#the brat precursor

[florbelles]

𝑺𝑰𝑳𝑬 𝑪𝑶𝑺𝑨𝑵𝑻𝑶𝑰𝑹 ☙ pre-campaign, c. 1482

. . .her claws and teeth have been sharpened on centuries of corpses, she is the last bud of the poison tree. . . — the lady of the house of love, angela carter

[justrandomfanfictionskh]

We Should have Stayed in Gotham ch1

(Almost every Maribat fic I read has the akuma class going to Gotham. But tell me which is more likely, a class touring the city of crime, or a class touring the city of lights? So here it is, the Daminette fic that only I asked for, where Gotham goes to Paris, and the poor students have to grapple with the fact that they have competition for the most dangerous city in the world. I wonder what will happen?)

ao3

The Gotham students stepped out of the airport and immediately had to squint against the sudden bright light of the mid-morning sun. Already the differences between Gotham and Paris were making themselves known causing every single Gothamite to scoff, laugh, and shake their heads at the Parisians' apparently unwarranted paranoia. There was absolutely no way Paris was more dangerous than Gotham. And yet for some strange reason the Parisian administrators of the International Friendship Conference petitioned to have the conference in Gotham? It was pure insanity.

Even the smallest child knew that having over a dozen schools from five different countries gather together in one place was a recipe for disaster in the city where the opening of a new bank could be the precursor for a terrorist attack. And yet Paris was insistent, that Gotham take its turn hosting the celebration, saying that it was “Too dangerous.” Everyone had laughed at that, literally. There was not a single Gothamite who had heard the news and not laughed. Even now driving the buss to their first location, even Damian “Ice Prince” Wayne was fighting an amused smirk and a soft chuckle, as his peers laughed at the naive and clueless Parisians walking the street below.

In Paris, the sun was shining. In Gotham, the sun barely ever broke through the smog and the rain. In Paris, pedestrians chatted amicably while walking at a leisurely pace. In Gotham, if you didn’t rush to your next location with your head down then you were asking to get mugged. In Paris, police directed traffic and waved to children. In Gotham, the police were always running from one armed robbery to another. Damian scoffed. Paris was like Metropolis, shiny and clean. Gotham was dark and dirty.

“It was probably a prank,” one of the Gotham High students said to his fellows. “You know a joke to get on our good side!”

“Ha!” one of the Gotham Academy students scoffed, “They should know that unlike Two-Face we don’t have a good side.” The bus was filled with laughter, and even Damian’s smirk twitched into a brief smile at the words.

It was no secret that the class divide in America's most dangerous city was as wide as the Grand Canyon. In fact, the only reason the students from the public high school were able to afford this trip was because of the Thomas and Martha Wayne Scholarship Foundation, which—among other opportunities, provided money for Gotham High Students to attend international trips with Gotham Academy. Damian could appreciate the elegance of the arrangement. The spoiled brats, that were unfortunately his peers, could jet off to Paris for the weekend whenever they wished and cared little for school functions where they could not display their wealth. But students from lower income families would probably never leave the city. So why not have them tag along on one of the prestigious rich school field trips where half of the students would opt out of going anyway?

Now, usually this meant that the trip was split into two very distinct groups with each side antagonizing the other, while Damian scowled in the middle. But whenever anyone said anything bag against their shared city, the class divide vanished. Suddenly they were one group united against the outsider who dared insinuate that Gotham was anything but superior in every way. So at that moment the bus was filled with rich and poor laughter as another student said,

“Can you imagine what would have happened if these people had actually come to Gotham!”

“They would’ve folded to Condiment King!”

Damian saw that even the chaperones were smiling softly at the front of the bus. They were probably predicting their easiest trip yet, and Damian found himself agreeing with them. He liked Paris. He had gone here on a mission with his mother. It had been one of the more pleasant ones, considering he had not had to kill anyone. And it was a beautiful city full of art, culture, and history, and since the class seemed to be united, Damian predicted a nice relaxing vacation with no troubles whatsoever. He found himself actually a little excited.

Eventually their laughter was cut off by the fact that they had arrived at their destination. Collège et Lycée Françoise Dupont was the host school for the conference, and they had requested that all of the attending schools participate in a brief assembly with their corresponding classes before going to their hotel and seeing the city. Damian’s class filled into a large classroom with teared desks facing a chalkboard with a projector in front of it. Two teachers were waiting for them. One was a stern looking woman with sharp features and sharp eyes, and the other was her exact opposite. One look and every Gothamite silently agreed, the second woman would not last two minutes in their home, while the first might last long enough to run screaming.

Damian found his way to the back of the class and glared at anyone who got too close, but he needn’t have bothered. The GA students knew him too well, and the GH students were subconsciously separating themselves from the “rich kids.” Once everyone settled the soft teacher cleared her throat and spoke in a sickly sweet voice that made all of the Gothamites cringe against the unfamiliarity of such a tone. No one in Gotham spoke with that level of cheer, unless they were brainwashed…or a villain…or a brain washed villain.

“Greetings everyone!” she said in English, “I am Mme. Caline Bustier, and this is Mme. Mendeleiev. We are the French chaperones for this trip. For the next week you will be partnered with our advanced English Class as you tour the sites and participate in other Conference activities. But before we begin, our class representative and her co-representative have prepared a little presentation to ensure that your time in Paris is as safe and as enjoyable as possible.”

The Gothamites snickered quietly as three girls entered the room each carrying a stack of binders which they stacked on the teacher’s desk at the front of the class. Damian narrowed his eyes at the three girls and found them…strange. They were just too different from each other and yet they moved together with familiarity. It didn’t make sense to him. First there was the blonde girl dressed almost entirely in yellow and black. With her perfect posture, designer clothes, and her narrowed eyes looking down her nose at everyone, she could easily fit right in among the Gotham Elite. Damian assumed that she would take the presenters position, but all she did was narrowly examine everyone with too knowing eyes and scoff, before sitting on the teachers desk and pulling out a nail file.

The second girl who entered the room, had all the appearance and attitude of a lacky. The first word that popped into Damian’s head was lapdog. But the demure girl with auburn hair and round glasses simply giggled at the first’s antics and took her position in front of the teachers with a confident yet shy smile.

That left the third girl. However, Damian did not get a good look at her before she glanced around the room, blushed, and promptly tripped over nothing sending all of her binders flying. The Gothamites snickered as the second girl rushed to help the third. Damian internally groaned at the blatant incompetence. But everyone was silenced by a sharp, “Hey!”

Everyone’s attention snapped to the first girl who was now glaring at them with the intensity of Poison Ivy when someone touched one of her plants. “If all you can do is laugh at someone when they fall, then you wont survive two minutes in Paris. Now apologize to my friend, and—”

“Chloe,” the third girl said and despite her flushed face and her nervously darting eyes her voice was clear and calm, and almost commanding despite the fact that it was also soft and melodic. “It’s ok. I’m not hurt, and it wasn’t their fault. It was an accident. Just take a breath, and help Sabrina pass out the binders. Please?”

The rich girl, Chloe, grumbled under her breath but obeyed (even if she slammed the binders in front of the students who had snickered). As this was happening, the clumsy girl brushed herself off and took her place in front and center. Now that Damian could examine her, he found that she was even more different than the other two, and he could not comprehend how she could have possibly commanded this Chloe. She was small, with black hair pulled back in pigtails like a five-year-old. Her bright bluebell eyes and blinding smile screamed innocence and naivety. Every single Gothamite thought the exact same thing,

“She would have died in Gotham.”

But despite her earlier clumsiness and the thoughts of the visitors, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Damian stared in fascination as a change came over the girl. Her posture straightened. Her shoulders squared. She lifted her head, and when she opened her eyes, there was nothing but confidence and clarity in them. Damian huffed in consideration and leaned back in his chair suddenly very interested in what this girl had to say as the other one, Sabrina placed his binder in front of him with a smile.

“Hello,” the girl up front said in near perfect English. “My name is Marinette Dupain-Cheng, and I am the class representative for Lycée Françoise Dupont Troisième Class. Or as you would say, sophomore year, same as all of you. This is my co-representative Sabrina Raincomprix.”

“Hello!” Sabrina waved as she took her place at the front of the class. “It’s nice to meat all of you. By the way this is our friend, Chloe Bourgeois. She’s a little overprotective.” Chloe just huffed and retook her seat on top of the desk, electing to ignore everyone else.

“Any way,” Marinette continued with that same blindingly bright smile. “Due to the current state of Paris, we felt it only fair to walk you through a ‘How to Survive Paris Crash Course’ before the conference gets into full swing.” The Gothamites stared at the small Parisian girl in astonishment. She wasn’t serious was she? Didn’t she know who they were? Where they were from?

Apparently she was because she ignored their incredulous stares and pulled up one of the extra binders and presented it to the class. “You were all handed a Paris Survival Guide made by the student council for the conference. In it you will find everything you need to know about our villain, our heroes, and the protocol for surviving their battles, including a map to the akuma shelters near the conference’s various locations, and a list of apps that you will be required to download in order to ensure you and your friends safety. Now if you all open your guides, I will briefly go over the most important information before turning you back over to your teachers.”

“You can’t be serious!” Damian saw Chad, one of the GA students, stand up and stare at the girl in amused disbelief. “All this for a villain? Singular? You know we’re from Gotham right? We can handle whatever cutesy little trouble maker you throw at us. We have the Joker.”

 While no one particularly liked Chad, Damian thought he was an idiotic prick, the students couldn’t help but mutter and nod in agreement. But Damian only raised his eyebrow as a change came over every single Parisian in the room. They all stood up straighter, their shoulders tense. They watched the Gothamites with a mixture of fear, frustration, and annoyance. But before any of them could speak, Chloe leapt from the desk and stomped up to Chad.

Everyone fell silent, before the fire in her eyes and the fury in her step. She slammed a hand on his desk forcing him to flinch back in his seat so that she was looming over him in a storm of black and yellow. “Oh, you think you’re so clever, huh? Oh we have the Joker! We can survive anything!” she said mockingly, “Well Monsieur ‘I’m from Gotham,’ I wish we had the Joker. Do you know why? Because—”

“Chloe!” Everyone snapped back to Marinette. Her voice was suddenly as sharp and as cold as her expression as she glared at her friend. Damian unconsciously flinched at how closely this small girl’s ferocity resembled his father’s patented expression. And everyone recognized the quiet command she held, as even those who had continued to snicker at Choe and Chad were silenced into rapt attention.

“Take a breath, Chloe,” Marinette said a bit more gently. And Damian watched in amusement as the other girl visibly relaxed as she made her way back to her friends. Once her view was unobstructed, Marinette studied the Gothamites and sighed. She set down her binder and fell into a more relaxed posture as she leaned against the desk. She then turned her gaze on Chad. From his position behind the other boy, Damian saw yet another thing in the girl that threw him into confusion. Exhaustion. “What would you do,” Marinette asked Chad calmly, “If the Joker was robbing a bank and you told a tourist to avoid that street, but they just laughed and continued walking?”

“Um,” Chad said, his eyes searching desperately for support, “I would wish them a speedy death, cause that’s all they deserve for being so stupid.”

The Gothamites chuckled, and Marinette nodded with a soft, understanding smile. “Exactly,” she said. “In your city, you respect you villains and the danger they pose, and you ask everyone to do the same. All we ask is for the same curtesy. Is that too much to ask?”

Damian found himself impressed as he watched his peers silently straighten in their seats, and begin fingering their binders. With one question, she had gained the attention and the consideration of an entire group intent on mocking her. Now she was in complete control, as she nodded and straightened. She turned, opened her binder, and said, “Now, Paris only has one villain and his partner, however, he is probably the worst villain you will ever encounter outside of Gotham. The reason is simple, he enslaves people.”

Everyone jerked up, confusion filling the classroom as Sabrina picked up the thread, “If you will all turn to page one under the section marked ‘Heroes and Villains,’ you will see the latest picture of our villain, Hawkmoth, as well as a list of his powers. On page two you will see a picture of his partner, Mayura. The rest of the chapter is a list of the heroes currently fighting them.”

“Right now Paris is at war,” Marinette said, her calm seriousness perfectly contrasting with Sabrina’s light lecturing. “But the soldiers are not willing henchmen and crooks like in Gotham. They are people, normal people just going about their lives, until Hawkmoth strikes.”

“The magic item he wields allows him to create akumas,” Sabrina said over the sound of pages turning. “Akumas are magic purple butterflies that possess Hawkmoth’s victims transforming them into villains that will do his bidding. But do not be alarmed, in order for Hawkmoth to possess you, certain qualifications must be met.”

“Negative emotion,” Marinette said, her exhaustion seemed to seep into her words as she said it. “Anger, sadness, fear, pain. These are the thoughts and emotions that Hawkmoth uses to possess his victims. Should you at any moment feel any of these emotions then you are at risk of being akumatized. And once that happens you will only care about two things. The first, will be the thing that caused the negative emotions. Be they a person, or an action, you will become obsessed with fulfilling the need the negative emotions created. The second is obeying Hawkmoth’s will without question or choice.”

“Section two in your Paris Survival Guide,” Sabrina said with unwavering cheerful professionalism. “Has a list of the most common akuma, their negative emotion, and the actions that created them. Section three has a list of self-calming techniques, as well as meditation apps, and the number for the Self Care Hotline in case you need immediate assistance. If you do not have a phone, one will be provided for you curtesy of Wayne Enterprises.”

Damian felt all eyes glance at him, but he ignored them as Marinette continued. “Akumas vary from person to person. The only thing they really have in common is bad fashion sense. But you never know how dangerous they are going to be. Some will only cause a traffic jam. Some…some will make you think the world is ending.”

“A complete list of every akuma to ever appear,” Sabrina declared, “Is listed on the website miraculousparis.gov, as well as on the only hero approved blog, SpotsOn.com. On both sites, the akumas are organized by their danger level. The weakest being a level one, the strongest being a level ten. On both sites there is also a list of protocols to survive each akuma, which can also be found in section four of your guides.”

“Your going to want to download the Akuma Alert App,” Marinette said with an almost bored air, “It is the most efficient way to avoid and survive akumas since it will alert you of their location, threat level, and which protocols to follow. Teachers, you are required to have the app, and to report on it whenever one of your students are akumatized.”

“Due to the number of visitors here for the conference, and Hawkmoth’s patterns,” Sabrina said her cheerfulness giving way to something akin to sternness. “It is very likely that we will be experiencing at least one akuma a day. Our calculations have predicted, that at least one of you will be akumatized before the end of the week. All of you will be caught in at least three akuma attacks, and since you’re from Gotham, should any of them be higher than a level six, then at least half, if not all, of you will die.”

All of the Gothamites dropped their jaws on the floor before Marinette continued with a half-amused smile, “Try not to worry too much about dying though. If you look at our main hero, Ladybug, on page three you’ll see that one of her powers is the Miraculous cure. She reverses any damage done during an akuma attack, and yes that includes resurrecting the dead. But still, do try not to die. Dying sucks, and you will remember it. If not when you’re awake, then at least when you sleep, and nobody wants a nightmare akuma, anytime soon. They suck!”

All of the Parisians stared at nothing, as they nodded in unison, before Sabrina continued in her chipper tone, “At the back of your guide there is a list off all of the apps and websites we just mentioned. We recommend you study them thoroughly before you begin your tour of the city this afternoon!”

“But please,” Marinette said almost pleadingly, “Above all else remember this, the people who are akumatized, are not the enemy. They are the victims. They will do terrible things to anyone who get in their way. But they will remember none of it. No matter who they hurt, or what they destroy, they will never remember the things they did while akumatized. It does nothing to blame them except create an opportunity for another akuma. They are not at fault no matter what happens. The enemy is Hawkmoth and Mayura. They are the villains of this city. The only villains. Please keep that in mind, and do your best to be kind and respectful to others. You do not want to be the cause of an akuma.”

“Anything else you need to know is in your guides and on the sights mentioned,” Sabrina said closing her book with a snap.

Let me know if you want to be tagged, or check out this fic on Ao3!!

“Welcome to Paris!” Chloe said with a scoff, and with that, the girls left.

Next

[radioactivepeasant]

Snippet Monday: Blackmail au

Prologue

"Travel the stars with us," the Precursors said, "Become one of us."

"I will," answered the hero, "but only on one condition: in the next iteration of this endless cycle, let the child have his family. Let at least one iteration of us know his father."

"If we allow this," said the Precursors, "you will still be the chosen hero. You will still hold the blood of Mar. And you will still suffer. But for one lifetime, we will let the child be a separate person, in exchange for your service in this lifetime."

"Then it is agreed," said the hero, and so the wheel of time turned, changing direction ever so slightly.

Part One: The Bargain

"Ah, there he is, right on schedule." Krew chortled as Jak slipped through the pub door.

There were a lot of people at the bar, all Wastelanders. Tess shot a worried look at Jak, but kept her bubbly smile up. What was going on? Were these friends of Sig’s? Jak wasn't so sure, considering the concerned grimace Sig was sporting.

One of the newcomers, a broad, scarred man with a drooping mustache, stood up and approached Jak slowly.

"Yep," he drawled, circling the boys, "Nipper's got the eyes alright. Same jaw, too." He snorted. "Heh. And here I was afraid you was losin' your touch, Krew. Right. We'll take 'im."

"Excuse me?" Daxter sputtered.

"Sorry, Jak," Krew said without the slightest shred of sincerity, "But after that little racing stunt of yours, I had to do some thinking. I've got a lot of money riding on Errol winning that final race. I'm afraid you've just become too expensive to keep on. No hard feelings, eh? It's just business."

"Ok?" Jak eyed the Wastelanders suspiciously. "And that's supposed to keep me from racing because...?"

"Because you're under new management, shall we say." Krew gestured to the Wastelanders. "Don't think of it as being fired! Think of it as a transfer of sorts."

Daxter bristled. "You wanna run that by us again, Morning Breath?"

Instead, the Wastelander turned on his heel to face Krew. "Now, you an' me, we both know you're askin' too high for the state the brat's in. Come on, Krew, you ain't fed him this whole time?"

Jak went rigid and began to back towards the door. Whatever was happening here, he wanted no part of it.

"Well it's wholly up to your lord's discretion, of course," Krew said, oily smooth, "If you can't come up with the price, I'm sure the Baron would pay fairly for a soldier of Jak's caliber."

One of the women at the bar laughed meanly. "Lordship said you might say that. He also said to remind you that you could do that, but only if you feel like being hanged with your own entrails."

Krew fanned himself and hovered higher. "Oh dear me, that sounds like bad blood, doesn't it? Speaking of blood, you'd best get moving if you don't want to lose the boy, there. I'm not responsible for losses incurred during pickup."

Jak had barely gotten out the door before they were on him. Someone grabbed Daxter from his shoulder, and four more sets of hands pinned his arms. These weren't weak, exhausted Havenites. Or indolent KG looking for excitement. These were real Wastelanders, and they were more than a match for Jak's struggles.

"Let him go, rot you!" he snarled, lunging for the woman holding Daxter by the scruff, "Get your hands off him!"

"Easy, boy, easy." The woman took a step back. "Just gonna hang onto Shorty here as insurance."

Sig finally managed to push his way through the crowd and elbowed one of Jak's captors in the gut, hard. As the man doubled over, Sig ripped his hands off of Jak's arm.

"Hands off my rookies," he hissed.

"Sig, w- what- what- what-" Jak could barely speak. Rage and terror constricted his lungs, his throat.

"I don't know, cherry." Sig shook his head grimly. "But I'm gonna find out. No matter what happens, you stick close to me and do as I do, okay? We're gonna get you through this."

Then he shoved the rest of the Wastelanders away, one by one. They parted like wheat before the wind, like they knew Sig. Like they respected him. The second he was free, Jak had to lock his knees to keep from collapsing. He couldn't even bring himself to be angry that they could all see him trembling uncontrollably. Krew had sold him to Wastelanders like a piece of meat. Like a slave. What would happen to the search for the Tomb if he was imprisoned in the Wastes? Would The Shadow force the Kid to search in Jak’s stead? He wouldn't put it past him, not after the jobs they'd sent him to do.

"Oh, I do so love facilitating family reunions!" Krew cooed, hovering at the door, "It warms the heart! And me wallet!"

He waggled his fingers meaningfully and cast greedy eyes over a trunk the one called Kleiver kicked in his direction.

"Mmyes, tell your liege lord I'll keep me eyes peeled for the smaller brat, eh?"

Jak's already chilled blood froze. He lunged for Krew, barely restrained by Sig at the last second.

"Don't touch him!" he growled, "Don't you even look at him! I'll kill you! I'll rotting kill you!"

Jak didn't see the Wastelanders around him, even Sig, suddenly exchange extremely grim looks. But when Sig tugged him away from the bar and towards the waterfront, he knew something had changed.

"Quiet, cherry," Sig hissed in his ear. "You're gonna have the Guard down on us with that yelling, and I don't want to give Krew any ideas about collecting that bounty on you!"

They had to physically drag him into the air train, and even that was only possible because the woman holding Daxter captive went in first. Cursing Sig every step, Jak struggled in vain to get his arms free.

"Jak!" Sig finally exploded, "Knock it off! We're trying to save your ass, here!"

"I didn't ask for your help!" Jak aimed a kick behind him and met hard metal armor. Memories of the prison clawed at the edge of his mind, threatening to pull him back into a dark place.

"You have no right-! You can't buy- you- you-"

His breathing became rapid and labored. "I am not a thing!" he screamed, finally breaking free.

Seconds too late. The hatch was closed.

"Jak! Jak, look at me, kiddo, look at me!" Sig desperately tried to grab his arm.

"I don't know what's going on, you gotta believe me. But I know Krew wasn't joking about selling you to Praxis, and I'd die before I let that bastard get his hands on you again."

Kleiver curled his lip at them from across the hold. "Paid a ransom that coulda fed a garrison for a month and this is the thanks we get? Ungrateful brat is what you are."

Sig glared at him. "Ransom?! You walked in there talking like an auction! Who's ransoming Jak?"

The woman holding Daxter spoke up.

"Lord Damas wants him. Krew contacted him, month back. Said he had proof the Heir of Mar abandoned a bastard son during the coup and if nobody came forward to "take responsibility", he'd out him to Praxis."

Jak went very, very still. Was Krew using him to defraud someone? Wouldn't be out of character. But where had he gotten the idea to pass Jak off as the lost Heir? And did that mean little Mar was abandoned? If he was, Jak knew he was going to make this so-called lord in question pay in blood for it.

"Jak? Bull. Damas lost the baby in the coup. He didn't abandon him." Sig snapped.

"Not on purpose, at least," Kleiver snorted. “If you was carryin’ a deposed king’s brat during a hostile takeover, would you say anything?”

Sig tightened his jaw and said nothing.

Jak didn't know how long they were in the air train. He'd blocked everything out. The Wastelanders, Sig, even Daxter. He'd shut them out and retreated into the one corner of his mind where the darkness couldn't touch him. The place where he remembered the sound of the ocean, and warm waves against his ankles. He was free there, and they couldn't take the sea from him.

When they landed, he didn't even notice until a blinding light pierced the hold-

Along with the smell of salt air.

Jak raised his head slowly, squinting through hanks of hair into the light. His free place in his mind didn't have the smell of the sea. Why did he smell salt?

"Everybody out!" Kleiver bellowed, "You know I don't like monks, so let's get this over with, yeah?"

Sig wrapped an arm around Jak’s shoulders and pulled him to his feet. "Stay close, kids," he murmured, and Jak finally realized that now he had Daxter. "I...don't know what to tell you. But I'm gonna do whatever I can to keep you two safe, okay?"

They exited onto a spire of rock, high above what seemed like an endless stretch of desert on one side, and a turbulent sea on the other. A Precursor temple sat before them, surrounded by ruined columns and porticos. Three zoomer-like vehicles were parked near a tiny natural waterfall, which seemed to mean something to the Wastelanders.

"Welp. He's already here." The woman in the yellow turban sighed. "Fingers crossed this checks out, everybody."

She waved to Sig.

"Get him inside before noon, huh? I don't feel like losing a layer of skin to the sun, thanks."

It was nearly ten degrees colder inside the temple. Personally, Daxter thought the weird people dressed in rubber emanated half the chill themselves. One of them approached Sig, holding a small plastic cup. Their eyes flicked to Jak, and they held out the cup with a bored expression.

"Blood or saliva sample," they said flatly.

Jak balked. "What?"

Sig cringed. "They want to...to see if you're who Krew claimed you are. Just...spit in the cup, kid. Their computer will tell them if Krew was lying or not."

When it became clear that the monk wasn’t going to leave until they got what they were after, Jak begrudgingly spat into the cup. The monk exited the chamber without a word.

Jak spent the next three hours huddled in an alcove, behind a small Precursor statue. He clung to Daxter like a lifeline, glaring out at the monks and Wastelanders watching him and whispering amongst themselves. Any time one came close, Jak scooted further back into the cloister. None of them looked small enough to get around the statue at the mouth. They couldn't reach him here.

One man in particular wouldn't stop staring at them. He had a commanding presence, despite not being the tallest or broadest in the room. Scars decorated his face and arms, and sharp points of Precursor metal had been set into his skull. Which was admittedly kind of badass. He watched Jak with dark, piercing eyes and a hard set to his jaw. When a monk placidly paced forward and presented the man with a datapad, murmuring, "Positive match, sire," the man's eyes darkened further.

He turned on his heel and disappeared through a door.

"Sire?"

"I'm going to pray," the man snapped in a rough voice. "Leave me. And get the boy some water, for the gods' sake!"

Was that the man who had supposedly paid a ransom for him? Jak retreated into the very back of the cloister and buried his face in Daxter's fur.

"Rot this day. Rot this whole rotting week," he mumbled.

"You said it, pal." Dax wrapped his arms around Jak’s neck and tried to comfort him. "Hey, they made me spit in a cup too! You think their computer will tell them I'm an ottsel? Or a human?"

Jak blinked. "Uh....how smart are computers supposed to be?"

"Like. As smart as Vin, I think?"

Jak shrugged, grateful for the distraction. "Maybe. That'll freak ‘em out, huh?"

"Oh yeah. So what do you think is up with Spikes? Wrong answers only."

"Wrong only? Uh...he just found out he's part marmoset."

"Or his application for a piercing refund was rejected."

"Or," Sig interrupted flatly, "he just found out he had a kid he didn't know was alive, and he's dealing with a lot of guilt right now."

Sig crouched at the mouth of the cloister and looked in at them. He seemed to have aged years since that morning. He held out a hand and sighed like the weight of the world was on his shoulders.

"Come on out kiddo. We're gonna get you some food, some-"

He closed his eye and shook his head. "Volcan's bones. I...I didn't know- none of us did...gods, he must've snatched you the same year we lost Mar-"

"Mar?" Jak interrupted sharply, "What do you know about Mar?"

When Sig looked up again, Jak was shaken to see tears in his eye.

"I ain't talking about the founder of Haven, cherry. And I don't think you are, either."

He sniffed and cleared his throat. "Little thing. So...he's so- he was so small. Sweetest little kid you ever met, always getting into trouble."

He cleared his throat again and tapped his cybernetic eye. "Only takes a moment. You look away one minute. Not even one full minute. And that's all it takes for the world to end. Praxis sympathizers ambushed us. Shot out my eye and took- took Mar. We never saw him again. But...but I think you did."

Jak's stomach churned, and the world began to spin. Mar? The little boy he'd been so desperate to protect? This had to be some kind of trick, they were trying to trick him into giving up Mar's location so they could get to the Tomb. Daxter's claws dug into his arm, pulling him back to earth before the dark eco could take over.

"I have to go back-" Jak croaked, "You have to take me back- take me back! Take me back! I can't leave him alone!"

Sig shifted and looked up at someone just out of sight.

"I was right," he said heavily, "He knows something."

Next >

[strangefable]

oc tag game

thank you for tagging me, @socially-awkward-skeleton, @marivenah, @clonesupport, & @voidika <3 <3 <3

passing no-pressure tags onto: @confidentandgood, @v0idbuggy, @adelaidedrubman, @florbelles, @unholymilf, @henbased, @direwombat, @trench-rot, @detectivelokis, @ivymarquis, @schoute, @dumbassdep, @legally-a-bastard, @wrathfulrook, @incognito-insomniac, @roofgeese, @theelderhazelnut, @poisonedtruth, @fourlittleseedlings, @inafieldofdaisies, @cassietrn, @vampireninjabunnies-blog, @harmonyowl, @redreart, @jacobseed, @euryalex, @mars-colony, @glass-hope, @gayafsatan, @the-lastcall, @shegetsburned, @g0dspeeed, @eclecticwildflowers, @aceghosts, @megraen, @strafethesesinners, @derelictheretic, @sukoshimikan, @inquisitors-grave, and anyone i've missed or forgotten, i'm tagging you too <3

(also forgive me but i'm not making banners for ocs i hardly ever talk about any more, so this post is gonna be mostly text. if you want images of anyone i can share, but i just don't have energy to make new banners and i still want to actually post this so, please forgive me <3)

favorite oc

she's my baby girl right now. she's got the most space in my head, at all times i am thinking of her. she owns me and i'm not sorry. this is micah's world, i'm just here to serve her, and i would not have it any other way

honorable mentions: niamh gannon & beauregard barrett

they've been with me the longest and once had the strongest hold on me for more than a decade. they're two very formative characters for me and i will always have tiny palaces in my heart for both of them

oldest oc

niamh gannon

as far as fandom ocs that i've written and shared anywhere online, ni is the first baby girl. i started writing her when she was just a wee 11 year old student all the way through to her adult life as a wife, mother, and badass. she's the most developed oc i have, because i spent decades writing her. (she's also a bit of a precursor to what lore eventually became)

newest oc

i've got a few newer concepts circling, but as far as ocs that fully exist, lil is still the newbie on the team. she's a fun way to stretch and do some things i've never dared try before. fiery little pistol and demon who is out to create chaos in an act of revenge against a world that's wronged her

meanest oc

this is a hard one! i have several evil ocs, but they're not necessarily mean in any traditional sense. they play politics too well for that, though they can be underhanded and they'll fuck you up. of the ones i talk about here, it's probably either lilith or bowie, but neither of them are mean, exactly. lilith just wants to lash out and hurt everyone, and bowie is just blunt and crass. of my older ocs, there's fletch, who's a dumbfuck gay werewolf with a chip on his shoulder and no filters. and daphne, who's the evilest monster you'll ever meet: she wants to cut you open and splay your insides while you're still alive, but she'll talk so sweetly to your face. there's leona and lysandra, who are daddy's girls and spoiled brats. there's lux, who wants to look like a bad boy and live up to his evil father's legacy, but mostly he's just an asshole. and his father, chrys, who is evil. he trains monstrous dogs that are built to attack people. also he's a ruthless murderer but he's a suave and smooth politician, so you'll never catch him. also there's rand, my evil alpha werewolf man. then there's alfie, an absolute shithead of a bully and a punk, but he's really just a sad lonely idiot. there's torvald and romeo, my supercreeps. elena my snarky little shit who lashes out and hates everyone.

yeah, this is too hard, i have several meanies.

softest oc

none of the ocs i talk about here are soft in the least. but i have some old ones who are total cinnamon rolls. dierdre delaney is a soft sweetheart of a seer. there's bethy baby, bethany, who is a shy tiny pixie girl who is full of love and sunshine. liam who is a soft gentle romantic soul. naveen who is a sweet little nerd. rune, my soft gentle werewolf boy. olwen, who is gentle like a fairy. sienna my sweet little miracle baby. kaz the softest cuddliest kindest doctor you'll ever meet. teddy, the most cinnamon roll to ever cinnamon roll. ajlgdjlg agh i can't any more, the soft ones make my heart and teeth ache and i'm missing them so much now

most aloof/standoffish oc

i'm gonna give this one to micah, though some of my older kids could probably show her up on it. she's the one of my current stable that has the most trouble interacting with people.

smartest oc

nora by a landslide. she's a certified genius and a savant. the woman knows all.

dumbest (affectionate) oc

oh boy let me tell you, i love making himbos. fletch is one of them, what an idiot. there's rory who's a hardheaded dick. there's junior, declan, and nate, who are the pinnacle of himboness. there's cosmo, my silly class clown boy. there's virgil the clueless. there's pillip, who's theme song is literally 'stupid boy'. and then there's emmy, my flighty fashion icon

oc i'd be friends with irl

giving this one to the jameson sisters. they're the kind of friends anyone would want, imo. (there's a lot of my oldbies i'd put here, too, but this post is too long already)

if you bothered to read all that nonsense, i owe you a kiss or a cookie <3 thanks for listening to me ramble incoherently about ocs i never share any more lmao

[ariel-seagull-wings]

The Most Common Types of Snow White in "Snow White" Adaptations

@princesssarisa @angelixgutz @faintingheroine @the-blue-fairie @softlytowardthesun @grimoireoffolkloreandfairytales @themousefromfantasyland

I made a list for most common Types of Cinderella. Now is fair that i make a list for the second most famous and most adapted fairy tale princess story of all time.

Interestingly, while Cinderella goes trough the most radical changes in different adaptations, Snow White still keeps a core essence in most of her portrayals: she is kind, idealistic and adored by most people around her who want to protect our heroin of the Wicked Queen.

But there are still subtle changes that make different types of portrayal appear on stage and screen.

And today i will present those six most common types.

The Wild Child

This encarnation of Snow White is playfull and energetic, a free spirit who loves playing outside and is very close to the forest and the animals, wich may make her look not very classicaly lady like because she doesn't botter much with messing her hair or dirting her clothes.

Of this tipe, the most strong representative is the portrayal by the 1988 anime Grimm's Fairy Tale Classics. The 1916 silent movie Snow White also is a precursor of this type of portrayal, but is an even more strong relative of the next type on the list.

The Princess Next Door

The Girl Next Door, but who was born a royal. This portrayal type doesn't have any formality, they will always talk with you and treat as an equal. She has no problem doing house chores like cooking and cleaning, and is probable she will be great doing the job. Its likely that her stepmother the Wicked Queen putted her to do those hard domestic jobs because she hoped Snow White would turn ugly in the proccess. But innocently the heroine didn't saw any malice, and like Pollyana joyfully went to the kitchen, while continuing to sing and be a generous friend to the Palace Maids, the Huntsman and the Animals.

What really shatters her innocent outlook is when the Huntsman reveals the Wicked Queen's desire to kill her and she has to run, but still, having become a friend of the Seven Dwarfs, she finds a place to keep being her spontaneous and joyfull self, and her joy spreads to the friends around her.

The 1916 silent movie Snow White was a precursor, but what really cemented this type of portrayal in popular culture was the 1937 Disney animated movie Snow White and The Seven Dwarfs, wich has since influenced portrayals like in the 1955 German-Turkish TV Movie Schneewitchen, the Turkish TV Movie Pamuk Prenses ve 7 Cüceler El Chapulin Colorado parody Blancanieves y los Siete Churin Churin Fun Flais and the Cannon Movie Tales 1987 movie musical adaptation.

The Ethereal Youth

This is a more passive type of Snow White, closer to the Brothers Grimm tale: she is beautifull, sweet and gracefull, and the story follows less her point of view and desires, and focus more on how the other characters react to her. She is more of a simbol, almost divine, in how her unatainable beauty and grace is adored by the other characters around, rather than a palpable flesh and bone person. The portrayal in the Emilio Aragon ballet and the Luigi Zaninelli opera are very strong representatives of that portrayal type.

The Lonely Beauty

This type of Snow White portrayal is sad and melancholic, because she misses her father, who is neglectfull to her, and doesn't understand why her stepmother acts hostile when she tries to befriend her. She is tired of people praising her beauty, because she feels they are only adoring her from afar, but don’t actually come close to know her as a person.

When she goes to live in the Seven Dwarfs cottage, she finds in them the loving and atentious family she always longed for.

The versions presented by the 1983 Faerie Tale Theatre series episode, the 2001 Hallmark Channel TV Movie Snow White The Fairest of them All and the 2009 series Sechs Auf Einen Streich follow this type.

The Spoiled Royal Brat

This is a more flawed type: a Snow White who, having grown with the privileges of a Princess, becomes an entitled and futile person that demands people cater to her every wish, and slowly experiences a character ark of becoming more humble, diligent worker and not take people for granted, but actually respect their humanity and become a better friend to them.

The portrayals by the 1992 TV Movie Schneewitchen, the 2007 Shrek 3 animated movie and the 2010 animated movie Happily N'Ever After 2 are memorable examples of this type of portrayal.

The Kind and Courageous Leader

This type of Snow White is the heroine of an adventure tale.

She is not only hiding and conformed with surviving.

She wants something. That something can be uncover a mystery about her father's disappearance, reunite with her beloved childhood friend the Prince, or an revolution to put down the opressive rule of the Wicked Queen.

She can either be an intelectual strategist who becomes a leader thanks to her kindness and loyalty (wich inspires the Dwarfs and other characters to do acts of bravery to help her), without necessarily fight with swords, or indeed she can be a gracefull warrior with ability in archery and swordfithing.

The representatives of this type of Snow White are present in the 1994 anime series The Legend of Snow White, the 2019 animated movie Red Shoes and the Seven Dwarfs, the 2012 movie live action Mirror Mirror and the 2011 live action series Once Upon a Time. The Hallmark minisseries The 10th Kingdom presents a combination between Lonely Beauty, Ethereal Youth and Kind and Courageous Leader.

What are your favorite types of Snow White portrayals?

[retiredsenju]

Could you tell us a little about the White Fang, Godaime-sama? I wanted to write my history paper on him, but the library doesn't have anything and Haru-sensei said I'm not allowed to go bother Rokudaime-sama again :(

Sure thing, kid! Have a seat, this might be long...

-pours herself some sake-

Let's get started with the basics: the legendary White Fang, as you already know, was Hatake Sakumo, head of the dwindling Hatake clan and father of the Rokudaime Hokage. Few people associate both names to the same person these days, mostly due to how his life ended, and I honestly hope this is due to their own shame in regards to how the village treated him back then, but hell, his story deserves to be told, even if it hurts some people's egos.

He was seen as a genius shinobi, mastering many techniques and chakra natures, and completing missions with an efficiency that made many mission scrolls mention him specifically as the requested team leader. That never got to his head, though, and he was one of the kindest men I've ever met. Jiraiya and I were not much past teenagers when the Second War started, and even after we (and Orochimaru) were labeled the Legendary Sannin, we still looked up to him -- and I'm pretty sure Jiraiya was the one who started all the talk about him being more powerful than the three of us; there's truth to the rumour, though, I'm pretty sure he could have taken the three of us at the same time if he wanted to. Jiraiya and I pestered him to go out for drinks with us, and I think we seemed to him like an annoying fanclub... I can't deny it, the man was as skilled as he was good looking!

-laughs a little and pours down some more sake-

Still, he took the three shinobi restrictions very seriously, and always insisted on coming home early to his wife. I suppose that's also why he was so compassionate towards his comrades, he valued family and friends, and wanted to make sure they always came back to their loved ones. That was actually the secret to his mission efficiency, his team formations relied heavily on teamwork, and making the best use possible of each ninja's particular skills and how well they fit into the team dynamics. It's also why he got so famous during the war, not only was he a tactical genius, he also had the respect of anyone fighting under him, and his presence alone was enough to boost morale -- they felt safe with him leading them, and made defeat seem impossible.

He was such a compassionate man, really, in some ways he reminds me a bit of Naruto... maybe he was born in the wrong generation, or maybe he was the precursor of what Konoha culture would become like, who knows... But I think he'd be happy to see such peaceful times, and to meet the brat his son trained, and the beliefs under which he was trained too... I damn well know how harsh those times were, I had to fight tooth and nail to defend the idea of medic nins, and people at the time did not appreciate medical jutsu at all.

-another dose of sake-

I think he would be proud of his son too, of course, but maybe a bit shocked he became Hokage -- not that he didn't trust his potential as a ninja, but Kakashi wasn't much of a team player back then, and such an impatient brat too! I remember him telling us stories about how he tried to get him to understand not everyone picked up skills as quickly as he did, and worked so hard to teach him patience with others, but he would always lecture his own father when he got home late from a mission!

-more laughter-

Yes, he was a good man... When his last mission failed because he prioritised getting his comrades home safe, the village turned his back on him, and I'm sure it took its toll on him, they built him up just to tear him down... I guess it's part of the danger of becoming a high-profile ninja, people put you on a pedestal... I remember the scrutiny when I became Hokage, and I can only imagine what it would be like to have your own people turn on you... You know, I think I will propose a revision to the history books to include more about him next time I'm on a council meeting... Kakashi probably hasn't done so because he didn't want to make it look like he wanted to self-aggrandize through his father, but there's no such fear coming from me... might as well make those council meetings useful for something.

[derinthescarletpescatarian]

Precursor is my favourite Foreigner book so far. Watching Bren use Atavi Bonding By Provocation tactics on this ship of naive humans is so fucking funny. I'm over halfway through and so far the entire thing is just Bren responding to a lack of being met halfway by being a total brat. He's pulling Ilisidi tactics out for this poor random guard he's decided to attach to them and it is hilarious. Dude is like "I will annoy you into actually respecting the owners of the planet you've shown up at" and he is so fucking right.

[candycoin2019]

Vegar stared at the communicator he’d just launched across the room. Maybe, if he glared hard enough, it would combust in a halo of ash and smoke, taking with it the memory of the conversation he’d just had.

The Governess, it appeared, was by far less easy to manipulate than her dearly departed father. The late Baron could be cajoled into anything Vegar could machinate, as long as the Count could leave the illusion that the dictator was the one in control.

Ashelin, however, seemed to be less trusting and therefore he had to find another way to get rid of the constant thorn in his side, the House of Mar.

Another clan who refused to confirm to his way of doing things. It was because of that particular family’s stubbornness, that he’d goaded Praxis into rising up against King Damas in the first place.

Vegar had then found out from his contact in the secluded wasteland monastery that the obstinate ex monarch had then had the cheek to survive his banishment and was now living it up, lording it over some backwater, dusty old excuse of a settlement out in the wastes.

Vegar had been there exactly once, and only then under cover just long enough to set a distraction to snatch Damas’ brat.

Vegar picked his now broken communicater off the deep piled rug that beset the polished floorboards. He shook it and the rattling sound confirmed the machine was out of order. Drat!!

And while he was at it, drat that wretched kid. The monks had let him know of the boy’s immense innate eco channeling abilities, which the Count had planned to use to his advantage, but as soon as they’d arrived in Haven the child had given him the slip.

He’d eventually found what had happened to the boy when the ne’er-do-well that Vegar had paid to hack into the government most secret records gave him the encryption key.

He sat down with a thud on his stiffly upholstered yakow leather chair and leaned across his large mahogany desk, rifling through the paperwork and photos that lay scattered across it.

He picked up one photo of a large precursor metal door in the cellar of the palace. It was styled in the shape of Mar’s insignia and so far neither he nor Praxis nor even the silly slip of a girl, Ashelin had ever gotten it to open and reveal it’s secrets inside.

Vegar believed, if what the monks were banging on about last time he had to traipse all the way out there was true, that this was the way to the planet’s very catacombs and his own way to the top of the food chain, where he belonged.

He picked up the broken communicater again. He couldn’t open the gateway to the centre of the planet but he knew who could.

The very same person who Haven was heralding as a hero.

The very same person who Ashelin had told him was innocent of the former Baron’s death and could find no reason to send to the wasteland.

Vegar barged out the room and snatched his secretary’s communicator out the confused man’s hands.

“Get me the number of Haven’s most watched news channel”, the Count ordered.

He smirked to himself. If he couldn’t turn the Governess against the blond upstart, he would turn the entire city against him.

He would soon be rid of the scourge of the House of Mar once and for all.

[kristyeldredge]

Lolita the Killer Whale To Be Freed

                            A Love That Dare Not Spout Its Name 

Oh Lolita. Light of my life, behemoth of my loins. My sin, my soul. 

Mangled through the loudspeaker system of Whaleworld, she was Lo-lee-da. She was Lola at the feeding trough, attended by burly Neds and Nicks who spooned kelp muscularly into her jaws. 

But in my telephoto lens and later at night in my cerebellum, she was always Lolita. 

Did she have a precursor? Yes indeed – may I introduce a certain Willy of Wallyworld for whom I had unrequited teenage “hots” for five anguished years. If not for Willy, I might not have been as susceptible to Lolita’s shimmery flanks and louche blowhole. Willy set up the longing; Lolita swam into the trap. 

How did we do it? How did we evade the aquarium patrols for so long? Well, I happened to have a device called a motorboat – I spent many an illusory hour zipping mindlessly around the marina even as the guards stared me down with their gargantuan, phallic binoculars. As if I cared one millicentime for the local brats – they could flash their brown limbs all they wanted, I was only interested in my 4,000-ton darling surging erotically in the depths. 

And Lolita was there, to be had. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, if I got close and shot tranquilizer into her with a borrowed dart gun (doctor, garage) I could sometimes access a segment of her tenebrous, black-glowing quiddity. And clinging awkwardly to her damply rubberish hide, I’d enjoy myself (as His Honor put it later) for a few precious seconds until some primitive survival reflex kicked in and she dove, my unpredictable darling, at a violently sharp angle into black depths, dislodging me to fight my way back to the surface. 

This got wearying, I don’t deny. I’d have to locate my boat and swim often a great distance to retrieve it, my mood not improved by Lolita surfacing with showy lunges and siphon spurts – activity designed to delight shallow Bobs and Bettys on the tour boats, which wounded my feelings after so recent an intimacy. 

I leaf through these memories with both joy and misery, for Lolita gave me much of both. And I return to a question I often put to myself: Why could I only love whales? Was it the adolescent obsession with Willy, which glittered in memory though it took place exclusively in movie theaters, that set my compass eternally on 10-ton mammalian love objects? I’ve never quite figured it out and I refuse callow counseling about “appropriateness” – that signpost of mediocrity wherever it alights!  

But I’m tired of explaining myself, which I’ve done ad infinitum from both this jail cell and the hospital where I’m featured in silly classes on interspecies perversity. What I want to convey today is my fond regret on learning Lolita is being “freed” – she will be taken to her original home in the Pacific Northwest, where I always sensed she’d end up, being a very broad sort of creature in the end. I can’t say I’ll exactly miss her. You see, alas, my passion for my ethereal cetacean ebbed since she reached 50 whale years. With age has come a dimming of her glorious, shimmery snout – it’s now merely functional – and even her tail only waves in desultory nods where once it swept about like the seraphims’ sashes in Botticelli’s Venus. As for her hide, it barely gleams, except in my memory, of course. 

I console myself with these lines, inscribed forever on my soul:

Oh Lolita, you are my girl – who cares about size or phylum? 

Are you Beluga, Orca or Baleen? What matter, my sweet Leviathan? 

[petalsmooth]

FYI...I hate Cressida. Bad home life retconned into it won't make me like her and people wanting to pair Eloise and her definitely won't make me like either because I currently don't respect Eloise's choices here.

I was prepared for maybe Lady Tilly and Eloise but hell no to Cressida. This is a significant regression for eloise and pure spoilt petty brat behavior proving she's still too much of a child to have a season as the lead yet. This storyline is basically why I'm fully convinced it's Benedict now. I was leaning that way before, but I don't see giving Eloise a story where you hook up with your ex friend's bully out of spite as a precursor to being a step mother and wife.

I love the actress playing Cressida though. Just as I do the actress for Portia, but doesn't mean I like Portia. Cressida, Portia and Marina are entirely unlikable to me. A lot of characters do the wrong thing, but they often do the wrong thing, walk over people and have no guilt about it. we don't know Cressida's back story but the only two I could totally understand some of their motives for what they do, just not how they do it.

Marina had no business trying to destroy Pen, the only person nice to her, prior to the article even being written by cutting her down viciously. Marina had no business treating Colin so horribly, he did literally nothing wrong aside from proposing to someone manipulating him. She has no business snappy at Phillip when he is the only Crane who acted honorably and stepped up to protect her and his brother's children. It's not the issue that she was desperate to find a husband and lied that is the problem, it's her attitude.o

Same with Portia. I get Portia with 3 fairly unpopular daughters to wed off with no dowry because dead beat husband gambled away and on verge of being on the streets every other day. Her telling Pen Colin isn't her friend probably done dispassionately because in the world of the ton...that relationship would not exist. Probably feels her daughter does not have the luxury of fantasy. But, she shows her little attention and affection at all. That I don't understand. Perhaps if her mother had been kinder pen's confidence might be higher and wouldn't be in third season unattached on the market.

Cressida has done nothing but attack women considers as competition (which I understand because they are all fighting for their survival through attachment to a man) but those who are not or were not threats at the time. There was absolutely no reason to treat Penelope badly except it made her feel good. Dumping punch, ripping her dress? Family sob story changes nothing

[luxaar-lab]

You know of “survival of the fittest”? Well, it’s not just strength that matters. So long as it gets results, any adaptation that’s beneficial will be considered “fit”, and it’s not something with a “best” option. In short, don’t call someone inferior just because they don’t match your standards of power. Nature doesn’t play favorites when it comes to what is better.

We weren’t created by nature fool. We were created by the so-called “precursor’s” of our universe, the Samaarian’s. We are not of any worlds nature, and we refuse to partake in such barbarism!

Blah blah blah muh ways are betta or some crap. You really haven’t changed much huh your dicklessness?

W-what did you just call me?! How DARE YOU! If it hadn’t been for the limited resources in my disposal I would’ve lobotomized you you brat!

Umm… please stop fighting?

You do not give orders, you follow them!

Sorry…

Naw don’t be Shell, Luxaar’s just a shitty old man still stuck up in his ass.

[colaborativa]

La importancia de la colaboración en la creatividad

A finales de los 60’s el músico y productor britanico Brian Eno, precursor de la música ambient y famoso por sus trabajos con David Bowie, Talking Heads, U2, Coldplay entre muchos otros, acuñó el termino “scenius”, que es la mezcla de las palabras “scene” y “genius” , es decir “escena” y “genio”. Este termino lo que buscaba era unir estos dos conceptos para referirse a la capacidad creativa, a la idea de que la creatividad y la innovación no son atributos individuales, sino que emergen de la colaboración y la interacción en un entorno creativo. “Scenius”, entonces, busca modificar al concepto de genio, que se enfoca en la figura del individuo excepcional, pues existe la creencia de que la creatividad es un acto de genialidad individual, donde una persona en la soledad de su taller, oficina, estudio, laboratorio, casa o ducha, se le enciende mágicamente “la ampolleta” para crear e idear maravillas.

Escogimos este concepto porque destaca la importancia de la comunidad y el entorno en la creatividad, o sea la colaboración. La existencia humana ha requerido de tribus para sobrevivir, pues para progresar necesitamos conexión. La creatividad es siempre una colaboración, el resultado de mentes conectadas con otras.

Brian Eno argumenta que las ideas y las obras creativas no surgen de forma aislada, sino que son el resultado de la interacción y la influencia mutua entre diversos individuos que se encuentran inmersos en un contexto colaborativo. El concepto de "scenius" destaca la importancia de los espacios y las comunidades creativas, donde las personas pueden colaborar, compartir ideas y construir sobre el trabajo de otros. 

Ejemplos de “scenius” o “escenios” hay muchos en nuestra historia, como lo fue el cubismo en el arte, la generación beat en los 50’s en las letras, la escena musical neoyorkina del club CBGB en los 70’s, el Brat Pack en el cine de los 80’s, la movida musical de Madchester a fines de los 80’s principios de los 90’s o el grunge en Seattle. Si lo llevamos a nuestro país, en Chile el Santiago Maker Space en el barrio Italia en Santiago, Casa de Salud y el C3 en Concepción son buenos ejemplos de “escenios” que ocurren para crear. En este sentido, el "scenius" se asemeja a la noción de ecosistema creativo, donde diferentes actores interconectados contribuyen al florecimiento de la creatividad y la innovación.

En un ecosistema creativo, los diferentes participantes pueden incluir artistas, diseñadores, escritores, músicos, emprendedores, empresas, instituciones educativas, gremios, gobiernos locales, instituciones públicas, espacios culturales, incubadoras de empresas, aceleradoras, entre otros. Estos actores pueden colaborar, compartir recursos, intercambiar ideas y retroalimentarse mutuamente para estimular la creatividad y la innovación.

Nadie prospera sin apoyo, cuando emprendemos, necesitamos de nuestros trabajadores, socios, proveedores, clientes, nuestras redes y de todo ese ecosistema creativo para encontrar tierra fértil donde sembrar y poder cosechar resultados. Por eso es tan importante para desarrollar nuestra creatividad de encontrar un “escenio” o de lo contrario desarrollar uno, todo parte por la colaboración para impulsar y potenciar nuestra creatividad. En nuestro caso formar una red de colaboración ha sido crucial para avanzar y desarrollarse, el trabajar con otros buscando mayor especialidad o bien división del trabajo, hace que seamos capaces de desarrollar mejores productos, servicios e ideas y ponerlas al servicio de otros. ¿y ustedes? ¿de que manera promueven la colaboración en su actividad? Déjenos sus ideas en los comentarios.

[fraener]

12/27/22

christmas was strange. hans got me a dragon plaque and some beautiful yarn. i cried a little because its been a really long time since anyone has paid enough attention to me to get me a present that actually feels meaningful to who i am. i gave him a white sweater and taught him how to dye it with dyers polypore. my grandma sent me more sweets than ill ever eat so ive been handing them off to people slowly. hans and i made latkes and brats and then went to dinner at cals where i felt very anxious. i didnt hear from anyone really except for fen and family. i got a new rug yesterday for really cheap that is patterned as calendula and what i think is larkspur, amaranth and something unidentifiable so far. im feeling mad and hurt and anxious. miranda hasnt spoken to me since el left, and she was acting sort of rudely to me and hans, then we washed some laundry at the house at the same time as her and a bunch of our laundry went missing which means theres a fair chance she stole things from us. all after her big apology about how horrible she felt for abandoning me as a friend and how it was just really important for her to be only talking to r because she needs so much support. i feel tired in every direction from that. depression is creeping in. why do i keep letting people in? why do people mistreat others? ive worked so hard on my trust issues but i keep winding up in the presences of people who seem to intentionally disrespect and disregard me as a real person. even fen these days is really far from me and chooses to prioritize all of their time for everyone else. they were going to come for a visit, which turned shorter because they scheduled a doctors appointment at the same time, which turned even shorter because they decided they were just going to have aine drive them both down. i called it off because i kept saying over and over that i didnt want to hang out with aine i wanted to hang out with fen alone and they werent listening to that. o wont talk to me, shady is out of town but disconnected from me when they are here, el is gone, michael doesnt talk to me because it makes shirely upset, amy is gone or not present when shes here, i hardly ever see or talk to max anymore because hes too busy, nick is always stoned and when i do see him its only for a few minutes before he decides to leave. bg is the only person that hangs out with me these days other than hans. i feel whatever rough precursor to lonely, i feel bitter and reclusive and angry. i am so tired of this pitiable pattern. of course, i can tell myself im complaining about nothing and it doesnt matter, and of course, it doesnt, but these are the only friends consistently in my life- or, as close to consistent as possible. its hard for me to feel like i want to see anyone at all. on top of all that i used a prosthetic with hans last night for the first time. it honestly made me feel more dysphoric than not using anything. he really liked it but i couldnt stop thinking as i was watching that neon blue member swing around that ill never be a real man, ill never have this for real, why would anyone choose to be intimate with me and this over someone with something real. i felt like crying but i didnt. i think its good im having therapy today. 

[freshmilk-00]

Been posting lots of mxtx. May I also introduce you to matchaB???

[boxofbonesfic]

Creep

Title: Creep

Pairing: Soft!Dark!Steve x Gray!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Infidelity, manipulation, selfishness, mean Steve, mild Dubcon, smut, cuckholding

Summary: You hate your husband—not because of who he is, but because of who he isn’t. Stuck between remaining in the safety of your unsatisfying marriage and ending the affair that makes you feel alive again, you find a third option.

A/N: WHEW. this is my entry for the amazingly talented @afriendlyblackhottie​ ‘s RnB Brat challenge! i fully admit i didn’t go full brat here, but I hope it still manages to squeak by the requirements! the song I chose was Creep - TLC, which if you haven’t listened to it, go do your inner 90′s baby a favor and go bump it right meow. 

This is a work of FICTION, and it is Dark, so I assume once you’ve clicked through the link that you are comfortable with that. I do not give consent for my work to be copied, translated, or posted elsewhere, even if I am credited. This work is entirely mine, and unbeta’d, so read at your own risk! Minors, DNI!

Enjoy😘

I know better. 

 You know you should just end it. Should have ended it months ago. If you could have, you’d have reached back across the months to stop yourself before it ever started. It’s your selfishness that buoys the affair—running back every time, always assuring yourself that this was it. 

It never is. 

It’s never enough.

So maybe that’s why you hold onto it; holding bruisingly tight to the very thing that makes you hate yourself. It’s worse on the nights Thomas actually is home, the nights he actually wants to touch you, because all you can think about is Steve; Steve and the way he touches you. So much that you can’t bear Thomas’ wandering hands at all, all but banishing your husband from your bedroom.  

“Lots of married couples go through what you’re going through after a breach of trust,” the therapist had told you knowingly, patting your hand as you sat uncomfortably on the sofa, as far away from Thomas as you could get. The problem wasn’t that you didn’t trust Thomas—okay, no, you didn’t trust him, but that wasn’t the real problem. The real problem was that you didn’t love him anymore. You’d been angry about the secretary of course—it was the disrespect of it all that set your teeth on edge, but… it had been predictable, an inevitable outcome brought to bear by your disinterest, and his wandering eye. 

 You could trace the source of your discontent clearly—it had begun the very instant he’d brought home his colleague for dinner. You knew his work at S.H.I.E.L.D was of some repute, that Thomas was something of an important man. The amount of paperwork that took up every minute of his free time was a testament to that. The six months off of work you’d taken to prepare for your new domestic life had morphed quickly into a year, and “Soon, babe, soon” had become an attempt at placating you, rather than precursor to enacting the plans the two of you had made for your future together—

 And then he’d brought Steve Rogers home for dinner.

 You were star struck, stumbling over your words, your face flaming when he smiled at you. His own wife, Sharon, was a delight—a strong, opinionated woman that made you feel just a little intimidated as she spoke about her career. Thomas and Sharon went out to smoke cigarettes on the porch, leaving you alone with Steve as you’d cleared the kitchen.

 “Need any help?” he’d asked, his blue eyes warm as he smiled at you. 

 “N-no. I’ve got it. Not like I do much else,” you joke, Thomas’ earlier angry words slipping out of you, assisted by the alcohol warming your belly. You knew he didn’t mean it—he’d apologized afterwards and you’d accepted, but the wound was still sore. 

 “That’s not true. It takes a lot to take care of a home.” his tone had held an air of longing that you almost missed. “It’s… I’m sure Thomas appreciates having this to come home to every night.” you smiled and nodded, bitterness on your tongue like acid. He appreciates it like a hole in the head. He helped you wash the dishes that didn’t fit in the dishwasher, and you pretended you didn’t feel the way his gaze lingered on your back. 

 You want to blame Thomas for your stupid crush’s progression—after all, perhaps if he’d left it at one visit, you might never have seen Steve Rogers again outside of stupid corporate dinners. But he didn’t see it—either through willful blindness or by some stupid grace—he didn’t see it. Didn’t see the way Steve’s hand lingered on your lower back as he passed you in the kitchen, the affectionate brush of his hand across your shoulders, the compliments. 

 Everything had deteriorated so quickly, it was hard to keep track. You didn’t want Tom anymore, you wanted someone else, someone unattainable. And Tom wanted… you didn’t even know what Tom wanted anymore. You’d thought it had been a wife to welcome him home and children—but when you’d practically quit your job to give them to him, suddenly he wanted them less and less. 

 The plans you laid blow up in your face when you find Thomas and Gretchen tangled together in his office. He’d followed you out begging—but you’d simply told him not to bother coming home. It wasn’t until Steve showed up on your doorstep that you’d realized you’d forgotten to have Thomas cancel  your now routine dinners. You’d answered the door with the bottle of wine in hand, your speech slurred. 

 “Oh. Guess Thomas forgot to tell you there’s no dinner.” you laughed sardonically. “Forgets a lot of fucking things.” you shouldn’t have let him inside under the pretense of comforting you, shouldn’t have sobbed out Thomas’ infidelity as Steve stroked your back—the last six months of your life are littered with regrets and shouldn’t have’s and you should know betters. At least Thomas is owning his own mistakes in therapy—you can barely stomach yours without feeling sick, let alone speak them aloud. Thomas’ single indiscretion pales in comparison to your many—and at least his only destroys one family. 

 Yours destroys two. 

 I know better. You think again, your finger hovering over the call button. Even with all of the memories swirling in your thoughts, muddying them, you still want him with fierce singularity. You were supposed to be “working on things” with Thomas—there was no future with Steve, he wasn’t leaving Sharon, and honestly you thought what was left of the good wife you were would crumble into dust and fade forever if he did, no matter how the desire grew jealously in your heart. 

 And you wanted it anyway. 

 “How long are you going to ride the line, peach?” he’d said to you last time as he zipped himself back into his pants, the evidence of both your passions still shamefully wet on your thighs. “I’m not keen on sharing too much longer.” you’d snorted. What position was he in to make demands? He was just as married as you were. 

 Don’t call. 

 You know your arrangement—when Thomas leaves, you call Steve. Those are the rules, the ones you unwittingly agreed to when Steve sat you on the kitchen counter, sinking his tongue and fingers into the aching tightness of your cunt till you cried for him. “He doesn’t make you feel like this, does he?” he’d asked mockingly, your juices shining on his cheeks and chin. “So fucking juicy. Just for me, right peach?” you don’t remember how many times he built you up and broke you apart that night—while your phone buzzed on the counter beside you, Thomas’ calls unanswered. “You’re gonna call me from now on, aren’t you sweetheart?” you wanted to remind yourself of his wife, of his responsibilities, but fuck his mouth between your legs was sinfully addictive, and you cried out your acquiescence along with your guilty completion. 

 And he’d showed up again, and again, after particularly hard therapy sessions, after forcing Thomas to spend the night at his brother’s or his friend’s houses, anything to get him out of your house because there was nothing between you but animosity, and not even the passion to resolve it in heated touches and apologetic kisses. It was a sight you now knew with alarming familiarity; Steve leaned against your doorway, that disgustingly smug grin on his face. “You gonna let me in, peach, or am I gonna fuck you here for everybody to see?”

 And you let him in. 

 You always let him in. 

 You’re drowning in self pity as you pace the length of your bedroom—Even though the memories are tinged with regret, your cunt clenches hungrily anyway. Thomas has been gone for a full day and you’re already needy. You hate how Steve’s trained you—you haven’t dared to let Thomas back into your bed again, not since Steve claimed you so thoroughly. Thomas’ meek, soft touches do nothing for you anymore, and it’s easier to claim your distrust as the reason he can’t make you wet, the reason his hands on your bare hips make you shudder in disgust. 

 Your phone vibrates in your pocket, and for a moment you pretend it’s the rain pattering against the windows that you hear instead. It’s Steve—you know it without looking. When you’ve gathered enough courage to dig your phone out of your pocket, you read the text that pops up on the screen.

 Steve: Is he gone?

 You stop yourself from replying. It’s not fair. It’s not fair to Thomas, and not fair to Sharon—you can’t commit to your own marriage, you can’t end this stupid fucking affair. The “cant’s” line up in your mind’s eye, never-ending and bitter: can’t have kids, can’t go back to work—forever in limbo, can’t, can’t, can’t.  

 Steve: You ignoring me, peach? 

 It’s better this way. That’s what you repeat to yourself as you go through the motions of your day—which now includes job hunting, because you doubt you’ll be a stay at home mother anytime soon, not with Thomas. You’re not sure how to forget the feel of Steve’s mouth on yours, his hands leaving invisible writing all across your skin. 

 Steve: Answer me.

 You don’t. You don’t answer his phone call either, or listen to the voicemail he leaves. Your courage has failed you, and the next best thing is just to let him exhaust himself, to let him grow tired of your silence and find someone with a lighter cross to bear. The house is silent as you move through it, picking up what little mess you’ve managed to make alone. The house is too big for just you, too big even for you and Thomas together. The thought of it makes you ache a little inside, but you swallow it as you head to the kitchen. 

 It’s as you’re walking by the foyer that you see him. You can’t see his face, distorted by the thick, warped glass paneling in the front door, but you know it’s him. You stop short, breath hitching. How long has he been there? Steve’s bulk through the door is unmistakable, and you watch him lift his phone to the glass, the screen brightly lit—just as your phone vibrates again in your pocket. 

 You take a step towards the kitchen, and he responds with a sharp tap against the glass. “Don’t make me break it down, peach.” you can hear him clearly through the door, and it makes your insides clench with a disgusting mixture of fear and want. 

 “Y-you should go.” you call, your voice unsteady. 

 “Should I?” 

 “Y-yes.” you don’t sound convincing, not even to yourself. “We shouldn’t do this anymore.” He taps on the glass again, hard enough for you to see a spidery crack form underneath his fingertips. He’s so strong, you know it would be as easy as breathing for him to shatter the glass like spun sugar. 

 “Open the door, peach. Let’s talk about this like adults.” the threat is unspoken, but he taps against the glass again, and the crack widens. You know this is more of a problem for you than it is him—he can spin this any way he wants to, he’s Captain America—and you’re a bored housewife who no one would believe. 

 You unlock the door, and he doesn’t wait for you to move out of the way before he’s shouldering his way inside. Steve closes the door hard behind him, making the tasteful sconces on either side of it rattle loudly. You jump at the noise, cowering in front of him. You can feel his anger like a physical presence, filling up the room—hell, probably the entire house. You’ve never seen him angry before, and it makes you anxious, watching him move calmly through the foyer into the kitchen while his rage simmers just below the skin. 

 “Don’t like when you ignore me, peach. We had a deal.” he says, opening up one of your cabinets to grab a glass. He’s too familiar here, too comfortable. You swallow thickly. 

 “I don’t think we should… do this anymore.” you say again in a small voice, ice shooting through your veins when he glances up at you as he pours orange juice into a square-bottomed tumbler. He quirks an eyebrow, and for a moment the darkness hiding just beneath his casual exterior peeks through. 

 “Do what, peach?” he drawls innocently, thick fingers tapping against the counter. You sigh with indignation, gesturing between the two of you. He closes the cabinet. 

 “We shouldn’t be doing this anymore.” 

 “Shouldn’t make you cum all over my face? Shouldn’t fuck that tight pussy open with my cock? Shouldn’t stretch your sweet asshole out till you’re begging me to fuck it?” you feel shame and desire coiling inside of you at his vulgar words, your hands balling into fists, the denim of your shorts stiff between your fingers. 

 “Stop it.” 

 “Stop what, doll? I’m just saying you need to be specific.” he answers with a sneer. He sweeps the glass off of the counter with a careless hand, and you flinch as it shatters. His fingers are on your chin then, his blue eyes filling your vision. “Have you been fucking him?” he asks, voice thick with misplaced jealousy. “Is that why you think you can just end this?” 

 You shake your head, eyes wide. You liked how much bigger than you Steve was, how much stronger—but that was before he’d held you completely powerless and at his mercy, pinned to your kitchen island as he loomed over you. “I-I’m not your wife,” you stammer and he sneers. “Y-you can’t tell me who—”

 “You’re mine. You don’t walk away from me.” he hisses through his teeth at you, his grip on your jaw so tight the bones creak painfully. You whimper, and his gaze softens as he releases your chin in favor of stroking his hands up and down your arms. “He doesn’t deserve you.” 

 He doesn’t deserve this either.

 “It’s-it’s wrong, Steve.” you run a tongue across your dry lips. “What about Sharon?” he laughs derisively at the mention of his wife’s name. 

 “Sharon’s a mistake. One I can correct.” you hate how he spits her name out like a curse, and the wayward thought crosses your mind that perhaps he should be in counseling too. You try to wiggle away from him, but Steve doesn’t let you, hushing your complaints with soft words spoken over you until you weren’t even sure you’d said anything. “Come on, peach. I know you want me to make you feel good. It’s what you need, right?” you feel overwhelmed by him, and he knows it, taking advantage of your disconnectedness to tug the hem of your loose shirt from your shorts. He makes quick work of the buttons, pressing his face to the side of your throat and inhaling the scent of you greedily. 

 “Steve,” you whine, unsure if it’s a plea for him to stop or continue. He chooses the latter, hands skimming up your sides to cup your bare breasts. 

 “No bra, peach? And you say you weren’t waiting on me.” he clucks his tongue at you, rolling your nipples between thick, calloused fingers. He pulls it up over your head and you let him, a thrill passing through you as he groans at the sight of your breasts. “You’ve got perfect tits, peach, you know that?” his voice is a low, gravelly purr. His thumb brushes across your nipple. “So fuckin’ soft. Love how soft you are. Sharon’s all muscle and hard angles—and you’re so goddamn sweet and soft it makes me crazy.” his lips move against your throat. Normally he’s careful, careful not to leave a single shred of evidence that he’s had you, but he doesn’t seem to care now as he rakes his teeth against your flesh. 

 You hate yourself for the way your arms go around his neck, a sharp keening note escaping your throat as he sucks a nipple into his mouth. What’s more, you hate the sharp jealousy that rings in your head at the mention of Sharon. You know she’s waify and muscular and Tom can’t stop drooling after her whenever Steve brings her over to dinner—but Steve wants you instead. The feeling that thought gives you is too heady, and the next moan he draws from you as he switches breasts is louder. He chuckles. 

 “Let me hear it, sweetheart. You don’t have to worry, he’s not here to spoil it.” he knows Thomas is gone—knows he’s working on important things in undisclosed locations, hell, he knows more about Thomas’ job than you do. You whine when he cups your breasts together, sucking harsh marks into the tender flesh. It shouldn’t feel this good when he leaves marks you know you’ll regret, when he grinds his already hard cock into the apex of your thighs as his hands squeeze around your hips. 

 “Can’t believe you tried to walk out on me,” he murmurs against you, licking a hot stripe from the valley between your breasts to your throat. “and for what?” his fingers travel down to the open button on your jean shorts, tugging the zipper down. “For a man who won’t even say no to a trip even when divorce is on the table.” you hadn’t spoken to Steve about the divorce papers hidden in your old work desk—and perhaps he was speaking loftily, but you got the sickening feeling that somehow, he knew. 

 “Steve—”

 “Shh, sweetheart. I’m not finished yet. Up,” he slaps your bare thigh, motioning for you to lift your hips. You don’t move, and he sighs, lifting you easily to tear the shorts down your legs. “So juicy for me already, peach?” he murmurs, licking his lips as his eyes go dark at the sight of your shame. “Oh peach. You need me to take care of you,” he croons. “And I’m going to take such good care of you sweetheart.” 

 His fingers slide up the seam of your cunt, gathering your wetness at their tips. Shame simmers just below the fire he stokes at your core, shame because he’s right. You want him, you always did—and perhaps it was that want that drove Thomas to seek relief elsewhere. You needed him with the same fervor he needed you—you were just self aware enough to know it was toxic. Ruining two lives all for the sake of feeling Steve take you apart on his cock until you were senseless. You swallow thickly as you let out a half-hearted protest “But your wife—”

 “You keep talking about Sharon, sweetheart. You jealous?” he smirks knowingly at you.

 You shake your head in disagreement, even though you are. You’ve been jealous every time he leaves you, knowing he’s sleeping next to her, waking up next to her. You know you’ve no right to feel it, either, but that doesn’t stop it from creeping up to tinge your vision acid green as you think about the moments they share together. You shouldn’t be jealous, but you are, and Steve knows it. “I-I’m not!” you stammer, trying to move away from him in your indignation. Steve delivers a warning slap to your thigh, the sound echoing in the empty house, and you still. 

 “Don’t worry, peach.” his lips are deceptively sweet against your temple. “She doesn’t moan for me half as sweet as you do.” another harsh flick against your clit makes you squirm and whine under him, his mouth hot and harsh as he claims your mouth. It’s his kiss that feels the most wrong, the most sacrilegious out of everything you’ve done with him. The hot sweep of his soft lips against your own, the thrust of his tongue into your waiting and willing mouth as he steals the air from your lungs. It feels more intimate than his throbbing cock inside you, separated from your own slick warmth by only a thin barrier of latex ever did. 

 You’re drunk on the impropriety of it all. “Know you weren’t thinking of giving away my pussy.” he shakes his head. “Don’t know why you’re fighting me, peach, you always give me what I want in the end.” he thumbs your clit roughly and you buck against him, your hands tangling in his hair even as you continue to murmur that you shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be enjoying it, shouldn’t. 

 But you are. 

 You’re grinding against his hand, the cool granite countertop underneath you growing embarrassingly slick with the evidence of just how badly you need him. “That’s the problem with you women sometimes,” he says as he pumps thick fingers into your aching heat. “Don’t know what you want. But that’s okay, peach. ‘Cause I already know what you need.” he adds a second finger to the first and you groan at the stretch when he scissors them inside you. Your head lolls back a moan escaping your parted lips. 

 “Steve, Steve please,” you’re begging, and you know you sound pitiful. He chuckles, filling you slowly with his fingers over and over. You don’t even know what you’re begging for; for him to stop, to leave, to speed up, to fuck you—

 “Love when you beg me so pretty.” he laves another hickey onto your chest, his teeth scraping roughly against your skin. “I know you need me to fuck you right, sweetheart. Fuck you so good you’ll make sure you call me next time.” another hard thrust and the whines in your throat become a full on wail as you clench around him, sobbing. Faintly, you can hear the sound of his belt being unbuckled, and by the time your body cooperates enough for you stare down the line of your own body, his cock is resting against your thigh. Hot, heavy and throbbing, the tip leaking precum that dribbles down warmly onto your skin. 

 You’re already lost, already damned when he cups your chin, stroking an affectionate finger over your trembling bottom lip. “I’m going to split you open, peach.” he growls, his face filling your vision until there’s nowhere left to look but at him, his pupils blown dark and his gaze intense. “You’re not even gonna remember his fucking name.” he slides the head of his cock through your folds, a muffled curse falling from his lips as he admires you. 

 “God, Steve, I—” the burning stretch as he fills you makes a gurgling moan escape your throat. “Fuck!” he’s so big, and it hurts so good as he seats himself inside of you shallowly. You’re panting already, and he’s not even all the all the way in yet. 

 “Fuck, peach,” he pants pressing his forehead against your own. “Squeezing my cock—” he draws out only to force his cock back into the almost too tight confines of your pussy, your walls throbbing around him. It forces the air from your lungs and makes you wail as he makes you take him to the hilt. He’s got your legs spread shamefully wide on the island counter, his pants down around his knees as he fucks up into you, one hand steadying your hip as the other grips your hair, forcing you to look up at his face. 

 The intensity of Steve’s gaze makes you want to wither, even as he wrings pleasure from your every nerve ending. But there’s no hiding as he tugs on your hair, making you tighten on his cock as a pained whine escapes your throat. “No, no, sweetheart. No running away from me. Understand?” his words are punctuated by the slick, wet noise of his cock sliding in and out of your pussy. He hits a spot inside you that makes you arch against him, your thighs trembling. 

 “Oh God,” you moan, your voice foreign and hoarse even to your own ears. “Oh God, oh God, oh God—” you can feel yourself clenching around him, and Steve’s hips stutter against your own. You’re spiraling up, up—and then the coil snaps in your belly and you clamp down so tight he can barely move.

 “Good girl, peach. Soak my fucking cock,” he growls, forcing his way in and out of your spasming cunt, his own head lolling back at the feel of you milking him. You’re boneless with pleasure as he slides out, tapping his cock against your thigh. “Turn over sweetheart. I want to see that pretty ass.” your legs are shaky and weak, but you manage, and he bends you over the counter with a heavy hand at the small of your back. “That’s it.” your belly warms at his praise. “I wish you could see how pretty you look like this, peach. Pussy all fucked swollen, spread out for me…” he rubs the tip of his cock against you, and though you’re sore, you push back anyway. He chuckles. “You want my cock, peach? Tell me.” 

 Your tongue wets your dry lips. “I-I want your cock.” you moan shamelessly. It’s true—you’ve just cum, and you still want to feel him deep inside of you. 

 “I know, sweetness.” he sheathes himself inside of you without warning, and you hiss at his entry. His hand cracks against your ass, and you cry out, fingers scrabbling against the countertop. “You don’t end this,” he growls, his balls slapping against your ass as he fucks you with rough, punishing thrusts. “You don’t get to fucking end this, you understand, peach?” he spanks you again, over and over until you’re sure you’ll permanently bear the mark of his frustrations. 

 “Yes, yes, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” you gasp out the words between your tears, running freely down your face as the sharp pain mixes with the exquisite pleasure building in your core. It’s almost too intense to feel good, and yet you clench around him tightly anyway as he rains blows down on your tender flesh. 

 You’re so lost in it that you almost don’t hear the sound of a car door slamming. 

 You try to sit up, but Steve forces you back against the counter, his hand on the back of your throat. “Stay.” 

 “But Steve,” your gasp sounds whiny even to you, “Thomas.” you can hear the familiar jingling of his keys. You don’t know why he would be back so early—he’s not meant to be home for another two days—but Steve doesn’t care, his hips still moving steadily against you even as you hear the footsteps climb the porch stairs and approach the front door. “Steve please—”

 He doesn’t respond, and it almost feels like his cock is harder now than it was earlier as he slams into you. There’s no hiding the sounds of your coupling, and as you watch the door swing open helplessly, your husband steps inside. 

 “I thought I would surprise you—” his voice dies in his throat. 

 “Hey Tom.” Steve grunts as he continues to fuck you. “Long time no-see.” everything seems to freeze; Thomas standing in the doorway, his eyes sweeping over the two of you, as pain flashes across his face. You want to feel ashamed, you want to feel guilty, all of the things you know you should be feeling—but you don’t. A sick thrill makes you tighten around Steve as he ruts against you openly. You’re disgusted with yourself by how turned on you are, how good it feels to make him feel as bad as you did. 

 Thomas sputters, incomplete sentences forming and dying on his lips as he gapes at you. “Y-you—! How could you—? I—” you can see the betrayal plain on his face, and you wonder briefly what it says about you that you just…don’t care. Steve’s still fucking you steadily, and you don’t try to stop the little moans that well on your tongue as his cock splits you open. Steve leans over you, cupping your chin as he forces you to look at Thomas dead on. 

 “Don’t be impolite, peach. You’ve got to answer when people speak to you.” the head of his cock bumps against your cervix and your eyes roll as a guttural moan tears loose from your throat. Steve’s thumb strokes across your bottom lip, and you watch Thomas’ eyes follow the movement. 

 “ ‘M’sorry, To-om,” your voice is shaky, speech interrupted by his harsh thrusts. Your husband is speechless, watching Captain America fuck you senseless on his kitchen counter. You hear Steve groan above you. 

 “She’s so fucking tight, Tom. How’d you fuck this up so badly?” he taunts. “But I’m glad you did, or I’d have never gotten the chance to taste. Isn’t that right, peach?” you’re only half listening, the pleasure making it hard to concentrate. You nod though, knowing it’s what Steve wants. “Tell him how good it feels.” 

 “So—ugh—so good! I’m so fu-ull,” you whine, arching back into Steve as you say it. His hand drops from your face to secure itself around your other hip as he fucks you harder. You can hear the sound of his voice, like he’s speaking, but you can’t make it out over the buzz in your veins as fucking supernovas go off behind your closed eyes. His hand cracks across your ass again and you keen. 

 “Who makes you feel good, doll?” his voice is a harsh growl in your ear. 

 “Y-you!” 

 “Whose pussy is this?” 

 “Yours! Steve it’s yours!” the taut tendril inside you snaps, and you wail loudly as you cum again, collapsing against the counter. You’re shaking and sobbing, and you feel Steve’s hips stutter against yours.

 “Are you cumming, peach?” he growls, and you can hear the smug grin in his voice. “Fu-uck, like velvet inside. Fuckin’ soft’n wet—“ he slams into you, holding you still as his cock throbs and jerks inside of you. Hot, sticky warmth coats your insides, and you can feel him trembling above you, groaning as he empties himself into you. In a daze, you feel Steve’s softening cock slip from you, and hear the jingle of his belt as he tugs his pants back up. He pats your hip affectionately. “Go clean up, sweetheart.” you look up at him questioningly, and he grins coldly at you. 

 “I’m going to talk to Tom about signing those papers.” 

Fin