#I remember a few months back there were smug headlines that went like:

[charlesoberonn]

Please do not base or substantiate your political worldview on Paradox games.

[startanewdream]

Godfather duty

Summary: When James is surprised by Sirius and Harry coming home drunk four in the morning, he questions himself when he got too old for that.

For @theblueocean 

Part of the Jily Lives AU

Rated M for mentions of underage drinking and some swearing.

Read on AO3 with all the correct italics, or below the cut:

_________

His eyelids feel heavy, but James keeps writing. He is almost finishing the first draft of the article for Transfiguration Today; it's due Sunday and he still has five days to finish it, but James is really anxious for presenting it. It's not his first paper for that magazine, but his article will be the headline this time, and he promised himself he would send them in advance as much as he could - and he still needs to send it to Minerva for her to read and review.

It feels a lot like he is back in school doing essays, but James doesn't remember being that excited back at Hogwarts - well, not about homework anyway.

He puts the final dot and lets the quill rest, satisfied. He will proofread in the morning, maybe even rewrite altogether from a different perspective, but it's done and it's a competent article, he knows.

Human transfiguration was always a point of interest to him.

He raises, stretching up and looking at his watch. It's past four in the morning already; he really lost track of time. He remembers Lily calling him to go to bed - and then he promised her he would go in a minute, which he clearly forgot.

He suppresses a yawn as he leaves the library, thinking only of sinking on his bed when he hears a sound coming from the front porch.

All his sleepiness is gone instantly, and he turns with his wand already raised, alarmed and with his instincts screaming even though it’s been months since the war ended; someone is turning the doorknob. The spell is almost leaving his lips when the door opens wide and he sees Harry's joyful face.

Harry is not alone; Sirius is with him, their arms around each other in a brotherly gesture and for a moment James has a flashback of himself with Sirius with that same easiness, both of them beaming happily and goofy; it's a memory of twenty years ago, of a night they went around Muggle London joining a pub crawl that ended up with James' mother finding them passed out in the middle of the Potter’s living room in Godric’s Hollows.

A lot of things happened that night - a flight from the Muggle police when they tried to climb Cleopatra’s Needle, an attempt to perform a serenade to Lily only to realize they were on the wrong street and throwing eggs at Grimmauld Place number twelve - but what he remembers clearer is the smell of the alcohol on him as he woke up next morning - and then the taste of it all as he threw it all up.

And right now Sirius and Harry have that same smell of cheap whiskey mixed with beer.

James blinks, confused. As far as he thought, Harry had been back from work hours ago - James was sure Harry had been sleeping on his bed right now.

It’s evident he was wrong.

‘Hi, Prongs’, Sirius says, grinning from ear-to-ear, sounding much steadier than James would have guessed from the smell coming from them. ‘Care to let us in?’

'What's going on?', James asks, worried, stepping aside to let them enter. Both of them are stumbling, but James has the impression that Sirius is supporting Harry more than the opposite.

For some reason his question makes them look at each other.

'What I said?', Sirius asks Harry as if they are sharing some old joke. Harry lets out of one of his rare carefree giggles. 'What d'you think we are doing, dear Prongs?'

'Coming home drunk in the middle of the night?’

‘Chill out, Dad’, Harry says, winking at him.

Chill out?

‘It’s four in the morning of a Tuesday - I thought you were home already!’

‘I had to work late’, Harry answers immediately, grinning. Sirius takes him to the living room, trying to help him on the couch, but Harry slides to the floor, falling on the carpet.

‘On a bar?’

‘It’s for work’, Harry insists, eyes open as if that was obvious. 

‘It was a very important mission’, Sirius agrees. ‘Stealth. Mixing with locals. Spying on people’.

‘Oh, were there Death Eaters on that bar?’, James asks, rolling his eyes.

‘It could have been! Harry needs to know how to handle his alcohol!’

Harry giggles.

‘I handle it very well’, he says proudly, clapping his hands. ‘Tell him, Sirius’.

‘He won us money on darts. He even closed his eyes for the last shot. You would be proud!’

‘That you were letting my barely out-of-age kid bet on games?’

Sirius rolls his eyes.

‘Everything was under control, he won. Stop worrying, I was on godfather duty tonight -’

‘Between a drink and another, you mean?’

‘ - and I brought him home, right?’

‘Speaking of that’, James raises his eyebrows, now sounding openly reproachful. ‘How did you come home? Don’t tell me you drank and apparated’.

‘I would never!’

‘Or that motorbike - if you came here flying, I swear I will -’

‘Relax, Dad!’, Harry intervenes, now raising on a jump, ignoring how he tumbles in the process. ‘We got a cab. Eeeeeeverything under control’.

James watches his son go to the cabinet in the room, searching for something until he takes out a feather to doodle something on a parchment, not realizing it’s a grocery list.

‘I see the control’, he says dryly. ‘What are you doing, Harry?’

‘I am making a howler’.

‘What? What for?’

‘To howl, duh - hey!’, he turns to Sirius, his eyes sparkling madly. ‘Remus never sends letters - he only sends howlers!’

Sirius chuckles. ‘I howl too! Owoooooo!’

‘Hey, hey, you are going to wake up Lily!’

‘And?’

‘And maybe you don’t want her to see what you did to Harry - Harry, stop that, you are not sending anyone a howler’.

‘I have to tell Ginny I love her!’

‘She already knows, I am sure, you’ve told her’.

‘But I never yelled it!’

‘And she loves you more because of that, come on, give me that letter’.

‘I knew he wouldn’t let you send it’, Sirius says, his voice now smug. ‘Prongsie is old’.

James rolls his eyes.

‘Same age as you, Pads’, he remembers distantly, taking the letter from Harry, though now he realizes he didn’t need to worry. Harry’s letter is unintelligible and he doubts he could cast the spell to turn into a howler.

Harry pouts.

‘Sirius is right, you are square’.

‘What?’

‘We can never have fun’.

‘And you are so serious - more than me, haha!’, Sirius adds, now laying down lazily on the couch, his legs spread. James is about to complain that his shoes are all muddy and Sirius should take them out, but he stops.

Oh, Merlin, he is really getting a bit square, isn’t he?

‘I can be fun’, he stresses, making Sirius let out one of his bark laughs.

‘Yeah, years ago. Before you were a dad - no offence, Harry’.

Harry doesn’t seem to have heard him, which James considers a shame. Harry would surely defend him - he was a cool dad to Harry.

No, he is still a cool dad. The kind that Harry can feel at will to talk about anything, that supports Harry and that is always there for him.

Except that Harry didn’t tell him about working late tonight or going to a bar. Except Harry and Sirius didn’t ask for his company.

And if they did - he thinks of the paper he just finished and how excited he was for it.

He would have said no.

That’s not very cool of him.

‘I will take a flight!’, Harry declares, his eyes shining with this idea and for once James doesn’t feel satisfied with the mischievousness in him.

‘No drinking and flying’, James says sternly, and he decides that he will have to remain uncool for a little longer. ‘You - you stay here! Sirius - watch him. Better than you did so far, I mean’.

Sirius grimaces, evidently annoyed, but he sits next to Harry, who is now mumbling something incomprehensible, though Sirius seems to be listening to him with attention. James leaves them in the living room, locking the door behind him just in case, and goes to Lily’s office hoping she has stored a Hangover Potion. He is in no luck, of course; it’s been years since he and Lily even needed one - James believes it comes with the age knowing when to stop - and there was nothing in Harry’s latest behaviour that showed them they would need it.

For a second James almost considers waking up Lily, knowing she would make the potion in minutes, but he doesn’t want her to see the mess Harry is right now; it’s far better she hears it later than witnessing first hand. He grabs a small cauldron and the ingredients he will need and returns to the living room.

In the few minutes he was out, Harry and Sirius managed to make things strangely worse. There is snow in the room, that he sees Sirius casting from his wand; Harry is perfectly still, the snow making a sort of white hat on his head, his arms wide open and also covered in snow.

‘What -’, James tries to ask, but he just blinks at the weirdness on the scene.

‘Shhhh’, Sirius says, a finger on his lips. ‘Don’t distract him!’

‘What is Harry doing?’

‘Isn’t it obvious? Disguise training! He is a snowman!’

‘He is missing a carrot nose’, James notes, grimacing, and that makes Sirius turn his wand to Harry’s face. ‘I am joking!’

It’s too late; there is a flash of light and then there is a carrot on Harry’s face, replacing his nose.

‘Sirius!’, Harry complains, raising his hand to touch his new nose. His voice is muffled. ‘I can’t have a nose this big! How can I snog Ginny now?’

‘That’s your concern?’, James asks, half-amused, now taking out Sirius’ wand to make sure he doesn’t cast any more magic.

‘I will poke her in the eye!’, Harry says, moping, scratching the tip of his pointy nose thoughtfully.

‘I will transform you back as soon as you drink this potion, now lay still’. Harry sighs, sitting on the couch. Sirius sits next to him, patching him in the back as if he weren’t the one that turned Harry’s nose into a carrot in the first place.

‘Your nose matches her hair’, he says bracingly. ‘You will look beautiful together’.

‘I am not sure this is much comfort, Padfoot’, James notes, placing the cauldron in the fireplace and starting to throw in the ingredients. He could add something for the taste, but he believes the bitterness helps build character.

‘Well, I got him quiet, didn’t I?’, Sirius asks, pointing at Harry who is now sitting on the couch, still playing with his carrot nose.

‘You could have messed up so badly’.

‘I am not that drunk - I watched over your kid, no matter what you think of me’.

James shakes his head.

‘Letting him drink that much? He barely can stand - what if someone -’

‘The war is over, James’, Sirius tells him, sounding much grim now. ‘And like I said, I was there. Me, half-a-dozen junior Aurors and some seniors too’.

‘Unless any Death Eater threat would be a challenge to a drinking contest, I don’t think it would make much difference’.

‘Oh, Merlin’. Sirius sighs, walking to the drink cabinet and opening it to take a bottle of firewhiskey. ‘Here, drink this’.

‘What?’

‘You are sober, I hate talking to sober people when I am pissed. Sober people are boring’.

‘I am not boring’, James complains, pushing away the bottle that Sirius extends in his direction. ‘And I am past the age of being forced to drink to look cool’.

‘Then drink because it’s nice!’, Sirius says forcefully now. ‘Drink because you are alive! Drink because you are happy! Drink because for the first time in his life your son is properly pissed!’

‘That’s not a reason -’

‘That’s enough reason! He is eighteen! What age were we when we first got pissed?’

‘Seventeen’. Sirius raises his eyebrows, waiting for him, and James flushes, turning his attention to the cauldron. The potion is almost over. ‘Fine, fifteen - but it didn’t count, we weren’t thinking straight then’.

‘Yeah. Our first transformation’, Sirius remembers, but there is something heavy on his voice now.

‘What is the problem, Padfoot?’

‘Nothing’. 

That makes James stop. He takes the cauldron out of the fire, to let the potion cool down, and turns to Sirius, watching him. Sirius’ eyes are watery as he always gets when he drinks, but he sustains James’ look for a surprisingly full two minutes before he sighs.

‘Fine, you are the problem’.

‘Me? You take my son out for a drink without telling me, return home four in the morning and I am the problem?’

‘Look at what you are saying! He is of age! He was with his friends - and his very trustable godfather! He was having fun for once in his life, instead of living that responsible life you want for him’.

‘Responsible?’, James repeats, dumbfounded. Nobody had ever accused him of wanting to do the responsible thing. ‘I am just being his father’.

‘Well, maybe Harry doesn’t need his father anymore’.

There is a long pause after that. James blinks, once, twice, very slowly, trying to understand what Sirius means by that, and it’s only when he reaches for the drink cabinet to get a glass for the potion, that Sirius moves.

‘Shit - I didn’t mean like that - sorry, James, it’s not -’

‘No, I get it’, James says, his voice forcefully steady. ‘Harry wants the cool father figure that allows him everything - and, well, Sirius “what’s life without a little risk” Black is perfect for that’.

‘Don’t be absurd - that kid worships the ground you walk upon -’

‘And yet he was with you, not me. I get it. I am a father, not a friend’. He offers Sirius a full glass. ‘Drink this, you’ll feel better tomorrow’.

‘No, I deserve the hangover tomorrow, but that’s beside the point. It’s my fault’.

‘I don’t think you forced Harry to drink’, James notes dryly, sitting next to Harry to help him drink the potion. Harry seems to be in another world now, but he obliges to James’ help without questioning.

‘No, that was all on him - I mean it, he’d make you proud, he won a drinking contest with Thompson and he is twice Harry’s size - er, not helping, sorry’. Sirius sits on the other side of Harry. ‘He was going to tell you we’d be out for a drink. And I didn't let him'.

'Why? Why would you -'

'Because I thought you would overreact. Worry too much about him. Don't let him have any fun'.

'I would not -'

'And because I thought he'd ask you to come’.

James blinks. Between them, Harry lays his head on James' shoulder, now watching Sirius with mild curiosity.

‘I would ask’, he agrees, a note of pride in his voice. 

'Am I that bad company?', James asks in a low voice. Sirius shakes his head.

'Would you come with us?', he challenges. James keeps his gaze for a few seconds, but just like Sirius didn't lie for him before, he wouldn't dare speak anything but the truth.

'No, I had things to do today'.

'That article', Sirius scoffs. 'You don't talk about anything else'.

James frowns.

'It's really important - a chance of -'

'Getting yourself a name, I know, I know. But see -', his grey eyes are burning over James now, somewhat desperate. 'The Prongs I know would never care for reputation'.

'Sirius…'

'The Prongs I know would be honest with me'.

'I am - what are you -'

'I heard you and Kingsley, ok?', he blows off. 'Registering as an animagus? After all this time?'

There is another silence, broken only by the crackling fire.

'I was going to tell you', James says finally. 'I didn't think it was important - you don't have to register too -'

'That's not the point - you are breaking our trust -'

'It's just an entry on a list. It doesn’t change anything, I will keep our full moon nights -'

'When Remus has time, you mean?', he asks, sounding bitter now. 'He missed the last two, he'd rather stay home -'

'He has a kid now -'

'So do you and… you guys are getting old and responsible and too serious for me'.

'Nobody is more serious than you', James says, smiling at him, but Sirius just rolls his eyes and grabs the bottle of firewhiskey on the coffee table, taking a sip.

James extends his hand. Sirius raises one eyebrow, in disbelief, and his expression only relaxes a little when James takes a long sip of the firewhiskey. The drink burns his throat, infusing him with that weird dose of courage and a will to do something, but James just sighs.

'You are no less serious because of it', Sirius notes.

'I got serious - the war, the first one and then the second one and everything - and I think I forgot how to relax - but that doesn't mean… you are my brother, Sirius'.

'The annoying prettier baby brother?'

'You are older', James says, grinning, and after a second of hesitation, Sirius smiles too. 'You can invite me - I mean, we can do things together. Even if it sounds - or is - stupid'.

'Things together like… registering our animagus form?'

James rests against the couch, and Harry moves his head to rest more comfortably on his shoulders; James thinks he will sleep soon.

'You don't need to do it too - Kingsley already knows about you and he is the bloody Minister of Magic, isn't he? This was not about doing the responsible thing'.

'Then why -'

'I want the credit'. James presses his lips, before admitting something he didn't even share with Lily yet. 'I talked to Minerva - if I get back to my studies, get enough recommendation to be approved by the board, I could get her position'.

Sirius blinks, startled.

'Her position? You mean -'

'Transfiguration professor, yeah'.

He looks away now, feeling somewhat embarrassed. It had never really been an ambition - teaching was much more something Remus had always wanted to do than him; James had been glad to focus on his studies and develop new theories of transfiguration until then. 

But ever since Minerva had vented that possibility to him a few weeks after the end of the war, when they were repairing one of the halls destroyed in the battle, that thought had been on his mind. He wasn't in a rush, but the idea of getting back to Hogwarts, this time as a professor, watching other students learn from him as much as he had learned from Minerva McGonagall… he couldn't deny that idea had taken root in his mind.

James always teased her that he had been her favourite student, but the fact was that she was his favourite professor and there was some part of him that wanted to impress her and prove himself good enough to replace her someday.

He waits for Sirius' response, but there is only a silence that doesn't seem good.

'I know it's huge', James mumbles. 'There are others far more capacitated than me, I am starting now to -'

'Shut your mouth, Prongs', interrupts Sirius, and James turns to him. There is a grin on his face. 'Being humble never suited you'.

James laughs softly.

'I wasn’t trying to', he assures him.

'I thought - I thought you had wanted to do the right thing. You know, registering just because you wanted to follow the law, as if… as if you were ashamed of what we did illegally -'

'Now it's you who needs to shut up, Padfoot'. He takes another sip of the firewhiskey. ‘Animagus at age of fifteen? I’m damn proud of it. Also, that’s the only thing that I have done that’s cooler than half the stuff Harry got into’.

‘Yeah, I suppose it’s hard when your son is a bloody hero’.

Harry chooses that moment to start snoring loudly, which sends James and Sirius into a fit of laughter. James raises, careful to let Harry sleep on the couch, and Harry doesn’t look remotely close to waking up.

‘I am glad you took him out for a drink’, James says, taking out Harry’s glasses. ‘I was just jealous - it should have been me’.

‘I am sure there will be another occasion’, Sirius says dismissively. ‘He will probably forget every embarrassing thing he did, you know how that works’.

‘Oh, he embarrassed himself?’, James asks, a glint of fun on his eyes. Sirius smirks.

‘That happy giggling Harry you saw? Just the last stage. He was all cocky at first - that’s how we got into that darts bet’.

‘Harry? My son? Cocky?’

‘Oh, yeah, he reminded me a lot of you’, Sirius’ smirk increases. ‘He was strutting and all’.

‘Tell me you took pictures of it’.

‘I would never’, Sirius declares, though James isn’t sure he believes him this time. ‘And then he got very… honest’.

‘That doesn’t sound good for that stealth mission’.

Sirius shakes his head.

‘If he was spilling out Auror secrets I would be happier - no, instead I had to hear about the time he and Ginny -’

‘Nope, nope, I don’t want to know’.

‘Well, me neither, I won’t ever use your Invisibility Cloak again, you can be sure. But anyway - that’s why he got here so drunk. I decided vodka was the only way to shut him up properly’.

Sirius looks so satisfied with himself and his choices, that James knows what he has to do.

‘It’s late’, he says pleasantly. ‘Crash here tonight’.

‘Oh, I think I will - I am not fit to apparate’.

‘Let’s go upstairs then’.

‘And Harry?’

‘Oh, look at him. He is sleeping so well, he can stay here tonight’.

‘If you are sure’.

‘Yeah, yeah, everything will be fine’.

_________

James has slept barely four hours when he wakes up with Lily’s cry. He puts on his robe lazily, waiting a few minutes to go downstairs; when he passes Sirius’ room, the door is already opened.

Good.

He finds them all together in the toilet next to the kitchen, and by the sounds coming out of there, his Hangover Potion wasn’t very efficient.

‘We were working late, Lily’, Sirius is saying, sounding properly desperate. ‘And we went out for a drink -’

‘It was a Tuesday night! He has to work in one hour!’

‘So do I - but you see, I’m his boss, so everything is fine! Also, I don’t think any of the boys will show up -’

‘Perfect’, Lily interrupts him, her eyes sending daggers in Sirius’ direction. ‘Then you can take care of him’. She sees James. ‘Did you know about this?’

‘Me? I was working late on my text, you know’, he answers, yawning and looking very innocent.

Sirius waits until Lily is out for the kitchen to turn to James, his eyes narrowed.

‘You knew she would be mad. That’s why you told me to stick around’.

‘If I knew how my dear wife would react to knowing you got our son pissed? How could I?’

Sirius grimaces as there is another retching sound coming from the bathroom.

‘Oh, you better go there and don’t forget to keep Harry hydrated’.

‘Watch it’, Sirius says, but he goes into the bathroom anyway. ‘I won’t ever show you the pictures’.

James shrugs, undisturbed.

‘That’s fine. Next time Harry gets drunk, I will be there’.

‘I won’t ever ever ever drink again’, Harry moans, hugging the toilet seat now, his face sweaty.

‘Oh, kid, we’ve all been there’, Sirius sighs, flushing down the toilet and helping Harry raise.

James grins to himself, glad that Sirius is doing his godfather duty once again, and leaves them alone.

[queenlua]

i realized that Simon Blackquill and Kristoph Gavin canonically overlap their prison terms for like 20 months

and then i went into a fugue state and just wrote a bunch of ridiculously self-indulgent Kristoph And Simon Sniping At Each Other. enjoy

************************************

They bring the new prisoner in while Kristoph's enjoying his afternoon tea.

He tries to be discreet as he watches, stealing little glances between sips, watching over the top of the book he's reading.  The new prisoner looks rough, and roughed up, with a long bruise marring his jawline, and his long hair arrayed in tatters.  But he hardly looks beaten, walking with huge strides that the guards have to jog to keep up with.  When one of the guards unlocks the cell directly across from Kristoph's, and the other moves to shove the man in, he dodges the shove with an enormous shrugging motion that, bizarrely, sends the guard cowering backwards.  Then the man laughs, and walks into the cell of his own accord.

One the guards leave, Kristoph realizes there's a bird with him.  With the prisoner, there in the cell.  The sight's so improbable that for a moment Kristoph thinks it's some medieval bit of grotesque: a hungry bird left to peck the man's eyes out, or to nip at his toes when he tries to sleep.  But it must be a pet, Kristoph realizes at length, watching how it clings to its shoulder, and then how it clacks across the floor, and walks close around the man's feet.  O thin men of Haddam...

The man doesn't acknowledge Kristoph—doesn't even turn around to look at him, just stands in the center of his cell and stares at the wall.

Strange.  But Kristoph's seen stranger.

When Kristoph's watched long enough, he clears his throat.  "So.  What did you do to get yourself locked up here?"

Here, meaning, the solitary cell block, far from the rest of the prison.  He knows better than to expect someone to confess to their real crime outright.

The other man turns and stares long enough that Kristoph assumes he's going to be one of those tedious, taciturn types who speak only in grunts and two-word sentences.  Then: "Some new fellows arrived a few days ago.  Apparently they didn't care to break bread with a former prosecutor."

"Ah.  So you're here for your own protection."

"No," the man says with a savage smile.  "For theirs."

Kristoph looks closer.  The bruise on his cheek is a slight thing; and the ragged cut of his hair, upon closer inspection, appears to be some sort of fashion choice.  

The man is still smiling.  You should see the other guy.

And, improbably, that's the moment Kristoph realizes he knows this man.  The hair's different, the frame heavier, but the long face and those dark eyes are much the same.  A man he remembers from melodramatic headlines some years ago, prosecutor confesses to cold-blooded murder: "You're Simon Blackquill."

The other man nods.  "And you're Kristoph Gavin."

Kristoph stiffens.

Simon smiles again.  "The Macnamara case.  I never forget a face."

Yes.  Blackquill did prosecute that one, didn't he.  Kristoph doesn't care for the way the man's eyes are glittering, now.  He can't quite remember how that case played out; it's been years.  He smiles blandly and says nothing.

At ease now, Simon leans back in his little chair, hands behind his head as he scrutinizes Kristoph's abode—what he can see of it, at least.  Taxidermy.  Flowers.  A violin.  "Interesting," he decides at length.  "And what about yourself?  How were you brought to—" he reads a plaque "—Solitary Cell 13?"

"Oh, by request."  When Blackquill raises a brow, Kristoph laughs: "Please.  I'd hardly fit in with the riffraff down there in the main block."

Simon smiles thinly.  There's an evaluative glimmer in his eyes, hawk and man staring at Kristoph as one.  At last he says, mildly as though discussing the weather: "I should think a murderer would fit in quite well with his fellow murderers."

Oh.  So he knows.  Kristoph scowls.  "So you're not an illiterate.  Which paper reported on it?"

"None that I read," Simon says with a smirk.  "I only had a hunch.  Which you so kindly confirmed."

The arrogant little worm.  Kristoph's right hand clenches around his teacup, unbidden.  How he'd do anything to wipe the smug look off this man's face, how he'd like to—no, he reminds himself.  Patience.  He relaxes his hold on the cup, sets it back down primly.  They have nothing but time, after all, and at the very least that time now promises to be more interesting.

************************************

At two o'clock each day, the guard shift changes; Peterson and Mendez walk out, and Flynn walks in.  Faithful Flynn, who brings Kristoph fresh loose-leaf tea each day, who brought him the water boiler and the teapot to fix them properly.  Who's been receiving striking little bonuses in his bank account for the past six months.

Each day, Simon watches Kristoph drink, his expression inscrutable.  The man's too much like his bird, Kristoph thinks.  Too at ease staring and sitting still.  He imagines the effect would serve him well in the courtroom, but here it's just tedious.  Doesn't the man have something to read?

Still.  After a few days of wordless stares, Kristoph whispers some instructions to his man.  Flynn bites his lip.  He doesn't like it.  He does it anyway—finagling with the cell locks in a way that almost doesn't look like he's unlocking the things, then wandering down the corridor to very firmly look the other way.

"Would you care for some tea?" Kristoph calls across the hall to Simon, gesturing grandly at the little table and chairs he has set up.

Simon stares.  "I haven't the taste for it."

"Come over to visit, at least.  Your door's unlocked."

Simon scowls at that, like Kristoph has just confirmed something Simon already knew and didn't like.

"What, are you concerned about breaking some... rule?  I assure you Flynn here is quite discreet."  Kristoph nods at the guard he's been paying off for the past six months.

A flicker of contempt passes over Simon's face—Kristoph sees it, and is fascinated to see it.  Even in prison, Simon must still have his precious little principles.  He'd known the DA's office to have its share of honor-bound fools.  He hadn't expected that spirit to survive in here.

"Come here," Simon says.

"What?"

"Bring your tea over here instead."  Simon smiles apologetically.  "I can't abandon Taka, you see.  He screeches most piteously when we are parted."

Bring the damn bird over here, then, Kristoph thinks, then thinks better of it, because that creature probably molts or defecates or tears up furniture.  No.

And besides—it's not about the bird, is it?  That's just the excuse.  He simply doesn't want to be the one to move.

They could stare at each other, see who caves first.  But that could well end in stalemate, which is a far less desirable income to Kristoph than even his own concession, so—he stands, abruptly enough that Simon startles.  He crosses the corridor, tea tray balanced perfectly in his left hand, opens both doors and closes them both neatly behind him.

Simon stands, relinquishing the dinky little chair he'd been sitting on with a gesture: "Please."  Kristoph looks around for a place to set the tea tray—the only spot's a desk that's nailed into the wall, an awkward distance from the bed where Simon's sitting now.  But it will have to do.

Simon doesn't drink the tea.  But they talk a little.  Trivialities.  A book Simon is reading.  Some chess puzzle Kristoph is working on.

The bird doesn't take his eyes off Kristoph the whole time.

************************************

The tea becomes a regular occurrence.  Always in Simon's cell, and Simon never drinks a drop.

"It's not poisoned, you know," Kristoph says once.  Simon's only answer is a grunt.

Kristoph tolerates it—the brusqueness, the lapses into silence, the random glares—because he knows full well it will fade with time.  Cannot help but fade with time.  In the solitary block there's no one else to see, nothing else to do; they all take their exercise and their meals on their own.  Who else can he talk to, have as a... friend?

Maybe Simon knows it, too.  Because when Kristoph tries to touch him—in passing, during a conversation—Simon responds by grabbing him by the waist and hurling him onto the floor.

It happens so quickly Kristoph only barely has time to process it.  One moment he's managed to get an actual chortle out of Simon, and he's reaching out to graze the man's cheek—then, the next, his head's cracked against something hard, his vision's streaked with violent darkness, and there's a sandaled foot pressing against ribcage.

He hears a quick flurry of footsteps and a metallic fumbling.  Flynn, to the rescue.  "Stay back," Kristoph wheezes, still lying on his back.  "I'm fine."

Simon casts the guard a look of such blistering contempt that Kristoph's certain the man will be provoked, certain he's going to shout for help and rush in to wrestle Simon to the floor and make some huge tedious scene, from which Kristoph will have to claw back what little privileges and entertainments he's secured for himself, an utterly untenable waste—

But, no.  The guard stays put.  At length, Simon removes his foot, and Kristoph sits slowly, achingly upright.  Simon's fists are clenched at his sides; he rather looks like he'd enjoy any excuse to punch.  “Simon," he manages at last.  "I thought we were friends.”

“Did you,” Simon says, flat as the back end of a blade.

"I was only going to wipe away a bit of dirt," he says, reaching out again—Simon flinches away, before Kristoph can touch, eyes narrowed to slits.

"No.  You weren't."

Kristoph sighs as though talking to an unruly teenager.  "Really, Simon, you must admit you're at least being a bit touchy—"

"You don't remember how you lost the Macnamara case, do you?"  He doesn't give Kristoph a chance to answer.  "These little tricks of yours, all these little manipulations—I mastered them first."  Then he tilts his head upward, looking the guard dead in the eye.  "I think it's about time for Mr. Flynn's shift to end.  Don't you?"

Mr. Flynn stammers.  And, so help him, if Flynn answers to anyone other than Kristoph he will wring the man's neck personally.  "Flynn," Kristoph announces sharply, "I'll be returning now."

"I bet you will," Simon mutters, smirking.

"Yessir," Flynn says.

"I'll be back later," Kristoph says, with forced brightness, but Taka ruffles every feather on his body in answer.

[seasonofthegeek]

Not a Date

The next drabble on my list for the fanfic trope mash-ups was requested on ko-fi by @staylostinstereo for the prompts “not a date” and “first time” with Adrien and Marinette. Thanks so much for the request!

Adrien and Marinette have retired from their superhero lives and are reuniting in Paris for dinner. 

___

“This isn’t a date,” Marinette said for the third time since she’d met Adrien outside the train station. They walked side by side along the warmly lit shop fronts as dusk settled around them.

“Not a date,” he agreed but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Just two old friends seeing each other again after a few years apart.”

“Exactly.”

“And definitely not two retired superheroes reigniting the old flame.”

“Adrien,” she warned.

He flashed her a Chat Noir-worthy smile but held up his hands in surrender. “I said ‘not’.”

“Mmmm. Besides, there’s no old flame to reignite.”

“Maybe not for you, my Lady.” He meant it to be funny, but he saw the way her eyes tightened around the edges and quickly moved on with another topic. “Hey, were you able to get a spot in that fashion show you emailed me about a few months back? New York, right?” They stopped in front of the small cafe they’d agreed on earlier and Adrien held the door open for her.

“Ah, that. No, I didn’t get in. I think I’m actually going to take a break from the fashion scene for a while.” Marinette led them to a small table and didn’t make a fuss when Adrien pulled out her chair for her. 

“That surprises me.”

“I’m just tired,” she admitted. “I work and work and work and don’t feel like I really get anywhere. It’s just...not what I was expecting, I think. I don’t know if it’s for me.” She frowned slightly as she looked down at her menu. “Does that sound as pathetic as it feels?”

His expression turned fond and understanding. “If anyone knows how hard you’ve worked, it’s me. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with wanting an easy life after everything we’ve been through.”

“Easy for you to say. Did I see that you spent a long vacation living it up on a yacht with Prince Ali?”

Adrien blushed but grinned in reply. “Who am I to deny a request from royalty?”

They both paused to give their orders to the server and Adrien chuckled uncomfortably once they were alone at their table again.

“Actually, that trip is part of why I reached out to you. I saw a few headlines calling me a rich playboy and, I don’t know, it just bothered me. I used to make a difference in people’s lives, help them, and now I just... get tan on the deck of a fancy boat and drink too much because one of my friends wanted me to join him on a trip.”

“Apparently it’s unhealthy to feel selfish to be doing something for ourselves now. We may both suffer from a hero complex,” Marinette replied dryly. “At least, that’s what my therapist says.”

He shook his head.“I still can’t believe Alix is licensed to help people work through their issues. It’s a little scary.”

“She’s actually pretty great at it if you need the tough love deal, which I do.” She tapped her fingers against the handles of the flatware laid out on a napkin. “It’s nice to hear you say that though. I’ve been feeling the same way, though I haven’t been tanning and drinking.” She winked to take the sting out of her jab and was relieved to see Adrien smile in return.

“I thought I should be taking some time for myself but it felt hollow.” His mouth twisted in irritation. “Which is frustrating because we fought for so long and it seems like we should enjoy getting to live our lives now without worrying about what’s around the next corner.”

“Not so easy though.”

“No,” he agreed. “It isn’t.”

“And you enjoyed being a hero.”

“So did you,” he countered. “Just for different reasons, I think.”

“Is that one of the reasons why you left the city?”

He smiled wryly. “Isn’t it why you did?”

Marinette sighed. “We could play this game all night. Yeah, I guess. It was hard to be in Paris and not be her, to not remember some of the things I should know.”

“I know what you mean.” He winced. “A bit, anyway.”

She let his comment pass without any addition. They each had their own burdens of the past to bear. “But I missed it here too. I’ve been visiting my parents for a few weeks and I’m tempted to stay.”

“I have to say I was glad you wanted to meet here. I haven’t been back since...” He paused and sipped on his water, glancing around the small cafe. It wasn’t overly crowded but there were a decent amount of tables filled. 

Marinette didn’t press him to finish his thought. She knew he hadn’t been back since they took down Hawk Moth and Mayura. Losing two of the main adult figures in his life had been hard on Adrien and no one blamed him for disappearing after the trials. She missed him though. She didn’t realize just how much until now.

Deciding she wanted to banish the darkness edging into his eyes, she reached across the table to squeeze his hand. He blinked up in surprise. “Stay with me,” she said. She meant the words to be teasing and warm but her tone had been too soft.

“I would,” he replied as quietly. 

Marinette felt an old panic rear up inside her and she snatched her hand back with a flustered laugh. “Oh! I meant, um, you know, like, mentally.”

His lashes swept downward to hide his eyes but a smile played at his lips. “I know what you meant, Marinette. Don’t worry.” He looked up at her with the not quite a smile. “This isn’t a date. I remember.”

She cleared her throat and awkwardness settled between them where warm comfort had been only moments before. “Are you seeing anyone?”

Adrien eyed her warily as if she was leading him into a trap. “Not exclusively, no.”

“But that means you are seeing someone, or someones?” She raised an eyebrow and tried to look nonchalant.

He shrugged and did another look around the room. “There are a few people I meet up with when I travel different places. There isn’t anyone serious though. What about you?”

“I stay too busy to date.” She brushed off the thoughts that bubbled up with the statement. “I tired a few times but I always ended up choosing work.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem now though, not if you stay here.” Adrien leaned away from the table when the server appeared and set their plates in front of them.

“I suppose not.” Marinette pursed her lips and found that she’d lost her appetite. Tonight was supposed to be easy and comfortable and the way it used to be, the way it felt when they were emailing, but it seemed her relationship with Adrien had gone the way of so many others. History could only do so much.

They began to eat in silence.

“Do you miss being up high?”

Marinette swallowed the bite she’d just taken and nodded. “Sometimes.”

“I really miss it. There’s just no other feeling like it.” Adrien cut into his chicken without looking up at her. “I’ve tried a few things like skydiving and extreme parkour but nothing feels the same. I guess it was part of the magic.”

“I doubt I’d be able to keep up these days.”

“You look like you could.” His cheeks darkened and he dropped his eyes as quickly as he lifted them. “I just mean...you look like you’re still in shape.”

“You’re a sweet liar.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “I’m not lying.”

“Mmm.” She liked the pink that was spreading across his cheeks. “You still look like you’re in shape too.”

“Oh, I know.” He flashed her a smug smile and she tossed a cherry tomato at him. “We’re in public! Show some respect,” he teased, lobbing it back to her plate.

“So rude.”

Their laughter quieted but the smiles remained. 

“Have you ever been back to the Tower?”

“Since we gave them up?”

Adrien nodded and took a bite of chicken.

“Not up it. I went one day and thought I could go up, but it just didn’t feel right.”

“Do you think we could tonight? I know it won’t be the same and we’ll be tourists, but...”

She felt warmth fill her. “But it’d be as close to old times as we can get.”

“Yeah.”

“I’d love to.”

___

Marinette couldn’t ignore the sting of tears as she looked out over the city. They’d gone as high up as people were allowed to but it wasn’t nearly enough. Her knuckles mottled from her grip on the railing and she blinked against the wetness coating her eyelashes.

“I know,” Adrien whispered, and he covered her hand with his. 

They stood beside each other until they were instructed to leave and they did so hand in hand.

“I don’t think I can say goodbye.” Marinette swallowed against the lump in her throat. “I knew it would be wonderful and agonizing to see you again and now I don’t want it to end.”

“I can stay in town,” he offered. “I don’t want to leave you either.”

“You can’t do that. We have different lives now.”

“We don’t have to.”

She closed her eyes and took in a shaky breath. “It wouldn’t work.”

“Only because you aren’t willing to give it a try.” Adrien stepped closer.  “Marinette, for the first time in your life, just do this without overthinking it. Give us a chance.”

“I’m not the same person I was back then.”

He gave her half a smile. “Neither am I. We can learn each other all over again.”

“This seems too crazy.”

“Oh, it is.” He nodded. “We’re practically strangers but I still think you know me better than anyone else in the whole world.” He dared to reach up and brush his knuckles gently against her cheek. “And I think I know you just as well.”

So for the first time, without overthinking it or planning it or worrying herself about it, Marinette closed the space between them and kissed Adrien the way she wished she had all those years ago because for the first time, she really felt like she could.

And, of course, he kissed her back.

Buy me a cherry coke?

[things2mustdo]

I doubt anyone needs to be reminded that the media is rotten to the core; even the most reluctant and closed-minded people are accepting this as a given now. But despite the media being widely condemned nowadays (my special thanks to Germans for bringing the word “Lügenpresse” back), few people know or understand what’s really going on in the journalistic kitchens, where the foul slop of lies that people are fed every day is cooked up. However, there is always a way in—through purposeful infiltration or, in my case, by accident.

I have an old friend—let’s call him Sven—whom I always knew as a kind-hearted and sincere man. However, these traits are also coupled with always assuming the best of people and being rather naive. Due to this, he keeps ending up in awkward and sometimes dangerous situations. One of them turned out to be a short stint as a journalist for a popular online newspaper. He barely maintained contact during his employment and eventually went completely off the grid. In about a month, he resurfaced a changed man, and not for the better. As he explained, he quit the job and then shut himself in for a while, armed with nothing but alcohol, to cope with the depression working as a journalist gave him.

Now, this probably sounds very soft to many of you, including myself. Men don’t sink into depressions or try to drink themselves out of problems. While I granted my friend the clemency of explaining his failures to him, I also recognized the usefulness of his experience and started questioning him about what he saw and heard at the job. I will relay his findings below; however, I will not disclose his true name or the name of his employer—given the “free” country we live in, this can land him in very hot water.

Whoever pays you, owns you

Sven joined the ranks of journalists to tell people the truth. To his credit, he believed he would be doing exactly that. His first assignment sounded so simple, after all—talk to a person, record the conversation, write an article, publish it. The reality turned out to be diametrically different—after our fresh-baked journalist returned from his first interview, he was immediately ordered to transcribe the recording and email it to the content manager. Half an hour later Sven received a heavily edited version of the transcript, with the parts he considered most crucial replaced with meaningless buzzwords or removed completely. When he went to the manager to voice his indignation, the manager simply replied: “This man did not pay us for an article that would disparage him. Get back to your desk.”

This was far from the only case of Sven witnessing how much pull money has in journalism. His numerous colleagues almost never produced independent content—they were too busy publishing one paid article after another. When Sven asked whether these articles should be marked as sponsored, the only reply he got was a bitter laugh. Very often the content manager would come over to his desk and say something along the lines of “Do you know the guy you are writing about is a close friend of our boss? Do not screw this article up.” Sven was also surprised to see that many interviewees (usually politicians) would not even bother to talk to him, instead referring him to their secretaries or assistants. One of them even went as far as to hand him a pre-written speech, tell him to work with it and walk away.

However, our Sven also happens to possess a burning sense of justice, which has several times led him to ignore the “recommendations” his content manager gave him, deviate from the official story and allow small snippets of truth to make their way into public view. For each of such occurrences he was called to the manager’s room, given a strict admonishment and had his paycheck for the month reduced. Any “unsanctioned” things that he wrote were quickly edited away afterwards—even if the article had already been read by thousands of people. And his was supposed to be a “neutral and objective” media outlet!

Standards? Never heard of ’em.

It was a big shock for Sven when he finally realized that his employers were beings without conscience who whored themselves out to the highest bidder. It was an even bigger shock when he discovered how nonchalantly his colleagues treated their responsibilities. Investigative journalists relied on information they got from Google searches and Twitter posts, editors and sub-editors used rumors and hearsay to write scathing op-eds, website managers just posted any content that caught their fancy as long as they could come up with a flashy enough headline for it to attract people. Fact-checking was almost unheard of, unless someone specifically paid for it.

When it came to choosing topics and writing articles, the guideline for the entire establishment was simple: do not make the people angry. Not the regular people, mind you—those were not even considered human beings, just a faceless mass that one threw articles at and got pageviews and money in return. No, the label “people” was reserved for people who mattered. This included representatives of the powers that be, well-known public figures, moneybags with fingers in the political pie and, of course, personal buddies of the outlet’s owner.

These were to be protected, coddled and praised at all costs, while everyone else was fair game. Needless to say, politics held as much sway in the outlet as money did—whenever something noteworthy happened, “protectors of truth and objectivity” immediately went to work spinning the events in a way desirable for those holding their leashes. Hit pieces against political opponents and undesirables were churned out, smokescreens were cast, facts were omitted, denied and misinterpreted. Sven confessed to me later that the day his outlet covered the parliamentary elections was the first day in his life when he spent the entire evening drinking. Journalistic ethics, a term that the media loves throwing left and right, turned out to be nothing but hot air.

In the media omelet, you are an egg

The title says it all. For top dogs in the media business, a rank-and-file worker is not just a pawn—he is a condom. Contrary to what many people think, a typical journalist’s existence is quite pathetic: underpaid, undervalued, thankless and constantly bossed around. Staff turnover in the “kitchen” is very high, and not because people are getting promoted. In this field, the term “veteran employee” frequently means a poor sod who has no alternatives and cannot quit.

According to Sven, plenty of his colleagues worked only for the sake of getting their paycheck, which explains their negligence. Grey faces, pinched mouths, shifty eyes and sour attitudes—whatever it takes to get through the day. In addition, the higher-ups avoided any responsibility for the published content: whenever an angry reader called the office and complained about an article, the guy who wrote it was immediately thrown under the bus, even if his work was reviewed and approved by the management before publication. After all, what does it take to find another office drone with half-decent writing skills?

However, Sven also describes those of his coworkers who enjoyed their job. They arrived at the office with a spring in their step, a smile snaking across their faces and a mischievous glint in their eyes. These were the “talented” favorites of the outlet’s boss—unfeeling, cold assholes who would sell their own mothers for a juicy piece of gossip that they would later smear all over the website. Whenever they got a chance to write a hit piece, spread a nasty rumor or ruin someone’s life, one could almost see them light up from within. Remember all these smug, holier-than-thou, oh-so-intellectual articles churned out by rags like Salon, Dagens Nyheter and Huffington Post? You can bet your pinky finger they were (and are) written by these people. Which brings us to the next topic.

No wrongthink allowed

As you have probably noticed long ago, the media field is a huge and accommodating Petri dish for all varieties of Kulturbolschewismus. In Sven’s case, it wasn’t just a fear-based company policy of snitching and self-censorship, but an actual agenda at work. He told me there was a flowchart hanging in the newsroom explaining what to do when reporting crimes and incidents. It went something like this: “Was the perpetrator native (white)? Y = report in detail, amplify, N = gloss the details over, downplay.”

Sven wrote an article about a national holiday once, but his content manager refused to approve it for publishing due to it being “too patriotic,” advising him instead to “write more inclusively about minorities’ participation in the festival.” Anything praising the country and its indigenous inhabitants was undesirable and omitted whenever possible, while any piece that brimmed with self-hate, praised inhabitants of other (read: African and Muslim) countries or attacked the natives and their way of life was a big hit and flew through approval like a bird.

Needless to say, the outlet’s newsroom was crammed full of women, their pet cucks and, of course, Jews. The former enjoyed absolute power regardless of their position—a simple complaint to HR was enough to fire anyone, no proof required. The cucks, represented by twig-armed, piercing-laden, wispy-bearded creatures in Che Guevara shirts, were very pleased with the way things were going, sipping lattes and snitching to HR on those who expressed ideas incompatible with the narrative. Jews were in their native element in the newsroom, doing their usual “arrogant intellectual” schtick and getting promotions out of nowhere. The majority of articles bashing natives, their culture and values came from them, as later study of the newspaper’s website showed me.

Liars for hire

So, to sum it all up: the media is not composed of good but misguided people, as many still think. On the contrary, it is a very purposeful and self-aware entity that positions itself somewhere between an unscrupulous opportunist and a loyal lapdog of the state. At best, it is faux-patriotic (“such a wonderful country we have, let’s invite more immigrants!”), while at worst, it is openly hostile towards the indigenous population of the country it exists in.

Moreover, it allows for consolidation and self-affirmation of globalist forces—the traitorous governments, the world Jewry, the multinationals, the entertainment industry and the like—against the increasingly disenfranchised and declining native population. And last but not least, the media is complicit in crimes committed in the West by non-White immigrants due to purposeful obfuscation of them and, if that fails, rabble-rousing to pressure the courts into letting the criminals off scot-free. To me, the latter reason alone is enough to send all the journalists and their owners to the gibbet.

The bottom line is to always remember that the media is not your friend in any way, shape or form, even if its lowest tier operatives fit the description of hapless victims rather than nation-wrecking enemies. The media must be opposed, exposed and boycotted at every turn until it starts bleeding money and choking on its own venom.

Read More: Is Washington Post Writer Adam Taylor A Shill Or Part Of Something Larger?

While reading  Roosh’s article about Adam Taylor and the Washington Post, I noticed quite a few things I would like to share with people here. The direct link between Adam Taylor and the Radio Free excerpt is an anomaly. Such blatant copying is a very rare thing to occur because it gives away a possible collusion between entities.

Looking for these open relationships is long and hard. The better way to analyze  the relations and motivations of certain publishers, policy makers and other manipulators  is to study the various themes they put out and where these themes repeat. While Roosh  might assume that Adam Taylor is the paid shill by himself, I’ve noticed that his writing changes to whoever publishes it. Therefore the Washington Post Worldviews section may be the one that is parroting US State Department themes not just Adam Taylor.

As is shown in Roosh’s article, the similarities between Adam Taylor’s piece and Radio Free Europe are quite telling. It is a possibility that it is a coincidence but a small one. People that try to influence public opinion go to great lengths to ensure things like this do not happen which is why I’m assuming that Adam Taylor is  part of larger machine and not a shill by himself.

Looking back at Adam Taylor’s writing for the Huffington Post, he wrote fluff pieces about gay dogs and other mass consumption items for that audience. His writing about geopolitical intrigue only takes the current form when he begins writing for the Washington Post. All his articles are the Who’s Who of what the US State Department doesn’t like. The roster includes Russia, China, Venezuela, Syria, and Zimbabwe. He writes nothing critical of any American allies.

Could this mean that his change in format indicate that someone turned him? I doubt it. Compare his work at the Washington Post to the rest of the “world views” section there, his writing is merely a contribution to a giant echo chamber and not unique to him.

As I said earlier, it’s very rare for open evidence of collusion such as the similar quotations to present themselves. A better technique to discern propaganda and collusion is to analyze trends and themes.You should look for such things as what the work attempts to convey, does it try to get you to think or act in a certain way, and does it try to get you to disregard other things.

In the Adam Taylor case, the pattern changes significantly from the Huffington Post to the Washington Post. You can also apply this trend analysis to pretty much any author. You can even apply to the contributors here at  Return of Kings and see what you get. Do the trends indicate that the publisher may dictate what the writers write about? Do the trends indicate whether or not the writers have freedom to write about whatever they want? To help you readers out on this exercise I’ll inform you there were two articles I did at the direction of the publisher. They were my article for fat shaming week and my article for #backtothekitchen.  Feel free to comment on any other trends you might notice and if they do not line up with the “about” page.

[evien-stark]

✧I Need You✧  Chapter 189

The very next day, the 23rd of November (two days away from your sixth anniversary with Tony), you were sitting down in your office. Sipping coffee in the early afternoon. Reading the various headlines that had come out of yesterday’s little outing. The usual heavy hitters were all in your favor. People were wondering what The Avengers were up to, but they trusted it was likely good things. Sleep had not come easy, again. About two hours. 

You were feeling yourself slowly slipping away. The anniversary was a pinpoint. A mark on the map. If you could just get there… if you could just do what you wanted to do- what you needed to do… it would make all of this worth it. It would make all the troubles melt away. 

There just couldn’t be any more nonsense packed into the next two days. That was all. A measly forty-eight hours. Couldn’t you make it there? Couldn’t the universe lay off? 

The phone ringing on the corner of your desk startled you. Because you knew. You knew that it going off was the universe answering you back. 

With a big, fat, no. 

 Your hands were only slightly trembling (something you attributed to over caffeination, stress, and lack of sleep more than fear) when you picked it up. “Yes?” 

“We have a problem in the lobby.” 

Always a good start to a bad time. Your cell phone going off next was a pretty big indication, too. “Give me a second, I’ll sort it out.” You put the phone down on the desk and then picked up your cell phone instead, knowing this was the same issue twice over. And- reading the ID- you lamented being you right now. “How can I help you?” Overly sweet as you answered. 

Coulson, on the other line, didn’t sound remotely amused. ...maybe that was his usual voice, though. “I need to come up. It seems since I was here last I’ve had my security clearance revoked.” 

“Hmn.” Humming with a dry air about you. “Yes, that might have happened after you promised me a report on a huge issue and just vanished into thin air.” 

“I have the report. I’m here to make a trade.” 

The shaking had worked its way up from your arm into your entire body. This was not something you wanted to deal with now in the slightest. But there was no putting it off. If you didn’t let Coulson up now, he’d find a way up himself. Really, he was probably just calling as a gesture of good will. Not because he actually cared to have your permission. “I’m in my office.” Hanging up quickly after saying so, and alerting security downstairs to let him through. 

There was about five minutes worth of decision making time to call Tony. And they were going very quickly.

It had been nine months since the attack on the UN. Nine months since Coulson had told you he would handle that situation, get to the bottom of it, and send you a detailed report when he was finished. Him surfacing now to do so was no coincidence- not with what had happened yesterday. Something was bugging him about your current involvement in whatever was happening now. Because it was always something-

Which meant the probability that he knew about the ATCU was extraordinarily high. That thought alone made your stomach twist into knots. Coulson was on your side- there was no way he would be behind something like this or involved with it now. It was more likely that he was working on a way to shut it down behind the scenes and your getting involved was too public- 

The time to call Tony to come to your side was over. Coulson was entering your office. 

You didn’t stand to meet him, instead pushing up a solid wall of defense. You were falling apart. He couldn’t know that.

Underneath his arm as promised, he held a manilla envelope. A very thick one, at that. And once he got close enough to your desk, he took a seat, and then put it on top. “Everything you need to know about the incident at the UN is in there.” Cutting right to the chase. 

Reaching for it, ignoring him, you tore the top and took out the hefty paper report, skimming the first few pages. Adamo Dioli- murdered. The Italian ambassador that- ...you remembered. The agent leading the mission- Marcus Scarlotti, in custody. The man behind the operation- Daniel Whitehall, a top Hydra leader actually known as Werner Reinhardt- terminated. 

His team had been busy. Something you had assumed. It wasn’t like Coulson had just been sitting around doing nothing. When he promised you he would handle this, you knew that to be the truth. But the radio silence and the broken promise over a prompt report were an issue. And, judging on the dates you were still looking over, he had had this in his possession and wrapped up for a long while now. Which made it inexcusable to not hand it over sooner. 

But just as you got midway through the report that detailed the weaponry used in the attack, he reached over and put a hand down. “Let me be clear about one thing. This is to be shredded when you’re finished with it.” 

He was lucky that you were able to resist rolling your eyes. “I used to work for you guys, in case you forgot. I know exactly what top secret means.” 

“Then let me be clear about something else.” The strangely warm way he said this drew your gaze towards his own. “I don’t think you should read this. And I don’t think Stark should, either.” 

That tossed about a dozen red flags onto the field. Coulson was feeling rather… protective. Why? Your brow arched. “Give me one good reason why not.” 

He stayed outwardly composed, as always. “How have you both been handling the events in New York?” 

Confusion wrote clear across your face. “That was years ago. Why bring that up?” 

His eyes then were steely. “Take a guess.” 

Little pinpricks agitated you- and you heard his voice- arguing with you and Tony- a memory from a little while back- what this whole report was even about-

What difference would it make? If I listed off ten alien races on SHIELD’s radar, what difference would it make? You don’t have any information.

That’s kind of the point, don’t you think?

The both of you had suspected this was alien weaponry. There was no way for it not to be. Now Coulson had gotten to the bottom of it. Dissected it. Knew what it was. ...and that information was sitting right in front of you. And he didn’t want you to look at it. 

“You think I can’t handle this?” There was little point in getting riled up, but self-defense was an easy go-to. 

“What I think is irrelevant. ...but, since you’re asking, I think there’s no reason for you to at this time. I came here to tell you to stop provoking President Ellis, and to leave the ATCU to me.” 

A scoff left as you shook your head. “I knew it.” 

“Of course you did.” Prompt as he sat back down. You let the report fold closed for the moment so you could put your focus better on him. “What’s in that report ties directly to what the ATCU is doing. Therefore, it’s an issue that you still left to me. And I’m working on it.” 

“Not hard enough. Soldiers attacked young girls a few nights ago. What would have happened to them if I hadn’t been there?” Bearing down on him now, a fresh wave of anger waking. 

Coulson, for once, gave a rare show of questioning. He didn’t have all the details, and that didn’t sit right with him. Maybe he thought he should know about that incident. “What girls?” 

“Mutants. But I think everyone is going around calling them Inhumans.” Cruel dig that that was. 

It took him a series of moments- moving from one emotion to the next rapidly inwardly, while his face remain impassive as he stared at you. Disbelief, unsure, then to confusion and then next to a little bit of smugness. “Mutants and Inhumans are not the same thing. I’ll forgive the mistake, I’m sure you weren’t aware of either until very recently. That must mean you went to Xavier.” 

This was a little too much information to process right at the moment. So instead of doing that, you clutched to the one thing you knew what to do with. “I did.” 

“He asked you to help him.” 

“He did.” 

“And you’re going to.” Saying this so knowingly. 

Instead of giving him the win, you decided to go against self-preservation. Something inside you told you it was better to give this to him and walk away. Play blind. Turn the other way. It would keep you where you were right now. And not further down the rabbithole of madness in this ever expanding universe. “What separates Mutants from Inhumans?” 

This he took his time with. Marinated. Really thought about- not only if he should answer, but if he did, how he would say it. You remained patient. That he wasn’t outright denying you an answer meant he would give you one instead of just reciting the whole back off play. 

Him sitting forward spooked you a little, but when he reached for the report again you let your hands off it. Sliding it his way and turning it, he flipped through a few pages, and when he finally  found what he was looking for, he pushed it in front of you yet again. But the two of you were left staring at one another. He was letting you know- 

Once you read this, there was absolutely no going back. Like always. 

You had a choice to be willfully ignorant. 

...but you couldn’t. 

The weapon that had literally turned Dioli into ash- had separated his atoms- was known as a Splinter Bomb. Hydra made weaponry. Built from the power of something called The Diviner. And this so called Diviner… alien tech. Left on earth by a race called The Kree. Thousands of years ago. The Diviners carried inside of them something called Terrigen Crystals- which played into experiments Kree were doing on humans- mutating them- the Terrigen Crystals emitted Terrigen Mist- which activated these mutated genes in humans through a process called Terrigenesis-  turning them into- 

...Inhumans.

Without the presence of the genes, the Diviners would rend human beings. ...which was what happened to Dioli. And countless others who had come into contact with them. 

Coulson was calling your name. You heard it. Barely. Echoing through a fog. There was a tunnel of white around your vision. 

Experiments? Aliens had been doing experiments on people? Thousands of years ago? They’d mutated them? Enhanced them? For what? Why? Where were the Kree now? What were they doing? Would they come back? 

...did this have anything to do with  you? Coulson was saying Mutants and Inhumans were different. Mutants had some sort of mutated gene that was verifiable. That’s how Tony knew you weren’t one. But these Inhumans- it seemed like they were dormant until hit with the presence of these Crystals- 

“Am I-” It took you too long to realize you couldn’t breathe. That you weren’t there. More questions arose. Had SHIELD known about this? If they did, how long had they known? SHIELD had apparently known about the Mutants and Xavier. Fury had some sort of deal with them to leave them alone. If they’d known about this, too- could it have- 

“You are not an Inhuman.” Him saying this helped secure your focus. 

Was that what you were going to ask? Was it even feasible? They’d clearly thought your powers had come from the Tesseract or something Tesseract adjacent, which you now knew to be these Infinity Stones ...something else you didn’t want to think about. But this Inhuman mutated crystal nonsense? “How can you be sure?” 

“Your alteration profile is different. Which means that if you’d been hit with that Splinter Bomb that day, you would have died.” 

A breath sort of wheezed out of you. “Thanks.” As if that really helped. 

“Anything to help.” 

Strangely, that sort of had helped. You felt a little more balanced. But your nerves were shot. “Where are the Kree now? When was their last point of contact?” It seemed like they’d done these experiments all those years ago and then left. For whatever reason. There was data missing, but it was probably just because nobody knew yet. 

But Coulson growing just a little bit uncomfortable shoved you right back onto that edge. “I’m going to be truthful with you. We encountered them again on this planet in 1990.” 

1990. 1990. Why was that year haunting you? What did that have to do with you? This was twice now. 

It was basically twenty pages all blacked out except for a single paragraph about the Tesseract- a subject number- a subject gender- and a date- 1990. Running theory… either she was another experiment. ...or she was you.

But Fury had gotten angry when you’d asked him about all this. And he’d told you- 

“What does this have to do with Carol Danvers?” Coulson moved to shock extremely fast the second that name came out of your mouth. Clearly he hadn’t known that you knew. This was your only chance. Fury had blocked your attempts to learn the truth about this. Tony had no way of getting to the bottom of it, either. But Coulson knew something. So you resorted to pleading. “Please, Phil. Please. I’ve been on a nightmare tour these past few months about how this all connects back to me. I know she was here in 1990. I know SHIELD knew about her- I know it connects to the Tesseract, but Fury said they weren’t doing experiments on her- but whatever happened was the reason they were able to single me out when I was a kid- and now you’re telling me Kree were involved too? If you know something you have to tell me. Please.”

He stewed in his thoughts. Long enough to finally, finally, have a third party appear. You knew exactly why Tony was entering into your office at that moment. You hadn’t called him. -...or maybe you had. Just not over the phone. He grew stormy immediately, seeing Coulson sitting in front of you. Some report on your desk. And you in shambles emotionally, no doubt. 

He always came when you fell apart. Because he knew. He felt it. Maybe on some subconscious level, in moments like these, you reached out to him without him knowing. 

“Looks like I’m interrupting something. Hopefully nothing important.” He tried to keep his own mask up as he closed the door behind himself and came over to your side of the room, perching himself on the corner of your desk. It was clear he was trying to spy on that report out of the corner of his eye, but you reached out, redirecting his attention as you took his hand in yours. 

Barely hanging on. 

As if Tony was not there at all, Coulson picked up where the two of you had left off. There was no point in backtracking, and there was no point in telling Tony to leave. He wouldn’t. Everyone in that room knew that. So, instead, Coulson finally opened up. “Carol Danvers is a human woman who was enhanced by the Tesseract. The blast was accidental. It wiped her memories. The Kree came upon her and treated her like their own- but they were holding her prisoner. Eventually she figured it all out. The Kree and the Skrulls were waging a war. Still are. And Carol and her Kree supervisor finished their battle on earth. SHIELD tailed her the whole time. Got close with her. She’s an ally. But she’s been away for a long time.

Whatever report you think you tracked down- I think I know the one- and for whatever reason- I think I also know that- it’s been redacted. Because of you.” He took a moment to really nail the sentiment of this as he stared at you. Tony’s emotions were going pretty haywire. You eclipsed him entirely. But now his brain was scrambling at a million miles a second to try and piece together why Coulson was talking about this right now so he could catch up enough to grill him about it the second it was over. 

But that wasn’t just yet. Coulson continued after another minute, “We assigned a researcher to that case after she left the planet in 1990. We got some base level information. About her powers and the Tesseract. He worked on it for a long time. Too long. We believe it drove him crazy. So… when one of his instruments picked you up, after the incident with your college professor… he went after you. Off the grid. AWOL. Fury knew his intentions were malicious.” 

You’re lucky you’re not dead.

You remembered Fury saying this to you on the phone. Your head dropped. “Fury killed him.” 

“Fury made a choice. It was him or you. He chose correctly. He dumped the files- anything the guy had on you. Anything to do with you-”

 Tony held a hand up. “Yeah. Except a prelim report and the only eyewitness account that mattered. Funny about that.”

 Coulson sent a dead-eyed stare up his way. “And as I understand it, both those reports are destroyed now. How about that.” He let that sentiment and all it was worth sit before addressing you again. “All the guy’s work work regarding the Tesseract was burned, too. And Danvers. Fury made sure no one looked into what happened to your professor any further.” 

Your gaze fell downward and you’d let go of Tony’s hand, putting both of yours on your legs. Kind of just… clawing absently as you shook your head. “Why?” 

“Because you’re an important asset. Fury knew that. And he was right. Look where you are. Look at what you’ve done.” Coulson was strangely trying to reach out to you even if not physically. It was clear he didn’t like seeing you like this. All… twisted up about this. But how could you be any other way? “Between the both of us… he was fond of Danvers. I think he was holding out hope you’d be like her.” 

A bitter ugly laugh shook from somewhere deep inside you. “Is that what it is? What? I’m a disappointment to him?” Is that why he was so rude? So mean and callous to you at every turn? At every opportunity? 

“Not a disappointment. Just not her.”  

Tony crossed his arms rather tightly. “I realize I’m a little late to the party but- you mind me asking- where is this supposed Wonder Woman of the 90s?” 

Coulson finally acknowledged him as a participant of the discussion. “Away. Far away. We have a method of getting in contact with her, should we need her, but it’s for emergencies only.” 

You absolutely could not help the face you made over this. “If she’s that powerful, why didn’t we call her during the Chitauri invasion?” 

“The Avengers had that handled.” He sounded so sure of himself. 

But this just… it pissed you off. Incredibly so. Your hands found their way flat onto the desk, not in a slam, but there was a pointed noise that arose as you lifted yourself out of your chair. “They almost nuked New York City- where was she then? Tony nearly died and you’re telling me you had an ace in your backpocket this whole time?” 

A flutter of nervousness emanated from Coulson. ...was he scared of you? But it was shadowed by the warmth pounding suddenly in Tony’s chest. Honestly- all this bullshit about this woman- and you- whatever it had to do with you, something or nothing, that was so small in comparison to the fact that SHIELD had a heavy hitter and they were keen to just wait it out while Tony put his life on the line-

If he didn’t need to do that- If they could have called her in? 

“You were waiting. Like always.” Not yelling as you spat this out, but serving it with ice. “Fury counted on Tony handling that nuke, and you guys counted on the Avengers handling it- but if Tony had died going into that wormhole and it hadn’t been enough- then would you have called her? How much loss of life would have been acceptable to you?” 

Coulson stared up at you and held himself very steady. “You’re arguing with me as if I made all those decisions. Let me assure you, I didn’t. No loss of life is acceptable, I think we can both agree on that. But Fury had faith that the Avengers had the situation handled. Disturbing Danvers is for emergencies only.” 

Tony found himself another spot in the conversation. “Because of the implication. What it would do. Sure. Calling what would look like an alien to earth to help out- SHIELD couldn’t handle the amount of damage control they’d have to do in that case. So they got comfortable letting other aliens tear us apart for the betterment of their reputation. Am I getting warm?” 

Coulson settled his hands together in his lap. “This is a completely pointless conversation and a waste of my time. Which has become very valuable as of late.” He directed his attention back towards you. “I’m not here to tell you I’ve always agreed with Fury’s methods. Or SHIELD. You know that’s not the case. Let me deal with the ATCU.” Circling around to the original point of discussion so quickly. 

You had almost forgotten that was even the point of all this. “You say that like you came here to ask me. You didn’t. You’re ordering me to step back.” 

Finally, maybe realizing he was going about this the wrong way, Coulson softened up. “I’m not ordering you to do anything. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. We both know that. I’m asking you to let me handle this. I already have a hand in this world. I’m already on top of it. And from what I heard, you and Stark were looking at retirement. Start trusting your team to do some work.” 

Tony’s head tipped a little to the side. “Are you part of our team? You’re the new head of SHIELD. We never hear from you unless something important is happening on your end. Like college kids that need money.” 

“If you want me to stay out of things you’re already doing, you need to start actually telling me what you’re doing. You realize that, right? This is getting old.” Tiredness seeped into you, having thoroughly exhausted yourself- ...and the few days without any good sleep wasn’t helping. Coulson telling you he’d take this off your plate? It was practically a godsend. And he was right. You and Tony were supposed to be semi-retired. You didn’t want to deal with this. You just had no choice. 

Up until the point he’d presented you with one. 

Strangely, a small smile came to Coulson’s lips. “That’s a valid point. I’ll make note of it.” He stood from his chair, signaling this meeting was a few seconds from being over. “I know the woman running the project. Rosalind Price. We’re working together.” 

Ah- you did recognize that name. One of the soldiers had said it. But, just to be sure, you sent a dark gaze up his way. “Not to cage kids, I hope.” 

“No. And I’d ask that you hold off on whatever PR work you’re doing for Xavier until we have this all sorted out. Just to make sure these worlds don’t collide any further.” 

Tony held a hand out. “I’m missing a few pieces, but I think I’ve got it. This has everything to do with alien life, doesn’t it? So Inhumans and Mutants aren’t the same. And now you’ve got a lot to deal with before you can let all this get out to the public.” A slight pause and then- “If you ever do.” Hinting at the fact that, like the predecessor before him, Coulson wanted to keep this quiet. 

Which was exactly why he wanted you to stop. Because that was the opposite of what you did. And certainly the opposite of what Charles Xavier wanted. Whether or not Mutans or Inhumans were the same- which, clearly they weren’t- it was all going to start getting swept up into superpowered soup. The average person wasn’t going to care who got powers from what source. 

All they were going to care about was that everyone was suddenly different. And scary. And that road… that road was going to be the most dangerous of them all. 

You had a choice to make here, and it was not an easy one. But. Maybe that was the point of all this. What your team had been saying. And now what Coulson had presented to you. He’d given you more information than he’d come here wanting to give up. And now… now he was asking you to let this go. Again. 

“This coincides deeply with my team. Our world. If this gets away from you in the exact wrong way, we’re all going to pay the price.” Laying it all out there for him. 

He gazed at you, waiting, and then, “I’m well aware.” This was him asking simply: do you trust me? 

Did you? 

A small breath escaped from you. “Fine. I needed time to figure out the Xavier thing anyway. But- I want a report. And not one nine months later when you’re finished. When you’re done you come to me. Is that understood?” 

This time he really did smile fully. “Yes, ma’am.” 

You held a hand up. “No. No. I don’t like that.” That almost implied… he was working for you. And that was a huge no. 

But he was already turning his back on you and heading out. Tony gave an empty wave. “Nice seeing you. Coming to the holiday party?” 

Coulson opened the door. “I’ll see if I can fit it in.” 

Then he was gone. The door was shut behind him. Leaving you and Tony and a big ugly report about aliens and other nonsense sitting on your desk. One Tony wanted to read very badly. You could feel it. 

You put a hand to your head. “Tony.” 

His attention immediately diverted to you. “Yes, honey?” 

“Our anniversary is in two days.” 

“It is.” 

“I’ve been trying to- I’ve been hoping that nothing was going to ruin it.” 

“Funny. Me, too.” 

“That report is going to upset you. It’s going to get your brain going. But if I take it away from you, you’re just going to stress about reading it until you get your hands on it. So.” Finally you looked up at him. “What do you want to do?” 

Leaving it up to him. Because this was going to impact him no matter what. Would delaying it be the worse thing? Or would reading it now and digesting it be the worse thing? Only he knew the answer to that. 

His eyes searched yours, maybe trying to understand just how bad that report was- clearly it was pretty bad, if your reading it had summoned him here shortly after. And he knew it at least had to do with all this alien talk- something that triggered him regularly. You didn’t want him to fall into a hole, but he probably would no matter what. So you needed to know when and where that was going to be. So that you could be by his side and help him. 

Just like how he’d come to help you. 

Reaching, he took hold of one of your hands in both of his. And, gently, “Let’s go away.” 

This was not exactly what you were expecting. “Are you sure?” 

His nod was firm. “Yeah. For a few days. Short anniversary vacation. And everything else… we’ll deal with it when we get back.” 

Feeling a little more secure and just… at home with him, even here, safe and protected from all of this, a smile found you. “I love you.” 

His own smile by comparison was so much warmer. Like a beat of sun shining down on you. “I love you.” 

Two more days. Two more days… and then you’d make it official. Proposing to this man would be one of the best things you’d ever done. Right next to marrying him, you were sure. Whenever that happened. 

[smalltownbeans]

Lights, Camera, Action | Joey, Buck, Taylor Kelly

@evan-buckley118​

When Buck had asked Joey to come to the station with him that day, she hadn't realised that there were going to be reporters - or, more specifically, one reporter and her camera man. The look written all over Buck's face when he spotted said reporter made Joey think that maybe, just maybe, he hadn't known either, but something about his expression in general didn't settle right with her. He'd never been camera shy, always stepping up for interviews with those bright smiles she adored seeing so much, so something about the situation was immediately off for her.

Not to mention, Buck seemed to take them the long-way round to the locker room, avoiding the pair completely. Most of the team were there already, just Eddie left behind pulling on his shirt so she opted for following Buck in this time, perching down on one of the benches while he changed into his uniform.

"That's Taylor Kelly, right? Off of uh... Whatsit..." Joey started, hand making general motions as her brain searched for the answer.

"Skywitness News Eight." Eddie interjected, giving Buck a look that Joey caught at the last second. It was all quirked eyebrows and expectant eyes and... Joey was definitely missing something here, wasn't she? Like the punchline of a joke she hadn't heard properly. Then again, it wouldn't be the first time that something like this had been all in her head...

"Right, of course. She does the traffic, doesn't she?"

"Yeah, and a bit of reporting last I checked," Buck answered, giving Joey a shrug once he'd tugged his pants on. After leaning to press a kiss to the top of her head, he pulled his t-shirt up and off and for good few seconds, Joey was blissfully distracted, "She did a report on the firehouse one time, maybe she's just back for a follow-up.”

Joey nodded slowly, tearing her eyes away and looking out through the glass wall in Taylor’s direction, lips twitching into a bit of a frown when she caught her looking back, though it wasn't at Joey - it was at the boys, an almost predatory smirk on her lips. Specifically, she was looking at Buck who was still very much shirtless, distracted in his task while Eddie tried to change the subject and rattled off something about Christopher's latest school project.

The unease in Joey's chest grew just a little, but... no. She wasn't that girl. She was better than that. Better than the green-eyed monster that had no business showing up yet. Eddie excused himself a few moments later with a clapped hand on Buck's back and a squeeze to Joey's shoulder, jogging up to the kitchen area.

"I don't remember that report..." Joey exhaled, looking up at Buck who was just buttoning up his uniform shirt now, feet in unlaced boots as he shuffled over to her and plopped down on the bench beside her. "Was it while we-"

"We'd broken up," He confirmed, to which Joey nodded slowly. Noa had kept her away from the TV a lot during those months, she knew that, particularly when it came to the news. He must've stopped her seeing it... Joey sighed, sparing one more glance over to Taylor, just in time to catch her making a beeline for them. 

"Incoming."

"Firefighter Buckley, long time no see."

Oh yeah, Joey hated this woman's voice already. It was sickly sweet, smug almost. She'd never be able to listen to the damn traffic report again. Buck stood up beside Joey, thankfully fully dressed now though his laces still needed to be tied.

"Taylor. Good to see you, uh.. What-What're you doing here?"

"Just a follow up report. You know, the 118, how are they getting on. I thought it could be good to see how you guys were doing. A lot's happened." That's when Taylors eyes fell to Joey, her eyebrow quirked, "And who's this? New recruit?"

She felt Buck's eyes on her now and... was that a moment of hesitation from him? She couldn't be sure.

"Uh, no, no. This is Joey. My girlfriend. She hangs around the firehouse some days for moral support." And okay, the hand resting on the back of her head as he said that did wonders for settling her nerves.

That was, until she caught a glint of something in Taylor's eye as she looked away from Joey and back up at Buck, "Oh your girlfriend... Is the Evan Buckley finally getting serious with a girl, or is it still too soon to tell?"

And there was one of Buck's nervous laughs and Joey decided then and there that she didn't want to be part of this conversation anymore, at risk of going literally green. "I should head up and see if Bobby needs help with the breakfast," She cut in, rising to her feet as she spoke. And dammit, why was she the shortest in the room, what kind of cruel trick of fate was that? "I'll see you up there?"

Buck gave her a hum and a smile, a kiss to the side of her head taking the edge off of her nerves all over again. It didn't last long though, because that edge was right back within a few moments, scratching at her insides as she said a quick goodbye to Taylor and her cameraman - though, the cameraman seemed to be the only one listening - and headed up to the kitchen.

"No Buck?" Eddie asked as she made it upstairs, quirking a brow from where he stood by the table.

"Still in the locker room." Joey cleared her throat, looking up at him with the most convincing smile she could muster, "The reporter... grabbed his attention." She exhaled, to which Eddie gave a feint nod and pursed his lips, hands settling on his hips. Well, that wasn't comforting.

"Do you guys need any help? I don't know how long he'll be..."

And that was how Joey ended up with Bobby beside her at the kitchen, teaching her how to make the perfect omelettes with Hen sitting opposite flicking through a book. Buck still hadn't come up, and every second unsettled her just a little more.

"Careful with the salt, you don't want too much..." Bobby warned her as she went to shake it out without even looking. She exhaled, shaking her head at herself and giving him a sheepish smile.

"Sorry, distracted."

"He'll be up in a minute. Taylor Kelly can be... persistent with her interviews."

Joey nodded slowly, her smile faltering a little. "What's... Is there history there? They seemed pretty friendly..." When Hen looked up at her, breaking from the book, Joey knew she'd hit the nail on the head. Great. "And before either of you ask, no, he hasn't told me anything. I didn't even know they'd met until today."

"It's really not our place..." Bobby started, but Hen cut in, giving Joey a reassuring smile. Thank god Hen understood her habit of overthinking after so long.

"They had a fling. It was nothing, barely two dates from what I hear. She disappeared as quickly as she'd appeared."

"So they were together?"

"If you can consider sex as-"

Hen cut off the second they all heard boots on the stairs, clambered steps that Joey knew instantly were Buck's.

"Sorry that took so long..." Buck exhaled, arms immediately going around Joey's waist when he got to her, hunched over to set his chin on her shoulder. It wasn't the first time he'd done something like this at work, but something about this hold seemed almost apologetic, and Joey wasn't sure how that made her feel, "She was asking about the accident."

And now his clinginess made sense.

Joey smiled softly, turning her head slightly to peck his cheek. "What do you wanna eat? Bobby's making omelettes but I’m sure we can whip up something vegan-friendly."

That alone seemed to settle Buck, who just grinned, already tugging her over to try and find something in the fridge. Joey chose not to bring Taylor up.

***

The next time Joey saw Taylor Kelly talking to Buck was about half an hour later, once the reporter had done her rounds downstairs and headed up with the camera in tow. Thankfully, the whole team were there, giving little comments and answers to her questions about the year, about the natural disasters, about how they'd gotten through being a firefighter down. She could see Buck was uncomfortable in his seat even from where she'd settled just out of the camera line. She didn't fancy her face being plastered all over the news... probably some obscure headline about how she'd tamed Evan Buckley or lit a fire in the firefighter.

Not that she didn't want the whole world to know that, by some miracle, he'd chosen her to love, but simply because she didn't want Taylor freaking Kelly to be the one to announce it.

In that moment, though, his discomfort was far outweighing her own, and so she'd stood, moving over to Buck and smiling as she settled a hand on his shoulder, making the excuse of reaching over for a bottle of water from the middle of the table.

"If it's quiet, do you wanna get lunch, later? We can pick up pizza from the place down the road..." She offered softly, trying to keep it audible for him if no one else. His arm around her waist and squeeze of her hip was enough confirmation, drawing a smile to her lips again. He seemed to settle after that, at least for the minutes that followed until the alarm went off and he was up and running, a carrot still clutched between his teeth.

*** Joey was sure that Taylor had gone with them - why wouldn't she? But apparently, a medical call of a woman *and* her son choking on pancakes at her home wasn't enough of a thrill. Joey didn't realise she was there until she had a camera in her face while she was trying to get on with a bit of work.

"Joey, right?"

She looked up straight at the camera, then to Taylor, then back again.

"I... I'm sorry, I don't feel comfortable being part of this report," She tried to offer as politely as she could, even giving Taylor a smile, "I'm just here for moral support."

"But you're a part of Buck's life, right? From what I hear, a big part. He wouldn't shut up about you."

He wouldn't? The hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips, but the look on the other woman's face made it disappear quickly. The whole morning, Joey had been sure that her distaste for Taylor Kelly had been purely because of how she acted around Buck but now, looking at the condescending look in her eye, Joey knew, right then and there, that she would've hated her anyway.

"You heard right." She said simply, trying to look back at her laptop, hoping it would deter her from asking any more questions. Wasn't that a rookie error.

"How long have you two been together? It can't have been more than a year. Unless Mr Buckley isn't quite as kind hearted as he seems."

Okay now that had her blood boiling.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Joey found the words tumbling out of her lips before she could stop and think, her eyebrows knotted in a mix of confusion and disbelief.

"Well, from what I hear, he was still sleeping around not that long ago."

"It's none of your business," She snapped, looking straight up at her, even closing her laptop in the process, "It stopped being your business when you stopped seeing eachother. And for the record, Buck is as kind hearted as they come and if you had a shred of decency in your whole body, you'd know that. We were together before, took a break, and we're together now. So yes, it's been more than a year."

"Oh, you're her," Taylor responded, dragging out the second word with a smirk at the corner of her lips, "You're the girl that broke his heart, right? Left him all broken and-"

"I think that's enough, Taylor. You have permission to film us, not our guests."

Joey hadn't noticed Bobby coming upstairs until she heard his voice, commanding just like the captain she knew him to be. Taylor didn't seem immediately bothered by it, giving Joey a look that she wanted to wipe right off of her smug face with a slap, but she kept her hands clenched down around her laptop instead, knuckles almost white from the effort.

"Shame. It would've been quite the story." She sighed, standing to leave. It wasn't until Taylor had gone downstairs, cameraman in tow, the Bobby sat himself down next to a still tense Joey.

"I can assure you, she had this effect on a lot of people. She's too much about the story, not enough about the people behind it."

"How did he... How did Buck ever..." How did Buck, a kindhearted, too-much-love-to-give, treasure of a man go for Taylor Kelly of all people. It probably had a lot to do with the long legs and red hair and perfect body, but...

"She's convincing. When she wants to be."

Joey sighed, giving a feint nod again, looking up as she heard the firetruck start reversing back into the station.

"I just wish she'd be convincing somewhere else."

Bobby settled a hand over one of hers, giving a little pat before pushing himself to stand. "I dont think you have anything to worry about. He's never looked at anyone like he looks at you. Plus, I hear he learned pretty quickly that she wasnt what he wanted."

Joey looked up at Bobby after that, searching his features for any sign that he was lying, her shoulders and grip finally relaxing when she realised he was being honest. He was always honest... she wasn't sure why she'd even questioned it.

"Thank you..." Came her soft response, which was met with a smile before Bobby excused himself to go and meet the team. She could feintly hear them all scuffling around putting away equipment, and before she could think it through she was standing, wandering slowly over to the barrier. A mistake, because from there, she could see that Taylor had already cornered Buck.

From where she stood, Joey could see his bright, warm, heart-aching smiles that she adored. Smiles that she was usually at the recieving end of. His shoulders shook when he laughed at something Taylor had said, his thumb flicking over his birthmark as he seemed to shrug off a comment she made. He had one hand settled in his pocket, the other dropping from his eyebrow to splay over his stomach all while he rocked on his feet.

Joey didn't like to think of herself as a crazily jealous person, but surely she got a free pass this time, right?

This was a normal situation to be jealous about... right? Should she go down there? Stake her claim with growling and snarls like a feral part of her wanted to? Maybe she could just pull him into a kiss that stole both of their breaths, audience be damned. Yet, with every potential idea that flew through her head as she watched them talk, her feet never moved.

"Go save him," Eddie's voice eventually broke her from her thoughts, his shoulder bumping into hers as she looked up at her boyfriend's best friend. "Trust me, he'll appreciate it."

"He looks like he's handling it perfectly fine."

"He's on camera, he's good at pretending. Go on, go get him."

Inhaling a breath, Joey turned her head back, looking at the way Buck's eyes were now cast down even as he smiled, his hand patting at his leg with his shoulders tensed up. Maybe Eddie was right...

"God, I'm never gonna live this down..." Joey grumbled, huffing out a breath as she put one foot in front of the other and started walking down to meet him.

She kept her eyes on the steps, determined not to fall or slip or trip or something equally as embarrassing. It was because of that that she hadn't realised he'd spotted her already, or that he'd cut Taylor off mid-sentence to meet her at the bottom. Not until he was right there, holding a hand out to help her down the last few steps.

At the hand in her line of vision, Joey looked up, lips twitching into a relieved smile as she took his hand almost on instinct though stayed a couple of steps up to give herself a bit of height. "Eddie said you needed saving," She said softly, trying to keep it inaudible from the reporter but she wasn't sure she'd be overly bothered if Taylor had heard her.

"I don't know about that, but I'll totally pretend if you're the one saving me," Buck countered with a smirk, hands moving to her waist to lift her up and down the last steps instead, "Did you still want that lunch? I'm starving."

With a giggle at the lift, hands resting on his upper arms even after her feet were back on solid ground, Joey was nodding and running one hand down to take his hand. "Hell, yes. You can tell me all about the call."

"Firefighter Buckley, can I have five minutes to finish the interview? We were getting some really... interesting footage."

"Can it wait? I've got a date."

And maybe Joey took just a little bit too much pleasure from the look on Taylor's face as she started to tug Buck out of the fire station and away from the camera.

[chimswae]

Epilogue : Untold

Foreword:

Some stories are better left unsaid.I couldn’t change anything for the world, although the fame part of this industry is tough to handle.Do i have a life? Yes I have my fans.Do i have friends? Yes the members that I cherish. Do i have love? No I have to let go.Life always offers you a second chance. It’s called tomorrow. But do i have any tomorrow?

Pairing: Jimin x OC (Other characters: BTS, OCs, Lee Taehwan)

Genre: Idolau, Fluff, Romance, Father!Au

Word Count: 2,997

Author Note: I promise this is the last one, a sad epilogue :< my 3 bonus chapters + Epilogue is over now. 

 Untold Masterlist

Epilogue 

Three years later..

Breezes from the cold wind indicates the shifting of new season, there will be no more summer to melt the coldness which engulf his cold heart. Despite the changes, his heart will remain cold. He found himself was lost in his own thought, something that he usually did every night. Love that he built with Yeoul for years, the obstacles that they had to go through before things fall into its place three years ago only remained as memories.

Good memories. He embedded it deep in his heart.

“Appa…” he felt a small tug at the hem of his shirt. He snapped out from his deep thought as his eyes met sleepy little Minyeol “It is cold outside, let’s get inside appa” the corner of his lips quivered upwards into the cutest smile which warmth Jimin’s heart.

Jimin crouched down, wiping the wetness at the end of Minyeol’s nose “Why are you awake son? You don’t want to get sick” he picked him up carefully, closing the glasses door before making his way to his room which he used to share with Yeoul before.

Settling Minyeol under the cover, his eyes wandered to Minyeol’s face “You really resemble your mother, don’t you think” he bit his lower lips trying not to shed any tears tonight. Tears and Jimin seemed to complement each other lately, he did not know how easy it was for him to cry. At one point, Jimin needed to spend an hour in the bathroom just to bawl his eyes out.

Quick witted Minyeol nodded in agreement as a small smile lingered across his face “I miss omma.. Is she doing alright, daddy” he interlaced his fingers in Jimin hands, earning a heavy sigh from the older man. Jimin was used to Minyeol calling him ‘appa’ and ‘daddy’ changing the nicknames when he felt like it. It reminded him to how Yeoul would use ‘Park Jimin’ or ‘Baby’ in her daily conversation. As Minyeol grew a year older, he realized how much he resembled Yeoul instead of him. Physical wise yes, but attitude wise it went back to Yeoul.

“Your mother is doing fine, I am sure she makes a lot of friends there” he grazed his thumb over Minyeol’s small hand. It felt so right and warm. The only thing that could put a smile on his face is the presence of his kids.

“Then I am fine with omma leaving us, if she is happy” he yawned cutely as his eyelids fluttered in process.

Jimin’s heart ached, was he fine with Yeoul leaving them? No, he was not.

“Mm… me too.. Close your eyes and sleep. You have school tomorrow” he kissed the top of his head, caressing his hair affectionately. Jimin waited for few more minutes until he was sure that Minyeol had fallen asleep. He then made his way silently outside the room to get some drinks. He owed that to his dry throat. It screamed for alcohol.

He took the remaining beers inside the fridge as a heavy sigh escaped his cold lips. Like a routine, he would spend at least two hours drinking alone or sometimes one of the members would give him a company when they slept over. The alcohol helped to wash away the pain and sorrow in him. Nonetheless, it couldn’t erase the love that he had for Yeoul and the memories of Yeoul would remain alive.

Taking a sip from his glass, Jimin stared blankly at the cold tile “Baby… can’t you just come back?” he ruffled his hair in desperation.

“Park Jimin…look at me…” Yeoul whispered between her tears. Jimin shook his head stubbornly, averting his eyes from meeting hers. He couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing those beautiful eyes again after this. He let his tears flowed down heavily, not caring how ugly he appeared at the moment.

“Jims… please look at me..” she persuaded.

“Baby…” she used the last ounce of her strength to cup both of his cheeks. His bloodshot eyes were in mess, and it pained her to see her man in pain. Jimin had never shown this hidden side of him in front of anyone not even his members. The last time when they won their daesangs, Jimin held back his tears until they were back home then only he cried his eyes out until there’s no more tears left for him to squeeze.

He breathed in deeply before gazing into Yeoul’s sad one “Babe….you will be fine” he muttered. The urge to cry choked him, made it hard to breathe.

“You too will be fine. Please take care of yourself. Minyeol and our princess” Yeoul smiled sadly as her face scrunched up in pain.

“Don’t say that, you won’t be leaving us. You will be fine” he clutched onto her hand harder showing his desperation and persistence. He was not ready to let Yeoul go. Not that he could imagine living his life without Yeoul in it. That sorrowful life by far had never occurred to him would happen this fast. Why?

Yeoul squished his hands tighter, breathing heavily in between “I love you so much Jimin.. never forget that.. We will meet again for sure. Can you promise me one thing?” she uttered weakly. The words coming from her mouth was incoherent, for some reasons Jimin could make it out from it.

Jimin bit down his tongue to quell the sound of his ugly sobbing “Yes baby… what is it?’ he pecked her lips softly making Yeoul smile.

“Remember to love yourself. I will always love you even from afar. When you miss me, you know where to find me” she used her free hand to stroke his face one last time, pulling him closer to him for a short endearing kiss.

Once she’s drawn her last breath, she said “I..Love you…Park Jimin” Jimin stood, cradling his wife in his arm and started crying loudly. Yeoul’s mother fell to her knees, clutching onto her chest “YEOUL-AH….” the thick atmosphere in the room was filled with tears and sobs from every corner.

Na Yeoul: Time of death, September 12, 2021. 10.22 PM.

 A month has passed since Yeoul passing but the sadness engulfed him every single day. The news of her passing made it to major news headline domestically and internationally. Everyone was expressing their sadness over Yeoul sudden death which took everyone off guard. No one would expect something like this happen. Their new born daughter is barely two months old, and now she had to grow up without her mother.

His mother and mother-in-law offered to look after their daughter until then, but everyday Jimin would go to check on his daughter with Minyeol. Because after all that was the only Yeoul’s memory left for him to cherish.

“Hyung…” Jungkook took a seat across him with a concern look. Jimin lifted his head with a weak smile “Arent you supposed to sleep? We have schedule tomorrow” he replied.

 The latter patted his hand with a genuine smile “I can’t sleep. Are you alright?” he knew the older guy had enough people asking him whether he is okay or not, but he just couldn’t help it. Watching his hyung in pain was unbearable especially when he knew how Yeoul’s death scarred him.

“Are you?” he inquired back with a small smug.

“Hyung…you have to let her go. Nuna.. wont like to see you this way. Minyeol and Yeoul need you. I know you are a responsible father, and you never abandon them. But, at some point they need your love…your genuine love” even a simple advice from the maknae really shows how much he has changed over the years.

Jimin tilted his head and chugged down the alcohol within a second, he snorted under his breath.

“I will be alright Kkuk… I just need time… this pain it is too much for me. I can’t believe she is gone..forever” he felt like he was going to cry again. Jungkook sympathized his hyung yet what else he could do.

Jungkook poured another glass of soju for Jimin and slid the glass back to its original state “Drink up. You know I am your best drinking buddy after Jin hyung. Well, I still think I am the best” he chortled earning a soft chuckle from the older guy.

“Thank you Jungkook..” Jungkook’s ears perked up at the sudden gratitude.

Their eyes met, Jungkook nodded as an assurance signalling him everything would be alright “Thank you…” his chest tightened at the memories of Yeoul. Her last words lingered in his mind, something that would follow him till his last breath.

 ----------------

“APPA.. YEOUL IS CRYING”

“JUNGKOOK HYUNG HELP”

“YOONGI SAMCHON COME HERE QUICK”

“KIM SEOKJIN HELPPPPPPP”

Minyeol was practically yelping for everyone’s name just to warn them the little princess had just awoken from her nap. Seokjin was the first one who came to the scene with an unamused face “Say that again, kiddo! Who told you to call me “Kim Seokjin” without a hyung or uncle behind?” he frowned.

Yoongi showed up behind Seokjin, throwing little Minyeol over his shoulder while patting his butt playfully “You little creature, why am I a ‘samchon’ if Jungkook gets the ‘hyung’. Speak of discrimination, where did you learn this” the younger boy squeal in delight and clung onto Yoongi’s back shirt tightly. ‘

“The princess is awake…..she is sad! Quick help her!” said Minyeol.

Jin gave the younger boy one final look before cradling Yeoul in his embrace “Hush… princess. Your handsome uncle is here, so now what do you want? Do you want to eat?” he blinked cutely following Yeoul’s loud cries.

Her cries echoed waking Hoseok and Namjoon from their short nap “What is with this commotion” Namjoon yawned followed by sleepy Hoseok behind him.

“HOSEOKKIIEE HELP ME” upon seeing Hoseok on the other side, Minyeol waved his hand helplessly so he could be freed from Yoongi little torture.

“Say what again little kid? I am your hyung… not a hoseokie” he went to get Minyeol nevertheless with a pout. As expected, Jung Hoseok would be Minyeol’s all-time favourite uncle as compared to others. Then, Jungkook would follow behind and of course Yoongi fall into the last place. The mean uncle.

“Where the hell is Park Jimin? His daughter is crying for milk. I don’t even know how to feed a baby” Jin soothed the baby trying his best using the skills that he read from the internet but came to no avail. Few minutes later, Jimin came with a bottle of milk “Hyung, you suck” he muttered taking Yeoul carefully into his arms.

“Princess, daddy is here. Now let’s eat” his fatherly smiled awed everyone in the room. To Seokjin, the most genuine smile from Jimin would come from his interaction with Minyeol and Yeoul. Not that he was not happy whenever Bangtan members were around, but he found that, Jimin is the happiest with his kids. Jimin and Jin spent their time together nursing their little princess whilst others were busy playing with Minyeol in the living room.

Though months had passed, Jimin finally is used raising the baby with the help of his members. Last week, he told his mother that he wanted to look after Yeoul by his own because he thought it was the best thing to do. Both of them gave in though they insisted in keeping Yeoul in the beginning. His determination touched their heart therefore in exchanged, they would pay a visit every weekend to meet their grandchildren.

That was how Bangtan Sonyeondan turned into babysitters overnight. Even Manager Sejin grew fond of baby Yeoul and surprisingly prior to the baby presence at the dorm, he spent a lot of time in the dorm with the guys.

They were in their long break after the promotions ended few months ago, so Jimin had more time in hand to look after his kids especially little Yeoul. She needed his attention the most and it was not easy to raise the baby with little knowledge in hand. Once in a while, Jungkook’s girlfriend Dahae would pay a visit or every time she needed his help, Dahae offered her assistance without hesitation.  

Everyone in Bangtan has found their partner except Yoongi and Taehyung. Oh well, their time will come soon.

 -----------------

Happy birthday daddy’s princess. Jimin planted a soft kiss on her rosy cheeks, the little girl blinked cutely following Jimin’s gaze with a light cackle. Little Yeoul reaches out to her daddy, squishing Jimin’s forefinger while doing her cute baby talk melting Jimin’s heart instantly.

It is little Yeoul’s birthday which also means it had been a year since Na Yeoul’s death. Jimin has never missed a day yearning for Yeoul. The presence of little Yeoul and Minyeol were enough to fill the emptiness in him. He needs only his kids by his side. As for now, what matters the most was Bangtan Sonyeondan and his family.

Entering the first year of his life without Yeoul, he was able to raise his kids with no problems. He learned a lot from his supportive family and Bangtan members of course. Jimin was lucky enough that the members were willing to help him in any situation especially when it came to little Yeoul. Being a single daddy with glamorous job was rather challenging. There were eyes everywhere and his children are exposed to public unnecessary attention.

Joining Big Hit was the best decision that he ever made. He couldn’t imagine if it weren’t for Bang Pd, his life would be in a huge mess. The older man had done a lot of things for him since start and he really appreciated it. Bang Pd made sure that Jimin and his family got the full protection from media eyes. In regard to this, if there is any nasty rumours arise that could jeopardize Jimin and his two kids, Bang Pd had a team ready to counter the problems.

“Daddy, are we going to visit mom today?” Minyeol asked with a wide smile.

“Yes, and then we will go celebrate princess’s birthday” Jimin ruffled his hair earning a dissatisfied groan from the boy. Minyeol shrieked “DADDY MY HAIR! DON’T TOUCH IT! TAEHWAN SAMCHON DID IT FOR ME!” he swatted his father hand lightly while fixing the hair back to its original state.

Jimin chuckled “You look handsome nonetheless, don’t overreact boy” he heard footsteps approaching them and he was greeted by the familiar good-looking guy “Did you get Yeoul’s favourite flowers?” he inquired.

Grinning away, Taehwan waved the Asiatic lily in front of him “Got it. Is it just four of us, what about others?” he tilted his head. Jimin indicated others will tag along with Jin, so they would meet at their meeting point instead. After dressing little Yeoul in a white tutu dress, Jimin wore his black suit and left the house with Taehwan. He was ready to meet Yeoul again today. Even though he visited her almost every week, but this time was different.

This was important for him and his children. He promised to bring little Yeoul meeting her mother when she turned one, so the day finally came.

The journey was never quiet when bubbly Minyeol took the chances to ask questions about things that he saw along journey. Loyal Taehwan would feed all the curiosity without complain. Indeed, Minyeol’s favourite uncle along with Hoseok and Jungkook.

“Daddy we are here! FINALLY, WE WILL BE MEETING MOMMY!” Minyeol clasped his hands together as his eyes glimmered in happiness.

“Alright, be careful. Jin ahjussi is there so don’t run but walk” Jimin was the first one who got off the red vehicle as he opened the door for Minyeol and the little dashed impatiently to the group without even listening to Jimin’s warning.

Cheerful Jhope watched Minyeol running towards their direction and hollered “Be careful kid! Don’t run!” he also warned sternly. Jimin took the chance to pick his little girl up and made his way joining the group with Taehwan strutting behind him.

Taehyung was the first one who squealed upon seeing little Yeoul in Jimin’s arm “My princess is looking pretty aww!”

“PRETTY MINI YEOUL!” Jin eyes shimmered under the sunlight. He must be a little too excited to see baby Yeoul in her breath-taking white tutu. It seemed like Jimin really did a good job in dressing his princess today.

As Jimin approached the group, Yoongi made face to scare little Yeoul but only to turn a little too adorable causing the baby to giggle excitedly “Hyung, she likes you” Jungkook pointed out with a laugh.

“I am sure she is planning to marry you when she grows up” Namjoon added.

“I am not going to marry my daughter off with any of you, dream on” Jimin rolled his eyes in annoyance.

Yoongi scoffed “Park Jimin, you have to admit my face is a son-in-law material, for your information” the teasing kept going between the boys liven up the dreary atmosphere at first, but now it was replaced by their laughter.

Life is a blend of laughter and tears, a combination of rain and sunshine. There will always be rainbow after the rain. Even after the thing happened in Jimin’s life, he was able to patch back real quick. As if his heart is made ready for it, he is ready to face any hurdles in this world.

Just like the rainbow after the rain, good thing will eventually happen after the pain that he gains. For now, the happiness built within him is revolved around his friends, family and two beautiful children. With Yeoul’s name buried deep enough in his heart, he promises to live the life just the way it is.

Na Yeoul, no matter where you are, or how far you are, their heart will always find its way back together.

It is you.

It has always been you.

  Previous 

[ofwizardsandmen]

I like me better when I’m with you

Characters: Tara Lee, Mark Yang, Tyler Lee (briefly).

Word count: 3,9k

Genre: angst, fluff

OST: Ed Sheeran - Hearts Don't Break Round Here

A knock on the door interrupts Tara from staring soullessly at the screen of her laptop. It’s only been a couple of hours since she left the Yang Residence and yet she has completely lost track of time. She can’t remember how long she’s been sitting on her bed, wrapped in a duvet, but the memories of her conversation with Mark are all vague and hazy, like scenes from a Frank Capra film.

Yet, it is probably the hopeful melodies or the fact Julie Andrews’ sweet innocence in The Sound of Music always manages to put her in a good mood, but Tara almost feels like she’s been transported to some benevolent alternate universe where she’s just a regular Oxford student chilling at home on a summer night and procrastinating her summer school paper for Medieval Literature.

There are no boys.

No magic.

No famous ex-boyfriend or fake fiancé.

It is just Tara and her muggle musical.

“I’m fine, Ty” Tara whines as Captain von Trapp walks into Maria’s room and finds his children singing along My Favorite Things. “Go to sleep!”  Mentally cursing at her brother for disturbing her hardly-found peace of mind, Tara pulls the fluffy duvet tighter under her chin.

Another knock

Tara lets the duvet fall to her shoulders, feeling as though she doesn’t have the strength to deal with anything right now.

“Ty, seriously…” she utters wearily. “I want to be alone-”

“I’m coming in” A voice that definitely doesn’t belong to her brother announces.

A second later, the door gapes open and Tara’s ex-boyfriend walks in, closing the door behind him.

Mark’s presence catches Tara off guard. From all the people she could’ve expected to see, her ex looking aggravatingly good was definitely not on top of her list, so she nearly chokes in her inhale.

With her heart picking up, Tara pauses the movie and then holds on to the duvet tightly. Almost as if her life depended on it.

And yes. It is a life-threatening situation if you consider that Tara can’t imagine a greater humiliation than letting Mark see the sweatshirt she’s wearing beneath. It is one of the many clothes she had raid from his closet during her last visit to Seoul, claiming that she would use them whenever she missed him.

Why did she have to be so freaking ridiculous? That is beyond Tara understanding, but now, letting him see that goddammed sweatshirt on her would be yet another moral defeat on the same day. Not to mention it would be downright mortifying.  

“Hey” Mark stands at the door, his hands shoved in the pockets of his favorite bomber jacket as Tara holds on the duvet for dear life.

“What are you doing here?” She turns her head in the other direction as if her vanity was the most interesting piece of furniture she’s ever seen.

At her sour expression, Mark’s expression falls. For a split of a second he seems to be unable to form a coherent sentence or push himself to do anything at all, but eventually, he quietly steps towards Tara and without saying a single word he sits on the edge of the bed.

But Tara avoids his eyes. She can’t bring herself to look at him because his presence is suddenly reliving the embarrassment and humiliation she felt during their conversation earlier that day.

“I saw the album,” Mark says, his breath hitching as Tara blinks twice without really understanding what he means.  “Jae said it was a present from you”.

With the trauma of facing Mark, she has almost forgotten about his birthday gift. Of course, she now regrets spending so much time putting together a photo book with pictures of the two from childhood up to the months previous to their breakup. If she had known Mark was going to behave the way he did, Tara would’ve accepted Enzo’s invitation and instead of the comfort of her bed, she would be on a luxurious yacht sailing the Greek Islands. Or she would’ve asked Tyler to lock her in her room so there were no more chances to land on the cover of scandal-hungry tabloids and gossip sites. Yes, she likes the second idea better.

But no, against her better judgment, she went to visit her ex-boyfriend so he could shatter her pride in pieces and humiliate her.

“And I’m truly sorry”  Without another word, Mark reaches to pull Tara to his chest. Initially, he meets resistance from her part. She briefly struggles to free herself, but when her name escapes from Mark’s lips in a soft whisper that makes her feel a wonderful sense of loosening inside, she gives in with a sigh. Too exhausted and emotionally drained to fight him back, she also lets go of the duvet in favor of letting Mark wrap his arms around her.

“I’m so, so sorry, T” He repeats as his hands move to stroke her hair and pat her back gently, slightly desperate to show he how apologetic he truly is. “I am sorry”

There’s a brief moment of silence before Tara speaks,  her voice breathy with a contained chuckle.

“I know”

Mark is so thankful when she wraps her arms around him and buries her face against his chest that his heart races embarrassingly and his throat moves when he swallows. Yet, Tara seems unfazed, wrapped in her own thoughts and the scent of oolang and bergamot from Mark’s signature perfume combined with the faint smell of Febreze that Taeyong uses religiously in their clothes.

Mark smells like spring and his embrace makes Tara feel like home, so she stays that way for a few minutes, eyes closed, easily sinking into his arms and basking in the familiarity of it all.  It is just a simple hug, but it conveys their feelings with much greater clarity than words could have; it is almost a reminder of easier days when everything was less tangled and a simple hug could put everything back in its right place.

Now everything seems as it could be fine.

That is, of course, until she pulls away and notices Mark’s eyes brimming with tears.

It’s probably too soon to draw conclusions, but for some reason it makes Tara’s former optimism deflate.

Not like this is the first time Tara sees Mark cry. Oh no, she has seen him cry plenty of times before, although when she tells those stories to other people, they believe she’s making them up because Mark is a strong man by any standard and he has never shown any sign of weakness in front of anyone else. Particularly not in front of his bandmates or his fans.

People regard Mark as always cool and collected, that one person who always knows what to say and what people expect from him. He didn’t cry when his group reached the Nº1 spot for the first time in the South Korean charts, nor during his first concert or that time he injured himself in a rather foolish fashion and subsequently skipped a whole round of promotions with his group. If you were to ask anyone, Mark is described as a hardworking young man with a somewhat detached and serene outlook on life.

But that is Mark, the rapper of NCT. The Mark Yang sitting next to Tara cried when she went to Hogwarts for the first time and when their first bunny died. Mark cries over a sad movie plot and whenever he misses his family. The Mark Tara knows is anything but detached. He is loving and slightly clingy, although he always justifies himself claiming that he barely spends time with his loved ones.

That’s exactly why doubt wings through Tara when her eyes fix on Mark. Granted, her concern is slightly unreasonable given the circumstances and their unspoken reconciliation, but she knows him by heart and he looks merely appalled.

“What’s wrong?” She asks, eyeing him suspiciously

“Nothing” He musters dismissively. Tara doesn’t know he’s fighting hard to keep the tears at bay, but she can guess, by the way he bits on his lower lip, that there’s something he wants to tell her. And she simply expects the worst.

“Then what’s with that expression?” she says, forcing a soft laugh. “You look as though you’ve murdered someone.”

Mark doesn’t respond. There is silence and then a simple head motion

“I don’t know how bad this actually is or if Jane will be able to fix it before it goes out, but…” A frustrated breath slips from Mark’s lips and he moves to grab Tara’s hand “Earlier today I kinda told a reporter we had broken up.”

“What?” Tara’s eyes narrow in confusion.

“Listen T, I am really sorry, I just…” Mark runs his free hand through his hair “I got this question about you and the rumors and I-“ he tightens his grip on her hand “I just lost it. I saw that article on the news and I don’t know what got into me. Please, forgive me, I didn’t mean to-“

Amusement swirling in her chest, Tara doesn’t even attempt to hold in a laugh.

“Mark, people have been speculating about our break up for weeks and if they couldn't tell yet after the pictures of you and Mindy walking by the hand late at night” She said the last bit with the tiniest bit of accusation in her voice “They probably did after the headlines of this morning, so unless you had told them I cheated on you or that you hated me, I think we’ll be ok”  

“No, I would never” Mark says softly, once again wrapping himself around Tara “I only said that we broke up and I wished not to be asked any more questions about the topic”

“An answer straight from the idol book. Well done” Tara laughs, but still, that emotion written on Mark’s face —that she recognizes as guilt— doesn’t seem to go away.  “Oh, come on, Mark, change that expression! What’s wrong now?” Tara rolls her eyes, looking at him over her shoulder.

“I…” He falters “I also made you cry”

“When did you?” Tara asks, moving away from the hug and turning so they’re finally face to face. “I haven’t cried” She frowns, although her slightly puffed eyes aren’t painting the most convincing picture.

“Tyler told me” Mark smiles with a swift rise of his cheekbones. If Tara didn’t know him better she would assume that he is amused.

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself” Tara scoffs, but Mark is still smiling at her with a sort of smug twinkle in his eyes.

“I hate I made you cry, I really do.” He says solemnly “But the fact you did…” Mark finds the auspicious moment to caress Tara’s face with his thumbs, making her huff once she notices his cheeks going all squishy and his eyes crinkling in a smile.

She would definitely be offended if she didn’t know there’s no malice to it, just Mark’s attempts to lighten up the mood.

“I swear I will never make you cry again” He says, interlacing their hands “Please, don’t ever cry again” Mark places a gentle kiss on her cheek before adding “Plebeians like me don’t deserve the tears of a princess”

Tara cringes and laughs, smacking Mark’s arm softly

“That’s so cheesy” she complains, faking a retching noise. “Please never repeat that”

“Why?”  Mark catches Tara’s fist before it lands on his chest, pulling her towards him for the umpteenth time. It almost feels like he wants to make up for the lost time and Tara is not in a position to complain or criticize him because the longing is mutual so she only throws her arms around his neck, shaking her head. “Yo, it’s true though…” Mark says, his boyish manners coming out in full force when he speaks.

“That you’re cheesy?” Tara jokes.

“That I am a plebeian and you are a real princess… my princess”

“Ugh… cheesy” Tara’s face contorts into what could be disgust, but a split so second later she bursts out laughing. Mark chuckles too, but he becomes solemn as his hands slide under Tara’s —his— sweatshirt and his fingers glide up her sides until they reach for the curve of her waist.

“No, but seriously, T… I’m sorry” he repeats as Tara plays with his hair distractedly “I was rude to you and that was just off-limits. Nothing justifies the way I behaved.”

“True” Tara concedes with a nod and a small smile spreading on her face.

“You didn’t deserve any of that and I apologize for it”

“True again. You were acting stupid” She replies simply, looking away as she removes her hands from Mark’s neck, a noticeable frown on her face “But I guess I can take that apology”

A hearty laugh fills the room when Mark realizes Tara is just faking the angered expression and seconds later she ends up throwing him a poorly executed wink.

“Thank you, T” The guy’s amusement quickly vanishes, a warm feeling of elation coming over him. It is the kind of feeling that makes you believe an enormous burden has been lifted from your shoulders and you can finally be at peace.

He beams, his smile so bright that it almost makes Tara feel blinded by it. Then, a teasing glint fills his eyes “Though now that I remember, you did call me an idiot…” he dramatically places a hand over his heart “That hurt”

“Should I even be sorry? You were acting like one”  Tara states matter-of-factly. She raises a brow, trying to ignore the way Mark’s hands have returned to hold her at the waist pulling her closer.

“What?” Mark opens his mouth in an exaggerated fashion, pretending to take the offense.

“It’s true, you were acting like a di-” Tara stops midway, giggling as Mark tickles her sides. “Oh, come on!” Laughter escapes from her lips abundantly. “Mark... please…” She twists, fighting desperately to escape from his attack, but Mark continues to dig his fingertips on her sides, chuckling and occasionally letting out a full laugh.

“Please what?” He asks, watching amused how Tara tries to push him off with her knees.

“Stop!” She giggles “Please, Mark, stop!” She smacks his hands away when they reach her ribs and then places both her hands against his chest to stop him from ambushing her again “I’m sorry. Ok?” she says, catching her breath. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you serious?” Mark’s doe eyes flutter open as though he can’t believe his ears and Tara only nods, still focused on regulating her breathing pace.  “Oh T. Don’t be.” Mark places a hand over one of hers, squeezing it and pulling it to his lips to kiss it briefly “I actually deserved it because what you said back then was true. I was just trying to get back at you.”

“I know” Tara replies, wondering if Mark is aware of who he’s talking to. Of course she knew, even if he wasn’t fully aware back then, Tara knew. She always knows. “But that’s not what I’m sorry about. I also owe you an apology for the Mindy misunderstanding and the whole Darius scandal. Although it shouldn’t be a big deal, considering we had broken up, you still deserve to know nothing ever happened between him and I”

Mark blinks not fully sure of what to say next. He remains quiet, letting go of Tara’s hand but a grin —that he had dumbly tried to suppress— slowly makes its way onto his lips. Tara laughs because Mark, as always, is transparent as glass and the happiness that her statement causes him is not even close to been hidden.

“So you’re telling me nothing happened with the perfect Darius Black?” He questions skeptically, smug grin still plastered across his face.

“First of all wipe that grin off” Tara rolls eyes, her hand smacking Mark’s shoulder playfully “Don’t be such a smug jerk”  

Mark could be offended, but he ignores that last part on behalf of attending a more urgent matter, which is finding out what Tara has been up to since their breakup. It is a question that has been torturing him for weeks, so he jumps in as soon as the opportunity presents.

Of course, Mark is not generally the jealous or possessive type, but watching the pictures of —his— Tara walking by the arm of another man —a man who had always shown more than just a casual friendly interest in her— had awoken something inside him.

“So?” Mark begins to feel the worm of jealousy squirming in his guts as he imagines Darius' hands roaming Tara’s body, his lips pressing against hers, hot and urgent, an image practically etched in his mind since the morning when he saw that goddamned picture of them looking like lovebirds on the news. “Nothing?” He has no other choice but to pretend to be ok, so he lets out a sigh, easing his chest from that emotional hell.

“Nothing” Tara says, shaking her head from side to side. “I’m offended you even ask.”

“You are a beautiful woman, Tara” Mark ignores her weak attempt to hide the smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Men hit on you all the time and that Darius is shamelessly obvious about want-“

“I know how to say no, Mark” Tara says seriously.

“Oh, so he did try to hit on you” Mark insists predictably, causing Tara to chuckle. “I knew he did. I mean, of course he would, you got all dressed up and looked so fine. He would’ve been stupid if he didn’t”

“Mark, seriously nothing happened” Tara interrupts, her voice a mixture of amusement and weariness. “He was just trying to be helpful” She speaks as though she is trying to explain a hypersensitive 4 year-old that 1 plus 1 equals 2, but Mark does nothing but to repeat her last word with a questioning eyebrow. It makes Tara aware of all the explaining left to do, but also gives her the urge of kissing away the furrow of his brows. “Listen” Tara swifts on the bed to reposition herself “I drank too much and he was just trying to keep me safe.” Tara admits, looking everywhere but at his face.

“What?” Mark’s voice suddenly goes harsh and Tara turns to find an unexpectedly tense-looking man staring at her. “Are you sure he didn’t try anything weird-?”

“No, he didn’t.” Tara places a hand on Mark’s thigh reassuringly, but can’t deny the odious thrill his protective side makes her feel. “Trust me, Mark. Enzo or Adela would’ve already killed him if he had”

“Ok” Mark’s face relaxes and he goes back to looking at Tara with the same smug grin from before and eyes alight with mischief “So?”

“So what?” Tara rolls eyes “What now?”

“So why did you reject him? Because I’m not gonna believe he didn’t ask you out” Mark speaks naturally, as though he had just formulated a question about something like the time or the weather. “As far as I know all your friends fawn over him and Jane keeps reminding me that he is one of the most eligible bachelors of... your world” He adds that last bit hesitant.

Tara makes a mental note to scold her friend later “He’s just not my type”

Mark huffs “Tall, blonde, green eyes and handsome is not your type?” He asks incredulously.

“Why are you being so annoying, Mark?” Tara moves until she’s leaning her back against the pillows and crosses her arms over her chest. “What do you want to hear? That I got drunk because I missed you and I already made out with most of Enzo’s friends at previous parties so I knew, as a matter of fact, I wasn’t going to get over you going out with someone else and acting like some immature teenager? Is that what you want to hear?”  Tara snaps, but surprisingly, her voice is warped and tiny, twisted beyond recognition.

For a second Tara holds her breath expecting Mark to snap back at her. She watches his body stiffen, his face tense up, his eyes looking away from her. Then silence overcomes the room and she mentally smacks herself for every single decision she’s made that day.

“Hey” Mark pushes Tara out of her self-chastisement moment offering a hand a pulling her closer. “I’m sorry. I was just joking” he says, arms wrapping around her tightly “I didn’t realize what you went through.” Tara opens her mouth to say something, but Mark shakes his head and goes on. “That picture on the news… oh, God, T. It’s been driving me insane. I never knew how scared of losing you I was until this morning and I don’t want to feel like this ever again-“ Tara’s hand on his chin, silences Mark and when he looks at her, he’s surprised to find Tara smirking at him.

“Shut up. You have nothing to worry about” she pretends to pick inexistent pieces of fuzz from his jacket. “You know why?” Mark only shakes his head, making Tara scoff at him “Because you are the only person I’ve ever loved.” She says simply. “And I only have eyes for you”

"Hmm" Mark stares at her thoughtfully, almost as though he has been left at a loss for words, but between the smile on his face and the greedy way his hands clutch around her waist, Tara knows he has plenty of words to say. “You know what I really think?" He asks.

"No, but I bet you're going to tell me"

"I think maybe you’ve figured out no one can top me" It is impossible for Mark not to burst into laughter right after pronouncing such cringe-worthy words, his cheeks going a light hue of pink.

“Shut up” Although the muscles of her leg refuse to kick him to shut him up, Tara pushes him slightly.

“I’m kidding” He smooths down Tara’s hair, “But here’s a fact” He looks at her adoringly, clutching onto her with force “I love you, Tara Lee.”

“I love you too” Tara places a hand around his neck “Only you, Markie”

The two exchange a moment as they look into each other’s eyes, none of them daring to move, afraid to ruin the perfect harmony they’ve fallen into. Until Mark decides to break the silence, looking extra worried.

“Did we just miss the perfect timing to kiss?” He asks, dipping his head down to murmur into Tara’s ear.

“I think so” Tara is moving to press her lips against Mark’s when the door flies open.

“Absolutely not under this roof” Tyler barks, eyes throwing daggers at her sister’s boyfriend. “What does make you think I will let you kiss my sister right after you made her cry?”

Mark pulls away from Tara’s arms with such urgency that he nearly falls off the bed. She could’ve found it funny if she wasn’t so busy glaring at her brother.

“Were you listening to our conversation?” Tara forces a laugh, free of any true amusement.  “Why are you acting like some creep?”

“Creep? I’m just protecting my little sister from-“ Tyler splutters, catching the way Tara is looking at him. “From some hormonal guy trying to take advantage of her”

“Just get out!” Tara reaches under her pillow for her wand and points it directly at her brother. There’s not even an ounce of hesitation in her eyes “I swear Tyler Lee…”

==============

“I’m sorry my brother is such a jerk” Tara says minutes later, apology evident on her face as she snuggles her head on Mark’s chest. They’re currently cuddling on his king-sized bed, surrounded by dozens of ridiculous pillows Mark has accumulated over the years. The Sound of Magic is playing on his state-of-the-art movie system; an unnecessary waste of money, as Jane had described it since he barely spent time in London, but one of the very few things Mark never hesitated to splurge on. After all, Tara liked watching movies and he enjoyed cuddling her on any normal day.

“You don’t have to apologize for that. He was actually kinda sweet earlier when he threatened to turn me into a toad if I didn’t go there and apologized to you” Tara gaps at that, looking at him with through slit eyes, so Mark is quick to add “which I was going to do anyway without angry brother involved. Well, Jae was already angry and involved, but you know what I mean...” He corrects himself, rambling about his older brother and patting Tara’s shoulder.

Both of them laugh at that, but then Mark sits up slightly and looks down at Tara.

“Speaking of what, Jason told me to look at the last picture in the album, but I forgot to. What’s so important about it?” Marks inquires, an eyebrow going up.

Tara’s eyes widen “You didn’t watch it yet?”

Mark shakes his head a “no”.

“You have to” She rolls eyes at him, moving to pause the movie just before Julie Andrews teaches the Von Trapp children how to “Do Re Mi”. “Now” She orders, pushing Mark off the bed.

Mark groans, but he ultimately gets up and crosses the room. Heis wearing plaid pajama bottoms, a white t-shirt, and rounded glasses.  He looks so soft, Tara wonders how she ever believed, even for a second, that he could do anything that hurt her.

“I can’t believe you didn’t see the picture” Tara clicks her tongue when he picks the photo album from the bookshelf. “I thought you went to see me after recalling the good old times”

Mark says nothing, he only shifts the pages as Tara comes behind him and wraps her arms around his chest, tiptoeing to rest her chin on his shoulder. When he reaches the end of the album, he finds himself laughing shakily and blinking rapidly.

“Yo, where did you find this?” He turns to see Tara smiling brightly. “I thought your mother- wow, T. I can’t believe-“ Mark rambles barely making sense. He can’t believe Tara had recovered the first-ever photo they had taken together. Particularly because they had been convinced Tara’s mother had gotten rid of it when she attempted to erase all of Tara’s childhood memories. “I-” Mark’s fingers run over the photo, memories of that day suddenly surfacing in his mind. The picture had been taken on a day trip to the local zoo when they were barely four. Tara is sitting on a bench kicking her legs in the air, dressed in a tomboyish outfit that contrasts with the girly bag hanging from her shoulder. At her left, Mark is holding her hand, standing next to a monkey cage. Under the picture, in neat capital letters in pink ink, Tara had written: “Forever yours”.

“Forever yours” Mark recalls those words. They were part of the confession he’d made on their first trip to the beach together. It was the summer before he moved to Seoul and the first time he saw Tara in 6 months. They had carved a huge heart into the sand and decorated it with shells and pebbles, embossing their initials in the center and promising to love each other for eternity.

Tara says nothing. She waits for Mark to make a move and predictably, seconds later he places his hand on each side of Tara’s arms, rubbing small circles. “I am forever yours” In normal circumstances, Tara would be ready to clown the cheesiness of his words, but she only giggles, wraps her arms around his waist and lets Mark press his lips against her own.

It’s like coming home.

***

[imagine-loki]

Runaways

TITLE: Runaways CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter 6 AUTHOR: SassyShoulderAngel319 ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine around the turn of the twentieth century, Loki gets sick of being a Prince of Asgard for a while and runs away to New York City, where he falls in with a ragtag group of newsies, including you… RATING: PG/K+ NOTES/WARNINGS: This has been a LONG time coming. Back when I was submitting this consistently my laptop broke and then stuff like college happened and it fell through the cracks. But I’m back now and I’m going to try to finish this! No warnings I don’t think, not even name-calling. PREVIOUS CHAPTERS: P, Ch1, Ch2, Ch3, Ch4, Ch 5

^^^^^

APARTMENT FIRE EVACUATES HUNDREDS! The headline, at least, was more interesting to the crowds than the day before’s.

No-No sold her papers faster than Loki did again, but not by much. They were in Fitz’s spot, which was, indeed, a little slower. Still, her last paper was gone five minutes before Loki’s was. She gave him a smug smirk when she was done and then leaned against a building with her arms folded across her ribs until he was finished.

The sun was dipping low. “We should go grab the evening edition,” she advised, “but only like thirty each. No way we’re gonna sell fifty or even a hundred. Not gonna happen. Not here. Not even with you and me.”

“Excuse me?” a lady asked Loki, who turned around. “Where’s the little boy who usually sells the newspapers around this area?”

No-No skirted around Loki to stand in front. “He was havin’ a rough time sellin’ ‘round here so I—well, we—traded him places for a couple o’ days till he gets his confidence back. My spot tends to get more customers,” she explained. The lady was dressed nicely. A string of pearls around her neck, a lush violet skirt with a matching blazer, feathered hat, and white tights. Her skin was pale with some makeup on it, including pinkish-purple paint on her lips.

She contrasted so sharply with No-No that for a moment Loki was reminded how dirty and rough No-No was.

He blinked but didn’t say anything.

The lady, who was probably in her late thirties, nodded. “I see. I just usually buy a paper from him to give to my husband.”

“Well ma’am, evenin’ pape’ll be out soon but we’s outta the day pape. If ya wanna head over closer to The World’s gates, that’s where Fitz is. By the time ya get there he’ll have the evenin’ edition, I bet,” No-No said, as polite as she could with her rough manners.

The lady nodded her head. “Alright. Thank you.”

“If ya don’t know where The World is, we’re actually headin’ there right now to pick up the evenin’ pape.”

“I’m alright. Thank you. My husband won’t die if he doesn’t get the paper tonight.”

“Well if you sees some other newsie who’s already got the evenin’ edition or a copy of the mornin’ pape, you’d certainly make their day by pickin’ up a copy,” No-No commented, tipping her cap to the lady. “Have a nice evenin’ ma’am. Little Fitz’ll be back here in a couple days.”

“Have a nice evening,” the lady replied, sounding a bit eager to leave before edging around Loki and No-No and vanishing into the deepening afternoon.

Loki and No-No shrugged at each other before heading back to The New York World’s gates for the evening edition. Loki walked behind No-No since she was more familiar with the streets and didn’t seem to want to walk directly next to him. The bun in her hair made a goose-egg in her cap, wisps of hair that had escaped hanging against her neck.

The sunlight shone in Loki’s eyes as they rounded a corner—and he caught sight of two pinpricks of shadows, one in the center of each of No-No’s earlobes. Scar tissue built up around holes.

She had pierced ears.

Not something he would have pegged on her.

Then again, he remembered what she and Tony had mentioned about her past: she was from the west and her parents had died. Her parents were probably better-off than she was all by herself. She’d probably pierced her ears when she was younger and her parents were still alive.

Loki coughed as they walked past a haze of smog and blinked when they made it through. No-No scoffed at how gross the smoke was but didn’t make any comments about it. “So, uh,” Loki began. “You were being pretty nice, giving up some business to another newsie by recommending that lady pick up a paper somewhere else.”

No-No shrugged. “Well, gotta sell where we can, and I didn’t have nothin’ to sell, so might as well give another newsie a chance at gettin’ an extra penny,” she remarked over her shoulder. “‘Sides, we made some good money today. Better th’n Fitz woulda done ‘ere.”

When they made it to The World’s gates, the little curly-haired Fitz was just tucking a small stack of evening editions into his canvas bag.

“Heya Fitzie,” No-No greeted, ruffling his hair. “How’d ya do t’day?”

The kid lit up like a shooting star. “Great! I got a dollar from a man in a suit who was in too much of a hurry to wait for me to count his change so he just let me keep it! A whole extra dollar!”

Loki’s heart broke as No-No laughed and encouraged the kid, saying he was doing great. These kids had so little. No one except each other knew they existed. If one newsie vanished, no one in the rest of the city would even notice. They had nothing but each other and a couple coins each. He wished he could give them some of the excess wealth of Asgard. They might actually do something useful with it—like get warm clothes and a decent cleanup.

Loki and No-No picked up their evening editions—TROLLEY CRASH IN MANHATTAN, NO DEATHS—and headed back out to the city.

“So what happens if we don’t sell all of these anyway?” Loki asked.

No-No snorted. “Well nows the companies buy ‘em back full price, but had you come two months ago and didn’t sell everything ya woulda just ate the cost yourself,” she replied.

“What happened in between?”

“‘Bout a month ago there was a strike o’ newsies against The World and The Journal after a price dispute when the war ended. Newsies for da two refused to sell papes until it was settled. Then Pulitzer and Hearst agreed to eat our losses. So things ain’t great but they ain’t terrible neither.”

Loki clenched his jaw. Why did he talk to her when her grammar made him want to rip his cochleae out?

The rest of the evening was rather uneventful. Just selling more newspapers to people on their way home from work. The trolley crash news from earlier in the day got people interested, even if the “no deaths” was a little bland. No-No grunted that it wasn’t a bad headline but crazy ones sold a good deal better.

Once they were done, they got some dinner and went back to the boardinghouse. They were the first ones back.

No-No went to take her shoes off upstairs and didn’t return downstairs to the boys’ area for a good fifteen minutes. When she did, she was barefoot with her hair hanging loose. She didn’t say a single word to Loki, just crossed into the washroom and shut the door.

When she reemerged another fifteen minutes later, her hair was wringing wet but clean and brushed out. The twine she’d taken from her newspaper bundle the day before was wrapped around her right wrist. She sighed and plopped onto Loki’s bunk while he was drawing his view out the window. “I live for days I get back earlier than the others and actually get a chance to wash my hair out,” she said plainly, peering over his shoulder but trying not to.

“You can watch if you want,” Loki informed her, noticing. “My brother always did when we were younger so I’m used to it.”

No-No brushed her soaked hair behind her ear and watched him sketch the New York skyline outside the window. “Well, usually peoples don’ like no one spyin’ on them drawin’. Thought I was bein’ polite.”

“You were, don’t worry. But if you want to watch, I don’t mind.”

The peace only lasted a few more moments before three other newsies burst in at top speed, hooting and hollering, calling for No-No.

“What is it?” she asked, standing up, nearly bonking her head on the bunk over Loki’s.

“Rogers ‘n Barnes sent a kid over from Brooklyn. Says they wants to have a word with you,” Bruce explained, out of breath. No-No bit her lip, a worry line appearing between her eyebrows. She peeled a flake of dry skin off her lip with her teeth and licked at the blood it left behind.

“Did they’s say why?” she pressed.

“Nope,” Tony replied. “Kid’s outside if ya wanna go tonight. Said he’d come back in da mornin’ too if ya don’t.”

No-No rubbed the back of her neck. “Well, I ain’t goin’ alone with no messenger. Who wants to go ta Brooklyn with me?”

Everyone in the room looked away except Loki, who didn’t understand why everyone balked.

No-No rolled her eyes. “Ah c’mon fellas. It’s Brooklyn. Rogers and Barnes’ turf. They ain’t gonna hurt us,” she complained. Still no one met her gaze except Loki, whose forehead was wrinkled in confusion. Tony had mentioned that Rogers and Barnes—whoever they were—taught No-No how to sell newspapers. Why did everyone seem scared?

“We knows they ain’t gonna hurt us,” Rhodey said. “They’s just… really scary. An’ big.”

No-No scoffed and set her hands on her hips. “Fine. I’ll head out for Brooklyn tomorrow mornin’ and if anyone’s brave enough to come with me then, well, ya gots tonight to whip yourself up for it,” she decided, turning on her heel and heading for the stairs to go talk to the messenger.

Loki looked back down at his drawing. He closed his sketchbook and slipped it back in his pocket. 

The drawing was nowhere near finished but the city wasn’t going anywhere. 

And he wasn’t either.

[sdog1blog]

Susan

Danny had left a message with my roommate that he had the guitar and would have it at the shop. The guitar, a Gibson J45 was a model that I'd been chasing, so I was interested, that he believed it was from the 1940's piqued my interest.

Susan had spent the night with me and I asked if she wanted to join me, warning her that Danny worked in a porn shop. She shrugged indicating that was not a big deal, but she wanted to stop at the house she was crashing at to shower and change clothes. So off we went.

I waited in the van, while Susan took care of her hygiene. This was Minneapolis in July of 1980 and the house was a crash pad for left over hippies and misfits that were what was left of the 60's counterculture. I preferred to keep my distance.

Waiting, gave me a chance to ruminate on Susan. We had met a month before, she had just landed in town or maybe it was returned to town after having lived in California for a couple years. She had only been here a few days when we met and I'll admit I was smitten. She may have been the only woman who sent a shudder through my body when I touched her. I had it bad, but there was something about her that bothered me.

To start with, she was pretty vague about where she was from, saying only it was New Jersey and Delaware, why she originally came to Minneapolis and what she did in California. When I say vague, I mean at times she was even evasive.

I looked up to see Susan coming down the walk, I licked my lips in appreciation. She had fixed her reddish-blond hair in the usual pixie bob, a colorful halter top over cutoff jeans that showed just an inch of her ass cheeks all supported by those lovely, long legs on platform sandals. She'd give the regulars at the porn shop an image to masturbate to in the video booths. And looking back, I bet she knew it.

The porn shop Danny worked at was at 5th and Hennepin on the street level of the Lumber Exchange building, a Victorian era survivor. I don't remember who owned the porn shop, it was probably Ferris Alexander, who owned several similar business in the Twin Cities. It was across the street from a couple of the cities oldest gay bars, so the clientele tended to be gay, often seeking anonymous sex.

Before leaving my house, I called my local Gibson guitar expert, who gave me information on what to look for on vintage J45's and importantly, what would be the rough range for the serial numbers. Danny's guitar played well and sounded great, but it wasn't vintage, it was probably 10 years old. It was beat up, lots of pick scratches and the odd ding in the wood, but no real damage, just a well used instrument.

Given that Danny was the seller, it didn't surprise me that the goods, didn't fit the description. Danny reminded me of a friend of my father’s, Chuck. Chuck like Danny were perpetrators of the small con, they never lied, but they'd lead you down a path and like Chuck, Danny always had something interesting to sell.

When we were kids, if one of us wanted something, a TV, a stereo or as teens, something for our cars, Dad would say, he'd talk to Chuck. Chuck being one of those guys who sold merchandise out the trunk of his car, the car always being a several years old Cadillac. The stuff was stolen of course, but you didn't ask questions. Once when I was fresh mouthed teen, my mother told dad that she needed a new refrigerator, he offered his Chuck line, to which I snarkly replied, “Yeah he probably got one in his trunk”. The old man had been drinking and in a bad mood, so it shouldn't have been a surprise when he cuffed me with the back of his hand across my face, the phony ruby ring he wore, opening a crescent shape gash in my cheek. A scar that a surprising number of girls have found sexy. Go figure.

Both Danny and I are from north of Boston and when we met, we both engaged in the game of what city. I guessed that he was from Medford or Malden so I asked him to say Medford, it came out as Mefford, I smiled. It took him a bit longer to figure me out as I has spent the years since high school suppressing my accent. But given a few beers the dese, dems and doses of mill city Merrimack Valley came pouring out. Yeah, Lawrence, but more specifically identifying South Lawrence in a futile attempt to distinguish my origins from the rest of that decrepit place. But Danny could see through that.

While I wandered to Minneapolis after college in search of a fertile music scene away from my family, Danny came earlier when his mother remarried and moved the family to her husband's home in Worthington. To get to Worthington, you go out to Bum F@ck Egypt and take a right. Danny was 15 then and bolted to the Twin Cities right after high school.

Danny's reaction to Susan coming through the door was predictable, he straightened up, wiped the bread crumbs from his chin, brushed off his clothes and ran his fingers through his hair, all in an attempt for him to look presentable. While I looked over the guitar he flirted with Susan, playing Johnny the Dunce and asking her lots of questions, often repeating the same ones, all punctuated with him saying, "we've met before, haven't we" and "where do I know you from?"

After playing the guitar for about 15 minutes, I told Danny, that it was a nice instrument, but I needed to think about it. But I had already decided not to get it.

Out on the sidewalk, I commented to Susan, that it seemed that she and Danny had hit off. She allowed he was kind of cute and a pest. That made me laugh and I followed up with, "Well do you know him from somewhere?" Her denial wasn't completely convincing, just before the no was to leave her lips, her eyes, that were meeting mine, darted away.

Danny called a day or so later, he had another buyer, but wanted give me last dibs, i.e., he wanted to see if I would pay more. Before we hung up, he started, "Ya know, but the way. That chick, the one you were with." "Susan?" I interjected. "Ya her" he replied, "I know'd, I know'd her from some place." I didn't respond and let him continue. "After youse left, I browsed through a few magazines and there she was in the centerfold of Ass Magic, taking a big old dick up the shit pipe." "How can you be sure that the girl in magazine was her?" I asked. He came back with "Oh it's her. I bet she has a small tatoo, maybe a star, about the size of a quarter near her pussy, just to left of her pubes. She also likes suckin cock."

Susan did have a small tattoo on her pelvis, though it was the symbol for anarchy not a star. She did like giving blowjobs, when we first slept together she played with the tip of my cock with her tongue occasionally, sliding down my dick. For a moment she stopped and looked at me mischievously and said, "I have no gag reflex," then consumed me. She swallowed the jizz as well. But anal, no, every time I tried the backdoor, she'd wave me off.

I filed Danny's report in my mind along with her surprise announcement a couple of weeks earlier that she was going to take a few shifts at Augie's to supplement the secretarial work she took from a temp agency. There was more to my lovely friend than met the eye.

In those days I made my living as a musical Paladin, Have Guitar, Will Travel so to speak. Plus banjo, fiddle, bass, mandolin, piano, pretty much if it had strings, I played it. Rock, jazz, blues, country, bluegrass, it didn't matter. What was the progression, which key and hum me a few bars for the melody and I was ready.

Most players I knew formed a band and headed out on the road. Been there, done that and hated it. So I eked out a living sitting in with bands who were missing a player, some solo acoustic work on the folk circuit and serving as a band member for faded rock and country acts who no longer could afford to take a group on the road. Add to that, a bit of session work, mostly commercial work tied to TV and radio advertising and I made a living. After a while I stopped worrying about where the next dollar would come from and just knew that it would come. I was also pretty smug that I'd manage to scrape together enough money to put a down payment on a little house on the wrong side of the tracks in So. Minneapolis, something my friends couldn't dream about.

The following Tuesday, I sat in with a blues band at the Cabooze. Kate, who headlined the band was touted in the local music press as someone who should be the next Janis Joplin. It, if, she only got a chance. Well there were reasons Kate wouldn't go pass being a regional name, but it was impolite to discuss them. Anyway that week she was in tough position as she was missing 2 band members and had firm gigs in the next fourteen days.

Tommy, her lead guitarist, had turned himself into detox and would be spending the next two or three weeks at Hazelden, trying to get straight. Tom was a good guy and while it took about five or so attempts, he finally conquered his demons and was sober for nearly twenty years before he was killed riding home from work on his bicycle by a drunk driver. Cal, her drummer was sitting in the county jail unable to make bail after being arraigned for raping a fifteen year old, he went away for a long time. For me, I had eight paydays coming and a girlfriend with whom I was love struck. Life was good.

Before the show, a friend, Kevin, came by to show me a guitar he just bought, it was the J45 and it was of 1940's vintage he raved. Kev was a bit naive, I chose not to break his bubble. Later when Danny showed up, I confronted him about the lie and he shrugged saying, "people will believe what they want to believe," looked hard at me and walked away.

We started at 9, the crowd was small, but by the end of the set, respectable for a Tuesday and there was energy in the house, Kate could rock. At sets end, the substitute drummer and I headed for the bar, while the rest of the band went off chasing white lines.

Before my beer arrived, Susan came out of the crowd followed by a friend, who's name I didn't catch. I knew she wouldn't be staying as this was a dancing night and I'd pick her up at close. I and every other guy watched her leave, it was those legs and the tight, slut length mini dress, we were entranced. After they left, a guy who drives a cab, mentioned that the other woman looked an awful lot like a hooker that he'd driven around the previous week.

Augie's is also on 5th and Hennepin, across from the Lumber exchange building. Hennepin was a one-way then, heading toward the river with lane for buses and cabs going in the other direction

I came down 5th and was caught at the light. She was waiting in front of the club, the Augie's bouncers standing out front chatting with the bouncers from the Brass Rail. She saw me flash the headlights and walked the 50 or so feet to the corner. She got in, we kissed and I asked her where she wanted to go. "I'm hungry," was her response. "Mama's OK," I asked and she nodded affirmatively.

Breakfast at Mama's was on Riverside, just off Cedar on the West Bank. It opened at midnight, on the weekends, after the bars closed, the line would stretch around the building, But on a Wednesday morning getting a table was easy.

We got home around 2:30 and she went right to bed and by the time I went to join her, she was sleeping like a baby. "So much for a bit of nooky," I thought. Not really tired, I poured a glass of brandy, rolled a joint and went out on the porch. Being alone, in the dark started me thinking, about her of course. What I knew and the new info, that she worked in porn. Also there were other photo shoots and movies in which she appeared, and the possible hooker friend. That last snippet of information was making me paranoid. The coming weekend, I'd be playing with Kate's band in the far northwest suburbs, while Susan would be dancing at Augie's on Thursday and Friday, and then on Saturday working a private party with the suspected hooker.

A couple of years earlier, I'd sworn off stripper girlfriends due to the drama they were bringing into my life. Probably because I had a defective selection procedure, the dancers I dated were emotional toxic waste dumps. Susan wasn't that, but I suspected something that would have been worse, that she was emotionally hardened.

The previous week, I was to meet her at the end of her shift at Augie's after I finished playing a recording session at a nearby studio. The session had gone sideways, when one member of the duo what we were backing showed up too stoned to work. So I went by the club a couple of hours early.

Augie's opened in the mid 40's as a caberet and night club, at some point strippers were added, then the live music faded away and the strippers were what was left. In the early 80's the interior seemed quite like it must have been in the dives hey day. As you came in to the right, was the bar and in the back corner a stage that connected to the back bar and the main bar allowing the dancers to walk up the bar if they chose. In the center, there were tables, but it was once a dance floor and to the left small tables were arranged on risers, each row a bit higher than the one in front.

I entered as she was finishing her stage set, collecting her money and disappearing into the dressing room. The bar stool, closest the street was empty, so I took it. She came out a few minutes later to work the room, having changed to a sheer nightie and a g-string.

She didn't notice me as I watched her work the room. This was in the days before private rooms for lap dances. Working the room consisted of a few things, table dances, company, sitting with a guy and letting him paw you and convincing the mark to buy a $3 bottle of champagne for $30, for which the dancer received half.

She had told me she had never danced before and I'd believed her. But watching her work that night I began to doubt her. She was simply, to efficient and cold. While most of the girls would look away when groped, Susan could look them straight in the eye and smile as some loser felt her up. She sold a lot of champagne.

I was convincing myself that I should enjoy the ride while it lasted but not to become to invested.

Epilogue

A couple of months later, Susan announced she was going back to LA for a while, but would be back. She was gone about a year, when I got a call from her asking if I could pick her up at the airport and could she stay with me till she found a place of her own.

I'd very recently had begun dating a woman, a nice stable person with a normal professional day job. I asked her if she minded, I won’t say she didn’t but didn’t make a scene. We'd eventually marry and she still puts up with me.

Susan stayed with me for about a week and she was clear she had no interest in rekindling our romance. She had set her sights on marrying a doctor and got a secretarial job at a local hospital to facilitate it. She was successful, a nice guy but it lasted only a few years. After that she began meowing and scratching at my door again.

Mostly, but not entirely could I resist her and then she went off and found another husband, who either ignored her behavior or was willfully blind. I guess they're still together.  Susan drifted in and out of my life for about 20 years till we had another falling out and I decided to say good riddance.

Danny married one of the girls who worked the peep show, moved to the burbs and had a couple of kids. He left the porn shop and took a job selling cars. He was good at it and eventually opened a used car lot of his own. But larceny and Danny ran in tandem and he was busted for title washing and dealing in stolen cars.

While on Covid-19 lock down, I was browsing a vintage porno tube and low and behold came across an orgy scene that featured her. There was no credit, but using the name of the star(s) I found several more. It seemed her specialty was blowjobs, anal and gang bangs. Never could find a stage name, but she showed up in a few dozen clips. Her memory triggered the urge to write this down.

[antikripkean]

100th Post + Martin Shkreli

For the past week or so, I’ve been away drafting a long, multipart recap of my Tumblr experience. I wanted that to be my hundredth post. I would still like to finish and post that eventually, preferably for Post #101, yet for my hundredth post, I’m doing this.

I’m thankful for Martin Shkreli. I know a lot of people will be upset and/or confused by that statement. If you are one of those people, please hear me out and read the rest of this.

I wasn’t always a Martin Shkreli fan. The first time I saw him was on a news article criticizing him for the Daraprim price hike. I thought he was a greedy jerk and scrolled to the next headlines. And guess what? He didn’t seem worth my time. He didn’t stand out to me that much in the midst of everything else on the internet. There were plenty of other things for me to learn about and form opinions on and many other jerks in the news. I generally try not to feel strongly about topics I don’t know much about, and he didn’t seem significant enough to my life and interests for me to take the time to learn more about him.

Then he continued to show up in the news, one controversy after another. I still wouldn’t look much into his story beyond what the website said; I’d been regularly visiting that website for a while (and still do), and Martin Shkreli still didn’t seem that relevant to me. Despite this, I found it unusual that someone who wasn’t an actor, singer, athlete, or politician was making so many headlines. His smug face became one I’d recognize.

As I’ve said previously, my main reason for not being interested in Martin Shkreli was that I hadn’t connected him to my other interests. One of those interests is writing. I’ve been working on a novel and wanted to get better at writing body language, so I thought that perhaps the best way to learn was by observing people. And not just people in anime, which composed the bulk of what I’d watch, but real, actual people. And the character I was writing was a stuck up jerk, so I wanted to watch some stuck up jerks in real life and study their mannerisms. The first jerk who came to mind was Martin Shkreli.

I went to YouTube and searched his name, and to my astonishment, he was livestreaming. Of course, I had to watch him in action. He had tweeted his phone number demanding the haters call him. It was so surreal; I was amazed that someone would do something like that in real life. I stared at my iPad screen as he talked to all sorts of people, often about Daraprim. So many people asked about Daraprim. As the hours ticked by, he went from mocking people to explaining the reasoning behind the price hike to philosophical conversations about a variety of topics. This was not what I expected; he was a complex person. And thus he became interesting to me.

(And for anyone curious the reason for the price hike, please watch this video. Here’s a quick summary for those of you who won’t or would like to know what to expect: Daraprim is for toxoplasmosis, not for cancer, AIDS, or HIV. He gives it away for free or sells it very cheaply to those who wouldn’t have been able to afford it. The drug is dangerous since it causes bone marrow problems and isn’t always effective, so he wants to create profit to develop a safer, better working medication.)

After that night, I learned that the media could get some things very wrong, and there was a lot more to people than their reputations. I discovered that Martin Shkreli livestreamed almost every day and began to watch him regularly. I’d also read his tweets and check the headlines to see what else he might be up to. To my surprise, I had become a fan. I was even watching the stream when his cat, Trashy, finally started to be affectionate towards him. Yet once I became more busy, I went from checking on him nearly every hour to every day, and the frequency eventually dwindled to every week. When I looked him up in January and learned that his Twitter had been deleted, I muttered to myself that I had left him for just a week only to be met with that.

Months passed, and I became interested in other people, including Martin’s friend, Milo Yiannopoulos. I continued to watch Martin’s livestreams along with all the other new content I had discovered. I joined Tumblr and posted pro-Martin content. And throughout the trial, I’d watch Martin’s livestreams. And then on August 4 came the verdict. I was so worried about what would happen to Martin yet relieved he was innocent on the most serious account, and I was confused why he didn’t seem upset at 5/8. While I had a few people in my life aware and supportive of my interest in Martin, they didn’t share my fascination, and thus I had no one to turn to. So I did something new: I joined the YouTube chat.

I don’t think I’ve mentioned this to anyone on here before, but I feel a deep discomfort with both social media and communicating with others. There are many reasons for this, and it’s something I’m currently overcoming (largely thanks to Milo and the events that follow). I worried that people online would either be a waste of social effort and ignore me once I started feeling connected to them or feel so attached to me that I’d feel guilty for not being able to dedicate enough time to communicating with them. I also had little experience with internet socialization and worried about hackers, doxxing, and stalkers. While I was already on Tumblr, I wasn’t that involved at that point, and the thought of joining a chatroom seemed quite ominous.

Another thing was that my primary thoughts about chatrooms stemmed from the anime, Durarara!!. For those of you unfamiliar with it, the show features a mysterious gang known as the Dollars who communicate on a chatroom. The gang started out as an online joke yet ended up being involved with all sorts of conflict, dragging a headless fairy, other gangs, mad scientists, school kids, an assassin, superhumans, internet trolls, and many others into chaotic battles throughout Ikebukuro, a region of Tokyo. The actions of the people on the internet had serious and often dangerous real world consequences. Because of this among other reasons, it took me over a year of watching Martin to join the YouTube chat.

The first time was chaotic. There were so many people saying so many things, and many conversations were going on at once. A lot of people were wishing all sorts of harm on Martin, which he mostly ignored. Yet in the midst of this, a mod noticed my love for anime when I acknowledged a Hetalia reference. It felt great.

I kept coming back, and I came to realize that anti-Martin comments were typically the minority. I’d make a few comments and reply to people here and there, and gradually, I started recognizing people. And they started recognizing me. Even greeting me when I joined the chat. As someone who isn’t very social, it was astonishing that people I had never met would remember me and care enough about me to say hi and ask me how I was doing. We’d have all sorts of conversations from politics to science to medical disorders to anime to food to school, just to name a few. While I had originally watched streams for Martin and had joined the chat to discuss him, this community he created on the internet provided me with social nourishment I really needed. I came to appreciate the other people on the chat as individuals with unique personalities, interests, and lives. I feel as if the people I talked to genuinely cared about me, and I certainly care about them. Martin and the fellow people on the stream gave me a place where I felt welcome.

Joining the chat also lead to me watching Martin more often. Before, I would typically watch him when he was talking to others; now, I began to notice more things about him. While I was aware that he was intelligent, I didn’t know that he spent so much time doing research. He’d often be reading medical journals and examining stocks. And he could type so quickly and was very skilled in Excel. He was also very affectionate towards his cat, Trashy, and would even tilt his camera towards her when she jumped on his lap so we could get a better view. It was also oddly satisfying to watch a millionaire eat Cup Noodles and fried chicken. He would play music for us and gave us an eventual tour of part of his apartment. And he had a Periodic Table shower curtain, making the geeky side of me smile with joy for his love of science.

I also realized that Martin is abnormal in more ways than I realized. Despite being a businessman, he took the time and effort to understand the science behind medicine instead of only concerning himself with profits. And even though he wasn’t a professor, he would spend a lot of time providing us with free tutorials on investing, finance, and chemistry. While he was wealthy, he lived in an apartment and didn’t drive. And as I observed before becoming a fan, he grabbed the nation’s attention without being an athlete, politician, actor, or singer (unless you count him meowing to a Brand New song while cradling a cat and typing away on Excel). He even inspired a musical.

Martin truly cares about helping people and learning; he didn’t have to work so hard to teach us, but he did. And he would strive to provide people with safer, more effective medication even if the general public hated him. He’d make sure people could get their medication after the price hike. I recall him saying on one video that he wouldn’t have done it if even one person would lose access. And he was inspirational to me as well.

Martin showed me that it’s important to keep learning and use my knowledge to help others. I was at a mental state where I felt very unmotivated; I could learn and I could show it, but I felt like I had little purpose. I wanted success yet wondered if it were unattainable and if my efforts would amount to little meaning for those around me. Yet watching Martin reminded me that hard work brings good results, and learning and using knowledge can really help others and touch the lives of so many people. Watching Martin remain motivated despite all the adversity he faced showed me that I should carry on in spite of the struggles I’d face.

I’ve mentioned before how coming to the chat made me feel welcome and accepted. Throughout my life, even though I have friends, I’d feel lonely and detached. I still do from time to time, but joining the chat has reduced this feeling a lot. I haven’t been able to see my real life friends lately, and I have low social motivation; I wanted to make other people happy yet felt little desire to be around people. On the chat, I was able to enjoy all sorts of conversation and get to know so many interesting people. They made me feel appreciated, and I’m glad to have played a role in their lives.

In retrospect, I can say that the chatroom did have some similarities to that of the Dollars. For one thing, it was the internet home of a brilliant dark haired troll who made an impact on society, albeit of a different type. Another thing was how information travelled to so many people, and online behavior and real life eventually intersected in a tragic manner. Yet like the Dollars chatrooms, people of all sorts were brought together. There were chemists and businesspeople, programmers and geneticists, kids in school and people with jobs. There were kind people and smart people. There were trolls and spammers. Regulars and people who would just pop in on occasion. We had amazing mods. And we had our feline friend, Trashy.

Yet most importantly, we had Martin. He brought us all together. Some of us worked for him; others were his friends. Many of us wanted to learn from him. Some just wanted to stare at his face while he played with his hair. Some found his antics entertaining; others liked his nuanced views on society. Some people would come in hating him then realize how wrong people were about him. And a lot of us were like that to some extent. Many of us didn’t start out thinking positively. To all the people making angry and negative comments to my friends and on my posts or anywhere for that manner, we were like you once. We looked at what the media said and believed it. Yet unlike you, we dug deeper. We did our own research, and we learned the truth.

I’ve been getting a lot of replies lately for my other posts, and I’d love to respond eventually. I understand that many of them are insulting to Martin and myself, but I believe all of you deserve the opportunity to learn, and if you criticize Martin, myself, or any of his other supporters, at least do so for the right reasons. It might take a few days before I can get back to some of you since I’m busy finishing my other post and with real life, but I do plan to respond, assuming I haven’t been blocked. I’m willing to have a conversation. If you’ve read this far, thank you.

I miss him. I miss his quick typing and his lessons. I miss when Trashy jumped in his lap and how he’d play with his hair. I miss the chairstreams and the late night philosophical banter which came with them. I miss how the mods cared about our community so much. I miss my notifications popping up saying he’s livestreaming. I miss the kindness we showed each other and the intellectual discussions. And yes, I miss the small talk, too. I miss Martin’s music, Brand New in particular, and the Discord voices in the background. I miss his stretching and his smiles. I miss how we’d wonder why he leaves the chat up when he’s not there. (To let us continue our conversations? Security reasons? Did he just forget to turn off his camera?) I even miss the sycophants and the trolls. I miss the kindness shown to me and being able to be nice to others in return. I miss that Martin would even pay attention to us. Keep coming back and stay long enough, and it was bound to happen.

I’m thankful to Martin, and to the rest of the community he created. I was given inspiration, kindness, and knowledge. Furthermore, Martin helped others as well. He strived to heal and to educate, and he’d entertain us as well. We had a place. We were welcomed.

Stay strong, Martin. Be safe. We love you. ❤️

[bringthestories]

Hi there~ do you think you can maybe do protective Jin/Jimin?

Of course I can love! I’m super excited to get this blog started! OMG

I finished writing Jimin’s scenario and I’m now working on Jin’s but I thought why let you wait for this when it’s already done? SO here you go! (Jin’s will follow soon promise!) I hope this is kind of what you meant by protective?

It’s my first ever fanfiction so it’s probably crap (especially the dialogue) but I still really hope you like it! If not send me another ask and I’ll redo it

Back off 

Jimin x ReaderWords: ~1,400Keywords: Jealous Jimin

Trigger warning: sexual harrassment, violence

Geez, do you ever shut up?! you thought as the lighting assistant intern kept telling you about his oh so important work on set. You didn’t even remember his name, but you had noticed how he kept eying you from across the room during the set up for a v-live show BTS was about to do. 

You were on set because you started seeing Jimin about a month or so ago although you weren’t official yet. Honestly, you hardly had chances to meet and spend some time in private because his schedule was super tight AND you had to keep it secret. This means no cute dates in cafes or holding hands or any public display of affection really. No, this means Jimin sneaking you on sets pretending to be staff so you get to spend at least some time together. Romantic, I know but as much as you were yearning to be public, you knew that it’s best for everyone this way, at least for now. 

And really, it was cute. It was cute how he looked at you when no one else was watching, how he gave you little smiles and accidentally brushed your hand when grabbing something next to you. It was cute how he always tried to have you near, even if you barely interacted. It kept it exciting. Even now, after a month of dating, you still felt the butterflies in your stomach whenever you saw him and you knew he felt the same way by the shy smiles he gave you. You loved those. There was nothing like watching his eyes crinkle up to the point where they’re almost closed whenever you caught him staring and then watching him look away, blushing. You couldn’t deny you were the happiest person on earth whenever you were with him. So what if it was in secret, he made sure you met a lot. 

However, there was one problem with the secrecy. Only one. One big one. It was the fact that no one else knew you were taken. Sure, all the other members knew, their managers knew and probably most of the other BigHit employees knew too since you were in an out of the building a lot, but outside of that circle? You were a… “fish in the sea” so to say.

Like right now. This random stranger had started talking to you the second the show started and he was released from his set-up duties. He jumped at the opportunity to talk to you when you went to grab a drink and he’s been telling you about himself ever since.You sipped your water and let your eyes wander across the room searching for someone to save you, but everyone was busy making sure things ran smoothly. After all, BTS was live! You sighed in defeat and accepted your fate, halfheartedly listening to what the intern was telling you. Soon enough he kept moving closer to you. He evolved to occasionally touching your shoulder and arm making more and more uncomfortable. Looking for an escape plan your eyes fell on Jimin. He was sitting next to his Hyungs supposedly answering questions for the live interview however, he was clearly not focused on that at all. Instead, he was intensely staring at you and the stranger who was leaning in closely. Way too close. Way too touchy. 

If looks could kill the intern would be long gone. The thought of him being this jealous made you smile a little to yourself when the sudden feeling of a hand on your back made you jump out of your thoughts. “Hey Y/N! Are you even listening?” the boy said while his hand moved towards your waist. “Or are you just that shy?” he continued, with a smug smile on his face that made you want to slap him hard. You could see Jimin tensing up even more than before, his knuckles white from fighting the urge to rush over and kick some ass.

“Ah, I’m sorry! I.. uh I got distracted. Come again?” you replied hurriedly, not wanting to cause a scene. You tried to shuffle away but he held on to your waist tightly, leant in even closer and continued to talk. You were sure now that he knew exactly you were not interested- but he didn’t plan on letting you go. A hint of panic came over you when you felt his hand creep downwards.

“So yeah- we all worked really hard on the comeback! I hope ARMY will enjoy our new songs and stream them a lot!” Rap monster was saying to the camera, slowly bringing the v-live stream to an end. “We’re really excited for the promot-”

This is when he was interrupted.

“YAH!” 

With a loud thud, the chair he was sitting on fell over. Jimin had suddenly jumped up and informally yelled at a staff member. The others had noticed him not being focused and had deliberately not asked him to answer any questions in hopes the viewers wouldn’t notice. Now, this.  “WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?!” he yelled as he was rushing past the camera towards his girlfriend. With a little too much force, he pushed the guy who stumbled backwards and fell into the drink table.

After the initial shock moment, the entire room was in a sudden state of uproar. Some people were desperately trying to save the situation and abruptly ending the broadcast while others, including the members, rushed over to the scene and tried to calm the situation down. “SHE’S MY GIRLFRIEND YOU BASTARD!”

Jimin had completely lost it when the guy had moved his hand further down and grabbed your butt. Now you were trying to pull your boyfriend away and with the help of Jungkook somehow managed to drag him to an adjacent room. Now he was pacing up and down trying to calm down and everyone was slowly processing what had happened. You could already imagine all the headlines this would cause.

BTS’ Park Jimin lost it during a live broadcast and pushed a staff member into a table. Oh god.

“I’m sorry Y/N.”Jimin stood in front of you. His face read a messy mixture of emotions. So much had happened so suddenly that it was hard to think of something to say.“When I saw him… You know… He touched you a-and you looked so scared … I don’t know … I couldn’t stop myself!”You could see the frustration building up in him again. “I know I should’ve kept my composure! I caused such a scene- how am I supposed to save this. I’m so sorry Y/N.”He looked down, obviously still very upset about what had happened.“No… thank you Jimin.” He looked at you in surprise and you gave him a soft smile. “I mean I don’t know what will happen next but I’m sure we’ll work it out!” you tried to reassure him. “I know we haven’t… said this before…” you continued. “but… I love you, Park Jimin, I really do. That’s why I know we’ll work this out! I promise it’ll be okay.”You could see the tension suddenly leaving his body as he stared at you for a few seconds before replying. “I love you too Y/N.”You fell into a hug and stayed like that for a bit until people started coming in looking for him.He pulled away and smiled at you. “I think it’s time people know you’re mine and mine only.”

You knew things would get a bit messy for a while now, but secretly you were happy that your secret was not so secret anymore.

[whitecrossgirl]

Meet The Parents

AN: Thank you all so much for the feedback and support you’ve all given me for my Sherlolly stories, especially ‘Baby’s First Words’, seriously, words do not describe how wonderful you all are and how supportive you’ve been. I hope you enjoy this one.

Ever since the night Sherlock returned from Sherringford; the night after The Phone Call, the night when they had sat up all night talking about everything that had happened to Eurus, everything that happened on Sherringford and everything that would happen now; things had changed. Whether they had changed for the better, Molly wasn’t sure. Things seemed to be in that uncertain sense of calm that came after a storm. When everything seemed to be OK but had the tendency to get even worse than they were before.

Basically, Sherlock knew he was due to be a father in nine months but was yet to do a runner. Which seemed ominously positive. He had made it clear that whatever happened, he would support Molly and their child which Molly supposed in Sherlock-Speak meant he would be around forever. However Molly didn’t want to hear Sherlock-Speak for once. She wanted Sherlock to be honest and sincere, the same way he had been during their Phone Call. When he had said it a second time. Sherlock had said it many more times but doubt still lingered in Molly’s mind. She knew it was ridiculous and many would blame hormones but she just needed to know this was real.

Sherlock had been staying at John’s whilst 221B was being repaired and rebuilt, however in the two weeks since Sherringford, he had stayed at Molly’s a total of eight times. Five of the night he hadn’t stayed was because Molly had been on the night shift; two were because he had a case and one was because Rosie was sick and demanding he stay with her. Molly knew he would be coming tonight; today was the day his parents were being taken to Sherringford to see Eurus for the first time in over twenty years. It would be a difficult day for all of the Holmes family. Sherlock and Mycroft included. To have their family reunited in such difficult circum-

“Not again,” Molly muttered as her train of thought was derailed by another horrible wave of nausea. Morning sickness her ass; she was feeling sick almost all the time and vomited at least three times a day, almost like clockwork. It was a miracle that nobody at work seemed to notice her bouncing between the morgue and bathroom, then again, she rarely got visitors to the morgue. Molly flushed the toilet and sat back against the tiled wall, resting her hand on her stomach.

“You’re definitely your father’s child.” Molly said as she kept her hand on her stomach. It was still flat, unsurprising, given that she was only six weeks pregnant.  By six weeks the baby (she had tried to think of it as a foetus but baby seemed right) would have all their major organs in the right place and its little heart was the size of a poppy seed. It was incredible how something so small had the power to change so much. Her whole world had already been turned upside down and this was just the beginning.

When she felt ready to stand, Molly stood up, washed her hands and went to get a drink. Caffeine was already out of her diet and she was trying her best to drink the lemon tea without getting sick again. She had just settled on the sofa with her tea when the doorbell went, causing her to swear a violent, bloody oath. She had just gotten comfortable for the first time that day and someone, a soon to be very dead someone, decided to ruin it. As Molly opened the door, ready to unleash her unadulterated rage, she froze at the sight of Sherlock standing outside her door, along with Mycroft and an older couple she had never seen before but knew at once.

Sherlock’s parents. Molly thought to herself as she stepped back. “Sherlock, Mycroft, what are you doing here?”

“I needed to see you.” Sherlock replied and glanced at his family. “And I wanted you all to meet.”

“Come in,” Molly said politely, stepping aside to let the Holmes family in. Once the door was shut, Molly looked at Sherlock with raised eyebrows, waiting to be introduced properly.

“Molly, I want you to meet my parents, Violet and Siger Holmes. Mum, Dad, this is Molly. Molly Hooper.” Sherlock said, feeling more awkward than he thought he would at introducing Molly to his parents.

“It’s nice to meet you.” Molly said as Violet Holmes smiled at her.

“And you, Sherlock’s told us so much about you. So many of his stories involved ‘Molly helped with this’ or ‘Molly helped crack the case’ or ‘I spent time with Molly’. I was beginning to worry that we would never meet you.” Violet said as she gave Molly a hug. Molly hugged her back and sent Sherlock a playful look at the embarrassed expression on his face. Behind Sherlock, Mycroft was beginning to regain the smug expression he had lost over the past few weeks.

“Then again. Will has always been shy when it came to girls. I always told you he would grow out of it eventually.” Siger Holmes joked as he too hugged Molly. As she hugged him, Molly suddenly felt reminded of her own father. Both Sherlock’s father and her own had the same gentle playfulness, they wore a similar aftershave and wore the same sort of warm jumpers. For a moment, it felt like she was being hugged by her father again. He had always wanted grandchildren… Molly knew her dad would have been a wonderful Grandpa, spoiling his grandchildren rotten, playing games with them, sneaking them sweets after Molly told him not to, sitting together to watch movies on the couch on a Sunday. All the things she experienced in her own childhood and her own children never would…

The tears had come before Molly had realised and the mood in the room changed suddenly. Both Violet and Siger looked at Molly concerned, Mycroft looked puzzled as he tried to work out what about their father had reduced Molly to tears. Sherlock however was first to realise what was going on and moved to put his arms around Molly.

“Don’t worry Dad, it was nothing you did. Molly has just remembered that while you will be able to be a grandfather to our baby in eight months’ time, her own father is not here to do the same.” Sherlock explained bluntly and the mood changed in the room once again. Had she been looking, Molly would have laughed at the sudden expression changes on the Holmes’ family’s faces. Violet and Siger looked both shocked and delighted at the bombshell. Mycroft looked completely shell-shocked.

“What?!” Mycroft was the first to regain the power of speech. Violet and Siger were looking at Molly again, smiles beginning to cross their faces.

“I’m pregnant.” Molly confirmed as she jabbed Sherlock’s shoulder. “And that was. Not. Good.”

“They needed to know why you were crying and why not tell my parents now? You’re already six weeks pregnant and we found out two weeks ago. Why wait?” Sherlock asked as Molly shook her head. She had told him over and over again that she wanted to wait until her twelve week scan, when she had proof that everything was OK before she told anyone that she was pregnant. That included family and friends. Then again, if he was willing to tell his parents about her and her pregnancy, then maybe Sherlock did mean it when he said he would stay with her.

“Two weeks. You knew she was pregnant when we were on Sherringford?” Mycroft asked dumbfounded, Sherlock had risked Molly’s life and the life of their child by being reluctant to tell her that he loved her? How could he do something so reckless? So dangerous?

“Oh keep up Mycroft. I found out afterwards obviously, otherwise the first thing I would have done was told Molly that I loved her. Not even Eurus would have been safe had I known Molly was pregnant.” Sherlock retorted as he kissed Molly’s forehead.

“I found out literally moments before the call.” Molly added, knowing by the understanding looks on Violet and Siger’s faces that Sherlock and Mycroft had told them everything, including the phone call and false threat against Molly’s life.

“How do you feel now?” Violet asked as they moved to the sofas and Molly sat beside Sherlock, holding his hand tightly.

“Better. We have a lot to work out but Sherlock’s agreed to support me and the baby, whatever happens.” Molly replied. “However it has been two weeks and he hasn’t tried to fake his death again, so I’m taking it as a good sign.”

“Oh he won’t. Sherlock’s always loved children, especially babies. We’ve gotten all his pictures of little Rosie Watson.” Siger reassured Molly. He knew his son had a far softer side than he liked to admit and the idea of his own child would allow Sherlock to finally explore that softer side.

“Siger was the same, always with the camera taking pictures of the boys. We even still have some pictures of Eurus that survived the fire. Everything had to be captured in photographs or on video.” Violet added.

“He’ll probably livestream or livetweet the birth.” Mycroft added, he could already imagine the hashtags, the Twitter trends, the headlines. Unless, of course a helpful international crisis intervened. #ConsultingMidwife, #5cenimemtresdilated, #justgotkickedoutofthedeliveryroom #oops

“Don’t even think about it.” Molly warned Sherlock who looked amused by the idea. “That phone will be turned off the moment we arrive at the hospital. And yes, I will give birth in hospital because you will not ignore any calls or texts in the last month of this pregnancy otherwise I will never let you near a crime scene ever again.”

Sherlock blinked at Molly as Mycroft slyly took a picture for future blackmail reference. This had to be the infamous ‘buffering face’ as John had dubbed it. Sherlock wasn’t the only one to inherit their father’s love of documentation. Siger and Violet laughed at the dumbstruck look on Sherlock’s face before his brain started again.

“You wouldn’t be able to ban me from every crime scene.” Sherlock challenged and Molly laughed at him.

“I have Greg Lestrade and Scotland Yard wrapped around my little finger, John owes me a lot of favours for helping look after Rosie and Mycroft knows I’ll dissect him with his umbrella-sword if he doesn’t do what I say so yes, Sherlock, I can and will ban you from every crime scene that you can think of.” Molly warned Sherlock who suddenly beamed at her and looked at his parents.

“See, I told you Molly Hooper was perfect.” Sherlock said happily as his parents laughed at him.

“We already knew that. Anyone who can bring you down to earth has to be someone special. The fact that she’s carrying our grandchild just makes her even more so.” Violet said as she squeezed Molly’s hand and Molly smiled shyly back at her. She had been pleased that Sherlock’s parents liked her, she hadn’t expected that.

“After everything you’ve done for Sherlock and having put up with our two troublesome boys, how could you not be wonderful?” Siger added as Molly’s smile widened. It was amusing to see how different Sherlock and Mycroft were from their parents. Their parents were so warm and caring and open with their thoughts and affections. Sherlock and Mycroft could certainly take a page or two from their parent’s books.

“Thank you, I think you’re wonderful too. You raised them after all.” Molly replied and rubbed her stomach absent-mindedly. “And I know he or she will be so happy to have you as their grandparents.”

“Any child would.” Mycroft said and Sherlock and Molly looked at him.

“Don’t forget yourself Mycroft. The child will need an uncle too. Someone they can turn to in order to help them get out of trouble. Someone to steal cake for you, spit up on your suit and to run around your house for you, chasing away any clowns.” Sherlock teased Mycroft who shook his head. He was going to care for the child obviously but doing things like that… he just couldn’t see it. Instead, Mycroft looked around the room. Taking a moment to appreciate his family talking and accepting these new members into the family.

Maybe after everything with Eurus, all of them Holmes family were being given another chance. Mummy and Daddy had tried with the three of them, tried to understand Eurus, tried to help Sherlock comprehend the losses he had suffered at such a fragile age, tried to help Mycroft not be as closed off and practical-minded as a teenager ought to have been. They had tried. They loved and supported and helped, the sad reality was that it wasn’t enough. How could any parent have coped with what they had had to cope with? Three genius but troubled children; a daughter smarter than anyone on Earth and who wanted to kill her brother. A son, traumatised by the death of this friend and the loss of his home that he dealt by reinventing Victor as a beloved pet who needed to be put to sleep. Then there was Mycroft himself, already too practical to believe their kind words, their attempts to convince them that they would be OK, that they would survive as a family. The one who had to shrug off his childhood and see the futures that would be laid out for them, despite their parents’ wishes and hopes otherwise.

No, with this baby, they would be given a chance to do things right. This baby would be protected, they would be adored and supported. They would not know the darkness and dangers and pains of this world. They would never doubt that they were special, that they were loved. Whatever they needed, they would have. Whatever they wanted would be theirs. And all of them, every member of the Holmes family would to things right. For their child. For their grandchild. For their niece or nephew.

Niece or nephew. Mycroft had to admit, as the conversation turned to Violet and Molly discussing Violet’s pregnancies and Sherlock and Siger went to make tea, he liked the thought of having a niece or nephew. Someone who loved him unconditionally. Someone who would pull on his tie and scribble over his reports and require nappy changes and who would someday lisp out the words ‘Uncle Mycroft’. Uncle Mycroft. 

He could get used to that.