#/mr+pollock

[random-racehorses]

Random Real Thoroughbred: MR POLLOCK

MR POLLOCK is a colt born in Argentina in 2017. By E DUBAI out of MISS LUNA LUNA. Link to their pedigreequery page: https://www.pedigreequery.com/mr+pollock

[duusheen]

just a little Phoenix appreciation post here 😼 ft dad and mr. purrington

[mr-e-gallery]

Jackson Pollock - with - Bob Mizer

[karathespellbinder]

Librarians rock!

I just realized today that librarians have saved the day at least 4 times in kingdoms and empires so far, here is how:

The librarian on Lantern Island (who is unnamed) encourages Bronte while she researches a way to clear her Aunt Emma from jail just as Bronte is about to give up by giving her a plate of cookies :) letting Bronte find a key piece of evidence!

The librarian on Lantern Island later finds Bronte the contact information for Ronaldo C. Torrington, leading to the reunion of Bronte's Aunt Carrie and her long-lost lover, who she marries!

Carlos, the librarian at Katherine Valley Middle School, helps Esther find the books about magic that she eventually uses to defend her school against Shadow Mages even without Spellbinding (because she is very smart, brave, and practical).

Carlos later gives Esther a stack of books about Horseshoe Island Ogres, giving her information that exposes her teacher, the malicious Mrs. Pollock, as an evil ogre and saves Esther's class from Mrs. Pollock's insidious manipulation!

[sohannabarberaesque]

Originally published in TV Comics over in Great Britain; still, the homage to artist Jackson Pollock is interesting nonetheless:

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

For a request:

Maybe a rescue fic with ghost, price, or soap? One where they rescue their non military fem s/o? I know you’ve written some already and they are so good but I EAT THEM UP EVERY TIME and love that trope so much!!!!!!

Hurt/comfort is my drug I swear

I know that’s pretty vague so maybe I’ll think of more eventually but that’s what I’ve got for now.

I love your writing!

- 🧚🏻‍♀️🧚🏻‍♀️

None Lacking Sins

Pairing: Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Reader

Synopsis: It started with the incident at the grocery store and then built to the hidden gun in the nightstand and a quick, frantic, call to your boyfriend.

Word Count: 7.4k

Warnings: Implied stalking, violence & blood, angst, protective Soap, suggestive language and conversations, implications of wanting a kid, vulgar language, fluffy banter, hurt/comfort, canon typical actions, edited in the middle of the night

A/N: I've been in a Soap mood lately, tbh. I think I'm going to flip-flop uploads for my Gaz series and Requests too...anyways. Enjoy, anon! You can never go wrong with a rescue fic!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*  

You called him for the first time when you were at the store, picking out dinner and asking what he wanted for a welcome home meal.

“Well,” his sly voice made you roll your eyes, but a smile still blossomed over your lips. “If you want me to be rash, Bonnie, I’d say that I wouldn't mind a good bite out of your–”

“Johnny, you finish that sentence, you’re not going to get anything besides butter on toast. Give me a recipe before it gets dark out.” Veiled glee was obvious from your tone, and the heat on your face could all but be heard over the line. Two months apart had made you both eager to be in each other's presence. 

Picking up a box of pasta, you flip it over and check the price, sticking to your budget and tilting the phone parallel to your chin. A deep chuckle meets your ears, and your chest feels light as it pierces your lungs. 

Your boyfriend was off in Australia this deployment—he’d been complaining about the heat nonstop on those few and far between video calls the two of you shared. While it was a step-up to know where exactly Johnny was this go around, the prospect of his job still made you incredibly nervous. There was never a time you could remember when he came home without a new cut or scar; bruises were all but guaranteed. 

Sucking down a soothing breath, you place the pasta into your cart and fix the phone’s position. The Scot was coming home in a day or so, you wanted to make him feel at home again. Destress.

You’ll see him before you know it. There’s no need to worry.

“Bit snappy, then, eh? Oh, alright.” The man huffs good-heartedly, and you hear the springs of those thin barracks-bed mattresses as his large frame shifts. Johnny lets off a soft sigh before continuing. You listen intently, leaning onto the handlebar ahead of you. “What about a nice plate ‘O that one you always make—hell—the…the one with the Pollock and cabbage.”

You blink through a laugh, shaking your head and pushing yourself off to go find the needed ingredients. The dish wasn’t easy to make, in fact, it took a helluva lot of time, but you didn’t mind in the slightest when it came to cooking for Johnny. He deserved it. 

“Hey, now,” He teases, smirking to himself, “What’s so funny over there, Dearie? You makin’ fun of me?”

“I would never dream of it, oh great and wondrous, Mr. MacTavish!” You huff, fake serious, as you place a box of cookies into the cart and pass a few strangers who raise an eyebrow at your conversation. A man passes by with a blue cap on, and you swerve the cart to move around him while tossing back a frown. You soon continue on like nothing happened, pulling back the sense of security from the man over the line. “Do you want mashed potatoes with that as well? Wine?”

Johnny groans, “Hey, you’re the one that asked me!” 

Divulging into giggles, you make your way around the store and stock up, holding a light conversation about how he and the rest of the boys were doing. 

“Ghost told me to let you know he appreciated the book you lent him, said he’d get it back to ya as soon as he’s able.” The Scot comments, and a hum makes its way from you as you head to the self-checkout. 

“Well, that’s good. I said he would like it – the bastard’s so tight-lipped about what he enjoys it was hard to nail-down a genre.” A chortle sounds off when you gather the chilled pollock and scan it; the phone was held against your shoulder to your ear. “High Fantasy for the win, I guess.” 

“I should get the man to read ‘The Way of Kings’ next time—form a little book club, y’know? Get all the boys in on it like some old ladies.” It was adorable how cute Johnny sounded, like a kid on Christmas. “Stemin’ Jesus, could you picture that, Bonnie?”

“I’d pay to see you pitch that, Dear.” A cheeky tone leaks through. “Price would laugh straight into your face.” 

“Please, the old man doesn’t know how to laugh….He’d just puff cigar smoke in my face and tell me to fuck off.” 

“As I said—I’d pay to see it.” Your boyfriend grumbles under his breath as you place the paper bags into your cart, the contents heavy, and grab your receipt with quick fingers. “Gaz would definitely be in for it, though.”

“I don’t doubt that. Anything beats playing cards for weeks straight, aye?” Your hand can finally grip the phone once more, and you sigh contently as the strained position of your neck finally rights itself. 

You’re about to answer but slow your pace with a scrunched look of confusion as you exit. 

Passing through the front doors, you suddenly get a strange sensation in the back of your mind to turn around. The hairs along your arms stand up as a breeze passes the steadily chilling dark sky, but the way the shiver ran down your spine wasn’t due to cold. Lips thinning, you spare a glance over your shoulder and look along the brightly lit grocery store as its windows leave cascading rays of light over the sun-bleached concrete. The black asphalt of the parking lot is hard under your feet.

There are a handful of other patrons at the checkouts—mothers with children and others buying quick meals for dinner—but none are out of the ordinary. 

You huff and roll your shoulders.

Maybe the day’s just getting to me.

“Bonnie,” Johnny’s slightly concerned voice brings you blinking back, turning your head back to the sparsely lit parking lot and realizing you had stopped walking completely. Your hand was sweaty like you’d just run somewhere. Fixing your hold on the device, your boyfriend continues, “...Everything alright? You’ve gone all quiet over there.”

“Yeah, sorry,” you laugh dismissively, trudging forward to your car, “I just got the weirdest feeling right outside the grocery store.” 

The cart makes a loud rumbling sound as it goes over loose rocks and the bumpy texture of the asphalt, the metal rattling loudly so you have to strain your ears to hear Johnny’s next words. 

“What kind of feeling?” His drowned-out voice was so serious that it shocked you—you’d only ever heard him use a tone like this when he had briefly talked about nightmares that had woken him up in your shared bed. 

The Scot’s words were monotone, slow, and even if the sound of the cart’s wheels was raging all around you and making your skull rattle, you’d still swear you would identify that tone over a hurricane. It made your gut churn. 

“Really, it’s probably nothing,” you play off with a tense shrug he can’t see, coming to a stop at your car and reaching into your pocket for your keys. “I just got a chill.” 

Your eyes look around before you open the trunk, biting into your lip at the long shadows that the tall street lamps give off. Licking over your teeth, you bink dismissively and shake your head, unlocking the vehicle and huffing as you begin loading in your purchases. 

“Anyways,” you try to ignore the hard build of your spine or the way your eyes travel back to the brightly lit store. There wasn’t anyone out here but you and the dead forms of cars, trees off in the distance, and far-off lights of other buildings. You swallow and clear your throat. “I was thinking about getting us a dog.” 

“You’re not gettin’ out of this that—wait, did you say dog?” Across the world in a shitty bed, Johnny’s once concerned eyes widen, jaw going slack. “No way in Christ’s Hell, Dearie.”

“Oh, come on!” You groan, placing the second to last bag into the car and tuning your back to the street, throwing out your hand. “It doesn’t have to be a big dog—just one I can go on walks with and keep me company. I know you have a bad past with them, Love, but I just want someone to help not make the house so empty when you’re gone.” 

Your voice slides off near the end of the sentence, and you try not to sound so sullen. Johnny frowns as he stares into the far wall of the barracks over the heads of sleeping men, itching at the back of his neck. It was no secret that the Scot wasn’t particularly fond of canines—his encounters with them were almost never pleasant unless he knew the handler. 

But…

“I’ll think it over, eh, Bonnie?” He relents, sighing, and he thinks he hears snickers from a dark form in the distant corner. The Sergeant glares over at it and continues with a pang of internal guilt about how lonely you must feel most of the time. “Promise…but you’re more likely to get a cat dressed in a suit than a mangy mutt anytime soon.” 

You laugh at the attempt of a lighthearted joke, closing the trunk with a roll of your eyes. A breeze goes by and your arms erupt into shivers, clothes not enough to keep out the chill. 

“I’ll take it.” 

“Hm, you know,” Johnny smirks, rubbing at the sleep in his eyes and grunting out huskily, “there’s another way to make sure the house won’t be all quiet when I’m gone.”

“Keep it in your pants, MacTavish. You’re not even here yet.” Smiling through the heat of your cheeks, the skin of your cheeks glows; your body rolls with heat. “Save it for tomorrow.”

“What, am I gettin’ you all worked up over there?” He hums, and you grab your cart, pushing it into one of the specific areas where someone would grab it in the morning. “‘Cause I have no problem with waitin’, Dearie, all the more perfect when I get to be with ya.’”

“You wish, handsome.” Walking back to the slight rumbling of your car, you speak through tilted lips and completely miss the form walking up beside you. “I think that—”

“Excuse me?” 

Yelping, you nearly drop your phone to the floor as it slips out of your startled grip; heart jerking at the sudden intrusion into an intimate conversation. Swiftly turning around you spot the same man as before—the one with the blue cap that had passed by quite rudely in the store. His strong face looks sheepish.

Johnny quickly calls your name through the line, and you let off a reassurance before tilting the device down.

“Holy hell, man, give a girl a warning next time, yeah?” Chuckling weakly to push back tension and the twisting of your intestines, you notice the stranger’s tall frame is covered in a heavy jacket. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Yeah, actually,” He’s not outwardly alarming to look at, the man, with his loose body gestures and controlled tone. “Sorry, but I was just wondering if you could lend me a hand. I found a kitten under a van back there,” he points, and you look over to the far corner of the parking lot. Sure enough, there was a large van surrounded by two black cars. Your eyes narrow on the scene, already getting a prickly feeling. “Do you have any food that might bring it out? Or maybe you’d be willing to reach under and grab the little bastard?” 

The stranger laughs and continues with a jerking of his shoulders. You watch every movement with an upticking pulse, fingers tight over the phone as Johnny listens with growing worry. 

The Sergeant's dark eyebrows pull tight, and he stands like he could run out the door to you; jaw tight and muscles wound.

“Put me on speaker.” You decline silently. Better not to get a hotheaded and protective Scot involved when he was thousands of miles away.

“Sorry,” Clearing your throat, you take a step back, attempting a friendly smile. “I have to get home to my husband.” It wasn’t the first time you’d had to use the spouse card to get away from creeps, and it won't be the last. Worked better than just the boyfriend title, honestly. And there was something about this man’s eyes that didn’t sit right with you. “Work night and all, you understand?”

“He left yet?” Johnny asks, gruff as his accent gets stronger. “Else I’m callin’ the store and sending security out to you.” 

“It shouldn’t take a long time,” the man begs and you take another slow step back to the car door, pupils going tiny. Breaths shallow. “You’ll be back to your…husband, in a few minutes. I’d hate to leave the poor guy all alone.” 

“Sorry.” You say again, firmer. “No.” 

Not wasting any time, you open the car and jump inside, wrenching it closed once more and pressing the lock. Breathing heavily, you stick the keys into the ignition, missing a couple of times, and look into the side mirrors to spy on the tall shadow that hovers like a plague. 

“Sweetheart? Hey?” Johnny calls out your name as you force the car to start driving away, face tight and limbs shaking. “Hey, are you alright?” 

The man has half the sense to wake up Price, but with the stirring bodies around him, there’s half a chance the Captain already knows something’s off. Johnny hadn’t bothered to check his noise level when the uncomfortableness seeped from you over to him. What kind of a man approaches a woman near dark and asks a question like that? The action didn’t sit right with the Scot. 

Johnny’s body hums with energy—volatile rage keeps his heart in a tight fist with a deep seething hatred of not being with you to help force back the freaks in person. He wasn’t above getting into someone's face if the situation called for it; after a couple of outings to less-than-nice pubs, all it took was a few nervous glances from you nowadays for him to create a barrier out of his own flesh.

“I’m okay,” you whisper to him, biting at your lips and peeling back flesh. “It’s all good. I-I’m on the road already.” 

A great weight falls from the man in the form of a sigh. He slowly sits back down on the mattress, lips thinning and slightly shaking his head. His free hand comes up to rub over his cheek. 

“Good. That’s good…” He snaps out of his concerned stupor quickly, but the fast beating of his heart does anything but slow. “You’re okay.” 

It wasn’t worded as a question, maybe more of a reassurance, but it helped you immensely. Your tension lessened at the comforting sound of Scottish drawl and deep, silver, voice. But you wanted him to wrap his arms around you; gaze into those cerulean orbs.

Tomorrow.

“Keep on the line until I get home?” You ask feebly, not able to resist looking in the mirrors as you turn out of the parking lot. 

The blue-capped stranger was still standing there, and one of the black cars in the far corner had turned its headlights on. A deep dread overtakes your ribs like you’d just gotten out of something very, very, bad. A sense of a lingering morality stays in between your ribs.

“‘Course. Wouldn’t be doin’ anything else, Bonnie.” Johnny utters, glaring at the floor. “I’ll be ‘ere the whole time.”

It wasn’t fair that he was unable to be there with you—never before had the constraints from his job hit him full strength in the chest like this. If he can’t protect the ones he loves back on the home field, then what was the point of the Task Force in the first place? 

By the time you get home after taking the fastest route, you quickly gather everything from the back and shuffle inside, pulse still racing. You lock the door behind you and take a deep breath, closing your eyes. 

Johnny’s soft breath over the call was like a lullaby, right in your ear as if he was beside you in bed. Oh, you missed his soft snores more than anything. Your gaze goes glossy, but the tears are held back stubbornly. 

As if sensing your turmoil, your boyfriend speaks lowly. 

“Y’know, I bet the rest of the boys would really love it if we kept ‘em over for a drink and a bite when we all get back. I can whip up something quick on the grill and you can take a breather, eh?” He speaks so softly it almost makes the tears worse, heart palpitating. 

You wetly laugh and place a hand to your mouth, standing in the dark foyer with groceries on the floor and a primal fear slowly leaving you. The familiar scents of charcoal and birch wood from the Scots hair product are stuck into the very walls of this shared dwelling, along with the scuffs on the floor from play-wrestling during movies; a light that needed to be replaced due to Johnny accidentally running straight into it at two am. He had thought an intruder had broken in, but it was just a bird that had snuck in through an open window.

The signs of a well-lived and loved home. 

“But you wanted pollock,” you grumble with a hidden smile and burning ears, pushing the tip of your shoe into the front rug.

Johnny beams and goes to lie back down, putting a hand behind his head against the pillow.

“Well, now I’m makin’ burgers. Guess you’re just going to have to sit back and watch my fabulous arse from the porch, yeah, Dearie? Don’t burn a hole into them, now, they’re the only pair I’ve got, and I know how much you like ‘em.”

“Shut up.” 

“I’ll even wear that apron you got me—what was it you said it did,” the cheeky Scot smirks, all teeth and crinkled eyelids, and hears your complaints get louder as your mind flies away from what had happened almost immediately. “Made me look like I should be in a porno? Hell, if you were in it with me, I’d not complain ‘bout it. Steamin’ Jesus, I’d let you do horrible things to me, Dearie.”

From somewhere in the barracks a low groan echoes out and Johnny snaps his hand down to stifle his loud laughter as you bark at him. 

“MacTavish!” 

Great bouts of laughter leave everyone glaring from atop pillows and from over fingers stuffed into ears; some even get up and gather blankets, leaving the barracks room entirely.

In your foyer, your body blazes with heat like you’d been set on fire, a hand placed over your eyes and a treacherous grin on your mouth. 

“Keep your voice down, you absolute arsepiece!”

“Aye—! That’s what I’m tryin’ to tell ya!” 

“Johnny!”

—

The second time you called him was out of pure curiosity, only a few hours before your lover was scheduled to come home and cook for you and his Task Force. Around six o'clock. 

“When was our postbox all scratched up?” Your thumb runs over the black numbers of the sequence, blinking with wrinkled skin as you take a glance at the neighbors’ and frown. No one else's was like that. “I thought you said you compromised with the local kids and would give them money for sweets so they would stop messing with our stuff?” 

“Little fiends were sucking me dry!” Johnny huffs, “No way the devils would pass up more sugar and do something like that. What’s it look like, then? A few stray rocks manage to dent it?”

Your lips release a sigh and you pick up your mail with an annoyed grunt, closing and locking the cubby as you reply. “No way, it looks like someone took a knife to it.” Clicking your tongue, you shake your head. “God, things have just been going wrong lately.”

Shuffling his feet over the tarmac and hearing the plane engines die down behind him, Johnny takes a glance back. Price was standing at the top of the C17 arms crossed and head tilted—the Scot could imagine the raised eyebrow almost immediately. 

He grimaces and holds up a finger, walking a few more steps away as Gaz leaves the hull with his bags slung over his shoulders. 

“I can’t talk any longer, Bonnie, Price’ll wring me for not helpin’ unload the gear. He’s damn near skinnin’ me already.”

You chuckle, “Tell him I said ‘hello’ and not to damage the face.” 

“Oh, you’re a horror, you are, Dearie.” 

Quick declarations of love and see you soons were exchanged before the connection was cut, and your feet carried you back into the house. Your phone and the mail went to sit on the tiny hallways table, shoes tossed onto the plastic mat sitting on the floor with a small thump. 

Sighing, you rub over your eyes, thinking over if it was worth calling the post office or just trying to fix the scratches yourself. 

“I think we have some paint in the garage…” You trail off. 

Ultimately, you just pushed that to the back burner. Johnny was coming home. Your lips peeled into a large smile, and you’re rushing off to get into a nice outfit for the rest of Task Force who was coming a bit later than your boyfriend. Thoughts of finally being able to be picked up by your boyfriend's strong arms were all-consuming, being held into a broad chest and digging your nails to the dip of his spine. 

Just being able to be around the mohawked-man was a blessing that you’d never take for granted. 

You settled on a nice top and casual pants—you’d met the others before, so there was no need to go overboard. Smoothing your clothes down, you enter the living room and go to open the curtains, letting the light of the interior spread to the small lawn and the street. Humming under your breath, the vehicle outside doesn’t catch your attention immediately; the black metal is just another parked entity sitting still. 

When you do pause, your curtains half-opened, the delayed shock makes you lose precious time as you stare slack-jawed at one of the twin cars from yesterday at the parking lot. Your fingers clench into the fabric in a sudden moment of frozen shock. As if a mythical creature had just run past your field of view, the parting of your lips is instinctual before the widening of your eyes. 

A still second passes before you’re sprinting to the front door—locking it and snatching your phone. Heart pounding, you make a dash to the bedroom, dialing Johnny with fear-tight pupils. 

He had told you if there was ever an emergency to call him right away, he’d get there faster than any police officer; for the record, you believed that wholeheartedly. Johnny was more loyal than a dog in a pack, once someone raised the alarm the Sergeant was locked in. 

Rushing into the bedroom, you trip over the tossed covers but right yourself as the dialing tone sounds out, heavy breathing making your lungs hurt. You open the nightstand table and dig under a collection of books, hand meeting the smooth metal of an M9 pistol. 

Putting the phone on speaker, you throw it onto the mattress.

Legally, you shouldn’t even have this—while Johnny had been teaching you to shoot, you didn’t have a license for it yet. But he’d insisted on leaving you behind with something to defend yourself with.

The confused voice of your lover sounds over the open space. “Jesus, Bonnie, you miss me that much? It cannae ‘ave been more than ten minutes—”

“The car from yesterday is outside the house.” You throw the books to the floor and hear them make a clatter just as you pull out a box of ammunition. Taking out the gun’s magazine, you load bullets with a violently shaking hand. Some hit the ground with a metallic ping, but you pay little attention, just blinking back anxious tears and a harsh focus on the sounds of the front door handle being jimmied.

“I…what?” Johnny’s voice gets heavier, demanding with a snarl trapped in the back of his throat. 

Standing stationary in the doorway Base—about a twenty-minute drive from home, the man’s heart suddenly jumps in his breast. Did he hear you right? Behind him, Ghost slows to a stop at the now blocked opening, watching with narrowed eyes; a large rifle slung over his shoulder and a carry bag in his arm. Johnny’s shoulders wind tight, feet parted as he suddenly turns on his heels and takes off back the way he came in, the phone still at his ear where the Lieutenant knew you were on the call.

“What the fuck?!” Ghost’s skeletal head follows after and pointedly notices the Scots lack of care for how his bags hit the ground but keeps the pistol holstered at his thigh and the combat knife strapped to his upper shoulder. 

“Johnny?” He calls out, but only the wind answers him. “The hell are you off to?!” The gargantuan man sends a glance over to Price who was watching just as intently, lids narrowed. Gaz cleared his throat.

“....Shouldn’t we follow him? Sounds pretty serious.” 

Price sighs, taking a moment to watch Soap sprint to the main building and shove past other soldiers and staff. He grunts.

“Move light.” 

The phone call was filled with heavy breathing and hurried orders. 

Your boyfriend was running you down the basics of firing at a moving target as the sound of pounding at the front door became more hurried.

“It’s not like a stationary target—when someone’s runnin’ at ya, they're gonna be moving quick and you’re not going to be able to fire if you don’t mean it!” 

“Okay, okay,” you mutter with a shaky inhalation, loading the M9’s magazine and clicking off the safety. “What the hell do they want with me?” The whispered question is more for you than it is for anyone else, but the answer from the sprinting Scot startles you. 

At that exact moment, the pounding of a fist stops completely.

“It doesn’t matter. You’re gonna fire at the first bastard that comes down that hallway. We’ll ask the questions later.” You hear a car door opening and a yell from Johnny’s side, soon the clammer of grunting breaths an exclamation of ‘hurry the fuck up!’

“I—”

“If you need to, leave through the window and go to the neighbors. Take cover in the foliage and slip away to the back alley.” Johnny never spoke like this to you—clipped and deathly serious. But now that you think about it, as you stay frozen and barricaded in the bedroom, if he spoke any differently you’d probably break down. “Do you copy?”

This was Sergeant MacTavish, and damn him if anything came between that man and the people he cared about. 

He barks your name, “Do you copy?!” 

“Yeah,” the gun shakes in your grip, but nonetheless you hold it at your hip and turn your eyes to the window. It would be easier to leave, you think. You’re not trained for this! “I–I think I’m going to—”

The front door’s window is broken with a shattering of glass. You rush to the phone and turn off the speaker, afraid that the sound would immediately tell these people where you were. Loud shouts flow into the foyer and spread like venom under the crack of the thin barrier separating you and the intruders. 

“Spread out and find her!”

“Yes, Sir!” 

Sir? You ask, eyes snapping this way and that as Johnny is dead silent on the other side. You think you hear the slam of a foot to the pedal, but you can’t be sure. Fuck, there was so much going on, you didn’t know what to do.

“Screw this, I’m going out the fucking window.” You gasp out, lungs tight and skin sweaty, you turn on the safety on the gun and stuff it into your belt. 

One-handed, you unlatch the lock and strain your ears, hearing feet getting closer. Grunting, you shove the heavy frame up and try to stop the ringing in your ears. Whoever these people in your house were—they were professionals. They had patience; studied your intellect with the trick in the parking lot and followed you home so they could mark your postbox number as a reminder of your address. What the hell was happening? 

Just as you’re about to make the small drop into the flower bed, a creak echoes from behind the bedroom door. You freeze in place, one foot dangling into the backyard. 

Breathing slowly, your eyes lock to the deep shadow that spreads like two distorted poles as the large feet face the very place you’d holed up. As delicately as you’re able with an award-setting tremor in your gut, you place the phone down onto the window sill; Johnny’s loud and worried voice dims as all attention moves to self-preservation. You’re just about to reach for your gun when the door busts off its hinges. 

Starling, and before your hands can find purchase, you’re tumbling backward—out of the house entirely with a stifled shout of alarm. Slamming to the ground and crushing flowers in the process, you have no time to think about the pain going up your spine or at the base of your skull before you’re scrambling for the M9. 

Just as someone peeks out from the window, face covered and holding an assault rifle, you’re firing three shots in rapid succession as you don’t even remember flicking off the safety. 

Two shots miss entirely, but on the last and final press of the trigger, as your arms catch the recoil, it connects. 

A comment is cut short as blood explodes in a great wave of velocity, coating the house upwards almost to the shingled roof. The body slumps, weight bringing it down to hang limp over the frame.

Wide-eyed, you still hold the shaking gun in the air, muzzle smoking, breathing fast through your mouth. Had you just…

Your stomach bunched, acid traveling up your throat to pool under your tongue. Perhaps you would have thrown up at that moment, the setting reality that you’d just shot someone in the head like an anvil in your pounding skull. But the barking voices from inside the house snap you back. 

Gasping down the breaths you realized you hadn’t been taking, your wobbly feet dart to shove you up like a newborn deer as sprinting bodies close in on the porch’s sliding door. God, you could only imagine what Johnny was thinking. 

Bolting out of your backyard fence, you remember your lover’s orders and run as fast as you’re able to the neighbor's open yard, using the darkening sky to help cover you. Cursing under your breath and thinking over all of the ways this should have already gone wrong, you wipe at the tears cascading down your cheeks. 

Don’t think about it—just get away.

It wasn’t long before you were down the alleyway, feet weak and lungs burning. There was a stickiness to the back of your scalp, blood, undoubtedly, from an injury caused by the fall.

It’s a damn miracle I didn’t break anything. 

What would you have done then? Just let those people take or kill you? You shiver at the idea and force yourself to go faster. Darting around a corner, your feet skid to a quick halt. 

The barrel of a gun was pointed directly at your face. 

“Had a feeling you’d be slippery.” It was the voice of the man from the parking lot—the man with the blue cap. Your face jerks to an imitation of confined horror and unease at the same eyes boring into you. He was dressed in gear like the rest of the men now exiting your house to hunt you down. The stranger shifts his feet and you flinch. “Drop the gun, Sweetheart.” 

“Who the fuck are you?” You find your voice, hissing out. The pistol clatters to the floor as it slips from your grip and you hate how you flinch at the sound. 

“Your boyfriend and his buddies are hard to track down.” Blue Cap huffs, and the tall stature of the man makes you incredibly nervous. Backing up a step instinctually, he follows and smirks. “But I figured the best way to meet him was to find his little bird first—he’d come right to me. Cliche, I know, but you can’t fault me. Works every time.” 

What did this guy want with your Johnny? Gritting your teeth, your fingers shake at your sides, hips tense and ready to run.

“He’ll kill you.” You level, not keen to show this man how disgusting you felt being near him. 

He shuffles up next to you, grabbing the meat of your arm. Trying to jerk away, the barrel of his weapon is shoved into your ribs; gasping, your body goes rigid.

If your heart goes any faster, it’ll break.

“Not if I threaten to kill you first.” Forcing you forward, you glare and feel the urge to spit in the man’s face. “C’mon, hun.”

“Don’t fucking call me that, freak.” 

“Ooo…fangs. Can’t be surprised, you did shoot one of my men, after all. Not a bad trigger finger, but you do need decent work on your accuracy if you wanna make anything out of it.” Your eyebrows pull in as you’re corralled back out of the alleyway, barrel bruising your skin and blood dripping down your neck. The man’s grip hurts as a strangled whimper falls from your bitten lips. 

Feet scraping over concrete, you’re brought out into the street as neighbors peak out of windows with drawn curtains; phones to their faces. Did these intruders not care about the police? If anything, that made you sweat more. 

“Ride’s waiting.” 

“I’m not getting into that.” Grunting, your eyes are stuck on the black void of the car parked in the street. A menagerie of other armed men stands all over. “Hell no—you can just shoot me now if that’s the case.”

“Don’t tempt me, I can still go after the Sergeant’s dear old mom,” your lungs chill as the man chuckles to himself, looking down at you through dark lashes. “He has a cousin, too, am I right?” 

Rageful tears spark behind your lids as you blink. 

No way it was going to go like this. Where’s Johnny? 

The gun was taken from your ribs as you’re shoved forward. 

“Get in. Now. We’re already behind schedule.” You stare into the interior and clench your fists, lips quivering but jaw clenched. Your Lover’s voice comes to you, sure of himself and laced with stubbornness. 

If you’re ever in trouble, you wait for me, Dearie. I’ll be there ‘fore you know it, ready to defend your honor like the knight in shinin’ armor I am, eh? Why are you laughing…?

Turning back around with every ounce of courage you can muster, you splay your feet and cross your arms.

“No.” The gun is raised to your head, and you want to flinch back in terror but restrain yourself. 

“Get in.” 

“No.” How your voice wasn’t breaking was a question in and of itself, but Johnny had always said you were stubborn like him. Best time to prove him right was with a barrel to your face, apparently.

The stranger’s eyes light with anger, hands clenching over the body of the weapon as the rest of his men stare on in shock. A growl meets air.

“I’m not asking for a third time, Sweetheart—” One loud boom later and you’re ducking down with your hands over your head, ears ringing and body unsteady; a great weight hits the ground right next to you.

The sound of gunfire rattles the world all around the once quiet street, and you think that you and your Lover will have to move after this. No way the neighbors could let all this slide. Looking up, your eyes jump from the corpse spasming near you to the running men, chaos breeding in the lines between shouts and dropping bodies. 

A hand latches into your waist, and you’re being lifted into strong arms moments later. Squealing, your head snaps to the size and meets cerulean blue inlaid in a strong brow line. 

“I’ve got ya.” Your body loses all tension at the accent that you would know anywhere, even in death, a strong grip picking you up and keeping you close to his broad chest. 

Johnny carries you away in the midst of battle as the rest of the 141 get involved, making quick work of the remaining men. Breathing in his scent, you force your face under his chin, feeling the stubble scrape as your fingers dig into flesh. 

He’s here. He’s—he’s right here.

“Don’t worry, Dearie, I’m right here. It’s nearly over, now.” You try to bring him closer as he takes cover behind a wall, pressing his shoulders against the grating stone as he shields you closer to him. Sliding down to the ground.

His eyes snap back and forth, heart rapid. God, he was nearly too late. Johnny presses his nose into your hair as he breathes deeply, watching bodies fall and feeling you shake. Feeling you shiver; now finally able to let everything sink in. 

“Shh,” the Scot mutters, pressing you closer as you whisper his name in a hoarse breath. “You’re alright. I’m ‘ere, Bonnie, I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” His hands filter over your skin, checking for injuries and feeling over growing bumps from under-the-skin abrasions.

His teeth clench together in hate, hotheadedness taking over for a moment as part of him wants to rush out and pick a few of these bastards off himself. But it’s just not that simple. 

Looking out into the street with serious eyes, the radio attached to his vest sounds off as the last of the firefight ends almost as quickly as it began. 

“Clear.” It was Price. “How is she?” 

Johnny sighs, looking down at you in his hold as he whispers comforting words in quick succession.

“Shaken, but alright…” The reply is muttered as you sniffle, your fingers going to wipe away tears. “She’s—she’s alright.”

Johnny beats you to it as he tries to calm down, large digits tilting your head to the side and studying intently as he swipes them away with a firm thumb and a careful frown. 

“Johnny—” Your eyes stay locked on him as the Scot gets rid of any trace of fear or sadness, calluses burning your skin just as they always did. His gaze flickers to you; lips pulling tight. None of you choose to move, too content with being this close to one another and safe, even if the situation was serious. “I…”

You trail, not even knowing what to say as the wetness of your eyes blurs your vision, body hot, and the back of your skull aching. Your hands go to cup his cheeks. It’s all the words he needs. 

Eyes soft, the Sergeant attempts a weak and worried smile. “I’m so proud of you, Dearie, y’know that? So damn proud.” Your lips quirk, a strained laugh echoing out. A finger pokes the side of your nose. “Hey, I’m serious now. Stop your foolin'.” 

Johnny’s fingers run deep circles into your temples as you trace the lines of his cheeks. 

“Shut up.” You huff, straining against a wide smile. It was easy to push all of this behind you when you were looking at him. He made everything better.

“Hm,” He moves forward and presses his lips to your forehead, quickly going to lay kisses all over your face until giggles spill out from the alleyway to the waiting three. 

Gaz smiles to himself, Price grunts lightly, and Ghost gazes off. 

“I’ll just have to prove to my Bonnie Little Lady that she’s a prime piece of work, then, eh? Smarter; more quick than a fuckin’ recon team,” he leans close and you have to try and shove him away playfully when he starts to squish you against him. Your laughter grows as his scratchy chin nuzzles your neck. “And don’t mind me sayin’ now, but a proper fine pair of tits and arse to go along with the brains of ya, Dearie.”

“MacTavish!” you squeal, “I should call your mother up and explain how you speak to me—that’s vulgar! I know for a fact she didn’t teach you that.”

“Teach me? Oh, now, then, no one could teach me a thing when you’re around. Cannae think a bit; better off talkin’ to a pile of stone.” You punch his solid chest and laugh so hard your face hurts, breath fanning against his neck as his roaming praise continues as if his mind was a bag of water punctured by a knife. “I’m always thinkin’ ‘bout you, my Little Bonnie.” 

The last sentence is quietly muttered into your temple, a kiss pressed tight. He pulls back slightly and feels at the dried blood on your locks, fingers separating to find the scalp. Johnny’s chest rattles in a sigh, hand shaking slightly when he sees it. 

He’d also seen the body on the window sill, though he knows not to mention it.

Christ, you’d had to kill someone. 

The prospect of taking a life was easy to the Scot—some days he felt like he had been born and bred to do just that. It became simple. Elementary. Like his mother could memorize a recipe, he could memorize the position of arteries; what shot to take at that instant, and which to wait on based only on past missions that resonated like past lives.

But for you…

Oh, it was never supposed to happen to you.

“Are you alright?” Johnny breaths, humor gone and left with guilt. 

He feels your lips on his raging pulse and lets his eyes close, content to feel you move against him as your head remains in his neck. Shifting his body into a more comfortable position, he cages you in protectively. Never again would he allow this to happen.

“I shot someone.” The man’s lips quivered, heart hurting at the blatant shock in your voice. It hadn’t hit you yet, and, hell, Johnny still remembered his first kill like it was yesterday. It wouldn’t be good when all this calmed down. He’d thrown up for two days straight, himself.

“Aye.” He breathes.

“His blood’s all over the house.”

“It is.”

“Is…is that,” you’re shivering, so he massages your spine soothingly until you find the words. “Is that a good thing?” 

He should say no, tell you that the situation that you’d been put in was never supposed to happen and it was just an unfortunate reality. Death wasn’t a good thing, per se. But the man had broken into your shared home—busted down the bedroom door with the intent of using you as a bargaining chip to get to him. So, to the Scot, the answer is clear.

No one messed with his family and lived.

“Yes.” Taking down the air of a dusty alleyway as sirens wail a street over, you weren't surprised that your boyfriend had managed to get to your home far faster than the police could. He said he always would, didn’t he? 

The bills for the speeding tickets and the running of red lights were going to be atrocious.

“Okay.” Your answer is muttered as you peel back, pressing a kiss to the corner of Johnny’s lips. You believed him. Always would. “Thank you.” 

“Don’t thank me.” His bright teeth show off a smile as your mirror. He kisses you heavily on the lips. Whispers against your lips, a promise. A vow. “As long as you put up with me, I’ll always keep you safe.”

“Soap,” Price yells, snapping the two of you out of it. “Get on with it!” 

The Scot raises a shocked brow and smirks down at you as you tilt your head and listen in happy confusion. 

“Y’know, those shots weren't half bad back there. ‘Specially after takin’ a tumble into the flowers.” Your expression freezes in denial as you’re lifted bridal style into the air. Speaking over the calls of police and firemen as they come to the scene, your voice monotones as your legs swing.

“...I missed two out of the three, you dork. That’s failing.” Johnny gapes in mock surprise and you refrain from snorting at the boyish glint in his eyes.

“Jesus, is it really? Hell, you’ll be comin’ for my job in no time, won’t ya? That’s one better than me!” 

You kiss him and feel the grunt through your lips.

TAGS ||

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[strawberry-nia]

Primrose and Roger decided to host a big dinner for Winterfest. Mr. Bello brought baked goods for everyone, and the Pollocks also brought nice gifts for the baby on the way.

[changingplumbob]

Knightstone Household: Chapter 9, Part 12

Suzanna walked in to the office where Silas was playing on the computer and Pollock was having fun with one of his toys.

Suzanna: Hey you two

Silas: Hi Mummy

Pollock wandered over and hugged Suzanna’s leg tight.

Suzanna: It’s bedtime for you Pollock. Head to bed and Daddy will read you a story okay?

Silas: What about me

Suzanna: Want to go upstairs and collect your alien?

Smiling Silas shut off the computer and sped up the stairs.

Silas: Oh oh, can I have the squid? Or maybe you could clone the porcupine for me

Suzanna smiled and set down the jar from earlier.

Suzanna: You can have this guy, fresh off Sixam today

Silas stared at the jar. It didn’t escape his notice that the jar had no air holes and the Red Coral inside wasn’t moving

Silas: Mummy, I can’t take a dead alien to show and tell. That’s creepy

Suzanna: He’s only a little dead. Some types of aliens operate on a similar frequency to us and with a little manipulation...

Silas: You’re going to bring it back to life?

Suzanna: That’s the plan. It takes a lot of focus though, you may not be able to do it until you’re an adult

Taking a deep breath and concentrating Suzanna sent out pulses that resounded through the coral, making it twitch. After a short time the light returned to it’s eyes and it began to move.

Silas: Oh wow, we better get an enclosure Mummy!

Silas: Do you think he’s happy in there

Suzanna: He feels happy, yes. Don’t worry, when you’re a teen you should be able to start picking up on his feelings. Now, will that do for show and tell

Silas: *beaming* YES

Suzanna: Good. Now you better get to bed. Would you like me to spray the monster?

Silas: No, I think I’m going to try be it’s friend. Goodnight Mummy, I love you

That job done, Suzanna set about doing some cloning. She’d gotten a new metal on Sixam today, rose gold. Figuring it might have some new elements she wanted to make copies to send to the geo council. Unfortunately the time in her inventory had messed with the calibration and initially she got a crude lump of matter. A few adjustments though and she was able to create several new minerals and gems for her stock.

Adam: You ready for bed

Suzanna: Just let me put the cloning machine away

Adam: Can it clone people

Suzanna: Logically it should be able to but I haven’t tested that

Adam: You should clone Faye and freeze her clone in front of her

Suzanna: You Mr Knightstone are a bad influence

Adam: Maybe but you love it

Suzanna: I do

Giggling the pair got in bed and fooled around.

Silas wasn’t sure why he’d woken up. He felt the clink of simoleons and cheered at the gift from the tooth fairy. Then he heard it. The growling and plopping under his bed, the monster was back! Taking a deep breath, and trying to channel some of his favourite book characters he sat down facing the gap.

Silas: Umm, hi there. I’m Silas. Are you... comfy?

Monster: Comfy? Yes. I just like the dark

Silas: Oh not me, I have a fear of it actually

The pair talked for a while and Silas felt like he had befriended the monster.

Silas: Mummy you’ll never guess

Suzanna: You got a visit from the tooth fairy

Silas: Well yeah but- I made friends with the monster under my bed

Suzanna: You did? Oh that’s wonderful Starshine

Silas: I’m going to tell everyone at school about it! Even the humans accept there are monsters under the bed or in the closet. Can we watch Monsters Inc this weekend?

Suzanna: *smiling* Sure, Pollock might be old enough to watch it now

After walking Silas to the school bus Suzanna tended the garden and got the mail. The rose gold had indeed contained a new element for her display and she couldn’t wait to slot it in. She took a moment to enjoy the crisp winter air, to think she’d missed out on snow all those years in Oasis Springs.

Suzanna: Hey Faye, I think I fixed my calibrations

Faye: *scoffs* Not again. Look I have actual work to do

Suzanna: You’re on your lunch break, and it will just take a second, hold still

Faye: Have I ever told you I hate you

Suzanna: Not in those words but it’s implied every day

Faye: Good

Suzanna: I feel like maybe your skin tone has shifted slightly

Faye: Wow, that’s some cutting edge science right there boss

Suzanna: Your sarcasm is noted

Faye: Right well I’m going to get back to my lunch now

Previous ... Next

[handeaux]

They Built This City: Some Early Women Contractors Made Their Mark In Cincinnati

On Marburg Avenue in Oakley today there stands a house built in 1907. The house, like others in that neighborhood, appears to be well kept and still in very good condition after more than a century. There is nothing obvious to distinguish the house from any other along that stretch of Marburg Avenue. There is no clue that this house was built entirely by a woman.

Her name was Sarah Pollock and she was around 40 when she single-handedly built the house on what was then called McCormick Road. She was inspired to build her own house by herself because she had survived the 1906 San Francisco earthquake. Sarah told the Cincinnati Post [10 January 1907]:

“Since passing through that terrible ordeal you could never get me to live in a house that I did not know was properly built. My house is put up to stay. I wouldn’t be afraid to live in it during the heaviest earthquake.”

Sarah was married to Hiram Pollock, who was an engineer at a company that manufactured industrial scales. He helped out somewhat during construction, but readily conceded to the Post that Sarah was the boss.

“Mrs. Pollock . . . managed the purchase of the half-acre lot where their home will stand; she drew the plans for the house, and submitted them to the Building Inspector for his approval; she purchased the cement for the concrete foundation and helped to lay the foundation; she selected the lumber, and is now putting it into place, and she is going to put the paint on the house, too. The only things she will not do will be to put on the plastering and to fit the plumbing.”

And, Sarah built this house while wearing an ankle-length skirt. The Post reporter suggested that perhaps bloomers might have been more appropriate attire for a construction site, but Sarah would have none of it:

“A good old skirt and waist are good enough for me.”

Although the Post called Sarah “the only woman carpenter and house builder in Ohio,” that was certainly not the case. Just a few months after checking in with Sarah Pollock, the Post profiled Carrie Wiley. Although not as hands-on as Mrs. Pollock, Mrs. Wiley managed the construction company she inherited when her husband died in the spring of 1907. At Joseph R. Wiley’s demise, he was under contract to build seven houses in the Hyde Park vicinity and those houses were in various stages of completion. His widow had to go to probate court to get permission to allow her to finish the jobs. She told the Post that she had completed those projects and now had ten buildings under construction, including a couple of apartment units.

Carolyn Levina McGowen Wiley, known as Carrie, was described by the Post as:

“ . . . a little woman, who fairly bristles with business-like activity. She talks rapidly, but only when necessary. Apparently she is one of the very few persons who actually think twice before they speak.”

Throughout her husband’s illness, Carrie Wiley oversaw some of the construction projects he had started. Consequently, she had some experience managing gangs of workmen. She was on-site frequently and did not have to remind her workers that she was the boss.

“She not only manages the business affairs of her calling, but goes out on the job and personally inspects the work. If a workman is doing a bad job, she tells him so. If things are not running smoothly, she finds out why. If she thinks it advisable she adds a word of praise and cheer now and then, for she believes it pays to show appreciation of loyalty and honest service.”

Carrie found nothing at all unusual about a woman managing a construction company. She described her role as a necessary occupation to provide for her four children.

“Why shouldn’t there be woman contractors? Women have entered many other fields of industry. There are even women engineers. In the professions, women are quite numerous. So when it fell to my lot to take up the work my dead husband left off, I resolved not only to do it as best I could, but to learn a little more each day. I have got to the point now where I have actually been turning down work.”

Another Cincinnati woman who took on the job of general contractor after her husband’s funeral was Elizabeth Moser. Born in Germany, Mrs. Moser emigrated to the United States and married Joseph Moser in 1880. With him, she had seven children. When Joseph died in 1910, Mrs. Moser inherited his construction company and ran it until her death in 1928. It appears that business was good. Mrs. Moser and her daughter indulged in an extensive tour of Germany in 1923.

When Berl R. Davis celebrated a successful first year in business as a building contractor in 1930, the Cincinnati Post declared her to be “Cincinnati’s only woman building contractor.” By then Sarah Pollock, Carrie Wiley and Elizabeth Moser were either retired or dead, so the field was open for Mrs. Davis.

The 33-year-old contractor had quite a career before opening her own business in 1929. Born in Kentucky, she was widowed at 23 with an infant son. She made headlines in 1923 when she became the first woman to apply for a Cincinnati taxicab license.

When Mary Emery decided to create the brand-new town of Mariemont, Mrs. Davis opened a field kitchen for the construction crews engaged in building the city. One of her customers was the project manager, Colonel Leo Townsend. He taught Mrs. Davis to read blueprints and discussed the details of the project with her. Once the new city was built and inhabited, Mrs. Davis opened a tearoom that quickly failed, so she decided to go into housebuilding.

She formed a partnership with an existing contractor and the company successfully built and sold 40 homes. Dissolving the partnership and striking out on her own, Mrs. Davis constructed a dozen homes during her first year in business and had three more in progress when she celebrated her first anniversary.

By the 1960s, houses designed or built by woman contractors boasted a strong selling point, and that fact was trumpeted in the real estate advertisements.

[bbbrianjones]

here are my spotify playlists i think some of you would like

✭ underrated sixties - oh you know your beatles and your rolling stones and your beach boys, but how about something a little different?

✭ dancing with nigel in my living room while listening to our record player, 1979 - we'll bitch about what's on top of the pops but we still watch it and enjoy the music. when it's finished, we then grab out the record player and dance the night away, praying not to wake my parents.

✭ painting a jackson pollock no. 5 with squire - it’s the middle of the afternoon. the sun is trying so hard to peek through the english clouds. me and john are in our garden, soaking up the sun as i'm laying on the grass while he tries to finish his painting. i peer over at his work and say “it looks like a jackson pollock no. 5…"

✭ shopping in carnaby street with mr shampoo - for those time me and brian went on a shopping spree in carnaby and king's st., spending our entire paycheck on velvet, silk and satin…

✭ sunshine music - a very underrated genre. just pure happiness. what's not to love?

✭ songs from tumblr dot com - songs that you'd find rb'ed on bbbrianjones.tumblr.com <3

distant memory - songs that remind me that someday i will only be a memory in someone's mind and they might ask themselves "i wonder what emmi's doing?"

[square-pancake]

Have a Nice Trip (2 of …)

Meanwhile, in the Batcave

(1 of …)

It was 6 PM. Cold and gloom reigned over the city. Patrols weren’t scheduled to start for another 4 hours, but yesterday’s breakout meant Batman, Nightwing, and Robin were all lingering in the cave.

Mr. Freeze had already celebrated his escape, resulting in the snow storm still hitting the city. Fortunately, he was unlikely to do anything more serious without more planning. The focus was on the far more unpredictable threat.

The screens projected a map of Gotham with various points of interest highlighted. Most of the icons were a distinctive purple. All of Amusement Mile was lit up, with darker spots showing past lairs. Previous locations where Batman fought the Joker were pinpointed in green.

The map looked like a poor forgery of a Jackson Pollock painting. Rather than underlying fractals, tracing the Joker’s past actions just revealed chaos.

Bruce had been ruminating for hours. He knew it wasn’t productive, but any time he considered resting, he found himself in front of the glass memorial case. As always, he sublimated his grief and anger.

Silence was pierced only by keystrokes and shuffled paper. Tim avoided meeting Bruce’s gaze. Again, Bruce knew he should offer some reassurances to his young partner. The stink of blood and taste of ashes filled his throat anytime he tried.

Dick wasn’t any better. His clenched jaw perhaps the only thing keeping an argument from breaking out.

Other than bringing down food and drinks, Alfred declined to intervene. Everyone knew he was just as emotionally compromised as Bruce and Dick. Any attempt to reassure them would certainly be heard as falsehoods.

The dark miasma of emotions was finally broken by Oracle.

“Oracle to Batcave, I have an update,” the voice sounded confused even with the digital vocoder preventing most inflection.

“Copy Oracle. Batman, Nightwing, Robin, and Agent A in the cave,” Batman responded. “Should we gear up?”

“Batman, the police scanner is buzzing with this and I just got the preliminary report. Joker’s body was found by Detective Bullock earlier this afternoon. This was kept completely offline until now. I’m still getting info.”

Alfred groped for a chair before collapsing into it. Tim paused, then slowly began to reorganize the papers in front of him.

Bruce froze entirely while Dick immediately began bouncing on his toes, bleeding off a surge of nervous energy.

Nightwing managed to respond first, “Joker is dead?”

“His body was discovered in the Bowery near the library. Neck broken, no sign of foul play, no sign of struggle. Sending you a copy now.”

“If there was no foul play, how was his neck broken?” demanded Tim.

Bruce sat himself in the main control seat and was quickly skimming the report. He summarized: “it appears that the snow hid some debris left over from Two-Face’s last attack. The Joker slipped or tripped on something and landed awkwardly.”

“Are we supposed to believe that?” Tim asked sarcastically. “That sounds like the stupidest cover-up imaginable.”

“Falls are the second leading cause of accidental death globally,” Bruce responded blankly.

“Sure, but not like, fall on the sidewalk and snap your neck, right?”

Dick interrupted the back and forth, “Who cares? Seriously, who cares if it’s a one-in-a-million type accident? This is amazing.” He dashed over to the floor mats to expend more energy.

“No camera footage has been found yet, so all we have is Bullock’s report and after-action photos. Sending over the pictures now,” Oracle continued, ignoring Dick’s spontaneous celebrations.

Photos of the scene and Joker’s body were quickly filling the screens. The alley looked no different than hundreds of others, with perhaps more rubble than typical.

The pictures of the body in situ showed a scene disturbed by multiple people. The head had clearly been moved, probably while checking for life-signs and footprints covered the area. With the continued snowfall it was impossible to tell if the Joker had been alone when he fell.

Blood spatter was inconclusive. The low area of spread indicated that the source was from his face hitting the ground. More angles were needed to be certain though.

Bruce glanced at the medical readings. Temperature from the forensic techs indicated time of death was most likely right before discovery of the body.

“Any suggestion that Bullock could have done this? He found the body so soon after the death, are we sure he didn’t have anything to do with it?”

Nightwing’s voice was breathless from exertion when he answered, “He’s a cop and that was the Joker. He’d be up for a commendation from everyone. If he shot the Joker on sight he wouldn’t even be interrogated as long as there were no hostages at risk. I can’t see any reason why he would deny his role.”

Bruce grunted in pained acknowledgment.

Tim peered over the screen with Bullock’s report. “What about the person who waved Bullock down?”

Oracle’s voice was thoughtful, “you think someone killed the Joker, then immediately flagged down a cop?”

“It would be a good cover,” Tim defended.

“Better than just leaving the body where it might not be discovered for days? Where the snow could cover it?” countered Dick.

“The cold might preserve evidence,” mused Bruce. “This could have been a way to make certain the scene was immediately contaminated.”

Oracle read aloud from the report, “pedestrian standing outside the alley waved me down. Description: male, mid-teen, approximately 6 ft, medium skin tone, light eyes, hair covered by red hoodie. Teen stated he spotted purple in the snow and didn’t want to get closer. Expressed worry that it was a trick. Witness stayed behind the corner of the alley while I approached the body. Cursory inspection using gloves found no pulse or breathing. Initial identification of the Joker. Individual footprints difficult to spot, but no indication of drag marks or scuffling. After speaking with an EMT, witness left without further communication.”

Before Bruce could interrupt, Oracle continued, “addendum: I saw no person in the alley or exiting the alley. Witness was outside the alley. No other pedestrians on the street. No camera coverage of far end of the alley, possible exit point for any other witnesses or victims.”

Bruce hummed quietly, “let’s see if we can track down the witness, but keep it very quiet. I don’t want any of Joker’s surviving people to get to him.

Oracle, Robin, see if we can’t spot him on cameras outside the immediate area. Tall and in a red hoodie isn’t a lot to go on, but it’s something.”

“You think the kid did something?” Asked Tim softly.

“No, a young teen vs. the Joker?” Bruce suppressed the memories of his own son’s fate under those circumstances. “I think it more likely that a potential killer exited the far side of the alley. But he may have witnessed something and not even realized the significance.”

Again Dick interjected, “or, and hear me out, this really was an accident. One that went in Gotham’s favor for once. The kid literally saw a pile of purple clothing, freaked out like most Gothamites would, but was still contentious enough to tell someone.”

It seemed so…unlikely. The idea that the Joker was brought down not for his crimes, but in a simple mishap itched at him. Truthfully, he almost resented the idea that the Joker’s suffering was over.

But so was Gotham’s suffering if this really was the Joker. His son’s memory could live in peace without the shadow of his murderer hanging over them all.

“Save the footage but make it low priority,” Bruce finally relented.

“Good,” Oracle responded, “sounds like the kid was already freaking out. No reason to hang a target on his back.”

The three vigilantes in the cave fell into contemplative silence as they reviewed the rest of the photos and reports. It was amazing how much work could be done in the few hours since the body was found.

Initial fingerprint analysis matched as did anthropometric assessments.

The body had clearly been taken to a lab with biological and chemical containment equipment. All personnel were in complete PPE with no skin exposed.

The post-mortem external exam showed only facial abrasions and the clearly broken neck. Examination of the skin revealed the characteristic bleaching, with no sign of makeup or recent changes.

Tim pulled up medical intake photos from Arkham as well as mugshots so they could compare them to the exam photos. “It has been less than 24 hours since the breakout. Batman, unless there was a lot of work done in advance, I don’t think Joker could have put together a body-double this quickly. Certainly not one who matches fingerprints as well.”

Pictures of the stripped clothing revealed a mixture of weapons and chemical agents. Nothing out of keeping with the clown’s usual load-out. Bruce was quietly grateful that there was no crowbar found with the body.

Oracle’s voice broke the silence. “A judge just issued an emergency order. The body is to be treated under the same rules as those for Viral Hemorrhagic Fever outbreaks.”

“What does that mean?” Tim asked.

“Immediate cremation without autopsy,” answered Bruce.

“There is concern about what Joker might have been exposed to or have brewing in his corpse.” Oracle added, “with an obvious cause of death, Judge Wigzell ruled that it is in the public’s interest to limit the threat of contamination. He also ordered that the entire process be recorded and released to minimize public confusion.”

“Can we stop it?” Bruce demanded. “Surely there needs to be a thorough investigation.”

“We have no standing to intervene,” Oracle answered. “We can’t even admit knowing about this without revealing we illegally breached the records.”

At best we may get access to the samples being taken, blood, hair, saliva, and tissue. They are being kept locked down in biocontainment level 4.”

A long pause, then Oracle’s emphatic assertion followed. “I will not aid in any attempt that would breach the biocontainment. Any request will need to go through proper channels.”

Dick placed a hand lightly on Bruce’s shoulder. Startled since he hadn’t seen his son’s approach, Bruce’s lightly covered Dick’s hand with his own. He could feel his son’s fingers shaking slightly. Dick said, “other than confirming identification, I don’t think we should be part of this. Let Gotham see this all in the light.”

“There will be a public outcry,” Bruce snapped. “Moving this quickly looks like a cover-up.”

Tim frowned, “Will there be an outcry? Really? No one is going to openly complain about his body being destroyed other than maybe Harley.” He shook his head, “Nightwing is right. They are recording each step. We can check to confirm the identity of the body, but I don’t think we should do anything to interfere.”

Bruce began to speak when he was interrupted. Still sitting down, face lined with grief, Alfred’s voice was quiet but firm. “No. This is literally the justice system at work. There was a court order and they are trying to be transparent. We cannot claim to trust the system when imprisoning the Joker and then demand our own rules at this stage.”

“The Joker is dead. I for one applaud that his final act had no audience and that he died alone in a cold alley. If you’ll excuse me, I will be upstairs.”

“I’ll keep an eye on the investigation and let you know if anything unusual crops up, Oracle out.”

“What’s the game plan Batman?” Dick asked.

“You just told me not to invest-“

“Not that. Once this is public, the whole city will be celebrating. How do we want to cover this?”

Bruce appeared at a loss, “you really think it will be public? A man did die.”

“No,” Dick’s voice was sharp, “the Joker died. He intentionally left his humanity behind years ago. There will absolutely be open parties.”

Bruce shook off his own assumptions and nodded, “you’re right. Let’s put together an action plan. They won’t be able to keep this quiet for more than 24 hours. No patrol tonight. We need to be fully rested for tomorrow.

Dick, we will need to make a statement. Dickie Wayne is absolutely not allowed to lead a parade.”

Dick’s laugh was half a sob, “fine, but I’m going to announce that we’re paying the tab for all chili hot dog stands and ice cream parlors in the city for three days after the announcement.”

Tim shyly asked, “for Jason?”

“Yes.” When Bruce opened his mouth to argue, Dick snapped, “I’m doing this and you don’t get to stop me Bruce.”

After his other boys had left, Bruce approached the memorial case again. Maybe he could bring himself to remove the plaque. The battle against the Joker at least had no need for more soldiers.

[rippersz]

ɢᴏᴏᴅʙʏᴇ, ᴅᴇᴀʀʜᴇᴀʀᴛ

✩⢄⢁✧ --------- ✧⡈⡠✩

(A Larissa Weems x Reader angsty one-shot) (TW: Character Death)

✩⢄⢁✧ --------- ✧⡈⡠✩

“Ms. Wilson?”

You blinked.

Someone was calling your name. Their voice was soft.

“Ms. Wilson. Are you alright?” When you looked up, mildly irritated by the gentle tone, you weren’t at all surprised to find the dark brown eyes of Mr. Tom Prince burning into your soul.

They were familiar; exploding with the same fucking emotion you’d been seeing from others for an indefinite amount of time. So much… pity. Pity and grief - even though Mr. Tom Prince barely knew a fucking thing about his client, Larissa Weems. Even though he didn’t seem to truly understand the importance, the nuance, the strangeness behind your presence on that cold dreary rainy morning. Because honestly, at the heart of things, there was no reason for you to be there. At all. You’d only known Larissa for a year and a half, what could she possibly have left to you in her will? You were unimportant. You were the admirer. You were the one who stayed in the shadows at school functions and nearly lost your life each time you looked at Larissa because she was so damn breathtaking. And you were the one with the crush. The one who was in love. The potential interest that was never explored because you never got the chance and because she was your boss and because things just didn’t play out that way and because you weren’t written in the cards. Because the Gods didn’t shine upon you. Because you weren’t meant to be.

And they felt the need to kill her in order to prove that.

And soon your admiring turned to mourning. And your shadowed glances became teary stares. And your crush became a distant memorized feeling. And your love, which consumed you always, became a last thread that you held onto with intense desperation. And whatever potential interest you once were had fizzled into absolutely nothing. Because with Larissa gone, there was no burn in your heart. No buzz in your soul. No reason for you to stay at Nevermore, really. The brightness that had once existed there; the appeal of the country; the draw of the Academy - was gone. It was all gone. And you weren’t sure you could stay there anymore. Not in the place where she once lived. Not in the place where she was buried. Not in Vermont.

And not in that damned room with that damned attorney and the damned desolation that came from the fact that Larissa’s belongings were no longer there.

“Just get to the point.” Your voice was low with apathy.

You wanted to go home. You wanted to get the fuck away from Mr. Tom Prince.

And he seemed to sense that as he stared at you for a quick moment before letting out a sigh. It was the kind of sigh that pissed you off so terribly. As if he had the fucking world on his shoulders even though he absolutely did not. And the bags under his eyes were stupid. They screamed exhaustion. They screamed sadness. They screamed of an understanding that you preferred not to focus on because if you did, you’d probably crumble. And you hadn’t crumbled yet. And you wouldn’t fucking crumble. Especially not in front of Mr. Tom Prince - who was not princely at all and who was not helping at all and who was… bending down… and pulling something out of one of the desk drawers.

“She left this.” His voice had returned to something neutral as he slid the letter across to you.

It was an unassuming thing. White envelope, silver wax seal with the Nevermore insignia, and your name of course - scrawled in thin black cursive.

‘Odette.’

You swallowed with such vigor that you felt your throat ache.

The letter was light, but in your hands it felt like a bomb. A very beautiful looking bomb with words inside it that would surely blow your heart into a Jackson Pollock-esque explosion of viscera and love. And as you stared down at it, letting it rest on the tips of your fingers, delicate and sweet, you felt your world crack just a little bit more. Slowly but surely. Creating a chasm. Breaking you in two.

“If you need a moment-”

“Yes,” you whispered instantly, stuck to your spot by imaginary blocks of cinder that were chained to your legs.

Mr. Tom Prince nodded and let the silence sink in before he hefted himself out of the leather chair and went to leave the room. You hated him, you decided. You hated him and his idiotic grey suit and his haunted eyes and his eternal frown. You hated him and his well-combed hair and his cologne and his very presence. You hated him and his audacity- his nerve- to sit in Larissa Weems’ desk chair and you hated his fucking voice and his fucking existence and his fucking job; because how dare he read her words? How dare he be privy to such delicate information? How dare he hand you your letter when it should have been Larissa giving it to you herse-

oh…

oh.

right…

she couldn’t.

Warm tears tipped over the edges of your eyelids.

They ran in slow lines, salty and ticklish and utterly infuriating. You didn’t bother brushing them away - they wouldn’t stop. For weeks, they hadn’t stopped. Constantly, always, forever. Like your real talent, after all that time, had actually been sobbing and you were really damn good at it and all it took to find out was the detrimental loss of your love’s life. Well… not even your love. Not even your loss. There were plenty of other people who were closer with Larissa. People who deserved memories of her and people who would take care of her things. And although you weren’t one of those people, she had still left you a letter.

A letter. With your name on it. Meaning it was yours.

And with shaky hands, you pried the wax seal off as best you could and began reading.

‘

But whatever happens, don’t forget that there will always be a being in the world to which, at any moment, you can turn or come. I once gave you, from the bottom of my heart, everything I possess and everything I am. You’ll keep it until I leave this weird world that’s starting to tire me out. My hope is only that one day you will see how much I loved you. ~ Albert Camus to Maria Casarès

Odette,

I am sorry about the circumstances in which you find yourself reading this letter. It was never supposed to happen like this, in whatever way it did. And if I have yet to bear my soul to you then likewise, it was not supposed to end like that either.

I’ve figured that if I don’t get around to being vulnerable and honest, I must at least leave you with something - just to tell you that you have always meant more than I have let on. I believe if things were different, if we weren’t colleagues and if I weren’t a nervous fool, then perhaps this letter could have existed in a manner other than this. A manner much less focused on confession and instead centered more on memory and love. Love, I say, because that is what I feel for you. In this exact moment, sitting behind my assigned Nevermore headmistress desk, I feel love for you. And not an easy, light, caring and kind love that is shared between friends or strong acquaintances or close coworkers; but a deep love. One I hide behind my smiles and my professional facade. It saddens me greatly that I must do so, but since I am uncertain of your feelings toward me, I must remain distant. I hope you understand. I hope you understand and I hope you know that if I do manage to confess before I die, this letter will be re-written. Goodness Odette, you have no idea how much I hope it is re-written. But, whether it is or isn’t is a situation for an older version of myself to know and deal with.

For now, I am going to try and stay in the moment. That has been my New Year’s resolution for as long as I can remember. It’s not an easy feat, I’ll tell you that. My mind is always running, and I suppose that’s why I’m writing this letter to you in the first place. You’ve been wondering, I’m sure. And the answer to your question, to your ‘why me?’ inquiry, is because I must prepare for the inevitable. To shield myself somewhat; to feel relief in knowing that this last loose end would be tied up neatly with a few of my words left after my death. Please do not misunderstand, it does hurt to leave you like this. More than you will ever know. In fact, I am trying quite hard right now not to sob. Wouldn’t want to ruin the ink, would I? No. No, I need this to be perfect. But then again, I suppose perfection does not exist within death, does it? No, maybe not.

Well… I fear I’m going in circles at this point. Just postponing what cannot be postponed forever; stalling, if you will. And you will. Or you may not. It truly depends on if you’re still reading at this point. Knowing your love of literature and poetry, you are. But also knowing some parts of your heart, I know loss is scary to you. And it is. It is. But it will be okay, Odette. I understand that my presence and my control gives the faculty and students a sense of safety, and I am unendingly grateful to receive everyone’s trust and support, but things will not crumble after my sudden death. My memory will live on in Nevermore and all of those that I loved, which now includes you. And I hope you enjoy that news. If you don’t, well… there’s not much I can say then, is there? I’m afraid I will not apologize for my honesty - we only live once, do we not? So it’s necessary that I tell you that I love you. And it’s necessary that I say it again and again until you understand.

I love you, Odette Wilson. I am in love with you, Odette Wilson. And I am sorry that I could not say so when I was alive and warm. I’m sure that I will regret it from beyond the grave, but such is the price I pay for my fear. And if there were a sliver of a chance that those feelings were returned, then I’m sorry I missed your smile. And the shine in your eyes. And the happiness in your expression. Even now, I miss seeing your face. It’s a Friday evening, so I won’t be seeing you until Monday. Can you feel my heart beating faster at just the mere thought of that? Of looking at you again and noticing the blush in your cheeks and bell-like jingle within your pretty laugh? You probably can’t. Oh well.

It’s getting late, anyway. And you are most likely asleep. And this is my second glass of wine; the glass is nearly empty. So I’ll leave you with this dearheart:

I love you. I feel as though we were never strangers, you and I, not even for a moment. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche to Mathilde Trampedach

Somewhat Yours In Every Life,

Larissa Imogene Weems

’

‘Oh Larissa…,’

You were heaving for breath. Grasping for life. Watching the world fall apart.

'…why didn’t you say anything sooner?’

✩⢄⢁✧ --------- ✧⡈⡠✩

Hope you liked it! I've been a bit busy but I'll get back to requests soon. - Ripley x

✩⢄⢁✧ --------- ✧⡈⡠✩

[duusheen]

Hope's been trying not to think about everything that happened with Pandora. For now, she's just enjoying the ranch like when she was a kid and trying to get her boyfriend? Sterling to put on the damn cowboy hat

[mr-e-gallery]

Mr. E Gallery 'Pollock-Mizer' (12-23)

[firthbetterorfirthworse]

Bride & Prejudice (2004)

OH. MY. GOURD.

THIS WAS SO FUN. Everybody go watch it now. DO IT Colorful! Musical! True to character!

Mrs. Bakshi to her husband: "Have you gone crazy, old man? This is Jaya's chance to win him once and for all. And he'll get to see her in a swimsuit!"

About Kohli (Collins): "Try eating with him. It's like looking at a Jackson Pollock painting."

And of course, Darcy is a rich American who at first seems above the local culture, and is here to look into purchasing a hotel. The conflict between him and Lalita is real: "You want people to come to India without having to deal with Indians. Isn't that what all tourists want here? Five star comfort with a bit of culture thrown in? I don't want you turning India into a theme park. I thought we got rid of Imperialists like you."

Good news, they got this Darcy wet in a dream sequence:

Of course, they're thrown together due to Balraj and Jaya plus Darcy acknowledging his feelings, even though Johnny Wickham showed up to be his usual smarmy self. There's no sudden proposal in this one, but he takes her out to dinner and there's a whole montage of them doing date things!

But his sister Georgie admits that Darcy and Balraj quarreled after he saved him from a gold digger, and when Darcy says "I love you!" it's worse somehow because she has fully admitted feelings for him: "When I first met you, I thought you were rude, arrogant, intolerant and insensitive. But over the last few days I thought maybe - MAYBE - I made a mistake. But I was right. You're the last person I'd ever want to be with."

I don't want to ruin every moment, but trust me when I say it's absolutely wonderful. (and currently streaming on a free service, at least in the US)

[beevean]

Nuke Sage. She brings nothing to the table lol

So far, she really hasn't.

I know that many people love her. Some love her arc, how she develops emotions and the need for a familial bond. Others love how efficient she allegedly is, how utterly loyal to Eggman she is even after she grows a heart. I know this, but there is nothing about her that appeals to me. She's bland, quirkless (she supposedly told Eggman one joke, offscreen), repetitive in her dialogue, the discount copy of Rei Ayanami and more blatant about it than the Death Egg, and her sacrifice for the sake of her "father" was literally nullified twice over.

Oh, you enjoy her because she develops emotions? Gamma is literally right there. And his sacrifice stuck. And I got to play as him and experience his change of heart. Frontiers' story is just a half-baked SA1, and that game already needed more time in the oven. no you cannot @ me.

And we talked multiple times how she's actually not as impressive as the game makes her out to be, and by all means, Eggman should have lost his patience the moment she kept insisting that he needed to team up with Sonic, like he did when Infinite disappointed him one too many times. mfw in the Japanese script, Eggman ends up saving himself from Cyberspace because Sage is that incompetent lmao

And the writing itself flipsflops between "Eggman is only proud of her because she's so impressive that it shows how great he is" (mostly in the missable memos) and "Eggman genuinely cares about his daughter and cries when she has to die and call her his daughter and adorable and holds her hand in the DLC and genuinely ponders whether she likes being called 'she'." It's... forgive me for the joke... wildly inconsistent :P

^ the thing is not that he assigned a gender to a creation of his, because he calls most of his robots "he", it's nothing new. The thing is that he actually stops in his tracks and questions if Sage would prefer "she" over "it". It's that he cares about her opinion, when by all means he shouldn't give a single shit about an AI's preference.

Then you add how fans, already juiced up over years of discourse on Mr. Tinker, took this undecisive writing and decided that this is proof that Eggman was Not So Bad After All, that he has a good heart deep down, that this sudden love for his "daughter" is what finally makes him human and tridimensional! They Fixed The Bad Character! Now yes I shouldn't base my opinions on the fandom, but as I said, if Flynn's intentions were to paint Eggman as a self-centered creator, he did a very poor job, because there is a reason the voice director ordered Pollock to sound like he was in tears when he said lines like "I understand. Go, fulfill your function".

And the kicker? Sage hasn't made a meaningful appearance yet. She cameo'd in MOSTH, looking sad and red/black instead of blue/white, and she's nowhere to be seen in Eggman's dreams in Dream Team, which lowkey implies that he actually doesn't love her as much as it seemed like in Frontiers.

but in the Takeover that everyone will take as gospel, Eggman says that she is the reason he keeps existing. Who wrote that. How can you put those words in that order in Eggman's mouth. And fans not only gush about how cute this is, but roll their eyes that Sonic is bored at this wildly OOC display of affection.

Sure, as a character she barely existed for one year, there's plenty of time for her to come back and finalize Eggman's direction. But yeah... so far she hasn't done anything to ingratiate me.