#and part of being a good ally or a good activist or whatever is to think through those things with your brain so you stop for instance | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

petrichor-idyllic · 1 year

Note

Hi hello! Can I request a Minho x Reader oneshot where the reader is working for WICKED but is like an undercover agent and actually tries to give out info for the Right Arm or whatever and she helps Minho when he gets taken back to the facility(like trying to find ways to free him or at least bring him food or smth when he's not being... yk tortured to death and all- it can be whatever) and she helps in his escape and they all go tho the safe haven where they live happily forever after- ok I'll stop now, thank you. Also I'm in love with your Minho oneshots!

Omg yesss this is such a good request and I can actually do so much with this.

I got really into this one so I'm sorry for the variation in my writing quality lmao. This might be my longest piece yet, so sorry it took so long to get out.

Due to the pronouns used in this text I am assuming it is Fem!Reader. I am also assuming this is based on the films because those events do not take place in the books.

WARMTH IN COLD PLACES PT. 1

MASTERLIST | MINHO MASTERLIST

PART 1 | PART 2

SUMMARY: See above. Minho x Fem!Reader. Movie based fic. Instead of Jorge knowing about the Last City and where Minho will be, you provide that information.

WARNINGS: Inappropriate language, violence, guns. WICKED being WCKD because movie. I'm assuming you know the rules of the card game Black Jack. This is also time inaccurate because TDC takes place over a couple of days but here you're getting weeks worth of events. VERY long.

You joined the Right Arm as a child, maybe ten or eleven- you can't really remember. You'd lost your parents to the Flare on separate occasions, escaping to a refuge camp after your father started showing symptoms and forced you to flee without him.

You can't even remember losing your mother. You were too young.

After moving from camp to camp, each one being safe until some Crank snuck in, or someone joined unknowingly suffering from the disease.

After the forth move, you met Vince. You tried stealing some extra bread for a girl who was sick (she had pneumonia, not the Flare). You got caught but put up a hell of a fight. Vince introduced himself, and you kind of became his adoptive daughter.

So, when he gave you an alias and a fake ID, sending you on a private mission to interfere and spy on WCKD, you were shocked to say the least.

But it made sense. Vince had been protective and secretive about you, making sure that he kept you away from WCKD's watchful eye. Sure, you're pretty well-known; but only by name. There's several rebellious attempts attached to your name, mainly spread around groups of activists.

But not your face. You were the perfect candidate for an undercover gig.

It took months to go through WCKD'S training, pretending to be older than you were with a name that wasn't yours, but it worked.

And then, even your fake name and life didn't matter- you simply became Guard 175.

It's been two years since you took the job.

Your time in the Last City was unlike any other- mainly stealing information and providing intel.

Until strict message from Vince on your smart watch tells you to keep an eye out for an Asian boy called Minho.

You knew of Minho- of course, you did. Vince and his new allies had been looking for him for the past six months. After the events in which Teresa betrayed you all, you were in the Last City. The Guard job you had required you to stay at WCKD's Headquarters at all times, since you were guarding the building. Even in events where WCKD needed more bodies.

All you could do was try and warn Vince, but by the time you found out what was happening yourself and managed to find a private place to send the message, it was too late.

So, now everyone's focus is on trying to find this random boy you've literally never met for ex-WCKD workers/prisoners. It's been a weird six months.

Much to your dismay, the only information you could provide were the routes the trains would be taking and that Minho might be on them.

Which got messed up, but not thanks to you. You told them the location, but which carriage Minho was on would be random based on where the Guards forced him to sit.

You were still unable to leave your post.

Vince had suspicions that they were bringing Minho to the main WCKD base, especially after you told them the documents stating the destination. It was really the only other option since they didn't save him. So, you're now under strict orders to keep an eye out for him.

You know what he looks like. You have an earpiece and a high-tech smart watch, both of which you keep hiden under your Guard's uniform. These were used to tell you what you had to look for. So, when you broke into WCKD's system, searching for Subject A7- information that was provided by some keen-eared boy called Newt -you knew who you were looking for.

"Miss Agnes," you jog, catching up to Teresa as she struts down the scary clean white walls of WCKD HQ. You hate it here. It's worlds away from the chaotic but cosy environment you spent your life in- from the small town that got plagued by the Flare to the Right Arm bases you helped run. It's too bright; too clean.

Part of your mission is to befriend Teresa. She's Ava Paige's personal lapdog, and if she likes you, you've got an in- and someone with power that will defend you. She seems to be fond of you, probably because if a lowlife peasant can like her, then maybe she isn't so bad.

You, obviously, despise her.

Your job wouldn't have become so complicated if it weren't for her, and you'd probably have a lot of people safe and sound in the Safe Haven. Your job was long, but it was originally to get as much information as physically possible and then flee, providing the knowledge to free more people and completely disrupt WCKD's plans. Now it's "tell Vince if you find this random kid."

"Ah, 175," she doesn't even know your fake name, "I was wondering where you'd got to."

"Yeah, well, you know how it is- busy guarding and all that." She scoffs. She's always found you funny; that might be why she likes you.

"Yes, well, as much as I'd love to chat, I've got to get to the labs." You're glad the mesh masks of your uniform shields your face because that means you can hide your panic.

"Sorry, uh, before you go- I heard one of the cargo trains was intercepted," her face visibly hardens, "I was wondering if that had anything to do with your old friends; the ones you told me about?"

She clears her throat, "I'm afraid so. I just-" she sighs, "Thomas thinks he's doing the right thing. He thinks that this is what's best for him- but I'm trying to do what's best for humanity. It hurts that they don't understand that. But it's fine, because we prevented the Right Arm from getting our most reliable cargo."

"Oh?"

"I can't tell you much, I'm not allowed," she throws a sad smile your way. "I wish I could, though. You've been a great friend. So, let's just say one of the most impressive and consistent subjects is still in our possession."

She walks away, leaving you to huff and puff in the corridor. It made you sick how they spoke about people like they're objects. It's hard to believe the boys you're helping used to hold her so highly.

You return to your room. It's basically a box room that's big enough for a bed, but it's the only place that offers you any privacy. You yank your mask off, tossing it to the bed and pressing your fingers to your earpiece.

"Yo, Vince, you there?"

There's silence, followed by a sharp static. "(Y/N)? Did Teresa tell you anything?" You flop onto your bed, letting yourself move your hand away from your ear now the connection is stable.

"Not really, but she did mention about precious cargo being still intact- and an important test subject. The records I told you about before our raid said the train was coming here- we can only assume that this subject-"

"-Has to be Minho," Vince sounds stressed, groaning slightly.

"V? Everything alright over there?"

"Not really," he sighs, followed by the sound of a squeaking chair, "WCKD's jets have been snooping around base and Thomas, Newt and Frypan have gone AWOL- Brenda and Jorge left earlier to go and find them. But I doubt they're going to bring them back."

Honestly, you'd never spoken to any of these people, but you knew the names well enough to tell who they are.

"What are they going to do then?"

"What do you think?" You sit up on your elbows, processing what he's implying. "You might be having some company real soon."

"Does that mean I'll be able to leave?" Vince snorts a laugh. You've asked him that every single call since you started this gig.

"It might, actually," though, this is the first time you haven't gotten a no. "Keep an eye out for Minho. He should be arriving there within the next twelve hours. If not, he's somewhere else and you're going to have to do more snooping whilst I try to contact Thomas."

"Okay. Speak soon." The connection dies with a hiss.

This was going to be shit.

Not even two hours later, you hear the call off of your walky-talky that Guards are needed at the cargo entrance to transport Subjects. You flew at the opportunity, rushing into the crowds of your colleagues.

Joining the other members at the doors to the carpark, you watch as buses full of innocent people in handcuffs pull up- all in the depressing WCKD garb they're forced to wear. Some faces are familiar from browsing files, some new- all looked terrified.

You stay away from the front, dipping between masked personnel and observing from a distance. You knew exactly what you were looking for- Asian, dark-hair, well built, about eighteen-ish, good-looking, and probably angry. That was offered by some dude called Frypan. You doubt that's his real name, but you really hope it is.

You watch, processing faces and people as fast as you can as Guards grab the Subjects, holding one of their arms, which are handcuffed together in front of them, and leading them into the building. This could be the perfect opportunity to do something, but by the time you spot Minho, someone has beat you to it.

It's definitely him. His image and description match him perfectly, even if his hair is a little bit flatter. You silently curse as you try to make your way over to him, only for another Guard to force him to walk forward.

Okay, new plan- grab someone close and stay nearby.

You don't get to use that plan either when Minho suddenly lashes out. He slams his foot onto the Guard's, making the masked man yelp and let go. Minho takes the opportunity to spin around, kicking the guy in the chest and sending him flying.

Another Guard comes to help, but Minho has got a hold of a pair of keys from the previous guy, just about unlocking one of his wrists before dodging.

Shit.

This is bad. There's no way Minho is going to be able to escape the building under these circumstances. It's brutal and dangerous and he's going to get himself shot.

You act fast, breaking away from the colleagues waiting for their turn and being affected by the bystander effect. You watch as a Launcher is pointed at the boy, as another Guard tries to wrestle him. The guy gets kneed in the groin and you dive in from behind.

Minho seems to sense you're there, spinning around to punch you, but you grab his fist, catching him by surprise and giving you a second to react. You'd done a lot more than basic WCKD training. Vince has been teaching you to fight since you first met him.

You launch your heavy boot into the bottom of Minho's shin at the front of his ankle, causing his foot to bend awkwardly. Taking the opportunity to spin him around, pulling him in front of you. You're quick to switch your grip to his wrist, forcing his arm behind his back. Kicking the weak spot on the back of his knee, he hits the floor with a thump as you hold him in place.

Minho is physically stronger than you, easily. But, you have years of practical and strategical training over his head.

"Not bad, 175," you freeze as Janson's grating voice hits your ears, "do us all a favour and take care of that delinquent- he's unfortunately important."

"Yes, Sir." He stands at the front of the room, watching as the Subjects filter past him. "Come on."

You yank Minho up, forcing him back onto his feet, he groans, anger visibly seething from him.

You hold him close to you so you can lean into his ear and whisper. "Listen man, I don't wanna hurt you but there's no way you're gonna survive here if you keep pulling shit like that."

"Why should I listen to you?" He spits. His voice is scratchy and hollow, full of hatred and aggression.

"You'd rather listen to these assholes? Trust me, I do that pretty much daily, and it's not exactly an ideal lifestyle."

He scoffs. It's dry and very clearly forced. "You think I'm gonna be your friend just 'cause you don't like your coworkers?"

Unfortunately, you have to be vague. If someone overhears and you tell him you're an ally to the Right Arm, then you're a dead man. If they think it's just dumb workplace drama, then they probably won't bat an eye.

"Quite frankly, I don't give a fuck what you think about me- I'm here to do my job. Unfortunately, my boss wants you kept kickin'." That's subtle enough to not bring concern, but intruiging enough that Minho looks over his shoulder at you.

"175," you're moving through the corridors now, having left the parking area and moving to Subject dorms. Your attention diverts to behind you as Janson touches your shoulder, having left his observation of the transfer. "Come with me. Subject A7 has a private cell per the request of Miss Paige."

"Yes, Sir."

This could be good. Minho has his own room away from the other victims, which means you'll have easier access to him.

You follow your "Boss", making no attempt to communicate with Minho in such tense circumstances now.

"That was quite the stunt you pulled," Janson speaks, making you cringe under your mask. "I don't remember many Guards being taught much hand to hand combat- we mostly focus on arms training. It's impressive."

"I excelled in the brief lessons we had, Sir. I knew some beforehand since I had to look after myself in the Scorch- fighting Cranks is no easy task." You keep your voice calm. A lot of people have similar life experiences, and if you haven't lost absolutely everything, you're classed as lucky. So, it's no shock when you casually mention hardships, giving a plausible explanation to your skills.

"I suppose so. You've come a long way, you should be proud of yourself- from street rat to WCKD agent. That's quite the accomplishment."

"Thank you, Sir, but I'm just trying to survive- just like everyone else."

"Humble, too," you can hear the smirk in his voice, "no wonder Teresa likes you."

Shit. Minho physically tenses at the mention of her name. If Janson knows that you're friendly with Teresa, then it's not really a jump in logic for him to think you're up to something.

"I'm honoured to be held in such high regard, Sir." Janson seems satisfied with this response, humming slightly.

Minho is quick to notice how different you spoke to him vs. Janson. It's very clearly a front, but he can't afford to question it.

He leads you to a small room away from the group Dorms, opening the door with a key card and revealing it. It's pretty much the same as your room, which probably says a lot about the people you're pretending to work for.

"Okay, Minho," Janson addresses the boy, condescending and irritating, "no more little stunts, okay? Your friends and the Right Arm can't reach you here. It's better you just give up and help us save humanity." He looks at you, jolting his head towards the room.

You grit your teeth, but follow the insinuation, throwing in the boy as guilt washes over you.

○ ○ ○

"I've found the boy," you pace your room once you returned, immediately contacting Vince.

"So he's there? Do you have access to him?"

"Not really- I know where he is but only higher level personnel have access to it- like Janson." You did a brief sweep of the key card requirements before you left- you're not Hugh enough ranked.

"What about Teresa?"

"Yeah, she'll probably have access."

"Okay, you can work with that, surely."

You sigh, running your fingers though your hair, "Sure, yeah, I guess. But what do you even want me to do now? Break him out? Release his file to you? Both of us escape?"

"I want you to keep an eye on him."

"Seriously?" Your face twists into a frown. "Is that it?"

"We can't risk anything. You're a one man show and one of our best resources- Thomas and his group are probably already making their way to you. God knows what their plan is, but they have more chance with you inside."

"How are they even gonna get into the City? It's on lockdown."

"I have a feeling they'll find a way," Vince huffs, clearly tired of your pressing. "Just a little longer, kid, make sure Minho is alive and okay- I don't know what they're gonna do to him, but I need you to make sure he's still breathing. Am I clear?"

"Yep," you pop the P.

"I also need you to keep quiet about your position, even to Minho."

"What, why?"

"We don't know what WCKD are going to do to him. If he says anything about our operation or you, we've done all this for nothing."

"I guess- alright. I'll sort it," disconnecting and sighing, you lay on your bed. You need to rest. These next couple of days are going to suck.

○ ○ ○

You wake the next day, and immediately start your hunt for Teresa. You have a hunch she'll be dealing with the Minho situation, or at least observing it.

The problem is that the WCKD HQ is huge. And you don't know where the experiments will be taking place. Since your job mainly just consists of walking around and keeping an eye on things, it's not like you're raising any suspicions. Especially since you helped out yesterday.

You turn a corner, spotting Teresa and Ava Paige talking, looking into a lab room with a glass window- one of the several open testing rooms found in this part of the building. You slow your pace, watching from a distance.

Teresa seems to be distressed; her fists are balled and she swallows uncomfortably, almost like she's hypnotised by what she's watching but wants to look away. Ava is unfazed, but she brushes her prodigy's shoulder as she walks away, offering some kind of sympathy.

The sound of clicking heels fade, and you make your approach. Going to speak, your breath catches in your throat as you witness the gruesome scene.

Behind the glass, Minho is strung up to some kind of contraption. Screens surround him and wires come from all over his body. He's stood upright, a foot above the floor and held in place as they start the machine again. One of the screens shows brain wave patterns that indicate high levels of stress.

"He's dreaming." Teresa speaks without pulling her eyes away.

"Dreaming?" You question. This looks anything but peaceful to you.

"Induced dreaming- they're forcing him to experience high stress situations to see how it affects the Kill-Zone," her words are shakey, and you latch onto that.

"You don't sound like you approve." She looks at you, even though she's never seen you without your mask, your voice and the numbers sewn on your sleeve tell her enough- she could tell its you from a mile away.

"During my time in the Maze- and the Scorch -Minho was brave. He's one of the most courageous people I've ever met. I can't tell you how many times he threw himself on grenades to protect us." She smiles, almost fondly as she looks back at the glass. "One time, when we were escaping the WCKD lab after being saved from the Maze, he ran full force and kneed an armed Guard. Completely knocked him out in one go; still probably one of the coolest things I've heard someone do."

"He sounds like he meant a lot to you," she lets out a sad chuckle.

"They all meant a lot to me but... I don't know. I made choices they don't agree with. They refuse to see the bigger picture, and I don't think they ever will."

"Why don't you try talking to him? Maybe visit him in his cell? Even if it's just to make sure he's okay." Come on, if you can get her on this line of thinking, you're more likely to get into Minho's cell.

"I'm too busy- besides, I doubt he'd want to see me. He hates me."

"Ah, yeah, that's a problem," she laughs dryly.

"Would you do it for me?" You tilt your head at her, exaggerating your confusion.

"Do what for you?"

"Look after Minho? Janson says you handled him easily yesterday, so there's no worries about him escaping or causing problems."

"I can't- I don't have high enough card access to enter the cells." She looks at you, thinking for a second.

"I'll get your card access upgraded. I trust you to take care of him- he deserves as much."

And just like that, she'd played into your hands. You're mainly relieved your hours of talking to her had actually paid off in some sense, that much was proven when she found you later that day- presenting you with a new key card.

Heading towards Minho's cell, no one even batted an eye when they saw you slide the key down the lock and the light flashed green.

Minho's sat on the floor, back resting against the bed frame, his legs bent and head in his hands. He doesn't even react to the sound of the door opening or closing.

"I brought you some decent food."

Still nothing.

Cautiously, you walk over to him, crouching and placing the dish on the floor. He looks at it out of the corner of his eye, which is kind of an improvement.

You cross your legs, sitting next to him but facing him. Silence fills the room and you let it. Minho is going to have to talk to you on his own terms if he's going to talk to you at all.

A good five minutes passes.

"You're not gonna leave, are you?" His voice sounds dry and is barely a whisper compared to the aggressive boy you'd tackled not even forty-eight hours prior.

"Nope."

"Did you at least get me a shuckin' drink?"

"...I'll be back. What would you like?"

"Do I even have a choice?"

"I'm asking, aren't I?"

"...Anything alcoholic?"

"No."

"Juice then."

You return ten minutes later with a glass full of orange juice, taking the sitting position that you had previously.

To your surprise, he's now sat with his legs crossed, holding the tray of beef, mash, gravy, and veg that you stole from the dining area on his lap.

You gently place the glass next to him, and he anxiously looks at it. "Not poisoned, right?"

You sigh, lifting the bottom on your mask and taking a sip, returning it to it's spot. He still hesitates, glancing down at his plate. So, you reach over, picking up a small piece of meat, struggling slightly to put it in your mouth under the mask.

He seems to accept this. It takes him a second, but he slowly starts eating- mainly picking at the food and taking slight sips of his drink, but progress is progress.

"You should count yourself lucky- the others aren't getting this quality food."

"Is that meant to make me feel better?" You guess that comment was a bit insensitive.

"Sorry, but you need to eat. You need the energy."

"What? So I'm strong enough to be tortured?"

You hesitate, feeling genuinely bad. "I'm sorry that-"

"No, you're not!" He snaps to face you, eyes full of fury and for a second you think he's going to attack you. "175, right?" He glances at your sleeve, "You stopped me from escaping."

"I stopped you from getting killed."

"I had it under control."

"Didn't look like it." His jaw tenses, staring down at his meal. "WCKD's Guards are trained with guns and weaponry- you're important but not nearly enough for them to risk you ruining their whole operation."

"You mean your whole operation."

"Whatever," you spit, determined to follow Vince's request, "I saved your ass, whether you appreciate it or not. I didn't know what they were going to do to you, I'm only here because-"

"Because Teresa wants you to look after me?" You blink at him, even if he can't see it. "Yeah, I saw you, even if I wasn't conscious. I knew it was you- same height and everythin'. You're helping that shuck-faced shank 'cause she feels bad that she's a shuckin' traitor that sentenced all her friends to death. Betraying little-"

"Okay," you cut him off, "I get it. I don't agree with it- do you seriously think I'd be here if I was just doing this because some bitch who doesn't even respect me asked?"

He looks at you. He really looks at you, like he can see straight through your uniform and into your soul.

"What other reason do you have?"

You shake your head, sighing through your mask. "Finish your food. I need to get rid of the dish- I'll get in deep shit if they find out I'm giving handouts to prisoners."

"The traitor didn't tell you to feed me?"

"Nah, did that all on my own." He snorts, kind of like a forced laugh, but he seems to relax a bit.

The remainder of your interaction is in silence. Minho finishes his food quickly, picking up pace once he gets taste for it. He finishes his drink, passing the glass to you instead of just putting it on the ground.

You stand and leave without saying another word. Minho doesn't attempt to change that.

This is going to be harder than you first thought.

Thomas better work fast.

○ ○ ○

You desperately try to avoid Teresa the next day, and you missed Minho for breakfast since they already took him for another round of glorified torture.

Your avoidance did not work.

"175." You've been guarding the entrance of the building for the last seven hours and you think you're starting to hallucinate. So, when Teresa actually approaches you, probably to leave for the day, you kind of wish she wasn't real.

"Hey," you greet her, for some reason smiling even though there is literally no point. "You okay?"

"I was wondering how Minho's doing?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" You attempt to joke, but when her face drops, you realise you've miss-stepped. "He's fine. As fine as you can be in this situation." You lie, mainly just wanting her to leave.

"Okay," she nods her head, accepting this, "thank you for this."

"It's no problem, Miss Agnes."

"Please, call me Teresa," she offers you a genuine smile and for a second you understand why Minho's so hurt.

"Okay then, Teresa." She flashes another smile before walking through the doors. Of course, WCKD scientists get high-end apartments away from the building.

The second day of your new routine starts. You bring Minho food- and you remember the juice, though it does make it harder to open the door.

This time, he's lay on the floor. Not the bed, the floor.

"Uh, you good?" The question even sounds dumb leaving your lips.

"Are you seriously asking me that?" He grumbles, eyes fixed on an invisible spot on the ceiling.

"Yeah, fair point." You sit on the edge of his bed, putting the food next to you but still holding the glass so it doesn't spill. Having a sticky orange juice covered bed would not improve his day. "I've brought you chicken wings and some fries, they were out of the healthy option."

He reluctantly sits up, shuffling across the floor and using the bed as a table as he sits in front of you. You pass his the drink and he sets it on the floor.

"If you're not doing this for Teresa, why are you doing this?" He asks between struggled mouthfuls of food.

You shrug, playing off your intentions. "Wanna pretend I'm a good person."

He scoffs, "No one who works here is a good person."

"That's why I said pretend."

You like to think you're doing a good job at keeping up the act. And maybe if Minho wasn't so exhausted and in pain, he might pick up on something not being quite right.

Though, you have to at least provide Vince with some kind of intel. Teresa said he's dreaming to stress the Kill-Zone part of the brain, but what's the point?

"What exactly are they doing to you?" He pauses for moment, clearly not wanting to think about it.

"Torture."

"I mean, I gathered that." Unfortunately, you have to stay stoic. Fortunately, you've basically been trained your whole life for this.

"I don't know- they put me in some weird trance and I see all the horrible things that's happened mixed with, like, a remix of traumatic things I've gone through- like they're using my shuckin' memories against me to make new ones or some klunk."

Well, that offered nothing, "What do you mean?"

"I don't know. It's weird. It feels so real and I can't tell it's fake when it's happening. But I'll be getting chased by Grievers down concrete corridors, or be back in that mall being hunted down by Cranks, except it's warped and keeps changing and I can't find the way we escaped. It's like being back in the shuckin' Maze, except they can control my entire body and make me do whatever they want. It's the Maze without being safe in the Glade at night, and I don't actually know how to survive."

"Huh," now, this is interesting.

"What? What is it?"

"They're trying to gain similar- or better -results as they did for the Maze trails. Except the Right Arm knows the location of all the Mazes, and pretty much all WCKD facilities so they're being forced to use psychological torture and hallucinations to mimic it instead. Since the City is on lockdown and no one can access it."

He pauses completely, blinking at you.

"What? I don't get it- why would torturing a bunch of immune teenagers help anyone."

"Because they want to cure the Flare."

"So?"

"So, Munnies and normal folk have the same structure brain, except the Kill-Zone area, the part of the brain that's damaged by the Flare, is left unaffected in those who are immune. The Kill-Zone reacts under extreme stress and produces new results and hormones that could, in theory, be used to create a cure."

Minho stops completely, the fork he's holding clattering onto the plate as he just stares at you.

"What?"

"How the shuck do you know all this? You're just a Guard but you know the biology behind all the science?"

"It's kind of common knowledge," you bluff, "the Flare's been plaguing humanity for a while- everyone knows the basic science behind it. I don't know what they expected, really."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you know the Flare is man-made, right?"

A beat passes, horror crossing Minho's face. "What?"

"When the Solar Flares hit, millions of people died, but half the world was pretty much left kinda intact. But, it meant we lost half the globe's worth of supplies and important necessities, so the growing population issue grew tenfold. So, for some fuckin' reason, the big bosses of the World thought it would be a smart idea to make a deadly virus to use as population control. The virus was too strong, spread too fast- those geniuses didn't think to make a cure just in case things went wrong. And, well, the rest is history."

You're actually shocked that Vince, or even WCKD didn't tell them this, because Minho seems genuinely dumbfounded.

"Shuck it," he rests his elbows on the bed, head in his hands. "Why am I not even surprised? Trust some random WCKD shank to be giving me a buggin' history lesson."

"Kinda figured someone woulda said something."

"Yeah, well, they didn't. Some shuck-face shucked up and now I'm being literally tortued to fix it. Brilliant."

"Bummer," he snorts at this.

"Yeah, you can shuckin' say that again."

"Why do you talk like that?" You decide to ask him more questions, mainly because you are genuinely confused.

"Like what?"

"Like that? Yanno, shuck, shank, buggin', klunk- you talk fuckin' weird."

"It's just how we spoke in the Glade. Don't really know how it started, but it's engrained in my vocab now."

"That's kinda cool," he raises his eyebrow, starting to eat again, "leave a bunch of teenagers to fend for themselves and they start makin' up words. It's just interesting."

"Yeah," he hums, "guess it kinda is."

○ ○ ○

You fell surprisingly easily into a routine. You talk to Minho, inform Vince of the current WCKD methods and then go about your job.

It's a lot of effort, but Minho is starting to be less reluctant to talk to you. He fondly retells stories of the Glade, like how he and Thomas survived a night, how bad Frypan's stew was, and that one time Zart accidentally burnt down a hut and Gally didn't talk to him for a month. It sounds like they were genuinely happy there, and it breaks your heart that Minho seems to wish he was back in that trap. Especially when he tells some of the darker stories.

But now there's a problem. Vince had always been touchy and strict about relationships. He didn't want you distracted or upset over some boy, so relationships were forbidden. And considering he's the closest you have to a father figure, you obeyed. Though, that means you've never been romantically involved with a boy through your entire teenage years.

And the first time you've ended up spending long amounts of time with a boy is with the torture victim you're trying to comfort whilst simultaneously convincing him you're the reason for his capture. A very good-looking boy who seems to be warming up to you.

A very good-looking, strong boy who listens to what you tell him and seems to be taking an interest in you and is very passionate about his opinions. Opinions that, unbeknownst to him, align perfectly with yours.

Oh no.

"I don't even know your name." You and Minho sit on the floor, playing Black Jack with a pack of cards you managed to sneak into his room. He's slowly being worn down. His features are more sucken, his skin pale and his hair dishevelled and messy. None of which you can really help. "Or what you look like."

"You don't need to know my name, or what I look like, to get your ass handed to you at Twenty-One last time I checked." He rolls his eyes. He acts like a completely different person around you than to the other Guards. It's hard to watch the empty shell of the person he normally is in this room be pushed around.

"That's not what I mean, and you know it."

"No can do, sweetheart," admittedly, you want to take your mask off because it makes seeing the cards harder. But it does mean you don't have to worry about your pokerface.

Pet names had become an interesting topic. You used to endearingly call members of the Right Arm things like sweetheart, or doll, or hun- something you picked up from your father. Something that has bled into your relationship with Minho.

Not that he complains.

"C'mon," he groans, "how am I meant to be friends with a faceless freak?"

"You think we're friends?" You ask, genuinely as you take another card off of the deck, cringing as it's the ten of clubs which takes you to twenty-five.

"Well," he shrugs, "what else am I meant to call it? Stockholme Syndrome?"

"Wouldn't be that wrong of a diagnosis. You taking another card?"

"Are you?" You shake your head. Minho reveals his hand, showing twenty on his cards, and you dramatically throw yours down, showing your loss.

"God dammit!" He barks a laugh at your reaction. "Why am I so bad at this?"

"You're just playing against a master," you galre at him, "I had plenty of practice in the Glade."

"It's a game based on luck- you can't master it."

"That's what you think."

○ ○ ○

Maybe you got too used to your routine- too comfortable with Minho and the situation you're in, but when Teresa told you she'd finally gained enough courage to speak to Minho, you knew it would end badly.

Teresa enlisted you to guard the room, but with the door closed and your colleagues discussing lunch next to you, it's kinda hard to hear what's going on.

That's until Minho screams the word "Traitor" followed by a loud slamming noise.

Shit.

The other Guards scramble into the room, knocking into you and halting your progress. You burst in, panic swelling in your chest as one of them holds up a buzzing taser. Darting forward, you grab the Guard's arm, placing one arm on Minho's back to at least play it off as the shocked masked man lets go slightly.

"Stop!" You snap. "He's subdued! We don't need to inflict unnecessary pain!"

"It's protocol to-"

"175 is right," Teresa comes to your defense, controlling the atmosphere of the room. "Subject A7 has been through enough- he's in no position to cause any further harm. Return him to his cell and only act if necessary."

Without words, you yank Minho up by the back of his shirt, cringing at the 'PROPERTY OF WCKD' printed on the back. You undo the cuffs from the table and reattach them to his wrists. He makes no effort to resist. He knows he's safer with you than he is with any of his other options.

You walk him down the halls. The rage seeps off of him, his skin under his shirt is warm and his cuffed hands are balled. Unlocking the door to his cell, you push him in, probably a little bit too aggressive. But you tell yourself it's for show.

"What the fuck was that?" You hiss, stepping into the cell. Minho immediately turns to face you, his nostrils flaring, jaw tense and for the first time, you realise how scary he really can be.

"You're shucking kidding, right?" He shouts, causing you to immediately panic and try to shush him. "I'm here because of her! Everything we did- everything we went through- is because of her! And you expect me to be calm about this klunk? Just because you can act like an apathetic shuck-face, doesn't mean I can!"

He slowly walks towards you, throwing his words at you. You back away, not realising how close the door is until you hit your back against it. Minho towers over you, still in cuffs, leaving very little space between you as his chest rises and falls.

"I'm sorry-"

"Sorry? You're helping them! You are keeping me here! Why? You clearly don't like them and have some morals deep down- but you're still bringing me to this shuckin' cell!"

"I have no choice!" You finally shout back, making him flinch. "I don't want to watch this shit- or hurt you or anyone! But I can't help you if I'm fucking dead, Minho! You can get away with this shit because they need you! They don't need me! If I step too far out of line- then I'm dead!"

His features soften as he steps back, giving you more room to breathe.

"What exactly do you want me to do? Trust me, if I could, we'd be long gone from this hell-hole but I have no way of doing that without at least me ending up in a body bag." You huff, crossing your arms across your chest. "And what use would I be to you then?"

The bed squeaks under Minho's weight as he sits down. His legs are spread, elbows resting on his knees, head in his hands. Neither of you say anything for a couple of minutes; you take the opportunity to compose yourself.

Until Minho sniffs.

"Minho?" You push away from the door, cautiously making slow steps towards him. "Minho? Are you okay?"

"I can't do this anymore," his voice breaks as he speaks, shattering your heart in the process. "I can't- I don't- how am I meant to keep doing this?" He groans, frustration mixed with a sob shakes his whole body.

You make the bold move to sit next to him, being closer to him than you've ever dared before at the bed sinks under your weight, you shoulders bumping slightly.

"This is so much worse than the shuckin' Maze- at least I had some control in there. But here? My body- my mind- I- fuck! I have nothing. I-I feel like I'm dying. I can't live like this. Teresa said that I'm saving some kid by being tortured. But what about me? What about all the other shanks they're putting through this klunk? How is this fair? For a shuckin' maybe? They don't even know it's gonna work- how can you justify this?"

You choose to ignore the final comment, even if it stings. Gingerly, you put your arm around his shoulders, rubbing small circles into the top of his arm. He doesn't pull away, his arms dropping to between his legs.

"It's gonna be okay," you sooth him, "we're gonna get out of here, okay?" He scoffs, shaking his head.

"How am I meant to believe you? I can't even trust you."

You know he's right, but it doesn't hurt any less. You wish you could tell himself everything. About the Right Arm and why you're here- everything that Vince told you to keep to yourself.

"I know," you sigh, "I'm sorry." He looks at you, his tear stained face and puffy eyes sending a new drive of determination through you.

To your shock, he rests his head on your shoulder, allowing you to hug him further, resting your head on top of his.

"I hate you," he whispers, more like he's trying to convince himself than he is telling you.

In all honesty, Minho probably had started to develop some liking towards you. And that's what he hates. He thinks you're the enemy, that you're the reason he's here- but he doesn't have anyone else. He's completely on his own until you come into his room. He doesn't even know who you are, but he's already getting attached to you.

"Yeah, I know. Want me to take your cuffs off?"

"Please."

○ ○ ○

You slam the door to your room, immediately throwing your mask across the small space, hearing it thump against the wall. You connect to Vince, fury coursing through tour veins.

"(Y/N)?" The line connects in your ear, "You're not meant to be calling at this-

"Vince," your voice is sharp and concerned, "I need to do something- Minho is on the verge of a complete mental breakdown and I'm starting to regress in progress." You refer to his words instead of his actions- things are already complicated enough.

"Look, I'm in contact with Jorge. Things should start moving soon; Thomas and Newt have made a deal to get into the City. Stick to the plan and be prepared. I need to go."

"What? Vince-" the line falls dead, leaving you alone in your room.

The tests increase over the next couple of days. You've barely seen Minho, and Teresa completely vanishes for nearly an entire day, which raises alarm bells all over the tower- but she returns seemingly unharmed.

Until the alarms start blaring not even hours later.

Fuck.

"175!" A masked Guard bursts into your dorm, scaring the shit out if you not even seconds after the blaring starts. "There are intruders in the building! The Subjects have been released!Come on!"

He runs off, giving you absolutely no time to process what's happening. Diving under your bed, you pull out guns and weaponry you snuck into the building, straping them around your black turtle neck you wear under your uniform before hiding them with your jacket.

You burst out of the room, pulling your mask on and joining the hoards of Guards flooding through the building.

You break away. You know that Minho will be in the testing area since he won't have been with the other Subjects. So, that's where you go.

The tower has fallen into complete chaos. People are shooting at each other and Guards are running around like headless chickens.

You can't get distracted though.

You break into a sprint, staying away from everyone else as you rush to make your way up to the lab where Minho can normally be found. The lab area is surprisingly quiet, probably because you decided to take the stairs for the most part. Using your endless training for Vince to run up the multiple flights of stairs.

You do give up and take an elevator for the last few floors though. You're not superman.

Bursting onto the floor, several scientists seem thrilled that help is here, and are met with disappointment when you completely ignore them. Sprinting down the halls, you skid to a halt.

One of the lab rooms has the door thrown open. A man in a white lab coat is lay on the floor, blood pouring from his side as others seem to be knocked out and scattered across the room.

"Fuck!" You exclaim. If you had any doubts that Minho could handle himself, you definitely don't now.

"175!" Two Guards stand at the end of the hallway. "Subject A7 has escaped! We need to find him. Come on!"

You're left with little choice but to follow them. You all jog down the corridors, the opposite way to which you were originally planing on tracking Minho's footsteps.

You can see Minho, and assumingly Thomas and Newt hugging beyond a room that's walls are all glass. One of the windows from the far room is completely shattered, and you can see a knocked out Guard on the floor.

"Hands up!" The Guard on your left shouts, catching the three boys off-guard. "Drop your weapons!"

Judging by the fact none of the trio move, you're assuming that they've ran out of ammo.

One on your left, the other on your right, you whip your gun out, pointing it at your unsuspecting allies.

It's now or never.

Minho's face drops at the realisation it's you. Was everything you said a lie to make him more compliant? Despite the uniform, he's gotten completely used to you based on height and the brown army boots you wear- different to the black owns adorn by the rest of WCKD employees. It's a subtle difference implemented by Vince just in case. But Minho doesn't know that.

"Seriously?" He snaps, making the other boys exchange glances. "After all this- everything that's happened- you're still with them?"

Newt and Thomas look completely lost, looking back at Minho, who is staring directly at you, hands still at his side.

"Please," you scoff, "I was never with them."

Without warning, you slam your elbow into the stomach of the guard on your left, using the shock to slam to end of your gun into the side of their head. The other one goes to shoot at you, but you rip your Guard's jacket off, throwing it at them.

It engulfs them entirely, making them stumble back. Pointing the pistol at them, a loud bang fills the room as the bullet finds its new home through the fabric and in the Guard's head. Their body hits the floor in a heap and you make no attempt to retrieve your jacket.

Minho steps back, stunned. His hands go to his hair as the other boys lower their arms.

"It's nice to finally meet you, (Y/N)." Thomas sounds surprisingly calm, Newt looks between him and Minho, the cogs setting in place.

"Likewise," you grab the bottom of your mask, pulling it over your head and letting it fall to the floor. Finally revelaing yourself to Minho, you feel slightly insecure about what he'll think of your face, but you don't show it. Not that it matters because he's staring at you in some form of awe.

"What? You guys know- what? What is happening?"

"I'll explain later- we need to move." The boys all mumble in agreement as you join them, hearing footsteps and Janson's irriating voice not that far away.

You all start moving, you taking the lead with more of an understanding of the building.

"What? I don't understand what's happening? How do you know her?" He asks Thomas as your eyes land on Newt. You've seen their files, a long time ago, but you can tell who's who.

Newt's skin is pale, his eyes dark and he glistens with sweat. He's infected. And you're not immune. This could end badly.

"She's with the Right Arm- Vince's secret weapon."

"Sorry I didn't tell you, hun, but I was under strict orders to keep my mouth shut. Let's just get out of here alive and I'll explain everything," you try to hurry them along. "Tommy-boy, fill me in on what's going on."

Just as the words leave your mouth, static connects in your ear. Vince.

"(Y/N), I'm on my way to the City- what's going on on your end?"

"I'm with the boys," you respond, completely confusing the trio even more. Voices behind you and footsteps make you all break into a sprint. "Here! Come on!" You pull them into a room, they barricade the door as you continue talking.

"We're tryna get out but it's not looking good."

"What now?" Newt asks as you all examine the room. "Is there another way out of here?" He asks you and you simply shake your head.

The drilling sound of a mechanical saw fills to room.

"Any ideas?" Minho shouts, backing away from the door.

Thomas turns around, examining the window. "Maybe."

It take the three of them to pick up a metal container, presumably full of anaesthetic gas through the window. It shatters on impact, sending shards and the cannister hundred of feet down into the water.

You all stand on the edge, looking at the boy as he seems to be questioning himself. "Okay, it's doable- just need a little running start."

All three of look at each other like Thomas is losing his mind. But you still all follow him further back into the room, standing by his side. You stand between Minho and Thomas, taking a second to think about how you life has led you to this.

"You sure about this?" Minho asks him, and it's obvious these boys are going to follow him to the ends of the Earth.

"Not really."

Well, that's brilliant.

"Nice pep talk." Minho sarcastically states, his wit still prominent as ever.

"Yeah, we're all blood inspired."

At least the feeling is mutual.

The door bursts open with a bang, all of you turning to face Janson breaking into the room before Minho grabs your hand, dragging you with him as you all break into a sprint. Jumping at the last second, you all plummet out of the window.

"Thomas!" Minho yells.

"Oh shit!" Thomas responds.

You're submerged in the water, just managing to hold your breath last second. It takes all of you a moment to rise again, all panting and all stressed.

Gasping for air, you and Minho look up, catching Janson standing at the edge of the window.

Thomas puts his middle finger up at him.

Kind of iconic.

Swimming to get to the ledge, you make sure they reach them first, taking Thomas' hand as he pulls you out of the water.

"You four, don't move!" You all immediately turn to face to group of WCKD's armed men walking towards you. Thomas takes the front as Minho grabs your arm, pulling you protectively behind him.

He seems to have forgiven you pretty fast, at least.

"Take it easy!" One of the masked men shouts. Hidden by Minho, you pull another gun out of your weapon holder that's strapped around your middle. Thomas also reaches for a gun.

"Ah-ah! Don't even think about it! Get on your knees with your hands in the air!"

One of the Guards suddenly turns around, shooting the other three that are standing with him. Minho immediately steps back, reaching for you and finding contact with your wrist.

"You son of a bitch!" One of them groans, the electricity from the Launcher leaving them useless.

Your savior approaches, taking his mask of and revealing... some dude. Though the others seem shocked.

"Gally?" Minho gasps, and you snap to look at him, returning to his side.

"Minho." The boy simply says. "You guys are nuts." He looks at you. "(Y/N) (L/N), big fan." You blink at him.

"Thanks?"

"I'll explain later," Thomas playful pats his friend on the arm whilst Minho is having some kind of internal meltdown. He's going to be enlightened by the time everyone's told him everything.

The other boys walks ahead and you look at him. "I thought you said you..." You trail off, completely at a loss yourself and remembering what he'd told you about Gally.

"Yeah, me too."

You both connect back to the group, awkwardly ducking and crouching whilst you run through the City.

Trying to hide from helicopters isn't easy.

"Well, they're definitely pissed," Gally states as you hide behind some planters that some trees are in.

"How far are the tunnels?" Thomas asks the new boy.

"Uh, maybe twelve blocks from here." Newt coughs, and you look at Minho, who is very clearly in some serious distress. "We can make it."

"Newt, how you feeling?" Minho crouches in front of his friend.

"Terrible," the boy responds honestly. "It's good to see you though." He pats his friend weakly, and you remind yourself to stay at a safe distance.

Minho joins the other boys whilst you stay with Newt. "He's one lucky shank," Newt tries to laugh.

"What?"

"Havin' you around- some badass chick lookin' after him whilst we couldn't. Pretty, too." You scoff at Newt's attempt at small talk.

"I don't know if he'll agree with that."

"Hey, Newt, we gotta get you up. Gotta get goin'." You help Thomas pull up the sick boy, who nearly falls flat on his face whilst Minho and Gally exchange some words.

Minho takes Newt off of your shoulders, sensing your slight distance from the boy.

They start struggling to carry Newt through the City, when a load explosion and bursts of flames from the walls stops you all dead in your tracks.

"We're supposed to take down WCKD, not the whole damn City," Gally stares into the flames, and you have no idea what's going on. But that's not good.

"Gally, c'mon," Thomas say, yanking them both away whilst you stand with Gally, waiting for him to move. Sirens fill your ears as you start to follow him.

"Tunnels are right up ahead. Shit!" You move round a corner, following Gally's instructions, only to come across a battle field. "Stay low! Stay low!"

"What are they waiting for?" Minho asks as you all hide once again. Unfortunately, he's answered as another round of explosions courses through the streets.

Violence erupts. "We gotta go! We gotta go!" The boys struggle moving Newt again, and you stay behind Gally. Desperately trying to not get hit, you hold your gun in your hands, ready to kill anyone that gets too close. Your job now is to protect these boys.

You retreat to a nearby building, where Thomas contacts Brenda over the radio. You can't make out what they're saying over the static and gunshots. You're too busy trying to shield Newt and Minho.

Though you do make out a clear. "I'm coming to you."

Vince.

You pick up again. "We're almost there," Gally pushes forward, taking the lead as you cover the back.

"Just leave me," Newt grumbles before a truck explodes, sliding across the roads.

A Berg flies overhead, giving you some glimsp of hope. But with Newt is his current condition, you can't keep moving.

"Minho," Thomas looks at his friend, "you run ahead, grab the serum, and get back to us as soon as you can." The boy hesitates, looking at Thomas. "Minho. Go."

"He's right," Gally states, "I can cover."

"Me too," you add.

"No, you're staying here, you could get hurt," Minho tells you, showing you that he actually might not hate you after all.

"I'm coming with you." You're more definite, putting your foot down and leaving with no choice.

Minho caves, going to stand until Newt grabs him. "Thank you." Black drool covers his chin, and his eyes are bloodshot and shifty. He's not gone just yet, but it's not far off. "Thank you, Minho."

"Hey, just hang on, you hear me?"

The three of you make your move. You and Gally cover the faster boy, both of you using your expertise to let him make a run for it.

Teresa's voice rings over the loudspeakers. Her voice trying to pressure Thomas to return to her. But you, Gally and Minho can't afford to stop and listen.

Running at full speed, you reach the Berg, not taking any time to acknowledge your father figure you haven't seen in nearly two years.

"Where's the serum?" Minho yells at a girl with short hair- you're assuming Brenda.

She makes a run for it. Bolting through the City and you're all hot on her heels, a new boy, Frypan, joining the mix.

The four of you get stuck in a tunnel during a shootout, using a car for cover as Brenda keeps going.

"Shit," Minho hisses from next to you. You look at him. "You should've told me."

"I couldn't," the poor Frypan clearly has no idea what either of you are talking about. "You know I couldn't."

"I could've- we could've- shuck it!" He lashes out, kicking a piece of debris that's in front of him. "We need to help Newt. This can wait."

He's mad at you. It's weird- he's protective but furious. He doesn't want you to get hurt but that might be because he wants to hurt you himself.

"Come on!" Gally shouts, "We're clear! Let's move!"

And with that, you're all on your feet again, dodging bullets and flying through the City to try and return to Thomas and his sick friend.

You slow to a jog as the people in front of you slow, spotting Brenda motionlessly standing in an empty pathway. You once again stay back, just about joining them as you watch Minho hit the floor.

His body crumbles in front of Newt's corpse, a knife sticking out of his chest. You stand next to Brenda, observing the distraught washing over the group. You've known Newt for under half an hour, but you can tell he played a huge part in these people's lives.

You suck in a deep breath, approaching Minho from behind. "I'm sorry," you murmur. "I'm so sorry, Minho."

He pulls his eyes away, looking at you instead as you rest your hand on his shoulder.

"You really couldn't have done anything, could you?" He's sincere, all of his anger washing away for a second. You shake your head.

He's on his feet in seconds, throwing his arms around you, knocking you back slightly. His entire world as he knows it is crumbling, but he's seeking comfort in you.

You hug him back, your hand coming to the back of his head, holding him steady as his body trembles. "We can't stay here," you whisper. "We need to move."

"She's right," Gally agrees, overhearing, "it's dangerous. We need to get back to the Berg."

"What about Thomas?" Brenda's voice breaks.

"We'll find him," you pull away from the boy. "But we have more chance of doing that from the Berg."

They all agree, leaving Newt's body and returning to the perilous task of making your way through the City. You take control, being the only person in sound mind to do so.

It takes a lot, but you get there, making sure everyone enters the Berg before you.

"(Y/N)!" You turn as Vince makes his way over to you. "You did it!"

"Vince!" Throwing your arms around him, you allow yourself to relax. You both pull away, emotions of the past two years of your life finally starting to spill out. "We lost Newt."

He sighs. "I'm sorry. But you did everything you could."

"No," you sniff, "I didn't. I could have done more- figured something out. Done literally anything else- I- I could've saved him."

Unbeknownst to you, Minho is watching and listening from a distance. He's known you as stern and in control this entire time, but watching you fall apart in Vince's presence reminds him that you're just another kid that's been put through hell.

He wasn't mad at you anymore. Seeing Newt's corpse and the sympathy you possessed showed him that. But now he pities you. He doesn't know anything of the sacrifices you've made.

"That wasn't your job- it was meant to just be a simple intel gig and it all went wrong. I shouldn't have put that pressure on you." Vince's words do little to make you feel better.

"We have to find Thomas," you compose yourself, returning to your normal stoic form in the blink of an eye.

You make your way onto the Berg, Vince not too far behind you. You make eye contact with Minho, but you don't have time to deal with that right now.

"Miss (L/N)," (you're assuming) Jorge approaches you, a grin on his face, "it's an honour to meet you." He holds his hand out for you to shake. "Ha! You're a living legend, hermano. In the flesh."

"Don't go praising me so soon, dude, this shit ain't over yet." He follows you like a lost dog as you travel further into the ship, "Have you got Thomas' location?"

"The signals weak and the building's burning- but he seems to have returned to the area of WCKD's tower."

"That's where we'll head then."

"Wait," Vince stands behind you as you ignore the stares from the Berg full of people, "the City's being destroyed- I don't know if this is a good idea."

"We can't leave him- we wouldn't be here if it weren't for him he deserves a chance at a happy life and we've already lost too many good people. We're saving Thomas, V. I don't care what you say." Vince looks at Jorge, who has a faint smile creeping across his and returns the stare.

"I'm doin' what the girl says. Kid's got fire; can tell you raised her." Jorge winks at you, making his way to the cockpit.

"You've changed, huh?" You don't even bother looking at Vince.

"It's been a rough couple of years. Let's just get this over with."

The Berg starts up, and you join Brenda, Gally, Frypan and Minho at the open doors, examining the City and the surrounding area of the burning tower.

"So," Gally starts, "everything they say about you? It true?"

"Depends what they're saying." You don't pull your eyes away from the ground as the Berg moves in large, circular motions.

"A lot of klunk about causing WCKD problems- apparently you were the one that convinced Thomas to release WCKD co-ordinates to Dr. Cooper."

Minho looks at you, but don't meet his eyes.

"Yeah, I might've had something to do with that."

You finally raise higher, examining the top of the now fully inflamed tower.

"There!" You shout, "That's them!" Thomas is clearly injured, half being carried by Teresa.

So, he did return.

"What's wrong with him?" Frypan shouts and you shake your head.

"I don't know. Jorge! Get closer!"

There's a struggle as the Berg moves, your hearing turns to static as all you can focus on is reaching them. Qualms with Teresa aside, she's clearly helping Thomas.

Come on! Move closer! Let's go!

The same phrases are repeated as you slide further down the door, clinging onto one of the wire hinges so you don't fall and join them. You grab Thomas, along with the others' hands grabbing towards him, with the help of Teresa throwing him.

You manage to pull him on, and he immediately turns to Teresa. You go to reach out to her, but an explosion knocks her back, forcing the Berg to pull away.

A missile hits the building, and you all watch in horror as it collapses beneath Teresa, swallowing her into the darkness.

○ ○ ○

The next few hours are a complete blur. Thomas had been shot and was seriously bleeding out. With the help of you and Vince, you managed to slow the bleeding.

You didn't even get a chance to admire the Safe Haven when you finally landed because you were too busy trying to save Thomas' life. You got him to the medical professionals, and after several jarring hours, they confirmed he'd be okay. But he'd be asleep for a while.

Since then, you've been spending all your time catching up with Vince and reconnecting with the people you grew up with. It's very bittersweet, and you haven't had the chance, or the bravery, to talk to Minho yet.

You decided to give the Gladers some space. They'd been through hell and they need to process and talk amongst themselves for a while.

After a while, Thomas wakes up, and you watch his reunion with Minho from a distance.

Your feelings for Minho are complicated, and it's beyond clear, so are his for you. It wasn't ever going to be simple, but the events of him turning to you for comfort at least tell you there's more than his initial anger.

"You like him, don't you?" Vince's voice makes you jump as you lean against a wooden beam, observing from your safe space.

"What?"

"Minho? You like him."

You scoff. "I don't think it really matters. I don't know if it ever will."

"You protected him and saved him."

"I also held him captive and did nothing to stop the torture."

"You couldn't have done anything."

"That's not the point, and you know it."

He sighs.

"I thought you were against boys and shit, anyway?" You glance over your shoulder at him.

He shrugs, "You're clearly more than capable of making your own choices. And we're not permanently fighting for our lives anymore, so I don't really have a problem with it. You deserve to have a normal life, kid. You might finally get that here." He rubs your shoulder, slipping past and leaving you to think.

○ ○ ○

Night falls quickly. Vince finally gives a speech, earning rounds of cheers from around the bonfire as you hover behind him, staring off into the crowd with your hands in your pockets.

Vince reveals a large stone pillar in the centre of the sitting area, talking about remembering those we've lost and keeping their memories alive. You watch as Vince is the first, carving Mary's name into the stone.

To your surprise, Vince then immediately hands the chisel to you. You blink at it, before realising and taking it off of you.

People one by one, with their own tools, take the chance to add to the memorial.

You take your time, carving names into the stone, recounting the events of your life. You step back, smiling to yourself, admiring your own work. Even under the depressing conditions.

"Who are they?" You look over your shoulder, your body following you as you stand sideways. Minho's gaze is fixated on the stone. He looks a lot better now, clearly having a couple of days to recover.

"They're uh, they're my parents," you avoid his gaze, but answer honestly.

"You lost your parents?"

"I've lost everyone. My whole family, but I don't think there's enough space for them all," the joke is dark, and Minho doesn't laugh, even when you scoff.

"I had no idea."

"How could you?" You sigh, "You know nothing about me."

"Do you miss them?" The question makes you hesitate.

"I barely knew my mother- the Flare got her when I was young, so..."

"That's not what I asked," his tone is blunt, obviously still harbouring some negativity within the complications.

"...Yes. I miss them. I doubt there will be a day when I don't. My father used to say something that I think is still important- 'mortality doesn't ruin love; it only makes it stronger'."

He looks at you. For the first time, he seems to finally see the real person that's standing in front of you. "Does it ever get better?"

"Yeah, it gets better," you offer him a sympathetic smile, knowing what he's talking about. "The painful memories just become... memories after a while. It feels like it'll never get better, but it does. It becomes precious instead of hard to think about." You step towards him, handing the chisel to him.

He takes it, slowly, seemingly letting your fingers brush against each other on purpose. You go to walk away, but his voice stops you.

"Hey, 175," the number stuns you, making you spin on your heels, rage flooding your features. But it melts away the second you see Minho's dumb grin. "You're right. I don't know anything about you- but I'd like to. If you're willing to tell me."

You nod, smiling at him, "Yeah, I'd like that."

So, when you found Minho sitting on the sand later that night, sitting in front of the ocean, basking in the moonlight, you take the opportunity to approach him.

You silently sit next to him, and he looks at you, following your movements. You pull something out of your pocket, lightly shaking the small box that he immediately recognises as a deck of cards.

"Fancy a game?" He scoffs, turning to face you.

"Only if you actually talk to me."

"Well, what do you want to know?"

"What's worth knowing?"

"Ah, well, that depends on what you deem important."

You fall into a surprisingly natural conversation with him. Both of you actually laughing at some of the things you tell him and the dumb stories from the Right Arm. You also somehow manage to finally win a game of Black Jack, much to Minho's dismay.

"So," you shuffle, brushing some of the sand off of one of your cards, "you still wanna be friends?" Originally, you said this jokingly, but Minho's hesitation makes you nervous.

"Not really," he says after a beat, and your heart sinks. "Shuck it," he laughs, "maybe I really do have, what was it? Stockholme Sydrome? Whatever. It sounds so dumb, but even if we were kinda stuck... I don't think I would've survived back there if it wasn't for you."

He seems almost flustered. "I don't know if my head's shucked or what, but is it really that weird to have a little crush on a kind girl in a mask?"

"No," you let out a content sigh, more satisfied with his strange confession than you expected, "but maybe you should talk to someone about that."

He playfully kicks you, making you feign an injury. "Yanno, I'd be lying if I said I didn't start kinda liking you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah- which is probably bad because we had a very unbalanced power dynamic." He snorts at this, shaking his head.

"So, what now?"

"Well, what do you wanna do now?"

He shrugs, leaning forward and picking up another card. "I don't think I want to do anything. I think I need to understand you more, and process everything I've been through. Everything I've lost. I mean, there's no rush, right?"

"Yeah. There's no rush," you nod. "For the first time ever, we actually have time to wait."

"You're willing to wait for me?"

"'Course I am. I've got to help run this place and work out my own shit too. I've got enough going on to distract me from pining over you." You exaggerate your tone, making him roll his eyes. "Seriously, take your time. I'm not going anywhere."

○ ○ ○

"You reckon they'll be okay?" Thomas asks Vince as the pair watch the both of you from a distance. Thomas smiles faintly as he watches you flick sand at Minho over losing whatever game you're playing.

"Yeah," Vince replies, finally peacefully watching the closest thing he has to family enjoy herself. "Maybe not now, but that's fine- they have all the time in the world to be okay."

Oh my God, this took me forever. But, I've got no other requests at the moment so I figured go big or go home. Seriously, this was such a cool idea and I loved writing it. Pieces like these take literal days to write, so don't be expecting them too often, but I do love more complex and indepth stories.

Also, I am so down to do a part 2 to this if you guys want to see more of yours and Minho's relationship in the Safe Haven- maybe some more developing relationship stuff, or even some spice if that is want y'all want.

Anyway, I just know no one is gonna see all of this because it's just so LONG. Literally, this thing is so big my Tumblr is lagging. But still, I hope you enjoyed :))

#🌿 petri tmr minho #🌿 petri writes tmr #🌿 petri writes #🍃 petri tmr #tmr fanfiction #tmr minho #minho the maze runner #minho tmr #minho tmr x reader #tmr imagines #minho maze runner

437 notes · View notes

skeppsbrott · 1 year

Note

Unfortunately the post you reblogged about the perception of autism as something only cool people have was written by a terf. (I agreed with the post so I checked out op’s blog, got bad vibes, searched “trans” and found ugly stuff real fast)

Hi there anon!

So I've been waffling back and forth about how to reply to this but here is (sort of) where I have ended up:

Terfery is bogus. I don't need to elaborate on this. Terfery was embarrassing, destructive, self-cannibalising and reactionary when I first encountered it in like, 2012. In 2023, amidst a quite frankly astounding and terrifying backlash, even moreso. Socially isolating terfs from fellow feminists, activists, and (possibly) queers is a legitimate tactic of activism and I think it is a quite effective one. You treat our siblings, friends and allies like that while calling yourself a feminist? Go take a long walk off a short pier, mate.

And yet...

I do not really want to recieve messages like this.

I understand the impulse and I think the fact that you go out of your way to send me this underlines something important - we have a culture on this corner of the Tumblr that terfs ain't got no friends. It is not controversial to be like "yo fuck feminists that oppose trans liberation and have a gender-essentialist worldview" and that's unequivocally a good thing. I am glad that you trust my politics enough to send me this. I am glad that my politics shine through enough that I would obviously support your anonymous suggestion (except it is not a suggestion, you just gave me this information to, idk, fill out a bingo card and draw my own conclusions with, but nonetheless).

And yet, I do not really want to recieve messages like this.

I gave up social media activism many years ago. It made me miserable. It made me miserable to be around. It made my spaces of respit miserable and it meant I was always fucking on and I am not saying I am a great activist now but at some point you realize you'll just burn yourself out on that shit when instead you could like, idk, talk kindly to young queers who haven't worked out their internalised shit yet and help people come out of their freshly cracked eggs and support your older queer friends in their quests for parenthood in this wretched world. Make sure that anyone in your social circle knows that if they fuck around with gender essentialism they'll find out real soon but not because you make a big deal out of hating terfs but because you are loud and proud about having declared the old ways of doing gender over and done with. Hopefully?

I don't know. If you are my friend or you've followed me for a long time or we're mutuals or whatever and you see me behave in a way that makes you feel unsafe on my blog I think it is fair to reach out. "Hey, Skeppsbrott, this person you reblog a lot of art from is a quite vocal terf on their main blog and I really wish you wouldn't". "Hey, Skeppsbrott, I think you are being way too charitable to the debate happening on that post you just reblogged. This is my read, I hope you'll reconsider."

That seems actionable to me. Like yeah I probably should pay attention to the politics of people who very often end up in my reblog chains! I definitely should pay attention to the changing rethoric used by gender essentialists! I do not, however, want to spend energy wondering whether every post I reblog might possibly be made by a terf and feel guilty if I perhaps missed one. I also struggle with the anon ask as something that demands a response but which also demands it publicly. Would you have noticed if I removed the post but never replied to your ask? Would you get suspicious if I never DID reply to your ask? I guess part of why making it an anon ask is that the act of condemning terfery in an ask is more potent than removing a jokey and a little mean but nonetheless fair post about autism that got like three hundered notes. No one really suffers from that post, that's kind of the conundrum here. Either way, I am not here to scorch the earth, but then again -

"Hey, Skeppsbrott, this person you reblogged a post from is trying to become a tumblr funnyman so that they can infiltrate more people with transphobic propaganda"? Yeah. I guess that is not so different from what I commented above.

Perhaps at the end of the day I am just really, very, terribly equipped for social isolation tactics. I just can't really bring myself to do it. Call it trauma or poor constitution or whatever. It just brings me this great, deep sadness, where I look at who I was and can't help but wonder what I would have gotten lost in if there hadn't been people who looked me sternly in the eye and said "that's fucked up. Get out now before I too grow to hate you".

Or maybe I am just a coward. That is entirely possible as well. Even quite likely.

Thank you, anon, genuinely. I appreciate it. But maybe next time, don't?

#bluh bluh #this is my new ask tag

0 notes

spacedykez · 2 years

Note

1, 4, 6 ( think i know the anwser to that one lol), 11, 14, 24, 32 and 38! <333

1.what are 3 things you’d say shaped you into who you are? my parents, reading fantasy books as a child, the internet

4. what’s an inside joke you have with your family or friends? closet lettuce. dont even remember putting it there but one day opened the cupboard and there was a bag of fucking LETTUCE /lh. adhd moment.

6. what’s the best and worst part of being online/a creator? what do u mean you know the answer? /lh. what were you expecting me to say? /curious. anyways best part is the community and friends and the worst part is the discourse/negativity.

11. what do you consider to be romance? ive heard people say romance is just whatever u want to be romance and i love that for blurring lines but also for someone trying to figure out what romance even IS that's just soooo confusing. i don't Know. i don't Get romance. what makes it so Special. i don't get it.

14. what’s something you’ve always wanted to do but maybe been to scared to do? public speaking. being an activist. standing up and demanding change. you know. but im just a coward who is fucking terrified of politics & violence and therefore i Do Not Want To Get Involved.

24. what’s one thing you’re proud of yourself for? im a good writer and ive gotten way better at recognizing when i need to take a break recently and maybe theyre little things but like. im proud of myself ok.

32. how many tabs do you have open right now? not very many. lemme count- 15. yeah thats actually pretty average ig? i usually have 2-4 songs (youtube videos), tumblr+discord, three or so google docs, and any number of fics/youtube videos/vods to get to when i have time.

38. fave song at the moment? as in Right This Second: never been in love because ive been looping it for a couple hours. as in Generally: curses/allies or enemies! crane wives /vpos

(x)

#nix tag #ask games #asks

1 note · View note

genderisareligion · 1 year

Text

Happy New Year 🖤 Anons I got y’all soon. January is a nostalgic month for this blog cause it’s the two year anniversary of me being (formerly) shadowbanned also January 6th 2021 was what I like to call a Peak Everything moment for me. Peak Christianity, peak crackerdom, peak toxic masculinity, peak gender, peak humanity lol shit. Spent a year and some change invisible (but not termed 🙏🏽) for the crime of making too many trans racial jokes I guess and the blog I tried to make a replacement for this @genderisareligion immediately received the same fate. I suspect what actually caused it was my constant participation in my pinned post back then and the lack of answers anyone had for me but who knows. And I don’t know why because I didn’t request it but my blog’s visibility came back suddenly this April I wanna say. Here’s hoping it sticks🤞🏽

Anyway in 2023 along with finally publishing WOCTBI (Women of Color Taking Back Intersectionality, a little chapbook/magazine I wanna put together documenting nonwhite radblr’s posts and conversations, will likely be an ebook now instead of print) I do kinda wanna go in a different direction here. It’s not that I don’t think the trans conversation still needs to be happening, it does, homosexuals and women’s boundaries are still being eroded at an alarmingly rapid rate, I’ve just always been critical of all gender, “cis,” trans, up, down, no matter who’s participating. I’m not a “TERF blog” it’s in my url as a joke lol I’m just a black woman who got fed up with being polite on main being told to kill myself for reminding people humans are sexually dimorphic. Never even been a “TERF” cause I fully admit I’m a hypocrite and will in real life fully respect the pronouns/experiences of transmed normies who mind their own business, especially lesbian TIFs, but crackers like Dana Rivers and Dylan Mulvaney and all these “suck my girldick” transbians get he/him idgaf. So many of these males are so comfortable in their privilege they won’t combust if one less black women gasses them up

Wild how hypocritical and unable to admit it the “tolerant progressive left” is claiming that actually trans liberation is the key to ending black women’s oppression despite it being a recent invention and inherently having nothing to do with us and causing these crackers to run around telling me I look more like a male than other females. Like until this backwards shit ends I guess my opinions will continue to be “TERFy” cause I will never think this is okay, black women always come last and are always expected to be an expendible emotional and rhetorical resource to activist groups. This is why I’ve been politically homeless for so many years, doesn’t seem to matter where I go the message is the same: you exist to prop someone else up and you’re not allowed to complain about anything or it means all the help I’ve been giving you is bunk. BLM is something a shit ton of people just say and don’t do anything about because it’s too difficult. #SayHerName couldn’t keep the masses attention long enough and black women are still being killed with seemingly no end in sight. Will never not be crazy to me that in a decade “lesbians don’t like dick” did a complete 180 and became sacreligious to liberals.

I’ll just be here with my popcorn waiting for when inevitably sometime within the next decade or two a lot of these begendered crackers and their allies wake up and look back at the catastrophic mess they caused for some people and scramble to wipe their hands of it and act like it was all a conservative psyop they played no part in or whatever. Fact of the matter is that not everyone on HRT or going under the knife for SRS are doing so for good reasons and fact of the matter is transtrenders are making a mockery of those with actual sex dysphoria. Acting like any criticism of that at all is “transphobic and genocidal” is batshit insane. Like my intention with this blog at first was to try and help if anyone out there is saved by understanding that gender is fake at the end of the day, like I was.

So anyway I’ll be posting more on just feminism in general and gender criticism in general because imo radical feminism is just feminism or at least it used to be. This “TERF” shit gotta go can’t believe such a boogeyman nondescript term got so popular

#shadow.txt #coming back to add I’m not even against transition in all cases if I’ve never said that formally #sometimes it works like I know and love people it worked for #would I do it? hell fucking no but I’m not a beacon of self care lol #I just think gender doesn’t have anything to do with it #and actual trans people are rarer than it currently appears #controversial take but it’s a medical condition in need of treatment #sex not gender

13 notes · View notes

punemy-spotted · 3 years

Text

The Price You Pay

Pairing: Mob!Steve Rogers x Reader

Warnings: Non-con/Dub-con, mentions of murder, unclear timeline, blackmail, unprotected sex, fingering (F!receiving), smut, esoteric references to past abuse, manipulation, Dark!Fic

Words: 5.2k (holy fuck?)

Summary: You need his help. He names his price.

Notes: This is for @stargazingfangirl18 and her incredible 5K Soft!Dark Challenge and I can't believe I wrote over 5k words for a oneshot, making this the longest piece I've ever written. I took a blend of prompts: Mob!AU; “When I woke up this morning, I certainly didn’t think my day would end like this;” and “That’s a big favor you’re asking for, I think you need to make it worth my while.”

And this was intended to be a oneshot but now I can't stop thinking about it so thanks Siri, I think this is now a part of my WIPs too! Your work is amazing and I had a blast being able to take part in this!

As usual, my work is 18+ ONLY, Minors DO NOT INTERACT

You went to him first.

You went to him, handed them your business card and I want to speak to Steve Rogers.

Honestly they almost threw you out with an extra hole in your head but then the man of the hour walked right in.

So now you’re here. Now you’re here, sitting across a gorgeous dining table with a ten-course meal laid out and honestly you’re surprised they didn’t tie your wrists to the arms of the chair while you watch him eat and take in the look of those baby blue eyes scanning you over.

He even brought you non-alcoholic rosé, when you said you didn’t drink.

So.

You wanted to talk to me?

Yeah, I do. Thought you’d just sit me in your office, have a consultation.

I like breaking bread with new friends. Have a nice dinner, get the wine flowing — of course, that’s not gonna loosen your tongue, but we’ll forgive it.

Oh. Cool, I like being forgiven.

He laughs at that one and the room, strumming with tension, snaps into amusement. So do you, cracking a half smile on dark red lips, before swallowing down the lump of anxiety threatening to break through and destroy everything. You need this. You need this and you can’t let anything — not your nervousness, not your morals, not him — stop you. You need this and it needs to be done and if this is what justice is in this fucking city then so be it.

Well, sweetness, you’ve got my attention. You want to talk business or pleasure?

That one makes you laugh, a little sharp and a little cruel, and the curling smirk on his face gets a little furrowed because he hears it too — pain.

It could be both, you say finally, picking up the glass of rosé-that-wasn’t, if your reputation is as real as they say it is.

He lifts a bite of cheesecake into his mouth and lets it melt on his tongue while he watches you, somewhere between impressed and incensed. You know the look — you saw it the last time he met you in court, but you weren’t there as allies then. Never thought you’d come to me, he admits finally, sounding halfway bemused at the idea, but you’re full of surprises, aren’t you, Counsel?

You wince, or maybe smirk, eyes on the man before you.

It’s a game, a dance, a ruse, and the woman you thought you were thirteen months ago when you put four of Steve Rogers’s best men in jail for fifteen years — fifteen years longer than any District Attorney had ever managed to do before you, and you were just the rookie they handed a shit case to — is leagues different from the woman you are now, seated prim and proper in the lion’s den.

You’re not innocent. That’s not been your game for years — this life doesn’t leave room for innocence, it tears at you, leaves you tired and broken and ill.

Your colleagues learned to fear him a long time ago, the man before you. Captain America, leading the city, the country, the world into a new era of high tech crime all under his thumb. It’s a pretty shiny shield, the one that sits behind him, but mirrors are black on the other side and his soul is dark as coal.

You’re not an angel yourself, and this deal with the Devil isn’t for anyone but you.

I need someone taken care of.

So you come to me? I thought you were a lady of morals, Counsel.

Certain kinds of morals.

You can see him smile, see the way he raises his glass, the glimmer of malice and amusement in his eyes. So tell me. What’s the name?

You give it.

He’s not in the city, your target, but he will be. A Judge, an activist, real tough-on-crime-sweet-on-justice type of shit. You don’t tell him the reasons why, because those are yours, but you tell him the name. You tell him he’s a problem, you tell him he’s dangerous, you tell him you’ll pay to have him taken care of, you tell him you don’t want to practice in front of that black, black robe.

And he smiles like the Devil he is, watches you with a grin and drinks his whiskey in one last shot before slamming it down, Real woman of the law, aren’t you?

You said that when we met the first time.

He’s a hunter, you can see it in his eyes. That lion’s mane might be tamed right now but it won’t be for long and you’re playing with wild animals. The eyes on you are ice and daggers, daring you to do the one thing everyone in the office has been begging you not to do.

(Drop the charges, Rookie, the case is just to get your face in front of the judge.)

You upped the charges.

(Rookie, you don’t know what you’re dealing with, there’s other cases.)

You subpoenaed his phone records.

(Rookie, don’t make me drag you off this case!)

You won.

You had no witnesses and a jury you had to drag in from god-knows-where after you proved, over and over again, that he’d paid off the cohort in the courtroom. Finding people with nothing to lose and a desire to do their civic duty wasn’t harder than you thought — it was exactly as impossible as you expected.

But you did it.

That’s what you do, isn’t it? Push and push and fight, claw your fingers at the ledge and pull yourself up, you pay for your crimes in your blood, sweat and tears you pay for the things you could have done then and didn’tdo.

You pay.

And sometimes, that payment bounces back.

And when it was all said and done, when the closing statements were delivered, when the Jury came back out and the Judge — hands shaking, mouth agape, eyes wide — read out the verdict no one expected, you… didn’t feel any better, did you? There was no justice for you in that room, just the searing glare of ice-blue eyes and the burning of your steel spine.

Real woman of the law, aren’t you?

First words he said to you, while the courtroom emptied out and you stood there, facing the man you’d just made an enemy of with your briefcase in your hand and your eyes aflame.

I did my job.

Did you? Is that what you think your job is?

My job is justice, unflinching and blind, Mr. Rogers. I don’t care how much power you have or how afraid you leave this city, I’m going to do my job.

You could always let justice turn a blind eye.

Yeah. I could, but that wouldn’t make this any fun, would it? Thank you for the win, Mr. Rogers — I’m sure I won’t get many more.

You leave him with a smile on his face and the scent of your perfume in his memories.

He leaves you with the pride of victory in your bones and a reminder that your strife could be worth it.

One day.

How do you plan to fill that pit, the one you tossed the corpses of your old self into? The one you let them claw up out of, to haunt you? Remind you?

You’re digging your own grave and you know it, but you won’t let Steven Grant Rogers be the first one to toss a handful of dirt over your corpse.

But now here you are.

In his dining room, enjoying dessert and some sort of after-meal coffee. In need of him…

This might almost have been a date, if not for the topic of conversation.

So. You want a Judge taken out. What if he’s already on my payroll?

Why would you keep a dead man in your pocket?

You like the sound of his laugh, and you don’t even have the excuse of wine to fall back on when it warms your core. Don’t admit it though, don’t say it aloud, don’t let him get an in. Be smart, cross your legs tighter, keep your eyes on the prize.

You’re so close to the finish line.

That’s a big favor you’re asking for, Counsel, I think you need to make it worth my while.

Worth your while?

I’m not a charity. And since you put the guy I usually use to handle these things behind bars for a few years—

You know I can get him out too.

That’s not payment, that’s putting things right.

You take a drink. Steady on, girl.

I’m leaving the DA’s office.

That stops him.

Oh that stops him good, and he looks fascinated. Interested. You’ve said something he can use as leverage and it’s not just about a job. That smirk on his face is smug and his eyes are darker and he has to know the impact that look has.

Can’t falter, don’t falter, don’t give in.

Am I allowed to ask why?

No.

You’ve done your research. You just don’t know why you’re thinking about it now. Steven Grant Rogers, “Captain America,” leader of a crime family that had too many names to stamp out, bolstered by a mad scientist, a military man through-and-through who turned New York into his own private base against whatever stood against his way.

Get in his good graces and you’re set for life. Get in his good graces and you’re safe, you’re protected, you’re good.

Get on his bad side and you only make that mistake once.

There are no second chances in this game, and here you are, asking for one.

So what? You leave the DA’s office, you leave yourself open to me — you think leaving New York is going to be the thing that stops me, Counsel?

No.

Then what?

Breathe. Steady.

I know you gave me that win on purpose — you could have taken out my last jury cohort. This isn’t about the four men… and you know I’ll get them out. This is something else, but I’m not here to ask about what or why.

He falters just briefly, like he’s surprised you knew, but the crack in his mask smooths itself over as soon as it forms and he’s back to watching you, nodding along in silence while you breathe and watch him and keep talking.

But even then. I got four of your guys in prison. And I know how your organization works — I subpoenaed the documents, remember? Your lawyers are good, but they’re not used to people asking the right questions. You want someone to seal up the cracks you need someone who actually knows what to look for.

You have more than his attention, you have his interest, and now he’s leaning in a little. Imperceptibly, but enough. Scanning over you from across the table, like he’s thinking how you managed to get so impertinent in the face of the likes of him but that’s the thing — when the only thing you have left to lose is your life, you’ll risk everything.

So what are you offering?

Breathe. Don’t. Stammer.

Myself.

The chair scrapes and suddenly there’s the clicking of guns, aimed and ready until his hand rises up and he stops them and he’s stalking towards you.

This is the lion’s den, sweetness.

The stakes are higher and you ought to be braver and he’s got your chin in his hand before you have a chance to react, dragging you to your feet. Do you know what you’re offering me, Counsel? Low and hissed and hungry, like those perfect teeth might be sinking into your throat in the next moment.

Oh, you have no idea.

You get me. On your payroll — you know. The offer you sent me a year ago.

You think it’s still open?

If it wasn’t, you wouldn’t have met with me.

The chuckle in your face makes your cheeks warm and you’re looking more flushed than you would like, the open shoulders of your dress suddenly feeling a lot more like a mistake the more you realize just what kind of meal he might make out of you tonight.

We might need to have a discussion about your workplace duties, Counsel.

You don’t notice the hand near your thigh until it’s too late, sliding up the soft fabric of your skirt until it’s squeezing your ass, until it’s jerking you towards him, until you’re pressed against his chest and the hand on your chin is now hooked around the back of your neck, thumb pushing your jaw until you’re forced to look at him. Won’t lie, when I woke up this morning, I certainly didn’t think my day would end like this, having your pretty little body in my arms,and you can look as indignant as you want but he’s got the upper hand and you only thought you were two steps ahead of him.

You think I haven’t thought about what it’d be like to put you in your place, Counsel? You’ve got a smart mouth — I wanna know what else it can do.

He doesn’t give you a chance to use that mouth to lash at him, lips sliding over yours, swallowing that indignant yelp with a punishing kiss. Nipping at the plushness of your lower lip until you open your mouth and yield to him with a sigh of reluctant surrender, let his tongue slide past that barrier for him to explore. He’s got his fingers wound through your hair, just a little too tight and whether the whimper in your chest is because of the pain or because of the want, he doesn’t care.

Knew you’d be sweet, Counsel… softly, when he pulls back to look at you, take a look at those love-swollen lips and your ruined lipstick, the pretty way you pant at him already, the heat burning your cheeks. Pay no attention to the slick warmth between your thighs, pay no attention to the way he makes you burn already, pay no attention to how your fingers have curled into the lapel of his coat to hold yourself steady, pay no attention to how you suddenly miss the pressure of his lips.

All that smart-talk and now you’re quiet, Counsel? F’I knew it just took a kiss to get you to shut up, I would’ve done that at trial, he’s purring in your ear, soft and sweet and you should push at his chest, so uncurl your fingers girl and push.

I didn’t say I was selling my body, there’s your harshness, and there he is, laughing at you again, the grip on your hair jerking your head back until you’re looking into those dagger-cold eyes again.

You don’t make the rules here, Counsel, I do, and you need me more than I need you. So if you want to make sure your Judge can’t start wreaking havoc on your career… you might want to get used to readjusting it for me. I promise I’ll make you feel nice, if you let me…

And if I don’t?

Then I take what I want and I don’t feel bad for not holding up my end of the bargain. Your choice, Counsel, you cum willingly and I’ll give you everything you want. Don’t, and it’ll hurt you more than it hurts me.

That’s not a threat, that’s a promise, and suddenly you’re more scared than you ever thought you’d be, wondering if you’ll need to sell another part of your soul to take him down after. How much of yourself will you put up as collateral to get justice for the wrongs you were never able to correct?

You’re afraid.

Oh sweetness, you’re afraid.

Here? Now?

No, Counsel, we’re gonna do this right, aren’t we? You wanna be in bed with me, I’ll take you to bed with me. Come on, say it. Say the word.

Say no. Say no, rail and fight, stamp your heels into the expensive leather of his shoes, jam your knee into the sensitive between his legs, scream and yell and tell him you will never let another man take advantage of you again to help you reach your goals. Do it. Do the thing you swore you would do the next time a man like him — men who think they can take anything from anyone, men who think they own the world and the women in it, men who think you aren’t strong enough to fight back — propositioned you just like this.

You’re selling your soul to get rid of a man just like this.

But that’s coiling heat in your core that wasn’t there the last time, was it? That’s want. That’s the realization that you like the way this predatory smile feels, that you like the way this one wants you. You’re not her, not scared and alone and helpless. You could fight back and run and maybe escape if you were lucky.

You could choose.

He’s let go of your hair to stroke your cheek with the backs of his fingers, soft and sweet, You gonna give me an answer, Counsel, or am I gonna have to take it?

Say something. Say no. Scream. Say no say no say no say— Yes.

It’s a whisper. A desperate, soft whisper. A helpless, lonely whisper. It’s enough.

He sweeps you around until you’re pressed with your back against his unyielding chest, feeling him flex with every movement, broad arm wrapped around your shoulders from the front. All of you are dismissed, and that’s when you remember there were others in the room with you. Others who just watched you concede to becoming Captain America’s newest plaything and the burn on your cheeks is more shame than lust. You pull at his arm briefly, futilely, earning a tighter hold for your efforts and a whispered don’t make me choke you, before you are half-walked, half-dragged out of the dining room.

The walk to his room is slow and agonizing as you’re pulled along, barely struggling but barely helping at the same time, tears sliding down your cheeks as you come to terms with what’s going to happen next — no one is going to save you tonight, no one’s going to interrupt and drag you out, this is your job and this is your place and here you are.

No one speaks. There’s no sound but the steady tap of your heels and his shoes on fine marble. Even your sobs are silent, even your breathing is muffled, until the stairs are traversed and the faintest click of a lock turning opens the door to the rest of your life.

You made a deal.

Time to pay.

Sit on the bed.

You move as if in a trance, and he watches your face, the hint of waterproof mascara failing to do its job, the smudged ruby red of your lipstick. Don’t give me that look, you knew what you were signing up for when you walked into this house, Counsel.

His hands are gentler than you’d expect, when he wipes away the streaks your tears leave down your pretty cheeks, coaxing you to look up at him, We’ll set ground rules later. Tonight? I wanna see if I can get that mouth of yours to beg for me.

It won’t, you snap without thinking, knifeblade sharp and cruel, ready for a fight again. He promised you that once, in a hiss you thought you’d misheard but no, you heard him just fine and now if he thinks he can quench your fire and have you pleading just because you sold your body for the prospect of revenge then he’s wrong.

Thing is, he laughs like that’s a challenge, and the hand holding your chin so gently is wrapped around your throat before you know it, silencing your voice with just the right application of pressure. I can do this all night, Counsel. Do you think you can last that long?

Fear. Anger. Indignation. You are fury made flesh and he is manipulating you with just the barest press of his palm and sliding over you, until you’re laid out there on soft sheets and he’s looming over you, splaying that big hand out and sliding it down your throat, over your chest, feeling the ruching of the fabric under his palm. You wrapped yourself up like a present for me, didn’t you sweetness?

The change in nickname isn’t lost on you but here you are, glaring up at him while he smiles so beatifically it leaves your blood boiling and your skin steadily warming. The rise and fall of your chest is hypnotic, every angry breath a swear you don’t utter, every inhale your protests dying in your throat. What can you say, what would you say, right now? There’s nothing that can change the way he looks at you, or the way his eyes flicker from ice to blue fire the more he takes stock of the pretty little thing he’s about to start sharing his bed with.

Fuck, you’re beautiful, that one shocks you, but not as much as the sudden rush of cold air when he tears the emerald green fabric of your dress down and reveals the soft swells of your breasts, nipples peaked from the sudden cold.

You don’t get much time to gasp, just something soft and strangled before he turns your voice to whimpers, wrapping lips around that pebbled tip and laving his tongue over sensitive flesh. Where are your words now, Counsel, while he threatens the softness of your chest with the scrape of his teeth, when he slides his hands over the round curve of your thighs and parts your legs so he can press himself between them, so he can press himselfagainst you? Where is the knife-dagger of your wit to protest each soft, suckling kiss to your skin, each press of his fingers like he could just squeeze his ownership of you into the plushness of your hips, into the sweet swell of your ass? What do you say to the dirty little thrust of his hips as he bucks with his own burning need, reminding you just how much this is for hispleasure as he will make it for yours.

You would, could, should push him off and instead what are you doing? Curling your fingers into the silk-smooth of his comforter, desperate to writhe out of your own skin away from the burning pressure between your thighs, the foreign, unfamiliar heat you suddenly feel like you might be craving.

Anyone ever touch you like this before me, Counsel?Warm breath splays across your skin when he questions you, eyes fixed on yours and he waits. Answer him, answer him, tell him he’s nothing, tell him you’ve had better, lie and destroy that ego, lie lie lie lie—

Nnnh—no.

He looks like you’ve just told him the best news of his life, eyes wide and blown with lust, Oh is that right? You’re saying no one’s ever touched you this good? Or just no one’s ever touched you at all?

You don’t have to answer. The furious blush on your cheeks? The way your eyes slide away from his? The way you writhe, trying to press your thighs together to relieve the pressure and finding the effort futile? If the man’s grin could get any wider, it would, right now. Oh sweetness, we’re going to have so much fun exploring your body together…

He pulls back just enough to take a look at you, already flushed and writhing and overwhelmed and if he could take a picture of this right now he would. He’ll save that for later though. Tonight? Tonight is just the two of you, and his hands are back to your skirt, pushing the tight fabric up over your round hips and revealing the lace of your panties… just before he rips them off, to the sound of your indignant yelp Steve!

You’re going to call me Captain, sweetness, we’re not close enough to use my name just yet.

No. No you’re not, and he’s not sure you’ll ever be — he rather likes the idea of hearing you whimper out his title when he gets you desperate and wanting.

He touches, slow and steady, watching you try to jerk away and tutting at you when you do, fingers at your delicate nerves like an assault on your pleasure. Bite your lip, bite back the moans, whine at him like he’s wounded you, You’re so wet, sweetness, you’re so desperate for me aren’t you, as he palms his cock to relieve the pressure on himself. You’re going to beg before he does and he’s patient, he’ll last the night.

St-stop it, it’s too— he shushes you ahtahtaht and rests his free hand on your mound, holding you down so his probing, inspecting fingers can take stock of the velveteen plushness of your delicate cunt. It’s too much, too much and you want to scream the moment he presses one finger into you, already overwhelmed, already so tightly wound the barest touches are unraveling you steadily.

You’re such a pretty thing, all desperate and needy, sweetness. You wanna cum already, don’t you? So busy, never gave anyone the chance to fuck that stuck-up bitch right out of you, did they? It’s almost pitying, isn’t it, the way he talks, hums at you while you’re reduced to a whining, whimpering mess so soon, so desperate for the release he’s on the edge of denying you, feeling you flexing around his finger and then the second leaping jolt of your body when another joins the inspection. Taking careful stock of the pretty cunt he owns now, and he’s careful to curl his fingers just right as he seeks the spot to hammer just to get you to scream.

You don’t, not yet, but that’s okay too, because he sees the way you take desperate hold of the sheets, the way your eyes roll backwards just slightly, the way you strain against his heavy hand to arch your back. Gotta tell you, sweetness, I imagined you under me a thousand and one ways but this one, right now? Tops the list. You ready to beg for me?

Do it. Do it and end your pleasurable torment. Do it and be released from the pressure, the coiling want. Surrender to him. Let him have you.

The white hot rush of your orgasm is not unexpected to him, his curling, cruel fingers having found the sweetness of your g-spot, but — you, too busy climbing the ranks to think of your own pleasure, too busy demanding your due from an unjust world explore your own warmth beyond that of a memory of a college hookup you would rather forget — you left breathless and wanton in the heat of the explosion he draws out of you, mewling something desperate and pleading against your own will and the song of it fills his ears like it’s all he’s ever wanted. There it is, and I thought we’d be here all night. A thumb flickers over the nerves at your entrance and you practically jump, something between a yelp and a moan escaping your lips.

First one’s just a treat, sweetness. Now on, you cum when I say you do, understand?

You nod.

Oh you nod, and you are lost, here and now. Sensitive and broken and there is so little of that steel spine here, writhing in his sheets and ohyou don’t know the things you do to him.

Think you can go again, sweetness? He’s purring, smug, twisting fingers stretching you slowly, muttering under his breath about how fucking tight you are around his fingers, how good you’re going to feel for him, and the smugness on his face is slowly fading into a dark consternation, brows furrowed like he’s somehow angry at you for being plush and delicate and fuckable.

You’re almost begging him to stop, and yet the pressure is building again, the twisting, coiling heat that leaves you breathless and mewling and he looks like he might be trying to immortalize this moment forever. Say it, sweetness. Say you need me. Beg me for my cock.

That’s it.

That’s what you need to, you need to beg, you need to give in. No more fighting, no more arguing no more —

Please…

Please what, sweetness, come on now. You got a way with words. The snarl is so barely contained.

Please, Captain, please just…

What do you need, sweetness? The fingers are relentless, the buzz in your nerves is overwhelming, you can barely even hear yourself talk, much less him.

Please just fuck me, Captain, I need your cock! It’s hurried and it’s crude and it’s desperate and it’s exactly what he wants as just another wall crumbles and you fall off your pedestal right into his arms.

He’s barely able to resist the buck of his hips, the need to be inside you, the knowledge that you are soft and velvet and you could be all over his senses just like this.

When did he free his cock? You don’t know, you just know it’s practically salvation when he sinks into you, when he fills you like you’ve been desperate for and Oh sweetness…pours from his lips just as you hiss out something like praise right back at him.

You’re so full and he’s so gentle, at first, like you’re made of crystal in his arms, like the slow shifting of his hips might have you shattering underneath him if he’s not careful. Cradling you, even, sliding your legs around his narrow hips as he leans in and takes a hungry kiss from your wanting, whimpering mouth.

Love this look on you, all wrapped around me, whispered low and slow into your ear, sweetness you have no idea how good you look…

Melt into those compliments, melt into him, because the way he’s holding you is divine and you can feel him so deep in you it’s making your head spin. When did your arms end up around him? When did you start clinging to him like an anchor, start winding your fingers through his hair, start leaving the marks of your nails on his back to the sound of his own needy groaning?

He noses your cheek and leaves a mark of ownership on your neck with hungry lips, knowing you’ll bruise a beautiful flower right over your pulsebeat and continuing the steady assault on your nerves, cunt-first.

Harder. Faster. More.

And oh, sweetness, you do shatter.

You shatter all around him, you shatter into something divine and rapturous, full of him and filled with him and he cums so deep inside you as you do, still fucking you through your joined climax, hips rutting and breath hitching and nearly furious at you for the way his vision whites out too, the way he feels like he can Never get enough and so he hisses that at you like an accusation while his thoughts reorient back to reality, back to smugness, back to the control you took from him while he tried to strip you of yours.

In the end, as he pulls away from you and sinks to the side of you, watching your sweet expression as you return to the reality of your new situation, he is satisfied… thoroughly.

Oh yeah, I think we can make this a working relationship, Counsel.

#siris5ksoftdarkchallenge #steve rogers x reader #mob!au #mob!steve #steve rogers x you #steve rogers smut #dark!fic #dark captain america #captain america #writing challenge

977 notes · View notes

bondsmagii · 2 years

Note

Hey rat my dude, it's okay if I rant a little bit here? Lately I've been struggling with wanting to be an artist like I want to make art but it feels so stupid like dude there are people dying and you want to sit there writing little stories and stories that BTW will never reach them because the most imporvished communities in the world don't have acess or even time for your little stories. it feels like 2/3 of the world is out there on fire, starving, amidst war and I'm out here making up stories for remaining 1/3 of the world. like fuck mate harry potter isn't helping the kids in africa and Taylor swift isn't improving people's life in fucking haiti. it seems selfish. if there is any art that is helping poor communities is the art of their own communities. not me, a foreigner. It just feels like the people that need the most help in the world won't be helped by art (not my art at least) so Its a foolish endeavor to pursue it while there is so much suffering.

Tldr: feeling like absolutely shit wanting to be an artist bc art is for the 1/3 of the world that is not too preoccupied trying to survive

I've actually received a couple of asks exactly like this over the last few months, and I've been wondering how to address it, and ultimately I just have to be honest. this is not going to be the answer you were hoping for, but I hope you consider it and really try to think about what I'm going to say here.

this is not a sane way of thinking. I mean this completely 100% seriously. this is a level of delusional guilt-bearing that you should be seeking help for. I understand why you feel this way, because the internet is absolutely saturated with the message that you're not a good activist or ally unless you feel crushing guilt over every good thing you have and you're analysing and critiquing everything you like/desire, but this is not an attitude that you should be taking on. I know it might seem virtuous, and it might make you feel like you're not part of the problem, whatever that problem is -- or if you are, you're at least conscientious of it -- but this is an insane way of thinking and it makes you a liability. nobody has time to alleviate your guilt over issues that aren't yours. when going into spaces where somebody else's struggles are meant to be the focus, you're not being a good person by making it about your own angst.

not to mention the fact that this line of thinking just does not add up. it's unfair and wrong for all creators to be held to this standard. we're not here for other people. we're not here to be good examples. we're here to create, and if we want to work in political or social issues into our work, we can. if we want to use our art to draw attention, we can. but we should also be allowed to just create. in the same way as we all know it's bullshit to only assign value to things if it's making money, we should not be assigning value to our art only if it's making a political statement. that's just bullshit.

if you sincerely wish to assist people, look for things you can actually do. donate money. volunteer at shelters or soup kitchens. donate your old clothes. buy directly from impoverished communities. go out there and get active. if one day you do succeed as an artist, you're now rich -- congrats. all of that money can go towards important causes, if you want it to. but the one way to get nothing done -- not helping others, nor personal achievement -- is if you angst over completely delusional things like this. I'm sorry if other people have made you feel like your art isn't worth anything because there are people suffering, because that isn't true. but if you sincerely believe this, and you sincerely think this way, I urge you to get help. this kind of guilt complex is literally a mental illness. it's absolutely shocking that it's considered a sign of a good person these days, and in terms of real activism, it is absolutely useless and even offensive to most people actually living these things.

I'm sorry if this response seems harsh. I'm not attacking you, and I don't think this is your fault. this is just the thinking that people are being exposed to, some of them from very early ages. but you seem to be caught very deep in it, and sometimes being harsh is the only way to adequately make a point like this. I hope that you get out of this way of thinking, and I wish you luck with everything you want to achieve.

#also sidenote: the insinuation here that the people who are focused on trying to survive don't need art/don't make art?#not very fair.#even when i was literally starving to death on the street i made art and i read books #when i was too poor to do anything fun i read and read and read #when i was stuck in an abusive household reading and writing got me through it #when i was living in a literal active war zone acting and writing and music helped me get through it #art is for everyone. everyone needs it. we shouldn't be making these assumptions that it's only for rich and comfortable people.#anon #asks

29 notes · View notes

collecting-stories · 4 years

Text

Confessional - JJ Maybank

Request: You should do something where the reader is best friends with jj and they pogues and they are at a party and jj is like REALLY high and he tells the reader how much he loves her and that kinda stuff

Request: Can I make a JJ request?? Where the reader and him are dating and JJ is being super clingy during a kegger. Just like super fluffy. Thanks! Btw I love your work

Outer Banks Masterlist

✰ ✰ ✰ ✰

It was JJ’s idea to have the party; the exact phrase that you planned to use if and when your mother showed up early and found out that you had invited all these kids over to the house. JJ threw the party and he also invited all the people. Having JJ for a friend was like having an automatic scapegoat in any situation that required blaming someone else to save your own skin. Your mom never yelled at JJ, she always said she felt bad for him because his dad was such a douche and she didn’t even know the half of it, so you didn’t feel bad when you threw him under the bus on occasion.

“There are way too many people here JJ!” You felt like you were shouting just to be heard despite the fact that your best friend had draped himself on top of you on the sofa. He was sitting in your lap, one arm wrapped around your shoulders while he held a joint in the other. Whatever his cousin had put in the mix tonight was extra strong, or JJ was just feeling it more than usual because he was being extra clingy.

Affectionate by nature, this level of clinginess was unusual even for him. “Nah, it’s good,” he blinked rapidly, seemingly fascinated by the action as he slowed it down and then sped up again.

You groaned, snapping your fingers in front of his face to get his attention, “JJ!”

“I’m listening, I’m listening.” He promised, balancing the joint between his teeth as he brushed your hair away from your face. You scrunched your nose when he ran his pointer finger over it before brushing his thumbs across your cheeks.

“What are you doing?” You laughed when he traced back up to your forehead, poking at an acne mark and leaning over, taking his joint out of his mouth and placing a kiss just about your eyebrow.

“Admiring your face.”

“I can see that...why?” You asked, trying to take the blunt away from him but he held his hand out of reach. “Let me, I wanna know what’s in this joint cause you are acting a little crazy tonight my friend.”

JJ pouted, laying his head on your shoulder as you took the the blunt and laid it on the ashtray on the side table. Other party goers seemed to move in slow motion around you. Had they turned off the music or had you and JJ sealed yourselves into a bubble that the rest of the crowd was unable to penetrate?

“Why would you say that to me?” He moaned, lifting his head up to look at you.

“Say what? That you’re having a bad reaction?” You asked, “I only speak the truth JJ.”

“Not that,” he grabbed your face in his hands, staring at you so intensely that you swore he could have burned a hole right through your head. “Why’d you have to say we’re friends?”

“Cause we are friends...even when you’re acting crazy like this.” You replied. He’d definitely had a bad batch or something, you couldn’t be entirely sure what it was, maybe the mix of alcohol and weed did him in this time around. He was unusually clingy though and he had been since he had gotten to the party. Arm around you the entire time you were talking to friends, following you from place to place, wrapping his arms around you from behind and laying his head on your shoulder when you tried to mix a drink. He wouldn’t let up. And now, sitting on your lap with your face in his hands, cold rings eliciting goosebumps where they pressed against your warm skin. “JJ.”

“I love you.”

“Awesome...I love you too, you’re my best fri-” JJ slapped his hand over your mouth, his other leaving your face so he could take a hit from his blunt for a second before turning his attention back to you, eyes comically wide.

He shushed you, “stop saying friends. I don’t mean friends. I’m sick of being friends. I mean I love you, love you. Like Sid loves Nancy, like Joanie loves Chaci, like-”

You pushed his hand away, trying not to burst into laughter, “what? First of all, what? Second, do not compare us to a crazy murderer or an out of work Trump supporter.” You stuck your tongue out in disgust, “third, and final point, I love you too.”

He didn’t answer, frown on his face and eyes a little far off, glossed over as he tried to connect whatever dots his brain was having trouble deciphering. You rolled your eyes at the expression, wondering how much of your counter confession actually got through.

“What?”

He looked at you suddenly, eyes going wide again before he relaxed. “Which one is the murderer?”

“Sid...allegedly. Did you not know who you were referencing?” It was always a possibility.

“I’ve heard people say it.”

“God you’re so lucky your cute.” You laughed. “Well? What about the last part?”

“I didn’t hear the last part. What were we talking about?” He asked, the very definition of dazed and confused.

“Nothing J,” you kissed his cheek before bouncing your knee gentlly so that he would stand up on his own. He did, getting up off your lap so that you could get off the couch, “let’s get you to bed, we’ll talk tomorrow.”

“We could talk now?” JJ offered, wrapping his arms around you once again.

“We could but then how would you sleep? Come on, I’ll even lay down with you...Kie can clear all these people out.” The party had started to dwindle on its own but there were still some pogues left hanging around, always the last to leave when free booze were involved.

You walked with JJ down the hall to your room, leaving the joint in the ashtray for someone else t find. You couldn’t help wondering, when he faceplanted into the bed and you had to pull his boots off of him, if he would even remember the conversation that the two of you had. Or if he did, would he remember it entirely.

It would be a lie to say that when he started in on being in love with you it was like butterflies erupting in your stomach. You’d been waiting so long to hear JJ say that he had feelings for you beyond friendship and there he was, spouting it off in the most ridiculous way possible, in true JJ fashion, and you had to open your big mouth and derail his confession.

JJ shifted his body in bed so that his head was on the pillows, feet almost hanging off the end. He opened his arms, beckoning you to come join him, smiling with his eyes shut like he was a little kid. “Get in here for cuddles.”

“You are extremely clingy tonight bud,” you pointed out, crawling onto the bed and laying down beside him, throwing an arm over his waist and resting your head on his chest. “Get some rest...you need it.”

He hummed and you could feel the vibration of it beneath your ear, coupled with the sound of his heart. “Love you.”

“I love you too JJ.”

taglist: @maplelattes22 @poguesrforlife @freckled-and-daydreaming @chasefreakinstokes @millie-753 @fangirlwithme @alex12948 @katherine097 @tangledinsparkles @carbonated-beverage @mariofgreengables @damonsalvawhore27 @dopedoodes @dolanfivsosxox @belledutchess @poguelifeeee @faded-blue @parkerpetertingle @thebookwormlife @summer-clouds-and-long-days @jellyfishbeansontoast @minigranger @hoewkeye @love-someone-special @tiredfeels @strangerthanfanfiction713 @the-only-nana @tomzfrog @mozz-are-lla @vindictive-hearts @wldflwrskyee @ssprayberrythings @jenahbell @beautyandthebleh @gothackedalready @teenwaywardasgardian @sarahcxmeron @haha-fuck-you-thot @stillbelieve398-5 @rewindlr @queenniccimicci @kissessforharryyy @thedarkqueenofavalon @alytavzla @bqmblebee @linniep @nerdypartytrashpsychic @xxchxrryxx @spencer-reid-is-a-cutie @danielladreaming @obx-saltlife @youngestxhearts @spnobsessedmemes @wowitswondergurl @mybnkjj @pineappleandcherries @mysterious-adventurer @justawilddreamerchild @rhyetaylor62 @calm-rejects @oh-annaa @aiifandomsunite @x-lulu @ceruleanjj @wicked-laugh @obxwriterfan @allie-mcginn @pcterparxer @literarycharleton @khiaraaa-in-spacee @crushe-s @teamnick @daydreamlilys @collectiveuniverses @activist-af @mdgrdians @buckys-sunflower @vindictive-hearts @copper-boom @talksoprettyjjx @5am-cigarette @smiithys @dontjinx-it @outerbanksbro @mysticsthinking @heavenlymama @rudy-pankow-needs-an-oscar @babymatilda @raekenliar @lemur46 @under-a-canyon-moon @jolomez @summerkaulitz @calums-betch

410 notes · View notes

zabrak-show · 3 years

Text

Nima Paeral Scintel

A more formal introduction to my Zygerrian OC Nima Paeral. I've been working on them for a little while and don't have a full story fleshed out or anything, but I did get this incredible portrait of them done by Sputnik Arts on Instagram. Check his page out for some amazing Star Wars art and they have a dope Togruta OC, too! (Did I mention I love Star Wars OCs?!!!)

See below the cut for more facts about Nima ❤️️

pretty much all of this is subject to change as i fiddle with their story lol

Character’s full name: Nima Paeral Scintel

Character’s nickname: Nims

Birth date: 39 BBY

Gender: nonbinary they/them/she/her

Physical appearance

Age: 20s

How old do they appear: 20s

Height: 5’11” 1.8m

Body build: muscular, androgynous

Eye color: grey-blue & silver

Glasses or contacts: one all white cybernetic eye that shines silver in night light

Skin tone: pink

Distinguishing marks: cat/coyote ears and feline esque face, scar over the cybernetic eye

Hair color: pink

Type of hair: short fur

Voice: medium tone, at times monotonous, high pitched when very excited

Overall attractiveness: all my ocs are hot af

Physical disabilities: cybernetic eye

Usual fashion of dress: usually very utilitarian

Favorite outfit: green slim fitting cargo pants, tactical purple tank top, blue neckerchief, holsters for guns

Jewelry or accessories: not usually

Personality

Personality: very serious, political activist, still knows how to have fun, but sometimes needs to be reminded not to work so hard constantly.

Good personality traits: hard-working, love of people around them, wants to do what’s right,

Bad personality traits: extremist in thought, will do whatever it takes to get something done, works so hard doesn’t leave time for personal attachments

Mood character is most often in: serious

Sense of humor: dry, but once you make them laugh it’s like you unlocked a key to immortality it feels so good

Character’s greatest joy in life: setting thousands of slaves free on their home planet

Character’s greatest fear: the fascists winning

Why? because everything they’ve fought for will have felt like it was for nothing

What single event would most throw this character’s life into complete turmoil? falling for someone and losing sight of the movement (insert Feral love story)

Character is most at ease when: after a successful political meeting, when everyone knows their next move, their next place, the only time to relax before a big move

Most ill at ease when: someone they love won’t fight for themselves or the cause

Enraged when: faced with injustices

Depressed or sad when: it feels like no matter how hard they fight, they aren’t getting anywhere in the grand scheme of things

Priorities: making the galaxy a free and equal place for everyone

Character’s soft spot: small children

Is this soft spot obvious to others? no, unless said small children are around. Their eyes light up and they can’t help but smile and laugh with the children.

Greatest strength: Stealthiness

Greatest vulnerability or weakness: stubbornness

Biggest regret: letting thousands more suffer when they saved one colony of slaves, they had to leave or die, and sometimes they lie awake wondering if they hadn’t left and were able to free more, but died, if that would have been better for the galaxy

Minor regret: not sleeping with the hot pantoran who flirted with them at an activist party

Past

Hometown: Royal palace of Zygerria

Type of childhood: raised very lavishly, never had to ask for anything

Pets: Kiros Bird, purple and blue

First memory: the nurse who took care of them gifting them a stuffed tooka cat

Most important childhood memory: seeing their nurse break down in hysterics when her son was taken from her to be a slave on another part of the world.

Why: it led to their political radicalization

Dream job: librarian

Education: Coruscant College of Law

Religion: atheist

Finances: exorbitant until being excommunicated by family

Present

Current location: all over, hiding from Zygerrians and their allies

Currently living with: small team of rebels

Occupation: activist, smuggling at times to get by

Finances: slim since being excommunicated by family

Family

Siblings: Miraj Scintel, Queen

Relationship with them: hate each other

Favorites

Color: Green and Purple

Music: lo-fi hip hop

Food: meat

Literature: anything political

Habits

Hobbies: working out, playing music

Plays a musical instrument? yes keyboard

Plays a sport? many, they're very athletic

Spending habits: frugal

Smokes: used to in college, occasionally if provoked

Drinks: occasionally

Other drugs: no

What do they do too much of? strategizing

What do they do too little of? relaxing

Extremely skilled at: spying, stealth, organizing folks

Extremely unskilled at: maintaining deeply personal relationships

Nervous tics: cracking knuckles in fingers

Usual body posture: straight

Mannerisms: regal and elegant

Traits

Optimist or pessimist? optimist

Introvert or extrovert? extrovert

Daredevil or cautious? mostly cautious but will do a daring move if needed

Logical or emotional? logical

Disorderly and messy or methodical and neat? methodical and neat

Prefers working or relaxing? working

Confident or unsure of themself? confident

Animal lover? yes (though they are a carnivore so read into that as you want)

questions taken from this list tho I didn't answer all of them

#oc appreciation #star wars oc #nonbinary oc #nima paeral #zygerrian oc #clone wars oc #art commission #sputnik arts #tw slavery

16 notes · View notes

rhysismydaddy · 4 years

Text

365 Days: Part 2 (Feysand)

I feel like this should be beyond obvious at this point, but black lives matter. As a white person, I understand that I’ll never fully comprehend the struggle black individuals face on a daily basis. I stand with them, protesters, and activists as a lifetime ally. “Don’t be mad they’re rioting, be happy you don’t have to.” -- If you are not a supporter of the BLM movement, go ahead an unfollow me. I couldn’t care less.

OKAY. Sorry this is a day late! This part kind of has it all (humor, fluff, some slightly kinky smut) so I don’t know how to describe it. I also hate it, but whatever. Part 3 (last part) out Friday!

Part 1

________________________________________________________________

Day 1, 7:13 AM

~Feyre~

Something warm laid across her cheek, and Feyre peeked an eye open, only to groan at who she saw staring down at her. “If you make a habit of waking me up at the ass crack of dawn, I can already tell you you won’t live through our year of marriage, Rhysand.”

He smiled. “You have to get up. We're taking wedding pictures.”

She didn’t see the point. They’d signed the marriage license last night. How he’d procured one in less than an hour, she didn’t even want to know.

“Why the hell would we do that?”

“Because I’m a public figure, and the newspaper asked for a quote on our marriage.” She groaned. “Now get your cute ass downstairs.”

She glanced at him speculatively but stayed firmly planted in the bed. “What’s downstairs?”

“Someone to help get you ready. Not that I don’t appreciate the bed head. Up.”

Feyre shook her head. “Ask me again in two hours.” She glanced at the clock. “Make it three.”

Her husband pinched the bridge of his nose, but stood back up. She closed her eyes, happy she’d won their first argument.

Only to be proven wrong a moment later as the demon spawn flung back her blankets, grabbed her waist, and threw her over a shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“Put me down,” she shrieked, beating the back of his toned legs with a fist.

Rhysand, calm as always, smoothly responded, “If I put you down, you’ll just get back in the bed.”

“No, I won’t,” she lied.

Even though she couldn’t see his face, she’d bet anything he rolled his eyes. He walked out his/her/their bedroom door and down the stairs, his casual gait suggesting nothing out of the order.

“Good morning,” he said pleasantly to whoever was waiting.

Feyre peeked around his ass to see four complete strangers, varying levels of amusement on their faces. “Um, hi.”

She was placed on a salon-like chair.

Which was odd, considering they were in the middle of the living room.

Rhysand pointed at two hulking figures sitting on the couch. “These are my friends Cassian and Azriel. You’ve met.”

The smugness in his voice, combined with the shit-eating grins of the men he was referring to, had her snapping back, “Oh yes, my kidnappers. Sorry I didn’t immediately recognize you. I had a sack over my head last time we met.”

“I’m Cassian.” The larger of the two smiled. “I’m the one you tried to gut with a butter knife.”

“I’ll have to practice my aim.”

Cassian looked at the man standing next to her and winked. “I like her.”

The other man on the couch, Azriel, sighed and shook his head, resigned.

Rhys just rolled his eyes and continued his introductions. “The two normal people here,” he gestured to a very brightly-dressed pair, “are here to do your hair and makeup and whatever else.”

He gave her a light kiss on the forehead, then spoke to his fellow criminals. “We have shit to do. Come on.”

“Are you off to do illegal activities, my dear husband?”

“Don’t worry, Feyre darling. You won’t be without eye candy for too long.”

He laughed at the look on her face, then wisely jogged out the door before she could throw something at him.

She turned to the people left staring at her with wide eyes and repressed a groan. “Let’s get this over with.”

~Rhysand~

Two hours after he’d left, Rhys came back to the house, showered, and changed into a tux. Then he went to his backyard where the photographer had set up.

“Where’s Feyre?” he asked the man as he messed around with lighting balloons.

The photographer gave him a knowing smile. “I want to get a picture of your reaction when you first see her.”

He was about to respond when the backdoor of the house opened and she walked out.

She was wearing a classic gown with long sleeves and a deep neckline, but that wasn’t what drew his attention. Her hair was up, and she had a veil trailing behind her. The sunlight made the white of her dress almost glow.

If she’d been beautiful before, now she was...

There were no words for how she looked.

Fucking radiant was a start.

She walked across the lawn to him and smiled, and he couldn’t keep the matching grin off his face if he tried.

Rhysand heard the faint snap snap snap of the camera and finally understood what the photographer had meant.

He’d wanted to capture the moment the city’s Son of Satan was practically brought to his knees by a single woman.

And Rhys didn’t even care.

Feyre finally drew close enough that he could see the details of her face. Even though he had a million more romantic things running through his brain, he murmured, “Who’s the eye candy now?”

“You are,” she said, as if it were obvious. “You look like sex on a spoon.”

His mouth dropped open, but before he could respond, the photographer butted into their moment. “Okay, I want you two to act like I’m not even here. We’re aiming for three or four really good shots, so just be natural, and I’ll let you know if anything has to change.”

They both nodded absently, still staring at each other. Rhys reached down to grab her hand, finger flicking the ring on her finger.

“I can’t believe our marriage is making the paper, and I didn’t even get a real proposal,” she teased.

It was true.

He’d put the ring on her bedside table the night before, too much of a simpering coward to give her the ring in person, too nervous about what’d she say. It had been his mother’s, and he’d once sworn to never let another soul have it.

“I didn’t want to risk your wrath and wake you up.”

She rolled her eyes and smiled.

Almost on its own accord, one of his hands reached out to cup her cheek. He didn’t know if Feyre was acting or something else, but she leaned into his touch, a hand coming to rest against his chest.

“Beautiful, just beautiful,” the photographer cooed.

“You are,” he told his wife. “You’re beautiful.”

She smiled.

“Annoying as hell, but beautiful.”

She shoved his shoulder and turned away, but he grabbed her wrist to spin her back, and decided to risk his life.

He kissed her.

Hands locked around her waist, lips crashing into hers, Rhysand kissed her like he’d been dying to since he’d seen her asleep in his shirt.

And she really, really kissed him back.

Feyre’s hands wound around his neck, and he lifted her up a little to get a better angle. Her lips opened to let his tongue in, and he had no other thoughts in his head besides the woman in his arms.

The photographer coughed pointedly.

They ignored him.

Until Rhys finally relented and set her back on the ground, both of them panting for air.

“Sorry,” she told the blushing man, but he waved her off and insisted it happened all the time.

The thing was, it didn’t.

Rhysand had kissed plenty of women in his lifetime, but none of them had made his entire body start simmering like that.

Her blue eyes watched him speculatively as he slipped the ring off her finger, dropped down to one knee, and smiled. “Feyre darling, will you marry me?”

Despite already being legally married, she bent over and kissed him, then stole the ring back. “I’ll take it into consideration.”

Day 9, 8:04 PM

~Feyre~

Feyre had to admit that while the house outside the city had a charm and wholesome quality she’d come to admire, being trapped here had started to drive her slightly insane.

Especially since Rhysand had been been on a business trip the entire week, so she’d been here by herself.

After a tense phone call with her sisters--where Nesta had cackled and called her Satan’s nephew--and getting ahead in her textbooks, she was out of things to do. So she spent most of her time being a nosy little snob and going through her husband’s stuff.

Apparently, the Son of Satan had a very serious addiction to wine, if the cellar in the basement was any indication.

But other than that--and a mysterious letter from a woman named Amren--he had no trinkets, pictures of family, or any other worthwhile gossip.

The word “boredom” hardly covered it.

Once upon a time, Feyre wouldn’t have minded a couple days like this. When law school was in session, she didn’t have a spare moment and enjoyed when she got to do nothing.

She didn’t bother lying to herself about why it was driving her insane now.

She missed Rhysand.

After only a couple days of marriage, he’d wormed his way into her heart and made her start to rely on teasing him, seeing that devilish smirk, making him laugh. The nightly texts he sent her weren’t enough to satisfy her insane need to talk to him. He’d told her he was coming back later tonight, and she was practically coming out of her skin with excitement.

She was an idiot, basically.

This marriage wasn’t supposed to involve actual feelings. It was a publicity save. And despite giving her a hotter-than-hell kiss during their photo shoot, he hadn’t so much as touched her since.

Feyre had the distinct feeling he was waiting for her to make the first move.

Which, again, she normally wouldn’t mind. But something about Rhysand... she knew once she started down that path, she wouldn’t be able to stop.

So she slept in his bed, wore his t-shirts, and avoided thinking about how his mouth had felt against hers.

And how he’d tasted like chocolate and watermelon and-

Cutting that thought off, she resolved herself to be cool and calm and collected when he came back. She needed to nip the feelings she’d started to develop for him in the bud.

But then the front door banged open, and Feyre instantly disregarded every promise she’d made to herself and raced down the stairs, yelling like a banshee.

She saw Rhysand standing in the doorway in his usual Johnny Cash uniform and didn’t hesitate before yelling, “You’re home!”

And throwing herself on him.

He dropped whatever he was holding and laughed as she wrapped herself around him like a koala.

“Are you alright, love?”

She nodded against his neck. “I’m fine. Ignore me. I’ve just been so bored. This place is way too fucking quiet when you’re not here. I think I’m going insane.”

“I believe you.”

“Asshole.”

He laughed, then did as she’d said and ignored her presence, crossing the living room to the kitchen.

Rhys bent to look through the fridge, and she tightened her hold on him.

“We have no food, also,” she told him helpfully.

“I see that. If you put some pants on, we can go into the city for dinner.”

She laughed. Along with wearing his shirts, she’d taken to stealing a pair of boxers to sleep in.

Feyre dropped to the floor, and he smirked down at her. “I was gone for five days, and that’s the greeting I got. Next time I’m staying away for six.”

She swung a hand and punched his shoulder, which probably hurt her more than him, and told him, “You’re so very funny, Rhysand. Please feed me.”

Her husband gave her a shooing motion. “You might want to put on something besides my boxers, then.”

She took his advice.

About an hour later, she sat in front of him, watching as he adamantly tried to avoid looking at her.

She’d chosen a dark green dress--unremarkable except for the low neckline and short skirt--black heels, and simple makeup.

“Are you alright, Rhysand? You look like you’re having a stroke.”

Those violet eyes slid to hers. “I’m fine, thank you for asking. I like that dress.”

“I can tell.”

He looked at the ceiling. “When we get home, I’m going to replace your entire wardrobe with burlap sacks.”

Feyre shrugged, then decided to take a chance. “You’d still stare at me.”

His eyes met hers, and when he spoke, it was practically a purr. “Am I supposed to deny, Feyre darling, how attractive I find you?”

The waiter arrived before she had to respond. She made a mental note to leave him a huge tip.

As they ate their meal, she was overly aware of how many people stared at them. The whispers that surrounded them.

She was about to ask how he dealt with it when a chair was slid up next to her, a heavy-set man settling in. “Hello, Rhysand. I need to talk to you.”

The man was dressed in dark clothes, covered in tattoos, and had the promise of violence written across his every movement. He practically had the words drug dealer floating above his over-sized head.

“Dante.” The warm look she’d come to recognize in her husband’s eyes was nowhere to be found. “Whatever it is, it can wait. Leave.”

“I promise you, it can’t,” the man said boldly, continuing to ignore her presence entirely. “A shipment’s gone missing.”

Feyre watched, stomach twisting, as Rhysand leaned forward and smiled cruelly. “Would you like to join it? I don’t discuss business in front of my wife.”

My wife.

Despite the more than tense surroundings, Feyre felt a spark run through her at the words.

“Then the bitch can leave. I need to talk to you.”

There was a slight pause, then everything changed so quickly she didn’t have time to process it. One minute she was watching the man’s face twist with impatience, the next there was a gun pressed against his ruddy forehead.

A gun that practically looked like an extension of Rhysand’s arm.

Her husband was standing, entire body stiff with anger. The look on his face was inhuman. And promised a slow, slow death as he looked towards the man on the recieving end.

“Refer to her as Feyre Asterra, or lose your fucking tongue.”

The restaurant was dead quiet, everyone holding their breath and waiting to see what happened. No one dared move a muscle.

Except Dante, who nodded stiffly.

“Now apologize.”

The way he said it, the command in his voice... a thrill sparked through Feyre, and she bit her lip to keep the gasp in.

What was wrong with her? Where fear should’ve taken root, there was raw, untapped excitement whirling inside her. Rhysand’s entire body was lined with power and dominance and rage, and it made her breath come quicker as she watched.

Dante looked at her, the hatred clear. “I’m sorry,” he spat, then looked back at Rhys.

Rhysand tilted his head, a king holding court. Another cruel smile. “Beg me.”

Something inside Feyre twisted at his words.

Beg me.

The man’s jaw flexed as he gritted his teeth, but he still said. “Please, Rhysand. I’ve worked for you for five years. I’m sorry.”

There was a pause, and she wouldn’t be surprised if someone passed out in anticipation. Then Rhys made a soft tsk sound.

“You no longer work for me. You’re no longer welcome in this city. If I see you after tonight, I won’t be as forgiving.”

The man opened his mouth to oppose, thought better of it, and sulked to the restaurant of the exit.

In that moment, Feyre knew why people called him the Son of Satan. Knew because, as calm as ever, he turned to their waiter and said, “Check, please.”

~ nsfw warning ~

Rhysand stood in front of the fireplace in their room, silent as the dead.

He hadn’t said a single word on the way home, and she could tell whatever had happened at dinner had been the tip of the iceberg. Something had gone wrong.

She replayed the meal over and over in her head, trying to figure it out, but only seemed to be able to remember one thing.

Beg me.

Something had snapped inside her tonight, and she couldn’t keep herself still. Seeing him like that, seeing the power he had over people...

Slipping off the bed, Feyre walked up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist.

Her hands were spread on his taut stomach, but he gripped her wrists and took them off. When he spoke, his voice was rough and low. “I can’t do this right now. I’m not... I’m trying to keep my promise to you.”

Stay good with me. It felt like she’d said that a lifetime ago.

Rhys turned around, drank whatever was in his glass, and looked down at her. There was violence and anger and animalistic rage in his gaze.

It did little to calm the roar in her veins.

“Break your promise.”

A muscle in his jaw flickered, but he kept his hands to himself.

She wanted him so bad she could hardly stand. Her hands found their way to his chest, needing to touch him. “Please.”

Suddenly, she was pressed against the mantle near the fire, heat scorching up her leg. His glass fell to the floor as his hands pressed against her shoulders.

He’d barely touched her, and she was breathing like she’d run a mile.

A hand came to trace her bottom lip, then he was kissing her, and she finally let out a sigh.

The day of their wedding pictures, his kiss had been decadent and exploring. But that was when he was happy.

When Rhys was pissed off, he kissed her in a raw, aggressive sort of way that made her lose her mind. A hand pulled her hair, making her tilt her head back, and he deepened the kiss.

She’d just started to unbutton his shirt when he lifted her by the back of the thighs, then dropped them both to the floor and pinned her underneath him.

Rhys braced himself over her trapping her arms above her head. She thought about the first time they’d been like this, and the look in his eye said he was doing the exact same thing.

“I wanted you so bad that night,” he told her, voice rough.

She arched her back, chest pressed against his, and he gave her a wolf’s smile.

“Did you want me, too?” he asked, lips and teeth on her collarbone.

Feyre nodded.

His mouth drifted down to her chest, and his teeth scraped her nipple through her dress. Rhys looked up at her, more monster than man in his eyes, and asked, “Were you wet for me, Feyre?”

Okay. Maybe it had been a mistake to encourage being together right now.

Only one way to find out.

She nodded again, and his eyes went dark.

A hand remained pinning her wrists, the other drifting up her thigh. His fingers grazed the lace of her panties, then slipped inside.

He ran a finger up her core, and she shifted beneath him.

“Stay still,” he ordered, the command in his voice making her freeze.

His finger slipped inside her, and he nudged the neck of her dress down to take a breast in his mouth. He made a humming sound in appreciation as he moved, then added another finger.

Feyre moaned, pushing uselessly against the grip on her hands. It was too much. He was too much. She wouldn’t survive this.

But she couldn’t force herself to stop.

She’d been right. Now that she’d started, a shower of bullets wouldn’t make her leave this room.

His stubble scraped the valley between her breasts, and then they were kissing, a deep, wet slide of tongues and lips and teeth. He kissed her in time to the movement of his hand, and Feyre groaned into his mouth.

“I need more,” she panted onto his skin.

Rhysand’s teeth closed softly on her shoulder, and then he was looking down at her. His eyes were so dark they were like the nighttime sky, and then he said the words she didn’t know she’d been craving.

“Beg me.”

She whimpered underneath him, shifting restlessly.

A small, knowing smile was on his face, and she would’ve punched it off if she hadn’t been so attracted to it.

“Please. Please.”

His hand was on her jaw, and he pressed a wet kiss to her lips. “Good girl.”

Lord help me.

He made quick work pulling her clothes off, then leaned back on his knees, surveying her head to toe.

She repaid the favor.

She didn’t know when his shirt had fallen open, but she sure as shit wasn’t complaining.

His chest was covered in tattoos, the dark swirls running across his pecs and shoulders, all the way to his fingertips. The tattoos, the dangerous look in his eyes... Feyre lost a bit of her sanity as she leaned up to drag her mouth up his stomach.

Flicking open his belt, Rhys pushed her back down. Then his pants were pulled down, and he was spreading her thighs and settling in between them before she got a proper look.

“Again.” He looked half crazed with anger and lust.

She nipped at his bottom lip. “Please.”

He was pushed inside her, deep and slow and steady. He groaned in her ear, and the sound threatened what remained of her.

Then he gripped her hips, lifted slightly, and began to move.

Holy gods.

Feyre didn’t know what language she was speaking in, but it wasn’t English. She was murmuring incoherent somethings, not able to string together proper thoughts.

She moved in rhythm with him as he picked up speed, and even though they were spread out on the ground, Feyre felt like a freaking queen.

He was taking his time, listening and learning what she liked, and she could feel herself getting closer and closer to the edge.

Soon she was so loud it was a miracle they didn’t have close neighbors.

But as soon as she felt release start to come, he paused his movements.

The sound that came out of Feyre’s mouth was close to a snarl.

Rhysand smiled, gripping her chin. “Do you want to come, Feyre darling?”

If she wasn’t practically immobile, she’d strangle him. “You’re such an insufferable bastard, Rhysand Asterra. Yes.”

“And what do people say when they want something?”

She bit his lip in frustration, but said, “Please, you pri-”

His hips slammed into hers, a moan cutting her off as release crashed into her. Muscles twitching, face pinched in concentration, he followed her lead, collapsing on top of her.

They laid there together, both breathing heavily, until she started losing air. He rolled off her and looked over her with male satisfaction.

There was still a little tension from earlier, but his usual brightness and light was back. It was impossible not to smile at the happiness coursing through her veins.

Then he opened that smart mouth. “Let’s take a moment to remember when you said you could go two years without sleeping with me.”

“In my defense,” she panted back, “I hadn’t seen you in action before.”

He looked adorably shocked. “So threatening to shoot people is hot to you?”

“When it’s because of me, yeah.” She flicked his bicep, unable to help it. “I almost jumped you right then and there.”

He started kissing her neck, grinning against her skin. “I might have to hunt him down, then.”

She laughed, hands playing in his thick hair. Feyre pulled him back on top of her, a deliciously heavy dead weight. “I think I might have to update my pros and cons list.”

Rhysand laughed, and Feyre doubted a year of looking at that smile would be enough.

Hell, a lifetime might not be enough.

She didn’t let the thought linger.

“Do you think there’s some innocent people around for you to threaten?”

A kiss to her temple. “I’ll hire someone if I have to.”

________________________________________________________________

Part 3

@a-bit-of-a-cactus @bamchickawowow @aesthetics-11 @b00kworm @sleeping-and-books @rapunzel1523 @negativenesta @burritowithfeels @exciting @sis-it-dont-add-up @mockingjayusa @aelin-is-my-heart @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln @awesomelena555 @thekeytohappiness-is-you @keshavomit

#feysand #feyre archeron #rhysand #feyre x rhysand #feysand smut #feysand fanfiction #acotar #acowar #acomaf #acofas #a court of mist and fury #a court of thorns and roses #a court of frost and starlight #a court of wings and ruin #acotar fanfiction

205 notes · View notes

c-is-for-circinate · 4 years

Text

I’m not good at violence.

I think I used to be. I was raised to it; I’m a white woman, and I grew up with privilege and with trauma, and none of that makes me special but it does mean I have the capacity to cause harm to others. I know violence. I hate seeing it in other people. I hate seeing it in myself.

And here is a fact: the violence coming from protestors and rioters right now is justified. The violence happening right now has every chance of being effective. This post is a really excellent breakdown of riots, both as an effective means of driving social change, and a valid and justified expression of the well-deserved rage of a community. I support the anger and the violence that is happening right now.

But. But I freeze, when I’m around it, when I see it directed at people around me, when I’m asked to be a part of it. I’ve spent so many years trying to stop myself from lashing out that now it cuts the legs right out from under me. Whether it’s the physical violence of a riot just down the block from my living room windows, or the verbal violence of one friend eviscerating another for daring to be worried about a brother and friends on the police force--I can’t do it. I can’t help wanting to defuse it. I can’t help freezing and wanting to run away.

Is it privilege, that I get to say no to violence in this case? Yes, yes it absolutely is. Everybody should have that privilege. That’s the point of all of this in the first place. And if I used that privilege to just sit down and hide from all of this, and do nothing, and say nothing, except “I’m not good at violence so I’m excused,” well--would that be as evil as all the sins that started this in the first place? Of course not. But it wouldn’t be good, either.

So the question is, what can I do? If now is the time when decent people are called upon to act, what action can I take that will actually help? Is there a place, in this moment of history that seems to be crying out for a violent response, to be non-violent and still help?

Of course there is. There always is. Not because nonviolence is the True, Correct Way (fuck that, sometimes violence is called for, and this is one of them), but because it is always most effective to go after a goal with a multi-pronged approach. It’s not about how I turn myself into a sword. It’s about figuring out what other skills I can bring to bear, and using them effectively.

For me, my number one skill, the thing I make my bread and butter on, the thing I can do right now is: I can talk.

I can talk to the people in charge. I have government representatives on so many levels. Yes, I can write to my senator, to my House of Representatives congressperson, to my state governor--but I can also think small. My city runs on its city council. The representative for my district has an office half a mile from my apartment; I go in there a couple of times a year for parking passes. He’s not a scary, distant stranger. I can email him. And once I’ve done that, if I move on to emailing the mayor, the county commissioner, the state legislature, and up and up and on up the chain, that’s great--but starting local is easy, and in so many ways, it’s the most important thing to do right now. The woman in Washington is trying to save the whole country, but the man in the community garden down the block has the power to do something about rubber bullets and tear gas right now.

I can talk to the people who disagree. I can talk to them with patience, and kindness, and understanding that other activists may not have the time or emotional wherewithal for. My mom wants everybody to be safe and happy, and only sees riots as violence and danger. My friend loves her brother, the cop, and refuses to go along with any absolutist anti-police rhetoric. They are both (as all humans are) wrong about some things and right about others. They’re wrong about whether these riots should happen, but they’re not wrong to be scared. Ultimately, maybe they don’t matter--maybe they deserve to be denounced and shouted at, maybe they deserve violence--but I love them, and I’d rather have them for allies than enemies. I can embrace patience. I can validate their fears and the truths they know, and share with them the truths that I know: that the world is very scary right now, and that’s why demanding reform is so important. That police officers aren’t fundamentally evil, they’re human, but humans can cause harm even by inaction, even by good intentions. That riots and absolutism are violence. That sometimes, violence should happen.

I can talk to the people who don’t know what’s going on. I am a teacher. Even now, in the middle of a quarantine, teaching composition and trigonometry over Zoom in one-on-one tutoring sessions with kids still wearing pyjamas, I’m a teacher. And my students are young, and confused, and scared, because they don’t know what’s right or wrong but they know that the world is angry. I can listen to them. I can be calm, and gentle, and protect them from my own cynicism, because loading young children down with the whole weight of the world is violence, and it most hurts those who can’t fight back. I can help them work through the things they don’t understand.

I can talk to other people in my same position. I can write this post. I can talk to my students and my mom and my other friends, who want to support black communities and protesters and the course of social justice. I can remind people who hate and fear violence that some violence is necessary, and I can help them find ways to contribute if they are as bad at it as I am. I can help steer them away from lashing out in fear and confusion at the very protesters and victims and social justice warriors they want to help. I can patch them up and help them get working again, when the broadsword of “ZERO TOLERANCE” and “IF YOU’RE NOT WITH US, YOU’RE AGAINST US” accidentally catches them on the backswing.

Of course, not everybody’s a talker! And talking, like violence, isn’t ever the one-size-fits-all solution to an entire problem either. You may have to think through your own skills to find a good way to contribute, but there are a few additional things that I know I can also do, and they may be a good start:

I can provide literal, physical support. Maybe this means donating money to bail funds and other BLM-related nonprofits. Maybe this means getting masks and bottled water for protesters well before the protest starts. Maybe it means setting up a space in the courtyard of my apartment building where protesters can seek safety if things go very bad two blocks away again. Monetary donations are the most visible and obvious way we’ve been asked to contribute nonviolently, and they are important. We can all watch an ad-supported donating YouTube stream.

I can help the people caught in the crossfire. Whatever reason or justification these riots have, the accompanying looting is actively harming small black- and minority-owned businesses, including those in my neighborhood. I can help sweep glass and board up windows. I can bring coffee and doughnuts and ask my neighbors what they need to get back up on their feet. I can help clean up the aftermath.

I can remember. This is, as they always say, a marathon, not a sprint. In a few weeks or a few months the active, visible, national news parts of this will be over, but the problems won’t be. Some things may get fixed. Some things won’t. What do I do then? Do I keep writing letters to my local representatives? Do I go to community association meetings and community policing events, and ask awkward questions, and request accountability and reform in polite, measured, nonviolent, implacable, unrelenting ways when the time for outrage and shouting is over? Do I look for the quiet, boring, nonviolent, tedious things that need to be done to help solve the problems of economic disparity that brought this about in the long run? Now might not be the time for quiet, polite, and tedious--but it will come again. There is always quiet, tedious work to be done, when the news crews and protesters go away. I can make sure not to forget that.

#there are a lot of reasons this is not a social justice blog #but this is something I can do

155 notes · View notes

dachi-chan25 · 3 years

Text

Haven't done this in a while but I had the time so why not?

1.- Pizza Girl by Kyoung Jean Frazier

🌟🌟🌟🌟

I really did like it, reminded me a lot of "Convinience store woman". Like clearly our protagonist needed thrapy ASAP to help her deal with her dad's death, her pregnancy, her attraction to women and hell just for existing as an Asian woman in the USA, but I liked how messy and obsesive she was and how the author allowed her to be fucked up and take bad decisions, I love to see female characters simply exist, it's also a pretty short read so I definitely recommend it.

2.-The Authentics by Abdi Nazemian

🌟🌟🌟🌟

Daría is a persian teen who is really involved in her cultural background and feels that the most important thing one can be is authentic, so that's the name she and her friends take for their clique. But everything comes crashing down on her when she discovers she is adopted, and soon follows an identity crisis. I loved it so much, it felt pretty realistic, like Daría could be self absorbed and unlikeable at times, but who wasn't as a teen? And we get such beautiful heartwarming moments between Daría and her family and friends. Totally recommend it.

3.- The Mall by Megan McCafferty

🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟

Cassie has her life completely mapped out but nothing goes quite as planned, first she gets mononucleosis and after she gets better gets dumped and fired almost simultaneously. Determined not to let it get the best of her, Cassie gets a brand new job, reconnects with an old friend and even finds a hidden treasure. This one is so much fun, all the 90s references and the growth Cassie goes through is amazing, honeslty i would love to see this as a Netflix movie.

4.- Luster by Raven Leilani

🌟🌟🌟🌟

This book was hard, Edie is a very raw character, at first she seems flippant even when describing disturbing facts about her past or details about her relationship with a much older man she seems to be talking about something that happened to someone else all this to cope dealing with her solitude, her trauma, her self hate. And gosh it was so intresting to see her interact with Rebecca and Akila, especially Akila as Edie finds kinship in this young girl not only cuz they are both black but because they are both lost and afraid.

5.- Lakewood by Megan Giddings

🌟🌟🌟

Lena decides to participate on a financially compensated medical experiment so her mom can get proper medical care and to lessen their debts after her Grandmother's death.

So I had many mixed feelings about this, on one hand I liked that we are adressing how sistematical racism has permited experiments on black people with no consequences at all and how it has been happening for decades, but there were certain parts of the book that I couldn't enjoy as much because they were very trippy like I get we are on Lena's mind as things are becoming muddled up because of the medications and all those mind games and the words they have her memorize and repeat but all of it took me a bit away from the story. Still I do recommend it just be aware there is quite a bit of body horror in this so if you are sqeamish better skip it.

6.-The Voting Booth - Brandy Colbert

🌟🌟🌟🌟

Marva and Duke meet on election day as she helps him find the precint he is registered on.

This is very enjoyable, the story is very straightforward, and it insists on our right and responsability to vote even if we feel our vote alone can't possibly change all the injustice we see in the world. And also the romance was cute and developed slowly as Marva and Duke are just knowing each other. Really cute and quick read.

7.- Such a fun age - Kiley Reid

🌟🌟🌟🌟

Emira works as a babysitter for the Chamberleins' . She loves her little charge Briar, although she feels preassured to seek a 'real job' by her friends and by her own economic troubles. Emira soon finds herself in the middle of a tug of war between her boss Alix who tries to befriend her, and Kelley the guy she is dating.

So much drama. This is a great example of what performative activism looks like, first Alix is completely nuts, from her obsession to be seen as this wonderful understanding girl boss activist and the down right creepy sense of entitlement to Emira's friendship and intimacy. Like it doesn't surprise me she chose to victimize herself instead of recognizing it had all been a misunderstanding. And even then she still wants to seem atractive to the man she feels victimized by. Girl no.

Kelley is the ultimate fake woke ally. Dude Robbie was wrong period, he had no business inviting people over to someone else's house no matter the color of his skin. You don't get to talk over Emira on matters of what a person of color should do or feel on certain situations. That said it was so funny when he and Alix called each other out for their fetishization of people of color and yet none of them actually gave a damn about what Emira thought/felt/percieved. They just wanted her stamp of approval so they could pat themselves in the back for being such good allies.

8.- The Life and (Medieval) times of Kit Sweetly by Jamie Pacton

🌟🌟

Kit is working as a serving wench at the Castle, medieval themed restaurant run by her uncle, though she really wants to be a Knight, not only cuz the better pay would help around the house but because she really admires Joan of Arc, problem is the Castle management doesn't allow for anyone who is not a cis male to be a knight. Kit is set on changing that.

Ok so I feel a bit lukewarm toward this. Kit in my opinion doesn't get much growth, it seems she just can do whatever and her friends have to be ok w it, her romance w her friend feels pulled out of nowhere like Jett at one point tells her he is not intrested in dating her and then he is ???, those GoT references killed me, I get it I watched the show and sometimes even enjoyed it but it's not representative of anything medieval and Kit was always talking about how much she liked the actual history of the medieval times so...

Also as much as this book was about feminism and how we should fight for equal job oportunities, it feels as though Kit only cared about medieval woman who fought physically and not on the badass medieval woman, like idk it feels as a rejection of tradicional feminity like even the girl playing the Princess is a jerk. But I did like some parts, like her decision to confront her asshole dad to help her mom and the girls training together.

9.-Cien años de soledad de Gabriel Garcia Marquez

🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟

En Macondo, una población Colombiana a un lado del río, vemos como una de sus familias fundadoras crece, se expande y cambia a través de cien años.

Me encanto, hace mucho tiempo que no leía una novela de realismo mágico que me provocará tantos sentimientos. Creo que todos los personajes reflejan aspectos de la humanidad tan diversos y complejos que sería inútil tratar de enlistarlos todos.

Ultimadamente siento que lo que condenó a la familia Buendia a cumplir las profecías de Melquiades fue sus propia naturaleza que ellos nunca tuvieron intención de pelear, siempre sucumbian a las locuras o pasiones que los inundarán sin mesura alguna o consideración por las consecuencias. Y creo que aún así lo prefiero pues es lo que hace a cada personaje por confuso que a veces llegue a ser la repetición de nombres (que para mi es el simbolismo de una naturaleza y destino continuos) único e intrigante. En verdad espero que se den la oportunidad de leer este libro por lo menos una vez en sus vidas.

10.-The Monsters of music by Rebecca F. Kenney

🌟🌟🌟

This is a gender-swaped modern retelling of the Phantom of the Opera.

It was creative to make Mel, our Phantom, a true magical creature, and the singing contest was also cool. Like don't get me wrong I did have fun reading this but it also felt pretty unpolished like most characters were teens on the contest and that kinda made me roll my eyes a bit, like unless it's the Voice Kids age ranges are quite ample on this kind of shows, also kinda clumsy the addition of the magical elements with the modern setting, Kiyo didn't make much of an impression with me even when Christine is my fave on the original book. Still if you are a Phan like me you might wanna check this one out.

11.- Anna K by Jenny Lee

🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟

This is a modern americanized ya retelling of Anna Karenina.

Not gonna lie this made me cry so much at the end. I really liked Anna and Vronski together so much, and I don't like the love at first sight trope, but here it felt so inevitable. Anna was so self contained until she met him and could truly explore being herself and they really loved each other so much. Also I liked the treatment of the side characters Kimmie and Dustin were well developed and I really enjoyed this one can't wait to get to the second book.

12.- Wonderland by Zoje Stage

🌟🌟🌟

It was ok, but I was actually a bit disappointed cuz I had such high expectations for it. Like for about half the book I was really into the atmospheric vibe the book pulls you into, but as we get the reveal it started to go down hill for me, and the ending left me feeling meh. But maybe it was just not my cup of tea.

13.-Home Before Dark by Riley Sager

🌟🌟🌟🌟

This book is so well crafted!!! I love how it goes back and forth between past and present , first it feels as if history is repeating itself, then as both narratives unfold we start to question and discovering things and the twist at the end was chillin and masterful, I truly and wholeheartedly recommend it.

14.- The Girl with the louding voice by Abi Daré

🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟

Adunni, a teenage girl, flees from her husband to work as a maid in Lagos, though everything she has ever wanted is to study.

This broke my heart, as it reflects how people coming from rural backgrounds get taken advantage of in the City, like similar things happen here in Mexico, but also it made me glad to see Adunni fight and keep her spirit so no one could ever silence her.

15.- The Year of the Witching by Alexis Henderson

🌟🌟🌟🌟

Immanuel does her very best to fit in Bethel, follow the scriptures and the Prophets words, but nothing seems to be enough to erase her mother's sin especially when the Darkwood seems to pull her in. As a plague starts to ravage Bethel, Immanuel has to face her past to save her people.

So frickin' good !!!! This story is great, mainly about the explotation of woman and young girls by people in power (in this case a church), the atmosphere is always tense, Ezra and Immanuel 's relationship is very well developed and one can really see how loyal they are to each other. A great option for horror fans.

#july 2021 wrap up #wrap up #dachi reads stuff #dachi rambles #booklr

3 notes · View notes

kurtty-drabbles · 3 years

Text

House of M- redone (part 9)

N/A: This story is close to being wrapped and as always I will not make a sequel. I hope the ending is ok.

@tieflingteeth

@dannybagpipesarecalling @muninandhugin

The breakthrough about Lady Mastermind participating in the lastest attempts is all thanks to Mystique and a good connection with Logan- the rich playboy is living a good life but his ears still work- warrant a meeting with the Witch Queen and every single Red guard present, leastwise, all the important ones.

And sure, Kitty Pryde is present in the meeting. Once, Kitty confessed to Jubilee she would love to be in a Red guard meeting if this could mean she can be close to the famous Witch Queen. Yes, Kitty knew it was just a fan-fantasy and it wouldn´t be real.

"Why is she here?" Mystique asked solicited leering at Kitty. Her golden eyes fixed on her two children. Rogue crosses her arms and looks away, Kurt is nonchalant about the whole ordeal, while Kitty, in all her wisdom, is staring at Mystique.

Wanda is too used by the Darkholme clan to mind their shenanigans- Pietro rolls his eyes and Lorna is always amused- and one clear of her throat is enough to stop whatever was stirring in the Darkholme clan and all eyes are focused on Wanda.

(Lorna is holding the little Billy and Tommy as Wanda doesn´t trust to let them alone lately nor Lorna wants to be left out of the debate)

(Billy and Tommy are too little to know how dangerous the situation truly is. All they know is that they are here)

"Now we´re all here to discuss what to do about Lady Mastermind" her voice demands respect and all eyes are present for the famous witch queen.

Scarlet eyes stare back. Wanda is anything but powerless.

"What does she wants with Genosha?" Kitty asked too bravely and inwardly cringing as all eyes are present and facing the small figure- Kurt holds her hand unobtrusively and Kitty can feel his ungloved hand nicely- gulping loudly she carries on. "No one wakes up and decides to cause chaos and I know Magneto and Mastermind used to work together"

Kitty notices the apprehensive from the royal family and adds swiftly. "I say this thanks to the textbooks and many videos about them"

Pietro snaps at such revelation. "Wait, I thought those videos were banned"

Lorna regards Kitty cooly. The woman tries to remember how the royal children have a tumultuous past with Magneto. A young mutant may say Magneto is right, but, his kids can also say how he´s a terrible father.

It's a real tragedy for the man who is immortalized as an activist for mutants is now forever and ever denied any semblance of love by his only family.

"Not all the videos, some are still available, his fight in New York, for example, is still show by everyone in the globe. In that fight, everyone can see Mastermind and Magneto fighting with their enemies and each other" Kitty concludes her case.

Wanda studies her. Such red eyes and the woman is not above pretending her crimson eyes aren´t intimidating.

"Mastermind had a desire for Genosha, one my father never fulfill. You think his daughter carries such insult as it was direct to her?" Wanda asked and no one is sure if this is a rhetorical question or not.

Mystique is the one to interject. "It wouldn´t be the first. Many people in the past often believe to have a claim to Genosha...but, if its not about the land... then could be about " her golden eyes travel to Billy and Tommy. "your family...is very interesting to some people"

Pietro inhales starkly. "That too wouldn´t be the first time...and we´ll face them and win, again"

Lorna pipes in. "Pietro is right, it wouldn´t be the first time someone..." her green eyes land on the two little boys who are playing on their phones now. "tried to harm us...plus, Wanda is really powerful...only a fool would try to fight her"

Wanda sighs weakly. "I´m not all-powerful. I´m still human and I can still die like everyone else...That´s why I need a plan, I need to know Genosha and my family will be safe"

Kitty never saw Wanda in such a position before. Sure, when they broadcast the Witch Queen the media shows this woman who is God in a red dress. No one ever imagined or wanted to imagine she is just as human as the rest.

Rogue takes the reign of the conversation. "Kitty mentioned that fight in New York, well, I saw that fight too, and apparently Mastermind had some allies. Some died, some are still alive and this gave me a lead" Rogue has that winning smirk.

Mystique is exasparated. Are all of her children enjoying secret investigations?

"Turns out, the man had 4 marriages and had 4 daughters, one of them is in Genosha right now" Rogue is revealing as this is a story and it´s getting closer to the climax.

Kitty stares at Kurt who is too used to the level of the flare of his dear older sister.

"Her name is Pixie or how she was once called Megan Gwynn" Rogue reveals triumphantly. "A teleport and magic-user that is enrolled at Emma´s school"

Silence reigns as Rogue were expecting. "So, I took the deliberately to ask Megan to come to one of the stations and have a nice chat with Kwannon"

"Wait, if she´s a magic-user can´t she magic her way up with Kwannon?" Kurt asked in pure concern. After all, magic users are wild cards. Thankfully, Wanda doesn´t take offense in that.

Kitty can picture the scene of this young girl in the station having to deal with Kwannon. One of the best telepaths after Jean Grey. "Where is her mother? Was she in Genosha all alone?"

Is ethical to interrogate a young girl without her parents even in this situation? I think not.

"Oh, she was with relatives in Genosha, an aunt but that was fake" Rogue answers.

Wanda and Pietro don´t like where this is going.

Kitty is the one to pinder about Pixie´s safety.

After all, she could have been one of her students...

#house of M redone au #wanda maximoff #witch queen #pietro maximoff #I see Lorna as the youngester #and is cute how she thinks Wanda is that OP and can´t be defeated #kitty pryde #kurt wagner #Rogue is dramatic #kurtty yet

2 notes · View notes

canchewread · 4 years

Photo

Editor's note: this journal is original content (written by myself, of course) and has not appeared elsewhere online before today. I should also note that because this is both an opinion piece and an informal journal, my level of commitment to providing citations for the disingenuous wasn't particularly high; if you're looking for formally documented evidence that we're currently in the middle of a fascist takeover, I encourage you to check out my academic writing about the subject on ninaillingworth.com instead.

Journal 09/09/2020: Looking the Beast in the Eye

When I originally sat down to pen this journal, my intention was to call it something along the lines of “advice to a young leftist” which is probably in no small part, the reason why it's taken me three days to write this piece. This is because unfortunately I do not have very much good advice for a young leftist today in two-thousand and twenty, or at least much advice that isn't going to sound rather a lot like “quit before what you believe destroys your entire life.”

As I've written (extensively) elsewhere, we're in the middle of a fascist takeover that is more or less succeeding across the entire Pig Empire, and what passes for the liberal (read: capitalist) establishment in our respective nations seem quite content to try and appease the beast by feeding them the entire left and any marginalized group “uppity” enough to demand justice, equality or representation. There is not a lot of upside to being an open leftist right now and understanding what I know about both the history of fascism and the history of reactionary crackdowns in America, it's awful hard for me in good conscience to advise any young person to willingly subject themselves to the tender mercies of an uncaring state and its fascist cutout vigilante groups.

Let's talk a little bit about what that history, including very recent history, can tell us and why what it tells us isn't very good for the American left. Here in particular, we as both a class in American society and a people that believe in a more equal, compassionate and humane way of life, stand at the intersection of state power, class oppression and the homicidal revenge fantasies of a fascist political order that has seized power throughout much of the United States. The fact that this is not understood by our milquetoast Dem Soc allies and the bougie “progressive left” is completely irrelevant; as any Ferguson activist (who is still breathing) can tell you COINTELPRO never ended, performative liberal anti-racism stops well short of opposing police repression, and genteel society will respond to violent reprisals against activists by the reactionary right with either dead silence or some mild clucks of disapproval at best.

Are the liberals aware that when the increasingly fascist American right says “the left” they mean liberals and suburbanite Democrats too? On some level I'm sure they are, but clearly the threat of increased taxation and social programs for the poor terrifies them far more than the possibility fascism will progress to the point that they're next in front of the firing squad – I've been told the liberals of Weimar Germany felt much the same way during Hitler's rise; which merely demonstrates that the liberal capacity for coddling fascism if it's profitable knows few limits. Furthermore the nauseating truth is that many of your misguided and misinformed liberal allies in the working class simply don't understand that the fascist right always seeks to eliminate the militant left first simply because those are the people who're going to fight back when you start loading Muslims, Latinos and lanyard Democrats onto cattle cars.

This historical process of fascism of course intertwines with the American establishment's history of ruthlessly repressing, criminalizing and even murdering the left. As I detailed extensively in a prior essay called “The Inversion Perversion” the state's war against Americans who want a more equal society (in any number of ways) predates the rise of Nazi Germany, the American Civil War and as those who've studied colonial America might argue, even the foundation of the country. Between the mass deportations of anarchists, suppression of left wing literature through the mail, two Red Scares, anticommunism, Hoover's COINTELPRO war against the civil rights movement, the black power movement and the American student left, or all the way up to the Obama Department of Justice's ruthless oppression of the Occupy, Ferguson and North Dakota Pipeline protests, I could easily spend this entire essay demonstrating that when it comes to persecuting, destroying and yes even murdering the left, there is a long and storied history of bipartisan consensus in America – I see no reason or evidence to suggest that has changed much in our modern times.

In other words history, even recent American history, says that this story ends in a jail cell or a shallow grave for some of the folks reading this journal right now and I don't know how to sugarcoat that for anyone, let alone a young person with their whole life (such as it is) ahead of them. The plain, god-awful truth is that the American right wants you dead, and the center-right American liberal establishment simply doesn't care, just as it has never cared, because they also want the left destroyed and fear sharing their ill-gotten wealth more than they fear fascism. Furthermore, this same elite “liberal” establishment is actively engaged in splitting the component parts of the current American uprising up into acceptable and non-acceptable targets; that's why Joe Biden keeps yammering about police funding, anarchists and “looters.” Democrats in particular are doing this even as fascist militia vigilantes are starting to execute antifascists and protesters in the street, might I add.

Did I mention that it's a really bad time to be an open leftist, or even just someone who passionately feels cracker murderpigs shouldn't get away with murder because some fascist gave them a badge? And yet of course therein also lies the rub; just as there is danger in resisting the imposition of a fascist order there is also danger in refusing to resist.

Turning once again to history, we know that the fascist creep isn't going to stop itself until well after it has killed millions of people and destroyed everything about our lives that contains any meaning whatsoever. The reactionary backlash will not stop with silencing, arresting and/or killing teenage anarchists, African Americans protesting against racialized police violence or Portland soccer moms who've had enough fascism for a lifetime. The fascist mindset and method of societal control dictates that there must always been more enemies both within and outside of the state who represent both an abomination that should be destroyed and a threat to everything good and pure in the national character. Right now, the waking dragon of American fascism has cast a laser-like focus on those brave few Americans who are willing to physically resist the transformation of the country from a corrupt Oligarchy to an overt fascist police-state with rigged elections. Once that enemy is crushed and defeated, the beast will turn its eye to others – unions, teachers, and yes even Democratic Party politicians who've always been friendly to the fascist capitalist billionaires running much of the reactionary American right today.

Whether you choose to fight, hide or run, it has become crystal-clear clear to me that we are all headed towards dark days in the very near future and the only variable left to be determined is which segments of the audience reading this will be thrown onto the pyre first. What we know today as “Western Society” is blindly crashing through the kinds of barriers people who desire peace, comfort and security simply don't breech without expecting violence, bloodshed and a whole lot of rain.

Perhaps in light of all this my advice to the young leftist should be to harden oneself for the torrential downpour of violence, repression and yes death that lies ahead, regardless of whether or not you choose to resist the fascist creep. Perhaps the best thing I can offer a young person staring directly into the eye of this beast is the assurance that it is not their fault, that nobody in history has ever asked to be born into the war against fascism and that ultimately the fascists cannot win because fascism is a death cult that will eventually eat itself and has done so every single time before this one. Perhaps all I really have to share with you is the hope that in the darkness and despair that lies ahead of us you will remember my words and know that no matter how much they repress, terrorize and torture us, fantasy cannot be reality, slavery cannot be freedom and life cannot be death.

And that I think is the handle and the comfort I can offer those of you reading this who’re young enough to have a future beyond the fascist order; I have no optimism to sell you but I can make one promise that may help carry you through the bowels of the hell we are all descending into after all. It might not amount to much yet, but I promise you there will always only be four lights; no matter how many of us they murder to try and “prove” otherwise. Do not give these maggots the satisfaction of seeing your fear; know that at least some of you reading this will eventually dance on their graves and take whatever comfort you are able to, in that inevitability.

Never forget - one way, or another, the future is left.

nina illingworth

Independent writer, critic and analyst with a left focus. Please help me fight corporate censorship by sharing my articles with your friends online!

You can find my work at ninaillingworth.com, Can’t You Read, Media Madness and my Patreon Blog

Updates available on Twitter, Mastodon and Facebook. Podcast at “No Fugazi” on Soundcloud.

Inquiries and requests to speak to the manager @ASNinaWrites

Chat with fellow readers online at Anarcho Nina Writes on Discord!

“It’s ok Willie; swing heil, swing heil…”

#Fascism #USA #Opinion #Journal #nina illingworth #resisting fascism #antifascism #advice to a young leftist #looking the beast in the eye

19 notes · View notes

everydayanth · 4 years

Note

Question re: cultural appropriation: I am Vampirically WhiteTM (I combust/evaporate if exposed to sunlight over 5 seconds), but I sometimes do *all* my hair in tiny, uneven plaits that don't hug my scalp. Answers on various forums seem to only distinguish between big/sparse braids & Black hairstyles, so there isn't a nuanced answer for, "This style isn't Cornrows but I *do* use all my hair." [1/2]

The intention *isn't* to cuddle up as closely to traditionally African styles as possible, but rather so I can take the braids out 3 days later to poof up like a lion/Princess Merida. Humans are a braiding, weaving species, I really do like doing this thing, & I'm not always of the mindset that just b/c something *might* be problematic, I should just bend to my anxieties/White Guilt. Am I still sending the wrong message with my style? [2/2]

Honestly, I have to start by saying I’m a white female, so the action/consequence of this process holds no harm over me and therefore my answer cannot speak for the people (black, specifically women) being potentially appropriated. I can only speak of my own development and understanding of appropriating black culture, specifically with hair.

I grew up in a “black neighborhood” (a problematic concept in itself) and in school, we sat in a train-line of girls during read-aloud and braided each others’ hair. I learned to braid black hair by 2nd grade. We were kids, we saw the differences in our phenotypic traits, but we adapted and didn’t mind much. One time a friend tried oiling my hair and it did not end well, lol, I was a greasy mop the whole day. Braiding was culturally relevant to us as friends, but also to me as an individual: my mom would braid my hair on her good days. In the summer, she would put my hair in many tiny loose braids, similar to what you described, not cornrows, but small braids because it was hot and we didn’t have ac and it was an easy solution. We were judged accordingly based on uniform and size and I distinctly remember the day I learned about the use of a long pinky nail, lol. I didn’t think about it much until I got to high school, then college and studied social science and talked to POC friends there and really began to understand the problems.

It’s not the act of wearing your hair in a particular style, we humans learn from each other, we copy, we reproduce, we recreate, and we do it for decoration and efficiency or usefulness. Every culture plays with hair and braids and for every example of appropriation, someone has a counter example perceived to be “their ancestors” or some sort of genetic heritage (”I’m 1/32 Native”) giving them rights to partake in a specific kind of decoration or practice. But that’s not the issue. The issue is that when black people, specifically black women, wear their hair in braids, they are treated disrespectfully by our society, while when white people, specifically women, wear locs or braids, they are often rewarded for being worldly or exotic or interesting.

There is not a common consensus; “black people” are not made of a uniform opinion, and whether something is problematic or offensive varies from one person to another. Appropriation, however, is a little easier to spot because it comes with a reward to some but with a punishment to the people who owned, initiated, or historically created or utilized a thing in the same way.

Black hair and hairstyles have been historically degraded, and its easy to think we live in a better world, but when Kim Kardashian wears “boxer braids” it becomes a trend, while Sasha Obama’s braids were criticized or attributed to past trends rather than her own rich ancestry. When Zendaya shows up in beautiful dreads and dressed to the nines, she is met with racist remarks, while Christina Aguilera’s were considered an “urban” phase.

Appropriation comes from capitalizing off something that isn’t yours, or that you can remove from your identity should the oppressor challenge you (thus why “white-passing” is often part of the conversation). Actively fighting against it means educating yourself on histories of oppression and abuse, modern social perspectives of white privilege, and what we do with all those pieces.

Black girls are sent home from school or suspended all the time for wearing their hair naturally, in traditional styles, or in styles like weaves that make black hair easier to manage in a non-African climate. Loose braids worn by black girls are still condemned in schools today, while white girls back from Jamaica go unpunished and their braids and beads remain a symbol of money, experience, and privilege. Black men, as well as black LGBTQ+ individuals, are also judged harshly by different (often white-dominated) groups for their own styles and are definitely part of the conversation.

Understanding the role of hair in culture and seeing the ongoing inequality is the most important thing we can do. Ideally, someday, we live in a world where we can all do what we want so long as it doesn’t harm another person, but we do not live there, and BIPOC are much more subjected to policing of their images, bodies, and especially hair than white people.

Hair dressers learn white hair by default, not both, most kids never learn about different hair textures or the evolutionary purpose for the differences, they simply learn that one majority group can do whatever they like without negative reinforcement, while the other must adhere to strict rules to emulate the look of the majority with chemicals, expensive tools, and treatments, or be mocked, judged, degraded, and not able to participate in society without fear or ridicule of their personhood, their bodies, their natural selves, as well as the potential loss of job security, violence, or harsher social punishments, like ostracization, being jailed, or murdered by police without consequence. How a majority identifies an “other” has historically included hair texture and style as well as skin color.

Personally, I think intent matters. I don’t braid my hair anymore as a public style. Sure, I braid clumps of it while watching TV or hanging out around the house if I want something of a uniform wave (my mom has type 3 and my dad has type 2 and I got a franken-head of both lol), but I don’t wear many braids as a style out in public. Wearing braids as a young kid made me look like the girls in my class, it connected me to the people around me, and I was subjected to judgement by the black moms based on quality (at least those who spoke up, again, I was a child). I was blending, but when I got to high school, I realized that wearing braids brought an attention with it - oh, you’re interesting, or pretentious, but for my POC friends, employers made them remove braids. They heard condescending things like “your hair is too ghetto” while I began to hear that I was the “ghetto friend, wow so cool and cultured and street smart.” It was always insulting, but one is shittier (you know which one) because it is only condescending, and seeks to erase culture and judges based on racist biases.

If we normalize black hairstyles through popular trends, that seems like a good thing, right? But if white people are the ones normalizing it, then the agency of black people has been taken away from the black communities and restored through a white-savior complex. Not free will or choice, but through the appropriation of their own culture which then replaces the act of demonstrating culture (like wearing braids) as an act of the oppressor mocking and being praised.

I know or plenty of white girls who wore braids or dreads or black hairstyles as a counter-culture identifier, in the way of popular artists and celebrities, but also activists and stoners appropriating Rastafarian culture. This makes black culture a counter-culture instead of an aspect of American culture or black culture within America that is respected and valued inherently. It otherizes, fetishizes, and tokenizes black culture, takes advantage of the current racist system and white privilege/bias, and gains an aesthetic. That is an intent to appropriate for social gains, and it’s all over the music industry and Hollywood.

At the end of the day, I don’t think my opinion here can matter, I’m not harmed by your action. Braids are braids and I have a... not-normal history of exposure and love of black hair that most white girls don’t, but even then, I had to grow and listen and understand the nuances of my environment and the society around it. Is it different wearing styles in the middle of nowhere with no social interactions vs. posting on social media or interacting in society? Yeah, I think it is.

So I suppose the sum of the parts is:

Are you benefitting socially from wearing your hair this way? If so, then yeah, that’s sucky for the BIPOC people being pushed down for doing the same and is harmful appropriation. How you measure that seems to depend on intent, so the bias of wanting to keep doing something you like has to be accounted for.

Is your intent to fit an aesthetic? If so, yeah, definitely a problem.

Reflect on why you like doing this, what is it you gain or feel or imbibe or get out of the experience in the first place? I’d say at the end of the day, know the history of oppression that exists in America and around the world. Being aware and able to identify appropriation in media, pop culture, and everyday life, as well as the history of it, allows you to be an ally.

And finally, do you listen to what people are saying?

If/when people say things about your hair, understand that you are a social exception to the style and address it. I do think there is a responsibility to engage in these conversations when we ride the line of these grey areas, like when culture is shared with us, to what extent we participate and own it is 100% dependent on that relationship. Be willing to hear black people if they say it is uncomfortable, listen to what they mean, have a conversation about it and be willing to let go of a thing you want if that is the feedback you get.

I think a lot of appropriation comes from the denial of history and the ignorance of oppression. If Kim K made a statement that said “these aren’t boxer braids, they are cornrows, worn by African American women for centuries, mocked and ridiculed by white culture, but have been an efficient way to manage African textured hair in the new climate environment of the Americas when forced here as slaves. Many were forcibly shaven, but for those who were allowed to express themselves in small subtle ways as slaves, through jim crow, and even today, the decoration and design of cornrows was and is incredibly meaningful.” That’s a different conversation about appropriation, that’s using privilege and platform without placating or denying the experiences of others to educate and address appropriation, rather than solely profiting off the attention and claiming to create a “trend.” Black hair is beautiful and should be appreciated and allowed to be as bold or big as an individual wants it to be.

Hair is one of the coolest, most useful phenotypic traits of thermoregulation in humans/primates, and science still has a few questions yet to research regarding the evolution of different textures and colors. Your own hair texture can change over time, as you grow, especially in women, depending on hormones, especially through pregnancy, nutrition, and chemical treatments like chemotherapy, as well as genetics, and even environmental changes in water hardness, haircare routine and treatment materials.

With slavery, migrations, immigrations, and other historic and contemporary movements of humans comes the issues of adaption and change to fit the new environment, fighting forced assimilation, colonization, denial of cultural expression, and active racism. We need to be able to talk about these aspects of race in society and listen if and when people say what we are doing is harmful. I think the most important thing to do is educate ourselves on the purpose, history, and meaning of a thing, particularly if we are gaining positive attention from it while others suffer for it. Talk to people of color around you who are willing to offer an opinion, and listen to them. Research the history and speak up when you see the double standard in practice.

My line is here: if I can find evidence of a POC being criticized for a style (and it’s not my natural hair), I’m not going to wear that style in public or on social media, but I am going to praise it, and criticize those racist comments degrading or demeaning it, I will champion it and demand schools do away with discriminating hair policies, and ask my library to spend money on children’s books about black hair, and do the work of finding black people voicing their opinions, or having a vulnerable and authentic conversation with a friend, then listen and make a judgement from there. If the consensus is that the style is harmful and you continue to wear it, then yeah I’d say that’s a pretty bad message that says: I just don’t care, I want to do this so I will.

This follows a moral judgement for me: if you love someone and they tell you a thing you do is actively harming them and show you evidence of the harm (as in: it’s not just annoying, but actually harmful to them), but you continue to participate in the thing, that’s not love. I can’t fully picture the specific style, and I don’t know your intent or if/how you gain from the style, so I’m having a hard time forming a full opinion. Is this a style that has been addressed by black communities as harmful? Is it a few different styles put together? Are you in a diverse place, are you criticized for the look, is it even a look to you?

Personally, I’d say it rides too close to the line for my own comfort and I wouldn’t be wearing a multi-braid style in public (as in more than two, I rock the french-braid pigtails while hiking because its easier to find ticks), but again, I’m not someone who would be being harmed by it. I often try to resist judgement of strangers’ hair unless I know them and their background or platform, because I don’t know their culture, ancestry, or heritage, so I don’t hold others in society to the same standard as myself.

I’d love to hear other peoples’, particularly POC, opinions and experiences with hair and appropriation.

If there are a few un-uniform braids, is it different than many uniform loose braids, what about compared to cornrows, where is your personal line? Is it different from your social line? How would you judge or hold people accountable in society?

P.s. Thanks for asking and trying to learn more about the potential social impact you are having. I think that’s a great step toward a more equal world that can appreciate culture without taking advantage of others. It sounds like you’re trying to do your research to learn more about whether your action is having a negative consequence, and I appreciate you taking the time to be vulnerable and research and question yourself. I think that also has to be rewarded.

23 notes · View notes

ask-fantasy-sanders-sides · 4 years

Note

Roman!!! Darling!! Can you tell us about Thomas? Any legends about him, perhaps? ♥️

(Yall, this one is so long. HUGE lore under the cut)

~~~

Roman: “Any legends about Thomas??” Are you joking? Do you really not know?! He’s only got the coolest Rulership origin story known to mankind! Intrigue, adventure, romance, betrayal, all the works~!

(Roman laughs and sweeps his cape up with a flourish, sitting down on a nearby bench with one leg crossed over the other, like a teenager about to spill gossip.)

Roman: You might want to sit down, dear listeners, because this is a tale for the ages~! I will tell it how it was told to me; starting with our antagonist: The dastardly Lord Donovan Sanders…

Roman: You see, Thomas wasn’t always heir to the throne, or even in line! His family was influential, and he was always trained to be a lord of the realm and member of the council, but he had no relation to the royal family. His Uncle Donovan was a member of the council, but he wasn’t happy with that; He wanted to be King. Not just King, he wanted to be a dictator!

Roman: He wasted no effort in courting the current heir, Princess Malinda. He convinced her that he loved her, and she loved him in return, but it was clear to anyone who knew him that he was playing it up for her. Thomas noticed this, and he already knew his Uncle to be cruel and greedy, but he knew he would never have the chance to warn Malinda, or even speak with her alone.

Roman: When the Princess and Lord Donovan got engaged, it only got worse. He played the same ‘innocent’ bit in front of his betrothed, but behind closed doors, there was something off… He was neglecting his duty as protector of the peace, and people had started to go missing in town. The palace guard were corrupt and mean, and Thomas knew nothing good was going to come from his Uncle’s rule if this was allowed to continue.

Roman: So, with the help of his exceptionally stealthy best friend Joan, Thomas snuck into his Uncle’s office! They rifled through his letters and papers, and uncovered an evil plot to take over the country and sacrifice the residents to an entity known as The Shaman, in exchange for otherworldly magical powers and an iron-fisted rule over the coast.

Roman: The letters were written cryptically and none of them were signed, but Thomas and Joan knew what they were looking at was his Uncle’s doing, and it all lined up too perfectly with the sudden disappearances of his outspoken political opponents and activists… The problem was, they couldn’t use anything they’d found as proof. And, who should show up and discover them in their snooping but a member of the royal guard?

Roman: They fought their way free with the help of a town arcane scholar, Talyn, and ran away into the night! After a message to Thomas’s parents warning them to move away for the time being and remain safe, they were off to find this Shaman and put an end to Donovan’s plans before they could begin!

Roman: They faced various trials and tribulations on their way around the country and through various planes, gathering new allies everywhere they went: An Elven barbarian by the name of Quill, a cleric of Sune named Adri – She’s a heartwarder now, I know her! She’s lovely~ Anyway, back to the story –the fledgling Goliath knight Leo, the performative bard Terrence, the monk Dominic, the druidess Dhalia, and the fencing squire Camden!

Roman: As their journeys continued, each of his new companions came to swear oaths of fealty to Thomas, recognizing him as their King instead of Donovan, before anyone even knew Thomas would be a king someday – this was the strength in their belief in him! At the same time, Joan and Talyn fell deeply and passionately in love~ Every story needs a romantic subplot, and let me tell you, those two are absolutely adorable!

Roman: The ten of them worked together, facing hordes of beastly monsters, underhanded traps, and trained assassins – but slaying only who they could not first convince; You see, Thomas is a pacifist, and turned to violence only as a last resort! If he had his way, he would simply convince the Shaman that what they were doing was wrong, and needed to end. This would never be possible, but such is our sweet Thomas~

Roman: Eventually, they reached the belly of the beast. The Shaman – a giant, sharp-clawed serpentine beast with a human’s torso, serpent’s tail and head, and five dragon’s heads sprouting alongside it – stood in a bloodbath of what had to be hundreds of missing citizens and his own cultists, having sacrificed all of them to open the portal!

Roman: Before it could be opened fully, however, our team of heroes attacked! As the others fought him off to keep his several heads busy, Druidess Dhalia used her magic to send Thomas into the beast’s head, to confront him alone in a mind palace of sorts. Thomas desperately tried to reason with him, but the Shaman was murderous, remorseless, and completely and utterly insane. And, the longer Thomas spent sharing in the space of his mind, the more it ruined Thomas’s own sanity! After all, the creature was still trying to channel that portal, and thus his mind was open to the Far Realm.

Roman: But, this effort was not wasted – while inside his brain, Thomas learned that this being had effectively turned itself immortal. He could not be killed, but he could be contained, and sealed away for eternity! Thomas released his hold on the creature’s mind, and while the fighters destroyed the body, Thomas and the other spellcasters focused on creating a Horcrux to contain his soul – a crystal of sorts, that could never be broken by mortal hands, and would be hidden in the royal vault and never see the light of day again.

Roman: Unfortunately, mad as he was, the Shaman caught on to their plan. As the last of the beast’s strength left him, the Shaman tried to cast a spell to flee. Both his spells and Thomas’s were completed at the same time.

Roman: The Shaman, his dastardly Far Realm magics, and the contaminated energy of the portal he was attempting to create were trapped in the crystal, never to be seen again; Meanwhile, Thomas and company were teleported to the place where the Shaman was trying to go – right outside a Dark Elf Kingdom.

Roman: Immediately, they were surrounded by the guards, and a Priestess was summoned to deal with them. Thomas had enough energy left for one big spell – a Teleportation spell of his own – but there was a catch: It could only take nine people.

Roman: In a heroic display of self-sacrifice, Thomas warped all of his injured companions back to his home on the surface, and faced the priestess alone. She was furious to learn that Thomas had slain the Shaman, who she regarded as her own flesh and blood, and even more furious to learn that he was the nephew of Donovan – That’s right, folks! All three of them were in on this together!

Roman: For some reason, due to his relation to Donovan, the Priestess was unable to harm Thomas. She jailed him while she sent correspondence to her only surviving partner in crime, giving Thomas time to formulate an escape! Of course, he defaulted to his signature move; befriending the people around him~ He made allies of a few fellow prisoners, and they organized a massive breakout, where Thomas was able to flee the prison.

Roman: As he snuck alone, abandoned by the other prisoners, through the streets of the kingdom, he heard that the Priestess was furious – after all, she had just gotten his Uncle’s explicit encouragement to slay him. He heard next that she had ordered her fiercest dog after him; her most heartless, lethal man-hunter. He was called Anxiety, supposedly for the lingering dread the mere mention of his name caused in potential victims, and his sudden and ruthless attacks!

Roman: Thomas would have just teleported himself to safety, but something had happened to his magic after the thing with the Shaman, and he couldn’t get a single spell to work after that night. To this day, he still can’t cast unless he’s on his medicine.

Roman: Thomas made it to the surrounding woodlands before he was caught by the hitman, but it’s a wonder he made it that long: Thomas had been suffering from splitting headaches ever since he had tied his mind to the Shaman’s, the whispers louder than he had ever experienced in his life, and no way to quiet them. He hardly got sleep, and his own anxiety was not helped by the hundreds of daily warnings that his Hunter was getting closer and closer every second.

Roman: So, of course, he was caught. He closed his eyes against the sting of the voices in his head, and when he opened his eyes, there was a young Drow with an arrow trained on Thomas’s heart. Thomas flew into a panic attack, and who knows how long the assassin sat there, just… Watching.

Roman: Then – and every time Thomas gets to this part he looks just as surprised as he did the day it happens, you should see his little face! – the soldier put away his weapon, sat in front of Thomas, and helped him breathe.

Roman: When Thomas asked why the soldier helped him, he wouldn’t answer – just told Thomas to go get some rest, and be ready to leave in the morning.

Roman: Suffice to say, Thomas was terrified. But, he was in to state to fight the soldier, and did as he was told. The next day, when the soldier started leading Thomas onward, Thomas knew that the soldier wasn’t taking him back to the kingdom to be slaughtered. For whatever reason, he was going to help Thomas escape.

Roman: They traveled together for the next few months, and though the soldier still terrified Thomas, he slowly grew fond of him, and got him to open up. He explained, after no short amount of coaxing, that he hated his Priestesses, and wasn’t going to kill Thomas just because he was demanded to. When he had found Thomas, he was ‘just a scared, crying child, who didn’t even have a single weapon on him.’ Thomas was grateful for the compassion, though he couldn’t help but point out that the soldier seemed to be just as young as Thomas, by his race’s standards. Thankfully, that made the soldier laugh, not kill Thomas for the audacity (which only occurred to Thomas as a possibility after he said it out loud)

Roman: The soldier and Thomas grew very close. He would carry Thomas when the whispers made it too hard to move, fight off anything that threatened him, and lull him to sleep when he was too scared to get rest – Usually, here, Thomas will start complaining about how the soldier himself refused to sleep, it is very cute, if a bit hypocritical of him~

Roman: But, of course, this couldn’t last. When they finally reached a tunnel entrance back to the prime material plane, the soldier insisted they split ways, and Thomas go find his friends topside. Thomas tried to convince his new fire-forged friend to accompany him, but the soldier was still having trouble abandoning the only life he’d ever known, and besides, he had never seen the surface before. Thomas had just convinced the soldier to come with him when they were attacked by dark elf assassins, ones that had been sent after Thomas when Anxiety had taken too long to return. The soldier pushed Thomas towards the tunnel and yelled for him to run, promising he would be right behind him. Thomas knew he was lying, but he was too scared to argue. As the soldier stood his ground and guarded the entrance, Thomas fled. Thomas never heard from him again…

Roman: Thomas was found by some friendly locals outside the cave he crawled out of, and they recognized the crest on his pin, and took him to his parents. When he was reunited with his family and friends, he was informed of what had happened when he was gone:

Roman: His Uncle had tried to murder now-Queen Malinda the night of their wedding, but her and her sisters – including Lady Valerie, my relative, and new friend of Thomas and the crew – had fought him and his soldiers off, and taken control of the country with the aid of Thomas’s parents. Queen Malinda visited her nephew to thank him for all he had done, having been informed of everything by the others, and told him she had named him her heir - he would have some training to do over the next three years!

Roman: Thomas healed from his wounds, and told the story of what happened to him after they were separated to his friends, who then spread the story of their exploits across the country! In three years time, at the peaceful passing of his Aunt, Thomas was sworn in as King – with his fellow retired adventurers among his court, minus one or two who went their own ways – and he’s been a well respected leader ever since!

(Roman stretches and smiles, as if genuinely worn out by his storytelling and gesticulating)

Roman: Ahh, such a good story! I’d tell you more about the individual adventures if I had time~! I get Thomas to re-tell it for me all the time, it draws such genuine emotion out of him! He has such strong love for all of his friends, including the ‘hired hitman turned pseudo-bodyguard.’

Roman: I have to admit, that character specifically was always quite attractive to me, the way he was described and all that~ Letting Thomas lean on him, protecting him, real ‘I’m going to act like a dangerous loner because I have a shady past, but actually I’m really soft and chivalrous’ archetype, like the cute bad boys in romance novels! I’ve always wanted to meet him, though I know he’s probably…. Well, not anywhere near here, if even alive.

Roman: Anyway, there’s your story~! Now you know a bit more about Thomas! And at this point, if you don’t absolutely love him, you’re just wrong, my friend~

#ask rpg sanders sides #ts character thomas #character Horace #rpgau dragon witch #Lord Donovan #lets roll

144 notes · View notes