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robininthelabyrinth · 4 years

Note

My prompt is just more trans au. Various people reacting to baobei. Just i love trans au so much thank u for this gift.

Baobai Pt 1 - on tumblr, on ao3

“Oh, hey, you have a kid,” Wei Wuxian said, out of lack of any other conversational topics that weren’t ‘so are you here to kill us all?’. Kids were usually a good, neural topic, especially when they were that small. “Look at her, she’s so tiny! Her parents know you brought her out here?”

“She’s da-ge’s,” Lan Xichen said with a smile and a nod towards Nie Mingjue, who as tall and terrifying as always. He was glowering at the half-grown radish fields as if he was personally offended by them.

“Congratulations, Chifeng-zun,” Wei Wuxian said to him, hoping to stave off any impending violence. The baby was young enough that the mom was probably still in isolation recovering, and maybe hadn’t consented to said baby being brought to the Burial Mounds of all places - certainly Wei Wuxian wouldn’t have agreed to cart a small infant all the way from Qinghe, and he’d thought mothers preferred to remain near their children in the few months after birth - but Wei Wuxian was not really in a position to object.

Certainly not after the quick work Nie Mingjue’s saber made of all of his defensive arrays. That man was scary.

“Thank you,” Nie Mingjue said, and it was awkward for a moment until he added, “Pain in the ass to acquire.”

That made everything better: Wei Wuxian knew how to deal with snark. “Oh yeah? Carried her yourself, did you?”

“Ten fucking months,” Nie Mingjue said, and Wei Wuxian laughed and shot Lan Xichen a wink, figuring that his stupid joke about having given birth to A-Yuan had made the rounds. Funny, he wouldn’t have pegged Lan Wangji to be the sort of person to pass on jokes…

At that point, Nie MIngjue twisted his head around to look at Wen Ning and Wen Qing, who were hovering nearby, trying to hide A-Yuan behind their legs, and said, “She’s your cousin three times removed, if I have my family tree down right, so stop being queasy and let the kid come see her.”

“Fuck,” Wen Qing said, and abruptly sat down. “I’m sorry.”

Wei Wuxian had the distinct feeling he was missing something, especially when Wen Ning’s expression shifted from equally puzzled to outright horrified.

“It’s not exactly your fault, you’re not soldiers,” Nie Mingjue said, and glared at the radish field again. “But in all seriousness: let the kid see her.”

Wen Qing waved a vague hand at A-Yuan, who correctly interpreted it as permission and zoomed over to the baby as fast as his little legs could carry him. He was in that another-kid-how-cool phase that all kids had, and babies were a particular fascination.

“You’re cousins?” Wei Wuxian asked Nie Mingjue, feeling a bit weird about. Three times removed wasn’t close, but still…of all people...“With the Wen sect? You?”

Nie Huaisang made a strangled noise that from anyone else Wei Wuxian would have said sounded a bit like he was going to imminently stab someone.

Nie Mingjue just gave Wei Wuxian a look like he was an idiot.

“No,” he said very slowly. “I’m not.”

Wei Wuxian continued not to get it, right up until he glanced at Wen Ning who mouthed a name at him and – wait, but no, that’s impossible – but he’d have to be – wait, he was from Qinghe –

Wei Wuxian suddenly noticed that he had sat down on the ground as well at some point.

“Pain in the ass,” he said blankly. “Right.”

Nie Huaisang was glaring at him like he really was going to pull out his never-used saber to start chopping Wei Wuxian into bits, and honestly that might be a preferable option to the sheer awkwardness of having just put two and two together like that in front of so many people. Maybe he could use demonic cultivation to open the ground up beneath him? It’d never been done before, but then again, that was most things he did…

“Why are people so weird about babies?” Nie Mingjue complained, picking up the baby in one arm and a giggling and blissfully ignorant A-Yuan in the other, swinging them both around a bit. “They’re like – lumps of little people. We were all babies once. It’s not that weird.”

“You heard him,” Jin Guangyao said to Wei Wuxian with a smile that looked like it had daggers in it. “It’s not weird at all. Right?”

“Right!” Wei Wuxian said hastily.

Apparently scary people flocked together. Though, did that mean there something he was missing about Lan Xichen..?

Lan Xichen smiled at Jin Guangyao, who smiled back. That was really the only good thing about these discussion conferences, he thought – they were long and draining and he had to meet a lot of people he didn’t want to see (Sect Leader Yao ranked highly), but he got to spend a great deal of time with his sworn brothers, which he didn’t often manage. And, really, that made everything worth it.

“How are things going?” he asked in an undertone, scanning Jin Guangyao with his eyes. Madame Jin did not have the reputation for being a kind woman, especially not about her husband’s affairs, and he couldn’t help but worry.

“Manageable,” Jin Guangyao assured him, though it wasn’t really that comforting. “It helps that this conference isn’t at Jinlin Tower – less to arrange, less work to fall on my shoulders. It’s positively easy by comparison. When did you arrive? We’ve been here for a shichen already, setting up.”

“Just now. They’re still moving our things into our rooms –”

“Er-ge! San-ge!” Nie Huaisang’s voice rang out, sharp and clear and murderous; they both turned to look at him at once to try to determine if it was the sort of murderous that meant someone had bought out a painting he’d liked before he got there or if it someone had actually offended him. He had a fixed smile on his face, which boded no one any good. “I was just looking for you. I want to chat.”

“What happened?” Lan Xichen asked, looking around – they were more or less alone, and a quick hand-seal made it so that they wouldn’t be easily overheard. “Did someone do something to Baobei…?”

He couldn’t believe they still hadn’t named her, the poor thing.

(Jin Guangyao had briefly been lobbying for them to name her A-Shi, but then Nie Mingjue told him that if he wanted to have a girl named Nie Shi he ought to man up and sire her himself, and ever since then Jin Guangyao had been proposing different names entirely. Possibly he was concerned Nie Mingjue would take back the offer if he used up the name.)

“Surely not,” Jin Guangyao said. “In the middle of the Lotus Pier…?”

“Not Baobei,” Nie Huaisang said. “But your father just figured out who carried her, and he just – he put his hands – he said he had the right to check on account of da-ge having misled them –”

Lan Xichen observed, a little distantly, that he’d previously thought that the phrase ‘seeing red’ was an exaggeration, rather than a perfectly accurate description.

“Did da-ge rip him to pieces?” Jin Guangyao asked, sounding as if he was very much in favor of that result.

“He did not,” Nie Huaisang said. “You know how he is during these conferences; he’s far too reserved. Slapped his hands away but didn’t do anything else about it.”

“Surely that would put an end to it…?” Lan Xichen suggested, mildly hopeful, but the expression on Jin Guangyao and Nie Huaisang’s face did not fill him with much expectation.

“He’ll try something,” Jin Guangyao said flatly. His voice tremored briefly, full of rage even he couldn’t hide, and he gripped his hands together tightly. “He will try something.”

“Sect Leader Jiang will help us keep them separate for the conference,” Nie Huaisang said. “He still hasn’t figured out the details of Baobei’s parentage, I think he’s convinced himself that men just bear children – in some way that man is as dumb as a rock, same as when we were teenagers, I don’t know how anyone is that gullible – but he’s offended on da-ge’s behalf anyway. But when the conference is over for the evening…”

“It would be unfilial of me to plan my own father’s assassination,” Jin Guangyao said, and his eyes slide towards Lan Xichen, questioning. “But if you wanted to have a theoretical discussion regarding the security system at Jinlin Tower, and the weaknesses thereof…”

“Yes,” Lan Xichen said, putting aside all concerns regarding the morality of assassinations, and found that he didn’t regret the decision one bit. He’d barely tolerated that lecher when he had no choice, when he was Jin Guangyao’s father and a powerful sect leader. But putting his hands on da-ge – thinking of doing more – “Let’s have that...theoretical discussion.”

“I knew I could count on you two,” Nie Huaisang said with satisfaction. “So here’s what I was thinking –”

One of the worst days of Nie Huaisang’s life started quite normally – waking up when his brother lifted him bodily out of bed and slung him over his shoulder.

“Da-ge!” he yelped. “Da-ge, no – it’s too early –”

“If you stayed up late, that’s your own problem,” his brother said with the sort of purposeful cheerful sadism that only a person who actually enjoyed waking up with the sun to go train could employ. “I told you yesterday that we were going to be training this morning.”

“But da-ge –”

“You missed the last three days. You’re not missing today.”

But it’s so fucking early, Nie Huaisang thought despairingly, drooping into dead weight over his brother’s shoulder – not that that helped, of course. His brother was too damn strong.

“Are you sure you’re not taking out your feelings about getting fat on me?” he asked, poking at his brother’s somewhat-rounder-than-usual waist. “That peacetime bulge of yours hasn’t gotten any smaller, you know…”

In all honestly, Nie Huaisang was delighted by the small swell of his brother’s usually flat stomach. His brother wasn’t vain – his body was a tool shaped for purpose – and the idea that his brother had finally let go enough, whether by eating more or resting more, to actually gain some weight…

“Whatever you say, pork bun,” his brother said, and Nie Huaisang yelped and hit him because he was not a pork bun! No matter how pale or chubby he might become!

It was a hot day, which of course made going through the steps of training even more miserable than usual. His brother was patient as always, showing him the steps and then making him repeat them a few times before starting up his own morning training routine; after a while, they both got into a nice rhythm, swings and chops.

Training wasn’t that bad, especially when it meant he could spend more time with his always-busy brother. He still didn’t like it, and obviously he had a reputation to uphold, and yes, it was obnoxious to get up early...but it could be worst.

And then, just as Nie Huaisang was turning to tell his brother a joke he’d heard the day before, he saw his brother abruptly turn pale and fall over.

He even dropped Baxia.

“Da-ge!” Nie Huaisang screamed, a thousand ancient fears rearing their heads at once, and he rushed over at top speed. “Someone get a doctor! Quick!”

Not a qi deviation, not a qi deviation, don’t be a qi deviation, he prayed, dropping to his knees next to his brother, who was already waking up – eyes clear, not red, and looking more confused than anything else. He’s too young, I’m not ready, I can’t lose him, not him, not yet, please –

On Nie Huaisang’s instructions, some of the nearby retainers helped Nie Mingjue back inside, even though he was insisting that he was fine.

“You collapsed,” Nie Huaisang snapped at him. “In morning training. You are going to see a doctor, and that’s final.”

Nie Mingjue held up his hands in surrender, looking amused at Nie Huaisang’s uncharacteristic fierceness. His amusement faded into sympathy when he realized why Nie Huaisang was so tense – their father’s death had hit them both hard – and he pulled Nie Huaisang into his arms for a hug.

“It’s not that,” he said confidently. “Not yet. The doctor will tell you.”

The doctor’s face did something funny, though, when he listened to Nie Mingjue’s pulse. Not the oh-no-it-really-is-a-minor-qi-deviation sort of funny or even a nah-total-fluke-you’re-overreacting sort of funny, more of a what-the-fuck sort of funny.

“What is it?” Nie Huaisang demanded. He knew enough medicine – the entire Nie sect knew enough medicine – to understand most basic diagnoses, as well as what they might mean for future health. “What type of pulse?”

The doctor hesitated.

“Well?” Nie Mingjue said. “Spit it out.”

“…a joy pulse,” the doctor said. “About five months, I’d guess.”

For a moment Nie Huaisang didn’t understand. It wasn’t that he didn’t know what a joy pulse was – he did have female friends, some of whom were now mothers – nor that he didn’t know that his brother was capable of carrying, he’d known that forever.

It was just that his brother was an antisocial misanthrope. He didn’t have any lovers, as far as Nie Huaisang knew, which meant he shouldn’t have a joy pulse.

Besides, five months ago they were still at war! His brother took his duties far too seriously to waste time on a battlefield dallying with someone, anyone, and especially not if there was a major battle around that time. Five months ago there must have been one – which one was it?

Five months…the main force of the army had gone up from Xingtai to Shijiazhuang six months ago, and then there would have been – Yangquan.

Yangquan.

When his brother had been duped by false information into leading an attack on what should have been a mostly abandoned outpost, but which turned out to be in the middle of being reinforced by Wen Ruohan personally – when his brother had been captured – tortured – and even -

“Shit,” his brother said, presumably realizing at that exact moment that Nie Huaisang was capable of math and also dates and possibly even logic. “Doctor, you can go, thank you.”

Nie Huaisang didn’t even hear the doctor leave.

“Huaisang…didi…” His brother was trying to pull him into a hug, but Nie Huaisang didn’t want one, struggling unsuccessfully to get away. He didn’t want to be any closer to – to that – to the creature sitting his brother’s stomach, weighing him down; to what he’d thought was a sign of peace and good times and what was actually nothing more than yet another scar left by the war.

He’d actually been happy about it, and the thought twisted his stomach.

“Can you get rid of it?” he asked, voice strangled. “You can, right? It’s still early…”

“Five months is pretty close to quickening,” his brother said, wincing. “After quickening, the medicines don’t work as well. It might not be that easy.”

“Do you know how dangerous childbirth is?!” Nie Huaisang demanded. His mouth was moving on automatic; he wasn’t even thinking about what he was saying. He wasn’t thinking of anything, anything at all, because if he was thinking he’d have to think – he’d have to – his brother – “What if it kills you? You can’t let them kill you! Not after everything we did to avenge A-die!”

“I’m not going to die,” Nie Mingjue said, holding him tightly, his chin on Nie Huaisang’s head the way they always where when they hugged. “I’m a very good cultivator, Huaisang. My golden core will keep me healthy, even if I start bleeding…it won’t be like your mother. I promise.”

Nie Huaisang started shaking. “Da-ge,” he whimpered, pressing his face into his brother’s shoulder. “Da-ge, tell me…”

“Anything,” his brother promised, and he’d regret that promise in another moment, Nie Huaisang knew, the question would only cause him pain, but he needed to know. The second they were out of this situation his brother would clam up, pretend that nothing had happened and that it was all fine, so if he had questions – and he did – then he needed to answer them now.

“Was it – who was it? Was it him?”

His brother stilled.

“You said you’d tell me,” Nie Huaisang reminded him.

“…I don’t know,” his brother said. “I don’t – it could be. But it might be – someone else.”

There had been more than one, then. Nie Huaisang swallowed back bile, wanting to be sick. His father’s murderer had forced himself on his brother, and he’d let others do the same, and now they had to deal with the fallout.

“I want to kill them,” he whispered. “I want – I want them dead – all of them –”

“If it’s anything, I’ve made a pretty good head start on that already?” his brother offered, and of course his brother was trying to find some levity in a terrible situation. “We broke them, Huaisang. Even if some individuals remain, there’s no Wen sect left. If I do end up keeping it, the child won’t have a paternal family to lay a claim – they’ll be surnamed Nie. Another Nie, like you and me. You’ll be their uncle; you have to forgive them, it wasn’t their fault...you have to spoil them rotten.”

His brother’s thumb wiped away some of Nie Huaisang’s tears.

“You’ll be a good uncle, didi,” he murmured, pressing his lips to Nie Huaisang’s brow. “If the child is surnamed Nie, that’s all that matters.”

“People will know,” Nie Huaisang pointed out. “About you, about…I’m not the only one who can do math. We won’t…it can’t be kept quiet, can it? People will know. About you, about - what happened.”

“Let people know,” his brother, brave as ever, said with an indifferent shrug. “What do I care? In the end, it’s just another way to show that even when they threw everything they had against me, I still won.”

“What a charming child you have,” the young man from the mountain – Xiao Xingchen, he said his name was, and he was already famous despite having only been around for a few months – said, smiling down at her. “She’s beautiful.”

Nie Mingjue was not currently feeling especially kindly disposed towards human reproduction at the moment, being currently heavy with his second – the world needed more Nies, he wanted more Nies, children to keep Nie Huaisang company if that qi deviation he was promised ever actually turned up, and he had a very good list of cultivators with various pros and cons willing to help him introduce some more diversity into the Nie bloodline to try to minimize the chance of future qi deviations for his descendants, but at the same time he hated waddling around like a stuffed hippo with a bunch of people insisting that he not even think of physical exertion – but he nodded his thanks regardless.

At least for once someone wasn’t going to comment about the child’s parentage, he reflected wryly. There was only so much purposeful playing dumb a man could do, and the first year or so of his little baobei’s life – by the time they’d finally gotten around to trying to name her, the nickname had stick so firmly that they’d succumbed to reality and made her given name A-Bao, though of course, it being Qinghe, no one actually called her that – had really strained his tolerance in that specific regard.

It was the quickest way to avoid awkwardness, to pass along the information while avoiding conversations he didn’t want to have, but still…

Nobody brought up on a celestial mountain would know about Wen Ruohan, though. He was pretty sure of that.

“And I see you’re expecting another? Sometime soon..?”

“I am,” Nie Mingjue said. “Soon enough.”

Not soon enough. He wanted to go back to training – why did he keep getting high blood pressure no matter how much medicine he took?

“I see,” Xiao Xingchen said. “You’ll have to let me give you a gift of some sort. Do you have a favorite form of cloth?”

Nie MIngjue blinked at him. “Cloth?”

That was a strange gift. Did Xiao Xingchen think that his sect was so poor that he couldn’t cloth a child?

Xiao Xingchen – who was really quite young – blushed red, the color going all the way to his ears.

“I’m sorry for my presumption,” he said, then hesitated, before saying, very delicately, “Have you finished preparing the nest for the egg, then?”

#mdzs #nie mingjue #nie huaisang #wei wuxian #wen qing #wen ning #jin guangyao #lan xichen #xiao xingchen #my fic #my fics #baby dage #thevasthonk

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nanoland · 3 years

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new chapter (supernatural fic)

(Also on AO3.)

Clean Hands, part 5

Crowley/Dean Winchester/Castiel

Warning: SPACE GORE

“I understand you and Dean have fallen out,” said Castiel. “Again. But this is important. The Winchesters are in danger, Crowley. They badly need our help.”

Ten thick leashes in hand, Crowley walked on nothing, his Armani coat billowing in a non-existent breeze for stylistic purposes. Ordinarily, he was loathe to keep the hounds in check via such brutal methods – his clever, clever darlings were the best-behaved babies in the world, always attentive and alert, instantly responding to his every whistle and command. Leashes, he felt, insulted them.

But today, to his sorrow, it was necessary. Brilliant, gorgeous beasts that they were, they weren’t accustomed to hunting the damned in zero gravity. If he didn’t keep them tethered, they were inclined to float away.

“What’s in it for me?” Crowley asked, without deigning to glance in Castiel’s direction.

Unlike him, Castiel had left his meat suit on Earth. Crowley wasn’t sure why. Keeping them operational in the freezing vacuum of space took a bit of work, a bit of concentration, but should hardly tax an angel’s resources.

Maybe he’d just wanted an excuse to stretch his wings.

And oh, how they stretched.

‘Wings’ was a barely accurate description. They were to wings what the Carina Nebula was to a puff of cigarette smoke.

Crowley felt that if the lens through which he viewed angels hadn’t been hammered into shape by early modern European Christianity, he’d sooner have thought ‘frills’ – like Jurassic Park’s inaccurate take on a Dilophosaurus, the nasty bugger that had spat acid in the fat bloke’s eyes. Huge sheets of brightly coloured whatever-material-they-made-dinosaur-puppets-from exploding out of its neck, reminiscent of an opening umbrella. That was far closer to what Crowley could see of Castiel without getting a headache than ‘wings’.

Of course, in order for the comparison to be even remotely accurate, the puppet would need to have been a mile long and accidentally warping the space-time continuum with its very presence. A meteor innocently rolled by; when it came within twenty metres of Castiel’s trunk, it flickered in and out of existence, turned to ice, turned to magma, and then reappeared on the other side of Castiel, continuing on its way as if nothing had happened.

“Crowley,” Castiel huffed, “I don’t have time to banter or bargain with you. Not today. What’s ‘in it for you’ is Dean and Sam’s continued existence – and gratitude.”

Crowley laughed.

“And my gratitude,” Castiel amended. “I will be in your debt. Not that I believe that’s even necessary. I’m quite certain you’ve already made up your mind to help. But if it makes you feel better or appeases your vanity, you can pretend you’re doing it because it will give you leverage.”

“You think a favour from you counts as ‘leverage’, kitten? The last favour you did me ended with you ascending to godhood while I hid in a methhead’s trailer listening to Nancy Sinatra for three days. You, my fine feathered friend, are a celestial fucking monkey’s paw.”

They were now close enough to the wreckage that the hounds were beginning to whine with excitement. Crowley requested patience with a click of his tongue.

“You’re absorbing too much radiation,” Castiel muttered.

“Sort it out, then.”

If Castiel had been wearing Jimmy Novak, he’d doubtless have donned that delightful scowl – maybe even graced Crowley with a pout. As it was, he merely rearranged his wings so that Crowley was shielded from the worst of the cosmic poison.

Juliet misinterpreted the movement and started growling.

“Shh, shh, sweetheart,” Crowley cooed, stroking her scales. “Daddy’s not in any danger from silly old Uncle Castiel.”

Castiel growled back at her. Sound, of course, did not carry in space, for which reason they’d been communicating telepathically; if it had, he’d have blown eardrums back at the ISS. As it was, the only result was that the mangled spacecraft tumbling through Mars’ orbit a short distance away threw off sparks.

Whimpering, Juliet tried to hide behind Crowley’s legs.

“Stop bullying her, you arse. She’s a guard dog. She’s doing her job,” he snapped, untangling the leash.

“I don’t like your pets.”

“I don’t like yours, but you’re still here, asking me to stick my neck out for them. By the way, is there a reason they haven’t summoned me themselves?”

“I…”

“Do they even know about this? Ooh – Cas, are you being naughty? Mm? Sneaking around behind their backs, again?”

Castiel reared up, a thousand luminous antennae bristling, and boomed, “Demon, I have overseen a war in Heaven. I have lead divine squadrons into Hell. I am a veteran and a commander and I am not obliged to beg permission from Dean or Sam before approaching you or any of our other allies. I – why are you aroused? This is not arousing! Stop it!”

“Make me, big boy,” Crowley husked, rapidly reviewing the logistics of getting rage-fucked by an oil-tanker-sized pillar of light and strange matter.

Juliet gave her signature ‘target locked’ bark and Crowley was forced to return his attention to the task at hand.

A figure in an untethered spacesuit had drifted from the wreckage. Still alive, Crowley could smell that much, but panicking; probably only had a few minutes of oxygen left.

He wouldn’t be needing them. Crowley snapped his fingers and let go of the leashes.

“And that,” he said, smugly, watching Juliet crack open the helmet with one bite, “is what happens to people who don’t hold up their end of the bargain.”

In zero gravity, guts didn’t so much spill from a man’s ruptured stomach as they did soar. It was really rather beautiful to watch.

“Untrue. I didn’t hold up my end of our bargain and I never faced any such consequences,” observed Castiel.

“Yes, you did. I’ve ruined you, Cassie. Haven’t you noticed? Over a hundred times now I’ve had you in my bed, arse up or legs wrapped around my shoulders, befouling that sparkling grace of yours. Dirtying you up. All day long, I catch other demons sniffing the air in my presence and I know what they’re sniffing for are the traces you leave on me. All Hell knows what we get up to, every monster and magistrate. So that’s your reputation gone as well, I’m afraid. Consequences, ducky.”

Castiel said nothing until the hounds had finished their meal and what remained of Hell’s wayward client were but a few red droplets dancing through the total blackness.

Then, slowly, in his older-than-hydrogen voice, he said, “You are… you are actually trying to tell me that all the times you’ve pleasured me – all the times I’ve pleasured you – all the times you’ve spent hours reverently touching my penis and buttocks – all the times I’ve made you orgasm so hard you start speaking Gaelic – all that was just part of your cunning plan to take revenge by corrupting me? That’s your claim? That’s the best ruse you can come up with? Ah-hah. Hah. Hah! Hahahahahahaha-…”

Angels shimmered when they laughed. Crowley suspected he was one of the only non-angels in existence who knew that. Even Dean probably didn’t.

“Piss off,” Crowley grumbled, adamantly refusing to allow his meat suit’s cheeks to redden. He clicked his tongue again and the hounds returned to his side, happy and sated.

“When you offer the Winchesters your aid, please don’t tell them I spoke to you first,” said Castiel after he’d calmed down. “It would… complicate things. Say you heard about their dilemma from some other source.”

“Oh, good. So now I can look forward to Dean getting up on his high horse and accusing me of spying on them. Thanks.”

“Crowley, you do spy on them. We both do. Constantly. The only people we spy on more frequently are one another. It – hmm. Your dog is urinating on my thorax.”

“Juliet! Naughty girl.”

#supernatural #crowstiel #castiel #crowley #dean winchester #drowley #drowstiel #fanfic #my fic

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superlinguo · 4 years

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Linguistics Jobs: Interview with a Transcriptionist

When we started Lingthusiasm, I knew that transcripts had to be an essential part of the show. They’re so useful for people who can’t listen, people who would refer to read, and for when I want a quick reminder of what we covered in an interview (they’re also very handy for training a bot to take over the show). A few of us wrangled transcripts for a while, but it’s been an absolute delight having Sarah Dopierala on the team, turning our spoken words into written words.

Sarah and I were at SOAS at the same time, and Sarah was in the same MA program as last month’s interviewee, Exhibition Content Manager Emily Gref. In fact, it was Emily who put us back in touch when we were on the look out for a new transcriptionist. I guess then there’s an extra lesson from this month’s interview; the longer you’re around as a linguist, and the more connections you make, the more interesting pathways your career can take you on (The Helsinki Bus Station Theory for linguists)

You can find out more about Sarah’s research and her transcription work on her website, or follow her on Twitter (@SDopierala).

What did you study at university?

I went to the University of Pittsburgh for undergrad and studied linguistics as my major, with a minor in Japanese. It was a very well-rounded education. I studied many of the “core” topics such as phonetics (where I learned the International Phonetic Alphabet, or IPA), phonology, morphology, syntax, and semantics. I also got to study applied linguistics (which as I remember was an interesting class that overviewed many areas of linguistic application including forensic linguistics and even language documentation, among many others) and had a semester on historical linguistics. One of the most unique classes I took though -- which I don’t remember the name of now -- had to do with conlanging and natural language processing. Super cool. Besides linguistics I, of course, had my Japanese language courses and, since it was a liberal arts education, classes on a variety of other subjects including acting classes, art classes, and a physics class. It was good times.

For my master’s degree, I went to SOAS, University of London for an MA in Language Documentation and Description. This was a more specialized degree and a shorter program (1 calendar year) so my subjects were all linguistics related. For instance, I had classes on syntax (specifically looking at Lexical Functional Grammar), field methods, descriptive linguistics, and applied documentation (I think it was called) where we spent a lot of time discussing practical matters of doing research with people -- ethics, research methods, etc. I did get to do a lot of neat curriculum-adjacent things as well. I was a member of the Sylheti Language Project. We hosted a Sylheti language conference as well as published a Sylheti storybook. I got to attend other conferences as well to practice explaining my eventual dissertation topic -- converbs in Sylheti.

As of now, I’ve been accepted to the University of Frankfurt to do a PhD in comparative linguistics, still focusing on converbs only this time in Northwest Caucasian languages. Funding has been something of an adventure, but I remain hopeful! Besides, linguistics is never too far away. What is your job?

My current job is as a transcriptionist. I freelance making transcripts from audio recordings as my day-to-day, money-making job. Sometimes, I freelance through contracting companies. However, I prefer to work for myself and transcribe podcasts -- especially about linguistics! You may have seen my work via the Vocal Fries Podcast, Conlangery, and Lingthusiasm.

To build my transcription skills I took an online transcription course through Transcribe Anywhere. It took a certain investment of time and money, but you come out of there knowing your stuff and with a network of other transcriptionists to help you. I’m still learning a lot about running my own business (since I suppose that’s what freelancing ultimately is), but I feel confident, and it helps that I’m not completely alone.

As a freelancer, my daily schedule is hardly ever the same and I do tend to break it up even more with travel. That’s what I like about it though. I can do the job no matter where I go. As long as I get the job done well and in a timely manner, I can set my own schedule. It definitely takes a certain level of self-discipline to keep a freelancing schedule, that’s for sure.

How does your linguistics training help you in your job?

There are a couple of ways linguistics training helps me with transcription work -- or perhaps even transcription helps me with my linguistics work. My first introduction to transcription was during my master’s degree. As a documentary linguist in training, I made audio recordings with a Sylheti speaker and, in order to further analyze and archive my findings, I had to transcribe them. The difference of course was the goal. For transcribing podcasts and other material in English, the goal is generally to create a well-formatted document following written English conventions. However, transcribing an audio file for linguistic analysis, in general, focuses more on accurately representing the sounds of the language in IPA without reference to prescriptive ideas of what sort of written representation is “well-formatted.” For now, I’m focusing on readable English language documents but, in the future, I will return to transcription for linguistic analysis. I think my approach to that type of transcription will be enriched by this work.

The two types of transcription complement each other. When transcribing linguistics podcasts, I often use IPA to distinguish between different English pronunciations or even to represent non-English words. Just like I use knowledge of linguistic concepts to analyze linguistic data, I call upon quite a bit of that knowledge when I transcribe podcasts as well to not only identify certain terms but to follow the conversation. Understanding the content of the conversation reduces the amount of times I mishear, stop, rewind, listen again, and certainly reduces the time I spend researching unfamiliar topics. When I don’t understand the content of an audio file, I have a hard time predicting what people will say or what they might say. Being able to predict, to a certain extent, what someone might say plays a huge part in transcription and in general language processing as well. Transcribing these podcasts has also been a great way for me to keep up thinking about linguistics, keep up with what’s happening in the field, and keep feeling like I’m part of the community even if I’m not currently “doing linguistics” as my everyday job. 😊

Do you have any advice do you wish someone had given to you about linguistics/careers/university?

I think I’ve been quite lucky in the advice I’ve received over the years, here are two things that have really stuck with me:

“If you can, study in a different department than your undergrad or masters.”

I have found that working in several different departments has not only helped me grow as a researcher, but it has made me more appreciative of the things I learned in previous departments. There are ideas I may not have been introduced to if I had stayed in one place and many people I would not have met as well. My pool of friends and colleagues has definitely been enriched by getting out of my comfort zone.

“What job do you want to get?”

My undergraduate supervisor asked me this question when I told her about my topic for a PhD thesis. She was of course very supportive of my academic pursuits, but I think this is the first time someone asked me this question in a way that was practical rather than condescending (since not everyone instantly appreciates the worth of linguistic knowledge). I’m so grateful that she did because, up until that point, I pretty much took for granted that I would get a tenure-track job at a great university and do descriptive and documentary research for the rest of forever. Don’t get me wrong, that would be amazing. However, this question made me think. It opened me up to the precarity of academia, the non-guarantee of a well-paying university job, the non-guarantee of any university job for that matter. While I will still reach for that dream researcher position, I am now much more open to other opportunities and other ways of doing what I love.

Any other thoughts or comments?

I’m not (yet) able to completely support myself financially just from transcribing. Like many other freelancing careers, it’s taken quite a bit of time to get myself out there. I do receive help and support from other places. Because of this, I have had the opportunity to spend quite a bit of time learning the trade, reaching out to potential clients, figuring out best practices, etc., while also pursuing my academic dreams, which take their share of time and effort. Perhaps not everybody has this luxury, and I want to acknowledge that as a factor for anyone inspired to consider transcription as a potential career path. However, with some patience, I know that it is very possible to make a comfortable living as a freelance transcriptionist. In fact, I hope that someday transcription can be a main source of income for me as well. In fact, it’s one of my potential “non-tenure” jobs -- especially if it means I can still be close to linguistics! 😉

Recently:

Interview with an Exhibition Content Manager

Interview with a Community Outreach Coordinator

Interview with a Marketing Content Specialist

Interview with a Software Engineer

Interview with a Product Manager

Check out the Linguist Jobs Master List and the Linguist Jobs tag for even more interviews

#linguistics #linguistics jobs #linguist jobs #career #job #careers #work #podcast

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awesomesusiebstuff · 4 years

Text

Time Together Changes Everything

This was written for @idreamofplaid Thanks For The Memories Challenge. It was inspired by scenes form Supernatural Season 13 episodes Patience and The Big Empty and by my love for the relationship between Sam and Jack.

Characters: Sam Winchester, Jack Kline, Dean Winchester

Words: 2,113

Warnings: None that I could think of. Pure fluff.

A/N Thanks to @fangirlxwritesx67 for reading and encouraging and to @thoughtslikeaminefield for beta read and suggestions for improvement.

Summary: Dean is angry. Jack is afraid of Dean and of his own powers. Sam is trying to keep himself and everyone else together. Someone has to be the adult in the bunker. Who knew trying to raise a Nephilim would be so difficult?

With Cas dead and Mary gone, life in the bunker was very uncomfortable. Truth be told, uncomfortable was too small a word to describe the atmosphere. Charged, hostile, despairing. Those were more accurate descriptions. Everyone who remained had been sent reeling. The world had spun off its axis and no one had time to adjust to the new trajectory.

Dean was mourning his best friend, and his mother, and was caught up in blaming the bunker’s newest resident for his loss. Jack was feeling alone and frightened. Everything was new and terrifying to him, including his own powers. And Sam, Sam was just trying to keep it together.

He had lost his friend and mother -- and, God, it hurt! But he was convinced that Jack was not a monster and knew that someone had to look after him. So, in one of the greatest ironies of all time, Sam chose to step up and protect the son of Lucifer, which included helping Jack learn how to control his powers and use them for good.

Training was not going well. Jack had been trying his hardest to please Sam by making a pencil levitate. Sam had been trying his best to be patient and not pressure Jack. He knew Jack was scared. Sam was frustrated though, and felt he was doing everything wrong. He had no real experience with kids. And, even though Sam knew he did the best he could, his own father was not exactly a role model. Sam was worried he would not be an adequate parent for any child, let alone for a Nephilim. Just the thought of it was overwhelming.

Sam wished he could get Dean on board for some much needed help, but Dean was convinced Jack was evil and would turn on them as soon as he had the opportunity. Dean had gone so far as to tell Jack he would be the one to kill him if he went dark side. Sam understood that his brother’s first response to any strong, uncomfortable emotion was anger. He knew this was part of Dean’s grieving process, but his brooding and glaring at Jack was not helping the situation.

The day everything changed was the day Jack blew up at Sam and fled to his room. Sam found him sitting in the corner in tears. Sam knew what it was to feel like a disappointment. He was mortified to be the cause of Jack’s tears.

Sam sat next to Jack on the floor and bumped his shoulder to get the boy’s attention. In the gentlest voice possible, Sam said “I’m sorry for pushing so hard, Jack. I forget that you’re just a kid. I want you to know that whether you get a handle on your powers or not, you are not a disappointment. Your mom believed in you. Cas believed in you. And I believe in you.”

By this time, Jack had turned so he could look at Sam, his face so open and hopeful that Sam found himself close to tears. “OK,” Jack said.” I’m ready to try again.” “Great!” Sam replied. “But let’s have a little fun first, take a break.”

Sam wasn’t really sure what would be fun for a Nephilim. Truth be told, he wasn’t certain what would be fun for a child. Sam thought about things he had liked to do as a child. He remembered that most of his favorite things involved fantasy of some kind. He didn’t think he should resort to playing Batman and Robin or soldiers with Jack. He decided to start introducing Jack to the world of Star Wars, figuring that would at least be interesting for him.

He left Jack in his room with a laptop and Clone Wars. When he checked back a few hours later, he saw that Jack had not moved off his bed and was still working his way through the episodes. Sam asked, ”Hey, how’s it going?” Jack looked up and replied, “Good. I’m enjoying it. I’m not too fond of Anakin, though.” Sam laughed when he heard this. He was taking this as an indication that Jack was not going to go all Darth Vader on the world. At Jack’s questioning look, Sam smiled and said, “I’ll explain it to you another time.” Jack just nodded and went back to his viewing.

Sam left to make Jack something to eat and ran into Dean in the kitchen. He was still smiling when he said, “So get this. Jack doesn’t like Anakin Skywalker. Dude, that’s a good thing, right?” Dean didn’t really answer but he actually smiled. Sam chose to see this as another good sign. Maybe the ice around Dean was starting to thaw and he would begin to warm up to Jack.

Jack really seemed to enjoy the animated series so Sam downloaded the movies for him, starting, of course, with the original one featuring Luke Skywalker and Han Solo. While Jack watched, Sam returned to the library to do more research on Nephilim.

Thinking about Star Wars and his own childhood had triggered some not so great memories, like how much he disliked being left alone to entertain himself when Dean and his father went on hunts. Those memories made him realize he was doing the same thing to Jack. Sam might not know the best way to teach Jack to use his powers, but he could spend time with him and show Jack what it was like to be human.

From that day on, Sam made a point of spending time with Jack and introducing him to what he called “the human experience.” He listed what he considered essentials and set himself the goal of checking at least one thing off the list every day.

Sam was aware that Jack was too small to wear any of Dean’s clothes. And his own clothes certainly would not fit him. So clothes shopping moved to the top of the list.

Sam never paid much attention to clothes but he found that he actually enjoyed helping Jack find things to wear that he would like and that would feel comfortable. One of their most successful shopping excursions netted Jack a new “favorite” hoodie and a pair of sneakers with Velcro, both of which quickly became part of his daily wardrobe.

Grocery shopping was not quite as successful. Jack discovered he liked candy, sugary cereal, and just about anything sweet. Sam tried to introduce him to all sorts of fruits and vegetables. Jack would try everything but nothing beat nougat and Sam would always catch him trying to sneak sweets into the grocery cart.

Sam was aware that Jack’s grocery preferences contributed to Dean’s warming up to him. Dean would never take Jack shopping, but whenever Dean went on a supply run, Sam saw that a handful of candy bars and a couple boxes of sugary cereal mysteriously made it into the bunker.

Dean couldn’t help noticing that Jack looked up to Sam and that Sam looked happier when he was doing things with Jack. One day he commented, “Dude, I’m glad to see you looking like less of a sad sack.” Sam gave Dean the patented eye roll and said, “Yeah, I think things are getting better.” Sam knew better than to push Dean so he just smiled to himself and let it drop.

Hunting was the family business, so, of course, Sam taught Jack about monsters and the lore. He took Jack out to walk around a cemetery and explained how EMF worked. He let Jack read his hunting journal and some of the notes he kept about monsters he and Dean had encountered.

Sam stayed away from the topic of Lucifer as much as possible. He knew Jack had questions. Jack finally came out and asked, “Is my father a monster?” Sam answered honestly, ”Yes, Jack, he is. And someday I’ll tell you more about him and why I know he is evil. But Jack, that does not mean you will be evil. You have a choice and I believe you will make the right one.”

After that, Sam was always very careful to make sure Jack knew he and Dean did not see him as a monster. He believed that Jack trusted that Sam saw him as a real person and not just some “cosmic entity” with potentially useful powers. He knew Jack was still unsure about Dean, especially after Dean’s “cosmic can opener” crack. Sometimes Jack had bad dreams and he would go to find Sam. He would always ask, “Is Dean going to kill me?’ And Sam always replied, “No. I won’t let that happen.”

Jack’s nightmares became less frequent. One morning he came to Sam and said ”I don’t think Dean plans to kill me anytime soon.” Sam recognized this as real progress and decided to plan a Lord of The Rings movie marathon to celebrate. However, before the marathon could begin, Sam decided Jack needed one more lesson. Sam wanted to show Jack the failsafe weapon to be deployed when trying to get Dean to do anything. Sam left Jack practicing his puppy dog eyes in the mirror and went to find Dean. Sam used his own puppy dog eyes on his brother and Dean agreed to join them in watching the first movie.

Midway through the movie, Jack asked ,“Aren’t people supposed to have snacks when they’re watching a movie?” and Sam watched Jack unleash his version of the pleading eyes on Dean. Sam smirked as he watched Dean jump up to go to the kitchen, saying “I’m on it. Popcorn and nachos coming right up. Anybody need another drink?” By the time the credits rolled on the last film, all three were devouring a Dean made “hobbit second breakfast” of waffles, bacon, and a veggie omelet for Sam.

The next day, Jack proudly announced, “I found a case for you.” Dean surprised Sam by inviting Jack to come with them on the hunt. It turned out to be a simple salt-and-burn and didn’t require any use of special powers. Jack showed he was able to listen and followed Sam’s every direction. And Sam knew Jack’s willingness to do the grave digging won him points with Dean.

Jack’s full acceptance into the Winchester family became apparent to Sam the day after they returned to the bunker. Sam noticed that Dean had begun calling Jack “kid” and he immediately recognized what that meant. Any lingering doubt Sam may have had disappeared when Dean began teasing Jack about his hair.

Dean said “Hey, kid. You’re getting a little shaggy. Which is ok if you want Wookie hair but…” and then gave Sam a pointed look.

Jack looked at Sam for guidance, unsure of how to respond. Sam just laughed and directed a “jerk” at Dean.

Sam said, “Jack, it’s your hair and you decide how you want it to look.”

After giving it some thought, Jack said, “I guess I don’t want to look like a Wookie. Can I get a haircut?”

Dean volunteered to cut Jack’s hair but Sam just chuckled and shook his head. Sam decided he would make an appointment with the girl who cut his own hair and take Jack into town for his haircut.

The next day, Sam and Jack drove into town. Sandra, Sam’s usual stylist, greeted them with a smile and innocently asked Sam, “And who is this?” referring to Jack.

Giving one of his awkward waves, Jack shyly said, “I’m Jack.”

Sam was taken aback because he hadn’t thoroughly thought this thing through. Of course, Sandra knew Sam and would be curious about Jack. By that time, Jack was nervously staring at the floor. And Sam was hit by the realization that that this was Jack’s first haircut and it was a big deal for him.

Not giving himself time to think, Sam blurted out, “He’s my son.” When he saw the biggest smile he had ever seen on Jack’s face, he knew it was the right thing to say. More than that, he knew it was the truth.

He felt himself smiling just as big when Jack answered, “Yes, that’s my Dad.”

He might not have been prepared to be a parent. But at that moment, if anyone had asked Sam Winchester if he was happy to be a father, his answer would be a resounding “Yes!”

Tagging Interested Parties: @idreamofplaid @fangirlxwritesx67 @thoughtslikeaminefield @kickingitwithkirk @klaatu51 @aeo10fan

#my own stuff #plaid and the memories #sam winchester #sam is jack's father

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amydancepants-peralta · 4 years

Note

Hi! Not sure if you’re taking prompts atm but if you are: a canon divergent where jake and Amy don’t end up having sex on their first date, and they have sex for the first time few months into their relationship instead

Hey there, Anon!

This took a little longer than expected (life is vv crazy at the mo!) but I totally loved your idea, and this is the result … I hope this lives up to your idea! 🤞🏼🙈

*NSFW* (Also on AO3, coz it’s kinda long.) Special thanks to @amyscascadingtabs and @kamekamelea for your help on this one! 🙌🏼😊

rule number three

“Let’s not have sex right away.”

There have been only a few times in Jake Peralta’s life that he’s experienced total euphoria. One: walking out the cinema he’d snuck into a couple of hours earlier, the Die Hard credits still leaking out from the half closed theatre doors. Two: standing tall while perfectly dressed in his blues, smiling back at his proud mother who was wiping back tears as he approached the NYPD commissioner and received his shiny new detective’s badge.

Three belonged to tonight. Pressed against his couch cushions with Amy Santiago on his lap; her perfect, perfect lips pushing against his own.

For the longest time, a moment like this had seemed so far from Jake’s grasp that even now he was struggling to believe tonight was not merely a figment of his imagination. Amy was easily one of the best people he knew - if not the best - and so strikingly beautiful he’s a little amazed that it took him so long to realise how he felt about her.

But after undercover-bound revelations and forced time apart; take backs, admissions and exes on both ends, two impromptu kisses and one moment of tenderness in a room filled with evidence, the two of them had finally acknowledged that maybe what they had together was more than just an excellent partnership.

Tonight had started awkwardly, but turned out to be really fun in a way that only the two of them together can be, but Jake’s favourite moment, hands down, would have to be right now.

“Let’s not have sex right away.”

His hands are on Amy’s thighs, fingers toying with the edge of her red dress as she straddles him. Regulation short and perfectly manicured fingernails are scraping against his scalp, sending a cavalcade of shivers running down his spine, and when she breaks their kiss to start a trail along his jawline, Jake genuinely begins to forget his own name.

This was greater than euphoria. It had to be paradise. In fact, he was certain that if you flipped open a dictionary right now and searched for the definition, it would give an accurate description of tonight, and the feeling of Amy Santiago on his lap.

(Okay so maybe it would be Urban Dictionary, but the sentiment remained. Everything about this moment was perfect, and he wouldn’t change a thing.)

Except for the six little words that are running on a loop inside his brain.

“Let’s not have sex right away.”

Her kisses taste like lime juice - kamikaze remnants that he cannot get enough of. Her tongue, the same sharp tongue that has reprimanded him so many times in the past, is moving against his in perfect unison. Exploring his mouth with gentle sweeps and pushing him further into the cushions in an action that is so seamless it makes his slacks feel uncomfortably tight.

Her body feels incredible like this, moving so sinfully slow and gentle as her hands begin to wander along the outline of his shirt. The subtle grind of her hips as she whispers his name into his ear makes his heart beat wildly against his ribcage, the scent of her perfume invades his senses when her incredibly soft lips leave a gentle kiss against the edge of his jaw. But still, he can hear her voice from this afternoon, and her simple stipulation for rule number three.

“Let’s not have sex right away.”

For what it’s worth, they were doing exceedingly well at the other two rules. Neither of them had said a single thing about what they were doing to their colleagues - which was especially impressive on Jake’s end, given the overwhelming urge to scream out in joy whenever he remembered that he and Amy had finally kissed. FOR REALZ. And they definitely hadn’t put labels on anything, dodging the server’s curious gaze when she told them they made a really sweet couple. And really - when you think about it, when it comes to rules, two out of three really isn’t all that bad. (After all, Meatloaf made a song about it; and songs don’t lie, and that’s facts.)

But this particular rule had come from Amy, a firm believer that rules weren’t made to be broken. And even though Jake doesn’t want any part of this to end, there’s something he needs to check on first. His hands move from Amy’s thighs, taking their time sliding up along her ribcage before heading towards her arms because he can do that now, and before he can fully comprehend what he’s about to say, Jake clears his throat and pulls his mouth away from Amy’s.

The words still come out mumbled, his lungs a little breathless because the most beautiful woman he’s ever known is still straddling his waist, but he speaks anyway. “The rules.”

Her eyebrows lift, the surprise that of the two people in the room, it is Jake Peralta who is pointing out the rules obvious as she smiles down at him. It turns wry as she shrugs her shoulders slightly, the fingertips of the hand on his chest pushing downwards with the movement. It’s such a simple response, but he finds it so sexy, and his hands are tugging her back down towards him without hesitation; the sensation of her lips against his already taking first place in the Greatest Feeling Ever award shelf in his mind.

She moans into his mouth, a sound that he already knows he would willingly die to hear more of (okay maybe not die, because if he dies then he can’t do more of this, and he really, REALLY wants more of this), and his hands move back down over her body, fingers gliding over the fabric of her dress, resisting the urge to pull on the zipper as he passes the jagged teeth. She moans softly when she pulls away, her desire obvious as her hips grind against his just that little bit harder, breath hot on his cheek as her kisses make a trail towards his earlobe.

They both want this. They’ve been leading towards this moment all night. There were eight empty shot glasses and three empty plates (they shared dessert) at the restaurant that told them they both wanted this. There had been a definitely non-G rated cab ride back to Jake’s apartment, countless minutes pressed against front doors before keys were properly utilised, lipstick stains on collars and shoes thrown in the direction of doorways bringing them to this.

Amy whispers his name again, louder this time as her teeth scrape against that spot at the side of his neck, and lawd how he wants this, but maybe they needed to stop. Because try as he might, all he can think about is: this is how every new relationship of his has ever begun.

The story of Jake’s childhood, and the lack of stability he had grown up with, was a tale as old as time. He knew that Amy knew the most of it - probably more than others, if he really thought about it. And she had watched, over the years, as he had jumped in and out of relationships with the fervour of somebody who genuinely didn’t know better. He was, after all, Jake Peralta - eyes closed, head first, can’t lose.

He loved the thrill of it all - the rush of clicking with a stranger, of testing the waters until the spark ignited. Though he might deny it, his heart lived permanently on his sleeve, and it was always on offer - forever hoping that this one might be the right one. But they never stayed, because all that glitters is rarely gold, and somewhere along the line Jake had adjusted his expectations to the minimum. To quick and fleeting relationships that never lasted, but were always fun.

But even now, as his hands roam along Amy’s body and his lips travel up and down her neck, Jake knows that there’s no way he could ever be able to give this up. What they had was different, and so very valuable to him. She was his partner, his closest friend, and the only voice of reason he was willing to hear at any given moment. The thought that he could lose all of that with one wrong move terrified him, and even though he knew he was probably going to regret it in the morning, Jake still lifts his lips away from Amy, bringing his hands back to her shoulders and pushing gently.

“Jake?”

God, she was beautiful. Straddling his waist, dress rucked up dangerously high, lungs fighting to regain control as she looks down at him in confusion. Her voice is breathy as she speaks, and he’s thankful to notice that he’s not the only one struggling to get their heart rate back from overdrive. “Is everything okay?”

His hands move up and down her arms in comfort, resisting the urge to return to their previously favourable position on her bare upper leg, and he smiles before answering. “Everything’s amazing, Amy. I just think that … maybe that third rule of yours wasn’t such a bad idea.”

The hands that had been skirting the buttons of his shirt pause in place, and Amy rears back slightly. “You don’t want this?”

“Trust me, I want this. I’m pretty sure every time you move your hips, you can feel how much I want this.”

She lets out a tiny giggle, shifting her weight just so, and Jake sucks in his breath in response. Yeah, he definitely wants this. Her face grows serious, left hand reaching up to cup his cheek as she leans back down towards him. “Tell me what you’re thinking, Jake.”

Jake hesitates, gnawing on his lower lip for a moment. He’s never been great with emotions, and is suddenly very aware of the fact that he could blurt out the wrong thing and ruin it all. But right now, with just the two of them together in his apartment, the words didn’t seem to be as difficult as he would normally expect. “It’s just … I don’t have the best track record when it comes to this. And while I’m pretty sure that what we have is different, I’m also a little scared that if we move too quickly it might all come crashing down.” He moves one hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, stroking the edge of her cheek as he goes. “I don’t want to lose this, Amy. You mean too much to me.”

“You want to wait a little?”

“I think we owe it to ourselves to see where this is going before we dive too deep.”

Amy’s ribs expand and contract as she begins to control her breathing, her right hand still toying absentmindedly with a button on Jake’s shirt. She’s watching him with those careful eyes of hers, and if Jake listened hard enough he’s certain he would be able to hear the cogs of her mind turning. Slowly, a smile creeps onto her face, and she nods. “You’re right.”

Try as he might, Jake cannot help himself, and he feigns a quick search for his mobile phone - patting nearby cushions and lifting throw pillows while explaining, “Hold on a second, Amy Santiago just said I’m right. I’ve gotta record this.”

Her laughter echoes across his tiny apartment, and it’s the greatest thing Jake’s ever heard between these four walls, so when she leans in for another soft kiss he’s quick to deepen it, sighing against her lips as she wraps her arms around his shoulders. Holding her closer now that the fear of her slipping through his fingers has been lost for at least one night.

She’s still smiling when they pull apart, resting her forehead against his while she takes a deep breath. “I mean, I know that I made the rule and I probably should have stuck to it, but there was something about being out with you tonight, sharing drinks; and you looking like you do, and knowing that I can finally do this - ” she punctuates the sentence with a kiss, lingering against his lips for a moment before pulling away, “that just made everything else seem a little more hazy.” One hand moves to the back of his neck, toying with his freshly cut hair, and her smile turns shy. “You’re important to me too, Jake. This is important to me.”

And just like that, Jake knows that he is absolutely going to fall for Amy Santiago.

She stays over that night, because neither of them are ready for the night to be over just yet, and when she comes out of the bathroom wearing an (on her) oversized NYPD sweatshirt of his, Jake wonders if he’s ever going to be able to go to sleep. But the next morning, when he wakes up with a mess of wavy brown hair spilling over onto his pillow and the sweetest smile wishing him good morning, he knows that he’d wait forever for a lifetime of mornings just like this.

After that first night, Jake realised that the adrenalin-coursing-through-your-veins feeling of a quick start relationship was nothing compared to the kind of slow burn that sizzled between he and Amy now. Because now, there was the aspect of discovery.

They both learned, for example, the importance of not making out in secret locations at work. Because doing so will only startle new bosses born with heart conditions, and will almost certainly lead to a fatal heart attack. Hiding their new relationship from a room full of detectives had proved next to impossible - especially if said relationship leads to the demise of a superior - but once the mortification of revelations had passed, they were pleasantly surprised by how little most seemed to care about what happened outside of work. Charles excluded.

(Also - and purely for research purposes - they learned that if they were to sneak away for secret kisses in evidence lockers, ducking behind that next corner of shelving always bought them a little bit of extra time for recovery.)

Jake learned that he actually wanted to put labels on what they were and not just keep things vague, the word girlfriend slipping out one afternoon so smoothly it would have seemed natural, if it hadn’t been followed by a beet red face and the slapping of his hand against his mouth. The soft smile that stretched across Amy’s features as she sat across from him at her desk made it all seem a little less terrifying. Without a second thought, they were no longer mrrrmzeep or benjinglebin.

She never seemed to be far from his thoughts, and each work day served as a countdown to when he could kiss Amy again, and Jake had never felt more content.

Without actually speaking about it, Jake and Amy both decide that their second date probably needs to be somewhere relatively public (and, just to be safe, with minimal alcohol content).

Amy’s smile is secretive as she ushers Jake through the streets of Brooklyn, and he’s itching to hold her hand in his but he’s not sure if that’s something she likes, so he follows her faithfully until they reach her destination of choice. He recognises it fairly quickly as McCarren Park, although the giant screen stretched out at the bottom of the hill was definitely a new addition, and when his curious eyes meet Amy she smiles, stretching out her hand to lead him to the top of the hill.

It was a moonlight cinema, she explained, reaching into the large tote bag that Jake had carried from the car, pulling out a blanket and spreading it out onto the grass. They were early, because he was here with Amy after all, but it turns out being early has its advantages as they now lay claim to prime position, up high amongst the tree line with a perfect view of the screen below.

From the bag Amy pulls out orange soda, followed by reusable cups, littering the rest of the blanket with crackers and gummy worms and water (the latter of which Jake assumes is for her), glancing quickly in Jake’s direction as she pulls out a small bag of nuts and hands them directly to him. He raises his eyebrows settling down onto the blanket, smiling brightly when Amy sits down close to him, and she points at the bag and says “Why don’t you go ahead and throw me one of those nuts, Peralta?”

The memory of Amy’s disastrous attempts at catching food with her mouth on the rooftop has never really faded from Jake’s memory (that entire night often plays on repeat), and he casts a dubious look in her direction. She raises her chin in confidence, giving him the do you doubt me? stare-down that he loves to see, and with a quick shrug of his shoulders Jake rips open the bag, holding the nut up high to make sure she sees it before throwing softly in her direction.

And she catches it. So cleanly - so quick and seamless he almost misses it. But her triumphant grin as she chews proves her victory, and he narrows his eyes. “Lucky shot.”

Amy swallows, raising a single eyebrow and responding cooly, “Throw another one, then.”

He does, and she catches it again. And another, and another, before finally Jake has to admit that Amy has finally mastered the art of catching food with her mouth. There’s not a doubt in his mind that his impressed reaction is written cleanly across his face, and when Amy finally admits that she’s been practising for months, he can’t help but close the small distance between them and kiss her, soft and gentle and completely full of awe. His finger rests underneath her chin, tipping her face ever so slightly upward to meet his, and she sighs softly against his lips.

She’s blushing when he pulls away, the softest and most adorable shade of pink creeping onto her cheeks as she tucks her hair behind both ears and Jake cannot help but pull her in for another kiss. This one lasts longer, each wrapping an arm around the other as it deepens, and in all honesty Jake could have spent the entire night doing just this and he’d be happy.

But they don’t, because they are most definitely in public, and as the melting sun casts the sky in a shade of tangerine and more people begin to settle onto the grass around them, Amy and Jake work their way through the snacks, peppering the comfortable silence with easy conversation.

The night comes earlier in the cooler months, and as the stars fight through the smog of a busy city skyline Amy stretches out on the blanket, resting her head against Jake’s stomach, smiling up at him when he begins to run his fingers through her hair. After a beat she stretches an arm up, pointing out the structure of a constellation in the sky that, despite the high-rises surrounding them, still managed to shine bright enough for him to notice. With his neck craned towards the universe Jake listens in silent wonderment as Amy begins to tell him about the mythological legends that explained their existence, pulling off the hoodie under his jacket and draping over Amy’s middle as a chill begins to fill the air. At the base of the hill the movie screen flashes with ads and previews, but neither of them notice.

She shifts when the movie starts, stretching out her legs next to his, and it’s only a short while before her head is resting against Jake’s shoulder. An even shorter while, it turns out, before the two of them are making out, any movie turning boring when they realise there’s an option to take advantage of the coverage from the trees surrounding them.

It was so new - and incredibly invigorating - to be able to kiss Amy like this, to hold her soft frame inside his arms as their legs tangle together, alternating between kisses both sweet and borderline passionate. It’s only when a loud crescendo booms from the direction of the makeshift movie screen that either of them break away, and after a beat Amy wriggles on the picnic rug until her back is resting against Jake’s chest. Their fingers tangle together where their hands meet at her waist, and in the intimacy of it all this moment right here is all he’s ever hoped for.

Every time he opened up a little more to someone he was dating, part of Jake felt like he was giving them a complete list of instructions on How To Break His Heart. And he could write it all on a proverbial piece of paper, and mark it as handle with care, but he could never control what happened once they knew (he’d started to show parts of this list to Sophia once, and she’d inspected it briefly before handing it back to him with a vague but polite smile).

But as the movie came to an end and he linked his fingers with Amy, walking back towards his car, Jake realised that all of the details he would normally have on the list - all the things that have hurt him and shaped him as he’s gotten older - are things that Amy already knew. And she never used it as a reason to walk away, or to keep her distance. She knew more than most about him, and wanted to be with him anyway.

He presses her against the car when he kisses her goodnight outside her apartment, both of their hands wandering over each other’s bodies with a curiosity emboldened by the growing tension between them. He wants to go upstairs - to be with her and stay the night, more than he’s ever wanted to be with someone before. But they needed time - he needed to know this isn’t going to wither before it has the chance grow, and it’s time that he is beginning to hope they will have a lifetime of.

He keeps the radio low on the drive home, trying his best not to notice how every single love song seemed to tie back to Amy.

At work, it was like they’d both become characters out of some Georgian-era novel.

(Which, okay, doesn’t sound like something that Jake would say, but he totally thought of it all on his own.)

(Alright, he’d called them a Jenny Austen novel. Amy had corrected him on the name, and then told him the era, rattling off a few different titles for reference, because she’s so smart and oh god he really really likes her, SO. MUCH.)

And maybe it was a strange label, but it was true. They’d become all about long glances, gazes holding from the side of computer monitors as they both fail terribly to look like they were doing any work at all. The subtle brushing of feet under tables, lingering touches when they were left alone. Hovering at the coffee station as one would make their coffees, leaning just that little bit closer but never quite close enough. Quiet whispers of admiration when favourite items of clothing were worn, furtive glances through windows when they weren’t in the same room … fingers hooking around ties when the gentle hands of Detective Santiago pulls her partner in for a kiss once they are finally off the clock.

To everybody else, they came across as just another pair of colleagues who had started dating, doing their very best to maintain a professional appearance in the workplace. But to Jake and Amy, every moment was bringing another pile of sand to the beach - another friction filled strike of the match, calling out for the flame of desire to finally be ignited.

Amy takes a long sip from her soda, her lips curling around the paper straw as she watches her boyfriend dominate Dance Dance Revolution one last time. She can’t help the small shiver of excitement that runs down her spine as she repeats to herself once again that Jake Peralta is her boyfriend.

His feet stomp against the coloured arrows in perfect symmetry to the flashing lights, eyes focused solely on the screen in front of him as the digital music reaches its fast paced climax. The teenager beside him, who had been so cocky in challenging Jake to a showdown five minutes earlier, stumbles over their own two feet and stomps away in frustration before the game has even officially finished.

Thrusting his fists into the air triumphantly, Jake turns to face Amy with the widest grin on his face, one that Amy cannot help but match, and this is truly the happiest she’s ever been. While she knows that there was a whole bunch of reasons why she and Jake hadn’t gotten together before now (fear and doubt being two very big ones), it’s in moments like these that she wishes the world had pushed them together earlier.

Dating Jake has been so fun - so exciting and different and comfortable all at the same time. He made her laugh so much her sides hurt, and he always, always wanted to hear about her day. The way he looks out for her (and supports her admittedly nerdy hobbies) is incredible, and she could happily spend the rest of her days showing Jake just how beautiful he was, inside and out. Plus, good lord was he sexy. Perfectly toned, strong arms for her to wrap her hand around while they walked down the street; intoxicating cologne that washed over her when she tucked her face into his neck, and a butt that she could not take her eyes off. Especially tonight, while he danced in those jeans.

It had been so sweet of him to suggest they should take things slow, to give each other the chance to get used to the idea of being together before throwing sex into the mix. And while she totally got all the reasons he had put forward (it was her rule after all), there was also a very large part of Amy that was absolutely ready to fuck Jake Peralta.

(Okay, make love.)

(Then fuck.)

A week ago, Amy had been away at her parents, for a vacation that she’d organised long before the notion of dating Jake was anything more than a quiet hope she held tucked away in her heart. And during that week, the distance between them had felt unbearable - and thank goodness for the existence of texting and FaceTime, because without it Amy’s not certain she would have survived the week.

The separation, however, had lifted their resolve a little, and as the days wore on their texts grew from simple miss you’s to I think about you all the time and I really want to do things to you. Lines that made her blush - not from embarrassment, but excitement that Jake felt the same way she did about him, and that maybe the time for waiting was over.

They’d shared so many conversations and calls via their cellphones that by the time Amy was finally knocking on Jake’s apartment door a week later for their third date, she could literally feel the pull of his energy dragging her through the doorway.

His lips were on hers within seconds of the door slamming shut, kisses turning heated because it had been a week, but the week had felt like a lifetime, and a lifetime without kissing each other was something that neither of them seemed interested in considering.

Her fingers had unbuttoned Jake’s shirt before they’re even made it to the living room, her floral blouse untucked from her skirt as his warm hands wandered up the expanse of her back. It was better than she could have imagined, the electric feeling of his skin against hers, and as he gently pushed her into the couch cushions their first night together came back to Amy in vivid flashbacks. And then his hands moved lower, grazing against the bare skin of her upper thighs, and her skin shivered in its wake.

Like the gentleman that he is, his hand had hovered over the edge of her underwear, waiting until Amy had broken their kiss before touching the fabric again, silently asking for permission to continue. Her consent had come in the form of his name coming out in a breathless burst, hips lifting slightly in encouragement as her own hands gripped his biceps, and when his fingers rubbed against her centre Amy genuinely thought she was going to melt into his couch. She had been wanting this for so long, and it was definitely going to happen tonight.

His lips had slid back over hers as his hand moved her panties to the side, slender fingers seeking out her heat and touching her with such reverence that Amy would have cried if she hadn’t been so damn turned on. Too many times she had watched Jake’s hands from her position at the desk opposite, fantasising about how good he could be at making her come apart at his touch. And now she knew that she’d been right - he was amazing.

Then his kisses forged a path down her body before reaching where she wanted him the most, his breath hot against her folds as his tongue went to work, and soon her eyes were squeezing shut while her nails scraped his scalp and the only words she could say were Jake and yes. Her orgasm was quick, but lingered in waves as her legs shook underneath him, and the taste of her on his tongue was everything.

He was so good at making her feel good, in a way that she’d instinctively known that he would be, and if the garlic bread that he’d been baking in the oven hadn’t chosen that very moment to start billowing smoke and set off the fire alarm, Amy is absolutely certain they would have had sex once she’d caught her breath.

It had very still much been on the cards, in fact, as the stale smell of charred bread filled the apartment and an embarrassed Jake found comfort in her kisses from her new position on his kitchen countertop. And then his phone had started vibrating in his back pocket, a sensation Amy felt against her hands as they roamed over his ass, his impressive bulge rubbing against her thigh. He ignored it for as long as he could, but the caller kept ringing, and eventually Jake had pulled back in anger, answering the phone with a snap before mumbling “Oh, hey Rosa.”

There had been a break in a case that he and Diaz were working, and his presence was being requested (well, being Rosa, more likely demanded). Swiftly, their date was over - and Jake had given her an apologetic kiss as he’d bid her goodbye, the promise of a rain check keeping the flame between them burning hot long after they’d separated.

And now it was just over twenty-four hours later, with date number four starting at a local restaurant before the walk back to her place led to them stumbling upon a new arcade. One look from Jake, throwing the gauntlet by declaring that he could beat her at any game, and Amy was absolutely committed to kicking his butt. And kicked she had, an overwhelmingly large pile of prize tickets stuffed into her purse awaiting redemption. There’s a buzz of victory running through her veins, and her boyfriend’s smile is so contagious as he gathers up his winning tickets and heads towards her, and the memory of the two of them on his couch last night is the only thing on Amy’s mind.

Then he pulls her over to the prize counter, swapping all of his tickets for a book of brain teasers that he gives her with a shy smile, and Amy Santiago is 100% falling for Jake Peralta.

Tonight was the end of date number four, and Jake genuinely believed he was in danger of combusting.

They have been officially dating for four weeks now, and he could honestly say that they have been the best four weeks of his life. With Amy, he felt worthy - of her time, of her attention, and most certainly of her affection. And affection was something she had in spades.

There were so many little things about the two of them being a couple that, when bundled together, made Jake feel complete in a way he’d never known. Dating Amy was like swimming in the rain - like you already knew what it was like to be wet, and then the raindrops hit your skin like a thousand tiny pinpricks and you realise that this whole time you were wrong. That things could be different. And that different could be better.

He could offer her his arm now, as they walked along the sidewalks of Brooklyn after dates. Grip her hand in his own when he helped her up out of her seat and link their fingers together, holding them so close it was hard to tell which were his and which were hers. Go to dinner with her - actual dinner, not just street meat in an unmarked car on the way to a case. Talk to her, about little things and big things and everything in between.

And kiss her. Oh, how he could kiss her. It still made his heart soar up to the very top of his chest, every single time they did. But he could have that feeling forever (and was starting to think that maybe he wanted that feeling forever), if that’s the feeling that came with kissing Amy.

It would seem that all along, this is what he had been craving. And to think that now he got to have it, and that it was with Amy Santiago, put a spring in his step and an obnoxiously happy smile that never seemed to leave his face. Not even when Rosa would punch him on the shoulder, or Gina would threaten the dissolution of their friendship. He was happy. Finally happy - from the tips of his fingers to the edge of his toes - and he wasn’t interested in anything that could take that away from him.

They’d had such fun tonight at the arcade, and had quickly made their way back to Amy’s apartment (or as she called it, ‘taking a victory lap’ - his girlfriend had kicked his ass tonight, and he was totally okay with that). She’d listened, in her non-judgemental way, as Jake told her about a problematic phone call he’d shared with his less than impressive father earlier that day. The advice she offered up was gentle and perfect, just like her, and when she climbed up to the top of a park bench to rest her feet (these sneakers are cute but they pinch my toes she had muttered), Jake couldn’t resist the opportunity to rests his hands on either side of her, gripping the rails as he leant in for a kiss that just kept getting deeper.

It had felt so perfect, with her knees bracketed either side of him and her soft lips pressed against his, that they could have stayed together like that for hours - and probably would have, if another couple hadn’t loudly cleared their throats in Jake and Amy’s direction as they passed, reminding them that they were still in a public place.

And now they stand on the landing of Amy’s apartment, wrapped tight in each other’s arms as their goodnight kiss simply refuses to end.

Their bodies are pressed together, and he knows that she can feel how much her kisses are affecting him, but he just can’t bring himself to pull away. He remembers how she tastes, how it felt to have her fingers scrape against his scalp while she shuddered above him, and he was dying to feel it again. Everything about her was intoxicating, and judging by the way one of her lower legs were wrapped around his, Amy was feeling exactly the same.

“Come upstairs, Peralta” she whispers in that husky voice that he’d never really heard until recently, but always managed to hot-wire his groin. Her eyes are heavy lidded, and her lips are so swollen from the intensity of their kisses, one hand trailing down his chest until it reaches the bulge in his jeans. He nods, pulling her in for another kiss, grabbing her keys out of hand to help speed up the process.

And then her phone rings.

The sound is so grating against the quiet bubble of intimacy that the two of them had made in this corner of her doorway, and they pull apart at the completely unwelcome sound. He wants to tell her to ignore it, to pretend it wasn’t ringing at all, but that wouldn’t be Amy. Still, it’s satisfying to see her head fall back against the rendered brick wall, groaning as her hands dig through her purse.

“That’s my ringtone for the captain.” she mutters apologetically.

Jake blinks. There’s a part of him that’s still trying to understand what happened, let alone what Amy just said, and to be perfectly honest there wasn’t a lot of blood in his brain right now. “You have a specific ringtone for the captain?”

“You don’t?”

He can’t contain the smile that crosses over his face as he shakes his head, stepping back as Amy takes the call. Her hand on his chest tightens as he moves, fingers digging in slightly in a silent request for him to stay, and he covers her hand with his own.

“Captain Pembroke? No, it’s .. I mean - ” her eyes fall to Jake, and she stammers. “Uh, what’s going on?”

The streetlight catches her face as she turns slightly, and Jake can’t help but stare at her beauty, even as she frowns in concentration. Amy nods, murmuring her assent to their superior before looking over at Jake, regret clear in her eyes as she states “I’ll be there soon.” The hand on his chest falls, and he tries his very best not to cry out in frustration.

Looks like it was Amy’s turn to get called away for work.

Slumping against the smooth brick of her building’s exterior, Amy shakes her head. “I know that guy is our captain now, but … he’s just the worst.” Jake nods, and she looks at him with sad eyes. “There’s a catfish case Boyle and I have been working on. This guy has conned seven women out of their savings so far, totalling more than $50,000. The night shift got notice that he’s just used one of his fake IDs to get into some hipster bar in Bedford called ..” she pauses, tapping the screen of her phone to read out the name. “Ugh. Industrialisationism.”

“Industrialisationism? Is that even a word? If it is, it’s gotta be the longest, right?”

Amy dips her head, tucking her phone back into her purse as she speaks. “Actually, the world’s longest word is floccinaucinihilipilification. Well, non-mechanical anyway. If you wanted to talk medicinal - ” her eyes are wide when she looks back at him, as though in fear that this is it, this might be the ultra nerdy thing she does that makes him realise she’s too weird for him to date. His smile is warm, and he has to bite his tongue to stop himself from telling her that he’s pretty sure that no such thing could ever happen. That it’s getting harder to ignore the fact that being with her feels more right than anyone he’s ever been with.

But he’s jumped in too soon before, and ended up with a broken heart. So instead he smiles, and tells her “You should probably head upstairs and get changed. Gotta catch the bad guy, right?”

She smiles, taking her keys back from his outstretched hand and gesturing towards the building. “Do you wanna come up?”

“I really do, Ames. But I’ve gotta confess …” he winces, glancing down. “With the state I’m in right now, the thought of you getting changed with only a bedroom door between us? Just might kill me.”

Amy laughs, and he grabs her hand one last time, squeezing her fingers quickly before walking backwards and stumbling onto a lower step. She laughs again, the sound echoing through down the quiet street, and the move wasn’t deliberate but he’ll take it, because any day where he can make Amy Santiago laugh is a great day to him. Make her laugh twice, and it becomes transcendent.

He takes another step down, facing the street because that’s definitely a smarter way to walk down a staircase, then pauses, the soles of his shoes scraping against the concrete as he swivels on the step to bring his eyes back to Amy. She’s waiting, standing on her landing with keys in one hand and his hand still in her other, and he’s barely touching her but his heart is absolutely racing. With a gentle tug she’s pulling him back up the landing to meet her, wrapping her arms around Jake’s waist with such desire that there are now only two things that Jake knows for absolute certain:

The NYPD are there to serve, protect, and cock block him and Amy; and

Tonight’s forecast at home definitely included a cold shower.

Jake grips his towel with one hand as he swipes it across the fogged mirror of the precinct’s shower room, forcing away the condensation and allowing his tired reflection to peek through. Today has been a particularly long day.

A prolific drug dealer known as Chase Mandeville had been on the radar of several neighbouring precincts for months now, all sides working to share information in the hopes of finally capturing him. Mid-morning, Captain Pembroke had announced to the bullpen that a stakeout the 9-7 had been carrying out had been interrupted by Mandeville’s men, and that several officers were now being held hostage in an old warehouse downtown. They’d moved quickly, strapping on tactical gear and arriving at the meeting point within the hour - but hostage situations are rarely quick, and they’d sat in wait through hours of negotiations and multiple plans of attack before ESU finally called them into action.

The intense shoot-out that followed resulted in three officers and five of Mandeville’s henchmen being taken away by the paramedics, all safe but in various degrees of pain. Jake stood watching as the kingpin was dragged away from the scene in handcuffs, unable to resist a smirk of victory that was quickly wiped off his face as a passing truck hit a particularly large pothole and drenched him, head to toe, in a mixture of dirt, day old rain and floating cigarette butts.

Rosa had shoved him in the direction of the men’s locker room when they’d finally returned to the precinct, telling him with her usual gentle manner that he ‘smelled like butt and nobody should have to endure it.’ So not only had Jake not had the chance to pull Amy aside and play the ‘Super Supportive Boyfriend’ role (one that he was clearly born to play), he’d missed out on the team debriefing where they would obviously be hailed as heroes for saving their colleagues.

(Although in hindsight, The Vulture was their captain now. So there was a very good chance that any credit his team deserved had already been stolen.)

Pulling out a spare work shirt from his locker and quickly looping a tie around his neck, Jake shuffles back towards his desk, noticing with surprise that everyone has already left. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes as Pembroke approaches him from his office, Jake listens as his ‘captain’ retells the day’s events, putting himself into the victor’s position; paying attention only when his superior tells him that he is not to return for 12 hours (or, as Pembroke put it - “The bosses don’t want you to show your pasty white ass here for a solid half a day, capooch?”). He’s halfway to the elevator before another word is spoken, mind already trying to calculate if he’s still got time to call Amy.

Still in the process of pulling the tie away from his collar when he gets to his car, Jake raises his eyebrows in surprise when he realises Amy is leaning against the hood, waiting patiently for his arrival. He greets her with a happy kiss, shoving the necktie into his satchel before standing back. “Need a ride home, Ames?”

She smiles, reaching a hand out to fiddle with the collar of his shirt, and oh - how she makes his heart skip a beat. Even when he’s tired, and ready to go home, she could ask him to fly to the moon and he’d run back in to strap on a spacesuit. “It’s been a pretty long day, huh?” she asks, flattening her hand against his chest, and he’s pretty sure she can feel the thrumming of his heart.

“Yeah. Totally worth it though, to get Mandeville off the streets. Even if things got a little messy at the end there.”

Amy nods, fingers tracing the lines of a square on his signature checkered shirt before looking up at him through her lashes, and wow, she’s beautiful.

“So. Thanks to sub-section 47a of the Worker’s Rights Bill, we now get a mandatory rest period.”

Jake nods in agreement. “Yeah, the Vulture told me I can’t come back for twelve hours. Which is good to know is more because of the law, and not because he literally doesn’t want to see me.”

“Legally, it’s ten. But knowing your inability to start work on time, twelve seems fair.”

He can’t argue with that. Instead, Jake nods his head slightly, sensing that Amy is going somewhere with this. The hand that had been resting against his shirt moves slowly towards the buttons in the middle, toying with them gently. “Do you know what that means, Peralta?”

With his girlfriend (girlfriend!) playing - and pushing - his buttons like that, there isn’t a lot of cohesive thought in Jake’s head, and so he shakes it quickly.

She smiles, using the beaded chain that keeps his badge around his neck to tug him closer for a heated kiss. “It means that the NYPD legally isn’t allowed to interrupt us, Jake. For ten. hours.”

“Ames, are you …?”

“Take me home, Jake Peralta.”

He’s always been incredibly good at taking orders.

Amy’s fingers run down the middle of Jake’s shirt, using her thumb to release the buttons one by one as she yanks the fabric free. His hands feel heavy as they roam across her ass, fingertips digging in as he follows the curve and holds Amy tight against him.

She’d felt his eyes on her all afternoon, watching her from his position and hesitating to move until he knew that she wasn’t going to end up compromised. It was the well-worn action of a long known partner in the field, but there’s a difference in his gaze now - as though him looking out for her is no longer an act of duty, but more because he needs her to be safe. That her safety means more than his own. And although she didn’t want to use the word love just yet, she may just love him a little bit for it.

Her mind had tuned out fifteen second’s into Pembroke’s debrief as he (yet again) twisted their hard work into his own, instead choosing to spend the time devising a way to excuse herself from this sorry excuse of a meeting and sneaking her way into the men’s locker room. She just didn’t have enough of a working knowledge about all the cameras that ran along the hallway there, and as much as she wanted to join Jake in the shower, it wasn’t worth being busted at their workplace. (Again).

And so she had packed up her belongings as quickly as she could the moment they were dismissed, giving off the illusion of walking towards the subway before changing paths and heading to the parking garage, leaning against Jake’s car and waiting impatiently for him to arrive. Thankfully, he hadn’t been far behind the rest of them - and as she watched him walk towards her, tugging off his necktie as he moved, Amy had made a mental note to introduce said garment into the bedroom sometime soon.

He lets out a breathless version of her name as she grinds her body against his, seeking the friction of his jeans against her work slacks and returning for more. His erection is pushing through the denim, and as she places her right hand on the back of Jake’s neck, pulling him in for a kiss, her left dips below the waistband to feel him underneath. The moan he lets out in response spurs her on, and when he moves one hand away from her body to pop open the button that was holding his jeans closed Amy takes advantage of the increase in moving space, cupping Jake’s cock in her palm as she moves up and down. She never would have expected him to go commando, but right now she was thankful for one less barrier between them.

This night, this moment, was what they had been waiting for - what years of bickering and frank conversations and seeing each other at their best and worst had led to. The four weeks that they had been together had held more passion and excitement, without even involving sex, than her entire relationship with Teddy. But the crackle between them was too strong to ignore, desire growing past the point of containment, and Amy’s positive that if she doesn’t feel Jake’s hands soon, her version of the world will absolutely stop spinning.

Her own pants become unbuttoned, a thousand goose bumps rising along her skin when Jake’s hands begin to roam against the small of her back and Amy kisses him again, letting their tongues hint at what their bodies will soon be doing.

A flash of inspiration strikes her when the tip of Jake’s fingertips toy with the top of her underwear, and while Amy really doesn’t want to break the kiss, she also really wants to seduce the hell out of her boyfriend, and so reluctantly she pulls away, face softening into a reassuring smile when Jake looks at her in mild panic.

“I’m just going to freshen up a little bit … wait right here, okay?”

The desire is obvious in his eyes, and he licks his lower lip before responding. “Wild horses couldn’t drag me away from this, Ames.” His earnestness pulls her back to him for another kiss - soft and quick, just enough to keep both wanting more as she winks and moves quickly towards her bedroom.

Jake can still hear the blood pulsing in his ears as Amy disappears down her apartment hallway, and he rests his hands on his hips, taking a deep breath in a substandard attempt to regulate his heartbeat.

It was a relatively common knowledge that Amy Santiago was a little bit of a nerd. In all honesty, her ability to absorb information was one of his favourite things about her, and he could happily listen to her talk about pretty much anything. But what he had loved discovering in these past few weeks, was that underneath all the love for binders and organisation lay a red blooded woman who knew what she wanted, and knew exactly how she was going to get it. A turned on Amy kissed him like it was necessary for her survival, and kept him so close to her they almost melded into one. It was all incredibly sexy, and it kinda felt amazing that she entrusted him to know this side of her - the side that most of the people would never know. Perhaps, if he was really lucky, nobody but him would ever have the chance to find out again.

She doesn’t take too long to freshen up, in the way that only a well-practised Type A person could, and when he hears the door to her bathroom swing open and the soft sound of her footsteps drawing closer he looks in her direction, throat turning completely dry.

He’s always had a secret theory that Amy Santiago was actually a goddess, and this moment proved that he is absolutely correct. She looks stunning.

Her hair has been pulled out of its work appropriate bun, falling in gentle waves and scraping along her shoulders. Whatever makeup she had worn today has been scrubbed off, allowing her natural beauty to shine - and shine it did. Her eyes are sparkling, her cheeks a little flushed, and a nervous smile is stretched across her face. Gone was the grey pantsuit she had worn to the precinct, and in it’s place she wore a silk robe - red as the kiss-bitten lips that were stretched in a nervous smile across her face. His erection, already throbbing before Amy had even stepped into the bathroom, is now begging to be released.

Her voice is soft, and she toys with her fingers briefly. “I thought this might be a better look than my grey pantsuit.”

Jake takes in her nerves - a surprising change in demeanour, considering Sexpot Amy had been in front of him only moments before - and takes a step towards her, speaking from the heart when he responds. “Amy Santiago, you could literally wear anything and I will find you sexy. Your grey pantsuits are amazing. You in a paper sack would be amazing.”

She takes in the awed look on his face and her smile grows brighter, and it’s so beautiful to watch the confidence return to her features. How she could ever doubt how incredible she is, Jake will never know, but in a millisecond he vows to himself to never let her question it again.

He makes short work of the section of hallway that still separates them, arms already reaching for Amy before he can even get to her because the pull is just too great. It’s been seven weeks of dating, but four years of knowing her and a solid year or more of wishing for something he truly didn’t believe he would ever have. Tonight was more than just sex. It was so much more than that. They were so much more than that.

His hands dip lower until they’re gripping the back of her thighs, and with a quick tug he lifts Amy into his arms, her legs wrapping around his waist without hesitation. She lets out an appreciative moan as he pulls her in for a kiss, tongues tangling sweetly, and all Jake can think about is how wonderful it is to feel Amy’s bare skin under his fingertips again. The silk feels cool against his hand - a welcome reprieve from their rising body heat - and everything about this moment is so soft (well … not everything), so warm and perfect. Amy Santiago was literal perfection.

The shirt that she had already unbuttoned earlier is pushed from Jake’s shoulders as they make their way down the hall, falling to the floor already forgotten as Jake moves them towards Amy’s bedroom. His shoulder bumps into the doorframe as he passes, barely registering as he stumbles towards her bed, lowering the two of them gently onto the mattress. His arms are still wrapped around her as they slide upwards toward the perfectly placed pillows at the top of the frame, and when Jake finally breaks their kiss he can’t help but stare.

Amy’s lips are swollen from all the kissing, stretched wide across her face as she looks up at him, the tiny gold stud earrings in each ear catching the light of her bedroom lamp as her eyes turn soft, her gentle hands running along his arms until they join at the nape of his neck. Her robe has shifted slightly since the hallway, gaping open at her chest and revealing the hint of a lace beneath.

“You’re so beautiful” Jake whispers, craning his neck down for a soft kiss. She lets out a soft sigh as his lips travel along her cheek, forging an intrepid path of tiny dotted kisses that lead along her jawline, teeth scraping against her earlobe before kissing the spot on her neck that, since date number two, he knows will make her moan. He can feel her breath wash across his cheek as she does, one hand delving further into his hair and gripping at the roots in a silent request for more.

His right hand slides down Amy’s side, thumb tracing the outline of her breast through the fabric before settling on the loose knot in her coverup, toying with the twisted material until her free hand joins his and yanks it all free. The curiosity is too great and Jake’s lips leave Amy’s neck, raising himself onto his elbows as he gazes down at his girlfriend, taking it all in.

Her chest rises with each deep breath, breasts covered in a lacy red bra that works in perfect contrast to her skin. As his eyes travel down they take in a matching set of underwear, the delicate edges tapering out to a thin strip that he cannot wait to tug downwards. It was all incredibly arousing, but to be fair that probably had more to do with the person wearing the items than the set itself. The hand that had stayed in his hair the whole time tightens slightly, and Jake looks up at Amy and smiles. “You are so gorgeous, Santiago.”

She blushes, her voice soft as she moves underneath him, one foot trailing up and down the outside of his leg. “I wore the same set on our first date. It just felt right to wear it now as well.”

Jake gulps, nodding quickly because the ability to form any more words seems to have disappeared completely. Quickly, he thanks all the stars that he hadn’t seen Amy in this that first night, because it would have made the resolve to wait all the more harder (double entendre intended). She smiles at his response, pushing her pelvis upwards so that it rubs against Jake’s and they both let out a moan, quietened only by Amy’s lips returning to his. The entire world could set itself on fire right now, and it still wouldn’t stop this from happening.

His undershirt is removed quickly as he lifts Amy from the mattress, releasing her arms from the robe before resting her back down, covering her body with his own. With the top button of his jeans still open from earlier Amy takes advantage of the ease of access, pulling down the zipper and cupping his ass with both hands, squeezing as she raises her hips to meet his again.

Jake kisses the lace cups of Amy’s bra, tongue marking out the edges of the material before dipping underneath, pushing the fabric away with his nose and taking one nipple into his mouth as Amy shivers. He repeats the action on the other side, sighing against her skin as she thrusts her chest towards him, making quick work of the hooks at the back and casting the bra to the floor. Free from barriers, Jake sucks gently on Amy’s breasts, teeth scraping the underside of her boob gently before heading lower.

This was better than any fantasy he could have ever imagined.

Amy’s right hand moves around to Jake’s front, gripping his erection in her gentle hand and jerking her wrist while his own hands travel down her waist, circling his thumbs against her hips. He’s reluctant to pull away, because Amy’s hands on him is everything, but the memory of making her come underneath his tongue hasn’t left his mind for a second since it happened four days ago, and he was dying to do it again.

She whispers his name, lifting her hips to help him pull her panties down, one leg hitching over Jake’s shoulder as her underwear falls to the floor. He begins a trail of kisses along her body, leaving a series of gentle bites that make Amy hitch her breath every time, pausing to suck harder against her inner thigh until he’s left a mark before continuing to her centre. He flicks his tongue briefly against her clit, pulling away at Amy’s gasp before returning to her labia; tasting her arousal, kissing and sucking as her fingers dive into his hair. She shifts, tugging his head to where she needs him the most, and when Jake dips his tongue inside her Amy drops her head to the mattress, letting out a moan that sends shivers down his spine. Then he adds his fingers to the mix, and she raises her hips completely off the bed.

All of her words tangle together, a garbled mix of encouragement and gratification as she shudders above him, legs trembling and fingernails scraping against his scalp, holding him exactly where she wants him as she comes apart with a quiet scream. He continues to kiss her skin as her breathing slows, hands releasing their vice grip and body returning to the sheets below. “Jake,” she whispers again, cupping her hand under his chin and beckoning him upwards for a passionate kiss, and oh, he could do this every day for the rest of his life.

Her legs tighten around him as she breaks the kiss, using the heels of her feet to begin pushing his jeans away and Jake follows her lead, shoving the denim until it’s on the floor alongside her panties and robe. Wrapping his arms around her, Jake revels in the feeling of finally being skin to skin with the woman of his dreams, sighing into her mouth as her hands roam over his body before returning to his erection and pulling gently.

His teeth sink into the curve of her shoulder, scraping against her skin and kissing a tiny mole he finds there, moaning at the sensation of Detective Santiago’s hands going to work on his cock. Her free hand returns to the base of his neck, delving up into his hairline as her movements speed up, and he’s really going to need to start thinking about something incredibly unsexy if he doesn’t want to come into her hand.

“Jake,” she whispers into his ear, breath tickling his cheek, fingernails dragging against his scalp. “Please. I can’t wait any longer. I need you inside me.” His eyebrows raise and he moves up to kiss her again, relieved to know that he wasn’t the only one who was barely holding on. When he pulls away, Amy looks at him with such tenderness that Jake’s heart stutters a little in his chest, moving into place until the tip of his cock is rubbing against her clit, shifting again until he’s hovering above her opening.

He enters her, keeping his movement slow and steady, watching her carefully as he goes. Her eyes are on fire, brown embers stoking his own flames as they become one, Amy letting out a heavy breath as he moves. Finally, their pelvises are hard against each other, and Jake has a new contender for the Greatest Feeling Ever award.

She pulls him in for a kiss, twisting her tongue alongside her own and biting down on his lower lip when she pulls away, the defiance in her eyes mixing with her desire. Her name comes out as a venerable moan and she cups his cheek, thumb stroking his cheekbone as she wraps her legs around his waist, and just like that, it’s on. Jake pulls out slightly before returning a little faster, repeating the motion and working the two of their bodies into a rhythm both can enjoy.

It’s as though the fireworks that have been building up inside them have finally snapped, the continuous friction leading to an outpouring of sparks so bright and mind-blowing they can barely keep up. Her legs grip tightly around his hips, shifting her weight onto one shoulder as she flips them over, rising up and sinking down low as their movements gain speed. His hands follow the curve of her waist, tracing the dip of her ribcage and palming one of her breasts as she lets out a moan of pleasure above him. Her skin, slick with sweat, looks so perfect as it glistens in the low light of her bedroom, and the sight of her now is something Jake will remember for years to come.

All the years of bickering, of stubborn silences and quiet conversations during overnight stakeouts have boiled over, culminating in the two of them tonight as they move together. This was the best sex he’s ever had, and it had everything to do with it being with Amy Santiago.

Amy twists her hips slightly, rising and falling on his cock with breathless huffs of her chest, and as he feels himself creep closer and closer to the edge Jake reaches out to touch her clit, rubbing his thumb in slow circles as she keens above him. She leans forward, squeezing her knees into his waist as she pulls him in for a kiss and the change of angle makes them sigh in unison. Jake begins to increase his thrusts, tenting his knees and pushing himself into her in rapid succession, thumb playing harder with Amy’s clit until she’s shaking above him, tucking her head into his shoulder and calling out his name as she climaxes.

Jake’s hands wrap around Amy’s back, holding her close to his body as his movements turn erratic, and it’s only a few short moments later that he finds his own release, tightening his grip around her as he lets out a satisfied moan.

Her head rests against his shoulder as they lay together panting, the feeling of togetherness too great for either of them to be interested in moving just yet. Moving one hand from her back, Jake grips Amy’s hand inside his own, noticing for the first time just how small her palm is compared to his own. She is tiny, but she is fierce. And he’s fairly certain that he’s falling in love with her.

It’s another few minutes before either of them can speak, and even then it’s only after Amy has finished peppering tiny kisses onto Jake’s bare chest.

“That was … amazing.”

Jake smiles, using his free hand to wipe a few stray hairs away from Amy’s sweaty brow. “It really, really was.”

She smiles, leaning up slightly to capture his lips in a chaste kiss. “To think we could have done this years ago, if we’d actually paid attention to our feelings instead of ignoring them.”

He lets out a snort of laughter. “But … worth the wait, right?”

Amy’s arms fold out onto Jake’s chest as she rests her entire body on top of him, legs sliding alongside his, resting her chin onto her forearms and looking up with those beautiful eyes. “Oh, absolutely. But … for the record, everything about you is worth the wait.”

She leans forward again for another kiss, only this time Jake holds her there, tangling his fingers in her hair as he deepens it. They’re both breathless by the time he pulls away, and she rests her forehead against his for a spell, taking everything in. “Smooth talking, Santiago.”

Sliding off of his body and resting on the mattress next to him, Amy shuffles until one whole side of her is pressed against Jake before responding. “Every bit of it is true, Peralta. Now let me catch my breath, because we are totally doing that again.”

“We are totally doing that again, title of my sextape.” Jake gasps, turning to face Amy as an ecstatic grin takes over his face.

“Title of OUR sextape!”

#mine #myfic #thank you for this prompt!#peraltiago fic #peraltiago smut #jake x amy fic #smutfic #oh how I've missed writing this #kinda nervous posting this #hope it reads okay!#b99 fanfic #peraltiago fanfiction #b99 fic

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simonlovelazy · 4 years

Text

Unknown/MC (mysme)

Title: Bite the Bullet

Fandom: Mystic Messenger

Pairing: Unknown(Saeran)/MC

Tags: Mature (graphic description of death, sexual innuendos), contract killer AU

Word count: 2485

Summary: Some people have more reasons to complain about their job than others.

Written for @unknownzine Once again thank you for the opportunity, beta reading and all the patience!! With each turn, he wandered farther from the noise of the main street, and deeper into the forgotten parts of the city. The light from the scarce street lamps glided over the puddles and shook under his heavy boots. No one passed next to him in the narrow alleys, but he knew he wasn’t alone. Maybe this was what the prospective believers felt when he was running the “background check” on them – the intangible impression that a pair of eyes was fixed on their every movement, the rising sense of panic as they felt the phantom of his breath on their necks. But with the subtle difference that he couldn’t be more unfazed. “It’s a good place, don’t you think?” Unknown said, turning lazily. And there she was, his shadow, with her little mouth wide open in shock. Her hands, in turn, they didn’t even budge, the gun steady in their clasp. Unknown had to admit he was a bit surprised too – that a frail thing like that could have a reason and the nerve to try to eliminate him.

“Not much of a talker, huh? Or are you scared of me?” Carefully leaving the blind spot, and making sure his face was not exposed, he edged closer to her. The girl stood firmly with her gun still pointed at his head. Interesting. “I like it here because it never feels alone, you know?” She visibly faltered, but wouldn’t look away from him. He wasn’t dealing with a complete newbie. “Cameras. It’s the back of a pawn shop, after all.” Recognition lit up her eyes, and she peeked behind him, just to find the ruthless lens staring straight at her. He towered before her after closing the remaining distance in one leap. His one hand grabbed her chin in a way far from affectionate, while the other dismissively pushed the silencer aside. “You can’t shoot me here, sweetheart,” Unknown whispered in her ear. She yelped in surprise when he yanked the gun completely out of her grasp, twisting her wrist in the process. And he didn’t stop there, having tucked her pistol next to his own, he continued squeezing her bones even tighter, just for emphasis. “Give me one reason why I should let you live.” “It’s n-not personal.” Oh? Difficulties speaking with your jaw crushed? “Let me go, and I’ll tell them I finished the job. That you’re dead. Just lie low for some time,” she continued despite his increasingly apparent amusement. “Okay, listen, I know who’s next.” Lies, lies, lies. It’s even cute, in a way. She really thinks she can get away with this. “Who sent you?” Another squeeze. “I never met him directly. All I got was your photo, the date, and the place; all delivered to me by some unimportant minion.” “Do you think I’m stupid? They told you about other targets, but you conveniently don’t even know who you’re working for?!” “I don’t work for any organisation, but I do have ears, and I can put two and two together.” “That’s even better. It means no one’s gonna miss you.” There was a squeak, followed by the sound of metal slamming against the brick wall. “Hey, kids! Why are you snooping around in here? Get out!” All Unknown got to do was to rearrange his hold on the girl in a less suspicious way before he glared at the clerk standing in the door behind him. She stumbled back when he let her free. “I’d show you how it’s supposed to be done, but it’s not my call. We’ll go on a ride instead; I want you to meet someone.” “Are you serious?” “It’s really not the time to act like a princess,” her kidnapper hissed in annoyance. “I’ll kindly remind you that I have two guns, and you have none. Do you really think you’re in a position to make a fuss?” “But you can’t kill me, now can you? You still need to wait for your boss’ orders, sweetheart.” MC knew she was pushing her luck with him, and hell, he really did have two guns, but it was still worth a shot. He couldn’t do anything to her till they got there – wherever this “there” was – and the more information she gathered before that, the better. “I would be nicer to my future interrogator. And a bit more convincing – I don’t buy a word you’ve said so far.” There was no other addition, but a frown when he bent over the stick to cuff her. “So you just so happen to have handcuffs at hand. Wait, I see – you’re this type.” A stern warning lingered in his eyes. His hands were just as cold as they were in the alley, and not a tad more delicate. There was no point in fighting just yet. Soon, her hand hung limply from the handle at his car’s door as if she was trying to get some breeze under her armpits or whatnot. He reassumed his place behind the wheel, turning the key in the ignition. A little dice dangled from its end. Classy. “They weren’t meant for you.” MC smiled wickedly. “Ouch. That’s not what a girl wants to hear. You could at least pretend I’m special.” Her kidnapper turned to her quickly with a deadpan expression, before the car finally kicked in to the motion, and they left the parking lot with a crunch of gravel under the tyres. “Where are you taking me?” “You really don’t seem to get the situation, so I’ll spell this once more for you. You don’t get to ask questions.” He was squeezing the hell out of that wheel. “You’ve been following me for the whole day. Why?” MC looked down on the frills of her dress, trying to burn the whole thing with her stare. She had really gone through this dumb masquerade for nothing, didn’t she? “They said it’s 3 million wons extra for every detail about you. Where you go, who you’re meeting up with – things like that. I was supposed to wait with the rest of the job for the moment when you’re done in the city.” She could no longer recognise the landscape blurring behind him in the car window. He slowly shook his head, “It means they don’t even kno —” The momentary chaos was all too familiar – a gunshot and a jolt when the bullet pierced through the bodywork startling the driver, who almost lost control of the vehicle. MC lurched forward on instinct, tugging painfully at her right wrist. Obviously, it would still be too late to save her, had the shot been accurate. Not that she was the target. “Who are they?!” Her kidnapper’s voice was unusually high-pitched. She glanced briefly at him – and, wow, he got paler, if that was even physically possible. Then, sitting up a bit, she checked the wing mirror. A black, shiny beast – at least two classes better than their car – right on their tail, with a barrel sticking out from the driver’s side. “No clue! Gimmie my gun back!” “So that you can finish your job? No fucking way! I will lose them.” He stepped on the gas. “It’s just one guy, and he’s also driving – I can handle him. Just give me the gun already! It’s our best shot!” MC was jolted against the door as the car turned, screeching in the last moment. Getting herself in place again, she fastened the seatbelt, going below her hanging arm. The good thing was that the streets were unusually busy for this hour, the bad thing – well, their excuse of a car wasn’t exactly a racer. “How do they know I’m still alive?” her driver yelled over the engine, weaving between the cars. MC scratched her chin absently. “They could send someone to check on me, but it only happens when... just who the hell are you?” “Maybe you’ll live long enough to find out.” The way he said it, there could be a hint of a sardonic smile under his mask, but, really, there was no way of knowing. “Well,” MC started, looking behind, but there was no shooter to be seen. “The money they offered for you seemed a bit too good to be true. Or easy.” “Was it worth it?” “Let’s say I’m having second thoughts right now.” “Shit.” It was almost too late when he noticed the side road. The sharp turn didn’t send her flying like the last time, but the car skidded on the slippery surface, nearly crashing into the pick-up on the adjacent lane. The loud thudding of MC’s heartbeat accompanied the honking of the annoyed driver they left behind. Reckless as it was, it seemed that the sudden change of the route did the trick. They had been driving for at least 15 minutes without anyone trying to shoot them. Having got out of immediate danger, MC started to consider her options regarding the danger seated next to her. He turned into another desolate, outgrown road with determination that led her to believe that the meeting point with his boss was closer than she’d like. “We’re out of petrol.” Her kidnapper announced in disbelief. “That bastard must’ve got the fuel tank.” “How much more?” “Nothing. We’re running on fumes.” MC closed her eyes and put all the irritation that had built-up in the last 24 hours into a solid kick on the dashboard. He merely eyed the muddy footprint adorning his glove box. And then, the car stopped. The palms of his hands banged on the wheel as he exhaled heavily. He took the keys out and left without a word. MC opened the door on her side and straightened her back with a groan. It was dawning already; the plane of navy blue shyly paled on the horizon. There was nothing around except for the waist-high grass smothering the road from the both sides. And no one in sight. “Hey! Didn’t you forget about something?” She jingled her handcuffs. The kidnapper had already managed to walk away quite a bit down the road. “No, I don’t think so,” he replied, without slowing down. She cursed under her breath, looking around for anything to pick the lock with. But even if she found it, she still had no car keys, no clue where she was... “Wait! I know who’s next! And more things too!” If he said anything, she couldn’t hear it. “They said that when they’re done with you, they just have to deal with ‘the other one.’” With one foot on the asphalt and the other one pushing at the door, MC tried to rip off the handle in the final act of desperation. She turned her head to gauge his reaction. “Does it mean anything to you?” All she could notice from that distance was that he was facing her, motionless in the middle of the road. One quick movement of his hand, and the mask fell to the ground. He rubbed his face as if he were trying to wake up. But suddenly, something came over him, and he was running back in her direction. It took one glance behind her back to realise why he was in a rush. The hitman was back. “Hurry up! Faster!” Her kidnapper-turned-saviour was next to her in no time. “Shit. Shit.” He was visibly struggling with the little key. “Don’t think it changes anything between us. You’re still going to the questioning.” “Can’t wait." The car was getting so close, they could hear it roaring. There was no time to lose, but something with the lock was clearly off. It was an odd moment for an even weirder thought, the guy without his mask looked much younger than she had initially suspected him to be. He simply didn't belong here. Someone shut the door mere steps away from them. They were shielded by their own door, and now it was really a matter of seconds; he froze when MC snuggled against his torso, reached behind his belt, pulled the gun out, and leaning out of the cover, fired three silent shots. The man fell to the ground in an instant. She came up to the body as close as the handcuffs let her. About 35 years old, average-looking. She’d never seen him before. Two wounds – one in the shoulder, another in his neck. She could have done better, but it wasn’t half bad for a right-handed person under pressure. “Why?” MC took her eyes off the corpse. Her kidnapper leant against the side of his car. His dilated pupils were glued to her with a sense of restlessness. “Why did you do that?” When he spoke, there was a miniscule quiver to his lips. “Would you rather have him kill both of us, or...?” It was his first body. This discovery was surprising, considering how he’d been trying to intimidate her this whole time. He nervously grimaced. They were holding each other at gunpoint. Would he really be able to pull the trigger? "They will come searching for you,” he stated. “Not if I finish the job now.” “Don’t,” he said quickly, “you can work for me.” She couldn’t help but laugh. “What can you offer me? Health insurance? Early retirement?” “The person that hired you is one of the most powerful people in this country. And he already knows that you failed once.” He motioned to the steady trickle of blood seeping from the corpse and running downhill. “Do you really think he’ll take a chance that you haven’t made a deal with me?” Unbelievable. “So, what’s the offer?” “We can help each other. I could make use of your personal... talents, and in return, you will be more than safe in Mint Eye.” He stiffened when she moved her gun and put it back in its place. MC stretched out her left hand, “Deal.” He shook it with an enigmatic smile. "What are we doing about him?” “Well, no one is going to look for him, I can guarantee you this. My bullets are untraceable, but the car...” “That won’t be a problem,” he said, taking out his phone. “We’re not that far from Mint Eye.” With the body happily pushed into the grass, they sat on the bonnet and waited for transport. The relief was unreal when MC rubbed the red marks on her wrist. That is, until her new boss tugged her other hand and clasped it together with his. “You can’t be serious.” “Easy, princess, it’s just a cover story for when they come here.” MC raised her eyebrows, “Kinky.” They stared for a while at the sun languidly making its way up above the fields of green. Both of them tired of this day beyond words. “What kind of job do you need me for anyway?” He dragged on his cigarette with an expression of utter seriousness. “You will be my personal assistant.”

#mystic messenger #mysme fanfic #saeran choi #saeran x mc #unknown mysme #mystic messenger ff #Unknown zine #please show up in tags for once #simonsaysread #saeran choi fanfic

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ramblinganthropologist · 3 years

Text

N7 Day 29 - Legacy

Summary: Sheapard and crew finally get to Archangel. Except... that’s not Omega, and he’s not Commander Shepard. Nor for the matter, is that Archangel. Hooray for TV magic?

---

To say it was hell there was putting it mildly.

“Hurry it up or he's gonna fucking shoot us too!”

Bo pushed him forward as they dove for new cover. All around them, it was chaos as all three merc packs converged on them. Every so often, a clear shot would take one out. One even hit him in the shoulder – thank you kinetic shields, for keeping his arm on. They were moving closer to the stairs, to their goal.

To Archangel.

The last push up the stairs was the hardest as he dove behind a partition and fired at a Blood Pack merc. They groaned, and then went down when Bo shot them again. One more remained, and he was soon put down by their guns. All they had to do now was head in.

He was in first, pounding on the door. Once it opened, they were in the sniper's nest. There he was, in blue armor with a modified rifle. Archangel only paused to aim once before he fired and a man went silent below.

Then there was the quiet as they got a break between waves.

Their small group faced him. He got up, and then his helmet was down on his seat. The harsh lights reflected off his carapace and the blue tattoos that matched the armor. His mandibles were twitching, like he couldn't believe it.

“Shepard.”

Garrus.

“I thought you were dead.”

The glowing implants embedded in his face were proof of that. Still, his heart pounded as he approached the turian. There was still too much space between them – especially with the mercs coming.

“Garrus Vakarian?”

He chuckled weakly – they had hit a few times. “In the flesh, what's left of it.”

His mouth went dry. “What are you doing here?”

The turian shrugged. “Just killing mercs. Nice of you to join me, there's plenty to go around.”

Clearly – the next wave was going to be coming shortly. If they didn't act fast – he glanced over his shoulder to check. They weren't there yet. He had time, and with time came the chance to ask a few questions.

He had been dead, they were warranted.

“What are you doing on Omega?”

Another weak chuckle from Garrus as he shifted position. “I got fed up with...”

And then his face went blank. “Shit... line?”

“Cut!”

There he went again, forgetting his fucking lines. They were never going to get through this scene alive.

At least this time, the director called for a break so the mighty Archangel could get himself together. Only he was pretty sure the real Garrus would be able to get his lines right. He'd probably also carry the fucking rifle right too – a shot like that would take his head off.

And here he thought turians went through training...

Ok, so he wasn't actually Alistair Shepard either, and this wasn't Omega. Instead, his name was Alex and he was still on the Citadel. They had gone to Omega for planning, though – Aria had even given her input. How they had gotten it out of her, he didn't want to know. He didn't need to know either; all he had to do was act and remember where he had to shoot.

“Is that the third time today he fucked his lines up, or am I seeing shit?” Bo – actually named Beau, ironically enough – was eating something to get her energy back. “Doesn't he normally have a stick up his ass about that?”

Alex rolled both his eyes and his sore shoulders. Even though it was just prop armor, it was still fucking heavy. He had been working out, but clearly it wasn't enough yet. Maybe he needed to do a few more push-ups...

Ugh, he hated push-ups.

“Maybe he had another one night stand and forgot to learn his lines.” He shrugged. “It's no business of mine.”

Beau rolled her eyes. “It is if you ever want to get out of here. Maybe you can bash his reason out of him.”

Ah. So they were sending him in. Last he checked, he didn't have Alistair Shepard's ability to talk someone to death. Still, they had time. So he shrugged his shoulders as he headed off to give his costar the come to Jesus moment.

Though was it still called a come to Jesus moment if the person getting the talk came from a planet where Jesus wasn't a thing?

Alex was soon on his way, looking around the set of the popular historical drama Mass Effect. It wasn't the first show based on the Reaper War of 2185 and what came before it, but it was being touted as the most accurate thanks to relying on primary sources and journals from the participants. Why nobody had read the journals before, he wasn't sure. Even before getting the role, he had practically memorized them.

Maybe it was the whole gay, transgender man saving the universe thing that had interested him. Wasn't like he was also gay or trans... oh wait, yeah, he was.

Well, whatever. He was in armor, and he was trying to hunt down a turian who didn't want to be found. Most of his costar's usual haunts were empty. So he was forced to keep going, wondering how uncomfortable the real N7 armor must have been to walk around in. His fake version was really starting to ride up a little in some crucial areas.

It was one of those “glad he didn't have testicles” times.

“Virius? Where are you, you couldn't have gotten far in 5 minutes!”

This set was empty. It was supposed to be Afterlife, but not even the asari playing Aria was lording over it. Instead, he found a turian sitting towards the back, half hidden in shadow. He too was still wearing uncomfortable armor – or at least it looked that way.

Turians just looked uncomfortable in general.

There was his costar. Normally, Macen Virius was the consummate professional bitching at him for every minor mistake. To say they hated each other was putting it mildly – the two couldn't stand each other on a good day. Every moment they weren't acting, they were sniping at each other. Maybe it was a difference in personalities, maybe the turian didn't like humans.

Either way, the feeling was mutual and he was a fucking bastard.

“I didn't ask to be followed, Jones.”

His voice was shaking. So was the rest of him for that matter. Alex cocked an eyebrow as he realized Macen was actually shaking the table he was in front of. Maybe if they had been friends he would've noticed and been worried.

Mostly he was just annoyed.

At least the couch stopped shaking when he added his weight to it. “Well, tough. For some reason people think a dye job and the fake implants give me Commander Shepard's gift of gab.”

“I'm here to inform them they missed the mark.” Macen's voice was a little stronger, though he was still shaking. “Here to gloat? I'll get it right when we start over, don't worry. Just remember to sound appropriately horny when you get there, it felt a little flat.”

That got Alex rolling his eyes. “Appropriately horny? Are we reading the same damn journals, Virius?”

“Yours may have been downplayed because Shepard was easily embarrassed.”

Yeah, and he doubted Garrus had written down 'Shepard wanted to get into my armor on sight' in his. The long-dead turian was a total sub, first off. Besides that, both of them were trying not to get killed by the merc alliance from hell. Even if they had been horny, there really hadn't been time to lay it out on the table.

Besides, Alistair had been dead for two years. Horny was definitely not one of his problems.

“Yeah, sure, whatever you say, Virius.” Alex rolled his eyes as he brushed hair from his eyes. He hated the season 2 look, but it was what the records said. He was having bad flashbacks to older roles, ones he didn't like to think about. “So, do you have a vibrator in there or something to make you shake so much?”

Macen scoffed, but he didn't stop shaking. “I believe a vibrator as a tool is in your character description, not mine.”

His voice lowered. “Shit... it won't stop.”

Honestly, Alex was amazed he hadn't noticed earlier just how tense the turian looked. His talons were clenched so tightly over his prop greaves that it was a miracle he wasn't puncturing right through the lightweight metal. His voice was coming out higher too – the translator was struggling to keep up.

If he didn't know better... he'd swear Macen was nervous.

…

“Shit. This is really freaking you out, huh?”

The words came out before his brain really had time to think about it. Even Macen looked surprised that he had said it – that made two of them. Alex had to wonder if he had been temporarily possessed by the ghost of his role to make him say it. Nope, it had been his accent...

Shit.

“Why do you care?”

That got the human groaning. “Because you're shaking like a fucking leaf and it's not like you! Something about this scene is freaking you out and I want to make sure we don't have to keep redoing it, because I know we're both fucking uncomfortable in this damn armor.”

Seriously, he had one hell of a wedgie and he was pretty sure he had a blister forming in more than a few places.

Much to his surprise, Macen chuckled weakly. “Well at least you're honest. I can give you that, Jones. No bullshit here.”

He stood, leaning over the railing that overlooked the fake club. “Playing Archangel... it's a really big deal. No one's really gotten him right over the years. He's either mad with power or lost with grief. They never get close to the mark and then suddenly it's thrown into my lap and they tell me good luck with it.”

His talons rasped against the metal as he twisted his hands uselessly. “If I mess up... I'm not doing one of Palaven's greatest heroes justice. Garrus' story deserves to be told the right way. And it scares the shit out of me to think I screw up and be one more fuck up in a long line of them.”

Briefly, Macen looked back. The look he gave almost knocked Alex back. To say he was desperate was putting it mildly. The turian was absolutely terrified as he felt the weight upon his carapace. No wonder he had been shaking so badly, it was a miracle he hadn't been crushed by it. Yet there he was, still in one piece.

…

“It's a heavy weight, getting it right.”

Alex joined him at the railing. He sighed, leaning forward. “I kind of get it... I mean, it's probably different playing Garrus... but Alistair's difficult too.”

Much to his surprise, Macen nodded. At least they could agree on that.

“Like... I'm playing one of the most famous transmen in human history. Somehow I have to pull it together and be the hero everyone expects. If I fuck up... shit, it's going to be nasty.”

Now he was starting to shake a little. “But... we both have to do it, don't we? We have to push through the anxiety and get it right. They gave us the job... so it's up to us to do it right. We have to bear the weight of history and make it look easy.”

He gripped the railing as tightly as he could. There, in that darkened set they both felt the weight pressing down on them. Though they were dressed for the part, neither probably felt anything like what they were supposed to portray.

But... he supposed that was the part of actors. They had to step into the role and do it right. After all, people had put faith in them. And there were countless people waiting for this scene and getting to see Archangel in action.

No pressure or anything.

“You know... maybe you have a little Shepard bullshit in you after all.”

Macen's voice was a little bit stronger as he straightened up. “Bear the weight of history, huh? What a human way to put it.”

Alex felt his cheeks color as he glanced to the side. “Excuse me for not knowing how a turian would refer to it.”

Another chuckle rang out through the dark room, but it didn't sound nervous. Nor for that matter was it particularly malicious. If he had to guess... maybe Macen sounded relieved? With turians, it was hard to tell. They had all that subvocal shit going on that he would never pick up.

But he had stopped shaking.

“You did your best, Jones. Nobody's ever going to come to you for a motivational speech, but you tried.”

There was that tone back. Yep, Macen was back to being an asshole. He was on the mend at last. Now maybe they could get back to wrapping this scene up. They had plenty of fight scenes to get through before Alex would enjoy him getting shot in the face. Oh... he was living for that moment right then as he stood up.

“You coming or what? Our break is almost over.”

Alex jogged to catch up, his shorter legs having to almost double to catch up to his turian costar. They shared a brief dirty look as they left Afterlife behind, heading back to where people were waiting for them.

“Also... thanks.”

Macen was gone before Alex could register what had happened – someone needed to touch up his makeup, his actual orange tattoos were starting to show under the blue face paint. He was left standing there, confused.

That... was weird.

Oh well. He returned to his original position, slamming his prop helmet back on for the reshoot. Beau was next to him, also setting up. Both got to watch as their turian costar moved up the stairs with the gait of a man on a mission. At least he was holding his gun right this time.

Good, someone told him.

“Whatever you did, it worked.” Beau had whispered that – the lights were dimming as things set back up for the big reveal. “Nice going.”

Sure... he wasn't sure what he had done, but why not?

Anyway, it didn't matter. In that matter of seconds, Alex had gotten himself back into Shepard's mindset as they started rolling. There were mercs in his way keeping him from Archangel, and he wasn't going to let him down.

Just one wave to go... and then the door would be safe to approach.

“And action!”

Time to become the guy who saved the universe again. No problem.

#n7month #ramblinganthropologist's writing #That Mass Effect Actor AU

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rose-director · 4 years

Text

Blooming Roses, part 2

Content warnings/themes:

Masks

Medical situations

Neural connection/linkings

Hypnotic imagery

Corporate setting

Cyberpunk

Description:

As the next step in the hiring process, 3B90 is presented with a more permanent reciever system for network integration.

~2,200 words

Story:

3B90 > [Okay, and this won't hurt at all?] Trepidation and concern pour generously through your connection, mirroring the way they've been saturating your thoughts.

2CE5 > [No, there's no reason to worry. You'll be under some pretty strong anesthetics, though you'll be pretty disoriented in recovery.] A flash of comfort rides with this message, wrapping around your mind like a warm hug.

You're sitting in the waiting room segment of the Rose Cybernetics Augmentation Lab, an entire subset of the building devoted to fabricating, modifying, and installing cybernetic modifications and enhancements. Though the lab extends several floors down into the basement, the room you find yourself in is just below the massive building's main entrance. Relative to the area it services, the space itself is fairly small. Its walls are lined with more conventional chairs, complemented by several other more vexing pieces of... furniture? Your thoughts wander back to that first visit, and you still aren't quite sure what qualifies as furniture versus art.

2CE5 > [The furniture itself _is_ art! It gives pleasant visual patterns and all of that, _and_ it's ergonomic for the standard and non-standard body shapes of everyone who uses it!]

You need to stop broadcasting your thoughts when they drift like that.

2CE5 > [Aww, but 3B... it's cuuuute!]

The screen adorning your face lights up brighter in a begrudging grin. Sure, it's fun to get teased over your thoughts every once and a while, but you could do with a bit more privacy. 2C always makes it so easy to just share everything, but you find that as you reminisce on the events of yesterday, you've successfully put a stopper on the outpouring of thoughts from your mind into the LinkNet. For the interview, you'd booked an overnight hotel, and though the commute back had been pleasant, you'd felt deflated as you stepped back inside. The warmth of connection, that feeling of presence from the interview felt almost like a high, one you crashed from the moment your faceplate came off.

Your faceplate.

It's funny how everything seems to make so much more sense than it did yesterday morning. When you got back to that hotel room, you couldn't seem to help but yearn for the feeling of cold glass pressed against your face again, the paradoxical feeling of being seen and hidden all at once. Thinking about the way that data flowed through your mind, uploads and downloads streaming with the simple ease of breathing, you spent the night restless. You missed it all dearly, and you missed 2C, too. It's weird, you think, missing someone so desperately when you'd barely even met, but the whole situation is weird. In the stretch of less than an hour, you'd felt almost as though her soul had become pressed against yours, and in a way that seems almost accurate. The presence of her mind with yours was one of the most enrapturing moments you'd ever shared with another person. This morning, checking out of your hotel was the easiest departure you'd made in your entire life.

Your personal items, wardrobe, and computer were all accounted for when you stepped back through the doors of the Rose Cybernetics Center. At the desk, a new face - or, well, faceplate? - waited cheerily to greet you. They introduced themself as 13A3, and asked you to follow them to your on-campus housing. This benefit, one that didn't actually subtract from the pay Rose Cybernetics had offered, was quite, frankly the reason you'd chosen to pursue employment here specifically. Other firms had been hiring fairly aggressively, but even if the salary wasn't quite as sweet here, you'd always been a fan of the self-contained arcology life, especially if it was already paid for. An elevator had brought you to a floor above the block of office space from your last visit, into the area which seemed to be clearly intended for residential use. When they reached your apartment's door, 13A1 made the equivalent of a smile - the flowers that covered their display blossomed further - and ushered you inside.

Your apartment was a studio; an open kitchenette next to the door, a bathroom in the far corner, and a section of the far wall that seemed to suggest its utility as desk space. Even if it was a fairly small apartment, it was still the largest space you'd ever had to yourself, and you savored it a moment before noticing the furniture. Aside from the lack of a desk, the entire room was full of your things, set exactly as you were planning to have them when you got around to unpacking. 13 giggled and explained that you'd shared your plans for the room last time you were connected to the network. You shrugged, picking up a box from where it had been placed on your bed. It was black and unassuming just like the last one, but a note had been written in silver marker along the top.

You get to actually keep this one! Enjoy~

2CE5

You broke out in a broad smile and eagerly pressed the contents of the box against your face. The receiver pressed against your neck, and the tug of its electromagnets pulled at your mind with sudden familiarity. Far from that first violent experience, this connection was nothing more than a gentle fall into warm, relaxing water. Data flowed up and down from you again, and before you had time to think you felt 2C's mind pressing into yours. In a quick flurry of communication, she explained that you were cleared to get fitted for a permanent receiver, something far better suited for long-term network synchronization. You still feel excitement at that thought; remaining synchronized for as long as you wish, always able to return to that closeness that you'd never even realized you yearned for until you finally had it. A quick trip back down the elevator and a goodbye to 13A3 later, and you were waiting anxiously for the integration process to be ready.

Returning to the events around you, you relax into the presence of 2C's mind next to yours.

3B90 > [Sure, it's cute, but I need at least _some_ privacy!] You transmit your current emotional state, somewhere between teasing and flirty - quickly seeming to be the default around 2C - alongside that thought.

2CE5 > [That's true, that's true.] The feeling of her thoughts is just as intoxicating as ever, and you can't help but melt into the sensation of her pleasant warmth. 3B90 > [So, you mentioned that after I get my new receiver I'll be able to share my mind like this with _everyone?_]

2CE5 > [Yeah, pretty much! It sounds intimidating, but the best way to do it is mesh in slowly.] Her connection wordlessly relays the process by which new connections are established; both sides of the link engage in a three-way SYN/ACK handshake, a fancy way to say that each participant agrees to establish a link with the other. [It's best to synchronize with folks you've already said hi to, at least. Ease into it, you're probably not ready for more than a couple at a time just yet.] She was right; if you were being honest with yourself, you're barely able to handle the one you share with 2C! [Yeah, I can be a bit of a handful,] she sends, smugness dripping from her link.

3B90 > [Look, it's a lot is all...] Your thoughts branch and fork in too many ways to concisely share before merging once again. [It's amazing, but it's... a lot.]

The two of you fall silent, letting understanding wash between yourselves. Even in the last hour, it's been a refreshing experience getting to share such idle comforts between each other like this. It's amazing, knowing that even with her halfway across the building from you, it feels as though you're sitting right by her side. Over the last few hours, it's finally dawned on you that 2C being appointed as your supervisor doesn't really make much sense. As your mind follows that path further along, you come upon another realization.

3B90 > [I'm not distracting you from work, right?] You flash a breath of concern into your words.

2CE5 > [No, don't worry about that! When you're as used to the network as I am, you learn to multitask. Actually, I'm having five different conversations right now!]

You feel a mixture of trepidation and delight at the thought. Sharing a mind like this is more delightful than anything you've experienced before, but it's so much to take in. You're sure it'll come with time, and 2C seems to agree, but the worry lingers. After another moment of silence, a tech whose display shows a gently swaying forest enters the waiting room and - by your best estimation - makes eye (faceplate?) contact with you. A notification pings in your visor, a request to engage with a new communication stream. 2C gently urges you to accept the request, and fades away to make room for a new consciousness on a new endpoint. The feelings, sensations, and overall feel of self that you get from the technician are so different! Your mind recoils from the feeling for a moment, surprised at the unexpected change. You know that everyone thinks differently, but seeing this first hand as new and unexpected patterns swirl through you feels no less surprising. After the momentary shock, you realize that the tech had said something that you completely missed. Apologetic explanatory feelings flow up through your connection, quickly met by a response.

F211 > [Hey, it's alright. The second connection's always a lot to deal with, especially when you have to disconnect from someone you were comfortable with before.] The technician wordlessly introduces himself, and informs you that he'll be integrating your new receiver systems. You're already familiar with the procedure, but he shares its details with you once more, asking for your verbal consent. It feels strange to use your mouth to talk, even after just a day, but you acquiesce. Your voice is weak and breaking, stating that you agree to and fully understand the details of the modification. You'd forgotten how hard it was to get words out in the way you wanted, and that frustration flows back through you for a moment before it's caught by a wave of reassurance from F211. [That's exactly what I needed, thank you. You're good on 'paperwork', so follow me and we can get started! I know you've been waiting long enough.] A strong breeze blows through the trees of his display, and you think it seems to coincide with a good-natured smile. His initial sensation was so different, but after a moment of acclimation, you like the feeling of his mind almost as much as you enjoy 2C's. It might be the imagery adorning his faceplate, but the feel of him is sharp like the smell of pacific-northwestern pine, sharing that tree's unassuming, gentle strength. He feels surprisingly safe, which, you suppose, is good for someone performing delicate and precise modifications to the composition of your brain.

Your new friend leads you out from the lobby, and down a hallway adorned with sterile white tiling as well as the occasional splash of color painted in polygonal designs along the wall. You broadcast your curiosity over the patterns, feeling F211's response satiate your wonder. The art is intentionally added to ensure that the area's sterile environment remains unique and interesting. Whether it accomplishes this goal, it certainly appears visually interesting. F211 laughs at this thought loudly between your connection, but shows no outward indication of amusement. You're still going to have to get used to how uncanny that is. He guides you to a room at the end of this hallway. Large and circular, this room is ringed by various lights and other mechanical instruments draping from the ceiling, directly above what looks like a reclining chair. The technician invites you to take a seat, and as you do, the chair slowly conforms itself to your shape until it feels as though it was made for you.

F211 > [Everything's set, are you ready to go?]

3B90 > [Ready as I could ever be.] Actually sitting here, your anxiety begins to build. You want this, and it's part of the next step to your work here, but all the same those machines above you look a bit more intimidating than you would like. F211 recognizes your heartrate picking up, and wordlessly asks if it would help to have a hand on your shoulder. You return a wave of gratitude and a flash of green along your screen, and his touch saps away a good deal more of that worry than you expected it to. He sends feelings of reassurance, gently letting you relax. Before you recognize what's happening, he's already counting down from ten, and you feel your voice reflexively mirror the countdown's progress. With each number, you sink lower, deeper, as everything fades into... empty, perfect nothing. Far away, a gas fills your faceplate, letting that nothing surround you until you drift into unconsciousness.

#more good facemask content baybeeee #I just made F211 but I would die for him #also #things are gonna get *fun*

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secondhand-trash · 5 years

Text

Dick Grayson(Nightwing)- In The Rain

A/N: I just love the batboys so much ok, let me have this self-indulgence little moment here thanks. (Sidenote, I struggled to choose between writing about Officer Grayson in Bludhaven or Nightwing in Gotham but ended up going with the latter because my complicated feelings towards the police force made me uneased.)

Description: It seemed to be raining everytime you meet Dick Grayson.

Wordcount: 2072

Playlist:

Colouring Book//The Regrettes

Old Fashioned//Bruno Major

Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy//Queen

(I stg I did not plan for this to happen it just so happens that these two songs have such similar titles)

The first time you met Dick Grayson, it was raining and you didn’t even know his name.

Ever since you received the notice of your relocation to the Gotham branch from your company, you had dreadfully count downed to the day when you had to make the move. Your boss must have hated your guts to move you to one of the most notoriously dangerous areas of the country, you should have known better when you decided that you would not suck up to him like your colleagues when everyone told you that he was infamous for playing favourites.

Way to go standing firm on your moral grounds, now you’re carrying a huge suitcase in the city with the highest crime rate. At night, all alone, and it’s raining.

You tried to walk as quickly as you could, all while pulling the heavy suitcase with the worn out wheels close to you. Your other hand was sore from holding up the umbrella that barely shields you from the rain and your feet was numb with soaked socks stealing all of their warmth.

You were already miserable and when you caught what seems like the shadow of a man from the corner of your eye, the pounding in your chest sped up from panic and the worst possible scenario flashed before your eyes. That’s it, you’re gonna die. Should have expected it right when the first raindrop hit your chin on the dim street that was honestly no more than a path lit by scarce streetlamps on the side.

“Miss?”

Your heart skipped a bit upon hearing the voice from behind your back and you let out a repressed, instinctive squeak. It took a while for you to calm down from the fright and register the figure that was standing a short distance away from you or come to your logic that what you heard was not the most aggressive of words.

“Hey hey, it’s ok. I just want to see if you need help.”

The figure walked closer to you and stood under the streetlight. You took your first proper look and recognized him as one of those vigilantes that your friend who lived in town told you about. It seemed like a lot to take in at that time, there weren’t masked heroes jumping from roof to roof back in where you came from, but you didn’t expect to run into one of them on your first day in the city. You did have faint memory of the symbol on the man’s chest but you couldn’t quite connect it to the names your friends rambled on about. (There’s just too many names and they all sounds oddly familiar ok?)

You’re so doing your research if you could make it to your apartment in one piece.

“Oh, I’m alright. You probably have more important things to take care of.” You gave the man a faint smile and attempted pulled your suitcase closer to your body, “But thanks for asking.”

The man slightly tilted his head and you could see his eyebrow quirking up from above his mask. While you thought that you very well pretended to have yourself together, your damped sleeves and tired out voice gave the stranger a very different impression.

“It’s too late for you to be out here alone and remain safe,” the man said, “you aren’t exactly in the safer parts of the city and you’re carrying a suitcase more than half your size under the rain. Will you at least let me walk you somewhere with cover?”

"Alright then.” You said and you winced at how rude, almost pathetic, that came out. You appreciated his offer but you were too exhausted to keep your composure. “Thank you.”

He looked almost relieved upon hearing your reply and walked closer to your side. Despite your protest, he immediately took the umbrella from your hand and held it above your head. It was then that you noticed his hair was dripping wet yet he did not try to shield himself from the rain and you felt an unexplained sense of guilt building at the pit of your stomach. How long had he been under the rain?

You two walked in silence with only the loud crackling of rain surrounding you. There were several moments when you almost brought out the courage to start a conversation but the part of you that was afraid to sound embarrassed ended up winning every time. There were a few split seconds when he turned to check up on you and you were certain that he was gonna say something. But seeing how you would quickly turn your gaze back to the road, he decided that silence would be more comfortable for the both of you.

At heart, you appreciated it. Truth be told, you were slightly intimidated by the masked man. You tried to steal subtle glances at his direction when you thought he wasn’t looking at you just to have a better view of his appearance. You found your eyes following the water droplets the dripped from his fringe and slide down his sharp jaw. The blue strip that extended from his finger went all the way across his chest and you forced yourself to focus on the road instead of staring at this toned stranger for a duration that was far too inappropriate. If anything, that just made you even more glad that neither of you tried to strike up a conversation.

“This is my stop,” You stopped in front of what would be your new apartment complex and the corner of your lips lifted up to form your first genuine smile after arriving at the city, “thank you, uh...”

“Nightwing.” The stranger flashed you a grin and you felt your smile growing wider.

“Thank you, Nightwing.” You said softly, opening the door of the building. You were about to step in when you felt a sudden rush of courage and turned back to the vigilante who had yet to leave. He was standing steps away from you and you wondered how he could be so unbothered by the rain.

“Be safe, the rain will probably go on until next morning.”

Nightwing seemed to be a bit taken aback and the white lens of his masked widen just a bit but he quickly regained his previous composure. “You too, especially around here.” He hesitated before adding with a smile, “Most people who hide in corners of the street probably aren’t planning to offer help to a lovely newcomer who is alone in the rain.”

The second time you met Dick Grayson, it was raining and to you, he was just a ridiculously attractive man who happened to share your table at a cafe because it was the only seat left.

You discovered this cozy cafe near your apartment after moving to Gotham for a few days and you quickly became a regular after a few weeks, sitting at the table next to the large window every weekend with a book in hand. You were sipping your coffee at your usual spot when you heard the faint rattling at the window and people started rushing in to hide from the sudden rain.

“I’m sorry, do you mind if I seat here?”

You looked up from the rim of your cup to see a man that was soaked from head to bottom. You quickly put down your drink and nodded, earning a mumble of thanks from him.

Attractive strangers were the worst because you only get to ogle at them (discretely) for a short amount of them before you two never crossed paths again. But as the raven-haired man placed his wet coat on the arm of the chair and sunk down to the seat opposite to you, you thought that maybe Gotham wasn’t all that bad for the first time since you moved here last month.

You started scrolling through your phone mindlessly to conceal your urge to glace at the man seating near you. You silently cursed at yourself for getting to the point where you had to glue your eyes to a screen to stop looking at random people. After seeing the same Twitter thread on Instagram twice, you put your phone down in frustration and was surprised to find the man looking at you with an amused expression.

“Do you always stare at strangers like that?” you jokingly asked, trying to pass your nerves off.

“Only the cute ones.”

“You think you’re so smooth.” you raised your cup to take a sip, hiding the clear evidence of heat spreading on your cheeks.

The man only chuckled your expression and you wondered what he found so interesting about you being flustered. “You’re new in the city?”

“Moved here last month,” you let out a satisfied sigh after having the taste of coffee on your tongue, “is it that obvious?”

“You don’t look beaten up by this place just yet.”

You laughed and felt way more at ease, “Just yet?”

“Not exactly the most forgiving place.” He said but the twinkle in his eyes told you that Gotham had quite a place in his heart. “I’m Dick.”

“(y/n).”

The third time you met Dick Grayson, it was more of a light drizzle than rain. You smiled as he still sat down at your table with half of the seats in the shop being empty and you found the confidence to flirt back at him. He asked you out by the time the rain stopped.

The fifth time you met Dick Grayson, you weren’t even sure if ‘met’ was still an accurate term to use since you two see each other regularly now. He stayed the night at your place because it was thundering and he ‘forgot to bring an umbrella’. Was it an excuse? Maybe. It was only a pure coincidence that you happened to lose your extra umbrella a while back.”

The eighth time you met Dick Grayson, it started to rain when he was about to leave after dropping you off at your apartment. As he pulled away from a kiss, he whispered in your ear saying he was the one who walked you back that night you arrived at the city. You were so distracted by his hot breath at your ear that it wasn’t until you were alone that the big secret he so nonchalantly revealed to you finally settled in your head.

You stopped counting after you two became official. Now, with the sound of Friends’ laugh track and Dick’s arm draping over your waist, you found the sound of rain hitting the windows to be oddly comforting. Your back was pressed up against his chest as you two casually lounged on the couch. You could feel the vibration from his chest when he laughed at the show and you wondered how you got so lucky.

You shifted your position to lean against him on your side and wrapped your arms at his torso. He smiled and looked down at you, kissing your forehead before pulling you closer to him.

“Sometimes I’ll remember that my first image of you was that you looked like a Greek god even with damped hair and your first impression of me was when I looked like a wet chicken in the middle of the night, talking about imbalance.”

He laughed at your remark, “You made quite the impression.”

“Enough for you to pretend to run into me again and again.”

“But do you want to know what made you stood out?” he asked with a gentle smile, softly scratching the back of your head.

“What? Because I pretended that I wasn’t checking you out?”

“Is that so? To be honest, babe, you were so obvious.” he laughed as you playfully hit his arm but his expression remained genuine. “The thing with growing up doing what we do, you got so used to people not caring that you would be surprised when someone do so little as reminding you to be safe.”

You didn’t reply. Instead, you reached up for his chin and kissed him on the lips. You could felt him smiling into it before kissing back. As you closed the gap between you and him once again, you secretly decided that rainy days weren’t so bad after all.

#dick grayson imagine #dick grayson x reader #nightwing imagine #nightwing x reader #dick grayson #nightwing #batfam imagine #batfam #dc imagine #batfamily #batboys #dc comics #dc characters #richard grayson

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anonthenullifier · 4 years

Text

A Promise Broken with a Vow - Chapter 2

A Scarlet Vision Victorian AU

Chapter 2 summary: An unassuming day leads to an existential crisis for Vision, one that forces him to re-examine and redefine what he wants.

AO3 Link

Acrid smoke swirls with the palpable waft of grease sliding from spits into hungry flames, a mixture that envelops Vision as he walks, hands lounging in his trouser pockets. There are fifteen wagons left, comprising what appears to be three separate groupings. Each wagon looks roughly the same—knotty boards forming the base, the ends sloping up and ballooning into off-white canvas covers. It’s akin to watching a fleet of boats skim through the bay. In a way this is accurate, the prairie grass oscillating in pelagic mimicry.

Based on what Vision has read in pamphlets and heard in saloons and trading posts, this is a popular jumping off point for the wagon trains. Gaggles of people flocking to explore the relative unknown of the territories, some in pursuit of gold, some freedom from poverty and lack of opportunity, and some because there might just be something more out there. Whatever the reason, he feels a kinship with these strangers who are so willing to shed the past and seek a new future.

What he does not feel a kinship towards is the inconsiderate messA. Carefully he sidesteps another pile of luggage, movements slow as to not step on the broken, hand painted tea cups forming a barrier around a lopsided stool. A wagon train left this morning and this is only one carcass of their lives, eight other mounds rise from the ground, each one swarming with scavengers eager to pilfer from another’s discarded life, not once seeming to wonder why the former owners left it all behind.

“Excuse me, fine gentleman?” Vision’s hips turn first, eyes remaining for a half second longer on the broken arm of a doll laying in the grass, and then his upper half follows. “Would a double-breasted water butt-smasherB like yourself fancy to know the secrets of your future?”

His right hand slides from his pocket and finds its way to tug at his earlobe. “I do not, um, think that is an apt description of my, well...” A wave of his hand over his decidedly non-athletic physique finishes the thought.

The fairly clear display seems to be willfully ignored, Wanda’s lips tightening into a pleased line. The action is accentuated by the silk headscarf she wears, the crimson and marigold beads (ones he spent many days threading onto it) framing her delight at throwing him askew. “Just get over here you fine yard-of-pump water.C “

“Wanda,” there is no one within ear shot, yet her brazen disregard for all etiquette both offends his sensibilities and also sends a spark of desire twining through his body, “please.”

The attempt at admonishment is weak and crushed immediately when she stands and grabs his hand, leading him to a wooden stool. It’s then buried deep in the ground as she leans against his shoulder, lips not far from his ear and accent rougher than usual, her tone sending his heart and mind into a dizzy, “It’s Scarlet.”

“Well, Miss Scarlet,” he makes sure to emphasize her working moniker, enunciation sharp on the c and t, “I do hope you are in my future.”

Her forehead thumps his shoulder, untamed curls tickling his jaw as she shakes her head with an ounce too much drama to be taken seriously. The lack of annoyance is confirmed once she moves away to take her seat, only bemusement left in her unerring gaze. “You do know that is the most overused line by men thinking they’re being clever with me.”

This is not a mystery to him and he admits it is an uninventive and tired quip, but the way she looks when her cheeks develop a subtle glow, fingers picking at the fringe on her shawl, all while her eyes pierce him with disbelief always shields him to embarrassment long enough to (politely) be bold. “And yet it will most certainly be successful.”

“I suppose I can consult the spirits to see what chance you have.” With a wink she easily slips into her spiritualist role. A moderate, swooping dance of her hands accompanies a drop of her voice into a recently practiced monotone, one Helen and Amadeus agreed gives the most otherworldly feel. “Based on what I see in my crystal ball,” which is not a crystal ball but a discolored beaker of Helen’s they charred in a campfire for added, spooky effect and then stood up in a cushion made from one of his socks, “you,” the band of her crescent moon clinks against the beaker as she points at him, “will be in my bed tonight.”

“Is that so?”

“The spirits never lie.”

How she keeps a straight face is a mystery to him, especially given he can barely manage it himself. “Can you perhaps explain to me how the spirits are so certain it is I in your bed and not you…” A woman and her daughter walk past as he speaks, eyeing the table with disquisitive mistrust, causing his voice to lower into a stutter, “um in mine?” Vision clears his throat, the reminder of the public nature of this interaction grounding him immediately. “Or well, not that it matters, I suppose, given this whole thing is a farce.”

Wanda is unfazed by the passersby, her attention solely on him. “Just give me your hand and I’ll confirm it.” He complies, tugging his glove off and allowing her to grip his wrist, fingers lackadaisically tracing the lines of his palm. For a fleeting moment he considers asking for a tarot reading, believing it is a bit more intriguing to watch from an outsiders’ perspective given his own curiosity about the process, having only seen the practice from a distance since Wanda never offers it to him. He, however, will not ask nor push her. Even though she has embraced and reclaimed the Scarlet Witch persona, he knows there is far more depth of agony in the title and its consequences than she wishes to face, understandably so. “Was it easy to see me across the way?”

“It was,” an important aspect they’ve discovered in traveling to towns with more open spaces than cramped ones. The more direct sight lines to her table, the more likely people are to get curious. It is why, once they’ve set her up, he will meander the perimeter to check her overall visibility, often weaving between the wagons or railcars or whatever mode of gathering they are near to decipher any poor angles. “I do think the tablecloth needs more panache to truly signal your offerings.”

Wanda seems less certain, albeit not completely against the idea. “What if we added more to the scarf instead?”

The current headdress is not as prominent as the one she used to wear, though it still, to him anyway, is unmistakably a look only a spiritualist would don. Additionally, it creates a rather fetching silhouette when she leaves her hair down, like she has today. “I can see if there are any potential additions when I am at the trading post. Perhaps some feathers?”

“Worth a try.” Toying with his fingers is not part of a typical reading, something he won’t point out to Wanda since he is not at all bothered by the action and she always carries a certain amount of nervous energy before customers arrive. “When does Helen want you back?”

“Not until one.” He answers her next question before she can ask, since it is the same every time, “I will be sure to stop by before then.”

“Good.”

Their conversation lulls into an amiable calm, her fingers moving haphazardly along his hand while her eyes wander the surroundings. All of this a sham to bring in customers. He even wears one of his nicer suits for it, the hypothesis being that if a man of civility is intrigued enough to seek a reading, then others will feel it is the socially reasonable thing to do. Part of him wonders at the ethics of ushering people towards a practice that is inherently specious while the other part of him knows that the decently accurate (albeit empty) reading does not actually harm the customer, per se, other than maybe a mite more hope or worry or vim, depending on what Wanda tells them. Plus, and this is the most persuasive argument for his involvement, Wanda truly seems to enjoy it now that she has figured out how to avoid amphibious attacks. “What do you think is going on over there?”

“Where?” Vision does his best to turn in the direction of Wanda’s gaze without pulling his hand away and breaking the illusion of their performance. Nothing has changed since he sat down, he thinks, other than a handful of people beginning to edge closer. “It seems you have some curious parties?”

The feel of a phantom hand nudging his chin a bit more to the right would be a curious thing if he had not become so accustomed to Wanda’s powers. He follows the direction and spots the farthest wagon train where there are four fires dotting the ground, each surrounded by people conversing and going through their belongings, likely to determine what to leave behind. “I am not sure I-”

“They’re setting something up”

There are more seats arranged than is usual, well maybe not more seats but the arrangement is somewhat odd—trunks, boxes, and blankets set up in clear lines. “Perhaps there is a, um,” gala is the first word to come to mind, except that is not the life they are leading now, “a gathering tonight?”

“Well,” a tug brings him back to face her, “we should come back tonight. I’ve never gotten to see you kick up a shindyD.”

“That is because I do no such thing.” There are, admittedly, many things he had never done until he met Wanda or thought about doing until she came into his life, her influence a pleasant chaos that leads him down some rather indecorous paths. Lively dancing in public, however, is an embarrassment he will not suffer, even for her. “Nonetheless, I will accompany you if you wish to participate.”

It is not meant as a challenge, yet she is staring at him with the same lopsided grin and narrowed eyes as when she is about to take the last pair from his hand in a game of Commerce. “Vision,” and this is how she says his name when she is about to hit his ball into the oblivion of grass on their makeshift paille maille course, “we both know that—” her mouth snaps shut and her eyes move to watch something over his shoulder. “Play along now, please.” It seems the onlookers have drawn within earshot. Wanda begins to hum, ramping up the eccentricity of the reading, dragging her nails along the grooves of his palm. “Your life line is branching, a sharp turn towards fortune is in your future, but,” a dangerous, over-the-top edge enters her voice, “you must tread carefully lest you bring about your own ruin.”

Vision is not a thespian, is not even decent at telling lies, so hopefully his words are heard as sincere. “Does this mean I’ll find gold?”

The path of his reading jackknives towards the base of his fingers. “Not just treasures, your heart line curves here,” she rubs the base of his ring finger, “if your heart is open, you will find love as well.”

“Love and fortune?” He tries to sound enthralled and gullible.

Wanda winks at him, a whispered not bad in his mind as she releases his hand, her palm coming to rest over her heart. “Yes, now go,” the people are barely two feet away now, “follow your heart and you will triumph.”

“I will.” He stands, as quickly as he can manage without wincing, hand diving into his pocket to retrieve a silver dollar. “You have saved my life.” This is sincere, something he tries to convey with a hard stare at his fiancée, gleefully accepting her moony smile. “I must go forth now and seek my fortune.” Compared to the prior statement, this one feels awful in his mouth, an acerbic falsehood tainting his general demeanor. At least it is almost done. The coin (which is near 100 times her going rate) thuds on the table and he slides his palm beneath hers, breaking script to lay a doting kiss to the top of her hand, “Thank you.”

Wanda’s jaw tightens as she does her best not to break character, her, “Go” vibrating with amusement. He grins at her and grabs his glove, pulling it back on before he walks away, turning after ten feet to see a woman already occupying his old seat and a line forming behind her.

With the feederE act done, he is free to explore the town, a task Vision finds inherently satisfying, no two places exactly alike. It’s why he never bemoaned when Mr. Stark would send him on wild goose chases to hamlets and towns with varied and often confusing names. Sometimes he would even suggest a new merchant to “investigate” if he discovered a name on a map he was ignorant of. Based on the walk from the hotel to the wagons, there are at least ten unique shops for him to explore and he has already mapped out the most efficient path between them all.

First, however, he returns to the railcar for his shopping basket. He locks the door, tugging on it several times to be sure it is secure. Satisfied, he turns towards Council Bluffs, ready to discover what it has to offer.

The grainery is the farthest away and most strenuous to get to, located in the old fort on the side of a hill. It is also the quickest, the owner more than happy to deliver fifteen bags of flour to their hotel this afternoon. At the bottom of the hill Vision ambles into Royal Amy’sF, flanked by muskets and pistols but only interested in finding a suitable combustible to help start fires in wet conditions. The Robinson Hotel has a side business of selling excellent dried venison, or so he overheard at breakfast. He buys a few bags and determines, based solely on the lobby, which he knows isn’t fully fair, that they chose the correct accommodations. It’s on his stroll to Harle’s Hall that a realization creeps into his mind. A minute glance over his shoulder confirms what he suspected, spotting the same bearded face roughly fifteen feet behind him that has been fifteen feet behind him since he left Wanda. Granted this is a small town, albeit one inundated with transient visitors which should reduce the probability of being followed...unless someone else has deduced the same logical shopping route. That thread of reassurance is frayed since the man hasn’t once gone into the stores to purchase goods.

There are two other experiences Vision can find equivalent to now. After he was known to be the butler of the Stark Estate, it was not an uncommon occurrence to be cornered by Mr. Stark’s jilted business partners or lovers, sometimes it was individuals with grand ideas that needed financing, and other times it was mothers looking to climb the social ladder who believed Vision would be a suitable candidate for their daughters in the hopes their daughters would then seduce Mr. Stark. Only no one here knows who he is and it leaves the other, far more insidious experience. Vision shoves the thought away, arm curling tighter to trap the basket against his side, determined to remain calm and logical.

This determination is short lived. While he’s in Harle’s his eyes betray him, sliding every so often to the windows at the front where the man stands talking with a group of people, angled perfectly to see the front door. Then Vision’s body, against his wishes, defects from rationality, a cold sweat breaking on his forehead at the memories he tries so hard to keep at bay lest he inadvertently forces Wanda to relive their capture, something she already experiences at least one night a week while she sleeps...as does he.

Vision scans the room, recalling the instructions Natasha once gave him on evasion after a particularly overzealous mother pressured him into a six hour tea where he met all eight of her daughters. The lessons emphasized the need for alternative exits, a tactic that he, as a butler for a man with questionable morals, had already discovered though clearly had issues fully utilizing. “Excuse me, sir?”

“Yes?” The store owner smiles amicably at him.

“Is there a second exit?”

The friendliness slides from the man’s face, replaced by befuddlement. “Er, yes, back left corner’s where they deliver the goods.”

“Thank you.” Vision pays for the balms and ointments, eager to escape while still ensuring he remains cordial so as not to leave a poor impression. “You have a lovely establishment.”

Past the soaps and bandages, wedged between a shelf of loose teas and a display of elixirs, Vision bends to exit through the small delivery door, finding himself in a grove of pine trees that insist on latching onto the threads of his jacket as he struggles through their alpine embrace.

It appears he has successfully navigated off the main road, a small dirt path separating him from the field of wagons. Given the rest of the shops are on Broadway, it seems like the majority of his perusing will have to wait, except, however, the trading post which is situated on the outskirts of town near the railcar. Luckily for him, it also happens to be the most important stop of the day and isn’t terribly far, perhaps a quarter mile.

Vision glances around, checking for untoward eyes, and walks as swiftly and casually as he can without overexerting himself, worried if he stumbles or shows signs of his ailments that he will be perceived as an even easier mark. In a sense, being on this dirt path allays his worries of kidnapping while in another sense the lack of bystanders and witnesses make the ease of absconding with him that much more proficient. He tries not to consider this option, instead forcing himself to think about the target destination. For instance, earlier today the owner at Amy’s explained how the trading post is one of the few log-based structures in Council Bluffs, the majority of the houses and buildings either stone or sod. It also stands alone, a sturdy structure framed by the emptiness of the fields beyond, the first thing all travelers see when they arrive. Or the last, depending on the direction of travel, and for him, at the moment, it arises as the solitary structure leading him out of town.

Successful in reaching the building, Vision enters and assesses the room, relieved when he only sees a mustachioed man at the counter. Adding to his comfort is that the inside is almost identical to every other trading post in the last three weeks. All the shelves are packed so tightly with an array of items it is hard to decipher the logic of their placement, assuming there is logic in putting oil for lamps immediately next to bags of cornmeal. All Vision can imagine is how a bump of an elbow would knock the oil over and how it would then soak into the bag of food. Once it dries, would anyone be the wiser?

He decides to skip the cornmeal and wait to grab his oil until the end. On his journey towards the maps he collects their typical victuals: rice, coffee, fermented fish (not Vision’s preference but it does last long), dried apples, jarred beans, and hardtack biscuits. He grabs a new cast iron kettle, Amadeus accidentally losing theirs down a river, a few more mugs, and a collection of sturdier cooking utensils. The next shelf is stacked high with beaver pelts, just as expensive as all other stops so far. Vision runs a gloved hand along the fur, trying to convince himself the money spent will be worth it now that the weather is beginning to bite.

“Mornin’ Francis!”

Vision glances up at the newcomer and his blood freezes. Slowly he backs away from the pelt table and towards the corner with the axes and goads. All his life he has believed in the goodness of mankind, and mostly he has been proven correct, except his body aches at the memory of the evil that brought him here, that is forcing him to travel to Seoul. His hand wraps around the wooden handle of a goad, sliding it off the hook on the wall and keeping it close at his side. Natasha would be so proud of him and the thought is a little sickening.

Armed and on edge, he shuffles his way towards the table of maps, half heartedly sifting through them while keeping his attention on the men speaking at the counter. He notices a hefty book labeled The Emmigrant’s Guide to Oregon and California and scoops it up, gently placing the goad against the wall so he can open the guidebook.

“Howdy.”

Vision flinches at the voice, dropping the book at the sight of the bearded man grinning up at him. “I am not interested.”

The grin intensifies. “I imagine you might be interested in knowin’ that guide‘s barking at a knotG.” Somehow Vision resists looking down at the discarded guide, knowing from Natasha’s lessons, and his own experience, to never remove his eyes from an enemy. “You the fella with the afternoonifiedH railcar?”

It’s phrased as a question and stated as a fact. “I, um, yes, I am.” He could deny it but he is not a gifted liar.

“Where ya goin’ with it?”

“San Francisco.” Instantly he realizes the mistake. He should have said somewhere that is not their actual destination just as he should have told mothers he was taken and Mr. Stark’s jilted lovers and business partners that they deserved better.

The man whistles in response, scratching the back of his neck. “So you, the lad, and the two AngelicasI are plannin’ to go all the way to San Fran in that?”

The danger of the situation fades into a stubbornness he developed when working in the factories, never one to take lightly the gall of people who question every decision without proper facts or documentation. They have planned this trip, they have survived this long, the graves this man’s voice is digging for them is unacceptable. Vision stands taller, towering over the stranger as he grabs the Emmigrant’s Guide. “Yes we are. Now please, I need to purchase my goods and be on my way.” The man lifts his hands in mock apology, stepping away from Vision.

He makes it four steps before he’s held hostage all over again. “You want to lead them to their deaths with that fallacy,” the man’s dirt encrusted finger is pointed at the book, “have at it. Lansford never updated the map in there after the first publication.” Natasha’s protocol is broken by Vision’s eyes darting down. The name on the front of the guidebook is L. W. HastingsJ. “The rest of it’s decently useful,” something that seems to be painfully admitted, “but the map’s bound to put ya’ll in a bad boxK. So if you want to walk away from someone’s been on that trail dozens o’ times and rely on an almost decade old map, go right ahead.”

If Helen or Wanda were here, they’d likely urge him to leave, but the guilt that he tries to keep suppressed, the knowledge that he is the sole reason for this journey, that he has single handedly put the woman he loves and his dear friends into numerous precarious situations already, weighs so heavily on him that he can’t seem to move his feet and can’t take his eyes off the guidebook in his hands. The man picks up on the hesitation, shifting his demeanor from a soothsayer of doom to a gentle friend. “Wanna see my map? Update it every journey.”

Maps are not evil nor suspicious nor likely to kidnap and torture him. If he treats this as reconnaissance to figure out the correct path, would that not be preferable to ignorance? “I would.”

From the depths of four layers of unmatched clothing the man pulls out a weathered, chicory-colored leather bundle. Lovingly he unfolds it, revealing a map that sends a spark of awe and a whip of jealousy into Vision’s chest. It is handmade, similar to the ones Vision has been constructing, only there is so much more, or so he thinks, the legend and all markings in symbols he vaguely recognizes. “I been on these trails dozens o’ times.” Enraptured, Vision moves closer, bending down to watch the man show him their forthcoming journey all while opening the guidebook’s map and comparing them. “Y’all will have an easy time across the prairies, some good buffalo hunting here,” the brown smudges are apparently buffalo herds, dotting the map in various places, sometimes close to the thick black trail and sometimes a fair distance away. This is not information available in the book. “Then you reach Fort Laramie. Good place to stock up before the mountains. Happen to fall in love, it’s one o’ the few magistrates on the trail.”

“Are there not weddings on the trail?” The plan, as of now, is to wait until they are in Seoul to get married, allowing their marriage to start with hope (and health) instead of being shrouded in uncertainty. It is also the latest Wanda is willing to consider despite their promise to Mr. Stark. But Vision had also assumed, based on sensationalized stories shared in the newspapers, that weddings were common on the frontier and easily coordinated if spontaneity suddenly befell them, at least it is what he conceded to Wanda the last time they had a fraught conversation on the topic back in Springfield.

“If you want it legal, gotta have a magistrate, and they ain’t readily available, see,” now Vision understands the faded heart symbols on the map (yet another difference with his own), only three of them falling along their path. “That ain’t your big concern, really, after Laramie is the first mountain pass, it ain’t bad in pleasant weather, but it ain’t easy either. Break a wheel or lose an oxen, you best hope you get out before the snow.”

Vision listens in increasingly abysmal despair as the man walks him through the path—raging rivers, deserts where people freeze to death in their sleep, stampedes of buffalo, thunderstorms with lethal hail and whipping winds, dysentery, cholera, starvation, dehydration, wild predators, getting crushed by other wagons, and the crowning bit, “Y’all lookin’ to hit the Sierra Nevadas right around the time the Donner Party did who, by the way, used Lansford’s little guide.”

Even in New York, the morbid, cautionary tale of the Donner Party was brought up at any mention of the pioneers. “Is there another path?”

“Re-route here,” the name is illegible in the secret code the man uses, “go south to the Sonoran. It’s a pretty big desert so gotta hope it ain’t too cold or ya don’t run out of food and water but ya avoid the mountains leastways.”

Vision already knows his functioning diminishes greatly in the winter, every joint with metal seizing into a deathlike rigor when the temperatures drop too low. Adding to this the constant concern of freezing to death, or starving to death, or developing infections and illnesses, or being crushed by other travelers, or shot because you’ve been mistaken for an elk, or attacked by bears, wolves, coyotes, or mountain lions, and he feels himself questioning every choice they made concerning this journey. Had they known all of this, would traveling to Seoul have been a solution? If they were not so pressed for time would they have more fully investigated the paths? Should they have delayed long enough to send out messages about the condition of the railroad? The growing list of should haves are irrelevant now, the past impossible to rectify and so he must do as he always does and try not to let himself fall prey to the cruel, illogical entity of his pastself’s ignorance kicking up a shindy with hopeful, rushed desperation. There is only the future now and he intends to make a reasoned decision. “How much longer would that route take?”

The man shrugs, scratching his bearded chin as he calculates, “Prolly two, three more months.”

Vision struggles not to allow himself to slip into the grave this man already so kindly dug him. “How long is the journey if we took the mountains?”

“Total from here?”

“Yes.”

“Just you and the three?”

“Yes.”

“In that fancy railcar?”

“Yes.”

The map is folded up as the man thinks, sliding back into the depths of his clothing when his answer is ready. “Five, six months.” The grave grows deep enough for all of them. “But you trade it in for a schooner and some oxen, get a good guide, and hit all the best weather, four months, three and a half if y’all are of the first waterL.”

Without Wanda’s powers, it is useless to assess the trustworthiness of the estimate. Men with a business accept a certain level of dishonesty to get compliance from customers. “Thank you for your time and the informative discussion.”

“Listen,” the man leans to the left, blocking Vision’s exit, “you can talk to all the other guides ‘round and all they can give ya is a lick and a promiseM. I’m the only one can say I ain’t ever lost a soul on the trail.”

A large, unsubstantiated claim. “I must discuss everything with my party.”

Nonplussed is the general air of this man. “Well, when ya’ll decide, you can find me in the Ocean Wave. Ask for Phillip.” He tips his wide-brimmed hat towards Vision. “Don’t forget yer goad.”

In a haze, Vision picks up the goad, the Emmigrant’s Guide, and four pelts. The price registers enough in his consciousness for him to pay and then he returns to the railcar. He removes each item individually from the basket and places it in the appropriate location. Once the basket is empty he sits down, hand diving into the front pocket of his waistcoat. A small click and he confirms it is a quarter to one, just enough time to check on Wanda and then return to the hotel.

Except he can’t seem to find the energy to stand, drowning in the images of the trials ahead. Vision drops the pocket watch back into place and then grabs the bundle of papers from his inner coat pocket.

Just underneath the third paragraph of his draft letter he allows his thoughts to seep into the parchment, awaiting this evening when he will have time to contemplate it all.

I am beginning to think we have made a grave mistake.

He wipes the pen tip, blows three times on the statement, and then folds it up. There is nothing that can be done immediately and wallowing his way into tardiness is never an option.

Vision stands and does what he has always done the entirety of his life; he moves on to the next task.

“Lift your right arm.” Vision complies, muscles constricting around the immutable vibranium until it leaves his arm hovering as if reaching for someone walking away. Dr. Cho measures the space created by the action. “Bend your elbow.” The grinding of the hinge is felt far more than audition allows, regardless, Dr. Cho’s nose scrunches at what he hoped was a silent struggle. “Straighten it back out and then rotate your wrist.” Vision does this easily, relief swirling along with the movements. “Good.”

His arm drops back to his side, fingers drumming noiselessly against the thin layer of cotton on his thigh, always on edge under such observational scrutiny, Helen’s discerning gaze and muted writing amplifying the feeling of dissimilitude between his flesh and inhuman parts. “Left arm.” They repeat the process, his arm lifting, Helen measuring and then writing her observations, a bend of his elbow (this one is more compliant than the last), a twist of his wrist, and then he stands still, awaiting either a comment or a new direction. “You’ve lost almost four degrees in both arms.”

That cannot be accurate. “Are you certain? Only my right felt any resistance.”

The clinical mask slips for a moment, compassion radiating in a way that should be more soothing than worrisome, only it’s not. “Your right elbow is inferior to the left, but,” she places her notebook on the desk before gently coaxing his arms back up into his full wingspan (well, a lesser version than what he can ideally attain). “The joints are good over here,” her fingers tap his left elbow hinge and then the ball socket of his shoulder, “but you’re losing movement,” she steps behind him, an impersonal touch outlining the plate traversing the entirety of his upper back, “here.”

It wasn’t until he found his body failing that Vision paid any mind to the intricate dance of his musculature and how one malfunction could ripple so far. Perhaps he is being disingenuous to his younger self, there were times he’d get injured at the factory (however rare it was, his precision and precautions were always taken to the book) and find the effects of the injury were not isolated. Only those healed and could be easily forgotten. “What is the total loss so far?”

The numbers of his life are scrutinized, the tip of her pen wiggling in the air as she calculates. “It seems typical of your month and a half progression.” Which is worse than he suspected. “But we need to assess everything before reaching conclusions.” Helen moves out of sight, her hand coming to rest on his lower back. “Try to touch your toes.” A physical impossibility, his fingers dangling uselessly around his shins due to the stubbornness of the exoskeleton. “Hold it there for a moment.” He does, even as the telltale pain of his abdominal plates pinching skin becomes borderline unbearable. “Stand back up and rest for a moment.”

“That was worse.”

There is no denial in her silent scribbling. “Did you and Wanda find a good spot this morning?” It must be a troubling number for such a diversion.

“We did. When I stopped by on the way here she still had a line.”

A small, facetious curve breaks Helen’s scientific façade. “I have a hypothesis that the more uncertain the environment, the more superstitious people become.”

A fair prediction, one he has noticed as well, particularly once they began coming into more frequent contact with settlers gearing up for the West. “It does appear hope of any kind is in higher demand the farther we proceed.”

“Can you lift your arms over your head and bend to the right?” The bolts of his left hip react harshly and he clenches his teeth to smother any reaction, not wanting to cause more alarm than is needed. “Maybe we’ll all need Wanda’s readings by the end of our trip.”

The groan building in his chest is transferred into a brief snort at the thought of abandoning science in such a way. “That,” it’s hard to speak at this angle, the vibranium weighing heavily on his right lung, “would be a troubling development.”

“It would. Stand up.”

Vision’s body happily settles back into place, the residual pain dissipating with thoughts of what it would take for them to wholeheartedly follow spiritualism, particularly when their resident purveyor is not even a believer. Likely the same things that spur other travelers—unexplainable storms and diseases, dangerous crossings and the nigh constant concern of death. “I was approached by a trail guide today.”

“Oh?”

A nudge encourages him to bend to the left this time. “Yes, at the trading post,” momentarily he considers sharing the being followed part, but decides it is not pertinent. “He walked me through our journey. Did you know we have to cross a desert?”

“I don’t remember one on the map. Put your hand on the wall.”

He does, mind still focused on the harsh terrain ahead. “Apparently there is one.” It was the unmarked opening on their map, an area they all thought to be a valley or prairie. “And we will be crossing the last mountain pass at a precarious time.”

“How is it any more precarious than what we already assumed?”

A fair question. It’s not as if they hadn’t studied any maps before leaving, except there is a major difference in observing triangles on parchment and the reality of traversing the steep slopes under the threat of winter. “Well…”

“Lift your right leg and bend the knee.”

There is little discomfort in the action other than trying to remain balanced on his other leg. “We will be arriving at the mountains right before the snowy season.”

The lack of any response beyond a slight rise to her eyebrows makes him realize he may need to better convey the direness of what he learned, certain she will have a similar reaction to himself. “Did you know we will reach the mountain at the same time the Donner Party did?”

This information drags her lips down into contemplation, a half second of thought and then it slips away, appearing to not be worth much at the moment. “I did not. Switch to your other leg.”

“Of course. Apparently—” with a single lift of his left knee the words crash into an uncontainable groan and an outbreak of sweat across the entirety of his chest. Typically he uses a certain level of mindfulness in preparing for a move that will aggravate whatever part of his body is currently rebelling. It seems he was too intent on conversing, too intent on proving the direness they all overlooked, that he forgot to do so, breath still trapped in his chest and body shaking when Helen wraps an arm around his waist and guides him to the bed. Gently she eases him down until he is laying on his right side.

With medical precision and formality she unbuttons the outer seam of his drawers, ones specially made by Tony to provide maximum modesty while also leaving the steel fasteners available. “I need you to breathe.” Shallow inhales are followed by harsh exhales as she lightly prods at his hip, each touch sending stabbing pains up his torso and down his leg. “Vision,” another push, this time with her whole hand, and he gasps, droplets forming along his eyelids, “this is worse than you implied.”

Vision closes his eyes to block out the physical pain and the searing embarrassment of minimizing the truth of his injury, a tendency that should be added to his running list of flaws, right between a predilection for self-sacrificial actions and being overly detail oriented.

He doesn’t see her leave the room, too focused on shutting the world out of view, but he can hear the creak of the door and a muffled conversation in the hallway. Several minutes later there are footfalls and then a quilt is gingerly tucked around him. “Amadeus is retrieving Wanda.” A contingency that was agreed upon before they ever left New York, one that does not bode well for his prognosis. “I want to try a direct injection.”

“I thought you had decided it was too risky.”

“That was when you hadn’t started showing signs of infection yet.”

The implications hang over the bed like a noose. There are only so many rivets, only so much medicine, only so much time. Every decision has to be made with the knowledge of the consequences. If they merely ignore the infection and change the parts, it will do nothing to slow the spread of illness to his blood. This they know for a fact, many years of painful experimentation confirmed the treatment must be twofold: replacement and the intravenous conveyance of his medicine. But if they use the medicine in this unproved fashion and it fails, it cannot be synthesized again. If he then develops a worse infection later (a guarantee, from his experience), it will have to be treated with a smaller dosage than likely required. Amadeus has been hard at work learning the properties of all the herbs and plants on their path, but as of yet, he and Helen have not produced anything more promising than an ointment that soothes the ache in Vision’s muscles and is also used by all of them for sore feet.

The ups and downs of his life are never more pronounced than in moments like now. Less than seven hours ago he walked down the road with Wanda on his arm, nary a hitch to his steps nor worry in his thoughts. All onlookers saw was a young man of decent standing ostensibly at the prime of his life. And then slowly the façade chipped away, the worries returned, the pain amplified, he hasn’t breathed correctly since the trading post and now, well now it is once more a bag of nailsN. This cyclical pattern is a sad truth of his life and he wonders why he tries so hard to believe Wanda’s affirmations or Helen’s scientific proofs of his humanity when, in reality, his body is more similar to the piles of discarded luggage and unneeded tea cups.

“I think it will work.”

The hand rubbing this belief into his back is not of the medical doctor but of his friend, a bond that formed primarily through the exchange of letters and has transformed into a foundational sense of calm in his daily life since they met once again. It's under her auspice that he allows all his worries to tiptoe from his lips, “I am doubting my ability to reach your lab.”

“I know.” Helen’s hand stops, caught between his shoulder blades, “we all know.” This is more concerning than cholera or starvation. He is certain Wanda has an idea of the depths of his doubts, but up until now he believed he had kept it fairly well masked in front of Helen and Amadeus. “Vision,” what usually comes next when she says his name like this is a reasoned, logical breakdown of why his thoughts, though valid, are more harmful than useful if he ruminates on them for too long, “without making reasoned adjustments, I also worry you won’t make it.” Chastisement, however heavily layered with concern, isn’t what he expected. “What is Newton’s third law?”

It comes out without thought, “For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.”

“Exactly. Every action you take influences your well-being.”

Helen is his equal and (more often) superior in many ways, least of all is her practical approach to rationality and conversation, making the vagueness of this comment especially aggravating. “What are referring to, specifically?”

The circular motion of her hand is no longer a comfort, each revolution rubbing the meaning of her answer deep into his soul like a stain that grows bigger the more you try to wash it out. “You insist on helping us with everything even though it is detrimental to you.” This isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation but it is the most severe her tone has been. “If you continue to physically push yourself like that, under Newtonian laws, the friction of the exoskeleton on the steel will lead to a quicker deterioration.”

Physics has never been volleyed against him like this and, under the weight of the sciences he so dearly admires and practices, he struggles to counteract the claim, forced to rely on immediate emotional concerns. “I do not want to be a coffee boilerO.”

“You do realize the only reason any of us are on this path is to save your life?” Something he has never failed to recognize. If not for needing the cradle, Wanda would be safe in Normanskill and Helen and Amadeus would be on a well-furnished boat sailing through warmer waters. It is a thread of contemplation he has almost daily.

“I know.”

The bed sinks beneath him as she leaves it, re-emerging with a chair and situating it right in front of his face. She sits down, face serious and determined. “And the only reason we want to save your life is because you are worth saving.” A lengthy pause and hard stare forces him to accept her words. “A desert won’t stop us.”

“There are also mountains.”

Helen bends forward, elbows on her knees and chin resting in the nest of her hands. “It is a well-established belief in the Joseon scientific community that altitude is good for one’s health.” His lips tilt slightly in half-hearted appreciation of her attempt. “You can make it, but only if you stop physically helping us all the time.”

Any positivity of altitude is lost at the command. “Helen, I…” In every great hurdle in his life, helping has always been the very thing that has protected him. Whether it was fixing a threshing machine to allow his mother to hire less farmhands, or learning to mend broken axles and belts in the factories, or spending long hours doing extra research at university, it centered him. After the fire, he refused every offer of financial aid and firmly denied the insisted arrangement that he simply live as Mr. Stark’s ward. He needed a purpose and so he informed Mr. Stark that without gainful employment, he would rather fend for himself. Butlering then inoculated him from the worst of his despair. It filled his day and mind with lists of what he must do, of what came next, never allowing him to dwell too deeply on anything beyond an hour or two away. And now, on this journey, it’s been small duties such as restocking their supplies and caring for the horses, fixing their railcar, rearranging their belongings to provide more space, or building a fire to make tea for Wanda when she’s cold, that have helped keep him functioning. Without the menial, he spirals into a feeling of suffocating nothingness. “I can’t.”

“We’re aware.” Severity has turned into a frustrated gaiety. “The other night Wanda suggested we just tie you to one of the seats.”

A suggestion she has made to him as well, though hopefully the contextual underpinning was very different when she made it to Helen. Regardless, it is a preposterous thought, just like asking him to shrug off such an integral mantle of his existence as helping. “There are just so many difficulties ahead for me to sit and watch.”

Helen shrugs, acting like this is as trivial as deciding between pickled herring or halibut, both tasting the same in the noxious liquid. “I only said physically. You can still navigate, and strategize, and provide company to the overnighters.” All things he never categorized as menial tasks, viewing them instead as interpersonal and often intellectual jobs that are simply enjoyable. “Amadeus still wants you to learn Sokovian with him, he says it makes him look better,” somehow a snigger breaks through his melancholy, the young man more competitive than anyone he has ever met and, unfortunately, far better at languages than himself. “You won’t be a coffee boiler and you won’t just sit idly.” Clearly this conversation has been planned for some time, by all of his companions. Helen’s words are sure and lack any hesitation, even down to the precise lightness she imbues her voice with as she reassures him. “It’s not like we are asking you to do nothing ever again. We just want you to choose how best to use your energy and time, and personally, I don’t think it should be doing chores.”

If there is merit to the suggestion, he needs time to consolidate his thoughts on it and weigh every positive and negative aspect of this change in activity, hence why he diverts away from it, asking the question she hasn’t fully answered. “What is the prognosis based on total loss so far?”

“As long as this injection works, it is my medical opinion that we should have at least another five months.”

A desert flanked by mountains fills his mind, his worries flurrying to obscure the path. “And what if five months is not a feasible timeline for travel?”

“Then it’s not feasible.” It’s said with an unperturbed air, like it is a struggle for a future Helen to consider, one that, in five months, is lost in the snowy mountains. Her fingers grip his shoulder, squeezing it as she speaks. “Death is biological. It is a process every living being experiences.” A phrase she wrote him in the second letter they exchanged, one that was more comforting four years ago than it is now. “If we can’t make the trip in under five months then yes, you will die and,” this is the first hitch in her voice, the first indication that they may have veered away from any pre-planned words, “we all will be shattered by your passing.” The shards of their grief embed into his heart, twisting deeper to nullify the thoughts he uses to comfort his own worries, the certainty he has that they are strong and will be fine, that their lives will move on. Except the tears she’s already shedding for him while he is alive suggests otherwise, just as Wanda’s anger each time he tries to speak of this informs him, very clearly, that he is stepping into imbecilic territory for the sake of his own mental comfort. “Science won’t stop death, superstition won’t stop it, whether it's a slow, foreseen inevitable or quick and unsuspecting, it will happen to all of us.” How she can smile so gently in the face of unrelenting fate is beyond him. “I, however, will do everything I can to delay it as long as you promise me something.”

Guilt urges him to accept her request before he’s had time to fully think it through. “I will try to stop helping—”

She chuckles, shaking away his attempt to read her mind. “Two promises then. Will you forgive the quotidian nature of my next statements?”

Vision provides a puzzled, “You are forgiven.”

“You have planned everything for your death,” a truth he cannot refute, he even has instructions of what to do for every state and territory based on the local laws, “so, Vision,” he shakes away the morbid thoughts and looks intently at her, breath bated for what he has to promise, “now it’s time you accomplish the only thing anyone truly needs to do before biological inevitability.”

There are very many things he wishes to do before he dies, how a woman of her intellectual standing can boil her own accomplishments and goals into one unit is curious. “That would be?”

“You have to live, Vision.”

It is perhaps the least scientific phrase he has ever heard Helen utter and yet it affects him more than Newton did, leaving his mind in a haze of what precisely she means or how one is supposed to operationalize living. Before he can inquire further, the door to the room opens, abruptly ending their conversation and pulling Helen away.

Wanda’s concerned face comes into view, her hair engulfing him as she bends to kiss his forehead. “How are you doing?”

A question he is not capable of articulating an answer to at the moment. Instead he grips her hand and brings it to his lips, shoving down all doubts and uncertainties from his mind before she reaches out to him, like she always does. “Unfortunately, it seems I will not be able to kick a shindy tonight.”

The roll of her green eyes is a sight to behold, filling him with an immense gratitude that he gets to see it so often. “If you didn’t want to go you could have just said no instead of going through all this.” She settles onto the bed next to him, her hips pressed into his stomach, allowing him to wrap his arms around her and bury his face into her skirt.

Vaguely he is conscious of the sounds of Helen and Amadeus laying out the supplies needed, can even catch a whiff of the iodine, but he lets it all fade away as Wanda draws her hand along his cheek. “Want to know what they were setting up?”

“I do.”

“You were close.” The soothing dance of her fingers on his face stop for a millisecond, resuming with a more hesitant rhythm as she finishes her thought. “It was a wedding.”

Living is a fickle thing, filled with highs and lows; for some, like himself and Wanda, far more ravines than mountains. But as he feels the expectant, slightly nervous anticipation in her body, he realizes that there are some things not worth risking, that if he bypasses a long day of collecting supplies, it means he can spend one more evening wandering the fields with Wanda, or an afternoon playing paille maille, or an indecorous dusk in a barn. Admittedly he has never been one to be selfish, always putting others needs before himself, and he has done that already, everything is planned that can be planned for the inevitable. Life is finite and maybe, just maybe, he needs to do what Wanda has always urged him to since the day they met – decide exactly what he wants and unapologetically pursue it.

Vision kisses her side as the image of their future solidifies in his mind. “How wonderful.”

Victorian Language and Culture Decoder

The Oregon and California trails were littered with people’s broken, old, or unneeded possessions. It was officially known as leeverites (leave ‘ere right here)

Double-breasted water butt-smasher: a man of athletic build.

Yard of pump-water: a tall and lanky man.

Kick up a shindy: Dance, cause a raucous. It is a precursor to shindig, but it seems that words wasn’t in US usage until the 1880s.

Feeder act: an actor or actress whose role is meant to feed/help the more important actor or actress.

I have a link to a map of 1853 Council Bluffs over on Ao3

barking at a knot: Useless

afternoonified: Smart

Angelica: an unmarried woman

Lansford W. Hastings: Hastings, or Lansford for those who read too much about him, is one of the biggest names in the Oregon trail. He did write the Emmigrant’s Guide to Oregon and California. He also founded the Hastings Cut-off in Utah which is the route the Donner Party took, though he did not actually recommend people take the route. It actually was only a one sentence suggestion in his book, so don’t blame him for the Donner Party. By 1853 he was either living in California or Arizona (sources are mixed), so he couldn’t be their guide. Next chapter I’ll leave a footnote on good ole Phillip as he is a comic reference.

Bad box: a bad predicament

Of the first water: something or someone that is first-rate or excellent

A lick and a promise: Doing something with minimum effort.

Bag of nails: when everything seems to go wrong at once

Coffee boiler: a person who is lazy or shirks their responsibilities

#scarlet vision #wanda maximoff #vision #thescarletvisionnetwork #alternateuniversescarletvision #au #mine

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voicesfromthelight · 5 years

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The Story of “Abuela,” Simon, and Millicent: On Astral Party-Crashers (and How to Avoid Them)

Today, to celebrate the Halloween/Samhain season, I’d like to explore the somewhat spooky phenomenon of astral party-crashers.

Astral party-crashers are spiritual entities that sometimes pop up in mediumistic settings - or in your home! - who have no readily apparent association with any individual in the room, but are drawn to present themselves out of curiosity, benevolence, boredom, or, in some cases, energetic hunger stemming from unresolved issues that keep them hovering close to the physical plane. Luckily, the intrusions of astral party-crashers have been fairly infrequent in my personal experience. However, when I have encountered them, the evidence has been strong enough in terms of physical manifestations of synchronicities, etc., that I think it’s important for students of mediumship to know that they exist, and plan for them without apprehension.

Much of the work of a competent medium consists of understanding how to attune oneself to the spirit world, and receive accurate, verifiable information from it. However, far from being one uniform field, the “other side” is a multifaceted realm: a spectrum of different frequencies. Different types of entities dwell in different “layers” of the spiritual plane, of varying densities, much like different colours of light occupy different ranges on a spectrum of wavelengths. Accordingly, the emotional, spiritual, physical and energetic qualities of a medium determine which frequencies they are able to attune themselves to most easily. This is why Lorna Byrne speaks to angels, Jessyka Winston works with her Lwa, Tyler Henry passes messages between people and their dead loved ones, and I communicate most easily with Salvador, Natalie and my other guides, who dwell in a layer of the spirit realm somewhat higher in frequency than the astral. The reason I refer specifically to astral party-crashers when talking of this subject, is that the entities in question will usually pop up because they dwell in the frequency band commonly known as the astral realm, which is closest in density to that of the physical plane. This doesn’t necessarily mean that they are the types of ghosts who would cause physical hauntings, but I do find that they seem to have an easy time firing off synchronicities that manifest in the physical realm. Although they are usually harmless, and easy to miss altogether if one is not psychically open, if you find yourself frequently bumping into astral party-crashers, it may be an indication that your baseline energy level and psychic protection measures could use a boost.

The first time I bumped into an astral party-crasher was a bit over a year ago. The incident started on the same day I spoke about in my piece on clairaudience, during a time when my mediumistic ability was going through a bit of a spike. I had been working on a film set in Harlem that day, and took the opportunity of being in a neighborhood with a large Latino population to visit a local botánica. Salvador and Natalie are quite protective of me, and have more than once shooed me away from dabbling in working with any spirits outside of my circle of personal guides. However, I was curious to see the place, and wanted to buy a candle.

The botánica was a large space, with hundreds of different candles of all colours to choose from, soperas, and a plethora of pre-packaged oils and incenses for every magical purpose, stacked on shelves that reached from the floor to the ceiling. The energy there felt a little scattered to me, but not uncomfortable. I chose a candle for myself, and went home happy with my purchase.

The next day, as I was tuning into a channeling session, an unfamiliar spirit popped up and greeted me. In Spanish. Which I barely speak.

“¡Hola, Emily!”

Somewhat taken aback, I asked whom I had the pleasure of speaking with. “Soy Abuela,” she replied. (“I am Grandmother.”) She then switched to English, and went on to give me specific instructions on how to burn my candle for best magical results, and which herbs would work best with it. (Damiana and vetiver, on an alternating basis, she said.)

My psychic protection practices always include specifying whom I wish to communicate with before my channeling sessions, so when “Abuela” declared her presence, I was a little suspicious, but also, I admit, somewhat intrigued. If she was who she claimed to be, it seemed someone’s magically savvy grandmother had followed me home from the botánica, wanting to teach me her craft. I wasn’t so sure it was something I should be getting involved in, but appreciated her attention. I thanked her for visiting me, and said goodbye.

Abuela turned up again intermittently in my sessions over the next couple of weeks, and I remained somewhat wary of her. Salvador told me that she was harmless, but there were other incidents not directly associated with her - not all of them pleasant - that had me a bit on edge. My energy around this time was running low due to working very long hours on film shoots, and once in a while, I would notice astral level spirits that needed to be crossed over tagging along with me from my excursions out into the city, or otherwise subtly tugging at my spiritual sleeve. A woman from a small Finnish village I had never heard of before wanted me to warn her relative about a fire hazard, giving me her full name and place of residence. A gay man from a few states over wanted me to take a message to his husband. After sending them home, I would usually end up googling their obituaries, and try to find clues as to how to address their various requests. I attempted to make the most of it and gather at least some kind of mediumistic evidence. However, I knew in my heart that working outside of designated “office hours,” and being vulnerable to astral interference, was neither smart nor sustainable.

Because of these incidents, I began working long-distance with a shamanic healer and psychic named Joy. Joy, who specializes in working with other practitioners, was helping me tune up my psychic self-care and patch up my energy field to stop uninvited energies from seeping in.

At the end of my first phone session with Joy, I described some of the latest incidents of tag-alongs I had been experiencing. I mentioned my encounters with Abuela. Joy said that it was probably fine, but if she hung around much longer, it might be a good idea to ask her if she needed some help to move on.

Right after we ended our call, I decided to check my Instagram account to wind down from the session. As I opened up the app, through a slip of my hand, I unintentionally ended up on a feed that was not my own - which is something I rarely explore. And there, one of the very first posts that popped up was not a photograph, but one that only showed a screen capture of this text, in bold letters:

“¡SOY ABUELA!”

I do not recall hearing from her since.*

Perhaps the strangest incident I ever experienced of astral party-crashing happened in connection with a séance I attended a while ago, which I briefly outlined in my recent post on “getting the wires crossed.”

At the time, I had been shopping around for a new psychic development circle to join up with, and visited one I had been to once before, a few months earlier. I had already had some misgivings about the way the circle had been conducted before, but publicly announced séances are surprisingly few and far between in New York City, so I decided to give it a second shot.

As in most message circles, the protocol at this one consisted of the leader of the circle taking us through a series of meditations and psychic protection practices before moving on to passing messages to those present. However, my alarm bells soon went off, when after our initial meditations, during a quick break, the somewhat grandiosely inclined leader started to explain that there were demons attracted by the spiritual light generated by our circle, attempting to interfere. As he began to give a graphic description of the “demons” he had seen, I covered my ears and walked out of the room. (For the record: If you ever see anything menacing during a mediumistic meditation, unless you are specifically doing some kind of shadow work or banishing, the last thing you want to do is to feed it with attention and anchor its energy down through verbally describing it.) I did not care for the man’s foolish attempts to impress the novices at the event, nor was I intimidated by what he had said, but decided to let go of my reservations to get my own mediumistic practice time in.

When the break ended, I returned to the circle, and we moved into the section of the séance where messages would be delivered. As I meditated, I became aware of a middle-aged, stocky man, wearing leather boots and a cap. I heard the name “Simon.” He seemed to be a farmer. I placed him to have been alive around the 1970s. I did not recognize him, but he reminded me a bit of a character I had seen bizarrely stomp through a precognitive dream, the previous summer, flashing a set of very unlucky Tarot cards at me before declaring, á propos of them: “Nobody wins!” - the night before my fiancé had broken up with me. Then, in my mind’s eye, I saw a slender woman with long, brown hair. Her name was Millicent. She was wearing something that looked like a prairie dress. Perhaps a hippie. They seemed to belong together. I jotted down all the details, anticipating the end of the circle, when I could speak up and find out whose dead relatives I had brought through. They certainly weren’t mine.

The leader of the circle worked his way around the room, delivering messages to each attendee in turn. Then, he turned to me and said: “When I tune into your energy, I am aware of two spirits. There is an older man, whose name is either John or Simon. I’m not quite sure. And a woman with an M name. She comes across as a hillbilly. I think she’s Irish.” I concurred that I had picked on those exact two people, but my ancestral roots went back exclusively to Eastern Europe and Finland, and I definitely did not have any relatives from Ireland named Simon or Millicent. Surely they were there for someone else! However, nobody in the room recognized the rustic duo any better than I could.

The séance eventually trailed off, and I noticed that the leader never formally closed the circle. This worried me somewhat, but I told myself it wasn’t a big deal. I also wondered what exactly was going on with Simon and Millicent. Why would two such random characters show up for me, when we didn’t seem to have any direct connection? Still, for all my concerns, I was happy that the session had resulted in the information I had received on them being corroborated so closely by the other medium.

That night, as I was falling asleep, something very unusual happened. Right as I was dozing off, in a hypnagogic state, I heard a male voice loudly say my name in my right ear, almost as if it was physically coming from outside of my head. (Usually, when I receive clairaudient information, the impression is one of simply having a verbally expressed thought, and it feels like it is situated more near my left ear. Furthermore, it almost never happens unbidden.) “Ugh.” I thought. “Here we go. Someone followed me home.”

Life went on as normal for a while. Salvador confirmed to me the next day that the problem had been that the séance had not been closed properly, and I should avoid that particular circle in the future. I tried to shake off the incident.

About a week later, I met up for coffee with a dear colleague, and as we were catching up on what had been going on in our lives, I shared with him the strange story of Simon and Millicent. By then, I was laughing about it, and my friend was also amused.

Towards the end of our visit, we stopped by a large bookstore to look for some inspiration for a project we were working on together. My friend took the opportunity to visit the restroom, and as I was waiting for him, my eyes wandered to a book sitting on a stand in the children’s section: “Dear Mili,” read the title. It was a book illustrated by the illustrious Maurice Sendak, author of “Where The Wild Things Are.” I had already had several other, sweet little synchronicities happen that day, and so, my first thought was “Hey! My spirit guides must have wanted me to see this, since they always call me Dear Emily.” As I leafed through it, I discovered it was a somewhat creepy little story, discovered in the early 1980s in a letter written by Wilhelm Grimm to a young girl in 1816. The story made me somewhat melancholy, but the pictures were beautiful. I texted a picture of the cover of the book to a friend of mine who not only had been one of my first mediumistic clients, and was quite familiar with the lingo my guides use, but had also been at the séance with me where Simon and Millicent had made an appearance. “Look what Natalie sent me!” I captioned my photo.

Then, I opened the book up to its dedication page, and my jaw dropped open.

“For my sister, Natalie.” - M.S.

M.S. - Millicent and Simon?

Barely believing my eyes, I texted my friend a second photo of the page.

A moment later, she replied:

“Wait. Dear Mili - MILLICENT?!”

And that, as they say, was that.

These two incidents of astral party-crashing illustrate well some of elements that can contribute to being vulnerable to psychic interference. They can be summed up fairly simply:

Attempting mediumship when energetically run down either through physical tiredness, negative emotions, poor diet, illness, or while under the effects (or after-effects!) of mind-altering substances such as alcohol or drugs. (Yes, this includes cannabis for most people. CBD, however, is usually fine, as it isn’t psychoactive.)

Not practicing proper psychic self-care through meditation, energy-clearing, and psychic protection. This includes not only your personal energy, but your personal living space, as well.

Dabbling in practices that are not aligned with your spiritual integrity.

Spending time in places with negative energy, that attract low-vibration entities. These can be spaces associated with addiction, abuse, or violence. This doesn’t mean mediums need to avoid such spaces altogether, of course, but energetic clearing is doubly important after being exposed to that kind of energy.

Focusing on images, thoughts, or stories that invoke fear or unease. Don’t watch horror movies before doing a mediumistic session! At least give yourself a few days to detox.

Asking for trouble by intentionally invoking fear-based entities. (Duh.) Just don’t. It’s not worth it.

Being afraid of the spirit world, and of one’s own mediumistic tendencies.

Not properly opening and closing your mediumistic sessions.

On the other hand, my guides have a slightly different take on the matter. From their perspective, every experience is an opportunity to learn something new. So, here are some points that my guides conveyed through clairaudient dictation around the time that Abuela was visiting me. (Parts of this were cited in an early post on this blog about empathic vulnerability.)

Question: “Why are uninvited energies interfering with my mediumistic sessions? Am I not strong enough to keep them out?”

“Your guides know when an energy can be helpful even if you yourself have not set up the meeting. Even if you are being told something you think you do not want to hear, the energy itself may have something useful to tell you. Have no fear. You are in good hands. Wear an amulet if you think it will make you feel more safe, but this is not necessary or helpful if you do not trust your guides to help you. Call your guides to help you raise and strengthen your energies. Allowing the information that comes through to reach you as just that, information, and not as an energetic intrusion, will give you the best access to knowledge of all stripes.

Allow your guides to act as informed gatekeepers and let in the spirits covered in your opening prayer. [Being very adamant about proactive,] careful vetting places an undue burden of self-protection on the practitioner. If you feel unsafe or drained, plan ahead and look to your sources of strength to hold you in a higher vibration. Ask the lower energies to step away. You are safe […] Do not succumb to the influence of fear. You are OK. Pay attention to any disturbances in the atmosphere of your home, Work to become a better arbiter of your own boundaries. Nobody can enter your awareness [unbidden] if you have placed high enough barriers on your consciousness.”

All of this can be summed up into the principle that the stronger your connection is with your personal team of guides, and the better care you take care of yourself as well as your environment, the less vulnerable you will be to interference. Lately, I almost never experience these kinds of incidents anymore, and when they are about to happen, Salvador and Natalie will quickly warn me and nip them in the bud. The bottom line is, these are not things to be feared. At the limit, I would use this information to encourage my readers to treat themselves with love, self-respect and kindness, stay true to themselves, and build a strong relationship with own protectors.

Have you ever experienced an astral party-crasher? How did they make themselves known? How did you deal with it? How would you deal with it if it happened again? Let me know!

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* In case you are wondering if this was a result of an algorithm being triggered by my phone “spying” on my conversation with Joy, I can only say that it wasn’t the first time that Spirit had used social media for synchronicities. The first time my guides gave me a timeline for an event using astrological timing, citing only the symbols for Venus and Scorpio, I had no idea what it meant - until I opened up Instagram after the session. The very first post on my feed was captioned with a long piece on the astrological implications of Venus shortly moving into Scorpio. There was no technological record of my channeling session to feed into any algorithm at that time. I also had never had any interest in astrology until that moment.

#spirit communication #astral #mediumship #psychic #medium #psychic medium #ghosts #hauntings #haunted #psychic protection #energy healing #spiritualism #seance #witchesoftumblr #witches #spirit guides #channeled messages #synchronicities #entities

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ladyoutlier · 5 years

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A Demon’s Demons

In which Aziraphale and Crowley go on a day holiday of their own.

[Read on AO3] | [Chapter 2]

Chapter 3: The Monster of the Lake

The aroma of eggs, sausage, and bacon the next morning awoke Crowley in a very confused state before all the pieces began to click back into place. A walk through the park. A literal Hell of a lot of pain. Spilling quite too much info in the heat of the moment. And Aziraphale by his side as he drifted off. Things were different today, weren’t they? Much different than yesterday or ten years ago or six thousand. Well, he’d have to face it all eventually. Might as well be now. He forced his eyes open.

Aziraphale sat on the same chair as the night before, facing Crowley with a plate on his lap. Upon seeing that the demon was awake, his face blushed pink and he turned back to his desk.

“Ah, good morning, Crowley. I wasn’t sure how long you would sleep for. You have a bit of a record for oversleeping.”

“Be a bit rude if I slept for a decade and made you sit in this room the whole time.”

“Well, I appreciate you considering the value of my time.” The angel took a bite of eggs. “Would you like some? I couldn’t leave obviously, so I miracled myself breakfast. Could do the same for you if you like.”

“Not hungry.”

“You never are.”

“You think of a plan last night? Cause my mind was elsewhere in dreamland.”

Aziraphale set his plate on the desk and turned back to Crowley. Half of his breakfast still remained on it. Never a good sign when the angel turned away from his meal. “I did a lot of thinking.”

“And?”

“You’re not going to like this.”

“Haven’t liked any of all this so far, so what else is new?”

“Basically, I’ve come to the conclusion that all of your Hellish actions are done to, ah, spite God for putting you in the situation you are in.”

“So far so accurate.”

“But then your immoral acts make you feel as though you deserve to have Fallen which thus fuels your refusal to forgive yourself.”

The demon’s expression stiffened, hiding whether Aziraphale had said an accurate statement or not. “And how’s that a plan to fix this exactly?”

"Well, because Crowley, everything you've done has had a positive effect despite your best effort to do evil. Which means that you shouldn’t feel negatively about them."

"Really? I beg to differ."

"Go ahead,” The angel leaned back in his chair. “List off as many of your acts of evil as you want, and I'll point out the good in them."

"How 'bout the time I took down all of London's phone lines?"

"You kept people off their mobile phones while driving and caused others to visit loved ones in person that they otherwise would've just briefly spoke to in a conversation void of face-to-face connection."

"That's a bit of a stretch, don't you think?"

"Not at all. The irritation you caused people was heavily outweighed by the strengthening of relationships and averted vehicular accidents."

Crowley sat up on the couch and leaned back against it. So it was going to be like this, huh? A back and forth. Regarding his torments of mankind, his list was endless. He was ready to do this all day if Aziraphale allowed.

"Fine. I've caused so much trouble that you can have that one. French Revolution, guillotines."

"You said you had no involvement in that! The humans did all that on their own."

"Well, they did, but I took credit for it. That has to count for something."

"It certainly does not. You claiming ownership for that mess in your reports to Hell hardly influences human behavior."

"Ah, but there's no positive of me doing it. Stealing the credit is straight up wrong."

"Seriously now? I'm the one that's stretching things?"

The demon had said that one mostly just to rile Aziraphale up. It was a fun thing to poke at considering he had almost gotten himself discorporated during it because he had been a bit peckish. He knew that one wasn’t a win. It was just fun to say. But enough games. He needed a point in this competition.

"Loch Ness Monster."

"What?"

"I started the good ol' rumor of Nessie. Caused quite the panic. People too terrified to swim in the lake. Nothing even in there. The human mind's a great thing. Just torments itself if you let it."

There was no debating that one. Crowley was sure of it. Causing mass hysteria over a nonexistent monster. That was as evil as you get without going around murdering folks. And oh, the inaccuracies to those rumors. Quite damaging towards humanity’s perception of the natural world. A stain on a place that had once been wholesome.

"Loch Ness? You believe you've caused more harm than good with Loch Ness? As much as I dislike the spread of misinformation, I can't agree with that." Aziraphale stood up, straightened his coat, and took a few steps towards the door.

"Where are you going?" Crowley moved to the end of the couch. This wasn’t how the back and forth went. They’d go on for hours talking but never actually do anything about what they talked about. Today really was different.

"We are going to Scotland, so I can prove just how wrong you are."

“That’s rather impulsive, isn’t it?”

“Would you rather stay here all day?”

“Nah. Wanna go to Scotland. Let’s go to Scotland. Not like we got a major problem or anything like that to deal with,” Crowley replied with a very sarcastic shrug.

“This is solving the problem. If I prove you right, you’ll see what I mean. If I don’t, well, we’ll of had a nice day out.”

“Hope you don’t plan on driving there. Don’t feel like going through traffic for ten hours there and another ten back.”

“Not at all. I would just like to straighten up some things before we go.”

“Going to use miracles on traveling convenience, angel? See why you were being told off for frivolous usage.”

“This whole ordeal we have going on is more than enough reason for me to be using miracles, and even if that wasn’t the case, I can use as many miracles as I desire now that I’m not associated with Heaven.”

“Where was that logic when I was lying on the pavement yesterday?”

“I’d still prefer not to have witnesses, dear.” Aziraphale opened the backroom door. “Now, come on. Let me check the shop before we go.”

They appeared somewhere along the A82 near River Enrick when they arrived in Scotland. After straightening their clothes that were ruffled by the wind their displacement of the air during their teleportation had created, they found themselves in a rather desolate area, hidden from any onlookers. A short hike up a hill later and they found themselves at Loch Ness Centre & Exhibition. It was the standard tourist attraction, equipped with a hotel, a gift shop, and a supposingly educational building that delved into the complex history of the very made up monster.

Herds of families with energetic tots and moody teens scurried from building to building, desperate to get their money’s worth on this last minute, end of summer holiday. The children hugged plush Nessies and held colorful balloons. Some ran around amuck, seemingly unfazed by the possibility of parental wrath. Other mothers and fathers, with much better control over their offspring, walked either with their hands linked with their child’s or with the kid sat up on their shoulders.

A blue bus with the name Nessieland on the side was parked outside the visitor center, and many groups of tourists, especially those with young children, scurried from the gift shop onto it. There was giggling and excitable screams and the sound of suitcase wheels on pavement and all the noises one would expect from a place like this that drowned out any sense of peace of mind. Simply, the place was more like that of Disneyland than the setting of a monster flick.

One father, chasing a rather rowdy kid, brushed past Aziraphale and Crowley as they approached. The man muttered a quick apology before continuing to run after his child. If anything was left of Crowley’s influence here, it was the pure chaotic energy of having so many people in such a small place.

“So, dear, where is the evil here?” Aziraphale asked, giving Crowley a side glance. “All I see is happy families making pleasant memories.”

“Look, you should’ve seen this place in the 30s.” Crowley stepped up onto the curb and looked back at the angel. “Monster hunters and distraught locals. Fear running rampant. Just ‘cause it’s not like that now doesn’t mean anything. Set the ball rolling for all this way back in the sixth century. Just because the past handful of decades have been pleasant doesn’t right all that.”

“Are you actually sure anyone was ever really terrified? There was never any real monster, so no one was ever in any real danger. Seems like people were attracted to the idea of it for the marvel more than anything else.”

They strolled down the sidewalk absentmindedly as they talked. A young boy tapped on the window of the hotel as they passed, waving to his mother inside. The ice cream cone he was licking dripped down the glass.

“You can’t just do this. Write off everything I’ve ever done no matter how evil and destructive to mankind it was.”

“Crowley, if you had ever done something pure evil, I would be the first one to point it out. In fact, if you were that heinously evil, our relationship probably would’ve ended the day it began.”

“I think,” Crowley began, brushing over that last part. “That you’re being completely delusional.”

“Me? Delusional?” Aziraphale scuffed. “I believe only Serganent Shadwell has said a more inaccurate description of me.”

“You are though. You’ve gone on and on. And I’ve played along. Listing small things here and there. But I was the one behind the whole apple thing, remember? Made all of them Fall just like me.” The demon waved out to the crowds of tourists around them. “Isn’t that just horrible? Couldn’t go down alone, so I brought them all with me. You can’t say that’s a good thing.”

“The day we met in Eden I remember you asked me something.” Aziraphale stopped walking and looked to Crowley. “What if I did the right thing with the whole ‘eat the apple’ business? Well, it’s taken me some time to come to the answer to that question, and I do think you did the right thing by it.”

“Right thing? Even if it was the right thing, that doesn’t make it a good one.”

“It does. It really does. Can’t you see the beauty behind it? The curiosity? The awe? Don’t you remember dear Warlock’s face that first night he looked through a telescope? How purely innocent and heartwarming his expression was? Humanity’s Fall was hardly as painful as yours. They fell onto a pillow if anything. Knowledge has been nothing but a gift for them.” The angel smiled as he let out a small huff of a laugh. “You’ve spent the past six thousand years trying to do evil in the most good way possible. How does that not show the nature of your character?”

Crowley did the living being equivalent of a computer blue screening after some program or another got caught in an infinite loop of not responding. The spinning cursor of death was practically visible in the lens of his sunglasses. He stood frozen, mouth agape with a word on the tip of his tongue. This whole direct method Aziraphale was trying was much too world shattering. They were wired to work indirectly. That’s how it had been for the past six millennia. This new angle the angel was taking was really messing with his demonic identity.

As he whirled back to life and his brain conducted a manual restart, Crowley merely turned around and hastily entered the gift shop they had stopped in front of without giving Aziraphale a reply. Of course, they had to stay near each other. That was the whole condition this Sins problem presented. And perhaps Crowley should have considered this, but that program hadn’t rebooted yet. Still, the demon didn’t seize up in pain as he entered the shop because Aziraphale had the sense to follow him in.

“Want a shirt?” Crowley asked once inside. “Or how about a mug? I know you like mugs.”

He was trying to change the subject, and Aziraphale decided he was going to let him. He had put the thought in Crowley’s head. That was good enough for now. They were hardly on a time restraint after all, and he really didn’t want to make Crowley miserable.

“Perhaps, if they have something with a bit more charm to it.” He lifted up a cup from a shelf, raised his nose to it, and set it back down. “I really can’t imagine anything with the text I love Nessie sitting around the bookshop.”

“Ah, that limits your selection by a whole lot. Maybe a postcard then.”

They wandered about the store for a bit, slipping past other customers and picking up the odd item here and there. Crowley, with a dubious smile, held a stuffed Nessie and waved its little flipper at Aziraphale before tucking the thing back where he found it. Perhaps the plush winked at the angel as he passed, or it could’ve simply been a trick of the light.

They slid past another family with a fair share of munchkins as they circled around to the other side of the store. The gift shop simply was too small for the amount of people trying to cram themselves into it, and it was making the place a tad on the uncomfortable side. Or maybe it just felt that way to two celestial beings that valued their personal space.

In the end, Aziraphale settled on a book detailing the history of the Loch Ness Monster rumor. It wasn’t a book he would normally get, and he could simply ask Crowley to tell him the history since he had been the one behind it, but hearing it from a human perspective had its own appeal. And maybe Crowley’s involvement is what inclined the purchase. It would paint the whole book in a new light. Not that he handled the purchase. For some reason, when they were together, the demon always ended up paying for things.

“Would you look at that,” Crowley said, gesturing to a flier as the cashier finalized the payment. “Place offers private cruises. Think they might have one mysteriously open for today? Because for some odd reason, I do.”

“If there is one available,” Aziraphale began with a stern glare. “I’d hope it’s not because whoever previously booked it suddenly found themselves in some trouble.”

“Nah, they probably just discovered a winning lotto ticket amongst their things.”

“And you still have the nerve to refute your inner good.”

“Greed is a sin, angel.”

Crowley took back his card and Aziraphale his book, and the two of them left the store, leaving behind a rather confused cashier who really didn’t understand anything of the conversation he had just heard.

An hour later, Loch Ness was more mythical than it had ever been with an angel and a demon enjoying a boat ride on its open waters. What had been a spontaneous visit to prove a point had turned into a full on enjoyable day out. The lake was calm, with the boat causing deeper ripples in the supposedly monster-infested waters than those naturally there. The occasional sailboat dotted the surface around them, and the steep Scottish hills surrounding the lake provided a healthy green to the landscape. Really, it was absolutely peaceful.

Aziraphale and Crowley sat on the upper deck of the boat as it slowly drifted about, the hum of the motor hardly noticeable. Urquhart Castle passed by on the starboard side. A few tourists visiting the historical site waved to them as they passed. Aziraphale, of course, happily waved back. Crowley, well, couldn’t be bothered.

“We should get out more often,” the demon said, stretching out in the sun. “As enjoyable as walking the same paths in St. James Park can be, I like being reminded of the rest of the world.”

“I have been rather settled in London for a long time,” Aziraphale agreed. “Have you put any thought into what I said earlier, dear?”

“Oh, I’ve thought about it, and I’m still not all that fond of it.”

“Why? Why would you having done good over all these years be a bad thing? You don’t have to be evil on Hell’s behalf any longer.”

“Yeah, and you don’t have to be good on Heaven’s either, but that doesn’t stop you from lending a helping hand where you can.”

“I try to spread good into the world because it is what I enjoy doing.”

“And you don’t think I enjoy being evil?”

“No, I don’t. I think you enjoy being mischievous which is entirely different. It can still be devious, but typically those affected are only inconvenienced and perhaps even helped by the end of it.” Aziraphale smiled.

“Oh, give me the strength to not jump off this boat right now. Please, I beg you.”

“I highly advise you to not do that. With your dependence on me, you might just end up drowning yourself.”

“Could’ve just said I’d ruin my clothes. Would’ve had the same effect.”

“Well, there is that too.” The angel furrowed his brows. “I don’t completely understand why you’re fighting me on this. Isn’t it easier to forgive yourself for Falling if you know you have hardly caused turmoil here on Earth?”

“No, it’s not at all easier. If everything I’ve done has been all happy-go-lucky goodness, then all that does is hammer the nail in deeper that I shouldn’t have Fallen in the first place.” Crowley leaned away from Aziraphale. “Which really pisses me off.”

“Perhaps those are emotions you should be feeling. Ones that you need to face instead of continue to ignore.”

“You telling me it’s okay to be pissed at God?”

“I—well—um—given the circumstances, I think She would understand. You’d hardly be the first to have taken that tone with the Almighty.”

“I beg to differ on that.”

“What I mean is that many people blame God for hardships, and She forgives them for it. She forgives all that ask.”

“Really now?”

“Has any other demon asked to be forgiven besides you?”

“How would I know that?”

“Given the actions of your ex-coworkers, I think not. And I’ve already said, I think what holds you back is your own forgiveness, Crowley. The Almighty forgave you the moment you asked.”

Crowley sneered and looked out to the water. The boat continued on, steered by the oblivious captain below them. The remains of Urquhart Castle shrank in the distance. Aziraphale took a deep breath and straightened up.

“I only say these things because I care about you, dear,” he began. “But I understand if this is something too difficult to face. It’s like unmasking an unhealed wound, and I’m sure even just discussing it with me has been causing you distress. If you really want me to stop pushing you on this I will.”

“What?” Crowley looked back to him. “And have me stuck at your side for every waking moment for eternity? Is that the plan?”

“There are far worse people to be around. If I had to pick someone to be joined at the hip with, I would certainly choose you anyway. I don’t much like acting like an instigator. Pushing and prodding you to do something you don’t want to. I think I’ve done enough of it lately.”

“So that’s just it then? We just always stick together?”

“Until you wish to try something else. I’ll let you take lead on this. However you want to handle this Sins problem will be how we handle it.”

“Look, I’m not against this whole talking thing. Let’s just take it a bit easier. At this point, I’ve spent more time playing the part of the hellspawn demon than that of the holy angel.”

“Of course. I understand. But you are willing to make an effort then?”

“Yeah. Just ‘cause you want me to.”

The boat began to turn course back around. They had gone out as far as the trip allowed and soon enough would return back to the port where all the other cruise boats were docked. There had been progress made today, even if it was minor. Still, progress was progress. There was no rush. They had all the time in the world. Although a visitor that was waiting for them at the dock certainly didn’t feel that way.

[Chapter 4 Coming Soon!]

#Good Omens #Gomens #Ineffable Husbands #my writing #decided just to post it now lol

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kakuzhu · 5 years

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so, canonically, kakuzu had four partners preceding hidan during his time in the akatsuki, and he killed all of them. the anime/video game (I don’t know which anymore) showed one of kakuzu’s partners before he’s killed by a pretty purposeful looking blast from kakuzu. I have no idea which partner this was and I’m too lazy to figure it out even though the information is out there, because I’m making up my own order of how kakuzu killed his partners. while I actually think the idea of kakuzu blasting his partner just to be a jerk is hilarious and I’m going to take inspiration from that, it’ll be for his third partner in my canon. whether or not this aligns with the anime interpretation is of no consequence to me. similarly, the anime implied kakuzu’s main motivation for killing his partners was to take their hearts. while I am choosing to use this as a reason for one of his partners, I am not going to follow this for all of them, as I dislike the implication kakuzu was not already prepared with 4 extra powerful hearts already, nor do I think he would’ve been that interested in all of their hearts.

I totally ignore the video games’ akatsuki recruitment plots, with the exception that kakuzu was one of the earliest recruits, because the timeline was just weird for it. it was definitely a fun sequence to watch though.

I have no idea when hidan was recruited into the akatsuki, and basically all we know about it is that hidan was the most recent recruit before tobi. I make the (huge) assumption, therefore, that hidan was recruited anywhere between the latter half of the blank period to shortly before or very early on in part II. I say this is a huge assumption because, of course, this may not line up to other hidan players’ timelines, as well as the fact that this assumption is what I built the timelines of all the other partners around. obviously, I am happy to discuss more specific timelines should I write opposite hidans should it be relevant (or if you’re bored and wanna talk about how fucked the timeline is), but for the purposes of my canon, this is the assumption I am rolling with.

kakuzu had partners one through three during the first half of the naruto timeline and further back, to the near-inception of the akatsuki. I headcanon kakuzu was one of the first members of nagato’s akatsuki, which in turn was created sometime after the third world war. the third world war is stated to have happened 10 years before the start of the naruto series (from what I’ve read, anyway), which means that, at maximum, each partner lasted an average of about 3 years each before kakuzu killed them. of course, less irritating partners were killed after a longer period of time, while more irritating ones were killed more quickly. in addition, depending on when the akatsuki was actually formed and when kakuzu was recruited in relation to that, the average would, obviously, lower.

kakuzu’s fourth partner was assigned to him through the entirety or most of the blank period, which itself spanned 2.5 years and would be the maximum amount of time kakuzu spent with this partner. this would, of course, be cut short depending on when hidan was recruited.

actual brief descriptions of each partnership and their manner of death are below the cut.

partner one: like all akatsuki members, kakuzu was not particularly enthused to be assigned a partner. notably, kakuzu was extremely vocal about wanting to operate alone, and was noticeably frustrated when pain did not acquiesce. therefore, kakuzu’s first partner had the serious misfortune of being assigned to an already pissed kakuzu. to further exacerbate matters, kakuzu had not worked with anyone else for decades prior to this, and he also considered his partner incredibly weak, so he was already not going to play nice in the first place. of course, believing his partner that weak was probably neither a fair nor accurate assessment---all akatsuki are strong, and kakuzu was probably too angry to give a reasonable evaluation. regardless, because kakuzu was all too aware that pain could kill him without much trouble, kakuzu forced himself to put up with his first partner. kakuzu vehemently complained that his partner, however, was far too slow and dragged their progress too much, that kakuzu had to cover for him far too often, and was more or less a liability. kakuzu complained about his first partner to pain and to his partner himself, as well as disparaged him and undermined him at every opportunity during akatsuki meetings. as one would expect, this began to wear and grate on kakuzu’s partner. while he started out the partnership as polite as can be expected, hoping to make the best of it, he quickly began barking back at kakuzu and often challenged his every move. kakuzu actually hurt his partner multiple times during their time together as well, which did not improve their relationship. whether or not this was purposeful remains to be seen---kakuzu has never specified either way---but most likely, while there were plenty of accidental incidents, the majority of them were totally on purpose. that said, kakuzu never actually laid a hand on his partner physically. they fought a lot, and at times they sabotaged each other in battle in hopes to get rid of the other, but there were no explicit attempts at harming each other otherwise. essentially, the only thing that stopped kakuzu from blatantly striking his partner down was the fear that pain would kill him in retaliation. thus, kakuzu suffered through his first partner for about 3.5 years. eventually, however, kakuzu’s impatience and rage overtook his self-preservation instinct; kakuzu brutally murdered his partner using his threads and made sure to make it painful.

partner two: following his murder of his first partner, kakuzu was ready to run for his life, perhaps disappear for a few years until the akatsuki as an organization blew over. of course, before he could do that, zetsu tracked him down and, in combination with pain’s telepathy, informed him there will now be a meeting. upon joining this holographic meeting, pain confirmed with kakuzu that he had killed his partner, and then proceeded to go on a long-winded lecture on akatsuki guidelines and expectations, essentially telling kakuzu off in front of the rest of the akatsuki. and the end of it, however, it was clear kakuzu was not going to be killed---but kakuzu still took this as a firm warning. he assumed there would be no other chances, and begrudgingly resolved himself to keep his second partner alive. luckily, his second partner was much easier to get along with than his first. she was direct and practical and rarely complained. while she was not particularly prodigious, kakuzu could not explicitly complain about her skill, as she was better than his last, and she did not seem to mind the extra work of hunting bounties or additional mercenary work. they also traveled mostly in silence; they knew almost nothing about each other than their fighting skills, which was to both of their preferences. they really only spoke when in reference to business or to battle strategy---and kakuzu also had to admit her strategies tended to be sound. jobs were done with clearly laid out plans. kakuzu’s partnership here was likely the most efficient and amicable out of all of them---for as amicable as kakuzu could be. regardless, despite his general distaste for partners and working with others, kakuzu had to admit the arrangement with her was tolerable. he figured, ultimately, this was a small blessing; it would be easier to stay in pain’s better graces. thus, as it happened, her murder, while by kakuzu’s hands, was more or less an accident due to unpreparedness on both their parts. the pair of them worked together successfully for over 4 years. however, during a commission they took, they were overpowered, and kakuzu was cornered, and his partner was captured by the enemy. understanding that they were partners, the enemy ninjas threatened to kill her if kakuzu did not surrender. of course, kakuzu held little sentimental value to her, although he did think it would be a shame to lose such a partner. as it was, having been surrounded and with his back against the wall, kakuzu launched an array of indiscriminate, violent attacks against this small army using his mask jutsus. there were no survivors---including, of course, his partner. while, again kakuzu thought this was inconvenient to lose such a tolerable partner, he also reflected that, if she was so weak as to be caught like this and be put in a compromising position, then death was the least of things she deserved. uselessness never did sit right with kakuzu.

partner three: as with his first partner, kakuzu was told off for killing his second partner, but was not killed. however, pain did observe that, if kakuzu tried, he certainly could have saved his second partner and both of them could have escaped with their lives. kakuzu only shrugged to this; he didn’t care about her, nor did he much care that the akatsuki would have to spend resources finding a new partner, nor did he really respect any of the burdens that came onto the akatsuki due to his own impatience. this apparent lack of appreciation for their troubles prompted pain to drop kakuzu with other random pairs of akatsuki during the search for his third partner. now, instead of having to deal with one person, kakuzu had to deal with two, and there would always be at least one that would be mocking kakuzu about his public scolding from pain at some point or another. because it was often two against one as well, kakuzu could not as easily pursue bounties. this was clear punishment, and kakuzu did not appreciate being treated as a child by a boy decades younger than him---threat of death and the fact that he had little room to talk besides. ultimately, kakuzu was assigned a third partner, although this time, zetsu regularly checked in to ensure he was still alive. kakuzu was now pissed---not explicitly because his partner was unskilled or weak, which were not true, but because he was being monitored wherever he went. he assumed that his role in money matters was about the only reason he had not been kicked out of the akatsuki yet (if not killed), which meant that he had some modicum of importance in the organization. if this was true, then he certainly did not enjoy being babysat. kakuzu tried to negotiate (i.e. demand) zetsu stop being sent after him to ensure he was not murdering his partner, but this was to no avail. kakuzu tolerated this for the shortest out of all his partnerships during this ten year period. kakuzu, frustrated and petulant, killed his partner with a blast from his masks during a skirmish after less than 2 years. while it was obviously on purpose, kakuzu only said that perhaps his partner was too slow and did not explicitly claim responsibility. he was incredibly flippant about the entire ordeal, and was not interested in answering for it in any fashion. this kill was obviously a challenge and pushed kakuzu’s boundaries with the akatsuki. when kakuzu was once again not killed from losing this partner, he essentially lost almost all respect for akatsuki policy and began operating more as he pleased, although he did stay within akatsuki regulations and continued to bring in money for them, which was likely one of the only reasons he was able to maintain his position.

partner four: kakuzu’s fourth partner was the strongest out of all his partners to date, and most likely was an attempt from pain to supply kakuzu with such an overpowering partner that kakuzu could not easily kill him. kakuzu, recognizing pain’s irritation with kakuzu, simply took this as a challenge. and, unfortunately, his partner’s strength also served to interest kakuzu for his heart, which meant kakuzu even had a sort of reward at the end of it if he figured out an expedient way to do away with his fourth partner. in the meantime, this was around the time kakuzu became somewhat more lazy about fighting. while he still valued money and strong opponents, for those he deemed weak or not worth his trouble, he typically ordered or allowed his partner take them. if pain wasn’t going to kick him out for killing three partners, then kakuzu would not going to go to the trouble of trying to fight weaklings for paltry pay. pain could do with that as he willed. this fourth partnership was very uneasy. pain made it clear to kakuzu’s fourth partner that kakuzu killed his previous three partners, and that he should be on his guard---but, of course, he was certain he was strong enough to handle kakuzu. kakuzu’s partner, of course, was confident that he could, because all strong rogues always so confident in their own skills regardless of what they do or don’t know about their opponents. their day-to-day was frigid at best, with kakuzu usually electing to stay silent save for grunting orders and his partner acquiescing often enough but making it clear that he was ready to fight at any point. it was a tenuous partnership to be sure, and neither of them really trusted going into battles together in any capacity. eventually, kakuzu killed his fourth partner as well and, as originally intended, took his heart. while it was a tough fight to be sure, his partner did not fully appreciate the strength of kakuzu’s threads, which was ultimately his downfall. kakuzu successfully harvested his heart, then proceeded to report to the akatsuki himself that he had killed his most recent partner. he even implied pain should supply him a stronger partner so kakuzu could have another free heart---or, perhaps, to save resources, just let him work alone.

of course, we all know that didn’t work out. eventually, pain assigned kakuzu an immortal in hidan, successfully giving him a partner that would stick. this, in combination with their opposing personalities, is likely why kakuzu is so disparaging to hidan at all times---because he’s pissed he lost the war of attrition---but, ultimately, the pair of them worked well together in combat, so apparently there was something decent that came out of it.

#❰ 角 ❱ — headcanon 。#why do i always...............................make my shit longer than it has to be #partners 3 and 4 are just.............kakuzu throwing a temper tantrum basically.

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jinterlude · 6 years

Text

Two Faced (Ch.1)

➵ Pairing(s): Gang!Jungkook x Female!OC & Gang!Mark Lee x Female!OC x Gang!Seokjin

➵ Genre(s): College!AU, Mafia/Gang!AU, Angst, Romance, Friendship, Humor, Love Triangle & Slight-Fluff

➵ Warning(s): None for this chapter

➵ Words: 4.7K

➵ Co-writer: @softjeon

➵ Summary: Two girls. Two gangs. One craved absolute control over the city of Seoul. While, the other simply craved sleep and good grades. Now, what do these two ladies have in common? Simple. They have nothing in common—or so they think. Everyone knows the saying, “never judge a book by its cover”, so maybe there is something more to these two than meets the eye…especially when one of them is suddenly thrown into the underground life. Loyalties will be tested. Romance will blossom. Yup. Sounds like an average college day…

« Previously | Next Time »

Chapter 1 - Polar Opposites

Sounds of heels clicking on the red-brick paths of the campus were heard, as a young woman pushed her hair out of her face. She opened the door and headed down the corridor, with it’s usual bulletin boards announcing faculty openings, classroom assignments, club meetings and everything else she didn’t care about. She went down the stairwell, glancing around to see if anyone was following her, before she continued a short distance down another corridor, which was empty except for a janitor working at the far end. She smiled. Walking past him, she reached into the man’s pocket unseen, taking out a little paper that the woman shoved deep into the pocket of her leather jacket, before the man disappeared as well.

Turning around, the young woman almost jumped when a boy with glasses smiled up at her.

“Did you fill out the roommate application, yet?” He said as he waved a little pen in her face. The unknown woman pulled away just a bit with this slight grimace. Hasn’t this dude ever heard of personal space? In area of expertise, he’s quite luckily that she hadn’t taken the pin and stab him in the hand---maybe even his throat.

A blanket of silence covered the two of them. For his safely, she took the chance to calm herself down. The last thing she wanted was to hurt someone, and it hadn’t even been a full day yet. With a heavy sigh, she took the pen from him. The woman forced up a smile and scribbled down her name quickly.

“There you go, sweety,” She licked her lips slowly and winked at the young boy before she turned to walk up to the double swing doors at the end of the corridor.

She didn’t hear the boy warning her about the alarm anymore. She wouldn’t have cared either way.

On the other hand, a certain woman cared. This loud, obnoxious sound continued to buzz. A constant ringing noise entered her ears; thus, interrupting her precious sleep. A certain luxury that she couldn’t afford in her line of academics. The world of criminal justice took a toll on her health, but it would be worth it knowing that she’d help put away cold-hearted criminals. Just like her mother…

A faint groan escaped her lips. Yeah...she honestly didn’t want to get out of the comforts that was her bed. Why? Well, sleep was a rarity that she cherished whenever she could.

She flung the covers off her, exposing her skin to the cool air that circulated her room. A slight shiver occurred throughout her body causing the poor girl to quickly cover her arms. She quickly glanced at her clock and thanked the stars that a majority of her fellow students were still sound asleep. She didn’t have to fight for the hot water. She could enjoy taking her sweet ass time.

How on Earth were they able to sleep through the annoying alarm was beyond her…

She shuffled towards her closet and opened it. Her eyes scanned the contents that hid behind the doors.

“Okay...Sumin...what kind of look are we thinking of today?” She thought as she tapped her chin lightly.

She began to hum to herself as she flipped through each hanger. She couldn’t decide if she wanted to sport her usual go-to look. Her go-to look usually consisted of a nice blouse, a dark-colored skirt, and a simple pair of one inch heels.

However, that would be boring if she constantly wore the same combination of clothing every single day.

Nah.

Time to go bold.

Sumin swiftly flipped to her jeans section and chose a pair that were slightly “worn” out. Then, she picked out a plain band t-shirt and matching shoes. She carelessly tossed them on her bed before disappearing into her private bathroom. One of the many advantages of having a mother, who’s rather a generous alumni donor…

Meanwhile, on the other side of the campus, the young woman, from before, leaned against a dark red motorbike, staring at the screen of her phone.

“You have been assigned to a new roommate,” She read the email quietly once more, before she snapped her head around when some arms sneaked around her waist. “And you really think this is a good idea?” She asked, looking a bit unamused.

The man nodded, kissing her neck sweetly, before pushing her off his bike, earning himself a dark glance from her.

“Think of it as your own little college experience,” He began as he playfully winked at her, roaring the engine of his bike loudly, “Besides, it’s safer for now.” He finished.

Rolling her eyes at him, she crossed her arms in front of her chest. She knew he was right. Her own safety was priority now. Looking back over her shoulder, she eyed the campus building warily. But why did it have to be a boring college?

“Be here at 1 A.M. and don’t you dare be too late,” She smiled cheekily, her dark demeanor switching into a softer one, as she head off into the opposite direction.

Most students were off in their classes now, only a few were left walking around the campus either getting themselves some cheap coffee or trying to make it into class before the professor kicked them out.

Taking out a lollipop from her jacket, Sowon eyed the door she was standing in front of now.

“This is it, then.” She thought, opening the door with her assigned key, she walked in.

A huff escaped her lips,the instant she saw a variety of bright colors that decorated one part of the room. It was if someone took buckets of vibrant colored paints and threw it all over every single item. While,the other side was completely empty. Just one empty bed and a wardrobe. Any normal college student would start decorating and spice up their side of the room. Nope. Not Sowon. Instead of settling in on her side of the room, she casually sauntered over to her newly found roommate’s side━specifically━her drawer.

“Cute,” She chuckled as she opened it up, taking out a few of the things inside and mixing it up.

She eyed the bras and its size with a fond expression, before pushing it all back into the drawer. The woman only placed her bag at one corner of the room, before she went off again. She had better things to do. Obviously, attending class wasn’t one of them.

Thirty minutes later, after the departure of the rather confident woman ,a big cloud of steam slowly floated out of the bathroom. This feeling of complete and utter bliss entered her body as Sumin emerged from the hot bathroom, clutching a hot-pink towel. While she was currently alone in her dorm, she still felt paranoid that some pervert could be lurking about. She hurried over to her underwear drawer, oblivious to the fact that it had been slightly opened already. She pulled it open and picked out a random colored bra but made sure the panties matched. Sumin quickly glanced around her room before dropping her towel. She swiftly put on her undergarments, then walked over to her bed. She grabbed her clothes and covered her precious body as if her life depended it.

“Good job, Sumin!” She mentally cheered as she felt pleased with how swift she was in getting ready for her day. She shuffled her body towards her shoe rack and picked up her favorite pair of Converse.

She quickly tied them before rushing around the room to pack everything and anything she thought she’d need for her day filled with classes. She pulled out a few textbooks, a giant binder, her pouch of writing utensils, and her electronic chargers. That was Sumin’s way of being prepared. She always made sure to pack away every essential item.

Currently tucking away her laptop, she zipped up her backpack once the electronic was in its designated pouch. She grabbed her keys from the hook before dashing out of the door. She didn’t even care that she had forgotten to brush her hair and apply a bit of light makeup. She’d be the accurate description of a college student, and the funny thing was that it’s not even near the end of the academic year. The school year had barely just begun.

What a great impression she wanted to set for herself…

Now, strolling down the pathway, Sumin peered down at her watch, checking the time every other minute. Her mother had always expressed the importance of punctuality.

“If you are even a second late, then you have lost the battle.”

Ever since her mother had told her that, Sumin had pretty much tattooed that phrase into her mind.

That’s why she had never been late to anything in her life. She’s prepared to win any battle that would come her way…

Currently leaning against one wall of the corridor, a young woman’s gaze was fixated on something in the corner. A little camera. She bit into her apple once, when a mischievous smile appeared on her lips. They really made it too easy for her.

Pushing herself off, she didn’t notice the girl that ran frantically down the stairs and right into her direction. Yet the young woman didn’t move, instead, she kept her shoulder straight and walked along, forcing the other student to stumble into her. A small chuckle escaped her lips, while she didn’t even look back over her shoulder to see if the other needed help. Shrugging her shoulders, she kept her gaze fixated on the goal.

While one remained focus on a goal, the other had to unfortunately spend time adjusting her backpack strap again. As she done so, Sumin glanced over her shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of the rude person that failed to move out of her way. Alas, she didn’t. She only saw the person’s backside as she continued to much away on an unknown piece of fruit. From what she could make out, it seemed like an apple or some sort of round fruit. If she had more time on her hands, Sumin would march right up to the person and demand for an apology. However, there were two things wrong with that ideal situation. She didn’t have time, and she wasn’t very confrontational.

If only she had a bit more confidence, then she would definitely do that. Maybe she’d add that to her list of self-improvements that she had set for herself.

With a heavy sigh, she glanced at her watch, wondering how much more time she had left to make it to class fifteen minutes later. The second she looked, her eyes practically jumped out their sockets. She tightened her grip on the straps before hauling ass towards her first class. She just had to pick a class inside a building that was practically on the other side of the campus.

“Note to self: I am picking classes within a five minute walking distance next year.” She muttered to herself in between breaths. She’d also mentally add “start working out” to her list as well.

Honestly, she should start carrying a decent size notepad at the rate of how many mental notes she created.

While Sumin was busy writing down notes, the other woman was currently roaming through the drawer of the janitors room.

“Ha!” She exclaimed, now holding a little key in her hand━the one who would give her access to all the things she needed.

Taking a detailed picture with her phone, she send it off, hoping to have the copy of it soon in her hands. It would make it quite easier if she could come and go whenever she wanted and have access to the surveillance footage. Maybe she would need to get rid off it from time to time. Smiling to herself, the woman pushed her hair back over her shoulders as she retreated back to the room she could call her own now. Well, or hers and the one that her roommate owned. She could use a little nap. Sneaking around and in people’s stuff could be very tiring.

This sudden throbbing, painful sensation had been bugging her since her second-to-last class of the day. Yeah, that class had been over for almost four hours.

Because of the random headache, she could barely focus on her studies. Sumin had hope to go to the library after her last class and get some work done, but God apparently had other plans. Maybe this had been a sign for her to take a break. She already had been working herself to death, and it was only the second week of the school year.

Maybe it was the third week…?

Honestly, Sumin had forgotten the concept of understanding the calendar. She only knew of telling time, and that’s it.

With tired feet, she shuffled towards her door and inserted the key. She unlocked the door and pushed it open. She carelessly threw her set of keys on the tiny table, that’s placed nearby. She dropped her backpack in a random location before untying her shoes. She practically kicked them off and used the remaining energy she had left in her body to walk over to her bed. She flopped her body down, not knowing that there’s something or someone lying there as well. She buried her hands underneath the pillow and rubbed her cheek against the soft fabric of her pillow cover. Sumin could feel her eyes slowly flutter shut as the exhaustion took complete control over her body.

Just as she allowed her body to enjoy this short little nap, that it desperately wanted, she something wrap around her stomach. Sumin’s eyes immediately shot open; her heart raced against her chest. She tried to struggle against the tight grip, but it only caused the hold to strengthen.

“Oh, my God…Oh, my God…” Sumin chanted softly over and over, unsure how to get out this rather sticky situation.

She tried freeing herself once more, but it seemed that it was the final straw. She had woken up the thing that invaded her personal space.

“Oh...hello cutie,” Sumin heard a soft mumble, causing her to peek up, “Didn’t think we would get this close so quickly…” The invader finished, releasing Sumin from the strong grip.

Sumin slowly turned her head to look right into the eyes of another woman. Their noses almost touched with how close they were lying in bed that was for sure not made for two people to lay in at the same time. Before Sumin could tumble off the edge, the girl snug her arm around her waist again and kept her close.

“Hi, I’m Sowon,” The girl smiled and propped herself up on her elbow. “Your blanket was really fluffy, though I am not really one that likes pink…I just had to try it. Also, it was way easier to just sleep in your bed than making mine,” Sowon happily chatted, before climbing over Sumin, a bit way too close for the poor girl’s liking, as she hopped out of the bed,

“Hope you don’t mind.” Sowon added, reaching for her bag, she opened it, placing a few little things on her own nightstand. A book, a phone and another phone, before Sowon reached in to get out the bed sheets. Just when she finished making her own bed, the girl turned around again.

“Oh, by the way, I’m your new roommate.” She suddenly announced, smiling brightly.

Sumin stared at Sowon, feeling both confused yet excited to know that she has a roommate. Before, she had been alone in her dorm room. Every year Sumin would politely ask her R.A. if it would be possible to request a roommate, but every year they would always answer her with a big fat no.

When she had asked them for an explanation, the head R.A told her that it was a part of school regulation, especially since, years prior to her enrollment, many students had chosen the opposite gender to be their roommate.

Yeah…

That worked swell…

Now, she was quite happy to know that finally the school system had assigned her a potential lifelong buddy.

Sumin shyly smiled and held out her hand towards Sowon. Her mother always said,

“The first step into establishing a great connection is a firm handshake…”

Sowon perked her eyebrow, eyeing Sumin’s hand strangely. The fuck did she want her to do with it? The rather petite girl in front of her couldn’t possibly have enough strength to initiate in a surprise attack if she were to grab it.

Maybe she wanted a simple handshake?

That’s a rather odd request━especially since they weren’t sealing a deal right now. She reached out for Sumin’s hand anyways, shaking her hand rather roughly with a sweet smile. Sowon nodded, when Sumin introduced herself, but other than that she didn’t care about the girl that much. She needed to put a few clothes into her own drawer, just to make sure that everything looked like someone was actually living here. Sowon really didn’t want to look too suspicious.

When Sowon finished “decorating” her own side, she jumped up her bed, looking over to Sumin who was still watching her rather confused. Winking at her roommate playfully, Sowon laid back and got out her phone to see if she had gotten any new messages. Maybe Taehyung had finished remaking the key already? Yet Sowon didn’t get that far, when she noticed Sumin peeking over to her, so she sighed and locked her phone screen again.

“So, tell me about yourself, Sunshine,” Sowon teased her, referring to her rather light and colorful decor that only underlined Sumin’s cheerful character.

A pinkish hue crept on the girl’s cheek as a tiny noise escaped her lips. Sumin grew shy at the sudden nickname Sowon had “kindly” bestowed onto her. She played with the hem of her t-shirt; her eyes remained glued on the floor.

“Well, there’s not really much to me. I was raised by a single mother since I was four-years-old,” Sumin began, glancing around the room, “She’s the best lawyer in her district. I strive to be like her one day; hence, why I am currently studying criminal justice. Then, I plan on taking my BAR exams afterwards.” She stated, unintentionally earning Sowon’s undivided attention.

Sowon raised her brow as a rather intriguing idea began to formulate in her head. She could always use someone with the knowledge of how the law works. Maybe Sumin wasn’t so bad.

“You said that you were raised by a single mom, what happened to your dad? Was he one of those baby daddies that leave their pregnant girl behind?” She asked, wanting to know more about her roomie.

Sumin’s body flinched; her breath hitched just a smidge. How should she bring up something so fragile? She barely met this person, and now she wanted to know her life story? Well, not her entire life story, but an important detail that she had never shared with anyone in all of her years living on this planet.

At the same, it wouldn’t hurt to tell her roomie something personal, right? They were about to be stuck together for the rest of their school career. Might as well get along.

“Um...well...you see...he’s dead…” Sumin said, muttering the last part.

Sowon gave Sumin a look, cupping her ear.

“I’m sorry, can you repeat that? I didn’t quite hear you.” She requested, not meaning to be a tad rude.

Sumin flashed a sad smile, “He died when I was four-years-old.”

Sowon pursed her lips, relating a little to the whole “death of a loved one”. Her mother is dead as well.

“Do you know what happened?” She asked, though, quickly berating herself for wanting to pry.

Sumin’s smile faded and was soon replaced with this solemn expression.

“Sadly, I do not. That is something my mother refuses to tell me. All I have ever gotten is that my dad had died due to unfortunate circumstances, and that’s it.” She explained, “I knew better to push the topic any further.” She added.

Sowon couldn’t help but nod slowly. Her mouth practically sewn shut. What else could there be said after that?

Nothing…that’s what…

“I’m sorry…” Sowon mumbled, unsure how to progress the conversation.

Sumin smiled softly, “It’s fine. I have kept that bottled up for so long that it is honestly nice to allow a little bit of that to surface. Thanks.”

Sowon returned the smile before walking over to her side of the room. She hadn’t forgotten about checking her phone to see if she had any new updates. Sumin was distracted so now would be the perfect time to try again.

She subtly glanced over her shoulder, noticing Sumin putting on her headphones and scrolling on her phone. Once she saw Sumin nodding her head to the muffled music, Sowon pulled out her phone and unlocked it. A smile formed at her lips when she saw the encoded message from Taehyung. He had made it once again. It was sometimes so surreal how quick the boy worked and made sure she had a copy of every key that she wanted. He was really good at his job.

An even bigger smile appeared on her face, when she saw the next message, or rather the picture of her boyfriend laying on their shared bed, pursing his lips into a pout that he had sent to her.

[To Jungkookie 07:27 PM]: You already miss me that bad, huh? I thought this was your idea for me to pretend to be a good student?

[From Jungkookie 07:29 PM]: Don’t remind me! I already regret it! [From Jungkookie 07:29 PM]: But tell me...is your roommate suitable for a threesome or do we have to keep looking?

Sowon rolled her eyes at the message, knowing that her boyfriend liked to tease her. Oh well, they were quite kinky━but Sowon was sure that her sweet roommate wasn’t one for threesomes. The girl shrugged her shoulders, before typing her answer. A small giggle leaving her lips, making Sumin turn her attention back to Sowon. The sudden change in Sowon’s demeanor piqued Sumin’s interest.

[To Jungkookie 07:33 PM]: She’s pure. Let her be! Now focus on the important stuff, babe….which is me. [From Jungkookie 07:34 PM]: Got you, baby.

Sowon closed the chat again and only then noticed Sumin peeking over her shoulder, making her jerk away. How the fuck didn’t she notice the other? Was she always this quiet? And she really needed to get her own head out of the clouds whenever she was talking to Jungkook.

“Is that your boyfriend?” Sumin asked, pointing at the candid photo that Sowon used as her screensaver, that she had shot one morning when Jungkook had looked too delicious. The sun making his abs look golden, his cheeky smile, his messy hair…

“Hm?” Sowon shook herself out of her thoughts before she nodded, “Yeah...he’s mine. Crazy right? Can’t believe it either...though I’m quite a catch, too” Sowon winked at Sumin, pushing her own boobs up with her hands to underline her own compliment. She laughed freely, as she jumped up her own bed and tugged her feet under.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Sowon asked bluntly, taking out a nail file to take care of her already perfectly manicured nails.

Sumin shook her head with the most innocent expression ever to grace her face.

“Never had one.” She replied shortly.

The other girl just raised an eyebrow at that and shrugged her shoulders.

“Doesn’t matter. I have a few friends that probably be interested in a sweet, little innocent sunshine like you.” Sowon said; her voice laced with this sensuous tone.

Sumin’s eyes widened, almost to the size of giant saucers. There she goes with that nickname again. Why was she being called, “little innocent sunshine”?

A faint squeak exited her lips as her face grew warm.

“What kind of friends?” She asked, though stumbling over a few words.

Sowon simply smirked; this alluring smile that could capture the attention of anyone.

“You’ll see.” She replied shortly. A total opposite from her previous sentences.

Sumin couldn’t help but groan. The way her roomie said that did not sit well with her. What kind of friends did she have? Were they like her in the aspect of being quite flirtatious?

Maybe, they were kind of friends that she would never introduce to her mom━ or maybe they were.

Great...so many questions that needed answering yet so little time. Honestly, Sumin wasted enough time telling Sowon that she never had a boyfriend before. She needed to remain focus on her studies if she wanted to be prepared for her upcoming BAR exam.

Wow…

She had no life whatsoever.

Instead of replying, Sumin simply smiled and and walked back to her bed. She placed her headphones over her ears and resumed studying.

Studying for what? Well, that’s a great question…

While with Sowon, she couldn’t help but feel intrigued when it came to her newly appointed roommate. Not only did she find it interesting that Sumin tended to drop the conversation without being asked, but she honestly managed to creep up behind her without making a noise.

If this innocent little lady were trained in assassination, Sowon would definitely be dead before she could grab anything to fight back with.

Then, it hit her. With the proper training, Sumin could be a great secret weapon━a shadow that lingered around her and her gang members.

Yes...this could work…but what to use her talents for? Maybe she could ask Yoongi since he displayed similar traits.

Now laying on her back on the bed, Sowon was staring straight up the wall, biting her lip in thought. It was getting dark and Sumin had already retreated to the bathroom to get into some cute pink pajamas, earning a little cooing sound from Sowon.

The older girl still hadn’t changed her outfit as she laid on top of her blanket, waiting for Sumin to finally fall asleep. How could that girl study for so long? Wasn’t it getting kind of boring? She sighed, rolling over on her stomach to play some random games on her phone, until she finally heard the magic words. “Good night, Sowon,” Sumin said in a sing sung voice, before she turned to finally get to sleep.

[To Jungkookie 12:35 AM]: Took her long enough! I’ll be there in 30 mins…I hope we can go and get some food on the way home. I’m starving.

[From Jungkookie 12:37 AM]: Anything for you baby!

Checking her watch every few minutes, Sowon was waiting impatiently until she finally could hear some soft snores of the younger girl, who was mumbling law paragraphs in her sleep. Only then she kicked her own blanket away and reached for her boots quickly but quietly. She pulled an oversized sweater over her head, making it look like a dress rather than a sweater, before she tiptoed over to the little window off their shared room. It was safer this way, also more fun.

Sowon smiled, when she opened the window wide and carefully placed a foot over the windowsill. The wind was blowing her hair around her face, so she quickly tied it up into a ponytail, before she swung the other foot over the window.

“Au revoir, little sunshine,” Sowon whispered, as she carefully got over to the little ledge, before she pushed herself up on the flat roof.

A faint whisper entered her ears. Then, followed by the sound of a window opening. Seriously, her body needed sleep if she were to survive yet another long day of classes tomorrow.

Forcing her eyes to open, Sumin saw a blurry figure climbing out of the window.

Wait what?!

Her eyes immediately shot open. Her heart pounded against her chest. How in the world did a burglar get in their room?

Sumin roughly flung her covers off her body before scrambling out of bed. Her eyes frantically scanned the medium sized room, hoping to look for her roomie. Her focus zoomed in on Sowon’s bed and noticed that it was empty.

Oh, God! The burglar kidnapped her roommate!

She immediately grabbed her tripod, the only remaining equipment from her attempt at photography. She rushed over to the window, ready to go after the burglar and save her soon-to-be friend.

Just as she peeked her head out, one hand still firmly gripped the tripod, Sumin gasped. Her hold loosened, causing the tripod to slip through her fingers.

“Sowon?”

A/N: Wahhhhhh! Sorry still screaming into the void over the fact that I am finally co-writing a story with my soup friend, my hubby, my queen, Jey @softjeon Seriously, we have been talking about it (mainly me joking around that we should lol), and BOOM! Our first crossover! Well KPOP group crossover. BTS x NCT! Let’s get it! Also, this is her first member x OC story, so I’m happy/honored that she’s doing this with me!

Anyway, stay tune for more updates and one crazy adventure! In regards to Our Second Chance, I will update that story when I can and/or feel the motivation to do so. Please be patient with me! ^^

Don’t forget to leave a comment/like/reblog/and an ask in mine or Jey’s inbox! We love hearing your thoughts!

- Kim

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