#I have almost no idea about the supply and demand effect on my stuff because I couldn't keep commissions open for too long

[elektroyu]

Oh shoot. You know what I just realized?

If I move out in the next months and I'll have to pay for everything myself like internet, rent, electricity and all that...

... that means I'll HAVE to raise prices really soon after opening the shop 😓 and that really sucks?

[centrally-unplanned]

To talk about monopoly & antitrust, I want to start off with your first day in Econ 101, when you learn "how prices work". The toy model that nearly everyone learns as one of the first things ever is that classic supply-and-demand graph of price and quantity; you know it, I don't need to show it. And in relation to how firms set price in a market, the explanation you get is something like:

"In a world with perfect information, zero transaction costs, rational agents, and no barriers to entry, new firms and/or increased output will enter the market until marginal price equals marginal cost"

This (seemingly) portrays a model where new companies "entering the market" is how prices go down. Like say there are Firms A, B, and C, engaging in oligopolistic pricing for a normal good; what happens is some new Firm X (with the same production costs) emerges with the sole business strategy of "offer prices lower than them because they are skimming" and it drives everyone's prices down in a race to the bottom. That, in a sense, competition between identical firms drives the price equilibrium.

That isn't very true, not in practice and not even theoretically; the 101 stuff just sort of biases you to see it that way. Firm X above is being rational in one way but silly in others; why would it enter a market where its competitors are making healthy profits just to fuck that up, knowing it has no advantage they can't immediately replicate in response? And pay all the fixed costs other firms have already paid to make that 0.1% profit? In real life firms almost never do this, they compete over (actual or perceived) advantage or market segmentation. And it also means that - if all firms are truly the same in a market - cooperating on price, far from being aberrant behavior, is the natural thing to do. Why would I look at my rival firm and lower my price to "undercut" them, knowing that they 100% can just lower it too? We both lose, immediately. In practice, companies often set their prices by looking at the prices of competing firms and matching them!

Many things actually drive the price equilibrium of course, but one of the biggest - and most useful for our purposes - is the substitution effect. If companies defacto cooperate on prices all the time, why is the price not infinity? Well because if you are selling steaks and set the price to infinity, I'm not gonna buy it! I can just buy chicken, for me it's pretty much the same. And chicken is cheaper to make than steak. As a chicken firm, I totally can set my price under your steak and you can never, ever match it; that is a real advantage, one from asymmetries of production. The price of steak is driven by the need to compete with chicken much more than it is driven by the need to compete with "other steaks". And so on down a chain of a million desires and costs and needs.

So to wrap this around to antitrust, there is a common idea out there that monopolistic pricing is increasing from the past because if I look at different industries, so many of them today are consolidated into 2-3 big firms. Your grocery stores are all Giant or Safeway or w/e it is in your city, if you are buying a TV Samsung & LG are half the entire US market. How could these companies not collude on price? Of course they do, and they don't need explicit agreements that would violate extant FTC regulations to do it; they can just softly communicate and feel out cooperation. So you gotta break them up and change the rules so they can't do that.

The trap is thinking this is any different if it was 10 firms - it really isn't! Maybe marginally, sure, and if it was 2000 firms yeah okay the sheer chaos would probably create some price churn; but in the past prices were not driven down by the diversity of firms making price cooperation impossible. The long history of guilds, business associations, chambers of commerce, and so on shows that they had plenty of avenues for cooperation - and often did straight-up set prices. Meanwhile, when Wal-Mart, Target, Aldi, and others all cut prices at around the same time, they are not mainly competing with each other. If they were they would just mutually agree to not do that, without even saying anything! How stupid do you think they are? That isn't hard to do. Instead they are competing with Amazon; with boutique local stores; with restaurants; with the changing price of labor; with shifting consumer sentiment and expectations. The industry concentration doesn't matter.

Until it does of course! Because what is the substitution good for oil? They exist of course, but they ain't cheap; people will still buy gas at gigantic ranges of prices. Here, the fundamental structure of the market is monopolistic - and also a geopolitical clusterfuck, but let's not get into that. Producers openly rig prices sometimes, and antitrust actively regulates against it, and it is a hot mess of governments and companies and all that. Are people who hold patents engaging in monopoly pricing? Obviously, that is the point of patents! It is by design; but there are tons of arguments to be made around creeping exploitation of the IP system. Sometimes hundreds of firms in a dominant market niche will offer complex, bundled products where the price of each piece of obfuscated and the value is subjective, but consensus is you can't not buy the product or you will be screwed and since you can't tell what the product even is, let alone how valuable it is, you can't object when they set the price - I hear these are called "universities", but they go by other names in other sectors.

All of the above are something like "monopolies", which maybe are getting worse over time, but they are monopolies for different, product-specific reasons. I think there is a good deal of FTC work and other reforms that could be done in the US to identify areas where this kind of rent extraction is happening. But what it doesn't look like is opposing blanket industry consolidation. And in fact the correlation is honestly pretty weak. Because identical firm competition does not drive the price equilibrium.

[the-firebird69]

We have a couple announcements and more will come later he got up out and quick to the laundromat as soon as they planned it but sort of I forget to come down and take it apart while I was here and he's pulling his boat business out saying it was a failure and it should be this position is ridiculously obscene you can rent a place for $100 a month and you stuck right near the courthouse like some sort of moron so really he has to fight it so it's an idea and we don't think you did too good the lawsuits are going to start up again tomorrow and they'll probably get more intense and more effective.

---the pseudo empire is taking a beating they're losing a lot of troops they are losing more than they were yesterday and in the Western hemisphere they lost a lot last night and 5% is around a third more than normal it's not too much but tonight losses will be high in the eastern hemisphere the losses are going up they were 65% out yesterday or late last night actually right now they're almost 70% out completely out meeting all their forces dead in the facilities gone at 70% missing and gone or not in their possession at all and there's no troops there there's and it's increasing and ferocity so we're not so sure what's going to happen to them we think they become very small and their leadership so our son and daughter say the Mac proper plan to do it it's a good time to do it because they'll come in aggressively instead of this weird let these same stuff they'll be demanding into run it and we know what to do about it it's going to be a fight with the max through them and that's what these guys want other people will sign up for that duty and they find out it's real later on we're doing it overseas there's a lot of businesses that are freed up already it's a good idea to focus on them and we might as well and we begin a program so we're going to go ahead and set this up it's a lot of car companies that we have to take over and they're big overseas of Volvo Renault VW is one that does all of the northern Europe and it sounds like scanske and he sort of got it and there's one in turkey and Pakistan and it's not done to or den woo or something and that might be India but there's two in each country in this three countries China has four China automotive this one and the nuclear missile area he says yeah that's another there's a few in the world if we have only 20% of the big companies but we'll probably have to help run them and supply them and the other company so probably end up running the Mac morlocks are not capable so Michael too wants to run Rolls-Royce that usually his father does so it's going to be a question my son says he can get a chair position and a president position and his father could be chairman and he's sort of agrees answer the good way to do it you don't think Mac would go for other stuff but that's something they can try and work out it is acceptable to us. It's a lot higher up than estimator and he's laughing it's still kind of that company but they're going to go ahead and start to arrange these things and a lot of factories and we are going to start recording them all so he says we need to be nice to set it up then we arrange for them to manage it right after it's swelled off and have talks beforehand and we're going to start doing that it's a good idea it'll be a lot less pressure from them it would look less divisive and evil and we're not trying to do that immature portrayed so we're going to go ahead with it other things are happening and we're going to list it in a moment

Thor Freya

Olympus

[theminecraftbee]

Hi your fic idea sounds fantastic, and you're absolutely right, Scar lends himself really well to moral corruption character arcs? I think it has to do with the charisma. He sounds so happy and genuine [he is, in fact, both of those things] and it's so easy to condition yourself into thinking Happy And Genuine also mean morally upstanding? It was an interesting thing I found myself falling into during the Mycelium Resistance stuff. Because while Grian was also very transparent [its the principle of the thing!], Scar was transparent for very sympathetic reasons [I'm cleaning up the shopping district!]. And people are helping him fight the resistance, because they want to, and people wouldn't help someone they think is evil, so that gives him even more credibility really! And then suddenly there's a lazer by the HEP building, and you're nodding at it going "Right because he's looking for the Resistance". Until you really squint at it and go, "No wait.... that's a villain move. That can't be good. But it's Scar."

It feels like his nature encourages the bystander effect, almost?

Anyway, I could totally see a world where Scar begins his decent with, "I'm helping these people defend themselves!" Which then turns into, "I'm working both sides, because I need to have allies if I want to survive this too!" Which then turns into a very deliberate, "I've got to make a profit here, and really it's not my fault all this is happening. I wouldn't have to supply if there wasn't already a demand."

Scar should have more villain arcs. He'd be good at it. It's only his love of wholesome hijinks and his wonder at the beauty of the world and what his friends create that holds him back.

[Brought to you by someone who actively plans on giving Scar a villain arc in their current fic].

YOU GET IT. scar is so good at just being affably, cheerfully the villain, it's a role he loves playing clearly. and normally he's sort of goofy about it, and it's an act, but like. right up until it's very much not one. and its GREAT its one of my favorite scar things and i'd love to write something that plays with the fact that scar doesn't mind making himself the bad guy for other people to play off of... and then finds himself actually the bad guy and perfectly willing to continue to be so.

and like. YEAH you have the right sort of descent here that's exactly right. he should have more villain arcs. he may be silly and goofy but he's also perfectly capable of being A Villain. he loves his friends and he loves cool trees and also one time he had an alien who ate people, also possibly etho, and then everyone just sort of moved on from that. WHAT I'M SAYING IS THAT THE MAN HAS RANGE,

[thatrandomwriter]

Rooftop Romance

merle x reader

warnings: swearing, gore, sexual language

“You sure he’s worth it?” T-Dog asked, skepticism written across his face.

“Him and Daryl are our best hunters. They may both share about three brain cells, and Merle is about the biggest asshole I’ve ever met-“

“Hey, fuck you,” Merle cut in. I ignored him.

“But the fact is we need them to survive. We’ll make it out of the city, but you need to go before the others leave without you,”

T-Dog looked conflicted, but after a few seconds he dashed out of the door, racing down the stairs. I pulled the door shut, locking it behind him. There was a strong chance that I had just ensured my own death as well as Merle’s. The sound of the dead beating on the door almost as soon as T-Dog had left seemed to give Merle the same idea.

“Well fucking come on then princess, I ain’t getting any younger over here.” He had that god awful smirk plastered across his face. “You know, there’s a lot I can do with these hands. Maybe I can show ya once I’m free,” he made a crude gesture with his cuffed hand.

“Maybe if you didn’t say shit like that all the time, someone might actually wanna fuck you. You’re disgusting, you know that?”

Instead of waiting for his no-doubt even worse reply, I walked over to see what had been left in Dale’s toolbox. It was mostly screwdrivers and spanners, nothing of any use to me, but I noted a hammer and most importantly a hacksaw. Hopefully it would be strong enough to get through the metal of Merle’s handcuff.

“Call me disgusting all ya like, everyone knows you want a piece of this,”

My cheeks grew hot and I fumbled the saw, almost dropping it as I walked over to him. It was a humiliating feeling to know that he was right. To know that despite what a piece of shit he was, over the few weeks I’d known him, I had developed some form of feelings for him. Merle had found me while out checking the camp’s perimeter with Shane. Having just escaped the city, I was exhausted and terrified, and just about ready to collapse on the forest floor and give up. Of course, Merle’s reasoning for taking me back likely had more to do with wanting to fuck me than anything else, but I wasn’t entirely convinced that Shane would have taken me back if Merle hadn’t been there to bear witness. We weren’t exactly close, but we shared a fondness for drinking and he taught me a few things about using a crossbow. I didn’t fool myself into thinking he wanted anything more than a one time fling with me; he flirted with just about anything with tits. But some small, stupid part of me still hoped for more.

I sat next to him, pulling his hand toward me to get a better look at the handcuffs. When I looked up, he was staring into my face with another stupid grin. I sent him a glare back.

“Come on now, don’t be like that. Last I checked we’re all alone up here, no-one needs to know, part from maybe a few walkers,”

“Would you quit it? I’m trying to save your life.”

“Jus’ trying to lighten the mood. You should really try lightening up sometime, wouldn’t kill ya,”

I rolled my eyes, corner of my mouth twitching upwards slightly.

“Looks like cutting through the cuffs is gonna be a no go, but this pipe you’ve been cuffed too looks pretty old. It’s worth a try at least,” I lined up Dale’s saw, and began working at the metal.

“So I’m gonna be stuck with a friendship bracelet from Officer Friendly?”

The thought made me laugh a little.

“It’s not like you don’t deserve it; threatening everyone with a gun wasn’t exactly your best moment.” I teased. In his defence, he had most definitely been high as a kite when he’d started pointing the gun. Not that that really made it any better.

“I wasn’t gunna shoot em. Definitely wasn’t gunna shoot you, ya far too beautiful,” Merle said.

“And so’s Andrea, right? And Lori, and Jackie, and every other woman who isn’t trying to eat us,”

“I dunno, some of those walkers ain’t too bad,”

I hit him on the shoulder.

“Can’t I make a joke? Or are ya gunna get jealous, hmm?”

I stopped talking to him after that, focusing instead on trying to make any headway with the pipe he was handcuffed to. After an hour or so, I had only made a tiny dent in the metal. Merle was getting increasingly annoying, and the sun was starting to slowly set in the sky. If we wanted to leave today I’d have to hurry; travelling the city in the dark was a death sentence. At least the walkers at the rooftop door seemed to have given up, or gotten distracted by some other unfortunate souls. They had stopped pounding on the door some time ago.

The saw blade bent slightly, but I persisted, determined to succeed, speeding up. Under the strain of my sawing, the blade bent sideways, and suddenly snapped under the pressure, coming clattering to the floor.

“The fuck did you do?” Merle demanded.

“The blade wasn’t strong enough. It couldn’t get through the pipe. I’m sorry.” I felt suddenly numb. I couldn’t look at him. I’d failed. I’d failed him. He was stuck here, to starve or to be eaten by walkers.

“Are you fucking kidding me? I’m gonna fucking die up here, god fucking damnit. Look at me, the fuck did you do?” He grabbed my shoulder with his free hand, gripping me hard, shaking me, forcing me to meet his eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” It was one of the first serious, genuine things I’d said to Merle, and it was a death sentence. Tears pricked my eyes. I didn’t have the energy to hide them.

“No. Fuck that, we’re ain’t done yet. You got a knife, right?” He was still staring into my face, but desperate anger had shifted to urgency.

“Yes, but it won’t cut through metal,” I said.

His grim expression told me that he had already figured that out.

“You can’t be serious. You want me to- I can’t,” There had to be another way.

“You got no choice. It’s my hand or my life.”

It took me a few seconds to process this. The only way out would be to cut off his hand. And I would have to be the one to do it.

“Fine. But I’ll do it first thing in the morning. We don’t have time to get out of the city before it gets dark, and I don’t want you bleeding out overnight.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you cared about me,” His shit eating grin was back. Only Merle could look this smug after discovering his hand was about to be cut off.

“Good job you know better then,” I smiled and sat next to him, looking out over the darkening city. At least we were stuck somewhere with an impressive view. The setting sun sent orange streaking through the sky, bathing buildings in a warm glow. I glanced to my side. Merle appeared to also be taking in the sunset in a rare moment of silence.

*

“I’d do the same for you ya know,” Merle said, breaking the silence after a few minutes.

“No you wouldn’t.” I replied. It wasn’t something that upset me, it was just a fact - if the roles were reversed, I had doubts that Merle would have stayed on this rooftop even for Daryl.

“Course I would. Yer one of the only people I can stand in that group, not to mention ya got a mighty fine ass,” He grinned over at me. I couldn’t help but smile back.

“You mean it?”

“Yeah, course I do. I could stare at it all day,”

I hit his shoulder with mine.

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“I ain’t good with the mushy stuff, don’t push it,” He was still smiling, eyes looking into mine for once instead of straying to glance down my shirt.

“Sounds like you care about me, Merle. More than you usually let on at least,” I was teasing him but this moment meant a lot; in short, Merle was shit at showing anyone affection. For him, this was like a declaration of love.

“Yer not gonna make me say it again so drop it,” he huffed.

“I’m just kidding around. And I didn’t just stay here because you’re a good hunter,” I confessed, staring pointedly into the distance to avoid his eyes.

“Course ya didn’t, ain’t no way you’d let me die without getting a piece of this,” It seemed to be his way of lightening the mood, diverting the seriousness of the conversation.

“We should get some sleep, busy day tomorrow.”

*

When the hot sun awoke me the next morning, I found myself nestled into Merle’s side, head on his shoulder, his free arm wrapped around me. I took a moment to enjoy the feeling of his broad body against mine, before pulling away to wake him up. The sooner we were gone, the better.

“Mornin’ “ he grinned lazily.

“You ready?” I asked, and his expression dropped to one of determined focus.

“As I’ll ever be,”

I retrieved my knife and a lighter from one of the pockets of my rucksack. It would have to do as a means of sanitising the blade as I had very little in the way of medical supplies. Shrugging off the button down I wore over a tank top, I folded it ready to use as a bandage for Merle. I could have sworn his eyes slipped down to my cleavage, far more noticeable now the shirt was off, but I wasn’t in the mood to bring it up.

“Can I have your belt?” I asked.

“Don’t need to ask me twice,” He said, the implied innuendo obvious. He unbuckled it with his free hand and tugged it loose.

I strapped it around his forearm, tight as I could make it, a makeshift tourniquet that would hopefully do something to stop the bleeding. It had to be enough.

Merle reached inside his pocket, and withdrew a small bag of white powder.

“You sure that’s a good idea?” I asked, very aware of the dangers we’d face in the city even if he survived losing his hand. Merle being off his face wouldn’t do us any favours.

“Need a little somethin’ to take the edge off,” He tried to form his usual smug grin, but his mouth wavered slightly. I nodded. Who was I to make that decision for him?

I gave him a minute or so, and when he nodded at me, I took my knife to his wrist and began to cut. There was far more blood than I had thought. And despite Merle’s best efforts to remain stoic, and the effects of the drugs, he was in an unbelievable amount of pain. I had to fight the urge to just give up and cry in a corner, but I did it for him. Even when he begged me to stop, to just make the pain stop. His yelling had begun to attract walkers, a few were banging on the rooftop door and the longer this took the more there would be. He gripped my arm as I cut, hard enough to bruise.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I muttered over and over again as I finished, his hand dropping to the floor with a sickening thunk.

Merle was breathing heavily, gasping through the pain. I pressed my shirt against the wound, tying it tightly and leaving the belt in place. There was so much blood. On my hands, my pants, the rooftop.

“Stay there. I’m going to clear the stairwell, I’ll be right back.”

He nodded.

I unlocked the door and wedged my foot under the door to prevent it opening all the way, a walker slamming forward and right onto my knife. It slumped to the floor. Another was quick to take its place. I worked my way through several before they finally stopped coming. Hopefully only a few had been close enough to hear Merle.

I hurried back toward him. The bleeding seemed to be slowing slightly, though it still showed no signs of stopping. He was losing too much blood. But I wasn’t willing to face that reality.

“You think you can stand?”

“Course I can,” he replied through gritted teeth.

I grabbed his good arm and pulled him forward, helping him stand, putting the arm around my shoulders so I could take some of his body weight. He was heavy, but any help I could give him I would.

We walked to the door and I lead him down the stairwell; it wasn’t wide enough for the two of us side by side, but he leaned on my back and I did my best to steady him on the way down. He stumbled a couple of times, no doubt the blood-loss making him dizzy, but we moved as slowly as I dared, me supporting him when he needed it. At the bottom, another walker lunged towards us. It took me a moment to grab my knife and stick it between its eyes, and I kept the blade in my hand after that. One free hand would have to do to help Merle. It was strange, having to protect him like this. Normally I was certain he’d object to me coddling him like this, but he had no choice but to rely on me for once. We made it to a fire exit around the back of the building in a room with several gas stoves. Merle wasn’t looking his best, blood dripping through the makeshift bandage on his arm. He seemed to have the idea at the same time as me.

“Do it,” He nodded grimly and I grimaced, but didn’t hesitate to light the nearest stove, placing a metal tray on top on the flames to heat through enough to cauterise the stump of his wrist.

“We’re gonna make it back, you know. “

“I know,” He said, but it was easy to see the uncertainty in his eyes.

The metal tray seemed hot enough, and I could tell he was gathering the will to do it, slowly, reluctantly unwrapping the open wound. I wasn’t entirely sure Merle could bring himself to. Gently, I took his arm in my hands, unwrapping it myself. Instead of watching the shirt unravel, he stared down into my face. Despite the circumstances, he still made my cheeks hot with the intensity of his gaze which I somehow managed to meet. I reached up, hooking an arm around his neck and a smile tilted the corners of his mouth. He waited for me to move closer first, and when I leaned my face towards his, he wasted no time in bridging the gap between us with a searing kiss. He was perfectly distracted. It was a shame to waste this moment but I did what had to be done, and drove his wrist down onto the hot metal on the stove.

“Son of a fucking bitch!” He exclaimed, yanking his arm away from the stove, and I winced.

“Shit, I’m sorry, but the bleeding’s stopped, right?”

He glared at me through the pain. “You serious?”

“I said I’m sorry, and I did just stop you from bleeding to death,” I smiled tentatively, and he shook his head, still cursing.

“So ya kiss like that fer a distraction? I’d love ta know what the real thing feels like,”

Kissing him had been stupid. But I was in the mood to be stupid, and I couldn’t resist kissing him again. He somehow mustered up that stupid, endearing grin as I pulled him towards me, lips meeting as his good arm found my waist. I could lose myself in the feeling of kissing Merle, all teeth and tongues colliding with no need to be gentle. His hand scooped me in closer until I was pressed up against him, before drifting to my ass with a squeeze. I hummed in pleasure, forgetting to breathe as he kissed me harder. When we finally broke apart all I wanted was to lean back in and kiss him again and again, to stay like this, pressed as close against him as I could be, not thinking about anything else.

“Knew ya wanted a piece of this,” Merle smirked. God he was insufferable. But I was willing to suffer, so long as he kept kissing me like that.

[awsugawara]

bnha hcs with an artsy s/o [1/?]

i’m going to make this a mini series, so expect to see this AND haikyuu characters too :) i will also do the k-pop hcs too, so look forward to that !

note: your quirk will be the same all around, if implied you have one!

Quirk: AMBIENT ILLUSION - with a single touch of your hand or glance, you are able to make your opponent think that they’ve been taken to another “realm,” but in actuality their body movements mimic those in the illusion; it’s a quirk that can be used for good or for bad; your creativity isn’t limited, but the side effects are headaches, nausea, and sometimes insanity for a short period of time until your stamina runs out or unless someone knocks you out

Hero Name: Chiaroscuro or Chiasu [for short]- referring to the major contrast of light and dark in an image; in italian it is said to literally mean light-dark

enjoy :)

---

s. aizawa

> teacher x teacher scenario tyvm

> you were a popular teacher at U.A., teaching in some of the general studies classes as an art teacher

> students in class 1-C, D, and E would flaunt how cute/hot and talented their pro hero of an art teacher was

> midnight was gossiping about you with present mic and aizawa overheard

> he knows you have your own agency, so how you double that plus being a teacher was beyond him

> “oh midnight! i was actually looking for you :)”

> aizawa-seeing-a-cutie.exe has stopped working.

> for someone who is low energy and stoic for the most part, this was new

> got more acquainted with the other teachers, but you were really close with aizawa

> funny thing is,,,you and aizawa met up a lot after school and you eventually started dating

> the other pro heroes at the school only found out is when midnight had walked in on them kissing

> the students found out about the relationship when aizawa walked you to your next lecture class as he left class 1-A  with present mic

> aizawa glared at them and as soon as he left, your students pelted you with questions, until the teacher told them to quiet down

--- k. takami 

> keigo is like a SIMP for you

> he practically with go out of his way just to buy you new art stuff

> “babe...i don’t need anymore sketchbook paper...i have an office at the school and they supply my paper-”

> “you can never have enough, my dove”

> you work at U.A. as an art teacher and met keigo when you were walking home from the school

> you had a run in with a villain, who was on a mission to kidnap you and he swooped in to save you 

> your art was scattered all over and some destroyed and keigo caught a glimpse of them and noticed your U.A. badge

> “you’re a teach at U.A.?”

> keigo walks you home, if you chose to stay late to work on your art

> when you first started dating, he was wondering why you would stay so late, and you had to explain your quirk to him

> he wants to be your #1 source of ideas, but he gives you space when you’re truly at an artist roadblock

> when he took you flying for the first time, he vowed to take you every now and then because seeing how your eyes lit up at the city below made it worth while

--- t. shigaraki

> shiggy treats you like glass

> i see him as someone that really admires you and your quirk, let alone your ability to be able to create such fine pieces of art

> you were a lone wolf, who met dabi, who introduced you to the league

> when shigs laid his eyes on you for the first time, he was SMITTEN

> childishly rants to kurogiri when you and dabi are out patrolling

> “why do they always have to go with that burnt piece of shit”

> #getrekteddabi

> shiggy sucks at socializing and it doesn’t help that you always have a resting bitch face™

> you’re actually a softie and a sweetheart at heart, but you notice shiggs advances and are quite confused

> “uhm...hello, tomura-senpai,,,is there something i can help you with?”

> rip shiggy from the CUTENESS

> one day when you didn’t show up at the base and dabi did, shigaraki and kurogiri gave him a look

> “oh, if you’re looking for Chiasu, they’re at home sleeping...idiot stayed up painting again.”

> shiggy left after demanding dabi to reveal their location

> when he got there, he rang the doorbell and questioning why he came because this really isn’t something he does

> “hmm? tomura-senpai? what are you doing here?” **rubs sleep out of your eyes**

> he felt his heart leap

> “i came to see my s/o after being told that they stayed up working. now, are you going to let me in or am i going to have to force myself inside your house?”

--- dabi

>  you were at witz end with your life as a pro hero 

> you weren’t depressed or anything,,,just bored,,,no ideas or fighting spirit

>one day, you had happened to run into dabi committing one of his oversized fires

> he tried reading you, but all he got was just your stoic, almost sad, expression

> you hadn’t moved and he was walking toward you, stopping and moving his face down to your level

> “well, well what do we have here?”

> you hadn’t remembered much from that day, but you hadn’t run into dabi and the only time you really left your house was to get more art supplies and food

> when you were trekking home on the same path, dabi stepped from the shadows in front of you

> you just gave him a blank look and tried to side step him, but obv he didn’t let you

> what happened next was probably the most shocking,,,he embraced you

> you didn’t know what to do other than cry...for losing your fighting spirit

> after that day, dabi would check up on you frequently and eventually he convinced you to stay with him, so he can stay with you

> it took about 2 months to get you to smile and boy was that worth it

> you were grateful of dabi for sparking [pun not intended] your creativity

> “if you’re so grateful, why don’t be mine?”

--- h. toga

> innocent is how toga would describe you

> her attraction to you was much more different than the times where she’d feel the need to cut someone up

> she wanted you in one piece, unharmed

> so she dragged you to be apart of the league of villains with her

> shigaraki was skeptical letting in a quirkless civilian into the league, but he found your ability to design and draw potentially useful

> dabi likes to mess with you to rile up himi

> “you lay another burnt hand on my s/o, i WILL cut you”

> himi doesn’t like the fact you’re close with some of the LOV members, so she whisks you away to her room or somewhere that’s not the base

> if you go to school and you’re adamant in finishing, himi will kinda leave out the villainous aspects of her life so you can finish

> if you go to school and you really don’t care for it, she’ll try to convince you to become a full fledged member of the LOV rather than an associate

> the mission with the yakuza was probably super nerve-wrecking for you after you saw it on the news

> you were greeted with a toga at your door that evening and you just glomped her and expressed how concerned you were, knowing what her role in the mission was

> himi met you online and then began kinda figuring out when you went to your fav cafe and art store and what you like to buy and the such

> attentive, but psycho was how you described her at first, but just accepted that aspect of her 

---

k. chisaki

> for someone who looks like a plague daddy- doctor none of the members of the yakuza would have imagined him dating a cutie with a QUIRK 

> for starters, you kinda once over the media on the yakuza, more so concerned with your art

> so when you accidentally ran into kai one evening, you kinda just shrugged it off and continued to walk home

> he was so confused like didn’t you know who he was?????????

> nonetheless, he saw you again, while you were making your way home from the convenience store with your [fav. drink + snacks]

> “oh hey! i remember you!” **insert tense kai** “you’re that guy from the other day! how are you?” **cue confused kai**

> you didn’t really have much of a reaction when you FINALLY put two and two together on

> “you’re a part of that villainous yakuza, right?” **insert tense kai** “it’s okay i won’t tell, i like you too much to turn you in :)” **cue confused kai**

> he wasn’t sure whether to be more concerned about the fact you’re letting him, a villainous yakuza go, or the fact he is starting to develop feelings for you

> regardless, kai had “kidnapped” you more like you willingly agreed to stay with him, hidden away somewhere, where you were safer

> he allowed you to continue your artistry, but he made sure to stay away at least from that aspect of your life

> he wanted you to feel like you had those forms of freedom with the line of work that he was involved in because he loves you very much

> BONUS: you held a grudge on kai for keeping eri hidden away from you and for what he did to her and got a couple of hits on his ass, but you stayed with her and aizawa after kai was arrested

---

sorry some of these are short or kinda are,,,,idk bad? ^^; 

[flying-guinea-pig]

Not What He Seems (ch.1)

(Prefer to read this on AO3?)

(It’s happening folks. The big reveal, four years in the making.)

NotWhat He Seems: Chapter 1

Thomas' heart always beat a little faster when he summoned something, even after several years in this job. It was the thrill of calling a powerful being into this reality with only your wits and some chalk lines as protection.

Beëlzebob was an intermediate-level demon. He took the appearance of every cliché devil ever - hairy black goat legs, a ridiculously buff and gleaming red upper body, large curled horns. The works.

He was also not cooperating at all.

"You are... di̵s̢tra͢c̢te͜d," the demon whispered, his voice echoing back strangely from the corners of the summoning lab. The shadows seemed to thicken.

Thomas kept his face impassive. These were just some special effects, after all. His binding circle was perfect, he didn't need to worry.

"I have outlined our offer in this document. These are the terms you have previously discussed at length with my colleague," he said, reaching out slightly to hand Beëlzebob the carefully rolled up contract. "All should be in order."

The demon unrolled it and took his sweet time reading it through. He would make a good addition to the safe summons list, despite being a bit higher level than their usual choices. This old-fashioned approach, with the written contract and all - it would teach the students to be patient and give them time to focus on the details before shaking on anything.

"Yes," the demon said, dragging a black claw over the parchment. "These terms are acceptable. However, there is one issue."

"Is there?"

A horrible, fanged grin. "The contract must be written in your o̦̰͚w̮̮n̬͇̹̕ blood, mortal."

Maybe it was his experience with grandstanding demons, or Tyrone had been rubbing off on him, but Thomas was not impressed. "That wasn't in the agreement."

"You will rewrite it. Ḩè̲̙͙̩̤r̦e̹̦ ͏͕̥a̝̱̺͟n̘͔d ̛̦̱̲̖n̩͈̪o̰̻͓͓͢w̺͍͎̦.̪̣͇̩́"

"No, I don't think so," Thomas said, mildly. Seriously? All that work was just wasted? Typical. He was not going to use his own blood to write it, sheesh. With all those clauses and addendums the thing was way too long. Not to mention willingly given human blood had power - power that wasn't a part of this offer.

The shadows twisted - the candles flared. "You will, little mortal, or I will step over this boundary and write it myself, straight from your veins."

"This attitude is not convincing me you're a good fit for our list."

"You have summoned me and I will not leave without my deal!" Red-tinged smoke filled the circle, edging over the chalk lines and spreading into the room. It stank of sulphur and decay.

Thomas coughed. Dramatics aside, maybe it was time to get rid of Beëlzebob. Too bad, Hicks would be disappointed to cross off another name on the safe summons list… It had shrunk a lot in the past years. If this kept up their students would soon only get to summon the Organ Duck. If they couldn’t offer a proper practical education they might eventually run out of interested students as well, which was bad news for the survival of the demonology department.

"Whoa, did someone drop a rotten egg in here?"

Tyrone usually didn't barge in during summonings, especially when they were trying to get more demons for the safe summons list, but this time Thomas didn't mind. The open door let in some fresh air and that was very welcome at the moment.

Tyrone entered the room, waving away some of the smoke. "Hey, Hicks mentioned you wanted to have a talk?"

"What? Oh, yeah," Thomas said, distracted. The smoke was dissipating with record speed and Beëlzebob was visible again, staring at Tyrone in abject terror. "I'm a bit busy right now though."

"Do you need any help?" Tyrone offered. His smile was perfectly friendly.

Thomas glanced at Beëlzebob. "As a matter of fact, he was just leaving."

"Yes! Yes indeed," the demon hurried to say. "Just leaving. Right now. I’m going. Big misunderstanding, you know how it is, have to be somewhere else, goodbye now!"

“Thanks buddy," Tyrone said. "Very accommodating of you, leaving without a deal like that. I will remember this. Here, have a snack."

With a snap of his fingers a familiar deep-fried ball appeared, partly wrapped in a festive paper towel.

Beëlzebob caught it with a flinch and popped away without another sound.

“So, what exactly did you want to talk about?”

“Just a second, let me clean up first.” He frowned at Tyrone. “Speaking of cleaning up, what happened to your shirt?”

“What?” Tyrone glanced down at the brown stains on his usually so crisp white shirt, and made a face. “Aw man, seriously?”

“Do I want to know?”

“I bumped into Banerjee on my way here. He was carrying samples. And he didn’t even apologize, can you believe it?”

Banerjee was the Cryptozoology department’s newest hire, working on his doctorate involving – honestly, Thomas had no idea, he just knew it involved a lot of mud. He wasn’t aware of Tyrone’s true identity. The university staff tried to keep that one under wraps. Parents might object to their children coming to a university where Alcor the Dreambender was frequently hanging around.

“He owes me a new shirt.”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “You can literally make it brand new with a thought.”

“He doesn’t know that. It’s about the principle of the thing.”

Shaking his head, Thomas set to work. To his students it often came as a surprise that practical demonology involved a lot of cleaning up. The preparations were extensive, of course, but afterwards someone had to put away the candles and mop up the chalk, blood, and other assorted fluids the demons occasionally left behind. Beëlzebob in particular had left footprints of some kind of sulphurous ooze that he probably shouldn’t handle without gloves…

Safely removing summoning circles was an art, really. It’s not like you could just start scrubbing away with these things – the outer part was usually the binding circle, and you never knew if the demon was still hanging around, invisible, waiting for you to make a mistake. Not that he expected something to happen while Alcor the Dreambender was literally waiting at the door, but proper caution was a good habit to have.

“You know, I could clean this up for you with a snap of my fingers,” Tyrone mused, lounging against the wall while he waited. His shirt held no trace of the brown stains.

“Are you offering?”

“For free?”

Thomas snickered at the almost scandalous look on Tyrone’s face. Put down his cleaning supplies. He had planned to do this differently, but you know what? Now might be as good a time as ever. And it would be fun, wouldn’t it, to put Tyrone off-balance for a moment? “How about a deal then?”

Tyrone perked up.

“You get this room back to its cleaned-up, usable state,” said Thomas, and felt the smile break through on his face. “In return, you get to be my best man.”

To his credit, it didn’t take Tyrone long to realise. “Thomas! You finally popped the question then?”

“Yep. I said I was going to do it soon, this can’t be a surprise –“

“And she said yes?”

“We did talk about it beforehand, you know –“

“Congrats!”

“Thanks,” Thomas grinned. “So, what do you say? Fair warning though, being my best man comes with certain responsibilities. Making sure I’m on time at the wedding and such.”

Organising the stag night as well, technically. Though Thomas suspected Brad already had some thoughts in that direction.

“I’ve been someone’s best man before, I know how it goes,” Tyrone said. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Thomas.”

The room around them shifted, the magical arrays fading away and taking the trailing odour of brimstone with them.

Tyrone’s expression shifted too, as he let go of Thomas’ hand.

“What’s wrong?” Thomas asked.

“Nothing.”

“You seem upset?”

“I am happy for you,” Tyrone said. “It’s just… you’re getting old.”

“Wow, thanks.”

“No, I mean – look at you! Getting married. Maybe kids and a house, soon.”

“I’m not buying a house on a teacher’s salary,” Thomas said. “The rest… who knows? We’ll see how it goes. Is that what’s upsetting you? That I’m growing up?”

Tyrone shrugged awkwardly. He seemed smaller somehow. “You’re going to be very busy with all that – that life stuff. It’s happening already. Everyone is so busy. Your dates with Elisha, Eddy’s got his new job, Brad’s mucking around in his dad’s company - when was the last time we all hung out, just for fun? Not because it was someone’s birthday or anything? It’s been ages since we had a game night.”

That… had been a while, true. “I guess that’s what happens when you get older. There are more demands on your time, you get to juggle more responsibilities.”

“I’m not getting older.”

“Right.” Thomas took a deep breath.  “Listen, so… we’re busy more often. And it’s not like in college, where we all could just hang out all the time. But you’re basically part of the family, Tyrone. Alcor. You’ll always have a place here. And I’m sure the rest of the gang would say the same.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” Thomas said. And smiled, to lighten the mood. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

“You’d just miss all the amazing deals I make with you.”

“Of course” Thomas said, glad Tyrone was now teasing instead of moping. “I’m clearly only using you for your clout as Alcor. You’ve made my life so much easier.”

Tyrone mimed a gasp. “Sarcasm, Thomas? Ouch.”

“Not entirely sarcasm,” Thomas admitted. “You do make my life easier, sometimes. When you feel like it. For instance, vanishing that sulphurous stuff Beëlzebob left behind, I was not looking forward to handling that. The smell lingered.”

Tyrone suddenly looked way too innocent. “Oh, I didn’t exactly vanish it.”

Oh Stars. “What did you do?”

“Might have put it somewhere. Like, oh, I dunno… Banerjee’s car.”

Thomas facepalmed. Serves him right for making a vague deal like that. “Is it at least safe?”

“Define ‘safe’.”

“Tyrone!”

“Don’t worry, Thomas, I promised not to deliberately harm the university’s students and faculty, remember? He’ll be fine.”

“All this for an accidental stain on your shirt, really?”

Tyrone folded his arms in front of him. “He didn’t apologize.”

Thomas shook his head, exasperated.

Demons. They really knew how to hold grudges.

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

The Mindscape was a vast, endless realm where the strong hunted the weak and territories were defined, invaded, and redefined. This was the place where demons lived, and they didn’t like each other any better than they liked humans. The collective noun for a group of demons, as they say, is ‘a carnage’. Teaming up was rare, and more often than not ended in the stronger one destroying the other as soon as their goal was met. That was just the natural order of things.

Even so, sometimes even they needed a neutral place to go. Somewhere deals could be made without worrying about being devoured. This place was the Midway Bar, run by a demon known only as the Bartender, and for the past six years it had attracted a group of regulars.

They took over the table in the corner. Sometimes the group lost a member, occasionally it gained one. They weren’t here to make deals. They were here to drown their misery and sneak away before a stronger demon took advantage of their intoxication to ambush them outside these walls.

Beëlzebob entered the Midway Bar. He went straight to the Bartender, who after a short conversation pointed in the direction of the gloomy table in the corner.

“Get lost,” Flaga the Eagle-winged said, at his approach.

The demon next to her, who mostly looked like a giant fungus with teeth, curled a green tendril around their glass. “Yeah. This is a private party.”

Beëlzebob paused. He was stronger than each of them, he knew. But this was no place for threats. “Apologies for the interruption. May I sit?”

That wasn’t how demons talked to each other, especially not to a bunch of low-levels like them. They shared a suspicious glance. The one across from Flaga, some kind of feathered crocodile hybrid, raised his empty glass meaningfully.

Of course. “Listening can parch the throat so,” Beëlzebob said. “Let me get those refilled for you, and then we̙̮'̥͉̘ll̟̮ ț̳̮a̪̩̗̥l̯̹̹k̰.”

[notalwaysright]

The First Step Is Admitting You Have A Problem. Then, Ice Packs.

https://notalwaysright.com/?p=259926 I work at the concession stand at a movie theater. We have a giant push-cart that we use to bring stock from our supply rooms to the stand. I’ve parked it next to the concession stand. I’ve just finished unloading about ten bags of popcorn kernels and several thirty-five-pound boxes of popping oil. I’m on a medication that gives me frequent urination as a side effect, and it suddenly hits and I have to pee like crazy, so I decide to run to the bathroom before taking the cart back to the supply room. Probably not a good idea, but if you gotta go… you gotta go. I come out of the bathroom to see a customer — a man in his forties in a business suit — walking through the lobby, staring at his phone. I watch in horror as he walks around the side of the concession stand, hits his shin on the push-cart, and does what I can only describe as a “slow-motion fall.” He sort of crumples to his knees, then his butt, then… kind of flops down onto his back on top of the cart while muttering a surprised, “WWWUUUAAA!” I rush over to him, assuming the worst. I’ve seen a few falls in the ten years I’ve worked here — almost none of which were actually our fault — and most of the people exploded and threatened lawsuits, demanded free stuff, etc. Me: “Are you all right, sir?” Customer: “Um… yeah, I think.” Me: “All right. Hang tight. Let me get my boss, and she can contact an ambulance if needed.” Customer: “No. No. Please don’t do that.” Me: “I’m sorry.” Customer: “I’m gonna be honest. I’d just rather… pretend this didn’t happen. This is the third time I’ve fallen this week because I was distracted by my cellphone. I really don’t want anyone seeing the security footage. I don’t think my pride could take it.” Me: *Amused* “Are you sure?” Customer: “Yes.” He very calmly stood up, brushed himself off, dug out his wallet, placed a $5 in my hand, made a “Shhh!” gesture, and wandered away. Source: https://notalwaysright.com/?p=259926

[mishasminion360]

Space Age Love Song, Ch. 4

A Mandalorian x O/C Fic

Warnings: Language

Notes: Din and Sara play 20 questions.

You can now keep up with this story on AO3 as well! My username is SwiggitySwagNightmareStag. Happy reading, all!

Ch. 4: Answered

Sara left Din to eat breakfast in privacy. He couldn’t very well stuff his face with the helmet on, and he’d made it clear that he wouldn’t take it off in her presence, so, while he remained in the kitchen, she took her scrambled eggs and bacon into the living room. Alone again, naturally.

After they’d stuffed themselves silly, Sara washed and dried the dishes, and then practically dragged the Mandalorian back into the living room, eager to learn more about the intergalactic anomaly that was Din Djarin. She shoved him (gently, of course) onto the couch before curling up on the other end.

“Okay, here’s how this is going to work. You ask a question, I answer. Then I ask a question and you answer. See? Easy. Care to start us off?”

Din leaned back and folded his armored arms.

“Ladies first.”

“I see that chivalry is a thing on your planet, which I’m assuming is...Mandaloria?”

“Close. It’s called Mandalore. Does that count as your first question?”

“Sure.”

“My turn, then. What planet am I on now?”

“This is Earth, my friend. The only populated planet in the Milky Way Galaxy. As far as we earthlings know, anyway.”

Milky Way Galaxy? That was a solid 2.5 million light-years from his own. He had no idea he’d come so far, and he would be utterly amazed if he discovered that he hadn’t completely burned out his hyperdrive.

“And what galaxy is Mandalore a part of?”

Sara’s second question put an abrupt end to the calculations he was doing in his head. And he was honestly grateful for it.

“The Andromeda Galaxy.”

Sara let out a low whistle and started doing some calculating of her own.

“How the hell did you manage to get all the way here? Aren’t our galaxies, like, a crap ton of light-years apart? How did you get here so fast? How long have you been traveling to get here?”

“That’s more than one question.”

“Shit, sorry.”

“It’s fine. Did you want me to answer all of those now, or...”

“No, no. Rules are rules. You go ahead and ask your next question.”

“Alright. Where’s my ship?”

Sara looked past him to the back door and he attempted to follow her gaze.

“It’s, uh, in my backyard. In a crater. You came in pretty hot there, Din. Your ship’s a little banged up. It was on fire when I first found it, but I managed to put most of it out. There were a lot of flashing lights and alarms going off. I don’t know my way around alien technology, so I can’t tell you with any certainty if it’ll still run. I can say that it appears to be all in one piece. I think. I hope.”

Dank Farrik, Din cursed to himself. One problem after the next. If the Razor Crest Sequent was nothing but a pile of scrap now, this would be the second ship, and the third home, he’d lost.

“How did you end up here, Din?”

Once again she managed to rip him out of his own head. There was something about the way she said his name that had an almost soothing effect on his anxious mind. Something he liked.

“I....that is a long story.”

Sara crossed her arms and leaned back into the couch, getting comfy.

“I’ve got time.”

Din sighed. Where to begin? He didn’t even have all the details fleshed out himself, so how was he supposed to explain the situation to another?

“Mandalore was attacked by...well, I don’t know, to be honest with you. Just some random squadron of thugs. They appeared out of nowhere, demanding the king.”

“The king? Of Mandalore? You and your people have a freaking king?”

“You’re looking at him.”

Sara instantly went rigid. For once she was at a complete loss for words, and completely at a loss for what to do with herself. She’d never been in the presence of eminence and everything she knew about royalty she’d learned from Netflix and Disney films.

“You’re a....should-should I bow?”

“Please, don’t.”

Sara nodded for him to continue. Her face was expectant, excited. She was hanging on his every word as if his story were the edge of a cliff. She clung to his tale for dear life.

“Right, so, they came looking for me and I still don’t have any idea why. Needless to say that my people weren’t just going to surrender me to some unannounced, unknown individuals, so they chose to protect me in case this squadron turned out to be a threat.”

“Which they did, I’m guessing?”

“They were armed, but they were few and inexperienced. They couldn’t take my planet by force alone, but they could still cause some significant damage while trying. I didn’t want to see any of my people hurt because of me. Our clan had already been divided for far too long, our home nearly lost, I just wanted to choose a course of action that would keep the peace.”

Sara cocked her head to the side.

“You ran, didn’t you?”

“Yes. I thought if I could lure them away I could figure out their intentions. Or, at the very least, fly long enough to ditch them in hyperspace and return home.”

“And you never found out what they wanted?”

Din shook his head. This is the part of the story that still remained a mystery to him.

“No. The second they caught up to me they opened fire. I was able to make a few light speed jumps without taking any serious damage. But....well, you know the rest. Here I am.”

“And you don’t know where these creeps are now? Is there any chance that they may have followed you here?”

He had frightened her. He could see it in her eyes. Din had basically just admitted that he may or may not have just led a band of violent ruffians to her home planet.

“If they knew where I’d landed, they’d be here by now. I think I effectively gave them the slip.”

Sara sighed, a little too loudly, in relief. One spaceman was about as much as she could handle at the moment; she didn’t need more showing up on her doorstep. Especially not the dangerous kind. Din, at least, seemed gentle enough.

“They’re still out there searching. I’m sure of it. But I can’t just lay low forever. That’s never been my style. Especially not when I have people to protect. I left Mandalore in good hands for now but, king or not, it’s the only home that I have. I don’t....I wouldn’t know where else to go.”

Without even thinking, Sara leaned across the sofa, closing the little space between them, and grasped both of Din’s gloved hands in her own.

“I promise you, Din Djarin, I will do whatever it takes to get you home safely. Anything within my means.”

For a few silent moments they simply sat hand in hand, and time was irrelevant. It wasn’t until she heard Din swallow audibly that Sara realized that she was probably making him uncomfortable and she reluctantly released her grip.

“May I ask a question?”

“Sure,” Sara croaked. “I’ve asked, like, what, 10 in a row by now? So much for ‘rules are rules’, huh?”

“Why did you help me?” Din asked, his voice the softest she’d heard it yet. “Why do you keep helping me? I have nothing to offer you in return.”

Din seemed to have a lot of trust issues, whether that stemmed from past personal experiences or just the Mandalorian creed, so Sara wanted to supply him with an honest answer. There was the logical honest answer, or the honestly honest answer. In the end she decided that the former would take a shorter amount of time to explain. And it would be far less depressing.

“Well, the easiest answer is that I’m a nurse, Din. And as a nurse I took an oath to help those in need. I intend to fully adhere to the terms of that oath even beyond the sanctity of hospital walls. You needed help, I gave it. Simple as that.”

Din saw it the second the warmth left Sara’s eyes and the hazel orbs grew distant. They shone with something sadly nostalgic, like two unreachable distant stars.

“And, quite frankly, you’re the first person, other than myself, to set foot in my house in a long, long time. I didn’t want my houseguest dying on me.” She disguised her sadness with a chuckle. Just barely.

Din suddenly found himself eager to ask her more questions, practically burning for it. Though they’d only just met, just opened up to each other, he knew that there was something that bonded them. A sensation that he couldn’t quite place, but that he knew all too well. He had to steel himself against this unbidden desire for knowledge; time was of the essence.

“Sara, would you take me to my ship?”

***

“Dank Farrik! Son of a Mudscuffer!!”

“Are those good alien words I’m hearing?”

“No, they’re kriffing not!”

“That one was a bad one, too. Got it.”

She stood just outside the ship’s open doorway, arms crossed and fighting off a childish grin, when she heard his angry, booted feet come thump thump thumping down the ramp. She turned to meet his gaze and, even with his helmet hiding his face from her sight, she could tell that he wasn’t amused in the slightest.

“I like the way you curse, Mando.”

He stared her down for a minute before trudging off. Yep, definitely not amused.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Sara called sprinting after him and snagging him by the arm. How could he move so fast with all that armor weighing him down?

“Can you fix it?”

Din heaved a heavy, frustrated sigh.

“It’ll take time. And parts. Neither of which I have.”

“But you can fix it. See, there’s a silver lining to this situation,” Sara said, punching him playfully in the arm. He didn’t respond, only stared, his helmeted face surveying her blankly.

“Look, you’re welcome to rummage through the old barn for spare parts,” Sara offered, gesturing to the decrepit old structure behind Din. “My gramps was a bit of a tinkerer, so he let a lot of tools and miscellaneous crap pile up in there over the years. My guess is if you need it, it’s in that barn. And whatever I don’t have, the hardware store will.”

Sara flexed her arms, giving him her best Schwarzenegger impression and a one way ticket to the “gun show”.

“I’m not too shabby when it comes to fixing up things myself. I’ve got my grandpa to thank for that, too. We’ll have your ship back in orbit before you can say ‘E.T. phone home’.”

“Why would I say that?”

“It’s...oh, never mind. Anyway, that being said, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need. It’s no trouble.”

Din started to protest, but Sara shushed him with a finger to his helmet, pressing it to where she assumed his lips were hiding underneath.

“I want to get you home, Din. Home to your family. But I also want to make sure that you’re fully healed and well rested before you go. This is ‘nurse Sara’ talking, and she is not to be trifled with.”

Then the Mandalorian did something unexpected. Something wonderful. Something Sara had begun to assume it impossible for him to do.

He laughed.

And it made her heart beat a little faster.

“Fair enough,” Din said. “And...thank you. Again.”

“You’re welcome,” Sara responded. She said it so softly that she wasn’t even certain that she’d actually said it out loud.

“Can I check out that barn now?”

Sara folded her arms and nodded, suddenly feeling like a mother sending her child into a Toys ‘R’ Us unsupervised.

“Knock yourself out. Better sooner than later, while you still have daylight.”

He turned and left her without another word. But he walked away slowly.

And Sara was left to watch him wander, the sound of his laugh still echoing in her ears. It may have been unfair to assume, but she figured she’d never hear such a sound coming from the stoic Din Djarin. Now that she had, it became the only sound she wanted to hear.

@just-another-dumb-artist @mamacitapascal @grimeylady @rav3n-pascal22 @obsessivelysearching @insomniamamma @cixrxb @mandolydian @lv7867 @calliedjarin @mando-pamine

[charismaandcashmere]

In the modern world, it often seems like it’s harder than ever to accomplish your goals.

It seems like everyone has already done the thing you want to do — that your idea is already out there, that your niche is beyond saturated.

Want to start a blog? You’re up against a million rivals. Thinking about starting a podcast? So is everyone else and their mom. Hoping to write a book? With the advent of self-publishing, you’re not only up against authors approved by major publishing houses, but anyone, anywhere, with a laptop. Want to become a YouTube star? Better hope you get noticed next to the thousands of other folks uploading new videos every day.

There’s seemingly a million graphic designers, a million wannabe filmmakers, a million other, probably more qualified candidates gunning for the same job you want.

And that’s just in the marketplace. In your personal life, the competition can feel equally fierce. In the days of yore, you were just competing against people in your college or church to win the attention of a lady. Now you’re up against every Tom, Dick, and Harry on Tinder. The dating marketplace hypothetically stretches beyond your community to encompass your whole state, maybe even the whole country.

Yes, in both economic and personal spheres, demand seems high, and resources seem scarce. It’s enough to make you decide to give up and not try in the first place.

Yet this feeling of scarcity is just an illusion, a myth.

In truth, there’s never been a more opportune time to live. Not only because it’s never been cheaper and easier to write a book, share your art, or start a business, but because the average person’s ability to execute on the basics has never been in such short supply.

While opportunities to achieve your goals aren’t as scarce as you think, there are areas where true scarcity does exist: in common sense, in social skills, in manners, in reliability. There’s a dearth of people who know, or have the will, to do the stupidly easy stuff to be charming and successful.

Let me give you just one example. Both off the air and on, guests of my podcast will tell me, “I can tell you actually read my book before this interview and I really appreciate that. It’s so rare.” I don’t bring this up to toot my own horn, but rather to point out how ridiculous it is that this might even be something worthy of mention! An interviewer reading someone’s work before asking them questions about it would seem like the barest of bare minimum job requirements — a prerequisite rather than something above and beyond. And yet the majority of podcasters aren’t even taking care of this most basic of basics.

There are tons of people doing what you want to do, but how are they executing? In 90% of cases, not as well as they could be.

That’s your opening. And such openings are absolutely everywhere.

To take advantage of opportunities, people typically concentrate on stuff like building up their resume — going to the best school or getting the right internship. And certainly, these things can help.

But what’s missed is that it’s often doing stupidly easy stuff that’s going to allow you to make friends and land your dream job. It’s doing the stupidly easy stuff that almost no one else is doing that can most readily set you apart from the pack, and up for success.

What is some of that stupidly easy stuff? Below you’ll find a (non-exhaustive) list of the things it’s hard to believe people don’t do more often, and which have a huge ROI because most people can’t be bothered.

1. Send a thank you text when you get home from a nice party/date. In my opinion, this is the #1 easiest and best way to be a more charming texter. Yet almost no one does it. When someone has you over for dinner, or you take someone out on a date, once you part ways, they typically worry a bit as to whether or not you had a good time. And a party host wants to know their effort to throw the shindig was appreciated. So even if you thank your date/host in person at the end of the evening, once you get home, shoot them a confirming text saying, “Thanks again for the delicious dinner. We had such a good time!” Trust me on this, it’s stupidly, stupidly charming.

2. Write handwritten thank you notes, always and often. When an occasion was especially nice, instead of sending a text, write the person a handwritten thank you note and stick it in the mail. And send handwritten thank you notes for anything and everything else. Received a gift? Thank you note. Job interview? Thank you note. Someone helped you move? Thank you note. Someone went to bat for you at work? Thank you note.

Thank you note writing has become such a lost art, and receiving snail mail is so delightful, that sending handwritten appreciation has become one of the most effective ways to set yourself apart from the pack.

3. Edit your emails/texts before sending. No one ever catches all of the spelling and grammatical mistakes contained within their communications, but giving your texts and emails a couple reads before you hit send will tighten things up. These “clean” missives significantly contribute to making a winning digital impression.

4. Know how to make small talk. We spend so much time behind screens, that when we finally meet people face-to-face, our conversation can often be awkward and stilted. But being comfortable with small talk opens a tremendous amount of doors; sure, it starts out with the superficial, but it’s the on-ramp to deeper discussions — the pathway to relationships with potential lovers, new friends, and future employers. Fortunately, once you know the simple methodology that makes small talk flow, it’s easy to master.

5. Don’t be a conversational narcissist. Related to the above. The only kind of talk many people know how to make these days, is about themselves. Someone who knows how to listen and ask good questions comes off as stupidly charming.

6. Don’t look at your phone during a conversation. In an age of scattered attention, a person who can concentrate their attention on you, and fight the urge to look at their phone while you eat or talk — someone who can make you feel like the most important person in the room — is a charmer par excellence.

Can’t seem to pry yourself away? Check out our complete guide to breaking your smartphone habit.

7. Dress well for a job interview. You don’t have to show up to a job interview in a three-piece suit (unless the position calls for it); overdressing can make as poor a first impression as under-dressing. But showing up dressed just one notch above what current employees at the company wear will immediately set you apart from many other candidates. Well-shined shoes, a pressed shirt, and good hygiene will help too.

8. Come to a job interview prepared to ask questions of the interviewer. Whenever we post this article on “10 Questions to Ask in a Job Interview,” HR folks always weigh in with how “amazed” they are at the number of candidates who stare blankly when asked at the end of an interview, “Do you have any questions for us?” Know some questions to ask going in.

9. Take a woman on a real date. In a landscape of “What’s up”? texts and non-committal hang outs, taking a lady on a real date puts you head and shoulders above other suitors. What constitutes a real date? Watch this video and remember the 3 P’s: Planned, Paired Off, and Paid For.

10. Offer a sincere apology when you mess up. My generation seems to struggle with saying “I’m sorry” when they make a mistake. Numerous times I’ve had my order messed up at a restaurant, and when I bring it to the attention of the waiter or manager, they just shrug, say “Okay,” and fix it, without saying, “I’m sorry about that.” Then the other day an order of mine got messed up, and the manager took a totally different tack — comping my whole meal and bringing me a free dessert. That kind of treatment is so rare, it was unbelievably winning. I even found the manager after my meal to tell her so, and let her know I would specifically make an effort to return because of her gesture.

As it goes in the restaurant biz, so it goes with everything else. Most of your fellow employees will just say “Okay” when an error is brought to their attention. Offering a sincere apology that demonstrates you take responsibility and understand where you messed up and how it affects the company, will easily set you apart (so will immediately trying to make it right and preventing it from happening again).

And in your personal life, apologizing when you stumble is stupidly endearing. You’ll probably mess up again, and often with the same issue, but even when you can’t completely overcome your flaws, showing you’re at least completely aware of them goes a long, long way.

11. Follow through. I get a lot of emails from guys who want to do something with the Art of Manliness, like write a guest article or strike up a business partnership. They are excited! They are passionate! They are…MIA. They never follow-up or follow-through on their idea. I’ve often wondered what happens between their excited initial email, and their descent into silence. But whatever it is, it can easily be avoided by those committed to following through.

12. Be reliable. No quality today can more readily set you apart from your peers than reliability. Doing the follow-through just mentioned. Showing up on time (and just plain showing up). Meeting deadlines. Managing expectations and not overpromising. Promptly responding to emails. Keeping your word.

Are freelance graphic designers, artists, video/audio editors, app developers, programmers, contractors, etc. a dime a dozen? Surely. But a reliable creative professional or handyman? A pink unicorn. If you couple talent and skill with reliability, it’s stupidly easy to dominate your competition and your niche.

When you survey the economic and dating markets, they can seem incredibly oversaturated. Demand seems high and resources seem scarce. But when you take a closer look, you’ll find that while there are plenty of people all grasping after the same thing, there are only a few executing well on the attempt. Setting yourself apart isn’t complicated or hard; it often involves simply doing the stupidly easy stuff that everyone else overlooks.

Their obtusity is your gain; see through the myth of scarcity, take care of the basics, and the world is your oyster.

[jowritesthingss]

A Fondness for Rabbits

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Pairing(s): n/a

Rating: Teen (for swearing)

Content Warning(s): rabbits, food/drink, mild(ish) swearing, not!Sasha,  eldritch beings, spoilers through late s2 / early s3-ish

Length: 3,538 words

Brief Summary: Jon isn’t particularly keen on the Archive’s new rabbit mascot. (It would help if you read this first! But it isn’t required.)

AO3 link in reblogs bc Tumblr is annoying!

*

If he could, Jonathan Sims would absolutely be firing one Timothy Stoker right about now.

Unfortunately, it seems that for the moment, the both of them are stuck in some sort of limbo, working down there in the Archives.

Them and that damned rabbit Tim brought in to work.

Jon is certain, absolutely certain, that Tim only brought the thing into the Archives to bother him. It happened all too soon after they had their falling out and discovered that none of them can physically quit; there’s no way that it isn’t a coincidence.

Tim swears up and down that it’s only at the Institute because his flat doesn’t allow animals, and that it’ll be gone as soon as he can find a permanent home for it, but naturally Jon is suspicious—and rightfully so, he thinks. Perhaps Tim isn’t the one who murdered Gertrude, but that doesn’t free him from all suspicions. Jon still doesn’t know why he applied to work at the Magnus Institute. For all he knows, the rabbit could be the next step in some horrid plan of some sort.

Regardless of any possible ulterior motives, Jon knows one thing for certain—he does not want this animal in his Archives. He wants it gone, and he wants it gone yesterday.

He stresses as such to a seemingly uncaring Tim: “The moment you find it a different home, it goes. The moment.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Tim agrees placidly, and Jon huffs at that, satisfied enough for the moment.

Oh, but then Martin comes in, and Jon is tasked with the lovely job of explaining to Martin why Tim’s rabbit is allowed to stay when his stray dog wasn’t. And hell, Jon regrets this already.

He stares into the beady red eyes of the rabbit as it slowly, contemplatively munches hay in a corner of the break room. Well.

There’s nothing to do but avoid the break room from then on, yes?

-

...No. Unfortunately.

As the last person to leave at night, and the first person to get in to the Archives in the morning, Jon becomes the reluctant caretaker to the ridiculously furry animal that has begun to take over his Archives and win over his assistants.

Tim wheedles him solidly for a day, popping in at random times until Jon finally agrees to feed the rabbit every morning when he arrives and every night before he leaves. And Jon would say no, he really would, if it weren’t for Martin, annoying oaf he is with his big pleading doe eyes and his irritatingly effective pout. Jon feels the silent judgement radiating off of him every time he pops in bearing tea.

Of course, even if he can’t avoid the animal in entirety, Jon still tries to make his trips in to care for the thing as quick as possible.

He times it once out of curiosity and boredom while he waits for his laptop to finish a surprise update—he’s managed to get the whole routine down in under five minutes. Considering the routine consists of giving it hay, getting it a scoop of pellets, tossing it lettuce from the fridge, refilling its water, and tidying the litter box, he feels almost a bit proud.

It’s somewhat relieving, honestly, having something normal to express distaste at in between investigating his coworkers on possible murder charges and fighting weird worm people and stabby hand people and other supernatural stuff. It’s kind of nice, actually.

Jon’s not too sure he likes the way the rabbit looks at him, though. It’s a rabbit—it’s not like it’s all that smart, right? But something about it just seems so...so knowing. So otherworldly.

He’ll get the routine down to three minutes, Jon resolves. Anything to avoid the rabbit’s unblinking gaze.

-

The rabbit becomes Jon Jr, and Jon (now apparently Jon Sr—which, don’t get him started on that bit) becomes irritated. Well, even more irritated than he generally always is nowadays.

And yet...the rabbit seems to sense that it has been named after Jon, almost. It seems to take particular fascination with him, and he cannot for the life of him figure out why.

Whenever Jon is in the break room, the thing follows him everywhere, demanding pets and snuggles and gently nibbling at the tips of his fingers if he lets them drop low enough. So he goes into the break room less and less, expecting for it to lose interest in him or hopefully forget about or ignore him the few moments he does pop in—but the rabbit seems to become even more fiercely attached.

He knows the creature isn’t like this with the others. The rabbit doesn’t particularly like Sasha—it ignores her most of the time—and it outright bit Elias the one time he chanced in on it. It seems to like Tim and Martin a fair amount, but the moment Jon walks through the doorway it bounds over, refusing to leave his side and even trying to follow him out of the break room on a smattering of occasions.

Staring into those empty, beady red eyes, Jon could swear there is something ancient and eternal and knowing. But Tim refuses to get rid of the thing, and Martin would cry, and Sasha or Elias or probably all of them would corner him and lecture him unnecessarily about being too paranoid yet again.

Although, he could always take it to an animal shelter. The rabbit very literally eats into the Archive’s budget—the thing eats an absurdly large amount of hay. Then Martin keeps buying toys for it instead of getting the office supplies Jon has asked for just about twenty times (“what if he gets bored in there, Jon? did you know rabbits can get depression? I can’t let him get depression!”), and Tim’s determined to fatten it up with copious amounts of fresh fruits and vegetables (“only the best organics for my furred son!”).

He’s certain that he could logic it out—that if he reasoned and fought it, Elias would nod neutrally and let him get rid of it. Elias, for all he is suspect in Gertrude’s murder, seems to be the only one with a modicum of sense left in the place. Surely he’ll be on Jon’s side in this.

But when he casually asks Elias his thoughts on the matter, the man adopts an oddly amused expression and says he has no objection to an animal to emotionally support the Archives team (“especially considering the incident involving Jane Prentiss, Jon, it really might help boost employee morale”).

Jon is fairly certain that this is Elias’ stance only so that he doesn’t have to be held accountable for providing his traumatized employees with actual therapeutic aid, but he doesn’t mention it. Instead he angrily bites his tongue and excuses himself from Elias’ office before he says something stupid.

As he goes back down to the Archives and continues about his day, Jon puzzles through his predicament.

The shelter is still sounding like his best option, his coworkers’ opinions be damned. He’s always the last to leave at night and the first to arrive in the morning...perhaps he could wait until everyone is gone and take it to a shelter? Or maybe he could ask around the other departments to see if anyone needs a pet or—well, or snake food.

Although...some very small part of Jon hesitates at the thought of turning Jon Jr over to Artifact Storage or a snake or anything of the sort.

The rabbit seems almost scarily in tune with his emotions—perhaps more in tune than Jon himself—and it doesn’t seem to mean him any harm. Certainly it hasn’t attacked him with parasitic worms or stabbed him with ridiculously long, sharp fingers yet or anything like that. And, well, what could it even do if it did intend harm? Bite him? Pee on his shoes? Steal his lunch?

...Speaking of lunch, Martin keeps spilling chicken from his wrap on his pants. Jon doesn’t have the heart to tell him that the mayonnaise has also started to escape.

Abruptly, Jon stands up from the couch, throwing away his napkin and shooing the rabbit away with a foot as he wriggles his way out of the door to the break room.

It has to be because they named it after him, Jon concludes. That’s why he’s starting to get attached. That must have been their plan, and dammit, it’s working.

He’ll give Tim an ultimatum, Jon ultimately decides as he goes back to his office. Tim doesn’t have to know what Elias thinks about the situation. And he did promise that the rabbit would go when he found it a home. So either Tim finds the rabbit a home by this Friday, or it goes out to a local shelter.

...The rabbit has a home by Friday: Jon’s.

-

Jon can pinpoint exactly when it happens.

He works himself into a panic when Basira Hussein quits the police force, and he loses any chance he might’ve had at getting the rest of Gertrude’s tapes. And at this point his panic (and his bad luck streak) really isn’t all that surprising, but something about this one particular panic is bad. Really bad.

It’s late at night, and everyone has gone home (except perhaps Elias; Jon has no idea what Elias’ hours look like). Since there’s no one else there to notice him appearing even more frazzled than usual, Jon chances out of his office and into the break room for a glass of water. It ought help his scratchy throat and his shaking limbs and his buzzing head.

Of course, he’s forgotten about the rabbit entirely.

Upon shoving the door open and flicking on the light switch, Jon nearly jumps out of his skin to see the rather unpleasant reminder of the Archives’ pesky little visitor. It’s sitting directly in front of the door, staring expectantly up at him, almost as if it’s been waiting for him.

Unnerving as ‘Jon Jr’ is, the actual Jon’s exhaustion and want for water outweighs his suspicions in the given moment, so he continues forward, shuffling into the break room and very nearly staggering towards the counter.

Once he’s managed to get a cup down from the cupboard, Jon fills it with trembling hands, dropping it into the sink once and nearly dropping it across the counter once too. He turns around and nearly trips on Jon Jr, sloshing even more water out of his cup.

Despite being rained on, though, the rabbit doesn’t seem all that put out; rather, it follows him over to the break room couch, waiting almost patiently for him to sit down and get situated before it hops up and unceremoniously deposits itself in his lap.

“What?” he manages to sourly mutter at it, but he can’t muster up the energy to shoo the thing off of his lap.

So Jon sits there, in silence, drinking his water and attempting to ignore the rabbit.

His attempt does not go well. A few minutes into the stillness, the rabbit shifts, moving to face Jon. It presses its nose towards his torso, wiggling its way under the hem of Jon’s rumpled collared shirt.

Choking on a particularly large gulp of water, Jon makes a startled noise as the rabbit’s wet nose comes into contact with his bare skin.

Coughing violently, Jon tries to flinch away, falling sideways on the couch. His cup flies out of his hands—thank god it’s one of the plastic ones—and water splatters everywhere.

However, the rabbit doesn’t seem to be deterred by the sudden motion and his attempt to get away. It simply follows him, weaseling its way from his lap up towards his face. Its bright red-eyed stare burns into Jon.

Jon flinches as the thing looms in front of his face, sucking in a desperate breath. Oh, god. There’s no one for him to call out to, no help to be had. Oh, god. Is it truly some sort of—of monster—after all? Is this it? Is he about to die?

The rabbit presses forward...

...and begins to lick his nose.

As Jon lies there, frozen into some sort of terrified shock, a vague part of his mind recalls a memory of the rabbits that his grandmother’s neighbor had kept, all those decades ago. Licking someone is a rabbit’s way of kissing them, and licking someone’s nose...that’s one of the ultimate signs of love, isn’t it?

The rabbit continues to lick his nose—nothing more, nothing less. No biting, no clawing, no attacking. Just licks. Just kisses. Just...love?

Jon’s racing heartbeat slowly begins to calm down. He lets out a shaky breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding, and he allows him to fall back into the couch, relaxing his tense limbs.

The rabbit follows him as he leans into the back of the couch, clambering up onto his chest.

For a moment Jon tenses up again, unsure of what it’s planning to do, but all the rabbit does is settle comfortably onto his chest and resume licking his nose. The weight of the animal on his chest somewhat reminds him of the Admiral, back when he’d lived with his former girlfriend Georgie, and it feels...nice. Calming, almost, soothing and lessening the sheer panic he’s been feeling for the majority of the day.

“You’re not....” Jon’s voice cracks; he inhales a shaky breath before trying again. “You’re not so bad after all, are you?” He licks his lips before he cautiously tries out the rabbit’s name. “...Junior.”

Jon reaches a wobbly hand up towards Jon Jr. He stares intently at the rabbit, waiting for any sign of alarm or ill will. Seeing none, he places his hand hesitantly on Jon Jr’s back. When the animal shows no sign of startling or moving to dislodge his hand, Jon slowly begins to pet him in short, stilted strokes that quickly become more confident as the rabbit kisses his nose more fervently.

“I suppose...I suppose you can stay for...just a bit longer,” Jon murmurs into the rabbit’s warm fur. He cautiously strokes Jon Jr’s cheeks, chancing a small smile when the rabbit closes his eyes in pleasure.

And if he falls asleep there on the break room couch, there with the comforting warmth and weight of the rabbit he’d set out to hate and instead fallen hopelessly in love with—well. Nobody was there in the Archives to see it, now were they?

-

Too much happens all too fast, in a blur of time and terror. Melanie King limps in on Jon acting much too immature (in his defense, Jon Jr is...difficult to resist when he wants kisses), but the worry over whether she’ll ruin his reputation or not is quickly washed away by the cold terror of realizing that Sasha is not Sasha.

Suddenly there’s an axe in his hand and an oddly swirling tabletop in his sights, and then suddenly Tim and Martin are interrupting him mid-swing, Jon Jr nosing around their ankles.

Then they’re surrounded by splinters of wood and the grotesque, distorted yells of the thing that is not Sasha, the thing that was not ever Sasha, and there’s a yellow door, and a thing with too-many-too-long hands holding out for a deal.

And then they’re running.

Martin gets lost, Jon isn’t entirely sure when—was it back in the twisting halls of Michael’s domain, or down in the twisting tunnels of Smirke’s creation? everything is blurring together at edges tinged with fear—

—and then it’s just him, and Tim, and Jon Jr, and the thing that had been, had been wearing his assistant’s life like some sort of costume, and oh. This is it, isn’t it? They’re about to die, aren’t they.

At least Martin will survive to tell their tale, Jon hopes, feeling a rush of remorse at how abruptly and patronizingly he’s treated his poor assistant. He could’ve been—he could’ve been dead and gone, replaced like Sasha, and Jon never would have known. And now—now Jon is the one about to die. Him and Tim.

God, Tim. He doesn’t particularly like Tim. Tim has been satisfactory enough as an assistant, he supposes—had almost been a friend once, back in their research days—and now....

Now they back into a dead end, practically hugging the wall as not!Sasha slowly approaches them with a look of manic glee on its face. And Jon...he wouldn’t wish this on anyone, regardless of how much he does or doesn’t like them. Certainly he wouldn’t wish this end on Tim...even if a small, selfish part of him is glad that he’s not alone in the end.

It’s just him and Tim. Just like it was back with Prentiss.

Mouth falling slightly open, Jon turns towards the man in question—perhaps to weakly comment as such, he isn’t really sure—only to see Jon Jr leaping out of Tim’s arms.

“Junior!” The word is tugged out of him, unbidden. Dammit, he’s grown attached to the rabbit. And dammit, there are tears prickling at the corners of his eyes as the rabbit obliviously makes his way towards the hungry thing that had pretended to be Sasha. Dammit, dammit, dammit.

Only—

Only then, the rabbit isn’t a rabbit.

It happens much too fast for Jon to really get a good glimpse at what their rabbit becomes. But there’s a loud cracking noise, then a monstrous blur of gray and limbs and mouth and teeth, then another crack and then...nothing. Not even not!Sasha remains. Just a smallish white rabbit in the middle of the now-empty tunnel, sitting primly and licking at one paw.

Jon and Tim gape at each other and at the rabbit, but one thing is for certain:

“...We’re keeping the rabbit,” Jon murmurs, light-headed.

“I—yeah.” Tim nods, and he slumps back against the wall and slowly slides down to the floor of the tunnel. A hand reaches out and snags Jon, dragging him down with, and there, leaning against the wall and each other, the two stare at the not-quite-a-rabbit.

“We’re keeping the rabbit.”

The rabbit-but-not-a-rabbit blinks his innocent red eyes up at them before flopping over to rest, and honestly? Jon thinks Junior has rather the right idea there.

-

And so the rabbit is kept, and Jon and Tim stagger out of the tunnels minus one not!Sasha but still with one not!a rabbit.

Come to think of it, they’re still down one Martin as well, which is admittedly worrisome.

Neither Jon nor Tim is exactly keen to go back in the tunnels so soon after escaping certain death within them. Jon has never been the most athletic of people—he’s an academic, he’s supposed to be sitting behind a desk all day, for christ’s sake—and his legs feel like jelly beneath him as they debate over calling the police.

Tim is of the mind that they should call the police, or at least Basira, whom he stubbornly still refers to as Jon’s “girlfriend” (and Jon is much too tired to dispute that at this point). Jon, on the other hand, doesn’t think even section thirty-one officers would listen to “we went into a door a monster created in a wall and we lost our coworker in a maze of endless passageways.”

Thankfully, it turns out that they needn’t have worried, because Martin turns up not too long after, dizzy and dragging two other people behind him.

One of them is a familiar face—Helen Richardson, whom Martin apparently had picked up while stuck in Michael’s spiralling labyrinth, and who seems quite content to latch onto Martin and sit firmly in one spot in the center of the place, refusing to pass through any doorways whatsoever. But the second person is an unfamiliar face—an aging, gray-haired man who seems impeccably polite, incredibly calm, and increasingly out of place among the dinge of the tunnels and Artifact Storage.

Then the man introduces himself as Jurgen Leitner, and Jon nearly drops Jon Jr.

But Jon is much too tired to deal with that in the moment, so when Martin tentatively suggests a slumber party of sorts in the Archives to ease his, Helen’s, and Leitner’s worries all in one, Jon gives in without the fight he normally would put up.

As the others assemble bedding and piles of pillows and cushions pilfered from the library chairs, Jon manages to snag the break room couch once more for himself...and for Jon Jr.

Jon has absolutely no idea what, exactly, he’s supposed to do now. There are clearly bigger things at play here—or, at least, Leitner seemed to think so, from the little he said before Tim shut him up and sent him to bed—but as he watches Jon Jr nibble on a cucumber peel, Jon feels a bit better, at least, knowing that one of those bigger things might at least be on his side.

(Or, well. Hopefully he can bribe mister “bigger thing” with enough carrots to stay on his side. That is yet to be seen.)

Fin

First || Next

*

I just have so many stupid ideas for this ridiculous AU that I couldn’t just let them live in my head...so I might as well scrawl them out and let y’all enjoy them with me, right? (Or you can tell me to shut tf up if these get too dumb or annoying for you asdhjkl)

But yeah, as you can tell, Jon Jr’s presence will be messing around with canon, because I take any and all opportunities for fix-its. I just really miss my boy Tim and also my wife Sasha ok so sue me

Want to chat or be added onto any of my taglists? Shoot me an ask or a message here or via my other social media!

[lovelyirony]

Hhhhhhnggggg I thought of something and I think you can make it beautiful. "Being your father is more important to me than being their friend."

thank you! 

If you had told Tony Stark that he would be a father figure some day, he would’ve laughed in your face. Because Tony Stark is not a figure for anything besides perhaps business or alcoholism. 

But then Iron Man. 

But then Avengers. 

But then...everything. 

The first time he really considers himself a father figure is when he gets emailed from Harley who starts it off with “why is your email embarrassingly easy to hack? Anyway I want to ask you about this robot thing. I’m not saying I’m building it but if I would be doing so what would I need.” 

Tony emails back: 

“When you hack into my email all of my employees who work in the encryption networks get an alert and put you on the ‘watch-for-this’ list. Basically all about employment. Anyway, suppose you are building this (and you are, because you’re a punk)...you need some copper wiring and I’ll send you the other stuff.” 

Harley and Tony pull up a sort of correspondence over email. And then Harley demands to have his number because “no one uses email anymore except for clothing companies, and you are not supplying me with any good deals on shirts.” 

(Tony absolutely does deny that he loves this kid when Rhodey catches them talking on the phone.) 

He also says he’s just providing a learning opportunity when Harley and his sister get to come to New York for a summer. 

“It’s because you like kids,” Rhodey says. “And you like Harley because he’s as much of a little shit as you are.” 

“False, he’s even more so. He built a potato gun and aimed it at me the first time we met.” 

“And you probably made some wise-ass remark about him or what have you. I wanna meet him.” 

Harley is an asshole. 

(Tony’s glad to have him.) 

His sister is sweet. Lily likes to learn about the world and the different connections between countries. Tony has no doubt that she has a career with the UN and makes sure to subtly get her books about political science and cool historical events. 

They don’t mention the distinct lack of the Avengers, at least until they’re at the dinner table and Tony’s picking at broccoli. 

“So, when are you going to recruit new members?” Harley asks, looking directly at him. He’s one of the few people in Tony’s life that can look at him directly now. He’s never shied away from that, and he can appreciate it. 

“Why would I recruit new members?” 

“We still need the Avengers. Besides, maybe you can find someone who doesn’t have as lame a costume as Captain America.” 

Tony snorts, taking his plate to the sink. 

“I’ll think about it.” 

He thinks long and he thinks hard that night. Tony’s not an idiot when it comes to the team’s whereabouts. They need somewhere where they are untouchable by anyone. 

And where better than a country with a long reputation of being a total recluse? 

He’ll have to ask King T’Challa if they also put coffee grounds down the sink. 

But they do need a team. And he remembers in the letter that Steve sent that he said that the Avengers were perhaps more of a family for Tony than for Steve. 

Yeah. It shows. Shows by the way Natasha, Clint, and Wanda all left with him. Shows how they’re family because no one’s there for Tony when he’s gasping for air from Steve’s shield crashing down on his chest, cracking. 

(He said that the shield didn’t belong to Steve. He wasn’t wrong. That shield doesn’t belong to Steve, because it’s not a belonging. It’s simply...Steve.) 

So. Family. Tony needs to find a new one. Or just new teammates. 

He talks to Rhodey, who agrees to be an overseer or who shows up. 

-

Rhodey asks about Spider-Man. 

“He’s on reserves only,” Tony says. “I can’t have him get hurt.” 

Peter’s a great kid. One of the best there is, most likely. (Just don’t ever ask Tony to say that out loud.) 

And he’s been itching to test out some new micro-fabric that has to do with defensive techniques that Tony’s been toying with, and this is the perfect time to introduce Peter to Harley. 

Harley’s soft, worn t-shirts contrast with the bright, punny shirts that Peter almost always wears. Peter talks a mile a minute while Harley really only says what he has to. 

At first, Tony isn’t sure if they’re going to get along. Harley’s not one for enthusiastic, jumpy people and hates going into New York City for literally anything. 

(“You’re supposed to come for dinner! We’re only eating with Pepper!” 

“I literally do not care. I saw a rat and I saw a person who was wearing neon orange. I am not dealing with this.”) 

But Peter is surprisingly savage when he wants to be, and they bond over roasting Tony within an inch of his life. 

“I literally cannot believe you,” Tony says. “You go from stuttering to roasting me over my shoe choice.” 

“Mr. Stark, those are quite possibly the ugliest shoes you could wear to this event,” Peter stresses. “You’re wearing a suit and bright orange shoes.” 

“Yes! It’s called being unique.” 

“It’s called ‘you’re about to get roasted by every magazine and social media account’,” Harley answers, not even looking up from his project. “Change your shoes.” 

“I’m Iron Man. I can handle a little fashion roasting.” 

“Yeah but you should have better taste,” Harley deadpans. “Go with the silver shoes. They’re not terrible.” Tony pouts but changes into the shoes. 

Harley and Peter send him both an article about “the unique, amazingly quirky style of one Tony Stark,” with captions that mean the same thing: told you so. 

It’s sad when Harley has to go back home with Lily. Tony promises them that they can spend every summer upstate if their mother is okay with it. Lily gives him a friendship bracelet before they fly and no, Tony does not Cry Actual Buckets. 

Peter’s summer is about to end, and Tony’s getting on him about last minute AP homework. 

“What do you mean you didn’t have time to finish up your AP History diorama? You spent all of last weekend googling military conspiracy theories! You have had time!” 

“Okay, that’s fair, but still--” 

Tony sends Harley and Lily care packages and letters. They send him back letters about the school day, what’s going on in the community, and Lily tends to “tell on” her brother about his own projects. 

“She didn’t have to tell you I was building a flying motorbike,” Harley whines. “Or that I couldn’t modulate it.” 

“Yeah, but she knows that you need someone to bounce ideas off of. So you could’ve easily talked to Peter or myself.” 

(The motorbike works and Tony has to plead with Harley not to use it to get to New York. 

“Feasibly if I could up the speed, Lily and I could be there in six hours so--” 

“Don’t you dare!”) 

Peter drops by all the time to check in on the progress of the new Avengers. They’ve contacted one of Rhodey’s “friends,” Carol Danvers. 

“A woman that cool? Simply could not have been ‘just’ a friend,” Tony says, smiling. “We’ll ask her about it later.” 

“Nope, you and your freaky Spider-Son are not asking Danvers shit,” Rhodey says. 

“He’s not my son.” 

“He might as well be, sweetheart. He’s already copying your penchant for graphic shirts and being horrible at lying.” 

“I’m not horrible at it.” 

“Yes you are,” Rhodey answers. “For example. Tell me a lie. Tell me that you hate Peter.” 

“Why would I ever tell that lie?” 

“Because you can’t. Next question. When are you going to lecture him about not stealing leftovers?” 

Tony laughs. 

- 

In all honesty, life has been going great. In Tony’s personal life, he and Pepper are going back to better terms friendship-wise. Harley is coming up for Christmas and Peter’s been planning Secret Santa with everyone who lives at the base. 

And then they hear word of a return. 

Rhodey wants to take...drastic measures. 

“We are not sending them to the moon,” Pepper says, rolling her eyes. 

“Why not?” 

“A waste of money, Jim. Honestly.” 

“True point.” 

Tony freezes when he realizes that he won’t be there in time to see them because he’s picking Harley and Lily up. 

“You take Peter with you, we’ll meet them, Rhodey says, smiling. “Nothing like a classic New York welcome, right?” 

“You are not yelling ‘fuck you’ with a bullhorn,” Tony responds, trying to hide a laugh. “I better not hear that you made international news.” 

“Then don’t turn on your TV.” 

Harley and Lily have already heard the news. Harley’s digging through his suitcase in the middle of the airport, and Tony has to flash a smile and a guilty look to a security guard in order for the TSA to lay off. 

“What are you doing, nerd?” Tony asks. 

“Trying to make a slingshot that has a bit more bite to it. You think we can pick up loose concrete rocks on the way to the base?” Harley asks. 

“No, we are not doing that. What I am doing is dropping you off at Peter’s house until I can get them somewhere to stay.” 

“You don’t owe them anything,” Lily remarks. “They broke international border rules and technically should be under government jurisdiction. You don’t have to give them a space.” 

“And yet I’m the only one good at containing,” Tony sighs. “Look, I’m sorry that this won’t be the ideal--” 

“Peter’s not at his house,” Harley answers, frowning at his phone. “Something about barricades?” 

“Oh my god,” Tony groans. “Rhodey got him. Well, in the car. How good are both of you at immediately ducking and rolling out of a car?” 

“We can still be there for you,” Harley says, annoyed. “I have a stun gun that could take down a tyrannosaurus rex.” 

“You can’t substantiate that with concrete evidence,” Lily argues. 

“I theorize that Rogers has to be weaker than a T-Rex, so I think it’s gonna be effective,” Harley responds. “Let me try it out, Tony? Please?” 

“No,” Tony says, but adds, “maybe in a week.” 

Peter is waiting inside and lights up when he sees Harley and Lily.

“Good, the holidays can really begin,” Peter jokes. “We even have the questionable side of the family in for a visit.” 

“For now,” Rhodey says, scowling. “Tony, please tell me they won’t be here for the holidays. We were supposed to pull out the decorations today.” 

“I’ll figure something out,” Tony says wearily. “Have the delegates been contacted?” 

“Marya and Joseph are on their way to deal with re-homing issues and family connections. They should be tied up with legal and personal aspects all day.” 

“Good,” Tony says. “But I do need to go greet them.” 

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Rhodey says, serious expression. “I can deal with them.” 

“You shouldn’t have to. And besides, it’ll be better coming from me. Being here for you all is more important than trying to be their friend.” 

Harley, Peter, and Lily give him a hug. 

“Don’t stay too long,” Peter says. “I made a Christmas Roulette Playlist.” 

“Why is it roulette?” 

“One Halloween song and at least one opera song. Whoever can name the song first wins the privilege of opening the first ornament for the tree.” 

“Wait up for me,” Tony says, grinning. 

It’s hard to face people you used to know. 

But Tony has a family to get back to. 

[consumedkings-archive]

ancient names, pt. ix

A John Seed/Original Female Character Fanfic

Ancient Names, pt ix: heartlines

Masterlink Post

Word Count: ~7.3k (yes I am a clown)

Rating: M for now, rating will change in later chapters as things develop.

Warnings: Language, some “light” religious blasphemy (it’s Far Cry 5). Strong canon deviance.

Notes: I have nothing to say for myself, except: thank you thank you thank you! Everyone's comments really just got me through the real brunt of this chapter and it's a long one, oh boy. I cannot reiterate enough how much the hopeless romantic in me desperately wants them to just live happily ever after, and also how MUCH it really means to me to see your guys' feedback, but alas alack, here we are; I, with my long-winded author's notes saying the same thing every time, but I am just as grateful each time it happens.

As always, I have the best, sweetest, kindest, most thoughtful and wonderful proof-reader but most importantly friend who helped me block out this chapter because I was really, really struggling with it. @starcrier, my lover my life my shawty my wife, she is Elliot's number one stan and also an incredible writer so please go check out her stuff!!

On a brief tangent, I have some beautiful artwork made the artist @raviollies​ on tumblr, which you can find here! I definitely did cry a little tiny bit over it.

It’s your fucking fault.

Elliot’s words, venomous little baby snakes spitting their venom, crawled around the bone arena of his skull. John could not stop replaying them in his head, even though he desperately wanted to; the idea that the rookie deputy might now well and truly hate him—really hate him, more than she maybe ever had before—was an unsettling one. He liked to think that it was because he was worried what Joseph would think if they no longer had her cooperation, her good behavior, but—

But there was something else that dug at him. There was something else squirming in the cavity of his chest, sinking its nails right into him, but he couldn’t pick it out, couldn’t pull it apart.

(Or maybe he didn’t want to; maybe the idea of identifying what this strange and unknowable beast inside of him was kept him from trying too hard, a good enough reason to throw up his hands and say, sorry, I just can’t.)

He pushed the door to the church open, stepping back inside to the cool, dim quiet. Jacob had pulled a map out and spread it over the table, the radio set aside; Joseph sat in a front-row pew, one leg crossed over his knee and his expression mild.

“Did you get the opportunity to chat?” he asked, without looking at John, as though he just knew that it was him and not someone else coming in. “She seemed…” Joseph’s head tilted, just a little. “... Unseated.”

John hesitated, and then began walking down the aisle. “Yes,” he replied. “Although, I don’t know if chat is the proper word for it, considering that she all but put her teeth in my neck.”

“I thought you liked that kind of thing?” Jacob supplied without a hint of a humorous inflection in his voice, and John shot him a dirty look.

“Bleeding out to death? Not particularly.”

Joseph nodded, the gesture gentle, ignoring the bickering. “It does appear as though our deputy is not a damsel in distress, but rather a damsel under duress.” He turned to look at the youngest Seed brother when he reached the front of the church. “But it is nice to see the foundation you’ve put down, John. You’re taking my advice, and it isn’t going unnoticed.”

He felt something pleasant and warm bloom in his chest, billowing up into his head until it almost completely gassed out the venomous little vipers Elliot had planted in his mind. “I did have an idea about that,” he added, feeling more emboldened by Joseph’s praise as he walked past the table. “About endearing the deputy to us.”

“Oh? Well, I’m all ears.”

John’s gaze flickered across the space between his two brothers. Jacob had said nothing; he was bent over the map, dog tags glinting in the single beam of light that hit them from the window, one veiny hand clenched into a fist as it held the map in place.

“Maybe,” John continued, “our dear brother could try to stop antagonizing her.”

“Why?” the red-headed deadpanned, not looking up from the map. The fact that Jacob didn’t even deign to make eye-contact with him was enough to make irritation prickle in his chest, raise his proverbial hackles.

“Why?” John reiterated. “Perhaps because each time you open your mouth, you incriminate yourself as a villain—and us too, by proxy.”

“You can drop the attorney lingo,” Jacob said dryly, finally lifting his head to look at John—and John wished that he hadn’t, because the half-lidded, arrogant gaze of his eldest brother only served to stoke the fires of anger inside of him.

“It’s just my vocabulary, Jacob, and you missed the entire point, by the way, so in the interest of making sure we’re all on the same page—”

“—not an idiot, little brother, so you don’t need to—”

“I think John is right,” Joseph interrupted, effectively silencing the argument that was brewing. “He’s done exactly as I asked of him. Think of a stray dog, Jacob; you don’t beat it into submission. You feed it, nurture it, gain its trust, and then it becomes a lifelong companion.” The hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “A loyal companion.”

“This is an age-old philosophical debate.” Jacob’s brows furrowed together; a deep-set frown sat on his face. “A classic: is it better to be feared than to be loved? I think that we’re going to disagree fundamentally on this one.”

“Well,” Joseph replied mildly, “aren’t we lucky that there’s only one of us in charge of how our deputy is treated, then?”

John’s breath flickered out of his chest in a single blink at Joseph’s words. Casual and ever-so-patient, as though Jacob’s jaw weren’t setting in preparation to argue, as though it didn’t strike John right in his gut to hear Joseph say, there’s only one of us in charge of how our deputy is treated, as though it didn’t twist the knife right between his ribs to hear Joseph refer to Elliot as their deputy, over and over again.

A stamp. A brand. Joseph claimed, like he always did, the things that he thought rightfully belonged to him.

“Someone’s lucky,” Jacob said at last, a final and reluctant acquiescence.

Joseph’s small smile did not disappear. In fact, it seemed only to root itself more firmly on his face, as though he were pleased at Jacob’s unease. Joseph’s gaze flickered back to John, settling on him and then beckoning him forward.

He did as Joseph bid, coming and sitting beside his older brother and clearing his throat. He wanted to stop thinking about the way that Joseph had said our deputy, like he had any claim on Elliot—and that shouldn’t have bothered John, but it did, wriggled its way through the spaces between his ribs and squeezed, nice and tight.

“She was upset,” Joseph said, when John had settled next to him; it was not a question, but a statement, an assertion of what Joseph knew to be true. Their eldest brother scoffed from his spot at the table, bent back over the map, tracing and re-tracing the topography lines. John shifted in his seat a little.

“I think Jacob might have ruined any chance at a merciful conversion when he mentioned that her friends would deserve it if they didn’t make it out.” John’s voice was hard when he shot the red-head a stinging look, but unsatisfyingly, Jacob did not lift his head this time. John felt the strain of his brows furrowing at the center of his head, and then Joseph’s hand was on the side of his face, fingers spreading against his hair, primed and comfortable to grip.

“Grief,” Joseph said, his voice low and soothing, “is a part of change. Like shedding a skin.”

“It’s not—she was furious with me,” John replied, grimacing. “She just kept saying she hated me, and us. Joseph, I think—it would be beneficial to let me do things my way—”

“Our deputy is killing the person she used to be, John.” Joseph’s gaze was steady, piercing, a venomous yellow. His other hand came to the right side of John’s face, cradling him. “Strangling her old self, with her own hands. People like us, we’re lucky; we’ve always known who we were meant to be.” He leaned against the wooden backing of the pew again. “You’ve guided her here. Give her a while to grieve that girl from before. Patience is a virtue.”

John’s throat felt tight. He thought the Elliot in the bar those years ago—flushing and soft, breathless when he leaned into her—and the Elliot threatening to choke a man to death in front of him if he didn’t beg for his life, and the Elliot who played baseball with a shovel and a man’s head, and the Elliot that smoked a cigarette down to nothing while she cranked Welcome To The Jungle up on a van stolen from a group of crazy Swedish cultists.

He was not convinced she had not already killed the girl she used to be.

“You have got to have faith.” Joseph’s voice broke him out of his reverie. When John looked over to his brother, Joseph was absently dragging his thumb along his lower lip, his eyes fixed on the Eden’s Gate emblem glowing above them in the afternoon light. “Remember what I said; you have to love them. I know you can do this for me.”

His throat felt tight. This would be easier, he thought, if he could have just done everything this way. Wrath, he thought, would look perfect on her. But that wasn’t right; wrath already fit her. There was no skin to be shed. It was already on.

“John.”

He dragged his gaze from the white collar of Joseph’s shirt to his brother’s gaze, meeting it.

“Tell me you can do this,” Joseph said, his voice lower now, softer. It was not his counseling voice; this was Joseph asking him, his brother, not the man who led the masses. Asking, demanding, but waiting patiently for it to be given, never taking before it was time.

He was no longer thinking about Elliot at her fiercest, but rather the way she had softened for him, on occasion. Pressed against him for warmth, lashes wet with tears, unwilling to let go of his arm.

“I can,” John replied, “for you.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Elliot didn’t know for how long she slept. When she woke, the sun was still in the sky, the air felt sticky and wet with late-summer humidity, and while she slept sweat had gathered at the nape of her neck and in the hollows and dips of her body. For a second, panic filled her—she couldn’t remember where she was, or how she got there, confusion twisting and knotting its way through her.

And then she remembered. She was in Joseph’s compound, in a bunkhouse that served as a home to Eden’s Gate members, dressed in Eden’s Gate clothes sans her boots and underclothes. Elliot wiped the sweat from her forehead and pulled her hair out of the ponytail. Standing proved dizzying, and she felt the dehydration twisting around in her stomach like a scorpion; stinging, and unkind.

“Fuck,” she said, pressing the heel of her palm to her eye. The gesture reminded her that she had done it just recently; just before she screamed at John, just before she told him that she hated him. Oh, yes. That.

Grief still squirmed around inside of her, but it had been abated, for now, and she thought that she almost—

“No.” Elliot’s voice was firm, but still wobbled on its legs, when she spoke to herself. “I don’t feel bad about what I said.”

“Good to know.” It was John’s voice from the doorway, bringing with him a hot breeze that should have felt good being that they were on an island, but it just added to the humidity. Elliot’s stomach twisted violently at the sound of his voice. It wasn’t anger that populated her mind, now, but embarrassment: that she’d let him get under her skin, that she’d let him see her without her veneer, that he’d been there and endured it and now he stood here again, undeterred, as though John Seed were someone with a moral high ground that allowed him to endure verbal attacks and return as though nothing had happened.

I hate you. Elliot willed the words to her mouth, tried to muster the venom, but she couldn’t. She fixed her eyes instead on the knot of a wooden floor panel, trying to ignore the sight of John moving in the corner of her eyes, closing the space between them. He did this, always—invaded her space, overwhelmed her, until saying things like I hate you became harder.

He smelled like sweat, and day-old cologne, and heat and dust and outside, and when he put his hand on her arm she opened her mouth to say something—anything, any of the venom that might come to her in the heat-addled and perspiring confusion—but he put a cold water bottle, slick with condensation, in her hand.

Her eyes went to find the bloodstain on his shirt when she realized that he wasn’t wearing that shirt anymore. He was in a white shirt, the same kind that Joseph wore.

“Drink,” he said. “I promise it isn’t poisoned.”

Elliot turned the cap of the bottle. It cracked, promising that the seal was freshly broken, and she brought it to her mouth and took one heavy swig before she pulled it away. Her nerve-endings immediately screamed in relief at the water in her mouth, but her stomach lurched—she knew she’d need to pace herself, or she’d be puking it up in a few minutes.

“Did you sleep?” John asked when she didn’t say anything. Elliot sucked her teeth.

“I don’t think we should play at being friends,” she said, her voice wicked with a dry, crackling, wildfire-in-the-making heat. John’s gaze was steady, though, once again unfettered by her words and remaining in her space. She was more aware of it than ever, now: as though resting, and having basic necessities like shower and drinking water also made her all the more aware of John’s presence, the heat radiating off of his body and the way he was watching her—

(like he couldn’t get enough of her)

—like he wanted to make sure that nothing she did escaped him.

“We’re not playing at being friends, deputy,” John drawled, crossing his arms over his chest and rocking back on his heels a bit as he looked at her. “Whether you like it or not, you and I are on the same side.”

“For now,” Elliot bit out.

“For now,” he acquiesced, as gracious as ever.

Her eyes narrowed. John was not the kind of person who forgave and forgot the sorts of things that she’d said to him. Elliot felt the suspicion rising up in her throat. She kept waiting for the punchline; for John to say something stupid like, and when this is over you’ll be begging for me to absolve your sins, or something equally driven by ego and his desire to have Joseph’s approval.

“So,” John began again, arms unfolding elegantly to be held out in a gesture of harmlessness, “did you sleep?”

Elliot took another swallow of her water bottle, stepping around John. Her body instantly braced itself—as though she expected him to try and stop her—but he didn’t; merely turned with her, a planet trapped in her orbit.

“Briefly.” She kept her voice short and clipped as she headed towards the door. “Are your friends back?”

“Jacob’s ready whenever you are.”

Her face scrunched up at the mention of the eldest Seed brother. She was now unsure which of them was the most unpleasant to be around; they all found their own special ways to get under her skin. John, perhaps, was the worst; Joseph and Jacob, she could handle their particular brand of crazy, but John—he was harder for her to read, because all of the time spent with him had started to cloud her brain.

“Why are you being nice to me?” she demanded, turning suddenly to find that he’d crossed the bunkhouse again, as though to follow her outside. Because she hadn’t quite gone out, yet, he now stood nearly nose to nose with her, even with her back pressed against the door of the bunkhouse.

John’s gaze swept over her. “Does it bother you?”

The plastic of the water bottle crunched in her hand. Her jaw set, painfully tight, holding back her gut reaction—to tell him that yes, it did bother her—and instead swallowed thickly. It would be just like John, to go out of his way to be nice to her because he thought it would unsettle her. But then, wasn’t John all about bending and cracking someone to his will, no gentleness required?

A headache splintered behind her eyes, throbbing painfully. She was spending too much time trying to parse John Seed out, and that was her first mistake.

“I’m just surprised you know how,” Elliot snipped, watching the way her words ticked the corner of his mouth upward in that easy, boyish smile.

“I can be nice,” John offered, “if someone isn’t spitting venom at me nonstop, calling me pathetic.”

“Fucking pathetic,” she pointed out, ignoring the way John’s eyes flickered down to her mouth and then back up to meet her eyes. “I shouldn’t have said that—”

“—no need to apologize after the fact, deputy—”

“—because I know how sensitive you are,” Elliot finished, wiping the smile off of John’s face, “and since we’re on the same side, I suppose I can’t afford to have you down and out.”

John’s eyes narrowed. His hand found the doorknob, and he was very close, so close all of a sudden that for a brief moment Elliot’s brain short-circuited and all she could think about was how unjust it was that a man so deserving of her venom could make cologne smell so good.

And then he said, “No, I suppose you can’t,” and opened the door behind her, the heat of the afternoon sun sunk into her skin, sticky and hot. “I work best when my partner isn’t trying to fight me the entire time.”

She turned and stepped out of the bunkhouse, clutching the water bottle in her fist and putting as much distance between herself and John as she said, “And I work the best if you stay the fuck out of my way, John.”

No more, she thought, decisively, no more of that.

Images of Eden’s Gate members scattered in her periphery; they were eager to look, but not eager to be seen, so that when she turned her head to find them they were already disappearing behind a corner or into a building. The heat was no more bearable if she was moving, either, the sun high in the sky and threatening to burn any exposed skin.

John fell into step beside her, his hand landing on the doorknob to the church before she could open it, holding it closed while she stopped on the landing.

“Jacob likes when he gets under your skin,” he said to her, the words sounding a little different than before. “He might say whatever he can to rile you up, and make you look unreliable to Joseph.”

Elliot hesitated. She didn’t know why John was giving her this information; not only because she already knew that—because of course Jacob enjoyed pushing her—but she didn’t understand why John was trying to be helpful. It was always going to be the Seed brothers against her, wasn’t it?

She thought of the way they had been bickering, the two brothers, while she tried to gather herself after her call with Jerome. She wished she’d been paying attention so that she could know what it was they had been arguing about.

John waited expectantly. He said, “You want to get Joey out of there, don’t you?”

“Of course.” Her brows furrowed. “What kind of—”

“And I want Faith out of there, with as little risk as possible,” he plunged on, keeping the door in place, “so we can’t get outvoted in there. Joseph does take you seriously, though who can imagine why—”

“If you’re trying to convince me we’re actually partners,” Elliot deadpanned, “you’re doing a shit job of it.”

“All I’m saying,” John continued irritably, “is that if we present a unified front in there, we have a better chance of us both getting what we want.”

Elliot didn’t want to admit that he was right. The last thing she ever wanted to do was tell John Seed that he was right about something. But if she had to weigh her options, she’d rather tell John he was right than do whatever the fuck it was that Jacob and Joseph wanted her to do. One Seed brother she could handle.

So, she relented, “Fine.”

John stuck out his free hand to her, grinning. “Shake on it, partner?”

Elliot groaned and swatted his hand away. “Don’t push it, buck,” she replied, pushing the door open—and this time, John let her, trailing in after her. Jacob and Joseph were in their spots at the front of the chapel, waiting ever-so-patiently. She reminded herself of what John had confirmed; that Jacob liked to see her on the brink of a meltdown, that he was a pusher.

It did not escape her that John had not offered any insight into Joseph.

“Have a nice nap?” Jacob asked as she came up to the table with the map.

“Funny, John asked me the same thing.” Elliot kept her voice even and took a drink of her water before she started tying her hair back into a ponytail. “So, where are they? Where are Joey and Faith?”

“South of here, the faithful say,” Joseph said before Jacob could speak again. “At Sacred Skies Lake. Just past Angel’s Peak. It sounds like they don’t go by any name, and just call themselves a family.”

“And do the faithful say what they’ve been doing?” she asked tartly. She had an idea of where they had made their home; probably at the abandoned youth camp, though as far as she last remembered that had been occupied by Joseph’s own.

Well, probably not for very long. There was no way Joseph’s little rednecks could hold up to the precision that these crazies had.

“Living,” Jacob replied, his gaze hard and his jaw set. “They’re not doing anything. They’re just—there. Like they’re waiting for something.” 

Elliot’s stomach plummeted at Jacob’s words. There was no way he could have known, surely; she hadn’t told John, and she hadn’t said anything to them in the car, about the way Ase had cradled her face, and called her mor, and had said, I know that you will always come back to us.

Fuck. There’s no fucking way.

But there was. If Ase didn’t have absolute confidence that Elliot would seek them out, why would she have let them go? Why would they have been mostly unscathed? They were playing with their food—a sick, drawn-out catch-and-release.

The brothers had started speaking again. The aqua curve of Sacred Skies on the map burned into her retinas the longer she stared at it without blinking.

“Waiting for me,” Elliot mustered up after a moment, her mouth feeling very dry. “They’re waiting for me.”

Three pairs of eyes fixed on her, all with the same uncanny precision. There was no time for it to bother her; her stomach was already rolling with nausea.

And then Jacob barked out, “Explain,” and she thought she might punch him in the face if he didn’t shut up. Elliot took in a deep breath, mustering all of the composure she could manage, and focused herself on the map.

“When John and I got—when we had our run-in with the family,” she began, “we were separated, and—they drugged me, with something. But their leader, Ase, she was there for a little while—”

“What?” John demanded. So much for presenting a unified front, she thought ruefully. She shot him a look, willing him to be quiet, to just let her gather her thoughts; blissfully, he did.

“She kept calling me something in Swedish,” Elliot explained, “and she kept saying all of this weird stuff, like—like that she saw my color, that she saw me, and then…”

The Seeds all stared at her, waiting expectantly. Even Jacob remained silent.

“And then she said something like… Like that she was going to let me go, but only because she knew I was always going to come back to her.”

A moment of silence stretched in front of her, endless and dizzying, where no one in the room said anything and all Elliot could think about were all the things that Ase had said.

And then, as though these words had almost no impact on him, Jacob said, “Well, at least we have proper bait.”

“Absolutely not,” John cut in immediately, angrily. “You’re not putting Elliot out there to try and lure them here—”

“—they want her, I don’t see why we wouldn’t—”

“Brothers,” Joseph interrupted, his voice effectively bringing both John and Jacob to heel. Like before, he stood directly across from Elliot; her gaze was fixed on him now, tumbling Ase’s words around in her head while the Seeds argued about whether or not she was shark bait or not. “What do you think, deputy?”

The words were gentle. Elliot knew what they were; certainly, Joseph knew how long it had been since someone had asked her opinion, rather than her having to fight tooth and nail for someone even to consider it.

“I think—we could get Ase to come out of the youth camp, which is probably where they’re holed up,” she said after a moment, willing the charm of Joseph’s attentiveness away. Her gaze slid to John for a moment. “If we used me as bait.”

“Are you serious?” John demanded. He took her arm in his hand, pulling her from the table and hissing, “When I said present a unified front—”

“If we’re partners, you have to trust me,” Elliot insisted tersely. His expression hardened. A part of her hoped that he regretted suggesting they be anything remotely close to on the same team, and a part of her was glad that he had, or he wouldn’t look like the words you’re right were sitting right on his tongue.

Finally, at last, he said, “Fine.”

Elliot turned back to Jacob and Joseph, with the brunette’s hand still on her arm, and asked, “Are you any good with a sniper rifle?” 

“The best.” Jacob’s voice was clipped, insistent. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

“So if I can get Ase out to meet me,” she continued, “can you not shoot me?”

His eyes narrowed, but there was a tiny, tiny smile pulling at his lips. “Scout’s honor.”

John exhaled a sharp, short breath. “This is ridiculous—��

But before he could plunge onward, Joseph held up his hand to stop him. He turned his gaze to her, now, studying her for a few long heartbeats before he said, “Do you think they won’t kill Faith if we kill their leader?”

Elliot shrugged his hand off of her arm and walked back to the table, setting her water bottle on the table and crossing her arms over her chest. “I think like any snake,” she replied, “the body won’t function if you cut the head off.”

“At any rate,” Jacob interjected, “push comes to shove and you can get in without a firefight to get Faith out of there.”

“And Joey,” Elliot replied firmly, and stifled down the absolute fury when Jacob shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly.

“We’ll start making the preparations immediately.” Joseph sounded pleased. It took everything in her power not to say something just spite that, to remember that even though she didn’t want to be, she supposed that she was on their side, too.

Jacob gathered up the map from the table and immediately set off after Joseph, who had stepped down from the small stage and gone to the side door. Elliot picked up her water bottle and took one more heavy drink to finish it off before she turned and looked at John.

His brows knitted together at the center of his forehead. He looked troubled. It was not an expression that she was used to seeing on John Seed’s face; it might have been endearing, if she didn’t know that he was troubled by her, and not in the fun way.

“Spit it out, then,” Elliot prompted. John heaved a loud, impatient sigh.

“This is a stupid idea,” John said abruptly, angrily. It was a change of pace from the cocky asshole he normally liked to be. “There’s no way that they know they aren’t waiting for you to show up so they can skin and gut you, and—”

She waited, patiently, for him to get the words out. Whatever they were, they stuck in his throat.

“—and what use would you be then?” he finished, his lip curling up in clear distaste. Ah, there he is, Elliot thought absently. Almost thought I’d lost you, John.

“Don’t worry,” she said lightly. When she had capped her water bottle again, she headed to the back of the church. It feels good, she thought, pushing on the door, to have a plan again. “I’ll far outlive my use to you, Seed.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The plan was simple.

Elliot was going to walk herself—unarmed, much to her personal chagrin—out to the Sacred Skies Youth Camp, once they dropped her off. Jacob would already be in a position where he could get a good look at what was going on, and when he got a clear shot at Ase, he was going to take it.

And they were banking on the woman coming out to get Elliot herself, based on what Elliot had told them. John was not convinced, but he had been overruled; it was no longer his choice, and instead of going in and being on the same team as Elliot, he had found himself on the opposite of the playing board from all three of them—his brothers and the deputy.

Not ideal.

But now, as John parked the truck at the bottom of the hill leading up to the youth camp, all he could feel was dread knotting his stomach. The plan was supposed to be simple, but John remained unconvinced that it would be executed as easily as everyone seemed to think it would.

Elliot seemed in perfect spirits; she’d eaten a handful of granola bars, finished off two other water bottles, and her coughing had become less frequent. Not once had he seen her reach for a cigarette, either. It was like the second she had an actionable plan, she no longer stressed: there was nothing for her to worry about, beyond getting the job done.

John met her gaze through the rearview mirror. “You’re sure?” he prompted, and ignored the way Joseph’s head gently cocked to the side. Elliot flashed him a smile.

“Just focus on making sure Jacob doesn’t shoot me in the head,” she replied, “okay? And I’ll focus on getting Joey and Faith out of there.”

Joseph said, lightly, “That’s all we could ever hope for, deputy,” and when he did Elliot shot John a look through the mirror, a look that said, can you fucking believe this guy? And for one, brief second it felt like they shared a joke only between the two of them.

Then she pushed the back door of the truck open and kicked her legs out, landing on the dirt road with a soft thump. The blonde closed the truck door and then came up to John’s window, which had been rolled down, and said, “You’re sure you don’t want to give me a weapon?”

It would blow the whole fucking thing if they caught her with a gun or a knife, Jacob had said; if by some strange happenstance he didn’t snipe the shit out of the crazy fucking Swedish woman, and Elliot wound up getting dragged into the belly of the beast, having a weapon on her would out her immediately. They would know that she hadn’t come willingly, but that she had come with the intent to harm.

At least in the instance that they somehow avoided Jacob, she could lie her way out of it. Maybe.

“I have absolute faith,” John said, mimicking Joseph’s veneer of confidence, “that you can make a weapon out of just about anything if you need to.” She patted the side of the truck and took one centering breath, but before she could set off up the hill John said, “Elliot—”

The blonde turned back around to look at him, life and vigor back in her face and one brow arched loftily at him.

Be careful, he thought to say, the words sticking in his throat. That’s what he should have been saying, if they were actually partners—even fake partners, even tenuous partners, partners-by-proxy because John insisted for the sake of feeling like he had some control over the situation and Elliot because there was no one better that she had the chance to pick. Not exactly setting the bar very high, were they?

“Any day now, John.” Elliot’s voice snapped his attention back to reality. She was waiting expectantly, but there wasn’t impatience in her voice; she was content, at last, to have motion. He cleared his throat.

“Don’t start going yet,” he said, instead of the things he thought would matter, like, don’t forget to breathe. “Give Joseph and I a chance to get up to where Jacob is.”

She gave him a two-finger salute, wisps of hair fluttering into her face from a late-afternoon breeze. “Yes, boss.”

John threw the truck into reverse, pulling back and then into a u-turn to head off down the road. The car was silent for a moment, blissfully, with the golden-hour light drenching the two of them in a warm glow. If he didn’t know what was going on just out of reach, he might have felt like he was transplanted into a different time and place entirely.

“You don’t need to worry about her, John,” Joseph said lightly.

“I’m not,” John replied, pulling the truck off of the road. Dry brush crunched and snapped beneath the weight of the tires. “She’s perfectly capable of handling herself with three granola bars in her system and healthy bout pneumonia.”

“You sound frustrated.”

“I just think that maybe we could have picked someone that’s not—” John inhaled. He parked the truck deep into a grove; to the right of them, a small trail would lead up to where Jacob waited with his perfect vantage point to see Ase come out and collect Elliot. “—Sick,” he finished, after a moment, “and not such a wildcard. You know she tried to kill one of the guards when I had her at the ranch? She was going to choke him to death, right then and there. For—touching her, or something.”

Joseph looked unaffected as he stepped out of the truck. “I’m unsurprised, if that’s what you’re looking for.” And he paused, looking thoughtful for a moment, before he said, "Touching her, you said?"

John ignored the question. “Well, then maybe that should speak to the level of reliability Elliot displays.”

“I think you’re underestimating the power of a positively-reinforced bond.” As Joseph spoke, John fell into step beside him, climbing up the slope. Behind them, he heard the distant sound of voices; the members of Eden’s Gate that weren’t holed up would be waiting for Jacob’s signal to swarm, if things looked grim. “Didn’t she say she hated you, and us? And yet today, here she is. In a good mood, no longer frothing at the mouth, rabid and dangerous.”

“She’s still dangerous,” John started, but Joseph stopped him by pressing his hands to his shoulders.

“You’ve done exactly as I asked,” he said, a mirror of the words he’d said before. “Remember? You haven’t beaten your stray into submission. This—” Joseph gestured with his hand in the general direction of where they had dropped Elliot off. “—is all only possible because of the work that you have put in, John. And when we bring Faith home, and return to our followers, that is what they’ll remember. Not the person the deputy used to be.”

John’s felt something hot and painful twist in his chest, prickling pain squirming up his spinal cord. He should have been pleased to hear Joseph refer to Elliot as something that belonged to them and instead was giving him some ownership—but he realized too late that it wasn’t what he had been wanting from his brother. This wasn’t what he wanted from Elliot.

He swallowed and said, thickly, “Yes, Joseph.”

“Good boy.” Joseph held him in a tight hug, the pressure of the gesture relieving some of the stress in his shoulders like muscle memory pulling it right out of him, and then he pulled back. “Now, let’s go and get our sister back, yes?”

His brother stepped up the last stretch of the slope, and he followed obediently behind. Jacob was perched carefully, eyeing the scope and muttering to himself; as John crouched beside him, and Joseph on the other side, the redhead breathed out a little swear.

“Stupid piece of shit,” he sighed. “Remind me to get these upgraded next chance we get.”

“What’s wrong?” John asked, already on edge.

“Nothing’s wrong—the gun’s perfectly functional, it’s just not as stealthy as a rifle should be,” Jacob explained. “It’s got a red dot sight on it.”

John’s eyes narrowed, his teeth clenching. “So they’ll see it the second you get it on that woman.”

“They might,” Jacob protested, “I’ll just have to be fast.”

“Where’s your rifle?”

“It’s back at the center,” his brother snapped. “I didn't have the opportunity to grab it before I went on a wild hunt for you across the Montana countryside. Anything else I can help you with today, little brother?”

“There’s no time for arguing,” Joseph interjected, sounding almost tired now. “Quiet, now.”

From their vantage point, they had a clear view of Elliot. The blonde was yelling something to garner attention, to lure people out, and there was some movement through the trees that blocked off the camp up the road. He could see her start to walk farther up, and then stop, hesitating.

“Someone’s coming,” Jacob said, peering carefully through the scope.

Tentative bodies drifted down the road, breaking the treeline: though John could not see Ase’s strange, lithe form anywhere among them, he could hear what he thought was certainly her voice, saying something to Elliot, who had her hands up carefully to show that she was weapon-free as best she could.

The movement that he thought might be the Swedish woman stopped just before the treeline. Come on, John thought, taking in a breath, come on, you fucking bitch, come out here.

It was someone else that stepped forward from the protection of the tree line. It was Ase’s man, the tall, broad-shouldered ginger, though he too looked unarmed. John tried not to think about how easily he had nearly disposed of them with only his hands, last time.

The man made it to Elliot, gesturing for her to come forward, to close the last foot of distance between them herself; she did as he bid, straying to her right, feigning innocence. John knew what she was doing: leaving room for Jacob to make a shot.

“That’s not her,” John hissed. 

“Yes, I’m not fucking blind.” Jacob’s voice was sharp but steady. “She’s leaning for me. Who is he?”

“Her—right-hand man, or something. I don’t think you should take...”

John’s voice trailed off. The man had stopped Elliot, snagging her wrist—which looked tiny in his hand—and said something to her that did not look pleasant.

“I think I should,” Jacob muttered, shifting the rifle.

“Jacob—” John began, sensing the way his eldest brother’s muscles tensed, ready.

Elliot was saying something to him. She paused, just briefly, and John saw her head tilt down; she saw it, first, and then the ginger looked down at his chest just as Jacob was lining up his shot. 

The incriminating red dot gave it away. The man’s head shot up and locked on them instantly, and before Jacob could pull the trigger, he’d twisted Elliot around and pulled her right against his chest, his hand gripping the pillar of her throat.

John’s stomach plummeted. He heard, as though in a last-ditch effort, Elliot shout his name: and he didn’t know if it was because she wanted help or if she wanted someone to take the shot anyway. He didn’t know if either of those options was more comforting than the other. 

The man had shifted her so that the red dot now lay directly over her chest, pinning her, and Jacob did not pull away from the scope. Even from this distance, John could see the wicked grin splitting across his expression.

“Do not fucking shoot,” John hissed, “Jacob—do not fucking shoot—”

For sure, now, he heard her voice. "John," she said, desperately, his name choked in her throat by the grip of the Swedish man bruising her skin.

“There’s a good chance it would hit him and kill him,” Jacob insisted, his finger hovering over the trigger. “They’re goading us. This is the perfect opportunity to—”

“You fuck,” John seethed. “Joseph, tell him not to shoot!”

Joseph was silent, his jaw set lightly and his gaze fixed on the scene before them; Elliot, struggling to breathe, while the man began to make his way back to the treeline with her body shielding him. For the first time since Elliot had become a problem of theirs, John saw his older brother take time to consider whether or not he really needed her alive or not.

“Killing a right-hand man would be—”

“The plan was to let her get taken in,” John snapped. “Not to fucking shoot through her to get to some nobody!”

“That was before they knew we tried to trick them,” Jacob insisted. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand, little brother—”

“Leave it.” Joseph’s voice was final, and sharp. It seemed his brother was bringing an end to fights like this more and more often. “They won’t kill her, or the others. They want her for something. If you shoot through her, we’ll lose our one person on the inside.”

Jacob looked, for one split second, like he might willfully disobey Joseph’s final ruling on the matter. The hard lines of the eldest Seed’s face sharpened, steeling, before he finally flipped the safety on the rifle and straightened up.

A swift, hot breeze drifted through, picking up dust along the dirt road, and right as the shade of the treeline began, the man stopped. John could see Elliot squirming against his grip, her fingers grasping at his wrist and hands, scratching as she gasped for air: but he was immovable, and his attention wasn’t on her, anyway.

It was on them—where he thought they might be. He lifted his hand, thumb up, and two fingers out in the shape of a gun, pointed it at them, and mimicked a single gunshot.

Jacob was seething, the emotion rolling off of him in waves. “The fucking gall—”

But John wasn’t listening anymore. He felt like he was going to throw up. This was exactly what he’d been worried about happening—and here it was, laid out before him, a feast spoiled rotten by reality. He couldn’t get the sound of the way she’d called for him, desperately, like he was the last safeguard she had left.

And yet again, he had failed her. Her, and Faith, and sure, while he was at it, he could stick Joey Hudson’s name on the list; and didn't that mean he'd failed Joseph, too?

John came to a stand. “I have to go in,” he said, assertively, drawing both sets of eyes from his brothers now. “They know, now, and—they think Elliot is a big threat, so if there’s a chance she’ll put up a fight they’ll drug the fuck out of her. I should go in, and Jacob can watch my back, because—”

Because I don’t trust anyone else to get this done the way it needs to be. The thought auto-completed itself in his brain, but the words didn’t come, and it didn’t look like Jacob nor Joseph expected it out of him.

“John,” Joseph said, “are you sure you want to do that?”

“Faith is our sister,” John replied, “and didn’t you say that’s who I was? Ever-giving?”

The man hesitated, just for a second; the sound of chatter below, and Elliot’s furious voice rising as she presumably was given more room to breathe, echoed in the air.

“Yes,” Joseph said at last, relenting. “We did.”

John nodded, turning and making his way down the slope. He kept thinking of the way Elliot had said his name, because it wasn’t the first time she had done that; in the van, too, his had been the first she’d said.

And he couldn’t stop thinking of Ase’s man, either, and the way he’d wielded her with ease, the way he’d grinned when he’d spotted them, the way his hand gripped Elliot’s throat like he’d choke her to death right there if he’d gotten the chance.

No, John thought furiously as the truck came into sight, that won’t do at all.

[antoine-roquentin]

I think one of the major problems with the modern left is a focus on cultural analysis instead of economics. When I say culture I EXPLICITLY DON'T MEAN racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, ableism, and Indigenous rights/decolonization.

Stupidpol and their ilk are reactionaries and should be treated as such. What I'm talking about is the focus on things like analyzing TV shows or picking over the latest issues of the NYT op-ed column, the sort a caricatures you see on Chapo.

Zizek is emblematic of this syndrome. He's a theorist of ideology, a film critic, a Lacanian psychoanalyst and complete reactionary on gender and immigration issues, and he's widely considered to be one of preeminent Marxist scholars alive. And, and this is important, Zizek does fuck all actual economic material analysis. Mark Fisher, who was an excellent Marxist theorist, covers almost exactly the same ground from a different perspective, and you can repeat this across academia.

Inside academia the problem has gotten so bad that the best economic analysis is being carried out by the fucking post-humanists. Take, for example, Anna Tsing's excellent Supply Chains and the Human Condition. Tsing is a brilliant theorist but she spends most of her time writing about multi-species interactions between humans and mushrooms. Carbon Democracy, one of the best theories of the carbon economy ever written, is by a left-Foucaldian.

There are some exceptions to this, Andreas Malm's Carbon Capital is wonderful, Riot Strike Riot is great and I have to mention the group I call The Other Chicago School, Endnotes, whose infrequent analysis is a breath of fresh air. But Endnotes isn't particularly well read even inside the academy, which takes back outside the ivory tower in the dismal mess that is what passes for popular left "economics."

I want to go back to Occupy for a second because what happened there is indicative of the problem. Occupy, at least technically, actually had a theory of economics that went beyond "neoliberalism bad, welfare state good." And it's really not as bad as its critics have since accused it of being. Graeber's "the 1% meme" was supposed to be part of an MMT analysis of the ability of banks to create money out of nothing, see Richard A. Werner. The theory then goes with the ability to create money out of nothing the question becomes who should actually have that power. The 1% are the people who control that power and use that it to gain wealth and their wealth to gain power.

This is essentially what happened after 2008 and it relates to an entire analysis of the politics of debt and war that's captured really well in the last chapter of Debt, The First 5000 Years, drawing from Hudson's excellent Super Imperialism. Again, not bad, and not the disaster it became in Liberal hands. But note two things:

1, His work is intentionally detached from the production process- Graeber uses a value theory of labor about the social reproduction of human beings. That theory is really interesting and I'll leave a link to his It is Value that Brings Universes into Being here. But Graeber is an anthropologist, not an economist, and his recent work is mostly composed of a set of theories of bureaucracy.

And, don't get me wrong, I really like Utopia of Rules and Bullshit Jobs, and it's possible to build an economic theory out of them, but almost no one actually does. And this gets us back to my second point about Occupy and economics.

2, Not a single other person I have ever met, including people who were in Occupy, have ever actually heard the theory behind the 1%. Part of this has to do with Graeber’s rather admirable desire to not become an intellectual vanguardist. But, I cannot overemphasize how much of this is a result of the left's retreat into an analysis of consumerism instead of capitalism and its further insistence that the entire fucking global economy can be explained by chapters 1-3 of Capital and this just isn't a "read more theory" rant, it's not like reading the rest of Capital is going to help you here. But even that's better than what's actually happened, which is people reading Imperialism, the Highest Stage of Capitalism and the Communist Manifesto and trying to derive economic theory from that, or getting lost in a Gramscian or psychoanalytic miasma trying to explain why revolution didn't happen. But we can't keep fucking doing this.

If we do we're just going to keep getting stuck in endless fucking inane arguments, one of which is about which countries are Imperialist or not based on trying to read the minds of world leaders, and the other of which is a bunch of racists trying to argue that they're actually "class-first" Marxists and that if we don't say slurs and be mean to disabled people we're going to lose the "real working class," which is somehow composed only of construction workers banging steel bars.

So let's stop letting them do that. One of the reasons Supply Chains and the Human Condition is so great is that it describes how the performance of gender and racial roles creates the self super-exploitation at the heart of global capitalism. Race and gender cannot be ignored in favor of some kind of "class-first" faux-leftist bullshit. THEY ARE LITERALLY THE DRIVER OF CAPITAL ACCUMULATION.

Most of the global supply chain has been transformed into entrepreneurs and wannabe entrepreneurs (see the countless accounts of Chinese garment factory workers who dream of getting into the fashion industry and who attempt to supplement their meager income by setting up stalls in local marketplaces to sell watches and clothes).

The fact that global supply chains have reverted to the kind of small family firms that Marx and Engels thought would disappear is a MASSIVE problem for any kind of global workers movement, because it means that the normal wage relation that is supposed to form the basis of the proletariat isn't actually the governing social experience of a large swath of what should be the proletariat, either because they're the owners of small firms contracted by larger firms like Nike who would, in an older period of capitalism, have just been workers or because the people who work for those firms are incapable of actually demanding wage increases from the capitalists because they're separated by a layer from the firms who control real capital, and thus are essentially unable to make the kind of wage demands that would normally constitute class consciousness because the contractors they work for really don't have any money. These contractors are in no way independent.

Multinational corporations set everything from their buying prices to their labor conditions to what their workers say to lie to labor inspectors. The effect of replacing much of the proletariat with micro-entrepreneurs is devastating.

The class-for-itself that's supposed to serve as the basis of social revolution has decomposed entirely. Endnotes has a great analysis of how this happened covering more time, but the unified working class is dead. In its place have come a series of incoherent struggles: The Arab Spring, the Movement of the Squares, the current wave of revolutions and riots stretching from Sudan to Peru to Puerto Rico- all of them share an economic basis translated into demands on the state. We see housing struggles, anti-police riots, occupations, climate strikes, and a thousand other forms of struggle that don't seem to cohere into a traditional social revolution and WE HAVE NO ANSWER.

I don't have one either, but we're not going to get out of this mess by trying to read the tea leaves of the CCP or analyzing how Endgame is the ruling class inculcating us into accepting Malthusian Ecofascism.

I want to emphasize YOU DON'T NEED TO SHARE MY ECONOMIC ANALYSIS to develop one, I'm obviously wrong on a lot of things and so is everyone else. The point is that we need to start somewhere.

There are other benefits to reading economics stuff even if it can be boring sometimes, like being able to dunk on nerd shitlibs and reactionaries who do the "take Econ-101" meme by being able to prove that their entire discipline is bunk. Steve Keen's Debunking Economics is absolutely hilarious for this, he literally proves that perfect competition relies on the same math that you use to "prove" that the earth is flat.

Or learning that the notion that markets distribute goods optimally is based on the assumption that what is basically a form of fucking state socialism exists, and that the supply demand curve is fucking bullshit. Here's a page from Debunking Economics looking at the socialism claim, it fucking rules, and it's the result of the fact that neo-classical economics and central planning were developed together. Kantorovich and Koopmans shared a Nobel Prize.

But wait, there's more! We can PROVE that THE MARKET PLACE OF IDEAS DOESN'T EXIST. Do you have any idea how hard you can own libs with facts and logic if you can demonstrate that THE MARKET PLACE OF IDEAS DOESN'T EXIST?

But seriously, if you go outside of the Marxist tradition there are all sorts of fun and useful things you can find in post-Keyensian circles and so on and so forth. I'm a huge fan of Karen Ho's Liquidated, an Ethnography of Wall Street/Liquidated_%20An%20Ethnography%20of%20Wall%20Street%20-%20Karen%20Ho.pdf) which looks at how the people at banks and investment firms actually behave and, oh boy, is it bad news (they're literally incapable of making long-term decisions which is wonderful in the face of climate change).

Oh, and also, all of the bankers are essentially indoctrinated into thinking they're the smartest people in the world, so that's fun.

This may sound like I'm shitting on Marxism, and I sort of am, but there's Marxist stuff coming out that I absolutely love! @chuangcn is a good example of what I think the benchmark for leftist economics and historical analysis should be.

Chuang responded to the call put out by Endnotes to cut "The Red Thread of History," or essentially to stop fucking arguing about 1917, 1936, 1968 and so forth and look at material conditions instead of trying to find our favorite faction and accuse literally everyone else of betraying the revolution, and then imagining what we would have done in their shoes. The present is different from the past and we need to organize for this economic and social reality, not 1917's.

https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EBvBIVhXYAYlVfj.png

https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EBvBM3CXoAA7Qmx.jpg

https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EBvBP0SWkAEl6OX.jpg

Chuang produced an incredibly statically and sociologically detailed account of the Chinese socialist period in issue 1 and the transition to capitalism in the soon to be put online issue 2 that focuses on shifts in production and investment and shifts in China's class-structure and how urban workers, peasants, factory mangers, technicians, and cadre members reacted to those movements and shaped each others decisions and mobilizations. They largely avoid discussions of factional battles of the upper level of the CCP, which dominate liberal and communist accounts of the period and produce, in supposed communists from David Harvey to Ajit Singh, a Great Man theory of history.

Instead, they trace how strikes and peasant protests shaped the CCP's decision making and how the choices of people like Mao and Deng Xiaoping were limited by material conditions, in this case by their production bottleneck.

What's great about Chuang is that their work is so rich in sociological detail that you don't need to agree with them at all about what communism is and so on for their account to be useful, and they force us to think about the world from the perspective of competing classes bound by economic reality, instead of the black-and-white "good state/bad state," "good ruler/bad ruler," discourse that dominates our understanding of both imperialism and the global economy.

I'm just going to end this with a TL;DR: Cut the read thread of history and stop fucking arguing about 1917, use economic theory to dunk on Stupidpol and shitlibs. When you talk about "material conditions" talk about the production process, supply chains, capital movements and so on, not which states are good and bad (the bourgeoisie is a global class friends), recognize that strategies need to be built around current economic and social conditions, WHICH ARE INSEPARABLE FROM RACE AND GENDER, climate change is more complicated than the 100 companies meme (I only touched on this but please read Fossil Capital and Carbon Democracy), and in general try to learn more about different schools of economics and social theory, I swear reading something that wasn't written in 1848 isn't going to kill you.

[etherian-affairs]

Entrapdak Secret Santa Stuff!

This is my secret Santa gift for @ari-draws-things (which apparently Tumblr hates linking too.) As part of @niuniente's secret Santa fun.

I couldn't decide on one thing to write so I decided to do a little compilation of these two being dorks.

=======

Coats

"This is completely unnecessary." Hordak notes with a bit of a grump in his voice as Entrapta finishes wrapping another piece of clothing around him. To keep him warm as she insists. Sweaters, coats, including a very long one, a scarf.

"It's really cold in the northern reach! And your body isn't the best! so we have to make sure you don't get cold!" Entrapta notes with complete sincerity. It is sort of sweet in a very overbearing and ridiculous way.

"It is not this much of a problem! The cold is barely of note, after all even my defective biology is much hardier than any Etherian!" He huffs. 

"That's why I'm bundling up too! See!" Entrapta hops back, revealing her actually good looking winter weather attire. A modification of the cold weather gear that Force Captains are given access too. Of primary importance is the fact she is not wrapped up in numerous layers taken from seemingly random and disparate wardrobes.

"You are in something reasonable. Precision engineered and even aesthetically attractive thermal clothing. Meanwhile you have wrapped me in some kind of coat cocoon made from whatever you could find." Hordak grumbles as he wiggles his arms. It's all being worn over his armor, and even with the strength enchantment it still manages to be hard to move in.

"Aaawww." Entrapta's eyes sparkle. "You think I'm aesthetically attractive?!"

That causes Hordak to sputter and look away from Entrapta. "I… I do not find you aesthetically unattractive." He hears her giggle in response to him, then feels her lips touch his cheek in a gentle kiss which only serves to turn the warlord red.

Then she pulls the fluffy winter hat onto his head "there we go! Now the ensemble is complete!" Entrapta nearly shouts as she moves back to get a good look at Hordak's definitely very fashionable outfit..

Hordak grumbles, wiggling his arms a bit. "Entrapta this is ludicrous. I demand you free me from these garments." He says with a huff.

Finally after a moment Entrapta laughs. "Okay! The experiment is over anyway! It was a huge success!"

This garners sputtering from Hordak. "Experiment? What experiment?!"

"I wanted to see if you'd stop me from putting more and more coats on you! You didn't!" She smiles. "I think it's because you love and trust me!"

"WELL I DON'T NOW!" Hordak shouts dramatically, wiggling his limbs around. Entrapta gasps!

"We'll need to confirm that!" She adds before moving right up to Hordak and placing her forehead against his. The warlord manages a moment of defiance before he leans into it to nuzzle her gently. He does grumble while doing it though. It garners a giggle from Entrapta. "I'll help you get out of these now. Even though you look adorable!" 

"Thank you." Hordak huffs, his face flushed red.

Hot Cocoa.

Etheria is notable for the micro climates and clear biomes which separate regions of the world. As such seasons within the confines of those biomes are quite mundane and samey compared to many of the other worlds that Hordak has visited. The Fright Zone barely notices any changes as time passes, always rather warm and dry. Hordak has been ensured however that it is currently winter time and thus extra cold. 

It is not, but the people of the Horde seemingly arbitrarily deciding this doesn't actually affect anything. Thus, Hordak allows them to have their winter. No harm done, after all.

Until the climate control systems of the Fright Zone begin to malfunction and cool things below the normal controlled ambient. The moment it was noticed technicians were dispatched to deal with the problem but it is taking them some time, and the sanctum is for lack of a better term freezing.

Hordak is not going to be deterred by a little bit of cold however, in fact it's good for conductivity. With great stoicism he ignores the niggling in his brain that he should cover up his legs and back more. He is Lord Hordak and he is stronger then some air conditioning unit. 

Just as he is about to give in and try to find a warmer room Entrapta bursts in. "Hordak!" She declares chipperly! "It's really cold!" 

He looks back at her, she's carrying a tray of little cups. It's rather too ominous for just being a platter of cups. Likely an effect of the fact that Entrapta is generally speaking terrible with making anything that is supposed to be edible. "Yes, it is. The climate control system has suffered a malfunction it would seem." 

"Well! Good news! The moment I noticed how cold it is, I decided to make us an instant fix! Hot cocoa!" She shouts the entire statement excitedly. 

Hordak quirks a brow at her "As in… heated chocolate?" 

"Yes! It's a drink! Milk! Chocolate! Marshmallows! It'll warm us right up!" She insists as she steps forth, holding up the tray of drinks to Hordak.

There's a long moment of staring and debating this. He has had chocolate before and while it is not his favorite it also is not terrible. The idea of it as a warm liquid isn't much better but it also isn't much worse. Making Entrapta happy is definitely a good thing though, and this also might help to warm his core. There is also the fact that Entrapta herself made it too, which on the one hand is a very sweet thing but on the other could spell disaster for Hordak's digestive tract.

After some internal debate Hordak reaches out to take one of the small cups of hot cocoa, carefully bringing it to his lips to take a sip. The hot liquid hits his tongue, his tastebuds fire.

Hordak spits it out immediately. Entrapta yelps in surprise. "You spit it out?!"

"How did you burn a liquid!?" Hordak responds. "This is not chocolate anymore this is some sort of liquid ash!" He ponders the taste for a moment more. "With subtle hints of arsenic."

"I am sure I did it right! I used science to make it!"

That comment garners a blink from the clone. "You just told me it was just chocolate, milk, and marshmallows! How did that require science?" 

"Well I had to make it all from scratch! From stuff I found around the Fright Zone!" 

Hordak can only groan. "There are basic food preparation supplies available to you." He states.

"Yeah but I wanted to make it special!" Entrapta pouts. "I sabotaged the air conditioning for nothing now."

Hordak blinks. "You what?!"

Mistletoe

"So we are supposed to have this plant hung up over a doorway and then if we pass under it at the same time we kiss?" Hordak asks as he looks over the bundle of green in his hand.

"well actually it's that you're socially allowed to kiss anyone standing under mistletoe!" Entrapta notes as she lifts herself up to also observe the plant.

"I see." Hordak nods slowly, then he asks the key question. "Why?"

"I don't really know! I guess it's because people like kissing!"

"I only like kissing you." Hordak replies with a sure nod.

Suddenly Entrapta's cheeks go red. "That's surprisingly forward of you!" She speaks loudly.

Hordak blinks, a blush graces him as well. His ears angle down in embarrassment. "I uh… well I mean…" then suddenly the mutually bashful moment is broken.

"Wait! If you only like kissing me does that mean you have tested it? Hordak have you kissed other people?!" Entrapta's voice is genuinely curious, almost excited to find out. It makes Hordak's ears pin against his head.

"Uh. Well… I have been on Etheria for some time… there have been intimate encounters." He looks away from her, embarrassment filling him.

"Oh wow! I never considered that…" Entrapta hmms and moves around him, as if taking stock of him now.

This time Hordak gets to speak up though. "Wait! Why not? What would make that something to not be considered?!" He turns to follow her with his gaze.

Then suddenly the mistletoe is plucked from him hands and held above him in a lock of purple hair. Hordak's surprise only increases when Entrapta's lips are suddenly pressed against his own. He soon accepts the kiss though, leaning back into it.

When their lips part Entrapta speaks. "I thought only I had such good taste!" She speaks, then giggles.

The warlord blinks, staring at Entrapta for a moment. "Who has been teaching you to flirt? That was very self assured and forward."

"Did you like it? Imp has been helping me!" She beams back at him, proud.

"I did. It was very effective. The use of the mistletoe was quite inspired as well."

"I improvised that part! I'm glad you liked it!" 

Hordak nods again, then suddenly reaches out to pull Entrapta close and kiss her again. She meeps in surprise for just a moment before leaning into it.

"I may like this backwater holiday tradition." Hordak notes quietly after they break once more. Their foreheads pressed together.

"I like it too." Entrapta sighs happily.

[it-was-all-a-beautiful-dream]

Not so charming (Jax x reader)

Warnings: swearing, blood, violence 

Charming, what a funny word for a place full of so much death and decay.

You roll your eyes again as you listen to Opie rant about how you're not to leave the house without one of the guys. They didn't know if the streets were safe enough yet and he wasn't going to let his little sister walk around town by herself. 

Opie had always been protective of you, Jackson was just as bad. Jackson Teller, your brothers life long best friend, your childhood tormenter and now your boyfriend, much to Opie’s dismay. He didn't take it too well at first, but then grew to the idea, at least he knew Jax well enough to know he'd never hurt you. 

You sighed, still not really paying attention to Opie, who was still lecturing you about not  leaving the house. You looked at your watch conscious of the time. You were already running late for college. Great. You snapped out of your day dream when you heard the rev of bike engines. You had wanted to make an escape before they had appeared. You and Jax were arguing at the minute, not talking, and the tension was thick enough you could cut it with a knife. 

 The crew had just pulled up outside the house. Thank god Opie finally stopped talking. You grabbed your backpack and slung one strap across your shoulder, almost throwing yourself sideways in the process forgetting how heavy your art supplies were. Kissing your brothers cheek, you bound outside and down the porch steps to where everyone was waiting. 

Jax was at the front, he turned his head to look at you, brooding but handsome in every way possible. Your chest tightened but you snapped yourself out of your saddened daze. Tara had gone to visit him the other day, trying to seduce him, begging Jax to take her back, and You had to find out from Gemma. With a scowl on your face, you walked over to him as he handed you your helmet. He expected you to get on no doubt but you didn’t. You were finally taking a stand for yourself, time to stop being treated like a baby. Everyone always tried to shield you from everything and you'd finally had enough. Making your own decisions for once, you took the helmet and clipped the strap under your chin, walking away from Jax. 

“C’mon darling what are you doing.” Jax huffed and started to get off his bike. You hugged Chibs and Tig and swung a leg over the back of Juice’s bike. 

“You mind Juicy?” You asked sweetly and Juice gulped. He’d always had a soft spot for you, everyone knew it. Especially Jackson. You looked over to see his jaw clenched and his fists balled up by his sides. Opie rolled his eyes at you knowing you were doing this on purpose. He patted Juice on the shoulder and told him to get you to college, no stops. You wrapped your arms around Juice’s waist as he started the engine, taking off fast, leaving Jax and the rest of the club in a cloud of smoke. 

-Jax P.O.V.-

I swore under my breath as I watched her walk out of the house. Wearing a light coloured blouse and denim short shorts, she floated across to us like a little angel. I scowled, stupid fucking Tara, always ruining a good thing when i’ve finally got it. My princess was hurting and I could tell but it pissed me off that she was ignoring me when I felt I hadn't done anything wrong. I didn't tell her about Tara coming to see me for her own protection. It had a negative effect because my mother couldn't keep her mouth shut. I thought she’d forgiven me when she walked up and took her helmet. But I saw red when she walked away and swung her long legs over juices bike. I was halfway to them when Opie told them to leave, a cloud of dust the only thing left by the time i’d walked to where they had been. 

“Chibs, Tig, meet Juice and stay with Y/N all day. Don't let her leave that college without at least one of you with her at all times.” Yeah we were arguing, but it didn't mean I wasn't going to keep my girl safe. She would just have to deal with it, she could act like a brat all she wanted but she would deal with the consequences later. As frustrating as it was, at the minute I had bigger issues to deal with. A new player had come to town and had already killed two of my men. The threat was great and the town wasn't safe. The club was on lockdown once again and I had to come up with a plan. Getting on my bike, Opie and Happy followed as we rode back to the club. Chibs and Tig rode in the opposite direction, I sighed, hopefully Y/N would forgive me later once we had chance to talk. 

-Y/N P.O.V.-

The day had started out okay I guess. After Juice had dropped me off, I quickly made my way to the art centre where I had my lessons. My teacher was only mildly pissed off which made my life a little easier, I dumped my stuff and got to work on my latest project, my friend Alex asking me questions over my shoulder as to why I was late yet again. I filled him in on all the latest and then got to work. 

Lunch had rolled around pretty quickly. I grabbed a bite to eat in the cafeteria after noticing Juice, Chibs and Tig were still hanging around outside. Damnit Jackson. I scowled, my face turning red slightly. God he was infuriating! I wasn't really listening when Alex was reminding about the party we had tonight. I knew I wouldn't be aloud to go even If I wanted to. Guess I would just have to break the news to him gently. He’d live, just not so sure my social life will. 

It was the end of the day, I was about to leave the building when someone called my name. I could see the guys waiting for me at the bottom of the street. Tara was walking towards me with a stupid grin on her face. I glowered at her. Great, the last person I wanted to fucking see today. 

“What do you want Tara, I have to get home.” I was walking towards Chibs, he could see Tara walking next to me, trying to keep up as I started to walk a bit faster. He started towards us but I held my hand up slightly. I wanted to hear what she had to say. 

“I just wanted to let you know, you’ll never have him the way I had him. You're just a little girl, a little spoilt club brat who will never be woman enough for Jax and you know it.” 

You had tears in your eyes but looked away from the woman who was standing next to you, taunting you. To top it all of she handed you one of Jax’s rings. How would she have even of gotten that when he’d just been wearing it this morning when you'd seen him outside your house. 

Your heart broke. He must have seen her again. After he told you, promised you he wouldn’t. You turned to Tara with your fist balled, full of anger and you swung with all your strength, planting your fist right into her cheek, you watched as she fell to the curb clutching her face, the boys ran up to you, Chibs holding you back before you could do any real damage. Shoving the ring into Tigs hand, you looked at them with tears in your eyes. 

“Tell Jackson to go fuck himself.” With that you ignored the men yelling at you to come back and ran towards Alex as he was getting in his car. You swung the door open demanding he just drive. You would fill him in later, but right now you just needed to escape. 

After you had finished crying, you had managed to fill Alex in on everything that had happened. Normally you wouldn't be aloud to discuss club life and situations with friends but Alex was related to a member of the club so you were aloud. Also, he was the only real friend you had, you had grown up together and you'd been friends ever since pre-school. On the way to Alex’s house you had text Lyla, Opie’s wife, to bring you a change of clothes. You couldn't risk heading home, you knew someone would be waiting for you. You just hoped Lyla wouldn't tell Opie where you were, you had explained what had happened and that you just needed some time alone, you were safe. Hopefully she understood that. 

A couple of hours later, Lyla had been and gone, dropping off a change of clothes and some over-night bits, she sat and talked with you and Alex for a while and promised not to tell Jax where you were. Sisters code and all that. She just asked you to stay safe and then left. Luckily she hadn't questioned your choice in clothing, as you pulled out the items you were going to wear to the party. That’s right, time to be a big girl, you had decided to take your life into your own hands and you were going whether Jax liked it or not. He was your boyfriend not your dad, even if you did call him daddy sometimes. You shook the thought from your head and tipped back the shot of tequila Alex handed to you. You smiled at him gratefully, the burn from the alcohol helping to numb the pain of your heart…. and your hand. Oh yeah, tonight was going to be good. 

-A few hours later-

You looked at your cellphone through blurry eyes. You hiccuped and giggled, the alcohol had consumed you now and you were feeling happier than you had in the last couple of days. You knew you'd regret the amount you had drank in the morning, but right now, you were so drunk it felt as if you were weightless. Jax’s caller picture lit up on your phone. You smiled at the picture of the two of you and then scowled as you hit the answer button. 

“-Hiccup- what doooo you wan jackieeeee.” You giggled into the phone and tipped back another shot, the music pounding in your ears, finding it hard to hear your boyfriend on the other end of the phone. You could hear he was shouting, but that was about it. Uh ohhhh I'm in trouble. 

“Y/N where the fuck are you god damnit.” Oh yeah he was angry, but I couldn't help but remember what Tara had said to me earlier. 

“Leave me alone Jackson Teller!” You practically screamed down the phone at him and then hung up, Tara had his ring, she would have only managed to have got it after seeing him this morning. That was enough to make you have another four tequila shots and throw your phone in the bottom of your clutch bag. Fucking SAMCRO. 

-Jax P.O.V-

Fuck, fuck, fuck. She hung up and I ran a hand over my face, the boys had filled me in with what had happened at the college this afternoon. It wasn't what it seemed like but obviously Y/N didn't really know what had happened with Tara this morning after she had left for college. 

I had gotten back to the club, Tara was waiting for me in my room. She had let herself in and I was fucking pissed. I all but grabbed her by the hair and chucked her out onto the street and in the process she must have grabbed my ring from the side of the bed. I swear, if she ever goes near Y/N again i’ll kill her. My fucking princess, she’s fucked up this time. Not knowing where she is and if she's safe is killing me. I know she's with Alex and i’m gonna kill him the little punk. I laughed slightly, imagining my girl landing a punch on Tara. That’s my girl. I shook my head. It shouldn't have come to this. If I had just told her what had happened when Tara had come to see me the first time. None of this would have happened. Not only am I dealing with this Tara shit, the new people in town are stirring up trouble and Have no idea where my girl is. 

All I could hear when she was on the phone was loud music and voices. She was slurring like she was drunk, she was obviously at some sort of party. I just wanted to get her and take her home. Make sure she was safe in my arms and then punish her for taking things too far. 

I turned my head as Opie walked through the door with a bang. Lyla was following quietly behind him, she looked a little worried. Ah, here we go. “Please tell me you have some sort of fucking idea where my girl is hmm.” Lyla nodded, half hiding behind Opies large frame and told us everything. Time to go get her. 

-Y/N P.O.V.- 

I had been drinking water for the past half hour now. My head had started swimming and as much as I enjoyed the feeling of being numb, I knew I didn't enjoy throwing up, so started to slow down a little. My phone dinged and I rummaged around in the bottom of my bag trying to find it. I walked outside as I was searching for the small device, god it was cold. I could hardly unlock the screen from shaking as I managed to fish it out of my bag. It was a text from Lyla. “Sorry.” That’s all it said. But that’s all I needed to see, my stomach started doing butterflies and my heart started pounding, I started to get sweaty and I thought about running for a second as I heard the screeching and rumble of engines making its way down the street. Leather clad angels pulled up right in front of where I was standing and I dropped my phone back into the bottom of my bag. Whoops. Too late to run now. Fucking Lyla what happened to girl code. 

I gulped as I watched my man swing his leg off his bike. The other club members held back, and I watched my dark knight stalk towards me like a predator hunting his pray. He walked so close my nose was practically touching his chest. His calloused fingers took my chin and he jerked my face up to meet his as I gulped. I knew not to challenge him when he was like this. His other hand grabbed my waist and pulled my hips flush against his and a blush rose up the sides of my face. He silently placed a kiss on my forehead and then led me over to his bike. No words were needed. We will deal with this later.

The drive home was quite, the rumble of the bikes, the odd disapproving glance from my brother. My arms tightened around Jackson and I pulled his hoodie around myself more to shield my body from the bitter nights air. Shit! I forgot to tell Alex I’d left. Now he was gonna be mad at me too. As much as Jax had the right to be mad at me, I still couldn't stop thinking about the thing that had got us to this point. Hopefully i’ll get some answers when we reach the club. 

We were almost home when the first shot rang out. I panicked and looked behind us to notice an SUV following closely behind, someone sticking out the side shooting at the bikes. The guys had noticed too, the bullet had pinged off the metal of Chibs’ bike and now they were firing back. Jax swerved as another car pulled to the side of us trying to box us in. My heart was racing, I clutched onto Jax for dear life and squeezed my eyes shut but it was no use. The car sent us flying, the bike skid and we both came off, the side of my body hitting the rough ground. I screamed out as we hit the floor, I couldn't see Jackson, there was a cloud of dust and screeching of tires. My hand moved to touch my side, blood. I looked down through blurry eyes and noticed the cuts in my skin. I groaned and pressed what was left of the side of the hoodie into my bleeding wound and tried to stand. 

“Y/N!?” I could hear my brother and the guys all shouting my name, my hearing was fuzzy, the knock on the head from the concrete the reason. I stumbled forward and winced, the wound on my side worse than I thought. I took the fabric away and gasped as the blood gushed freely. More gunshots. My body, tackled to the ground. Chibs was hovering over me, I couldn't hear a word he was saying, my heart felt like it was pounding in my ears. 

“Wheres Ja-jackson?” I looked around at all the carnage. Bikes on their side, Two cars engulfed in flames and smoke, leather clad bikers moving quickly, and then my knight in leather armour. He was running towards me, seemingly unscathed. This is why they don't let me leave the house. This is all my fault. 

“Y/n! Babe i’m so sorry Darlin, it’s gonna be okay, we’ll get you fixed up baby.” You could see the panic clear in his eyes. I was about to reply but I noticed a man draw his gun and he was heading towards us, the others had gone to sort out the bikes, Chibs had gone and was replaced with Opie who was running a hand over his face. The boys were too distracted by my state to notice anything. I tried to speak but it was too late. The gang member had his gun pointed towards Jackson. 

“The King without his army is no king at all.” I screamed and before I knew it was reaching for Opie’s gun that was by his side. I fired. Shocking Opie and Jax, and myself and then watched as the mans lifeless body dropped to the ground. His blood spattered across my face and I started to shake. 

“Whats a King without his Queen.” And with that. I passed out.