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doctorbitchcrxft · 3 months

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Nightshifter | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader (Eventual ;) )

Warnings: canon violence, canon gore, hostage situation

Word Count: 5149

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You eyed Dean angrily as he flirted with the attractive woman in front of him dressed as an FBI agent. You knew he was teasing you, and it was pissing you off. You had long since finished your interrogation of the store’s manager. Helena had apparently been a patron of the store for years. Then, one day, she went crazy; the police caught her clearing out the jewelry store’s cases and the safe before shooting someone in the face and killing herself in her bathtub after the crime. You had a sneaking suspicion you were dealing with a shapeshifter; a monster that you were quite over dealing with.

Dean approached you, triumphantly waving the piece of paper with the phone number he’d gotten from the woman he was interviewing.

You snatched it out of his hands.

“Aw, you jealous?” he teased, leaning into you.

You deadpanned, “Keep it professional, Agent Hetfield, wouldn’t want the bureau to hear about this, right?” You ripped the paper up and shoved its tatters into your blazer pocket.

He deflated slightly, but still smirked at you. “I’m gonna make you crack, sweetheart, just wait.”

“Mm-hmm,” you hummed, turning away from him and heading out to the Impala. Admittedly, you were strutting a little bit to tease him.

Sam met you at the car, and the three of you drove to the home of the man whose police statement had been a mix of sci-fi nerd gibberish and the only eye-witness account of the incident.

As you approached the small house, Sam began talking about another piece of the case. “Uh, Milwaukee National Trust. It was hit about a month ago.”

Dean raised a brow. “Same M.O. as the jewelry store?”

“Yep, inside job, longtime employee, the never-in-a-million-years type. Dude robs the bank, then goes home and supposedly commits suicide.”

“The guy, Resnick, he was the security guard on duty?” Dean questioned.

Sam nodded. “Yeah. He was actually beaten unconscious by the teller who heisted the place.”

“Jesus,” you grimaced.

“Yeah,” Sam nodded. He knocked on the screen door. “Mr. Resnick?” A bright flood light turned on, momentarily blinding you.

You raised a hand in front of your eyes. “Holy—”

Sam was apparently unfazed. “FBI, Mr. Resnick.”

Through the screen door, a chubby, nerdy-looking man in his late twenties approached. “Let me see the badge.”

You slapped your badge against the screen next to Sam’s and Dean’s.

Mr. Resnick, whose first name was Ronald, squinted at them carefully. “I already gave my statement to the police.”

Dean chuckled. “Yeah, listen, Ronald, um… just some things about your statement we wanted to get some clarification on.”

“You read it?” He seemed surprised. “You come to listen to what I've got to say?”

“Well, that’s why we’re here,” Dean said.

“Well, come on in.” He opened the door and led you through a narrow hallway to a room cluttered with conspiracy theory paraphernalia.

“None of the cops ever called me back. Not after I told them what was really going on. Uh, they all thought I was crazy,” he rushed out. You were beginning to think the same. “First off, Juan Morales never robbed the Milwaukee National Trust, okay? That, I guarantee. See, me and Juan were friends. He used to come back to the bank on my night shifts, and we'd play cards.”

“So you let him into the bank that night, after hours,” Sam noted.

“The thing I let into the bank…” Ronald trailed off, “wasn't Juan. I mean, it had his face, but it wasn't his face. Uh, every detail was perfect, but too perfect, you know, like if a dollmaker made it, like I was talking to a big Juan-doll.”

You nearly choked on a laugh. “A Juan-doll?”

“Look, this wasn't the only time this happened, okay?” He scrambled through papers on his messy desk and handed you a folder. “There was this jewelry store, too. And the cops, a-and you guys, you just won't see it!” You flipped through the folder; it almost looked like a hunter’s profile of the case. You were half impressed. “Both crimes were pulled by the same thing,” Ronald finished.

Sam pressed, saying, “What's that, Mr. Resnick?”

He picked up a copy of a magazine labeled “Fortean Times” and held it out to you. The headline read, “Birth of the Cybermen.”

‘Jesus Christ,’ you thought, suppressing a grimace.

“Chinese 've been working on 'em for years,” the man explained. “And the Russians before that. Part men, part machine. Like the Terminator. But the kind that can change itself, make itself look like other people.”

Dean smirked. “Like the one from T2.”

“Exactly! See, so not just a robot, more of a- a- a- a— Mandroid," he said finally, a bizarre twinkle in his eye.

“A Mandroid,” you deadpanned. “And what makes you so sure about this, Ronald?”

He held up a finger at you, smiling a little wildly. Your eyes flicked to Dean’s in concern, and he just wiggled his eyebrows at you.

The man returned a moment later holding a VHS tape labeled “M.N.T. Camera 4— Juan.” He inserted it into a player, saying, “See, I made copies of all the security tapes. I knew once the cops got them they'd be buried. Here.” He fast-forwarded a bit in the tape. “Now watch. Watch. Watch him, watch, watch! See, look! Th- th- there it is!” He paused it on a clip of the man with a silver in his eyes. “You see? He's got the laser eyes.”

You gave Sam a knowing look that he returned.

“Cops said it was some kind of reflected light. Some kind of ‘camera flare’. Okay? Ain't no damn camera flare. They say I'm a post-trauma case. So what? Bank goes and fires me, it don't matter!” You eyed Ronald uncomfortably as he continued to pace around and rant. “The Mandroid is— is still out there. The law won't hunt this thing down— I'll do it myself.

"You see, this thing, it- it- it kills the real person, makes it look like a suicide, then it sorta, like, morphs into that person. Cases the job for a while until it knows the take is fat, and then it finds its opening. Now, these robberies, they're, they're grouped together.” He pointed at the map on the wall. “So I figure the Mandroid is holed up somewhere in the middle, underground, maybe. I dunno, maybe that's where it recharges its, uh, Mandroid batteries.”

Dean nodded, seeming impressed. You just looked between Ronald and Dean in confusion.

“Okay. I want you to listen very carefully. Because I'm about to tell you the god's honest truth about all of this,” Sam began.

Your head whipped to him, confused as to where he was going with this.

“There's no such thing as Mandroids. There's nothing evil or inhuman going on out there. Just people. Nothing else, you understand?”

You kept a straight face, but were startled.

“The laser eyes,” Ronald tried desperately.

“Just a camera flare, Mr. Resnick. See, I know you don't want to believe this. But your friend Juan robbed the bank, and that's it,” Sam mollified.

Ronald immediately became angry. “Get out of my house! Now!”

***

You and the brothers found another tacky, cheap motel to stay in for the time being. You lounged on Dean’s bed in a pair of comfortable sweatpants and an oversized band t-shirt.

Dean paced around the room, chuckling. “Man, that has got to be the kicker, straight up. I mean, you tell that poor son of a bitch that— what did you say, remand the tapes that he copied? Classified evidence of an ongoing investigation?” He laughed harder. “That's messed up.”

Sam sat on the foot of the bed and inserted the tape into the television’s player. “What are you, pissed at me or something?”

Dean shook his head. “Nah, I just think it's a little creepy how good of a Fed you are. I mean, come on, we could have at least thrown the guy a bone. He did some pretty good legwork here.”

“Mandroid?” you deadpanned.

“Except for the Mandroid part,” Dean added. “I liked him. He's not that different from you or me. People think we're crazy.”

“He’s not a hunter, though, Dean,” you challenged. “He ran into something real and let his conspiracy-theory-brain-rot get the best of him.”

“Better to stay in the dark, and stay alive,” Sam finished.

Dean shrugged, “Yeah, I guess.” He put a paper down on the map on the table and began marking it with a red pen.

You shuffled forward to Sam and hit the pause button on the remote just as the man’s eyes flashed at the camera.

“Shapeshifter. Just like back in St. Louis. Same retinal reaction to video,” Sam informed.

“Eyes flare at the camera. I hate those fuckin’ things,” Dean grunted.

“You think we don’t?” you scoffed.

“Yeah, well, one didn't turn into you and frame you for murder.”

You shrugged. “Well, look, if this shifter's anything like the one we killed in Missouri—”

“Then Ronald was right. Alright, they like to layer up underground, preferably the sewer. And all the robberies have been connected so far, right?”

Sam nodded.

“With the, uh, sewer main layout. There's one more bank lined up on that same sewer main,” Dean continued.

“Awesome,” you grumbled.

***

Later that evening, you and the brothers headed to the bank Dean referenced, the City Bank of Milwaukee, to see if the shapeshifter would be hitting that one next. You posed as Sam and Dean’s boss, and the two boys wore security camera technician outfits.

The guard of the bank informed you as you walked along, “Well, we haven't had any flags go up on our system yet.”

You shook your head. “No, sir, this is a glitch in the overall grid. I just need to cover all my bases and make sure the branch monitors are okay.”

“Well, better to be safe than sorry, I guess,” the guard shrugged.

“That’s the plan,” you nodded.

He opened the door to an observation room flooded with monitors for you, saying, “Alrighty. You guys need anything else?”

“Nope,” you replied. “We’ll be in and out before you know it. Just a routine check.”

“Okie-dokie,” he said, leaving the room.

Dean chuckled. “I like him. He says ‘Okie-dokie.’ “

“What if he's the shifter?” worried Sam.

“Well, then we follow him home, put a silver bullet through his chestplate,” the older brother replied simply.

You sat down in one of the desk chairs to watch the screens. You kicked your high-heeled feet up on the desk in front of you, leaning back in your seat. “Anybody got popcorn?” you yawned, preparing for the hours of work ahead of you.

***

You and the Winchester boys were beginning to go cross-eyed after searching for the monster for so long.

“Well, it looks like Mr. Okie-Dokie is… okie-dokie,” Dean commented upon seeing his eyes appear normal in the camera screens.

“Maybe we jumped the gun on this, guys,” sighed Sam. “I mean, we don't even know it's here.”

Something caught your eye. “Wait a minute.” A middle-aged man turned toward the camera, and his eyes flared. “Got him.”

“Hello, freak,” Dean growled.

Sam immediately jumped up, as did you, but Dean lingered behind. “Guys, wait!”

“What?” you and Sam spun around.

You then saw Ronald scurrying up to the door of the bank with a chain and a padlock, chaining it shut.

Dean scoffed. “Hello, Ronald.”

You immediately began running down the hall, ignoring the protesting of the soles of your feet as your heels clacked against the floor. As you approached the main lobby of the bank, you heard Ronald screaming for everyone to get on the ground. And then, gunshots.

“Fuck!” you cursed.

“And you said we shouldn't bring guns,” Dean scolded Sam, nearly bumping into someone fleeing past him.

“I didn't know this was gonna happen, Dean,” Sam replied.

“Just let me do the talking,” the older brother commanded. “I don't think he likes you very much, Agent Johnson.”

You saw Ronald standing in front of a group of people huddled together on the floor. “Now, there's only one way in or out of here, and I chained it up. So nobody's leaving, do you understand?”

Your eyes flicked to Dean concernedly as he stepped forward. “Hey, buddy. Calm down. Just calm down—”

Ronald wheeled around. “What the— You! Get on the floor, now.”

Dean began to crouch to the floor, as did you and Sam. “Okay, we're doing that. Just don't shoot anybody, especially us.”

“I knew it. As soon as you two left. You ain't FBI. Who are you? Who are you working for, huh? The men in black? You working for the Mandroid?”

“We’re not working for the Mandroid!” Sam exclaimed.

Ronald shakily aimed his gun at Sam. “You, shut up! I ain't talking to you. I don't like you.”

“Fair enough,” the brunet mumbled.

“Get on 'em. Frisk them down, make sure they got no weapons on them. Go!” Ronald commanded one of the hostages.

“Oh, hell, no, you’re not fucking touching me,” you struggled against the man as he tried to feel you up.

“(Y/N), (Y/N), stop, stop,” Sam pleaded.

You shoved the man off yourself. Your struggle was strategic, though, as it kept him from finding the knives you had planted on yourself; one in your sleeve and one alongside your thigh.

The man moved over to Dean and found a knife stashed in his boot.

“Now what have we here?” Ronald’s question was meant to sound intimidating, but his wavering voice gave him away.

Sam shot Dean a look.

“I'm not just gonna walk in here naked!” Dean hissed back.

“Get back there,” Ronald ordered. You did so, following his pointing of the gun to the group of people behind him. He dropped Dean’s knife in the deposit box, and Dean winced.

“We know you don't want to hurt anybody,” he said. “That's exactly what's gonna happen if you keep waving that cannon around, and why don't you let these people go?”

“No!” Ronald shrieked. “I already told you. If nobody's gonna stop this thing, then I've got to do it myself.”

“Hey, we believe you! That's why we're here,” Dean replied.

“You don't believe me. Nobody believes me! How could they?” he cried.

“Come here,” Dean said.

Ronald scoffed. “What? No.”

“You're holding the gun, boss; you're calling the shots. I just want to tell you something. Come here.”

Ronald approached cautiously and leaned into Dean. You assumed he was telling him who the shifter was.

“Why do you think we've got these getups, huh? We've been monitoring the cameras in the back. We saw the bank manager. We saw his eyes,” Dean whispered.

The shorter man’s eyes widened. “His laser eyes?”

“Yes.” Dean seemed to realize what he’d said. “No. No! No, look, we're running out of time, okay? We've got to find him before he changes into someone else.”

“Like I'm gonna listen to you. You're a damn liar,” Ronald grumbled.

Dean stood cautiously, hands out.

“Dean, no!” you said.

“I'll shoot you! Get down!” Ronald ordered, pointing his rifle at Dean.

“Take me. Okay? Take me with you; take me as a hostage. But we've gotta act fast , because the longer we just sit here, the more time he has to change.” Dean paused. “Look at me, man. I believe you. You're not crazy. There really is something inside this bank.”

Ronald finally nodded. “Alright, you come with me. But everyone else gets in the vault!”

You stood on shaky legs as the people around you gasped and cried. You helped Sam herd everyone into the vault, and Dean tried to calm everyone down when Ronald ordered him to shut the door.

“It's okay, everyone. Just stay cool.” He threw a lingering glance to you before locking the vault completely.

A young redhead stared after Dean. “Who is that man?” she asked breathlessly.

“He's my brother,” Sam replied; you could hear the worry in his voice.

“He is so brave,” she practically moaned.

You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms.

The redhead went silent for a few minutes, and you took some time to thoroughly think your situation over. ‘Cops are gonna be all over this place by now. Dean’s been accused of murder, and the three of us have already been arrested once. Dean’s on the FBI’s radar. Surely, after our escape on the danashulps case, the feds are on us again. Now, we’re smack dab in the middle of a full-on hostage situation. And who are they likely to blame? Us!’ Your anxiety was beginning to get away with you as your thoughts began to swirl in your head. You were then acutely aware of how hot the room was, and unbuttoned the top two buttons of your shirt to keep some circulation moving.

The woman next to you who seemed infatuated with Dean introduced herself to you.

“ ‘Scuse me, sorry. Uh, hi, I’m Sherry,” she said. “You’re, uh, with those guys, too, right?”

You nodded.

“You known them a while?”

You nodded again.

She grinned. “Oh, gosh. What’s it like being around him?”

You snorted. “ ‘Him’ who?”

“That guy! The one who saved our lives!” she beamed. “What’s he like?”

“To tell you the truth, he’s a pain in my ass most of the time,” you giggled, arms crossed over your chest.

“Oh, really?” She deflated a bit before her floaty, trancelike inflection in her voice came back. “He just… He seems so wonderful to be around. I mean, staring down that gun. And, you know, the way— he played right into that psycho's crazy head, telling him what he wanted to hear, I mean—” She trailed off, turning her attention back to you. “He's like, a real hero or, or something.” She tucked a hair behind her ear as she continued to gush.

You nodded again, feeling weirded out.

“Sorry, I just,” she sing-songed, “I’ve never met anyone like him.” She paused, seeming to consider her next question carefully. “You ever… done anything with him?”

You nearly choked at her statement, uncomfortable with the objectification of Dean. “What?”

“Y’know,” she drawled, “How good is he in the—”

You were grateful to hear the vault door unlocking, revealing Dean holding a handgun.

“Oh my god, you saved us! You saved us!” Sherry cheered.

“Actually, I just found a few more. Come on, everybody, let's go. Let's go.” Dean ushered the guard from earlier and a few other people inside the vault.

“What are you doing?” Sherry questioned.

“Sam, (Y/N), look, uh, Ronald and I need to talk to you,” Dean said.

You shot Sam a confused look, and Dean shut the vault door behind him, shrugging apologetically.

“It's shed its skin again,” Dean explained. “We don't know when— it could be in the halls, it could be in the vault.”

“Great,” you sighed. “Y’know, Dean, you are wanted by the police.”

He nodded.

Sam seemed to catch onto where you were headed with this. “So even if we do find this damn thing, how the hell are we gonna get out of here?”

“Well, one problem at a time,” the older brother replied. “Alright, I'm gonna do a sweep of the whole place; see if we can find any stragglers. Once we get everyone together we've got to play a little game of find-the-freak, so… here.” He handed Sam a silver letter opener. “Found another one of these for you. (Y/N), I know you have weapons on you. Best use ‘em.”

You grinned at how well he knew you. You slipped your silver-bladed knife out of your sleeve.

Dean turned to Sam. “Now, stay here, make sure Ronald doesn't hurt anybody, okay? Help him manage the situation.” He turned to you. “C’mon.”

Sam’s voice began rising in outrage. “Help him manage? Are you insane?”

You turned your head to Ronald who seemed shaken, attention caught by Sam’s voice.

“Look, I know this isn't going the way we wanted—”

Dean was cut off by his brother nearly shouting, “Understatement!”

“But if we invite the cops in right now, Ronald gets arrested, we get arrested, the shifter gets away, probably never find it again, okay?” Dean finished.

Ronald peered out of the window in plain view of whoever was down below. You snapped, “Ronald! Out of the light!”

Sam scoffed at his brother, “Seriously?!”

Dean sighed. “Yeah, Ron's game plan was a bad plan, I mean, it was a bit of a crazy plan, but right now, crazy's the only game in town, okay?”

Dean slapped Sam on the shoulder and grabbed your hand, bringing you along with him. ‘If only Sherry could see us now,’ you thought bitterly.

Dean looked over his shoulder at you. “What’s that face about?” he questioned.

“Nothin’,” you replied, still grinning in self-satisfaction, scanning the hallway ahead for anyone or anything.

He just hummed at you, turning his head forward again.

“I hate this case,” you whispered after a few minutes of tense walking.

“Yeah, me too,” he replied, still scanning the ceiling. He seemed to notice something, and you followed his gaze upward. A panel in the ceiling had been left askew. You eyed Dean curiously and took the gun from him, pointing it at the panel while Dean dislodged it with a coat rack from nearby. Suddenly, a naked body fell to the floor. Dean turned the body over with the end of the rack.

“Wait, Dean, wasn’t that?—”

“Yeah, I just let that guy in the vault.”

***

You and Dean hurried as inconspicuously as possible to inform Sam of what had just happened. Sam told you that man had been trying to get the front door unlocked and helping Mr. Okie-Dokie who may have been going into cardiac arrest when you and Dean found the body.

You turned to Ronald and his cocked rifle. “You know what, Ronald? He's right, we've got to get this man outside. Come on. I've got you.”

The shifter tried to help, too. “Yeah, yeah, let me help you.”

“Oh, we got him, it's, it's cool. Thanks,” you replied. You helped the guard out of the way, and Sam took the man’s other side.

“Thank you. Thank you,” the guard told you between labored breaths.

“Sure,” you smiled politely.

You could hear Dean talking to the shifter and a sudden crash behind you. You turned with the guard still on your shoulders at Ronald yelling, “Stop! Come back here!” You noticed a red laser pointed on his back, and your breath caught.

“Get down! Now!” you screamed, but you were too late.

The bullet from the sniper rifle hit Ronald squarely in the chest. You watched in horror as he fell to his knees before hitting the floor dead.

You took in a sharp breath at the sight, forcing yourself to keep your composure for the sake of everyone else in the room with you.

It was bedlam at that minute. All of the hostages began running out of the vault toward the door. You put Mr. Okie-Dokie on the ground next to you and just kept him talking until something could be done to help him. You weren’t quite sure what Sam or Dean were doing, but you made it your priority to keep this man from going into cardiac arrest.

Dean suddenly came over to you, holding a rifle.

“Dean, what are you doing?” you questioned.

“(Y/N), trust me on this—” he pleaded before helping the guard stand.

“Dean! I can help him, don’t bring him outside—”

“I’m not taking that chance, (Y/N). C’mon,” he told the guard. “I gotcha.” He held the man out in front of him and pushed him out the front door with the rifle at the guard’s back. You stayed out of the light, back pressed against the pillar next to the heavy door.

“No, don't shoot! Don't shoot! Please!” you heard the guard yell.

Dean commanded, “Don't even think about it! I said get back! Now!” He paused a moment before you heard his voice again. “Okay, go, go!” The older Winchester slipped back inside, shutting the door and latching it.

“We are so fucked,” he mumbled to you, helping you up from the floor.

“Fuck, why?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “There’s about, I don’t know, eight thousand cops out there. Helicopters and search lights and everything. We are fucked, (Y/N).”

You dropped your head back, groaning, “Great.”

Dean’s phone rang, and you assumed it was Sam. “Yeah?” he answered. “What?... God, it's like playing the shell game. It could be anybody. Again… Alright, you search every inch of this place, we’re gonna go round everybody up.” He hung up the phone.

“I think this is the most stressed I’ve been on a job,” you said as you and Dean began searching for the hostages.

“Yeah? Even more so than the demons in New York?”

“Oh, definitely. That was just a sad one; not super stressful,” you replied. You noticed a herd of people toward the end of the hall. You gripped the handle of your knife, knowing the shifter would likely be in the mix of all the hostages.

You and Dean rounded them up; Dean pointing the rifle he picked up from Ronald at the group. You guided them back to the vault.

“And I thought you were one of the good guys,” Sherry, who held up the back of the group, told Dean, who was trailing behind her.

“What's your name?” he asked.

“Why would you care?” she scoffed.

“My name's Dean,” he said. Your heart melted a bit at his gentleness with her.

She hesitated but still answered. “I'm Sherry.”

“Hi, Sherry. Everything's gonna be alright. This will all be over soon, okay?” He assured her, shutting the vault door and spinning the lock shut. The landline of the bank rang and you picked it up. You didn’t say anything when you answered the phone.

“This is Special Agent Victor Henriksen,” a commanding voice stated through the phone. “Is this Dean? Sam?”

You didn’t respond once more.

Dean mouthed to you, “Who is that?”

You shook your head, holding up a finger to gesture for him to wait.

“Oh, or is it that pretty girl? Our very own criminal Jane Doe. Some people have been calling her Ghost since no one can seem to find any record of her existence.”

Your breath hitched in your throat, but you still didn’t say anything.

“Well, whether you’ve got the Bonnie to your Clydes with you or not, it’s my job to bring you boys in. Alive's a bonus, but not necessary. I want you Winchesters out here, unarmed, or we come in.”

You still didn’t say anything.

“I know you’re still there,” he said, almost taunting. “I know everything about you two. I've been looking for you for weeks now. I know about the murder in St. Louis; I know about the Houdini act you pulled in Baltimore. I know about the desecrations and the thefts. I know about your dad.”

Dean was trying to get close to the phone, but you kept pushing him away because you knew he’d explode at the mention of his father.

“Ex-marine, raised his kids on the road,” the agent continued, “cheap motels, backwood cabins. Real paramilitary survivalist type. I just can't get a handle on what type of whacko he was. White supremacist, Timmy McVeigh, to-may-to, to-mah-to. You have one hour to make a decision, or we come through those doors fully automatic.” With that, he hung up the phone.

You slammed the phone down, cursing in frustration.

“What? Who was that?” Dean asked.

“The fucking FBI agent who’s been tailing us since Missouri,” you replied, beginning to pace anxiously. “He knows everything about you guys, man. Even about your dad. That’s why I didn’t let you talk to him; I knew you would’ve ripped his head off.”

“Damn right,” the man growled. “They have a positive ID on you yet?”

“No, actually,” you said. “Ironically, some of the feds labeled me ‘Ghost’ cause they can’t find anything on me. Which makes me even more nervous. Anyway, we’ve got an hour till they come in here and pump us full of lead,” you informed him.

“Fuck,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

Moments later, Sam appeared at the entrance of the vault room.

“Hey. We've got a bit of a problem outside,” Dean said.

Sam snorted. “We got a problem in here.”

“What?” you questioned.

Sam hushed his voice. “The girl that was gushing over Dean in the vault? It’s her,” he told you.

“Who, Sherry?” you questioned.

He nodded. “Just found her body.”

Barely needing to flick a glance at the boys, you unlocked the vault.

“Sherry? We're gonna let you go,” Dean called as the door swung open.

“What? Why me?” she questioned.

“Uh, as a show of good faith to the feds, come on,” he replied.

The woman hesitated. “Uh... I think I'd— I'd rather stay here, with the others.”

Dean approached her intimidatingly. “I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist.”

You clutched your blade at your side. After a tense moment, she approached you. Sam and Dean pushed her back to the hallway.

“I thought you were letting me go,” the woman you thought was the shifter said.

Dean shoved her forward, holding her head and forcing her to look at the body of Sherry Sam had brought back with him. She began screaming hysterically.

“Is that community theater, or are you just naturally that good?” Dean gruffly questioned.

“This is the last time you become anybody. Ever,” Sam added.

“No! Oh god!” she cried. She fainted almost immediately.

You stared at the two Sherrys in disbelief. One of the bodies was dressed, the other, half-naked. ‘Poor lady,’ you thought. You took off your blazer and laid it over the woman’s body, trying to spare her dignity.

“Wait, why did it do that?” you questioned. You leaned over the undressed body of Sherry covered only by your blazer and put your finger on her neck, trying to find a pulse. The body immediately jolted up, grabbing you by the throat. You struggled, stabbing at it frantically. You got a lick in at its upper arm with the knife before it kneed you in the chin and bolted.

You coughed when it released your throat, clutching at your neck and coughing.

“(Y/N)!” Dean cried.

“Dean, no, I’m fine! Follow it!”

He nodded, taking your knife from your outstretched hand and running after it. You kicked off your heels and took another moment before standing and going to follow Dean. Sam had taken off somewhere with the real Sherry.

You didn’t know what else to do besides stay with the vault and Dean’s discarded handgun, prowling in front of it with the gun at the ready.

***

You had no idea how long it had been. You just continued to pace in front of the vault, tension overtaking your body and anxiety keeping your eyes flickering across the room rapidly. You suddenly heard approaching footsteps and dove on the ground behind a desk— unsure if it was Dean, Sam, the shifter, a cop— and were panicked at the sight of S.W.A.T. sniper rifle lasers and flashlights on the wall in front of you. Your breath quickened as the footsteps continued approaching you. Then, a masked man ducked under the desk in front of you.

You shrieked.

“Here’s Johnny!” he yelped.

“Dean! Fuck you!” You shoved his shoulder harshly when you recognized his face. He and Sam were donned in S.W.A.T. outfits that they had definitely taken off some poor bastards hidden in a broom closet somewhere.

“C’mon, we gotta get outta here, now,” Dean told you. You grabbed your heels and followed the boys out of the building and to the Impala. Dean and Sam had their stolen guns at the ready as you sprinted up to the third floor of the parking garage.

The three of you sat in the Impala, completely breathless, as you grappled with the reality of your situation.

“We are so fucked,” Dean murmured.

You and Sam nodded minutely.

You looked out of the window at the rising morning sun. Exhausted, you let the rumble of the Impala soothe you into a restless sleep as Dean drove you away from the bank.

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-liebgott @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @chervbs @simpingdeadcharacters @nesnejwritings @stillhere197 @tearsforhan @take-it-on-the-run @iloveyou2mia @maxinehufflepuffprincess @ohgeehowdigethere @seninjakitey @berarenado @s0urw00lf @princessleahorgana @quarterhorse19 @isla-finke-blog @silverdoragon @karacaroldanvers @gayandfairycore @examishbookwyrm @star-yawnznn @real-sharena-h @fandomloverrr @metalmonki @onlyangel-444 @yu-winchester @benniwiththefanni @daisychaingirl @immagods @missmieux @yoongi-holland @littledebbieinabigworld

#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x y/n #dean winchester x you #dean x reader #dean x y/n #dean x you #dean winchester #supernatural #supernatural series rewrite #spn #spn series rewrite

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fluffmugger · 11 months

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the number of people hurblurrring about win7 is doing my fuggen head in. There's missing the point, then there's missing the point while trying to hammer home your own urrblurr in peak dunning kruger and then getting personally insulting and bitchy when your misguided idiocy isn't entertained.

yeah yeah I know, welcome to the internet. You can still miss me with that bullshit.

But anyway for those of you wanting clarification: Here is a scenario for you.

There is a game called Children of the Nile. It was released in 2004. It's not supported any more, it's completely depreciated, there's no online features, just a standalone worldbuilder (my favourite kind of nip) This game is sold on steam. This game actually predates steam as a third party reseller, so it definitely doesn't require any steam integration to run. It wasn't even a consideration when the game was being developed. However, steam deliberately integrated their client into the bootwrapper so the game will not run without steam. now pay verrry careful attention because this is where Certain People seem to be losing their goddamn mental faculties: -- Steam deliberately writes in a dependency not required in any way, shape or form to run the game. -- Steam then deliberately disables this dependency based on the dictates of yet another software company whose components (chromium) they utilise for their client webstore. -- End result: A win7 user cannot use a program developed for winXP despite massively exceeding any minimum requirements for the software and having full compatibility because steam broke it.

This is what is bullshit. Steam put in dependencies that the game didn't need and now they're saying they can't support those dependencies that didn't need to be added so you, the end user must run an entirely different operating environment because their business needs dictate it.

They deliberately hobbled the software, then absconded on the obligation that action inferred to any reasonable mind.

This isn't "hurr hurr security concerns" or "hurr blurrr why support old OS" the game already supported the OS (well, technically the OS was compatible with the game). That game isn't updating. The last expansion was in 2008 (which predates the release of win7). That game is a dead, mothballed creature. There aren't any patches coming. No new releases. This isn't about software comparability in the fucking slightest - the game already had that. This is about the fact they took that away in a deliberate act. Don't get it? lemme get the megaphone and make it reaaaal simplified:

YOU SHOULD NOT HAVE TO RUN WINDOWS 10 TO PLAY A GAME RELEASED IN 2004

Likewise you shouldn't need an internet connection to run software with no internet integration and you certainly shouldn't need to support the latest chromium to run steam to play a game that was released as a done creature before either of these fucking companies existed.

This entire scenario is not the natural depreciation of support. It's entirely artificially created by steam, and they can shove it up their arses.

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scribbleseas · 12 days

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Straight Laced, Chapter XI: To Be A Perfect Heroine…

Description: After the London’s Royal Ballet company’s prima ballerina goes missing within a string of mysterious disappearances among the ballet’s young ballerinas, you finally get your chance to debut in the leading role, taking on the position’s physical toil and immense social pressure. Although this role was supposed to be your grand jeté into the spotlight, it is quickly complicated when these disappearances catch the eye of Ciel Phantomhive — the Queen’s Guard Dog. He is a captious and shrewd man who also happens to be one of London’s most eligible bachelors.

For enough profit for you to secure your freedom for the first time, Lord Phantomhive double casts you as both his accomplice to solving these dancer disappearances and… his pretend lover. While debuting as London’s new prima ballerina, you must perfect a brand new routine: deceiving all of the nation’s polite society while actively searching for a serial killer — all while being an immigrant from France with a dancer’s reputation.

What could go wrong when you realize this off-stage performance of yours may not be an act at all?

Story Warnings: detailed description of gore, pain, and violence, detailed death, smut & explicit sexual scenes, allusions to non-consensual sex, objectification, prostitution, allusions to under-aged prostitution, smoking, drinking, eating disorder tendencies (food restriction, frequent references to wanting to maintain a certain weight, over-practicing & exercising), infidelity, fake courtship, swearing

EXTRA TW: MENTIONS OF suicide (just in terms of the Swan Lake storyline!) And again this is a reminder to read the general trigger warnings. This is a heavier chapter that hits MOST of those warnings and your safety and comfort comes before everything! Please don’t hesitate to reach out to me if you would like clarification about this chapter’s subject matter.

Author’s Note: Hi everyone! It’s been a long time coming for this chapter. I hope this one can finally answer some of the questions you’ve all been having…in more ways than one <3. I hope you find somewhere comfy to read this and get a snack because this baby is over 10,000 words. More than 18 pages, 11-sized font on my Google Docs. Some of these scenes I’ve had in my mind for 2 years!! Hope you love this one.

Happy Reading,

Dan

⇐ PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER ⇒

MASTERLIST

November 11, 1895

The Royal Opera House’s Backstage, Your Dressing Room

Just as you warned the stubborn Earl, his insistence to speak with you made you late. If you wanted your makeup to be flawless for the final performance, you couldn’t stretch for your usual 30 minutes. And you did want your makeup to be flawless. It wasn’t an option, under Natasha’s leadership.

At least your pre-performance routine was just as ingrained into your subconscious as the show itself was. Every step you took to ready yourself helped you submerge deeper into Odette, a desperate attempt to comprehend the last two days of your turbulent life. Starting with your stage makeup, you spread rosewater across your face to rid it of debris. Natasha used to handle this routine for you, but Ciel asked you to start taking care of your own makeup, purchased by him. It was a precaution he insisted upon, given that Amelié died from a poison that invaded through the skin.

You made careful eye contact with your reflection in your vanity mirror, noting your bitten lips and tired eyes. You sighed, eyes darting to the clip of stationary attached to the corner of the glass. Ciel’s home number was still adhered there, the Earl adamantly refusing to remove it in the event of an emergency.

You pressed your face into a towel, drying it. The familiar smell of rosewater alerted your senses; awaiting the stage was like electricity crackling through your veins, despite your melancholy. Still, your mind was rightfully conflicted, overdrawn.

William Wood was not the killer you had been chasing all this time. Ciel suspected that Natasha was. Gwen had apparently lied to you to harm your relationship. But even still, Ciel once warned you that he was a liar. A manipulator who tended to work people like the game pieces his company manufactured. Only the best were so difficult to decode:

“I care about you more than you know, Y/n.” Ciel always sounded so at ease, so sure. You felt that he always had a perfect arrangement of words sitting on the tip of his tongue, to falsely promise, to serenade. To lie.

“You do not,” you had insisted, ignoring the earnestness in his sapphire eye. It couldn’t be real. You felt a flare of stubbornness in your chest, urging you to shove him away.

“I do.” He refused to blink. Adamant in spite of the weight that his accusation had.

Natasha Wood was one of the only people in your life that believed in you. He didn’t know her like you did.

Before Natasha, you had your mother… Until she died about four years into your studies at the Paris Opera School of Dance. You were nine years old. On top of your enrollment, she couldn’t afford the medication that the doctor’s prescribed for her cough. It had only grown more severe week by week, until she was coughing up blood and her lips tinged with blue. Your father only gave your mother so much money to encourage her to keep their rendezvous— and you, of course —a secret.

“Waste this money on my end of life care? When my shining star of a daughter has her whole life ahead of her? I will not do it,” your mother always insisted. You remembered how her cold hand felt against yours, it was iron, despite being clammy with oncoming death.

After she died, the dance school allowed you to continue studying there, your talent promising enough to be worth fostering. By the time you were fifteen (or fourteen, was it?) you were old enough to make the school a profit through its dance foyer to make up for your free education.

You’d never forget the final rasp of her breath.

Following the curve of your cheekbones, you highlighted your face with a soft shade of pink. The spotlight tended to wash out ballerina’s features. Now, you stared back at Odette, the White Swan. Y/n Y/l/n was the star hidden beneath, but no matter how seasoned a prima ballerina you were, not even you could shove the complete extent of your worries far beneath your costume.

You remembered the shock that pounded at your chest when Violet told you about William quite well, how most of her allegations were true. You thought you knew the owner of the opera house. Could you have been so misdirected by your mentor, too?

Until the second Ciel stopped you from entering the carriage, you had a practiced apology for Natasha waiting on your lips. You were supposed to be so sorry for not telling her about her husband’s infidelity and crimes, for your means of investigating her husband being so intimate. For imprisoning him without her knowledge.

Now? You felt as if you were prosecuting your older sister. Her every word, her every glance. Once it was in search of approval, now, it was for…bloodlust? You couldn’t see it. Natasha could hardly walk without assistance—how could she kill anyone?

Why would she hurt anyone? What motivation would Natasha have? Killing her own cast members? For her husband’s violence against them? It was unfathomable. No version of an explanation would stop bile from creeping its way up your throat–each new explanation that came to your mind was only more vile than the last.

Though, you had to ponder: why would Ciel make such a claim if he was not sure? Your mutual need to solve the case was one of the first feelings you had in common. You should have put aside your pride and joined Ciel to interrogate William, or at the very least, listened to the Earl’s concerns. He had something he needed to tell you, but you simply wouldn’t hear it, too occupied with your own hurt.

It was too late for regret, you supposed. You could only meet him after the show and hope for the best.

Mechanically, you rolled your performance tights up your legs, carefully inspecting them for pulls or tears in your body-length mirror. Satisfied, you slid on your ivory pointe shoes, ensuring they were straight laced and spotless, free of grime. Lastly, you stepped into one of your Odette tutus, this corset flaring into a feathered shirt with gold detailing lining the neckline and bodice. It only felt right to wear for your last Swan Lake performance— it was the first iteration of the costume you wore after inheriting the role from Janet.

Janet’s lifeless face flashed in your mind, painting over that fond opening night memory with a new coat of guilt. The young woman had been a beautiful dancer, and a nice person who provided for her family. And her sick mother’s prescription, you made yourself flinch, dry mouth relieved when you took a drink of Sauternes. You poured yourself half a glass, the previously unopened wine bottle a precaution you tucked in the back or your wardrobe for emergencies. If this evening didn’t qualify itself as an emergency, you weren’t sure what would have.

Perfectly on time, your dressing room door flew open, never following a knock. Approximately 30 minutes before the curtain ascended, Natasha always made sure to lace your bodice for you, always finding fault when another cast member did so. The director pushed the door open with the bottom of her cane, her cool seagreen eyes scanning your makeup, dragging down your figure.

Looking for notes to make, you noticed.

“It is good to see you, Y/n,” Natasha said, her expression unchanging from stormy indifference. You couldn’t place when the director had lost her supportive smile, the warm, yet authoritative way she would request for more—for better—and when a frigid insistence stiffened that inspiring patience. When did fear settle in your stomach instead of admiration? “I was worried about attendance today, after Maisie. Quite a tragedy—she was talented.”

The apology you practiced died on your lips, killed by your surprise and uncertainty. Until now, Natasha never addressed any company losses— she attributed them as disappearances from a ballerina being unable to handle the pressures of the industry. You had assumed she didn’t know better because the press was restricted from covering the mysterious company deaths, the Queen fearing public panic, according to Ciel’s acquaintance in the press. After Maisie Stannard died near the steps of the British Museum’s gala, the press had no choice but to cover the incident.

Therefore, Natasha had no choice but to address it with her employees. It was a loss to the company, now well-known by the rest of the country.

That being said, she certainly wouldn’t reveal that William was currently pacing the confines of a holding cell. All the public knew was that Maisie Stannard was killed—no one knew of any of the other company deaths. William’s arrest was only knowledge of Ciel’s (and his accomplices, of course), the State, and Natasha’s. You couldn’t imagine what the director told the rest of the company in order to explain William’s prolonged, sudden absence—especially after he’d only been back from France for about a week prior to you and Ciel arresting him.

Ciel suspected Natasha of shooting Maisie. Of poisoning Amelié, forcing Janet off of the Tower Bridge–you didn’t even know the gruesome details from Eliza’s body, when they found it. Your guilt for suspecting the currently lacing your feathered corset in her usual meticulous way was so consuming, you forced yourself to think of Violet’s distressed cries to remind yourself of who you were being cautious for. You had to solve this for the victims, their loved ones, preventing any more murders. You had to justify yourself—it was a serial killer investigation, after all.

You would have to touch base with Ciel.

“I cannot imagine who could have done this to her,” you mumbled evasively, finishing off your wine glass with a flourish. You welcomed the selection’s competing tastes of acid and sweet butterscotch, and tried not to lament over the untouched cigar in your drawer. The smoke would have done better to soothe your nerves, but arriving late had limited you.

“A young, beautiful woman, a ballerina who was married to a successful man,” Natasha mused purposefully, “you would be surprised, Y/n. Ugliness lurks everywhere and there are always sacrifices to be made. As Odette, should you not know that? The perfect heroine always does.”

Ugliness lurks everywhere and there are always sacrifices to be made. You were unsure of what to make of Natasha’s words.

Ciel once told you that you needed to make your target speak in an investigation. They already had their agenda—evading you—and sometimes, what they refused to say was more telling than what they did.

Natasha had to be aware of your role in her husband’s arrest; that to some degree, you were an accessory to the Queen’s Guard Dog’s investigation. She was gauging you— whether or not that was in defense of her crimes, as Ciel would have suspected, or looking to get a sense of what Ciel made of Maisie’s death. After all, they’d arrested William, in part, because they believed he was the killer. Was she attempting to learn if they had their suspicions turned elsewhere? If she was their suspect, she would want to know if her cover was still intact.

You needed to control yourself, put on the facade of a sad, yet trusting employee. Blissfully unaware and shallow—the purse dog of a wealthy Earl. Limited, materialistic, uncaring. Almost as if you were reprising the woman you were prior to starting this investigation. In your own way, you could be the perfect heroine.

“I do, of course,” you answered, double-checking the measured bow that Natasha pulled the lace into, each cross section between the eyelets matching perfectly. The director was nothing if not precise, now turning to fasten your headpiece’s clips into your hair, already twisted into a braided ballerina bun. “Odette is too trusting, putting her future in the whims of a man who only just met her,” you admitted, the words making you feel like a hypocrite.

“Speaking on the subject—unexpected ugliness—I want to apologize. I heard about Mr. Wood’s —” you started, deciding that the smartest way to protect yourself from Natasha’s probing was to behave exactly as you had initially planned to. Apologizing would convey the submissive guilt the director would have expected from you. In doing so, you would assure her that there was nothing amiss between you, shielding the fact that Ciel had cautioned you in the first place.

“Twenty minutes to Act One, I expect my company members to be focused on the show. Especially my principal dancer,” Natasha’s piercing eyes flashed, her words dipped in ice, no matter how she tried to inject warmth back into her face. She looked older than she did three months ago, her worry lines more prominent in her fair skin. Exhaustion showed itself in deep bags beneath her impatient stare.

“The Sugar Plum Fairy has the highest jumps, the widest turns. She is the embodiment of grace and poise. I would much prefer you to be spending your spare time on a barre rehearsing instead of surveying my personal affairs. You will be able to continue being my prima ballerina, yes?” She pulled her lips into a wry smile, an expression that was close to pity.

You didn’t expect Natasha to engage with you about her husband’s arrest, but you wanted to watch her. Decode how she decided to evade you, seeing that she didn’t so much as let the words escape your mouth.

Not to mention, you weren’t surprised that Natasha chose to demean your talent. She knew your dedication to managing her opinion of you well, having fostered your need to please alongside the rest of the company’s. All of this to say: Natasha chose to turn the focus of the conversation back to you, denying your disguised request to discuss William.

“Yes,” you repeated, forcing your gaze to fall downcast and self-consciously hesitate to return to meet her eyes. “I do appreciate this opportunity, Natasha,” you added pathetically, watching the director’s warm authoritarianism resettle in her face confidently, reinforced by your obsequious behavior. Her thin lips managed a smile. You had reassured her, and that in of itself, worried you. It proved she was hiding something. “You won’t hear anything more of it from me.”

“Focus is a crucial asset for ballerinas,” Nastasha assured you too brightly given her stormy entrance. She gestured to her cane with her chin—it leaned on your vanity behind you, since she needed both hands to tie your costume and affix your headpiece. You obediently handed the medical accessory to her, more than familiar with the director’s gestures.

“Remember to stop by Polly’s office after tonight’s performance. She wishes to triple check your measurements for a spare Sugar Plum costume. We were hoping to have these appointments finished after practice yesterday evening, but with you here now, I would like it complete,” Natasha said, plucking a stray hair of yours off your shoulder and letting it fall to the floor.

“Of course. I will see her immediately after the performance,” you answered simply, biting back your frustration at her dig. Natasha was subliminally critiquing your decreased amount of time at the opera house. Before Ciel roped you into his investigation, you spent most of your time in the opera house’s studio, fiercely guarding your promotion by rehearsing as much as you could manage. Now, you attended your mandatory rehearsals and classes, but nothing more. Instead, you opted to rehearse in the safety of the dance studio Ciel had Sebastian create for you.

“Do give tonight everything you have, Y/n,” Natasha pressed her weight back into her cane, giving you a final once over before she opened your door, preparing to leave. Each night, Natasha helped you with the finishing details of your costume and circulated through the rest of the company to solve any last-minute issues. “The end of this run also sets the tone for the beginning of Nutcracker season.”

“I will never give a performance that I cannot be proud of,” you replied truthfully, painting on an Odile-inspired devil-may-care smile for Natasha. “Allow me to remind you why you chose me for this role.”

“You know what I like to hear,” she answered, casting a wink at you from over her shoulder. She opened her mouth to speak again, but before she could, Antoine, the dancer performing as Prince Seigfried, interjected with a clear question on his face. Knowing better than to wait for Natasha, you showed yourself to the backstage wings.

In the chaos that took place backstage, you always focused on the excited chatter of the audience and the pre-performance orchestral music from the other side of the curtain to fuel your adrenaline. You could feel their energy, it radiated in waves. For the next three hours, you were Odette, Queen of the Swans, and Odile, the deceptive daughter of sorcerer Von Rothbart.

You could meet their hardships with the same honesty and emotion you faced your own, and step off the stage to put a real end to this investigation.

That was what set you apart as a professional.

Two Hours Later

The Royal Opera House’s Main Stage

This was the final scene of the show. The Lakeside, Odette’s last stand.

You were poised in the air, the music growing severe as Von Rothbart carried you, pulling Odette out of Prince Siegfried’s protective arms. Until this second, your characters had been entangled with one another, dancing intimately in forgiveness. The music had been soft, portraying a delicate, damaged love slowly on the mend as Siegfried pleaded with Odette, guilty of falling for Odile’s ruse at the ball.

Now, the dark stage flickered, illusions creating the look of lightning and crashing drums replicated rolling thunder.

You entered this scene with a heavy premonition in the pit of your stomach, and you allowed yourself to wear that alarm on your face like an accessory to better portray the story. You were just as distressed as your character, the innocent White Swan. Moments ago, she returned to the lake, heartbroken because Prince Siegfried professed his love to the wrong woman. He had been fooled, but the curse still forced Odette back into her swan form, leaving her to mourn her humanity with the rest of the cursed swans. In spite of her forgiveness, the damage had already been done.

The curse may never be lifted. They could never successfully be in love. It could never be—a sentiment that was familiar to you. Even so, it stung like a fresh wound, never seeming to dull night by night.

The lovers shared a brief dance, only to be torn apart by the sorcerer. Now, the prince reached, his fingers only managing to graze hers longingly. Your eyes followed the missed touch, your head jerking upwards as if you were further panicked by the failed attempt.

Now you were caught between both dancers, each hand held by opposite forces. Love and death, Prince Siegfried and Von Rothbart. At this point in the performance, Odette was dancing on the line between her life and death, breaking the curse and succeeding through love or not breaking the curse and succeeding through death.

Ugliness lurks everywhere and there are always sacrifices to be made, you couldn’t keep yourself from thinking over your old mentor’s words. You always thought of Natasha when you danced.

The woman was everything you wanted to be: a self-starter in spite of her immigrant status, a brilliant talent, thoughtful, confident. She had landed a marriage that had appeared loving and fair, and she was still a dancer, in spirit.

The foreboding melancholy settling on your shoulders, your Odette was more skittish than she normally was. She was rather unsteady as the two men guided and pulled her every which way, one trying to hold, one trying to capture. You allowed yourself to feel weightless: it was the best means for Odette’s dancing to look just as induced upon her as it was in the moment. You even allowed your head to fall lazily in line with your neck with every turn, constructing the facade of a woman succumbing to her curse, tired of begging for a way out of the cursed life that held her hostage.

For a moment, you let the tension leave your body, draping lifelessly over Von Rothbart’s supporting clutches. The sorcerer had successfully pulled the White Swan out of her prince’s hand. Odette was exerted within her life. She knew that her curse was permanent, and yet, she craved her self-determination. Her right to love. The right to live as she wanted to, everlastingly.

The perfect heroine? Were there truly always sacrifices to be made? You wondered, flicking your wrists and positioning your fingers as your Odette confidently broke free from the sorcerer’s grip and stepped up the short stairway. Without another second, she threw herself into the lake. The orchestra played dynamically, the swell of music portraying the death of Von Rothbart, the antagonist collapsing and dying from Odette’s sacrifice.

Their deaths left the prince to follow Odette, preferring to die and reunite with her in spirit rather than live without her. The cast of swans—the rest of the company—remained on stage, watching in equal parts awe and horror. Both you and Antoine, the prince’s dancer, jumped into a stage opening that the stagehands kept lined with mattresses to make the short fall as safe as it could be as the group had a final intricate dance number. You realized that this would be your last time getting back to your feet after making that show-stopping jump.

Now, you were made of energy as the both of you ran back behind stage to the wings to make your final entrance for the season. You could never see the audience under the blinding stage lights, but you could always feel it. The opera house always held its breath, the silences between Tchaikovsky’s masterful creations were always punctuated with quiet sniffles from the audience.

Swan Lake was a tragic love story, after all. You would know—you felt well-acquainted with the idea of tragic love. Falling head over pointe for a stone cold, callous Earl without ever meaning to. In fact, while trying not to in the midst of a murder investigation. The very investigation that you felt you were on the precipice of closing.

Would your story end like Odette’s? you wondered. A young woman making her final stand in the face of heartbreak.

You supposed, this performance was nothing more than a storyline. A fable. Nothing to build silly premonitions over, in spite of the danger of your situation.

After your music cue, the spirits of Odette and Prince Siegfried stepped back out onto the lit stage, hand in hand. You shared one last jeté, jumping across the stage in perfect sync, before the audience to show that their plan had succeeded, ending the show in each other’s embrace in the afterlife.

To signify the official end of the story, the stage lights faded out to allow the company to arrange itself for final bows alongside another passionate swell of Swan Lake’s theme from the orchestra. You and Antoine remained still until the stage was completely black, unwilling to ruin the intimacy your characters created for the audience. Lovers who couldn’t bear to be without one another.

Only when the lights flickered back on, the both of you faced the audience to accept their cheering with gracious smiles, wiping away the bittersweet beauty your characters evoked. The rest of the company quickly filed in around you, mechanically dropping into a curtsy on the same note. The minor characters took turns bowing next, including Wolfgang, the prince’s tutor; the Queen Mother, and the four little swans. In order of prevalence, the main characters swept into bows.

Following Von Rothbart and Prince Siegfried, you took five measured steps in front of the rest of the cast and swept yourself into a deep curtsy. The spotlight burned your skin, the hair pins that kept your headpiece fastened dug into your scalp, and your feet throbbed in your pointe shoes. Sweat rolled down your neck and your lungs felt as if there was fire in them, given how hard your chest heaved, but you were elated, nonetheless. A cheering audience was nothing short of a drug. All of these people were here to see you and your company dance. It was an honor, almost enough for you to ignore the disappointed sting in your heart that Ciel would never see you perform in these roles.

Still, stared into the crowd, beaming. You survived. Only now, another confrontation awaited you. One much more dangerous than a bit of acting.

You never thought you would find yourself cutting off a standing ovation on a closing night of a show. This moment, hearing the appreciation and wonderment you gave to legions of people was supposed to be one of the most euphoric parts of your career. Knowing that the hours of labor, exhaustion, and hunger could culminate into a moment this fulfilling. You had just closed a run of Swan Lake as London’s foremost company’s only principal dancer—by all definitions of the word, you were at your prime as a dancer.

But that didn’t matter to you as much, not at this moment. Instead, you righted yourself from your curtsy, blew the faceless audience a kiss, and exited the stage.

You had an investigation to solve, at last. This fitting would be the last step, you were as certain as Odette, though you hoped your ending might be more merciful.

In your haste, you didn’t bother to stop by your dressing room—there was no need.

Polly would have to make her rounds to collect all Swan Lake costumes, anyway, and by going to her office in this ensemble, you saved her the trouble of looking for one of your corsets. Besides, the last you wanted was Natasha in your dressing room to help you unlace it and there was no reason to waste time walking to the other side of the backstage wing. Especially since there was no possibility of Ciel arriving at the ballet tonight.

Entering Polly’s office helped settle your jumbled nerves, at least for a moment. The space never changed; the aging woman was extremely particular with where she kept all of her tools and materials. Each one had its own exact space in her workstation, and nothing was ever a centimeter out of place. As always, the costuming director’s frail shoulders were hunched as she counted silently to herself, measuring a piece of scarlett fabric. She counted to herself, meticulous eyes narrowing before she cut the piece off the rest of the fabric roll with sharp scissors.

“Hello, Miss Y/n,” she greeted you warmly. Her back was to you, but she always knew her visitor before she turned. “Are you well?”

Without this woman, there would simply be no ballet. In two weeks, she had five variations of Odette and Odile costumes for you each, all perfectly tailored to your dimensions. You imagined that the woman could give Sebastian a challenge in terms of clothing creation and tailoring—she was an institution at this ballet. Typically, no one could manage a lie past her.

You couldn’t settle on how to respond, the silence causing her to turn, standing from her short seat. Polly was short enough to have you looking down at her, somewhat.

“How are you?” you tried for a weary smile, knowing it was thin and unconvincing.

“You look like Natasha, when she was your age,” the woman commented, eying you skeptically. She gestured towards her full-length tri-mirror, and you obeyed, knowing the routine for confirming your wardrobe measurements well. You had to strip from your costume, and Polly took careful measurements of your body, well aware that these corsets had to forcefully enforce a ballerina’s trained body.

You felt yourself redden, uncomfortable with the comment. Until now, Natasha was all you wanted to be.

“All lovesick, is all I mean. Don’t you think William put her through it too? All men do it,” Polly said sagely, helping you unlace the tight knots Natasha twisted your corset into. “Especially with beautiful women like you, who haven’t lived here very long,” she chided, hanging the corset on a wire hanger for you.

��Lovesick?” Your mouth felt dry. Of course you were. You were just as confused about your feelings towards Ciel Phantomhive as you were about your thoughts on the true killer. It might’ve been Natasha. There was a chance, and the thought of such a reality took the air out of your lungs. “I am not,” you tried for another smile, laughing weakly. You always smiled. You always laughed. It was supposed to work.

But with Polly, it didn’t. Your weak smile flickered off, unencouraged by the costume director. Of course—she worked there longer than Natasha did. 18 years, you once heard. 18 years of handling fittings like these for stars on the rise, stars about to implode. Stars in the process of doing just that, leaving disappointment and heartbreak in their wake. An ache for what could have been. You suspected that without Polly’s comforting nature, the company would lose ballerinas much more often due to Natasha’s unfailingly brutal honesty.

In response to Polly’s raised, skeptical eyebrows and set line her mouth fell in, you sighed. Still, her eyes sparkled as if she was amused by something in you. That look made you think of Ciel.

You unfastented your head piece self consciously, “I think it may be Natasha, actually,” you ventured, using one of Ciel’s tactics, at the thought of him. “Share an insecurity, it will create a false sense of intimacy, and they might overspeak. People who feel comfortable with you are more likely to make a mistake.”

“I feel concerned about her,” you made a show of admitting, like you were guilty of mentioning her.

Polly also allowed you to undo your pointe shoes, giving you a spare pair of soft socks for your bare feet. They ached, as they always did after performances—sometimes they throbbed in protest to carrying your weight. At least the clean, soft material was more welcoming than the wood of Polly’s step riser would have been. You stepped up, only clad in your undergarments, but you didn’t mind with Polly.

“I thought she was certainly…spread too thin, but I thought she’s been quite well lately,” Polly answered ponderously. She wrapped her small measuring tape around your waist, pulling it in to match its perimeter. You tried not to think about what you ate that day—there were many more important concerns at stake. Polly knew Natasha better than anyone else, perhaps she knew something you did not. “She wanted me to keep this between her and myself, but I think that more of us oughta know the good news: she started massage and manipulation therapy for her hip.”

Massage and manipulation therapy? That was a practice where doctors had injured individuals strategically stretch and work their healed limbs after a long injury put them out of use. Only, you didn’t know Natasha’s injury was healed enough to qualify her for it—you were under the impression that the director could hardly stand without her cane, much less withstand massage and manipulation therapy. Her mobility was supposed to be almost entirely extinct.

“What use would Natasha have for therapy? I believe she cannot walk or stand without help,” you mused.

“Oh, no, dear,” Polly shook her head, writing your waist measurement on a notebook. She put the pad of paper back down before you could catch the number she wrote down. “She can walk and stand without a cane, and that is all. No running, no dancing, none of that, after what happened. The cane only helps her manage. Now she’s going three times a week to rebuild strength, she told me.”

“What exactly happened? Do you know?” You risked the question, your intuition begging you to press forward. You felt your palms grow sweaty with anticipation. This was what you were missing, you were convinced. One of your biggest uncertainties regarding Ciel’s theory was: how could Natasha manage to kill all of these people without being caught on top of mobility challenges? You tried not to seem too desperate to know, scanning over your curious expression in the length mirror. Polly was measuring the widest point of your hips.

“I tell you this as a warning, only. As something to learn from,” Polly insisted, meeting your eyes in the mirror. You gave her a resolute nod, taking an uneasy breath in. Natasha rarely spoke about her injury, its exact name, the incident that caused it. You assumed she considered it to be a weakness—a failure of hers.

“It was a complex hip labral tear. From over practicing,” Polly told you, noting down your measurement. She continued to repeat the process for the rest of your body. “She was the principal dancer in Sleeping Beauty, recently married to Will. Here all night, all day, few breaks. She was scared, I think, to lose the life she found,” she recalled, painting a fond picture of a dancer not unlike you. Hungry for her spotlight. A moment of appreciation. Wanting to love and be loved by everyone and more.

“But she wouldn’t hear anything about stopping—even after the doctors told her to take the rest of the Sleeping Beauty season on break. She refused,” Polly said, shaking her head. “And then, she tore her hip, ruining her range of motion. They told her if she tried to do anything more than walk, the damage could leave her in a wheelchair.”

A wheelchair. Your blood ran cold, chastened. Natasha was less than five years older than you; not even 30 years old yet. Technically, she would have had half a dozen more years as a ballerina, if she had been more careful.

Still, Natasha’s injury came in her prime. You couldn’t imagine the pain of being in the midst of your breakout role, only to have to stop for an unknown period of time. The thought of having to willingly surrender the euphoria of curtsying to a cheering crowd made your chest hurt. Natasha probably felt as if her life was ending. Dancing was the only part of your life that kept you alive, at least.

“But now, I suppose, she’s rested long enough to start getting help again. And as long as it’s helping her, I don’t mind holding down the costuming fort, so to speak,” Polly chuckled, wrapping her measuring tape around your shoulders. She always liked to ramble when she worked, and you didn’t expect it to work in your favor. You couldn’t believe you didn’t think to speak with Polly sooner.

“And she has three appointments in a week?” You asked, swallowing in spite of your dry mouth and throat. You thought of the calendar you saw at the Yard’s headquarters with Sebastian and Ciel. Where you noticed a pattern. The very pattern that you and Ciel had believed to implicate William.

Thursdays, Fridays, and Sundays. All days where the full cast and crew were at the most occupied with full-Nutcracker rehearsals. These were supposed to be nights where Natasha stayed at the Opera House late to handle costume construction with Polly, influencing every step from the sketches to the final clothing ensemble. Nothing went on The Royal Opera House’s stage without her approval, making her take the time to stay late so frequently.

Unless she wasn’t truly with Polly. William would otherwise have no way of knowing where his wife was if she wasn’t at home—he wouldn’t care to verify where she was, so long as he was confident she wouldn’t be looking for him. The only person in the Opera House after hours was Polly, making only her word Natasha’s alibi.

“Yes! He seems like a smart man, Doctor Wallace. She started seeing him in August,” Polly answered, blissfully unaware.

Unless she was truly pursuing physical therapy— which you doubted this timing — she successfully convinced Polly to maintain this lie for her. Telling the whole company that Natasha was assisting her these nights when she was either on a futile mission to restore her leg or killing her employees.

“So she has not stayed late with you since August?” You could have sworn your heart stopped, in that moment.

“She usually stops in one night a week, at some point. But otherwise, it’s just me. And that’s alright with me, dear, I promise,” Polly misinterpreted your indignation as frustration on her behalf. “More hours is more pay,” she gave you another laugh and wrote down another measurement, blind to your distress.

You felt Natasha’s lies crash down upon another like a house of cards. You gasped, feeling your heartbeat raise in alarm. The world seemed to stall for a moment, hesitating alongside you as your chest tightened with just as much rage as it did surprise. You could’ve sworn your reflection in the three-way mirror was shades lighter in panic.

“Polly, I need to leave,” you said urgently. Still in your undergarments, you pulled a robe off of a hook in the wall, tying it around your waist as you walked. You ignored the costuming director’s protests, her asking if everything was alright. You couldn’t falsely assure her. Not when you felt the sky falling down.

“I have something I need to do now. We can finish another time,” you could hardly recognize your serious tone, it was non-negotiable and about the angriest you’ve heard yourself. Tears brimmed your eyes.

You had to finish this. You couldn’t leave her office without finishing this. No one else was going to die in the hands of this woman.

In fact, you hadn’t thought through your destination until you found your knuckles rapping intently against Natasha’s office door, only several doors down from Polly’s. Technically, the space was William’s office, but he rarely used the space, causing Natasha to commandeer it for her own purposes. You were pleased she did—it wasn’t close to your dressing room, making the private space even more of an oasis free from criticism.

“Natasha! I need you. This is Y/n,” you said, knowing the director was there. She never remained in the foyer long. After she finalized patrons’ payment and ensured that each one was satisfied, she retreated into her office to analyze that performance’s sales revenue. She would stay until she finished adding those numbers to the opera house’s monthly financial records.

“You can—” she started from the other side of the door, but you were wiping your eyes, twisting the knob, and entering before she finished giving you permission. Startled, the director regarded you with irritation hardening her angular features. “Come in… You know to knock, please,” she reminded you, intentionally finishing the statement you interrupted. “Now what might I do for you?”

Being face to face with Natasha made the encounter feel all the more petrified. You felt the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. It was almost as if you forgot how to put your incensed words into English. You had so many accusations, so many questions to aim at the woman, you couldn’t decide where to start.

“I only… wanted to thank you. Again. For this opportunity,” you said, starting off the safest way you could think of, yet probe her as subtly as you could dare. “I would not be at this point in my career without you.”

Natasha tilted her head, setting her fountain pen down on her desk. You watched her wrestle with her response: acknowledging your gratitude, subtly poisoning your confidence regarding your career, wanting to gauge if you were investigating her, despite your efforts before the show. Of course. She had to be careful around Ciel Phantomhive’s partner.

“Y/n, you have to remember that you find yourself opportunities. Life is not kind to those who wait for opportunity. That is especially important for you to remember with Lord Phantomhive at your side, now. Never allow yourself to rely on anyone,” Natasha said, fulfilling your prediction and criticizing you. How did it take you so long to notice this pattern in your director?

“These rich men...they are never forever,” she snorted bitterly, taking an uncharacteristic drink out of a wine glass. You never saw Natasha drink. “They use you. And lie,” she continued, hesitating before fixing her posture and rising from her office chair. Natasha picked up her cane and used it to help support her as she walked to her cabinet and picked an open bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon.

“Though we should commemorate the end of this season,” Natasha told you with a new degree of stiff friendliness in her voice. She poured some of the dark wine into a clean wineglass for you, offering the drink to you. “You worked hard to make yourself worthy of Odette and Odile. On top of this drama that Phantomhive dragged you into,” she said his name like a curse.

“I appreciate that, Natasha,” You accepted the glass, but you didn’t take a drink, wary of the wine’s contents. “I did work tirelessly, and–”

“And you do handle the scrutiny well,” your director continued, interrupting you. “Better than I ever did.” She only could have been referencing the disdain she faced for marrying William Wood, though he wasn’t a noble like Ciel, he was from an incredibly wealthy family. You doubted British elite society would ever treat a foreign ballerina kindly, much less five years ago.

You were silent, unsure of what to say. In just minutes, Natasha managed to gain control of the conversation, grabbling the upperhand from you. It was effortless for her. The woman was the very picture of composure. You couldn’t help but wonder if she considered herself to be the perfect heroine from her own description.

Was Natasha manipulating you now, too?

“I try my best to ignore them. They do not and will never know me, so I should not concern myself over what they believe,” you replied noncommittally, forcing yourself not to break eye contact with your director. The air was tense. You felt as if she could see straight through you, and right into the real reason you were there.

Natasha hummed begrudgingly, “it is big of you to know that, and so young. Not too long ago, I would have done anything to live your life.” Her smile unsettled you, and at this point, you trusted yourself more than you did her.

“Why don’t we toast?” the director asked, picking up her glass in one hand and again, using her cane to help her walk to you. “To your career. Your partner. Your success.”

“Fine,” you agreed hesitantly, tapping your wineglass against hers. You watched Natsha take a short sip of wine, but you couldn’t force yourself to do the same. There was no way for you to know it was safe.

Naturally, Natasha had been monitoring your hesitation, her smile—which started out thin enough for you to feel suspicious—wavered. “Is there something wrong?”

Your eyes darted to the office door behind you. Suddenly, you deeply regretted your impulsivity. You might have been out of your depth, confronting her without a plan or any support. This was what Ciel had feared when you were arguing with him about your plan to trap William: a situation where you were in danger with no easy way out.

“No! No, of course not,” you said unconvincingly, painfully aware of the symptoms of a long day beginning to encroach on you, as well. Your feet still throbbed, despite being in Polly’s soft socks, made specifically for aching feet. Your eyelids were heavy which was no surprise, since you hadn’t had proper sleep in days. Especially not last night— how could you have slept after Maisie? “I simply…do not feel much like drinking.”

“You? Not wanting a drink?” Natasha replied incredulously. “Come on. Have a toast with me. Why are you being so uptight with me, now? You do trust me, don’t you? I am your director,” Her long nails tapped on her glass, her face molding into hurt.

It was one sip. What was one sip? The wine bottle was already open—it seemed to be the only open selection in the cabinet. How would she only poison yours?

You paused, realization dawning on you. She was manipulating you.

You wondered if Natasha guided you into that line of thinking as she so often did, pointing out when a corset appeared tight on you to motivate you to eat less, asking you when the last time you considered cutting your hair was to inspire you to cut it. Telling you to enjoy Ciel as a subscriber as if sex work was your choice. All you ever wanted to do was dance.

“Are you the one killing us, Natasha?” The question slipped out between your lips before you could stop it. Tears welled in your eyes, and you couldn’t keep the tremor out of your voice. You stared down at the wine in your hand, a tear streamed down your cheek and made a ripple in the blood-red liquor. Your face felt hot.

“What are you asking me?” Natasha’s questioning laugh was hollow. She finished off her drink and left the empty glass on the desk. She was being clear: this was your last opportunity to drop the question.

“Did you kill the missing ballerinas? I mean they’re dying in other companies too, but m-mostly…this one,” forming words felt impossible. You didn’t know how you were controlling your tone so well.

She laughed again, tones of disbelief making the sound sound rough and condescending. Her eyes were ablaze with rage and disbelief. “After everything I’ve done for you, you accuse me of murder?” Her knuckles were white, fingers tight around both the cane and the glass in her hand. “I have half a mind to kick you out of my company right now for this insult!”

This was the only way, you braced yourself. You thought of the victims you were avenging, not of the danger that stood in front of you. And if you died, you were fairly certain Natasha had no way to evade the consequences. There was a backstage full of company members. You trapped her.

Still, you need to commit to guiding her rage. Natasha was too logical for a mistake. Her emotions needed to overtake her.

“I’m not sure why I just asked that, I’m so sorry,” you lied, “we can just forget about this,” you suggested, backing up towards the door. Your hand reached from behind you to blindly search for the doorknob, only for Natasha to put all of her effort in swinging her cane in the slim space between your fingertips and the doorknob.

You scrambled away from the swing—and from the doorknob, unfortunately. In your fumbling, you dropped your wineglass on the floor. The glass shattered on the floor, its contents spilling in a burgundy pool around the fragments. Only in socks, you stumbled on the spilled liquid, making it easy for the director to usher you away from the door. You struggled to stand back up, feeling the full impacts of your performance and the miserable way you treated your body, compiling and attacking you with just as much vengeance as your director did.

You were decently certain that all you had to eat that day was a quick slice of quiche and some fruit. That fuel ran out well before your performance’s intermission and was nothing but a distant memory to your body, now.

“No,” Natasha’s face was devoid of all kindness. In looking into her cold eyes, you had no doubt that she was a murderer. Not anymore. “You asked for honesty. How is this for honest?” She locked the door, continuing to back you further into the wall by the cabinet she took the wine out of, driving you away from the exit and further into the office. Silent tears fell down your face, but you refused to let her see you sob.

“I liked you, Y/n. I thought we were kindred spirits in a world of weak, spineless, nobodies, who want to try to become dancers when they cannot even stand up straight,” Natasha snapped. She didn’t bother using her cane to walk, merely holding it like a weapon. But she cast it aside once she had you against the wall—not unlike the submissive position her husband forced you into in your own dressing room.

You were approximately the same height—if anything, Natasha had a centimeter or two on you. She still had a bad leg, even though she could clearly walk, but clearly, she had a deep wealth of lethal knowledge.

“I never would have thought you would be one of them,” she continued, casting her cane aside for a pocket knife that she fished out of her skirts. You were strangely calm, despite the panicked, rapid pace your breath came and the hot tears that still spilled down your face. “But if it’s you or me, I will always choose me.”

That wine had to be poisoned. You thanked your instincts.

“You have made that outstandingly clear, Natasha,” you retorted. “You even managed to put yourself before your own interests by screwing yourself out of a career!” you yelled back at her, channeling your rage. Every time she snapped at you, each time she disparaged your dancing, the way your body looked, each time she prepared you for a new patron. “And now what’s left of you is nothing but a bitter woman past her prime. And that is your fault. But y-you take out your f-failure on us!”

“And you? You’re an ungrateful bitch,” Natasha hissed back at you, sliding a thin pocket knife against your throat, causing you to cry out. So close to her, you could smell the wine on her breath and her eyes looked bloodshot. Her pupils were dilated.

You needed to find help. Soon, if you wanted to live. Continuing to taunt Natasha in her office would surely end in your death. While such a sacrifice would surely be enough to convict her, you hoped to see it through. You, in your own way, were the perfect heroine. You knew there was a sacrifice to be made, but if you could help it, you hoped to live.

Swan Lake was only a story, after all.

“And you plan to try to kill me in here?” you asked, gasping as she pressed the blade deeper into your skin. You could feel the painful sting across your nerves, down to your fingertips and as pressure against your windpipe. “H-How will you… get away with it?”

“Shut up,” Natasha laughed again, catching on to your efforts to disregulate her. Painfully smart, she was.

You tried to speak again, but Natasha pressed the blade harder to discourage you. You were at a loss, having allowed yourself to get here by storming in with no plan. Fueled by nothing besides rage, betrayal, and regret.

She looked pleased, content with the way she had managed to turn your attack on her into your demise.

Until there was a knock at the door.

“Mrs. Wood? Is Y/n in there with you? I have been looking for her— I must escort her home.”

You would know that voice anywhere, anytime. No matter what. It made goosebumps erupt on your arms. Ciel had come to the opera house in search of you, despite your best efforts to push him away. Despite your best efforts to convince yourself that he was lying and he didn’t care for you, or anyone, save for himself. The accusation felt shallow, now that a real narcissist had you at knifepoint.

“Ci—!” You started, only for Natasha to shove her hand against your mouth before, forcing her to let go of the collar of Polly’s robe, which she had balled in her first to keep your neck close to her weapon. You had both of your hands to fight her knife hand, trying to pry the small weapon out of her thin—frustratingly strong—fingers. Your arms shook with effort.

“No, Lord Phantomhive, she is not here!” Natasha called over her shoulder, allowing you to use one of your hands to push her face further away, hoping her body would follow her head. You had no combat experience, limited to knowing choreographed fighting on stage. “Why do you have to make everything so difficult?” She mumbled in your ear, hardly having stumbled from your efforts.

The doorknob rattled as Ciel likely realized it was locked.

You had to get her off of you. Well aware that your arms were locked in a stalemate with her knife, you brought your knee up and dug it into her stomach, causing her to curse, holding her stomach in surprise. You used her surprise to push her away and take steps towards the door as quickly as you could manage, only for Natasha to catch your wrist and pull you back.

“Ciel, please!” A sob that had been building in your chest ripped out of you as Natasha pushed you back into the wall, only this time, you were poised on the wall next to the door.

“Y/n!” It sounded like Ciel kicked the door. “On behalf of Her Majesty, let me in there this instant, Natasha!”

“Get him to leave, or I will kill you. Here,” Natasha whispered, taking hold of your chin to force you to look into her eyes. This was the face that 11 ballerinas saw before they died. Natasha’s bloody hatred of you looked just like William’s, irate and predatory. You had no doubt that the woman would kill you.

“Y/n, do what you must to get her off of you! You can handle her!” You heard Ciel call to you, now that he was decently sure that you were with Natasha—against your will. “I need to break this door open. I don’t care if it’s your bloody director’s office—”

“Why are you doing this to us, Natasha?” You whimpered, repeating the question when she refused to answer. You felt blood bleed down your neck where she pressed the blade, but you couldn’t stop asking. You deserved to know. It didn’t feel as if she was pressing hard enough to kill you—you suspected she wanted leverage over Ciel.

“Why are you hurting us?” you demanded. “Why, why, why?”

“Because I should still be the prima ballerina of this company! Like the rest of you ungrateful whores! My husband should want me in the way he wants the lot of you! I should have my applause! My life back! Give it back!” Natasha yelled, slamming your back against the wall by your shoulder. Black spots danced in your eyes, from your exhaustion. Your head felt like it was stuffed with cotton.

“I want my life back! You don’t deserve my life! I’m brilliant. Bloody brilliant. The lot of you—you’re nothing, but me? Me? I am a real ballerina. You all are nothing, useless little rodents you all are! In spite of my best efforts to teach, you all can never just learn!” tears raced down Natasha’s face, as well.

Her words, her tears, ignited a fresh anger in you. You worked most hours out of the day for this woman’s approval, only for her to feel this much contempt—no, resentment, towards you. She tore you down at every step, masquerading it as support. And blamed you for her vitriol. From an injury she brought upon herself.

“I took nothing from you,” you rasped, “none of us ever did. We all worshiped you. And you kill us for it. You. Are. Deranged.” you said strongly, in spite of your pain. You used the rest of your strength to curl your hand into a fist and push it forward, aiming for her nose to stun her. Ciel, for emergency’s sake, took the time to show you how to throw a proper punch. You made certain your thumb was untucked and….

Immediately, your hand erupted in pain, starting in your knuckles and expanding outward. You felt her face yielding to the force more vividly than you thought you ever could, the sound making a dull thud. Clearly, however, Natasha was in more pain, the shock causing her to drop her knife.

Natasha swore in, presumably Russian, and doubled over. She held her face, recoiling with pain. You caught blood dripping down her lips, coming from her nose. Her face immediately swelled.

Before she could recover, you unlocked the door, revealing a panicked Ciel. He seemed to be bracing himself to kick it down, his left leg braced into the ground while he was aiming to drive his right heel into the bit of wood next to the lock. Of course, he knew how to kick a door down. You couldn’t keep yourself from laughing at how absurdly good the Earl was at everything.

You felt delirious, looking at Ciel with your director behind you, bleeding. Because you punched her. Because she was the serial killer you had been looking for all this time. The seriousness on Ciel’s face made your smile crumple, re-recognizing the importance of what had just occurred. You hadn’t stopped crying at all, your face was soaked with tears as much as it was with sweat.

There was some of your own blood smeared on your chin and cheeks from Natasha’s hands—you could smell the iron, you could see Ciel’s gaze investigating the stains to ensure they weren’t open wounds. He had already sized up the cut on your throat the moment he righted himself and pulled you into him, away from the director.

Immediately, you were safe in Ciel’s warmth, shuddering as he put his wool jacket over your shoulders. He was speaking to you, but you could barely bring yourself to register his words. Ready to collapse, your head heavy and gloomy. You hadn’t noticed you were shivering, and yet, he did. Ciel let you hide your face in his neck, the height difference between you was always minimal.

Sebastian stepped inside from behind Ciel, a pleasant smile on his face.

“Sebastian,” Ciel snapped, knowing the butler was behind him without turning around. He had his stare fixated on Natasha as some company members moved to restrain her, despite her cursing and thrashing. Ciel had made a scene in demanding the door be opened, and Natasha must have been loud enough for onlookers to hear. “Take care of this. I don’t want there to be a media scene. Find us in Y/n’s dressing room when you’re finished.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Sebastian replied. “Very well done, Miss Y/l/n,” he said, his dark eyes sparkling. He put his hand on his heart and bowed to Ciel, but this was the first instance he bowed to his master with you standing next to him.

You could have been persuaded that you imagined it.

“Ciel…” you spoke as he guided you away from the rest of the company, the arriving officers, and Natasha as she protested her arrest. You felt weak. Almost empty for idolizing a woman who hurt you and so many others. Who thought so little of so many who thought she was the template to success.

Natasha and William hurt you all, and without Ciel, you never would have come to know that. And he had warned you. But you didn’t listen, when you needed to.

“Thank you for coming here, anyway. I appreciate that you would…come. After everything,” you said, the apology was difficult for you to say, but needed. “I cannot know why you would be so kind to me, but you saved my life again.”

Ciel took your arm in his, more than aware that you were exhausted. “What do you mean you cannot know why I would be so kind to you?” He asked, an eyebrow raised at you. “I thought I was clear earlier today: I want to be with you. And I should apologize, too, honestly.”

“Mutual forgiveness and we can have another talk, later?” you requested, settling into your chair. Ciel locked your dressing room door behind the both of you for privacy’s sake. He pulled out your First Aid kit from under your vanity to start caring for your neck.

“Mutual forgiveness,” he agreed, settling down next to you.

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adaginy · 8 months

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Big Guide to Humans: Lifespan and Development

Humans are not invincible, but despite their reputation for risk-taking, most humans do not die of injuries. Mostly, they die of time. Unlike many species that reach an adult stage and stay there until something (disease, war, mating, cultural practices) kills them, human bodies are in a constant progression into and through maturity. At the end of this progression, their cells damage themselves or each other faster than they can recover from, the human becomes weaker until one or more organ systems ceases function (beyond the ability of medicine to repair), and the human dies.

Most humans measure their age in "years," a time measurement based on their home planet. (A human in a non-human-majority ship or settlement will often figure out the formula for local time conversion soon after arrival; if the formula is not in your records, simply ask them.) A human with no abnormalities may live, on average, to around 150 "years," though this varies based on their personal history and genetics, with some humans being noticeably infirm before 100, and 200 years being rare but not unheard of. Diseases, injuries, and most abnormalities lower this span, some by a great deal and/or abruptly.

All Humans begin life as "babies," not literally a larval stage but similarly underdeveloped, in which for the first year of life they are unable — physically or intellectually — to walk or talk. For another year or two they are not able to do them very fluently. (Their external genitalia are present as part of their excretory system, but with no reproductive ability.) They are entirely dependent on their guardians (often but not always their biological parents). For the next eight to twelve years, they experience mostly steady growth, mentally and physically. Sexual dimorphism is negligible when clothed. Hair and clothing styles are used to signal gender, but this is based on human culture and requires a certain level of expertise to interpret. Although they are still dependent on their parents for securing provisions and for being taught, they are mobile and can take care of their short-term needs. Especially at the end of this range, other humans would consider it safe to leave them briefly unattended. At approximately twelve years old, plus or minus two years, or plus/minus four or more in extreme cases, they enter a multi-year stage of rapid growth called "puberty" in which their reproductive system begins to mature and they start to display sexual dimorphism. By around 18 years of age, and almost certainly by age 20, they will have reached their full adult height and level of "secondary sexual characteristics," the most obvious being a deeper voice and facial hair for males (though they may remove the hair for aesthetic reasons) and breast weight for females, along with body hair and that particular human scent. During this time, they are nearly as intellectually capable as an adult human. However, as they are experiencing adult emotions for the first time, their moods can be unstable. Additionally, their understanding of risk is poor even by human standards, and it is important to check with their guardians before engaging in activities that you may be tempted to think sound reasonable for a human. Because their intellectual and emotional development lags sharply behind their reproductive development, and because they do not have a "finished" adult stage, humans have declared "18 years old" to be when adulthood begins and one is allowed to register for military service, enter into legal agreements, consume mind-altering substances, and engage in cross-species sexual relationships. !! Clarification: If you mate with or even attempt to mate with a human under 18 years old, they will not be punished. You will face severe repercussions from the human and/or Unified legal systems, in addition to high risk of humans' Protected Cultural Practice of violence to protect family and children. !!

As imprecise as developmental timing is before adulthood, it is even more so afterward. It is simply not possible to give an accurate accounting of when certain markers of human age will appear, or even in what order. Like a human's life span, it depends on personal history and genetics, and even a person who will live to be 200 might show signs of aging by age 30. Some humans never display certain signs. This list is not exhaustive. - New head or face hairs growing in grey or white instead of their original color. - Facial skin softening until it begins to crease and fold under its own weight (while human facial expressions often involve wrinkling the skin, those lines are not permanent). - Head hairs not being replaced when they fall out (earlier and more apparent in males, sometimes beginning even before adulthood). - Loss of teeth: Humans lose some teeth and replace them before puberty, but teeth lost later in life will not grow back. Because loss of teeth makes eating difficult, it is very likely for lost teeth to be replaced artificially. - Irregularly-shaped patches of darker skin, about .01-03 LocalAreaUnits, on some lighter-skinned humans. - Complaints of pain in joints. - New weakness in the sense of hearing. - New weakness in the sense of vision, beyond what can be easily corrected with adjustment lenses. - Weakness of memory, moreso for recent events than distant events. - A "stooped" posture in which the neck (the support column for the head) is held at a forward angle and the shoulders are in front of the chest. Some younger humans may have this for non-aging reasons, but otherwise it is one of the last signs of aging to develop, signaling the progression of the body's inability to repair itself.

If you are only encountering humans in a work environment — on a battleship for example, as opposed to a residential or mixed-use ship or a settlement — it is likely that all the humans you meet are adults who, regardless of age, are not nearing the end of their lifespan.

#addie writes #humans are space orcs #Big Guide to Humans #human bodies #maybe by the time we're in space we'll have cured death #but maybe we will have gotten [Good Place spoilers redacted] about it instead

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ideasarestuckinmyhead · 12 days

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A story where the bittersweet boys are relaxing at home while sugar boo is getting ready for a night out with friends , they feel a little embarrassed and nervous due to the fact that they dressed in a sluttier and more revealing outfit then they usually would, upon seeing the outfit the boys are sure to let them know what they think. ( sorry if this is a repeat request my phone isdumb)

Let me tell you something!

Looking at the mirror, Boo saw themselves in a skimpy outfit. Their friends told them, Sheila, would come to pick them up to go clubbing. Even helped Sugarboo plan when they could and got them things delivered for it.

"....Is this too much?" Asking themselves, Boo frowned thinking about it. Shaking their head they fixed their hair and make up. Sighing they decided to go get the boys opinions on this, since they couldn't seem to figure it out.

Walking to the living room, Boo needed to be quick about this before they start doubting themselves more. As they stepped in the main room of the house, Alphonse who was looking g at the hall gave a wolf whistle. Causing Seth to turn his head and then flush a bit.

"Damn Boo! You look so hot in that." Flirting, Alphonse hopped off the recliner and went to them. Boo gave a small smile as they felt themselves feel better. Seth got up as well and went by their right, while Al was on the left.

"Yeah Sugar, this is for the club you said you were gonna go to?" Asking for clarification, Seth grabbed your hand and got an idea, "Give us a twirl, darlin'."

Giggling, Boo followed and let them spin around as Seth guided them. Alphonse gave a low whistle as he leaned down and gave Boo a kiss. Then wrapped his long arms around them and grumbled a bit.

"I don't know if I want you to leave....what if someone flirts with you! And were not there being security for you..." Pouting Alphonse leaned his head and looked at Seth. The brunette laughed at that and gave Boo a slight kiss, fixing their hair a bit.

"I fear hes right sugar, you do look good enough to ravish right now." Joking, Seth then tugged on the pastel punk. Who, sighed and got off Boo, however the baker still couldn't help but ask.

"Do I look good or is it too much?" Quietly asking Boo turned to the big mirror in the living room. The two men looked at each other, then to Boo with soft smiles.

"Boo. You will make everyone jealous by how hot you are. Won't even know if they dont fuck with you or wanna fuck you." Hyping you up, Alphonse then looked at Seth. The southern man nodded along with the pinkette.

"He's right sugar, you look so stunning. Perfect for a night out. But if you do feel like ya dont wanna go you don't need to." Soothing their worries, Seth's comforting and Alphonse hyping them made Boo feel better. Opening their mouth to thank their boys there was a honk outside. Then a ping on their phone, looking down the smiled again.

"That's Sheila!...I'm going to go. Thank you two with helping me...I'll text you when I ge there and when we leave!" Explaining, Boo gave both boys a kiss and a hug goodbye. Both of them chuckled seeing Boo rushed around gathering things before opening the front door.

Yelling at their friend that they were coming, Alphonse closed the front door after the two of them waved Boo off. Seth then went back and sat on the couch, sighing as he held his face.

"Sugar was way too hot....fuck." Groaning, the brunette then grabbed the remote and continued the TV show. The pastel punk nodded as he sat back on the recliner.

#red rants #yuurivoice #red answers #yuurivoice alphonse #yuurivoice seth #yuurivoice bittersweet

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mariacallous · 5 months

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You’ve been asked to serve on the jury in the first-ever criminal prosecution of a United States president. What could possibly go wrong? The answer, of course, is everything.

A juror in former president Donald Trump’s ongoing criminal trial in New York was excused on Thursday after voicing fears that she could be identified based on biographical details that she had given in court. The dismissal of Juror 2 highlights the potential dangers of participating in one of the most politicized trials in US history, especially in an age of social media frenzies, a highly partisan electorate, and a glut of readily available personal information online.

Unlike jurors in federal cases, whose identities can be kept completely anonymous, New York law allows—and can require—the personal information of jurors and potential jurors to be divulged in court. Juan Merchan, the judge overseeing Trump’s prosecution in Manhattan, last month ordered that jurors’ names and addresses would be withheld. But he could not prevent potential jurors from providing biographical details about themselves during the jury selection process, and many did. Those details were then widely reported in the press, potentially subjecting jurors and potential jurors to harassment, intimidation, and threats—possibly by Trump himself. Merchan has since blocked reporters from publishing potential jurors’ employment details.

The doxing dangers that potential jurors face became apparent on Monday, day one of the proceedings. An update in a Washington Post liveblog about Trump’s trial revealed the Manhattan neighborhood where one potential juror lived, how long he’d lived there, how many children he has, and the name of his employer. Screenshots of the liveblog update quickly circulated on social media, as people warned that the man could be doxed, or have his identity revealed publicly against his will with the intent to cause harm, based solely on that information.

“It's quite alarming how much information someone skilled in OSINT could potentially gather based on just a few publicly available details about jurors or potential jurors,” says Bob Diachenko, cyber intelligence director at data-breach research organization Security Discovery and an expert in open source intelligence research.

Armed with basic personal details about jurors and certain tools and databases, “an OSINT researcher could potentially uncover a significant amount of personal information by cross-referencing all this together,” Diachenko says. “That's why it's crucial to consider the implications of publicly revealing jurors' personal information and take steps to protect their privacy during criminal trials.”

Even without special OSINT training, it can be trivial to uncover details about a juror’s life. To test the sensitivity of the information the Post published, WIRED used a common reporting tool to look up the man’s employer. From there, we were able to identify his name, home address, phone number, email address, his children’s and spouse’s identities, voter registration information, and more. The entire process took roughly two minutes. The Post added a clarification to its liveblog explaining that it now excludes the man’s personal details.

The ready availability of those details illustrates the challenges in informing the public about a highly newsworthy criminal case without interfering in the justice process, says Kathleen Bartzen Culver, the James E. Burgess Chair in Journalism Ethics and director of the School of Journalism & Mass Communication at the University of Wisconsin-Madison.

“Simply because a notable figure is on trial does not mean that a juror automatically surrenders any claim to privacy,” Bartzen Culver says. “People who have been drawn into a case that is exceptionally newsworthy are not aware that a simple statement that they make about where they work might identify them and open them up to scrutiny and possibly risk.”

The dangers to jurors or potential jurors has only increased since the first day of jury selection, which remains ongoing, in part due to the challenges of prosecuting a former US president and the presumptive Republican nominee in the 2024 US presidential election. Trump is charged with 34 counts of falsifying business records, a class E felony in New York state, for payments made ahead of the 2016 presidential election related to alleged affairs with two women, adult performer Stormy Daniels and Playboy model Karen McDougal. Trump has claimed his prosecution is a “communist show trial” and a “witch hunt” and has pleaded not guilty.

On Fox News, coverage of Trump’s trial has repeatedly focused on the potential political motivations of the jurors, bolstering the former president’s claims. Trump, in turn, has repeated the claims by the conservative news network’s hosts. In a post on Truth Social on Wednesday, Trump quoted Fox News commentator Jesse Watters claiming on air that potential jurors in Trump’s trial are “undercover liberal activists lying to the judge in order to get on the Trump jury.” This, despite a gag order that forbids Trump from “making or directing others to make public statements about any prospective juror or any juror in this criminal proceeding.”

Broader media coverage of the Trump trial jurors appears to often be the work of political reporters who are unfamiliar with the journalism ethics specific to covering a criminal trial, says UW-Madison’s Bartzen Culver. “It's like when political reporters covered Covid and science journalists lost their minds.” She adds that it’s important for any journalist covering a criminal case—Trump’s or otherwise—to “consider our role within the justice system.”

“Unethical behavior by journalists can delay trials. It can result in overturned convictions and the people having to go back and do a retrial,” Bartzen Culver says. “That all works against our system of justice.”

The New York case is one of four ongoing criminal proceedings against Trump. In Georgia, where he faces multiple felony charges for alleged attempts to interfere with the state’s electoral process in 2020, Trump supporters leaked the addresses of members of the grand jury, after their names were listed in the 98-page indictment against the former president, as required by state law. Georgia’s Fulton County Sheriff’s Office said last August that it was investigating threats against the jury members. The incident highlights the persistent dangers people can face from Trump’s supporters, both in the near term and for the rest of their lives, if they’re viewed as having acted against him.

The leaks were discovered by Advance Democracy Inc. (ADI), a nonpartisan, nonprofit research and investigations organization founded by Daniel J. Jones, a former investigator for the FBI and the US Senate Intelligence Committee. So far, Jones tells WIRED, ADI has not uncovered attempts to dox jurors in Trump’s New York trial. But it’s still early days.

“We have not yet found identifying information on the extremist forums we monitor,” Jones says. “Having said that, I share your concern that it is only a matter of time before this happens.”

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eyeofnewtblog · 11 months

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Things that happen at home:

So, my mom had her first symphony concert this weekend, and I’m happy to report that it was a smashing success.

What I personally thought was really cool is that the whole symphony is mostly older women. Most of the brass section was older men though, and you could tell that the trumpet and trombone players were having a great time with the music (lots of jamming out head and shoulders movement) and WOW that tuba player has A Set Of Lungs.

Honestly kinda makes me miss the days when Middle Sister would stand just outside my bedroom door and just BLAST through her practice session as fast as possible. Yes, she was a tuba player. Yes, she was in marching band and orchestra. Yes, I absolutely ran out screaming “MOOOOOOMMMMMM!!!!!” Every. Single. Time. No, that did not stop her in anyway whatsoever.

Anyway, there was also a cello soloist that performed with violin and viola accompaniment, and he was legitimately fantastic. I told my mom during intermission that she was better and she did her scrunch up face of You’re Full Of Shit But I Like The Support which was cute.

I was sitting next to my one of my cousins for the concert and we both kept side eyeing each other and giggling about how he was bobbing along and jamming out…for those of you that don’t know, it’s very easy to jam out and look cool when you have either a very small instrument or a very large instrument.

When you have a medium instrument, like a cello or French horn, you just look silly if you’re jamming out (saxophone is the exception) and my mom has this very…contained way of playing that looks intense but graceful and determined. So to see someone looking like they’re jamming out on an electric guitar while playing a cello was just…hilarious to us, because we’ve been watching my mom jam out for decades and never seen anyone look so goofy while sounding so good.

One of my moms work friends showed up, and she was an absolute delight. Complete sweetheart; it’s also really fucking funny to tease government contractors about their top secret clearances and joke about their projects or basically anything that they aren’t allowed to talk about. (I teased her specifically about being in the CIA because she does intelligence analysis; my husband and I have a long standing “argument” about if my mom works on quantum computers or making targeted ai satellite systems talk to each other, because honestly her PhD could easily allow for both) the goal is to make relatively small jokes and then drop it quickly because you don’t actually want them to violate their security protocols…but fucking hell if it isn’t fun to toe the line.

My mechanic husband had the dubious joy of teaching me how to jump start a car in the parking lot without jumper cables. (My car battery is in the fritz and needs replacement but we honestly thought it could wait another month or so…)

But basically you put the car in neutral, push it into a position that it can roll naturally downhill, then put it in either first gear or reverse (which ever way is down hill, basically) and release the clutch. I’m pretty sure this only works on automatic transmission vehicles, but I could be wrong and didn’t ask for clarification.

I’d like to point out that we were in a crowded parking lot with a perfectly functioning set of jumper cables. We could have absolutely asked any of the ten people walking by if we could get a jump. We could have waited for my cousin to come out, because we were parked right next to each other. But no. “What if you’re stuck by yourself? You pride yourself on being able to get out of anything.”

That man knows me too well.

Overall, great night. Fantastic concert, great learning experience, got to be an absolute little shit. 10/10, would do again.

#humans are space orcs #my mom is amazing as always #cello is the best instrument I’ll die on this hill #car trouble #marry a mechanic #trust me it works #but also #marry a plumber #either way you will never be helpless again

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dee-writes-smut · 6 months

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STETHOSCOPES & DATES (Part Two)

FEATURING Mark Sloan x reader

SUMMARY after much convincing (a walk to bed), you agree to a date with Mark.

CONTENT WARNINGS descriptions of injuries, pain, sleep deprivation, vulnerability, and Mark being Mark

AUTHORS NOTE finally, the second part is here! (thank god) As always, enjoy and leave me a request if you want to see me write something!

As Mark trailed me through the chaos of the trauma bay, his persistent presence grated on my nerves like sandpaper against skin. "Come on, really?!" he groaned, his voice a constant background noise amidst the urgent flurry of activity.

I snapped, whirling around to face him with a sharpness born of frustration. My momentum almost carried me into his chest, but I held my ground, meeting his gaze head-on. "Mark!" I snapped, my tone sharp and clipped. "Either lend a hand with a patient or give me some breathing room. Your constant badgering isn't doing anyone any favors!"

Despite our recent agreement, Mark seemed unwilling to let the matter rest. Two weeks had passed, yet he continued to push for renegotiation, his persistence bordering on exasperating. "All I'm asking for is a reconsideration of the terms, maybe some clarification?" he pleaded, his voice tinged with desperation as he trailed after me like a persistent shadow.

I raised an eyebrow at his persistence, feeling the weight of his expectations pressing down on me. "I'm pretty sure pestering me about the deal violates the terms of the deal, doesn't it?" I countered, my patience wearing thin as I paused by a patient's bedside to assess their condition.

Mark's response came quick and defensive, as if he feared he had crossed an invisible line. "It doesn't!" he insisted, his words tinged with a hint of uncertainty.

Turning my attention back to the young girl before me, I pushed aside the distraction of Mark's relentless pursuit. The patient needed my focus, her frightened eyes pleading for reassurance amidst the chaos of the emergency room. "Mark, we can discuss this later," I relented, my voice softened by compassion as I comforted the child. "But for now, could you please page pediatrics? This little girl needs help."

Mark's silence spoke volumes, a tacit acknowledgment that my promise of a future conversation had quelled his insistence, at least for the moment. With a sense of relief, he hurried off to find Arizona, leaving me to tend to the young patient in need of care.

After endless hours of rushing through the ER—performing emergency surgeries, consulting with specialists, endlessly paging colleagues, chastising interns, and offering solace to nurses—I finally reached the moment to clock out and head home.

Arriving at the lounge, it was already four in the morning, marking a shift spanning over twenty-four hours. Despite the exhaustion, there was no other place I'd rather be. Being there for people during their darkest moments gave me a sense of purpose, making the world feel a bit brighter and more hopeful.

Sighing with relief, I settled onto the bench in front of my locker to change my shoes. The door creaked open, but I was too drained to look up. My senses jolted when I felt strong hands on my shoulders, instantly relaxing as they worked out the knots in my neck.

"Derek, the least you could've done was announce yourself," I chided weakly, my eyelids drooping with the soothing massage. "You nearly gave me a heart attack… I could've…"

My voice trailed off as I surrendered to the blissful sensation of his skilled hands. Derek remained silent, and if he replied, I was too ensnared by sleep to hear. As fatigue overtook me, I imagined soft lips planting a tender kiss on my temple before I was lifted and carried to a far more comfortable spot than the hard bench. Drifting into oblivion, I couldn't discern where I was headed, enveloped in the security of those warm arms cradling me against a sturdy chest.

The morning sunlight filtering through the blinds gradually roused me from my deep sleep. Blinking groggily, I found myself in a familiar yet unfamiliar setting—the on-call room at the hospital. Confusion clouded my mind momentarily as I struggled to recall how I ended up here.

Pushing myself up into a sitting position, I glanced around, noticing the empty space beside me. Memories of being carried to this room flooded back, but the identity of the person who had carried me remained shrouded in the haze of sleep.

Shaking off the remnants of drowsiness, I resolved to seek out the one who had assisted me—or rather, who I thought had assisted me. With a slight sense of anticipation tinged with apprehension, I made my way through the corridors to Derek's office.

Knocking lightly on the door, I waited for a response. When it swung open, my heart skipped a beat as Derek's familiar figure stood before me. "Hey," I began tentatively, "thanks for last night. I appreciate—"

Before I could finish my sentence, Derek's brow furrowed in confusion. "Last night?" he echoed, his expression puzzled.

Realization dawned on me slowly as I processed his words. "Wait… it wasn't you?" I murmured, feeling a knot of embarrassment forming in my stomach.

Derek shook his head, his confusion deepening. "No, I haven't seen you since yesterday afternoon."

My cheeks flushed with embarrassment as the truth sank in. If it wasn't Derek who had carried me to bed last night, then…

As the pieces fell into place, I turned to see Mark standing nearby, wearing a sheepish expression. "You… it was you," I murmured, feeling a mixture of embarrassment and genuine gratitude.

Mark nodded sheepishly. "Yeah, I saw you asleep on the bench and thought you needed somewhere to properly sleep. Sorry for the mix-up."

As Mark's smirk widened, a sense of resignation settled over me. I could practically predict his next words before they even left his lips. "Can I call in my favor now?" he asked, his tone laced with playful anticipation.

With a weary sigh, I dropped my head, bracing myself for the inevitable. Derek's laughter echoed from the doorway, adding to the surreal moment. "Let me guess," I muttered, feeling a mixture of defeat and amusement, "you want to take me out on a date."

In perfect synchronization, Mark blurted out, "Can I take you out on a date?"

The irony of the situation wasn't lost on me. I groaned inwardly, knowing there was no way out of this. "Fine, fine," I relented, my voice carrying a hint of resignation. "You can take me out."

Mark's expression shifted to one of skepticism, his eyes narrowing slightly. "And you'll actually try?" he teased, his voice tinged with doubt.

With a roll of my eyes, I reluctantly agreed, feeling a mix of reluctance and curiosity. "I'll actually try," I conceded, already bracing myself for whatever adventure Mark had in mind.

The day of the date arrived amidst the usual chaos of the ER. As the attending physician, my schedule was packed with emergencies, consultations, and the constant buzz of activity that defined life in the hospital.

Despite the whirlwind of responsibilities, I found myself stealing glances at the clock throughout the day, counting down the hours until the evening. Thoughts of the impending date with Mark lingered at the back of my mind, a mix of nervousness and curiosity churning within me.

Between attending to patients and coordinating with the medical team, I couldn't help but wonder how the evening would unfold. Mark, the plastic surgery attending, was undoubtedly accustomed to a different pace of life compared to the frenetic energy of the emergency room. Would he find our date as overwhelming as I found his world of cosmetic procedures and aesthetic enhancements?

Despite my reservations and the knot of discomfort in my stomach, I couldn't ignore the fact that Mark had been persistent in his pursuit for years. His reputation as a known player and his past indiscretions, including sleeping with my best friend, left a bitter taste in my mouth. Yet, his relentless pestering had finally worn me down, leading me to reluctantly agree to this date.

As I prepared for the evening, a mixture of emotions swirled within me. Anger, disappointment, and a lingering sense of betrayal warred with the faint glimmer of curiosity and the possibility of something new. Despite my better judgment, I couldn't shake the feeling that perhaps there was more to Mark than met the eye.

Arriving at the restaurant after the hospital had calmed down enough for me to feel comfortable with leaving, I braced myself for the encounter, steeling my resolve as I stepped through the door. The soft glow of candlelight and the murmur of conversation enveloped me, creating an atmosphere that felt both intimate and nerve-wracking.

Spotting Mark across the room, a wave of conflicting emotions washed over me. Resentment mingled with a begrudging acknowledgment of his persistence, tempered by a cautious curiosity about what the evening might entail.

Taking a deep breath, I squared my shoulders and approached him, determined to give this date a chance despite my reservations. After all, perhaps there was more to Mark than his reputation suggested, and maybe, just maybe, tonight would offer a glimpse beneath the surface.

#greys anatomy #mark sloan #x reader #derek shepard #fanfic

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fairuzfan · 7 months

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Hi, can I ask for clarification on one of your posts..https://www.tumblr.com/fairuzfan/730668898720071680/id-like-to-respond-to-this-not-because-i-think?source=share

So in this one, from the second reblog the main ideas are that : Israel wants to provide a cover for its genocide, by replacing Palestinian homes and that the Israeli civilians know this and chose to stay near there? Correct?

No I was saying moreso "why would you live next to a concentration camp unless you had no moral qualms about it?" + they didn't care that it was a "security risk" to be near there. There seems to be very little regulations about living near what the Israeli state outwardly proclaims as a large terror base and no one really stopped and though "maybe it would be safer to not live near a concentration camp."

When I say "cover" I meant like... the Israeli government doesn't care what happens to civilians because they know they can just blame it on the people who were breaking out of their cage. "Well nothing would have happened if they didn't leave gaza" is their reasoning even now. Flimsy to say the least.

Anyways there has to be something seriously wrong with you if you party near an open air prison. Of all the places you could go, you're going near the concentration camp? Ok, then. They obviously didn't care about optics.

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bayaaranja · 6 months

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Harpoon Hybrid - CSM oc

(Edit: Name change, 16/04/24.)

Second oc!! (One of my favs<3)

His name is Botan Kawase!! (Affectionately shortened to Bo!!!) I forgot to put in on the ref but he's 5'4 ft (around 163 cm)

Outfits: Public Safety uniform, Fourth East gakuran and deckhand port cloth.

Tap for more info and a few doodles of him!!

🎣— Character details!!

(He/Him pronouns for Botan!!)

⚠️Warning:—Manipulation mentions (Makima), badly drawn blood on the last pic.

Botan is calm, polite and keeps an stoic facade (which Yoshida breaks easily.) most of the time, school and work equally. He's socially awkward and tends to avoid conversations by giving small talk, answering with just a "yes", a nod, a "no" or a head shake. After what happened in his hometown, Yazui, in addition to the fact that he is now in a profession where people could die for just be around him, he is not very interested in making friends, still the harpoon can't help but get attached to certain people around him. Botan is still a teenager (17 or 18 y/o.)

He is the Harpoon Hybrid, he prefers not to talk about how he merged with the devil. But the encounter happened a few months before the Yazui port staff found him,

Botan is currently working for Public Safety, deciding to stay after being freed from Makima's control in the Control Devil Arc; now member of Special Division 7

He used to be a deckhand in Yaizu's city port, Shizuoka prefecture, being hired as a private devil hunter by the port staff and crew when they found him, he had killed the Sea Urchin Devil near the installations in his hybrid form. He was offered a home, water, food and other basic needs in exchange for being, so to speak, security against devils who attacked the port, staff, prevented any process or exit of the boats¿ He formed a bond with most of the tribulation members and saw some of them as father/mother figures and family.

Public Safety learned of his existence through a staff error and immediately took him away, laying off some staff members. Makima being Makima, pulled some strings to have the harpoon hybrid transferred to Tokyo to be a member of Special Division 5 along the rest of the weapons. Botan was easy prey for Makima, he felt extremely guilty for getting some of the crew fired and she offered him comfort through a false façade of a mother figure. (Just as a small clarification, Botan never had romantic feelings towards Makima, he saw her more as a mother and wanted to protect her during his brainwash.)

The Harpoon now with free will really saw no point in trying to return to Yazui, he felt sorry and guilty and it just didn't feel right for him to return. With no better alternative, he stayed at Public Safety and began renting an apartment in Tokyo with his salary; still wears one of the port's hooks as a bracelet along with keeping some photos and shells from his time still in Shizuoka, a few decorate his apartment along other sea themed objects.

Botan was assigned as Yoshida's partner, Denji's bodyguard, and was ordered by his superior to harpoon out the chainsaw hybrid's heart if he at any time disobeyed orders or lost control.

🎣— First meeting!! (oc x canon)

With a new job and a new mission to protect a certain blonde boy, of course this was not going to be a job just for the Harpoon. Botan was quiet and quite upright with Yoshida at first, he limited himself to only talking about the mission even though Yoshida wanted to know more and was curious about the hybrid. Hirofumi of course insisted in getting to know each other better and ended up dragging reluctantly the harpoon to a Cafe so they could talk more comfortably unlike the PS building which air conditioner probably never goes off in 24/7, they had a few drinks and desserts together and suddenly Botan was starting to think this guy is maybe not that bad as he initially looked.

Botan thought Yoshida was kind of weird at first (and still kind of does) but he has developed admiration towards his professionalism and totally grown a camaraderie like for him.

No, he's not going to elaborate about what he thinks about Yoshida, nothing further than a "He does a good job."

He knows he's pretty you don't need to tell him, man literally sees him daily, no, he's not going to admit he thinks he's pretty.

Botan makes sure to assist Yoshida whenever he gets hurt in missions, even if it's just a small scratch that not even himself had noticed until the hybrid pointed out.

At some point Botan called him Hirofumi instead of Yoshida and apologized quickly but a smile and a "It's fine, you can call me Hirofumi" with a rather warmer tone than usual from the eerie boy was enough for the harpoon to start using his name on him always. No, he didn't get home happy that day, "The pollen in the air tickles my nose." and he was smiling more than usual that day... "Hm? We're not in spring yet? Uh, how strange then." and he shrugged.

🎣— Hybrid form!!

Botan possesses a small gun trigger on his upper back which he usually covers with his hair which, forgive the redundancy, triggers his hybrid transformation by being pulled. (May change this in the future)

In this appearance his head is replaced by an harpoon gun or canyon that he can shoot along the harpoons attached to his arms by pointing with his index finger, he also can also simply detach the harpoons to throw them in more traditional way or use them in melee combat just like the Spear Hybrid.

The ropes tied to the harpoons are useful for him to make the weapons return to him, the ropes are infinite and don't really have a limit to stop stretching but they can be rip by a blunt weapon or sharp object.

If Botan losses any of his harpoons under any circumstance he can simply generate/create them again to replace the ones he lost, the harpoons are sharp enough to pierce through a Sperm whale and a Blue whale easily.

The harpoon hybrid accuracy allows him to hit targets easily and freely even if they're hundreds of meters away from him.

He possesses as well the other same abilities than the rest of The Weapons have as: Augmented body, healing by blood consumption and nigh-immortality.

Botan tries to perfect his handling of weapons such as: the poleaxe, the fauchard, the glaive and firearms in general to avoid depending from his hybrid form, in a way aspiring to be like Quanxi.

That's all for now!! I'll try to bring more of him and my others ocs soon!! :3

Thanks for reading! —★

🎣—"The seas raised me, a ship cradled me and the seagulls lulled me to sleep."

#csm #csm fanart #csm hirofumi #csm yoshida #yoshida hirofumi #csm oc #csm art #chainsaw man #oc x canon #digital art #oc art #oc #artists on tumblr #digital drawing #.oran berry 🎨#.oran berry ocs (⁠*⁠´⁠ω⁠｀⁠*⁠)

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uzumaki-rebellion · 2 days

Text

"King Killmonger: The Golden Jaguar" Chapter 15

Masterlist HERE.

youtube

"My compass does just fine on its own

So much pride, it built a second home

I, I can't hide behind me no more

I went solo and flew high (high)

No one said it would be easy or crowded

How do you stay grounded alone?

(I) I wanna be surrounded by

My design in full

Not for sale"

Rae Khalil – "Is It Worth It?"

Working in the Grand Hall of Parliament was not N'Jadaka's favorite part of the week. Luckily, he only did it twice a week. N'Jadaka always reserved mornings for the Council of Elders, with the occasional time block for citizen petitions presented to him on Tuesdays. His afternoons focused on office meetings with department heads or state visits throughout Wakanda. The rest of his calendar year juggled international travel dates to various countries for public events and private talks.

He glanced over to his right where Yani perched, all reserved and queenly. The isicholo on her head carried such a presence next to him. It had been over six years since a queen had been a part of proceedings and the room buzzed with a charge of energy that hadn't been there since he had become king. Even the giant ten-foot high iron and vibranium masks that represented each tribe looking down upon them from the walls conveyed more ancestral weight with her attendance.

The interior of the Grand Hall had an egg shape, with Yani and himself positioned at the narrow end next to the Head of Parliament known as the Mkhulu Inkokeli. A woman named Sesam of the Mining Tribe held the position for a term of five years. She took a liking to Yani's overall demeanor right away and began proceedings quickly so they could finish at a reasonable time for the queen's first day. He glanced at his wife again.

They fit.

As king and queen.

His intimidating aura and Yani's calm and collected appeal balanced the country's royal leadership. She listened with rapt attention to raised voices and assertive arguments from nobles and commoners who represented their districts with passion and acerbic wit. Wakandans were gifted orators, and each tribe had their own distinct and bombastic style of handing out public lashings to their opponents. Several times, Yani burst out laughing at a sharp retort, and her melodic voice brought out the competitiveness in the group to outshine one another to impress the queen. That afternoon presented three bills that needed approval to move forward by himself and Yani. She read the proposed bills on a comm tab in front of her and highlighted the line items she needed clarification on. Whenever he or she needed to speak to each other, or ask Sesam a question, they tapped a button on the voting console embedded in the desk to silence their mics. Yani pressed another button and everyone stopped speaking to hear her voice amplified for a general question to a politician. She mixed the Wakandan she knew with English and was relieved to know that every person in that assembly spoke and understood English. They found her attempts at the national language impressive. Umama taught her how to pause with her words and not utter "um" or other place holder words when she felt flustered searching for how to say something in Wakandan. It helped her sound more confident with the language.

Yani directed her current inquiry to a husky man with a robust personality from the Jabari Tribe.

"Inkokeli Tayo, are your concerns about expanding local tourism in your region because of ecological worries or cultural ones?" Yani asked.

Tayo turned in Yani's direction. He wore a flamboyant style of furs and fringe, and sported a 'frohawk adorned with small mollusk shells. The Jabari Tribe secured representation in parliament within the last four years and became the most ardent debaters on every bill brought before the Grand Hall meetings. Having been closed off from the rest of Wakandan society for centuries, they were still learning how to work with a collective governing body. M'Baku sat near Tayo. He'd missed the Council of Elders meeting to tend to military maneuvers in the field on N'Jadaka's behalf. The king acknowledged him with a tilt of his head.

"Queen Yani, we have preserved our lands since we severed our union with Wakanda long ago. We should be exempt from any plans to expand the reach of strangers into our lands who may not respect our values and way of life. Wakandans prefer technology over everything else and we are not equipped to handle an influx of ardent technophiles who may influence our young people in ways that go against Jabari traditions," Tayo said.

Remy pressed a button on his desk console. Sesam acknowledged him.

"The chair recognizes Inkokeli Ramatla Ntu."

Yani sucked her teeth low, but N'Jadaka clocked the agitation in the sound. Remy stood, nodded to Tayo, and looked at Yani.

"Kumkanikazi, local tourism engages our citizens in cultural exchanges that are beneficial to everyone involved. It is because the Jabarilands have been cut off from us that we seek reunification through tourism. If the Jabari Tribe are to be a part of this assembly making important decisions that affect all of Wakanda, they cannot stay aloof. With all due respect, Inkokeli Tayo, the Jabari can no longer look down at us from the sky. You must join us as a united kingdom."

Several assembly members stood up and applauded, invigorated by Remy's words cajoling the Jabari to concede. A few of the male Jabari tribal members backing Tayo's speech hooted and barked. Some people fussed back and forth with other tribes giving their opinions on Remy's call for action. Others whispered and looked toward N'Jadaka, trying to read his expression and the queen's.

Yani shifted in her seat. Her willful brown eyes peered at Remy with thoughtful consideration and then she focused her attention on Tayo using measured language.

"Inkokeli Tayo, I understand your concerns. Back where I am from, I worked for an ecotourism company that showcased our protected mangroves and sea life. Our culture relied on tourism for our livelihood. Most of our people were taught from a young age to view the tourism industry as our primary means of survival. I sometimes grew tired of people coming to our island and having everything catered to their whims because we depended on them to live. Our home became entertainment and a playground for strangers all over the world. Here in Wakanda, we are in a unique position to control the number of people permitted entry and we also don't need tourism for our survival under capitalism. I'm sure we can find a compromise that satisfies everyone here. Would you feel more comfortable if we waited on tourism in the Jabarilands until your people came up with a plan that worked better for you?"

The sweet sound of Yani's voice enchanted everyone listening. N'Jadaka kept his expression neutral, although he was beaming inside because of her eloquence, understanding, and gentle nudge of non-Jabari to ease their pressure on the mountain tribe. Tayo glanced at M'Baku. The great chief of the Jabari nodded his head.

"Yes…yes Queen Yani. We would prefer not to be included with any proposals for expanding tourism in our mountains."

Yani looked at Mkhulu Inkokeli Sesam.

"Can we table that proposed bill for now? I'm willing to help the Jabari present something different in the future when they are ready. Limited tourism stressing the importance of preserving delicate cultural ecosystems is something I have expertise in," Yani said.

Mkhulu Inkokeli Sesam seemed surprised at the offer and glanced at N'Jadaka before speaking.

"I suppose we can put that off. King N'Jadaka, do you have any objections?"

"I have none."

Sesam continued.

"How much time would you need, kumkanikazi?"

Yani tapped her kimoyo and interfaced it with her comm tab. Her personal calendar floated flat on the desk in a bright neon orange glow and she overlaid the upcoming parliament schedule on top of it, searching for an open date. She was booked and busy for months, from what he could tell.

"September 28th," Yani said. "I'll meet with Council Elder Chief M'Baku at his convenience and discuss the matter further with him and his administration."

"Very well. All in favor?" Sesam asked the entire body.

"Ewe!" the entire body replied.

N'Jadaka leaned over to her ear and whispered, "You just saved us from listening to Tayo run a long ass speech about the virtues of the Jabariland traditions since 28,000 B.C.!"

Yani tapped her calendar until she locked in her schedule. He rubbed his hand against hers and she patted his arm.

"I planned on visiting M'Baku's wife Ayomide during their Founder's Day Celebration Brunch. That would be the best time to speak to them while they're in a festive mood. The Jabarilands are beautiful and the rest of Wakanda would learn to respect and appreciate their ways if they visited in person. I loved my tour of it and there are ways to make it less stressful for their people," she said.

"And if they disagree?"

"I'll charm them," she said.

"Look at you acting all big and bad," he teased.

They watched the assembly vote on two bills before release. Several nobles rushed N'Jadaka, wanting to invite them to mid-day snacks and tea inside the dining wing on the ninth floor. Yani had never visited it before and looked enthralled by its elegant look. All government staff ate there throughout the day, and the ornate furniture and fixtures showcased the vast wealth of Wakanda.

The food and ambiance were not much different from an exclusive, top-notch restaurant. One section highlighted the best view of the sprawling skyline and the beauty of the Jabari Mountains. The sky bridge looked breathtaking connecting them to the East palace. From that angle, shielded behind smoked-glass that transitioned from light to dark on its own to offset glares from the sun, N'Jadaka admired the meticulous construction of the double citadel structure. The palace had been designed as a mighty fortress with the addition of spiky, reinforced torons that blended decorative elements to the overall architecture. At that time of day, the sunlight struck the exterior and gave off warm metallic hues of sun-baked bronze, and burnished copper with slight undertones of orange and pink. He pointed it out to Yani, and she appreciated the splendor of African creativity.

Below them were smaller, older towers with gold turrets that flanked the moat surrounding the double palace. Across from the moat were round, thatched-roof buildings that contrasted the more sophisticated structures of their civic center signaling the start of Birnin Zana's Old Town that was popular with the locals for shopping and tasty street food. The winding river valley they nestled within informed the circular city layout that housed structures along the contours of the natural environment.

N'Jadaka normally had reserved seating set aside for him with the best window view, but he often dined with officials at different tables throughout the week. The mid-day meal menu featured aromatic Bashenga Mountain coffee, tea, fruit drinks, small sandwiches, and other light dishes. Yani chose to dine with Sesam, M'Baku, Tayo, and a few other Jabari representatives at a center table that made him feel like they were gold fish being watched in the middle of a fishbowl. All eyes studied their interactions. Everyone stood when they entered and wouldn't sit down until they did.

"Good to see you again," M'Baku said, shaking N'Jadaka's hand.

Yani gave the big man a hug, and a smile broke out on his face. N'Jadaka presented his wife to Tayo formally.

"Tayo, this is my wife, Queen Yani," N'Jadaka said, reining in Yani's overly enthusiastic greetings.

She took the hint and concentrated on greeting Tayo properly, which meant no physical contact outside of handshakes, and only if she initiated. Tayo shook Yani's outstretched hand.

"Thank you for your support today," Tayo said.

N'Jadaka pulled out Yani's chair and pushed in her seat once she was comfortable. He sat next to her and the others sat down after he did. They ate a few finger sandwiches and pastries, sharing stories about their honeymoon and catching up on political gossip. Two servers carried burning coffee beans and incense in large ceramic bowls. They walked around the busy dining wing to entice more consumption with a new fresh brew's scent wafting all around them. Four more servers wandered through each section, pushing carts of desserts and hot tea steeping in pots. N'Jadaka helped himself to some bria tea and a blackberry Danish.

"Has your first day been exhausting for you yet?" M'Baku asked.

Yani looked up at the high vaulted gold ceiling and laughed. M'Baku joined her, understanding the clipped pace they all worked.

"There's a lot to take in," she said.

Sesam pointed out important players to Yani throughout the room. There were nearly ninety people in the dining wing, and Yani recognized quite a few from various public events and their wedding.

"I will have to end this little soirée," N'Jadaka said. "I have work waiting in my office."

He stood, bid farewell to people, and chaperoned Yani out of the wing. They separated in the middle of a wide hall behind a huge art installation of a giant panther about to pounce over stairs that led down to more offices. He watched her leave his side flanked by her Doras, off to handle her new office staff with plans for the Queen's Ball and her various other commitments for the people. He wanted to kiss her, but he had to follow decorum, too.

The trek back to his office was at an easy pace. He was in no rush to dig into the bullshit that probably waited for him behind the door he now stood in front of on his private floor.

Stepping inside, he nodded at all the smiling faces and headed toward the back. Tlotliso and Mpilo waited for him in front of Tlotliso's desk.

"Welcome back, kumkani," Tlotliso said, handing him a stack of mail. Mpilo grinned from ear to ear, gripping a pile of folders with papers that needed the king's signature.

"Good to be back, Tlotliso. Hold all my calls for the next hour. Mpilo, follow me," he said.

"King N'Jadaka, you are looking refreshed. How was Queen Yani's first day?"

"She did great work today. Made quite a splash on the assembly this afternoon."

"I am not surprised. Princess Shuri left a message that she will be twenty minutes late for your meeting today."

"Why? And why such a precise time? We're not touching bases until after five."

"She did not relay that information to me."

N'Jadaka swept into his inner office and it smelled of frankincense and older Wakandan spices that tickled his nose with their spicy scent.

"Hello Grandmother," he said to Queen Shuriya's painting on the wall.

He shook his arms and stretched before taking his seat behind an organized desk that already had sparkling water and more snacks ready for him for the rest of the day. Mpilo placed the folders he carried inside an inbox holder and waited for further instructions. N'Jadaka took an ornate silver letter opener and went through his mail. Invitations to speak at universities in America and Canada. A wedding invitation from a noble. Court dismissals from three lawsuits aimed to stop Wakanda from helping Black Americans at three community outreach centers. A thank-you card from a First Nations tribe in Canada for funding lawyers to pursue cases against their government. A judgment from the Wakandan Supreme court that settled a case on N'Jadaka's behalf for the murder of his father by King T'Chaka. The court would seal the document from the public. He closed his eyes. There was monetary compensation that would never be enough to replace his father or mother. But he had in legal writing that his family had been wronged and the Udaku clan took responsibility for it. He would put the billion dollar compensation in a trust for his children, including the one not born yet.

Mpilo poured him water and patiently waited for his signature on all twenty documents prepared for him. He punched in his electronic signature on Mpilo's comm tab, too.

"I'll leave you to your daily reports, sir," Mpilo said, gathering the folders again.

"Thanks."

Mpilo left and shut his office door. N'Jadaka spun around in his chair and took a break to look over his kingdom.

Queen Yani sauntered inside her new office with her back straight and head held so high that she felt twenty feet tall. An unspoken pride settled over her. She let the Grand Hall know she wasn't an ornamental display for the king. She had opinions and insight that would move the country forward, and asserting her voice early instead of later left a mark on the politicians who still considered her an outsider.

Yani's secretary/office manager, Wunmi, filled her in on her immediate schedule for the week and Yani wrangled the staff together inside her palatial office for a meeting while her brain still buzzed from the Grand Hall assembly. Her media manager, research assistant, PR officer, personal assistant, event planner, and secretary gathered seats in a semi-circle facing Yani's desk. Her staff's own assistants stood behind their chairs holding comm tabs, bringing the total number of people under her team to nine.

"I'm going to help the Jabari Tribe come up with a feasible plan to have ecotourism in their territory by spring of next year. I halted a bill that would force this on them, so now we are responsible for two things: one, convincing a very insular culture that opening up to the rest of the nation is a good thing. Two, prepare the nation in a positive way to respect the Jabari way of life. I want a campaign created that highlights the beauty and ecological importance of preserving mountain ecosystems from climate change. If we go at that angle, then I think people are willing to support a cap on the number of people that can visit there to help protect that area. Consider using commercials and bringing educators from the Jabarilands to present media segments on popular talk shows to build more rapport. Use our connections to the hottest entertainment sites in the industry."

Her staff took notes and listened.

"Next, I want my Queen's Ball to have a nighttime in nature theme," Yani looked at her event planner, "Put Jabari cuisine on the dinner and dessert menu. I want the decorations to resemble the ancient forests of Ekuqaleni up against the Jabari side of the mountains. Maybe call the theme 'A Night With the Ancestors' or something like that. I want people to walk into that gigantic ballroom and feel like they stepped back in time at the creation of Wakanda."

Yani's words lit a fire in the eyes of her staff that nodded, smiled, and gave little squeals of excitement.

"I have some other ideas, but let's start with that. We have two months to pull this theme together. The first save the date cards already went out at the beginning of the year, so I want mock-ups made of the final invitations with the theme all over it. I want those invitations to become collector's items. Beyond fancy…art pieces, hear mi now? I want to see this by next Thursday."

Everyone nodded.

"Next item. The Queen's Tea at the Zana Arboretum always has a highlighted garden flower in the decorations, so this year the flower will be the Eleyi Ti Ayaba," Yani said.

Wunmi raised her hand.

"Yes?" Yani said.

"It is lovely that you want the Purple Queen flower of the Jabarilands, for your Queen's Tea theme, but will we have enough available for the elaborate decorations? The mountain variety is so rare, and the big draw of the tea is the floral arrangements."

"This is where conservation comes in. I had the royal gardeners set up a greenhouse to grow some here four months ago, and they are working closely with the arboretum."

"So you pre-planned this before, well in advance? Brilliant!" Wunmi said.

"Yes. My daughter Joba is helping me. She is using some for her fairy garden, too. Lady Ayomide gave us seeds as a gift last New Year's. We've grown our own valley ones and we'll mix them together. The Jabari took Purple Queen flowers with them to the mountains when they left Wakanda. Speciation took place with those seeds up there creating a new variety, but its origin roots are here in the river valley. I want to make the bold statement that we're all connected. They don't want to lose their way of life, so I'll show them we appreciate who they are and won't force them to change just because we want to embrace our shared future."

Yani's personal assistant, Melele, twisted up her lips.

"Do we really think the Jabari will appreciate the queen's efforts? They are such an arrogant people," Melele grumbled.

"And we aren't arrogant, too?" Yani retorted.

Her staff laughed, and Melele grinned. Yani gauged the atmosphere of the room. Her people were ready to work.

"There are young people up in those snow-capped mountains who are ready to embrace the future of what the Jabari can become joined with us. Their elders are slowly witnessing the respect my husband gives them and how he values their views on life. Wakanda has slowly opened up to the world and we haven't fallen away from our values. The Jabari will see that. The five tribes are separate fingers on one hand, but pulled together, they become a fist. I want to give the king that fist."

She clapped her hands.

"Okay now, let's get to work. Melele, fix me a tray of libations and snacks. I need to go through my mail and a few things before my Ladies in Waiting arrive."

"Yes, ma'am."

Melele closed the office door after the staff filed out. Yani sighed and lifted her isicholo from her head and set it upon the crown stand behind her seat. Gold letter opener in hand, she went through her mail and made piles of events she would attend and those she would not. There wasn't enough time in the rest of the year to attend every party, ball, civic event, art opening, or wedding…

Yani held a peach-colored envelope made of expensive parchment closer to her face.

A special invitation.

She sliced it open and read the contents.

"Rra Mxolisi Ntu and Lady Thembeka Ntu cordially invite the King and Queen of Wakanda to the marriage of their son Ramatla Kagiso Ntu to Lady Ime Leatla Molefhe…"

Remy would marry in two weeks. Lady Thembeka must've fast-tracked the wedding to lock down Ime for her son. She wondered how much money Remy's family paid for Ime's ikhaze. N'Jadaka's family paid Aunt Leona five million American dollars for her ikhaze in place of her parents for Yani's hand in marriage. One million was for Yani, and two million for each child she birthed for the king. She had been touched that they included Sydette in the bride price.

A knock at the door brought her out of intrusive, bitter thoughts. She had been so foolish to get involved with Remy outside of the work relationship she once shared with him. Her impulsiveness and jealousy pushed her towards someone she should have kept at a distance and forgotten.

"Yes?"

"Ma'am, Lady Zola and Lady Ilana are here," Melele said.

"Send them in."

Yani stood and her girls clamored in carrying a bottle of champagne and gourmet chocolates in a fancy basket.

"What is all this?" Yani asked, accepting the gifts.

They shared hugs and cheek kisses before Yani waved for them to sit in the plush, dark leather chairs in front of her desk.

"Celebrating your first day as the Queen of the Nation!" Zola shouted.

Ilana broke out champagne flutes that were inside the basket of chocolates. She used a wine bottle opener to pop the cork, and the bubbly spilled out onto the floor.

"I'm still at work," Yani protested.

"We don't care…here, sip and eat this chocolate," Zola said, shoving the basket Yani's way.

They chatted and snacked, clinked drinking glasses while Yani shared her travels, and the way N'Jadaka pampered her. Her friends listened with glossy eyes and smiles for her adventure. Ilana leaned forward to lift another chocolate from the basket and her eyes zeroed in on the wedding invitation.

"Oh…I see the Ntu clan sent you your invitation. We received ours too. Are you going?"

Yani tapped her finger on the raised blue embossed lettering of the Ntu name.

"Should I? There are so many other parties and celebrations to go to this month."

"You must go. I mean, if you decline, it would make the Ntu clan look bad, especially when they are footing the bill and hosting the entire wedding. They would see it as a slight on their honor," Ilana said.

"If Yani goes, then Ime will feel upstaged at her own celebration. Honestly, she's damned if she decides either way," Zola quipped.

"How so?" Yani asked.

Zola licked chocolate from her fingers and sat back in her seat.

"Everyone is still talking about what happened in that restroom at the banquet last month. The chattering class of elites is well aware that Ime has made you her sworn enemy. However, she cannot do anything to harm you because of your status. But if you show up on her special day, she will think you are flaunting your power."

"Flaunting my power? How? She's marrying the man of her dreams. I'm not there to break them up or cause a scene. I was nice enough to let her come to my nuptials."

"She will not see it that way no matter how you frame it, Yani," Zola said. "You are a blight on her existence. We all saw the way Remy made cow eyes at you during the banquet fuss. She will never forgive you for seeing it firsthand. You will always remind her that she was Remy's second choice"

Ilana played with her large gold hoop earring and stared at Yani.

"Hmmm…on the other hand, if you skip the nuptials, the Ntu clan will interpret it as the king not liking them. That won't bode well for politics. The Ntu's are powerful, petty and vindictive. That could brew trouble later in the future if you and the king have ambitions that need the support of top nobles," Ilana added.

"Thanks for helping me decide. It's better to step on Ime's neck at her wedding than create tension with an influential family."

Yani took out a fountain pen with royal purple ink on it and filled out the RSVP to attend with the king. She used her own purple wax seal to close the flap of the return envelope. Tossing the RSVP into her outgoing mail bin, she clasped her fingers and rested them on her desk.

"All done."

"Good," Zola said. "It would be a terrible event without you there to suffer with us."

"Alright, our dear sweet queen, we must get going. We're having dinner with the women of the Zana Social Club, since you can't hang out tonight," Ilana said.

"I know, I'm sorry, but my schedule this week is too tight to have fun. Let's look into next week. I'll need your input for the ball anyway."

Ilana and Zola both shook their hands with excitement.

"To think there hasn't been a Queen's Ball in five years!" Ilana said.

"Stylists, tailors and jewelers are booked solid for this celebration," Zola added.

"I'm going to have a theme this year," Yani said.

"A theme?" Ilana said with wide eyes.

"I wanted to plan something different for my inaugural ball. Add some fun and excitement."

"You are the first foreign-born queen. No one wants to miss the spectacle. It's historic. Having a theme will make you so unique. Every ball we've had has been nothing but who can out-class everyone and sucking up to the king and queen," Zola said.

"You two will have to be sworn to secrecy because I've added you to my planning committee. Clear your afternoons for next Thursday and the rest of the month."

"Can you tell us the theme now?" Zola begged.

"Nope. I want your honest reaction next Thursday."

Yani hugged her Ladies and forced them to take the last of the champagne and chocolates with them. Secluded in her office, she dug into reports and had a vid chat with her co-workers at the hospital she was on leave from. She pulled up files on her computer, searched for documents, and worked quietly for two uninterrupted hours.

"Ma'am?" Melele said. She knocked on Yani's open door.

"Yes?"

"You have an unscheduled visitor."

Yani glanced at her desk calendar.

"Who…?"

Sydette bounced in with a dimpled grin.

"Hi Mama…I mean Queen Mama."

"Get over here Miss Busy Body!"

Melele closed the door, and Yani hugged her daughter.

"Why are you here by yourself?"

"My Dora is outside waiting for me. I was on my way to the family library, and I decided to see you instead. How was your day?"

Sydette sat on the chair Zola previously occupied. Yani sat next to her in front of her desk.

"My day has been busy."

"Do you feel like a queen?"

"I kinda do, Sweet Pea."

"Good."

"Where are the twins? They're usually up under you."

"They're with our cousins playing in the game room. Kora is with them. Umama allowed me to go off by myself."

Sydette's eyes flicked away.

"What's wrong?"

"Does cousin Cee Cee have to go? I don't want Morgan and Croix to leave. Not before we have the big pool party this weekend. Why did Baba kick them out of Wakanda?"

"How did you know about that?"

"Cousin Cee Cee has been screaming and arguing with Auntie Leona. Twyla even came over today. All the grown-ups on their floor have been fussing. Auntie Anika and Auntie Dawnette tried to keep everything cool, but Cee Cee thinks everybody is against her. She said that you let Baba do that to her."

"I wish she didn't act a fool in front of you kids. That's not right."

"I know no one likes her…she's mean and talks about people…but she can be a lot of fun sometimes. She thinks no one loves her and sides with you because you give everyone money."

"Baba takes care of everyone financially because we're family. Not because we want people on our side."

"Why is she so mad at you?"

Yani exhaled and rubbed the side of her temple.

"Cee Cee likes to feel like she's in control of everyone around her. She was disrespectful to me when I first met your Baba. He worked a job that she didn't think was safe for me to be around—"

"Auntie Anika said she was jealous that you had Baba."

"That is part of it, too. Cee Cee has a bad habit of ruining relationships with people. Even her own. The fathers of her children left her and its hard being a single parent raising kids alone."

"But you did it and were always nice to people. That's no excuse."

"I agree. However, your Baba…he sometimes brings out the worst in people because they either envy him or dislike his way of thinking. He saved my life…saved your life. Spoiled us with his love. He was a literal Prince Charming, and I think Cee Cee wished it had been her that he saved."

"But he did save her. Our whole family. She can do anything she wants and never have to work if she doesn't want to. Morgan and Croix go to the best school in St. Thomas. Baba promised they could go to university here in Wakanda."

"Sweet Pea, some people are never happy no matter how much they have in life."

Sydette picked at the leather on her armrest.

"Can you ask Baba to change his mind? Maybe you could talk to her about changing herself and appreciating what you both give her and my cousins."

"I don't think Cee Cee will ever change."

"She said Baba won't let her be a princess. If you make her one, it might make her feel better about herself. I can give her my title if that will help."

"It doesn't work like that, baby. The king is your father and your title is your birthright now. It's a sweet gesture, but you can't give it out to anyone else."

"Can Morgan and Croix stay? At least for the rest of the week? We want them at our party."

Yani's heart hurt. She wanted Cee Cee gone from them, but her child still had love in her heart for such a problematic and hateful person.

"Sweet Pea…Cee Cee has hurt me for a long time. She tried to keep you and me away from Baba every chance she got. She even told my parents that Baba was an evil person."

Sydette's eyes grew as large as plums.

"She did that? But it's not true."

"It doesn't matter to her, as long as he was gone from our lives. Sometimes you have to cut off blood to save the rest of the family."

"I understand. I can't believe we have someone like that in our family."

"Baba wants her gone tonight. But I will talk to him about changing the date until after your party."

"I feel sorry for my cousins having a mother like that."

Sydette climbed off the chair and hugged Yani.

"I'm glad that I have you for my Mama," Sydette said, squeezing Yani's shoulders.

Sydette pulled back from Yani.

"Can you come with me to talk to Baba? Ask him about Morgan and Croix now?"

The pleading quality in her voice tugged at Yani's heartstrings.

"Okay. I will," Yani said.

She stood and reached for her isicholo, placing it on her head again. Checking her desk for unfinished tasks, she turned off her computer and filed away papers for the next day. Clasping Sydette's hand, she guided her daughter out from her inner office. She let Melele know she was leaving to see about a family matter. Yani's security team and Sydette's lone Dora followed them to an escalator. They rode up to another floor and entered a secured elevator to N'Jadaka's floor.

The king's dynamic staff hustled about and paused when Yani entered with Sydette.

"Queen Yani," Tlotliso said. She stepped from behind her desk to personally greet them.

"Is he busy right now? Princess Sydette would like to speak to her father."

Tlotliso tapped the intercom on her desk.

"King N'Jadaka, Queen Yani is here to see you with Princess Sydette."

Tlotliso beckoned for Yani to go right in. Mpilo walked past them with a comm tab.

"Queen Yani…Princess Sydette."

He dashed to his own desk, checking his daily planner.

"No worries, Mpilo. You didn't miss an appointment," Yani reassured.

Relieved, Mpilo escorted them to N'Jadaka's closed door and left them. Sydette turned the knob, and they stepped in quietly in case he was on a call.

"Hey, you two. What's going on? Were we supposed to do something I forgot about?"

N'Jadaka watched them from his desk. He had a neon yellow floating grid hovering to the left of his desk with images of several documents.

Yani waved her hand for Sydette to sit down, and she did the same.

"We're here to talk about a decision you made this morning," Yani said.

An eyebrow raised on his face.

"What would that be?"

Yani looked at Sydette, then turned her eyes back on her husband.

"Cee Cee leaving tonight. Today, Sydette witnessed the family fighting about it and came to my office to ask that Cee Cee be allowed to stay until the end of the week so that Croix and Morgan can go to the pool party."

N'Jadaka rubbed his forehead and stared at his daughter.

"I'm sure your mother explained how we feel about Cee Cee's behavior toward us?" he said.

"Yes, Baba. I don't want my younger cousins to be excluded from all the fun this weekend. Can they please stay until Sunday?"

"I already have the Royal Scorpion Fighter ready to take them after dinner. Cee Cee doesn't belong here with us."

His voice sounded firm. Sydette's lip trembled.

"I don't want my cousins to be punished because of her. Can they stay with us…with Auntie Leona until she goes back to the Virgin Islands?"

N'Jadaka glanced at Yani. It was hard saying no to their children. Sydette wiped at her eyes.

"They're good kids, Baba. They can't help who their mother is."

"Cee Cee won't let her children stay here without her, Sweet Pea. I think it's great that you're speaking up for them…I like them a lot…"

His voice trailed off as he locked eyes with Yani. She shrugged, not entirely against them staying for the rest of the week. They both didn't want to be the bad guy. N'Jadaka folded his hands on his desk.

"I'll call Aunt Leona and tell her that Cee Cee and the boys can stay through Sunday. Your mother and I will talk about keeping Croix and Morgan with Leona until she returns to the compound. Okay?"

"Thank you!"

Sydette jumped out of her seat and rushed to her father. She hugged him tight, and he kissed her forehead.

"Can I go tell the boys?" Sydette asked.

"Go on," he said.

"Bye Mama!" Sydette shouted, running out of the office.

N'Jadaka tapped his kimoyo beads. Leona's upper body floated above his wrist.

"N'Jadaka," Leona said in a weary voice.

Yani moved next to her husband.

"Hi Auntie. We heard about today from Sydette," Yani said.

"It has been a mess of a day."

"Auntie," N'Jadaka said, "I'm going to let Cee Cee and the boys stay through Sunday. We want the boys to enjoy the pool party with their cousins. I apologize for the strain we put on you."

Leona nodded and Twyla came into the frame next to her aunt.

"I say keep the boys and send her home," Twyla said.

"It will make things worse," Leona said with an exasperated sting to her tone.

"If the boys stay, she'll think she can wiggle herself in for an extended visit afterward as if the king's order was moot," Twyla said.

"I don't understand that gyal's mind," Leona said, brushing a gray curl from her forehead. "N'Jadaka gives her everything for nothing in return, and she still wants people to kiss her backside."

"That's the problem. Big Man gives her things she doesn't deserve. I say cut her off. Kick her out of the compound," Twyla said.

"What about her boys? We can't treat them poorly."

"I'll take them from her. Keep them with me and Bibi and raise them here in Wakanda. N'Jadaka, can you grant me guardianship of Morgan and Croix?" Twyla said.

"You can't steal her pickney from her," Leona said.

"Then you do it Auntie. Everyone in the family won't go against you. We trust your judgment and if you say Cee Cee's unfit to care for her children because of her nasty spirit, they'll put pressure on her."

"I won't separate a mother from her children if she's not abusive."

Twyla sucked her teeth and stared at Yani.

"After the pool party, I'll go back home with Cee Cee," Leona said.

"Auntie, there's no reason for you to leave early," N'Jadaka insisted.

"It's the only way to keep peace in the Galiber family. I'll go back and give her an ultimatum. She has to improve her behavior…or I'll kick her out of the compound. She'll have to work and find employment on her own while taking care of her boys. I won't babysit them for her anymore. Once she's reminded that N'Jadaka provides our comfortable life, she'll shape up for good. I'll charge her rent for living in the middle house on the compound. It'll be her wake up."

"She'll never change," Twyla said.

"Where is she now?" Yani asked.

"With Uncle Fritz and Aunt Myrah. They went shopping to keep her out of the palace for a few hours before her departure," Twyla said.

"So that's the plan," N'Jadaka said. "They will stay until Sunday and she's cut off financially from the royal stipend. I'll give her monthly allowance to you Leona to provide for Croix and Morgan instead."

"I just want to forget this day and start over tomorrow," Leona lamented.

"I'll come see you tonight, Auntie, and make up for it," Yani said.

"No, you must be with your husband after your first day."

"Who will tell that cow foot she's here until Sunday?" Twyla asked.

N'Jadaka ended the call.

"I made things worse, huh?" N'Jadaka asked.

Yani linked her arm around the hard muscle of his arm and rested her head against his shoulder.

"You did what needed to be done. Coming from you directly takes heat off of my back. No one can blame me if my husband sets his foot down. Back then you were the boogeyman, but now…you're a king and the most powerful man in the world. Everyone will take our side and push Cee Cee to do right."

"I think we can head out now. I'm done for the day. Tomorrow will be easier. Council of Elders meeting in the morning and then we can go straight to our offices."

He placed a warm hand over hers clutching his arm.

"Are you sure you can take on working with the Jabari Tribe on top of all the other responsibilities you have? I can assign someone else that task at the assembly."

"I want to do it. I have some things in the works that will solve everything."

"Everything?"

"Trust me."

The hard pounding of a knock on the door caught them off guard.

N'Jadaka answered it. Tlotliso wore a grim expression.

"Kumkani… you must see this," Tlotliso said.

They followed her out to join N'Jadaka's media team inside a conference room. Several vid screens flashed different global news channels on the walls. Tlotliso pointed their attention to a center screen that showed a reporter standing outside of the Wakandan Supreme Court. She crossed her arms and looked at both royals.

"The Supreme Court finally reached a verdict on the Ozipho/Phuri case. All defendants will receive life imprisonment. Sita's testimony sealed their fate. It took four years but we finally have justice," Tlotliso said.

His Press Secretary, Xhanti, typed on her comm tab, then stared at the king.

"The press is expecting a statement at the top of the hour, sir," Xhanti said.

Xhanti continued scrolling her comm tab, and tossed back the thick auburn twists of her hair.

"I'll go shower and change in my office. I'll meet you in the lobby within twenty minutes," N'Jadaka said.

Xhanti nodded and the rest of his media team observed other channels and reactions to the news. Yani walked with N'Jadaka back to his office. She lounged on his office couch while he refreshed and groomed his beard. He returned wearing a long white tunic and sat on his executive chair. Yani braided his damp hair back and tucked it into a bun at the nape. He stood and she looked him over carefully, making sure nothing was out of place.

"Should I change too?" Yani asked.

"No, you look perfect. You'll stand next to me as I address the press."

"When will you kill Agent Ross? He's the cause of all this turmoil and death the Phuri brought."

"Next year, after I'm done using him for intel. His ex wife has the C.I.A. up our ass and Ramonda will get close to her soon enough. I'll kill him and the Americans will never know what happened."

"Won't the Americans suspect you?"

Yani brushed a tiny piece of hair from his right shoulder.

"They will suspect HYDRA."

He titled her chin and kissed her lips.

"Welcome to the underbelly of running a country, baby."

She reached up and held his face.

"I support you all the way."

He ran his hands down her shoulders and lowered his gaze to their hands clasped together.

"I have something to talk to you about later."

"We have a few minutes, tell me now."

"Another important case closed today. One that was filed while I was in cryostasis on my behalf. The Udaku clan…T'Chaka… was found liable for the murder of my father. I was awarded monetary compensation that I will put into a trust for our children. Its one billion dollars. I'm going to file paperwork with our family lawyer tomorrow to name you as the Trustee if anything ever happens to me. Grandpop and Leona will be next in line to control it if anything happens to you. I'll put Shuri and Twyla on the documents too. I want to talk about the age we want them to have access to it in the future."

Yani parted her lips and flicked her eyes to the wall behind him.

One billion dollars.

She hadn't been knocked out by an amount like that since he had left her the compound and money to care for her and their children when he thought he would never see them again.

"N'Jadaka…that's so much."

"No amount can bring my father back, but the family wants to make sure the money makes a statement to me. The court has sealed the details to outsiders. Sita made the lawsuit happen on my father's behalf. She's also responsible for putting the Phuri terrorists away."

"We should reward her."

He shook his head.

"She's not the type to take money when it comes to justice. But I will make sure she and her daughter live well for the rest of their lives."

Yani hugged him tight.

"You always give so much to people and never take anything for yourself."

"I have plenty already."

Yani held onto his hand as they met Xhanti and the rest of the media team in the lobby.

"Here's some bullet points about the case. I pulled up the information about civilian compensation. It's best if you put off questions about civil cases against the Phuri," Xhanti said.

They crowded into an elevator and rode down to the Press Room. A make-up artist powdered the shine on N'Jadaka's face for the camera lights and touched up Yani's make-up. Xhanti sent over the key details to be loaded onto a teleprompter and the royal couple waited in front of a podium for the camera light to flash red for the live broadcast.

Reporters and photographers crowded in front of the podium with a crushing wave of expectant energy. Yani's stomach tumbled and N'Jadaka touched her hand hidden behind the podium. Member's of the king's cabinet created a semi-circle behind him and Yani's nerves eased once the Council of Elders joined them to their left side.

Xhanti stood next to the teleprompter and the king checked the bullet points for clarity. A minute later, the main camera light turned red.

N'Jadaka faced the nation.

"My fellow Wakandans, after four long years, justice has finally prevailed today…"

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