#(however yes generally he is the voice of reason for Scott but anyone can be a voice of reason to Scott. Scott has no internal reasoning /h

[nerdy-hyperfixations]

I just want to remind everyone that Wallace is canonically the worse one to sleep in the same bed with.

Scott can be a bad roommate in every other aspect but GUYS Wallace is the one that canonically snores and kicks in his sleep.

Scott sleeps like a princess with his back against the sheet lying perfectly straight (and also taking all the covers) and Wallace sleeps semi-on-his-side and apparently just fucking punting Scott in the leg every so often (not to mention he talked in his sleep too) and I don’t know why this is important to me but it is.

Because when people draw them cuddling in their sleep it’s always Wallace being normal and Scott turning and snoring and shit but you’re missing out on sleepy-cuddly Wallace turning and snoring on Scott. Let that cringe-fail 25 year old be annoying. Istg.

I’m talking to the Mobillace people too btw. Not that I’ve seen anyone draw them cuddling in bed (which is a CRIME btw. Draw that. For me.) but like imagine how funny it would be: Mobile stays the night for the first time and the hot-weirdo is a bed-menace, snoring and kicking and tossing and turning and suction cupping for warmth and Mobile is like “I want him to be my boyfriend” THATS FUNNY! LIKE-

[princeescaluswords]

I have been following you for a while because you have verbalized very eloquently some of the things I felt were wrong with the Fandom without really being able to put my finger on it.

I especially like your criticism of Peter.

Which brought up a question that I have been wondering for a bit.

In season 5 Lydia could free Mason from the beast because of her banshee powers. Which made sense with the lore. But recently I was reminded of the final of season 2. Where Lydia was able to bring Jackson back to (semi-) human so he could be killed and ascend to werewolfness.

Now the reason that is stated in the show was that they are in true love. Which is never again brought up and even later refuted in a conversation between Lydia and Allison (were Lydia says she has never felt anything like Allison).

But if I remember correctly then it was Peter that said that Lydia could do it through love (might be rembering wrong tho).

Now my question is, do you believe that it could have been a part of Lydia's banshee powers manifesting that brought Jackson back? If yes, do you believe that Peter knew that this was what was happening?

Because that would be huge. Especially in terms of his stans always claiming he is always willing to share information.

One of the worst things about fandom is how much it misses when, in its enthusiasm, it focuses on applying exterior tropes to a story in which they don't fit. Teen Wolf lampshaded the principles behind its storytelling frequently, but the fandom, so invested in seeing a completely different story, just ignored those instances.

Let's take your example: Lydia was able to partially free Jackson from the kanima state and how she was able to free Mason from the artificial possession by The Beast. In my opinion, it was fully justified by the show because it conformed to the principles established within the narrative. In this case, there are four principles, which I will go over.

The evolution of truth into legend. Jennifer summarized this in Alpha Pact (3x11): "Argent… The French word for silver. Ah, ah, ah. Interesting how truth becomes altered by legend… When it's not actually the metal silver that kill werewolves but the family." There are truths in the supernatural world but like many things in history, they have been obscured by the passage of time or by the agenda of those writing history. In this case, there is indeed a myth that you can cure a werewolf by calling out its Christian name. In the show's universe, this turns out to be partially true, but it's not just anyone who can do this. Lydia's voice is powerful enough to achieve this result, but so is Scott's. Remember, he calms down a raging Isaac twice in Unleashed (3x04) and Frayed (3x05) and an angry Kira in a Credible Threat (5x17). How? Well, that goes into the second principle.

Identity is important to the supernatural. The saying "the shape you take reflects the person that you are" is repeated often enough throughout the series for us to comfortably use it as a lens through which to view the action. Again, Jennifer seems to give us some insight, though this time in The Overlooked (3x10): "It's a way of not completely letting go of your identity, since your name is so tied to your sense of self." When Lydia and Scott cause others to revert, they are empowering who their targets actually are, allowing them to resist the supernatural power threatening to overwhelm them. As evidence, the most inhuman and inscrutable of the enemies in Teen Wolf have no real names to speak of. The nogitsune and the anuk-ite are types of creatures; actual names seem unimportant to them. The Dread Doctors shed their identities through masks and generic titles (the Surgeon, the Pathologist, the Geneticist). The Wild Hunt is a force of nature, and it increases its power by erasing the identities of others.

However, sometimes the name isn't enough. Why? Emotional connection is a component of supernatural power. A werewolf is out of control until it finds an anchor. The sacrificial ritual required an object with meaning to find the parents, and it required an emotional tether to pull them back. Scott found the strength to break the Berserker skull when Liam reminded him of their bond. Sebastien was distracted by what he felt for Marie-Jean and Scott felt for Allison. Stiles was summoned from the Wild Hunt when people re-established their emotional connections to him. Jackson didn't revert from the kanima state because it was a banshee who called his name; he reverted because of the emotional connection he had with that particular banshee, whom he felt a connection to so much he gave her a key to his house. As another aside, Jackson is mostly uninterested in the goings on during the movie, but he's always there. Where is he? With Lydia. Even though he's with Ethan now, the emotional connection to her still exists.

Yet, why wasn't this principle always clearly known by the characters? Well, there's another principle for that. Peter Hale is a lying liar who lies. He's a con artist, and con artists are known for presenting information in a precise way to get what they want. He obviously knew what Lydia was -- she was his back-up plan -- but he just waxed lyrical about the 'power of human love' because he didn't want to share that information with Derek just yet. He stressed the ruthlessness needed against Berserkers at the end of season 4, because he needed to keep the others focused on survival, not their emotional connection to Scott. He relented in 6B because he realized that the daughter he wanted to protect had created an emotional connection -- however short-lived -- with Scott, but he hid that information.

Lots of people like to be critical about Teen Wolf with the excuse that the writers were making it up as they go along. I personally reject this because I feel we were supposed to come to the story through the teen-age point of view; like them, we didn't have all the information and that was part of the payoff of the show. As for "making it up," maybe they did and maybe they didn't. It doesn't really matter because in the end, the show remained consistent in its storytelling by adhering to the principles it clearly established.

It's not a plot hole if the audience doesn't like the rules by which the story operates or the audience couldn't bother to pay attention to them in the first place. I hope this answered your question.

[starcrossedkaiju]

Kingslayer AU: Chapter Five

If you remember that post I made about the Red Resistance you’re a real one.

Notes: this one is very short. It’s just to move the plot along and blah blah blah. Next chapter is a good one I think.

The next time Scott showed up to the Red Desert it was for a petty fight that Scar had instigated by trying to steal directly from the Renchanting base. The situation made Scott face palm, and he contemplated not even showing up. However, when Jimmy offered to go in place of him, he told him not to bother. That he would be back in less than a day and night cycle.

Scott walked into the meeting just as the Red Army crested a hill. Which they stayed on. Scar yawned exaggeratedly and trekked up to his opponent, who was wearing a bandage on his left arm.

Cleo was also there. She seemed to be focused on drawing shapes in the cracked sand with the tip of her sword. Most likely feeling bitter about her former ally, Tango, joining Dogwarts. Everyone was paying as little attention as possible while Scar fired off false promises and white lies. Grian busied himself with apologizing to the nearest members of the Red Army for Scar’s embarrassment.

Scott was nearly falling asleep on his feet when someone tapped him on the shoulder.

Tango.

“Hey Major, you got a minute?” he whispered.

“So many,” Scott responded, gesturing to the desolate state of their meeting.

The two of them quietly excused themselves from the group to speak in private. Scott didn’t know why he didn’t tell Tango to just leave him alone. Maybe it was because Tango had a certain air of reluctance about him, Scott was certain he pulled his punches. Maybe it was shear boredom.

“So, nice weather,” Tango observed the arid desert sky.

“Uh huh..” Scott provided, unimpressed.

Tango stared at him blankly. Awkwardly.

He cleared his throat, “so I heard about your battle with Skiz and Ren. Impressive,” Tango said.

“What is with you people and beating around the bush? We’re not friends,” Scott pushed Tango away by the middle of his chest, “Tango,” he reminded.

Tango looked hurt for a second, “ouch Major. Fine, I wanted to ask you to join me,” he said.

Scott burst out laughing, to which Tango scolded him and shook him by the shoulders. That shut him up, it also earned Tango a slap.

“Don’t touch me,” Scott ordered.

Tango put his hands up, “no touching here! But be quiet. I brought you over here alone for a reason,” he pointed out.

Scott glanced at his allies. Blissfully unaware of the possible treason he may have been about to commit.

“Nobody knows this yet,” Tango whispered, “but I’m spying on the Red Army,” he said.

“What?” Scott asked rhetorically.

“Yeah, I have a plan. It involves you,” Tango responded.

Scott paused to consider if he was really about to entertain whatever was about to come out of Tango’s mouth.

“How do I know you’re not just trying to get close to me and then kill me on behalf of him,” Scott pointed at Ren, who was rolling his eyes at Scar and animatedly conversing with him about something Scott forgot about a long time ago.

“You remember the cow farm right?” he said.

“Yes,” Scott nodded suspiciously.

“I let you take my cow, on the promise that you and Jimmy wouldn’t tell anyone,” Tango recited.

“And we didn’t,” Scott said.

“Exactly. I know I can trust you, and I can’t trust them, Etho tried to kill me remember?” Tango pointed at Etho and Ren.

“So I want you to join me. Not the Red Army, me. Impulse is doing the same thing,” he concluded.

“Didn’t Impulse actually kill you?” Scott pointed out.

Tango waved his hand, water under the bridge.

Scott drifted off into contemplation. Everything about joining a coup against the Red Army screamed danger. More than usual. Dogwarts was a force to be reckoned with. They had superior gear, defenses, players, and alliances. Maybe Scott could cheap shot Martyn and Skizzle, but he could not promise that same luck against Etho or anyone else for that matter. The thought of even trying made his stomach turn.

And then there was Jimmy. If their plan didn’t work, what would happen to Jimmy? The Crastle? Or the Red Desert for that matter? The target on their backs was large enough. Scott had to take a step back. Since when did he get himself involved in a war?

Since he started defending himself, his mind provided.

Since he started standing up for his own freedom. For their freedom.

“Okay,” Scott said.

“Really? You’re in?” Tango’s eyes lit up, his joy was a bit loud for Scott’s new predilection for secrecy.

“Shh!” Scott put a finger in front of his face, “that’s not what I said…” he averted his eyes.

“I want to, believe me, I do,” he said, “but I can’t.”

Tango’s smile faded instantly, his red eyes grew disappointed, “Why not?” he seemed hurt.

“I have too much to lose. I can’t risk this,” Scott held the charm of his necklace up, it’s gemstone still shimmered bright green.

“Scott, I admire your devotion, I really do; but this is a bit bigger than that,” Tango said.

Scott’s expression fell into shock and reproach.

That seemed like enough of an answer for Tango, who backtracked as he realized he’d struck a nerve.

“I mean!” he corrected, “I mean nothing will happen to Jimmy. Cross my heart, he will be under the Red Resistance’s finest protection,” Tango stood up straight and crossed his heart.

Scott decided that was satisfactory. He made a face that said the opposite though, just to make sure Tango’s pride wasn’t too uplifted.

“Fine. I’ll join you Tango, but if I get even the slightest inclination of funny business, I’m out,” Scott cautioned, but he agreed.

“Terms and Conditions, I get it. The Red Resistance will not indenture any of its members,” Tango responded with a gleeful grin.

“You guys and your red themed names,” Scott teased, but held his hand out. They ought to make it official before everyone stopped snoring.

Tango shook it enthusiastically. The two called it done and Scott returned to his side, and Tango returned to the Red Army.

*****

Scott traveled back home that day. No fighting had taken place, although Scar had decidedly talked himself into a hole and ended up giving Ren access to any sand Dogwarts and their affiliates needed for the next week. It was no skin off Scott’s back, he didn’t care. Not his sand.

Wearing so much armor and standing in place for two hours gets on ones nerves. Taking off his heavy diamond chestplate felt like enough liberation for the day. He expected to hear from Tango or Impulse at some point, preferably soon.

Jimmy asked him how the meeting went when he returned, holding out a cup of coffee.

Unsure of whether or not to tell the truth, Scott lied, he said nothing happened and made fun of Scar for running his mouth so much. He said he was tired.

*****

“Scott? That you?” Tango’s voice came through a small door in his abandoned cow farm. It wasn’t needed anymore.

Scott pointed his torch towards the voice, illuminating a door, which Tango had crafted into the side of the underground farm.

“Yes it’s me. Why’s it so dark in here?” he asked.

“I don’t want people to know I’m still using this place, that’s why,” Tango motioned for Scott to come to him.

Tango silently listened for any sign that Scott had been followed, then pushed a stone slab in front of the hidden door with a silent thud.

On the other side of the door was a short hallway, then a very small room with some pillows on the floor and a table. A map of the server that included all the structures and members was pinned up on the wall. There was also a well loved notebook on the table.

“Where’s Impulse?” Scott asked, sitting down on one of the pillows.

“Ren needed him for something, he’ll probably be here next time,” Tango explained. He sat down and lit a candle to make more light.

“I thought we would start by going over the basics today,” Tango picked up the notebook and flipped through some of the pages absently.

Scott looked away and then back, “okay, shoot,” he said.

The “plan” centered around infiltrating the Red Army, convincing them (mainly Ren) that Scott had decided to switch sides. Then, him, Tango, and Impulse would eventually build their trust. Somewhere in there they would convince the Red Army to stop messing with people and come to an agreement with the rest of the server. Something about working together instead of against each other.

“We still have to work some stuff out,” Tango concluded with confidence.

“That’s the plan? You really think this’ll work?” Scott crossed his arms.

“If you can insult Scar convincingly enough, yes,” Tango said.

“Oh this’ll be easy!” Scott laughed, mostly to cover up his nerves.

Tango chuckled with him, then became serious once more, “I’m glad you have a sense of humor going into this. Even after what they did to you,” Tango said.

“I’m sorry about that, by the way,” he apologized.

Scott’s hands stung a bit in response, but he nodded a silent “thanks”.

They were quiet. Scott nervously fiddled with the hem of his coat, lost in thought, mostly regret.

Impulse did show up the next time. He arrived just after Scott did. Everyone sat awkwardly in the little room for a while and Scott was wrapped in nostalgia for a similar time. A time where the only threat was an obscene number of phantoms.

Over the course of their meetings, Scott observed his teammates and their actions. A far cry from who they used to be, including him. Scott’s hair had grown past his ears and turned purple at the tips, and he’d become rather paranoid about always wearing armor.

Tango spent much of their interactions lost in thought. The ghost of whatever was eating at him weighed visibly on his shoulders in the way his head was always bowed in a perpetual staring contest with the ground. He was irritable.

Impulse was a wild card to Scott, they’d never really met before; but it was clear he’d been changed as well. Illustrated by his long “mining” trips, which he only returned from to attend their weekly meetups with no resources to show for it, and a general aura of depression.

His mind was drawn back to the picture Cleo had taken of almost all his server-mates, together in front of the Vibe Machine. He’d studied everyone’s faces countless times. Mostly wondering where everything had gone wrong.

Had they ever truly been friends in the first place? Or was camaraderie a comfort when everyone else was just as weak as one another.

[dykeminecraft]

I feel like I'm qualified to do this. Given that HK is without a doubt one of my favorite games and I love the OST.

It's long because I try to give my reasonings behind each song (although sometimes I'm just taking a shot in the dark-I haven't watched all the POVs). Additionally, some characters have multiple songs. A couple of them only have one.

There are mild spoilers, mostly in the names of the songs, so if you're worried about Hollow Knight spoilers then I'd be aware of that. Aside from that, go ahead & knock yourself out.

Bdubs: I am sorely, sorely tempted to say Greenpath. But it works better for someone else, and also it doesn't work that well for Bdubs. I will say that the Queen's Gardens Action theme works well because of the tension in it. Just the action theme-the calm version has the same sort of vibe that makes the Greenpath theme not work too well. Nosk is a second, I think. Good tension. Though I think the Nosk soundtrack fits the concept of the Boogeyman in general pretty well, it works very well for Bdubs as the boogeyman.

BigB: This could be wildly off-base because I don't have a solid Grip on his personality yet but. the dream world theme (just called Dream in the OST) fits him. In my brain. Maybe also Hive Knight. He seems pretty upbeat and friendly most of the time.

Etho: Because of his whole thing in one of the sessions where he went around pretending to be the boogeyman, I think he gets Broken Vessel. The theme itself is frantic in a consistent way, which seems to match what he was doing. In my opinion. I did consider giving Etho the Nosk theme but it fit Bdubs more. The Nosk theme is less planned chaos, more pure chaos.

Grian: I really wanna go with a Grimm Troupe soundtrack. I really do. However, he's not red right now so as good as it may be I'll refrain. I have no basis for this, but I'm leaning towards the Shade Theme.

Impulse: Hm. Maybe Fungal Wastes? It's a fairly chill soundtrack. He's hard to assign for. I mean this in the nicest way possible but he seems like a Very Normal Person. Fungal Wastes has a very normal feeling to it.

Jimmy Solidarity: Just putting Jimmy felt weird. Anyways. He's another one hard to give a song for. I'm thinking of going with False Knight? Yeah False Knight is probably okay.

Joel Smallishbeans: Again. Just Putting Joel Felt Weird. Kingdom's Edge. It's a lonely sort of theme. Also The Collector's theme. It's a distorted version of the normal battle theme.

Lizzie: Queen's Gardens and Greenpath (along with the Greenpath Action theme). First off, because of the Plants, second off, because both themes have chiming notes that kinda remind me of fairies a bit. They sound nice. Bonus because it's a damn good track: Lace (Silksong).

Martyn: Haunted Foes could work. I haven't been watching his episodes, but I know I've heard discussions about the voice or w/e he has going on.

Mumbo: Dung Defender (I Know.) and the Crossroads theme probably? Specifically the Crossroads Action theme. Do I have any justification for this? No. Am I putting it anyways? Yes. (Also Bonebottom, from the Silksong OST)

Pearl: Hornet. I think Hornet's theme fits for Pearl. Also I just saw she has bees in her icon, so she also gets the Hive (Ambience). Yes it's ambience, but there's some Notes.

Ren: Ren is a solid amount of the reason behind this list. There's so many knight themes in hollow knight. Might go with Mantis Lords. They aren't knights, but the soundtrack fits in my opinion. (Bonus: for The Red King: Nightmare King. if Anyone gets NKG's theme it's Red King.)

Scar: Crystal Peak. Crystal Peak. And while it isn't recognized as a song in the OST, Brumm's accordion song. It matches him I think.

Scott: Someone needs to get Truth, Beauty, and Hatred. I guess it can be Scott. Why? Personally, I just like the theme. He can also have Resting Grounds. As a treat. Also because if I just give him Zote's theme I'll feel bad.

Skizz: Oh Boy. Furious Gods, maybe? I don't know a whole lot about Skizz.

Tango: Dream Battle. It Just Fits In My Brain.

ZombieCleo: Cleo is the other solid amount of why this list exists. Soul Sanctum (the entire thing. I think the shift from the normal to the tense versions works really well) and also Radiance. Radiance because it sounds angry.

[master-sass-blast]

Children of the Gods: Part Three, Chapter Two.

I had to input every single italic you see in this fic by hand because Tumblr doesn’t hold text format when I paste it innnnnn. *pained smile*

Please give this chapter some love, because that was fucking painful to do.

Summary: The aftermath of capturing Allison proves messy -both in dealing with the teen's evident trauma, and in all the skeletons in various closets that get unleashed soon after.

Pairing(s): Piotr Rasputin x Reader, Nathan Summers x Wade Wilson, Frank Castle x Karen Page, and Alexandra Rasputin x Nikolai Rasputin.

Rating: M for gun violence, depictions of death and injuries, depictions of emotional trauma, and gratuitous use of the word “fuck.”

Word count: 8.9k.

Set after “Children of the Gods: Part Three, Chapter One.”

Taglist: @marvel-is-perfection, @chromecutie, @super-darkcloudstudent, @girl-obsessed-with-things, @leo-writer, @emma-frxst, @sadstone-s

“What the hell were you thinking!”

“Ooh, careful there, Doohan,” Wade snarks, head rolling to indicate he’s rolling his eyes. “Get any more agitated and you’ll be saying all the no-no words.”

Scott scowls at Wade. “Stuff it, Wilson.”

“Every damn night, laser pointer.”

A mixture of grimaces, sighs, and groans go up through the crowd.

You’re all gathered in the medical wing of Xavier’s –the X-Force and nearly all of the X-Men. Allison’s off being examined by Dr. McCoy and Alyssa –to make sure she’s stable enough to be taken out of the handcuffs and the suppression band—and Frank and Karen are sequestered in a separate room until it's clear how everything's going to shake out.

Because, naturally, there’s been a wrench thrown in the situation.

Or maybe the whole damn toolbox, you mentally amend as Wade and Scott resume arguing.

“We cannot harbor a mob criminal here—”

“She’s thirteen, Summers!” Wade snaps. The eyes on his mask narrow into slits. “She’s not a criminal –and her parents’ choice don’t automatically make her guilty!”

“Murder, illegal theft and possession of firearms, assault, stalking, kidnapping,” Scott starts listing, ticking off each of Allison’s misdeeds on his fingers.

“She lost her family,” Nathan interjects, voice going to gravel. “Where the fuck were all of you when she needed support? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”

The room goes silent. Many of the X-Men members look away or hang their heads slightly.

“We had no way of knowing that Allison was a mutant,” Ororo speaks up. “Without the proper information, we can’t help. It’s unfortunate, yes, but out of our control all the same.”

“But you know now,” Wade argues. “You knew with Russell. You knew with all the kids at Essex house. You turned your back on him and those kids, just like you’re turning your back on Allison now.” He scoffs, disgusted. “Same shit, different day. You’re all a bunch of cowardly cocksuckers.”

“We do have limits,” Professor Xavier speaks up from his chair. “Russell and the other members of Essex house were considered wards of the state. Legally, that meant Essex house had custody of them until they turned eighteen. We wrote petitions. We did as much as we could to bring attention to the issue. Unfortunately, it got swept under the rug or stonewalled by anti-mutant members of the legal system. As for Allison…” He sighs. “Taking in wards with criminal connections put the school at risk. Not just for fear of retaliation –as would certainly be a risk with Miss Ricci’s connections to the mafia—but also our funding and licensing. As an orphaned mutant, she is certainly deserving of our help—” he pauses to glare sternly at Scott and a few of the more stubborn, self-righteous members present “—but we have to consider the needs of our other residents and students, too.”

“I think we’re overlooking that Allison is here right now,” Jean pipes up. “Whether or not she stays with us is one thing, but we need to decide what to do for at least the next forty-eight hours.”

“She stays here,” you say automatically. “As far as we know, she has no other guardians, potentially even nowhere to go. I don’t think it’s gonna kill us to give her a bed and some food to eat.”

“Absolutely not,” Scott fires back –and, behind him, Angel and Iceman nod. “She’s far too aggressive to possibly put the students at risk.”

“She’s agitated and traumatized,” you reason, “but that doesn’t mean she’s going to lash out at people left and right.”

“Doesn’t she have a guardian of sorts?” Neena pipes up. “Artemis? Has anyone gotten ahold of them?”

“We reached out with the number Miss Ricci gave us,” Xavier explains. “The call picked up, but there wasn’t any verbal response for the duration of the call.”

Well, that bodes well. “What about her attorney?” you ask. “If we can’t keep her here, wouldn’t her attorney be able to arrange some sort of safe place for her to stay.”

“Thus far, we haven’t been able to reach her attorney.”

And that bodes even worse. You fight the urge to sigh or roll your eyes, and instead mentally curse monkey wrenches and whoever thought to invent the damn things.

“For the time being, I’ve contacted some of our external resources” –the glance Xavier shoots at both you and Piotr tells you that it’s your uncle and Alexandra—“to help with matters until the dust settles. They should be arriving soon, so—”

There’s a loud crash from down the hall, the sound of glass shattering, and an angry screech that sounds suspiciously like, “Fuck you, Castle!”

You give into the urge to sigh before booking it towards the sound of chaos and rage. Great. Now it’s an entire toolshed.

***

Subduing Allison this time, at least, is easier for several reasons.

First, she’s still wearing the repression cuff on her wrist. Without her powers –without a way to pop in and out of this existence, specifically—she’s much easier to catch.

Second, she’s tired. It’s not just the bags under her eyes or the sweat glistening at her furrowed brow. She’s stumbling unevenly, panting as she tries to exact her revenge.

Third, Illyana happens to show up at the exact same time with your uncle and Alexandra (and Nikolai as well, though he has less involvement in the “subduing process”).

Alex reacts fastest. She hooks one strong arm around Allison’s waist, then scoops her away from Karen and a hangdog-looking Frank. “Alright, that’s enough.”

Allison, however, doesn’t seem to agree. (Though whether it’s due to general teenage contrariness or trauma-induced rage, the jury’s still out.

…Actually, it’s probably both.)

“You don’t even get it, Castle!” Allison snaps with a manic grin, eyes wide and haunted. “You killed a good man. My dad was getting out! He was going to testify against them—”

Alex clamps a hand over the teen’s mouth, making her cut herself off with a garbled grunt. “I said enough.”

Allison thrashes in the older woman’s iron-clad grasp –to no avail, unsurprisingly. Her face scrunches up, then her jaw starts flexing. There’s a moment where her expression goes slack when Alex doesn’t react, then her nose scrunches up again and her jaw starts working harder.

Alex sighs, then starts carrying Allison back down the hall (she’s astonishingly unfazed by been chomped down on). “Come on. Let’s get you calmed down, malen’kiy.”

At the other end of the hall, Neena pokes her head into the fray. “Someone who calls herself Artemis is at the front door.”

Professor Xavier nods, then says, “Please escort her back to Miss Ricci’s room,” before wheeling after Alex and Artemis.

You look between Neena and the Professor –then, in the interest of going where you’re actually allowed to be (and not being bored out of your mind because you’ll be literally shut out of the room), you head towards the foyer.

…

“Do you think Frank was set up to stop the trial?”

Your uncle shrugs; the two of you have taken up a spot at the back of the room, where you can watch things unfold and gossip like the two old ladies you are in spirit. “It’s possible. It’s also possible that it was retribution for Allison being a mutant. The Ricci syndicate is notoriously… intolerant.”

You grimace. You certainly understand just how far people will go against their own flesh and blood for intolerance’s sake. “Blood and water.”

Your uncle nods, expression equally sour. “You fucking said it, punk.”

There’s not much point in hashing it out any further –both from the standpoint of “forbidden knowledge” and digging up old trauma—so you settle back into watching Artemis go through the mandatory security check.

She’s tall, with broad shoulders. Her hair’s dark, just starting to streak with silver at the temples, and her eyes are deep, intense, borderline black color. Her nose is slightly crooked –comes with the territory in this walk of life—and she’s dressed in black motorcycle wear and combat boots.

She honestly looks so fucking familiar.

You frown, brows pinching together as you try and place her face in your memory. Failing your own abilities at recollection, you lean over and whisper, “Is she one of your team members? I swear I’ve seen her before.”

“Uh –no,” your uncle replies (and it’s too fast and shaky, but you’re too caught up in figuring out whom the fuck you’re looking at to notice). “I mean –everyone has a doppelganger, right?”

“I guess.” You squint at Artemis, as though physically narrowing your eyes will help your brain puzzle things out—

And then Alex strides into the foyer –wiping the hand that Allison bit, and if you look close enough you’re pretty sure you can still see a few bloody teeth marks—and the cloud of confusion lifts from your mind.

“Oh!” you gasp quietly. “That’s why she looks familiar! She looks like Alex.” You look from the Rasputin matriarch, to the other black-leather clad woman, then back again. “She looks… a lot like Alex, actually.” You laugh softly –coincidence is a hell of a thing—then keep rambling when your uncle doesn’t say anything. “Two women who love the color black and carry enough weapons on their person to stock an army. You’d think the universe broke the mold with Alex, huh?”

Your uncle shifts from foot to foot next to you, but says nothing.

“You really weren’t kidding about the whole ‘doppelganger’ thing, huh.” You cock your head to one side, then frown as another epiphany starts growing in your mind. “Actually… she kind of looks like you, too.”

Your uncle makes a quiet, pained choking noise. “Punk—”

“Yeah, she’s got more of your build…”

“Punk.”

“And her lower lip has that weird lopsided curve like yours—”

“Punk—”

You peer closer at Artemis’s face. “Actually, her nose looks like you took yours and Alex’s and mashed them together—”

“Punk.”

You finally look up at him and take in the pale, wide-eyed, tight-lipped expression on his face. “What?” When he doesn’t say anything, you look at Artemis, then Alex, and then back at him—

Oh God.

Oh God.

Holy fucking shit.

You stare up at your uncle, agape. “Wait a second –you and—”

“Okay, shut the fuck up!” he hisses, panicked, before dragging you out of the foyer and into the nearest hallway.

“You and Alex had a baby,” you blurt –albeit in a voice no louder than a harsh whisper. “Artemis is your and her lovechild!”

He winces, then holds up his hands. “I can explain—”

“I don’t think you can!” you hiss. “Why didn’t you tell me that I have a cousin who happens to be my husband’s half fucking sister! Oh God, does Piotr know? Do any of the Rasputins know?”

“I…” He trails off, then cringes. He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m not sure, actually.”

You stare up at him, dumbfounded. “You’re not sure. How are you not sure? Nick knows who you are –what, you think Alex just kept a whole child from his knowledge—”

“I mean, he probably knows that there was a baby at one point—”

“The baby is in this fucking house!” you snap in a quiet growl, arms flailing wildly. “She’s a full grown adult who probably pays taxes and has a 401k going! Why wouldn’t Alex tell her husband—”

“Look,” your uncle interjects, cutting you off. “As far as Alex knows… she thinks she’s… dead?”

You gape. Then, as quietly as you can manage (given the circumstances), you exclaim, “What the fuck!”

“Keep your voice down!” your uncle hisses, gesturing wildly in panic. He looks over his shoulder, then when he’s certain no one overheard you, he sighs and looks back to you. “Look, it’s a long story—”

“I’m sure it fucking is!” You cross your arms over your chest when he winces. “How is it that you know your secret lovechild is alive, but Alex doesn’t? What, did she just abandon her?”

“No, no—”

“Didn’t think so. So what the fuck happened?”

He sighs, shoulder slumping, and runs one hand through his already disheveled hair. “Look –long story short, the people who ‘made’ Alex took the baby—”

“Artemis. Her daughter. Your daughter.”

He purses his lips, but concedes with a nod. “They took her away after she was born and told Alex she was dead –and that’s actually what prompted her to get out, but that’s another story for another day—”

“Okay, hang on a second.” You squeeze your eyes shut and hold up one hand. “Alex thinks her baby is dead –probably one of the most traumatic things in her whole life. You’ve known that she’s alive…” You open your eyes again and fix your uncle with a stern stare. “Okay, how long have you known for?”

He grimaces and shifts uncomfortably. “…well, the US took her, but she didn’t present early, so they turned her loose into the foster system because she didn’t have potential as an ‘asset’—”

“How fucking long?”

He ducks his head, carefully avoiding your gaze. “…tracked her down when she was ten.”

Your eyes widen –and then you slug him in the shoulder. “You fucking colossal asshole!”

He panics again, motioning for you to keep it down while checking over his shoulder. “Shut the fuck up!”

“No! Not only have you lied to Alex for decades—”

“She never asked—”

“A lie by omission is still a fucking lie!” you snap in a gravelly whisper. “So, not only did you lie to her, but you also abandoned your daughter to the mercies of the US foster care system!”

“My life wasn’t safe to keep a kid around!” he hisses back at you. “I couldn’t take care of you, and I couldn’t take care of her! If anything, it was safer for her if the government thought I didn’t know she was alive!”

You sigh, pinch the bridge of your nose, and wave dismissively with your other hand. “Okay –fine. That still doesn’t justify the whole lying thing, but whatever. Does Artemis know that you and Alex are her parents?”

“…Yes. She tracked me down when she was in her twenties and I told her the truth.”

“Well, it sounds like determination runs in the family,” you mutter. “But at least you two have kept in touch…” You look up, see your uncle’s grimace, and sigh. “You didn’t keep in touch with her.”

He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets. “I didn’t know how to handle it.”

“Pretty sure ‘not like that’ is a good answer.” You sigh again, then shrug and put your hands on your hips. “Well, you’ve probably solved your own problem. She’ll probably just tell Alex who she is just to spite you, assuming she got the ‘petty vengeance’ gene too.”

Your uncle’s eyebrows spike to his hairline, and his expression goes through the five stages of grief in a matter of seconds. “She –she can’t—”

“She can and she probably will.”

He hunches over, crouching, and grips the back of his head. “Shitfuckshitfuckshitfuckshitfuck—”

“Myshka?”

You and your uncle both jump, then whirl in unison and give your husband your best convincing, “we’re totally not talking about long lost, hidden family members and other poor life choices” smiles that you can each manage.

(Consider that you don’t look like you just shit your pants, you win.)

Piotr’s forehead wrinkles with concern. “What… is everything alright?”

“Just fine, baby,” you assure him, subtly kicking your uncle so he relaxes. “Just talking about what happens next.”

Piotr nods after a moment, likely picking up on that whatever’s going on right now isn’t life or death and that you’ll fill him in later. “I actually came to find you,” he says, gesturing to your uncle. “Professor Xavier still cannot reach Allison’s lawyer. He has asked for your assistance.”

“Right. Absolutely. On it,” your uncle says with a none-too-convincing smile. He shoots your husband a pair of finger guns, then books it out of the hall and towards the medical wing of the mansion.

Piotr stares after him, then shoots you a confused frown. “Is he okay?”

You shrug. “He’s doing about his usual.” You decide to further sidestep the issue by ambling over to him and giving him a gentle hug. “How are you?” Are doing okay?”

Piotr wraps his arms around you and kisses the top of your head. “I am fine now. Just a little sore.”

“Me too.” You nuzzle your cheek against his burly chest. “We really should invest in that hot tub we keep talking about getting. It’d be great for post-mission recovery.”

“Hot tubs are expensive, myshka,” he chuckles.

“Yes, but we’re not getting any younger. It’d be a good investment in taking care of our bodies.” You tilt your head back and grin up at him. “I thought you were all about that life.”

He sighs and shakes his head, feigning exasperation, but his amused smile is a dead giveaway. “Whatever shall I do with you, myshka?”

You grin wider. “You could kiss me.”

Piotr grins back, then dips his head and presses his lips against yours—

Mikhail appears next to you out of thin air. “Ah. Gross. Big meeting is happening. All hands on deck.”

Piotr rolls his eyes when his elder brother teleports away once more, then looks back down at you and strokes your cheek with his thumb. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine, baby.” You unwind your arms from his massive trunk of a torso, then slide your fingers between his as the two of you walk towards the medical wing.

…

“—I am telling you, Charles, not being able to reach this kid’s lawyer is a bad fucking sign.”

You and Piotr walk into a conference room to find your uncle and Professor Xavier locked in a heated argument.

Wade, Nate, and Neena are leaning against the table to watch, occasionally leaning over to whisper bits of commentary to each other (or, in Wade’s case, speak at normal volume).

In the corner of the room, where a couple of armchairs are positioned, Nikolai sits with his two other children; they’re speaking in hushed Russian, but none of them seem too concerned about everything else going on.

“As I previously stated,” Xavier says, words clipped, “we cannot release Miss Ricci without speaking first to her attorney. The X-Men operate as a special law enforcement service, and failure to comply with criminal and civil statutes will have enormous consequences for the Institute—”

“There’s going to be a bunch of fucking ‘enormous consequences’ for the Institute,” your uncle interrupts, growling through clenched teeth, “if you don’t evacuate this building right fucking now! Fuck’s sake, Charles –you hired me as a security advisor; just listen to me.”

Piotr frowns and curls one hand over your shoulder. “What is happening?”

“What’s happening,” a new, strong, feminine voice interjects from the hall, “is that we’re leaving.” Artemis shoulders past your husband –a feat not easily achieved by many—with Allison in tow, then holds up the teen’s arm that has the repression cuff still attached. She glares at Xavier (and God, she really looks like Alex when she does that), then spits out through gritted, bared teeth, “Get this fucking thing off my kid.”

There’s a longsuffering sigh in the hall, and then Alex steps into the doorway. “She has that cuff on for her own safety –as I already told you—”

Artemis whirls, face contorted by a vicious scowl, and snaps, “I didn’t fucking ask for you input!”

(Boy, if that doesn’t just scream ‘repressed trauma and mommy issues.’)

Your uncle looks like he’s about to pass out again, but Alex seems remarkably nonplussed. She merely raises one eyebrow at Artemis, as if to say ‘that’s all you got?’

There’s no way she knows, you think as you watch the two stare each other down. Not with how much she cares about her kids. There’s no fucking way—

“Actually, we’ve got bigger problems,” your uncle pipes up, voice quavering slightly before he clears his throat. “We can’t reach your kid’s shark.”

“They have other clients,” Artemis retorts, upper lip curling in a derisive sneer. Her dark eyes smolder with barely constrained hatred as she tosses a withering glance in his direction (daddy issues, too, this chick won the whole lottery). “Or maybe they got stuck in traffic.”

Your uncle narrows his eyes at that (and now the two of them look so much alike, overcome by ire as they are). “You cannot possibly be that fucking stupid.”

Artemis sucks a breath through her teeth, eyes widening with rage and hurt. “You fucking dick—”

In the corner of the room, Illyana bolts upright before going stock still. Then, she gasps and reaches out towards her mother. “Mama!”

(The way Artemis’s face mars with a pained grimace makes your heart ache.)

Alex tenses, eyes glowing gold as she starts scanning the horizon (presumably checking for heat signatures). “Gde?”

The room goes quiet –and then you hear it.

The sound of engines rumbling –multiple engines—and car wheels crunching against gravel. Doors thumping open and shut, followed by footsteps. Hushed voices.

You scamper over to the nearest window and float up, just enough to see several men clad in black and Kevlar and carrying rifles stalking towards the front door and around the sides of the house in groups. “Guys with guns. Lots of them.”

“Then get down!” Nate hisses before yanking you back from the window.

“Lights out,” Alex orders before hitting the switch herself. “Get everyone to a reinforced room.”

“There’s a safe room at the end of the hall,” Xavier says before wheeling himself towards the door.

Allison clings to Artemis’s sleeve, much like a baby koala. “What’s going on? What’s going to happen?”

“Go with the Professor,” Artemis says. She quickly –but gently—frees her arm, then clasps the teen’s face with both hands. “Look at me. Listen to the Professor, and stay put until I come get you. Okay?”

Allison’s forehead puckers, and her lower lip starts trembling. “But—”

“Is alright,” Nikolai interjects with a kind, reassuring smile. He gently ushers Allison towards the door, then down the hall before she can protest further.

A few doors down, Karen pokes her head out of the room where she and Frank have holed up. She frowns as she takes in the chaos. “What’s going on?”

“Mafia men with guns!” Wade chirps as he half-skips, half-jogs towards the mansion’s entryway. “Tell your boy to suit up!”

“There’s a safe room at the end of the hall,” Neena adds as she runs after Wade.

Frank squeezes around Karen and kisses her temple before falling in line behind the two assassins.

You step to the side so Karen can run past you, then turn and press a hasty kiss against Piotr’s cheek. “Love you.”

He kisses your cheek in return, equally as brief. “Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu.”

And then the two of you run towards the danger bearing down on your home.

***

In all the firefights you’ve been in, there’s always this moment of silence. A calm before the storm. A moment where everything goes still, while both sides wait for the other to make a move.

You duck behind a wall as the mafia gunmen continue hammering away at the front door, tucking yourself in a shadow. Your stomach tenses, breathing going quick and hard as your mind starts putting a plan together. Don’t want to risk collapsing part of the house by doing a pressure vacuum. Best option is to probably knock them to the ground so the others can jump them.

The door rattles. The wooden portal splits on one side, sending jagged splinters poking out into the air.

You slow your breathing, forcing yourself into a calm, focused state. Wait for them to get past the entryway so you can hit as many of them as possible.

In the back of the house, near the kitchen, you hear glass shatter.

They’re in. You clench your fists at your sides, watching as the front door slowly gives way. Three… two… one…

The door breaks open, swinging inwards as the first gunmen step into the foyer—

And then the door snaps off its hinges and slams into the men, taking them out like bowling pins.

Strike, a small, inane part of your brain giggles.

Shouts go up through the house. You can hear the sounds of rushed footsteps, shattering glass, and what sounds like people being bodyslammed through tables (and, given the type of people fighting for your side, it just might be that). Gunfire pierces the air –and is accompanied by the telltale, metallic plinks of the bullets ricocheting off your husband’s armor.

Angry screams emanate from the front step. Men barge in, firing down the hall, towards some unseen target (likely Alex or Nate, given the door trick).

You wait until as many men are piled into the foyer as possible, then send down a downdraft that blows out the windows on either side of the door.

The gunmen tumble to the floor, swearing in a mixture of English and Italian.

Nate, Wade, and Neena swoop in. They descend upon the mafia men like a pack of wolves, breaking bones, dislocating joints, and cracking skulls as they disarm –and, in some cases “un-alive”—the gunmen.

“It’s raining men!” Wade sings as he runs one of his katanas through the gut of one assailant. “Hallelujah! It’s raining men!” He ramps off a nearby wall, then t-bags another man before stabbing him through the temple. “Amen!”

You crouch, tracking the movement of the scuffle. You tense when you see a couple of the men jump Nathan, then charge towards the railing and dive over when a few more try to break past to run down the hallway. You flip in the air, land in the hallway ahead of them, and unleash a blast of wind right in their faces.

The mafia men fly out through the front door. They sail over half the front drive, then bounce off the gravel surface and roll several times before coming to a stop.

You let out a harsh breath, then dart down the hall towards the kitchen when you hear glass shattering and the sound of Frank bellowing angrily.

The kitchen and rec room are a mess. Glass shards from shattered windows coat the floor, glittering before being crushed underfoot. Doors are cracked from having people slammed into them. The rec room couch is overturned –and is sagging suspiciously on one side, hinting at a cracked frame. The entertainment system is shattered, with smoking bullet holes littering the TV, speakers, and media systems.

Frank has one of the guys pinned down over the sink. He’s snarling as he uses the lip of the sink to choke the guy out. There’s blood smeared his lips and chins, trailing back up to his chin.

Another gunman stalks in through the dining room, gun trained on Frank’s head.

You whip a blast of air at the second man, sending him sailing into the wall so hard the drywall cracks.

He drops to the ground, unconscious.

There’s some terrified shrieking –and then a gunman is punted up and out of the basement stairwell. He sails through the kitchen window headfirst, crumpling in a heap in the hedges outside.

Your husband storms up the staircase, teeth bared in an angry snarl. The waning daylight glints off his metal exterior, almost making him look like some sort of avenging angel. He stops short when he sees you, though; his irate expression vanishes, replaced by concern. “Ty v poryadke?”

You manage a smile and flash him a thumbs up—

And then a truck with a Gatling gun strapped to the roof rolls up to the back door.

“Get down!” Frank hollers before tackling you to the ground behind the kitchen island.

The room explodes into chaos. Bullets plow into the walls, sending up spurts of drywall dust in their wake. Wooden doorframes and floorboards crack, unleashing cascades of splinters in every direction. Glass shatters, raining down upon everything in its reach.

Frank positions himself over you, shielding you as fragmented bullets rain down upon your both. He cups your head with his hands, doing his best to protect you from the hellfire.

Over the din, you can just make out a loud, angry bellow –and then the sound of bullets hitting metal. Heavy, deliberate stomps make the floor shake.

The gunfire cuts off. A shriek pierces the air just before you hear what sounds like a car being tossed into a tree.

(As you’ll discover later, that’s precisely what you heard.)

Frank lifts his head, then carefully rolls off you. He crouches next to you and holds out a hand. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Your ears are ringing, and you’re pretty sure you’ve got glass shards and splinters in your hair, but you’ve been worse. You take his hand, flinching when you hear the sound of more gunfire outside.

Frank peers over the lip of the island. “Reinforcements. At least five more cars headed our way.”

You suck in a breath. “Piotr—”

“Is holding his own for now,” Frank says.

“I’m gonna help him,” you rasp out. “Make sure everyone in the house that’s not on our side… stays down. And that we’ve still got all our people.”

Frank nods, then runs off towards the foyer.

You catch your breath, then creep towards the back door (better safe than sorry). You flatten yourself against the wall next to the doorway, then peer around the broken frame.

Piotr’s facing off against the new influx of cars. He’s got one hand on the hood of one Range Rover, arm extended out like he’s fending off a five-year-old. With his other hand, he flips another SUV over, causing the thing to land on its roof and putting the vehicle squarely out of commission.

Your stomach sinks when five more Range Rovers tear across the lawn, leaving deep, muddy tracks in their wake –and are followed by three more trucks with Gatling guns attached to the roofs. You sprint out the door, take a flying leap over Piotr, then send out a shockwave of air when you land on the ground.

A few of the cars fly backwards, rolling across the lawn like tumbleweeds. A majority of them, however, manage to stay upright or bump into each other and recover.

Your eyes widen when one of the Gatling gun operators aims directly at you. Shit.

Piotr leaps in front of you, whirling so his back is to the gun. He curls his body over yours, shielding you as gunfire rains down on you both.

You grit your teeth, grunting. You can feel the impact of the gunfire resonating through your husband’s metal body. Worry clutches at your heart when Piotr lets out sharp, ragged groans; he’s largely invulnerable in his armor, not to mention his sense of touch is severely dulled, but you know that with shit like this he’s still feeling some sort of pain –and there’s nothing you can do. You’re both pinned down, and as powerful as your shockwaves are, they’re not enough to stop or even skew the trajectory of a bullet—

Blue light washes over both of you. The sound of the gunfire wanes, replaced by warbling, pinging noises instead.

You peer around Piotr’s side to see Illyana standing between the two of you and the oncoming cars. She has her arms outstretched, palms facing the onslaught of adversaries. A shimmering, sky blue shield with various magical incantations floating through it surrounds all of you, stretching into the sky for at least forty feet.

Illyana grunts. She’s being shoved backwards from the force of impact from the bullets. Her feet are digging into the ground, leaving ruts as she tries to hold her stance. “We need new plan!”

“How about ‘stay alive?’” Piotr shouts back as he digs shrapnel out of the grooves on his arms.

Wade, Neena, Nate, and Frank come barreling out the back door, faces streaked with soot and blood. They dive for the ground, covering the backs of their heads and necks with their hands—

An explosion goes off inside the mansion. The shockwave shatters windows on both the first and second floor, blowing out window frames and trim.

Piotr covers your body with his once more. He cups your head with his hand, shielding you from the falling debris and the worst of the shockwave.

You cough and hack as smoke billows out the broken windows and doors. You do your best to make a vortex to suck the smoke away and send it up into the air. Your lungs burn, and your ears are ringing like a bell from all the gunfire and the explosion—

Four more gunmen emerge from the smoke pouring out the back door.

You snarl, then whip blasts of air at them, slamming them into the exterior walls of the house.

One of them goes down, while the other three are merely stunned.

Mikhail comes barreling out next. He lets out a guttural battle cry, then sucker punches one of the men in the back of the head before aiming a blast of rust colored energy at another’s gut.

The man screams as he sails into the air, arcing over the tree line and disappearing somewhere in the canopies.

The third man aims his gun at Mikhail –then staggers and drops to the ground when a beam of golden energy sears through his chest.

Alex storms out of the smoke with Artemis and your uncle trailing close behind her. She glares down the remaining gunmen and cars, teeth bared in a vicious snarl. Blood is flecked across her face and spattered over her leather jacket. “House is clear!”

“Yeah, except now we’re about to be cleared out!” Wade hollers back. “As in, ‘all sales final, no returns, no exchanges!’”

“If we could make plan,” Illyana screams, voice strained with the effort of holding the shield, “would be very great!”

You look over to Alex –and see her eyes widen. You whirl towards the gunmen just in time to see one of them aim a rocket launcher at all of you. “Oh, for the love of—”

The first hit is technically deflected by Illyana’s shield, insomuch that the projectile and the shield both shatter the moment they meet. The force of the magic breaking sends out a shockwave of blue energy that flies backwards into all of you, knocking those who managed to get up back off their feet and stunning the rest of you.

You groan, head reeling. Your vision clears slowly, casting double images when you move too quickly. Shit.

You can make out Piotr, just next to you. He’s lying face down on the lawn, grunting and moving in slow, clumsy movements. He turns his head, brow furrowing when he sees you, and reaches out towards you.

You extend your hand to grab his –but he’s just out of your reach, no matter how far you strain. Your body feels heavy with fatigue and pain; everything inside you is screaming to get up, to fight, to keep moving because death is knocking right on your door, and you’ll be damned if this is how you go out—

Alex recovers first –no surprise there. She shoves herself to her feet, seething and growling like a feral beast. She hurls a blast of energy at one of the cars –and, from the sounds of the carnage, makes a direct hit. She storms towards the sea of mafia men like an avenging angel, hell bound on vengeance and blood.

Audible gasps go up from the amassed assassins.

You lift your head to see several of the gunmen backing away from the mansion and crossing themselves with shaking hands. You chalk it up to Alex being Alex, and make to drop your head back against the ground once more—

And then you see Allison standing in the ruined doorway.

She’s glaring down the gunmen with a viciousness that doesn’t suit the youthful roundness of her face. Her brows are knit together, and her mouth is twisted into an ugly scowl. Her eyes are glowing a brilliant shade of blue and give off little wisps of azure colored smoke. Her skin and hair are smoking as well, creating an aura around her body. Blood drips down from her nose and onto her shirt –which is stained with ash and soot. There are burn marks and indents on her wrists from where the repression cuff and the handcuffs used to be, respectively, but the restraints themselves are gone.

The ground begins to shake. Two patches of cerulean light appear underneath the grass, growing larger until they form swirling vortexes of magical energy. The ground begins to crumble at the edges of the portals, eroding away and growing wider until they make gaping tunnels that channel so deeply into the earth there’s no telling how far they truly go.

You recoil when the smell of sulfur and smoke blenches forth from the tunnels. Shit, did she hit a gas line? Fucking dammit, like this day can get any worse—

Echoing, blood-chilling howls emanate from the tunnels.

Your eyes widen –and then your heart starts working overtime when you see two, then four massive hellhounds (like the ones Allison summoned at the mall) crawl out of the tunnels.

Shrieks of terror sound from the gunmen. Several take off running, while others try to shoot the beasts.

The hounds snap and snarl at the gunmen, then charge at the group. Two of them go off after the runners, while the other two start lunging after the assassins like they’re rabbits.

You stare at the chaos in disbelief –and then a set of strong hands grab you underneath the arms.

“Get up.” You uncle tugs you to your feet, keeping you steady when you stumble. “You can’t be in the flow of traffic for this.”

Behind you, Allison is panting like she’s run a marathon. The aura of blue smoke is growing around her, trailing into the air and floating over the ground. Veins of light spread across her face and arms, glowing the same shade of vibrant blue as her eyes. Her breathing grows louder and more ragged, until she’s growling and shaking with each exhale— and then she screams.

Much like the first confrontation in the cemetery, all those months ago, the scream unleashes a shockwave of blue energy. This time, though, the shockwave is far from a decoy for escape. It washes over you, the X-Force, your uncle, the other Rasputins, Frank, and Artemis harmlessly enough –then slams into the mafia forces and vehicles like the wall of a hurricane.

Alex charges after the shockwave, carefully trailing behind it. She waits until it clears the first line of gunmen, then slams her fist into the face of the man closest to her. She blocks his attempt to strike her, then twists his arm –dislocating the shoulder, which makes him shriek in pain. Then, she wrenches his rifle away from him. She shoots him once in the center of his forehead, then turns the firearm on his fellow men and keeps firing.

Mikhail and Artemis go after the one surviving Gatling gun. Mikhail teleports onto the truck bed; he sweeps the back of one man’s jacket over his head, effectively blinding him, then kicks the other man present in the balls before shoving him over the side of the truck.

Artemis, on the other hand, stops a few feet away from the truck. She uses her telekinesis to rip the Gatling gun off its mount, then yanks the driver out through the windscreen –headfirst, no less—and dumps him on the lawn.

He doesn’t get back up.

“Come on,” your uncle says, pointing towards the further reaches of the property, where some of the gunmen are still trying to outrun the hellhounds. “Let’s give the dogs a helping hand.”

The two of you reach out, creating a wind current that slices through the air and slams into the stragglers.

The men careen into nearby hedges –and the hellhounds have it from there.

The familiar sonic blast of Nathan’s gun rips through the air. The shot slams into the last remaining SUV, rendering the vehicle to little more than glass shards and mangled metal.

The back lawn and gardens fall silent, save for the sounds of groans of pain and the hellhounds chewing on various gunmen.

Mikhail takes a fall off the back of the truck bed. He flops onto the ruined grass below, limbs splaying like a rag doll’s. “Alright. Is time for nap. Wake me… never.”

Illyana scoffs from where she’s sat next to a smoldering bush. She picks up a nearby stone, then chucks it at her eldest brother’s head (and hits her target, no less). “There is still clean up. Bezdel'nik.”

Mikhail flips her off, then groans as he rubs the bridge of his nose.

“She’s right,” Alex lectures her eldest as she picks her way through the carnage. She nudges one body with the toe of her combat boot, then shoots him through the temple when he groans.

“Mama!” Piotr gapes at her, expression scandalized. He sputters, looking between her and the body at her feet.

“Chto? Vy khotite yego zhivym? Chtoby on mog dolozhit' svoim khozyayevam? Chtoby on mog obrushit' adskiy ogon' na etu shkolu i vsekh, kogo vy lyubite? No –no.” She holds up her index finger and stares sternly at Piotr when he tries to argue. “You do not leave enemies on your six o’clock, medvezhonok. First rule of survival.”

Piotr swallows hard, then says softly, “X-Men do not kill.”

Alex shrugs. “And I am not an X-Man.”

“We’ll handle it,” Nathan says. He holds his hand out for Alex’s rifle, nodding when she hands it to him after a moment’s hesitation.

(Wade and Frank are already working their way through the sea of dead and wounded. Frank’s traversing the chaos methodically, sticking to minimal shots to kill the survivors, while Wade’s alternating between singing “Dancing Queen” and getting post-mortem revenge.

“You shot my dick off inside!” Wade gasps as he peers down at a –slightly chewed on—corpse. “Extra bullets for you!” He then shoots the dead body several times before resuming his pitchy serenade.)

“What now?” Allison asks, staring out at the carnage with a slightly shocked expression.

“‘What now?’” Artemis repeats, laughing incredulously. She stomps towards Allison, pulling a pack of tissues out of her inner jacket pocket. “What the hell are you even doing out here? You were supposed to stay in the safe room—”

“They had cameras in there,” Allison says with a roll of her eyes, as if that justifies her decision to join the fracas. “You guys were getting your asses kicked.”

“We would’ve handled it.”

“Yeah, except you weren’t,” Allison fires back. She scrunches up her face when Artemis starts wiping the blood off her face, but otherwise takes the mothering without any complaint.

“It’s not your responsibility to deal with this shit,” Artemis says, voice and expression softening for a moment. She cleans up Allison’s face –then scowls. “And where the fuck are your cuffs? How did you even get out of them?”

Allison shrugs. “I used my powers to short the repression cuff out and ash it off.”

Illyana’s, Alex’s, and your uncle’s heads all snap around to stare at Allison.

“Are you kidding me?” Artemis hisses through clenched teeth. “You could’ve fucking killed yourself!”

“Or caused magical paradox that ripped hole in space-time continuum,” Illyana snaps.

“Ruptured blood vessels in your brain and caused an aneurysm, made the cuff deliver a lethal electrical shock, turned your magic against your own body and rendered yourself to ash,” your uncle continues, ticking off items on his fingers.

“Well, I didn’t do any of that!” Allison snarls, glaring at the others while Artemis keeps cleaning up her face. “And I made sure you losers won the fight –so fuck off!”

“Get her something to eat and drink,” Alex says. “Her blood sugar is bound to be low after pulling a stunt like that.”

Artemis glares at Alex and opens her mouth to respond—

Across the yard, Wade lets out a pained shriek. “My balls are not fetch toys! Bad Fido! Bad!”

Your eyes widen as you watch one of the hellhounds swing Wade around by his legs. You bite down on your lip, holding in a shock-induced laugh.

“Where’s this mutt’s off-switch –hey, hey! No!” Wade wriggles in the hellhound’s mouth, panicking as another beast bounds towards him. “My spine is not a tug toy! Can someone get rid of Fido and Rufus before they rip me in half!”

Allison snorts –then, before anyone can stop her, holds out her hand and flicks her wrist.

All four hellhounds melt back into the ground, disappearing to the depths of hell from whence they came.

Artemis swears under her breath, then catches the teen when she stumbles. She moves frantically, grabbing more tissues as blood starts pouring out of Allison’s nose once more. “You fucking idiot. Why the fuck did you do that? When are you going to fucking learn that you’re not invincible—”

Allison lets out a sharp, hoarse laugh –then passes out.

…

The wreckage inside the mansion is heartbreaking.

You stare at the ruined furniture, the scorched walls, the splintered doors, the ruined rec room and kitchen, and you have to wonder what was the fucking point?

Part of you understands that the mafia came prepared for war; they were going up against powerful mutants, so –naturally—they would want to be prepared. Having the strongest, most powerful weapons available increased their chances of success. Logically –from a strictly tactical standpoint—it makes sense.

Glass crunches under your shoes. You stare down at a litany of fallen picture frames, heart wrenching as you stare at the ruined pictures of graduates, students, and workers inside. We’re just a school. We work with kids. What was the point of trying to wipe us out?

Piotr ambles up behind you. He puts his arms around your shoulders and kisses the top of your head. “Cleaners and repairmen will be here in less than one hour.”

You feel numb. You place your hand on his arm. “That’s good.”

“We have back ups of pictures,” he murmurs. He kisses your cheek. “Insurance to cover replacing damaged items. We will be fine.”

“I know.” You sigh, leaning back against your husband’s chest. “We’re just a school. What… what was the point? Why try to wipe us out?”

“I do not know.” Piotr kisses your other cheek, hugging you reassuringly. “Perhaps they believed we knew information about ‘family business.’ Or that we were protecting Allison for some reason.”

“She’s just a kid,” you argue, voice breaking as your grief and exhaustion wells up and threatens to overtake you. “She’s only thirteen…”

Piotr says nothing, merely holds you closer.

You sigh—

And then a door slams. Hurried stomps echo down the hall. There’s creaking as a door opens again, followed by more footsteps and exasperated shouts.

Allison storms past you and Piotr, heading towards the kitchen. Her jaw is set, fists clenched at her sides.

You and Piotr look at each other –then follow after her, if only to be sure that nothing else is going to explode today.

She slams her hands down on the island counter –and, on the opposite side, Frank and Karen both flinch and stare at her warily.

Allison glares at Frank, jaw working convulsively. Her shoulders heave with each breath she takes. Her eyes shine with unshed tears, making the bags underneath seem darker and deeper by comparison. She trembles, expression flickering wildly between grief, white hot rage, and the neutral mask she’s trying so desperately to hold. She sucks in a breath that sounds more like a pained sob, then stares Frank down and spits out through gritted teeth, “You leave my people alone, I leave yours alone. Deal?”

Frank sighs. He nods, expression heavy with grief and eyes shining with remorse. “Yeah, kid. You got a deal.”

Allison clenches the edge of the island so hard her hands go white. She lets out a strangled, angry laugh as the tears finally start to fall. She ducks her head briefly, then glares back up at Frank. “I fucking hate you.”

Frank grimaces, but nods and says, “I know kid. It’s okay. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

“That ain’t worth shit.”

“I know… believe me, I know.”

Artemis –who’d previously been watching at the kitchen threshold—steps forward and puts her arm around Allison’s shoulders. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go.”

Allison clenches her teeth together, but still lets out a choked sob. She presses her lips together, looking around the room to try and regain her composure, to stop the flow of tears. She manages a deep breath, then takes one last look at Frank and snarls, “If I have to see your fucking face again, I’m ripping out your guts,” before storming out of the room.

Frank, to his credit, doesn’t respond (though you suspect he feels too guilty to even consider arguing). He merely hangs his head, expression that of a kicked dog.

Karen leans against him. She interlocks her fingers with his, murmuring in his ear (likely about how it isn’t his fault, and while it looks like that may technically be the case, you’re glad you don’t have to walk the spider’s silk of a line those facts lie upon).

What a shitshow.

Piotr puts an arm around your shoulders and gently leads you out of the kitchen. “Come on, myshka. Let’s go find spot to rest.”

…

Frank and Karen leave shortly after “making the deal” with Allison.

Allison and Artemis hang back for a bit to talk to Xavier. You don’t get all the gorey details but from what you can tell, it’s essentially an offer to help train Allison’s powers so she doesn’t hurt herself rolled in with a warning to keep her nose clean, stay on the straight and narrow, etcetera etcetera.

The sun’s just starting its descent from the sky before the two of them walk out of the meeting room.

Allison is wearing Artemis’s jacket and looks downright haggard.

Artemis has her arm around the teen and is gently guiding her while she talks to Xavier (though, perhaps the term “talk” is too generous, considering most of her responses are nods or terse, one-to-two word replies).

The rest of the Rasputin family, you, Piotr, and your uncle are all gathered in the foyer to make sure Allison and Artemis leave without too much trouble (or causing more trouble themselves).

Your uncle is sweating bullets and looks like he just shit his pants; he’s glancing between Alex and their daughter so fast it’s a miracle he hasn’t given himself a headache yet.

Now or never, you think, watching him with pursed lips. Tell your secrets before they’re told for you.

Alex kneels down next to Allison. “Are you okay?”

Allison’s gaze doesn’t leave the floor. “The fuck do you think?”

She quirks her mouth to the side. “Not all that good.” Alex ducks her head lower, trying to catch Allison’s gaze. “You remember what we talked about?”

Allison’s eyes narrow. She moves her gaze away from Alex. “Go to hell. I know what I know.”

“Sometimes… it’s better to not,” Alex says. She stares at Allison for a moment longer, then pats her shoulder before standing and walking away.

Artemis stares after Alex, expression morphing rapidly between fury and shock. She sputters for a moment before snapping, “What –that’s all you have to fucking say?”

Alex pauses, turning slightly so she can see Artemis. She raises one eyebrow, otherwise looking unbothered. “Is there something else I should be saying?”

“You don’t have anything to say to me?” Artemis presses, crossing her arms over her chest. “Nothing at all?”

“Is there something you want me to say to you?” Alex fires back, smirking slightly.

Artemis stares at Alex for a long, hard moment. She shakes her head, eyes welling up with tears, then turns her glare onto your uncle. “You really didn’t fucking tell her.”

“What?” Alex’s expression sobers, going wary as she looks between your uncle and Artemis. “What didn’t you—”

“This really isn’t the time or place—” Your uncle tries.

And here it goes.

“I’ve gotta do all the work, then,” Artemis snarls with a vicious smile. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense, considering I’m not your favorite,” she tacks on with an angry glare towards you. She storms towards Alex, one hand outstretched, with a cruel, angry smile stretched across her face. “Hey, mom. How’s it going?”

Alex’s eyes widen. She stares at Artemis, eyes tracking over the younger woman’s face. “What…”

“You fucking heard me.”

Illyana, Piotr, and Mikhail look at each other, then at Alex, then at Nikolai. They explode into confused Russian, gesturing between their parents, Artemis, and your uncle—

Realization dawns in Alex’s dark eyes. Her expression trembles, tears welling up in her eyes as she stares at Artemis’s face.

And then she uses her telekinesis to yank your uncle over and decks him.

[onegayastronaut]

Back To You (Erica Reyes x Reader)

Requested by anon:  Would you be willing to write for Erica Reyes? Maybe reader and Erica were sort of friends before she was turned and reader always had a crush on her. Now that Erica is confident she actually notices the signs and teases the reader about it but ultimately has feelings for her too? Obviously no worries if the idea or the character aren't up your alley, just figured I would take a chance. Thanks!

Words: 1777

Ever since you were assigned seat partners in third grade, you had the biggest crush on Erica. There was just something about her that always drew you to her, but you just never had the guts to tell her how you felt. Even though you were sure she wouldn’t react badly, you still weren’t sure how exactly she would react to the news of your crush on her.

However, you had other things on your mind in recent days. You haven’t seen Erica around school for the past couple of days, but there were more pressing matters at hand. Luckily for you, Scott was one of the worst liars you have ever met. Stiles was no better at hiding things, and after a threatening glare from you, both of these guys spilled the beans on werewolves and why Derek was always hanging around campus. All they asked was that you wouldn’t go poking around without one of them present, as they didn’t want you to be alone when there was something dangerous lurking around.

Now that you knew one of your closest friends was a werewolf, you couldn’t stop yourself from trying to know more about them. Everything from the origins to what every culture had to say about them, you tried to find out everything that you could. There came a point in your detective work where Allison finally dragged you to the side and gave you a book with all the necessary information.

“(Y/N), you can’t be going around asking people about werewolf history and mythology.”

“Well, how the hell else am I supposed to help one of my best friends? He’s going through what is possibly the biggest change of his life and I don’t know jack shit about how to help him.”

“Luckily for you, my family has generations worth of research on werewolves and how they operate. If you need anything, just text me and I’ll do my best to answer.”

-----

You were just getting things from your locker when you heard footsteps from down the hall. It was probably one of the girls from the cheer squad dressing up for her birthday, you thought. However, when you closed the door of your locker to see who it was, your jaw practically dropped to the floor. Logically, you knew it was Erica, but the way she was dressed and looked was completely different than what you saw a few days ago. Everything from her heels to the way she carried herself was different. If you had a crush on her before, it was nothing compared to the way you were feeling now that you saw her strutting down the hallway.

“You know, some sources say that if you drooled any more, there would be a pool on the floor.” Allison’s voice materialized from behind you, causing you to jump.

“Who said I was drooling? Erica just has a different look now, is all. She looks good.”

“Mhmm. And Scott just likes me as a friend right? (Y/N), if anyone bothered to look at your face just now when she walked by, they’d know how much you wanted her.”

“I don’t have feelings for her!”

“Oh, did I mention feelings? Now I know you have feelings for Erica, thanks for the additional information.”

“Oh my god, Allison. Some days I swear you are too much.” You hurried away with your face burning. How were you so easy to figure out?

When you arrived to your English classroom, you were out of breath and somewhat sweaty from your light jog over. Talking to Allison had nearly made you late to class, and your mom would kill you if she got another tardy call from the school. As you made your way to the desk, you saw Erica sitting next to you.

“Hey Erica, how are you doing? You look nice.”

“Didn’t I look nice before, (Y/N)?”

“Well, yes, I -- I didn’t mean it like that. All I meant was, uh, you look nice? I like this new look.” You tried to stop the word vomit from coming out, but it seemed like your mouth was, yet again, not planning to listen to your brain.

“I was just teasing you, (Y/N). I know what you meant.”

“Eyes and ears towards the front, ladies.” The substitute teacher was known to be an ass, and you were not planning on getting sent to the principal’s office today so you dutifully shut up.

The rest of the day passed rather uneventfully, and it seemed you were able to get your thirst under control. However, it seemed your life would not know peace as you walked out of your last class of the day. Erica was waiting by the door, and when you walked out, she grabbed your arm. “Hey, hot stuff. Want to hang out now that school’s over?”

Even though Erica was only touching your arm, it felt like there was a fire spreading all over your body. Erica was cute before, but whatever happened to her in the days she was gone had made her hot as hell and you weren’t sure how to react to the situation. You decided to say something before things got any more awkward. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? There’s a lot of homework to do.”

“Don’t be boring, (Y/N). Let’s go out, have fun. Homework will still be there when we get back. Come on, I got something to show you.”

You followed Erica out of school towards a brand new sports car. “Where did you get that? Is that yours?”

“That’s right, this baby is all mine. Where did you want to go first?”

“I was thinking about getting a bite to eat before heading back to my house to finish up on homework.”

“Sounds good to me. I could eat like a wolf right now.”

Throughout the hours that you spent with Erica, you noticed a lot of small things that seemed to have changed about her. Apart from the obvious change in looks, it seemed like Erica was stronger, more confident in herself and her body.

“What are you looking at?” Erica’s voice distracted you from getting too lost in your thoughts.

“Oh, nothing. I was just thinking, you seem different from the last time I saw you last week. What’s going on? What happened?”

Erica went quiet as she ate her fries. “I was given a gift. And the gift is control over my own body in ways that I never knew was possible. I used to be weak, but not anymore. I’ll never go back to being a helpless little girl anymore.”

“I never thought you were weak.”

“There’s no reason to be unnecessarily nice, (Y/N). I’m much better than I’ve been before. Let’s go to your place now.”

As you were studying, you couldn’t help but glance over at Erica every once in a while. You’ve wanted to be with her for as long as you could remember, so now that she’s in your room with this newfound confidence about her, you couldn’t help but entertain all those fantasies about her again.

“You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“Staring at me. Careful, if I didn’t know any better I’d think you were in love with me or something.”

-----

As the weeks went by, you would stare at Erica every time you were bored or drifting off in class. You couldn’t help looking as she was definitely the hottest girl in class, and it wasn’t like looking would get you in trouble. Allison would usually snort whenever she saw you or noticed how you were staring at Erica. Even though you told her that it would most likely turn out to be nothing, you couldn’t help but want to be with Erica and have her push you in an empty classroom and make you hers.

Sighing as you closed the door to your locker, you started when you saw Erica seem to pop out of nowhere. “What’s the matter, (Y/N)? Not happy to see me?”

“No, you just surprised me, is all.”

“Good, because you’ve been super quiet for the last couple of days. I was getting worried you were avoiding me or something.”

“I haven’t. I’ve just been thinking...about stuff.”

“Hopefully about me.” Erica winked at you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet her gaze. How did she know? Were you that obvious? The taller girl leaned in whispered, “Meet me in the chemistry classroom after this period. I want to tell you something.” You stared as she walked away, and you reluctantly walked the opposite direction to class.

The next hour could not have gone more slowly. It seemed as if the teacher was purposefully going slower than usual, and you practically ran out of the classroom the second the bell rang. You knew that there was no chemistry class for the next hour, so you tried to be as sneaky as possible letting yourself into the classroom. When you got in, Erica was already waiting for you. 

“There you are.” Erica came over to you and planted a kiss on you. “I know you’ve been wanting me to do that for a while.”

“How did -- how did, you know?” At this point, you didn’t care how much you stuttered. Erica had finally kissed you! Did that mean she liked you too?

“I would be a fool to not be able to tell that you had a thing for me. And to be honest, I think you’re extremely cute. We’d make a very good looking couple.” Erica’s hands traced your face. “And I’m not going to lie, I could smell how much you’ve wanted me for the last few weeks.”

“Smell? How could you possibly smell that?” Erica’s eyes brightened in response, and you finally knew what had caused all the changes in her. “You’re a werewolf too.”

“That was the other thing I wanted to tell you, though it seems you have some knowledge of the subject.” For the first time in weeks, it seemed as if Erica was a bit nervous. “I hope that doesn’t make you want me any less.”

“Are you kidding? I’ve wanted to be with you for as long as I can remember. It helps that you’re stronger and more confident now.”

“Does that mean you’re okay with missing your next class? Because I want to show you how much I’ve been holding back since I’ve changed.” Erica picked you up and placed you on the nearest lab counter. Hopefully, you wouldn’t make too much of a mess after Erica was done with you today.

[jessicalynnhepner]

What Every Parent Needs to Know About Child Sex Trafficking

For most police officers, this scene is a familiar one—a young kid gets mixed up with the wrong person and finds him or herself on the wrong side of the law. In virtually every case, this would be the end of the story. The young girl would get a slap on the wrist and be released into her parents’ custody where they could, presumably, set her straight. And, at this point in our story, Officer Scott was prepared to do just that—to trust the overwhelming testimony of prior experience and process this girl out so that he could get on with his shift. But, something was different this time… Discerning the SignsAs Officer Scott sits down to file his paperwork, he’s reminded of last Tuesday’s roll call.  His Sergeant, having recently attended a training seminar on human trafficking, used that day to teach his officers how to identify potential trafficking situations. All of a sudden, alarm bells start going off in Scott’s mind: The Fear — Sure, a kid’s going to be afraid of the consequences. But, this girl seems to fear for her physical safety. She’s acting like there’s something worse waiting for her than an angry mom and dad at home. The Stolen Merchandise – Why did she need a Red Bull and a pack of condoms? Scott recalled that traffickers use starvation to control their victims. Usually, their only choice is to steal the bare necessities. The Boyfriend – Per the owner’s description, this guy was at least 10 years older than she. What were they doing there together in the first place? A New ApproachWith these things in mind, Scott calmly invites the young lady out of holding and brings her to a quieter part of the station, away from prying eyes and menacing glances. She looks cold, so Scott hands her a sweatshirt. As he does, he notices a small tattoo of a crown with the name ‘Hugo’ scrawled beneath it—likely a brand to show who ‘she belongs to.’ They start to chat. This time, he speaks less like a cop and more like a friend. Clearly, she hasn’t had anything to eat for quite a while. Moments later, a female officer appears with a bag from McDonald’s. The three make their way to a private lounge. As they talk, the girl lets her guard down. Scott listens as she describes her broken home life, struggles with friends at school, and her constant search for belonging. All the while, her phone continues to buzz. “Your boyfriend?” “Yes. He just wants to make sure I’m ok.” He really is a great guy, she explains. He’s been there for her when her parents weren’t. He shows her the affection and attention she needs. She feels protected. He loves her……only, sometimes he makes her do things—things she would ordinarily never do. TrustHaving earned at least a glimmer of trust, Scott asks if she would slide her phone over. Reluctantly, she does, and he begins to scroll through the text messages. Wisely, Scott checks his emotions before he begins to read. It doesn’t take him long to realize these are not the supportive words of a loving boyfriend. No, they’re the verbal assaults of a degenerate thug bent on belittling her into submission. Scott does his best to hide his disgust as he reads about threatened consequences for ‘missed quotas.’ Horrified, he sees insults that no human being should ever have to endure, capped off by threats against her little sister for talking to the cops. Officer Scott thanks the young woman for her trust and politely excuses himself to make a call. He can read the writing on the wall: this girl is clearly a victim of trafficking. She needs someone with much more experience than him to help regain her freedom. He picks up the phone, dials his Sergeant, and together, they get to work. What Made the Difference?This story, though generalized in some ways, is rooted in the accounts we hear from police officers every day. The first part of the story is common enough. But, what about the second when, in Scott’s eyes, the girl goes from ‘shoplifter’ to ‘trafficking victim’? Not so much. So, how do we get from A to B? How do we help police officers learn

to look at each ‘punk kid’ as a potential victim, to ask deeper questions, and find the real story lies beneath the surface? Just as in Officer Scott’s story, that turning point comes when an officer recognizes the signs, trusts his or her gut, and decides to unravel that thread. It all starts with that one officer—a soldier on the front lines of the underground battle to set captives free. This can only happen when officials at every level of law enforcement learn to detect the signs and receive the tools they need to bring trafficking victims out of the cruel darkness and into the liberating light of day. National Human Trafficking Law Enforcement Training ProgramAt ERASE, one of the most impactful things we do is train police departments so that they produce more officers like the one in this story. It’s our mission to educate officers to detect the warning signs, identify potential victims, and safely lead them to freedom.  Your donations make this possible. Source Child Sex Trafficking-Not My Child Mom shakes her head and Dad raises his voice. Their 16-year old daughter storms up the stairs. As the bedroom door slams, she collapses on the bed with phone in hand. She’s ready to vent her frustrations one status update at a time. With every angst-laden tap of the keyboard, she lays bare her soul: “Nobody here gets me.” “No one understands!” “I feel unloved.” 📷An hour later, a boy from the next town over reaches out. She doesn’t know him, but they’ve got a few mutual friends, so it’s probably no big deal. He’s cute and thoughtful. And, he seems to understand what she’s going through better than anyone else. For the next two weeks, they exchange messages every day. He’s sweet, a digital shoulder to cry on when nobody else seems to care. They decide to meet up in person, so she borrows Dad’s car “to meet some friends at the mall.” That night, Daddy’s little girl doesn’t come home for dinner and Mom sits up all night. The next morning, they call the police. An officer searches her computer and finds evidence of the girl’s new relationship. Turns out, the boy she thought she knew didn’t exist. And, just like that, she’s gone.Reality check about child sex trafficking At ERASE, we hear heartbreaking tales like this all too frequently. Stories from average families dealing with everyday stresses when out of nowhere, their child is lured right out from under them. Whenever we tell these stories, the most common response goes something like this: “Child trafficking is something that happens to those types of kids out there. We live in a great community and our neighbors are good people who look out for one another. Something like that could never happen to one of my children.” This is the kind of response that makes us cringe. If only parents knew what we know, they wouldn’t be so quick to ignore this real and pervasive threat. Sadly, that very ignorance is what traffickers count on most when looking for children to target. The danger is far more imminent than most parents recognize. If we’re going to protect our children, we need to be clear on the real threats child traffickers impose. Traffickers are Smart, Motivated, and Tech-SavvyA dark and horrific market has grown up around the purchase and sale of human beings. Researchers estimated that, in 2007, Atlanta’s underground sex economy alone brought in $290 million. Even in a far less “saturated” market, sex trafficking in San Diego enables a pimp to pull in over $11,000 per week. Fast forward 10 years and there’s no reason to think that number hasn’t grown. Innocent children aren’t given a pass here. Instead, the most vulnerable among us are routinely bought and sold like property—many of them up to 15 times a day. With business booming, traffickers are working harder than ever to keep up with demand. Leaving no stone unturned, they use social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Snapchat, to research, target, and groom children for sexual exploitation. In fact, 77% of sex trafficking victims

report having been initially approached online. Just as a skilled marketer uses sophisticated keyword searches to identify his audience, traffickers monitor social media for anything at all that would suggest an easy target:Children with social media profiles open to public viewing Teenagers posting introspective status updates about feelings of insecurity Boys and girls who are venting about arguments with their parents Like a lion crouched in his thicket, a predator will scan through lines of text looking for vulnerable children to drag off into the tall grass. How many of those lines will have come from one of your children? Yes, your child can be a victim of sex traffickingThe children that traffickers rip from their happy homes aren’t pretend characters on television or disembodied faces from the evening news. They’re our kids, the ones we work hard to raise and the ones we hope to see grow up happy and healthy. They’re the kids we teach to be smart, to mind their surroundings, and never talk to strangers. And yet, we give them free reign to explore every dark corner of the internet via their cell phone. We must do betterLittle more than half of parents closely monitor their children’s online activity. So, when a stranger asks to connect on Snapchat, it’s nearly an even shot that no one will be looking over that kid’s shoulder. You can count on a child trafficker to take that bet. Do you know which platforms your children are using or who they connect with online? Do they have any secret accounts and how would you find out if they did? If someone asked to meet in person, would they do it? Can you be sure? These questions may seem intrusive and even overbearing. However, considering the reality of child trafficking in the United States, we have to ask these questions.  Every day, thousands of children disappear into slavery. We’d like to hope our kids could never be victims but the facts simply don’t allow us that option. Understanding the facts of child trafficking is the first and most important step in prevention. There is HopeGood people around the world are standing up and fighting back against this great moral evil. You don’t have to live in constant fear for your children. The story we shared at the beginning of this post doesn’t have to be your story. And with some common sense and the will to step intentionally into your kids’ digital lives, you can protect them from becoming a victim of sex trafficking. The question is: will you? At ERASE, we want to educate parents on how best to protect their children from online predators. Please take a look at our tips and best practices pages to see how you can teach your children to be safe online.Juvenile Delinquent or Victim of Human Trafficking? Blog Story of a Human Trafficking Victim It’s midnight. Officer Scott pulls his patrol car into the lot of a small, 24-hour convenience store. As he approaches, he peers through the decal-laden glass door to see a middle-aged man struggling to restrain an agitated 16-year old girl. The store owner had caught this young woman and her boyfriend stuffing items into a small handbag. Her companion—a ‘white man in his late 20’s’—had bolted out the door without so much as a backward glance. The last thing on Officer Scott’s mind was “human trafficking victim”. Scott had seen this before. Some young teenager, looking for thrills, decides to pocket a few items from the local bodega and gets grabbed by the watchful owner. As he escorts the girl to his police car, Scott’s treated to an earful. She can’t stop going on about what a jerk he is, how he had violated her rights, and how much trouble she’d be in if he didn’t let her go right away. “Just wait until I call your parents,” he thinks. 📷 The Same Routine When they arrive at the station, Scott walks this young woman to his desk. She can hear the snide remarks of a few men handcuffed to chairs nearby. As they leer conspicuously at her, she shrinks further into herself.  Scott starts in on his typical line of questioning: name,

age, address, and so on. The entire time, her phone buzzes with one text message after another. She begs Scott to let her reply, but he refuses. “There’ll be plenty of time to talk to your parents later.” “I’m not worried about them,” she snaps back. “They don’t give a crap about me, anyway. They’re too busy arguing to even notice I’m around.” Not sure what to make of that outburst, Scott begins to sort through the items she had attempted to steal: a sleeve of Hostess Cup Cakes, a Red Bull, and a box of condoms. “Must be one heck of a boyfriend to leave you there like that, huh?” “You wouldn’t understand. He loves me. He takes care of me.” Angry and frustrated by this girl’s bad attitude and ignorance about that poor excuse for a boyfriend, Officer Scott escorts her to a holding cell and prepares to process her out.Is This the End of the Story?

https://whateveryparentshouldknowaboutcps.blogspot.com/2020/08/what-every-parent-needs-to-know-about.html

[whatcouldgowrong-ohthat]

We Do This to Live Ch. 4

Chapter Four

Summary: On Earth-198742, there are no heroes. There’s humans. There’s mutants. There are even some that fall somewhere between. But when Boliver Trask manages to get the Sentinel program signed, it’s up to a thief and her brilliant sister to find those that still believe in something more - something good. And maybe, along the way, they’ll get the chance to save mutant kind.

Pairings: Rogue x Remy, Marie x Shuri (eventually), Geneva x Bucky (eventually)

Word Count: 2933 words

Warnings: Um, starting to see some baddies? Getting to see Geneva’s powers more? Smidge of angst? Cussing for sure.

Masterlist to OCs - Masterlist to Other Works 

Previous Chapter

--

Fluorescent lights cast a bitter glow over the lab. It was a silent reminder for everyone that what they were working on, what they were doing, was wrong. Yet knowing that changed nothing. People came and went. Clocked in and out as if it were nothing, ignoring the fact that their actions were inhumane. Along the walls, there were sketches. Plans for their future. Metal armor – designs borrowed by Stark and materials discovered by Stryker.

“Trask.”

He didn’t say anything. In his own corner of the lab, making notes of the blood he was studying, Boliver Trask found himself lost in his work. Always lost. Always fascinated.

Alexander shook his head, hardly surprised. He’d known Boliver for years. He personally brought him into SHIELD, knowing he would need the man’s genius if his own agenda were to succeed. “Boliver,” he spoke up. Louder this time.

Finally, as he scribbled another note, Trask looked his way. “Alexander. Did you find it?”

“There wasn’t a mutant there.” Alexander glanced at the notes he took. Just above, he saw a file marked Bobby Drake. “The only reason I went was as a favor to you. You’re aware of that, right?”

“Very much so.” Boliver returned to his study, adjusting the microscope with stubby fingers. “However, you and I both know that the Guilds have rumored mutants there. We might not be able to confirm anything yet, but every opportunity to gather new data is crucial to this program. The Sentinels need to be as prepared as we can make them.”

Alexander looked around. He knew Boliver was right. He always appreciated that they had the same beliefs. People like Stark and Rogers? Mutants? They were something the world didn’t need. A threat to their lives. “As much as I understand that, I won’t be making a personal visit next time. If that’s what you desire, then you can go.” He turned, making his way to the exit.

Boliver glanced his way, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“You two really hate them, huh?”

Boliver looked up, eyes settling on the intern that had spoken. He adjusted his glasses and shook his head. “On the contrary, I rather admire them. The things that they can do? We have never and will never see anything like it.” He removed the blood sample, putting it back on the rack. “Pierce has different beliefs to me, but I’ve always seen mutants and their abilities as our salvation.”

The intern’s brow furrowed, confusion marring her features. “So…why all of this?”

Trask smiled. Oh, how naïve the boy was. “Because free will is a tricky thing. If we are to earn our salvation, we must be willing to make the difficult decisions. Do you understand,” he glanced at the intern’s badge. “Ms. Darkholme?”

The intern, albeit hesitant, nodded. Boliver tilted his head, catching sight of what he could have sworn was a yellow hue to her eyes. He watched as she gathered her files, probably on to whatever task she had next. As she left the room, his fingers drummed against the counter. If Boliver had learned anything throughout this process…

It was to always trust his gut.

He grabbed the phone, dialing four numbers. The answer was almost instant. “Yes, this is Dr. Trask. I’m afraid we’ve had a mutant break into the facility. Yes, that’s right, only apprehend. Thank you.” Hanging up, Trask closed the folder and grabbed another sample.

This time – Scott Summers.

---

Five Years Later – 2009

“Fuck!” Geneva’s back slammed into the ground; the wind knocked out of her.

“Watch y’language.”

She groaned, rolling onto her stomach. She didn’t need to look back to know her father was smirking. He was always like this. Never going easy on her. Always pushing her. Her forehead dropped, resting against the mat.

“Y’want t’join a Guild y’got no reason t’be a part of? Fine. But I’m the one trainin’ ya.”

It was the only way to get him to listen.

And she’d been regretting it for five years.

“Up, Geneva.” His voice was filled with authority. Gone was her father. This was all “Gambit”.

She huffed, knocking her hair out of her face and forcing herself to her feet. Her muscles ached. Her nerves buzzed. Everything contradicted itself. “Give moi a minute,” she muttered, bracing her hands on her knees.

Geneva was relieved when he listened. This time last year? He would have laid her on her ass again.

“The Assassins and anyone else wouldn’t let y’catch y’breath. ‘M not goin’ t’either.”

She knew it came from a place of love, but damn if it didn’t annoy her to no end.

Pushing herself up, Geneva picked up her staff. “Y’ready?” She looked his way, smiling when she saw the concern there. Her dad could try to act as tough as he wanted, but she knew the truth. He just wanted her to be safe.

“Oui.” She twirled it between her fingers, spinning around. The metal clashed against his staff and he smirked.

Then, the two danced.

Geneva’s butt hit the mat once again. She scowled, eyes glowing a little brighter. Kicking the staff aside, she braced her arms on her knees and looked at Remy. He was smirking, leaning against that stupid bostaff. Raising a brow, she jerked her foot and knocked it out from under him.

He only stumbled.

Geneva groaned, falling back on the mat.

Sometimes it was infuriating just how good her father was.

-

Geneva stepped out of the tub, the darkness around her more of a comfort than it had been all those years ago. She hurried to dry off before slipping on some leggings and grabbing an off-shoulder crop top. Still in the darkness, Geneva combed her fingers through her short hair and towel-dried it.

That would be enough.

She crossed the room to the generator. One button and the trill of electricity rushed, not only through the room, but through her skin. Pretty green eyes flashed gold. The familiar rush of gold danced under her skin, tingling and silently telling her that it was there once more. But she didn’t have to be reminded.

Geneva glanced towards the mirror, seeing her reflection once again. She tended to avoid that, but there were days where it couldn’t be helped. Her fingers absentmindedly touched the Lichtenburg scars that twisted around her skin. Raising her crop-top just slightly, she saw how those scars were just as at home on her ribcage.

She really didn’t have to be reminded.

Stepping out of the tiny home, Geneva crossed the yard and slipped in through the Lebeau Manor’s back door. She made a bee line to the fridge, craving something to eat after Remy had so thoroughly kicked her ass. However, when she closed the door with an apple in her mouth, she couldn’t stop the snort that passed when she saw Marie at the table. On her laptop, like always.

“I heard that,” Marie said, fingers absentmindedly breaking off a poptart. She popped the piece in her mouth, speaking around it as she asked, “Y’know y’look like a pig like that, right?”

Geneva rolled her eyes. The apple snapped under her bite as she peeked over Marie’s shoulder. The twelve-year old was breaking into Essex Labs. She rolled her eyes. “Mama ain’t gonna like that. ‘Sides, didn’t y’just get ungrounded fo’breakin’ into the Pentagon?”

Marie didn’t say anything. Instead, her fingers banged a little louder against the keys. Geneva raised a brow, tugging at a strand of long black hair. “Y’lookin’ pale, petite. Why don’t we go somewhere?”

More silence. Geneva sat back in her chair, taking another bite of her apple. She hadn’t expected any different. Since Geneva joined the guild, Marie had treated her different. Not that Geneva blamed her. Marie was waiting until the day she was legal – wanting to get as far away from New Orleans and the Guilds as possible. And Geneva choosing to join? It put a wedge in their relationship.

One that Geneva hadn’t been able to fix.

“C’mon, Marie. When’s the last time we did anyt’in’?”

“2004,” Marie answered matter-of-factly.

Geneva frowned. Her fingers drumming against the table and Marie’s against her keyboard were the only thing keeping them from absolute silence. And she hated it.

Marie didn’t hate her. She knew that much. When her powers had been at their worst, keeping Geneva from touching anything, keeping her from showering because water burned her skin, Marie had done all the research needed for Geneva to study electricity.

It was her work that helped Remy and Rogue teach Geneva control.

But that was as far as their relationship went now.

“Geneva.”

She looked up, missing the way Marie glanced at her. Jean-Luc was standing in the doorway, offering a small smile.

“Y’pere tells moi that y’been doin’ real good with y’trainin’.”

Geneva couldn’t contain her smile. While there might have been some days where she felt as if she were struggling, never making any progress, hearing her own father say that meant a lot. Especially because Rogue had to talk him into letting her.

“C’mon.” Jean-Luc gestured in the direction of his office. “Wanna run somet’in’ by ya.”

-

That one conversation with her grandfather, the Guildmaster, is all it took for Geneva to find herself here.

And where is here?

Washington D.C.

At the Triskelion.

Geneva was lying on the roof, eyes fixated on the stars. She could be patient until the last person left. It helped that she had music playing in her ears.

Be-Beep. Be-Beep.

Geneva felt the vibration from her watch rather than the beeping from her alarm. She pressed the button and rolled onto her stomach before jumping up. Glancing over the edge of the roof, she smirked when she saw Director Fury leaving.

Moving to the center of the oddly shaped building, she pulled out her shrunken staff. Electricity crackled off her fingers – a required thumbprint for her staff to extend. She pulled out another gadget, attaching it to the roof and then her belt.

“Time t’go t’work,” she muttered. Then…she stepped off the ledge.

The wind rushed, whipping against her face until the wire finally stopped her movements. She glanced above her, already feeling the buzz that came from deadening motion sensors. Her eyes flickered a little brighter, her skin threatening to light up as the building powered down. Chuckling, she thought to herself, So much for security.

Music continued blaring in her ears as she found the opening she needed. Fingers pressing against the corners of a window, she grimaced as that irritating hum appeared in her ears once more. But the glass was vibrating, freeing itself from its containment.

She caught the edge, feet landing in the window-frame. Attaching her escape to the next window, she eased the glass down and stepped inside. Her bright eyes took in the office space. It was already stifling, warming up from her powers shutting off the A/C three floors above and three floors below. Seven levels. No power.

Geneva collapsed her staff, tucking it into her back pocket as she made her way to the desk. The office was clean, something she wasn’t used to considering her family seemed to thrive in clutter and chaos. That was thieves for you. Tucking her hair behind her ear, Geneva brushed her fingers against the computer tower. The screen lit up, earning a satisfied smirk from Geneva.

Doing the basic hacking her younger cousin taught her, Geneva easily slipped past barrier after barrier. She raised a brow. Was all of SHIELD this paranoid? Fingers strumming against the keys, her eyes sparked a little brighter, excitement getting the better of her.

But it vanished just as quickly.

A passcode.

She needed a personal fucking passcode for Pierce’s personal files.

Geneva’s fingers froze over the keys. Well…there was only one person she could think of to call.

-

I wanna roll with him, a hard pair we will be A little gambling is fun when –

Marie jolted, her hoodie and hair hiding most of her face as that blasted song blared from her phone.

Russian roulette is not the same without a gun And baby, when it’s love, if it’s not rough, it isn’t fun

Yanking her hoodie off, Marie was determined to find that stupid piece of technology. She stumbled out of her chair, barely maneuvering around the mess she constantly lived in. It was a reminder that she needed to find some time to clean up, but that could wait.

Where was that phone?

Yanking back the covers on her bed, she snatched it up and answered.

-

“Y’changed the fuckin’ ringtone on my phone?”

Geneva winced as she held the phone away from her ear. That was a little louder than she anticipated. “Not my fault y’got an easy password. For a hacker, woulda thought ya knew better.” She heard rustling on the other end of the line and knew Marie was probably sitting somewhere.

“’M five seconds away from hangin’ up. Whatcha want?”

Geneva winced. She might have been pushing her luck. “T’ink y’can get moi the password for Pierce’s computer?”

Silence. Geneva stared at the computer in front of her, feeling like a weight was pulling her down. She needed this. She needed Marie’s help. “Sil vous plait, Marie. I – I can’t fuck this up. I know y’don’t like – “

“Stop.” A sigh and then, “Y’stupid if y’t’ink I wouldn’t help ya, Gen.” The familiar sound of fingers brushing keys made Geneva’s shoulders visibly relax. “Mas why the hell didn’t y’go a bit more prepared?”

Geneva chuckled. “Do y’know moi at all?”

She didn’t need to be standing in front of the tween hacker to know that Marie was rolling her eyes. Of all of Marie’s sassiest actions, that one practically had its own voice. “Oui, I do. And I don’t understand why our Pepe would send y’in the middle o’SHIELD for y’first assignment.” More key strokes and then – “Putain de merde.”

Geneva’s brow furrowed, paranoia getting the better of her as she glanced to the door. She really didn’t have time for Marie to get distracted.

“I can hear y’anxiety t’rough the phone, Gen. Buzzin’ as loud as them powers o’yours.”

Geneva wanted to make a snarky retort back, but she knew better. After all, Marie could go and leave her stranded and that –

“Try somet’In’ real quick.”

“What?”

“Hydra.”

Geneva’s fingers froze. No. There was no way. “Marie, c’mon, be serious.”

“I am. Try it. ‘N’ hurry up, their guards check the upper floor every hour.”

“’Ow y’know that?”

“’M lookin’ at their schedule now.”

Geneva snorted. “S’does this mean y’forgive me,” she asked, quickly typing in the passcode.

“Eh. Five years ‘s a long enough grudge.”

Geneva smiled, shaking her head as she pressed enter. She expected an ‘incorrect password’ to pop up. It was only natural. There was no way the head honcho of SHIELD was –

Nope. He was connected to Hydra.

“Sonovabitch,” she muttered. Focusing on the task at hand, she pulled out a flash drive. Her goal was the Accords, Pierce’s personal information, and the information of others on the board. Some high-dollar official was paying the Thieves Guild a lot of money for this and she couldn’t let Jean-Luc down.

But still…there was no way Pierce was the only member of Hydra. Did the Accords exist because of them?

“Still can’t believe y’were right.”

Marie’s smile could be heard with the way she spoke, asking, “Do I ever steer y’wrong?”

They both knew the answer was ‘yes’. Geneva’s eyes scanned the names of multiple files, copying the ones she needed. The mouse paused over a title.

There, as if begging to be opened, were three little words. The Sentinel Program.

Shaking her head, Geneva instead copied the information on the Accords, the Avengers, Weapon X: Terminated Project, and other names she recognized from Marie’s findings. There were so many… Even if the buyer didn’t want them, didn’t she and her parents deserve to know?

Geneva jumped when she felt a buzz of electricity. Sure enough, someone had come up to one of the three floors below her. She could feel the electricity buzzing through the person’s skin. “Time t’go.” She plucked the flash drive free.

Everything came quick. Reattaching the corded wire, pulling the window back in place, and zipping back to the roof. She pulled herself up and rolled onto her back. A sigh of relief escaped her.

She succeeded in her first mission.

Chuckling, Geneva brought the phone back to her ear. “Y’know, we make a pretty good team.”

“I swear, if y’make this a habit – “

Geneva snorted once more, hanging up before Marie could give some poor threat she didn’t mean.

Now? She needed to get her ass back to New Orleans.

--

The security guard wasn’t much of a threat, not that Geneva would have wanted to find out. He was old in the face and white in the hair. His wide, rimmed glasses were perched high on his nose. Every stride was short as he came down the hall. The familiar hum of the A/C and the flickering lights signaled that the power that had vanished…was now perfectly fine.

He looked around, his hand hovering over the door to Pierce’s office. “Building must be getting old.”

And with that, his hand dropped.

And he, the man with the name ‘Lee’ scribbled on his badge, strode towards the elevator that would return him to his post.

--

Permanent Tags:

@butcherofblackwater​

[jellyfishloveletterghosts]

oh PLEASE share the stiles-gets-pegged story *puppydog eyes*

It’s not actually finished, lol but I’ll give you the intro, I have some of the middle and the end done, but the real meat of the sorry is still missing. Haven’t been in a teen wold mood in a while but maybe I’ll finally finish this before September.

warnings for daddy kink, Stiles in panties, we don’t actually get to the pegging here Laura's strap is just briefly mentioned. 

Stiles is not really sure how Laura convinced him to try this. No, that is a lie he knows exactly how she convinced him into this. She waited till he was completely spent soft and pliant, petting his hair while he panted against her thigh trying to stifle a yawn. Laura asked him about some of his kinks they have not gotten to yet, and Stiles tells her because he can tell her things he has never told anyone else. For some reason he cannot actually keep anything from Laura especially not after sex and she always uses that to her advantage.

The panties are nothing new, silky smooth red panties with a small bow on both hips and a larger bow at the back. Laura always likes him in red, but refuses to admit it is a Little Red Riding Hood fetish. She scoffs every time he brings up her desire to be the big bad wolf. He still has not quite wrapped his head around the stereotypical lumberjack get up she sometimes wears but he is pretty sure it is supposed to represent the hunter in red riding hood and he is not complaining, she look hot in plaid. No one in the pack will back him up on his theories not even Scott. The soft red top and joggers he is wearing are fairly common too, not just in their sex lives but it is one of his standard lounge around outfits, and sometimes Laura will call him little red when they are alone, denying it in front of anyone else.

 The night it is self however is different and Stiles nervously knocks on the front door to their apartment. His feet are bare and though he generally does not trust that the floors have been cleaned in their building possibly ever, it is only for a few moments so he bares with it. 

 Laura opens the door and Stiles nearly chokes on his own spit as he splutters gulping. Laura is wearing a Bacon Hills county sheriff's department uniform that appears to fit her like a glove. Part of him wants to laugh and tell her he had not meant daddy kink quite so literally. Another part of him finds the uniform an absolute turn on and since he is not actually thinking about his father he does not protest as he is pulled in the door.

 "I'm so glad you came." Laura says voice low and husky as she closes the door and leads him to their bedroom.

 "Of course, Laura." Stiles gets out a little breathy and distracted as she presses against his back he can feel the press of bulge under the uniform and Stiles knows it is deliberate, and exactly what strap she has strapped under there. The uniform belt around her waist also digs in a little and Stiles is pretty sure all of that is standard equipment, he hopes she it planning to keep it, he can think of a lot of uses for those handcuffs.

  "What was that?" She asks a slight edge to her voice that sends a shiver down Stiles spine.

 "Of course Daddy." Stiles bites his lip as Laura makes a pleased growling noise against his neck, lips brushing over his pulse point.

 "Are you going to be a good boy for Daddy?" Stiles would be embarrass at the whimper he lets out if it was anyone but Laura.

 "Yeah, yes daddy." Stiles groans out, his cock already hard and leaking. Laura chuckles and lets her hands slide down his arms petting at his sides before sliding under his shirt. She pulls the shirt up as she lets her claws out caressing softly at Stiles' tender flesh, just a little more firmly when she gets to Stiles' nipples. He cries out pressing back into her more as she circles them with a single claw just barely scraping over their tips causing him to cry out again.

 "You sound lovely baby." Laura has always been a fan of how vocal Stiles gets, especially when he is reduced to sounds and sounds alone mouth and brain unable to form words.

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @herewegohappiness!

hello! i didn't incorporate all of your likes, but from the ones that i did, i hope that you enjoy my take on them and this. thanks!

Read on AO3

*****

when one's eyes are crossed

Stiles has only just sat down at a park bench when Scott sits down opposite him and asks, "So are you ever going to tell Derek how you feel?"

He doesn't startle, he already knew Scott was going to ask this before he even uttered the words. He's been on the warpath for a while now and Stiles' pathetic pining is just the next thing for him to focus on instead of his own problems. Scott's just predictable like that. Or Stiles is just as extremely paranoid as he's been accused of in the past. Whatever. It doesn't really matter anyway.

"I don't think that would be a great idea," Stiles says.

Scott frowns at him, his puppy eyes wide. "Why not?"

"We've been over this a hundred times, man. Derek just isn't into me. And how could he be? We're in very different leagues," Stiles groans, thumping his head on the table in exasperation.

"That's a load of bull and you know it," Scott says. "Anybody would be lucky to have you, man. You're a catch."

Stiles sticks his tongue out at his best friend, full-on pouting now as he tries to think of another topic to distract Scott from Stiles' pathetic pining. "How's Allison?"

"She's fine. Don't change the subject," Scott snaps back.

Stiles groans. "Can we please just leave it alone? Derek doesn't and never will like me, dude. Plus, I thought you hated him."

"I didn't hate him. He was just really creepy and irritating when we first met him, but we're older now, Stiles, and despite everything, he's my Alpha. He wouldn't be my Alpha at all if you hadn't stepped in and whipped us all into shape. Anyway, weren't you the one who said Derek deserves good things in his life after all the crap he's already been through?"

"And what? Am I supposed to be a good thing?" Stiles teases.

Scott only shrugs. "Well, yeah. I mean, dude, you know that Derek can smell your attraction to him, right? He hasn't said anything because it's impolite to use our werewolf senses to our advantage when it comes to forming relationships with humans... His words, not mine."

"You're joking," Stiles flounders.

"I'm not. You should tell him," Scott says with a shake of his head.

Stiles bites his lip. "I'll think about it. No promises though."

"Well, think of it this way, if you confess and he does end up liking you back, those rumors about you being his mate will finally have some weight to them," Scott points out.

"Those rumors are only rumors because he made me pretend to be his mate when that female Omega came passing through around Christmas and she wouldn't take any of his noes for an answer," Stiles says. "Now most of the Northern American supernatural community thinks Derek and I are a thing. Even Allison's dad asked me how my 'mate' was doing the other day."

Scott rolls his eyes. "Yeah, that's 'cause it really isn't that hard to imagine you two together. I'm just saying, man. Tell him. I think you'll be surprised."

"I already said I'd think about it. I can't give you more than that, dude," Stiles replies.

"It's literally the least you can give me, but okay."

Stiles sighs and buries his face into his arms, hoping he looks pitiful enough for Scott to share the rest of his lunch with him. He must because a second later, Scott is handing him half of a sandwich and pats him on the back encouragingly as he sits up to eat.

Maybe he should take Scott's advice into consideration. Scott has been in the same long-term, committed relationship since he was sixteen while Stiles has never dated anyone and he's almost twenty-one now. It isn't for a lack of trying, but most people like it when their significant other is able to dedicate time to them. Stiles goes to school and works part-time at his dad's station during the summer, so he is spread pretty thin almost all of the time, but he always makes time for the pack.

No matter where he may be or what time of day it is, when the pack needs him, Stiles is there.

They are all older and wiser now. Plenty of nasty beings don't bother passing through Beacon Hills anymore because of their infamous reputation for not letting things leave alive, but there are still the stray instances of trouble here and there. Stiles generally doesn't worry too much about it anymore since he did his part in high school when he dragged the pack together after the Kanima incident and made them all work together until it felt like second nature. Even Derek stepped up and took responsibility as the Alpha, bettering himself and his social skills until they were up to the task of handling a group of hormonal teenagers.

Most of the time, Derek acts like a worn out, middle-aged father of seven where the pack is concerned - though you wouldn't catch Stiles dead admitting that out loud. Derek barely tolerates when Stiles refers to his pack members as Derek's "puppies" and there is no telling what the older werewolf would do if Stiles were to accidentally call them his "kids" instead.

Stiles has to admit though, Derek rarely gets physical with him anymore. Long gone are the days when Stiles would be slammed into a wall or a steering wheel or any other available surface near enough to do the kind of damage Derek would want done. Derek is by no means gentle, but he is more thoughtful and does his best to communicate which is a lot more than Stiles ever expected him to learn. That's probably thanks to all the therapy Stiles convinced Derek to get about a year or so back though if he's going to be completely honest.

It wasn't particularly difficult to get Derek to say yes to the idea. All Stiles had to do was imply that if the puppies saw their Alpha getting therapy to better himself, they would follow suit and develop healthy coping mechanisms that would require less of Derek's own time to deal with their inevitable breakdowns. Derek had growled at him but agreed to attend one, singular session and if he didn't like it, then Stiles couldn't do anything to change his mind. Stiles had grinned and nodded, knowing full well that Derek was going to go back for more and lo and behold, that is exactly what happened.

If it helps the puppies, then Derek will do it however reluctantly because just like Stiles, he is more than willing to do whatever it takes for the pack.

This is one of the biggest reasons why Stiles is head over heels in love with the grumpy sourwolf. To list all the other reasons would take up too much time and space, but it is kind of sad how enamored Stiles is with Derek. Well, actually it's sad how Derek still hasn't noticed how enamored Stiles is with him. Almost everyone else in the pack knows by now and even with his keen sense of smell, he won't do anything about it.

Maybe Stiles shouldn't listen to Scott's advice. After all, how good can it be when he and Allison have broken up three times before?

Very good, in fact, Stiles finds out when he stays behind after everyone else has left the following pack meeting and loses control of his brain-to-mouth filter once more.

Honestly, it's a wonder Stiles hasn't blurted his feelings out in all the years he has known Derek, but it must be the atrocious summer heat finally getting to his head this time. Only because he swears that when the older werewolf asked him how things were going down at the station, Stiles did not mean to say, "Fine. I'm in love with you."

Derek's expression falters for a moment, something unreadable in his eyes before he lifts a particularly impressive eyebrow at him and his mouth twitches with the promise of a smirk. Stiles doesn't actually realize what he just said until the silence continues and he mentally reviews the last few moments then panics.

"Oh, shit! I didn't mean to-" Stiles starts to say.

"You don't mean it?" Derek asks, his voice deceptively calm even though Stiles can tell from the hard lines of his shoulders that his Alpha is harboring hurt.

"No! Yes! Wait, I mean I do mean it, of course, I do. I just didn't mean to say it like that!" Stiles shouts, face aflame.

Derek's shoulders have relaxed now though so at least Stiles' embarrassment has been worth something apart from his imminent death after all. "How did you mean to say it then?"

Stiles balks. "Uh. Not at all, maybe?"

"Really?" Derek asks as he crosses his arms over his chests, completely unimpressed now.

"No," Stiles admits. "I meant to say it during a really romantic moment that would knock your socks off and save me the embarrassment of your rejection. Hopefully."

Another moment of silence that makes Stiles want to run away with his tail between his legs. The words are out there now and there's no taking them back, no matter how much Stiles may want to. He could never try to play this off as a joke just for his benefit if it meant Derek thought he really was just messing with him for the fun of it. Derek has had too many people do that to him almost his entire life and Stiles refuses to be one of them.

"Who said I was rejecting you?"

Stiles blinks and chances a look up at Derek. "Seriously?"

Derek shrugs, his mouth twitching again. "I don't know if you know this, Stiles, but I asked you to pretend to be my mate that one time because that was something I have wanted to be real for a while now."

"Am I dreaming?"

"I could pinch you," Derek offers.

"Ha, ha," Stiles huffs, before an impossibly wide grin breaks across his face. "You like me."

Derek nods even though Stiles didn't phrase those words as a question. "You like me."

"Nah. I love you, you big idiot wolf," Stiles says.

"I think the only idiot here is you," Derek shoots back.

"Nope! Let me enjoy this moment, I want our grandkids to smile when I tell them this story, alright."

Derek seems to falter at the mention of grandkids and them essentially having a long future together and Stiles winces. "Too soon?"

After a moment, Derek only shakes his head. "No."

"Can I kiss you?"

Derek laughs. "Funny. I was just about to ask you that."

Stiles grins at him, holding his arms out. "Come at me, sourwolf."

Derek comes.

[hellyeahheroes]

Uncanny X-Men #11 is Outright Vile

Women in refrigerators. POCs killed for white people narratives. Anti-vaccinator and pro-suicide messages. Return of FascistCap. This book has it all. So obviously, all kinds of trigger warnings below.

I will not be posting any pages from the Uncanny X-Men #11. Not a single one. At least aside from that first page which reads like a bad joke anyway. Yes, this stuff is an actual page of this book. And I urge others to do the same and not post anything from it. When previously I would find this book to just be awful at this point it has reached levels of being openly mean-spirited and spiteful. While Matthew Rosenberg talks on his twitter how he wanted to discuss serious topics in this issue, dealing with personal experience of self-harm and suicidal thoughts, neither he nor anyone else at Marvel took care to actually warn potential readers the book flat out shows a suicide scene for shock value and I have already heard reports it has triggered people. So I urge everyone to not post these pages less we trigger more people.

Yes, the book has a character commit suicide. The story has a subplot of Cyclops searching for Blindfold, whom Rosenberg claims to be one of his favorite X-Men. And after reading this issue I have flat out said on twitter and I will say it here - could have fooled me. Scott finds her too late, as she already has slit her wrists in the bathtub. So this is what her story amounts too. She dies so that Scott Summers can feel sad. Or sadder, he wasn’t exactly sunshine and rainbows since page one. A character created after 90′s and not popular enough to get resurrected in the next 20 years dies so that people who come back to life more often than Jesus can pretend death in comics still has a meaning. A woman dies so that a man can feel sad. The page above is right. Every X-men story really IS the same.

This is not delivered with any respect whatsoever either. On the previous page, we had Madrox telling Scott where he can find Ruth and to leave her alone and then we get a splash of her death with coloring and art so bad you had to actually study it carefully to realize she is, in fact, not naked. As far as lack of respect goes it is out there with that godawful Heroes in Crisis cover showing dead Poison Ivy, wrists slit, ass up. 

What’s more is that at the end we have a backup story, so-called Last Blindfold Story. Which pretty much explains that she did it because she’s been tormented by visions of her own death and cannot see any possible future in which she does not get killed. And this is very obviously a clear metaphor for invasive thoughts, all the dark scenarios people tend to run in their heads about how everything is going to turn horrible, there is nothing good awaiting us in life, no hope or future, just continuous series of crushing failures, disappointments, humiliations and all-around misery so it is better if we just killed ourselves. I know that feeling, even though I am not diagnosed with anything. I will say even I had these feelings to deal with after coming today from a, particularly disastrous day at work that made me dread my future and indeed made me think of killing myself. And then I’ve read this book and do you want to know how this whole story came out to me? It told me that this voice telling me to end myself is right, that every scenario I envision not only will happen but is inevitable and it is better to just kill myself. Thankfully, being spoiled the contents beforehand made it I reacted to the pages more with anger than getting put into an even shittier mood, I certainly did not need it. 

I do beleive Matthew Rosenberg, just like Tom King on Heroes in Crisis, means well, I really do. I do believe each of them is trying to tell a personal story. But we really need to sit down and talk about how the mainstream comics portray and handle topics like anxiety depression, other kinds of mental illness and disorders, self-harm or suicide because for every book that deals with it with respect like recent Unstoppable Wasp or Mister Miracle, and you notice these are always niche titles, we have a high-profile book that completely botches it for shock value and preserving the status quo. Rosenberg might be working through some personal issues but he does so in a way that doesn’t seem to realize the damage he is doing all around.

Speaking of shock value this issue also casually kills of Loa, one of Marvel’s very few Pacific Islander characters. Worse that scene, in the end, serves nothing, it is there to shock you and does not add up anything. You cannot even say that it was done to push Blindfold to her suicide or to show the situation really is that serious. It amounts to nothing in Ruth’s storyline and the latter is being hammered down through the entire issue anyway, this is completely redundant death done only to get people talking. How am I supposed to believe that X-Men writers and editorial really, as they claim to, care for these characters when they write something that treats them as disposable. Similarly, aging of Velocidad done from overuse of his powers is there only to nod Wolverine more into getting back into the game, something that so many other elements, including his conversation with Blindfold, already accomplish, making it redundant. What does that leave us with, however? Two POC characters killed or alerted beyond saving to show how serious the situation is and two teenage girls killed to make things look bad and grim for our manly heroes? For a franchise that prides itself for being a metaphor for minorities, X-Men sure treat women and minorities as nothing but props for stories about white guys.

When we are at treating other characters as props I cannot help but mention that Captain America, Black Widow, and Winter Soldier show up here to protect a mutant-hating rally from any mutants who would want to start a riot. And even though they tell you they want to protect both sides Cap sure didn’t step in when the mob tried to kill Cyclops for speaking his mind but stepped in only when he started fighting back. He had no real answer to Summers accusing him of protecting fascists either. I do wonder what do Mark Waid and Ta-Nehishi Coates think of their efforts to fix Captain America after Secret Empire being flushed down the drain for the sake of an outdated message of mutant isolationism. They did the same with Phil Urich, making him a coward who refuses to do his job out of fear of public opinion. And topped on some old-fashioned ageism by having Chamber, a Gen X character, go and tell Scott, a Baby Boomer, to give up...while Millenials are sacrificed to prop said Baby boomer’s story. And I don’t care Jordan D. White is ranting on twitter with Marvel sliding timescale O5 are now “true” Millennials, nobody cared for this thing in a long, long time and he comes off as bitter old man trying to pretend he is still young.

Speaking of the said rally we need to address the problem of the whole mutant vaccine plotline. And is it me or does the whole thing comes off as anti-vaccinators propaganda, with evil bigots trying to practice eugenics by forcing mandatory vaccines on kids that somehow work on something genetic? Is this really the way you want to use the mutant metaphor? To equate your heroes with a bunch of idiots who don’t want to vaccinate their kids for stupid and often bigoted reasons like assinine belief vaccines cause autism and they’d rather their kid died than be autistic? Is this really a message you want to be sending? Maybe next X-men will start wearing MAGA hats, proclaim Earth flat and draw comparisons to “blue lives” defenders?

It is not that the story is dark. I like dark stories. I love them even I’d say. But there is a difference between being dark and being pointlessly grimdark for the sake of it. One of the reasons why I read superhero comics and why I am a fan of Earn Your Happy Ending narratives is that I find inspirations in seeing superheroes being knocked down and still raising, still pressing forward until they win against all the odds and prove that yes, there is a reason to fight another day. But so far Uncanny X-Men made it abundantly clear this will not be another day in which I or my generation are welcome. I have no doubt X-Men will win in the end. but it will not be X-men with Blindfold and it will not be X-Men with Loa and it will be not X-Men with Velocidad. It will not be X-Men with any of the characters I care about at all. It will be X-Men that made it clear not only am I not welcome here, the book actively things the world will be a better place if I and my entire generation were gone so that it can relive good old days alone.

But hey, it had two guys beating up mooks on a splash page so it CLEARLY means the franchise is on the right trac /sarcasm.

- Admin

[symbrock-darling]

Hiya! I’ve read your drabbles and short little fics and I loved them! I was wondering if you could write a Drabble about Eddie and Venom meet the Avengers, or if not, could you point me in the direction of fics like that? Thanks!!

I couldn’t think of a better time to share this fic @mydoggoesnom requested so long ago than now, now that Avengers: Endgame’s trailer has finally dropped (finally). I didn’t tackle Eddie and Venom meeting all of the Avengers, but I thought Eddie might do well if he met another San Fran local. Enjoy!

Rating: T

Word Count: ~1700

Title: See You Around

Eddie was enjoying a beer at the bar after a very, very long day tracking down leads, uncovering a corrupt official and then having to deal with his enhanced bodyguard – a guy who’d done everything he could to be a pain in the ass and generally give both he and Venom a run for their money. They’d won and after turning them into the authorities, it was well into the evening. Venom was dozing at the back of Eddie’s mind as he drank, and seemed wildly content to recuperate while Eddie watched the news.

As always these days, the news was filled with villains and heroes and anything anyone could scrounge up about the Avengers. But in San Francisco, he was interested to find that not only had they made the news since someone managed to catch a small clip of them as they’d streaked away in a black, glossy blur, but also that they hadn’t been the only ones active today either. Turned out Ant-Man had been busy too. The reports were unclear about what exactly had happened, but there he was, big as a house. And here Eddie thought he and Venom lacked subtlety.

A dark-haired man groaned in relief as he settled beside Eddie in the only seat left in the bar, and he watched the guy smile and flag down the bartender. A moment later a beer appeared before him, and the look of utter delight that crossed his face matched the one Eddie had given not too long ago.

“Long day at the office?”

“The worst,” the stranger said dramatically before he paused and amended, “Well, maybe not the worst. But it was long, let me tell you.”

“I hear you, pal. I had a long one myself. I’m Eddie.”

“Scott." 

Scott glanced up at the news where it had just cycled back to the Ant-Man story. He smirked and nodded at it. "Crazy huh?”

“Yeah, news is pretty insane these days,” Eddie agreed. “Avengers, size-changing men, superpowers, aliens. What’s next?”

“You want to know what I heard today? About what he was fighting?” Scott said, nodding toward the TV where Ant-Man was still the center of attention. Scott leaned closer. “Shape-changer. That thing could turn into practically anything. There?” Scott waggled a finger at the screen where helicopter footage caught Ant-Man stumbling back from something impossible to see from the angle. “It turned into an elephant. An elephant!”

“Eh, that’s nothing. That guy,” Eddie uncurled his index finger where it was wrapped around his bottle to point at the TV which had cycled back to Venom. “Dealt with a firestarter today.” Eddie mimicked the way the firestarter had produced flames from his hands earlier, complete with sound effects. “Fire everywhere.”

“Ugh, fire’s the worst, especially here in California. If firestarters want to play somewhere, the least they could do is have the decency to go somewhere that’s not going to burn everything? It’s not like Ant-Man and whoever that is on the screen are carrying around tons of water.” Scott made a contemplative face. “Can that guy do that?”

“What? Him? Venom?” Eddie laughed at the thought. “No, I don’t think so. Just super strength. Durability. Tentacles. At least, that’s what I hear.”

Scott’s eyes widened and he leaned toward Eddie, voice dropping. “That’s Venom? And tentacles? That thing’s a genuine tentacle monster?” He covered his mouth and the amused, horrified smile growing there. “Things really are crazy these days, aren’t they?”

Eddie opened his mouth, thought better of it, then said, “Maybe they’re more like tendrils?”

“Maybe. Seems like semantics though,” Scott said with a chuckle before he took a sip of his beer. “Wonder what it’s like to be that guy? Tentacles, dear lord.”

“I hear they’re pretty useful,” Eddie replied casually. “I mean, in comparison to Ant-Man who’s always stumbling around because of his size and everything, can’t be too bad. Venom’s versatile and fast.”

Scott waved a hand. “It’s only because of Ant-man’s size that he’s so slow. Can you imagine being that big? That’s a lot of mass to move around. Not to mention there’re buildings and people – man, so many people, they’re like, everywhere. Must be tough for him.”

"They’re always in the way,” Eddie added with a chuckle of his own. “Even when they’re told to leave. At least, that’s how it seems when I watch the news.”

“Right?” A wide smile crossed Scott’s lips. “But, I mean, come on. It’s not like Ant-Man’s not trying. It’s hard – it looks hard, I mean – being that size. Better when he’s smaller. Like, honestly.”

“Ant-Man can get smaller?” Eddie paused, listening to himself. “Guess that’s why he’s called Ant-Man.”

“Yeah, and he’s way faster. And stronger.”

“Can’t be stronger than Venom,” Eddie couldn’t help but say with a grin. “You have to see that guy. He’s intense.”

Scott made a face. “Seems kind of wild to me. From what I’ve heard, there are even rumors that he eats people. Can you believe that?”

Eddie made a face and smiled while he sipped the last of his beer. Yes, he could, in fact, believe it.

“Who knows?” Eddie said instead. “And if it is true, no one’s perfect. He only eats bad guys, from what I hear. Like, really bad guys. I mean with Ant-Man I’ve heard the civil damages alone are stacking, especially since he learned how to get big.”

Scott sniffed. “Didn’t learn anything. And like I said earlier, being big’s hard – got to be hard, I mean. And draining. And it’s not like he’s had a lot of special training or lots of money or anything like that. Maybe he’s just, I don’t know, an average joe making it all up as he’s going, doing the best he can? Bet Venom can’t say anything like that. Bet he’s got money out the wazoo.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me if he was just as average,” Eddie sighed, wishing he had money out the wazoo. “Just some Joe too. Can’t all be Starks, you know?”

“Or Pyms,” Scott added drawing from his bottle again. “I’m glad you get it, Eddie. No one else I know really just gets it. Well, except for my daughter.”

“That’s sweet,” Eddie said.

Scott smiled. “Yeah, it is.”

“You know what I think?” said the guy on the other side of Eddie, and they both glanced the eavesdropper’s way. “I think they’re both idiots. They make more of a mess trying to save people than actually doing any real good. Sure, someone’s alive, but can you think of all the money it’s going to take to rebuild everything they destroy afterward? Because I can, and let me tell you, it’s not cheap. They should think before they act.”

After the day Eddie had had and all the people they’d saved – who admittedly had been terrified by them, but also relieved and thankful – the last thing he wanted to do was listen to this guy.

“So, these heroes should just let people die?” he asked.

“Money’s more important than saving lives?” Scott added, a hard look in his eyes. “Those guys are putting their lives on the line to keep people safe.”

“That’s what the police are for,” the naysayer said. “They should just leave it to the professionals.”

“And if the professionals can’t get there in time?” Eddie reasoned, trying to control his anger as he thought about Drake. “What if the professionals aren’t able to get through the red tape and actually do something about it?”

“I’m not saying there aren’t problems with the system,” the guy said. “Just that we shouldn’t have vigilantes breaking everything and deciding what’s right, then leaving before they can be held accountable.”

“Tell that to the people they save,” both he and Scott said at the same time. They eyed each other, but Eddie looked back when the guy harrumphed, grabbed his drink and moved to the other end of the bar where another spot had opened up.

“What an asshole,” Scott said.

“No kidding,” Eddie said. “Let him put on a suit and see what he does.”

“Right?”

They both laughed, but in the wake of the exchange something nudged at Eddie’s mind, and suddenly he couldn’t help but look – really look – at Scott. He looked tired, but then most people here did so it didn’t mean that much. What was interesting however were the bruise marks on his hands and palms. The purple smear just visible under the collar of his shirt on his shoulder. A place the Ant-Man on the screen had fallen on when he’d been shoved to the ground.

Now that there was a pause in the conversation, he noticed that Scott was looking at him too, eyes subtly searching. The reporter in Eddie wondered just how right his growing suspicions were, even as Scott’s brow pinched slightly too.

Eddie, Venom said, breaking through his thoughts, the alien’s voice thick and tired as if he’d just risen out of his doze. Are you done? You said one beer, and it’s been two. Let’s go home. We need to sleep.

Uh, right. Yeah, Eddie said telepathically before he gave his head a tiny shake. They had been here a while, and he had promised his symbiote that he wouldn’t be long. And maybe, this once, he wouldn’t let his inner reporter out. Let’s go, then.

Venom curled within him, radiating contentment at the news that they were finally going home. After flagging down the bartender and settling up, he stood.

“Well, it’s been fun, Scott, but I’ve got someone who wants me home. You know how it is.” Eddie patted Scott’s shoulder as he passed by. “See you around.”

“See you around.”

Scott lifted his beer and smiled before returning his attention back to the news where his lips curled ever so slightly at the sight of Ant-Man on the screen. Despite what Eddie might suspect, there was no point in digging.

And so he walked out of the bar and resolved that if they as Venom ever did run into Ant-Man one day, he’d invite him out for another beer.

[justincaseitmatters]

Rewind: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Dr. Strangelove after 50 Years

Originally Published in KCActive.com in January 2014. On January 29, 1964, the world discovered something that Bronx-born director Stanley Kubrick had known for a few years: that the only appropriate reaction to the arms race was a dirty joke. In the five decades that have passed since then, countries that once frightened the world have fallen, alliances and rivalries have reversed, technologies have changed and Kubrick's Dr. Strangelove, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb has become more enlightening, infuriating and, yes, hilarious with time. The Chess Master I almost feel sorry for anyone who is forced to discover this movie in a manner that's different from the way I did at age 11. For some reason, Kansas City's KCMO (now KCTV) broadcast the movie for a 10:30 p.m. showing, probably on a Saturday night. My mother, my younger brother and I congregated around the used black-and-white TV in my bedroom, knowing only that the film in question starred our favorite comedian Peter Sellers, from the Pink Panther movies, and that it might be important because the local paper said it was.   I was delighted that my bedroom had turned into a mini-theater and that we wouldn't miss any beautiful color images. Gilbert Taylor's cinematography and Ken Adam's grand sets look just fine in monochrome. Other than the fact that the movie was in black-and-white, we knew nothing about the assault that was coming our way. For most adult viewers, Dr. Strangelove states its devilishly comic intents up front. The movie's notorious opening credits by Pablo Ferro feature a phallic arm fueling a plane in mid-air as a soft instrumental track of "Try a Little Tenderness" plays in the background. As the geeky son of a Baptist deacon, these amorous aircraft completely escaped my notice.

My mother curiously remained silent, but soon the three of us were so thoroughly entertained that we stopped caring that Kubrick and co-screenwriter Terry Southern (the mind behind the kinky novels Candy, Blue Movie and The Magic Christian) were about to turn all three of us into "deviated pre-verts."

It's not surprising to learn that Kubrick once hustled chess in New York as a young man because he reveals his comic intentions gradually. During the the run up to General Jack D. Ripper's unauthorized nuclear assault upon the Soviet Union, my family and and I thought we were watching a straight nuclear war drama. It wasn't until General Ripper made the following declaration at 24 minutes into the film that we discovered that Kubrick was taking the movie into a direction all his own:

I can no longer sit back and allow Communist infiltration, Communist indoctrination, Communist subversion and the international Communist conspiracy to sap and impurify all of our precious bodily fluids.

Hearing deep-voiced actor Sterling Hayden utter the word "fluids" without a hint of levity in his voice sent all three of us into hysterics. From here on we knew something was up and that the footage we saw previously was laced with comic venom. We finally noticed Ripper's name and that the pilot of one of Ripper's B52s is Maj. T.J. "King" Kong (played by former rodeo clown Slim Pickens). All Too Real Dr. Strangelove is loaded with characters afflicted with gag names, and sometimes these absurd monikers aren't obvious on an initial viewing. The Soviet Ambassador is Alexi Desadesky (British actor Peter Bull), the President of the United States is Merkin Muffley (Peter Sellers), and his top strategist is a former Nazi known as Dr. Strangelove (Sellers, again). While Kubrick and Southern came up with a cornucopia of silly names with sexual connotations, the scenario in Dr. Strangelove is uncomfortably realistic. As more information from the Cold War has become publicly available, the scenario Kubrick, Southern and a Welsh Royal Air Force officer Peter George (from George's 1958 novel Two Hours to Doom a.k.a. Red Alert) cooked up was far from outlandish. Throughout history wars have been started for causes as inexplicable as fluids and water fluoridation, which General Ripper believes has made him impotent. Mental illness and just plain foolishness can strike at anytime  At the beginning of Dr. Strangelove, a disclaimer informs the viewers that the U.S. Air Force has safeguards to prevent the deadly events in the film from occurring. Not really. Around the time that George was writing his thriller about facing nuclear annihilation, Daniel Ellsberg, the future leaker of The Pentagon Papers, discovered that Washington's policy toward who could launch a nuclear attack and when was a mess. In theory, only the president had authorization. Ellsberg, a recent Harvard PhD grad from  working for the RAND Corporation, recalled in his 2002 book Secrets: A Memoir of Vietnam and the Pentagon Papers:

I learned, for example, the secret that contrary to all public declarations, President Eisenhower had delegated to major theater commanders the authority to initial nuclear attacks under certain circumstances, such as outage of communications with Washington--an almost daily occurrence in those days--or presidential incapacitation   (twice suffered by President Eisenhower). This delegation was unknown to President Kennedy's assistant for national security, McGeorge Bundy--and thus to the president--in early 1961, when I briefed him on the issue. 

In other words, Gen. Ripper and his ilk had already been given a sort of green light. On both sides of the Iron Curtain, only whims of fate seem to have prevented nuclear first strikes. According to David E. Hoffman's The Dead Hand: The Untold Story of the Cold War Arms Race and its Dangerous Legacy, on September 26, 1983, Soviet Lt. Col. Stanislav Petrov received a warning on his instruments informing him the Americans had launched a missile strike on his country. His satellites told him that five missiles were on their way to Mother Russia, but there were no visual sightings to match the alarms wailing at his base. Working simply on instinct, he correctly informed his superiors that no attack was taking place and that the warning system was malfunctioning. It's a good thing he did. Doing so prevented an unprovoked Soviet first strike. Petrov's hunch saved countless lives. Sadly, he had only minutes or seconds to make his fateful decision. The Killing Joke Unfortunately, decisions like Petrov's were all too often made at the last minute and in a state of panic. This is one of the reasons Dr. Strangelove is so entertaining and why satire might be a more effective way to point out the horrors of nuclear war. George's novel is a dark thriller, and Kubrick and George initially set out to make a straightforward adaptation of the book. During pre-production, however, Kubrick noticed that some of the situations described in the book, like the President informing the Soviets how to shoot down his own planes, seemed weirdly comic. George was disappointed by Kubrick's change of heart but later wrote a novelization of the film that even included gags that Kubrick didn't film or eventually cut from the movie (like a coda where space aliens wonder how the planet they've discovered called Earth is now a radioactive graveyard). George's later writing focused on the grim potential of nuclear weapons. Sadly, his concern for the subject may have been a factor when he chose to kill himself in 1966. Strangely, in the finished movie, the humor seems to emphasize how fragile a world with nuclear weapons really is. When word of Gen. Ripper's assault reaches the Pentagon, the news arrives, not to a commander ready to deal with the crisis, but to Gen. Buck Turgidson (George C. Scott) cavorting with his bikini-clad mistress (Tracy Reed). Actually, he's in the bathroom when the urgent call comes. 

Similarly, the Soviet Premier Dimitri Kissoff (who, curiously, is never seen or heard in the film) is not at his office in the Kremlin toiling to make his nation a worker's paradise. So where is he when the Soviets need his attention the most? "You would never reached him at that number," says Ambassador Desadesky. "Our Premier is a man of the people, but he is also a man, if you follow my meaning." 

I should probably add that he's also drunk. Disasters, whether natural or man made, rarely happen at moments that are convenient for us mortals. Kubrick and Southern spent a great amount of time figuring out where leaders might be and wondered what they might eat or drink during the crisis. That explains the improvised buffet table in the Pentagon's War Room. They also knew that leaders are human beings and that they are as prone to mistakes and panicking as anyone else. In most of the dramas that preceded or followed Dr. Strangelove, world leaders appear as conscientious or calm despite the heavy stakes involved. President Muffley, however, is understandably nervous and awkward in explaining the crisis to Premier Kissoff. Sellers improvised much of his dialogue, and the call between the two leaders is hysterically funny because it's impossible to think of a polite or an effective way to relay the grim message at hand.

Kubrick's willingness to embrace panic eventually influenced more mainstream nuclear thrillers. In an interview I conducted with director Phil Alden Robinson for NitrateOnline.com over his 2002 adaptation of the late Tom Clancy's The Sum of All Fears, he readily acknowledged how Kubrick's comedy affected his own, more serious movie:

Kubrick is the best who ever lived. I have to believe that's what goes on behind closed doors. Once in a while, the President's emotions must get the best of him. Clancy once said, "If you put the leaders of a country in a room and tell them the decisions they make might lead to blowing up the world, only a sociopath would not have an emotional reaction." The most reasonable people in the world, by virtue of their reason, are going to be emotional and distraught and kind of at wit's end at some point.

Why I Still Love the Bomb As I've grown older Dr. Strangelove has become less of a movie to more and more of an old friend. Yes, it's odd that this cynical, fatalistic movie has such a fond spot in my heart. It's no spoiler to reveal that all of the human machinations in the movie fail to stop a nuclear Armageddon. It's also hard to think of a more clever or even nourishing film. Every time I come back to I learn new things. I spot gags that I missed when I saw the movie earlier. Kubrick consulted over 50 books during the making of Dr. Strangelove, and his attention to detail only shows up on repeated viewings. A friend of mine politely told me that Kubrick's movies like Lolita, A Clockwork Orange and 2001: A Space Odyssey are an acquired taste, but those of us who have   picked up an appetite continuously love coming back to his films, waiting for new treasures hidden in their frames. One aspect that does hit me from watching the movie again and again is that Kubrick, contrary to what his detractors have contended, actually could create sympathetic and completely human characters. Kubrick skillfully manipulates the audience into liking the crew on Maj. Kong's B52. When a Russian missile stalks the plane, Kubrick wants viewers to feel for the crew. Unlike their commander, Gen. Ripper, their intents are not tainted by his madness. For the sake of the story, it would be best if the missile sent them to a fiery grave. Nonetheless, watching the crew trying to stay in the air is nail biting. Unlike his make believe characters, Kubrick understands that real people are the casualties of war. Gen. Turgidson is little better than Gen. Ripper because he has no sense of proportion or consequence. He suggests that proceeding with Gen. Ripper's strike would be worth it, even if millions die. "I didn't say we wouldn't get our hair mussed," he says. Curiously, time has actually made Dr. Strangelove funnier. When I've discussed the movie with younger people, they've told me that the reasons we and the Soviets looked at each other with dread now seem remote and ridiculous. They're fully aware that the world is still a dangerous place, but they understandably think that fluoridation is not good reason to risk the lives of troops. Kubrick was only 32 when he made Dr. Strangelove, but he wound up making something that continues to enrich our lives long after his death in 1999. Through his love song to the bomb, he's revealed how far we as human beings have to grow to become responsible stewards of the technology we have. It's doubtful he could have conveyed this message so eloquently with a straight face.  

[scribeofmorpheus]

Mark of the Wolf Part 7 (Derek Hale x Reader)

Catch up here!

A/N: So I take major liberties with the lore of transferring memories between werewolves in this chapter, but it’s still bordering the line of the established lore in the series so... But now I can happily say that the mystery of who the Order are and what they want is slowly unravelling. Now about that slow burn... (Also when you read the dream state part where the reader's eyes change colour, that’s just the eye colour of her inner wolf).

Note: I had previously described Derek’s eye’s as being Hazel but I was corrected and was informed that they are in fact Green, so I edited the eye colour descriptions.

Words: 3660 (this chapter was long!)

Warnings: Violence, Past Trauma??? That’s it I guess.

(gif isn’t mine)

"I'm like you. I'm a werewolf."

The words rang through the room as all four sets of eyes were on you.

Scott's face was scrunched up in thought, he had found your reveal to be quite the shocker. You guessed he was probably unsettled by the fact he had never sensed the werewolf in you. Not that many could. Even your own family had a hard time sensing your other half. They had said it was because the wolf had remained buried, never once surfacing to take to its own unique scent and feel.

Stiles and Liam seemed the least shocked. If anything Stiles seemed to find some credibility in your being a werewolf. After all, just as Liam put it, the Order hunts other supernatural creatures, not humans.

Derek, however, had an unreadable expression on his face. It bothered you somewhat. You didn't want him to look at you with that same level of distrust and caution as he used to. You had hoped things would be different after the attack on the clinic.

You waited in deafening silence as the boys mulled over your words. Until finally Derek spoke.

"How did you know the sage would work?" Derek asked, to your delight he regarded you no difference on account of your secret being made known. You felt more at ease for some reason.

"I'm not sure. I just knew," You told him, surprised by his choice in question.

"How come we couldn't sense you?" Liam asked, bringing the focus back to your newly revealed secret.

"You and I both know the wolf form and the human form can have two very distinct scents. Also, I'm what you call an 'afflicted,'" You said in a hushed voice, the word afflicted rolled off your tongue with a slight sting to it. You always hated that word.

"What is that?" Scott asked, finally breaking from his stupor.

Derek's brow was drawn together as he wore his signature scowl whenever he was deep in thought.

"I thought they were a myth. My mother told me stories as a kid… the Afflicted are pure born shape-shifters who can't shift," Derek looked at you with what you assumed was pity in his eyes.

"Yahtzee," you said sardonically, "give this man a prize."

"That's a thing?" Stiles asked.

"Yeah, my mother would tell me these stories about werewolves being cursed to stay in their human form forever. To be honest, I always thought it was just a scary story to keep me from turning outside a full moon," Derek had a fond look on his face, the memory brought about a bitter-sweet touch to his chiselled features.

"It's actually a recessive gene. My family are one of the last few remaining carriers. It only runs in pure-blooded werewolf families. My brothers and sisters can shift, my mother is the carrier and I'm the one with the genetic predisposition, that is, assuming lycanthropy works the same way as gene expression," You said brazenly, a solemn smile gracing your lips.

Stiles' eyes went wide as he flailed about trying to open one of the leather bound books he had in his possession. His actions caused quite the ruckus and you had to stop yourself from laughing at his goofy behaviour.

"Okay so on my way here, I started thinking about the name they gave the hunted:  Ex Alia, right. And it's an odd phrase because combined Ex Alia actually means 'from the other' and that can also mean 'apart from', right."

"Stiles, we've been over this," Derek said running his fingers over his thick eyebrows.

Stiles mimed Derek's words back at him in a comical way, "If you would just let me finish!"

Derek held up his hands and folded them over his chest, eyeing Stiles intensely for the loud tone he had shouted at him with.

"Thank you," Stiles said condescendingly, "Now, what if it's in reference to werewolves who are apart from their kin. Like for example..."

"Werewolves or other shapeshifters who can't shift," Scott finished Stiles' thought.

Even though Stiles argument made sense to you, you couldn't help but fight against his logic, "Even if that were true, they still went after Alex, and he could shift," you rebutted.

"Yes, but you said it's genetic. So what if Alex was a carrier?" Stiles rebuffed.

You went silent. Stiles had a point.

You knew Alex since childhood, he was a third generation werewolf. Your family had a close relationship with other legacy families, that's how you met. It was completely plausible for Alex to be a carrier for the same recessive gene you expressed.

You were startled from your lamentation when you heard a booming knock come from the bunker door. Everyone in the room exchanged questioning glances as they silently asked each other if they knew who it could be.

Stiles drew the short straw and offered himself up to go and see who it was. You were still standing there, numb from everything that had transpired.

You heard Stiles pull open the heavy metal door of the bunker, mutter a quick "Nope," like he was rejecting Girl Scout cookies and shut it behind him before he came to re-join the half circle again.

"Who was it?" Liam asked.

"No one important," Stiles said coolly as he waved the question away and wore an upturned frown. It was certainly a dubious look. Derek wasn’t convinced as he raised a brow at him.

A second later, Derek and Scott's heads snapped to the doors direction just as the door flew off its hinges. Their claws and fangs protruding outwards, their wolfish features taking shape.

Liam was already fully shifted, his nostrils flaring as he let out snarls for breaths. The energy coming off him was powerful and angry, making you instinctively take a few steps back.

All three of them lined up in front of you and Stiles, their eyes creating a gradient from red to yellow to blue. Their animalistic growls echoing through the room.

A set of footsteps descended the steps in a relaxed, languid manner. They belonged to a handsome faced man, slightly older than everyone else in the room, with the same dramatic streak as Derek. He smiled wickedly as he opened his arms in a warm mocking embrace, his head held up high like some entitled prince. His own blue eyes glowing with the same intensity as Derek.

Derek, Liam and Scott retracted their fangs and claws and dropped their defensive stances as soon as they registered who it was that had just punched the door in.

Apparently, the man making the needlessly dramatic entrance wasn't a threat.

"Anyone ever tell you it's rude to shut the door in people’s faces?" The man asked Stiles in a low threatening voice. His clawed fingers dusting off none existent dust from his leather jacket.

"Yeah, well I was also told not to invite homicidal maniacs into any enclosed spaces with me, so..." Stiles shot back.

"Peter, what are you doing here?" Derek asked with a hint of familiarity.

"Why dear nephew, I heard your call."

"Okay who called the homicidal maniac?" Stiles said as he looked over at Derek, Scott and Liam with exasperation.

"He meant the howl," Liam told Stiles.

"Oh, this is just great," you sighed, plopping yourself down on the stool where Liam had previously sat. "More werewolves."

Stiles just patted you back and gave a weak, "There, there," in place of consolation.

"So what have I missed?" Peter said with a large smirk on his clean-shaven face.

The next hour was spent catching Peter upon what was currently plaguing Beacon Hills and your life.

Peter stopped Scott from talking with a single look when he heard you had repressed the memories from the night Alex died. He had an idea, you could read it on his face.

He came and stood a few inches away from you, looking down at you like you were some mathematical theorem to be solved. He held up one finger after much silence and ushered Derek closer to you.

"Derek, come here a second," he said. Derek obliged but made sure to drag his feet a little so Peter didn't think Derek was open to being summoned.

"I hear you have amnesia," Peter directed the statement to you, you just stared up at him and didn't reply. "You're a werewolf, right? So that means even though you can't shift, the same rules apply to you?"

"In a way. I can heal faster than humans, my sense of smell is better and in some cases, I can hear better, but without the ability to shift those powers are significantly weaker to that of actual shapeshifters. But… yes, the same rules apply. Wolf's-bane is still toxic to me, I still feel the pull of the moon, and my abilities are magnified when I'm in a pack. Why do you ask?" You were curious as to where Peter was going with this.

"Just making sure this won't kill you," Peter just gave an innocent smile before he extended his claws and dug them into yours and Derek's neck, linking you to one another, using himself as a conduit. Before you were lost in the spiral of memory and shared consciousness, you heard Stiles say "Oh my God!" in shock and Scott shout Peter's name in an alpha male voice.

It was too late though, you and Derek were already linked and pulling you out now would just cause more harm than good.

***

It felt like you were free falling through an endless white space. Incoherent chattering and sounds playing all at once like someone had overlapped several songs onto a single track.

You were lost in the cacophony of your mind in disarray, until you felt Derek's hands link with yours, pulling you from your confusion.

"Where are we?" You asked him.

Derek looked around at the white empty space, it was like staring at a blank canvas that had no end. His brows knit together for a moment before he realised what was going on.

"We're in your mind, Peter linked us in a shared dream state. Werewolves can sometimes share memories by a bite or a scratch. I think in this case he figured you couldn't grow out your claws or fangs, so he used himself as a proverbial telephone cord."

You were familiar with how the sharing of memories worked. Your father had done something similar with your older brother Markus when he had passed on the mantle of Alpha to him.

Just as you were reliving the memory, the blank canvas of your mind bled through with colour and voices and suddenly a clear image of that day began to replay as though you had just stepped back in time.

Your brother was lying in the centre of a field by the meadow you had spent much of your childhood watching your sibling’s roughhousing.

Markus was writhing in pain as his eyes shimmered between his former vibrant gold to the frightful red they were now. Your mother, sister and younger brother were standing alongside you as you all watched your father transfer his powers onto Markus.

"What is this?" Derek asked

"The Markolf tradition," you said with a hint of pride at your legacy and sorrow for the pain your brother was enduring.

Your brother let out a howling scream, you winced. so did Derek.

You continued, "We differ from most werewolf families because we have the ability to pass on the mantle of alpha when we are no longer fit enough to carry it. That’s partially where we got our name from. Markolf is old High German, it combines the words ‘border’ and ‘wolf’ because we aren’t like most werewolf families. The transferral is painful and can only be done during a full moon. If none of the pack contests, and if the progeny is strong enough, then passing on of the mantle is usually successful."

"I've never heard of this..." Derek was perplexed and in awe of what he saw unfolding.

"My great-grandfather was what you call a True Alpha, he discovered it was possible to pass on the gift by focusing his power through a bite. However, in doing so, you also relinquish most of your strength, making you considerably weaker."

Derek shook himself of his astonishment and tugged at your hand to make you face him, "I think I know why Peter did what he did. If you can't remember what happened to you, then maybe I can. Earlier, you were having a nightmare, I think it was about the night Alex dies."

You squinted your eyes at him, not having any memory of having had a nightmare earlier, "I don't remember having a nightmare."

"It must be your subconscious protecting you from the trauma. All I need you to do is just think about that night. Close your eyes and picture it, what's the first thing that comes to mind?"

You closed your eyes and let your mind wander.

***

Derek kept his eyes on you while yours stayed shut. He held onto your hand to be your anchor, your guide. He watched silently as the canvas began to bleed through with new colours and images and sounds again.

It started with a laugh.

A sweet, sing-song laugh that tugged at Derek's heartstrings. He turned in the direction of the laugh and saw a younger version of you. A version from the past. He couldn't help but think how beautiful you looked with a bright eye-creasing smile and a glow to your skin from the beams of light falling against your body from the moon.

Derek's breath hitched in his throat as he saw the younger version of you wrapped in another man’s arms. A strong man’s arms. Alex, no doubt.

Alex tucked a strand of your longer hair behind an ear. There were accents of playful red streaks hidden amongst the darker parts of your hair. He enjoyed your vibrancy and so did Derek.

You had seemed a different person in the memory. More carefree and easier with a smile, it had managed to coax an unexpected smile from Derek too.

Alex whispered sweet nothings in your ear as the camp sight materialised behind you, and soon so did the trees and the speckled night sky.

Derek couldn't help it when his jaw tightened and his eyes filled with what held the familiar tang of jealousy. He didn't understand where this feeling was coming from, but he was sure it had to do with the fact the younger, longer-haired version of you was looking longingly into the eyes of another man.

Was Derek jealous of a dead man?

Derek grew annoyed at his boyish behaviour, he was here to help you uncover your memories, not be yearning after a version of the woman whose hand he held.

Once the memory had been constructed it was time for Derek to relive it for you while you kept your eyes shut.

The memory shifted from its pleasant sweetness into a slightly more darkened tone. Derek saw the younger version of you having an argument with Alex. Your face frowned and your eyes held a stubborn conviction, Alex appeared more worn out, as though he was slowly realising he was losing the fight:

"I just don't understand why you would take the job in Vancouver without talking with me about it…" Alex said with gloom.

"Alex, I don't want to fight about this again. It's not every day that someone gets offered such a desirable job straight out of university!" The younger version of you shouted, tired of arguing about the same thing for the past month with Alex. "You know I couldn't pass it up."

"But you did so without talking it over with me first. It's like you're using the job as an excuse to end things with me. I know we haven't been ourselves in a while now, I know we fight a lot but--"

"Alex, please stop. We can talk about this when we get back home."

Derek noticed that your smile began to falter as you heard the words the younger version of you shouted at Alex. He squeezed your hand slightly to let you know he was still with you. That you weren't alone.

The memory grew darker still.

The night was less illuminated and the moon was obscured by rain clouds. In the memory, you were holding a hand over your mouth to keep your ragged pants as inaudible as possible, hunkered behind a sage bush as Alex slowly bled out a stone’s throw away from you.

Alyster -the man in the green robe from before- was scanning the forest, he was searching for you. His eagle eyes still every bit as disconcerting as before. The compass around his neck slowly losing its green glow.

The blonde archer from before came to his side, "Alyster," she called out, "the girl, can you sense her?"

Alyster shook his head, his red hair weightless against the howling wind, "Her aura has been shielded from the Oculus," his bony fingers clasped the compass around his neck, "its ability is being obscured." Alyster pointed at a burning cluster of sage close by.

The archer grabbed a hand full of sage growing on one of the many bushes closest to her and crumpled it in her hands with distaste, "And the boy?" the archer asked, glancing down at a slowly dying Alex.

"He carries the magic in him as well, but the girl’s was stronger. She is the one we need if we hope to keep the Mother Tree fuelled. I fear, she may be the last." Alyster glanced down at his arm. A tattoo made up of a strange marking etched onto his forearm, previously hidden under his green robe.

When Alex finally drew his last breath, a green mist came into view around his body, the mist was drawn towards the tattoo, embedding itself into it. The tattoo glowed the same shade as the Oculus for a brief minute before it returned back to normal. Alyster let out a pained growl.

"The rest of the pack have scurried off, do we make with the chase?"

"No. They do not possess the magic. Leave them be, tell the others to return. Daybreak is upon us."

Derek noticed tears streaming down your face.

Your hand had clutched his in a death grip as the memory began to unravel and spiral into chaos. It played over and over again: the lone arrow whistling through the tree line, embedding itself into Alex's chest after your argument; Alex shouting for you to hide as another arrow flew out; you scurrying behind the bushes and holding your breath as you listened to Alyster and the female archer converse; Alex losing the light in his eyes; the eagle eyes that scanned the forest belonging to Alyster and the green tendrils that felt out for you emerging from the Oculus.

It just kept repeating.

"Y/N, snap out of it," Derek shook your shoulders. You didn't budge, your eyes shut tight, refusing to open.

"Y/N, wake up, listen to my voice," Derek tried to reassure you, "I'm here, I'm right here, don't lose yourself in the memory. Stay with me!"

He was shaking you violently but you were lost in the chaos. Derek watched as the memory replayed itself, getting corrupted and altered the longer it stayed in its loop.

Derek couldn't think of anything else to do, he needed to draw your senses to him, to pull you out of your hell.

In desperation, he gripped your face between his hands and drew you in for a kiss. Your lips were stiff and unmoving at first, but soon enough he felt you loosen in his arms as you began to instinctively kiss him back.

In the background, the horrific memory dissipated into blackness and the dark canvas mutated into a beautiful rendition of a romanticised full moon and starry sky.

Derek felt himself let go of all senses and logic as he deepened the kiss and wrapped his arms around your waist. He felt your fingers grace his jawline as his tongue practically serenaded you into a peaceful quiet.

You were drowning in each other.

When Derek pulled back, he was utterly thrown by what he saw. Your eyes, they weren't their normal colour, they glowed a magnificent silver, like the moon itself. And your body was surrounded by a shimmering green aura.

If the moon were personified as a woman, Derek imagined she would not be able to hold a candle up to your spellbinding beauty.

You had taken the very air from his lungs.

His eyes turned their werewolf blue, but it wasn't from being on the defensive or from anger. They were blue for another reason.

"Why did you--" you couldn't finish your question, a deep flush colouring your neck and cheeks.

"It was the only thing I could think of to snap you out of your… daze," Derek explained, his chest heaving up and down.

Without any warning, just as you were mere moments from placing your hand back on his face, to feel if he was real even in the dream state, the dream melted away.  Derek and you were pulled apart in opposite directions as reality bombarded your senses again.

***

"Welcome back," Peter said in between ragged pants as his head was coated in sweat and he was hunched over, holding onto his knees to keep him upright.

Your neck bled from the claw marks, staining your clothes red. Your eyes struggling to open.

You gasped out loud as you almost toppled over from the stool. Derek caught you before you touched the ground, his arms struggling to hold you up, Liam rushed to help him.

As you lost consciousness, the last thing you saw was his soothing green eyes looking down at you with worry and Liam’s own panic riddled expression contrasting deeply with the calm that was settling over you.

Part 8 is Here!

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As Always: Hope you enjoyed the chapter. Let me know what you think so far! Don’t be afraid to ask to be added to the tag list and just a heads-up, this will be my last update for this series for a little while. I have some moving to do!

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[hcwlingccmmandcs]

Barnes - Two (Dancing’s Not a Crime)

The Great Gatsby Inspired Fic

<< Prologue | | < One | | Barnes Masterlist | | Masterlist

Pairing: This chapter is a whole mess™️ and there’s really no way to pinpoint where there’s a pairing lmao

Word Count: 1.3K

Warnings: Remember when I said there’d be alcohol consumption and abuse and mentions of sex? Yeah, this chapter has it all. Sorry. Please, don’t read if you’re uncomfortable with that.

Author’s Note: So, this was supposed to be posted yesterday. But now I’m redeeming myself by posting it today and at an earlier time. Here it is, chapter two! This chapter is a bit of a clusterfuck though, so be wary. 

If you know what happens in TGG, this will not contain everything in that book, and is not strictly based on said book. This is inspired by F. Scott Fitgerald’s novel, and will not match word for word or scene for scene. However, that said, there will be some parallels, as I have intended.

Tags: Everything - @captainrogerss @bucky-plums-barnes @bionic-buckyb @buckyforbreakfast @cravingmarvel @captain-ariel-barnes @trenchcoatdevilsworld @borkingbarnes @wintrsoldiers @doctoranon @thefridgeismybestie @ellacaramella Barnes - @marveldcmistress @chook007 @gemgemswift If you want to be tagged/untagged for this series or everything I write, let me know!

The rest of lunch had been interesting. You had learned that the mysterious James Barnes was your neighbor, and that he did, in fact, throw parties every Saturday. Heidi suggested that Steve take you to the next one, and you both agreed.

Steve. He was so sweet, and so nice, and so polite. You couldn't think of any reason not to like him. But then again, you only met him once. Heidi had mentioned that the two of you would be cute together, a notion that dusted the blond man's cheeks pink. You entertained the idea a little in your head.

But then pushed it away. You were new in town, trying to start something for yourself. You shouldn't get in a relationship right away. You needed to focus on your goals.

Which led you to a bookstore in town about two days later, where you ran into John Schmidt, Heidi's husband.

You were only renting some textbooks that your online classes needed, but you also wanted an excuse to go out into the city to explore a little. John was there, following a shorter man through the aisles. The man with him looked so pleased, his eyes bright behind his round glasses.

“Y/N,” Schmidt said passively when you smiled at him in the science aisle. Arnold was holding a few books already, and excitedly looking at physics texts when your cousin's husband greeted you. The short man's head snapped up instantly, his eyes landing on you.

“Oh! Are you a friend of John's?” he chirped, standing up and adjusting his dress pants a little.

“I-” you started, only for Schmidt to interrupt.

“Yes, she's a friend,” he added too quickly. You wondered why he was acting like this.

“I'm Arnold,” the short man introduced himself, smiling happily at you, nodding to his occupied hands with a small chuckle. “I'm John's partner.”

Oh?

“We were just passing through some shops on our way. We-”

“We're having a small party tonight, at our loft. We would love for you to come! I really do want to get to know you better. John never brings his friends around,” Arnold cut him off excitedly.

“Oh, she-”

“Uhm, I-”

“Nonsense! You're coming to our party!” the small man insisted.

“Really, I can't. I've got schoolwork to do.” Well, that wasn't a complete lie. You did have some assignments that were due soon, but not the next day.

“School can wait one night,” he dismissed your excuse with a breath. “Go put your books down. We're leaving.”

And just like that, you had fallen into a trap.

Arnold led you and John around a grocer and then a liquor store before deciding that he had picked enough for the party. John had to shoulder most of the weight on the walk to their downtown apartment, but his paramour didn't seem to care.

The party had a slow start, with the neighbors trickling in. You understood what Arnold meant when he said “small”.

There were only a handful of guests. Two of which were a married couple, a pair who didn't lose physical contact with one another the entire night. One of the guests was Arnold's sister, an obnoxious little lady with a voice too high-pitched and a laugh too loud. There was some random guy there as well, and to this day you still couldn't remember his name or why he was even there.

Then there was the last person in the group. A stunning red-haired woman with a sensual smirk on her matching lips. She was some artist or photographer or something, but the way she moved made you think that she could've been an exotic dancer in another life.

Natasha was her name, and damn if it didn't sound so nice when she purred it in her introduction to you.

You spent most of your time sitting on the ottoman between the formal sofa and the chaise. Natasha occupied the latter, leaning towards you as she lounged against the back of it, her feet slipped out of her heels and on the plush velvet seats.

Arnold's sister, Dolores, had served the first bottles of scotch and wine and champagne to the whole party, making sure everyone was drinking. She didn't let anyone's glass be empty for longer than five minutes.

Needless to say, you didn’t remember many details from the party, just spots and general gists of moments.

Like the time when the bottles ran out and Arnold hired the doorman to go buy more for them. He apparently took too long, and got a verbal lashing from Schmidt because of it. Arnold still paid the guy handsomely.

When the group started getting into the new bottles, the married woman, sitting on her husband’s lap, asked when John and Arnold would marry. Arnold batted his eyes and pleaded with your cousin’s unfaithful husband, who was obviously distressed about the subject.

Schmidt had been weaving lies to keep his marriage from his lover, and seemed like he’s been doing so for a while, because he muttered, “We’ve talked about this, love.”

Arnold was not happy with that answer, and retorted, “We need to talk about it again. I want to get married.”

The two men bickered with each other for a short while before Schmidt lost control of his anger and slapped Arnold across the face. The whole room went near silent, even the music on the stereo seemed distant.

Schmidt ran a hand through his hair before quietly apologizing to Arnold, who excused himself to go into the bedroom. John followed after him. After the bedroom door shut, everyone was still quiet for a moment before Dolores spoke up.

“Refills, anyone?” All of the guests nodded.

The next spots of your memory were hazy and blurred together.

You remember hearing screams coming from the bedroom. What started as anger bled into pleasure, and you remember being uncomfortable.

Somehow, some way, the entire group, including Arnold and John, was dancing around the main living room, bumping into furniture and each other. Natasha danced with you, you assumed, since your memories consist of her sultry smirk and the red velvet dress she wore floated through your vision.

Laughing, loud music, and the sound of drinks being poured filled most of your blurred-out visions of that night.

But you recall that you woke up from your inebriation on the couch, Natasha laying with you. She was beautiful, even asleep. Her dress was pushed up her thighs and her red hair was mussed, her lipstick smeared. To your horror, there were faint red marks on her neck. Your clothes were messed up as well, your shirt on the arm of the sofa and your pants unbuttoned. Your bra was still on, to your relief.

Carefully, you had disentangled yourself from the sleeping woman and picked up your things, redressing yourself before heading down to the lobby.

Your phone told you that it was one in the morning, and you prayed to whatever deities there were that Steve was still awake as you tapped on his contact.

“Y/N?” he asked, his voice seemingly wide awake. There was no hint of exhaustion in how he sounded. You sighed. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“Ca-can you come pick me up?” you asked before a hiccup tore from your chest.

“Where are you?” There were voices on his end, but you couldn’t make sense of their words, only Steve’s. “Are you drunk?”

“Yeah…” you murmured, slumping onto the cushioned bench in the lobby before telling him where you were.

“I’ll be right there.”

You don’t know when you fell asleep on the bench, or how long it took Steve to get to the building. You just remember opening your eyes in a sleek car, seeing the blond man next to you, worry all over his face.

“Just… take me home…” you whimpered to him before slipping back into unconsciousness.

Three >

[mousetaur]

On the Beauty of Oysters

(I wrote two Scotty/Keenser fics in one day, send help)

Lieutenant Keenser gets a new officer delivered to him at Delta Vega. And he finds himself becoming quite enchanted by the loud-mouthed, rude, brilliant engineer. 

(Roylans are colourblind, if you are wondering why Scotty’s hair is green)

Read also on AO3  Machinery hummed around the run-down work station. Steam puffed out of motors and dreamily leaked off of surfaces. A clanging echoed from a particular machine. It stopped and a four-foot-tall craggy faced alien popped out. Lieutenant Keenser popped out and turned a switch on a nearby panel. The machine he had been working on hummed to life and he made a satisfied noise. Not that there was anyone around to hear it. 

When he had first been posted to Delta Vega, there had been a whole team of engineers, along with a medic, a cook and a few scientists. Over time, various individual's work had been completed, people were promoted, transferred or left for other reasons. Eventually it was just Keenser, monitoring the outpost, maintaining equipment and sending regular updates. He missed having other people around, not least because there was too much equipment for one engineer to handle. It frustrated him that some were falling into disrepair and most everything was dusty because he just didn't have time. And while he'd always been a solitary person, even on Royla, he'd never spent such a prolonged period of time without contact with another living thing. Even the supply shipments that came every two months were delivered by drone.He must have been alone for almost a year by the time an unexpected knocking came the door. As he slowly made his way to the door, the knocking became an incessant banging that worried him. The entry pad on the outside had been broken for some time, so whoever it was must have been stranded in the ice and wind. He rushed down and opened the door.  

"About bloody time, I'm freezing ma arse off out here. " came a woollen voice from inside a hat. The officer shuffled inside, followed by a well laden hover dolly with more supplies than Keenser was used to. The hat was pulled up, revealing a full grey human face. Humans weren't normally this grey, ordinarily it was just their lips, suggesting that this human had changed colour due to the cold. He always found it interesting how easily humans changed colour, especially since he found out it was unintentional. Roylans changed colour to suit their mood but they were generally aware they were doing it, and it took longer than a few seconds for a full facial flush like embarrassment on humans.

"I tried using the door pad," said the human. He had a Starfleet duffel bag over one shoulder. "But the bloody thing shocked me." Keenser nodded. He felt it might be appropriate to speak now. It had been a while since he'd needed to, he hoped he could still form humanoid sounds. Roylans didn't have vocal cords in the traditional sense. "Broken." He managed to grunt out. The flushed man gave him a condescending look. "Broken, aye. Shocked I am." It had been so long since he'd even heard sarcasm, Keenser couldn't bring himself to be annoyed by it. "Look here, I'm meant to report to a Lieutenant Keenser. Can you take me to him?" He asked. Keenser nodded, pointing towards himself. The gesture was either not understood or ignored.   "Me." He grunted. "You?" "Keenser." "You're Lieutenant Keenser?" "Yes."   The man rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, a gesture Keenser had become familiar with in his time in Starfleet.   "Well they told me you're the man in charge so here." He stuffed his hand in his pocket as he spoke and handed Keenser a memory drive. Presumably it held information on why Keenser had suddenly been sent a colleague.  

"So how many other are stationed?" Asked Scotty as they wandered back down the corridor. Clearly no one had briefed him on Delta Vega. Perhaps that's how they got him to agree. Tired of talking, Keenser just shook his head and hoped the gesture would be understood this time.   "So, it's just the two of us in this Godforsaken hole?" "Yes." He managed to reply. He felt a bit sorry for the officer. He wasn't good at human ages, but he guessed from his smooth skin and lack of facial hair that he was a young man. Perhaps just graduated. Probably a mono-syllabic, inexpressive alien was not the most exciting companion for a young man. No matter. In all ways except his work, Keenser was used to disappointing people.  "Do you ever say more than one word at a time?" "Rare."   "Brilliant." 

Keenser set the new recruit, Scotty, to work on a basic machine. One he knew wouldn't matter if it was broken, just in case Starfleet had decided to send him a hopeless mechanic. He'd heard that every now and then some high-ranking official's kid got through on an easy course and then left with no real skills. He went to his office, a storage cupboard he'd put a computer in, and looked at the memory drive. NAME: MONTGOMERY SCOTT RANK: PETTY OFFICER HOMEWORLD: EARTH Montgomery Scott had graduated top of his class and had been the Academic aide to Admiral Jonathan Archer's Advanced Relativistic Mechanic but had sent the Admiral's prized beagle through a warp pad and the pet had been lost. He was since demoted and sent to this outpost. He was not as young as Keenser first thought. Further reading showed that Scotty had a history of struggles with authority but had been showed himself to be a brilliant mind and touch. Well, how fortunate for Keenser that he now had one of the best up and coming engineers in Starfleet all because of a beagle.

He hopped down from the shelf he used as a chair and wandered back into the main work station where he had left Scotty. Only to discover Scotty was not there. This was annoying. However, when he checked the machine, he saw that Scotty had not only fixed it, but had adjusted it slightly in a way that should have increased fuel economy and energy output. He soon located the man by the swears coming from behind a machine. It was the hot water generator to the showers, which had shut down a long time ago. Keenser didn't really require hot water though, so he simply bathed in cold water. There was a part missing, an old part that he hadn't bothered requesting because he didn't have time to fix it. He knocked on the metal belly of the cylinder. "Oh, aye, I fixed that doodad, I don't see why you needed me to really, practically useless. Then I was freezing so I thought I'd have a warm shower. Bloody cold water came out. So I came round here to give her a squiz. She's missing a part but I should be able to reroute the AH!" A shocking sound came out just before the scream. "I'm alright. Ah, there we are." The cylinder shuddered to life, clinking and bonking. Scotty shuffled himself out and smiled proudly.   "Explain." Demanded Keenser.   "What?" "Reroute. Explain." Scotty looked shocked at the command but explained it anyway. Of course. If only Keeenser had had time. The internal bladders that regulated his emotions let out an impressed smell. Not that a human would probably even notice it.   "No shower. Come." He grunted, waving his arm and leading Scotty to other neglected machines. The rest of the day was dedicated to getting some heaters back online, food dehydrators working and other such basics that Keenser hadn't needed but Scotty certainly would.

Over the next week, almost everything in the work station had been looked at, if not properly cared for. Working with Scotty was surprisingly easy. While the green-haired man was very talkative, he knew his stuff. All Keenser had to do was vaguely gesture to a machine and Scotty would figure out what he wanted him to do. Or he would hand Keenser a tool just as the Roylan was thinking about it. It was as though they had been working together all their lives. He liked the way Scotty would hum to himself, or mutter aloud about things he was working on. In his spare time, the Scotsman (Keenser had found this out in an unprompted life story one afternoon) would note down calculations in regards to his transwarp theorem. A few times Keenser edited these formulas, only to be yelled at for his troubles until Scotty had relooked at the edits and thanked him for his contribution. There was a lot of that about Scotty. He seemed rough, yelling and storming around when he didn't get his way. But he respected Keenser's intelligence and was often kind. Keenser had gotten used to climbing up to get things from shelves he couldn't reach but Scotty had built him a small set of portable steps.   "One day you'll fall and crack your head and I'll have no clue how to fix it." Was his explanation. Keenser very much doubted that a fall from such a short height would crack any part of his shell open, but he appreciated the sentiment.  

A while later, after their evening meal which they ate together, Scotty had complained about a lack of alcohol.   "All I want, right, is a nice whiskey. There's plenty o' ice around to put in it, just a drop would help. I'm sick o' bloody protein nibs and bad coffee. A drop o' nice whiskey in ma coffee would perk me up no end."   Keenser had hopped out of his seat and waddled away to his storage locker. He'd brought it with him, then forgotten about it. Now seemed as good a time as any to break it out. He returned and handed the bottle over to Scotty. The green-haired man whistled. "How'd you get this? This is blimmin' expensive. Supposedly the best stuff in the Galaxy." Keenser just shrugged. "Gift."   "What, someone just gave you the most expensive whiskey in the Galaxy as what, a birthday present?" Keenser shrugged again. While he found the story humorous, not everyone he told had. He decided how he came about the alcohol wasn't important. Scotty poured them both a glass and it was quite enjoyable. Scotty went on about whiskey, and Scotland, and how to tell a good whiskey and Keenser listened quite happily.  

Chap Two on AO3