#and also ready to commit his own murder with all this red tape

[atasteofholmes]

The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: s2e2 ~ The Greek Interpreter

Tagging: @7-percent

[charturnus]

Diversionary Tactics pt. 1

Ships: Wanda x Female!Reader - Natasha x Female!Reader

a/n: For Magda, here's to your 25th, and another year of growth, happiness, laughter, and love. I would have given you the world, but you won't let me so here is some smut instead. I'm so grateful to be your friend, and I cannot wait to watch you grow in the next year. Remember that I love you to the moon and to Saturn. @stonemags you did ask me to post it at the end of the day, doesn't get more the end of the day than a few minutes before midnight.

Summary: Everybody is pretty sure you're on a path to destroying yourself. You're pretty sure all you want is your strap down Wanda's throat. Opinions differ.

Warnings: 18+, top!reader, bottom!Wanda, face fucking, throat bulge, strap on, degradation, honorifics, vaginal sex, self loathing, angst. No beta we die like men.

Word count: 5k

‘’Alright kids, now remember, stick to plan,’’ Tony says severely, rising from his seat on the quinjet, ‘’no improv, no games, no funny business.’’ His eyes sweep across the room, and I feel his gaze lingering on me. I don’t look at him, instead pretending to be very interested in the map of the hydra base we’re about to invade. ‘’I want you all back here safe and sound, ready to be tucked in by Rogers and Hill at the end of the day, capiche?’’ From my periphery, I’ve been watching him move closer and closer, but now I can no longer feign ignorance. I look up slightly, Tony in his shiny red and gold suit, ready to close the armour over his face. When he speaks, it sounds like he’s addressing the whole group, but his eyes are locked firmly onto mine.’’

‘’And remember, don’t play the hero.’’

***

One by one, my colleagues jump from the jet, after they don their suits, and grab their parachutes if necessary. I watch as Steve checks Sam’s suit before allowing him to jump. Sam has barely disappeared from view before Tony grabs me by the scruff of my neck, pulling me away from the opening in the floor.

‘’Why aren’t you in your suit?’’ Annoyed, I bat his hand away, my bone hits the metal of his armour, and pain shoots up my arm, but I fight to keep my expression neutral. ‘’It’s not really my style, you know, with all that colour.’’ I’m well aware that I’m being difficult, but I can’t put a stop to it. I’m so exhausted that I’m ready to burn a whole city to the ground, myself along with it. The suit is incredible, but also flashy and extremely heavy. And maybe I enjoy making things harder than they need to be, so what? Tony stares at me incredulously, before turning to Steve as if to check if he heard my comment too. Steve just holds up his hands in defeat, ‘’I’m not getting caught up in this, Tony, handle it yourself.’’

Coward. 

‘’Not your-’’ Tony halts, breathing sharply in utter annoyance, ‘’you know people have committed murder to get a hold of one of my suits.’’ 

‘’I’ll pour one out for them.’’ 

‘’Romanoff, help me, before I duct tape the kid to the wall,’’ Tony grumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose with his shining red fingers. The last thing I need right now is Nat with her lectures about what’s good for me, and while I know she means well, and I love her so much, I want nothing more than for her to just shut up. Both of them, actually. 

Before she gets a chance to speak, I hold up a finger in the air. ‘’Actually, you know, this thing has been really bothering me lately.’’ Nat looks genuinely interested and concerned, and I almost feel bad for fucking with her. ‘’There’s this little bone in your jaw, apparently, I never knew about it before.’’ I use my fingers to pretend like I’m looking for something in my jaw. ‘’There,’’ I say, stopping near where my wisdom teeth once sat. ‘’Can you feel that?’’ Nat goes along with it, trying to mimic where I’ve placed my own fingers. ‘’I think I can feel something, yeah.’’ 

‘’Yeah, right there. Turns out, that bone allows you to shut the fuck up.’’ 

Both of them look furious, and I decide that this is my cue to get out. I hold up my hands in an imitation of Steve, walking backwards like I’m retreating and admitting my defeat. The parachutes are now right behind me, ready to be snatched up by my willing hands. 

‘’Nat, I love you, I really do. And I respect the hell out of you, Tony, but it’s not going to happen.’’ Quick as a flash, my fingers secure one of the chutes, and with two quick steps, I’m at the edge of the open floor. ‘’I don’t need your suit, I’m feeling brave.’’ 

Nat and Steve both dive at me, but I’m too fast for them, letting myself fall backwards into the open sky. 

Falling…

Falling…

Falling…

***

The fight was a disaster, to say the least. The mission was accomplished, but barely. Clint and Bucky both got wounded pretty badly, and everyone else has seen better days. I myself would have been crushed to death along with Peter and Natasha if Wanda hadn’t kept the bricks from falling just long enough so that we could make a quick escape. Still, one of the Hydra agents got me in the head with the but of his gun, causing blood to stream copiously from the wound, coating my face. I shot him in the foot for his trouble, though. 

Tony has called us all to the medical bay, no doubt to lecture us all on our performance. Even I can’t find a reason not to obey this command, so I slow down my pace deliberately in order to fall behind the group. 

Jumping from the jet without my suit wasn’t my best idea, but I made it to the ground in one piece. The landing was rough, though, and I seriously hurt my left leg in the process. My knee and ankle are still killing me now, but I try not to show too much of it. The injury seriously impedes my ability to run, slowing me down enough to be an easy target for the hydra agents. Nat and Tony had to save my ass more than once, and the thought of facing them after that show I put on in the jet is beyond embarrassing. 

I need some way to recover from this bruise on my ego. I wouldn’t say I have a God complex per se, but I put a lot of stock in my fighting ability, and my performance today was severely lacking. I need a reminder that this is not who I am. 

Instantly, my eyes find Wanda in the group of people walking ahead of me. 

It’s almost accidental. Almost. 

Her hair is in a ponytail, and she looks to be amongst one of the most unscathed team members. Wanda’s magic has been growing incredibly strong recently, and she most certainly doesn’t need a suit to keep herself safe. Still, her attitude doesn’t reflect her powers. In battle, Wanda is fierce, throwing around grown men like they’re rag dolls. Back at the compound, it is she who prefers to be thrown around like a rag doll. 

I think that’s just what I need. Wanda gagging on my cock so loudly that the voice in my head calling me a failure finally shuts up. 

‘’Hey,’’ Peter calls from behind me, breaking me away from the images in my head. The poor kid looks pretty beaten up, but he’s smiling in spite of it all. ‘’That was a tough one, huh? I almost thought Mr Stark was gonna call off the whole mission.’’ Peter’s limping, his right leg clearly too tender to stand on. My own leg feels like absolute hell, but I can’t let Pete struggle his way over to the med bay without help. ‘’Yeah, it was a tough one for sure. You got your leg hurt? Here, let me help.’’ I scoop one of his arms over my shoulder, helping him take some weight off of his leg. In turn, that puts extra weight onto mine, sending tendrils of pain shooting up all the way to my hip. This is no time for weakness, though, no time for pain or tears. I just grit my teeth and help Peter over to a bed in the medical bay, while he chats to me about how he saw a guy’s shoes get blown off his feet by the force of an explosion created by Strange. 

To everybody’s surprise, and horror, it isn’t Tony giving us the lecture. Once we’re all grouped in the medical bay, surrounding our hurt team members in their beds, Maria Hill emerges from the side entrance of the bay. Behind me, I hear Scott curse, and Peter gives me a concerned look from where he’s sitting with his leg elevated. 

‘’She looks really mad,’’ Wanda whispers, and a few of us who heard look over to where she stands with her back to the wall, nervously picking at the hem of her dress. Wanda is always so self-assured in battle, making seasoned warriors lose their minds with her magic. But out here it’s like she draws into herself completely, always needing reassurance and protection. 

So, naturally, I go to her. Compared to me, Wanda looks like she just got out of a spa. There isn’t a spot of blood or dirt on her. Her knees are dusty, and she has a scrape on her forehead, but there’s no sign of it breaking the skin badly enough to actually release any blood. She’s just a little dusty. Meanwhile, the whole right side of my face and hair are covered in my own blood. Head wounds always bleed like they’re going to end your life, even if they’re not so serious. This one certainly doesn’t feel too bad, but that might be the adrenaline talking. 

‘’You’re okay, dove.’’ I tell her, ‘’Hill might be mad, but she didn’t see what it was like out there. And besides, you did so well out there.’’

‘’Really?’’ She looks up at me with those pretty green eyes, full of innocence and disbelief, as if she can’t remember how she single-handedly saved three of her colleagues’ lives. I wonder how much of it is an act, but then, even if it is, do I really care? She gives me those same eyes when she sucks me off, and I certainly don’t care then. 

For the most part, I manage to tune out Hill’s shrill voice as she lectures us like a bunch of naughty school children. I’m too occupied with Wanda trying to cuddle up to me, moving to stand with her back against my front, pressing her ass into my crotch.

She’s always desperate to be fucked after a fight. 

‘’And next time, remember. Playing the hero doesn’t pay off, if I hear of anyone going into battle without a suit, you’re getting pulled from the team.’’ This most certainly catches my attention. She has enough grace to not address me by name, but everyone is looking at me anyway, so I decide to make use of the stage provided for me. ‘’Will you kick out Tony if he keeps making those ugly suits?’’ The reaction is a real mixed bag. Shuri doubles over with laughter, and Scott and Strange are fighting their smiles. Hill looks furious, and so does Nat, but I think the latter has something to do with my hand being placed firmly on Wanda’s midriff. 

***

I act like Hill’s commentary doesn’t bother me, like Tony’s disappointment doesn’t sting. Fake it until you make it, right? I know I was wrong for doing what I did, but I seem to be rapidly losing control of any and all rational decision-making skills. I’m not trying to get myself killed, like my teammates are probably thinking. I don’t want to die, not yet, there’s still so much for me to see and do. But barely scraping the edge, coming face to face with it and walking away alive, that is a feeling like no other. It makes me feel untouchable, godlike even. 

It’s almost as good as having my fist in Wanda’s hair as she tries to take my cock down her throat. She’s so desperate to please and be comforted that it’s almost laughable. The promise of getting tucked in at night, and fucked how she likes it, is enough to turn her into a desperate little whore. 

She’s on her knees for me on her pretty white rug. My boots flank her on either side, some enemy’s blood visible even over the black of my combat boots. I can see my own face in the mirror on the opposite side of the room, the whole front of it is covered in my own blood, now dry and flaking off. Wanda didn’t even let me wash myself first, insisting that she likes me fresh from the fight. 

She’s a pretty sight, kneeling between my feet like this, but she’s slacking off on taking my strap. I’m not in the mood for niceties today. I need to remind myself of the power I wield, before I allow myself to become overrun with weakness. 

Wanda has one hand at the base of my cock, and she’s suckling prettily on the head. ‘’That’s cute, dove.’’ I say, leaning forward to grab her by the throat, ‘’but you know that’s not what I want.’’ 

I lay her down on her desk, so I can stand up instead of hunching over undignified on the bed. Her head hangs over one side, and her open mouth, wet and waiting, is much too inviting. The sound of her gagging is like music to my ears. This isn’t wholly selfish either, I have to remind myself. Poor Wanda, so tired of having to be a big girl all the time, just needs someone to put her in her place. Who am I to deny her?

She lays there so prettily, mouth wide open and willing, her legs spread and her hips bucking up in search of non-existent friction. I’m obsessed with the way my cock bulges in her throat, bobbing up and down along with my thrusts. I could cum just from the sight of this, and the noises Wanda makes below me as I take her. This harness has a soft silicone grinder that is made especially to sit snugly against my clit, and with the combined friction from the strap, and the sight of my cock deep in Wanda’s throat, it’s enough to put me right on the edge. I won’t let myself fall though, it will take me right out of this high and then the self-hatred will settle in. I’m not ready to face that. Even just the thought of it makes me shiver, and I have to ground myself in the moment to push those thoughts to the back of my mind.

I place first one, and then both of my hands over her throat, feeling the movement of my strap. My hands are large enough to cover her whole neck, and it’s nothing short of satisfying to be so utterly in control. At least with Wanda, I’m always the one standing tall. Her face is all red and saliva is running down her cheeks, gravity pulling it dangerously close to her eyes, where tears are dribbling steadily into her hairline. 

Still, the strap isn’t all the way down her throat. We’ve been working on it, but she’s not quite there yet. I try to push her a little bit every time, and she’s been doing better and better. But it’s still hard for her. She lets out one gag so bad that I have to pull out completely for a second, allowing her to spit out a mouth full of saliva onto the floor. I’m not phased by this. Once you’ve seen men die in the worst ways possible, a little spit is nothing. 

I squat down, holding back the stream of swears I want to let out at the horrible pain in my leg. I use my thumbs to wipe the saliva and tears away from her eyes, and I give her a kiss on her sweaty brow. ‘’You’re doing so well, princess. Can you try again for me? Just a few seconds, I want you to take all of me. You can do that for me, can’t you pretty girl?’’ She catches her breath slowly, her mouth still open. Already fucked dumb, and I haven’t even gotten to her cunt yet. She nods at me blearily, ‘’wanna make you proud, daddy.’’ 

Something in my chest contracts at that, but I couldn’t name the emotion if my life depended on it. For now, I try to focus on how wet the sight of her like this makes me. ‘’Good girl,’’ I say as I stroke the strap lightly, rubbing the head over her luscious lips. ‘’Just a few seconds, and then I’ll let you cum, okay?’’ She nods, and obediently opens her mouth further for me. ‘’Good, now relax your throat and let daddy do the work.’’ 

I hold her head securely, making sure it’s tipped back enough, before sliding my hands back over her throat, I’m going to want to feel this. I’m not gentle, and I really can’t find it in me to be sorry about that, not when this feels and looks like complete and utter euphoria. I fuck my cock into her with one sharp thrusts. She gags instantly and sputters, her hands reaching for my thighs trying to push me away, but I don’t let her. I reassure her softly that she’s doing great and that it won’t take long, which seems to make it easier on her. I push against the last bits of resistance, sliding the strap all the way in. I rut into her mouth, as deep as I can. The sounds coming from her are obscene, but I cannot bring myself to pull back. In the back of my mind, I’m counting seconds. I’ll allow myself to stay here and soak this in for 20 seconds. With my fingers, I press lightly on her throat to feel the bulge of my cock inside of her. The zip of my trousers digs into her skin, and I know it’ll leave a mark there. 

The pressure against my clit threatens to undo me, and I let myself get dangerously close. I even grind my hips, fucking her throat lightly. One day, I’m going to hook a cum reservoir onto my strap and cum down her throat, along with my own orgasm. But not now. I have to control myself, so when the count in my head reaches 20, I pull out. 

Wanda is back to spitting out saliva and gasping for air. She coughs a few times, and it sounds pretty rough. I help her up, cradling her in my arms. The hard work is done now, I assure her. For a few minutes, I sit with her draped over my lap on her bed. I cradle her head into my chest, petting her hair and whispering praise to her. ‘’You did so beautifully, dove. You’re getting so much better, do you remember how you couldn’t even take half of me when we first started?’’ She’s gone too far into subspace to really speak, but she’s still responsive, and I feel her nod. 

‘’One day I’m going to be able to fuck you like that for 10 minutes straight, princess, and you’ll love every second of it.’’ This seems to stir something in her, because she mewls into me, spreading her legs slightly. We’re both still clothed, and I must say it’s a thrill to fuck Wanda with her dress still on. But not today. I strip her of everything except for her thigh highs, as they make her look like the slut I know she is. 

She’s incredibly wet, her cunt swollen and red, moisture running down between her cheeks. I consider for a while if I should make her wait, but I don’t want to deprive myself of watching my cock disappear inside of her. 

Instinctively, she tries to get on her hands and knees, but I’m not having that. I grab her by her waist and lay her down underneath me. I could almost laugh at her pained expression. She’s moaning already, and I haven’t even touched her yet. Using both of my hands, I part her thighs and push them up to her chest. Her breasts bounce slightly as I manhandle her into position, and my mind has already skipped ahead to watching them move in time with my thrusts as I fuck her. 

I keep both hands steady on the backs of her thighs, folding her almost in half. I look down to where my strap stands at attention, teasingly I slide it over her slit, enjoying the way she writhes when the slightest pressure is applied to her clit. 

Who’s going to tell her this is for me, and not for her? 

In sharp contrast to how I fucked her throat, I slide myself in gently, allowing her some time to adjust. She’s gasping, and clawing at my clothed back, and I’m slightly upset that she’s not leaving deep red marks all over my bare back. Oh, well. 

After a few short minutes of light teasing

She’s trying to move her hips against me, but I have her in such a tight hold that she’s getting nowhere. ‘’Tell me what you want, pretty girl,’’ I goad her. She huffs and puffs, her face still bright red, her hair sticking to the sweat on her brow and the semi dry salvia on her cheeks. ‘’Please, please, please,’’ she whines breathily, ‘’ruin me, daddy.’’

How am I supposed to deny a request like that? 

I take my chain necklace into my teeth, so it doesn’t hurt her by smacking into her face, and I set a punishing rhythm for us both. My leg is killing me, but Wanda underneath me like this is such a captivating sight that I cannot stop myself. She holds me against her tightly, like she’s afraid I’ll let go. In her defence, I’ve left her like this multiple times, so the poor girl probably has trust issues. 

Tears are falling freely from the corners of her eyes now, and I’m so focussed on that, that I don’t notice one of her hands leaving my back. She snakes it in between our bodies, so she can reach her clit. When she moans sharply and her body seizes up, I realize what she’s doing. Quickly, I reach down to snatch her hand away. 

I pull my strap out in one swift movement. With my free hand, I squeeze her cheeks and force her to look me in the eye. ‘’That’s a shame, I was going to let you cum, but now you’ll have to work harder for it.’’

I decide to make her ride me. 

It’s hilarious to watch her try to mount me with her shaky thighs. The poor thing is actually crying now, her tears dripping down all the way to her chest, along with her salvia. With one hand I hold both of her wrists tightly, with the other I rub her spit over her hard nipples, enjoying the way her hips twitch when I rub them in just the right way. 

Once she manages to sink herself down on my cock, she thinks she can get away with grinding her way to an orgasm, but I disillusion her of that idea quickly. ‘’Nuh uh, baby, if you want to cum you’re going to have to work for it properly.

After a small fit of crying and whining, she gets down to work. Fucking herself until her already shaky thighs are on the verge of giving out. She has let her head hang forward, absolutely exhausted. All that I can hear now are the obscene, wet, sucking noises that come from between her thighs, and the exhausted little moans and pleas to relieve her of her ache. 

She holds out for a heroic 15 minutes, until her thighs quite literally cannot keep her upright any longer. I had taken pity on her about 7 minutes into it, but it’s still impressive to watch her fight for it so hard. I take her face in both of my hands and kiss her forehead tenderly. ‘’Alright baby girl, you took that so well. Are you ready for your reward now?’’

In spite of her exhaustion, she nods, a soft whimper coming from her red and puffy lips. I put her on her elbows and knees, but within the first few thrusts she collapses under me. I hold her upright easily, fucking into her like it’s the last time I’ll be able to. She’s a bit too loud, and I know the others will have dirty looks for us tomorrow, but I really don’t care. 

I place a sloppy kiss on her back as I finally reach down to rub her clit. ‘’You can cum whenever you need to, princess.’’ I grunt, as I use all my focus to keep up with the thrusts and the rhythm of my rubbing fingers. 

Thankfully, it doesn’t take long. It’s impressive, really. In less than ten seconds, she’s cumming all over my fingers, her cunt clenching so tightly around my strap that it makes it hard to move as firmly as I would like. I fuck her right through her peak, and I’m prepared to push her into another, but Wanda is clearly done.

She’s shaking and shivering, her muscles weak and tired, she still tries to push me away. I’m tired myself now, so I don’t need any more incentive. I pull out of her and cover her tenderly with a blanket. She wants to go to sleep, and I don’t blame her. But I force her into a shower, sitting on the lid of the toilet, I watch over her to make sure she doesn’t pass out. 

Once she’s freshly showered, I tuck her in. I lay on top of her sheets, which feels wrong in my state, covered in dust and dried blood as I am. Wanda doesn’t seem to mind, though. She begs me to stay, and I don’t have the heart to tell her I won’t. So, I comb my fingers through her fair, and kiss her slowly, telling her how good she’s been for me, and that it’s time to rest now. It doesn’t take her more than 15 minutes to fall asleep.

Once I’m sure she’s out, I tip toe my way across the room, and out into the hallway. Stupidly, I have my back to the hallway as I close the door. I try to shut it as softly as possible, not wanting to wake Wanda. I’m so tired after all of that, that my eyes feel heavy. I’m ready for a hot shower, and bedtime, before the thoughts of the mission can overwhelm me. 

My room is next to Wanda’s, so I don’t expect any trouble, but really, trouble always shows up when you least expect it. In this case, trouble comes to me in the shape of Natasha Romanoff. 

*** 

Nat corners me as soon as Wanda’s door is closed. 

‘’What the hell have you been doing?’’ 

I narrow my eyes at her, not sure if she’s serious. I look down to the harness and strap in my left hand, and then look back to Nat. ‘’What do you want me to say, that we were braiding each other’s hair and talking about boys?’’ 

She crosses her arms over her chest. ‘’I don’t care what you get up to with her.’’ 

That’s debatable. 

‘’I mean the mission today, and every mission we’ve been on this past month. What the hell has gotten into you?’’ 

I try to sidestep her, to get to my own bedroom door, but she blocks my path. ‘’You were out there trying to get yourself killed.’’ Nat hisses. 

At this point I’m too tired to deal with this, so I snap back at her, ‘’Well, I’m clearly still alive’’ 

Nat’s eyes are boring into mine with such intensity that I would shrink away if I didn’t have a reputation to uphold. ‘’You going out there without a suit on? What do you call that?’’  She fumes. 

I shrug, a genuine half smile creeping into my lips in spite of the dire circumstances, ‘’an adventure?’’

‘’That was attempted suicide,’’ Nat says severely, clearly not as amused as I am. I just snort, unable to keep myself from cracking a joke ‘’I’m going to show you attempted suicide’’ 

Her mouth forms a hard line, ‘’that’s not funny.’’ I know it’s not, and I can tell she’s upset, but I can’t wipe the stupid smile off my face. 

She’s on the verge of saying something when the sound of a door opening makes us both turn around. Peter is standing in the doorway of his bedroom, wearing only a Captain America branded shirt and a pair of boxers. I quickly hide the strap and harness behind my back. ‘’Hey guys,’’ he says cheerfully, in spite of the limp in his step. ‘’I was going to make myself a freezer pizza, you want anything?’’ 

Nat gives him a tight smile and shakes her head. ‘’No, thanks, Pete,’’ I tell him, ‘’I still haven’t cleaned up, I’ll get something after.’’ 

Seeming to pick up on the uncomfortably loaded energy, he pulls an awkward face and shoots a pair of finger guns at us. ‘’Okay, well I’ll hide a margarita pizza for you underneath the ice cubes, so you won’t get stuck with the Hawaiian.’’ Peter really is a good friend, I decide. ‘’Thanks, kid, I owe you one,’’ I say, watching him limp clumsily towards the kitchen. Once the door has fallen shut behind him, Nat grabs my upper arm and tries to pull me towards her own bedroom. I shrug her off. 

‘’I want to shower, Nat, I’m covered in blood.’’ 

‘’And Wanda’s cum.’’ 

‘’Jealous it’s not yours?’’

Her eyes are ablaze with fury now, and there’s no hiding it. ‘’You’re trying to kill yourself, and I’m not going to sit here and watch you lose yourself.’’ 

‘’Nat, I’m fine.’’ I say, slowly losing my smile. 

‘’You don’t look fine.’’ 

‘’Then stop fucking looking at me.’’

It comes out much louder than I had intended for it to, and it startles me slightly. I can see Nat is taken aback by it too, but she’s not afraid. Her expression shifts from anger to concern in a matter of seconds. ‘’

‘’Can you just listen to me? Please, if not for your sake, then for mine. I’m not your enemy’’ 

I can’t argue with this, not when she looks so upset and my conscience is screaming at me after that outburst. I weigh my options in my head, I can go to the kitchen with Peter and god knows who else, and face all of their questions about why I went into the fight without a suit, and why I haven’t showered yet. Alternatively, I could try to barricade myself in my room, and ignore Nat, but I have a nasty feeling that this won’t take me very far. 

‘’Fine,’’ I say, deciding this will be the least painful option in the long run. ‘’Fine, Nat, whatever, but I’m tired, so please keep this short. And don’t lecture me any more about the suit, Hill already did that plenty.’’

‘’Just put that thing away,’’ she says, waving vaguely at my strap. 

‘’And here I was thinking you wanted a round too.’’

[andypantsx3]

defiant | bakugou/reader

pairing: Bakugou Katsuki / Reader

status: complete

length: 4,485 words

summary: There are a lot of benefits to managing your pro hero boyfriend, but dealing with the PR nightmares he generates is not one of them. After Katsuki gets way too mouthy with a hapless reporter, you take it upon yourself to put him in his place.

Katsuki, however, has other ideas.

tags/warnings: smut, arguing, possessive sex, light bondage, aged up characters, reader attempts to dom bakugou (keyword: attempts)

notes: This is based several years after the events of my fic savvy though you do not need to have read it to enjoy this one!! This is also unedited because I am too lazy, my apologies for the various mistakes within. I will come back and fix them at some point. Dedicated to @bobawithpomegranate​ for reminding me I was supposed to be working on this.

It was a Friday afternoon at approximately three p.m. when Bakugou Katsuki lost his fucking mind.

You knew this information because you had been watching the press coverage of your boyfriend’s latest fight, an operation in which he and Kirishima Eijirou had paired up to defeat a villain with an earthquake quirk.

Katsuki and Kirishima had taken the man down in record time, mere minutes after the reporters showed up. You’d watched them pound the villain into the very street he’d ripped up in the first place, and now Kirishima was puttering around in the background of the news coverage, smiling as he chatted up civilians against the wreckage of the city street behind him. Which left Katsuki to saunter over to the gaggle of field reporters and give the customary interview.

His blonde hair was disheveled, and his mouth was quirked up into a sharp smile, the way it always was after he’d just come out of a good fight. But he looked otherwise unharmed, just as intense and savagely handsome as always. He even looked like he might be in a good mood, pleased with the results of his fight, and you thought he might actually keep the swearing to a minimum this time.

He ducked under the police tape, flaxen hair glinting gold under the afternoon sun, and stalked over to the nearest reporter, already opening his mouth to crow over his latest victory.

Which is when something off screen caught his attention.

There was a muffled question from one of the reporters--not from the network you were watching or the mic would have caught it--and Katsuki’s scarlet gaze cut to the side. You watched in horror as his expression slowly morphed into one of apoplectic rage.

“You fucking piece of shit,” Katsuki snarled, eyes narrowing, an explosion already crackling between his fingers.

The camera jerked to the side, catching the startled expression of another reporter. He looked vaguely familiar to you--tall, handsome in a bland kind of way, teeth bleached for his job as a television personality. You thought you might have met him briefly at the last Hero’s Gala, but you didn’t have time to linger on the memory--Katsuki was already on the move, fighting his way through the pack of reporters, looking ready to commit a murder.

“--think you can just fucking talk to me, asshole?” you heard him shout.

“What did he say?” a voice murmured off screen.

“--he just asked Dynamight how he feels about his success today,” another voice uttered, closer to the camera, sounding bewildered and more than a little alarmed.

“You’re gonna wish you had never fucking been born, asswipe!” Katsuki shouted over them.

He’d nearly reached the reporter when there was a blur of red and Kirishima was there, one bulky arm seizing Katsuki around the middle. He hauled Katsuki out of the sea of journalists, even as Katsuki struggled, spitting and snarling like a wet cat.

“You fucking try that shit again and I’ll fucking blow your teeth straight into your brain!” Katsuki hollered, drowning out whatever Kirishima was muttering to him.

Your phone screen lit up next to you, several notifications pinging simultaneously. You let out a gusty sigh, glancing down at the contact names. News outlets, looking to scoop their competitors by getting the first statement from the Dynamight Agency on Katsuki’s behavior.

You swiped over a screen and dialed the number for the PR department, watching Katsuki continue to rage on screen, struggling against Kirishima’s hold. The crags in Kirishima’s skin told you he was close to going Unbreakable, and the sight sent a hot bolt of irritation through you.

You had no idea what the hell Katsuki thought he was doing, launching himself at a reporter like that. A reporter who had apparently done nothing but ask him how he felt about the success of his fight, a question Katsuki--the smug fuck--typically reveled in answering.

It had been a long time since Katsuki’s last PR disaster (tackling pro hero Deku over the side of a buffet table after an innocuous comment at one of their first Hero’s Galas), and you’d gotten him to promise you to be more careful after that. You’d honestly thought he’d pretty much moved past that sort of thing now. He’d grown somewhat calmer with age--though not less foul mouthed--and as his girlfriend, you were able to exert some level of influence over his actions, as each year, your understanding of how to play him grew deeper and deeper.

So what the fuck he thought he was doing right now was absolutely beyond you. And also absolutely not appreciated, as you had much better things to be doing than cleaning up after him for a shit fit that he definitely could have controlled.

If there was something bothering him, you were going to make him tell you. And if he was up to his old tricks, maybe he needed a refresher on exactly why it was inappropriate to go off like a bomb at every little thing.

As Katsuki’s primary PR rep picked up on the other end of the line, already speaking to you in a brisk tone, you resolved yourself to the task. You were going to get to the bottom of whatever had sent Katsuki into a fit--and you were going to remind him how and why to behave himself.

Whether he wanted to or not.

The trickiest part of your plan was catching Katsuki off guard.

That kind of a feat was nearly impossible, as Katsuki had reflexes honed by years of experience, an alarmingly keen intellect, and a single-minded determination that was frankly terrifying to contemplate. It had been years since he’d been outmaneuvered by anyone in the field, and the odds were against anyone who thought they could get the jump on him.

Luckily for you, you knew that his single-mindedness was the one thing that could also be used against him.

You left the agency slightly earlier than normal, shooting off a message to Katsuki to let him know you’d meet him at home. And then you yanked open your proverbial bag of tricks.

You helped yourself to a long shower, lathering on some of Katsuki’s body wash instead of your own, a trick that--you’d learned after once running out of your own--sent him into something like a possessive frenzy, knowing you smelled like him, that anyone you encountered would know you’d helped yourself to a man’s personal effects and understand that you were already spoken for.

Then you rustled around in your drawers for a nicer pair of lingerie--not anything super fancy that would suggest you were up to anything special, but nice enough that Katsuki’s interest would be piqued.

And then you dug around in the closet for the most essential element of your plan--handcuffs. Your face warmed with the memory of the last time these had been used--a blur of rough palms and sharp teeth all over you, while you all but sobbed for more--but you frantically quashed the thought. Tonight, if all went according to plan, you wouldn’t be the one strapped helpless to the headboard.

You weren’t the one with a lesson to be learned, after all.

The scrape of keys in the door sent you dashing to hide the handcuffs underneath your pillow, and then the stomp of boots in the hall told you your boyfriend had made it inside. You hastily yanked a sweater and jeans over your lingerie, then went out to meet Katsuki in the kitchen.

He clearly hadn’t had time to change after his fight, still slightly disheveled, blonde hair mussed and scarlet eyes sharp as they narrowed in on you. His handsome features were twisted into a suspicious expression.

“The fuck’re you up to, ditching early? Thought I was gonna get fucking screamed at when I made it back to your office,” Katsuki growled, watching you intently as he stripped off his gloves and boots. They hit the ground with a dull thud.

Your heart shot into your throat, but you pasted on your best placid expression. “I ditched because I didn’t feel like dealing with every outlet in the entire country blowing up my office line. Thought I could get more done here where it’s quieter.”

You didn’t mention exactly what you planned to get done here, hoping Katsuki would assume it was all PR and damage control.

In a way, it was damage control. Just...not via traditional methods, exactly.

Katsuki’s eyes tracked you closely. He still looked skeptical. “You gonna let me have it then, princess?”

Oh you were gonna let him have it, alright. He just had no idea.

You watched him for a while, pretending to contemplate unloading on him the way you wanted to. “Just...not now. I’m too tired, I don’t even want to deal with it.”

He scoffed. “Bullshit. You live for giving me shit. Fucking out with it.”

You glared at him. “I don’t think you’re in any position to be giving me orders. And if I was gonna say anything before I’m certainly not now. Now go clean yourself up. I have work to finish, thanks to someone.”

You retreated back into the bedroom, smothering a grin.

Nothing got Katsuki jumped up like defiance. Years into your relationship, he knew on some level that he wasn’t actually in charge of you, but he still got just as worked up when you got mouthy with him as he had on day one. It wouldn’t be long until he came back in, trying to pick the same fight, altogether too interested in the attitude you’d give back to him.

He was such a boy.

You lounged around on the bed, pulling out your work laptop and firing off a couple emails while you waited, just for something to do. Katsuki’s PR rep seemed to have things well in hand, but you helped where you could.

Soon enough, Katsuki was stalking back into your room, hair dark from a shower, looking like he hadn’t even bothered to dry off before stomping back in. He wore only a dark pair of sweatpants, the hard planes of his chest on full display--you suspected he’d foregone a shirt on purpose, knowing how the sight of him usually distracted you.

Which it still did, somewhat, but you were too heady with your own plan to truly be diverted.

You smothered a laugh at the way Katsuki’s eyes immediately honed in on the lace of your bra strap, strategically peeking out of your sweater as you had arranged it.

Two could play at that game.

“Think you’re real fucking smooth, don’t you, princess?” he demanded, stalking over to loom over you in a vaguely threatening manner. You caught the clean scent of his body wash, just a hint of his syrupy sweet quirk under that.

Your thoughts fogged a little with his proximity so you pretended to ignore him, typing out some nonsense notes into your calendar for something to keep your attention off of him. The less you looked at him, the easier this would be. You were weak to his appearance, it was true, and nothing riled him up like not having your full attention.

“I don’t know what you’re on about,” you said vaguely, doing your best to sound distracted.

A rough palm shoved your laptop closed. “Oh I think you fucking do, princess. Think you’re gonna get all dressed up for me and then ignore me?”

You looked up into his face, just as his arms came down around you to cage you against the mattress. A thick spike of arousal jolted through you, but you pushed it down. Much as you were into this, he was not going to be in charge for much longer.

“And if I did?” you asked, victory surging through your veins at the dark look that entered his eye.

He leaned down, putting his face near to yours. “Gonna be real hard to ignore me when I’m fucking you so hard you’ll feel me for weeks.”

“You’re awfully confident for someone on such thin ice,” you breathed. You didn’t even have to pretend at being affected by his choice of words, your stomach fluttering with anticipation.

Katsuki wasted no time covering your mouth with his. The weight of him pressed you back into the mattress, your laptop tumbling to the floor with a loud clatter. Rough hands trailed up your sides, gathering up the fabric of your sweater and pulling it over your head.

Carefully, you eased him over, kissing him as hard as you could, so that you were the one on top, your knees braced on either side of his slim hips.

Katsuki swore, pressing you down on him with a rough palm on your back, evidence of his interest hard between your thighs.

And that’s when you struck. Using his momentary distraction, you pulled the handcuffs from beneath your pillow, weaving them through the headboard. You grabbed his hands as firmly as you dared, pressing them up over his head.

Katsuki noticed what you were doing the second before the handcuffs snapped shut over his wrists.

“The fuck you think you’re doing, nerd?” he demanded, flexing against the tight hold. You watched with interest as his bicep pulled with the effort. “Unlock these or you’re in for it.”

You sat back on his hips, smirking down at him the way he usually did at you. Triumph swelled in your gut like a symphony.

“No, you’re in for it, Katsuki. What the absolute fuck did you think you were doing today?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “You think I was just gonna let you get away with throwing a tantrum on national television for no discernable reason?”

“That’s none of your business,” he ground out. A bright spark lit up the skin of his palm, a sharp crackle slicing into the silence of your room. “Now unlock these while I’m still asking nicely.”

You trailed absent fingers down the warm skin of his abdomen, watching appreciatively as the muscle tightened under your touch. Katsuki hissed out a sharp breath.

He might be threatening, but he ran the risk of blowing off his own hands if he resorted to using his quirk right now. You didn’t think he’d chance his own skin just to get out of this situation.

“I’m your manager and your girlfriend--it’s one hundred percent my business. You’re not getting out of those until you tell me what the hell you thought you were doing,” you promised darkly. You let your nails scrape over the skin of his hip, just under the band of his sweatpants.

You felt his hips shift in interest.

“You’re really asking for it, huh, princess?” he said, his voice rough. “I’m not gonna be gentle with you when I get out of this.”

“Keep avoiding the question and you’ll never get out of this,” you said. You let yourself lean over him, reveling in his minute intake of breath as you pressed a kiss over his neck. “You want something, I’ll give it to you. But only if you tell me why you did it.”

“It’s between me and that fucking slimeball and that’s all you need to know,” Katsuki snarled.

You let your teeth scrape over his skin, the way he usually did with you. “Not good enough,” you said.

Katsuki’s hips shifted again as you pressed back harder onto him. You felt your own abdomen coil tight with hot excitement at the unconscious little circles he was making. But you couldn’t be distracted--you had a mission to accomplish.

“Mind your damn business you fucking nerd,” he growled, defiant to the last.

Well, you hadn’t thought this was going to be easy.

“You are my business,” you informed him tritely. “And if you ever want me to take care of your business again, you’re going to tell me exactly what is going on.”

“Fuck,” he said instead. “You’re so hot when you get mouthy.”

“Not the answer I was looking for,” you told him. You shoved down the hot flush that tried to rise through you at his admission. Even years later, you were weak to his praise and he knew it.

He bucked a little under you, like he was unable to help himself. “Let me touch you, princess.”

“Still not an answer,” you intoned. You held very still, careful not to squirm like he was making you want to, even as his thrusts grew more deliberate.

If he would just hurry the fuck up and give you an answer, you both could be getting what you wanted. But everything had to be a production with him, as usual.

He was lucky he was so hot, and so charming on the rare occasion when he wanted to be, because he really was a piece of fucking work. You deserved some kind of sainthood for your service to him.

You slid forward on his chest a little when he gave a particularly strong thrust, bracing your hands over his sternum, and the abrupt show of strength had you clenching your thighs unthinkingly around him.

Katsuki’s mouth twisted in a savage grin, like he knew exactly how he was affecting you. “This is your last warning, princess. Let me out or you’re fucking in for it.”

You frantically schooled your features back into some form of haughty disregard, reaching down into your nightstand for the keys. You twirled them absently around your fingers.

“I don’t think you understand what kind of position you’re in,” you said firmly. “The only way you’re getting what you want is if you tell me what kind of stick that reporter stuck up your ass. Or maybe he didn’t, and you’re just being a fucking brat. Either way, you’re not in charge here--I am, and you are the one who’s in for it.”

No sooner had the words left your mouth, however, than the tang of hot metal met your nose. Katsuki’s savage smile was bordering on feral now. You looked up in alarm to see that above his head, he’d worked his palms over to press to each opposite wrist, but he wasn’t blowing through the cuffs like you’d known he couldn’t. Instead, he was melting them.

You swore, scrambling off of him. You threw yourself off the edge of the bed, racing for the door like the devil himself was behind you.

You weren’t fast enough.

The world upended, the white of your ceiling paint swirling up over your vision. The next thing you knew, you were thrown flat on your back in your bedding, bouncing a little from the impact against your mattress.

Katsuki braced himself over you, hands firm around your wrists, eyes alight with the challenge.

“You were saying, princess?” he asked smugly.

You wiggled underneath him, trying to work a leg underneath his hip to kick him off you the way you’d learned in self-defense. Katsuki just shifted into the cradle of your hips, huffing out a rough laugh.

“I fucking taught you that move, nerd. Think you’re gonna get me with it?”

His hips pressed forward, his body a hot line all along yours, and you suppressed a groan at the feel of him hard against your core.

“That’s right, princess,” Katsuki breathed, pressing his face into your shoulder to bite at your throat. “Now I’m going to remind you who’s in charge here, and you are going to be good for me and take every single thing that I give you.”

He gathered your wrists in one hand, reaching down with long fingers to work off your jeans.

You shivered in delight at the thought of his dark promises, but some other, more stubborn part of you resisted. You had a fucking job to do, and no way was he going to reroute you so he could get out of talking about things.

“You’re not giving me shit until you tell me exactly why you tried to blast some innocent reporter into the sun,” you said hotly.

Katsuki paid you no mind, too focused on pulling your jeans off over your ankle, so you leaned in and bit his shoulder.

“The fuck--?” he demanded, reeling back.

“I’m serious, Katsuki,” you said, irritation rising. “You tell me what is going on this second or it’s just you and your hand for the next month. I’m not fucking around.”

“He’s not some innocent reporter, he’s a piece of shit,” Katsuki said. His fingers worked at the clasp to your bra, like he thought that was enough of an answer.

“And you know this how?” you asked, trying to shift to crush his fingers underneath your shoulder.

He glared at you for a long moment, red eyes hot on your face, looking like he was strongly considering just abandoning the conversation altogether and stalking off to blow something up instead.

“I know,” he finally ground out, looking like every word cost him, “because I overheard him in the men’s room at the last Hero’s Gala.”

So you did know the reporter from the Hero’s Gala. A dim memory came to you of shaking his hand, leaning over to get Katsuki’s attention to get him an answer to some question he’d asked. You were fuzzy on the details, as you’d had other things to worry about that night--the Hero’s Gala had ended with Katsuki in some kind of mood with Kirishima, the arm of Kiri’s suit burnt off, and Katsuki had refused to say more on things. They’d patched things up almost immediately after so you hadn’t pried, but now you wondered if there wasn’t more to the story--more including this reporter.

“Overheard him what?” you asked.

Katsuki’s fingers resumed their questing, releasing the back of your bra with the ease of constant practice. You let him, considering he was still giving you answers.

“Overheard him fucking talking about you,” Katsuki growled, his fingers digging into your waist, his touch turning more possessive.

You froze. “What?”

“Saying the nastiest shit about how you looked in your dress, what he’d like to do with you if you didn’t already belong to me,” Katsuki said, sounding disgusted. “Wanted to incinerate him but fucking Kiri got in the way. Told me I’d lose my license if I attacked a civilian and he took me to court.”

“Which you would,” you pointed out, your tone going breathier than you wanted when Katsuki slid his fingers up to pluck at your nipple. “That--um--that was still the case today, too. What did you think you were doing?”

“Didn’t think,” he grunted, palming your breast. He didn’t look like he was thinking a lot now either, eyes turning on your chest with that single-minded focus he was famous for. “I just saw him and saw red.”

You were starting to see colors too--white, mainly, as Katsuki released your wrist to trail his other hand over your panties with obvious intention.

“Oh, um. Well I’m glad you didn’t kill him and have to lose your license,” you said, your breath hitching when Katsuki found his way into your underwear. “I’m gonna--have to--ah--thank Eijirou.”

“You belong to me,” Katsuki announced imperiously, leaning back in to bite at your throat again.

You couldn’t bring yourself to be annoyed with him, now. Instead, his words relit some fuse within you, your arousal sparking back to life behind your navel.

Katsuki’s fingers curled within you and you couldn’t hold back a pleased little noise, shifting your hips to allow him better access.

That was all the affirmation he needed. In mere minutes, he was working you up to the edge of your pleasure, fingers hot and skilled and exactly right inside you. He trailed soft bites and hot kisses all over your neck and shoulders, looking supremely satisfied with himself every time you caught sight of his face. His thumb worked tiny, maddening circles over your clit, just like he knew drove you fucking insane, and he had you writhing and squirming underneath him embarrassingly fast.

Soon, he was hitching your leg over a broad shoulder, sinking into you right where you wanted him.

“That’s right, princess. You’re mine. Gonna fuck you so good you’ll never forget it,” he promised, already working up to a brutal pace that left you short of breath.

Your vision swam as he ground into you. He leaned down to catch a nipple in his mouth, sucking softly, in sharp contrast to the wicked thrust of his hips.

“Look at you,” Katsuki said around your breast, scarlet gaze burning into yours. “Spread out and trembling. Look so fucking good for me, only for me.”

“Katsuki--ah!” you barely managed the syllables of his name.

“So fucking hot when you think you’re in control. So fucking mouthy--” his fingers brushed over your mouth “--I’m gonna fuck you so stupid you can’t even string together a sentence anymore.”

You rather thought he’d already achieved that, considering you could barely manage anything other than single syllable words now--nothing but there and more and please and oh!

Katsuki gave a particularly hard thrust, snarling your name--and your climax hit you like a truck.

You cried out, writhing, and his hands came up to hold you down against the mattress, still fucking into you hard like he meant to fuck the sense right out of you. He fucked you straight through your orgasm, and only when you were gasping from the aftershocks, shivering and near tears, did he follow you, flooding your insides with warm heat.

“That shut you right up, didn’t it, princess?” he said smugly as he rolled off of you, leaving another love bite over your shoulder on his way.

You groaned. It had been fucked up but kind of romantic that he’d attempted to murder a guy for you, but he was really killing the mood now.

“Is there anything that would shut you right up?” you replied, still catching your breath.

Unexpectedly, a smirk twisted your boyfriend’s mouth, and his hand trailed carefully down your thigh.

“There is, princess. Too bad it sounds like you can still string together a sentence,” he said, watching you intently.

You stared at him, wondering where he was going with this.

Until he moved, shifting backwards until his chin met your thigh, still watching you intently with those scarlet eyes.

“I can think of something that would fix both of those problems,” he said, his voice rough even as his hands came up to gently pry your thighs apart. “Now you have thirty seconds to call out of work tomorrow before I finish punishing you for that little show earlier.”

Your breath caught in your lungs again. You didn’t waste precious time defying him.

This time, you obeyed.

Deleted scene: What did Deku say to Bakugou that got him tackled over a buffet table at the Hero’s Gala?

[trashyswitch]

Putting Elizabeth Back Together

Michael is finally taking the time to put Baby back together. After she's mostly finished, Baby surprises him with her curiosity and her advancements.

This fanfic has mentions of death (Michael's, William's and Elizabeth's) and references to PTSD. If you're sensitive to that subject, it is quite short and takes place while he's looking at the scooper.

As well, this fanfic prompt was suggested by another anonymous user. I hope you enjoy despite the slight dark themes! Although, this is FNAF...So...it's bound to happen.

Michael had calmly waited for the elevator ride to finish before walking out of the elevator with one of the boxes of scrap metal he had collected. Looking around for a moment, his eyes came across a hand truck in the corner of the building. That would be perfect for transporting! Michael placed the box onto the hand truck, and wheeled it over to the elevator. When it opened, Michael wheeled it in and placed all 7 of the boxes of metal parts onto the hand truck. Then in one quick trip, Michael brought everything further into the building. The best part was that it wasn’t that hard to push! If only he had this thing upstairs. Trying to open up the elevator while holding heavy boxes filled with metal that’ll slice you open, had quickly proven to be quite difficult earlier.

Michael walked a different way into the Pizza World rooms so that he didn’t have to try and crawl the hand truck through the tiny vents. He soon made it back to a storage spot that hadn’t been locked. Michael wheeled the stuff into it and decided to use this as his work station. Michael left the stuff inside the storage room and walked over to where the scooping room was.

He opened the door, and shivered at the look of the scooper. It was still a little stained with his own blood. The organs were gone, but you could tell something had happened in this room. Michael bit his lip as he felt the huge gaping hole that had been scooped into his gut. That scooper hurt terribly. Though the nerves were pretty much destroyed in the incident, he could still remember the phantom pain of the scooper hitting his intestines. How he wasn’t dead from physical trauma or even the internal bleeding, he will never know.

As Michael walked around the scooper to get to Baby’s body, he could feel himself disassociating and flashing back to the scooping incident over and over again in his head. The beeping...the impact...the pain, and the redness that filled his eyes just before he blacked out from trauma. It felt like he was hearing the beeping all over again. And he thought he had seen the scooper move a little bit. He tried to convince himself it didn’t actually move, and it was just his imagination. But his head was telling him to RUN!

Michael suddenly felt the back of his foot stop against something, making him lose his footing. Michael came crashing down onto the animatronic parts, making an ear-ringing metallic crash. It felt like 8 separate symbols had smashed almost at the same time! And the sound physically HURT. Michael groaned as his ears slowly stopped ringing. Moving and opening his jaw seemed to help a little. Michael got himself back up with help from the wall, and looked around for Circus Baby’s upper body. He couldn’t see it with the other animatronics. So where was it?

Michael took some time to look around, and soon found Baby’s head without the hair. It was hidden in the far corner of the scooping room on top of a maintenance desk. On top of that, Michael found more parts of Baby: her middle chest piece with the red sleeves, the fan that belonged in her belly, her full red skirt, and one of her hands without the plate covering. It looked like a black skeleton claw without the plates covering it. Using the legs and an arm from Funtime Foxy, Michael started bringing the supplies one by one to the storage closet to start working on putting Baby back together bit by bit. On top of that, Michael started collecting tons of wires from the other animatronics and putting them into a pile. With a few rolls of electrical tape at his disposal, he’d be able to make the wires longer.

Michael started off with the neck, chest and arms. Michael grabbed a voice box from Ballora’s chest and placed it into Baby. With that in place, Michael placed Baby onto the desk and placed the arm down beside it as well. He put the flashlight into his mouth and removed the chest plates from Circus Baby to replace the fan. But a strong smell emitted from Baby. It made Michael wince in disgust. If he still had a stomach, he probably would’ve thrown up. But Michael continued anyway until he accessed a storage unit of some sort.

This sent Michael mixed feelings. He knew his father was capable of murder and kidnapping, which made the storage tank all the less surprising. But...is this where the smell is coming from? Michael grabbed a metal cutter and attempted to open it. But when he couldn’t, he looked around for an easy access opening. Thankfully, there was one. Michael opened it up and found…

A red bow in the bottom of the storage unit.

Michael sighed as he grabbed the bow and put it into his pocket. He knew exactly who’s bow it was: Elizabeth’s. Michael removed the containment unit from Baby’s body and threw it out the window. No more murder. No more kidnaps. William’s murderous tendencies can end with him. Next, Michael found a metal claw thing that had been hidden inside Baby. He removed it, pulled it out and got a better look at it. Hmm...I wonder what this was used for?

With some time and patience, Michael soon got the upper part of her body done. But it wasn’t without its complications. The Foxy arm that Michael had planned to use for Baby, had a separate attachment option than Baby’s arm. This had annoyed him to no end. But the moment he looked at the leftover claw, Michael started to experiment with it. Could the claw be used as another hand option? With a little tweaking and wiring, it could! Even though it looked like something even more murderous than his father’s blueprint plans, it did make Baby look more complete.

Michael soon laid the upper body down on the desk and started attaching the legs. Funnily enough, the legs were similarly reattachable just like Baby’s legs. Though Foxy’s legs looked more slim than Baby’s did. Baby had some thick legs. But with the new set up and the arms (kinda), the legs seemed to look anatomically correct. So, Michael connected them and stood Circus Baby back up.

It was...not as pretty as it started out. Well duh...It most likely wasn’t gonna be as nice-looking. The nice-looking one was also a secret killer. At least it actually looks like it commits murders. Michael started up the Servos motor, and watched as the animatronic quickly came back to life. Circus Baby lifted its body, opened its eyes wider and started moving its hand and arms around.

“Hello! Welcome to Circus Baby’s Pizza world. Are you ready for the show? I can sing, I can dance, I can even make you ice cream.” Baby greeted.

“Hello again Baby.” Michael greeted with a smile.

Baby moved her left hand up to her chin. “Do I know you?” She asked.

Michael nodded. “I worked here a week ago. Eggs Benedict, as Handunit called me.” Michael explained.

Baby held her hands in front of her belly, and tilted her head to the side with a smile. “Welcome back Mr. Afton.”

Michael’s eyes widened. How-

“I recognize you now. You’re much too big to fit in my storage tank. You must be fully grown.” Baby told him.

Michael bit his lip and awkwardly nodded. Thank goodness for that. “Do...Do you know my name?” Michael asked.

“You’re the first born son of Afton. He talked about you while he was building me. He didn’t know I was aware at the time.” Circus Baby explained.

Michael nodded and started to detach the chest again. Michael grabbed some wires and started connecting them to Circus Baby’s neck. “That’s funny. My father barely noticed me, and was too embarrassed to talk about me.” Michael admitted.

Baby looked at Michael as he weaved the wires into the chest and replaced them. “What are you doing to me?” Baby asked.

“Fixing you as best I can.” Michael replied.

“Where is Mr. Afton?” Baby asked.

“He…” Michael sighed as he removed a faulty wire. “He died a decade ago. He got into a wearable animatronic, and…” Michael made a raspberry sound and did a ‘cut the throat’ signal to represent death.

“Oh.” Baby replied. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Michael guffawed and snorted at those words. Baby quickly lifted her head up to look at him in worry. Michael’s smile dropped as he saw Baby’s facial expression. “Sorry. He...did some really bad things. So: it was a relief to hear he died. He deserved his death.” Michael explained.

Baby looked down, looking really sad. “I did something bad once.” Baby admitted.

Michael nodded. “I know, I know. You tried to give a little girl ice cream, and you ended up killing her.” Michael added.

“I didn’t know I would do that. I didn’t know my ice cream would be used to kill a child.” Baby admitted.

Michael placed his hands onto her shoulders and looked her in the eyes. “I know that. And it’s okay. You were created by an evil man who killed children with his bare hands. You are not to blame for what happened to Elizabeth.” Michael told her.

Baby tilted her head. “...Elizabeth?”

Michael nodded. “Yup. Her name was Elizabeth.” he explained. He looked down a little. “She was my sister.”

Baby looked down, hung her head and dropped her tiny pigtail connectors. “I’m sorry.”

Michael smiled empathetically and lifted her chin a little with his hand. “It’s okay. You remind me of her a lot.” He admitted. “Just...with no british accent.” Michael said with a chuckle.

Baby looked at him more and smiled.

“Now: I need to keep wiring you up and replacing any faulty wires. You’re kind of a mess right now, Baby.” Michael told her as he started connecting a wire to her neck.

“Okay. I’ll try to stay still Mr. Afto-” Baby stopped herself. She looked at Michael for clarification.

Michael chuckled and connected another wire. “Call me Michael.”

Michael took a break from all the wiring in the body, and decided to spend some time turning black wires and different-colored tube parts into makeshift pigtails for her. When he filled in the face with layered orange and yellow bangs, Michael put together a pony by wrapping another black wire around the start of both pigtails. After the pigtails and the bangs were complete, Michael returned to fixing the wires on her body. But when Michael worked on her neck, Baby began struggling to stay still.

“Michael, your hands feel strange against my neck.” Baby admitted.

“Feel...strange…?” Michael repeated slowly. He brought his hand up to Baby’s neck and touched it. “Like this?”

Baby smiled and tilted her head to the side the hand was on. “Yes!”

“You...You can feel something?” Michael asked, moving his hand to the front of her neck. Baby quickly pushed his hand away with her hand and...let out a quiet little giggle. It was hard to hear, but Michael was just able to catch it.

Michael decided to ignore it for now, and started weaving a few wires through the chest. That didn’t seem to cause a reaction. But as soon as the other side of the wire reached her side, Baby started wiggling and smiling a little wider. Michael looked up at Baby just once, and quickly started spidering his fingers up and down the left white side cover.

Baby’s reaction was immediate! She closed her eyes as she let out a squeal! She quickly leaned over and covered up her side with her arms. “Heeheehee!...” Baby opened her eyes and looked down in confusion. “It’s making me laugh.” Baby looked up at Michael.

Michael was looking at her with wide eyes and a dropped jaw. Her laughter was...really innocent-sounding! And it reminded him a little of his mother’s laugh. “I...Wow!” Michael immediately ran back up and started tickling the side again. “Do you actually feel this?”

Baby closed her eyes and started giggling again. As her hands moved around to cover up her sides, Michael snuck around and started attacking them from behind. This caused Baby to squeal again and bounce around on the spot! “HEHEHEhehehe! Mihihichahahael! Ihihihi dohohon’t uhuhunderstahahahand!” Baby told him, shaking her head as she giggled.

“This is gonna sound nuts…” Michael paused for a moment and held his forehead. “But so far, you have the same ticklish spots as Elizabeth.” Michael finished.

Baby had her back to Michael while holding her sides a few feet in front of him. Curious, Baby turned her head around 180 degrees to look at him again. “Really?” Baby asked, turning the rest of her body 180 degrees to match her head’s direction.

Michael widened his eyes at the super wrong head contortion, but soon walked back up to her. “Yeah! Her sides,” Michael poked her sides and watched as Baby jumped and threw her pigtails up.

“Her neck,” Michael gave both sides of Baby’s neck a little tickle. Baby giggled and started laughing as well while bouncing on the spot and waving her head back and forth.

“And her hips!” Michael went for the orange pieces at the bottom right before Baby’s skirt, and gave them both a squeeze. To Michael’s surprise, Baby leaped a good 3 feet into the air and thankfully, landed on both her feet! But the moment Michael so much as touched her orange ‘hips’ again, Baby flopped backwards onto the ground like she had lost all the muscles in her legs.

Michael had bursted out laughing at Baby’s funny-looking fall. Baby had gotten herself back up onto her feet, and looked at Michael with growing curiosity in her eyes. “Do you have this same feeling?” Baby walked up to Michael and attempted to give his side a poke. While the finger touched the shirt, the shirt seemed to sink in, revealing something unusual about his body shape. Baby was about to lift up Michael’s shirt to see why his body was so thin, but Michael pushed her hand away and tucked his shirt in again. “No touching my lower body.” Michael ordered. He waved his hands up and down from the bottom ribs to the hips. “All of this is a no touch zone.” Michael told her.

Baby nodded in understanding, and proceeded to poke his ribs instead. Michael jumped and yelped, quickly realizing what she was doing. He tried stepping back to get away, but it didn’t take long for another yelp to leave Michael’s mouth as he discovered: He had backed himself into a wall! Baby smiled, opened her big claw hand and placed it around him! This caused Michael to get stuck in between the claw and somewhat pinned against the wall.

“I want to see if you jump and giggle when I poke you.” Baby told him casually.

Michael tried to get himself through the claw, but the claw spikes would scratch against his arms and dig into the already-dying skin. So he was forced to attempt escapes while she tickled him out of pure curiosity.

Baby started off poking his different ribs. Michael would yelp and jump with each and every poke, trying his hardest not to satisfy her. But the longer that she poked and scratched the ribs, the more his instincts would betray him. Soon, Baby would tilt her head at the look of a wobbly smile growing on his face. “You do grow happy when I poke your endoskeleton.” Baby reacted with a smile.

Next, Baby tried tickling his neck. Michael squealed super high-pitched and shook his head all over the place. Then, things got even worse when Baby remembered how Michael had squeezed her! Baby had started imitating the squeezing motion, which was making Michael sweat in fear and anticipation. Finally, after about 3 minutes of squeezing the air, Baby moved her hand to the ribs and gave them a squeeze.

“eeEEEEEHEHEHEHEHE! STAHAHAHAHA!” Michael bursted out laughing almost instantly!

Baby was impressed! “You sound like you’re having fun.” Baby told him as she continued squeezing and poking his ribs.

“IHIHIHIHI- BAHAHAHABYYYYYY! STAHAHAHAP IHIHIHIHI’M WAHAHAY TOO-TIHIHICKLIHIHISH!” Michael shouted loudly.

Baby stopped squeezing and leaned her body ahead a little. “What did you say?” She asked.

Michael’s laughter fell right to giggles the moment she stopped tickling. “Ihi...I said...Stop I’m way too ticklish.” Michael replied.

Baby straightened her back and tilted her head to the right side. “What is ticklish?”

Michael let out a few laughs and widened his smile a little. “Ihit’s...something I haven’t experienced in years.” He replied. “It’s...what I was doing to you. Tickling you, to be specific. Tickle is a noun meaning to touch someone in a spot that makes them laugh.” Michael explained. “E...Elizabeth...I tickled her a lot...especially as a toddler.” Michael explained.

“Ooh. So this-” Elizabeth gave his ribs another squeeze, “is tickling.” Baby asked.

Michael squeaked yet again and bursted out laughing again. “YEHEHEHES, TIHICKLIHIHING, FEHEHEHEELS LIHIHIKE IHIT, YEHEHEAH!” Michael replied, nodding his head.

Baby smiled and continued to squeeze his ribs. “I’m tickling you. I’m giving you a tickle squeeze.” Baby said out loud as she tickled him.

“OHOHOKAHAHAY, YOHOHOU CAHAHAN STAHAHAP NOHOHOW!” Michael tried to order.

Baby tilted her head and lowered her pigtails. “But why would I stop? You’re enjoying yourself the way children enjoy ice cream, or balloons. You’re laughing.” Baby told him.

Michael didn’t really want to admit it, but she had a point. He was actually enjoying himself. The years of not being touched properly, were starting to really get to him. And this random act of touch, was making up for all the years of lacking love. It felt...nice.

“OHOHOKAHAHAY. YOHOHOU- YOHOHOU’RE RIHIHIGHT. IHIHI LIHIHIKE THIHIHIS. YOHOHOU WIHIHIN.” Michael finally gave up.

Baby raised her pigtails and practically beamed upon hearing those words. ‘You’re right’! ‘You win’! She was right! She actually won! Baby placed Michael down and clapped her metal hand and claw together excitedly. “I won! I won! I won I won I won!” She declared.

Baby quickly pulled out a few balloons from another little storage unit, and started blowing up balloons with her fingers. Then, she tied them together and added string to them. Michael watched the funny celebration reaction as he got himself up off the floor. Then, to Michael’s surprise:

Baby handed him the tied bouquet of balloons. “Here.”

Michael looked at the balloons, in which the strings had been tied together near the bottom. Michael smiled and happily took the balloons.

...Only for him to tie it onto a dresser knob and squeeze Baby’s hips again.

Baby squealed yet again, and flopped backwards onto the ground, holding her hips. This time, Michael took advantage of the girl down and climbed on, to continue tickling her hips and sides. Baby was now a mess of childish laughter and cute little giggles. And thankfully, Michael never got a claw to the face! Who knew that putting Baby back together would be one of the best things to ever happen to him?

[heyyyharry]

Red or Yellow

(a blurb from the Flatmate series)

…in which Harry and Y/N argue over the paint colour for their living room and split the room into two (pre-relationship flatmates).

Word count: 2.5k

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“I think this place is haunted,” Ben remarked as he swept his eyes around the living room which was covered in plastic sheets.

“What gave that away?” Mark, Ben’s fiancé, asked as he followed Ben inside. “The claw marks on the door or the blood on the wall?”

Harry scoffed as he waved the paint roller at the claw marks. “She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named was dog-sitting the other day. The dog was pretty aggressive.”

“She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named?” Ben asked.

Mark squinted his eyes, hands on his hips. “You mean Y/N?”

“Mmmmm.” Harry rolled his eyes.

Before either Ben or Mark could ask him what was wrong, Y/N emerged from her room, dressed in overalls and holding her own paint roller. As soon as she made eye contact with Harry, she gave him a look of contempt and said hello to their neighbours as if Harry wasn’t there. Harry gave a sly smile as he watched her pick up the yellow paint bucket she’d left in the corner of the living room. In her corner, to be exact.

Long story short, they’d divided their flat into two halves, and she was still bitter that he got the one with the couch. He didn’t know why she was upset; she had the entire kitchen all to herself because he wasn’t allowed to cross her side to get there.

“I thought you two were still in your honeymoon phase,” said Ben with an eyebrow raised. “What happened?”

“He happened,” Y/N said before Harry could speak. “And when have we ever been in any phase?”

Harry let out a bitter laugh as he threw his hands in the air and accidentally splashed red paint onto Mark’s sleeve. Mark gasped, but nobody cared.

“We’d agreed to paint the living room’s walls red for the vintage look!”

“We never agreed to paint it red,” she countered, lifting her yellow paint bucket. “And when people say vintage, they would think yellow!”

“No. Red.”

“Yellow.”

“Red!”

“Yellow!”

“Green!”

Everyone looked at Ben, who raised a smile. “I thought we were naming the colours of a traffic light.”

“Could someone please tell me how to get the paint off silk?” Mark said, but once again, nobody cared.

“I swear to God, you’re gonna turn half of our living room into a sex dungeon like the one in Fifty Shades of Grey.”

“Okay, whatever you say, Miss Minion.”

“What did you just call me?”

“Do you want me to sing that Banana song?”

Ben nudged Mark, still smiling while Harry and Y/N were literally screaming at one another. “Remember when we used to fight over silly things? Oh, young love.”

“Whatever,” Harry scoffed and turned back to their neighbours. “Are you guys free at the moment? I really need some help.”

“A tough guy like yourself needs help to paint half a living room,” Y/N asked in a mocking surprised tone.

Harry purposely ignored her. To Ben and Mark, he said, “Well?”

Ben’s mouth was hanging open as he looked to Mark for an opinion. Mark raised both hands over his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, eyes wide. “I’m wearing silk today. Can’t get more paint onto this shirt.”

“It’s okay. You guys don’t have to help him,” Y/N said, glaring at Harry.

Ben bit his lip, thinking for a long moment before he tossed his head back and turned to his fiancé. “Hey, babe, you could go home first. I’ll stay and help them.”

“Okay, babe,” Mark said as he leaned in and kissed Ben’s cheek.

Harry swore he could see a look of concern crossing Mark’s face before he left the flat. Harry received that look a lot from the residents in this block who’d seen him and Y/N argue, so he wasn’t offended by it, just amused.

“Okay,” he exhaled happily, rubbing both hands together. “What we’re gonna do is–”

“Thank you so much for helping me. You don’t have to but–”

“Hey!”

Ben froze as he’d just dipped his roller into the yellow paint bucket. Both Y/N and he looked over their shoulders at Harry, who was gaping at them both.

“I was the one who asked for help!” cried Harry.

Baffled, Ben opened his mouth to speak, but Y/N put up one hand to stop him before he could make a sound. “Harry’s a grown man. He doesn’t need help,” she said.

Harry sneered at her, putting both hands on his hips. “All right, little missy. I see how it is. Good luck with your Despicable Me theme.”

“I wish you no luck with your sex dungeon.”

“Honestly,” Ben said, taking a deep breath. “I’m only here for the tea so don’t expect me to help too much.”

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“The tea is ready!”

Harry wiped the sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt as he glanced back over his shoulder at Y/N. She had her AirPods on so she probably hadn’t heard Ben call out from the kitchen. He could let Ben tell her that it was time for a tea break, but he needed an excuse to speak to her anyway. Yes, he was still annoyed by her wanting to paint the living room yellow knowing how much bright coloured rooms pestered him. No, it didn’t change the fact that he wanted to kiss her every time he was looking at her when she wasn’t paying attention. And well, another reason was that he couldn’t get to the kitchen, so either she or Ben would have to bring him tea.

He put down his roller, wiped his hands with a cloth and walked to the piece of duct tape on the floor they’d used to divide the room. “Psst!” He aggressively waved his arms to get her attention.

Y/N stopped painting and turned off the music on her phone, seemingly agitated. “I’m not lending you one of my brushes.”

“I don’t need your brushes.” Harry rolled his eyes, gesturing to the kitchen. “Ben said tea was ready.”

“Oh.” Y/N threw on a cute little smile that almost made Harry forget he was supposed to be cold towards her.

“Hey!” he called as soon as she turned away. She stopped, raising an eyebrow at him. “Could you bring me a cup? Thanks.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes as she folded both arms over her chest. “Not when you’re asking me with that attitude.”

“What attitude?”

“That.”

He closed his eyes and sucked in a breath. “Okay, fine. Could you please bring me a cup?”

Y/N glanced upward as she tapped a finger to her lips. “Hmmmm...maybe if you say: Please, my sweet, beautiful flatmate, whom I’ve wronged so many times before and never apologized to.”

Harry made a face. “I’m not calling you my sweet, beautiful flatmate whom I’ve wronged so many times before and never apologized to.”

Y/N smirked as she lifted her shoulders. “Too bad, you just did.”

“Damn it!”

She shook her head, and he could tell that she was trying her best not to laugh. He didn’t want to think so highly of himself, but he knew he was charming, and it was just a matter of time before she agreed to have this entire living room painted red, so they could get this goddamn tape off the floor, and he could set foot back into the kitchen again.

“Tea’s coming!” Y/N announced as she carried a tea tray to the living room. “Ben’s eating all the snacks in our fridge, by the way. He’s done helping us.”

“He didn’t help at all.”

“He helped with the first few strokes.”

Harry breathed out a laugh. “That’s what she said.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “You’re so immature.”

Shrugging, Harry sat down on the couch and held out his hand for her to give him a cup. Y/N was humming a familiar tune as she put the tea tray on a small table across the room. Harry watched in bafflement as she picked up a cup, stirring it with an evil smile and just staring at him like that.

“Hey! Where’s mine?”

“Right here. Come get it.”

Harry stood up as he scoffed, shaking his head. “Baby, we both know you’re a tease but don’t challenge me.”

He could see her cheeks turning red but she tried to mask her shyness with a feigned sassy expression. “Are you sure you don’t want tea?”

“I want tea so you’d better give it to me,” he said, raising an eyebrow with both hands on his hips.

Y/N took a sip, smiling innocently. “Nope. I don’t want to. Do it yourself.”

“Are you telling me to come get it?” he asked, taking a step forward.

She opened her mouth to speak, but what came out was a loud gasp as he crossed the duct tape line and padded straight towards her. He didn’t say a word, took the cup from the saucer she was holding, took a sip and put it back down. He wished he could snap a photo of her gawking at him like she’d just seen him commit murder. He had to try his best to stay in character and not guffaw right then.

“You broke the rule,” she said softly, but the look in her eyes was deadly as hell.

He straightened and wiggled his brows. “You said you’d bring me tea. Guess we’re both liars.”

Her lips curled to the side. He could have sworn he hadn’t seen her pick up the paintbrush. Before he could even blink, she splashed yellow paint onto his shirt. It was an old shirt and already got paint on it, but what she’d done had declared war.

“Apologise, Y/N,” he demanded, calmly.

She, also calmly, put down her tea and waved the brush in front of his face in a provoking manner. “I don’t think I did anything wrong.”

“Oh, you didn’t?”

“N–What are you doing?!” Y/N yelled as Harry dipped his entire hand into the bucket. He grabbed her by the wrist, tugged her into him and smeared paint all over her face. She was shouting at him to stop as he laughed viciously. To his surprise, Y/N wet both of her hands with paint and spread it all over his head. His shout turned into startled laughter; he didn’t think she’d have it in her to do that.

They started ‘fighting’ for her paintbrush. As Harry was trying his best not to overpower and hurt her, she took advantage of that and coated his mouth with paint. She was in hysterics as he spat in disgust. Without warning, Harry cupped her face firmly with his large hands and pulled her back in. “Let me give you yellow kisses.”

“What? No! Get off of me!” She tried to escape, laughing uncontrollably as they both tripped and ended up in a heap on the floor. One of them accidentally kicked over his red paint bucket, and as they tried to get up, they tripped for the second time and fell into a puddle mixed between red and yellow paint.

“You’re such torture!” he said between laughter.

“So are you!” she exclaimed, getting on her knees as he sat there with his legs spread.

She stuck out her tongue and cringed as she saw paint dripping down from her hair. It took him everything not to lean in and kiss her right then.

“Can this be washed off?” she asked.

“I can wash it off for ya,” he said cheekily.

She made a face. “If I didn’t know you so well, I’d think you were flirting with me.”

He said nothing, just smiled. Maybe she didn’t know him that well after all.

“What in the world?!”

Both Harry and Y/N whipped their heads to the kitchen door and found Ben standing there with his hands on his hips and his mouth hanging open.

“Did that aggressive dog come in here and make this mess or did you two do the dirty while I wasn’t here?”

“We did the dirty but not the kind you’d enjoy watching,” Harry said.

Y/N buried her face into her palms as Ben made a gagging sound. “Ew! Don’t ever say that again! You straight people are so weird!”

Harry burst out laughing as he got to his feet and offered Y/N a hand. She didn’t take it and got up on her own.

Ben swept his eyes around the room, taking in the mess they’d made. “So I guess you’ve both agreed to mix the paint?”

Harry gave a half-shrug. “I don’t mind a yellow room, to be honest.”

Y/N’s face lit up. And it was probably the cutest thing Harry had ever seen. “Really?”

He pressed his lips into a soft smile, unable to help himself. “I just want you to talk to me again…”

“Aww,” Ben said.

“And because I want to use the kitchen. I’m too broke to keep going out to eat three meals a day.”

Ben sighed as Y/N rolled her eyes, but Harry knew it was all good because she was smiling at him. “Fine,” she said, crossing her arms. “Why don’t we pick another colour that both of us would like? Well, one that at least one of us would not hate.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Aww, would you look at that?” Ben interjected, placing both hands on his heart. “So cute. I’m here if you two need any help. Honestly, if you need anything, just ask.”

“Well, we kinda need help to clean up this mess—”

“What was that?” Ben cut Harry off, straining his ear as if he’d actually heard something, while Harry and Y/N just stared at each other in confusion. “Oh, I think Mark’s calling me. He’s probably having trouble with our shower again.”

“I didn’t hear anything,” Y/N said.

Ben ignored her as he shouted into nothing. “Baby, I’m coming! Sorry kids, thanks for the snacks and the tea and the literal tea. Good luck!” And just like that, he dashed straight out of the room.

Once the door had fell shut behind him, Harry turned back to Y/N. They held each other’s gaze for a second before bursting out laughing for two minutes straight.

When the laughter finally died down, Harry swept his eyes over the mess they’d made. “This looks so sexy in porn,” he said, squirming in his paint-covered clothes, “yet feels so uncomfortable in real life.”

His heart skipped a beat as he heard her giggle.

“Not gonna lie,” he inhaled, suppressing his Cheshire Cat grin. “I miss you laughing at my jokes.”

Y/N seemed to be hiding her blushing as she looked away. “Laughing at you mostly,” she mumbled.

“That, too,” he said, grinning. “I just miss making you laugh.”

Y/N laughed again; he could tell she’d tried not to, yet couldn’t help it. It made him forget the fact that he was covered in paint and would probably spend the next couple of months trying to get his natural hair colour back.

“Stop being weird,” she said nervously, giving his shoulder a gentle shove. “We have a mess to clean.”

[bitterlikesweets]

Love Bites Ch 18

This is the eighteenth chapter of a modern/vampire AU ereri fanfic. You can also read it on Ao3. 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | Special | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18

Next

Levi pulls his hand out of Eren's, scowling down at his own arms. He swipes at his limbs like he's trying to rub something off, but there's nothing there except his own pale skin. Levi just tries harder to rub whatever it is off, making red imprints on his skin where his hands drag roughly over his arms. Concerned, Eren reaches out, his fingertips brushing against Levi's forearm, but Levi flinches away, letting out a shaky breath.

"I…" Levi swallows. "I need to wash my hands."

He gets up and marches over to his kitchen without another word. Eren stays sitting on the floor, sinking his head into his hands.

That… was a lot.

A Feral King addicted to the brief feeling of life he gets from turning other people. Levi's actions as a hunter… That family… Those parents… Levi's uncle—

Eren's mind flashes back to when he first met Hanji and Erwin.

“The Ackermans are a family of hunters. Generations of vampire killers. Levi is the last of them now. He’s the reason that he’s the last of them too.”

“Kenny's crossbow went off—I couldn't let the kid die too—” “...The old man hit the ground.”

Fuck. Fuck.

Eren… Eren doesn’t know what to think about this. It’s a lot. It’s so, so much. All those comments Levi’s been making since they met—about how he was a killer, about how he was more of a monster than Eren was—Eren never imagined that it would have stemmed from this.

The Feral King is one thing; whatever pity Eren might have had for him is completely overshadowed by the amount of deaths he’s caused since then. Eren can understand anger, wanting revenge, but what he’s done is different. Turning others just because it fucking feels good—

No. Whatever’s going on in that sick bastard’s head doesn’t matter. They need to stop him. Because his actions are only causing more to suffer, and creating more angry, violent bastards like Eren. Maybe this started with Levi, but the Feral King chose to make it spiral out of control. He chose to make a fucking cult out of it. He chose to bring more people into it, to make more people die. He’s gone way too far.

But the family…

Eren can’t help but wonder what they did that warranted something like that. Who did Levi’s uncle get the job from? Why… Why did they have to die? A sick woman who became a vampire to stay alive... A husband who just wanted to stay with his wife…

If there was no reason…

Fuck.

Does it matter?

It was fucked up. It was massively fucked up. It was fucked up either way.

But Levi… Levi’s obviously trying to make up for it. He stopped hunting except for vampires who were a danger to others. He’s obviously still feeling guilty for it. He’s…

Eren closes his eyes.

If it wasn’t Levi… If it were the people who killed Eren’s mom doing something like this… If they realized afterwards that it was wrong, that they wanted to change… If they started helping victims of feral attacks instead of going feral themselves… Would Eren forgive them?

Eren can’t get his mother back. The only thing he can get is closure. And Eren’s not nearly kind-hearted enough for an apology to smooth things over, for a “sorry” to put out the burning in his chest.

But even if he was...

“While she was still breathing I… begged her to turn her son so that he would live."

Levi tried to fix things right there in that moment. The vampires who killed Eren’s mother left both her and Eren for dead. They’re different.

...Or maybe Eren’s just thinking that because he loves Levi. He doesn’t know those people who died, doesn’t feel much for them except for some empty, useless sympathy. And Levi’s the one who’s still here, still alive, still suffering.

Eren doesn’t know if this the “right” way to go about this. But Eren’s also a vampire who has been planning to commit two murders since the day he was turned.

Eren’s not sure if a right way even exists in a world as fucked up as this. He sees a path ahead where a lot of people die or a path where only a few die. And they can’t go backwards, can’t undo the deaths that have already occurred.

On one path, there’s the person Eren loves. That’s the path he’s going to follow.

Eren pushes himself off the ground and onto his feet. He’s left Levi alone for too long already.

Eren finds Levi still in his kitchen, his hands deep in the sink and his shoulders hunched. As Eren gets closer, Eren sees that the water is nearly up to Levi’s elbows, soaking into the sleeves of the shirt that Levi didn’t bother to roll up.

“Levi?”

Levi tenses slightly but says nothing.

Eren reaches around him slowly, to shut off the water that’s about an inch away from flooding out of the sink. When Levi stays still and silent, Eren reaches out for Levi’s arms, hoping to help him roll up his sleeves at the very least—

“Stop!” Levi snaps, jerking his arms away from Eren. “You’ll get it on you!”

“Get what on me?”

Levi freezes, his wet arms hanging over the sink. His eyes were wide, panicked, but when his gaze slides from Eren’s face to his soggy limbs, they narrow sharply. Levi hisses out a sigh, lifting his hands towards his face as if he was going to drop his head into his hands. But he stops abruptly before he can, gray eyes staring miserably at his own fingers as they drip soap and water onto the tile.

“...Nothing,” Levi says quietly. “It’s nothing.”

That’s what he says, but his hands are trembling.

Eren’s chest squeezes painfully, and he quickly turns and scans the kitchen for something that could possibly help. His eyes land on a roll of paper towels, and he hurriedly rips a piece off, covering the majority of his hand with it and holding it out towards Levi.

“Is this okay?”

Eren’s honestly not sure if being touched will help Levi right now, but he’s currently at a loss as to anything else that will. He’s not exactly sure what’s wrong either. Eren doesn’t want to aim empty words at an issue he doesn’t fully comprehend.

So, he holds his paper towel-covered hand out to Levi and hopes it’s enough.

Levi’s gaze drops to Eren’s hand before he frowns. He moves towards the paper towel roll himself, briefly reaching out to it before recoiling again. Eren bites his lip, taking a second to try and process what Levi’s doing.

“More?” Eren asks, pointing at the roll.

Levi nods, and Eren hurries to rip off more paper towels—he gets three extra pieces, just in case—before laying them over his hand with the other piece. When he holds his hand out to Levi again, Levi takes a deep breath before gingerly placing one of his wet hands over Eren’s.

The tiniest sliver of relief works its way into Eren’s lungs, and he lets out a little sigh, wrapping his paper-covered fingers around Levi’s hand.

“Is this okay?” Eren asks.

Levi nods.

“Good,” Eren says, sighing slightly again. “Is there anything else you need? Something I can do?”

Levi’s eyes shift from the hand Eren has half-covered in paper towels to his other wet hand. He rubs his fingers together for a moment before grimacing.

“A shower,” Levi says.

“A shower?” Eren repeats. “Oh, you want to—Okay. Can I help? I could turn on the water for you—”

Levi turning to look at Eren with a frown makes Eren freeze, and he quickly waves his free hand in front of himself.

“Not that I need to! I’m sure you can—I mean, I just thought—I was thinking you might not want to get… get it on your faucets and stuff…”

Not that Eren knows what “it” is. He doesn’t want to assume either. It would be better to ask than just guess, but Eren also thinks that it might be a terrible idea to ask Levi what substance he’s seeing on his hands while he’s still currently seeing it—Fuck, or would it be better to know now? Eren’s not great with things like this—

“Okay,” Levi says.

“Okay?”

Levi nods, and Eren lets out a sigh of relief again.

It doesn’t really matter what it is, Eren decides. At least, not right now. The only thing he needs to focus on is that Levi’s got something on him that he wants to clean off. That’s fine. He can help with that.

Eren keeps a firm grip on Levi’s hand as he leads the man through the kitchen and up the stairs. He flounders a bit though, once he reaches the second floor—he’s only ever been in Levi’s living room. Their fighting practice never left much time for house tours.

“Left,” Levi says from behind him.

“Right! Er, no—uh, you get what I’m saying.”

Levi sighing in annoyance behind him actually lightens the weight in Eren’s chest a bit, and he bites back a small smile as he follows Levi’s one word directions toward the bathroom.

Levi waits on his bed while Eren scurries around the bathroom, pulling back the glass sliding door for the shower and turning the water on. It helps that there’s not much else for him to set up; Levi’s bathroom is clean and organized, as expected. If the tables were turned, Levi would probably have to turn Eren’s apartment upside down just trying to find the soap.

Eren pokes his head out of the bathroom door once the water starts to heat up. Levi’s master bedroom is fairly simple. His bed is in the back of the room, with a desk by the window on the opposite side. There are more pictures of Kuchel here, and a couple of journals that look like handwritten recipe books, if the taped-on labels on their spines are anything to go by.

Levi’s still sitting on the edge of the bed where Eren left him. He’s wiping down his hands with the clump of damp paper towels that Eren used to separate their hands earlier.

“Levi?”

He raises his head slowly, the movement of his hands pausing.

“The shower’s ready,” Eren says. “Can I help with anything else?”

Levi shakes his head, getting to his feet with a sigh. Eren walks over to meet him, reaching out to touch him before thinking better of it, pulling his arm back.

“Can I…?”

Levi looks at Eren’s hand for a moment before nodding, stepping closer to Eren. Eren smiles, reaching out again. His hand lands on Levi’s cheek, and Levi tilts his head into Eren’s touch, briefly closing his eyes.

“I’m going to go downstairs,” Eren says, “but I’ll stay a while. I’m here, okay? Let me know if you need anything.”

Levi nods.

“Okay,” Eren says, taking a deep breath before pulling his hand away once more. “See you soon.”

~ ~ ~

Eren spends his time downstairs closing all of Levi's curtains, trying to make sure no light can get through. He plans on staying over through the day, just in case Levi needs anything, but he'd rather not turn into dust in his sleep while he's here.

It's almost… strange for things to be like this. So far, it's always been Eren crying on Levi, breaking down on Levi, having to be helped by Levi. Eren doesn't feel guilty, exactly, for those moments—it's not like he can control it—but it feels almost like he's making up for it by being there for Levi too. It's nice to know that he can be here, like this, for the man he loves. He was so worried that he wouldn't be able to do anything at all. But even if all he can do is grab a couple paper towels or turn Levi's shower on, he's glad he can do that much. He's glad he can do something to help, even if that something is just being here.

When he’s done with the curtains, Eren cleans up where he can. He grabs their practice weapons and leaves them in front of the storage closet—it still smells like garlic in there, so Eren can’t exactly go inside and put them in their proper places—and then he moves on to the kitchen. Emptying the sink of water is simple because all Levi did was use a plate to cover up the drain. Once he’s finished with that, he uses paper towels to wipe off the wet spots on the kitchen floors, though Eren does flounder a bit as he tries to figure out which cabinet the trash can is hiding in—

Things are too quiet.

The realization hits Eren without warning, his hand still lingering on the cabinet door, and for a moment he doesn’t know what makes him think so. He pauses, sensitive ears twitching as he tries to figure out what changed. It was already silent downstairs, and upstairs there’s only the quiet sound of Levi’s footsteps across the carpet…

The shower. The shower turned off.

Eren hurries up the stairs, though he pauses in front of Levi’s bedroom door and decides to knock. He told Levi he’d be here, but maybe Levi would prefer to be alone—

“Come in.”

Eren smiles, pushing the door open.

Levi’s standing in the center of his bedroom, dressed in black pajamas. He’s rubbing his eyes tiredly with his hands, which is a great sign, all things considered. Eren smiles a little wider.

“Feeling better?” Eren asks.

“I feel like shit,” Levi says, “but sure.”

“Do you wanna…”

Eren holds out his arms, and Levi narrows his eyes at him.

“You… don’t mind?”

Eren tilts his head.

“Don’t mind what?”

Levi frowns.

“Don’t fuck with me, Eren.”

Eren blinks, still not quite getting it. A moment later, he gasps.

“Oh, no, I wasn’t—that wasn't what I—” Eren stops to take a breath. “No, I don’t mind. I love you. That… What you did back then doesn’t change that.”

Levi’s mouth opens and closes soundlessly for a moment, and then—

“Why not?”

“Levi…”

Eren bites his lip, trying to think of how to phrase this in a way that doesn’t sound fucked to high hell. Honestly, Eren’s moral compass is a little skewed to begin with. And he’s known all along that Levi has killed people. Knowing that a few of them—maybe more—didn’t deserve it isn’t enough to trump all the good Eren has seen Levi do.

...There isn’t a way to make this sound not-fucked up, is there?

“Because I know you,” Eren says eventually. “I know why you thought vampires deserved to die, regardless of who they were. I mean—look at all the people who work for you, Levi. You were right about all the vampires that hurt them.”

Levi just averts his gaze.

“And,” Eren continues, “when you did learn they were people, you changed. Maybe I just… believe in that—in how you changed—because... not everybody does.”

And some people change for worse, just like the Feral King did.

...Just like Eren will.

Maybe part of the reason he trusts Levi so whole-heartedly is because Eren wants to believe he can do the same, when it’s time for him to. When Eren can finally put out the fire in his chest, he wants to rekindle it into something better.

He just… needs to make sure it doesn’t burn him up from the inside out, first.

Levi’s still quiet, his gaze lowered to the ground. Eren bites his lip, taking a step forward.

“Think about it like this,” Eren says. “When I… When I get revenge for my mom, will it change things for you? Will you still love me?”

Levi’s head snaps up, though there's a bit of delay between his actions and his next words.

“Of course I will—”

Gray eyes widen slightly as they meet Eren’s gaze, and Eren grins.

“Bingo!” Eren says. “Now you know how I feel.”

Levi’s gaze wavers, his hand clenching into fists at his side. Eren takes a step closer, brushing his fingertips against the back of Levi’s fist, gauging his reaction. When Levi doesn’t pull away, Eren curls his hand around Levi’s fist.

“The way I see it,” Eren says, “maybe we’re a little fucked up. But I think… we can still do good. I think you’re proof of that.”

When Levi doesn’t respond, Eren clears his throat, stepping away again.

“N-not that you have to think of it that way too,” Eren says. “I mean, I just—I just wanted to tell you because you asked ‘why not.’ That, um, that was my why not. You don’t have to read too much into it. I just wanted to get across that I love you no matter what—and I mean, uh—fuck, maybe I shouldn’t have said—”

“Eren.”

“Y-yeah?”

“Sorry,” Levi rubs his eyes with his hand. “We… might have to redo this conversation.”

Eren blinks.

“Redo it…?”

“I'm not… here," Levi says with a frown. "Not all the way. I'm not… catching everything you're saying."

"Oh." Eren smiles slightly. "That's okay."

"Sorry," Levi says again.

"No, no," Eren says, "it's okay. I wouldn't mind telling you again. Why don't you get some sleep?"

Levi frowns, rubbing his eyes again. Eren reaches out and squeezes Levi's shoulder.

"Get some sleep, Levi."

"I need to… call Furlan," Levi says as Eren gently nudges him in the direction of his bed. "For work."

"Do you want me to tell him you can't go tomorrow?" Eren asks, trying to slow his words a little in the hopes that it'll help Levi catch them a little better.

Levi nods.

"He needs to… do the schedules for me."

"I'll let him know. Where's your phone? I don't have his number."

Levi starts reciting Furlan's number out loud as he slides beneath the blanket, and Eren frantically takes out his own phone to copy it down.

"Hey, Levi," Eren says, tucking his phone back into his pocket, "do you want me to…"

When Eren looks back at Levi, his eyes are already closed.

"Stay?" Eren finishes with a half-sigh.

Eren slips out of Levi's room, closing the door quietly behind him. He decides he will stay, just in case. He can crash on Levi's couch until it's night again.

Eren waits until he's downstairs to call Furlan, not wanting to take the risk of waking Levi up before he gets the chance to properly rest.

"Hello, Furlan Church speaking," Furlan says, answering on the third ring.

"Hey, Furlan, its Eren."

"Eren? What's up? Everything okay?"

Eren is confused by the immediate concern, at first, before he remembers that it's nearly dawn and a mini-miracle that Furlan answered in the first place.

"Everything's fine… Levi wanted me to call and tell you that he can't come to work tomorrow."

"Levi? Levi said he can't come into work? At all? Are you sure everything's okay?"

"Yeah, we're fine," Eren says quickly. "We just… talked about something… tough, so…"

Furlan is quiet for a moment, and then—

"...So, he told you about Zeke?"

Zeke? Eren bites his lip. That's… a weird coincidence.

"Who's Zeke?"

"Zeke," Furlan says again, "the Feral King. That's the only topic that, well… Takes him out of commission for a while."

"Oh," Eren says. "Then, yeah, he did tell me about… Zeke."

Eren hears Furlan let out a sigh.

"He really trusts you, huh? He still hasn't told all of us about it, and we were there when he came back. Shit, he's only really told me and that’s just because I've been around him since we were fourteen…"

"...Yeah, I guess he does."

It's just a coincidence. It has to be. Right?

"Eren, you okay?"

"Yeah, I just…"

Eren rubs his face with his hands.

"Do you know Zeke's full name?" Eren asks.

"Yeah? Zeke Jaeger. Why, the name sound familiar to you?"

Fuck.

"H-how do you spell that?"

"What? Why?"

"Please."

"Okay… I think it's, j-a-e-g-e-r. Jaeger. Probably German or something."

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Furlan… I'll… call you back another time."

"Eren, are you sure you're okay—"

Eren hangs up before Furlan can get another word out.

Of course. Of course. It feels so much like a sick joke that Eren almost doesn't know why he didn't see it coming.

Zeke Jaeger… The Feral King…

...Eren's older brother.

They're all one and the same.

[thorne93]

Inside The Criminal Mind (Part 21)

Prompt: You’re married to Dr. Spencer Reid of the BAU, and are a distinguished doctor yourself on the team. You’re sent down to Miami, Florida for teaching and as a side request from the FBI, to investigate a string of missing persons. When you think you’ve figured out who the unsub is, your life becomes more complicated than you ever could’ve imagined.

Word Count: 1831

Warnings: (throughout the fic –>) death, blood, gore, killings, language, disturbing mental notions, mentions of rapes/murder/etc (You know, Dexter and Criminal Minds related business)

Notes: Thank you so much to @arrow-guy​​​​​​, @carryonmyswansong​​​​​​, and @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo​​​​​​ - without each of you, I couldn’t have finished, written, or properly navigated this story. Each of you helped me fish out details that were incredibly important to me. Beta’d by @carryonmyswansong​​​​​​ and @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo​​​​​​… Aesthetic by @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo​​​​​​

This is a crossover of Criminal Minds x Dexter. First time writing Dexter.

Also, the timeline is after Season 1 of Dexter, but during season 14-ish of Criminal minds into Season 15. Enjoy!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was several days early, nearly a week. You stopped by Dexter’s work before leaving, giving him a hug, telling him you’d update him as soon as you could. He nodded and thanked you for being a good friend and apprentice. 

You boarded a civilian plane back home. You worked it out with the university to have your last exams proctored by someone else. You grabbed everything you could, packed it in your suitcases, and headed home. Spencer wasn’t expecting you, and he might even be angry but right now, you were being selfish, so you didn’t care if he was ready for you or not.

You texted Emily, asking if they were in town or not. She might’ve wondered why you didn’t just ask Spence, so you prefaced it with it being a surprise and that you and Spence weren’t talking much since you were busy with finals. She informed you everyone was at the office, and expected to wrap up around six. 

To this, you went ahead and headed home. You dropped your suitcases inside the dining room, out of sight, so that when Spence came in, he would see you first. 

You waited for what seemed like centuries. You had no idea how he would react. He might even try to throw you out of the house, which you wouldn’t even know how to respond if he did. 

Finally, a key turned in the lock and he came in. Your heart was all but hammering out of your chest as your palms got clammy. You got up from the couch and walked to stand in the archway between the foyer and the living room. Spence turned, dropping his keys in the bowl, his face forlorn before he caught you out of the corner of his eye. 

He slightly jumped. “Y/N? What are you doing here? I thought you had more classes?” he asked evenly. 

“I do. I… I got another professor to proctor them,” you explained, wanting to close the gap between you two so badly that it hurt.  

Spencer frowned. “So why are you here?” 

“I was… I was having dinner with Dexter, and he said that if you were going to turn me in, that I should use my last days doing what I want, whatever makes me happiest. I thought about it, about what I’d want to want to do with my last days of freedom,” you informed, taking a few steps closer, wringing your hands nervously. You couldn’t help it, wanting to be closer to him. If he didn’t like it, he was going to have to shoot you, because you couldn't stand it any more. “And I want you. I want to be with you. Spend time with you. I don’t care if you have to pretend to like me, swallow your hate for me. I just want you, I want us, again, for a few days. Just before you turn me in. I know you don’t owe me anything but I’d have these days anyway, according to you. And… and that’s what I want from them… time with you,” you told him, a little bit out of breath.

You braced now for his total rejection. That’s all that was logical. Spencer wouldn’t, he couldn’t possibly entertain this idea. But you felt he had to know. 

“I’m not turning you in,” he suddenly started, dropping his bag on the floor casually.

“You’re not?” you asked, stunned. “Why not?” 

He let out a breath and said, “I’ve thought about it… and I understand where you’re coming from.”

Shock, more than joy flooded your system. Sure, you felt relieved, but this was certainly a surprise. 

“You… you do?”

He gestured towards the couch and you followed him.

“When I was in prison and I saw them kill Luis right in front of me… something in me snapped. I think between being falsely accused, watching the violence unfold, and the stress of our job, I just snapped. I wanted revenge. I’d never felt that before, but here was my friend, who got murdered in front of me. It’s like when we wanted revenge on Foyett, or Doyle. I felt that, sure. Morgan did too. That’s why we exhausted everything to find them. But we didn’t plan on killing them. Part of me wanted them gone, with no chance of getting out of prison but I knew that wasn’t right and it would make me the same as them.” 

“So… then why in prison…” 

“I guess because I felt trapped. In there, there is no law. It’s favors, bribes, nepotism. It’s about who knows who. Telling guards wouldn’t have mattered. Telling the team wouldn’t have mattered. It’d be just another prison shanking. But inside, I could do something about it, give Luis some sort of justice. In there, I wasn’t Spencer Reid BAU agent - I was Spencer Reid, wrongly committed felon being targeted. So I turned into something else, and when I listened to the part of me that said Luis deserved justice…. Well I gave it to him the only way I knew how.” 

“That’s… kind of what I’ve been doing with Dex. You wondered why he doesn’t just turn it over to the cops? Well he doesn’t exactly use legal channels. He breaks into homes to find proof, checks their cars, fakes identities, he goes through great lengths to prove their guilt. Things we can’t do on this side of the system. There’s no way we’d ever be granted a warrant for some of the people he’s found. Like, this one guy was a car salesman right, these two brunettes went in trying to buy a car from him. He had their home address, their name, he knew they were single…Dexter discovered that Hicks ran credit checks on the women to get insight into their private lives, finding out if they lived in homes or apartments and if they had any pets, making it easier to identify which women would be easier targets. Hicks covered his tracks by getting the women a deal at another car dealer, thus hiding his own presence in the paper trail.” You bit your lip as you tried to muster the courage to say the next part. “Spence, he went in their homes and brutally raped and murdered them. Cops had no real leads. They had DNA, sure, but this guy wasn’t in the system. Dex went, pretended he was a customer, and there, he met Hicks’ probable next victim. So he struck that night. The guy confessed to it all.”

Spencer sat there nodding. “I don’t doubt that he’s got a solid means of finding and disposing of these people, Y/N. And you’ve explained he’s just… built this way.”

“Yeah, without the code his cop father gave him, he’d be another one of our unsubs.”

“Y/N, he is one of our other unsubs,” he stressed as a reminder. “But what I want to know is… what about you? Is this just how you are or is this just the job getting to you or… where does this newfound compulsion come from?”

“Well, it’s not a compulsion. I could stop, if I wanted to,” you explained. “I just… feel good knowing that ultimately we are saving lives. Like I said, we can’t get all of these people over to the cops and even if we did, most would just bail out of jail until their trial and possibly kill again. I honestly feel like I am just doing my job without all the red tape and chance for them to do it again.”

He sat across from you, pressing his lips together. 

“I know, I sound like every delusional unsub we’ve ever had. That I have a cause and mine’s worthy, but if you say you could go to a darker part of yourself when you were in prison, feeling like your back is against the wall, then I feel like I’m doing the same thing. My back is against the wall with my hands tied out here, waiting on warrants, hoping juries find them guilty, and so… this is what I turned to. Vigilante justice.” 

“And I understand that. I thought about it and I can’t… I can’t really judge you when I did the same thing.” 

A long awkward pause filled the air before you finally spoke, the waiting killing you.

“So… what do we do now?” you asked, holding your breath. 

“Seeing as I attempted murder in jail, and you did it out here… I think we’re even.” 

“And Dex?”

“He’s free to live in Miami. We all will just forget the whole thing and go back to our lives. You give up everything you know, everything he taught you, and he can go back to his life down there.” 

You eyed him up and down. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

He took a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah. I can’t say I blame you. Since prison and Cat, and the whole Ben’s Believers and getting abducted… I can’t say homicide hasn’t crossed my mind a time or two.” 

You bobbed your head. “Right… And what about us? Are we going to go back to normal? Do I need to sleep in the guest room for a while?” 

“I have… no idea. I look at you and see my wife, then I remember what you did… and how you lied to me about it for months…” 

All you could do was nod, biting your lip as you kept the tears back. 

“I know, that was the worst part.” 

“Lying to me?”

You raised your head to face him properly. “Yeah. I know, it sounds fucked up and twisted. I was killing people. But honestly, coming home to you, seeing you, and lying about what I was doing, who I was… It was horrible. Regardless of what I did, what I am, I do love you. I’d take a bullet for you. I still miss your smile, I still love your laugh, I still pray for you to tell me random facts. Whether you believe me or not, I am very much in love with you.”

He smiled slightly. “I believe you.” 

You chewed your lip before adding. “Even if you turned me in, I wouldn’t fault you or hate you. I’d love you all the same.” 

He merely nodded his head a few times. “I know.”

A faint smile ghosted your lips. “Well… you’ve had a long day at work. I’ll, uh, I’ll let you get ready for bed and I’ll go put my things up in the guest room.” 

He nodded and you two went your separate ways for the most part. You put the items in your suitcase up while Spencer readied himself for bed. 

It wasn’t ideal. And his coolness towards you stung to your core.

But at least you weren’t going to prison or getting a divorce. So, all in all, this was the best case scenario.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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[wardencommanderrodimiss]

Witches, Chapter 25: back at Themis and like, everything about this place is increasingly awful and Professor Means is a shady motherfucker but we knew that already.

Thank you all for your patience as I took a month off from updates to try and build up a buffer that’s less than I like because Ch 27 is still being a bastard to me. These things happen. I’ll figure it out. 

[Seelie of Kurain Chapter Masterlist] [ao3]

[Witches Chapter Masterlist] [ao3]

----

Blackquill skips the damn opening statement, as though he intends to see how much he can get away with before he’s held in contempt of court, which he won’t ever be because the judge is terrified of him. Fulbright’s explanation of the crime is a list of indisputable facts, with nothing to even cross-examine. Myriam Scuttlebutt testifies from beneath her cardboard box and had a tape recorder hidden in the art room that allegedly picked up audio from the murder. Robin Newman is secretly a girl; her parents come from a tiny superstitious village that believes girl children are more likely to be stolen and replaced by changelings, so to fool the fae they raised Robin as a boy in her early years and then decided they’d rather have a son and didn’t end the charade. Hugh O’Conner had a private meeting with the victim that evening, but Juniper was with her after. 

The day ends with the judge about to name Juniper guilty, Apollo desperately wracking his brain for anything he can take issue with to stall for more time, and Robin and Hugh rushing up to the stand and both announcing themselves to be the actual killer, before Juniper tries to counter-confess over their confessions. And because no verdict is possible with this mess, the judge tells everyone to get out investigating and ends this session of court with Blackquill looking ready to earn his murder conviction another three times over. 

Dumb high schoolers committing perjury saved the case today, and this feels even worse than the time Apollo’s case was saved by Trucy faking her own kidnapping by the mafia. 

Athena is still shaking when they get out to the car. Understandable - they had a narrow escape, and as she was the lead defense, she was the one that Blackquill was going after with everything he had. Barb after barb flew off the samurai’s sharp tongue, finding every way to hit her that would hurt. For her age, her inexperience, with every new fact he saved to present until the defense thought they had the upper hand. He sat on damning evidence the entire trial, like it wasn’t even about proving Juniper’s guilt as much as it was tormenting Athena, letting her run up a case only to turn all her efforts futile with a single photograph he could have presented an hour ago. He told Athena as much, that this is futile, that she’ll never change the truth no matter how much she wants to save someone; he told her that he was sure anyone she wants to save so badly wouldn’t even want her defense, that she’d better give up and go home, and grow up, before the failure breaks her.

There’s the way that Blackquill mocked Apollo, and tore into Phoenix, and then there’s the way he strikes at Athena. Wasn’t it her, and not Apollo, that he directed that same advice of give up at during Mayor Tenma’s trial? And today, Apollo would swear, by the cruel gleam in Blackquill’s eyes, and the certain edge that his smirk held, that the man has some kind of personal vendetta against Athena. But that’s also an absurd thought - why her? What’s so twisted up inside the Twisted Samurai that it’s Athena he’s sunk his claws into? The simple fact that it’s this kid who has always been at the opposite bench on these cases he’s lost? Apollo and Phoenix there and not, but Athena, the constant, and for the first time, the lead.

The only silver lining Apollo sees for Athena - and he’s not about to actually say this to her when she looks this miserable - is that she didn’t ever get Taka’s talons in her face. The murderbird took pity on her, even if its owner didn’t. Small mercies.

Phoenix told them he would be going to the office and might be headed back to Themis at some point, don’t wait up, but Athena wanted to go to the detention center to talk immediately with Juniper. Odds are that she won’t be in interrogation yet, especially with Hugh and Robin’s confessions that Blackquill will also have to question. 

But even with how quickly they make it to see Juniper, when they are escorted in, Professor Means is already there, speaking with her. “I’m sorry, Athena,” she says, sounding colder and more standoffish than she did yesterday. “But I was thinking of asking Professor Means to defend me, instead.”

“B-but—” Athena looks helplessly between Juniper and the professor. “But why?”

She’s sure her friends are innocent, is why, and she’s afraid that, because Athena won’t rule out one of them being the killer, that either Hugh or Robin is going to be indicted tomorrow. Or she claims she’s sure; she doesn’t meet their eyes, and she’s shy, certainly, but she keeps toying with the edge of her sleeve and her eyes dart back and forth looking at nothing, and Apollo’s eyes tag each of those fidgets red. 

She’s lying. She doesn’t wholly believe her friends are innocent.  

And if - if that’s the truth, that one of them killed Courte, then that’s what has to happen, doesn’t it? Someone has to be convicted. Professor Means can’t promise acquittals for all three of them at this time, when nobody knows who the killer is because there’s no one piece of irrefutable evidence - unless he either is the killer and thus knows by default that Robin, Hugh, and Juniper are all innocent, or is planning on creating a piece of irrefutable evidence to exonerate the trio.

Neither of those are good, but they also can’t force Juniper to keep them as her defense, so Apollo elbows Athena and says, “If that’s how you feel, Juniper, then we’ll respect that” - Athena opens her mouth, probably about to say, no, she fucking won’t, she intends to defend Juniper come hell or high water, and Apollo elbows her again - “but we’d like to continue our investigation anyway, and ask you a few questions. Is that all right?”

Means remains present during their conversation, so they can’t explain to Juniper about Athena’s misgivings (and Apollo can’t tell Athena that he agrees, doesn’t want to tip their hand like this in front of Means, and now he feels like Phoenix surely does). Of course, Athena being Athena, she blurts out at the end of their meeting that she - and Apollo - are going to find the truth, with solid evidence of it, by sundown, and if they bring that to Juniper then she should accept Athena’s defense. Whether Athena’s force of will convinces Juniper, or just leaves her weary enough to agree, Apollo doesn’t know. All he knows is that they have a deadline now, and a far closer one than the trial tomorrow morning. 

And one where Means has set the stakes, blithely telling them that he has “considerable preparations” to make. His deliberate phrasing, his tone, everything: he’s telling them what he is and he doesn’t care if they know. And Juniper is desperate enough to not care what he is. 

-

“I don’t know what to do.” Back on the road, Athena lets Widget yell at the other drivers for her and launches straight into one of the many, many problems that have stacked up today. “I mean, I know what to do! We have to prove Junie innocent and find out who really murdered Professor Courte! But I don’t want to save her at the cost of her friends - but what if one of them really did it? They’re the only likely suspects. If it’s not Hugh or Robin then it’s something really complicated.”

“Which is also possible,” Apollo says. “Likely, even, considering past cases.”

“Yeah,” Athena agrees glumly, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. Widget yelps at someone to “Hey buddy, signal before you turn!”, and Athena continues, “But the thing is, I understand completely where Junie’s coming from. She said that! That she’s believing in her friends the way I believe in her! And I believe in her because she’s my friend, not because I’m a defense attorney and she’s my client and it’s my job to believe her! But - I can’t believe in Hugh and Robin the same way, because I’m a defense attorney. But I don’t want to break Junie’s heart either. I know, I know” - she holds up a finger, forestalling a response - “that we need to find the truth, and whatever the real truth is, that’s the truth. We can’t cover it up. But I don’t - can I be both Junie’s defense attorney, and her friend who wants to believe in her friends because I believe in her and she believes in them?”

Apollo takes a moment to follow that winding thread. “I don’t necessarily think you can’t be both,” he says. “It’s - of course Juniper doesn’t want to consider it, but when the evidence points that way, you have to at least consider it. You might think you know someone, but you also can’t just write off—”

“But evidence can be faked!” Athena interrupts. “And people framed, and false confessions pressured out of them. And—” She glances up in the rearview mirror, loses her train of thought for a moment as she pulls into another lane, and then she adds, “We’re defense attorneys! We have to believe in our clients to the bitter end.”

“We’re defense attorneys,” Apollo repeats. “If a friend of yours, or mine, is accused of murder, we’re probably going to be defending them. So of course we’re believing in them to the end. But Juniper’s friends aren’t our clients.”

“But what if you were my client but then the only other person around at the time was Trucy,” Athena says. “It’s like Sasha and Orla! Sasha believed it wasn’t Orla, and Mr Wright saved them both, so aren’t we - shouldn’t we believe in what our client believes?”

“I—” Should they? Is that part of the job too? “I don’t think there’s one answer. I think you’ve gotta take it on a case-by-case, every time. What the evidence is, what it seems to be saying.” His first case saw him proving his client’s innocence by indicting his boss on murder charges. After that - what the hell is he supposed to say after that? Putting faith in his client means that suspicion might fall instead on someone else he thinks he knows, and he has to follow it to the end, because who ever really knows someone? 

If he told Athena about Kristoph, she would understand much better where he’s coming from, what he actually means, but there is so much packed into that one surface-level simple story, and they need to focus on Juniper’s case, and the Themis investigation, instead. 

“And,” he adds, as something else occurs to him, “if you really do believe in someone, even if the evidence looks really bad - you have to keep pulling at it, and digging deeper, and if your client really is innocent then the truth that you finally dig up should exonerate them, right? You can’t say you believe in someone and then try to cover up the truth.”

“That makes a lot of sense, actually!” Athena chirps. (Apollo thinks he should protest that. Actually? He makes sense most of the time! Why does she sound so surprised?) “If Professor Means forges evidence to get them all off the hook, then that means that he doesn’t believe that there’s real evidence that will - which means he believes one of them did it. But then - then that almost sounds like Junie doesn’t fully believe that Hugh or Robin didn’t do it, either.” She glances at Apollo for confirmation.

“Yeah,” he says. “She doesn’t. But they’re her friends, so she’s trying to be in denial and insist she believes in them, and I understand the impulse, but at some point - even no matter how well you know someone, you never know.” 

Athena lifts one of her hands to Widget, like she’s about to start psychoanalyzing Apollo’s speech right now, in a moving vehicle that she is driving. Then she grabs the steering wheel again, forcing aside that unconscious gesture, and Apollo is glad that she doesn’t have the time to interrogate him on all the emotions that must be in his statement. To figure out that while he’s thinking mostly of Klavier, and Kristoph and Daryan, murder isn’t the only crime, and there was a time that no matter what the Bar Association said and did, Apollo still believed, truly, wholly, that Phoenix Wright never in his life would forge evidence.

-

Despite the yellow sun beaming down from a cloudless blue sky, a chill has taken hold through the air when they arrive at Themis. Apollo shudders against the bitterly cold wind that passes, seemingly unobstructed, through him, funneled around the buildings in an inadvertent wind tunnel. “Come on, Apollo!” Athena calls, her voice and hair carried about by the wind as she rushes headlong into it without a seeming care, too fixated on her case and her defense to let anything distract her. “Fretta!”

Their conversation led Apollo to some other thoughts that he hasn’t mentioned. They nearly lost the case this morning, Athena’s first time leading the defense, the defendant a dear friend, and the sun arcing its way across the sky is a deadline sinking closer and closer toward them. She’s stressed enough, and she doesn’t need to be burdened with Apollo’s suppositions. 

(That Professor Means has already begun to prepare his defense, and who’s to say he’ll abandon all those preparations should Juniper keep Athena on as her defense attorney? That they can’t discount the possibility that he might try to feed falsified evidence to them, pass it to someone else to pass to Apollo and Athena, to trick them into coming to the wrong conclusion. That he might try and rig it so that even if he doesn’t stand as defense tomorrow, all three suspected students will be exonerated, rightly or not.)

(Or worse, what if he is angry if Juniper asks Athena and Apollo to remain her defense team? He might be angry that he loses out on the defense, angry that his preparations came to nothing - he might be angry and turn his falsified preparations into tools for revenge. What if he decides to bury them, trick them into presenting evidence he falsified, trick them into being caught with it, trick them into losing everything they have, badges and reputations and Juniper’s freedom?)

He doesn’t need to mention this. Not now, not unless someone tries to hand them new evidence of uncertain origin. Like a page of Courte’s planner, or another possible murder weapon, or something else with blood on it that points to a different original crime scene. But otherwise, Athena already knows Means is a threat to the truth, and she’s already concerned about what will happen if she can’t find enough decisive evidence this afternoon. There’s no reason to get her more worked up over hypothetical problems that Means could cause, when she already knows the problems he certainly has admitted he intends to cause. 

“Oi! Apollo! Allons-y! Vamanos!”

On the way in through campus, they don’t run into anyone else or see any police presence. Non-essential personnel and everyone unrelated to the case were told to stay away and remarkably, seem to have abided by such. Klavier mentioned once that some students dorm on campus, and Apollo wonders if they’ve been forcibly turned into shut-ins by officers planting themselves at the doors. 

Though, despite the emptiness of campus and the fact that no one should have been around, along the main path to the quad, beneath a tree, someone set up a framed photo of Professor Courte. Tributes have already begun to gather. A few flowers lie at the base of the picture, while some shrine amulets hang from the tree’s lowest branches, and both the frame and the tree bear a number of scribbled sticky note messages that the wind doesn’t seem to touch. They stop before it, and while Apollo doesn’t know what Athena is thinking, he imagines it might be something similar: I swear, Professor, we will find the truth of who did this and won’t allow it to be covered up.

The scaffolding in front of the stage that holds up several large speakers sways slightly in the wind. Apollo shudders at the thought of it all crashing down. What a horrible mess that would all be, and dangerous for anyone in the vicinity. Like him and Athena, intending to investigate the stage again. He didn’t get a chance to get a good look at anything but the body, before the police arrived and ushered everyone away, but there’s any number of clues that might still lie here if they take some time.

If we have time to take, he thinks, glancing up at the sky. He has difficulty forcing himself to look at the stage for long, though he can’t say why. He’s dealt with a lot of tape outlines in the past; he’s stood in the same places as several people have died. There’s no reason for this to be the one that trips him up.

Unless - unless - there is someone making that a problem. 

No sooner has Apollo thought this than he watches the hunched white form of Vongole slink out from around the side of the stage. She sits down right beside the partition meant to rope off the crowd, nose pointed straight at Apollo. If he needed to know for sure that Athena can’t see her, now he does.

“Afternoon, you two.”

And even knowing that Klavier is here, lurking the same as his hellhound, Apollo still flinches when the man appears in front of him. “Uh, hiya. What are you doing, sneaking around here?” Investigating, no doubt. Apollo doesn’t know why he asked that question. To be polite, maybe. “Aren’t you worried that someone’s going to think it’s a little suspicious that you just keep creeping back onto campus like this?”

“And who’s going to catch me here, Herr Forehead?” Klavier winks. He looks as radiant as ever today, perfectly composed and golden, with the sun glinting off of all of his silver accessories. And yet, Apollo knows the cracks beneath the surface, knows that he and Klavier are both waiting for Klavier to slip and pieces of the facade to momentarily collapse to reveal what’s truly going on. “You? Or perhaps the slithering sneak reporter clothed in cardboard I have reached both understanding and impasse with.”

Ignoring the stairs just a few feet over to the left, around the side of the stage, Klavier hoists himself up over the edge of the stage, his shirt riding up his stomach as he does, and he sits there for a moment before he swings his legs up. This is the opposite of when he’s using glamour to hide - Apollo has to forcibly turn his eyes away. Is it consciously showing off that Klavier’s trying to do, or has he taken the path of most resistance that looks coolest for so long that he just does without thinking? “I’ve no doubt she’s hardly used to anyone seeing through her, but for the moment, I would watch what you say, ja? Nothing that you don’t want known by an unscrupulous paparazzi with no understanding of the terms ‘journalistic integrity’ or ‘off the record’.”

And even if that wasn’t the game plan by necessity of Myriam’s presence, Apollo still wouldn’t ask the questions he has. About what Klavier meant by saying “seeing through her”, if it’s about

the way that Myriam’s eyes glow, and the way Klavier’s own dart around wide and wild enough that not even glamour masks it. Apollo knows Klavier well enough not to bring it up. And to hope that if something like this were directly relevant to the case, to Professor Courte, then he would say it. That the fear and paranoia the Court left him with would come second to seeking justice for his old professor.

Athena follows Klavier’s lead by taking the shortcut of hopping right up onto the stage. “So that weird box there,” she says, gesturing to the one conspicuously out of place on the stage, by one of the white model benches. Apollo passes right next to it as he comes up the stairs. “That’s—”

“Sss! Sss, sss!” The hissing voice that emerges from beneath the cardboard is a familiar one from the trial today, but the actual box itself differs from the one they saw yesterday, and in court today. Blackquill had threatened her by way of threating to chop up her box when she was up on the witness stand - maybe he made good on that. “But I’ll bet they can’t see through me!”

“Boxes don’t usually talk, Myriam,” Athena says. “And by ‘usually’ I kind of mean, ever?”

“Oh.” She doesn’t, as Apollo had hoped she would, beat a hasty retreat after saying something as silly as that. But she does go quiet, even though the conversation - Athena now imploring Klavier for help investigating, and him assuring her that he was ready to before she ever asked - is something - a prosecutor helping out Juniper’s defense - that she would have remarks on. Maybe Athena gave enough punches to her pride this morning that it still leaves her subdued now.

The German Language Social Club - if Apollo ever has to defend a case against Gavin with Athena has co-counsel, he’s going to break his nose beating his face into the bench because of the way these two have hit it off - are discussing the stage plans and the broken statues. Apollo joins their conversation too late to stop Athena from telling Klavier that the Gavinner’s logo looks like the number six if it was contorted in pain.

-

The police investigation is centered in the art room, Fulbright still in charge. A wire running down from the art room across the back of the stage would have hoisted two banners for the school festival concert, and at Athena’s request, Fulbright sends down the one banner still attached to the wire, and then he tosses her some kind of cement sculpture glue. 

In the mock-up stage plans that Klavier still has, there should have been statues of both him and Phoenix, that Robin made, that both were destroyed some time around when the body was found. Athena determined that reassembling the large purple plaster-of-paris chunks that once made up Prosecutor Gavin might yield them case information. They don’t have time to kill, certainly, with their deadline, but Robin and Hugh, if they’re planning to come back to campus, are probably still in questioning, Fulbright is busy, the art room off-limits, and Myriam reticent. What else would they be investigating now, anyway?

Apollo unravels the knotted school banner sent down along the wire, listening to the pidgin German-English chatter happening over the statue. Funny, he didn’t know that either of them actually knew more than a few scant phrases in the language, but maybe that’s by virtue of having no one to speak with, because together they’re sounding like a semi-fluent conversation is happening. A strange loneliness wells up inside Apollo’s chest - not for feeling left out from the discussion happening right next to him, but something he can’t quite place.

The school banner, made of dark red fabric, shows an even darker stain. Blood, from being up at the scene of the murder? Apollo calls the fake Germans over to examine this new evidence, and the scrap of paper that was crumpled up with it, and then like a lightning bolt from a cloudless blue sky he remembers being seven years old, learning to speak English, and chittering with Nahyuta in a mishmash of languages that would have sounded a lot like that. Like these two doofuses here with Apollo now sound. He steps away from the banner, wishing to return to being confused about why exactly this feeling of isolation just struck him. He wishes it was just something stupid, like envy that Athena and Klavier hit it off so well, so quick, or fear that they’re talking about him behind his back.

“There’s still a lot of these white plaster chunks around,” Athena says, holding up one, and squinting one eye shut to hold it up in front of the pedestal where the statue of Phoenix should have been. “Mr Wright’s statue was supposed to be blue, so this can’t be it.” She sets the piece down on the nearby imitation prosecutor’s bench. “I bet I can put these back together, too!”

“Is that - important?” Apollo asks. “For our investigation?”

“Can’t know until we try!” Athena says. “I’ve learned from you and Mr Wright that nothing is too irrelevant that we can’t use it!”

“The Fräuelin seems like a quick learner,” Klavier says. “It must not have taken her long to be able to imitate all your frantic bluffs and mad last-minute grasping at any desperate and stupid possibility as a ploy for more time.”

“I am going,” Apollo says, “to pick up that statue there” - he points at the purple bust of Klavier, some of the inner white showing through the cracks where it didn’t all fit perfectly back together - “and smash it over your head.”

“Don’t you dare!” Athena shouts from the other side of the stage. 

“And ruin all of the hard work she just put into fixing it?” Klavier asks. “This Fräulein has learned so much from you and you would treat her this way?”

Apollo rolls his eyes. When he glances over his shoulder he sees Athena back at work with plaster and glue, having apparently decided she can trust that Apollo won’t wreck her handiwork. She looks like she has her next puzzle well enough under control, and he turns back to examine this other statue. He’s more surprised that Klavier’s vanity didn’t make an appeal. You would really destroy this beautiful face, Herr Forehead, ja?

And it is - frustrating, really, that the statue is so genuinely well-done. None of the lumpy uncanniness that he expects from a high schooler’s work in plaster, not just a surface-level resemblance where they know it’s Klavier because they know it’s supposed to be Klavier. It looks like Klavier, down to the curve of his jaw and shape of his nose and casual, devil-may-care posture. And the frustration stemming from this, Apollo thinks, is that there’s no glamour to a statue, no charm of the real person, and assessing it he’s still forced to realize that yes, Klavier has a beautiful face, and there’s no magic bedazzling Apollo into thinking so. That’s just his stupid, pretty face. Infuriating. 

“Admiring the view?” Klavier asks. “You know the real thing is right here.” He grins, a forced, hollow one, and moves to prop an arm up on the pedestal that holds the statue, but his elbow knocks it off-balance and it wobbles dangerously. Both he and Apollo lunge, in unison, to grab it and steady it. “Ach, you threatened too but it then turns out the only one out to destroy me is me, ja?” He laughs. Apollo doesn’t like the sound of it. He releases the statue now that it’s still - Klavier’s eyes linger on Apollo’s hand, on the ring there, that Klavier gave him more than a year ago - and steps back, to look to Athena. With her hands on half of a white plaster statue already assembled, she has frozen, head cocked, like she heard Klavier’s laugh, too, and wanted to figure it out. Thought it notable enough to contemplate.

“I was admiring,” Apollo says, because he has nothing to say to Klavier’s last statement, nothing he’s going to risk saying with nosy Myriam right across the stage, “that Ms Newman is a hell of an artist.”

“That she is,” Klavier says darkly. Motion at the edge of Apollo’s vision catches his attention; Athena snapped her head around to stare at him. She might not have the background knowledge to understand it, but Apollo knows that he and Klavier are on the same page.

“I keep thinking,” Apollo says, lowering his voice, hoping to at least keep this out of Myriam’s ears even if now Athena will surely be listening more intently. “About what she said during the trial today, and her parents went about it the wrong way but they would’ve had plenty of reason to be afraid that she’d be stolen.”

“I suppose it’s an argument that destiny exists, in some form,” Klavier says quietly, “that they always seem to know who’s going to grow up with a talent and passion for the arts, to manage to snatch away the artist types when we’re only infants.” Him, and Vera or the original human who was supposed to be Vera, and he said once that he knew someone else too. Artists. And the most creative thinking Apollo ever does is keeping up with the twists and turns of a case, and he can only bring himself to sing in the shower if he knows for certain that no one else is home. He asked Klavier once if Apollo is anything like him and of course he isn’t, he knows now, because the fae steal artists so Apollo’s childhood was weird but wholly human. 

(Right. Of course it was. Case closed, end of story, no reason to think about it ever again.)

“Hey, Prosecutor Gavin!” Athena calls, hefting another large hunk of plaster over her head. The white statue has almost come together, a roughly as-tall-as-life, though the other proportions seem rather stylized, figure of a woman in an ancient Greek-looking dress, one arm at her side with a sword. Athena has another white statue arm in her hands, along with a head that was originally at least three pieces, and a white plastic scale and chains lying at her feet. “Can you help me finish this?”

“Why can’t I help?” Apollo asks. 

“Because you’re not any taller than me! I need someone who can get the head on straight!”

“I’m not good at doing things ‘straight’, Fräulein,” Klavier says, and Athena cackles, and Apollo chokes on an inhale and doubles over in a coughing fit. 

-

A chalk outline in the center of the stage marks where Courte’s body was. As they’ve traversed the area, they’ve all avoided stepping not just in the lines but near them, either. And while Athena’s got no way of knowing such a fact, another reason Apollo has skirted the lines is Vongole. She lies next to the imprint of Courte’s body, her head resting on the ground between two clearly-defined paws, but the back half of her body dissolves into a vaguely dog-shaped block of smoke. Every time Apollo has looked at her - and it hasn’t been often, she repels his eyes almost the way that Klavier can - her eyes have been closed.

He wonders if she would always be so drawn to the dead, or if it’s Courte, specifically, and Klavier’s own emotions influencing her.

Klavier doesn’t come with them when they leave the stage to continue investigating. Apollo almost doesn’t want to leave him, not when he sounds the way he does, but Juniper is their first priority. They’ve got to save her first, and then they’ll figure out how to help Klavier. 

Finding the truth of who killed Courte will help Klavier.

Myriam, who rushed off as soon as Klavier mentioned the other missing banner meant for stage decoration, is surprisingly helpful despite her mess of a testimony in court this morning. She gives them a few photos of festival setup from the night of the crime and a scrap of fabric from the incinerator out behind the dumpsters - a regular public high school could never have an incinerator anywhere within access of the student body, Apollo thinks - that definitely used to be a Gavineers-branded banner. Athena in return psychoanalyzes her to guess that she’s jealous of Juniper, Robin, and Hugh’s friendship, and bullies her into promising that she’ll swear to ask Juniper to hang out when this is over. 

Maybe that will balance the scales for the fact that Hugh claims he doesn’t care about Juniper at all anymore. As he speaks, he pops a book out from under his arm and sticks his nose in it, and the whole motion - his hand, his face, his eyes - thrums with red, the highlighted motions of a man trying with everything he has to lie, to them and maybe even to himself. If it’s the truth that they want, they’ll have to force it out of him tomorrow when he’s on the witness stand. 

(And Apollo still has no idea what Myriam’s deal is. Would the fae be able to write highly exaggerated not-reality-based gossipy tabloid-esque newspaper articles? Do those count as lies?)

Fulbright lets them examine the art room, with the police’s investigation finally completed. Athena sticks her head out the window and Apollo nearly grabs her to be certain that she isn’t going to try and jump or climb down the wire to try and attempt the corpse-moving possibilities herself. When she finally moves aside, feet still planted firmly on the art room floor, Apollo glances out after her, but for all the relevance this location has to the crime, his attention is drawn, more than anything, to the brown striped feather lying on the windowsill. 

The color and pattern of a certain hawk.

All the while, the sun sinks lower in the sky, its light bleeding across the horizon. 

Robin lurks about the main lecture hall, with a recording of the mock trial she begged off the cops at the crime scene. “Wanna watch?” she asks, and Athena, eager to see Juniper’s performance as the defendant, eagerly flings herself down into a seat next to Robin. “We’re def skipping Professor Means’ speech, though. All of his are so boooooring!” Apollo may have been physically present in this lecture hall at the time of Means’ speech, but he couldn’t say any more than Athena, who was not there, what it was about. “Let’s skip the opening statement too. It gets good when we all start yelling!”

In the video, Robin and Hugh both are understandably heated; this is a battle for prestige in front of all of their classmates, pride on the line, and they act like it. Juniper’s the one with least at stake, but the meek girl they’ve met can put on a hell of an acting performance when she wants. Athena in their mock mock trial was the litmus, in Apollo’s mind, and she had cheesier delivery than the worst made-for-tv sci-fi flicks that Clay likes to suffer through. But Juniper actually has some emotional delivery, and he’s not surprised that she’s a singer, given the way she projects her voice when she starts yelling. 

“Wait,” Athena says, jabbing not at the computer screen to pause it but instinctively at Widget’s screen, where she had drawn a floor plan of the lecture hall. “Stop, go back to that last bit.”

“Yeah, I’d kind of lost it at the time,” says the Juniper on screen, “and I shouted ‘You’re a goner!’ at her, but I didn’t mean it! I didn’t do it!”

He’s not quite convinced by her portrayal of a defendant in those lines - they might be worked up, sure, but they’d still probably say “you’re a goner” in the same tone as the rest of their protestations. Juniper screams it like she would have at the crime scene, with sudden desperate anger that doesn’t match the rest. But he’ll respect her for hamming it up, and more important—

“What?” Robin asks. “What are you both so excited about?”

“You remember the audio recording the prosecution had today?” Apollo asks. “The one from the art room, where we argued about what female voice was yelling?” And who was yelling, and they’d tried to implicate Robin then. 

“And about whether the voice was saying ‘you’re a goner’ or ‘Hugh O’Conner,” Athena adds. “Here, I’ve got it saved on Widget, I’ll play it—!”

The recording played in the trial today is distant and fuzzier, of course, they couldn’t have spent so long arguing about it otherwise, but having heard Juniper’s mock trial performance right before, the cadence and the voice sound alarmingly alike. “Then that evidence could be fabricated,” Athena says. “We’ve got to get that tape analyzed as soon as we can!”

“Perhaps I can help with that.”

Athena and Robin both yelp. Apollo flinches, evening knowing that this was likely to happen again today. “At least let us know you’re there!” Athena chides. “Do we have to put a cat bell collar on you?”

The chain necklace should be jangly enough, but it isn’t. “What’s a rock star without their dramatic entrances?” Klavier leans on the back of Apollo’s chair. “Go big or go home, Fräulein. But I can have that tape from today’s trial analyzed and get you the results as soon as I can. Catch you tomorrow morning at the latest.”

“That would be amazing!” Athena claps her hands together and twists around in her seat to face him. “But you’re not the prosecutor on this case. Are you sure you’ll be able to have someone take a look at it?”

“Never fear, Fräulein, I’ve got fans in Criminal Affairs who will take a strictly-above-board look at this if I ask.” He smiles with his lips pressed tightly together, a bit of a grim expression, like he thinks leveraging his fame and reputation to be a bit distasteful. It’s a bit ends-justifying, in a way, and he doesn’t doubt that Klavier is aware of it. What would Professor Courte think? They’ll never know, because she’s dead, and Klavier’s using what he has to solve her murder. “Nothing suspicious, through the proper channels only, should Herr Samurai want to verify the results.”

Blackquill. He’s tried to insinuate that defense attorneys can’t be trusted, and honed in on Phoenix specifically for it, and maybe Klavier feels safe crossing him because he’s not technically a coworker, certainly doesn’t have an office in the building with all the other prosecutors. “Does Prosecutor Blackquill know you’re helping us?” Apollo asks, and that abruptly shuts up both Athena and Robin.

Klavier, back on the stairs and heading for the doors at the top of the hall, stops. He brushes his hair back behind his shoulder. “Ja, we spoke about it this morning, before the trial. It will not surprise me if tomorrow he has another snide remark for me.”

“Snide?” Robin asks. “Nah man, he’s not snide! He’s S-C-A-R-Y. Even when I was just a witness, before my big confession.”

“Perjury, Fräulein,” Klavier calls back, snidely, the door closing on him a moment after, and Robin beams, either proud of it or just happy that people know she’s a girl now and doesn’t care what Klavier has to say to her besides the all-important “Fräulein”.

Fulbright has to know who Klavier is, right? Does he tell Blackquill that there’s another prosecutor back on the scene today? Or is it Taka? That’s a witch thing, right, the familiar at their shoulder, a black cat or a crow or a toad who can report back on goings-ons where the witch isn’t present. Could Blackquill be something as simple as a witch, unbothered by iron cuffs or bars because he’s merely a human? What of his uncanny ability to obstruct anyone else’s vision? Is that an ability unique to the creature he is, or is it unique to him, to the who rather than what. 

Either one makes Apollo uncomfortable - realizing that he can’t even rely on his eyes to tell him the Truth, because what if there’s someone or something else out there fooling him without his knowing? Without making as big of a show of it as Blackquill did that first time? He has to stay vigilant the old-fashioned way, the mundane way of an ordinary poker player watching for his opponent’s tells. 

“—then he pulled me in and grilled me until I recanted.” Robin is recounting the tale of her interrogation by Blackquill earlier in the afternoon. “And he didn’t even charge me with perjury yet! Said that his first priority was the professor’s murder, and once he solved that he’d take all the time he wanted on me and Hugh! He said he’d have all three of us convicted, man!”

“Ugh!” Widget cries, while Athena folds her arms and frowns and stares off absently. “Why’s he so mean?”

“Hey, Athena?” Apollo asks. The last time they were outside, he hadn’t liked how much colder it had gotten, and how long the shadows loomed. “If we’re still set on sundown for meeting with Juniper and Professor Means, we should probably get going, and tell her everything we’ve learned.”

-

“I don’t want to hear any more.” Juniper presses her hands over her ears. Her skin is bad again today, less green and more yellow, and probably accentuated by the sour fluorescent light. The only good thing about the speed with which trials occur is that it means less time Juniper has to spend in here, withering away. As long as they win, and if there wasn’t enough pressure in trying to save an innocent person, now Apollo wonders if Juniper, in her condition, could even survive prison. “I know what you’re going to say, Athena. I know that you’re—”

“Please listen to me!” Athena smacks the glass. “Please! Junie, you promised that you would hear out the truth!”

Professor Means stands silently along the wall, listening to their report to Juniper. He had come in about ten minutes after Apollo and Athena arrived. “The voice in the tape recording from the trial today is yours for sure, Junie,” Athena continues. “As Fulbright said. But we think it’s the same as something you said in the mock trial, and the only suspect who would benefit from faking a female voice as the culprit would be Hugh.” Juniper lets out a small sob, covering her mouth with her hand. “Since it would take all the suspicion off of him. We’re having the tape analyzed to know for sure if it’s fabricated or not.”

“Prosecutor Gavin was doing that, was he not?” Professor Means asks. “I ran into him as we were leaving campus.”

“Yeah,” Athena says. “He’s been amazing.”

“B-but Hugh confessed to protect me at the trial today!” Juniper argues, sounding perilously close to tears despite it. “Why would he—”

“You and Robin were already confessign and arguing that you’d done it,” Athena says. “Wouldn’t it look a bit weird if Hugh hadn’t also tried to confess to the murder? If you’re all as good of friends as you say.” Tension there is aside, and Hugh trying to claim that he doesn’t care about Juniper also aside - this is why Apollo only had one friend in high school. This kind of drama didn’t happen. Also neither he nor Clay ever got accused of murder in high school.

“I know what you think, Athena, but I don’t care.” Juniper’s voice trembles. She clutches her wrist. “None of us would kill anyone - not me, not Robin, not Hugh.” She closes her mouth on a cough, and her cheeks puff out and her nostrils flare with the air exhaled. “Hugh’s a great student and he gets good grades and he doesn’t cause trouble.” Her throat bobs as she swallows a second cough, and bright red blinks out on her skin. 

“Juniper,” Apollo says. Her eyes snap open wide. “Look me in the eyes and repeat what you just said.”

“Huh?” Athena asks. “Apollo, you saw something?”

“Hugh’s a - a—” She can’t hide her coughing now, can’t stifle it. “A gifted student and h-he never causes trouble—” The red flickers in and out, ceasing when she’s coughing too hard to speak, and resuming when she resumes her words.

“Juniper,” Apollo repeats firmly, and she seems to sense what’s coming, ducking her head and turning her eyes away. “You seem to cough a lot when you’re stressed, and you’re stressed because you’re lying.”

He wishes she hadn’t tried lying to them. It feels cruel to force it out of her, and she sounds pathetic, her coughing growing ever-weaker. “Robin told us that there was a rumor that someone in your class was spying and snitching on other students back to a professor,” Athena says. “I think that was Professor Courte. She had a note in her planner to receive a ‘routine report’, and then the next day she scheduled a meeting with Hugh. I think it’s you who was the snitch, and I think you found out something about Hugh. And you wish you hadn’t.”

Juniper’s body still shakes like she’s coughing, and she has a fist up to her mouth, but no sound comes out. “Forgive me, Thena, forgive me, but I - I suspected Hugh from the start!” Her final cough turns into a loud sob. She isn’t trying to hold anything in, now, and tears roll unfettered down her cheeks. “And I’ve talked so much about friendship when I’ve been a terrible friend and I - I—” Shuddering, sobbing gasps stop her from being able to say any more.

Poor girl. Not only is she accused of murder, and not only is the professor she was so close with dead, but she has to suspect one of her closest friends of doing the deed that put her here. “I can’t imagine how you must feel right now, Juniper, I’m sorry,” Apollo says. “But I don’t think you’re a bad friend. You must care about your friends a lot to be this upset.”

He thinks about her yesterday, sobbing that she wanted to tell Hugh and Robin about her fae ancestry, but she didn’t know how. He thinks about Klavier, telling him that he’d always meant to tell Daryan, and then he ran out of time. 

(He thinks about the time, a few weeks after Sasha Buckler’s trial, when Phoenix was organizing the files associated with it and said that sometimes being a lawyer felt like watching the same tragedies play out over and over. Apollo had glanced over at him, assessed the expression on his face, and decided not to ask what this reminded him of, and whether it was a fae thing in particular, the kinds of tragedies he saw repeated. Here’s one that is.)

Juniper rubs tears from her eyes but more well up a moment later. She does remind him some of Vera, the Vera they first met who barely spoke, when he was afraid that the world itself would break her. They saved Vera, and Vera saved herself, and they’re going to save Juniper too. For her sake, and for Athena’s sake. 

“Please, can you tell us why?” Athena asks. “That could be very important to the case.”

“It was Professor Courte who I reported too,” Juniper says. “She was - she told me that the Academy, and its alumni, haven’t always upheld the ideals of justice they’re supposed to.” She takes a deep breath and sits up straighter, squaring her shoulders. “That the corruption in our legal system gets to our students even before they graduate. She was worried that more of my classmates would be going astray, and she wanted to stop it if she could.”

“I’ve long admired the way she held to her ideals,” Means says. “If even, at times, I found it beautifully sad and unrealistic of her.”

Unrealistic to expect attorneys to not forge evidence? Is that what he means? The awkward conversation they had with him on first meeting, and the strange praise he had for Phoenix, returns to mind. Maybe that is exactly what he’s trying to say. 

 “I was supposed to talk with her once a month and report any wrongdoings I’d heard about. The other day, I went and told her about Hugh. I heard him talking on the phone, to his parents maybe, about paying money for good test scores.”

“What?” Athena yelps. “That’s bribery! Who was getting the money?”

“I don’t know,” Juniper says. “I could only hear half the conversation and he never said—”

“Wait!” Athena smacks her hand on the sill beneath the glass. “Hold it! That one weird sheet of paper we found, the—” She begins digging in her pockets, and when that proves unsuccessful, she, grumbling, activates Widget and brings up an image of the scrap of paper they found earlier in the afternoon on the stage. It’s a small sheet torn out of a notebook, with the faint print of a sword on the center of the page, like all the pages in Courte’s planner. Written on it are three words: October Hugh 120. “This! We couldn’t figure out what the number meant earlier, but now, it’s got to be—”

“—about the bribe,” Apollo finishes. “Like, a hundred-twenty grand for October.” It couldn’t be simply a hundred and twenty dollars for the month - no one would risk being caught for so little - but also damn is that a lot of money to throw away every month. What could Apollo do with a hundred-twenty grand in a year - in a lifetime. 

“And the marking on the paper!” Athena continues, jabbing her finger through Widget’s projection in an attempt to emphasize what’s there. “It’s the same as Courte’s planner!”

Which Apollo knew - Athena showed him pictures she took of Courte’s planner - but the actual meaning of it didn’t sink in as quickly as it did for her. “B-but how would Professor Courte have th - that information?” She sniffs and then coughs. “You can’t - can’t think she was the one who was - was…” Her unsteady words trail off into a stammer and then silence. The tears she managed to halt start flowing from her reddening eyes again - and her eyes are reddening in both the way of going bloodshot from sobbing, and the fae way of a vivid, unnatural red welling up around her pupils. 

“We can’t know for sure yet, but it’s a definite possibility,” Athena answers.

“That’s absurd!” Professor Means says. “I would think that Professor Courte would be the last person who would ever do such a thing!”

“Like I said, it’s a possibility.” Athena sounds a little irritated, like she’s confident in her own assessment of the situation and has no idea why no one else is with her on it. 

The paper it’s written on is solid evidence, but the logic of it doesn’t follow through. Professor Courte taught in and managed the course for aspiring judges. Hugh is a student of a different department, for defense attorneys. Sure, he doesn’t know exactly how Themis’ administration works, but how could a professor change the grades for a student they didn’t have? Someone else would have to have their eye on those grades to notice and realize what went in the computers was different than what was marked on the tests. It would make more sense to bribe the professor in charge of the student’s particular course, which in this case is—

“Professor Means?”

Apollo jumps. When did the door behind them open? There’s Phoenix, who he’s barely seen at all today, poking his head into the visiting room. “Can we talk for a moment?”

“Certainly,” Means says. “We’re in the midst of discussing our evidence and strategy for tomorrow, but any input you have would be most welcome.”

“Ah - no.” Phoenix straightens up and props the door open with his foot. “What I mean is, you” He points at Means with his forefinger, and then points over his shoulder, out the door, with his —thumb. “We need to talk.” Athena gasps, softly; Apollo doesn’t understand why. Phoenix sounds as level and polite as he ever does, casually tossing all his words out even though those actual words mean the statements could sound that much more dire. It’s his eyes that worry Apollo, cold and flinty and piercing, almost giving the impression he can See through people even when they aren’t blue. What’s he found out, and why won’t he share it with Apollo and Athena first?

“Of course,” Means says. “Ms Cykes, Mr Justice. I will be in the gallery tomorrow, and I look forward to seeing what your methods will result in. My greatest concern is that prosecutor. But I leave this task of Juniper’s defense to you. Good luck.”

He follows Phoenix out the door. Silence hangs on both side of the glass for several moments after they leave, until Apollo realizes that with Means gone he can voice the thought he had a minute ago. “I really doubt it was Professor Courte taking bribes,” he says.

Athena whirls on him. “You too?” she demands. “We know Courte had the planner with the paper like this!”

And it wouldn’t make sense for someone to have made this as evidence to frame her. The only definitive way to prove it came from her notebook, unless it’s a unique custom-made one with that sword marking, would be to look through the whole thing to find if there was a page torn out and see if it matched. And someone if framing her couldn’t count on her having ripped a page out herself, that they could then make their forged page’s torn edge match with. And it would be a difficult and risky venture to get a hold of a planner that she carried around with her. And the actual paper was found in a non-obvious spot. Someone with a forged notebook page would try to more obviously present it to get it circulating among the evidence, not count on the defense poking around in enough corners to stumble upon it.

Nothing about this matches how that other page played out.

“Hugh isn’t even one of her students,” Apollo says, and he quickly outlines the rest of his thoughts, including that Professor Means would be just as likely a suspect.

Juniper gasps. “Professor Means is - I know you don’t like his philosophies, but he’s a teacher who really cares about having his students being as smart and as skilled as they can be! He - he wouldn’t just let someone not - not properly learn and reach their full capacity for - for money! He wouldn’t, and Professor Courte wouldn’t either!”

Athena takes a much softer tone with Juniper than she does with Apollo. (Fair enough; Apollo also does that.) “I can hear how hard this is for you. But we have to consider the possibilities, even if it’s hard ot hear, because we can’t let the truth get away.” Juniper nods. “And there’s the evidence, and it would make a lot of sense with Hugh as the culprit.”

“I still don’t think it’s that likely to be her,” Apollo says. “Isn’t that the one thing everyone’s said about her when we’ve asked around? That she’s fair and honest?”

“We had that conversation in the car today!” Athena says. “You said it, that you can’t ever really know someone. Maybe we didn’t know Professor Courte. It’s sad, but it might be true.” She squints at him, leaning in a little, like he’s a particularly interesting specimen beneath some museum glass. “I understand Junie, but you shouldn’t have any real emotional investment in whether or not Courte was who people said she was. You didn’t know her. We’re just trying to solve her murder.”

“I—” It’s like she gave his head a light little push, but it’s started spinning wildly despite that. “Do I? Have emotional investment?” He glances at Juniper out of the corner of his eyes. She looks as confused as he feels. Maybe it’s better she be confused right now than upset about Courte, at least. 

“Uh-huh,” Athena says. “A lot of it. Hey, Widget’s ready to go” - “Sure am!” the machine chirps - “so if we want to—”

“No.” Emotional investment - Apollo doesn’t know what the hell those emotions are. But he knows the thought that’s birthed them. Klavier loved Courte; it was apparent and obvious, and didn’t take Athena’s ears to realize. Klavier loved his brother, Klavier loved his best friend. Apollo doesn’t want to again watch him find out that someone else he loved isn’t who he thought they were. Not for a third time. “We should probably just focus on Juniper’s case. What were you saying about motive?”

“Oh - well, Courte obviously wanted to meet with him about Junie’s report, one way or another, and whatever happened in their talk got out of hand.” Athena absently toys with her earring. 

“That would be reason for anyone to suspect Hugh,” Apollo says. “Of course you did, Juniper, knowing that.”

Juniper shakes her head. “No. I don’t think that alone - there was another reason I thought, that - that he—”

“Even more?” Widget exclaims, and Athena slaps her hand over it.

“The night before the mock trial, I went home around seven. And I saw Hugh in the hall and he - he--” Juniper tries to take a deep breath in and she chokes on the inhale and starts coughing like she’s going to hack up an entire lung. “He—”

“Take a sec, Junie.” Athena presses a hand up against the glass and leans in so that her forehead is nearly touching it, like she can force herself through to the other side and somehow help her friend from there. “Just try to relax and tell us what you saw.”

Juniper’s hands tremble even as she splays them out on the sill beneath the glass. Her whole body is trembling, actually, from the tips of her fingers - her fingernails look chalk-white and the rest of the skin on her hands sick pale yellow - to her head and her hair falling down around her face. “I didn’t want to see! But I can’t get it out of my head, that I - that he - he - his hands - h-his - hands were covered in blood!”

She pulls her arms back in around her, hugging herself tightly around the middle and buckling over, wracked with coughs and sobbing hiccups. Every sound from her lips comes out stuttered. “Wh-what do I do, Thena? He - I know - he can’t—” It’s a horrible, pitiful sound, to listen to her struggle to speak. “I know he c-can’t be the killer but my mind keeps t-telling me—!” Her voice hitches. She lifts her head to stare at them with bloodshot eyes. The pink hallmarks of heavy crying have begun to appear on her skin beneath her eyes and around her nose, the only human colors stark against sunless yellow-green and bone white. “No matter how hard I try to convince myself he i-isn’t. I don’t know what to do.”

The same thing that Athena said in the car this morning. About nearly the same subject. A friend suspected - what do you do?

“Junie, I’m so sorry,” Athena says. “I hope you feel even a little better now that you’re letting it all out. And I swear I’ll figure it out. As your friend, I promise you!”

“I should’ve trusted you from the start today.” Juniper’s voice sounds fainter than ever. “I know you’ll find the truth, Thena.”

It isn’t as though Athena wants to hurry them out of the detention center away from Juniper - she doesn’t, not by the way all of her body language has her tilting toward the glass, closer to her friend. But when there’s nothing else to say, she doesn’t linger. She tells Juniper that she needs to get some rest, to try her best to and gear up for the battle tomorrow, and then just like that the officer on the other side is taking Juniper back to her holding cell and Apollo is hurrying out into the hall after Athena.

“Did you hear how angry Mr Wright was?” She rounds on Apollo in the dim detention center hallway, Widget beaming the bright yellow of surprise. “When he was asking after Professor Means? Where did they go, maybe we can still eavesdrop—” She spins about in a circle, seeking an answer from anything nearby.

“No, I didn’t hear it,” Apollo says, “but I did see that he didn’t look—”

Athena scuttles down the corridor, waving for Apollo to follow her, stopping outside one of the other visitor rooms that has the door closed and light pouring out from under it. He expects that he’ll have to ask for a summary later, but then when the voices resume, he realizes it was just a lull, and this argument is audible to even Apollo’s normal ears. 

“—threaten him in an attempt to stop him from pursuing this investigation any further.” That’s Phoenix’s voice, level but clipped at the edges. He doesn’t sound angry, but he doesn’t sound angry in a very deliberate way that makes it clear he’s angry but forcing the casual tone. Apollo would think that to take more energy than just yelling.

“Threatened? My, that’s a bold accusation.” And that’s Professor Means, lacking all of his usual jovial nature. Apollo knew that the two of them were talking, knew Phoenix was bothered by something, and while he can’t quite understand what he’s hearing he barely believes it, either. Who are they talking about? What did Means do? “I did no such thing. I simply said—”

“—something irrelevant to the matter at hand—”

“It was hardly irrelevant to a murder case, you know.” 

“But it is to an investigation, and however relevant it helps nothing and is pointlessly cruel to bring up at all—”

“It was not a threat.” Means sounds unconcerned with anything Phoenix levels at him, his every word slowly and evenly enunciated, like he thinks he wins this argument by staying detached. 

“You tried to dishearten and manipulate him into giving up his investigation by bringing it up. Maybe that’s not a threat, I don’t care about the semantics - I’m curious about what you’re so concerned with hiding, and so afraid someone will find out.”

“You have a very creative kind of logic, Mr Wright, and I’ve always found that admirable, and your clients would not have survived without it either. But now I find myself confused. Perhaps you will explain to me how you came to this conclusion?”

“Fuck you.”

Athena gasps. Both of her hands lay clasped over Widget, to preemptively muffle any exclamations it might make, but for once in its electronic life it doesn’t yell out what Athena’s thinking. Maybe because she already expressed what she’s feeling with that gasp. 

“I didn’t come to talk to you to convince you to have a conscience.” Despite his words, Phoenix still doesn’t sound angry - curt, dry, and bitter, all layered over the anger that must be there. “You know what you did and I came here to tell you that I know what you did.”

“Your accusations and creative leaps of logic would be better put to use in helping your students win Ms Woods her acquittal, would they not? Good night, Mr Wright.”

The door opens. Apollo and Athena retreat into one of the unused rooms, ducking behind the open door. Athena leans her ear against the crack to listen; with her taking up all of the space next to the wall and the hinges, Apollo can’t see into the hall and simply has to wait, holding his breath, willing Means to pass by and leave. They remain there in the dark visiting room, with the big empty window behind them, for a minute that crawls past, every second a silent lifetime, until Athena steps back and lifts her hand off of Widget, which has returned to its neutral glow. “Clear,” she whispers.

Phoenix stands there in the hall, rubbing his eyes. “Hey, Boss,” Athena says. He jumps, clapping a hand over his chest to steady his breathing. “I - sorry. Did we scare you?”

“No shit you did,” Phoenix says, dropping his hand to his side. “So you’re done meeting with Juniper? What’ve you got? What’s the case look like?”

“What were you arguing with Professor Means about?” Athena asks. “That sounded important.”

Phoenix’s face darkens. He glances around; at this late hour, with visiting hours about to end, no one is left around but the guards, but that doesn’t seem to ease Phoenix’s concern. “How much did you hear?” he asks.

“He tried to threaten someone?” The trouble is that while they did hear a substantial amount, it was all a debate of minutiae, leaving none of the broader details for Apollo to understand. “To keep something a secret.”

“You don’t think he’s the murderer, do you?” Athena asks. “Our evidence points pretty substantially to it being Hugh.”

“How about this,” Phoenix says. “You—” He stops, staring a moment at Athena’s car, and that Apollo has already fallen into taking the front passenger’s side, as he has all day already, and Phoenix gives the back seat a judgmental look for several more seconds before he accepts it. “You catch me up on your investigation, and then I’ll tell you what I think is relevant.”

Not a promise to tell them everything - of course he isn’t suggesting that he would tell them everything. Just what he thinks is need-to-know. Always what he thinks is best for everyone else. Unsurprising - still disappointing.

-

“And that’s what we’ve got, and why we think it’s Hugh.” Athena’s eyes dart toward Apollo, waiting to see if he’ll put a qualifier on her suspect. He doesn’t. It was the bribery, not the murder, that he objected to, and he’s not going to keep making that objection as vehemently as he was. Athena is right - they can’t know for sure. 

“Hm.” Phoenix nods slowly. “All your evidence does point that way.”

Apollo sits forward. He’s been content to let Athena handle the explaining: this is, after all, her case, so he’s only interjected a few times when she thought she didn’t elaborate enough on a certain bit. But now that she’s finished their side of the story, it’s Phoenix’s turn to explain, and that’s the part Apollo needs to more carefully observe. 

“So what was it that Professor Means did?” Athena asks. “Who did he threaten? Wouldn’t trying to threaten the officers just get him into way more trouble than if he stayed quiet?”

“It wasn’t anything to do with the police,” Phoenix says. “He’s not stupid. The evidence you have about the bribes, the paper, can you show me that again?”

Athena swipes through a few different screens - a map of the lecture hall, a map of Themis campus, a photo of the extremely fat squirrel they saw running off with half a sandwich - to bring up the page in question. “It looks like Courte’s planner, see.” She pushes that projection off to the side and presents a scan of the planner in question. “I asked Junie, and she hasn’t seen any of the students have these.”

“What of other faculty, though?” Phoenix asks. “Maybe there’s some particular stationaries that are printed just for the professors, or the administration. Yes, it certainly looks like it could be a page that came out of Courte’s diary - planner.” He folds his hands together tightly and rests his forehead against them. “Her planner. Don’t know why I said—” It’s a little red lie. Athena glances to Apollo for confirmation that she isn’t the only one picking up weirdness off that aborted statement. “But we don’t even know if Hugh took any classes from Courte, and I mean, it’s certainly possible that there would be a way for an administrator in a different department to change his grades, but that - god, no matter what, I just keep thinking that they should’ve figured out a protocol to prevent this the last time it happened, and that we shouldn’t be here at all.”

“The last time?” Apollo echoes. “Themis has had problems with students buying grades before?”

Phoenix nods. “Yeah. They kept it hushed up despite firing just about every professor who taught the prosecutor students. Cleaned house and then scrubbed that stain off their name, and the fact that this wasn’t a huge scandal was - well, that should’ve been a scandal, that it wasn’t a big public scandal. Does that make sense?” Athena nods. “Anyway, with this evidence likely to come out in court tomorrow, on the record, I don’t think they’ll have as much luck burying it a second time.” He tilts his head to the side, resting his chin against his hands. “You didn’t know this? I figured Prosecutor Gavin would’ve mentioned it.”

“No,” Apollo says. “He didn’t - but we didn’t talk about our suspicions with him. It was just Juniper who told us when we were at the detention center.” He wonders what would have happened if Athena had theorized in front of him that Courte took bribes - if Klavier would have fought her like Juniper did, or if he would have looked at precedent and given in and accepted it as possible.

“Still,” Phoenix says, “I’m a little surprised he didn’t mention it, just as a fact about Themis. And he should know it happened - I mean, maybe no one at the Prosecutors Office is friends with each other but that seems unlikely, don’t you think?”

Athena coughs. “Does - does this have any relevance to Junie’s case, do you think?” 

Her very polite way of telling Phoenix that she only cares about one thing, which is Juniper, and this incident which happened years ago seems to have no relevance to Juniper and thus, as a conversational tangent, should have ended a minute ago.

“The actual technical process of changing grades!” Phoenix snaps his fingers. “This is why you keep paper records - bribing Courte would make much less sense than bribing the professor in charge of Hugh’s course, unless that person proved unbribable, but this is Professor End Justify surname Means we’re talking about, and he’d probably be impressed by the diabolical ruthlessness it takes to try and bribe someone for better grades.”

“You think that could be his and not Courte’s,” Athena says, pointing at the scrap of paper and the Hugh 120 scrawled on it. “If Hugh killed Professor Courte because she found out about the bribes, but then Means is also worried about hiding his role in the bribes, and that’s led to your argument with him - that would clarify everyone’s roles in the case, then!” She shifts so that she’s facing more toward Apollo, on the couch next to her, and Phoenix across the coffee table from them. “And then everyone believing that Professor Courte isn’t someone who could be corrupt like that isn’t wrong, either.”

Phoenix lifts his eyebrows questioningly. Apollo shrugs. If he doesn’t say anything, Athena can’t try to cross-examine or psychoanalyze him. And Phoenix won’t be able to either.

“Augh, I should’ve listened better to Means when he said that he couldn’t imagine Professor Courte taking bribes!” Athena puts her face in her hands and her next words come out muffled. “There’s too much going on!”

“Yeah,” Phoenix agrees. “That unfortunately tends to happen. Nobody’s going to blame you for missing something in hindsight like this. But you’ll have Hugh on the stand tomorrow, and that’s your chance. But don’t try and go in too hard on the bribery matter unless it’s relevant. Focus on the murder case - get Juniper exonerated, first.”

“Right!” Athena smacks her palms down decisively on her knees. “We’ve got a plan! And I think we should get home and get food and rest.” She springs to her feet and directs an imperious finger in Apollo’s face. “I need you in top shape for tomorrow! Protein tonight, carb-load in the morning.”

“If you’re bringing pasta to eat for breakfast tomorrow, please remember a fork this time,” Apollo says. “Whoever says appearances don’t matter has never watched you eat plain pasta with your bare hands.”

“The things I do in the private of this office are not the same things as I would do in a courthouse, thank you very much!”

Phoenix watches with bemusement; Apollo doesn’t recall him having been there that morning. “Save your energy for arguing with the other side tomorrow,” he says, and Athena’s face falls. 

“Right. See you both in the morning.” She stops short at the door. “Wait, Apollo, do you want a lift home?”

“No thanks. I’ve got a couple things to get done here before I leave.”

Apollo waits for a minute after she leaves before he says anything. Phoenix was reading some notes he took after they arrived back at the office, and after another few seconds, he glances up. “I guess by ‘something to get done’, you don’t mean cleaning up your desk.”

“I haven’t been at my desk for two days,” Apollo says. 

“Well, Trucy has, so there’s that.” Phoenix is doodling something in the top corner of the page. “Forgive me then for making this about me and assuming that you have something to ask me.”

Something to ask him. Yes, and that - there’s a lot of questions he could have. He starts broad. See if he can get Phoenix to confess first. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re hiding something?” 

“Maybe—” Phoenix taps the side of his face, next to his eye.

“Or maybe because the other times you’ve said something like, ‘I told you what was relevant to the case’, there was a whole lot of other important stuff that you didn’t tell me.” Like Kristoph. I didn’t want to scare you. Damn him, if he’s doing this again, to Athena now. “Who’s not human here? Myriam Scuttlebutt? Professor Means? Who was he trying to stop from investigating - you said it wasn’t the police, and you said ‘him’, so it’s not Robin or Myriam - considering Hugh was trying to insist that he doesn’t care at all about Juniper anymore, even if he was lying, I’m not sure that he would be going around obviously investigating.”

He watches Phoenix’s face, searching for a reaction, waiting for a tic that isn’t going to come. This is Phoenix, the man who started teaching him these tricks, who’s always been impossibly, frustratingly obtuse, dodging carefully around the truth to avoid tripping Apollo’s eyes. He’s not going to say anything until Apollo asks him directly, and even then he might not answer. “So then was it Hugh - he and Means had a falling out over bribery, maybe? Or the only other person independently investigating the case - were you and Means talking about Prosecutor Gavin?”

He hoped for even the barest response, a slight alertness in Phoenix’s eye on Klavier’s name, but Phoenix doesn’t grant him even that. His eyes are half-open, lazily fluttering, one lid drooped lower than the other. “Apollo,” he says. “You want to stay focused on the murder, not the bribery, but if anywhere in your cross-examination of Mr O’Conner, you see a good opportunity to get Professor Means on the stand - take it.”

“What?” Apollo asks. If he’s focused on the murder, then why does Means come into it - unless Phoenix thinks— “Do you - do you think that Professor Means is the killer, not Hugh?”

“All your evidence points to Hugh,” Phoenix says. “Even were I both leading this case and convinced that Means is the killer, my only strategy tomorrow would be to go in on Hugh as though I still suspected him to be the murderer, and hope that somewhere in the cross-examination he would give me the right piece of testimony to create an alibi for himself and some reasonable suspicion against Means.” He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. “You know,” he adds bitterly, “much like that old strategy of mine that Means professed to so admire yesterday - making accusations you don’t believe to buy yourself more time.”

“So you do believe Means is the killer?”

“Apollo.” Phoenix lifts his head, folding his fingers together in front of his mouth. “I just said it. It literally doesn’t matter what I believe. The strategy doesn’t change. All that would change would be your, and Athena’s, perception of it - whether when you accuse Hugh O’Conner, you believe you’re accusing a guilty man or an innocent one. And there’s no room in tomorrow’s case for pulling punches.”

“And you don’t think Athena’s capable.”

“I think she’s very capable,” Phoenix says. “But there will be plenty of time and reasons for her to confront the moral quandaries of being a defense attorney without me putting her into the position of having to make an accusation that she’ll think is false. I’d rather not watch her have a crisis of faith this early in her career.”

It’s October. She joined the Agency in April. It’s been six months. A year and a half for Apollo. At six months, that early in his career, he was—

Bitter. Bitter at Phoenix, then and now and always.

“I made a mess of the first trial you stood as lead defense on,” Phoenix adds. He’s thinking of it too, of the differences then and now, of the first new young lawyer he brought to this office, and the second one. “I won’t do it again.”

“This all seriously implies that you believe Professor Means is Courte’s killer,” Apollo says. And that Phoenix doesn’t care if Apollo has to grapple with the morality of accusing Hugh. 

“Make of what I’ve said what you will,” Phoenix says. “Just remember that this trial is, ultimately, about Juniper, and her life on the line.”

Juniper - poor Juniper, half between worlds, accused of murder and shut away behind iron. If she has to stay in prison any longer she might not survive it. She’ll shrivel up and wither to dust like a plant never watered, locked in the dark. Whether or not Hugh is the killer, the only path for Juniper’s freedom goes through him. To save her, there’s no other strategy, and they have to save her. 

“I know,” Apollo says. “Though I’m not sure why you don’t just explain what went down with Means and whoever else. I’m capable of holding two thoughts in my head at the same time, you know, whether it’s directly relevant to Juniper’s trial or not.” Phoenix blinks, and his eyes don’t fully open after. His poker face, back again in full. “How are you to know it isn’t relevant? Lots of seemingly unimportant facts become relevant.”

“Good night, Apollo.”

Apollo grits his teeth and turns on his heel. If there was a falling out between Hugh and Means, if Means said or did something nasty enough that Phoenix was as pissed as he was, then how would that not be something case-relevant? Which leaves the possibility that Phoenix snarling, furious, fuck you, was in defense of Klavier, the man who disbarred him.

Last October, Phoenix kept asking Apollo how Klavier was doing. Worried after him, really. Couldn’t ever deflect his inquiries with a convincing facade of not actually caring. What could Means have said? Some jab about Kristoph or Daryan - or Courte? Could he know about Klavier’s glamours or history, try to throw those back in his face in a way meant to break him down, into giving up? Why would Means risk doing something that makes him look so much more suspicious, and do it obviously enough that Phoenix noticed? Klavier would have to be the only possibility; he’s the only person involved in this case, besides Juniper, who Apollo thinks would be so obviously easy to break, to push over the edge with some words.

Apollo leans his bike against his hip and fires off a text.

How’s that tape looking?

He doesn’t check his phone again until he gets home, shoes off and wandering towards the kitchen and walking into the doorframe instead. 

-Aren’t you impatient ;) -I barely dropped it off and it should take some time -I’ll come find you and Fräuelin before you hit the stage in the morning

“Earth to Apollo, hello, I repeat, ground control to Apollo One, do you copy? That wall has been here the whole time we’ve lived here, you know.”

Apollo corrects his course and on a second attempt makes it into the kitchen without running into anything. “Cut me a break. I’ve spent the day dealing with a perjurious high school love triangle.” Actually, is it still a love triangle? The trio clearly had some secrets that Myriam could have mistaken for the much-more-normal secret of having crushes on one another. But Robin could still be interested in Juniper - or Athena could be. And god only knows what’s going on with Hugh toward Juniper, to the point that it will probably come up in cross-examination. 

“I can’t decide if that’s something I want to hear about or not,” Clay says.

“Better not,” Apollo says, “and tomorrow I can tell you if it’s worth it.”

“I can’t imagine that Mr Prosecutor Samurai Birdman from hell and-or faeryland is very happy with it either.”

“He’ll be doing his best to get them all convicted of something,” Apollo says. And he’d go with and rather than or: Hell and the Twilight Realm are probably the same thing.

You’re certain there will be some results by then?

-Ja -I won’t leave you hanging :) -I said that I need some kind of result by 9:50 tomorrow morning -leaving myself just enough time to find and talk to you -so long as you haven’t gone in early to the courtroom, which you have never done, so I am not worried

Shut up.  I’m always early. I just always have to wait for Trucy or Athena or the defendant or whatever. 

“Who’re you texting?” Clay tried to lean his head in front of Apollo’s phone screen. Apollo shoves him away. “You’ve got that look on your face like you’re trying to decipher calculus. But fortunately for you, I’m good at math.”

“That’s a terrible metaphor to say you’re nosy and like micromanaging my texting.”

“Only with Gavin, but since you bring it up I presume then that this is him?”

“Ah.” Damn. Clay’s better at logical trial-type reasoning than Apollo gives him credit for. Usually because he’s being deliberately obtuse and annoying. 

“Ha! Self-incrimination! What kind of lawyer are you?”

“One who’s spent the day dealing with a perjurious high school love triangle,” Apollo repeats. “Again, cut me a break.”

“So. Klavier Gavin. What’s he say?”

“He’s helping with the investigation,” Apollo says. “We’re talking about evidence.”

Clay raises his eyebrows and lowers his chin. “Uh-huh,” he says. “You look worryingly confused about evidence for your own case, if that’s it.”

“It’s not about the evidence,” Apollo says. “It’s about, I know there’s something that Mr Wright definitely and Prosecutor Gavin maybe isn’t saying, and there’s no formula for you to help me figure that out.”

“The Fair Folk’s bullshit,” Clay says. “Very broad category, but that’s your answer.”

“I hope not,” Apollo says, knowing as he says it that it’s the only likely answer. Professor Means - is he lying? Is he human? “But you’re probably right.”

-oh blame the Fräuleins, very sweet of you - ;)

All of Klavier’s texting sounds - normal, unlike other occasions that gave him cause not to be. But without seeing him in-person, it’s impossible for Apollo to tell how forced the mask of normalcy is. He’ll have to wait for that answer the same as he’ll wait for the results of the audio tape analysis.

They know what they’ve done

No, he’s got to focus. Juniper is his first priority. There’s the deadline on her, an hourglass running down, running them out of time to save her. And he can’t help Klavier if he lets Professor Courte murder goes unsolved. No point to anything else if that wound is still bleeding.

He just has to trust that Phoenix is right when he says something isn’t case-relevant.

(As if he could easily give that trust on the best of days, let alone a case this important to this many people he knows.)

[shymeg]

The Dare’s on All Hallows eve

23 and 58 please :) @dreamer757

23. “The house is not haunted.”

58. “Making out in a graveyard?”

                                      The Dares on All Hallow EVE

Betty and Jughead's locker were nearby each other. Every year a dare was delivered to certain peoples lockers all 4 years it seemed that Jug and Betty got one. This year was no different.

Jughead's Dare was Go to the Old blossom Estate.

Betty's Dare, Go to Riverdale Cemetery and have a make-out session until Midnight, you must be there at eleven. 

Betty didn't want to do her Dare. She felt it was disrespectful to the dead. Betty also felt saddened, knowing that she almost had to bury Jughead in one after his stupid savior moment. That her dad was in one. So was Fred Andrews. She and Jug missed Fred. He was indeed a father to both of them. Especially when everything was spiraling out of control. She had to put Archie in a coffin. So, she felt this was some cruel joke. To test her. Yet, she wasn't going to lose. It said, Make-out, and the best Make-out partner had to do his own Dare. Maybe, if she did it with him, he'd be more willing to go into the Cemetery. She figured he may have his demons when it came to her Dare. Yet, he'd never disappoint her.

"Jug," her voice was soft, almost so soft you almost couldn't hear it. He turned around to face her, scratching his head at what his Dare had said, "What's up, Betts?" She loved it when he called her Betts. Her eyes gleamed. "Do you want to do our Dare's together? The rules don't state we can't?"

He smiled the biggest grin, "sure, yours or mine first?"

She knew they'd have to do his since they were Halloween dares, so she said, "What is your's Juggie?"

she saw a tint of red, and his eyes got more prominent at the name, "Go to the old Blossom Estate."

oh great, that place was a burden to both her and Jug whoever gave out the Halloween Dares were genuinely trying to torment them.

"Alright, well, let's do yours first. I mean, we all know that isn't haunted."

Jug smiled and said, "Alright, well, let's get some flashlights, a backpack for food, and well warmer clothes."

Betty nodded and smiled as they went to their houses to get supplies. They agreed to meet at Pops at 6. She was secretly thrilled. She loved her boyfriend, and she knew he loved her. Yet, it was something so thrilling about these Dares. Why the Blossom Estate? Why the Graveyard? She knew it had nothing to do with Cheryl because Cheryl was two years older and had gone to college. The Estate was abandoned because Cheryl wanted nothing to do with her family name. Her Nana was living in Thistle house a little bit away from the Estate. Thistle house was like a manor, whereas the Blossom Estate was a Mansion. Cheryl's mother had died in the horrid fire, but yet the mansion still sits. The flames may have set ablaze, but the house never went under.

She smiled to herself, thinking maybe this is just another one to investigate for the Junior detective agency. Betty often wondered who chose the Dare's and why certain people got them and how come others didn't? Betty wondered how they would know if they even did the Dare? Were they lurking? Did people set it up like a spook house? In all her 4 years she never figured that out. This year she was almost tempted too. Yet, if she did that, would it ruin the fun and the thrill of doing the Dares?

She heard the bell ding, and she saw a slender figure with a beanie. Dressed in all black but luckily he was wearing his dad's winter jacket. The weather was always odd, especially at night. He got a burger and fries to go typical Jughead.

When Betty and Jughead went outside.  She noticed that Jug's motorcycle was nowhere to be found.  He must have walked here under the assumption that they would take Betty's car and probably not hit up Pop's after the last Dare. Jughead was correct, of course. Yet, he could have told her, and she would have picked him up.  Yet, Jug might have thought that if she did that, he wouldn't get his food.   Betty realized she had forgotten to tell Jughead what the last Dare was.   She'd tell him later.  

So, first up, Blossom Estate. Betty's car crawled up the drive. She gave Jughead one last look. He seems okay, but she knew his life was threatened by Clifford Blossom. His dad almost put away for a murder he honestly didn't do, yet covered up because of blackmail. She also knew that Jug and his father were having problems at the time, yet he loved Jug, and Jug loved him. The Blossoms and the Police tried to pin the murder on Jug first. Merely because he was being bullied by Jason and his cohorts was also hard for her to stomach. Yet, Fred came to Jughead's aide. The father figure that he was, and he knew Jug and knew that his second son would never commit murder and then try to figure out who did it.

She looked at Jug and said, "Are you ready?" "As ready as I'll be Betts." He gave her a wink. The last time they were in this house was for Jason's funeral, where they found out that Jason was going to marry Polly. They were supposed to have run away together.

Betty realized when she and Jug were investigating in Jason's old room. That she kind of might be liking Jug and seeing him in a different light. That he wasn't Archie's Shadow. That he was more sincere and always supported Betty and her endeavors. Yet, he was a scared- y cat because he hid behind her when Nana Rose entered the scene. She laughed. His blue eyes twinkled, he smirked and said, "What are you laughing at Cooper?"

"The last time we were here, how you got so scared of Nana Rose that you hid behind me!" he smiled, "I'd knew you'd protect me you always have."

They slowly went up the front steps. Jughead had his hand on the door. He opened it, and the door creaked. He stated, "Anybody home," no answer "Yeah I didn't think so" He took out the flashlight from his backpack and turned it on. Betty followed shortly after. The Estate looked like a tomb. A lot of it was burned, but most of it held up like a tomb. Furniture under clothes or sheet protectors, spider webs on the wall, dust everywhere, nothing was moved. Cheryl took nothing. Nana Rose already lived in Thistle house so, most of her more critical things weren't in this house anyway.

Jug decided to go into the kitchen. Betty laughed, thinking, of course, he would. Jughead just smirked at her, already knowing what she must be assuming. He opened it, and to his sorrow, there was no food in it, and the fridge was unplugged. Yet there was some wine. It sat out and had a ton of dust on it. He had to use his hands just to figure out what it was. He went to the closet, and all the food was gone, so Jughead chuckled, "Well, at least we knew Cheryl took the food out." Betty snorted because of Jug and his love for food. They went the back way upstairs. They heard a low creak. Neither one of them knew where it came from. both looked at each other Jug said, "Must just be the house settling." Yeah, that was it. The mansion was settling Betty, and Jughead heard a loud bang. They opened up the room nearest to them. Hoping something fell off the shelves. Jughead might have been slightly hoping for a random book to be in the house, and he could just borrow it and put it back at a later date. Yet, they could find nothing to explain the loud bang. So two Junior Detectives kept going. They heard footsteps this time. It seemed closer and another bang. Jughead looked at Betty, "I thought this house wasn't haunted?" Betty snickers, "That doesn't mean they didn't rig it to not scare us, Jug!" She laughed Jughead kissed her," Well, ghosts, you can have me, but you can't have my girl!"

Leave it to Jughead to say that. Betty thought. Her smile grew on her face, and she was afraid that one day, his little compliments like that wouldn't bring the same joy. Betty hoped that would never happen. She loved him, and she knew he loved her with all of his heart. He was the first one to say, I love you. Betty knew how hard it was for Jughead to say that. His dad was away, he had abandonment issues, he'd be going to  South Side high for school and was he open, so open, more open then she'd ever seen him at that moment. Betty was shocked because she felt she'd be the first one and be lucky if she'd ever heard those words from Jughead. So at this moment here and now she said, "I love you Jug those ghosts can't have you either."

They decided to go look for the tape recorder or whatever they rigged it with.  Yet, all Betty and Jughead found was mice poop, and Betty screamed when she saw a real mouse. She jumped into Jughead's arm, and he held her. Like he never wanted to let go. They searched that house for probably two hours. The Dare just said to go. No further instructions. Where her's was a little bit more specific.

Betty drove back to Pops, and they sat down to eat a Burger and had a few cups of coffee to warm up and grab a few to go for the graveyard. She forgot she was supposed to tell him her Dare once they left the Blossom Estate. Yet Jughead never asked. Jughead probably didn't ask her because Betty asked him if they could do it together. Meaning she felt safe with him. So now she blushed at the mere thought of him being scared of Nana Rose.

She did feel safe with him. He was her rock, her anchor. So, when she pulled into Riverdale Cemetery and saw his eyes flash for a second. She knew she should have prepared him. Yet, he simply said, "What are we doing here, Betty?" She looked down she couldn't face him, "My Dare Jug, is to make out in this Cemetery for an hour until Midnight. The only Make-out partner I want is you. I'm not going to let who is picking these dares ruin my Halloween, and you know me, Jug, I never back down from a challenge."

Jug just nodded, "Well let's go" He opened his car door slowly looking at the gate. He didn't like it here. Yet, he wouldn't have Betty making out with ghosts or to lose a dare because he refused to help the love of his life. So, he started it.

He kissed her slow at first right in front of the gate. She kissed gently back. His hand reached out to her chin. He kissed her harder, and she bit his lip. He wanted to say ow because it hurt a little. Yet, he liked this side of Betty and didn't want her to stop. He slowly moved his hand to brush her hair away, and he stopped kissing her mouth to simply blow in her ear and slowly nibble it. She made out this low mew, and he loved it. He moved down her neck kissing and licking, and when she tried to push away, he'd go back to her ear and nip at it. He knew she wanted her mouth on his mouth when she grabbed his hair. She pushed her mouth to his, and he felt a power surge, and his mouth opened to hers as their tongues began to fight. He could taste that caramel latte she chose to have instead of her typical hot chocolate. He wanted more, but unfortunately for him, he had to breathe. She pushed him down and straddled him. He was not used to this, Betty. Maybe a ghost had possessed her when her hands started lifting his shirt. She started playing with his nipples and licking them. They never tried this. He just really wanted to satisfy Betty, and if she was pleased, so was he this was different. It made him squirm.

Betty enjoyed Jughead squirming under her. She loved how her hands made his chest warm. That this boy had muscle that nobody could see but her. She wanted to make him happy too. Betty bit his neck and drew blood.  Betty was becoming some sort of animal; her animal instincts were taking over. Betty didn't care. She kissed him, and she bit his lip until it bled. She apologized when she saw him wince.

She bowed down and let him kiss her with such passion, but when he tried to roll them over, she said, "No, Jug, this is my Dare."

She saw his eyes flicker at the moment. He relaxed and just let her take it. Yet she heard his plea, "I want to kiss you, Betty." She snickered, "I Know Jug, and when this Dare is over, I'll let you kiss me there, I promise. Until then, you only get my mouth and my neck, but I get all of you."

She liked this Betty.  Betty even thinks Jughead likes it. Maybe not where she made him bleed per se but the other stuff.

She leaned down and whispered in his ear, "We have 30 minutes Mr. Jones, and for those 30 minutes, you are all mine." She rolled her hips into him slowly, so he grunted because he wasn't getting the friction he needed. She was-being evil. She knew this, but she'd make it up to him. She just couldn't do that deed here. So all they were going to do was Make-out, so she gave him something to be mad about so when they got back to her place. Her mom always being gone. That he'd pound into her with no mercy. He'd make her scream and shout and beg for more. Until then, he'd live with the slow torture of not being able to get off either. While making his half-hour a slow fate.

She kissed him passionately, she played with him, Betty held Jug's hair as tightly as possible when he tried to get more than she was willing to give. She loved him, and she knew this was torture, but he complained very little. He respected the dead. So, he huffed a few times. He cried out, Betty. Even Please. She loved it when he said that. For that, he got kissed hard, and she twisted his nipples, and she blew on them a little harder.

She loved the taste of his mouth, sweet and oh so tangy. She could devour him like he does those cheeseburgers. The last kiss was gentle and slow, letting him know the torture of the make-out session was almost over.

So when the real one happened, it would probably last more than an hour switching different positions, and god how she wanted him. How she knew he wanted her. She apologized for the lack of the more risque make out session. Yet, she knew he'd understood.

She helped him up, she looked at him and kissed him slow, "Ready to go to my house, Jug?"

"Yes, I am," he smiled.

He looked at her and said, "Let the bewitching hour began. Happy Saints day Betty."

The onlookers figured maybe Betty had figured them out, and that's why nothing truly risque happened in the Cemetery. No real exposure. They couldn't get anything. She was to smart for them or just too respectful. Either way, this was their last year, and Jughead and Betty had both survived unscathed by the Dare police.

[diegoalvesisgod]

Dystopian AU Prompts

Disclaimer: All are mine, free for grabs. If you write any of them, please let me know, because I'd love to read your work. Some of these are probably not for the weak-hearted.

1: Anyone found guilty of speaking against the regime is forced to wear red tape over their mouth whenever they are in public, to prevent them from speaking to anyone, and to let everyone know what they did. They can only remove it when they are at home. Anyone caught not wearing the tape can be executed on the spot, alternatively, can have their mouth literally stitched together, which is why they would rather not risk it. People wouldn’t even speak to these persons, nicknamed “The Mutes”, because what’s the use. A is a Mute, B for some reason does talk to them.

2: A new virus has appeared that turns the blood black, making the veins visible and eventually clogging them up and killing the person (or whatever way you want it to kill people). The only way to cure it is changing the blood of the person completely for that of an immune person. Which prompts illegal hunters to capture immune people and sell their blood to the rich infected, while the poor have basically no chance to be cured. A has the virus, their family decide to pay a hunter to catch B, who is immune. However, A refuses to live with the knowledge B died for them.

3: Anti-soulmate!AU where people have chips implanted in their bodies, and whenever two people who aren’t supposed to meet according to the government, do, the government is alerted and they are promptly separated. A has just met B, and they really like each other, but then the men in black appear and drag B away. A is determined to find B and also uncover the government’s secret.

4: With the continued chemical modifications, the allergies have gotten out of control and every person is allergic to so many things they have to wear tags/bracelets with symbols of everything they are allergic to for their own safety. A is allergic to fifteen different things that are very uncommon allergens, and then meets B who is allergic to the exact same fifteen things. Coincidence?

5: Oxygen is being sold now. There are the big companies selling it (stuff like electric power industry), and then there are the shady dealers selling cheaper oxygen to those who can’t afford the official sources. A is one of the oxygen dealers, B comes to him desperately needing one bomb of oxygen, but doesn’t have the money for it…

6: The government has been executing so many people that they ran out of the lethal injection substances, and the company that used to make them doesn’t exist anymore. They look for a cheaper alternative and then miraculously find A’s company. What they don’t know is that A purposely offered their services because B is on the death row and A’s substance actually only makes people look like they’re dead without really doing them any harm.

7: Blood transfusions or surgeries have been banned by the religiously fanatical government and are only carried out clandestinely by the former doctors/medics/nurses. A needs a surgery, B is a former medic who didn’t really have the best grades and never graduated, but they're cheap and it’s better than nothing…

8: In a world where books are banned, A is a clandestine writer and B his clandestine publisher.

9: Attorneys no more do their jobs the old way, their job is to defend their clients so badly that they are found guilty for their crimes against the government, and also they speak for their clients as the accused are not allowed to speak in the courtroom. A is an attorney, B is their client who is begging A to save them because they are innocent.

10: Slavery is legal again, with the only condition that the slaves mustn’t be citizens of the country. But because the country is running out of non-citizens to turn into slaves, they start looking for a way to strip certain people of their citizenship. A and B are a happy couple, but then one day B is informed they have been stripped of their citizenship and are free to be enslaved. A has to figure out how to protect B from the omnipresent slave hunters looking for new acquisitions.

11: In a post-apocalyptic world, people are on the run constantly. Sick people are left behind to die. A runs an improvised hospital/hospice for such people, and B ends up abandoned by their friends, and found by A.

12: It’s World War III. A is working in a field hospital when the enemy storms it and takes everyone captive. They are informed that the Geneva Conventions have been revoked, so it is actually allowed. The enemy decides to leave those too weak to die in the hospital while taking the rest to a POW camp. B is one of the wounded soldiers and A refuses to leave them there, so they do everything in their power to make B’s state look better than it really is.

13: Having social media is compulsory, under the threats of arrest or huge fines. Every citizen has to have their LinkedIn profile updated, has to check into every public place they attend on Facebook, have to announce the events they plan to attend on Facebook, have to post a picture to Instagram at least once a week, they can only message each other via WhatsApp… A meets B and falls in love immediately, but when they are ready to do their “stalking”, they find out B doesn’t have any social media.

14: Ordering a bride or a groom on the internet is now legal. A wants to get married, but doesn’t have much money, so they order from one of the shady sites, and when B arrives at their doorstep, they get the feeling that something’s not right.

15: The government has been living off criminals working for free in the colonies. But over the past few years, the citizens became so cautious and scared of the repressions that there are hardly any crimes being committed, which leaves the government short of the free workers. To compensate for it, they decide to start a lottery, where the people drawn are supposed to go to the colonies for two years, until another lottery takes place. A’s name is drawn in the lottery, B’s isn’t.

16: Prisons don’t exist. Anyone sentenced for a crime is marked with a symbol meaning what crime they committed, and released. It is legal for any unmarked citizen to use the adequate punishment on these people. Meaning a person marked for killing someone can be killed by anyone, a person marked for violence can get beaten by anyone and as many times as people want, a person marked for stealing can have anything taken from them at any time etc. A’s been (unlawfully or not) marked for murder, and B is determined to protect them.

[brightlycoloredteacups]

Can’t Let Him Win

Series: Brynhilda and the Murder Couple.

Warning: TW, mentions of abuse, both physical and sexual.

Tagging: @ivartheboneme @tiyetiye @sammi-faye @salimahbicharara-comun

          There’s a large apartment near the fashion district, sparsely furnished, barely decorated, and neat. An apartment dedicated to function only. The sol resident is a quiet woman who spends as little time in this place as possible, preferring to be outside, or at the very least, at a friend’s house. It’s very rare any sort of sound fills the echoing space, but today, is a special day. The sounds of grunting and growling are mixed in with the sounds of flesh hitting something else.

           The person making all this noise is Brynhilda Brynjarsdottir, She’s punching a bag that hangs from the ceiling. There’s tape around the bits she’s punches through, it swings wildly back and forth. She’s been at this for hours now, positively dripping in swear, she barely blinks as a drop stings her eye. All this is an indicator that she’s having a bad fucking morning. Scratch that, she’s been having a bad fucking week. All the thoughts rolling around in her head are superseded by one. “I can’t let him win.” Gritting her teeth, her punches come with renewed vigor, frustrated and tired.

           Earlier that week, she’d seen what Ylva had been up to on her laptop before she could close it. Panicked, Ylva had made Brynhilda promise not to tell Ivar. Brynhilda felt a moment’s irritation with her friend, she didn’t need to be prompted to promise. It wasn’t any of her business that Ylva visited self-help sites, and she sure as shit wasn’t going to get involved in Ylva and Ivar’s relationship. Besides, if Ylva wanted to talk about it with Ivar, she would’ve talked about it. “But why do you go on those sites anyway?” Brynhilda asked, simply curious. “I want to get better,” Ylva admitted quietly. “That way, the nightmares stop, and the voices and the doubt. If they don’t stop, Aella wins. I can’t let him win.”

           Brynhilda had been thinking about it all week. She knew the very basics of psychological trauma, but had never applied it to herself. There was no need to. She wasn’t going to share her life with anyone, and if she was going to tailspin into something even more monstrous than she already was, she would’ve done it already. But that niggling thought, “I can’t let him win.” Kept hold of her. Like a tick to a blood feast, it had latched on and wasn’t letting go.  

           A plethora of insane thoughts filled her being. There was a feeling she could only describe as blackness inside her. From the tips of her fingers and toes to her head it wormed it’s way throughout her body, some days it threatens to overwhelm her. It suppresses all her secret wishes, her hopes, it clouds a great deal of beauty in her world. She places a hand to her belly, was it the same thing that prevented her from having a baby? Or was that the utter rage she often felt? Anger is the only other emotion she feels.

           What about the feelings towards Dagny? A little voice asks. She vicious represses the voice with a single thought, it’s an inconsequential feeling that should be dealt with immediately. She stops punching, a wave of nausea rolling through her. That sounds exactly like Boggvir. Was this his revenge from the grave? Worming his way into her being so thoroughly she can’t even tell when her own thoughts are hers?

           She’s about to continue abusing her poor punching bag, her anger renwed, but a knock on the door stops her. She rushes out of her room and to the door, looking through the peephole. It’s Ylva and Eliza. They’d invited her out today to go shopping. “Shit” she mutters, opening her door. “Brynie!” Ylva says happily. Her smile immediately falls. “Why aren’t you ready?”

“Sorry,” Brynhilda mutters, standing aside to let them in. Ylva steps right in, but Eliza hesitates. Brynhilda gives her a small, hopefully encouraging smile. The doctor seems to get the hint and sails inside. Brynhilda tries not to think too much about how delicious she smells. “You didn’t forget about today did you?” Ylva asks, a little upset. “Of course not, time just got away from me is all.” Brynhilda explains, taking the bandages off her hands and making her way into the kitchen.

           She brings out a plate of fruits and vegetables, along with dip from her fridge. She places it on the tiny table next to the window. “Here Ylva, sit. You too Ms. Eliza.” Ylva wastes no time in sitting and digging into the tray. Brynhilda rushes back over to the fridge and gets the pitcher of water and two cups. Pouring them, she sets them next to her respective guests. “I’d offer you something more than water,” She mutters. “But it’s all I have. I’ll be right out.” She turns and rushes back to her bedroom.

           She hops in the shower, irritated she can’t properly take care of her hair. Leaping out, she wraps a towel around her head, then dries herself off. She’s lucky, she already has her outfit laid out. Instead of her usual black on black ensemble, Brynhilda has decided to add some color to her wardrobe. She’d done it in the hopes that Eliza would find her more appealing, less intimidating.

           She looks at her own computer. Taking a note from Ylva’s books, Brynhilda also began to search online for self help forums. Most of them were for sexual abuse survivors. She’d never suffered sexual abuse herself, but she read the stories anyway. Mostly to see if she could use something to help Ylva the next time Ivar was on a job, but a tiny part of her read them to see how they coped.

           She’s moved on quickly from there, eventually finding what she was looking for. A forum for physical abuse survivors. She hadn’t joined anything yet, but there had been a few ideas she wanted to try for herself. Small, baby steps, she told herself. One of those baby steps was adding color into her life…despite wanting to make herself seem less threatening to the good doctor.  

           She unwraps her hair and throws product on it, then a clip to keep it out of her face. Shoving socks and shoes on, she looks at the time. Ten minutes, that isn’t too long for a shower, is it? She rushes out, stopping when she notices she’s obviously interrupted something. Ylva is smiling like a cat that got the cream, Eliza looks red and harassed. “Do I need to go back to my room for a few minutes?” Brynhilda asks, confused. Ylva giggles, shaking her head. “Nope! Are you ready?” She stands, beaming at Eliza. Turning to Brynhilda she gasps. “Your hair is down today!”

“Uh, yeah,” Brynhilda says, gathering the half-eaten fruit tray and the cups. She stops, mid-turn, looking at Eliza. “I’m sorry, where you done?” She mutters. “It’s alright if you weren’t. I was rude.”

“Oh, no!” Eliza says, popping up as well, backing away from Brynhilda as fast as she could. “I’m finished, that was very good, thank you. Very thoughtful.” She rushes to stand next to the door. Brynhilda puts the tray away, wondering what she’d done to frighten Eliza. As she’s quickly washing her cups, she sees her hands. Oh…that’s why. They’re bruised and bloodied from the hours she spent in the gym. Eliza was probably convinced Brynhilda would kill her if she made eye contact. So much for trying to put her at ease.

           She finishes with the dishes and shuffles the ladies out of her home. With practiced ease, Brynhilda situates Ylva on her back and carries her down the flights of steps. Generally, Brynhilda let’s Ylva walk down the steps at her own pace, but Ylva is going to do a lot of walking today, she doesn’t want to get tired out so early into the trip. Placing her down gently, they girls shuffle off, into the waiting car. Brynhilda slides in next to Lars. “Ms. Brynhilda.” He says, handing her a cup. She takes it, smiling. “Thank you.” She says, already knowing what’s in it. The taste of her favorite tea hits her tongue and she’s immediately calmed. Lars grunts and drives off.

           “Where too?” He asks. There hadn’t been a set plan, so Brynhilda looks in the review mirror, looking at the girls in the back. “Ms. Eliza? Do you mind if we furniture shop today?” Ylva ‘s face lights up that the prospect of shopping for more furniture, she begins to wiggle in her seat. Eliza chuckles and her enthusiasm. “Not at all.” She says, looking fondly at Ylva. Brynhilda nods, settling in her seat with her tea. Ylva begins to talk about all the new things she can buy for the house, rattling off names Brynhilda didn’t even know existed. Suddenly she stops. “Why do you want to shop for furniture?” She asks. “You never want to do that kind of stuff.”

           Brynhilda clears her throat, feeling uncomfortable with the attention. She mutters a half-assed answer. Ylva gets the hint and begins explaining how she wants to redecorate the living room, fall is coming up after all, and that means a change of scenery. Brynhilda was nervous and wishes she had gone alone. Shopping for something different fills her with dread. The thought of changing her home in any way scared her. Just a chair, she thinks. I’ll get just one tiny chair. I can do this, I can’t let him win.

           Having gotten them to the store in a timely manner, Lars opens the door for Ylva, she clamors from the car as quickly as she can, holding onto Lars’ arm for support. Brynhilda gets Eliza’s door, more out of habit than out of politeness, she does the same thing for Ivar.

Ylva chats happily to Eliza and Lars, while Brynhilda lingers behind. Ylva knows what she wants, so she sails past all the things she isn’t interested in, while Brynhilda stops to observe everything, wondering what the hell she’s doing. Inevitably, the group separates. Ylva wandering off with Lars, Eliza wandering off with Brynhilda.

Brynhilda has changed her mind, a new chair too big of a commitment right now. She decides on new towels, intent on getting solid colored one, not the strange, patterned crap that only serves as decoration. She’s is aware that Eliza keeps creeping closer. It’s largely unwelcomed, seeing as Brynhilda can’t tell what the woman’s intentions are.

           Allowing Eliza to get close to enough to lean in and whisper into her ear took a lot of self-control. Brynhilda was protective of her bubble, and Eliza was within that bubble. “I’m not going to steal her away you know.” She says. Brynhilda frowns, looking up at the woman. “What?”

“Ylva, I’m not going to steal her away. You don’t have to worry.” Eliza puts a comforting had on Brynhilda shoulder. Her skin is immediately set aflame from the unfamiliar touch. She can’t tell if it’s pleasant or not. “What the hell are you talking about?” Brynhilda asks, shuffling away from Eliza. Shy may think the world of the doctor, but that doesn’t mean she was completely comfortable with contact. “You’re face says it all.” Eliza presses, tone gentle and even. “You’re always glaring at me, and that’s if you even look at me. And your lips are always pressed together, like you want to say something, but refuse to. Ylva’s told me how protective you can be.”

           Brynhilda stops, considering soap dispensers, trying to figure out what she wants to say. “I’m glad Ylva has a new friend. She needs them.” She begins slowly, “She can’t be kept away from the world just because Ivar and I want her safe.” That was good, right? It’s the truth anyhow.

“Well, what’s your problem with me then?” Eliza asks, tone a little clipped. Brynhilda chances a glance at Eliza. Gods, even in the halogen lights she looks heaven sent. “You make me nervous.” Brynhilda finally admits. Eliza’s frown deepens. “Because I’m a doctor?”

“Because you’re pretty, and I like you.” She mutters. She watches Eliza’s face for any sign of discomfort. She’s already got the ‘I won’t do anything, I swear’ argument ready, but it seems as though she may not need it. Eliza’s face lights up, a smile gracing her features. Well, that had been the right move apparently. “Well,” Eliza says, obviously pleased. “I like you too, quite a bit.”

“Uh, thanks.” Brynhilda mutters, turning around, escaping down another isle. That was no indication that Eliza liked women, that she liked Brynhilda like that. You can like your friends, hell, you can love your friends. Brynhilda decides she isn’t going to read too much into that statement. She’s going to live her life alone anyway. No, she thinks, that’s Boggvir speaking. We aren’t letting him win this round. I can do this. I’m Brynhilda the gods-damned Deathless. I can ask a girl out.

           She turns to Eliza abruptly, starling the doctor. Putting her hands behind her back, she squares her shoulders. “Would you like to go out with me sometime? Like for coffee? Maybe a movie?” Brynhilda manages. Direct and to the point. There’s no room for misinterpretation. She’s shocked to see Eliza’s face light up once more. “I’d love to,” Eliza says, sounding a little breathless. “This Friday? I get off my shift early noon, we could go to this café at the corner. It’s really cute and has the best chocolate cake.” Brynhilda loosens up. Did…did she really just get a date. Smiling as softly as she could, she nods. “Yeah,” She says. “I’d like that.”

[cheezlogerratum]

A Persuasive Essay

☼

           The two duos of half-plastic half-rubber wheels have remained, for the past thirty seconds or so, at rest. Kurtis Spottiswoode, preferably to him Kurt, the owner of the pack, has been repeatedly, over and over, scanning a sign off to the side of the asphalt path. In yellow, it's been telling him:

ATHLETIC EVENT

... with an appropriate arrow pointing to the left. Still, in that same spot, he stands. He can't necessarily tell whether he's trying to understand something he's missing or if he's just spacing out, knowingly looking like a moron, but too afraid to break out of what he believes is a commitment. Even still. Eventually, Mr. Spottiswoode catches onto the fact that the sun has long been set and that there are no "ATHLETIC EVENT"'s in session at this time. His feet succumb to the decline and start stepping across into the parking garage wondering if the sign was placed for a past "ATHLETIC EVENT" or a future one? This is all he seems to think about in the structure, the halides buzzing above and the rumble of the little wheels on his backpack don't even register in his mind. He unlocks and enters his used Camry automatically and realizes he's driving, somehow unable to shake the image burned into his eyes or maybe his head:

ATHLETIC EVENT

←

           Mr. Spottiswoode arrived at his apartment complex at around 9:23pm, around a minute or two later than he usually remembers, and follows the rut path up to his apartment on the second floor. The residents on the first were shrieking, almost with no words, but it soon shifted into laughter and niceties he couldn't quite make out. He went to the bathroom, where he unzipped and went about his business looking at himself blankly in the mirror mysteriously installed right above, maybe a little crooked, the toilet. Kurt had small beady eyes and a large forehead mapped out by rows of remnants of brow folds and a receding hairline, brown and faint. The rest of his torso was adorned by a sport coat and a wrinkly plaid shirt, the rest is invisible. It was a lingering revelation in Mr. Spottiswoode's mind that he was wasting away, not really doing much, but he never wanted to address it head on in fear of possible sadness... but, as he undresses getting ready for bed, he wasn't feeling much now? Just sort of following what he'd always been doing and doing at as succinctly as he can, probably to occupy his mind from that "possible sadness".

☼

           Kurt was traversing through the input and output population of students in flux all around him, talking into headphones and trading glances back and forth, when he realized—the sign was still up! "ATHLETIC EVENT". He felt a minuscule rush inside of him, slightly increasing the speed of his pace, and making him aware of his breath, of his life. He looked around with his head at anything and everything of interest, impulsively, excited. ECSTATIC! He thought he might be forcing this adrenaline onto himself, but he told himself to shut up. Shut up! He was loving it, and would remain loving it all the way to class, his wheels rumbling at a higher pitch.

           Höffus Hall, room 488, was unlocked, dark, cold, and alone for the past thirteen hours or so. Mr. Spottiswoode, with his newfound motivation to live, flicked on the lights and plopped his computer bag onto the table offset at the front of class. He thought of himself as a bearer of life to the once dead or perhaps unborn room, mentally patting himself on the back as students came in at different intervals of time and frequency, totally unaware of their professor's enthusiasm. He unzipped his bag and brought out his old Dell laptop, gray and void of any personal touch. He logged in and fired up Microsoft Outlook, twiddling his fingers as more students populated the room. Outlook revealed itself, updated its folders, and notified the user of an "important message" he received. WOW! Kurt clicked the alert and he was brought to an e-mail sent by an unfamiliar address containing the following:

dear professor,

ive been thinking about alot of things like the paper we were made to write a few weeks ago. i know i haven't finished it and i bet its too late to turn it in now for any grade and i know im failing the class, but i cant fail this class and i think this paper is the only thing that will save me. i hope you understand. ill have the essay done by the start of class on thursday but if you dont accept it or give me a high enough grade to pass the class im going to kill you. i dont want to kill you but i also dont want to fail. i hope you understand.

best, your student

           Kurt Spottiswoode read the message over a few more times, just to make sure, again, not knowing what he was feeling, but whatever it was it wasn't exciting. Before he even had the chance to reply, or give the message a sixth reading, or to think about what the hell, just what the hell he was going to do? he looked at the clock in the bottom right and saw it change from 11:13 AM to 11:14 AM right before his eyes, four minutes late. He looked up with a buzzy sharp air behind his eyes, at a loss of what to even do. What to say? Most importantly, WHAT?

           "Uhhh," Spottiswoode emitted, "who was it that sent me an e-mail this morning?"

           Blank. The look on the students' faces suggested that he had said absolutely nothing. Instead of reading the students for any kind of response, he started to read for any clues, any telling thing coming from any of their persons that might inform him of the presence of a possible murderous psychopath enrolled in his class. There were only 19 students on the registrar but only, after doing the math with his eyeballs for a few seconds, 11 students present. Both the fear of the anonymous student's absence and the regret of not making attendance mandatory via a sign-in sheet and a significant percentage allotted to "Attendance" in the final grade struck him like headlights he wasn't aware he was invading the path of. He quietly surveyed those present in class and what he knew of them. To his knowledge, only 3 students were failing the class, and one of them, Mehi Georgensen, was present, but he knew for a fact she turned in the last assignment. The prompt, by the way, was to write a persuasive essay supporting their opinion on the scientific studies surrounding the spike in American crime rates in the 1970s and 1980s and how experts believe that the trace amounts of lead found in gasoline sold during this time is directly related to the uptick in violence and aggression in people who are exposed to automobiles on a regular basis if not daily. Mehi's essay was roughly 85% blockquotes, 5% topic and concluding sentences, and another 10% dedicated to an enlarged, pixelated image of a red, turned dark gray by the printer, gasoline jug. No, Kurt thought, it can't be her. The other two names failing the class were Eloy Hewitt and Harold Skouras III, both with zeros in the gradebook, but that's all they were to Mr. Spottiswoode. He tried forcing himself to remember who these boys were, what they looked like, who the sick culprit could be. He started to sweat and realized so when a droplet fell from his nose and onto his knuckle belonging to his right hand cupping his mouth out of a side effect of vigorous thought, if you could even call it that. It was now 11:19 AM and Kurt stood back up, hands at his side, eyes open, looking again trying to recognize anyone. He knew who some of the kids were but couldn't remember others because of, what he thought was, a lack of in-class participation. He did, however, recognize Kevin, hands clasped together resting on the table up front, good posture, beaming at Mr. Spottiswoode. Kevin, politely responding to Kurt's gaze, cracked open a smile, unimaginably ready to learn. What a good egg Kurt thought, and looking at this kid, this bright and utterly innocent young man smiling undoubtedly at him, his spirits were lifted by a fraction of security, but that was enough. Kurt breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, clearing his throat, coughing, and began the day's belated lesson.

           Sitting in his assigned corner of office room number 528, populated by a desk, a shelf, a disconnected phone with the cord bunched up, various handbooks on MLA, APA, and Chicago format, yesterday's ¾ eaten Subway sandwich, a stack of filled manila folders, a photo of Bruce Springsteen printed out on an 8.5 x 11 inch sheet of paper taped to the wall, and a lamp—Mr. Spottiswoode sat leaned back in his office chair borrowed from the downstairs supply closet, staring, arms crossed, eyes serious, at his computer screen. The e-mail shone through the screen, he couldn't stop thinking. He followed a tangent marveling at the screen itself and its thousands of little pixels made by three columns, red, blue, green, each flickering at him performing as one chunk of some incomplete illusion, creating the image of something that is anything but. Kurt, at a loss, followed multiple tangents like that, perhaps, in a kind of unconscious fashion, trying to find some external excuse or explanation for all this. Surely, surely, it can't be real right? It made no sense, absolutely, completely, totally no sense whatsoever, that this array of pixels that have orchestrated themselves in varying degrees of dimness onto his laptop screen could spell out so plainly and absent of reality his own eventual fate. Well, it doesn't have to come true, does it? Kurt Spottiswoode couldn't believe that he didn't just think of giving in and offering the perp the grade he so desired. Yes. Yes! That was it! He didn't even take into account the circumstance of his academic honor, he had his life! Once again, "LIFE!" He was up, his fists were in the air, his legs were spread apart, and his breathing had escalated into a pant. Yu Quoque, or Professor Quoque as she vehemently prefers, in the opposite corner saw him and witnessing this side of Kurt she had never seen before, she stared, on the phone, mouth slightly agape.

           "Where are you," over the phone, "what was...?"

           "Nothing," Yu whispered, "just work."

☼

           It was Wednesday, the next day, game day! Kurt missed whatever athletic event that happened the day before due to the fact that he was fearing for his life, but now, having found out what to do about the whole situation, he decided to treat himself to a nice, relaxing, athletic event, which happens to be a weeklong championship. Mr. Spottiswoode arrived at the makeshift ticket booth, which was a plastic table with a print out of ticket prices taped to the front side and a cheap cash box guarded by two girls, both with one earbud in whatever ear was facing away from each other, and inquired, "Hello! One ticket for the athletic event and please!"

           "Eight dollars please," the girls in unison, almost in harmony.

           Kurt immediately took to his various pockets in his coat, pants, and satchel, where he finally found a dilapidated ten-dollar bill with a frowny face drawn on Hamilton's face. The girl on the right snatched it, the girl on the left gave him the ticket, and the girl on the right gave him one dollar in change, but he was so ecstatic and overwhelmed by the butterflies in his stomach that he didn't even realize. He wobbled right up to the bleachers taking it all in, smiling, just like Kevin, and started down the steps. The sun was blaring but the air was freezing, a paradox Kurt pondered on fairly often before, but not today, game day! He found a nice spot just above half way down and sat down next to an incredibly buff guy with, who Kurt assumed was, the man's son wearing a black hoodie and buggy glasses. "Isn't this just great," Kurt broke the ice, "this is just... agh! It! You know?"

           "I don't."

           "What's your name?"

           "What's your name?"

           "... I'm Kurt! Err, Professor Kurt to you though, haha!"

           "Goodbye Kurt."

           And the big man got up, even more ginormous than he... holy shit—walked down the bleachers, stomping between other attendees and their picnics, to another spot. Kurt stared a while at the man and thought of his nerve, how someone can be so mean and... rude? but he caught himself in the act of negativity and tried to snap out of it, clamping his eyes shut as a reset mechanism of sorts. Upon opening them, he saw the faded green field, but the longer he looked, the more green it got. He started getting the hang of it and tried it on the trees, the bleachers, and even the jumbo man. The spark of an auxiliary cord boomed through the stadium and was shortly followed by T.I.'s "Bring Em Out" featuring Jay Z. "BRING EM OUT BRING EM OUT" The players jogged onto the field and started warming up, running around preset patterns of cones over and over. Just beneath the song blaring throughout the entire area, echoing off the apartments just next door, Kurt heard a voice, "What's today." Kurt felt it to his left and realized the voice was coming from the kid in the hoodie, still sitting where he first saw him.

           "Wednesday?"

           "And tomorrow?"

           "... Thursday."

The kid hadn't even turned his head to Kurt, in fact, Kurt hadn't even seen the kids' lips, only his eyes bulging out of the edge of his hood. "I need you to proofread something for me," the glasses said.

           "Do I know you?" Kurt inquired.

           "It's important, it's my life's work."

           "I can give you my office hou-"

           "I feel twisty, I can't move correctly... I'd appreciate this greatly."

           "... Ha ha, come on now, let's just enjoy the game?"

           "It's only if I express what I mean and get my point across in a certain perfect way and if I have a clear thesis and purpose to the essay and I make myself believable to the reader that I will get an A."

           "... Harold?"

           "I just need a professional opinion."

           "Eloy!?"

           "It's not done yet I'm sorry."

           And the glasses dropped 8 loose sheets of what Kurt can already make out as a poorly formatted essay and strode his way up the bleachers as swiftly as possible. The sheets were lifted by the wind and flew up down left right forward back, all directly away from Mr. Spottiswoode. Kurt scrambled to follow all of the sheets at once while the image of that hood and those lenses and his voice seared into his mind, playing in a loop, all floating in a superposition playing at the same time, over and over and over again. Kurt caught one of the pages, repeating, "one, one" and so on in his head, adding to the jumble, now worried, now realizing, all at once, that death was way too near. "Two, two two two" but what? He felt silly again, remembering he had a plan, a master one you could call it, but he still felt petrified, sad, wasting away, stumbling over people at an athletic event reaching desperately for pages of an essay a kid is threatening his life over. He lost track of all the remaining pages, looked around, drenched, and saw a page in the middle of the field. He ran down the steps, head bobbing, eyes on the sheet, feeling utterly lightheaded, and sprinted into the field, tunnelvisioned, and bonked heads with a girl swerving out of a row of cones. The audience's collective shocked, "Ooooohh" and a girl nearby's inhaling hissing sound of pain only made everything worse, and he felt like a kid. Mr. Spottiswoode reluctantly opened his eyes and looked at the girl rubbing her head and only thought of himself, how he looked, how people must think of him now, and, somewhat noticing, his stomach sunk. He tried, "I didn't... I'm sorry I'm sorry," under his breath. He grabbed the piece of paper, now grass stained, and made his way up the stairs, eyes down, only wanting to leave, only wanting to go home, and as the girl got up, ready to rumble, the audience broke out in applause.

←

           Kurt couldn't even look at Sally Pilckner and her glasses without shuttering somewhat, or feeling some sharp sweat incoming, so for the remainder of her presentation, he looked down at her converse pretending to be following along when really, truly, he's completely lost. He had already taken attendance to no avail, had sort of thumbed through the essay, but hasn't been able to read it, not even knowing if he should or not. So here he is, Kurt, sat, in the back of a classroom, looking at shoes and contemplating his chances of life or death. The ginormous mega man played in his head over and over, torturing himself somehow just for fun, relatively. "Observe," he remembered "Listen, yes!" So he tried, forcing his brain to latch onto everything happening in the room, which—well, he didn't know—wasn't working. He attempted to consciously meditate on the PowerPoint slide stricken on the pull down screen, bleeding off to the edges onto the whiteboard, infuriatingly so, and thought about the words without reading them:

           HUMANOID.

           CORN.

           BC.

           And he just thought, tried to imagine. He pictured a humanoid in his head and saw wiggles and a form blinking, on and off. The harder he tried the faster it disappeared. Okay uhh, the corn! He saw a kernel, a nugget, perfectly formed, so well imagined he was impressed with himself. Mr. Spottiswoode sat with that little kernel suspended in his mind, projecting it in front of his eyes, over the words, bouncing it around the room, putting it over Sally's face. "UuuaAAAGGHHHCHOOOO!!"

           "Bless you," in unison, harmonious monotone.

           Kurt, looking at the culprit's face a bit too long finally realized the kernel had been erased from his mind. The panic struck him and the sweat kicked back in, trying and trying, squinting and bubbling his mouth. Mr. Spottiswoode needed a plan B, so he remembered:

           BC.

           Okay, this can do. He chugged into his noggin the image of rocks... rocks? And monkeys, for some reason, a wheel? He was doing his best, breathing in and out. "Knowing what uh... how corn was the main commodity in indigenous cultures, what would the world look like right now if we used corn for money?" Dead flat silence, but Sally didn't seem to mind. The class willingly sat in the hoisted dead noise of the room, adding to it every millisecond, everyone thinking someone else will talk, they have to, why aren't they? Why is everyone doing this? And Pilckner, Sally stood face to face to the excruciating silence, swaying, hands clasped behind her back, sniffling, heard a cough, grounding the silence to the utmost potency of bad participation skills. Kurt felt himself walking but didn't remember doing so, and somehow decided to stop right beside Sally, too close, she steps back, and those monkeys are still in his mind, swinging and hooting until they come across a kernel, a big one, glowing in the shattered sun shooting through the tall grass, or the banana leaves, either or? staring at this weird yellow coconut. It's here that they stop moving, their personalities and characteristics put on hold, freeze framed, with the class waiting and peeking under the rim of the table trying to be sneaky superimposed atop the scene before Christ, now at the same time, both immobile, not moving, freeze framed and dead. Kurt stood there until the clock struck 11:58 AM, close enough, and the irresistible sound of ruffling papers and backpack zippers filled the room, sparking some kind of Pavlovian response in the students telling them, "it's time to go", which was probably for the best.

           Kurt Spottiswoode decided to keep on driving tonight, not a clear decision but merely allowing himself to do so. Millbrae now, by the BART station, the monumental Chase Bank shining blue up the columns, credit card slots blinking and egging him on, that Peter's Café across the street, still open, still not much business... but boy, oh boy... Kurt took a leap of faith and pulled an illegal U-turn across the yellow line, the toast in his sights. He parked haphazardly and sat for a minute or two, looking at the fog grow on his windows, and waited for it to completely shell his car. He was now encased, in his own little world he thought, free of anything and everything except him and the essay, now sort of dead within the new realm of his. It was only paper, just neatly formed, digitally stamped stains of ink on a page, saying nothing in particular. He wanted to marinate in this, get the feeling then go, and he went. The wet chill struck him as he left the stratosphere he created, and, with the essay in hand, walked into the snoozy joint.

           A song he couldn't recognize right away was wrapping itself up, and right when he thought he knew the song, "HI welcome to Pete's Café!" She popped up from right behind the circular bar, knowing he was going to be there somehow. She slapped down the menu, the cocktail menu, and a freshly laminated dessert menu. "Freshly laminated!"

           "Yep," Kurt sniffed the menu, "That's fresh for sure, hahahaha!" laughing more for himself than her.

           "What can I start you off with tonight?"

           "Just toast, please."

           "Sweetie, just toast?"

           "Yep just toast."

           The look on her face spelled imminent harm, then immediately transformed into unconditional hospitality. "Vikas! Toast! Sure thing sweetie," snatching the menus in one swoop.

           "Thanks uhh," trying to read her name tag but only caught a V.

           He looked around the place, at the lighting hung in trios across the sloped ceiling, the booths hidden by CLINK... Kurt looked down and saw a plastic tumbler, blue and chipped, filled with water and weak ice cubes, but no V in sight. Noticing this, he noticed everything, which wasn't much, just a diner open for business, no patrons. He sat tapping his fingers in a kind of rhythm when "Is That All There Is?" by Peggy Lee jumps on the overhead speakers.

I remember when I was a very little girl, our house caught on fire I'll never forget the look on my father's face as he gathered me up in his arms and raced through the burning building out to the pavement I stood there shivering in my pajamas and watched the whole world go up in flames And when it was all over I said to myself, is that all there is to a fire

Is that all there is, is that all there is If that's all there is my friends, then let's keep dancing...

           Once that chorus kicked in he was humming along, eyes closed and drinking out of the mini cup. He opened his eyes and there before him was the essay, off to the side, right where he left it. He was lost in looking, only thinking about reading it, telling himself he wasn't afraid, and then the glasses appeared again, knowing that they belonged to the student, that the student typed this and printed it out, touched it, the net total of his movements to that moment of delivery resulted in the crimps and creases in the pages, the same on every page, again and again.

Let's break out the booze and have a ball If that's all there is...

           His hand shot out at the pages and smacked them once, not knowing what to expect, just a release? Kurt looked up and saw V staring at him before she broke out into strides in his direction. He grabbed the paper and started reading it vigorously.

professor Spottiwoods

Rough Draft

Pedagogyy is the study of how tot each a class in school, anywehere, like elementary school or college. I have been in school for almost all of my life and I feel like I have a big say in how I should be taught in school. There has been much discusssion on what progressive pedagogy might look like, but it has always been discussed and taught in regressive pedagogical systems, which is something liek a paradox isn;t it? we seem to think education is the greatest good, it keeps us young, that's what Aristotle thought, but these systems are old, the teachers are old, and theyf ail to realize that they they are only apart of an institu

           "SPOTTISWOODE?" Kurt froze in the middle of that word he knew was going to be 'institution', maybe spelled wrong, but couldn't help but feel several shots of adrenaline pumping through his body, his heart trying to compensate. "PROFESSOR SUPERWOOD IN THE FLESH!!"

           Mr. Spottiswoode craned his shoulders around to see Zip Baltgalvis—he thinks? —and can only widen his eyes. Zip skips over to Kurt's seat lugging what might be three backpacks at full capacity while Kurt creeps back at the paper, wide eyed, blank, stuck on the same word. Zip spins into the seat next to Kurt's and side hugs him, not responding. "Duuude what's good Spurt? ... It's me!" Kurt turns his head, zonked out, to Zip, frozen in a smile with his fingers turned inwards into his chest. "Zip..." Kurt emitted.

           "Ziiiff!" exasperated, "Ziff Baltgalvis! Twenty-fourtee-" leaning in closer for the whisper-shout, "Twenty-fourteen man! Duude! You're here!!"

           "I'm... here."

           "Yes! Yes!"

           "Hey where's my toast..." slurring and directed in the direction of unseen employees.

           Ziff looked down at the essay through the blonde frizz hanging in front of his face. "State huh? State huuuhh!!? MAN in the flesh! Front and center, late night!! You know, I've been working on things..."

           "Things."

           "Things mmhm... some futuristic things," nodding slowly almost to hypnotize Kurt.

           "What things..."

           "I've been thinking about those things, like to help the future out. Man, Kurt, your mind will be buhlown."

           "Uhh... toast," again at the ghost place.

           "Yeaaah man toast! You're brain'll fry man right on!"

           "What do you mean?"

           "Oh you just gotta come and see."

           "See what Zip?"

           A plate of burnt toast lands and swivels down onto the table in front of Kurt, on top of the essay.

           "The future man..." nodding.

☼

           Kurt Spottiswoode didn't even know he was fast asleep until his own drool cooled by the leather returned to his cheek, sliding his face into consciousness. Wriggling his fingers, cracking them, still on his side, his arm slept along with him. He was awake, but only with his eyeballs. Everything else was testing the waters. Every few seconds the interior would illuminate, sometimes yellow but most times teal-ish, and Kurt was in it and apart of it, an honorary component of the car. Kurt inched his head up off the seat to get a better look at the LED clock up front. It was 12:02, most likely AM. He plopped his head back down, scrunching his mouth to avoid the drool as he tried making sense of the situation he was in. This wasn't his car, he wasn't driving, he wasn't tied up, he was stagnant yet rumbling across asphalt barely any more than two feet from his wet cheek, as the crow flies. Mr. Spottiswoode liked it here, liking the most being able to pretend to be invisible, or to transcend the state everyone thinks you're in, knowing something no one else in the world knows. It was also the quiet of the interior which implied a disappearance of everything outside and anything in the future, just being able to lay... wait... future...

           "COCKADOODLEDOO TEACH! Un-conked?"

           "Muh... Zip,"

           "Hahyeah,"

           "Zi-," stuck on a clog in his throat.

           "Honest man, be honest,"

           "Where are we going?"

           "Dude, you remember this!"

           "I...?"

           "You can think it man, you can access this,"

           "Why was I..."

           "If you just reaaally think,"

           "Is it... Thursday?"

           "Unrelated inquiry, unrelated inquiry,"

           "Zip come on-"

           "Patience is a virtue,"

           "This is fuckin-"

           "Woah, woah,"

           "This is frankly, fucking stupid Zip!"

           "WOOOAH WOOAH,"

           "I wanna know! Where am I going? Where am I being taken to?"

           "I w-"

           "ZIP my foot is down it's being put down right now you got to tell me,"

           Ziff looked back over his shoulder at Kurt, now up in his seat drenched in sweat, eyes locked and loaded. The light outside illuminates the car in red for a split second, distant honking. Ziff looks back and forth hoping he isn't seeing and hearing correctly.

           "I don't like the way you look right now man,"

           "Zip,"

           "I don't friggin' appreciate those looks man!"

           Ziff is nearly done pulling the car over to the side of the road into the grassy overflow of an empty lot next to them once he says this. The back of Ziff's head jerks about, trying to put the car in park while storming out of the car at the same time. "Jesus... ZIP!! ZIP!" Kurt yells at Ziff with the foggy passenger window in the way, trying to unbuckle himself. "ZIIIIIP!!" It was Thursday, it was without a doubt Thursday, and it all came crashing into Mr. Spottiswoode's stomach. Kurt didn't even consciously think these thoughts, but he knew somehow by the way his neurons scrambled to ignite, scrambling together as one, but the buckle is jammed. Kurt sits back and processes the vagueness of himself at this moment, unconsciously looking around, widening his eyes, tuning out everything in order to tune out himself, and the door closes. He looks up and sees the long hair splitting out from Ziff's head. "Zip, where are we,"

           "Mr. Spottiswoode, it'd be really sick if you said sorry,"

           "I'm sorry, now-"

           "For what?"

           "For yelling at yo-"

           "And?"

           "And?"

           Ziff turned his head around to look through the gap under the headrest, eyes worn and wet.

           "And."

           "..."

           "Ziff."

           "No, no no, slip of the tongu- er the mind. I'm sorry. My-"

           "I really wanted you to see what I made Mr. Spottiswoode,"

           "Sure-"

           "When I saw you at Pete's tonight I thought that it was like fate, like that dramatic shit... right?"

           "Sure yea-"

           "I thought 'Hey Kurt's here, I bet he'd like to hang with me' you know? See me..."

           "Yeah,"

           "I thought you were gonna be like the guy who pretends he didn't make eye contact or something, and I was bummed out Mr. Spottiswoode. You were like the first guy... to uh... like really, you know, get me stoked on learning shit. And you were eating and I knew that it was like that fate happening maybe, like the universe collapsed on itself for that one time right?"

           "Sure,"

           "Do you get the same emotions too?"

           "Maybe, I don't really know,"

           "Cause like, the universe likes us...? Like it doesn't stop turning. It's like it keeps wanting us to know something, like..."

           And Ziff stopped, seemingly lost in that universe that led him to what he thought was right now, but Kurt, on the other hand, was back on the paper. "Ziff, I need to sleep I'm sorry."

           Ziff dug into one of the three backpacks he dropped in front of his front door to fish out the keys. Kurt was keeping his distance considerable out in the middle of a parking lot, by the car. Ziff tumbled the keys into the lock and cracked open the door, creaky to the point of filing a complaint with whatever de facto powers that be. The place was lit by strung lights around every edge, ceiling, doorway, floor, but only out of necessity of upholding the common courtesy to the household. Ziff lifted his arms in introduction of the place, "Uh, you can crash on the couch probably."

           Pots and pans brought Kurt back to the waking world, seamlessly too. What amazed Kurt's brain, the first thought in his head this morning, was how shrill these utensils ringing off each other were and how, somehow, that comforted him. He rubbed the sleep off his eyes and got up to mull. He scuffled towards the kitchen a few feet away and stood in the doorway, drawing a blank at the kid with pleasingly messy hair, jammies, bare feet, flipping a piece of bread with a hole in the middle occupied by an egg. The kid felt his presence and gave a half-nod half-smile, what Kurt came to hypothesize as a newly evolved human instinct. Kurt leaned on this doorway, scanning the room for a clock or any other furnishing that might give him a clue of some kind. A group of kids passed by him, recalling, "...ea and his brother was a raccoon in the firs..." and further down the hall a burst of "pffff" and laughter bounced back to him as he tried logging the series of events in his brain. Looking, still standing, invisible again, superposed in this doorway and periodically thrusting his body off enough to fall back onto the wall. A printer fired up in a room somewhere reciting its rhythm of obeying the data it's been fed, music to his ears but merely instinct to itself. But now the printer was approaching...? It was getting louder and louder, its rhythms becoming more complex, fading into Kurt's range of comprehension, but the closer it got the less he knew, the more it wasn't printing anything. Kurt leaned his torso over to peer through the commons area and into the main hallway, footsteps thrown into the mix now too. An upright arrangement of plastic and spinning metal emerged from behind the opening to the room, then a rubber foot inched down onto the wood floor, and the robot was now recognized by Kurt alone. It continued forward, stopped, made minor adjustments to the placement of its feet, and made way straight towards Kurt. His stomach sank and kicked into some kind of action backwards and to his left feeling his way towards some cover of sorts. Kurt crouched behind the side of the fridge, peering out at the rest of the kitchen. The whirring got louder, again, and the robot emerged, again, stopped, repositioned, continued in Kurt's direction. Kurt stayed put this time only because he couldn't think of anything else other than the fact there was a fucking robot walking straight towards him. The robots innards became clearer and clearer as it approached, stopped, repositioned, and reached for the fridge handle, and pulled it, pinching Kurt's fingers. He freaked out for a split second but didn't want to make any sounds in an effort to preserve the invisibility thing that the robot may or may not have seen right through. The door closed and revealed a jug of soylent in the robot's plastic nubs, repositioning away, and inching back out of the kitchen. Kurt stood up and stared at the robot, mouth wide open, sweat flowing, trying to think of its thoughts and what it must be conscious of to do what it does, where it's stored, what it means to it, does it feel what Kurt feels, does it know? A poke arrived on Kurt's left shoulder and he spun around clockwise to whoever it must be, who turned out to be... "Sorry,"

           "Nono I'm sorry," Kurt rattled out.

           "Just getting the uh," she reached up to the cabinet above Kurt's head, which he dodged as it swung open.

           "Woo heheh,"

           "Wanna sit?"

           "Wuh,"

           "Down?"

           "Well okay yeah sure heheh,"

           And he looked underneath and around himself and settled on sitting on the tile, criss-cross applesauce. "Do you go here?" she asked, eyes on the readymade pancake mix.

           "A- me? No I uhhh... I don't, no. I uh don't. Do you?"

           "Yes I go here."

           "Pretty cool, pretty cool uhmm... for what?"

           "Literature, but I'm thinking of changing,"

           "To uhh... ?" shrugging, nervously laughing.

           "Electrical engineering,"

           "And uh, why's that?"

           "I'm working on a project of my own right now with a team of people so I sort of just want time to work on it and E.E. offers independent study in their labs so,"

           "What's the something?"

           "I've been studying the stichomythia of reading common literature. Technically it isn't stichomythia, but it sounds nice to me for some reason and for what I do. So I study that stuff, the ups and down of laughter, contagious at moments and absent the next. Could you read a book or get its sense and flow from the mere knowledge of the progression of chuckles? Or guffaws? What does a 'guffaw' suggest in a story? This depends on the reader, though, which makes my job complicated. There's a flaw in studying and observing these things with people, who read and re-read, the speed increases and decreases, and this warps and distorts the nature of my work, the laughs and chuckles. Me and my team are now looking at developing a system which reads a book at an average pace, its text, and pinpoints or detects the humorous areas to give us a controlled, concise, perfect result of this landscape, the musicality that might be objective to itself and its language that the common subjective emotional someone simply lacks the capability of experiencing. This is what I do,"

           Teams? Landscapes, chuckles, this was all he could pick up on knowing the robot was walking around the place with soylent in its hands. He tried to be interested, but his mind was firing on other cylinders and sputtering out in the process. He was looking at the pan, sometimes focusing in on his periphera and the figures wearing mute colors walking in and out and past in silence—but what was silence to him, Kurt Spottiswoode thought, might have been a universal language to them that he was left out of. "What do you think of that?" He forgot.

           "Sounds pretty cool to me!" looking for something to catch his attention.

           "Do you read?"

           "I uh read lots of things every day yep,"

           "Enjoy it while you can,"

           "Well, you too heh! I'll uh see you around," offering a small wave and some kind of mouth movement he hoped would come off as normal. As he shuffled his way out, she started to mumble and hum the words to a song, loud and proud, making pancakes. He didn't know, he couldn't know if this was just himself projecting, but it sounded like she was humming the words to "Is That All There Is?", pushing himself away now, embarking himself into the house keeping his ears out for the bot. He stepped softly in hopes of the robot not hearing him, and he waddled and peered around and down the halls, doors open, now releasing lots of machine noise, almost every room. He walked up the stairs with his eyes locked on the chandelier which was smothered in webs and dust blocking the way of any light that might be wanting to pass through and offer itself. He was feeling his way upwards, and at the top he saw another commons area with a few couches riddled in no pattern whatsoever, and on one sat the robot, with its soylent in hand. Kurt sleuthed his way by way of his back to the wall down the hallway, soft stepping. "GOOOOOOD MOOORNIIING PALO ALTOOO," Kurt's body scrunched and searched for Ziff's whereabouts, leaning, dodging nothing, and finally finding it, papers and clutter reaching the ceiling and Ziff sitting in it all like a throne with his soylent in hand. "Where ya been buddy?"

           "Ziff listen I have a lot of papers to-"

           "Next on the program we have none other than English Composition extraordinaire-"

           "Ziff,"

           "Bonafide rager-maestro and chug champ 2000,"

           "Ziff that rob-"

           "AND honorary member of the fun boys themselves, Kurt 'Spurt' Spottiswoode!" as he started clapping by himself, clapping rang out from the rest of the second floor. He wheeled himself on his rolly-chair, stood up, and took Kurt by the shoulder leading him back down the hall. "We are utterly stoked to have you on this morning,"

           "Heh I-"

           "Mup, I'm asking the questions, I'm the teach... what is the future to you?" holding the air-mike up to Kurt's mouth.

           "It's soon,"

           "Would you say it's now?"

           "No cause... now's the present?"

           "But the now always changes right?"

           "I guess, but-"

           "Have you ever seen the future?"

           "No,"

           Ziff was now jogging over into the commons area, Kurt already knowing what the punchline would be. "Would you-"

           "Ziff, I need to go home,"

           "I gotta introdu-," taking the soylent out of the robot's hands.

           "Ziff. I'm going," backing down the stairs.

           "Kuuurt... Dude..."

           And everything seemed to fade out, leaving only Kurt's mind reeling in place. He got out onto the street and started following it wherever it went, freezing cold outside. He replayed that robot in his mind a long while and kept zooming in on its soylent trying to find a semblance of a clue that would lead him to some peace of mind, but he couldn't, just stuck in replay. Whatever direction Mr. Spottiswoode was heading in, there were trains.

           Kurt was staring while his mind rambled out the window. The train, he thought, was way too quiet, an environment that discouraged the cocoon of isolation he loved putting himself into. The tracks might as well have been non-existent, leaving Kurt the sole pleasure of listening to his own ears, ringing to themselves to avoid insanity, an instinct. For a moment, Kurt believed that the window his head was leaning on was nothing but another screen, extremely high definition, millions of pixels perfectly and spectacularly calibrated to fool passengers of any scenic route that might have been perceived. It had to be a conspiracy against the senses. What if the screen was hiding something grim and evil? Like an unforgivable violation of human's rights? Dwindling shacks, bodies slogging around awaiting their doom—if his eyes were to penetrate this screen, he wondered, maybe his eyes would meet someone else's, and maybe he would see something rapturous and impossible there in the shared misery, if that's what it was, only to witness it being cloaked by the train's comfy encasing, vanishing behind perspective.

           The corridors of Höffus Hall, human activity simmering down to bathroom breaks and "bathroom breaks", stood in preparation of fulfilling its intended purpose. Direction, visibility, transportation, criss-cross applesauce. Kurt lunged himself up through the stairwell, leaning into the curves of the railing for momentum, his rolly-backpack skipping on the steps, and jumped at the last step for the 4th floor, expecting another. He nearly jogged down the hallway mouthing, "Thursday Thursday, this," as he exhaled every other step. He kept his eyes on his door, erasing anything else from his perception to maximize efficiency. The door opened and out came, rushing, faceless, a slew of students escaping Room 488, breaking off into different directions, unsure if their rut is scheduled correctly or not. The students walking towards Mr. Spottiswoode passed with no regard, purposeful or not, either being plausible he thought. His legs and tiny wheels kept on chugging, though, traversing the hallway renewed with activity indifferent to its origin. Kurt swung open the door and immediately saw Kevin hunched over, shuffling with something. Mr. Spottiswoode moved into position at the front of class, behind his tabletop podium, faux-mahogany desk, and in front of the broken projector screen hanging askew, whiteboard neglected by former courses teeming with information, and sat down in his plastic mold desk chair, which let out a rubbery whine as he landed. Kevin turned around revealing his backpack, filled with five 2" wide binders and what sounded like a load of pencils Kurt assumed were infused with varying increments of graphite intensity, pooling underneath the organization. Kevin became pale as he met Kurt's eyeballs, both of them caught in the act of something untold, implied. The kid, his face tense and vulnerable, who Kurt couldn't believe was the same one who beamed joyous respect at him every single day of class, a scholarly constant, dislodged the frog in his throat.

           "Thank you for the semester Professor Spottiswoode. I wrote you a reflection highlighting how this course improved my ability to critically think about the world and how it presents itself to us and how I can express my personal perception of it through concrete argumentation and healthy sentence structure," digging into one of his binders from the top, sniffling, "I learned that writing a good essay will help you throughout the rest of your life, establishing pathos, logos, and ethos in order to engage the reader is key to allowing anyone to take what you say seriously, perhaps because deep down these elements and rules that go into a well written essay, like relevant topic sentences, presentation of evidence, and analysis of that evidence..." wobbling exasperation, "perhaps these are the fundamentals of life itself and why we love one another and why we make the decisions we make, even our mistakes. It's all one cosmic engaging, insightful, organized essay that we just can't read quite yet," carefully placing the quarter-inch thick packet on the table, "I learned that from you, and it's something I hope to pass onto my children and their children, and I hope to pursue a Master's so I can teach this truth to the next generation of students like you have. This is a part of my essay, I know it and can't control it, I can only proofread it," he picks up and rushes out the door, teary and red-faced, "You're the best teacher ever!" tripping on the door-stop, his sobs bouncing down the hallway in every direction, the most emotional energy this building has ever experienced, undoubtedly seeping into the firmament of the place, dormant and undisturbed, stored in a feedback loop.

           The clock nailed into the wall above the doorway rotated into 11:29 AM, followed close behind by the internal clock in Mr. Spottiswoode's laptop, tucked away in sleep mode inside of Kurt's rolly-backpack. Kurt unzipped the biggest pocket and logged into his laptop, Outlook opening on its own, following orders. The inbox updated and there, waiting, was an e-mail from Ziff with the subject line, "vid of my creation!!!! ;D" Kurt Spottiswoode sat and waited, leaving the e-mail unopened, watching the screen, hand curled into a fist at rest supporting his head, eyes forward. Had he been paying attention, he would've heard the uproar of footsteps outside, vague murmuring, screeching chairs and tables in neighboring rooms to the left, right, upstairs, downstairs, the beeping of high-powered turbo-toasters, motorized longboards whizzing by, trucks backing up, something custodial collapsing, honking, keys jangling to each step, someone quietly running late to class, electrical cars humming, mysterious whooping, and a burst of applause amplified by the valley of dorms just outside the classroom window. Both clocks hit 12:00 PM at almost the same time. Kurt dragged his finger across the trackpad to click the refresh button. Nothing. He hit refresh again. Nothing. He hit refresh. Over and over and over.

←

[racingtoaredlight]

Nobody Asked You, RTARL: Vol. IX

Dear E. Jean Butters: Let me start off by explaining that I'm not a woman with outrageous expectations. But the thought that I'll never find a man to be happy with is so frustrating, I've resorted to casual sexual encounters. And it's not like I'm high-maintenance. Nor am I a neurotic clinger who expects to meet Mr. Right at a bar or club. So how do I make it happen?

My last relationship ended two years ago and left me heartbroken. But I'm holding my head high and have not looked back. I don't want to sound conceited, but I'm kind, generous, low-key, and I have a good heart. I excel at my job, and I'm pretty—so I just don't get it. When I do manage to meet someone, we have dinner, then—nothing. Somehow they fall off the face of the planet. (I don't sleep with them that night. I'm not the dumb girl wondering why they don't call.) But now the dates are becoming fewer and fewer. I've had just one in the past seven months!—Where the Boys Aren't

Lacking real expectations? Desperate? Employed? LIKES DINNER? Girl, you’ve come to the right place for advice, the answer to all your questions has been right here all along in the form of this ready and willing blogger. If you’re shy about sharing a photo let me break the ice, hope you too like the Packers.

I am very committed to dinner and would be willing to drive all the way to the east side of Madison where there’s still a Red Lobster to show you a cheddary, biscuity good time. But to avoid the traditional “nothing” that follows perhaps taking in a movie would serve us well. Based on your screen name I assume (NSFW, especially you my love who excels at her job) you’re also a fan of my favorite film series. Ladies choice of course which we watch first, I have many of them on VHS:

Where the Boys Aren’t - It's all girls. It's bring-your-own-pajamas. It's the wettest, wildest slumber, bumper, rocking, rolling party on record. And even if you weren't invited, you can always drop in.

Speaking of not being invited, good chance my drug dealer stops by and he’s not about to leave during a lesbian pajama party movie so I hope you’re really committed to making new friends.

Where the Boys Aren’t 2 - Imagine this: Five showgirls shipwrecked with only each other for companionship. For warmth. For pleasure. No men. No skipper. No Gilligan. And of course, no Ginger, since she's making regular movies. Wait a minute. Stop. Why are you imagining this? Rent this tape. And see what happens.

I don’t get it, Mary Ann wasn’t a porn actress so why would she be there but not Ginger? Whoops, sorry m’lady, sometimes I get focused on some strange, unconventional things.

Where the Boys Aren't 3 - Tori. Heather. Jamie. Cheri. And Kelly Royce. Six horny former showgirls stranded after their boat capsizes off the coast of who-knows-where. We call it "Shipwrecked Showgirls." You'll call it Tori Welles, Jamie Summers and Heather Hunter naked on your TV. But that's okay. These art films are meant for personal interpretation. Enjoy.

Maybe these girls should try taking a plane! (You’ll find I’m very, very funny. I’d consider being a cruise ship comedian if I wasn’t so convinced from watching these movies that it will wreck and I’ll be murdered by the lesbians who want to just love each other).

Where the Boys Aren’t 4 - The New Gold Standard. Savannah and Jamie, video's most gorgeous blondes, are trapped in an all-girl boarding school with jealous sophomores, innocent recruits and horny alumni. Sound like typical adult fare? It's not. It's Savannah. It's Jamie. It's Paul Thomas. It's the Gold Standard.

Slow down with this gold standard shit and leave the editorializing to me. And what the fuck is Paul Thomas doing here if it’s where the boys AREN’T. Sorry sweetie, Part 4 is off the table and I’m throwing it into a trash fire right after I send my reply.

Where the Boys Aren’t 5 - Five girls. Six scenes. One Guy: You. All-New! All-Girl! No Bones About It!

Well there’s one bone right here! That, uh, you’re under no obligation to look at or scold in a German accent on our very first date.

Where the Boys Aren’t 6 - It used to be a men's club. But now it's all women- doing what women will do when they're relaxed- at ease- and into other women. It's WBA 6- featuring the return of Amber! The return of Christy! And Janine! In the all-star- all girl romp of all time. Are you all-man enough.

As a staunch feminist who is hoping you make enough at this fancy job of your to support me financially while I commit to making the most of a Netflix subscription, it’s empowering to see these lesbians thrive in a man-less world. We should hold hands during this one.

Where the Boys Aren’t 7 - Asia and Dyanna are a seemingly inseparable duo. Musically and personally. Dyanna sings. Asia plays piano. And business booms. In comes a pair of predatory record execs, Christy and Julia. And a predatory vixen named Janine, who has her eyes on innocent, young Jenna -- the new girl in town...

I know right? Seeing a young Jenna Jameson’s like going back and witnessing a young Ron Karkovice hit for the White Sox. Hope you like baseball since I like checking out new parks in the summer, sadly I doubt you’ll be able to come with me what with all the overtime you’ll have to put in to fund my expenses but I’d bring you home every nacho helmet I finish off.

Where the Boys Aren’t 8 -  Robert Cunningham is an extremely wealthy businessman. He's also dead. He's had several true loves, none of whom ever got along. But his will stipulates that if they are to share his fortune, they have to learn to like each other. And then some. Vivid presents our top supermodels, straight from the pages of the legendary Penthouse magazine Janine, Nikki, Jenteal, Dyanna Lauren, and Alexis Christian. In our most star-studded all-girl spectacular yet. WBA8. All your favorites. Without the staples.

At the risk of you thinking me too much of a geek for writing fan fiction about my favorite films and TV shows, yes I did pen an alternate story for this one where Robert Cunningham died with an erection and the girls all take turns riding it. Maybe if you agree to a second date I’ll let you read it LOL!

Where the Boys Aren’t 10 - The superstars of munch return for one wild, tenth anniversary lesbian spectacular! It's adult's most popular all-girl series for a reason It's all-hot, all-drenched, all-vibed and all out nasty as they wanna be! WTBA ... It's where you wanna be!

I don’t own the silly ninth installment because it’s a giant dream sequence and that’s not my bag, the only dream I’m interested in is the one where we’re trying each other’s shrimp trios at the Red Lobster on the east side. But that dream will be reality.

Well that about does it, I never bothered purchasing parts 11 through 17 since the return of the munch superstars in Part 10 was too perfect to end on, if we blow through all nine videos I have after our date I also have the entire series of The Critic so we can laugh until the sun comes up.

So to answer your question about how to fix your love life, email racingthroughtheredlight@gmail.com with your movie preference and when I should plan to be at the restaurant on the east side and I’ll move this letter into the Life Fixed pile.

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[pubtheatres1]

IN THE SHADOW OF THE MOUNTAIN by Felicity Huxley-Miners The Old Red Lion Theatre 15th May – 2nd June ‘There’s the kernel of something really special here’ ★★ Ellie stops Rob from jumping in front of a train. They’ve never met before, but then she invites him back to her place to have sex with her. There begins an unbelievably intense 3-week relationship, the apt word for me unfortunately being ‘unbelievably’. IN THE SHADOW OF THE MOUNTAIN has a brilliant and fascinating concept that it’s exploring; the effect mental health has on romantic relationships, but unfortunately it misses the mark in a few vital ways that leave it feeling inauthentic. In this short, one act play there’s a vast amount of ground attempting to be covered; suicide, anxiety, depression, mania, abuse, sex, manipulation, self-harm, possessiveness, reactive mental health as well as chronic. It’s a lot for an audience to take in, and the pace and pitch is relentless. We watch these issues played out in repetitive arguments and awkward conversations between Ellie and Rob, in between their frolics in bed with each other. The play really does hinge on their relationship, and unfortunately for me it wasn’t written robustly enough to deliver these weighty topics. The fact that there is no foundation for them makes the stakes feel low and Rob’s refusal to leave doesn’t ring true. Also, having been very ready to jump in front of a train, his mental health problems seem to vanish into almost nothing as soon as he’s been in bed with Ellie. The most interesting moment that I think happened was on the second or third night Rob was staying with Ellie, and he’s on the phone to his mate while she’s supposedly sleeping. She’s listening as he tells his mate about his sexual conquest, ‘She’s batshit, but there’s nothing she won’t let me… yeah even that’. I was expecting her to either throttle him that second or for it to play some part in their relationship at a later date, but she seemed more than happy to just welcome him back into bed without acknowledging it. It felt strange and all it did was make us dislike Rob and wonder why Ellie lets him get away with it. In interviews, writer Felicity Huxley-Miners has shared that Ellie (also played by Huxley-Miners) is suffering from Borderline Personality Disorder. A mental illness that is stigmatised even within the mental health sector. It was a brave decision to choose BPD; sometimes known as a SWAN (Syndrome Without A Name), BPD can be something of a catch all phrase. So, it’s interesting to see it being put on stage. How nuanced and realistic the portrayal was, is not for me to say, but I would have been interested to see Ellie��s character show some greater variation. This was something that played on my mind throughout the play, I felt a general lack of empathy for both characters. The lack of depth and warmth in either character makes them hard to like or invest in. I would love to have known more about Rob’s ex, or the relationship with his dad, another moment that piqued my interest but was then brushed under the carpet. And with Ellie there was so much more I wanted. What about the abuse, her pretending her parents are dead, her previous romantic relationships. Without these histories the climax of the piece lacked the punch it might otherwise have. Both characters seem to stay stuck in the same gear, so there’s very little variation in the presentation of mental health. Huxley-Miners gives a committed and energetic performance as Ellie, it smacked of Manic Pixie Dream Girl at times, but knowing the context it was sad that she was trying so hard to ‘save’ Rob when it was clear she was on the brink of her own abyss. David Shears as the ‘ordinary blockey bloke’ Rob plays the part that is written. He seemed a bit too emotionally robust after the first scene, if he’d played up the vulnerability, the desperation he must surely feel after having been about to attempt suicide, his staying with Ellie despite her behavior would make more sense. But he’s watchable enough and his love and care for Ellie (even if we don’t know why he feels it) is clear. The actors benefit from a brilliant set design, with the stage itself and objects on it being marked out in white tape, like a body from a crime scene. It gives the feeling that Ellie’s flat has seen many little deaths and murders over the years. In the Shadow of the Mountain has some work to do. There’s the kernel of something really special here but the writing needs to stop trying so hard to be funny and also explore greater light and shade within mental health. The actors need to make sure we can see and understand why these characters are together, rather than just being a human sounding board for each character to fling words. But, seeing mental health played out on stage isn’t necessarily supposed to be easy or neat, it can be messy and confusing. Choosing BPD was an interesting thing to do and certainly is one of the mental illnesses we know least about. And with May actually being Borderline Personality Disorder Awareness Month, this show certainly contributes to the conversation. IN THE SHADOW OF THE MOUNTAIN by Felicity Huxley-Miners Directed by Richard Elson Presented by Quantum Frolic & Instinct Theatre The Old Red Lion Theatre 15th May – 2nd June Get your tickets here: http://www.oldredliontheatre.co.uk/in-the-shadow-of-the-mountain.html Verity Williams is a poet, actor, playwright, dog enthusiast and committed gin drinker (not necessarily in that order). Born and raised in Dorset, Verity has a BA in English and Drama from Royal Holloway, an MA in Creative Writing from Bath Spa and an MA in Acting from East 15. @Verity_W_

[tillyhollar50-blog]

Volkswagen Passat Presents On Assessment.

Respected technician professionals Digital Factory recently published their searchings for on a very early create of Job CARS. The UK Division from Transport currently recommends that liability for an auto in autonomous mode rests with the automobile maker, yet when the driver has recovered management, the driver needs to think obligation rather. This article manages a component of an automobile supplier's earnings generally called floor plan or floor planning. In case you loved this informative article and also you would like to acquire more details relating to http://improvemetabo.xyz/deeper-proste-porady-dla-cwiczacych/ i implore you to go to our site. The Swedish carmaker's supervisor, Håkan Samuelsson, will mention United States authorities investigation predicting that driverless automobiles will trigger an 80% fall in the lot of auto accident by 2035. The JBL Legend CP100 is a convincing technique to incorporate Android Vehicle and also Apple CarPlay to your older cars and truck. The court heard that, when 1st transformed from an old Presbyterian church in the 1970s, the records to our homes consisted of three cars and truck garage, parallel facing the residential properties. During the course of winter season, when the car central air conditioning device is certainly not being actually made use of, particular tapes can dry out, causing the productivity from the central air conditioning system within the motor vehicle to slowly fall apart, ultimately leaving that worthless. The auto James Administrator steered in the film belongs to the long-term assortment at the National Automobile Gallery in Reno, Nevada. The prime minister should hop on the side of common cars and truck drivers and also withstand the car industry through committing to a program from necessary auto callback, remuneration, random on-road screening as well as a clean-car label based upon real-world exhausts," stated ClientEarth leader James Thornton. A lot of required to Twitter to complain of observing folks's names, vehicle registrations, email handles and even visa or mastercard particulars. I wondered if Google.com views this is as the upcoming evolution of its hooked up car initiatives, one that leaves behind Android Automobile in the dirt as automobile creators inject Android right into the extremely wires from their motor vehicles, rather than hook them up through connected device. While electric cars have certainly come forward, driverless cars still bring in lots of scepticism. An 8-inch contact monitor along with Android Automobile and also Apple CarPlay assistance makes sure the Ridgeline is ready for your smartphone. You may inquire an additional carpool team moms and dad to cover for you (word of advice listed here for the rich: Don't ask me.) but you may not create random alternatives and inquire your exploring jobless brother-in-law - the one that recently you complained drank all your really good Scotch in one resting - to drive my kids. The moment our team have actually created that this's only the automobile our company're after, instead of his even more beneficial subsidiary, our dealership functions quickly. For some time, cars and truck manufacturers seemed to have actually finally found the wonder service to this complicated ethical predicament. Vehicles will own closer to every other, permitting the 80 to 90 per-cent of vacant street area to be used. In The Really good Terrorist she reveals us the aspect where the heaped-up dissatisfactions and also chances as well as disputes of specific lifestyles integrate into wilfully murderous public action. This delivers just how the United States vehicle sector slowly but certainly trashed on its own - most of the complications they experienced are actually key imperfections that affect every huge range fully grown business. Some possess transferrable manufacturer's warranties, while others can easily not be passed on. Actually, not all new vehicle guarantees are actually totally transferrable to the second or 3rd proprietor and that can affect the value of a qualified car. In a marital relationship that is actually not the very best, consisting of some quick bodily manhandling, she knows that a former supervisor and also mama figure for her has just perished in her fancy and also smooth red vehicle. When quizzed regarding Apple's oft-rumoured interest in building an electric automobile, Williams responded: The car is actually the best mobile device." He likewise claimed that Apple is actually exploring a bunch of other markets", and that the company intends to go into business where we believe our team can easily make a large quantity of variation". If the business carries out the repairs it is actually organizing, then the automobiles included will have their exhausts brought into line with International limitations. Yep, that's right, this is actually really coin-operated - but consumers need to actually select and also purchase an automobile on the Carvana website first. Far from it. Going through Halberstam's tome on the synchronised rise of Asia's car market and the loss from America's provided me a snapshot of American's stress, true as well as pictured, from our decrease with the growth from an Oriental challenger. The warm and comfortable sky is actually eliminated from the vehicle and also the cool air is actually driven inside the cars and truck. The Banking company from England on Friday verified regulatory authorities are actually examining auto loan arrangements which could possibly bring about regulators enforcing harder cost examinations, possibly similar to those made use of on home mortgages. If you have actually enjoyed your mama good enough to feel the pain of her hurting you, and also the ache from you harming her, you are an excellent daughter. Corrected a concern where sometimes the kilometers owned on a certain monitor or along with a specific car would be actually logged under the inappropriate car or even keep track of.

[janeykath318]

Leaving Darkness Behind 11

Chapter 11

As the end of Khan’s trial neared, Jenna didn’t see Chris much at all, but she was now kept much too busy with rehab and and getting back on her feet. As Chris had warned her, it was hard, painful, frustrating and left her in tears multiple times, but she could feel her strength returning and knew it was worth it. Bones and Phil were very encouraging and didn’t let her consider giving up, for which she was very thankful the day she was able to walk across the room unassisted.

“I feel like a toddler again,” Jenna panted, making an annoyed face at her own slow pace. “I can’t wait to be able to really get around.”

“You’re getting there,” Phil said, looking pleased at her efforts. “Soon you’ll be racing around like a dervish and driving us all wild: Command types usually do.”

“I take it you speak from your vast experience with a certain stubborn Admiral?” She returned, with an interested gleam in her eyes.

“Him and many others. You should really ask him about the incident on the swamp planetoid of MT107. He was laid up for weeks. Bellyached the whole time.”

“Oh, I certainly will,” Jenna agreed readily. “Speaking Of Chris, do either of you know why he’s acting so weird around me lately? One minute, he’s all concern and super attentive, the next, he suddenly acts all stiff and distant and reacts like I’ve burned him by being in the vicinity. It’s really strange.”

“It might be the stress of the investigation and trial,” Winona suggested. “He might be just worn out from that.”

“If That was the case this would have started weeks ago. It’s only been ten days of his erratic behavior,” Jenna pointed out. “What say you, Doc? You know him better than any of us.”

“It’s not my place to tell,” Boyce sighed. “Chris is working through some things he’s got to deal with in his own time. I’ve tried to get him to see reason, but he’s not ready yet. None of it is your fault, though, Jen, and he certainly isn’t mad at you. Occasionally irritated yes, mad, never.”

“That’s only when I break the Prime Directive and try to lie about it,” Jen said ruefully, never forgetting how upset he’d been when he’d called her out on it. Seeing as how she wasn’t getting any more information out of Phil, she reluctantly let the conversation turn back to her continued therapy schedule, hoping that she’d get to welcome Chris from her feet the next time he Came.

What even Phil didn’t know was that Chris’s off behavior had been precipitated by his viewing of the security tapes from the Enterprise, including Jenna’s thought- to-be last conversation with Spock as she was dying. It had upset him more than he thought possible, the feeble smile she gave the Vulcan when he admitted they were friends ruined his composure and he sat staring blankly at the console for a long time afterward.

“I’m such an idiot,” he muttered to himself, the day he finally allowed himself to admit why she affected him so much. “Dammit, Phil was right. I’m in love with that crazy woman. Now what do I do?”

Unfortunately, this caused him to be more self conscious when he was around Jenna and led to the confusing body language as he was torn between wanting to be as close as possible and avoiding coming on too strong or looking like a creepy old man. Perhaps a little communication could have cleared this up, but Chris was still trapped by his fear of confessing his love. He buried himself deep in work to put it off as long as possible, hoping if he ignored the whole thing, it would just go away.

As often happens, this method of coping failed miserably and Phil threatened to declare him unfit for duty if he didn’t take a break.

“Chris, please just talk to her,” The exasperated surgeon general exhorted, the same afternoon he’d had to dodge Jen’s questions “She’s starting to notice you’re acting strange and is drawing the wrong conclusions. There’s only so long I can cover for you until she confronts you herself.”

“I know,” the admiral groaned. “There’s nothing else to do. What if she’s grossed out, though? I’m not exactly a spring chicken anymore.”

“Trust me,” Phil said kindly and meaningfully, “there’s no chance of her being repulsed. Now, get going. She’s expecting you.”

Now admirals don’t usually skulk, but Chris practically tiptoed to Jen’s room like a misbehaving schoolboy fearful of being caught. This was it. McCoy gave him a funny look as they passed, probably wondering what in the world was going on. If the man only knew, Chris thought. Well, he probably did.

Jen was sitting up reading when he Came in. The usual smile lit up her face when he Came in And she beckoned him in to his usual seat.

“Well, hey there. I thought you were busy doing important Admiral stuff. You never come at this time of day.”

“My meddling Doctor friend decided I was overdoing it and made me remove myself from the active investigation,” Chris admitted in a disgruntled tone.

“Good for him,” Jen said unsympathetically. “I was really starting to worry about you. You looked way too stressed.”

Chris shot her a betrayed look. “You too? I thought you of all people would understand my plight.”

“I do, but I also want you healthy, Chris,” she told him gently. “I’ve missed you. The few times you’ve been here, you’ve had your mind on other things and it was obvious. I think they’ll be able to get by without you now that the biggest part is over.”

“Maybe,” He said somewhat doubtfully, knowing Komack and Nogura too well to completely believe that. “Oh well. What’s done is done. I have been negligent of my favorite captain lately. I’ve come to put an end to that and explain my recent behavior.”

Jen perked up. “I knew there was something going on! C’mon, spill it. I promise to not judge you.”

He smiled nervously and rubbed the back of his neck as he faced the moment of truth.

“Well, i May have watched some of the security tape from the Enterprise which was more than a little enlightening and very disturbing at the same time.”

Jen grimaced. “Yeah. I’m not really proud of my actions there: forcing Scotty to resign and then almost committing murder myself. Thank goodness for Spock talking me out of it.”

“That wasn’t what threw me, though, Jen,” he admitted. “I........saw the tape from engineering.”

“Oh,” she said quietly, twisting the sheets in her hands. “So you saw my ugly demise?”

“More like selfless sacrifice,” he reminded her. “Couldn’t be more proud of you, even though it just about destroyed me to watch. I’m glad Spock was there for you.”

“So am I,” she admitted. “Despite our earlier disagreements, he really is the perfect first officer and.....friend. But that’s not what you’re getting at, is it?”

“No,” he said, plowing ahead determinedly, looking her straight in the eye. “Jen, I’ve been in denial for a long time and knowing what happened forced me to face the facts: I can’t stand the thought of ever losing you for good. You’ve unknowingly run off with my heart, Jen and I finally realized it. That’s what’s thrown me for a loop.”

Jen’s bright blue eyes had grown round and misty as he spoke and her reaction was far from what he’d expected, but yet fit with what Winona and Phil had been trying to tell him. She reached over and took hold of his hand, smooth on top of rough, and said softly, “I’ll be sure to take good care of your heart, Chris. Will you take care of mine? It’s been yours for awhile now.”

“You mean?....” he started, looking at her intensely.

“Yep,” she finished, smiling brightly. “Did you see what I tried to do to Khan, when I thought he’d murdered you?”

“Uhura told me,” he said. “But there are other reasons you could have been compromised, so I didn’t take particular note of it. The last thing I’d want to do is assume something like that. You might have been repulsed by the idea.”

“Repulsed? By you?” Jen exclaimed. “Are you aware of how many cadets longed to be in your classes? Or shamelessly ogled you? Or how we used to inwardly swoon over you? I still do, by the way.”

She added a wink and a smirk and Chris turned red.

“It’s the uniform,” he muttered, remembering the flocks of giggling cadets that used to annoy him so much.

“Maybe for them. Not for me,” Jen declared. “I think you’re awesome no matter what you wear. So, we’re clear on the whole “I love you, you love me” thing? If not, I’ll gladly do more convincing.”

He smiled at her and squeezed her hand. “If I’m thinking what you’re thinking, I’m definitely not averse to some more....persuasion.”

Jenna giggled happily at the change in his voice and leaned forward to meet his kiss. Bones would be insufferable about this tomorrow, but who cared?