#youre already fucked if you get visited by normal law enforcement. if you start seeing columbo you need to run and call alan dershowitz Now

[columboscreens]

#columbo #season 1 #prescription murder #columbo talking to his dog after finding a shoelace hanging out of his mouth #i always loved how she knows her rights and columbo still manages to trip her up. the show's message day fucking one: never talk to cops #doesn't matter how clever you think you are. don't try to talk your way out of anything #youre already fucked if you get visited by normal law enforcement. if you start seeing columbo you need to run and call alan dershowitz Now

[all-might-can-smash-me]

Hogwarts AU Headcanons

Aizawa Shouta/Eraserhead, Toshinori Yagi/All Might, Taishiro Toyomitsu/Fatgum, Mirai Sasaki/Sir Nighteye, Keigo Takami/Hawks

Masterlist

Slytherin 🐍

He was the odd ball though when it came to his own house since he hung out with a Hufflepuff and a Gryffindor

Would every now and then find himself in some trouble alongside his friends with the professors

Especially for being late to class, his two friends goofing off around the grounds, and trying to sneak around late at night.

Was in possession of the Maurader’s map with his friends....but Filch took it...

Also was friends with you as well, ever since the first train ride to Hogwarts, but the two of you start to date in your 6th year.

He excelled with all his subjects and O.W.L.S. and graduated almost at the top of his class

The two of you married not too long upon graduating Hogwarts.

Became an Auror and was pretty great at his job, but with the offer of a position at Hogwarts recommended to him, he decided to give it a go

The two of you move to Hogsmeade to be closer to his work.

I picture him teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts

He’s a strict teacher, but only because he needs the students to know the ways to defend themselves and be knowledgeable of the dangers in the wizarding world.

He is also runs Wizarding Duel Club, which is actually quite popular despite him being so strict with his teaching methods

Enjoys roaming around Hogsmeade with you on the weekends he and over the holidays

Frequents the Three Broomsticks and Honeydukes with you (especially honeydukes when you fall pregnant during his 2nd year of teaching)

Students were SHOOK to see their professor at Madame Puddyfoot’s Tea Shop with a heavily pregnant you on Valentine’s Day

Students since then have introduced themselves to you and enjoy talking to you....despite Shouta wanting a student free weekend in Hogsmeade.

But he can’t help but like it when students request to feel your baby bump and you happily let them....the happy look on your face makes his heart flutter

Will invite you to eat at Hogwarts with the students and professors that stay for Christmas because he feels bad for the students who don’t go back to their families

Gryffindor 🦁

Was extremely popular in his Hogwarts years

Won the triwizard tournament his 7th year

His academics though? They weren’t out of this world, but they were pretty normal, he was better when it came to his extracurricular activities such as Wizarding Duel and Quidditch

He would secretly go to geek out about the muggle world with the Muggle Studies professor every now and then

Upon graduation he was a pretty popular quidditch player for the United Kingdom, but suffered a life changing injury

Decided live in the muggle world and study their way of life for a bit after the injury, he ended up composing a text book with all the basics he scrounged up together

It’s even used for the curriculum at Hogwarts

Though Hogwarts offered him a position as well as the Muggle Studies professor

Hell to the yes he went! He become head of Gryffindor house and helped give pointers to the quidditch team

Started a weekend club where students would meet in the great hall to observe Muggle Artifacts, it wasn’t really that popular, but it didn’t matter, the few students that joined was enough for him.

Met you shortly after beginning to teach at Hogwarts

You taught herbology and would sometimes listen in during his Muggle club in the great hall and would sometimes ask questions about the object he was talking about.

After that he would invite you out to Hogsmeade to get a butter beer and talk about muggle things since you showed an interest in wanting to know

The conversations soon turned into what would go on between two friends and it flowed so nicely, so after that he would ask you to meet up a few more times before going on a date.

The fact that two of you dated was no secret as your dates were of course held at Hogsmeade and the students could very well see the two of you chatting away.

So it wasn’t a surprise when the two of you got married and you fell pregnant during one year of teaching.

He totally invited the members of his muggles club to the wedding and totally didn’t get emotional when they gifted him a rubber duck (his absolute favorite muggle artifact)

Hufflepuff 🦡

Known as the gentle giant while in school

Supper nice and was friendly with absolutely everyone, so he was highly respected and adored by his peers

His academic life was pretty normal, excelling in the subjects he needed to become an Auror, he was also the announcer for the school’s quidditch matches.

Also liked to spend his time in the library to study....also snuck snacks in as well and would share with the other students that were studying

Met you on the train ride to Hogwarts his 7th year, he was trying to enter your train car since the others were full but he only managed to bang his head upon entering

You two were joined at the hip ever since then and started dating

The two of you married after graduation

You came into the ownership of honeydukes at Hogsmeade while Taishiro spent most of his time away for his job as an Auror

Quite his job though once the two of you had your 5th child to move to Hogsmeade to be with you and to help you run the candy shop.

The students love interacting with you and Taishiro, talking about their classes and their stuggles and asking for advice as they would purchase their chocolate frogs and other confectionary

Your older children, who all happen to be girls, love to go visit you and Tiashiro ok the weekends and sometimes hang out with their friends there.

Your younger girls would give advice to the students who are purchasing candy on which one is the best and will also look longingly to them because they wanted to be at Hogwarts already.

They would also brag that they had like five of the cards that a student would get from their chocolate frogs, but Taishiro would soon put them on blast and say they didn’t

Became instant BFFs with the Weasley family thanks to being able to relate on having big families, so holidays together are chaotic but fun

Is a huge advocate for house elves rights along with his daughters and you

Ravenclaw

Was a little quiet during school, a little mysterious

People either liked him or just really didn’t know him, mostly people from his own house liked him.

Excelled in academics and was at the top of his class and was viewed as the brightest wizard in his year, but sucked when it came to quidditch.

Really, really, really, really loved quidditch though and really wished he was good at it, but you can’t help some things.

Upon graduation he took up a position at the Ministry of Magic as the head of the Department of Mysteries

Worked extremely close with the Hall of Prophecy thanks to his gift of Divination (divination was his favorite course in Hogwarts)

Met you through work after becoming head of the Department of Mysteries

Your were the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement

You two had a meeting for damage control because a worker on the Hall of Prophecy managed to drop on of them and the even needed to be documented

You had a framed signature from a famous quidditch player on the wall that caught his attention after the meeting, which he pointed out and the two of you had a conversation about your shared love of quidditch

After that, he was hooked and asked you out on a date, which went well and the two of you were married a year or two later.

He would read your tea leaves or your palms about your future to impress you

It always impressed you and it will always impress you no matter how many times he would do it.

The two of you live in an apartment in London and will often go to the Leaky Couldron and Diagon Alley

The two of you would deck yourself out in your favorite teams for the quidditch World Cup, which includes painting your face

Gryffindor 🦁

EXTREMELY popular in his Hogwarts years

Literally all the girls loved and pined after him, all the boys wanted to be him, and all the teachers were always impressed with his work.

Was the best seeker for the Gryffindor quidditch team

All around perfect student and he always seemed to do everything with so much ease and stress free

Always managed to dodge the love potions girls would try to slip him.

He met you one day while messing around with his friends at the lake skipping rocks, you were under the shade of a tree studying.

His friends went to start messing with you, which he soon told them too all ‘fuck off’ when he could tell that you were visibly annoyed with them.

Always hung out with you since then, becoming almost like your gaurdian angel

Upon graduation he struck a job being an Auror, you the potions master at hogwarts.

He was pretty dang awesome in his job and honestly everyone knew the amazing work he did as Auror, so he was pretty popular amongst the Aurors as well

He quit his job though to begin teaching the flying lessons to the first years at Hogwarts because he really did enjoy quidditch and flying

Also was in charge of quidditch as a whole

And he also just really missed you

He finally asked you out on a date towards the end of his first year of teaching at Hogwarts and you said yes, then towards the beginning of the next year, the two of you got married

The students love Keigo, he treats them as equals, mostly because he’s honestly not that much older than them and was in their position not to long ago.

Girls swoon over him and are low key jealous that you are married to him.

He likes to pop his head in to bother you during, or before and after your classes

Plays quick games of quidditch on the quidditch field with the house team that are practicing for fun

Will tug you into the potion’s closet for a quick kiss, despite how unprofessional you think it is

#aizawa shouta x reader #aizawa shouta headcanons #eraserhead x reader #eraserhead headcanons #toshinori yagi x reader #toshinori yagi headcanons #all might x reader #all might headcanons #toyomitsu taishiro x reader #taishiro toyomitsu x reader #fatgum x reader #fatgum headcanons #sir nighteye headcanons #sir nighteye x reader #mirai sasaki #mirai sasaki x reader #hawks x reader #keigo takami x reader #keigo takami headcanons #hawks headcanons #bnha headcanons #mha headcanons #bnha #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #mha #hogwarts au

[gallavictorious]

Gallavich Week Day 5: Fix-It / Rewrite

Right, so fix-its aren’t so much my jam, but there is this one weird, weird, weird thing that I’ve (so far) been unable to meta into any sort of sense. Namely, Mickey looking like that in season 11 while apparently not working out. It’s just… uh… he… what? At one point I hypothesized that he’s been bitten by a radioactive spider or the like, leaving him magically super buff, and to be honest, that’s still the most reasonable explanation I can think of, soooo…

Today I'm back at my nonsense to bring you, everyone and especially our dear @gallavichthings, 2,711 Very Serious words about Mickey being a secret superhero. Well. Except for the hero bit.

Read it below or on AO3.

---

In Which Mickey Milkovich Does Not Save the World

Afterwards, he would always refer to it as the radioactive motherfucker bug from hell, but the truth is that Mickey never saw the thing that got him.

He was going about his business (namely poking around the Gallagher basement for any forgotten shit he could sell for beer money now that all the cash from the wedding had been surreptitiously replaced with I.O.U:s) when he felt a sudden, sharp pain just above his ankle. Cursing up a storm, he desperately waved his foot around and lost his balance and stumbled straight into one of the many piles of boxes that littered the basement. By the time he was back on his feet whatever creature that had dug its nasty little teeth/pincers/claws into his tender flesh had scurried off, leaving Mickey with a throbbing ache and a halfway impressive puncture wound on his left leg.

Muttering darkly about fucking Gallaghers being so used Frank they didn’t know how to keep goddamned monster vermin out of their shitty house Mickey limped up the stairs to pour some Jamison on the wound, and then pour some down his throat because he had the bottle out already so he might as well. He borrowed one of Franny’s colourful pirate-patterned band-aids, and when his nosy as fuck ex-EMT of a husband asked about it later that evening Mickey said he’d dropped a can on his foot, it’s just a scratch, man, no you don’t need to take a look at it, just put your fingers back in my ass, please.

Mickey didn’t make a habit of lying to Ian, but he figured that telling the truth would lead to all sorts of questions about why he was in the basement and having to come up with plausible explanation for that when he should just be focusing on getting railed wasn’t part of his plans for the evening. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair to Ian, who’d been getting so worked up over money lately, to distract him with that sort of unimportant stuff while they were banging. Mickey was a considerate spouse.

Thankfully, Ian dropped the subject and proceeded to do his husbandly duty. Mickey went to sleep deeply satisfied.

He was almost as satisfied the next morning when he woke up to realize that the pain in his leg was gone, as were all traces of the wound itself. Mickey had always healed pretty fast, but this was quick enough to have him questioning whether or not he’d really been bitten/stung/whatever at all. Maybe he’d had more beers than he thought and imagined the whole thing… ?

It didn’t really matter, and if that had been the whole of it Mickey was likely to soon have forgotten all about the radioactive motherfucker bug from hell. However, in the next few weeks he started noticing stuff, weird stuff. For instance, it wasn’t just the (possibly imagined) bite/sting that healed far more quickly than normal; it was all the little cuts and scrapes he tended to acquire. A big bruise from running into the table while playing with Franny; faded to nothing the next morning. A cut from the razor; gone within the hour. For the first time he could remember, Mickey looked at his naked body in the mirror and saw not one single wound (though there were still scars aplenty). It wasn’t a bad thing, per se, but it was weird.

Then there was that thing with his muscles. Mickey had been in decent shape for most of his life and whenever he got locked up for extended periods of time he made a habit of hitting the gym on the regular. Really wasn’t much else to do in the joint, and having a decent bulk reminded the other inmates that you weren’t someone they could push around; letting people know that you could beat the shit out of them often meant you didn’t have to actually do it, which saved everyone a lot of time and energy and trips to the prison quack. But on the outside, exercise wasn’t very high on Mickey’s list of priorities, meaning he tended to slim down a bit after a while in freedom.

Not now, though. Almost a year after being out of prison, and he was still as built as ever; if anything he seemed to be developing more muscles, in spite rarely engaging in anything more taxing than vigorous fucking. (Okay, so there was a lot of vigorous fucking, but still. If anyone ought to be building their biceps from the sex they were having, it should be Ian.)

Mickey didn’t mind being inexplicably ripped, though. He felt great, looked great – and Ian seemed to be pretty into it, too. Then again, Ian seemed to be pretty into Mickey whether he wore dirty clothes, sported a beard, sported a dress, or hadn’t showered in a week, so maybe that wasn’t saying a lot.

But even given all that, maybe Mickey still wouldn’t have thought too much about it (he was, after all, very busy being on his honeymoon, which required lots of determined sleep-ins, dedicated beer-drinking, and – obviously – lots and lots of banging) if there hadn’t one day come a knock on the front door. At first he ignored itm in the hopes that someone else would get it, but when it became apparent that a, he was alone in the house, and b, whoever was at the door wasn’t giving up anytime soon, he grabbed the family baseball bat (even big soft ass Larry would react to Mickey opening the door with an extremely illegal gun in hand) and went to answer the insistent knocking.

Outside stood two women, looking an unsettling mix of sober and apprehensive and eager. One of them reminded him vaguely of Angie Zago; the other was taller and darker and quite possibly brooding.

“Can I help you?” he demanded, not quite as rudely as he might have. He didn’t think they were social workers, but one never knew; they’d been checking up on Debbie and Franny ever since Debbie pleaded guilty to statutory rape.

“Mr. Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich?” Not-Angie inquired in a polite sort of tremble. 

“Who’s asking?” Mickey demanded, feeling a little thrown by the use of his full name. The only people who pulled that out was law enforcement, and neither of these ladies had that feel about them. Especially since they seemed to be… excited to meet him, which wasn’t a reaction Mickey was used to getting. Particularly not from ladies looking like they ought to be out collecting for the fucking Red Cross.

They better not be asking for donations for the Red Cross.

“I’m Tania and this is Dreamweaver,” Not-Angie said. “Can we come in? It’s really best if we talk in private.”

Mickey didn’t move. “Dreamweaver? You kick your mama too many times in the kidneys before you were born or something?”

The women glanced uncertainly at each other. “Mr. Milkovich,” the one improbably called Dreamweaver began, but Mickey cut her off:

“You with the police?”

They quickly shook their heads. “No, we— “

“You here to give me money?”

“No, you see, it’s— “

“Okay, thank you, bye.” But as he moved to close the door, Tania – displaying more spunk than he’d have given her credit for – took a step forward and blocked the entrance.

“Have you been experiencing any strange body phenomena lately, Mr. Milkovich?” she blurted. “Wounds healing very quickly, perhaps, or increased muscle mass?”

Mickey stilled, eyes darting between the two women. Small, small smiles on their faces now, as if they knew they had him. There was a hint of hunger to those smiles, making Mickey feel uncharacteristically uncomfortable. The urge to push Tania back and slam the door shut was strong, but…

“Fine,” he said at long last. “Come on in.”

They better not be fucking cannibals either.

---

They called themselves The Guardians, and they wanted him to save the world.

Mickey asked what numbers they were talking and, after getting bored of their uncomprehending stares, clarified: “How much is it gonna pay? What’s my cut?”

Dreamweaver frowned. “You mean… money? As in a… salary?”

“Yeah, sure. What’s my salary?”

“Mr. Milkovich, saving the world is a higher calling and a duty, it’s not something that– “

“Uh-huh. So, just to be clear, you’re not gonna pay me?”

They weren’t. Mickey laughed in their faces, stood from the couch, and told them bye and good luck with that and don’t let the door hit ya on the way out.

They reasoned with him. They pleaded. They explained, again and again, that after the evil society USCH destroyed The Guardian’s headquarters in a devastating attack, the two of them–and Mickey–was the only thing standing between the world and utter destruction. Surely, he must understand that it was nothing less than Fate that had brought the one remaining Bestower Bot into the Gallagher basement and his path? Admittedly, injecting Mickey with the bio enhancer might have been the result of a malfunction – Tania and Dreamweaver had found the bot dead down the street a couple of nights ago – but didn’t he see that he had been called to serve as a warrior in the fight against evil?

“Yeah, no thanks,” Mickey told them, and then he picked up the bat and waved it around until they took the hint and left.

When Ian returned home a few hours later, Mickey carefully didn’t mention the curious visit or any of what Tania and Dreamweaver had told him. Ian was pretty into saving people and had all these lame ideas about service and honor, and Mickey found it more likely than not that his husband would both be upset that Mickey, rather than Ian himself, had been called as a warrior (it’d be Lip and West Point all over again, Mickey just knew it), and demand that Mickey answer the call and run off like some loon to get himself killed by evil technomancers.

Mickey didn’t particularly feel like dying and he didn’t like the idea of hurting his husband’s feelings either, so he kept his mouth shut and skillfully derailed all of Ian’s attempts at asking about his day by giving him a blow job, teasing him about being a grunt, and allowing himself to be wrestled to the floor when Ian decided he’d had enough of teasing. It was a good evening.

As he lay in bed that night, back against Ian’s chest and with those strong arms wrapped around him, Mickey wondered if it would be worth risking Ian’s reaction by going public. Okay, Tania and Dreamweaver had mentioned how he’d probably gotten a pretty small dose of the bio-whatever-the-fuck, lending him nothing more exciting than enduring muscle mass and enhanced healing, but that should probably be enough to turn him into a cut above the rest, right? He could hire himself out to the highest bidder and make a fortune doing private security or collections or stuff like that. Fuck, he’d even consider taking on jobs for The Guardians, if they just agreed to pay him.

It was a fun thought to play with, but in the end a long life in the shadows made Mickey wary of putting himself out there like that. Besides, he’d seen enough movies to know that it’d probably wouldn’t be long before he mysteriously disappeared to some secret government facility to be experimented on. He’d had enough of the state’s hospitality to last him a lifetime, so thanks, but no fucking thanks.

And that could have been it. Should have been it, but of course Tania and Dreamweaver wouldn’t leave well enough alone. They started showing up at the Gallagher house at all hours, whenever they knew they could get Mickey alone. They accosted him on the way to the Alibi, they sat down next to him on the L, and they left him pictures of puppies with little notes saying stuff like “Only YOU can SAVE him from BURNING. Have a HEART”.

It was exhausting. Fearing the retribution of the cartel hadn’t anything on fearing seeing Tania and Dreamweaver’s disappointed-yet-still-somehow-hopeful-and-terribly-determined faces appear in a crowd, or round a corner, or on the porch when he went out for his evening smoke.

Mickey began to lose sleep. He’d spend the nights tossing and turning, which led to him staying in bed half the day to catch up on much needed rest, and he was often so tired he couldn’t bring himself to put on proper clothes or go outside the door the whole day. 

Ian was on his ass about getting a job; he didn’t get that Mickey had a job, and that job was not getting lured into sacrificing his life for the greater good. If Ian didn’t like the prospects of being a prison widow, how offensive wouldn’t he find the prospect of being an actual widower, after his husband got blown to bits by some big bad villain?

It got to the point of Ian initiating a sex strike to force Mickey to get “a real job”, which struck Mickey as really fucking unfair, considering how all he was trying to do was make sure Ian even had a husband to refuse to fuck.

Enough was enough. Something had to be done. Fortunately for Mickey – and unfortunately for Tania and Dreamweaver – Mickey had a guy for everything. As annoying as The Guardians were, Mickey didn’t have the heart to see them killed, but he figured that having them kidnapped and shipped off to some sweatshop on the other side of the world would serve the same purpose. He felt a little bad about it, sure, but he had given them plenty of chances to fuck off. Not his fault they couldn’t respect a fucking boundary.

Mickey called Johnny, told him the score, and a few night later Johnny called Mickey to tell him it was done.

It was done. Over. Mickey would finally be able go about his life in peace again, giving all his attention to his husband and doing his outmost to make him the happiest man alive every single day, even when Ian was annoying as hell and started asking pointless fucking questions about how Mickey was in such great shape even though he never did as much as one single curl up.

I see. So… you’re telling me that you have secret superpowers.

Yeah. Except, not actually secret anymore. ‘Cause, you know, you told me we shouldn’t have secrets.

… yeah, that was three months ago.

Guess it must have slipped my mind, huh.

Must have. But let me get this straight: you couldn’t get a real job because you were busy dodging secret agents, and your muscles are the result of you getting bitten by some magic robot—

Radioactive motherfucker bug from hell.

—and not you sneaking down to the basement to do weights and cardio almost every day?

… oh.

Yeah, oh. Carl told me about it, asshole. He noticed you using some of the stuff down there. Don’t get why you’d wanna keep that a secret though?

…

Mick. We have to be honest with each other, remember?

Jesus Christ, I don’t know, okay? I don’t know.

Okay.

Guess the first time was back when you had that dip a couple of months after the wedding. Few times after that, if we had a fight or whatever and I needed to let off some steam. Then you started working and sometimes I got bored watching TV all day but you were all mopey about your shitty job and me not having any and you have this thing about your body—

I don’t have a thing about my body.

­—so I didn’t really wanna rub your face in me having all that time to work out when you could barely squeeze in dozen push-ups in the evening. And I guess I didn’t really want anyone to know that I… cared, or whatever.

Cared? About what? Being healthy? Looking good? Being strong?

Whatever, man, I told I don’t fucking know. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, ‘cause it was a radioactive motherfucker bug from hell that did it.

Of course it was. Come here. Show me what that bio enhanced body of yours can do.

---

Ahahahahahaha, would you look at that. I tried to meta it anyway. 😭😭😭

You might reasonably ask about Mickey’s visit to Kev Fit – how does that fit? WELL, I rather imagine that whatever Mickey does in that basement is enough to keep him fit but still not SUPER hardcore? So when he starts worrying about Ian thinking him weaker than, he decides to take it up a notch and do it properly in a real(ish) gym? And his comment about “not remembering how much working out sucks” is part of the whole “not wanting anyone to know this is something I care to do on the regular”… Yeah, it’s pretty weak. All in all, I’d say the radioactive motherfucker bug from hell is still our best bet. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

This is probably the last time I have one of them tell the other a story this week, but I make no promises. These little ficlets don’t tend to go as planned. (Ha! She said, as if there was a plan to begin with. Oh, well. I guess it’s working out so far.)

#gallavich #gallavich week 2021 #gw2021 #ficlet #my stuff

[dccomicsimagines]

Blackmail - Hal Jordan x Reader - Part Two

Part One

Warning - Pregnancy

Requested by Anon -  Please make a sequel to blackmail about a month later green lantern still being loyal to keep the reader alive and the reader finds out she is pregnant and tries to hide it but superman scans her and finds out and uses it to make more of a advantage against Hal. Please please please

Requested by Anon -  Blackmail was really good! You should totally right a sequel to it :)

Requested by Anon -  Hi,love your work! Would you be willing to do another part to the Hal Jordan imagine, blackmail? Thank you <3

***

“Please be stress, please be stress,” you whispered over and over to yourself in the tiny bathroom connected to the ice room that was your new home. You eyed the feminine products on the counter. The robot brought them in with your meal that morning. 

How did they know when you would need them? You shivered. The only issue was that you were late. Very late. 

You hid the products under the sink. “It’s just stress.” However, your mind started count the days. The last time you and Hal...it was before all this. It was the night before he left to go to the Green Lantern Corps meeting about Superman.

Suddenly, you tasted acid in your mouth. You fell onto the toilet to lose the breakfast you managed to eat. “Hal, I need you now.” Once you were finished, you crawled your way up to the sink and washed out your mouth. Your cheeks were already wet from the tears you didn’t notice until now.

“Miss (Y/N), it is time for the hour exercise,” the robot said from the other room. You froze, holding your breath. The robot opened the bathroom door a moment later, staring at you with it’s empty eyes. You hated it so much. About two days into your imprisonment, you had attempted to attack the robot. It didn’t work, and you were drugged into a stupor for a day afterwards.

You pressed your lips together and brushed past the robot to the door. It followed you closely. You knew the way to the garden by now. Besides, you wanted to see if you could meet someone else on the way.

Two weeks ago, you met Diana. You tried to talk to her, but the robot dragged you off. “Hal,” you whispered under your breath, hoping you would see him. You hadn’t seen him since he explained how you were to be Superman’s prisoner indefinitely. Everything in you hoped Hal wasn’t being forced to do something terrible. You swallowed hard. You couldn’t live with yourself if he did. 

Your hand fell to your stomach absentmindedly. What would happen if you were pregnant? What would Superman do? The robot pushed you along when you slowed down. Finally, you reached the garden. It was warmer than your cell. You slid off your coat. 

The robot stationed itself by the door. It’s cold, lifeless eyes watched you as you walked along the path and out of it’s sight. You walked around, touching a plant here and there. Slowly, you sat down on a bench, feeling a little weak. There wasn’t another way out of the garden, so you didn’t bother to try to find a way to escape. You already tried for the month you’ve been here. Was it a month? The days all blurred together. 

“(Y/N)?” You tensed, jumping to your feet to find Superman landing behind you. 

“Fuck you,” you growled, hating him. He visited you every day. It was only recently that he started talking to you. Before he would just stare. Your blood ran cold. He would know if you were pregnant, wouldn’t he? Maybe that’s why the feminine products came when they did, to let you know he knew.

“Your heartbeat is faster than normal.” He studied you. You shivered, loathing how he looked at you. “You will have a physical.” 

“My heart could be beating fast because I’m afraid of you.” You swallowed hard. The physical would confirm what he already knew. Even though you wanted to know, you had to keep it a secret.

Superman frowned, floating over to you. He grabbed your chin to look you in the eye. You stared back at him, narrowing your eyes. “You’re not afraid.” His grip on your chin tightened in warning. Your heart skipped a beat. “Besides, we can’t have you sick. What will Hal say when he visits you next?” 

“Like you care.” You pulled away from him. He let you go. “Lois would be ashamed of you.” 

His eyes narrowed, glowing red. You shrank away. Your blood froze in terror, but part of you hoped he’d do it. Hal would be free to stop him if he didn’t have to worry about you anymore. “Don’t.” 

“Come on, do it,” you hissed, gathering whatever courage you had left. If you were pregnant, you hoped your baby would forgive you for getting yourself killed. 

Superman took a deep breath. His eyes turned back to their normal icy blue. “You will have the physical.” He frowned. “I was going to give you access to a library to entertain yourself, but that will have to wait. We’ll have to see how well Hal does.” 

You exploded, swearing at him as you tried to hit him. He floated out of your reach. The robot came around the corner and grabbed your arms. It’s grip was tight, bruising you. 

Superman frowned and flew away. The robot dragged you away. “Hal!” you screamed, hoping beyond hopes he could hear you. “Hal!” 

***

Two months passed. Hal sighed, burying his head into his hands. He felt empty, lost. The weight of his ring on his finger was gone. He was no longer a Green Lantern. What was he without his ring? Without you?

“Jordan.” Superman’s voice echoed from the window of Hal’s small apartment. It wasn’t the one he shared with you as he was unable to go back there knowing you were trapped in the Fortress of Solitude forever. 

“What do you want?” Hal asked tiredly. His voice cracked, defeated. “I’ve already lost my ring for you. I’ve done everything you asked. Let (Y/N) go, and we’ll go live somewhere. We won’t rebel against you. Please, just let me see her.” He ran his hand down his face and over his unshaven chin.

Superman laughed. “You may, but I need you to get a ring. I need a Lantern on my side. Enforcing the law needs someone with that kind of power.” 

Hal jumped to his feet, pointing a finger in Superman’s face. “I can’t be a Green Lantern anymore. You shouldn’t have made me do what you made me do.” 

“You can be a Lantern again if you make a deal with Sinestro.” Superman smiled cruelly as Hal’s jaw dropped open in horror.

“No, I will never.” Hal dropped his hand, clenching it into a fist. He reminded himself that punching Superman will only break his hand. 

“I need Lanterns on my side. Join Sinestro, become a Yellow Lantern and I will let you see (Y/N).” Superman pulled a photo out of his pocket. “Or I will have (Y/N)’s pregnancy aborted.” 

Hal gasped, staring at the photo. It was an ultrasound. He could make out a tiny form of a baby. “You wouldn’t. Not after Lois. You wouldn’t.” Hal stared at Superman in disbelief. His mind counted the months. You could be pregnant with his child. He remembered not using protection the last time he slept with you. 

“I will.” Superman’s face blanked. Cold hard steel. “Do it, Hal. Come to the fortress with your new ring, and you’ll get to spend the day with (Y/N).” Superman flew off. Hal collapsed to the ground, shaking.

“Fuck you,” Hal muttered, knowing Superman would hear him. A sob slipped past his lips, unable to stop himself. The idea you were pregnant should have made him happy. In another time, he would have been, but now all he could think was how you and him would raise a child under Superman’s steel thumb. 

***

You sat up in the fur covered bed when the door opened. With all your might, you threw a rock stolen from the garden. You kept your eyes closed, waiting to feel the hot lasers from Superman’s eyes or the cold needle from the robot. The rock clanged against the hallway wall.

“Woah,” a wonderful, tired voice said. Your eyes flew open. 

“Hal?” You soaked in the sight of him. His clothes were baggy, his face thinner. In his hand, he held a gift bag and a bouquet of flowers. The dark circles under his eyes made you want to help him anyway you could. You rolled to your feet with your baby belly and ran over to him. He wrapped his arms around you.

“Yeah, baby.” Hal dropped the bag and the flowers to pull you closer. Your belly pressed against his stomach. You knew he’d feel it and instantly know about the baby you were carrying. Of course, you assumed Superman would have told him already. “I missed you so much.” 

Tears ran down your cheeks as you ran your fingers through his hair. It needed a wash. You pressed your cheek against his, feeling the burn of his whiskers. He needed to shave too. “I missed you too. It’s been so long.” Tightening your arms around him, you felt how thin he had gotten. 

“I know.” He kissed your lips desperately as if you were the very air he needed to breath. Slowly, Hal backed you up to the bed before guiding you down to sit on the edge. He broke the kiss. “I brought you some things.” He picked up the flowers and the gift bag again. 

“Thank you.” You took them from him, kissing him again. Hal smiled into the kiss. The shadows in his eyes lightened. His shoulders relaxed fully. You trailed your hand down his back, melting into him. Hal dropped to his knees in front of you. 

“I’m sorry,” Hal whispered between kisses. 

“You don’t have to be sorry. None of this is your fault. It’s his.” You pulled away to look him in the eye. Your hand reached down to find his. Tracing his ring as you always did, you frowned when the pattern felt different. “What?” You looked down, pulling Hal’s hand closer. Your heart dropped when you saw the yellow ring on his finger.

Hal paled, looking away from you. “Don’t ask.” His hand started to shake.

“Oh, sweetheart.” A sob worked it’s way up your throat. You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck. “I’m so sorry I made you do this.” 

“You didn’t make me do anything.” Hal stiffened in your arms. “Clark did it.” 

You gasped. “Don’t say his name. He’ll come here.” Running your fingers through his hair again, you shivered. 

“Did he hurt you?” Hal coughed, relaxing at your touch. 

“No. Just frightened me.” You patted your baby bump. “We’re both fine.” Hal slid a shaky hand onto yours.

“I always imagined this moment, but I never thought it would be like this.” Hal kissed you gently.

“No, I thought I’d get to find out on my own. Maybe do a cute reveal thing?” You pulled away, looking him in the eye. “But I’m glad you’re here now. That we’re both here for this.” 

Hal smiled sadly. “You should open your present.” He set it in your lap. You sighed, giving him a small smile.

Pulling away the tissue paper, you gasped. “Oh, sweetheart.” You held up a set of newborn onesies with little airplanes on them. “These are adorable.” 

“I picked them up after I came to my senses.” He looked haunted, so unlike himself. 

You kissed him passionately, desperate to chase away the shadows in his eyes. “I love you so much.” 

Hal moaned, pushing you to lay down on the bed as he crawled on top of you. “You make everything better.” 

“Good.” You studied him between kisses, hoping you could make everything better from him. 

***

You didn’t see Hal again for four more months. Your belly was huge, and you felt like a whale. The baby moved a lot, unaware how they were about to be born into a prison.

“Miss (Y/N), it is time for the hour exercise.” The robot opened the door to your bedroom. You sighed, sitting up in bed with some difficultly. Your feet were still swollen from yesterday, but you knew you had to get up. The robot would carry you out if you didn’t.

The robot started forward as you were taking too long. “I’m fine, give me a moment,” you snapped, getting to your feet. The baby somersaulted in your belly. “Stop it, honey. You’re making Mommy sick again.” You rubbed your belly and waddled out the door. The robot followed closely behind. 

You didn’t bother to try to look around for someone to plead your case to anymore. The last person you saw was Barry, and he avoided you with a guilty expression on his face. It make you feel slightly satisfied that he felt wrong about you being kept as a prisoner. 

Finally, you reached the garden. The robot hovered by the door while you wandered out of sight. You took a deep breath, loving the smell of soil. You never thought you would miss dirt, but you did.

Wandering around until your feet hurt, you sat down on the bench to rest. The baby kicked you. You chuckled, rubbing your belly with love and wishing Hal could be here. 

A few minutes passed with you soaking up the artificial sun before a large boom echoed from somewhere else in the fortress. You perked up, but then relaxed. It could be Superman throwing things or sparing with Wonder Woman or...well, you weren’t sure. You had never heard a boom like that before. 

Suddenly, the robot’s head went flying past. It crashed into the far wall. You jumped in surprise. Hope sparked in your heart as you pushed yourself to your feet.

“(Y/N)?” Hal gasped, appearing around corner of the path. In his Yellow Lantern suit, you almost didn’t recognize him until he took off his mask and you could see his eyes. He paused, hovering to drink in the sight of you. You studied him the same way. He looked so much older. You could have sworn there was a touch of gray in his hair.

“Hal?” Tears filled your eyes as you opened your arms. He flew to you, wrapping his arms around you tightly. His stomach pressing as close to your baby belly as he could. 

“You and the baby are safe?” he whispered, kissing you deeply. You melted into him. Your knees gave out, but he held you to him.

“Yes, we’re fine.” Panting, you pulled away with a hand running through his hair. “What is this about? Did you...?” 

Hal smiled. “No, but in two minutes, Batman is coming. We’ll pretend to fight. He’ll win and you’ll go with him.” 

You blinked. “What?” A shiver ran down your spine. “Wait, you won’t come too?” 

His face fell slightly. He knelt down and pressed his ear against your belly. “No, I won’t. I have to stay here. Superman can’t think I betrayed him, or he’ll kill you and our baby.” 

The baby kicked. Hal smiled up at you, feeling it against his cheek. “But...I can’t do this without you.” A sob escaped your lips as you kept running your fingers through Hal’s hair. “You won’t get to see our baby.”

“No, but I’ll know you’re both safe with Batman and that’s what matters.” Hal kissed your belly before slowly getting to his feet. He kissed your lips desperately. “It won’t be forever.”

“But...” Your heart skipped a beat when a bat shadow suddenly appeared behind Hal. “No.” You threw yourself around Hal to protect him. “Don’t hurt him.” 

“It won’t hurt him, (Y/N), but we have to make it look good,” Batman said, stepping into the light. He had stubble on his chin, something you never remembered seeing on him. “We don’t have a lot of time.”  

Hal turned you to face him. “Baby, please. Don’t do this.” He kissed you hard before pulling away to look you in the eye. “Protect our baby for me.” 

The tears fell freely down your cheeks. You took a shaky breath as your heart broke with the knowledge you would have to leave him. The baby kicked you. You laid a hand on your belly. “You’ll come back to us.” 

“I will.” Hal smiled and stepped around you. “Let’s go, Bruce.” He cracked his knuckles before flying at Batman. You stumbled back, watching the fight in horror. Feeling sick, you sank down onto the bench and hid your face in your hands.

The sounds of the fight echoed in your ears. You covered your ears to block it. Before you knew it, a hand grabbed your arm and pulled you to your feet. You gasped, looking into Batman’s masked face. Your eyes slid over to Hal’s unconscious body on the ground. “Let me go to him,” you whispered. 

“No, we have to go now.” Batman pulled you along. Suddenly, he wrapped his cape around you as the roof was blasted in. Rumble and dust fell on both of you, but the cape protected you. The hum of the plane above echoed through the room. 

“But...” You threw the cape off and turned back to Hal. Batman grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at him. A chill ran down your spine as you remembered Superman had grabbed your chin the same way. 

“Don’t let his sacrifice be for nothing.” Batman looked you in the eye. His lips pursed. “We don’t have time.” 

You swallowed hard, stepping away from Batman. Studying Hal for long enough to see his chest rise and fall, you sighed. “Okay.” Your heart broke. Batman pulled you to him and wrapped his arm around your waist securely. 

“Hold on,” he warned. You threw your arms around his neck when he suddenly shot his grapple gun up to the plane above. Your feet left the ground a second later. A little scream escaped you. Your baby kicked wildly. Batman smirked.

Once your feet touched the floor of the plane, you slapped Batman’s arm. “You could have warned me,” you hissed. Your stomach flip flopped dangerously. 

Batman snorted, pulling you along to a seat and buckling you in. “If anything happens, go to the back of the plane and used the escape pod,” he said sternly. “Otherwise, sit tight.” He smirked again when he pulled out a barf bag. 

You glared at him as you took it. He went to the cockpit, leaving you alone. The plane hummed, vibrating as it flew to somewhere safe. You closed your eyes, relaxing for the first time in a long time. The only thing missing was Hal. Everything in you wanted him to be here with you, but you knew he couldn’t. The baby kicked you again. Tears filled your eyes, hoping beyond hopes that Hal will be alive to see his child for the first time.

***

It took five long years before you heard Superman’s regime had fallen. You were in your garden, weeding on your hands and knees when your son came running up the path. He shouted the news excitedly. 

“Are you sure?” You brushed your hands on your jeans and got to your feet. 

“Yeah, that’s what Dr. Thompkins said.” Your son bounced on his toes. “She said she heard it on the special radio.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “The special radio,” you whispered. “That hasn’t turned on in a long time.” 

The tiny village you had lived in for the past five years was off-the-grid. It was hidden in a tiny corner of the world. Even the people who lived there didn’t know where the village was in case anyone were to be captured by the Regime.  There were some random supply drops, but almost everything that was needed was produced by the village itself. The only news came from the radio Dr. Thompkins had. She was an old friend of Batman’s, thus the one he trusted with the radio.

“She wants you to come.” Your son grabbed your hand, ignoring the dirt on it. “Come on.” He started to pull you down the path. You laughed, still in slight shock. 

“I’m coming.” You felt like you were floating on air. Finally, the day had come just like Hal said. He could meet his son for the first time, and you could kiss him again. You missed Hal so much your body ached. However, ice cold fear washed over you when you realized there was a chance Hal might not have survived.

Your son didn’t notice the smile drop from your face as he pulled you along the path to Dr. Thompkins’ home and clinic. The others were already gathering around the radio in the living room. Your son let go of your hand to go see his friends. “(Y/N),” Dr. Thompkins whispered, appearing at your side. “Honey, sit down before you fall down.” She pushed you into a seat. 

“Do you know...if Hal is alive?” Your chest tightened. The breath squeezed out of your lungs. 

She patted your arm. “No, but no news is good news.” You looked into her gentle, kind eyes. The same eyes you looked into when you were giving birth to your son. You didn’t know what you would have done without her. She glanced around before whispering in your ear. “Shazam is dead. Superman killed him.” 

“Billy?” Horror chilled your blood. “He was only a kid.” 

Dr. Thompkins nodded with a frown. “What’s wrong?” your son asked, appearing in front of you with a frown. 

“Go get your mother something to drink,” Dr. Thompkins told him. Your son ran to the kitchen. “(Y/N), try to calm down for your son. You can’t get all worked up if you don’t know.” 

You sighed and closed your eyes. “You’re right.” 

“Here you go, Mommy,” your son said, coming back with a cup of water. You smiled at him, taking it and pulling him onto your lap.

“Thank you, baby.” You kissed his cheek. Dr. Thompkins left to go talk to someone else. You tightened your arms around your son as the radio spoke of an alternative universe. 

Time past as more reports came from the radio. You held your son, fearing the moment when the deaths would be read. Sipping the water, you tried to think about anything else.

Eventually, the reports stopped and Dr. Thompkins told everyone to go home. She stopped you before you could leave. Your son ran ahead. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything about Hal.” 

You nodded. “Thank you.” 

“Mommy, I’m hungry,” your son called, halfway down the path home. 

“Well, that’s my que.” You laughed, jogging to catch your son. He screamed and raced away. “Come back here.” The chase went all the way home until your son was inside the house. You had to lean against the doorway to catch your breath. Your son ran out the back door to get wood for the stove. 

Slowly, you pulled away from the door frame and moved to start dinner. You filled a pot with water. A scream from the back door made the pot drop from your hands and crash onto the floor. The water splashed, soaking you. You ignored it and ran to the door. Your son jumped into your arms, shaking in terror. 

“Mommy, there’s a flying man,” he cried, hiding his face in your shoulder. Your heart stopped.

“What?” You peeked outside to see a green glowing man land in the yard. His face hidden by the shadows of the setting sun. “Hal?” 

“(Y/N).” Hal’s voice answered as he stepped toward you, so you could clearly see his face. He looked like he had aged twenty years. His hair was more gray than brown. 

“Hal.” You ran to him, forgetting your scared son in your arms. 

“Mommy, he’s a flying stranger,” your son screamed. You ignored him, throwing both of you into Hal’s arms. Hal hugged you close. Your son was smashed between the two of you.

Tears ran down your cheeks. “It’s been so long,” you cried, kissing Hal hard on the lips. 

“I know.” Hal kissed you back eagerly. 

“Mommy.” Your son wiggled out between you and Hal. “Who is this flying man? Why are you kissing?” He wrinkled his nose. 

Hal pulled away from you to look down at your son. He sank to his knees, drinking in his son’s eyes that were a copy of his. 

“Remember when I told you that your daddy was a brave man fighting to keep us safe,” you said, kneeling down beside Hal. Your son eyed Hal nervously. 

“Yes?” Your son glanced at you before looking back at Hal.

“Well, this is your daddy. He can come to us because Superman is gone.” You kissed your son’s head. A big smile grew upon your lips when you saw the pride in Hal’s eyes. 

Your son’s jaw dropped in shock. “Daddy?” He scrutinized Hal and wrinkled his nose again. “Why are you so old?” 

Hal laughed deeply. You sensed it was probably the first time he laughed in a long time. “Well, I’ve lived a lot longer than you have, buddy.” He ruffled your son’s hair. 

Your son smiled shyly before looking at you. “Mommy, can we make dinner now?” 

“He’s always hungry,” you told Hal, getting to your feet. You offered a hand to Hal. He took it, squeezing your hand hard.

“I love you.” He kissed your palm. 

Rubbing your thumb against his lips, you laughed. “I love you too.” His green ring glowed on his hand as he used it to help himself to his feet. “And you’re green again?” You frowned slightly when you noticed he didn’t put his full weight on his left leg. 

“Yeah, long story.” Hal kissed your cheek.

“Can we eat please?” Your son cried from the house. 

Both of you chuckled, sharing one long kiss before entering the house. A family at last.

#hal jordan #hal jordan x reader #hal jordan imagine #green lantern #green lantern x reader #green lantern imagine #dc comics imagines #dc reader insert #injustice #injustice imagines #pregnancy warning #pregnancy

[romioneficfest]

My Gift to the RFF Community

Good Evening/Afternoon/Morning to everyone who has read, commented, reviewed, and most of all created content for this inaugural fest. My Black scaly heart is almost beating normally for all of the excellent works presented for consideration and appreciation.

While the one who inspired this fest didn’t contribute (and ‘tis since RL is a pain in the arse right now for most people!) I’m glad so many did contribute their time and efforts to this fest. 84 total works were submitted, 77 of which are up for voting consideration.

1 more will be published, an unabridged version of one of the fics submitted. The creator trimmed it down to meet fest rules but I promised them I’d post the unabridged version once voting started. 

However, I wish to offer my gift to you, one from a special place in my heart - the old theory of what happens to the man who suddenly has almost everything he wants yet doesn’t need? Does it corrupt him, like the Invisible Man? Or is his character so resolute that it doesn’t affect him in the least?

Thus, I give you this fic, as to how I think it would progress.

Title: Windfall Prompt: Bonus Day  Author: Dragon Rating: K+ Brief Summary: Hermione comes home from work and finds Ron sitting quietly in his office, reading parchment. When he doesn’t hear her, which is odd for him, she goes to investigate. Ron shows her what has his attention.

Content Warning: Indirect mention of minor character death; Hermione giving serious cheek

‘What a bloody long day,’ Hermione kicked off her dress shoes and put down her satchel, appreciating the fluffy carpets under her toes. Dealing with law enforcement misconduct was always a pain. They needed different procedures on Bailiff and Auror interactions.

Broken from her thoughts by the lack of dinner smell, she looked around. Ron wasn’t in the kitchen, preparing dinner like he loved to do. The kids were still at Hogwarts, with another month’s worth of term left before they returned home.

She tossed aside her purse and went to their office, the one he magically and lovingly expanded so they would have room to work without getting underfoot while also appreciating each other’s company. Sure enough, Ron was in there, wearing the half-moon glasses he picked up last year to help with the small print reading he said to her, even if she knew already. It wasn’t like she didn’t have her own sets to wear as well since there were so many documents crossing her desk that had too much fine print to read comfortably after long hours at the office.

‘Ron,’ said Hermione. He hadn’t heard her walk into their home which seemed a bit odd. He hadn’t heard her this time, either.

She walked the five steps to where he was sitting in his comfortable chair and put her hand on his shoulder. He reciprocated and without saying a word, he handed up the three sheets of parchment up to her, saying nary a word.

Hermione scanned the first page and gasped! While she was never close to Aunt Muriel, she was his family and she would treat her with respect, even if she didn’t like her too much, not with how nitpicky she was with the women in the family. Angelina was the only one. Somehow they’d bonded and were fast friends. Hermione couldn’t understand it.

She flipped to the second page, reading the document and as she scanned the page, her eyes widened for every single subsequent line she read. She flipped it to the third before looking down and seeing her husband quite lost in thought.

She went back and re-read it all, making sure she knew and understood what she read. 

‘I’m sorry about Aunt Muriel,’ the bushy-haired witch said. 

‘I’m surprised she lived as long as she did. But even Healers couldn’t help her any longer.’ 

‘She is still family,’ Hermione put her hand back on his shoulder and squeezed. 

‘She wasn’t a favourite of mine, not like you or Dad.’ Ron took the parchment and put it back down on his desk. ‘What are we going to do?’ 

‘That’s up to you, Ron. It’s not like either of us is comfortable attending funerals anymore.’ 

‘Hell no,’ He sighed. ‘I should go. It’s the right thing to do.’ 

‘Why don’t you ask Mum and Dad what they think? If they say you don’t have to, then don’t.’

Tapping on the office window interrupted their conversation. ‘Wonder what else is going to happen today?’ Ron got up and went to the window, letting the small barn owl land on his wrist while sticking a leg out for the small rolled parchment attached. ‘Need a kip or a rasher?’

The owl hooted and Ron put it on the temporary roost where the owl could have a drink of water and a snack. ‘Does this need a reply?’ The owl gave one very long hoot. ‘No? Ok. Stay as long as you need. I’m sure you’re a bit tired.’

He unrolled the parchment and scanned the short note, breathing a sigh of relief. ‘It’s a note from Mum. She said that Aunt Muriel made all of her arrangements and, said there are no services since she said we’d been through enough.’

‘That’s surprising, the way she prattled about everyone coming to visit.’

‘Nah, she meant well, even if she was as cranky as Crookshanks.’

‘Well, he is very old, and so was she.’

The silence grew between the married couple, both lost in their thoughts.

‘We could move to a bigger house,’ he blurt out. ‘I know the kids aren’t home much nowadays and that we’re both still working entirely too much but maybe something closer to Mum and work might make things easier?’

‘Our house is fine, Ron. I’m comfortable here especially since most people don’t know where we live. We decided that issue years ago. While yes, I am well known and so are you, if not in the same ways, we don’t need an enormous country estate to flaunt our prestige.’

‘A holiday, perhaps? It’s been a little while since we were off work and away from here.’

‘We can do that,’ Hermione replied noncommittedly. ‘An extended Holiday might be quite lovely, especially if it is somewhere cold this time of the year.’

‘It’s the middle of winter in Australia right now,’ Ron smiled. Hermione returned it fondly, reflecting on that complex time in their lives when grief and rage along with relief and exploration fueled their time tracking down her parents. ‘You said you wanted to return. We could take the kids with us and let them see some of the sights.’

Hermione hummed noncommittedly.

‘What are you thinking, dear?’

‘Do you remember that memorable night about a week after we arrived in Australia?’

‘Which one? Most of them were memorable while we were in Australia. So you’ll have to remind me.’

‘We were in bed after,’ Hermione blushed, ‘and you said what you would do if you had a ridiculous sum of money. While the reward money from the Order of Merlin presentation was nice,’ she added.

‘It was enough to get you your engagement ring and have some galleons in a Gringott’s account,’ Ron added. ‘I think I remember that night now.’

Hermione ran her fingers through his hair. ‘Do you remember what you said you’d do if you had Malfoy money?’

‘You mean before they were bankrupted funding the coup, left destitute and so desperate for galleons Draco went to work?’ He smiled. ‘That part is a bit fuzzy, but then I do think it was half three when we had that conversation and I was about asleep.’

She smiled. ‘You said if you lucked into a stupid amount of money someday and that if we were comfortable financially, you’d want to help others.’

‘I’ve wanted to help others, Hermione. You know the shite I went through, with a broken wand, robes that were too small, clothes that were so short I showed inches of ankles, and those ghastly dress robes.’

Hermione stood behind her husband, rubbing his shoulders. ‘We’ll see to your parents first.’

‘Mum and Dad always come first,’ Ron said without hesitation.

‘And if they don’t want it or say they don’t? What do you want to do?’

‘Tell Bill to put some in there anyway,’ Ron answered.

‘And if the will has them sorted?’

‘I dunno, maybe a Holiday?’

Hermione was quiet, with Ron turning to look at her. ‘What?’

‘Hear me out on this. What if we took some of that windfall and were able to help kids in your situation so they don’t have to be hampered with a broken wand, or robes that don’t fit or can’t afford the books for the term?’

‘Well, the books have already been seen to. You took care of those issues years ago, once you started working.’

‘True but other supplies weren’t included,’ she added. She lifted the parchment and scanned the document. ‘Reading this as I think I am,��

‘Which you probably are,’ Ron added.

‘If we got with some of the rest of the family and asked them to chip in a little bit, say 10 galleons each, once, and with this, we could fund a Trust for underprivileged students.’ She took the glasses down her nose a touch, looking over the top of them at his befuddled face. ‘Imagine being a first-year student with a hand me down wand, hand me down robes, and tattered books. How much more do you think you’d have done if you’d had a set of nice daily robes, a wand that worked, or books that weren’t held together with sellotape?’

‘I thought there was a bunch of wands they used later for the kids who couldn’t afford one.’

‘And you know the lore better than I do – The wand chooses the Wizard. ‘

‘But there are things we need to do first,’ he added. ‘Like – ‘

‘Love,’ she interrupted, smiling brightly. ‘I don’t know if you realize, but the amount bequeathed is a vast sum.’

‘Vast?’

Hermione smiled. ‘Vast, love. Off the top of my head, and the current conversion rate of 10 pounds to the galleon, I’d say it’s –

’10 British pounds to the galleon? You’re full of it.’ Ron took them back and looked at the parchment. He muttered a few words under his breath, doing his calculations.’ He looked up from the parchment and his eyes were about to water. ‘Holy Fuck. Where the bloody fuck did she get that kind of money?’

‘I’m sure it’s been passed down the Prewett lines and with your Uncles perishing before marrying – ‘

‘That left Mum sole beneficiary – ‘

‘And Mum probably asked for Aunt Muriel to pass it over it to the kids.’

‘I imagine the Goblins liked getting their hands on their portion of the Estate. I get that’s how they afford the upkeep and everything but it’s bloody buggering hard to see them get 25% of the value.’

‘At least it’s not on the Muggle side. Theirs is 40% over a certain value.’

Ron looked back at the paperwork. ‘Well, I at least want to give Mum and Dad a Holiday. They’ve not been anywhere for themselves in yonks.’

‘Oh, I agree. And we can take a small one too. It still leaves us quite a bit to play with, I reckon.’

Ron sighed. ‘Growing up, I always wanted to have galleons in my own vault at Gringott’s. I didn’t like that we had to scramble to pay for things second and third hand, listening to Mum begging us to make something last ‘just one more year’. Ron turned his chair around and gave her a crushing hug, squeezing hard but not enough to make her wince. ‘It hurt, Hermione.’

‘I know and we’re not in that situation. We worked very hard early on, saved our galleons, lived frugally and modestly and here we are. The kids are happy and want for nothing, even if they don’t get all they want. We have some nice things, we travel a bit for pleasure, and we’re comfortable.’

‘It’s hard to let go of that mindset, Hermione.’ Ron looked up at his wife, smiling at her. ‘But if we can keep kids from going through what I did, I think it’ll be a big benefit and a tremendous help down the line.’

Hermione kissed Ron on the forehead. ‘Maybe we could speak with Parvati and Lavender and ask them how much a basic robe costs? It wouldn’t be fancy but something that the kids wouldn’t mind.’

‘What about regular clothes? Aren’t most kids in better shape than we were?’

‘It’s easy enough to pick quality things up at charity shops. Supplies shouldn’t be difficult to acquire as well. I’m sure if we ask McGonagall if there are students in need, she’d let us know.’

‘You think we can do this? You think we can make a difference in a kid’s life?’

Hermione knelt, holding her husband’s face in her hands. ‘How much did you appreciate getting nice robes fifth year and a new broom?’

‘Loved it,’ he whispered. ‘I didn’t know for yonks that Harry told the twins to buy me new robes, the git.’

‘But it helped, didn’t it?’

‘I reckon so.’ His face betrayed how he really felt.

‘If you’re worried about people connecting you with what we’re doing we can always put it in another name. We could call it the Muriel Prewett Trust.’

‘She’d go nutters if she knew it was named after her.’

‘So name it after your Uncles? Or Fred? Or Weasley Family Trust?’

An enormous smile broke out on his face. Ron stood, taking his wife’s face in his hands and kissed her deeply, showing her how much her help was appreciated.

‘Esteemed Directors,’ Hermione’s voice boomed in the Wizengamot. She stood in the middle of the floor, splendid in her Tyrian purple robes, a set of gold wands embroidered on the right chest and a Prewitt family heirloom brooch on her left. ‘I wish to broach the last bit of business with you before the term starts.’

‘Go ahead, Solicitor Granger,’ Kingsley’s voice echoed well in the chambers. He smiled, knowing what was about to be discussed.

‘A few months ago, the last of a particular family name from the Sacred 28 passed away from old age. Her heirs, with their blessing,’ Hermione looked up into the stands and saw her husband smiling back at her, ‘have asked to establish a trust for the students of Hogwarts.’

‘The school is properly funded for decades. Why do we require a Trust?’ The elderly wizard she knew all too well spoke first. ‘Hogwarts does not need a trust.’

‘I didn’t say the school, Mr Purifoy,’ she stared back at the old wizard who had previously been Chief Mugwump for the Wizengamot before retiring years prior. ‘I said for the students. The school is well funded. I verified the books before making this appointment.’

‘Go on,’ an elderly witch spoke up. ‘It’s time for afternoon tea.’

‘I promise to hurry, Minister Shafiq.’ Hermione looked around at the old faces and ancient robes. ‘The trust is for the students, for those in need. While many might bristle if it’s considered charity, there are those in need.’

‘No student has ever been turned away from Hogwarts, not in the centuries it’s been open.’

‘I realize that. What I am proposing is that this trust is for those students who arrive at Hogwarts with legitimate needs. How many students arrive at Hogwarts wearing second-hand robes, or a cauldron that explodes the first time they use it because the bottom is too thin? How many have out of date books because that’s all the parents can afford? Minister, we still have a few students coming to us who are the last of the War Orphans. These children have meagre means and no way to catch up with their peers. What I am proposing on behalf of the family is equity, not charity, but investment and philanthropy.’

‘Go on,’ another voice spoke.

‘These students, when they receive their letter for Hogwarts will include in their parchment parcel a letter from the Trust, offering to assist them financially, should they choose. The offering is a set of robes, all necessary supplies, a set of books, and a voucher for Ollivander’s to receive their first wand. Since we don’t recommend children having a duel for a wand, and the number of wands inherited from elders are limited, why not offer these students a head start to their magical education?’

‘That’s ridiculous! Everyone would leap at the chance to have someone else pay for all of their necessities.’

‘You misunderstand me, sir. No one person makes this decision, nor is it made lightly. Why would we make this offer to, say, Draco Malfoy, for his son when they are financially comfortable? These would be pre-screened before they receive their letter.’ She looked around and saw a few heads nodding. ‘It’s not equal treatment, esteemed colleagues, but equity, where those students in need of a hand receive it. While we educate them, we’re also meeting their basic needs and we’re building a better future for our way of life. The funds wouldn’t be thrown around for parties, or fundraising. No, this trust is self-funded by the family in question. And there are ample funds to last for centuries if handled properly.’

‘How many can this help immediately, Solicitor?’ Another voice spoke up.

‘Immediately? Ten students. That accounts for half the starting fund. For every student that doesn’t need assistance, the funds accumulate. Eventually, if properly managed and the one entrusted is bonded to manage the Trust, in 30 years, half the school could be seen to, given current enrollment figures.’

‘Half, you say? That’s a load of rubbish,’ Ewan Purifoy retorted.

‘Rubbish, you say? Since you grew up when being part of a Pureblood family guaranteed your position in society,’ a rumble erupted through the chambers, ‘there are dozens of children starting at Hogwarts who lack a quill or an ink jar. How much return on the investment would we receive to giving those less fortunate children an equal start? How much benefit would Wizarding society receive for these children coming to Hogwarts, not privileged but receiving the tools and supplies they need to prosper? I don’t see you opening your vault, Sir, to afford an opportunity, though you have the means.’

He harrumphed. ‘If the family in question wishes to bankrupt themselves on children who won’t appreciate the generosity of charity, who am I to tell someone how they afford it?’

Hermione bristled. ‘You stood aside when children died. You sneer at as charity is an investment in our way of life’s future. Wasn’t enough magical blood spilt for supposed Pureblood Supremacy? They are our future. You aren’t part of it, Purifoy,’ she pierced him with a hard stare, earning one in return.

A roar erupted.

‘Order,’ Kingsley’s voice boomed. He waited for the room to settle. ‘Motion to proceed on approval of the Fredrick Gideon trust raise their hands.’

Most members raised their hands.

‘Motion to dismiss?’ Two hands went up.

‘Motion is hereby approved. The Fredrick Gideon Trust for Hogwarts students is available as of 8 am tomorrow. Adjourned.’

Immediately Hermione was engulfed by strong arms. “You did it!” Ron spun her around.

“No Love. You did it.” She kissed him.

#Romione FicFest 2020 #Fic Post #Romione #Ron Weasley #Hermione Granger #Dragon's Gift to the RFF community #Submission #Rated K+ #Ace Safe #Queue Up for the Dragon

[asheewrites]

‘Inciting Unrest’

‚Inciting unrest‘

Asmodeus blinked at the slip of paper in his hands. But in the half second of darkness, the letters didn’t change.

‘Cause of arrest: ‘inciting unrest’’, it said.

Which was ridiculous. He hadn’t even tried anything for once.

Merely walked down the street and enjoyed the neighbourhood. Enjoying everything strange and colourful from the different countries. It was true, after all: The most eclectic kind of people became diplomats – they were the most absurd. And the most informed. Always worth a visit.

But now he apparently ‘incited unrest’. Because some children needed to follow the ‘suspicious stranger’. Since he ‘smiled with bad intentions’.

Asmodeus would be annoyed if it weren’t that ridiculously hilarious.

In the diplomat’s district, law enforcement isn’t far. Barely ten minutes ago, wind blew through his hair and the Netherlands sported more orange than thought tastefully possible, at this moment he sat on a metallic surface, an officer just left the room and he held a very tiny piece of paper in hand, that told him he won’t be out until tomorrow. Since he was ‘under investigation’.

He blinked again. Humans were most marvellous. With all their strange customs and constantly changing ways. The last time a prison tried to contain him the door could be kicked in. This time? At least the metal bars were solid.

Asmodeus… laughed. This was almost magnificent. He got captured for ‘inciting unrest’ by humans – simple humans that only saw this as a routine incident. It almost hurt. The ruler of hell. Inciting unrest by walking down the street.

Fitting, he supposed.

And maybe, just maybe, he could stick around until tomorrow, as to not disturb the rules even more. It wasn’t the most comfortable earthly abode. But at the very least it could be entertaining… if there were any humans around, at least.

Now, what did they do in a human prison? Sitting around - Already in progress. Talking to his fellow criminals – there were none. So… well… he might be able to sit for a while. There is some inspiration to be gained from restraints, if a considerable number of humans – and demons – are consulted.

…

… it turned out staring at naked bars, estimating the distance, thinking of scenarios and opportunities, rethinking the leverage and the possibilities of being watched or people joining… every variation he could come up with – and they were numerous - it barely occupied him for an hour.

Picking a pen from the depth of his coat, he started to run it against the bars. Up. Down. Repeat. Changing the tune slightly, depending on the height of impact.

Bored. Bored…

Mmmmh…

The little melody was… in this scenario…

-obody knows… but He knows my soooooorrow Yes, nooooobody knows the trouble I've seen! But glory, Halleluj-FUCK!”

… with a scrunched up nose and a hand over his mouth, Asmodeus endured the burning in his mouth. This was something he never got used to. It’s not like he had sung these awful hymns for ages.

He tested the sensitivity of his tongue with his index finger when the door opened and a very tall, very white person came in and looked around with an unhappy frown.

Asmodeus could move his hand from his mouth into a held up greeting and only slightly slurred when he said: “What are you doing here, Raphael?”

The angel’s head snapped to the side and, after a second, his eyebrows shot up. Emphasized with the glasses on his nose – it did work for him at least. He checked the notepad he apparently held, started to rummage in his coat and walked over to Asmodeus: “Ah. I… did not actually expect you in this place. Greetings… ah… well, mister Deus? It seems a fitting name”

That almost got him the angel a point – if it had been intentional, at least. But alas, he was still very cute, so he said: “Couldn’t take a better one. But now… I am here. Are you going to do something about it?”

Raphael finished rummaging in his coat and produced a brown glass bottle and said: “Sure, sure, but I heard you sing and… ah… a wonderful voice, of course” – he smiled up at Asmodeus in this instance before seemingly checking the beholder again – “but I suppose you know that… ah… well, yes, but even on the video one could hear it and… yes. I also heard the abrupt end and… here!”

With a slightly concerned look Asmodeus took the bottle held out for him. It really was a see-through, small, brown glass bottle and a… dark liquid moved inside, left reams, actually. The concern rose and he asked: “And… what… is that? Exactly?”

The angel still patted his coat until he looked up and blinked and smiled: “Ah… blood, of course!”

Asmodeus stared, still holding the now somewhat questionable bottle.

Not that it stopped Raphael: “It should help. Against the burning. Blood is slightly basic, so it can be soothing. The viscosity helps, too. And it was not given with express permission, so it’s not a sacrifice. It should count as unholy. Or unholy enough”

The angel didn’t see Asmodeus’ expression since he had closed his eyes to look… proud? Maybe? “And… why exactly… do you carry this with you?”

Now the lids behind these glasses opened again, and his face fell. With a sigh, he said: “Ah. Well, I wanted to do a few tests on it. Since human medicine is… preferable when I am here and I… try to see for myself what happens with the fluids and the different coagulants and… well… I thought it might help, it was more a random thing, but… apparently not a good idea, sorry, I just-“

“HOW did you get yourself in this mess?” came the voice, followed by the body, of Gabriel from the area of the door.

The other angel snatched the blood bottle back and it disappeared in his robes. Then looked… slightly defeated? Ah. Well, Gabriel was here, though. And she had to be greeted: “I ‘incited unrest’ apparently”

“As you always do, fitting for the job. But a See, when a little birdie told me you sit behind bars… I honestly thought it would be indecent exposure,” she bobbed her brows, just once. And gave Raphael a side-hug.

“… you and your pigeons,” Asmodeus shook his head, “But I’ll have you know that is my case, the exposure is always decent, it’s just what other’s do with it that causes trouble,” Asmodeus said, thinking to himself that yes, that is exactly what ‘incited unrest’. The phrase was just too ridiculous.

“Touché,” Gabe grinned, “But you agreed with the trouble and actually went to prison?”

Asmodeus rolled his eyes: “It’s for inspiration, prisons change – we have to adjust the fantasies to modern standards. Don’t say it didn’t at least cross your mind – all restrained and ready?”

“Oh! Shame on you, thinking such things. One might almost consider not posting the bail on you. Since you apparently don’t travel with money,” she raised a brow.

“I ask for your humble forgiveness. And thank you in advance for this generous-“

“You… can go,” said a somewhat concerned voice.

Both Gabriel and Asmodeus turned to Raphael, questioning looks in place.

He shrugged at them and said: “Metatron is right: Rules are there to be followed. To the letter, if necessary. This establishment has many. One of them obligates them to read you your rights and to let a lawyer through to you. Who can leave with you, if they did not follow the procedure. Anyone can be an attorney, if need arises, so… you can go. As long as I am able to provide your location, should the need to question you arise. Which will not happen, since they are at fault now, they will not admit to such a thing” The last few sentences had a drop in volume, so likely it hadn’t been recorded. Which was… a fact to possibly remember. He continued in normal volume: “So… we can simply walk out, please follow me?”

Asmodeus followed the politely gesturing angel, who nodded to the people that dragged him in. They nodded back, without a hint of suspicion, too. Gabriel elbowed Raphael in the side: ”What a smart boyfriend I have”

He looked down at her and smiled, clutching his notepad.

As soon as they were out, the entourage continued to the next market and then to an alley. Raphael turned around: “I apologize for the longer walk, it seemed prudent, I think”

“Seemed like my help wasn’t needed this time,” Gabe shrugged, “See you around!”

Asmodeus grinned at her and then looked at Raphael. He wore a patient smile. Maybe this angel was a bit stranger than expected.

“It’s been… unexpected” He laughed. “But I’m sure we’ll meet again. Until then!”

It definitely hadn’t been boring.

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

Weirder one. 

@mercuryreddie‘s Asmodeus hopefully isn’t too far off, so is @angeloftheeasterngate‘s Gabriel and @semiramis-audron‘s Metatron (even if only mentioned shortly ^^; )

Thanks for letting me have them :)

#mercuryreddies Asmodeus #angeloftheeasterngate #semiramisaudron's Metatron #1476 words

[worstcityvancouver]

Worst City in Canada is Vancouver

I’ve lived in Vancouver as a resident for over 6 months and it claims the worst city in Canada for me. In every new city I live in I try to experience the nature, the people, the atmosphere and the culture. I’ve lived in many cities in Canada. I’ve lived in all of the cities in the greater Toronto area (Downtown Toronto, Scarborough, Mississauga, etc). I also have lived shortly in Winnipeg MB, Edmonton AB, Calgary AB and Montreal QC. So you can see, I have comparisons with all the popular cities in Canada. Now, back on track to Vancouver. The best of Vancouver has to be the nature and environment. Everything good about Vancouver ends there. The most off putting thing about Vancouver is the people. They are extremely rude, horrible and are the most entitled people of all of Canada. You’ll find that generally, this is the trend in any neighbourhood you visit. For scale, I go out every weekend to somewhere new and every weekend I have a sour taste of Vancouver every week that adds to why its a terrible city.

I can go to any sightseeing spot or small neighbourhood (doesn’t matter where I go) all of the locals there make it their business to complain about you even if you’re minding your own business doing no harm. Neighbourhoods are all the same (I’ve visited around half of ~57 neighbourhoods according to Vancouver.ca) and I’ve only experienced entitled assholes who give their opinion at any moment. 100% of the time their opinion is in the form of a middle finger, cursing or near physical altercations.

I’ve picked up on the small subtle things and micro aggressions that these people use as fuel to start their torment. I’ve learned that Vancouver residents are always ready to throw words and rarely want to throw fists. Meaning they’ll talk shit but when it comes to a real fight they all just walk away and keep talking shit. Not entirely sure if this is “Vancouver culture” that I’m supposed to experience but I’ve experienced it 100% of the time. I haven’t met anyone nice to me other than people at work or my roommates.

Let me tell you about myself so you can get an idea of me. I mind my own business, I’m not a drunk on the streets or take excessive drugs (It seems like Vancouver has druggies roaming everywhere), I’m polite when I talk to strangers, I’m well spoken, I’m a working 9-5 salary man, I wear normal clothes and I don’t go out of my way to even be mean.

The first emotion Vancouver residents use to introduce themselves is anger. You know you’re in Vancouver when people stare at you from their vehicles and give you dirty looks. You know you’re in Vancouver when cyclists come up to you and yell in your face with curse words (even if I’m standing on the sidewalk waiting for the stop sign at a good distance from the road minding my own business). You know you’re in Vancouver when people respond to you with a passive-aggressive answer. You know you’re in Vancouver when hostility is the preferred method that residents use in all forms of communication.

Shall we get to specific examples of my time here in 6 months? - Week 1: I’m going to work leaving my home. Next door neighbour rushes from their driveway in his Porche, rolls down the window and says, “Don’t fuck with me. I know people in this neighbourhood, I’m a wealthy man and I know the judge that lives down the road.”. Word for word. - Week 2: My downstairs neighbours calls the police on my roommates and I because we were walking between the kitchen and our rooms. What? Why couldn’t they just tell us to keep it down? Just so you know, my roommates and I don’t even party or play loud music. They called the cops on us cause we were walking from point A to point B in our home. - Week 3: I go to work in a different neighbourhood. I am walking on the public sidewalk to work. A cyclist on the road (not sidewalk), slowed down, cursed at me and went on their way - Week 4: My landlord decided to have construction on our roof without letting us know, it continued for 2.5 weeks. It rained and my entire room was drenched in rain water - Week 5: Went to a grocery store a few neighbourhoods away. Most of the customers and staff were quick to brush me off and answer with a rude undertone - Week 6: Visited downtown, went to several businesses for food and business. 100% of all of the staff spoke very rudely and with a passive-aggressive undertone - Week 7-16: Visited several beaches and 100% of the local residents made sure I knew that they were local and proceeded to curse at me and others. These were not hobos or druggies. These were middle-age to old people who was accompanied by family. - My last week in Vancouver before searching for a new place: My roommate had his car stuck on the road with hazard lights on. His engine wouldn’t start. I leave work and drive to him. He was stuck in front of a traffic light. I parked safely somewhere in residential. People driving by kept sticking their middle finger, drive-by cursing & swearing and giving really mean looks. I wanted to push his car out of the of street so traffic could flow better and prevent accidents but the residents of Vancouver made it clear that being an asshole was their #1 best trait. He had already called a towing company to come by but I was the 1st on the scene and I could redirect traffic better if we moved the vehicle. I stood by as the city of Vancouver showed their brightest moment and I decided that we would not push the vehicle to a safer spot. I gave back to the community today by being an asshole cause clearly you can’t kill them with kindness. Vancouver is a city that was born to be worse than any Canadian or American city with 1/5 or 1/10 the size of more matured cities.

I also visited other neighbourhoods to see smaller parks. I would often exercise outside. Doing a bit of jogging, stretching and warmups on a patch of grass away from the path (other people were doing this as well). Every time I would go out on these expeditions I would receive at minimum 1 or 2 opinions. 100% of these opinions were rude.

Most of these opinions were things I couldn’t even figure out why they were saying it. It was such a generalized form of hate it made me think this is the culture in Vancouver. Rude, horrible and awful citizens of the human race.

I’ve explored and driven from east coast USA to west coast USA and I’ve never met aggression so intense and so often in a rotten city. The worst part was, Vancouver is a fraction of the size of some of the biggest cities in Canada and the USA but manage to be rated the worst city in terms of people quality.

I haven’t gotten to the quality of food, insurance, homes or law enforcement yet but from the tone of this post. I can tell you its not that far from how the people are. Best city in Canada is not Vancouver Worst city in Canada is Vancouver

#vancouver #canada #bestcity #worstcity #nature #mountains #environment #pacific #terrible #awful #rude #standoffish #racist #british columbia

[cherry3point14]

Mine: Ch2 - BELONG

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Dean x Reader Warnings: Show level violence, murder(?), little bit of angst Word Count: 4,586. Chapter Summary: Dean should know by now it’s impossible to escape hunting. Then again maybe that’s a good thing. A/N: Oh Dean, Deany, Dean-o. What are we going to do with you?

Ao3 if you prefer

The house looks the same. The same open window and blue front door but now there’s a shitty pickup outside of it instead of your Prius. I’m not supposed to know who Carl is beyond his name. I’m not supposed to know that he works as a plumber, elbow deep in actual shit. And I shouldn’t know that he doesn’t even technically live at the address we’ve pulled up at.

There’s a lot about this situation that’s fucked three ways to Sunday. Pulling up outside your house and pretending that Baby doesn’t have a regular spot here is pretty high up the list. The fact that I’m here to talk to you is probably higher up.

When Sam said we were coming to your town for a case I’d panicked. Obviously. He’d said it on the road. Five minutes out of the bunker and he's telling me with a casual flick of his hair that we're heading for Manhattan. Few towns over he’d said. Like I don’t know where it is. Had I missed something while I was there? Had there been a case that I hadn’t seen because I was too busy trying to figure out why you’re dating king of the douchebags? What if you were in danger?

Then we’d rolled into town with our usual shtick. Crime scenes and police department visits. At the end of day one, we know it’s a witch, on account of the hex bags. We both decide to stay local even if we’re only a few hours away from home. Easier to get this over and done with.

That's fine and dandy, or it would be if I wasn’t standing outside your house.

Because now it’s a little too close to home. Now the bad stuff might seep into your life and that’s exactly what I’m trying to keep away from you. Everything bad.

“Hello?” Carl yanks open the door a little too hard. If only you could see this. He has no respect for your home.

Sam and I both hold up our badges in the calm and measured way we’ve long since perfected. Luckily the glare on my face isn't out of character either, “I’m agent Sykes, this is my partner agent Aldrich.”

It’s easy to tell when someone is a sack of shit. They tend to look more than a little shifty when met with feds, fake or otherwise. And this guy? He clams up before I finish reeling off our fake names.

“What- I mean what can I do for you officers?”

Sam continues the well-oiled machine that is our double act. “We’re investigating the deaths of Andrew Hartley, Robert Smith, and Jerry Garfield. We’re aware you knew them from a local bar and we had some questions.”

The dick didn’t murder them at least because he breathes this big sigh of relief and opens his arm to usher us inside.

I want to bite my tongue, I do, I should. I just can’t help myself, “is this your place?” There is absolutely no way that I sound casual.

“No, Nah. This is my, erm, girlfriends.” Carl even stutters over calling you his girlfriend, while in your house, as if he doesn’t want to lock himself down.

Sam doesn’t question the detour except for a fleeting glance in my direction, so that’s good. That’s something he’ll want to talk about later. He knows there is a time and place though. So, he sticks to the script and launches into questions about the victims. Turns out they all drank together. Carl knew them from a bar, that’s it. A few more questions in and it happens. You walk through the front door.

“Oh, I’m sorry I-” you stop in the doorway with a brown paper bag in your hand and shake your head, remembering. “This is my house?”

It’s hard not to laugh. It’s impossible to contain my smile. This is the first time I’m in the same room as you since we met and somehow you got, even more, freaking adorable. Your face is all scrunched in confusion but there’s a flustered joke in your voice.

“Babe, these are some FBI agents investigating those guys from the bar I told you about.”

You don’t panic as Carl had at the mention of law enforcement because you’re a good person. “Right, of course. I’m sorry. Erm. Did you guys want some coffee or something?”

Any normal person can see that you’re offering a drink to the officials currently in your home. Your prince over there pipes up anyway, “babe can you get me a beer and something to eat?”

What has he done to you Y/N? What the fuck has happened that you think this chump is all you deserve? The pained half smile on your face is bad enough but the tiny, “sure,” that falls from it kind of fucks me over. There’s none of that fire you’d had while trying to impress me with food. There’s not even the strict concentration you’d had while pretending to be a waitress. Your shoulders fall and you shuffle to the kitchen. You’re not going there because you love to cook or even want to go. You going to the kitchen because you don’t know how to make the asshole leave. Or you’re afraid of being alone if he does.

I have to pretend it’s a cramp in my hand when I unfurl my fist. Stretching my fingers like they hurt from an ache and not because I’m aching to connect my fist with Carl’s face.

“I’m gonna see if she needs a hand.” I’m already standing so Sam can’t stop me. I at least have the sense to give him a look like I’m going to go ask her some questions. I need to appease him to avoid too many questions myself later.

I am going to ask you some things. Sam doesn’t need to know that they’re not about the case though.

When I walk into your kitchen I instantly regret my decision. This is your space and I should have knocked. I offer my services immediately to make amends, “can I help with anything?”

You must not get asked that a lot considering the confusion as you turn your head. “Erm, no it’s fine. I’m just… making some coffee.”

All FBI pretense flies out the window as I nod at the bread on the counter. “See here’s where you’re confused, that right there is a sandwich.”

“Would you believe I’m a chef?” If I wasn’t standing parallel with you now I’d miss the little smile on your face, the first one I’ve seen all day.

“That depends on how good the sandwich is.”

You laugh like you had the first time I’d come here to see you. I hadn’t heard it then, I’d only seen it and wondered what it sounded like. This time your hair tumbles over your shoulders as your head falls back. All the better to release the sound into the air. I don’t even care if they hear you next door. Let our cover go to hell if you keep laughing like that.

“This is going to sound crazy, to an FBI agent anyway, but I swear I know you from somewhere.”

You say it while stealing glances at me. And you steal glances at me while your hands keep moving, even with a knife in them. I didn’t expect it to come around so quickly, this test. This is when I find out if I’m crazy. Did we actually connect or is it all in my head? Somehow, I manage to keep my mouth shut, egging you on with a confused look like I’m trying to remember.

“Oh my god. You came to the diner, right? Two slices of pie and didn’t rate my burger.” You're smug for remembering first.

Now you’re pointing the knife in my direction with a grin on your face. If I didn’t know any better, I’m about to be murdered for my burger review.

My head half cocks in your direction, “that was you?”

It’s fucking heartbreaking, seeing the idea of me forgetting you and how you stumble over it. The same way you’d slumped when Carl spoke to you. Shit, I’m not him and you should know you’re better than that. Screw the car and your house, that’s what I need to work on. Making you believe you’re better.

You manage to shake off the self-doubt, although you replace it with self-depreciation. “I’m normally a mess at work so I guess you might not recognize me.”

“You weren’t a mess.” The space between us is a little smaller now to match the sincerity in my words. It’s the closest I’ve stood to you and the furthest away I want to be. “And that burger was top three, promise.”

The light returns to your face. The smile becomes genuine. Your hands stop moving. That connection is there again. The one I know you feel too because you remembered me.

And the coffee maker beeps in the background, interrupting.

I’d be mad about it if this was the right time for something more, anything. It’s not. Carl’s still in the other room and you’re still attached to him like a tetherball. No matter how much he knocks you for six, you swing around and come back for more. It’s ok because I’m here now and I know that this isn’t in my head. We connected over a crappy diner countertop and now I’m going to take care of everything. I’ll show you how you deserve to be treated Y/N.

I’m going to save you.

“How do you know Kelly Gray?”

I barge through the door he was stupid enough to open a crack. Carl doesn’t call out the fact that I’m not in my suit because I’ve established I’m the good guy already. But his face does lose all its color at the name. He's going straight past defensive to confrontational, “hey, you can’t just come in here!”

“I can if you want to stay alive now let’s try this again. How do you know Kelly Gray?”

My volume calls you from wherever you were like a moth to a flame. Or is my voice a beacon to you regardless of its loudness? Either way, you wander in, “what’s going on...?” There’s no concern in your voice because whether you know it or not you trust me, you're curious is all.

Carl starts to crowd you before you can even say hello, which pisses me off. I haven’t heard you say hello yet. Not to me. Our meetings have been me as a customer and then an authority figure. This time could have been different. You might have said hello.

“Babe, this jerk is just leaving. Don’t worry about it. Go back to the kitchen.”

“I wasn’t in the… what did he say about your life being in danger?”

I don’t know what’s worse. That this asshole assumes you’re always in the kitchen because that’s all he fucking knows about you. Or that he’s so goddamn stupid he’s trying to get rid of me when I’m here to save his life. For some reason.

Of course, you’re the only one who can actually throw me out. It’s your house, not Carls. And you’re not going to because you want to hear what I have to say. You’re more concerned about Carl than he’s concerned about himself. Your big heart is another thing I add to the reasons you deserve better. The reasons you're so good.

“Answer the damn question you son of a bitch.” Guess my FBI cover is shot to hell but at this point, I’m not losing any sleep over it. Sam’s hunting down the witch, I’m just making sure this idiot isn’t on the list for the same reason as her other hits.

He looks at me pathetically, like I'll have mercy on him. But I don’t know what he’s going to say yet, so I’ve got no idea what hope he’s holding out for.

“I knew of her, ok? The guys they all knew her. I- I just knew about her. Never met her.” Carl looks anywhere but at me while he lies.

It all starts making sense now. I know what got those other guys killed. I know why Kelly went looking in magic books for revenge. And now I know Carl was involved.

It would be kinder to encourage you out the room. Some case confidentiality thing. Then again, you need to hear this. You need the truth.

Squaring up to Carl is easy, especially now I know he really is a piece of shit. Not just for having you and making you so much smaller than you should be. Now I know Carl had you and still felt the need to get his dick wet somewhere else.

“I can’t help you if lie to me. Now Kelly? Sure, she’s a little crazy but she also killed your friends. Can you think of any reason she might have it in for you as well, Carl? If not, I can leave right now but you better think real hard about your answer.”

His eyes dart between the width of my shoulders wondering if he can take me before he decides he’s got no chance. Not completely brain dead. Then he gulps slowly and for once, does the right thing. “Yeah, ok. I knew her.”

In facing off with this prick I almost forgot you were there. He’s trained you into silence in your own home. Carl hasn’t forgotten because he trusts in your constant presence; quiet and dutiful, always. That’s why he doesn’t flinch when you speak.

“Who is she? What did the other guys- or you, what did you do?”

He looks at you for a good minute. His body is still facing me, still ready to fight me if necessary. He’s looking at you like it might be his last chance to. Could it be Carl actually has some sense hidden away under the seven layers of dumbass?

He doesn’t answer your question until he looks back at me. He tells me the answer because he can’t tell you.

“Kelly Gray is just a hooker that we all, well, you know. But Andy he- he didn’t pay up and then we all wanted to...things got out of control.” His voice is too hard and despite what he did he’s looking at me like it’s my fault for making him spit it out.

You gasp. It’s a tiny noise, nothing really. Although in the wake of Carl's confession, it might as well be a foghorn.

Where I’d normally be yelling at this charmer I look at you instead because I need to check on you. Your chin wobbles and there’s a quiver in your lip. All I want to do take you away from him, but still, you needed to know. It’s the only way you’ll ever move on from this bag of dicks who actually went looking for a way to cheat on you.

“Y/N…” He starts like there’s something he could say that would make this better.

You hold up a hand to stop him. He doesn’t just stop talking. He clutches at his throat suddenly, clawing at it actually, like he’s trying to pry it open from the outside.

“I… can’t…. breathe…” he wheezes. He’s hard to understand but not difficult to work out.

You step back, eyes widening.

Carl’s sudden asphyxiation lights the spark of anger in me that I’ve been holding back. I've seen too much of this case. I've seen what the other guys did. And suddenly I'm pissed. “Is this what you did to her? Try to choke her? Your buddies all died the way they lived. They died doing what they did to Kelly.”

But he is still choking. Unable to answer me or even react. He can’t feel guilty while he’s dying and I have to let him slip from my grasp. I don’t often root for the witch, by that I mean I never do. In this case, she might deserve a little revenge.

A blur rushes past me and steps between me and him. I realize it’s you. You pat his back and try to do all the things people do when someone is choking for non-magical reasons. “We’ve got to help him.”

My silence doesn’t slow you down as you try to wrap your arms around him and Heimlich the spell out. The fact that nothing is helping doesn’t seem to slow your roll either.

“Y/N!” The snap of my tone gets your attention.

“We need to help him!” You plead with a desperation that I resent. Desperation Carl doesn't deserve.

You’re right though. I need to save them all. The good, the bad and the fucking disgusting. Looking into your worried face is how I remember that I save people. That’s why I’m here in the first place.

“Y/N, I don’t have time to explain but this is a spell. We need to find the hex bag to stop it. It’ll be hidden somewhere, an um, a small material bag.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

Carl’s still standing there choking, fading at the edges. I grab you for your attention over him. Both hands on your shoulders trying to will some sense in you. At the same time, I'm trying to remember the reasons why I have to let you go eventually. “Y/N if you want to save his life I need you to look. Look around anywhere something small could be hidden. Move. Now.”

I hate barking orders at you but I’d hate it more if it didn’t work. Luckily it does. You nod and start pulling books out of the small bookshelf in the corner of the room.

This is your first rodeo, your last too if I get my way, so you have no idea what you’re looking for. You’re destroying more of your stuff than you need to while Carl’s gargles are the soundtrack to the room.

I know what I’m doing. My fingers feel down the edges of your sofa cushions while I text Sam that Carl is target number four. My hands sweep all the small spaces quickly. Behind the back of your DVR, I finally feel it. A lumpy piece of soft material.

I pull it out in my clenched fist, still out of sight, not that you’re looking in my direction. It’s heavier than normal but that might be because of the guy this particular hex bag is trying to kill. The lighter in my pocket is heavier still, it’s cold and unforgiving in my other hand.

God knows how long I stand there trapped in indecision. The metal of my lighter digs into my skin for how hard I’m pressing at the cap, teetering on the edge of flicking it open. Deep down I know I shouldn’t be hesitating. A flick of my thumb and it’ll be over, Carl will be saved.

But what about you?

How will I save you if he’s still alive? After this, you won’t be able to leave him even after what he admitted. You’re too damn loyal.

Carl’s close to the end now. He’s been struggling for oxygen too long. His skin is taking on a sickly color. I have seconds to save him, seconds. And in those seconds I figure it out. I figure everything out.

“You found anything Y/N?” I holler while the hex bag gets tucked into my pocket, my lighter returned to the other.

You shake your head, fear drenching you head to toe. I’ve forgotten how harrowing this must be for a civilian. Not just the dying person in front of you but trying to comprehend that there’s nothing you can do to save him. Only I can save him, and I have no intentions of doing that. My decision is set in stone. Sam might be able to help but he’d have to be driving a knife into the witch as we speak. I doubt he is considering the phone in my pocket beeps.

Even Sam knows not to text and stab.

Carl’s on his knees now and trying to keep himself up. “Oh god, he’s going to- I can’t watch this.” You turn to face the wall and wrap yourself up in your own arms. Hugging yourself as you collapse against the wallpaper. You can’t move out of the room, but you can’t watch so instead you exist in this limbo where you’re forced to listen.

It kills me you didn’t come to me, still, I get it. You’re not ready for that yet. I can wait and be patient because eventually, you’ll fall into me when you’re scared.

He takes one last shuddering attempt at sucking in air. It’s worse than his other efforts because even he seems to know that this one will be his last. There’s a noise that comes out of his throat that’s more than a closed windpipe. It’s hopeless and on the brink of death.

Carl is about to die, and you’re curled into the wall, so no one is watching the small smile on my face. It’s barely there but it’s there enough. A witch killed him, end of story. I just made sure that it happened. I made sure of it for you.

At some point, you get up and walk into the kitchen without looking back. I call Sam, he’s killed the witch because it had to be done no matter her reasons. I tell him Carl is dead and Sam sounds frustrated at having lost someone. Even after I tell him what Carl did, Sam still says he didn’t deserve to die like that.

I knew Sam wouldn’t understand which is why I don’t tell him about the hex bag I'm carrying around.

For the second time, I come into the kitchen without knocking. You’re sitting at the table staring into the darkness of the room. Only when I make it to the other side of the table do I see the silent tears rolling down your face.

“Y/N?” I don’t know how far into nothingness you’re looking so I announce myself despite standing in front of you.

Sadness has settled in your soul. I want to ask if this is for Carl or because you've experienced something that most people never do. I don’t ask because I don’t want to scare you. Or I'm afraid of the answer. Probably both.

There’s bottled water in the refrigerator and I have no idea where you keep your booze. You need something stronger but more importantly, you need something. You need anything to do with your hands while I tell you what I'm about to.

“We don’t need to talk about everything, but we need to talk about some of it.” I’m trying to be balanced, not too soft and not too cold. I might be coming off as unfeeling.

“You said a witch killed him. A witch?” The calm in your voice is eerie although you’re not looking at me so it's slightly less creepy. Instead, you’re watching your nails pick at the label on your plastic bottle.

“Yeah. My brother took care of her.” It’s the safest way to say he ganked Kelly. You’ve had enough death for one day. “But not in time. I’m sorry.” I’m not. “Witches are real and this one wanted revenge.”

You take a minute to absorb this. “Your FBI badge isn’t real.”

I’d chuckle if it was appropriate right now. You're not ready to joke about these things yet. “No, but this is what I do. Hunting and killing bad guys, bad things. Sometimes I need to pretend to get the job done.”

“What do I need to do now?”

You’re in shock, I get that, but you’re handling this too well and it’s freaking me out a little. I’m waiting for you to break so that I can pick up the pieces, but you refuse to fall apart.

“Let me walk out of here and then call the cops. His death- it’ll look natural. They’ll take him away.”

“And then what? I wake up tomorrow morning and have coffee where he… I’m sorry that’s not. That’s- it’s not your fault. I-I’m not your responsibility. I’m sorry.”

Oh, what you don’t know. You’ve been my responsibility since the minute I saw you. And you haven’t once questioned me walking out of here. That’s a given. You don’t understand what’s happening and your world has changed in a way that you don't understand. But you trust that I’m the good guy in the same way I trust you not to break me.

There’s a long silence. You drink some of your water swallowing more than necessary. Making sure you still can. I try to explain that the witch can’t hurt you in the same way she did Carl, hex bags don’t work like that. They're personal. But I can’t. Those aren’t the words on the tip of my tongue. The words I want to say are a big step forward. Too fast and too much. More than I would ever think about saying to anyone else.

You’re not anyone. You’re you. Y/N. You’re different and you're mine. Even if you reject me now I’ll know it’s because I asked too quickly. Rejection now will be nothing we can’t overcome in the future.

“If you want my brother and I, the guy you met, my partner? That’s my brother Sam. We have a place you could stay. Nothing weird, it’s just a safe place. Over in Lebanon, a military bunker. Might be good to get away for a few days?”

I’m not expecting a yes or anything close to it. I sound like a horny teenager or a puppy trying to rut against your leg. Your boyfriend, as much as it pains me to call him that, died in your living room twenty minutes ago.

“Do you do this for all the girls?”

It’s almost like there’s not a dead body next door, “only the special ones.”

“I know it’s crazy to even be thinking about it but a few days away would be good. I guess compared to witches a military bunker sounds normal.”

The word ‘good’ pains you to say and again I’m left wondering if you’re a little naïve. You have to be since you’re accepting my offer. I know I’m safe but how do you know that? Y/N is this why you’re mine? Because you need me to protect you from a world you trust too easily.

Suddenly ending up with Carl makes a lot more sense. It wasn’t only loneliness, you’re too trusting, too forgiving.

This once I’ll let it slide since it works in my favor.

Sam only asks once why we’re taking you home. He asks while we’re waiting down the street for the police to finish everything.

I tell him you need someplace safe to recover and he doesn’t say whatever he wants to in response.

It’s hours before we’re on the road and an hour and a half till we're home. The journey is familiar to me now. You don’t marvel at the bunker as much as most people do but you’re dead on your feet. Swaying like a breeze might knock you into unconsciousness.

I put you up in a room next to mine. You thank me not knowing the selfish reasons for my decision.

The jokes on me. Having you so close means I hear you cry yourself to sleep.

I want to tell you that you don’t need to worry. Everything here out will get better Y/N. I'll make sure of it.

Continue to Chapter 3

5eva tags: @divadinag @darthdeziewok @fluentinfiction @witch-of-letters @supernatural-teamfreewillpage Dean babes: @thewinchesterchronicles @akshi8278

#dean x reader #spn fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester x reader #spn x reader #spn #supernatural #supernatural x reader #supernatural fanfic #dean x y/n #dean x you #dean winchester #MURDER(?) #the best tag #stalker au

[aion-rsa]

TV’s Most Stressful Episodes From Battlestar Galactica to The Handmaid’s Tale

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Warning: contains spoilers for Battlestar Galactica, Chernobyl, Line of Duty, Ozark, The Handmaid’s Tale, The Knick, Lovecraft Country and Succession.

Considering that most of us watch TV to relax, it’s remarkable how many shows leave us adrenalin-flooded, with hearts beating like hummingbird wings. It’s TV characters’ fault; those guys never know when to stop. They’re always attempting a hostile takeover of the family firm, escaping a race of murderous cyborgs or trying to dismantle a totalitarian regime. It’s exhilarating but exhausting behaviour. And the better a drama is, the more invested we are in its characters, so the more we care when they put their life on the line. That means more fingernails chewed, more faces clawed in horror, and more nervous foot-tapping while we should, by rights, be melted into our sofas like… all the chocolate melted into my sofa.

Forget slow TV, canal boat travelogues and laundry-folding background series, these are the TV episodes that left us in need of some quiet time in a dark room listening to whale song. Add your own suggestions below.

Succession Season 1, Episode 6 ‘Which Side Are You On? 

Succession is a brilliant show populated by the richest and most terrible people you could ever wish to spend time with – hell, the patriarch of the family at the centre of this capitalist nightmare, Logan Roy (Brian Cox) has the catchphrase “Fuck Off!”. But this episode, the sixth of season one, is the most Succession-y episode of the lot, and therefore the most anxiety-making. In this episode Kendall Roy’s push to get the board of Waystar to stage a vote of no confidence to remove his father from office comes to a head. Attempting to sway enough board members without alerting Logan to his plans, he’s on a knife edge from start to excruciating finish. Meanwhile this ep has some of the greatest subplots of all time. Logan goes to visit the actual President of the United States who can’t see him because of a threat to security – Logan is obsessed that he’s been snubbed. Tom decides to take Greg out for a ridiculously decadent evening which involves eating a whole deep-fried rare songbird as part of the tasting menu, while we know that Greg has actually had to eat already in an awkward meal with his austere Grandfather, who’s in town specifically for the vote. Also there is an actual terrorist threat. It all culminates in a horror show of lateness, betrayal, disaster and a lot of ‘fuck offs’. Brilliant, tense telly. We love it. RF

Battlestar Galactica Season 1, Episode 1 ‘33’

While Syfy’s (at the time Sci-Fi Channel) superb reboot of Battlestar Galactica technically began with a two-part miniseries, “33” is the show’s first proper episode and it’s amazing. “33” catches us with Battlestar Galactica and its fleet of the last human beings in the universe being pursued across the reaches of space by Cylons. But the Cylons, ever-proficient machines that they are, have found a fool proof way to track down the fleet wherever they are in the universe…every…33…minutes. This episode is a perfect introduction to the themes of the series and the stresses its characters will endure. It’s hard not to empathize with the terror of the exhausted fleet as they face an existential threat every 33 minutes on the dot. AB

Line of Duty Series 3, Episode 6 ‘Breach’ 

Series three was the crossover point for Line of Duty, when it went from thinking crime fan’s drama to a show watched by everybody and their dog (it’s huge with dogs. They love all those flashing blue lights). The series three finale was the show at its most thrilling, specifically in the 10 minutes that followed the sending of a now-famous text message: “Urgent exit required.” That text was sent by ‘The Caddy’, a corrupt police officer and lifelong organised crime gang member who’d framed one of our heroes for murder. Mid-interrogation, The Caddy realised that he’d been rumbled and so alerted his criminal fraternity. They broke him out of HQ and into one of the most tense street chases on TV, courtesy of director John Strickland. Gunfire, shots taken from moving vehicles, cars spinning, people leaping in front of flying bullets, a woman in her mid-thirties being forced to do cardio… Sunday nights on BBC hadn’t been this stressful since that presenter broke that fifty grand vase on The Antiques Roadshow. The culmination of a multi-series arc, it was heart rate-racing TV – the sort of finale that makes you stand up and jog on the spot until your husband tells you to sit down, you’re scaring him. LM

Kitchen Nightmares Season 6, Episode 2 ‘Amy’s Baking Company’

The formula for Kitchen Nightmares (based on the British series Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares) is a simple one. Renowned chef and restaurateur Gordon Ramsay enters into a failing restaurant, yells at the owners and staff for a little bit, then some lessons are learned and business turns around. To say that the infamous Amy’s Baking Company episode of Kitchen Nightmares doesn’t follow this formula would be putting it lightly. This is a stressful episode of television because our hero Gordon Ramsay comes across two genuine sociopaths. Amy’s Baking Company (or ABC) is an Arizona restaurant owned by husband and wife team Amy and Sami Bouzaglo. When Gordon first enters the premises, everything seems relatively normal. But it’s not long before he discovers that Sami is a former mobster who steals tips from the servers and threatens to fight several customers a night and Amy is a bug-eyed fire demon from hell who sees enemies and conspirators around every corner. While it’s usually cathartic to watch Gordon yell at delusional small business owners, this episode has viewers praying Gordon will escape Arizona with his life intact. AB 

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The Handmaid’s Tale Season 3, Episode 13 ‘Mayday’

You could pick almost any episode of The Handmaid’s Tale as one of TV’s most stressful watching experiences; relaxation is not this show’s vibe. Set in a dystopia where the most dreadful things happen on so regular a basis it’s genuinely a wonder to get between two ad breaks without somebody being de-tongued or stoned to death, it’s a contender for the most stressful drama on TV. The series three finale is a particularly tense watch because the stakes are so high. Heroine June has decided to hit the brutal theocracy of Gilead where it hurts – right in its kids. She’s got the word out among resistance channels that she’s getting the children out. Bring her a child of Gilead (all of whom were either stolen from their birth parents and forcibly adopted by members of the ruling elite, or born as a product of state-sponsored rape that is the Handmaid system) and she’ll put it on a plane to Canada. What makes it particularly stressful is that when the kids start coming, they keep coming, and coming. Far more than June had allowed for. With Gilead’s thug soldiers going house to house down the street and a constant threat that somebody could betray her at any minute, June has to think and act fast. A terrifying night-time escape, a heavily patrolled airfield and 86 children to herd and keep quiet… my blood pressure’s up just remembering. LM

The Knick Season 2, Episode 10 ‘This Is All We Are’

Thanks to its dim lighting, superb early 20th century set dressing, and gallons and gallons of blood, surgical drama The Knick is always a pretty stressful viewing experience. Its series finale, “This Is All We Are” is particularly intense though. Through 20 episodes, cocaine (and then heroin)-addicted surgeon John Thackery (Clive Owen) has performed countless gory procedures. When his bowels begin to fail (due to the aforementioned) drugs, there is only one person he trusts to perform the corrective surgery on himself: himself. And that’s how viewers are entreated to the sight of our protagonist cutting open his own guts and playing around inside. That, combined with the usual finale stressors, make for one hell of a stressful episode. AB

Lovecraft Country Episode 1, ‘Sundown’

The first episode of this excellent horror drama is also one of the best and the most stressful. Setting out its stall early on, the show follows Atticus (Jonathan Majors), his uncle George (Courtney B. Vance) and friend Leti (Jurnee Smollett) as they travel into the Jim Crow South in 1950s in search of Atticus’ father. Racism is pervasive from the off but the final act of this ep sees the three racing to cross county lines before sunset to avoid the barbaric ‘sundown’ law that prohibits people of color from being out after dark and the racist sheriffs who want to enforce it. It’s a madly stressful car chase against the actual sun and even though the gang just about makes it, the law men pursue them into the woods to lynch them anyway. Fortunately, just in the nick of time a Shoggoth (many eyed, sharp-toothed killing machine) arrives increasing, but levelling out, the peril. It’s a smart, thrilling, break-neck episode that makes it clear that gore and death are definitely on the table and that monsters come in many forms. RF

Chernobyl Episode 5, ‘Vichnaya Pamyat’

Clearly, watching Chernobyl is a stressful experience. Unless the real-life nuclear disaster drama were very badly made, there’s no way it wouldn’t be. Craig Mazin’s five-part HBO series is extremely well made, which makes it extremely stressful and very involving. The first episode, in which Reactor 4 of the Ukrainian nuclear power plant explodes, unfurls like a fast-paced sci-fi thriller. In it, we see the true version of events that will go on, over the course of the next episodes, to be minimised, lied about and suppressed by a Soviet government determined not to let any chinks appear in its flawless façade, whatever the risk to its people. We meet the key players – those who will lie about the explosion, and those who will tell the truth at dire consequences to themselves. It’s in the final episode though, that crushes all the air from your lungs. In it, Jared Harris’ chemist character Valery Legasov lays the blame for truth suppression and the subsequent endangerment of life squarely at the government’s feet. Legasov does the right thing despite knowing it will cost him everything. Watching it feels like witnessing a man get buried alive. LM

Ozark Season 3 Episode 9, ‘Fire Pink’

Heartbreak is stressful, no? The sensation of one’s heart being squeezed hard, steadily, for 62 minutes, until the point that it breaks, is anybody’s definition of stress. That’s exactly what season three Ozark episode ‘Fire Pink’ does, thanks to Tom Pelphrey’s performance as Wendy Byrde’s tragically unstable younger brother Ben. When an All-American family the Byrdes start laundering international drug cartel money in secret, the key word is ‘secret’. Loose lips sink ships, and just when the Byrdes really can’t afford to fuck up, enter: Ben. He doesn’t mean any harm, but off his bipolar meds, he also can’t be trusted to keep quiet. In ‘Fire Pink’ Ben makes one slip-up after another and his every attempt to right those wrongs only digs him and the Byrdes in deeper. As the hour unfurls, we watch Wendy fight inwardly against what she knows to be true: Ben is just too great a liability and something has to be done. It’s a remarkably stressful hour, involving a speed boat escape, a stomach-dropping appearance from the cops, a road trip, a diner and a phone call. And it’ll break your heart. LM

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[megacircuit9universe]

November Outlook

WED SEP 09, 2020

With the election now less than two months away, it’s a good time to look at the different moving parts of history’s machine at this point, and see what we can gleen about how things may go down on election night, and in the many weeks to follow before inauguration on January 20th.

We’re going to start here with the assumption that Trump will, at this point lose any remotely fair election... and will lose by a significant margin.

Biden has been leading him in both national and state polls for months, and now that both conventions are behind us... there’s been little change. Trump is behind in all the battleground states by several points, and within the margin of error in some states normally thought to be safe for the GOP.

His path to victory is incredibly narrow, whereas Biden has many paths to victory.  He’s in a position such that if he lost several different battleground states, he’d still win.

Now, Trump is the incumbent... a status normally considered to be a huge advantage... but incumbency is a huge disadvantage, when everything is going straight to Hell... because you’re to blame for it all.

Clever incumbent politicians have tools use if a disaster strikes on their watch in an election year, such as... rallying everybody to come together in the crisis... and accepting responsibility in advance... two things Trump is not physically or mentally able to grasp.

So... what I’m saying is, it’s nigh impossible for things to change in a way that flips Trump’s approval ratings so late in the game... given that he’s the incumbent.

He’s presiding over a huge pandemic death toll with no end in sight (for which he’s directly to blame, because he’s resisted any and all efforts to flatten the curve*), nationwide protests, nationwide violence, a tidal wave of unemployment, a tidal wave of evictions and foreclosures (for which his pals in the Senate are to blame, for refusing to provide any aid in this crisis), and a pandoras box of fresh scandals, being exposed by the press, by whistelblowers, in a slew of new books, and... just by holding rallies at airports with no socal distancing or masks (all for which, he is, again, directly to blame).

Can all... or even any of that go away... or even simmer down between now and November 3rd?  I would say no... it’s impossible.

Meanwhile, is there any chance that some turn of events could tank Joe Biden?  Some scandal?  Some terrible miscalculation?  

Again, I would say no.  But let’s take a second to examine why...

Firstly, Trump was impeached because of an attempt to collect dirt on Biden so... that strategy already blew up in his face.  It’s no longer an option.

Secondly, Biden was the walking dead candidate who stood zero chance of surviving the first Super Tuesday... yet he’s now the nominee, so... miracles seem to be his specialty this year.

Now, I’ve said before, that miracle was more likely the work of Obama, pulling strings behind the scenes, but... as a former two-term President (and a highly intelligent man) Obama probably didn’t pull those strings just to help out an old pal.

He likely foresaw, not just the type of candidate required to beat Trump on election night... but more importantly... the one who could win against Trump in the battle to follow election night, in which Trump wages an all out scorched earth campaign to remain in power.

And that... is the subject of this entry.

Our first assumption, above, was that Trump will lose handily... but now, our second assumption must be that everybody... from the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, and the top brass at the Pentagon, on down to the poorest, most homeless voter on the street... knows this will not be over after the votes are cast.

We’ll assume, everybody knows... Trump will reject the election results, and refuse to step down.  He will, to put it bluntly, attempt to establish a dictatorship... ending the Consitution, and democracy, in the United States. 

So it would be silly to think that there isn’t a plan to stop that from happening.

The Supreme Court, for example, already signaled very loudly and clearly last month, that Trump will have no ally in their house, should he attempt to challenge the election process in endless litigation... same goes for the lower Federal and State courts... they’ve all been ruling against him, and his agenda, this whole year...  even DESPITE... the Republican lead Senate approving every judge he’s nominated over his term.

Nobody likes a despot... not even a conservative Judge.  They take their oaths seriously... even if the Mitch McConnells who ram their appointments through, do not.

Which brings us to the military... also known for taking the same oath, to defend the Constitution against all threats, foreign and domestic... deadly seriously.  

Last weeks blockbuster article in the Atlantic, in which Trump was exposed (it’s been confirmed by four other sources by now) as believing all members of the military are, “suckers,” for joining up, cuz what do they get out of the deal?  And, “losers,” for dying on battlefields... has utterly destroyed any chance he may have had at getting them to cave in the face of unconstitutional orders... such as he would have to issue to establish any successful coup to stay in power.

This is critical, because if you don’t have the military... you don’t have a coup.

And Trump does not have them, at this point.

Military culture drills it into their heads that they do not have to follow unconstitutional orders from anybody, even the Commander in Chief, which means that if there is already a, “Commander Elect,” with a transition team in the wings, who DOESN’T think they are suckers and losers...

...in fact a Commander Elect who they know well, because he already served under the previous Commander in Chief as his second in command for eight years...

They’re gonna have all the footing they need to refuse any coup related orders outright.  And I believe they’ll be eager to do so, under the present circumstances.

As I’ve noted in an earlier entry, it was the miltary who forced Trump to wear a mask in public while visiting a military hospital... because they were already pissed off about how he duped them at Jefferson Square, earlier this year.

Trump himself, seems to be aware that he’s lost the top brass, both retired and active... which is why he made a public remark last week that the old generals don’t like him, but the troops still love him.

All I’ve seen is evidence to the contrary on that point, but that was Trump’s desperate dog whistle to any sympathizers he may have in the lower ranks of the military, to please... please steal some tanks and bazookas to join the fight?

Recall I wrote about, “Beta Force,” a while back... consisting of rogue law enforcement officers, Homeland Security troopers, and regular citizens with weapons and other resources... well, he’s hoping he can woo some legit military troops to join Beta Force, should there be a showdown.

That scenario, right there, would be the much prophesied Civil War 2, but as I’ve said for years, such a Civil War 2 will be short lived... a couple weeks at most.

Recall the thugs he sent into Portland to terrify and abduct protesors... using locally rented vehicles, and presumably staying at local moetels.  Trump is nowhere near ready for a showdown with the full might of the US Military, on our own soil, no less.

You can bet your ass the legit military are gaming this scenario right now, and that if pressed, they will shut that shit down and have Trump in a cell with a bag over his head faster than you can say, “what the fuck?”

The rest of the two weeks will just be putting down random assholes with assault rifles here and there across the country... but they’ll all be hauled in, don’t you worry.  And they’ll all stand trial for treason in broad daylight.

In this scenario, yes, innocent people are going to die... as they have been dying on the streets at the hands of rogue cops, school shooters, caronavirus, and other systemic abuses, or neglects, for a long time now.  

There is no scenario here, where everybody just says, “Whew!” and we’re all good.  But that’s been the case for quite some years.  We’re all pretty used to life threatening danger on a daily basis, and the courage required to face it by now.

Which is what leads me to the next big fear, being promulgated this past week...

...The so-called, Red Mirage.

Red Mirage is a prediction about election night 2020, in which nearly all the states on the election map turn red, because only the in-person votes have been counted, while the mail-in ballots are days or weeks away from being counted.

Trump seems to believe in the Red Mirage prediction, given his statements in recent weeks about an election that could take, weeks, months, or even years to sort out**.  Couple that with his repeated assertions that mail-in voting is inherently fraudulent (seconded by his Attorney General, Bill Barr) and his recent attempts to knee-cap the post office... and you have a President who likely is betting everything on Red Mirage.

The plan would be just to run with election night results, declaring himself the victor by the biggest landslide in history... then beat that drum loudly while quashing any attempt to ever count the absentee votes... demonizing them as fraudulent, and demonizing anybody who doubted his victory as dissidents who must be imprisoned or something.

I’ll admit... it’s a terrifying scenario!

...on paper.

But the Red Mirage prediction is founded on the sophomoric conceit that all Trump supporters will vote in person... because they do not fear the pandemic... and all Biden supporters will vote by mail... because they don’t want to risk getting Covid19 by venturing out in public.

This, to me, is laughable... because it really does assume that 100% of the electorate are total idiots.

The Trump voters are all idiots who will vote like there’s no pandemic to worry about... and the Biden voters are also idiots who will, out of an abundance of caution, and a blind trust in the postal system, all vote by mail.

No Trump voters are gonna stay home... because they think it’s in the bag?  No Biden voters are gonna just wear a mask and vote in person, knowing democracy itself is on the line... knowing of Trump’s attempts to knee-cap the post office... knowing it’s better to risk an infection when the stakes are this high, than to stay healthy but live under a dictatorship the rest of their lives?

Really?

Based on what I witnessed in November 2018... together with what I’ve seen this past year, with both Millenials and GenZ waking up to the dire importance of voting... together with the cleverness and bravery of protestors across the nation risking life and limb nightly just to express their outrage, while wearing masks to stay safe from infection (successfully)... together with half the GOP turning against Trump.. and everybody in agreement this time around that third party votes will get you cancelled...

I’m expecting a Blue Tsunami on November 3rd.

Trump will shout that it was all rigged, the next morning... but he won’t have any red election map to hold up and wave around.  

And once Biden has secured that title, as President Elect... all Trump can do is try to incite his disaffected trolls to violence... and then turn his thoughts to damage control on the legal front.

Michael Cohen, Trumps former fixer, this week in interviews, predicted that Trump will resign if he loses, so that Mike Pence can issue a, “blanket pardon” in the few months before Biden takes power.

It’s anybody’s guess as to whether such a pardon could really protect Trump from the many New York State criminal charges awaiting him, as soon as he leaves office, but my guess is... no it won’t.

Trump will pay, for all that he’s done, and all he’s put us through.

He’s got nowhere to run.  Nither Russia, nor China, nor South Korea will take him in exile... nor will any other nation on the planet.  Like every two bit crime boss before him... he will end up behind bars.

And that will not only beef up the radioactive potency of House impeachment for another two hundred years... but make Trumps single term in office the cautionary tale for generations to come... of the idiot President... who dared to fuck the Consitution... and had his ass handed to him in prison.

I’m sure there are some moving parts I’ve missed in this analysis tonight... and I’m sure you think my conclusions here are overly rosey... but I have looked at this from many angles... and I do keep coming back to Trump dying in prison without a second term.

Make of it what you will.

For tonight, however... it’s time for bed.

*[THU NOV 10] Bob Woodward (of Watergate fame) released tapes of Trump the night I wrote this which did not fully hit the media until a day later.  Tapes in which Trump is talking to Woodward over the phone, and which make very plain that Trump Knew the virus was airborne, that it was worse than the flu, and that it would be very difficult to contain... before the rest of us knew it... and before he went out and started playing it down in public, saying it would go away like a miracle in April, and refusing to wear a mask, or social distance, etc. 

It’s been an incredibly damning development, because it’s Trump’s own voice, and it prooves he didn’t just botch the pandemic out of stupidity... but deliberately mislead the public about it, at the cost of hundreds of thousands of lives.

He also obstructed states from getting PPE and ventilators, attacked governors for doing lock downs, gagged the CDC, and covered up hospitals’ reporting of Covid related numbers to the public.

And all of this he did, apparently, for the sake of the economy... thinking that was the way to win in November.

This is a crime against humanity!

**The 2000 Election results hinged on the electoral votes of one single state, Florida, which was too close to call on election night.  Nobody knew who’d won for several weeks as Florida went into automatic hand recounts of the ballots, many of which were ambiguous because of, “hanging chads,” or, not fully punched out holes.

However, on th strength of Fox News calling Bush the winner, his legal team sued to stop the Florida recounts, in the Supreme Court, and successfully took power, even though it was found... years later, that Al Gore had actually won Florida, and thus, should have been President.

Red Mirage anticipates this same scenario to play out again on a national scale, in all states, not because of hanging chads... but absentee ballots... and assumes that the Supreme Court might call the end to vote counting once again, because Fox News called it for Trump on election night.

This is not the way history works.

This is not the way anything works.

This is not what will go down in November.

[verdigrisprowl]

I Fought The Law

Astrotrain attempted to visit Soundwave, and ended up stranded on the street in an unfamiliar city.

A paranoid little ex-Autobot-turned-cop spotted a big dangerous Decepticon lurking on the street corner, decided he was absolutely up to something, and took it upon himself to take him out and foil his plot.

Prowl witnessed, and felt the need to intervene.

Now Prowl and the ex-Autobot-soon-to-be-turned-ex-cop are being hauled in, Astrotrain is getting a medic, and believe it or not this is the happy way this scene could have ended.

Astrotrain

((starting from http://slenderwave.tumblr.com/post/168805666752/the-dark-energon-dildo-has-presumably-been))

He might have jumped when the bridge appeared behind him, the normally-welcoming green glow ominous in his optics. It could lead to anywhere, and not necessarily somewhere survivable by even the staunchest of spacebuses. Here there be monsters.

Operating on a strand of good faith that his friend would prefer to kill him personally, Astrotrain ducked his helm and entered the portal to hell anyway.

Hell, it turned out, had had a few renovations since he'd last heard of it. Someone had ritzed up the joint. He found himself craning his helm to observe Cybertronian structures he hadn't seen in such good condition in eons, gawking like a tourist. They weren't pristine, but they were intact. It was a goddamn city. A real-ass Cybertronian city. His internal maps said it was somewhere near Iacon, which dimmed the tourist's gawk in his optics a bit - Iacon was Autobot territory. Before the war, it wasn't all that welcoming to him either.

He wasn't sure if Soundwave had moved up in the world or sideways a bit. He wasn't sure if Soundwave was here at all, for that matter. His first instinct was to go back through the portal if it was still there - and it likely wasn't - or otherwise make a break for it and regroup in safer places. His second was to explore the old-new world with disgregard for possible consequences.

His third and strongest informed him to plant his butt directly where he had been dropped and wait to see if the mecha or the cybertiger were to show up first. The grip on the drink in his hand - something he couldn't remember pulling out - tight and shaky as he drew it to his lips. He noticed only too late to move that his back was against a light post, a good one, bright garish light highlighting his plating like a beacon.

He may have spammed the spymaster with a few pings 10 minutes in. Wee-woo, wee-woo, hurry your ass up.

“Officer Half-Pint”

Astrotrain needn't have worried about dying. Soundwave knew better than to commit his kills where others could watch him do it. Sure, he could just tamper with the surveillance net while revisiting his inner murderer, seeing as he was the one who'd installed the system in the first place, but why waste his own time like that?

Besides, he'd have to be out of his mind to bump someone off right under Prowl's nose.

No, the worst Soundwave had in mind was ignoring the pings and making a quick stop at home to grab a miniature lobbing ball for later.

The undersized patrol car coming up the road was another story altogether. He'd painted over his Autobot symbol several months back, just like the other new enforcers, but it made no difference. One glance at the huge Decepticon sitting alone next to a moderately pretty building was all he needed to convince himself he'd come upon a plot in the making. The sight of Astrotrain's shaking (and therefore, nervous and guilty) hands made it worse.

He flipped himself onto the sidewalk and onto both feet, one hand already hovering over his right thigh compartment while the other spread wide in the empty air at his side.

"You! You, with the drink. Step away from the light post!"

Astrotrain

Fuck. It was the cybertiger. An incredibly small one but a cybertiger all the same.

Ordinarily, he might have cheekily asked if drinking and/or light posts were illegal now, officer. However, his nerves were shot. He was keyed up to 11, thankfully a couple degrees down from full fight or flight. Sudden violent mecha-shaped movement accompanied by yelling? Logical response: a jerk back into the light post (there was an ominous squeak but it seemed no worse for wear), a startled yowl and immediately fumbling and then dropping his drink.

"Aw, frag." Astrotrain muttered, staring dumbly at the wreckage on the ground. He glanced towards Officer Half-Pint and started to bend to clean it up, wings tilted back and down in submission. "What's the problem, officer?"

Is a trademark Disarming Grin helpful in these trying times? No? He's doing it anyway.

Prowl

((starting from https://verdigrisprowl.tumblr.com/post/168805524284/when-prowl-gets-home-from-work-today-instead-of))

Prowl's been standing outside more than long enough to get used to the voices and traffic noises that bounce down the alleyway to his balcony from the street in front of his building; only the occasional outstanding sound—a squeal of tires, a burst of loud laughter, a jet flying where it shouldn't—is enough to drag his gaze from the skyline down to the street. A squeak and a yowl were enough for that.

Prowl glances at the street curiously; looked like someone stumbled into a pole and dropped his drink. Wrong time of day to be drunk enough to stumble into inanimate objects, wasn't it? Kind of looked like—what's his name, the triplechanger Megatron kept around—Skytrain? Something like that. Maybe it was an alternate, he was sporting Decepticon brands.

Prowl would have lost interest right then if the Decepticon hadn't spoken, and revealed two things: one, his voice was extremely distinctive and EXTREMELY familiar—and not because it might be from the alternate of someone Prowl was passingly familiar with—but Prowl couldn't quite place why; and two, he was talking to an officer that Prowl couldn't see from this angle.

Considering that he'd just spent the last several hours thinking about officers—well. That was worth paying attention to, wasn't it?

Prowl turned to watch the street. The Decepticon was probably going to be chided for public intoxication (Prowl expected he was intoxicated, dropping his drink and stumbling into poles and all), maybe escorted home, perhaps arrested if he was so drunk he risked meandering into traffic and causing an accident.

Officer Half-Pint

The crash of glass had the hidden half-sized energon prod popping up and into the officer's hand. What was it? Acid? Some kind of explosive liquid? Was he going to light it up?

"I said get away from the light post!" he yelled, inching closer, so far past high alert he'd moved straight into a readiness to jab at the first sign of what was - to him, anyway - suspicious behavior. "Don't touch that liquid! Stand up, get away from the light post, and put your hands over your head!"

His optics kept flickering from Astrotrain to the mess on the floor and back again as he approached. "What was in the cube, Decepticon? What was in the cube?"

Prowl

... That wasn't what was going on, was it? The officer thought the Decepticon was a threat. Why? Had he done something before Prowl had noticed them? Had Prowl misinterpreted what the cube he dropped was? At any rate, he didn't appear to be a threat now, bent over and wings down.

Prowl moved to the side of the balcony, propping his elbows on the railing, to watch closer.

Astrotrain

His fingers had just touched the edge of the glass when the bot was caterwauling again, and he immediately jerked them back and away as if burned. Okay, clearly he wasn't going to get done for littering, at least not yet. Probably one of about 10 crimes he was probably unconsciously committing by being here.

He felt like he was 1 million years old again, finally considered an adult and a guttersnipe to anyone who wasn't too keen on the lower classes.

"Dude-- sir-- it's just highgrade," The triplechanger explained, his Disarming Grin faltering a bit. He obediently sidestepped the post so that his back wouldn't hit it again before slowly straightening up, thick arms following suit, getting about as high as they could - somewhere just below helm level due to his anatomy. Palms up, handshovels free of anything threatening. The light glinted off the buzzsaw blade on his chestplates, something he'd utterly forgotten he was wearing anymore.

"It's homebrew, self-made-- not stolen or anything, if that's what you're worried about. Is that not-- I mean I dunno if there's any laws against homebrew? I honestly just got here."

Officer Half-Pint

"Officer," he snapped, practically puffing up like a blimp bot at the perceived insult. "And ignorance of the law is no excuse." There weren't any laws against homebrewing energon just yet, but that hadn't been his problem with Astrotrain's presence to start with. "I told you to put your hands over your head, you filthy--"

His optics flared bright at the sight of the saw blade stuck to Astrotrain's chest. The prod crackled brighter still when he ran forward without warning and jammed it into a knee joint.

"Stay down! Stay down!" As if Astrotrain wasn't already on his way there.

The enforcer continued repeating himself, already trying to crawl up Astrotrain's front and tear away the trainsaw badge.

Prowl

There WEREN'T any laws against homebrewing, unless they had been passed in the last three weeks, which Prowl found highly improbable. This was not right. Why had the Decepticon been stopped? Surely there was something, but Prowl couldn't see any probable cause for a stop from here. Why so much aggression? Why—

His engine revved in a panicked fury as the officer rammed the electric prod into the Decepticon's knee. No. Incorrect. He wasn't being threatening, he wasn't reaching for or folding out any weapons, he was complying with all commands. What had he done to warrant that kind of response? Please, don't let this be what it looks like to a latecomer half a block away who didn't see how it started. Please, say he'd done SOMETHING. Say he deserved it.

Prowl didn't see anything to warrant it.

Astrotrain

"That's as far as they go, officer, I can't--"

The tiny mecha was on the move again, and the motion cables in his legs seized up before he could attempt to move. He might have yelped, he might have even said something to the effect of 'what the fuck', but all he knows is now he's toppling ass over teakettle and getting stomped on by Microcop. His chest burned and his vision swam as his spark struggled to adjust to the additional energy.

He could easily stop this. Snap the tiny fucker in half. But what if he had backup? They always came in packs. First it would be Tiny, then it would be not so tiny, and then there would be a great big joker who flunked out of the space academy, and then when they were done he would go back to lock-up in a universe he didn't even recognize anymore and this time the Decepticons wouldn't save him because they were probably all dead--

Amidst the beginning of a(n admittedly self-induced) panic attack, Astrotrain vaguely registered what the tiny mitts were after, and he made no move to protect it, arms frozen in the surrender position. His mode of defense was currently to just lay there like an upended beetle. "That's a gift from a friend, okay? Just a dumb fashion statement. Look, see, he put a train on it 'cause of my second alt. I guess he'll be okay with it if you take it, yeah--"

Meanwhile he's pinging said friend again, while simultaneously expecting him to already be there in the bushes or something, lying in wait with Not So Tiny.

Officer Half-Pint

Tiny definitely had backup on his mind. He couldn't transport a shuttle all by himself, and if Astrotrain tried resisting at any point he'd probably get pancaked in two seconds flat.

Astrotrain obviously hadn't done it and wasn't about to start, but what were facts to mechs with their heads so far up their own tailpipes they could kiss their catalytic converters?

Not a damn thing, which was only slightly less than the amount of Astrotrain's explanation he bothered to mind.

"What friend? Who's helping you? Why does he want me to take this?" He shook the trainsaw in front of Astrotrain's face before flinging it to the side. "What are you two planning?" The prod came out of its home in the knee joint for a temporary vacation in Astrotrain's neck cables instead. "Talk!" And another one.

Prowl

At the prod, Prowl jerked forward, nearly lost his balance, and barely caught himself with a tight grip on the railing. No, completely unacceptable, he was assaulting a complying suspect—suspect of what?!—demanding information, a shock there could kill a mech, over a, a, a fashion choice? why was he, for what—

He started calculating the probability that intervening would escalate the situation. At the second stab to the mech's neck, he promptly abandoned his calculations, vaulted over the balcony railing to the alley below, and charged. At this weight at this speed at this angle he could bulldoze the smaller mech into the opposite building and give the larger one a chance to get up.

Astrotrain

Answers wouldn't matter all that much - and honestly, namedropping the 'friend' might have made it worse, considering this guy's prejudices. Not that he had time to give them, of course.

White hot agony ripped through his neck cables directly into his processors, what felt like molten slag pouring across his entire neural net and pooling in his spark. His vision fizzled after the first and blacked out after the second, but not enough banks had shorted out to drop him unconscious into recovery mode. He was distantly aware he might have screamed, considering his vocoder also felt like a pool of hot metal mush. He remembered thinking almost haughtily 'how are you gonna get your answers now, afthat? you broke the talking bit!' before his spark seized and stuttered painfully in his chest.

He couldn't feel his face. The words 'my spark' babbled from his lips, over and over, but he couldn't hear them.

Was this it? He was going to fucking die in the street being harangued by the multiverse's tiniest rent-a-cop. No glory, no fanfare, not even an overdose, just an electric prod and a spark attack.

Consciousness slipped for half a klik, hello darkness, my old friend - and then the tiny but still oppressive weight above his struggling spark was gone, and the source of the current coursing through his neural net with it. Instinct told him to run, run now before they finish you off. His body only managed a groggy groan and an attempt at sitting up. Recalibrating, please hold.

Officer Half-Pint & Soundwave

The enforcer barely had time to sit up and shout "You're not supposed to be down here!" in shock before Prowl personally introduced him to his new friend, the wall. The prod lay forgotten, the last few sparks skittering and dying out just as it finally stopped bouncing and clattering across the street, and judging by his dazed flop to the ground, he wasn't going to be reaching for it any time soon.

He mumbled something about radioing for more security, rubbing a cracked optic and trying to put his senses together again.

"The - the frag do you... think you're doing?" he asked, partially mirroring his victim's pathetic attempt to sit up. One stubby finger broke the pointed in the direction of the shattered trainsaw. Couldn't Prowl see the danger they were all in?

Thin fingers reached down to pick up the largest piece and turn it from side to side, revealing the damaged circuitry and wiring within. Total loss. So much for that particular spying opportunity. Astrotrain would never let Soundwave get away with it a second time.

Don't mind him. He'll wait there until you three are sorted out and ready to explain yourselves.

Prowl

Prowl kicked the prod away, dropped to one knee next to the smaller mech, tucked the mech's wrist under his armpit and his own wrist under the mech's elbow—right now only uncomfortable, but capable of breaking the elbow if he tried to escape—and pressed his knee to the mech's abdomen, just enough to make sure he knew he wasn't getting up.

"You," he snarled, "are under arrest. For aggravated assault with a deadly weapon; for use of excessive force on an unarmed and unresisting citizen; and for a hate crime against a Cybertronian citizen on the basis of his political party affiliation, as legally defined under the Decepticon Registration Act. Now you can either tell me where you keep your stasis cuffs so I can retrieve them, or I can search your compartments myself and confiscate anything I find that I think might pose a threat to me. Is that clear?"

Astrotrain

Astrotrain remained where he was, waiting for his scrambled diodes to settle, a shaky hand gripping his chestplates as if he hoped to catch his spark when it decided to jump out. Deep vents. Reset input systems. Damage report... er... he'll have to sort that part out later, his HUD was only displaying static and glitch artifacts.

Not dead, which was the important part. Probably couldn't get up yet, but not dead. His audials came back to life first, picking up a voice - an angry, but incredibly flat voice - that was oddly familiar, in a way.

"... pipe head?" He croaked, to himself, which let him know his talking bit was still in operational order, even if it felt like talking through broken glass.

He distantly heard someone else landing and waited to see if they would pick up where Microcop left off while his savior was distracted. Distracted arresting the cop. Cop squared? Megacop? When no extra pain came, he swiveled his aching helm towards the words on the other side and reset his optics again, curious as to see what a Megacop who actually cared about Decepticons looked like.

He uh. He didn't expect that one. He didn't expect that one at all.

Officer Half-Pint & Soundwave

Soundwave watched quietly while Prowl arrested the enforcer, intrigued by his actions and what they might mean. Any other time, Soundwave would have stepped in to stop someone assaulting an undersized mech, but he'd caught the tail end of their actions on the trainsaw before it broke.

He'd told all of the mechs serving as enforcers that this kind of behavior would eventually be rooted out and handled. If they were stupid enough to continue like this after that warning, on their heads - or in this case, their abdomen, and soon enough their wrists as well - be the results.

(txt): Glove compartment, location: left lower back.

Their feeble protests concerning a prisoner's right to arrest anyone fell on deaf audials. Neither did Soundwave see fit to remind Prowl that Astrotrain wasn't a citizen. It sounded like they already knew each other, and the other two reasons would suffice.

Instead, Soundwave moved over to Astrotrain, where - after pinging Astrotrain a belated greeting - he began gently nudging the shuttle with both feelers to search for any indication that he'd require immediate medical attention.

Prowl

Prowl's gaze flickered to the Decepticon. "... High grade lube?" Well. That explained where he recognized his voice from.

He glanced at Soundwave—where did he come from?—nodded, shifted his weight over the small mech to roll him onto his front without letting go of his arm, and searched the indicated compartment. "Ah." He turned the mech's arm behind his back, cuffed it, and reached to grab the other wrist.

"You'll be taking him from here, correct?" Prowl glanced up at Soundwave again. "I expect you'll need to take both of us in." Not even Soundwave could make it look like this hadn't happened; not with a very angry officer who knew exactly whom he'd been tackled by, and Prowl could see other witnesses in his peripheral vision.

Astrotrain

Was quiet laughter a sign of needing medical attention? Because he might be laughing. It hurt like a motherfragger.

Pipe Head is Prowl. Prowl is Pipe Head. So far from his assumptions they might as well have been in another universe. No wonder he'd never found him to give him his gift basket. He distantly wondered if it was prudent to offer one again. Less 'get well soon', more 'thanks for stopping me from dying from an amoeba'.

"I still say it woulda worked," He commented, belatedly, not minding much if Prowl didn't notice. The even more belated response to his panic pings of earlier earns Soundwave a stare he hopes is scornful, but just sort of looks worried and dazed. "He broke your thing. Tried to break my spark. Do I still need to sit in the shame corner or m'I good n' shamed?"

Against his better judgment, he's going to try getting up. He's probably going to need some help, as evidenced by dropping directly back onto his aft partway through.

Officer Half-Pint & Soundwave

Okay. Okay, Astrotrain could definitely use the hospital visit. Good thing Soundwave already knew where it was, thanks in no small part to the very head pipe being referenced. (What high grade lube had to do with anything was beyond him, but knowing Astrotrain, it'd be better not to ask.)

[[Stay seated.]]

[[You are not being punished. He will arrange a transport for you. You may choose to be temporarily given a place to rest or taken for medical attention. If you don't want to go to the hospital,]] because Astrotrain wouldn't be the first Decepticon that didn't, [[he can send a medic to your location instead.]]

Laserbeak detached to pick up the remnants of the trainsaw while Buzzsaw snapped shots of everyone watching the scene for later filing.

Now, while he waited for the final answer...

(txt): Correct. Both moved when other arrangements: completed. Bridge intended.

Dragging a recaptured Prowl through the city would spoil any goodwill just earned with the nearby crowd for saving Astrotrain. Doing it to the cop who started the whole mess was tempting, but frankly, Soundwave already had enough problems keeping the enforcers under control. He didn't need this to get out any quicker than it already would.

He wound one feeler around the stasis cuffs and moved to wrap the other around Prowl's wrists, meaning to squeeze both tight.

[[Have you made up your mind, Astrotrain?]]

Prowl

"I can recommend the hospital." Prowl tilted his head, flickering his previously-wounded optic a tad brighter. "As you may observe: no pipes."

Bridge. Good. Quick. Prowl relinquished his grip on the smaller officer as Soundwave took control of the cuffs, quickly got to his feet, and allowed Soundwave to bind his wrists.

Astrotrain

He'd JUST started recovering from the sudden bout of laughter, and now there was another one at Prowl's helpful commentary. It's not you, it's him.

"Fuck," The triplechanger said matter of factly when the second bout had cleared. "I mean-- I'm fine. M'good. I don't need......"

His spark seized again, leaving him staring vacantly at both of the smaller mecha before him for two seconds longer than really necessary. Maybe he should go with the hospital option. What if this made it worse??

"... I don't want questions. " Astrotrain finished for himself. "One medic asks less questions than a whole bunch of 'em."

That's train speak for no, he did not go with the hospital option.

Officer Half-Pint & Soundwave

Soundwave'd known Astrotrain for more than four years by then. He got it.

[[Understood. Laserbeak and Buzzsaw will stay with you and escort you to your temporary quarters when the transport arrives. Frenzy will be there and waiting to check on you when you arrive, and he]] meaning Soundwave [[will come visit you when he's finished with his other duties.]]

[[In the meantime, you are not to exert yourself. Is that clear?]]

Astrotrain

"Bird entourage. Cool." A slight pause, lolling his helm towards Minicop. "He owes me a drink, y'know. N' you owe me..... something. There are words. Not right now. But so many words."

It didn't come out quite as scolding as he meant it, and definitely not as scolding as he would've meant it had the spymaster come a bit earlier.

He nodded his helm towards Prowl - just think! a Prowl that proclaimed this a hate crime against Decepticons ! - and gave what he thought was a charming grin, all sharp teeth and abashed. "S'nice to properly meet you, sir. I hope we can still be friends even though the jig's up."

Prowl

A critical look; and then he said, noncommittally, "I still haven't found out what you were on the last time you commed me, Skytrain." Up to him whether he considers that good news or bad news.

And then he turned to Soundwave. All right. Take him away. He's ready to go back to Real Jail. Maybe his old cell will still be available.

Officer Half-Pint & Soundwave

Soundwave nodded and waved off the comment on personal debts. They could have those words later, when Astrotrain didn't sound like he was going to expire just from thinking them.

[[You'll get the drink when you're recovered.]]

Something fishy about Prowl's "noncommittal" response. No time to investigate that, though. They had a minibot to turn in and... something to do with Prowl. He hadn't yet worked out what the appropriate punishment was for an escaped prisoner who'd only escaped to preserve the law.

(txt): Go. Station awaits.

He pushed both mechs toward the bridge that'd just appeared in front of them, lifting the soon-to-be-ex-enforcer into the air to carry him in when he refused to budge.

See you later, Astrotrain.

Astrotrain

Astrotrain only shrugged, smiled, and promptly laid back on the ground like an upended beetle. Woe be to the transport unit that must deal with 200 tons of dead weight.

#chat #slenderwave #choochoomotherslagger

[larchwood]

Give me single dad Zane.

I’ve never cottoned to the idea that having a baby was the next logical step for Ty & Zane after they got married.  Zane was 46 when they got married.  I’m 45.  Let me tell you - I’m not having a baby at this time of my life.  (Unless I win the lottery and can hire people to do everything else for me).

But what if Zane had a kid with Becky?

After getting married in July 1993, Zane is a high powered attorney in Austin, while Becky volunteers throughout the community as part of the Women’s League and various other philanthropic organizations.  Together they’re a young up-and-coming couple who were often seen on the society pages, hobnobbing with the elites of Texas power.  (Beverly couldn’t be more proud).

Eventually they decide the time is right to have a kid.  They’re both excited and thrilled.  Zane might be a little apprehensive about handling a tiny baby (it’s been a long time since his sister was a baby) but he knows Becky will be an awesome mom and she’ll probably do the majority of the parenting while he continues up the corporate legal ladder.  (Beverly of course is also ready to swoop in at a moment’s notice to “help out” as needed, gloating at the idea of the next generation of Garretts arriving.)

Patrick Garrett is born in February 2003.  He is a beautiful and perfect as they all could have hoped for.  Zane doesn’t think his heart can get any bigger.  And after a few minor freak outs and some coaching, he’s lugging the baby around like a pro after awhile.  He cuts back his 70 hour a week work schedule to something slightly more manageable, but Becky and their nanny have everything under control.

Becky Garrett dies in a car crash in November 2003.  

Zane’s grief and depression are overwhelming.  Becky had been his world for more than two decades.  He holds it together until after the funeral, but then he crumbles.  Yes, like canon Zane he drinks to numb the pain.  Probably would sleep all day if he could, not eating, alternating between ignoring baby Patrick to clutching him tightly like he’ll never let him go.  The nanny does her best to keep things as normal as possible for the baby, but eventually she calls in the big guns to take over - Beverly Carter-Garrett.

She arrives and nags, scolds, threatens until Zane agrees to move back to the ranch.  It’ll be better to be surrounded by family, she says.  You can rest and heal.  Your law firm will understand a bereavement leave of absence.  We can help you take care of Patrick better.  The baby should grow up on the ranch and learn his legacy, yadda yadda yadda.  

Zane gives in.  He’s just so fucking tired.  And what’s the point of arguing?  Beverly’s probably right - she can do a better job of handling Patrick than he can.  (Never mind that there is already a housemaid assigned for nanny duty).  Becky had handled everything.  Zane only has a vague idea of who Patrick’s pediatrician even is.  He has no clue when he’s due for his next round of vaccinations, for cryin’ out loud.  

It takes a little while, but eventually Zane works through some of his depression.  It doesn’t go away for the longest time, but having a baby means you don’t stop, you have to keep moving forward - whether you want to or not.  And Patrick is moving and crawling and about to walk and babbling and holding his arms up to be carried and how can Zane deny him that?

The temporary leave of absence continues for a year.  His law firm tries to get him back in the office, but other than a few consult/strategy sessions with the partners, he really doesn’t want to go back to that life.

He’s coming to the realization that he doesn’t really want ranch life, either.  Not that he doesn’t love it, or appreciate the help that his family has been, but it’s time to break free of the memories of life with Becky.  And - let’s be honest - the clashes with Beverly are starting to become more frequent.  Yes, she was a help when he needed it, but Patrick is his child, not hers.  She doesn’t get to make the parenting decisions for the boy and it’s time they made a change.

They end up in Baltimore.  (surprise, surprise).  Maybe Zane had visited once for a legal conference and loved it.  Maybe his law firm had some sort of corporate retreat there every year.  But Zane picks it for other reasons - being on the east coast like that puts them closer to historical and cultural resources that Zane thinks will be a benefit to Patrick’s education.  He’s looking forward to exploring the Smithsonian with him, and Broadway, and the Statue of Liberty and every other thing they can possibly do.  

Zane knows that he doesn’t want to be a lawyer any more, other than maybe a little pro bono work here and there, but he’s not in a hurry to pass the Maryland bar.  He just can’t go back to 12 hour days and miss out on life with his son.  

So, he buys a bookstore in Fells Point from a couple who are ready to retire.  One with living space above the store.  (Let’s face it - starting a business from scratch with a 3 year old underfoot probably is probably more work than he’s looking for).  It’s a comfortable modest business.  The decor is cushy reading nook meets college library stacks, but with plenty of spaces for Patrick to color and read his books in the kids area or play with blocks and cars and space ships.  They even get a couple of store cats who follow Patrick everywhere.  The cutest thing is when Patrick settles down for a nap in the back room and the kittens snuggle with him.

Zane’s feeling blessed that his handful of employees (probably all part-timers - a couple of college kids from Johns Hopkins and maybe a couple of retired ladies who enjoy working a couple of days a week) are okay with him bringing Patrick to work every day.  In fact, the retired ladies are always ready to be surrogate grandmas while they’re there, admiring Patrick’s drawings and listening to his stories and trying to sneak him a treat every once in awhile when Zane’s not looking.  And so far no complaints from the customers either about him being a disruption.

Zane treasurers these few years with Patrick underfoot.  School will start soon enough with all that changes that entails.  Zane can still see Becky in Patrick - the shape of his nose, the lighter brown of his hair.  Patrick doesn’t remember her, but Zane makes a point of showing him pictures of her and pointing out their similarities.

“Zane would feel the weight of responsibility quite heavily, which could make him a rather strict, dull father on the surface, adhering to the rules, rarely letting the child break them because he knows those rules are there for the child’s benefit. But he would also be the father who, at the end of the day, is the one a child will go to for advice and comfort because kids know where it’s at, and Zane’s love for his child would shine through in every action, even when he is scolding. Zane would be the father whose hugs and words meant more to a child, because rather than coming at random for no reason, they always have a reason behind them.” **

A couple of years later, Patrick would be in 2nd grade (7 years old).  It’s his last year to attend the Sea Life Safari at the Baltimore Aquarium.  He’s gone for the past 2 years and it usually falls around his birthday, so they build a little birthday party into it.  Zane is going along as a parent chaperone to help out.  

Cue bomb scare at the Aquarium in Divide & Conquer.  Ty still comes running in to help out.  Maybe he helps hustle out Zane and Patrick’s group before heading back in.  Zane’s outside with the kids, trying to keep the kids calm and out of the way of other law enforcement, but he might have taken an interest in the FBI agent as he gives his impromptu interview, but he never learns his name.  It takes Zane forever to get Patrick to sleep that night after all the excitement.  He is just as excited the next day to see the interview, because not only can you see the FBI agent “He’s so cool, dad!” you can also see Zane and Patrick for about 2 seconds in the background.  “We’re on TV, dad!  We’re famous!!!!  I can’t wait to tell the kids in my class!”

One of the must dos of being a small business owner is to network - so Zane regularly attends the monthly Chamber of Commerce meetings and the city’s community outreach events.  Especially in light of the unrest that’s been happening in the city lately.  The back of his shop got tagged a few weeks ago, and he’s got a vested interest in keeping Fells Point a safe and welcoming area.  So he’s eager to hear what law enforcement is doing to address these issues.  

So imagine his surprise with the guest speaker at this month’s CoC breakfast meeting is none other than the FBI agent from the Aquarium - one Special Agent B. Tyler Grady according to the agenda.  He’s witty and engaging, seeming to be in perpetual motion as he gives his talk.  The information is interesting enough, but Zane does appreciate being able to get a better look at the guy in daylight, in a suit, and not under a state of personal panic like the first time.

Afterwards, Ty stays to do few mandatory ‘grip and grins’ before he can escape.  Zane doesn’t intentionally wander over, but as he’s doing his own chatting with people, they end up in the same general area.  Zane thinks he notices Ty getting a cornered look like he’s desperate to escape - his gaze is wandering like he’s trying to gauge the number of people he’s got to shoulder past to get to the exit.  

Ty looks past Zane, but then zeros back on him, eyes widening with recognition.  Zane can’t imagine that he would remember him from a brief encounter weeks ago that happened under duress, but he knows that with his height, people do tend to remember him.

Ty comes up and introduces himself with a handshake.  “Hi.  Special Agent Ty Grady.  And you are?”  Zane smiles.  “Zane Garrett, Special Agent.  It’s nice to officially meet you.”

At this point, my creative juices have given out.  Maybe Zane goes home and tells Patrick that he got to meet the cool FBI agent again, and he invited them both to watch the FBI team play softball.  Instead of Shannon and Elaina in the dugout when the bomb goes off, it’s Zane and Patrick.  

Maybe Ty and Zane start meeting for lunch occasionally.  Not calling it dating just yet.  They both know single parent dating is challenging.  Every so often they do things with Patrick, who still thinks Mr. Ty is the coolest thing ever.  They’ll go to Orioles games or a day trip into DC.

It gets a little dicy once Patrick realizes that he’s gotta share Zane.  But eventually they all get through it.  Because 

“Ty would be the fun father, the one you know will teach you the things that will make you the cool kid in school, the one who will help you pick up and brush you off when you fall down and then say ‘walk it off, kiddo, you’ll get better’ because that’s who Ty is and that’s who he makes everyone around him. Walk it off, kid.” **

Patrick gets to be Zane’s best man at the wedding.

** Parental analysis courtesy of Liam Bell.

timeline

#hello beautiful #zane friday #single dad au #fanfic #i guess? #not a real thought out one #great set up that goes no where #I don't want to work that hard #zane garrett #ty & zane #This Zane never gets as dark as canon!Zane #and if Burns isn't sending Ty to clean up after canon Zane in Miami - maybe he's not *quite* as dark either