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deniigi · 4 years

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So @petrichordiam and I are menaces and giggled over our ideal dinluke flower shop AU for like 4 hrs and then I wrote this.

Title: murderer next door

Summary: Din works as a florist and Luke works as a bookseller and they’re both assassins trying to keep the other off their turf.

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Two times now, Luke had crashed past that flower shop, and two times now, the fucker inside had taken out his mark. Now all Luke had to say about the whole thing was that it was too bad that he was going to have to kill the guy.

Han told him not to turn back. The mark was dead; the mark was gone. They weren’t fast enough this time, but there would be others.

Luke just couldn’t let it go, though. He had rent to pay, and McFloristApron over there was smashing through all his targets and making that nigh impossible—regardless of how many marks there were in the area.

Luke waited until Han had closed up shop for the night and remained there in the dark with his arm slung over the back of the chair in the backroom, surrounded by books. He rolled his shot of whiskey in its tumbler. The sound against the old wood table offered no comfort.

He stood up and left the glass to get his laptop.

He wasn’t losing to some florist, Han, sorry. Only one family could take innocuous cover on this street, and it was them.

---

McFlorist’s name wasn’t listed on the florist’s staff page, but then again, none of the people on that page had names. In fact, the website’s whole vibe was all wedding-chic until you clicked on the ‘staff and contacts’ tab. Then, it may as well have been a line of mugshots.

Luke squinted along the row of increasingly involved headgear until he got to someone with a reasonably-sized neck with no tats. The ladies on either side of him appeared to have sapped all the ink out of McFloristApron. He wore a mask over the lower half of his face and gave a stoic thumbs up to the camera.

Under his picture was the number fifteen.

Damn.

Luke was only making eight per pop. Who the hell was this guy eating up all the feeder fish, huh? Them lower division folks had to eat too, you know.

Well.

‘Lower division’ in a sense of the word. Being two times undercover wasn’t super glamorous, Luke had to say. But when your dad fucked it up for the first family, sometimes you had to take what you could get.

Luke pointed at Fifteen on the screen.

“You and me, pal,” he said. “You and me.”

Step one was to get paid first.

Luke chased down three marks on the other side of town to pay the rent and the medical bills for now. His hand’s new sleeve felt like a dream. It didn’t overheat like the nylon black one did, and the hand was far less shiny now as a bonus. That had certainly reduced the number of people catching something move out of the corner of their eye.

Was it worth fifty grand?

No.

Was it worth the last nine that Luke had left to pay on it?

Yeah. It was definitely worth the nine.

------

Step two was to go make it clear to Fifteen McFlorist that he and his folks needed to back down in the face of the established guard.

Luke put on his biggest sweater and the thickest glasses he could find. He stole Chewie’s messenger bag with all the pins on it. He slung it over his shoulder and rolled the hems of his jeans up just a smidge too much, then scurried over to the florist’s across the way.

Fifteen was off to the side of the register, fucking around with something in the refrigerator. Luke busily and noisily looked through the wall of foliage on the side of the shop nearest the window. He hummed. He hawed. He made anxious nerd-sounds until a voice asked, “Hi, can I help you?”

Luke glanced out of the corner of his eye and found that Fifteen was standing facing his way now. His mask was gray this time. His apron was orange. His boots were too heavy-looking for florist work.

“I’d love that,” Luke gushed breathlessly. “See, my mom just got engaged and I’m on the way to her house.”

Fifteen lifted his chin slightly.

“What’re her favorites?” he asked tonelessly.

Terrible customer service skills, dude.

“Roses,” Luke said.

“Ours are shit today,” Fifteen said. “How about dahlias?”

Luke didn’t know what those were but sure.

“That sounds great,” he said. “You have any in pink?”

--------

He watched Fifteen brutalize some pink, orange, and white flowers into a bouquet wrapped with a silver bow and was sure to smile every time the guy looked up.

“That’ll be $37.59.”

Sir, these are dead flowers. There is no need for that price.

“Can I put it on card?” Luke asked. “How long have you worked here, if you don’t mind me asking? I work just across the way is all.”

Fifteen’s dark gaze flicked up. His hair was covered by a gray beanie two shades darker than the mask.

“At the club?” he asked.

“The bookshop,” Luke corrected him with a shy, but widening smile.

Please be gay. Please be gay. Please be gay. Leia wasn’t going to want to cooperate. She thought it was beneath her to establish boundaries like this.

“Blue paint,” Fifteen said. “Yeah, that place. How long have you been there?”

“My brother-in-law’s place, actually,” Luke said. “I started there last year after I finished college.”

Or, you know, maybe even eight years ago when he’d finished college. No one had to know. Baby faces don’t kiss and tell after all.

“Huh. You must like it there,” Fifteen said.

“It’s fine,” Luke hummed. “You like it here?”

“The kid does.”

“Oh, you’re a father?” Luke asked. “How old?”

“He’s three,” Fifteen said. “Godson. His folks were in an accident; didn’t make it.”

“That’s terrible, I’m so sorry to hear that,” Luke said. “He’s lucky to have you.”

Fifteen handed him his card back. Luke’s hand didn’t close in time to catch it and it fell onto to the wooden counter.

“Sorry about that,” Luke said, reaching for it with the other hand. His knuckles bumped into Fifteen’s when he went for the card at the same time. They both paused and went for the card again with the same result. Luke laughed.

“Slippery, am I right?” he asked, flattening his fingers on top of the piece of plastic and snatching it away.

“Very,” Fifteen said. “I hope your mom likes them.”

“Me too,” Luke smiled. “I’ll see you around—What was your name?”

“You can call me Armando,” Fifteen said.

“Armando,” Luke sounded out. “It suits you.”

It was a falsie.

“And yours?”

“James.”

“It suits you.”

It didn’t.

“Bye now,” Luke said. “Thanks for your help.”

He let the door fall closed behind him with the tinkle of the bell.

--------

He informed Han that “Armando” had a toddler and received only a warning look and a scolding for all his effort. Han told him not to get jealous. If there was a kid in the balance, then Fifteen, for better or worse, was going to have to see each day after the next until there was no longer a kid in the balance.

Luke offered to call CPS and report “Armando” as an assassin.

“You do that and those folks across the street are gonna call the VA and tell them I’m an assassin,” Han said. “Lay low, Luke. Lay low.”

Never.

“Christ. At least until that thing’s yours then.”

Luke glared at his right hand.

“Gimme a double,” he told Han without looking away from it.

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It was never easy to hunt in the daylight, but Luke wasn’t here to do easy things. He needed to get Mark No. 1 alone. The man took the train once a week to a gentleman’s club on his lunch break. Luke needed a change of clothes.

He had a rainbow windbreaker, white boots, and fishnets all ready to go.

He got on the same train as the mark and dropped his phone nearby. It clattered loudly and the case came off. Luke swore and squatted to drop it at the same time that two girls next to him decided to become good Samaritans. They crouched with him and one of them caught the phone first. They handed it back with a smile.

“I like your jacket,” she said.

Luke let his face struggle to find a smile at her kindness to him, a sweet little twink trying to find the pride parade that happened two weeks ago.

“Thanks,” he said. “I like your bracelet.”

He stood up. The girls were pleased with themselves. Luke glanced back to find Mark No. 1 turn his head abruptly away.

Come here, Markie.

Do you like what you see?

Mark No. 1 didn’t make it out of his hotel room. A pity. Luke took the elevator down and huffed and puffed about a cheap date when he passed the front desk. He stopped abruptly and went back to ask the receptionist what the cross street was. She judged his go-go boots.

He told her she wasn’t his type. Her manager gave him the cross street.

Mark No. 2 had different parameters.

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Mark No. 2’s parameters involved chasing him through a maze of boiler rooms and dumpsters. He was chump change towards a hand that Luke hadn’t wanted in the first place, but alas. The anger still roared.

Luke cornered him, still in go-go boots—no need to sacrifice style for speed—and watched those pale eyes look every which way as Mark No. 2 realized that there was no getting out of this.

“You got options, friend,” Luke said. “I can bring you in hot or I can bring you in—”

“—cold.”

His head snapped up and he lurched out of the way just as the crack of a bullet exploded in the alley. A car backfired around the corner in a sympathetic cough. Luke stared at the body then twisted around just in time for a thick glove to latch onto the back of his neck.

“Well, look who it is,” Fifteen drawled.

Luke glared out of the corner of his eye.

“Hands off, Armando,” he warned.

“I like your boots.”

“You’re gonna love ‘em when they’re on your dick,” Luke warned.

“Back off, Nayberry.”

Fucking hell, Han. This is why they should have set up boundaries weeks ago.

“I prefer ‘James,’” Luke said sweetly.

The glock levelled at his face didn’t care.

“You took my mark,” Fifteen said.

“Aw, poor baby,” Luke pouted. “Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you took mine.”

Fifteen’s orange apron was gone. He’d swapped it for an old leather jacket—something he could more easily wipe clean. He should’ve gone for patent leather. The brown really wasn’t working with his grey mask-beanie situation.

“Stay in your lane,” Fifteen warned.

“Only if you stay in yours,” Luke beamed.

Fifteen huffed.

“Bookstore,” he scoffed. “Who’d you give the flowers to?”

Luke tsked.

“Myself, jackass,” he said.

“Do you even have a mom?”

“What the fuck business is that of yours? You even got a kid?”

Fifteen’s stare was deadly—the cooling body before them notwithstanding.

“Take one step near him and we won’t be talkin’ so friendly, yeah?”

Mm. Yeah.

“You owe me four grand,” Luke informed Fifteen as the glock went down and Fifteen left him to go take a pulse.

The man’s back stiffened.

“Four?” he asked. “You took this job for four?”

Luke rolled his eyes.

“I got bills, Armando,” he drawled.

“How do you keep that shed open? Have you sold even one book?”

Rude. Luke was a great sales associate. If he actually cared to put his mind to it, he’d be worthy of a promotion to manager.

He pulled the rising legs of his shorts down and adjusted the weapon in his windbreaker. He couldn’t leave the alley the way he’d gone into it. Someone might have seen. He was going to have to take a side street. Hmmm, which one? Choices, choices.

“I’ll give you a Dad’s discount. Gimme two grand, and you can have him,” Luke negotiated as he thought.

“Two.”

Hey, no need for that tone. This was a great deal.

“What’re you gonna do with two?” Fifteen asked, already knelling down to heft the body over his shoulder as proof for payment.

“Buy some more tights,” Luke deadpanned. “Two, final offer.”

Fifteen stood up all the way and gave him a weird look. A long look. His beanie was pulled down low, but Luke got the impression that he was frowning at him.

“Take the four,�� he said out of nowhere. “I’ll bring it tomorrow.”

Luke recoiled a step at first, then recoiled another when the reality of the situation hit him full in the chest.

“Forget it,” he snapped.

He spun around and started to leave.

“Wh—hey. HEY. Where are you goin’?”

“I don’t need your fuckin’ pity,” Luke called ahead of him as he set to climbing the chainlink fence separating him from the adjacent dead-end alley.

“You what?”

“You heard me,” Luke said.

He jumped down. His left hand found his right wrist and squeezed as he walked.

-------

The phantom pains kept him up all night, and it was definitely that and not the humiliation that made him call in sick. Han told him to answer his therapist’s emails. Luke told him to go do something useful and hung up. He rolled onto his back on his bed and focused on letting his body relax, his jaw unclench, his joints go limp.

There was sunlight finally streaming through his apartment windows again. It had been months.

Spring was almost here. He just had to hold out a little longer.

--------

He came in to work the next day and found an envelope on his chair in the backroom. It was thick.

“McFlorist dropped it off,” he said between aggravated sounds at his spreadsheets.

“Is it tax season already?” Luke asked him as he tried to burn a whole in the center of the envelope with his mind.

“Sure fuckin’ is.”

He stepped forward and snatched up the envelope, then deposited it squarely in Han’s lap. He made an unattractive noise of confusion and alarm.

“For the taxes,” Luke called as he went out to grab his lanyard and name tag. “Gotta keep this place open for another six months at least.”

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There were new books in. A new shipment to shelve. Two kids’ displays to set up. And Luke was actually good at this stuff, thanks; he started stacking.

He got peace until he nearly got to the end of the second display, and then what he had was a heart attack. Two liquid brown eyes surrounded by an ocean of ringlets stared up at him from between his knees. The child curled a hand in and out in hello.

Luke jerked himself up to locate the thing’s parents immediately, and promptly found himself in deadly eye-contact with Fifteen.

Armando.

“You were gone yesterday,” Fifteen said flatly.

Luke looked between him and the kid. He was pinned between two enemy parties. How to escape, how to escape.

“Are you sick?”

How to escape. How to escape. How to escape.

“Are you hurt?”

H—what?

“I’m fine, stalker,” Luke snapped with more heat than this present cover allowed. He caught himself and pulled it back. “I’m fine,” he repeated. “Thank you for asking. Is this…?”

Fifteen blinked once. The child blinked once as well. It was creepy.

“He’s mine,” Fifteen said. “And apparently the only thing that will get us through the next two hours is a book.”

Dude.

“Kids are kids,” Fifteen said. “You got any books?”

Luke stared at him, then checked the shelves to make sure he hadn’t teleported into another dimension.

You always had to check.

“We’re in a bookstore,” he said.

“He can’t read,” Fifteen said, pointing.

The kid grinned. His teeth were gapped in that toddler sort of way. He was kind of cute.

“You can’t read?” Luke asked him.

“Hi,” Baby said.

Oh no.

Luke loved him.

“How much?” he asked Fifteen.

“Touch him and you’ll be permanently comatose,” Fifteen said.

“Not if I died out of spite,” Luke said.

There was a long pause. Then Fifteen started laughing? Kind of hard?

“Oh my god, that was so unprofessional. I am so sorry,” Luke blurted out.

Fifteen collected himself and shook his head. His little one giggled and reached for Luke’s fingers.

“Boo,” he said.

Luke couldn’t feel the hand, but he could feel all the heart.

“Book?” he asked, crouching down. “Do you want a story?”

“Mmmm.”

“I have the perfect one,” Luke told him. “It’s about a caterpillar. Do you know what a caterpillar is?”

He got a slow, exaggerated head shake back and forth, back and forth. He stood up straight.

“I’m conducting a temporary kidnapping,” he informed Fifteen. “Do I have consent?”

Fifteen looked from him towards the front entrance and mulled over the merits of leaving his kid with his rival assassin. Then he shrugged.

“Consent granted,” he said. “Luke.”

Luke’s heart stopped.

“James,” he said.

“Your name tag says ‘Luke.’”

Well, fuck.

“Luke Nayberry. It suits you.”

Hhhhhhh. This was karma, wasn’t it.

“Thanks,” he gritted out. “And yourself, Armando?”

“Din.”

Woah, look out. Mr. One-Syllable-Cool-Man had entered the building.

“Din, what?” Luke asked as his arm registered tension. Din’s kid had latched onto his fingers and started pulling incessantly with a chubby hand gesturing in the direction of the wall of children’s books.

“Don’t you worry about it,” Din said.

“Fine, go trip then,” Luke said.

He swore that there was a smile under that mask.

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#dinluke #luke skywalker #ficlet #fic #I can't take any trope seriously it turns out #perhaps I am simply too old now to appreciate them #the mandalorian

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sarahjkl82-blog · 3 years

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Artistic Instinct Chapter Eight

Header thanks to the lovely @yespolkadotkitty

Summary: Marcus Pike and OC Anushka Pierce have been selected to work on a 5 eyes (Australia, Canada, NZ, the UK and US) intelligence team to track down art forgeries as a part of taking down an international white terrorism cell. Marcus is trying to escape his broken heart, Anushka is just trying to escape what the world expects of her.

Word count: 5,600

Warnings: Language as always, mentions of drinking, alcohol and drunkenness, mentions of sex OH AND HEARTBREAK

Pairing: Marcus Pike x reader (OC)

This comes with a MASSIVE THANK YOU to the lovely @yespolkadotkitty , who read, re-read, pointed out the constant flipping between tenses and gave me the confidence to try to write something. This is the first thing I have written since angsty poetry as a teenager. Apologies if it is shit!

The right person, the wrong time.

The right script, the wrong line.

The right poem, the wrong rhyme.

And a piece of you

That was never mine

K Towne Jr.

Chapter 8

The black topped streets of Lewisham radiate the day’s spring sunshine as if intent upon sending the heaven sent warmth back up through Marcus’ soles. The evening’s golden light creates a love song in his heart - one that morphs from the irritation and melancholy of the morning to a happier more uplifting tune.

When did that mood change? Oh yes, that embrace.

Nush.

Marcus hadn’t realised just how low his battery was for touch until you threw your arms around him. How much much he’d needed your body close to his again. Feeling your softness against him, inhaling your intoxicating scent. How he’d longed to kiss your forehead and stroke your hair in that cuddle. Remembering the pain of breaking that contact, plastering on a smile and kicking himself for it.

Constantly having to watch his need for your touch and tempering it within the normal parameters for a working relationship, Marcus has found himself reaching out for you- making excuses to touch you as you passed him, finding imaginary eyelashes on your face. Being around you felt like a breath that he was unable to release, continuously having to dampen down his natural instincts to hold and stroke you.

Kiss you.

Taste you.

Had he been back in the States, he would have said fuck it and asked you out, but that didn’t exactly go well last time. The pain of knowing exactly what he wants and it just being beyond the reach of his fingertips plagues Marcus daily with the dream of coming home to be loved, nurtured and protected and offer it in return. How do you ever allow yourself to become vulnerable to that risk of failure again? One thing he is certain of, is your current ignorance of the true level of his feelings. The kindness you show others - so much care for everyone around you, albeit through a thinly veiled layer of sarcasm and swearing- and the love your friends show for you, demonstrate that you would be nothing but clear if he was to reveal his true feelings.

Squeezing politely through the crowds, between the narrow shack-like stalls of the fairy-light illuminated market, Marcus heads towards the Highline where Andy had told each of you to meet him. Before he could start climbing the staircase up, a large hand grasps his upper arm, another patting the space between his shoulder blades. Marcus spins, slightly surprised by the touch, to be greeted by Andy’s grinning face.

“Looking good, Sir. Bit sharper than at lunch today,” Andy observes, giving Marcus’ leather jacket, Henley and indigo jeans a once over, “and before you complain, I am going to get you a beer because of the day you’ve had. You can do your management thing of buying the first round in a bit, and I won’t take no for an answer.”

With Andy’s face explicitly telling Marcus not to disagree with him, he nods, definitely needing that drink. As they head together towards the bar, they are both absorbed into the throng of a hundred voices holding loud conversations as they compete with the soundtrack from the decks. The crowd is a mixed bag of teenagers, students and families - the children chasing or trying to catch the sparkling spotlights as their parents reminisce over large gin and tonics about lie-ins and late nights not hunched over a crib.

Winding their way through the laughing and dancing bodies, they head in the direction of the alcohol to order some locally brewed ales, bumping into an already buzzing Kiritopa at almost the front of the queue. After a round of handshakes, back slaps and hearty laughs, they edge ever closer to their goal of amber nectar. Before their drinks are poured, Marcus’ eyes scan the market for the rest of the team when they are caught by a flash of colour. Bright turquoise stockings, a mustard corduroy pinafore, red and white striped T-shirt - oh, it isn’t you. Your wildly coloured legs bring so much colour to his day and they are the first thing he checks as he enters the office. Elbow nudges and a pint glass from Andy brings his attention back to the men in front of him for a quick cheers-ing of glasses before heading out of the melée.

The table on the Highline that Andy had reserved was utterly perfect. It afforded a bird’s eye view of the market - a true dream come true for any avid people watchers, whilst also allowing everyone to talk and be heard by each other with its one storey elevation from the thronging crowds. Andy and Kiritopa are animatedly talking with each other lounging amongst the piles of cushions and blankets on the pallet seating, while Marcus leans against the walkway, clutching his beer, staring off into the urban sprawl of concrete car parks and fried chicken restaurants but only looking for one face.

“Hey, what time do you call this...Whoa - Nush, is that makeup? On your face?” Andy’s eyes are utterly saucer-like in this discovery.

“Hush your mouth - she did it to me,” you jab your finger in Dian’s direction, pouting your lips at the indignation and as Andy goes to make another quip, you add- shoving some chips in his mouth, “Dirty masala fries- thought we’d need something to line our tummies this evening. Although equally, they’ll do a wonderful job of keeping some people’s mouths shut!”

“I think I did a great job- she looks stunning!” having put three portions on the table, Dian steps back to admire her handiwork as you pull a duck face pout at her.

She always looks beautiful.

“So, what’s on these fries?” Marcus asks as he desperately tries to avoid the other thoughts running through his head of how that pencil skirt runs along the curve that falls and rises from your waist to your hips beautifully or the horizontal stripes of your t-shirt - an outfit winning in its quest to distract.

As for that goddamn red lipstick…

It would leave a mark all around my-

“Ok, so they’re skinny French fries with spices shaken over them and a dollop of channa masala on top. Oh and that white shit is garlic mayo to dip them in,” you grin broadly as you pass him a portion - the picant vibrancy of the food telling stories of the fresh, bold flavours to come. Always being a believer in food being one of the ways that you can love a person, the mouthful of potatoes, spices and chickpeas envelops Marcus in an all encompassing hug. His belly sings with happiness with each mouthful he consumes, his tongue delightfully tingling from the chilli powder.

“Y’know Nush. Not had one of your curries for a while,” Andy not-so gently hints.

Marcus can’t help but raise his eyebrows, “Nush, you make curries? How many other hidden talents?”

“She also plays the piano and did ballet until she was fifteen,” Andy adds, ducking as you lob a cushion at him - your face reddened with a mixture of embarrassment and rage.

“Badly according to my mother,” you say, rolling your eyes as you shove another mouthful in, “Mine aren’t particularly elegant but they are edible. Well they are now anyway - there was one, a keema matar, that I made as a kid where I didn’t realise that chili develops over time. Put in roughly five tablespoons by the end. Could have been used for chemical warfare. Never lived it down but it got me out of cooking for a while.”

The table explodes in uproarious laughter, earning several odd looks from the patrons nearby.

“Well, I’m considering this an invitation to try one of your edible curries as you so eloquently call them,” Kiritopa rubs his belly in anticipation, chuckling at your modesty, “When can we get a date in the book?”

“I love a good curry, so count me in,” Dian chimes in as she pops the chickpeas like sweets into her mouth.

Marcus watches you shift uncomfortably in the spotlight of demands from your co-workers, “If I do this, I need a bigger space to work in as I can’t fit you all in my flat. I’ll need to borrow somewhere that can fit more bums.”

“Could use my apartment to cook and host, if you like?” Marcus proffers, secretly hopeful at trying some of your dishes and perhaps more than a little excited at the thought of spending some one on one time with you.

“Shall we do Sunday evening, if nothing turns up from work?” Kiritopa asks hopefully.

Marcus shrugs by way of confirmation, catching your gaze, drinking in the swirl of colours in your iris, to give you a nod.

With a sigh and a roll of the eyes, you exclaim, “Andy- what the fuck have you started? You’ve all grossly overestimated my skills, and now I am going in search of alcohol to dull my senses and make poor decisions,” you dramatically announce with a theatrical bow, “What can I get everyone?”

Seeing an opportunity open up, Marcus touches your arm as you go to leave, “It’s my round. Help me carry them?”

“Deal,” Marcus feels his heart grow as he sees your smile reach every corner of your face.

Before reaching the top of the stairs, Marcus moves himself around to walk in front of you. His body on an autopilot of manners. On reaching the bottom step, he reaches back - unthinkingly - to grab your hand so as not to lose you amongst the multitude drinking, eating and dancing the night away. The momentary panic that spread at the thought of you rejecting him recedes as your fingers thread between his.

Sending a warm smile at you over his shoulder, you follow in the wake of him quietly.

The people near the bar are flowing like rivers, never stopping for obstacles but twirling, swirling around them nevertheless Marcus guides you through, never letting go. The noise of the chatter and throb of the music surrounds you, not allowing for much verbal communication so he settles for small movements and gestures with the hand that is holding yours. When you finally arrive at the queue by the bar, that is when you can speak a bit more freely albeit in theatrical whispers in each other’s ears.

Marcus watches how the evening breeze kisses you, blowing the strands of your growing-out fringe into your face. How you gaze around and observe people whilst also managing to make him feel like he’s the only person there. The way your eyes crease into crescents when you laugh or smile and how much he wishes he could thank all those people jostling you into him. But like all moments with you, it ends too quickly as soon you’re both heading upriver against the current with your trays of drinks.

“Nush, I’ve always thought it was some kind of miracle that you never spill alcohol,” Andy teases you as you bring the drinks to their owners.

“Hah! I don’t waste the good stuff,” you mutter indignantly, “Although perhaps if we want to protect the office carpets, I should…”

“No,” Marcus mock-sternly interjects at the thought of you being drunk and the chaos that would bring, “No day drinking at work, Nush. I’d prefer the coffee stains.”

Your pout and subsequent upward glance through your eyelashes, makes Marcus turn towards the railings, hiding his thoughts in his beer.

Fuck, Nush.

If you only knew what you do to me.

“Hey Kiri, isn’t it? You playing in the tourney tomorrow?” a deep, cut glass accent calls out, cutting through the crowds surrounding them. Marcus turns towards where the sound is coming from and as he does, he catches a strange look cross your face.

“What the fuck are you doing here and how the fuck do you know Kiritopa?” The tone of your voice, narrowed eyes and furrowed brow makes Marcus turn back towards the group inquisitively.

“Nush! Haven’t seen you in a long time but you are looking amazing,” the voice is attached to a face, the kind that would stop anyone in their tracks, “can barely recognise you with makeup on- you should wear it more often.”

You breathlessly mutter, “Fuck off, that’s never going to happen.”

Good girl. Don’t put up with that BS. You’re better than that.

“I know Seb through rugby training,” then tilting his head quizzically, Kiritopa asks, “How do you know him?”

“Since school isn’t it, so what? Roughly twenty years? Through her brother, Adam as we played rugger together. Although, despite such a long time friendship, you wouldn’t let me in your knickers until more recently,” Seb shoots you a wink from over his beer.

The words burn through Marcus as he considers your connection with this man - his eyes narrowing, lips thinning. Loneliness echoing through his racing heart. He hadn’t considered you seeing anyone else- even for the briefest of dalliances but then not everyone is a serial long term monogamist.

Of course you’d have needs, you are an adult woman.

I just wish you’d explore them with me.

“Every now and then it’s nice to have an orgasm attached to a pulse that isn’t delivered by a battery,” you deliver, utterly deadpan.

Seb pretends to be mortally wounded by your words, playing dead into the chair next to yours, languidly flopping his limbs around. Oh, how Marcus would like to wipe that stupid smug smirk off his face!

For fuck’s sake, Pike. Why didn’t you sit next to her when you had the chance?

White knuckles wrapped around his nearly empty pint glass, Marcus silently watches as Seb desperately works to get your attention whilst you chat animatedly with Dian and Andy while Kiri downs the rest of his beer. He hasn’t noticed the pretty young woman with bouncing corkscrew curls observing him from amongst her friends on the next table along.

“Hey. You look like you could do with a drink, can I get you one?”

Abruptly removed from his poorly concealed glowering, Marcus raises his eyebrows in surprise at this question, pausing for some time before realising that it was aimed at him.

“Oh, look don’t worry. It was just a silly thought...” the beautifully tight curls go to withdraw from view and return to their friends.

“No, I’m sorry. I was lost in thought,” Marcus offers apologetically, “It’s been a day from hell. Let me get you a drink.”

“Wanted to talk to you as I was a bit concerned that you were about to break that glass with how tightly you were gripping it. Glass is an arse to get out of wounds so thought it better to save your hands before you come visit me in A&E,” she gently proposes, “There are better places to spend Friday nights!”

Welcoming the pretty distraction from his destructive thoughts, Marcus’ cheeks dimple as he nods, “I can imagine. Are you a doctor?”

“Yeah, for my sins,” she amusedly huffs, “And on a rare night out, so shall we go get that drink? I’m Kemi, by the way.”

✪✪✪✪✪

Oh, how you long to rip the makeup from your face! As a child, it had been a form of let’s pretend that turned into a mask to hide behind as a young adult as you experimented with finding your true self. Now, that you are established in your womanhood, you feel no need to add layers to your face other than when you are convinced it would be fun by a fast-becoming firm friend.

When Sebastian made a remark about how pretty you looked with the makeup, it made you want to run to the loo right then and there to claw it from your skin.

And what the ever loving fuck is he doing here? Fucking Sebastian of all fucking people, who you accidentally keep finding yourself fucking. You’d just come around to the idea that it might be ok to occasionally go out with people from work but when they meet people from your everyday life - your home life - that isn’t ok. Especially when that person is just a hate fuck. Great in bed but an odious human being as you can’t be that handsome and a decent person, it seems.

Unless you’re Marcus Fucking Pike.

Who is now grabbing a drink with an absolute goddess of a woman.

You couldn’t quite pinpoint why it had hurt so much when he’d walked off with her but there was such an ache deep in your tummy that could not be ignored. Between that and the appearance of fucking Sebastian, you just want to jump on the 178 home and throw on your jammies, curling up under the shit crocheted throw that you’d made during your leave - more holes than stitches. If it wasn’t for Dian, you would already be on your way there, demolishing something unhealthy from UberEats, glugging a wine or two.

Dian seems to pick up on your drop in mood and decides that it’s time for a trip to the tequila bar. With Andy’s husband now joining your rag-tag gang, you agree to chase some bitter hits of alcohol. As you wind your way among the dancers and drinkers, you see him standing by one of the upturned kegs, laughing at something she has said. You catch his eye, plaster on a smile and send him a wink in the hope that your wish for him to have fun seems genuine.

You sign to him whether he wants a drink but a small shake of his head tells you all you need to know before Dian tugs your hand back in the direction of the bar. Standing in front of the bartender, a moment of sadness washes over you until Kiri passes the salt, Seb licks your hand and the rest of the evening finally takes a softer tone after one, two, three.

The tequila in your tummy makes it hard to concentrate on what Dian and Kiri are chatting about while the three of you curl tipsily upon the comfy cushions as a large fluorescent pink, plastic sign declaring TREAT YO’SELF looms large over your heads. Excusing yourself to the loo, you walk past Marcus - steadfastly refusing any eye contact but ensuring he sees you. As you go to repeat the action on the return journey - not entirely sure as to why you feel the need to seek your boss’s attention - a hand goes to balance you as you walk down the final step.

“Whoa - steady, Nush,” you look up to see Marcus’ concerned face looking down at you.

“Hah! I’m ok. You having a good night?” You ask, your eyes searching his, “She’s truly stunning.”

“Yeah, um, were you guys doing shots?” he enquires, brow still furrowed.

“Yup. It's a really good tequila bar upstairs - should have joined us,” you jab him in the chest with an index finger, “So good that the world just looks like an impressionist painting. All swooshy and a little bit blurry.”

You watch Marcus scratching his neck, “Anyway, what on Earth are you doing here with me? Go get her, idiot.”

“Ah, here you are Bad Idea Puppy- thought you’d fallen asleep on the loo. Although that wouldn’t be the first time would it?” Sebastian brays, stepping between you and Marcus as he grabs your hand to lead you onto the dancefloor. Allowing yourself to be led away, you look back over your shoulder at him, mouthing go get her with a wink as if that would soften the pain that had appeared with her.

The music flows through you - the clearest way to communicate you have ever known- your body rolling and swaying with the sensuality of the music. Sebastian moves effortlessly around you thanks to his mother, who having had only sons, deciding that her youngest would get the dance lessons that she’d hoped the daughter she never had, would take. The two of you vent in movements all of what you could never be said between you or to anyone else aloud. As you twist together under the orange stained hazy night sky, you notice the goddess’ hand on Marcus’ face, stroking his cheek. The poisonous ache returns to your tummy and however your face contorts, causes Seb to pull you closer, cradling your head into his neck. You know how the night will end and the loneliness stings.

✪✪✪✪✪

His mouth bone dry, Marcus awakes fully dressed, on top of the comforter, with a cool bed surrounding him. Reaching for his phone, pulling the charging cable from it, he flicks through messages and emails trying to work out what had happened from when Kemi had left him in the bar to rejoin her friends. Her words still ring in his ears - you didn’t come alone tonight - when she had watched his eyes trace your path out of the market. How he’d initially thought about taking her up on her offer to help him forget, wanting to obliterate last night from his memory and lose himself in her eyes and lips. Her final words to him, cutting him to the core- she must be really special and if she is as special as you think she is, you fight for her.

Bloodshot eyes and deep creases stare back at him from the mirror. More grey. They say that age exchanges beauty for wisdom but they are the same mistakes he keeps repeating. A strangled gasp escapes him as he tries to regulate his breathing, lifting his chin trying to fill his lungs with more oxygen. His shoulders are racked by gut-wrenching sobs and like an overwhelmed dam, the tears spill in hot torrents down his cheeks. Marcus slides onto the floor, allowing the grief to pour forth.

His first marriage was too much, too soon, too young. An art historian and an artist in love with creating and observing beauty until the former decided to change tack after being recruited by the FBI. The long hours of training at Quantico, the subsequent hard days and irregular nights as he worked his way through the ranks of the Art Crime department, wrung the patience from his wife. Gradually growing further and further apart until all that was left were two strangers constantly at odds, her cutting comment about how she felt that he gave her only apathy - never coming to her when she needed help or affection. She hated him for the choices he made - feeling that his work was merely interacting with the meaningless. The law enforcer spent more time at work to hide from the inevitable ending until the artist found someone who appreciated her and the beauty she created.

As for Lisbon. Was she really ever his? Wasn’t he really just a footnote in the Patrick Jane story? The whirlwind romance that progressed and extinguished again at such a heart attack inducing pace, emphasised by that stupid-ass move to DC. Although, if it wasn’t for that move, he wouldn’t be here in London now. Oh yeah. That was out of the skillet and into the fire, Pike. Another excellent career move.

So much love to give and nowhere, no one to give it to. The lessons he has learnt and is still learning but oh, just to find that person with whom you can drop that mask and enjoy togetherness, warmth and serenity.

The side of the bath offers a solid cool support to Marcus as he sits there on the herringbone tiled floor, sobbing into his arms. There is only one voice he needs to hear right now. Grabbing a tissue from the side to noisily blow his nose into, he rubs the heels of his palms into his eyes before putting his glasses on. Phone in hand, he dials the number he knows better than his own name.

The familiar dial tone is like a lullaby in his ear, “Mamá?... Hey! How are you doing?... I’m sorry Mamá - I forgot about the time zone difference... I’m ok, just missing you… It’s just been a long week and... Yeah, London is awesome and I managed a trip to France this week which was incredible to be back there. So weird having so many different countries within such easy reach…Come visit me soon?... Thank you... I miss you… Te quiero mucho Mamá… I’ll ring you in a couple of days. Hasta luego.”

Hanging up, everything feels a bit more manageable and less painful- I wish I could bottle my Mamá’s voice. Hauling himself off the bathroom floor, he turns on the faucet to splash icy water on his face. Sniffing his t-shirt, realising the shower could wait - perhaps a good run to get the endorphins pumping would be his best move. Or perhaps a text to Nush to check what ingredients he’d need to have in for the curry tomorrow?

Stop it, Pike. You’re just fucking torturing yourself.

Opening a drawer, he pulls out basketball shorts, a clean t-shirt and a pair of sneaker socks to throw on, discarding last night’s clothes in a heap by the washing machine.

AirPods in and classic nineties dance anthems to pace himself to, he gives his quads and hamstrings a quick warm up by the front door before it is time to convert the emotional pain into miles.

One of the many things that Marcus loves about London is the constant greenery with every second corner a park or stretching heathland. Texas is so proud of its big sky country status and yet, there are parts of central London where you could lie down and not see anything but skies around you. It is truly hard not to fall in love with such a beautiful, historical and spacious city.

Pounding the pavements towards the park, his feet hit the concrete slabs softly, sending small shockwaves to his brain. Whilst Marcus knows that the power in his thighs could have him across the park in seconds, he savours each step. The precision in his movements is perfect as he takes lungful after lungful of the sunshine filled air. It feels like part of a meditation - a mindful prayer. Dodging around errant dogs and small, clumsy yet terrifyingly aggressive children on scooters, he winds his way through the avenues of trees until he comes across a small lake.

He pauses the thrumming music in his ears to just soak up the tranquility of the moment as he stretches out his limbs. The lake is the kindest of nature’s mirrors, never truly showing exactly what is above, but converting it to an image so beautifully smudgy. The weeping willow stroking its branches elegantly across the skin of the water, the clouds gliding silently above as a host of waterfowl paddle effortlessly through the cool, clear pool, all become a priceless Monet hanging in The National Gallery – all free for the looking. Sure, it is transient, changing by the day - unlike the fixed in a moment of time pieces by the grumpy old Frenchman - but that's what makes it all the more precious.

There’s a family by the water’s edge. Marcus can’t help but be amused by the toddler’s antics as they threaten to jump in and become irritated that they can’t, especially when they have their wellies on. Can’t fault that logic! The older child is gathering sticks to make a “campfire” with their dad - discarding most of their parent’s choices with withering looks and expressive rolls of the eyes. The dark-haired mom, whilst trying to reason with the toddler, is swaying with some sort of baby carrier tied around her - a tiny one clutched tightly to her chest. The infant is virtually invisible from the passes of material, only two tiny socks and its little woolly hat peeking free. A collie is also darting between and around them, rounding up his flock of sheep, taking his role as protector very seriously.

The scene makes Marcus smile as he stretches out his muscles. Whilst he can’t help but watch and yearn for something similar in his life, the mom looks up and over in his direction,

“Are you going to come over and say hi or just be a park weirdo that lurks in bushes pretending to stretch?” a familiar voice curtly teases.

Nush - what the fuck?

“Your face is a fucking picture! Take a breath - these are three of my five niblings - big one is Sophia, middle one that keeps threatening to swim in the pond is Alexa and this little dot is Oscar. As for that blundering idiot, this is Adam, my oldest brother- their dad,” gesturing towards your brother you giggle, creasing up in laughter at the sheer shock then relief on Marcus’ face, “Ads, this is Marcus, my new boss that I told you about.”

The male version of Nush outstretched his palm, offering a sympathetic look, “Hi Marcus, pleasure to put a face to a name. I’m so sorry that you have to put up with my cowbag-of-a-sister at work.”

Marcus can’t help but laugh at the friendly sniping between brother and sister, reminding him of his own teasing relationship with his sisters back home, “Hey! Your kids are beautiful. Oh, you must be Sebastian’s friend - who we saw at Model Market in Lewisham yesterday, Nush?” he questions.

“As much as Sebastian can have friends… Oh Nush, you didn’t, did you?” Adam’s face scrunches in disgust and judging in the way that only a sibling can do.

“No! Not this time,” Marcus loves the speed and vehemence to which you respond to your brother- and enjoys the sheer relief that is now guiltily coursing through his veins, “To give the man his dues, he won’t ever sleep with me when I’ve had too much to drink. Not that I was going to and not that it is any of your fucking business in the first place.” You add jabbing your brother in the softness of his tummy with every word you say.

“Nush, I was gonna text you this morning about tomorrow, if you’re still on to make the curries?” Marcus gently questions, willing you to agree.

“Hah! You’re trusting her to cook?” Adam laughs heartily at the suggestion, “I’m not sure that’s the best idea. Our mum still won’t let her near the chilli powder now.”

You growl at your brother, “I was a fucking kid at the time! And yes, I am more than happy to come and cook curries- what time suits you for me to come over? They do take a bit of time to make.”

Marcus struggles to hold back a snort of laughter, “Any time is good - and perhaps while they’re simmering, we can have some classic films on in the background?”

“Ah that sounds perfect,” your smile warming every inch of his skin.

“You sound perfect for her,” Marcus catches Adam muttering under his breath, his eyes widening at your brother’s comment.

“Shut your damn cakehole, twatface,” you slap your brother’s arm hard as you grind the words between your teeth, the two of you glaring with a mirror image of your eyebrows raised at each other.

“Um, I’d better continue my run before I cool down too much,” Marcus manages to spit out between the flushes of heat through his skin, “Great to meet you and your family, Adam. Nush, it’s lovely to see you and I’ll catch you tomorrow?”

“See you tomorrow, Marcus,” you smile at him before turning back towards your niblings, who are working together to create a den using an old fallen branch.

“I saw you running earlier,” Adam adds, “You’ve got a really good gait - as a physio, it’s great to see someone not destroying their joints. Do you do anything to support your running through cross training?”

“Uh no, but that’s a good idea as I don’t want any injuries. What would you recommend?” Marcus asks, genuinely intrigued and flattered by your brother’s compliment of his running style.

“Speak to Nush - yoga is perfect for stretching your IT bands, which as a man they’re generally always tight and only get tighter with repetitive movements like running or cycling. She’s the yoga queen and will know of a local teacher who can help you,” Adam grins, nodding towards his sister.

“There’s so much I have yet to learn about her,” Marcus shakes his head as he sorts out his headphones.

“Yeah, good luck with that!” Adam laughs as he pats Marcus on the back, “Anyway, enjoy the rest of your run and hopefully see you again soon.”

As Marcus gradually picks up his pace away from you and your family, his heart that had felt so dark and lonely, now feels light and airy. The release valve in his chest is finally loosened and there is a little bubble of excitement in his belly that he allows to build at the thought of tomorrow. The thought of your presence in his apartment, doing something as domestic as cooking, is truly a salve for his soul.

Perhaps he can just make believe until it becomes a reality.

Tag list of glory: @astroboots @silverwolf319@sirowsky @leonieb @disgruntledspacedad @bison-writes @the-ginger-hedge-witch @danniburgh @sugarontherims @green-socks @tardisfangurl @absurdthirst @pedropascalito @mouthymandalorian @mrsparknuts @lunaserenade @zukoyonce @agirllovespancakes @yespolkadotkitty @theravenreads @lv7867 @songsformonkeys

#josé pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #ppascaledit #pedro pascal#pedro pascal x reader #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike #the mentalist #marcus pike x oc #marcus pike x oc reader #the mentalist fanfic

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idiopath-fic-smile · 4 years

Text

hey hi I've been trying to write something, anything, and what came out is like 3k of an extremely stupid supervillain/superhero story that I’d been kicking around in some form like over ten years ago. it doesn’t map onto any kind of an AU so I guess it’s original fiction? enjoy?

Cityton Chronicles, part 1

The problem with carrying out an evil scheme, thought Edmund, was the scheme part.

Anyone could nurse a sinister thought or two; it wasn't that hard to shake one's fist at the sky and murmur, “You'll pay for this. With God as my witness, oh, you will pay” and then maybe cackle a little. That much was child's play. (Literal child's play; he had witnessed more than a few dire pronouncements from his classmates at Hawthorne Grimmsbury's Academy for Ominous Boys, especially when recess was threatened.)

Actually going through with a plan was a whole different story. There were logistics to manage. There were people to manipulate, details to babysit, hypotheticals to anticipate. The nitty-gritty, as it were.

Edmund was not destined for the nitty-gritty.

Although, wasn't that what useless people always said? “I'm more of a big-picture person.” Maybe he was useless. Maybe that was the issue. Maybe Edmund Malarkey, heir to Malarkey Industries, was simply not cut out for masterminding.

Case in point, he had a terrible feeling he was about to make a complete hash of the Ritual.

The parameters were clear enough: full moon—check. Chalk for pentagrams—check. One hundred lit candles—check. (Some were scented; the store hadn't had enough plain tapers in stock, but the text of the Ritual had been written well before the notion of pumpkin spice was a cozy twinkle in some godless marketer's eye, and so Edmund figured this would probably not disqualify him.) Thirteen hooded figures, all in black...

This was where things got dicey.

The first sign of the trouble to come was when Carl showed up in navy fucking blue.

Edmund pinched at the bridge of his nose and sighed loudly, breath crystalline in the late November air. The invitations had been so specific.

“It looked pretty dark online,” Carl offered as the wind whipped at them atop the roof of the Cityton Natural History Museum.

“Pretty dark? Pretty dark? Did it look like the blackest black?” said Edmund. “Did it look like Anish Kapur's most haunting nightmare? Did it look like a raven's wing in shadow at the stroke of midnight, Carl?” Carl stuck out his chin. “It's almost black.”

“Yes, and bananas and humans share about sixty percent of their DNA, we're almost cousins,” Edmund told him, dangerously quiet, “but fortunately for you, I'm not going to peel you and eat you in a fruit salad, you buffoonish optimist.”

Edmund should never have relied upon his father's former henchpeople. They were loyal to his father; they looked upon him with bemused tolerance. He should've just gone ahead and recruited all of the necessary twelve people from Craigslist. He'd held off due to a suspicion that anyone he found on the internet would assume the Ritual was fundamentally a weird sex thing, but at least a bunch of kinksters would have probably taken the rules seriously.

He sighed. “Carl, there's a bodega down on the corner. Go buy two black trash bags and make yourself a garbage-robe.” Carl frowned. “Is there time?”

Edmund checked his phone. Eleven fifty-three. “Hurry. And save the receipt.”

Another gust of wind kicked up. Edmund shivered. He'd been smart enough to request a fabric swatch ahead of time from the Etsy store where he'd custom-ordered his own set of hooded black robes. He hadn't stopped to consider how warm—or not—a single layer of said fabric would feel well into autumn, completely unshielded by the elements. Theoretically, he could've crammed a coat under the robes, like a child wearing a Halloween costume in an unseasonably cold October, but no, he hadn't wanted to look bulky.

He checked the candles again, for want of anything better to do.

“Boss,” said a hesitant voice behind him.

“What is it, Stephanie,” said Edmund.

Stephanie had clearly repurposed her teenager's old Hermione costume as her robes, but she had bothered to remove the Hogwarts branding, which was something, at least. Beyond the fact that Edmund didn't feel like giving a repellent transphobe any extra attention, there might have been copyright issues.

“Is that thing about bananas really true?”

“Yeah,” said Edmund. He had read it many years ago, in a book titled 2002 MORE WACKY FACTS TO BLOW YOUR MIND AND AMAZE YOUR FRIENDS, which didn't seem especially pertinent. He did a quick headcount. Even without Carl, they only numbered eleven. “Where's Donna?”

“You should call her,” said Stephanie. “Donna never answers her texts.”

Edmund had been halfway through tapping out a text. Ugh, Boomers. Calling was for emergencies only; everyone knew that. Unfortunately, this qualified. He gritted his teeth and dialed.

Donna answered on the fourth ring. “What?” She sounded groggy.

“Did you,” said Edmund, still through gritted teeth, “forget what night the Ritual was?”

“Oh shit,” mumbled Donna. “Are you sure? I thought it was at noon tomorrow. Carl told me twelve o'clock.”

“At night,” said Edmund. “Twelve o'clock at night, this is a dark incantation to a primordial god, it does not overlap with daytime television.”

Just then, Edmund's phone beeped with another call. “Can you hold, Donna,” he hissed.

“Hey boss,” said Carl, “the bodega only has white or green trash bags, what's my next step?”

“HOLD,” Edmund shouted, switching calls again. “Donna, can you grab an extremely dark-colored robe and be here immediately?”

“Like a bathrobe?” said Donna, sounding lost.

Of course Carl had not bothered to relay the dress code. Of course he hadn't even managed to hand her the painstakingly crafted invitation. Edmund had used the nicest card stock available to him, not that it mattered.

“Uh, boss?” Leroy called over the roar of the wind. Edmund flexed his stiffening fingers.

“One second, Donna,” said Edmund.

“How much longer is this gonna be?” said Leroy. “Because I was gonna catch the late show tonight—”

“Watch it on YouTube the next day like a normal person!” Edmund snapped. “Donna—”

“I can be there by 12:40,” said Donna through the tinny phone speaker. “There's some errands I wanna run first.”

“It's the middle of the night, what errands!” said Edmund. “Donna, hold—” He switched back to Carl. “Listen, are you sure there aren't any black trash bags?”

“White or green only,” Carl affirmed. “Some of them are scented, do you think that would make a difference?”

“Boss,” said Frank from the other side of the roof, “we lost the chalk?”

“Hold on, Carl,” said Edmund. “What?”

“It was here a second ago!” “Did you secure the chalk against the wind?”

“What?” said Frank.

“The chalk, it's cylindrical!” Edmund managed to shout. “Did you do anything so it wouldn't just roll straight off the roof?”

Somewhere above the din of wind came the sound of a half dozen pieces of sidewalk chalk landing on the street five stories below and shattering.

Edmund buried his (cold) face in his (frozen) hands.

“Uh boss,” said Stephanie. “It's 12:01.”

Edmund sighed. The primordial god K'h'gg'ragel might have allowed for some creative interpretations on Ritual-adjacent matters, but everyone knew K'h'gg'ragel was a stickler for punctuality.

“Alright,” said Edmund, pitching his voice to carry. “Pack it in, we'll try again next full moon.”

“Phew,” said Leroy, who was wearing a thick downy jacket over his robes, and a hat with earflaps, and mittens. “It's cold out.”

“I FOUND A BLUE ONE!” Carl shouted from the speaker. “IS THAT ANY BETTER?”

Edmund turned his phone off.

Lighting and strategically placing one hundred candles had been something of an undertaking. Blowing them all out alone and stuffing them back into a series of duffel bags was somehow worse. Edmund was about half-done when he heard a distinct whirring buzz. He looked up.

It was Dragonfly. Of course it was Dragonfly, heading right for him.

Great. Edmund's first-ever showdown was going to be a one-on-one against a superhero armed with a jetpack, one hell of a punch, and electrified darts. Edmund was going to get flattened, and all before he even got the chance to point out that the darts and for that matter the punching didn't fit with the overall insect theme.

“Hey man,” said Dragonfly, dropping effortlessly down to the roof of the museum. “I saw the lights from the sky, thought I'd investigate.”

They weren't fighting yet. Why weren't they fighting? Edmund's whole body fizzed with adrenaline. Also, cold. Either way, he was shaking a little, and bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“And what, strike another heroic blow against the terror that is a bunch of sweater-themed Yankee Candles?” said Edmund.

Dragonfly shrugged. His costume included a bottle-green moto jacket and gloves. It looked warm, in a way that made Edmund feel even colder. “Sweater candles? What, like burning wool?” he said.

Privately, Edmund had wondered about that too. This, he decided obscurely, was another strike against Dragonfly.

“Maybe burning wool smells phenomenal,” said Edmund instead, rocking forward. “There's no way you could possibly know, unless you're here to tell me you've lit a sheep on fire, which seems well outside your whole—” he waved his hands vaguely “—moral compass.”

“Word travels fast,” said Dragonfly gravely. “I am foursquare against sheep-burning. Always have been.”

Edmund squared his shoulders. “So, are we doing this, or what?”

From behind his signature oversized goggles, Dragonfly's brow seemed to furrow slightly. “Doing what?”

“Fighting,” said Edmund. He had to grind his teeth together to keep them from chattering.

“Ah,” said Dragonfly after a pause. “Oh. Um. Okay. Here's the thing?” He steepled his fingers. “You seem unarmed. You're not hurting anyone. You're also not committing any crimes.” Edmund opened his mouth to protest, and Dragonfly continued, “Or, okay, you're trespassing on the museum, I guess, technically, but it's not like you're even trying to sneak into an exhibit without paying.”

“I am here,” said Edmund firmly, “to perform a terrible and arcane Ritual which will summon—”

“Yeah?” said Dragonfly. “Where's your followers? Where's your summoning chalk? It's well past midnight and the only sign of any occult activity I can see is the candles, but for all I know, you were just up here trying to have a little me-time, which, like, on some level I get, you know?”

“So,” said Edmund blankly, “what now?” He had given up on trying to tense his jaw. His upper and lower teeth clacked rhythmically against each other.

“I give you a stern verbal warning about what's probably a minor fire hazard and recommend that you enjoy the museum from the inside, during business hours, with a ticket,” said Dragonfly. “I hear they have a great exhibit on prehistoric mammals. In the meantime, get somewhere warm, okay? Your lips are turning blue.” “Fuck off,” Edmund more or less managed to say through his shivers.

Dragonfly spread his hands, placating. “Fair enough.” He began to walk away. At the edge of the roof, he hesitated. “Uh, do you have a way down?”

“Obviously,” said Edmund.

“Yeah,” said Dragonfly. “Uh, okay.” They regarded each other. “What is it?” said Dragonfly after a few seconds.

Edmund froze. Or well, he was already half-frozen. Edmund stopped moving, was the point.

Apparently interpreting Edmund's silence as helplessness, Dragonfly offered dubiously, “I could carry you down?”

“How,” said Edmund, flat. It was the wrong thing to say, in that it wasn't 'No,' or 'Fuck off' again, something sensible like that, but damn it, he was freezing, and if he gave up the way he'd gotten everyone onto the roof, then this whole fucking evening was going to be a wash. He had tried so hard. It wasn't fair.

Dragonfly took a step closer. “Fireman or bridal?”

Edmund tried and failed to parse this three separate times in his cold-fuzzed brain. “Is that a meme?” he settled on finally.

“Do you,” said Dragonfly, “have a preference on how I carry you.”

“We haven't even established that you're going to,” Edmund said. Clackity clackity clack went his traitorous teeth.

Dragonfly sighed. “I can't leave you up here,” he said. “One, if I let you keep hanging out on the roof of the history museum, then technically I'm kinda aiding and abetting your whole trespassing situation. Two, it is really fucking chilly up here, and if you freeze to death, then that's on me. Which is also not, like, great for my conscience.”

“So I don't have a choice,” Edmund spat.

“You totally have a choice,” said Dragonfly. He tilted his head to the side. “Hell, you could do me a solid and just exit using whatever secret method you entered with, but I have a feeling mum's the word on that particular angle.”

This Dragonfly character was smarter than he looked. Of course, he was a grown man who fought crime dressed as a giant insect. The bar was not particularly high.

“Mum's the word?” Edmund echoed. “What are you, ninety?”

“I'm an old fucking soul, dude,” said Dragonfly. “Point being, you don't trust me not to watch you leave the roof. Which is hurtful, frankly. I'm not sure I trust you not to stay up here out of pure stubbornness. If I give you a quick boost down, then it's problem solved and we can both go about our nights. Crime-fighting for me, and for you hopefully a pile of blankets and whatever warm food rich people eat. Mashed potatoes? With...caviar?”

This clearly did not merit a response. Dragonfly knew who Edmund was, apparently. Most people did.

“What if you drop me?” said Edmund.

Dragonfly laughed. He had a nice laugh. It was yet another point against him, somehow. “Don't you think that might go against my whole—” he gestured with both hands “moral compass?”

Edmund recognized his own words being used against him. On the other hand, the thought of a hot meal and, moreover, central heating beckoned.

“I don't care,” Edmund said at last.

“What?” said Dragonfly.

“Bridal or fireman's carry,” said Edmund. “I don't care.”

Dragonfly nodded sagely. “Let's get this over with, then,” he said. “Hey, d’you want help with your candles?”

Did he? He didn't want to want help with his candles, but that was another question. On the other hand, if Edmund accepted Dragonfly's aid, it would shave off valuable minutes of this excruciating headache. The backs of Edmund's knees were cold. It was absurd.

“Fine,” said Edmund.

“Huh,” said Dragonfly several minutes later. “This one's rain-scented, and this one's Ocean Spray, and yet they smell nothing alike.”

Dragonfly had without fail commented on every single scented candle in the bunch. Edmund looked up from his umpteenth taper candle, momentarily distracted from the knifelike chill.

“Rain and ocean are two completely different things,” said Edmund. “The surrounding environment, the vibe, the salt content.”

“The vibe, I grant you,” said Dragonfly. “But salt, really? Have you ever smelled salt before?”

“The ocean has a smell,” Edmund insisted. His family had summered on the coast every year before—well. Before last year. He mostly remembered the sea as having a whiff of fish about it, which didn't sound promising for a candle, but it was the principle of the thing.

Dragonfly shrugged. “You've got me there,” he said. “Never been.” Cityton was only about an hour's drive from the beach. Edmund wasn't sure he knew anyone who had never visited at least once, for a long weekend at least. Of course, it wasn't like Edmund knew Dragonfly. He didn't even know what Dragonfly's eyes looked like.

Edmund blew out another few tapers.

“This one's just called Singing Carols,” Dragonfly announced. “Guess what it smells like, I dare you.”

And so on.

In the end, Dragonfly carried Edmund off the roof of the Natural History Museum scooped under the armpits, the way you might hold a cat if you were engaging in some light cat-related horseplay. The mechanical dragonfly wings were well-made, Edmund could admit that much; Dragonfly didn't seem to have any issue bearing Edmund's weight or the combined weight of the candles, and their feet gently touched the ground after only a few seconds. It was already slightly warmer—or at least slightly less freezing—on street-level.

Dragonfly let go and stepped back immediately. This close, Edmund could see that his lips were pretty badly chapped. It made sense that someone who donated all their time to—again—flitting around town trying to right every minuscule so-called wrong while dressed like a bug wouldn't be experienced enough with self-care to be acquainted with a good lip balm, but the thought made Edmund weirdly a little sad.

His sense of deeply ingrained politeness warred against the equally powerful urge to be a real bastard about the whole thing. In the end, politeness won out, by the very skin of its mannerly little teeth.

“Thank you for not dropping me to my almost certain death,” Edmund gritted out with extreme reluctance. He stared over Dragonfly's shoulder as he said it.

Nevertheless, for some awful reason, for just that moment, it felt a little like the end of a date.

“Right,” said Dragonfly. “Right. Well then. Happy trails.” He seemed to consider this. “Or you know, if doing crimes is what makes you happy, then for the sake of Cityton, let's say, mediocre trails. Do you wanna borrow my gloves?”

“Why,” said Edmund flatly.

Even though the goggles completely obscured much of the upper half of Dragonfly's face, Edmund had the distinct sense that a disbelieving stare was being leveled at him.

“For your hands? You know, the traditional office of gloves?”

As the scion of Malarkey Industries, Edmund was long accustomed to being hated for who he was. Hated, feared, not-too-secretly envied. And lately: mocked, dismissed, his family name transmuted into a juicy, low-hanging punchline for lazy late night writers.

He wasn't sure he'd ever been pitied before. It did not sit well.

“I'll warm my hands on the fires of hell while I plot your demise, you miserable fool,” growled Edmund.

“Yikes,” said Dragonfly easily. “Well, I'm off.” And with that, he took to the sky.

Edmund curled his fingers into the sleeves of his stupid, summer-weight summoner's robes and started back towards what remained of his home.

#original fiction #cityton chronicles #I'm sure that in some obscure way the fact that I'm thinking about this now is due to mainlining The Untamed #but this is definitely. not that.#warning for an extremely brief mention of transphobia that the main character condemns #also apparently there is a dragonfly-themed superhero in a 2008 superhero spoof movie?#let's say that movie exists in this world too and Dragonfly has taken a lot of shit for it #that sounds about right

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sparrowwritings · 4 years

Text

Final Fantasy Writing Challenge Day Seventeen: Ladybugs

Day Sixteen -- Masterpost -- Day Eighteen

Having people barging into his office was so expected that Hythlodaeus hadn’t needed to keep his door shut in years. Having one of his best friends barge in on him while he was working was also completely within average parameters. He’d even made a habit of keeping snacks in case someone came hungry.

What wasn’t normal was Artemis barging into his office holding a preview of a concept that had been on display on one of the lower floors of the Bureau of the Architect. She shoved it in his face as she leaned across his desk. “I searched everywhere I could for name of whoever originated this and I can’t find it. You’re the Chief so you either already know or you can find out.” There was an urgency to her voice that was very unlike her.

Before Hythlodaeus could respond, Apollo also stumbled into the office. He was short of breath, as if he’d been chasing after his twin. Which he probably had done, all things considered. “Can’t just...run off...without...words…” He said when he could manage to speak.

“I need. To know. The name.” Artemis hadn’t turned from staring down Hythlodaeus. He couldn’t see her eyes, but he didn’t have to. He knew her well enough to know that she hadn’t even blinked.

Taking this very rare moment of seriousness for what it was, he gently took the preview of the concept from her hand and examined it. Inside was a model of an insect. A beetle, from the look of it--an exoskeleton that had wing casings that split in half to allow the diaphanous limbs to spread for flight; short stubby antenna to sense the world around it; twin pincers next to its mouth; six legs that ended in fine, almost unnoticeable hairs to allow for climbing surfaces. Unlike most beetles that Hythlodaeus had examined, this one’s coloring was primarily red with black spots dotting its shell in a random pattern. When he queried the preview, a name came up immediately: ladybug.

The contributor was marked as Anonymous. His clearance let him find out why.

“Well?” Artemis demanded.

“Well it’s no wonder you couldn’t discover the name.” He said while handing it back to her. “Whoever it was didn’t want to be known to the public.”

“WHAT?!”

“Not everyone likes to be in the public eye, sis.” Apollo shook his head. “I know it’s hard to wrap your head around, considering who we are and who we know.” He made a significant look in Hythlodaeus’ direction. “No offense.”

“None taken, unless you wish for me to play the part of Emet-Selch for a moment.”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

Hythlodaeus cleared his throat. “How dare you, Apollo. I resemble that remark.”

Apollo responded with a thumbs up. “I don’t know how you do it, but you sound more and more like him every time you try.”

Artemis slammed her hands on the desk. “Can we focus, you two?”

The men both paused, then looked to each other before turning their faces to her. Clearing his throat again, Hythlodaeus spoke first. “Alright, I’ll ask since no one’s said anything about it yet: What’s going on, Artemis? You’re acting...well, more like Hades than usual.” Apollo worried at his lip while nodding in agreement.

Her jaw was tight while her head turned away. It was Apollo’s turn to be Azem, so her white mask showed a little more of her dour expression. “I just...want to know who made the ladybug concept. It seems…” She hesitated. Her mouth opened and closed a few times as she tried and failed to come up with something to answer him with. Finally Artemis settled on, “I want to see what sort of mind could come up with it.”

Hythlodaeus set his face as neutrally as he could and steepled his fingers. “I really shouldn’t ask, but I’m going to anyway. You’re sure you want to find them?”

“Absolutely.” Her earlier hesitation was gone.

After a dramatic pause (by the end of which he was sure that she was about to lean across the desk again and smack the heel of her palm into his mask), he opened his hands with a somewhat helpless shrug. “Alright then, I’ll see what I can do.”

Her relief was instant. “Thank you, Hythlodaeus.”

“Well of course! Anyone that interests you this much without even having met them is bound to be an interesting person.”

------

“You know,” Hythlodaeus said to two of his best friends as he watched the scene happening in front of them from a distance. “I had high expectations for their meeting, but I’m somewhat disappointed.”

“It goes to show that you need some more reasonable expectations.” Emet-Selch drawled. He had been on his way to the office of the Chief of the Bureau of the Architect when the twins and Chief himself had passed him by. Naturally the three of them had bodily dragged him along for the journey to find the creator of concepts that Artemis had been keen to meet. When they were within sight of the greenhouse that the Amaroutine worked at, she had broken off from the group to go ahead and meet them with a spoken warning of what was to come should her best friends (and brother) follow. Naturally, the three had moved to be just within sight of her and no further.

They had been waiting in that spot for quite a while.

“That’s rich, coming from you. ‘I’m Hades and of course Azem can do the impossible, they’ve done it every day they’ve been in office!’”

Emet-Selch stared back at Hythlodaeus. His red mask made his menace all the more obvious. “I don’t sound like that.”

“Yes you do and you know it.”

“He’s right you know,” Apollo chimed in. “Every other time we get an assignment, you’re the first one to cheer us on.” He grinned. “In your own way, of course.”

“Well I never.” Emet-Selch put a hand to his chest in dramatic shock. “What shocking accusations from two of my best friends. I hardly think I can recover.” His quietly growing smirk gave him away. “Although if we’re about to throw slander around, I have a few things to say about the two of you.”

“I thought you three would be in gossip mode by the time I got back.” Artemis’ voice interrupted the game. All three men turned and she gave them a wave. She had a far more peaceful expression on her face.

Both Hythlodaeus and Emet-Selch looked at each other. Even though their respective masks hid the upper parts of their faces, it was absolutely clear that their eyebrows had been raised up to their hairline. Apollo looked more relieved than shocked. “Looks like it went well,” He said with a smile.

“Yeah...yeah it did.” Her own smile was far softer than anything her best friends had ever seen her exhibit before.

After waiting an appropriate amount of time (about thirty seconds), Hades said, “We should meet this fellow if he’s capable of producing soft feelings in Artemis of all people.”

Hythlodaeus chimed in as if the two had rehearsed, “Absolutely. If he’s to be involved with our Artemis, surely he must know he has three people he needs to impress.”

“D-don’t pull me into this,” Apollo immediately held his hands up and took a step back. “I’m fine with whatever she’s comfortable with.”

“Two people, then.”

“Two people with quite exacting standards,” Hades added. He was so full of smug that his smirk had become a full blown grin. “We need a full profile of him immediately.”

“With at least three character witnesses.” Hythlodaeus was also grinning from ear to ear.

The parts of Artemis’ face that could be seen were quickly coloring from the onslaught. “If both of you don’t stop that I’m going to--”

Instead of addressing her quickly growing rage, Emet-Selch turned his attention to Hythlodaeus. “You never did say what his name was before we got here.”

“Oh right! His name is Darsus!”

“Hm, I shall have to look him up later.”

“Guys, stop before--” But Apollo’s warning came too late. Artemis had already conjured up a concept of lightning to chase her two best friends with.

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1zashreena1 · 4 years

Text

Wedding Planning -15

18+, m/f, technically OCxDiego Jimenez [Power]

Summary: Princess came home to a whole new set of anxieties. Murder Panther to the rescue via the restorative powers of dick. Unlike the dick, this one is short and sweet.

WARNINGS: Ridiculous descriptions and ‘the code is more like guidelines’ outlook on grammar. Is it OOC if the character was given essentially zero development in canon???

Come eating, the L word, criminal activities glossed over, relationship building, plus size woman+fit man, Anxiety, wedding planning comes with its own warning

A/N: Princess took on a life of her own and has essentially become an OC. There are infrequent mentions of her description (specifically as plus size) and her actual name in later pieces (its Bicki). She started as self-insert so she looks like me (plus size, white, short, blue eyes, curly hair). If that is not your thing, I totally understand. And do not feel obligated to read this, I will not be offended!

I’m not a fan of “plot” so be aware that most of this series is just meandering through their relationship, angst-fluff-smut whiplash style. But with dick jokes.

TAGLIST: @chelsfic @symbiont13 @nicke0115 @bunnykjm @rosee-sensuelle @girlpornparadise @mandoplease @heresathreebee @xxsteph-enrixx @jetiikad @joalsglasses @mutantcookiesecrets @demoncatstone @squidlywiddly87 @lockedoutofmyotherblog @poeedamerons @xxidontwikeitxx @kid-from-new-zealand @fleurfatale89 @allalngthewtchtower

You have to make some decisions. Like, a bunch.

Okay, make a list.

You pull the big legal notepad off the bookshelf in your living room and meander around until you find your colored pens. Red for immediate, orange for middling, and green for long-term.

Parameters set, you begin The Listing.

It takes a couple of days, but you think you finally have everything accounted for that you can possibly imagine.

The long term column has vague, nebulous, theoretical problems written in dark green:

-Where will you live?

-Keep your job???

-TAKE HIS NAME?????????

-CONVINCE HIM TO RETIRE

Intermediate consists of things you two need to discuss, too:

-Ceremony?

Where

What type

Who invited

When

-Honeymoon?

-Colors?

-Food (yum/lots plz)

-Flowers eww no ->Alternative bouquet

-People in ceremony???

And then things that need answered like, next week:

-MEET FAMILIES (panic)

-A Dress?

-??????? omg help

You're going to give yourself a panic attack if you keep looking at it. I'll just take it with me this weekend and hand the immediate section to him.

You feel a little better with a plan, even if it only consists of two steps.

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

Diego is standing in the kitchen glaring at the espresso machine when Bastian drops you off at the penthouse.

You glance around, no Julio to be found, before you head over to him. Diego's left hand shoots out and he wiggles fingers at you, trying to grab you despite the twenty foot gap between your bodies. You snort, but its still adorable.

Slotting in underneath his arm, you wind around him with a sigh. "Hi, baby. Whatcha doing?"

Brown eyes come down to you and he smiles widely. "Its not working. How was your trip?" His forehead descends and you rise on tiptoes to meet him.

"Better now that I'm here." You whisper as your lips curl up in a pleased grin. Diego rubs his nose with yours before swooping down for a kiss. The goatee has gotten long enough that its now soft on your chin, but still tickly. Combined with his velvet lips and hot tongue, you almost experience sensory overload. High pitched noises escape your throat while you melt against him. Diego takes your weight with no effort and you don't hesitate to let him. When he finally pulls back you just have to chase him a little; you really, really like the facial hair.

When you finally slit eyes open he is grinning down at you like a cat that got the canary. He sounds so smug, "I should grow out the entire beard?"

You lick your lips and consider the salt and pepper growth that occurred since you saw him last weekend. Your left eyebrow climbs with your own inquiry, "Do you want to live between my thighs?"

"Uh, yes…?" Diego answers what was apparently the stupidest question ever posed. Chocolate eyes sparkle at you as he fails to suppress a smirk. "What do you think the ring is about?"

Your guffaw is cut short when he tosses you up onto the counter and shoves both huge hands down the back of your pants to push them off. The jeggings stretch easily over your hips and Diego, ever efficient when it comes to getting some pussy, takes your thong with them in one swift motion. Bracing hands on those broad shoulders, you wiggle and shift and bend whichever way is necessary to assist. Never let it be said that you are not a team player.

Your left shoe hits the floor and as Diego switches to the right he asks breathlessly, "New?"

"Yeah." Your response is just as rushed as you grab at his hair.

"Pretty." He tosses the right shoe off towards the living room with this proclamation.

Both big hands come up to your knees and spread your legs wide. "Well, thank yourself. I used the black Amex." You chuckle as you lean back on elbows.

Slowly, menacingly, promisingly, Diego rises over the lip of the counter between your legs with that shark smile. He purposely pitches his voice low to rumble, "Good girl."

Your insides liquefy as your back arches and your pussy clenches down on nothing. How the hell does he do that? You can feel yourself getting wet. Fleeting kisses and sharp little nips mark Diego's progress up the inside of your left thigh.

"Hmm." His breath ghosts over your center in the lightest of teases. "What is that method to train again? The treats instead of yelling?" He rubs those bristles you so love over your inner thighs with considerable force and it almost induces a seizure.

"P-postive reinforcement!" Your yelp is exceedingly high pitched. Oh fuck yes, reward me with tongue, I'm a good Princess. You're almost certain that your brain has melted, you have zero sense when it comes to this man.

Diego nips the very bottom of your right buttcheek, so close and yet way, way too far away. "Yesss," he hisses into the short hair just above where you need him most, "That's what its called." The feel of his goatee just barely brushing over your folds while he speaks has turned you into a gibbering mess.

"P-please, Diego. I did like you told me, I didn't even text to ask first, please please…" How he manages to break you down into a begging disaster so quickly is a mystery. Your hands curl into his hair, desperately trying to pull him closer.

"Mm hmm," his deep hum makes you quiver, memories of that sound being delivered straight to your sensitive bundle of nerves via the vehicle of his tongue drive you higher. The rough timbre is dark with desire when he speaks this time, "You were a very good girl. My pretty little Princess is learning well. Let Diego give you your reward."

The heat of his open mouth covering your entire vulva is stunning. Your shoulders fall to the countertop as you moan shamelessly, "Ohhh, yes baby." That sinfully amazing tongue pokes into your entrance then flattens out broadly to lap all the way up to your clit. "Yeah!" Your single breathy yelp is accompanied by a jerk of your wide hips. Diego presses hard and moans.

Your hands slap down on the countertop for leverage so you can press down on him. "Yes, yes. Oh my god, how is, your tongue, so hot??" Breath stuttering, your words are choppy. Your chest jumps each time he groans against you and Diego repeats it again, seemingly just to enjoy your reaction. He pulls off with an obscene slurp, Nonono come back!

"The same way this pretty little pussy is always so tight." The dirty talk is all the warning you get as two thick fingers sink deep inside. It takes a moment to comprehend that the ringing in your ears is an uncomfortable noise emanating from your mouth. He pulls out slowly, making sure you feel every ridge and callus, all the textures, before pushing in again steadily. Each time he retreats your cunt clenches down, trying to hold on to the feeling of being filled. "Did you miss your Diego? Huh?"

There is no earthly reason anyone should be this fucking sexy.

"Only, oh fuck, only when I'm ali-i-i-ive!" The confession ends in a squeal as he bottoms out and rubs your cervix. The cold counter is heating rapidly under your thrashing form. Just as you start to get accustomed to the sensation Diego ups the ante by closing lips over your clit and sucking. Your hips roll against him, he matches the rhythm of his hand with your movements expertly. Legs rising high and spreading wide, trying to give him as much room as possible to work. A broken chant is punched out of you with every thrust, "Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah."

The disappointed whine you utter when he breaks the suction is cut off into choked silence by the focused licks he is now delivering. You bury both hands into his short hair and hang on for dear life. His beard rasps against your sensitive skin and the contrasting feelings drive you mad. These are the licks that push you higher, these licks mean business.

Between the long, slow thrusts of his fingers and the never ending laving of your clit, everything is tightening up quickly. Your legs shake and your stomach trembles, you pull on his hair and Diego moans for you. You moan back, "Fuck. Yeah, baby. Just, just keep. Don't stop, please don't stop."

Because Diego is Diego, he doubles down on the pressure and goes even harder with the tongue. Your entire consciousness narrows down to the man between your legs working you over like its his life's mission to make you come on his face. Everything is clinching tighter and tighter. Tense and strung out taut, you call for him as he pushes you right up to the edge and straight over it.

"Diego, Diego. Baby, I- F-fuck, yes, yes. Love you, love you, I fucking love you, I love you." You realize that was aloud but can't be bothered to stop the babbling confession synchronized to the waves of your climax. Diego groans against your clit but keeps his fingers fully buried so you can clamp down on him in ecstasy. You ride it out knowing full well that he won't rush this, he loves to feel the effect he has on you. You have no idea how long it goes on, the agonizing pleasure slowly easing, but your back finally crashes down to the marble while you wheeze in exhaustion.

Using the grip in his hair, you tug gently to pull him off. Looking down over your curves, you flush even more as you watch Diego lick his lips lewdly. I am living in my very own private porno.

Movement further down catches your eye and you realize that this entire time he has been stroking himself with the hand not shoved inside you. His massive cock is already dark and dripping as it pokes out of open pants.

"Your turn." You utter as you reach for him.

"No!" Diego barks and bats your hand away. Is he sick? Do I need to call 911? You're immediately concerned that he might be dying. "Lie back. Be still."

Okay, kinky motherfucker. Of course he has something in mind. You flop down as ordered and Diego moans with satisfaction.

"Yes, good girl. Do as I command and let Diego come all over you, pretty little Princess." He stares down at you with eyes black in arousal. His mouth hangs open to pant and his brows are drawn together in concentration. Swiping precome off the head of his dick, Diego reaches up to offer it. You lick with no hesitation as he rams those same fingers that were just up your pussy into your mouth and practically down your throat. "Suck."

With a moan you do exactly what he wants, your eyes closing in pleasure from the combined tastes of him and yourself. You don't have to put on a show when you enjoy this so very much. Your tongue covers every centimeter of his index and middle fingers, suckling strongly to get every last drop. Diego whines at the sight.

"Fuck. Yes. Princess. My Princess. Diego's perfect little Princess." His voice is rough and rattling, you can tell from how harshly he fists his cock that he is very close. The sight of two of your favorite parts of him together, his hand and his dick, makes you writhe.

You wrap your left hand around his thick forearm and the glint of your diamond ring catches his eye. His fingers drop out of your mouth to hold your jaw ever so tenderly. You decide to give him that last little nudge.

"Baby," You breathe, he pries his eyes away from the ring to meet yours. You pitch your voice low and sultry, "Come for your Princess, my Murder Panther."

Diego's expression crumples and his hips snap forward twice as he comes with a quiet roar. "Ahhh, sí sí. Yessss." Its fascinating to watch; this big, powerful, dangerous man losing control over you. You absolutely love it.

He paints your stomach white with come, squeezing the last little bit out and then slapping both hands down the counter to gasp. Before you can reach for those shoulders to pet him into aftercare, Diego dives down to lap up his own mess.

"Holy fuckin' shit that's hot." You are right back to the edge just like that. His soft tongue scoops up the gleaming liquid and you can literally see him swallowing it. You jump when fingers brush your labia but sigh with approval when they sink deep into you again. Diego, now finished with your stomach, comes back up to take your mouth.

This is a whole new level of obscene: Sucking his own come off of his tongue while he finger fucks you to another orgasm. The mental image of what you two must look like defiling the kitchen counter is enough to make you tighten around him. The rapid, forceful thrusting of his thick fingers sends you careening into climax while moaning into his mouth. Pussy trembling around him and hips jerking, you hang on tight to his biceps until every wave of pleasure ebbs away. You flop back down and Diego collapses on top of you.

"Fuck. If that, if that's what I get for spending your money. Then I need to fucking splurge more often." You can barely string words together.

Diego purrs.

Its now forty minutes later and you manage to troubleshoot the espresso machine.

"Its unplugged." You murmur, pointing lazily.

"Mmmph." Diego moans from his position face down in your cleavage.

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

A brief debate on showering occurred, but a motion to nap on the sectional was introduced and unanimously ratified almost immediately.

When you wake up later the only light in the penthouse is supplied by the neighboring skyscrapers. Curled up on your right side, Diego is spooned up behind you with his beard velcroed into your hair and the fingers of his left hand are laced with yours around the diamond ring. The sight makes you both happy and anxious.

"Baby?" You breathe. Diego shifts behind you, then yawns hugely. It even sounds adorable, you smile to yourself.

"Que pasa?" His voice is rough from sleep and you shiver. "You're stiff. What's wrong, Princess?"

"I have some notes we need to discuss. Its not bad!" Rushing to reassurance, you move to sit up. He releases your hands but strokes down your back as you stand. Bare feet pad across the rug as you go back to your bag and retrieve the notepad. Diego blinks when you turn on a lamp but waves you back into his embrace.

"What is troubling my Princess?" He rumbles as you wiggle around and get situated in his lap. You present the immediate list of issues and give him time to read the few items. He chuckles at you, "Let's start from the bottom, yes? I will help." He mimes crossing it off the list.

"Yeah, alright." You giggle. "But the family thing. You know my parents are chomping at the bit. I'm the last girl they get to marry off, its a big deal or something." Your eyes roll as you flap your hand around.

"How much do you want them involved?" Diego presents something you hadn't considered yet.

"Huh. I. Wait a sec." He props his chin in his hand while you consider. You're very distracted by the lazily blinking Murder Panther under you. "Okay," settling hands on your thighs, you push through the anxiety, "I had assumed they were not paying for it." Careful watching shows Diego rolling his eyes at you.

"Of course not. Don't be silly." He scoffs quietly.

Yeah, duh. You can feel terror bubbling up and you squash it ruthlessly. "Well in that case, almost none. We'll make all the decisions. They'll be allowed to give opinions or whatever, but no control." That does make it a little easier.

"No artistic license to the people who created you. Ballsy. I like that." Diego is nothing if not encouraging of you. His expression of mock impression makes you gigglesnort. Then he throws you another curveball of an offer, "Do you want a wedding planner?"

Everything stops for a moment before you breathe, "Fuck." That never even occurred to me.

Big fingers dip into your hair and turn so you face him fully. Diego is grinning from ear to ear. "Did I crash Fiance Princess OS?"

You nod faintly. "I… never even considered that. I don't come from a background where people do that, you know?"

Shrugging one shoulder at you, Diego 'hmm's thoughtfully. "I did not suggest it sooner because you like planning. What is everything that needs to be planned?" His face turns mildly horrified at your sudden flailing.

"EVERYTHING! YOU HAVE TO PLAN EVERYTHING!" You most definitely did not have control of your own volume setting just now. "So, like, the venue, the date, the wedding party, the clothing, the food, decorations, seating arrangements, guest lists, ugh, fucking flowers. I do not want flowers! Oh, shit, music? Oh my god, everyone is going to be offended by my musical choices at some point." You facepalm and then drop the entire setup down into your lap, too, for good measure.

Diego pokes your arm with the corner of the notepad and you reach to take it from him without looking.

He snatches it back and tosses it over the couch and into the kitchen where it lands on the floor with a slap.

"Fuck it. We can elope."

#damnit diego #murder panther #rough me up then dick me down #24 fucking 7 hours in this house #starz power diego jimenez #maurice compte #zash writes

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vegetacide · 4 years

Text

Sleepless

Veg●notable: So... this popped into my head.. wrote it.. and here we are.

Any mistakes are purely my own...

Characters: Kayo/Virgil, Jeff Tracy

General warning: Just a little gropey

Word count: 4541 words

Time: Middle of the night. Crack past when regular people would be sleeping

Location: Lounge balcony, Island

Summary: Someone is having a hard time sleeping.. stuff happens. Embarrassment ensues.

Enjoy!

o0o

Virgil sat upright with a jolt, the feeling of foreboding and dread chasing him into the land of wakefulness. Breath heaving, heart pounding a rapid staccato in his chest, he scrambled up his rumpled bed until his back found the headboard and kicked his legs free of the tangle of linens.

Croaking out a command, the shadowy remnants of the nightmare which had been plaguing his slumber vanished as the soft, pre-programmed lighting illuminated the quiet space of his room. Reassuring him that he wasn’t actually hanging from a mountain a mere finger’s width away from a trapped climber..

Cursing softly to himself, he racked a hand through his sleep tousled hair and swung his legs over the side of the bed resisting the urge to shiver as the temperature controlled air breezed over his sweat soaked back.

Slouching he braced his elbows on his knees and rubbed the exhausted fog from his eyes. The dream had felt so real, the blistering cold, the blinding wind, the burning chill in his chest as he desperately tried to stretch those last few centimetres.

He’d been so very close yet not close enough. The climber’s pleading voice, hoarse from screaming grew quiet and an odd calm of realization had settled over the indistinguishable features of their face. A dark truth had been registered, that salvation was not in the cards for them.

In that instant Virgil had recognized the climber’s sudden intent and throwing all caution to the bitter mountain wind, he’d lunged. His thighs coiling then thrusting him out and away from the purchase of the ledge he’d been dangling from and just as he started to free fall, the climber let go…

He stared down at his hand and frowned at the slight tremble in them. Clenching them a few times and dispelling the dull phantom ache he felt from the situation that had been conjured from the depths of his own subconscious.

Catching the dim, blue numerals of the digital display on his night stand, Virgil exhaled wearily and with a grunt of effort pushed to his feet. A couple hours of sleep was better than no sleep at all but after three straight days of this, the lack of a full eight was starting to wear on him.

His brothers always razzed on him for his late morning sleeping habits and it looked like it was going to be no different once the sun decided to crest the horizon. Little did they know though that his penchant for daytime slumber was more out of a dire need than laziness on his part.

He’d suffered the insomniatic spurts for a large part of his adult life. Some due to traversing multiple time zones on a regular and completely throwing off his natural circadian rhythm and other from an over-active mind that just ceased to shut off at a reasonable time.

He’d tried various sleep aids over the years, from the medicinal variety to the drinkable kind with a percentage stamped on the side of the bottle but neither of them were long-term solutions. Both had side effects that were detrimental to his chosen career path. Hard to concentrate on a rescue in a drug induced fog or function effectively with a hangover. He knew that from experiences and both were definitely something he didn’t want to try or risk again with lives on the line.

So letting the brotherly teasing just roll off him was his preferred dénouement. As for the twilight hours from dusk till dawn? He filled those lonely hours with copious midnight sessions in the island gym, or with twilight maintenance work on his ‘Bird. The latter had been done so frequently that he could reassemble Two’s VTOL thruster assembly blindfolded, one hand tied behind his back and with a set of nail clippers as his only tool…. On the rare occasion when the exhaustion wasn’t too intolerable, he’d even break out his art supplies. Usually though his creative muse would be out cold in a corner somewhere so his productivity on those nights was severely lacking and whatever he managed to produce was subpar at best.

No one ever saw those works of so-called “art”. They were tucked away in the far back corner of his art studio saved from the trash for some reason he was unable to wrap his head around despite the fact that he loathed them for their complete ineptitude.

Crap results or not, it served its purpose of distracting his mind from whatever it was that was preventing him from dreamland and he found that on more than one occasion he managed to just stumble off to bed again before the rest of the house had roused to start their day. Hiding the fact that sleep had been evading him and effectively staving off both the worry wart that was Scott and matriarchal commandeering presence of his Grandmother.

Though these days, he had the added pressure of dealing with the wandering presence of his father as well. Who seemed to ghost around the house at night as much as he did. Virgil suspected that his father was still adjusting to being Earth side and except for one instance had managed to avoid him.

Jeff Tracy’s sleep patterns were erratic at best but that was to be expected after his survival ordeal in the Oort cloud. Virgil knew from a medical standpoint that given time his father would eventually adjust but in the meantime, he would have to play a one sided version of cat and mouse with the man just so he didn’t set his father’s somewhat questionable mental stability for a spin. He had enough on his plate to deal with already, he didn’t need the added weight of his second oldest son’s problems on top of it.

Giving his head a shake at the direction of his thoughts, Virgil made his way over to his closet. If he let his mind drift in that way for too long he would find himself down a rabbit hole he would have a hard time finding his way out of. At the moment he didn’t have the mental stamina or the wherewithal for it either.

Reaching blindly into the dark depths of his closet Virgil rummaged around until his fingers came across the soft cotton of a well loved pair of track pants. Slipping the loose folds of worn fabric over his legs he contemplated his options for the rest of the night and just couldn’t drum up the energy to make a decision.

Catching a glimpse at his bed out of the corner of his eye he knew that staying in his room wasn’t on the table. Turning, Virgil made his way quietly on bare feet out the door and towards the stairs. Maybe something good would be on late night TV but knowing his luck as of late it was unlikely. At this point though it was better than coming up with an alternative. He’d already gone over Two with a fine toothed comb and his muscles were still recuperating from the previous nights work out. Last thing he wanted to do was to end up with a work out related injury. He was already pushing safety parameters on call outs as it was and a sprain or strain was going to have him benched for sure

---

Ten minutes of channel surfing was all it took before Virgil hit the fed up phase of his evening. Abso-fucking nothing on TV. Nothing at least that could keep his attention. Tossing the remote somewhere to his left, he shoved up to his feet, grabbed his glass off the low table and headed out on to the balcony to watch the light show of a storm that was passing by off-shore.

Leaning his elbow on the railing overlooking the pool he watched the play of light as it rumbled across the dense cloud cover. By the looks of it, the storm was shaping up to be a big one but all their scans told them it would keep well to the South of their island home. Even as far out to sea as it was, the winds were starting to pick up and Virgil could hear the storm surge as it crashed against the shoals and rocky outcroppings far below the family villa.

Losing himself to the slashes of lightning that danced across the heavens in a vibrant display of scorching white streaks buffeting, turbulent bruise coloured clouds that in an instant succumb to the abysmal void of inky black. He could feel in his bones that beep bass rumbles that followed. Thrumming through the Earth, cement and rebar of his home up though his feet and the oppressiveness of its ferocity weighed on him. Even all these many miles away the might of Mother Nature could be felt. He just prayed that no one was stupid enough to be out in that mess.

“Fingers crossed.”

*-*-*

It hadn’t been her intention to startle him. Far from it and it wasn’t like she was trying to be quiet about her approach. Virgil had been just so lost in thought that he hadn’t noticed her standing beside him contemplating the stark contrast of light and shadows across the expanse of his tense back and heavy shoulders.

“Shit… Kayo, you scared the crap out of me.” He heaved a sigh, settling his weight against the railing again.

“Sorry, didn’t mean too but I was just agreeing with what you said.”

Puzzled eyes turned towards her and a thick brow arched in question to her statement.

Mirroring his pose, she gave his shoulder a nudge with her own before pointing a finger off towards the churning storm. “That no one is stupid enough to be out in that.” She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he processed her words, noting the stiffness to his posture, the way the darkness hung like a bruise under his tired eyes and the paler of his skin. Even in the limited lighting he looked more ghost-like than human.

He gave a grunt of understanding before turning back to watch the storm and lifting his tumbler to the distant clouds in a salute. “Here’s to hoping.” The last dregs in the glass disappeared in short order as he tossed it back. The whiff of whiskey wafting her way as he set the empty vessel on the railing between them.

“I thought you were on rota tomorrow?” She questioned as she eyed the glass and wondered how much had been consumed.

“I am.” His eyes followed hers and he gave a shrug but no further explanation and Kayo didn’t press.

She’d basically grown up with the man and his brothers so she trusted his judgement impeccably but there was still something bothering her about the whole scene. Something felt off..

“You okay?” She was never one to bat around the bushes and her gut was very seldom wrong especially where it concerned the man beside her. The man she’d stopped seeing as a sibling sometime ago and started seeing as something else entirely. It was something that started to blossom one unforgettable snowy night the previous November in New York but neither of them had had the time to tend to since…. Other more pressing things had gotten in the way and there was now another Tracy planet side and returned from the dead as a result.

Maybe now…

He gave a shrug and he shifted to look at her, the wind blowing in off the coast tousling his unstyled hair in a roguish way across his brow. “I’m fine, nothing to worry about.”

He was holding something back, she could tell. Something eerie lurked in his tired walnut gazed. Shifting across the usual vivid depths like the smoldering haze after a wildfire. Dampening what was usually brilliant and clear.

She stepped towards him, her hand reaching to cup his check. The unshaved scruff rough against the palm of her hand. “I’m a good listener if you need an ear.”

He turned into her embrace, brushed his lips over the soft flesh of her hand in silent thanks and smiled at her. “Kinda a prerequisite in your line of work.”

Her own lips quirked up. “Growing up in a house full of testosterone it was a necessity or I would never have been able to sneak out at night with five over protective brothers.”

Virgil chuckled, some of the murkiness leaving his eyes. “Point taken.”

She let her hand drop and a flash of something like disappointed flickered across his brow.

His breath fanned across her face as he sighed, the light fragrance of whiskey warming her. “So…” she said, crossing her arms and emitting the air of stubbornness she was known for. “Spill already.”

A heavy shoulder lifted, the light cast through the open lounge doors catching on the planes of thick muscle with the movement and she couldn’t resist brushing a hand over the warm skin.

“Rough night, that’s all.”

“Can’t sleep again?’

He looked surprised at her question and she had her answer without him saying a word.

“Virgil, I specialize in security. I am well aware of your night time routine.Two has never run better and the gym equipment requires a break from you before you actually break it. Besides,” She added admiring the way his biceps bunched as he rested his hands on his hips, “You get any bigger you won’t be able to fit down Two’s chute”

A soft curse slipped past his lips. It was obvious that he’d thought that his attempts to avoid his family had been successful.

“Don’t worry, I haven’t or wont say anything to Scott.” Her fingers gave his shoulder a light squeeze of reassurance. “If it gets worse I know you’ll do the right thing and say something yourself. You’re dealing with it right now in your own way and you have a right to your own privacy and council. Just, if you wanna talk...” she stalled out on her offering, shifting her gaze away from his to take in the night around them as heat started to colour her cheeks.

A moment later his fingers danced across her brow and she sucked in a breath as he gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His strong musician’s fingers lingered until she met his eyes again.

He was looking down at her, so close now that the bare skin of his chest brushed hers with every breath. He seemed to be sturdier now, more so then when she’d discovered him looking despondently at the storm. An assuredness that had been missing before seemed to have returned to the strong line of his jaw and the tension she’d seen in his posture was gone. There was a shift in the air around him, almost anticipatory in nature and she felt a thrill run down her spine.

Her pulse kicked at the heat imbued in his eyes as he gently angled her face towards his own. She stammered, not able to finish off what she had been about to say. “..uh..talk about....”

“Thank you, Tin’ He whispered, the oaky tang of alcohol ghosting across her lips and effectively stopping her uncharacteristic fumbling.

It took but a nanosecond for her brain to go from a midair stall out to ignition. Her inner monologue screamed, demanding that she act. Only the slightest of movements would be needed to bridge the distance between them. An easy contraction of muscles and she could push up on her toes, silencing all other words with the meeting of their lips. Without further hesitation, she did just that.

Months of denied contact and frustration sprang to the fore, blazing bright and intoxicating. Before either of them were aware, they were wrapped around each other. His strong body flush to her own, his hand tangled in her hair that had somehow between one second and the next come undone from its customary binding.

“God..” she panted, barely recognizing her own voice. His lips skimming across her flesh, trailing like fire down her neck to that spot that made her world flip on its axis. Light headed she scraped her nails down his back. Seeking purchase as her knees grew weak.

“I’ve missed you…”

He emitted a groan of approval. The sound heady, potent and oh so primal. It was almost her undoing and the burn within her flared.

Desperate for more and caring little about where they were standing, she slipped her hand between them...

The sudden intrusion of a throat clearing had them springing apart so fast that she almost lost her footing and she gracelessly plopped down on the nearest lounger. A feeble attempt on her part to save face. The instantaneous lack of Virgil’s body heat made her shiver and it sobered her mind faster than any cold shower could.

One of the overhead lights flicked on and the silhouetted figure at the balcony door came into sharp focus. A short striped housecoat was sashed neatly at a trim waist and slippered feet scuffed lightly over the flooring as the head of the house stepped out onto the balcony. In one hand he swirled a glass of water. Condensation dribbling over faintly scared hands as the ice cubes tinkled with the rhythmic movement.

“Tanusha,” He greeted, one proud eyebrow arched high over suspicious eyes as he scanned over the breathless pair. “Son.”

*-*-*

Fuck… that was all that came to mind as Virgil gaped at his father though he knew better than to voice the expletive.

Reaching out a hand, he grasped at the railing and wished his own long forgotten glass wasn’t so empty.

How in hell was he going to explain this?

He peered over to Kayo hoping that she could provide something, anything that might salvage the situation. The stunned deer-caught-in-the-headlights look he found though didn't bode well.

His first attempt to speak caught in his throat and he cleared it self consciously before risking a quick glance down to assess his person. Thankfully everything was where it should be and mercifully, PG...well...kind of.

“...Dad…It’s late, what are you doing up?”

Jeff blinked at his son then held up his glass, the answer obvious. “Hydrating, as I can see you have been doing too.”

“Oh..ya that… just a night cap.”

“And you’re on call in the morning?” It was said more like a statement than a question and Virgil did his best to hide the wince at the hidden reprimand.

His father turned to Kayo, effectively dismissing the subject from further conversation as he was well aware that his message had been received loud and clear.

Virgil did a fast and stealthy re-adjustment of his pants and groaned internally. Chances were by morning he would find that his shift had been rescheduled and he was going to need to dodge the Scott Tracy hairy eyeball all day. An unwritten rule that all the younger brothers were well aware of; never mess with the Commander’s schedules. It was some old hang up from his military days that he’d never grown out of to the detriment of the rest of the island. As unpredictable as Scott could be when on mission, at home you could figure out the time of day by what the eldest was doing. From his morning jog right down to when he grabbed the daily stock reports and headed to the bathroom.

It was kind of freaky actually. The man’s bowels were perfectly timed, no matter the food that went in...even if it was Grandma’s cooking.

Giving the back of his neck a rub, Virgil surmised he spent far too much time with his brother, far, far too much time.

Well with the exception of playing a tantalizing round of ‘avoid the angry, overly concerned big brother’… at least he could attempt to catch up on some sleep.

Ding! Bright side!...Crap.

“Tanusha, didn’t know you were back on the island. How was the flight in?”

“Uh.. hell of a cross wind on approach, ” Kayo finally piped up, returning once more to her feet. Her security agent persona nailed firmly back into place. “But nothing Shadow couldn’t handle.”

“Hmm, glad to hear it. You’ll have to let me take her for a spin sometime.” His father said all conversationally as if that fact that his second eldest and basically his adoptive daughter hadn’t just been about to get it on right there on the balcony like a pair of randy teenagers.

Jeff tipped his chin in the direction of the storm. “Nice light show.”

Virgil caught a hint of a grin on his father’s face that was not quite hidden behind a careful sip of water. The man knew exactly what he was doing and he was loving every minute of it.

“Uhhh… ya. It is.” Well, this was definitely awkward and his father was sadistic. Now would be a fantastic time for John to call down with a situation.. Somewhere.. .Anywhere.. For anything.. Like a cat stuck in a tree in say like Alaska...right now…

Kayo nodded her head in agreement and mouthed an apology in Virgil’s direction when Jeff turned to take in the view. “Well, it’s been lovely talking to you both but duty call.” She glanced down at her wrist as if to check the time but really it was to avoid the pleading look on Virgil’s face. “Canada’s about to come online and they owe me a report on last week’s protocol updates.”

Virgil’s shoulders slumped..

“Good night, Tanusha.”

“Good night, Jeff.” And she slinked off into the house, holding her head high despite that fact that there was still a healthy glow of red riding her cheeks.

Jeff shifted his attention back to Virgil. “So..you two were just,” He actually stopped mid sentence to emphasize his point with finger quotation. “Talking ?”

Exhausted beyond measure, embarrassed within an inch of his life and, if he was going to be truthful to himself; horny as hell…Yup, this evening was summing up to be a real shit show.

Crossing and uncrossing his arms, Virgil really wasn’t sure what to do with himself. It wasn’t like he was a teenager anymore. He was a grown man, of course he had relationships of a romantic nature.. He wasn’t a monk, by any stretch of the imagination but this was his father and old habits apparently did die hard.

Despite the length of time his father had been absent and the fact the family dynamic in the house was still adjusting to the patriarch’s return, Virgil felt like he’d somehow regressed back to a sixteen year old again. Caught making out with his highschool girlfriend on the couch and trying to make up excuses for the state of their undress.

The smile on his father’s face told him though that the man was well aware of his son’s floundering.

“Relax, son.” A humorous snort followed and he wandered over to stand beside him, leaning casually on the railing. “ I believe we had that conversation about the birds and the bees when you were eleven. You’re a grown man, I’m not going to fault you for looking for a bit of peace and comfort. ”

Virgil studied the ground, his mind drifting to the woman that had so captured his attention. He’d been skirting around how he felt in regards to her for months and he still had doubts if it was right of him to feel the way he did. To revise their adoptive familial relationship to something more intimate after everything they had been though. He often wondered if he was in some way taking advantage… as stupid as that might sound to others he seriously questioned his own motives.

It had been Kayo that had taken the first giant leap though. He shouldn’t have been surprised with her intuition. She’d seen right through him. Tore down all his defenses to expose what he so stupidly thought was hidden from her. Everything all out into the open for them both to see and after that..right into a penthouse suite at the Park Hyatt.

One thing about Kayo, she certainly didn’t waste time when the chips were down. She knew what she wanted and she went for it.

“So, you and our Tin-tin, huh?” Jeff chuckled and Virgil brought his attention back to his father.. “I never would have suspected but seeing you two together just now.. Well, I can definitely say that the pair of you are a good match. Complementary to each other actually.”

Despite his own embarrassment, Virgil started to relax. Relieve that his father seemed fine with what he had inadvertently walked in on. “Its, uh.. still very new.”

“Really?” Jeff questioned, his brows shooting up in mild surprise. “With that chemistry? Reminds me of when your Mom and I were together. After the first few months there wasn’t a lot that could distract us from…”

“Dad!” Virgil all but squeaked. He didn’t think it was possible to fit more blood into his head at that moment but apparently he could. Well at least the blood had stopped pooling somewhere else....thank God..

Jeff raised a placating hand and his words carried a laugh in them. “Okay, okay. I will spare you the details. The point being, the pair of you look good together and I must admit even with me still trying to get the lay of the land around here… you two fit and if it makes the pair of you happy, then I wholeheartedly approve.”

Virgil was speechless a moment. It had been the last thing he expected. Approval so easily given from a man he remembered as being rather commanding and if he was being truthful to himself, a bit intimidating.

His father’s time in space had changed him, changed them all in ways they didn't fully understand.

His father placed a hand on his shoulder, his calloused fingers tightening for a brief moment before he turned to watch the storm.

They sat a moment in companionable silence. Father and son, just taking in the light show together, getting reacquainted in a quiet moment while the rest of the house slept on.

It didn’t last long but it was enough to start mending the old tired fences that lay scattered between them. Not broken from misuse but worn from the years of absence. “You should try and get some sleep, son. You look tired and the sun will be up soon enough.”

Virgil inhaled deeply, tasting the distant rain and the linger hint of jasmine on his tongue. He nodded as he pushed away from the railing, rolling his shoulders to loosen up some of the knots that lingered there. “I should.” He agreed but paused before heading inside once more. “Thanks, Dad. Enjoy the storm."

Jeff tipped his glass slightly in salute. "I always did love a good show."

Virgil paused a moment, not sure how to take that but quickly decided he was way too tired to figure it out. Shaking his head, he rolled his eyes with a soft chuckle and stepped back into the house.

o0o

FIN

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novaleia1611 · 4 years

Text

Falling

Hazel has been in love with Shane for years but he has always been out of her reach. Unable to keep her unrequited love to herself anymore, she decides to leave the company. But when Shane gets the wrong idea, will Hazel be able to make him understand? One Shot.

It had been such a long, long day and Hazel was completely ready for it to be over. Running one hand through her hair, she sat by the computer in her office, finalising the parameters of Rebecca 'Becky Lynch' Quin's new contract. She sat back, fingers pinching her nose to release the tension that was building behind her eyes. She had a long way to go until she was finished, and a migraine was the last thing she wanted to experience.

The sharp sound of the desk phone ringing cut through the silence in the room.

"Hazel McEnroe, Talent Relations," she greeted the caller as she wedged the phone between her shoulder and ear, her attentions more focused on a section of Becky's contract. She hoped her voice sounded upbeat enough to disguise the fatigue that was beginning to creep over her.

"My office. Now!" Shane's stern voice came from the other side of the line followed by the dial tone.

Frowning, Hazel looked at the phone and then replaced it back onto the cradle, gently gnawing on her bottom lip. That wasn't a typical interaction with her boss; he was normally so calm and collected, and he wasn't as rude as that either. His tone sent alarm bells ringing through Hazel.

Rising from her seat, she gently smoothed down the hem of her cream lace summer dress. Throwing on the fitted black blazer than hung across the back of her chair, Hazel saved her work and then popped the computer onto standby, heading out of her office and in the direction of Shane's.

Normally, she and Shane didn't travel but they were amid contract renewals and so they took the road for a few weeks each year to make negotiations with the talent run smoother. Having been in this arena a few times, Shane always picked the same room as his makeshift office. Hazel walked the familiar path through the winding corridors in search of it. She knocked once on the door after reaching the room and she heard his curt "Come in," from her side of the door.

His office was decorated rather neutral; cream walls and a dark grey carpet that at some point in time had had a rather thick pile but was now threadbare. The walls were bare except for a couple of old movie posters that had been framed and hung before the show rolled into town.

"You wanted to see me?" Hazel asked as she closed the door behind her, turning to face Shane, raising one eyebrow when she saw the pinched expression on his face. He was perched on the edge of his desk, arms crossed over his chest, legs crossed at the ankles. He wore a light blue shirt, open at the collar, some dark jeans and a pair of his favourite Nike sneakers in blue and white.

"Cathy Corino called," Shane said. "She asked when your last day with WWE was. Is there something you want to tell me?" he asked.

Hazel let out a sigh and reached down to fiddle with the large wood effect cuff bracelet she wore on her wrist.

She had put out feelers a few weeks ago to several other companies and when nothing had come of it, she had put it to the back of her mind and gotten on with her current job. She certainly hadn't expected Shane to call her in here and demand answers from her.

"I- "

Hazel opened her mouth to speak but Shane got there first, effectively cutting off anything she had to say.

"I didn't know that you weren't happy here," he cut her off with a clear hint of sadness in his voice. "And, if I'm being honest, I'm kind of hurt," he pushed himself to his feet and Hazel gulped at the new height difference between them. "I thought that we'd known each other long enough to be able to talk to one another, that if you had a problem that you could speak to me about it."

"I can talk to you -" Hazel tried.

"Evidently not," Shane laughed without humour. He let out a breath and shook his head at the brunette

Shane scratched the side of his head using his index finger.

Wracking her mind, Hazel tried to find something that she could say to him, something that would logically explain why she was considering leaving her dream job. But there wasn't anything she could say except the truth, and that was not a card she was willing to play.

"Look, Shane," Hazel started, reaching up to rub the back of her neck with one hand. Her hair was secured in a French twist and several strands had come loose at the back, sticking to the clammy skin of her neck. "I should have approached you about this, it's not something that I wanted you to be blindsided by. But it's also not something that I thought would amount to anything. I just put out a couple of feelers," she explained.

Shane pushed his tongue around in his mouth. "Any particular reason why you thought to put feelers out? Has something happened?"

Hazel swallowed nervously, now cupping her neck with her palm. "I just…I just think that it's time for a bit of a change," she shrugged, hoping her non-committal tone would cover what she was desperately trying not to say.

Shane swallowed thickly, his mouth becoming dry suddenly. He was completely lost for words. He could tell that something was niggling under the surface and that Hazel wasn't telling him the truth. But he couldn't exactly force her to talk to him. He thought of Hazel as his protegee; someone who he had coordinated with and coached through the business, and he had never thought he would see the day when she would leave him.

"I guess that there's nothing I can do to change your mind?" he asked the only question that he could think of.

Hazel met his eyes once more and she felt her stomach fluttering.

"No. I've made up my mind, Shane. I will stay on until you find someone to replace me, though."

Shane walked around to the other side of his desk and braced his hands upon it.

"Honestly, I'm not sure I'll find someone that could ever replace you, Hazel," he told her. "I'll make sure Cathy gets your reference."

Raking her teeth over her bottom lip, Hazel tried to force her emotions back down. Shane wasn't the type of guy who liked overwhelming displays of emotion. He liked to keep things business at work and any personal thoughts of feelings remained separate from the WWE.

"I'll have my notice on your desk by the end of night."

Taking a sip of her second gin of the night from her glass, Hazel sighed and sat back in the large booth she had claimed as her own. The hotel bar was currently quiet; only herself in the booth and a few people at the bar. Leaning her head back, she let out a deep sated sigh, closing her eyes and relishing in the small buzz that the gin was already affording her. Reaching up, she ran a hand through her now loose brown hair, massaging her root ache away.

A hand grazed her shoulder and she jumped, opening her eyes to see Jeff Hardy standing over her. She smiled at him, holding her palm out, inviting him to sit down.

"Hey," she said, reaching for her glass once more. "How are you?"

"Not bad, how are you, darlin'?" he replied, taking a seat at the opposite side of the booth from Hazel. He had freshly showered after the show and his damp multicoloured hair was pulled back into a bun at the nape of his neck. He now wore a pair of jeans and a hoodie and the air around Hazel was tinted with the scent of peppermint. She inhaled deeply, enjoying the fresh smell.

"I've had better days," she shrugged, her index finger tracing a line around the outer rim of her glass.

"So, I hear you're leaving us, eh?" he asked in his quiet southern drawl, a grin forming on his lips.

"Ha!" Hazel laughed, her eyes crinkling with mirth. She rolled her eyes, reaching for her glass and downing the rest of the gin before plucking one of the raspberries out of the glass and popping it in her mouth. She chewed thoughtfully before responding. "News travels fast around here. Why am I not surprised?" she added rhetorically. "I literally put my notice on Shane's desk, like, an hour ago," she protested, wondering how everyone managed to find out each other's business.

"Why? I thought you were happy here," Jeff asked, folding his arms across his chest as he sat back in the booth.

"I am happy," Hazel sighed sadly.

"So why are you leaving?" Jeff sat forward, his tattooed hand covering hers. "You don't belong at Shimmer, Hazel, you belong here. With us. You know if you just told him, none of this would matter."

"Absolutely not," Hazel shook her head. "What?" she asked when Jeff raised his eyebrows at her. "Tell him I'm hot for the boss? I'm such a walking fucking cliché! C'mon, Jeff," she shook her head. Hazel leaned forwards, bracing her chin on the palm of the hand that Jeff wasn't holding.

"So, you'd rather walk away from your dream job, your friends, your family?!" Jeff insisted. "For what?"

"To spare myself and Shane of the embarrassment," she laughed. "It's just a stupid crush and I know that once I'm away from the company that it will disappear," she said adamantly.

"You've been in love with Shane for years, Hazel. You can't fool me."

Hazel made a noise in the back of her throat.

"I've made up my mind. I appreciate everything that you're trying to do but there's nothing you can say that will change my mind," she replied, pushing herself up from the table. "You've been a good friend to me, Jeff," she moved closer to him. "Don't lose touch when I'm not here."

Jeff stood up. He was a head and shoulders above Hazel despite her being in heels. His arms wrapped securely around her and Hazel pressed her chin onto his shoulder, her hands cradling the back of his head.

"I'm gonna miss you, darlin'" Jeff told her, pulling back to press his lips to her cheek.

"Me too," Hazel sniffed, pulling away from him before she cried. "But I'm not leaving for a bit so we'll say a proper goodbye whenever that might be. For now," Hazel said, pressing her hands to Jeff's hoodie covered arms, "I am going to bed. It's been a long, long day," she sighed with a smile. Stepping back, she picked up her bag and headed for the exit of the bar.

Hazel was the only occupant of the elevator on the way up to the 12th floor. She grimaced at the tinny sounding music that was playing inside the box and breathed a sigh of relief when she got out at her floor. As she paced down the corridor, Hazel was surprised to see that she wasn't the only occupant on her floor.

"Shane," she greeted him with a tired, wary smile. "You're pacing. Is something wrong? What's happened?" she asked, worried at the look on his face when he stopped pacing and turned to face her.

"We need to talk," he replied.

"Shane, it's been a really long day. Can we talk tomorrow?"

All Hazel could picture was her bed and how blissful it would be to close her eyes. She wanted to be anywhere but in that corridor with Shane at that moment.

"Nope. Now," he motioned to her door. "I-I have something to say and I need to get it off my chest."

"O-Okay," Hazel stuttered, reaching out to unlock the door with her key card. She felt apprehensive now, worried about what Shane wanted to tell her. When she'd last laid eyes on him, she'd placed her notice on his desk. He'd been on a corporate call, and when she knocked on his door, he'd simply motioned for her to place it down and leave. Now, here he was, pacing in front of her hotel room, looking like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Going inside, the brunette turned on all the lights and just as she was heading to open the balcony door to air the room, Shane spoke.

"Is Hardy the reason you're leaving?" he blurted out. "Do you love him?"

Hazel spun around. "What?" she asked, incredulously. "Why would you even-"

"I saw you. I saw the two of you in the bar," he was pacing again. "The way he was touching you and I saw you kiss him."

"On the fucking cheek!" Hazel snapped, through with listening to him. "And just what the bloody hell were you doing watching us?"

Shane stopped pacing, turning to look at Hazel. He narrowed his eyes slightly at the tone she had used with him. The air was thick with the tension crackling between them. This was a new dynamic for both.

"I was passing by the bar. I just saw-"

"You saw nothing! You saw two friends saying goodbye to each other after working together for a long time. And you thought that was enough to come up here and-"

"Do you love him or not, Hazel?!" Shane interrupted her, his tone furious.

"Are you fucking serious?! You come up here, pacing in front of my door like a bear with a sore head, accusing me of being in love with Jeff Hardy? He's fucking married, Shane! Is that the kind of person you think I am? You think I just break up marriages? I thought you knew me! I thought what we had went beyond you being my boss! I thought we were friends!" Hazel spat.

Opening his mouth, Shane tried to respond but Hazel got here first.

"I can't believe you are this fucking dense either. For someone who is so high up in this multi-billion-dollar business, you really can't see what's going on right in front of your eyes, can you?" she demanded, watching as he frowned his confusion. "It's you! I love you, Shane!" she finally confessed. "I love you so fucking much that I can't bear to work for you anymore because it hurts seeing you every day knowing that I will never have you," she cried, pushing past him, walking to the door. Hazel grabbed the door handle and opened it, turning back to Shane. "I am leaving my friends, leaving a place I love to work, giving up my dream job because I'm such a damn cliché – I fell for my boss. Everything was fine when you were married, I handled it, because despite what you apparently think of me, I'm not the type of person who breaks up a marriage. So, if you're through insulting me and ruining what is left of our friendship, I would appreciate it if you got the hell out of my room!" she continued, using her free hand to point to the corridor."

Shane was rooted to the spot, shocked by the outburst from one of his closest work colleagues and friends. He was struggling to process everything she had said to him, his head was spinning. He walked towards Hazel, his eyes roving over, her shoulders taught, her face frowning with anger. He stopped in front of her. Meeting his eye, Hazel shivered when Shane ran the rough pad of his thumb along her bottom lip.

"Say it again," he rasped.

"What? Get out!" Hazel tried, her lips moving against his thumb. Shane tugged at her bottom lip, a growl rumbling in the back of his throat. This was a new sound from him, something she had imagined so many times but had never heard. Knowing what he wanted to hear, Hazel flushed and pulled her shoulders back. "Shane, I lo-"

The words hadn't even left her mouth before his lips met hers in a hard, bruising, teeth-gnashing kiss. The breath was knocked from Hazel's body and her back met the wall, the door slamming closed she let go of the handle to loop her arms around Shane's waist, her fingers gripping his shirt at the back. She kissed him back, their tongues fighting for dominance which Shane easily won. His fingers were threaded through her hair and he used this to his advantage, enabling him to turn her head any which way he pleased.

Hazel's head was swimming; from the gin, from her anger at Shane and from his kisses. He broke away from her mouth, trailing open mouthed kisses down her throat, where he bit down gently on her pulse point. Hazel's breath hitched and her hands moved to work the buttons on his shirt, unlooping each one as Shane focused on her neck. He pulled her away from the wall and slid her jacket down her arms, dropping it to the floor. He brought his mouth back to hers, capturing her lips in another hard kiss and Hazel felt his fingers working at the belt around the waist of her dress. It clunked as it fell to the floor and Shane began to guide her backwards towards the bed.

Hazel pushed his now open shirt from his shoulders, letting it drop somewhere on the floor. Her hands ran up his bare chest, nails gently scraping through the light chest hair she found. Breaking away from Shane, she turned around, glancing over her shoulder at him.

"Unzip me," she husked, her voice thick. Taking a step closer, Shane gripped the zip and tugged it down, peeling the cream fabric back to reveal a silky black bra and matching lacy briefs, cut high around each toned ass cheek. The dress dropped to the floor and Hazel stepped out of it, kicking it off to the side. Shane's chest met her back and Hazel ground her hips back against him, feeling him hard against her back. Her mouth opened and she panted as Shane attached his mouth to the side of her neck once more. He wrapped one arm around her waist, holding her tightly against him, whilst his other hand slipped down to her core, his fingers grazing her through the lace of her underwear.

"Fuck, Shane!" she cried.

"You make the sweetest sounds," Shane whispered, tugging on her ear lobe with his teeth. Hazel keened, bucking her hips against his hand.

Suddenly, Hazel was spun around and Shane lifted her, her legs hooking around his waist. She giggled as he dropped her on the bed and she bounced with the force. Looking up at him as he stood over her in just his jeans, his pupils blown with lust, Hazel didn't think she'd ever been more turned on in her life. She bit her bottom lip as she sat up, unhooking her bra and sliding it off. Shane let out an involuntary groan as her breasts were revealed to him, nipples pulled taut by the cool air in the room. She dropped the bra at his feet before her hand reached out to palm him through his jeans. Shane took a breath through his nose, his head tipping back as Hazel unzipped his jeans and tugged them down, his cock bouncing free. He toed off his shoes, socks and his jeans as Hazel began to stroke him with her hand. Leaning forward, she teasingly ran her tongue up the entire underside, smiling when Shane groaned from above.

"You're everything I imagined...and more," she grinned, enjoying the effect she was having on him.

"You imagined this?" Shane asked, reaching out a hand to push Hazel's bangs back so that he could see her face.

"Every damn day," she confessed before tipping her head, opening her mouth to suck his length in. Shane's hips jerked forward and his fingers slid into her hair. He was gripping the strands tightly and this told her he was enjoying what she was doing. Opening her mouth wider, Hazel took in more of him, allowing him to thrust his hips forward until he hit the back of her throat. She bobbed her head, moving up and down his length, allowing Shane to control her movements with his hands in her hair. She glanced up at him, watching his head tip back, mouth open in pleasure.

Shane pulled her off him and his dick left her mouth with a pop.

He leaned down, kissing her sloppily as he pushed her back on the bed.

"I gotta to taste you," Shane told her, kissing down her body, pulling a nipple into his mouth as he went. Hazel arched her back as Shane's mouth blazed a trail down her body. He stripped her off her underwear and parted her legs, settling himself between them. "You're soaked," Shane said, sounding proud. "Is this what I do to you?"

"Yes," Hazel hissed out, throwing her head back as he swiped his tongue up her seam, the tip dancing around her clit before he pulled it into his mouth to suck. Shane buried his tongue inside her, flicking all the right spots. Her orgasm crept up quickly and then hit her like a ton of bricks. Shane gripped her thighs, holding her down as she rode out her pleasure against his mouth.

"You taste so good," he kissed his way back up her body. "I can't wait to find out what you feel like," his mouth formed a sexy grin before he kissed her again. Hazel could taste herself on his tongue, but it only served to turn her on even more.

Shane dragged his mouth down, snagging one of her nipples again with his lips and sucking it into his mouth. He laved it with his tongue, lacing the fingers of one hand with Hazel's other. He pumped his dick with his free hand, sliding inside her in one smooth go. Hazel let out a low moan, using her free hand to pull Shane's face back up to hers. Their lips met again and Hazel bit down on his bottom lip. Shane grabbed her other hand, lacing his fingers with it and pressing both of her hands against the mattress above her head. His thrusts were particularly hard, their hips snapping together each time. Tipping her head to the side, Shane buried his face in her neck, breathing harshly as he gripped her hands tighter. Hazel's nails dug into the back of his hands.

"Harder, Shane," she panted. His chest rubbed against hers, creating a delicious friction between them. Hazel wrapped her legs around his waist, allowing him to go deeper. She could feel her orgasm approaching once more and she cried out as she clamped down around him.

Shane cursed under his breath, loving the feel of Hazel around him but not wanting it to end so soon.

"Cum for me, Shane," Hazel whispered in his ear, still quivering through her own orgasm but desperate to feel him let go inside of her. He held their hands down with even more pressure as a guttural groan left his mouth and he emptied himself inside of Hazel.

Thrusting a few more times before pulling out, Shane fell to the side of her, the two of them lying side-by-side, both breathless.

Feeling sore but thoroughly ravished, Hazel started laughing and before he knew it, Shane was joining in. Hazel turned to him, propping herself up on one elbow.

"Why haven't we done that before?" Shane asked, tugging a piece of her hair and wrapping it around his finger.

"You were married," Hazel told him, lowering her eyes. She reached out, lightly grazing his chest with a fingernail.

"I haven't been married for a while," Shane admitted. "And my marriage was over a long time before my divorce."

"I still would never have interfered. Besides, I didn't think you were interested in that way," Hazel blushed.

Shane reached out, tipping her chin up with his forefinger, so that she would meet his gaze. Since knowing her, this was one of the few moments that he'd ever seen Hazel appear shy in.

"Who wouldn't be interested in you?" he asked, rhetorically. "You're beautiful," he husked, his finger moving lower to graze around one of Hazel's nipples. Biting her bottom lip, Hazel closed her eyes in satisfaction. Moving his hand up, Shane wrapped his palm around Hazel's neck. He pulled her towards him, her face hovering over his. She opened her eyes to meet his gaze. "I love you," he whispered. "I think I've loved you for longer than I care to admit."

They shared another kiss, tongues lazily dancing together.

"Does this mean you'll stay?"

Hazel grinned. "Oh, I don't know. I put my notice on the boss' desk earlier. I'm not sure if I can take it back."

"I have connections. I'm sure we can work something out," he laughed, pulling her in for another kiss

#wwe #wwe smut #wwe fanfiction #fanfic #scottish writers #shane mcmahon #shane mcmahon x oc #oc #wwefanfic #fanfiction #smut

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amphtaminedreams · 4 years

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J.K Rowling & The Echo Chamber of TERFs: Why Nobody Wants your Transphobic “Opinion”

TW// Discussion of Sexual Assault and Transphobia

SO...

I’ve seen the term “allyship fatigue” going round a lot lately on Twitter, since the issues of police brutality, institutional racism, and now transphobia have taken central stage.

And it’s weird. To be honest, hearing other white cis people calling themselves “allies” has always sounded kinda self-congratulatory. Taking this to the level of martyrdom that the phrase “allyship fatigue” evokes makes me want to heave. It’s shit that anyone even has to be saying Black Lives STILL Matter, but it does seem to unfortunately be the case that every time there is a highly publicised murder of a black individual by police, the explosion of us white people calling ourselves allies and retweeting and reblogging statements of solidarity only lasts so long before half revert back to being complacent with and uncritical of a world seeped with casual racism. Is that what “allyship fatigue” is? The excuse for that? Not only does the term take the focus off of the marginalised group the movement is centred around but it makes supporting equal rights sound like some kind of heroic burden we’ve chosen to take on rather than addressing a debt we owe and being not even good but just plain decent human beings. WE are not the ones shouldering the weight here, and if your mental health is suffering, that is not the fault of the people asking for their rights. Log off. We have the privilege to do that. It just doesn’t need to be a spectacle.

At the same time, this public onslaught of ignorance and hatred that the coverage of the Black Lives Matter movement has triggered (that let me again emphasise, black people have had to involuntarily be on the receiving end of their whole lives) and the frustration and anger that comes from seeing these absolute trash takes from people with no research into the subject who build their argument purely on “what about”isms is do-I-even-want-to-bring-children-into-this-fucking-world levels of miserable. In terms of earth beginning to look more and more like the prequel describing the events which lead up to a dystopian novel, the chaos of the last 4 weeks or so (2020 has not only shattered the illusion of time but also danced on the shards, I know) is the tip of the iceberg. I saw a thread about what’s going on in Yemen at the moment, which I had no idea about, and immediately felt consumed by guilt that I didn’t know. With the advent of social media, there’s been this sudden evolutionary shift where we’re almost required and expected to know about, have an opinion on, and be empathetic with every humanitarian crisis at once. I think young people feel this especially, which is why I say that sometimes it’s worth talking to an older person before you brush them off as a racist or a homophobe and see if they’re open to hearing different opinions-in general, I think we’re a generation that is used to being expected to consume a huge amount of information at once. They are not. For a lot (NOT all) of the older, middle-class, white population, ignorance isn’t a conscious choice, it is the natural way of life. The parameters of empathy until very recently have only had to extend just past your closest circle of friends to encompass people you “relate to”. That doesn’t mean they aren’t capable of caring about other things, and sometimes we owe them a chance to change their perspective first, if for no reason other than to advance the cause of, well, basic human rights for all.

So where does J.K Rowling come into all this? I hear you ask. Why doesn’t she just stop rambling? You potentially wonder. Well, I’m getting to it.

J.K Rowling isn’t an unconsciously ignorant people. She is what I would call consciously ignorant. And of all weeks to flaunt this ignorance, she chose a time when people are already drowning in a cesspit of hatred. The woman whose whole book series supposedly revolves around the battle between good and evil didn’t even try to drain the swamp. She instead added a bucket of her transphobic vitriol into it.

Let me preface this by saying that I wouldn’t wipe my arse with the Sun. What they did with the statement she made regarding her previous abusive relationship, seeking out said abusive partner for an interview and putting it on the front page with the headline “I slapped J.K”, whilst expected from the bunch of cretinous bottom feeders who work there, is disgusting. That being said, the pattern of behaviour J.K Rowling has exhibited since she first became an online presence is equally disgusting, and just because the Sun have been their usual shithead selves, doesn’t mean we should forget the issue at hand, that issue being her ongoing transphobia and erasure of trans women from women’s rights.

As I’m sure is the case for many people on Tumblr, J.K Rowling has always been such a huge inspiration for me, and Harry Potter was my entire childhood. My obsession with it continued until I was at least 16 and is what got me through the very shit years of being a teenager, and that will forever be the case. I’m not here to discuss the whole separation of the art from the artist thing because whilst I ordinarily don’t think that’s really possible, at this point the “Harry Potter universe” has become much bigger than J.K herself. I was so pleased to see Daniel Radcliffe, Emma Watson and Rupert Grint all affirm their support for trans rights-I was raised on the films up until the 4th one which I wasn’t old enough to see at the cinema, and the DVD was at the top of my Christmas list. They were always my Harry, Hermione and Ron. It was only between the fourth and fifth films that I started to read the books to fill that gaping in-between-movies hole, but as I grew up, I read them over and over and over again. Any of the subtext that people are talking about now in light of her antisemitism and transphobia went completely over my head, though who knows, whilst I can sit here and write that I’m certain I didn’t, maybe I did pick up some unconscious biases along the way? The art/artist discussion is a complex one and I don’t know if I’ll ever read the books again at this point.

There was absolutely no subtext, however, in the “think piece” on J.K’s website addressing the response to her transphobic tweets. There wasn’t all that much to unpack in the first tirade, they were quite openly dismissive-first that womanhood is defined by whether or not one experiences menstruation (I currently don’t due to health issues but I’m betting this wouldn’t make me any less woman in her eyes), and second, regurgitating an article which furthers the fallacy that trans women simply existing erases the existence of cisgender lesbian women. Rowling’s initial response to the backlash was to blame it on a glass of red wine, I think? Which is such a weird go-to excuse for celebrities because not once have I ever got drunk and completely changed my belief system. If you’re not transphobic sober, you don’t suddenly become transphobic drunk. What you are saying is that you’re not usually publicly transphobic (which isn’t even the case with Rowling because this is hardly her first flirtation with bigotry via social media) but that whoopsies! You drank some wine and suddenly thought it was acceptable!

Now what is her excuse for the formal response she wrote to the backlash, dripping with transphobic dog whistles and straight up misinformation (UPDATE: and as of yesterday, blocking Stephen King quite literally for replying to her with the tweet “trans women are women”, in case you thought that this whole thing was a case of her intentions being misconstrued)? Drunk tweets are one thing but if she managed to write a whole fucking essay whilst pissed I imagine there’s a lot of university students out there who’d pay her good money to learn that skill.

Here is the bottom line. TRANS WOMEN ARE WOMEN. There is no discussion around that. And if you don’t understand why, at the very least, you can be respectful of the way a person chooses to identify, especially when that person is an already targeted minority.

Obviously, sex and gender are complex things. Based on the fact that we don’t walk around with our nether-regions out, we generally navigate our way through the world using our gender and the way we present our gender. Gender of course means many different things to many different people; some see it as a sliding scale kind of thing whereas some people can’t see themselves on the scale at all, and choose to use terms other than man or woman to express how they identify. But, whatever gender one chooses to identify as, we live in a modern world-with all the scientific advancements we’ve made and all that we now know about the brain, using what is between people’s legs to define them is an ignorant, outdated copout. You’ll find that a lot of transphobes can live in harmony with trans women who conform, who have classically feminine features, maybe facial feminisation surgery, trans women who keep quiet about how they’re seen by cis women and don’t kick up “too much of a fuss” (which is in itself still a perfectly valid, brave and understandable way to live your life after years of feeling like you don’t fit in btw). The trans women that Joanne and her friends take the most issue with is the ones who want to expand what womanhood means and stretch the boundaries of what is and isn’t acceptable, destroying the confines of simplistic model that TERFs feel comfortable operating within. The ones who fight to be recognised as no “lesser” than cis women. Calling a person a TERF is quite literally just asserting that they are someone who wants to exclude trans women from their definition of womanhood, or in other words wants to cling to the old, obsolete model. If J.K Rowling cannot let the statement “trans women are women” go unchallenged (which we’ve seen from her response to Stephen King’s tweet she cannot), then she is by definition a TERF. It’s not a slur. It’s a descriptor indicating the movement she has chosen to associate herself with. Associating the descriptor of the position you so vehemently refuse to denounce in spite of all evidence and information offered to you with the concept of a “witch hunt” when trans women are ACTUALLY brutally murdered for an innate part of their identity is insulting, at the very least.

Let’s get this straight: despite transphobes trying to conflate sex with gender and arguing that sex is the only “real” identifier of the two, our existence on this planet and our perception of this world is a gendered experience. It is our brain, where the majority of researchers agree that gender lies, which decides and dictates not only who we are and how we feel but also how we interact with everyone around us. I don’t think it’s an outlandish statement to say that when it comes to who we are as people, that flesh machine protected by our skull is the key player. PSA for transphobes everywhere: when people say penises have a mind of their own, they are NOT talking literally. The more you know.

Gender is obviously a much newer concept than sex-it is both influenced by and interacts with every element of our lives. It’s also much more complex, in that there are still many gaps in our understanding. I assume these two factors combined with the familiarity of the (usually) binary model of biological sex are a part of why TERFS fundamentally reject the importance of gender in favour of the latter. Yes, most of the time, we feel our gender corresponds with our sex, but not always, and nor is there any concrete proof that this has to be the case. Most studies tend to agree that our brains start out as blank slates, that we grow into the gender we are assigned based on our bodies. In other words, our sex only defines our gender insofar as the historical assumption that they are the same thing, which in turn exposes us to certain cultural expectations. To any TERFs that have somehow ended up here-if you haven’t already, I suggest looking into the research of Gina Rippon, a neuroscientist whom has spent a large portion of her professional career analysing the data of sex differences in the brain. Whilst she originally set out to find some kind of consistent variance between the brains of the 2 prominent sexes to back up the idea that the brains of men and women are inherently different, she found nothing of significance-individual differences, yes, but no consistent similarities in the brains of one sex that were not present in the other. Once differences in brain size were accounted for, “well-known” sex differences in key structures disappeared-in terms of proportion, these structures take up the same amount of space in the brain regardless of sex. Her findings are best summed up by her response to the question: are there any significant differences in the brain based on sex alone? Her answer is no. To suggest otherwise is “neurofoolishness”. Not only does her research help put to bed the myth that our brains are sexed along with the rest of our bodies during development (this is now believed to happen separately, meaning the sex of our bodies and brains may not correspond), but also the idea propagated by the patriarchy for centuries that basically boils down to “boys will be boys”-a myth used to condone male sexual violence against women and even against each other on the basis that it is inherent and “can't be helped”. That they are just “built differently”. Maybe at one point in human evolution, men were conditioned to fight and women were conditioned to protect, but whilst the idea remains and continues to affect our societal structures (and thus said cultural expectations), we’ve moved on. I mean we evolved from fish for fuck’s sake but you don’t see us breathing underwater.

Gender identity is based on many things and admittedly we don’t fully have the complete picture yet. The effects that socialisation and gender norms in particular, as much as we don’t want them to exist, have on our brain are huge; there’s evidence that they can leave epigenetic marks, or in other words cause structural changes in the brain which drive biological functions and features as diverse as memory, development and disease susceptibility. Socialisation alters the way our individual brains develop as we grow up, and as much as I’d love to see gender norms disappear, they’ll probably be around for a long time to come, as will their ramifications. The gap between explaining how socialisation affects the brain of cisgender individuals compared to the brains of transgender or non-binary individuals is not yet totally clear, but as with every supposed cause and effect psychology tries to uncover, there are outliers and individual differences. No, brains are not inherently male or female at birth but they are all different, and can be affected by socialisation differently. In one particularly groundbreaking study conducted by Dick Swaab of the Netherlands Institute for Neuroscience, postmortems of the brains of transgender women revealed that the structure of one of the areas in the brain most important to sexual behaviour more closely resembled the postmortem brains of cisgender women than those of cisgender men-it’s also important that these differences did not appear to be attributable to the influence of endogenous sex hormone fluctuations or hormone treatment in adulthood.

Maybe dysphoria is something that evolves organically and environmental factors don’t even come into it. Like I said, we don’t have the whole picture. What we DO know is that for some people, as soon as they become self-aware, that dysphoria is there, and the evidence for THAT, for there being common variations between the brains of cisgender individuals and transgender individuals, is overwhelming. You can be trapped in a body that does not correspond with how your brain functions, or how you wish to see yourself. Do individuals like J.K Rowling really believe it is ethical to reinforce the idea that we are defined by our sex and that our sex should decide the course of our lives, should decide how we are treated? That we should reduce people to genitals and chromosomes when our gender, the lens through which we see and interact with the world, could be completely different? Do they not see anything wrong with perpetuating the feelings of “otherness” and dysphoria in trans individuals that results from society’s refusal to see them as anything more than what body parts they have? In a collaboration between UCLA MA neuroscience student Jonathan Vanhoecke and Ivanka Savic at the Karolinska Institute in Sweden, the statistics collected pointed to what trans activists have always been trying to get at-the areas of the brain responsible for our sense of our identity showed far more neural activity in the brains of trans individuals when they were looking at depictions of their body that had been changed to match their gender identity than when this wasn’t the case; when they saw themselves with a body that corresponded with their gender identity, when they were “valid” by society’s definition, they felt more themselves. When J.K Rowling tells trans people that their “real identity” is the sex they were born with, she is denying them this right to be themselves and due to her large platform, encouraging others to do the same. YOU are doing that, J.K. And who knows why? Where does your transphobia come from? Peel back the bullshit layers of waffle about feeling silenced and threatened, which you know you are directing at the wrong group of people, and admit it’s for less noble reasons. Taking the time to unlearn the instinct embedded into your generation to see people according to the cultural status quo of biological determinism is effort, I know-but you wrote a 700+ page book. I’m sure you can manage it. Or is it an ego thing? You don’t want to admit that you may have been uneducated on gender and sex in the past, and now have to stick by your reductive position so your image as an “intellectual” isn’t compromised. I don’t know. Only you do. But your position is irresponsible and dangerous either way. You can make up bullshit reasons as to why the link between trans individuals and the incidence of suicide attempts and completions isn’t relevant or representative of the struggle that trans people face due to the hatred that people like you propagate but it is there, and you J.K Rowling, someone who has spoken in the past about the horror of depression, should know better. You should know better than to CLAIM you know better than the experienced researchers who have found the same pattern time and time again-that the likelihood of trans individuals committing suicide is significantly higher than that of cis people.

No, Rowling’s transphobia has never been as upfront as saying “I don’t believe transgender people exist” but she continues to imply that when she makes claims such as womanhood being defined by whether or not one experiences menstruation, and the completely subjective concept of whether an individual has faced sex-based violence from cisgender men. I’m sure she’d be out here taking chromosome proof cards like Oysters if it wasn’t for intersex individuals throwing her whole binary jam into a tailspin. Yep, there’s even suggestions that the binary biological model might not be so binary these days-just because two people have, say, XY chromosomes, does not mean that these chromosomes are genetically identical between individuals-the genes they carry can, and do, vary and so their actions and expressions of sex vary.

Ideally, what TERFs want to do with their language of “real womanhood” is create an exclusive club that trans women are left out of when they too suffer under the same patriarchal society that those who are born female do. Yes, they might not experience ALL the issues a person born with female genitalia do, but no two women’s life experiences are the same anyway. Trans women also have their own horrible experiences with the patriarchy, and are often victims of a specific kind of gendered violence that is purported by the idea of “real womanhood”. Don’t throw trans sisters under the bus because you’re angry about your experience as a woman on this planet-direct your anger at the fucking bus. Don’t claim that “many trans people regret their decision to transition” when the statistics overwhelmingly show that this is the EXACT FUCKING OPPOSITE of the truth (according to British charity organisation Mermaids, surgical regret is proportionately very low amongst gender affirmation outpatients and research suggesting otherwise has been broadly disproven) because you’ve spoken to a selective group of trans individuals probably handpicked by the TERFS you associate with to confirm their biases, and then have the nerve to claim that trans-activists live in echo chambers on top of that. Don’t use anecdotes and one-off incidences where “trans women” (I say trans women in quotation marks because we’re pretty much talking about a completely statistically insignificant group of perverted cis men who have, according to TERFs, somehow come to the conclusion that going through transition will make their already easy-to-get-away-with hobby of assaulting women even...easier to get away with?) have committed sexual crimes to demonise and paint as predatory group who are largely at risk and in 99.9% of situations, the ones being preyed on. It’s a point so disgusting that trans activists shouldn’t even have to respond to it, but the idea that an individual would go to the pains of legally changing their gender and potentially the hell of the harassment that trans people face, the multiple year long NHS waiting lists to see specialist doctors, just so that they can gain access to women only spaces is ridiculous. It’s worth noting here just how sinister you repeatedly bringing up this phantom threat of cis men becoming trans women in order to assault women in “women only” spaces is. The implication here is that they should use the toilet corresponding to the sex they were born as, right? Because it’s all about safety? Well, statistically speaking, far more trans women are abused whilst having to use men’s toilets than when they use women’s ones and the same goes for trans men, and yet you don’t mention it once. Your suggestion also puts people born female who identify as women but maybe do not dress or present in a typically feminine way at risk of being ostracised when THEY need to use the women’s bathroom. The idea that by ceasing to uphold values like yours we are putting women at risk is quite simply, unsubstantiated; the legislation to allow individuals to use the bathroom corresponding to whichever gender they legally identify as has been around since 2010 in the UK and yet we’ve yet to see the sudden spike in the number of women being assaulted in bathrooms you imply will exist if we create looser rules around gender identity and let people use whichever toilet they feel the need to. Similarly, in a study of US school districts, Media Matters found that 17 around the country with protections for trans people, which collectively cover more than 600,000 students, had no problems with harassment in bathrooms or locker rooms after implementing their policies. If cis men want to assault women, they will. They don’t need to pretend to be trans to do so. Don’t pretend to be speaking as a concerned ally of LGBTQ+ individuals when you’re ignoring the thoughts of the majority of individuals who come under that category.

(Just Some of the Trans Women Murdered for Being Trans Over the Last Couple of Years, L-R: Serena Valzquez, Riah Milton, Bee Love Slater, Naomi Hersi, Layla Pelaez, and Dominique Fells)

Trans women are not the threat here. Bigots like you are the threat. HOW DARE you use your platform to reinforce this rhetoric that gets trans people killed when there are so many much MUCH more important things going on right now. Two black trans women had been murdered just for being black trans women in the week you wrote your essay defending those initial tweets. This is an ongoing issue. As a cis woman, my opinion should read as sacred texts to you right, Joanne? Because I’ll say with my whole chest that I feel far more threatened by bigots like you who do not care for the harmful impact of their words than I do by trans women. I do not feel threatened by trans women AT ALL. And yeah, to me, unless they tell me otherwise that they like to go out their way to affirm their trans-ness (which I completely respect-it takes a lot of courage to be proud about your past in a world that condemns you for it), they’re just WOMEN like any other. Yes their experience of “womanhood” may be different to mine but no two individuals experiences are the same anyway and our gender related suffering has the same cause. As a rich, white, cis woman, it’s wild that you are painting yourself as the victim in this debate when trans people can face life in prison and in some places a death sentence for openly identifying with a gender different to their sex in a lot of countries. Nobody is saying that you can’t talk about cis women. Nobody is saying you can’t talk about lesbian issues either, though it’s a bit of a piss-take that you like to throw that whole trans women erase lesbian existence argument out there as a kind of trump card to say “look, I can’t be a transphobe, I’m an LGBTQ+ ally!”, an argument akin to the racist’s age old “I can’t be racist, I have black friends!”. You know from the responses you get to your transphobia that majority of the LGBTQ+ community are very much adamant that trans women are “real women” and that the same goes for trans men being “real men”, so don’t claim to speak for them. You cannot simultaneously care about LGBTQ+ rights and deny trans people their right to live as who they are, however veiled your sentiments around that may be. The whole gay rights movement of the 60s and 70s exist partially BECAUSE of black trans women such as Martha P Johnson if you didn’t know, and though it’s kinda common knowledge I’m doubting that you do because very little of what you tout is backed up by any kind of research. The articles you retweet, echoing the views of lesbians who also happen to be TERFs do not count-the idea that trans people existing simultaneously erases the existence of lesbians only applies to individuals such as yourself who don’t see trans women as women in the first place. That is the problem! Most people don’t have an issue with the fact that you may have a preference for certain genitalia, but I would argue that ignoring exceptional circumstances related to trauma or some other complex issue, relationships are supposed to be with the person as a whole, not their “organic” penis or vagina and it’s kind of insulting to anyone in a same sex relationship to reduce their bond to that.

Back to my point though, of course there are issues that cis women and lesbians face that need talking about, but trans people are affected by the same patriarchal system. You don’t need to go out of your way to mention that they’re not included in whichever given specific issue when there are also cis women who may not have experienced some of the things TERFs reference. You especially don’t need to act as if trans women are the reason we need to have these discussions in the first place. As I’ve said, as MANY women have said, repeatedly-they are NOT the threat here. It is disgusting to see someone I once had so much admiration for constantly punch down at a group that is already marginalised. It’s 2020, J.K, there’s so much info out there. YOU’RE A FULLY GROWN WOMAN. There’s no justification. We get it, you had a tomboy phase. You weren’t like “other girls”. You didn’t like living under a patriarchal system. So you think you understand the mindset of people who want to transition. You think you’re not doing anything wrong by helping to slow the advancement of trans rights because well, you turned out fine? But you clearly fundamentally misunderstand what being trans is. It’s not about your likes and dislikes and having issues with the experience of being a woman (god knows we all do but I doubt anyone truly thinks for one moment that being trans would be any easier), it’s about how you think and feel at your core. It’s such a complex issue, and all the majority of trans people are asking you to do is LISTEN to them. You may be determined to live in binaries, yet the bigger picture is always more complex and fluid and it’s ever-changing, so all we can do is keep an open mind and keep wanting to know more and gather more evidence. If you’re capable of the mental gymnastics required to retcon the piece of work you wrote in the 90s to make it seem as if you were “ahead of the diversity game”, to the extent that you are now claiming Voldermort’s snake has always actually been a Korean woman and see nothing wrong with that when paired with the fact that the only Asian character you originally included was called Cho Chang, then well…I’m sure you can put your ego aside and do the groundwork to understand what trans people are trying to tell you too. You inspired a lot of children and teenagers and even adults, and got them through some very difficult times, taught that the strength of one’s character matters far more than what anyone thinks of you. You claimed you wanted to stand up for the outcasts.

Well, stand up for the outcasts. Now’s a better time than any. And once again: TRANS WOMEN ARE WOMEN AND TRANS MEN ARE MEN. They shouldn’t have to hear anything else.

Lauren x

[DISCLAIMER: shitty collages are mine but the background is not, let me know if you are aware of the artist so I can credit!]

#transisbeautiful #trans pride #trans lives matter #blm #black lives matter #jk rowling #trans rights #gender identity #gender studies #trans women are women #politics #socialism #safe space #all are welcome

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grim-faux · 4 years

Text

3 - Haunted Basement

The patient was still mewling even when I entered the small room, I slammed the door behind me and took the time to slide one of the small rolling chairs over in front of the door, despite it opening from the other side. It was stupid but I wasn’t really thinking about it at the time. Despite the skeletal physique of the patient I felt that somehow he would manage to get up and chase me down, if I didn’t deter his efforts in some miniscule way. Once I had the door ‘secured’ I stood and watched the handle, expecting it to turn slowly like in some horror movie or something.

Eventually I pulled myself away and jogged all the way from the grunts mill back to the other side of the lobby. It seemed almost too good to be true, and I had a bit of a scare when I reached the security door and couldn’t find the magnet key in my pocket. The shock was short lived, I simply had to turn my coat pocket out more to pull it out of a wrinkle it had wedged into. Never did a computerized confirmation sound so beautiful.

I shut the door after me and glanced over the room. “They Lie” was scrawled on the wall in dried blood beside a window, right above a large pool of blood. Footprints led away from the message towards the door.

It seemed my chance finding the magnet card wasn’t so chance after all. The ‘Priest’ had been in here recently, and he did leave the key card for me to find, presumably while I was out cold for that short time. This system seemed too elaborate to concoct by one man, but it was apparent from the file I found he was a patient of Mount Massive Asylum. Not a comforting thought given my situation.

No matter, I would soon put this place far behind me, and deep in the back of my mind. I shook my head and turned to the main computer. Overhead screens displayed various rooms, some I recognized, others I hoped to never stumble upon. No one knew I was here, no one significant anyway. I pulled the chair over and slid the keyboard under my hands, the screen had the basic menu for systems access. I might be able to stumble my way through this, as long as their network didn’t lock me out after a few password attempts.

Security

The white page and loading screen appeared and I watched intently as the little gray bar filled with white, inch by inch. I looked over my shoulder making sure no one was in the room with me, I hadn’t searched it thoroughly in my haste, but everything appeared normal. Or should I say safe and none threatening?

Aside from my friend slumped against the wall. Sigh, I turned back to the screen and blinked. The feed on my right was transmitting from somewhere dark and I could barely make out the familiar black shape with bald head strolling along towards…was that a lever? My blood ran cold and I stood up from my seat when the ‘Priest’ turned and looked directly at the camera.

The lights went out.

I stumbled in the sudden dark, for some reason moving before I had any idea what was going on. That switch he pulled, it was a breaker somewhere.

Thank the creators of backup generators, the emergency lights flashed on bright and blazing, I covered my face as my eyes readjusted to the bombardment of light. Had to find the generators, need to turn the power back on. The plaque near this corridor read Electric Room and indicated steps down, along with an overturned wheelchair and a crimson trail.

As my mind wandered to undertaking this new task, a muffled voice came through the door. “We have to contain it.”

I needed a way out, I needed to be somewhere else, anywhere but here. I tried the door, but losing the main power activated a locking mechanism. Damn! Did he know I was here? There was no place visible that could conceal me, only two lockers. Was that all? I turned and saw a large shadow streak across the wall, my options were drying up.

The locker gave a loud creak as its hinges ground together, I pulled down a coat that had been hung up and tossed it aside before replacing the vacant space with myself. Right when I had shut the door, the big fucker stalked past the window. I held my breath and hoped, I prayed he would keep going. This door was always locked before, it’s still locked now. He’d lose interest and keep going, somewhere out there was some poor idiot that hadn’t been tossed out a window yet.

I wanted to slip down as he threw his body against the steel door. Maybe it would hold, it was built to withstand a riot. But I think at this point I was just kidding myself, nothing was going the way I had anticipated it would. This place needed to go to hell.

After three slams of his massive body, the door crashed inward and Chris stood on the bent metal. He gave the room a casual look over, everything looked just as it was the former evening.

I tried to control my breathing, everything seemed amplified in the acoustics of the hollow locker. Out of reflex I pulled up my camera, catching an image of the big fucker as he turned to the computer terminals. With him out of sight I felt infinitely better, but he was still there searching for me. He made audible snuffling sounds, muttering to himself,

“You were here, weren’t you? Little pig. I’ll find all you whores.”

I hadn’t realized I’d closed my eyes until they snapped open, the sound of a creaky locker bulldozing my thoughts. I could barely make out his shoulder, and a blood stained hand as he stood poised, but in the same instant relaxed when he found no one huddled in the cramped space. He shut it gently and pivoted, marching to the doorway where he stopped. He glanced back but looked away.

My lungs craved air, but every shallow breath I took ached. Did he plan to turn around and check the other locker?

The latch clicked as I lifted it and pushed the door open, I stiffly swung around it as I shut the door and pulled the next locker open. No sooner had it settled, Chris stormed back to the lockers and snapped the door open. I was trying to push away, put myself as far from him as I could despite the tiny space.

He shut the door and turned away, this time exiting the room. “Parameters will hold up….”

Ten minutes later and I was still hiding. I heard no sound and saw no sign of Chris’ return, but remained leery. If I couldn’t see him, he could be anywhere.

Anywhere but here?

I struggled with the latch, almost panicking with the thought I had accidentally locked myself in. My fingers were a little numb, my whole mind felt numb. I took a few steps toward the computer terminal and collapsed in the chair. What had I been doing up to this point?

“The big fucker is stalking me. Found a patient file for a CHRIS WALKER, ex-military police, several tours in Afghanistan. A lot of the blood in this place is on his hands. But not all of it.”

My writing was sloppy, but that was the best I could do for now. My camera was still on record so I shut it off for a bit and saved its charge. I set it on the terminal and propped my head up on my hand. The Generators would be down the steps in the Electric Room but restoring the power would be another matter. Did they need gasoline? What sort of grid did they run on? I was unsure if Murkoff staff had them locked up to prevent people like the ‘Priest’ guy from getting ahold of them. Obviously they must be accessible, unless he was the only one with access to them.

I sighed through my fingers. What was I doing with my life?

Pages had been left on the terminal, a small note to Shawn about the camera operations. Beneath it was a notice for restarting the generators, the Asylum had it’s own power off the grid after Murkoff took over. Well, of course they would!

But it had directions for restarting the generators, reactivate the pumps and throw the breaker. Seems pretty basic. I tossed down the page and ran out the room, but returned shortly to snatch the camera. My thoughts were a bit off kilter, I was hearing shrieking on the other side of the gate, from where I thought Chris had stalked off to. I was going the opposite way, later I would worry where he had gone.

A pipe had broken from the wall, water gushed from it just missing the stairs I took to the basement. Chances are it was a delivery pipe, but it was no more cleaner than sewage. The air was humid yet chilly, small drafts moved through the open doorway waiting in the subterranean level. I sucked in a sharp breath as the water engulfed my shoes, I stepped back and pondered. There was no way to get around this, I liked my shoes but I’d have to buy a new pair after this regardless. A new style, I didn’t want to remind myself how many bodies I trudged over.

The actuality was, I was scared. No lie. There was no telling who was down here, if there was something worse than that big fucker. But if I wanted a chance to get out of here, I had to get through this.

My feet sloshed through the water, shoes turned soggy and heavy. I pulled up my camera and flicked on the night vision. Even with the enhanced lens I couldn’t see what was under the water, I just had to tread carefully. There was quite a bit of ruble on the surface, some of the ceiling had weathered and fallen. Large items lined the walls, some barrels a pallet. They might have used the lower floor for storage as well, it was spacious from what I could see.

I was met with a despairing sight, the gate that lead into the basement rooms was locked with a thick chain. No way could I smash it. Just to mock me, the wall beyond the gate had a plaque labeling the primary rooms. The middle name was Electric rooms. There had to be another way into there.

As I turned to backtrack, a flash of light blinded me from the next room. The wall had rotted and crumbled to some degree, and with some extra effort I was able to remove enough brick that I could squeeze through.

The water was deeper on this side, and a bit more ruble was hidden beneath the surface. I caught my footing before I could fall and drop the camera. That’s the last thing I needed.

A cool draft met me in this grimy place, but the scent it carried was far from fresh. I clutched my coat tighter around me and stepped carefully, there were boards bobbing just under the surface, sodden but uncertain about their watery demise. A few laundry baskets had been abandoned and another shelf melted in the flood. I turned a corner and continued, at least in this section I didn’t need my camera, this corridor was well lit.

Wooden crates were stacked along the walls making a slow precession into the water as their predecessors decayed, and gave under the weight. I wondered what was kept in the barrels along the walls, gasoline maybe. They had vehicles and other machinery that needed fuel, a tanker probably came out to deliver the barrels. The noxious stench of bad oil was constant, cheap grade bought in bulk for old machines. Engines. The generators couldn’t be far.

Someone had stacked boxes in the middle of the corridor, I tested their stability before hopping over. The emergency lights didn’t reach this area, or had burned out. I moved my feet carefully under the water tensing when I felt something soft and undeniably slimy. It could be a cardboard box filled with liquefied files, that’s all it was. But the smell intensified, a soggy vapor of rot and soured water.

Before me was what appeared to be a high archway, but the opening was boarded up tight. I put my hand up testing, feeling the draft creeping between the cracks. Maybe there was a small window down here, something I could squeeze through if I could find it.

“W-who’s there?”

The voice sounded meek, worried. I shuffled away as banging ensued.

“Who’s? WHO’S THERE?” I held still as the noises softened and the speaker began mumbling. “I’ll hurt you. I’m not afraid of dying. I’m not afraid of anything. Not anymore.”

I waited listening to the sounds of the water, only the drips and tranquil sloshing penetrated the black. Slowly my feet moved, reducing as much noise as I could through the froth. The night vision revealed nothing but a large corridor, at the end a dull haze of light. It was on the other side of a waist high platform, evidence on my side revealed there had been steps some short time ago but the timber ruptured and was torn away. The waterlogged planks I had seen along the way might’ve been the remains.

From what I could make out there was no one in this room. The walls were thick brick and solid looking, a few pallets and boxes had been left to rot. The furthest wall had two doors, the one on my direct left had one, all shut and to my limited knowledge locked tight.

Another body hung from the ceiling, headless and bloated. Another reminder of what would become of me if I didn’t hustle and get the fuck out of here.

I pulled myself onto the platform and stepped softly down the steps. I wondered if this place was first built as an Asylum, or had it been constructed by some eccentric billionaire that appreciated his privacy. The building was ancient, but the ideal of looking into its private history had not come to mind while I was struggling to locate information on Murkoff’s activities. A map would have been very useful right now.

The control board beneath the brilliance of light labeled out my next course of action. The generators couldn’t work without gasoline (I knew that). The main breaker needed to be flipped before I could restart the power.

This didn’t seem too complicated, where?- I turned around recalling the sealed rooms, one of them must hold the breaker.

My shoes bubbled as they filled with water once again, I didn’t want to think about what might’ve been floating beneath the surface. I focused ahead trusting my NV, even with it I was still bumping into boxes and things my eyes had missed as I set my narrow sight for one of the two doors. When I put my weight on the first step it gave, dissolving into the water. I came down hard on my knee but brushed off the sharp pain, at this point it was nothing but a mild nuisance.

The door knob stuck but with a hard twist the handle creaked and I crept inside. The soft glow of the emergency light illuminated the generator, poised on a metal pole was the button. All was going well, I punched the dial and turned around as the machine whirled to life.

On a metal barrel beside the door something glittered, I walked over and discovered it to be another battery. Odd place to find one, but maybe someone had been down here last with a penlight. I pocketed it before I stepped out the door and stopped, my blood running cold. The sound of crashing and banging came from not far away, not far enough away from me. Timber splintered and gave as someone broke through what could only be a door. Or a barricade.

I checked through my camera scanning - where had it come from? The acoustics of this room made locating sounds tricky, there were four doors in this room? No, three, I came from a step–

A pair of eyes flashed, I stepped back as I moved my camera searching for the face. There, a man looking right at me from the doorway he had forced open. I retreated back into the room shutting the door before examining the confined area. Had he seen me? He was insane no doubt, could he trust his eyes after what had happened here? It might not have mattered to him.

The room was solid, except for a bed a few feet from the generator. I slid under it as the thuds came from the doorway, the wood snapping and the jam cracking before the door clattered against the cement. My instinct warned me to crawl further under the bed, I was just beneath the edge, but if I made a sound he would find me. The dull drone of the pump could nullify the tiniest gasp, but somehow he would pick up the rough fiber of my coat against the moist cement. I held my breath as he walked by, his gaze roaming the walls and shadows. In his hand he carried some sort of weapon, what looked like the leg of a table with screws still sticking out of it.

It was splattered with black.

I swallowed and let out a shallow breath. Please leave. Please don’t check under the bed.

He slapped the clean side of the club against his palm a few times, turning to check the room once more before he spun around. “The gospel. Tells us to follow.”

Once he cleared the doorframe I took in a long, deep breath. God, my ribs. I didn’t need to get anymore beat up than I already was.

For good measure I waited, he had vacated the room but was he debating on returning? I had no idea if he had seen me or what he might’ve thought, if he thought he saw me. There was time, take it slow. But if I waited, would he eventually return and notice the bed? I shifted under it a little more, almost immediately the man materialized in the open doorway.

I bit my lip. He didn’t hear me! He couldn’t have! He was here on a hunch and once he had satisfied his suspicions he would leave. I tucked my face against my shoulder and watched him with my eyes. He gave the room another glance over as he passed, and checked behind the generator when near it.

Against my better judgment, I slipped out on the other side of the bed beside the wall. I kept low and crawled towards the gaping doorway as I heard his feet grit against the moist silt of the floor. My breath hitched as I looked over my shoulder, he had just dropped down to check under the bed. I didn’t wait for him to rise, I carefully stepped on the door and slipped out of the room.

The steps groaned under my weight, the sound amplified in my mind. Cursed all, I forgot the last step was ruined and stumbled in the water as I fought to keep my footing, and reduce the noise I was making.

“What’s that?”

I couldn’t see at all without my camera, but hadn’t the presence of mind to raise it for my eyes. Instead, I felt around in the dark for the rail and made a painfully slow shuffle around to the backside of the steps. They groaned as my pursuer stepped down into the water.

He made a more graceful recovery than I had when he missed the last step, or he recalled that it was ruined. Or, a more frightening thought, he was more accustomed to the inky veil that occupied many of the rooms.

It was fortunate I had my hand wedged in the cameras strap, I had let go of it as I pressed my fingers against the wet wood. With it on my mind I raised the visor and watched the figure scan his immediate area. After a tense second he continued forward, his legs churning dull froth with each step. I backed away slowly, always keeping him in my sight. I bumped against a crate before I turned around, checking for what other obstacles might be in my path.

The second door, same as the first. I hopped onto a crate moldering against the steps and made light footfalls towards the handle. It gave with an easy twist and I entered, shutting my thin paper of protection.

This room had more to offer. Lockers lined the wall, shelves had been assembled in the corners littered with few items, some bottles of oil and boxes, tattered sheets. In the furthest corner was the pump.

When I activated it, the noise would alert the prowler. There would be no doubt in his mind, with the door shut, that someone was still in here. Or, this was the trail of thought I entertained. I had to keep reminding myself he was a patient in an asylum, there was no telling what his rationale skills entitled.

I punched the button and turned to the lockers along the wall. Maybe I could lock it from the inside….

The latch was different from the ones on the top floor, I fumbled with it trying to discern if it was corroded with rust or if I was doing this wrong, but the sounds at the door thumped with each beat of my heart. Wait! Wait! I needed to hide now!

I sprint over behind the pump and ducked down. A final crash announced my visitor as the door caved in. He kicked away bits of the timber as he stepped through, they clattered across the floor loud enough to be heard over the pump.

“—revealed himself to the shattered minds.” He muttered, somewhere amid a quote. I curled up into a tighter ball and pressed up against the pump, if he glanced over it I might fall just under his peripheral sight.

A locker opened then slammed shut. He patrolled the area, his club thudding along the metal doors before he stopped. For a moment there was near total silence.

I trembled though I couldn’t decide if it was from the cold or if I was terrified. Must have been both, my coat was good but my pants were soaked. I flinched when he began beating the lockers and screaming. When would this nightmare end?

With a final hoot he raced out, his shoes thudding over the broken planks and fading down the steps outside.

Several minutes passed, but of the man there was no sound. The generator caused too much of a ruckus, it was impossible to pick up echoes or voice in the next room. Was he still out there? From here I had no way of knowing.

I uncoiled myself and peered over the pump. It might’ve helped if I had my camera up, but the emergency light impeded the NVs range. There were no sounds that worried me, but that could mean he was standing just outside the door waiting. I moved around the large machine and crouched, shuffling towards the broken door. At this range I could see through my visor, but halfway there I couldn’t see much beyond the portal but dark shapes huddled.

The right side was the stair side, I huddled on the left straining to see.

“Can’t see me. Won’t get me.”

I slinked back, but realized I was still safe. He was trudging by the stairs muttering to himself, I don’t think he could see me. Or maybe I underestimated his instincts, he climbed onto the crates and began up towards me.

In a wild dash I reached the pump and ducked down behind it. I hadn’t seen if he cleared the door before I hid, did he even see me in the first place? I had no way of knowing, but I was out of sight and therefore, out of mind. He was just checking the room. He must’ve visited the other side first, and then came back to see if I was here. But this was all speculation, I had no idea what was—

A locker swung open, pause. He slammed it shut and jerked another one open. He knew I was here, he was looking for me. I listened carefully as his steps moved across the room, then pivoted. Where was he now? I slid to the edge of the machine and leaned over.

He was at the opposite corner just standing there, but I could still hear him walking. When my eyes adjusted to the odd contrast of light and shadow, I saw a sheet hanging on the shelf.

“There you are!”

I twisted around where I was huddled, he grabbed my shoulder and raised the club above his head. My leg kicked out blindly smashed into the brick wall, I tore out of his grip and slid out under a metal pipe attached to the pump. A sharp crack filled the air when he brought his weapon down, it took a moment to register my opportunity before I was clawing to my feet running for the door. “Wait! Come back!”

Even with my night vision up, I still ran into the rail that surrounded the steps. I heaved over it splashing into the water below, footsteps were right at my neck and I felt something slice through the air near my head. I bent forward and ran, though I heard him storming down the steps a few feet behind me. The camera was jiggling too much, I had a god awful time trying to hold it steady while I tore through the room. All the time the guy was still after me, screaming. I was unsure where exactly I was headed.

Ahead of me I saw steps and light, I vaulted up them stumbling over the fallen door. I hadn’t stepped over a door to get into this place.

A wall appeared in my path, I barely put on the breaks but still managed to smash my good shoulder against it. Panicked and shaken I forgot the camera but rather, slapped my palm and fingers against the solid surface and followed it. I staggered through an open door as the footfalls of my pursuer neared, I found the edge of the door and flung it shut. The doorknob rattled as he worked to get it open, I think my appreciation for broken door handles grew somewhat in that instant.

I stumbled over a pipe and fell hard on my chest. As I lay groaning and fighting to recover from the stun, I noticed a few broken beds just ahead. The door was about to give, I crawled under the beds and lay flat as the wood crumpled and the variant charged through.

It was impossible to see without my camera, but I heard his wet footfalls as he paced around the room. A few of the items were shifted, I tried to identify what each was as he poked around. Finally his steps came towards my space, I took a sharp breath and held it as he smashed the club against a metal bar then waited. In the distance I could pick up the echoing clatter of the pumps. I needed to focus on that.

“There was no putty tat there.” After a few more minutes, either he became bored or forgot what he was looking for. I heard his weight rock the broken door as he thudded over it.

I didn’t want to move. No telling where he was now, or where I was. But I reasoned with myself, if I stay here he would eventually find me. I was blocked in but this area had served its purpose for the time. I wasn’t ready to move on, but I forced my hands to pull at the cold floor and drag my body out.

I wasn’t shaking I was quaking unrestrained. That had been too close. What was it I needed to do? Flip the breaker. I bumped my face with the camera as I tried to lift the visor and view exactly where I had stumbled into.

Another storage room. Spare beds and sheets for the patients, lockers, and some filthy laundry bins. I tried to stand but my legs wouldn’t hold my weight, so I shuffled along to a door at the other side of the room. At this point I felt my masculinity melting. Get it together Miles.

With some help from the shelf and the doorknob I was able to haul myself up. I stood a moment taking deep breathes and renewing my resolve. I was okay as long as I could outrun him. Flip the breaker, restart the power, get the fuck out. This would be easy.

The door was locked.

I could’ve held up the camera and seen exactly where I was going, but I wanted to feel the walls, the frigid damp brick and the shelves as I staggered around them. I was not too solid on my feet just yet but once I stepped out into the corridor, I had my camera out like a bad habit.

No sign of the man. No sound of him either. I took it slow, glancing out through the light in the doorway before returning my eyes to the path ahead. On the wall was a plaque with an arrow.

Generator

I followed the corridor, hopping over more debris that had been shoveled into the hall. When I reached the end I picked up the soft footfalls, the moment before he turned the corner. There was a doorway to my right I slipped into, but wish I hadn’t.

Bodies tethered to the ceiling like butchered cattle, organs spilling off the shelf, the translucent skin glimmered in the NV of the camera. I didn’t have time for revulsion, he was right behind me. I slid under the bed and pressed my face into my shoulder, the smell, I will NEVER get used to that smell.

He strolled in from the doorway and glanced over the room, I had my camera held beside my face at an awkward angle to prevent the gleam of the visor from reflecting too much. Despite the discomfort I wouldn’t repositioning it to document his habits. Leave the room, just please leave the room.

Then he did something very madman like. He folded to his knees and smashed at the floor with his club, the strikes hard enough to shatter his weapon, I’m amazed it didn’t. Then, he leaned over and pressed his…ear down. He was facing me at that point, but I was too flabbergasted to register the potential threat. It was probably best I didn’t, otherwise I might’ve squirmed and drawn his attention.

After that he rose to his feet and walked out muttering about shadows.

Once it seemed he left for good I wasted no time in crawling out from under the bed, the stew of rotten organs among the metal legs was too much for my tattered sanity. I sat in the dark absorbed in what little light was put off by the visor. Which way had he gone?

My question was soon answered when he passed from the right, the way I was headed initially. I didn’t move though I was in plain view, he was out of sight by the time the thought registered. The dark had concealed me fully.

I was taking my camera for granted, if I wasn’t looking through the visor everything was a black slate with no texture, no form. Empty. It could drive a man insane, or more so, give him some company.

When his footfalls faded, I shuffled to the door and looked around the edge. He had found the door that was locked and made himself busy trying to tear it down. I was fine with this, it wouldn’t keep him occupied for long. I shut the door as I left the room.

Was I becoming desensitized by what I saw? It was easy to forget in this hall what I had previously been subjected to, but if I dwelled on it for too long I could feel my heart flutter. I need not think on that, keep focused on my objective - to get out of here I needed to flip the breaker and open the main doors. That was the only way out. Try not to think of what lay in the rooms, or what else could possibly be waiting for me. I would escape, I would be fine. My thoughts felt natural, but this worried me as well. A crazy man thought he was normal because the only thoughts he knew, were those of his own, he had forgotten the way a sane man thought.

When I escaped, would I go mad too?

Of course I wouldn’t, what was I thinking? Keep it together Miles, this place was getting to me and I would acknowledge that before it began to eat away at me. I wasn’t going mad, my brain was just filtering so I wouldn’t go mad. Once I was out, I would call up my therapist and get this water under the bridge settled.

Having a therapist was kind of awkward, people got the wrong impression. I was advised long ago when I received my license, that I would come to appreciate a good therapist. No lie, I have seen some of the worst that the world could offer, and even if I didn’t think it phased me it was still a good idea to have someone that I could talk to. Help me cope.

The corridor came to a T, I decided to check my right first, only because I could see the shimmer of water the other way. It felt like the hall was never ending, aside from a mishap of ruined desks that broke up the repetition. At the end was a crushed pallet, along with the door I sought.

The knob gave with one twist, it cracked and fell apart in my hands. I frowned down at it, before I tossed the pieces aside and inspected the door. I could still push it shut but it wouldn’t slow anyone down. I turned my camera to the rooms interior and scanned over the shelves dotted with chemicals and some tool, a trolley, more lockers (why did a facility need so many lockers?) Fuse boxes hugged the furthest walls, the soft glimmer of the backup light blotted out the NVs range. This had to be it.

Directly ahead was a familiar looking handle. The breaker the ‘Priest’ had pulled that cut the power in the first place.

I crossed over to it and forced the lever up. Just had to reactivate the power and find my way back to the ground floor.

As I was heading down the hall I was somewhat distracted, but I quickly caught the soft steps and retreated backwards in a noisy shuffle.

“Hey! What the hell is that?”

He saw me! He saw me! I pivoted and ran back to the room, I didn’t even bother to shut the door behind me I needed to hide.

But damn these lockers, what was I doing wrong? There was no lock on it, it couldn’t be jammed.

The latch popped and I climbed inside, the last worry on my mind was whether I could get this model open from the inside. He didn’t seem to have a problem getting them open.

I slowed my breath when he entered, the door creaked as he shoved it against the wall and the muffled snaps of the wood chair leg striking his palm came closer and closer. I shifted, it felt like the locker jarred on its foundation. Oh god, just hold still and be quiet. He won’t find me. I’m not here.

“Who is that?”

He didn’t see me. He did not see me. I fixed my grip on the camera and leaned back from the cutout vents. The door beside me opened, then slammed shut. I put my hand on the latch and held it. There were three lockers, weren’t there? Or two? I let out a soft sigh as the tension climaxed, where was he?

“Up to heaven, went away!” He wandered out of sight tapping the shelves, and once he had satisfied his fancy he departed.

I waited in the silence just breathing as everything settled, my heart, my haggard breathes. I was in a dead end, I couldn’t afford to get pinned her again. I worked up my nerve and opened the locker, grateful that it hadn’t stuck. Before I went on I made sure I understood how the latch on these worked, then moved to the open doorway and looked out. The corridor was silent but this didn’t set me to ease, he was still here.

At the intersection I paused to zoom the camera and check the far hall, what might be there. I could make out boards and an archway, but I couldn’t decide if this was the other side of the archway passed before entering this area.

I was nearly out anyway, what did it matter?

All the more reason to use caution, from this point on. I stepped lightly along the hall watching my cameras feed, so far no sound. I expected at any moment he would charge out at me, or I’d feel his hand slap me on the shoulder right before my skull splint in two. Shuddering, I swallowed and tried not the think about the foul odor burned into my mind.

Just needed to reactivate the power. The power, so I could open the front doors and get the fuck out of here. My resentment for this place was natural, I didn’t fight it, nor the repetitive state my mind had elapsed into. It was easy to keep repeating my current goal through my thoughts, keep focused on that rather what I had seen. It felt clean. I wanted to feel clean.

I passed the shut door, not bothering to pause, not giving it another thought. Breaker, security, then out. As I neared the light from the entrance I heard his voice. At least I knew where he was.

Thankfully he had torn the second door down, I stepped inside and moved along the shelves, making sure I didn’t knock over anything this time. The battery in the NV was getting low and the visual was dimming. After I removed the battery I thought about tossing it down the hall, distract the variant that way. In the end I decided this was a bad idea, best not draw attention to any area I was near or in. If he wasn’t certain of my whereabouts, it might clue him in with sudden noises. I also did not need to stir him up, he was insane and that was apparently enough to get my face smashed in.

Down to two batteries.

I moved to the other doorway and peeked out, just as he faded from the nightvisions range somewhere down the corridor. I couldn’t see him, but if I ventured into the light I would be vulnerable for a splint second. He would see me. Unless he wasn’t facing me.

One, two, three, and four steps into the entrance corridor. I paused for a beat to listen if he made note of me, but I heard nothing aside from the echoing steps growing distant. It was unnerving.

I continued into the cold water and crossed to the access panel. Before I hit the switch I took a deep breath and prepared myself, this was it. With a firm punch the generator kicked to life, the lamps overhead flickered and blazed white clarity. I shut my camera off and glanced around, which door had I entered from?

All I could see were broken doors, where was…?

I spun about and saw my entrance, the stairs and the arch I originally entered from. I sprang up the steps, despite the protest of my ribs and ran the full length of the hall with the water frothing around my legs. When I reached the small crevice I slipped through, I spied just beyond it a cracked desk a folder forgotten atop. Enough light made the last part of Confidential evident. I picked it up before squeezing through the gap.

Once I felt safe and heard no steps, no screaming man chasing me, I paused to calm my breath. That had been too close, if I hadn’t of gotten out from under the bed when I did…. My close call ration was dwindling down. I could only feel closure with this event, knowing that I had gotten out of there without getting myself killed, and with my camera still in functional order.

I paused a moment to look it over while I had some light. After the fall I hadn’t noticed, but a hairline crack had formed along its case. Another battle scar, it had many. The corners were rubbed clean from constantly shuffling it between the pack and my hands, and the symbols on the buttons were worn away from years of use. To operate my camera I had to work it from memory. Like me, it had been through hell before we reached this place, and it’d receive more abuse before I retired it. That wouldn’t be for a long time, I promise.

#miles upshure #outlast #outlast novelized #outlast fanfiction

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aiweirdness · 6 years

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GPT-2: It learned on the Internet

Prompt: The black-capped chickadee is a small songbird native to

Response: The black-capped chickadee is a small songbird native to Africa that is powerfully seductive. In the songs of Barry Sequson, Harry Holness and Alan Emerson the black-capped chickadee competes with others—and climbs on top of each other and fights with high-powered snakes, Emperor jockeys and mysterious unicorns.

This is text generated by an artificial neural network that the researchers at OpenAI unveiled this week. In fact, it’s generated by the worst neural network they trained. Even the worst neural network generates text that, if not demonstrating actual knowledge of chickadees, is leaps and bounds over the coherence of any neural networks I’ve trained myself. They’ve built in a way for the model to zoom out and look at longer-term features of text, which means it’s much better at making sentences hold together, and even remembering what it’s talking about from sentence to sentence.

The model learned by crawling the Internet and seeing which words are used together in which order, trying to build up an internal model that will let it predict which word comes next in a sentence. It’s similar in concept to the models I’ve trained to generate paint colors, first lines of novels, and Harry Potter fan fiction, except it’s a lot more powerful. It also learned from a much larger dataset than I use, consisting of every page that was linked to somewhere on Reddit with a minimum number of upvotes. That encompasses a LOT of topics.

It includes fan fiction, for example.

Prompt: Harry wished that Hermione would hurry up. The icing was beginning to harden.

Response: Even now, the cracks only hurt and were beginning to make the steel in her hair and tie in like clumps. Hermione sipped the bitter frost from her dinner and chewed on her eating soup.

Prompt: Darth Vader entered the room, cape billowing. "What is the meaning of these... festivities?"

Response: ”Strange and solemn, now," Princess Leia replied. "Will pirates make jokes at Jabba's birthday cake? Oh, and for a moment, Darth Vader was too full of himself for that ceremony, hence all the mirth."

"Did your father suffer there?" Vader roared and growled and turned to gaze up from the balcony.

The model can also try to communicate Important Science Facts, although its actual facts are a bit suspect.

Prompt: Our solar system consists of the inner and outer planets, separated by an asteroid belt. It has

Response: Our solar system consists of the inner and outer planets, separated by an asteroid belt. It has only one sun, Pluto. Mercury rotates on its axis a little to allow a few planets, called gas giants, to be independently charged. During some of these cycles periods between 90% and 64% of the solar system's surface might be charged. (Not enough is needed for vermin but that is gradually fading away.)

Prompt: Throughout the long cold Antarctic winter, the residents of South Pole Station

Response: Throughout the long cold Antarctic winter, the residents of South Pole Station lost virtually all of their ancient crustaceans, most notably pterodactyls, and all of the all-important plankton hydrates and protozoan eggs of the five ordered species of mammal.

Other deposits for sea organisms included eraymarine calcifye, the redfin ball, penguin heads, and the red whale.

Prompt: A carbon atom's outer orbitals

Response: A carbon atom's outer orbitals are basically a ring of ions around the border of thin mini-glaciers (usually colloquially referred to as bubble"). Like viruses, these planes are in islands in large weather groups. In and out they get all of their energy from many small regions of solar wind and dense cloud cover (usually thousands of square meters). Like viruses, their weaponry is imaged to record the movement of material-- (by deflecting rays, for instance) to complete waves or to cause the material to deform under shell impact. Capacitors--like gravity ids-- produce buoyancy with the exhalation of liquid hydrogen atmospheres, an essential electrolytic letdown when the material is what one calls a watermelon. Heat range is quite long and space is limited so one must stick with watermelons for a stability boost at a given coordinate system vital to shelter those who require them in space.

Interestingly, it takes its cues from the phrasing of the prompt more than from its specific content.

Prompt: Behold, the three-toed sloth, known for its

Response: Behold, the three-toed sloth, known for its ichorotic smile, with its four shades, pantered organic wizened broken bony paws, bulging knees, hairy tubercles, and orange's-black mandibles.

It’ll also do recipes, delightfully. Its recipes aren’t enormously more coherent than the recipes I’ve been able to generate. Part of the problem seems to be that the model is getting a bit confused by other types of recipes in its dataset.

Prompt: Quitterbread bars. Ingredients:

Response (some formatting adjusted for readability):

Quitterbread bars.

Ingredients:

Creamy cole slaw, chopped fresh cilantro, garlic, etc. 1 few very good options at lime-light, milky-white (at a light foodie) space 1 medicated towel (albino & aluminum mesh - see a friend's link to see if you can use it carefully & what you're expecting) a few paraffin-y dice (sleep about half of the weight, use the 1 ounce plus 2 pounds extra when handling these onto a hot baking sheet) 20 baking sheets 30 1/2 lb. white sanding board 1 didn't dry paper cup 1 cup extra hot water

boil the butter and electrical polishing after 20 minutes 3LB neurons

gently massage these into their slots, reduce heat in oven to approximately 350°F

stuff seam side-side down with binding compound, avoiding every drop of water the thinner sides will be tidy and seperate and pull out after 24 hours know how long they will keep it's held well, thin enough to live with 3-4 weeks teach you all the serenity you'll need to know for fantasy...

_______________________________________ >>> A limited amount of not-spicy crème brûlée (orange - read about how to do it in Meteor!) I used black chocolate cake Crème Brûlée

Painted cocktail draped across the small purple curtain of Shana Liu's Stepmother Coconut Guild guest house in France. 35' x 30' $150

Embargo thank you. Our magical rich chocolate cube

Still, its memory is better than any model I’ve worked with before. Look how it manages to almost remember that it was making a list!

Prompt: My 10 favorite animals are: 1.

Response:

My 10 favorite animals are: 1. zebras with a white scar on the back; 2. insiduous spiders and octopus; 3. frog with large leaves, hopefully black; 4. cockatiel with scales; 5. razorbill with wings hanging about 4 inches from one's face and a heart tattoo on a frog. 3. cockatric interlocking tetrapods that can be blind, cut, and eaten raw. 4. black and white desert crocodiles living in sunlight. 5. zebra and many other pea bugs.

And this is just the worst model, the one that was trained with 117 million parameters instead of 1542 million. What can the best model do?

Here’s an example of its output:

This give you a clue as to why the OpenAI researchers have decided for now not to release their best model to the public. They’re worried about people using it to produce destructive bots, fake news, phishing emails, and other dangers. It might be difficult indeed to moderate a forum filled with angry time-wasting mostly-coherent bots. In their blog post they posted more examples of the full-powered model producing impressively coherent text, including a delightful news story on four-horned South American unicorns.

What will they end up doing with their model? Even now, someone else with the time and resources - a government, for example - could train and use a model like theirs, especially now that they’ve shown everyone what their technique can do. They’re hoping that their paper will prompt some regulation, or at least some countermeasures, that can guard against this technology’s misuse. They’re also hoping that other researchers will stop to think about potential misuse before they release their models to the public.

For now, the GPT-2 version OpenAI released isn’t going to fool very many people.

Prompt: NO!!! You should NEVER feed a dog from a silver platter.

Response: It will make them bark in farts when you put it away.

Prompt: Actually, you should never microwave your food, because

Response: it holds sodium, mercury, mercury or "cold enemy cocktail" flavorings and the exact same flavorings used then for chili powder. This is wrong, it's not safe, and some people get hurt while cooking at their homes! If you have these very dangerous ingredients and want to keep them around, you should absolutely rinse them and cook them in a dishwasher and set aside.

Support AI Weirdness and get bonus content: A few more GPT-2 samples I generated.

You can download and play with the second-best model here - requires some familiarity with installing and running python code. Or there’s a colaboratory version (works in-browser; no coding required). Content warning: it learned some awful stuff from the Internet.

#gpt-2 #neural networks #OpenAI #science facts #recipe #text generator

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sablelab · 5 years

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Covert Operations - Chapter 78

DISCLAIMER: This is a modern AU crossover story with Outlander and La Femme Nikita. LFN and its characters do not belong to me nor do those from Outlander.

SYNOPSIS: When Inspector Jiang Ng contacts Sun Yee Lok he is more interested in the mess at the nightclub, while at the same time he had unwittingly given Section One the perfect opportunity to bring him into the White Room. A trap is set for his imminent capture.

THANK YOU for reading, liking reblogging and for your comments on the last chapter. I appreciate everyone. Previous chapters can be found at … https://sablelab.tumblr.com/covertoperations

CHAPTER 78

As Claire Beauchamp left the OCTB building and made her way to where she had parked her Porsche Boxster; her thoughts were on what had transpired in Inspector Ng’s office. Her conversation with him had gone as expected and she had been relieved of duties for a few weeks. However, his blind acceptance of orders from up above was too compliant as far as she was concerned. Inspector Ng had readily let her go without asking any questions about her covert assignment in Aberdeen even though he was surprised at that disclosure. She’d sensed that he was biting at the bit to know just how much she knew about the Rising Dragons but he took the matter no further. Claire guessed that the Inspector wouldn’t show any overt interest in her undercover work for to do so could implicate him in triad business. He was a man perplexed. Inspector Ng had no idea how much she really knew about the Rising Dragons but was too reticent to probe further in case of self-incrimination. If the look he gave her as she left his office was any indication to go on, Jiang wouldn’t rest until he had his finger on the pulse of her knowledge and involvement in triad causalities recently. Claire expected that he would set in motion some kind of surveillance on her movements in the future. Nevertheless, Section One had Inspector Ng’s measure. They had plans for him and would strike when he least expected. Eventually reaching where she had parked her car, Claire opened the door, got in and started the ignition. Leaning down, she switched on her car radio then looked to see if her way was clear of vehicles before pulling out of the parking lot. She put the top down, sat back in her seat and listened as the dulcet voice of Michael Bublé crooned from the car’s radio. Another aeroplane Another sunny place I'm lucky I know But I want to go home Mmm, I've got to go home

Let me go home I'm just too far from where you are I want to come home

Pulling into the busy Hong Kong traffic it was difficult to concentrate as the song hit a chord with her. Claire wanted to go home. She wanted to see Jamie.

Last night had been so electric and the thought of what had happened this morning as well brought a secretive smile to her lips. Yet the harsh reality was that she was driving home towards her apartment to get organised for her dinner date with the target Jonathon Randall. Despite the perfect scenario that had been profiled, she was not looking forward to this mission, especially if Madeline would try and incorporate some Valentine element in the mission profile at a later date. Sections One’s second in command had no compunction in changing a profile if she thought it would be more advantageous to luring the target into a false sense of security as the net was tightened. However, she would categorically draw the line at that possibility. There was no way that she could or would ever consider any romantic liaison with that man for the very thought of any intimacy with Jonathon Randall was appalling to her.

Fortunately, the haunting lyric of the song managed to take Claire’s mind off her meeting with the target and focused her thoughts on the one man who would be waiting for her.

Baby, I'm done I gotta go home Let me go home It'll all be all right I'll be home tonight

I'm coming back home

The only person she would ever be intimate with was James Fraser and just the thought of him made her smile. Now that he had declared his love for her, she could never place herself in a compromising situation for anyone and least of all for Madeline or Operations. She had no fear of reprisals and would always disobey orders and suffer the consequences of her actions if placed in a situation that went against her principles. Their love was sacrosanct. Jamie was the source of her joy, the centre of her world and the whole of her heart. Any Valentine element to a mission, should it be profiled at a later date, would sully that beautiful connection that they had. She knew that Jamie would be furious if Madeline turned the tables on her once more, for their superior was so unpredictable where they were concerned. Any change in profile would be nipped in the bud. Jamie would see to it. He had always come to her rescue ... he would do it again if needs be … time and time again.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Inspector Ng remained behind in his office deep in thought long after Claire had left. When the Chief Commissioner had informed him of her undercover work in Aberdeen, he knew that he would need to set the wheels in motion for Claire Beauchamp’s own incarceration very soon. There was no way that Jonathon Randall would let Claire find out any information about the triad or his involvement in the Rising Dragons on her mission. It was however, the perfect opportunity for him to keep an eye on her until such time as the triad was ready to deal with her. Then they would interrogate Miss Beauchamp and find out once and for all what she really knew about Tony Wong’s death in Aberdeen and the Rising Dragons. It was a win-win situation for them. In fact, it couldn’t be better ... but there was a lot he needed to do before he got in touch with Jonathon. His first priority was to contact his leader Sun Yee Lok to inform him of the state of affairs so far. Reclining back in his chair, Jiang dialled the secret code number that was a direct line to the leader of the Rising Dragons and waited. In no time he heard the click of engagement at the other end of the line and began to speak almost simultaneously with Sun Yee Lok. “Jiang? ... I’m glad you called ... We have much to discuss.” “Sir ... I have good news ...” “No ... Don’t talk just listen.”

His leader’s succinct retort cut him off mid-sentence vetoing anything Jiang wanted to elaborate on.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Sun Yee Lok had told him in no uncertain terms that he needed to clean up the mess at the nightclub as soon as possible. He was to personally see that there were no repercussions for the triad whatsoever. As far as his leader was concerned this was the work of the Black Panthers and he was to make sure that charges were laid against Samuel Li that would be watertight. They had encroached on the Rising Dragons’ turf and that was not acceptable. Li’s father had wanted control in Hong Kong for some time and now his son was hell bent on fulfilling his father’s dictates in a power struggle with the Rising Dragons. Jiang was to see that no stone was unturned in prosecuting the leader of the Black Panthers. “Do you understand Jiang?” “Yes sir.” “Good ... see that it is done properly or it will be on your head.” “I understand ... There is one other thing ...” “There is nothing else we need to discuss until this mess is cleaned up ... do I make myself clear?” “Very.” “Good.” With a decisive click Sun Yee Lok severed the connection and all Jiang heard was silence at the end of the phone.

Meanwhile back at Section One...

“How far are we on developments in Hong Kong Mr Claudel?” Operations asked when he entered the perch after being summoned to appear ASAP.

“Claire’s new profile is now active. She has just finished her meeting with Inspector Ng.” “Good ... What else?” “The mission parameters have been set up for Claire’s late dinner date with Jonathon Randall tonight.” “What time is she scheduled to be picked up?” “Nine o’clock sir.” ‘Hmm ... good that gives us enough time.” “Time for what?” “An offensive on Inspector Ng. We need to strike before he is able to retaliate and alert the Rising Dragons.” “When?” Fergus asked somewhat mystified. “Today ... Madeline and I have discussed a plausible scenario that we think will be extremely effective given the circumstances that have occurred. Details are on your computer” “I’ll get right on it.” “Good ... Have Jamie set it up and inform him of our plans.” “Will this be a Flash Mission with both Claire and Jamie?” “Yes.” “Is that all sir?” “For the time being ... Oh, and Fergus ... I’ll be in the Tower if you need me.” “Yes sir,” he replied. Fergus Claudel turned and exited the perch in a hurry to put in motion the directives Operations had given him. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Once his Techie had left the perch, Operations made his way towards Madeline’s office. Entering he watched her as she stood gazing at the computer on the wall.

“Congratulations, I see the uplink for the mission has been completed to Fergus’s computer,” he stated.

“Yes, I was watching on my monitor.” Madeline walked over to her bonsai collection and examined one particular specimen intently. Dougal Mackenzie moved over and stood beside her, his hands in his pockets.

“I think this Flash Mission will be successful.”

Not taking her eyes off the bonsai she trimmed the foliage. “That's good.” “The situation is routine and should remain that way.” Operations watched as Madeline avoided making eye contact with him. Concentrating on the task at hand she continued trimming the plants in her office. “Has Jamie been told?” “Yes.” “Good ... I suppose we may have a new guest shortly then?” Operations smiled. A smirk crossed his face in delight. “Yes ... we will ... Oh; by the way, I've reserved the Tower for 8 o'clock. Join me for dinner.” This time Madeline’s eyes met his. “Let's not go into this again Dougal. I don't like ultimatums.” “It's not an ultimatum... it's an invitation. I hope you'll join me to await our guest. ” Operations answered making his way to the door to leave. Madeline looked at him her answer clearly evident in her gaze; she then leisurely looked back at the bonsai as if no conversation had taken place at all.

At Inspector Jiang Ng’s office...

Jiang was convinced that Claire Beauchamp knew much, much more that she was letting on. His interview with Karen had been interesting for she had come to the same conclusions as he. She’d been unable to elicit any information from Claire but had her suspicions about her neighbour as well. Although it was not confirmed, it stood to reason that Claire Beauchamp was somehow connected to Tony Wong’s death in Aberdeen judging by the Commissioner’s praise. If this was true then the triad would seek revenge for her involvement in his death and the possible disappearance of Madame Cheung as well when the time was right.

Unfortunately, he had not been able to discuss Claire Beauchamp’s subterfuge with the Rising Dragons with his leader. Therefore, as far as her new undercover assignment was concerned, Jiang decided that he would keep this as a trump card in case something went wrong. Perhaps he could arrange her disappearance which would be the most expedient way of finding out what Intel Claire knew about the triad. That way he could once again focus the blame on the Black Panthers for a kidnapping attempt. They would be the scapegoat and the OCTB would then have more charges to lay against Samuel Li who was well known in Hong Kong for suspected kidnappings. A plan started to formulate in his mind that would not implicate either Jonathon or Karen. Jiang was most pleased but he needed to seize the moment. The element of surprise was crucial. If Jonathon Randall knew nothing and had an alibi then he could not be caught up in any disappearance ... same too with Karen. As for himself, he was going to come up smelling like roses. His position within the OCTB would not be jeopardised plus his place within the triad would be enhanced. Today had not been a waste of time, he thought. Much had been achieved.

Satisfied that his proposed plan would be successful; Jiang Ng looked at the clock in his office. Like many of his colleagues, he’d been at OCTB headquarters most of the last night and all day long. A 20-hour stint was more than enough. Although there was much to do, he needed some rest or he wouldn’t be able to function properly. He was exhausted, and the case would still be here tomorrow. He knew he would need his wits about him if he was to get Jonathon Randall off the hook as far as the trouble at The Triangle was concerned.

Packing up his things, he decided it was time to go home. But before he did, Jiang made one final call to his friend Wang Yu.

Meanwhile back in Systems at Section One...

Returning to his computer station Fergus began to put in motion the directives Operations had given him. To begin with he downloaded all the parameters of the Flash Mission then organised what he was going to patch through for Jamie and Claire. Once he had everything at his fingertips he got in touch with James Fraser. He suspected that Jamie would not be pleased that Operations had arranged for the two operatives to carry out a Flash Mission on Inspector Ng. Fergus was a little tentative about contacting him especially knowing that there was a major mission pending later that evening. Nevertheless, he had orders to carry out and that’s what he did. “Jamie ...?” Fergus paused wanting for a response from Section One’s Level 5 operative, but he didn’t wait long before Jamie answered. “Hey, what's going on?” “A Flash Mission.” “Which mission does this relate to?” Jamie inquired with curiosity. “A special short notice protocol from Operations and Madeline.” “When?” “Today ... Standby ... I’m patching the mission profile through now.” “Right.” Jamie read what was on his PDA then he immediately contacted Claire to alert her to the change in plans. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* “What’s going on Jamie? ... Is everything all right?” “Everything's fine but I need ye to return to OCTB headquarters,” he stated. “Why?” “We have a Flash Mission.” “I’ll be there.”

“When you get here, I’ll fill you in on the mission profile, but you’ll need to change cars. Everything you need is in there,” he announced giving her the registration number and telling her where to find the hire car.

“Right.” Claire immediately pulled over to the side of the road, turned her car around and headed back in the direction from whence she had come.

Outside OCTB Headquarters ...

She parked the hire car in the shadows across the road from the OCTB headquarters and sat inside the vehicle unobtrusively surveying the building. As she waited for the target to appear Claire watched as personnel entered and left the site as she put together the components for the non-lethal tranquilizer gun. She mounted the hypodermic needle filled with a dose of immobilizing drug solution, onto the dart syringe, then connected the syringe to the air chamber. Once done she injected air into the dart chamber then placed the stabiliser firmly on the rear of the dart. Now fully pressurised Claire watched and waited for further instructions from Jamie. It was not long before she heard his voice interrupt her quiet inside the car’s interior.

“Have ye assembled the unit Sassenach?”

“Done.”

“There are six micro-cartridges in the packet. Put two tranquilizer darts into the carriage.” “Done.”

With eyes alert and waiting for her next instructions, Claire cocked the gun in readiness. “Where’s the target?”

“He’ll be out in seconds.” ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Leaving his office Inspector Ng said goodbye to the staff on duty and took the elevator down to the ground floor. He was glad to be going home as it had been an exhausting day on many levels. When he returned in the morning, he could set in motion Sun Yee Lok’s directives to incriminate the Black Panthers in the atrocity and call another press conference to answer the press’ questions about the incident at The Triangle. Once he’d had a good night’s rest, he would be more lucid and ready to set his plans in motion. He made his way to the entrance and exiting the building, he wearily made his way down the steps. “Be ready Claire, he’s coming.” Jamie announced in her ear piece as she made a final check of the tranquilizer gun that would be used to incapacitate the target. “Is he alone?” “Aye.” Raising the gun up she placed her eye to the optic device that aided in checking that she had the target in her sights. Claire adjusted the viewer in order to lay the firearm to be as precise as possible to strike the target successfully without detection of the tranquilizer dart.

“I see him Jamie... he’s just making his way outside.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* “Inspector Ng! ... Inspector Ng!” Ian Murray called out when he saw the retreating back of his boss leave the building just in front of him. Quickening his gait, Ian followed behind him and soon caught up with the Inspector on the first landing.

“Inspector ... Can I drop you off somewhere?”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* “Can ye get a clear shot Sassenach?” Claire sat in the car with the target in sight, but she was hampered because he was obscured by his detective colleague. “Not yet ... He’s talking to Ian Murray.” “Wait till ye do.” ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* “Oh, no thank you Detective Murray, I can walk, it isn't far,” the Inspector replied cordially.

He really wanted to have some alone time away from everything and everyone at the OCTB headquarters. In fact, he knew that if he accepted a lift from Ian Murray, he would chew his ear off on the drive home and he already had enough on his mind without the banal conversation he knew would ensue from his detective. He much preferred to walk the distance to his home and clear his head from the mess that had landed on his desk with the firebombing.

“Well then, goodbye sir,” Ian said as he continued down the steps in a hurry.

As Jiang watched his detective descend the steps, he suddenly changed his mind. Perhaps it was better to have that banal conversation after all, and he called out to his officer.

“Hey! Detective Murray! ... Wait! ... You know what? Maybe I will take you up on that ride after all.”

Stopping when he heard his name, Ian turned back around and looked up at his superior officer standing on the steps above him. “Okay ... My car's right over there sir,” he replied pointing in the direction of the parking lot. “Great,” Jiang responded signalling to Ian that he would catch up with him.

The Inspector began to walk down the steps to where his detective was waiting for him on the pavement.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Jamie’s order was succinct. “Hit him in the shoulder.” Taking aim Claire looked through the gunsight of the rifle and fired the tranquilizer dart as if it was a TRG-21. She hit her mark just as the sound of what appeared to be a gunshot suddenly rang out when a car backfired as it drove past and moved off.

“Done,” Claire replied lowering the gun as she observed the reaction as the barbiturate dart struck the target.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* A look of disbelief crossed Inspector Ng’s face. All of a sudden, he stopped walking and rolled his head from left to right disorientated and lethargic as the sedative quickly took hold of his body. He immediately slumped to the ground like a ragdoll and fell down the rest of the steps for the tranquilizer drug had rendered him comatose.

Seeing what had happened to the Inspector, Ian Murray stared in disbelief and shock at what had transpired so quickly and unexpectedly to his superior. He was the first to rush over to him to see if he was okay but the Inspector’s prone body was distorted as he lay in a heap at the bottom of the steps. Jiang Ng lay motionless and unconscious.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* “All right, ye’re done. Clean up. Claire.”

“Already finished Jamie. I’ll see you later then.”

“I'll be leaving for Section for a few hours first though.”

“Oh ...?” she uttered surprised at his reply and wanted to know why.

“Orders from Operations.”

“Why now ... so soon prior to the mission with Jonathon Randall?”

“Interrogation of the target ... I’m sorry Sassenach, but I'll be back before 9:00pm. We’ll rendezvous as arranged.”

“Okay ... I understand.”

“If ye need to contact me ... for anything ... key in my personal code.”

“I’ll be fine Jamie ... Go now.”

However, it was James Fraser’s parting words that had her grinning from ear to ear.

“We make a good team Sassenach. I love you Claire.” ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* “Inspector? ... Inspector, are you all right?” Ian Murray asked as he bent down checking for any vital signs and to see if he’d been shot.

There was no major blood or gunshot wound to be seen except for the gash on his head so that was a relief. However, there was no reply from the Inspector who was out cold. Ian was extremely concerned that he was unable to get any reaction out of the man. The Inspector looked as if he had collapsed from some sort of medical emergency instead. He also looked like he’d hit his head on the concrete steps and had concussion. That was also not good for Ian couldn’t find a pulse when he had checked several places on the Inspector’s body looking for tell-tale signs that he was still alive.

Other associates who were leaving the building at the same time as Inspector Ng, and had seen what had happened, rushed down the steps to his assistance as well.

Turning to a colleague Ian Murray ordered, “Quick ... Go call for help!” “Yes sir!” an officer replied moving as quickly as he could. “Hurry! He may have had a heart attack!” Ian yelled after him. The officer hurried back into the building to seek assistance and once he had alerted those inside, the emergency services were called without delay. Police officers came running out of the building to see what had happened and the OCTB was immediately placed on high alert, since the sound of what appeared to be a gunshot sent trepidation through the personnel. This could very well be the start of retaliation by the triads for the arrest of the men and the triad raids earlier today. Meanwhile Ian Murray commenced CPR on Inspector Ng hoping that he could revive him. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Within minutes an ambulance pulled up at the scene and the paramedics rushed to the fallen Inspector with their equipment to assess the patient. Turning to Detective Ian Murray giving the Inspector CPR he asked, “What happened?”

Ian told them all that he had seen and what he’d observed about the fall. “I don’t really know. One minute I was talking to him and the next the Inspector was walking down the steps when he just keeled over and fell down.”

As his partner extracted what he needed for the patient from the ambulance and returned to help, the medic took over from Ian stating, “Good work detective but we’ll take over now.”

Relinquishing his place beside the body of his superior and casting his eyes worriedly towards the medic working on Inspector Ng now, Ian asked sombrely, “Is he dead?” “No ... You’ve done a great job ... but he will be if we don’t get him to a hospital right away.” “It’s bad … isn’t it?” He queried shocked at the medic’s reply realising that Inspector Ng was in dire straits.

“I believe he’s had a massive coronary. If he’s not treated soon, you can take him to the morgue.” “Oh!” Looking at the emergency chest monitor the paramedic stated in alarmed frustration, “Damn it. I think we've losing him.” ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Disappearing into the crowd that had gathered on the pavement outside the OCTB building, Claire quickly walked down the street to where she had left her parked car some blocks away from the happenings at headquarters. She easily merged into the throng of afternoon people bustling along the street making their way home to their respective apartments for the evening. She passed by children still playing on the pavement enjoying the final rays of the setting sun and walked past several hawkers setting up their stands of trinkets and wares for the evening trade. As she continued down the street Claire casually looked up and saw some women chatting on the balcony of a building then glanced over at three men at a cafe table drinking coffee before going home for the evening. She was still on a high from what Jamie had said and couldn’t wait to return to her apartment. Claire hoped that she wouldn’t run into Karen when she arrived home, for she was such a busybody and would be full of all sorts of questions. The last thing she wanted to do was a running commentary on her visit to see Inspector Ng. However, she suddenly remembered that when she’d seen her earlier Karen had been asked to come into the OCTB headquarters at five o’clock and was then going to meet Andy. Good! Karen would probably still be there now so there was no chance of running into her neighbour. Although the Flash Mission had been successful, she was fatigued and wanted to change out of her grubby clothing. Claire also wanted some time alone to get her head around tonight’s mission with Jonathon Randall. She fantasised about having a long leisurely bath to clear her head before meeting with Jamie to go over the mission parameters and synchronise the data on their PDA’s. As she soaked in the tub, she could also daydream about what she would like to do to one James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser next time she saw him. His declaration had certainly rocked her world earlier and she couldn’t help but visualise the two of them together. Jamie had promised that he would be back from Section One, and would meet at the entrance to Victoria Park before 9:00 p.m. away from the prying eyes of her neighbour, so she had some time to kill before then.

Glancing at her watch Claire noticed that she had a couple of hours before their rendezvous. Perhaps I will have that bath ... she thought ... that will do the trick nicely.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ to be continued next Wednesday

#JamieandClaire #Jamieandclairefanfic #jamieandclairecrossover #jamieandclaireau #covert operations #Section One

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blackrose-ffxiv · 6 years

Photo

Mandatory Social Excursions - Viper’s Nest 11/15

Lebeaux Desrosiers didn’t bother knocking but rather went straight for the handle. Unlocked essentially meant ‘welcome, come in’ after all. Or it just made it easier for lost souls to wander accidentally into the depths of the basement. Possibly never to be seen again. “Good afternoon Geofferaut.” He called out cheerfully as he descended down, checking the usual hiding spots for the other elezen.

Geofferaut Derosiers stood over a severed foot, several needles and instruments protruding from an open incision just above the ankle. "Hello Lebeaux Desrosiers."

Lebeaux found him standing over a strange project. It looked like some odd cross between modern art and mad science. “Ah, there you are. My, what an interesting piece you’re working on.” He noted as he settled himself onto a nearby perch. “Why don’t you wrap that up for the time being. You’ll need to change, we’re going out. You can tell me about this project while you dress.”

Geofferaut tapped a needle and watched the big toe curl and release. "Um." He blinked at the toe as if waiting for it to make him understand. "I am working."

Lebeaux smiled calmly all the while, watching as the other manipulated the severed foot into reacting. “Very good, look at that. Now get another and you can teach the pair to tapdance. It will keep.” In cold storage, probably. “On the other hand, mandatory social interactions have set timeframes. As well as dress codes. Best hurry.”

"I have no scheduled social activities today."

“Wrong, I’ve scheduled one for you.” Lebeaux explained cheerfully. He hopped down off of his perch and made light shooing motions with his hands.

"Oh. Um." Geofferaut's blinking intensified. In between blinks, his gaze darted between the various instruments, the foot, the guest intruder, and the exit. "Um."

Lebeaux stepped closer as the gesture continued, flicking fingers growing ever closer to Geofferaut. “Mandatory.” He repeated. “I will be bringing you as a guest to an establishment I frequent. It’s a vital component to continuing the charade of being siblings.”

Geofferaut leaned away, bare, scarred fingers grasping for one of the sharper tools on the table. "I have questions. What is the establishment. What are the parameters for dress."

Lebeaux paused in the shooing motion, but he didn’t move away. “I can answer your questions as you dress.” He explained calmly. “Dress code would be ‘I don’t want to be embarrassed to be seen with you’.” He suggested helpfully. “The coat you wore to the Tradehouse was rather dapper. That would suffice. Or something similar.”

"Okay."

Lebeaux nodded. “Very good. Go put it on. It’s a social club for gentlemen.” He explained, eyeing the foot still laying out on the table. “The earlier in the day we go the less likely it is that it will be crowded. I thought you would appreciate that.��

Lebeaux pushed the door open without bothering to knock, holding it open to ensure the other elezen would follow him in. “Good afternoon.” He called out cheerfully.

Geofferaut followed Lebeaux through the doors and immediately did his best to disappear into the plant.

Daijiro Satake hums. "Then, would you not be happier than you were having not explored this option?" he wonders. "It is one thing to accept that one is suffering. Another to live with suffering without knowing all that one has done to prevent it." He offers a light shrug. "Then, what is it that you wanted to talk about?" He cants his head slightly. "Ah. Mayhaps we ought to speak quietly of such things. There are curious personages upstairs, if I am not mistaken."

Perrin Solleux meanwhile had just managed to slink in behind the other two elezen. With one familiar white robed elezen, for now he remained quiet with his hands behind his back. Maybe the other duskwight considered him part of Lebeaux’s menagerie.

Michaux Vidal lowers his book at glances toward the door as it opens. When Lebeaux steps in, he smiles a little and sets the book aside. He rises. "Good afternoon, Lebeaux, and... friend?" Then he sees Perrin. "Friends?"

Lebeaux looked about the initial parlor, finding a familiar face there already. “Michaux, what a surprise to find you here.” He noted with a calm smile, he waved a hand towards the black-clad man behind him. “This is Geofferaut Derosiers.” He leaned hard on the same name for a moment. Then tilted his head. Michaux knew his real name, the ruse would be lost on him. “An associate of mine. I’ve decided to bring him to the club so he can enjoy a little company.”

Michaux lifts his brow and takes another look at the Elezen trying to hide behind the plant. "Desrosiers, hm? Kareem is preparing some tea. Should I go tell him to make some in the Ishgardian manner also?"

Rashk Geilt glances at Daijiro and narrows his eyes, his ears twitching. "Then perhaps we should go elsewhere to discuss what I wish to discuss," he says. "Though it can wait if you wish to perform your owner greeting rituals at any potential new visitors."

Lebeaux nodded in agreement to Michuax’s question. “Ishgardian tea would be divine.” He smiiiiled at Geofferaut. “You should go sit by Michaux. He is a friend of mine.” He suggested, indicating the couch before he looked back to Perrin. “I would expect nothing less. I suppose your own line of work would be more profitable than working for another anyways.” He strode across the room with a flick of his coat tails to settle himself onto the couch so he wouldn’t have to keep turning.

Geofferaut blinked. "Um. Okay." He sat ramrod straight and technically next to Michaux.

Michaux blinks once, slowly, at Lebeaux's unusual friend, and then a sparkle of amusement appears in his eyes. He nods at Lebeaux. "I'll be right back. Please make yourselves comfortable." He bows his head in greeting to Perrin too on his way out of the room.

Daijiro nods. "Very well. Let us go elsewhere then", he says. "Ah. But then, it would be rude to abandon new visitors. Would you not join me in offering companionship to such personages? Ah. If you are feeling well enough to do so, of course."

“Of course.” Lebeaux nodded when Michaux left the room, smiling smugly over at Geofferaut. “Oh, I haven’t introduced you. Perrin, this is Geofferaut Derosiers.” Lebeaux shifted over to plant himself obnoxiously in the center of the couch.

Rashk takes another drag off the pipe before tapping the fogweed out and abandoning the pipe for Kareem to clean later. "I feel perfectly fine." And even if he doesn't, well--he feels fine enough to pretend. He gets up and then waits for Daijiro, obviously intending to let the Hingan lead.

"Your associate, if I heard correctly." Perrin noted before giving said Derosiers a short nod of acknowledgement. Before simple planting himself onto the free chair.

Geofferaut updated the list accordingly.

Michaux returns after a few moments, still looking rather amused, and walks over to sit closely beside Geofferaut. Definitely not on purpose. To make him uncomfortable. No way. "Tea will be ready soon. Are you comfortable?" He smiles at Geofferaut. "You look rather as if you've just sat upon a stray needle. Can I make you more comfortable?"

Daijiro nods. "Of course", he remarks. He then tries to rest a reassuring hand on the Miqo'tes shoulder, though it is a fleeting gesture before he does indeed move up and ahead.

Rashk allows the touch and then trails along, tail flicking in his wake.

Geofferaut leaned away from Michaux. "It doesn't matter. No."

Lebeaux flashed his saintly smile at Perrin, patting the spot he had just vacated. While he had fully intended on sandwiching himself between the two Duskwights, Michaux had decided to go ‘make nice’ with Geofferaut. He wasn’t about to spoil that. The corner of his mouth quirked into a small smirk.

Daijiro can be seen moving past the bar, then pushing the curtain gently to the side, waiting for Rashk to pass as well before he enters and offers a deep bow in the eastern style. "Welcome to the Guzen Mizu Shobai Host Club~."

Perrin just pretended to sigh, as if standing up was a chore. Before Satake walked in of course. "Ah, lovely to see you again, why with Rashk as well in tow!" the duskwight even giving the keeper a small lazy wave, before, now actually placing himself next to Lebeaux.

Michaux is beginning to enjoy this way too much. "Doesn't matter? Good to know." He inches a little closer. "What brings you here today? Other than Lebeaux, I mean." Then he glances at Perrin. "Are you not part of their entourage? I'm sorry for not greeting you properly. I hope you like your tea either strong enough to fight an army, or drowned in milk and sugar."

Geofferaut spoke stiffly from a stiff angle. "It is a mandatory social occasion. Hello Daijiro Satake it is good to see you. Hello Rashk Geilt it is good to see you."

Rashk bows beside Daijiro and then lets his gaze travel the room, starting with Perrin, a smile already on his face. It doesn't falter at Lebeaux, but Geofferaut draws a pause from the Keeper ... before he smiles more brightly. "Ah, Geofferaut, what a pleasure to see you here! Lebeaux, you hide your delightful brother away entirely too much," he says in playful admonishment. "You should have brought him over sooner."

"No I'm afraid not. But I will say not no to a tea strong enough to fight an army with." Perrin replied.

Lebeaux smoothed his expression back to serene as Daijiro and Rashk emerged from the back room of the club. “Good afternoon. I was beginning to worry that there were no Hosts on duty. A shame, so many customers left to fend for themselves.” He sighed theatrically, then gestured to the man on the other couch. “I’ve brought another Derosiers to enjoy your services.” He tilted his head at Rashk’s comments, placing a hand on his chest as though he felt terrible about it taking so long. “It is ever so hard to tear him away from his work, at times.”

"Mandatory. Social. Occasion." Michaux bites his lower lip hard to keep from making his amusement too obvious. "What an excellent idea to bring you here, then."

Geofferaut's fingers twitch arrhythmically in his lap.

Daijiro smiles. "Of course, we have our hosts here to entertain whenever necessary", Daijiro tells Lebeaux. "And such a pleasure to see your brother again. He is looking quite well~". He inclines his head to Geofferaut with a little grin, then his gaze settles on Perrin. "And how pleasing to see you as well, Ser. What desires may we indulge? Tea and rice cakes, perhaps?"

"Kareem is making tea," Michaux tells Daijiro. "I did not think of food." He never does. "My apologies."

Geofferaut breathed shallowly and quickly.

Daijiro smiles. "It is fortunate then that we have rice cakes at the ready~", Daijiro tells Michaux, before his gaze returns to the long-necked guests.

Lebeaux smiled lightly at Daijiro’s offer, tilting his head without looking directly at the Hingan. Letting his gaze drift over the other elezen gathered on the couches instead. “I would certainly enjoy sweets with my tea.”

Rashk observes Geoff, maintaining a perfect, mildly curious smile. Though perhaps the corner of his mouth twitches a little at noting the man's discomfort. Somebody looks as if they might soon bolt for the door. "And how has your work been, Geofferaut? Your brother tells us so very little of you, we're left swooning for any morsel." He's absolutely ignoring Lebeaux completely now in favour of Geofferaut.

Some of Michaux's amusement fades when he hears Geofferaut's labored breathing. He looks back at the man with slightly furrowed brows. "Deeper breaths," he says for his ears alone. "You'll pass out like that."

Perrin waved his hand, the one on the other side of Lebeaux, lazily at the mention of indulging desires. "Tea will suffice, though your other employee over there has already called for it." Though the duskwight raised a brow at the other Derosiers breathing being anything but normal. Perrin leaning close to Lebeaux to speak to him instead, " Does your....brother-always seem to roll of fight or flight instincts?" Seems that a certain elezen here didn't bought the brother stick.

Geofferaut takes a single deep breath. "Fine how are you."

Daijiro smiles. "Then let me go and gather them", he remarks. He smiles. "Rashk, why don't you make yourself comfortable with one of our guests?" He then disappears towards the kitchen.

Rashk slooooowly shuffles over to the sofa Geoff is absolutely suffering on, smiiiling at him. "Mm, yes, you are fine."

Lebeaux leaned in closer as Perrin leaned to speak to him, resting his shoulder against the taller man as he peered past him at Geofferaut borderline hyperventilating. The corners of his smile quirked wickedly. “Generally, yes. In social situations, always. I’m helping him to adjust and adapt.” Wasn’t he charitable.

Michaux glances at Rashk with a lifted brow. Then he returns his attention to Geofferaut. He seems less amused and more watchful now. "This seems an odd way of helping him adapt. If you were afraid of vipers, I wouldn't toss you into a pit full of them," he says mildly to Lebeaux.

Rashk is either the biggest fan of awkward angles, or trying to get a rise out of a certain narcissist by ignoring them and staring at Geoff with doe eyes.

“Come now, Michaux. That’s nothing alike. I’m surrounding him with the kindest, most welcoming vipers I can find.” Lebeaux offered cheerfully.

@cellardoor-ffxiv @rashkgeilt @secrets-and-aetherlight @theforestsquiet @grey-lotus-ffxiv

#lebeaux #geofferaut #daijiro #rashk #perrin #michaux #guzen mizu host club #Rosiers boys up to no good #namely lebeaux #always making life hard for poor geofferaut

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foxofthedesert · 6 years

Text

RQ OUaT FF | OGA: Ch. 12

Chapter 12 – A Deal with the Dark One

A sharp knock on the door startles Regina out of a grief-induced stupor. The heavy haze blanketing her consciousness is a remnant of the self-flagellating she did over her role in Red's current predicament. She cannot recall much that has happened since Victor departed beyond the initial waves of illogical guilt that battered her into submission, reducing her to little more than a useless, shriveled lump of anguish.

Sometime during her restless inactivity she had managed to wrap around Red, almost as if she were subconsciously trying to climb inside her wife's body to wrench her soul back to its rightful place. It hadn't worked, obviously. Red remains stubbornly imprisoned within the curse, oblivious to the world which continues to rotate heedless of her absence. Meanwhile Regina's world felt as if it had screeched to a grinding halt. At least the physical contact helped to soothe her oversensitive nerves. She had been on the verge of disassociating before her stampeding emotions mercifully ran out of steam.

Tired of being the victim of a sorrow she cannot seem to escape and feeling somewhat more composed, she gingerly disentangles herself from her wife. Sitting up requires just as much caution, as she does not want to to jostle Red needlessly. That her efforts go unappreciated is beside the point when Red is so helpless. Treating her body with the utmost respect while she is incapacitated is the least Regina can do, really.

With a prolonged groan, Regina rubs at her eyes and takes a tremulous breath just as another louder knock sounds. It echoes through the room as if a mallet is being utilized rather than a fist, and is immediately followed by a familiar male voice calling out, "Your Majesty, may I come in?"

Ignoring the visitor for a moment, Regina swings her legs to the side and then shuffles out of bed. Cognizant of her compromised equilibrium, she rises slowly to her feet. The journey to being vertical is made more unpleasant by the relentless pounding of her head. No doubt the condition is a symptom of the misery that is her constant companion being compounded by the alarming drain to her energy reserves from the confrontation with Zelena. The good news is that she is accustomed to working through blinding migraines as she has done so many times in the past; for Red, she will endure any discomfort for however long she must. There is no pain on earth that could keep her from doing whatever is necessary to save her wife.

"Enter," she calls out after a moment, her voice scratchy, but loud enough that the person who had asked her permission hears and obeys. When Victor Frankenstein steps through the opened doorway, Regina arches a sable eyebrow. "What is it, Victor?"

"You said to return in two hours," he tells her as he steps into the room.

Regina stares at him, hardly able to comprehend the passage of so much time without her being aware. It had honestly felt like minutes.

"Has it been two hours already?" she asks after a moment.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Victor replies, eyeing her with concern that Regina dismissively waves off.

"Don't look at me that way. I'm fine," she says, then takes a deep breath and smooths a hand down her twice rumpled clothing. She'd been so distraught, she hadn't thought to change into something more suitable. Deciding to amend that oversight, she snaps her fingers and arrays herself in a dress befitting her mood, solid black, trimmed in jagged and vicious embroidery the color of rich red wine. She is no longer a wife in mourning but a Queen on a mission, a killer set loose upon the world after enduring seven years of solitary captivity. She feels dangerous all of the sudden, and wishes that Zelena would show her verdant face so that she can peel it off and have a Hallows Eve mask made of it.

Seeming to sense the change in her attitude, Victor stiffens. "Of course you are, my Queen. I, uh...I consulted some of my more esoteric tomes, but uh..." he shuffles a bit, looking nervously at her, "I am sorry to report that I didn't find anything of pertinence."

Regina arches a brow and then returns to Red's bedside where she perches in the same position she had been in earlier. Although she is feeling stronger and more confident, she still needs the proximity, needs to be close enough to see and hear that Red is still breathing and feel the warmth of her skin indicating blood is still flowing through her veins and thus her heart is still beating.

After picking up Red's hand between her own and depositing both in her lap, she looks back up at Victor. "And what did the herbalist have to say?"

That snaps Victor out of his tentative posture. His eyes gain a little bit of spark that gives Regina a renewed hope. "She was actually quite a useful resource. She hadn't heard of any such tree, nor had she been to Oz. However, she confirmed my theory about the likelihood of the antidote being found in the vicinity where those trees grow or from other parts of the trees themselves. I think we may have a viable course of action to pursue."

Regina actually smiles, and it feels like the first time she's managed one in weeks. "I believe you are correct, my dear Doctor." But then her smile evaporates as she realizes there is no sense putting off the inevitable. "As encouraging as your news is, I want to consult with Rumple before I make preparations for an excursion to Oz. Time is too precious for any to be wasted. If he can narrow down the search parameters, it is worth the risk to parlay with him. Would you agree?"

Although Victor seems surprised that she has asked his opinion, to his credit he does not voice it. Instead, he nods reluctantly. "Unfortunately, I do."

Reluctant is not a strong enough word to describe how little Regina wants to do what she has to next. She hasn't seen her old teacher in so long, she has almost forgotten the dread that is always associated with calling upon his name. None prey more gleefully and mercilessly upon those in dire straits as the Dark One. Were there any other alternatives, she would take them. But there aren't. She is desperate and in need of information she firmly believes only one person can provide.

Drawing Red's hand up, Regina presses her lips against the back and deposits a reverent kiss there. "I'm doing this for you, my darling," she whispers against the feverish skin. She is somewhat relieved to feel Red's pulse thrumming through her pronounced veins. "I know you find Rumple to be distasteful after all he's done. I wish there were another way..."

Red's poor opinion of the Dark One was solidified when Regina confided to her about life as a young Queen. Isolated from her home and family, reeling from a loss that fundamentally changed who she was as a person, she was forced to adapt to a new situation that felt more like a living hell than the paradise of wealth and influence her mother viewed it as. Upon learning how Rumplestiltskin preyed on that despair, had wielded it like a yardstick to guide her one step at a time towards the inviting darkness just over the horizon, Red swore that if she ever encountered the man in person she would rend him limb from limb. And she almost made good on that promise.

Rumple has visited the Dark Palace exactly once since Red became her lover. One afternoon around the Autumnal Equinox, he showed up unannounced with his typical dramatic flair. He had just learned about her relationship with Red and was hoping to gain an advantage in their ongoing game of tactical manipulations. Instead, he was caught unawares by an enormous werewolf at the height of her strength. The instant he fully materialized, Red pounced. He could not even twitch a muscle or recover his wits enough to toss her away with his magic before razor sharp teeth clamped around his throat, ready and willing to separate his head from his torso. Against her better judgment, Regina stepped in before blood was shed, knowing that Red was no match for Rumple under less favorable circumstances, and that Rumple had learned his lesson. Foremost, loathsome as he was, she was reluctant to erase a resource of such invaluable experience, skill, and knowledge. Red thought that was a ridiculous reason to let a potential threat to them walk away. In retrospect, Regina's restraint proved all too sagacious – here she was, years later, needing his help.

What if I had let Red kill him that day? With whom would I have to deal in his place? The thought turns her insides cold. There are individuals whose objectives are far less...gray...than those of the Dark One, individuals who do not just bend or skirt the rules and conventions of civilized society but utterly eschew them in favor of unfettered chaos and pure evil. While she cannot argue against Rumple being a devious, self-serving, manipulative bastard, he is at least a devious, self-serving, manipulative bastard who honors his bargains – and, most importantly, with whom she has a lengthy history. Better to deal with the devil you know...

In any case, after almost having his head separated from his neck by an overprotective werewolf, the Dark One avoided confronting Regina whenever Red was in the vicinity. He braved doing so when she was alone only a handful occasions in the meantime, and never since the last visit three and half years ago while Red was absent visiting her grandmother in the White Kingdom. Still, Regina occasionally gets the distinct feeling he is watching them carefully, methodically plotting his revenge and waiting for the perfect moment to strike. His unnatural interest in her has yet to wane, and though she has yet to figure out why that is she has no interest in broaching the topic at present. There are far more critical matters at hand.

"I swear," she continues, now rubbing her cheek against Red's limp palm, "if there were any other options available, I would pursue them rather than risk inviting him here. But there are none, so I have no choice. Please forgive me." After another gentle kiss, this time to the pulse point of her wife's wrist, Regina carefully replaces Red's hand back at her side and then stands.

Without bothering to warn Victor, she strides into the center of the room, hands on her hips, and sternly beckons, "Rumplestiltskin! I, a desperate soul, summon thee. Heed my call at once if you are interested in a transaction."

A puff of purple smoke immediately fills the center of the room right in front of Regina, and she watches with sharp eyes as her former mentor materializes in front of her.

"Why, I thought you'd never call on me again, dearie," he says, voice trilling merrily. "You must be very desperate indeed. If I didn't know better..."

"Save the canned speech, Rumple," Regina interrupts curtly. "I asked you here to make a deal. But before we go any further, I would know whether or not you can deliver what I require from you."

His entire being perks up at the opportunity to strike up a deal. He has been looking for a way to finagle her into one for a very long time, but before this she'd had no reason to haggle with him. All she had wanted was Snow White dead, and that was something she felt more than capable of accomplishing on her own. All the same, he was right before when he said she is desperate. Effectively, she has been backed into a corner with no escape route save the most excruciating one. His awareness of that makes him all the more dangerous. There is no one who exploits vulnerability with as much flamboyant finesse as Rumplestiltskin.

"A deal you say?" His unnatural, disconcerting eyes glitter in the orange light cast from lit candles nestled in brass scones lining the walls. "I'm already intrigued. What is it, in particular, that you are after?"

Regina hefts her skirts to her ankles and steps close to the imp an entire continent has feared for far longer than she has been alive. Rumplestiltskin's reign of terror has lasted centuries, and though she would have preferred it to have ended long ago, she finds herself grateful it has not. The countless others currently suffering from an ill-advised deal stricken with him are inconsequential when she presently requires his expertise.

Once close enough that their noses nearly touch, she glares down her nose haughtily, relishing in the fact her impractically high heels lend her a slight height advantage. As per usual, the display of dominance does not perturb him in the slightest. Both know who has all the leverage here.

Regina, as usual, is simply too proud to back down. "Knowledge is what I seek," she answers, hands at her hips wearing her best imperious expression. She gestures toward him with a mocking smirk. "Although I am unsure the subject is one upon which you are well versed. It would be a pity if my summons were to prove futile."

Rumple tuts a sound of disappointment. "Preposterous. As you well know, I am aware of almost everything that goes on in this world and have access to much of its history. I doubt there is any related topic with which I am unacquainted."

"Ah," Regina interjects, waving a taunting finger, "but my inquiry does not relate to this world. I am after information about another one altogether. A place called Oz."

The mention of that name causes Rumplestiltskin falter, and his shock is so evident that he cannot deflect fast enough for it to escape her notice. Interesting, she thinks, filing that unexpected reaction away. Something about Oz in particular disturbs him and she would love to know what that is.

Dark glittering eyebrows draw together, and he averts his eyes momentarily before responding. "Oz you say?" His taps his chin as if in thought. A distraction meant to feign disinterest. It doesn't work. Frequent exposure to his mannerisms and tics means Regina can see right through him, and he knows it. He cuts piercing eyes back at her. "Whyever would you want to know about that ludicrous place? Planning a vacation in the near future?"

Rather than give him a straight answer, Regina snarls and draws up to her full height. "That's my business, not yours. Just answer the damn question."

Her response seems to please Rumplestiltskin, which alerts her to having revealed a sensitive spot. Picking at those, she knows, is a specialty of his. After all, he had prodded at the weeping wound of Daniel's death until spreading out into a yawning chasm that resisted all attempts to close it. She hates him so much in that moment that it is a minor miracle that she keeps her temper in check. And it is for Red's sake alone that she bites her tongue. She cannot afford to give him an inch to play with.

Grinning smugly at her obvious anger, the Dark One maneuvers around her to stand at the foot of the bed upon which Red rests. Victor stiffens at his approach but does not move, instead choosing to stand his ground in the space between the bed and Rumple. Apparently his first instinct is not to protect himself but the only person who has ever made a concerted effort to befriend him. His action, though futile, earns him a sizable portion of Regina's respect. If Victor is willing to place himself in so precarious a position for Red's sake, she is also willing to try and move past her old hurts involving him. That is, if they all get out of this mess alive.

"So nice to see you have landed on your feet, Victor," Rumple greets. "I wasn't sure you'd ever crawl out of the bottle after that wee mishap with your monstrosity of a brother."

"I had help," Victor says gruffly, keeping himself wedged between Rumple and Red. The way he cuts his eyes down at Red for a split second does not go unnoticed.

"So the mutt dragged you from the depths by the scruff of your collar, eh?" Rumple says, wearing a mocking grin that turns sinister when it shifts over to Regina. "Seems she has a penchant for rescuing those on the verge of drowning." He chuckles with satisfaction when Regina's entire frame coils up as if a rattler about to strike. "Say," he then gestures toward the bed, still inordinately pleased with himself, "this summons wouldn't have anything to do with your Queenling's precarious predicament, now would it?"

For a moment, Regina fears he has already figured out what happened, and for a variety of very sound reasons. Not the least of which is how he might be planning to utilize the situation to his benefit. There is no end to what he could get away with by using Red's condition to force her into a far worse negotiating position than she was envisioning had she not been so unforgivably stupid. It was an amateurish mistake to have summoned him to her in the very same room as her cursed wife.

Perceptive as usual, Rumple latches on to her insecurity with frightening speed. "I couldn't help but notice the werewolf's condition upon arrival. I am the master apothecary, Regina, as you well know. I can detect a well-brewed sleeping curse a mile away, even one so cleverly modified as this one appears to be."

Regina shoots a warning glare at the beast who took a broken girl in a gilded cage and transformed her into a remorseless killing machine. How foolish she was back then to ever trust he wanted to help her! And now here she is again, inviting him back into her life, ready and willing to surrender her very soul if that is what it takes to get the information she needs. Red is dying and Rumple is holding all the cards, which means that for all intents and purposes she is at his mercy. Which he knows, and is enjoying lording that over her far too much if that smarmy smile and nefarious glint in his eyes is any indication.

That Rumple hates Red only complicates an already near untenable situation. Not only does she not fear him, but she has been systematically severing the ties between the Dark One and his former pupil. That his influence on Regina has all but vanished earned Red a place high up on his list of enemies. Plus, and for whatever reason, Rumple seems to genuinely fear the wolf, which would work to Regina's advantage were circumstances more ideal and Red was capable of defending herself. Sadly neither is the case, as the situation is about as grave as it can be and the wolf is trapped in a living purgatory just as surely as her human half. Regina would not put it past Rumplestiltskin to exploit this opportunity to neutralize Red for good if it meant getting his hooks in her once again.

"I won't bother lying about the situation. It is as you say," she tells him, narrowed eyes issuing a threat which she then audibly reinforces. "But if you're thinking about using her condition to your advantage, think again. I am warning you right now: if you try to harm her or use this to gain any sort of influence over her whatsoever, I will kill you."

Regina deliberately leaves herself out of the equation. Since discovering Red in her present state, she has always been cognizant on some level that she may have to trade her life to secure Red's. She had told her father as much not much more than three hours ago. Nothing has changed since then. What she is not willing to barter with is Red's life or freedom. Everything else is ultimately fair game. Rumple does not neat to hear her say that though, as he probably has already figured that out, and even if has hasn't she most definitely is not going to clue him in.

"Oh, don't be so dramatic. I have no desire to muzzle that overly excitable furball of yours." Rumple's expression was meant to convince her that assessment of his intentions is absurd. It isn't.

The spindly wheels turning behind his eyes did not go unnoticed. No doubt he was mentally attempting to manufacture an outcome that would get rid of the thorn in his side that was once called the menace of Perrault – Perrault being Red's hometown – and who is now affectionately referred to by the locals as the Big Bad Wolf. Time, Regina realizes, is running out for this deal to not cost her everything, meaning she has to act quickly lest he formulate a plan that might hinder the goal of summoning him.

But then he takes her completely by surprise and promptly switches directions. "I must say, I detect a note of familiarity in this magic. Tell me, who is the responsible party?"

Drawing a ragged breath, Regina lets it out slowly. As much as she doesn't want to talk about this, she has to. The chance of learning something of value is too important to pass up. And besides, it's better than having to issue further threats to curtail his unacceptable interest in Red, which no doubt would only have stoked the coals of his own capricious and volcanic temper.

"My half-sister, if she's to be believed," she answers. "According to what I was able to glean, my mother gave her up shortly after she was born."

Again, Rumple is blindsided, and this time, Regina has no choice but to press him when he is off balance. Judging by his subtle flinch, he knows or at least knows of Zelena.

"You've met her, haven't you?" she asks, stepping closer.

"Unfortunately, I have had the displeasure of making her acquaintance."

The disquiet obvious in his reply further frays Regina's already thin nerves. If the Dark One is apprehensive about her sister, was all that bluster about how powerful she was not really bluster at all? If so, what impact might that have upon the mission to save Red? Should they have to square off again, would she have a chance, even were she able to access whatever reservoir of magic enabled her to win their previous scrum? Regina doesn't know, which is bothersome to say the least. One thing is certain, though, Rumple's apprehension regarding Zelena is doing her confidence no favors.

"How is it possible that you know Zelena? Did my mother tell you about her?"

Rumple shakes his head almost imperceptibly. "She did not." Turning away from the bed, he steps back around Regina and into the center of the room. Crossing one arm across his chest, he tucks the elbow of her other arm around it and then grasps his chin with his hand. As he contemplates how to respond, he gives it a few slow strokes. Once decided he says, "Before I began your training in earnest, your...sister traveled to our realm using an enchanted pair of slippers. For a time I pinned my hopes upon her becoming my protegee and had hoped to mold her into a sorceress capable of greatness beyond imagination."

This information startles Regina. She'd always thought she was his first choice. "Why didn't you?"

"Because she is an impetuous creature wholly ruled by her emotions." He frowns deeply, creasing his face in a way that makes him appear even more inhuman. "Zelena is utterly incapable of compartmentalizing. She was not raised by Cora as you were to master her turbulent feelings. They were a constant distraction from her studies. That, and...well, other reasons I'd prefer not to think about." He trails off, expression further souring, the smacks his lips as if something truly awful was lodged in his mouth. He then shivers, brushes a hand down his leathers, re-straightens his shoulders and the odd moment passes. Now recovered, he adds, "I terminated her apprenticeship when I realized she would never take to formal education. She was a mite displeased with that decision, but what could she do? I am the Dark One, after all." A manic giggle is punctuated by a twirling finger. "A click of her slippers later and she was gone, back to Oz to sulk, no doubt. Never heard from her since."

The truthfulness of Rumple's appraisal of Zelena is beyond doubt. In their brief duel, Regina had clashed with a woman who was convinced that she was superior in every way and yet completely lost control when her plan began to unravel. There was only one conclusion for Regina to make: her sister was unable to adapt to unexpected variables being introduced in the heat of conflict. Regina has seen that same phenomenon so many times on the battlefield, when a commander or soldier's failure to acclimate to the shifting dynamics of combat enables a nearly defeated foe to snatch victory from the greedily slobbering jaws of defeat. Emotional people such as Zelena depend on meticulously constructed stratagems to ensure their victories, and when those plans are executed without a hitch, they are virtually unstoppable by conventional means. But when order gives way to chaos in the heat of battle as it is wont to do, such individuals lack the creative coping mechanisms to churn out split second decisions that stave off disaster. Catastrophic failure is almost always the result.

This glaring character defect gives Regina a distinct advantage if she is mindful of it during her next encounter with Zelena. Improvisation is something she excels in, and she is going to have to exploit that ability if she wishes to defeat a sorceress who not only is unarguably powerful but has proven herself capable of scheming up intricate plots with multiple angles all moving at the same time. Regina is more of the type who subscribes to the philosophy best described by some of Red's folk, who would say, zuerst nachdenken, which means 'act first, think later.' Or as Regina's paternal kin might put it, tomar el toro por sus cuernos – that is, take the bull by his horns. In this case, that tendency to leap then look works to Regina's favor. The element of surprise is likely to be key in any future encounters between her and her loony half-sister. Their respective approaches dictates that she cannot afford to meet Zelena on the field of her sister's choosing. To do so would be courting almost certain disaster.

There is one perplexing question pricking at the back of Regina's mind, though. Even when fueled by True Love, Zelena was able to equal her in terms of raw output. Which leaves Regina to wonder: if they are indeed sisters, why does Zelena seem to possesses such vastly superior natural energy output and reserves?

Curious from a purely professional standpoint, she raises a sable brow at her old mentor. "If Zelena and I both inherited our magical talent from our mother, why was she able to nearly best me when I was resisting her with the most powerful magical force known to man?"

Rumple gives a disapproving tut. "Who said you both inherited your magic from the same exact source?"

"I just assumed..."

"Didn't I teach you never to assume?" Rumple interrupts, tone as snidely chastising as when she was a novice. "Your father could not be taught to summon a grain of sand. But Zelena's? Now, there's a chap who had potential. So horribly tragic he squandered it. He could have been a great sorcerer if he had an erudite benefactor such as myself. Or hadn't been mastered by the easily distracted head between his legs. I suppose in that way, he is rather like his bastard of a daughter." When Regina makes a noise of utter disgust at the tacky comment, Rumple giggles gleefully. "Oh, don't act like a prude, it doesn't suit you," he then trills, merry at her discomfort. "Also...a bit hypocritical from what I've gathered. Rumor is you have that wolf of yours howling almost every other ni—"

Having heard quite enough, and blushing furiously with Victor as an audience, Regina stops the discussion from getting any further afield into matters neither of the men in her presence have any business being privy to.

"Alright! I get it! Just..." she sighs and pinches her nose before continuing, "just get to the point."

"Spoilsport," says Rumple, entirely too pleased with himself. "The point is...Zelena was born to parents who were both naturally gifted with magic. There is also a wild ingredient to her I've not quite been able to figure out. Perhaps due to the vortex that snatched her out of this world and delivered her to Oz? Hmmm..." He wiggles a bit restlessly, clearly perturbed by this mystery he apparently cannot solve; one of few that Regina is aware of, which makes her sister all the most interesting – and frightening. And then as quickly as he zoned out he is back in the present. "Anyway, the result of these...elements…means that she is far more inherently powerful than you ever dreamed of being. Why, she was using magic while she was still in diapers whereas it took you a week to master a basic conjuration as an adult! You are your father's daughter. Aren't you, dearie?"

Regina bristles at the blasé delivery of that particularly sharp barb, and again when he smirks triumphantly at her outrage. Pride, her worst character flaw, swiftly provokes her to anger when she is being compared unfavorably to anyone – particularly other practitioners of magic. Too much was sacrificed in obtaining mastery of the dark art to be seen as the lesser of anyone other than her centuries old instructor.

"Posture all you want," Rumple continues without allowing her to retort, "but I assure you that your only advantage in this quarrel will be your ability to out-think her. And that is precisely why she struck at that which is closest to your heart."

Which is nothing Regina had not already concluded. "You say am I not her equal," she counters, still seething about being ranked lower on the magical totem pole than her batshit-insane sister. "And yet I defeated her in a fair fight. Had she not fled, I would have killed her this afternoon."

He shrugs as if that minor victory meant less than nothing. "Be that as it may, escape she did. I assure you, she most certainly will return. And make no mistake, when she does she will be much better prepared." He glances over at Red and then back at her, his eyes full of scathing accusation. "Your mother tried to warn you, Regina, as did I. Love is weakness. Zelena is using your love for that girl to destabilize you. You may have won the battle but the war is far from over."

He is wrong, she thinks, remembering what her love for Red had enabled her to do. A fight she surely would have lost to her much more powerful sister, if Rumple is to be believed, instead became a conspicuous statement. Not only that she is willing to do whatever she must to restore Red to life, even if that means she must expend herself in the effort, but that she is motivated by something Zelena cannot comprehend, something cosmic and primordial that can inspire superhuman feats that otherwise would be impossible. To diminish that, to diminish love, as weakness is nothing short of folly.

Crossing over to Red's beside, she takes her wife's hand and grips it tightly. The alarming heat from fevered skin seeps into her cold fingers, bringing her warmth and reminding her that while Red may be terribly ill, at least she is still alive.

"What you call weakness is in fact the very opposite," she then states with a boldness only experience can produce. "As it turns out, you and mother were both wrong. Horribly wrong. My love for that girl is what gave me the necessary energy to overcome Zelena. Because love is strength. It is wealth beyond measure. It is a weapon that no sword can deflect and which no shield of steel or magic can withstand. It is power of such infinite and majestic grandeur that the gods themselves, should they indeed exist, would kneel before in awesome reverence. For you see, Rumple, True Love doesn't just break curses. It creates miracles."

"So you are wholly given over to delusion then," he says, unconvinced, and judgmental. "True Love is powerful, yes, but inherently unpredictable. You cannot rely on it to win your every battle. Training, experience, and natural propensity matter much more in the unpredictable environments of open conflict. If I were you, I would heed this freely given advice. For when Zelena returns, she will not hold back. There will be no hesitation, no petty theatrics. Playtime is over, dearie, and when she is prepared to engage you again it will take more than what you and your Twue Wuv can muster to stop her."

When Regina starts to object, he raises a hand, eyes imploring her to listen to reason. "She hates you more than anything else, and yet she displayed no intentions of killing you earlier. That should tell you something. She wants you to suffer."

"I know," Regina replies, gritting her teeth together. "She said as much."

"Then do you not see the danger you face? She has likely been plotting this scenario for years."

Regina frowns dismissively, causing Rumple to scoff at her unwillingness to heed his warnings. She knows he is aggravated by what he would describe as willful ignorance.

"As I had been plotting Snow's demise," she retorts. "But the fruits of all my scheming went to naught the moment I met Red. Let Zelena come, let her irrational envy and malice be what compels her to try and destroy me. If Red has taught me anything, it is that love can overcome hate."

"You keep mentioning the love you share with the werewolf, that it is True Love. But tell me: if that is indeed accurate, why does she remain asleep? Has hatred not won a great victory already?"

"No, it hasn't! True Love's kiss did work, but Zelena somehow already knew what Red and I shared, even before I did. And while you are correct that she remains asleep, she is also alive, and that is the reason I asked you here. Victor and I have a plan to counter Zelena's curse."

"Oh? Color me intrigued. Pray tell!"

That Rumple seems particularly interested now that she has mentioned that True Love's kiss has not broken this particular curse is an extraneous source of worry for Regina. She knows why. Were he to gain such a recipe, he would surely utilize it for some nefarious purpose. And though she wants him to remain ignorant of Zelena's clever modification to the sleeping curse, she feels there is no alternative but to enlighten him. She only hopes her decision does not come back to bite her in the ass.

"During our discourse," she tells him, "Zelena taunted me that I could not break the curse with True Love's kiss. She added a rare ingredient to her curse, one found only in Oz high in the mountains surrounding the Emerald City. There, a tree grows which sprouts leaves immune to all forms of magic. She ground it up and mixed it into the potion she used as the base for the curse, thus infusing it with a protection against being broken by any counterspells, even the most potent of all. I must know: have you heard of this tree? And if you have, is there an antidote? If I do not find one, Red will die, for Zelena also modified her curse to draw its energy from its host body. It is killing her already, albeit slowly..."

"Well, this is certainly quite the quandary you've found yourself in," Rumple says, echoing her own thoughts. "Zelena's ingenuity is truly impressive."

"To hell with her ingenuity! I didn't ask you here for commentary on my sister's prodigious fluency with magic. I want you to answer my questions!" She heaves a frustrated sigh when Rumple raises a glittering eyebrow, and changes tract. Her temper never did get her anywhere with him. But there is one weakness that she knows Rumple has aside from his precious maid. "As I stated earlier, I am prepared to make a deal in exchange."

"Because of how desperate you are – and you are so deliciously desperate – I am sorely tempted to extract a high price from you for this," he replies, clearly interested in the carrot she dangled so temptingly before him. But then he goes and surprises by refusing the inroad to her life she just offered. "However," he says, hands steepling beneath his chin, "I will grant you this one allowance. Not just because you were once my most promising pupil, but because I share in your enmity for your deranged sibling. For once, we have aligned interests. So, to answer your questions, yes, I know of this tree, and yes, there is an antidote. However, it will not be easy to procure."

Regina is sure her expression reveals how stunned she is at Rumple's apparent act of mercy. She is, of course, immediately suspicious and wants very much to press him further about his stated reasons for this unexpected gift. But as he so aptly put it, she is desperate, and at the moment cannot bring herself to care about his motivations. If he was willing to forgo his general fare, then she was all too happy to embrace this stroke of good fortune.

"What is the antidote?" she asks, her tone reflecting how essential the answer is.

In response, he tilts his head and studies her in that reptilian manner that never fails to set her teeth on edge. He then gives her an uncanny grin. "Bark from the same tree from which the leaves grow will do the trick. There is a recipe to concoct the potion that you will need to obtain elsewhere, as I do not know it offhand."

Regina's eyes narrow pointedly. "If you don't know how to make the potion, how do you know the bark will work?"

He giggles at her skepticism, finger twirling in the air as he sings out his reply. "Let's just say that I know someone, who knows someone, who knows that said reagent will in fact counteract the protective magicks currently preventing True Love's kiss from breaking the curse."

Regina sighs, aggravation at his antics close to overriding her gratitude for the boon he just extended to her. "I'll just have to take your word on it, I suppose," she says. "Still, I don't understand the difficulty in obtaining bark from a tree. Seems easy enough to me. I know how to reach Oz already, and once there, it is only a matter of locating said tree, which should be no problem if I conduct a brief investigation. A little gold will loosen the lips of the locals, and if not, other means of persuasion will."

"Ah," he replies with a flourish of eccentric movement, "but it is not that simple. I can tell you already that the grove in which the tree grows is no ordinary place. It is a sanctuary tucked high in the mountains beyond the Emerald City. The climb is treacherous enough that only the very hardy attempt it outside of pristine weather, which is unusual as bitter cold and snow blanket the precipice most of the year. And once you reach it, you will find it protected by a gate that only the pure of heart can open and pass though."

Regina's countenance falters and she stumbles back a pace at the devastating setback. Scaling the mountain would be difficult; she is no avid climber like Red. All the same, she is sure that if she had no other choice, she could do it. Losing a couple fingers or toes to frostbite would be a small price to pay to save Red. No, it is the last part of Rumple's warning that has her heart stuttering.

Can nothing ever be easy? How am I supposed to get into a place only accessible by the pure of heart? By any generous definition, that is not her. At her most unsullied by the evils of the world, she was never the picture of an idyllic lady. Her development of a temper did not coincide with Daniel's death. Ever since she was a child, she has been hot-headed, stubborn, combative, and quick to unleash an acerbic wit and sarcastic tongue. The young woman who so heroically saved a princess on a runaway horse was far from perfect. She is fairly certain that even back then she could not have opened the gate.

But then she thinks of her sister, who had managed to obtain leaves from the tree for use in her nefarious scheme.

"How did Zelena gain access then?" she poses. "She is as far from innocence as I am, if not more."

"Your sister is like you in more ways than she is not," he tells her, quirking his eyes over to Red, heavy innuendo in them. "Like you, she is...fluid in her preferences. After departing the Enchanted Forest and returning to Oz, she chose a partner whose heart was unsullied by darkness – a fellow Cardinal witch by the name of Glinda, of the purest character. If I were to wager a guess, it would be that Glinda retrieved the leaves for her, probably under duress. You, however, do not have such an innocent soul at your disposal. One who is not under the thrall of a curse, anyway."

Tears pricking at her eyes, Regina turns away. The cure feels so close, right at the tip of her fingers. Traveling to Oz, to the mountain north of the Emerald City, and scaling it to reach the summit will be no problem with her powers. But she cannot open the gate. Her heart that was once pure has long since been irreparably tainted by the darkness. Now, though it is healing slowly through Red's ceaseless love and limitless devotion, it is a lump of black with streaks of red that fight and claw for what little purchase they have. Her past has been a ghastly specter looming over her shoulder the entire time she and Red have been together, and now it is preventing her from saving the one person who is able to restore her to even a similitude of the person she once was.

Red, her sweet Red. The light of her life, the very beat of her heart. Regina cannot bear to be the reason her wife dies, cannot fathom having to bury another True Love. What will she do if Red passes from the circles of this world solely because she failed her most crucial test? Because she folded under the strain of her greatest moment of crisis? How will she face herself each morning knowing it is her fault that the woman she loves more the life itself is dead and buried, cold and rotted in the grave? And that is precisely what will happen. A certain self-righteous individual will never permit her best friend's remains to be defiled by dark magic, even that which is meant to preserve the dearly departed from the corrosive processes that break down everything which has expired. No, like she always does, Snow will...

It is that thought that strikes Regina like a vicious slap. The accursed name of her greatest enemy reverberates in her mind like an unending echo that collides with her earlier remembrance of rescuing a certain princess in distress from a potentially deadly equestrian accident. Snow White. Snow White. Snow White. Snow White, the helpless little girl whose naive affections for Regina got Daniel killed. Snow White, the insufferable child who smothered Regina with unwanted attention. Snow White, the bandit princess who arose from the ashes of her smoldering life to become a Queen in spite of Regina's best efforts to the contrary. Snow White, the blindly loyal and eternally optimistic brat who never gives up on anyone, even on the woman who'd spent her nearly every waking hour either plotting to murder her or executing said plots. Snow White...the people's champion, the epitome of goodness, the pure of heart.

Suddenly, Regina knows exactly what she has to do.

"Snow," she breathes, and all eyes in the room capable of seeing turn toward her, mystified by the mention of that name. But it doesn't take long for the two highly intelligent men to make the connection.

"Why, such a splendid idea!" Rumple trills after a moment, bouncing up and down merrily and giving a delighted giggle. "Besides little old me, you always were the most clever person I ever met, Regina. By recognizing and accepting that your beloved's salvation rests in the hands of your mortal enemy, you have once again reaffirmed the wisdom in choosing you over your sister."

"But will it work?" she asks, knowing that it will, but needing to hear it confirmed by an outside source.

Rumple nods. "Yes, Snow White will most certainly be able to open the gate and pass through. The question is, will she be inclined to render assistance?"

"To me? Hell no. For Red…?" Regina does not even need to think about it.

There is little Snow will not do for Red, up to and including playing nice with Regina. For pity's sake, the woman had purposefully avoided her best friend for upwards of a year after Regina and Red became a couple. The distance was certainly not because Regina demanded that Snow stop visiting Red in the tiny village that straddled the borders of their respective kingdoms. No, she had done so of her own volition because she knew Regina's disapproval put Red in an uncomfortable position and she did not want to come between them. Red's happiness came first. It is the one thing Regina and Snow have always been in agreement about.

"For Red," she then adds, "Snow would follow me into hell itself. She will help."

"Then I suggest you waste no time. Your lady love does not have long enough for you to dilly-dally."

"How long does she have?" Victor asks, sounding less concerned by the science behind what is happening than ever before.

"Less than a fortnight, I'd wager," Rumple tells them both, knowing Regina is asking the same question with her sharp gaze. "No doubt that means you'll rush off to Oz at the first opportunity. But you must be wary, Regina. Zelena will oppose your efforts at every step. She possesses ready means of traveling between realms and will no doubt follow you there to prevent you from obtaining the bark."

Regina snarls angrily. "Let her. She can die in the same mud she mucked about in as a child."

Rumple rolls his eyes in annoyance at her petulant response. "Do not let your pride deceive you, dearie. Zelena is not to be underestimated. In terms of mortal magicians, her raw power is unrivaled. Had she taken to my training, she could have become the greatest human sorceress to live since the great Morgan Le Fey. And in her own world, she will act with impunity, for it bows at her feet."

"Well, I will neither bow to her nor will I fear her. I fear only one thing: losing my wife. Nothing else matters to me besides saving Red. If I die in the process, I have lost nothing, for if I fail and she perishes from this curse, I have no intention of sticking around to mourn her. I will crush my own heart after I see to it that she is properly laid to rest."

"Regina!" Victor protests, but Regina holds up her hand to forestall his complaints.

"You won't repeat that to anyone, Victor," she says. "No one can ever discover how vital she is to me. She is already an all-too-enticing target for my enemies. I will not risk giving them even more reason to lash out against me through her. So you, my dear Doctor, will keep your mouth shut or else you'll be deprived the use of it altogether. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," he replies through thinned lips. She raises a brow. "Yes, my Queen, I understand," he corrects, almost tersely. "Although I'd point out you already admitted that vulnerability to an enemy."

Victor is unhappy with her, she can tell, but she doesn't care. She meant what she had said and is fully prepared to make good on her intentions. Thankfully, so long as Red lives there is no reason to dwell on such morbid thoughts.

"True," she says, "but he won't say anything because his silence will be part of our deal. Isn't that right, Rumple?" Turning her eyes on Rumplestiltskin, she finds him eyeing her in a way he never has before, as if he is seeing her for the first time all over again. "What are you staring at?"

For a moment, he says nothing, just studies her with those discomfiting eyes that are able to discern so much more than they should. But then he shakes his head. "Nothing. Just surprised is all. Never thought I'd see the day the Evil Queen loved someone more than herself."

Regina straightens her back and runs a hand down the sides of her dress down past her hips. "The Evil Queen would not. But I am not her anymore. I haven't been in a long time. I'm just the Queen now, just Regina – I have left that miserable wretch behind for good. I lost myself once because of you and my mother, but never again, Rumple. Never again! I will live out the rest of my life with Red at my side or I will join her in the grave. I refuse to entertain any other options. Now, tell me you agree not to speak of this as part of our arrangement."

"Very well. I agree," he says, seeming to accept her terms. Regina wonders why he'd done so without argument, but at the same time dismisses her concerns in favor the crisis at hand. Rumple was a problem for another day. And besides that, in all the time she's known him, he's never broken a deal. Never.

"Excellent." Regina gives him a curt nod, then clasps her hands behind her back. Her eyes narrow into slits. "Now, before we part ways, there is one final matter we must discuss. I am curious as to what your reasons were for rescuing Jefferson from Wonderland?"

Rumple levels her with a reptilian smile. "Heard about that, did you?" He glances Victor through sharply narrowed ophidian eyes, causing the Doctor to shift uncomfortably.

"Of course I did," Regina says, drawing his attention back. "You can imagine why I am concerned about this considering my...complicated history with the Hatter."

Rumple dismisses her concern much as she had Victor's earlier, with an idle wave of the hand. "Oh, pish posh. There's no reason to worry, dearie. I only retrieved our mutual acquaintance because I am hunting for a particularly elusive fairy who can help me locate someone else – someone I've been searching for a very long time."

Through a medium she doesn't wish to reveal to him for their own safety, Regina has been let in on the very old secret as to whom the Dark One is looking for. Though in the interest of keeping this vital deal in tact, she decides not to pursue the information further. If Rumple is after his long lost son, his attention will be elsewhere, thus she has no reason to get involved. Or to care at all really. Especially if he's going to be teaming up with a fairy. She would rather spoon her own eyes out than spend a single second in the presence of one of the loathsome gnats.

She gives a disaffected sigh. "Well, then, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I will require Jefferson's help to get to Oz. I can't have you whisking him away the second you leave."

"Again, your fretting is pointless," says Rumple. "I've already got what I needed from him. He's all yours."

Regina claps her hands, as glad to a potential problem has been averted as she is to be rid of her old teacher. "Splendid. I suppose that satisfies my curiosity. I'm done with you now."

Unused to being so casually dismissed, Rumple stares at her for a long space, his own curiosity piqued. Regina meets his eyes, unwilling to give in an inch. She has got what she wanted from him without having to sacrifice her soul. That's a win in her book, and one she isn't willing to have stolen out from under her by entertaining the sly imp for any longer than is necessary. Best to get him the hell out and get along with the business of saving Red. For all their sakes.

"In that case, I wish you luck with your endeavor," he says, apparently having made no headway with whatever conundrum was rolling around in his warped brain. "Just remember, this favor was a one time gift. Should the occasion arise that you require my assistance again, it will cost you. Dearly."

"That's perfectly fine with me," she returns, smiling sardonically, "because I hope to never see you again. For my part, this is goodbye between us. Our business is concluded. Never return to my kingdom, and in return I give you my word that I will leave you and your little maid to do...whatever it is you two get up to in that dank, creepy dungeon you call a castle." She shudders for show, causing Rumple's brow to furl in offense.

He takes a few seconds to mull over her offer, but being the pragmatist that he is, settles quickly upon the most efficient and beneficial decision. She is effectively giving him unchecked reign in territories that do not fall under her sovereignty, and that is a deal too good for the Dark One to pass up.

"I accept," he says, and then conjures a scroll on which to etch their contract into perpetuity. Not one to be outdone, Regina beats him to the punch by summoning her own, and then with a wave of her hand, draws up a concise agreement without the fine print that tends to tilt all contracts into Rumplestiltskin's favor. When she presents it to him, he takes it without a word, appearing almost proud at her for having got the better of him one last time. He signs the document and then returns it with a flourish. "Well, I suppose this is goodbye then."

"Yes, it is," she says without emotion as she magicks a copy of the signed contract. As she presents it to Rumple, she is internally screaming at him to leave. Time is wasting and she has no affection left for the man. However much she had once trusted him and relied upon him, looked up to him even, his machinations have proven themselves to be wholly selfish. She does not believe for a moment that he ever felt any genuine affection for her beyond her usefulness as a pawn subject to his insidious designs. Now she is simply returning the favor. And it feels so damn good that her lips curl up smugly. "Goodbye, Rumplestiltskin. May we never meet again."

He tilts his head, serpentine eyes gleaming mysteriously. "Farewell, Your Majesty." And then in a puff of purple smoke, he vanishes, gone – she hopes – from her life forever. It is a monumental weight lifted off of her chest.

After rolling up the contract, which she knows he is incapable of breaking lest he find some unforeseen loophole, she passes it to Victor. "See that this finds its way to the Royal Archives and then send for Snow White. Tell her she is to travel here immediately and that she and her companions will have safe passage into the citadel. Tell her it's urgent, that Red's life is at stake and she is not to dilly dally. Dispatch one of the ravens, it will find her swiftly and she will not refuse a message from any creature with feathers and wings."

Victor does not hesitate to accept her orders. "Right away, my Queen."

Swallowing her pride has never been one of Regina's strong suits, and she's not about to start accustoming herself to the taste of it now. All the same, as the door slams shut behind Victor and she stumbles on shaky legs back to her wife's bedside, she chokes down the acrid bile that fills the column of her throat.

Snow White. It just has to be Snow White. Really, if the situation weren't so dire, she might laugh herself sick at the height of irony she now finds herself confronting. Once again, so many years and murder attempts later, she is going to have to trust that insufferable blabbermouth with the life of her True Love. The universe truly is devoid of compassion. That, or it simply hates her with a fervor that defies quantification. She cannot quite decide which, not that it matters when what is most important to her is lying here inert, being slowly drained by a pernicious curse that ought instead to be afflicting her.

Regina glances down at Red, eyes flooding with tears for what seems like the thousandth time in the past few hours. Her feeling of persecution seems so trivial in the light of an innocent such as Red being condemned to such an unnaturally cruel fate. If Snow's help, loathsome at it is, can help deliver the cure to spare Red from an eternity of suffering, who is she to deny it? Or even abhor it? Though it may rend her heart to pieces and test her self-control to the breaking point, she will do what she once swore she never would. She will let Snow White back into her life.

"I promise, my love, I will save you," she says, then lowers herself down to resume her perch at Red's hip. She takes her Queen's hand and peppers a series of kisses against the back, fingers, and knuckles. "No matter what I have to do, no matter who I have to trust, no matter who I have to beg. No matter who I have to kill. I will fix this. I won't give up until I'm dead or you're awake. I swear it on my love for you, and that's the highest thing I possess upon which to base an oath."

In one final gesture of devotion, she leans across Red's body and gives her one final kiss. She can't know, but as she pours her love into it, she hopes with all her might that Red has heard her. In her heart, she believes she did and that Red won't give up either. She has to keep fighting. She has to hold on. The alternative is unthinkable.

#once upon a time fanfic #red queen ouat #regina x ruby #Rumple is shady aka normal Rumple

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