#so maybe YOUR the one who needs to do some goddamn research before assuming shit about other people's sex over a fictional character.

[tumbleassbitch]

another lost soul (letting my instinct take control) | The Quarry | TravisxLaura

Characters: Laura Kearney, Travis Hackett, The Hackett family Summary: Max dies in the cellar. This changes everything. Chapter 4/? | Chapter 3

July 1st, 2022

“Are you fucking insane?” He meets her frantic gaze unaffected. “Shit. You are insane.”

Science. He wants to fix this with science.

“I’ve been out hunting for that goddamn white wolf every full moon for the last six years. If I hadn’t seen the evidence myself, I’d think he didn’t exist. If you were me, you'd be looking for other ways to end this, too."

“I can help you,” she emphasizes. “I want to stop Silas, too. I’m not some- some fragile fucking daisy that needs to stay locked up.”

“You don’t get it,” he says firmly, slowly approaching the cell bars. “I’m not doing this for another six years. I’m too damn old.”

“Yeah, and I’m twenty-four. Nice to meet you,” she says sarcastically. “You don’t have to do any of this. You could let me join you out there, get a fresh pair of eyes-”

He hooks his thumbs in his belt. “The worst thing for either of us would be if my family caught wind of this. We don’t need more guns. We need brains.”

“I’m not even a veterinarian yet!” she practically screams.

“Hey! You have almost four years of college under your belt,” he asserts with a pointed finger, “and you’ve already been accepted into that vet school on the West Coast.”

Am I really getting a pep talk right now? “That's so not the same,” she laments into her hands, collapsing on the bed. 

It’s true that she was accepted into vet school after applying to almost every one in the country, and yeah, she’s smart. She’d just been waiting to tell Max until he heard back from St. Lawrence… which, he did. And didn’t tell her.

Not that it matters, now.

But this backwater cop apparently took one look at her college resume and thought, Gee, she could probably cure lycanthropy! If this is their only solid plan, they were genuinely fucked.

“You’re the best we’ve got,” he confirms her worst fears with controlled, steady conviction. His eyes tell a different story, though; there’s something barely holding on within those dark pits. Pure desperation.

God, this was his big plan? After taking her back to her cell last night so that she could cramp in peace, for the first time since everything happened, Laura honestly felt that thing’s were finally starting to look up.

But… maybe they still are. Laura’s nothing if not an opportunist. 

“Fine,” she says briskly. Hope dawns on his face, and she shoves down the foreign tinge of guilt that intumesces. “But I’ll need research.”

-

July 2nd, 2022

A thick stack of werewolf legends and fairytales sits beside her bed, each book spine labeled “North Kill Library” on grimy stickers lined up like dominos. The amount of grubby twelve-year-old fingers that have thumbed through these books must be staggering. Because, honestly, who else would be reading about werewolf legends?

Laura wouldn’t. She never had the time for it.

The other paper he gave her, the only thing he initially handed over before she asked for additional reading, sits folded up on her pillow. 

Don’t get bit, cut off your limb if you do, or kill the werewolf that turned you when it’s a full moon in order to break the curse. Scary stories to tell around the campfire, except it’s daylight and painfully real.

Its weakness, however, froths in the recesses of her mind: silver. If she can get her hands on some, maybe bullets, or a knife…? Hell, she's even willing to try and make him eat it.

That is, if she can find Silas. 

Not 'if.' When.

And once she gets out, she will find him.

A phone ringing somewhere in the precinct snatches her attention. In all the time she’s been here, a phone hasn’t rang once. 

She holds her breath, straining to hear a voice, but no luck. He must've gone immediately to his office before answering it.

Time passes long enough until she hears the most faint sound of a door shutting, and then moments later, another.

Did he leave the building? It would make sense. She assumes he is an actual cop, having access to this strange, derelict building and the whole flashing lights and badge business on the night they met when he shouldn’t have needed to go the extra mile to masquerade.

He could be checking in on a disturbance of the peace, or maybe a drunk and disorderly. Something that isn’t hovering near his captor while also tracking down a mythical creature. 

It’s odd to think about. All of her experiences with him have been past the point of bizarre. The thought of him doing something as dull as normal, something expected of him , was just as weird.

The hours pass by slowly, and she keeps her mind occupied by studying, taking notes in the journal of whatever comes to mind as potentially important. It’s a lot like her high school world history class, except this has a lot more riding on it and the only way to double-check her answers is by solving a curse. 

No biggie, she can practically hear Max say. Her heart convulses painfully. She’d do anything to have him here. Hell, she’d do anything to have anybody else here.

Just as her stomach begins to rumble for dinner, the soft shut of a door rings out not once, but twice.

Travis comes a bit later, and before she even sees him, she can tell he’s upset. There’s a little bit of hate that accompanies the fact that she's spent enough time with him to see it.

Polished shoes slap harshly against tile, his gait brisk and heavy. The lines in his forehead are drawn, and sections of hair stick out of place as if too many fingers have passed through. 

He sets down the unappetizing tray of meatloaf and an apple with two pills without a word, turning to leave.

“Hey,” she says quickly. “Can I get a clock?”

He appraises her, impatience oozing out of his pores. “What do you need a clock for?”

“So that I can tell the time.”

“Again, why do you need a clock?” he asks smartly. 

You have such a terrible personality. “Please,” she says, voice straining to hold the soft tone. “I need something to anchor my days by. Something beyond the daylight.”

Some of the fight bleeds out of him, and he purses his lips. “I’ll see what I can do,” is the noncommittal answer she gets, but it’s enough.

Travis turns to leave, and she steps closer to the bars. “I also have some ideas.”

He exhales through his nose slowly, but despite the impatient exterior, he regards her with something close to hope.

“You said you’ve been tracking Silas for six years, right? Have you noticed any seasonal patterns?” At his confused look, she elaborates. “Is he migrating to the south in the winter?”

He nods slowly, considering her with an expression she has a hard time placing. “He does, but not in any single place for long.”

“We know he was in town just a few days ago,” she says. “He could still be here.”

“Could,” he replies evasively.

“And what about your niece?” she presses. 

He narrows his eyes. “What the hell do you mean?”

Laura shrugs. “She’s a werewolf. Are there any, I don’t know, characteristics that you’ve observed in her? Anything that might be helpful for predicting what another werewolf might do throughout the moon cycle?”

He gives off an air of silent bewilderment, and she swallows back her irritation. No use in pushing a man with a gun.

“Is that a … no?” she asks.

“No, it’s not. It’s,” he starts, then stops. “I’m just surprised you caught on to that.”

Her ego preens at the unintentional complement. “Imagine what I could catch onto if you trusted me more,” she says, and the way his face immediately closes off, it's obvious she pushed for too much, too soon.

“You told your mom that you’d let your niece come around more. How are you going to explain this,” she gestures widely, “to her?”

“Here’s an idea— you let me worry about that, and you can go ahead and forget it.”

“Even now, you’re still hiding things from me.” 

The look she gets is so full and dripping with condescension that she grits her teeth. “We could be a team .”

Travis curses under his breath, rolling his eyes. “Look, ma’am- Laura ,” he emphasizes her name, holding up a hand placatingly. “Just because you know, doesn’t mean you know.”

“What… the fuck does that even mean?” she mutters.

“It means I can’t trust you,” he says, “just like you don’t trust me.”

“Yeah, well. It sounds like you can’t trust your family, either,” she says, harkening back to his words from earlier today.

The worst thing for either of us would be if my family caught wind of this.

“That’s a whole world of difference.”

“Is it?” she presses. “How many people has your family killed?”

“How many has yours?” he tosses back flippantly. 

A strange heady current pulses between them. Overhead, the faint wash of summer rain patters on stone.

“Don’t,” she says quietly. Deadly.

His jaw twitches. The air feels thick and alive in her lungs, threatening to erupt in a swarm of locusts, and if she were to open her mouth again, something as deadly as a plague would slip through her chapped lips.

“My family never meant to hurt anybody,” Travis finally says, voice low and strained. The unsaid words are pointed enough that she turns her head to the stone wall.

It’s a clear dismissal. She’s done with him tonight.

He lingers, fidgeting in polyester and scuffed shoes. He’s working himself up to saying something, but whatever it is stays hidden away. A secret.

Just like her.

-

July 3rd, 2022

A girlishly pink, plastic watch is delivered with breakfast, along with a pair of small pills. It’s painfully out of place amongst the werewolf-and-prison theme she’s got going on, but it’ll do. 

He asks if she wants to take a shower, and after a few moments of resolutely staring at the faded cover of The Man-Wolf, he finally leaves with a huff.

She slips on the watch after the door shuts with an echoing creak. 

The early summer sunrises have been deceptive. It’s Sunday, a little after seven o'clock in the morning. As far as her biological clock can tell, Travis has been delivering meals at a consistent time every day for the past week or so.

Three meals a day, plus a shower. How often does he leave this place? If he actually does have a family of his own, which she doubts given the pure stalker vibe he effortlessly gives off, then how the hell is he explaining being at work so much?

Maybe it’s a cop thing, she ponders, digging into her oatmeal. Apple cinnamon today.

-

Travis lingers for lunch. 

Laura tears into a plain ham sandwich, eyes peeling back the absolutely, totally fascinating tome of The Biology, Ecology, and Behavior of Canis Lupus. Seriously, it’s incredible stuff.

“Have you found anything?” he says haltingly, breaking the silence.

She debates icing him out, but self-preservation kicks in. It’s so, so clear that she can’t. She can’t afford to lose whatever ground she’s gained with him.

“Depends on how you classify ‘anything,’” she drawls, not missing the way his shoulders ease ever so minutely. The observation bolsters her to continue. “Did you know that a wolf pack’s territory can be anywhere from thirty-one to over 1,200 square miles?”

“Nothing else?”

Laura sits up, book abandoned on the bed. “Look, I’m trying. It’s not like I have a lot to work with from the huge North Kill library. If I had other resources, then maybe it would be a different story.”

“Keep digging,” he says lamely. The disappointment settles in his voice with easy acceptance. 

She thinks that’s it, but he’s just… staring at her, and though she’s long-since gotten used to his natural creepiness, the weight of his scrutiny causes her to squirm.

“What?” she asks exasperatedly.

“My family is at the bottom of a well.” 

It’s said so quietly, she almost doesn’t understand what he’s saying. Travis exhales deeply, fixing her a solemn look as if she’s a priest that will exonerate him for his sins. “They’re… stuck. And I’m the only one at the top that’s holding the rope.”

“So?”

His baffled face turns towards her, and his stupid expression infuriates her for reasons she can’t begin to dive into. “What do you mean, ‘so?’”

“I mean, so what?”

He scoffs, shaking his head, but she’s already standing up and walking as much into his space as she can. Though the bars separate them, it’s the closest she’s gotten to him since the night she tried to escape.

The way Travis doesn’t move an inch at her approach speaks of a predator’s confidence. “Family,” he says slowly, “is the most important thing in the world.”

“Bull,” she matches his tone, “shit.”

Travis glares down at her, but there’s a tinge of curiosity in his narrowed eyes. It isn’t clear what he thinks she’s trying to do. She’s not really sure, either. The words just pour out.

“Family doesn’t mean shit if you’re living like shit,” she says harshly. “What kind of life is this?”

He grits his teeth. Already, he’s shutting her out.

“I’m serious, Travis,” something flickers on his face at the sound of his name. “Family is meant to, to build you up or whatever. Not threaten you.”

“That’s not what’s going on,” he denies with a scoff.

“No, you said we’re both in trouble, here. Right?”

"Yeah, spot on,” he says unimpressed. “But what I meant by that is that they’ll kill you, and hate me. Just because I can't tell them you exist doesn't mean I can't fucking trust them."

“That sounds toxic,” she replies.

His quirks a brow. “Really? Coming from your home life?”

“God, would you just stop already,” Laura snaps. “You don’t have to keep bringing it up. Fuck you, man.”

Travis actually has the decency to look somewhat chastised. “What I mean to say is- I’m only saying it because of… of the two of us. In comparison. I’d imagine you’d much rather have a family like mine.”

“Yeah, well. Not all of us got so lucky,” she bites out sarcastically. “Doesn’t mean that other families are perfect. It’s not a comparison.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, opting to study the space over her shoulder. The break in eye contact hits her like a bucket of cold water.

She swallows. “And yet your mom would put a bullet in my skull?”

Travis’ eyes flash, and he chuckles low, a grim, humorless breath that barely skims the surface. “You and me both."

"And what about Kaylee?” she brusquely asks, and his eyes snap back to hers. “The girl who turns into a fucking monster every month?" 

“Kaylee?” he repeats incredulously, then visually wrestles with his next words. “No, Kaylee is the sweetest, most, most kind-hearted soul on earth. This curse is what’s hurting people, not her. She’d never hurt a fly if she could help it.”

" If she could help it?" Laura repeats pointedly.

Travis' hackles rise, and he leans so close that if she wanted to, she could easily wrap her hands around his throat. "My niece would be heartbroken if she knew the kind of rot our family has brought on this town."

They're at a stalemate. 

“I know you’re tired of hunting Silas,” she says, softer this time. “And I won’t stop trying to find other ways to stop this curse. At least give me the locations you’ve managed to track him to, see if I can find more of a correlation. I work with animals, remember?”

It’s bullshit, frankly, but for him to think she can do any of this in the first place tells her that he really doesn’t know what veterinarians do.

She can’t deny that the idea of finding a cure for lycanthropy fascinates her. Being a research veterinarian one day has always been the plan— studying animals in a lab environment, looking for ways to prevent and cure diseases. But that’s something… way off in the future. Way above her current pay grade.

Laura’s only interned at a vet clinic, much less gone to actual vet school! The most she’s done is read books and prep surgical sites, sometimes having the exciting job of preparing intravenous lines for anesthetics. Nothing that’s prepared her for what he expects her to do.

But if he ever realizes that she can’t help him find a cure, what then? What happens to her?

“I really do need the information you have about him,” she pleads. “Not the fairy tales. At least, not at first.”

His eyes dart past hers, then back up. This close, she can see the amber curls in his irises, like sunlight shining through a bottle of whiskey.

"Finish your damn lunch,” he says.

And that’s that.

-

Somewhere in the precinct, a door shuts not once, but twice.

It’s three o’clock.

At six o’clock, it happens again.

-

July 4th, 2022

The map Travis gives her is comically large, and not for the first time, Laura is thankful for existing in a time where GPS and Google exist. 

She tapes the map of the East Coast's major roads and cities to one of the walls of her cell, and it easily swallows up the stone. Little red stickers march across Maine to Virginia, conglomerating within upstate New York and branching out as far down as Georgia.

And, that? That’s the problem.

For as much as Silas was confirmed to still be within the state, he was also apparently gallivanting amongst peach orchards and just barely skimming the top of Jacksonville. Talk about ‘Florida Man.’ 

How many deaths is he responsible for? How many others are out there looking for Silas, trying desperately to end their own curse?

The questions consume her from within.

The dark swatch of nothingness has always been there for as long as she can remember, threatening to burn up each carefully laid thought and good intention. But now, as she considers each pin on the map, each one the center of a bullseye, that same nothingness purrs in hunger. 

It electrifies her. It disturbs her.

Laura’s ears perk. The familiar chords of Bruce Springsteen’s Born in the U.S.A. are carried down the hallway, and her heart gives a little tug.

“Could you turn it up?” she calls down the hallway. Though it strains her neck, she’s able to just barely see him appear in the gloom cast down a ways. Late sunset paints the walls. He’s probably going to head home soon, if he ever leaves.

He fixes her with something akin to amusement. “I didn’t take you for a Springsteen fan.”

“My mom used to listen to him all the time,” she says, and instantly imagines swallowing her own tongue. The song, the burgeoning sense of hope today; all of it brings on a false sense of security.

Travis stills, and in the space of a breath, he moves. She watches him scoop up the radio, casually walking into her line of sight, and place it right next to the old chair that’s become a staple of the decor.

You end up like a dog that's been beat too much 

'Til you spend half your life just coverin' up

The words rush over her like a familiar friend, bringing with them memories of wide-mouth smiles, her mom’s blonde hair whipping freely in the wind, both of them singing with abandon. She leans her head back against the wall, shutting out the rest of the world for just a little while.

Aerosmith, Journey, Bon Jovi. Laura was raised on classic 80’s rock, but nothing reminded her of her mom more than the slightly cheesy, ‘total powerhouse of a man’ that was Bruce Springsteen. 

Whenever it was a particularly bad day, and they needed to get away from the house just long enough for the caustic bitterness to settle into a slow ache, her mom would take her to get ice cream.

They’d get in the old Honda Civic and dash down to the local ice cream shop with the windows down, regardless of the time of year, and blast the radio. Her mom would ask her about school, talk about the latest crazy headline she’d seen- anything surface level.

It was never safe to go far from the neighborhood; most often, they’d circle the block several times over, always keeping an eye out in case another car returned to the driveway before them.

Most of the time, they made it back before. 

But not always.

And when they didn’t, Laura wished they never returned in the first place. That they’d have just kept driving, on and on, staying on the highway till the gas tank ran on fumes and hitchhike from there.

God, she had envisioned all of it so clearly: ditch the car, get out of the state. Laura had no aunts or uncles on her mom’s side, but there was a cousin in Oregon that would probably spot them the emergency funds for a flight.

Of course, her mom would never leave.

Travis’ phone vibrates.

She jolts back to awareness. He doesn’t so much as look at her before brusquely leaving, clutching his pocket as if he could smother the sound. The radio stays behind. 

“Damn,” she mutters to no one. Her wrist reads three o’clock.

Travis isn’t treating her like… before , and this observation sinks in more than it should. 

She thinks about the extra berth he gave her that morning when delivering her breakfast. The avoidance in his gaze, never straying too long in her direction. At first, she thought he was being more wary because of her escape attempt. But it feels like more than that.

Laura scowls at the thought. It shouldn’t bother her. 

It shouldn’t, but it does.

-

When he returns with a dinner tray, Laura is laying on her stomach in bed, nose buried in a book on German werewolf fairy tales.

“Who called?” she asks him.

No response.

“Was it your niece?”

The door at the end of the hallway closes with finality.

-

July 5th, 2022

"Hey! Travis!" she calls. 

A moment later, the devil himself appears. Privately, she relishes in the fact that even as a prisoner, she still holds some modicum of command.

“Let’s stick with Sheriff Hackett,” he says with a wilting glare over her shoulder.

Let’s not. She blinks when a hand is unceremoniously shoved in front of the cell bars. Long, faintly scarred fingers uncurl to reveal two little pills. 

“Take ‘em,” he says impatiently. 

“What?”

“I- Uh,” he falters. “They’re for your,” he waves his hand in the general direction of her pelvis, and her brow raises of its own accord.

Oh. Her period cramps. Because he knows she’s on her period. Because she totally bled all over the floor-

“That’s what you’ve been giving me this whole time?” she asks over the absolutely mortifying train of thought.

He blinks. “Yeah. I thought that was obvious.”

“Um, no. I had no idea what they were.”

“Huh,” he says. She gets the faintest impression that he’s embarrassed. “They’ve been missing from the trays.”

“I’ve been flushing them down the toilet,” Laura says bluntly. “But, uh. Thanks.” 

Her fingers brush the skin of his palm when she takes the pills, and his fingers twitch, then curl as if to hide the gesture. The residual tension in the room prompts her to clear her throat before the silence threatens to swallow them whole.

“That’s not what I called you here for.”

“I gathered that,” he says drily. 

She nods towards the map. “Have you actually left town for any of these sightings?” 

Travis clicks his tongue, effectively changing the conversation. “I’ve tracked him with my own connections, but I can’t exactly leave town. Anything outside of a few hours has been undoable.”

“For six years?” she asks incredulously. This guy hasn’t left the area for over half a decade, at least?

“You heard me.”

That’s… not exactly hopeful. “Is anyone else checking up on these sightings?”

He huffs. “At times. But the moment we’re able to follow up on one lead, he’s already long gone. It’s not like we can go through a formal process, here. The only description we have is a feral albino boy.”

“That sounds pretty specific to me,” she says.

He snorts, but it sounds hollow. “You’d think so.”

She grills him about the other leads he’s followed up on, and though he surprisingly answers at least half of them more or less directly, despondency steadily descends upon her shoulders like a familiar shawl.

For one man, he has looked everywhere. 

From keyword filters on local newspaper headlines to online hunting chat rooms, he’s set up enough of a system to generate an up-to-date database of where Silas might be. His entire family, apparently, also goes out every full moon to hunt for him and other werewolves that may have been bit. Well, aside from his niece, who they lock up in a fucking basement.

“What the fuck? You keep a werewolf under your living room?”

“It's once a month. And, it’s the family home, not mine, so no.”

The more she digs out of him, the more it sits in. If she has any hope of finding and stopping Silas, it lies with Travis Hackett. 

For now.

-

At three o’clock, she’s alone.

Two doors shut.

At six o’clock, two doors shut again.

He brings her dinner.

-

“You know,” she says around a mouth of meat-y pasta that was most definitely microwaved, “we could work together better if you let me out.”

He eyes her shrewdly. “I think this setup works great.”

“Of course you do,” she snaps, then reigns it back in. “But I could actually help you gather resources, rather than review everything you’ve already read a million times.”

“Gather?” he repeats. “Hell no, in your wildest dreams, not happening. Take your pick.”

"So, what? You're going to keep me locked up in here forever? That's the plan?" His silence makes her gut churn. Her voice is small when she says, "People are going to start looking for me."

'People' meaning Max's parents and sister. Maybe a college professor or two will wonder why she isn't coming back to finish her degree, but her social circle hasn't exactly been thriving since senior year of high school. 

But he doesn't need to know that.

"I can't trust you," he stresses. There's almost a hint of apologetic sympathy on his face. "Once Silas is out of the equation, I don't care what happens to me. Hell, you can lock me up yourself. But I can't risk this secret coming back on my family." 

“C’mon, Travis,” she says, leaning forward. “Of the two of us, which one of us has more experience with the internet?”

“Sheriff Hackett,” he repeats as if he’s helping a foreigner with the phonetics of his name, “and if you really think I’m going to give you access to the internet, you’re goddamn insane.”

“You think I'm insane?” she shoots back. He sneers at her attitude, and they fall into an uneasy stalemate.

She doesn’t get why he stuck around for dinner. Instead of his usual drop-off and leave, he went against every pattern she’s built up of him and took a seat in the old chair outside of her cell and produced a bottle of bourbon from his pocket, taking sips occasionally in the silence.

Despite being the only free one here, he must be desperate for the company, not that she’s complaining. It's a testament to how lonely she is that she’ll take even the ill-tempered, slightly manic cop over the darkness of her own thoughts.

“Happy fourth,” she says, apropos of nothing. She forgot to say it yesterday.

It’s already July. Her and Max would be toasting s’mores with kids right now, probably not lighting off any fireworks due to fire hazards in the middle of the woods.

Travis leans back with a soft exhale, jostling the bottle against his thigh.

“Happy fourth,” he replies. 

It sounds like an agreement, coming from him.

-

July 6th, 2022

The day starts like every other.

Breakfast, handcuffs, shower. Reading more tales, jotting down notes. 

Lunch. Notes. Doors.

The last one causes her heartbeat to pick up, but she tampers it down as best she can. Sweat gathers on her palms, and she keeps wiping her hands on the sweatpants he’s given her, biding her time with tidying up.

Maybe it’s a dumb idea. 

Actually, it’s most definitely a dumb idea. But Laura can’t spend another hour locked up knowing that this might be the answer. If she’s played her cards right, read the situation correctly, then everything should be fine. Right?

‘Don’t play stupid games,’ her mom’s voice, warm but raspy from years of smoking, chastises her. ‘You need to just be careful and wait. Who knows? It might work itself out.’

No, I can’t, she thinks morosely. We’ve seen how that worked out for you.

She’s not going to be like her mom. If Laura’s ever going to get out of here and fix this mess, it’s going to have to be by her own hands. 

One door shuts. She checks her wrist: six o’ clock. 

There’s no turning back now.

“Boss! Hey, Travis!” she calls out. 

She screams louder, cupping her hands. “Hey! The door shut behind me! Could you let me out?”

“...’s that?” a faint woman’s voice carries down the hall.

“...orry about her.”

“Hey!” Laura calls again louder, injecting some cheer into her voice that hopefully doesn’t come off as deranged. “This stupid thing shut on me again.”

“...Um, Uncle T? It sounds like she’s stuck.”

A woman about her age sporting cropped dark hair and a pink hoodie hesitantly walks through the door, and Laura grins widely, chuckling self-deprecatingly.

“Hey! Kaylee, right?” she asks, casually leaning against the bars. 

The woman’s eyes widen, and she approaches with a tentative smile. “Yeah…?”

Travis watches from the doorway.

“Nice to meet you, my name’s Jess. I’m the new intern,” she lies earnestly. Kaylee glances past her, no doubt eyeing the perfectly straightened bed, map and books hidden from sight beneath the mattress and within the pillow.

To her, it would look like the cell hasn’t been in use for the past ten days. 

“Sorry, Sheriff Hackett,” she says, voice as sweet as syrup. “I was just finishing up in here when I thought I saw a brick loose, and the door shut on me. The stupid thing's stuck again.”

Travis’ teeth grind together, lips twitching like a live snake. If he doesn’t kill her right here, she imagines he’ll do it once his niece leaves.

"Travis has told me a lot about you!” she says brightly, turning her attention back on the totally oblivious girl. “He can't stop bragging. You’re thinking of applying for college, right?"

Kaylee beams, and if Laura weren’t so desperate in this moment, she’d almost feel guilty for laying the false foundation. 

“Yeah!” She tosses a curious look at her uncle, no doubt picking up on the murderous vibes coming off in waves. “I mean, I’ve totally been thinking about it. I’ve just had a hard time convincing my family,” she backtracks slowly.

“Well, if you’re able to convince them, I’ve been attending St. Lawrence and I love it. I’m studying to be a vet, and they’ve got great professors for the sciences.”

Kaylee gives her a smaller smile. “That’s great. I’m, uh, looking to study the arts.”

“Oh!” Laura leans in, effectively avoiding eye contact with the shadow behind her. “What arts?”

“Um, honestly?” Kaylee gives a little self-deprecating laugh, and something about it is so familiar, yet she can’t put a finger on why. “I really love to paint… and sculpt, but I’m not that great at that. Which is why I’d like to get a degree, maybe learn how to paint on something that isn’t a flat canvas.”

“That’d be cool! I’ve never taken a pottery class, but it looks like fun.” Small talk has never before held such a weight. There’s no sign that it isn’t working to endear her to his niece, but Travis is still eerily silent, and this whole situation is a tad too ridiculous to not be skeptical of.

A slight frown perches on Kaylee’s lips, and she casts a look to the man behind her. “Uncle T, why aren’t you letting her out already?”

Because I know you’re a werewolf, and if your family finds out, we're screwed. Kaylee’s eyes dart between the two of them.

Like a magnet, Laura locks onto Travis, and he tilts his head ever so slightly. She holds her breath.

He steps forward, slowly unclipping the ring from his belt. 

The key slips in with a soft click—

—and he lets her out.

#another lost soul #laura kearney #the quarry #travis hackett #the quarry fanfic #the quarry fanfiction #kaylee hackett #i ran out of relevant gifs lmao

[sunflowerheartsandstarryskies]

Ain’t Family Great? ~ Lucifer Morningstar x  GenderNeutral!Reader

Summary: You have come from a very religious household, and they don’t take too kindly when they heard that you are dating someone literally named the devil.

Author’s Note: I literally got this idea from seeing a dialogue prompt on Pinterest, and it just spiraled out of control. 

Trigger Warning: Curse words, some innuendos, biblical literalism, religious talk (It is Lucifer)

You were a friend and coworker of Chloe Decker, you mostly worked in the background doing research and gathering the data on the criminals and suspects of the cases your unit was working on. That is how you met Lucifer, Chloe asked you to gather information on two main suspects on a case she was working on and Lucifer was lingering on in the background.

 When you gave Chloe the information you gathered and she left, Lucifer piped up, “What’s your name? I haven’t seen you before” “That’s because I mostly work on research stuff for cases, so I do a lot of the office work and investigative work that requires me to be in a chair for the whole day. My name’s (Y/N), Chloe’s mentioned you before,” you replied with a small smile. “Ah I hope not all of them are terrible, even if I am the Devil I like to think I have a certain amount of charm,” he said with a smirk.

That’s when you first heard him call himself the devil, and if you were honest with yourself you were always curious about his name: Lucifer Morningstar. 

You grew up in an extremely religious household, which at times felt like you were suffocating from the relentless biblical literalism that was upheld in your house. You were always curious about the Devil in the biblical stories and you always found the quote by Mark Twain interesting if read in a certain context otherwise it’ll sound like an angsty emo kid trying to be philosophical. 

There was an instance where you were on a case with Chloe and Lucifer, and the killer had said, “Oh, you know that phrase? The devil made me do it? It felt like that” 

You let out a light snort at that as you immediately responded, “The devil didn’t make you do anything. Your poor impulse control and anger management, and might I add quite a horrid spectacle of internet history could certainly be a bad combination to make you do something.”

After the case, Lucifer was very curious about your statement towards the killer as you guys headed to a cafe to get some lunch together, he asks, “Why were you so against the man using that phrase? I mean I hate it because it is so demeaning, I’ve got better things to do.”

 You shrugged as you sipped your beverage and responded, “I don’t know, maybe it’s partly because of my very religious family which I have realized how much bullshit I was forced to listen to since I was born, so I guess I grew to have sympathy for the devil.” “Oh really?” Lucifer’s small smile grew to a smirk as he leaned forward, Chloe swatted him to move back.

“Not you. I don’t know you, but one of my favorite quotes about the devil is from Mark Twain,”  you commented. “I don’t think I have,” he continued to have that smirk on his face. He was very handsome but he was so goddamn annoying, you thought. “Well, it goes: ‘Who, in eighteen centuries, has had the common humanity to pray for the one sinner that needed it most?’ Like, there’s this whole thing about redemption in the Bible and catholicism but does the Devil ever get the chance to get his redemption? No, I think God wanted a scapegoat and he got it from a rebel,” you ranted. 

Lucifer looked shocked for a moment but gathered his posture and said, “Well, you thought about this quite a bit. I assume because of your family?” You just shrugged at first, took a sip from your drink, then nodded. “Their family is very strict, I thought my family was weird but they got me beat, ” Chloe informed him. 

“They stopped talking to me, they didn’t think that I was enough for them. It hurt at first but y’know as time moves on I figured that I have better things to do than wallow in my past, so I realized I needed help so I got therapy and now I’m here,” you surmised. “Family is a wonderful thing, isn’t it? Filling us with traumas and issues since we were created,” Lucifer commented.

                                                                                                                             Time has passed between that first case with Lucifer and Chloe, now whenever they needed an extra pair of eyes they’d call on you to help with them. It was an interesting dynamic that you and Lucifer had developed over the weeks that you were going with them on cases. You were able to talk about literally anything with Lucifer, he made you feel comfortable which is odd since his persistence on him calling himself the Devil. By him associating himself with it, you thought he was supposed to be like an actual bad guy, but gauging his reaction to your conversation about your first case with them, you made a realization that because of his name people treat like the actual devil. 

One day, you went through your mail in the apartment lobby and spotted a letter that was from your hometown, and another one with the return address being your parents’ house. ‘The hell is this?’ you thought. 

When you opened the first one you found a wedding invitation that your cousin was inviting you to, you were actually pretty close with this cousin, she was really chill and she understands the conservative and religious household you used to live in. The second one was your parents’ basically condemning you from being at your cousin’s wedding, and that pissed you off. You were a grown adult, you would be damned if you’d let your parents try to control you anymore. 

You decided to go out to LUX, because if there is one person who understands controlling parents it was Lucifer and maybe he’d be able to give you the extra courage you need to stand up to your parents. You had on your favorite party outfit, and when you entered the club you could feel the thrum of energy and the bass of the music go straight to your heart. As you walked to the bar you spotted Maze whom you’ve met before when you came here out of Lucifer’s request, you waved her over.

 “What can I get for you?” She asked. “I’m sure you know what’s the best drink here, so I’ll leave that to you,” you said. You turned around to just watch the crowd and started to get a little nervous about the idea of going back to your hometown for the wedding, you love your cousin but hate your parents. So, you were at a bit of a crossroads with this. While you were watching the crowd you saw Lucifer come up to you with a big grin on his face. 

“Well, hello (Y/N) this is a surprise. What brings you here?” Lucifer beamed.

 “I actually came here to see you, to ask for advice,” you replied. 

“A horrible decision really,” he smirked.

“My cousin invited me to her wedding but my parents know and basically condemned me from going to the wedding, and I’m unsure of whether to just stay here in L.A. or to go to the wedding and just be resilient against what my parents’ might say to me,” you said crossing your arms and rubbing them back and forth. 

“Well, that sounds like quite a situation you got yourself in”

“I know, that’s why I am asking what I should do?”

“You know I’m all about that rebellion against parental figures, so I say go to the wedding and have a good time, your parents be damned. In fact, I would never say no to a party, so I could come up with you,” he added with a wink.

“Would you like to be my plus one? But please don’t start anything with my parents,” you begged him.

“I thought you’d never ask, and I can’t promise you that,” he smirked.

                                                                                                                            After, that conversation both of you got ready for travelling out to your hometown and you made sure to bring the outfits that gave you the most confidence in yourself because you knew that you’d need that. 

You admitted to yourself a while ago that you had a crush on Lucifer, he was hot as hell, always polite with you, and treated you with genuine interest and respect.  You also made a promise to not let your feelings get caught in the middle of your mission. You are going to have a good time at this wedding, congratulate your cousin and just have a good time. 

                                                                                                                            Both of you made it one piece to the hotel that Lucifer somehow booked without your knowledge, because you swore you got a cheap motel room but as you tried to convince Lucifer to let you go to your motel room, he just said, “Are you crazy? I’m the devil for a reason, darling, I got connections everywhere and plus this place is much more spacious. We don’t need to sleep in the same bed if that’s what’s making you uncomfortable.”

“I just thought you would probably be looking for hookups or something and would want your own hotel room for that stuff,” you sputtered. 

“Well if that comes to it, I’ll go to their room because I wanted to give you the comfiest place to go back to because I know how family can be,” Lucifer answered. 

“That’s really nice of you, y’know for someone insisting he’s the devil you can be really sweet.”

The hotel room was really nice, it had two bedrooms and a large tv screen in front of the dining area. As time moved on and you guys decided to decompress and relax on one bed and decided to just mindlessly watch the tv. You fell asleep and Lucifer watched you for a moment as he realized you were asleep, he put you under the covers and fell asleep next to you.

The next day you woke up to the sunlight hitting your eyes, you rubbed the sleep out of your eyes and as you took a deep breath in you smelled something delicious. You turned around and saw Lucifer cooking breakfast with his shirt half undone and his hair all curled up. 

“Good morning (Y/N), how did you sleep?” Lucifer asked.

“Pretty good, actually,” you answered with a yawn still trying to wake up.

As you both ate breakfast in relative comfortable silence, you looked at your phone and noticed the time. “Shit, we should get ready to go to the church and the party afterwards,” you told him as you got up and went to your suitcase to gather your things.

After what seems like hours to both of you, you managed to get out of the hotel room and to the church. Lucifer dropped you off in front of the church as he wanted to find a parking space for his car. As you waited in front of the church you noticed your parents walking to the church and felt your stomach churn as they were inching closer to you. Your mom looked furious and it was like her whole head was on fire how red it was. Your dad had a more quiet anger to him but you saw the clenched fists and the tightened jaw on him. You put out a little prayer to whoever to get Lucifer faster to you. 

“What are you doing here? I thought we told you to not come here,” your mother sneered.

“The last time I checked I am a grown adult and (Y/C/N) invited me to their wedding,” you stated. 

“Listen here you bitch, you are a disgrace to this family and that is why we didn’t want you here,” your mother hissed.

Before you could get another word in you heard Lucifer, “Oh there you are, love, I was looking for you.” He kissed the side of your head as he wrapped a hand around your waist and looked at your parents as he continued, “You must be (Y/N)’s parents, I’m her boyfriend, a pleasure to meet you.”

You looked at him a bit surprised and your parents’ faces were that of a gulping goldfish. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Lucifer. Lucifer Morningstar,” he stated.

“Like the devil?” your father said with apprehension in his voice, he made your mom step back behind him. 

“Oh, I’m not as bad as the books say, you know,” Lucifer spoke with a wink.

“Quiet, evil one,”  your dad sneered.

“Oooh, name-calling so fearsome, “ Lucifer scoffed. He looked towards you as you were just staring at the three of them. “C’mon love, we’ve got a wedding to go to, can’t be late.”

                                                                                                                            After that encounter the wedding reception went quite beautifully, you may or may not have teared up hearing your cousin and their spouse recite their vows. When you both went to the after-party you both stayed away from your parents and they seemed to have lost interest after that conversation earlier. 

A slow dance came on while you were at the bar getting a drink when Lucifer appeared next and offered you his hand. You just raised an eyebrow at him in response and just said, “I thought you weren’t the type for slow dancing?” “Only with the right partner I find it enjoyable,” he smirked with a wink. 

You hit him on the chest playfully and replied, “How do you know I’d be the right partner?” you asked. “Ooh I’d figure you’d be good at from the first day I saw you” he quipped. “Okay show me your moves, then,” you replied, taking his hand and walking to the dance floor.

He led most of the dances, keeping you close to his chest with his hand on your back. It was nice, the rhythm of his heartbeat in your ear was very soothing as well as him occasionally humming with the song if he knew, which more often than not he did. 

You looked at him and you both started to stare at each other’s eyes. You felt your eyes flutter between his eyes and his lips, he was doing the same to you. His hand cupped the back of your head and he engulfed your mouth with his. You kissed back with as much passion, but as soon as he was kissing you it was over. That kiss left you wanting more and you subconsciously leaned in closer to him.

“Wow” you whispered looking at him. Lucifer just smiled at you for a second. “I hope you wouldn’t mind if you became my real girlfriend then a spontaneous fake one?” he asked. “I would love nothing more Lucifer,” you replied with a huge grin. “Let’s get out of here then, love,” he said as he took your hand and led you out of the building and back to your shared hotel room. This time there didn’t need to be any excuses to sleep next to each other, you just did.

#lucifer #lucifer fox imagines #lucifer morningstar x reader #lucifer morningstar #lucifer fox x reader #gender neutral reader #x reader

[yet-another-fan-girl9]

Inhuman (1)

Summary: All beings in the universe have a soulmate except for Midgardians. People can hear their soulmate in their heads. For almost five hundred and fifty years, Loki believed that he had no soulmate until 1513 when a Midgardian princess was born. Will fate be kind to them or will the universe tear them apart?

Warnings: violence, language, hella historical inaccuracies (I tried to do research but then got lazy), maybe some AOS season 2 spoilers(?)

Word Count: ~3400

A/N: Yay! The re-write is here! I changed it so now there are flashbacks and stuff and the chapters are longer! I’m also posting this chapter a day early because of reasons. Anyways, enjoy!

[New York, New York, March 2024]

‘Soulmates?’ You had never heard of the concept.

‘We are destined to be together. The universe made it so.’

You shot up in bed, a light sheen of sweat covered your body. Loki’s words replayed over and over in your head. You hadn’t heard his actual voice in so long but it was still as clear as if he was speaking to you now. It had been twelve years since you had seen him in Germany and he had tried to take over.

‘We are destined to be together.’

The words echoed in your mind. ‘Destined’ huh? Well, if you’d learned anything from the past four hundred and eighty-six years that you were not with Loki, it’s that the universe does a shit job at keeping you together. You ran your fingers through your hair, easily smoothing out the tangled mess. It was too early to think about Loki.

You slipped out of the silk sheets that covered your king-sized bed in your two-level, top floor Upper East Side penthouse. You were very proud of how far you had come. The view was amazing. You could see some of Central Park from one side and the stereotypical New York skyline from another.

As you walked out of your room, you caught your reflection in one of your full-sized mirrors. And that was definitely a nice view. When you came out of Terrigenesis almost five hundred years ago, you quickly discovered that you were now the blueprint for a perfect person. Straight, white teeth, surprisingly tameable hair, and clear, unblemished skin were some of the visually obvious changes. In addition to your perfected looks, you had increased senses, healing, strength, endurance, and your favorite, pain tolerance. Oh, and don’t forget you basically look twenty-five forever.

You checked your phone while you made breakfast in the kitchen downstairs. There were a couple of emails from your employees on their latest jobs. You opened one from Max, your right-hand man. You were reading over some job offers he had handpicked for you when you got a text from the man himself.

Bringing up some donuts!

Max was the only person from work to have access to your penthouse. He was your best friend. The two of you had met when you were at Afterlife nearly fifteen years ago. He was an Inhuman as well. All of your employees were Inhumans, using their specialties to carry out their jobs. Max had the power to change surfaces. It was a strange power, but he had learned to make it very useful. He could cause his pursuers to slip on the suddenly ice-like ground or climb up a glass skyscraper.

“Hello, bitch! I brought donuts!” Max called from the elevator.

“I’m in the kitchen!”

Max walked in holding the goods. He always wore eccentric color-coordinated outfits. Even the times you saw him in stealth mode, he had to have some lace or frill somewhere. Today he wore a mixture of neon green and pink with matching eyeliner.

“Are Cosmo and Wanda disguising themselves as your clothes?” you asked.

“Haha,” he deadpanned. “I knew you were going to say something like that. You’re so fucking funny. Soo…” He plopped the three large donut boxes onto your kitchen counter. “Have you heard of the Avenger’s new quote-unquote recruit?”

“Um, I think it’s your job to keep tabs on heroes.” You opened the nearest box and happily pulled out your favorite donut.

“Okay. Number one: I’m not speaking to you as your right-hand, right now, but as your friend.” He held up his finger. “Number two: it’s not really a job if I do it in my free time anyways. You’re paying me to do something that I do on an hourly basis.”

“You stalk the Avengers on an hourly basis?”

“No? Anyways, number three: it’s Thor’s brother. It’s your Loki.”

“What the fuck?” you choke on your donut. Max was the only person who knew you that you and Loki had a history. And that’s all he knew. Nothing about soulmates or all that shit. “What the fuck, Max? Did you try to use donuts to soften the blow? Stop laughing.”

“I-I wish I had caught that reaction on camera,” he said in between fits of giggles.

“Haha,” it was your turn to deadpan. “Fuck, man. I guess we just have to double our efforts to keep ourselves off of their radar.”

“Do you think they’ve forgiven him for New York?” Max composed himself.

“I mean, they must have if they’re letting him join the team.” You chanced another bite of your donut.

“But lots of people haven’t.”

“Lots of people still haven’t forgiven Barnes,” you pointed out. You didn’t know when or why Loki had attacked New York. That Loki was nothing like the man who you had grown to love back in the 1500s. But you were nothing like that girl either.

 “Have you chosen a new job from the list I sent you?” he changed the subject.

“No, not yet, and you have a little…” you motioned to the corner of your mouth.

Max got the hint and wiped some powder off of his mouth. You noticed the sprinkling of grey that was mixed into his curly black hair. He displayed the last fifteen years proudly while you remained unchanged. Max was the closest you’ve been to someone in a long time, and just like everyone before him, you would outlive him. But you would remember him. You remembered everyone. You remembered everything.

Right now, you thought of Agnes, your first real friend. She was your handmaiden and you had met right before everything went to shit. She had helped you cope after you underwent Terrigenesis, although you hadn’t known what it was back then. She had helped you run away and even died for you. You had only known her for nine years, but you compared everyone to her. Max held second place, right after Agnes.

“I think we should take the Senator’s offer,” Max said, jolting you out of your memories. He pulled up the offer on his iPad. “One million to off his upcoming competition.”

“Damn,” you whistled. “He’s desperate, isn’t he? Is there a deadline?”

“No, but I assume we should get it done quickly.”

“Send over the info.”

🌹

You shoved the flower into Jake Morano’s mouth. Blood from the bullet wound in his forehead trickled down until it turned the perfect, white rose red. You snapped a quick photo on your burner phone to send to the Senator as confirmation. With a huff, you looked around the apartment. Mr. Anderson had put up a fight, although it didn’t do anything to deter you and Max. A few glass awards were in pieces on the hardwood floor, family pictures were shattered, and the wall behind you held a couple of bullets from Anderson’s gun.

“All good?” Max asked from his location by the computer. He was deleting all footage of you being there. And everything else, just to be safe.

“Yep.” You walked over to him, your boots making a satisfying clicking on the ground, and proudly displayed the picture of the dead body. “Got the confirmation picture for the Senator. How’s it coming?”

“Almost… there. We’re good to go.”

The two of you left in your favorite black Lamborghini. Unfortunately, you actually had to drive places now that Gordon was dead. You followed his advice, though, and bought a plane along with four other sports cars, a helicopter, and a couple of motorcycles. You knew how to operate every single one of them. What else were you supposed to do except for establishing your contract killing empire?

🌹

Loki stood in the middle of his assigned room with his hands on his hips. It certainly was much nicer than the last prison the Avengers had kept him in. They may say it wasn’t a prison but the twenty-four-hour surveillance from Stark’s new AI said otherwise. Even though it was nicer than the shitty glass cylinder from twelve years ago, it was empty. Thor had shown Loki the few things in his room: books, photographs, and his own goddamned merchandise. 

Would Loki have his own merchandise one day? Everyone was redeemable as shown by Romanoff and Barnes. Maybe there would be plastic replicas of his helmet? No, Loki thought that was stupid. Only heroes got merchandise and heroes had to show up to events and sponsor health drinks or whatever the fuck they do. Heroes had to be nice.

Nothing good ever came from being on Midgard. Most recently, there was his father dying, although what followed was worse. Before that was the attack he had been forced to make on the city. And the first time he had ever come to Midgard had ended with disappointment and heartbreak.

Loki sighed and waved his hand to conjure green and gold accents, sheets, and blankets. At least there was color in the room now. No doubt the AI had reported that he had used his magic. He hoped it had also told them that all he did was improve the room, he didn’t need anyone talking to him at the moment.

“Good afternoon, Reindeer Games,” the AI echoed through the room. Loki glowered at the sound of Stark’s nickname. “There is a meeting in Conference Room Five that the entire team is required to attend.”

Loki hadn’t the faintest fucking idea where the conference rooms were. He left his room and caught sight of his brother and the Valkyrie. The God of Mischief followed the pair down to where the meeting was taking place. Did he really want to go? If he wanted to be part of the team he would have to. He preferred the Revengers, though. While it had lasted. It was smaller.

Everyone was sitting around the long table. Of course, Loki would be the last to arrive. Stark and Barton both glared at him when he entered. Understandable. Romanoff remained impassive, but Loki knew she would bash his head in the first chance she got. Rogers had to remain positive that Loki could be redeemed because if the Norse God could redeem himself, then so could Barnes. Bruce had warmed up to Loki on the journey to Midgard. None of the newer members of the team outright hated him, but they were still cautious around him.

Loki found himself sitting in between his brother and Bruce. Stark went up to the screen at the front and everyone fell silent.

“This is Jake Morano.” The screen turned on to show a dead man with a rose stuffed in his mouth. “He was going to run for Senator against this guy.” The screen changed. “This guy is William Anderson, a very corrupt Senator. In the last month, Morano began to gain a lot of support including a sponsor from us. Well, a sponsor from me in the name of the Avengers.”

“Are you implying that Anderson killed Morano?” Rogers asked.

“I’m saying that Anderson hired someone to kill Morano.” The screen changed again to display multiple bodies left with a rose in their mouths. “I had F.R.I.D.A.Y. do a quick search of bodies with roses found in their mouths and we found a shocking amount of similar deaths. The first ones dating back to the nineteen twenties. More recently, some of the deaths have happened at the same time on opposite sides of the globe. Deaths include, but are not limited to, shooting, stabbing, poisoning, drowning, burning, missing organs, being found stuck in a wall, and looking like a suicide. They all have a white rose soaked in blood in their mouths.”

“Are you sure it isn’t a serial killer?” Wilson questioned.

“Yeah, it’s probably not the same guy,” Romanoff pointed out. “Especially if it goes back to before Steve looked like that.”

“It’s gotta be an organization,” Barnes guessed. “Been around for a while, a couple of deaths happening at the same time, and one constant MO.”

“Loki?” Everyone looked at the God of Mischief when Stark said his name. “You’re technically a part of this team now. What’s your opinion?”

“Barnes is probably right,” Loki said after a moment’s hesitation. “The locations are all over the place and there are many different ways the victims met their demise.”

They nodded and Loki returned to silence.

“Alright, game plan.” Stark clapped his hands. “We have to get Anderson into an interrogation room. Round one is the good cops: Steve and Sam. When he doesn’t crack, and he won’t, we up the intensity. Nat and the Manchurian Candidate will do some intimidation. If he still doesn’t crack we can send in Wanda, or even Reindeer Games if she’s not comfortable, to search his mind.”

“Are all Midgardian politics like that?” Loki heard the Valkyrie ask Thor after the meeting. Thor only shrugged so she turned to Bruce.

“I mean, I haven't been here in a while but it’s always kinda been fucked up.”

Only an hour after the meeting, Anderson took out one million dollars in cash. Stark tracked him to a small cafe where he was going to, no doubt, pay the assassin. The team rallied, but of course, Loki wasn’t going. Apparently, he wasn’t ‘cleared’ yet. The only other people staying behind were the Valkyrie, Thor, and Barton due to a recent injury. 

Loki went to his room to sulk, although he told everyone he was thinking. He didn’t want to be here. Maybe he wanted to go somewhere that reminded him of home with tall buildings that reached the sky… 

🌹

"Hello, (Y/N)." Loki’s voice was as smooth as it was in your head, but it was different. The only way you could describe it was that it was solid. It felt less intimate. Like he could bless others with his words, but it was more special because he was here. 

"Loki," you breathed.

"You look more beautiful than I ever could imagine." He stepped closer.

You touched your hair self-consciously. There were multiple knots, and it probably looked like one of those bird nests the dogs always knocked out of trees. You had woken up in a hurry and your hair being trapped in the hood of your cloak probably didn't help.

Then it occurred to you that you were wearing only your nightgown, and you tightly wrapped your cloak around yourself. Loki wouldn’t hurt you, but no man has seen you in an outfit so revealing. Still, you took another step closer.

"I do not know what to say." Fortunately, your voice didn’t shake or waver as you had feared, but Loki could probably feel your nervousness.

You both took a final step closer. You reached up and cupped Loki's face in your hand which tingled slightly when you made contact. You admired his sharp features and bright blue-green eyes. Then you shivered in the cold winter air. Loki noticed and pulled you into a hug. You leaned into him and felt a shiver, a different, better shiver, shoot through your body.

“You’re real.” Your soft voice was almost lost in the biting wind. “I was so scared that I was dreaming.”

Another goddamned dream about Loki? You groaned into your pillow and pushed a few damp strands of hair away from your face. Why now, all of a sudden? Was it because he was so close? Just a few hours upstate in the Avenger’s compound.

Pushing the dream aside, you stretched and got ready for the day. You had sent the photo to the Senator, who you had learned was very fucking corrupted, and he replied with a location. That changed your plans a bit, you hadn't physically met a client in decades, but it was for the better for multiple reasons.

The first reason was that the cafe he had chosen was next to a flower shop where you got your supply of roses. The second reason was that it meant his apartment would be empty. While you went to get the money, and eventually kill Senator Anderson, Max was going to rob his house. It wasn’t something you’d usually do, but honestly, the shitty asshole deserved it.

Your lips were painted red and you wore your usual boots and a leather jacket. Your regular hair was hidden behind a pink and green wig, courtesy of Max. A baseball cap and large sunglasses further hid your appearance. Though if somebody knew your face, the hat and glasses did nothing. There were multiple knives hidden on your body as well as a handgun tucked into your waistband and a pocket pistol in your, well, pocket.

As you walked into the cafe, Izzy, the auburn-haired florist, nodded to you. She had Botanokinesis, plant manipulation, so your supply of white roses was never low. Every once in a while, Izzy would take a job but she had told you she was very happy in her shop.

You noticed the Senator immediately. He still wore a suit and the sunglasses did nothing to hide his identity. There were two young women behind the counter and you suspected that the four other ‘customers’ were too buff not to be the Senator’s security. Anderson had his back to the door which meant you would have to get past his security to get out. You zeroed in on the black briefcase on the ground by his feet.

“Senator,” you greeted and sat down across from him.

“You can’t possibly be the one I talked to,” the asshole replied. “You’re just a girl.”

“Well of course I couldn’t be,” you rolled your eyes behind your heavily tinted glasses. “My boss is too busy and smart to meet you in public.” He didn’t notice your sarcasm. You pulled out the burner phone and showed him the messages as proof. “Now, I’m also busy so if we can get this over with?”

“Sure, darling.” He put the briefcase flat on the table and pushed it towards you.

“Open it.” Even though small boobie traps wouldn’t hurt you much, it wasn’t a piece of information you wanted to give him.

Anderson sighed and complied. Then you turned it around to quickly inspect the contents. One thousand one hundred dollar bills. Hello Mr. Franklin. You nodded in satisfaction and comically rubbed your hands together to inconspicuously grab a knife that was hidden up your sleeve.

“Thank you, Senator. That will be all.”

You closed the case, stood up, and plunged your knife deep into his left carotid artery. As his security descended upon you, you pulled the knife out and his neck satisfyingly squirted blood. The Senator collapsed with his hands clutching his wound desperately. The pool of blood rapidly grew underneath him.

The two baristas screamed behind the counter and the Senator’s security drew their guns. You flipped the small table for cover as bullets pierced the cafe’s window behind you. Perfect. Just a bit more.

You pulled out the handgun from your waistband and with practiced ease, shot three of the four goons. The last one got the bloodied knife to the face. You elbowed the already damaged window and it finally broke, raining glass down on you. Ignoring the small cuts, you jumped out of the cafe through the window as a familiar red and gold suit landed in front of you. Why the fuck were the Avengers here? What about Loki?

You darted into Izzy’s shop and she played her part well, screaming that you had run out the back when you had actually gone into the side room. You listened as the Avengers followed her directions. One person, maybe it was the Black Widow, stayed behind to help calm down the seemingly hysterical Izzy. If she wasn’t so happy at her shop and she didn’t want to work directly for you, she could be a great actress.

You rolled back the rug on the ground to reveal a metal trapdoor. You entered the code to unlock it and climbed down into the darkness. Behind you, you heard the trapdoor’s magnetic lock click back into place. Two centuries ago, you had tunnels dug underneath Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Queens for easy getaways. If you went… that way, you would end up in Sandra’s souvenir shop which was a couple of blocks away from your penthouse.

With a million dollars in one hand and a handgun in the other, you walked down the concrete tunnel.

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Taglist:

@kaithehero @liliannyah​ @andreasworlsboring101 @oatballsoffury​ @aberrant-annie

#inhuman #loki x reader #loki x soulmate reader #loki #mcu #marvel #avengers #Captain america #steve rogers #iron man #tony stark #hawkeye #clint barton #natasha romanoff #black widow #wanda maximoff #scarlet witch

[concussed-to-pieces]

The Mettle Of A Man; Part Eleven

Fandom: Fallout (4)

Pairing: Eventual Paladin Danse/Female Sole Survivor

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: Enjoy!

Part One: ArcJet

Part Two: The Prydwen

Part Three: Orders

Part Four: Finding Brandis

Part Five: Weston Water And Oberland

Part Six: Meeting Preston And Matthew

Part Seven: Radstag And Radstorm

Part Eight: The Return To Sanctuary Hills

Part Nine: Domestic Ruminations

Part Ten: Institutionalized

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains brief mentions of pregnancy (relating to bodily changes and a C-section) and a graphic depiction of an emotional/nervous breakdown. Stay safe!]

Two weeks and three days. 

  Danse wasn't exactly certain of what to do. It had taken his squadron nearly three weeks to track down Cutler, so three weeks had become his hard limit almost unconsciously. The paladin had never been overly good at resting on his laurels, but it wasn't like he could single-handedly lay siege to the damn Institute for a retrieval mission.

  Returning to the Prydwen without his charge might prove divisive , regardless of how many technical documents Codsworth had procured from the cul-de-sac's abodes. 

  Speaking of Codsworth…

  "Aw, cheer up man." Sturges comforted the robot, who (unless Danse was imagining it) was hovering a bit lower today. "I bet she'll be back any second now!"

  "Mister Sturges, as much as I appreciate your optimistic outlook," the robot sniffed dramatically. "I'm afraid that you cannot begin to understand the sadness I feel. I believed for two hundred years that I had lost Miss Vega, and to have lost her once again is...well, it is unbearable , Mister Sturges."

  Danse grimaced. Did he actually feel bad for a robot? He was, at the very least, sympathizing with it. What the hell was his world coming to?

  Knight Vega certainly kept some interesting company. Aside from the seemingly permanent presence of the elderly Mama Murphy, Sturges, Codsworth, and the married couple of Jun and Marcy Long, numerous colorful individuals had drifted through the settlement over the course of the weeks.

  First there was Cait, a woman with hair red enough to put Proctor Ingram's to shame. She blew into town, provisioner in tow, speaking with a thick, caustic brogue and toting a sawed-off shotgun. "I owe Backhand my life." She said shortly when Danse enquired as to what her business was with Vega. "She got me off the chems, so now I keep her goddamn caravans free from pests."

  She only stayed for a night, but she insisted that Danse join her for a sparring match. He wasn't afraid to admit that she put him through the ringer , his whole body sore the following morning.

  "Tell Handy Cait sends her love!" The woman had called before she departed, giving him a small smile. Danse had ruefully promised to do so, trying not to visibly wince as he waved farewell.

  One Robert MacCready followed shortly thereafter, who had acted like Danse being there would raze the town to the ground on nothing but principle. "I dealt with you ass--er, you jerks in the Capital Wasteland." The lithe man scowled up at Danse, pushing the bill of his hat back. He had a sniper rifle slung around his body with a barrel that was almost as long as he was tall, bearing an ornate, quick-slide scope.

  "I assume you are used to the charity of former Elder Lyons. The eastern chapter is no longer so benevolent, civilian." Danse growled, pricked by MacCready's blatant disdain for the Brotherhood.

  He could tell MacCready wasn't a bad sort, just overly suspicious and prickly. After serving with Knight Rhys for so long, Danse was almost tempted to tell the younger man that he would need to try harder to keep people away from him.

  "Backhand saved my kid." Robert admitted one night after he had been drinking by the fire with Sturges. "She...She helped me get the medicine I needed. Helped cure my little boy." 

  Danse knew he shouldn't be surprised that someone who seemed as young as MacCready had managed to procreate. But as he watched the other man toy idly with a tiny, battered tin soldier that he had pulled from his pocket, Danse felt that perhaps...perhaps Robert had the right to be a bit suspicious and prickly.

  The next visitor was a petite, dark-haired woman named Curie who had an incredibly strange accent. She was of the medical persuasion and curious about everything . Danse was a little taken aback by how blunt some of her inquiries were, but he did his best to humor her. 

  She seemed harmless enough, even if she was hellbent on learning the inner machinations of his entire existence. She asked everything in such a clinical manner, Danse didn't even have the presence of mind to be uncomfortable or embarrassed. 

  That is, until she asked whether he was sexually active and " when was zee last time you stimulated yourself, Monsieur Danse? " Then he clammed right up, loathing that he could feel his face going hot as he remembered exactly when the last time he had stimulated himself was.

  "I will not be answering any more of your questions about my personal matters, civilian." The paladin informed her curtly, caught off-guard by her plaintive cry of dismay at his refusal. 

  "But Monsieur Danse, I must learn zee secret of your overgrown size! You are so very tall and muscular compared to your contemporaries, my research could result in a breakthrough for your whole species! If you are a genetic throwback, zis could mean-" Sturges finally came to his rescue, ushering the wailing doctor away and shooting Danse a wink that made the paladin huff out an irritated grunt.

  Genetic throwback . Dogmeat was a genetic throwback. Danse just...maybe he had good genes. Both of his parents must have possessed more robust constitutions. That was the clear answer. 

  An elaborately-dressed ghoul had marched down the main road like he owned the joint a few days after Curie had come and gone, only stopping when he realized there was a fully-armored paladin aiming a laser rifle at him. "Whoa! Easy crewcut, you'll harsh my mellow." He exclaimed, taking off his tricorn hat and fanning himself with it. "The name's John Hancock," he continued with a showy little bow. "I'm lookin' for General Vega. She around?"

  "Knight Vega is indisposed at the moment, but you're welcome to leave a message, ghoul." Danse gritted out, oddly keen on attempting civility.

  Hancock whistled and Dogmeat came running over, immediately flopping onto his back for a belly rub. "Ah, there he is. My favorite of the general's mutts. Sorry, you say somethin'?" The ghoul asked lazily, the pitch-black void of his eyes boring pointedly into Danse's. 

  The paladin threw his hands up in the air after a moment and stormed off. God damn it, Vega, you could have warned me that you kept such diverse company! he ranted inwardly.

  The visitor that had nearly sent him into a conniption was an old synth, its skin ragged and tattered enough to show its inner workings. Sturges chatted away with the damn thing (and its traveling companion, a self-styled reporter apparently named Piper Wright) and Danse just floundered . Backhand made friends with synths?

  Ticking mentally over everyone else he had met during his stay at Sanctuary, Danse reluctantly admitted that yes, Backhand would absolutely make friends with synths. Perhaps he should have come to terms with that before everything that had occurred, but now here he was, fully kitted and watching this synth narrowly. 

  "Come on over and introduce yourself, big fella'. No need to glare from afar." The synth commented wryly. "From what I understand we're all on the same team."

  "If it's all the same to you, synth , I'll keep my distance." Danse could tolerate a lot of things. Ghouls, specifically. He had met numerous in his travels and while it was unsettling to converse with them, he knew they weren't all diseased, mindless shamblers despite what the Brotherhood had beaten into him. But synths …

  They were the embodiment of mankind's arrogance. Monstrous, uncanny, a mockery of bodily functions. They made Danse's skin crawl.

  Piper huffed indignantly, rolling her eyes and pointing a finger at Danse as she remarked loudly to Sturges, "I wasn't aware that Blue had rechristened this place Bigotry Hills."

  The synth inclined its head in the meantime, somehow giving off an air of mechanical resignation. "Alright, I'll go first I suppose, since you've forgotten your manners. Name's Nick Valentine. I'm a detective operating out of Diamond City."

  Nick Valentine . Danse's mouth became a desert. This , this was the detective Vega sang the praises of when it came to tracking down the man who had stolen her son? "Knight Vega failed to mention that you were a synth." He muttered.

  "She probably figured it wasn't relevant. After all, the Institute left me at the curb with another man's memories in my head. Miss Vega did me a good turn after I helped her out with that Kellogg fella'." The synth shrugged. "Let an old bot put a few more ghosts to rest." He dusted off the raggedy fedora he wore, those unnerving golden eyes focused on Danse. "I caught wind that something might have gone a little sour with her infiltration, so Piper and I thought we'd drop by and see if we could offer any sort of assistance."

  "And can you?" Danse asked, concern and suspicion making his tone even sharper as he glanced at the woman. Piper stuck her tongue out at him, to his chagrin.

  The synth looked regretful for a second and Danse pondered that its face could even convey such a complex emotion. "Probably not, but at least now I know I'm not the only one worrying about our doll Vega." It remarked shrewdly. 

  Danse blushed guiltily, dropping his gaze from that calculating stare. It felt like the synth could see every damn thing he had ever done wrong in his life and Danse loathed the idea of this machine being able to help where he couldn't. "I'll be watching you, synth ," he blustered. "If you step out of line-"

  The synth actually interrupted him, waving a spindly, metallic hand. "You'll what, melt me into slag? I'd be careful, I might do something nefarious like trap you in an intelligent conversation."

  …

  Danse's sleep schedule had never been anything even bordering on concrete, but now the worry kept him up more than the nightmares. A thousand scenarios ran through his mind, each one worse than the last. His fatalistic tendencies would be the death of him one of these days, and wouldn't that be a poetic end. Death by apoplexy, his heart just exploding under the stress of his own imagination.

  No one commented when he ended up abandoning that soft mattress in the front room of Vega's house in favor of planting his bedroll on the floor at the foot of her bed. He spent long hours there every night, disassembling his gun, cleaning it thoroughly and checking over his mods. 

  When he inevitably gave up on sleep, he would patrol the perimeter. Jun joined him fairly often, the soft spoken man having taken it upon himself to manage the security around the settlement.

  "At first, I think Backhand just wanted me to have something to do." Jun mentioned out of the blue one evening, his haggard expression illuminated in the faint light of the moon. "So she told me to uh, walk the property line. Marcy didn't know what to do with me. Hell, she didn't even know what to do with herself . Losing Kyle was…" the man swallowed hard. "Well, the general understood, on account of her own little one. She knew I needed to be kept busy, especially after that close call in Concord. I'm just glad Marcy didn't give up on me." He admitted.

  "Why would she have given up on you?" Danse asked, a bit confused that this conversation was even occurring. He didn't do this sort of thing. "Whatever transpired with your child wasn't your fault." He had never asked for the specifics and Jun hadn't volunteered them.

  Jun shrugged. "Being married is...full of ups and downs. And sometimes the downs are really, really hard. Too hard. It's terrible, seeing the person you love turn into some kind of...angry husk because of grief and you're grieving too, and you know you can't fix it because-" the man's eyes welled up, his voice hitching. "-b-because you're not strong enough."

  Danse's breath caught in his lungs because oh God , that had been him after Cutler. Frustrated, hollow, newly promoted and warming Arthur's bed out of duty as he tried to privately grieve the man he had lost.

  It had been Haylen and Rhys who pried him from his depressive, wrathful tendencies. Brandis had suggested that Danse consider sponsoring his own initiates, and recommended him two candidates. The young woman, barely into adulthood, so full of life and eager to learn, and Rhys had been angry like him. 

  More followed after those two, but they had been his first. He sponsored Dawes, Brach, Keane, Worwick...squire or initiate to aspirant, aspirant to scribe or knight. All the while keeping them at arm's length, reluctant to open himself up again to the suffering that had wreaked its havoc upon him after the loss of Cutler.

  Learning about Paladin Krieg's passing during the assault on Adams Air Force Base was a blade twisting in his back. Danse had felt like his entire body was on fire, raw with agony once more as everything he had tried so hard to keep under control collapsed beneath him. He emerged from that particular rubble stoic and grim, and it was shortly after that incident that Recon Squadron Artemis went dark in the Commonwealth. 

  Brandis was sent to die and you know it! That evening in the barracks had been one of the hardest in his entire military career. Danse had known he was lying, lying to every single man, woman and child in that room that he would pass along any information he learned about Paladin Brandis.

  But what else could he do?

  "You can't fix everything and every one, Mr. Long." The paladin murmured finally. "You'll only burn yourself out with the effort. All you can do is let time do its work."

  "Oh, I know." The other man said calmly, having clearly mastered himself while Danse mulled over his response. "Marcy and I had a long talk about...our son, and even though it still hurts to talk about him, I know someday it won't." He smiled at Danse. "Thanks for listening, Mr. Paladin. I can see why the general likes you."

  Danse may or may not have tucked that precious information away, deep down in his heart.

  ...

  Backhand had no idea how many days had passed since she had departed. The Commonwealth was relatively quiet all around the settlement as she took a few steadying breaths after relaying back, bent nearly double with her hands on her knees. Overhead in the night sky, the moon beamed weakly between the thick clouds.

  Staggering down the steps that were still attached to the bare foundation, a wave of exhaustion threatened to cripple her. Away from the artificial lighting and brilliant whiteness of the Institute, she abruptly felt like she hadn't slept in weeks. How long had she been awake for?

  Bed , Vega decided with a nod. Bed before anything else . With slow, trudging footsteps, the young woman made her way to the house where she had lived before the bombs fell. Whatever time it was, it was obviously late. There wasn't a light on across the whole settlement, and she was incredibly grateful that she would be afforded a few moments of reprieve before she was plied with questions.

  Backhand closed the front door behind her, doing her best to be quiet. Danse must be asleep. Either that or he had returned to the Prydwen. Vega was a little startled at how distraught that made her feel, like she had lost somehow. 

  She stifled a yawn as she jiggled the sticky doorknob to her room and, too impatient to ease the door open, she put her shoulder to it.

  The door flew open and she immediately found herself on the business end of a very familiar laser rifle. Vega couldn't help her shriek of surprise and in her haste to retreat, she toppled into the hall and landed hard on her back. "Wait, wait! " She pleaded, throwing up her hands in surrender. "Don't shoot, Danse!"

  The paladin just stared down at her for a moment, his brow slowly unfurrowing in recognition as he lowered his gun. "Elizabeth?" He asked, his voice rasping hoarsely.

  "Y-Yeah. Hi." Backhand replied, her voice shaky. "It's me." Danse extended his hand, easily pulling her upright off the ground. She half-fell against his body, the large man accepting the weight without a word. "Why are you sleeping in here?" Backhand blurted out the first question she could think of, noticing the disturbed bedroll on the floor at the foot of her bed. 

  "I assumed that should you return, you would most likely head to your room first." The paladin answered quickly, too quickly for it to be the truth.

  Backhand raised an eyebrow. "And the armed greeting?"

  "A reflex."

  Vega's hands curled into fists on his chest, taking handfuls of his shirt between her fingers. I missed you , she wanted to say, I missed you so much . "How long was I gone for?" She asked instead.

  "Seventeen days." Danse replied in a no-nonsense manner. "It appears your infiltration of the Institute was a success." He was watching her closely. "It's a pleasure to see you again, Knight."

  Vega wanted to kiss him, not missing the warmth of relief in his eyes despite his neutral tone. She hurriedly peeled herself off of his chest, awkwardly clearing her throat and casting her brain around for an excuse to leave. "I'm...I need to shower." She lied, grimacing. "I was going to go right to bed, but…"

  "Take your time. I'll remove my personal effects and return to my quarters." The paladin intoned stiffly.

  Backhand grabbed a random assortment of clothing from atop her rickety dresser and fled to the bathroom without another word. 

  She slid down the door once she had shut it firmly, closing her eyes and hanging her head. What the hell were you expecting, Vega? she chastised herself, starting to unlace her boots. Some kind of fairytale reunion where he sweeps you up into his arms and professes his undying love? And we ride into the sunset? Backhand scoffed, bringing her fist down on the side of the salvaged water heater to get it to function.

  Vega stared down at her body as she showered, feeling oddly like a spectator. The faint scar at the bottom of her stomach mocked her, taunting her with the memory of the hospital room, the swaddled Shaun being pressed into her arms…

  This was all so wrong. 

  She pushed the heels of her palms into her eyes hard enough to blind her for a moment, fending off the tears that threatened to close her throat. The scar was placed low enough on her body that the waistband of her underwear concealed it. She didn't have to think about it too often. Usually she avoided looking at it while she bathed, the surgical leftover making complex feelings of grief and resentment war inside her.

  Her fingers drew over the faded scar, then rose to brush the stretch marks that striped over her belly from where her body had changed to accommodate Shaun's growing form. And still her eyes were dry.

  Backhand emerged from the lukewarm shower and simply sat on the side of the tub, watching the water slowly swirl down the drain. She thought of the Institute, where clean water was just a faucet turn away. Free of parasites and radiation, bearing a faint reek of chlorine that had clung to her hair and skin after bathing.

  Her brow furrowed and she toweled herself off briskly, donning the clothing she had grabbed at random. The shirt was too big, unfamiliar, and she realized with a sharp pang of a strange emotion that it must be one of Danse's. Had he done her laundry while she was gone?

  The young woman hung her towel up to dry, scooped all her dirty clothes off the floor and padded back across the hall to her room. 

  Danse, true to his word, had removed his bedroll and pack from the room, leaving no trace of his previous occupancy. Vega dropped her ball of clothes in the corner and sank down on the edge of her mattress, putting her head into her hands. 

  I believe you will do great things for the Institute.

  Her fingers dug into her hair, raking through it in a nervous gesture. She didn't want to do great things. She had never wanted to do great things. All she had wanted was a family.

  A child, a husband, a modest house in a quiet neighborhood…

  The bombs had taken so much from everyone else, did she even have the right to mourn the life she wished she had? It seemed so selfish, so...petty.

  Shaun's crib sat empty by the door like always, but now its vacancy mocked her. Had she ever truly believed she would find her son? Or had she been lying to herself the whole time, trying to convince herself that she could have been a good mother and that it wasn't all her fault Shaun had been taken. Rage bathed her in a comforting blanket of numbness and Backhand clenched her fists, rising from the bed. 

  With a stilted, furious cry of, " fuck you! " she heaved the empty crib against the wall.

  It was a simple enough task to snap the rungs in it, blowing through them one after the other. Next the flimsy headboard, torn from the sides with a shriek of abused screws. Backhand broke it over her knee, pitching the pieces off to land somewhere as the crib teetered on two legs. She grabbed those last two legs, picked the remains of the crib up, and smashed it against the floor with all her might. 

  It exploded in a cloud of chipped blue pieces, effectively destroyed. Backhand screamed in frustrated anguish, sinking to her knees and wrapping her arms around herself. She hadn't even noticed she was crying, but the tears were hot enough to burn on her cheeks.

  She felt running footsteps vibrate through the floor, but she didn't so much as raise her head. 

  Danse, Danse , those brown eyes so warm and concerned, knelt in front of her. " Easy , Knight." He soothed. Backhand sobbed hysterically, her whole body shaking with each inhale. "Elizabeth." Danse said her name calmly, quietly, his arms falling open.

  The woman flung herself into his embrace, gripping his back tightly. Danse held her close, like she was small and fragile and needed to be protected, one hand on the back of her head stroking her still-damp hair. Vega just went limp, weeping pitifully into his shirt.

  "By Jove…" Codsworth breathed from the door. "Oh mum, I'm so sorry." She felt a metal pincer rest gingerly on her shoulder and Backhand knocked her forehead against Danse's clavicle when she turned her face to look at Codsworth. "You should have told us, mum. Whatever it is, it's all too much to carry alone." The robot scolded her kindly. "I helped you raise the little tyke, if you recall. We will always have those fond memories, you and I."

  "It hurts." Backhand said thickly. "It h-hurts so much. I just wanted him back."

  "I'm sorry, Elizabeth." Danse murmured, words laden with sorrow. And he didn't even know what had happened yet!

  "I don't want anyone else to be sorry. I-I want to take every one of that smug f- fuck's toys and break them. If he wasn't already on his way out, I would-" Backhand dissolved into seething, nonsensical muttering. "There's good people in the Institute." She said finally. "People who wanted to help. People who need to get out."

  "And the Brotherhood will do everything we can to save them." Danse promised solemnly, taking her hands in his own and making a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat as he examined the battered skin. "Christ Vega, you're full of splinters."

  "I just...I don't know, I shouldn't have done that." Backhand mumbled, feeling idiotic for letting herself get so out of control.

  "Not to worry, mum!" Codsworth cheerily clicked his pincers. "I'll have you squared away in a jiffy!"

  Danse didn't let her go as Codsworth painstakingly worked over her abused hands to remove every last sliver. The paladin even assisted when the robot asked, holding her skin taut or flattening her palm out on his own to keep her steady so Codsworth could get a better grip.

  Piper appeared in the doorway in the midst of the procedure, wearing a raggedy robe and carrying a steaming mug. "And there's our gal." The reporter said softly. "Heya' Blue."

  "H-Hey Piper." Backhand sniffled. 

  The other woman tipped her head. "Nicky's on his way. You want tea or coffee?" 

  "Coffee, please. Please." Backhand begged, feeling Danse's hold on her tighten slightly. She was sitting in his lap still, his arms around her while Codsworth worked. She hated herself for enjoying the comfort his proximity provided, hated herself for being too weak to deal with this on her own. 

  As if he could sense her thoughts, the paladin settled her back more firmly against his chest.

  …

  She was back. She had come back. Harried and haggard but alive . Danse could feel the tension radiating from her and he wanted to kick himself for greeting her with a weapon at the door. His brain hadn't even registered that it might be her , he had awoken from his uneasy half-doze to someone breaching the door and his body reacted.

  Danse wanted to question her. He wanted to grip her to his chest and never let her out of his sight again. He wanted to berate her for being gone for so long. He wanted to lay her down on her bed and--

  He shoved that thought away. She was obviously exhausted and worn from whatever it was that she had gone through. Now was absolutely not the time to voice the pesky, budding emotions that warred in his chest.

  He could sense the impending explosion hanging heavy in the air like the changing pressure of an approaching storm, but he hadn't expected the rupture to happen so soon. Vega was barely out of the shower when he heard the first crash , her yell of " fuck you! ". 

  Danse wrestled momentarily with himself, his hands clenching in the fabric of his sleeping bag. Expressing anger could be therapeutic in it's own right, and her getting everything out now might be miles healthier than bottling it all up until she imploded.

  But her sobbing cries effectively wiped his plan of inaction. She sounded like she was in agony and Danse didn't even remember tearing the door open. One second he was in his own room and then the next he was on his knees in front of her, " easy , Knight," his voice gone soft and tender in a manner wholly uncharacteristic of the usually stoic man.

  He couldn't help saying her name, her first name, even though he felt wrong for doing so. But she pitched forward into his embrace just like Haylen had, weeping as though her heart was fit to break. And all Danse could do, all anyone could have done, he assured himself, was hold her close.

  She had no care for the safety and wellbeing of her hands, he realized wryly as he checked them over for broken bones. This was the second time patching up her poor fingers, the first time feeling like a distant memory. Her shredding her knuckles to ribbons on the manual release of his suit, her complete disregard for her own comfort…

  Danse didn't move, even when the synth arrived on Piper's heels. Everyone crowded into the room and he knew he ought to feel self-conscious, but now Vega was the one refusing to release him . So there he sat on the floor with her secure in his arms, listening to the entire sordid tale as Codsworth quietly tidied up the mess that had been Shaun's crib. 

  The Institute was real , and it wound for miles underneath the Commonwealth. They had access to safe food and pure drinking water, all made possible by unimaginable technology. Her son wasn't dead or even a child, but instead old and frail. The years had stretched on longer than anyone could have anticipated between his removal from the Vault and Vega's own awakening. 

  The advances that made the generation three synths possible had been brought about by utilizing infant Shaun's pre-war DNA, and he was known as Father to all the synths. But he wasn't a father at all, at least not one that anybody would want to have.

  "Synths are like lower class citizens to these scientists. Expendable. Seen and not heard." Backhand explained, and Nick muttered something uncharitable under his breath. "They're not people, they're tools. Shit, Shaun even listed them off like that, he called the coursers hammers ." Vega spat. "But they think . They dream. Hell, they grieve even though they don't know that's what they're doing."

  She spoke of the courser mourning the loss of his friend, forced to grieve without understanding the feelings he suffered through and Danse was somehow full of sympathy for a damn killing machine. It must just be Vega's compassionate nature transferring to him. There was no way he could actually believe anything like that was even possible.

  Spinal recalibration .

  Danse wasn't sure why , but he felt a blunt stab of pain at the nape of his neck when she explained the procedure. It was probably psychosomatic, he reasoned. The process sounded gruesome.

  Nick flipped back and forth through his notepad, scratching at the side of his head with his pencil. "I'll need some time to look all of this over, sweetheart." He said to Backhand, glancing at Piper. "And you need time to recover," he continued in a gently-chiding tone. "You seem half-dead, doll."

  Danse realized with a barely-hidden start that he had begun to refer to the synth as Nick in his mind. What was happening to him? Had he been away from the Brotherhood for so long that he was going soft? Was his moral integrity being compromised?

  Or was he just coming to terms with something that he couldn't bring himself to label yet? 

  Backhand nodded, tugging the paladin out of his reverie. "I really want to sleep." She mumbled. She must have been truly exhausted, because in spite of downing the mug of coffee Piper had procured for her, she was slumped in Danse's arms. 

  Piper patted Vega's knee, giving Danse a stern glare. The paladin wanted to laugh at her attempt to intimidate him. "You get some rest, Blue. Nicky and I will do our best to compile what you've given us." She assured her.

  After the duo from Diamond City had left, Codsworth made a noise like he was clearing his throat. "I'm just so glad you're back, mum." He said, his words weirdly heartfelt for coming from a machine.

  Vega reached out and caught one of Codsworth's arms before the bot could leave, the young woman smiling wearily up at the Mister Handy. "I'm glad to be back, Codsworth." 

  Danse managed to usher her into her bed just as the sun was rising, but she grabbed his hand when he turned to depart. "Wait." Backhand whispered, her eyelids drooping. "Please...please stay? I don't want to be alone, Danse." A lone tear wound its way down her cheek. "Please don't leave me alone." 

  Danse planted himself in the chair beside the bed, laying his laser rifle across his knees. "I'm not going anywhere, Knight Vega." He promised her solemnly, taking a greedy, selfish moment to push the hair back from her face. "Sleep."

Part Twelve

#fallout 4 #fallout four #paladin danse #fallout fanfic #fallout fandom #paladin danse x sole survivor #paladin danse x f!sole #paladin danse/sole survivor #Eventual romance #paladin danse imagine #fo4 companions imagine #fo4 companions #fo4 paladin danse #brotherhood of steel

[rose-sunlight]

Parings: Jake x Amy, Holt x Kevin

Summary: The story begins. The group doesn’t exist, they are separated over different parts of New York. They all end up in the same place: The Bullpen Summer Camp.

WARNINGS: Minor Character Death, Abuse

A/N:  This is for the @b99fandomevents​​ Summer 2020 Fic Exchange written for @impossiblyizzy​​! Hope you enjoy!

Jake slammed the leaflet down on the table. His mother had slipped it through the door of his bedroom when his father slept in the living room. He wanted to be angry at her for this, to scream, and beg, and cry, but no words or insults could come to mind. This was pure shock.

He was looking forward to this summer; 11 weeks of no homework and mindless cartoons on the TV? Count Jake in. Maybe he’d try something different, though—he remembers his friend Adrian telling him about his new skateboard, maybe he could ask him to teach him how to skateboard properly, and not just blindly jumping and hoping for the best.

But no, now his parents were going to ship him off to some wishy washy summer camp for nine whole weeks. Now, he’d miss out on everything cool a sixteen-year-old should be doing on their summer break; like brooding in angst and staying in their rooms until the sun goes down. Now, he would have to participate in ‘team sports’ and ‘community activities’ and have a ‘life-changing experience with new friends’.

“You’re shipping me off to a hell hole?!” He glowered, watching as his mother barely looked up from her cross stitch. She finished one and glanced towards him, placing the needle and thread on the kitchen table.

She sighed “Oh, sweetie,” She consoled “I thought you’d be more happy, your father decided that this would be a nice learning experience for you.” Jake took a step back. Of course this was his dad’s doing, of course he’d want him gone for the entire summer for his own personal gain, so he could do whatever he did when he wasn’t there to witness it (Jake didn’t really know what it was that he did, but he assumed it was on the same level as sacrificing baby animals, like the demon he was).

“This is his idea?!” His voice raised a pitch so he sounded more like some of the girls in his class. He didn’t want his dad to wake up in a drunken rage, but he was increasingly wanting something to hit. If it was his dad, so be it.

“He’s your father Jake, not Satan”

“Here I thought they were one and the same. That’s not the point though, the point is that I’m not going to some wishy washy summer camp!” He retorted, before hearing the angry footsteps of his father coming from around the couch. His dad wasn’t a conventionally scary person, but it was the way he moved and spoke that managed to strike fear into his heart. He was like a giant in an average-sized person’s body, and right now, Jake felt 2 feet tall in his presence, and cowered. He didn’t like getting on the wrong side of his dad.

He looked down at Jake, arms crossed and face in a perpetual frown. Every day he saw this scowl, and every day he got his ass handed to him because of their disagreements.

His father had a booming voice when drunk “You’re so ungrateful!” He spat, “Look at the way you’re making your mother feel!” He looked back to his mom, who was frowning. Jake began to feel more guilty by the second “We want you to go, so you will be going!”

Jake puffed his chest out and scowled, fists bawled by his side “but-!”

“-You’re such a lazy little shit! This is why we want you out the goddamn house-” He physically shoved Jake, like a bully on the playground, and Jake’s eyes widened. He had been taken aback by the sudden escalation, even when it happened every day, practically. The stream of name-calling and hitting never really ended.

Jake stepped forward once more; he stood by the fact that he never learns his lesson, so his retaliation wasn’t unexpected by his parents “I don’t want to-”

He never did get his words in when he was arguing with his dad. Instead, he felt the harsh punch against his face, and sensed his body falling to the floor and crawling away until his back hit the cold wall. There was fear plainly shown in his eyes, as there always was, as the red splodge on his face ripened. “If I hear one more whiny ‘I don’t want’ out of your mouth…” He growled “you’re always whining about something, always playing the victim. That’s why nobody likes you, Jake. That’s why you’re getting shipped off to The Bullpen camp. Pack your bags.”

Jake stood up quickly, filing out the room. He knew when he was beaten, and that was one of those times. He angrily, but silently, stomped towards his room, trying his best not to punch his small twin bed in a sheer moment of fury.

He flopped down, knowing that he was going to go to this dumb summer camp even if he was dragged kicking and screaming, which he definitely would. He hit his pillow before flopping onto his bed, letting his rage take over before inevitably packing for this 9-week-hell.

~ Charles never did anything on instinct. That was something his mother always berated him for, in her own loving way. He didn’t take action, like how all Boyles never take action, and this seemed to cost him everything.

His everything, even if he had only known his everything for six months. Charles knew he was in love with her, and she knew that she wasn’t. She didn’t look him in the eyes as she sat him down by the high school bleachers on the last day of term before summer. Charles had planned out their agenda for the summer, for all nine weeks, so that they could spend as much time together as possible. She patted his hand and smiled, but she never really looked at him directly.

Eleanor wore her hair perfectly, with bleached blonde summer hair and dazzling sea green eyes. He could write a whole novella about how her sparkling eyes made him feel, and how, if he took more action, he will ask her if she’d like to travel the world with him so he could try and find a sight prettier than her eyes.

“You’re a really good…person, Charles-”

Charles cut her off immediately, eyes full of adoration “It’s because you make me good, I mean, you’re the two halves of my hole!”

“And that’s great, but-,” Eleanor paused, taking not of the gesture Charles had made “wait, do you mean ‘whole’ or ‘hole’? N-no, it doesn’t matter, what I’m trying to say is that-”

Charles once again cut in, placing a caring hand on the small of her back, which she flinched away from almost immediately, only spurring on his concerns “My sunflower, is something wrong?”

Eleanor stammered “Yes…uh, um, no—well…okay, I’m just gonna say it.” She sucked in a large breath before continuing “I’m breaking up with you.”

Charles froze, he didn’t know what to do. One part of him wanted to break down and cry, and another wanted to fall to her feet and beg her to reconsider. He didn’t do either, instead, he stiffened up, listening to her reasoning but still not completely hearing her. The one overarching concepts she had brought up was that he wasn’t impulsive enough for her.

“I just think I need someone who takes risks.” Her voice echoed in Charles’ brain, playing like a broken record as he trudged the five mile walk home. She wanted someone the opposite of him, someone who could decide between two restaurants in under an hour. His norm was to wait until one of them was closed and go to the only one left open. She didn’t want that. She didn’t want him, either.

Through his blurry vision and tears, he made his way to his computer. His parents were out, not returning from their sensual food tasting for couples retreat until much later in the night. Charles punched in the first thing he thought of—‘how to take more risks’. When the results seemed to extreme or adult (no, he wasn’t going to have a one-night stand, Wikihow), he changed it up, editing the search bar to tailor more to him. One of the results that came up was to go on impulse trips. He thought he might be able to do that if they gave him some time. He then researched ‘how to take impulse trips for sixteen year olds’

Google disregarded the first few words, instead focusing on adventures that were specifically for teenagers. He factored in how far away most were, and how uncomfortable he’d be in hot areas like Thailand, and found the perfect website. Without even consulting his doting parents, he had booked a place, and spent almost all his summer money on this trip. Old habits didn’t die that hard, though, and he was already packing when he had a week to spare.

This would show Eleanor how brave and risk-taking he was. After he had taken place in the activities scheduled, she’d take him back in a heartbeat.

~ Terry had secretly prayed a day like this would come. He had hoped that it would come later, but it had still answered his prayers in a dark way. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but he had hoped for something less permanent for him.

Because as much as his dad used to hit on him, he never wanted to put on a jet black suit and see the day his father was put to rest. He didn’t want to listen to his family cry, and talk about how his dad was such a good man with a good heart. He didn’t want to stand up and deliver a speech about how, despite their non-existent bond, he loved his father and was devastated when he didn’t come home from the bar that night.

But he was devastated. He didn’t know why, but he was in mourning over his father’s death, but not in the way he was expecting. He didn’t mourn the same way he did when his Grandma Ophelia died. That was the feeling of incompleteness, like the memories of her were too little, and he wished he had spent more time with her. With his father, he was feeling as if he had lost hope.

He had always thought that if he gave his dad time there would be a day where he’d snap out of it, and he’d beg to be forgiven, go to his basketball games, and finally see him graduate with a proud smile slapped across his face. Terry now had concrete evidence that this would never happen, and the hope of playing happy-families was gone. He was left with painful memories and mental scars of his torturous behaviour.

The worst part of the funeral was black-suited nobodies to him coming up and telling him how to grieve, how they were sorry that he had lost such a prevalent role-model in his life. All Terry could do was grit his teeth and smile through it. There was one man, though, who he hadn’t even heard mentioned once by his father. One person that was grieving differently to everyone else; he was crying like he actually meant it, but also like he had already made peace with the loss. Terry found him intriguing.

When the man, dressed in a black tux with a bright green tie, different to everyone in the room, with a full head of bushy blond hair and a small frame, came barrelling towards Terry, he braced himself. He was ready for this man to defeat his expectations.

“You the son?” This abnormal man asked him. His accent was inherently English, dulled down by being in America for so long, or so Terry suspected. He wanted to say no, that Laurence was just over by the corner, drowning himself in alcohol even though he wasn’t the legal age. Instead, he just nodded. “Terry or Laurence?” he asked again.

Terry grit his teeth “Terry”.

The man snorted, not offering any condolences at all “A right dipshit, is what your dad turned into.”

“You mean he wasn’t always?” He didn’t want to laugh at his dead father’s funeral, but this man was doing it for him, letting out a massive guffaw at this stereotypical catholic wake.

“Your old man was good fun, at another point. All went to shit when his mom died,” He told him, and Terry perked up at the possibility of his dad ever being fun “I guess he never did speak about me. I’m Nelson.” Nelson extended a hand for Terry to shake. He obliged.

“How did you know my dad?”

Nelson chuckled. He pulled out his wallet, reaching for a picture. “The Bullpen Summer Camp in the late seventies,” when he saw how clueless Terry was, he lightly shoved him in a well meaning manner. Terry flinched. “Suppose you don’t know about that either, ey? Nah, your dad was voted ‘Camp King’. He was amazing at all the activities, I mean, he was the feller you wanted to share a kayak with—he made you laugh, and was a damn good rower. That’s the version of him I want to remember.”

The picture depicted a group of friends, six of them, three girls and three guys. The girls were dressed modestly, in skirts down to their ankles, which seemed so impractical for the activities. They stood with their arms at the waists of three other male friends. The boys were the same age as Terry, and his father was in the centre. His dad wasn’t what he was expecting. He wasn’t a bald, tall angry man with a pot-belly. This version of his dad was too much like him. He was muscle-bound, but didn’t look as tall with his peers, he had a full head of hair styled like Terry’s in a bulky afro, and he was smiling as wide as he had ever seen his dad smile.

Terry raised an eyebrow at Nelson, not knowing how to deal with the information he had told him, “You sure that was my father?”

“Is it that hard to believe?”

“Yes.”

Nelson sighed, and took a moment to look around at the people ‘celebrating’ his old friend’s life. He took in for the first time how everyone else spoke—he was portrayed a complex, fascinating man instead of the good one he had known. He supposed a lot had changed since the seventies. “Yeah, I suppose it seems too good to be true.” Nelson pierced his lips before patting Terry softly on the shoulder. Terry flinched again. “I’m heading out. You need a ride home?”

Terry had only just met Nelson, and yet he seemed so socially unaware as to offer a teenage boy a ride home. “No, my mom’s probably gonna take us back.”

And she did, once she’d settled a few things with the funeral planners. Terry couldn’t stop thinking about his father. He couldn’t stop thinking about the similarities down to the very hairstyle. That’s when he made the choice. He had to go to this camp, and see what changed his dad. He had to see for himself that his dad was actually fun.

That picture still rattled him, which is how he ended up in the bathroom, sitting down on the bathtub staring into the mirror, a razor poised at his afro.

He carved a chunk out of it, and kept going until all he had a mass of curly hair at his feet. He looked back in the mirror to see what could only be described as a baby afro, short at the sides and on the top. When he looked in the mirror, he could only see himself, not the vision of his father haunting him. Sure, his mom freaked out when he showed him, but he felt as if he was distancing himself from that younger dad he never knew.

Especially since he was returning to see what his dad might’ve been like.

~ Rosa knew this was coming before they even said the word. This was the norm; her fourth and final trip to The Bullpen. She was sixteen now, which meant that this was her final time attending as a camper before going back as a camp councillor. She wasn’t the most liked; she kept to herself, and all the younger kids knew she carried a whittling knife everywhere she went, but she liked being in nature compared to the stuffy New York apartment her parents and sisters lived in.

It wasn’t a shock when her parents dropped the leaflet under her door and wordlessly gave her a suitcase—black with a purple skull over it.

They weren’t talking to her at the moment, and she was fine by it. She couldn’t care less (is what she told herself when she put her face into her pillow and screamed until she began to cry). It didn’t matter if they weren’t on speaking terms, anyway, because soon, she’d be gone for the holidays.

The Bullpen was the one place she got to be authentically herself, where no one cared if she went off into the woods without sunblock, where she wasn’t bothered by her sisters storming into her room to ask if she had melted down one of their possessions to make jewellery to sell in the schoolyard. The Bullpen, under the watchful eyes of the camp counsellors, was her second home, and sometimes, she liked it more than her first.

So as she looked down at the sheen of her black suitcase in the low light of her shared room, she gave a curt nod to no one in particular, and began to pack her bag, sniffing lightly as she folded her second-best jacket down into a tiny ball. She had gone through a change in style in the past couple years, from ballerina pumps and pink strappy tops to the polar opposite of black leather jackets and DIY ripped jeans. Her hair had just grown long enough for her pink streaks to be cut out, so her hair was a natural curly brunette shade. She packed everything she knew she’d need for her nine weeks away, and it only took a couple hours to pack.

None of her friends were going back this year; the others had left and gone onto bigger things, most of them were going on some massive party-filled holiday—Rosa had declined the offer, and decided to go back to camp.

Her parents still remained silent, they didn’t speak to her at all, not even when the bus came to pick her up, as it did every year.

~ Gina was talking to her friends on her phone while a video on her iPad played softly in the background. Her legs swung freely in the air as the lay flat on her stomach, her freshly painted toes sticking pointily out. She didn’t have anything planned for the summer, she just wanted to spend some time doing some serious soul-searching. By that, she meant going out just to take photos for her Instagram following with spiritual captions.

Her parents had constantly been threatening her to get off her phone, but she hadn’t taken any notice. Every month, they’d tell her the same thing, with a different punishment (no more phone, we’ll block YouTube on your iPad, we’ll send your clothes off to charity), and every month, she kept on her phone and nothing happened.

Her friends weren’t planning anything, but there was a party planned for a months’ time. It was supposed to be the best event since Gina’s party where she convinced everyone that Jay-Z would be there. She slithered her way out of that one by getting the people there drunk enough so that they wouldn’t even remember. She had her dress picked out before anything else, even now it stared at her through the crack into her walk-in closet. It was short and sequinned, sparkly, and low-cut. Her mother had reprimanded her on the choice, calling her every name under the sun purely based on the length and the fact it showed off a little bit of boob. Gina had called her pathetic, and then yelled that she was jealous.

Granted, Gina should’ve realised that she had gone too far, but she never apologised for her words, and she wasn’t going to break that oath to herself.

Her mom walked into her room, followed by her dad, whose hand was on the small of her mom’s back. She didn’t acknowledge them moving around in her room until they opened her closet.

“What are you doing?” She asked, sitting back up and pausing the video on her iPad. She didn’t like it when they went through her stuff, she’d made it clear through putting up CCTV in her own bedroom when she wasn’t there. “Get out of my closet!” She yelled, but her parents still ignored her, packing a bag of stuff.

Her father turned to face her with a soft smile, “We thought that this summer you could go somewhere fun.”

She sat back in her seat, suddenly thinking about how her parents were going to send her on some expensive lavish trip with her friends “Oooh, where? Paris, Greece…Italy?”

Gina slammed the car door at her arrived destination, dressed in a fancy tracksuit with a travel pillow slung over her neck, ready for a first class flight to wherever, and looked around at the sights before her. It smelt like pine needles and damp river air. As the car she had arrived in drew away, her hope of being rescued was gone. Her parents had taken her phone before kicking her out, leaving her stranded in this grassy, humid spot.

To her right, there was a big yellow house, looking like something out of a Victorian utopian novel, with a large red roof and grand double oak doors. There was no road, instead there was a dusty mud path towards the main house, with grassy meadow verges all the way to the brick steps towards the opening of the house. They had roses and daisies along the open windowpanes, ivy also climbing up around towards the top of the house.

The road stemmed off like the branches of a leaf, to different areas and houses, swooping tall trees towering above the beaten track. Gina took notice of all the kids, mostly younger than her, some around the same age, who were wearing different coloured t-shirts: duller reds, bright oranges, grassy coloured greens, and duller royal navy blues. They all had different names in block letters, and Gina shuddered inwardly. Great, she thought, they’d shipped her off to a knock-off American Hogwarts.

~ Amy was sat on the bus, having been collected half an hour ago, and the first thing she’d realised was how unconventional this maths camp was. She had taken the only free seat in between a girl dressed in a jet black leather jacket who was carving something onto the side of the bus, and another girl, quieter, who seemed more like someone who would take this type of camp trip. She had big rounded spectacles and had woven her hair in plaits, chewing on the right one as if it were an instinct.

Amy nudged the girl excitedly “So, what do you think it’s gonna be like?”

The girl looked back at Amy with a raised eyebrow, as if she had just said something preposterous. She was only asking because this was the first annual maths camp, and she wasn’t entirely sure what the curriculum was going to be. “I’ve been there before, it’s fun, as long as you can swim”

“What?” Amy shook her head as the girl gazed out of the window, ending the conversation, “you’ve been here before?” She asked. The girl exhaustedly tilted her head back to face Amy.

“The camp has been open since the seventies, how have you not?”

Amy started to sweat “Seventies...this is the first camp opening!” She began to dig through her stuff, producing her leaflet that she had given to her dad for him to book. It showed crystal white buildings with a modern square between the buildings, the words ‘Bulletin Maths Camp’ written with a fancy cursive font. The leather jacket girl let out a loud guffaw, making Amy swivel around “What?”

“Dude, you’re on the wrong bus. This goes to The Bullpen Summer Camp.” She unzipped her jacket further so that Amy could see her dull orange shirt with a small logo that confirmed the name of the camp she’d been sent to. Amy began to hyperventilate, clutching the bus seat she was sitting on in pure fear. “Hey, you’re, uh, you’re kinda freaking out right now. It’s not that bad, your folks probably just got the name wrong. This camp normally comes up on any search first, just chill. You’ll have a good time, only a few of us carry knives.” Amy’s eyes widened, and she almost unbuckled herself so she could jump out the window. The leather-jacket-knife-wielding-maniac laughed again, before thumping Amy on the shoulder. “I’m joking. Again. It’s only me who does that, everyone else here are wimps.”

“I have to go back home. I can’t be here.”

“You signed up to the camp, you’re staying. Unless you want to break some rules and get sent home in Kevin’s tiny car.”

Amy’s heart stopped at the mere thought of breaking rules “Who’s Kevin?”

“He’s one of the camp counsellors.”

“Okay,” Amy sighed, hoping that this Kevin may understand and recognise that a mistake had been made and allow her to make her way home. She hadn’t brought her phone so that she could focus purely on the maths, but now, she wanted her phone more than ever. “Do you think I could stay with you for a bit just before I go home?”

The girl, whose curly hair Amy recognised as being almost exactly like the kind she wanted when she was little, smirked again, going back to carving her name into the side of the bus “Don’t worry, I got your back. Until you get housed, and then you’ll be your houses problem.”

Amy raised her eyebrow “Houses?”

“Yeah. There are a few.” That was the end of her sentence, and Amy didn’t want to push her. She did want to know her name, though.

“Amy. My name is Amy.” She said, extending a shaky hand for the girl to shake. Leather jacket girl glanced at her hand, not making any effort to shake it as she flicked her pocketknife up, twirling it and sticking it back in her pocket. She only nodded, so Amy put her hand back down “Rosa.”

Amy knew their conversation was coming to an end, so instead of probing Rosa for more information on their mysterious destination, she stayed silent, overhearing a conversation from a few bus seats away. There were two other boys, one by the window staring out, and another with curly brown hair that was poking up from the seats.

The window seat boy sighed, and Amy decided to look out the same window as Rosa.

Jake was about to lose his mind. This whimpering kid next to him had started in conversation with him as soon as he sat down. He luckily didn’t linger long on the yellowish bruise Jake had over his eye, instead comparing it to some girl named Eleanor, which had begun his large rant about her soft hair and gorgeous blue eyes. He knew more about this girl than he did his father.

“Oh, and she always did this adorable thing when she ate, she used to make this tiny smack with her lips…did I tell you how they’re-”

“-Soft and warm like kissing the sun, yeah, I remember that disturbing detail. Look, you’re gonna have to stop before I jump outta here myself.” Charles looked offended by that, before quickly forgiving the stranger before resuming his original upset persona, staring out the window in a sulk. A larger boy stood up from behind him with a stern gaze. He was taller than Jake and wore a grey hoodie with the hood up. He looked as if he had been sleeping, and Jake sunk back into his seat. He looked like how his dad did once he was woken up.

“Hey, he’s going through something. Try some compassion.”

Jake tried his best to back down, but he never learnt his lesson. Instead, he stood up, facing the taller boy “You try sitting next to him for an hour listening to his ex-girlfriends lips.”

The other boy went to place a hand on his shoulder, but Jake flinched away, immediately going into fight-or-flight mode, hitting his hand away. The taller boy scowled “Hey, don’t hit me, man, I’ll hit back”. To prove his point, he shoved Jake lightly. Jake slapped his hand more, going to swing at the boy. Luckily, he was flung back in his seat, tumbling over so he was facing the back of the bus. The bus had stopped, and they had arrived at their destination.

Jake was still staring at the back of the bus. He had made eye contact with a girl, around his age, who looked just as unhappy to be there as he was. She was staring at him, of course, she was, he had just began to start a fight on his first hour of being at this dumb camp. She had long black hair that waved at the bottom, with brown eyes and tan skin. He stared straight at her, and she stared back. He broke eye contact and sat back down, watching the beginning of the bus get off and look around the site.

He collected his bag, spotting the girl he’d seen taking her suitcase from near his. Jake shuffled towards her, smiling in his half-quirk smile. She spotted him before looking back down to her suitcase, looking around for someone. “Hey, I’m Jake.” He said, and the girl was about to respond before the other girl came and found her.

“and she doesn’t care. Bye.” She said, so Jake walked away. His best bet was to find the crying kid (Charles, his name was. He’d remember that and be kind to him) and stick by his side to avoid being totally alone through this stupid camp experience.

He found the kid, still moping around the place, and patted him on the shoulder “Hey. I’m sorry for snapping at you, I just really don’t wanna be here.” He admitted, and the boy looked up to him, and then to where his hand rested on his shoulder.

“That’s okay. I’m here because Eleanor broke up with me because I don’t take impulse risks. I think this will make her take me back and make me look more masculine than I actually am.” Charles unloaded onto Jake, whose mouth suddenly dropped, speechless. He’d never met someone so open before.

“Oh…well, I’m Jake, by the way.”

“Charles.” He raised his hand up in a short wave, and Jake was about to continue his conversation when a man walked up to the bus, looking around at everyone, new and old. He was average height, with a bald head and a neutral face.

“Attention Campers!” His voice boomed, and everyone shushed. Jake rolled his eyes, sighing, “Welcome to The Bullpen! I am Raymond, you can call me Ray. I am the head counsellor here; I overlook everything you do. I decide who is sent home for bad behaviour, and who gets extra privileges. At the Bullpen, we have different houses, you don’t get to choose your roommates, that’s down to us.”

Jake whispered to Charles “He sounds like a drill Sargent.”

Ray continued “Every house has a separate counsellor, there are 6 kids to a bunk and 49 of you with us this year. This means one group of you will be sleeping in the bigger room we have here. We normally house 50 kids here, and we have 8 houses. I will now pass over to Kevin who will explain.”

Kevin stepped forward; he had a beard and wore the same kind of outfits as Ray; everyday wear suits which didn’t seem to fit the vibe of this camp at all, but nevertheless, Kevin seemed a bit easier to read than Ray was. “Afternoon,” He greeted “As Ray was saying, there are 8 houses, these people will be your team for any activities, they will be your family. The houses all have different shirt colours, they have already been picked out for you and paid for by your parents or guardians. People who have been here before will stay in the same team, the teams are sorted by age.”

Charles’ hand had made his way to Jakes shoulder, and Jake found himself trying not to flinch or tell him to stop. Charles had already admitted on the bus that he found touch comforting, and if this was what it took to make friends here, he would have to allow him. “Looks like we’ll probably be put together, then.”

“Here’s hoping.”

“The team names are up to you to decide, they have to be appropriate, of course, but the colours are what you will go by for now until you have decided. The colours are as follows: Red, Pink, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Purple and White. I’ll pass you over to Norm, who will call out your names. When you hear your name, step forward and find your group.” He instructed, as another man, slightly larger with a Frankenstein haircut.

Norm smiled and waved as he read names from a clipboard “King, Warren, Reid, Flowers, Bright and Prentiss, you’re Red Team. Take your shirts, and your counsellor Jason will take you to Rose House. Okay, Orange Team, Peralta, Santiago, Boyle, Diaz, Jeffords and Linetti, take your shirts and your counsellor Ray will take you to Sandy House.”

The list continued as Jake stared at the people who were standing out from the crowd—the wide-eyed girl, her friend in the leather jacket, the boy who he’d tried to fight on the bus, Charles the emotional risk-taking non-risk-taker, and a new girl, who hadn’t been on the bus with them, dressed in fancy clothes and looking more miserable than he did.

These were the people he was supposed to be getting along with and spending most of his time with for the next nine weeks? Oh boy, was he in for it.

series masterlist| main masterlist| submit a request here

#brooklyn nine nine #peraltiago #peraltiago fanfiction #peraltiago fanfic #jake x amy #ray holt #jake peralta #amy santiago #rosa diaz #charles boyle #b99 summer 2020 fic exchange #b99fandomevents #b99 fanfic

[shih-coulda-had-it]

this is not a girlfriend (1/?)

Summary: Yagi Toshinori gets the wrong idea about his mentors. It is, as Nana earnestly frames it, of paramount importance that her young charge have a positive reference for relationships.

They should’ve known fake relationships never go according to plan.

*Shimura is Nana’s maiden name; no canonical husband, no Kotarou.

1 - 2 - ?

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.

The thing was, Shimura Nana had never thought of dating Sorahiko.

They had met on the job maybe five years ago, and been work-partners since. Thrown into the same case, and then paired for patrols around the prefecture… the two of them had spent hours upon hours in each other’s space. Nana comfortably labeled him her best friend, surpassing even Megane Akira in best friend level (mostly due to presence, a little due to her level of synergy with Sorahiko).

He had helped her with One for All. Sacrificed a lot of down-time and goodwill with Recovery Girl to ensure that Nana had control over it. Didn’t ask for anything but a platter of taiyaki every training session.

Now, jokes and winks and nudges had certainly been made about their nonexistent relationship. Nana could retire if she had a yen every time someone assumed Sorahiko was her boyfriend, or if her parents hinted about ‘fertility’ and ‘handsome young man.’

Sorahiko never mentioned an interest, and so Nana gratefully moved through life only slightly infatuated with her partner. They’d seen each other’s ugly and ungraceful sides too many times to think idealistically, and had only ever shared a bed once. Because they were both cheap and were loathe to pay for an extra bed in the hotel.

(They built a pillow wall, and they pretended like everything was normal so well, Nana fell asleep between one word and the next. She woke up at the crack of dawn knowing that he’d broken the pillow wall; he’d entangled their limbs together; he was the one snoring weakly into her hair. Thank goodness Sorahiko wasn’t fully coherent and awake until ten in the morning.)

“Toshi-kun,” she says calmly, to hide the hysterical laughter. “Can you repeat that?”

Big blue eyes blink up. Calf-eyed. Guileless. Yagi Toshinori, even at thirteen years of age, is a charmer. “Are you getting Gran Torino-sensei anything for Valentine’s Day? I tried asking him, but he just said,” and here he puffs out his skinny chest and speaks like he’s gargling gravel, “‘We don’t need cheap gifts.’”

Nana gives up the ghost. “Bahaha! He would say that!” And completely neglect to cut the underlying problem, geez. Her young charge believes that they’re a couple. Should she correct him? “What does your mom usually do?”

He shrugs. “I dunno. She and otou-san… I dunno.”

Oh. Nana had done her research on Yagi Toshinori, even though a Quirkless thirteen year old boy shouldn’t raise any flags whatsoever, but even a routine background check won’t look into the marital health of the kid’s parents. She wonders if she and Sorahiko represent a legitimately healthy relationship.

“I could give him a box of taiyaki,” she muses, just to keep their conversation going. Toshinori’s invested in this, she can tell.

“How unromantic!” he cries out, looking for the first time like a doting son. Oof. That sends pangs rattling through her systems. She’s never wanted to raise kids; she thinks she’d be pretty bad at the whole domestic thing. Now, if Sorahiko could be the stay-at-home parent—wait, bad thought. “Oh, but most couples usually exchange chocolates, I think. That’s what I see girls do at school.”

“And do you have a girl? Or boy?”

Toshinori’s expression is pure hang-dog. “No, oshishou.” He brightens again. “What about… flowers? Can guys get flowers?”

She ruffles his sunny yellow hair. “Yeah, buddy. Guys can get flowers.”

//

Transcript: Shimura Nana to Torino Sorahiko. February 10th.

SN: Sorahiko!

TS: Shimura.

SN: Did you know Toshi-kun thinks we’re an item? It’s so sweet! [Choking noises, presumably from TS.] Turns out, he asked you about us a week or two ago, and you just went all, ‘hrghh we don’t need cheap gifts hrrgh.’

TS: I—I don’t sound like that.

SN: Ch! Sure.

TS: Did you correct him? Do you need me to correct him? The little brat—

SN: Aw, it’s fine!

TS: It’s fine?

SN: What’s a little bit of bromance? All matters aside, I think we’re role models for the poor boy. Role models in having a healthy relationship, I mean. [More choking noises.] I think it’d go a long way to prevent some resentment towards parental figures if we, y’know—hey, are you okay?

TS: Son of a—no, I’m not okay. Are you telling me we should start a fake relationship for some brat’s feelings?

SN: Yeah! How hard can it be? We only meet each other at the park to train and spar! And for meals out… but that���s because you two are awful at nutrition.

TS: Vitamins don’t exist.

SN: Keep telling yourself that. Anyway, it’s not like he’s ever going to find out we don’t live together!

TS: Ghhk. Okay. Fine. You win. We’ll have a fake relationship for the kid, and once you deem the kid emotionally stable enough to see how people break up and maintain friendship, we go back to a world where we aren’t a couple. 

SN: … Stop me if this is, um, invading your privacy, but…

TS: What, Shimura.

SN: You’ve had relationships before, right? Oh, shit, I didn’t even think about the possibility that you don’t like women. [Significant pause of five seconds.] Listen, listen, it’s fine! I’m, uh, into both, if we’re laying out sexualities, and I’ve been with both—

TS: Okay! I get it! Geez, Shimura. [Clearing throat.] No. I’ve never really—tried a relationship with anybody.

SN: General disinterest or…?

TS: Sure.

SN: Great answer! Very helpful! I won’t knock bed-sharing off the table, but I’ll make note of bed-warming, if you know what I mean.

TS: Has anyone ever told you off for innuendos?

SN: There’s a, snrrk, first time for everything.

//

She has an understated bouquet of yellow and red roses in one hand. In the other, she is holding a small, ribbon-adorned box containing two of her very-own taiyaki (which Sorahiko had been chasing for years, ever since she baked them after a case gone wrong). Currently, Nana was fielding questions from Toshinori, whose interest had reignited with a passion.

“So do you wear your ring on a necklace?” he asks, still in the early phase of his warm-ups. Otherwise, he’d be more focused on breathing and persevering.

Her heart skips a beat. Ring. Necklace. Wedding ring. “I keep it at home,” she answers. Smooth, Shimura. Your charge thinks you’re married. She’ll have to warn Sorahiko about the new development. “You never want to risk scuffing gold, eh?”

“Oshishou always thinks ahead!”

“If your oshishou always thinks ahead, she better have my goddamned breakfast,” Sorahiko calls out. Stomping across the field, duffel bag full of gear in hand, her very best friend in the world. Her fake husband. Who upon seeing Nana, comes to a sudden, bewildered stop. “Um.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Nana sees Toshinori pause his sets of push-ups. She bounds up from her seat with a grin, and flings herself towards Sorahiko. He catches her—she links her ankles at the small of his back—Nana kisses him for the briefest of moments. A childish ‘mwah!’ that gets her nothing but a low, strangled noise.

“Happy Valentine’s Day!” she cheers.

“What the fuck,” he says against her cheek, dazed enough for his voice to be soft. Good. She hopes Toshinori didn’t hear that.

“Play along.” Sorahiko, despite his shock, sets her down gently. He stares at the box and the bouquet, and almost flinches back when she shoves them toward him. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” she repeats, a little slower, hintingly.

“Ah. Right.” He cradles the bouquet in one arm, and pops open the box. He’s silent. Long enough for Nana to worry about overstepping boundaries, and perhaps she shouldn’t have pushed Sorahiko to enter his first relationship knowing it had an expiration date—he abruptly ducks down and kisses her. Misses the mouth almost entirely. “Thanks.”

.

.

#bnha #nanahiko #shimura nana #gran torino #torino sorahiko #yagi toshinori #shih.txt #thanksgiving gift; christmas is gonna be a lemon ;) #wanted to post art but it's hectic in the house right now #this is not a girlfriend!au #*EDIT: MOBILE TUMBLR IS BULLSH!T

[firjii]

Boomers are autistic/ADHD too

Yanno what I’m just saying it and maybe I’ll get called a traitor or whatever but that doesn’t stop this from being a distinct possibility: there’s a lot of untreated, undiagnosed, unacknowledged ADHD and autism among boomers. I notice it every single day and I can’t believe more people don’t talk about it.

Stay with me because this gets long.

They didn’t know shit for shit about the brain when boomers were children. Hyper or “disobedient” children were beaten or given some other utterly useless and frequently detrimental punishment. Institutionalization was considered totally acceptable in moderately severe autism cases. Therapy as we know it was typically reserved for people who were so cripplingly traumatized in some way that there was literally no other choice. It was usually damage control after the fact, not intervention.

Yes, autism and ADHD have some form of research history spanning several centuries, but your average regular person didn’t know that (and still doesn’t always, since the 20th century is often egregiously known as the century of “new” medical “fads”). Your average doctor didn’t necessarily know about it. It was a relatively fringe topic, so not all psychiatrists/psychologists learned it because it was a blip (or nothing) on the syllabus unless maybe you were specializing in children or developmental disabilities (and there......really weren’t a lot of either such specialist up to a certain point :///).

Everyone else affected by it but deemed functional or marriable enough to try living in the world just dealt with it, for better and worse. Many of the blatantly obvious signs we now use for diagnosis were lumped in as a personality type/trait at best or an intelligence marker at worst.

And I get where that comes from......sort of. Brian is a persistently loud talker, Amy is deeply claustrophobic, Sam gets nervous easier than some other people, Alex needs a tiny bit more time to hand copy an address. Who is ND on closer investigation? Maybe all, maybe none. You can show a few signs without them being part of a big dire diagnosis conspiracy. Far be it for me to try to call someone something they’re not.

But given how many people are disregarded or misdiagnosed in general for anything medically-related whatsoever, it’s too easy to use that line of thought to dismiss a legitimate case or just plain avoid a problem. 

Some affected boomers thrived and found careers that valued (and even normalized!!)  hyperfocusing, attention to detail, channeled hyperactivity, etc. (LOOKIN AT YOU, COMPUTER ENGINEERS AND VARIOUS TECHIE INVENTORS). Some of them had/have somewhat chaotic or strained home lives, but for all intents and purposes, they do or have done at least some of what they wanted to in life.

But many others didn’t. Think about all the kids who were called “unteachable” so they barely finished high school (for fuck’s sake it was hard to even get humane tutoring for dyslexia), could barely ever keep a job, and in some cases weren’t truly prepared for having kids because they struggled to take care of themselves as it was.

Think about the stay-at-home moms who turned into lowkey addicts or alcoholics to escape feelings of uselessness/insignificance simply because sometimes they forgot to or couldn’t do something that day and everyone around them shamed them about all those little things for years or decades. We like to joke about yuppy drunks (and yes that was/is a real problem), but it wasn’t always about disgusting social habits.

Many of that generation blames the problems they’re dealing with right now on age, and that’s a close enough approximation in practice that a lot of people don’t dispute it. To be fair, age does really do that shit to people: you forget things easier, you can’t always finish a task but you’re not sure why, you don’t always have the energy you want/need, etc. Sometimes age is just age.

But I remember differently. I remember seeing those things because I was dealing with them too and couldn’t understand why the grownups were so upset at themselves when actually mistake XYZ wasn’t really a huge crisis and wasn’t a big deal – because there were double standards, both external and self-imposed. No one questioned them much with me – a small child at the time – but they were a big shitting deal when it came to an outwardly functional adult. I remember all the oddities, quirks, and problems that these people were dealing with as young as their late 30s in some cases.

That’s not age, it’s a goddamn brain issue. Age is now complicating things, yes. But so many want to pretend that they were completely normal before they turned 50 or 60 or whatever, at which point they promptly and swiftly had an overnight change. That’s not fair to anyone. It’s emotionally ruthless and medically sloppy, and yet a lot of them go on believing it anyway.

I genuinely feel that this is a reason why some boomers are so baffled or disbelieving of ND issues in their own kids and their kids’ kids. They can sometimes see younger generations’ problems in their own lives and even relate to them, but they’re so used to it – and in many cases, got zero help in learning how to manage it – that they don’t get what the big deal is about shoehorning people into miserable, unhealthy, or borderline hazardous life patterns. They assume that the massive struggle, intense frustration, and subsequent other negative health side effects are just….part of life and you either sink or swim.

And I…....kinda get that mentality because putting stock in “no excuses” does push some people to do better?? And yes you should be mindful of self-imposed excuses stopping you from doing things??

But now that overall lack of acknowledgement means that we have multiple generations who still default to believing that most of their problems are solely voluntary and conscious decisions, always and exclusively their own fault, something that they “could” just walk away from forever if they “chose” to.

We have multiple generations who still assume that they’re alone in their problems and even that they kind of deserve shitty or abusive behavior from others because they’re “bad” and “should have seen it coming” or “need to smarten up.”

We have children and grown-ass adults alike who are totally unprepared to deal with lifelong problems on top of things like broken economies and increasingly demanding neurotypicals’ social standards (because yeah, even though us younger folks warmly welcome things like the shift from calling to texting, that can still reach absurd levels of maintenance and anxiety because now the older generations assume that just because a few people are extremely “with it” that the rest of us are too).

And all because some people are so terrified of labels that they’re also willing to totally deny the existence of some very real medical stuff even though they themselves might be dealing with it.

I’m not trying to excuse crappy parents, bad home environments, bad education experiences, or anything else negative. I’m also not trying to blame all of psychology’s faults on one generation.

I’m just saying that it’s not that surprising if you really stop and think about it.

Psychology and neurology have come a long way in a fairly short time (granted it still needs to go much further, but at least we’ve started) and it kinda makes you wonder if things would be different now if our parents and grandparents had known then what we know now.

ASD doesn’t have an age limit. Just because it’s close to impossible for some people (especially borderlines and maskers) to get a formal diagnosis once they’re legal adults doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist at 30, 40, 50, 60, 70, or 80. It’s more a question of whether anyone bothers to, well...ask questions.

So yes, some people are just unapologetic assholes who don’t want to hear the truth or entertain any notions other than their own, even after being presented with hard evidence. They’re obsessed with normality, sometimes to the point of fetishization. Fuck them entirely, I agree.

But don’t assume that the younger generations own the copyright on neurodivergency. We just happen to live in a time when it’s starting to be less deniable so some of us can take action sooner to deal with it.

#asd #autism #adhd #adult autism #boomers #adult adhd #generational problems #baby boomer generation #boomers vs millenials #boomers vs gen z

[modreduscycle]

Green Knight Pt. 2

Gawain stared out at the snow blowing outside. For some reason, the thought of going out in it didn’t bother him. It was probably the last snowfall he’d get to see.

It had been a good year, tournaments, quests, hunting, and just the general mayhem of the round table had kept him occupied. He wondered if heaven would have any of those things.

Gareth helped adjust his fur cloak, sniffling. “Don’t go, please don’t go,” he begged.

Gawain smiled sadly and ruffled his hair. “You know I have to. Hey, look at me.” He lifted Gareth’s chin up. “Be good, okay? Or I’ll come back to life just to kick your ass. That goes for all of you.”

Mordred rolled his eyes. “If you are still alive after all this, come back immediately. Don’t let us worry for longer than we need to.”

Agravaine glared bloody murder at his little brother. “If he survives getting his head chopped off?” he demanded incredulously.

“Did Aunt Morgana ever figure out something?” Gawain asked. Mordred had written to her earlier in the year, asking for help. He’d put it off until the last week of summer due to his usual reluctance of involving Morgana’s “assistance” with their problems, considering how overboard her solutions tended to be. Mordred hadn’t said anything about her response earlier, which didn’t bode well, but he could still hope.

Mordred let out a heavy sigh. “Yes and no. It’s… Goddamn it, it’s so stupid.” He rubbed his temples and sighed again. “Look, I told her I wouldn’t tell you what she’s doing so just… just act like you usually do.”

“When were you going to bring this up?” Gaheris demanded.

“I’ll tell the three of you everything two seconds after he leaves. I just can’t tell him,” Mordred explained, not answering his brother’s question.

“So… then Agravaine and Laurel don’t have to start trying to make an heir?” Gareth asked. Agravaine smacked him over the head with a closed fist. “OW! What? If Gawain dies, you’re next in line!”

“Laurel and I are not having sex, period,” Agravaine snapped. The other four fell silent and stared at him for a full minute. “What?”

“What about on your wedding night?” Gawain asked.

“You do remember our marriage was purely for convenience, right?” Agravaine asked.

“So you have never consummated your marriage?” Gaheris demanded.

“My wife likes men in exactly the same way Aunt Morgana does. Trust me, it would not be fun for either of us,” Agravaine deadpanned. He shrugged. “Besides, it’s not like anyone can prove we didn’t.”

“Then you’re a virgin?” Gareth piped up.

Agravaine’s face turned red. “Why are we talking about this? Gawain’s about to die!”

“But Mordred implied he might not,” Gareth piped up, grinning. “So let’s talk more about your love life.”

“Shut up, you brat! How many girls were you getting serving in the kitchens?” Agravaine snapped.

“Try saying that to Uncle Kay’s face, see how that goes,” Gareth retorted.

“Uncle Kay doesn’t care, he’s less into romance than freaking Dinadan, and that’s saying something.”

Mordred shook his head and pulled Gawain into a hug. “I am so sorry for not telling you what’s about to happen. And I am so, so sorry our entire family is so goddamned stupid.”

Gawain snorted and pulled the rest of his siblings into the hug as well. “Be good you four and if I don’t come back… well, you can tell me about everything you get up to when we meet in heaven. A long, long, long time in the future.”

“Considering our family history of violent death, that’s not likely,” Gaheris pointed out dryly.

“If I die and I see you again within ten years, start running,” Gawain warned. He shook his head. “This was supposed to be touching, goddamn it. You’ve all ruined it.”

“Well, let’s fix that.” Gaheris hugged his brother one more time before stepping away like the others. “You are the best older brother I’ve ever had, and I will never forget you.”

“Hey!”

“I meant what I said, Agravaine.”

Gareth rubbed the back of his neck, looking away as he tried to keep from crying. “I wish we could’ve been knights together for longer. I’ll make you proud, Gawain, I swear it.”

Gawain barely held back a sob as he pulled Gareth in for another hug. “You already have.”

Agravaine looked at the ground. “I…” He clenched his fists. “You’re the best big brother any of us could ever have and I hate that you’re throwing your life away on some stupid game but you’re my older brother and you’ve always looked out for me and I love you.”

They all stared at him. “Holy shit,” Gareth muttered.

“No one say a damn word about this,” Agravaine warned. “Mordred, say your goodbyes, then get the hell out of here, Gawain.”

“Yeah, I’m good. You have fun, try not to freeze to death on the way. I’m going to help Merlin with his research,” Mordred said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder and backing away.

“I… alright,” Gawain replied lamely. He assumed Mordred’s reaction was because of whatever Aunt Morgana told him, but he could not think of anything that she could say that would make Mordred this lax about it. “Well, bye.” With that, he stepped out into the snow and mounted the waiting Gringolet. He’d have to ask the Green Knight to take care of him after he was dead. He was such a sweet horse, regardless of what Agravaine, Gaheris, Gareth, Mordred, Arthur, Kay, Lancelot, Bedivere, Percival, Tristram, Galehaut, Dinadan, Bors, Lamorak, and Palamedes said. Even with how capable Gringolet was, Gawain wasn’t sure if he’d make it in the wild. With a heavy heart, he set out.

….

Mordred had a point about him being stupidly lovestruck, Gawain had to admit. Maybe if he hadn’t been so smitten, he would’ve remembered to ask for bloody directions! He had learned from locals on his way the general direction, thank God, but that didn’t help now when he was lost in the middle of the woods, snow was flying around him, his hands were freezing even in his fur gloves, and Gringolet was tired and shivering. At this rate, he’d end up missing the Christmas deadline not through his own fault, but because of his shit sense of direction.

He winced as a gust of wind blew flakes into his face, showering his hair and freezing his face. Snow blew around him, the wind lifting up the drifts on the ground to mingle with the snowflakes in the air. His breath came out in visible puffs and it hurt when he inhaled. He was going to die of hypothermia before he’d ever reach the Green Chapel at this rate.

Gringolet lifted his head and snorted, then broke into a canter. “Whoa, hey!” Gringolet refused to listen to him for a good minute before Gawain finally got him under control. “What is up with… you…” A flicker of light in the distance caught his eye through the blackness of the night. “You genius horse, I will give you all the carrots in the world once we’re—” Gawain stopped. He almost said, “Once we’re back in Camelot.” He swallowed heavily, then started Gringolet in the same direction, toward the light.

It took them nearly half an hour to get there and it was with a frozen fist that Gawain banged on the front door of the castle. A servant opened it and Gawain nearly got down on his knees begging him to ask his lord or lady. The servant looked surprised and immediately dragged him inside, ordering another servant to go attend to his horse and gear. He was stripped of his armor, bundled into furs, and shoved in a comfy chair before the fire. He really, really hoped the lord or lady of the castle was okay with him staying there because otherwise he’d be having a very awkward conversation.

The servants were behaving oddly as well, rushing to attend to his needs. He noticed one had been frantically sent off earlier to get their master and it almost seemed like they had been expecting him but he had come too early. The logical part of his brain told him that was ridiculous, but the thought was still there.

The fire crackled before him, warming him up slowly. He could start to feel his fingers and toes again. The tenseness left his shoulders as he sank into the chair, the soft comfort of the furs and the warmth of the flames lulling him into a torpor. He just wanted to go to sleep right here. Or have the Green Knight chop his head off right here, at this point he didn’t care which.

“Wouldn’t you rather rest in a bed after you’ve had something to eat?” a voice whispered just behind him. Gawain nodded sleepily before he realized he was talking to someone. He sat up and looked behind him, and felt his heart skip a beat. Two people stood behind him. One was a lovely young woman, with vibrant red hair that had small flowers littered throughout her wavy, curly locks. The second was a giant man, easily as large as the Green Knight, with darker red hair and a beard. The woman, who had spoken, offered him her hand. “Come on, how about we sit down and have a meal together?”

#so yeah Mordred knows the whole situation and what's going on #Morgana just made him promise not to tell #also Agravaine's way more upset than he's letting on he's just not great at showing it #arthuriana #king arthur #Arthurian #Arthurian legend #gawain #gawain and the green knight #green knight

[peter-parkers-underoos]

Last Name Beck pt.1

Peter Parker x Beck!reader

ENDGAME SPOILERS!!! SPIDER-MAN: FAR FROM HOME SPOILERS!!!

seriously... SPOILERS

also this is only MY interpretation since the movie isn’t even out yet. i did all my research so leave me be!!

Synopsis: You and your father were transported to a separate earth in result of Iron Mans “snap.” Nick Fury explained this all- and he said you would need help from a brilliant man to get back home. What he didn’t explain was that the man who seemingly would be taking over Iron Mans legacy was a boy your age. You know how your father can be and you can see something off with this Peter Parker character- like he’s mentally sore from recent events. What better reason to ward off your father's illusions with the promise of keeping a young Spider-Boy safe?

Warnings: cussing, mentions of endgame, angst (in future chapters >:))

Words: 1601

A/N: HAHAHHAAHHA i hope it’s obvious who the reader's father lol. also pulled that synopsis outta my ass- as always. anyways enjoy. this is only part one.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Your father isn’t who they think he is. He’s not some monster who’s only wish is to be famous. He’s not a bad guy. But he’s also not a good guy. You know, more than anyone, what he’s capable of. What illusions he’s got up his sleeve and just how far he’ll go to get the eyes on him.

That’s why you’re with him now. Not to help him- but to stop him. You don’t know who he’ll hurt on this earth. And the last thing you want is more casualties under his belt. He is your father after all.

You had a great deal of respect for him. You thought of him as ambitious and confident. But you’ve learned he’s more than that- you just can’t tell if what’s under the surface shows that he has a good heart or a speck of something greedy and more dirt ridden.

“This is Mr Beck.” You directed your attention the man you met earlier, Nick Fury. He was talking to a younger boy who was now talking to your father, Quentin Beck. They were giving him the rundown. The whole ‘Iron Mans snap tore a hole in this very delicate metaphysical object that divides our worlds and created a multiverse’ thing. And if your father was lying about this “snap” tearing a hole in the dimension, you weren't aware.

Thinking about whether this was all an illusion painted in a fucked up picture by your father made you shift uncomfortably in your seat. You brought one knee up to place under your chin and hugged your leg for comfort.

The younger boy looked around the room and you followed his gaze. He didn’t seem to want to be here. Something you two had in common. When his eyes landed on you, the tips of your fingers felt a slight electric shock.

“Uh- Hi I’m Peter… Barker- Parker. Beter Parker. Peter- Spider-Man.” You couldn’t help but grin. His uncoordinated and gawky demeanour held a soft spot in your heart. He reminded you… of a dog of some sorts. A puppy. One very nervous cute puppy.

“This is my daughter-” Quentin began.

“Y/N Beck.” You finished. The corners of Peters' mouth curled up into a small smile. His floppy brown hair framed his face well, and his deep-set eyes were relaxed. In a way he made you feel like you were home again. “Spider-Man huh?” You picked up your head and dropped your leg so you could fully stand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to- um- meet you... too.” A few moments of silence went by before he let out a soft ‘oh’ and held his hand out for you to shake. You gladly shook his hand and chuckled while doing so.

“No need to be nervous, kid,” Nick said as you let go of Peters' hand. Fury smacked the inept boys shoulder and walked over beside you. “In a way, she’s just like you.” Parker tilted his head somewhat and squinted. The way his eyes creased made you assume that he doesn’t meet a lot of kids his age who have powers.

“I’m guessing you’ve got superpowers or whatever right?” You asked as you crossed your arms. You grazed your eyes down his chest to see the crimson suit holding a nice spider symbol in between his chest bone. “You turn into a spider or something?” His mouth opened and then shut and he let out a breathy laugh.

“Uh no actually. I mean kinda- No not kinda. I sort of am a spider. Well, it’s hard to explain-” Nick grabbed Peters wrist and pointed it at the ceiling, pressing something on his palm. A thin line of web shot from his wrist and attached itself to the cement above us.

“Holy shit- That isn’t coming out of you is it?” Peter shook off Nicks' hand and twisted his wrist so he could easily grab the string. He smirked and pushed himself off the ground with his feet so that he could flip and land on the ceiling.

“Nope.” He said from his place upside down. You walked forward as he detached himself from the roof and turned right side up just in time to land on his heels.

“Brilliant! It’s like you’ve made yourself some kind of- of synthetic web fluid-”

“With their own corresponding web-shooters.” You reached out for his hand and turned it over so you could inspect the gadget fastened to his suit. “What can you do?” You looked up and felt yourself blush.

“Um, n-nothing too special.”

“Yeah right.” Your father spoke up. “Her mind works over two-thousand percent faster than any normal human beings- which gives her the ability to process battle strategies quicker-”

“Not always about battle strategies, dad.” You let go of Peters' hand and looked to your father.

“Still extremely intelligent.” He combated back.

“But I often get wicked headaches.” You looked to him and then to Nick as he began to speak too.

“I think they’re forgetting to mention the fact that she can manipulate the space-time continuum.” Fury butted in. You looked to Peter who had a shocked look plastered on his face.

“My mind works so fast that the atoms around me make the most sense when aligned in the form of an-… well like an Einstein-Rosen bridge.” You tried to explain.

“I bet she could even open a wormhole with no end to it.” Nick looked to the computers as a small beeping noise occurred.

“It’s hypothetically possible, but as I just said… hypothetical.” Peter licked his bottom lip and nodded. He looked at you like a deer caught in headlights as Nick made his way to the computers where there was another woman working. You didn’t quite catch her name, but she obviously knew what she was doing.

“That’s… so… badass.” Peter quickly wiped his mouth, in case he was drooling, and turned his head straight. “Uh so does your mind thingy make you- like- Sherlock Holmes or something?” You laughed loudly and covered your mouth to try and stop yourself from being too loud.

“You know what? Maybe.” Peter beamed as your laughing fit slowly subsided.

“Looks like we’ve got trouble.” Fury gritted his teeth. “Been here less than a week, Parker, and you’ve managed to get the attention of every goddamn villain in the multiverse.” You walked over to Nick to look at the monitors scattered across the table. Red dots blinked around the city and you sighed. “Good news though.”

“What good news could you possibly have- unless you tell me that I can go back to my hotel and enjoy the rest of my trip.” Peter walked up beside you and crossed his arms. You looked at him and took in his figure. You couldn’t imagine doing this kind of work on your own- you always had your father. You wondered if maybe he had someone like that in his life.

“Well, you got part of that right. The bastard closest to us is right outside your hotel.”

“Shit.” Parker groaned and threw his head down. “Then I better get going.” He uncrossed his arms and turned to leave.

“Wait a minute Spider-Kid- but the good news was that I’m sure if you ask nicely, Beck and his daughter just might help you get rid of these dimension travelling assholes.” Peter fidgeted with his mask in his hands and looked to you and your father.

“You wouldn’t mind would you?” He asked shyly and your father cleared his throat.

“Why not? You need all the help you can get.” You teased and grabbed your armoured gloves from the table.

“Hey-”

“No offence kid but the evil on our world is more complicated than the evil on yours.” Your father patted Peter on the shoulder and walked towards the exit.

“Be careful.” Nick said, directing his attention to the monitor again.

“When am I not careful.” Peter jogged himself over next to your dad.

“I wasn’t talking to you.” Nick looked up from his computer and locked eyes with you. “Was I?” You swallowed thickly and glanced at the floor. When you turned you were met with the confused features of Peter.

“I’m just… clumsy.” You joked with a smile and formed your hands into fists. He stared at you- seemingly not believing you. He had every right to. You were this mysterious random girl from a different earth and you both haven’t even worked with one another.

Peter still stared and you bit your lip. He’s suspicious. He should be. So are you.

“Keep staring. I might do a trick.” You quipped. You took your fists and pulled them up in front of you. Peter, once again, turned his head to the side like a curious puppy as you hit the bottom of your right hand with the top of your left. You broke your hands away from each other and spread out your fingers, which made a medium sized searing hole in front of you. The edges of the hole on the ground were sparkly like firecrackers and you made a ‘tik tik’ sound with your tongue and the roof of your mouth.

To make sure you knew where you were going you took one last two-second glance at the monitor.

“See you on the other side, boys.” You lifted your dominant hand next to your face and gave the two boys by the exit a small wave, still continuing to wave and smile as you walked calmly over the edge- descending into the dark depths of the wormhole you had just created.

#peter parker #peter parker x reader #peter parker edit #peter #peter-parkers-underoos #peter parker au #peter parker hurt #peter parker imagine #tom holland imagine #tom holland #tom holland edit #tom holland x reader #spider-man #spiderman x reader #spiderman #spooderman #spider-man edit #tom holland smut #spider-man x reader #Spider-Man: Homecoming #spider-man-x-reader #peter parker angst #tom holland angst #mysterio #quentin beck #nick fury #earth 616 #spider-man: far from home #spiderman smut #peter parker x reader smut

[badwolf-in-the-impala]

~When Love & Hate Collide -- Ch.1~

Moodboard made by myself @badwolf-in-the-impala. I do not own or take credit for any photos used. 

Edit to add: So I’m a ditz and forgot to change the ‘82 to ‘81, after doing the research and realizing that Crüe was touring in Canada in ‘82...and I had wanted this to start this off before they got actively into touring and became a huge deal...So keeping it in ’81 when they were just getting popular and shit...So yeah, thanks for coming to my TED talk on why I’m an idiot lol enjoy!  

A/N: So this is by no means going to be perfect, I’m sure...I’ve already re-written it twice, cause I’m a nitpick **insert nervous laughter here** But this is based off the movie ((The Dirt)) version of the band. Iwan!Mick needs more love/appreciation! Anywho, I hope you guys like it. 

Pairings: Iwan Rheon!Mick Mars x OC ((Faceclaim - Alison Mosshart))

Rating: Mature/18+

Chapter Warnings: Language, smoking, mentions of drug use, implied abuse...

Word Count: 5,267

---------------------------------------

Summer - 1981

Roxanna Hale traveled South, down I-5 to West Hollywood, CA, from Seattle WA. The old 1969 -- Black with White racing stripes -- Chevelle SS that she drove, rumbled along loudly, headlights illuminating the dark stretch of blacktop as Dawn slowly began to break and light the sky. The muscle car blowing around another line of cars with ease, the windows down and rock music blaring from the speakers as she fought to keep herself awake, lighting what felt like her hundredth cigarette.

She exhaled a cloud of smoke from the long drag she took, letting it trail from her red lips slowly as her thumb flicked against the filter, ashing it out the open window. The nicotine did little to quell the anger that still surged through every fiber of her body, as she sped towards her destination.

The last thing she had expected to happen when she woke up yesterday morning, was to walk in on her ex screwing some other chicks brains out...The fact that chick had turned out to be her best friend, and fellow band mate, only added insult to injury. Leading Roxxy to pack all of her shit -- music material and demo included -- before taking off for good; the incident occurring at a less than convenient time.

They had been scheduled, for today as a matter of fact, to audition for a spot as ‘Opening Act’ for another, more well known, band that was getting ready to kick off a tour. Nothing huge, but it was a long awaited opportunity that Roxxy had been waiting on for a very long time. She had headed over to the apartment where her -- now -- ex finance lived to start packing up their gear in preparation for the 18 hr drive to California, they had ahead of them when she walked in on the situation in question.

“C’mon, Baby!” Her ex begged as she continued shoving what she could fit into her backpack. “It- It was just an accident. I swear!” He added, still clinging to the sheet wrapped around his waist as he took a step back; Roxxy rounding on him.

“So what? You just like slipped and accidentally landed with your dick in her vagina?! Is that what you’re trying to tell me?” She nearly screamed, getting in his face. Roxxy’s anger only worsening as she watched him stutter over his words, trying to come up with some bullshit way to justify what he had done, but it was far too late for that as Roxxy cut him off before he could even finish. “I’m not a fucking moron, Kyle!

“Please, Baby, don’t do this! Not now, not with the audition tomorrow!”

“Yeah? Well maybe you should’ve thought that over better before you stuck your cock in my best fucking friend, the lead goddamn singer of MY band!” Roxxy seethed as she slung the backpack over her shoulder and picked up her guitar case as she turned for the door; stopping abruptly as Kyle grabbed her roughly by the upper arm and tried to drag her back. “Let go of me!” She rounded on him as she yanked her arm free, more than a little caught off guard by the sting of his hand as it connected with the right side of her face.

“You don’t get to fuckin’ talk too me like that, bitch--” Kyle had started but was cut off by the cold laugh that fell from Roxxy’s lips as she sneered up at him, wiping at the small trickle of blood from her lower lip with the back of her hand.

“Why, because you think you’re somebody fucking important now? Newsflash, you better think again, Baby.” Roxxy replied, making sure to emphasise the sarcasm in her voice as she called him ‘Baby’. “Because I built this, all of it!” She gestured around his living room at all the band equipment and gear laying around. “You, and this fucking shithole of a band, are nothing without me. So, you know, have fun playing dive bars and garage gigs for the rest of your life. ‘Cause I’m out!”

~

Her blood boiled as the memory of the argument replayed over and over in her mind. She had spent the last three and half years busting her ass for that band; HER band -- working two jobs and pinching pennies just to be able to play shitty dive bars and even shittier backyard parties, on the weekends.

Roxxy had been through hell and back, bending herself over backwards nearly her whole entire miserable, fucking life to try and achieve her dreams; and just when they were about to finally get their break...The whole fucking world comes crashing down on her. Just like it always does.

Now here she was, right back at square one with no money, no band, and the fucking audition of a lifetime that was now hanging in the balance...And as if her life couldn’t get any worse, what ever higher power that had been shitting on her life, apparently decided that now was the perfect moment for her car to blow a head gasket; still some 20-30 miles outside of her destination.   

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.” Roxxy whined as she hit her hazard lights and coasted the car off onto the shoulder of the road before cutting the engine and popping the hood as she bailed out to take a look. Waving her hand in front of her face with a cough as she lifted the hood and a cloud of white smoke from the overheated engine rolled up into her face, causing her to she take a step back. 

“Son of a bitch!” She slammed the hood shut, too dark still to see much of anything, but already knowing the engine was fucked as she rested her hands against the car, attempting several deep breaths so she didn’t lose her shit, completely; not that it helped. Roxxy picking up the nearest rock and chucking it into oncoming traffic as she screamed out angrily, fisting both hands into her dark hair before tossing them up entirely.

“Seriously! What the fuck have I done in my life to deserve this fucking shit?!” Roxxy yelled up at the sky. “Because I sure as shit don’t fucking remember!” She added, standing there for a few seconds longer, as if she would actually receive some kind of answer. But only the sounds of passing traffic surrounded her. Leaving her to heavily sigh as she grabbed her bag and guitar case from the backseat before locking up her beloved car, and began walking.

Praying that this day didn’t get any worse...Someone clearly taking that as a challenge as the next 8 hrs of walking only brought more hell down on her life. From being pelted by rocks kicked up by passing cars, too nearly being run over by an 18-wheeler that had veered off the road at one point -- causing her to bail off into the bar ditch in order to avoid being turned into roadkill; the gravel biting into her skin, scraping up her arms and hands.

But the icing on the cake had been the sudden surprise of a thunderstorm that now had her drenched. Leaving her exhausted and more than a little irritable as she finally made it to the Bar she and her band has been signed up to audition at...Four hours earlier. Roxxy made her way into the nearest restroom as she pushed her way inside and through the groups of people that crowded the place -- for what appeared to be some kind of open mic deal. Doing her best once making into the bathroom to clean herself up before finding an empty booth in a dark corner to hide herself in for a while; after putting in a phone call to towing service.

“Can I get’cha something, Sweetheart?” A pretty blonde woman -- that Roxxy assumed to be a bartender -- asked as she made her rounds on the floor; breaking Roxxy’s attention away from the man up on stage she had been watching, as she dug around in the back pocket of her jeans for her wallet, a frown tugging down the corners her mouth as she opened it to reveal her last five dollars.

“Um...Just a coffee, please?” Roxxy forced a soft smile as she pulled a couple dollars out and tried to hand them over, but the woman simply shook her head and held up her hand with a polite smile as she gave Roxxy a wink and said, “Keep it, Doll. Coffee’s on the house.” Roxxy heaved a sigh as the woman disappeared, returning only a few minutes later with a hot cup of coffee and a clean, dry, bar towel.

“Thank you.” Roxxy gave a genuine smile this time around as she accepted the towel and brought it up to her dark hair, the woman giving her a polite nod before turning to head back to her post behind the bar; Stopping when Roxxy spoke up again, catching her attention. “Hey, what does one need to do to go up on stage?”

“Nothin’ special.” The woman shrugged, glancing over to notice the guitar case that sat propped up against the booth. “Open mic. First come, first serve. Just give that man up there by the stage your name and he’ll put you in the line up.” She smiled before returning behind the bar, leaving Roxxy to contemplate if she was up for it or not. But at this point, what more did she have to lose? Aside from her dignity, maybe.

~

The first thing that caught Mick’s attention was the sound of the guitar and the heavy riff that fell effortlessly from it as her fingers changed over the strings with ease. The smoky, alluring sound of her voice filling the bar speakers as the words from Pat Benatar’s, ‘Heartbreaker’, fell from her lips, capturing the attention of the small audience that had gathered -- as well as his own band, who had been enjoying drinks. The room falling silent for a brief moment before people got into the rhythm of the song and actually started enjoying themselves; unlike with most of the prior participants whose performances had gone ignored. Save for a few of the die hard local fans that cheered them on.

They had seen their fair share of dive bar performers before, but never someone as confident as the dark haired woman up on stage now, who was venturing into territory few women had dared to dive into, yet, in this industry. Her rough, road worn appearance only adding to the edge she already had over most of tonight's participants; which drew the crowd further in as their curiosity peaked. It being easy enough to tell that she wasn’t a local by her ballsy taste in music.

“Hooooly shit!” Tommy was the first to speak up -- over the music -- among their group as he glanced excitedly between his friends and fellow bandmates, and the woman up on stage. “Are you dudes seeing this?!”

Mick simply rolled his eyes behind the pair of dark aviators he worse, shaking his head at the obviously stupid question...wondering for a moment why he ever agreed to put up with these dumb asses he called friends. The rest of the guys smirking and giving their drummer shit before ordering another round of drinks and returning to their conversation. But not Mick; no. He never took his eyes off the woman up on stage.

There were a few things he found intriguing about her and not all of it had to do with her looks; not that he was complaining. She was very easy on the eyes, as far as he could tell from his seat at the end of the bar. Her dark, layered, mess of feathered hair hung down in her face as she sung. Hiding behind it the striking features of her face. Full lips, high cheekbones, sharp jawline...it was like staring at God’s greatest creation. She was clad in a pair of ripped slim fit denims, a cropped muscle tank, that showed plenty of midriff, and a pair of combat boots. Rings and leather cuffs adorned her fingers and wrists.

What truly caught his attention though, was the guitar she played, or rather, the fact that she played it left handed...and upside down. But with her level of skill and confidence, you would never have been able to tell the difference, unless you knew exactly what you were looking at; as Mick did, obviously having played for enough years himself to know. She was good, to good in fact. Which left him to ponder how a woman with that kind of natural talent was still playing the bar/nightclub scene.

“Bitch has some pipes.” Vince mused with an impressed smirk as he passed Mick a shot, forcing him out of his thoughts as he finally tore his gaze away from the stage, give a curt nod to Vince in reply before he said, “She’s got some experience, that’s for sure.” before knocking back the contents of his shot glass. “She plays with a confidence not many possess...especially chicks.” Mick added.

“Yeah, dude, she may even be better than you are.” Tommy joked drunkenly, flinching as Nikki’s hand connected with the back of his head, and Mick rolled his eyes again in return.

“Maybe in your fuckin’ dreams...fuckin’ drummer.” Mick scoffed with a mildly irritated sneer. “She’s good, but not that good.” Mick added with half a lie. Because she really did have talent and with the right person to teach her, she could definitely go places.

“Don’t listening to him, Mick.” Nikki chuckled. “We’re jus’ givin’ you shit.” He added, earning a mumbled, “Whatever...fuckin’ teenagers.” From Mick as he turned his attention back to the woman on stage. Watching with great intent as she closed out the song with the it’s Solo; playing right over the top of other guitarist. The bar erupted into applause once she finished, giving a brief, yet humble bow, before unplugging the Fender Starcaster she played, that she carefully placed it back into its case before jumping off the stage and retreating back to the far corner booth she had been hiding in earlier. Mick and his group watching her for a bit out of curiosity and talking among themselves about her performance.

“Dude’s, we should like totally invite her the party later!” Tommy stated before taking another shot, the rest of the guys giving a mutual nod of agreement; even Mick. Though his aviator covered blue eyes never left the mysterious woman who sat alone, just across the bar.

~

An hour or so had passed since Roxxy returned to hiding in her booth; going through two more cups of coffee, intending on staying until they closed and had to kick her out. Not looking forward to having to potentially spend a night outside, especially if the weather didn’t straighten up before then. A small jolt of anxiety surging through her as the bartender approached her booth, again; fearful that was about to become a possibility.

Roxxy was just about to speak up -- shit, she’d beg if she had too -- in order to stay as long as possible, when the woman set a whiskey in front of her on the table. Earning a  very confused look from Roxxy as she looked up.

“From the gentleman, at the end of the bar.” The blonde yelled over the music, vaguely gesturing to a group of men who had their backs turned, up at the bar. “He said you looked like you could use something a little stronger than the coffee.” Roxxy’s lips curved down in a slight frown as she looked down at herself, giving a sigh.

“Well, um...tell him I said thanks.” Roxxy cleared her throat awkwardly, giving the bartender a soft smile before the woman walked away. Roxxy watching as she went back behind the bar and leaned over to the man at the very end, relaying what she assumed to be her thanks...Roxxy’s stomach nearly falling out of her ass as she recognized him, immediately, as he turned around to face her while holding up his own glass with a nod of ‘cheers’. Roxxy nearly knocking over her own drink as she blindly grabbed for it in order to return the gesture. Almost certain she looked like a deer in the headlights as he gave a smirk before returning to his drink.

“Mick Mars, of thee fucking Mötley Crüe, just bought me a drink.” Roxxy muttered to herself, still half shocked. “And I look like a mother fucking trashcan....could this day get any worse?!” She whined as she placed her forehead against the table, banging it softly against the wood a few times before sitting up and knocking back the entire contents of the rocks glass in front of her. Relishing in the burn that the amber liquid left in its wake, as it traveled down her throat. Wincing softly at the sensation before turning her attention to digging around in the pocket of her leather coat for her smokes, pulling out the last one and lighting it.

“I don’t fucking mean that seriously, either.” She threatened with a pointed finger, speaking to whatever unknown deity happened to be listening as she glanced up at the ceiling and exhaled the puff of smoke from the drag she just took. “I’ve had enough of your shit for one day!” A rush of embarrassment snapping her back to reality as the sound of someone clearing their throat caught her attention, turning to find the bartender back; bottle of Jack in hand as she smiled, jerking her chin over her shoulder at the bar. Roxxy giving a nod of understanding as she pushed the rocks glass over to be filled.

“Rough day?” The woman asked with a soft laugh as she filled the glass.

“You have no idea.” Roxxy groaned as she rubbed her temples with her fingers. “Thanks. Again.” She lifted her glass and gestured towards the bar before taking a sip.

“You know...you could always go tell him yourself.” The woman implied with a grin, giving a laugh as Roxxy starred up at her with a dumbfounded expression. Opening and closing her mouth several times before giving up entirely. This woman couldn’t possibly be serious, suggesting that she -- a complete and total nobody-- go up and talk to a band member of Mötley fucking Crüe; more importantly, the guitarist she had spent the last year idolizing.

“Just a suggestion.” The woman shrugged with a polite smile before leaving again.

Roxxy sat there for a while, weighing her options and sipping on her drink as she considered actually going up to the bar. I mean at this point, what was the worst that could really happen...she had already had a shit day, and besides, she was out of smokes and desperately craving another one, the nicotine somewhat staving off the withdrawals from lack of cocaine use. Having left her entire stash behind at her ex’s.

With a sigh, Roxxy scooted herself out of the booth and grabbed her jacket; draping it over her shoulder as she grabbed her guitar case, and bag before picking up the whiskey glass, knocking back the rest of the Jack Daniels it held before maneuvering her way through the crowd and up to the bar. Propping her stuff in the corner and placing her jacket on the last, empty bar stool, as she took a seat and set her glass on the bar. Mick glancing at her out of the corner of his eye with a raised brow, flagging down the bartender as Roxxy cleared her throat awkwardly.

“You really don’t have too–” Roxxy started, immediately cutting herself off with a mortified look, afraid she was going to offend him as Mick turned to look at her; raising his sunglasses. “I mean, t-thank you– I’m flattered, b-but, really, you don’t–”

“It’s cool.” Mick held up a hand, putting a cease to her ramblings with a half grin. “Wouldn’t be doin’ it if I didn’t want to.” He added as he pushed the now full glass towards her with a middle finger.

“Of course– I mean, I didn’t mean– You know what, I’m gonna shut up.” Roxxy rambled as she took a sip of her whiskey and tossed the empty carton of cigarettes onto the bar top as she fished out her wallet, opening it as she yanked out her last five dollars and tossed it beside the empty carton as she muttered, more so too herself, “I’m usually much more a bitch.” Mick nearly snorting his own drink out his nose as her overheard the comment.

“At least you’re honest.” He replied, motioning for bartender to leave her money and add it to whatever tab he had running. “Besides, looks like you’ve had a shit day.”

“That’s an understatement and a half.” Roxxy snorted with a laugh as she packed her fresh carton of Marlboro’s before opening it and pulling one out and lighting it; taking a drag as she offered the pack to Mick, who accepted and held it to the flame of the zippo lighter in her hand. Nodding his thanks as she snapped it shut and shoved it back into the pocket of her jeans. “I’m Roxanna, by the way.” She added while exhaling a trail of smoke as she offered him her hand. Mick chuckling softly as he glanced down at her hand before he shook it; catching sight of the ‘Mötley Crüe’ logo that was plastered to the front of her cropped tank top.

“Mick. But I’m going to assume you already know that?” He replied. Fighting to stave off the grin that tugged at the corners of his lips as he watched her cheeks tint red with a blush as she nodded, flashing him a coy smile.

“Guilty.” Roxxy replied with a soft chuckle before taking another drag from her cigarette. She exhaled slowly as she pushed a hand through her mess of dark hair, shoving it back and away from her face as she stared up at him with Emerald eyes from beneath her dark lashes. Mick looked as though he were about to say something else, when suddenly, Vince appeared between the two of them and wrapped an arm around Roxxy’s shoulders. A cocky grin plastered to his face as he leaned in close.

“Tell me somethin’?” He started in a confident tone as Mick rolled his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as he inhaled deeply while muttering, “Jesus...here we fuckin’ go.”

“Did it hurt?” Vince continued, his smirk growing wider as Roxxy looked up at him with feigned interest; cocking her head to one side as she batted her eyes and smiled. Having heard this line one too many times for her liking.

“When I fell from heaven?” She finished for him, momentarily catching Vince off guard, but he was quick to recover, his tongue darting out over his lower lip as his grin widened into that signature sexy smile of his. Mick heaving an audible sigh of annoyance as he finished off his Vodka and ordered another.

“Exactly, Baby--” But before Vince could finish whatever he was about to add as a recovery to the botched pickup line, Roxxy cut him off.

“No...but I did scrape the shit out of my knees during my climbing out of hell.” She finished with a mildly suggestive smirk as she removed his arm from around her shoulders and finished off her cigarette before stamping the last bit out in the ashtray that sat between her and Mick. Vince standing there, slack jawed and bewildered by her response as a soft scoff left his lips. Making it obvious that he wasn’t used to being rejected in such a manner and the fact that Nikki and Tommy were now howling hysterically from a table behind them, didn’t help matters much.

“Did that really just--?”

“Happen?” Mick said, cutting Vince off; his own expression almost as surprised as the lead singers. “Yeah. It happened.” He added, Vince giving a curt nod before skulking back to the table he and the other two band mates had taken up residence at. Leaving Mick to stare at Roxxy with a look of astonishment on his face.

“Holy shit…” Roxxy said with a nervous laugh. “Did I really just offend, Vince Neil?!”

“Yes, and it was fucking fabulous.” Mick smirked as he held up his glass, Roxxy taking the hint and picking up her own as she clinked it against his and took a sip before turning around to the table behind them.

“Is you’re ego gonna alright?” Roxxy asked honestly, though it came out a little more sarcastic than she intended which earned another round of laughter. “No, I mean like really?!” She added.

“Dude!” Tommy howled with laughter, nearly doubling over as he tried to catch his breath. “She’s like the chick version of Mick!” He added, Roxxy fixing him with a glare as she pointed her finger and said, “Watching yourself, drummer boy.” The comment eliciting more laughter, this time including Vince as he turned to look between herself and Mick; who were both glaring at the group in front of them.

“That’s fucking disturbing.” Vince laughed.

“What’s your name, Sweetheart?” Nikki chuckled as he took a sip of his beer, trying to change the subject before Mick started knocking their heads together for his own satisfaction.

“Roxanna.” She replied. “Most everyone calls me Roxxy, though.”

“Oh dear Jesus, not another one.” Nikki gave a short laugh as he turned to look at Tommy, who’s complexion had paled considerably, which caused Roxxy to raise an eyebrow. “Long story.” He added. “Nikki, by the way.”

“She’s aware.” Mick stated as he leaned back against the bar, vaguely gesturing to her shirt. The rest of the guys giving a collective, “Ooh” in response as Roxxy gave a nervous chuckle. Not even sure how any of this was happening right now.

“Come. Sit.” Nikki nodded at their table as Tommy pulled two more stools over for her and Mick. Roxxy briefly giving them a skeptical look, somehow waiting from them to laugh and say they were just kidding...but when that didn’t happen, she moved her things and took a seat at the table between Tommy, and Mick, who took the other seat beside her. “So, what’s your story?” Nikki added curiously after Roxxy was settled at the table.

“Like, the short version?” Roxxy snorted as she took a sip of her whiskey, cocking an eyebrow as she looked up at the band’s bassist. “Woke up yesterday morning to help my band pack for a gig ‘slash’ audition, showed up, walked in on my ex screwing my best friend; the bands lead singer. Packed my shit. Left. Drove 12 fucking hours from Seattle till my car broke down, had to walk, nearly died, missed my fucking audition, got rained on...and now, here I am.” There was a few minutes of collective silence as the guys sat there, staring at her as they tried to process that output of information.

“Jesus.” Mick mumbled into his glass.

“Yeah...And that’s only the last 24 hrs.” Roxxy replied. “A fuckin’ cake walk compared to the rest of my life.”

“Well, fuck that guy.” Nikki finally spoke as he offered her shot glass. “And fuck this day! I mean, at least it’ll end on a note of awesomeness; sitting around having a drink with this group of fucking degenerates!” He added, reaching a hand over and bouncing Tommy’s forehead off the table, which earned a round of laughter from the group.

“Not gonna argue with that.” Roxxy chuckled with a shake of her head before knocking back the contents of the shot glass and placing it upside down on the table. Taking a drag from her cigarette before adding, “I mean honestly, if someone had told me a year ago that I would be sitting in a bar sharing drinks with Mötley Crüe...I probably would’ve punched ‘em in the face.”

“You should most definitely come to our party!” Tommy stated excitedly after pounding two more shots. Roxxy raising a questioning brow as she waited for him to continue, but before he could they were interrupted by the bartender who brought over a telephone and held it out for Roxxy to take; giving a very confused, “Hello?”

“Are you a Miss,” He paused, the sound of papers being rifled through filling the silence on the other end of the line before he continued. “Roxanna Hale?”

“Yeah, that’s me?” Roxxy stated as she waited for the man to continue.

“This is Dan, I’m with Auto Doc’s 24 hr towing service. You called earlier this evening about your car? A Black ‘69 Chevelle?”

“That would be mine.” Roxxy sighed as she pinched the bridge of her nose, waiting for what she assumed would surely be bad news.

“Well, we picked it up and got it back to the shop. Someone should be able to take a look at first thing in the morning...but um, we’re gonna need the keys. I also have some papers I need you to sign off on before we’d be able to look at it? I understand it’s late, so if you can’t--”

“No, no, it’s cool.” Roxxy replied as she grabbed a napkin off the table and gestured for a pen, three suddenly appearing in front of her face as she grabbed one. “What’s the address?” The man gave it her, along with the shop number before she hung up and downed what was left of her whiskey.

“Wait, you’re not leaving already, are you?” Tommy asked with a mildly dejected puppy dog expression as they watched Roxxy stand and slip on her leather jacket; flipping her hair out of the collar as she smiled softly at him.

“Yep, unfortunately...gotta go sell my soul to the devil so I can get my car fixed.” Roxxy replied jokingly as she threw her bag over her shoulder and picked up her guitar case. “It’s been a pleasure, boys, truly.” She added, turning to address Mick separately as she said, “And thank you for the drinks.”

“No problem.” Mick gave a slight nod as he slipped his sunglasses back on. Disappointed she was leaving already, but not about to show it as he turned back to his drink as Roxxy turned to head for the door, the rest of guys turning to stare at him in disbelief. “What?” Mick stated as he glared at his band mates from behind his glasses.

“You’re seriously gonna let that just walk outta here?!” Vince arched a brow skeptically as he spoke up.

“So?” Mick retorted in a gruff tone as he took another sip of his Vodka.

“So?! You could at least give her the address to the apartment?!” Vince exclaimed as Mick simply shook his head, ignoring him entirely. “You know what, fine. I’ll do it.” He added, reaching for one of the pens on the table. Tommy beating him too it as he snatched one and bounded off towards the door to catch Roxxy. Returning a short while later, grinning triumphantly as he returned the pen.

“Fifty bucks says she shows up.” Vince smirked as he glanced over to Mick who had finished off his drink and was making to leave, himself. Pausing for moment as he turned back to the lead singer with his usual, disgruntled, expression as he replied, “Hundred bucks says she won’t.”  

And without another word, Mick disappeared into the crowd.  

----------------------------------

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#The Dirt #Mick Mars #Iwan Rheon!Mick Mars #Mick Mars The Dirt #Mick Mars x Oc #The Dirt Mick Mars #Iwan Rheon #Iwan Rheon The Dirt #Iwan Rheon x Oc #motley crue #Motley Crue fanfic #the dirt fanfic #80s themed fanfic

[deniigi]

If you’re still doing the fic prompts, something with Tats Spidey and the whole gang, rallying around one of them who got sick and needs help? (prompt in honor of a recent diagnosis that I’m still trying to accept). Maybe have a dinosaur involved somehow, idk

Hey friend.

It’s not complete or like, amazing, but here: Peter’s got an anxiety disorder.

–

When he’d first gotten the diagnosis,Peter wasn’t sure if he was relieved or not. Part of him thought that hey, hefinally had a reason—a state sanctioned, recognizable reason to feel like shitall the time. Literally all the time, but the idea of having to live with this—thisconstant state of fear. Heart-pounding, hands-shaking fear. Panic at the dropof hats and the desire to run, trapped in his knees at all times.

He couldn’t imagine a life likethat.

He couldn’t imagine having towrangle this beast every day for the rest of ever.

Just the thought brought everythingback into the center of his chest again and the weight there made him want tocry. Sob. Scream out at the unfairness of it all.

But then a hand caught his forearmand another one started stroking his hair.

“Honey,” May said, “You aren’talone. I’ve got it, too. I know. It’s scary, I know.”

The knots holding his chesthostage loosened at the sound of her voice. At the realization that hey, Maywas just a normal person. She did normal people things. She went to work, shecame home, cooked an inedible meal, watched shit tv, raised a child, and thenwoke up the next day to do it all again. She’d done that for years, longer thanPeter had been alive.

And she’d made it.

She didn’t have any specialpowers. Just…tenacity. Quiet tenacity.

May wrapped her arms around himand told him that it would be okay and he wanted so bad to believe her.

–

“Aw, kiddo. Take a deep breath,you’re gonna be fine,” Wade said, sharpening knives at his table. “When theydiagnosed me with the schiz I thought the fuckin’ world was ending. Thought I’dnever find quiet again with these fucking characters chatterin’ around in mygoddamn melon all day. Not to mention all the other shit, feel’s like thefuckin’ floor is fallin’ in sometimes, right? I get that.”

Sometimes the floor. But othertimes, it felt like his heart was a void, sucking all the pleasure andhappiness and calm from everything and everyone around him. Including himself.His heart felt sometimes like it sucked the serotonin and dopamine from his ownbrain.

Selfish. Unendingly selfish.

“Peter, breathe. In. Out. Countto three.”

1

2

3

“Out.”

1

2

3

“Good. How many days does it taketo break a habit?”

What? What did he mean?

“I mean, how many days does ittake you to add new shit to your routine without that thing naggin’ at the backof your head?”

Peter didn’t know. Peter hadn’thad anything to deal with like this before.

“’Round 2 months, they say,” Wadesaid. “Somewhere around two to three months for a lot of things. Longer thanthat for some people, some things, but we’re talking two to three months forlike, simplicity’s sake. And actually, you deal with it all the fuckin’ time,believe it or not. Think about it—when you moved into your new place, how longdid it take you to start leavin’ your keys in the same damn place? How long didit take you to get used to livin’ in a dorm? When did the novelty break off?How long did the coolness of your bein’ 18 last? New shoes to stop hurting. Summerto be boring. We assimilate pain and newness and change into our lives everyfuckin’ day, it just takes us a couple of weeks for adjustment. All you gottado, Pete is get through that period of shock and frustration and things’ll evenout, kiddo. It’ll become your new normal and once it’s your new normal, shitwon’t feel so void-ish.”

Really? Like? Could he promise that?

“Can’t promise you shit, babyboy, but I can say that sittin’ around fixating on it will just break you inhalf.”

Right.

Right.

Okay. Breathe.

In.

1

2

3

Out.

1

2

3

–

DD: [voice message] peter you’re gonna be fine. You’ve carried thisaround for years, all that’s changed now is a piece of paper and yourawareness.

SM: I know. It just feels unbearable. Like, if I tell people, theyassume shit. Judge me. Oh, you have anxiety, you’re fragile. Or oh, you haveanxiety, you just need to get over yourself.

SM: shit like that, you know?

DD: [voice message] yeah I know. Trust me. I know. But they ain’tthe ones carrying this burden and in the end, they don’t matter. You got all thesepeople in your corner, kiddo. And we aren’t gonna let you fall. We’ve beenthere, we’ve got this. All you’ve got to do is reach out when shit gets realand we’ve got you. You understand?

SM: yes?

DD: [voice message] doyou really?

SM: maybe. I don’t want to inconvenience anyone. I should just dealwith it, it’s my problem.

DD: [voice message] boy if we carried all our burdens by ourselveswe’d just break. There’s a reason people have got two hands. One for us, one togive to hold another’s. If one of them’s empty all the time, it feelspurposeless. Lean into it, Peter. For the sake of the other hands that want tohold yours.

SM: I don’t understand.

DD: you will. We got you. Call me if you need anything. Anytime.Anywhere, yeah?

SM: yeah. Thank you.

–

So the study about habit forming is here if you care: http://repositorio.ispa.pt/bitstream/10400.12/3364/1/IJSP_998-1009.pdf

But really, this is based off of my own experiences with my anxiety and tinnitus (there is absolutely nothing that has fucked me up more than realizing that I constantly hear things that no one else does and nothing I can do will make it stop. It triggered my anxiety BIG TIME and no amount of reading/research/forums helped with that. I only really felt better when my mom called me and revealed to me that she has had the same thing for her whole life and she’d never, ever told me, which to me, was a testament to how I could get used to it and move on with myself. She told me that eventually it would just become my new normal and once I stopped trying to reject it, it actually has. It still scares me sometimes, but it’s bearable and I am learning how to cope.) Obviously this is most likely not the same as your situation and it is a fairly mild/harmless condition for me, so I’m not trying to diminish what you’re going through, but rather I just hope that you get to experience that feeling of relief and of being held up by all the hands that want to hold yours, even when you feel like your palms are vastly empty.

Anyways. Wish you the best!

#fic #tw: anxiety #inimitable verse #ficlet

[keldae]

This is one of the days when I don’t want to be a responsible grown-up. Right now I need a hug and a stiff drink and kitten pictures and real grown-ups telling me everything’s going to work out okay.

I don’t know how I got stuck in this.

(Whining of an adulting nature below the cut.)

So Bro1 had to move back into Chez Parents. Bro2 is living with Chez Parents for the moment. I live with Bro2′s fiancee across town, and they’re getting hitched in November. I don’t want to share this tiny apartment with a pair of newlyweds (and apparently Bro2′s fiancee is sick of living with me? idk, I’m going off of what Bro2 told Bro1 over text since she hasn’t said anything to me).

I got a text from Dad this morning going “Hey, Bro1 and I are going to go look at places in the city, want to come with?” He didn’t inform me until I was in the car and we were pulling up to the first place they’d researched via Google that they were looking at places to buy, not rent, with the intention that we live together.

I love my brothers and dad, really. And with the insistence on 2 bedrooms/2 bathrooms, at least Bro1 and I would be able to keep our distance from each other. But I was not ready to be told “oh, yeah, we’re looking into you two being first-time homebuyers!” Bro1 is the one who’s into business and stuff, and he and Dad are both going on about “building equity” and “investments” and shit, while I (who doesn’t understand ANY of that osik. I can and do read Shakespeare for fun, but equity? Financing? Anything big and important with numbers in it? I don’t get it. At all.) was planning on asking the local 501st if anyone knew of a cheap basement suite for rent in October/November. Hells, I’m pretty sure if I asked, someone in the northern contingent would let me crash up there if I got a job in Edmonton.

I’m hovering over the official provincial poverty line, but I’m way below what’s considered a “livable” wage in Calgary. Right now my rent is $600 CAD a month, with everything (utilities, WiFi, appliances, underground parking, etc) included. And I’m scrambling with THAT. I can’t go much higher on that, if at all. Between car payments, insurance, groceries, gas, and credit card payments, I’m struggling with my student loans, forget a MORTGAGE. This wasn’t something I was even planning on thinking about for another five years at the minimum. I wanted to be at least somewhat stable and not struggling with my living expenses before even thinking about buying a home. It almost feels like I’m being shoved into a marriage -- it’s supposed to be a sign of maturity, it’s scaring the shit out of me, and it’s almost as messy paperwork-wise to get out of.

And I would have, you know, liked to have been ASKED before getting dragged into this instead of Dad just assuming I’d be all for it, and being expected to go along with everything like a good daughter/sister. (Add in Bro1 bitching about the mere idea of my sewing stuff being in the main living area of any place... yeeesh. And it’s like he and Dad don’t understand that no, I can’t put my sewing desk AND my computer desk AND my bed AND my dresser into a bedroom smaller than my current room in this apartment. And no I don’t want to have my computer in the living room because goddammit I like to write and sometimes draw smut and I can’t DO THAT with my little brother, aka Judgey McJudgeypants, in the same room. And they go on like it’s my fault entirely that some of the places just don’t have an ideal space for my sewing shit, like I KNOW my hobby takes up a ton of room but if Bro1 was a little less anal because it’s not THAT big of an eyesore...)

It doesn’t sound like a big deal when I’ve written it out. But I’ve been having full-scale panic attacks in waves since Dad dropped me off at home, like the ugly-crying editions I haven’t had in years (it’s a good thing Roomie and Bro2 are in BC so I don’t have to explain shit to them). I’m scared and I don’t know how I can possibly accommodate this into my tight-as-fuck budget. I told Dad over text that I need time to think about it, and that my original plans had involved just finding a cheap basement in November, and he’s like “okay but your creative father just thought this would be a good way to help two of his kids get off the ground, and with the economy being shit and interest rates being what they are, now’s as good a time as any”. But he seemed a little startled when I said I was scrambling on $600 for rent as it is, so between that and seeing last year’s tax return, he should at least have an idea of how goddamned poor I am. Bro1, bless his asshole heart, is trying to go “but we can go in on some groceries and stuff, even though you’re on keto and I’m not, so that’ll save money right?” And he’s already talking about renovating the basement of one place we found to make space for a renter/extra income, and not hearing my alarm bells of “IT’S AT LEAST AN EXTRA TWENTY GRAND TO RENOVATE THE BASEMENT FOR A TENANT YOU TWIT”.

I don’t know, maybe I’m just overwhelmed with all of the things, especially with the last couple of places we looked at being “holy shit this isn’t a condo it’s too close to a full-size house TOO MUCH TOO MUCH ABORT ABORT ABORT”. I’m trying to be excited about the idea of being able to have my own place, and I know either way I’m gonna have to move before there’s a pair of newlyweds in this apartment, but fuck. I’m scared. This is a step I wasn’t planning on taking and I feel like I’m getting shoved off the diving board into the really deep end of the pool. Because if I fuck this up, there’s no real fallback option. And I don’t want to be tied down to one place/living with my brother for what could be 5+ years (and if Bro1 gets married? I’ll be out and renting again anyway. My demi/ace ass getting married? HA!). But if I try to just say “no, I don’t want to”, I’m pretty sure Dad will let me out, but I’ll get guilt-tripped for eternity for not going in on it.

I don’t know what to do.

#Kel whines #IRL #adulting #home ownership #this was not an adulting step I was prepared to take #I have no idea what I'm doing #maybe it's this on top of new meds and pre-surgery panic that's throwing me so badly? #it gets complicated when family is involved #I love my brother #but I don't know that I want to live with him #even with separate bathrooms #he's... a lot more right-wing conservative than I am #let's just leave it at that #this should not be a crying-worthy upset in my regular life #why the hell did I spend a lot of this evening ugly-crying? #fuck my brain #and adulting #one upside #I might be able to adopt a cat?

[welllpthisishappening]

Have Your Cake [And Eat It Too] (Part 2)

Killian can’t seem to stop moving. It’s a nervous habit. He’s a little nervous. Because they’ve been waiting forever and he’s been waiting forever and he really just wants them to be a family. Officially.

Emma needs to keep moving. To win. She’s very competitive. And she’s needs a distraction. Because they’ve been waiting forever and trying a bit longer and she really just wants them to be a family. Officially

Or: Another quasi Out of the Frying Pan sequel with the legal system and Kitchen Stadium.

Word Count: 8.4K of Emma Swan and Killian Jones being stupid into each other while cooking. Rating: Teen. But, like, a higher teen than last time.  AN: Back at it again with the family feelz and the kissing and I did more food-based research for these few thousand words than I have in my entire life. Also, peanut soup is a real thing that they serve in Colonial Williamsburg and I have begrudgingly had it on more than one family vacation. As always, thanks internet for being awesome and reading the words I spew at you. I really will write that other sequel eventually. In the meantime, if you’ve got thoughts on what I should hoarding fic-wise, let me know. 

This is also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll. 

“It’s kind of intimidating, isn’t it?” “It’s a stadium, Swan.” “I really need you to stop referring to it as that.” Killian glanced at her, all smiles and bright, blue eyes that were going to be way more distracting than they should have been when there would probably be a considerable amount of very sharp objects nearby soon. But it had been that way for a week and it was closing in on Christmas and there was always something about Christmas in New York and snow and family and everything felt decidedly official and kind of like they’d been living in some kind of snow globe for the last week and a half.

Emma assumed things were consistently picturesque in a snow globe.

Or, at least, their snow globe.

It was a very strange metaphor. She wasn’t sure she’d ever actually seen a snow globe in real life. Maybe, like, at Macy’s.

Macy’s seemed like the kind of place that sold snow globes at Christmas time.

“Swan,” Killian said lightly, wrapping his hand around her shoulder to stop her from walking any further into Kitchen Stadium and now she was doing it too. It was, admittedly, pretty goddamn intimidating and absolutely enormous. “You went all distant there, love,” he continued.

There was a hint of worry in his voice. That did something absurd to Emma’s pulse. That might have been because of his hand. Maybe she’d buy Killian a snow globe for Christmas.

That also felt like a kind of lame gift after everything else, but everything else felt less like a gift and more like just their lives and Emma hoped the secret ingredient was good.

She hoped Archie didn’t bother her too much while she was cooking.

“I think you could fit, like, six of my studios in here,” Emma said, not quite an answer, but Killian hadn’t actually asked her a question and his eyebrows shifted when she spoke.

“That seems like a lot doesn’t it?” “This place is enormous.” “You’ve been here before.” That was true. She’d watched Killian cook on that soundstage or studio or whatever more times than she could count in the last few years, and he won every single time, some kind of kitchen wizard or a compliment that wasn’t nearly as lame as that, but they both kept calling it Kitchen Stadium, so maybe they were on even footing there.

And Emma assumed parents were just sort of supposed to reach a certain plateau of lame at some point – dad jokes for actual dads and official paperwork and she kept wondering if it was possible to smile too much.

She didn’t think so.

The secret ingredient needed to be something good. She would scream if it was festive.

“I know, I know,” Emma mumbled, resting both her hands on the front of his shirt and neither one of them had changed yet. They were, actually, almost early.

“But?” “But it’s...big.” “We’ve covered the size of the studio several times now, love,” Killian grinned. His whole face did something absolutely absurd when Emma made a noise in the back of her throat, a scoff and a groan and something Henry had picked up at some point as well. “You worried about stacking up against the competition?” Emma’s jaw dropped, air rushing out of her and she dimly wondered where their kid was, but that thought only lasted as long as it took to come up with a slightly scathing retort and both Ruby and Regina would be frustrated they weren’t filming this.

They were really, really good at flirting in studios.

“That sounds awfully presumptuous, Lieutenant,” Emma muttered, tugging on the shirt she’d never actually let go of and she had no idea how she was expected to cope with seeing her husband cook in a jacket that said Iron Chef on it. It would be a miracle if she didn’t fall over herself at some point.

“Not presumptuous. Just historic.” “Oh, God, that’s even worse.” “Track records or something.” “And far too much confidence. I’ve beaten you several times in cooking competitions before.” Killian’s eyebrows jumped and twisted, tongue pressed into the corner of his mouth as his hands found her hips and his thumb started tracing idle patterns against the hem of her shirt. Emma’s breath hitched, lips tugged back behind her teeth so she wouldn’t make any more noise or say anything decidedly sentimental.

They’d done enough of that in the last few days – muttered conversations in their bedroom and the kitchen, tucked against each other in the corner of the couch and everything seemed like a chance and an opportunity and Emma was certain they’d both set a record for consistent and constant happiness.

“I can hear you thinking, Swan,” Killian said. His thumb was a menace.

“I’m just considering how nice it’s going to be to take you down a few pegs this afternoon.” He chuckled, letting his forehead rest against hers and it was a miracle no one had found them yet. Emma assumed that had something to do with wherever Henry was. He was getting very good at running interference and being just as happy and excited and several other incredibly positive adjectives.

There was a color-coded countdown in the corner of the kitchen.

“I think your trash talk is out of date, love,” Killian mumbled. His thumb still hadn’t stopped moving. “I’ve got home stadium advantage here.” “I can’t believe you just said that.” “That’s a fact. One loss in several years is impressive.” “Yeah, so says you.” “So says several legions of very impressed fans.”

“Really think very highly of yourself and your fans, don’t you?” Emma asked, leaning back to smile or do something vaguely flirtatious because she knew he had a difficult time forming coherent sentences when she bit her lower lip. She grinned when he practically growled in response, eyes somehow getting sharper and bluer and possibly just evolving into a whole different level of trash talk, and Emma was only a little frustrated her plan had kind of blown up in her face.

Metaphorically.

She’d like to avoid anything blowing up while she was competing in Kitchen Stadium.

God, she hated that name.

“You don’t have a cookbook though,” Emma pointed out. She really could not think when he did that thing with his tongue. This whole thing was going to be a disaster.

It’d probably set viewership records or something.

“True,” Killian admitted. “But I did help come up with some of the recipes in the cookbook, so I’d like to imagine that some of it has to do with me.” “Nah, that’s not how that works at all.” “No?” “No,” Emma echoed. “And, you know, if we’re going to point out things you don’t have, you don’t have a very popular cooking show and your own legion of fans who, and I’m quoting Rubes here, totally lost their shit when you showed up with a different name on screen.” Killian threw his head back when he laughed, body shaking against Emma’s because, at some point, they’d decided to start occupying the same space and she hadn’t felt nauseous in awhile, but her stomach seemed to have different ideas in the moment and if he’d just move his thumb a few inches to the--

“Ah, yeah, right there,” Emma hissed, scowling when Killian grinned triumphantly at her. “God, did you just know that?” “Of course not, Swan.” “Why’d you move then?” “I had an assumption about your back,” Killian answered. “And your hips, honestly, because you’ve been complaining about them for the last few days--” “--I have not!” “No one is actually upset about the complaints, love, I promise.” “No one meaning you,” Emma corrected lightly, but her heart didn’t appear to get the memo about normal and they hadn’t said anything yet because there hadn’t really been time. There were character witnesses and worrying about paperwork and payments and they hadn’t even filmed the holiday special yet.

Emma should ask Killian to be on the holiday special.

That was, like, a thing now.

Killian nodded. “Yes, meaning me exactly. And probably Henry too, but I’d also assume he doesn’t want to talk much about your hips, so…” “Do you want to talk about my hips?” He laughed again, although the sound was a bit more strangled than it had been a few minutes before and Emma silently congratulated herself on that. They were seriously going to set records for Iron Chef. “I would love to talk about your hips at all times,” Killian said, sounding far more serious than those words should have allowed.

Emma was going to sprain her face muscles.

“Just my hips?” “I’m open to other options too, honestly.”

She burrowed her head into shoulder, an arm moving around her waist and her sneakers squeaked when she tried to find a few inches of space they weren’t both occupying. “I’d really like to beat you at your home stadium,” Emma mumbled, but the words lost a bit of their threat when spoken mostly into Killian’s collarbone.

“I’d really love to see you try, Swan.” “I’ve got some plans.” That gave him pause – quite literally. Killian tensed, like he’d been turn to stone or frozen and Emma wondered where the blast chiller was on that set. She should probably look around before they started cooking. Or after they took whatever promotional pictures she was sure both Regina and Ruby had demanded.

She hadn’t really been listening to the plans, had kind of tuned out anything that was her newly official family and she hadn’t been lying. It wouldn’t have mattered if the judge said no. It would still be theirs and them and some kind of collective unit that regularly cooked things on the weekend with color-coded schedules and matching looks of terror on their parental-type faces when Henry got hurt.

But, well, it was nice.

It was more than nice, but Emma’s hips were honestly killing her and it was only a matter of time until someone found them flirting in the studio.

“Are you guys kidding me?” Ruby asked, a lack of any real frustration in her voice. She almost sounded amused. Emma figured she also looked amused, but she wasn’t entirely willing to move away from Killian yet.

He didn’t let go of her either.

“You know we have a schedule,” Ruby continued. “It’s like...official.” Killian scoffed, and Emma still didn’t need to turn around to know that Ruby was glaring at him. “Sounds incredibly official, Ruby,” he said, fingers dancing along the ridge of Emma’s spine. “Where’s Gina?” “Talking to your kid.” “Aw, you did that on purpose,” Emma muttered, twisting despite Killian’s quiet objections and incredibly agile fingers and Ruby lifted her eyebrows in unspoken challenge.

“Did it work?” “I mean obviously. It got me to turn around, right?” “Is it going to get you to stop flirting with your husband and the father of your kids?” “Possibly, if you promise---”

Emma cut herself off, nearly biting her tongue in half in the process and she’d never seen that look on Ruby’s face before. Like she was torn somewhere between joy and euphoria and it was a feeling Emma understood in the pit of her stomach and the ache of her hips and Killian was never going to move again.

They were never going to be able to film.

“How did you know that?” Killian asked softly, and that was probably how it was supposed to sound when a person was trying to be threatening.

Ruby laughed. “I didn’t.” “What?” “I had several assumptions and thoughts based solely on what I know from sitcoms and, you know, high school health classes and kind of Mary Margaret, but--” “--The point, Lucas.”

Ruby’s eyebrows shifted again, some of that joy falling off her face and crashing onto the ground. She crossed her arms, twisting the fabric of her dress under her elbows and her eyes all but disappeared when she glared at Killian. He glared back. The secret ingredient was totally going to be something seasonal.

That’s how Iron Chef worked. “You won’t be able to cook like that,” Emma said. She turned on the spot, running her hands over Killian’s arm and the top of his prosthetic and he blinked, exactly, six times before he met her gaze. “I mean...that’ll make it easier for me to win and I’d like this to be an even fight.” He exhaled, tongue darting between his lips and eventually Emma would learn enough words to describe what color his eyes actually were. She hoped she figured it out before the kid they hadn’t actually told anyone except Henry about actually showed up.

“Definitely an even fight, Swan,” Killian said. “And I’m better at cooking when I’m slightly frustrated anyway. Something about using that emotion to my advantage.” “No one has ever said that.” “Several TV critics have said that and probably Eric.” “Yeah, but Eric is not a good source. He’s just nervous you’re going to put a shit ton of holiday themed items on the menu in Gowanus.” “No, love, that’s you.” “No!” “Eh,” Killian said, clicking his tongue at the same time Ruby made an almost identical noise. Emma gaped at them both, head on a swivel and something that felt like betrayal festering in her gut.

“That is absolutely untrue,” she shouted. Ruby scrunched her nose. “Aw, c’mon, don’t look at me like that! It is!” “How many times have you tried to change the dinner special in the last week?” Ruby asked knowingly.

“It’s a special! It’s supposed to change every week. That’s what the name implies!” “Once a night, Swan,” Killian muttered, dropping his mouth to the side of her neck and that one spot behind her ear that made everything else in several different universes entirely pointless. Ruby’s nose was going to sustain permanent damage. “You change specials on a daily basis. Not on an hour basis.”

“It has not been that bad.” “I hate to repeat Jones here, but eh,” Ruby laughed. “Ariel said Eric is legitimately worried you’re going to move to Gowanus.” “I am not moving to Gowanus.” “Just trying to put the previously discussed shit ton of holiday items on the menu.” Emma huffed, frustration and acceptance in the sound and Ruby grinned triumphantly. “Do you know what the secret ingredient is?” she asked. “Is it holiday themed?” “Why would I tell you that?” “Because you want me to win.” “You can’t cheat like that, Swan,” Killian chastised. His arm had moved again, wrapped around her middle with fingers that kept tracing patterns she was positive only he could see.

“You’re standing right here. If Rubes tells us what the secret ingredient is, then we’d both find out. Unless she wants to tell me in code.” “Do we have a code?” Ruby asked.

“Nah, but we probably should.” “Mary Margaret would really get mad if we came up with a secret code and didn’t include her. That’d almost be as shitty as force feeding the patrons in Gowanus holiday-themed food.” “Oh my God, no one is force feeding anyone anything,” Emma sighed. “Least of all holiday-themed food. That’s so aggressive.” “Fa la la la, la la la la.” “And,” Killian said sharply. “Speaking of Mary Margaret and your apparent knowledge of things that previously included her…” Ruby didn’t quite cackle, but it was pretty close, rocking back on her heels when the smile practically slid across her face. She hadn’t ever uncrossed her arms, but it didn’t look like a battle pose anymore. It kind of looked like she was trying to stop herself from jumping up and down or, possibly, crying.

They really needed to find Henry.

“Man, you are cranky when parenthood is impending, aren’t you?” Ruby asked, ignoring Emma’s muttered curses as she moved to the closest cooking station and promptly sat on top of it. Killian’s eyes widened slightly.

“It has nothing to do with that at all.” “Aw, that’s nice.” “Rubes, you are going to get whiplash from jumping through these emotions,” Emma said, swinging her legs out and she’d done it entirely for Killian’s reaction. Maybe cerulean was the right color? She’d ask Mary Margaret. Mary Margaret saw more Crayola crayon names than Emma did.

“Because no one has actually confirmed anything to me yet,” Ruby pointed out. “Why was it a secret? Is it still a secret?” “Why were you making assumptions?” “Because Will made a drink after your husband officially adopted your kid and you tried very hard to make sure that no one noticed you handing it to Killian.” “Maybe I just wasn’t thirsty.” “Oh, that was really bad, Em,” Ruby said, shaking her head. “Killian, wasn’t that really bad?” He didn’t answer, just pressed his lips together and did something entirely unfair with his eyebrows and Ruby sighed as if this were actually the end of the world and not some kind of best news ever in a way that led Emma to thoughts about snow globes. “Ok, whatever,” Ruby continued. “It was really bad. Also you got sick on set one time.” “What?” Killian asked sharply.

Emma rolled her eyes. “Ok, that didn’t happen.” “She’s lying,” Ruby whispered.

“I’m not! I didn’t actually get sick, I just thought I was going to and that’s like...it’s a thing. That’s how bodies work at that point.” Ruby nodded seriously, lips pursed together and the whole thing felt a little patronizing, but Emma could also see what might have been actual tears in her eyes. “I really don’t think anyone else knows. Does Henry know?” “Yeah.” She was absolutely crying. “God, I hate that.” “What?” Emma croaked, eyebrows pulled low and this could not have been part of the filming schedule. “Were those the words you were looking for?” “They absolutely were not,” Ruby admitted. “But I’m, like, kind of losing my mind and you guys are...I hate your stupid, emotional familial emotions. It’s just super nice and super something else that’s nice and picturesque and only kind of threatens to rot my teeth. And also how obviously flirting you were when I walked in on you.” “You’d think at this point you’d know not to walk onto set without announcing yourself,” Killian muttered. He pulled Emma against his side, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and they’d have to stop trying to touch each other when they started filming.

“I’m doing you guys a favor. It could have been Gina and she would not have been nearly as receptive to totally messing up the schedule as I am.”

“Ah, that’s probably true, actually.” “See, you’re welcome.” “What is the schedule, exactly?” Emma asked.

“Besides the flirting and the ever-growing family?” “You need to go back to school or something. Your sentence structure is all off. There’s Henry and,” Emma waved her hands in front of her, not quite an explanation or confirmation and Ruby clasped both her hands over her mouth so her squeal wouldn’t ricochet off the studio walls.

“Ok, ok, ok,” Ruby stammered. “Can I just ask a question? Jones, are you going to kill me if I ask a question? Also, remember that we are literally on set so you can’t kill me.” “Well, that answered that question, didn’t it?” Killian said.

“Ok, but that doesn’t actually make me feel any better.” “I’m not going to kill you, Lucas. Ask your question.”

“How long have you known?’ Killian tensed again, and Emma took a sharp breath through her nose, trying to keep her footing when she hadn’t actually moved at all. Ruby grimaced. “Remember the no killing promise,” she mumbled.

Emma clicked her tongue, glancing at Killian over her shoulder and it wasn’t like it was a complete secret, but it had been so different the last time she’d done this. And they hadn’t really been trying, weren’t actively not trying, but it was a surprise and in the middle of everything else and a lot and everything, again, and she desperately needed to expand her vocabulary.

So they’d told Henry – partially because he’d found Emma on the bathroom floor and partially because they were a them in a family kind of way that didn’t include secrets regarding the expansion of said family – but they hadn’t said anything to anyone else. They might have been a little selfish about that.

Killian shrugged.

And Emma was glad she’d taken that deep breath before, all the air seemingly rushing out of her lungs in one great, big huff of feeling and pre-show jitters and she was totally going to eat all of Killian’s food after it got judged.

“You can’t yell too loudly,” Emma warned. Ruby’s hands were still over her mouth, moving with her head when she nodded. “Uh, almost three months.” Ruby’s eyes bugged and the noise she made sounded strangled and a little desperate and she got some pretty good height on her jump. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. Are you kidding me? Are you guys kidding me?” “Why would we joke about that?” Killian asked, and Emma swatted at his thigh. He caught her around the wrist, lacing his fingers through hers, and they didn’t have time for this.

“I have no idea, but seriously, you guys aren’t kidding?” Emma shook her head. “Not kidding. And you’re not really supposed to say anything before three months, so if you could--” “--Of course,” Ruby shouted. “Shit, yeah, I just…” She exhaled like she’d just run a marathon, finally moving her hands away from her mouth so she could wipe away tears that would only draw more questions and the clack of Regina’s heels at the other end of the studio sounded impossibly loud. “You guys going to flirt the entire time you’re on camera, right?” “Probably,” Killian nodded. “If Swan ever decides she’s going to get changed.” She turned, mouth hanging open and it couldn't have been very attractive, but Killian – her husband and father of her kids, plural and officially – didn’t seem to mind all that much. He ducked his head, catching Emma’s lips with his and putting his tongue to totally different use until she was threatening to melt on the floor and that would make it difficult to cook.

Emma figured she needed to be a corporal body to grip things. Or chop them. She wanted to change the dinner special at The Jolly later.

“Are you two honestly not dressed yet?” Regina asked sharply, Henry a few feet behind her with a smile on his face and excitement radiating off him. Emma glanced at Killian again.

“What were you doing, kid?”

He ran his hand through his hair – a move that had been growing more and more frequent recently, but Emma couldn't think about that if she was actually going to try and win this stupid thing. It was distracting. “Nothing,” Henry said quickly.

“Didn’t even try,” Killian murmured.

“That’s not true at all. I tried very hard.” “That’s disappointing, honestly.”

Henry laughed, jumping onto a counter as well and Ruby had taken her phone out at some point, explanations of stuff for the site that Emma was only half listening to while Regina made very attempt to turn them to stone with her mind. “Should be advocating for better lying?” Emma asked. “That seems very unparental.”

Ruby dropped her phone.

“You know what else is unparental?” Regina asked. “Not being on time to a set that is very scheduled and requires its talent to be wearing specific clothing with makeup so their skin isn’t shiny under camera.” “I really don’t think those are part of the rules, Gina,” Killian grinned.

“Put your jacket on. Get your face fixed and then cook something.” “Get my face fixed.” “You heard me the first time, I’m not sure why you need me to repeat it again. Also, your kid is not a very good distraction. So next time try harder when you want to make out on set, ok?” Emma wasn’t sure what sound any of them made – several gasps and one gag that definitely came from Henry and Killian’s fingers tightened around hers like he was trying to make sure his knees didn’t immediately give out.

“I feel like that’s kind of an insult to me,” Henry muttered. “I thought I was a pretty good distraction. And I helped, Gina.”

Her face softened slightly, not a full glare as she reached up to brush Henry’s hair away from his eyes and that should be studied because it always seemed too long no matter what kind of parental thing Emma or Killian did. “You did,” she agreed. “But I think you might have been playing favorites, a little bit.” “No, that’s not true at all,” Henry argued, trying to sit up straighter and jump off the counter and his gaze darted to Emma and Killian like they were going to ground him right there in Kitchen Stadium. That wasn’t really their game.

They desperately needed to change.

“What were you two doing?” Killian asked. Henry squeezed one eye closed.

“Making food decisions.” The door opened again, more crew and techs and Elsa mumbled a handful of questions because everyone’s skin was far too shiny to be camera-ready. They were probably going to be there for days. “Alright,” Regina snapped, tapping her right heel and Killian laughed in Emma’s ear when she jumped to attention. “Faces. Jackets. Cooking ready...ness.” “It’s not your best work, Gina.” “Get changed or I will fire you.” “Ah, no you won’t,” Killian said, saluting anyway and that should not have been as attractive as it was. “We’re going to pull record numbers with this, aren’t we, Swan?” “Definitely. But only because people are going to tune in to see the very impressive Iron Chef Killian Jones get defeated on his home turf.” “Home stadium, love, we’ve been over this.” “And I wasn’t listening,” she smiled, pressing up on her toes to kiss the edge of his mouth. He chased after her. She was winning. “I’ll see you back on set in a couple minutes, Lieutenant.”

She still wasn’t entirely sure what possessed her to agree to any of this – Regina had been trying for years, as soon as Killian moved a few boxes to the apartment three blocks away from The Jolly, but Emma had always waved her hands and shook her head and she didn’t really have a restaurant to represent anyway.

But then she did.

She had a joint partnership and something less clinical than that and Killian agreed to all that paperwork and official titles and other titles and he smiled every single time she tried to change the menu.

So, when Regina had asked, again, Emma was sure something in her brain had just short-circuited and she heard herself saying yes and she knew Henry would be thrilled.

She knew Killian would be thrilled to, but that was neither here nor there.

Because Emma was absolutely, positively counting on that very specific emotion to give her a bit of a leg up on her competition.

The lights were, somehow, even brighter when she stepped back onto set, any threat of shiny face defeated by several pounds of makeup and Ruby laughed softly when she and Emma moved towards her side of the Stadium.

“You’re playing games, Em,” Ruby accused. Emma shrugged, mostly because she couldn’t disagree and she was so goddamn happy she was only a little worried she’d explode with the feeling at some point during filming.

“Isn’t that part of the fun?” “You guys have a twisted way of flirting.”

“You know what the secret ingredient is. And don’t act like the flirting isn’t good for the numbers. I bet Zelena nearly had a coronary when she found out I agreed to this based solely on the potential for flirting that you guaranteed.” “That’s my job.” “Eh.” “Henry asked,” Ruby muttered, like that explained it and it absolutely did. “No one’s been more excited to get parented in their life, you know that?” Emma nodded. “Yeah, I do.”

“You better win.” “No pressure or anything.” “Nah,” Ruby promised. “You’re an incredible chef. And he’s...ah, there it is. The game within the game or something. Maybe that should be our tagline.” Emma’s head snapped up, teeth finding her lower lip on instinct and that couldn’t have been good for Killian’s jaw. He was frozen mid-step, feet not quite even when he came to a stop halfway towards his station and his own Iron Chef jacket was, admittedly, pretty impressive, but Emma had stolen hers from the back corner of The Jolly kitchen and Mary Margaret knew someone who did embroidery in Chelsea because of course she did and Emma Swan-Jones looked pretty damn good underneath the name of their restaurant.

“Oh, that’s not even playing fair, Swan,” Killian mumbled, taking those last few steps and someone yelled about crossing the line when he nearly stepped into Emma’s station.

She smiled. “I think I heard someone talking about mind games on a show like this once before.”

“Must have been the world’s biggest idiot.” “Nah, he’s got a very impressive history degree.” “Oh my God, it’s started,” Elsa called from behind the camera and Emma swore the lights got stronger. Like they knew or something.

“It’s not going to work, love,” Killian said. He leaned forward, ignoring lines and rules and Emma only kind of hoped he did that while they were cooking.

“Isn’t it? You just accused me of cheating, I think it’s working already.” “Nope. Not at all.” “Were you upset about Henry’s bad lying because you knew he got it from you?” Killian blinked, licking his lips and Emma’s mind drifted to several things it shouldn’t have while they were still on set and he was still wearing that jacket, but that jacket did something absolutely unfair to his biceps when he crossed his arms. “He picked the secret ingredient, you know. Gina told me while she was yelling about my face.”

“I kind of figured that out on my own, actually. Context clues.” “Maybe you’re the smart one in this competition. And relationship.” “Flattery will get you everywhere,” Emma whispered. “You going to be able to remember borders once we starting cooking?” “Depends.” “On?” “On what you start cooking.” She laughed before she could stop herself, the noise bubbling from the center of her soul or something equally absurd and each of them had a small platoon of sous chefs who were supposed to help them – they all looked equally and incredibly uncomfortable. “That wasn’t even clever,” Emma said. “I’m not even sure what it meant.” “Ah, but it got you thinking didn’t it, love? Pondering. Questioning. Possibly distracted.” “Was that your goal? To distract me?” “Wasn’t it yours?”

Someone sighed. It sounded like Regina. It honestly might have been Archie. Elsa was shouting about places and marks and those lights must have been industrial-grade. Emma was very warm. She didn’t think it actually had much to do with the lights.

Navy blue. That was another color in a Crayola 64-crayon box. “You should know,” Emma muttered, twisting her well-styled hair over her shoulder. “Something about battle plans and seizing the vessel.” “I honestly can’t take you seriously when you compare yourself to a ship, love.” “Was I doing that?” “Certainly what it sounded like.” “Weird. Something, something, capturing things, pillaging and plundering.” “The Navy generally frowns on that.” Emma hummed, a smile on her face still and always and possibly indefinitely and she jumped back when Archie moved into the middle of the set. “You two realize this whole thing has been filmed, right?” he asked, Emma shrugging and Killian nodding. He laughed. “Well, this is going to be interesting. Your kid picked the secret ingredient, was very adamant about eating all of the food and I need to do the intro now, so if you could…” He waved his hands, directing them back towards their stations and a bit more personal space and Emma let her tongue trail over the front of her teeth before she moved. Killian smirked.

“Mind games,” he muttered, and maybe she’d be able to cook with the butterflies in her stomach.

There were more staging directions and Emma tried not to move – far too aware of the gaze boring into the side of her head and he was probably worried she was standing too much because he was an idiot and read too many things and thought about everything and her cooking crew still looked a little nervous.

“Chairman, if you’d be so kind as to introduce our secret ingredient,” Archie said, already back behind his podium and there were, frankly, a shit ton of screens there. Emma jerked her head towards the table, a man in a suit that was only kind of intimidating to look at staring at both her and Killian and the cover flew into the ceiling when he threw his hands into the air.

“Good production value,” Emma mumbled. She wasn’t sure if she imagined Killian’s answering laugh, or how he’d been able to hear her, but she didn’t care about specifics and he smiled when her eyes darted his direction.

“Today’s secret ingredient,” the chairman yelled. “Is…. peanut buuuuuuuuter.”

Emma’s eyes bugged, mind immediately racing and trying desperately to come up with food ideas that weren’t just seventeen different forms of cookies and it took her half a second to remember she needed to move. The sound of Killian’s shoes moving by her helped.

“You got a plan yet?” Emma asked, skidding to a stop next to him and using his body to stop herself from colliding with the table.

“Swan, you can’t run like that.” “That is not an answer to my question at all. Compete with me.” “I’m more than willing to compete with you, I just would like to avoid injury if at all possible. And also I’m not going to tell you.” “Aw, that’s not fun at all.” “It’s a show, love,” Killian said, but he was still kind of laughing and throwing jars of peanut butter to the closest sous chef.

“Should I also be throwing things? Is that part of your plan? Impress the judges with your hand-eye coordination? Because that’s not fair at all.”

He chuckled, tossing another three containers and shouting about make sure we get some of the honey kind before turning back towards Emma and kissing her quick. “Try not to make too many cookies, Swan,” Killian grinned. “And as long as you’re impressed by my hand-eye coordination, I really don’t care.” “Idiot,” Emma grumbled.

“I love you, too.”

“Well, that’s kiss one,” Archie called from his station. “Who had a kiss within the first five minutes of competition?” He pointed towards Ruby just out of camera when she raised her hand, a wry smile on his face and Emma knew there’d be a graphic for this. She grabbed a container of honey peanut butter.

“Alright,” she said brusquely, addressing a team she hadn’t really been introduced to because she’d been too busy flirting. “We’re going to do a cookie. I know, I know, but this recipe is way better than anything Killian make--” “--That’s rude, Swan!” “Focus on your own food.” She smiled at the group around her, jackets that were far too white and far too crisp and she reached behind her back to turn on one of the half a dozen ovens she got to use. “The cookie’s our centerpiece, but we’ve got to do some other stuff too, obviously. You,” Emma pointed to a guy she thought might be named Rob, “start on a peanut sauce and I want us to start making noodles too. Udon because it’ll hold the sauce better. Then, uh...what about wings? Is that too obvious?” Maybe-Rob shook his head. “No, that sounds good actually.” “Well, thanks for the vote of confidence. Ok, ok, so wings and maybe a slaw? Something to go with the wings. Something with Sriracha!” “You may not want to yell that,” another guy who Emma was, like, ninety-two percent positive was named Devon.

“You’re going to give away secrets, love,” Killian called, and something dinged in the background. “What the hell is that?”

“A nickname counter,” Archie explained. Killian made a noise that was not entirely human. “The Iron Chef does enjoy his endearments doesn’t he?” “This is absolutely ridiculous,” Emma mumbled. “And if you take my Sriracha idea, you can walk home later.” “It’s Manhattan, Swan, I don’t think that threat holds much water.”

“Speaking of water,” Archie said pointedly. “The Iron Chef’s got a good amount of the secret ingredient at his station now. He appears to be boiling something, getting ready to make, maybe...a caramel? And it looks like that’s...what is that Iron Chef?” “If you can’t tell already, then we’ve got problems,” Killian answered, not looking up from the bowl he was mixing.

“Thoughts from our challenger?”

“He’s stress baking,” Emma said. She flashed a smile at the camera when one of the several thousand moved her direction. “And we need to make some Thai dressing for the dumplings we’re going to do. I’m going to start on that dough now.”

“That’s all sounding a little Asian influenced, love,” Killian yelled, cursing loudly when the counter or dinger or whatever it was called did it what it was supposed to do. “Can someone turn that off? It’s distracting.” “Stop flirting with your wife then,” Archie suggested. He’d left his station at some point, moving into Emma’s space when she grabbed ingredients she hoped would make acceptable dumplings. There was already flour under her nails. “Long time, no see, Emma,” he said, resting against the side of the counter. “What are you making?” “Dumplings,” she explained.

“Pork?” “Well, we’re doing chicken wings as well, so I didn’t want to double up too much.” “A worthy idea. You hear that, Iron Chef? Emma’s not going to double up on ingredients.” “That’s incredibly judgmental, Archie,” Killian groused. “And not entirely true. This show, by its very nature, requires us to double and triple and quadruple up on ingredients. You going to put some peanut butter in the dumplings, Swan?” Another ding.

“That sounds disgusting,” Emma said, shuddering for extra effect. “And stop trying to steal my ideas! You are cheating.” “It’s because I’m so annoyed with that sound.” “Archie’s right. Stop flirting then. Where’s the soy sauce in this kitchen?” Killian shook his head, a different bowl propped on his hip and Emma wondered if they’d get in a lot of trouble if she crossed Kitchen Stadium borders, tugged on the lapels of his chef’s jacket and kissed him for several prolonged and uninterrupted minutes.

Probably enough that it’d be as annoying as the dinging thing.

“No insider information,” Killian said.

“Here, Chef,” possibly-Devon said, handing Emma an unopened bottle. She dumped the whole thing in the closest bowl. It was way too big for what she was making. “And we’re heating up the oil for the wings too.” “You guys are the best,” she said. “You hear that, Lieutenant? My staff is so much better.” Another ding.

“Aw, c’mon,” Emma groaned. “That’s not an endearment! It’s a rank!” Archie clicked his tongue. “Ah, but you say it like an endearment, Emma. It counts.” “Wasn’t this just to distract Killian?” “No we’re equal opportunity distraction in Kitchen Stadium. What are you going to do to make your peanut butter cookies not quite so boring?” Emma gaped, and Killian laughed, working with his own deep fryer and she hadn’t been kidding about the Sriracha threat. “Watch and then eat them,” she seethed, pushing lightly on Archie’s shoulder like that would get him to move or get a camera out of her face. “Seriously, though, what are you baking over there? You know you have to make actual food, you can’t just make desserts?” “Yes, I’m aware of how the show works,” Killian nodded, clearly trying to avoid another ding and Emma could smell the chicken wings already. “It’s almost as if I’ve been on it before.” “If that’s supposed to be intimidating, it’s not going to work.” “I’m just looking to get a leg up since this secret ingredient was clearly chosen to favor you.” “That’s not true,” Henry called from the side, and whoever was in charge of post was going to have a hell of a time fixing all of this. “Someone better make me peanut butter chip pancakes.”

“Aw, shit, I didn’t even think of pancakes,” Emma muttered, sticking her tongue out when Archie clicked his again. “Seriously, that is what post is for.” Archie lifted his eyebrows. “They haven’t had to do this much work in years.” “God, you are rude when you’re on this show! Don’t you have to go ask Killian what he’s baking? Or at least guess? Do your hosting job.”

“You seem stressed, Emma.” “Because you won’t get out of my station.” “Those emotions hindering your cooking ability, love?” Killian asked, and he’d tried to get the ding on purpose that time. “And what do you think about banana and peanut butter pancakes, Henry? With cornflakes for crunch?” Henry perked up, Archie’s head falling into his hands because all of them refused to follow any of the rules. He was standing on something when he answered – a crate or something that probably had another camera in it and Emma was only a little worried about that because she’d been very worried about his ankle and Killian had been worse.

“Yeah, make that,” Henry nodded.

Killian beamed. “Deal! And they’re brownies, Swan. With peanut butter icing. You can try ‘em after I win again.” They got to sixteen dings before Emma threw a ladle across Kitchen Stadium.

They’d probably use that in whatever commercial was going to run to promo this whole, stupid thing and time was, suddenly, not her friend.

The key, in her head at least, to the perfect peanut butter cookie was to make the cookie the ends of an ice cream sandwich and because this was the Network and they thrived on stressing out their chefs, there was only one ice cream maker on set.

And it was being used when Emma ran towards it.

“What the hell is this?”

“I’d imagine it’s an ice cream maker making fantastic ice cream,” Killian muttered, coming up behind her and his fingers moved again and that really was the worst kind of mind game. She didn’t try to lean against his chest, but there were magnets or something and more sound effects and Archie’s voice sounded like white noise when she felt Killian’s chin hook over her shoulder.

“You used the same words far too many times in that sentence.”

He laughed against her, a breath of warm air that ruffled her hair and any attempt at styling had been pointless because she was a sweaty mess, covered in flour and something that might have been vinegar and oil if the smell was anything to go by. “Why do you smell like Easter?” Killian asked, Emma still holding a bowl of liquid that she really needed to become ice cream.

“I honestly have no idea,” she admitted. “You make your pancakes?” “Mmmhm.” “What else did you make?” “More insider trading. And several things involving peanut butter.” “You’re a food tease.” “Yes, absolutely,” he said, and Emma didn’t have to turn around to hear the smile in his voice. “You alright though? Not tired or dealing with aching hips or anything?” Emma twisted, eyebrows pulled low and she almost, kind of expected that look – like several suns and moons and she really wanted to eat those pancakes. “Is this a mind game?” “No. The opposite of that.” “That is stupid,” she sighed. “I can’t believe you got to the ice cream machine before I did. Why is there only one? Should we start a petition against that?”

“You know I love it when you get indignant over cooking supplies, Swan.” Ding.

Killian groaned, head falling forward and lips brushing over Emma’s forehead and there were several other dings and sound effects, one of which might have actually been the goddamn ice cream maker. “That shouldn’t count as an endearment either,” he muttered into her hair. “It’s your name.” “Eh,” Emma objected, leaning back to tap on the embroidery that Mary Margaret had actually paid for. “Not what the jacket says. So, you know, if you want to get--”

She didn’t finish. And the sound effects machine was going to self combust, several shouts from the metaphorical peanut gallery and both of their staffs and Emma hoped her dumplings didn’t burn because she was making out in the middle of Kitchen Stadium.

She slung her arms around Killian’s neck, standing on tip toes to reach him and his hands held steady on her hips, like he was trying to keep her there or preserve the moment or distract her from her frustrations regarding kitchen appliances. Emma didn’t actually get her fingers on his jacket, which was kind of disappointing, but she put them to much better use carding them through Killian’s hair and she gasped when his tongue darted across her lower lip.

“We’re going to scandalize an entire audience,” Emma said, but she didn’t pull herself away from his mouth, so she wasn’t really helping her own cause.

“I certainly hope so.” “Maybe the petition will be about us.” “That’d be entertaining at least.” “Are you not entertained?” Killian laughed, another kiss and a squeeze to her hip, thumb brushing over the front of her stomach quick enough that Emma was sure even the most advanced camera wouldn’t have caught it. “I have to get my ice cream out of the machine,” he said. “That’s why I came over here in the first place.” “So it wasn’t to make out?” “That was a benefit.” “High praise.” “I’m willing to share some of that praise before we get judged, love.” “Far too confident for your own food.”

“If you two are done being adorable,” Archie started, back with the screens and the notebook that Emma wasn’t sure he actually used and she’d been so wrapped up in the moment she hadn’t noticed the other person standing there with a camera half an inch away from them.

She hoped he hadn’t seen the thumb swipe.

It probably wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if he’d seen the thumb swipe.

“Get your ice cream out of my way,” Emma said, doing her best to sound like she was even remotely annoyed by anything in the entire world.

“That’s the least threatening thing I’ve ever head, Swan.” “My cookies are going to be better than yours.” “I didn’t make cookies. Did you make soup?”

She shook her head, eyes falling on Killian’s back and the twist of his shoulders when he cranked the machine, and his ice cream really did look good when it fell into the bowl he’d gotten from somewhere. “Salad. Peanut soup? That sounds awful.” “It’s a colonial delicacy.” “Why do you know that?” “I know everything.” Emma made a contrary noise, sticking her tongue out for good measure, but that just earned her another smirk and twist of eyebrows and she barely finished putting together her ice cream sandwiches before someone called time. She exhaled, wiping the back of her palm across her forehead and looking at her dishes with something that almost felt like pride.

“Looks good,” Killian muttered, still on his side of the Stadium with his own food and--

“You made a hotdog?” “Gourmet.” “God.”

He grinned, all teeth and eyes and periwinkle wasn’t the right word either, but Emma was forgetting the English language quicker than she entirely appreciated. And she had to get judged. Killian had to get judged.

She explained her dishes, watching as plates were brought in and out and several prominent network personalities nodded and hummed and Emma kind of knew it was coming because Killian had only ever lost once and he’d gotten to the ice cream maker first.

“Congratulations on your win,” Emma said, and Killian rolled his eyes like he wasn’t a giant, competitive weirdo who didn’t desperately want to impress Henry every time he cooked.

“Ah, your cookies were the best thing either one of us made, Swan.” “You didn’t try them.” “Yet. And call it a very strong assumption.” “Eat ‘em first and then tell me.”

He mumbled something, words, probably, but the sound got caught in the air when his head tilted and someone hit the ding again. “The show is over,” Killian growled, pulling away long enough to curse a shadow that, upon closer inspection, looked very familiar.

“I know it is,” Henry said, jogging onto set and blinking under the lights. “God, it’s rough under here isn’t it? How do you see? Also, can I eat the food now?” “What do you want?” “Like...all of it.” “We feed you at home, don’t we?” Emma asked, Henry shrugged, making his way to the judging table and taking the seat the chairman had used during filming. He grabbed the pancakes first. Killian’s ears went red.

“It’s almost like you guys are good at cooking or something.” “Almost,” Killian repeated. “C’mon, Swan, I want a cookie before the ice cream melts.”

The three of them put a fairly big dent in the food by the time Ruby came back and demanded their presence for talking heads and a rather pointed reminder that Emma still had to film her holiday special and Henry’s smile could have powered the entire Tri-State area and some of Westchester when she asked both him and Killian to help her cook.

“I’d love to, Swan,” Killian said, arm back around her waist and fingers moving and confirming things and he made the pancakes when the episode aired a little over two weeks later.

And they made things even more official – more announcements and another drink Emma couldn’t actually drink later that night, an entire family that seemed to keep growing packed into the restaurant three blocks away from their apartment with smiles on their faces and tears in their eyes. Killian barely moved out of her space, but Emma’s smile seemed permanent and Henry kept talking about names and ideas and he used the phrase parents more than once, so she figured official wasn’t really all that bad.

It was the best.

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #captain swan fic #cs fic #WHY DO ALL FOOD NETWORK SHOWS ONLY HAVE ONE ICE CREAM MAKER #also #macy's absolutely sells snow globes at chirstmas

[relatablepicturesofpatrickgill]

I’m sorry if this is cynical, but I’d really like your input on it (as an experience polygon vid/pat stream viewer): Do you think Pat is pushing the after hours streaming stuff because Polygon is ending? Or, at least, to try and maintain the ‘funny video/personality’ fans? I’ve noticed a lot of other polygon vid personalities are doing similar things, and main polygon video content keeps slowing down and changing, presumably in compliance w/ vox media strategy? Have you noticed too?

First of all real bold of you sending this to a Pat fanblog where all I do is make dumbass shitposts and post cat clips, as if I know a single goddamn thing about anything, but since you asked I’ll try to answer as many of your questions as possible. (I’m not mad about being asked btw I just really find it funny you’d send it here of all places lmao). Disclaimer time: I am not in any way affiliated with Polygon or Vox Media nor do I know how they operate behind the scenes.

Do I personally think Polygon is ending and that Pat streams because of that? Short answer, no. However, I believe Polygon’s necessary (yes, I said necessary) and inevitable (yes, INEVITABLE) change in content is due to a lot of deeper issues people might not know about, which I’ve gathered from research and being an idiot whomst has watched Youtube for 10+ years. Let me just say, the last year or so has pretty much been the “Everybody Knows Shits Fucked” song on repeat until we die so this is going to be a long ass post. Buckle up kiddos we’re warp speeding into this fuckfest together.

Youtube Advertiser Boycott And The Algorithms

Every social media website employs the use of algorithms to decide how content gets sorted, and Youtube isn’t any different. That’s why Youtubers constantly ask you to “like, comment and subscribe” because it helps their content get noticed through Youtube’s internal system – such as search priority, the trending section, your homepage and your recommended tab, as well as the recommended sidebar on individual videos. As for content, one of the more effective models was to find a niche and cater to it, something Polygon did by creating Monster Factory and similar humored series alongside their serious content.

And for a while, it worked. Except things change.

Before we get any further I highly suggest you read this article written by Julia Alexander about the complicated history of Youtube’s monetization system, but I’ll try to give a quick summary. Something controversial will happen on Youtube, causing brands to pull their business from the platform until they can get more security on what types of videos their ads play on, then Youtube refines the system to give brands more control. Rinse and repeat. The new system results in a massive amount of videos being demonetized, causing creators to lose revenue and viewer engagement and then request appeals to have their content reviewed by humans, which in turn improves the algorithm. Those most negatively affected by the system must diversify their payments either through Patreon, Twitch, merch, etc, or in worst case scenarios, give up on their dreams of being a Youtuber.

Youtube has a lot of incentive to keep creators updated on changes, so when users ask, “hey, can we know what’s going on with the website?” Youtube responds with an informative, “absolutely not. Die.” The userbase, as a result, is forced to run their own investigations. Nerd City published a video revealing another algorithm (one just as prone to mistakes) assigns all videos with an MPAA-style rating to make it easier for businesses to decide what sort of content they’re comfortable advertising on. This rating – hidden from both the uploader and their audience – Cannot. Be. Appealed. Good fucking system am I right!!! (Also, please watch the video if you get the chance, it brings up some points about machine learning and how the system negatively affects marginalized creators).

One more thing, do you remember what I said earlier about how a video gets popular on Youtube’s internal system? Well, creators have reason to believe a higher rating attributes to view suppression – meaning their videos might end up exempt from the things I listed. This makes it so much harder for a channel to grow their userbase outside of an already established audience. If you’re following along you might be able to tell where I’m going with this, but if not…

What Does This Have To Do With Video Games Polygon?

Once again, I do not know any of the behind the scenes Polygon lore and a lot of this is guesswork on my part. I’d imagine as a branch of Vox Media, Polygon would have a higher priority getting any potentially demonetized videos appealed than smaller, independent channels do. However, when your own website is reporting the system responsible for sorting and rating videos goes deeper than just demonetization, with a full MPAA-style ranking that’s been shown to suppress the growth of certain content not deemed advertiser friendly, such as excessive profanity and sexually suggestive content, which turns out is a subset of the niche your channel has developed – that’s a problem.

This isn’t me being critical of their content or saying what they make is bad (considering I’m a fan of it as well), this is an objective look at the reality of a rapidly changing platform. Unfortunately, the biggest flags in my head for Polygon happen to be the Jackbox series and… Monster Factory. There’s absolutely no way some of those videos are getting a kid-friendly rating, and it’s possible the bot is slapping some of them with a mature rating – the worst one where enough of those could potentially affect the rating of the entire channel. Griffin, in one of the Spore MF videos, emphatically yells, “come fuck this” to the heavens; lo and behold, a few years later Youtube finally does.

Of course, this is just one of a few different problems Polygon is facing. The Mcelroys left to focus on their own businesses, taking some of their fans with them. Other fans who mainly want the video game news might end up unsubscribing if too many videos irrelevant to their interests are posted. Some series, while perfectly funny in their own right, have trouble breaking out and appealing to a wider audience.

Polygone But Not Forgotten?

I’ll try to put it as softly as I can: almost all creators on Youtube have to reevaluate the content they put out and how it fits into Youtube’s ad-friendly guidelines if they want to continue receiving ad revenue and viewer engagement from the site. This is not just a Polygon specific problem, and as a news channel they benefit a lot more by working within the new parameters. Polygon’s primary priority should be their video game website, where I go to read all the articles that aren’t about video games, as ad revenue is probably more stable and allows them more room for sillier content. As for their channel, the “horny niche” appeal doesn’t have as much of a place anymore. Well, on Youtube at least.

Twitch, however, seems like a better home for Polygon’s familiar borderline type of humor. On a stream Pat said, as the live video producer, he’s responsible for getting their channel partnered which will come with some very important benefits, such as the ability to subscribe. I’d assume creating content for Youtube takes priority over this, and there’s also the fact that Pat is just one person and needs to balance this with other things like “having a life” and “eating??? Perhaps???” (maybe even A Vegetable). By the way, to answer one of your other questions, it’s normal for creators to have projects outside of their work and build their own personal brand, like Pat’s Twitch channel, Brian’s Youtube channel, Simone’s author account and everyone’s countless podcasts. It’s not recommended to rely solely on Youtube for your income, even before the ad boycotts, so if you can diversify your content then do so.

Listen, I know this is disappointing and I know it’s not the answer people want. Youtube’s new system isn’t going away and the video team needs to accommodate for these changes or otherwise Perish. I believe in Polygon’s ability to deliver informative, humorous and accessible content, they just need the time to do it. As an audience, a way to offer support during this difficult time is to just be as understanding and patient as possible, and give the content they put out a chance if you can.

Now I am not an expert on any of this, but if you have any questions or comments you can send them to my main @malarcana and I’ll try to answer them. Thanks for reading!

#polygon #nerd city #julia alexander #gillbox #long post #i cant stop thinking about being referred to as 'an experienced pat stream viewer' #i should have a button with that on it #My Legacy #also julia is leaving polygon now where do i get my youtube news from #i cant look stuff up myself im too lazy #x

[thepartyresponsible]

Oh man! With the alt title being Jason Todd is not a stripper, I'm deffinatly interested!

(context for the morning crowd: i’m finishing up asks from the WIPs meme, and this ask is about corporate espionage, which is alternatively titled jason todd is not a stripper.)

okay, so the premise of this absolutely ludicrous caper is that jason todd is in a competition with tim drake to steal stark industries files. jason, being jason, breaks into stark tower and wanders right into a drunk tony stark, who very rationally assumes he’s a stripper.

here’s a snippet:

Jason has very diligently cultivated an insistently blissfulignorance about the shit-match going on between Wayne Enterprises and StarkIndustries. The Bats have been gossiping about it for weeks, but Jason’s noheir, so he doesn’t give a damn about Bruce’s legal troubles. It isn’t hisproblem until he offers, jokingly, to terrorize some of the higher-ups at SI,and Tim stares at him like he was a zoo animal.

“It’s really not that kind of problem,” he says, finally.“If we need someone brutalized, we’ll call you.”

And so, after that, Jason, who hasn’t been interested in Wayne Enterprises since his untimelydeath took him out of the will, is suddenly dedicated to solving the problem.Or at least dedicated to putting himself in a position where he could solve it if he wanted to and thenwalking away, because, after all, fuck Bruce, fuck Wayne Enterprises, and fuckTim, in particular.

There are any number of layers to this corporate dustup.Jason can’t make himself care about most of them, since they are, objectively,really fucking boring.

As far as he can tell, accusations of corporate espionageare being batted around from both sides, and the most damning evidence consistsof some surfaced SI schematics that look alarmingly similar to somethingWayneTech developed in one of its most locked-down research institutes.

The WayneTech project predates the SI developments bysomething like three months, but SI insists the weapon is its own and hassubmitted – no shit, as actual evidence –a coaster from a Vegas strip club. Allegedly, the coaster has an early draft ofthe project drawn on it, and, as the coaster also clearly lists the dates ofupcoming themed evenings, it can be dated back to at least four weeks beforethe WayneTech project started development.

Jason had no idea corporate work sometimes involved Vegasstrip clubs. If Bruce had ever bothered to mentioned that, Jason could’ve beenbrought on board years earlier.

For now, though, the plan seems to be that Tim’s going tohack his way into some hideously well-protected system in Stark Tower and scareup some useful files.

Normally, when Jason’s trying to one-up Tim in the techworld, he just goes to Oracle and sweet-talks her into helping.  But this time, she turns him down flat.“Can’t do it, Jay,” she says, sounding genuinely apologetic. “I’m supposed tostay out of this one.”

“Babs, c’mon. Did Drake threaten you? I can shoot himagain.”

“Please don’t. And it wasn’t Tim. Sorry, Jay, but this ordercomes from a little above your paygrade.”

“Goddamn interfering old man.” Bruce gets so shifty about a little competitionbetween Robins. Enforces rules, keeps the others out of it. Like he has to testthem against each other periodically so he knows which one to weaponize whenthe time comes.

It’s bullshit. Tim outclasses him in the tech arena so badlyit’s almost embarrassing. But, over the years, Jason has gathered that havingphysical access to a system can make gaining digital access a hell of a loteasier. So he leaves Tim to hunch spiderlike over his laptop and grabs hisbike, takes a trip to New York.

Getting into Stark Tower is annoying. The security isn’t aggressive so much as it’s obnoxiouslythorough and high-tech. Jason can get in, no problem, but getting in without beingrecorded is a damn nightmare. Fortunately, Jason’s been breaking into Bruce’sbuildings to appropriate necessary supplies for years.

It still takes him the better part of a two days to find away in. It involves an inelegant total of two full costume changes, and he hasto hide in an elevator shaft for three hours, waiting for the security toswitch shifts.

It’s a mess. He won’t be bragging about this part to anyone.

The point is, he gets in.

That first night, he doesn’t even plan to look for files.He’s just looking for an easier way back in. His plan is either to capitalizeon the routes the cleaning staff use, which will require getting some kind ofidentification and probably a keycard, or to gain access to the penthouse. Thepenthouse will undoubtedly be a bitch to get into but, once accessed, shouldopen up the whole tower. Security, in Jason’s experience, doesn’t run backwardsvery well.

He tries the penthouse first. As far as he knows, Stark isalmost never here, which means security might be obligingly lax. And, sureenough, as soon as Jason steps into the private elevator, it hums welcominglyand starts taking him up. There’s a chance, of course, that the doors won’topen once he gets there, but he’s reasonably confident that he can cope withsomething as simple as recalcitrant elevator doors.

But he encounters no problems. The doors open smoothly onthe penthouse floor. And Jason thinks this whole thing is going easier thananticipated, thinks he’ll be in and out of here in forty-eight hours.

And then he notices the man on the couch.

It’s a nice couch. The sort of thing some interior designerwould order for Bruce, when he’s in one of his intimidating black leather phases. Bruce probably wouldn’t orderthe man, but, then, Jason’s never been too clear on Bruce’s type.

He’s lean and brunette, which sort of fits Bruce’s profile,but he’s also very clearly drunk, which does not. The man stares at him for along moment, lazily assessing him without any hint of concern or alarm. Hedoesn’t even bother to lift his head off the back of the couch.

“Stripper or felon?” he asks, after several long seconds of contemplation.He slurs it, but only a little.

“Uh,” Jason says. He considers strategizing, but then thinksfuck it and steps out of theelevator. “I have to pick a favorite?”

The man snorts and waves a hand his direction. “You show up.You’re wearing leather. Face and shoulders like that, you’re either here tobreak things or take your clothes off. So. Stripper or felon?”

“Well,” Jason says, “I don’t have any music. So.”

“Not a problem.” The man tips his head back to look at theceiling. “JARVIS, play something sexy. And maybe call the cops. Standby on thatsecond one. They always ruin a party.”

“Yes, Mr. Stark,” says a disembodied voice.

Immediately, music starts playing from hidden speakers.There’s definitely enough bass to qualify as sexy, but Jason’s not sure thebeat’s right for stripping.  

He opens his mouth to point this out, but the man’s faster.“No, JARVIS. Slower. There are buttons involved. Not everything’s zippers andVelcro. Jesus.” He looks at Jason and shrugs. The music shifts to something ata more reasonable tempo. “I try to tell him. But human sexuality’s kind of anobjective thing. He’s working on it. We’re working on it.”

“You, uh.” Jason’s having trouble with this one. “You fuckyour ceiling robot?”

“My what? Probably.” He shrugs, unconcerned, and thensuddenly blinks and grimaces. “Wait, no. JARVIS? No. God.”

Jason shifts, tries to follow. “But you’re working on humansexuality together?”

“In a sort of studious, very platonic—JARVIS, I don’t wantto fuck you.”

“I know, sir.” The robot voice sounds, somehow,long-suffering.

The man nods and pushes himself up so he’s not sprawledquite so haphazardly across the couch. “Hey, weren’t you getting naked?”

He sounds so certain, so absolutely convinced that this isthe next step in their interaction, that Jason’s hands go to his jacket’szipper of their own volition. “What?” he says, and stops himself. “No. Hell,no. I walk in here, and you tell me to get naked? What the hell? Who raisedyou?”

“Oh, shit. Sorry.” He smiles at him, in a kind of sweetly embarrassed,I’m drunk, bear with me way, and thenfumbles in his pants. “Pay first?”

“Yeah, sure,” Jason says, laughing a little as he makes hisway across the living room. He can already tell this is going to be one ofthose stories that makes Grayson cry fromlaughing so hard. “You gotta pay me first.”

He watches Stark pull a handful of bills from his wallet anddrop them casually on the coffee table. Jason doesn’t bother to count, but it’supwards of $500.

Christ, he thinks,maybe I’m in the wrong profession.

#writing #asks