My name’s Joy, J-O-Y.”

“Joy, huh?” Severin tried the name out, “Well, I guess I’m Uncle Severin.” Severin shook his head lightly, “How old are you, kid?”

“Two!” Joy held out two fingers to show Severin who was still on the ground.

“You didn’t tell me about my own fucking niece for two whole years?” This was to a guilty Sebastian.

A dark look clouded Sebastian’s eyes. He let Joy back down on the ground. His whole body held in a breath like a prisoner, body as tense as rope pulled taunt. “Just a year,” he replied gruffly, taking the ruined rug to throw out. “I’ve only had her for a year. After-” he released the breath and sucked it back in. “After Jim was gone, I didn’t know where to go. Found her on a bridge.” The implication was clear enough, Sebastian didn’t need to explain further. He left the room to deal with the mess he had made.

“You made him upset,” Joy said clearly to the couple that remained. “You got to go and say sorry.”

“He made me upset too, Joy,” Severin told the girl, taking a swig of the bottle that Richard brought to clean his wound. “I kind of want to be a part of my brother’s life. Especially after what he went through with the boss,” Severin continued absentmindedly.

At that a thoughtful, yet unreadable look passed Joy. Richard couldn’t tell if it was curiosity or something else, perhaps something dangerous if she shared more similarities with him than he had originally speculated. Richard had never seen that expression before but there was a first time for everything and he was not one to underestimate an ally. “Do you know who the boss is?” Richard tested the waters before the shark returned.

Joy hummed out a non committal tune, considering whether or not to answer Richard. The two year old was more strategic than most historical generals alive decades before she was born. “I do, a little bit,” she said vaguely, eyeing the empty space where her chosen rug had sat. “But Papa doesn’t let me know more.” Her gaze returned to Richard’s, big brown eyes met beady black ones. “Papa doesn’t want to remember. But you know him, don’t you, uncle Richie?”

“Tell me more about the boss.”

-----

Sebastian had been warned that babies didn’t get much sleep, but he was never warned about three year olds with too much energy for their own good. He had never gotten much sleep in his years working as an assassin for hire, the process of sleeping for more than a several hours a night was too taxing on his heart. But nowadays he was lucky to get an hour or two before the little pitter patter of footsteps announced the present of the queen of the flat and her need for attention.

Sebastian loved Joy more than the world itself, but he sure did miss his sleep. “Good,” he looked at his bedside to see the time of night. Or more accurately day. What kind of three year old woke up at five in the god forsaken morning? “Morning, Bundle.”

“Papa! Papa,” Joy frantically greeted with a grin and shouts followed by leaps into the air. If Sebastian wasn’t so tired, he would be thoroughly amused.

“Joy, Joy!”

“Come, come! There’s someone like me!” With that she spirited out of the bedroom without a care for the people living downstairs.

It had been a little over a year since Joy’s first meeting with Severin and Richard and ever since then it had been harder to ignore that Joy was a little different from toddlers her age. For one she could speak in proper sentences with vocabulary that Sebastian needed a dictionary to understand when she wanted to, just to mess with him. For another, she could read and write things Sebastian didn’t even learn in his last year of school before deploying, much to her teachers' joy and dismay. She simply saw the world differently from he did and there was nothing wrong with that. It just meant that Sebastian got to have a slightly different fatherly experience.

Like waking up at five in the morning to his three year old toddler turning on the news of all things.

“Look, look!” Joy eagerly pointed at the telly, the flashing lights blinding in the near dark room. On the new channel the tagline had Sebastian grabbing at the walls to stable himself. “Famed Detective Returns From The Dead '' Footage of the damned man flashed onto the screen as if to rub in Sebastian’s face.

He looked the same. He looked healthy even. Alive.

Breathing.

Alive.

“Do you see him, Papa? He’s like me!” Joy’s excited tone brought Sebastian back to the world of the living. Her smile made his heart both freeze and burn out of his chest. “Oh, look at him! He’s like me! He’s looking and seeing. He’s watching the camera all funny but he’s really staring at the cameraman that fancies him. Like- like Uncle Richie and Uncle Severin. But he doesn't like the cameraman like that, of course. He likes his doctor.” Joy laughed hauntingly at her own joke and the familiarity of it made Sebastian want to reach for a gun at his hostler that hadn’t been there for a long time.

“He’s like me, but...he’s kind of slow,” Joy said mournfully, saddened by this realization. “I knew before I turned on the telly that the cameraman was obsessed with him. He carries the camera in a certain way. Have you noticed that too Papa?” Joy didn’t wait for a reply before continuing, “Like he was trying to impress someone, “Look at me! Look at how strong I am. Look at how I stupidly edge near danger, how daring!” Do you think his boss knows he kills so he has something to show on the camera?” Joy looked at Sebastian expectantly for an answer. She still saw him as an equal, as someone worth confiding in and that fact alone had Sebastian scooping her up in a bone aching hug.

“I’m sure the cameraman makes it very obvious. Most first timers do,” Sebastian explained, subtlety wiping the tears from his eyes.

“Oh, they do! They do, Papa! The cameraman makes it too obvious, but he’s still a cameraman. Someone’s letting him play. Someone wants him to keep playing.” Joy clapped her hands like she was watching Sunday morning cartoons. “Do you think it's the boss?”

Sebastian didn’t have to ask about which boss she was talking about. He merely shrugged because he didn’t know.

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louthestarspeaker · 4 years

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Shoulder to Shoulder

My first offering for #Fluffember, the prompt used is for Day 3, Together. (I’m definitely gonna be going out of order XD)

I’m kinda nervous because this is pretty much the first story I’ve posted with the OC’s that have been living in my head for the past year or so. (There’s a multi-chapter where they’re introduced and everything, but that is still decidedly in the planning stage sooo one-shots!)

Hugs and a thank you to @bonsaiiiiiii for the read-through and for being an absolute cheerleader! You’re wonderful and this would still be sitting in my notebook if it weren’t for you <333

The distance between Alan and Laurie is usually measured by thousands of miles, now it’s just footsteps in the sand.

‘*’

Alan and Laurie walked the beach as morning dawned from dusty blue into reddened skies. Alan’s prints stretched far behind him, hands replacing feet in places he’d turned cartwheels. Laurie’s footsteps were lapped away by the ocean as she walked the line where the beach met the water, a sandal dangling from each hand.

It was the first time they’d seen each other in months. Talking without time zones between them had a way of slowing them both down, and their pace was leisurely, chatting about the normal and not-so-normal bits of their teenage lives.

It was things like a manual override added to Thunderbird Three because Alan kept locking his keys inside.

Or the fact that Laurie’s Dad wouldn’t let her work with Brain’s on ship designs until she fixed her, admittedly crappy, sleep schedule.

And of course there was school, and the half-dreadful, half-comforting solidarity of two slipping English grades.

The average mixed in with the amazing, their world was a weird one for anyone to navigate, let alone a couple of high school students. But it helped to talk to someone who got it.

“So, long story short,” Alan summed up, “those dumb shoulder guard things actually came in handy. Probably would’ve dislocated it without them.”

Laurie shook her head, the silver beads on her braids making a sound akin to a wind chime. “Okay, but maybe next time tell me you sprained your shoulder before you start doing cartwheels? So I can stop you from doing something stupid?”

Alan waved her off with a grin. “That was like almost two weeks ago. I’m totally good now.” He turned another cartwheel to prove it.

It might’ve been mildly impressive in that way most cartwheels were, except Laurie was too busy ducking Alan’s flying flip-flop to spare much attention. Alan landed on his feet, with only one shoe, the other arcing almost gracefully into the water and landing with a little splash.

Laurie laughed, standing up and fishing Alan’s wayward flip flop out of the sea. “Weaponizing footwear now, Allie?”

She tossed it back to him and Alan caught it with both hands. “Aww, it’s gonna be all squelchy now.”

“I’m thinking you’ll live.”

Alan replaced his flip-flop, taking a few experimental steps. “That’s debatable.” There was definitely a bit of a pout there.

Some things never changed. Not that Laurie could say much anything, she was the youngest of a household too, after all. Parts of it were universal.

Alan’s communicator watch chimed, distracting him momentarily from waterlogged footwear.

Laurie looked over. “Is it a rescue?”

“No, there’s a different alarm for that.” Alan said, picking up the call. A hologram of Laurie’s older brother flickered to life above his wrist. “Eagan, hey, what’s up?”

“Hey, Al. Laurie’s still with you, right? I couldn’t get a hold of her.”

Alan raised an eyebrow at Laurie, shifting so the holo-sensor picked her up. “Yeah, she’s right here.”

Laurie gave a sheepish laugh as she fiddled with her own watch. Three missed calls from her brother. “Sorry, Eagan. It was on silent.”

Eagan shook his head. “Why does anyone even give you a communicator anymore?” Failing to pick was not an isolated incident in Laurie’s case.

“You’re guess is as good as mine at this point. So, what’s up?”

“I was just wondering if you two were coming up for breakfast or do I need to hide your plates away somewhere?” Certain family members, naming no names of course, had back holes in place of stomachs, and noses like a bloodhound’s when it came to good food.

Alan raised a finger, tentatively asking, “So we're talking about food you made, right?”

Eagan had his hair back in the way he usually did when he’d been cooking, although of course he could’ve only been trying to pull Grandma Tracy’s efforts out of the fire.

Quite literally.

Eagan’s brown eyes glimmered with amusement, visible even through the hologram. “Yes, Alan, I made the food.”

“Start to finish?”

“Start to finish.”

The palpable relief was not an exaggeration. “Cool, we’ll be there in a second.” A swipe through the hologram and Alan ended the call.

He threw a grin at Laurie. “Race you up?”

Laurie pulled on her shoes. As if he even had to ask. It was pretty much tradition at this point. “You’re on. The usual wager?”

Dibs on breakfast plus whatever was in the other’s pockets.

“Sure. Don’t know if I’ve got anything good, though.” Alan rifled through his pockets. A granola bar wrapper, two dollars in Canadian quarters, and… “Oh! Gummy worms! Forgot about those.”

The bag was half empty but that hardly diminished the novelty of the prize. Candy was a rarity on the Island.

“Let me see what I have.” Laurie fished around in her own pockets, coming up with a small skein of embroidery floss, a packet of trail mix, and the seashells she’d picked up from the beach.

Alan eyed the trail mix. “Well, I’ll never say no to free food.”

Laurie stuffed everything back in her pockets. “It’s not yours yet, Alan.”

“Key word being ‘yet’.” He said, drawing a line in the sand. “Fair warning, I’ve been going on runs with Scott and I’ve gotten really fast.”

Laurie grinned, a spark in her eye. “Just count us off already.”

Alan counted back from three and they took off like unbottled lightning, sand spraying up from their shoes, leaving laughter in their wake in lieu of thunder.

Two kids- and that’s all they were right now, best friends, unextraordinary and average- flying through the morning, stretching each moment for all it was worth.

#fluffember2020 #thunderbirds are go #Alan Tracy #Laurie Charter #Charter Siblings #original character #thunderbirds oc #lou writes things

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unholyplumpprincess · 3 years

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Hello! Could i get an apex match up? I have a preference for men, and I use they/them pronouns. Im 5'3 and dress like a good ol fashion trad goth but face wise that's my icon :>. I have a wee bit of a competitive streak and sometimes lack a filter when i speak but I mean well and feel bad if it hurts someone. Also a weird contradiction is I am clumsy yet have very steady hands.

I have a big ol soft spot for animals (birds mainly!) and small kids, and since I grew up with a green thumb mom I really like plants. I like to bake for my loved ones and I draw often. (giving gifts/quality time) Uhh I also really like horror, the occult, mythology, fantasy...

(ps: i really like your blog! i like your qotd's a lot :>)

Almost matched you up with Bloodhound before I double checked and read Men so we swapping that brain thought! Damn though this was really hard to try and think of one of the boys you’d be compatible with!

I match you wiiiiith

Elliott ‘Mirage’ Witt!

___________

You two are two peas in a pod. Quite literally. You both reflect a lot in each other to the point it can be kinda spooky. Like those relationships that are like ‘Finish each other’s sentences’ but like. You guys literally can bounce off each other without finishing a single thought and somehow go so Scarily well together and Never finish a single sentence. Hearing you two talk is nearly impossible because it sounds a bit like: “Yeah but did you see when-” “YEAH but how cool was it-” “I K N O W!!!!!” And going back and forth until someone in the room is in tears like wtf are you two talking about?

Both of you are clumsy, both of you are steady handed, both of you work well with kids and have zero filter- People almost always comment on how Close you two look, even when you guys were just friends. The only thing separating you two is appearance with you leaning more goth and Elliott leaning more comfy jock- or Princess depending on his day.

Your love of baking goes well with his love of cooking, so he makes dinner, you make dessert. Although, your interests aren’t quite his own, he’s happy to sit and listen!

#Matchups #Mirage #apex legends #sfw #bc things like personality and such were missing I had to make this short!#Also I hc Elliott to be gender fluiid so like #either way ur ending up with an nb on accident uiwehwieuh #but canonly ya know #he's a dude so like #ya know Holds Limp Wrist #violet-ram

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underthewingsofthblackeagle · 5 years

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The Murderess from the Grunewald (27): Preparing for War (3a): "The Monster in the Petticoat" (1)

“Hamburg / Alster” by StephanieAlbert

Previously

Six months ago. One day after Jamie's fourth Attorney’s visit to Claire in prison.

It was exactly 8:00 the next morning when Jamie arrived at the office. Tessa Lüttgenjohann greeted him and then asked:

"Coffee?"

"Oh yes, will you make me a whole pot?"

"It's almost ready. I'll bring it right away."

A few minutes after Jamie took off his jacket and made himself comfortable at his desk, Tessa brought the promised coffee.

“Kaffee” by Luiz-Jorge-Artista

"You're remembering having a conference call with Prof. Dr. Nerz at 10:30?"

"Yes, but could you please remind me at 10:15?"

"Sure. Is there anything else you need?"

"No. But I don't want to be disturbed until then. I still have to work on an urgent contract. Please block the whole morning for calls, etc. And please register a visit to client Beauchamp at the correctional facility for tomorrow morning. I need to discuss important documents with her."

"Will be done. Would 9.00 a.m. be ok?"

"Yes, or does it collide with other appointments?"

"No. I distributed your other mandates as you had ordered."

"Good. I have to devote myself entirely to this matter. That is an absolute priority right now. Thank you.”

Jamie nodded and signaled that the talk was over.

Tessa also nodded and as she walked out, she wondered if in all the years she was working for “Fraser, Gowan & Coll.” she had ever heard such a sentence from James Fraser's mouth: 'I have to devote myself entirely to this matter. That is an absolute priority right now. Thank you.’? Tessa doubted it. James Fraser, as long as she knew him, was an attentive, conscientious, hard worker when it came to his mandates. He always showed 'full commitment' to clients and the passion with which he pursued his profession made him a boss for whom people liked to work. But since he devoted himself to the 'Beauchamp case', he seemed to work even more intensively and passionately than usual.

Jamie poured coffee into his cup and began to work on the contract between Dr. Claire Elisabeth Beauchamp and the editor-in-chief of the ‘U-Turn-Magazine’. The work was relatively easy for him, as he had already negotiated and sealed similar contracts in the past.

When Tessa Lüttgenjohann knocked on his office door at 10.15 a.m. and reminded him of the video conference, he was already able to give her his first handwritten draft. Then he went to the toilet. Back in his office, he looked into the mirror hanging inside his wardrobe, combed his hair, straightened his tie, pulled over his jacket and sat down at his desk. Jamie had already opened the page for the video conference and punctually at 10:30 a.m. he heard the signal that announced the call from Prof. Dr. Nerz's office.

“Monitor” by Free-Photos

"Good morning, Professor Nerz," Jamie greeted the lawyer on the other side of the video transmission.

"Good morning, Dr. Fraser," Nerz replied, wearing his characteristic golden glasses and his well-kept beard. Behind him, a shelf wall made of expensive wood could be seen, which was decorated from top to bottom with folios bound in leather. For a moment, Jamie wondered whether this shelf wall was in Nerz's office or in his firm's library.

"Thank you for agreeing so quickly to advise me."

"Thank you for putting confidence in our firm," Nerz replied. After the first ice had broken, the Hamburg specialist for media law immediately turned his attention to the matter at hand:

"I read the dossier on Dr. Beauchamp's case, which your secretary sent in advance. And I share your conviction that the case has the potential to be inflated by the media."

Jamie nodded. He had expected Prof. Nerz to confirm his fears.

"What do you think if we take a look at the first case in the history of Europe in which the media played a decisive role? We can then draw conclusions from this for the case of Dr. Beauchamp."

"Gladly," Jamie said and nodded again.

"Does the case of Violette Nozière mean anything to you?"

"The name sounds familiar to me, but ..."

“Bücher” by JackPierce

"Good. It's 1933 and we're in France. The world is full of crises. In Germany Hitler has seized power and you can literally smell that a war is coming. This is a good time for the newspapers because, in addition to information on world political events, people want to read more and more stories that distract them from these crises. A murder case shocks the Parisian society and, as a result, the whole of France. It is the so-called case of the "Monster in the Petticoat" and should become the most sensational case of the 30s. The accused, Violette Nozière, grew up in the Rue de Madagascar in the 12th Arrondissement. Her father was Jean-Baptiste Nozière, who worked as a locomotive driver for the PLM railway company. Her mother is Germaine Nozière, now a housewife. Although her parents only come from the middle class, they try to give their daughter the best possible education. She is allowed to visit the famous Lycée Fénelon. This is expensive and not usual for a child from this class. However, the reports of that time show that the young woman preferred to spend her time with other young people in cafés rather than in school. She is also said to have had several friends, or rather lovers. It is also said that to finance her lifestyle, she stole money and other things from her parents and possibly other people.

”Violette Nozière” by Agence de presse Meurisse [Public domain] via Wikimedia Commons

The family lives in a small, narrow apartment with only two rooms. Over time, tensions are said to have increased, leading to disputes, threats or blackmail. On August 23, 1933, Jean-Baptist Nozière and his wife were finally found lifeless in their apartment. Jean-Baptiste is dead, his wife is still breathing and can be rescued. The police investigate and after a week Violette Nozière is accused of murdering her father and mother. She is said to have intended to murder her parents with poison. She succeeded with her father and failed with her mother. French society at this time is marked by the civil code, the Code civil, also known as Code Napoléon. And according to this code, the father is the pillar of the civil order. Imagine what a patricide means in such a society! Patricide is the worst of all crimes. And the crime was committed by a woman who is also the child. What a scandal! But in the beginning, little is known and the newspapers can only report that two lifeless bodies were found in Rue de Madagascar. Violette Nozière is only mentioned as a daughter. Everything else is unclear. It could also have been a suicide. But then it comes to an interesting incident. When Germaine Nozière has recovered from the consequences of the poisoning in the hospital, the investigating police officer wants to confront the daughter with her mother. But Violette Nozière flees. And of course, that makes her very suspicious. And now the bloodhound instinct of press is in full mode. Because, as I said, we have all the ingredients for a real scandal. And then, as now, there is this mantra of the press: If there are no interesting stories, one has to be found and made up. Violette Nozière is accused and the police search for her. And journalists who crave for sensations 'support' the police by also searching for her. At that time, the press in Paris consisted of the so-called 'Four Big One’s’. These included 'Le Journal', 'Le Petit Parisien', 'Le Matin' and 'Le Petit Journal'. But in 1930 Jean Prouvost took over the newspaper 'Paris-Soir' and this changed the Parisian press landscape permanently. To stabilize the crisis-ridden newspaper financially, he increasingly relied on the printing of photographs. That was something that had been practiced in America for quite some time. And in 1931 he wrote media history with it. The paper published a total of nine photos on the title page. It is assumed that this 'Americanization' of the newspaper, as it was called, the use of the photos and also introduced large, shocking headlines, contributed significantly to its success. When Prouvost took over the newspaper, it had a circulation of 700,000 copies. He was supported by the well-known journalist Pierre Lazareff. And the success seems to prove the two men right. You know how it is, Dr. Fraser?"

Jamie, looked astonished at his counterpart because he was still thinking about Nerz's historical lecture.

"What do you mean?

"Well, you know, Dr. Fraser, how the saying goes: “Numbers reflect success and those who have success are right," Professor Nerz said with a smile.

"Oh yes, of course," Jamie replied with a clearly audible ironic undertone.

"By 1937 the circulation of the "Paris-Soir" is increased to 1.8 million copies. This number should then increase again to almost 2.5 million copies. That was shortly before the German occupation of Paris started in June 1940. Photography had been known since the beginning of the century, but newspapers in Europe were still skeptical about it. This was to change with the "Paris-Soir". The journalists at the "Paris-Soir" were of the opinion that readers should not only be provided with information for reading but also with pictures to look at. And of course, in the case of Violette Nozière, the readers also had the wish to 'see something'. Historians, lawyers, and media experts agree that this case also had a very voyeuristic component.

“Journal Le Petit Parisien, édition du 2 septembre 1933″ via Wikimedia Commons

And here we come to an application to our case: Like Violette Nozière, your client is also a very beautiful woman. That, in any case, is what I see in the picture that you sent me together with the dossier. And she is younger than the victim. One cannot say that the murdered man, Dr. Randall, could have been her father, but ... such things fuel the voyeurism of the masses. We won't be able to prevent the media from taking pictures of your client each day of trial. Even in the case of Erich Honecker, who was severely sick, the court wasn’t able to prevent it. However, we can attack any other picture report. But we should talk about this in detail later. Let us come back to Violette Nozière's story. She was arrested on August 28, 1933, in Paris and in the "Paris Soir" illustrates the report about her arrest with a whole series of pictures. This gives readers the impression that the newspaper is very close to the real events. And, of course, these pictures help to reinforce the dark impression, that the public has about Violette Nozière. And so the verdict is pronounced before the accused has even entered a courtroom! Now other newspapers and magazines too publish more detailed reports - and with pictures! They report about the case and - call the accused a poisoner. Some newspapers draw a historical line from the well-known poison murderers of French history up to the year 1933, thus reinforcing the impression that the accused must be a treacherous criminal. You shouldn't be surprised if anyone writes such crap about your client. With historical comparisons, the columns of the newspapers can be filled splendidly, if one knows nothing else to say about the case. Historians and lawyers also agree that the Violette Nozière case was the first case in media history in which a defendant was literally hunted. Cases such as the one in Paris in 1933 are the stuff from which serial stories are made of. Murder, sex, mysterious rumors and surprising twists in a criminal case, that's what a serial story needs. And it's exactly these serial stories that give the papers the big money because they bind the readers and make them buy one issue after another. And that's it what most media are all about: money. I think we agree on that.”

Jamie nodded approvingly.

“The reader,” Nerz went on, “thinks that it is information that is brought to him. But basically, reporting on such a case is nothing but a pure money machine for most newspapers. The whole story is split into many small parts, which are then fed to the reader piece by piece. For cash, of course! That, Dr. Fraser, won't be any different in the case of your client. If Dr. Beauchamp's case causes the nation-wide sensation that we expect, then we have to assign at least one full-time person to look through the media reports daily and check for violations of the law. We might even need two people to do it."

"Whatever you need, Professor Nerz, use it. You don't have to worry about the costs. Our law firm will take care of that."

"Good. If you don't mind, I'll send you the draft of a contract, which we can talk about later this week."

Jamie nodded again.

"Let's go back to Violette Nozière. As I said before, the political situation, the world economic crisis, led people to look for entertainment, for distraction. And the media was only too happy to offer people this distraction, or rather to sell it. Basically, we are dealing here with a kind of movement that we also know from the Biedermeier era. The time of the Biedermeier era, the time after the liberation wars against Napoleon and after the Congress of Vienna was characterized by a retreat of the middle class into the private sphere. Personal security and private happiness were the top priorities for these people. And it was similar in 1933. As in the Biedermeier era, the focus of people here was more on the inside. That is why the interest in her case was so huge. Personal stories, such as the one of Violette Nozière's, seemed to be closer to the life of the common people than the reports about political or economic issues. Political or economic processes were decided somewhere far away from the people. And no ordinary person could fully understand these things, let alone influence them. And so this ‘serial story reporting’ in words and pictures, if I may call it that, for the first time gave the people the illusion, that there was something evil, but that one could control this evil. Media fulfilled this human need, which combined horror with subsequent reassurance. And the people were willing to pay princely for it. Today it's no different, only the nature and number of media has changed. Do you watch television?

"Not very often..."

Nerz smiled.

"Good for you. Nevertheless, if you look at television, what are the three most common types of programs that are offered? What would you say?

Jamie thought for a moment and went through last week's television program in his mind. Then he said:

"Crime movies, comedy, satirical shows, and... well, everything you'd call 'heart-pain' movies."

"Exactly," Nerz replied with a smile. Then he continued:

"The situation is still the same. In view of today's crises - an impending war in the Middle East that could set the whole region on fire, the economic upheavals in Europe and the world as a whole, the ecological crisis - the majority of people are turning back to the private sphere. Comedies are the answer to people's need for distraction. Did you know that between 1815 and 1830 almost 300 comedies were premiered in the Schauspielhaus Berlin alone, but only 56 tragedies?

Jamie, who had listened to Nerz with growing attention, shook his head.

"No, but that's interesting."

"You addressed the satirical programs on television."

Jamie nodded once more.

"Did you notice that some of the best-known broadcasts in this format started after the 2008 financial crisis and that since the wars in Ukraine and the Middle East, others have expanded their slots?

"Really?"

Nerz nodded and Jamie made a mental note to check this information. His counterpart continued:

"As I said, the way in which criminal cases are reported and how they are portrayed in films can make the viewer feel as if evil is controllable. It's a kind of 'wash my fur but don't make me wet' mentality behind it. You can enjoy the gruesome horror of the deed, but in the end, everything is fine again because the perpetrator is caught and sentenced. If the world out there is already in shards, here with us everything remains in order! ‘Crime and Comedy' are a great way to close your eyes to the real problems of reality. Either you have something to be upset about or you have something to laugh about. I am not saying that the desire for distraction is not legitimate, nor am I saying that the media do not have the right to meet this need for distraction. But I also say that people can be manipulated through their needs. And when, in order to do this - and to make money with it - the fate of our clients is used, the red line is already crossed. That is why we will sue everyone, and if necessary we will go as far as the European Court of Human Rights, which wants to abuse your client's case as an 'egg-laying woolly sow'. You have me all on your side, Dr. Fraser."

Thank you for reading. Next time, read: “ The Murderess from the Grunewald (28): Preparations for War (3b): "The Monster in the Petticoat" (2)

#Outlander #Outlander Fan Fiction #TheMurderessoftheGrunewald #Claire Beauchamp #Jamie Fraser #Frank Randall #Adso the cat #Bismarck the dachshund #Berlin #Grunewald #Crime AU #Modern AU

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deviationdivine · 6 years

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The Stoic Prince (RK900!Prompt Request)

TLDR: To you he’s a smug pain in the ass but you still fantasize about getting dirty with him at the DPD.

Word Count: 1,912

TW: Language, Suggestive Themes, Smut Fantasy

A/N: Follower/Reader Appreciation Drabble | Prompt: “Why the hell am I attracted to snarky stuck up dick faces?” - anon request! Thanks for participating nonnie! This went somewhere else. 1 in the queue done! Onto the next!

"Why do you even bother talking to it?"

Bitter taste of coffee barely touches tongue. Peering up at the question leaves a tiny smirk across lips, which did a hesitant skim of cup rim. Can the DPD honestly get a better brand to chug out of this dispenser?

“Excuse me?”

Purposely hedging away from your co-worker’s sudden interrogation hardly hides the clear tinge of artifice lacing words. Speaking any further may give away this ploy. Of course you know who they mean. He is the only smug jackass that does a heck of a job digging under skin.

Tall, imposing steel scoping a sea of puny humans to gnaw on, using his steadfast jaw, cut from stone if he were made of clay to be fitted by the gods themselves. Plastic, metal – raw material configured, manipulated into eye catching aesthetics.

Fabricated beauty and despite a brusque imperious affectation streaming out of those cool, pert lips. Often times you fantasize how human, warm they might taste. Not just against your mouth but gliding in a hungry appreciation upon every inch of skin made readily available.

To say you had the hots for Nines is an understatement. To say it can go anywhere is another quandary in your grand scheme of things. Natural enigmas be damned he is a walking puzzle waiting to be stripped of his authoritarian programming and cynical attitude.

Unfortunately those gods decided pompous and hypocrisy should be star qualities. Incessantly rolling eyes at your luck, leaning casually into table, coffee machine obscured by your current position, sank an invigorating quiet into your weary body for a brief moment.

Breaks are never long enough. At least there isn’t a sign of top human asshole of the Detroit Police. Rather not have to put a foot up his ass again. However, let’s get back to the inquiry at hand since it hasn’t left the break room.

“Daydreaming about it? Wow, Y/N.”

Sounds like some others you’ve known in the city. Detroit is just a heaping pile of garbage on a good day. Android fever is still in full swing and not how society originally saw it unfolding. "Don't call him that." You defend him while not in his presence. Better to keep it that way because no way in hell are you admitting how fast you’d drop clothes and get down with the rigid android on the force. "Just because he's an android, I mean." The female officer rolls eyes at you. "Uh huh. Sure. Next time you’ll tell me Reed’s going out for drinks with Anderson and Connor.”

Considering androids do not drink she’s a long way off course. You snort.

“Better luck with puppy eyed boy,” the officer jabs, smug. “He doesn’t look like he wants to eat people alive. Or maybe that RK900 just wants to eat you out.”

Nearly spitting coffee all over moves you in a quick step forward, grabbing a napkin out of dispenser to brush splotches of brown liquid off shirt. Eat you out?! Yeah, absolutely!

Perfervid antagonism blinds your gaze resting in a target over fellow officer all consuming in personal embarrassment. Truth is not far from luscious fantasies swirling in nightly subconscious. More than a few dreams about tangling body, flesh and humanity with synthetic, plastic and robotics transforms sleep. It is a burning secret.

A mystery garden planted between the cages absconding the heart ruminating for something of construct, designed in perfection but never mind false images. Never mind unnatural heavenly auras built around a shell of mechanized man. He is everything you can dream about but never will quite openly acknowledge.

One more step and – "Your heart rate is dangerously high for caffeine consumption."

The calculating voice of the RK900 hovers close, sinking in smooth and curt. A statement more so than concern but appropriately edged with his swift, sharp stride into break room.

Fusing a firm hand atop your shoulder seemingly resonates effectively. Analysis is punctual upon your figure as are the sweeping steel he possesses to invoke fear in opponents. He stares down suspects and useless colleagues alike. However there is a bit more skill in you out of most among these humans. He keeps silent, studying a wide appreciation in your eyes.

Pupil dilation is telling to an android who measures subtlety, language in the human form, moving under its own command. Rarely does he witness a shining example of what is referred to as a poker face in most offenders. Upon you it is quite - delicious.

The spike in vitals draws him. Nostrils flare in your personal radius sampling as a bloodhound on a ferocious hunt. Fluctuations respond exquisitely as you are equally confounding in his state of processing.

Do you honestly believe you will affect him in such a wasteful way without retaliation? The form in which he shadows your trembling inhibitions is opposite of what is desired in potential partners. This android does not care in the slightest for decorum.

He will pull you into his awaiting grasp, splaying atop his smooth marbled chest, wanton in prurience, undone from the molecules that form soft, fragile flesh. Tasting your essence will act as more than data on a long, skillful tongue. It will bury into the nerves breaking down your barriers in a flood of rapture.

All it takes is a deliberate push. Buttons unfastening with each poke he prods, bleeding into your skin and he does so intentionally to gain reaction. Steeping within your system liquefies him to the plasma running through veins.

Just as thirium runs a gamut of power to biocomponents he readily will be the life force keeping your mortal existence afloat. So it will be because he wills it out of a viral need you have unwittingly but most adoringly spread into his frame.

His lips twitch faint. A tiniest curve unseen by naked eye but he settles them to a hard line.

Your entire body shivers giving away how good he’s gotten you. Damn it. And he’s looking awfully smug about it all. Somehow he manages to keep his stoic façade nestling in his wide, masculine exterior; handsome is a mere flash in the pan for Nines.

He is beyond definition. You think he knows it too. Why else does he single you out? Making you literally sweat, taking great pleasure in how you behave and pretending nothing is happening.

What a complete and total jackass! Sometimes you swear he fakes this hard ass persona to look the part. Actually, no he’s built this way. Deviancy does nothing for him!

Collecting yourself is instinct and self preservation kicking in. Nobody in their life will get away with this but he melts your strong core down to a puddle. Limpid steel expunges self control. In front of him you strive to be alert so it's not obvious but there was more warmth underneath his imposing touch than you can stand.

God, he's too good. Flicking eyes down the length of his body drives a surge in your heart, thundering in desperation to current fantasy riding out awake.

Strewn atop table, legs around his waist; ripping open that damn white jacket, digging fingers against defined pecs visibly bursting at the seams through black material, fluffy camouflage to a toned body. Taking you right then and there, moaning his name, sinking fingers into exposed synthetic skin because you want to lay into him as heavily as he lays into you.

Biting of perfectly white teeth, licking languid, sensual from smooth tongue and pounding your body on hard surface, pain thumping against the plane of your back but you beg him for more.

Ravenous, unfiltered and insatiably poetic while he completely ravages whatever is left of you, nearly collapsing the chosen surface of your hungry carnality. Eye witnesses neither ceasing nor distracting from the obvious orgasm you will ride on high in the clouds of your mind.

Breath catches in a mystifying glaze sparkling up to his hard narrowed brow. A daylight delusion swept hold at the least private location for you to be horny. For a minute you fear he knows what went on in your head. A predatory slit of Nines’ eyes tracks each minute expression, fidget you relay. He resembles an albino king cobra, flaring a shroud to engulf you in his beguiling shadow.

Hammering against ribs betrays you to the point of imagining the entire precinct eavesdropping on the laborious thud. A small inhalation expands his chest one he hardly requires for oxygen but absorbs your arousal. Oh, it’s very obvious. You have a bit of a problem between your legs right now. Fuck.

"Peak performance suggests you not consume more than the recommended dose of caffeine, Detective.”

The android’s voice is deeper, darker than usual. Almost testing, watchful of how your body will respond next. Enough so that a smirk graces the mouth you wish to ascend in prayer to the immediate issue you physically suffer. He will cure such issue predominantly efficient. “Coffee will not help your productivity if you misuse it." Misuse it, huh? Oh, you’re sure nothing will be of misuse here. Preferably his tongue; you screw up your face to hide the lust.

Why the fuck is he looking like that? Does he realize people will start noticing? Honestly, it’s first time you realize it’s just the two of you in the break room. Guess he scared off your former gossip partner. "Why do you care what I do anyway?” Seething at his game and the fact you’re turned on at work, you slam a finger into his chest. Stabbing him doesn’t move his perfect posture but it sure does make you ache more. “It's not as if it's worth your time."

Nines’ head cocks to the side marginally amused by this insolence. He finds it cripplingly fascinating on a good day but why voice such trivialities?

“Perhaps if you behave in a professional capacity, Detective Y/L/N?” Leaning in to brush the words beside ear, purposely expelling artificial breath to lick your skin, the android fuses fingers against your hip.

A slow slide kisses beneath the android’s tempting fingertips allowing the hitch of your natural breath fuel his personal stimulus. Aroused by you will not go without discipline. There is only one kind he imagines to have utmost potency and satisfaction.

“Tell me, Y/N,” Nines switches to informalities, dangerously silken. “Do you wish every advanced piece of technology that wanders into the DPD to fuck you? Or is it because I am faster, stronger and more resilient to your needs?”

Gasping is the last vocalization you will give him. Pushing back from you reserves dignity even if you want him to just snag you hard by the hips and throw you down into the evidence room. Quieter, less traffic right now and it’d be a pretty good way to… He just called himself the best and believes it.

Well, it’s true right? No. Fuck his snide self!

You are trying but still…

“Why the hell am I attracted to snarky, stuck up dick faces?!”

Story of your goddamn life apparently and this one is the snarkiest, smuggest, sexy piece of android you’ve had the discomfort and pleasure to meet.

“Get over yourself, Nines!”

Yelling on the way out of the break room only causes looks and you’re sure without turning around he’s still standing there. Tall as hell and making you weak, oh so weak to his stormy sea and he’s already swallowed you up.

Wait until he devours you.

Tag List: @elydith @your-taxidermy

#dbh #rk900 x reader #dbh rk900 x reader #dbh nines x reader #nines x reader #follower/reader appreciation #dbh drabbles #detroit become human #dbh drabble choice #drabble prompt #personal prompts #it's popping off #lets get follower appreciation lit #snarky nines is best nines #oof it's hot here

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abundantchewtoys · 5 years

Text

HS Epi: Meat, p8 reaction

It doesn't FEEL like it could already be time for the Masterpiece, but then, what else is there? Until now we've been switching back and forth between Earth C & John. Unless we now go see what post-retcon Terezi has been up to, I guess it might be time to witness the penultimate moment of Caliborn's ascension to Lord English, the last moment being when LE hatches from Doc Scratch.

---

"> JOHN: Zap to your final destination.

Where the hell are you?

DAVE: where the hell are we DAVE: i cant see shit"

Welp it's time for this?? ... Unless John misfired and they're in the Furthest Ring, I'd think that they'd find Caliborn in his station on LOCAM. ... I don't suppose there's going to be an actual stage like in the Vine videos. :P If that were so, it appears someone killed the lights, though.

Maybe something prevents them from actually going to Caliborn, like they're missing a crucial artifact and they wouldn't be able to escape from LOCAM with John's powers to return to the same moment with another retcon. We know the juju almost instantaneously can absorb them. ... It'd be something if the events of the Masterpiece somehow preordained them into doing something first.

"JADE: shhh!

It’s dark. Not like “someone turned out the lights out” dark. More like “someone destroyed the concept of light at its very source” dark." I suppose that, in Caliborn's art, it would be "vantablack" dark due to the absence of a light source he never bothered to draw, but I doubt they just zapped into one of his scribbles he made after John beat him up.

Also, it's a good Light wasn't capitalized in that description. Though, to think about it, Void would look enormously black, wouldn't it? ... Did John zap them into the Void somehow??? It IS the place where Caliborn's soul was stuck for a very long time, after all, but that is after the Masterpiece took place.

"It’s a darkness that fills up your skull. Jake puts this more eloquently, as always:

JAKE: By golly it is indeed dark as fuck." A+ observation, Jake.

"ROXY: shoosh!!!" That makes two of the girls shooshing them. ... For a minute there I thought they recognized this void, until I remembered it was Game Over Roxy and post-retcon Jade that ended up meeting Calliope's ghost.

"Jade breaks off from the group. She moves through the air gracefully, ears twitching as she sniffs through space like a bloodhound. “There!” she exclaims, and points down. All the way down." Being a bit destracted by unformatted sentences uttered by one of the main characters, I'll be honest. But yeah, I suppose the Space and Void player are most qualified to navigate this... realm. Caliborn's version of the Veil, maybe? Since it would appear they're not alone here, after all.

"All the way down beneath you there is a light source. Gray, focused—like a spotlight, except that it’s folded over the curvature of the space beneath it. At the center of it stands teenage Lord English, all decked out in his ostentatious god tier jammies." ... Ah. Not a stage in the literal sense, but Caliborn did prepare a grand scene for this faceoff, in that he literally prepared the shittiest scene imagineable: none at all.

"Gamzee’s there too, for some unfathomably stupid reason. There’s a robot bunny chilling out on top of a chest, lookin’ cool and kicking its cute little bunny legs back and forth." Welp, that sure are the beings present for the Masterpiece. That was the chest Caliborn kept the juju in, hoh boy.

"You hope that neither of these unexpected dramatis personae will play a role in the coming battle, because it wouldn’t feel right whaling on either of them at this point." Of course they're going to stay irrelevant, what are you saying? :B

"Lord English is holding something that looks like... Lil Cal? It’s definitely Lil Cal" So, uh, John recognizes the puppet then? ... Well, granted, he did see baby Dirk/Bro with it on the meteor, and during the ten years since someone must've described the thing to him at one point.

", and Lord English is definitely waltzing around with it in his little spotlight in the middle of the nowhere, swinging the puppet around by both its floppy arms. Well, rather, he was waltzing around. He stopped the moment you looked at him." ... Pffff he wasn't even expecting them right then? He was just playing pretend with Cal for who knows how long.

"> Behold your adversary.

JOHN: ... CALIBORN: ..." No. No, we're not doing this again, are we? The epic frown off.

"JOHN: ... CALIBORN: ... JOHN: ... CALIBORN: ... JOHN: ... CALIBORN: ... JOHN: ... CALIBORN: WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?"

What. The fuck. ... Does... Does Caliborn not recognize John because he's an adult???? Or... I mean... Timelines... Okay, yeah, Blaperile reminded me about something.

Caliborn in the Masterpiece didn't seem to recognize John. So. That could mean that. This. Is. Pre-retcon Caliborn.

Fucking Hells. Even if they get sucked into the juju...

That means. Lord English is pre-retcon Caliborn. But post-retcon Caliborn might be a seperate entity. That means he's an unknown quantifier, but that would mean Paradox Space is seriously screwed, right? A Caliborn not destined to become Lord English would be free to do whatever he pleased with his Lord of Time powers, and then all bets are off. Even if his pre-retcon self became the bane of endless universes, he was still limited, sanctioned by Paradox Space.

FYI, with pre-retcon & post-retcon, here I meant that I think that, this Caliborn never had John zapping into his room. But, now that I think about it some more... He would still have recognized John and the others from the consoles. (Hmm, unless the consoles only showed Caliborn images from B2, but I didn't think that was the case.) Meanwhile, I don't think the ghost of the Caliborn that Alternate Calliope 'ate' would be dressed in god tier jammies and be chilling with Lil' Seb and Gamzee...

"You simply refuse to answer his question. Instead, you do something so much better. Something that will make both his inevitable fate and your regard for his character incontrovertibly clear." Is it a punch in the face? Tell me it's a punch in the face. If this Caliborn turns out to be blameless in the rise of Lord English, the second hand embarassment will be palpable.

"> Give him a thumbs-down." Ah. Beatdown, imminent. :P

"Lord English drops the puppet. For a moment he looks shocked, maybe even a little afraid, but it passes quickly. He starts laughing." Wow, okay. I didn't think I was ready to consider liking the idea of a version of Caliborn that is more jerk-with-low-self-esteem, but, here I'm getting there.

"JOHN: uh. CALIBORN: NEVERMIND. I KNOW WHO YOU ARE." ... Oh, then scratch everything I just said. :P Guess the dorky theatrics finally gave it away, huh? Well, granted, Caliborn is a self-professed slow learner and been shown to be slow in the uptake in some regards.

"CALIBORN: IT WAS FORETOLD. BY THE MASTERPIECE I MADE. WHEN I WAS BUT A BOY." With Caliborn, it's never clear if he's just boasting or being sincere. It might be that 7 years passed for him in his session too, but if he had been 13 at the time he could be 20. Then again, if he was 11... He'd still count as a teenager.

"JOHN: what? CALIBORN: BE QUIET. CALIBORN: I’LL HAVE YOU KNOW THAT YOU JUST INTERRUPTED A GROUNDBREAKING INTERPRETIVE ART PIECE. CALIBORN: IT WAS THE FIRST OF ITS KIND. PERFORMED ONLY ONCE. AND MADE MORE VALUABLE FOR ITS RARENESS. JOHN: wow. CALIBORN: I SAID SHUT UP. IT’S RUDE TO TALK THROUGH THE OVERTURE. CALIBORN: BUT DON’T WORRY. ALTHOUGH YOU MISSED MY VERY IMPORTANT DANCE DEMONSTRATION." ... Interpretive dance. His wickedness really knows no bounds!!! :mspa:

"CALIBORN: NOW YOU WILL PARTICIPATE IN SOMETHING EVEN MORE IMPORTANT." Welp. Caliborn has Fate on his side in this one. He knows what's coming! Guess we're left to see how straightforward everything will unfold now.

"The young Lord’s face begins to distort. The unhinging of his jaw reverberates in the empty space. He laughs through the remainder of his nefarious soliloquy, which he has possibly prepared in advance for this moment." I was thinking he'd start shooting lasers, but it would appear the rest of his 'soliloquy' may consist solely out of "HA. HA. HA." repeated ad nauseum.

"CALIBORN: BY NOW, SURELY MANY HAVE WITNESSED MY MASTERPIECE. CALIBORN: AS IT HAS CIRCULATED THROUGH THE BLACK VEINS. OF THE DARK WEB. CALIBORN: TRILLIONS HAVE WITNESSED ITS MAJESTY. HATERS AND FOOLS ALIKE." That might be a LITTLE bit overestimating it. :P Unless, of course, he's talking about all of the ghosts in the dreambubbles, rebubbling the memory ad infinitum. I'm reminded of Gamzee's rap, though, about the trillions being bled.

"CALIBORN: BUT NOW. THE TIME HAS COME. CALIBORN: FOR EVERYONE TO SHUT UP ABOUT HOW GREAT MY MASTERPIECE WAS. CALIBORN: AND THE TIME IS NOW AT HAND..." To see the truth or lack thereof in the masterpiece.

"CALIBORN: FOR YOU ALL TO *BECOME* MY MASTERPIECE!" ... Wow. Epic.

Okay, that was delivered perfectly.

If we weren't in the epilogues, I'd have expected an [S] page next.

Gotta say, for knowing how this will go in broad strokes, I'm glad at getting the finer details filled in.

So, Caliborn seemed to imply in his Masterpiece Jade still had her First Guardian powers. Guess this scene still takes place in the Green Sun's gaze then. I hope I'm forgiven for being confused. Post-canon takes place outside of it, but Caliborn's session was spawned in Universe C. So at some point, he fell back into the Green Sun's domain somehow. Maybe simply by Entering his session. He thusly entered canon, and gained quite a bit of relevance to Paradox Space.

"A young Lord stands on his stage. It just so happens that today, the thirteenth of April, 11111111111, is this boy's wriggling day. Though it was 18 sweeps ago he was given life, it is only today he will obtain ultimate power.

What will this young Lord do?"

#homestuck #homestuck epilogues #homestuck liveblog #upd8 #reaction #spoiler alert #caliborn

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diveronarpg · 6 years

Photo

Congratulations, LEO! You’ve been accepted for the role of PARIS with an approved FC change to JI CHANG WOOK. Admin Jen: Wow, I literally have to stifle the urge to keysmash my way through this note because THAT is how over the moon I am about your application, Leo! Your analysis of Priam was so intricate and it touched on various nuances in his character that I was very excited to see people explore and peel apart - his moral compass, his honor, his purpose, and most importantly, his masks. The interview was quite riveting to read and I adored how prominently your portrayal of him shone in the narrative. I particularly enjoyed observing his mannerisms and how they contrasted with his thought process but in general, the interview was full to the brim with interesting details to observe and inspect. As soon as I finished reading, I was certain that you would be perfect for Priam. I can’t wait to see him on the dash! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Out of Character

Alias | Leo.

Age | 18, though I still feel like a prepubescent teen oops.

Preferred Pronouns | she/her

Activity Level | I’d give myself a seven outta’ ten for activity levels.

Timezone | ‘m in France, so the timezones might be wonky.

Current/Past RP Accounts | [ x ]

In Character

Character | PARIS ; If possible, I’d like to use Xavier Serrano or Ji Chang Wook. [clutching fcs and sobbing as they spill over my hands.]

What drew you to this character? | “… the world in which he was a child was starkly black and white.” This, I feel, reveals the crux of the matter: that Priam Taravella, born with steel fused into his spine and rigidity formed into his very being, is now such a man of metamorphosis. And, yet, his core hasn’t changed at all. Something like there is enough in me to swallow the world and this body of mine can scarcely contain this hunger would be an apt description for the void that lingers in him. No ambition? What a lie. The ant who dreams of becoming a lion is merely a dreamer of impossibility, but the lion who dreams of becoming a king? There’s the ambition that his family refused to see in him. Priam Taravella was always a man with his feet rooted to the earth and his eyes fixed upon the horizon line because there’s where the gold glitters. Nothing is impossible, for he simply doesn’t deign to dream of impossibility. And, yet, his family mocked him for this and gave him the cold shoulder simply for daring to dream of things tangible. Maybe he cared about this, once upon a time, but nowadays he scoffs at the past, preferring to keep his sights on the present, and oh, there’s simply nothing like it.

There’s this, as well. “Verona’s underworld has made him apathetic towards most things but he has no tolerance for men without honor.” Oh, Priam. In a world where people may say that the sky is green and the water purple without an inflection of remorse, his honor brings such an interesting dimension to his character. He is, for all intents and purposes, a man who still adheres to the ‘black and white’ view of his youth; despite his hollow core, despite the blood that runs from his hands, despite the boundless ambition that serves as a never-ending bloodhound, he still places honor as something important to him, something that’s integral to his very being. And, isn’t this a paradox? In order to move up in the underworld, one must draw their lines of morality in sand, to be washed away and redrawn with every situation that follows. And, yet, Priam’s rigidity doesn’t allow for him to do this: there are some lines that he would never cross, even given the pros and cons of such an action.

He is a man of honor, and aren’t honor and glory both one and the same? Many would beg to differ, but the truth in his mind is the truth of the world. God made man in the image of Himself, the humanists would say, and isn’t this the primary facet of life in a search for unending glory? Verona is a city of divinity; a god without glory is no god at all. Likewise, a man without honor isn’t even worth a single good-natured thought. I think this makes him so very interesting, that in his rigidity and in his purpose, he sees himself as an honor-bound man. Are the three mutually bound? Is he truly a man of honor?

Is it even possible for a man with boundless ambition, crown tilted upon his head and smile slanted across his mouth, to be a man of honor?

(priam, what happens when you end your search? could the void inside of you ever be satiated?)

Which, speaking of, is such a fascinating concept. The void inside of him can be for many things, but the fact that Juliana is the first (and perhaps the only) person who has ever made him feel as if he belonged hints towards a boy who was starved of affection. Yes, he has potential, he knows that he has potential, but what I find interesting is that the Taravella name means something to him. It’s a shackle that he bears with his head held high; he is a boy of only twenty-three, and I think that this bears emphasis, that he is twenty-three and already believes that the only true part of his identity is his name. And, yet, at this age he already takes for granted that love and that sense of belonging are worth something. These are concepts that are not given freely; if he’s not useful then he isn’t worth being loved. This concept is found again in the way that he believes that his name might be the only thing that allows him to belong.

And the only way he would be loved is if he put on the mask. This, in turn, reminds me of a quote: “There was no one in him; behind his face (which even through the bad paintings of those times resembles no other) and his words, which were copious, fantastic, and stormy, there was only a bit of coldness, a dream dreamt by no one.” There’s something in this that causes one to wonder: where does the mask end and the man begin? Who is he, underneath the habits and personas that he had to adopt in order to realize his ambitions? Iago claims “I am not what I am,” and is this, too, true for Priam?

God, he’s just such a fascinating character, wow, and I could go on and on and on. I’ll leave you with this last quote: “History adds that before or after dying he found himself in the presence of God and told him: ‘I who have been so many men in vain want to be one and myself.’”

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? | I really want him to be submerged into a situation where he must lose his sense of purpose or honor-bound duty or even a situation where he has to redraw his lines of morality in order to feed his ambition. The simple anguish in the fact that he must be, perhaps, somewhat like the men he hates, those men of no honor and of no purpose, would be absolutely lovely. Would he rationalize it to himself? Would he choose honor over ambition or vice versa? In a world that seems to be doing its damned hardest to kill them all, what could he possibly choose?

Why does he hate Boris so much? Is it simply because he can’t stand his ways? Is it truly because the Kovrov man reeks of shameless disloyalty? Or is it because he could see himself in the way he hungers for something more than the lot he was given in life? (maybe it’s because he knows, somehow, that this is the man he could become, that this might be the man he is.) I’d love to explore this.

Oh, Juliana. Dearly beloved, my tender heart, mio tesoro. In a man who’s more steel than flesh, she’s the tenderness of his childhood days in an era void of softness. Maybe this isn’t love—something about her eyes, her smile, the lilt of her voice—but it’s close enough. It’s good enough. (or so he hopes.) And, yeah, she makes him want to believe in the concept of loving and being loved. But, God, fuck, in a world such as this, any hint of tenderness is a hint of weakness. And Priam Taravella has long had enough of being weak. God, there’s so much space for nuance here. Does he truly love her or is it just the knowledge that they know so much about each other? Oh, and there’s this: in those moments of tenderness, in those moments when he’s pressing gentle lips to her forehead and folding his fingers over her hand, is he still acting?

And, also, we cannot forget about this: is he even able to discover himself underneath those layers and layers of masks? We can see that his sense of honor is a way that allows him to hold onto something even through the switching of personas, but isn’t there something more than simply that in a person?

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Oh, God yes. The more tragic the death, the better.

In Depth

Priam, with a sickly-sweet taste sitting on the root of his tongue and fingers digging into the blankets, wakes up underneath someone else’s sheets at ass-o'clock in the morning. It’s slightly sticky. His mouth pulls into a slight grimace, lashes feathering across the slant of his eyes as he breathes out a longer breath than usual, but the glint in his gaze is devoid of any natural feeling save for a vague sensation of apathy.

There’s a flash of what might be faint amusement as he flicks a glance towards the remnants of last night—scattered items of clothing, the lingering scent of sex, the marks on his companion’s skin—even as he ruffles his fingers through his dark curls, languidly arching his back into a stretch. The arm slung around his waist tightens with his motion before relaxing—Priam carelessly curls his grip around the appendage and tosses it away from him and towards its owner—and there’s a grunt as the man wakes up, lounging in bed and watching lazily as Priam retrieves his pants. “Leaving so soon?” husked out from sleep-ridden vocal chords.

There’s a pause as Priam tilts his head back, flicking an idle glance towards the speaker. Already, the apathy in his gaze had vanished, leaving behind only gentle amusement and a form of satisfied grace. His mouth tilts into a grin. “Mm,” all movement and indulgence as the sound of a zipper rips through the 3am aftermath, “I’d love to stay, mi amor, but I have work in the morning.” The slant of his mouth is a finely crafted thing—God, he’s too tired for this right now, something screams in him, but his every action is mechanically precise—as he quirks his lips upwards towards the other man, roguish charm in the echo of his gesture. Priam Taravella has a reputation to uphold and God forbid he ever forget about those layers of masks weighing upon him like Atlas’ skies.

(Sometimes, he’s frightened by his own capacity for all of this. It comes easily, now, like habit. Other times, he gazes at himself in the mirror and tells himself something like i built myself from the ground up and this is the result of my pride. It’s a delicate balance between irony and smug self-satisfaction.)

Despite the annoyance he holds for clingy lovers—simply the fact that he has had to answer tedious questions in the morning annoys him—his lovely features light up into that charismatic feeling of promise.

(When he’s feeling particularly ironic, he calls it smile number thirty-five where the corners of his lips are tilted at a precise angle of 68 degrees, teeth showing ever-so-slightly and eyes softening. It imbues a feeling of earnestness, as can be seen from all the times he’s practiced in front of the mirror when he was younger.)

“You must be tired,” and there’s that artificial flare of heat that seeps through his gaze as he, seemingly reluctantly, drags his attention from the lines of the other man’s body after lingering upon where the drape of the sheets hid the contours of the man’s lower abdomen. He flicks his glance away after precisely three heartbeats of time, knowing that this gesture was sufficient enough to allay all concerns. “Rest.” He stands. There’s a brief bit of pause when he catches a glimpse of his reflection in a nearby mirror—sometimes he thinks that the day when he can’t even recognize himself is near—though the movement seems more like it’s a hesitation to leave. “I’ll see you around,” lying through his teeth with a smile of no substance.

“Will I see you at your favorite place?” exhaled from behind him as his fingers linger at the nape of his collar. Inch by inch, he drags his sleeves up over the breadth of his forearms, folding them below his elbow with the tuck of a button.

“My favorite place?” echoed, though his motions never cease. He refrains from looking back at the other man, knowing that the microsecond of disdainful amusement would show in the curve of his mouth. “Yes, of course,” knowing, too, that favorite hardly means favored.

“The Hotel Emilia?” again, from behind him, and there’s a note of expectation that’s laden within the drowsy voice. Priam simply abhors the expectation that this man has of him and his gaze grows dark, though there’s a careful regard as to how the slope of his shoulders tenses; simply put, he doesn’t let himself do anything except to retain movement in the form of satiated grace.

“You caught me,” a deep timbre laced with fond laughter. The Hotel Emilia? A lie that he’d concocted once he saw the interested flicker of the other man’s lashes on the afternoon of the day before, sunlight streaming in from stained-glass windows and lingering upon handsome features. Something to arouse sensation; oh, the Taravella scion has a weary side, a human side, and wouldn’t onlookers feel honored for the ability to see that soft smile upon Priam’s face?

He knows very well that humans are more likely to worship perfect idols, but that growing close to people requires various imperfections. (He has those in spades.)

Priam slips on his gloves, flexing his fingers against the cool fabric, and takes long strides to the exit of the house. Once he’s graced by the dusk, gentle breezes tugging at dark curls and nipping lightly at his nose, a faint smile slants across his mouth before being obscured by a brighter grin of greeting—still as hollow as ever—towards the few who are still on the streets.

A woman wanders up to him, fingers digging into her pockets and ruby-red lips tilted into a sly grin. “Priam Taravella,” voice low and suggestive, “exiting a random house in the early morning. I wonder, is this something you do every day?” Her gaze flicks up and down, blatantly admiring the way his clothes fit to his body.

He snorts, a sort of glacial coldness readily receding from the shallow depths of his eyes at the interception, even though he gives into the indulgence of tapping his fingers against his thigh once in a subtle show of irritation. “It could be,” allowing a slow, flirtatious grin to cross his mouth, “Miss?”

“Not important,” airily waving her hand. She rocks back and forth on her heels, eyes bright as she peers at him. “What do you do every day, then, Taravella?” The mockery in her voice is evident, as is the almost-envious idolization in her gaze.

He feigns a glance at his watch and watches as the woman’s eyes lingers on his exposed wrist. A Patek Philippe, circa 1997, and as expected, she involuntarily sucks in a breath. Priam doesn’t allow his mouth to twist into an expression of indulgent disdain, but it’s a near thing. “I eat breakfast,” drawled dryly, “just as you do, I’d assume.”

A wry grin slips onto his features like something that belongs. “Then, I get to work. Afterwards, I might go for a drink or two, maybe to an opera or an art exhibition, and then I attempt to buy presents for my beloved fiancée.” He lowers his voice, lashes feathering across the slant of his eyes in an artful show of candor and loving laughter, as if the simple thought of Juliana was enough to bring him joy, “Between you and me, the only reason I’m not sleeping on the couch every night is because of this.”

“Do you buy her flowers?” eager curiosity.

He makes as if to reply, but then he places a finger to his mouth. “Some things are meant to be a secret,” tucking his hands into his pockets and nodding at her. “Have a good day.”

God, it’s like he tasted something sour. He’s barely crossed a street before his gaze flickers towards another hovering figure, watching as they attempt to watch him. It’s almost four in the morning and still he is besieged with flies from all sides. Best to get this over with.

Priam beckons, gentle laughter in his eyes. “You have a question for me?” low and soothing. They yelp, almost scurrying off, before they think better of it and sheepishly wander closer.

“Y-yeah,” a soft whisper. “I just- I, uh, I-”

He watches them patiently, even though faint exasperation is bubbling up from the depths of his chest. “Mm?” prompting them with a noise that slicks from the back of his throat, though the smile tilted upon his lips hardly budges.

“I-” They take a deep breath, as if steeling themselves, “I just- You know,” they twitch their fingers and Priam’s eyes narrow towards the motion before flickering towards the bulge underneath their coat, near the side of their waist. He makes some effort to relax his musculature even further into a state of apparent languidness. “The war,” blurted out as they fidget.

Oh. Such an ugly concept. “What about it?” Subtly, he directs them both towards a nearby alleyway, an easy grin donned upon his lips as he clasps their shoulder.

“I- I feel so useless, not being able to do anything,” absently fisting their hands, “do you think I should join? At least then I’d be able to play a part.”

“I honestly can’t profess any experience with the war,” a blatant lie, not even twitching though the word drags itself tastelessly from his tongue, “but I believe in my fiancée and in the inherent righteousness of my betrothed’s family.” Conviction is rife in his voice and in the shift of his gaze as he continues, “This will end, soon,” soothing the other—oh, there’s something in his eyes that unfurls like twin flames, something that gives credence to the lilt of his voice and the slant of his mouth—“and the winner will be in the right.”

“Until then,” gently placing a knuckle underneath their chin and tilting their gaze upwards, towards the looming silhouette of a grand church, “pray.”

Of course, he himself knows better than to pray to other gods.

headcanons:

ok so picture this: you take for granted that the smile slanted across daddy’s mouth is because you did well in school. you take for granted that mom’s words of adoration are because you’ve won some competition or the other. love’s something that isn’t yours to keep. and yeah, yeah of course he coulda’ been worse off. he coulda’ been begging in the streets or barely surviving or thrown into some sorta’ gimmick that he couldn’t have left, but there’s this. there’s this and then there’s those moments when he looks at the people who don’t wear crowns—he’s just a boy and this crown is too heavy for him to bear—and watches their fingers curl around their parents’ hands and watches their smiles—before he knows it, he’s learned how to curve his lips in the exact same way because wasn’t this called happiness?—and he wants.

took him years to realize that this wasn’t for him, but he’s still left wanting.

baby you know the closest you’ll ever get to god is in a cemetery and, oh, he’s visited many. at first, it was the death of a beloved pet. nowadays, it’s to somehow atone for all the sins he’s ever carried, ‘cos god knows he can’t go to a confessional. the dead, at least, tell no tales.

he totally brings back tons of presents for juliana and those he calls friends from his business trips 'nd stuff

okay okay okay hear me out; he’s totally got his fingers in all sorts of pies after leaving his family’s legacy behind. there was something in him that wanted recognition for himself, rather than for his name, and so he’s a fairly well known philanthropist and semi-political figure within the city. semi, as he doesn’t hold a specific position but he’s still rather visible. he also organizes fundraisers and galas and all those kindsa’ parties. whatever it takes for him to be known 'cos it’s something like yeah, i’m gonna’ take the highest position you know and force you to look at me without this goddamn legacy

prolly has a buncha’ hidey-holes. evil lairs. nah, but he does have places within the city where he can pretend, at least for the moment, that he’s just priam. just priam taravella ('cos yeah, even now his family’s name means something to him) on a rooftop and watching the stars. god knows if he didn’t have these places, he’d lose himself even faster

also a tsundere asshole. doesn’t act like it, usually, and it’s easy for him to smile and say stuff he doesn’t mean, but when he does mean something, something that’s either fuckign sappy or really heartfelt, it’d take a miracle for him to admit to it

twenty-three y/o dork, actually, despite all the airs he puts on. juliana knows.

v’ v’ v’ flirtatious. knows he’s pretty. knows how to use it.

DO NOT get into a drinking contest with this boi cos he will either get piss-drunk and say he’s not or you’ll get shitfaced drunk

prolly goes to the fighting ring ngl when he’s feeling too annoyed by the state of the world 'cos he’s still that same stubborn priam, jus dressed up prettier

is??? actually touch-starved like woah

tldr; doesn’t know how to be human 'cos no affection was given to him when he was younger and wow no wonder he’s kinda’ sorta’ feral but he’s learned how to put on masks THEREFORE aggravating the problem rather than solving it

priam aka mister 'ive got 99 problems but acting ain’t one of them’

#accepted: paris #accepted

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mirkwoodshewolf · 7 years

Text

My Best girl; Jefferson x reader

Well here is my first ever OUAT oneshot that I ever did. I have loved the show and watched it since the beginning and when I started getting into the Marvel fandom and found out that Bucky was Jefferson my mind was literally BLOWN so I had to revisit Jefferson’s story and think ‘what if he had another daughter?’ And in the end this was born. Now this fic again I chose a certain name so if you don’t like it, change it to your own as well as the “Curse” name I chose. I do NOT own OUAT it belongs to Disney’s ABC and NOT me.

____________________________________________

*Enchanted Forest*

I guess my story would be like any others here in the Enchanted forest, and yet maybe it’s different. My father always told my sister and I to always think outside the box on people and their stories of how they come to be, because after all we are all a bit Mad aren’t we?

My name is Maya, and if you hadn’t guessed it yet, Jefferson is my father, I am his eldest daughter and older sister of my adorable little sister Grace. We live in a small cottage barely making ends meat by picking fungus and selling them to the market to hopefully make enough copper pieces for our next meal. But in no way do I hate that life, nor do I hate my family, I adore them both for they’re the only family I’ve got left.

Currently I was returning from a hunt in the woods trying to see if I could find any supper to cook tonight for my father and sister. I had managed to find a large stag and kill it with just one arrow straight inbetween it’s eyes. I hogged it over my horse Angus towards the cottage when I took notice of my sister Grace searching for something, or someone. I took Angus by the reigns and walked up to my sister and said.

“What are you up to my Grace?”

“Papa and I are playing Hide-and-seek, I’m right on his trail too”. I smiled then said.

“Well, mind if Angus and I help find our dearest Papa?” She smiled sweetly and nodded then we both quietly walked along the trail towards a tree stump and Grace proclaimed.

“Papa we’ve found you!” And soon enough our father came out and stated with pride.

“You certainly did, my dear Grace, and my lovely Maya”. I grinned at my father as he helped Grace up to where he stood as he continued, “you both must be part bloodhound”. I rolled my eyes playfully as I stood beside Grace as she said happily ready to have another round of her favorite game.

“Now it’s me and Maya’s time to hide, and you seek”.

“I’m afraid playtime’s over. But you both can use those noses of yours to hunt mushrooms enough to sell at the market tomorrow, do you both think you can do that?” Grace even though she was sad playtime was over, always loved helping father find mushrooms, sometimes even having contests to see who could find the most mushrooms before the end of the day.

Grace and I nodded as our father smiled lovingly at us and kissed our foreheads and said as he took each of our hands.

“Ready or not here we come!”

At the end of the day, my father, Grace and I were on our way back to the cottage from mushroom picking and my hunting had me exhausted that I just wanted to climb into my cot bed and sleep until supper time. As father held Grace’s hand and had his other arm wrapped around my shoulder we suddenly stopped and took notice of a black carriage surrounded by guards standing outside our house. My father and I only knew one person who had those guards and who rode that carriage.

The Queen.

“Listen to me now girls, I want you both to stay hidden in the woods, like our game. I’ll see what she’s doing here, okay?” Our father told us. Grace hesitated but nodded and as our father walked off giving us a reassuring smile before he walked back towards our house. I then turned to Grace before she ran off and told her.

“Grace, my sister; I want you to hide in the woods okay, I’ll be there in just a second, you understand?”

“But Maya, what are you gonna do?”

“Don’t you worry about me, just go on and I’ll be right behind you”. I kissed her forehead and watched her run off while I turned towards the cottage and snuck around the back way so the guards wouldn’t see me.

Grace may not have known this fact because she was just a babe at the time, but I remember quite well of my father’s ‘work’ he had done for the Queen as well as for the Dark One, and I never trusted them because it was that work that made me and Grace lose our mother, and with the job the Queen wanted my father to do, I had a real funny feeling that this job she wanted would make me and Grace lose the only remaining family we have left.

I listened through the window and heard the Queen’s voice say.

“Do this last favor for me, and you can give them the life they deserve”.

Yeah right your royal highness.

After hearing my father reject the Queen’s offer, I couldn’t help but hold back my cheers of rejoice then I quickly ran off back into the forest to find Grace and make it so that my father never knew I was listening on his conversation with the Queen.

*Storybrooke, Maine (a/n: following after the curse is broken and Jefferson is debating on finding Grace)*

Jefferson sat down on a bench at the docks holding a child-like drawing that Grace had drawn of a Missing person paper on her father that read.

HAVE YOU SEEN MY PAPA?

He thought back on now that his Grace and probably his Maya remember everything now that the curse was broken, whether or not he should show himself before his daughters, especially to Maya.

He had betrayed her trust most of all because she had to live through the loss of her mother and the broken promise of her father.

His best girl no longer forgave him after he had accepted the job.

“Jefferson? Right? The Mad Hatter?” A little boy’s voice said. He looked up to see Henry, son of the savior and adopted son of the Mayor Regina, aka the Evil Queen. He took a seat next to Jefferson and he eyed the picture and asked, “what’s that?” Jefferson folded the picture up and muttered.

“It’s nothing”.

“Your daughter’s looking for you, aren’t they?”

“What do you know of it?” Jefferson snapped as he stood up. Henry stood up and stood in front of him trying to stop him

“They probably want to see you!”

“Get away from me kid”.

“Why don’t you want to find them?”

“BECAUSE I LEFT THEM!!!!” He cried out as he gripped Henry’s upper arms. “And they’ll hate me. I know already my oldest one does, now she probably convinced my youngest the same thing”.

“You’re wrong. Maya doesn’t hate you, she hates what she said, I’ve read her story after she ran away from you. She was just angry but she doesn’t hate you. I should know, I’ve been left too, but how can you know what they’ll say if you don’t take that risk and go to them?” Jefferson listened to the words of the boy and began to think that he was right.

Later that day after school was let out, Paige aka Grace came off the school bus giggling as she talked with some of her friends and began to walk home. It was then Jefferson slowly stepped out from behind a tree eyeing his daughter with nervous, sorrow-filled eyes. He walked a few steps forward then softly called out nervously,

“Grace”. Paige stopped in her spot and turned around to see who it was that called her name.

Jefferson felt himself shaking nervously that his little Grace would react just like Maya did and hate him for abandoning them.

But what he got was something completely opposite.

Grace ran up to him crying out,

“Papa!” Jefferson fell to his knees as he and Grace embraced each other as tightly as they could. “You’ve found me I knew you would!” Jefferson had never felt more alive having one of his daughters forgive him but he still felt heartbroken that his oldest, his Best Girl couldn’t say the samething.

But none the less, he was happy to have at least one daughter forgive him.

He picked Grace up and carried her away as tears spilled down his face, unaware of the two of them being watched, by a woman debating the same thing that Jefferson had been debating all these years.

*Enchanted forest*

I was coming back from gathering water from the well and walked back into the house to see Grace coming out from the house with her cloak on and hood over her head but I could see the sadness in her eyes.

“Grace, what’s wrong my dearest sister?”

“Papa said I needed to go to the neighbors place for the rest of the day, he’s accepted whatever the Queen’s visit was about”. My heart stopped and I slowly let go of the bucket letting water spill out everywhere. “Maya, are you alright sister?” I looked at her and pulled my fake happiness face for her and said.

“Of course, you go on ahead and be with them, I’ll join you in just a bit”. I kissed her cheek lovingly then charged towards the house with anger and rage building up in my chest. I opened up to see papa just placing his hat box on the floor. I slammed the door to get his attention and he looked at me surprised.

“Maya—”

“You promised you wouldn’t do this anymore! You swore you’d hang it up and never do this again!”

“Maya, I have to do this, I want you and Grace to have all that you both need”.

“Papa, all we need is you, didn’t Grace tell you that?”

“She did, but I have to do this,” he walked up towards me and reached out to cup my face but I turned my head away as I felt betrayed. “Maya—”

“It’s because of that that we lost mom. I won’t lose you the same way. What am I to tell Grace if you never come back? What if this is a trap the Queen has planned for you just so you’d do it?” I looked up at him with hurtful eyes and tears that were just dying to be shed but I refused to let them fall before my father.

“I promise Maya, that won’t happen. I’ll be back before you know it, besides I promised a tea party for Grace. For the three of us. And hey, have I ever let my best girl down before?” He reached out again to cup my face to wipe away a tear that I didn’t know that had escaped. I backed away from him and replied in the coldest, hardest voice that my betrayed soul could muster.

“Yes”.

My father looked at me horrified and betrayed as I had been.

“You promised you wouldn’t do this to me again. A little girl who had always waited for days, week sometimes months on hand on when her papa was coming home alive. A job that made that little girl lose her mother and not allow her little sister to ever feel the same mother’s love that she got. And any father who breaks a promise like that—is no father of mine!” I stormed out of the cottage as my father cried out my name but I ran faster and faster until I reached so deep into the woods I didn’t even care where I ended up at. I finally collapsed and sobbed hysterically against a tree until I was picked up and taken care of by a woman.

A certain bandit exiled princess known as Snow White.

*Storybrooke, Maine*

Later that night after Jefferson had taken Grace back to his mansion, they were having their well deserved tea party when the doorbell rang. Jefferson was about to answer it when Grace proclaimed.

“No papa you are a guest, I as hostess shall answer the door”. Jefferson smiled and allowed his daughter to answer the door. Grace skipped over to the door and opened it to see someone she never expected to see but was thrilled to see her again.

Jefferson wondering what had taken his youngest daughter so long to come back began to grow worried. Just as he turned around to call her, his eyes widened in shock to see at who was holding Grace with one arm wrapped around her.

It was Me, Maya.

During the curse I was known as Melissa and I helped down at the police station but was allowed to babysit Grace when she was known as Paige. I was her surrogate big sister at the time of the curse and I had always made sure to keep a watchful eye over her, even when I had no idea who she was at the time. But now I have returned to her side and to maybe mend the scar I left on our father just before he left us and was tricked by the Queen.

Grace released me and father and I had a staring contest as he remained shocked and taken back at my appearance, so I just said to him.

“I know what you’re gonna say, papa. How could she be here? After running away like that and why did she say she hated me? Said that I wasn’t her father anymore? Papa I’m not proud of myself for saying those cruel things I said back in the enchanted forest—I……I regret ever saying those things, and when the curse broke I thought that—I thought that you’d never want to see me again, disown me as your daughter……And I was wrong—I see that now but I—” As I spoke trying to hold back my tears and sobs, papa only slowly walked up towards me while I walked backwards until my back was up against the wall.

“Ohh stop being so stoic Papa, go on! Shout! Scream! Say something I—” I stopped as I felt him gently cup my cheek as I only stared at him in shock, waiting for him to unleash his madness on me.

“How could I ever disown my Best Girl?” He choked sadly.

Everything went into pause for that brief moment that felt like an eternity. He didn’t hate me? Even after all those things I told him?

My eyes closed as tears fell down my face as my heart broke in two. I felt papa wipe them away and gently lift my chin up as I felt him kiss my forehead lovingly and was now in his warm embrace that I had always loved so much.

A strong, protective embrace that felt like I was being protected by a steel wall, but at the same time it gave comfort and love as I breathed in my father’s scent of tea and peppermint.

I wrapped my arms around him as he held me tighter as I felt tears slipping down the back of my neck and I’m sure he felt tears on his shirt. Grace smiled happily as she watched me and father mend our broken bond with each other.

The three of us were now currently on the couch with Grace and I on either side of our father as he held us close and kissed each of our heads as we shed our tears, shared our kisses and took in each other’s comfort. Soon Grace and I fell asleep cuddled close to our dad’s chest.

He smiled down at us and kissed us both on gingerly on the top of our heads and whispered.

“I’m never letting go again. My Grace, and my Best Girl Maya”.

#jefferson ouat #jefferson x grace #jefferson x oc #jefferson x reader #ouat fanfiction #fluff #papa!jefferson #once upon a time #father-daughter

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