#Hire Event Marshals

[hirebarstaffuk]

Why Hire A Product Sampling Agency London?

The sale of a product via an event is a marketing technique that has been followed by businesses for many years now. Of course, these days marketing is done online in many ways. Nevertheless, product sampling continues to be one of the favorite marketing techniques. Particularly, when people get samples of products, they get excited to try the new product for free. But, when the product sampling is done rightly, it will help a lot for product promotion. This is where product sampling agency London can help businesses with the right product promotion.

What is a Sampling Agency?

A product sampling agency London is a marketing agency. This agency will have the best knowledge of the ins and outs of providing samples and live events to potential customers. This agency has to understand both social and mobile marketing along with time-tested methodologies of display and presentation.

What Can A Product Sampling Agency London Do?

Many organizations approach live events with the thought that they can staff their own booths. But, a product sampling agency London will be aware of the salespeople and business owner requirements to be free to leave the booth. So, they provide the opportunity for businesses to hire exhibitions staff.

As against using an employee, you can hire event staff from this agency. With experience, the events staff can provide the best experience to visitors. Above all, the staff will provide the best knowledge transfer about your products and your brand.

When you hire event staffing agency, you can focus on participating with your clients in dinners and lectures. The staff from the event staffing agency will carefully handle the marketing part.

When the product sampling agency London is also a bar staffing agency, you can get better convenience. The reason is that the agency will provide you with the opportunity to hire bar staff. You might be aware that there are certain ethics to be followed by serving drinks to your guests. The bar staff will be aware of these ethics. In turn, you can make sure that your guests will get the best experience and timely serving of drinks at your event.

Conclusion:

Now, you know that a product sampling agency London can do more for your business. Apart from sampling products using the right techniques, the agency can provide you with exhibition staff, event staff and even bar staff. So, you can get a whole lot of benefits with a marketing staffing agency.

[contemplatingoutlander]

The Washington Post drew heavy criticism Tuesday for its fact check of the first night of the Democratic National Convention. Democrats attacked Republican nominee Donald Trump throughout the evening, but many critics argued Washington Post fact checker Glenn Kessler tried to draw a false equivalency between the former president's lies and some of the statements made by speakers during Monday's event. "Wow," said journalist Judd Legum. "The Washington Post 'fact check' of night 1 of the DNC is embarrassing." Kessler rounded up 12 claims made from the stage in Chicago that he felt lacked context, but many readers felt that he focused too narrowly on specific words Trump had used and the implied meaning of those statements, as characterized by Democrats. "This kind of 'fact-checking' is an artifact of the collision between Trump's politics of lying and elite media's business-model-driven bothsidesism," said Talking Points Memo founder Josh Marshall. "The two things are obviously categorically different. But the need to jam them into one model creates nonsense like this."

I'm so glad that others in the media noticed this. It was frustrating reading the WaPo's "fact check" of the first night of the DNC.

In his attempt to get more readers for The Washington Post, Jeff Bezos hired William Lewis (from Murdoch's WSJ) as CEO. As a result, the once great newspaper that produced the Watergate investigation, is now reduced to giving its readers mediocre, if not misleading "fact checks."

[ihni]

Smooth Sailing

Written for the MetalSandwich Movie Mania (@now-showing-at-the-hawk-events), day 3: sci fi.

(Pacific Rim AU)

~~~

“Do you know why I called you in here?”

Eddie Munson, who did in fact not know why Jim Hopper – a.k.a. ‘Hop’, the Marshal of the Indiana Shatterdome – had called him into his office, but suspected that it might have had something to do with a prank he may or may not have pulled, grinned.

“You wanted to bask in the glory of my devilish charm?”

His attempt at levity was met with a blank face. Not even a twitch. Damn. Eddie must be in real trouble.

His grin dimmed a bit, and Hopper continued, as if Eddie hadn’t spoken, “How long have you worked here?”

Shit, that sounded suspiciously like the beginnings of a ‘you’re fired’ speech.

“In the Dome? Seven years. Listen –”

“How many trainee pilots have you helped train over the years?”

Eddie couldn’t afford to get fired. No one else would hire him, and the Dome was his home.

“I don’t know … seventy? Eighty? Hop, whatever you think I did, I didn’t do it, or if I did, I didn’t mean it –”

“And how many of those went on to pilot a Jaeger?”

Eddie’s heart sank. He was getting fired. 

“Five.”

Eddie wasn’t the smartest when it came to numbers, but he guessed that wasn’t a very good turnout.

The worst thing was that if they threw him out of the Dome, they’d throw uncle Wayne out, too. Uncle Wayne, who took care of Eddie during the worst years of his life, and who Eddie had promised to take care of in turn for the rest of his life. Eddie’s job at the Dome had ensured that he could keep that promise, and now he was going to lose it.

“Five,” Hopper repeated without inflection, bringing Eddie’s attention back at him. “Do you know how many trainee pilots we have to teach before we find and train a full-fledged, drift-compatible Jaeger pilot?”

Eddie just shook his head.

“About two hundred.” Huh, that seemed … high. Higher than Eddie had expected, at least. “Out of two hundred of our best prospects who start their training in the Pan Pacific Defense Corps, only one usually move on to pilot a Jaeger in combat. Yet out of the seventy-three trainees that you have had during your time with us, five people have joined those ranks – and with pretty good results, too. What do you have to say about that?”

“Uh,” Eddie said. That didn’t sound so bad actually, when he put it like that. “Is this where I ask for a raise?”

~~~

Read the rest on AO3 here

[theidiotwhowritesthings]

A Fresh Start [15]

Din Djarin x F!Reader

Warnings: self doubt, anxiety, PTSD-esque panic attack, talk of medical trauma

Word Count: 6,035

Summary: When you made plans for your future they never involved being hired by a Mandalorian to baby-sit his adorable, green gremlin of a child. However, after your life fell apart in the span of one disastrous night, you found it to be the only feasible option you had left. Nevarro was a far cry from Coruscant, but the thriving community turned out to be exactly what you needed. Every day you spend in Nevarro you fall more and more in love with your new life, but when your past rears its ugly head you find that perhaps peace wasn’t meant for everyone.

#15: MANDO LOOKS LIKE HE KNOWS HOW TO FUCK

Chapter Summary: The time has come to talk about your past, but you can’t imagine a world where the Marshal doesn’t hate you for what you’ve done. Nima is Nima.

“I think we made a perfect fit because we were both broken, had we been whole, we wouldn’t have connected like we did.” -Eric Inzunza

It had been a wild 24 hours for you. Grogu got sick, your Marshal Mandalorian took his helmet off to cuddle up beside you in the bathroom with said sick child, said Marshal Mandalorian then told you his name, pirates invaded the outskirts of Nevarro, you threatened a cowardly doctor with blackmail you garnered from your past, Grogu got sicker, you held a medical tech at blaster point, you worked with medicine for the first time in over a year, Grogu got better, then you and Din Djarin got handsy in the bathroom. The chaotic whirlwind of events had your head spinning, but that very last encounter grounded you fairly well. If someone had told you that you’d go from learning your boss’ name to letting him strip you nearly bare in the bathroom a day later you would’ve laughed.

“Mando!” You called out to the man getting dressed back in the rooms. The man who had to get dressed because you had been in the process of taking his clothes off. Oh, your brain was not functioning enough to really grasp this at all. “It’s Karga!”

The introduction of the High Magistrate into this tricky equation only baffled you further. He stood in the foyer, dressed in his rather gaudy robes, while you stood in front of him wearing only Din’s shirt. You tugged down the edges of his shirt to further cover yourself. Maybe if Din’s warm hands hadn’t broken your brain you would’ve thought to grab a blanket to cover yourself. Or pants.

“He’s getting⏤” You paused. It would look pretty damning if you told him Din was in the process of getting dressed. Though, the state you were in was probably already pretty damning. “Mando will be here in a second.”

“I appreciate that, but I’m actually here for you.” Karga replied. “How’s Grogu?”

You blinked in a poor attempt to jump from the first statement to the casual question. “Good.” You blurted. “Stable.” You kept repeating the word ‘stable’ and you wondered if it was in part due to trying to convince yourself. Grogu was stable. Grogu was safe. Grogu was healing. You motioned over your shoulder. “Would you mind if I stepped out to grab a pair of pants?”

Not a question you thought you’d be asking the High Magistrate of Nevarro, but as you had already realized this was not a predictable 24 hours.

“I wouldn’t mind at all. In fact, I insist.” Karga replied.

“Great.” You pulled Din’s shirt down further and rushed away.

On your way back to the rooms, you nearly collided with a wall of beskar. Before you could stumble back, Din grabbed your upper arm to catch you. The firm grip of his gloved hand had your face growing warm which was absolutely ridiculous compared to where he had tried to put his hands only minutes ago. Din, unaware of the effect he had on you, shook his head. “What’s wrong?”

“Um, I need pants.”

“No, you don’t.” Din replied without missing a beat. You narrowed your eyes at him, glanced down at himself, then looked back up in question. Din leaned in, keeping his voice low, “We’re not done, ner kar’ta.” That same powerful wave of desire returned. The way his voice alone could make your toes curl… “Wait for me. I won’t be long with Karga.”

You were so stupid drunk off the thought of him alone, you almost nodded in agreement. Reality settled back into place though, and you shook your head. “I can’t. Karga isn’t here for you. He’s, apparently, here for me?”

Din was silent for a second before he began to pass you. “I’ll handle this.”

Though you liked the idea of Din sending Karga away for whatever reason he was here, you were beginning to grow curious as to why the High Magistrate was interested in you at all. You were fairly certain, up until now, that he only knew you as Grogu’s nanny. The thought was sobering. Grogu’s nanny. That’s where this all started⏤ that was the island that had gotten lost in the horizon as you sailed out to grasp the connection you had with the child’s father.

Not now. You’d save those terribly, depressing thoughts for a day you weren’t riding a high⏤ a day where you didn’t know what Din’s rough hands felt like against your skin. Quickly, you rushed back into the bathroom to find and slip your pants back on before heading back to the living room.

Karga had entered in further, but he remained standing by the couch. He was the picture of casual nonchalance, but Din’s entire body seemed stiff. This only seemed to worsen when you drifted closer and the High Magistrate’s attention focused on you.

“There she is. Woman of the hour! And wearing pants this time⏤”

“Karga.” Din snapped.

Karga waved a finger at the Mandalorian. “I jest, my old friend. Is a little teasing not allowed?” Din didn’t respond. You took that as a sign to also not respond. Karga shook his head with a sigh. “Straight to business, as always.”

You stepped closer and set a hand on Din’s arm. “What can I help you with, High Magistrate?”

“I always liked her.” Karga said to Din before smiling at you. “Which is why I’d like to offer you a job. It seems Nevarro is short one physician.” The hand you set on Din to reassure him fell to your side in shock. Had he just⏤? Your chest felt tight and you swallowed the lump that had formed in your throat. “Well, more than just one physician short, I should say. Technically, on this entire planet, we only have one broken droid and a physician who likes to play nanny.”

“Karga!” Din snapped again.

You shook your head. “I’m not⏤”

“Oh, we’re past denial. Aren’t we?” Karga asked. Then, he said your name. Din’s head turned to stare at you as well, but all you could focus on was the feeling of the blood running out of your face. Were you falling? It felt like you were falling head over heels. The room was beginning to tilt. Karga reached into his robes’ pocket and held up a holopad. You recognized your face. It was the picture used on your medical badge back when you were employed. Karga had your whole work file right there in his hands. Your charade was crumbling right before your eyes. “I know everything, Doctor. Honestly, I’m impressed. Your marks and experience could get you a job damn near anywhere in this galaxy, and there’s a transcript here saying the court settled in your favor. You never lost your license. Plus, you’re quite the fighter as well.”

You were going to be sick. Nausea caused your stomach to churn uncomfortably. 

“You had no right, Karga.” Din barked. “What makes you think you can⏤”

“High Magistrate or not, I think you’re forgetting my roots, Mando.” Karga raised an eyebrow at him. “I didn’t become one of the most renowned agents of the guild by playing nice or respecting boundaries.” He glanced at you and gave you a half hearted shrug. “It’s not personal. I do what I must to get what I need. And right now, that’s you.”

“I have to⏤ I⏤” You took a shaky step back. Din reached out for you, but you quickly took another to keep from his grasp. His hand closed around air, and you immediately felt bad for dodging him. Still, you couldn’t be here. Not right now. Not with the room closing in. You turned and rushed away.

Din watched you hurry out of the room and he had to resist the urge to turn around and maim Karga. He glared at his old friend, hands balled up into fists, “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nevarro needs a medical team, Mando. We can’t ship off every emergency.”

“Then hire some new ones from off world.” Din replied through clenched teeth.

“I’m trying, but it’s a hard sell.” Karga scoffed. “Do you know how perfect she is? An incredible physician too traumatized to get the job she truly deserves in the Inner Rim⏤” Din snapped at him, but he didn’t stop. “And now she has ties here? At first I figured it was just Nima, but now I suppose she has you as well. I assume that’s why you’re in such a foul mood. I interrupted something.”

Din lunged forward and before a thought could occur he had Karga’s robes bunched into his fist. He resisted actually hitting the man, and Din could see on Karga’s face that the man knew he had overstepped. Karga held his hands up in surrender. One still holding the holopad. 

“I’m sorry, friend.” Karga said simply. “You must understand how desperate I am right now. No community can thrive without proper medical care. Maker forbid something awful happens before I can convince a different physician to come.” Din shoved Karga back and set his hands on his hips. Karga held out the holopad to him. “Aren’t you curious about her past? Don’t you want to know more about her?”

“I do.” Din replied. He took the holopad from Karga and kept it by his side. “But only if she wants to share it with me. Now, get out of our house.”

Karga gave a small nod before backpedaling away. Din was set to turn and find you, but he stopped when Karga called out to him. The High Magistrate offered a small smile as some kind of peace offering, but his words were more a salve than his emotion. “I have my feelers out looking for Daelar. Not a public bounty, but a private one. You wanna know when I find him?”

“Yes.” Din replied. “Bring me the puck.”

“I thought you weren’t a bounty hunter anymore.”

“I’m not. This is personal.” Din said. “He put my family in danger. He doesn’t get to walk away from that.”

Karga smirked. “Now, there’s the bloodthirsty Mandalorian I know and love.”

Without another word, he left and Din was stuck standing alone in his living room. He wasn’t sure how such an incredible start to his morning could turn sour so quickly, but it wasn’t worth exploring. Din needed to check in on you.

The plan had been to barrel through the house and put as much distance between you and that holopad as possible⏤ even if it meant breaking through the patio glass doors, hopping the small fence, and escaping into the neighboring lava plains. The only thing that stopped you, the only thing that could stop you, was the quiet whine you’d recognize anywhere. Grogu. You came to a skidding stop outside Din’s bedroom door and immediately rushed in. The child was shifting in his hammock, fussy. It only took you seconds to gather him into your arms and at your touch he fell back into a restful slumber.

Rocking him carefully, you carried him out of the bedroom and continued down the hall until you reached the glass doors that led out to a small back patio. You didn’t come out here often. Though maybe you would start. There was a small, round table with a few matching metal chairs surrounding it. You had a view of the lava plains, could even see a bit of the hot springs, and it was peaceful. That’s how you should feel right now. At peace. You had Grogu sleeping in your arms, no fever and no cough, and the morning air was comfortably warm and quiet. 

But Grogu was a reminder of the patient you had once failed, and the quiet left room for Karga’s words to echo loudly in your head. There was a little voice at the back of your mind whispering that you needed to run. You needed to flee. If you weren’t known, then you weren’t in danger. However, things weren’t so simple anymore. The little boy sleeping in your arms was evidence of that. Realistically, Grogu was not yours. He was the child you were paid to care for and since this was technically just a job it should be easy to turn in a resignation and walk away. Emotionally, this was not the case. 

Even with the knowledge that Karga was familiar with your entire past, you couldn’t bring yourself to start planning an off world escape. You traced the tip of your finger down the bridge of his nose. You were foolish to let your walls down⏤ to grow so attached. The door behind you slid open and Din stepped out. 

“Grogu is alright.” You said before he could ask. “I think he’ll be up soon. He got fussy when I was walking by so I grabbed him.” The other seat was across the table from you. Rather than just sit, Din picked up the metal chair by the back and pulled it closer so he’d be right beside you. You couldn’t bare to bring your gaze up, away from Grogu, to the man beside you. “I’m thinking we should keep him out of school tomorrow. See how he’s feeling then.”

Din’s hand entered your view and he settled it on your thigh. It was technically similar to the hold he had you in earlier, while kneeling in front of you, but this was one born of comfort rather than lust. He squeezed your thigh then spoke, “How are you feeling, ner kar’ta?”

A dry chuckle fell from your lips. “You know my name now. You don’t have to use nicknames anymore.”

“Not knowing your name had nothing to do with my choice in what to call you.” Din replied. “And knowing your name now is not the same as it being given to me. I understand the difference.”

There was something about his words that made tears spring to your eyes. Maybe it was the softness in his whispered tone or the unhindered understanding he seemed to share. Kriff, maybe it was just your emotional capabilities being shitty right now because of how devastating it was to hear Karga say your name, file in hand.

You lifted your eyes to meet the familiar t-shape of his visor. Briefly, you wished you could see his face. There was a weight in his gaze, despite not being able to see his eyes, and you wanted more than anything to see it rather than just feel it. As soon as the thought came to you, you felt ashamed. Din’s creed was important to him, and you shouldn’t be sitting here wishing it away for the sake of your comfort.

“It doesn’t bother you that you hired a stranger to be your nanny?” You asked⏤ your voice was shakier than you wanted it to be. “I lied to you. About my name, about my work experience. Though, I did say I worked in a medical clinic. So maybe I only lose half a point there.”

Din chuckled. “You don’t lose any points. I’m not keeping score.”

“Why aren’t you upset at me?” You shook your head. “After hearing all of that, all of a sudden, you should… I don’t know.”

“It wasn’t all of a sudden. I’ve had… suspicions.” Din said. Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He sighed, “You don’t answer to Soran the way someone would if it were their actual name. You even called it out after a nightmare. Then, the way you reacted to being in a clinic and your thoughts on my choices of first aid care?” Din shook his head with another short chuckle. “Only someone with a medical background would care that much about the risks and benefits of bacta or cautery. There was also all of last night…”

You nodded. “I knew last night would’ve given me away. I didn’t think I had been so obvious about everything else though.”

“I just pay attention.”

“Must be an important talent for a bounty hunter.”

Din paused, his fingers tightening around your thigh once more, “It has nothing to do with my past work experience and everything to do with you.” Your cheeks warmed. “I pay attention to you.”

There was an intensity about Din Djarin that was surprisingly hypnotizing. With his tall broad frame, intimidating beskar armor, and blank helmet the intensity should be terrifying. Despite all that though, being the center of his attention was intoxicating. Almost enough so that you were nearly distracted from the topic at hand. You wished you could get lost in his attention, forget about the weight bearing down on your shoulders, but your eyes darted to the holopad Din had set on the table. Din turned his head to follow your gaze then shook his head.

“I didn’t read it. And, Karga didn’t say anything further about you.” Din reassured. “He wouldn't dare.”

“Right.” You chuckled. “Digging up my past is perfectly fine, but he wouldn’t ever cross the boundary of talking about me to others. Because he’s the respectful kind.”

“Because he knows I’d kriffing end his existence if he tried.”

Listening to a man threaten someone for your sake shouldn’t be as attractive as it was, and yet… You focused back on Grogu and lightly traced your fingers along the length of his ears. Din wasn’t the kind bothered by long silences. He was comfortable to sit there patiently as your brain racked itself for an answer or some next step to take. The entire time his thumb rubbed circles on your thigh.

“Do you…” You took a deep breath and looked back to the man beside you. “Do you want to know about…me?”

“I want to know everything you’re willing to share, ner kar’ta.” He replied. Din shifted so while one hand rested on your thigh the other rested on the back of your chair. It gave you the sensation of being cornered, but with Din that didn’t have a negative connotation. Rather than feeling trapped, you felt protected. As if Din was some kind of barrier between you and the world. “But, you don’t have to do this now. This should be something you share because you want to⏤ not because someone else pushed you into it. I’m sorry Karga did this.”

You shook your head. “It’s okay. I want…” You paused, and as the next words came to you it felt like a truth you hadn’t even realized you felt. “I think I want you to know. I just⏤” There was a lump in your throat that you had to swallow down before the rest of your sentence came out in a weak whisper. “I’m afraid you won’t see me the same anymore. It’s been so long. I’m afraid to⏤ to be known.”

“Don’t.” Din said firmly. “Don’t be. There is nothing you could say that would change how I⏤” He stopped himself from continuing and your eyebrows furrowed at the sudden cessation of his voice. Like he was choking on his own words. “Gar cuyir ner kar’ta. Ibac kelir draar am.”

You didn’t know what he said. You recognized the words he used as your newest nickname, but you were still clueless as to what that meant. Still, despite that, his words brought you a warm comfort. Din tended to slip into Mando’a when emotions rose or when speaking to Grogu. You wondered if it felt more natural to him to express himself in this language rather than Basic.

“I killed my best friend.” You blurted. If Din was caught off guard by your sudden admission, rather than you just questioning his Mando’a, he didn’t show it⏤ not that you’d be able tell through his helmet. 

“Was her name Soran?” Din asked. You nodded once. “What happened?”

“There was an accident. Starship collision. It took out…” You shrugged. “We got swamped in the emergency room. That’s where I was working at the time. I saw patient after patient non-stop and then… then there was Soran. She came in⏤ she was dying. I tried to find a physician to take over. I knew I was too close to her to be⏤ but we all⏤ there was so much going on.” As the memory played out you felt your heart start to race. The smell of blood, bacta, and bitter antiseptic filled your nose. You would’ve fallen into the moment entirely if it weren’t for the firm grip squeezing your thigh once more. You took in a slow breath. “I was the only one available. I had to act and I did. But, it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough.”

“Ner kar’ta…”

A soft whimper from your arms made you glance down to see Grogu was beginning to rouse. He mumbled a few unintelligible words before one you recognized was spoken. “Buir…”

“Din.” You turned and motioned for him to take the boy. He didn’t hesitate to pull Grogu into his own arms and Grogu, in response, buried his face into the crook of Din’s neck. Your lips curled up into a small smile. “You should go in with him. Seeing your face would do him a lot of good.”

“You should come in too.” Din replied, rubbing his son’s back soothingly. “You need rest. The sleep on the cot couldn’t have been restful.” 

You shook your head and stood. Din tilted his head to stare up at you. “I, um, I think I’m gonna take a walk.” Din began to speak, but you cut in. “I’m fine, Din. Really. I wanted to check on Nima anyways after the whole pirate attack.”

“Alright.” Din slowly stood. “Can I… Can I look at your file?”

You nodded with a shrug. “I already admitted to the worst of my sins. The file won’t have much else.”

With one arm holding Grogu to his chest, Din reached out to cup the side of your face. He lightly tugged you toward him so he could rest his forehead against yours. The cool bite of beskar against your flushed skin made you let out a soft sigh and your eyes fluttered closed to enjoy the moment of peace.

“Come home soon, ner kar’ta.”

This was a shitty day off. Karga really needed to learn the definition of ‘taking a break’. Honestly, it was partly Din’s fault for believing the man was truly going to let him have a full day of rest. It did feel more like a day off now. Din had taken off his armor, changed into a pair of comfortable house clothes, and now he lounged on the couch with Grogu babbling on his chest. His son had fully woken up from his extended nap, and he was nearly back to his usual, energetic self. Grogu was still a little clingier than normal, but that didn’t surprise Din nor did he mind it. 

“Mhmm. Tell me all about it, ad’ika.” Din hummed while stroking his son’s ears. Every few words Grogu would make sense, but most of it was just a stream of constant babbling. Din nodded. “I know.”

This moment would feel like the perfect day off if it wasn’t for the lack of you and the dreadful holopad sitting on the couch beside him. Din knew there had to be more to the story. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust you. Maker, after last night there was no one he trusted more. Din just had a gut feeling that you were the kind to carry guilt even when it wasn’t yours to carry. He knew if this truly were the case, then any story you told him would be painted with a negative light toward yourself.

“Ma?” Grogu suddenly asked. Din sighed and readjusted so the one hand that wasn’t scratching his son’s back was resting behind his head. He couldn’t find it himself to be upset over this newest revelation over your past. Logically, maybe he should be, but you still felt like you. From the beginning, Din knew you had been hiding something and that something had saved his son’s life. Din had no room to complain. He was more disappointed that his morning had gone into a different direction than it started. When Din didn’t offer Grogu a real answer the boy reached out to pat Din on the cheek repeatedly⏤ your title emphasized with each pat. “Ma, ma, ma, ma, ma.”

Din chuckled and sat up quickly. Grogu squealed in laughter when Din rubbed his face against his son’s belly, tickling him, then cradled him closer. Maker, he was so relieved to hear Grogu laugh rather than cough. “I miss ma too, ad’ika. She’ll be back soon.” Grogu grumbled and huffed an annoyed sigh. Din chuckled and lightly tapped his forehead against Grogu’s. “Ma did such a good job of taking care of you, didn’t she?”

“ ‘lek.”

“She’s incredible, huh?” Din breathed. Grogu wiggled out of his grip to jump onto the floor and began to waddle away. He called out ‘Ma’ as he waddled toward the hallway toward the bedrooms⏤ as if he didn’t believe that she was actually away. Din’s hand drifted to his chest where one of his larger scars lay and he could still feel your touch ghosting over it. If he closed his eyes he could imagine your lips tenderly brushing against every scar you found on him. 

Maker, why did Karga have to show up when he did? The High Magistrate couldn’t have waited an hour more? Two? Karga was worse than a cold shower.

Din reached back to grasp the holopad and brought it into focus. When he turned it on, your smiling face greeted him. In the head shot, your hair was pulled away from your face and you wore a pair of light green scrubs and a white coat. His eyes traced the lines that made up your name and he rolled it around his mind⏤ not daring to say it out loud. It suited you much better than the name Soran did. Still, you hadn’t offered the name for him to use so he wouldn’t. Besides, he liked using terms of endearment for you. Din liked the way your face would brighten every time he referred to you in Mando’a.

“Ma! Where?” Grogu called out. Din looked up from the holopad to see Grogu waddling back with his stuffed frog. He must have gotten side tracked in his search for you to grab it. “Buir, mar’eyir Ma!”

Din chuckled. “I told you. Ma will be back soon. Come here, you little womp rat.” Grogu grumbled, but he did return. Din scooped him up with one arm and Grogu burrowed his head into his side. “Kai’tomyc, ad’ika?”

Grogu shook his head and mumbled a soft ‘no’. It was odd for him to turn down any offer for food. That must be the last remaining sign of his illness. Din didn’t think he’d ever miss having to stop his son from trying to small critters whole, but he’d give anything to be chasing Grogu down right now. Things would be back to normal once the boy’s appetite returned.

Din leaned back against the couch once more, gently rocking Grogu in one arm, while tapping through the holopad with his other hand. You had given him permission to read through the holopad, and Din planned to soak up every single fact about you that he was allowed to know.

Nima lived on the other side of Nevarro, closer to Peli’s shop, but the walk gave you time to think. You were trying to figure out if this was considered running. If Grogu hadn’t started waking up, would you have kept going? What was left of your story? There wasn’t much else to say about Soran, and there was zero part of you that wanted to delve into how you got your scar. The way Din offered you comfort, his kind words and firm touches, no part of you felt like running from that. And, you did really want to check on Nima and give him time with Grogu. Maybe you weren’t running. 

Not yet, at least.

There was always the chance Din would think about it during the time you were gone, replay your words in his head, and come to his senses. Realize that he had hired a lying stranger to care for his child. Din said nothing would make him view you different, but what if that had just been a spur of the moment comfort? What if he came to see you as an irresponsible threat?

Your spiraling bad thoughts came to halt when Nima’s door was in view. In hopes that she could distract you further, you quickly knocked on the door. It took a couple minutes before you heard Nima’s rushed footsteps. A second later the door cracked open and Nima’s face poked through. Her dark eyes widened.

“Oh. Hey.” She greeted. “What’re you doing here?”

“I just wanted to check in on you. After the⏤ the pirate ordeal.” You crossed your arms tight over your chest. “Are you okay?”

Nima shrugged. “Yeah. Better than okay. The last 24 hours have worked out great for me.” Her lips turned out into a wide grin. “I got to fly the N1 which was super cool and then… then other things happened. Uh, are you okay? How’s Grogu? I heard he was sick.”

“Grogu is good. Stable.” You nodded. You were surprised to hear she flew Din’s ship and even more surprised to hear she knew about Grogu. Only a few people knew about that right now. “Well, since you’re alright…”

Nima stepped out onto her porch and glanced back through the cracked door, as if looking for someone, then shut it. It was then you noticed she had only a robe on. Her head tilted and her eyes narrowed in a familiar concern. “You didn’t tell me if you were okay. What’s going on?”

“I’ve had a… weird night.” You admitted.

Your old friend motioned for you to take a seat on the small bench sitting on her small front porch. You sat down and she dropped down right beside you. With no hesitation, you began to ramble about everything starting with waking up to Grogu being sick all the way to Karga turning your world upside down. When your story came to an end, you glanced over at Nima to see she was beaming at you with wide and excited eyes.

“What⏤”

“You and the Marshal!?” She cried.

“Is that the only part you heard?” You sighed. “Did you miss the part where Karga might be bullying me into being the town’s doctor??”

Nima scoffed. “As if you’d let him bully you into anything. As if Mando would ever let him bully you into anything. Especially now!” She bounced in her seat once. “Oh, I knew the two of you had chemistry! I just knew it!” Nima grasped at your arm. “How was he? I don’t know what it is, but Mando looks like he knows how to fuck, if you know what I mean.”

“We didn’t.”

“But you just said⏤”

“We… didn’t.” You said slowly. “We almost did. If I hadn’t stopped him I’m pretty we would’ve…” You couldn’t even bring yourself to say the words. Nima squealed and your face grew even hotter. You shook your head. “And then I had my hands literally in his pants when Karga showed up so⏤”

Nima cried out and covered her face. “Oh kriffing hell! I don’t know who I’m more pissed at!” She dropped her hands to shove you. “You for stopping Mando or Karga for cock blocking you.”

“I had to stop him.” You replied.

“No, you absolutely did not! You⏤”

“The moment was…” You interrupted her to try and put what you felt into words. “I’ve never felt like that before. Just from a man taking my clothes off.”

Nima narrowed her eyes at you. “You’ve never felt turned on by a man taking your clothes off?”

“No, that’s not what I mean.”

“Good. I was about to be really worried about you.”

You leaned back into the bench. “It was more than that. Obviously, I was turned on, but it was… I’ve never felt so…seen. Like he could see all of me.” Din had been wearing a helmet that blocked all view of his features, but the way his hidden gaze traced your body as his fingers caressed your skin you felt like something precious. Like some kind of treasure he was studying and admiring. “And I wanted to see him in return. As much of him as I was allowed, at least.”

“So… you saw him. Like, saw him, saw him?” Nima asked.

“Yes?” You shrugged. A sighed then left your lips as you shook your head. “I thought I had been touch starved after a year of hiding on my own, but you should’ve seen him, Nima. He didn’t even believe me when I told him how beautiful he was and, stars, he was gorgeous. Everything about him is…”

Nima chuckled. “Girl, you got it baaad.” You covered your face with your hands knowing she was absolutely right. “I’m still baffled you saw any of him. I can’t even fathom the thought of seeing his hands.”

“What do you mean?”

“He never shows anybody his skin.” Nima shrugged. “You have to have noticed that. I’ve never seen⏤ oh, wait. Actually once, when he came to pick up Grogu, he bent over to scoop the kid up and I saw a flash of his bare wrist between his glove and gauntlet. I was worried he’d have to kill me for that.”

It made sense. He never showed any of his skin out in public and even today when Karga showed up. Din had taken the time to put on his full suit of armor rather than just slipping into his home clothes. What confused you was the fact that you had seen his bare skin so soon into living with him. Literal days and Din had already trusted you with more than he did the public. Was it because you were just in his home and around Grogu so out of default you got to see him that way? Or was it something else entirely? 

“I guess I should also ask,” Nima spoke up, “What’re you gonna do about Karga?”

You sighed and buried your face in your hands. “I have no idea.”

“Did you talk to Mando about… you know…”

“About how I killed Soran?” You finished.

Nima scoffed. “No. You know that’s not what happened. You did everything you could.”

“And it wasn’t enough.”

“Maker, you’re the stupidest smart person I’ve ever met.” Nima groaned. You narrowed your eyes at her in a glare. She just shrugged. “You know my opinion on the matter. What’s Mando’s opinion?”

You grumbled, “I don’t know. I came here before he could say. Left him with my file though. So, I might be coming back to a storm.” You crossed your arms. “If I get fired and kicked out of the house can I stay with you?”

“No.” Nima shook her head.

“Wow, thanks.”

“You’re not gonna get fired, you idiot.” Nima scoffed. “And you’re not gonna get any closure sitting here with me.” She stood and motioned with her arms for you to rise. You pushed up and Nima pulled you into a tight hug. You sighed once but returned the hug with a smile. She pulled back and winked at you. “Now, go back and finish what you started. Either the emotional stuff or the physical stuff. Your choice.”

You nodded and stepped off her porch as Nima skipped to her door. You paused and shot her a smirk. “Oh, and hey, tell Cara I said hello.”

“I will!” Nima chirped. Her eyes suddenly widened and her mouth fell slack. You laughed and she shook her head. “I mean, I will when I see her next. Whenever that is. Because she’s definitely not here. Why would she be here??”

“Uh huh.” You replied. 

“Shut up and go fuck the Marshal.” Nima stuck her tongue out at you and hurried back into her house. With her out of sight, your smile faltered and you turned to make your way back home. It was time to face the music.

a/n: how do y’all feel about long chapters? i have a bad bad habit of writing long chapters which feels wrong on tumblr??? i can post a 15k word chapter on ao3 and not even blink, but if i start to get near 6k or 7k on tumblr i get antsy for some reason. it feels illegal. idk why. anyways, as always thanks for the love! i haven’t come up with a concrete posting schedule yet so as of now it’s gonna be every 5-7 days. roughly. also, side note, it’s my birthday and i think comments about my story is my fav kind of gift👀👀

Mando’a translations

Gar cuyir ner kar’ta. Ibac kelir draar am.

You are my heart. That will never change.

Buir, mar’eyir Ma!

Dad, find Ma!

Kai’tomyc: Hungry /// Ad’ika: Little one /// Ner Kar’ta: My Heart

@aheadfullofsteverogers​ @yyiikes​ @kneelforloki​ @c-ms1ut @sgt-morgan​ @luthienaliceisilra​ @fawn-kitten @missbabyjay​ @coldlamaspersonspy​ @dilfsaremyfavourite​ @jamesbuckybarnes @yorkeylover​ @teawrites01 @emily-roberts​ @djarinxore​ @impala1967666 @shelbyteller @faithrenner​ @dindjarindude @dankfarrick29​ @rh1nestonecowg1rl @garbo-lesbo​ @anythingforattention @tearfulsolace​ @onceinamando​ @catharinaroxastova​ @uwu-i-purple-you​

[christian-oc-tournament]

Please vote based on the picture AND the description!

Peter Dragonsbane [The Marshal's Saga @apieters]

A semi-legendary figure by the events of the main stories I want to write, Peter Dragonsbane is the founder of the Perseyn/Marshal family. As a boy, he learned how to forge dragonsteel (an alloy of steel and a dragon scale, which is nigh-indestructible, does not corrode, and never needs sharpening) from the Prince of the Gods, who helped him forge a greatsword. Peter then used the greatsword to help the Prince of the Gods slay a firebreathing dragon, earning him and his sword the nickname of Dragonsbane. In return for his help and loyalty, the Prince of the Gods made an everlasting covenant with Peter and his descendants: Peter was to have an unbroken line of sons, and the Prince of the Gods swore to himself that as Peter wielded Dragonsbane, so the Dragonsbane's descendants would be the sword of the Prince of the Gods for all time. Peter himself was arguably the first and greatest of those who took on this role. As the boy grew up, he defended the Isles from the Thrallic Empire, the civilization on the mainland of the continent of Heimar, infamous for being built on the backs of slaves; for this, Peter became the first Lord of the Isles. He was called by the Prince of the Gods again in young adulthood to end the slavery of the Thrallic Empire. He conducted raids, sailing up rivers in a fleet of longships to free the captives of slavers, but soon he grew bolder, and began to fight skirmishes and battles. Soon, he learned of the other Heroes of Heimar, other men called by the Prince of the Gods to destroy the wicked civilization of the Thrallic Empire, and when they gathered it was the Dragonsbane who became their Commander in Chief. With the greatsword Dragonsbane in his hand, Peter lead his armies to victory, driving the Thrallic Empire off the continent of Heimar.

Percival "Percy" Blakney Stanton [Trouble in Three Dimensions @larissa-the-scribe]

Got to be CENCA's golden agent through the strength of his moral convictions, dedication to the rules, work ethic, and general intense caring. A new agent got hired, a certified walking disaster, and he got heart eyes, and went "that one. I want that one." He's been helping her learn how to live and also uncover the corruption at CENCA's heart in the name of righteousness, love, friendship, and his repeating-action crossbow.

[bitchesgetriches]

Punch Burnout Right in Its Stupid Face With Our New Burnout Workshop

In recent years your humble Bitches have been hired to give a few live, in-person speeches and workshops. We always ask the organizers to set a topic (since as you know, we can talk for hours on everything from our chickens to how everyone in the world can be categorized as either a Deputy Marshal Samuel Gerard or a Dr. Richard Kimble from the 1993 classic The Fugitive). And we give our spin on whatever they suggest.

Then something interesting happened. During our closing Q&A sessions, no matter what the topic of our presentation was, the conversation with our audience would turn towards the same issue.

That issue was burnout.

Our call to action

Now, we already knew that burnout is a widespread issue. After all, we live on this planet. We’ve delved into the topic quite a bit over the years.

But seeing the pain in people’s eyes and hearing the desperation in their voices was a whole new level of fuckery. Awareness dawned on us that burnout is, for many people, a life-swallowing emergency faced without help, support, or even basic human compassion. These poor people are like sailors lost at sea. They use all of their strength to just keep floating for another moment. They’re too exhausted and depleted to swim for land, even if we told them where it was and how to get there. Our voices were reaching them far too late.

We’ve always felt it was our mission to help people. So when we saw for ourselves how many talented, bright, good-hearted people burnout was grinding into a fine powder, our new goal became clear.

Now, at long last, we’re unveiling the fruits of our labor.

The Burnout Workshop, presented by Bitches Get Riches and written by us, is complete. Unlike in the past, you don’t have to attend an in-person event to hear it. It’s available to everyone, everywhere—and you can take it right now.

The Burnout Workshop

Based on exhaustive research and hundreds of conversations with friends and readers suffering from the effects of burnout, our first-ever publicly available online course includes:

A full-ass movie-length video you can watch (and rewatch) at your own pace.

A thick and juicy 75+ page workbook crammed with exercises, personality tests, guided questions, tips, resources, and more.

Empirical research on what burnout is and why it’s so uniquely life-ruining.

Real, actionable ideas to heal yourself with no boot-licking and no bullshit.

By taking the Burnout Workshop, we want everyone to…

Practice identifying the major red flags of burnout, including the three that scare us the most.

Understand the biological processes that make stress both harmful and beneficial.

Know the physiological and psychological effects burnout causes within our bodies

Discover the 5 personality traits that make you easier to manipulate and prone to burning out.

Learn to spot the 5 environmental traits that all toxic, evil, soul-sucking shitholes have in common.

Identify your self-sabotaging behaviors and try exercises to reverse them.

Develop habits, tactics, and scripts to defend yourself from toxic environments.

Laugh politely at our obscure references, cringey gags, and gallows humor.

Learn what powers you already have, and how to wield them to get what you need.

Stop taking personal responsibility for systemic problems.

Internalize the truth that it doesn’t have to be this way.

Walk away with concrete plans for change.

Can I get a lil’ sneak up in this peek?

Hell yes. We’ve posted the introduction to the Burnout Workshop to YouTube to whet your whistle—a phrase whose mysterious and frankly disgusting origins we’ve never considered until just now. Watch it below.

How to access the Burnout Workshop

You can access the video and included workbook together through our Patreon page. You do not need to be a Patron to sign up! Click the link below to get started.

Get The Burnout Workshop Now

If you like it, please share it. We want to reach as many people as we can, and we could really use your help spreading the word!

We made the Burnout Workshop as affordable as possible. The obscene prices random influencers charge for AI-crafted horseshit is both professionally shocking and existentially terrifying to our frugal selves. Not in our workshop, friends. Like Gaston’s bare chest, every last inch of this is covered… with love. It represents hundreds of hours of our labor, including video editing from our amazing producer Ducky, who we take pride in paying a fair living wage for her efforts.

Big major super duper THANK YOU

Over the last few months while we worked on the Burnout Workshop, the blog and podcast took a backseat. (Maybe you noticed we republished a lot of stuff and haven’t even released season 5 of the podcast yet.) This project has been a ton of work for us. We did it in the hopes that this new endeavor could help us reach readers who need help desperately, and aren’t gonna get it elsewhere.

Throughout this process our Patreon supporters stood by us, funding our work and keeping the lights on around here. And they did so without complaint, despite a sharp decline in the frequency of new content. We can’t thank them enough for their trust and patience.

Which is why our Patreon supporters got the workbook for the course FOR FREE a few weeks ago! In addition, Our Moms (the highest tier of Patreon support) are getting the workbook and the course video entirely for free (we love you, Our Moms). So if you’re interested in the course, but you’d rather support our mission with a continuous donation instead of a one-time purchase, you can do all of that through our Patreon.

From the bottom of our bitchy little hearts… thank you. We’ll be back with more of our regular stuff soon enough!

Get The Burnout Workshop Now

[deathtodickens]

A Bering & Wells Gift Exchange comic story for @lady-adventuress. Happy Palentines Day, friend! There are typos and drawos, even after my very extensive, not-at-all rushed, proof-reading, so, many advance apologies. Thank you for the ideas, I tried to stay in line with mistaken identity/long lost theme. Hope it is enjoyable!

Myka was seventeen when Emily Lake, her best friend, disappeared. Whisked away into the night by Mrs. Frederic, crying and inconsolable, cursing her father’s name. It was unreal, all of it, from first kiss to final goodbye. But whatever disbelief Myka had held onto, wide awake in her bed most of that night, shattered entirely on her walk to school the next morning.

She remembers hearing the sirens as she’d finally drifted into sleep but there were always sirens. Sirens were never unusual.

She should have known. She should have known.

Emily Lake’s house was burned to the ground. A smoldering pile of charred rubble, surrounded by crime scene tape, police vehicles, and a white Coroner's Office van.

She could only get so close but she could see all she needed to see.

She doesn't remember losing consciousness, though she supposes no one does when they come to. She remembers the spinning. She remembers the falling.

And she remembers waking up in the back of an ambulance with Mrs. Frederic by her side.

//

Myka sees Mrs. Frederic a lot over the years. Not by choice or chance. Not by want for that woman to be in her life. Just by the mere fact that she loves a ghost. A girl that's supposed to be dead.

Burned up in a house fire.

Buried in the ground.

They'd pulled two bodies from the rubble of Emily Lake's house, too badly burned for an open casket. Too unknown and unrelated to anyone of means to have a proper burial.

Myka went to Emily's memorial at the high school. She listened as others spoke about a girl they knew nothing about. And while she grew angry at their forced tears and fabricated associations to a dead girl they never knew, she, herself, had absolutely nothing to say about it.

Her best friend, Emily Lake, had died in a fire.

Some girl she loves, called Helena, arose from her ashes.

//

Myka sees Mrs. Frederic once when she's nineteen. This time she hasn't passed out. She's at a cafe on her college campus, listening to music through a set of headphones, and drawing in her sketchbook.

Mrs. Frederic sets a flyer down on the table in front of Myka and takes a seat in the chair across from her.

She doesn't wait for Myka to remove her headphones or even acknowledge her presence.

"This is not cute," the older woman tells her while gesturing down at the paper. "This is too close."

Myka eyes the flyer. It isn't hers per se but she'd been hired by someone on campus to draw it for an upcoming event. It's a very simple drawing of two women holding hands, but one of those women looks a lot like herself and the other looks a lot like someone she used to know.

"You don't like my art?" Myka sighs, turning her attention back to her sketchbook.

"She's dead," Mrs. Frederic recites, not at all for the first time.

Myka puffs out a soft laugh, glances up at Mrs. Frederic, and says, "And yet here you are. Again."

"It isn't safe yet, Myka."

Myka drops her pencil. "When will it be?"

Mrs. Frederic looks away from Myka, over her shoulder, out of a window. She says, without ever turning back, "I told you to forget her. She told you to forget her. You know the consequences of not doing that. You've seen what they're capable of."

"I don't know anything. I certainly don't know the consequences or who they are."

"And believe me when I tell you that you do not want to."

"Is it witness protection?"

"Do I look like I work for the Marshal's office, Ms. Bering? Do our interactions scream Federal Government to you?"

Myka eyes Mrs. Frederic up and down but says nothing at all. In response, she receives a huff of annoyance from the older woman across from her.

"The amount of time I have spent running interference between you and that girl is both baffling and exhausting."

That makes Myka smile. Just a little.

"Finish school, Ms. Bering. Keep your head down. Stop this," Mrs. Frederic taps the paper on the table, "and forget her." She stands and turns then adds, just over her shoulder, "I won't be repeating myself."

Myka sits back in her chair, smiles softly up at the other woman, and says, "Let's do this again sometime, hm?"

Mrs. Frederic rolls her eyes up and sighs. Then turns and walks away.

//

When Myka graduates college at twenty-two, she catches a glimpse of Mrs. Frederic in the hallway of the auditorium where her commencement ceremony is to take place. She is mentally and emotionally preparing herself to fend off all of that woman's criticisms, about what she should and shouldn't be drawing, about how she should and should not be living her life, about who she should and should not be remembering.

But Mrs. Frederic never approaches her. She disappears into the crowd.

Myka has always just assumed that she is being watched, that Mrs. Frederic is watching her. But Mrs. Frederic has never, before now, allowed herself to be seen in return.

//

Myka starts dating a boy named Sam when she is twenty-five years old. Sam doesn't remind her of Helena and it's the thing she likes most about him. It's easy. He's nice. They have fun together.

Myka doesn't see Mrs. Frederic the entire two years they are dating. And somehow, somewhere inside of her, she's a little sad about that.

//

Sam is killed in an accident when Myka is twenty-eight.

They had been broken up for a year at that point but they were still close. Still really good friends with a shared love of art and creating, still collaborating to make what dreams they may have into reality.

A lot of Myka's art shifts back into dark places and in those dark places comes reminders of dark histories. Of grief and sadness. Of love and loss. Of all the pain suffered and endured and, mostly, overcome when the perfect person comes along and holds your hand through it all.

For years, that had been Emily.

Helena.

They'd suffered and endured. They'd held hands through it all. Comforted each other, whenever the other needed it most. Together, they'd imagine themselves on fantastic journeys. The innumerable marks on their skin, souvenirs from their mishaps and adventures.

Myka hasn't cried in so long but she cries the night Sam dies. She cries hard and long, for hours and hours. And when she's all cried out over Sam, she starts crying all over again for Emily Lake.

For the girl named Helena whose last name she doesn't even know. She cries until she falls asleep, then wakes up and does it all over again the next day. She does this for a whole week until the day of Sam's funeral and she doesn't know who she cries for more, Sam, Helena, or herself.

It's been nearly four years since their last encounter but Myka isn't surprised when Mrs. Frederic appears. After the casket is lowered and the crowd dispersed, she steps to Myka's side and stands there just beside her for several moments in silence.

And when Mrs. Frederic has decided she's had enough of the quiet, she says, "You did try. I'll give you that."

Myka doesn't know why but this comment, a simple and useless recognition from the woman who gives almost nothing at all, makes her full belly laugh, crying tears of laughter until she can cry no more.

//

Myka is almost thirty when she almost dies of a heart attack. And then, immediately after that, almost dies by large-toe bludgeoning.

"I'm glad to see you attempting to move on with your life."

"Oh, fuck!" Myka drops a mixing bowl of cooke dough and the very thin, suddenly sharp lip of that bowl lands square on her big toe. When she turns to Mrs. Frederic, in her kitchen somehow, she swears that woman is smiling.

Even if just barely.

"That's a new trick." Myka growls, calming her racing heart.

"New to whom? You seem to be an expert in the field of accidental self-inflicted wounds."

"I mean you. In my kitchen. Inside of my apartment." Myka sighs. "How did you get in here?"

"Certainly not by working at the Marshal's office." Mrs. Frederic quirks a singular brow in Myka's direction.

"Certainly not." Myka mimics, lowering herself to the ground, to clean the cookie dough from tile floor. "What have I done now?"

"I've seen the draft of your very telling graphic memoir. I thought we were clear on the lines that should not be crossed."

Myka stops cleaning. "Speaking of lines that should not be crossed, I won't bother asking how you've seen something that exists solely on my computer." She stands and crosses her arms and tells Mrs. Frederic, "It doesn't mean anything to anyone except me. Nobody else would know it's her and it's not like it's going to bring her back."

"Myka."

Myka laughs softly, "Wow. First name basis? I have definitely crossed a line."

"The problem is, that is exactly what could happen. It could bring her back. Give her no choice but to return."

"She has a choice now? Because that's not what it looked like when you dragged her away."

"I did not drag her. I simply urged her to move forward, faster. You saw, with your own eyes, what the result would have been had she lingered with you. Two homes might have burned that night and your family--"

"I have a lot of respect for you, Mrs. Frederic, despite your constant intrusions. But please, do not talk about my family."

"Fair enough," Mrs. Frederic concedes after a sigh.

"You know, I thought I'd have more hope over time. That she was alive. That she'd one day come back. That I could go to her. Or that holding on to her the way I do would eventually mean something. Anything.

"But after all this time, I find myself more often grieving Emily's death. Because it's the only thing that's real in my mind, it's the only thing that happened.

"Helena is just... she's an old memory that I struggle to keep alive. Ten minutes in one night in the entirety of my life. And I don't even know if anything about those ten minutes is real. If it even means anything. If it's worth holding on to."

Mrs. Frederic watches Myka in thoughtful silence.

"I do know that I never want to forget the way she makes me feel. They way she always made me feel. As Emily, before Helena. She taught me so much. She helped me open up. She opened up to me.

"If I can't talk about her, in a book about my life, there is no book.

"She was my best friend and I loved her. I do what I love because of her and having known her and loved her, for the little time that I was able to, still impacts my life today. Every single day."

Myka gestures to Mrs. Frederic and smiles.

"You, Mrs. Frederic, are living proof of that." She pauses to laugh and adds, "Or the most prolific stalker the world has ever seen."

The older woman remains quiet, pensive. And for a second, one tiny fraction of a second, Myka thinks she's going to show some kind of emotion. Sympathy. Sadness. Contentedness. Amusement? At this point, Myka would even take her usual dose of exhaustion. But Mrs. Frederic's face remains a facade of unconvinced underwhelm and boredom.

Her words, however, belie genuine emotion.

"I have a story for you."

Myka arches a brow. "How suspicious."

"Two little girls grew up together, lived similar lives with similar fathers, who mistreated them in very similar ways. In a single night, they had the nerve to fall in love, right in front of my eyes. A youthful, foolish love that should have ended a decade ago. And yet, here I stand, an intermediary between two foolish girls who refuse to let each other go. Even as they risk their very ends.

"One of those girls is the daughter of a dangerous man who once had the power to demand ungodly things be done to the families of even more dangerous people.

"And the other girl, Ms. Bering, is you."

Myka breathes in slowly. Breathes out one long steady breath.

"I have... so much work to do. And yet, for some reason, I spend, have spent, most of my time intervening in various shenanigans between the two of you."

"Me, living my life like a normal human being, not constantly under threat by some faceless boogie man, is not shenanigans."

Mrs. Frederic ignores Myka's interjection and goes on.

"Intercepting every little whim of the heart you two decide to try and throw out into the world, in order to find each other without blatantly finding each other, when you both know, very well, that is the last thing you should be doing."

"She's... she's trying to find me?"

"Not the point," Mrs. Frederic cuts in. "The point is that she should not be. She knows that. Nor should you be and you know that. Because they could leverage you to get to her to get to her father. They have tried and they will continue to try. And I will continue exhausting myself to keep you two safe because that is what I am, unfortunately, obligated to do.

"No matter how hard you make the task. No matter how many times you want to laugh in the face of it, believe me when I say that he is not worth either of you dying."

Myka remains quiet. She stills. When Mrs. Frederic says no more, Myka takes in another steadying breath and says, "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you actually care about me."

"I care to keep you alive. And her. Until such a time that I no longer have to care about keeping either of you anything for the foreseeable future."

"I do appreciate what you supposedly do, Mrs. Frederic, but in all of our time together, I have never, at any point, felt unsafe or watched by anyone but you."

"And you are welcome for that."

That, to Myka, is the most unnerving thing she has ever heard Mrs. Frederic say to her. In all of their time.

"So what, her dad was some sort of mob boss's hit man?"

"That's a close enough analogy."

"Why didn't you just tell me all of that from the beginning?"

"You were a child. You're no longer a child. I've seen what you've survived. Even if I myself don't find it amusing, I do understand why you laugh when threatened. Now, do you understand the gravity of this ongoing situation?"

Myka nods, "I do."

"I don't believe you."

Myka rolls her eyes. "I understand that I'm supposed to stop doing what I love to do most, drawing and telling stories about my own life, because you want this to end, sooner rather than later."

"No," Mrs. Frederic corrects, "because your life could end, sooner rather than later. You would not have a life to draw or tell stories about."

Myka breathes in deep.

"I am not asking you to give up your passion, Myka, I'm simply reminding you to be mindful, as your passion influences art that grows in popularity, about how much personal information you impress upon it.

"Or one day you'll turn around and it won't be me standing behind you."

//

Myka is thirty-two years old when Mrs. Frederic appears in a bookstore for one of Myka's book signings and, for whatever reason, that woman chooses to stand in line. Myka catches sight of her when she's at least eight people back, and after three more signings, she motions for Mrs. Frederic to come forward.

To Myka's surprise, the woman does.

Nothing about the way she looks has changed, except that she seems a little less baffled, a little less exhausted. Her visits had slowed, once more, as Myka's preoccupation with Helena's absence continued to wane over time.

"I could have waited," the woman tells Myka.

"The looming anticipation of your next threat was too much for me to handle." Myka smiles. "How is our girl?"

The older woman sighs heavily. All of that exhaustion and bafflement returning to her expression. But Myka is surprised, more than that, when Mrs. Frederic answers her genuinely.

"Insistent. Stubborn."

Myka smiles at the thought of Emily/Helena interacting with Mrs. Frederic in these little ways she occasionally interacts with Mrs. Frederic. A thing she used to think about often but doesn't think about so much anymore.

"Thank you," Myka says softly, lowering her head to face the table below and wiping away a stray tear. When she looks back up to Mrs. Frederic, she adds, "I appreciate knowing she hasn't changed one bit."

Mrs. Frederic reaches into her purse and pulls out a copy of Myka's book. She sets it on the table in front of Myka, who smiles wide.

"You bought my book."

"A birthday gift," Mrs. Frederic says, "for our very insistent friend."

//

Myka is thirty-four when Mrs. Frederic unexpectedly sits beside her on a park bench then holds an envelope out in front of her. And for the first time, in a long time, Myka isn't startled. She almost expects that other woman's arrival.

She says to the older woman, without ever looking at her, "I don't know what they're paying you but I'm sure it's not enough."

Myka doesn't immediately take that envelope but she can see that her name is on the front. She can see that the handwriting is Emily's. Recognizable in comparison to all of the old notes she has stashed away from high school.

Still, she straightens in her seat and asks, "We're on writing terms now?"

"Proof of life."

"Seventeen years ago, you told me she died." Myka cautiously takes the envelope. "You told me to forget about her."

"And nearly two decades later, look where that has gotten us."

"You've suggested on several occasions that I'd be murdered."

"I resisted the urge myself on many of those occasions."

"A joke?"

Mrs. Frederic arches a brow. The playfulness of that expression, Myka finds, is unnerving at best.

"You said they are dangerous people."

"They were."

"They were?"

"We're on the cusp of a resolution."

"A resolution? With very dangerous people? More dangerous than the man who committed heinous crimes against them?"

Mrs. Frederic nods and simply says, "Even dangerous people grow old."

"Then I guess I feel comforted that you haven't aged a day since we met."

Myka can see Mrs. Frederic suppressing a smile.

"You know, in all these years that I've come to know you, Mrs. Frederic, you don't strike me as the type to negotiate with, much less protect, a man who has done ungodly things to anyone. Dangerous people included."

"You refer to her father as a man, which is something I haven't done in over three decades." A pause follows a thoughtful sigh as Mrs. Frederic turns away from Myka and says. "Still, I find even calling him the monster that he is to be too generous."

Myka gives a subtle, understanding nod.

"The thing you may or may not have come to understand, without the proper context, is that some very terrible people are more valuable to when they are alive, worthless when they are dead, when the survival of many more good people depends on what they know. My employers find value in his living, so he remains alive and, by default, protected."

"And Helena? Where does she come into all of this talk of value and worth?"

"She is her father's collateral damage." Mrs. Frederic turns to Myka. "From the moment she was born, he has been using her existence to further his malintent. Without her, he would already be dead."

Myka can feel her blood rising.

"He had money. He had custody. He had power. He doesn't have any of those things now and I promise you, Myka Bering, that he is not worth the energy you will burn being angry at him."

Myka doesn't quite let the anger go. But she breathes a little steadier now.

//

Weeks later, Myka finds a Post-It note on her refrigerator door that she didn't place there and doesn't recall seeing the night before.

It reads: Answer the call. - F

Within the hour, Myka's cell phone rings. No name or number appears on the screen. And when she answers, it's with a tease. She says, "It only took you twenty years to realize you could threaten me over the phone instead of constantly sneaking up on me in public?"

"I told Irene," a soft, distantly familiar voice starts, "you'd tire of her appearing act sooner than most."

The voice hits her hard. Harder than the combined weight of every moment in her past that she has felt sorrow or grief or loneliness beyond measure. She has to steady her hands to not drop the phone. She has to steady her breathing to not fall to the floor.

"Helena?"

Soft breathing turns to soft laughter which turns to soft crying, on both ends of that line.

"Is that really you?"

"It really is."

Myka sits before she falls, carefully lowering herself to the kitchen floor. Clutching that phone in her hands. Her back to the cabinet doors. Her legs folded up before her.

She decides to start off small and easy.

"Hi."

And is rewarded beyond measure.

"Hello again, my love."

[willshipanything-blog]

Breaking the Rules- Chapter 8

Sorry again for the 2 week + gap, but this is a fairly long chapter (and I culled a LOT of stuff already). Plenty of angst and trauma to enjoy! ✨✌️

Full tags on AO3, along with the fic if you want to read over there

Breaking the Rules full chapter index here

(We know Finn isn't in this AU, but this is a story clue!) 🥲

Chapter 8- Better Halves

The rest of the day was perfectly normal on the surface, which felt somewhat surreal after that morning’s events. It seemed the things Max had told you (and the wrought emotion that had sprung up from you both) was an aberration, a temporary blight to the calm comfort that Max so easily provided. Barely ten minutes had passed after ascending the basement stairs before Max was corralling you to get ready, marshaling you and Samson out the door for a walk. Was it a way for him to create distance between himself and the basement, outrunning his mental demons with physical distance? 

But no- Max had returned to his sprightly, upbeat self and remained that way all day. You made lunch for the pair of you. Max did a grocery run. You both watched TV together in the afternoon. He’d even started to circle jobs in the newspaper, littering the ‘Help Wanted’ section with eager red circles. Even if COPY EDITOR- GALESBURG GAZETTE and JUNIOR DETECTIVE- DENVER POLICE DEPARTMENT were a little out of reach. Max disagreed with your opinion. According to him, enthusiasm was more important than spelling and grammar, even if the job was essentially proofreading. Furthermore, Max informed you, the police might still hire him- his 2 priors were only minor, after all. Just possession- not possession with intent. His voice faltered even as he spoke, your derisive look probably also helping him realize that idea was dead on arrival. He mumbled under his breath before putting a red cross through that second job posting. 

If the usual daily routine wasn’t signifier enough, your ribbing banter marked an almost certain return to normality. As if Max hadn’t shared his abusive past, as if you hadn't both wept for the things that had happened, things that had been lost and hidden for years suddenly wrenched from the shadows and thrust into the light. As swiftly as it came, it went- a switch had been flicked, and it appeared Max was content to forget. Dousing that pain in darkness once more and illuminating the pleasantness of the here and now, his effervescent personality returned. 

As genuine as Max’s carefree attitude seemed, you thought you knew him well enough by now to know the truth, and figured you could read him almost as well as Al. Something in your gut that told you Max was still affected by what he’d told you. Maybe it was the longer than usual walk, a hint that he didn’t want to return to the house so quickly. Maybe it was that he’d played with Samson a little more today, a few extra treats, a little more love that was needed in this house. Maybe it was the way Max joked around with you today- not hesitant, but he did so with a dull glint in his eye, as if he didn’t have the heart to really mean it today. 

Another similarity between brothers, then. A characteristically Shaw trait. Slipping on a mask in an attempt to obscure one feeling whilst experiencing another emotion entirely. Al slipped between personalities all too easily, even after he’d unmasked himself. But he could still easily hide hurt, disguise pain, conceal guilt. Max might have possessed the same aptitude. You certainly didn’t possess such a skill. You could tell, throughout the rest of the day before Al returned, that Max didn’t quite believe your small smiles, and wasn't convinced by your half-hearted jokes. You supposed you hadn’t had a childhood of horrors to practice putting on a brave face for others. Although you were both concealing your sadness, yours was just more obvious, not as easily hidden as the shroud of obfuscation that Max had constructed. 

The worry that Al would sense your concern riddled you, having promised not to ask Max about the things that had nevertheless spilled out of him. But all seemed normal as you welcomed him home with a deep kiss, your genuine spark of warmth at his return burning the worries to cinders. As he changed out of his work clothes, you continued cooking dinner for the three of you, noting there was even enough meatloaf for Samson, too. As you plated the food, your worries rose from their ashes to burden you again, namely about what you might talk about over dinner. Al would always ask how your day had gone- would you be content to sit quietly and let Max fumble out of that quandary?

You barely had time to think of a solution before a warm pair of hands landed on your waist and Al leaned into your body from behind. You turned your head slightly and felt his mouth planted at the juncture of your neck and shoulder, plying soft kisses along your suddenly flushed pink skin. Soft hums from your own lips soon followed, and you issued a chirrupy giggle when he reached a particularly ticklish patch of skin. Even in your muted, worrisome state, Al was adept in his ministrations that even a small act of flirtation mollified those incendiary worries that had been threatening to reignite. 

“Dinner’s nearly ready.” you said, your voice trembling just slightly at the tingling sensation on your skin.

“Hmm, smells delicious, dove,” he crooned contentedly, nuzzling into your hair “I could just eat it all up.” 

“What, the meatloaf?” you scoffed, understanding the double entendre, given how often Al liked to bait you with them. A dry chuckle escaped Al before he nibbled at your earlobe with a firm bite, forcing a sudden inhale from you. The knife you’d been cutting up the meatloaf with clattered on the plastic worktop as you dropped it. This was fine. If Al’s presence meant the blush on your cheeks could hide any trace of hesitancy, if you stuttered at his playful teasing which hid the stammer of fearful speech, then you could suffer it a little while. It’s not as if you didn’t enjoy the distraction. 

“Oh, sorry guys,” you heard Max say as he tramped into the kitchen “I didn’t realize the kitchen was your new love nest.” Al didn’t move, not affected enough by his brother’s entry to cease his grip around you. Max (also unconcerned by Al’s unsubtle flirtations), sauntered casually to the refrigerator, where the soft clinking of glass told you he was helping himself to a cold beer. Max out of earshot, Al dared another lewd comment, whispering amorously into your ear:

“If he only knew the things we’ve done in this room, sweet thing.” 

You were sure the thermostat in the kitchen must have raised 15 degrees at those fiery words, painting your cheeks what felt like deepest crimson. Al knew you so easily flushed at the slightest dare of your predilections coming to light, and used it as a constant source of personal amusement. 

“Oooh, what’s cookin’, Scout?” Max had waltzed over and was hovering over your right shoulder (your left still occupied by Al’s chin), humming appreciatively at the homely dinner you’d made. Not wanting to turn and give Max a reason to tease about your bright blushing cheeks, you shooed both of them away with a hand, gesturing them to sit down. As you glanced over to the table, you noted Al setting three places with plates and cutlery, and Max placing down three beers he had grabbed from the refrigerator. 

Funny, how their presence at your back, essentially cornering you into the kitchen counter had felt safe, yet now they were a distance from you, a claustrophobic feeling had begun to slither over you, weaving through each pore in your body. Physical distance meant the pervading thoughts in your mind were allowed to edge closer once again. The brothers seemed to have no such demons on their shoulders. It was how calm, how happy both of them were, which felt unfair given how your own thoughts were hurricaning through your head, a constant blight of bad memories running a million miles an hour. This blight felt like a real manifestation, a crushing weight that only you were laden with. Al was unaware of the day’s events, and Max seemed to be coping well, as if sharing his problems had freed him from them, even if the past couldn’t be changed. 

That was the solution, you figured. That sharing your worries would help. A problem shared is a problem halved- isn’t that how the saying went? You were just apprehensive about sharing the origin of your most recent woes with Al. One, because he’d specifically asked you not to ask about those things. And two, because if he was asking that of you, how much worse was he affected by the past than Max? Of course he was, Y/N- he’d become the fucking Grabber for Christ’s sake. You might have told Al just a moment ago (in the safe warmth of his embrace) about all the truths that had been revealed to you earlier in the day. But Max had halted that. Dinner first, talk later, you concluded, pushing those worries to the back of your mind- a thing you had gotten so good at doing in recent memory. You just had to get through dinner and the expanse of the evening. Then, once you and Al were alone, you could talk. 

“How about we play a game?”

You winced at Max’s suggestion. You might normally have found his wording amusing, Max’s unawareness at the weight those words held in this house. But tonight they hit differently, like a skimmed stone suddenly dropping to the bottom of a lake. Al snorted at the proposal of Max’s, still able to find the joke in the double meaning. 

“Oh sure, Y/N loves playing games, don’t ya dove?” he drolled. You couldn’t muster more than a small curl at the corner of your lips, even for Al and his little inside joke that would usually have you turning a fabulous shade of fuschia. You had survived a little teasing over dinner, but the later the night grew, edging closer to the time you were going to talk to Al, your smiles were becoming more forced, your laughter less enthusiastic. All the joking seemed wrong, and you felt if you’d have joined in, any indecent comment or mocking joke would have tasted like ash on your tongue. Al’s eyebrows knitted in the middle, a sign he’d picked up on your reluctance to join in the little shared secret. You swerved his question- and his concerned gaze- by slipping away to the wooden cabinet in the far corner of the room. 

At Max’s insistence, you dusted off an old Scrabble box from the cabinet, setting the board up for the pair of you. Al decided to sit this one out- to watch his dove’s victory from the sidelines, he’d quipped. If you’d been in better spirits, you’d have teased back that Al enjoyed playing games just as much as you did. Instead, you left Max to reply to the comment with an exaggerated scowl. You both shuffled the tiles around in the cloth bag, counting out seven each and starting the game.

Whether playing a board game was a welcome distraction or not, you couldn’t determine. It meant stalling a little, giving you time to consider how to approach Al with your newly-acquired information. But each minute that ticked by was another moment where the weight of the unsaid knowledge hung like a millstone around your neck, heavy and suffocating. 

Between turns, you dared small glances up at Al, who remained in his armchair as you and Max sat cross-legged on either side of the coffee table, Samson lying beside you with his huge head in your lap. Al made little jokes as the game unfolded, admonishing Max for making up imaginary words, humming when his prediction of your winning was clearly on the cards. He was happy living like this, keeping up his little inside jokes and avoiding any serious topics of conversation. But he couldn’t avoid it for long- the bag of tiles was more than half-empty now.

Your turn. SECRET could score 16, if you played on the double word square. You settled instead for REST, for just half as many points. 

Max deliberated and fretted over each of his turns, allowing your thoughts to wander away from the board and to your inevitable confrontation with Al. How were you meant to strike the delicate balance between stating that you know the secrets Al didn’t want told, and reassuring him that he had nothing to fear from you knowing? You wanted to scream; to flip the board; to have the little wooden letters spell it out for him, if only so you didn’t have to have that conversation face to face.  

Your turn again. SHOUT would be good for 16, the H landing on a triple letter. You settled for SHUT, only one point less. 

“Good game, Scout.” Max grumbled as Al read the final tallies- he’d been keeping score while you played. Max grimaced slightly when he realized just how badly he’d lost, but shook your hand across the table like a true gentleman. As your hands clasped, he gave a tight squeeze, and you glanced up at his face, which held a warm smile but an unusually intense gaze. Max nodded slightly, before making excuses that he needed to take Samson out for a final walk around the block. Within a minute, the front door had slammed shut, leaving just you and Al in the house. Before you could speak, Al interjected.

“Dove, what happened?” The gravelly voice was laced with fierce concern.

He knew. Of course he did. Al could read the tiny expressions on your face as easily as reading the front page of the Galesburg Gazette. He could pick up on the cracks in your voice, the hesitancy of your tone as easily as humming along to a familiar tune of one of his old vinyl records. When had he worked it out that you were hiding something? Was it as soon as he’d stepped through the front door after work, or at dinner, or over the evening’s game? The urge to reply with “Nothing” was all too tempting, save for the fact that you’d promised Max to discuss things with Al. That, and Al would always know if you weren’t telling the truth. With a subtle tilt of your head, you gestured to the bedroom and he acceded, rising from his chair with a soft grunt. You scrambled up before he could offer to pull you to a stand, walking ahead down the corridor, avoiding Al’s eye as you scurried into the bedroom. 

After trying to plot out this conversation all evening, you had no clue how to even begin to broach this subject with Al. Al, who didn’t yet know how much you’d learned about his childhood, the abuses he’d suffered, the vile nature of his father who had harmed the family he was supposed to love and protect. Al, who was content evading the subject, happy to subsist on light conversation and inside jokes, midnight kisses and hazy morning caresses. Al, who now only knew pain when he meted it out and you accepted willingly during your infamous game. Living in ignorance (or purposeful avoidance) of those difficult questions that he knew you wanted answers to. Even prohibiting you and Max from questioning things you thought might be wrong. No longer. You couldn’t- you wouldn’t- go another day without voicing what you knew. And, hopefully, wringing out some honesty from Al’s own reticent lips. 

As the door snicked shut, you inhaled deeply. You spun round, half expecting Al to be an inch from your body, ready to embrace and soothe you, to hold your cheeks in his hands and wipe away any tears that might fall from your cheeks with the soft, sweeping brush of his thumb. Instead, he stood by the door in the harsh glow of the overhead light, a stark contrast to the soft crimson radiance of the lamplight that normally illuminated the space. Al stood motionless, save for his hands, where he ran his thumbs rhythmically up and down his fingers in a silent strum. His nervous tic- because he was unsure of what you might say? Or because he anticipated it? Or, perhaps, because he’d seen right through you, and was growing more agitated by the minute that you were keeping those revelations to yourself? 

Anxiety sliced through you like a cold switchblade on your skin. Still stalling, you began a question rather than providing the answers Al seemed eager for you to admit. 

“How did you-” 

“How did I know something was wrong?” His voice was flat, as if he had puzzled something out, but hadn’t yet decided if he should be concerned or furious. “You can’t trick me, Y/N. Something’s upset you, but I didn’t want to ask in front of Max. In case you were uncomfortable.”

His words held kindness within them, but it didn’t reach his mouth to send a reassuring smile. Nor did it reach his eyes- only a blank stare of blue steel, cold and impenetrable, locked on you. Maybe it was better this way- if Al imbued himself with warmth and benevolence, you’d be less likely to want to break that soft facade. Perhaps he was presenting that rough, stony exterior so you’d feel more comfortable throwing barbs his way- that’s what he was clearly expecting.

“I need to tell you some things, I- I just don’t want to upset you.” you stammered, balls fisted tight by your side, as if clinging desperately to the truths that were still unspoken. 

“You can’t upset me, dove.” 

In your mind, you scoffed silently: wanna bet? Ignoring that unhelpful thought, you sat on the silky sheets of the bed. Al followed suit, sitting beside you and turning inwards so you were facing one another. He took your right hand in his left, those promise rings that each of you wore shining, staring up at you beneath the bright light. Heartening you. Your promise: to be good- and didn’t that include telling the truth? His promise- to take care of you: that included listening to you, even if the outcome might be emotional unrest. 

“What’s all this about then, little thing?”

His face, when you gathered the courage to look at him, was still stoic, as if in reassurance that the things you might say wouldn’t affect him, like a dam wall impervious to external pressures. You swallowed a dry gulp, your throat dry with anxiety, but began, hoping those walls would hold. 

Al sat silently as you relayed what you knew, statuesque save for a few tells. When you began with the fact Max had told you things about their father, his grasp on your hand tightened slightly, an eyebrow twitching in response. You defended that with the truth- that Max had spoken to you freely, with no incitement from you. And you defended Max, too- arguing that Max shouldn’t have to bottle up his feelings, not when he clearly needed to bleed out the hurt inside him. You sensed Al shift uncomfortably at that, but you continued. As you spoke of the terrible deeds that had been inflicted on the young brothers, his grip relented and his glassy blue eyes fixed on a spot somewhere on the wall behind you- as if he’d already replayed those events in his head thousands of times, and your tale was a retelling of a familiar story. The same cruelties, just at a slightly altered angle, based on Max’s perspective of those occasions. 

You finished, and blue eyes devoid of emotion flicked back in your direction. His brows were straight, mouth neither grimacing or smiling. As if he was still deciding how he felt, or wasn’t sure how to express the too-many thoughts that were probably running through his wearied mind. You needed to see if the dam walls had been breached, if your words had hurt as much (or more) than his father’s belt. But there were no cracks or fissures in Al’s sober expression- sadness, perhaps, but he hadn’t been broken by what you’d said. But, you realized- how could you break something that had already been broken years before?

Al’s stony silence wasn’t particularly unusual, but you’d expected some response after your confession. Instead, you opted for a little reassurance of your own. 

“Al, I know you don’t want my pity. I know that. But I need to say it, just once,” He grimaced, but you merely gripped his hand tighter in yours and continued. “I am sorry, truly, for what happened. To you, and Max.”

The ugliness Al had faced needed acknowledgement. It was obviously a precursor to what had come after, and to ignore its importance would be living just another lie. To pretend it hadn’t happened now would be like you and Al living a contrived existence built on weak, crumbling foundations. Even if you might never untangle the puzzle of it all, the cause and effect, the chain reaction that had set so many horrific events in motion. 

Al hadn’t responded to your sympathetic remark, but his grip on your hand had remained tight, and his right hand had risen to cup your cheek in his palm, a soft thumb brushing the faded scar on your cheekbone. He knew the motion soothed you, though the reminder of why it was there lit a white-hot spark within your blood. The one facet of all this you realized you were bitter about. You had been hurt that Al hadn’t shared his story with you, when he knew every aspect of your own suffering, having been the source of so much of it. True, you hadn’t had a childhood full of terrors, but you were confident that Al was doing himself no favors by keeping it locked inside of him. He’d been living in his own solitary hell by not sharing, not communicating about the worst parts of his past. Why couldn’t he have told you- weren’t you past the point of secrets and lies?

“Al I just- I don’t know why you never told me.” Your earnest, somber tone and your cracked voice was evidence enough how much this fact had hurt you. Al’s thumb retreated from your cheek, but his hand remained aligned against your jawbone, the warm palm and cold rings disseminating both warmth and shivers through you. He inhaled, then spoke on a regretful sigh:

“It’s just like you said, Y/N- I didn’t want your pity when I didn't deserve it. And I didn’t want you to shift the blame to someone else for-” the reply had been curtailed, but you both knew how it would have ended. I didn’t want you to shift the blame to someone else for the things I’ve done. 

“Then I won’t,” you responded curtly, receiving a startled look from Al, who retreated his palm from your cheek at the remark. “I won’t use your past as an excuse. The things that man did to you- they don’t exonerate the worse things you did because of them.” If Al was alarmed, you were equally shocked at your own bluntness at that moment. However, the words you said were truthful, and you were glad your candidness outweighed your tact just then. Al seemed to appreciate it too, giving a faint nod and a soft hum of acknowledgement. 

“Thanks, dove. As long as you understand that.” he said in a gruff rasp. With your hands still connected, you looked down once more at the ring on your middle finger, then the one nested on Al’s pinky. In the harsh light of your shared bedroom, one more revelation couldn’t hurt, surely. 

“Can I ask just one thing Al- something about what Max said?”

“What do you want to know, dove?” Good. With the past exposed for you both to see, Al wasn’t about to start avoiding the subject so easily. 

“I asked Max if you ever fought back. He said ‘not then’. But did you, after a while?”

“Oh- that,” Al answered, “Yeah, Max doesn’t know the whole story there.” Al rose, your fingers disentangling as he did so. You remained sitting on the edge of the bed, watching Al intently as he began to pace along the shag carpet, one hand held up to his chin in quiet contemplation. When Al swiveled around to face you again, his eyes were tinged with darkness- he wasn’t sad anymore. This was Al angry. Your fingers clenched the silk sheets below you, and you listened breathlessly to the story. 

“I’d not long turned 16. I came home one day, and I could hear that fucking belt as I walked in the door. Max was crying, he was screaming and I saw red. I got between them both, told him it was my fault- I didn’t even know why Maxie was in trouble. I don’t think that piece of shit cared either way- he was happy to start on me.”

By this point, Al’s fists were bone-white, clenched tightly by his sides. Your own, if you dared to look, might have been a similar shade, gripping the blood red sheets beneath you. Al gave a low, breathy exhalation, as if he’d remembered something funny, before continuing, the intense ferocity of his gaze burning into you. You looked right back up at him with, not daring to break the taut, invisible connection between you both.

“I’d been damn-near pushed down those stairs, and he’d left me down there for the night. I could barely move, just wanted to pass out, but the phone- that fucking phone- it was connected back then and he’d ring it. To taunt me, to keep me awake. I cut the damn line, ripped the cord outta it. He realized, of course, and came right down. Picked up the receiver and started hitting me with it. Over and over and over. I was so tired, Y/N, so tired of it all-”

With Al looming over you in the bedroom, you could easily picture him in his father’s place, phone in hand and using it as a weapon. You looked on wordlessly, transfixed- enthralled and appalled in equal measure. Al paused, licking his lower lip with his tongue. An old familiar glint in his eyes. Not just a retelling of the violence, but the hunger for it, the thrill of it all. 

“I just balled a fist and swung hard for the bastard. Caught him right in the jaw. He fell into the wall, not quite knocked out cold, but dazed enough to stay down. Guess he never expected- never realized how much I was growing. The belt was still hanging from his other hand- I grabbed it. I used it. I had to. I wanted to.”

The image of Al’s father hanging over you morphed into Al now, a grotesque transformation in front of your wide eyes. The abused son fighting back. But, in doing so, undoubtedly taking on the mantle himself now. Were you imagining yourself as his father, receiving deserved retribution with each blow- or were you one of the boys it happened to years later? The lines between Al and the Grabber had been so clearly defined lately, but now the lines between Al and his father were blurring, bleeding into each other like a reckless watercolor of pain and ire. Fighting back was understandable- but at what point had Al cracked, a switch flicking in his brain that violence and fear and rage were things to be savored? Al seemed to calm, taking a long, tremulous breath before he spoke again, more sadly now.

“I left him there and walked myself upstairs. I remember my mom’s hands- they were shaking as she patched me up, and we were both crying in the bathroom. Max was watching us from the doorway. It changed after that- he never touched us after that. He was still a fucking vile man, but he left us all alone. Sat in his easy chair, watching TV and drinking himself to death. Luckily, that only took a few months.”

A happy ending to the story, or at least one of justice against mindless cruelty. Why then, couldn’t that have been the end? Why did the things after need to happen? Al was still standing in front of you, visibly shaking from the effort of sharing those broken fragments of himself. Your next words escaped you before your mind realized the crushing weight of them.

“You were old enough, big enough to fight back. Not like the other boys.”

There it was. The awful realization of what you’d just said. Al pursed his lips tight, blue eyes now ablaze with indignation- not at you per se, but at your words, honest and brutal as they were. The dam had burst. Too much pressure forcing itself against those stone walls of his mind, and you’d finally breached them. Surprising then, when his answer came in a calm wave. 

“Exactly, Y/N,” he said flatly, and you looked up through watery lashes at the agreement. “You’re understanding why I don’t deserve you, or anything. I'm glad you’re finally getting it. Maybe you’ve realized you should never have stayed.”

“No- Al- I-” you stammered pathetically, any response you might have had fracturing and splintering into a million tiny pieces on your tongue. Your head bowed and focused on your palms clasped in your lap.  You couldn’t even look at him after you’d said it, repulsed by your own cold, cruel words. Like a misbehaving child, a naughty girl- perhaps you deserved punishment for that vicious cut you’d delivered. Ashamed by your callous comment, after he’d finally shared that part of his existence that had for so long been sealed. You still didn’t glance up as he left swiftly, slamming the bathroom door behind him. 

Still under the harsh lighting, you sobbed silently into your sleeve; drawing attention to it might have lent itself to sympathy, which you didn’t deserve. Why had that comment been the first response to Al’s harrowing account? That he’d been fortunate and able to escape the basement, when others hadn’t been so lucky. The clarity of the thought hit you like a bullet in your heart. Al hadn’t ever really escaped the basement. Even if he’d fought back, ascended the stairs, defended himself and his family, an ensnaring darkness would always be holding him hostage, twisting his reality, warping his morality. A part of Albert Shaw would always be trapped in those depths.

Al burst into the bathroom, kicking the door shut behind him, instinctively turning on the sink faucet full force before hauling himself over to the toilet bowl. As he hugged the cold porcelain, he retched up the contents of his stomach, hoping his dove wouldn’t hear this gut-churning, visceral reaction. Al wondered, as he spat into the bowl, what part of all this had affected him the most. 

Surprisingly, it hadn’t been Y/N’s comment about Al’s crimes, how he’d picked boys who had no hope of fighting back the way Al had as a teenager. His crimes were his own burden to carry, his own debts to repay one day. No, it was the way her perception of him could so easily change. She loved him, but how far could that go if those horrific memories kept resurfacing? One day in the future, the cons of staying might just outweigh the pros, tipping the scales and shattering the precarious balance of the relationship beyond repair. 

Did she often see him as just as evil as the day he had taken her? Still that monster who had lured her in with a cheap trick, had bled and beat her black and blue, had used her body in the worst ways. Did she still think about the pain and violations whenever he touched her skin? The thought made him gag again, but he had nothing left in his stomach and heaved up watery yellow bile into the bowl. 

It was a strange paradox: Al wanted her to see clearly that he was no hero, and undeserving of pity. But at the same time, he didn’t want her to truly leave, and he’d spoken to her from that place of self-loathing when he’d suggested she shouldn’t have stayed. He’d have to go back to her soon, to explain that he’d spoken in anger, impulsive and wrong. He heaved himself up from the floor and stumbled over to the sink, splashing his face with water, running a frantic hand through his hair before turning off the faucet. He braced himself against the sink before looking into the mirror in front of him. Only the thought of his love in the next room held him back from punching the glass with a clenched fist. He really did look like his father, but a worse reflection of that bastard, like a warped, misshapen image reflected in a funfair mirror. 

His father had been handsome, too, and for years Al had wondered whether that had been used to an advantage. His mother, so gentle and sweet, lured in by the charismatic charm and gleaming white teeth, only too late realizing the monster buried beneath that facade, those teeth belonging to a wolf who had trapped its prey. Entrapped, just the same way Al had done to his little thing. He wondered if that same face he’d seen a hundred times, snarling and screaming, coming for him with the belt, was exactly what she had seen when he’d first locked her away in the basement. 

He had told her the bones of that fateful day when he’d fought his father, though a few details he’d omitted flashed through his mind. His father’s frozen expression, the fear of a son who was getting stronger every day, almost a man. The memory of him picking up the receiver, still smeared with blood, holstering it back on the wall as he spoke to his father. ‘This won’t work anymore.’ How he’d leaned over, spitting on him as he grabbed the belt from his father’s trembling, wrinkled hands. He’d snarled between lashes. ‘You don’t touch me.’ Thwack! ‘You don’t touch Max.’ Thwack! ‘You don’t touch mom.’ Thwack. ‘You do NOT control us anymore.’

A pathetic, hollow lie, of course. Even after his father had gone, Al wasn’t free. He’d been so alone- Max had left this house first chance he got, and then his mom had died not long after. 

The years of torment, the violence, the screams- it had twisted his mind and led to the creation of that vile creature who still couldn’t shake the past from his consciousness. Every abuse and anguish playing on repeat in his head. Naughty Boy. Naughty Boy. Naughty Boy. He wasn’t, was he? Not if someone else was. Al didn’t pretend to understand it- he just knew that he’d been wired wrong, those events serving to short-circuit his brain and fill his mind with sickening, poisonous thoughts. Still, he wasn’t about to place blame on his father- Al had committed those crimes alone, those conscious decisions that he would never atone for. 

He returned to the bedroom, where she had flicked on the soft, warm lamplight and pulled back the bedsheets to welcome him in beside her. As he accepted the invite, she looked up at him, her beautiful thick lashes wet with fresh tears, a wary gaze in her wide eyes. It wasn’t fear, Al was sure. But in some sick way, he wished she did feel that sometimes. Because when she lived in that eternal, hopeful dream, where she saw the best in him, what was inevitable except disappointment when she remembered all the things he’d done? She inched close to him as he lay down beside her, close enough that he could smell her sweet, intoxicating scent, close enough to grasp a lock of her hair and rub it tenderly between his thumb and forefinger. 

“I’m sorry I upset you, Al.” Upset. A word with more than one meaning. 

Did she think he was mad, angered by her indelicate words? Or was she asking if he was genuinely sad at- well, anything and everything. Past and present. It was a potent mixture of both meanings, Al figured- but none of that pain was her fault directly.

“My perfect, perfect girl. I told you before, didn’t I? You could never upset me, dove.” He brushed away a final, errant tear from her cheek.

The worst she could do was tell the truth, and whose fault was it that the truth was so heinous? The topic of honesty twanged in his chest like a discordant string, spoiling the soft melodies of her sweet voice who only wanted to make him happy. Al continued.

“I’m sorry for what I said. It’s all just- well, it’s a lot for me. I’m sorry that it wasn’t me you found out most of it from.”

“No. I can understand why you didn’t want to talk. I can’t even imagine.”

But she could imagine those things. She’d been through the same, and worse. How was she so selfless, almost to the point of ignorance? It couldn’t be easy to forget, but if her and Max could be so optimistic, Al could try better too. Be the man she saw all the time, not the undeserving one he saw in the mirror. The better side of himself, for his better half. Always for her. 

“You know I’m staying, don’t you Al?” her fingernails softly grazed the scar on his chest, a reminder that she had made that decision before, and would uphold that promise. 

He wrapped her up in his arms, small and delicate compared to his large frame, but infinitely more powerful. Because what if she did leave- Al would be broken completely. He trusted her promise- to always be honest. He didn’t doubt for a second that she would stay with him, not when she was here beside him, reassuring and kindhearted to a fault. He needed to feel her, her warm body pressed against his, smell her scent, hear her hums, or else feel like any moment she might vanish like a rabbit in a top hat. To wake up with an empty space next to him, after knowing the feel of her in his life- he’d suffer his father’s torments a thousand times over before accepting that as a reality.

[all-pacas]

HEY HIMYM ANON, i found a draft for you! i actually quite like this, maybe i'll work out an ending. it was mostly written out of spite, iirc - maybe my least favorite part of the finale is the idea that "this whole time you were talking about robin!" because. way to miss the point, ted's kids.

--

It is not a story about Robin.

After Tracy had passed, he’d spent weeks, months, ready to follow. To give up. To surrender to it, the grief and luxury of sleeping for days at a stretch, missing her, the smell of her, the smell of her hospital room, sickly sweet and sharp and deadly. They’d done everything right. Everything they could. Taken the kids traveling, taken Tracy to New Zealand, to Paris, blowing their savings on oncologists and presents.

It had been bad, when the cancer caught up and the money ran out and Tracy talked for her doctors alone for an hour and told him firmly, gently, that she was done with chemo. They had still smiled and laughed and photographed and filmed, filling album after album, their fridge full of second hand casseroles. Smiled until it hurt and dug and tore, ripping through his skin, yanking him apart.

It had been bad.

Others would take the kids for days at a time, Barney blowing in from Manhattan to take them to zoos and museums and Lazer Tag, Lily teaching Penny how to apply mascara, eyeliner, buy her first bra. Marshall cutting Ted checks, depositing them without asking first, each generosity another blow.

It is not a story about Robin.

She moves back to New York in ‘26, he hears, from Marshall, who hears it from Lily; runs into her in person some time later. She is beautiful, pristine, untouched. Smiles and glad-to-see-yous. Polite hugs. Polite, continental kisses. He’s glad to see her, glad to see her well. It’s shocking how much they remember, how easy it is to resume five year old conversations. She doesn’t mention Tracy, and he takes it for politeness and avoidance until one afternoon it hits him: she has no memories of Tracy to share.

--

Barney has joint custody of his daughter, who, at seven, loves animals, outer space, and her older cousins in that order. They go to the Bronx Zoo, the five of them: Ellie following Penny around, Luke on his Switch the whole time, Ted and Barney hanging twenty paces back and keeping an eye on the kids.

Ted’s laughing, actually laughing, at some insane work story of Barney’s when he thinks: I can’t believe we’re still friends, and in the lull he says: “We’ve been friends twenty five years.”

“Of course we have,” Barney says, mouth twisted in incredulity. He’s wearing a suit and his hair is slowly graying and twenty five years ago he started talking to Ted at the urinal, when Ted was twenty five.

Penny is getting a little snappy with Ellie, who wants to follow her into a public bathroom. Penny stomps over to Ted in a huff, and Barney takes the younger kids to get ice creams while Penny complains.

Ted hums. “Did I ever tell you how I met your Uncle Barney?” he asks.

--

They all get together for Lily’s fiftieth. The Eriksens hire caterers, waiters, rent a Long Island event hall. White tie: Barney shows up in Westchester with tuxes for Ted and Luke, claiming he doesn’t trust them to pick out their own. Penny is twelve: Lily helps her curl her hair, buys her low-heeled pumps, and she looks so much like Tracy that Ted has to go into the washroom and sit, lost, for several minutes, until he can emerge smiling and tell her how beautiful and grown-up she is without crying.

He and Marshall split a joint in the parking lot, and it helps. Perfectly legal nowadays, but the furtive feeling brings him back, makes him feel younger and reckless. Lily is fully manic, and Barney sneaks Marvin half a glass of wine.

They take pictures: the four of them, the Eriksens alone, the four of them plus kids.

Robin arrives half an hour late. Polite hugs. Kisses. Lily pleased to see her, everyone else hugging and exchanging small talk. Robin isn’t invited into the first set of pictures, but it might have been an oversight. Ted spots her, lips thin, as he’s smiling huge and fake on Lily’s order.

He and Marshall catch Barney smoking in the parking lot after their joint. “I thought you quit,” Marshall calls, joking, heading back in.

Ted lingers. “Doesn’t count,” Barney says shortly, before he can say anything.

“Robin?” Ted guesses, and Barney shrugs.

“I get it,” Ted says.

Barney stubs out his cigarette butt under his heel.

“We never really talked about any of it,” Ted says, looking off to the banquet hall.

“What’s there to talk about?” Barney asks.

[yuppieresearch]

YUPPIE PSYCHO: A COMPLETE TIMELINE

since i received the collector’s edition, i thought it would be a good time to type out the yuppie timeline! this is ordered from past to present, and does not include much elaboration on events or in-game evidence. if you are confused about a certain event or want to know where i found a certain date, please ask! i am always happy to share.

1918 — João Sintra (father of Domori and Rei) is born.

1924 — Xiu Ying (mother of Domori and Rei) is born.

1924-1951 (implied to be sometime in the 1950’s) — Domori is “adopted” by the Sintra family.

1951 — Sintracorp is founded by João Sintra.

1958 (March 21st-April 19th, an Aries) — Irina Rostov is born.

1960 (April 20th-May 20th, a Taurus) — Hugo is born.

1961 (October 23rd-November 21st, a Scorpio) — Rei Sintra is born to João and Xiu through Domori’s blessing.

1962 (November 22nd-December 21st, a Sagittarius) — Jenna Malone is born.

1963 (January 20th-February 18th, an Aquarius) — James Spader is born.

1965 (June 22nd-July 22nd, a Cancer) — Eric Marshall is born.

1966 (August 23rd-September 22nd, a Virgo)— Inay Doshi is born.

1968 (May 21st-June 21st, a Gemini) — Mappy is born.

1968, December — The Cornucopia Project begins.

1969 (February 19th-March 20th, a Pisces) — Marta Sosa is born.

1971, May 2nd — The last photo of the Sintra family is taken. Domori and Rei switch bodies.

1971 — Domori, in the body of Rei Sintra, goes missing and Rei is presumed dead.

1971 (implied to be June) — Rei Sintra, in the body of Domori, is burned at the stake.

1972, April 2nd — João Sintra commits suicide.

1973, May 10th — Xiu Ying takes over Sintracorp after the death of her husband.

1973 (July 23rd-August 22nd, a Leo) — Anthony Chapman Jr. is born.

1973 (December 22nd-January 19th, a Capricorn) — Catherine Hicks is born.

1974 (September 22nd-October 23rd, a Libra) — Brian Pasternack is born.

1981 — Xiu Ying establishes a protocol that grants Rei immediate succession to the CEO position.

1981 — Xiu Ying begins to hire witch hunters; Hugo is hired as a janitor as well.

1982 or 1983 (the gravestone and Sintra say different dates) — Xiu Ying dies.

1983, December — The sixth floor in the Sintracorp building is closed. Presumably, every Sintra android remaining is destroyed. (spader possibly began his contracted work with sintracorp around this time.)

1984, April 4th — The old Sintranet becomes corrupted. Employees are given updated computers. (possibly due to the devil’s influence?)

1982-1989 — The witch hunters A.M., R.C., and E.N. converse via handwritten letters.

1989, November — R. Corvo is killed, and this is heavily implied to be done by Hugo.

1989 — A. Moeta and E. Nazari are killed shortly afterwards.

1995, possibly— TIKITAKA becomes chief of security. (in one of his notes, tikitaka says he has been connected to the system for 58 weeks. this is a year and six weeks. the note is undated, so i merely used brian’s starting year as the base point.)

1996, either December 2nd or February 12th — Sintracorp sends a letter to Brian Pasternack, saying he has secured a position in their ranks.

1996, a week later (either December 9th or February 19th) — Anthony Chapman Jr., Catherine Hicks, and Brian Pasternack arrive at Sintracorp.

[proosh]

you mentioned your ffxiv 2p gil recently. what is he and what's his lore? :3

oh anon you know how to cheer a gal [gender neutral] up.

It's a bit of a long story and there's technically two canons -- one where he is the Warrior of Light and the "RP" lore where he isn't. They're mostly the same so I'll make a note where they diverge, but this is getting cut for length. Please enjoy <3

August was born Augustus quo Litus, the half-Hyur son of a Garlean centurion and was raised as minor nobility within the comfort of the elaborate imperial aristocracy. His mother passed when he was a child and in the wake of her death he set himself towards becoming a medicus with the natural magical talent his Hyuran heritage allowed him. As a young teen rejected his birthright to an officer commission and insisted he be allowed to join the military as a fresh enlisted, against his father's wishes. He got his dueling scar in the process of proving himself capable.

He was a quick study, even as a teenager, and by the time he was in his early 20s he was Augustus kir Litus, holding the rank of Medicus Veteranus. It was around this time the Empire marshaled their forces and his unit was called to bolster the ranks of the VIIth Legion as the Meteor Project came into fruition.

Officially, Augustus kir Litus was recorded amongst the thousands dead or MIA as a result of Bahamut decimating Carteneau Flats. Less officially, he managed to survive by throwing up a magical shield for himself, and the process very nearly killed him and left him aether-sick for weeks afterwards, shellshocked and wracked with the awakening of his Echo.

In the 'verse where he's not the Warrior of Light, this is where light-aspected aether-poisoning turns his eye and the tips of his hair white.

August defected after that, unable to bring himself to return to the nation that dropped a moon onto the heads of himself and his comrades.

In the five years hence he has made a living as a professional mercenary and stoic healer for hire, where eventually he either falls ass backwards into being the Warrior of Light or ends up cooperating and joining a Free Company to continue his work.

In the 'verse that he's the Warrior of Light, the hair+eye bleaching happens as a result of the events of Shadowbringers, but I won't spoil anything to do with that.

In either case August is actually a deeply closeted egg, but she doesn't know that and I'm still figuring out how to fit her egg cracking into the timeline of the MSQ, lmao

In any case, August is my beloved blorbo and my excuse to RP "the straight man" and also to put him into increasingly stupid slutty outfits for my own enjoyment, but I hope this is what you were asking for awfesgrfdgfnhmgj

Some of the stupid slutty outfits, for viewing pleasure (not as many as I thought on-hand but. I promise. he is in the stupidest outfits you can imagine)

[twistedtummies2]

Gathering of the Greatest Gumshoes - Number 23

(For whatever reason, this entry didn't post when it was supposed to. Not sure what went wrong. Regardless, here it is now.)

(As I said on a previous post, putting this one up super early because I'll be flying out of state tomorrow, which means getting to bed and getting up early.)

Welcome to A Gathering of the Greatest Gumshoes! During this month-long event, I’ll be counting my Top 31 Favorite Fictional Detectives, from movies, television, literature, video games, and more!

SLEUTH-OF-THE-DAY’S QUOTE: “Mess and I are very old friends.”

Number 23 is…Humphrey Goodman, from Death in Paradise.

I like to say that Death in Paradise can practically be called “Doctor Whodunnit.” In a way, this show – which has been on the air since 2011, and is still going strong – feels very much like Doctor Who to me, in some superficial ways. The chiefest one is that, with its longevity, it’s changed out lead actors frequently: just as Doctor Who has the Doctor “regenerate” into new forms, played by new performers, to keep the series going, “Death in Paradise” does the same with its chief detectives.

The premise of the show is a classic, old-fashioned murder mystery program, in many ways. It all takes place on the island of Saint Marie in the Caribbean. The crimes that need to be solve tend to follow a similar format: the story begins with some person on the island being murdered (of course). The crime is usually made to look like a suicide or an accident, but there’s usually one small, seemingly incongruous detail that indicates it wasn’t. However, all of the possible suspects were either all together or in sight of each other at the presumed time of death. So, the great question becomes: how could any of them do it without tipping off the rest to their activities?

In the show, the crimes fall under the jurisdiction of the small but intrepid Honore Police Department. The department typically hires out agents from England and France alike, to serve. The main character is, so far, always an English detective inspector, who – through some means or another – ends up assigned to take charge of investigations. Over the 12 years the show has been going on, we’ve so far had four separate detectives, and ALL of them have been awesome. There’s the grumpy and pompous Richard Poole, the very first lead sleuth (played by Ben Miller); later came the jocular and carefree Jack Mooney (played by Ardal O’Hanlon); and, of course, there’s the current lead as of writing this post, the neurotic and hypochondriac Neville Parker (played by Ralf Little). Any one of them could have made a great choice on this list, and I was initially tempted to give ALL of the detectives in the show a collective slot…but after some consideration, I felt it was only fair to include just one. And if I had to pick just one, it would be the series’ second lead – whose era took place between Poole and Mooney – Humphrey Goodman, played by Kris Marshall.

Humphrey was the first truly “eccentric” character in the series, among the four detectives. Richard Poole was more of a fish out of water; a character who was the total opposite of the place he was in. He was formal, stuffy, proper, and the humor largely came from his pomposity being constantly punctured due to the stark contrast between himself and the island. Humphrey was a much more overtly friendly sort, and while he wasn’t exactly someone who got along on the island like it had always been home, he was much less rude and impatient. Instead, the humor with Humphrey came largely from his own personal oddities. Goodman is clumsy, socially awkward, technologically inept, and his moods turn on a dime; going from energetically bouncing around to stone cold serious at the flip of a coin. He was also perpetually hopeless in romance: at the start of his tenure, Humphrey was going through a divorce, and throughout his time on the series, he was constantly falling into and out of relationships with people. Indeed, it was love that eventually led to Humphrey’s departure: towards the end of Season 6 – having been on the show since the start of Season 3 – Goodman left Saint Marie to pursue a relationship with an old friend of his, Martha, in London.

This was not the end for Humphrey Goodman: the character turned out to be extremely popular with viewers, so much so that a spin-off show was created called “Beyond Paradise.” This series focused on the detective inspector’s adventures in England, as he continued to solve crimes with Martha at his side. Interestingly, this was also not the first time Kris Marshall had played a British sleuth: he had previously appeared in another crime series called “Murder City.” I must confess I haven’t watched either of these shows yet, as of typing this, but I REALLY want to. While the other detectives who solved the baffling mysteries of Saint Marie were all excellent fellows so far, Marshall’s D.I. Goodman is by far my favorite island inspector so far.

Tomorrow (in just a couple hours), the countdown continues with Number 22!

CLUE: “I am on a mission to protect the world’s idiots!”

[nickgerlich]

Looking For A Miracle

In the history of American retailing, there has never been a chain whose name became synonymous not just with an event, but an entire holiday season. While younger generations may not have the same level of intense memories as their parents and grandparents, it is still part of our fabric. It starts on Thanksgiving and runs through Christmas.

Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade is as much tradition as is the turkey that will be front and center on dining room tables later that same day. The parade dates to 1924, and it was a shrewd move on behalf of the department store to put its name on it. Little did they know then it would become synonymous with not just the parade, but also the day and the holiday shopping that would ensue the day after.

As if that weren’t enough, Hollywood picked up on this beautiful romance, and in 1947 released Miracle on 34th Street. It was almost like it was a 96-minute commercial for Macy’s as it spun the tale of a drunk man hired to play Santa Claus at their downtown store.

With all of that good fortune, it would be easy to think the company was set up for life. Alas, no one is immune to change, and even Macy’s, which continues to benefit from its association with the parade as well as the month that follows, is in trouble. They just announced 150 more store closings, leaving the chain with 350 stores. It once had many hundred more.

The news comes not long after Macy’s rejected a $5.8 billion buy-out bid. They must be feeling pretty confident that they can take it from here, choppy waters be damned.

But this does not address the elephant in the room, that being the one whose name is Change. Much has indeed changed in the century since the birth of that parade, when downtown flagship department stores were a matter of civic pride and family tradition. I remember my family always traveling to downtown Chicago to go to Marshall Field, then the leading store in the region. It was an event, complete with seeing Santa, dining in the restaurant, and shopping all day. Side note: Macy’s eventually bought Marshall Field and changed the name, but Chicagoans still refer to that downtown location as Field’s.

Today, department stores are in the throes of death, along with the suburban malls in which they reside. Whereas mall owners could once count on these anchor stores to attract the foot traffic that would keep the ship and its smaller tenants afloat, that is no longer the case. The US is littered with abandoned malls or those so eerily like a ghost town that you begin to wonder why we went down this road in the first place.

Of course, we can point to e-commerce as a big contributor for this decline. This includes Amazon as well as the upstart fast-fashion site Shein. But there’s more. COVID taught us that curbside pickup and delivery are also viable options. Mass merchandisers like Target and Walmart have upped their game, and provide more outlets for our shopping dollars. All of these have combined to create a perfect storm.

It’s not like Macy’s hasn’t mounted its own response with a reasonable e-commerce site. It’s just that through so many decades of focusing on its roots that it overlooked the need to grow in new ways. Worse yet, it has developed a rather stodgy image. Just like Sears did toward the end of its life, Macy’s is now where your old aunt shops.

Eeewwwww.

I have to wonder how much longer the chain will survive. I hope they do not face the same fate as Sears. For that matter, I would not wish upon them the challenges that JC Penney has faced. At best they can hope for the comparatively calm seas that Dillards finds itself in.

This is the challenge for every legacy retailer. You have to maintain relevance. And while an annual parade may stir romantic notions, I don’t think it is going to be close to enough to keep the company going for 12 months a year, not just one. I hate to rain on their parade, but it’s looking kind of overcast out there, and it’s time to reach for an umbrella.

Dr “But Miracles Do Happen” Gerlich

Audio Blog

[schraubd]

Tablet Magazine's Great (Jewish) Replacement Theory

Tablet has a new article up on the purported "erasure of Jews from American life," which is getting at least some amount of traction. This is a bit striking, given that the article really boils down to a Jewish-flavored iteration of "Great Replacement Theory" where undeserving minorities are progressively taking the positions and roles and social boons that previously were occupied by, and are the rightful entitlement of, White people  -- only instead of Jews being the replacers (as in classic White supremacist ideology), Jews here are the replaced. Then again, what is Tablet Magazine these days other than "White Supremacy, but make it Jewish"?* So I guess this is on brand.

In any event, the claim that Jews are "vanishing" from American public life seems dubious to me, and some of the data marshalled in support is suspect.** Moreover, some of the "colorful" anecdotes meant to illustrate how the big bad DEI industry is excluding Jews are so bad that they end up undermining the entire thesis. Consider this absolute corker, which I can't help but sharing.

Another Jewish professor applies to work in the UC system. In his mandatory diversity statement, which he describes as “the most shameful piece of writing I’ve ever done,” his sole aim is to convey the impression that he hopes to be the last Jewish man they ever hire. He still doesn’t get the job.

"He still doesn't get the job." Good! Someone who expresses their hope that the UC's never hire Jews again should be ashamed of writing that, and should absolutely not be hired! When your evidence of pervasive antisemitism is "universities won't hire people who are nakedly antisemitic on their DEI statements," I think you're losing the thread.

But anyway. Let's assume, arguendo, that there are proportionally fewer Jews at various elite institutions than in years past (though, it must be said, Jews still are statistically over-represented). There are, as far as I can see, three different stories one could tell to account for that shift.

(1) There are proportionally fewer Jews in certain institutions because there are proportionally fewer Jews, period. In 1953, the American Jewish population was estimated at around 5,000,000. In 2020, that figure was approximately 8,000,000 (5.8 million Jewish adults, plus roughly 2 million Jewish children, depending on how you count it). That's a roughly 60% increase over a period where the overall American population grew by 120%. The result is that a smaller proportion of Americans are Jewish, which makes it unsurprising that a smaller proportion of the population of American institutions will be Jewish. That type of "disappearance" may or may not be concerning, but it's not a problem on the end of elite institutions.

(2) There are proportionally fewer Jews in certain institutions because Jews are choosing to attend alternatives. If Jews aren't literally disappearing, then they have to be somewhere. So the question is "where have they gone?" If the answer is "someplace else they're equally happy at," then it's hard to say there's a problem. For example, suppose we encountered data showing a significant drop in the number of Jews attending veterinary school. After some sleuthing, we learn that many of the Jews whom in prior years one might expect to enroll in veterinary school now are going to dental school instead. That speaks to a potential change in generational priorities, but there's nothing worrisome about it. More broadly, if the absolute number of Jews isn't going down (see explanation #1), then the not-literally-disappeared Jews must be going somewhere, and if they're broadly going to places and jobs and positions that make them happy, then there's no basis for concern.

(3) There are proportionally fewer Jews in certain institutions that Jews still wish to be admitted to at equal rates compared to past years. This is the only story that seems even potentially worrisome: Jews still wish to attend elite institution X at the same rate as in years past, but now fewer of them are actually gaining admission. Yet even here, this story doesn't necessarily demonstrate anything unjust is going on. Many students wish to attend Harvard, most will be thwarted in that ambition, but while that's sad for those students it's not proof that they're being maltreated. Most of the time, it's proof that other as-or-more qualified applicants got the nod -- no harm there. And if the same number of Jews are applying, say, Harvard each year, but the overall number of applicants surged (Harvard received over 20,000 more applications for the class of 2026 compared to the class of 2016), then one is likely to see fewer Jewish admissions simply because the pool has gotten much more competitive.

Ultimately, I think all three explanations play a role. There are fewer Jews demographically (and my understanding is that is even more pronounced amongst younger age cohorts). That there will always be generational shifts in what Jews want to do means there will always the opportunity to hack in a selection bias ("X University has fewer Jews!" -- well, yeah, because more decided to attend Y College). But there's also the simple fact that civil rights progress means that many other groups which previously had lagged in the opportunity to access elite institutions, now are capable of competing for those slots, which means the admissions pool is larger and more competitive than ever before. 

Imagine a simplified admissions model where each year there are a certain number of "qualified applicants" and every qualified applicant is equally likely to be selected for a limited number of supports (i.e., amongst "qualified applicants", selection is random). That's obviously not true, but it's closer to true than we'd like to admit: Once one passes a certain threshold, it is essentially random chance whether the university prefers the tuba player or the violinist; the prospective physics major versus the biologist. I remember hearing one college admissions staffer at (I believe) Cornell say something to the effect that he could create an entering class comprised entirely of applicants rejected from Cornell in any given year and it would look statistically and functionally identical to an actual Cornell class. So at that level, we can say that amongst the many extremely smart, qualified applicants, there's more than a fair bit of chance about which ones actually get the admissions nod.

Suppose that in a given year, there are 20 qualified applicants for 10 positions, and 10 applicants are Jewish. Statistically (again, assuming functional random selection), we'd expect half the admittees -- five -- to be Jewish. Ten years later, there are still 10 positions, but now there are 100 qualified applicants, of whom 10 are still Jewish.  Now we'd expect only one Jewish admittee. But the reason isn't because of any discrimination (Jewish applicants are still exactly as likely to be selected as anyone else); it's because there's now a larger pool of competitors being drawn from. This is not odd but in fact exactly what one would expect as barriers to achievement or entrance to elite institutions begin to fall away: more people can access it, which means that the cadre which already was capable of accessing it now faces a tougher row to hoe in the form of greater competition. 

At this point we start to see a lot of dust get kicked up about whether Jews are "privileged" or not, whether Jewish overrepresentation is inherently unjust or not, whether Jews are "White" or not, whether Jews who successfully got into elite universities nonetheless faced antisemitism or not, and so on. But the fulminations around these point obscure a more essential truth, which is that their resolutions don't materially change the analysis. 

On the one hand, unless one adopts a very simplistic binary where one is either uncomplicatedly privileged or uncomplicatedly oppressed, then there is no trouble whatsoever with simultaneously observing two seemingly undeniable truths: one, that Jews in mid-20th century America faced significant antisemitism, and two, that the relative barriers to Jews gaining entrance to elite universities in mid-20th century America were objectively substantially lesser compared to the barriers faced by, e.g., African-Americans. Different oppressions are different (it's not a simple binary), and along this particular dimension African-Americans were historically more burdened than Jews (which is not to say Jews faced no burdens at all, and is not to say that there might be other dimensions where Jewish oppression looms comparatively larger). If that's so, then relatively equalization in this dimension will see a disproportionate swelling in the number of non-Jewish "qualified applicants", which makes for a more competitive pool. Again, no harm there.

On the other hand, if you insist on arguing that college admission is and always has been a pure meritocracy, and no group has faced any more obstacles than any other, then one has to accept that the current assortment is also the product of this meritocratic assortment and is thereby unobjectionable.*** Suppose (and I don't think is true, but you hear people make arguments like this a lot) that the reason Jews were overrepresented in elite colleges was because "Jews worked harder, and if other groups worked hard like Jews, they could succeed too." Well, then it would seem that what we're seeing now is other groups "working harder", which now puts them in a similar position to where Jews are, thus making the qualified applicant pool more competitive, to the (relative) disadvantage of persons who were already in the pool before other groups "caught up".

It turns out, of course, that the "just work harder" people get really angry at this story too, which suggests they don't actually believe it. What they want is a "heads-I-win-tails-you-lose" account where when their group overperforms it is the product of an unimpeachably fair and just system, but when other groups start to close the gap now suddenly the system is suspect. Needless to say, this isn't a legitimate play.

For my part, there are absolutely legitimate bases on which to say that Jews historically being statistically overrepresented in various prestigious social positions is not the product of Jews doing anything unjust, but rather based on salutary traits like hard work and moxie. But I don't think it's possible to say that it is inherently unjust if Jews don't keep this statistical overrepresentation in perpetuity. Jews can earn (via hard work, an educational ethos, selection, what have you) a greater-than-statistically-average share of the pie; but that does not mean that a world where Jews aren't getting that additional share (or, to be more accurate about it, are getting a share that is still larger than average but now less so) is unjust.

This is one of the great paradoxes of equality and fairness -- at least in zero-sum competitions, which to a large extent admission to elite institutions is, greater fairness hurts anyone who is current inside those institutions, and so to the extent Jews had (for whatever reason) successfully gained access to elite institutions, increasing fairness in access to those institutions may well work to the comparative disadvantage of Jews. The non-Great Replacement story here is an iteration of a generationally-common theme of millennial middle class anxiety -- that of downward mobility even as we work ourselves ragged because there are millions of other people in our exact position gunning for a limited number of slots, any one of whom could hustle just a little more or get one more credential or work a few more hours and knock us or our kids off the perch and send us tumbling down the economic ladder. 

The reality is that much of what we're seeing really isn't about Jews at all, it's about the meritocracy trap. Equality means that more and more people have at least nominal potential access to elite institutions, which means that it's harder for any one individual person to access these institutions, which results in a terrifying and never-ending arms race to become (and stay as) one of the elect few, which generates new inequalities in terms of who has access to the resources that allow them to win the arms race and who doesn't.

In a very basic way, it is true that "equality" is the problem here. In the old days, if you were an elite, you could be pretty confident your kids would stay elite so long as they were basically competent: with relatively few people who could or were allowed to compete for prestigious social positions, being "okay" generally was good enough. 

Once the doors are flung open, though, you're competing against everyone, and now it's off to the races. Today, we don't want to say that "only the children of elite university attendees should attend elite universities"; we want to say that every child should have an equal chance to join the Talented Tenth. But saying that means that, if you're in the top 10% right now, you're committing to the notion that your kid should only have a 10% chance of staying in your social strata, and that's a very unpleasant thought that only grows worse as the gap between the top 10% and everyone else increases. But unless your solution is "we should back to reserving elite roles for the current incumbents", this is necessary feature of an egalitarian social sphere combined with extremely limited "elite" social roles. So if we're not going to accept going back to overt exclusion, we need to tackle the omnipresence and power of scarce "elite" roles. The only actual way to ease the sting of redistributing the pie is growing the pie. The actual, actual villain here is terrifying inequality -- the massive and growing gap between the power, influence, autonomy, and life chances of the elites versus everyone else, which makes so that not getting into Harvard feels like a death knell.

But otherwise, we get articles like this -- articles which are undisguised fulminations against equality and fairness, because what they're really mad about is that others actually are being allowed to compete on equal terms and that makes life harder for those unused to things being quite that egalitarian. 

As Will Emerson puts it, "I take my hand off [the scales] and then the whole world gets really fuckin' fair really fuckin' quickly and nobody actually wants that. They say they do but they don't."

* I have seen this article shared on some White Supremacist forums, whose denizens absolutely recognize the line of argument being made even as they see it as Jews getting deserved comeuppance for our role in promoting racial justice ("White privilege ends, Jews affected most", one cracked).

** Some of the claims are entirely unsourced and I'm not sure where they purport to come from -- the alleged 50% decline in Jewish editors on the Harvard Law Review in less than 10 years is a good example, since I don't think HLR collects that data. In other places the author's methodology seems to be just scanning mastheads for names that "look Jewish", which isn't exactly a hallmark of reliability. The most direct statistical evidence put forward is typically cited to data compiled by FIRE, but I haven't been able to independently find the data on FIRE's website to verify it (I reached out to a FIRE staffer I know to see if he can point me in the right direction). It's entirely possible that data is entirely on the level; it's also possible it's technically accurate but misleading (to give one example that raised flags for me: the number of "academics under the age of 30 at elite universities" strikes me as likely comprising such a small n -- how many under-30 academics are there at elite universities? -- that churn in numbers is probably too noisy to draw conclusions from). But I do have to observe that Tablet has been caught publishing articles in this domain with falsified evidence before....

*** This is essentially tautological: If we stipulate that the system is fair, then by definition the system is fair.

via The Debate Link https://ift.tt/94qihsA

[dalekofchaos]

#AEWWomenDeserveBetter

I don't like how the AEW Women's Division is treated.

It seems like women are a token afterthought in general. Give them 1 seg per show and they feel they've "ticked the box" that women are taken care of.

It's telling that when they have gaps and a need for filler, they pull out weak undercard men and give them more time- often unsigned talent- instead of giving the women a second match or some stories. Last year (late spring/early summer) the top of the card was mostly injured or out. MJF was doing his contract walk-out "fire me you fucking mark" thing, Danielson was injured, Kenny was injured, KOR got injured, Adam Cole got injured, all these things happened within like a 2 month span. That was the perfect time to say "let's give the reigns to the women" and push them. Instead, it was same old bullshit- 1 match at 9:17 pm then they'll bring out an unsigned indie guy for the main event... it's like they can't even fathom pushing women.

I believe that if all the regular AEW men died in a tragic accident today, this Saturday's Collision would be filled with indie men's talent and new hires because heaven forbid they gender swap a story and make an attempt at pushing a woman. And I'm not like the big "cape up for equality guy" or anything, I'm not blind and I can see that some of their women need development; but I also see that they'll let Jungle Boy stumble awkwardly through promos, and Hobbs, and Wardlow, and the Martin bros, keep giving them chance after chance to improve. QT Marshall never struggles to get a TV spot. (I like all these guys except QT by the way.)

I just notice that the same opportunity doesn't make its way to the ladies' roster. It's really hard for them to keep heat when Statlander gets a match then needs to sit on ice for 2 weeks so Ruby can get 1, then Britt can get 1, then they have to sit on ice for 2 weeks so that Willow can do something, or Taya... I mean, I saw Jeff Jarrett on my screen every single week for 6 months. You can't squeeze in time for a Hikaru Shida, a Serena Deeb, a Nyla Rose, a Yuka Sakazaki? They make their best effort to put even the worst men in a position to succeed; but with women, you have to be twice as good and work twice as hard to get half the TV time. Then they blame the woman for not being over enough.

[rebelrayne]

[⭐] = faves

[⭐] and the day after that, too | tom | mature | 13/13 complete

Summer Reynolds fell in love with a boy from overseas when she was eighteen. Ten years later, she can’t say much has changed– even if it has for him.

[⭐] it'll cost you | hamish | explicit | 3/? wip

Hamish Lennox-Ross hated Natasha Moradi. But Hamish needed a date for all the weddings and events he needed to attend. And Nat needed someone to fund her lifestyle. One thing was for certain: it'll cost you. But how much?

jurassic island | noah | explicit | 10/19 work in progress

Welcome to Jurassic Island, where wonders and imagination come alive. Come prepared because remember, you'll never forget the first time you meet a dinosaur.

ten things i hate about you | harry + joyo | teen | 2/4 work in progress

"There are so many ways to hate. Count them yourself."

[⭐] collateral | tom | explicit | 3/? wip

Ariana Navarro wasn't looking for anything serious when she hooked up with a wealthy attendee at a wedding she was hired to do photography for...but then she would have called him if she hadn't lost his number. Tom Beresford-King has never had much luck with relationships and that didn't change after he met a wedding photographer...who never called him after a one night stand. He told her the universe said they should meet again, and fate agreed. Too bad Ari's happily coupled with a part-time comedian and a cute baker has her eyes laser set on Tom. But sometimes there's collateral damage when it comes to love.

[⭐️] jealous. | ryan | mature | 2/2 complete

Alaina isn’t Ryan’s usual type— but the image on the Casa Amor postcard is driving him insane. Part 1 SFW | Part 2 NSFW

mon amour | youcef | mature | 30/30 currently editing

He used his index finger to tilt her chin up as she stood on her tiptoes. He cupped her face gently and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re playing a dangerous game here, mon amour.” She placed her hand on the back of his neck and pulled him down gently. She knew she was trembling, she knew that this could only spell out trouble for her. She didn’t care.

[⭐] on the market | hamish | explicit | 5/? work in progress (S9)

Hamish Lennox-Ross didn't want to go back into the Villa, but after some persuasion from Marshall, he takes another chance. Except this time, he's on a mission to win. The only issue is that Cheyenne Whalen might actually be his perfect match—and the perfect person to blow his entire plan.

[⭐️] off the market | hamish | explicit | 11/11 complete (S6)

Hamish Lennox-Ross doesn't do serious relationships. He had a plan– come on the show to appease his father, get dumped on purpose by being the most repulsive man possible, gain back his bank account. A fool-proof plan until Ava Connolly offers him something more. What's the saying? Don't hate the player, hate the guy pretending to be in a happy couple with your girl.

rewind | bobby | teen | 31/31 complete

Zephyr made it big time when she left Love Island with her boyfriend, Elijah. After catching him in her backstage dressing room with Arjun, an unfortunate accident lands her back in the Villa on Day 1 one year ago, except this time, she’ll make sure she wins no matter the cost. The only question is, will she win the money or the love of her life?