#<- has been going to da gym

[daily-smallishbeans]

Day 103- gymbros

from the empires aggie

[asimplearchivist]

hrrhhhrrmrm...velmgarb...*indistinguishable gnawing noises*

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Nikolai's appetite disappears over night and Price smells a rat.

cw: mention of body shaming, damaged relationship with food.

Nik loved food.

Not in the way that Johnny did, slamming an entire packet of Maryland cookies and then descending into a sugar coma, or the way that Gaz did, by seeing it as fuel to maintain a powerful and efficient body, so every macro counted. But in the way a wine taster did; there wasn't a city on earth where he couldn't steer John to the very best restaurant, be it tiny back alley taverna or sprawling five star hotel.

He loved sampling different cuisines, sourcing exotic dishes and sharing them with John (who had drawn the fucking line at sea urchin and puffer fish, because while he had never considered a rule about eating shit that could kill you in seconds, he made an ardent one in that moment). John reckoned it was a leftover from his army days when he would have had to survive on rat packs and mess food like the rest of them. He was enjoying it now he could.

So, when Nik suddenly stopped eating, it was bloody noticeable.

He'd still take John out, filling his plate and excitedly watching his face as he tried it, but he wouldn't eat himself. And if he did, it was some poxy salad or plain chicken that looked like it hadn't even glimpsed a spice rack. There were empty tupperware containers stacked in the co-pilot chair of the Black Hawk and Nik remained completely sober during a post-mission arse squeak celebration. (Where they had - in Ghost's words - bum squeaked their way through; Price wasn't sure it was technically an idiom, but he let it pass.)

"You watchin' yer figure, Nik?" Price asked finally, reclining in the wicker chair at the little café they'd stopped in. They were just outside Florence, and the tourists were just beginning to slither groggily into the sun.

"Da," Nik tapped his stomach, "I am, what do you call it, spreading?"

"You look fine t' me. More n' fine."

"I have lost some. But I still have more to do." Nik tugged at his sleeve, a self conscious gesture that John had never seen him do, and it set his teeth on edge.

"Did someone say somethin'?"

Nik swallowed and John wished he'd take those bloody aviators off so his eyes were visible. "Not recently."

"Well, this has been goin' on for months," John said, gesturing at the black coffee that comprised Nik's entire breakfast, while John had polished off the continental version of a Full English. "So out with it. Who said what?"

"I..." Nik cleared his throat, shifting in his chair. "I was not wearing a shirt on a beach in America, visiting Laswell, and a group of young women advised me to go to the gym."

"You can olympic press Ghost."

"Da."

"You can bench press over twice your own bodyweight."

"Mm, da."

"I think you go to the gym plenty."

Nik went silent. He wasn't looking at John, which meant he was embarrassed and not sure how to recover. Whatever this was, whatever had been said, he would have retaliated with his usual bolshy dismissal at the time, but up there in his Heli it would have buzzed around in his head in the quiet until it got its barbs in.

"Fer a smart bloke, you 'n' 'alf thick sometimes."

"That is what I am trying to fi--"

"Not what I meant, Nikolai." John sighed, rubbing a hand over his beard as he considered Nik's slumped shoulders. "You're good-lookin', fit, hotshot pilot with yer gold chain. This is the first time some horrid cow has said somethin' cruel, I bet."

"I might have let myself go."

"You're fifty. It's allowed," John said. "But you haven't. Yer just as built as when we first met."

"I was thirty, John. That is not possible."

"I don't think I stuttered there, but I might be wrong..."

Nik tsked at him and wrapped his arms over his chest. He tried to make it look nonchalant but it was absolutely a barrier. "I am feeling self-conscious. It will pass. I do not wish to talk about it."

"Tough shit, Nik. We're talkin' about it." John scraped his chair loudly around the table and crowded into Nik's space, leaning down with his elbows on his knees to look up into the forlorn expression on his lover's face. "If - and I mean if - I thought your health was at risk, or you were lettin' yourself go, you not think I'd get you runnin' laps with my new crop until you were fit to run missions with my team again?"

"Da, I would expect nothing less."

"Yer part of my task force, Nik. I don't accept anythin' but the best. No exceptions. Tell me I'm wrong."

"I cannot."

"And has my performance between the sheets been any less enthusiastic?"

"Nyet..."

"Right, so, engage that mensa level intelligence of yours and compute the obvious bloody conclusion."

John reached forward, continuing even when Nik tried to recoil, to run his hands beneath his shirt. Nik's belly was warm, the hair on it soft, and John wanted nothing more than to rub his damn face into it.

"I know it's gonna take time to rebuild yer confidence, Nik. Not sure yer tellin' me the whole story but whatever they said, they're wrong. Women like that, they're cruel for sport. You could look like, uh... whathisname, Chris Hemsworth, 'n' they'd still say somethin'. Gives 'em a way to cover up their own insecurity, right?"

There was a small smile of amusement and Nik's arms fell away, letting John run his hands a little higher. "I am impressed you remembered the name of an actor, captain."

"Yeah, I watched a whole film the other night..."

Nik smiled. "A whole film. Impressive."

"Cheers." John lifted his hand to cup Nik's jaw, one hand on his knee. "Still wet my knickers for you, Nik, but tell me what else I can do t' help."

"Nothing, I am... I will be fine."

"Not like you to let some bird get under your skin like that. Sure there's nothin' else?"

Nik cleared his throat, looked to the side and then finally at John's face. "You do not wish to trade me in for a newer model?"

"Jesus fuck... waiter, il conto, per favore."

"Where are we going?"

"Back to the hotel room."

"Why?"

"'M gonna shag your brains out, since they're not functionin' particularly well on the inside. Up. Double time."

Nik reached for his wallet to pay but John had already slapped his credit card on the scanner by the time he looked up. He grabbed Nik's hand and dragged him down the few blocks to their hotel, where he intended to spend the rest of the afternoon making Nik feel like the hottest piece of arse on the planet.

[peachesofteal]

Simple Math / Part Three

Simple Math masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 4.3k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ no smut but this fic contains mature themes. Medical inaccuracies, hospitals, medical procedures, medications, nurse!reader. Feelings of fear and anxiety. Flirting. Emotional hurt/comfort. Panic attack. PTSD. Comfort. "You'll be with him?"

“-nna let ‘im die out here-“

“-is too risky without adequate-“ 

Johnny is drowning in a sea of shattered voices, whispers of words that sound like they might be coming from Gaz, or Price, hushed prayers and promises, jargon he doesn’t understand washing over him from unfamiliar, clinical mouths. 

It’s overwhelming. He can hardly get his eyes to open, and when he does, they stay half shut for what feels like hours, even though he knows, logically, it’s mere seconds. 

He’s no longer strapped into a backboard, but a bed, and the ceiling is not metal and rivets, but white and canvas, voices competing with the constant sound of beeping. 

“Soap.” Price leans into his line of sight, hat gone, exhausted. He’s holding a sat phone, the one they usually carry during missions in one hand, a file folder in another. He looks his age, Johnny thinks, for the first time in his career. Looks like he’s spent eons in combat, like he hasn’t had a full night’s rest in a decade. “John. You’re in the hospital on base.” At the use of his government name, Johnny tries to straighten on instinct. The soft, floating feelings he’s been having for the past who knows how long have faded, and his body is starting to feel like it’s been pumped with gasoline, and then lit on fire. From the inside. “Are you with me, Sergeant?” He tries to vocalize, tries to say yes, or nod, but can hardly get his neck to work, bones and ligaments and everything in him screaming in agony. “They want to take you in a flight for life, get you home to a top hospital. Simon's already agreed, but he- he wants to speak with you.” Price wrenches his fingers open and lifts the clunky satellite phone to his face. “I rang him, on the emergency line, at home. Just… you need to-“ he stops, chest heaving with a desperate breath, an indulgence of emotion that Johnny has never seen. His captain wants to tell him- you need to say goodbye, just in case. But he can’t find the words, and Johnny can’t make it fit in his head, the reality, the stark reminder that he could not be here, in a moment. Or an hour. A day. “Open your eyes, John. Stay awake.” 

“Johnny.” The Manchester accent crackles through the receiver. Johnny can almost see him, cell pressed to his face, pacing in the living room. He wonders if he’s got the fireplace lit, if it’s chilly now that it's turning to winter, if there’s been frost on the windows of their little house. If Simon is wearing a pair of sweatpants, if he’s got the television on as he tries to make dinner. “Johnny. Sit rep.” The status check comes through harsh, but the truth is tucked away beneath the grit. Fear. Life altering, heart breaking fear drenches every syllable that spills from his partner. 

Pain sizzles through his muscles, across his brain, but he swallows it, shoves it down into a dark hole for another minute. 

“Pretty banged up.” 

“They’re going to lift you to a hospital,” He thinks he knew that. “and you’re goin’ be alright. I’ll meet you there.” 

“Ah love ye, Si.” It’s all he can say. All he can think about. The excruciating agony that is radiating through his body robs him of everything else. 

“I love you too. Hang on.” Johnny grinds his jaw, blowing short breaths through his nose to try to control his pain response, and then holds his breath when soft babbles echo through the phone. “It’s Da, Pen. It’s Da. Can you say Da?” 

“Da?” Penny mimics her dad, and Johnny wonders if they’re sitting on the couch, Penelope tucked up against Simon’s chest, wispy curls tickling just below his nose as she climbs all over him like a jungle gym. 

“Ma wee lamb.” Johnny whispers. “Ah love ye, Pen.” There’s more babbling, half strung together words, more than appropriate for a fourteen-month-old, and Johnny’s temples shine with tears that drip from the corners of his eyes. There’s talking, around him, people bustling back and forth. A hand brushes against skin, sharp pinch squeezing along the inside of his arm. 

“Can you say, I love you?” Simon encourages, but Johnny knows it’s a lost cause. 

“When she’s old enough to understand, ye tell her Ah loved her, loved her so much. Ye an’ her, is all I ever wished fer.”

“Stop.” Simon breathes. “You’re going to be fine.” 

There’s another poke in his arm, someone lighting a fire in his veins, and he loses the battle to his eyes once more. 

Your neck grumbles in protest when you try to twist it, working out tight muscle and tendon, rolling it across your shoulders and down, back and forth, over and over again.

You should go home. 

You know you should. It’s two hours past seven, you should already be home. Should already be in your flat, showering the workday off and crawling into bed. You could be having a tea, snuggled up in your sweatpants, moving playing on low in the background. Warm, safe. Nearly asleep.

Johnny twitches beside you. His fingers clench in the blankets and then relax, face smoothing out in his dreams. The mask is gone, replaced with the cannula that loops beneath his nose, and the monitor beeps in soothing, reassuring, stable tones. One chime right after another, relaying his vitals to where you sit in Simon’s chair, feet slung over the side, kindle in your lap.

You made a promise. 

And even without that promise, for some reason, you couldn’t just leave Johnny here to wake up alone. The idea of him coming to and being confused, or scared, again, made your stomach twist uncomfortably. Even before you promised Simon to stay earlier, you already knew.

You wouldn’t be leaving.

“He’s had a seizure.” Simon’s eyes widen above the mask and then flatten into something harder, something almost distrusting. “Neuro’s done an exam and they’re of the opinion there will be no long-term deficits, but we’ll need to wait until he wakes to be sure. They’re still trying to figure out what caused it, but most likely it's a result from surgery.” He moves to shoulder by you, no doubt trying to beeline back to Johnny’s room, but you hold your hand up with a pause. “I can’t let you go back in there yet.” 

“Why not?” 

“He’s not awake.” 

“I don’t-“

“Simon, this is the ICU. I don’t know who or what strings you pulled to even be allowed to sit with him in there twenty-four seven, but it’s not the norm. You won’t be allowed back in that room until we are sure he is stable.” You don’t tell him that you don’t want him to be there when Johnny wakes in case there are deficits, that you’re trying to save him from the pain, the heartbreak, of seeing things that patient’s loved ones are not meant to see. 

He regards you silently, and you fidget under the scrutiny, waiting for him to speak, trying to ignore how your mouth is going dry. This isn’t the first he’s watched you like this, stared at you like he’s trying to pick you apart, and you swallow your grimace until the long moment passes, his voice low, gritty with stress. Exhaustion. 

“I’m supposed to go home today for a bit. I… don’t want to leave ‘im.” 

“You can still go. He’s sleeping for now, and when he wakes, they’ll have to do some more tests that you won’t be allowed in the room for anyway.” He looks down the hallway towards Johnny’s room, before his eyes find yours, heavy with grief, indecision. 

“You’ll be with him?” He can’t hide the hopeful inflection at the end of his question, his need for a light in the dark of this situation. 

“I-“ The thought didn’t occur to you, to not be there. You imagined you’d wait until Johnny was cleared by neuro and Simon was allowed back in the room, but the morning has dragged on, and he’s been sleeping peacefully. There’s been no desire to wake him unnecessarily. “Yes. I’ll stay with him. I promise.”  

“He go home?” Johnny’s voice, scratchy from sleep and medication and everything else, startles you from a half doze, spine straightening into a rod before you’re leaping to your feet, leaning over his prone figure.

“You’re awake.” You find his good hand, slipping two fingers into his grip. “Can you squeeze my hand?” When he does, tightly, more strength in it than you were expected, you give him an honest, happy smile, and retreat to the end of the bed, flipping up his blanket to poke at the bottom of his feet. “Can you feel that?”

“Aye.”

“And this?”

“Aye.” He huffs at you, impatient. “Did he go home?” You sigh in response, hand on your hip.

“Yes.”

“Finally. Been tellin’ him he had to. The man’s back ‘s not made to sleep sittin’ up.”

“Well, I’m sure he didn’t want to leave. I told him I’d sit with you.” You reach over to press the page button, looking intentionally away from where those bright blue eyes track you, sweet and soft and open, lips slightly parted. “How’s your pain? I’m not on the clock any longer, so I can’t page the neurologist, but they’ll have come and do a few tests.”

“Ye wanted to sit with me, pretty girl?” Your face gets hot, blood pooling beneath your skin, pit of your stomach liquifying into something honeyed and potent that flows through your veins until you swear you can feel the room getting warmer.

“How’s your pain?” you repeat your question, words dumb on your tongue.

“A five.” You raise an eyebrow. “Alright, a seven. And a half.” The days nurse knocks with perfect timing, all hustle and bustle, bright and cheery, and asks Johnny the same questions, keeping up a perfect stream of small talk between you and Johnny until Neuro is standing at the foot of his bed, and you’re excusing yourself.

“Okay, I’m-“

“Dinnae leave.” He protests, voice quiet. Your stomach lurches at the vulnerability there, and you’re quick to reassure him.

“I’m just going to get a tea.” You promise, even though you know he’ll probably be half loopy by the time you’re back, and the dayshift nurse gives you a nod, acknowledgement of his state, an understanding that she’ll be here with him.

Not an hour later, your pocket chimes with a text from the dayshifter as you half sip your tea, letting you know that Johnny’s exam is done, and as you pass her in the hallway, she gives you verbal confirmation of what you were hoping for: his brain function is normal. He’ll have to go for CT later, but she’s just given him another dosage for pain management. You yawn in the middle of her pass-on, and she tells you that she'll keep an eye on him. You can go. 

She's not wrong. 

You need to go to bed. 

You know your presence at your patient's bedside won't be viewed as unprofessional, since others have done it in far less severe situations, but the pendulum your emotions swing on every time you step foot in that room leaves you with a sinking feeling that's starting to crawl across your skin.

You wanted this. You wanted to stay with him. 

Simon asked you stay with him. 

Yeah, but for how long? He cannot expect you to spend all day here. You have to go to bed. Are you just going to leave him all alone? Are you going to wait for Simon to come back? 

The dread spiral is easily answered when you slide open the glass door and lay eyes on the very handsome man from the other night, the younger one from the chair vigil, now sitting beside Johnny, the two of them softly chuckling.

When Johnny spots you, he manages to fire off your name as a half-effort introduction, more than expected considering his slowly slipping state of consciousness.

“I’m Kyle. Soap an’ I work together.” Soap? Who is Soap? 

“She doesnae know me b’ Soap, only calls me Johnny.” He explains your confused look, to which Kyle raises an eyebrow.

“Wow. Letting your nurse call you Johnny, eh? Simon better-“

“Ach, stop.” He rolls his eyes, but sleep tugs his lids downward.

“It’s nice to meet you.” You give Johnny and his monitor a once over, catching yourself on his sweet, sleepy gaze, flushed face and lazy smile, before directing your attention back to Kyle. “I told Simon, I’d sit with him for a bit before he got back, but…”

“I’m here in his place.” Kyle explains, motioning to the chair, and you breathe a small sigh of relief. You will get to go home and get some sleep, after all. 

There’s a woman with a confused look on her face just outside the elevator. She looks exhausted, skin raw under her eyes, clutching a baby who’s maybe a year, or a bit older, in her arms, glancing up and down the hall before she spots you.

Fuck. You’re still wearing your scrubs. 

“Hi.” You smile, and she visibly relaxes, obviously relieved. The baby tucks her face into the woman’s chest like she’s shy, coyly looking at you from corner of her eye. “You look lost.”

“I’m looking for the nurse’s station. My husband was supposed to meet me here but he’s running late and I-“

“It’s all the way down, take the first left, and it will be at the end of that hallway.”

“Oh my god, thank you so much.” She glances at your ID, punctuating her gratitude with your name, and you give her another smile, leaning to extend towards the baby as well.

“So cute.” You tell her, pressing the elevator button with a ding.

“Cute. But she’s a little terror, especially when she’s missing her Da.” She grumbles, and then waves, setting off against the white tile as you laugh to yourself. Pretty much sums kids up. Cute little terrors.

A week passes easily, beds and rooms changing over, room two sixty-eight remaining a constant. Johnny takes his battles on the chin, burn debridement on his side, casting for his wrist, removal of his chest tube, a third surgery. 

“He’s a fighter.” Simon tells you one night in the dark after he’s slipped off to sleep. “Always has been. He's strong. Spirited.”

“I can see.” You agree, holding out the extra blanket you’ve pulled from a cabinet. When Simon takes it, his eyes meet yours, something soft shining in them, and you give him a smile in return. 

“Thank you.” He murmurs. “For everything.”

A few days later, you’re surprised, and secretly pleased, to find Simon in the café.

He’s standing in front of the counter, paying for what you think might a baked good of some kind, sweet lady behind the register eyeing him up suspiciously as he deposits the note into her hand, and you stay on the outside of the doors, lingering in the hallway, watching.

At least he’s eating something. He’s still wearing the mask, and although it’s not uncommon, especially in a hospital setting, it does give you pause. Does he wear it all the time? Is it just because this is a hospital? He observes the room, steadily taking in all of the people meandering about, some eating, some standing, making their selections, engaging in conversation, and you notice how his hand slides to the back of his neck, distractedly rubbing the hair at his nape before he makes his escape, long legs eating up the distance between him and the door, him and… you.

“Hi.” You squeak when he steps into the hall, turning the corner to find you standing there like a deer in headlights, your water bottle clutched in one hand, phone in the other. His head tilts, eyes narrowed, and you manage to give him a half smile. “Getting something to eat?”

“It’s for Johnny.” He notes. “I ah, had something to eat earlier. When I was home.” Oh, good. Being in the hospital twenty-four seven isn’t healthy for anyone. Not even patients. 

“Cool.” Cool? What is this, a pub? You swallow your embarrassing, awkward acknowledgement, breezing past the word like it didn’t happen. “Well, I’m about to badge in, so I’ll see you in a bit?” He nods, eyes still trained on your face, and you beat back the heat that’s spreading through your body like a fever when they drift down to your shoulders, and then to your badge.

“Cute sticker.” He points to where it’s clipped to your top, shiny bunny sticker from a patient’s child still there, holographic print sparkling in the dusk.

“Oh, thanks. Another patient of mine has a little kid. I was hanging out with him for a bit yesterday.”

“Suits you.” His gaze dips downward, glancing over the curve of your hip, plush from the swell of your ass, taut pull of your scrubs all of the sudden feeling too tight, too stretched across your waist, and you scramble to make sense of his comment. 

“A bunny?” Your brows raise in disbelief, confusion, but he only nods, head tilted slightly, posture broad. Your brain turns over, frantically trying to think of a response, something clever, but he continues to talk, clearing his throat with a question.

“What do you call a line of rabbits hopping backwards?” Huh? 

“What?”

“A receding hare-line.” Wait. What? Is he… joking with you? Your mouth drops into a little o of part surprise, part confusion, before you squint at him in disbelief.

“Oh… my god. That’s…”

“’s not that bad.” His eyes crinkle at the corners, giving you the impression that he might be smiling beneath the mask, making you wonder if you’re hallucinating.

“It’s pretty bad.” You croak, nervous laughter bubbling up in the back of your throat. “Well, I… uh-“ His phone dings, pulling his focus to the screen, and he swipes out something quickly with his thumb.

“I’ll see you up there.” He jerks his head towards the elevator, and you mumble out a mild, flabbergasted reply.

“Alright... yeah.”

Your first break comes up fast. Your morning, everyone’s evening, is busy, with a code, a tricky vent, and a needy, elderly man in two fifty-two. It goes from busy to worse, an argument with the pharmacy heating your blood, spurring anger through your veins and you have to physically bite your tongue to keep from berating the poor tech at the window. Useless. You seethe in your mind all the way back up to your floor, frustration driving you to seek solace, eager to escape the eyes of the hospital, running away from the possibility of being noticed.

But supply closet 2b is occupied, a frazzled resident huffing into a pillow in the back, hyperventilating with tear-stained cheeks.

Without even fully realizing, you find yourself inside two sixty-eight, Simon’s sharp eyes falling upon you with scrutiny. He looks at Johnny’s monitor like something might be amiss, relaxed posture straightening into something tense, structured. There’s a card game in progress on the swivel tray table over Johnny’s lap, the glaring reality of your interruption, and you blanche.

You’re immediately incredibly embarrassed. What are you even doing in here? 

“Miss me already?” Johnny coos, beaming, and your throat feels dry. He’s feeling the best he has since he got here, albeit not great, still in awful pain, still staring down the barrel of more surgeries, but the pain medication from earlier is working its way through his system, and you’re happy to see it’s taking the edge off it all for him, allowing him comfort and conversation with his partner.

“My um… usual break spot is occupied?” You don’t know why you phrase it as a question, it just comes naturally. Like you’re seeking permission. Agreement.

“Ye want to sit with us? While ye eat?” Johnny asks, somewhat pointing to your yogurt cup, and you shrug, but Simon motions to the extra chair, the one that now sits on the other side of the bed, across from him. Guess facilities finally brought down that recliner you requested. 

“Would… would that be alright?”

Johnny looks to Simon, and Simon nods. Slowly.

Your yogurt goes down easy, light chit chat bouncing around the room, Johnny nodding in and out with drawn out answers to your questions, until a noise startles you from the chair, pushing you onto your feet to peer out the door.

It’s a man, yelling, screaming, from a room down the hall, not from sadness or despair, but rage, and your mind goes haywire when security is paged over the PA system.

Deep breath. 

This happens sometimes. Patients, or loved ones, become disruptive. Secrets and lies all come out in the wash in a hospital. Custody agreements, battles, DNRs, last wills and testaments, any of these things are a perfect tinder box. One match, and it all goes up.

A siren blares.

“Code black, code black.” echoes through the hospital, each room on every floor, down every hall.

Johnny startles from his near sleep stupor, eyes alert, the outline of his muscles solid beneath his gown.

Security risk. Lockdown. 

You straighten your spine.

Deep breath.

This is your job. 

Part of your job is being able to handle things like this. Protect, take care of your patients, and their families. Keep them safe.

The man shouts again, sharp tone of anger snapping through the air and across your frame, forcing your muscles tense.

You slide the door lock into place, pulling the curtain to only allow a small line of sight.

“What’s going on?” Simon stands, turning towards the door, and Johnny pats his hand, like he’s trying to soothe him.

“Oh, uh. It’s… just a lockdown. I don’t know.” You’re vaguely aware of the numb feeling that’s spreading from your chest down into your hand, and the sound of the irate man gets closer. Fuck. 

“Ye okay?” Johnny’s voice is gentle, and when you glance over your shoulder to reassure them, you realize they’re both watching you, Simon’s eyes locked onto your now trembling fist, as Johnny regards you softly, with kindness.

“Um. Yeah.” You suck in a quick breath, forcing yourself to steady, gritting your teeth against the frozen, involuntary fear that’s trying to overpower you. You think Simon might be frowning beneath the mask, confusion shading his question.

“Why are you standing at the door?”

“It’s standard operating procedure. If there’s an issue, or a disturbance. If you’re in a patient’s room, if I- I’m in a patient’s room, I’m supposed to act like a… barrier. Just in case.” You keep your eyes fixed out the glass, watching for any sights, listening for any sounds. The door is locked, and glass is thick, and security would be here if anything were to happen, they’re already down the hall, everything is fine. Deep breath. Deep breath. Deep-

“Go sit with Johnny.” Simon's standing just behind you, voice pitched low, sweetened into one of those softer hums, the kind of tone he usually uses with Johnny. Not with you. He’s so close, you can almost feel the heat radiating from his body, and you shake your head with a refusal.

“I have to stay-“ He cuts you off, not even letting you choke out the rest of your quivering protest.

“No. Go sit with Johnny.” He pauses, stepping around to angle his body in front of yours, looking down at you over his shoulder, and you think, for a moment, you see a glimmer of the tenderness there that’s reserved for Johnny. “Please.”

“My wrist hurts.” Johnny calls hopefully to you, mischievous smile and eyes sweet, his good hand outstretched with an open palm. “Need ye to rub it.” Simon nods, serious look quashing any rebuttals you might have, protocol and procedure slipping far from your mind as you let yourself drift to Johnny’s side, settling back into your seat previously abandoned. Johnny offers you his wrist, smile fading when he looks closer at your curled fingers. “Ye’re shaking, pretty girl.”

“Low blood sugar.” You lie. The man in the hallway shouts again, closer, loud and awful, roiling with rage, and you inadvertently tense, jolting minutely in the chair.

“Hey now.” Johnny reaches for you, gentle touch against your skin, warm fingers holding onto yours. You look down to where he tries to give you comfort, where he tries to soothe you, instead of the other way around, as it has been, as it should be, and you get lost in it, the idea of comfort, the feeling of care. It makes your heart stumble in your chest, almost like you can’t breathe, staring off into space, trying to pretend like there isn’t a man screaming down the hall, like you’re not the person you are, buried beneath the insurmountable weight of scars, memories of pain and fear etched into the very tissue of your brain, the backs of your eyelids, every strand of hair.

Ingrained inside of you, forever.

Someone says your name, and you blink back to the face of your patient, who looks to Simon, his expression unreadable until it shifts into tender warmth, re-focused on you. “What is it?”

“I-“ You picture yourself, letting your lips go loose, entrusting your secrets and worst fears to these strangers, these men who you don't even know, who don't know you. “I’m exhausted.” You offer, and shadow flickers across Johnny’s eyes. It’s not a lie, not technically. You’re always exhausted.

“Ye-“

“Code black lifted. Code black lifted. Lockdown complete. Resume normal operation.” The PA system drones, tension between your shoulders draining, and you jump to your feet, palms and fingers smoothing over your scrub top.

“Well, I’ve got to check in at the nurses’ station now. Protocol.” You explain, nearly tripping over yourself on the way to the door. Your heart is still raging inside your chest, beating faster than it should, and you steady your breathing with a mental count. One... two... three... one... “I’ll check in on you later.” You promise over your shoulder, slipping by Simon to disappear down the hallway. 

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The moral injury of having your work enshittified

This Monday (November 27), I'm appearing at the Toronto Metro Reference Library with Facebook whistleblower Frances Haugen.

On November 29, I'm at NYC's Strand Books with my novel The Lost Cause, a solarpunk tale of hope and danger that Rebecca Solnit called "completely delightful."

This week, I wrote about how the Great Enshittening – in which all the digital services we rely on become unusable, extractive piles of shit – did not result from the decay of the morals of tech company leadership, but rather, from the collapse of the forces that discipline corporate wrongdoing:

https://locusmag.com/2023/11/commentary-by-cory-doctorow-dont-be-evil/

The failure to enforce competition law allowed a few companies to buy out their rivals, or sell goods below cost until their rivals collapsed, or bribe key parts of their supply chain not to allow rivals to participate:

https://www.engadget.com/google-reportedly-pays-apple-36-percent-of-ad-search-revenues-from-safari-191730783.html

The resulting concentration of the tech sector meant that the surviving firms were stupendously wealthy, and cozy enough that they could agree on a common legislative agenda. That regulatory capture has allowed tech companies to violate labor, privacy and consumer protection laws by arguing that the law doesn't apply when you use an app to violate it:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/12/algorithmic-wage-discrimination/#fishers-of-men

But the regulatory capture isn't just about preventing regulation: it's also about creating regulation – laws that make it illegal to reverse-engineer, scrape, and otherwise mod, hack or reconfigure existing services to claw back value that has been taken away from users and business customers. This gives rise to Jay Freeman's perfectly named doctrine of "felony contempt of business-model," in which it is illegal to use your own property in ways that anger the shareholders of the company that sold it to you:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/09/lead-me-not-into-temptation/#chamberlain

Undisciplined by the threat of competition, regulation, or unilateral modification by users, companies are free to enshittify their products. But what does that actually look like? I say that enshittification is always precipitated by a lost argument.

It starts when someone around a board-room table proposes doing something that's bad for users but good for the company. If the company faces the discipline of competition, regulation or self-help measures, then the workers who are disgusted by this course of action can say, "I think doing this would be gross, and what's more, it's going to make the company poorer," and so they win the argument.

But when you take away that discipline, the argument gets reduced to, "Don't do this because it would make me ashamed to work here, even though it will make the company richer." Money talks, bullshit walks. Let the enshittification begin!

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/22/who-wins-the-argument/#corporations-are-people-my-friend

But why do workers care at all? That's where phrases like "don't be evil" come into the picture. Until very recently, tech workers participated in one of history's tightest labor markets, in which multiple companies with gigantic war-chests bid on their labor. Even low-level employees routinely fielded calls from recruiters who dangled offers of higher salaries and larger stock grants if they would jump ship for a company's rival.

Employers built "campuses" filled with lavish perks: massages, sports facilities, daycare, gourmet cafeterias. They offered workers generous benefit packages, including exotic health benefits like having your eggs frozen so you could delay fertility while offsetting the risks normally associated with conceiving at a later age.

But all of this was a transparent ruse: the business-case for free meals, gyms, dry-cleaning, catering and massages was to keep workers at their laptops for 10, 12, or even 16 hours per day. That egg-freezing perk wasn't about helping workers plan their families: it was about thumbing the scales in favor of working through your entire twenties and thirties without taking any parental leave.

In other words, tech employers valued their employees as a means to an end: they wanted to get the best geeks on the payroll and then work them like government mules. The perks and pay weren't the result of comradeship between management and labor: they were the result of the discipline of competition for labor.

This wasn't really a secret, of course. Big Tech workers are split into two camps: blue badges (salaried employees) and green badges (contractors). Whenever there is a slack labor market for a specific job or skill, it is converted from a blue badge job to a green badge job. Green badges don't get the food or the massages or the kombucha. They don't get stock or daycare. They don't get to freeze their eggs. They also work long hours, but they are incentivized by the fear of poverty.

Tech giants went to great lengths to shield blue badges from green badges – at some Google campuses, these workforces actually used different entrances and worked in different facilities or on different floors. Sometimes, green badge working hours would be staggered so that the armies of ragged clickworkers would not be lined up to badge in when their social betters swanned off the luxury bus and into their airy adult kindergartens.

But Big Tech worked hard to convince those blue badges that they were truly valued. Companies hosted regular town halls where employees could ask impertinent questions of their CEOs. They maintained freewheeling internal social media sites where techies could rail against corporate foolishness and make Dilbert references.

And they came up with mottoes.

Apple told its employees it was a sound environmental steward that cared about privacy. Apple also deliberately turned old devices into e-waste by shredding them to ensure that they wouldn't be repaired and compete with new devices:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/22/vin-locking/#thought-differently

And even as they were blocking Facebook's surveillance tools, they quietly built their own nonconsensual mass surveillance program and lied to customers about it:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/14/luxury-surveillance/#liar-liar

Facebook told employees they were on a "mission to connect every person in the world," but instead deliberately sowed discontent among its users and trapped them in silos that meant that anyone who left Facebook lost all their friends:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2021/08/facebooks-secret-war-switching-costs

And Google promised its employees that they would not "be evil" if they worked at Google. For many googlers, that mattered. They wanted to do something good with their lives, and they had a choice about who they would work for. What's more, they did make things that were good. At their high points, Google Maps, Google Mail, and of course, Google Search were incredible.

My own life was totally transformed by Maps: I have very poor spatial sense, need to actually stop and think to tell my right from my left, and I spent more of my life at least a little lost and often very lost. Google Maps is the cognitive prosthesis I needed to become someone who can go anywhere. I'm profoundly grateful to the people who built that service.

There's a name for phenomenon in which you care so much about your job that you endure poor conditions and abuse: it's called "vocational awe," as coined by Fobazi Ettarh:

https://www.inthelibrarywiththeleadpipe.org/2018/vocational-awe/

Ettarh uses the term to apply to traditionally low-waged workers like librarians, teachers and nurses. In our book Chokepoint Capitalism, Rebecca Giblin and I talked about how it applies to artists and other creative workers, too:

https://chokepointcapitalism.com/

But vocational awe is also omnipresent in tech. The grandiose claims to be on a mission to make the world a better place are not just puffery – they're a vital means of motivating workers who can easily quit their jobs and find a new one to put in 16-hour days. The massages and kombucha and egg-freezing are not framed as perks, but as logistical supports, provided so that techies on an important mission can pursue a shared social goal without being distracted by their balky, inconvenient meatsuits.

Steve Jobs was a master of instilling vocational awe. He was full of aphorisms like "we're here to make a dent in the universe, otherwise why even be here?" Or his infamous line to John Sculley, whom he lured away from Pepsi: "Do you want to sell sugar water for the rest of your life or come with me and change the world?"

Vocational awe cuts both ways. If your workforce actually believes in all that high-minded stuff, if they actually sacrifice their health, family lives and self-care to further the mission, they will defend it. That brings me back to enshittification, and the argument: "If we do this bad thing to the product I work on, it will make me hate myself."

The decline in market discipline for large tech companies has been accompanied by a decline in labor discipline, as the market for technical work grew less and less competitive. Since the dotcom collapse, the ability of tech giants to starve new entrants of market oxygen has shrunk techies' dreams.

Tech workers once dreamed of working for a big, unwieldy firm for a few years before setting out on their own to topple it with a startup. Then, the dream shrank: work for that big, clumsy firm for a few years, then do a fake startup that makes a fake product that is acquihired by your old employer, as an incredibly inefficient and roundabout way to get a raise and a bonus.

Then the dream shrank again: work for a big, ugly firm for life, but get those perks, the massages and the kombucha and the stock options and the gourmet cafeteria and the egg-freezing. Then it shrank again: work for Google for a while, but then get laid off along with 12,000 co-workers, just months after the company does a stock buyback that would cover all those salaries for the next 27 years:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/10/the-proletarianization-of-tech-workers/

Tech workers' power was fundamentally individual. In a tight labor market, tech workers could personally stand up to their bosses. They got "workplace democracy" by mouthing off at town hall meetings. They didn't have a union, and they thought they didn't need one. Of course, they did need one, because there were limits to individual power, even for the most in-demand workers, especially when it came to ghastly, long-running sexual abuse from high-ranking executives:

https://www.nytimes.com/2018/10/25/technology/google-sexual-harassment-andy-rubin.html

Today, atomized tech workers who are ordered to enshittify the products they take pride in are losing the argument. Workers who put in long hours, missed funerals and school plays and little league games and anniversaries and family vacations are being ordered to flush that sacrifice down the toilet to grind out a few basis points towards a KPI.

It's a form of moral injury, and it's palpable in the first-person accounts of former workers who've exited these large firms or the entire field. The viral "Reflecting on 18 years at Google," written by Ian Hixie, vibrates with it:

https://ln.hixie.ch/?start=1700627373

Hixie describes the sense of mission he brought to his job, the workplace democracy he experienced as employees' views were both solicited and heeded. He describes the positive contributions he was able to make to a commons of technical standards that rippled out beyond Google – and then, he says, "Google's culture eroded":

Decisions went from being made for the benefit of users, to the benefit of Google, to the benefit of whoever was making the decision.

In other words, techies started losing the argument. Layoffs weakened worker power – not just to defend their own interest, but to defend the users interests. Worker power is always about more than workers – think of how the 2019 LA teachers' strike won greenspace for every school, a ban on immigration sweeps of students' parents at the school gates and other community benefits:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/23/a-collective-bargain/

Hixie attributes the changes to a change in leadership, but I respectfully disagree. Hixie points to the original shareholder letter from the Google founders, in which they informed investors contemplating their IPO that they were retaining a controlling interest in the company's governance so that they could ignore their shareholders' priorities in favor of a vision of Google as a positive force in the world:

https://abc.xyz/investor/founders-letters/ipo-letter/

Hixie says that the leadership that succeeded the founders lost sight of this vision – but the whole point of that letter is that the founders never fully ceded control to subsequent executive teams. Yes, those executive teams were accountable to the shareholders, but the largest block of voting shares were retained by the founders.

I don't think the enshittification of Google was due to a change in leadership – I think it was due to a change in discipline, the discipline imposed by competition, regulation and the threat of self-help measures. Take ads: when Google had to contend with one-click adblocker installation, it had to constantly balance the risk of making users so fed up that they googled "how do I block ads?" and then never saw another ad ever again.

But once Google seized the majority of the mobile market, it was able to funnel users into apps, and reverse-engineering an app is a felony (felony contempt of business-model) under Section 1201 of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act. An app is just a web-page wrapped in enough IP to make it a crime to install an ad-blocker.

And as Google acquired control over the browser market, it was likewise able to reduce the self-help measures available to browser users who found ads sufficiently obnoxious to trigger googling "how do I block ads?" The apotheosis of this is the yearslong campaign to block adblockers in Chrome, which the company has sworn it will finally do this coming June:

https://www.tumblr.com/tevruden/734352367416410112/you-have-until-june-to-dump-chrome

My contention here is not that Google's enshittification was precipitated by a change in personnel via the promotion of managers who have shitty ideas. Google's enshittification was precipitated by a change in discipline, as the negative consequences of heeding those shitty ideas were abolished thanks to monopoly.

This is bad news for people like me, who rely on services like Google Maps as cognitive prostheses. Elizabeth Laraki, one of the original Google Maps designers, has published a scorching critique of the latest GMaps design:

https://twitter.com/elizlaraki/status/1727351922254852182

Laraki calls out numerous enshittificatory design-choices that have left Maps screens covered in "crud" – multiple revenue-maximizing elements that come at the expense of usability, shifting value from users to Google.

What Laraki doesn't say is that these UI elements are auctioned off to merchants, which means that the business that gives Google the most money gets the greatest prominence in Maps, even if it's not the best merchant. That's a recurring motif in enshittified tech platforms, most notoriously Amazon, which makes $31b/year auctioning off top search placement to companies whose products aren't relevant enough to your query to command that position on their own:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/25/greedflation/#commissar-bezos

Enshittification begets enshittification. To succeed on Amazon, you must divert funds from product quality to auction placement, which means that the top results are the worst products:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/06/attention-rents/#consumer-welfare-queens

The exception is searches for Apple products: Apple and Amazon have a cozy arrangement that means that searches for Apple products are a timewarp back to the pre-enshittification Amazon, when the company worried enough about losing your business to heed the employees who objected to sacrificing search quality as part of a merchant extortion racket:

https://www.businessinsider.com/amazon-gives-apple-special-treatment-while-others-suffer-junk-ads-2023-11

Not every tech worker is a tech bro, in other words. Many workers care deeply about making your life better. But the microeconomics of the boardroom in a monopolized tech sector rewards the worst people and continuously promotes them. Forget the Peter Principle: tech is ruled by the Sam Principle.

As OpenAI went through four CEOs in a single week, lots of commentators remarked on Sam Altman's rise and fall and rise, but I only found one commentator who really had Altman's number. Writing in Today in Tabs, Rusty Foster nailed Altman to the wall:

https://www.todayintabs.com/p/defective-accelerationism

Altman's history goes like this: first, he founded a useless startup that raised $30m, only to be acquired and shuttered. Then Altman got a job running Y Combinator, where he somehow failed at taking huge tranches of equity from "every Stanford dropout with an idea for software to replace something Mommy used to do." After that, he founded OpenAI, a company that he claims to believe presents an existential risk to the entire human risk – which he structured so incompetently that he was then forced out of it.

His reward for this string of farcical, mounting failures? He was put back in charge of the company he mis-structured despite his claimed belief that it will destroy the human race if not properly managed.

Altman's been around for a long time. He founded his startup in 2005. There've always been Sams – of both the Bankman-Fried varietal and the Altman genus – in tech. But they didn't get to run amok. They were disciplined by their competitors, regulators, users and workers. The collapse of competition led to an across-the-board collapse in all of those forms of discipline, revealing the executives for the mediocre sociopaths they always were, and exposing tech workers' vocational awe for the shabby trick it was from the start.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/25/moral-injury/#enshittification

[octuscle]

Hey I love to become Stereotypical blonde football player guy with amazing muscles and a hairy body

"Why don't you take this spring break too, darling?" "Why don't you relax after your first semester, you've been so hard-working, boy" You can't hear it anymore. After the exams, you would have loved to go to the mountains. Hiking. And explore the starry sky at night. But no, you gave in to pressure from your parents and set off for South Beach in your ancient VW Jetta. This is going to be endlessly embarrassing. You're pale, chubby, completely untrained. You're a virgin. No one has ever sucked your pathetic little cock. And you've never sucked anyone else. For your taste, it should have stayed that way. But now it's Florida. And you don't even drink alcohol.

Your father actually found a cassette entitled "Freshman's Guide to Spring Break". It's embarrassing enough that you only have a cassette player in the car. You listened to your beloved 12-tone music during the whole journey. Schönberg was a genius after your own heart. But now, just under an hour before your destination, you put the cassette in. Accompanied by hip-hop, someone speaks in a nasty slang. You can just imagine the guy Football-Jock. One of the guys who bullied you at college last year. "Yo, dude! let me tell you ha to get da hottest spring break. You'll have more sex n more fun dan you can imagine." You take a deep breath. This is going to be great… "You should start uh year in advance n get your muscles burning every day. An important motto of spring break is n remains 'sun's out, guns out'." Well bravo, then you can turn around right away. What kind of stupid advice is that an hour before you get out of the car? A little late, perhaps, to… Damn it! Your muscles are swelling. And in your head, a profound knowledge of the gym matures. Hey, the gym is your home. "Bruh, last haircut maximum three months before you go to da beach. Yes, your mommy will be sad about da messy look at christmas. But uh surfer's mane is best for da beach." You said it, dude. You think to yourself. Your hair is flapping in the wind. You love it. "N bruh, don't wash your hair two weeks before. You can smell da sweat from your football helmet in your hair." Hehehe, sure thing. Showering sucks, but washing your hair is for wimps. You love the look when you take your helmet off after the game and your sweaty hair lies wildly on your head. "My tip, dude, is that da last time you shave is two weeks before spring break. Nah one wants uh clean shaven guy on da beach. N while we're on da subject of shaving. You can shave your chest again four days before you get ta steppin. Da stubble on your mighty pecs looks hot." The traffic is getting heavier. More and more party-addicted students are clogging up the streets. You scratch your chest. Yes, the bruh with the podcast coming from the sick speakers of your powerful new car knows all about it.

"So dude, before you hit da road, one last workout. You'll have somethin other dan sport on your mind for da next few days. Nah more showers afta training n keep your training clothes on for da journey." It already smells a bit in the car. But it's the stench of youthful masculinity. Up ahead is the guesthouse where the others from your football team are staying. Some of them are already there. And obviously already drunk. The podcast said that the most important accessory in the car is the cool can of beer for the arrival. Hell yes! You park the car, get out, rip open the can, drink the beer on ex and crush the can between your forearm and biceps. Spring break is only once a year. Let the games begin!

[menwrittenbywomen]

Jegulus date - word count: 4k

Why did I agree to this again? Regulus questions himself as he follows James down the stairs leading from his apartment.

He’s spending the day with James Potter. The man he’s hated since for as long as he can remember.

After they make it downstairs, they wait while James calls them a ride. Regulus is tempted to ask where they’re going, but he sort of likes the idea of it being a surprise. Normally he hates surprises, but today is not a normal day. Regulus isn’t sure if he likes that or not.

The silence while they wait isn’t as unpleasant as Regulus expects it to be. He’s never been one to try and fill the silence, but he thought James would at least try to make small talk. The man normally never shuts up. However, he seems to be lost in thought at the moment. He’s staring into the distance with a faraway look. Regulus continues to stare at James, taking him in fully without the stress of having him look back. There are no words that need to be said at the moment.

Instead, a comfortable quiet fills the space between them. Regulus likes that he now knows that James has the ability to shut up on occasion. It’s easier to not be annoyed by him that way.

Their taxi arrives a little later, and it seems to snap James out of his thoughts. He turns to Regulus.

“Ready?” He asks, a gleeful look on his face.

Regulus gives a nod and starts forward. They take a taxi because he isn’t a fan of subways. They’re way too crowded, and if there’s ever an available seat, it’s covered in too many unidentifiable liquids.

Trying not to think about what sort of liquids the taxi seats have seen, he gets in and scoots over to leave some space. James sits a respectful distance away, which slightly offends Regulus. What’s so wrong with him that James wants to sit so far away? Not that Regulus wants him any closer. It’s just the semantics that upset him.

The car ride is silent on Regulus’ part. He looks out the window and certainly does not pout while James strikes up a conversation with the driver. Because of course he does. It turns out that they have quite a lot in common. They go to the same gym, enjoy the same movies, and like the same music. Regulus is then stuck listening to Kendrick Lamar's new album for the rest of the short ride. He debates opening the car door and jumping out onto the bustling street.

When they arrive at their destination, Regulus is actually a little impressed. They’re at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. Regulus has never been despite living in the city for a while now. He loves museums and art, but he usually tells himself he’s too busy to indulge himself like that.

He regrets not spending more time doing the things he loves. There are so many opportunities he’s missed that if he tried to count them, the day would be long over.

They both exit the taxi, and James refuses to let Regulus pay. James thanks the driver, who is now a new friend of his apparently, and then holds out his arms as if presenting a prize to Regulus on a game show.

“Ta-da!”

“It’s a museum,” Regulus states. He tries his best to sound unimpressed despite the excitement coursing through him.

“Yes, the best one in Boston! C’mon, it’s gonna be fun.” James skips ahead, genuinely skips, and Regulus wonders if he'll get arrested for assault if he hits James.

James comes back over and sees the unamused look on Regulus’ face. He smiles and ushers to the entrance. Regulus shakes his head but begins walking. James slows to match his pace, and Regulus purposefully ignores the fluttering feeling he gets.

They pay and enter the museum, going first to the large garden called the Courtyard. Regulus lets out a gasp when he sees it.

It’s one of the most beautiful gardens Regulus has ever seen. It’s overflowing with flowers and beautiful architecture. This is the kind of place he could sit for hours and forget the world.

“I love it,” he says aloud. He hadn’t meant to, but when James turns to him he keeps speaking despite himself. “I could stay forever and not worry about a thing.”

James nods along, looking out at the beautiful scenery. “I’d stay here forever with you if you’d let me,” he says, and surely Regulus misheard him. A moment later, James laughs awkwardly, and Regulus supposes he must have been making a joke.

James and his stupid jokes.

Regulus huffs before making his way to the closest room in the museum. It’s called the Macknight Room, and it’s full of wonderful artwork for Regulus to gawk at. He notices James enter behind him, but pays him no mind.

He looks at a lovely watercolor painting of the Grand Canyon. It astonishes him that there are such beautiful places in the world. It saddens him to think that he may never get to see them. Maybe he should be more like James and take time to enjoy things. However, the thought of being anything like James makes him feel a bit sick, so he decides to put a pin in the idea.

Eventually, he and James end up side by side again. James asks him a question about an object on the table in front of them, and Regulus decides to forgive him for his joke. He’s not got much time for grudge-holding today. He answers James’ question, then another, and another, not getting annoyed in the slightest. They begin to make their way through the museum, and it’s surprisingly Regulus who does most of the talking.

They see works by Rembrandt, Degas, and even Michaelangelo. Regulus finds himself enjoying the experience way too much. He keeps telling himself to calm down, it’s just a painting, or a sculpture, or a vase. He starts going on tangents to James about the artwork, and James seems content just to listen to him. Regulus is surprised he hasn’t asked him to shut up yet. He can get kind of annoying about art, as his friends have told him many times.

He interrupts himself in the middle of telling James about a painting by Rubens. “Sorry, I’m ranting again. You can tell me to stop talking, I know it’s probably annoying.”

James firmly shakes his head, surprising Regulus again. “You’re not annoying, Regulus. You’re just passionate. I like hearing you talk about art. Your face lights up when you do.”

Regulus can’t do anything about the blush that appears at that. He turns away quickly and avoids James for a little while.

They eventually make their way through almost the entire museum. The last room they visit is the Spanish Cloister. Regulus thinks this is one of his favorites. It has beautiful works by Sargent, Seville, and many talented others.

Regulus' favorite is one by John S. Sargent called El Jaleo. It depicts a performer dancing in a tavern with musicians playing for her in the background. Regulus likes it because he feels like he can relate to the woman dancing. She’s trapped in the painting, putting on a show for everyone for eternity. Regulus feels like his whole life has been one big performance. Performing for his parents, for strangers, for himself.

The painting is a myriad of colors and objects. There’s so much going on that it’s hard to figure out where to look. Regulus is drawn to the woman, however, and he wishes that she could curtsy so the show can be over.

James comes to stand next to him. “Do you like this one?”

It’s hard to find the words to describe how the painting makes him feel. He can only think of two words to say, but he knows they’re not enough.

“It’s beautiful,” Regulus whispers.

“Yes, it is,” James says back.

Regulus turns and is surprised to find James looking at him instead of the painting, another stupid smile on his face. He must have turned his head a split second before Regulus did. That’s the only explanation.

James is opening his mouth to speak, and Regulus waits with bated breath. He doesn’t know what he wants James to say, but he knows that he wants it to be something monumental.

“I’m glad you asked me to spend the day with you,” James says, and Regulus wants to take back his wish. James is so earnest too; Regulus knows he means what he says. He wants to tell James what he’s thinking, but that would involve being open with his feelings.

Regulus is a coward. He doesn’t respond. He turns away.

It’s silent, and then:

“Are you hungry?” James asks him for the second time that day. Before Regulus can answer, his stomach betrays him by growling. They both laugh. Regulus is learning that laughter can be nice sometimes.

“C’mon, I know a great place not too far from here.” He follows James out of the room, pausing to look at El Jaleo one last time.

The performer, stuck forever in a dance. He’s worried he can understand her a little too well.

He blinks away tears he didn’t realize had formed in his eyes and catches up to James. Look at him, getting emotional over a painting. It would make Sirius laugh.

Regulus hates to admit that he misses that laugh.

Once they’ve left the museum, they grab another taxi. This time, the ride isn’t silent and they keep a nice conversation going. They talk about their favorite things from the museum, and Regulus corrects James when he gets things wrong and laughs at James’ funny descriptions of the art. The ride seems to be over too quickly.

They both exit the taxi, James once again paying despite Regulus’ protests. He wants to tell James that he has the entire Black family inheritance burning a hole in his pocket, but he would probably just be laughed at.

They’ve been dropped off in front of a row of shops. James steps toward the one closest to them. Regulus pauses to take a look at it. The sign above the entrance reads Punjab Palace in bright red letters. James has brought him to an Indian food place. Regulus likes Indian food well enough; some of the dishes are too spicy for him as he grew up in a household where salt and pepper were oftentimes the only seasonings used. His spice tolerance is terrible, to say the least.

James turns to him, an anxious look on his face. “Are you okay with Indian food? If not, we can go somewhere else-”

“James, I’m good,” Regulus interrupts. He’s learning that James cares what people think entirely too much. “I’ve had it before, I like it. Calm down.” His words genuinely seem to calm James, and he smiles before walking to the entrance. Regulus follows him inside.

Once they're seated, he anxiously takes out his phone but doesn’t do anything more besides go to his home screen. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. He hates small talk but feels it’s what is expected when two people eat together. He waits for James to initiate the conversation.

“My parents used to bring me here when I was younger,” James says in a fond voice. Regulus is glad he’s with someone unafraid to speak. Regulus often feels like he’d rather die than say anything.

He nods along instead of speaking. He’s of the opinion that sometimes things people say don’t require a response from the listener, especially if there are no words that are meaningful enough. He supposes he could say “Oh, that’s cool” or “Nice”, but those aren’t big enough to say how he really feels. He wishes he had the words to say that he thinks that it’s amazing that James’ parents took him to such a cool place growing up, and it’s great that his parents are so nice and loving, and that he’s sad that he didn’t have any of that growing up but he’s happy for James at the same time. But he doesn't know how to say any of that. So he just nods instead.

James doesn’t seem to mind his nonverbal responses and continues to talk. “My mom likes things that remind her of home. Food, music, dancing. I used to love dancing with her when I was a kid.” Hearing James talk so fondly of his mother makes Regulus think of his own. She never danced with him or Sirius and was never kind. Regulus knows that she’s the main reason his brother ran away from home. He’s glad that Sirius was able to find a mother who is nice, even if it meant he was left alone with one who wasn’t.

“She sounds lovely,” Regulus says. She sounds like everything a mother should be. Everything Regulus isn’t.

“She is. She’s the best.” He then says something Regulus isn’t expecting. “You should meet her someday. I think you guys would get along.”

Regulus is surprised that James thinks he should meet his mother. He doesn’t think James likes him all that much. So to suggest that he meet Euphemia Potter is a little strange. And how does James know they’d get along anyway? He barely knows anything about Regulus.

Before Regulus can respond, a waiter arrives to greet them. When the waiter asks what they’d like to drink, James orders something called a mango lassi while Regulus plays it safe and gets a Diet Coke. James also asks for some saag tikki and garlic naan, and the waiter hurries off to put in their order.

“I’m excited for you to try some of this food. Growing up, this was my equivalent to McDonald’s.” Regulus sort of understands the reference; he was never allowed fast food growing up. He supposes his version of McDonald’s would be when he and Sirius would stay with their Uncle Alphard when they were young. He would make them delicious foods their parents wouldn’t let them have otherwise.

It’s then that the waiter comes back with their drinks and appetizers. Regulus mentally applauds the fast service. The waiter asks if they're ready to order, and Regulus panics and picks his menu up. James thankfully orders first, giving Regulus time to scan. When the waiter turns to him, he orders chicken tikka masala because it’s the only dish he recognizes. He’s had it before and liked it, so it’s the safest option.

The waiter leaves again, and a silence ensues. Regulus sips his coke while James has some of his mango drink. James lets out a sound that’s entirely too close to a moan for Regulus’ liking. He shoots James an offended look.

“Sorry,” James says, not looking sorry at all. Honestly, doesn’t he know better than to make noises like that? Someone could get the wrong idea. “I just haven’t had one of these in forever and I forgot how good it is.”

Regulus rolls his eyes. “That doesn’t give you an excuse to moan like you’re in a cheap porno,” he says, then immediately regrets it when he sees a glint in James’ eye.

“I bet you’d love-” James is interrupted by Regulus throwing a piece of naan at his face. This effectively shuts him up.

“Do not finish that sentence.” James looks at Regulus with a shocked expression. He clearly didn’t expect to have a piece of bread thrown at him.

“I can’t believe you just threw naan at me.” James sounds offended, but Regulus can tell he’s only joking from the look on his face. He proceeds to pick up the naan that had fallen onto the table after it smacked his forehead and eat it.

“I would have thrown my knife at you, but I’m a gentleman.” James lets out a loud laugh at that.

“Regulus Black, you are full of surprises.” Regulus doesn’t believe that. He’s very predictable. He always has a snide comment or sarcastic remark, and his smiles are almost never present. He can always be counted on to bring reality to someone’s wild dreams and keep them from making rash decisions. So yes, he’s predictable, but he likes that James doesn’t see him that way. He likes that he sees him as a mystery to solve, something that has hidden answers. He then wonders why he likes that it’s James who sees him that way before clearing that thought away. That was dangerous territory.

James takes another sip of his drink, this time behaving himself for Regulus’ benefit. “This was my favorite drink as a kid.” He pushes the glass toward Regulus. “Here, try it.” He takes a cautious sip and is surprised to find that it tastes good. It’s not like anything he’s had before, but he likes it nonetheless.

“I like it,” Regulus tells James as he slides the drink back. This makes James happy. He’s too easy to please.

They make small talk while they wait, but it’s not as painful as Regulus expects it to be. James is a pro at keeping the conversation flowing, and Regulus realizes that he’s actually enjoying himself. He never expected that to happen with James in close vicinity, let alone him being the one to make Regulus happy. Today has to be the strangest day ever.

The waiter brings out their food while they’re in the middle of a debate over whether cereal is a soup. It was starting to get a little heated, so the food came out at a great time.

James starts in on his chicken curry and Regulus can smell the spices from it across the table. He takes a small bite of his own food, and his eyes widen. It’s amazing. He starts eating and doesn’t stop until the whole plate is empty.

He looks up to see that James devoured his food as well. They both seem to be amused at their eagerness. The food was just too delicious to do anything other than savor it.

The waiter comes to clear the empty plates, taking the credit card James hands over.

“I could have paid,” Regulus says, but James waves him off.

“I suggested we come here and you trusted me. It’s on me today.” Regulus nods in thanks. The waiter comes back with their receipt, but neither one stands to go.

“Do you-”

“Are we-”

They both pause when they begin speaking at the same time.

“You first,” James laughs.

“I was just going to ask if you still wanted to spend the day together. Don’t feel obligated to say yes.”

“I was just about to ask the same thing,” James says with a grin. “I’m having fun, so why stop here?” Regulus' stomach does something funny that he ignores.

“Yeah. Why stop here?” Regulus repeats. They stare at each other then. It feels important, and monumental. Then James looks away, and the moment ends.

“Time for dessert,” He announces.

“James, I’m so full. I don’t think I can manage dessert.” Regulus feels ready to burst. He hasn’t had a good meal in forever.

James stands from his chair. “The place I have in mind is about thirty minutes away, so I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“Thirty minutes?” Regulus says as he stands. He embarrassingly stumbles a bit. James reaches out a hand to help, but Regulus just glares at it until he retracts it. “Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.” Hasn't this whole day been one big surprise?

Another taxi. Another drive. Regulus is noticing a pattern to the day. James leads and he follows. He just hopes he’s not led in the wrong direction.

They pass a sign on the way that states they’ve left the city. Regulus looks at their surroundings and realizes where they’re going.

“Why are we going to Cambridge?” He questions James.

James only shrugs nonchalantly. “You asked me to show you my favorite places.”

“Yeah, in Boston,” Regulus deadpans. He’s not sure he wants to go cross-country with James. They’d argue over the music playing in the car and inevitable crash or something.

James refuses to give him any more answers. Regulus is stubborn and tries his best though. He’s realizing James may be almost as stubborn as he is, which is going to be a problem if they continue arguing.

Regulus amuses himself by looking out the window. He’s always loved car rides. It’s nice to look at the scenery as they pass by. It makes him think about how big the world is and how small he is in comparison. Most would find that thought scary, but Regulus finds comfort in it. It reminds him that everything he does is insignificant and won’t matter one day, so he has all the freedom in the world.

They eventually make it further into Cambridge, and the taxi stops. They have arrived outside of an ice cream shop. Regulus loves ice cream, but there’s no way James knew that. It’s just a happy coincidence.

“Ice cream is my favorite,” Regulus admits to James as they hop in line to wait.

“Yeah, you mentioned it before, so I thought I’d show you my favorite ice cream shop.”

Regulus is confused. “When did I tell you I like ice cream?”

James laughs. “You didn’t tell me. I overheard you say it to Remus a few months back.” With that, he turns to look at the flavors on display.

Regulus doesn’t know what to think. It’s thoughtful that James remembered something he said from months ago. Too thoughtful for two people who are supposed to hate each other. Regulus wants to know what else James knows about him. He also wants to learn more about James.

He’s terrible at this whole hatred thing.

When it’s their turn, James orders a double dip of a strange flavor called Passion Fruit Caramel. When Regulus makes a face, James laughs and explains that he’s on a mission to try all the different flavors the shop offers, and that this is the only one they’re offering today that he’s yet to try.

He thinks that it’s a very James thing to do.

Regulus once again plays it safe and orders a single dip of Burnt Caramel. He wasn’t allowed to have very many sweets when growing up, so now as an adult, he attempts to make up for his loss by eating sweet things whenever he can.

Regulus manages to pay for his ice cream even though James insists, and they take their cups outside. There are benches lined along the sidewalk and they have a seat. Regulus notices that James sits a little closer than he did in the taxi from earlier.

James has some of his, making sure to let Regulus and all the passerby know how good it is by the sounds he makes. They are thankfully more PG this time.

Regulus excitedly takes a bite of his and has to force himself not to spit it back out. It’s bitter and not at all how he expects it to taste. He swallows quickly and wishes he had something to get the taste out of his mouth. He sticks his tongue out like a toddler without thinking about it, wanting anything to make the flavor go away.

“Everything okay?” It seems James has noticed his distress. Great.

“No,” Regulus answers petulantly. “It’s bitter and doesn’t taste good.” He gets up to throw the ice cream away in the nearest trash can. He comes back to where James is sitting, mood effectively ruined because of some stupid dessert.

James looks sympathetic. “Have some of mine.” He holds his cup out but Regulus hesitates. “Tastes good, promise.” James sounds so genuine that Regulus really has no choice. He once again attempts to be brave and tries a small bite. James isn’t lying; it tastes delicious. It’s slightly tart from the passion fruit but the sweet caramel balances it well. It’s also super creamy and one of the best things Regulus has ever tasted. He takes another, bigger bite and has to hold back a delighted groan.

The small kindness goes a long way. Regulus is still trying to decipher the mystery that is James Potter. The man is choosing to spend time with him even though he’s been cruel to him, and now he’s sharing his very tasty ice cream when he’s not obligated to. Regulus tries to think of words big enough to encompass his gratitude but falls short. He can really only think of two words to say, and he hopes they’re enough.

“Thank you,” Regulus whispers. It’s probably the nicest thing he’s ever said to James. It makes the man smile, and Regulus decides he may have to make a habit of being nicer to James. Where before he found the smiles quite annoying, looking at it now, it was actually really pleasant to look at. James' smile lights up his whole face. It’s as if there’s this constant joy inside him that’s ready to burst at any moment. Now that joy is directed at Regulus, just because of two small words he said.

And then Regulus does something very unexpected.

For once, he smiles back.

[polo-drone-070]

The cursed chain - part 1

Hey bruhz. Hea iz, lyk, me first propa long story n all. Sum shit dat happend 2 me on, lyk, Halloween. Twas, lyk, real erd getting all dem werd rite n propa. But yer, I hope u lyk it, init.

1. On the morning of Hallowen 

It all began on the morning of Halloween. I woke up feeling good and really stoked. It has been a bit more than a month since I’ve received the Gold brocess and joined the Gold Army, becoming Henry Gold, #70, Right Fullback. I was still in awe of the way the Gold Jersey had transformed my body, loving my new hot muscles and my cleanly shaved head. I love all my new brothers and the feeling of brotherhood that holds us together. Gold is really the best feeling. 

Today was Halloween and I had two things to be excited for. Herc bro had decided to form a wrestling team more properly and was doing some try outs before lunch. Even though I did not have much experience in that sport, I was really excited to join the new team and do some wrestling with my bros. Then, in the evening, the Team had planned a big party for Halloween and it was going to be epic. I already had some basis for my costume, planning to go as a gladiator, but I missed some embellishments.

Going to the attic to search if I could find some elements in all the old stuff stored there, I felt, like, drawn to a dusty box in a corner. Inside, there was a really shiny gold chain collar that seemed to draw me in. It looked so cool. Much better than the thin chain I often wore. Transfixed, I took that chain, which seems to have some kind of inner glow, and could resist putting it around my neck. I felt some kind of shiver, as if some spectral hands were brushing my head, but it was just a fleeting impression that quickly receded. 

Looking at myself in the mirror, I felt right. This chain was propa lit. Then I realised it was already 10. I had not seen the time pass. It was time to go for the wrestling tryouts. I quickly made my way through the busy streets brimming with Halloween decorations and reached the Gym where Herc was holding the tryouts.

2. The Wrestling try-outs

As I arrived, Herc was giving a gold wrestling singlet to each of the bros that wanted to join. He had shaved his hair with Jack recently and I was so glad that we were rocking it as a bald bro trio. Looking at these shiny singlets, I was so stoked to get mine. It did not have a number and name yet, of course, since it was just tryouts for now, but I was determined to get in and represent da Team in competitions and all.

I changed quickly, eager to get that gold on my skin. I was of course supposed to get the collar off for wrestling, but somehow, I could not get myself to remove it.

Herc paired us for some matches, and I ended up against Leander. It was going to be a hard match, cause Leander was really fit and quick on the field. We got on the mat and got ready to wrestle each other. 

Damn, bro was both quick and powerful. I tried to hold me own, but we got on the ground and he was, like, completely dominating me. I felt powerless and frustrated as he was pinning me down hard. There was no way I fail on the first match. Herc might not want me in the team if I did not reverse that situation. But Leander was good, and his grip unyielding.

Sure I was going to be rejected from the Team, I was getting more and more frustrated, starting to draw in my every strength to get out of that grip. And as some rage was starting to build up, I felt some strange warmth in the collar, as some presence was responding to my call, offering me the power to break out if I only let him in. Not even thinking anymore at that point, I was ready to do anything to win. 

And then I felt it. The cold. Shivers. And like a ghost was entering my body. And then the cold was gone and replaced by an intense heat taking over all my body… As if my blood was boiling. Pure rage invaded my every being as my muscles distorted and grew in absurd proportion. I was becoming a muscle beast, seething with pure rage and not controlling anything anymore, ready to destroy anything that would come in my way. 

I brutally ejected Leander from his grip. He had no chance against my rage. I was going to destroy him and tear all his limbs out for humiliating me in front of my bros. He felt badly on the ground, hurting his shoulder, but I didn't care. I was going to stomp him.

And then I felt a huge presence towering over me. Herc has transformed into Dagda, his celtic golden form. His aura just overpowered me completely, shutting me down as he intervenes to stop the fight. His authority was just too much even for my blind rage and and just fell on the ground… my muscles still twitching. I returned to my form completely exhausted, barely aware of what had happened and heard Herc telling me : « Henry, Wat da fuck ? datz no wey to act on a ring. Get ut n cool down bruh. cant av u hurtin ur bro lyk dat ! » Leander was still on the ground, clutching his shoulder. I felt shame and sadness. I had no energy left to argue. I got out of the gym, completely demoralized. I had blown it ! I did not even get what got into me. And as I was ruminating what just happened, hurt in my hopes, feeling Herc was being unjust and all… I felt that rage returning… FUCK

Special thanks to @brodygold dat elp me write da story n correct me poor english, and to my bros Herc (@polo-drone-009) and Leander (@leander-gold-88), who agreed 4 da collab n elp me wiz dem pix.

[livingtobethevillain]

Okay so ive continued to think A LOT about red hood!lian. With that being said. Everyone knows that if you get too invested in a character youll give them lore. So naturally I gave her some trauma for some flavor.

(CW; gun violence, school shooting, hostage situation, implied murder/death of minor characters)

Imagine this:

Lian is at school when the men with guns invade and round everybody up into the gym. Lian is sitting quietly with the other hostages. Dutifully going through the breathing exercises that her dad taught her. Curled up with the other kids but also desperately trying to get some of the younger softer ones to quiet down and stop crying so loud. She knows how this goes. No matter how much her dad tries to shield her from the ugliness of the world she knows what happens if you draw attention in these situations. Unfortunately shes proven right.

One of the louder ones gets yanked away and thrown to the ground. Lian can't help the way she tries to jump up to help (she is her father's daughter after all) but she gets pushed down ruthlessly by one of the attackers. Her friend sits shaking at the feet of one of the men who is yelling and gesturing wildly with the gun in his hand.

Lian takes multiple deep breaths and looks up at the guy who pushed her down. The guy has his back turned, he's jeering and laughing at the horrific scene in front of them. children's lives are in danger and hes laughing.

lians eyes flick down to the unsecured gun at the man's hip and lian doesnt give herself a moment to hesitate. Her teacher follows her line of sight and desperately tries to reach out, but before her teacher can grasp onto her lian is lunging forward and snatching the gun from the man's holster.

The man whips around and steps back at the child pointing his own weapon at him. Lian stands there, breathing shakily and trembling but she feels her resolve harden upon taking all of the wide eyes laying on her shoulders. She knows her dad is a hero. He doesn't know she knows but nonetheless. It's her turn.

"Give her back" she whispers. "...What?"All eyes are on her. Lian grits her teeth and her grip on the gun steadies. It's just like those times uncle Jay took her down to the shooting range...only if the targets were living breathing human beings.

Lians face twists and she forces away tears of frustration. No. These weren't human beings. They were the scum of the earth that uncle Jay and dad always scowled at when the news came on.

"Put my friend back in the group. Or else I'll shoot." If lian had half a mind to she wouldve been proud of how steady her voice was.

Silence.

The attackers look at each other and the one holding her friend scoffs and dares to point his weapon at the little girl on the ground.

He doesnt believe her. He doesnt see how serious she is. That was his last mistake.

"You wouldn't da-"

BANG

The guy drops and then it's chaos. Lian doesn't think. She shuts down and suddenly she's dragging her friend back and into Her teachers arms and she's shooting off as many rounds as she can into any threat who gets too close. She doesn't feel the bullets that are fired back at her. The ones that barely miss and the ones that cut and sink into her skin.

She stays on guard well after the guys scatter upon hearing someone shout about "bats" and whoever else. And it isn't until she whips around to point the gun at her own father that she finally snaps out of it and drops the gun like it's burned her.

Suddenly she can't stop crying and all she can see is the bodies litering the floor. Her dad surges forward and cradles her in his arms rocking back and forth and telling her "its okay. It's okay honey, I'm so proud of you. It's okay you can rest"

[accio-victuuri]

bits shared by rufeng about xiao zhan @ yuguyao shoot when she visited + stories from friends:

1. He started holding a small black fan in April and blowing it all the time.

2. When filming Shiying’s torture scene, he went to the director’s house to watch and ask if the movements will look like dancing (because no post-production effects have been added yet)

3. 520 : invited the crew to eat Deluxe ice cream. When the filming is completed, the whole group will be given a Tasogare Sakura coffee gift box, and also invited the crew to drink bubble tea.

4. He specifically asked the crew to help him find a reliable fitness center. Personal trainers don’t dare to go to the gym to exercise, so they do it secretly. Find a place to exercise;

5. The director and producer called Zanzan Zhan Ge and the co-stars call him big brother ( da-ge )

6. When filming, the character needs to be "held up" and there are quite a lot of little expressions and movements while holding a small fan in the gap. For example, when stretching, he will raise his arms to the left and right , swinging like seaweed, it still has the shadow of the time when he filmed Aling.

7. Director Zheng of Ah Ling went to visit the set. During the chat, he jokingly asked him who was more fierce, Director Zheng or Director Jiang (Yu Gu Yao). Zan Zan said that Director Zheng was fiercer.

8. When rehearsing, he still said "Mou Ti Yi" to the director in Cantonese, and he would move his lips in a mumbling manner. He would still make a few onomatopoeias while speaking the lines and then sing along.

9. When drinking water, he still took a big sip with a puffy face and swallowed it slowly.

10. After teaching Zhu Yan the wind control technique, Shi Ying walked up the steps with an umbrella. The drone flew over very close to his head. He relied on the umbrella to block him and couldn't take a picture of him. He also made a "woo~" sound in his mouth to cheer.

11. You can smell his fragrance at a close distance~not strong, it's a sweet fragrance, and it doesn't smell like perfume, but more like a little physical powder (could it be the fragrance of makeup powder?). The skin is very good! The eyelashes are not as long as I imagined.

12. He got a bamboo pole prop and started playing with it, just like when he was playing with his brother (yibo) in the A-Ling era, imitating the movements of a Japanese samurai swinging a sword.

13. When Director Zheng of The Untamed visited the set and chatted, he jokingly asked XZ if he thought the show would be popular when he was filming The Untamed. XZ replied with an embarrassed smile: Whether it would be popular or not is a mystery.

14. Director Jiang admired XZ very much and said that he was definitely not a top-tier star (meaning that many people have a prejudice that the term top-tier star means that it is an idol with only traffic). He praised him for being serious and having his own ideas, and for taking the initiative to discuss with the director. Later, when XZ was chatting with the producer, he asked the director if he had any suggestions for my performance, and if so, he must tell me more. The producer then relayed the director's evaluation of XZ, and XZ said, "Please tell the director for me, I can do better."

15. When Hun Dun forced Zhu Yan to jump into a hole, Shi Ying needed to smile evilly, and XZ exaggeratedly shook his shoulders and laughed “hiahia” when walking around.

16. It is said that 11 trackers were found under XZ’s car (not during the YGY period). During the YGY period, he was followed by SS in the middle of the night, and the police were called to arrest them. There was another time when seven proxy photographers were caught at once.

source

to those who is not familiar with rufeng, she works in the industry and was part of CQL crew. feel free to not believe the bits shared.

[fruity-mega-coconut69]

How Was I Supposed To Know?

[Pairings]: Tara Carpenter x Ghostface!Fem!Reader

[Summary]: You were in a very bad condition after last years killing, and are taken advantage of in a way that is unforgivable. Kind of.

[Warnings]: Angst, swearing, blood, death, bad writing, not proof-read

A/N: Here. It's long-ish, it's bad. Have fun reading.

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

The Ghostface killings of 2022 in Woodsboro was a huge Trauma for you, your girlfriend and you guys’ friends. And, of course, all of you are dealing with it differently. Tara is more distant-she still spends time with you, but as much- and Chad has just kind of turned into a gym-rat, Mindy got herself a girlfriend for emotional support. And you? Oh, you had gone completely crazy. No one has noticed your rather strange behavior, luckily for you.

And so, It wasn’t that hard for Quinn, Ethan and Bailey to lure you into their sick plan of killing your girlfriend and friends.  First, you hesitated then, after around two weeks of consideration, you agreed. Never really knowing why, but you did. Of course you love your friends and you love your girlfriend, but you just need some kind of ... .relief. The first couple of months, you were only helping them create their plan of action then, you were there. In the apartment of Jason and Greg. You don’t really have any classes with them, so you haven’t talked with them.

The feeling of your knife ripping Greg’S flesh and tearing his skin was…..relieving.  Your knife being pulled out of his chest then pushed back into it. To say that you had your fun while ripping and anatomizing his body, would be an understatement. You had never felt anything like it in your life. It was so indescribable. His blood splashing over your robe and mask.

Then, came Jason. The little game you played with him was exciting. Especially when he got so close to the fridge and slowly opened it, his face turning pale as he saw Greg- Teared into pieces. That’s when you striked and started stabbing him uncontrollably, chuckling as he was gagging on his own blood.

And now, here you are. In an abdomend theater, having arrived with Ethan after you had taken Mindy to the hospital with him. You are currently watching as Tara and Sam yell at Kirby, saying that she is the killer and you couldn’t help but let out a snort at the pathetic thought. 

A minute or so later, Bailey came in. Started screaming with his pistol held high. “Kirby, stop! Get away from the girls!” 

“What are you doing?” Kirby asked with a shaky voice, panting. Her head was covered in blood, due to how hard you had hit her.

“Did you kill Quinn? Did you kill my daughter?”  Bailey shouted as his body shook. You chuckle and grip your knife harder when your eyes settle on Tara. She doesn’t deserve this. None of them do, but…….it is all too much fun. 

“Jesus Christ!”Kirby yelled, her hands shakily holding the gun. Then she glances at the Carpenter girls. “Whatever he’s been saying to you, don’t listen to him!”  Bailey’s face falls as he looks at her. “He’s probably the killer!”  

And that’s when Quinn runs out from behind the curtain and starts going quickly towards them with her hand in the air, knife in it. “Behind you!” Kirby screams then Bailey shoots her and she falls to the ground. Bailey smirks as Quinn settles beside him and the Carpener sister’s gasp and look at them.

“Great job”

You laugh maniacally and run out from behind the curtains with Ethan calmly next to you. Yu, full of energy can’t stand in place as the others talk. “All three of you.” Bailey says. 

“You?” Tara asks, betrayed. 

“Yeah, of course me. Frankly, I expected more from the two of you after what you did to us.” He mumbles with gritted teeth. You look at the interaction with a smile on your face behind the mask. 

“What do you mean ‘us’? “ 

At that, Ethan huffs and reaches up to take off his mask. “Ta-da!” He giggles. “ Mindy was right.It was easy to juke the roommate lottery. “ He smiles smugly. “ All I had to do to meet you was room with a conceited, condescending alpha literally named Chad! Fuck, It felt good to kill him. “ The girls just look at him, gasping for air. “ This was your grandmother’s, Sam. Nancy Loomis? “ He points to the mask with his knife. “ Really runs in the fucking family, doesn’t it? “ Then puts down his hand that holds the mask. “ Speaking of family.. My name is not Ethan Landry, is it, Dad? “ He looks at Bailey who smiles at him and laughs.

“Dad?” Your attention is turned to Tara as she speaks and your smile fades slightly, kid of having second thoughts then shaking your head and brushing them away. They laugh then turn around to face you.

 You smirk and slowly reach up to take off your mask. When you do, you hear two gasps and smile. “Well, hello there, Carpenters. Heh, surprise! “ You hold up your hands and shake them, giggling. Tara’s eyes fill with tears as she looks into yours, seeing nothing but blackness.

“Y/N?” She gasps out and holds back a sob. “Why? “

All of a sudden, Sam speaks up. “Wait, if it’s you three, that just leaves….” Quinn smirks and turns her head at the older Carpenter, tilting it. “..Mindy?” She sighs and there is a beat of silence-the only sounds that can be heard are the two men snickering- then she slowly takes off her mask too.

“Hey, roomies.”  She smirks as she looks at them with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “ Didn’t see that one coming, did you?”

Tara scoffs. “Yeah, because you died!”

“Kind of didn’t, though.”  Quinn turns to look at you and her family. “ It was a good way to get off the suspect list. Stab Gale Weathers, stab Mindy on the train. That sort of thing.”

Bailey sighs and puts his arm around his kids as you stand there with a sick smile on your face. “And I just made sure, I was first on the scene so I could switch her body out with a fresh one.”  Sam and Tara just stares .” Little fake blood, a prosthetic. You’d be amazed with what a grieving father can get away with.”

You, Quinn and Ethan split up and go different ways. You make your way behind the girls as the ghostface siblings go on each side. Quinn walks slowly as she speaks. “ I got Stu Macher’s mask.  He was my favorite.”

Then, it’s your turn to speak. “Well, I, myself, got Jill Roberts’s mask. She was my favorite.”

You glance at Ethan as he puts his/Nancy’s mask on a mannequin with Nancy’s bloodied coat.

“Nice. That’s number four. That’s three. “Bailey points at you. “That’s number two. “He now points at Quinn. “Which leaves…….” He puts his hand under his jacket and pulls out another mask.” Your father’s” There is a beat of silence as Sam’s and Tara’s angry eyes stare at him. “This is what we’ve been counting down to, Sam “ Sam’s eyebrows knit together in confusion as she looks at the mask held out in-front of her then glances back at Bailey. “ I'm gonna need you to put it on” 

Tara’s breathing picks up as she looks at her sister. You let out a small giggle as a smile makes its way on your face. Your grip on your knife tightens in both excitement and anger. You are angry at your heart. Angry at it for aching whenever you spare even a small glance at Tara. 

Sam’s scream snaps you out of your thoughts. “Fuck you!” 

Suddenly Ethan leans over the drawer he is leaning against and slices her arm. She gasps and takes a step back along with Tara. You grit your teeth and take a step closer, swinging your arm and slicing the older Carpenter’s other arm. 

“Ooh” Ethan lets out teasingly.

“Stay the fuck away from her!” Tara screams and looks at Ethan then at you. When your eyes meet, there is a certain hatred in her eyes that you never in your life would’ve thought would be targeted towards you. Her hand holding the brick tightly. 

“Oh come on. “

Sam turns back around to face Bailey. “What? What is it? You did this as a family? “

You perk up. “Uh, no. Not exactly. I’m just ... .I'm not in the family. They all are though.” 

Ethan and Quinn join you where you stand, their knives painting towards the girls. “They’re still not getting it. “ Ethan shakes his head while smiling. 

“I don’t know what you believe. But I didn’t commit those murders in Woodsboro. It wasn’t me!” Sam shakes her head rapidly and you scoff. Even laughing as Bailey speaks with them. Then, your eyes go to your girlfriend. Taking in the way her body is trembling in fear as she pants and listens to your accomplices. You clench your jaw as thoughts about not making it come to your brain. About giving up, turning against your accomplices , killing them and later feeling the warmth of her arms around you again. Even if you have to go to jail. But you shake your head and you focus back on your targets. 

You see Quinn take a sudden step ahead from beside you towards Tara. She flinches back and gasps. You swallow and put a smile on your face, trying to shake your previous thoughts away. When you’re successful, you let out a sigh and grin brighter without a hint of pity or sadness in your eyes.

“And you’re a killer. “ You focus once again and see Bailey pointing at Sam. “Just like your father.” 

“No, I’m not!” 

That makes Quinn shake with anger as she screams”  Yes, you are, you motherfucker! You killed our brother! “ Tears well in her eyes.

“What are you talking about?” Sam shakes her head. 

“You said your brother died in a car accident. “ Tara stares at Quinn. 

“No, No, no. You sweet, dumb thing, he died in woodsboro. “Ethan pauses as he swallows while looking at the younger Carpenter. “At the hands of your bitch sister. “ He looks at Sam. 

Sam looks around in disbelief as Tara’s mouth opens slightly in shock. “You’re Richie’s family. “ Sam blinks.

You snort. “Well, as I said before, not all of us, but yeah. Go on. “ You see Quinn roll her eyes.

Bailey’s glare hardens as she looks at the sisters. Then he nods rapidly. “ Yeah. “

Ethan takes a deep breath and strikes forwards, pushing his knife into Sam’s shoulder. Tara shouts at him and holds her sister, pushing them to the side. 

“Ding-ding-ding! She’s finally starting to get it.” He laughs and grins.. All of you split from your previous position and you circle around them. You laugh as you pretend to strike and they flinch, swinging their arms, still holding the brick blocks. Bailey screams at them.

When there is a beat of silence, Quinn’s knife is pointed at Sam as she takes a step closer. Suddenly, Sam’s eyes darken as she looks at Quinn with hooded eyes.. Quinn raises her eyebrows, pushing her knife closer to Sam’s throat. “There she is. There’s the fucking killer.”

You squeal in excitement and jump up and down. “Who-hoo! Yes!” 

Tara turns and looks at Bailey. “Great parenting job, by the way. “Then she looks at you and shakes her head. “I-...why? “ 

You bite the inside of your cheek as you look into her teary eyes before answering while laughing. “ Well I guess I’m just fucking crazy, bitch! “ You spit.

Quinn realizes what Tara has said and angrily pushes  her. Making you huff with a new found anger. “ Shut your whore fucking mouth!” 

— —

A minute or two later after Bailey’s monologue, he starts shouting with his gun pointed at Sam. Your face scrunches in disgust as his spit flies everywhere.

“Now, put on the mask. “ 

Sam takes a deep breath before letting it out. “He was…... .so pathetic. “Tara furrows her eyebrows in confusion. 

Bailey shudders. “That’s not true. “ 

“Yeah, your son,”  Sam continues in a small voice. “He was a man-baby who made his girlfriend do all the killings”  Her words are like a knife to the heart to the detective.

“He was a strong, virile  young man!” 

Sam now fully faces him and looks him in the eyes. “He was a limp-dick little fuck who cried before I slit his throat. '' Sam spits every word out like poison. 

“Shut the fuck up!” Quinn screams and strikes, but is stopped by Tara as she swings her arm and punches Quinn in the face with the brick. You take a step back as she falls to the ground. You see Sam punching Bailey then go to Tara, trying to find a safer place. Ethan growls and runs at Kirby, who shot his father. 

A minute later, you watch as Sam literally carves him up. Only, your psycho smile has fallen and  your arm is limp at your side. Then, your eyes follow her and Tara as they crawl up onto the balcony. But they have to be careful as there are multiple things around so they have to go on the edge. All of a sudden, Tara slips and almost falls, but gets a grip on the railing. You gasp. Then you are snapped out of your dark and depressed thoughts by Bailey’s voice shouting. You huff and shake your head, a little dizzy. Hand once again gripping your knife as you approach your girlfriend hanging.

You stand there with a deep glare but also a big smile-that makes you look terrifying- which drops when you hear Ethan say. “I’ve always wanted to stick something in you, Tara!” Then as they are screaming and Sam is trying to help Tara up-Unsuccessfully- Quinn appears at the door of the balcony. She is smirking while looking at Sam. The next moment, Sam gives Tara something and she jumps, landing between you and Ethan.

Ethan’s knife is plugged into her belly as she lands and she screams, but then suddenly she wings her arm too and a knife is pushed inside Ethan’’s mouth.

Bailey is screaming at you, but you just stare at Tara as she smirks. “Now die a fucking virgin. “ Then pulls her knife out and blood splashes on her face. Tara gets up and turns to you. You take a deep breath.

Come on. This is what you signed up for.

She runs towards you and you duck as she tries to stab you. When you straighten up again, you smirk and run at her. She gasps and steps aside, but not enough so your knife purses into her right arm. Her glare hardens as she looks at you. Tara then runs and catches you off guard as she plugs her knife inside you. You groan and fall to your knees. She twists the knife and you let out a cry and drop your knife. Pulling out the knife and pushing it back in rapidly. When she finishes, she is crying, sobbing then her body collapses.

“Did you ever even love me?!” Tara yells as her bloody hands grip your robe. You choke on your blood and cough it up, a sudden tiredness washing over you.

“More than you could ever fucking imagine. “ You stutter before letting out your last breath and your body goes limp in Tara’S hands.

— —

Almost half an hour later, Tara and Sam are standing outside the theater, a bunch of ambulances and police cars surrounding them. Sam and Kirby are talking while Kirby is slowly taken into an ambulance when Tara lets out a sob and they look at her.

“Hey, what is it? “

“Why her? How ….how could she do this. “ She cries. “And-And why?!” 

Sam gives her a sad look. “I don’t know. I……wish she’d talked to us more. Maybe then…we could’ve changed things” Kirby nods as her eyes soften while looking at the younger Carpenter.

Sam’s arms wrap around Tara as she sobs out “ I loved her so much.” 

[rachalixie]

sunshine

a/n: dad jisung pt. II (pt. I)

you don’t remember the last time you’ve felt this relaxed. watching jisung with your child. she’s the beautiful creating that you made together, and seeing him with her brings out a feeling within you that you never thought you could reach. he just fits with her so well, like he was made for this, made to be a father and a caretaker, and it makes your heart swell so big you’re surprised it isn’t spilling outside of you at this point.

admittedly, when they both ran up to you during your designated couch-slash-binging-tv-time asking you to accompany them to the park, you felt a little put off. the thought of leaving your warm blanket to brave the outside seemed a little more trouble than it was worth, but both of their doe eyes blinking slowly at you made you cave faster than you were willing to admit. he’s been teaching her his deadliest weapons and now they both have you wrapped around their fingers.

you watch him carry her at the monkey bars for a while before he joins you on the bench you’re sprawled out on. he pulls out his phone to take pictures of her playing on the jungle gym alone, filling his storage space with endless captures that he likes to admire with you before he goes to bed every night. her little five-year-old body gets lost in the colors, springing out at the bottom of slides with happy squeals and crawling up the small ladders to do it again and again.

you lay your head on his shoulder, closing your eyes and perfectly content sitting here in the midday breeze. its almost too good, the sun beating down on your face and the sounds of your daughter happy in your ears, and you’re almost too relaxed - and it’s proven right when your eyes spring open at the sound of a thump and her little hiccupping cries.

you go to stand, panic mode setting in, but jisung beats you to it. he’s sprinting to her before you can blink, heaving breaths from how fast he moved even though she can’t have fallen more than ten feet away from you. 

“da,” she cries, reaching out grabby hands to him and pressing her face into his shoulder when he picks her up. 

“oh, flower,” he soothe, rubbing a hand on her back gently. “did my baby fall?”

she nods tearfully, taking in sniffling breaths and fisting her tiny hands into the back of his jacket. he walks with her over to your bench and deposits her next to you, kneeling down in front of her so his face is at level with hers. 

“my flower is the strongest one out there though, isn’t she?” he wipes her tears away with his sleeve, and she giggles through her sobs when it tickles her nose. “where does it hurt, baby?”

she points to her knees, sniffling and pressing her head to your arm. he leans down further to press a few kisses to her knees, making loud smacking noises. she stops crying, wide eyes sparking with unshed tears as she looks at him like he’s hung the sun in the sky. for all she’s concerned, he did. she thinks he’s the most perfect man in the world, and you hope that never changes.

“feel better?” he says, picking her up and spinning her around in the air before depositing her on his hip. “daddy has magic kisses, right? that’s what mommy always says.”

she nods, smiling widely before one of her small hands cups his cheek so she can press a wet kiss to his cheek. 

“you want to know a secret?” he whispers to her, dramatic and silly as he leans close to her. she nods fervently, dropping her mouth open in wonder. “my baby has magic kisses too!”

her lips stretch into a toothy smile, looking extra precious with one of her bottom teeth missing, and she points at you and wiggles around in his arms.

“mommy! mommy needs magic kisses too!” she says, her voice tinkling like bells. you didn’t know that you’d been tearing up at them until now, and you realize that she thinks you’re upset and she wants to make you feel better. you brush away your tears with a watery laugh when he sits her down next to you, her precious body pressed up against yours. he sits on your other side, wrapping an arm around you and tugging you into him. 

“mommy needs two magic kisses, doesn’t she?” he says, winking at her like they’re sharing some kind of secret that you can’t know about. she claps her hands together and jumps up and down a bit, swinging her legs in excitement.

they lean in at the same time and press twin kisses to your cheeks, hers a little messy but still sweet as sugar. they squish into you on either side, sandwiching you between them, and the smile that takes over your face is brighter than sunshine. 

soft hours

[wingedjellyfishflight]

Hogtied: Part 2

A month later, your fingers itch to pull up his file. You resist, knowing, and believing that everyone is entitled to their privacy. It is why most workers can only access a heavily redacted copy of Ghost's medical record at your insistence. The full copy is buried in your private files in your office under a false name, same as most of the men you treat, including the Captain.

You've yet to see König since his re-check as you have spent a lot of time eating meals in your office recently as due to the mandatory full physicals recently. These days drag on as most do all they can to avoid coming in. Right now, you are waiting on your next appointment. Pulling the file, you see that it is supposed to be Ghost. Grumbling, you stand. There's no way he will show up voluntarily.

Walking into the gym, his most frequent hideout, you see him grappling with someone. "Ghost, you need to come with me." He freezes, and the other man slams him to the floor while he is distracted. You wince, but Ghost pops back up like nothing happened.

"Got me there, König. Rematch later?

"Ja, das klingt gud. I look forward to it." You nod to him as you follow Ghost out.

"I was winning before you distracted me, luv."

"Sure you were, tiger. Sure you were." You delight in hearing him mutter under his breath about annoying doctors. "I wouldn't have been a distraction if you would show up voluntarily for your check-ups." He is quiet the rest of the way and strips down to his pants without you needing to ask while you mark down his compliance with the mandate in his public file.

"Are you in pain today? Scale of 1 to just cut it the fuck off." He snorts, which has you grinning, though he can't see it as you lock the door.

"Two, bit of an ache on my side and arm from being slammed down." His tone implies that he thinks it is your fault. You refuse to rise to the bait, giving him a full check from neck to toe, including the hated turn your head and cough. At the very end, you ask him to remove his bally so you can finish up. "Why? I'm perfectly healthy."

"You're not, but this is to make sure you don't have a surprise pop up. I'm the only one who will see, promise." You go through this every time with Ghost. He trusts so reluctantly. "Let me see you, Simon." His real name always stuns him. You use it so rarely. He nods and slips it off, closing his eyes. Averting your own, you give him a moment to come to terms with the lack of fabric before quickly checking him over. At your quiet, "done," he hurriedly puts his mask back on. It shouldn't make you sad, but knowing that he feels more vulnerable, showing his face than having you cup his royal jewels always hits you hard. "I'd like to say see you next year, but we both know you won't stay uninjured that long."

He smirks. "I'd miss your hands on me too much, princess." You shake your head and slip out the door to give him privacy. When you look up, you see König sitting in the waiting area.

"Are you waiting for Ghost?"

"Nee, you. I have appointment."

"Oh! I'm so sorry. I hadn't looked ahead. Let's go on back." He follows you amicably, sitting on the exam table. "Before we start," you say locking the door. "Do you want me to redact facts on your public file? I do for many of the team members. The original is kept under lock and key with a pseudonym in my office, but that way, no one else has access to your medical history or anything else you want kept off of it."

"I did not know that was option. Yes. There are questions I have refused to answer."

You nod. "It is a common issue, so I buck the rules a bit for you men. If you could mark this up for me then. It is a copy, so don't hesitate to cross things out. Bring it back to me and I will make the changes. Please strip down to your pants. The mask is up to you for now." You turn away and hear him shuffling a bit before he sits again. Turning, you begin your assessment. He leaves his mask on, but is fidgeting heavily as you take in his broad form. "Perfect," you say trying to keep your admiration for his physique from coloring your tone. You take a steadying breath, then jump right in as though he was no different from any others you have examined. The warmth of your cheeks is a sure sign that you do feel differently, despite your best efforts. You manage to get through everything and when you gesture, he slips off his mask without an argument. You tried to force your eyes away from him when you first saw his face as your supposed enemy, but now looking at him as a friend, you let your eyes linger a bit, tracing over his scars and the chunk cut from his ear. You take notes of the various features to add to his file. "Was it a bite or a knife that did that one?"

"Knife, about three years ago. One of yo - our team, actually." You tut quietly and move on.

"It is optional, but we also offer an std panel. Since you haven't had one before with us, I do recommend it just to have a baseline, but I recognize that it is a private matter that you may wish to take off base. It is a blood draw that you can schedule through the online portal. Seems most don't want to have to ask a pretty girl at the reception desk about it." His smile is lopsided as he slips the mask back on.

"Ja, I could see a problem with asking the pretty doctor for a test." You laugh and wave him off.

"We are done here. Make sure to bring those papers back so I can get that handled. For now, I will move your file, so if you get hurt, make sure they know to call me so I can pull it. Have a good night, König. It was good to see you again."

You leave, settling back in your office with his file in hand. Head in your hands, you try to ignore the way your body reacted to being in his proximity. Your panties are soaked, and nothing untoward even happened. After a long think, you lock up the file, readying to leave for the day. You pass Soap in the hall, ignoring his declarations of undying love. He switches tactics suddenly, "ye goin t'be at the pub tonight, lassy?"

You stop and consider it. "Yea, send me the address and I'll stop in. Haven't been out in forever."

He whoops. "Sounds like a randan, hen."

"Nae, ye cannae." You glare at his back as he hurries off, ignoring your protest. Throwing your hands up, you relax in your quarters for a few hours before getting ready to go. You hem and haw more than normal, finally deciding on a knee-length skirt and a cute blouse with a bit of makeup. Looking critically in the mirror, you add a set of leggings, too self-conscious with the scarring on your thighs to risk anyone seeing them on accident.

Entering the pub, you see about a dozen members of the team have shown up and sequestered themselves to one area. All of them are men unsurprisingly. Most of the few women at work refuse to have anything to do with the adrenaline junkies that you treat, not wanting to deal with rough men. Having been around them at work and at leisure, you know that most have a few rough edges, but they always make an effort to include you even if they are incorrigible flirts.

It takes only a few seconds for one of them to spot you, "Oi! It's the doc! In a bloody skirt!" You laugh with the men, walking over and getting passed a pint from the table. Taking a sip, you nearly gag.

"Oof! Who bought this swill? You fucks on a diet or somethin?!" You set it down in disgust and ask for a pint of your favorite at the bar, a nice frothy glass of Guinness. Bringing it back, both Soap and Ghost gasp as if wounded.

"Ye cannae be serious, not Guinness!"

"Am scunnered ye think tha piss taint pure minging."

"English, ya fucks. Use English."

"What, like right proper Bri'ish, chappie? That piss is a load of tosh. Downright naff, it is." Soap burstd into a fit of giggles at your horrible impression of Ghost. Gaz wraps an arm around your shoulders.

"Never, ever pretend to be English again. My God your accent is horrid."

"Wäre Deutsch besser? 아니면 한국어? (Animyeon hangug-eo?) Quizás el español sea mejor. I can do this all night."

"Rather have you speaking tongues on my cock, later," says a newer recruit. He is promptly elbowed by the guy next to him and a quiet argument breaks out. You opt to ignore the idiot and turn to Gaz.

"How have you been, mate? I haven't seen much of most of you and too much of the rest lately." He chuckles knowing exactly what time of year it is and drops his arm to your back.

"Busy, Captains got me running a lot of things right now trying to keep ahead of the König mess."

"I shouldn't ask, should I? They mad we nabbed him and gave him Stockholm Syndrome?"

"That's putting it lightly. They've tried legal and illegal ways of forcing him back. It's been a right mess. I think it will clear up soon though. Poor guy's been through the ringer, but you wouldn't know it. He's been a good asset, thanks to you." You freeze, drink halfway to your lips. Putting it back on the table a little too hard, you turn to face Gaz.

"What do you mean thanks to you?" He scratches his head nervously.

"I just mean, you treated him up nice and it put him in a better mindset. Cooperated with everything and all. After the second meeting, he agreed to join us when nothing would sway him before."

"Oh. Umm... ok. Should I put that on my resume? 'Bedside manner good enough to make men turn traitor'. That sounds like an in-demand skill." He looks shocked and hurt.

"You're leaving us? Why? Is it because of the FNG over there? I'll smoke him right now if it is." His exclamations have drawn the attention of others who also demand answers.

"No, it was just a joke, mate. I ain't leaving. It'd make my parents way too happy, after all. And I'd miss my little arsonists and murderers." You wink at Soap and Ghost who stand a little taller, proud of their work.

"Now, I thought you were gonna get mad wae it, Bubbles." Soap groans at the new moniker.

"It's Soap, nae Bubbles, hen. Noo, haud yer wheesht." You laugh at his descent back into his mother language, not missing the way Ghost's eyes lit up at the nickname. Much of the rest of the night is spent trading stories until last order is called then piling into shared taxis back to base. You end up scrunched between Ghost and Soap, as per usual. They are always perfect gentlemen and don't want to risk that someone else isn't when you can't get away.

Waving them off near their quarters, you stop to enjoy the view of the city. A boot scuffing nearby startles you. Spinning around to face it, you lose your balance. Arms wrap tight around your waist, catching you and pulling you against a large torso to steady you upright.

"Oops!" You giggle, the drinks making you feel loosey goosey.

"You must be careful, Schatz. It can be dangerous." You cheeks flush pink at the nickname. It shouldn't effect you this much to be called treasure by anyone, but it does.

"Ja, alles klar. Ich bin vorsichtig. (Yes, I'm ok. I am careful) You say as you pull away carefully, not thinking much of it. "Gute Nacht, mein König." Patting his chest, you turn to walk to your quarters, not realizing that you have stunned him into silence by speaking his mother tongue so easily and calling him yours.

You're glad to have the next day off to nurse your hangover. When you make it to mess at lunch, the men tease you about your preference for dark beers. You ignore them, trying to focus on the dry toast you convinced the cook to hand over and your glass of water. "Worth it," you say at last. "Dark beer is always better going down and light beers taste like you had someone drink a dark beer then piss in a cup for you to drink."

The laughter your statement causes makes you wince in pain, which in turn has them trying to hold it in. "Surprised you aren't tucked into a hoodie, luv. Couldn't find one this morning?" You glare at Ghost.

"You took it back last time. I'm out of comfortable hoodies."

"Och, ye poor lassie. The big bad men took their clothes back." You flip Soap the bird, then jump when a hand comes into view.

"Here, Sonnenschein." You look up at König who has apparently been sitting next to you this entire time, holding a hoodie out for you.

"Oh, thank you. It's even softer than Ghost's." You slip it on, happily. The sleeves hang off your hands by several inches and when you stand, it hangs down to your knees. The warmth from his body hasn't left it, making it feel a bit like a heated blanket. "It's lovely. You're never getting this back, now." König chuckles, adjusting himself to better see you.

"Looks good on you." He turns back to his food and you make the mistake of glancing up at Ghost and Soap. They are staring at you, mouths slack in shock.

"Gonna eat a fly if ya don't shut yer gobs." You turn back to your toast with a small smile. Hearing their teeth snap together turns it into a full-blown grin.

You veg out in your room the rest of the day, lounging in the hoodie until dinner. Feeling better, you leave it in your room. Sitting next to König, he looks you up and down.

"Mein Schatz, you have forgotten to wear my clothes."

"Just saving it for later, Großer. I don't want to wear it to bits too soon." From across the table, Ghost huffs.

"That's true, too. My hoodie was fuckin threadbare when I got it back. You're rough on clothes, Lamb." You grumble at him, not denying anything. König chuckles at your attitude and Ghost smirks beneath his mask. You eat quietly the rest of the meal, listening to them discuss an upcoming mission. You make a mental note to check supplies as it sounds like more than a quick in and out thing.

[gabessquishytum]

It has just finished raining like Dream should have built an ark, when he finds a puppy (or kitty) rain-soaked and waterlogged huddling under his car for warmth. *Sigh* Dream is not a pet person, but he can't just leave the little baby out in the cold -- he's not actually heartless, thank you very much Desire. He grabs the towel from his gym bag and scoops the little one up -- luckily his car gets hot fast when the heater is on. Dream hopes he has something at home for the little guy to eat.

Robyn is lost! He was out with Daddy and smelled something, and got distracted, and misplaced his Da. Then it started to rain,,,,daddy is going to be so mad. Robyn was able to stay in his animal form, but he's just learning control. He hopes that he can hold on, as the nice smelling man picks him up and makes him warm.

Hob is going out of his mind! Robyn was right next to him and then he wasn't; if Eleanor was still alive she would box Hob's ears.

Hob think he's finally picked up Robyn's scent when he sees a pretty boy getting in an expensive sports car with something (that smells like his little bird) wriggling in a towel; Hob wasn't close enough to intervene, but he was close enough to get a license plate.

Hob really hopes Robyn can stay in animal form until he gets to him.

Dream has just finished drying off the poor, soggy little puppy and wondering what to feed it when he gets a knock at his door. He opens it to find a dripping wet (handsome!) man with soft brown hair and eyes.

“Hello, I think you might have picked up my… puppy.” The man says, eyes darting into Dream’s flat anxiously. “He slipped out of the door, you see, and I happened to see you drive off with him…?”

Dream is a little skeptical, to be honest, but the man looks extremely worried. Dream is about to reply when he hears a kind of thumping noise from inside. He and the man exchange a look, and they both quickly dart into the flat.

There’s a boy sitting on Dream’s carpet. He’s covered by the towel, so Dream can really only see his soft brown hair and eyes. He’d guess the boy might be 10 or so. The puppy is conspicuously absent.

“Daddy!” The boy wails, and the man practically springs forward to gather him up in his arms. The two cling to each other and nuzzle against each other’s necks. Dream is too shocked to speak. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t hold on any more.” The boy whispered. “I tried! And the nice man hasn’t been mean to me or anything…”

“You must say thank you.” The man says, warming the boy against his chest. Dream bites his lip to hide a smile. It’s the weirdest day of his life, but the handsome man and his son are the cutest thing he’s ever seen.

It takes a REALLY embarrassing about of time (and searching under his couch/bed/tables) after Hob and Robyn have gone home (promising to stop by Dream’s flat tomorrow with homemade cookies as a thank you) to realise that the puppy and the boy were one and the same.

Dream may be an idiot, but he’s a kind idiot. And Robyn can already tell that his daddy has the biggest crush on the nice smelling man.

[octuscle]

Hi support

I’m 20 years old and realised I needed some new clothes in my casual preppy style as I’d put on a bit of weight recently, now being a size large rather than a small/medium when I came across as a shop called CHAVTF. I’d never been in it before but felt like I just had to see what was inside. Can you transform me please?

You take a deep breath and open the door. Phew, it smells a lot like smoke in the store. Behind the till is a young man holding a cigarette with one hand and playing with his cock and balls in his jogging bottoms with the other. You actually want to turn around and go straight back out onto the street.

"You're fucking late, mate! I was just about to close up." You stammer something about "I've put on some weight" and "And I need something suitable". The guy actually stomps his fag out on the dirty carpet, comes up to you, shakes your hand and says "Let's get going then! I'm Liam, by the way." "Michael, nice to meet you," you reply with a dry mouth.

You're walking aimlessly through the store when the guy approaches you with an armful of clothes. "Mate, this should fit. But hold back uh bit in da gym. If you work out your chest any more, you won't fit into m, Mikey". He lights a new cigarette. You ask what the owner of the store thinks about him smoking. And the customers. "Mikey, I own da store. N my customers all smoke. Day don't mind." You mumble to yourself that you don't smoke, for example, take your clothes and go into a changing room.

Holy shit, you really are a different person. The tracksuit really makes you look super slim and sporty. Liam joins you in the changing room. "Mate, you look like uh bourgeois! tuck your trouser legs into your socks, mate! n da only thing missing for da complete look is da right haircut n uh fag in your face." Yes, your hair is really too long. Liam comes with a cap and puts it on your head. "Perfect!" And holds out the pack of cigarettes. I don't know what the devil is doing to you, but instead of taking a cigarette, you kiss him with your tongue and inhale his smoke. Liam grabs your crotch. You have a hard-on. Your hand goes into his sweatpants. He has one too. Fuck, you need a fuck now, your chav ass needs to be shagged now. You drop your pants. And Liam pushes you down on the counter.

Yeah, Liam has a huge cock and fucks like a demigod. But fuck, you need a fag now. Good thing your mate understands you blind. Fucking and smoking. Actually, that's what happens most at CHAVTF.

[a-roguish-gambit]

Turn of the century au thoughts: forge and gambit

I have an idea I might turn into a comic later.

I have Gambit helping Forge with the danger room but also collect machine parts for fixing things up in the danger room. He has a network of street kids who tell him when something new turns up in scrap yards like engines or sewing machines. He's collected them over time with them spreading the word of the "friendly man with the monster eyes".

He brings them warm sandwiches when he meets up with them and shiny silver dollars if they have a tip for them. He always brings a little extra of both just in case there are new kids from the previous time.

When they are picking stuff up he usually ends up distracted and doting on the kids listening to them about their day and stuff. They use him as a jungle gym, show off neat rocks to him, he shows them card tricks, and if one of the kids have learned something they tell him about it and he acts like they're the smartest kids in the world. He relates to them a lot as his life in the thieves guild was very similar.

Forge makes a comment about how Gambit might make a good dad someday after the kids have gone.

Gambit laughs it off saying "what? A scoundrel like Gambit? A family man? What chu been smokin.... Gambit hardly what anyone consider a good role model...Logan sure don't even see me as the responsible type to say the least!" Then quietly. "Sides...who would want to marry n settle down wit a low down mutant tramp anyways..."

"that rogue girl seems quite fond of you..." Forge responds, "who knows. The world is full of possibilities kid."

Gambit sighs and begins shuffling a deck of cards in his hands "hmp. Sure. Mehbee," he starts with a grown, "But she got a real life ahead o her. once she figure out her powers, ain't nothin gonna stop her. She gonna get to go to college soon, mehbee find a man dere like a lawyer o a scientist. Sumen who can actually lift her up in dis world rather dan a teif on many a folks shit list...she dont need Gambit. Not really. She deserves sumen lot better dan Remy."

Forge rolls his eyes and swats him with his oil rag. "hey stop that. What are you, the lead of a Shakespearean drama?" He responds with a raised eyebrow, "She's with you for a reason. What do you want? To will her away?"

"non..."

"well that's gonna happen if you keep in this 'not good enough' mentality," forge says, "stop worrying about what might happen. Lots of stuff might happen. Hell something from that scrap heap could fall on us and stop us dead in our tracks. Doesn't mean we act like it's going to happen or is even likely too. Focus on the here and now, it's not good for your health to be worrying about what ifs."

Gambit smirks. "Non, das your job Mr safety precaution," he teases, "ya always gotta ask gambit tree times if he did sumtin da way ya wanted afta all."

Forge smiles back. "Absolutely and that's why I don't need you being a worry wart. I don't need my apprentice stealing my job!" He says shoving the Cajun teen playfully, "now help me with this big motor. The things people throw away, eh?"

Gambit chuckles back. "Like Remy could take yo job. Ah mehbee clever an can follow instructions, but gambit can't invent new tings on da spot like you," he says helping lift the large device and carry it over to the truck bed.

"I don't know about that, you are quite good at inventing new ways to annoy Logan," forge jokes.

"das gambits specialty!"