#john creamer

[mikeynf]

eric being super hesitant to take the cup from john in saw 2 is the funniest shit ever like bruh it’s a cup it’s not gonna randomly electrocute and kill you😭

#mikeynf #adam stanheight blog #mikeynf is so cool #guys i’m so cool #saw blog #adam faulkner stanheight #adam stanheight #saw #sawposting #saw franchise #saw 2005 #saw 2 #saw ii #eric matthews #daniel matthews #john kramer #john creamer #jigsaw #jigsaw killer

[worldgonedeep]

Rachael Starr - Till There Was You (John Creamer & Stephane K Mix)

#2009 #deep #deep house #Rachael Starr #John Creamer #Stephane K #Youtube

[cthulhusstepmom]

Evidence that Sergeant John "Soap" MacTavish is not what he seems-Lt. SR:

Soap smells like rain, it took a while to put it together because it's not Soap himself that emits the odor, it just follows him. It's less potent inside and when it's sunny outdoors but if you concentrate it's always there.

He has never been observed touching a gun or grenades without gloves. Almost every other explosive he handles with no regard for his own safety gloves.

HE EATS WEIRD SHIT. While he doesn't eat much of the food on offer from the cafe, he does eat consistently when outdoors, usually plants or flowers. Things he has eaten: dandelions(edible), garlic(edible), thistle(edible but he ate it with the thorns), foxglove(toxic, showed no adverse reaction), Several unidentified flowers and berries, grass(technically edible?) Etc.

Will sometimes refuse to enter a place before abruptly going in. The data is not consistent between different buildings or locations. Further research is required.

Sharp teeth.

Groups things in nonsensical ways. He will only fill a magazine with bullets that total a multiple of 7 or 3. The same for what weights he uses in the gym. When drawing or eating he sorts by 4s. He traded his room to get #13 (right next door, coincidence?).

Cameras will not focus on him, whether photo or video he is never in focus regardless of distance or conditions.

He has never once been in medical for more than half an hour, usually much less. Even though his hands have light burns on them almost constantly.

Dogs hate him. He seems ambivalent towards them and he's never been bit that Ive seen. Cats adore him as do birds.

John MacTavish does not blush. Not for lack of trying even when genuinely flustered or hot, his skin does not flush.

Ghost sets down the small notebook with a minute sound of frustration. The evidence is all there but looking at it, what does it really say? Other than that he's an obsessive creep. A series of quirks and coincidences compiled by a paranoid son of a bitch into a fucking stalker journal. But still, Simon can't help but feel like he's right and he'd be dead a million times over if he simply disregarded his intuition. Even if it is something batshit insane.

At this point however it seems that it'll drive him mad far before it yields any answers. After scouring what little resources were comprehensible on the internet he'd started growing out his hair, intent on tying it in knots to prevent charms. Leaving him with a problem he'd not encountered since he'd first donned the mask: unruly curls and balaclavas don't mix well at all. He'd also kept a piece of stale bread in his pocket for days as he'd read it was a repellent to- and he can't even believe he's considering it-fairies. It backfired, if anything Johnny had been more attached to him and even more touchy than usual. He'd left a small deli cup full of coffee creamer outside his door overnight and found it neatly placed upside down where he'd left it with not a drop left. Ghost chalked that up to some wise guy playing a joke or an exceptionally dextrous cat and firmly shut the door on any other possibilities in his mind. His next test had been a gift of clothing mixed with complements, he'd read that both were likely to drive away any Other. It hadn't been a very extravagant gift, a new pair of gloves and a gruff "well done Johnny" but at the time it had seemed to be the final nail in the coffin as Soap had gone white as a sheet(he can do that but he can't blush???) and scurried off. A quiet dread had filled his stomach the whole day until Soap turned up at dinner, a little quieter than usual but wearing his new gloves and eating more than usual(a scoop and a half of mashed potatoes with 4 packets of butter and 2 packets of sour cream as well as a cookie. The main course of spaghetti and meatballs went untouched though Gaz snapped it up before it could truly go to waste). Though when Ghost returned to his room late that night after trudging through hours of paperwork he found a pile of tiny, aromatic, pink flowers on the floor in front of his door and on top of them a shiny metal comb. Simon's tired brain hardly stopped to think of any of the dire warnings he'd found on forum posts and folklore sites alike, crouching and tenderly retrieving the piece from its bed of flora, careful not to crush any of the tiny blooms. Well... With all the knots in his hair-purposeful and otherwise-he's going to need a sturdy comb anyway.

#fae!soap #superstitious bastard!Ghost #little does Ghost know that Scottish fairies actually favor bread instead of being repelled by it #meanwhile the whole clothing trick would have totally worked if it weren't for the fact that Soap took as a courting gesture #also the idea of Ghost leaving out two ounces of hazelnut coffee creamer and Soap just feeling his heart beating out of his chest #but he doesnt want to be presumptuous so he waits until hes got absolute confirmation that Ghost wishes to court him #and he gives him gloves...so he can touch him and not be burned by the iron #Soap is simultaneously three steps ahead and six steps behind #cod mw2 #ghost x soap #ghostsoap #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #fae!au #and to think i wanted to upload this to ao3 😑

[soupy-sez]

Hall and Oates with Todd Rundgren backstage at the Roxy Theatre in 1978 for the recording of the live album "Back To The Bars" in Los Angeles, © Richard Creamer

#hall and oates #daryl hall #todd rundgren #john oates #1970s #70s #music #musicians #pics #b/w #richard creamer #soupy's #los angeles

[gooopy]

yeah sorry. we put your butch in the reverse beartrap. yeah no hes not gonna succeed jigsaws moral test. yeah he fumbled a bad bitch and also he smokes so hes gonna die. SAD oh well theres other butches

#scully #ocs #goopys glop #saw #reverse bear trap #uhhh idk if ihate to tag this as anything else #whatevarrrrrr #wanted to doodle him in the contraption but went 'nooo its too hardd' #and then i tried anyways and it came out AWSOMEEEE YEYYYY #i love drawing for fun #anyways hes not like a saw oc or anything ive just been watching through the saw franchise #mr john creamer would hate his stupid ass i thuink

[bornsexyesterday]

endermen are enderMean! stole my fuckign pum.pkin s

Was it John.

#if it was John I can sak for them to give ot back. he probably didnt mean it #maybe they wanted to stack it like coffee creamers #meincraf anon

[mitjalovse]

I haven't really scratched the surface about these mercurial musician figures in my discussions on them and their works that continue to astound us with their strong ability to be quite surprising. Nonetheless, I would say Miles Davis should be seen as one of the most prominent members of the category thanks to him basically remodifying himself a lot throughout his career. Look, he could've coasted on what he did during the 50's and the 60's, yet his 70's remain one of the most shocking explorations in … well, we should say jazz, he was the master of the idiom, though his albums from In A Silent Way basically went into the weirdest directions, causing many to be baffled by Davis' direction. However, Davis' 70's records show you the sort of freedom only jazz can provide.

#miles davis #on the corner #black satin #michael henderson #don alias #jack dejohnette #al foster #billy hart #james mtum #carlos garnett #dave liebman #bernie maupin #chick corea #herbie hancock #harold ivory williams #cedric lawson #dave creamer #reggie lucas #john mclaughlin #khalil balakrishna #colin walcott #paul buckmaster #badal roy #teo macero #70's music #jazz fusion

[rboooks]

The Royal Consort Part 2

Danny nervously took a sip out of the coffee mug. The rich liquid, filled with surgery goodness and creamer, helped settle his nerves as he tried to think of what to say.

Across from him sat Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman, and a man named John Constantine. Besides Danny, Jazz, and his parents sat, though only Jazz seemed unfazed by the situation, staring back at the heroes as if daring them to start a conversation first.

Sometimes he forgot she was the most mentally stable one in the family.

The Dark Knight had said nothing to him since he was brought up to the watch tower, the white lens of his mask staring back at Danny with no hint of emotion behind them.

This contrasts Superman, who had warmly offered them coffee and pie as they were brought into the meeting room. The man of steel had even allowed them all to pick a mug from the gift shop free of charge, smiling warmly when Danny hesitantly asked for a Martian Manhunter theme.

Wonder Woman had given him a courteous bow befitting her status. She seemed eager to sit down and get the peace summit going as soon as possible. It seemed she had prepared various speeches, bills, and other essential documents Danny had yet to understand in his Government Studies class. She offered the young man a warm smile whenever his eyes nervously wandered to her.

John Constantine mainly had remained silent past the few swears under his breath. He fiddled with Danny's necklace- the Royal Consort necklace. How could he have been so stupid to wear that around his neck for so long without realizing what it was? It did explain why that particular necklace had a whole room to be displayed in.

It was in the center, on a lavish pillow, on a pure marble pillar. Surrounding it were six more miniature lockets, each on their own less extravagant pillar and pillow, with similar symbols. The smaller ones almost tempted Danny until he saw that this necklace had white and red, his favorite colors.

The others had been black and red.

He wonders now what the lockets meant and if giving one to Dani had been a mistake. He hadn't had the time to text her, seeing as he had been whisked away by the Justice League as soon as he woke up.

He was escorted out of his home before ten am with news crews tripping over themselves to get a few shots of Ecto-Royalty. They had his house surrounded, flashes and questions coming from all sides as the paparazzi struggled to be the first to get Consort Daniel Fenton to comment for them.

Danny swears Sam had been one of them, laughing silly with Tucker, who had somehow gotten a hold of a prominent news camera. The two had likely thought his secret had been outed and were trying to sneak him away while pretending to be media.

"Come on. Come on," Constantine muttered in frustration, poking a glowing finger into the center of his locket. Each time he did, a soft ding went off in Danny's head, and he fought to not react. He thinks Batman had seen his flinch the first time it happened, but he hadn't said anything about it yet, so Danny hoped he was wrong.

Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.

Danny grimaces as the sound replays over and over again before he can't take it anymore and finally speaks up. "Could...could you not do that to my necklace?"

Constantine blinks, then hastily places his locket on the table as if it burned him. "Forgive me, your Majesty. I meant no disrespect."

"It's cool dude. You, ugh, don't have to call me that, by the way. Danny is fine."

The magic-user shakes his head. "Forgive me, your Majesty, but I could not do something so disrespectful. I can switch to Prince Danny, but never Danny. If His Majesty Phantom were to hear me make such a blunder, it could break apart any form of peace. I'm sure you know how much ghost value rules."

Danny thinks of the Yearly Treaty, Walker with his prison, The Observant's court, Clockwork's time frames, and even Far Frozen formal speech. He sighs. "Yeah, Phantom won't care, but his subjects will."

"Exactly."

"Speaking of King Phantom, would he be joining us soon?" Wonder Woman asks. Danny has a moment of panic before Jazz smoothly steps in.

"Phantom and Danny agree to not have him appear if Danny is near our parents." She says, gesturing to their horrified parents.

"What?" Mom looks close to tears, guilt making her face seem much older than Danny has ever thought possible. "Honey, is this true?"

Danny shifts in his seat. "Yes?"

"Oh Honey, why?"

"What are we going to do today, Jack?" Jazz cuts in again in a poor imitation of their mom. She deepens her voice, trying to match Dad's happy-go-lucky tune as she dramatically shakes her fist. "What we do every day, Maddie. Try to capture the ghost boy and rip him molecule by molecule!"

The other heroes make faces, but nothing compares to the devastated expressions on his parents' faces. He almost told them it was okay, that he had forgiven them, but Jazz glanced sharply in his direction and knew it was best not to say anything.

She has often said the only way he could rally heal from all the unintended trauma their parents inflected on them- not just the hunting but slight negligence- was to have them first see exactly what they had done. It would be harsh, but it would be necessary.

"Makes sense" That is all Dad says. He's been so quiet since this morning. Danny is worried about him.

"That explains why he hasn't answered the summons." Constantine sighs. Danny opens his mouth to ask, but Superman beats it to him.

"You were summoning him?"

"Attempting to." Constantine corrects. "Prince Danny's locket has a calling bacon in it. Someone pressing magic against the center alerts King Phantom that his husband wants to speak to him. It's difficult magic too. Anyone with less control or power would be blown to smithers if they attempt it. Or, in Prince Danny's case tapping his finger against it works too since the necklace is for him. "

"Would anyone with the necklace be able to call Phantom then?" Batman finally speaks up. His voice makes Danny jump in his seat. It sounds a lot....darker than he thought a human could make.

"No. The necklace would only work if Prince Danny willingly let someone have it. If someone tried to take it by force, the necklace would transport itself back to King Phantom's lair or Prince Danny's person."

Danny clears his throat. ''Phantom and I have other rules. He can only come to see me if I'm not in school or if one of his subjects is attacking Amity Park. Otherwise, he mostly stays within the Infinity Realms."

Constantine nods as if that makes perfect sense. "The strain on your body must make it difficult to keep your husband here."

Danny nods, then takes another sip.

"If you don't mind me asking. How did you meet King Phantom?" Superman asks.

"I'm....a meta. I can make my eyes glow in the dark and I can turn invisible." Danny blurts, making both his parents gasp. Jazz nods as if it was common knowledge and not something Danny made up on the spot.

Those two abilities have always been more linked to his emotions, so Danny thought if he established a fake meta gene as the cause if he was later caught doing them, no one would bat an eye. The world was watching him now, he needed to be careful. "It's nothing really impressive, but I guess the day I activated it caught his attention."

"How so?"

"Um, well I was playing in my parents' lab when my best friends dared me to go into the portal. I thought it wouldn't work, so I did, but it launched me into the zone as soon I stepped into it. Phantom was this big ice looking thing flying by when I was falling in the zone- they don't really have ground in there. Everything was floating, but I just started falling and screaming since I couldn't fly. He caught me and offered to help me back to my home. The only thing was I didn't know how to go home, which way was up or down, and I didn't know how long I was gone. We tried to fly for a while, but the Infinite Realms always change. By that time, my home portal had moved to who knew where. Phantom took me to his lair to rest, Phantom, since he thought I was a baby ghost because my eyes glowed until I accidentally cut my hand on one of his icicles and bled-"

"You allowed your human blood to fall in his lair!?" Constantine sounds horrified. Oops? Maybe, stealing one of Frost Bites' few human encounter stories wasn't the brightest thing he could have done?

Oh well, he's already so far into the story. "Yeah, he reacted the same way. I freaked and turned myself invisible when he saw my blood."

"Blimey, I knew King Phantom is a protective spirit, but to think he didn't do anything to you once he found out you are a human- a virgin human no less- in his own lair? Benevolent is too little of a word for him."

Yeah, Danny really didn't like the sound of that. Sadly Constantine didn't seem willing to continue that line of conversation, and it would be really suspicious if he asked for more information since he is supposed to be the most informed person here.

After a slight pause, he continues, trying to sound confident. "He helped me get home after a while. Once we found the entrance to Amity Park, he asked if he could come to see me again in the living world. I told him it was fine, but I didn't think he meant it for real. Sam and Tucker- ugh my best friends- said I was only gone for three minutes but I swear it was much longer."

Danny could feel his face heating up. This is so embarrassing to be talking about himself in the third person. He felt so lame.

Jazz gave him an encouraging nod when he peaks at her. At least the others were buying his story.

"The next thing I know, my town is almost overturned by ghosts because, apparently, our passing through the portal stabilized it and established it as a new permanent entrance. I told Phantom, who vowed he keep it safe for me, and yeah, he fumbled a bit in the beginning, but he did a good job. Whenever he needed to fight I had to find somewhere safe to hide, so that I could keep him here, and that's why I missed so much of school and sleep all of freshmen year. His last big fight was against the old king Pariah Dark after the monster took Amity Park into the zone. Once he won, he was crowned and he um gave me this necklace. We've been going ugh, steady since."

The room was silent until Wonder Woman smiles "A most romantic tale Prince Danny."

Ugh, it really was. His face grew even redder as Jazz snorted. "Thank you."

Feeling an intense stare, Danny looks up, only to be met with Batman's emotionless face. "The reason you and King Phantom look exactly alike is that he took your shape, didn't he?"

What.

"That's standard practice." Constantine waves his hand. "Powerful beings that need to anchor themselves to the human realm often take humanoid figures. If King Phantom saw Prince Danny and thought he was the most beautiful person he's ever seen -which is likely since there haven't been any hints of Phantom having any partner before now- he would, of course, make himself look like him. He even copied his parents' hazard suits because he likely thought that would honor them. Am I right, Prince Danny? ."

I could kiss you, English man. Danny thinks gratefully as he nods.

Batman grunts but for a second, Danny thinks he didn't buy it. He doesn't say anything else.

"Well, what about-"

Whatever Wonder Woman was going to say gets cut off by a blur flying into the room. The heroes all spring up into battle positions as the blur rushes Danny. He's about to throw himself before his sister to protect her until the blur slows down.

It's Dani. She's wearing her own necklace too. Shit.

"Are you okay!?" She gasps. "I saw them take you on the TV and came as soon as I could!"

"Who are you?" Superman demands. His clone turns to the other side of the room, hands pose in a fighting stance and the British man gasps.

"Stand down! She's a royal!." He shouts, pointing at her necklace. His blue eyes flicker between the two halfas until they widen dramatically. "Princess, I swear we have done no harm to your father."

Dani tilts her head, momently thrown. "My father?"

"You are wearing the Heir Apparent symbol. I assumed you were made from Prince Danny and King Phantom. I apologize if I am wrong."

"No need. I am made from Danny." Dani smiles, likely unaware that the magic man meant a daughter rather than the correct answer, as in clone.

"I'm a grandmother!?" Mom shouts, and his Dad bursts into tears.

The room descends into chaos.

( Part 1 ) (Part 3)

#The royal Consort #dc x dp crossover #part 2 #Danny is going for a acting award #Dani is now his daughter #A romantic tale fit for a rom-con #Jazz is holding her own against Batman #misunderstandings

[acowardinmordor]

You Left Me - You Miss Me - 4

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four

Hi, time for more, arguably making things better, but also arguably making things much worse.

----

There was a diner a block and a half from their apartment. Steve found it when the sky opened up during his jog one morning. Snow, he could have handled, he was dressed for it. Slushy sleet mixed with hail was another matter. He ducked inside to hide until it passed, chatted with the owner for a bit, and brought Robin with him the next day because they had an amazing spread of waffle toppings, including crumbled bacon, and Steve knew she’d go crazy about it.

He was correct, and it was their go to spot, not just for breakfast. 

At the end of January, Rebecca sat down to join them, and handed Steve an application. 

Steve was already working at a JC Penny in the stock room, and picked up a few hours at a roller rink filling in when someone called out. They had enough money to live. Not decadently, but they could cover all their bills, and keep gas in the car, and buy supplies for Robin’s classes.  

“Uh, Rebecca, I’m- thank you? But. My memory sucks, and my hearing isn’t great, and if someone starts getting rude, I’m going to get rude back to them, and --”

“This is a diner, hun,” she stopped him, “You write the orders down, you can always tell someone to say it again, and the fact you can shut down anyone that gives you lip is why I think you’ll be good at it. Like I said, it’s a diner. We don’t have to be all sunshine and daisies here.”

“I’m working at another--”

“Over at the mall and the rink, I know. And I know you’re free Monday through Wednesday mornings. And,” she stressed, “staff gets free meals and first dibs on the day olds.”

“Dingus!" Robin gasped and grabbed his arm. "Do it, do it. Stevie. Please, oh my god, please, you have to take it. You can bring me the brioche buns. And that apple butter. And that thing with the nuts! Steeevveee, don’t you love your soulmate? Please? I cou--”

So Steve took the job, and worked a few mornings a week. By the third week of February, he stopped feeling like he was going to fuck up any second. He understood why Rebecca liked his ability to get bitchy in the face of difficult customers, and he and Robin had cupboards well stocked with random take homes. 

He liked it. Starting at five in the morning took some getting used to, but he was done by one, and traded off with a middle aged mom named Susan after the lunch rush settled down. Was it a ton of money? No. But he got more tips than he expected to, and the brioche really was delicious. 

The last week of February, he was working alone on a Tuesday, at the start of the lunch rush, expecting Susan to arrive soon, and an easy day. 

“Be with you in a minute,” he called to whoever just came inside, bussing half a dozen empty plates from table two after dropping off more creamer at table four. He looped back, ducking behind the counter to put the plates on the pass through for Nick to grab. 

He dropped the entire stack before he got there.

His hands clenched down, his muscles locked, and even though it should have made him hold harder, everything slipped, and either shattered on the tiles or banged into his feet.

Jim Hopper winced from his seat at the counter. “Sorry, kid.”

The couple of other diners glanced up to check on him, and John looked around the window from the kitchen. Steve didn’t move. Couldn't. Could barely breathe.

“Is it back?”

“No.”

His exhale shook out of him before he shoved down the panic.

“Then whatever this is can wait.” 

“I’m just here to talk.”

“And I said it can wait.”

He swept up the broken dishes, shrugged off John’s silent offer to throw Hopper out, and reminded himself there was no reason to think that the Upside Down was back. That meant this was going to be more awkward and less dangerous, and he was going to hate it, but it was still the better version of the day. 

“What’ll you have?” 

“Kid, I’m here to talk cause I didn’t think you’d want me at your place.”

“And I’m at work, and this is a diner, so what’ll you have?”

“Steve--”

“I’ll bring you coffee. I’m not talking about this while I’m working.”

“Coffee’s good. When are you off?”

Steve gave his bitchiest smile, didn’t answer, and went to seat the couple that just walked in. 

The lunch rush was a mercy. Susan handled Hopper, and gave him the iciest service anyone had ever gotten under that roof. Hopper took it gracefully, but he didn’t shift, or push, or give any indication that he wasn’t willing to sit there til midnight if he had to. 

Normally, Steve would get some lunch to go and head home. If the weather was bad, he ate at the booth in the corner to wait it out. With the way his stomach was twisting, unable to separate Hopper from what his arrival could mean, he wasn’t going to keep food down. He filled a glass of water, then silently gestured Hop to follow. 

“Good to see you, Steve,” he said when they sat. “You and Robin doing okay up here?”

“We’re fine. Why are you here? If it isn’t something to do with, you know, then why are you here?”

“Maybe I just came up to check on you.”

“Did you?” Steve snorted into his drink when that question made Hopper’s face twist up. “So what is this?”

“I am here to check on you. There’s something else, but I came here because I’m checking on you. Me and you weren’t all that close, but you had Mrs Buckley give me your info so I’d know where you were.”

“Yeah, in case of an emergency. And you said there wasn’t any emergency. Plus, you had my phone number, so you could have called, which would be way less weird than showing up while I’m at work, you know?”

Hopper scratched at his cheek. “It’s not an emergency compared to all the reasons you wanted me to be able to find you, but if you ask those kids, this may as well be the end of the world again.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right.”

“Yeah, well. Henderson is gonna get himself arrested if he keeps trying to steal the mail and find something addressed to you. Max keeps pushing El to try and find you. The only reason they haven’t gone completely crazy is because of the Buckleys telling them that you’re fine. She gave me your address and number, and she talked for a little bit about the kids.” 

Steve smiled at that. Mrs Buckley had never talked a ‘little bit’ about anything in her life. Either she was holding the line on being rude to anyone that might bother them, or Hop was pretending he hadn’t listened to a solid hour of rambling.  

“Still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

“Want to ask if I can -- shit, I don’t know. I can route mail back and forth so they never have your address or something. I’d rather give them your info so I don’t have to be involved, but I already know you won’t agree to that.”

Steve ignored the pause that Hopper left there. Conversation and good manners said he should concede to something so he wouldn’t inconvenience the man too much. The last month with Robin supporting his choice kept his mouth shut. She’d be pissed at him if he folded, and worse, she’d help him get through all the pain it caused if he did talk to the kids again. Then he’d feel guilty and sad. 

“Alright,” Hopper grumbled, “Didn’t think you would, but you know how those kids can be. Can’t fault me for trying.”

“So, we’re done? You sat here all this time just to talk for three minutes?”

“Almost.” 

“So….” At least Steve could enjoy the fact that neither of them were enjoying this.  Hopper winced a bit before he spoke. 

“I didn’t tell any of the kids I was coming up to see you. None of them knew, and none of them are gonna know. Didn’t even tell Joyce why, just that I was driving up to Indy. Already had a plan in case they tried to tail me up here. So, had a surprise this morning when I got to my truck. it might change your answer.”

“Didn’t know you were so dramatic about stuff.”

“Side effect of two hours with that surprise, I guess. Eddie Munson came up with me.”

Any of the kids would have hurt. 

Henderson might have made him cry. 

Eddie Munson? That didn’t make sense. 

They weren’t friends, never had been. The Upside Down meant they were connected, but they were never more than acquaintances, even when Steve was desperately trying to keep them all close. Sure, he’d taken over as the chauffeur for the kids, and everyone’s new best friend, but that didn’t explain why he’d bother to come up to talk to Steve. 

“What the hell? Why?”

“He asked.”

“And you said yes.”

“He said please.”

That was not the whole story. There was something getting skipped over, left out. Hopper tolerated Munson, but he wouldn’t do him a favor if there wasn’t some kind of monster involved. 

“Wait, you’ve been here for two hours.”

“Yep.”

“Did you just leave him in your truck this whole time? That front came through overnight. The high is thirty four today.”

“Yeah, I did,” Hopper said flatly. “He told me he wanted to come up so he could talk to you. Told me a little bit about why. And I said yes and I let him come, but I told him that I was gonna talk to you first. If you said no, he was gonna stay in that seat clear back to Hawkins, and keep his mouth shut about this whole thing.”

“How’d he know what you were doing?”

“No clue.”

“What does he want to talk about?”

“Not gonna say it for him.” Hopper shifted towards the edge of the booth. “So, want me to tell him to buckle back up, or tell him to get his ass in here?”

A quick consult with the imaginary Robin in his head left him just as confused, but curious as hell. He agreed, and fidgeted with a napkin, struggling to think of any reason why Eddie Munson would want to talk to him, or what the hell he said that the kids hadn’t that convinced Hopper to drive him up. 

Stuck in his head, Steve jumped when a mess of a man in denim and leather slid shivering into the seat opposite. The scars on his face and hands were less vivid than they were last time they saw each other, but they still worked as a thermometer. Steve's did the same.

“Why the hell were you sitting in the cold, man?”

Eddie blinked, and froze where he was rubbing his hands together trying to get feeling back. “Hopper took the keys.”

Steve’s turn to blink. This was the guy taking care of his kids. 

“Susan?” He called, gesturing for two when she lifted the coffee carafe in a question.

“You don’t need to do that.”

“Dude, I don’t know what the hell you’re doing here or why you care or what the hell is happening, but I’m not gonna let you sit there shaking cause you’re a dumbass who doesn’t know what gloves are.”

Steve watched packet after packet of sugar pour into Eddie’s, while he stirred a splash of half and half into his own cup. Eddie took a gulp, hissed at the heat, and clutched at the mug, eyes glued to the nicked surface of the table. 

“I’m sorry.”

“For rotting your teeth out? That’s your choice, Munson.”

“No,” Eddie insisted, voice hoarse, “I’m sorry about the kids.”

Steve took a breath, took a sip, took another breath. “Look, man, that’s not on you. You play D&D with them, and you like all their nerdy shit. I was -- They grew up. We got through everything, all of that, we won, and they grew up. It’s not your fault that they like you more than they liked me. So, thanks, I guess, but--”

“Steve. No. They didn’t. They -- those kids did not suddenly grow up and decide they didn’t like you anymore. You are their favorite person anywhere, ever, you will be for the rest of eternity, and they don’t understand why no one will tell them how to reach you. They put on a really good show about being mad about it, but, come on, you know what they’re like. They want to apologize cause they know they hurt you, and they want to fix it, and just, you gotta let them try, Steve. You gotta let them talk to you. They miss you so fucking much.”

“Look, I know how they get, and I know how dramatic they are, but it’s still not your fault--”

“It is. Steve. It is my fault. That’s - That’s why you have to talk to them. Cause they didn’t grow up and get over you or decide they didn’t care about you. Those kids are crazy about you, and they never stopped, and they’re hurt right now cause they don’t understand why you left them, and you gotta fix it with them, please.”

Something pinged weird in his ear when he heard the way Munson’s voice cracked. Not just worry, not just helping, not just caring about the kids. Guilt. He was taking the blame for it, even though that didn’t make any sense. The kids were - brats, gremlins, terrors, the most stubborn people he’d ever met, and he knew Nancy Wheeler. If they wanted to be around him, they would be around him. 

It wasn’t Eddie’s fault, or anyone’s fault. It hurt like hell, and Steve wished it wasn’t true, but this was just life. Kids grew up, their interests moved. Friendships changed and ended. 

But that crack of guilt…

“How is it your fault and not theirs that they stopped wanting to ever see me?”

Eddie’s hands stopped shaking from the cold before he got the coffee. 

His hands were shaking again.

Trembled in the time between Steve asking, and Eddie managing to respond.  

“I, uh, I asked them to.”

----

Don't be too mad at him yet. He has a lot more to say.

Part Five >>>

#You Left Me - You Miss Me #my writing #steddie eventually #focus on the eventually today

[notyetjae]

RDR2 Coffee orders.

an: this is a modern au if it isn’t clear,

Arthur Morgan:

Black coffee

And he orders like “A large regular coffee” and if you ask if wants cream or sugar he’s like “Nope, regular.”

He gets oddly pissed off about that, (High honor arthur doesn’t show it tho.)

He’ll put like 2 sugars in if he’s feeling fancy.

John Marston:

Black coffee in front of the gang, coffee with french vanilla creamer by himself

He used to drink it with creamer in front of Arthur but he made fun of him.

He’s just takes care of his tongue okay. He’s sensitive.

I feel like he would sip Abigails super sweet latte and be like “eww wtf” and inside he would be like THAT SLAPPEDDD

Let John Marston drink a pumpkin spice latte.

Dutch Van der lin:

Black coffee OR Cappuccino

Modern Dutch would be a coffee nerd, an annoying one too, if you’ve encountered a coffee nerd irl you know.

Spends 20 minutes explaining the intricacies of a cappuccino to Molly. (Poor thing)

He hates flavor though, he thinks it’s the devil.

Charles smith:

Coffee with cream and sugar/flavor, maybe a latte as a treat.

I feel like he would like coffee over a latte, too much caffeine makes him feel crazy.

He’s such a plain jane I’m sorry.

Hosea Matthews:

Proud latte enjoyer.

This man has such a sweet tooth, even if he gets a coffee with cream he’ll add like whip cream onto it 😭

He has no problems with black coffee, but go big or go home right?

He would fuck up one of those signature lattes from Dunkin

Lenny Summers:

Not a coffee enjoyer, will shot gun a bang energy however.

Mary-Beth Gaskill:

Iced latte with caramel + vanilla and cold foam with cinnamon sugar

Listen now that we’re onto the girls shit’s getting serious.

I also believe she’s an avid cold brew enjoyer.

SHE LOVES SEASONAL FLAVORS.

Dunkin > Starbucks girlie.

Also probably gets a choco muffin.

Tilly Jackson:

Cold brew 3 mocha, 2 caramel, 1 french vanilla, oat milk and sugar with cold foam and mocha drizzle.

She gets this like 4 times a week.

And no one batted an eye until Karen saw the sticker on the cup and was like girl ur gonna die by 30.

Genuinely confused about how her order is “too much.”

Karen Jones:

Iced coffee girl FOR LIFE.

Honestly her order changes alot, She’ll order the same thing for a few weeks and then switch it up.

Also a dunkin > Starbucks girlie.

Will ride or die for Caramel. (Also she says it “car-mel” aka the right way.)

The type of girl to have like an absurd amount of reward points because she doesn’t use them.

Sadie Adler:

Honestly prefers sweet tea to coffee.

But when she does need energy she’ll get an Americano with an extra shot (she’s tired of Pearson’s bullshit.)

No cream or sugar, like a real woman.

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #red dead headcanons #arthur morgan #john marston #sadie adler #lmk if you want more of this #im a barsita btw #certified lesbian in a coffee shop

[sehtoast]

Like Real People Do (Depowered Homelander x OC)

spidersona oc, depowered homie, silly sweet domestics, bittersweet almost, i love him | Fic Directory

prompt 3 : grocery shopping

@cozycornerevents

The simplicity of human life has been one of the greater hurdles for Homelander.  If not for Benjamin, he doubts he’d do more than stand like a fool, list in hand, hoping for some Vought assistant to show up and do the insurmountably mundane task for him.  But… those days are gone.

It’s taken him a long time to get to this point.  Going out in public after losing his powers seemed a feat greater than flying ever was.  It was petrifying to imagine someone recognizing him as he was now, all scruffy and dark-haired, so pitifully human with his eyeglasses.  He’s never quite sure if it’s a compliment or insult when Benjamin tells him no one will notice.

He settles for it being neither.  This is him now– Homelander is simply who he used to be despite how he still clings to his old identity.  He’s just John now.

Just John.

John, who walks hand in hand with his secretly-super boyfriend through the aisles of the supermarket, doing his best to spot the items they need.

New toothbrush.  Mouthwash– not that weird stuff we got last time.

John, who was learning bit by bit, day by day, what it means to have that normal life he’d always dreamt of.  Picket fence or not, this was it.

Pasta noodles.  Chicken breasts.  Lettuce.  Hot sauce.

The mundane.  The ordinary.  A far shot from the way he’d been raised.  

Mini Spidey-O’s Cereal.  Paper Towels.

Something that little boy in the lab could’ve never imagined. 

Coffee creamer.  Milk.

Something the man he was a mere two years prior could’ve never fathomed.

Chocolate ice cream. Frozen blueberries.

Things the man he is today will never take for granted.

Flowers, because you deserve them, pumpkin ♥

“What?” Ben asks with a playful smile.

And someone who makes each little moment worth more than all the power in the world.

“Nothing,” Homelander mumbles, his cheeks burning a light pink.  Still so odd how something as simple as goddamn grocery store flowers can make him turn red– make him feel appreciated.  Not that simple twenty dollar bouquets were the extent of Benjamin’s gifting to him– certainly not, it was just…

So goddamn simple.

“D’you have your rewards card, sweetie?” The cashier asks him.  An older woman by the name of May who he’d come to appreciate during these trips.  Thursdays were their grocery day specifically so they could chat with her.  She doted on them.  Dubbed the boys ‘her favorites.’

John’s awkward stacking on the conveyor belt ceases and he fumbles for his wallet.  She scans it despite the little nervous shakes in his hands that he won’t quite be able to quell until they’re back in the safety of their home.  May gives him a sweet smile and starts scanning, passing each item down to Benjamin for bagging.

He has to ignore the tabloids and magazines adorning the checkout lane. 

Homelander Vanished. 

Abandoned by Our Hero. 

Years since his ‘retirement,’ yet his old image stares him down wherever he goes. He keeps his focus on May and Ben to spare himself the burn of agony and shame. When his eyes try to wander back, he makes himself stare at a magazine with Ben's mask printed on the front. 

Along Came a Spider. 

How a Bug Brought Balance. 

She strikes up her regular small talk.  The weather, the bustle of the city– and damn that traffic, she always says.  Ben giggles back and forth with her, and Homelander pitches in from time to time.  She talks about her grandchildren for a while– Shaun and Emily, the absolute loves of her life, the stars in her sky– then grins widely as she scans the bouquet. 

“Boys, forgive an old woman for being nosy, but when is the wedding?”  

Both him and Benjamin smile wide and turn a shade or two red.

“Maybe someday,”  they both tell her in unison.

“Good,” she says over the beep of the scanner.  “I want a front row seat, y’all hear me?”

They grin and giggle the whole way home about it, hands joined over the center console of the car.  

Marriage… 

“Well, y’know… Vought did put my last name on your papers.” Ben hums. He never told Homelander the ugly reason why it was done, but John didn’t need to know that.  His elation at the liberation of finally legally existing was all that mattered.  “In a way, aren’t we kinda already sorta married?”

Homelander blinks a few times in rapid succession as the thought nests and roots in his mind.  Are they? 

“I swear, May gives us some weird realization every time we go.” The bug grins.  “Here I thought she couldn’t beat that whole ‘it’s impossible to kiss yourself anywhere but on the lips in the mirror’ bit, but she outdid herself today, huh?”

John squeezes Ben’s hand tighter almost out of instinct.  Despite the cool air blowing from the air vent, he couldn’t fight the sting of tears in his eyes. 

Married… 

“Hey, you okay?”  Ben murmurs as they approach an all too convenient red light.

Is he?  Hell, will he ever be?

He just nods.  It’s not abnormal for him to have his silent little mood shifts.  He’s sure Ben will understand. 

Besides, that was too big of a question.  In truth, he’s mystified by the idea.  Once upon a time, he dreamt of putting a ring on Ben’s finger.  He knew, though, that Vought would never let them be public.  They could never in a million years dream of it without a trillion pounds of consequences being dropped on their heads.  Public backlash, too, given the general views of his former fanbase.  But that never stopped him from imagining another world.   He’d have walked Ben out on stage in front of the masses, dropped to one knee, and popped the question then and there– and damn it he might cry in the moment, but would that be a bad thing?  To hear his little spider agree to spend eternity with him, to slip that little band on his finger and feel his heart bloom in his chest– would it be wrong to feel it in his very soul?

Homelander sniffles himself from his stupor when he feels the soft thud of the car pulling into the driveway.  

Home.

Where he’s safe and loved, always and forever, with that dork who insisted upon carrying every bag in all at once by himself.  The same one who wasted no time at all in pressing a warm kiss to his lips and gazing at him with a cosmos worth of love in his eyes.

Homelander shuts his eyes and leans in to press his forehead against Ben’s.  There’s groceries to put away and dinner to be made, but for now it doesn’t hurt to bask in the presence of the love of his life.  If he lets his mind wander far enough, right now, right then, they’re swaying gently to their first dance as an officially married couple.  They’ll have just tied the knot, and everyone that matters will be there.  He feels Ben’s arms snake up around his neck and he wraps his own around the bug’s waist.

Times like these make him miss his powers more than anything.  Once upon a time, they’d do exactly this above the clouds, spinning slowly in place.  The world was theirs.

Perhaps, though, it still is.  

Perhaps they’d never lost it at all.

link insertion busted, ao3 link here

#homelander #homelander fanfiction #homelander x oc #the boys #antony starr #the benlander agenda #cozy corner domaystic

[m4ctavish]

Captain Price — General Headcanons.

Masterlist.

Pairing : John Price/GN! Reader

Desc : Just some general headcanons regarding Mr. Price :)

A/N : captain john price?? on my call of duty blog?? its more likely than you think. (also, special thanks to @callsignkonig and @zechie-spams for helping me w/ these LMFAOO)

John Price :

Random thought to start off with but Price probably drinks cheap beer. Like he’d absolutely spend money on expensive cigars but beer? Nope. Absolute dog water quality beer is the way to go

Probably keeps some cigars around, like in a drawer with a false bottom (why he’d need to hide them, i don’t know— maybe he just likes hiding the good stuff)

He absolutely wears camo crocs. (I do not take criticism) You two have matching crocs??? Even better (one of my friends said that he’d wear socks and sandals and honestly, if you wanna take that as a headcanon, go for it)

He’d absolutely take you hiking, jogging or fishing (but like, super early in the morning before the sun comes up, kinda dark and it’s still kind of chilly. lots of morning dew. he wants to watch the sunrise with you :sob:)

He’s an early riser but he’s Not Happy about it. It’s just one of those things that’s engrained in his mind, like he cannot sleep for longer than a specific amount of time before he wakes up (or he wakes up at the same time every day)

If you get up around the same time as him, he’ll brew you something to drink alongside his own cup of tea or coffee (depending on what he’s feeling that morning) He probably has your specific preferences memorized (things like if you want a certain amount of sugar, no sugar at all, creamer or no creamer, honey, etc.)

Price definitely prioritizes others’ problems over his own; it’s easier to solve somebody else’s issues than to focus on his own or to let somebody else fret over him. (you’ll have to sit him down and have a talk w/ him about letting you take care of him for once because he’s always so goddamn stubborn. also, you’ll probably have to tell him that it’s okay to let go of the captain mantle every now and then)

Take some time to massage out the tension in his shoulders or back, he’ll appreciate it. He also loves it when you run your fingers through his hair/just play with his hair or massage his scalp. (Kind of gives me lap dog energy— he just likes resting his head on your stomach/chest and letting you do your thing if he’s had a long day)

Similar to Soap, I feel like he’ll definitely tell you that he loves you whenever the two of you won’t be seeing one another for extended periods of time (either he has to leave for a month or the two of you have to split up for a mission) He’d also press a kiss to your forehead or just hold you tight :AGONY:

Kinda feel like he’s a cuddler if the two of you sleep in the same bed. Guarantee that he’ll always have an arm wrapped around your waist, his face pressed against your shoulders. It’s not a super firm or tight hold and you could move away if you wanted to but it’s enough to be comforting

He’s always super warm too, almost inhumanly so?? Perfect for when you get cold ig

With that said, I feel like this man sleeps like a rock when he wants to but otherwise he wakes up pretty easily, if that makes sense. Like you could whisper a quiet, “John?” and he’d just hum a soft, “Hm?” (Alternatively, can you imagine shaking him awake and he does the thing moms do when you touch them when they’re asleep and they just slowly turn to look at you with wide eyes LMFAOO)

Pillow talk. Sometimes he just can’t sleep so the two of you will spend some time talking about whatever happened during the day or future plans (planned events, missions, etc.) However, if you start talking about stuff like, “John, do you think pigeons have feelings?” He’ll hit you with a joking, “I’m going to bed now.”

He cares about you A Lot. Like, put your life before his a lot; it could be in any scenario and he’d want you to come out completely unscathed if possible. (which may be a bit difficult if you’re also apart of the 141 because it’s quite literally in the job description that you may die at any moment in time 🧍he’d never forgive himself if something did happen to you under his command though. also, i feel like all of the guys are like this but alas)

If he were to have a signature nickname for his s/o, it’d probably be something simple like “Love” tbh or maybe “Sweetheart” (sweetheart perhaps a bit less)

#captain john price x reader #captain john price x you #john price x reader #john price x you #captain price x reader #captain price x you

[spectres-n-soap]

The Past - Ghost x Soap x You

Content Warnings - fluff, minor angst, afab!fem!reader, no use of Y/n or nicknames

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

It’s too fucking early for this shit, that is your first thought when you roll out of your cot. Distantly you can hear a certain Scot talking loudly, Soap is likely bugging Ghost. You drag your hands down your face as you look at your alarm clock, 04:48 am. “It’s too fucking early.” You grumble as you get up anyways.

After being in the military for years, long enough to have built up a good enough record to be recruited by John Price for 141 task force, you probably should be used to waking up at the ass crack of dawn. But even the sun is still slumbering, the sky isn’t even a faint shade of pink to welcome the giant ball of gas.

You pull on your uniform and slick your hair into a bun, fighting with little flyaways the entire time. You brush your teeth and scroll through your phone as you do so. Updates from your family on facebook and new instagram stories from friends and celebrities, the same thing every day. But that’s why you joined the military, well that was one of the reasons. Routine, something you thrived in just as much as being thrown into the field with nothing but your wits. You rinse out your mouth and look at yourself in the mirror for a second, staring dead into your own eyes before you leave the small bathroom.

You are slow to walk to the recreational room, burdened with the knowledge that Soap had already started his antics early. Ghost is sitting at the island counter, his broad shoulders hunched and his simple balaclava pushed up halfway as he takes sips from his tea. Soap is talking about something but you don’t have the patience or brain power to figure it out and by the way Ghost is, neither does he. You wander over to the coffee pot and pour yourself a cup before dumping as much creamer and sugar as you can possibly bear into it. “Is tha’ even coffee now?” Ghost asks.

Perhaps a few months ago you would have been startled at his sudden words but it seemed that the ice between the two of you had melted since you had covered his six in the last mission. “Don’t know, don’t care.” You mumble as you lean against the counter as you stir your coffee. You blow on it and take a tentative sip. Disgustingly sweet, good. Now you can’t taste the bitter coffee under it. You drag your eyes over the rec room and nod to a very tired Gaz who must have dragged himself out of bed no long after you. You watch as Gaz smacks Soap on the back of the head.

”Shut up mate, you’re gonna wake the entire barracks with your talkin’.” Gaz grumbles before he makes his way over to the coffee pot and pours himself what little is left in it. You cringe as he drinks it black, no matter how many times you’ve seen him do it your stomach still churns. Which is a weird thing, because you’ve seen the brutality of war and have both been the subject of and done interrogations that got messy.

But it's Gaz drinking straight black coffee that gets you. You know it's not even his preference! You had asked him how he can stomach it without any kind of creamer or sugar and he admitted that he only drinks it black in the morning because he doesn’t really care how his coffee is that early. That truthfully, he much prefers something sweet like a latte or something.

“Away n’ bile yer heid!” Soap snaps at Gaz, leaning over the back of the couch haphazardly.

”English MacTavish.” Ghost grunts and you can’t help the snicker that leaves you.

“Oh not ye tae lass.” Soap groans, feigning heartbreak as he collapses onto the couch dramatically.

”You a theater kid Johnny?”

”Nae, jus’ naturally talented.” Soap says and you can hear the wink he gives even if no one can see it. “Wha’ about ye L.T? Ye a theater kid?”

” ‘Course he is.” You pipe up, “I mean, look at him.” You tease, referencing his collection of skeleton paraphernalia.

”Shut it.” Ghost says but you swear you can see the corners of his eyes crinkle just a little.

You grunt as you land hard onto the mat. “Ow.” You grumble.You rub the back of your head as you sit up. You don’t know why you had chosen Ghost as your sparring partner, maybe you had some kind of hidden masochistic streak or a wish for a migraine by the end of the day. Either way, you were getting your ass thoroughly kicked. “Do you have to slam me so hard?” You ask as you get up from your spot on the mat.

”Maybe break my grip successfully and you won’t end up on the mat.” Ghost says and you roll your eyes at the same time you roll your shoulders to try and loosen them up. “Come on, let's go again.”

You don’t care what Ghost or Soap says, you watch them sit next to each other, a kind of closeness you silently envy. You might be a part of the team now, accepted and appreciated but you know you’ll never have what they have. Whatever that is, whether this bromance has more bro or ro to it is a subject much debated. But what matters is that Soap is the only person allowed to talk off Ghost’s ears no matter the subject. Soap gestures wildly with his hands and Ghost watches and listens, you don’t need to see his eyes to know there is a kind of fondness within them for the Scot.

You swallow the lump trying to form in your throat and dump the rest of your drink down the sink. “Think I’m gonna turn in for the night, I had an early morning.”

”I said sorry.” Soap grumbles and you laugh before you leave for your room. You lay in your cot and look at your hand, empty and cold. You feel a certain shame, a certain flavor of loneliness, when you place your hand in the other and clasp them together. The idea of your hand being held by someone, by certain someone’s, is both a comforting one and a heartbreaking one. You bit your lip and close your eyes, letting yourself pretend for just a moment.

[punk-in-docs]

‼️YOU (don’t) KNOW I’M NO GOOD‼️

Detective (Killer) Quinn x Reader

3.6k words - Sequel to Tainted Love -

Inspired by *that* photo shoot - this is for @ceriseheaven 💋

Summary: Danger is apparently closer than you realise. ‼️ TW dark themes within: graphic descriptions of death/murder, and some mild stalking ‼️ porn coming up hot in the next one folks (I forever wish I could be one of those writers who just hops right on into writing smut - you’ll have to hear me waffle a little bit first Kay?)

A Hooker is found dead off Sunset Boulevard. Throat slit.

Her lanky limbs, stuffed into a horrible stinking dumpster behind the Whisky a Go-Go.

A blue dime store high heel lays in the alley. There’s blood spattered on it

You were there like a flash. Still tripping into your heels and zipping up your skirt, pulling on panty hose. Doing up your pussy bow blouse as you waited at the bus stop. No food or coffee in your belly. You’d no time.

Just sheer gut adrenaline and deep throbbing hunger for this continuing nightmare. Your story is here and you’ll hunt it out.

The bucking up bootstrap talk you give to yourself every morning. Shaking off shallow sleep. Finding that well of your elbow grease and getting the bit tight between your teeth. Grabbing your lipstick and your voice recorder as you run out the door.

Forever hauling ass to and from the corner of Clinton and Larchmont at the Chronicle office. Whenever you’re needed; have pen and gumption, will travel.

Sleeping at your desk with a deadly knotted crick in your neck. Back and fucking forth, from your baby pink and slowly rotting Las Palmas apartment building.

You exist from ends to end of cigarettes and chucking back shots of bourbon at night after a steamy shower. You scrounged your way by on half snatched lunches on the go, mustard hotdogs or everything bagels, black coffee, two sugars, no creamer. Gin with ice and lemon on Friday nights, and little to no sleep at all.

News never sleeps. Why should you-

You’d scrape to the bottom of this hellscape crime if it killed you.

Oh Birdie, Birdie, Birdie.

Another girl mangled dead. Another bloodstain soaking into the very same stretch of tarmac that’s laid with the gold star walk of fame.

A house way up in the Hollywood hills with two male roommates. And now a Hooker dead a stones throw off the boulevard. It’s random. There’s no pattern there. No food-chain event to yet glimpse a rhythm in.

You’d managed to elbow your way past the male reporters. Balding fat Murray’s and Brad’s, who came flocking from the Times and the Glendale Press.

With their cheap brown suits and oily moustaches. Ketchup blobbed on their polyester shirts and sweat pit stains, and usual brand of misogynistic bullshit. The way they talk about the dead hooker is like she was vermin.

You struck gold. You found the girls. You shamelessly shove your nose, and your cheap Jet Rag heels, all up into the business of the deceased’s friends.

Gathered around the cordon with you, tear streaked. Wiping weepy mascara trails. Last nights make up still caked on and very high heels. Hickies around their necks and up fingertip marks cobwebbed up their thighs.

You don’t take shit from them. No male reporter thinks their input is valuable? You do. You carve out time for them in this callous fast paced city that sees them as unwanted features.

You learn her name. Skinny Tina. So called because of her love of smack. Junkie to it. Liked leopard print dresses and her blue denim jacket. Smoked lucky’s. Came from Nashville. Old fixture on this block. Older than the stars she trod over.

You learn how she kept her corner. Worked her patch solid, from Bob Hope, all the way up to Ella Fitzgerald. That was her turf.

They tell you about the John she got off with last night when they last saw her. You cling to that morsel like it’s your lifeline. Root out as much as you can.

Scribble furiously. White male. Mid forties. Red Thatcherite braces, whiff of Wall Street about him. Prick from a lawyers office or some shit like that.

You nod. You ask. You write. Pulling meat off the bones of this case

You’ve no idea you’re being watched.

From behind the shiny windscreen of a Porsche no less. He sips his shitty weak coffee. Slips his eyes all over you as you stand there with the hookers. Unswerving determination behind those glasses lenses of yours.

You give each of them your card. You tell them to get in touch if another girl goes missing. Or if anything happens. Catch anyone skulking around. Ring you. Day or night.

Like you care toots. You just want your name in the paper right? They stand there with one hip cocked. Eyeing you with spiky pessimism.

You’re punchy. You meet eyes and you don’t shrivel away. “I care.”

You scribble your personal number on the back in red biro and hand it over. Shove it at them with hard core stoicism. You take the time to stand here and give a shit about these women.

You stand behind the yellow tape and write endlessly on your pad, the girls drift away from you. Heels clicking sharp on tarmac. Back into the filthy streets. Back to brutality and drugs and trying to make a living.

The cops buzz around the scene like the very same flies that drift off the trash. Shooing people off from the alleyway. Overflowing garbage trampled all over the sticky greasy puddles in the concrete.

Poor girl. No place to die.

You feel your heart sink low, dragging deeper down like sediment as you consider how it must have been to have it all end like that, in a place like this.

This shining golden city of angels and hope and promise, and this is the worst part of its seedy underbelly. Rock clubs of legendary name and girls selling themselves outside of it. Dying out in the back alley, being left to rot like trash.

Worst of all, is that no one gives a shit. Another hooker dead.

That’s LA’s normal beat baby.

Out the corner of your eye you catch that car again. Flash of it. Hot rod red. Waxed shiny. You know he’d be here somewhere.

He strides into the crime scene past you. Time of no concern. Dunkin’ coffee cup in hand. Licking sugar glaze off his lips. Box of six glazed his other hand. Like this is some sort of brunch date, and not the scene of a homicide.

The big boots are still a fixture. Bell bottom black trousers like he’s on the set of Starsky & Hutch. Sitting on that trim slutty waist. Sways with his hips as he walks. A satin black button up with a too big collar, undone to his sternum. Wearing a gold medallion chain with a saint, but he sure as hell ain’t one.

His neck swims in sainted things but his hands have committed all manner of sins.

Peers at you across those ray bans. Brown eyes swimming up your legs. Licks his lips. Sweet sugar.

That prim little blouse he swears he can see your bra poking through. Dainty lace cups holding your tits. Skirt grazing good big sexy handfuls of your hips.

Fuck you look heavenly.

“Well well. If it ain’t my little Birdie.” He calls across to you as the tape is lifted for him by a stony faced cop. Macabre grin.

You look up from your pad. Meet those swallowing chocolate eyes. He’s leering over his shades at you.

“Quinn.” You swallow.

Try to ignore the way the blaze of morning sun slips like liquid amber down his skin. Slipping between his pecs and collarbones like he’s bathed in mandarin orange oil. Glimmering off that necklace. Ocean cold blue neon from buzzing sign shot through those dark curls from behind. Bleeding out the alley.

You don’t know what it is about him that you like. He looks so wildly slutty that it’s making your mouth water. He’s definitely anything but boring, and your mind absolutely runs to a filthy place with that insinuation

He’s got you trying to recall the last instance you carved out time for some sex in your life. It had been months. The clench in your gut made you aware.

“Are we making a habit of this?” He checks. Narrows eyes at you all playfully.

You, me, the yellow crime scene tape. Mangled bodies. Sirens shrieking. Yeah. Romantic as hell-

“Let’s hope not. Detective. Hardly the stuff of foreplay.” You counter. “Can I get a quote for tomorrows edition.”

“Wouldn’t that be neat of me.” He teases.

You bite back annoyance. He sees it in the scrunched set of your jaw.

He brings up another doughnut to his lips and takes a huge untamed bite. Smirking at you.

He swaggers away and up to the dumpster. Prances around the evidence. Not that the killer left much- blood spattered shoe. The cut throat. Same old same old. Blah blah blah.

You sigh as you make ready to leave. Blood out of a stone. You won’t get anything else here.

Only a small scrap of what you’d hoped for clutched in your pocket. That will get you shunted back to your usual place on page six.

You turn away and begin to head up the Boulevard. Maybe you’d find a place for some breakfast. Your feet are aching. Head sour for lack of caffeine.

“Miss.” Comes a bark from a gruff cop. Who steps under the tape and towards you.

“Chronicle. I was just leaving.” You flash him your staff badge and back away thinking you’re gonna get chewed out for being nosy. You’re a girl reporter, the axe blows tend to fall heavier on you from grumpy cops. Sexist fuckers.

“Quinn asked me to give you this.”

He hands you an empty cigarette packet. Lucky Strikes. The paper is worn thin. Perfumed like it’s been in a purse. Not a pocket.

Skinny Tina smoked Lucky’s.

You look at the cop. He just rolls one shoulder up in a shrug. Not his job to care. Plods away.

You open the well thumbed crimson cigarette packet and inside is a line of scrawled text. Slanted spidery scrawl. Pin nib stabbing into the paper.

This is the work of a serial killer.

Your world grows cold. Sudden and terrible like someone’s sucked out all the dry choke of that LA heat. You thumb the packet in your hands. When you peer up and spin back to the cordon-

Quinn locks his eyes on you. And smiles. Those eyes glow at you.

There’s your story, Birdie.

~

Rain is LA is vanishingly rare. But when it comes, it comes fucking furiously.

It’s spitting down your windows so hard it’s like it will do anything in its power to shatter the glass.

Palm fronds from the stumpy trees outside your windows skate and scrape the glass and cast long fingers of spindly shadows. A faded essence of tropical paradise about this shabby place. The pink walls, palm trees. The empty pit of a mouldy swimming pool out back, filled with graffiti, crumbling tiles and trash.

The air walking home was so thick and smooth you could sip it. Full up of rain clouds and chasing away the humidity.

You turn home and show your back to this water-logged night. Your shoulders and hair damp from running from the station.

You draw your thin drapes but the red light soaking into the room through the shitty pink things. The light stains them up like they’ve been left bloodied.

Your bedside lamp glows in the corner. Peachy pink from the rosy shade. Your room is entirely bathed in lapping tongue red and rose pink.

You cranked your pathetic shower up high and stood under the warm spray until it drained to cold. Your scrubbed your hair from dripping to damp, and slipped on an old white t shirt that slipped off one shoulder. Black lace panties.

Hair still wet as you padded through to your bedroom. Empty glass of bourbon on the nightstand. Half full bottle. You’ll be dipping well into it tonight.

Today was long. Endlessly so. Dragging you down like you’ve got concrete blocks tied on your heels. Cutting into skin as it drags you down.

There’d been another one. Found tonight way out past skid row, under the 6th street bridge.

Stabbed in the back and left to bleed. A kid. A stupid punk teenager, with his apple green spiky hair, belt chains and ripped spray painted anarchist shirt. Bruises on his knuckles showed he put up a fight.

A bag of weed and ketamine in his pocket. Track marks up his arms. All tangled and fired up in fiery self-rebellion. And it led him to dying under a bridge like some junkie.

There was such a clamour at the crime scene cordon that you got physically shoved aside, and ended up skinning your knees in the process. Tearing your pantie hose. Walking home with blood peeling down your calves. Stuck with muck and grit.

You felt miserable. You were miserable. Another day designed to sink you. All teeth and stomping jaws clamping on your pride and happiness.

You hounded as much as you could squeeze out the cops on scene with bleeding knees burning. Hands scraped from your fall. Not much at all.

Your mood was as far in the gutter as it could get. The shower helped. You swiped stinging betadine across your broken skin and chucked back Bourbon to ignore the grating pain.

You drunkenly shuffle to your small strip of a kitchen. Aqua blue and white tiled lino. Cheap but clean. Your whole place was really. Pink drapes and thick blue carpets bleached and matted with age.

Bathed briefly in the blue light and puff of cold from the fridge. You reach and chuck more ice in your used glass and fill it up with even more brown liquor. Mind swirling away and you let it. Close your clunking fridge door with a sloppy hand.

The booze helped. You were ignoring the irony that after a hard day you were crawling into the bottom of an Old Taylor bottle.

You were supposed to be a man about all this. Man up. Well. You’re a woman and you have to do this job twice as hard and relentless and with double the scrutiny from men. And in heels. So you decided long ago;

Fuck that.

You laid on your bed and thought about having dinner. A sad tin of soup or some box of ramen you’d forgotten about in your cupboard.

But instead you just lay there on your sheets and let the bourbon take you away.

And then your phone rings. Shrills to attention on your bedside.

You twist your head back to look at it. Past your cheap peach satin sheets. Your crappy cracked pink telephone won’t shut the hell up.

You launch over the bed and sit up to answer it. If it’s another call out to a murder site, you swear you’ll quit. “Yes?”

There’s a second or two of huffing crackling static the other end. And then,

“Nasty night isn’t it?”

That voice makes your whirling head sit up and pay attention. Oh that voice. He hears the way skin grazes on your covers. The pull of your lungs seeking breath. That makes him outwardly think of your tits too and he can’t help his mind wandering off into filthy plains.

“Quinn?” You check. Your mind is curling and blurry. But by now you’d know his tone when you hear it.

He bites his lip cause it gets him hard. Rubs his fingertips into the square box of the telephone he’s curled against. Sweat on his fingers chafes against the black plastic.

“Hey Birdie.”

“How did you get this number?” Your drunk mouth blurts out. Your tongue feels all fat and clumsy with drink. Loose- even.

He chuckles. It’s breathy and it’s beautiful. Slips like melted chocolate into your ear through the receiver. It may be a smooth sound but it does something sharp and twisting to your gut. A tug.

“I have my ways.” You can hear his stupid big grin.

“Cop ways I’m guessing?” You counter. He detects a tone levelled at him. Flash a badge and he can own this town. Walk in anywhere.

You reach over and bring the phone onto the bed. The cord of it trailing behind as you wrap the coiled wire around your finger. You sit up and cradle the phone between your ear and shoulder.

Eyes flicking over for a second to that well thumbed Lucky Strike’s packet. The one he wrote in and gave to you.

“I don’t need to go flashing my badge as much as you’d think. I can be very persuasive.” He charms. Like he could pluck down all the hanging stars and set them at your feet.

You don’t doubt that. Silver tongues and doe brown eyes seldom mix.

“You weren’t at the scene today. Worried me a little.” He adds.

“I worried you? You hardly know me.” You state.

“I personally-“ There’s a clink as he presses his hand flat to his collarbone. Clink of a chain. “Think we should change that.”

You sigh in confusion because you just can’t think of what else to do. Is he asking you out? Is he hitting on you? Is that what’s happening here?

“I was at the 6th street bridge today. Up until I got knocked down by the clamouring TV and camera crews and skinned my knees. And then it started to rain, I was getting nowhere so I called it a day.” You offered up.

The blazes up something in him. Sparks churning friction against the liquid gunpowder of his temper. All it takes is a spark. He has to take a deep breath at the thought of you bleeding.

“You alright?”

No not really.

I saw a kid brutally mangled and stabbed today. Skin ripped where someone tore him open with a knife.

I’m fucking lonely in this city and I have no friends for miles.

My job is the fucking pits of Tartarus some days.

“Ask me after my hangover tomorrow. When I don’t feel like a failure. And I didn’t see a dead kid torn to strips. And I’m- sober.” You curse under your breath.

Bulldog tone of yours all snappy and treading the borders of your patience. Bone weary.

“That sounds like a lot on your plate.” He offers. He sounds tender. The tenderest thing you’ve heard in a while.

“It sure as shit is. But I’m not sure I should be venting to a cop about it.” You admit gruffly. Standing up and holding the phone to your ear. Idly gazing at the rain outside. Coming down in sheets, hammering cold at your window ledges.

You pour yourself out more bourbon. Cause fuck it.

Oh, you play spiky and icy and he likes it. He’ll play you into his hands. You’ll be worth the wait.

“What if I’m one of the good ones.” He grins. Licks his lips. Outright lies.

“Don’t play games with me, Quinn.” You warn.

Funny; that was his line. Usually with a knife in his hand edged against a fragile throat.

“What if I can help you out with some private information on these cases.” He leans right in and purrs into the phone. It makes you feel squirmy. Like you’re under his gaze again. That flirty one that gets peered over his ray bans.

“And why on earth would you be doing that for me?” You keep your head screwed on straight. What little sense there is left that Bourbon didn’t steal.

“Mutually beneficial arrangement.” He drawls.

“Listen Detective, if you think you’re gonna get your dick wet just cause you toss me some scraps, you’ve got another thing coming, and it’ll be my heel stabbed in your eye.” You promise with punch.

He chuckles. He can’t deny the threat of that and the thought of fucking you had him harder than he’d care to admit. The glimpse of you he had in his head on your back and taking it. Indecent. Glorious.

“I’m no idiot, Birdie.”

His dark eyes graze through the glazed rain walls of the phone booth. Glass striped with wriggling rain and haloed car lights burst through in reds and searing white. The Porsche sits waiting behind him. Dotted in silver.

He can see you through your window.

He’s across the parking lot in the phone booth. One arm braced against the metal wall. Eyes pinned on the slice of that tongue pink room and the vague shape of you he can see through the thin drapes.

White shirt. No bra. Lace panties. Sat on your bed in that entirely pink-red washed room. Light kissing and wrapping your skin. And you’ve no clue he can see you.

You’ve no idea how bad he truly is for you. It’s delicious that.

“Why did you give me that cigarette packet, Quinn?”

He’s quick to answer. He’s thought about this answer. “Leverage.”

“Leverage?” You repeat like you can’t comprehend the word.

“Over those assholes at your paper who think that you don’t deserve your spot alongside them. Scraping together your sanity for every shot at the front page.” He says.

He cut to the quick. Like he’s torn your skin away to see in. Your dimly lit life with your bottles of booze and your struggles. Somehow he pieced you together so well it was like he had your blueprints.

“You don’t know me.” You gasp out. It’s incredulous. He’s making your head spin.

“I know a lot more than you’d think. It’s my job, after all. I like to think I’m good at it.”

“That sounds like a lot of ego talking.”

“In that case you should let me take you out for lunch tomorrow and see for yourself. Buy you something to soothe that little Bourbon hangover.”

Your spine flashes clammy.

“How the hell do you know what I’m drinking?”

Your head is thumping. Dread curling horrid up in your stomach like dead burnt leaves come fall. Crunching and crushing.

“Like I told you. Birdie. I’m just that good.” He chuckles.

Oh but he isn’t.

There’s a click and he promptly hangs up.

You’re left there watching the rain skate furiously down your windows. Listening to the dead tone on the other end blare. Thunder grazes the valley.

It feels more sinister than it should.

~

My Taglist for my JQ babes: (if I’ve missed anyone out I’m so sorry !) if anyone would like to be added drop me a comment on here babes !

@indouloureux @stiegasaw @munsonquinns @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @captain-tch @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @svenyves @sammararaven @ceriseheaven @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @starbxcks @morganamoonstone @ramona-thorns @gvtosbith @poppy-metal @munsonswhore86 @munsonlov3r @lunatictardis @shenevertricks1831 @hazzaismyreligion @harrys-tittie @anaisweird @cerinthussulpicia @cinnamoncunt

#joseph quinn x reader #joseph quinn stranger things #i would die for this man #Eddie munson #joseph quinn gif #joseph quinn character #joseph quinn characters #punkwrites #serial killer #killer #murderer #stalking #crime scene #1980’s LA #pretty woman vibes #pretty woman

[joanofarcbutsilly]

john “soap” mactavish x reader

ft. ghost

cute little thoughts about soap and reader finding a place to enjoy

reader is gender neutral! can be read as platonic or romantic!

my favorite order at MY local diner is included as a little easter egg hehe

one of the ways soap shows you he cares is by remembering as much information about you as he possibly can

pov: you and soap are at a diner you two love to visit on your off time after being relocated

a little establishment that’s pretty close to the base, just near enough to be able to sneak off without being caught be ghost

simon always knows when you and johnny leave camp, nothing really escapes him, especially the goings on at work. even though he will ALWAYS be able to find another task that needs completing for one or both of you, he also knows that soap loves the thrill of your “secret” rendezvous. he won’t admit it, but he finds it very cute, and how could he put a stop to such a simple pleasure?

anyways! back to soap!

so you two are at the your little hide out hole-in-the-wall, just chatting it up about anything and everything

soap LOVES to gossip

he will tell you some probably (read: definitely) fake stories. like the time he had to share a bed with the rest of the 141 at a safe house, and he SWEARS TO GOD that when he woke up in the middle of the night he saw simon and price cuddling in their sleep.

you can make fun of him all you want, call him a no good liar, say you KNOW it’s not true, you can even bring proof! tell him about the time you and ghost had to share a little patch of floor for bedtime, and when you knocked into him in his sleep he punched you in the stomach so hard you almost threw up.

soap says simon must just not like you that much, because he SWEARS ghost has kissed him on the forehead in his sleep.

he is such a faker.

there is no real point in arguing with him, he will defend each and everyone of his tall tales to his death. he has swore on everything he holds dear, including his mother, and locked pinkies with you so many times that it’s a little inside greeting for the two of you now.

you and soap have also challenged yourselves to try EVERYTHING on the menu. johnny insists that you give every menu item a shot, even the ones you know for a fact you won’t/don’t like. HOWEVER, he always has a clever excuse to why he can’t eat anything with mushrooms.

the seriousness of his “allergy” to mushrooms has been recorded ranging from hives, to immediate anaphylactic shock, he’s even claimed that he will combust into flames.

YOU have to try everything though. no excuses.

once you have managed to taste the entire menu, you go back to ordering whatever is your favorite

which brings us to soap’s next little quirk

soap LOVES ordering for you

not in a controlling way of course! he just loves to show off how well he knows you, to the smallest detail!

he knows EXACTLY how you like your favorite drink. how many creamers and sugar packets you like in your coffee, the juice you prefer (and has no shame in asking for mixes of several types, since he knows that you like an apple and cranberry juice concoction), and if you like iced tea, he knows how many lemon slices you like and if you like it sweetened or unsweetened. he knows all of this by HEART. your preferences are tattooed onto his soul.

so when the waitress comes over and turns to you to ask for your order, soap holds up both of his hands frantically and exclaims for you to wait. he then leans forward with his eyes closed and his elbows on the table, fingers massaging his temples.

“hmmm-“ he starts, much too seriously for the problem at hand, “they wan’ a denver skillet. eggs sunny side up. extra cheese and peppers. replace the toast with pancakes. with chocolate chips. and sprinkes. and whipped cream.”

he breaks character when he can’t hold back anymore and his face cracks into a smile, “could ya’ make the pancakes into a mouse?”

the waitress is charmed and amused by the two of you, and especially appreciates the generous tip she gets from you both, so she is more than willing to put up with your shenanigans.

soap still has a sly grin when he asks you if you’d like to change anything

soap is a human garbage can, so if you order for him (just make sure it doesn’t have mushrooms), whatever it is, he will loudly declare that it was the best meal he’s ever had.

when you and the rest of the 141 eventually have to move from this base to the next, this little tradition continues. you and soap immediately hunt out the closest local eatery, and start all over.

bonus!!

soap cannot keep his mouth shut, and will tell ghost all of the details of your excursions when he gets bored on coms.

ghost will just ignore him most of the time, just humming in false acknowledgment of whatever the hell soap is saying.

BUT. soap doesn’t know it, but his Lt. has taken the liberty to visit the same establishments as the two of you, and has escaped running into you guys by the skin of his teeth.

thank god he never stays, because soap would be in SO MUCH SHIT

#john mctavish #soap x y/n #soap x reader #cod modern warfare #cod x y/n #cod x gn!reader #john mactavish x you #john mactavish x reader

[keep-the-wolves-close]

Movin’ Mountains

Chapter 5: Tennessee Mojo

* Pairing: Kayce Dutton x OFC Stella Daniels

* Rating: M

* Warnings: language, grouchy Rip (what’s new), some John angst, good ol Teeter has finally arrived lol

* Word count: 3,355ish

I would love to give credits to @dameronscopilot and @deanscroissant and @lexixstewart for being sounding boards for me during this whole process, giving outsider insight, being cheerleaders, and allowing me to screech at them about things that have happened during the writing process. I seriously couldn't have gotten this far without y'all.

Author's note: I hope everyone is enjoying so far! I hope you love this chapter as well!

Stella grumbled as she stumbled out of the tent. She was grateful for the time she got to spend with her brother and Colby, but she remembered why she was so happy to get her own house. Those two slept loud enough to wake the whole state.

Jake and Ethan had been awake for a while now and were brewing what smelled like a mean percolator of coffee, and a good breakfast. Stella trudged over to the fire and plopped unceremoniously into the chair. The two men nodded quietly at her, knowing that this early they all enjoyed peace and quiet.

Stella hunkered down in her chair and tried to convince herself to wake up. The tossing and turning did her no favors last night. Ethan brought her a cup of coffee. She smiled sleepily at him.

“Sugar?” Stella asked. She knew they wouldn’t have creamer with them, but she could get by with just the sweetener to take a little bit of the bitter out. Ethan handed her the container they’d packed it in. “Thank you.” Ethan nodded at her gratitude and went back to messing with the fire.

She gazed around, watching everyone mill about getting everything set up for the morning. She spotted Kayce talking with his dad. While the sight was not unheard of, there was something about Kayce that confused her. He looked unsure of himself. ‘That’ll be something to bring up later,’ Stella thought to herself.

She watched as John took notice of her from afar, patted his son on the arm, and moseyed his way over to her with his hands in his pockets. On any other day, Stella would have sat up a little straighter in the presence of her boss, but today she couldn’t be bothered. When he was close enough to her and looked at her, she politely raised her coffee to him in silent greeting.

John let out a scratchy chuckle. “I know it’s early, but I have a favor to ask of you.”

Her pink scarred eyebrow rose and she sat a little straighter at the possible proposition. She could see Kayce as he inched closer in the background keeping a close eye on her and his father. He didn’t think Stella had any reason to be aggressive this morning, but he knew how explosive things could get between her and his father at the drop of a hat.

“What would that be?” She leaned her elbows on the arms of the chair and wrapped her fingers around her mug.

“Well, Rip was talking to me yesterday about how having a woman in the bunkhouse really helps keep these knuckleheads in line and helps get work done. You’re not there all the time, but he was thinking about hiring another woman.”

“Okay,” she frowned. “Not to be rude, John, but what does that have to do with me?”

She watched as John squirmed around, and settled with putting his hands on his hips. “I told him to hire another one, either mean or ugly. I want you to be there to help him.”

If Stella wasn’t awake fully before this, she was now. The offer from John seemed important. Only the foreman or himself usually had the say. “Can I be real with you for a second?” John nodded for her to continue. “Are you sure you want me to assist?” She locked her gaze on him. “Cause I’m bound to hire someone who’s mean as fuck and will hurt people’s feelings.”

John snickered into his coat collar. “That’s what I was hoping for, Stella.”

She looked up at him over top of her lenses to gauge how serious he actually was. If John wasn’t serious he wouldn’t have wasted his breath asking her. She pushed the frames back up her nose. “When do I gotta go back down to the ranch?”

“Well I think people are probably gonna be gettin’ there soon, so you should head out now.”

Stella stood from the chair, excited at the idea of having another woman around again. Avery had kind of just drifted away, and she hadn’t gotten a chance to figure out what happened and why she decided to leave. She cracked her neck and went over to Abigail to get her tacked up.

She made quick work of the job as usual, and felt someone come up behind her. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that it was Kayce. She gave him a little half smile. “Mornin’.”

Kayce came to stand further in her line of view. “Mornin’.” He watched her as she finished tacking Abigail up. “Whatcha doin’?”

“I’m goin’ back to the ranch to help Rip hire, as your father put it, a “mean or ugly” woman.”

His eyebrows rose beneath his hat. “Is that what he asked you?”

“Just now, yeah.” She jerked a thumb back toward the fire. “Trust me, I’m just as shocked as you are. If my brother asks?”

“I’ll tell him, sugar.” His eyes darted around, taking in who all was standing near and made sure his son was still in the tent with his mother. He leaned toward her and she moved closer to him, craning her neck to allow him to place a light kiss on her lips.

“Thank you. I gotta hit the trail back down.”

“You got a rifle?”

She tapped the holster attached to her saddle that happened to be right in Kayce’s face. He looked at her sheepishly. “I was blinded by you.”

Stella belly laughed. “Smooth, cowboy. Real smooth.” She lifted her leg and hoisted herself up into her saddle. “I’ll see ya when I come back.”

“Do you know if there’s still an extra tent?”

“I mean,” she looked around, “I didn’t even bring my own, so I have no idea. But I’ll look around and see if there is, there’s gotta be. I’m guessing for Monica?”

Kayce affirmed. “If you don’t mind?” He knew it was kind of a touchy ask.

Stella waved her hand at him. “No, I don’t mind, love. It’s fine.”

Kayce looked up at her with wide eyes at the new nickname. It unlocked something deep within him. “Be careful. I love you.” He handed her the ball cap she’d left in the tent, knowing that she’d want it.

She gave him an affectionate smile. “I will. Love you too.” She took her hat from him, slid it onto her head backwards, and tapped Abigail with her heels. Kayce watched after her longingly almost. John beared witness his son be enamored by his best friend. It reminded him of Evelyn and himself when they were young and in love.

••

Stella and Abigail ripped down from the top of the hill. She could hear commotion at the practice pen of the cattle chute being opened and a horse galloping after it. ‘Apparently auditions have started.’ Stella caught a glimpse of Rip and Lloyd standing near the chute. She loped over to them, catching the two off guard.

“Lil’ bit!” Lloyd welcomed her with a grin. “What’re you doin’ down here? I thought you’d be up at camp relaxin’, giving those boys hell.”

“I was until I was given a task this mornin’.”

Rip gave her a brief look. “What’re you up to?”

She feigned a look of hurt. “Surpisngly, nothing. John asked me to come down here and help you hire another woman. So that’s what I’m here to do.”

In true Rip fashion he said everything with a look. Stella cringed internally. He appeared to be in a mood this morning. He was either in a mood or focused on the task at hand. Stella chose to ignore his attitude and remembered she needed to get a tent for Monica. “Do we have any extra tents?” She asked while they watched one of the cowboys poorly try his hand at the cattle.

“We should.” Rip answered.

“Okay,” she said slowly at his lack of give. She rolled her eyes with a huff and looked at Lloyd. “Do we still keep them in the bunkhouse?”

Lloyd nodded. “In the storage room, lil’ bit.”

“What for?” Rip asked.

Stella thought to herself, ‘not that it’s any of your business while you’re grumpy,’ and answered plainly, “Monica wants to stay up there with Tate.”

Movement on her left caught her eye. There was a woman waiting on the chute to be ready. She had on a flannel and a ball cap, very similar to Stella’s outfit today. The cotton candy pink haired woman caught Stella’s gaze and gave her a wink. The woman nodded quickly to the person pulling the chute door and took off fast as lightning.

Stella, Lloyd, and Rip watched as she successfully roped the cow’s head and pulled it along. The woman got irritated at the man who was heeling for his lack of talent. From afar, the trio could hear her as she gave him a hard time and cut him down a few sizes.

Lloyd leaned over to Rip. “Is that Spanish?”

Stella barked out a laugh. “No, Lloyd. It’s a southern accent.”

“And you know all about those, don’t you?” Rip sassed at her.

Stella craned her neck downward and stared at him like he had six heads. “Did we forget that Ryan and I are from Tennessee? If either of us get rowdy enough, we sound just like her. I know plenty.” She bit back. She witnessed Rip’s head drop. He had forgotten, and now he felt stupid. Stella prayed it would knock him out of his grouchiness.

“Well whatever it is, she’s a hand. That much is true.” Rip climbed up a rung on the fence. “Hey! Yo!” The woman’s head snapped to him, and he waved her over. When she trotted closer he asked, “Where’d you learn to cowboy?”

“I’ve been fuckin’ pullin’ and draggin’ since I could bounce piss off a rock.” She bounced her way over making direct eye contact with Stella. The men of the trio argued about whether or not her accent was Texan.

Stella side-eyed them, and smiled at the newcomer. “I’m Stella. What’s your name?”

“Teeter.”

Lloyd squinted up at the firecracker of a woman. “Peter?”

Stella glared over at her father figure. “She said, Teeter,” she defended Teeter plainly, the aforementioned accent slipping out a bit.

Teeter’s eyes widened as she motioned to her figure. “Do I look like my name is Peter, you skunk-haired motherfucker?”

Lloyd was practically giggling at Teeter’s audacity. “She just called me a motherfucker.”

“You understood that, didn’t ya, ya bowlegged bastard.” She chuckled to herself. Teeter continued as a laugh creeped up. “You look like you all got bent over one of them nurse things and fucked up the ass till your knees buckled.”

Stella howled with laughter. She laid a hand on Rip’s shoulder. “We need to hire her. Now.” She was in love with this woman already.

“This is the kind of girl that got drove to high school wearin’ a damn hockey helmet. She’s gonna go through the bunkhouse like wildfire.” Lloyd gave some kick back.

Stella pulled her eyes from the woman in front of her and looked at both men. “She’s perfect. I say hire her. Trust me.”

The men stared at her incredulously. The woman, Teeter, had a familiar feel. It was like Stella, but a little rougher around the edges instead of soft.

Rip agreed. “Hire her. Now, Lloyd.” He noticed Beth standing nearby. Stella watched his shoulders relax and thought it was sweet. He turned on his heel and marched over to her.

Stella grinned at Teeter as the woman spit out some dust. Stella gave Lloyd a look. “Can I trust you to leave her in your care?”

“Yes, lil bit. You can.” He chuckled.

“Treat our girl right, Lloyd!” Stella nodded her head to Teeter and walked Abigail over to Rip and Beth. Beth caught her gaze and gave her an almost imperceivable smile, she was happy to see the woman up and about again, even though she wouldn’t admit it out loud.

Stella gave the formidable woman a soft smile. “Sorry to interrupt,” Rip looked up at her and she caught his eye, “but do you need me for anything else?”

He shook his head. “No, I think I have enough direction to know what caliber of person we’re lookin’ for.”

“You sure you don’t need babysat?” Stella smirked at him and Beth chuckled.

“Nah, Stella-belle. I’m good.” He snorted out a laugh.

Stella smiled warmly at the two of them, enchanted by how Rip loved Beth. Amazed at how just her presence calmed him from the grouch he had been. She turned Abigail around to head on to the bunkhouse to grab that tent for Monica before heading back up to the camp.

••

Ryan heard hoof beats coming over the hill as he grabbed his plate to sit down. ‘Must be Stell,’ he thought as he recognized the sound of the horse. He turned around to start her plate, but ran into Kayce. His face lifted in shock, not expecting someone to be standing there. Kayce had an extra plate in his hand. “Makin’ a plate for Tate?”

Kayce shook his head. “No, Monica took care of that. I heard your sister comin’.”

Ryan’s shoulders dropped and his face softened at the small act of affection for his sister. Ryan smiled at the man in front of him who had seemingly gotten his head out of his ass when it came to his little sister. “I’m gonna go help her break Abigail down.” Kayce nodded and silently went about grabbing Stella’s favorites.

Ryan wandered over to the makeshift pen and smiled at the sight of Stella looking relaxed. It had been a few weeks since he’d seen anything normal from her. She must have heard him because she gave him a quick glance and a smile. ‘That was the first time she didn’t pull her gun.’ This trip was doing her well and he couldn’t be happier. It was starting to look like they were on the other side after all that mess.

“You want help?”

“Sure.” Stella worked on her saddle. Undoing it in a ritualistic way that was uniquely her, and muscle memory at this point. “Dinner smells good.”

“Kayce’s making you a plate.” Ryan told her as he started working on Abigail’s bridle.

Stella’s stomach fluttered with giddiness. “Oh thank god.” Happy that Ryan didn’t mind the display of attention, no matter how infinitesimally small it was.

“Did you get a woman hired?”

“Boy did we ever. I’m so excited to see her in the bunkhouse.” Stella laughed.

“Should I be worried?” Ryan looked concerned.

Stella cackled. “Very.” Her stomach growled. “I think it’s time I go get my plate.” She giggled. Ryan waved his hand in the direction of everyone sitting around the fire.

Kayce just finished putting Stella’s plate together. He looked up and beamed at her. He appeared to be more at peace than she’d seen him in weeks. She decided it looked good on him. Ryan walked past her and patted her shoulder and went to grab a seat around the fire with John and the rest of the gang. As Stella stepped in front of Kayce, he held out her dinner for her.

She batted her eyes up at him with a small smile. “Thank you, love. I’m starving.” Kayce came up behind her and placed his hand on her lower back and guided her over to the group.

She took a seat next to her brother, who had John on his right. Kayce chose the spot next to Stella on her left, followed by Tate, Monica, and the rest of the crew. Stella started to dig in to her plate, not realizing how hungry she had been since she skipped breakfast this morning to take care of that favor for John. Everyone was talking quietly amongst themselves. She could hear Kayce being a parent, and smiled tenderly at the interaction between father and son.

John opened the dutch oven in front of him to check on the biscuits that he was cooking, with his late wife on his mind. She crossed his mind often, but especially up here. Stella caught the melancholy look on his face, and decided to distract him from his thoughts.

She swallowed the current bite of food in her mouth and cleared her throat. “By the way John,” he placed the lid back on the dutch oven and glanced over at her waiting for her to continue. “Rip, Lloyd, and myself found a winner today. I’m excited for her.” Stella suppressed a laugh.

“And why is that?”

Stella couldn’t hold her laugh any longer. “She’s gonna whip these boys into shape real quick.” She caught her breath. “I mean, real quick.”

“Oh hell,” John mumbled to himself.

“Hey I asked you if you were sure you wanted me to help them and you told me yes.”

“You’re right. You did.”

“You forget who my best friend is apparently.” The amusement was clear on her face as the guys around the fire chuckled at the true statement. Kayce leaned into Stella’s shoulder with his own and a smug look on his face.

“There may have been a lapse in memory.”

“Gettin’ old there, dad.” Kayce dug at his father.

John relaxed into the log he was using as a seat and enjoyed the banter.

Tate got up and made his way to his grandfather. “Any more biscuits?”

“Yeah, well, I think there's plenty.” John opened the pot and picked one out for Tate. “There you go.”

“I'm gonna need more than that.”

“All right.” He proceeded to grab another.

“Another one.”

“You're just... You're just like your father. Here.” John laughed. “You know, my wife,” he looked down at his hands. “She used to make two Dutch ovens full of biscuits: one for your father and one for the rest of us.” Everyone fell silent and listened to him speak. It was rare when he got sentimental, or shared anything about the time before her and Ryan.

“He'd stand right by the fire and ask his mother, "How long?" She'd say, "Five more minutes." Which just meant "soon" to my wife. It didn't mean five minutes. Didn't mean 30 minutes sometimes.” John smirked at Kayce. “He'd stomp off and pout and walk away and come back and ask again and that shit would go on for an hour.”

Stella giggled. “Sounds about right for him.” She glanced over to her best friend. “Glad you haven’t changed much.” Kayce nudged her arm gently.

“When they were finally ready, he'd take a plate of biscuits, nothing else, and he'd just go sit at the edge of the firelight with his back to us and he'd just go at it with both his hands.”

Kayce looked at everyone and shrugged. “They were really good.” Everyone laughed heartily at the image of small Kayce ravenously tearing into a plate of just biscuits. “Why is that funny? They were really good.”

John continued to reminisce. “Like a wild dog. After an hour of standing over that Dutch oven, she'd sit beside me,” everyone could tell he was imagining her right in front of him, “her hair a mess, smelling like smoke, madder than hell because she hated cooking them damn biscuits.” He laughed. “And I looked at her and said, "Sweetheart, he'll eat anything you put in front of him. Just make him something else that doesn't take all night." Your mom looked at me and she said, "I know. But if I don't make 'em, I can't watch him eat 'em." And then she went to the tent, laid down and fell asleep. We were branding, so I was up before her. That was the last thing she ever said to me. Branding cattle on her goddamn birthday.” His voice got rough at the end, and he stood.

Stella knew that grief would follow him forever. Her heart went out to him. Her eyes tracked with him as he walked over to his tent and away from everyone. She and Kayce shared a look and he got up to go to his dad, which shocked her. It wasn’t often anyone would see Kayce be soft on his dad.

John felt his son’s presence come up next to him. He sniffled and pushed the tears away. “Makes you wonder the point of it all. Find someone you love so much just to lose them.” He sighed roughly. “I'd like to believe there's a plan to it all, but I—, I don't see a plan.”

“That's just 'cause we're inside it, Dad.” Kayce explained simply. “We see the plan. We're standing on it.”

“Yeah.” John cleared his throat. “Guess we are.”

#yellowstone #kayce dutton #yellowstonetv #luke grimes #ian bohen #ryan #kayce dutton fan fiction #yellowstone fanfic #yellowstone fanfiction #kayce dutton fanfic