#whatchoo gone do about it?

[cryptid-killjoy]

Mornings. Valerie had never been a morning person in her life.  But she had to admit there was something extra special about that in between space before truly getting up for the day and sleep with Thomas.

(nsfw links) It was that time where lazing was okay. They weren’t going anywhere in particular. They’d been together despite the doctor’s warnings. She’d have him hold a pillow against her loose tummy so it wouldn’t hurt when she rode him from the jiggling wound as she bounced. Thomas was always so loving finding other ways to pleasure his wife. There was no holding Mrs. Laveau’s libido back when she wanted her back injured or not. Lucky man. They had fed the triplets a couple times, managed to get them to sleep again, and no rush now for a thing as the quiet settled in. The blinds were closed but she could still tell it was morning by the soft glimmer of light coming through the blinds. She knew just behind that was the beginnings of the silver thaw of her winter. She noticed the austere drizzles in the moonlight the night before.

She couldn’t help but think about what all that extra moisture would be doing to the land. Her thoughts drifted to muddy bogs and what fun that would be. They just needed a couple ATV’s again and it’d be a party. They hadn’t left for much, but Valerie still heard the rumors, got texts, saw the local weather.  So many people thought it was those new, rich, folk doing something eccentric like fake snow as a ski resort would considering it seemed to politely stop so close to the property lines.  The meteorologist had no explanation for the sudden but confirmed natural weather front that would show the storm on the satellite coming from the skies.

This brought back a few of those old Laveau witchy rumors from the internet. Valerie didn’t care. She didn’t plan on waltzing around announcing she was any kind of sorceress or goddess to these folks of New Zealand. She also didn’t plan on ever making herself small again to fit in. She spent a year getting acquainted with this life, but she was tired of that. If their Scouty insisted on continuing with this public school nonsense then so be it. But, if they were going to be forced to mingle with people that weren’t always of their own choosing then Valerie was done with the low key life. She thought she could handle it with just her and Thomas alone, but that’s not how all this played out. Real life took over a lovers’ self contained fantasy for the better.  

Mornings were starting to grow on her. 

A private moment just to admire him before hot drinks, before sun, before voices, before anything, just them. 

These moments were usually kept in such silence and serene until something of the outside world demanded true waking as she remembered dreaming. Should she tell him as he suggested or just write it down? She thought she’d whisper it unsure how awake he really was. She’d still write it down. She’d write them all down always so he could keep them. She did worry she might lose it if she didn’t say it now and she didn’t want to get up from this warm wonderful space. So whisper she did. 

“I dreamt of you.” She began which wasn’t always the case. So, it was rather fun to start her gift that way. “We we walking in a garden. Everything was too bright, too colorful. The flowers were all wrong. It wasn’t ugly. It was just jarringly orange and yellow. It was blinding. It wasn’t pleasant. I kept hearing Diana’s voice say ‘The girl in the yellow dress.’ it was also in unpleasant manner clear of her distaste. I said back, ‘Oh god she isn’t here is she? I should have brought the dogs.’ 

“Then suddenly everything was gone. That’s how dreams do sometimes. It just changes on you and it makes no sense. No garden. Just one tree in the dark. It was a big purple wisteria tree. Real flowy. Somehow lit in the middle of the darkness. You were dressed very dapper like when we go to the theater, top hat and all, but you kept looking down at me so strangely. I finally look down and I’m in this amazing yellow dress. You say, ‘I’ve never seen you in yellow before.’ I say, ‘Me either.’ Like I am also shocked not recalling putting it on myself.

 “Now in real life that’s not exactly true. I have an Amy Winehouse vintage dress that’s yellow, but it’s nothing like this gown I had on, so bright. Plus, it’s not really a me go-to. You’re gawking like you’re stunned at how gorgeous I am and I’m just watching this dress blowing so flowy in the breeze just as graceful as the wisteria branches, and my long hair, hard to describe like a scene from a southern plantation, when I see Diana again in the distance. Still, the last thing I want to be is ‘the girl in the yellow dress’ considering how she says it. She looks really upset. ‘The girl in the yellow dress.’ Like it’s me. I’m the girl in the yellow dress. Weirdly, Spock brow up, you look at her through a monocle, very sexy by the way, and then cup your mouth like you’re about to holler something back at her. But the dream went black or I woke up a minute and went back to sleep or something because it was gone. I never heard what you what said. Dreams like that are sort of the weirdest because they’re almost like a story...almost. But, you never get to find out the ending.” 

“So then I just lay there imagining things like why in the world would I dream that, or what you might have said, what happened next.” 

She kept smoothing her hand over his beard scruffles, and around his ear, through his hair, “Now I’m never going to get this vision of dancing and picnicking under a wisteria tree all fancied up out of my head even though that’s not what happened in my dream because it looked perfectly set up to do so. Like a dream.” She giggled softly. “So it was.” 

Then she’d turn with those images so vivid in her head even though the story line might not make sense. Dissecting dreams was an art, a skill her mamma taught her. She sometimes thought about the symbolism but sometimes it just ruined the beauty of the imagery in her head. Being so fluent in those “witchery” skillsets it was often hard not to see the simple language of the symbolism and pushing it away was as much of a talent and skill as making the decorative masks she wears to bottle things down. “Papa, Dr. F. He’d have a field day tearing into that one with me curled on his lap.” She had to chuckle. She couldn’t help it. 

#valeriexthomas #thomas's borrowed amazing technicolor dreamcoat size valerie #yes that's the dream journal tag #whatchoo gone do about it? #lmao

[almostcolorfulcolor]

Death Note, meet Supernatural- CHAPTER 3

Relationships: L (Death Note)/Reader, L (Death Note)/Original Female Character(s)

Summary: What if Death Note existed in a world with Winchesters in it? Would L finally have the evidence he needs to prove Light is Kira? How will L fare in a world where monsters are real and not every case is solvable by him? Lucky for him, there's a hunter here to work side-by-side with him. CHAPTER 1 CHAPTER 2

Chapter Summary: L starts telling Anne about the entirety of Kira case from his viewpoint. Anne meets someone...unpleasant. A/N: For people who've seen the anime/read the manga, you can skip this one. Just read the note at the end of the chapter.

Chapter 3: Kira Case Summary: Part 1

L doesn’t take his eyes off his cake till it’s all gone. Only then does he look up and open multiple files on the screen.

“Last October, I started the Kira investigation. Multiple criminals worldwide had been dying of mysterious heart attacks. The ICPO was at its wit’s end because it had no clue where to start. I dug in a little deeper and found that the first criminal to die of a heart attack was a person named Kurou Otoharada who was holding some hosta-”

“Yes, yes, sweetiepops. I saw your pissing contest. Viral everywhere. If that’s all, let’s move on.”

Sweetiepops looks annoyed at the interruption but continues. “I worked with the NPA as it was confirmed that Kira was in Kanto, Japan. We looked at the pattern of the deaths and found that they at night and on the weekends- an ideal time for a student. Just as we deduced that, the killings started happening every hour as if Kira was privy to our investigation and taunting us. There was a leak in the NPA so I called in 12 FBI agents in secret to Japan to investigate the NPA and their families.

On 14th December, they came in. On 19th December, Kira started experiments. Controlling the prisoner’s actions before they died.”

I cut in, “Hold on, controlling their actions how?”

“Raise your hand before you speak. Kira made one go to the bathroom, the other draw something and some others send messages to me. (Seeing me raise my hand, L’s voice turns exasperated. “Shh, I have the pictures, you can see them later. They seem nonsense to me but you can give them a look if you desire.”) On the 27th, all 12 FBI agents died of heart attacks. Before dying, they all had gotten the full list of all 12 FBI agents in Japan at random times. They also died at random times so there’s no way of finding out which FBI agent Kira used to kill all of them.

However, while looking at the footage of some of the agents' deaths that happened in public, one stood out from the rest. Raye Penber. He died after he got off a train and it seemed like- let me play the footage now and you can see for yourself.”

A video starts on the screen and as I turn to look at it, L turns to look at me. Like full-on staring with his thumb in his mouth. “Whatchoo doing, L?” 

“It’s not L, it’s Ryuzaki, for safety reasons. I want to assess your reaction to watching the video. Don’t mind me.”

“Riiiight.” Shaking my head, I pay attention to the screen. This Penber guy gets on the train, gets off around an hour and a half later and just hits the floor clutching his heart. But wait…is that…shock? His features are not too clear but I think they’re frozen in horror, disbelief. He’s looking at something- or someone- in the train, before it takes off and he drops dead. That’s something, but not all of it. “Hit rewind, Ryuzaki…that’s it, play now.” Where’d the envelope go?

“Any idea what was in the envelope? Or did he just conveniently forget it on the train?” I ask the room.

Asahi sits up straighter. “We noticed it but know nothing about it.”

“I’ll bet you anything that the names of your agents were in it. And Kira was on that train too. Someone Penber knew, and thought to be innocent, which explains the look of shock mingled with horror. Who was Penber investigating before the…experiments started?”

Asahi visibly pales. His voice trembles when he asks, “So you also think that someone Raye was investigating is Kira?”

“ Also , chief? So you’ve already worked this angle, huh? Tell me who’s our top star.”

“It’s me. Raye was investigating Deputy Director Kitamura’s and my family”, Light confesses, looking uncomfortable.

“But my son is cleared from suspicion, isn’t that right, Ryuzaki?”

“Yes, he was. But I think I best continue my explanation to help Miss Anne understand this better.

Upon noticing my suspicion that someone in NPA was causing the leak, several refused to work with me and only Asahi, Moji, Aihira, Matsui and Ukita stayed. Be quiet, Ukita-san is the one who passed away in front of Sakura TV, I’ll get to that. Anyway, they wanted deeper trust between us so I called them to my hotel and revealed my face to them. After we investigated the deaths of the 12 FBI agents, I came to the same conclusion as you and decided to install cameras and wiretaps in Yagami and Kitamura households. (My eyes widen in realization, prompting L to respond, “Yes, yes, he was Detective Superintendent Yagami, he resigned now, don’t use his real name.”) Everything was normal, but Yagamin-kun was too normal. He was certainly intelligent enough to do the murders. I immediately became suspicious of him but even when he was studying right before my eyes, the deaths continued happening. After a few days of this, I had to remove the surveillance. 

Of course, the killings never stopped. So I decided to enter the same college as Light-kun and revealed myself as L to him. If he killed me now, the whole task force would know he was Kira. I conducted some tests and played a tennis match to determine if he was Kira but he avoided detection in all of them. Unfortunately, Asahi-san had a heart attack at the same time so I had to halt my investigation.

We also discovered Raye Penber’s fiance, Naomi Misora, an ex-FBI agent, had suddenly disappeared. I worked with her on a case before and know she wasn’t the suicidal type. Which means she was investigating Kira on her own and Kira had killed her. 

Few days later, Sakura TV played the tape from Kira. I’m assuming you saw that?”

“The whole fiasco right to the end of the patriotic police blockade.”

“Ukita-san had rushed there to stop the broadcast and was killed immediately. Same happened to the other two police officers. Lucky for us, Asahi-san broke in using an armored truck to protect his identity, recovered all the tapes and stopped the broadcast. We sent the tapes for forensics in hopes to find Kira’s DNA or some clue. We listened to the tapes afterward and the gist was this- police agree to comply with Kira and all the policemen including myself appear on TV as insurance. If we didn’t comply or failed to broadcast the names of criminals on TV regularly, he would kill the Director of NPA unless the real L revealed his identity on TV. 

Based on those tapes, I surmised that this Kira was not the original Kira. The original Kira only killed the criminals or those actively hunting him like the FBI agents. Those newscasters were of no threat to him. Furthermore, Ukita and those two police officers died immediately even though their names were secret which meant this Kira only needed a face to kill. Also, a direct threat was not Kira’s style- he wanted a peaceful world with adoring people, and this move would make them hate him. So I contacted Light-”

I jump and push L behind me as a screech filled the air. Taking a defensive stance, my eyes fell on the door to see a blur of glittery pink and yellow barreling right at me.

“OHMYGOD!!! We’re going to be best friends foreverrrrrrrrr!!!!!!!!!”

A/N:

So, Anne meets Misa. The rest is just Kira case summary. I know this is slow and too detailed but please bear with me. All the Supernatural fans out there who haven't watched Death Note need these chapters. Once we get the details out of the way, we're going faster, I promise :)

Reblog, comment and ❣️if you enjoyed this!

Until next time, XOXO

CHAPTER 4

#l x reader #l lawliet x reader #l death note #supernatural #supernatural reader insert #supernatural oc #death note oc #death note anime #death note fanfiction #death note

[whitepolaris]

Devil Deer

You know, it's funny, in the 1970s and '80s, we went through a period during which wild animals population were dwindling and seldom seen, and now we're in a peculiar moment in history when they're dwindling more than ever, but we're far more likely to encounter them now because their natural habitat is so encroached upon by civilization. Case in point: Just a few years ago I was walking through a small semi-wooded area being cleared for a forthcoming subdivision. There were a lot of bulldozers around and hammering going on, making it the last place I'd except to see deer.

As I was walking down a recently paved road, an impossibly enormous elk jumped out of the shrubbery and charged straight at me. All my life, it's always been deer running from me, not straight at me! Its antlers were crazy-multi-tined and asymmetrical-and its eyes were like evil, black, soulless marbles. I moved out of the creature's way, and fortunately, it kept charging along its prescribed path, crashing through the shrubbery on the other side of the road. And then it was gone.

I recounted the incident to an old-timer hunter, and he eyes widened. "You know whatchoo saw!" he exclaimed. "Son, you saw the DEVIL DEER! Do you know how many hunters would give their left [arm] to see the Devil Deer?" Prodded to elaborate further, he told me, "All serious big-time hunters know about Devil Deer, and that they're the most dangerous thing in all the wilderness. They're bigger, meaner, and crazier than regular deer, and they cain't be killed!"

What I don't know about the world of hunting, you can almost fit into the Hollywood Bowl. So I remain unsure if this guy was either crazy or just pulling my leg with some sort of "Great Pumpkin" story for drunken outdoorsmen. -JSH

#type read #weird kentucky

[algae-soup]

Chapter 1

He paused the meditation playlist and turned his eyes to the night. A moment later he heard again through the darkness, Wap pop pop pop pop pop. Wap pop pop pop pop pop. The woods were full of snaps and rustles but this mysterious voice cracked loudly through the near silence. It hooted once more after no reply until a far off rival, who now called back from the distance, hooted wap pop pop pop pop pop!

 Gumbo sat up and leaned back into the live oak. “Gotta get to the marina tomorrow if I wanna catch the ferry” he said, hitting play on LoFi birdsong to relax/study to.

“Oh yeah” said the owl, close by but still invisible. “Time to pull the trigger huh?”

“Yeah, gotta see my guy first though. Stock up again” he said, sliding his hand over his pouch even though he just checked the stash ten minutes ago.

“Aw well. Come visit whenever, you can crash in my tree”

“Hell yeah thanks. It’s perfect here, I just want to go home for a bit you know”

“You should consider migrating. I know it’s not your thing but some seasonality might be nice. Not my thing neither but sometimes you need a lil structure. Wap pop pop pop pop pop pop. Should I go beat this stupid freak?”

“I won’t be there forever. Another day or two in the city and I’ll take off. But yeah I’ll be back down someday” Forest covered mountains burst out of the sea in his mind. Pink and orange cliffs glowing in the morning sunlight as the icy prisms clinging to his fur glisten and melt. “Get his ass. I’ll hit you up later”

Wap pop pop pop pop pop pop! The branch creaked and the bird was gone. Gumbo turned off the music and fell asleep looking up at the moon through the sweeping branches.

The nice thing about trees is they’re perfect. Perfection is everywhere in the rhythm and disorder of the coast and the delta. Thousands of islands scoured away by the tide and pulled upward again out of the sea for hundreds of years, the region was locked in continuous transition. It was a place of endless adventure and mystery, and it was cool ending up here for a while. It’ll be nice heading home too. Morning came and Gumbo sat up. You could just see the shore through the brush and where the cotton candy sky met the ocean in between the innumerable islands. After watching the sun rise through the trees, he ate some berries and moss for breakfast before gathering some more and stowing them in his pouch. It was humid and sticky already and he set off toward the beach, brushing the detritus out of his ass fur. 

As he turned away from the open ocean more islands appeared. He walked along the beach towards the end, and continued walking into the water until he was nearly submerged. At seven feet tall, he was able to slowly walk his way across several channels paddling with his hands to propel himself. Larger channels were too deep so he swam, long strokes and sometimes on his back. After a while he got the the island where he last stowed the raft. He pulled it from the brush into the water and continued up the creek. The tide rolled him along as he paddled, doing most of the work and often moving him in the correct direction. Schools of fish passed by and flocks of shorebirds bobbed in the wake in the shady coves waiting to poke around for grubs when the tide went out. He smiled and waved at everyone, stopping to wrestle with an alligator pal and he had kelp salad for lunch with an ancient snapping turtle, after giving her a nice shell rub with a handmade oil of his. He veered the raft between mangroves and watched the fish do the same, but more nimbly. It was a perfect morning in the bayou.

He made it to the marina in the afternoon. “Hey Bucky. What do ya know?”

“Leaving in five minutes, I’ll get you a seat. Bark! Bark!” Bucky ran toward the docks. 

Gumbo crossed his eyes and mumbled to himself, heartworms, flea bites, fur matted down; give me the mangy tail of a hound. Gumbo crouched down and leaned forward onto his hands. He exhaled deeply and slowly, channeling his focus inward. He felt his haunches shrinking down and his muscles condense into tightly wound springs. His next inhale was through a snout. The cattle dog sat on his hind legs where a bigfoot had just stood and sniffed the sweet salty air. He trotted around on four legs to adjust to his smaller stature and began panting in the heat. Gumbo pissed on a tree and ran off after Bucky.

  Gumbo the dog stepped off the ferry into New Orleans. The sun was setting and the evening air hung heavy with moisture and was full of colorful noises from inside the marina and around the docks. There was movement everywhere; fishermen mending nets and preparing for the morning, dockhands swinging around crates, smoking and talking and laughter in every direction. The ocean breeze mingled with the smells of hot fish and exhaust. Gumbo stretched and walked along the river edge and turned down an alley. A midden of clamshells stood at the back door of one shack where plumes of smoke billowed out of the open door. Music was blasting over the clattering and yelling from inside the kitchen as Gumbo approached, and he barked into the thick hot cloud of fumes.

“Whos that! Whatchoo want?” A wrinkly bearded face appeared through the grease fog. “Oh mon amie, como ca va?? Lemme fix you something!” He disappeared into the smoke and rematerialized with a steaming bowl and stepped out into the alley.

He set the bowl at Gumbo’s feet, “Beans n rice, no flavor, just for you” he winked at Gumbo.

“Thanks Francois” Gumbo said before chowing down, “busy night?”

Francois dabbed his forehead with the inside of his apron, “not too bad for a Saturday. Not like you’d know about Saturdays you bum” he laughed.

“Dat’s right baby, every day is Saturday” Gumbo said with jowls full of beans. “jambalaya slaps, thanks”

“Merci beaucoup! It’s even better with the fixings,” Francois said “scallops, shrimp, boudain… you’re missing out. Get me anything special down der?”

Gumbo licked his chops clean and stuck his snout into his pouch, pulling out a mouthful of pearls. Ivory, sapphire, bronze, and one glossy black. Francois crouched down and Gumbo dropped them gently into his open palm.

“Oh mon amie, these are beautiful. Bon chien!” He stood up and flicked his wrist and the pearls were gone. “I’ll save these for something special. You wanna come grab a drink? Powdered pearl milkshake, for vitality! Got a big night ahead of you?”

“No thanks, I’m on my way to see Bordo and then I’m heading up north in a couple days” Gumbo said.

“Way up north to Baton Rouge yeah?”

“Bit farther” Gumbo said, “shooting to get to Acadia by the end of the summer”

“Mmmmm” Francois’ pursed lips turned to a warm smile, “long long ways, bet you’re walking too huh. Well if I don’t see you before you go, I better give you this now” he reached into his pocket and retrieved an antique oyster knife. Steel blade with a walnut handle inlaid with an intricate geometric design, and covered in a thick coat of slime. “Shucked a lot of oysters with this Gumbo, it’ll treat you well. Just point and shoot” he said with another wink.

“Wow this fuckin rocks, thanks man” Gumbo took the knife in his mouth and stashed it into his pouch.

“Keep in touch chouchou! I gotta get back to it. Lotta fish to fry”

“For sure. Bon soir” 

Francois returned to the kitchen and Gumbo continued up the alley. It was two miles walking up the greenway and a few city blocks to Temple Cemetery. The city lights dimmed as he entered under the tree canopy, and his eyes glowed yellow, adjusting to the dark. He trotted off down the earthen path.

#dnd #bigfoot #adventure #gumbo #louisiana #acadia

[imaginetonyandbucky]

Please, please, a continuation of Tisfan Christmas fanfic about Tony and Bucky building a snowman and then later meeting while they're adults.

A/N: The snowman fic was not originally posted to IT&B and was, in fact, part of my stocking stuffer Christmas series. Because of that, and that both stories are relatively short, I posted both of them, here for you. -Tisfan

Do you want to Build a Snowman

Tony Stark was seven and his nanny had been dismissed at thebeginning of the Christmas holidays. He was going off to boarding school inJanuary, and he didn’t need coddling, and looking after anymore.Which meant that Ana Jarvis, the cook, had been the one to catch him leavingthe house after it had just snowed nearly eighteen inches overnight, in onlyjeans and a sweater.

It wasn’t her responsibility, but Ana had taken care to get Tonyinto his snowsuit and boots and proper mittens and a hat. If she had privatethoughts about a seven year old going out in the snow by himself on the Stark’svast properties, she kept them to herself, but she also tied her own scarf withits decorative buttons, around Tony’s neck to keep him warm.

Tony ran off into the snow, whooping with delight.

He was just finishing rolling the second snowball for a snowmanand trying to figure out how to lift it up onto the first one, when a voiceasked him, “Whatchoo doin’?”

Tony huffed, blowing a plume of condensation out of his mouth.“What does it look like I’m doin’?” The newcomer was a little older thanTony, taller. Thin. With dark hair that curled around his face, stuffed under asilver snow hat with a red star on it.

“Either makin’ a snowman that you’re too little t’ lift, or makin’a snowfort wrong,” the other kid said.

Tony wanted to cross his arms and give his best Howard Stark glareto the other boy, but he’d already figured out that the snowsuit wouldn’t lethim cross his arms. “It’s a snowman. I c’n lift it, I just need a plane.”

The other boy didn’t look impressed. “You’re gonna airlift asnowman?”

“No, no, a plane… a,” Tony said, gesturing, holding one hand at anangle. “A flat board. Don’t you do ramp and friction ‘speriments at yourschool?”

“No,” the other boy said. “But I know where you c’n get someboards. Wanna show me? I’m Bucky, by the way. Th’ gardener’s son. Who are you?”

“Tony,” Tony said, following the other boy back to the gardenshed.

They ended up making two trips to the garden shed to get thesnowman’s middle up and on the base, and then Bucky picked Tony up to put thehead in place. Bucky donated his hat to the cause of the snowman’s clothing,and Tony wrapped Ana Jarvis’s scarf around its neck.

The boys spent the rest of the holidays together, inseperable fromas soon as Ana could get Tony in his snowsuit until Jim called Bucky in fordinner. They made snow forts and talked about television shows. Tony broughtsome of his model cars outside and they made a race track in the snow.

“I have t’ leave for school in the morning,” Tony told his friend,fighting tears. Howard would probably slap Tony if he saw his son whining aboutsome servant’s boy.

Bucky nodded. Sniffling. “Gonna miss you,” he said. “You’re mybest friend.”

Tony threw himself into Bucky’s arms, letting tears fall. “You’remy only friend.” That counted as best, right?

“Here, here,” Bucky said. He snuggled his snow hat onto Tony’shead. “Take it. Take it with you. An’ I’ll be thinkin’ about you, okay?”

A snip of Tony’s multitool and Tony freed one of Ana’s buttons offher scarf. She’d never miss it. “Yeah, you too.”

Bucky closed his hand around the little heart-shaped button. “Bye,Tony.”

“Bye.”

(More below the cut)

It’d been a while since Tony had been home. His parents hadrequired his presence at a few holiday dinners, but he usually managed to comein, stay just long enough to eat dinner and pretend, and then he was goneagain.

Now, the house was his. Everything was his.

The house was huge. And empty. Tony didn’t want the place. Jarvishad already made arrangements for the staff to work elsewhere. Tony’d justfinished school, and he was going to go out to California for a while. As farfrom New York and memories as he could manage.

It was snowing. Tony looked out the big back window at the lawn,already six inches deep. He grabbed his coat and a battered hat from the box,silver, with a red star. He ran his fingers over it, smiling, a little. He’dfinally left it at home, when he was about fifteen and it didn’t fit anymore,and he hadn’t seen Bucky for eight years.

One of the few good memories he had from this old place.

“Wonder what ever happened to him,” Tony said to himself. Hisvoice echoed oddly in the big house.

Outside, then. He stuffed his hands in his pockets; he didn’t havegloves or lined pants. He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for, outside.Peace, maybe.

His feet carried him, as if on automatic, to the spot where thesnowfort had been. Of course there was nothing left of it. Further on, to thegarden shed. It was older, but still sealed against the weather. Of course itwas. Howard wouldn’t have allowed anything to be ramshackle on his property.

There was a light on, in the old gardener’s house. Tony frowned.All the staff was supposed to be gone.

He got about halfway up the walk toward the tiny cottage and thedoor banged open. The most beautiful man Tony had ever seen was surrounded by awarm glow of light. Dark hair curled around his face, brilliant blue eyeslooked up at him. A luscious mouth, just made for kissing, dropped open inshock. “Tony?”

Tony’s hand went up to the hat he wore, stretched tight over hishair, too small for him by half. “Oh, my god. Bucky.”

“Are you… are you real?” Bucky reached out, hesitated. One handed,the other stayed by his side as if he couldn’t move it.

“What else would I be?” Tony took a few steps closer, and thenBucky threw one arm around Tony’s neck and Tony was holding him.

Bucky sniffled and pulled back, just enough to look down intoTony’s face. “I dunno, I hallucinate sometimes,” he admitted. “PTSD, after…well, after.” He jerked his chin to the left, indicating his unmoving arm.“Prosthetic. Useless, decorative thing. Keeps people from starin’. What thehell are you doin’ here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Tony said. “Jarvis told me allthe staff had arrangements made.”

“Yeah, I…” Bucky licked his lips. “My dad’s been gone a while now.He died a few years back, but the new gardener didn’t want this place, so hisstuff’s just been here. I been living in Brooklyn after I came back fromAfghanistan. I came back to clean it up. What about you, what are you doing,now that all this is all gonna be closed up.”

“Oh, my god,” Tony said, staring. Bucky didn’t know. “Well,I came to get some of my stuff, too. I’m moving out to California for a while.”

“Yeah? Bet it’s nice out there.” Bucky finally let go, and Tonyfelt the loss of his warm solidness immediately.

“I like it,” Tony said. “I got some friends, some ideas. It’ll begreat.”

“Glad you’re real,” Bucky said. “I was lookin’ through my dresserand I found this, and then… there you were. Seemed too much like a flashback orsomething. But you’re here, Tony. That’s great! I’m glad you’ve got somethingto go out for. There’s… there’s nothing for me, you know.”

This, Tony discovered, was abutton. Heart shaped and faded pink with age. Bucky had it cupped in his handlike it was a precious treasure.

“Why… why don’t you come with me,” Tony offered, spontaneously.“Spend some time in the sun? Relax for a while. Vacation… it’ll be fun.” Hereached out and closed Bucky’s hand gently, leaving his fingers on Bucky’swrist. “You’re not my only friend anymore, but you’re still the first one Iever had.”

Bucky’s smile lit up the sky. “Sure, that… that sounds fun, Tony.I’d like that.”

“Come on up to the house,” Tony said, tugging at him a little. “Wecan raid Howard’s wine cellar and get caught up.”

Bucky blinked and then… “Oh, shit,” he said, stuttering to a halt.“You’re… you’re Anthony Stark.”

“Yeah, but don’t let it go to your head that your best friend is abillionaire. I’m still the guy who made a snowfort wrong.”

It Doesn’t Have to Be A Snowman

Bucky had no idea what he was doing.

He finished packing his father’s few things that had been leftbehind in the old garden house. He didn’t even know what to do with them. Buckydidn’t have a real home anymore; he’d been bumming sofa space with his old Armybuddy, Steve, and technically it was Steve’s boyfriend’s house. That Sam hadinherited from his mother. Sam hadn’t redecorated, either, so the whole thingwas pale yellow and soft green and covered with lacy… stuff.

It was warm, and dry, and that was about all Bucky could say aboutit. But he was having trouble holding down a job and his benefits package,while generous, didn’t really allow him to live in New York City on his own.

He didn’t even have a place to store all his dad’s crap. He neededto go through it, but the head of house had given him not terribly much noticeto get it out. Bucky slanted his eyes at the man who was leaning in thedoorway. He supposed that the new head of house actually had given him moretime.

He kept checking as he dumped stuff, one handed, into the boxes.Tony had offered to help, once, and Bucky’d given him the brush off. Buckyhated it when people helped him out of pity. It just made everything hurt more.He also hated when the people he was speaking to weren’t real. Sometimes theyweren’t. He’d spent months talking to Dum Dum Dugan before Steve had finally takenhim aside and reminded him that Dum Dum had died. That the whole fucking squadhad died, aside from him, and Bucky.

That Sam had come with his partner, Riley, and rescued their blownup asses. And that Riley hadn’t lived through it, either.

That Steve and Sam had bonded over mutual grief and trauma.

And that Bucky… had not.

He had also brushed Tony off for help because Bucky wasn’tpositive that Tony was real.

The kid that Bucky barely remembered? Who’d been, what? Seven,eight? The last time Bucky’d seen him, some fifteen or so years ago?

“What’ve you been doing?” Bucky finally asked him, when thesilence was too thick and too full of nothingness to bear any longer. Even ifTony wasn’t there, it didn’t matter.

“I… uh, went to boarding school,” Tony said. “Top of my class,graduated when I was fifteen. Went on to college, the next year. Two yearsafter that, I had my bachelors and was starting on my first doctorate.”

“First,” Bucky scoffed.

“I have three,” Tony said. “Not to brag. I’m pretty smart. For allthe good it’s done me.”

“Should I be callin’ you Doctor Stark, then?”

“Not unless you want a snowball upside the head,” Tony answered.“You know, I can have movers come up and pack this, if you want.”

“I don’t even know what I’m gonna do with all this shit,” Buckysaid. “Sell it, if any of it’s worth anythin’. Ain’t like I got money for adamn storage unit, and I’m fuckin’ livin’ on my friend’s sofa.”

“No, you’re coming to California with me,” Tony said. “Come on,leave it. Leave it. I’ll get J to pack it up and take it over to Stark Tower.You can figure out what to do with it when you get back.”

“I…”

“Whatever you’re going to say, don’t,” Tony said. “It’s not aninconvenience, and you’re not bothering me, and you’re not leeching off me.We’re friends, right? You come out to Malibu, I can show off my new house, andwe’ll have some fun, right?” And damn, but Tony sounded so lost, so concerned,and just a little bit on the needy side.

The man had just lost his parents, too, which Bucky keptforgetting.

“New house?”

“Yeah,” Tony said. “I built it. All the best architects said itcouldn’t be done, couldn’t built there, the cliff’s too unstable. So I… mightainvented a new style of support structure.”

“Pretty smart, for all th’ good it’s done you,” Bucky parrotedback. “God, you have to be real, I don’t reckon I could make up nothin’ asfabulously ridiculous as you, Tony Stark.”

“More nightmare than dream, almost everyone would say,” Tony said.“But you might be in the chosen few.” His phone pinged and he checked it.“Great, great. Leave this here, come on. I mean, technically, we can’t be late,the whole point of my having my own plane is that it can’t leave without me,but it’s cold here and I hate this house and I don’t want to be here anymore.”

Bucky looked around the only place he’d ever really belonged.Memories of his dad, memories of the boy he’d once been. Just ghosts now. LikeDum Dum. Everything was ghosts and Bucky was tired of it.

“Yeah, you ain’t even close to what my nightmares look like,Tony,” Bucky said. He shut the box decisively.

It didn’t matter, not anymore.

He’d figure out what to do when he got back.

“Let’s get out of here,” Bucky agreed.

“Ready when you are, snowflake,” Tony said.

They went through the main house and Tony turned off all thelights, leaving the mansion in darkness, the furniture covered in drop clothes,like more phantoms. Tony grabbed a crystal bottle filled with some dark liquorand two glasses. He handed them off to a stocky man near the front door.

“Happy, this is Bucky, he’s coming with us,” Tony said. “Bucky,this is Happy. My driver.”

“Whatever you say, boss,” Happy said. He got ahead of them, to awaiting limo.

The walkway was slippery with ice, and the prosthetic was no goodfor maintaining his balance. Bucky took a wrong step, twisted, and almost fell.

Tony reached out, caught his hand. “Steady there, big guy,” hesaid. “No falling down until after we get drunk.”

His hand was warm in Bucky’s, the fingers strong and callused. Notthe hand of a child, or even of a posh rich boy, but the hands of someone wholabored. Even once Bucky was steady, Tony didn’t take his hand away, and Buckydiscovered he really didn’t want to let go, either.

Something zinged between them, like static, sending sparks ofsensation through him.

For the first time in months, Bucky didn’t feel haunted.

For the first time in months, he felt alive.

He squeezed Tony’s hand and let the other man lead him down to thelimo, to the airport, and eventually, all the way to California.

To start a new life.

#winteriron #tony x bucky #tony stark #bucky barnes #snowman #children at first #pre-slash #hallucinations #bucky starting over #prompts #tisfan

[tisfan]

A-37 please?

Tony Stark was seven and his nanny had been dismissed at thebeginning of the Christmas holidays. He was going off to boarding school inJanuary, and he didn’t need coddling, and looking after anymore.Which meant that Ana Jarvis, the cook, had been the one to catch him leavingthe house after it had just snowed nearly eighteen inches overnight, in onlyjeans and a sweater.

It wasn’t her responsibility, but Ana had taken care to get Tonyinto his snowsuit and boots and proper mittens and a hat. If she had privatethoughts about a seven year old going out in the snow by himself on the Stark’svast properties, she kept them to herself, but she also tied her own scarf withits decorative buttons, around Tony’s neck to keep him warm.

Tony ran off into the snow, whooping with delight.

He was just finishing rolling the second snowball for a snowmanand trying to figure out how to lift it up onto the first one, when a voiceasked him, “Whatchoo doin’?”

Tony huffed, blowing a plume of condensation out of his mouth.“What does it look like I’m doin’?” The newcomer was a little older thanTony, taller. Thin. With dark hair that curled around his face, stuffed under asilver snow hat with a red star on it.

“Either makin’ a snowman that you’re too little t’ lift, or makin’a snowfort wrong,” the other kid said.

Tony wanted to cross his arms and give his best Howard Stark glareto the other boy, but he’d already figured out that the snowsuit wouldn’t lethim cross his arms. “It’s a snowman. I c’n lift it, I just need a plane.”

The other boy didn’t look impressed. “You’re gonna airlift asnowman?”

“No, no, a plane… a,” Tony said, gesturing, holding one hand at anangle. “A flat board. Don’t you do ramp and friction ‘speriments at yourschool?”

“No,” the other boy said. “But I know where you c’n get someboards. Wanna show me? I’m Bucky, by the way. Th’ gardener’s son. Who are you?”

“Tony,” Tony said, following the other boy back to the gardenshed.

They ended up making two trips to the garden shed to get thesnowman’s middle up and on the base, and then Bucky picked Tony up to put thehead in place. Bucky donated his hat to the cause of the snowman’s clothing,and Tony wrapped Ana Jarvis’s scarf around its neck.

The boys spent the rest of the holidays together, inseperable fromas soon as Ana could get Tony in his snowsuit until Jim called Bucky in fordinner. They made snow forts and talked about television shows. Tony broughtsome of his model cars outside and they made a race track in the snow.

“I have t’ leave for school in the morning,” Tony told his friend,fighting tears. Howard would probably slap Tony if he saw his son whining aboutsome servant’s boy.

Bucky nodded. Sniffling. “Gonna miss you,” he said. “You’re mybest friend.”

Tony threw himself into Bucky’s arms, letting tears fall. “You’remy only friend.” That counted as best, right?

“Here, here,” Bucky said. He snuggled his snow hat onto Tony’shead. “Take it. Take it with you. An’ I’ll be thinkin’ about you, okay?”

A snip of Tony’s multitool and Tony freed one of Ana’s buttons offher scarf. She’d never miss it. “Yeah, you too.”

Bucky closed his hand around the little heart-shaped button. “Bye,Tony.”

“Bye.”

It’d been a while since Tony had been home. His parents hadrequired his presence at a few holiday dinners, but he usually managed to comein, stay just long enough to eat dinner and pretend, and then he was goneagain.

Now, the house was his. Everything was his.

The house was huge. And empty. Tony didn’t want the place. Jarvishad already made arrangements for the staff to work elsewhere. Tony’d justfinished school, and he was going to go out to California for a while. As farfrom New York and memories as he could manage.

It was snowing. Tony looked out the big back window at the lawn,already six inches deep. He grabbed his coat and a battered hat from the box,silver, with a red star. He ran his fingers over it, smiling, a little. He’dfinally left it at home, when he was about fifteen and it didn’t fit anymore,and he hadn’t seen Bucky for eight years.

One of the few good memories he had from this old place.

“Wonder what ever happened to him,” Tony said to himself. Hisvoice echoed oddly in the big house.

Outside, then. He stuffed his hands in his pockets; he didn’t havegloves or lined pants. He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for, outside.Peace, maybe.

His feet carried him, as if on automatic, to the spot where thesnowfort had been. Of course there was nothing left of it. Further on, to thegarden shed. It was older, but still sealed against the weather. Of course itwas. Howard wouldn’t have allowed anything to be ramshackle on his property.

There was a light on, in the old gardener’s house. Tony frowned.All the staff was supposed to be gone.

He got about halfway up the walk toward the tiny cottage and thedoor banged open. The most beautiful man Tony had ever seen was surrounded by awarm glow of light. Dark hair curled around his face, brilliant blue eyeslooked up at him. A luscious mouth, just made for kissing, dropped open inshock. “Tony?”

Tony’s hand went up to the hat he wore, stretched tight over hishair, too small for him by half. “Oh, my god. Bucky.”

“Are you… are you real?” Bucky reached out, hesitated. One handed,the other stayed by his side as if he couldn’t move it.

“What else would I be?” Tony took a few steps closer, and thenBucky threw one arm around Tony’s neck and Tony was holding him.

Bucky sniffled and pulled back, just enough to look down intoTony’s face. “I dunno, I hallucinate sometimes,” he admitted. “PTSD, after…well, after.” He jerked his chin to the left, indicating his unmoving arm.“Prosthetic. Useless, decorative thing. Keeps people from starin’. What thehell are you doin’ here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Tony said. “Jarvis told me allthe staff had arrangements made.”

“Yeah, I…” Bucky licked his lips. “My dad’s been gone a while now.He died a few years back, but the new gardener didn’t want this place, so hisstuff’s just been here. I been living in Brooklyn after I came back fromAfghanistan. I came back to clean it up. What about you, what are you doing,now that all this is all gonna be closed up.”

“Oh, my god,” Tony said, staring. Bucky didn’t know. “Well,I came to get some of my stuff, too. I’m moving out to California for a while.”

“Yeah? Bet it’s nice out there.” Bucky finally let go, and Tonyfelt the loss of his warm solidness immediately.

“I like it,” Tony said. “I got some friends, some ideas. It’ll begreat.”

“Glad you’re real,” Bucky said. “I was lookin’ through my dresserand I found this, and then… there you were. Seemed too much like a flashback orsomething. But you’re here, Tony. That’s great! I’m glad you’ve got somethingto go out for. There’s… there’s nothing for me, you know.”

This, Tony discovered, was abutton. Heart shaped and faded pink with age. Bucky had it cupped in his handlike it was a precious treasure.

“Why… why don’t you come with me,” Tony offered, spontaneously.“Spend some time in the sun? Relax for a while. Vacation… it’ll be fun.” Hereached out and closed Bucky’s hand gently, leaving his fingers on Bucky’swrist. “You’re not my only friend anymore, but you’re still th’ first one Iever had.”

Bucky’s smile lit up the sky. “Sure, that… that sounds fun, Tony.I’d like that.”

“Come on up to the house,” Tony said, tugging at him a little. “Wecan raid Howard’s wine cellar and get caught up.”

Bucky blinked and then… “Oh, shit,” he said, stuttering to a halt.“You’re… you’re Anthony Stark.”

“Yeah, but don’t let it go to your head thatyour best friend is a billionaire. I’m still th’ one who made a snowfort wrong.”

#winteriron #snowman #stocking stuffers #holiday ficlets #Anonymous

[a-mad-scientist-approaches]

Multiverse is a Curse Word (8)

I’m pretty sure there’s going to be one more chapter after this. What a ride!

Addi, the Dimension Jumper AU, and the Drifting Dimensions AU belongs to @hntrgurl13. The Adrift AU belongs to @the-subpar-ghost, and the Addiford ship to @scipunk63. Kudos to these dudes and their cool-ass brains.

@deadpool-demon-diva and @thejesterlyfictionista, TAKE IT.

AO3  1  2  3  4  5  6  7  8  9  10  11

Chapter 8: A Resistance of Butt-Faces

Adeline shook her head. Well, that was the best last-minute gift idea I’ve ever seen someone think of, she thought. Ford was so lucky she had an unreasonable amount of technology.

She decided to go see the results, the idea of watching Mabel’s face light up like Christmas enough of an incentive to get her out of bed. As she reached the girl’s room, however, both she and her uncle barged out excitedly and crashed into her. Barely pausing for long enough to give her a kiss, Ford’s words trailed behind him as they rushed past: “Backsoongonetotestgunout!”

Mabel gave her an equally quick, but bone-crushing, hug, and said, “Thanksomuchloveyou!” and then they were gone.

I guess it went well.

The door of the room that had just been so exuberantly vacated swung a little in the breeze. Addi glanced inside briefly, and then did a double take.

There was a locator lying on the floor. That was strange. Mabel or Ford must have accidentally pocketed one of hers . . . except that she had checked the sell-bag, and everything had been accounted for.

The locator wasn’t hers, and it had been in Mabel’s room. That was concerning. She had given Julian a locator when she met him, recognising that she might need his help in the future. So, it must be his then . . . but he wouldn’t leave something like this lying around in an infrequently-used guest room.

Locators were rare. Extremely rare. They came as a set with portal beacons. Portal beacons had only been invented in one dimension, where she had fixed up a fairly broken down one that no one else had needed. Otherwise, they were not given away lightly. She knew of hardly anyone who had visited that dimension . . . apart from the resisters she had been temporarily stranded there with.

She squatted down to pick up the piece. As she rose, she turned it over to examine the curved edge. Her stomach dropped as she saw the frequency number of the beacon it was tuned to: not hers. Not good.

Addi remembered being stuck on a planet overridden by technology with a friend. She remembered patching up a broken portal beacon, and laughing as her friend somehow acquired a fully functional one. Years later, she had told her friend about Stanford Pines, a genius who could do anything if he put his mind to it. Her friend had been intrigued, and had commented on how much of a valuable asset he would be. She remembered Ford being holed up in a briefing room with her friend for almost an entire day, where, hypothetically, a tracking device could have been planted on him at any time.

The device slipped through Addi’s fingers, making a crack on collision with the wooden surface and bringing her back to the present.

There was an active locator lying on the floor. That was alarming. It belonged Wesley. That was . . . great. Just great.

She sprinted towards her sword.

⃝

The rockslide was the most pleasant-looking disaster area Mabel had ever seen. It was towards the base of the volcano, where the ground just began to slope upwards, and all the sharp edges of broken boulders were softened by the leafy plants slowly but surely overwhelming them. As Mabel and Ford approached, the rocks started small – coming up to her uncle’s knees in height – and slowly increased until it was as if they were wandering through a canyon, and the wide sweeping fields around Julian’s house, as well as the volcano itself, were blocked from view by the monoliths.

“Mabel, I am sorry.” Ford said suddenly. She looked up at him, and they paused on top of a wide platform. “I should have been there for you last night.”

Mabel laughed, trying to brush off his seriousness. “Grunkle Ford, you worry too much. It wasn’t that bad, I was just a bit homesick this morning,”

Whoops. Well that did nothing. She could see his guilt resurfacing like a whale, it was so obvious.

“Okay mister, you need to hug it out.” she said decisively, opening her arms and advancing threateningly. “Stop feeling bad, and sad, and mad at yourself! And other things rhyming with ‘ad’!” She hugged him aggressively. “You have romance to deal with now, which is a good thing, so don’t go ignoring Addi for dumb, unnecessary reasons like me maybe having the occasional nightmare. You’re not dumb, Grunkle Ford! Don’t push away something good!”

“Well I don’t want to ignore you either, Mabel.” he replied in a muffled voice, his face buried in her hair. “A relationship is no excuse to place less importance on you. You come first. Always.”

Those words warmed Mabel from her heart all the way to her fingertips, firmly driving back any dark, lonely thoughts lightly prodding at her. “Thanks . . . but, like, don’t let the last few days fool you. I can handle myself, mostly. You don’t have to worry all the time. If I need you, I’ll come get you,” she reassured him.

“Promise?”

“Promise,”

Their moment was interrupted by the sound of a portal opening nearby.

“What the-” frowned Ford. A blue glow permeated the space behind a giant, jagged pillar ahead of them.

“I wonder if anyone came through,” said Mabel. She rounded the corner and moved towards it, Ford following more warily. “Huh, I guess not.” The portal flashed out of existence, leaving no one behind. “Well anyway, is here a good spot – AAAH!”

A person suddenly sprang from a crack in the rocks, stretching like an elastic band and squeezing out of the impossibly tight space. Other stealthily disguised figures revealed themselves all around them, some shifting colours like chameleons, some shifting shapes like, oh no, the shapeshifter back home, one even straight up flickering out of invisibility. It would have been awesome, if there hadn’t been weapons pointing at them from all directions.

Ford pulled her roughly back against his chest, drawing his own gun and spinning around. They were completely surrounded.

One enemy spoke into a transmitter, saying something she couldn’t understand. Ford could though, and Mabel heard him draw in a quick breath at the garbled response. After that there was a tense silence.

It was getting a bit awkward now, to be honest.

“Do you want something?” Ford snapped angrily.

“We’re waiting,” someone responded. She was purple, with antennae, and had multifaceted red eyes.

“For what?”

“To regroup.” Anticipating Ford’s next interrogation, she continued. “We don’t have orders to hurt you, Stanford Pines. As long as you don’t try to escape, you’re not a prisoner.”

“This reasoning is very questionable,” Mabel muttered.

The alien looked at her blearily, then addressed Ford again. “Honestly, I’d rather be in bed, I got about two hours sleep, but you know resistances. Workers on-call, and all that. And the boss didn’t say anything about a kid, so I’ll let her go if you want. We don’t need her. Anyway, you’re coming back with us, and welcome to your new job, I guess,”

Mabel’s mouth dropped open. Are you kidding?! she thought. No WAY are we going back to that place! And what the heck, hasn’t anyone figured it out yet? She narrowed her eyes. I am NEVER letting anyone take my grunkle away from me. With those words echoing around her head and building to a crescendo, a hard lump of a resolution formed in Mabel’s stomach, and an idea of her own particular brand came into being.

“Your resistance is filled with butt-faces!” she blurted out fiercely, dimly thinking that the words didn’t do her feelings justice.

“Sure, whatever, kid,”

A wicked grin appeared on Mabel’s face. Oh, these jerks were so gonna pay.

“In two seconds you’re gonna wish you hadn’t underestimated me,” she promised.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. GRAPPLING HOOK!” she whipped the gun out from under her coat and aimed it at the top of the rock face behind the conversationalist. She hoped Ford’s arm was locked around her tight enough.

With her usual pin-point accuracy (that had never failed her no matter what Dipper said, don’t listen to him), she pulled the trigger, and the disc that had formed on the end of the gun when her uncle had originally cocked it made a clunking sound as it flew towards her mark, biting into the stone. The only problem was, no cord was attached to it.

Great. She’d just jettisoned a useless grappling hook and her only weapon.

“Um,” she said into the surprised quietness. She pulled the trigger again, just to make absolutely sure their situation was as dire as it seemed. The surprised quietness became even more surprised when an immense attractive force nearly ripped the gun out of her hands as it shot to its other half. Fortunately, she had an iron grip, and so did Ford.

Her uncle torqued around just as their feet left the ground, which probably saved Mabel from breaking her elbows and knees as they collided with the top of the pillar. As it was, all that happened was Ford getting winded.

“Haha! Yes!” crowed Mabel as they hauled themselves over the top and rolled over just as the resisters below came to their senses and starting firing. No shots were able hit them from this angle.

Ford sucked in a breath and clapped her on the back. “Nicely done,” he coughed, getting to his feet, “but do you think you could do it with a little more control next time?”

“Psssh, whatchoo you talking about? I did that perfectly,”

“Nothing is perfect, you can always do better,” Ford said immediately, then backtracked. “I mean, good, yes, but let’s see if we can get even more perfect. In fact, let’s do it now. We need to get back to Julian’s,”

“Why?” asked Mabel.

“They’re going after Addi,”

Mabel cocked the gun.

⃝

Thankfully, all the guests had left. This meant there was nothing stopping Julian from, say, backflipping off the bar and taking down two resisters at once with a glass bottle in each hand, or Clive from slamming into one who had been about to enter his son’s room so hard that he flew halfway across the pavilion holy shit. They had not gone soft in their retirement.

Addi thought that at this rate the fight would be over in under a minute. She really had expected more from Wesley – not that she was complaining.

Then Stanford and Mabel swung in on a grappling hook, bringing seven more assassins with them.

Adeline grabbed Ford’s sleeve and dragged both her companions behind an overturned table as a barrage of laser fire hit the metal on the other side.

“Wesley’s been tracking you!” she said to him.

“I figured!”

“I don’t think he likes you knowing his secrets!” said Mabel.

“Understatement,” snarled a soldier as she adjusted the intensity of her weapon and melted a hole straight through the table.

Addi sprang up and over it, Big Bertha swinging strongly to intercept the assailant. The gun disappeared incredibly quick and a baton came up to meet her, the resulting clash almost jarring Addi’s arm. She looked past the locked blades into her opponent’s face.

“Netessa!”

“Hi,” grunted the red-eyed woman. Adeline forced her back a step and broke the lock.

“I thought you left a long time ago,”

Netessa shrugged. “I came back,”

“Oh, well that answers all my questions.” Addi said, rolling her eyes and attempting a grin. “Come on, what have you been up to?” She noticed that the rest of the taskforce was in a shoot-out with Julian and Clive, and off to the side Ford was attempting to get Mabel to stay behind the bar.

“Do you really care? Anyway, I’m about to kill you. Why would I tell you?”

“So we could rekindle our friendship and you could help me instead?” Addi suggested hopefully.

As an answer, Netessa closed in impossibly fast and punched her.

⃝

Ford shot a man in the chest, grabbed his baton, and shoved him through a door.

“Take this and stay here,” he ordered Mabel, giving her the weapon.

“But-” she tried to argue.

“I said stay!” he turned to help Clive.

Heart in her mouth, she flinched as Julian was propelled into the front of the bar counter so hard it shook. He dodged several laser blasts before Clive tackled the shooter. Mabel heard Julian groan, then his hand appeared around the corner and he pulled himself to where he could see her.

“Mabel honey, could you please press that button? Yes that one right there, thank you,”

A sensation like a wave of static electricity passed over Mabel, the unfamiliarity fuelling the fear and uncertainty already coursing through her. Julian heaved himself up to his feet and went to rejoin the firefight . . . or what was now just a fight, actually. All the lasers had stopped working.

“Don’t worry honey, everyone’s going to be fine.” Julian smiled. Then he turned around. “ALRIGHT! TWO MINUTES WITHOUT GUNS! LET’S DO THIS!” he yelled, and decked an assassin. Now that Mabel could actually look at what was going on without being in danger of injury, she saw that there were only four of the original seven left. She kept her eyes on her friends and family. Addi was furiously battling sword-on-baton with the purple woman, and Clive and Ford were facing off barehanded against the other three. Julian wielded a broken glass bottle. Mabel wasn’t sure how long that would last against heavy-duty metal sticks, but okay.

She watched anxiously, wanting to help, but not knowing how to. Some of her dread was extinguished as Addi started calling out to her attacker between clashes. As always, when she was confident, she was fun. Best of all, it seemed to be getting on the other’s nerves.

⃝

“No really, what have you been doing?”

Ford planted a kick into an assassin’s midsection.

“Ugh, would you give it a rest already? We were never really friends!”

He dodged a swipe from a baton.

“I still want to know!”

He slid under another swing on his knees, coming up behind the person and grabbing their arm.

“I’m into sculpture now, are you happy?”

The arm was twisted but the alien did not have bones that broke like a human’s would have, and Ford lost his grip.

“Happier. How are the kids? WHOA!”

He kicked the person’s legs out before they could turn around.

“In high school – oof!”

Hoping that they had a windpipe, he pulled them into a headlock and crushed down on their throat.

“Doing okay?”

Julian was unconscious on the ground nearby, bleeding from a head wound, but it looked as though he had brought a shapeshifter down beforehand, so that was a win. Clive was being throttled against a wall. Ford would go there next.

“They hate it,”

The assassin’s struggles ceased. He dropped them and sprinted for Clive, pulling the next enemy around to face him and catching him off-guard with a swift right-hook. An uppercut took him out completely. Clive collapsed on the floor, retching.

“Fair enou-AUGH!”

Ford whipped around to the last fighting pair, and saw Addi stumbling from a blow to the head. She fell to her knees and the purple soldier knocked the sword out of her hand. She stomped on the hilt and a spark of electricity showed him that the portable E-field had just been broken. Then, the staticky feeling to the air vanished. Two minutes had passed.

Addi did not seem able to get up.

The assassin turned and looked him directly in the eyes.

“Weapons are up,” she said softly, drawing her gun, aiming at him, and flicking to stun setting, “and I win.”

Ford reached for his own gun, but the holster was empty. It had clattered out of his hand long ago. Shitshitshit, she’s going to kill Addi once you’re out, think of something, think of something NOW-

With a sickening plunging sound, the blade of a sword came through the left side of her chest. That species did not have any blood to lose, but it must have hurt regardless. She screamed and reached behind her to remove it, throwing it off to the side and glaring down at Adeline, whose reserves of strength were severely depleted after that throw.

The soldier hissed and shot her in a burst of light. Ford’s heart stopped, but the way she fell silently was obviously displeasing to the assassin.

“Goddamn stun setting,” she said murderously, flicking it off and re-aiming. In her pain she had forgotten him.

Ford slammed into her and drove her to the ground. They were both grappling for the gun, the only available weapon. Despite suffering severe bodily trauma, she was still among the best fighters Ford had ever encountered. Her red eyes burned hatefully into his as they trapped each other in a lock. An endurance test then. He poured all his strength into attempting to overpower her, favouring her injured side. She yelled through her teeth . . . then twisted, slid out of his grip, and flung an elbow into his solar plexus to wind him and knock him flat. She put the gun to his head, and did not seem to care that it was no longer on stun setting. In the split second before she fired, Ford thought –

- he saw something move behind her.

A blur of black metal, a clang, a shudder that went through the assassin’s entire body, and she slumped over. Ford looked up into his niece’s wide grin.

“HA! Yeah! Take that you – you mean lady who Addi still likes for some reason!” Mabel dropped the baton she was holding and offered a hand to help him up.

“Well done!” he said, taking in deep breaths and pushing his multitude of aches and pains to the back of his mind.

“Is Addi okay?” Mabel asked worriedly as they knelt down beside her.

“She should be fine, she’s just stunned,” Ford reassured her, checking her breathing and pulse. Addi jerked up, grabbed his wrist, and was about to headbutt him when he said, “Whoa, Adeline, it’s me, you’re safe!”

“It’s all over, Addi,” Mabel said comfortingly.

Addi untensed and allowed them to hug her, still looking disorientated. “Ouch.” she said as she lifted a hand to her head. “Netessa was never into ‘going easy’,”

Ford gently removed the hand and examined where she had been hit.

“That was really quick, by the way,” Mabel observed. “I thought it would be like half an hour before you were up,”

“The more you get stunned, the more you start to resist.” she said nonchalantly. “It’s like my secret weapon now.”

“Cool,” grinned Mabel.

Ford winced. That had been one nasty blow. He held up a hand. “How many fingers do you see?”

“If you were anyone else, I’d think six was wrong.” Addi said warmly. Then she frowned. “I don’t think they should be blurry, though.”

“Most likely a concussion. We’ll find somewhere to rest,”

“Not here.” Addi said urgently. “We need to leave. Wesley’s still going to be looking for us. I charged the portal beacon yesterday, so we should stay ahead of him for now.”

A groan behind them. They looked to see Clive lifting Julian onto a miraculously undamaged couch.

“Clive, I’m so sorry,” began Addi, also trying to get to her feet. She wobbled precariously, and latched onto Ford.

“Addi, we know you wouldn’t have come if you thought you were being followed,” said Clive weakly, “so don’t beat yourself up about it.” Then with a bloody-toothed grin, he added, “If you need any help, let us know. We’d be happy to pay Wesley back.”

⃝

Ford knelt on the floor with Addi and helped her ready the portal beacon for reception.

“Okay guys,” They looked around at Mabel. She held out a faintly glowing something in each hand. “I have made these with love, friendship, and string!” she handed them over. “You will not use them for science experiments,” she glared at Ford, “or for technology,” she glared at Addi, “you will love them, you will treasure them, and they will act as lucky charms. Most importantly, they are impossible to separate from each other. I know this because I made them, so they have to do what I want.” she finished brightly.

“I don’t think that’s how lucky charms wor-” began Addi.

“Hush! Yes it is,”

Ford looked down at the item. Many small endo-ergon quartz crystals had been threaded through a ragged and dirty piece of string. Mabel had tied both ends of her own around her wrist.

She had managed to make the friendship bracelets.

“I don’t wanna lose you guys,” a very small voice said, so softly he was not sure Mabel had meant to say it aloud at all.

Addi carefully reached over and tied the ends for him. He did the same for her. Then he looked up in time to see some imperceptible lines of concern disappear from his niece’s face, lines which he had not even noticed were there until they were gone.

He turned slightly so he could take in both her face and Addi’s, who was staring at the bracelet with a small smile. How the hell did I get so lucky? he thought, pulling them both close. Mabel refused to let go for a while, and Addi kissed both their foreheads. The stars on their hands shone.

#gravity falls #fanfiction #adrift au #dimension jumper au #drifting dimensions au #portal ford #portal mabel #portal addi #adeline marks #stanford pines #mabel pines #multiverse is a curse word #my writing

[how2to18]

APRIL 30, 1992. NBC’s The Cosby Show ended its run as the United States’s best-case scenario: Negroes not of its dreams. The situation comedy wrapped one day after a bunch of black guys beat the shit out of Reginald Denny at Florence and Normandie. A quarter-century or so ago, America’s racial schism peaked enough to make our Trump stuff look like chump change.

A month or so after that unmasking of day and night, Darius James’s phantasmagoric dark satire Negrophobia was published. Spoiler alert: James’s debut novel was not a healing tonic for its times.

But it could be one for ours.

Published by Carol/Citadel Publishing over 25 years ago and rereleased this month by New York Review Books, Negrophobia blends satirical narrative propulsion with sci-fi through a 21st-century scenario, stocked with characters based on the most husky and dusky 20th-century racist stereotypes. Among the parade passing through James’s political nightmare are horror versions of Race Subconscious Hall of Fame players: Elvis, Malcolm X, and Walt Disney.

Last century’s broadly digested racist cartoons drive both the James style of storytelling and the substance of his comment. The script is full of action that leaps about like a stereotype-mining Tex Avery short one might have taken in before a film like as Gone with the Wind, as a kind of appetizer. The story James told a quarter-century ago turns aggressively sci-fi as it leans on an endless stream of lies about black people that were cool with your grandparents’ generation. And these monsters from their minds are lampooned deadeye.

James’s twisted beasts engage in a cascade of violent strife. The book’s most engaging star and primary signifier: A delinquent teen girl best described in 2019 as a cross between Paris Hilton and Little Annie Fannie. (In an email exchange, the author told me the female character was inspired by the latter ’60s-era Playboy comic and Terry Southern’s novel Candy.) Her name is Bubbles Brazil. A whole bunch of bad things of a sexual nature happen to Bubbles, and if you’re the sort of reader who found him or herself halfway triggered by the title of this book in itself, Negrophobia sho’ nuff ain’t the book for you.

Which doesn’t make it not a book for the times.

James credits voudou in his lineage as a kind of co-pilot. Composed in the form of a movie script, Negrophobia from its very first sentence comes across as conjured. Be it conjured or hallucinated, the piece could only have been created in that the 395-year epoch before black lives began mattering on this here soil. When mass stereotypes went unquestioned and famous Negroes danced for chicken on TV. Out of this rich cultural content, the author cultivates extreme black caricatures to play in Bubbles’s mind. The comic narrative, one disturbing image diving in after its predecessor, is capable of producing a laugh and a wince per page.

James’s “screenplay” gives minimal internal motivation, just the raw expression of devious acts and racial distortion. “TEEN SEX-BOMB BLOND” is how Bubbles is introduced to us.

So delinquent is Bubbles that she’s forced to attend an all-black public high school in New York City. And Bubbles ain’t into it like Ann Coulter ain’t into Day of the Dead activities. Which is to say Not At All, and for good reason: the blacks inhabiting the mind of Bubbles Brazil — the one she’s matriculating with in her dreams — are literally The Worst Black Folks Imaginable. Monstrously bad. Graphically terrible.

The Maid, Bubbles’s Act One archenemy, resembles a demonic and funky-ass Nell Carter, illiterate as all get out. She’s a big beast in Bubbles’s mind. Only when The Maid enters do the proceedings turn truly, mind-blowingly shameful.

BUBBLES

What’s a white girl to do in a school full of jiggaboos?

MAID

Mind her business. Yo’ parents spent all dat money sending’ yo butt off to fancy private schools. ‘N’ whatchoo do? Get hot little boll-daga ass thrown out!! ‘N’ den you end up in a crazy house fo’ rich dope fiends! Face it, you just’ gonna’ hafta put up wid dem niggas.

Reading satisfaction results will vary. As a 52-year-old black American male, the humiliation of having been stereotyped provides the book its gravity. If you’re a white American of about my age, you might be enjoying the mouth-feel of James well-wrought coon-speak. In your case, reading Negrophobia might feel like a treasured childhood brand returning to the local supermarket.

In Negrophobia, the previous century’s popular culture runs deep. Bubbles Brazil attends Donald Goines Senior High School. Lawn jockeys come to life. A take on Our Town in which Grover’s Corner is now Garvey’s Corner is in the play’s changes. Buppets are black muppet B-Boys in T-shirts that say, “IT’S A DICK THAANG! YOU WOULDN’T UNDERSTAND.” Shelley Winters gets summoned back from Wild in the Streets. Unfrozen President-for-Life Walt Disney delivers a really fucked-up speech. Bernhard Goetz makes a chilling appearance. And, of course there is zombie Elvis. Hellish-Manhattan trains and apocalyptic scenarios tap into the absurdity of America’s racial horror show, late-20th-century-style.

Always in play is shame. James weaponizes the indignity through razor-sharp send-ups that are as lean as poetry, scene after scene.

For this reader there’s a strange kind of gratitude, if not thorough enjoyment for the reissue. I had all but forgotten that White America used to label my people as chicken thieves. And that there was a recurring media image of us filing down our own teeth, as African cannibals. I almost forgotten about hophead, jungle bunny jigaboo, spear-chucker, shine, jug, tar baby, boom blasters, coon, pickaninny, Jimson weed, and being called wool-headed, as our times no longer dictate that I remember. The language was not that far below the surface of my mind.

The worst Negroes imaginable, Darius James so artfully makes clear, live vividly in the culture of unedited cartoons. The sexual violence imposed upon his Downtown Little Annie Fannie echoes those Tex Avery and Warner Brothers reels. It’s a neat trick, loading their takes into Bubbles’s mind, because she and so many real-world characters have been unable to “imagine the existence of things outside [their] sum of knowledge.”

The idea to present James’s narrative in screenplay format came from the great and emotional darkie Michael O’Donoghue. James’s mentor and friend Terry Southern supported the development of it, as did Kathy Acker and Olympia Press. All over the pages of Negrophobia — nearly as much as mid-20th-century cartoon shorts — is the voice of Richard Pryor. Rudy Ray Moore and Ralph Bakshi are heavy in the mix. Steve Cannon’s in there, too.

Johnny Depp loved his first-edition copy of James’s book. Members of the band Fishbone read and related to it, and the painter Kara Walker said reading Negrophobia in grad school “was one of those good but rare occasions when I thought there might be one other person in the world that would get what I was doing.” Bill Cosby, James says in a new preface, forbade a daughter from bringing Negrophobia into his home.

James wrote a crazy punk book, bringing to the page an ethos of a Lower Manhattan in the ’80s scene that he frequented so as to turn the indie-lit party out. “He had a pedagogical intent throughout the book that can easily be missed in all the sex and grotesquerie,” D. Scot Miller, author of The Afro-Surreal Manifesto, told me in extolling James. “Afro-Surreal presupposes that beyond this visible world, there is an invisible world striving to manifest, and it is our job to uncover it.” Where before there had been scarcity of surrealism this side of Chameleon Street, Afro-Surrealism has become, if not widespread, reassuringly present in television shows like Random Acts of Flyness and Atlanta and the feature film Sorry to Bother You.

Negrophobia is “a brilliant book whose time has come and whose time has always been now,” as Amy Abugo Ongiri calls it in the introduction. Bubble’s dream would make for the dirtiest film in the history of world cinema, but I cannot help but think James’s notes on a film could be an event in the hands of Jordan Peele. Then, James could work on the script and add a scene with Race Subconscious Hall of Famer Christopher Dorner. If I have one complaint about the re-issue of Negrophobia, it’s that I am missing Christopher Dorner. Cannot stop thinking of him, even when I’m not.

¤

Donnell Alexander is a writer whose work has been featured in Time, The Nation, Al Jazeera’s “Inside Story,” and Economic Hardship Reporting Project.

The post Pedagogy in All the Sex and Grotesquerie: On Darius James’s “Negrophobia” appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

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