#she could’ve chosen any name and there could’ve been a more logical reason to sound like him but I like being sentimental about it

[science-lings]

Hey so you know how in tgaa families tend to have a symbol, like how the Mikitoba’s have the Sakura flower and the Asogi’s have that shield thing that kinda looks like a flower, which is important bc flowers are so important to the aa series as a whole, at least symbolically. They’re usually used to signify family, either with matching crests or name associations, and what I’m really getting at is that there’s a connection in my brain that went from ‘flowers = family’ and ‘there’s a running joke that the Naruhodō’s don’t know anything about flowers.’

Ryunosuke’s little dlc outfit change is important bc it absolutely covers him in the little four pedaled flower that represents Iris and I don’t think that’s just bc she’s the one that made it. Sholmes is covered in them too, that’s just Iris’ way of saying ‘you’re my family now and now everyone who sees you knows this’, she made them the most noticeable thing about his little mouse doll, whose flower ears match the one she made to represent herself.

This just adds to my conviction that there’s something up with Ryūnosuke and Phoenix when it comes to their family. There’s no pride in being a Naruhodo like there is in behind an Asogi or a Mikotoba. Is there no reason to flaunt his family crest or could there be something more going on there?

Also it was so easy for Susato to go by ‘Ryutaro Naruhodo’, and I think it says something about how close they were that she would chose a name so much like his.

[askaceattorney]

Dear Asexual-Deesasters,

Mod Edgeworth: 

If you want to know the answer to that question, go to this link.

Dear Skibot99,

Co-Mod: I’m fairly certain it was The Mod, but I don’t know for sure.  He actually had another one before it, made from an old Ace Attorney musical animation.  I haven’t been able to locate that video, unfortunately, but here’s the old banner:

Ah...  Those were good days.  Good days.

Dear Dawsongfg,

Co-Mod: It’s fine.  Besides, it won’t be too long before those letters are accepted, so maybe we’ll hold onto them until that time.

Dear skibot99 again,

Mod Edgeworth: The Lost Turnabout hands down. All logic is thrown out the window the moment Phoenix had amnesia. It’s clear the Judge knew something was wrong with Phoenix, so why didn’t he call for a recess or check on Phoenix? Not to mention Wellington was annoying. He’s probably the only character I would be hesitant to play as when answering letters, if only because he was so unbearable.

As for Turnabout Ablaze, I do agree that it is a drag to get through in the end, though the entire game of AAI was boring, aside from the game mechanics. As a case by itself, I wouldn’t put it as my least favorite, if only because I did get some funny parts out of it.  It also contributed to the overall story, whereas The Lost Turnabout could just be taken out and it wouldn’t effect the overarching plot.

Co-Mod: I’d probably have to go with Turnabout Big Top.  I honestly couldn’t figure out the part where you have to present Max’s poster without consulting a walkthrough.  Why couldn’t we just present Max himself?  Besides that, the ending was largely underwhelming -- the murder weapon was hidden under Acro’s blanket the entire time, but instead of seeing a screenshot of it there, we just have to imagine it.  Maybe it was a filler case, but that was no excuse for it to end so poorly.  Not to mention one of the witnesses was a literal puppet.

It’s hard truth, Trilo.  Live with it.

Dear skibot99 and Anonymous,

Mod Edgeworth: I… think I heard from her when the localization of DGS was announced? I know Mod Kristoph and Mod Maya introduced themselves when I came into the group. There’s a third person, but I only heard from her once. As for what’s going on with her… I don’t know.

As for the flooding the inbox, it’s fine. I won’t promise a letter or two won’t be deleted, but we may make an exception and I’d hardly consider 4-5 different letters flooding the inbox. However, I do highly suggest lowering your letter sending to no more than three a day to prevent deletion of your letters. The only time I’d say your letters are flooding the inbox is when you’re sending 10-20 of them, especially of the same letter, and we have to scroll down for a while to get to the next letter. We will only choose three out of that pile and delete the rest.

And yes, we do have a few that send us 10-20 of the same letter to multiple characters in the span of five minutes. Geez.

Co-Mod: Mod Paups has had to remain absent for personal reasons, and sadly, has recently communicated to me that she wishes to leave the blog entirely.  Thanks for all you’ve contributed to this blog, Mod Paups, and best of luck in whatever you do next!

(Referenced Letter)

Dear mungeondaster,

Mod Edgeworth: Since I answered this one, I shall answer your letter.

(^ Why do I always use this sprite? ^) Actually, the localization never specified if Manfred Von Karma was born in Germany or not. In fact, we never knew the German part until Justice For All when Franziska Von Karma was stated to have flown all the way from Germany. It never specifies any reason for this and fans were quick to jump to the conclusion that it means the Von Karma family were German, which… isn’t entirely true? Manfred Von Karma never said he lived in Germany and, for all we know, Franziska could’ve lived in Germany to study law or something.

Now, the OG does give us more specific detail on this, being why I answered this the way I did. In the OG, both Von Karma’s were born Japanese, but lived in America or at least have an estate there. It specified that they were originally born in Japan, which would be translated to LA, California in the localization. While using the OG canon isn’t normal here, I will use it, if the localization doesn’t specify things. In this case, it never specified if the Von Karma’s were born in Germany or if Manfred Von Karma lived in America. Since he had to wait out the Statue of Limitations for DL-6, we can assume he lived in LA for 15 years or more. That means he’s American.

I am still getting the hang of writing letters, but I try to stick to canon as much as possible. If you believe we’ve made an error in our letters, feel free to let us know, but also show proof, if we go against canon. We’ll be sure the letter is sent to the right mod or else fix it.

Dear  Bluedragoncody,

Mod Edgeworth: I... don’t know how to feel about that.

Also, I accidentally deleted your previous letter before this one when trying to post it on here. I’m so sorry about that. If you could remember it, would you send it again?

Co-Mod: I’ll just respond to this with an old classic:

Dear Aceattorneyismyjam,

Mod Edgeworth: I-I’m not a pro! I accidentally deleted an important mod question from bluedragoncody, because of my inexperience. Oof! Again, so sorry!

Granted, I am good with digital art and writing essays, but I’m still trying to get the hang of being a mod here. Believe me, I do get corrected on several mistakes I do here. I can’t really call myself a pro just yet. I’ve only just started becoming a mod here last month lol

Dear Dahlia,

Mod Edgeworth: I thank you for your support of this blog and my essay. Manfred Von Karma is also my favorite villain and someone I do feel is underestimated as a one dimensional villain. I think people hate him so much, because of how he ruined Miles Edgeworth’s life without looking at the bigger picture. They focus on the bad things with their black colored glasses without dissecting Manfred Von Karma’s character as a whole. 

One thing I love about this blog, even before becoming a mod, is that no one here ever portrayed Manfred Von Karma as the one dimensional villain. He can be snappy at times, but as proven in many of our previous letters, he’s also portrayed as being calm when threatened, polite at times and absolutely loves his wife and children. Yes, he’s a terrible person, but that’s what makes him so interesting. He’s a bad, evil person that does good things from time to time. It doesn’t justify any of his horrible deeds, murder included, but it does make him human.

Co-Mod: I’m...going to assume you’re a different Dahlia.  (I’m grabbing a Magatama of Parting just in case, though.  I’m sure you can understand.)

Anyway, thanks for being such a loyal follower!  This blog’s been through a lot of changes since it began, and since I joined it back in 2017, so I’m glad it’s still a good source of enjoyment for you.  I’ve seen all sorts of cringe by now, by the way (some of which I wrote myself), so don’t worry about it.

I’m also glad that the characters still sound like themselves and not like us.  The hilarious personalities and quirks given to them by Capcom’s writers, as well as the humanity in so many of them, make them easy to relate to, and thus fairly easy to mimic.  I may have said something like this before, but I see myself in a lot of them -- in Athena’s fear of inadequacy, in Apollo’s desire for justice in a world where it’s hard to find, in Sebastian’s confusion about where to go next after his world falls apart, and possibly even in the von Karmas’ desire for perfection.  I of course identify with their positive feelings as well -- Phoenix’s smugness when he gets things right, Athena’s joy after pulling off a victory in court, Adrian’s pride after her self-confidence is restored, etc. -- but there’s something about the struggles they face that make them easier to relate to, on top of being that much more awesome in the end.

Unfortunately, I can’t promise anything about this blog continuing on in perpetuity.  For one thing, I don’t plan on being around forever (I’m fairly certain the other Mods don’t, either), and for that matter, there’s also no telling how long Tumblr will be around.  All I can promise is that I’ll give my best while I’m here, and that the love from you and everyone else who shares it here is sure to be what keeps us going.  Thank you for your contribution!

Dear TurqouiseJavelin,

Mod Edgeworth: Hm... not bad ideas. Though, we mods choose our own mod names under the condition that it doesn’t match anyone else’s mod name.

Co-Mod: What Mod Edgeworth said.  Choosing the name “Mod Athena” may or may not increase your chances of being hired, though.  *wink, wink*

Dear Anonymous, 

Mod Edgeworth: Actually, Gregory was stated in the Autopsy to have died by a gunshot. However, you do bring up something interesting. If Gregory Edgeworth realized he was dead and last remembered Robert Hammond strangling him, he wouldn’t think “I died by the shot of a gun.” Since the Detectives weren’t aware that victim had died unconscious, they’d assume the victim would recall being shot and killed. This makes me wonder if Gregory Edgeworth was channeled, but never brought to court to be cross-examined.

There are still holes, but I do like your aspect on DL-6.

Co-Mod: Dang...  No matter how many times you come back to this game, there’s always something new to think about.  I honestly hadn’t considered those details about Yanni Yogi’s trial.  Your explanation makes the most sense to me, but there’s one other possibility regarding Gregory’s testimony -- he may have chosen to lie about who murdered him in order to protect his son from a murder charge.  That’s all open to interpretation, of course, so your guess is as good as ours.

It’s a good thing we’re not actual defense attorneys, huh?

-The Mods

[justcourttee]

Love your stories. The premise for this one involves Plagg learning And overhearing about Lila’s deal With Gabriel. Spying on Adrien and keeping him away from ‘bad influences’. Plagg tells Adrien what he found out, Adrien is a bit reluctant, but when he heard of Lila sabotaging his friends and the involvement with the expulsion. Adrien finally has enough. Your take on how this goes out

This was such a good prompt that I literally had too many ideas of how I wanted it to go. Hopefully, this works :)

Because We’re Friends, Right?

“But Adrien! You have to believe me! It’s not like I was snooping on your father on purpose! I was just trying to find some more Camembert cheese!”

It felt useless arguing with their chosen. For whatever reason, the humans were fond of their personal space and Plagg phasing through walls was an apparent ‘invasion’ of that.

“Plagg, you know I keep a stash in my drawer, how did you blow through it this fast?”

“That’s not the point Adrien! I feel like you are just redirecting your anger at your father on me. After all, for someone who doesn’t like this pigtails girl, you sure got real red when I mentioned Lila setting her up.”

Plagg nudged Adrien’s arm, but it provided no relief. The tension was still strong in the air, almost as if a cataclysm couldn’t breakthrough.

“Plagg, there’s no way Lila is working for my father to keep my friend’s from me. Neither could be so cruel. Lila just wants to get her way and so does my father, I don’t see their agendas ever crossing.”

“Oh, really now, think about Pigtails getting expelled. You knew it was Lila, but you didn’t know what she had to gain from it right? But what did your father have to gain? An excuse to pull you out of school due to the mass amount of akumatizations that would've happened in one day.”

Adrien opened his mouth, ready to argue, but a small nagging thought sat at the back of his head. It was the first time his father had personally called him in a while, not Nathalie, to make sure he was okay and ask him to come back home.

“That doesn’t necessarily mean they’re working together Plagg, it was just a really messed up coincidence. Besides, I know you’re just trying to take the conversation off of the fact that you left my room, again. You’ve gotta stop dude, what if someone catches you?”

Plagg shrugged their shoulders. Adrien was going to need a lot more than just words to convince him, that was for sure. So Plagg settled in, ignoring Adrien’s speech on privacy for the tenth time that month. Sure enough, sooner or later, Adrien was going to see that Plagg was right, and they couldn’t wait to rub it in his face.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Monday morning came and as Adrien exited his room, he found no other than Lila was waiting for him in the foyer, a fake smile plastered on her face as she chatted with Nathalie.

It was suspicious enough to see her standing so freely in his house, but he tried to brush it off, not let his imagination run wild with the stories Plagg had tried to sell him. She was probably there for a last-minute before class shoot that his father scheduled.

That had to be it.

“Hey, Adrien! I thought I’d ride with you to school today seeing as we’re not only school friends but now work buddies too!”

Adrien’s eyes darted to Nathalie’s face for any explanation, but he was given none as she stared straight ahead her usual expressionless look present.

“Sounds good Lila, after all, that’s what friends do huh? Maybe tomorrow we can invite Nino too.”

Nathalie shook her head, shutting down his idea before he even had a chance to fully ask.

“Miss Rossi was only allowed today due to your photoshoot at your lunch hour. Her stuff would be more conveniently located if it were already in the car than waiting for her to gather it from her locker.”

The excuse was pitiful, even Adrien could see through that. But as the small nagging voice in his head grew larger, his will to ignore it did too. There was no way Plagg was right, this was just another coincidence.

So without another word, he walked out the door, Lila practically skipping beside him as they slid into the car. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . As the rest of the week passed, Adrien noticed Lila hanging around the house more and more. Sometimes to catch up on homework, sometimes, well, he wouldn’t even know she was there until he was slipping out his window, a quick glance of her exiting the gates as he landed on the nearest rooftop. As much as he didn’t want to, he was starting to think that he not only owed Plagg an apology but that it was also time to sit down with his father and finally ask him.

So he waited until their next scheduled dinner, the Thursday before a big photoshoot nonetheless, to strike. It was silent like usual, neither looking up much from their plates. Adrien simply wasn’t sure where to begin, but if he didn’t say something, this dinner would end all too soon.

“Uhm, father?”

Gabriel’s eyes rose slowly as if he wasn’t quite sure if he heard him right.

“What is it, Adrien?”

“I-” Adrien cleared his throat trying to swallow his growing nerves. “I just wanted to know why you hired Lila Rossi.”

Gabriel’s eyebrows furrowed as if it was a stupid question for him to ask. As if Lila made the most logical sense.

“She had quite the impressive resume. Miss Rossi has worked with many big names and is around your age. An older model would look bad on my part. That is all.”

He returned his attention back to his nearly finished plate leaving Adrien with a hundred more questions than he had time to ask. Adrien knew her resume was faked and if Nathalie had done her usual background check, she could’ve discovered that with ease. Something didn’t sit right.

“Father, Lila  Rossi has no connections.”

Gabriel’s frown sent a small shiver down Adrien’s back. He had never so openly defied his father, especially in their once a month dinners. It terrified him that angering him could mean never seeing him again.

“I was not made aware. Are you saying Nathalie is incompetent at the one job I hired her for?”

Adrien shook his head quickly. The last thing he wanted to do was get Nathalie in trouble when he knew that no matter what she did, his father, the perfectionist, always double-checked. There was no way he was so in the dark.

“Adrien, I suggest that you drop this topic. Lila Rossi would be an excellent friend and coworker for you, unlike your DJ friend or the young lady with the pigtails.”

The younger blonde opened his mouth to argue, but he saw no point. Without meaning to, his father already confirmed what he had feared.

Plagg was right.

“I apologize father. I will make more efforts to befriend Lila.”

No other words were spoken during their meal. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Weeks came and went and Adrien only felt sicker about the idea. Lila wanted him to date her, his father wanted him to stay home. Lila seems to be working willingly with Hawkmoth who not only benefits her agenda, but his father’s as well.

The more he investigated, the worst he felt. He tried apologizing to Plagg, but the kwamii simply shook it off, only asking for more cheese to compensate for their hurt feelings.

Adrien debated talking to Marinette about it. After all, she was the only one who knew what Lila was like. But something stopped him. Marinette tried to warn him that her lies would hurt their friends, would hurt them, but he shook her off, told her that as long as they were in it together, it didn’t matter if the others knew.

Yet another person he would have to apologize to when this was all over.

As he turned the corner to the lockers, a small yelp caught his attention. Pressing his ear against the wooden door, he could faintly make out the conversation taking place inside.

“-I’m so sorry Nathaniel, please don’t be so upset with me. I asked Adrien to contact the publisher for a meeting because they knew each other better. I really thought I could trust him with such a small task for his friends.”

The sobbing was completely over the top, but unfortunately for him, it seemed to be working. Peeking through the small glass window, Adrien saw the redhead comforting Lila, his face a mixture of anger and disappointment and if Adrien had to take a guess, it wasn’t for Lila.

“It’s rude to spy on people.”

Adrien whipped his head around, his face matching Marinette’s own shade of red.

“Me? Spying? Oh, no, I was just, uh.”

Marinette giggled, the red on her cheeks rising until it reached the tips of her ears. It was adorable.

“It’s okay Adrien, I was just picking on you like you pick on me.”

“Oh,” his chuckle wasn’t as convincing as the red in his own cheeks seemed to meet the tips of his ears as well.

“Adrien, what’s wrong?”

Was she always so good at reading him or was he just an open book lately?

“We can’t talk here, follow me.”

He didn’t bother for her answer as he grabbed her hand, dragging her out into the courtyard. Scanning the area, he found the furthest open bench, bringing Marinette with him. As he sat down, he reluctantly let go, oblivious to the shade of red that had spread now to her neck as well.

“I think my father hired Lila to cause trouble at school in order to force me to come home.”

Marinette bit her lip, unsure how to respond. If it was true, so many things made sense, but it still raised a question.

“What would she gain from that?”

Adrien’s face confirmed her answer before he even spoke.

“As a model, especially a young one, it can be good for business if the models are seen as a couple. Lila has been trying to ask me out since she arrived. I thought that if I was nice, that if I gave in to her demands, she would eventually wear herself out, but here she is, still going strong. I-”

He paused, the image of Nathaniel’s upset face burned into his head.

“I think she’s trying to turn everyone against me so that I’ll choose to go home, where I’ll see her because of work.”

Adrien felt a soft touch on his cheek, the feeling starling him. Marinette reached forward again wiping a tear that he hadn’t realized had fallen.

“Adrien, maybe it’s time we told Alya and Nino. They’re our best friends. I’m sure they’ll understand, they might even know how to help.”

He wanted to shake his head. It would only cause a backlash and he couldn't risk Marinette getting caught in it, but at the same time, he’s left it alone for this long and it has only gotten worse.

“Maybe.”

Her smile was almost blinding as she offered him a hand to stand, apparently intent on seeking them out now. He hesitantly reached up, amazed at how strong she looked standing over him as if she would protect him to the end. It reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t put a finger on it, not when she was standing here so captivating.

“Adrien! How could you?”

Immediately he withdrew his hand as if he was a little kid, caught in the act. In front of him stood Lila, Nathaniel, and worse of all, Alya and Nino.

“When you said Marinette was your special friend, I thought you meant best friend, not the girl you were seeing behind my back.”

Marinette tried to deny it, but Lila wouldn’t even let her get a word in.

“I know you said you were only dating me to please your father, but I thought you were going to try to love me! I mean, I’m the only one who understands your world. Marinette couldn’t even keep up!”

Adrien looked at the gathering crowd, many of them wearing the same weary face.

Adrien, I-”

“That’s enough Lila.”

Silence spread throughout the courtyard as all eyes turned to them. He realized how loud his voice was, but it didn’t matter to him at the moment. In fact, he would get on top of the roof if he had to. He was done cowering away and he would be damned if he let her drag Marinette down.

“Let’s get one thing straight right here. I was not made aware of any arrangements you and my father have made for the company, therefore, I had no clue about this, about us dating. Let me also state that Marinette has more connections in the business that I have met face to face with her than I have standing by your side.”

Lila’s eyes were deadly as if threatening him to continue, but he couldn’t find it in him to stop.

“Marinette has done cover designs and costume accessories for Jagged Stone. You said you saved his non-existent kitten? Well, let’s have Marinette call him right now and see for sure. I mean surely someone who saved his prize animal would remember the name of its savior right?”

“He’s too busy right now, that’s not necessary-”

“And how about you teaching Clara dance moves? Marinette was actually picked to be the star in her music video and impressed Clara when she turned down the spot to get her friends in the video as well. She even came up with the idea that Clara used for her Miraculous music video. She has her phone number as well, shall we call her as well?”

“I-”

“What about your connections in the fashion business? Besides me, you have none. Marinette has managed to impress Style Queen Audrey Bourgeois with a derby hat, the same hat that she impressed my father with as well. Don’t doubt for a second that she couldn’t keep up in my world.”

The growing crowd seemed split, unsure who to believe. Alya and Nino had slinked away from Lila’s side as they comforted the very pale Marinette. Adrien wanted to rush over, be by her side as well, but he had to stand his ground, see it through to the end.

“I don’t understand Adrien, why are you doing this? You know I have a disease that causes me to lie, I just-”

Adrien placed a hand on her shoulder sending a wave of shock through the girl.

“Because we’re friends, right?”

Lila’s eyes narrowed at his words.

“Friends can’t let other friends hurt themselves with lies, whether those lies were meant to wound or not. I understand you and my father have an arrangement, but with your condition, I don’t believe it would be best for you to be in the spotlight. If you don’t have a strong center, the cameras will eat you up. As your friend, I’m asking you to take a less stressful job.”

The group around them cooed as if Adrien caring about Lila’s health was just so in character of him. As if the two weren’t locked in a silent battle, one only they could see.

“Fine, I’ll resign tonight, but I doubt your father would like that very much.”

Her half-cocked smile worried him. She was obviously far from done, but for the moment he was ready to celebrate a small victory.

“Let me worry about my father, after all, what are friends for?”

Lila nodded, her head tilted as if seeing Adrien in a new light. He didn’t bother waiting around for her answer. Instead, he made his way over to where his friends’ stood.

“Marinette, I’m sorry about that. I know you were trying to keep your connections a secret.”

She shook her head ferociously, her eyes shining with what looked like pride.

“Adrien, we’re going to try and find Andre cart, would you like to come with us?”

“Like as couples?”

Marinette’s face flushed red as she began stumbling over her words, trying to back away, only failing when Alya pushed her back.

“Relax Marinette,” his chuckle surprised even himself. Why was it so easy to flirt with her? Was it just a friend thing? “Today we’ll go as friends, but maybe some other time we’ll try the couple thing.”

“Agreste, did you have to go and break her?”

Alya playfully shoved him as the four of them left the school, ignoring the stares they were receiving. It was so easy right now, but Adrien regretfully knew that it was just the calm before the storm.

Permanent Tag List:

@ash-amg @rebecarojas07 @heaven428 @long-lost-peace @thequeenofpotatoeunicornss @moongoddesskiana @nach0ava @iamablinkmarvelarmy @seraphkitty @clumsy-owl-4178 @pawsitivelymiraculous

[tangtownie]

Questioning Authority - Reader Insert x Bucky Barnes

Author’s Note: So, I saw someone commenting on TFATWS TV-series and while their comment made no sense to me, it ignited something in me. Which then lead to this, so I’m sorry and you’re welcome.

Also, I was kinda tipsy while writing this, so I might regret it in the morning, who knows? As always, the dividers are by the talented @firefly-graphics​ 

Tried to make some time jumps that seemed natural, so I would love some feedback on whether or not that worked? Or feedback in general, a girl really ain’t picky. Might write a real smutty continuation to this. 

Also, writing for a new hottie this time, so hopefully some of you will like that! 

Warnings: Reader is a BRAT, also a massive flirt, cursing, talk of a foot fetish, so much sexual tension, mention of alcohol and drinking, reader is kind of a bitch to this guy she’s dating, description of drunk reader, descriptions of smut but nothing more than reader’s own fantasies.

Song Inspiration: Shut Up by The Black Eyed Peas

Word count: 2.077

It had stemmed from honest curiosity. It really had. I was genuinely looking for an answer to my question and who better to question than the sources themselves? But the way Bucky’s entire body had tensed: his eyebrows furrowed, jaw clicking loudly as he barred his teeth, biceps and shoulders flexing in tandem with his fists and the slow, barely controlled breaths that escaped him. It was a damn sight. My hand suddenly twitched with want, although it was impossible to tell if I wanted to touch Bucky or myself the most.

Sam had cackled loudly, albeit shortly, as Bucky send his killer glare in Sam’s direction. It was a much better reaction than any answer I could’ve ever wished for. A smug smirk wrapped around my lips as a thrilling rush surged through my body at the thought of all the potential havoc I could wreak. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Bucky, I really did. But the thought of riling him up, whether it was with anger or something else, always sent a thrill through me that I couldn’t quite explain.

There was something so ridiculously attractive about Bucky when he was pissed. Maybe it was the subconscious, and yet never-ending, flexing, maybe it his scowl. Maybe it was just him. I had been careful, though, I didn’t need him to know exactly why I always seemed to be the one pissing him off. So, I tried my hardest to maintain an indifferent look on my face, as I prompted them for an answer again.

“Well?” I said. “Should I call Sam Captain or not?” A loud grunt escaped Bucky; almost like just hearing those words were hurting him. “I mean after all, Steve did give the shield to Sam, so it only makes sense that Sam would also inherit his title.” I shrugged casually, like my conclusion was the only logical one. Which to be fair… it was.

Bucky’s eyes were cold as steel, a small muscle clenching in his jaw giving away just how much restraint it was taking him to keep quiet. I felt a shiver ripple down my spine at the thought of that look being directed at me. Sam, however, was openly smirking at my suggestion and my resolve finally broke as he leaned over the counter toward me. “Oh, you definitely should.” Sam’s voice was low and teasing. His smirk was mirrored on my lips as I leaned forward towards him as well. “Oh yeah? You like that, Captain?” I put on my most sultry voice, practically purring the title back at Sam.

Bucky scoffed loudly, a fresh wave of annoyance and distaste washing over his face. “Could you at least hold off on that until I’ve left the room?” Bucky’s voice was clipped, and for a second I felt bad for him, but only for a second. “What’s the point, James?” I raised my eyebrow with a condescending glance in his direction. “You could hear us through the walls, anyway.” A triumphant smirk curled around my lips as Sam’s boisterous laughter filled the room.

Bucky stared coldly at me; his jaw clenching like crazy and that vein in his neck pounding like it was about to pop. “Stop calling me that.” He practically hissed at me and I could feel my face flush with heat. Fuck, I loved it when he hissed at me. “It’s your name, isn’t it, James?” I said it casually, slowly pushing myself back up from the counter that I had been leaning on.

Bucky eyes quickly flitted down to my boobs that were practically spilling out of my bra and tank top and another smirk wrapped around my lips. Sam and I shared a look, as Bucky continued ogling my boobs. I wondered if Bucky had noticed my pierced nipples yet. I had always had a feeling that they would drive him crazy once he did. Suddenly, Bucky seemed to realize that he had been staring and he turned and stormed out of the room. Laughing gleefully, I couldn’t help myself as I yelled out after him. “See you later, James.”

---

I was lounging in the common room, my favourite sweatpants on, the ones with ‘juicy’ written across my ass, while I was painting my toenails. It was kind of stating the obvious as anyone with eyes could see that my ass was fucking spectacular, but I loved the attention and the sparkle. I was going on a date with Oliver later, so I had chosen a deep red nail polish for my toes. A classic look for a reason.

I briefly glanced up at the sound of someone entering. Bucky had stopped in the threshold of the room, almost like he had changed his mind after seeing me. While refraining from rolling my eyes, I simply said: “Hello James.” Even without looking at him, I could sense his jaw clenching and a wave of annoyance rolled off of him. “That is not my name.” He bit harshly, before throwing himself on the couch opposite of me.

“Whatever you say, James.” I kept my eyes peeled on my toes, as I worked patiently. He grumbled something underneath his breath before angrily picking up the remote and zapping through the channels. Bucky zapped back and forth for a solid 10 minutes before he groaned loudly and turned the TV off again. “What are you doing anyway?” He asked impatiently. Frankly, I was surprised that he even tried to start a conversation with me, but I wasn’t about to let it show.

“Painting my toenails, James.” I said calmly, briefly interrupted by his deep groan as I kept insisting on calling him by his given name. “Why? You bored? Want me to paint yours next?” A smirk curled around my lips as I imagined Bucky walking around the compound with my Bahama Mama polish on his toenails. He stared at me incredulously at my suggestion. “Why the fuck would I want that?”

I couldn’t help but scoff at his question, finally making eye contact with him. “To draw some attention away from those nasty dinosaur feet of yours, James. I mean have you even heard of a pumice stone?” My lie was as convincing, as my tone was condescending and Bucky glared at me in response. Thankfully, he seemed to buy it. It wasn’t really a lie, but I also didn’t particularly feel like sharing the real reason why I was painting my toenails.

How in the hell would I even go about explaining to him that I was trying to get back on my date’s good side? He would just want to know why, which I was never fucking telling him, and why painting my toenails was the way to do it, although that one really should’ve been obvious. I couldn’t very well tell Bucky that my date was upset with me, because the last time we’d had sex I had accidently called him by Bucky’s name.

A shudder went through me when I thought about how Bucky might react. Would he like it as much as I did? I could imagine him wrapping his hand around my throat and roughly pulling me into his lap, still with that displeased, almost mocking expression on his face and his free hand ghosting over my pussy while he drilled me. How often did I think about him? Did I always picture him when I was with other men? And if I told him everything that I had thought about with him and asked real nice, maybe he would give it to me.

A loud scoff broke my train of thought and, as I became aware that I was not sprawled across Bucky’s lap completely at his mercy, disappointment filled me. “Are you even listening to me?” His sharp voice broke the last fragments of my illusion. Swallowing drily, I simply said: “No.” Bucky’s eyes rolled so far back into his head that they might just get stuck. “God, you’re such a brat!” I swallowed back an excited moan, as he leaned over the coffee table toward me, his voice practically seething. I wanted so badly to just weave my fingers through his hair and yank him to me.

Instead, I sent him my signature smirk. “If by brat you mean bitchy, rambunctious and tantalizing, then yes, James. That is exactly what I am.” I locked eyes with Bucky and noticed his heavy breaths, his cheeks slightly flushed. Before I could do anything I would regret, I tore my eyes away from his, recapped my nail polish and strutted out of there, deliberately swaying my juicy ass for him to look at.

---

The date had been a bust. That’s what you called it when you got dumped for saying someone else’s name during sex, right? I honestly didn’t know and as the alcohol pounded through my system, I wasn’t even all that sure I cared. I still couldn’t believe it had happened again, though. I needed to get a fucking grip. Stumbling out of the elevator, I giggled a little to myself. Maybe heading straight from Oliver’s apartment to the bar wasn’t the greatest idea.

But really what was a girl to do when she was left high and dry? And even after I made my feet all pretty for him! I scoffed indignantly, because really, how dare he? Suddenly, I realized that I was in the kitchen. I slumped heavily against the counter and let out a deep sigh. God, I was tired. And as I realized, when my eyes landed on the faucet, thirsty. My fingers could just reach the faucet, so I turned it on, tugging it toward the cold water. Shuffling toward the sink, I ended up bent over the edge of it, hips pressing into the cabinets as I slumped against the counter, too damn tired to hold myself up any longer.

The second the cold water touched my lips a loud moan escaped me. Had water always tasted this good? I honestly couldn’t remember, but as I lapped greedily from the running faucet I could’ve sworn that I was in the Swiss Alps drinking straight from a river. It was the only explanation as to why this water was so damn refreshing.

My feet were aching, so I kicked off my heels and moaned again. All without lifting my head and stopping my slurping. Just a little more of this heaven sent water and I’d go to sleep. Suddenly, someone cleared their throat behind me and I jumped. It felt as though I spun around at the speed of light, but as I would come to realize in the morning, I had never moved quite so slow before.

Bucky was standing behind me with an amused smirk curled around his lips and a goofy smile grew on my face as I saw him. Any other night, I would have flirted with him shamelessly, but tonight I was just too damn tired. “Good evening, James.” For some reason, I spoke with an overly posh British accent and Bucky tried his hardest not to laugh at me. “Enjoying yourself?” His eyes twinkled with amusement, as I stumbled a little while straightening up. “Very much so, James. Had to find some way to turn this night around, just never thought that water would be the thing to do it.”

Bucky’s smile diminished and his brows furrowed. “What do you mean?” He asked guardedly. I sighed deeply before answering him, this time with my own accent. “I got dumped, James, so it’s kind of a shit night.” Again, I stumbled as I bend down to get my heels. Bucky quickly swooped in and grabbed them for me. “I’m sorry about that. He doesn’t know what he’s missing.” Bucky’s voice was soft and gentle in a way that I’d never heard it before and it made a whole mess of emotions flutter in my chest.

Before I could get swept up in them, I pushed them back down and forced a laugh. “You’re telling me! I even made my feet all pretty for him and the bastard still has the nerve to dump me?” Bucky’s face flushed a bright red, as he realized just what I meant. Before he could respond, I snatched my heels from his hands and strutted out of the kitchen. “Good night, James.” I called out after me and I could’ve sworn that I heard him mutter “Good night, Y/N.”

[soranis-sunshadow]

Why Hordak didn’t become a good law abiding citizen once he got stranded on Etheria

A lot of people argue that once on Etheria, Hordak was free and as such, he could have chosen to not be a warmongering tyrant. To that I would argue that he was never free of the brainwashing and indoctrination that had been literally programmed into him and that dictated that his only purpose in life is to serve Prime, like a good little clone.

Hordak’s conquest of Etheria was what Hordak thought Prime would want from him. He thought that by doing this for Prime, he would be seen as worthy of being kept alive despite being defective. It wasn’t as much of an actual choice as it was following his pervious programming to the only logical conclusion: Bring things into Prime’s Light. It was a mechanism to reinforce the conditioning, not cope with it or to free himself from it. Hordak never coped with any of the abuse that was heaped on him.

 If Hordak had ever wanted to conquer the planet and be the leader of a military dictatorship for the power and glory of it, then why was he so ardent to give it all up and return to Prime where he was essentially powerless? Why return to  the side of a being that sees you as livestock? Hordak seems more interested in building his portal and going home than he is in running the Horde or its military operations. Even when physically away from Prime, Hordak is still devout. His physical separation didn’t instantly make him an atheist. The reason for which he was thrown out to begin with further accentuated his zealotry. He needed to prove himself to his god, Etheria was merely a trial, a chance at repentance. All of the suffering he submitted himself to was a trial so that he may become pure, according to Prime’s doctrine.

He had been looking for a way off Etheria and out of Despondos for decades. That’s how much he cared about ruling the planet. So much so that whenever Light Hope opened any portal, for any reason, he went to investigate. That’s how he stumbled upon baby Adora.

 He had thought Prime had come for him and opened a portal form the other side. Hordak had been investigating the opening portals on the planet’s surface. Eventually he figured that Prime couldn’t come for him (he never considered that Prime wouldn’t) so he would build a portal and opened it from his side. He desperately wanted to go back home, back to Prime’s Light. (to the horrific life he had before as a brainwashed acolyte of Prime)

As far as making the choice not to hurt others, @cruelfeline wrote about it better than i ever could she also expanded on his lack of choice here.

If I were to put it in my own words, I’d say that Hordak lacks the moral framework to see his actions as wrong. Conquest and hurting the natives of planets are things Prime has always condoned and demanded, to him, these things are good. I know it sounds like I’m condoning his actions, which I am definitely not and why on insist on reparations for redemption, but Hordak didn’t really have the moral framework to understand that his actions are evil.

 He was never taught any moral framework other than Horde Prime=good, everything else=“must suffer to become pure”, (including little brothers).

Within the moral framework in which he was created to serve and  his understanding of how the world worked, Hordak was a “morally good” person.

As bizarre as this notion is for us to consider from our human point of view because he’s a warmongering religious zealot leading a military dictatorship, but according to the rules of the world he had lived in and the Galactic Horde society, Hordak was being good. He was worshipping and serving Prime, taking territory in his name and doing everything that, in terms of the society that Prime had created and Hordak was created in, made him a good clone. He was even overzealous in proving  that his defect does not take away his ability to serve Prime, that though he had sinned by being made broken, he can still repent and be good. As far as the only morality he has ever know stands, Hordak is “morally good” and an upstanding servant of Prime.

In a world without Prime, Hordak has no motivation to hurt anyone.

He doesn’t need to chose to be good, he needs to be taught what good is to begin with (with lots of therapy and support and companionship). This is a long process that in actuality might take years. Unlearning Prime’s moral framework and learning a new and ethical from a human standpoint one is not something that could’ve believably happened onscreen in the small amount of screentime he had in season 5 (2 minutes tops’). In all likelihood, Hordak will have to undergo rehabilitation after a lifetime of trauma, abuse and slavery-from-birth. What has been done to him and what he has done in the name of his god will always be things that mark him.

I think that after the series he is finally in a place to start this rehabilitation, and as far as willingness is concerned, he had always been willing to let people in. So long as those people were the ones to approach him first - he doesn’t actually know how to initiate any sort of relationship (friendship or otherwise), again, this is not something Prime taught any of his clones.

 He is willing to make the step and to change, and he is willing to learn from Entrapta. He has been presented to be willing to follow whomever showed him even a modicum of kindness and companionship, even after kicking his ass, ripping away his prosthetic armor’s power source,  humiliating him then threatening him with Prime displeasure upon arrival, he still let Catra in. 

That is how willing he is to let people in. That is how desperate his actually is for any form of companionship.

[basilone]

We travel from one sandbox to another and meet, well, somewhere in the middle? The very lovely @mercurygray has been kind enough to let me spend a little time with her creations, and I dearly hope I haven’t fucked things up now. ;) The following was born of my response to her question about which members of her Girl Gang would be god-chosen in my universe, as the thought of a scene between Billie and Ron Speirs would not exactly leave my head afterward. This is self-indulgent to a fault, but we did agree these two would be great in a fight.. 

the divine knife’s edge

The worst part of war is waiting. Waiting for orders, waiting for permission, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for command to start making sense, waiting for the day officers stop panicking and start fighting, waiting for anything and everything. It’s enough to make anyone wonder if death, once invited to roam among them, would make them wait too.

Billie Mitchell huffs out an impatient breath. Stomps her boots on the ground once, twice, in a rather vain attempt to sort out that feeling of her socks not sitting quite right on her feet. England’s early morning air kisses her cheeks with a bite of ice still lodged in its touch. She smiles a moment. Calls up the feeling of the Philly air in early spring, just as frosty as this.

Walking around camp at this hour is often a treat. There’s no need to swerve around, jump over, or otherwise expertly avoid items and people. They’re on a week’s mission in the countryside, somehow, with boredom and the need for purpose both vying for the Army’s attention. It’s been an utter drag so far, and for once she cannot place the whole of the blame on captain Sobel. Mornings like these are the lone moment when the world still feels right.

Or, well, they used to be.

She stops dead in her tracks as she rounds the corner of one of the larger tents and comes face to face with a dance like nothing she’s ever been taught.

It’s the lieutenant from Dog Company. Speirs, her brain supplies helpfully. His name’s Speirs. She shakes her head as she remembers the straight-backed, coiled-too-tight lieutenant who beat Sobel in the Olympics games without ever breaking a sweat. There’d been something of a fever in his eyes then, though, one that had made Joan frown and Marjorie worry, and watching him now makes her insides lurch.

He’s not alone.

Weaving, darting, bending around him are shadows. Shadows that meet the flash of blades in his hands, moving so quickly that the glint of steel becomes flashes of lightning against the overwhelming dark. Shadows that cling to another person, who might very well not be called a person at all. Shadows that strike him, fling him aside carelessly, wait for him to get back to his feet only to punch him straight onto his back again.

She watches, mesmerized, as the lieutenant locks his blades with the woman’s arms and draws blood that is gone as quickly as it came. Watches, with the heat of terror stuck between her shoulders, as the sharp edges keep finding the woman’s body to draw death and destruction upon it. Speirs draws a map of hurt onto immortal skin and is met with languid, encouraging laughter.

“Again, honey,” she hears, sing-song keyed into that strange woman’s voice, “but lower and sharper. The blade must twist on entry.”

A gasp escapes her as Speirs’s blade swivels, turns, twists its way into the woman’s belly.

Speirs, all glittering eyes and with a snarl twisting his features, turns to look at her. The woman, flashing a smile his way for reasons Billie cannot possibly fathom, turns her head moments after.

“Well, shit,” she groans. Sighs when the lieutenant withdraws his blade and doesn’t look like he’s going to stop focusing on her. “Fuck.”

Billie recoils involuntarily as she locks eyes with the woman. Too-dark eyes look her up and down a moment, weighing something Billie doesn’t want to dare identify, before another smile quirks upward on that pale face. Something akin to recognition flashes across beautiful, too-perfect features. The smile turns sharp, pointed, amused in a way that makes Billie’s belly hurt.

The smile is all teeth and hunger.

“I’m sorry,” says Billie, mentally cataloging all the different paths with which she can wriggle her way out of danger, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” When in doubt, stay unflinchingly polite. She’s learned that lesson at her mother’s knee, even when the rest of those lessons are lost to stubbornness and resentment. But Billie is still Billie, and desire pours forth from her mouth before she has a chance to bite it back. “It’s just.. It looked so good. I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“Took Ron years to learn,” says the woman, and it’s only the slight nod she directs at lieutenant Speirs that lets Billie know Speirs and ‘Ron’ are one and the same. Her voice is more melodic than Billie expected. Dark, low tones mingle with a lilt that almost sounds like song. “Blades are easier than guns, sometimes. Good to carry.”

“They don’t teach us how to use them much, here. It’s mostly guns.”

The woman hums. Her eyes are sharp, like the blades her chosen carries. “Would you like to learn, sweetheart?”

“I’m not fighting you.” Billie shuts that down right quick, or so she thinks. She might be brave and a little careless, quick to fight and quick to rebel, but she’s not stupid. “You’re a god. I’m not even chosen. That’s not happening.”

“Not chosen?” Lieutenant Speirs’s eyebrow raises just like his god’s does. “Could’ve sworn.. No matter. It’s Mitchell, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. Billie,” she supplies helpfully, knowing full well the man’s not likely to use that. “Non-chosen, unless there’s something a god’s not telling me.”

“There’s a great many things they don’t tell.”

“Hey,” says the woman, nudging his side, “I tell you plenty.”

Billie blinks as Speirs actually rolls his eyes skyward. There’s something entirely irreverent about the way they interact, all familiarity in their glances and touches, that she hasn’t even seen between Nixon and his god. Even Molly’s god, though tightly woven around her speech, doesn’t seem as indulgent toward their charge as the god that stands before her now. There is a bit of a wordless debate at play before her that’s even more impressive than her mother’s judgmental looks.

“Would you like to learn, Mitchell?” asks Speirs, then, as the argument silently resolves. “From me, not her.”

“What, that?” She very nearly smiles. Very nearly becomes all teeth and hunt just like the god Speirs so clearly adores, as if she cannot wait to plunge into the depth of such mayhem herself. “What’s the use, sir?”

“Come here. You know how to work with needles, yes?”

“Sewing or stitching someone up? Never cared for the former,” she says, a little too breezily as she remembers too many stone-faced silences thrown her way, “but I can do the latter.”

“The blade’s a lot like that.” Speirs’s voice is calm as he holds out one of his own knives. “A needle’s always attached to a string. With knives like these, the string is your body.” His hand locks around hers. Presses the hilt into her palm, adjusts her fingers, keeps speaking in that matter-of-fact voice she’s never heard from anyone in her own company bar Chuck Grant. “Your body, in battle, is never a statue. Always moving. The blade moves with you. If you let it loose, you must catch it.”

“And if I don’t catch it?”

“Then you’re thinking too much, feeling too little.” Speirs’s god leans against the stacked crates and shrugs. “Battle’s about the feeling.”

“That’s not what captain Sobel tells us,” mutters Billie, loud enough for both to hear.

“Trust the tactics. Trust your instincts more. Move when you need to. Use your head, but don’t get stuck in it.”

“I’m never stuck in my head,” says Billie, using the blade to weave a pattern against the rising sun’s rays. She shrugs as she meets the lieutenant’s eyes. “I’m never stuck, period. Always moving.”

Away from home. Away from duty that isn’t mine. Away from expectations.

“Then you’ll learn,” he says, and slashes his own blade upward against hers.

He’s slowed down on purpose. Allows her to find her feet as she stumbles and then recovers with her borrowed blade jabbing out sharply. Indulges her as she eyes him, picking out any chinks in his carefully drawn-up armor. He favors his right ever so slightly, so she lunges toward the left. Isn’t surprised to hear the laughter of his god as he narrowly side-steps her.

“Putain,” she winces, English momentarily forgotten, when he retaliates in arches and jabs that see her driven backward.

“Language, Mitchell,” smirks Speirs.

She grits her teeth. Oh, she’s going to knock him on his ass or die trying all right. She weighs the knife experimentally. Tosses it into her left hand, lashes out at him with her right fist, lunges for him with an outstretched foot and a snarl. Left, right, left, easy as breathing, easy as running Currahee, easy as those damn waltzing lessons she tries to forget every day of her life.

Billie winds up on the floor half a dozen times before she manages to land a smack of the knife’s hilt against his chest and twists the blade toward him before he can pull away. She finds herself picking up the pace, picking up on the spaces he leaves for her in this fight, picking her moments even as he teaches by delivering bruises to her arms and legs. He narrowly avoids having his lip split by one of her crazier ideas, while she is left bemoaning her life choices as the air is knocked from her lungs again.

She knows he indulges her. Knows that this fight would be over in less than a minute if he was really trying to hurt her. Knows she’d be dead if she was an enemy, but somehow Speirs has decided to side with her in this war. She’s glad for it, now, even when he teaches in half-sentences and invites his god to comment with observations that don’t mean anything to Billie yet. She’s glad to know there’s someone whose fight makes sense to her body, whose movements are logic and feeling wrapped up as one, who doesn’t see her as anything other than a potential weapon to win a fight with.

When she laughs, finally, now that the sun dances through his god’s midnight-toned hair and the camp begins to awaken around them, he withdraws the blade and the battle as quickly as it came. He nods at her as they stand and breathe in the English cold.

“Same time tomorrow, Mitchell.”

“Is that an order, sir?” she asks reflexively, too trained and too polite by far. She bites her tongue. Deliberates. Shifts back and forth on her feet when his unblinking eyes remain unreadable to her. “I mean, you must have better things to do.”

“Better than teaching you to dance, Mitchell?” The tone is light. Too light. Too careful, too, and she recognizes the firm hand of his god in what he says and omits. “I can think of nothing better with which to spend this waiting game. Don’t be late.”

Billie, much later in the war, will swear up and down that Speirs is at his most dangerous when he smiles. Today, she merely stares after his retreating form. His god follows in his wake. All the shadows in the land move with them.

She shivers.

[elareine]

Prompt: Bruce walks in and finds Jason and Tim having sexy fun time, panick and denial on all sides ensues

…this ran away from me a bit. Probably not the funny second hand embarrassment thing you wanted, sorry. It’s been a while since I wrote from Bruce’s perspective, so thank you for the prompt! 

The first thing Bruce notices is the touches. Casual hands on each other’s shoulders, a brief high-five after patrol, the companionable nudge of an elbow. Then there are the nicknames. ‘Red’, ‘Jay, ‘Timmy’. 

But there is no reason for Tim and Jason to be casual with each other. Considering their history, Bruce can only think of two things that would bring them together: Either Tim has decided to join Jason on his mission to ‘clean up’ Gotham (unlikely), or there is some terrible threat hanging over them that, for some reason, only the two of them know about and don’t want to share with him. 

He doesn’t want them to think they have to carry things alone.  

But after he checks every possible source of danger he can think of, he’s still doesn’t know what it is that brought them together. The logical thing is to start investigating at the other end, to look at the two of them and not their environment. 

At first, he tries to follow Clark’s Sane Parenting Advice and goes to talk to someone about it. Namely, Dick. He’s aware his oldest often functions as a go-between/mediator/translator between Bruce and the others. He can probably explain everything to Bruce and won’t even laugh at him too much. 

(Sometimes he thinks Dick is more of a co-parent than an older brother. Then he pushes that thought far, far away.)

But all his question gets him is an eye-roll and a “They aren’t doing anything except being friends, Bruce. Some of us do that.” 

Bruce briefly considers presenting his evidence. It sounds ridiculous even in his own head, and he abandons the conversation. 

He isn’t going to try and install surveillance in their apartments. That would be an unforgivable invasion of their privacy, which Alfred has made very clear is a bad thing. 

…okay, okay. He tried and Tim found every single bug. 

However, Bruce isn’t the World’s Greatest Detective for nothing. It takes him a while, but through careful analyzation of com communications, mission reports and police incidents reports, he figures out that there is a pattern. Nothing too obvious and not by any means regular, just… absences that suggest they might be together, and whatever they’re doing, it’s not fighting crime. 

Which is how Bruce finds himself walking into Tim’s apartment on one such evening. Yes, he enters through the window, but what else did you expect? He’s Batman. No, he doesn’t announce himself; Tim’s security system will do that for him, he’s sure. 

Yes, he finds Tim and Jason together. 

No, Tim’s security system didn’t alert them of his presence, or if it did, they didn’t notice. 

“What the fuck.” Jason is the first one to react. 

“This isn’t-“ Tim says, then stops himself, most likely because it very much is. 

Bruce turns and walks away and doesn’t stop until he’s eleven rooftops away. 

Then he wants to kick himself for his lack of reaction.

If he doesn’t say anything, Tim will worry. He’s become independent in a way Bruce still doesn’t quite understand (had been dead for the majority of it for), but he still values Bruce’s opinion. Jason will probably pretend it didn’t matter to him. 

It took way too long, but Bruce has finally started to realize that that’s a lie. 

He knows he didn’t always do right by either of them. God, he knows. He’s trying, though. He needs to get this right. 

So he has to say something. Let them know it’s okay. But God, he can’t go back in there, can he? 

When no immediate solution springs to mind, Bruce asks himself: What would his friends do? 

Dick would probably say something ridiculous or lightly teasing the next time he saw them. ‘It’s about time’, maybe. And then present them with a safe sex talk. Tim and Jason would be bright red by the end of it, but they’d not be in any doubt that Dick approved. This was not an option for Bruce. Damian would never let him live it down. 

The kind of jokes Selina would make… Bruce feels like blushing just thinking about it. 

Alfred… well, he would find something to express his support in his own quiet way, like handing Tim Jason’s favourite tea to pass along. But if Bruce did that, Jason would destroy it on sight. 

Diana would either be very earnest about it or just smile widely every time she sees them together. Bruce can’t do that. Alfred would have him committed within the week. 

Oh. He’s being stupid. He has the world’s foremost authority on accidentally seeing people have sex on speed dial, after all. 

“Batman?”

“Clark.” 

He can hear the exhale of relief at the casual greeting that signals this isn’t an emergency. Clark could’ve been standing in front of him within a minute, but this is good, too. Bruce doesn’t need to see his friend’s expressions when he knows them intimately. 

“Bruce. How are you?” 

“I have a matter in which I require your advice.” 

“Shoot.” 

“What would you do if you walked in on your son having sex and wanted to express your approval at their relationship?” 

“Aren’t Damian and Jon a bit young for that still?” 

Bruce stops short, then decides to ignore that for now. “Tim and Jason.”

“Oh.” There’s a pause as Clark digested that. “Is it a… relationship?” 

When Bruce closes his eyes, he can still see the way Jason’s body covered Tim’s protectively; how Tim clung onto him even as he tried to face Bruce; the kiss Bruce interrupted that looked more intimate than the joining of their bodies. 

“Yes.”  

“And you approve?” 

With a start, Bruce realizes he hasn’t ever questioned that. He still doesn’t. 

“It’s not who I would have chosen for them,” he tells Clark, “but maybe that’s a good thing.” 

His friend’s voice is warm. “Then maybe you should go back and tell them that.” 

Bruce doesn’t sigh, but it’s close. Trust Clark to tell him what he doesn’t want to hear. 

Well, that’s why he called him. 

Bruce turns and is starting to make his way back to Tim’s apartment when Clark adds: “And Bruce? Knock this time.” 

[melindacoulson4]

It’s a tragedy

Philinda. Speculation for 5x12. How do you respond? What do you say when you know you're running into certain death and the woman you love is right in front of you? This is what it means to be the shield.  Ch.1/3.

He knew this decision would turn into a blowout fight. Right from the beginning, when Daisy and Fitz ran into the control room and began spewing details about how the kree calling device blew up in the storage room and Noah was now dead. The same storage room that apparently also held three monoliths encased in fiberglass. But what good would fiberglass be against a detonated alien artifact.  Daisy had tapped into the security camera feeds for the room as Fitz went on and on about the implications of anything in that storage room getting out. There were rows upon rows of stored shield tech. Powerful weapons. Decommissioned O84s. Fitz paced back and forth spewing garbled speech, trying to wrap his head around all of the possible things that could be happening in that room. He and Melinda watched Fitz, unable to comprehend the science lingo coming from his mouth.

They all turned towards the image that popped up on the screen before them. It was something completely unimaginable. A glowing blue light hovered in midair at one end of the room. It didn't seem to come from any object. It was just there, floating with the light swirling around haphazardly. He'd seen many things in his lifetime, hundreds of unexplainable, mind boggling things: everything from gravitonium to LMDs to Tahiti to Carl Creel. There was a spectrum of weird that he’d gotten used to. Nothing seemed to surprise him anymore after years of coming into contact with these things. But this left him speechless. It looked like a literal rip in space and time, like a special effect from a sci-fi movie that could never come to fruition.  Daisy switched camera angles.  The next view that they got was of absolute chaos. Metal containers were shaking in place; some were on the ground busted open. Metal shelving units were overturned. Items were zipping past the screen like a twister was ripping through the room. He wondered how that blue light was creating all of this disruption.

Something else caught his eye. There was movement along the left side of the screen. It appeared that there were shadows moving quickly in and out of the camera feed. But as he looked closer his heart truly dropped into his stomach. The shadows took on a distinct shape. There was no doubt in his mind of what they were: people. There were people in that room.   They watched completely entranced as someone ran past the screen, going so fast Phil could only make out a blur of movement. Another one moved to the right side of the feed and this time the camera picked up more detail. A woman stood there with dark hair, a black jacket, jeans, and boots. He couldn’t make out anything significant or familiar about her. There was no clue as to who she was or how she ended up in there. Another figure appeared. This time a man, obviously distressed with his arms waving wildly. He grabbed the woman by the elbow and they both took off running. They appeared to be normal, but they were clearly terrified of something other than the floating blue light in the room. That's when they saw a familiar face flash across the video feed.  “This can’t be real,” Daisy gasped. The wild black hair. The misshapen forehead. The distinct massive body. It was Lash. All of the evidence was right there in front of them, illuminated by the bright cerulean blue light. But he still couldn’t wrap his mind around it. It was impossible. Lash was dead. Andrew was dead. Daisy had been with him when he died. May had seen the body. There was no way he could be here, alive and in this timeline, right now. And yet they could all clearly see him stomping around the area and moving in and out of the video frame.  He caught Melinda's gaping stare out of the corner of his eye. He couldn't imagine what was running through her head. "I may be able to get ears in there...," Daisy trailed off as she rapidly typed on the keyboard.  He almost objected, unsure if he even wanted to hear any horrible sounds coming out of that room. At first, there was a deafening silence and then the sounds of destruction: crunching metal, items banging around, winds whipping.    Just when he was beginning to think it wasn’t so bad, the screams began. The bloodcurdling type of screams that momentarily freeze the body in place just on instinct alone. Ones that make the brain say: someone is about to die. It accessed the primal part of the brain and caused the heart to accelerate, knees to weaken, and shivers to run in waves through all four limbs. In his case, all three limbs, the robotic forearm and hand being the exception.  All of those people, who even knew how many were in there, would be slaughtered by Lash. Hell, it most likely was already happening right now by the sounds of those screams. Lash was a beast- an unstoppable force of pure strength.   He knew right then that someone would have to go in and assess the damage. Those people were nothing but innocent civilians trapped in that room. They could be people from the future, the past, another universe, a different dimension. They could've come from anywhere. He couldn't let them stay there in the room where no logic existed.  There was no doubt in his mind that if they let whatever was happening in that room continue to develop, hell would rain down upon them all. If something so powerful was somehow released into the world there may not be a world left after that. An extinction level event would occur. Maybe this was where the end began. Maybe this was why the Earth cracked apart. Maybe it had nothing to do with Daisy. Either way, someone had to fix the problem. Someone would have to find a way to lead everyone to safety and get the monoliths contained. He knew there was no other choice but himself. Who better to go storming into a room full of nightmares than a man who had a nightmare spreading inside of him already- one that would kill him any day now. He was a ticking time bomb. If he died in that room it wouldn't be a sacrifice. It would merely be the universe speeding up the inevitable.  So when he opened his mouth and shared his plan to go in alone everyone else took that as an invitation to yell out reasons why they should be the one to accompany him.  I know what Lash is capable of! I am the only one with an actual scientific background to deal with the monoliths! I can solve the problem! Oh really? And what equipment would you use? You don’t even have your powers. He was my husband! You're not seriously using that as a reason.  None of you understand the gravity of this situation!  You'll be killed in an instant! I am the engineer here!  You'd be way in over your head. I'm going. On and on they argued. Daisy, Melinda, and Fitz shouted at each other for a full five minutes. He had a sneaking suspicion that he could've vacated the room and they would've been none the wiser. But he couldn't take the risk of any of them trying to follow him.  He'd laid it out clear and dry. None of them were expendable. Only one person had to go in and that person would be him.  They all froze and stared at him in complete shock, not quite believing what he was saying.  He found it easier to turn away in that moment, to flee before they gained their senses back. But of course Daisy stepped in his way before he could get anywhere. She told him that he couldn't go in alone and asked him why he had to be the one to go.  He ignored the question. She didn't need to know about the sickness inside of him. None of them needed to know. Instead, he'd turned it back on her and told her why she had to stay. He told her that she was the future of shield. She had a knack for inspiring people and he said that was why she would become the next leader. And that's how they ended up here, arguing in this moment.  "To lead what? To inspire who?" She snaps with a shake of her head, not quite grasping what he has been telling her.  "Shield. There's an idea....a symbol. That must continue," he explains. She is everything that shield stands for. He saw it right from the beginning. She's a leader: innovative, passionate, and intelligent- the ideal replacement to become director of shield. If anyone were to rise up and take the reins he would want it to be her.  "There is no shield!" She screams adamantly.  Technically, she's right. There is no base of operations. No director. No army of agents. There's only the seven of them (not including Deke) in their core group. The extraordinary people that he's chosen to surround himself with. They have all become shield. They've carried the burdens: not having families or personal lives. The losses: Rosalind, Andrew, Lincoln, Mace, Tripp, Hunter, Bobbi, and now Talbot. The heartache: Bahrain, Daisy's parents, Ward's betrayal, Melinda's captivity and subsequent replacement. The trauma: being dropped in the ocean, losing a hand, being killed and brought back, being responsible for Mace's death, Mack losing a daughter in the framework, Jemma stuck on an alien planet, and most recently Yo-Yo losing both arms. Year after year they've suffered in the name of protection, justice, and truth. Person after person being bombarded by unimaginable obstacles. Yet each one of them has risen to the occasion to carry on shield's message.  "This is shield. Right here! Every person in the bunker is shield. You are all needed to keep it going!" He will not allow anyone else to die. No one else will go in with him. They are all needed. This world needs them. All of them: Fitz, Simmons, Melinda, Daisy, Mack, and Yo-Yo. They all bring something unique to the table. Each person has a specific skillset that no one else possesses. Together they make the perfect team. They represent the shield.  "And what...you're not needed then?" Daisy asks incredulously, arms crossing over her chest.  I don't have a choice, he opens his mouth ready to fire back, and then snaps back to reality. He can't say. He can't give her an answer.  He refuses to tell them about his imminent demise. It would only make things worse. He sighs heavily. She's backed him into a corner, which makes him equally frustrated and proud of her. And just like that she’s validated what he’s been saying, becoming the leader that he sees within her. Never backing down from a fight. Always trying to save everyone (except herself). She's never shied away from a challenge. If she believes something is wrong, she speaks up. That particular trait now impedes his escape but still, he appreciates her concern.  He knows they can't waste anymore time arguing. The outcome will be the same no matter what she says. He is going into that room unaccompanied to fix whatever the hell the problem is. He'll eliminate the threat no matter what the cost.  "I am needed right now to go in that room and if a sacrifice needs to be made then that's what will happen. I am going in...alone. End of discussion!" He orders, cutting off all of their rebuttals.  He catches Daisy's flinch, Fitz's raised eyebrows, and Melinda's devastation.  He storms off before Daisy can get another word in, swiping his icer and holster off of the table nearest to the screens on his way out. Before even thinking about entering the storage room he stops by their makeshift armory. It’s one thing to run head first into a situation without backup, but it’s a whole other beast when you have no artillery to aid you. There are multiple rows of various types of guns, grenades, gas masks, goggles, vests, helmets, and shields in here. There are cases of bullets. This armory has everything an agent could dream of having if that agent was living in the 50’s, that is. Unfortunately, nothing has been updated around here. There’s no advanced Fitzsimmons developed and tested tech. They don’t have a stock of icers, which were only created a few years ago. Everything they had was lost in the explosion of their former base. The only icers they had left were the ones that had come from the storage on the zephyr.  He needs something out of this world to help him. He really wishes that bambino was stored somewhere around here. He would definitely appreciate that sort of fire power right about now. There just wasn’t a rule book for this sort of thing. How does one fight an inhuman beast hell-bent on destruction? One who also happens to be the former husband of the woman he’s madly in love with. The thought makes him cringe. He settles for two grenades. They seem like the most powerful weapons in this armory. As he picks them up, he realizes there is writing stamped on the sides. SSR 141849387and SSR141849388 He feels a spark of boyish excitement reading that, nostalgia overtaking him. He wonders how old this bunker really is. He could spend hours exploring every room, taking in the work of former agents. But he knows he can’t afford to think about that right now. It would only make walking into that room with the blue light, Lash, and three monoliths that much harder. He shakes the feelings away.

He stuffs the grenades and the three extra bullet clips that he’d snagged from one of cases into a small zipper pouch in his hand. The storage room is down two floors and on the left side of the hallway three doors down. He finds the elevator, enters it, and presses the correct floor. It jolts to life almost startling him as he could still feel some of the residual tremors flowing through his legs from the high of his fight with Daisy. The excess adrenaline is still lingering within his body.

Don’t think of Daisy now.   Better yet, don’t think of anyone. Focus on the mission. It’s difficult to do so when he’s at a total loss for a plan right now. Talking some sense into Lash is out of the question. Killing him with simple bullets is out of the question. He has no clue. The only thing that makes a bit of sense is to somehow lure Lash back to the monolith that he came from. That’s the big question though. Where the hell did this Lash come from? Some nightmare dimension full of dark terrors he assumes. A place where items like the darkhold originate from. The doors open as the elevator stops, signaling the arrival of the desired floor. Before moving, he checks and rechecks the chamber in his handgun, reholsters it, then grabs the icer from behind his back and tucks it into the front of his waistband. Get in there and do the job, he tells himself. Pretend it’s just another mission, he repeats over and over in his mind. After taking one last deep breath he steps off of the elevator and begins marching towards his target at the end of the hall on his left. He only gets five steps before the door to his immediate right swings open and slams against the wall. A figure steps out and cuts him off. It’s obvious who it is. Melinda. He doesn’t want to believe that she came down here for him. He wishes she didn’t. He really wishes she didn’t.  All he can do is stare at her as her chest heaves in an attempt to catch her breath. Her left hand falls against the wall as she braces herself, visibly cringing.

It takes him a few seconds to figure out why. Once he does, concern shoots through his veins. The door that busted open only seconds ago is labeled: STAIRWAY, which means she ran down the stairs to get here in time. She ran on her wounded leg and now she’s in pain. All for the chance to try and stop him.

His teeth clench together at the thought of her rushing to move down the steps, hurting herself in the process. That’s what always seems to happen. She is always getting hurt because of him. This will be the last time, though. He’s not coming back out of that room once he goes in. There are too many things that could go wrong in that room. He can feel the danger in his gut like a sixth sense. It’s the ugly truth that he’s come to accept.  He simply watches Melinda breathe in front of him, unable to come up with a proper sentence. She looks right back at him, her dark eyes filled with anger. The last time she was this pissed off was when he implied that she was too quick to kill- that she was trigger happy. That ended with her slamming a car door in his face and a silent treatment for three agonizing hours. The laser focus that she has on him now makes him feel disarmed and bear, like she can see right through him and read each thought that crosses his mind. This will be the end of them, he thinks and hopes that she’s unable to read that thought. "So that's it. You're just going to go in there alone and get yourself killed?" she asks as a deep frown forms on her face, concealing the hurt that he knows is just under the surface and threatening to break through.  He sighs. He should've known she wouldn't give up that easily. “Melinda…please.” He doesn't know if he has the emotional strength to deal with this. And he certainly doesn’t want their last moments to be made up of snarls and wounding words. They already have a lifetime supply of those from previous arguments. She steps closer, pushing off the wall with a closed fist. "Please what? Don't bother you? Don't talk to you? Don't get in your way? Because that's all I feel like I'm doing lately!" She yells as the frustration of the last few days finally comes out. She takes a breath, calming herself. "Do you not want me around anymore?" She swallows thickly.  No. God, no. He'd never truly wanted to drive her away. But life had forced his hand. There wasn't a choice here. He had to push her away.  He hangs his head in shame. "No. Of course not. I'm sorry that it seems that way. It wasn't my intention." He never meant to hurt her. He just needed to stay away for his own sanity. He couldn't have her there- always near him, so he lied and made up excuses to keep them apart. If not, he would've broken down and spilled everything.  The muscles in her jaw clench. "It wasn't your intention? Just stop! Why do you keep talking to me like I'm just another agent? I'm....we're...more than that. Just tell me what you really mean. I can't do this anymore, Phil." Her frustration washes over him and seems to wrap around his legs tugging him down towards the darkness. He can't do this anymore either. It's slowly sucking the life from him. The constant lying and pretending that he's okay.  It's taking a toll and he just wants it all to end.  But he knows he has a duty to perform. He has to fix this last problem before giving in to the pull of death. Maybe then it will mean something. This way, he won't die pathetically from a heart attack. They won't find him dead in bed or slumped over in a chair. Instead, he'll do this one last thing for them. He'll go out dignified and fighting.  "I need to go in there by myself. I need to know that the team will be safe." He inhales sharply. "I need to know that you'll be safe,” he tells her sincerely as his voice deepens with the pain of everything left unsaid between them.  Her safety means everything. The thought of her in danger is like a lead weight in the pit of his stomach. If Lash got anywhere near her. If the monolith somehow sucked her in like it did to Jemma. If what happened to Yo-Yo happened to Melinda. He wouldn't be able to survive any of that.  She closes the distance between them with a few steps towards him. She stops merely inches from his face. It’s the closest they’ve been in weeks. "Phil....I need to know you'll be safe." She echoes his words, emphasizing each one as they fall from her trembling lips.

It’s obvious that she knows the reality of this situation. That the chances of his survival are slim to none. She knows what a hard call is. They’ve both seen the aftermaths countless times. The spiral Daisy went into after Lincoln’s sacrifice being the most recent. And what happened in Bahrain being her own personal hard call. They both know that once he goes in that room he’ll likely never come back out. Her fingers curl around his leather jacket, clutching it tightly in both hands as tears unashamedly begin rolling down her cheeks. The sight makes his knees weak as if an arrow has pierced the back of both of legs. It takes everything he has not to collapse in front of her. Her distress triggers something deep inside of him. He feels his throat turning to stone as he tries to swallow. His nose burns as he fails to hold back his own tears and he knows that this reaction cannot be prevented. There’s no real reason to hide it any longer. He can only be strong for so long, especially with the way she looks now.

The tears continuously fall from her lashes. He can tell that she’s trying to keep them at bay, but now that it’s started she can stop it.

It shakes him to his core because he's never seen her cry like this. He lifts a shaking hand, trying to be strong for her. His unsteady hand cups her cheek. "Please. Don't cry," he whispers. His thumb gently wipes the wetness away beneath her eye, mindful of the bruising on the side of her face.

Then, he silently begs her to stop making this so hard. The love that he feels for her pours out of him through his tears. He loves her heart, loves that she would try to stop him from going in that room. It’s just another demonstration of her unwavering devotion. She gazes up at him, tears still shining in her eyes. Her grip becomes tighter and she tugs at his lapels, making him take a step closer to her, eliminating all space between them. Their bodies now flush against each other. His hips brush her stomach with each breath they take.  There are so many things that he wants to say but nothing seems appropriate now. Her face inches closer to his and in a blink- before he can process what’s happening, she kisses him, still holding him close to her body. He wants this to happen, has never wanted anything more in his life. He's never waited for something so long. But, at the same time he knows that this is a terrible decision on his part. In the end, he’s powerless against it. There's an electric pull between them that can't be fought against. All he can do is let his eyelids close, shutting out the world, as their lips explore each other for the first time.  The first sensation he feels is relief, knowing that this moment is real. She’s real this time. There isn’t an android version playing him. She’s Melinda, flesh and blood. And she chose this all on her own. There was no programming deep inside her brain making her kiss him. It's all her. After that, there’s an overwhelming sense of warmth as her soft lips seem to caress his. It’s emotional and passionate. He lets it take over as he sinks into their embrace, matching her enthusiasm. He opens his mouth to deepen the kiss. She tilts her head giving him a better angle. They duel back and forth and it becomes somewhat sloppy as they fumble a bit, noses bumping. She sucks on his lower lip. Their tongues tangle together. All decision making capabilities have been put on pause. As anyone who knows them could’ve guessed, their passion threatens to overrule rational thought. It’s much too easy to lose control when he’s longed for her over the course of the last few decades and now she’s giving him all of her in this moment.  It needs to stop now. He needs to get a grip before it's too late. Regrettably, he pulls back, knowing that one more second of her would mean defeat. Their lips stick together briefly as they both move slowly away from each other. It uses up all of his remaining strength to keep himself from leaning in and capturing her lips again. Everything between them seems so clear in this moment. The want, the desires burn bright. They could’ve had something magical between them. And that kiss was nothing but a cruel tease. It makes him want impossible things, both in body and mind. He wants to press her into the nearest wall and forget about everything, all of his responsibilities. He wants to hold her face in both of his hands and kiss her for hours. He wants all of it. Everything she has to offer.  When the rational part of his brain demands that he flee right now, the rest of him stays put, body cemented in place. She breaks his resolve. He wants to be weak. To give in just this once. To be selfish. He wants to take her hand and run. Didn't they deserve it? After all of the hell they've been through. Didn't they deserve a breath of fresh air- some sort of slack from the universe? It’s like he’s always been waiting for the okay. The signal that it was time. The universe calling out to him: sure, Phil. You two have experienced enough heartache. Now go be free.  They were supposed to do so many things. They were supposed to experience each other.

He wants to know what it's like to wake up in a pile of warm blankets with his arms wrapped around her. Bodies pressed together. He wants to share everything. To weave his fingers through hers as they sit with the rest of the team, beers in hand, thighs pressed together, feeling each other’s warmth.

To run to her after being separated after a tough mission, bodies colliding. They would think nothing of the dirt or sweat on them because it wouldn’t matter as long as they were together. He’s lost count of the number of times he’s wanted to do that very thing, but instead he’d held his hands at his sides and settled for a quick: you okay?  He wants to see her fierce protectiveness coming out when it comes to everyone on the team and not being forced to hide his admiration. He’d be able to verbalize how lucky he is to have her.  He longs to make stupid, corny jokes just to see her fight to keep the smile from forming on her face.  He wishes they could just be together.  But now, all the universe says to him is: Too little, too late, Phil. You had every possible chance to tell her, but you never did. You took it all for granted. Now you're chance has passed. You missed it. You’re thirty years too late.  That's the tragedy of being them. Being friends isn't enough. Being partners isn't enough. Being whatever they are right now isn't enough.  Their one and only kiss will never be enough. None of it will ever be enough.  Which is why, he allows himself another brief moment of closeness between them- one that he's denied for years. His arms wrap around her waist, pulling her into him once again. He holds her like he's always wanted to. They both envelop each other in a hug. His hands sneak under the back of her jacket in an attempt to get closer. The heat from her back penetrates the cotton fabric of her t-shirt and warms his palms as he touches her. At the same time, he’s able to feel how taut her muscles are in her shoulder area. He applies some pressure with his fingertips, hoping to relieve some of her tension. She matches his enthusiasm. Her arms envelope his body as she clings to him just as he is to her.  This is where he's supposed to be. It feels like home. The bliss of the moment is broken soon after as a distant scream echoes through the hallway. It brings him back to the present, back to reality. The one where he's dying and can't keep holding onto her. The one where he knows this would never work out. She would never let him go in there alone now that she has him here. Now that they're joined together like this after sharing a kiss and pouring their hearts out.  That's why she can't know what he's going to do.  He squeezes his eyes shut and presses a kiss to the side of her neck, feels the shiver run up her skin in response. He buries his face in her soft hair, the warmth there. This will carry him through. As long as he keeps in mind that he’s fighting for her to live he'll do whatever it takes to keep the horrors from escaping that storage room. He won't let them get to her. Nothing will have a chance to even come near her.  As they begin pulling away from each other he spots tears still shinning in her sad eyes.

 “I want you to know something,” he whispers.

His hands drop from under her jacket and discretely move towards the icer tucked into his waistband. His fingers grasp the metal handle. The gun seems to be heavier this time around, but he knows it’s just his reluctance to do this. He’s betraying her trust again. She'll wake up alone realizing what he's done. Maybe she'll hate him, maybe she won’t. Either way he won't be coming back to find out. The icer rests between them, pointed at her stomach, as she continues staring into his eyes, unaware of his movements.  “What is it?”

She asks with such openness that it threatens to strike him down. For the first time in- he can't even remember how long- she doesn't realize what's about to happen. She doesn’t anticipate what's to come. And he knows it’s only because she has her guard down. She has complete trust in him. Trusting him to never hurt her or crush her. He hates himself for it.  They’ve run out of time.  So he takes one more breath and allows himself three seconds.  Three seconds to get lost in her eyes. Three seconds that he wants to spill his heart out but can't quite bring himself to form any words. Instead, all he can do is stare into her eyes, silently conveying it all. All that he feels and he can only hope that she’ll be able to understand his motives with time.  Three seconds. You're my partner. My best friend, May.  Two seconds. “You mean everything to me.” he tells her softly.

One second. I love you.  He doesn’t give her a chance to respond. He wouldn’t make it if she said anything back. Just the thought of hearing her say any words from the heart threatens to break him. Instead, he squeezes his eyes shut, unable to look at her, as he pulls the trigger on the icer. A small yelp of surprise leaves her mouth before the drug overtakes her, dragging her into unconsciousness. He feels the slight shake of her body in response to the substance and knows that it’s done the job. She goes limp against him, her weight crashing against his chest. He catches her and wraps his arms around her, holding her up. It'll keep her knocked out long enough for him to get into the room and find a way to barricade the doors shut. So that he can lock everyone out indefinitely, for their own good. He has to keep her away from the room. They need significant distance. He picks her up and moves her into the elevator. He can send her away, far away where she'll be safe from harm. The best he can do is set her down against the wall. The metal material is anything but comfortable, but at least she won't be sitting out in the open, vulnerable. He crouches down in front of her, drawn to her closed eyes. All of the pain is gone from her face. Her expression is clear as she rests in deep sleep. The magnetism between them compels him to lift his left hand and touch her face one last time. Half of it is covered by locks of hair that have fallen in the way during their relocation. He brushes it behind her ear and brings his palm to her jaw, just holding her. It feels so natural, as if he's done it every day for the last ten years. He now has a clear view of the bruises that still linger underneath her skin. They line the side of her face where she was brutally hit during one of her fights in the future. When he first saw the marks and asked her about them she brushed off his concern. Fitz was the one that came to him and relayed the story of what happened in the pit. It was just another tick against him. She would've never been in that situation if he hadn't left her all alone to face the kree with a severely wounded leg.  Looking at her now he is reassured that she'll be able to move on without him. The loss may hurt for a while, but her strength will keep her afloat. She's the strongest person he's ever met.  He nods to himself deciding that now is as best a time as ever to leave.  He gives one last goodbye.  "Melinda....I love you and....I'm so sorry for all of this. I hope one day you can forgive me." He says this knowing that he won't be alive to experience that forgiveness.  His body moves away gradually, savoring the physical feeling of her, knowing that he's losing her with each second. His fingertips run across her jaw, neck, shoulder, bicep, forearm, and then her wrist. That's when his hand cradles hers- the last part of her. He keeps the connection until only their fingertips brush and then her hand falls limply at her side.

Tearing his gaze away from her, he turns around before he has a chance to stop himself and quickly clicks the 20 on the elevator, before stepping out. His breath stutters in his chest as he hears the doors close and the whine of the elevator coming to life once again. It’s done. She’s gone.

The distance already seems to be shattering his heart as he takes his final walk down the hall. Numbness spreads in his legs and arms but he pushes through. He has to. There's no other choice. There is no room for emotions now only logic.

He’s prepared to do whatever needs to be done to keep everyone else in this bunker safe.

He'll be the shield. 

//end Chapter 1// 

[tk-heroics]

A miracle had happened.

The miracle of life, to be more exact.

She sat there, so still one might consider her lifeless as she held the child close. Scarlet tendrils of hair flipped and curled every which way, framing her pale, tired face as she stared down at the creature she’d just given life to. She did not smile, perhaps she’d not even the energy to do so though the babe in her arms seemed as energetic as one could possibly be, screaming and tossing her arms this way and that.

The woman had been important- though any status, fame, or wealth she may have had seemed worthless to her when in the presence of this tiny, fragile being. Nevertheless, it still stood that she was important, and despite her success in the creation of this child the fact she was hiding away in some.. tiny, unkempt cottage in the backwoods of Washington State would reveal that perhaps this important woman had been up to something she should’ve never gotten herself into. A series of events that would continue to remain untold for a very, very long time- not that she minded. Everything she’d done, she’d done with love. Even here in a place where she did not belong she’d committed herself to her duties with a heated compassion and undying love. Though, admittedly, action through love is action most tiring and that series of events she had not minded would lead up to one thing, one permanent, eternal thing:

She was to die.

She knew that, and she’d accepted it long before the child now in her arms had been conceived. She’d wished only the chance to continue her legacy before the end came for her.

Perhaps it was fitting. The world did not need people like her around despite this eternal, undying love she held for the world. The classification system was flawed, but there was one important thing that it always brought forth. The measurability of one’s gift. Those such as she who went beyond such a scale were creatures who defied the logic society had built itself upon; their existence threatened to shatter the science and beliefs of humanity as a whole. Hopefully, she had brought into the world a life which would fit the five-point scale the classification system brought forth. Any life her child would have had to be better than the one she herself had, all because of this.. ‘gift’.

There was the gentlest creak at the doorway and a soft sigh before a low, smooth voice filled the room like honey, “You know.. Usually expectant mothers go to a hospital.” She hadn’t noticed him enter like she normally would’ve, the man who now stood in the doorway. She’d been too tired to hold up her Domination, too focused on the fragile life in her arms to feel him approach. He was a tall, sharply dressed man who smelled of spices- his dark, well-groomed hair was peppered with grey on the sides and his beard was beginning to turn an ashen color at the edges. Beautiful grey eyes narrowed as he peered down at the new mother. He leaned in the doorway, arms crossed as he looked the woman over. They knew each other- and perhaps at one point their relationship had been amiable though now as the air in the room tensed the possibility of it still being amiable seemed to be quite nonexistent. “Usually..Expectant mothers aren’t on the run from big brother.” She responded hoarsely, leaning back in the plush nest-like bed and holding the child closer to her. “True, true. Though certainly I should be responding with.. Not every expectant mother could be passing on the Domination gene to some.. little.. angel, my love.” He paused, a gloved hand reaching up to cover his face and once more he sighed, the breath turning into a gruff groan as he shook his head. His voice became harsher, sharper as he began to scold her, “What.. the hell were you thinking? Doing that- accepting this! Mary! Is this what your life has come to, Mary? You’re blessed with a gift of biblical proportions... beyond the classification scale! Jesus, you’re not even supposed to exist! your life represents the downfall of society itself! They- people like me- wanna kill people like you, and there’s a mad manhunt going on for each and every single one of you- though with each encounter slaughter is the outcome every single time. What? Did you get lonely without Joseph, Mary? Did you want to have his babies that much? This is a gene that should never get passed on!”

“Ah geeze, go to hell.” Mary gently caressed her thumb against the child’s cheek, trying to shush it as it continued it’s pitiful wails. “I did miss Joseph.. He went missing the day before I found out, you know? But another thing; a little bird told me something quite sad.. I heard you killed Joseph- do you get off on offing my family, Jean?  The number will stay at five.” She continued, closing her eyes. Yes, love was so tiring. She’d loved the man named Joseph- and this man too, named Jean had been someone she’d adored. The three had always been close, inseparable really. Even after all that had happened, she’d thought Joseph and Jean would love each other, and love her too through the thick of their tragic life. The fact they would kill each other off made her want to laugh. “Really.. There’s no way I’d be able to pass on Domination of all things. Jean, there’s a reason there’s only five of us.” 

“I hope for a future where there will be less, Mary. Why couldn’t you just accept that you couldn’t have children?” There was a sharp click, the familiar sound of a gun being cocked. Mary did not open her eyes- she did not feel like seeing the gun that would be in his hands. “Mary, it would be better if you’d never been born. Just like the other four of you.” 

“So, you plan on making sure, huh?” Mary whispered, leaning down to give the baby a kiss. Somehow, she found it fitting. Of course she’d accepted that she’d needed to die, but one year ago she never would’ve expected the one that would end her to be the one who’d ended the man she’d married- her other half. “Jean.. I’m too tired for this.” She sighed, her throat beginning to tighten as the tears began to build. “I know I should’ve never been born, love. If I had a place in this world, I wouldn’t be hiding. Of course, I thought you would’ve come to this conclusion sooner. You never did love the unnatural”

“Society is ugly and flawed, but can’t I at least try to defend it? Improve it? Maybe if the world had been fair it would’ve made you weak, but instead it gave you the gift of being the strongest. Nobody could ever truly love you- I don’t even know if Joseph did.” “Did you?” 

The shot went off. Mary would die of course though that instant after the bullet exited the barrel would not be it. The lead hung there, suspended in the air inches from her face- still she did not look at it. Her eyes opened but they were focused on the child in her arms. She set her down on her lap, pulling a blanket over the baby. It wouldn’t do to cover her in blood- not like this. “I did, I think. Are you going to fight this, Mary?” He said quietly, his quivering hand dropping the gun. It clattered to the floor, and Mary couldn’t help but chuckle. Jean had always been the softer one; maybe he was finally growing up. “Don’t kill anyone else, Jean.. You’re not fit for murder. And the baby, give her a good name, okay?”

“Yeah.. okay.”

“Ya know, you could’ve chosen a cleaner way to end me, if you knew I was gonna let you.”

“Needles are for test subjects, rodents. Bullets are for beasts like you Mary. I’ll remember that for next time though.”

The bullet finished it’s trajectory, the death was not clean- it was not pretty like she had been. Chunks of skull and brain splattered against the wall, the body slumped sideways, falling from the impact of the bullet. The baby screamed at the disturbance, beating her feeble hands against the now-damp blanket which covered her.

Somehow, Jean could not think of a more fitting end for the woman called Mary. It would be her vast love which had, in the end, gotten the better of her. With that fiery passion that burned in life came the color which in whole been associated with her, a vibrant red full of warmth and cheer; the same would be said of her death as the fresh crimson dripped down the walls, painting it in a mural of gore. “Maybe I should’ve aimed for the heart. You always had such a pretty face.” He released one last quaking breath, tugging on the cuffs of his suit as he walked over to the bed, seating himself on the edge. The baby was still screaming, loud and grating against his ears though of course he’d no intention in killing the child. He wasn’t a monster.

He’d only hunted them. Though with the end of Mary would come and end to that- he wished to remain a man of science, nothing more, nothing less.

Gentle, tentative hands reached out and grabbed the corners of the blanket, pulling the bloody fabric off of the child. Female- ridiculously tiny and wailing with all of her might as though she understood what had just transpired. He couldn’t help but laugh, a loud, maniacal cackle bursting forth as he slapped his thigh and shook his head. “Jesus fucking christ, Mary! You did all that for this.. this pitiful little creature?! Ah geeze! Sure! I’ll give her a good name for you, Mary! You always did defy logic with that faith of yours, you know? Being a christian and all. I’ll honor you with a good christian name, Mary.”

“The real Mary gave birth to a savior of humanity; or that’s what everyone says, y’know? I don’t think someone like you, however, could ever bear such a blessed being. Before- a long time ago, there’d been a bitch who cursed humanity with her disobedience. It would’ve fit you so much better Mary, but your child will have to do.”

“Eve sounds good, doesn’t it, Mary?” He lifted the child, swaddling it in that same damp, crimson-stained blanket and stood. Jean stared down at the body, allowing a smile to split his face, “I’ll see you in hell, honey.” It was time to leave.

He was not taking Eve to the Garden of Eden, but perhaps the reader could already tell that much.

[beselten-pitch]

Mutually Assured Destruction

Alternate last year at Watford fic, written by the previous owner of simon-and-basilton

Chapter One / Chapter Two / Chapter Three / Chapter Four / Chapter Five / Chapter Six / Chapter Seven / Chapter Eight / Chapter Nine / Chapter Ten / Chapter Eleven / Chapter Twelve / Chapter Thirteen / Chapter Fourteen / Chapter Fifteen / Chapter Sixteen / Chapter Seventeen / Chapter Eighteen / Chapter Nineteen/ Epilogue

Chapter Fourteen

There are some words that people don’t like to say aloud. Maybe it’s because some words sound too real out loud. Too tangible. Too permanent. As though, if they’re just a half-thought idea, they won’t be quite as hard to carry.

“Betrayal” is one of those words.

“Heartbreak” is another.

Baz Pitch had left Watford. Once, he had thought he would never leave. Once, he had fallen in love. But now, but now, but now.

Betrayal.

Simon Snow had an empty room at Watford. Once, he had thought he would do anything to get rid of his roommate. Then, he had fallen in love.

But now there was a letter written in tilting, tumbling, falling-down-the-stairs cursive, clumsier than usual.

But now there was an empty bed with sheets that no longer smelled like wood and oranges and midnight make-out sessions.

Heartbreak.

Simon and Baz didn’t say the words out loud. Instead, they wore them, layering letters carefully on their skin. Invisibly inked tattoos.

They wore their words differently.

Baz wore betrayal with anger. He woke up in the mornings in an unfamiliar house, a house that was not Mummers and was not the Pitch mansion. It was a new place, a place he had never been before, and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like the reason he’d had to move there even more.

When he got up, he moved like his bones were matches, striking them and striking them and fire. He drew violin bow over strings, chin tilted, eyes closed—he played like he was burning.

His voice scraped, tectonic plates shaking into motion, earthquakes on fault lines. Sulfuric smiles and magma in his veins—he was always two seconds from boiling over.

Anyone who saw him knew it, the same way they knew their name or their own reflection: Baz Pitch was angry. That was the way he wore the word “betrayal”. Anger, his finest attire. Anger, which fit him better than his nicest suit jacket.

He was good at being angry.

It was better, this way, perhaps.

It was better for the Pitches, at least, because they could use this. They could work with this. An angry Baz was a Baz that could be manipulated. A Baz that would do what they wanted.

A Baz that would kill Simon Snow, if given the chance.

He wore it well. Betrayal. He wore it red and hot and enraged.

Heartbreak did not fit Simon quite as well.

He was built from brighter things than the dense yellow-gray smog of heartbreak. Simon was a glowing, glittering creature. The sea under sunlight. It seemed that he’d been built without the capacity for something as dark as this.

He wore heartbreak with sadness.

There weren’t tears, or theatrics. But his smiles were bruised, purpling—more fragile than they should’ve been. His laugh was not quite so loud, his smile was not quite so electric.

When people saw him, they had the strange urge to drag him out into the sunlight, or perhaps find a power cord and plug him in. He looked like his battery was running low. Tired. Feet dragging. In need of charging.

It didn’t look good on him.

Really, he was made of brighter things. Heartbreak tarnished all his metal edges, dulled the serrated bite of his grin.

No one liked to look at him for so long. They glanced at this new, duller Chosen One and they let their eyes slide away. It was uncomfortable to look at an oxymoron in motion. Cheeks so used to holding a smile, and yet they held nothing but a thin line. Eyes so used to twinkling, and yet they just stared.

Simon and Baz wore their words differently, but some things were the same.

That is to say, neither of them were happy.

 *

PENNY

Most of the time, there’s not a definitive moment that you can point at and say, “That is the moment when literally everything went to shit.”

Usually, the process of having literally everything go to shit takes time. It’s a gradual sort of thing, a catastrophe that happens in stages rather than all at once. Like plants growing—it’s best illustrated in time lapse. Here’s a series of photographs taken once a day for three months showing the exact sequence of events leading to everything going to shit.

Occasionally, however, there is a singular second when you can look around and say with a certain degree of certainty, “Yes. This is the moment.”

The moment Simon had stumbled into his room to find it empty and a single yellow Post-It note suck to his pillow, that was one of those moments. When Simon peeled the paper from fabric, flattened its curling edges, and read it.

She didn’t need to see the words to understand what it meant.

The cracks running across Simon’s face were enough. Like porcelain, shattering. She could feel the pop-crack-snapping of something breaking in a way that wouldn’t be fixed, not easily. Something that magic or duct tape or superglue didn’t stand a chance in putting back together.

It had been a week since she’d taken the note from Simon’s fingers, read it once, and then crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into the trashcan.

I cannot fucking believe this, Snow. To think I said I loved you.

That was all.

 *

SIMON

Penny hadn’t stopped looking at him with suspicion. The same eyes that heralded disaster, that suggested she knew something that she wasn’t telling him. She eyed him sideways, sometimes, like she was making sure he wasn’t going to make any sudden movements.

But her painful, calamitous gaze had been tempered with a fair dose of pity, now. Pity and concern. The sort of sickeningly sweet heartfelt concern that made him feel like he was lying in a hospital bed surrounded by flowers and gift baskets overflowing with mini-muffins. Like he was a patient.

He wasn’t sure which was worse.

It was understandable, of course. Her careful worrying.

Baz…

Simon didn’t know what to think about Baz. He’d tried being angry, but he was so used to being angry at Baz. It was like trying on clothes that you’d worn constantly but had since become too large to fit into.

He had outgrown being angry at Baz.

There were so many more emotions now, things too big and unnamable for him to explain it. Memories of thumbprints on thighs and lips on lips and fingers tangled in hair.

Things even bigger than that.

Anger was no longer sufficient.

So he moped and felt sorry for himself, because he didn’t know what else to do. He was new to having his heart broken.

He ached, and he ached, and he was full of thoughts of Baz and thoughts of going off at Baz’s house and thoughts of the Mage, who had yet to reappear since Simon’s last ‘task’, and a million other thoughts. Thoughts upon thoughts. Bushels of them.

For someone who tried his best to avoid thinking about hard things, it was too much. You couldn’t expect to swing from thinking about nothing to everything without being overwhelmed by it all.

 *

BAZ

He woke up simmering.

Even lying still in this unfamiliar bed, not thinking, not being actively angry, he simmered. He popped and sparked and spat smoke at the sky.

It only escalated from there.

He found it so easy to go from simmering to boiling to blowing up the entire fucking world.

Anger was easy.

He heaved himself awake, heaved his feet over the side of the bed, and took great heaving steps to his wardrobe. He was heavy, that is. Weighed down with thoughts of Simon.

Simon; cheeks like roses, lips like fortune cookies

Simon; his laughter a feast, the only thing Baz craved more than blood

Simon; a lion glowing gold

He was angry.

Because there were all these beautiful things, gorgeous heavenly heavy things, and then there were facts.

Fact. The Pitch Mansion was empty of people and magic and life.

Fact. The hole that had swallowed Baz’s childhood home had arrived just after the Mage did.

Fact. Simon had helped the Mage. He’d helped the Humdrum.

These were the things that were true.

Simon, with his face an oil painting of warm colors and promises; Simon, with his cheeks and lips and freckles; Simon the lion—

He could so easily have been a lie.

Kisses, cascades of them, all lies. Lies upon lies.

Baz was angry, because no matter how many facts he listed, there was always that thrum in his ribcage. The desperate beatings of a flightless bird.

His stupid fucking heart.

Stop it. He thought, hard. Stop it, Crowley, don’t you remember?

He lied.

He lied, dammit.

But still, his heart, the damned fool. Still in love.

So, he raged. He simmered.

He was going to kill Simon Snow. It was easier than this, it had to be.

No you won’t.

You can’t.

Baz liked to think that he could do whatever he damn well pleased, regardless of what his heart said.

That, however, was doubtful.

 *

PENNY

The research was conclusive.

Simon Snow and the Insidious Humdrum were linked, if not the same thing.

She wasn’t sure what to do about the whole matter. Did Simon know? Was he faking it, this whole Chosen One act? Was he willingly stripping places of their magic?

Maybe he was a villain.

Maybe he had tricked them all.

She thought this, but said nothing. Logic told her not to say anything because, if Simon did happen to be a villain, he’d probably just kill her if he discovered that she knew.

But she didn’t stay quiet because of logic.

Despite it all, she didn’t want to believe Simon knew.

It could’ve been a charade, maybe. Maybe. But Penny had keen eyes and keener instincts, an intuition that never lied, and she didn’t think that Simon Snow was a villain.

He was just a boy.

So she said nothing, for a bit. Because she didn’t like the idea of ruining him with this sort of news. The irreversible kind of news.

He’d already had too much of that kind of news recently.

But she researched, and the correlation was clear. Simon going off and a hole appearing.

It made her sick, just a little.

 *

DAVY

He liked being called the Mage. It was better than some long official title. Because, although all of them were mages, only he got to capitalize the ‘M’. He liked the capital ‘M’. It made him feel important.

Things that made him feel important were his favorite.

Something else that made him feel important was Simon Snow. He liked being the Mage, because that meant Simon was the Mage’s Heir. Which meant that when people looked at Simon they saw him.

(And not because of any particular family resemblance. He’d gotten all of Lucy’s genes. It was better that way, he supposed.)

He liked having people look at Simon, the most powerful mage, and having them see him hidden in Simon’s shadow. Simon Snow was a weapon, and he was the one that held it.

He was the one who had pulled the sword from the stone. He was the one who knew all the nuclear launch codes.

With that kind of weapon, how could he lose?

How could the Old Families hope to win?

He’d already taken the Pitches’ magic. He’d killed the Pitch boy’s cousin in that blasted fire. It was only a matter of time, really.

It had become so easy.

Send his heir somewhere on a ‘mission’. Conjure up a beast to fight him, something that would push him to the edge. Have him go off.

And then, voila. A hole.

It didn’t matter that the Humdrum happened to destroy a few things that the Mage hadn’t intended to target now and then. It was war, and what war didn’t have casualties?

He stroked his beard, which he always kept nicely trimmed, because it made him feel important. He surrounded himself with his Men, with their uniforms and their obedient nods, because it made him feel important.

But he controlled Simon, and by extension, he controlled the Humdrum.

And that didn’t just make him feel important.

That made him the most important mage of them all.

The Mage.

How fitting.