#than endorse us fucking under her roof

[alovesongshewrote]

We’ll Fix It | Eddie Munson x Reader

Plot:  It's new year's eve, and you can't stop thinking about your biggest regret- losing contact with Eddie Munson [Eddie Munson x Gender Neutral!Reader]

Word count:  1,560

Warnings:  none? at least that i can tell

Disclaimer: Uh, yeah, fuck netflix, and fuck whoever came up with having a "stranger things experience" in a former n*zi prison where jewish and romani people were exterminated. that's an incredibly fucked up thing to do, and i do not support or endorse it.

A/N: this is super short and isolated, it's more of a drabble than anything else

You expected to spend your New Year's crying. Being on the roof of your building was a bit of a surprise, but the crying? That was something you’d predicted.

A strong gust of wind nipped at your face, biting the tear tracks that ran down your cheeks with a nasty ferocity. Goosebumps rose on your skin as you pulled your coat tighter around you, a weak attempt to keep out the cold. With a sniffle, you let yourself sink to the ground, resting your arms on the guard rail and peeking down to the busy street below.

Under bright signs and streetlights, revellers celebrated, shouting and cheering to ring in the oncoming year. From your place on the roof, you could almost hear pieces of distinct conversations- friends discussing their resolutions, strangers exchanging pleasantries. Above it all, a disjointed tangle of music rose through the air, meeting your freezing ears and drowning you in a cacophony of sound.  

Various pop beats pounded through the street, the latest hits mixed with Christmas music that had gone stale by a few days. If you listened closely, you could even hear the faint rhythm of the music blaring from your apartment, where your roommate was hosting her yearly New Year's celebration. And then, beneath it all, so far buried that you needed to strain to hear, was the pounding, racing pulse of something metal. Something familiar.  

You blinked a few times as you listened in, leaning forward slightly to catch scraps of the singer’s voice as they sailed past on a frigid breeze. You sucked in a harsh breath when you finally placed the melody in your head. When you thought about it, hearing him this way couldn’t have been entirely unexpected. You knew that Eddie had found success with Corroded Coffin, and it made sense that in a city as big as this one, someone would be listening to his music to ring in the new year.

But you weren’t sure you could ever get used to it- to hearing his voice and his music, things that you experienced first in the privacy of his room, in the peace of Hawkins evenings and golden sunsets, in such a public place. It felt like someone was standing in your grave- learning about you, knowing your experiences, but never feeling them or you firsthand.  

Hearing his voice again filled your head and chest with an awful numb sensation, and you knew that soon enough, that numbness would turn to pain. No, pain was a little too simple. It would turn into a never-ending agony, a vicious anguish that would burn you more than the bitter cold of the winter air could ever hope to. Fun.

Really, though, you had no right to complain. Your situation was your own fault. You’d let the best thing in your life slip through your fingers years ago- and you didn’t even notice until the Christmas of this year.  

You had done your best up to a point- to stay in touch, to make calls and even write letters. Life, however, had a way of stopping such things. As school and work picked up for you, his band got bigger, and the friendship you once held so dear had fallen to the wayside. You’d lost the most important person in your life thanks to sheer stupidity, and as much as it hurt, you had no one to blame but yourself. You were simply paying the price for your own mistakes.

Beneath your arms, the concrete guard burned ice cold. A sigh rattled in your chest, your exhale visible as a puff of smoke floating in the air. You shut your eyes, giving in to the numbness as your tears froze to your cheeks. You were off in your own world for a moment, letting the sounds of the streets below blend into an easy ambiance. 

And then, the door to the roof clicked open.

You didn’t turn, at first. In fact, you assumed that it was the building’s manager checking on something, or some other party-going person coming up for a quick smoke break. You expected that whoever it was would do what they needed to do quickly and quietly before they retreated back to the warmth of the building, leaving you to mope about in the cold.

You didn’t expect to hear his voice. And you really didn’t expect him to sound afraid.

“(Y/N)? What are you doing, sweetheart?”

For a moment, you thought it was all in your head- you thought that hypothermia managed to set in, and now your brain was making you hear strange things. You assumed that was all it was when you heard footsteps- when you heard someone breathing in a painfully familiar way.

But if it was all in your head, then how could you explain the hand on your arm?

You spun around faster than you thought possible. The ice that had made a home in your veins fled in the face of the blood that suddenly pumped its way back through your body. His voice was so close this time, so near to you, as your eyes landed on the exact person you thought you’d left behind.

“Eddie?”

“(Y/N), what are you doing so close to the ledge?” 

“Munson, I-”

He didn’t let you finish. The hand on your arm pulled you into him and away from the ledge before you could even find a coherent thought.

“Get over here, holy shit,” he grumbled, “That’s a sixteen-storey drop, Jesus.”

You didn’t exactly register his words. You were too busy staring up at him with wide eyes, blinking every few seconds to make sure that he was really there. If your senses were to be trusted, he was.

“Eddie, what are you doing here?” you asked as he let go of you, “How did you find my address?”

“Uh, Wayne, actually. I was in Hawkins just after you. He told me you stopped by, and, uh,” he cut himself off, shrinking under your gaze. He’d taken a step back, and his eyes wouldn’t meet yours. Instead, he looked to the side, over the ledge, and out at the bright city below.  

“And you got my address from him?” you finished his sentence, and he nodded in response, still not looking you in the eye.

“Oh,” your voice wasn’t as strong as you wanted it to be, “Well, it’s nice to see you. It’s been a while, so…”

“Yeah, that’s- that’s my bad. I should’ve made more time- I should’ve called you, or written to you, or something, but I didn’t, and now we haven’t spoken for over a year, and I-”

“Hey,” you tried to cut him off before he could spiral, “It’s not just your fault, I haven’t reached out either. We’ve both been busy, and-”

“That’s no excuse, though,” his eyes finally met yours, big, and honey-brown, and reflecting the stars, “You’re important to me, and I just- I’m so bad at showing it.”

“We’re both bad at showing it,” you gave his arm a squeeze, “We’ll just have to work on it.”

You looked back into his big brown eyes, wide now from shock, as if the implication that he was important to you had come as a shock to him. Tearing your gaze from his, you focused in on his hands. Slowly, you moved your fingers over his palm.

“Someone is listening to you,” you hummed, “Your music, I mean. Listen.”

He did not listen. Instead, he wrapped his hand around yours and pulled you back towards him, into his arms. Once he had an arm around your waist, he lifted a hand to dry your tear tracks.

"Your skin is so cold,” he whispered.

"Mhm. I've been out in the cold for a while, so..."

"Dear god, why?"

"Well, they play good music up here, so," you shrugged, gesturing out to the street where the chords of a Corroded Coffin song could still be faintly heard.

He smiled for a second, looking at you as silence consumed the two of you. The only sound was the partying below, but even that seemed to fizzle out as you stared into his eyes. When he finally spoke again, his voice was still quiet, “I missed you so much, I’ve been such a fucking dumbass.”

“Hey, me too,” you placed your hands behind his neck, “Me too. We’ll fix it, though. Okay?”

“Okay.”

And with that whispered promise, midnight hit. Fireworks went off, literally and figuratively, as you gathered your courage, stood on your toes, and pressed your lips to his.

It was a brief kiss- sweet and soft. To any bystander, it would’ve looked like a simple new year’s kiss. But there were no bystanders, and to you and Eddie, it was a hell of a lot more than a simple holiday tradition.

When you looked at him again, a familiar light had come back into his eyes, and he laughed a little before he kissed you again, "Fuck, you're still so cold. I think we need to get you inside."

"Yeahhh, that might be a good idea. On the plus side, your face is really warm, so-" you kissed him again, cutting yourself off.

“This,” he said, as he took a step towards the door, taking you with him, “Is going to be such a good year.”

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x gn!reader #eddie munson x gender neutral!reader #eddie munson x reader angst

[kewltie]

"Where's no. 3?!" Katsuki demands, storming into the front office of Yavin Elementary.

"G-Ground Zero?" the receptionist squeaks, hand clutching her chest as though she's in a heartattack.

"Midoriya Hikaru," Katsuki snaps, stomping his way toward her. "Where the fuck is he?"

"I—we," she leans back in a little and breathes, "r-requested to talk Midoriya-san about Hikaru, sir," she says, attempting to regather her bearings once more.

"He's busy right now," Katsuki asserts, frowning, "so I'm here in his stead. Tell me what the problem is then."

"We would prefer to talk to a parental unit instead," she insists, steeling herself in the face of Katsuki's thinning impatient.

Katsuki glowers. "I'm his fucking guardian," he bites out. "The brat lives under my roof, shit in my toilet, chow down on my food, and hog my TV, so as far as I'm fucking concern he's as much mine as Deku’s!,” he finishes with a snarl.

"Um," she says, blinking hard.

Katsuki drags his face down his hand and sighs. "Look, you can just over your paperwork and see that I'm listed as one of the emergency contacts for him. Or,” he gives her a pointed glare, “you can talk to my fucking lawyers."

"I—I'll double check right away, sir," she says hurriedly, turning to her computer. Several minutes pass by as Katsuki waits with a growing agitation for her to confirm what he already knows. Thank fucking shit, he'd actually listened to Deku about getting listed on the kids’ emergency cards.

They're a fucking menace, so he should have known something would happen, but he'd given them at least a month, not a week into the new school year, that he would get that call. And for it to be Hikaru of all people and not his twin or eldest sister. That's the fucking shocking part.

"Zero-san?" the receptionist calls out to him. "I apologize for earlier. You're indeed correct, your name is listed as emergency contact for Hikaru," she says, picking up the office phone nearby. "I'll go ahead and call Okaye-sensei to let her know to bring Hikaru up right away."

And that take even longer several minutes, causing him to start pacing a hole in the floor with his rapidly depleting patience. Fucking hell.

He hears the click of heels and the slow familiar gait of Hikaru approaching from a distant before he even saw them. It makes him breathe a sigh of relief.

"Zero-san?" Okaye says, walking into the office with Hikaru's small hunched figure in tow. From the tilt in her voice she's as much as surprise of his appearance here as the receptionist was earlier. "I was honestly expecting Midoriya-san instead."

"He's not here right now, so you're stuck with me," Katsuki says dismissively, his only focus is the brat next to her. "No. 3?" He drops down on to the floor on one knee and opens his arms to Hikaru. "What the fuck happen to you, huh?"

Okaye frowns at his choice of language, but Hikaru quickly lights up at the sound of his voice and breaks away from her side to fall into his arms. "Kacchan," he wails, sniffing into Katsuki's shoulder.

"Hikaru got into a fight with another student from his class," she explains slowly.

Katsuki pauses, pushing him back to look at him over. He eyes Hikaru from head to toe, noticing the bruises running up both arms and the split lip on his kid. "Okay, tell me this at least: did you win and kick that other kid's ass?" he asks gravely, completely serious.

"Zero-san!" Okaye gasps in outrage.

Hikaru nods, gripping the sleeve of Katsuki's shirt in his bruised fist. Katsuki grins and reaches over to wipe away the tear tracks on Hikaru's wet cheeks. "Good, I knew you had it in you, No. 3," he says, pride thickening his voice as ruffles Hikaru's tangled mess of green hair.

"That's extremely improper," she argues. "We don't endorse that kind of behavior here."

"Yea?" he says, shooting a glare over Hikaru's shoulders toward Okaye. "Well, I didn't spent hours teaching my brat to fight back so he can let some snot nose little twat beat up him while you all watched and do absolute shit."

Okaye frowns. "Our academy does not condone bullying. We do our best to stop it before it happen."

"Then what do you call this?" Katsuki demands, carefully gripping Hikaru's shoulder and spins him around to show her the blotches of purple and blue on him. "I know No. 3. He's a good kid, he wouldn't start a fight but he'll finish them." He squeezes Hikaru's shoulder in reassurance. "You're lucky we even let him enrolled at this subpar academy, because you certainly don't know how to fucking take care of my kid properly."

Okaye goes red in the face. "That-that's such a baseless accusation! We take the utmost care of the all children at our academy, Hikaru included." She huffs, crossing her arms across her chest. "And besides Hikaru was the one who threw the first punch."

With a brow raised, Katsuki asks Hikaru, "Did you really?" Hikaru tilts his head back to look at him and nods again as he bites down on his lip. Understanding, right away, Katsuki continues to push, "What did that little shit do to you to make you wanna punch him?"

Hikaru looks down at his feet. He doesn't speak, so Katsuki waits, letting Hikaru decide when he's ready to talk or if he want to talk at all. Finally, Hikaru steps away from him, breaking contact only to turn around to face him properly with a dour expression on his face.

"H-he said I was the son of the devil," Hikaru mumbles, hands clenching by his side. "And that Papa was a bad person. A bad omega who mated with a villain and we, kids, were just as bad." Katsuki narrow his eyes as each devastating words pass Hikaru’s lips. “It made mad. I didn’t like the way he’d talked about Papa, Aki and Yuko-niichan like that,” he quietly admits.

"I hope you got more than a punch in on that kid," Katsuki says with every bit of sincerity that he can carry. "Because I would have pummeled him into the fucking ground and beat some more senses into him."

Okaye makes a noise of protest. "Zero-san, we don't—"

Katsuki's eyes flash to her with a hostile glare. "Shut your mouth, I don't want to hear any more of your bullshit excuses," he snarls. "Right now, I'm talking to my kid, so don't fucking interrupt us."

She reels back, face drawn tight in defense, but she wisely chooses to hold her tongue lest she test the infamous temper of Japan’s number one Pro-Hero Ground Zero that had landed more than one villain in the intensive care.

Katsuki turns his attention back to the more important matter at hand. Hikaru's shoulders are hunched over and his eyes are wary with hesitance. Ever since some rat ass bastard managed to leak the kids' face and names to the media, publicly linking them to the trashcan who donated the other half of their DNA, Izuku had been afraid of this moment. He didn’t want the brats to be exposed to the hostile reality of being the spawn of a villain and what the world thought about that.

Katsuki wasn't worry. Not really, he knows Yuko and Akira. They'll be fine.

It's Hikaru he is more careful about. He's too soft, too sweet, and too hurt easily for that kind of stigma he’ll have to live with when people eventually found out that his piece of trash other parent is a mastermind criminal, who'd menaced society for the last decade; the deathtoll number in hundreds, but those affected by his crimes are thousands.

Adults naturally shitty human being, but children can be way worst with their ignorance and youth. Katsuki would know, he was one himself before UA beat it out of him and made him better for it. "You want me to have a little talk with the twerp?" Katsuki muses, fingers flexing.

Teaching troublesome brats is way beneath his paygrade, but he’ll make an exception for Hikaru and only Hikaru; he can count on Hikaru’s sisters having no problem resolving their own issues. Yuko is a goddamn terror, and Akira can easily wipe the floor with kids who are even older than her.

Hikaru shakes his head. "I don't like fighting," he says quietly. "I just wanted him to stop saying mean things about Papa and my sisters." He looks earnestly at Katsuki as something akin to fear flash across his face. "Do you think Papa will be mad at me?" He wrings his hands anxiously in front of him.

Katsuki thinks of Izuku on that specific day: standing tall, shoulders straight, and with his kids huddled closely around him as he watched his alpha, husband, the father of his children, getting drag away in quirk suppression collar and cuffs. He didn't look away. Not one bit.

It took more than fucking guts to turn his back to his mate of over a decade and reported him to the authority for being a sack of villainous shit. Especially, when there were three children still under his care to think about, but he did it without a single drop of hesitation. He didn’t regret it at all.

It was stone fucking cold.

Even with all the heroes around them, even with Katsuki there, it didn't take much for Katsuki to clearly see how Izuku was easily the strongest and bravest soul there. Omega and quirkless, they were all just a footnote to Izuku's character. They did not define him. Not then, not now, and never will.

Katsuki smirks, leaning down to pinch Hikaru's cheek who puffs up his cheek indignantly. It’s cute as hell. "Disappointed sure, but mad? Nah," he says. "That would make him a fucking hypocrite otherwise. Didn't you know when he was younger Deku used to get into all sort of trouble and fight."

Hikaru's eyes widen. "He did?!"

"Yea," Katsuki's lip twitch in amusement, "you're a shit stirrer like you're good old Papa. And," he reaches for Hikaru's hand, "even if that wasn't the case, I got your back. The world could be against you and I'll still stand by your side."

Hikaru's face crunches up as though he's in pain. "K-Kaaaaaachan," he wails, but this time it's a river of happy tears as he slams his small body right up against Katsuki's legs and wraps his arm around him. "Y-You," hiccups, "mean it?"

"Yea, I wouldn't bullshit you, brat." Rolling his eyes as Hikaru happily sobs into his pant legs, Katsuki comments, "God, you're a crier just like Deku, alright.” But there's no bite to it as he pats Hikaru's back consolingly. He’s not Deku who can easily comfort the brats from nightmares and scary things that bump in the night, but if they need someone to protect them from the brutality of the world? They have Katsuki’s fists to protect them.

He casts an askance glance at Okaye. "I'll be taking him home early for the day," he tells her point blank.

Okaye actually has the audacity to look relief as though his brat was the problem in the first place. "I think that is a wise decision to make, Zero-san."

Katsuki pulls Hikaru back enough to lean down and hitches his hands underneath the boy's armpits. He lifts Hikaru up and hikes him over his hip. "Let's go get you some ice cream, but don't tell your Papa about it," he says.

Hikaru tucks a small smile in Katsuki's chest.

Just as they about to depart and Okaye is finally free of them at last, probably wishing she took a leave of absent today, they hear loud footsteps hitting the floor beyond the walls of the office. It's so loud that even Hikaru raises his head from Katsuki's chest in interest.

"Akira, you can't go in there!" someone loudly protest from outside. "Wait until Okaye-sensei is done talking and she'll call you in."

"You’ve been saying that for the last ten minutes. I'm not waiting around anymore!" a familiar voice argues back. "Let me see my brother!"

The back door to the front office is flung open to reveal a young girl who looks like an exact copy of Hikaru, except for the green insolent eyes and razor sharp tongue, and a taller tired adult trailing behind her.

Katsuki lets out a long exhale as Akira strolls in unprompted. Here is the real troublemaker. His small tyrant.

"Hikaru!" she says as soon her eyes zeroing in her brother right away, not even acknowledging Katsuki who has him in his arms. "I was so worried about you!"

"Aki," Hikaru returns excitedly back.

"Are you alright?" she coos, walking up to them. "Let me have a good look at you."

Katsuki gently lets Hikaru down and places him right in front of Akira. She immediately jumps on him as soon as his feet hit the floor, carefully looking over every cut and bruise she found on her brother, while happily ignoring Katsuki like he's just a rock on the road. He’s not even surprise at her insolent. Yuko is cooly polite, while Akira is so foul mouth and crass that sometimes he has a hard time thinking how Izuku managed to produce her, but her green eyes and hair are all Izuku’s.

Then, he remembers why she’s exactly like this.

"I'm sorry, Okaye-sensei," the woman who came with Akira says. "I tried to stop her but she was, very," she makes a pained face, "insistent."

Okaye heaves a sigh in acknowledgement. "Akira," she says warily the latest troublemaker. "Please refrain from breaking the school's property and causing a disturbance on the school grounds."

"Y'all rich as hell, so you'll be fine," she answers dismissively, not even looking back at her. Or at Katsuki either.

Here’s the thing: Midoriya Akira is self-proclaimed Ground Zero’s number one fan. She’d watched all his videos, tune into all his battles, and had all his merch. She absolutely adores him and tries her best to imitate her idol Ground Zero, but it’s a different story when Zero’s mask is removed and Katsuki is the one standing in front of her.

Okaye cuts to Katsuki with a drained expression on her face. "This child," she mumbles under her breath in pure annoyance and exhaustion, giving over to Katsuki to handle her now.

Katsuki grabs a hold of Hikaru's arm and pulls him back from Akira's attentive care. It's enough to finally catch her attention as her green eyes narrow and flashes toward him with open derision. He drags Hikaru close him as a hostage and prepares for the bloody battle ahead.

"What are you doing here, No. 2?" Katsuki demands with suspicion. "You should be in class."

"What the hell are you doing here, Kacchan? You should be out patrolling," Akira retorts back, and when he just glares at her, she scoffs before raising her bruised knuckles proudly.

"She kick started a brawl in the middle of the classroom and got the entire class involve,” the woman behind Akira answers for her, entirely too weary and vexed—which is the norm when dealing with Midoriya Akira. She’s abrasive and prickly as porcupine, but only those that are close to her does she soften up. “Several students had to be sent to the infirmary afterward.”

"I had to prove my dominance at the top of the pack," Akira announces proudly, who has none of Izuku's sweet temperament but all of his reckless diehard attitude that had sent more than one alpha packing with their tail behind their back. "Now, they won't bother Hikaru anymore."

Feeling a headache coming on, Katsuki glares at Akira. "What the hell, No. 2?" he demands. "Deku is going to flip his shit when not just one of his fucking brats got into a fight but two? And you even pick a fight with your entire class for that matter?!"

Akira pouts. “But you told me that if I want to protect my family I have to be strong, stronger than everyone else so that nobody can hurt them anymore,” she says sulkily. “I had to assert my power somehow!”

“I didn’t mean that you should start a one man war against everyone!” Katsuki snaps, exasperated. Akira got all that bravado, but none of that keen intellect of her older sister, Yuko.

Akira, whose bulldogged nature is more akin to Katsuki because blood be damned, that occasionally he forget whose daughter she actually is, but it's time like this when her eyes start to water and her lips wobble precariously, hands trembling at her side as the dam break, that he’s reminded how like Izuku she truly is.

"I-I didn't do anything wrong," she insists doggedly with eyes leaking a goddamn waterfall because she inherit Izuku's fucking cursed tears.

"Ah, fuck," Katsuki says warily. "Don't cry, No. 2."

"I'm not crying!" she yells back as another tear track rolls down her cheek.

Unlike Hikaru who openly cried like he's vomiting his emotions all over the place until he's emptied out, Akira is much more tightly wound up as though she's a densely packed ordnance that can go off at any moment and when she explode, everything give away to anger and hurt.

Katsuki sighs, dragging his hand down his face. He's trained professional who not only kick criminals' ass on regular basis but deal with plenty of crises. Hell, he'd even saved the country a few times in the past years or so but this—? Hardest fucking thing ever. Nothing can prepare him for the trial and tribulations of parenthood.

He doesn't know how Izuku does this on a regular basis especially when he's wrangling all these kids alone without any help from his dirtbag ex-husband and still managed to pull it all off like a true champion. A damn boss. Izuku can put Katsuki and his colleagues to fucking shame. Because this feel like disaster management 101 and he's failing spectacularly at it with the way the brats' teachers are looking at him like he's a giant disappointment because he's the asshole who made his kid cry in public.

"Akira," Hikaru says worriedly, stepping forward.

The line of his shoulders dips as his head bends low and Katsuki knows the sign well enough. They're twin. Creepily in sync and deeply emphatic of each other's pain. One crying kid is enough, but two? At the same time too? That’s fucking insane. He’ll leave that to Izuku.

Katsuki moves quickly to grab Hikaru by the shoulder and sets him in place. “Stay,” he orders, and without looking back, walks up to a sulking teary eyes Akira who looks like she would bite his head off if he get any closer.

"What you want," she snaps, sniffling hard.

Wordlessly, he drops down to her level. It's an even playing field here. Katsuki may know shit about kids overall but he knows his brats and Akira hates being patronize. He would know because she's like him in a lot of ways.

He extends a hand toward her; a peace offering.

She glares at the gesture like she can burn a whole in it. She doesn't move. Doesn't even respond to it, but he waits anyway. Katsuki doesn't have a lot of patience for anyone else but for Izuku and the brats, he'd learned it the hard way. In a series of trail and errors.

A minute pass by. Then two. Three. Four. Five, and then Akira's wall of defiance and anger softens just slightly enough for her to gingerly take his hand and he pulls her right into his chest, arms wrapping around her in forceful hug that leaves her no room to change her mind.

“Sorry,” he murmurs against her ear. “I shouldn’t have raised my voice at you. That was mean of me.”

She snorts. “I don’t care,” she tells him, dropping her head on to his shoulder as her hand tightens around the front of his shirt that says otherwise. “It was your ugly face that made me cried anyway.”

He doesn’t laugh, because he doesn’t want her to punch him, but it’s a near thing. Kids, they’re going to be the death of him. Thrice over.

#bakudeku #fic snippet #stepdad au #series: numbers #this is a beta version of stepdad au aka the first draft #but i discarded for the newer adaption

[hookedonapirate]

Daddy!kink prompt: I know it’s different than the verse a bit, but what if they didn’t know the other was into that kink? And one day one of them lets it slip? Maybe? I think it could be fun/you’re ridiculously talented and I know you could do it. Thanks!!!!

Oh Daddy Prompts

Summary: Office AU. Killian is Emma's boss, and after a Freudian slip of the tongue, very inappropriate office etiquette ensues ;)

A/N: This one-shot is not related to the original Oh Daddy verse, per request, and so this is a fresh setting entirely. I hope you don’t mind this is not an established relationship, Nonnie. If you’d prefer, I can totally write one where they are in a relationship. 

I also paired this with another prompt from someone who sent their Oh daddy prompts via gifs. But I've only included one in this part and the rest of the gifs will be in another one-shot, probably used together if I can swing it. 

Thank you @itsfabianadocarmo for the delicious banner above!

prompt gif 1

Other Oh Daddy Prompts: 1. You’re being an awfully bad girl l 2. Daddy, can you pass the potatoes? l 3. Better than coffee l 4. Caught In a solo act l 5. Naughty School Girl l 6. Busted l 7. Bless Me, Father I 8. Tell Me When to Grab the Cupcake I 9. Proving a Point

Rated: Explicit

Talk Dirty to Me

Emma has it bad for her boss. She’s been working at his firm for about a year now and has yet to gather the courage to admit her feelings for him. Instead, she keeps telling herself they should remain friendly but professional, and every day, she carries this huge lie on her shoulders, and every day, either he goes into her office to chat with her, or she goes to his, telling herself they’re just good friends and nothing more. She’ll sit on the edge of his desk and they’ll talk about whatever—work, the weather, and anything that comes up naturally in conversation. She’d like to think he feels the same for her—if the way his eyes light up when she enters his office or the smiles he graces her with are any indications. He also has this adorable habit of scratching behind his ear when he’s nervous, and yep he does that when he’s with her.

But if he feels the same way about her, then why hasn’t he said anything or asked her out? Is it because he wants to keep things professional? He’s her boss after all, and if he were seeing any of his other employees, she’d think it was creepy and wrong and unfair (and yes, she'd be insanely jealous), but somehow she doesn’t find it wrong to fantasize about him every night fucking her on his desk or in his chair. She’s not sure if his feelings are mutual, but she’s sure he would’ve said something if he really heard her and Ruby talking about him in the break room a few weeks ago while they were eating lunch from the cafe down the street. 

Emma regrets the day she admitted to her foul-mouthed friend she has feelings for their boss because while Emma tries to forget (but miserably fails every single time) Ruby constantly reminds her.

“You know, Emma, I don’t understand why you don’t just march into Killian’s office, ride him in his chair like he belongs to you, and make him your Daddy.” 

Emma also regrets the time she told Ruby about one of her fantasies which entailed Emma calling him Daddy as he fucked her.

“Hello, ladies,” Killian greeted cheerfully as he entered the break room and headed to the refrigerator.

Fuck.

Emma’s cheeks were on fucking fire, and as soon as Killian turned his back to open the fridge, she shot Ruby a scowl so deadly, she was surprised her friend didn’t burst into flames. Ruby just covered her mouth trying to choke down a laugh. 

Thankfully, Killian said nothing and nuked up some leftovers he’d brought to work and left to eat in his office. 

To this day, Emma still has no idea whether Killian overhead Ruby talking about him. If he did, he never said anything about it.

Emma’s busy running some insurance quotes for a potential client when she hears a tap on the door frame. She stops typing to look up at Killian as he stands in the doorway. 

“Morning, Killian,” she greets, flashing a slight smile.

“Good morning, love. May I come in?”

Oh God, that smooth British accent, that silky voice always does things to her. She clenches her thighs together under her desk. “Yeah, of course.” 

He offers a shy grin and walks over to her desk. “If you get a moment today, can you step into my office?”

Emma gulps. Something tells her he’s not inviting her into his office to shoot the breeze like they normally do. No, this sounds a bit more serious than that. She clears the frog from her throat. “Yeah, sure.” 

“Great, I’ll see you then,” he says before turning around and leaving her office. 

Well, that was disappointing. He didn't even start up a casual conversation like he usually does. And did he seriously just wink at her? What the hell is going on? Is he finally saying something about how Ruby spoke of him? Are they getting written up, or worse, are they getting fired? 

But that was weeks ago.

Emma feels sick to her stomach and pales as she tries to continue with her tasks without constantly wondering what he wants to speak with her about. But she can’t stop worrying. So as soon as she finishes the mountain of work on her desk, she gets up and goes to Killian’s office, which is around the corner. The atmosphere is either very hectic at the end of the day, with people calling and requesting quotes or endorsements at the last minute, or quiet and laid back, and today it’s the latter. Jones Insurance Agency isn’t very big, but because it was just remodeled six months ago and in a prime location downtown, it does pretty well for a small insurance firm in an insignificant town like Storybrrooke. 

Emma takes a deep breath, her hands shaking and her heart racing as she knocks on Killian’s door.

“Come in.”

Emma steps in and shuts the door behind her. Killian’s office has an enormous picture window with a stunning view of the sea, and she always loves gazing out the window on a sunny day or in the evening when the sun is setting. But truthfully, she loves gazing at the owner of said view, who is currently dressed down, with his jacket off, his sleeves rolled up, shirt untucked with the top three buttons undone, exposing some chest hair, and his tie loose around his neck. 

“Hi, love,” Killian says sweetly as he drags a hand through his unruly hair before gathering some papers from his desk. “I wanted to go over these reports for tomorrow’s meeting.”

Emma sighs in relief, her heartbeat slowing a little as she rounds the desk and looks over his shoulder so she can see the papers he’s referring to. 

“You can have a seat if you want, love,” he says, looking up at her.

“No, that’s okay, I’ve been sitting all day,” she laughs. “I’m good where I’m at.” In more ways than one. Even though it’s the end of the day, she can still smell his intoxicating cologne. He smells amazing.

“I won’t be here tomorrow morning, so I need you to lead the sales meeting tomorrow if you don’t mind of course.”

“Yes, I can do that,” she says with a smile.

“Brilliant,” he says appreciatively and goes over the usual topics covered in their meetings, like what their best experience with a client was that week and what was the worst. They always share stories and challenges and ways they can overcome certain challenges. Their jobs aren’t the most exciting—Killian is a Life Insurance agent and the owner of the firm and she’s a home insurance agent—but she has a feeling sex between them would be fantastic.

She changes her mind and takes her usual seat at the edge of his desk because she’s wearing heels and they’re killing her feet. He doesn’t seem to mind though as he discusses sales numbers and quarterly goals and other things she needs to know to lead the meeting tomorrow but honestly, she can’t focus on a word he’s saying because he’s so close to her and she’s watching those soft, sensual lips move as he speaks, watches the way his wet, sinful tongue sweeps across those lips as he flips to the next page. 

She’s imagining all the things he can do to her with that tongue, imagines how good it would feel between her thighs. Emma crosses her legs, feeling herself growing wet at the thought and tries to shake away those sinful thoughts. She really shouldn’t be thinking about her boss in this way, but she can’t help it. She wants to ride him in his chair and fuck him until he cums. She wants to call him Daddy and tell him to fuck her until she can’t walk straight.

“These are some sticky areas, so we must focus on ways we can improve and hit our numbers for the month. I want our sales to be a hundred and ten percent.”

Emma’s mind is too far in the gutter at this point because it’s the end of the day, she’s tired and apparently she’s a giddy school girl all over again. “Oh Daddy, please talk dirty to me some more,” Emma giggles. She’s not sure why she says it; at first, she thinks she only imagined it, but the way Killian lifts his head and the way his pupils dilate, she realizes her mistake. And she called him Daddy!  

Oh fuck. 

She gasps, her eyes wide with horror. She’s definitely getting fired. She wishes she could crawl into a hole right now and be buried with her humiliation.

As she opens her mouth to apologize and give her resignation, Killian cocks a brow, a slight smirk hinting on his lips. “You better watch it, love, or Daddy will have to bend you over his desk and spank you,” he teases back. 

Emma’s heartbeat shoots through the roof, her mouth parted as she gazes into those piercing blue eyes. So he’s in a playful mood today? Okay, that’s good. She can definitely work with this. Pressing her palms into the desk, she leans in closer to him and murmurs, “How do you know I don’t like being spanked?”

Killian’s mouth opens, his tongue flicking against the inside of his cheek. God, he’s sexy when he does that. Her panties are fucking soaked.

“I had a feeling what Ruby said that day in the break room was true,” he says cockily, tilting his head.

Emma’s brows climb her forehead, pure shock washing over her. “You heard that?”

He nods. “Aye.”

Her stomach drops. “I’m sorry about that. Ruby has no filter.”

Killian chuckles, breaking through Emma’s walls of embarrassment. The sound eases her nerves a bit. “I’m not mad about Ruby’s comments, more like intrigued actually.”

“What?” On one hand, Emma’s completely relieved he didn’t fire her or Ruby even though he overheard their conversation, but on the other hand, it’s still embarrassing having her boss overhear a private conversation she had with Ruby, especially since it involved him.

“I’m attracted to you, Emma, if you couldn’t already tell,” he admits sheepishly, his eyes locked with hers as he scratches behind his ear.

“Oh...” Emma’s not sure how to respond that. After all this time he felt as she did? She’d wanted to believe it was true but didn’t know if it were all in her head or if she had gauged the situation correctly. “I, um—”

“I would never do anything to make you uncomfortable, Emma, but if you want to—”

“Oh I want to,” Emma blurts out, cutting him off. 

“Thank Gods.” Killian throws the papers on the desk and reaches over, slides his hands into her hair and tugs her to him, his lips crashing against hers so suddenly and roughly, she’d fall over if he weren’t holding her so securely. Her fingers assault his hair, tugging fistfuls of dark locks in her hands. She climbs him like a tree and straddles his lap, grinding into him, feeling how hard he already is through his navy blue slacks. It’s so fucking hot, Emma works her hips faster into him, wanting so much more, her heels sliding off her feet and onto the floor with two clunks.

“If you wanted me, you just had to say so, baby,” he growls against her lips, his breath completely wrecked and ragged.

“Killian...” she whispers as her fingers untangle from his hair so she can work on unbuttoning his dress shirt. “I’ve had so many dreams about this, Daddy.” Emma’s fingers are trembling but moving quickly as she desperately undoes the last few buttons and presses a trail of kisses down his chest through his feather-soft chest hair he always hides underneath his shirt. 

Killian groans and she peels her mouth away from him so he can lift her silk blouse over her head and toss it to the floor, revealing her black-laced bra.

“Me too, baby.” He kisses down her neck and cups her breasts in his hands. “Every time I see you, I wonder how good your cunt would feel around my cock.” 

Emma moans as he wraps his arms around her, pulling her to him and kissing the tops of her breasts, his lips brushing over the soft fabric. She combs her hands through his hair and pays no mind when her bra straps fall from her shoulders, too focused on how warm and decadent Killian's lips and mouth feel as he marks her skin. 

“I always think about you fucking me, Daddy.” She tilts her head back as he kisses the valley of her breasts, burying his face there, the dark scruff on his chin scratching her smooth skin. God, he feels good right there, just worshipping her breasts like he's never seen a pair of boobs before. And she's still wearing a bra.

“Bloody hell, that’s the best thing I’ve heard in my entire life,” he groans and unclasps her bra. “You should write poetry, love.”

Emma laughs through her lust-fueled fog, her cheeks warm with blush as he pulls off her bra and adds it to the pile on the floor. 

His eyes darken with lust as he drinks in her bare breasts, pink nipples tightening under his hungry gaze. “You’re so perfect and beautiful,” he whispers against her skin before taking a hard nipple in his soft, warm mouth. 

She moans, pressing herself into him as he sucks and nips and licks her breasts and nipples to his heart’s content, telling her how good she tastes and how good she feels in his hands. Emma shudders and closes her eyes, relishing the treatment. She loves being in his hands. His hands make her feel like a freaking goddess.

When he releases her nipples, he captures her mouth with his and she rolls her hips into him, wanting his cock inside her. Bad. But her skirt is impeding their activities so she raises her hips inviting him to push the offending fabric above her waist. He does so quickly and moves her panties aside, feeling how incredibly soaked she is.

He groans and mutters a slew of dirty curses as he slides his fingers inside her slit. “Gods... you’re so fucking wet for me. If only you knew all the things I want to do to you, baby girl.”

“Next time, Daddy,” she rasps, unzipping his pants and pulling out his manhood, trying not to think too much about what her words imply. 

She whimpers as his thick, rock hard cock aches in her hand. He feels so fucking good in her palm; she can only imagine how incredible he’ll feel inside her.

“Aye,” he agrees with a throaty groan while she’s stroking him and rubbing the head of his dick against her wet folds. His eyes roll back into his head and he has to force his trembling hands to retrieve his wallet from the desk drawer. 

After he finds a condom, Emma rolls it over his pulsating cock, loving how every ridge of him feels in her palm.

“You still want to do this?” He asks, searching her eyes for approval.

She smirks, not a trace of doubt in her eyes. “A hundred and ten percent.”

He chuckles and wraps his hands around her hips.

She clutches onto his shoulders, sinking slowly onto his cock, watching Killian’s face contort in pleasure as she becomes wonderfully seated in his lap. He fills her up so perfectly. 

Tightening her grip on his shoulders, she lifts her hips up and down, up and down, up and down, falling into a steady rhythm. She can’t believe after all this time, she’s making love to her boss, in his office of all places. With all her colleagues outside the door. With the window big and wide, looking out over the sea. She wonders if anyone can hear them. 

“Bloody fuck, Emma...” Killian breathes as he peers down, watching as his cock slides in and out of her slick pussy. 

“You feel so good, Daddy,” she rasps, barely keeping herself together. 

“Not as good as you do, love. Your pussy is so tight and perfect. Even better than I imagined.”

“Fuck.” Moving one of her hands to his hair, she tugs his head back slightly so she can kiss him while she rides his cock, her nipples rubbing against his chest hair. She swallows the delicious groan he offers when their tongues connect so perfectly, she knows she won’t last much longer. “I’m close, Daddy,” she moans against his lips.

“Come, baby girl. I wanna feel you squeeze my cock.”

“Oh my God.” Her entire body spasms as her orgasm hits her like a tidal wave, her walls clamping around him. “Oh, Daddy,” she cries out as quietly as she can.

He holds her tight as his own orgasm rips through his entire body. He groans and sinks his teeth into her shoulder as he cums. After a few more thrusts, they still, and Emma slumps into him, burying her face in the crook of his neck, his heart pounding against hers. 

“That was amazing,” she mumbles against his skin.

“You’re so fucking incredible.”

Emma lifts her head, still trying to gather her wits and steady her breathing. His cheeks are all rose-colored and so incredibly adorable. “Just to be clear, this won’t affect my next permanence review, right? I want to do well, but not because I’m riding you in your office.”

He furrows his brows, regarding her with a serious expression. “Of course, not. That would be bad form, love. But you’re already my best agent so this won’t change a thing. You have my word.”

She flashes a weak smile. “Good.” 

“So, you want there to be a next time?” He asks with a hopeful glint in his eyes, bringing up her earlier statement.

She doesn’t answer him with words at first, but she’s hoping the smirk and the slow, tender kiss she offers him says it all. Before she peels herself off his lap, she whispers in his ear, just in case he didn’t get the message. “Oh Daddy, there will definitely be a next time.”

Tagging some lovelies who have shown interest in the sneak peek or previous Oh Daddy on-shots. Please let me know if you would like to be added or removed: 

@itsfabianadocarmo @onceuponaprincessworld @teamhook @kmomof4 @resident-of-storybrooke @artistic-writer @ultraluckycatnd @gingerchangeling @ilovemesomekillianjones @captainswan-shipper88 @cluttermind @hallway5 @swanlovato @xsajx @jamif @biefaless @kday426 @hails-paige @asiamarie5 @qualitycoffeethings @mikeythegeek @idristardis @have-a-little-faith

#cs ff #captain swan #cs smut #oh daddy prompts

[bellsybuilds]

[Part 2 of the Truck Stops and Tribulations series (link)]

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The way home - chapter 4 (T rating and warnings will change)

Din Djarin, Paz Viz(s)la, Baby Yoda, Jack “Agent Whiskey” Daniels, Agent Ginger Ale (modern AU, all human, road trips, found family, family reunions)

Jack claps, bringing the child’s attention back to him. He smiles indulgently. “Come to Papi.”

“Don’t do that,” Din growls.

Ginger stares at the lines of text spilling down the length of her monitor and releases a heavy, trembling sigh. Her hands hover at the keyboard. Her vision is blurring and she's starting to feel light-headed from all the missed sleep of the night before.

After helping Jack with his after-hours family emergency, she had some personal things to address. And these things had a deadline.

A glance to the clock in the bottom right of her monitor has her heart jump with a shot of adrenaline. 6:50AM. Already? Sucking in another quick breath, she forces herself to release it over the count of four slow breaths. Again, in and out, even slower this time, counting to six. By the third slow exhale, she’s drawing air without the feeling of invisible weight on her collar.

The application is almost complete. She just needs to write the concluding remarks on her cover letter… and then get Jack to endorse her nomination to field agent.

Swallowing thickly, her fingers curl to loose fists.

"Ginger?"

She jumps from her chair and whirls, monitor shielded with her back, hands splayed wide.

From the doorway, Jack has poked his head through, an eyebrow raised in question. Ginger didn't hear the latch open. Freshly shaven and bare of his customary moustache, Jack doesn't look like himself. That's the point, though it's unsettling. Jack hasn’t been without it the entire time she’s known him.

This Fall will mark her seventh anniversary with Statesman as an analyst.

He frowns at her suspiciously. "What are you doing?"

"Just--" Ginger waves a dismissive hand and hopes she's angling herself to block her work. Her cheeks heat with embarrassment. "Some personal admin."

"Well, finish it later and get moving. These halls will be busy soon and I don't want an audience."

Her heart skips a beat, chastised. "Right. Right, I'll--" She turns to quickly save and close her work, locking down her station.

Out in the hallway, they fall in step, Ginger moving quickly to keep up with Jack's longer stride. From the corner of her eye, she watches him draw the back of a self-conscious hand across his upper lip.

"It looks all right," she tries to encourage him, voice light.

His lip curls, grumbling. "I feel naked as a fresh baby's bottom."

"You look younger." Like a fresh recruit, but with broader shoulders.

Jack seems to agree because he sighs, pushing through a tight jaw, “That ain't a good thing, Ginger."

Leaving the secure wing and emerging onto the grounds, Ginger sharply inhales the cool blast of the dawn, eyes watering. Datapad clutched to her chest, she looks to the pale grey sky and sucks in a deeper breath, willing herself awake. The fresh air tastes cold and clean. She'll need all her senses for the task ahead.

Just a little bit of conceit: like a preliminary mission to demonstrate what she's capable of.

Entering the public buildings of the estate, she waits for Jack as he draws the door shut behind them. He always tried to be a gentleman… it’d be nice if he also didn’t yell so much.

Continuing on, Ginger has to clear her throat twice before she trusts her voice won't crack. The heated, recycled air feels almost too warm after the brief passage outside. "W-when we're done here, I could use your help with something."

Jack raises an eyebrow at her, the expression quickly slipping into his genial charm when they’re spotted by the front guards at reception. They both nod back in greeting. "All right," Jack's tone is dubious.

"Your endorsement, actually," she clarifies, throat tightening with sudden nervousness, and she keeps her eyes ahead as they turn the corridor to guest accommodation.

Up ahead, she can hear the tinkle of dishes and the soft murmur of chatter from the cafeteria.

Beside her, Jack has straightened his shoulders, expression drawn tight. After a long moment, he finally speaks, halting, "Look, darlin'--"

The flip of her stomach makes Ginger rush to interrupt, turning on him with a bright smile. "Just think about it! Wait here." She gestures to the storage closet as they approach. "And I'll go get him."

Marching away with the datapad tight against her side, she willfully blocks out any sigh or stray comment that might reach her ears. She doesn’t want to hear it right now. She can’t afford to. It's probably unbecoming of Statesman agents to run from potential criticism considering all the other things they would face in the field… but first, she has to get into the field. Right now, Jack is the only thing standing between her and a re-classification.

Nobody else at this site could possibly compete with her training or hours invested in the lab and as mission support. She knows this branch inside and out. She is the next best person equipped to protect its interests from the front lines. And she can do the job just as well as Jack.

One hurdle at a time.

Thankfully, none of the sparse crowd in the cafeteria give her a second glance. True to Jack’s assumption, the men she’s looking for are awake. Ginger spots them seated by the far wall, affording one of the best vantages of all the tables and counter of food assembly.

The two men are seated across from each other, emptied plates of breakfast before them, though she can see Din occupied with a smaller plate, pushing something around with his fork. On the chair beside him, the child sits with his legs splayed, blinking up at Din with more patience and curiosity than she has ever witnessed in a toddler not falling asleep. Barely eye level with the table in its over-large onesie, his tiny fingertips barely peek beyond his thick, padded sleeves and the brown collar bunching around his shoulders. These men either don’t know how to dress this child or are low on options.

Ginger has no place to judge.

Drawing closer, she catches the end of Din’s terse, “What the fuck are fairy lights?”

The taller man, Paz, turns his phone and, over Din’s shoulder, Ginger sees the portrait of a car’s front interior at night: small lights thread across the cloud grey roof of the cabin like softly haloed stars. One of the cords trails down the open passenger side window like a lead back to the real world from the dream of the whimsical refuge. At the photo’s lower end, someone is holding an unfolded map open to the camera’s eye: an invitation to adventure on the open road.

Din frowns, shaking his head and decisively spears another small portion of waffle. On the chair beside him, the child snaps to attention and bounces, gasping with excitement, small arms waving at the fork’s approach.

Despite Ginger’s exhaustion from the long night, a smile tugs at her mouth. What a beautiful child.

“Sit still,” Din orders, holding the fork hostage until the kid looks back into his face and splits into a pure, bright laugh at whatever he sees there.

Paz glances up from his phone, looking between them. A slow smile curves his mouth, small and private. His relaxed slouch is a far leap from the hostile bodyguard who towered over Ginger last night, shoulders squared, suspicious and domineering. He only cracked in the moment the baby cried at the sight of the needle. If they had met under different circumstances, Ginger would have even called him handsome with his plaid lumberjack sense of style.

“I think he would like them,” Paz is encouraging, appraising the photo again.

“We don’t need it.”

“They’re free.”

“From where?”

Ginger finally clears her throat and holds her datapad against her side, smiling with an apologetic shrug when they both sit back, looking up at her. Jack’s brother nods politely in greeting. Under his worn cap, Din’s eyes look heavy and red-rimmed, shadowed with the faint bruise of exhaustion. Maybe Ginger isn’t the only one who lost sleep last night.

Across from him, Paz looks spry by comparison. He’s not wearing his cap this morning, and his dark hair gleams wet from a recent shower. But something subtle has shifted in his expression. The soft smile has slipped away. His gaze narrows and he straightens in his chair. This one will be watching her.

At their mutual, undivided attention, her mouth is suddenly dry.

“Good morning,” she says.

The kid catches the neck of Din’s fork and hums when he retreats with his prize of waffles, eyes crinkled happily. A drip of maple syrup escapes from the corner of his mouth.

Ginger has to resist the impulse to lean over and wipe it away.

Paz does it for her, reaching across the table to thumb it from the kid’s cheek and wipe his finger on the napkin by Din’s plate. The kid doesn’t miss a beat, already rising in his seat to reach for more of the dissected waffle from Din’s plate.

“Morning,” Din says it like a sigh, and Ginger feels that weary sentiment in her bones. She doesn’t take it personally. “Ginger, right?”

“Agent Ginger Ale,” she corrects, then nodding, “Ginger is fine.” At least she hasn’t left an impression as the scary woman with the needle.

“Good morning,” Paz echoes, tone surprisingly bright. For some reason, Din frowns at him.

“I hope you both had a chance to try their hash browns,” Ginger says, glancing back at the food counter and the few staff milling around this early in the morning, easily distinguishable by the IDs dangling from their lapels. “They’re my favourite.”

Din’s arms fold on the table before him, gently closing around his elbows. The child frowns when the gesture pushes the waffle plate farther from his reach. Stepping carefully along his seat and holding onto the table’s edge for balance, the child tries again, eyes narrowed in intense concentration. From across the table, Paz watches, mouth curving with a fond, amused quirk.

With a glance at the counter, Din nods. “The food was fine.”

She flashes a quick smile at him again and hopes it doesn’t tremble. Small talk isn’t her strongest suit. “We’re ready for you two.”

Din straightens in his seat. “Now?”

The kid stills with a tiny handful of waffle like he’s been caught. “Beh?”

She nods, stepping back to give him space. “You and him.” She looks at Paz and finds him already watching her. “I’m sorry. You’ll have to wait out here.”

Paz looks from her to Din, slow and considering. “How long will you be?”

Ginger tilts her head, scanning the room as she considers the time it will take them to get back. Do the swap. Get in the lab. Hope nobody stops them and then get the kid on that table... “An hour. Maybe less.”

Paz looks back to Din. “I’ll go check on Missy.”

Din just shrugs a shoulder, seeming noncommittal.

Ginger blinks. “Missy?”

“It’s his cat,” Din rises and scoops the kid up under his armpits, then blinks wide, startled at the squawk of indignation in his ear because the motion made the kid drop his waffle.

“Cat?” Ginger hasn’t seen a cat in person in so long. She misses cats.

“She’s waiting,” Paz explains, also rising to his feet. “In the car.”

Oh. All by herself? No, it’s not her business. Focus.

“When you come back, tell the front desk you’re here for me and Jack,” she tells Paz.

Din hands the child another portion of waffle, syrup-free, and watches him shovel it into his mouth with an expression between judging and amused, shaking his head quietly. Wiping his hand on his worn jeans, Din meets Paz’s gaze, and his smile fades slightly. It could be Ginger’s imagination but in that space of a heartbeat, the air seems to thicken with a strange tension.

And then Din looks to her. “Give us a minute?”

“Of course,” she shakes her head, palms raised. No problem. “I’ll be right out front. But please be quick.”

///

Din waits until Ginger is out of hearing range, white coat rippling behind her. When he looks to Paz, he finds the man smiling at the kid, gently pinching his cheek.

“You don’t have to,” Din says.

Paz’s gaze flicks to him, frowning slightly. “What?”

“Come back. If you want to head on your way now. You got us this far. That’s enough.”

Paz pauses, glancing to the child wiping his mouth against Din’s shoulder. Paz is hard to read, but Din is pretty sure the rapid blinking, searching gaze means ‘kind of stunned’, yet he still arrives at, “Yeah. Okay.”

A fist inexplicably closes around Din’s lungs. “Yeah?”

Paz nods, hands coming to a rest on his hips. “I mean. I’m in no rush, but... we got you back to your brother.”

Din almost snorts a laugh. The reunion with Jack is not something he’s celebrating.

“And if you feel safe here….”

Din frowns, but doesn’t correct him. Safe? Getting here wasn’t about safety. Jack had resources they needed. There are too many bad memories wound up in this place and Din will be out of here as soon as they’re done. But he won’t need Paz for that.

“We’ll be fine,” Din says, rather than dispute him. Paz has done more than enough for them, and Din doesn’t like being indebted to people. He shuffles the kid higher against his side, freeing his right hand. He offers it to Paz. “Thank you.”

Paz has many different smiles. Din wonders if the man knows that about himself. This one is… difficult to name. Paz considers the hand Din has offered him and chuckles under his breath. The hand that clasps Din back is firm and powerful, but unlike their first handshake, doesn’t pretend to crush him in his grip.

That was only funny the first time.

They had just met. Paz had emerged from the dark of the Waffle House’s lot like some kind of hellish spectre, spewing fire and barking at Din to get down. He’d placed the flamethrower in Din’s hands so he could take the wheel once aboard his truck. Din promptly turned it on him. And Paz had just put up his hands, fearless, gaze serious.

“You can roast me later, but I can get you far from here.”

Paz hadn’t held it against him. Trust was earned. Everyone and their dog had been chasing this child. And Paz was the only one laying cover fire; well-equipped for a private citizen. Din might have been more suspicious if Paz wasn’t clearly just from the country and living on the open road. If Din had space and means, he would be doing the same.

“The honour was mine,” Paz insists with that rare, quiet gravity that always made Din feel like the air was clearing, like he was peeling a shade of the world back on something significant but could never hold it long enough to understand what he was seeing. Paz releases him and gently cups the back of the kid’s head. The little one twists around for a better look at him. “Look after him, kiddo.”

The kid frowns, lips parting in a soft shape of confusion. Din wonders if he’ll even remember Paz in a week’s time.

Belatedly, Din realises they still have the mess of their breakfast on the table before them. As though reading his mind, Paz shakes his head, waving him off.

“I’ll clean this up. You go. That woman sounds like you're in a hurry.”

Din’s heart thuds in his chest. They’re never going to see him again and it feels… abrupt. Seven days of sharing meals, of waking to the rock and sway of the road beneath him and Paz at the truck’s wheel, that darned cat nuzzling against him for space on the cabin’s small bed. It’s been so long since he travelled with anyone. Did saying goodbye always feel this heavy? And unfairly easy?

“Are you sure?”

Paz is already turning away, collecting their plates. He waves Din off. “Go on. I’ve got this.”

They’re just ships passing in the night. That has always been his life. Din nods mechanically and feels the child’s small hand clutch at his collar.

“Thank you.”

Thank you for taking a risk for us. Until our paths cross again. Be safe.

Arms tight around the child, Din turns and leaves. The child yawns in his ear and Din takes the reminder to take a deep breath, putting their new friend behind them. Maybe some goodbyes just have to be understated, no matter how big they feel.

"Din."

His heart thumps hard and his breath catches in his throat. When he looks back, Paz nods with a two-fingered salute. His smile is kind.

"Good luck."

"Ehn," the kid complains, twisting in Din's arms and flopping overbackwards, almost falling right out of his hold, what the hell, kid?

Heart leaping, Din catches the kid just in time, mentally cursing and wondering why-- what is wrong with this kid-- but he shoves those thoughts to the side and gives Paz a tight nod of thanks. The guy’s smile widens, and Din rushes from the cafeteria before he can embarrass himself further.

"Hey," Din commands, bouncing the whining kid to get his attention. "Settle."

The kid sags in his arms, and his head hangs with a pout.

Ginger smiles when she sees him (what does he do to keep earning that from people? Must be the kid) and leads them to a storage closet of all places.

It's larger than it looks from the outside: several shelves deep full of industrial cleaning supplies and equipment. It smells of bleach and dust. Overhead, a fan whirs noisily from the air vent. In the clear walking space before them, Jack stands by an empty steel chair set on a small square of tarpaulin. He smiles brightly upon seeing the kid, arms spread wide in welcome.

“There he is!”

Meeting Jack’s eye, the kid bursts into delighted giggles and curls away, hiding his face against Din’s chest. Kids are weird.

Jack catches Din’s eye and nods. "Sit. You can hold him.”

The door clicks shut behind them, and Din glances back to see Ginger standing guard.

Din frowns, eyeing the familiar tool in Jack's hand. "What's going on?"

"We're taking care of that tracker," Jack slaps the seat's back as though it's a prized ride. He brandishes the hair trimmer. "But first you need a haircut. Time is short. Sit and I'll explain.”

Ten minutes later, Din is freshly shorn (uncomfortably so), and testing the give in the shoulders of his new outfit. Jack’s clothes are heavier than they look, warmer, too, but loose.

“Did you gain weight?” he frowns at his brother.

Jack sneers at him, lacing up his boots. “Or did you just lose too much muscle?”

“Why’d you have to shave your moustache?”

Jack straightens like a shot and glares at him, offended. “Hey, I thought you shaved yours, too, all right! It’s been a long night.”

“Feel naked,” Din grumbles, mournfully rubbing his bare upper lip. It doesn’t feel right.

Straightening side-by-side, the two brothers size each other up, clothes exchanged, groomed to match, a near perfect mirror image. Din stares at the beaver blend cowboy hat and slowly puts it on with a groan.

“You’re not standing right,” Jack says.

“We don’t all have a stick up our ass,” Din mutters.

Jack points at him accusingly. “Fix your stance, or we’re goin’ to get nowhere real fast!”

“Shh!” Ginger hushes, looking specifically at Jack with alarm. “Keep it down!”

“Fine,” Din mutters and cocks a hip out, hands on his waist in his most insulting impression of his brother’s dumb bravado at rest. “How’s this?”

Not at all deterred, Jack takes a different tact. “Well, let’s find out.” He turns to the child waddling through the short tufts of hair strewn from Din’s haircut on the tarpaulin. “Hey, Green Bean.”

The child looks up with a questioning sound, a small hand wrapped around the chair’s leg.

Jack smiles. “C’mere.”

And something in Din rails watching his brother in his clothes, holding out his arms, smiling as Din never would (or could); and his heart kicks in his chest when the child totters towards him with a happy noise, arms lifting up.

No, Jack hasn’t earned that.

"Kid,” Din orders in the same voice he always has, irrationally hoping the kid will recognise him: the one who has watched over him these past days, fed and washed him, let him drool against his shoulder, and kept him from gnawing on their weapons.

The kid halts halfway to Jack, and looks back at him, searching his face. He squints adorably.

Din almost smiles, but thinks better of it, imagining how unnatural it would look. Instead, he points at himself. “Who’s this?”

“Ehn?” The kid blinks, turning more fully to look at him. Din knows he’s only a child, but something in his expression is more aware, more articulated and mature than any child has a right to be. Is that what people mean when they say they see an old soul?

Jack claps, bringing the child’s attention back to him. He smiles indulgently. “Come to Papi.”

“Don’t do that,” Din growls.

Thankfully, Ginger chooses that moment to step back in. “Jack, it’s almost eight. Come on.”

Sighing with disappointment as though he’s been deprived of his game, Jack rises back to his feet and unclips his ID, offering it to his brother. Just as Din is about to take it, Jack holds it back, and makes sure he has his brother’s undivided attention.

“Din’ika, I’m trusting you not to commit crimes against the state in my name while you wear this. It’s a big responsibility which I know you know ‘cause you couldn’t run from it fast enough.”

Scowling, Din snatches the ID and clips it to the chest pocket of his suit jacket. It’s a different set of clothes from what Jack wore yesterday, but he doesn’t think either of these two went home. The thought that they worked through the night for the kid is the only thing staying his tongue, and discomfort squirms again in his chest. Jack will hold this debt over him for a while to come.

“Need to go over the plan again?” Jack asks, looking between Ginger and Din.

“We get in the lab, Ginger removes the chip, we come back, swap, and we’re out of your lives,” Din says. He watches the child around Jack’s knee, the little one sliding down to his bottom, grabbing a fistfull of short, brown hair and throwing it to the side in a full body motion. Giggling, the child does it again, watching the strands scatter and flutter like grass.

“Sweet and simple,” Jack smirks, but claps a hand round his brother’s shoulder, focuses on Ginger with intent. “You do everything this woman tells you, all right? You don’t speak to anyone. You don’t go anywhere or touch anything ‘less she tells you to.”

Din meets Ginger’s slightly startled look and cocks his head with a shrug. “You’re the boss.”

Jack fixes him with a raised finger in warning. “I would never say that.”

“It’s okay,” Ginger assures Din, as though she’s brushing Jack aside. “I’ll take care of you.”

But as his brother is turning away, something else occurs to Din. He doesn’t know why he thinks of it.

“Wait.”

Jack gives him an arched look. Din gestures between the two of them and thumbs the thin necklace of leather at his neck. “Should we….?”

Should they swap this, too?

Jack’s sober look wipes all other emotion from his face. He hesitates, eyes falling to Din’s neck. Something hardens behind his gaze. “Ni trikari, ni ne'lise.”

Din shouldn’t have asked in the first place. He nods, palming the shape of the steel amulet beneath his shirt. He can’t see any impression of Jack’s through his, but Din knows his twin must still wear its counterpart. No matter what else has passed between them, this one thing would not have changed. “Gar serim.”

“Hey.” Jack clasps his shoulder firmly, voice quiet. “No one will look that far. Trust me.”

Gratitude warms through the tight feeling that had briefly clenched his chest. Even the thought of parting with his own makes him tense. He doesn’t have many personal effects, but the pendant….

Ginger is watching them with a curious frown. “What language is that?” she asks gently.

Din’s stomach swoops. He glances at his brother, but sees none of his own wariness reflected back. It makes him feel better.

“An old one,” is all Jack says, then claps his hands together. “Okay. Let’s get this show on the road.”

#truck stops and tribulations series #the mandalorian #Kingsman: the golden circle #din djarin #paz vizsla #paz vizla #baby yoda #jack daniels #agent whiskey #agent ginger ale #paz/din #din/paz #found family #family reunions #road trip #all human AU

[renwritesstuff]

The Interview (work in progress)

Posted with permission from @fishbone76​, this is the start of a gift/trade fic I’m writing for her in exchange for my new rad Shaynor iPhone wallpaper. Here’s the introduction so far:

“…No.”

“Please?”

“No.” Samantha Traynor crossed her arms, stopping her work at the galaxy map console. She shook her head for emphasis, black hair sweeping across her nose.

“Come onnnn,” Diana Allers coaxed, drawing out that last word with a slight whine. “Cortez, Daniels and Copeland all agreed. I’m just missing my favorite Comms Specialist.”

“I think you mean the ‘only Comms Specialist that can stand you,’ Allers.”

“Same thing! That’s why you’re my favorite!” The reporter leaned in close to touch Sam’s elbow. “Come on, Traynor. I won’t bite. …Hard.” Diana’s voice was husky with promise.

Sam jerked her elbow away. “Lies don’t become you, Allers. I’ve seen your segments grilling the Commander about her calls. If that’s how you treat the lady responsible for covering our arses, God knows how you’ll treat me—us.”

The thought of Diana digging into Steve’s past in particular made Sam’s jaw clench. That man has been through enough, losing his husband to the Collectors.

Maybe I should go just to protect that sweetheart from the mean ol’ reporter.

Sidling between Samantha and her console, Diana clasped her hands pleadingly. “I promise I’ll behave. This isn’t gonna be some exposé on your sordid—or otherwise—personal lives.” Allers winked.

Sam narrowed her eyes at the woman. “Or Shepard’s?”

“Or Shepard’s,” Allers confirmed. “And that is saying something about my journalistic integrity, because I am dying for details on yours and Jane’s… ‘extracurriculars.’” Her fingers curled in air-quotes.

Cheeks reddening, Sam cleared her throat awkwardly.

Walked into that one, Traynor.

“Look, my editor challenged me to shine a light on the Normandy crew for my next Battlespace piece. Humanize you all a little, so the rest of the Alliance doesn’t feel like their contributions don’t matter unless they’re Commander fucking Shepard, super SpecTRe.” It was Allers’ turn to cross her arms, a thoughtful smile on her lips. “Please, Sam. We need all the morale we can spare. The war isn’t going well.”

Sam chewed her cheek, still skeptical. But she could feel her resolve weakening.

Damn that reporter and her occasional glimmer of human decency.

Diana continued, “What would you say to dinner and drinks at Purgatory, then? On the ANN’s dime? I’ve got a hefty per diem burning a hole in my pocket.” She fished a credit chit out of her dress jacket pocket to wave seductively at Sam.

“Resorting to bribery? That’s low, Allers.”

“’Bribery’ is such a dirty word, Traynor. The ANN prefers ‘compensation for credible sources.’ Quid pro quo. You scratch my back, I fill yours with booze and bar food.” The reporter paused. “…come on. Copeland agreed. Copeland. And he still hasn’t forgiven me for that Terra Nova piece. You gotta come.”

Samantha let the awkward silence build for a few seconds before an acquiescing sigh.

Making a victorious fist-pump motion, Allers immediately fired up her Omni-tool. “Yes! Meet me at the bar at 1930. I should be done with Cortez by then. I’m trying to stagger the one-on-ones, then have a group interview around 2100.”

Sam immediately regretted her decision as she felt a ping to her wrist. A navpoint paired with a calendar reminder popped up on the holo-screen. “Wait! I didn’t actually say I’d—!”

But Allers had already breezed past in large strides toward the bow docking hatch. Her camera drone floated behind her dutifully. “Thanks again, Traynor! You’re a doll! And try to dress up a little. Who knows, if you play your cards right you might end up with a fan following! An embassy secretary got her own reality show after a piece I did on her. Married a famous bioti-ball pitcher. …Trashiest social network feed I’ve ever seen, and I’m networked to that Westerlund clown, Al-Jilani. …See you tonight, Sam!”

“Fan following?” Sam thought as she watched the woman disappear around the corner out to the Citadel Docking Bay. The thought of becoming Famous did elicit a giddy feeling in Sam’s chest.

…Whoa there, Traynor. If you want to be famous right now, just tell everyone you’re dating Commander Jane Shepard. All you have to do is sell out the love of your life to the news media for a few credits and endorsements. In the middle of a galaxy-wide war.

She scowled at herself for that shitty, childish thought.

Never in a million years.

Then you’ll have to settle for giving Allers a couple feel-good soundbytes about how essential data analytics are to the war effort.

Her nose wrinkled a little less. That’s right. If not for comms specialists like me, we never would have saved Grissom Academy or tracked Kai Leng to Horizon.

That’ll have them lining up at the recruitment centres for sure, Traynor.

Finishing up a real-time data lag assessment for the Normandy’s next set of missions, Sam leaned backward in a luxurious stretch. She felt a few satisfying pops in her lower spine.

She fired up her Omni-tool to check the time. 15:48:55 GST. Just enough time to hit the showers and smooth out the wrinkles in her dress blues.

The Purgatory club was calmer than usual. The bar on the left side was always open (of course), but absent was the usual revolving clientele of dancing civilians and rowdy servicemen/women. Thrumming house music in the speakers was at a surprisingly bearable decibel for a change, too.

Skimming the upper balconies, Samantha spotted the reason for the change. Aria T’Loak, the ruler of Omega, was deep in conversation with a semicircle of trusted underlings. A holo schematic of Omega was visible between the shoulders of stern human, batarian and krogan mercenaries. It looked like the asari was finalizing her preparations to remove the Cerberus forces occupying the chunk of rock she called home.

A familiar, scowling bodyguard was posted at the upper stairwell, his four black eyes shifting from the reporter at the bar over to Sam herself. Adjusting her dress jacket, Sam flashed an innocent smile as she cut a wide berth away from the batarian towards the bar.

The sound of laughter grew louder as Sam approached a seated Steve Cortez and a standing Diana Allers at the bar. Floating behind Diana, her camera drone focused on Steve who was finishing off a frosty beer.

“—pard is still one of the worst Mako pilots I’ve ever seen. And Vega has crashed a Kodiak into Mars. That’s how low that bar is, and Shepard is still worse,” he chuckled while Diana wiped away a mirthful tear.

Allers tapped at her Omni-tool, still giggling. “Oh thank God I recorded all of that. I need to find the perfect segment to showcase ‘Commander Jane Shepard: Humanity’s Best Hope While Also Humanity’s Worst Pilot.’ My ratings will be legendary.“

Cortez raised his glass at Sam as she tiptoed up behind the reporter to take a look at her Omni-tool, currently playing back the end of Copeland’s interview and the beginning of Steve’s. Even the grumpy Ensign seemed relaxed, though Samantha suspected the shot glass in his hand was credited for that feat.

Samantha hissed in Diana’s ear as she flicked the woman’s shoulder. “Ohhhh, I see your game, Allers. Get everyone good and legless on plonk, and then film the results. Bloody despicable you are.”

Mumbling under her breath something about “Jesus Christ you’re so British,” Diana shot a glare over her shoulder at the Comms Specialist. “It’s just to grease the wheels a little, Traynor. Plus, it’s a magical learning experience. Gabby prefers wine, Copeland just throws back shots, and Cortez here is a pilsner man. I’m dying to know what your poison of choice is. I’m guessing… cheap vodka.”

Sam gasped with mock offense. “You slander my honor, madam.”

“Only one way to find out.” The reporter extended a fist and knocked on the counter to flag down the turian bartender, who nodded familiarly at Diana.

He grinned at Sam, rumbling, “Another one? Tab’s still open, Allers. You’re putting my kids through college.”

Still fiddling with her holo-recording, Diana barely looked up. She just stuck a thumb behind her at Sam. “Get this one whatever she wants. And make it a double.”

Samantha tapped her chin, an index of cocktails running through her mind from her Fishbone Pub days back at Oxford. She snapped her fingers when she recalled a favorite (and expensive) concoction: “One Quad Kicker please! All top shelf, hold the curry powder. I’m allergic. I don’t think my ‘date’ would fancy me asphyxiating to death in the middle of our chat.”

“It would be tough to explain to my boss, yes,” Allers agreed as she held her credit chit up to the bartender for another scan. “My ratings would probably go through the roof… until Shepard tossed me out an airlock.”

The turian nodded in confirmation and busied himself with smoothly mixing the requisite ginger ale, bourbon and spiced rum in a chilled highball glass. The drink was slid over to Samantha with a picture-perfect wedge of lime on the side.

Hmph. Show-off.

It was bubbly and sweet and strong, just like Sam remembered as she slid along the counter up to Cortez.

“Good to see you, Traynor,” Steve said warmly as he clinked his beer against Sam’s drink in silent toast. “And not just because I had a bet going with Copeland if you’d show tonight. …I won.”

Those bloody tossers, Samantha scowled before shrugging it off with another sip to her drink.

“…You’re in a good mood, Cortez,” Sam acknowledged with a squeeze to his shoulder.

“I’m good, Sam.”

She squinted skeptically at the pilot.

Cortez just smiled back, thin black scruff framing white teeth. His eyes had a crinkle to them that she hadn’t seen before. “Really. I’m good. I mean it, for once. I’ve been talking it out—with Shepard, of all people—and I said my goodbyes. I finally actually believe that I’ll be okay someday. Okay to move on. It seems possible.”

“I’m glad. I was rather worried about you. …Especially with this vulture stirring up trouble,” Sam said a little louder.

Allers’s eyes never left her Omni-tool, but she did extend her right hand off to the side to shoot Sam a middle finger. “I heard that.”

Cortez drained the last swallow of beer from his glass and stood up to offer Sam his seat. He threw a thumb in Allers’ direction. “She’s all right, too. …Fashion taste is terrible, but her heart is in the right place.” He winked at Sam when Diana squawked an indignant “Hey! Not you too!”

“Any advice?”

“Just dive in and get it over with,” Steve said sagely as he patted Sam’s arm. “Like ripping off a band-aid.”

Diana warned behind them, “Careful with all the shit-talk, Normandiers. I know where you bunk.”  

#fanfic #ren writes #shaynor #samantha traynor #diana allers #steve cortez #femshep #the interview #me3 #mass effect 3 #citadel

[flauntpage]

We Asked Football Manager Whether Corbyn or May Would Do Better at the 2018 World Cup

This article originally appeared on VICE Sports UK.

When it was announced that the latest edition of Football Manager was going to sim the effects of Brexit, we were initially sceptical about the idea. Introducing grim political realities into a football simulation seemed to set an uncomfortable precedent, with the joyous escapism of the game threatened by visa complications, economic uncertainty and the possibility that we might sign Jamie Vardy only for him to retire and become a local councillor for UKIP. Now, though, with the possibility of a more humane Brexit on the cards, our objections to mixing Football Manager and politics have softened. There's been a surprise election result since then and a welcome rejection of the Conservative right, along with flagship Tory policies for Brexit Britain which included: forcing the sick and the elderly to sell off their assets, reintroducing a form of extreme animal cruelty and literally snatching food from the mouths of little children, presumably so it could be redistributed at a fundraiser for enormous industrialists in top hats and tails.

That was the perception of a fair proportion of the public when it came to the Conservative manifesto, anyway, which is one of the reasons we now face a hung parliament and considerable confusion ahead of Brexit negotiations. What Football Manager could never have predicted is that not only do we face the choice between a 'hard' and 'soft' Brexit, but there are now numerous other variables at play including the possibility of a Labour government in the near future. While it is a small mercy that Football Manager is unable to sim the effects of a Conservative-DUP coalition on Britain, the game may nonetheless be able to give us a clue as to our outlook depending on whether Theresa May or Jeremy Corbyn leads the country in the long term. After a few enquiries on our part, it seems that Football Manager have arbitrary statistical profiles for both May and Corbyn, and so we are professionally obliged as modern football journalists to engage in aimless conjecture with the game's help.

To judge which party leader would be best for Britain at this time of great national upheaval, we have compared them on the footballing criterion most comparable to presiding over Brexit, namely how each of them would do as England manager at the 2018 World Cup. Much like a successful Brexit, a good World Cup campaign requires the person in charge to strategise, mobilise national sentiment and outmanoeuvre all the clever foreigners who want us to fail. Having run our data on May and Corbyn through the enormous, clanking Football Manager mainframe, we have the definitive answers on who would do better at Russia 2018. Presuming that Corbyn would take the England job and not reject it on grounds of international solidarity, here's what the Football Manager algorithm thinks would happen if May and the man the fans have dubbed 'the absolute boy' attempted to win the Jules Rimet, with a few creative embellishments here and there.

With Theresa in charge, things start out very much in the Roy Hodgson mould of England management. She announces a strong, stable, unimaginative squad featuring Harry Maguire, Nathan Redmond, Phil Jones and Joe Hart, while Wayne Rooney is omitted, most likely on account of coming from Merseyside and hence having a suspicious whiff of Labour voter to him. Theresa goes with a 4-1-4-1 formation, shunting Marcus Rashford out wide to accommodate Harry Kane as her aspirational lone striker, and then prepares for a qualifying group which includes Bosnia & Herzegovina, Mexico and Uruguay. After a warm-up match in which she is widely ridiculed for a horribly awkward Mexican wave, few are expecting the tournament to go well.

To the relief of her supporters and the tabloid commentariat, May makes a strong start with a win over Bosnia & Herzegovina, this despite a turgid performance in which Ryan Bertrand gets the only goal. Her polling as England manager is through the roof, but this wanes considerably when the team lose 2-1 to Mexico in their second group-stage game. Having pledged to take away the players' free lunches unless they pull themselves up by their bootstraps against Uruguay, May is rewarded with a 1-1 draw which sees England knocked out at the group stage. So, much like her 2017 election campaign, her efforts at the World Cup go from mildly underwhelming to appalling. She immediately resigns in the national interest with Ernesto Valverde her probable successor, though Boris Johnson is also rumoured to be in the managerial frame.

Unsurprisingly, Corbyn is a way more exciting England manager, a cross between Kevin Keegan and Graham Taylor in that the team are exhilarating, unpredictable and defensively all over the place. He goes for an avant garde squad including Jon Toral, Troy Deeney and Jamaal Lascelles, taking the country back to the seventies with an old-fashioned, Mike Bassett-approved 4-4-2 formation. He eschews May's rampant individualism up front for a more collective effort, with Harry Kane and Marcus Rashford sharing the goalscoring burden equally. England face Tunisia, South Korea and Croatia in the group stage, and the nation is filled with a sense of genuine hope.

This image is not endorsed by Football Manager, nor any union movement that we are aware of

Despite opening the tournament with a 1-1 draw against Tunisia in which the establishment conspire to give England's opponents a controversial penalty, the team deliver on Corbyn's 'for the many, not the few' mantra in the next match. Kane, Rashford and Dele Alli all score in a 3-1 triumph over the Koreans, with England living up to the socialist football of Bill Shankly, Brian Clough, Alex Ferguson and all the other great managers on the ideological left. Unfortunately, things go belly up in the final group-stage fixture, where Corbyn's England only need a draw to go through to the knockout rounds. Instead, they turn in one of their worst performances in recent memory as Croatia score three times in just 10 second-half minutes, adding a fourth late in the game. Once again England fall at the first hurdle, though Corbyn ignores his 'very insecure' job status – take note, backbench rebels – and decides to stay on.

What Football Manager seems to be telling us, then, is that we are absolutely fucked whatever happens in politics between now and the outcome of the next general election. Faced with the might of the rest of the world, Brexit Britain will be able to subjugate Bosnia and South Korea to its economic will, but other than that things will either grind to a stalemate or we'll get shafted by uneven trade deals with Croatia, Mexico and friends. Whether we choose Labour or the Tories, it's all going to go horribly wrong, and we'll probably end up with Ernesto Valverde launching a coup and becoming lifetime dictator of Britain. Then again, do we want a miserable slog to disaster under Theresa May, or an exciting, what-could-have been Brexit goalfest under the management of Jeremy Corbyn? Choose life, choose a fucking big television, choose Corbyn as England manager, and choose going 4-0 down to Croatia in the knowledge that this is the most fun we've had watching England in years.

@W_F_Magee

We Asked Football Manager Whether Corbyn or May Would Do Better at the 2018 World Cup published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv