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alexiswritingstuff · 1 year

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Not so scary after all. 1/2

Pairing: Gustavo Fring x gn! reader.

Other Appearances: Jesse Pinkman, Walter White.

Request: I was wondering if you could write a short story/oneshot where the reader (gender neutral) works in the lab with Jesse and Walter, and Gus has an obvious soft spot for them. Being lenient with them when they make a mistake, being more gentle with reader, etc.

I know it is very OOC of Gus but imagining him going all soft 😩🙏

Warnings: none, but be aware of possible spelling mistakes and such.

A/n: To the person that requested this, I hope it is what you wanted! I have a tendency to just wing fics sometimes, not realising that I might be going in the complete opposite direction of what someone wanted me to go in.

But I hope you enjoy nonetheless!

Taglist- @sukunamybeloved - @viviennemuerte

More Gustavo fics.

The lab, that engulfed anyone within, had gone quiet as the machines were finally able to cool from their heated activities.

It had been hours. The process of creating the product that had people begging from every direction had been complete. Put in the cooling fridge to set in their usual trays.

About a minute ago, you had pulled one of them out, ready to do your job of breaking the crystal into the usual sizes that they sold at... Though now, you and Jesse were stood side by side in front of the tray you had selected and put on a free surface.

Two pairs of eyes stared down at it, trying to solve the sudden nagging feeling that something wasn’t quite right. But it was one of those things where the longer you paid attention to it, the less your brain actually focused.

Jesse sniffed, breaking the silence from the intense thinking, “Is it just me, or, uh. Does that look wrong?”

“Yeah,” you answered slowly, mind too consumed to use your full voice, “But I can’t tell what.”

It began again. The two of you looked over every inch of that tray once and then twice, and then one more time, before there was an equal sigh. Jesse had even rubbed his face in an attempt to soothe himself. “I don’t get it, man.”

Was it the colour?

The consistency?

The feel?

Surely, with the time you had spent just looking at it, you should’ve been given at least a form of answer.

So why wasn’t there one?

“Okay, look.” you huffed out, squeezing your eyes quickly in attempt to rid them of the tiredness that clung. “How about we go back, go through it step by step and see if there is something we missed, huh?”

Jesse defeatedly waved his arms with a groan. “Come on.” You ushered, and after giving him a pat on the shoulder, he complied. Picking up the clipboard with notes along the way.

In all honesty, it took a good chunk of time to check certain stations off of the list.

The process was so consistent that whenever you made batches it was a done and dusted kind of situation. So, when you were stood there in front of the grand machines, wracking through your brain for specific information on how you did it.

It wasn’t very easy.

Eventually, however, the two of you had landed at Station 5. The settling tank. Jesse cleared his throat as he raised the clipboard once again, trying to focus his tired eyes on the small words that appeared in front of him. “All right,”

“There’s not really much for this one, but, uh... I guess, as long as it was set at 75 there shouldn’t be a problem.”

You were about to hum in response. Your feet had readied to continue onto the next pieces of machinery to just get this over and done with, and admit defeat as the answer still hadn’t been found. The last part of the process was only a few steps away...

But your body had frozen, the number Jesse had said ringing in your ears like an alarm.

Your eyes flicked to the temperature dial on the tank, even though by now it had gone back to zero, “What?” Jesse’s body turned in your direction, gaze still on the checklist, “The temperature.” he repeated simply. “It was set to 75, right?”

Oh, shit.

When there was no response, Pinkman’s eyes finally left the writing to find yours. And then his head slowly raised, the realisation ready to kick in. “Right?” The look on his face urged a cringed smile to take over your lips.

“I thought you said 85.” you confessed through your gritted teeth and Jesse’s eyebrows furrowed immediately. He looked back down at the list, “Why the hell would I say 85 if it says 75 right here?”

“Dude-- I don’t know. I don’t exactly have control over your brain, do I?!” you practically hissed, arms crossing over your chest in shame while Jesse shook his head in disbelief. “Well, apparently you don’t either, I mean...”

“85, man. You-- That would’ve turned it into some kind of-- of sludge. Right? So... What, every single tray is like that then?”

Words didn’t even have to be said to give him the answer.

“Yo, come on man!” His shoulders slacked, a louder sigh than before beckoning through his lips as he walked off for a second, hands moving up to sit his hips. “They-- They’ll never let us do it without Mr. White again.”

Your eyes followed the man as he started to pace back and forth in front of you, “Jesse, every person in this building has made a mistake at least once in their life.” You paused, gulping, “... Though, I doubt not being able to cook will be the least of our worries.”

That didn’t seem to help Jesse’s nerves as he let out yet another groan, his increasingly warms hands now raising to reach at his face once again. “Look, we just... We’re just going to have to make another batch.” Your attempt at calming Jesse down ending with him shaking his head.

Suddenly, he looked up. His eyes found yours, even while his feet continue to move, and he pointed a finger at you, “You’re telling Gus.”

“What-- Me?! Why me?!”

“Because... He doesn’t shout-- He doesn’t get mad at you.” Jesse insisted, lightly shrugging his shoulders in a way that had your eyebrows raising, “He doesn’t shout at you either.”

“Yeah, but--”

“Is there a problem?”

The sound had cut through the air in a matter of seconds that it felt like you had jumped out of your skin, though all you did was turn away from Jesse. The posture of two bodies straightening out at an impressively fast speed.

There he was. The man himself just stood on the catwalk, hands atop the cool railing as he looked down at his employees that might as well have been a pair of ants.

Uh oh.

Gustavo waited there for about a second and then he was off, making his way down the stairs despite the equal internal pleas that he would either stay there or go back through the doors.

But now, the sound of his footsteps were bouncing off of every wall in room.

You and Jesse had practically turned into ice by the time he got to ground level, and the two of you sent each other worriedly looks before turning back when Gus had stopped himself not that far away.

“Well?” he questioned, his entire body going eerily still, almost ridged, like it usually did. You cleared your throat, “Yeah, uh... There’s a complication with the batch.”

Gustavo’s eyes had locked onto yours. His head was slightly tilted, his jaw clenched, which together was such a thing that it had sent a chill down your spine. “Go on.”

You gulped, your gaze moving from his to send a quick glance over to Jesse before you forced yourself into at least a sense of composure, though your body was still tense. “I-- It’s my fault... Sir.”

“I got the temperature for the settling tank wrong, and... we only just realised.” The more the words spilled from your lips, the dryer your throat had become.

“Telling you that I didn’t mean to do it doesn’t exactly solve the problem, so I--”

“You’re saying that the whole batch is like this. Correct?” Mr. Fring clarified, raising a singular eyebrow, and you nodded slowly, “Yes.” Your hands felt like they were about to start shaking from the anticipation of awaiting his reaction. “Sir, I swear, I didn’t mean it, I don’t-- I don’t even know how I misheard a number.”

Gustavo’s head rose steadily. But then his eyes moved from yours over to the man stood to your side, “How fast can you make another one?” he questioned, instead of issuing a punishment like you had thought, and now you and your lab partner shared yet another look.

“What?”

“How long.” Mr. Fring repeated simply, though his voice was a little lower than before. More firm. “Uh... It depends.” Jesse stated. However, when Gustavo had raised a brow again, he continued. “Like... 6-8 hours. Tops.”

In that moment, a faint breath sucked into Mr. Frings lungs. He straightened up, nodding only once before his lips had parted. “Go.”

“What-- But what about that batch?” you questioned, gesturing towards the failed product still sat on the counter. But he didn’t turn. His eyes hadn’t even moved. Or blinked.

“I’ll handle it.” was all he said. And only now had he began to move, his walk even more ridged this time from what could mostly be assumed to be due to anger.

A factor that your brain had apparently decided to ignore when a sudden panic had raised within you.

Your feet had began moving before you had processed the consequences. “Wait, Gus.” you called, trying your best to follow his movements before he got to the stairs.

And then within a matter of seconds, he was faced in your direction by the next time you had blinked. Something that almost had you stumbling over yourself when you attempted to stop your feet.

Gustavo wore a mild frown. It was one that had gradually set deeper into the lines of his face since he had entered the lab. Though when his gaze had focused on your own, it had disappeared like it wasn’t even there in the first place.

You cleared your throat when your eyes actually processed the fact that they had already been met with his.

“Mr. Fring.” You corrected yourself after a moment, missing the look of disagreement that twitched through Gustavo’s expression upon hearing the name coming out of your mouth.

“Please don’t tell Walter.”

You could fully hear your heartbeat by now. The blood was purely pumping through your veins as if it was about to give you an adrenaline rush, especially when Gustavo’s eyebrows had subtly furrowed. “Why not?”

You turned to look back at Jesse, who could only just meet your eyes, before you faced the other man once again, a deep breath filling your lungs even if it didn’t help to soothe. “He already has a lot on his plate, and I...”

“I don’t want to make it worse just because of a stupid mistake-- My stupid mistake.”

The words settled in the tense air for a good few seconds. It was a waiting game. The prize of which being whatever reaction the man in front of you held, even if it wasn’t going to be a good one.

The two of you stared at each other for a moment. Gustavo’s gaze hadn’t changed once throughout the conversation, and now the silence. It was strong; bold, unmoving, calm. All the while you had felt like some kind of cowering animal stood in front of a predator.

“Like I said, Y/n.” he spoke suddenly, indicating that the decision on how he was going to react had been chosen. It was a great relief when he had finally let himself bink.

“I will take care of it.”

And with that, his back was turned towards you, the footsteps that had once echoed through the lab doing so all over again as he made his way up the spiral stairs without another word.

The past few hours had sort of blurred together as you and Jesse had absorbed yourselves in the process of making the new batch.

A few of Gus’s employees, that you have seen passing by before, had been in and out while you remade the product. They took the trays out one by one, throwing out all of the useless contents, and then returning them to the cooling fridge.

By now the usual concoction was in the middle of being filtered through the last set of machines, a procedure that always seemed to take a long time to complete.

So, there you were, using up the spare time to sit at one of the tables as you looked down at the new checklist you had written out yourself. And now almost finished.

Finally, there was comfortable peace and quiet.

Or so you thought.

The door to the lab had slammed open so quickly, the sound fierce when the hinges had allowed it to move as far is it could go. Yet again, you had almost jumped out of your skin. A “Jesus!” already being exclaimed from Jesse, though you couldn’t see him.

You stood up from your seat, watching a breathless Walter White practically stumble along the catwalk until he was leant heavily against the banister. “How-- Is everything okay? Is anything damaged? Nothing’s damaged, right?”

“What?” you questioned, narrowed eyes searching over him from afar. But then he just huffed, pulling himself along the walkway with the railing so that he could get to the set of spiral stairs.

“Mr. White?”

Right as you had moved round the machinery, your gaze landed on Jesse who was now being grabbed by Walter, getting shaken like there had been some big disaster.

“Yo, what the hell, man-- What are you doing?!” Jesse yelled, close to falling on his ass when he finally got out of the grip on him. Walter threw his arms out like the answer should’ve been obvious. “Gus.” he stated as if it would spark something.

But you and Jesse only furrowed your eyebrows, your arms crossing over your chest once again as you took the spot beside him.

“He told me about the-- the-- contamination. I told you that one person has to stay in the lab or things like this... They will happen!”

It clicked.

Gustavo had acted upon your wishes. He had fabricated a whole story to take place of a mistake that you had made.

He lied for you.

When Walter stressfully rubbed at his face, covering his eyes in a way that almost snapped his glasses with a groan like sound, you took the chance to look over to Jesse to see if he had gotten the memo himself.

The expression on his face told you that he in fact did.

“God... We’re gonna have to make a new batch. Now.” Mr. White pointed out, his initial concern slowly forming into what appeared to be annoyance.

Jesse shook his head, “Hey, relax man we already started. It, uh...” He paused, turning to look at the machine thats rumble was slowly beginning to ease. “Actually, you know what? It should be done soon.”

But his words did nothing. Walter had started mumbling to himself about the setbacks, throwing around numbers, and words that you couldn’t define no matter how hard you tried.

So when he started walking away, neither you or Jesse moved to interrupt him.

“I told you.”

Your attention shifted once again, and soon you found a certain Pinkman looking at you with a weirdly smug expression as he mirrored your stance.

“What?”

“Gus likes you.”

Every muscle in your body tensed so fast. Your head turned to the side, avoiding your partners gaze with a scoff, that sounded a little too fake, “Wha-- No he doesn’t.”

Jesse was purely grinning if he hadn’t been already, “Yeah, man, he totally does.” Each word felt like it’s own individual tease through his slowed voice, “All that lying for you and shit... I don’t know, Y/n. I would say that he’s definitely hooked--”

“Shut up, man.” you hissed, uncrossing your arms just so that you could lightly shove him in annoyance, but all he did was chuckle once he managed to stabilise himself.

And though he didn’t add anything else to his point, he wiggled his eyebrows at you, turning to go back to his work station before there was even a chance to scold him again.

So, instead you just rolled your eyes, a heavy sigh pushing its way through your lips once you had taken in the fact that you were now stood by yourself. Walter was... somewhere, and Jesse had gone back to whatever he was doing before.

It was finally quiet again.

Your shoulders mildly slacked, the exhaustion from hours of work officially seeping into your system in a way that made you want to put your head in your hands, though you still had your gloves on.

You were about to make your way back to your clipboard, resume the remained of your task... But before you could take even a full step, there was a sound that caught your ears. Your legs stalled.

It was two taps. One right after the other against what sounded like metal.

You turned your head to the side, letting your eyes scan over the area Jesse had just moved to in an attempt to see if he had made the sound, or had even heard it himself.

But it was neither.

Your eyebrows were furrowed by now as you tried to peer round the side of a tank, attempting to locate where it was exactly that Walter had wondered off to. Though it didn’t really seem like the sound had came from that direction anyway.

There it was again. Two taps, slightly louder this time even if they were still faint.

You turned on your heel, your mind giving you one last option as to what the mysterious tapping could be.

And then you saw it.

Or should you say him.

Gustavo Fring. The man you had thought was furious with you. Who had then complied to your plead and lied for you, was stood near the door to the lab like he had just walked in. But his stance said otherwise.

His eyes were already on yours, despite the fact that you could barely see them through his glasses. His hand was laid atop the banister in a way that encouraged your attention to fall to it. Your lips parted even if no words were meant to follow.

The source of the tapping.

The two of you sort of stared at each other for a moment. Caught up in each others gazes like Gustavo had apparently wanted, except he didn’t think it would actually hold.

You tried to smile, a sign of respect, though you could practically feel how awkward it had come out. So instead, you nodded your head, an inaudible thank you falling from your lips.

The next movement from Gustavo was sudden.

He had nodded too, his head not even half way back to where it usually sat, before he had turned on his heel, soundlessly pulling the lab door open so that he could officially take his leave.

It was something that you initially had no reaction to.

I mean, his face had appeared in the stoic way it did most of the time. Not even a twitch could alter the movement of his eyebrows, change the look in his eyes, or adjust the way his jaw set.

But the more you thought about what he did before his movements, the more that there was this nagging feeling that you had missed something. Something that your mind was so close to catching onto.

So you let yourself think. You replayed the scene over and over again, focusing on a different aspect of it each time, like a different facial feature or part of his body.

You thought over the way his feet moved, the way his arms went back to his side after he let go of the railing, the speed that his head had turned at... And then you got it.

The image of his face right before he had turned towards the doorway, right before he had chosen to leave, was there. The thing you were missing was now clear as day in front of your eyes.

The corner of his lips had started to curl. He had turned away in an attempt to conceal it.

He was trying not to smile back.

next part.

#gustavo fring #gus fring #gustavo fring x reader #gustavo fring x gn reader #gus fring x reader #gus #breaking bad #breaking bad x reader #gender neutral reader #jesse pinkman #walter white

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a-flickering-soul · 2 years

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I really like hearing what you have to say about spg bc I like their music but I'm very much a Causal Enjoyer so it's cool to hear some Lore. Any other spg related things you've been wanting to talk about?

Ohhhhh anon this is the best and worst ask you could have possibly sent me because there are So Many Things that are insane to me about SPG lore that I would love to talk about but literally each of them requires like two paragraphs MINIMUM of explanation and context beforehand. But I WILL tell you what's on my mind right now and that's the fact that the Spine canonically has a credit card. This is hilarious to me for many reasons, those being that he has obtained a credit card either through:

A) having a Social Security Number

B) having an Individual Taxpayer Identity Number

or C) Peter Walter VI going with him to their local bank branch and sitting there with him as the poor financial advisor has to come very quickly to terms with the fact that this tall silver man and this other man with a keyhole for a face want to open a new credit card under the name of this silver man who is not technically a human being.

All of these answers are very compelling to me for different reasons, but through process of elimination, we can get rid of B, since that's exclusively for US nonresidents and the Spine was built in the US. I'm personally eliminating C because I don't think it's the funniest option. So conclusively: yes, I think the Spine has an SSN, and furthermore, I think he pays taxes.

We know canonically already that not only does the Spine know how to do taxes, but he loves doing them and he's very good at them (he will, in fact, quadruple your return).

I posit now that the Spine pays taxes because he wants to do them for two main reasons: that he feels deeply and strongly this proves to the US government that he's a living being with feelings and rights just like any other taxpaying American, and that he is an old, old man who loves looking at things and asking if his taxpayer dollars really went towards this.

I do not, however, think Rabbit, Zer0, Hatchworth, or any other robots care this much over human financial systems because they are very old and dumb and they are also wise and blasé enough over how they're viewed by US legislation to understand that the less of their limited income they have to fork over to Uncle Sam, the better.

#spg #steam powered giraffe #answered #anonymous #i need you all to know i've been literally thinking abt this the whole day and have roped in my bestie my sister AND my father to discuss #i was looking at the paperwork to apply for an SSN today and nearly DIED laughing like he was BUILT what's he gonna DO #SUBMIT HIS BLUEPRINTS??? he was born before social security was INVENTED #we had a REAL debate over whether or not the spine can vote and he probably can't UNLESS. he took the citizenship test.#which that in and of itself is its own discussion #the real question is if they have financial independence or not. like an allowance? sure. maybe. but they HAVE to be dependents right???#a very near runner-up to this ask topic btw was the walter robotics union which they HAVE.#flicker's meta

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pluton514 · 6 months

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Chapter 7: Consequences

What the hell happened out here? Amelia's left arm is practically gone. Zeph is staring at something on the ground. Ugh, what is that smell? It smells like a rotting dead fish engulfed in a giant pile of human shit. I feel nauseous and proceed to vomit . Amelia then says, "Yeah, I don't blame you for puking. Honestly, it took me several hours to finally get used to the smell." I stopped vomiting, and out of pure shock I question, "Several Hours?" I look up at the sky and I notice that the sun is coming down. I then ask Amelia, "How long was I out for?." she answers, " I have no idea. I woke up to you holding my head on your thighs, so in return, I did the same." She started to play with her hair as she said that. I look at Zeph, and ask him, "Hey, what's wrong?" Zeph looks at me and points down to what he was staring at. What I saw next was something very disturbing, and horrifying. I stand up immediately to get closer. It was a corpse. It was fully burnt to a crisp, some of its flesh melted to the bone, one of its eyes was liquified, and its hair is completely gone. I exclaim, "WHAT THE FUCK?! WHO DID THIS?!" Wait a minute, I've seen that before. The way this person was killed. My mother died the same way, but how is this possible? The same incident? I look around and realize that the restaurant has been reduced to nothing but ashes. Zeph then says, "I don't know if you noticed, but Walter's dead." I turn around immediately and look at Zeph. I ask, "Is that dead body him?" Zeph turns to me with a blank expression "No shit." He clenches his fists and his jaw ticks. His blue eyes glow bright, The sky forms dark clouds all around us, and heavy rain starts to pour. Amelia groans as she tries to stand up, but she can't. I run to aid her ,and the rain pours heavier as I get closer. I put Amelia's arm around the back of my neck, and help her up. She says, "Thanks Pluto, now hold me while I cover for us." I do as she says and hold her waist. She proceeds to lift her right arm in the air, and a giant lily pad with a stem under it rose from the ground. Covering the two of us. Amelia then looks at Zeph and exclaims, "ZEPHILIOUS!!! CALM DOWN!!! YOU'RE CAUSING ANOTHER STORM TO EMERGE!!" Zeph then cries out, "GOD FUCKING DAMN IT!!! ITS HIM!!! THAT PILLAR WAS HIS DOING!!! HE USED ME!!! THAT PIECE OF SHIT!!!! HOW DARE YOU?! HOW DARE YOU?!?! YOU MURDERED INNOCENTS!!! YOU FUCKING BASTARD!!!!!" Zeph stops, and in a low sad tone says, "Who am I to judge? I'm not any different, right? Zeus?." He looks up to the sky, and rain gushes down through his face.

Thunder roars and echoes throughout the wasteland. Lightning starts to strike the ground every so often. Zephilious is crying out in pain and anger. Lightning starts to hit Zeph, over, and over, and over again. Blood starts to spew out from his eyes, and his clothing rips apart with each strike. Amelia then angrily says, "Alright, I'm tired of this bullshit." She gets rid of the lily pad and instead summons a giant batch of black flowers with white stripes. Zeph then says, "You never respond. You never communicate with me. How are you going to choose me, when I can't even know what you're thinking? You just say something when you need me. Why did you choose me? Why me? I always have to deal with the consequences of your actions. You're nothing, but a filthy God. You may have never actually done it, but you have more blood on your hands than I do. You absolute cryptic piece of filth. I swear one day you'l-." Before he could finish his sentence. The batch of black flowers smacks him, sending him flying a few meters back from where he was standing. Zeph is now lying on the ground motionless, but he's still conscious. The storm starts to fade away, and Amelia shouts, "YOU FUCKING DUMBASS!!! YOU COULDA KILLED US!!! GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER, AND LET'S GET A MOVE ON!!! IF YOU DON'T GET UP IN THE NEXT THREE SECONDS THEN I'LL BEAT YOU TO A DAMN PULP!!! YOU HEAR ME?!?!?!" I shouldn't get in between these two, or else I'll get smacked with some flowers too. My body feels exhausted for some reason. I don't know why, but I'll ask Zeph later. As of now, I'll let Amelia take care of him.

Amelia then stares at me and says, "Take me to

him now." I nod, and helped her make her way to Zeph. Zephilious stands up, and says, " You wouldn't understand. None of you know me." Amelia then replies, "You're right, we don't know you at all. You're just a stranger that attacked us in our front yard, but that can change. Let's get to know each other because trust me. We'll need each other. By the way, I do understand you. You're forgetting that I'm a chosen one too. So get up you whining baby we have to get moving." She then extends her hand out to Zephilious. He looks at it, and they do a handshake. He replies, "Yeah I guess you're right, but where would we go?" Amelia then points at me and says, "That's up to him." They both stare at me, and Zephilious asks, "Hey, you've been quiet this entire time with an emotionless expression." I reply, " Oh right, I think we should rest now. We'll go out tomorrow morning." Amelia then asks, "Where to?" I then turn around with my back facing them and reply with a serious tone, "That's what I'm gonna find out." We make our way back to Amelia's place to sleep. An hour later passes by and I'm already laying down in my bed. My entire room would be dark if it weren't for the moon lighting it up a bit through the window. I close my eyes, and just within a few seconds I fall asleep. I appear in the same plains where I met Morpheus for the first time. I look up, and I see him jump from the sun to a cloud with the shape of a flame, he then floats down and lands right in front of me. He then snaps his fingers, and everything disappears in the blink of an eye. It's all completely dark. He says, "Welcome back Pluto. Well then, shall we get started?"

#original writing #original character #action adventure #greek gods #wattpad #writing

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keanureevesisbae · 3 years

Text

But professor… - c.7

Summary: Penny discovers something

Professor!Walter Marshall x Penny Townsend (Asian ofc)

Wordcount: 3.3k

Warnings: Mentions of sex

Masterlist // But professor… masterlist // Previous chapter // Next chapter

It’s February now and I officially quit school. Never in a million years did I think that I would be good enough for it anyway and when I went back after Christmas break, I realized I wasn’t in the right place at all. Ever since I dropped out, I have been looking into cosmetology school and how to tell my parents about this sudden change.

Walter is getting ready to teach for today and is going to drop me off at the mall, because I need to buy a few things. Since I have yet to move out of the dorm, I need at least some boxes and just some other items.

‘Princess, you look absolutely gorgeous,’ Walter says, patting my butt through my jeans.

I squeal, before turning around, slapping him across his chest. ‘Don’t do that,’ I laugh.

‘Why not?’ He wraps his arms around my waist and lifts me up. ‘You’ve got a cute butt.’

After I triple checked if I have everything, the two of us leave his loft and walk downstairs towards the garage, his hand securely wrapped around mine. Like usual, he opens the door for me and kisses me the second he got in his truck as well. It’s becoming a thing now and it’s weird if he doesn’t do it.

Walter holds my hand as he drives towards the mall. ‘Princess, how about you and I get you moved in the middle of the night? So I can help you carry some boxes.’

‘I can ask someone to help me,’ I say. ‘Maybe just call someone from one of those services. Please, I don’t want to risk running into someone I might possibly know.’ When I notice he isn’t liking it, I say: ‘Please, Walter, don’t sweat it. I can move out myself.’

‘I know, I know,’ he grumbles. ‘It’s just that I want to help you out.’ He presses a kiss on my hand and leans back in his seat. ‘You look beautiful.’

‘Do you need to tell me that every opportunity you get?’

‘Yes,’ he simply says. ‘Come on, princess, scoot a little closer.’

It’s been a few weeks since he got the truck fixed, so I could sit closer to him. I unbuckle myself, before sliding over to his side. He wraps his arm around my shoulders and I close my eyes after I strapped myself into the seatbelt. ‘You’re so needy,’ I chuckle.

‘I’m not needy, I just love you. Need you as close as possible, darling.’

His arm feels heavy on my shoulders and when we’re close to the mall, I say: ‘Do you need anything?’

‘Maybe some snacks, but I’ll leave that up to you.’ He gives me a long kiss, before I get out of the truck.

‘I love you,’ I say.

‘I love you too, princess. Text me when you’re back at the loft, okay?’

‘Will do.’

✎ ✎ ✎

Shopping was nice, until I had to throw up. That never happened to me before. I think in my entire life I have vomited only once, until today. I stare at the stomach contents that are floating in the toilet. I can’t think of eating anything that has made this nauseous I need to puke.

Why would anyone vomit? The only reasons I can imagine is food poisoning, a stomach bug or being pregna—

Oh.

Could it be?

I flush the toilet and with the moving boxes that I have yet to fold into boxes, I walk through the shopping mall to the drugstore. I ask the woman behind the registry if I can have a pregnancy test and she simply nods. I don’t know what I was expecting (maybe the woman first completing a three hour interview before handing me a test, I don’t know), but after I paid for it and hid it in my purse, I walk out of the mall.

What if I’m pregnant? I mean, yes, I did skip a period, but that is not new to me. I mean, I’ve been pretty regular all my life, minus a few times. Normally me skipping a period didn’t make me suspect anything, since I wasn’t having sex, nor was I the next virgin Mary, but now…

Walter and I have been having sex quite a lot. I mean, it’s always with a condom of course, but even those are not one hundred percent effective.

I might be naive from time to time, but I’m not that stupid to unrealistic about the effectiveness of condoms.

The bus ride back to the loft couldn’t be any longer and when I finally arrive at Walter’s place (soon to be ours), I quickly text him I’m home, before hiding into the bathroom. Buying one was weird, peeing on a stick is weirder.

As I wait for the two minutes to pass by, I think about what to do. Would I have a baby at this age? I mean, I’ve always wanted kids and maybe now is a good time? Okay, no, it’s not absolutely ideal (the timing couldn’t have been more off), but… I’m not in school right now and—

Oh no, that’s just me being selfish and only thinking about my situation. I haven’t even thought about Walter yet. We never spoke about having kids, because I don’t think you are supposed to do that this early on in your relationship.

Right?

Oh my goodness, this is too much for me to think about. Let’s just wait until I see what the test says. I mean, there is a possibility I’m not pregnant and just a little bit late with my period and caught a stomach bug. Why think about all sorts of scenarios when there is a chance that it’s not applicable to me.

I grab the test and discover it has two strips. After a quick examination of the box I discover that…

I’m pregnant.

✎ ✎ ✎

Six hours. Six hours have passed by since I took the first test. In that time, I went back to the drugstore, to buy another one and peed on that one as well. They say there is no such thing as a false positive, but I’d rather be too sure.

And that one was also positive.

So naturally I spend my time wisely until Walter came home. I’ve been pacing through the loft, looked online how to tell your partner that you are pregnant and I ate some watermelon.

Walter walks in with a deep frown between his brows, but that disappears when he sees me. ‘Princess,’ he says, ‘you have no idea how much I missed you.’ He sits next to me on the couch and gives me a kiss. The frown appears again when he takes in my expressions. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I’ve got something to tell you.’

He nods. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes, it’s just that… I don’t know. It’s kinda huge.’

He places his arm on the backrest, while his other hand takes mine. ‘Tell me, princess.’

Don’t beat around the bush, just tell him. ‘I’m pregnant, Walter.’

If it were possible, I’d suspect someone pressed on pause, because Walter completely froze. He tries to find some words for it, however nothing seems to leave his lips. I mean, what am I expecting from him? I’m trying to figure out whether or not I should be happy or scared.

‘Oh,’ he finally says. ‘And you’re planning to keep the baby or not?’

I nod. ‘I do and I understand that it’s too soon for us and that you won’t want to stay. I really understand that, Walter. I’m so sorry.’

Walter scoffs and actually looks super offended. ‘I do not understand why you think I wouldn’t stay, because I’m going to be right by your side, every step of the way.’ He squeezes in my hand and says: ‘You will never get rid of me that easily, princess.’

I let out a nervous chuckle, realizing how stupid it was of me to actually think he wouldn’t stay. I mean, we’re talking about Walter here. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘for just assuming. It’s just that my brain is working overtime. I might be a little scared.’

He nods. ‘I understand. It’s quite a lot, but let’s think about one thing first, okay?’ His lips curl up into a smile and says: ‘We’re going to be parents.’

When someone else says it, it’s even more meaningful. My eyes fill with tears as realization hit that I am indeed gonna be a mom and that Walter is staying, thus becoming a dad.

Walter pulls me closer and gives me a kiss on my forehead. ‘Princess, it’s okay.’

‘I know, but it’s so scary. So much is gonna change.’

He nods. ‘Nothing we can’t handle though.’ He pulls me on his lap and gives me another peck, this time on my lips. ‘Now we really need to get you out of that dorm. This weekend I’ll make sure someone is gonna help you with moving and you’re gonna stay right here with me.’

I smile. ‘I can’t wait.’

‘And,’ he says, ‘do you really want to go to cosmetology school now? We can always arrange something when the baby is here.’

‘I kinda want to focus on the pregnancy first, since I have no idea what to expect.’

‘Alright,’ he says, ‘then we’ll wait with that.’ He places his hand on my flat stomach and says: ‘Oh shit, Penny, I’m gonna be a dad.’

I can’t help but squeal when I think about it a while longer. ‘And I’m gonna be a mom.’

✎ ✎ ✎

It’s only obvious that we have to tell my parents. After I had my first scan, I realize that I really shouldn’t push the matter and just tell them, especially because the baby is healthy and I’m out of my first trimester at fifteen weeks of pregnancy. Besides, I also officially live with Walter and those nerves are slowly becoming less and less prevalent.

My bump is minuscule, but that doesn’t stop Walter from continuously placing his hands on it when he can. It doesn’t matter what we’re doing, his hands are always on my stomach, but that’s okay. It’s sweet to see the demeanor of the detective change from someone who always has a figurative thunderstorm hanging above his head, to someone with childlike happiness.

We’re driving to Maryland now and we’ve been on the road for a mere forty-five minutes, when I say: ‘I have to pee.’

Walter starts to laugh loudly. ‘Again? Princess, you went three times back at home.’

Home. That shouldn’t make me giggly, but sure does. ‘I know, but I have to go again.’

‘Lucky you there’s a gas station right here.’ He gets off the road and parks his car. ‘Want something to eat, princess?’

‘Some orange juice, chips and chocolate.’

He simply nods and tells me to stay put. As usual, he opens the door for me. He was already very chivalrous when we just started dating, but pregnancy has multiplied it by a hundred. He securely places his hand on the small of my back and like the true detective he is, he checks everything and everyone in the gas station, before he says: ‘I’ll be right here, princess.’

I squeeze his hand, a silent thank you, before walking off to the restrooms to pee. After I washed and dried my hands, I exit the restrooms, to see Walter is already waiting for me, with all the snacks I wanted and even some more.

It’s nice to know that he still loves me a lot, even after we spend so many weeks together.

Once we’re back in the car, I let out a deep sigh.

‘Princess, you okay?’

‘Yeah, I’m good. Just tired.’

‘Why don’t you sleep?’ he suggests. ‘I’ll let you know once we’re close.’

I groan. ‘No, because that is so boring and I’ve been boring for so many weeks now.’

He scoffs. ‘You’re not boring, you’re pregnant. You’re allowed to be tired, princess and please just catch up on some sleep now.’

I hold his hand in mine, as I close my eyes and drift off to a light sleep. Walter doesn’t need to wake me up, because after an hour or so my eyes flutter open and I smile. ‘We’re almost there?’

‘Maybe an hour?’

I grab some of the snacks and feed Walter, as he continues to watch the road. I once saw how he drove, because we were video calling then. It was fast, hasty and in my opinion not very safe. When he drives with me, he doesn’t ignore the speed limits and is very very safe.

Imagine if there’s a child in the back, I bet he’ll drive just as safe, if not safer.

He places his hand on my stomach and says: ‘I’m not gonna lie, but I’m kinda nervous to meet your parents.’

‘You are?’ I ask. I thought nervous wasn’t in his dictionary. ‘Why?’

‘I don’t know, it’s just nerve wracking. Not only have I never met them, but I also got you pregnant. That usually doesn’t do well.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry,’ I say. ‘My parents are very open minded. Besides, my mom and I used to watch Sixteen and Pregnant and she always said that despite not having to worry about that since I lived like a nun back then, she’d love a grandchild. So, I think we’re good. Also, my dad is probably a little scared of you. He is not that tall.’

Walter chuckles. ‘Well, maybe this’ll go well.’

‘It’ll go splendid, Walter,’ I say, ‘really. If my parents see how well you take care of me, then there is nothing to worry about.’ I place my hand on his and whisper: ‘They’ll love you.’

He smiles. ‘Good. Alright, let me get this straight one last time: we met at a coffee place, right?’

‘Correct,’ I chuckle.

The last part of the drive goes by fast and before we get out of the truck, I put on a sweater to hide the little bump. Walter unbuckles himself and his hand slips underneath the thick fabric, placing it on my tiny bump. He leans forward to press a kiss on it and says: ‘I can do this forever. I might have to quit my job, so I can do this whenever I want.’

I roll my eyes. He has been taking this dad thing so serious and while sometimes it’s very cheesy, I love him for it. Really, I couldn’t have asked for a better man to start having a family with. Is it pretty short notice, being only together a little over four months? Yes, of course, but that’s okay. I feel like the two of us can actually handle it. ‘We should go.’

We get out of the car and when we walk up to the door (Walter holding our luggage, since my mom insisted we stayed in the house I grew up in) my parents open the it and mom runs up to me.

‘Oh, honey, there you are!’ She gives me a hug and I hold back a little, so she won’t feel my bump against her body. I give my dad a hug as well and they look both hopeful and a little nervous when they see Walter.

‘Mom, dad, this is my boyfriend Walter. Walter, these are my parents, Lance and CC.’

Walter is polite, a role that fits him so well, yet I barely see it. He is always so sweet and kind to me, so grumpy and annoyed when it comes to my classmates and so neutral when it’s others. Now it changes a bit. He smiles, he shakes my parents’ hands and from the look of their faces, he isn’t over squeezing it (I actually had to tell him that). ‘Nice to meet you,’ Walter says. ‘You have a lovely looking home.’

‘Oh, aren’t you a dear.’ Mom ushers us to come inside and Walter places his hand on my back, as we follow them inside. I give him a little nod, a sign that it is all going well.

And, it actually goes really well. My parents are in love with Walter and he is slowly warming up to them, eventually even cracking some jokes. We talked about how the two of us “met”, what Walter does for a living (currently he is working at the police department in New York and not as professor at NYU) and a little bit about my parents’ work. Of course, the subject school came up once or twice, but I kinda chickened out telling them I actually quit.

I clear my throat and say: ‘I actually have some news.’

Walter finds my hand underneath the table and gives me a reassuring squeeze.

‘What is it, honey?’ mom asks.

I look at Walter, whose eyes say it all: I’m ready when you are. ‘Well,’ I whisper, ‘I… I’m pregnant.’

Oh no, they’re silent. Oh my gosh, how are they going to react? I bet they’re mad. Oh, shit, my dad is clenching his jaw. They are totally mad.

‘Are you serious?’ my mom asks, blinking a few times.

I nod. ‘Fifteen weeks.’

‘Oh my goodness,’ mom says. ‘Honey, that is amazing. I am so happy for you.’ She stands up from the table and walks over to me. I give her a hug and she whispers: ‘You’ll be a fantastic mom.’ She pulls back and squeals something about becoming a grandmother. She places her hand on my stomach. ‘Oh my, a little bump. Honey, this’ll go fantastic. I am sure you and Walter will become magnificent parents. That reminds me, Walter, give me a hug. You’re officially part of the family, now. Congratulations, sweetheart.’

Walter stands up and gives my mom a tight hug. Dad walks up to me and holds my face in his hands. ‘You’re gonna be an amazing mother,’ he says.

‘You think so?’

‘I don’t think so, I know so.’ He gives me a kiss on my forehead and says: ‘Is this also a right moment to tell me you quit school?’

My eyes enlarge. ‘How did you know?’

‘You can maybe fool your mom, but you can never fool me, sweetheart. You know, you focus on your pregnancy now. You can always go back to school.’

I let out a sigh of relief. Thankfully he is pretty cool about me just quitting. We’ll talk about eventually going to cosmetology school a little bit later on. ‘I love you, dad.’

‘I love you too.’

✎ ✎ ✎

That night, Walter and I are in my old room, squeezed in my two person bed (that is a little slimmer than the one back in the loft) and we reminisce about the evening. It went more than splendid, even when my mom forced me to take off my sweater so she could see the bump. She called at least ten friends to tell them she is gonna be a grandmother and that the child will be gorgeous and lovely, though they have yet to be born.

Walter turns to his side so he can look at me and says: ‘Okay, I have a proposition,’ he says, ‘and I want your honest opinion.’

‘Okay.’

‘How about, you and I move to Maryland?’

Is he serious? ‘Really?’

‘Really. I could see how happy your parents were with the pregnancy and maybe… Maybe they’d like it if you would be closer to them. Besides, I can arrange something and work in Maryland. It’s not like I’m bounded to New York. For that matter, I actually really want to leave that place, because if I see that slimy ass Fitzgerald one more time…’

While I start to laugh because of his personal vendetta against Fitzgerald, my hormones are also all over the place, because I bawl my eyes out only a second later.

‘Princess, don’t cry. This is good news.’ He presses kisses on my temple and cheek, kissing my tears away. ‘But I’ll take that as a yes?’

I nod. ‘I would love that, Walter. Thank you.’

#henry cavill #walter marshall #walter marshall fanfic #walter marshall x ofc #walter marshall x oc #walter marshall x asian ofc #walter marshall x penny townsend #asian ofc #penny townsend #but professor

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nightingaletrash · 3 years

Text

An Evening Meal

Writing is pain but I damn well finished it 😤

It wasn’t often that Logan joined the others in the dining hall for meals. He knew that his presence was unwanted, that all but Page had demanded his death, and the pointed glares and scathing remarks were more than enough to put him off his food. So more often than not, he took his meals in his room and made an effort to stay out of the way of the rest of the council whenever possible. It just made life that little bit more tolerable for all of them.

Well, not quite everyone obviously.

On this particular evening, Lorna had insisted that Logan join the rest of them for dinner and she'd refused to take no for an answer. And when he’d arrived, having finally relented and agreed for her sake, it was clear that she’d had a word with the others.

He was keenly aware that Lorna’s friends and advisors were determinedly not looking at him and were taking great pains to avoid addressing or mentioning him. Instead they talked amongst themselves, discussing the day’s work or regaling one another with stories of their adventures as they indulged in a fine wine imported from Samarkand.

Judging by the flush of Sabine’s cheeks and the way he jumped up onto his chair with his staff raised aloft, the Dweller had gone a little beyond a small indulgence.

“And then, with thunderous cries that shook the heavens themselves, we brought down our axes on the troll’s monstrous head! Its mantle split, its blood spilt forth, and we Dwellers rid ourselves and our land of its insidious poisons!” he declared with a surprising boom. For such a small man, he had a very impressive set of lungs.

And a very impressive talent for embellishment, Logan thought to himself, considering that the victory hadn’t been the work of the Dwellers alone. But he said nothing and tried to focus on his food. He’d let the old man have his stories and glory. There was no need for him to bring any attention to himself.

“I remember that story a little differently,” Lorna chuckled, as if she’d read his mind. At least she kept her voice low and between herself and Logan. “I thought it was your hammer that split the troll’s head open, and that the Dwellers’ axes were busy with its nerve tendrils.”

Logan shrugged indifferently.

“I don’t see that it makes a difference. Sabine is welcome to tell his stories as he wishes.”

He was aware that her gaze lingered on him a moment before turning back to the conversation further down the table. The big Dweller - Boulder - was busy guiding the tipsy Sabine back into his seat just as Ben Finn leapt into his own tale.

“So one minute Private Jammy and I are walking our daring Rebel Princess through the use of the mortar. The next, a legion of Hollowmen are erupting from the ground, ready to charge the gates-!”

“Avo’s sake, Ben, give it a rest,” Page huffed. “No one cares whether you managed to kill three hollowmen with one shot or not.”

“But it really did happen!” he protested, his brows knitting together. Then he pointed an accusing finger at her and said, “you just don’t believe it because you didn’t even believe in hollowmen until you went to Reaver’s little Masquerade party, and now you don’t want to admit that I’m telling the truth!”

“I don’t believe it because you were probably too busy nattering at them to actually do any shooting.”

Logan observed the bickering pair briefly - he took faint amusement at the indignant look of offense on Ben’s face - then turned back to his sister, who was watching the small spectacle unfold with a small smile that was somewhat unreadable.

She’d aged since that day in the throne room. She’d lost some of the softness that rounded her cheeks, and while her eyes weren’t quite hardened, they’d lost their innocent glimmer. She’d also sprouted upwards a few inches, leaving her just shy of his own height. But what drew his attention were the scars on her face.

Suddenly, as if he was possessed by some old repressed childish instinct, he reached over and flicked her in the nose.

Lorna squeaked - actually squeaked - in surprise, swatted his hand away and stared at him like he’d just grown a second head.

Heads swivelled in their direction. Ben and Page’s spirited debate was abruptly cut off and Saker was halfway out of his seat before Lieutenant Attaway’s hand gripped his forearm and a pointed look sent him sinking back down apprehensively.

Logan felt his face heat up at the sudden scrutiny.

What in the Light’s name had possessed him to do that? He briefly entertained the notion of trying to will himself to fade from sight or to sink through his chair into the floor, but as ever, he remained in full view and firmly in his seat. So he tried to act as though he’d not just reached out and flicked his sister, the Queen, in the face like a child might.

Sabine and Kalin just watched with mild interest, and Walter stared for a moment, then chortled.

“No pestering each other at the table,” he said, as if they were still small children and in need of reminding, before he turned away. “I hear that Page’s people were able to track down your missing shipments, Kalin.”

“Hm? Oh yes. The young man, Kidd I believe? Was able to locate the thieves and reclaim them for us,” she replied, catching on quickly and inclining her head towards Page. “It would please me if he were to receive my most heartfelt thanks.”

Page affirmed that she’d pass on the message, and the conversation resumed, though Walter gave the siblings one last heartfelt grin before turning away and leaving them to their own discussion.

Logan made a note in the back of his mind to make up the last four years to Walter for his smooth redirection of the conversation before things got even more awkward.

“What was that for?” Lorna giggled, even though it was clear that she was utterly perplexed. “You haven’t flicked me since I was nine.”

Logan shrugged, still wishing he could vanish on the spot. Still no luck, and he wasn’t going to get away with such a plainly uncharacteristic act in the middle of dinner. So he vainly willed some of the pinkness from his cheeks and turned to his sister.

“There was something on your nose,” he said matter-of-factly. “You never did tell me where you got those scars.”

There were two. An arched cut over the bridge of her nose that hadn’t quite healed right, leaving a slight ridge of raised tissue along the bottom edge of the scar. The second was a perfect mirror of his own; a deep, thin line gouged through her lip as if drawn by a claw, though her’s was on the opposite side to his.

That was the scar that she self-consciously rubbed her thumb over.

“Well this one was a gift from Saker,” she said after a brief pause, tapping the side of her nose to indicate the arched mark. “He punched me in the face during our fight.”

“And the other?”

As expected, she hesitated to answer and her thumb traced over the mark once more, the side of her nail dragging through the narrow groove. He knew all too well where it had come from, but he needed to hear her say it before he could truly accept that she had encountered that thing too.

“Crawler,” she whispered. “It said something about ‘one to match the other.’ At the time, I thought it was talking about this one-" she tapped her nose again "-but I guess it was talking about you.”

The corner of his mouth itched, but he resisted the urge to rub it.

Every time he closed his eyes at night, he could taste blood in his mouth and hear the Crawler’s cackling as it dragged a wicked claw over his lips, marking him forever as one of its playthings. He’d wake up in a cold sweat and have to run his thumb over his mouth to ground himself, to reassure himself that he was not bleeding and that he was far from Crawler’s grasp… for the moment, at least.

He wondered, briefly, if Lorna had similar nightmares. The dark circles around her eyes were telling enough. It was little wonder that she applied makeup whenever she left the castle or attended court. Anything to keep her people from suspecting that their Queen was struggling with her burden.

"I suppose it must have been," was his reply. "Unless getting a scar from Saker of all people was somehow one of your worst memories."

The touch of sarcasm took the edge off of the conversation, and Lorna grinned in spite of herself.

"At least I didn't get one from falling down the stairs when I was six," she jabbed.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Logan replied airily, though the corner of his lips twitched ever so slightly upwards. "Especially when one considers that you weren't even alive back then."

"Jasper would never lie about something like that," she shot back smugly. "He said that you were inconsolable for over an hour."

"Jasper was mad even back then."

"People don't go senile in their early fifties, Logan."

"I said 'mad' not 'senile'. Sane people don't look at an advertisement that insists that a butler must be prepared for daily occurrences of violence and decide 'ah yes, that sounds like the perfect job for me'."

That was a story that their mother had simply loved to tell. Apparently Jasper was the only applicant she had received after her first butler's prompt resignation, which had resulted from a sudden and unexpected bandit attack, and when he'd proven more than capable of running her household and dealing with intruders - where he'd learned to handle live explosives, he'd never say - she kept him on, and he'd served her and her family ever since.

Most butlers had better self-preservation instincts.

Lorna simply grinned though, a mischievous glimmer in her eyes.

"Careful Logan. He can hear everything we say, remember?"

"Well of course I do," Logan said, rolling his eyes. "He was doing that long before he figured out how to work the Guild Seal."

"Right," she laughed. "Remember that time we planned to leave earwigs under the pillow of that diplomat from Samarkand?"

"I still have no idea how he found out about that," Logan chuckled, shaking his head.

"Because he hears all, sees all and knows all." She paused, then nodded her head with a faux look of grim determination. "When this is all over, I shall see to it that there is a temple dedicated to Jasper."

"He deserves it. He's put up with the two of us for all these years."

It would be upon later reflection that the ease of the back and forth would surprise Logan. He and his sister hadn't bantered so casually in years. Not since Aurora. He'd certainly not indulged in the nostalgia of his youthful antics like this, not when so much had been resting on his shoulders.

And yet, for just a while, it was as if nothing had changed. They continued to chat over their dinner, completely ignorant to the conversation and sideways glances from further down the table.

Maybe, he thought to himself after they had all dispersed for the evening, he would take his meals in the dining room more often.

#nightingale writes #fable 3 #logan #hobw #lorna #walter beck #sabine #kalin #ben finn #page #saker #lieutenant attaway #hehe sibling content

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leutik · 3 years

Text

Literature between Political Correctness and Cancel Culture

(Analyzed through Walter Siti, Natalie Wynn and Rick DuFer.)

(buckle up, because if you're gonna read this, it's gonna be long)

«Today is much easier to mistake an author’s personal stances with the content of their works, and then make the author pay for the work’s sins.

Today I look around and I have the sensation that literature is no longer taken seriously: that the way to interpret literature the way I knew it, depth-focused, focused on the power of words to reveal truths otherwise concealed to their own author, is disappearing — substituted by a conception of literature that has to serve a list of good causes.

When some writers of the “neo-effort” (Siti’s neologism) insist on the fact that words are decisive, and that it’d be urgent to change the words in order to change reality, I’m suddenly reminded of those old Marxist authors: they explained that the structure, which is what lays under society, determines what lays upon it, that is words and ideology. Thus, changing the name of something doesn’t change the thing the word stands for at all.

Literature has been considered throughout time the most indicated form to make resurface the part of ourselves — often, the least pleasant — that we’ve exiled in the shadows of our subconscious: a process that often happens without the author’s acknowledgement of it.

The authors of the neo-effort believe they have the duty to spread their ideas to the largest possible number of people and that, in order to do so, they have to simplify as much as they can what they write, sacrificing on the altar of efficiency the style, considered useless. The aim is to do good, namely gain an effect, what does it matter if it’s good or bad literature? Literature used to “take root”, to influence; put at the service of pre-established ideas, and not to venture into the discovery of something we don’t know yet. This way, it gains an ancillary role. And it’s a humiliation of literature — which can truly be useful, instead, only then it hurts.

Sartre’s “Nausea” doesn’t align with his political stances. For Sartre, the effort was the individual reflection of a society in perennial revolution, substantially a school of liberty, whilst for neo-effort the role of literature is to reassure.

Their attitude, their rejection of style, their low consideration of literature, tends to isolate the good writers out there, marginalizing them in a niche that looks like a convention of obsessed aesthetes in the public’s eyes.

I see it in the writing courses I teach: more and more young people whose main interest isn’t to write to learn something about themselves or society, but it’s to write to gain the title of writer and place themselves on the market, detecting the most profitable sector at the moment, which might be fantasy, crime, or effort-centred writing: it doesn’t matter, what matters is for it to be trending and to be reassuring to the reader, in a more and more therapeutic conception of writing.

Literature isn’t immediately therapeutic, this is the difference. When “The Sorrows of Young Werther” was published, copies of this book were burnt, because of the suicides it inspired. Today we read it at school. How much time has passed? I don’t refuse knowledge’s benefit, I refuse that knowledge can benefit instantly, painlessly. When I went to a psychoanalyst to face my neurosis, the psychoanalyst made me suffer for months, and only after I took benefit from it. What would have happened if they had welcomed me with a pat on the back and said “Don’t worry, stop thinking and go help African children”. Probably I would have had an immediate benefit, but all my neurosis would have stayed there, intact.

The Literature I talked to you about is depth-centred, and literature hasn’t always existed: thus it can disappear, sink for many years. Who said that it’ll survive, despite everything?

In Pasolini’s trial he was acquitted because Ungaretti was called to testify. He wrote a letter where he wrote that the formal value of Pasolini’s work turned into literature even those scenes that the prosecution deemed obscene. Law couldn’t do anything but recognize the critical judgement and welcome it. Web’s tribunal, today, would have burned Pasolini at the stake, and Ungaretti with him.» (via Walter Siti’s interview with the Huffingtonpost)

In other words, we can summarize Siti’s view with the sentence «novels aren’t the cure to the world’s evils.» They aren’t, because they don’t have the power to be, and more so they aren’t even supposed to be: writing is a form of art, and art has primarily an end in itself. Literature isn’t a political marketplace, even if it can be used to be — it’s not a crime to turn it into one, but by doing so, one loses Literature’s nature. By doing so, the harm could be mistake literature’s primary aim (that is being a form of art, that is style, that is the pursuit of the truth) with what they turned literature into: a marketplace to defend the author’s ideology.

Siti’s powerful image of the Web’s tribunal, the Web’s court finds an echo in Natalie Wynn video Canceling: in a sense, what Siti calls “neo-effort writers” fall under the same line of thoughts of Cancel Culture perpetrators.

«Like the guillotine, [cancelling] can become a sadistic entertainment spectacle.

Now there's a version of this conversation that's already been had to death, and it goes like this: On the one side are a bunch of male comedians who constantly bitch about how Cancel Culture is out of control, you can't joke about anything anymore without these Millennial jackals trying to get you in trouble.

And the other side is mostly progressive think-piece authors who argue that there's no such thing as cancel culture, it's just that powerful people are finally being held accountable for their actions and they can't fucking handle it, so they go around bitching about cancel culture.

Now unfortunately, neither of those viewpoints is quite as correct as some people might hope.

What Cancel Culture does, [is to] take one story and transform it into a significantly different story.

Presumption of Guilt

There's a traditional understanding of justice according to which, before you condemn or punish a person, you hear the accuser's side of the story and the accused's side of the story. You allow both sides to present evidence and only after everyone involved has had a chance to make their case do you pass judgment and punish the convict.

But cancelling does not abide by the law. Cancelling is a form of vigilante mob justice. And a lot of times, an accusation is proof enough.

Abstraction

Abstraction replaces the specific, concrete details of a claim with a more generic statement.

Essentialism

Essentialism is when we go from criticizing a person's actions to criticizing the person themselves. We're not just saying they did bad things. We’re saying they’re a bad person.

Pseudo-Moralism or Pseudo-Intellectualism

Moralism or intellectualism provide a phony pretext for the call-out. You can pretend you just want an apology; you can pretend you're just a “concerned citizen” who wants the person to improve. You can pretend you're simply offering up criticism, when what you're really doing is attacking a person's career and reputation out of spite, envy, revenge.

No Forgiveness

Cancelers will often dismiss an apology as insincere, no matter how convincingly written or delivered. And of course, an insincere apology is further proof of what a Machiavellian psychopath you really are.

Now sometimes, a good apology will calm things down for a while. But the next time there's a scandal, the original accusation will be raised again as if you never apologized.

The Transitive Property of Cancellation

Cancellation is infectious. If you associate with a cancelled person, the cancellation rubs off. It's like gonorrhoea, except doxycycline won't save you this time sweetie.» (via Natalie Wynn's Canceling video transcript)

Natalie Wynn describes and formalizes the phenomenon of Cancel Culture in those steps:

I only listen to the presumed victim,

I abstract the context to a vague idea,

I equate the action to the actor’s very essence (as if such thing even existed),

I say I’m acting in favour of morals or truth,

I accuse every person the presumed abuser ever came in contact with to be an abuser as well,

and I either reject every form of apology at the moment, or bring up the issue as if no apology was ever made at their first misstep.

Now, in this post I’m not trying to perpetrate any concept of charity, not only because it’s an attitude that takes a lot of work to inherit, but also because the negative aspects that might bring one to be a neo-effort writer or a Cancel Culture perpetrator are part of the very human nature (or, very stupidly, they wouldn’t be humans.)

The self-evidence rises here: those negative parts of human nature can be channelled everywhere, and literature or any other form of art is the healthiest way to do so: you’re not going to get rid of your anger, or your sadness — the best thing you can do is learn to control it and suppress it, but how is it going to work in the long run? It’s going to act past your good judgement, or even cloud your good judgement, clouding it into thinking you’re defending some pseudo-moralism or pseudo-intellectualism, when what you’ll be doing is just venting on someone else.

This is one way to see it: when one forgets what proper thinking is and falls into those quick and gut-feeling “thoughts”. Or one could even take advantage of this Cancel Culture, of this ground of poor thinking to instrumentalize this lack of critical judgement to attack someone else.

On instrumentalization and its dangers, Rick DuFer says:

«Political correctness works when its aim is to protect the weak from abusers, but when it favours every little susceptible sensitivity it turns dangerous.» (via Rick DuFer’s podcast DailyCogito)

Rick DuFer talks about a shared responsibility that happens during offence: shared between the offender and the offended. The problem with offence, as opposed to harm, is that it isn’t quantifiable, so the offender is guilty in regard to their intentions, and the offended is guilty in regard to the instrumentalization they can enact with the situation.

And again we find “instrumentalization”: if one destroys my property, I can quantify the damage, but if one insults me, how can I quantify how offended I truly am? This is when I can twist one person’s words and turn them into an offender, this is when sensitivity becomes a mask and no longer a virtue (or, for the toxic masculinity’s thought, a vice.)

Now, to wrap things up:

These people take the (s)word of this school of thought (which some other dichotomists may, generalizing it, call it “Strong Thought” or “Unique Thought”), perhaps without even knowing there’s an alternative, while there are multiple, actually: as many as the human beings right now populating Earth.

They may do it out of a dualistic and very childish view of society — divided into good and bad people. And if that’s your view of life, you’re not gonna want to be associated with who others deem as bad, following a gut feeling and nothing more. (And I say “gut feeling” to avoid saying “very poor thinking”, because that’s what absolutization, essentialism, and the rest is.)

Your thoughts aren’t really yours, and you become a vessel for something that belongs to someone else, someone who crafted those thoughts in a very different context, or with instrumentalization in mind. You don’t want to risk criticizing those thoughts because you don’t want to be isolated, or because you’re a sane person who deems it important to act rightfully (even if you’re letting others tell you what “right” is.)

And for how problematic moral relativism is, it surely is better than any form of absolutization: better than rejecting your status as “sapiens” and stopping thinking altogether, passively accepting what others taught you to be right and wrong, maybe even out of fear, or a stupid rush for glory and sympathy.

So I wouldn’t call this moral relativism, strictly, but rather moral subjectivism, or context-centred morality. A morality in which people still have a brain to separate a piece of work from an author’s ideology (against essentialism) and to still take into account the context in which an action was performed (against abstraction). A morality in which “good” and “wrong” aren’t seen in black and whites, but rather into lighter and darker greys; a morality which systematic use can slowly dress into the habit of charity towards one another, into kind teaching rather than cruel instrumentalization.

And is it really utopistic, is it really unfeasible, if we’re not falsely annihilating the suffering and the negative parts of the Human Experience?

This whole discourse could be turned into a political marketplace of rights and lefts, of conservatives and progressivists — but my aim here is much smaller (or bigger, if one is a humanist): to make the reader question their critical thinking, and just that.

(We love some self-doubt.)

I believe moral acts aren’t supposed to be a badge to share on one’s vest — to renew your status as “approachable person” (as if saying “don’t worry, you can talk to me, you’re not going to be deemed as bad for it”) or to be praised for. Moral acts are the only acts that raise humans from other species, the acts where the “sapiens” shows its evolution, the acts where our negative aspects aren’t hidden but channelled into arts, without the fear that someone might call us bad for it. (Immoral, even, whilst acting in the most moral way possible, exorcising those negative parts of us in the least harmful way possible.)

So, at the end of this unnecessary rant, my question is: is it better to be a minion in a culture where you have to watch your mouth, as if it wasn’t yours, or to be a person who’s engaged in researching how right and wrong truly manifest?

#the first and last sources are in italian #i did my best translating them #rant #philosophy #literature #cancel culture #cancelled #politically correct #controversial #opinion #thoughts #very open to discuss civilly

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cadomoisspokenfor · 3 years

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Legion Rewatch Notes,

Chapter 8:

The Revolution

Aw man, how unfortunate what’s happened to Clark. I feel soooooooo bad. I mean he was just humble div 3 agent, doing his job, gaslighting marginalized individuals, participating in a genocide. How cruel of those bad bad mutants to injure him so badly. He was only actively about to kill David. What could he possibly have done to deserve any of this?

In other words, the Clark propaganda is not working on me this time. At all.

Maybe don’t participate in a genocide? Idk :/

I normally hate when people type in the passive aggressive way I have been for the past few paragraphs, but goddamn, Clark deserves it.

He’s not quite as damaged... but he’s kind’ve like old David here, from the over-medicated living with Amy timeline. Again, not quite as damaged as that though.

Clark considers mutants a “threat to democracy.” 🙄 “Moral panic” I guess?

“The second I walk outta this room, i’m going to war.” There’s that word again. Clark could just... not, and they’d probably have more time to figure out how to safely eradicate Farouk. But because he doesn’t and David busies himself with peace treaties, Farouk escapes and continues to be a problem for the next year. Clark has a family. A husband and child who love him to death. And he chooses war over them. This pattern will repeat in other character. Technically this isn’t even the start of it.

Suit change, new cane, same Clark. This really doesn’t change anything, does it? He could go through the rest of the series in the suit he wore before and it wouldn’t make difference. The valiant hero dressing for an expected victory over their long time (relatively) rival, only to be stopped immediately by an unforeseen development. This pattern will repeat... tragically.

Considering Farouk!David woulda just dusted them, it’s probably nice for his friends to see the real him is much less violent. He just stacks em like a Jenga Tower, no need for anything more.

Also, Wilhelm scream from one of the soldiers.

He’s also talking strangely. In an almost too calm voice. Measured. He talks like this a few other times, but I think those times have sadder context. Maybe they reflect on this moment. He talks like how he talked when Farouk was mind-melded with him, but his intentions aren’t evil this time around. I guess this is just his “fully in control” voice.

Clark’s literally shaking where he stands.

The zoom in to Clark’s blind eye is reminiscent to previous zoom in’s to Walter’s foggy eye. I guess Clark has taken on the role of Walter, artificially. Makes sense since he’s now the main D3 representative/antagonist like Walter was before.

“I don’t care if you save me, or the world, if you don’t save yourself.” David will eventually choose himself over the world, and Syd. And Syd will hunt him for it. Goes to show how much things change in s2.

“You know the most dangerous thing about schizophrenia?”

“You’re not-“

“The most dangerous thing is believing... you don’t have it! That’s the trick, the mind killer, your disease convinces you you don’t have it. So, for example, one day in the hospital you meet a girl and she has some friends, and they tell you you’re not sick. You have superpowers. And more than anything you wanna believe it because that means you’re not crazy! That means you can fall in love and live happily ever after. But you know if you believe it, if you surrender to the hope and you’re wrong, then... you’re never coming back.”

“I’m here. I’m real. The power is real. You gotta accept it, otherwise we can’t move on.”

“I was in Clockworks for six years. Drugged, doing nothing. Contributing nothing. And now, finally I can be useful! I can help! Don’t you get it? I am so sick of myself. This only works if it’s not about me.”

“David...”

So... that’s a lot. David believes being crazy means he’s not allowed to fall in love, or be happy. He said the same sentiment to Amy before Clockworks. This whole season and this episode especially push David into his full “I’m not insane, I won’t believe you if you tell me otherwise” mindset. At the very least that’s the stakes we’re playing with. If David fully gives into the hope, even for a moment, he believes there’s no possibility for recovery. No possibility for love or happiness. Why even try after that? It’s life or death for him. “If the choice is between life and death, I choose life.”

I know this is all already known and talked about and circulated 100’s of times over in various fan circles, but it’s probably the most important line for David’s character (the speech, not the Farouk quote). It’s very ableist, yes, but at least in the moment it’s coming from someone who’s just being too hard on themselves, and not ya know, being actively validated by the show.

2 episodes ago David talked about being worried about an “invincible” feeling. The dangers of mania.

We also know from that episode that David is more at peace in a calm, responsibilityless setting (with Syd) than he is out in the real world. David’s gonna take on a ton of responsibility, some of it’s gonna draw him away from Syd. At multiple moments throughout the show David has known his own mental health better than any of the others, and even warned them about potentially dangerous slopes he could fall down without their help. Despite this, David is pushed further down a path he tells them is dangerous and is still blamed for what happens in the end. I feel like Oliver’s line from ep4 is relevant here again, “We are the root of all our problems. Our anger, our confusion, our fear of things we don’t understand.” Everyone wants David to be something other than... David. A hero, a god, there projected image of a perfect partner. Not just... David.

Man, the more I realize about David’s self-awareness in s1 the madder I am at Syd for saying all that ableist stuff to him in s2 as if he wasn’t already down on himself 24/7. “It never occurred to you that you’re the problem not the solution?” It’s occurred to him like 5 times by now and has been shut down by you at least 3 of those times. I don’t understand.

What’s strange is... to my recollection David doesn’t believe he’s invincible at the end of s2. Or that he’s not sick.

“Saint David.”

“I’m not saying that. I make mistakes.”

“Say you’re gonna let them kill me if I don’t let them turn me into something different. Something easy. Something clean.” He sounds sinister here, but it is an indication that he knows he’s not perfect. In fact it sounds like he’s trying to appeal to Chap 1 Syd’s mentality. Your disorder is what “makes you you.”

So what’s the message here?

“We can’t just kill people. Or is that who we are now?”

“That’s who they are.”

The justification for killing here is that they’ll kill them if they don’t. Div 3 will kill Summerland if Summerland doesn’t kill Div 3, is what I meant. David has a similar justification for killing Shadow King in s2. Well, he has a LOT of justifications for it, but that’s one of them. Syd doesn’t hear it then either. She does attempt to kill David herself though. I don’t quite understand where the line is.

“He was gonna kill you, twice.”

“With that kind of thinking wars would never end.”

So... he shoulda just talked to The Shadow King when they were both powerless? Talking is what ultimately ends their fight in s3... hmm...

Cary is more humane to their POW than Melanie and Ptonomy are.

The show doesn’t necessarily say it was Cary’s fault for leaving Kerry. Either way though, Kerry needs some space.

Melanie calls David a “world breaker” and outright says now that he knows that’s what he is, div 3 doesn’t stand a chance. I suppose... knowing that... is why they so readily team with Farouk. They stood no chance otherwise. Even then, at least hide him away till after the intervention.

David’s floating meditation pose is seen more in s2 and A LOT more in s3.

He puts the onus of ending the war on Div 3. As if to say, “If things get violent again, it’ll be on you, not us.”

People keep talking about “gods” “waking up” and “realizing they don’t have to listen to us/them anymore.”

When Clark says it David’s first response is, “Isn’t that the history of the world?” But it’s a red herring (or something else) cause he follows it up with, “People of different nations, different languages, learning to live together?”

Clark is afraid if mutants gain power they won’t show humans mercy or equality. This is a common belief among fascist. The “they’ll treat us like we treat them” argument. Only it’s rarely self-aware, and it isn’t here either. Clark genuinely believes he’s not doing anything wrong. It’s all somehow in “self defense.”

Ah, so Farouk and Syd are connected psychically. He entered her mind whenever she entered David’s. He psychically affects her at multiple points throughout the series.

Syd here is convinced to help The Shadow King by The Shadow King. And while he’s wearing a mask at that. Yeah yeah, this pattern will repeat. But still, Syd gives in relatively quickly here. Perhaps she just... doesn’t fully trust Summerlands capabilities? They are legitimately trying to get rid of Farouk, but Farouk has proven time and time again how dangerous he is. Or maybe the “unmake soup” thing is just that convincing to Syd.

Clark’s still standoffish, but he’s slowly becoming more cooperative.

Syd rolled a 4 on that hero speech. She needed at least a 7.

I legitimately NEVER noticed before that Syd secretly turns on the lab camera feed for Clark to watch. They weren’t trying to show him that.

David gets a chance to look back at his whole life and recontextualize everything.

David straight up halts Farouk’s theme. If Clockworks Podcast is right and he can hear that whenever Farouk shows up, this would be evidence of it. Alternatively, he was halting Farouk, and the music halting was for the audience. A fun subversion of expectations.

David describes him and Farouk as, “The Sun and Moon.”

Division 3 sees it. The monster they saw on infrared. Clearly a separate entity from David Haller. Clearly of a different disposition than David Haller as David Haller has acted very differently and non-hostile compared to when they saw him roaming those HQ halls. The monster and David are not the same. They see who their real enemy is now.

It seems evident there was no chance of David beating Farouk on his own here. I wonder why? Was it true? Is Farouk just too ingrained in his mind? Cary said he was like a, “Computer virus. Learning his systems, bypassing his defenses.” Maybe Syd remembered that, and that’s why she believed Farouk. Cause Cary had already said something similar before.

Clark could've escaped, but he stayed, then tried to help fight Farouk.

I feel really sad Oliver got possessed. It never occurred to me before he could even tell Melanie he remembered her. Melanie’ll just go on thinking he never remembered her for a year.

And thus it’s established. There are “good mutants” and there are “bad mutants.”

No one checks on Ptonomy :(

The Lenny that’s talking to Oliver here is still just Farouk.

Did the orb go back as far as it could? Or was this time specifically chosen? If it was chosen, it was probably because it’s very soon after Farouk had been expelled from David’s head, and before the big race for his body starts.

#legion fx

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captainkingsley · 3 years

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Walter's memorial service takes place on a much sunnier day than his first funeral. The first had been dreary, with soldiers and friends alike watching as their young king broke into tears numerous times over. Now, the memorial being held is in Walter’s memory as a statue of him is mounted above the gardens. It is also, saddeningly, the goodbyes from many who had helped Cedric through his journey. Before him, his friends and allies tell him of their plans - from Page who plans to stay in Bowerstone to Kalin who promises to bring news to her people of the defeat of the darkness, Cedric bids them all good luck in turn.

And then Logan turns to him.

His older brother wrings his hands together, his thumbs worrying the skin of his knuckle. Logan looks guilty, lost, as though he’s in far too deep in a lake of emotion that’s quickly becoming suffocating.

“I believe,” Logan says, swallowing harshly, “That the best course of action for me is to leave Albion altogether. It will heal better without my presence, and—”

Cedric cuts him off with brows knit together and plants his hands on his hips, feet strong against the grass as he stares at his older brother.

“No.”

“No?” Logan asks, taken aback. His brow raises. “Cedric, surely you understand.”

The wind makes the bushes rustle. The statue of Walter stands, stern and noble, casting a shadow just beside where Cedric stands. Fitting, he thinks, that Walter is there to see him stand his ground against Logan once more — though this time the situation is not quite so dire.

“I’m not letting you just give up and run away.” Cedric says, and he watches as Logan casts his eyes down to the ground, looking very similar to when his dog gets into something and pleads for forgiveness.

“Would it not be better for Albion if I simply left?” Logan says. Behind Cedric, Benjamin and Page whisper to each other. Cedric swears he hears Ben mention something about how he wishes that Logan would simply leave, and he makes a note to himself to give Ben a talking to later.

“Perhaps. But you also still hold some sway here.” Cedric says, his posture relaxing as he goes from noble king to Logan’s younger brother. “And besides. You’re all the family I’ve got left. Jasper notwithstanding.”

Logan goes quiet, his lips forming a tight line. Everyone around them is tense, waiting to see if either brother makes a move to speak. Ben seems an inch away from making a remark, held back only by Page shoving him in the arm. Sabine’s staff makes a curious sound as the man shifts from foot to foot, craning his neck to look up at the brothers.

“Family or not,” Sabine says, breaking the quiet, “Logan deserves to pay for what he’s done. And if that payment is him leaving Albion—”

Cedric puts a hand up, silencing the man. He rarely is so serious, more often than not choosing to keep himself upbeat for the sake of others. But now, his expression is contorted into a mixture of sorrow and frustration.

“Sabine, if you hate my brother so much, would you truly want him to choose his own punishment?”

The statement hangs in the air. Sabine makes a gruff sound, leaning on his staff and finally, after a long minute, rolls his eyes and agrees with the logic.

“You cannot be serious.” Logan says, and Cedric cracks the barest hint of a smile.

“I can,” he says, “And I am. Your punishment, former King Logan, is to stay within Albion’s borders and help me repair the damage you’ve done.”

A sneaky way to force him to stay. A way to keep what family he has left in one place while still, to the people, giving Logan a punishment worthy of his misdeeds. Cedric is sure there are multitudes of things that Logan can do to repay what he’s done, whether it be hard work and labor with the people of Bowerstone to managing papers ( but not finances ) for the members of the nobility.

“You’re using your new power to keep me here.” Logan says, and there’s a hint of something hopeful in his voice that he tries to hide. Cedric’s smile widens.

“Yes, I am. And should you try to defy me, or run from Albion, I will hunt you down, and I will bring you home.”

Cedric watches as Logan’s expression shifts. His lips try to stay stern, but there’s something tugging at the corners of them as he forces back a smile. Nobody moves as Logan shuts his eyes and tilts his head down so his chin is nearly against his chest, his voice tight.

“I understand. I will … Accept this. And I will do what I can to help whoever asks.”

There’s some gentle murmuring around them as Logan adjusts his footing, his boots crunching the grass under him. A pebble gets lodged under his heel, which he kicks away to try and focus on something other than the emotion swelling in his chest. Cedric waits a minute, and then another, as the people around him begin to discuss whether they should leave the brothers to their machinations or continue watching.

Cedric turns to look at the statue of Walter — takes in for a moment the noble set of his face, the way his likeness has been captured so well — and wonders if he’d be proud of Cedric’s soft heart and decision on this day. For a moment his mind wanders to the crypt where their parents are buried, where this entire adventure had truly begun, and hopes that they would be happy with him. They wouldn’t have approved if one of them had killed the other, he thinks, and they surely wouldn’t be happy if Cedric allowed Logan to stew in his guilt and anger at himself for succumbing to the darkness.

Tearing his mind away from the hypothetical opinions of his dead parents, Cedric sets his shoulders straight and stares at Logan once more.

“I’ll find you a start tomorrow. For now,” he says, stepping forward, “I just need you here as my brother.”

Logan looks up just in time as Cedric grabs him in a hug, his arms wrapping around Logan’s torso.

And suddenly it’s as though they’re young boys once more, Logan comforting Cedric after he’d gotten lost in the gardens or scared of a shadow in his closet. A beat passes before Logan returns the embrace and sets his cheek against Cedric’s hair, his crown having been stowed away for the ceremony despite the protests of his advisors.

Now, the onlookers decide it’s time to step away. The last to leave is Jasper, who does so with a gentle touch to Cedric’s shoulder and a quiet nod at Logan.

“I’m sorry.” Logan finally says, his voice weak. “For everything.”

“I know,” Cedric says, his throat tight. “But it wasn’t you. Not really.”

Cedric pulls away so he’s at arm’s length to Logan, who is doing his best to hide the way that his eyes burn and his throat has gone sore from holding it in a way so as not to betray his emotion.

“You were never like this when we were young. I knew that the Logan that came back from Aurora wasn’t the same one that protected me from monsters made of my own sweaters.”

There’s a flash of a memory in Logan’s eyes, of holding a wooden sword and lifting bunched-up fabric from a pile in Cedric’s closet that made both of them burst into laughter. It feels like eons ago that they were so close.

“Funny,” Logan says, “That I used to do that, but now I jump seeing my own shadow follow me down the hall.”

“Just means we’ve swapped,” Cedric says, “And I’ll be the one ridding you of monsters.”

There’s a long pause. Below the castle, the city moves, running more efficiently after Cedric’s decisions to improve it. The sun hovers above the horizon, and soon it will dip below the line of the sky, and take with it the flowers in the garden as they close their petals for the night. Something in Logan’s mind clicks as he ponders just what it means to be an older brother once again, on how he could ever possibly learn to be family with Cedric again.

Perhaps, he reasons, he doesn’t have to think about it.

“Trust me,” Logan says, “You already have.”

#fable 3 #logan #cedric #hero of brightwall #HGHGK IM WRITING SO MUCH FOR CEDRIC RN???? HELLO ???#anyway. im super soft for genuine family interaction #i have. a lot of hc regarding their relationship before logan met the darkness #anyway I wrote this last night #and posted this ans the other ones ive done on ao3

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toomanystoriessolittletime · 4 years

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Getting away with it (5/?)

Summary: August Walker was dead. At least that’s what people believed for almost 2 years. When the CIA found reason to believe that he was alive they made it their top priority to find him. Including sending one of their best female agents to recruit his twin brother. Walter Marshall.

Pairing: August Walker x Reader (Walker) + Walter Marshall x Reader (Walker)

Warnings: gun violence

Wordcount: 2.390

A/N: Are you guys ready for some plot? Cause there’s a lot of it in this

Masterlist

Part 1 >> Part 2 >> Part 3 >> Part 4

Taglist:

@ladyreapermc / @theolsdalova / @greenmanalishi / @itsmydreamlifethings / @palaiasaurus64 / @celestial-vomit / @penwieldingdreamer / @notyourtypicalrose / @babypink224221 / @fanficsrusz / @solariumss / @starlite13 / @ly--canthrope / @mytbel0st / @oddsnendsfanfics / @ravenpuff02 / @sofiebstar / @chamomilebottom / @keiva1000 / @agniavateira / @peaceinourtime82 / @dearlybelovedluke / @vania-marie / @fcgrizi / @mary-ann84 / @ayamenimthiriel / @radaofrivia / @ohjules / @omgkatinka / @xceafh / @diehadess / @watermeloncavill / @modernscarlett / @p3nny4urth0ught5 / @yespolkadotkitty / @desperate-and-broken / @blahdragonageblah / @alexakeyloveloki / @siriussnape07

@its-jb86 / @singeramg / @mis-lil-red / @wildwavehc / @tumblnewby (I can’t tag you guys. Sorry)

Walker woke up with a serious headache the next morning. Groaning she opened her eyes, looking out of the window of her bedroom. Sighing she pushed herself up, finding a bottle of water and some advil on her bedside table. Frowning she looked around. The left side of her bed was untouched, like it had always been in the last years.

The last thing she could remember was Marshall telling her about his daughter Faye. But after that…

Taking the advil, drowning it with the glass of water she slowly climbed out of bed, hoping that a shower would help her over her hungover.

She was about to head out to pick up Evie when her phone rang, showing Agent’s Millers caller ID.

“It’s sunday.” She took the call, hearing the man sigh on the other end of the line.

“I know. And I don’t want to keep you. Walter Marshall contacted me, he wants to meet tomorrow.” He said.

“I know.” She opened the door of her car and got in.

“How come?”

“Not that it is really any of your business but he told me yesterday that he was considering helping.”

“You’re in contact with him?”

“He’s technically my brother in law.” She flinched saying these words. She didn’t see him like that. At all. Maybe he could become a close friend. But saying that he was her brother in law meant acknowledging that they indeed was a blood relative of August. And even if they looked alike, she couldn’t think of two people who would be more different from each other than August and Marshall.

“Right. Okay. I will need you at 8 am sharp at the Headquarter for the briefing.”

“Why me?” She frowned.

“You will find that out tomorrow.”

“Very cryptic Robert.” She rolled her eyes, making the man chuckle.

“You know me. How’s Evie?” He asked.

“Picking her up from my Mom’s right now.”

“That’s nice. Okay I won’t keep you any longer. See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Bye.”

A cabin, somewhere deep in the woods, unknown location, the next day

It wasn’t much but it would be home for the next couple weeks. August had running water, electricity and WiFi. He could survive until the end of his days here. But that wasn’t his intention. August wanted to walk the streets, being praised as the saviour of humanity. People would understand why he did, what he was intending to do. The world couldn’t continue like that. The climate, the people. His contribution would save humanity. He just needed to wait for the rest of the world to see it.

Sitting at the kitchen table August logged into the darknet, intending to check the progress of the bio weapon deal he had arranged for the end of next month, when he looked at the date. How could he forget? 5 years ago, almost to the hour, had been one of the happiest days of his life. His old life. Because that day had also been the first day he began to think that maybe he had to take things into in his own hands, if he wanted to have a future worth living.

5 years ago, Central Park, New York City

“I can’t believe we are doing this.” She giggled, holding on to August was they walked towards their final destination. She was wearing a knee length tulle dress. The skirt a light gray, the top in black, a dark gray silk belt around her waist. He hair lay in long dark waves over her shoulder, the red long gone he had loved so much. Her bright red lips smiled up at him. August Walker had finally found the only woman he could imagine spending the rest of his life with. The love he was feeling for her, how she made him feel with only a curve of her lips upwards as she looked at him… It took his breath every time.

So yesterday, when he woke up before her, with her in his arms he decided he didn’t want to wait any longer. While she was sleeping he had arranged for them to get married on the next day. He had asked her almost 2 months ago, none of them feeling the urge to hurry getting married. Until August woke up that day.

“Better believe it. After today, you’re mine and mine alone.” He smiled down. He had decided for dark dress pants, a gray dress shirt that seemed to match the tone of her silk belt. August never had spared a second thought about a traditional wedding. Or a wedding at all. That they would be getting married on the Bow Bridge in central park, just the two of them seemed to be the perfect continuation of their relationship.

“I’ve been yours for a while now, August.” She grinned, her hand squeezing his as they walked towards the bridge where he could see a minister waiting for them.

“We don’t even have rings.” She shook her head.

“We do.” He smiled.

“We do?” She asked in surprise.

“I’ve had them for a month now.” He grinned making her giggle.

“Sometimes I can’t believe you August Walker.”

“Better do, because in about half an hour, you’ll be the Misses Walker. You’ll be stuck with me forever.” He kissed her temple.

They celebrated by having her favorite ice cream as they slowly walked back to the apartment they were staying in. Another mission would take them to Argentina the next day and after that they would be moving to Langley to work at the CIA headquarters.

The feeling that spread in August’s chest as the minister pronounced them married made him feel as if he could do anything, followed by the overwhelming urge to protect her. To keep her safe. Up until now he had never even thought about the possibility of losing her.

“August…” She smiled up.

“Mrs. Walker.” He grinned.

“I’m not getting rid of that anytime soon, hm?” She giggled, licking on her ice cream. He shook his head.

“I know we said no presents, but I t’m very anxious in telling you about this because we have never ever talked about it…” He saw her nervously biting on her bottom lip, making him frown. He stopped walking, standing in front of her, tilting her chin up so she looked at him.

“You are my wife. There’s nothing you could tell me that we can’t figure out together.” He smiled encouragingly. She closed her eyes and breathed in deep, opening her eyes as she breathed out.

“August, I’m pregnant.”

It was like all the noise around them died down in the moment the words left her lips. Something in the back of August head registered her words, but the other part, the part that always was there, the Agent part of him seemed to take over before he knew that he had put his arms around Walker, shielding her from the bullet that had hit her head if he hadn’t turned her away. He barely registered the pain in his left shoulder as he pushed her to lay beneath him, her eyes big, her hands on his chest.

“August…” She whispered, looking up at him. “Your phone, where is it?” She asked. His eyes wandered down, making her reach into his pants to pull out the phone. Slowly he looked up seeing 5 armed men randomly shooting people all around them. Walker would have sent the distress call by now, but he still had to get her out of here. Her and his child.

“You’re bleeding.” She whispered.

“I know.” He pressed out, his mind going a hundred miles per minute. There was a fountain next to them.

“I want you to crawl to the fountain and get in it. I’m going to take care of his. I need you to be safe.” August said, leaving no room for argument.

“You have no weapons.” She reminded him.

“I don’t need them. I need you and our child to be safe.” He urged, making her swallow before a little smile sneaked through her face. Carefully cupping his cheek she nodded.

“Please be safe. I… We need you.” She took one of his hand, pressing it to her belly. Leaning down he kissed her longingly.

“Go.” He whispered, before he pushed himself off the ground and did what he told her, took care of it.

The wound in his right shoulder seemed to twitch as he thought back. The bullet had to be removed in surgery back then. On his wedding day. Walker’s dress had been drenched with his blood. But all he thought of was that he had been scared. Scared to bring a child in a world like this. How would he be able to protect the woman he loved and the child that he wanted to grow up in peace? The world around him was dying. And the people living in it seemed to fuel it.

An incoming message stopped him in his thoughts.

A.Nonymus: Meeting confirmed. Coordinates will be send 3 days prior, transport will be arranged

Smiling August closed his laptop. If everything would go right, he would be reunited with his family in less than two months.

Langley, Virginia, the same day

“Grandma’s gonna pick you up after kindergarten. Mommy has to work late today.” Walker said, packing the breakfast for her daughter.

“Okay.” Evie said, eating her cereal.

“Finish eating, I’m just gonna grab something upstairs.” Walker smiled. Evie nodded, grinning at her, making Walker chuckle.

Upstairs Walker grabbed her badge and her laptop in her office, picking up some files when her eyes lingered on today’s date. In another life she would have woken up her husband with breakfast in bed. Taken the day off to spend it with him. She felt an overwhelming feeling of nostalgia inside of her. Closing her eyes she breathed in deep, once, twice. She didn’t even know she had moved until she was sitting with a box in her lap in her office chair. The box she had put in everything that reminded her of him. Even if he had hurt her in all ways possible. He was a big love in her life. Maybe the biggest love of her life. He gave her Evie. She hated him, yes. But deep inside she knew there would always be a part of her that would love him. Swallowing she opened the box, smiling a little when she saw one of the few pictures they had taken on their wedding day. They had been so happy. What had started as the happiest day of her life turned into the worst. Thinking back that probably was the day he began to change. The look in his eyes as she told him she was pregnant. She had never seen him so happy. She had been a mess since she had found out two days prior. And then he had surprised her with their wedding. She wanted to tell him before but… Thinking back it wouldn’t have changed anything.

She still didn’t know how he killed the 5 men that had been attacking central park after their wedding. She had been hiding in the fountain, like he instructed. She knew the look in his eyes. The one that left no room for argument.

Running her fingers over the picture she sighed, not even noticing the tears running down her cheeks. Swallowing the lump in her throat she closed the box, brushing her tears away, before she got up from the chair and grabbed all her stuff. For her this would be a day like every other.

Walter was waiting for her in front of her office. He had changed from his usual attire of a comfy sweater to a white dress shirt. Even his beard seemed to be trimmed.

People around him gave him questioning looks, even more when she walked towards him to hug him as she said hello.

“Weird that there is no SWAT team already here to take you in.” Shejoked.

“Very funny. Your boss told me to wait for you here and take you to room 202 right away. But I think it’s best if you take me to said room because this is a fucking maze.” He chuckled.

“Gimme a second. Just need to grab some stuff.” She opened the office door, setting the files she had taken home down on her desk.

“How bad was the headache?” He asked, leaning against the door frame.

“Oh bad… What reminds me… I didn’t tell you embarassing stuff from my past, right?” She asked. He laughed, shaking his head.

“I did most of the talking. You fell asleep halfway through. I just put you to bed and left. Hope that was okay.”

“You put me to bed?” She asked, going through her mail.

“Carried you. Couldn’t have let you sleep outside, couldn’t I?”

She looked up, seeing his soft smile. He had carried her to bed? A blush crept to her cheeks, silently wishing she would remember it.

“Thank you.” She said quietly, breaking the eye contact and going through the rest of her mail. A small package was the last thing she picked up. It had no return address. She knew that their intern post office would have already scanned the package, so she ripped it open, her favorite box of chocolates falling out.

Gasping loudly she reached for the letter falling out.

“What is it?” Marshall asked, taking the few steps to stop in front of her desk. Pushing the letter towards him so he could read, she swallowed.

“Don’t touch it. I need to send this to evidence. All of it.” She whispered.

“You don't marry someone you can live with — you marry someone you cannot live without. Happy anniversary” Marshall read out loud, looking up at Walker with a hard face.

“We should get to the briefing now.” He whispered back. She nodded, reaching for the phone to call for the evidence team to extract the things.

“I need someone from evidence to come and pick something up. And I need to talk to the post offices and I need the CVR’s from the whole weekend.” She said when her call connected.

“No. Now. August Walker send me a package and I need to know how.”

#fanfic #fanfiction #august walker #walter marshall #henry cavill #august walker x reader #walter marshall x reader

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schleierkauz · 4 years

Text

The Color of Revenge: Chapter 10

Surprise! :3

For some reason (I have to assume as a birthday gift, for me, specifically,-) two chapters were uploaded last friday! Sooo here’s the second one! Enjoy!!

Shoutouts go to @bluejayfiredancer and their art textbook and @firejugglinghobo who both make my life much easier by Speaking English

Chapter 10: Death has the Color of Ash

The last book the Great Balbulus worked on had been commissioned by Violante of Ombra for her 32nd birthday. It was meant to celebrate the natural wonders of Ombra in words and vision. The nymphs in the river, the fire-elves in the nearby woods, the giants in the mountains that could be seen from the highest tower of the castle when the weather was clear, and the unicorns in the holly oak groves east of Ombra.

The writers had delivered the pages with the finished text to Balbulus the evening prior. He was, as always, less than thrilled with the ink quality and the arrangement of words, but he had given up on trying to convince Violante to hire new writers. She would just give him the same answer over and over again:

“Balbulus, these men have families to feed.“

So what? Did that excuse that they might be tainting his posthumous fame with carelessly placed letters and ink that was too pale? Art didn’t care about a few hungry brats. Great art demanded sacrifices to be made!

He used a few color pigments that were left over from the other book.

The other book…

He was glad that the filthy troubadour with the sly smile would take it away soon. Ombra was filled with dark rumors and lamentations. The Bluejay had disappeared, alongside his family. And it wasn’t just him. Where was the Inkweaver? Where was the bookworm woman Loredan? Where was the beautiful Roxane?

It was said that the Fire-Dancer had gone all the way to the White Women to ask about her.

He would not find her.

Balbulus hurried to take his brush off the parchment. His fingers were shaking. He thought he could hear them all from between the pages since the book had come back from the new bookbinder, who really couldn’t compare to the Bluejay.

Finished books were always sent to Balbulus first, in case he needed to make any last corrections. But this one? To hell with it! He had wrapped it in a brocade bag and put it in the chest where he kept used parchment and his linseed oil.

When the screaming in the streets had started, he hadn’t been able to resist the temptation of opening it and looking at the faces of those who had disappeared. How they had looked at him… Thanks to his mastery it seemed as if they were breathing on the pages, and maybe they were. Anything was possible when it came to magic.

With shaking hands he had pushed the book back into the bag and wrapped it tightly before putting it in the chest again. It was made of oak wood and the lid was so heavy that he could barely open it. But still, he thought he could hear them screaming between the cover, between the pages of parchment he had trapped them on.

What had he done?

Stop it! You practiced your art, Balbulus! That’s it!

He clenched his fist to stop his fingers from shaking. Dusk was beginning to fall outside and the troubadour, if that unsavory character deserved to be called that, would take the book and everyone trapped within it away. Yes.

Forget it and focus on the work, Balbulus.

How could he have known that he would be made into a tool for such demonic magic? He dipped the brush into the silver which he used to make the nymph’s scales glow. They lived in the river which flowed through Ombra and Violante loved to watch them from the castle’s crenellations. There were rumors that she regularly left them cakes and grapes at the river bank because she believed that the nymphs brought good luck to the city.

Superstition!

Balbulus cleaned the brush and dipped it into the dark green he had mixed for the nymph’s hair. He painted a wisp of hair, floating on the water. Exquisite! Yes. No one could match his brushstroke.

Balbulus looked up and out of the window. Outside, the day was dying.

… Maybe he should throw the bewitched paints away. He stood and stepped to the shelf where he had put the glasses in which he had filled them. They really were one of a kind. He had never seen such brilliancy before. No.

No, he would keep them and use them for Violante’s birthday book. It would spread the word of Balbulus’ mastery all the way to Venetia. No, he had to think bigger – people would talk about him in Lutici, in Nuremberg, Metachirta, yes, even in Constantinople, where the great Bihzad was illuminating the sultan’s manuscripts so wonderfully that they allegedly spawned golden camels and birds of paradise.

So what? The pictures painted by the Great Balbulus would make the world with all its wonders pale in comparison and everyone who looked upon them would yearn to get lost in his landscapes. The blue of the sky would seem washed out compared to his own. His red would put the most beautiful rose in Violante’s garden to shame and his yellow would outshine the sun.

With a smile, Balbulus stepped back to his desk.

Magnificent Balbulus. Glorious Balbulus. Immortal Balbulus.

He reached for his finest brush and painted another strand of nymph hair onto the water when a noise made him flinch. Cursing, he dropped the brush and looked at the ruined page. How many times did he have to tell those idiot servants that no one was allowed to step into his workshop unannounced? He had even put up a sign which threatened to throw any unauthorized visitors into the dungeon.

“I will ask Violante to withhold your p-“

The words died on Balbulus‘ lips. The troubadour stood in the door. He pulled it closed behind him and gave the illuminator an oily smile. Balbulus always saw the color black when he was face to face with Baldassare. A worrying association. Black, and a poison-green yellow. Yes, those were the colors he would choose to portray Baldassare Renaldesci.

“I was visiting one of Violante’s maids. She would do anything for my verses, the stupid little thing, so I thought, Baldassare, do Balbulus a favor and go fetch the book now. He’s probably in his workshop.”

His dull eyes looked at Balbulus‘ possessions as if he were estimating which would be easiest to sell to Ombra’s fences. Baldassare Rendaldesci’s eyes were always dull, whether it was due to wine or elf dust, Balbulus couldn’t have said. He didn’t know much about the intoxicants that were popular in Ombra. His art was the only drug he was addicted to.

When he turned his back to his visitor, Baldassare locked the door to the workshop. The latch was slightly rusty but Balbulus was struggling to open the lid of the chest and didn’t hear anything.

“Here it is,“ he said, reaching for the bag with the book. Once again Balbulus thought he could hear the prisoners whisper inside. If only he had listened. Maybe they were whispering “Watch out!” or “Don’t turn your back to him, Balbulus!“

“This Walter von Vogelweide,“ he said with his glum voice for which he was just as known as for his art, “does he have a famous library?”

“I have no clue,“ Baldassare answered. “He’s not really the one who commissioned this book.”

Balbulus thought that was a very mysterious answer, but Baldassare didn’t give him time to solve the mystery. He plunged the dagger into Balbulus’ chest as soon as the other man turned around. Right into his heart, just deep enough that it stopped beating without spilling too much blood. Orpheus surely wouldn’t have liked splatters on the book.

Oh yes, Baldassare was a master as well, though not of the art of rhyming like he would have wished to be. He had a lot more talent for murder. Destruction is so much easier to learn than the creation of beauty.

Balbulus slumped down with a surprised expression on his face. Surprise, pain and a hint of indignation that his talent was being snuffed out so soon. Baldassare pulled the bag with the book from his weakening fingers and admired the shimmering brocade. The bag alone was probably worth more than everything he owned.

Oh, the treasures he could earn if he sold the book in Venetia or Mantova instead of leaving it in Violante’s library like Orpheus had ordered… He leaned down and pulled Balbulus’ rings off his lifeless fingers.

No, it probably wasn’t a good idea to steal from Orpheus. After all, he was allied with a witch, a devourer of children if the rumors were true, but maybe he would get rid of his glass man. Even just the thought of carrying him on his shoulder for days and listening to his chatter all over again… Not to mention that he would probably tell Orpheus all sorts of unflattering things about him.

Oh, what a disaster, a raven picked him off my shoulder…

Of course, the Shard Head had wanted to come with him to the castle, but Baldassare had told him in great detail what the maid’s cat liked to do to glass men. Baldassare smiled as he imagined feeding Ironstone to a few hungry rats. The glassy flesh wasn’t very tasty, but apparently those pipsqueaks had a delicious core that even human gourmets valued greatly. In Ombra it was unfortunately illegal to sell glass men for that purpose, so… that treat had to wait.

Baldassare stepped closer to Balbulus‘ desk and looked around, wondering where the sticks were that had served the illuminator as references. He eventually found them in a big casket, alongside a bag of gold coins, silver cutlery and a necklace that Balbulus liked to wear during official events and distinctions. Baldassare took all of it, even though the payment for this murder had been much better than he was used to. He looked at the parchment which his victim had worked on.

Not bad, no. Not at all.

For a moment he regretted that he hadn’t given Balbulus time to finish the page. After all, his death would make his work even more valuable. Well… Nothing could be done about it now. Even a master couldn’t think of everything. Baldassare stepped over Balbulus’ cooling body, a bloody red flower blooming on its chest, and unlocked the door.

Violante’s library was empty when he snuck inside. The maid has assured him that her mistress spent only her mornings in there. Then he left the castle the same way he had gotten in: Through the courts and corridors used by servants and maids. The guards who saw him simply nodded and let him pass. He had spent many evenings entertaining them with his songs and some of them had bought elf dust of excellent quality from him.

Balbulus‘ corpse wasn’t discovered until the next morning.

(Next chapter)

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bourbonboredom · 4 years

Text

A Reason To Believe Chapter 13

Being an undercover officer is a perilous job and Flip Zimmerman knows this far too well. He keeps his romantic life limited to one-night stands, never letting anyone get too close. That all starts to change when he meets a vivacious Jewish woman named Elle just as he’s about to take on a seriously dangerous undercover job; infiltrating the KKK. Elle and his undercover work make him question things he’d never thought to before and challenge him to see the world, and himself, in a whole new light.

A Flip x OC Fic

Word Count: 2,947

Warnings: mentions of

When you're weary, feeling small

When tears are in your eyes, I will dry them all, all

I'm on your side, oh, when times get rough

And friends just can't be found

Like a bridge over troubled water

I will lay me down

(x)

The one advantage he now had was control over his narrative.

The only people who had a clue to his real identity were dead now. He planned what he would say on the drive back, taking the time to consider all angles that could pop up. He was sure Connie could throw a wrench in things, but that was a risk he’d have to take. He rushed back to the steakhouse, finding the remaining members still socializing on the grounds. The women had moved to a different room, leaving the men to shoot the breeze and smoke cigars. They were laughing at a joke someone had just told as Flip burst back into the room.

"Hey, where'd you run off to? It's been hours," Walter asked.

"Felix and Ivanhoe went rogue. I tried to stop them but—“

"They went what?" Walter's voice rose. "Mr. Duke, please excuse us, there's been an issue,"

“No, I'd like to be apart of this. Is everything okay?" The leader asked.

Flip motioned for them to follow him out of the room and they obliged. They stood in the hall and he did his best to look upset.

"Two of our members weren't in compliance with the organizations morals. They wanted to incite violence and chose to target the local Black Student Union," He explained.

"They had an explosive device that they were going to set off at the Black Student Union’s headquarters. I found out about what they were trying to do and tried to talk them out of it but they wouldn't listen. They took off and I tried to catch up with them but I was too late,"

"Did they kill anyone?" Walter asked. "I mean our creed is nonviolence but did they at least, you know, succeed?"

"When I got there, the house was fine but their car was on fire. I—I think—“ He didn't finish his sentence, letting them put two and two together.

Duke closed his eyes and sighed. Walter looked defeated.

"I tried to get closer, but the police were arriving and I had to get out of there. I got back here as soon as I could,"

"Thank you, your service is appreciated," Duke said, clasping his shoulder. "It's always a sad day when brothers die for their cause,"

"They were good men," Flip agreed, lying through his teeth.

"Was Connie with them?" Walter asked.

"She was but survived, she was taken in to custody I think. I don't know if anything like this has happened before but should we take care of their house for them? Maybe get rid of anything that could incriminate us? I mean with Mr. Duke running for office we wouldn't want this coming back our way,"

"That's good thinking. I'll wrap things up here and meet you at their place in an hour. If the police start poking around, call me from a payphone and we'll re-group," Walter agreed, Duke nodding along.

"It was an honor to meet you sir," Flip shook the leaders hand firmly.

"You're doing great things for this organization, Stallworth. A natural born leader if you will," Duke responded. "Take care out there,"

He said his goodbyes and dashed out to his car. He had already ensured that no officers would be poking around the house yet. He wanted to see if any evidence could be gathered for his case before the rest of the station swooped in.

He parked his car on the Kendrickson’s street, looking around for any neighbors before walking to the side of the house. He checked for an unlocked window, something people commonly forgot to do in the nicer parts of town, and found one right near the kitchen. He slid it open and squeezed his long frame through, stumbling as his foot found purchase on the hardwood floor.

He closed the window after him and began to look around. The house was still. It was hard to imagine that half of the people who lived in it were now dead, and the other half was headed to jail. The only sound in the house came from the ticking clock in the kitchen.

He walked around, taking a brief glimpse at how the house had come to a stand still. It still looked lived-in. Boots by the front door, unlaced and on their sides. The daily mail sat on the kitchen counter, not yet opened. The main level of the house looked normal enough, practically a piece of Americana. All of the klan paraphernalia was stored in the basement.

As he opens the door to the cellar and begins his journey downstairs he's reminded of the first time he came to this house. How Felix had taken him downstairs and held a gun to his head, trying to make him take a lie detector test. His stomach sank as he saw the same test still sitting on the small table. He reminded himself that was over, he'd never be in that situation again.

His eyes swept over the rest of the basement. There were a few guns, some old tool boxes and a lot of junk. He wouldn't have time to dig through it all. He'd only have about twenty minutes until Walter showed up, he needed to get what he needed and get out.

He rifled through a few boxes, looking for any proof. He became increasingly frustrated, each box containing nothing of use.

He'd wasted ten minutes and found nothing. He didn't have time for this shit. He tried to think of where else in the house there could be anything. He thought of the bedroom, maybe they stuffed something up there.

He headed back upstairs, leaving everything approximately where he'd found it, shutting the door behind him. He started up the staircase, finding the bedroom at the end of a small hallway. The bed was made and the room was nicely decorated. Connie's doing, probably. He started opening dresser drawers, looking under piles of clothes. Nothing. He tried the closet, shoving his hands into the pockets of shirts and coats. Just some shopping receipts in Connie's pockets.

He stopped himself from yelling in frustration. He needed proof for this investigation, something that would show concrete proof of their involvement beyond some snapshots and recordings. He looked toward the immaculately made bed. He crouched down to check under it, met with nothing yet again. He hit his head pulling out, cursing this whole operation. He drive his fist into the floor, an attempt to get rid of his aggression.

The floorboard knocked out of place.

He looked down, it was dark under the bed but he could just make out a small box. He pulled it out, taking a better look at it in the quickly dimming light. He opened the box, and he sucked in a breath upon seeing the contents.

There were six memberships cards scattered in the box, one for every year of Felix's service, along with recruitment flyers the klan had produced and some photos of him with the white robes on. Connie smiled proudly next to her husband in the photo. Another photo was at the very bottom of the box. He immediately recognized a familiar scene. The shooting range the organization had taken him to could be seen in the background, the vulgar targets looked newly installed. There Felix stood with a rifle, smiling as he aimed it at one of the targets.

“Now these would do just fine for evidence,” He thought to himself as he held the photos.

Suddenly, he heard a car engine. He rushed to the bedroom window. And saw Walter's car pull up to the house.

Fuck. He had to get out of there now.

He stuffed the contents of the box in his inside coat pocket to keep them out of view. He shoved the box back into the floorboards and readjusted the wood. He ran back downstairs as quietly as possible, peaking out windows when he could to make sure he hadn't been spotted. The dark house served as a good cover, keeping him out of sight.

He stopped near the front window. Walter was standing by his car smoking a cigarette, presumably waiting for him. There was no way he'd be able to get back to his car now, he was too close. He held his jacket close to his chest, hoping nothing would fall out as he snuck back out the window.

He stumbled back onto the grass, shutting the window behind him. He took a deep breath before straightening himself out and brushing himself off. He snuck to the front of the house and made himself just visible to Walter. He beckoned for him to come into the yard once he caught his eye. The man stubbed out his cigarette on his shoe and followed him.

"Do any of the brothers know what happened yet?" Flip asked.

"Not yet, we kept it quiet at the meeting, didn't want to cause a fuss with Duke still there. I'm sure they'll find out by tomorrow morning," He responded. "We should clear out anything that directly links him and Connie to our chapter. We don't want any trouble with the police,"

"I hear ya, I don't think theres a key hidden anywhere. There's gotta be an open window somewhere though,"

They crept through the yard, letting Walter test a few windows before Flip guided him to the one he knew was open. They entered the house the same way he had done moments before and began to look around.

After several minutes it became apparent that Walter was much more familiar with where Felix put things than himself. In the basement, boxes of klan memorabilia were carefully tucked away in tool chests under the drawer bottoms.

Most was simple enough, flags and robes and paperwork. Things he was kind of glad he didn't touch because the other man clearly knew what he was doing. Then another box was pulled out and opened. Walter smiled at the contents and held it for Flip to see. It was a mummified finger, decapitated from lord knows who. Under the finger was a simple tattered gold star made out of cloth with the word “Jude” written across it.

His stomach dropped. Where did Felix even get that from? he was too young to have fought in the war. Was is handed down? Was it purchased? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He willed himself to not look away, slap it out of Walter’s hand, he had to keep cover.

He twisted his mouth into a small smile, looking up at Walter and giving a quiet laugh.

"Typical Felix," He gritted out.

"Yeah, he was a strange guy," Walter mused, closing the box and slipping it into his jacket.

They continued with this for another hour or so. They walked through the rest of the house, checking drawers and cabinets for anything incriminating. He held his breath as they walked around the bedroom, waiting to find out if Walter knew about the loose floorboard.

He waited by the doorway as the man circled the bedroom, checking the closets and drawers as Flip did before. He found nothing new. He stopped at the end of the bed, dropping down to check under it and he felt his heart stop. Walter stayed under there for what felt like hours. He couldn’t hear what was going on beyond the pumping of blood in his ears. Was he about to be found out?

Walter stood back up, staring at him before speaking.

"I'm not seeing anything up here, guess he kept it all in the basement. We should get out of here. Before anyone notices,"

It felt like a weight had been lifted from his chest.

"Yeah, good idea,"

"I can't hold all this shit, you take some of it. Hide it if anyone comes around questioning you. Who knows how this is all gonna go down," he slapped his hand on his back as he moved passed him.

The two went back downstairs, dividing up the boxes and calmly slipped back out the window. Flip took care to not grab the box that Walter had out the finger in. It was evidence, but he couldn't bear the thought of looking at it, or handling it, ever again.

"Take care, i’ll call you when it feels safe to," Walter whispered before going back to his car.

Boxes in hand and cards in his pocket, he travelled back to his own car, throwing them in the trunk before driving off. He took a long route to Elle's. A really long route. He was paranoid and exhausted, wanting nothing more than to hold her in his arms.

He stopped at the first payphone he saw, parking his car alongside the glass box before putting in a coin and punching in Elle's number with a practiced ease. She picked up after two rings.

"Flip?" She asked, voice filled with worry.

"It's me. I'm on my way, I'll see you soon," He assured her.

She breathed a sigh of relief before the two said their goodbyes and hung up. He got back in his car and went on his way.

He'd bring the boxes to the station tomorrow, submitting it as evidence. At a stop light, he took the cards out of his coat pocket and took another look at them. The vicious red of the papers stared back at him. He was given a card just like this, but with his undercover name. He chuckled to himself as he thought about how Duke would probably lose it if he knew who the real Ron Stallworth was. The light turned green and he put the cards in his glovebox before stepping on the gas.

He was outside Elle's door less than ten minutes later. He ran up the stairs toward her apartment, breathing a sigh of relief when he reached her floor. He stood outside her door, taking a moment to look at her mezuzah. He stared at it, taking in its meaning. This place is blessed. This place is safe. He reached out and ran his fingers across it before unlocking the door and walking in.

Elle emerged from the kitchen, immediately throwing her arms around his large frame and burying her face into his chest.

"Hey trouble," He murmured, running his hand along the back of her neck. Her curls were still pinned up under her nurses' cap, she hadn't bothered to change.

"You don't get to call me that today Mr. ‘I'm going back out there’," Her words were muffled by his chest. He laughed.

"I'm home, there won't be anymore trouble tonight," He assured her.

She grabbed his shirt with her fists and dragged him down into a kiss. He could feel everything she'd felt that day; fear, worry, anger, relief, but mostly love.

"Did you get what you needed?" She asked after.

"I did. I think I have a good amount of incriminating evidence,"

"Good. Tear them the fuck down," Her gaze had an intensity to it.

She switched to a gentler look as she motioned back to the kitchen.

"I have some steak and potatoes cooking, hungry?"

"Absolutely,"

They sit in silence for a few minutes as they eat, taking time to de-stress now that the worst was over. He'd seen Elle stress-cook before, after Felix showed up at his house, but she had much more time to prepare this meal. Everything was cooked to perfection. She seemed pleased with her work as she ate, and much more relaxed than even a few minutes before.

"I called home earlier to let them know what had happened at work today. Well, an abridged version. I left out the meshugas racist part. Mama was a lot less upset than I thought she'd be, but she did tell me I should quit and settle down though,"

"I don't think settling down is in your wheelhouse," He smiled

"You're right. But I did tell her I found a nice guy out here in the mountains. He's even Jewish. I'm pretty sure she dropped the phone when I told her that,"

"I'm glad she's happy to hear about me," He laughed.

"She'll want to talk to you sometime, probably give you the shakedown of when you're coming to the city with me to meet the family,"

"I’d like that. You'll have to teach me some German so I can talk to them,"

"You say that as if they'll let you get a word in. I'll be surprised if they let you even get your own name out before questioning begins,"

"My family will be the opposite. Just silence with weird polite questions dotted in,"

"You want me to meet your family too?" She seemed surprised.

"Eventually yeah, whenever you're ready for it," He didn't want to come across as eager.

The last time he brought a girl home was in high school. This would be a big deal for him, she was a big deal, but he'd let her know that later.

"Well we can work out the details later, let's just relax for now," She tried to hide a smile, looking relieved they were on the same page. She wanted this to move in the same direction as he did.

The evening was becoming the rainbow after the storm. His life was hectic and dangerous, but he found someone who could put up with it. Tomorrow he would go into the office and the case would continue. He'd be undercover, cleaning up the mess that today was. But he wouldn't worry about that now.

She was with him, they were safe, that's what mattered.

______

NOTES

So after watching the film a few times, I had a few questions about how the team thought they were going to be able to continue the undercover work after the explosion/Connie’s arrest. I kinda filled in what I thought could have happened in order to keep Flip’s cover.

Where did Felix get the finger and the patch? No idea but it was gross to write! Just wanted to hammer home the idea that he’s a sick bastard.

“Meshugas” is yiddish for crazy.

There’s one more chapter left!

#flip zimmerman x reader #flip x reader #flip zimmerman #flip zimmerman x oc #artb #ARTBmasterlist

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sahidchettair · 3 years

Text

BROTHER

Brandon met Laji before he ever set eyes on Sahid. His father had invited him over, it was two months after the incarceration of his mother. And it wasn’t the first time that she disappeared behind bars, though this might very well be the last.

He was already starting to let go of the feeling of loss. She wasn’t lost to him, she had simply decided she was too loyal to her own beliefs to ask her ex-husband for help.

Brandon, however, was not.

“He can stay in the guest room, Phil,” Laji suggested, she was smiling. She was beautiful. Brandon could see why his father had fallen for her.

“It is okay, I am staying with some friends a town over. You’ve got enough on your hands with everything. But I appreciate the gesture.”

Phil beamed. “I know this might come off terrible, Bran, but you’ve grown up well. I wish I could take some pride in that.”

Brandon smiled kindly. He hadn’t seen his father since he was six or seven. His mother had thrown him out of the house because he had wanted them all to move back to Wheeler. He had fought many legal battles to win him back, but lost all of them. He bore his father no ill will, but at times wondered what life would’ve been like if he could’ve been raised by him instead.

“I am sorry for all you’ve had to go through, Brandon, but I hope you know we are here for you now. You’re welcome in our home at any time,” Laji said.

Brandon nodded. “Thank you, m-“

“Laji, just call me Laji.”

“Thank you, Laji,” Brandon repeated.

Food was served then and Brandon turned his attention back to his future step-mother. “How is your boy holding up?” he asked.

Laji sighed and cast a meaningful look in Phil’s direction. “As well as can be expected,” she said.

“It must be hard, moving so quickly after his father died.”

Laji nodded. “He is young, he doesn’t understand yet that his father won’t be coming back.”

“He’s a scrawny kid, he’ll get through it,” Phil commented.

Laji said nothing to that.

“The little bugger usually sits out in front of the house and waves at passerby’s,” Phil continued. “We’ve been trying to get him to eat more American food,” he added. “No meat on his bones. Different from you when you were young.”

Brandon nodded. He figured Sahid would have the same color skin as his mother, if so he already knew school was going to be an adjustment. It was one of the reasons his mother had not wanted them to move. ‘They’re all white, Bran, you will stand out like a sour thumb’ she would say. Brandon knew his father would’ve protected him. Like he knew his father would keep Sahid on his toes. And it was in that moment that he realised what he felt for the boy who now lived in a room that might’ve been his. Not kinship, but jealousy. The kind of jealousy that he hoped to overlook, but he knew was strong.

———

Brandon walked through the gate into the garden. He could see the shed where his father held all his tools, the trampoline that hadn’t been used in years, and his stepmother’s vegetable garden.

“Hey,” a voice came out of nowhere.

Turning back towards the house, he saw Sahid sitting on the porch. The small boy was reading a book, he sported a nasty bruise on his cheek, and seemed to be looking at Brandon with an intense gaze that he read as hostility.

“What happened to you?” Brandon asked.

Sahid shrugged. “None of your business,” the boy said. “Dad’s in the house if you need him.”

“Okay,” Brandon took two steps towards the house before his father already opened the door.

“Boy, where did you hide the hammer?”

“I put it back in the shed, sir,” Sahid answered quickly, already putting the book away.

“Go and get it.”

“Yes sir.” The scrawny twelve year old hurried from the porch and disappeared into the shed.

“What happened to his eye?” Brandon asked his father.

The features on the man’s face softened when he saw his son. “Ah, I don’t know, he hasn’t told me. Makes him look extra mean though, doesn’t it?” Phil said proudly. “He’s going to be the talk of the town at some point. His mom got him to audition for choir.”

“And that is supposed to make him cool?” Brandon asked with a grin.

Before Phil could answer, Sahid returned, the hammer in hand. He gave Brandon a dirty look and walked past him to hand the hammer to his stepfather.

“Boy, go make us some tea,” Phil commanded.

“Yes sir,” Sahid said, picking up his book and going inside.

“I told Laji to enlist him for the army when he turns eighteen, should do him some good to get rid of his anger. She doesn’t want to, however. I can’t blame her. She never talks about her ex-husband, but I know she doesn’t want to lose the boy.”

Brandon nodded. Though he had seen the interactions between Laji and Sahid, he wasn’t sure if there was enough love there to suggest they hadn’t lost each other already.

“What was his father’s name?” Brandon asked, as he followed his father inside. He did feel some pity for the boy. But Sahid was always looking at him with his big pleading brown eyes, Brandon simply didn’t know what to do with him.

“Don’t remember, don’t care.”

——

Brandon threw the grocery bags into his car and the backpack with tools with it. He stretched his aching back before slamming the door closed. Then he heard laughter behind him that sounded familiar. He turned to see Sahid, who had grown from a scrawny twelve year old into a lean fifteen year old.

“Sahid,” Brandon said, walking towards the alleyway where his step brother was standing together with Sally and Theodore, two infamous kids from the same school. Laji had warned him about Sahid’s chosen friends. “Aren’t you supposed to be at school?”

The young adult turned with an apologetic smile. “Yeah, kind of. We have a free period,” he said, blinking those brown eyes of his.

Brandon nodded, but a lot about it seemed off. “Do you three need a ride?”

It was Sally who shook her head, chuckling. “No, thank you mister Walter, we are good,” she said quickly. “We have our bikes around the corner, Sahid will make sure we get back on time.”

Brandon nodded. He didn’t know Sahid well enough to be certain of that. A slight breeze passed through the alleyway and the scent of strong weed reached his nostrils. He looked the three over and understood. It was fine, they were all young. He didn’t need to tell his father what he had seen. “Fine, see you around, then.”

—-

Brandon sat in the waiting room, he had just gotten off of the phone with Nadia, who was going to come over as soon as possible because she decided he was in no state to drive. He felt like a wreck, his feet nervously bouncing around, his heart beating in his chest. He recalled the last thing he said to Nadia. “Don’t tell Cassie.”

A nurse walked towards him and Brandon stood up right away. She gestured to him to sit even before she was in front of him. “Mister Walter? You brought in Mister Chettair?”

Brandon nodded. “How is he?”

She sighed. “Alcohol poisoning, we emptied his stomach and are keeping him under surveillance. He’s unresponsive for now, so I suggest you go home and visit tomorrow,” she said. “Do you have someone to come and pick you up?”

Brandon nodded again. As he did she turned and left him standing there.

He wasn’t sure how long he remained standing, lost in his own world. He had always known something like this was bound to happen to Sahid. He knew his step brother was up to no good a lot. But why he had been in that trailer alone was beyond him. Perhaps his friends had ditched him.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of voices, looking up to see his father, stepmother, and Nadia walking towards him.

They all looked upset, but his father’s arm was bandaged and in a Mitella, and his head sported a large gauge.

“Dad, what happened?” Brandon asked when they stopped in front of him. He already felt the anxiety rise in his chest. Don’t make me choose.

“Sahid happened,” Phil said.

“He attacked your father,” Laji explained.

Don’t make me choose.

“I’ve told the police that he’s here, it might be best if we leave, Bran.”

Don’t make me choose again.

“Come on, son. I can’t imagine what he put you through, let’s go home.”

Brandon was seven years old again. He didn’t want to choose between his mother and his father. He wanted both. He looked back to where the nurse had gone, then back up at his father.

Sorry Sahid.

——

It was the sorriest image Brandon had seen of the young man all summer. Almost a skeleton now, Sahid patrolled the pit stop and gas station like a man possessed. Taking all the work he could find, fixing cars, fixing bikes, sharing numbers.

Today was just like the others. That scrawny kid with little to no meat on his bones doing everything he could to earn his money.

Brandon watched him talk with an older man who had just filled up his tank. Then Sahid grabbed his bag from the floor and got in. His heart sunk. He wanted to turn away and just drive home, but instead he found himself following the dark gray Sudan.

It drove only a few miles before parking at a motel. Brandon stopped on the other side of the road. He saw the man and Sahid get out, and both walked into one of the rooms, closing the blinds.

Brandon found himself soon standing outside of the car emptying his guts. He had seen enough movies to know what that meant. He had seen his damned mother do the same thing. He got back into the car, considered his options, but eventually buried the knowledge. Buried it deep enough on his way home that it wouldn’t show itself again. Buried it so nothing would remind him of it so easily. Buried it till the day he was asked to stand trial at Sahid’s hearing.

——

Brandon had his arm protectively around Cassie, who had insisted on coming along, even though she had no idea what was happening. He was tired from talking with the judge beforehand, and from trying to resist saying exactly what his father had said. It had been a year, and despite his decision, the longer he watched Sahid from a distance, the more he found himself wishing he could find a midway. He felt pity, but despite that pity he had told the judge the truth. Despite that pity he had agreed with Nadia that they didn’t want Cassie to be around his stepbrother. Despite that pity he didn’t go against his father.

But the pity swelled up as he watched Sahid sit down next to the lawyer assigned to him. His hair was neatly cut, he wore a suit that engulfed his frail appearance, and there were dark bags under his eyes.

“Mister Chettair, I’ve reviewed your case. You’ve paid back the sum of money that you owed to your step-father Mister Walter on time, you’ve respected the wishes of Mister Walter and his family to keep a distance during this one year period, and you’ve not disturbed the order in any other way. However, multiple eye-witness accounts have notified me of having seen you visit the Roadside Motel with a number of different people.”

Brandon felt cold sweat run down his neck at the mention of multiple accounts of this. Had he hoped to have been the only one? Would that have made it better?

“This has created the assumption that you’ve taken to prostitution in order to make ends meet, is this true, Mister Chettair?”

Sahid didn’t answer right away, instead conversed with his lawyer before nodding. “Yes, judge,” he said.

The admittance was met with mostly silence, some people speaking in hushed tones, and Cassie asking Brandon what prostitution meant. He didn’t answer.

“I will take this into account.” The judge wrote something down for a moment before turning back to Sahid. “I have also received indication that in the attempt to pay back the money every month you’ve severely underfed yourself.”

“Yes, judge.”

“I would like everyone but the lawyers present and Mister Chettair to leave the room,” the judge said.

Brandon ushered Cassie to her feet, something she was slow about. He knew what the judge was going to ask from Sahid, and he didn’t want to see it. He didn’t want the visual proof of his father’s wish for revenge. But he braved one last look before being the last to leave the room, watching the shirt two sizes too big fall off of Sahid’s small frame. He was reminded of the scrawny kid of twelve with the black eye and mean look.

“Daddy, he looks sick,” Cassie said. “We should bring him to the hospital.”

“I know,” Brandon agreed.

——

The trial didn’t end as Phillip Walter had wanted it to, but Brandon was glad for the outcome. He stood outside as his father raged at the lawyer they had hired. He took a deep breath and found Nadia’s eyes lingering on his face, he could sense the worry in them. They had agreed that Cassie was always the most important thing. She had to be protected. That included being held in the dark about this misfortunate family business.

“It’s Sid!” Cassie yelled all of a sudden when Brandon was too busy looking into Nadia’s eyes. She broke free from her father’s grasp and ran towards her uncle, who was walking down the stairs next to his lawyer.

When Sahid saw Cassie he immediately bent down to greet her, one knee on the ground as she threw her arms around her and pinned him down in the bearest of bear hugs.

By the time Cassie let him go, Nadia and Brandon had reached them as well. There were tears in Sahid’s eyes, which Cassie wiped away with a stern look. “You have to eat more pasta,” she said. “You are very skinny.”

He chuckled. “You don’t like it?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No.” Cassie turned back to her father, lips tight. “Can we bring Sahid home? I can make him pasta? And I want to watch the Lion King.”

Brandon sighed, he could hear his father call them back behind him, and he could see the longing in Sahid’s eyes. “Not today, Cassie,” he said, taking Cassie’s hand and turning away from his stepbrother. Every step hurt though, he felt Nadia’s hand on his shoulder and knew she understood.

“Bye Sid!” Cassie called back with a big smile.

——

The dishes were piled up on the counter, and with Nadia having brought Cassie to bed the day before, Brandon knew he couldn’t have asked her to put them in the dishwasher. It was barely seven am and extremely dark outside. He was already wearing his Christmas sweater in case Cassie appeared that morning, a smile on his face as he cleaned away the dishes.

A feeling of sadness reached him, and he didn’t need to look up to know Sahid was standing outside. He sighed deeply and walked out of the kitchen. He got his jacket and opened the door to step outside.

His stepbrother was standing on the porch, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. He still looked fragile, although he had gained some pounds over the past year, his skin was healthier and the bags under his eyes had disappeared.

“I was here yesterday,” Sahid said.

Brandon nodded. “I know. The neighbors invited us to have some hot cocoa. You know you could’ve slept in the guest room, right?”

Sahid nodded. “I didn’t… I didn’t know if Phil and Laji would be coming over this morning.”

“Hm. They are, actually.” Brandon gestured to the door. “Have a cup of coffee, they won’t be here until ten.”

“And if Cassie wakes up?”

He let out a sigh, he knew that would pose a problem but he hadn’t considered it before Sahid said it. Sahid rarely came over, and if he did, Brandon made sure either he or Nadia were around. He didn’t trust Sahid with his daughter. But he didn’t trust his daughter with Sahid either.

“I’ll make some coffee and bring it outside,’ Brandon said.

“Okay. Thank you.”

Brandon went back inside. He made coffee while cleaning the rest of the dishes away. He could see the back of Sahid’s form out of the window, but his stepbrother barely moved. He wondered what the other was thinking, what was keeping his thoughts occupied. He joined him five minutes later with two mugs of coffee.

As always Sahid didn’t say a thing, and as a result Brandon didn’t either. There was so much left unsaid between the two of them, but neither knew how to bring it up.

“Can I come over when Phil and Laji have left?”

“You can come by tonight, watch a movie with Cassie, she will love that.”

Sahid smiled. “Okay, I will.”

——

“Where is she!?” Brandon screamed. He had seen Sahid standing outside of the house, probably afraid to come nearer to it. It had been just a suggestion his father had made when coming over with Laji to help with the search. Maybe Sahid had something to do with it? Brandon remembered calling his stepbrother at some point, an hour maybe after Nadia discovered Cassie was gone. He had returned home only so he could talk to the police, he had spent hours walking around the neighborhood in the dead of night, screaming Cassie’s name, waking up all the neighbors. His house was packed by now, his father leading the search, Laji making coffee, Nadia crying.

Fear racked through his frame and his father’s suggestion had settled in the empty spaces.

He ran at his stepbrother, grabbing his shirt in two fists. “Where is she?!”

Sahid held up his hands quickly. “Bran, I don’t know where she is,” he said quickly. “I’ve been looking around the playground and the park, she isn’t there,” he explained.

Brandon knew that it was the truth, but his brain didn’t want to believe him, he pushed Sahid away. “Bring her back, Sahid! Bring her back!” He could see the fear in his stepbrother’s eyes, but he didn’t cave in.

Sahid gave him a weak nod and turned to walk away, running off to his car.

“Bran!” Laji came outside and joined him on the lawn, she hooked her arm in his, didn’t look at her own son, instead she had only eyes for him. “Come back inside, Bran. The police will deal with Sahid.”

As she said it two officers exited the house and passed Brandon and Laji to follow one of their main suspects.

——

Brandon ran to the car without a second thought, threw on his jacket and ignored Nadia’s plees for him to stay. He had Sahid still on the line, or so he had thought, unaware that the call had ended. Not that it mattered, Sahid hadn’t been able to hear him. Terror gripped at his heart.

He had never really believed his father. Phil Walter hated his stepson. Laji had no love for her own son anymore. To them it was only natural that Sahid had taken Cassie, because they read the looks Sahid had given his daughter as something predatory. Brandon couldn’t agree with that, because he saw a love similar to his own in his stepbrother’s eyes. He didn’t know how to talk with him, but he was capable of caring for him if only through how much Cassie had loved him.

If she returned, she would want him there.

In protecting him, Brandon was protecting the wishes of his own child.

He thought about Cassie the whole drive, twenty minutes long he faced fear, guilt, and grief. Twice every week Brandon and Sahid went out together, handing out flyers with Cassie’s face printed on it to passerbys, hoping that her picture would make it all over the United States, hoping someone would’ve seen her. When Brandon felt down, Sahid told him to power through. They would find her. He said those things even though Brandon could clearly see in his eyes that Sahid no longer believed Cassie to be alive.

Brandon jumped out of his car, a small crowd had gathered ten meters away from Sahid’s trailer, he saw their frightful gazes, but didn’t have time to deal with them now. Instead he stumbled through an open door and kneeled down next to an unconscious body. Gently he picked up Sahid’s fragile form, noting the blood in his ears and on his shirt, noting the dirt on his clothes. He held him close to his chest as he exited the trailer, opening the car door with one hand, and placing Sahid in the back, ensuring he was relatively comfortable.

He called Nadia on his way to the hospital.

“He’s bleeding,” Brandon said over the phone, his voice tight.

“Your dad called.”

“He did this, I’m certain of it. What did he say?”

There was a silence on the other side that almost felt touchable. “Maybe Sahid killed Cassie?”

Brandon laughed, tears streaming down his face. “You don’t believe that.”

“I don’t.”

Brandon hung up after that. His heart was beating in his chest, he looked at Sahid through the mirror. His face looked ashen, his eyes closed, blood sticking to his ears, his hair, his neck and his shirt. He was unsure if his stepbrother was alright, he didn’t look alright. Brandon resisted the urge to call up his father, ask him what had happened. But he didn’t want to be certain of this. He loved his father, knew that if he ever needed anything he could count on him. He could count on Sahid too, however. He didn’t want to have to make that choice. Right now he needed them both.

——

No more than a light pat on the shoulder was needed to draw Sahid’s attention. And Brandon was aware of how easily his stepbrother was startled lately.

He sat down in front of Sahid, on the grass, watching the tired bloodshot eyes of his stepbrother regarding him with such intensity that it almost made him uncomfortable. It hadn’t been more than a month, the hearing device a constant reminder to everyone around him that this was real, this had happened. Sahid would probably never hear again.

He handed the other a mug of coffee, not speaking. It had always been hard to talk with each other, they rarely had anything to say, but now that was even less. Brandon watched Sahid and could see how close he was to crying, constantly, every moment of the day. But he never did. It was the one thing Brandon was glad for, because whenever he felt like breaking down, Sahid would just power through, it didn’t matter what had happened and who was responsible for what had happened.

“Have you been practicing your signs?” Brandon asked.

Sahid signed something as he put his coffee on the porch, something that Brandon couldn’t follow but figured included a whole lot of words that his stepbrother had learned.

“Dad will come in an hour,” Brandon said.

Sahid nodded. He knew what that meant. Always the same. He could count on Nadia and Brandon, but only whenever Phil and Laji weren’t around.

Brandon wanted to say sorry. He wanted to tell Sahid that he wished he could do more. But he couldn’t even protect his own daughter. How could he be of any use to Sahid?

Nothing now. Maybe twenty years ago when Sahid had first come to Wheeler and Brandon had grown old enough to make his own decisions. Maybe back when his stepmother had first introduced him to the scrawny boy. But he wasn’t sure if it would’ve changed anything for Sahid, everything that had happened to him was because of his own choices.

“You can leave the mug on the porch before you go,” Brandon said eventually, and stood to walk back into the house.

#selfpara #violence tw #anxiety tw #blood tw #physical abuse tw #head trauma tw #psychological abuse tw #//I felt sad so I wrote all of this?#//this is a book #//basically #//4 thousand words of me trying to figure out Brandon

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keepcalm-and-beyou · 5 years

Text

Jesse Pinkman(BreakingBad)

Telling him the Gender of your baby:

You laid on the uncomfortable bed at the doctors office while the nurse doing your Ultrasound moved the transducer around to see the Growing baby inside. This was the Ultrasound that were to tell what the gender of Jesse and yours baby is.

Nerves and mostly excitement were running through your body watching every move the little baby did on the screen and the occasional glance to the nurse seeing her facial expressions helping you relax as everything with the baby was perfect as it could be.

The unfortunate part of today’s Ultrasound was Jesse could not attend. He was out with Walt and Mike doing some magnet business. It was not to much of a big deal him not being there because either way you’d tell him the gender and he’s been at most of the other appointments you had. You know he loves this baby like crazy and you just as much. You couldn’t be more thrilled to find out what you two would be having and share the wonderful news with your gorgeous man.

The nurse had made sure to take a great amount of photos of the baby for you to take home and show the amazing father of your baby. She had told you the gender and you teared up feeling your self fill with so much joy and love. It didn’t matter to either you or Jesse what the gender would be you’d both love this baby unconditionally. But luck was on your sides as the gender you two were slightly mostly wanting infact is what it is.

You couldn’t wait any second longer to tell Jesse so as you got into your vehicle you pulled out your phone typing away and smiling from ear to ear with again glistening eyes of happiness and sent him a text. Not wanting to call him and possibly interrupt anything important in his line of work. Never know how bad something so simple as a phone call can be in many situations. Driving back to your shared house with Jesse feeling anxious for his respond.

Jesse stood up from infront of the brown box set on the ground grabbing the laptop while the old man helping them out with there magnetic idea for getting rid of highly dangerous and important videos on Gus’s laptop.

“Necklaces, earrings, rings, bracelets..” the elder man said to Jesse Walt and Mike intending for them to take any and all of those items off.

“Gold. These are nonferrous” Walter said to the man.

“Better hope. What about the stuff you young guys wear on the end of your pricks?” The old man was looking to Jesse. Jesse looked a little weirded out by the thought of anything on his junk.

“Speak now or forever sing soprano.. what’s up with that, by the way?” The old guy asked still looking to Jesse. “Why would anybody wanna put a metal ring through the end of their prick?” He continued on.

Jesse looked around seeing Walter and Mike both looking at him as well.

“What are you looking at me for?” Jesse asks as his eyebrows are furrowed down.

“Alright, guns, knifes.. tools, keys, plates in your head.. uh artificial hips” the old man continued listing down items to let him know about before starting this experiment. Walter turned to Mike seeing if he had anything to respond to. Which he did not he only stayed silent confirming that in his own way.

“Check your pockets one more time please”.

Everything was set in motion to test their magnet out, Jesse was walking closer slowly to the vehicle and the laptop glitched out turning off and swung out of his hands towards the vehicle. Everyone seems very pleased with the outcome.

“Yeah Bitch!.. Magnets!” Jesse yelled throwing his arms up.

Jesse got to the car opening the door and grabbing his cellular phone. He opens it seeing a text message from his beautiful girlfriend. Jesse feels he knows what it’s about knowing her she isn’t patient and would definitely be one to text him the gender of their baby. Especially in such an exciting state nothing could stop her from doing so.

He felt nerves major nerves and hesitated for a brief second to click on the message. Jesse clicked to open it and it had read..

ITS A BOY!!! Sorry babe couldn’t wait omg just what we wanted and thought AHHH! I love you so much haha just lame texting you it but i Coukdn NOT wait.

Instantly Jesse matches his earlier actions of excitement only this time it was a thousand times more excitement “Yeah Bitch!” He jumped up throwing his arms in the air as well.

Walt and Mike looked at Jesse, Walt with a confused look on his face at his at the younger man, and Mike with his normally no expression facial features.

“Wha-“ Walter started asking until Jesse cut him off I’m still an excited state

“I’m having a boy! It’s a fucking boy yo!” He shared to the two males clenching his fists together pounding them in the air near his head.

“Well let’s hope he takes after (Y/N)” Mike said nonchalant.

“Congratulations Jesse” Walter says and pats jesse on the back.

“Yaya thanks man let’s get going I got my girl to see” Jesse tells them jumping into the car In a hurry to go home to his girlfriend so he can hug her and kiss her and love her so he can celebrate their baby boy together.

“Hey babe I’ll be home soon I can’t wait to see you yo! I’m so fucking happy! Shit babe a boy man today’s a good day, I fucking love you” Jesse spoke into his phone talking to you.

“I love you pinkman, we sure gonna have our hands full if he is anything like you” you laugh.

“I hope he’s like his mother, so fucking smart, and kind and of course gorgeous” Jesse smiles into the phone.

Your heart feels warm full of love for this man and for the family you both have created and the family you shall raise to be.

“Hurry home Mr pinkman”

“Yes my future Mrs. Pinkman!.. I mean yes babe” Jesse chuckles

“Wait now marriage is an option to for us soon?” You chuckle to through his phone.

“Anything to be with you forever, anything to have our family forever, your my forever” he speaks seriously yet so sweetly into his phone to you.

Saying only the truth. What he’s been wanting for a long time , heck after only months of dating how in love he was with you he had seen you becoming Mrs. Pinkman . His Mrs. Pinkman.

107 notes · View notes

smileyoongle · 5 years

Text

Deception (A Kim Namjoon Mafia AU)

Summary: A damsel in distress and a lonely mafia leader. Different but not too different. The two worlds collide on a rainy night when Kim Namjoon, a renowned Mafia leader is called for an emergency and Y/N Y/L/N is on the run from her abusive father. Feelings stir and he rescues her. But one of them is a liar. And the other's life is on the line. It's only a matter of time until all secrets are out in the open.

Will love be born? Or will death conquer?

chαptєr šε∀εη: Life is a B*tch

Character Count: 14,077

Pairing: Namjoon×Reader (Appearances by the whole of BTS)

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We suffer more in imagination than in reality.

-Seneca

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It is said that time heals all wounds. Maybe this statement was applicable in many situations. Maybe time did heal shallow wounds. But yours were too deep for anyone to heal. And life seemed to hate you since you were constantly being pushed back into your whole past ordeal.

The rain poured down heavily, pelting against the windows of Namjoon's house. It had been a week since you got a job. A job that Namjoon didn't know of. You couldn't deny the fact that you felt terrified when you worked there. The hungry and drunk gazes of all the men made you feel like you were back at your own house, waiting for your father to punish you for the day.

Although, your father had never touched you inappropriately, he had definitely tried to sell you for your body. That was the most disgusting memory you had and it made you question if life was this unfair to everyone. Looking at Namjoon, you had found your answer.

Life hated you.

You switched off the TV and headed towards your room, concluding that you needed a nap to get rid of the headache you had. It was your day off so you didn't have to worry about going to work without letting Namjoon tag along. He had been persistent, always offering to pick you up or drop you off.

"Your shift is too late into the night. It's not safe."

He'd say. But you couldn't tell him. He couldn't know that your desperation to earn money like a normal person had led you to get a job as a waitress at a club.

"I'll be in my room, Walter. Wake me up when dinner's ready or I'll end up sleeping until tomorrow." You said politely, earning a toothy grin from the old man who resided in this house since before you. He nodded at you and you waved him a goodbye, making your way upstairs.

As soon as you steeped foot in the dark hallway, a shiver ran down your spine. It was very dark, apart from the occasional flashes of lightning that lightened up the corridor. Times like these made you miss Namjoon. Lately, he had been going out frequently in the evenings. He would always tell you it was work stuff but you never asked. It was none of your business.

You motivated yourself and started to walk towards the end of the hallway, the faint noise coming from Namjoon's study making you halt your steps. You frowned and craned your neck towards his study, eyes widening a little on seeing the light coming from beneath the door.

There was definitely someone in there.

You took in a shaky breath, your heart pounding at the realisation that you had to go and check. Whoever it was, they were probably looking for something important to Namjoon. And you knew that everything in that room was important to Namjoon since he never let anyone in. Why you were an exception was beyond you. But then again, you were harmless.

Your hand reached out to twist the doorknob and push the door open, your throat running dry all of a sudden. Adrenaline rushed through you when you saw the window open, the harsh cold wind fanning your face as goosebumps rose on your skin. You looked around the room, sighing in relief on seeing it empty. There was no one. You were probably going crazy.

Namjoon must have left the window open or something.

Does he ever do that?

You willed the doubtful thoughts away and proceeded to close the window. But as soon as you latched it shut, your eyes widened. The glass on the window was enough to show you that your mind wasn't playing tricks on you. Someone was in the room with you.

Your lips quivered, your legs feeling weaker with every passing second. The man had a black mask on, only his eyes exposed for you to see. Your eyes caught the silver dagger in his hand as he moved to close the door of the study. You let out a whimper before slowly turning around, sweat beading on your forehead.

The man placed a finger on his lips, indicating you to be quiet. He took a step towards you, clutching the knife tightly and raising it towards you.

And just like that, you were taken back in time.

The intruder's face was now replaced by your father's, his malicious grin sending you sobbing onto the floor. Your chest tightened and you found yourself tied up in chains.

"No one would care if I killed you. You are useless, Y/N, never forget that." He spat, your vision becoming hazier and hazier.

No, you couldn't do this now. You closed your eyes and took deep breaths, telling yourself that this wasn't true. He wasn't here. He would never be here.

You gasped and opened your eyes only to find the carpeted floor of Namjoon's study beneath your knees. You saw the intruder's feet in front of you and looked up, your chest heaving on thinking about what was to come.

∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆

Namjoon eyed the new addition to their gang as he sat beside Yoongi in the front of the car. After a long day of negotiations, he was finally going home to you.

"So do I get to be in charge of something yet?" Asked Rex, the newbie of the group who Namjoon didn't know where to put. According to Jin, Rex was really smart, he had good weapon knowledge along with hacking skills. Jin said it'd be better if Rex got to watch how things were done by the guys themselves. Until then, Namjoon could make a decision about which part of the city Rex was fit for.

He was a curious one, Namjoon could tell. And he had a smart mouth which could definitely get him in trouble someday. Taehyung scoffed, rolling his eyes and focusing on the wet roads outside.

"Not so soon, kid. You have a long way to go until you get there." Hoseok answered, fiddling with his rings and listening to the soothing sound of the rain.

Namjoon's eyes lit up when he saw his house in the distance and Yoongi noticed it. He had never seen Namjoon so excited to go home before. But he knew things were different now.

The car came to a stop near Namjoon's gate, the gravel crunching beneath Namjoon's shoes as he got out of the car. He was about to say something to the members before he heard it. A loud and piercing screen echoing in the dark and stormy night. Namjoon's heart most definitely stopped, his eyes widening as he glanced at Yoongi before running inside his house. The remaining people rushed out of the car to follow Namjoon, concerned about whoever had screamed so loud.

Namjoon had heard it loud and clear. It was your voice, begging for help. He felt uneasiness wash over him as he saw Walter running up the stairs, his own footsteps faltering on the wooden platforms.

"Please be okay." Namjoon mumbled again and again under his breath as he entered his study, his eyes frantically looking around for you. Your whimpers reached his ears and he saw you crouched in the corner of the room, your hands holding your head as you cried into your knees.

"Y/N!" Namjoon called out, kneeling beside you and placing his hands on your shoulder. You flinched before jolting your head up to see Namjoon.

Your eyes were red from crying, tears endlessly falling down your cheeks along with a trickle of blood from the small laceration on your forehead. Your lips quivered as you threw your arms around Namjoon, burying your face in his neck.

Yoongi stormed inside a few seconds later, followed by the others. He glanced at you and Namjoon at the corner of the room before speeding towards the open window. He peeked down just in time to see a man running away towards the forest opposite Namjoon's house. Yoongi looked behind him, his eyes landing on Rex.

"Rex, someone's down there. Go!" He barked, watching as the younger male nodded and ran away.

Namjoon's arms held you firmly, rubbing your back as he tried to comfort you. "I got you, love, I got you. You're okay." He cooed, rocking you back and forth. He buried his nose in your hair, breathing you in and thanking the heavens that you weren't hurt that bad. He threw a piercing glare at Walter who stood at the door, still too shocked to move.

Namjoon was aware of the fact that now his secret was out in the open.

Taehyung and Hoseok gaped at their leader who was trying to comfort a crying girl. An unknown crying girl. They were surprised on seeing Yoongi so....normal. It's like he already knew who you were. There was no questioning look on Yoongi's face, just a knowing gaze that made Hoseok suspicious. Something was not right.

Namjoon glanced at Yoongi, sending him a silent message as Yoongi nodded in response. The elder one turned to Taehyung and Hoseok, nodding towards outside the study.

"Let Namjoon handle this. I'll...explain everything." Yoongi stated, not even glancing at the two men as he made his way down the stairs. After one last look at you, Taehyung and Hoseok followed suit, curious as to what Yoongi could possibly explain about this situation.

Walter reluctantly closed the door of the study, leaving you with Namjoon in order to self loathe. But there was only so much he could do.

Your breathing slowly fell back to normal, your occasional sniffles filling the room as Namjoon continued to hold you. He had never thought that someone could get into his house so easily. It had just never happened before.

"I am sorry." You mumbled, making Namjoon shift a little to get you to see his face. He frowned, wiping your tears away.

"What for?" He asked, tucking your hair behind your ear. In the past week, you had grown much closer to Namjoon. Your time together had enabled you to know about his likes and dislikes. Like how he doesn't like black coffee, how his favourite music artist is 'The Neighbourhood', how he hates mint chocolate chip ice cream and how he absolutely dislikes seafood.

You opened your mouth to get the words out but they were stuck. Namjoon noticed your hesitation, raising his eyebrows to urge you to say it.

"For ruining your jacket." You replied, running your fingers over his leather jacket which was now wet. He chuckled in response, placing a finger under your chin and pushing your head up to look you in the eyes. His warm breath fanned your face, the proximity making you blush. Not that he could really see you, it was still a little dim in the room. His eyes fell to your lips, debating whether he should take the risk or wait until you showed him that you wanted him too. You bit your lip out of nervousness, your heart pounding in your ears. All you knew was that if Namjoon kissed you right now, you wouldn't complain. Everything about him seemed to pull you in, never wanting to be away from him. You couldn't tell what it was but you definitely adored this man.

"We should clean that up." Namjoon murmured, abruptly pulling away from you. He had decided to go with the second option, not wanting to make you uncomfortable in any way. You cleared your throat and nodded, ignoring the slight aching in your heart.

You are just a charity case. Stop dreaming.

Namjoon stood up, his hands holding onto your shoulder as he helped you up to sit on the chair.

Taking the first aid kit from one of the cabinets in the bathroom, Namjoon headed back to you and sat in front of you. He tended to your bleeding cut while you got lost in your own thoughts, your father's murderous face flashing in your mind and reminding you of your misery.

Life hated you.

∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆

Rex panted, water seeping into the carpet from his drenched body as he made his way to Yoongi who was looking at him with expectant eyes. Rex shook his head in response.

"And you wanted to be in charge of something?" Taehyung mocked, his mind irritated with all the information he was just fed.

Rex narrowed his eyes in response, holding out his hand to reveal a black leather cover. Yoongi frowned and took it from him, wiping the small booklet with the sleeve of his shirt.

"What is it?" Hoseok asked, peering over Yoongi's shoulder to see what blaze had got his hands on. Flipping the leather case open, Taehyung frowned when he saw Yoongi and Hoseok's face turn pale. Rex looked over at everyone with concerned eyes, his mind going back to the girl he had seen upstairs. You.

"I ended up ripping off his pocket. This is what I got. And I think this is the first time I regret finding something important." Rex stated, his hands placed on his hips as he patiently waited for a reaction from everyone.

Taehyung grew impatient, snatching the case out of Yoongi's hand and seeing it for himself. The second he read what was written on the cover, he wished he hadn't. Rex was right. Taehyung slowly looked up at his brothers, fear and confusion lacing his features.

The Korean National Police Agency

Yoongi shook his head and clenched his jaw in frustration. Only if they had arrived a minute earlier, this could have been prevented. But now, they had no idea what the guy was here for.

"Who's ID is that?" Yoongi asked, nudging his head towards the badge in Taehyung's hand.

"Someone called Nelson Shaw." Taehyung answered, looking at the small photo that was displayed above the officer's name.

"Let's get our contacts at the department to find out if this Shaw guy is involved in some investigation related to us." Yoongi said, glancing up the stairs. Hoseok felt confused about everything.

First, there's a strange girl living at Namjoon's house who he picked up from the middle of the road. And she happens to be their drug dealer's daughter. Second, Hana seemingly lied to everyone about where she was all these years. Third, the police had probably gotten a lead on the gang, which meant bad news.

"We should ask Namjoon if anything's missing." Hoseok voiced, earning a nod from everyone. Yoongi hummed, standing up and patting Rex's shoulder. He winced a little at how wet he was but quickly covered it up. He was the one who sent the poor guy running.

"We will. Just...not now. Leave them be. We'll talk tomorrow. She must be shaken up about everything." Yoongi announced, heading outside Namjoon's house. Taehyung couldn't help but agree. Even though he had questions about you, he decided that it was best to listen to Yoongi. Something nagged at him at the back of his mind but he shrugged it off. Namjoon knew people. If you were here, then there must have been something special about you. And the way Namjoon held you, Taehyung could tell that your relationship was much deeper. Maybe he'd understand someday.

Taglist:@uwunamjoon @shadowstark @all-fandoms-rise @tzuyyyuuu @stressedinmedschool247 @ifellinluvwithdorks @min-t-posts @floofwrites @pretty-in-pink-just-because @bts-d-onut @fangirllbookworm @mystical-writer @it-is-dana @ximaginx @kpopgirlbtssvt @pearylove @anothermisspark @annoyingpessimist @motivation-idontknowher @atwoodscott @soundofwonderland @btsarmysvtcarat @i-am-supermerwholoked221b @bunnymaknaereacts @iamcrazyforkdramas

Please please please let me know if I forgot to tag someone. And tell me if you wanna be tagged! And tell me what you think. Okay bye ily 💖

-XX

227 notes · View notes

diyunho · 5 years

Text

The Joker x Reader-”The One That Got Away” Part 1

The terrorist attack targeting Wayne National Bank nearly three years ago left only one survivor behind: Y/N almost died from the injuries, but she was lucky enough to wake up at the hospital days later. It was so hard to cope with the news: on top of losing her eyesight, the young woman lost her co-workers also and strangely enough the one responsible for the entire tragedy wasn’t The Clown Prince of Crime.

“They told me you’re here again,” you smile and there’s no answer. “Are you going to come in or do you want me to bring you something to eat? We’re closing soon, it’s almost 10pm.”

The blind Y/N extends the cane until it touches the recipient of her visit.

“I understand that you’re shy and there’s nothing wrong with it; you just need to tell me.”

“I’m not shy,” the deep tone interrupts.

“So are you coming in this time?” Y/N asks while the man grunts and she correctly guesses he’s getting up from his spot. “Follow me,” you encourage and he pulls the hoodie on his face, steadily walking behind the woman leading the way. “Today we have chicken soup and spaghetti with red sauce. That that I want to brag, but it turned out pretty good,” you giggle to lighten up the atmosphere: you’re aware it’s not easy for some living on the streets to acknowledge they require help.

“Mina!” you shout as you enter the spacious room. “Another portion please!”

“Sure thing!” the assistant’s energetic reply is perceived from beyond the counter.

“You can take a sit at any table, she’ll bring the food shortly,” you let him know and then loudly inquire: “Who else is here?”

“I’m here,” Silvia answers, slurping on her hot soup.

“Me too,” you hear Walter. “I also see Dave, Russell, Angie. The rest I’m not sure,” the 70 years old informs, pointing at the newcomer.

“Hey new guy, you have a name?” Angie licks her fork, digging in the pile of pasta afterwards.

The man is silent for a few moments, then mutters through his teeth:

“Jay.”

“You’re lucky there’s still food left, son! It’s crazy busy all the time,” Dave huffs. “This is the best Soup Kitchen in Gotham, and the lady standing in front of you a true angel!” one of the regulars states with such conviction it prompts cheers from the others left in the cafeteria at the end of the busy day.

“If only,” you laugh amused at the affirmation.

“Here you go; enjoy,“ Mina brings over a bowl of soup and a plate full of spaghetti to the man that’s been lurking around for the past two months but didn’t step into the building until today. Jay mumbles something resembling a “thanks” and by the sounds he makes slurping on the hot liquid one could say it’s very appreciated.

The volunteers would tell you if they spotted him outside the premises and you would usually take food to him, offering a place at a table which he refused; not the first or the last to show restrain when shown kindness.

You’re a bit surprised he decided to finally join the crowd; maybe he doesn’t like being around people.

“Mina, are you ok closing with John and Sandy? I have to open the bakery in the morning,” you explain although it’s not necessary.

“Yes, of course; told you should have went home an hour ago. They’re almost done with the dishes and we won’t have that much left to do after the last guests finish their meal. We’ll be fine, don’t worry. OK?” the young woman gives you a soft nudge towards the door and you feel the ground with the cane, eager to take a shower after the long day.

“Good night then,” you smile,” see you guys soon.”

“Good night!” several voices respond back.

The apartment is just three blocks away, conveniently situated on the top of the bakery you own: “Sweet Temptations” is one of the most popular bakeries in Gotham, slowly becoming a contender for the first position.

Once outside you stop for a few moments to enjoy the silence and the soft breeze on your cheeks before reprising your walk. Police cars alarms start blaring in the distance and you sigh, annoyed: quietness never lasts for too long in this damned city.

You turn left on Glissan Avenue and halt, carefully listening: you could swear you discerned some snickering ahead of you. Maybe not?...

A few more feet and your cane is abruptly yanked out of your hand, almost making you lose balance:

“Hey pretty girl, can I get a kiss in exchange for the stick?”

You straighten your shoulders, frowning:

“Randy, is that you?!”

“Umm…it’s possible,” he chuckles and you feel the air around, trying to find his body.

“I’m exhausted and not in the mood for your crap!” you admonish and want to continue but you get interrupted:

“I’m sorry, Y/N. You know my brother’s an idiot!...Hey…Hey!!!! What the…,” the other young man yells and the noise of a loud punch and broken bone startles you. “Hey, leave my brother alone!!!!...Oh shit!” the turmoil of a struggle and more ruckus indicating a fight make you frantically search for your cell in the purse.

“What’s going on?” you ask, scared at the moans of pain.

“I think he broke my nose,” Randy manages to utter still dizzy from the unexpected attack. His sibling Steve is trying to defend himself from the aggressor, apparently without too much success since the thud reaching your ears indicates he got thrown on the concrete pavement.

“If…if you’re The Batman, I can assure you I’m not in any kind of danger!” you pant, scared about whatever the hell is happening. “I know them, please stop!”

“It’s not…it’s not The Batman…” Randy gags, the taste of his own blood making him nauseated.

“I’m calling 911!” the cell phone is taken out of the bag and Randy shrieks:

“He’s running away…”

“Please don’t call the cops,” Steve mutters, not having the strength to get up yet. “I’m sure they’re not gonna like the fact that two teenagers fresh out of the juvie already got involved into an altercation.”

“I can testify you got assaulted!”

“Yeah, but you didn’t see anything,” Steve groans while his brother helps him up. “They might twist it against us and I don’t want to go back to detention.”

“Me neither,” Randy grumbles, wiping his bloody nose with the sleeve of his jacket.

“Did you see who it was?” you inquire, placing the phone in your pocket; you sure don’t want to create any more trouble for them.

“No,” the cane is returned to the anxious Y/N. “His mug was covered with a hoodie.”

***************

Next morning, 5:43am

The bell dinging makes you aware someone entered the bakery.

“I’m sorry, we’re still closed until 6am,” you announce to the customer while brewing a fresh pot of coffee.

“Hello Y/N, it’s me”, the familiar voice makes you smile.

“Good morning Mister Wayne; your box is ready,” you slide the package on the other side of the counter.

“Thank God! I hate early corporate meetings and this amazing stuff makes me wake up a bit, enough to seem like I’m interested, you know?” he soundlessly yawns and you burst out laughing.

“I’m glad it helps. Coffee?”

“Please!”

“The usual?”

“Naaah. Surprise me,” Bruce smirks and watches Y/N quite fascinated as she puts together his drink. Even if she can’t see, she moves with such ease and he takes a remorseful deep breath, wishing he could share his thoughts.

“Here you go Mister Wayne, triple shot. I think you need it today,” you hand over his cup and he takes a sip, smacking his lips in the process.

“This is very good,” Bruce praises your skills because lingering around the bakery for a few minutes it’s so much better that the dreadful meeting he’s about to attend. He takes a big stack of money from the inside pocket of his suit and hands it over to you.

“Are these…are these hundreds?!” you inquire, puzzled.

The lack of an answer confirms it.

“Mister Wayne, you don’t have to do this each time you come in. This is just... a lot again and the total for your box is only 46 dollars.”

“If I want to leave a tip, then I will. Share with your employees,” the stubborn heir suggests because this is how he usually convinces you to accept the money.

You want to protest but he keeps rambling on:

“There are also two checks in there: one for my monthly contribution to your charity, the other one you could say it’s an investment. Entirely up to you of course, but I would love for you to expand your business: a location next to the Wayne Tower would make me very happy. Every time I’m there pretending to be working I could run and get me a delicious treat to make my day better. ”

You blankly stare at him, deciding to speak up.

“Mister Wayne…You don’t have to do this… It wasn’t your fault…”

Bruce is grateful you can’t see his painful grimace at the candid words meant to alleviate the guilt of an event he failed to predict as both the main shareholder of Gotham National Bank and as his alter ego.

“You are not responsible for the lives that were lost. You just owned the bank, nothing more. It was very unfortunate, but please stop blaming yourself.”

He doesn’t comment yet, oddly enough paying attention to Y/N’s advice.

“You might not realize it, but you make this city a better place Mister Wayne; your generous donations truly make a difference. With your aid, my charity allows me to literally assist hundreds of those in need. That wouldn’t be possible without you. Take The Batman too for example; because of him this town is safer: he can’t get rid of all the rotten evil eating away at its core, but his watchful eye is a tremendous boost of hope for the rest of us. One person can’t do everything and he is not accountable for every bad action he cannot stop. You’re not more responsible than he is for the fate of others.”

Bruce sniffles, somehow relieved by the sudden monologue.

“You’re a good man, Mister Wayne. The tabloids might depict you as a carefree playboy, still they should mention your achievements also. Or at least bring up some details about that nice cologne you wear,” you giggle and his body relaxes at the small joke after being tense throughout the whole speech.

“It’s Dior,” he admits with a grin meant to alleviate the seriousness of what you just told him. And Bruce certainly appreciates it since he had no idea how much he craved to hear a confirmation of his own flaw: he is human after all, either as the rich billionaire or as The Batman. “Thank you…” he briefly touches your fingers while taking the box from the counter.

“I meant it Mister Wayne.”

“I know…” he sighs. “Think about the business proposal, OK?”

“I will,” you promise although you are not convinced it’s such a great plan on top of the numerous projects you’re involved in.

“I’ll see you next week,” Bruce promises and exits the pastry shop, abandoning its owner until their upcoming rendezvous.

You feel sorry for him, you really do. You hope what you told him stuck in the back of his mind: remorse is a strong poison Bruce Wayne should stay away from at any cost, especially when he’s in the center of attention due to his social position. Plus, he’s not liable for the tragedy that occurred nearly three years ago, even if he believes otherwise…

You were working as a teller at Wayne National Bank for eight months and that day was nothing special until the shift was almost over. The 25 year old Y/N went downstairs with her drawer in order to go over her daily transactions and make sure there were no discrepancies. Moments later, a powerful explosion shook the building and leveled it out in a matter of seconds, taking down walls and people alike as it sunk into rubble.

The only survivor was you since you happened to be in the vault; the metal crate protected you from the blast and you were lucky the emergency response team dug you out from under the debris in time: Y/N nearly perished and woke up at the hospital days later blind and unable to cope with the news: on top of losing her eye-sight, she lost her co-workers too.

Bruce Wayne felt responsible: he took pride in having the most sophisticated and advanced security system in place, yet nothing is fool proof, including the engineers that built it and sold out the secrets to the wrong people for the right price.

The terrorist attack was claimed by the Triple Star gang, another one of their attempts to take over Gotham in the never-ending battle for the top spot with The Joker. And Gotham’s citizens got caught in the crossfire. Again.

Bruce paid for everyone’s funerals and handsomely rewarded the grieving families along with his public apologies; the media tried to shred him to pieces, dragging his name in the mud again. It all died out once the family members of those killed in the attack sided with the billionaire: there’s nothing more off-putting to the press than dust settling over sensationalism without backup evidence.

You used the share you received from your ex-employer to open the bakery and start the kitchen soup, both venues flourishing under your patronage. Bruce was a constant customer and donor from day one, which aided raise awareness to the point of Y/N becoming some sort of local celebrity: despite her blindness after surviving catastrophe, she found the strength to rise above the shattered pieces of her life and help the less fortunate, which gained her the nickname of Angel of Gotham.

“Y/N,” Shane gets you out of trance, “do you want the chocolate croissants on top shelves today?”

“Yes, by the apple fritters and blueberry muffins,” you answer while the rest of the opening shift brings out the trays with freshly baked pastries from the kitchen.

The bell dings and Andy rushes in, frantically repeating:

“I know I’m late! I know I’m late!”

“AGAIN!!!” almost everyone teases in the same time, the choir urging more clumsy excuses:

“I know, ok? I’m deeply sorry. My car died out!”

“AGAIN!!!” the crew mocks and the poor guy sniffles, flustered to the maximum and you decide to give him a break.

“It’s fine; go wash your hands.”

“Y/N,” Andy halts in front of you. “Mister Wayne’s limo is parked outside and his chauffeur said he wants to talk to you.”

“He’s still here?!” you grab your stick and walk around the counter, heading outside the bakery.

“This way Miss,” the driver holds the limousine’s door opened until you get inside, slamming it shut as soon as you are next to your former boss. But something is off… the man doesn’t smell like Bruce’s cologne.

“Mister Wayne?...” you hesitantly mumble and the weird chuckle makes you cringe.

“Nope. Just rented a limo like his and waited until he left so I can take over. Luckily enough we saw an employee rushing in and he had no clue that the rich, pretty boy is not the one requesting a meeting.”

You panic and try to exit the car but it’s already moving and the door won’t open.

“Calm down, would you? If I wanted to hurt you I would have already done it.”

You exhale, nervously adjusting yourself in the comfortable seat.

“Who are you?” Y/N carefully stirs the conversation.

“A philanthropist interested in bestowing my fortune upon those in need,” the strange snickering comes to an end. “Here’s my business card,” your hands are placed on the person’s face without any warning. “Well, can you guess?”

“Umm…” you gulp, anxiously touching the skin. “Maybe mid-thirties…”

“Wow, that’s pretty good,” the man snorts, somewhat amused. “Go on.”

“Handsome…”

“Nailed it!!” he snarls and it gives you goosebumps.

“Green hair…”

His crazy silver grin diminishes a bit.

“Blue eyes,” and your eyes focusing on his astonish The Joker which is not an easy thing to accomplish.

“You…you can see!” he growls and your hands slide off his face. The King of Gotham had you on surveillance for months before he made contact today and nothing indicated the revelation he witnessed by pure chance.

“I was wondering if you‘ll show up,” your change in attitude baffles the usual emotionless King of Gotham. “Are you interested in money laundering throughout my charity?” you cold tone skips to the main topic. “Others have asked and no, I don’t do that; I don’t care about how much it would put back in my account. Dirty money has no place in my…”

“Says the perfect Angel lying to the world about her handicap,” The Joker sarcastically cuts you out.

“I’m not lying,” you mutter. “My vision comes and goes, it’s a neurological anomaly after the injury I sustained. I was warned that might happen and frankly I don’t have to announce it on TV or to my doctor when I’m blind and when I’m not. It’s easier to deal with it since at one point I might find myself in the blackness forever.”

“Interesting,“ The Joker huffs, crossing his legs. “I couldn’t care less about your sneaky ways; I’m not here to negotiate a deal. I’m here to get what I want. Money laundry will bring you more funds to do whatever the hell you do, help people and all that,” J flares his arms around, done with the charade.

“Yes, I help them and you kill them,” Y/N gives The Clown a mean glare. “Or beat them up for no reason,” you hint at the two teenagers he attacked since you actually saw him do it.

“Somebody gotta keep the balance,” he jokes about it like it’s some kind of funny topic.

“Mister Joker, I am here to help people and that’s it, “an apparent serene Y/N grumbles even if her heart is pounding out of her chest. “Can you please drop me off at the back entrance of my bakery? If I go missing or end up dead, people will notice. My disappearance or demise wouldn’t go unnoticed and you don’t need more unwanted attention, do you?” you play the best card you have because frankly you have zero aces in your sleeve.

The Joker sucks on his teeth, debating upon this dumfounding outcome that didn’t ruin his day; from time to time he loves a good challenge and the opportunity basically jumped at him so to speak. He gets easily bored and shit, this little project isn’t boring at all. Turned out to be quite interesting.

“Hey Frost!” The Joker shouts. “Let’s take McGillivray Street and return this lost Angel to her business. We don’t want a poor blind woman to get lost in this huge city; we’ll consider this our good deed for the year!”

“Of course sir,” the henchman switches lanes and you strive to remain composed because showing weakness could mean disaster while in the company of the unpredictable psychopath.

The limo takes a left and in a few seconds you reach your destination since Frost basically just slowly drove around the block. The fancy vehicle stops and you get out, preparing to bail when The Joker interrogates:

“Who are you really, hm?” J suspiciously squints his eyes.

You bent over to look at him, cautiously choosing your words:

“I’m the one that got away, Mister Joker. The only one.”

He puffs, signaling you to close the door.

“Good for you, sugar. We’ll keep in touch,” and he yanks the door out of your hand since he doesn’t have patience to wait for you to close it.

Oh my God, you think and reprise your stroll, sensing the concrete with the walking stick. What was that?! you shiver, just a few feet away from the back entrance of the pastry shop. How am I… but you can’t continue the argument since a van slams the breaks right by you, five guys quickly running out and pulling you inside.

“Did you see that boss?” Frost inquires, still waiting at the red light while watching the rearview mirror. “It was so fast nobody noticed.”

“It’s them,” The Joker sneers.

“Do we… … do anything?” Jonny throws the option out there for the heck of it.

“Do you have to fucking ask??!!” his boss shouts. “This is my goddamned town, not theirs! I decide who lives or dies, who gets kidnapped and who doesn’t. ME, not the Triple Star gang!!! I am sick of them interfering with my plans!”

“Call for reinforcements and discreetly follow?”

“No, tell the guys waiting to escort us on Andresen Avenue to intercept the van and follow it. We need a plan.”

“Yes sir,” Frost smirks, craving to take on another invigorating assignment since today was quite a dull day.

Back in the van, the men keeping you captive in between them didn’t articulate a single sentence yet. They have no clue you can see so they didn’t bother cover your head with a cloth. You know The King of Gotham is not present but you have to go on with it; what other choice do you have in this dangerous situation?

“Mister… Mister Joker?” you plead. “I’m sure we can…”

“The Joker?!” somebody laughs, finally talking and everyone snickers like it’s the best stand –up comedy act they ever heard. “No honey: this is the competition.” **************

Five days afterwards, 6pm

Everyone at the soup kitchen is eating in silence, the usual cheerful chit chatting absent from the premises: Y/N has been missing for five days, gone without a trace and despite all the efforts, her whereabouts are still unknown.

“Something bad happened,” Mike shakes his head, worried. “I can feel it,” he wipes his teary eyes.

“She wouldn’t just abandon everything and flee…” Clara whispers to her fellow table mates. “I’ve been homeless for a long time and this is the first place I found some real help, you know? Thanks to her I have a job interview next week,” the woman’s voice breaks. “Nobody would give me a chance and she put in a good word; I might have an opportunity to actually…” Clara blows her nose in a tissue, unable to finish her confession.

“We’re in the same boat,” George turns around from the nearby table and his eyes get big when he recognized who the man entering the establishment is. “Holy…”

The Joker is holding Y/N in his arms, both looking like they escaped a war: dusty, ripped clothes and visible bruises to match the unusual view seen by the 137 souls eating there for the moment. You are unconscious and a few people try to get up, startled.

“SIT DOWN!!!” The Joker screams, lifting you higher in his arms.

“Mister Joker, we gotta go!” Frost advises while keeping the door opened; the other goons temporarily blocked the traffic at The Clown’s orders. A few onlookers on the street are already dialing 911 and J is aware he can’t linger, but he won’t ignore an outburst either:

“Tell everyone The Devil brought your Angel back !! ME, not The Batman!!!” the insane green haired man barks. “Not all heroes wear capes, huh?!” he addresses everyone as he places you on an empty bench and hurries outside, taking one last glance behind to see a weary Y/N barely opening her eyes that cannot focus.

And The Joker knows that after the events he whiteness too, The Angel of Gotham is in complete darkness again.