#It’s the A Christmas Story for people who don’t agree kids should get guns as a present

[tigresslanzhu]

Not Fair?

Artica: [After Buster refuses to use the original script of You’re A Good Man, Charlie Brown] Oh, come on! That isn’t fair!

Buster: Artica, if life were fair, it… it would be a fair! But I don’t see any carnival rides around town, do you?

Ash: Moon, did you just make that up on the spot to distract Artica?

Buster: No! I just came up with something clever so that Artica can use it herself on someone next time?

[maxwell-grant]

If you were asked to write a GREY GHOST back-up for some BATMAN THE ANIMATED SERIES comic (framed as old episodes from the tv show that Bruce is watching to cheer himself up and/or introduce the kids to Bat-dad's favourite), might I please ask what sort of tone & setting you'd run with for the character?

I'd be against having additional Grey Ghost stories, but if I was offered to do it of course I'd take the job and make the best of it I could, so I think the way you could go on about it would be to stick to the core of what the Grey Ghost is: He's Adam West as The Shadow. So you take this old pulp serial world, you transport a lot of the pulp hero traits or benchmarks, you set him on suitably grim and dramatic urban adventures, BUT: It's Adam West. The soul is Adam West, The Bright Knight.

We all know where Bruce's story is going in the world outside of his childhood, we all know The Grey Ghost isn't real, we all know Simon Trent is going to end up washed out, and we all know Batman is going to help him pick himself back up, and will prove that the Grey Ghost was real all along. So the Grey Ghost stories themselves should exist in light of that, in light of where we know it's all leading up to, and in light that we should understand why he inspires Bruce so strongly.

Grey Ghost is a full-on good guy and defender of justice, with no cynicism or moral ambiguity in said stories. He doesn't fight a rogues gallery of murderous terrorists, he fights costumed criminals who act like afterschool special villains, maybe patterned after the careers of the Batman 66 villains if you wanna get meta, like one of them is a crooked boxing coach who's had to work for the mob after getting chased off his ranch, or Vincent Price. He gets into death traps, but he always comes out. People get shot, but it's always flesh wounds and nobody dies, and the Grey Ghost uses "mercy bullets" like Doc Savage, he mostly waves a gun around for intimidation. He knows how to give the bad guys a good scare, but he never really injures them.

Grey Ghost mainly uses fistcuffs and gadgets, but instead of always having a gadget for everything, the Grey Ghost always has some secret skill he picked up in his travels that helps him. A bad guy throws a knife at him while he's blinded, but surprise!, he throws it back and pins the guy to the wall, because a Javanese circus performer in Singapore taught him to listen to a blade's sounds through the air. He's dissappeared in plain sight, why, they don't know about a hypnotic trick he was taught by Indian fakirs he's old friends with. He stops an episode to teach the viewers what to do should they fall on a lake of ice, because one time he had to learn that when he got trapped in Alaska. He's always got something and his backstory accomplishments are excessive to the point of parody, but they have to be.

You use Grey Ghost to tell the earnest, hokey and lighthearted stories you can't really tell with Batman anymore. Stories like the 1940s Green Lama issue where he lectures a private about racism, or the Mexican Fantomas stories that are all about him just being nice and understanding and helpful and standing up for others, even his villains.

One episode he hears about young artists across the city reporting their work stolen, and he thinks it's that fiend Claude Monstre again, but nope, Claude Monstre's paintings have been stolen too, and it's a shyster named Mr Cain who's been robbing artists everywhere and taking credit for it, so The Grey Ghost pays him a visit and scares him straight, and they all get their dues and then some, with an explicit tribute to Bill Finger at the end. Grey Ghost takes the time to look after a stray cat and her litter until he can find a proper owner, and it turns out his old enemy, the temptress Helen Zaroni, has been committing robberies to get enough money to open an animal shelter, so The Grey Ghost agrees to give her the cats and help her out if she promises to be good from now on.

The bad guys are never going to be as bad as the one Bruce faces, the conflicts will never spiral into something that can't be solved with a clever solution and a moral lesson, The Grey Ghost will always know the right thing to do and do it, and everything is going to be okay. That statement is what's gonna give the stories a potency of it's own and has to be the number one thing at the center of it: Everything is going to be okay. The Grey Ghost is here. He's got this. Everything's going to be okay, everyone. Everything's going to be okay, Bruce. Everything's going to be okay, son.

Sure, you can fill out details by adding in veiled references to bits of pulp hero or Batman's history, there's some fun to be had with the idea that the Grey Ghost is (or was) the fictional hero of Batman's world and that he's got stuff like Lego Grey Ghost and Innsmouth Sanatorium games, but the potency of The Grey Ghost that's unique to him as a character always comes back to what he means to Batman, and what Adam West means to people that remember him fondly. The wistful humility and compassionate affection that West brought to the role made the character come across as endearing to us as he would have been to Bruce, and that's something that needs to be preserved.

Grey Ghost stories should be like gettng a reassuring hug from a family member, like looking at a family picture and being hit with some sadness over how things turned out and some happiness over the good memories it brings to you. These should be stories that Bruce looks back on and thinks "this isn't really how the world works, but that's how I wish it did back then, and that's what I'm fighting for now". Stories that he shows the Batfamily because sometimes they could use a shot of optimism themselves, and yeah sometimes they chuckle because the special effects are really dated and the Grey Ghost says some really corny things, but they get what it means to Bruce, and so do we.

Last christmas Alfred gave Bruce a set of pillows stitched from the fabric of Thomas Wayne's old Grey Ghost costume, which Bruce thought he'd thrown away and Alfred saved all these years. Alfred likes to sneak them into the Batcave everytime Bruce falls asleep on the Batmobile or looking over files.

[pl-panda]

To Marry a Vigilante: Part 3

MASTERLIST || First || Previous || Next

Disclaimer: Masterlist

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The dinner was an interesting affair. Everyone was gathered around a large table that could easily fit several more people. Marinette was sitting between Damian and her mother; on the opposite, Tim, Stephanie, and Cass took the seats. She was glad that they were all people she knew well enough. It was overwhelming. Before, Christmas was always just her and her parents. Occasionally, Nona came too. And there was this one time when she was five when her great-uncle visited. This was much too crowded. 

Damian gently squeezed her hand, reassuring her that it was alright. She ate some, but the nerves made her lose appetite quickly. She was in Gotham. Celebrating Christmas with her husband’s family. Husband… She was going to have a panic attack. She wasn’t ready. 

“Habibti. It’s okay. Everyone here’s a friend.” Damian whispered into her ear, seeing she was spiraling. “Nobody is going to judge us on anything.”

“But I didn’t make any gifts for the Kents. And I didn’t know your eldest brother had a daughter! And I’m a total klutz. I will probably knock over the tree and it will fall and set the house on fire and you will end up homeless or someone will get hurt and then your family will hate me and the Kents will hate me and I…” she kept whispering faster and faster until she was finally starting to feel the need to breathe or pass out. The jury was still out. 

Seeing her daughter’s panic, Sabine also grabbed her hand and squeezed it lightly. “Honey, let’s go get some fresh air.” She said loud enough for people close to them to hear before leading Marinette outside. Nobody batted an eye when the pair passed them. 

Once the two were in the back garden, Mari felt her legs give up under her and if not for her mother, she would have probably collapsed. The woman held her tight and led the girl toward the bench, which was luckily not covered in snow. 

“I’m so sorry, Maman. I don’t know… I just felt so overwhelmed. There were all these people and I was really meeting my husband’s family and friends for the first time and I guess I was not prepared for all this…” She was speaking fast. 

“Don’t worry sweetie. I understand. Did I tell you how, when I met your Nona for the first time, I accidentally flipped her over my shoulder and pinned her to the ground?” Sabine asked, smiling understandingly at her daughter. 

“No! Really?”

“Yes. Well, in my defense, she surprised me with a gun that shot candies.” 

Marinette couldn’t help but giggle at that. It did seem like something her Mémé would do. 

“She was shocked at first and I was afraid I hurt her. Instead, after that, she decided that I was apparently worthy of dating her boy and gave us her approval.” 

“So… the moral of this story is that I should flip Talia over for them to accept me?” Mari asked with a cheeky grin. 

“That too, sweetie. I can even lend you something from my bag if you want a more… permanent effect.” 

“Maman!” 

“Fine…” Sabine grumbled goodheartedly. “You don’t need to worry about fitting in or how they will perceive you. I’ve seen how that boy looks at you and I approve.” She smiled. “That’s all that should matter.”

“Thank you maman. I’m glad you’re here.” She hugged her mother as the two sat together on the bench, enjoying the evening chill until the cold became irritating instead of refreshing.

-------

When the two returned, the dinner was nearing the end. Marinette noted seven burning holes on the ceiling but didn’t comment. There was also a plate on fire next to Jason that he seemed adamant not to acknowledge. Also, Mar’i and Jon were levitating above the table and playing rock paper scissors, except they used the props. Silently, Marinette walked to take a seat next to Damian. Her mother went over to talk a bit with Bruce about something.

“Um… Why is Jason’s plate on fire?” She asked, very much confused. 

“Tt. He wanted a souffle on fire.” 

“We’re already at desserts?” The girl asked, surprised. In the corner of her eye, she saw Cass staring at Tim and Stephanie with a strange gaze. It wasn’t hostile, but rather, she couldn’t really name the emotions present. 

“Yes. I saved you some maracons. You love the strawberry ones, right?”

“You made me prefer lemon ones.” She smiled. “The subtle sourness really brings out the sweetness.” 

“Of course it does Angel.” He smiled. “Sadly, we sit next to Brown, who will devour anything with sugar in it.”

A devious grin appeared on Mari’s face. “Really now?” She reached over into her purse to pull a small box where she kept the power-up cookies for her Kwami. “Tikki… will you mind if I give her a burnt-red one? You know which…”

For a moment, it looked like the Kwami wanted to protest, but then the small goddess noticed the plate of cookies was empty. “Go for it, Marinette. It won’t hurt her.”

“Stephanie! I’ve got a spare macaron I can share,” she smiled at the blonde girl. 

“Gimme!” She almost leaped like a gremlin, her eyes in a slight daze.

“Uh-oh. She is experiencing a sugar rush. I think she ate the whole plate herself,” Tim spoke from his seat, eyes slightly worried. 

Mari handed over the macaron and watched as Steph ate it. It took only a moment for her face to flush red and tears to appear in her eyes. “Water!” She said with a hoarse throat. Tim handed her a glass, but when she downed it, the burning only increased.

“Oh no! I forgot to warn you! It was made with ground hot pepper instead of flour… silly me!” Mari said, keeping the cute smile on. “I would advise milk.”

When Stephanie ran to the kitchen, followed by Tim laughing and Cass and Damian smiling, the older boy turned to Marinette. “You are devious.” 

“She shouldn’t have eaten so many cookies,” the girl shrugged. After that, she actually started to enjoy the evening. It might have started a prank war later on, but for now, she was safe. 

---------

After dinner, the crowd moved to a large living room where adults took seats on the couches or chairs while most kids and teens sat on the fluffy carpet. Alfred was walking around and handing the wine glasses to adults and hot chocolate to the youngsters. Clark opted for hot chocolate as well, which earned him a round of teasing. 

Since everyone was staying the night, there was no need for designated drivers. When Tim and Stephanie tried to get their hands on alcohol, Alfred slapped their hands. More laughter followed. 

Marinette sat there, cuddled into one armchair with Damian, observing everything and looking cute. 

“...I’m just saying, Bruce. You could smile a bit more in costume too. It wouldn’t kill you.” Clark finished a short speech.

“Work and homelife should stay separate,” Tim spoke up from his spot on the floor.

“Which doesn’t stop you from smiling. You’re not a Buckingham Palace guard.” Lois pointed out.

“To be frank, you could smile a bit more often, B.” Dick supported the enemy.

“It would be bad for the image,” Bruce mumbled. “If anyone saw Batman smile, it would ruin my years of hard work.”

“Diana disagrees.” Kor’i smiled. “She actually said once that ‘a smiling bat looks pretty handsome’.”

“I’ve seen a smiling bat!” Mar’i shouted from her spot on Jon’s knees, the two of them acting like nice siblings. It secretly irked Damian, but he wouldn’t ever voice that thought. “There was a cartoon!” 

“That’s nice, sweetie.” Sabine couldn’t help but rub it into Bruce some more. “Did he also have a cape, like Bruce?”

“Yes! And he walked on two legs!” 

“See? I think your image doesn’t need to suffer.” Tom joined his wife. His English wasn’t that good, but he could get by. “Maybe you could get a cartoon about Batman? Ladybug had her own movie and a song dedicated to her.” 

“Ladybug?” Jonathan asked. Marinette immediately tensed at the mention of her superhero name. She definitely did not want to reveal herself to everyone here. It’s not that she didn’t trust any of them, since all of them knew about Batman and co., but she felt uneasy. The fewer people knew, the better. 

“Parisian superheroine.” Sabine clarified.

“We sure didn’t hear about her back in Smallville.” Martha insisted, smiling. “Then again, we don’t really keep with the news from the old world.”

“There was this terrorist in Paris that used magic to turn people into temporary villains. He was finally defeated recently. I think you’ve seen all the ladybug decorations.” Tim explained in broad terms. 

“Ah! Right. I was wondering about the ladybugs…” 

Damian noted that his beloved was tense and decided that it was a moment good as any other to spring up the surprise. He shifted slightly, signaling that he wanted to get up. Marinette, who was still holding her cup, immediately sprung onto her feet. She thought he maybe wanted to leave somewhere or speak with his father alone. 

Instead, Damian hit the side of his hot chocolate cup with a spoon three times, gathering everyone’s attention. 

“Tt. I wanted to say a few words. This will be important so shut up you lot.” He cleared his throat before continuing in a mostly emotionless voice that most people associated with his ‘Ice Prince’ persona. “Marinette. When I first met you, it was not from our own free will. The bitch that is my mother forced our hand and tied us together. But we got to know each other out of our own free will. Nobody forced me…” His head snapped toward Dick. “Tt. Don’t you dare, Grayson.” Seeing his brother raise his hands in a surrender gesture, he carried on. “Nobody forced me to come to Paris. Definitely, nobody forced you to actually accept my courting. To this day, I am left wondering why an Angel as you would actually agree to go out with me, but here we are.”

The people watched with rapt attention. Marinette just stood there, unable to voice a coherent thought. She had no idea what was happening, but a deep red blush had made its way onto her face when he praised her. 

“You were so full of passion and joy and it reminded me a bit of Jon, but without the irritating factors.” 

“Hey!” The boy protested. A murderous glare from Damian shut him up quickly. 

“As I was saying, you were perfect in my eyes. I was taken away by your kindness. There are no words to describe my feelings.” His tone was still emotionless and monotonous, but Marinette could see that he was doing his best to actually see this through. “I can say without a doubt that I love you, Marinette Dupain-Cheng.” 

All air was suddenly sucked from Mari’s lungs when he fell on one knee and pulled out a small black box. Inside was probably the most beautiful ring she had ever seen. There were three flowers on a golden band. In the center of each, there was a shining diamond, surrounded by smaller stones. The petals were made from pink stones that she suspected were also diamonds. Were there even pink diamonds? All in all, it looked beyond words. 

“Will you do me that honor and become my wife?” When he finally asked, she could feel the world spinning. This was… this was better than in any of her daydreams. And not only because instead of Adrien there was Damian. 

The words died in her throat. She had to sit down to not faint. “Yes…” She whispered weakly, so only Damian could hear. The boy smiled brightly (a rare sight to be sure) and put the ring on her finger. 

Her gaze fell on the band he had on his own hand. It was silver with a large black stone in the center of the band, surrounded by eight diamonds. The Black Cat Miraculous she realized. 

An applaud arose from several places in the room, but some of the guests were confused. 

“Aren’t you two too young to get married?” Johnathan asked, scratching his head. 

“Tt. Technically, we are already married where I come from. This is for my wife’s content and nothing else.”

“Married?!” The old farmer asked, scandalized. 

“Tt. That’s what I said. Now can someone please get my Angel some water? I think she is about to faint.” 

“Um… I would also be very interested in the story…” Clark joined his father. He wasn’t exactly that much scandalized, but confusion was clear on his face. 

“I promise I will explain everything. I think we should give the two some breathing space…” Bruce proposed hesitantly. 

“I will help get Mari to her room. I think she has had enough excitement for today,” Tom offered.

“I am also turning in for the night, Father. I trust that between you and Miss Cheng they will get a full story. Sans the private parts of course.” He glared at him. 

“I will make sure of that.” Sabine quickly cut any protests.

“Good. Good night everyone. And Merry Christmas or whatever.” With that, he left, wanting to catch up with Tom and Marinette.

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Masterlist // Next

[mooshs-crack-headcanons]

Maybe headcannons of Nero and his new s/o around family, specifically Kyrie

(I hope this came out okay!)

Okay let’s get one thing straight before we begin; The Order was absolutely fucked up and Kyrie was really affected by it. She, like the other 99% of believers in Fortuna, were brainwashed and her brother was killed by the fucking pope, that’s quite some stuff to deal with and I think that slowly coming out of the brainwashed state she slowly and slowly became less of...her empty character from 4, of course she still remained kind and compassionate but over time and overcoming her brother’s death she changes until she becomes her own person that has completely broken free from the Order’s control. Her and Nero did date for quite some time but they both eventually respectfully broke up when they both realized that they just didn’t work out together and both agreed to just live together to support one another and help raise some of Fortuna’s orphans.

So Kyrie is absolutely happy to see that Nero has moved on and found you, it fills her heart with joy seeing that both of you make each other happy and after some time is perfecting fine with the idea of you moving into the apartment. She even has started making you and Nero matching sweaters to wear for Christmas on lazy afternoons on the couch together with Nico (who she finds herself spending a lot of...closer time with together recently)

Speaking of Nico, expect spending a lot of time with her on the road if you’re in the hunting business. Now Nico can be loud and can get on your nerves sometimes but she means well, she also teases both you and Nero a lot which also makes your boyfriend both embarrassed and mad making his face flush a bright pink, which only fuels more teases earring more yelling, it’s quite the sight to see. Nico has this weird talent with eventually getting along with just everyone she meets (as long as if you don’t mind the teasing and joking she does, which Nero doesn’t do to well) so you and Nico should eventually get along just fine but if you’re interested in her art then Nico will immediately do anything for you, this starts the “Why can’t you be more like (Name)?” treatment with Nero, which the grandson of Sparda doesn’t take well. But seriously if you just sit down and let her just ramble on about whatever she’s made whether it be a new devil breaker or just a new gun she’s made for Lady you’ll be absolutely fine in her book and even joke about stealing you from Nero (which of course she wouldn’t...she’s been more closer with Kyrie lately after all)

Since you’re living with Nero at the apartment, you’ll of course be around Kyle, Carlo, and Julio. The boys can be a handful to deal with most times but with the help of both Kyrie and Nero, they tend to stay on their best behavior whenever they're around you. I think with them the best way to make them like is to do stuff with them; like play outside, watch cartoons, and play video games with them. Nero has a very cute father-like relationship with them and it’s absolutely adorable to watch whenever he’s around them.

Well with you being involved with Nero, there’s a most definite chance you’ve been at the Devil May Cry office, meaning you’ve been around the inhabitants that usually find themselves sticking around there so it’s obvious for you to have a relationship with Dante since you’re dating his nephew and all. We all know that Dante’s a chill guy when he’s around people, so with his charismatic personality it’s hard to get along with him. Dante’s glad that Nero’s found someone that makes him happy, and like Nico he teases the shit out of him (again earning Nero’s bright pink faced embarrassed yelling fit) Dante’s a great guy to have a drink with and he’s most likely to share a drink and tell you that he’s glad that because of you that he’s noticed that Nero’s been a little less pissy at the world and that he appreicates that from you.

And of course the Vergil in the room has to be addressed. Even after post 5 Nero and his father have...not the best of relationships (you know, abandonment issues and having your parent yank off your arm and all) but there have been at least a few attempts, enough for Nero to allow Vergil to at least meet you. Vergil is...pleased by your relationship with his son, of course on the outside he won't admit it but he's glad that you're with him and it gives him peace of mind that not only you but the rest of the people in his life in Fortuna but him on the right path and not make the same mistakes his father had. Sure Vergil can be a stubborn asshole but it's not really hard to get along with him (mostly post 5 where's he's chilled out and not a huge motivated power dick anymore) as long as you're not annoying him constantly he can actually carry on a good conversation (especially if you're into reading poetry because he's a fucking nerd and you know he has tons of trivial stuff on Blake he can pull out of his ass at any given time to share with you)

I like to believe every Christmas that the crew will get together and have a quality business dinner at Kyrie's (as a family) and this is just a great time to see everyone together (even Patty bringing her mother along) and just forgetting about any demons, hell, and any upcoming jobs. On one of the first that you attend, you sit next to Nero at the table as you laugh along with Trish as Lady scolds Dante about his ever growing debt while Morrison shakes his head all while trying to hide his cracked smile. All while on the other side of him is Nico excitedly rambling about her newest invention to Kyrie while trying to control her stutters from excitement as Kyrie patiently nods and patiently listens along with the kids. Across from him were Lucia and Nina happily engaged in conversation as his father doesn’t say a word next to them but slowly drinks from the mug in his hand as Patty is on her fifth story of what it was like being around Dante as a kid and how much he was a pain to clean up after, which the eldest kin of Sparda if you looked closely enough could be seen nodding to himself showing the things the Lowell girl described were things child Vergil had to deal with cleaning after too.  

When Nero looks back to you he finds you already staring at him with a small smile attached to your lips and in a quiet voice you ask him if he’s having a good time. He quickly looks away from you before rubbing at his nose with a barely visible tint to his cheeks (that he can already tell from the corner of his eye that Kyrie noticed and gives him a small supporting smile) Nero clears his throat before looking back to you and tells you that it’s pleasing but also really shocking that no one has tried to kill each other yet. You laugh at the statement before telling him that your pretty sure you can fend yourself to the death against his father or uncle with nothing but a plastic fork and the discarded pizza box on the floor alone which earns you a scoff and an eye roll (and the tinist of smirks) as goes back to eating his pasta.

Nero eventually finds your hand graze along his fingers underneath the table as if testing the waters before fully grasping his hand and squeezing it tightly. At first it takes him off guard but once he’s used to the warmth on his face he’ll reciprocate the gesture by rubbing his thumb across your skin as the night continues on, thinking about how vastly different he feels in this moment now that he truly has a family versus the lonely self loathing days from when he was younger.

If you like what you read please consider reblogging! It means the world for writers and artists!

[stetervault]

Hey, love the blog!!! I was wondering if you had any fics where Talia is terrible to Peter and/or Stiles? I know that's a lot of fics so maybe ones where it's a notable plot point? Thanks!

Here are some I know, with various levels of bad alpha/sister/all-around person!Talia (some have her redeemable, others not so much):

IBDC: Teen Wolf by moonstalker24 --> Pretend to be dating AU Part 1 & Part 2

Peter pretends to be Stiles' boyfriend, which quickly evolves into being his actual boyfriend.

The Sphinx of Beacon Hills by Guede (Stetopher)

Stiles is a sphinx, and he’s winging his way to visit his buddy Scott when a storm drops him in Beacon Hills, the craziest, crankiest, coldest place ever. And somehow, he ends up with a bunch of werewolves.

The Other Husband by Therapeutic_Steter

Tumblr Prompt: You start working with your spouse and everyone thinks you're cheating because they don't know that's your spouse.

Home by Ragga

Don't be like him, they would say, and then add, or else you get burned.

Unable to bear the whispers any longer, This One left. He forsook those who forsook him, left him bear his scars alone, the scars he bore for his herd. It was better to be alone, stay off the currents, than swim with those most undeserving of his loyalty. So mote it be.

That is, until he met That One.

Ink Blossoms by Triangulum

"So, you're going to ruin your niece's baby shower with flowers in the wrong color?" the florist, Stiles, asks when they reach the counter. He pulls out a binder and starts flipping through it.

"Not ruin. Mildly inconvenience," Peter says.

"Right, messing with a hormonal pregnant woman seems like a great plan."

"To be fair, her fiance and the father of her baby is my ex-boyfriend," Peter says. "And we weren't broken up when they started 'dating'."

Stiles looks up at him in surprise. "And you're still getting her flowers?" he asks.

"It's under duress, I assure you," Peter says. He absolutely wouldn't be here if his alpha hadn't ordered it.

"Well, shit, yeah, let's get you some purple revenge flowers," Stiles says.

God Only Knows by katiemorag

Peter still couldn't quite believe he was being made to attend his niece's wedding, reason number one being that her fiancé was Peter's ex, who had cheated on Peter with Laura.

There's also the slight issue of his entire family refusing to believe that his boyfriend, Stiles, actually exists.

You Are so Much Better Than I Ever Knew Before by lavenderlotion

“Oh sweetheart,” Kate cooed, voice sickly sweet and obviously fake. “You didn’t think you were dating...did you?”

Stiles just stood there, still in shock and only coherent enough to shrug his shoulders. “Oh sweetie, that is just too cute. No, Der-Bear here just needed something to keep his cock warm while I was away visiting family.”

what the dust reveals by WindyRein

That one where Stiles and Peter are soulmates and there's spy-assassins and wings and other stuff.

You Just Got Ghosted! by Ragga

“What’s your name, angel?” little Stiles murmured even as his eyes fell closed, quickly losing his battle against sleep.

Stiles smiled. It was a little sad but also heavy with the knowledge that what he was doing was the right thing—heavy with the knowledge he didn’t deserve the moniker bestowed upon him.

“You can call me Mietek.”

Or the one where there's time travel, feels abound, two Stiles in one timeline, and one of them stuck somewhere between the planes of existence. Yet a ghost can still manage to save the day and get the girl. Or the wolf. Manly wolf. Because Peter.

Toothed Morality (Send Me Flowers) by rightsidethru

“The world is a dark place, moje kochanie; it is one filled with monsters, always ready to gobble you whole. Be wary of the promises they give: seal every vow with blood and bone and Name. A True Name, one that will bind them to their word.”

“But how will I know that they’re telling the truth, Matka? Couldn’t they lie…?”

“You’ll know, mały płomień.”

Send Newts by Bunnywest

The first thing Peter notices is that Talia’s smiling, and that in itself makes him suspicious. When he sees that Laura’s smiling too, his distrust intensifies. “What?” he demands? “What is it?” Talia’s smile widens as she serves him a cup of tea, made just how he likes it. “Just wondering if your new husband knows you’re such a curmudgeon in the mornings,” she says sweetly. Peter’s cup clatters against the table and the tea spreads in a puddle, ignored. “My what?” “New husband,” Laura chimes in, and then she’s wrapping her arms around Peter’s neck, and saying, “Thank you, Uncle Peter,” and hugging him tight, and the memory of last night tugs at him again. What happened again, exactly?

The Various Triumphs of Mischief Bilinski by Whispering_Sumire

"Hello, Chris," sings a honeyed voice from behind.

Chris' attention snaps toward the intruder, his gun already out of its' holster and aimed at whoever it is — a boy, apparently, with braided russet hair, a red jacket, and wise eyes. He's wearing a gas mask, but Chris can tell by the way his eyes crinkle around the edges, the way sun-burnt sand swirls in his irises, that he's smiling.

Chris cocks his gun.

"You killed my father," he says.

"No offence, but he totally deserved it," the stranger agrees with cheerful solemnity.

"What the hell are you doing in my home?" Chris demands. The kid is perched on a windowsill in Chris' office, as nonchalantly as if this were something he did every day, as if they were familiar.

"I was just wondering," the kid speaks softly, fond amusement sewn through with a peculiar resignation, "how you'd feel about putting down some nazis?"

[Or: The one where Stiles goes back in time and subsequently fucks with everything.]

The Devil You Know by Triangulum

Hell is busy and Peter is understaffed. There are too many evil people being sent down below and there are only so many demons Peter has to torture them with. He needs to reorganize. They don't utilize group torture nearly as much as they should. Stiles probably has some ideas on that.

Or

Peter is King of Hell, Stiles is his second in command, and Talia summons them for a favor.

Call Me Mary Poppins by Triangulum (Stetopher)

Chris pinches the bridge of his nose and says, "You're telling me you want to fuck the nanny?"

"Don't be ridiculous, it's nothing as stereotypical as that, Christopher. This isn't porn. I want to seduce her," Peter says.

Or

A Stetopher nanny AU that wasn't really asked for.

Follow My Lead by Inell (Peter/Laura/Cora/Derek/Stiles)

Peter can’t quite figure out what’s so appealing about the young agent questioning them about his sister’s murder, but he does know that Agent Stilinski is more than he seems.

The Perceptions of You and I by lavenderlotion

“Baby, why did your secretary ask me if I was here under duress?”

Peter looks at him, blinks slowly, and then tilts his head to the side before asking, “She what?”

“She asked if you were forcing me to be here,” Stiles says, eyes flicking across the room to where said assistant is standing at the punch bowl. “She wanted to know if you were blackmailing me or threatening me.”

“She thinks you’re here under duress because Peter is such a terrifying bastard there’s no way a human Omega would be with him otherwise.”

Rent-a-Date by RebaK1tten

If Peter has to spend Christmas with his family, he's going to have a buffer. Even if he has to get him off a website.

Pissing Off The Straights by Therapeutic_Steter

platypusesrneat asked: Peter's family is alive, rich, and complete assholes. Peter can't stand them and is trying to get out of going to their stupid party. Cue Stiles saving the day!

Prayers to a Lesser God by Green

When the Hales are trapped in a house fire, Peter prays to every deity he's ever read about. Miraculously, one answers his call.

this (let's remember) by sinequanon

Peter has always done his pack's dirty work, but it's not until his sister locks him away in Eichen House that he realizes that he has other priorities.

OR

A Romeo and Juliet type story featuring less suicide and more murder.

Don't Come For His Family by lavenderlotion

In the three years Stiles had been with Peter, the man had only talked about his family a handful of times - and as far as Stiles knew had never once spoken to them. So he wasn’t exactly excited to see the mans family, even though that’s exactly what they were about to do.

It does not go to plan.

Beautiful Like Birds by Whispering_Sumire

"Stiles?" he asks, turning on the light, and Stiles looks at him- eyes wide, a flicker of utter devotion and heartbreaking joy passing his features before his whole face crumples and-

"Daddy?"

John has never seen his son like this, or maybe he has, when Claudia died, but it's different somehow, more, and terrifying because he has no idea why. He's closed half the distance between them before he even has time to think it through, but it doesn't matter because Stiles has bridged the rest and flung himself into John's arms.

He falls apart like that, holding onto John so tightly that it's hard to breathe, but he can't care about that right now because his son is sobbing and chanting "Daddy," desperately into his shoulder.

[Or, the one where Stiles goes back in time to save the world, and surprisingly, survives to tell the tale.]

We Three Can Rule The World by Whispering_Sumire (Steterek)

"Hello," he says softly, setting his fiddle down in his lap, not bothering to stand.

"Hi," Derek replies, half-gruff, then, because he should, "that was- that was beautiful but... you know this is private property, right?"

The boy throws his head back and laughs, and laughs, and laughs. The sound of it is overwhelming in its childish joy, and his eyes positively sparkle when they land on Derek again.

"Yes," he says, unashamed "I knew." Then he's standing, fiddle and bow in one hand, the other stretched out toward Derek, friendly and welcoming, "My name is Stiles."

[Or: The one where there's a fiddler, and two werewolves whose eyes flash blue, and a whole fucking world to conquer.]

The Alpha Thief by Triangulum

Something changes around the time Peter turns thirty. His wolf becomes malcontent and angry. His control, impeccable since he was a child, starts to slip, that inner rage leaking out. Talia's iron clad control over the pack chafes him. He can't explain why, but it feels like his world shifts. Pack members he's grown up with suddenly leave with barely an explanation, without a goodbye. His parents' deaths, something that occurred over five years ago, suddenly feel raw, everything after their passing he remembers feeling stilted and wrong.

Or

What if Malia's existence wasn't the memory Talia took from Peter? And what if memories weren't the only thing she stole?

[oooooocheshirecuntoooooo]

In the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere ..... Oh the adventures we had with a hooker. All. Night. Long. 😂

It involves me, my husband, our 18 & 3 year old daughters, a cop and the hooker ... oh and a store clerk and her son. And for real. All night from like 12:30am to 7 am. And now I am home, but without the van and three of the kids didn’t make it home with us.

The following story is absolutely, 100% true. Although it’s not the kind of exciting you’re used to hearing from me, it’s still pretty bizarre. 😂

Just to give a little back story to help paint a clear picture .... So, we always go to my in laws for Christmas but we usually only stay maybe 3-6 days or so depending on how things fall together. This year we decided to stay through New Years because of some drama back at our home. My mother lives on our property and is mentally ill, and we’re pretty sure dementia is setting in. She’s never been an easy person to be around and we have always fought constantly but I have tried to take care of her anyway because she’s the only mom I’ve got, ya know? The last couple years though she’s gotten a lot more aggressive. In July she assaulted her doctor over the mask requirement and even had to go to court over it. Then in august she assaulted me, tried to choke me to death in my own home and in front of my kids. Of course I over powered her and forcefully pushed her out of my house, so yes she sustained bruises and such from that but that’s the extent of it. (She told all of Facebook in a public post that I beat her up every day and that kind of thing. She posts almost every day that she’s being abused, etc. Shes called the police at least 4times in three months. She tried to accuse me of elder abuse and even said I neglect and abuse my kids. Four times they have come out and investigated and not only said they see no signs of child or elder abuse, or anything to backup her claims. They talked to the kids and quickly agreed they were all fine too.

So fast forward to Christmas Eve. We were trying to load up the van to leave for our trip. We couldn’t hardly get it done because she was hounding us so much. When we were done I sent the kids to the car while hubby and I grabbed the last few bags. I blinked and she was charging toward the kids and yelling things at them like “you’re going to be a whore like your mom when you grow up. You wanna suck dick for a living?” And “I hope you die slowly and are alone and afraid for hours before you die.” The oldest child there that day was 12. And no, I’ve never worked in prostitution before. She began to charge toward me when I yelled at her to get away from the kids. Hubby told her to go back in her house and she wouldn’t. Kept coming toward us. So he pulled out his pistol, didn’t cock it or anything, and said again to go back in her house. So she called the police again .... 🙄

So we stayed longer trying to talk to the family lawyer and get a game plan. We’re following through with pressing assault charges so I can get a restraining order, and we’re filing for eviction. So we got all packed and ready to go and noticed liquid under the van. The power steering pump went out and the line busted all over everything. So that set us back another couple of days but we got the line and the pump replaced and tested everything and it looked good. It was late but we decided to set out anyway. We knew we’d get in late but the advantage to that was my crazy mother would be asleep and we could at least get in and unload the van in peace.

About 12:30 the battery light came on and we weren’t near ANYTHING. Somehow we made it another 20 miles or so until we got to a small town we’ve never stopped in before. We stopped at a gas station and barely got in the lot when it died. Hubby tinkered with some things and it looks like the alternator. Apparently some power steering fluid got in it when it busted but we couldn’t see that at the time, including the mechanic neighbor friend helping with it.

So we’re an hour and a half from home and totally stranded in the middle of the night with, thankfully, only two of our kids - the 18 & 3 year old. We make the calls for roadside assistance and I begin calling everyone I know that might can come help us. It’s freezing and none of us packed coats because it’s not usually this cold down here this early in winter. Hubby was wearing shorts even. So we take turns going in the store and sitting in the van with our things - there’s a large fully loaded cargo bag on the roof and a bike rack with two bikes on the back. Figured if we left it alone for a long time those things at least would disappear, essentially given the atmosphere of the place.

In all the moving around and the cashier asking questions and getting to know us and the situation we were in, this big eyed, buck toothed, scraggly little older, black lady who looked like she hasn’t bathed in years starts talking to hubby about what’s wrong with the van. He goes back to tinker with it often hoping he’s wrong about the alternator or that he missed a loose connection - anything that might help us get out of here l, if not home. I am watching cars like a hawk because you wouldn’t believe how many would pull in, loop the parking lot while staring at us and leave again. It started feeling like sharks circling and a feeding frenzy building up. So I’m on edge and I make sure the pistol is within reach at all times. So this little trashy lady keeps talking to him about the mechanics and trying to troubleshoot it. Lemme pain a more accurate picture: this spun out little crack whore was chasing the dragon, looking for it inside the oil reserve, the transmission fluid ..... she keeps pulling out the dipsticks, shaking them like a Polaroid picture and slinging fluids everywhere and then says “I think it’s your starter.”

No doubt she’s trying to hustle some cash and once even asked for some gas money when’s we see the car she rode in pull away and leave her there. She said it was her brother. After awhile, hubby has had enough. He’s usually pretty patient with people who are too fucked up to reach reality but this isn’t the time for all that. Not only is she a hindrance, she keeps snatching his tools and once even his phone out of his hands. I was in the car and I heard him yell “carry your ass already!” If he’s talking to even an annoying stranger like that, I know shit is hitting the fan. Me? I’m Irish. I would’ve done popped off at her which is why I was avoiding her completely. So I got out and joined him and started yelling at her to fuck off. She will take a few steps away and come back but she does finally go all the way back in the store, both of us cussing her the whole way. I blink and she back in his face again. She keeps saying random shit like “anything you can do I can do better” and “I helped you and you just turn me away. That’s not what the Bible says” and “God got me. I don’t need you. I pray for you”

I’m beyond pissed. I’m cold —- and I loath being cold — and I’m tired, it’s now like 2:30 or 3, I’m feeling vulnerable just by being broke down and especially with the toddler who can’t do anything to protect herself or understand what’s going on and who is extremely sensitive to any type of anger or tension (she cries hysterically when her siblings tickle fight or pillow fight and are laughing) and with all I’ve been dealing with with my mom lately I just have no give a shit left in me. So I jump out and say loudly “should I get the gun for you?” He said “it’s starting to look like it.” And I handed it to him and he put it in his pocket - more just wanting to communicate and it wanting to draw on her because that could invite charges for him potentially and we already have enough legal drama waiting at home. She slowly starts walking backward and keeps running her mouth. I forget what she said but she flipped my bitch switch again and I found myself screaming “Don’t make me cut a bitch!”

She said “what did you say?” And I pulled out my pretty pink and Pearl, large and extremely sharp pocket knife and extended the blade, “I said if you don’t carry your ass I WILL cut a bitch!” She nodded that smug kind of nod and kept going, “aaaiiignt”

The car that brought her there and left came back. She got in it and it left, stopped about 20 feet from the parking lot and she appeared to be forcefully shoved out from the way she rolled in the grass. But she goes walking the other direction so we figured she was gone. Meanwhile though in that amount of time I already dialed 911. The operator connected me to the local station and I spoke to dispatch. I kid you not, less than 60 seconds later an officer was there. We later learned he parks in a dark spot across the street of this divided highway. He even saw some of the commotion but couldn’t tell from the angle that it was heated. He tells us all about her, how she’s the local “hooker” / crack whore, along with her sister and mother. When I said we could tell she was drunk or inebriated or something he said, “more like high as a kite in with a jet pack!” I have seen a lot of people high in my years but I’ve never seen anyone act like she was so I asked, “On what?” He just shrugged “likely a combination of things. She’s a non discernment, equal opportunity junkie.”

Would you believe she showed up again while he’s talking to us? She tried to act like they were friends “hey! I know you. You’re married to my kin ...” He kinda yells at her and smirks “you a damn lie and you know it. I’m not even married.” Tim and I both glanced at his hands, his wedding band plainly visible. I got back in the van because my teeth are chattering so bad I can’t speak anyway. He puts her in the back of his car and talks to my husband again. He tells him he’s use to her and is going to take her to a relatives house where she goes when she needs to sleep it off for a day or two. He leaves and about 20 minutes later he’s back. Apparently he almost ran out of gas and he wanted to check in on us again. The jokes flew about how awkward that would look if he ran out of gas and was on the side of the road with the town hooker and all. He was a really nice guy and stayed with us most of the rest of the night. He said he got off at 7 and if we still didn’t have any help to give him a call, giving us his cell number.

So, at the same time I’m trying to get something done about the tow truck that needs to come get the van and find someone to come get us. The first wrecker — BROKE DOWN ON THE WAY TO PICK US UP! I was starting to feel cursed! The second wasn’t informed this would be a “long haul” tow and he only does local. Third times the charm right? Apparently so this time. He was a nice guy as well and took extra steps to keep the bikes and things secure on the trip.

We even had talked to hubby’s parents when we very first broke down. They were asleep but I was able to text my kids that stayed behind to spend another day or two with them, and they were coming up anyway to do some work on the property up here and file the eviction. So the boy, who will be 11 tomorrow, and the 12yo girl woke them up and told them we broke down. Apparently the 8 year old had already gone to sleep. His parents got up and talked to us and they were like, we’ll work on it and let me know what you find out. What the insurance company will do. So when the tow truck showed up, at 4:30, we asked if one of them could come get us because all the insurance company said was “MAYBE a supervisor could make an allowance for a Lyft or something like that but it didn’t seem a highly probable option. I realize we were 3 hours from his parents but they got up and stayed up from the first time we called and father in law could’ve gotten us and most of our stuff in the van and gotten us home, and him back to his house, before lunch and then slept or done whatever work he felt was more important than our safety. I’m kinda ticked about that. So we get what things we can’t live without immediately and head into the store to wait for a solution to arise, or friends to wake up! I was the last one going in and I was shivering so bad I dropped the things in my hands. I bent down to pick them up when two large shoes stepped in to my view, directly in front of me.

I stand up and then continue looking up to find the eyes looking back at me - a huge ‘cornfed’ red neck man who almost is convincing at appearing to be tough as nails, but I see the gentle kindness in him immediately. However, when he named the itty bitty, no red light havin’ isolated little farm town we live in I was flabbergasted. I actually stuttered and just made noise instead of words when I tried to respond. He even chuckled and playfully’ mocked’ me but was even kind about it. It was more like he got a kick out of how taken off guard I was. He said “Do y’all need a ride to (hometown)?” in that extremely slow, drawn out way the redneck Southerns do. In a minute I nodded and said “How do you know that?” I continued walking in the store as I spoke and of course he followed and opened the door for me. Hubby had run back and flagged down the tow truck before it left, remembering the car seat was left in it and that would be essential to getting us home. He had already talked to the man but j didn’t know that. In fact, in all the in and out that night hubby and my older daughter had told the cashier bits and pieces of the situation and it hit a point where she realized help wasn’t coming very fast and didn’t want to see any more trouble fall on us like with the oh so classy hooker we had already met. So she called her son, knowing this was the kind of thing he was always looking to do. He kept telling us that he just really liked to drive and it was no big deal and that he had time to get us there and back home before work even. After debating over it for what felt like hours but was probably only 5 minutes hubby and I decided it was probably the smartest option. He usually has a pretty keen sense of a persons character pretty quickly and so does my 18 year old - although it still needs to be fine tuned a bit but that will come with time, maturity, and unfortunately, heartbreak. We felt like we had a read on the kind, older lady cashier too and she even said “It’s ok. He’s my son. He’s not gonna hurt you or anybody that doesn’t try to hurt him first.”, laughing the last few words out and the glances between them revealing some inside joke / event. So we went ahead and got in his little car - which was more like a jumbo Geo Tracker and I honestly wondered how he ever fit inside. It wasn’t the best looking thing, kinda shabby and needing a lot of TLC, but for us it may as well have been luxury. It was a diamond in the rough, symbolic of the man who offered to drive us an hour and a half to get us home, and then back, before he went to work that day. By the time we got him we knew his life story - 33 and already a survivor of the heart attack they call ‘the widow maker’. We instantly fell in and we’re good friends. By the time we got home - at 7am - we hated to see him go. Of course we had a little Christmas gift cash on us and gave him a little something for his trouble, especially since he wouldn’t come in and let me make him something for breakfast. As I hugged him bye I told him “I will forever call you ‘My Angel Michael’. He said, “Well thank you ma’am. It was my pleasure.” and with that, he drove away.

[gingyboo]

Mirror Mirror

A/N: Again many thanks to @booglebug

Description- Soulmates existed. People knew that much. Soulmates were rare, a handful in each generation, an unexplainable phenomenon that formed a bond closer than blood and more sacred than marriage.

Bucky finds his soulmate when he needs her most. Little does he know how much she needs him too.

(Soulmate au that slots pretty much in to the MCU but with soulmates. Set after TFATWS.)

Pairing- Bucky Barnes x OFC

Warnings- Mentions of violence and guns, but its mostly fluff, drama and angst.

This is a multi chaptered fic.

Please like, comment, reblog!

prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8

Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13

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

Chapter 14

“Bucky…” she started again, Bucky held up a hand to stop her

“Don’t, please Nancy don’t.” He shook his head.”

“I am sorry though Buck.”

“Don’t be, god Nancy, I flipped in there, seeing you there, with him trying to get into your head, I couldn’t bare it.”

“You’re angry at yourself?” She asked

“You had to threaten yourself to get me to stand down.” He grabbed her, pulling her face to his. “How could I let that happen.” Nancy twisted in his grip, pressing her lips to the pulse point on his wrist. His pained expression softened slightly.

“Bucky, we got what we needed. Okay, you know what he was doing in there, you let this get between us and he wins okay. Look at me, look at us, we’re okay. We know where Kit is, the mission is complete.” Bucky met her eyes then, aquamarine bore into emerald. A shiver ran through them both and they sprung apart.

“You felt that?” He whispered, Nancy nodded. He slid his hand across to hers. The feeling was gone but Nancy felt the familiar joy of his presence.

“A soulmate thing I guess?” She responded.

“I think this thing goes deeper than either of us expected.” Bucky twirled a strand of hair through his fingers. “Shuri’s probably got some theory’s on it.”

“Maybe we should try and find out more.” She agreed.

“Yeah, probably. Do you have any idea how happy I was when I saw you looking back at me all those months ago? I knew I wasn’t alone anymore. Everything I’ve been through, the things I’ve seen, meeting you, made it seem like there was a point to it. Getting to know you, I think it was worth it.” Bucky declared.

“Bucky…” Nancy croaked. She knew what he’d told her about his past but also knew there was much more he hadn’t told her.

“Wait. I can’t give you a normal life, I want to because you deserve to be safe and secure, but trouble seems to follow me. I can only promise that I was always try to protect you from it.” He looked like he might cry navy reached her hand round to sweep across his cheek.

“Please, let me speak.” she started, steadying her voice. “I felt the same, when I found you I felt complete, I loved you from the first moments I spent with you, I can’t have a life without you, when Helmut said I was my brothers biggest weakness, I realised you’re mine, and then I hurt you, don’t say I didn’t because I saw it in your eyes. We stand together, I set us apart it was unforgivable.”

“There’s nothing you could do that I wouldn’t forgive.” He insisted, his vibranium hand against hers on his cheek. Nancy smiled, her whole face lighting up.

“And for the record, trouble seems to find me just fine, and who wants a normal life, any life with you would be extraordinary.”

“Nancy, we might not get the big house in the country, I might not get to give you the kind of life you’re used to. I don’t work nine to five, I haven’t got a credit score or a pension plan, we might not get a puppy or have some kids…”

“Oh no we will have kids,” Nancy cut him off with a laugh, shaking her head.

“How are you so certain.” Bucky smiled back.

“Because I’m as stubborn as I am beautiful, because i think you want kids, and so do I, because our life will be different, but I’ll be damned if it’s not exactly the life we both want.” She let up kissing his forehead and both his cheeks.

“Are you sure?” He pressed his forehead into hers.

“Absolutely, you don’t need a pension, or a credit score and I don’t care where we live, New York, London, Timbuktu for all I care. I have money, I know it can’t buy me those moments in our future.” She exclaimed. She looked briefly round the cabin. “Where’d you suppose Sam got to?”

“I think he’s giving us a moment.” Bucky chuckled, tilt her chin to press his lips against hers, she chuckled into it, running her fingers through his hair.

“You think a lot about our future,” he asked, kissing along her jawline.

“Yes.” She blushed slightly, biting her lip.

“Tell me.” Both hands were in her hair now, moving against her scalp as her head tilted back, giving him access to her neck.

“Okay,” She breathed in heavily, closing her eyes. “so, I think we’ll have a little place somewhere, not too busy, nice and secluded, you can go off on your missions and know there’s a safe place to come home to. We can have kids, they’ll get under our feet when we put up the Christmas decorations, they’ll sneak out of bed to see you when you come home late. A little boy with your big blue eyes, a little girl dusted in my freckles. We can have Sam round for barbecues…” Nancy was cut off by Bucky sitting back up straight.

“Don’t talk about Sam right now.” He laughed.

“So nice little place, couple of kids, what will you be doing? I cannot picture you as the doting housewife.” He tapped her nose playfully.

“Maybe I’ll be heading out next to you,” His face filled with horror, she laughed again and his face relaxed, “or I’ll finally put that degree I got to good use, start writing again.”

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

They arrived in Cornwall under cover of night. The trio trudged sleepily across the field and made their way to a cosy Clift top B&B. The elderly lady on the desk showed them up to two rooms. Bucky and Nancy settled into their nightly routine, he lay with his arms wrapped around her as she traced the gold detailing in his left arm.

“I think Sam’s idea is good, we’ll start at the docks tomorrow, work our way down the coast from there.” Bucky said, Nancy nodded sleepily. “Sorry, were you trying to sleep?”

“No no, it’s okay, keep talking, your voice is soothing.” She smiled, snuggling deeper into his embrace.

“Okay, different topic, tell me about Thomas Gregory.” He whispered in her ear. She laughed loudly, turning round to face him.

“He was Kit’s best friend, so he was a little older, I was 11 and thought he was perfect. He was actually an arsehole. But I fancied he was my soulmate. Kit used to tease me constantly about him, why’d you ask, feeling jealous?” She asked giggling.

“No, I was merely curious.” He insisted.

“Sure sure, I do think you’re right about Sam’s plan. If he is using Thomas’s name then we can look for that. If he’s using a different alias maybe I’ll recognise it. Helmut did think he wanted me to find him. Also, if he has taken the serum maybe some locals have noticed a local fisherman with super strength.”

“You think he’s become a fisherman?” Bucky said, surprised.

“Well, I was thinking, he loves to be at sea, the navy is out of the question and if he is wanting me to find him, he’d have to stay local. Cornwall is known for its’ roaring fishing trade.”

“I wouldn’t know, but it’s a good place to begin,”

“So, we’ll do this undercover, no stars, no stripes and no metal arm.” Her eyes pleaded with him.

“I packed my gloves.” He waved the vibranium at her. She smiled as the soft light from the bedside lamp reflected off it. A yawn came over her and Bucky reached back to switch off the light. Nancy turned again, her back now pressed back against Bucky’s chest. Sleep fell over them both.

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

They headed out to the coast at dawn. The early morning sun beating down on them. Chatted cheerfully on along the way, he seemed to have lost his hostility from the day before. The first village they came across turned out to be a tourist hotspot, Nancy managed to hire them a car. The first harbour they found didn’t recognise the name Thomas Gregory or the picture Nancy brought up of Kit on her phone. The second harbour told the same story but once they reached the third harbour they had some hope.

“I think I might’ve seen him round here before, tall fellow,” The harbour master explained. Nancy nodded eagerly. “I think he usually mores over the ridge, wait here a moment.” The man jogged back to his portacabin and returned with a clipboard. “Here it is, Greg Thomas, stayed here a few months back, just the one night, the boat you’re looking for is the Princess Lynnette.” He smiled cheerfully at them. Nancy froze but the man didn’t notice as Sam thanked him whilst he walked away.

“You okay there?” Sam asked tapping her shoulder, “it’s good news, he might not be far.”

“He named his boat after me.” She whispered. Bucky smiled but Sam looked confused.

“Princess Lynnette?”

“Lynnette is my middle name.” Nancy explained, fondling the car keys before nodding to herself and marching back to the car. She slipped behind the driver’s seat and started the engine. Kit was close, she could almost feel it, as they drove over the ridge a large cove came into view. The harbour was a rush with activity as the boats came in from their morning runs. They pulled into a nearby car park and entered the throng of people. With everyone so busy they had to do without help finding the boat. They flittered in and out of crowds and up and down the jetty. Just when Nancy was losing hope she caught sight a surprisingly still boat at the end of one row. Every other boat had people rushing on and off loading and unloading goods. This one was silent, Nancy approached it slowly, and there were the words, Princess Lynnette, printed in blue along the side of a modestly sized fishing boat. It had curtains drawn across the window. She reached up to knock tentatively on the window. There was no response. Bucky came up and wrapped an arm round her shoulder.

“It’s his, it has to be.” She felt tears pricking at her eyes.

“We’ll give you a minute.” Bucky nodded at Sam who was admiring the docks comings and goings. They walked a little way away as Nancy stared at the boat, waiting for the curtain to twitch or the boat to rock. It just kept bobbing gently. She knocked again, harder this time, the again and again.

“Can I help you?” A voice sounded from behind her. Nancy span on one heel, her hair flying around as she did, getting whipped up in the wind.

“Nancy.” Kit was standing there, the same but different. He seemed bigger, he’d grown out his hair and was sporting a beard, his skin tanned more than it had been before. He looked different, but he was still, unmistakably, her big brother, he really was alive.

“Kit.” She said, breathless as her legs gave out under her.

[aion-rsa]

Ghosts Series 2: ‘They’re stuck in an existence they didn’t ask for… like all of us’

https://ift.tt/35QzhQ6

The Ghosts creators have worked together for over a decade. To-date, the six-person team (Mat Baynton, Simon Farnaby, Martha Howe-Douglas, Jim Howick, Laurence Rickard and Ben Willbond) have written and performed in long-running children’s sketch comedy Horrible Histories, three series of fantasy sitcom Yonderland, feature film Bill, and two series of the supernatural BBC comedy Ghosts, with a third on the way. 

Channelling Mrs Merton asking Debbie McGee what first attracted her to the millionaire Paul Daniels, I ask Baynton and Howick via Zoom what inspired the group to write Ghosts, a sitcom about a group of individuals who frequently drive each other nuts, trapped together for what may well be eternity? 

Both laugh. “I’m sure we do drive each other nuts in many ways,” says Howick, “but the truth is, like the ghosts, what we always come back to in these episodes is that they love each other and don’t know what they would do without each other. I think that can be said for the group?” He looks to Baynton for confirmation and gets a happy nod. 

Considering the well-documented fallings-out and imploding egos of other comedy gangs – the Pythons not least among them – this level of harmony over such a long period feels remarkable. What’s their secret? “I think we keep each other honest,” says Baynton. “There are certainly heated debates.”

Heated’s too strong a word, says Howick. “We only really fight for our opinion, we never fight each other.” On the rare occasion that there isn’t unanimity about a particular topic, there might be a locking of horns and a democratic vote, but real arguments don’t happen. “There’s no animosity or jealousy with each other’s independent careers,” he explains. “We are our most important project. We have no desire to work each other up. We’re all genuinely fond of each other.”

That much is clear watching them interact. The online BBC press launch for series two was punctuated by the group making each other laugh. Silly voices. Running jokes. At one point, to the absolutely delight of his colleagues, Simon Farnaby’s crotch moved unavoidably front and centre as he stood up in front of his webcam to adjust a window blind. The rapport is real. 

Indeed, during UK lockdown, say Baynton and Howick, the group’s regular Zoom calls drafting Ghosts series three were a godsend. Aside from the boon of having regular work when so much of their industry was in uncertainty, being able to see friends for three hours on a Wednesday evening kept them sane. 

“It’s been a tonic in an otherwise relatively difficult and quite miserable time to have been able to jump on Zoom and make each other laugh with ideas for these characters that we love,” says Baynton. Entertainingly, when the group splits off into writing pairs, each does impressions of the absent characters while drafting dialogue. “It’s funny,” remarks Howick. ‘When we come together as a six, if we’re trying to pitch a positive idea, it’s usually done in a [segues into the regional accent of his upbeat character] Pat voice. Or if it’s a melodramatic idea or if it’s over-the-top, it might be a [Baynton’s Romantic poet character] Thomas voice.” 

Via video chat, it took a little longer for the group’s writing wheels to start turning. Ordinarily a new series would start with two weeks of the gang together in the same room. Stretching that to months of three-hour Zoom calls, fitted in amongst home schooling for the parents among them, was an adjustment. “The energy that you would bring to a room at 10 o’clock in the morning in an office wasn’t there,” says Howick. “You’d have to try and generate this feeling even though everyone was exhausted.”

Howick found himself seeking out frivolity to reach the right frame of mind. He played videogames. “If I sat and thought too hard about what was going on outside my door, it would make me really sad, and so in order to keep a vital part of me going, in order to meet with Mat and the others every Wednesday and keep that bright demeanour, it was good to do that.” The writing momentum started to return with the ease of lockdown, says Baynton. “The simple mental health-saving fact of being able to meet up with family in a garden helped a lot.” 

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Trying to write comedy against a such a serious backdrop of world events also felt uncomfortable, says Baynton. “You feel like it’s almost… immoral is too strong a word, but when there are nurses and doctors and teachers and crucially important people doing the work they do… It felt like an elephant in the room to be tap tap tapping away at a story about another day at Button House and what the ghosts are up to.”

It helped to know how warmly Ghosts series one had been received by its many fans. “What’s touching is when we do get messages from fans who say how much the show means to them. I know how important comedy has been to me in my life, so if we can be that to other people, it doesn’t feel completely frivolous.”

Ghosts, with its colourful selection box of characters (there’s a caveman, a headless Elizabethan, a 17th century witch, an excitable Regency woman-child, an Edwardian snob, a WWII captain, a 1980s scout leader and a 1990s Tory politician) may look frivolous, but series one had moments of real pathos. Baynton is proud of the fact that the series doesn’t shy away from the bleaker side of its ‘dead people’ premise. “If you really interrogate the truth of it – these are people who lived, people who died, people who loved or were thwarted or killed or suffered injustices or never got to love the person that they admired…”

The original idea was for a much bigger cast of ghosts, with everybody playing multiple parts, Horrible Histories-style. It quickly became clear that the story needed to home in on a small ensemble, giving the gang what Howick calls “its own silhouette”. Had they stuck with the original plan, “It would have been like The Muppet Show,” he says. “Every week would only have scratched the surface.” Too many ghost characters would have diminished the show��s emerging premise, says Baynton, which is about “being stuck forever in a tedious and endlessly repetitive existence.”

A bit like lockdown, we joke. Exactly, says Baynton. 

“We talk about this a lot. The way I see it is that their situation is just the same as a living person’s: they’re stuck, they’re in an existence they didn’t ask for, they don’t know why they’re there or what happens next. They know that there is a next ‘thing’ but whether they go to heaven, or hell, or something else, they don’t know. They’re just the same as people on earth.”

Howick agrees, “Their existence is very mortal in that respect.” 

Writing about the afterlife, a sense of existential metaphor is unavoidable, says Baynton. “There is something deeply relatable about it, which is where sitcom will always thrive. You can’t really fail to connect with a story about a person who doesn’t know what to do with their time or who feels stuck. Regardless of class or job or circumstance, that is all of us.”

If the ghost characters are all of us, they’re also peculiar to their time period. The collision and unexpected blending of different social contexts is where much of the series’ comedy comes from. Howick compares the composition of the group to Blackadder Goes Forth, which kept “ranks of characters from different classes stuck together in a hell hole, cheating death every single week.” 

The source of much of the comedy is thwarted status, says Baynton, “It’s the stuff of Alan Partridge and Hyacinth Bucket and Basil Fawlty… people who see themselves a certain way but who aren’t that way to the audience. Every single one of the ghosts is that to some extent. Anything that gave you status in life, you’re robbed of the second you die, so that’s already pretty funny in the sense of a captain who can’t lead, a wealthy woman who has no wealth, a politician who is not recognised as an authority, a poet who can’t pick up a pen, a Scoutmaster with no kids…”

“Not Scoutmaster!” interrupts Howick. “Adventure Club leader!” Before series one aired, they were instructed not to use the “Scouts” organisation name in scripts. “That was before they knew who Pat was going to be,” says Howick. Pat, for info, is a sweetie, and the Scouts should be proud to have him. He’s also a vibrant dancer, as series two, episode two shows. 

“There’s a lot of dancing this series” says Howick. “Without giving too much away, there’s dancing in the last episode. I think Thomas’ best dance is at the end.”

Fans can expect more playfulness with series two. Now that the characters are established and the tone has been taken to heart, the team could afford to experiment a little more. “With series two, because the audience hopefully are with us at this point, we can throw different curveballs,” says Baynton.

“In that way that The Simpsons or those long-running American things, you can suddenly do one in black and white, as if it’s a Hitchcock thing. We’ve definitely had fun. There’s an episode later in the second series which is a format of its own. We’re thinking about those things for series three, being free to be really playful with it.”

There’s a Christmas special episode to come, “the last one ever to be filmed!” joked Farnaby at the press launch. The timing on series two’s filming was especially jammy, with only one day lost to the UK TV and film industry shutdown in March. They made the decision not to use supporting artists in the last scenes filmed, set in a Medieval plague village. The irony of having to tell actors they couldn’t come and play plague victims because there was an actual plague wasn’t lost on them, says Baynton.

Thomas gets a gun in series two, they tease, and we’ll find out how he met his end. “The burning question for fans of the show is how the characters died, and you will find out some in each series,” says Baynton. “There are some we’re holding onto for as long as we possibly can, but rest assured, they’re coming!” 

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

Ghosts series 2 starts on BBC One at 8.30pm, with all six episodes available to stream afterwards on BBC iPlayer. 

The post Ghosts Series 2: ‘They’re stuck in an existence they didn’t ask for… like all of us’ appeared first on Den of Geek.

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[lbibliophile-mcu]

Star Spangled Bingo 2020 masterpost

The @star-spangled-bingo​ for 2020 is complete! 

I was hoping to get a blackout, but a combination of being side-tracked by ATLA fandom and misreading the closing date made me just miss it - I’ll just have to ssav those ideas for the next round!. But I’m still impressed by the number of Cap fills I managed (although none Sam-centric this time).

Fill details and links are below the cut (all fills are gen/teen).

Sleeping Bucky Prompt: Rescue Mission Fill type: moodboard and drabble  Characters: Steve Rogers / Bucky Barnes  Tags: fairytale au, cryofreeze, amnesia  Summary: They say that true love’s kiss can break a curse. But love is too vast and complex an emotion to be encompassed by a single kiss.

Armed and Ready (Winter Soldier braid]  Prompt: Losing Control of Powers Fill type: fancraft and drabble Characters: Bucky Barnes Tags: tablet weaving, Bucky Barnes’ metal arm, Infinity War Summary: He looks at the open case; at the dark limb with its bright tracery. He should have known this was coming. He had known. 

Conduction Prompt: Cuddling Fill type: fanfic (970 words) Characters:  Bucky Barnes & Tony Stark Tags: touch-starved, Bucky Barnes needs a hug Summary: Conduction n, the transfer of heat energy via contact. It is a small thing that makes him notice. A simple clap on the shoulder, emphasis for whatever point he is making. But when he moves to take his hand away, Bucky follows, just for a moment, prolonging the contact.

Wounds Unhealing Prompt: Home Alone Fill type: poem (440 words) Characters: Steve Rogers Tags: canonical character death, grief/mourning, Steve Rogers has PTSD, Endgame Summary:  They say time heals all wounds. But how can he heal when every memory tears away the slow-forming scab?

How Many Times? Prompt: “Where’s the fight?” Fill type: moodboard and poem (160 words) Characters: Steve Rogers Tags: grief/mourning, Steve Rogers has PTSD, Captain America as a role, suicidal ideation - potential interpretation Summary: When Steve agreed to become Captain America, he pledged his life in service to his country. And he gave his life, crashing a plane full of bombs into icy water. But then he wakes. He wakes, and they ask for Captain America once more. Again and again... He never thought about what it might mean that his contract had no end date.

Fri on the Wall Prompt: Friday Fill type: Drabble sequence (600 word) Characters:  Friday, Bucky Barnes / Tony Stark Tags: mutual pining, supportive Friday, 5+1 things, dialogue-only Summary: Friday watches her idiot, pining boys. Or, five times Friday tried to support their relationship, and one time she decided to take more drastic measures.

Ice Bound - pt 1 Prompt: Soulmate AU Fill type: fanfic (620 words) Characters:  Steve Rogers / Bucky Barnes Tags: assumed character death, soulmate AU, cryofreeze, CA:TFA Summary: Steve and Bucky are Bonded. From the day they first meet they are inseparable – best friends and brothers – hardly a day goes past without the other’s company. People say they are lucky, finding each other so young, so close, never having to search and wonder; they say that it is a sign of the strength of their bond. They will need that strength

Workout Prompt: “I need a new set of lungs” Fill type: moodboard Characters: Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Tags: animal AU, dog!Steve Rogers and dog!Bucky Barnes, human!Tony Stark Summary: If there were such a thing as supersoldiers in dog form, Bucky and Steve would be it. Tony loves them, but their energy will be the death of him someday.  

Trauma Bingo Prompt: PTSD Fill type: fanfic (1120 words) Characters:  Bucky Barnes & Avengers Team Tags: PTSD, therapy, crack, many traumatic topics touched on briefly and non-graphically - full list in AO3 tags Summary:  SHIELD remembers that trauma therapy exists, and their sights are set on the Avengers. Aka. How many issues can you fit in one team, and can you also get them all in the same person. Succeeding at trauma bingo is not actually winning…

Decorating Bucky’s Arm Prompt: Avengers Tower Fill type: moodboard/graphic Characters:  Bucky Barnes & Avengers Team Tags: Bucky Barnes’ metal arm, Avengers family, joke gifts Summary: “I’m noticing a trend with these gifts…”

Captain America braid Prompt: Free Space Fill type: fancraft Characters:  na Tags: tablet weaving, Captain America’s shield Summary: na

Visions of Xmas Past, Present, Future Prompt: Time Travel Fill type: moodboard and drabble Characters:  Bucky Barnes / Sam Wilson Tags: A Christmas Carol remix, blood, future relationship Summary: Christmas Eve in his shity little apartment in in Bucharest, a recovering Bucky Barnes is granted a gift: a reminder of how far he has come, and how much more he still has to gain.

Subject SS2 Prompt: Crying Themself to Sleep Fill type: fanfic (540 words) Characters: Steve Rogers Tags: Hydra, imprisonment, implied torture, implied medical experimentation, supersoldier serum, hurt no comfort Summary: Hydra has finally managed to achieve something they have been dreaming of since WWII: the capture of Captain America. But what to do with him? The science division calls dibs. After all, there's only so much you can learn from a historical sample size of one.

Cleaning up the Evidence Prompt: Giving the Kids a Bath Fill type: moodboard and drabble Characters:  Bucky Barnes / Tony Stark, Steve Rogers Tags: deaged!Steve Rogers, fluff, dialogue-only Summary: Tony discovers the unexpected pitfalls of an artistic toddler

Hunters and Haunted Prompt: Chance Encounter Fill type: moodboard (and pre-published drabble) Characters:  Bucky Barnes & Natasha Romanoff Tags: nightmares, blood, guns Summary: Not all monsters can be fought with guns and steel. But a friend to guard your back is always invaluable.

Preventative Measures Prompt: Losing a sense Fill type: moodboard/graphic Characters:  Bucky Barnes Tags: self-mutilation, ear trauma, blood, Winter Soldier trigger words, CA:CW Summary:  ‘Sticks and stones may break my bones...’ but words turn me into a mindless killing machine. So Bucky takes matters into his own hands.

Heat-sensitive SHIELDRA Mug - Buy Now! Prompt: Mistaken Identity Fill type: graphic Characters:  na Tags: Hydra, crack, merchandise Summary: Do you want to show off your loyalty to your organisation? Frustrated that undercover operation cramps your style? Worry no more!

BUCK-E’s Problem Prompt: No-One Believes Them Fill type: fanart and drabble Characters:  Bucky Barnes & Tony Stark Tags: DUM-E’s Drawings, Bucky Barnes’ metal arm, cats, mechanical repairs Summary: Hanging out in TON-E’s workshop, DUM-E collects the best stories. BUCK-E is not amused.

A Dead Man’s Face Prompt: “I thought you were smaller.” Fill type: fanfic (530 words) Characters:  Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers Tags: Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, partial amnesia, brainwashing, CA:TWS Summary: The Winter Soldier knows that he was once called Bucky Barnes, and had a childhood friend called Steve Rogers. The Winter Soldier knows that Captain America is his enemy and the enemy of everything Hydra stands for. The Winter Soldier now knows that Captain America is the type of man - monster - who would use the face of Bucky’s dead friend as a weapon against him. But he will not falter; he has a mission.

Collage Prompt: Mental Illness Fill type: fanfic (400 words) Characters:  Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers Tags: PTSD, therapy, self-identity, Steve Rogers has issues, Bucky Barnes has issues but is dealing with them Summary: “You really think you don’t have anything you need to talk about? Because my therapist doesn’t just help with the Winter Soldier shit, y’know. I’m learning how to be a person again, and that means dealing with everything that makes me who I am. “In your case, there’s Captain-America-who-fights-aliens, Captain-Rogers-who-fights-Nazis, Steve-from-the-40s-who-fights-bullies, and Stevie-who-became-a-big-buff-supersoldier-to-hopefully-win-some-of-said-fights. And that’s just the obvious. No wonder you’re a mess.”

[welllpthisishappening]

A Chance of Snow Showers

It was inevitable. 

After all, it was family skate, and Christmas, and there was something inherently competitive about this particular family so, eventually, there was going to be some kind of competition. 

Skating blue lines with a baby strapped to his chest made perfect sense to Killian. Especially if it kept getting Emma to make that face. 

-----

Rating: Teen. But only just. Because of the kissing.  Word Count: 3.3 K AN: I had to write some Blue Line Christmas fluff. I had to. And when both @peglegsjones​ and @eleveneitherway​ sent me pictures from the Blackhawks family skate, my mid was like...ok. Set two Christmases after Killian retires, which makes it December 2028. Everyone is stupid competitive. 

And that’ll do it for the Christmas stories this year. I did not fill nearly all of them, so they will all get written eventually, but may not be holiday themed. Thank you to everyone who sent me a prompt, I’m so sorry if I didn’t get to it pre-Disney and, as always, thank you times a million for ever looking at any of the words I shove at the internet. You’re all lovely. 

-----

“It’s really not fair.”

“What isn’t?”

“You.”

“Me?” Killian asked, digging the toe of his skate into the ice and Emma hummed so softly he barely heard over the din around them. 

There were kids everywhere. 

Some with helmets and others with sticks, blades scraping that same ice and laughter ringing in the air around them. Matt was very clearly shouting about racing, again and Peggy was desperately trying to get Leo to play goalie so she could shoot against him, but neither Killian nor Emma had moved that much and that probably had something to do with the kid strapped to his chest and she kept glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. Badly. 

It made his pulse sputter in his veins. 

Still. 

“Yeah, you,” Emma nodded. She stumbled slightly when she pushed away from the boards, Killian’s hand reaching out towards her on instinct and the same sentiment behind still and he wasn’t all that surprised by the overall and vaguely exasperated diameter of her eyes as soon as he did it.

“That’s chivalrous.”

She scrunched her nose. “Ridiculous. And just—god, it is really stupid how good looking you are with the skates—“

“—It’d be weird if I didn’t have skates on—“

“—And the face—“

“—My face?”

“Seriously, you cannot keep interrupting me.”

“Well, when you’re so articulate,” Killian chuckled, and he did manage to get his fingers through her belt loop that time, tugging Emma as close as he could. The baby was kind of in the way. 

In a way where that was actually good and great and decidedly familial. At the Rangers family skate. 

Four days before Christmas. 

“You know,” Killian drawled, “if I didn’t know any better, Swan, I’d think that my ability to skate while holding our kid was vaguely attractive to you.”

“Vaguely. You think you can skate with the kid? Does this count as skating?”

“That sounds a bit like a challenge.”

“Weird.”

He chuckled, nosing at Emma’s cheek, but that only lasted as long as it took for something else to crash behind the net and Killian’s fingers tightened. There was no way Emma was going to be able to keep her balance when she jumped towards the sound. 

Matt wasn’t standing anymore. 

And that wasn’t really unexpected, but they’d been working on figuring out how to stop, so Killian was almost hopeful that eventually something would stick. No such luck, apparently. 

“In my defense,” Will yelled, both his hands curled into the back of Matt’s jersey to keep him upright, “this was not my fault.”

Killian tilted his head. “That’s it? That’s your entire defense? How did he even get over there?”

“Well, he’s fast.”

“Genetics,” Emma mumbled, Will humming in agreement. 

There was a camera shutter snapping somewhere.”

“Uh—yeah,” Will added,  “I mean, look at the kid, Cap, with his flailing limbs and—mostly his flailing limbs, can you control yourself, Dr. J?”

Matt did not control himself. He laughed. And Killian hadn’t really stopped smiling, partially because his fingers were still crooked through Emma’s belt loop, which ensured that she was all but pressed against his side, and partially because all his kids kept exuding something dangerously close to Christmas joy and—

“He’s gunning for a competition,” Will said. “And I think that’s got to be a product of his upbringing, don’t you?”

“Was that supposed to be insulting?” Killian asked. 

“Eh, honest, maybe.”

“That’s scathing, Merry Christmas, Scarlet.”

Will practically cackled. 

“Dad, Dad, Dad,” Matt shouted. “Rol said we should all race! Like with a bracket and everything.”

“Did he just?”

Roland grit his teeth. “Skating in a circle gets kind of boring, don’t you think, Hook?”

“Also sounds like a challenge,” Emma mumbled. 

And it wasn’t really surprising — the lot of them far too competitive for their own good, even after the end of careers and years off the ice and Killian wasn’t entirely sure if they were all supposed to be there, technically, but Ruby had her phone out and there were several other PR minions with cameras and social media feeds to populate and—

Chris started squirming, the back of his feet colliding with Killian’s stomach when he kicked out and Emma’s lips all but disappeared behind her teeth while she did her best not to laugh. 

It did not work. 

“Lucas, are you getting this?” Robin asked, his own stick propped up on his shoulder and Regina standing next to him. Very close to Ariel. 

Regina had begrudgingly agreed to come onto the ice as well — only after both Roland and Henry pulled her out with them — but she hadn’t moved much in the last half an hour, and Ariel’s skates had a distinct toe pick them. 

That wouldn’t help her if they raced. 

They were absolutely all going to race. 

Over-competitive weirdos. 

“Don’t insult me like that,” Ruby said. One of the minions moved their cameras, Killian doing his best to calm Chris while also making sure Matt did eventually get back to his feet and, from the sounds of it, Leo had absolutely refused to get in goal. “No, no, no,” she snapped, a quick hand on the minion’s shoulder when, it appeared, they weren’t getting the right angle. “Cap—focus on Cap and the kid and—you know what, actually? This is a sign.”

“Of?” Ariel asked. 

“Cap is old.”

Will almost fell over. Matt practically growled. “Sorry, sorry, sorry, Dr. J,” he mumbled. “It’s just—I don’t think Ruby’s worker bee knew she was talking about your dad. Maybe we should come up with new nicknames, then?”

“Captain Emeritus,” Robin grinned.

“Nah, that’s too wordy.”

Emma had her hand over her mouth now. 

“What about CE, then?” Robin suggested, before almost immediately shaking his head. “Ah, that’s garbage too, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely.”

“And it suggests that there’s a new captain,” Mary Margaret pointed out. She grunted when she collided with the boards, both Regina and Ariel helping her brace herself. “Which, you know—that’s not a thing.”

“Thank you Mrs. Nolan,” Will said, “for the English language lesson. Hey, you going to race with us?”

Mary Margaret made a ridiculous noise in the back of her throat. “Are you kidding me?”

“It’s an idea.”

“Ruby would have to dedicate an entire special to me breaking both my legs.”

“Doesn’t exactly exude the festive notion of the season, does it? Honestly, do the new minions not know to refer to Cap as—oh, don’t look at me like that, Lucas.”

Ruby hissed. “Did you just call him a minion?”

“It’s a term of endearment. Like Cap.”

“God, you lack any tact, don’t you, Scarlet?” Regina asked, but she was also doing a fairly pitiful job of trying not to laugh and Killian wasn’t sure what the appropriate feeling to feel in a moment like this was. 

Pain, apparently. 

Peggy had slammed, rather unceremoniously, into his side. 

“So none of them know how to stop, huh?” Robin laughed. Peggy didn’t move. If anything, she dug her forehead further into Killian’s thigh, drawing a strangled sound out of him and a disgruntled sound out of the baby still strapped to his chest and—

“Dad,” Peggy whined. “I want to race.”

Killian narrowed his eyes at Roland. Who grinned in response. “I don’t know what to tell you, Hook. They’re your kids and—“

“—You want to race too,” Emma pointed out. 

He shrugged. “Well, yeah, I’ve got to beat Mattie.”

It took approximately half a second for Matt to get back to his skates — a fact Will was very quick to point out and for Killian to be slightly proud of because—“No, no, no, Rol, that’s not what’s gong to happen,” Matt argued. He pushed off, moving quickly enough to be impressive and redirect the camera again, right fist colliding with Roland’s side as soon as he was within reach. 

Henry pulled him away. 

“We need some rules, then, don’t you think?” Henry asked. “Because these old people—“ There was a general hum of disagreement, more than a few boo’s from David and Phillip threw a pile of ice-snow from the other side of the rink. Henry widened his eyes. “They’re all going to try and cheat. Gunning for past glories and whatnot.”

“To remind people of longstanding nicknames,” Emma added. “And three Stanley Cups!”

The minion turned very red. 

Like a Santa hat. 

They should apologize to the minion eventually. 

Henry quirked an eyebrow. “You going to race?”

“Seriously?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“The competitive gene runs real strong on the Jones side of this team,” Will announced, twisting on his skates like he was getting ready for puck drop. 

Emma beamed. 

And Killian hoped that wasn’t a distraction later. 

Competitive weirdo. 

“Rules, then?” Henry asked. “We probably shouldn’t let you guys pick who you skate against because—“

“—I want to race Scarlet,” Emma interrupted. “And only Scarlet.”

Will’s lips twitched, moving towards them with enough ease that for a moment Killian forgot they were, in fact, all old and it had been years and seasons, but three Stanley Cups too and that was another inherently good thing. Peggy tugging on the side Will’s sweater when he stopped. 

“You don’t want to race Cap?”

“Please,” Emma balked. “Mattie’s going to race Killian—“

“—Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Matt shouted, and it was difficult to tell if Will rolled his eyes when Killian did as well, but he figured. Because of those years. 

“That’s a good point,” Will admitted. 

“It’s because Emma thinks she can beat you,” David called, Emma nodding and humming and her laugh hadn’t changed much in the years. Any of them. Maybe a little louder now than it had been, particularly when Will lunged forward, tugging her with him and Killian hoped one of the cameras got him picking up Peggy. 

While still holding Chris. 

He was unreasonably proud of himself. 

“That’s rude, Em,” Will chided. It was difficult to hear the words over his laugh though and they did keep referring to Ruby’s PR people as minions so maybe they all were kind of rude. 

Collectively. 

But in a passably festive way. 

And it only took a few minutes to write out the bracket — the lot of them lining up at the far blue line and Ruby announcing, “I am in charge, obviously.”

Both Robin and Phillip saluted. 

“Ok,” Ruby instructed, “Em and Scarlet are going to go first. One blue line to the other. Fastest wins…we don’t have a stopwatch, do we?”

“We have phones,” Ariel suggested. “And, you know—eyes.”

“Ha ha ha.”

“You’re taking this way too seriously, Lucas,” Will mumbled, swatting at Emma’s hands every few seconds. “Just shout ready, set go and—“

“Go,” Emma yelled. She’d used him to push off. 

Killian’s whole body shook with the force of his reaction to that, chin coming close to Chris’ head in the process and Emma didn’t really know how to stop either. She grunted when her shoulder hit the glass, a gasp when she tried to twist and her skate got caught and Matt was yelling instructions. 

“No, no, Mom, you’ve got to push off! With your toes!”

Emma hummed, more color rising in her cheeks. “Thanks, kid. That’s—oh my God, Scarlet, you cheat!”

He flashed her a grin when he doused her ankles with snow-ice, more than a few gasps of indignation from the peanut gallery. And for a moment, they weren’t much more than a mess of limbs and seasonally appropriate activewear, trying to keep the other from moving too quickly, but Emma found her edge quicker and it was probably the return trip back down the ice that was going to do them all in. 

Will was out of breath by the time he got there. 

Emma’s eyes were very green. 

When she all but flung herself towards Killian. 

And there was still a baby in the way, Killian’s neck twisting in a direction he was sure he wouldn’t appreciate all that much later, but he was admittedly rather one tracked at the moment. So he kissed his wife. 

Who was also in desperate need of oxygen. 

“Please tell me how impressed you are by my athletic prowess,” Emma mumbled into his mouth. He nipped at her lip. 

“Decidedly impressed.”

“Who do I skate against later?”

Ruby sighed. “Do you not know how brackets work? We have to go though the rest of the round. Alright, Rook, c’mere, you’ve got to stand on the line.”

It went like that for another two races — Phillip barely moving before Roland was at center ice and Henry had absolutely let Peggy win. 

And then. 

Matt grinned at Killian when they lined up on the blue line and part of him was a little disappointed that it was a first-round matchup. Eventually they’d come up with better brackets. 

Presumably when they played air hockey. 

That was more serious, anyway. 

“Alright, kid,” Killian said, “you ready?”

Matt nodded enthusiastically, brushing the longer-than-usual strands of hair away from his eyes in a move that was so alarmingly familiar Killian was genuinely surprised his knees didn’t give out right there. 

It didn’t matter. Emma’s might of. She made a noise at least — tugging her phone out of her back pocket with her other arm curled around Peggy’s shoulders and Mary Margaret nearby. “It’s patently stupid,” Emma muttered. “Also, is that happening?”

She nodded towards Chris, his own head tilted up slightly, like he was passably interested in whatever was about to happen. 

Killian shrugged. “I’m not planning on falling over. Or, you know—crashing into the boards.”

“Are you trash talking our kid?”

“It’s entirely possible. Plus, you know, he’ll enjoy it.”

“Which kid?”

“This one,” Killian answered, pointing down at a gurgling Chris. He made a face at him. “Right, Chris? We’re going to go fast. You’ll love it.”

“Maybe we don’t get this part on camera,” Ariel suggested. 

“Mini-Jones, you hearing this?” Ruby asked. Matt’s eyes narrowed. More tells. All the tells. A never-ending stream of similarities and genetics and the kid actually had the gall to crouch like he was starting a speed-skating race in the Olympics. 

Killian’s jaw dropped. 

“Oh, he’s not taking your garbage, Cap,” Robin chuckled. “Try and balance on your side when you turn ok, Matt? Make sure you twist your hips when you do it, otherwise you’ll absolutely fall over.”

Matt blinked. “What?”

“Your hips, it’s—seriously, did your dad not teach you anything?”

“I’m standing right here,” Killian said. 

“And the kid still doesn’t know how to stop,” Roland mumbled, one side of his mouth curling up. Emma buried her head in Mary Margaret’s shoulder. 

“I can stop,” Matt objected. He was already drifting forward a bit though, not all that pleased when Killian tugged him back, but Ruby was counting down and Killian was not prepared for the overall strength of his ten-year-old’s collective lower body. 

Because Matt pushed off and Killian wasn’t ready and—

“Oh shit,” he hissed, Emma’s laugh ringing in his ears when he raced after Matt. And he couldn’t remember the last time he’d skated blue lines, even if he did get on the ice regularly, a distinct sting in the general area of his lungs when he did his best to pick up speed. 

Killian tried to move his arms, crouching on instinct, but there was also another kid there and that kid did not appreciate going fast as much as he might have liked. Or being bent awkwardly. 

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Killian chanted, like Chris would remember any of this particularly scarring moment. Matt laughed when his hand hit the boards, a quick snap of his neck that made it all too obvious just how wide his smile was. 

Triumphant, that was the word for it. 

“You’ve got go faster, Dad!”

It was impossible to know who was laughing louder at the other end of the rink. 

Killian exhaled, every muscle in his thighs objecting to the movement when he pressed down, lowering his head like that would also lower his center of gravity, but it was a breakaway and a two-on-one and he’d never been very good at turning anyway.

No chance. 

Matt didn’t quite slam into the second round of boards, but he wobbled as he slid over the blue line, palms flat against Will’s chest when he caught him, another twist and flail of limbs and Killian couldn’t really stand up. 

“Wow,” Emma mused, another smile that practically hung from all three letters, “that’s kind of embarrassing, isn’t it?”

Killian shook his head. “The kid is good at skating. Even if he cheated too.”

“I did not,” Matt objected. 

“Eh…like mother, like son, huh?”

“No, no, no, you were just slow. I didn’t push off like Mom did! And Rubes was counting, so—“

“—The kid’s got a point,” Ruby said, a distinct rhythm to her voice. “Long live the legend of Captain Killian Jones. Bested by his own son at a game they are both questionably good at.”

“A compliment, Lucas?” Killian asked. 

“You still skate good.”

“Well,” Mary Margaret amended. 

Ruby rolled her eyes. “Em, you’re going to race Rol in the next round. Let’s go.”

Roland beat Emma. 

Peggy beat Matt. 

That did not end well — shouts and sneers, Emma holding onto Peggy and Will holding onto Matt and Ruby told the minions to leave that alone. So she could take her own video. 

There were accusations of more cheating, tongues sticking out and noises that were not at all festive, several adults trying to look responsible because—

“I’m going to win the whole thing now,” Peggy announced. 

Which was exactly what she did. 

No push off. No false start. Just speed and Roland’s wide-eyed expression when she held her edge on the turn, every single adult on the ice breaking out into cheers as soon as she crossed the blue line. 

And Killian wasn’t really surprised by that either — more about genetics, he was sure, but there was something close to joy and distinctly like pride surging through every inch of him and he nearly fell back when Peggy jumped towards him. Her hair hit his mouth. 

“Dad, did you see? Did you watch?! That was so—“

“—You were great, little love.”

She threw her arms around his shoulders. 

Chris wasn’t pleased by that either. 

They stayed on the ice for another hour — photo-ops and interviews and a social media presence that would probably be Ruby’s greatest NHL legacy, but Killian didn’t ever actually take Chris off and Emma kept shooting him furtive glances, a warmth curling at the base of his spine and erasing any memories of loss, recent or otherwise and he glanced down before he spoke. 

Like he was double checking with his skating partner. 

“You won’t remember this, right?” Killian asked. Chris gurgled. “Yeah, that’s what I figured. Alright, let’s go.”

Emma didn’t flinch when Killian moved into her space, twisting her towards him and he felt her smile when he caught her mouth with his, enough happiness to power several cities, which was a very cyclical thought and an even better life and he might have shivered when her tongue dragged across his lower lip. 

“Gotcha,” she muttered. 

“Was it a race?”

“I’ve lost track of the metaphor, honestly.”

“I wasn’t even sure we were making metaphors,” Killian admitted, Emma laughing and canting her hips and that was a dangerous thing on ice, but he’d always been very good on ice and his hand found the small of her back. 

“Watching you skate with a baby strapped to you was the single most attractive thing I’ve ever seen. Just you know, for the record.”

He leaned back—all too aware of the heat in his cheeks and the state of his pulse, but Emma’s eyes were almost distractingly green and she didn’t blink. Just looked up and held his gaze, toying with Chris’ fingers like that wasn’t the most attractive thing anyone had ever done. 

Over-competitive weirdos, honestly. 

“I love you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Killian echoed. “I look forward to beating you at air hockey.”

“Sounds like a plan, Cap.”

[thephantomofthe-internet]

A Kiss from the Afterlife

Rocker!Billy Hargrove x Holloway!Reader

Word Count: 3,989

Warnings: death mention!, alcohol, swearing, angst

Author’s note: I haven’t written in awhile, hope you guys still like me and my stuff, I like this story a lot personally

Tag List: @carolimedanvers​ @hotstuffhargrove​ @thechickvic​ @alex--awesome--22​ @lilmissperfectlyimperfect​ @so-not-hotmess​ @hawkeyeharrington​ @sunflowercandie​ @kaliforniacoastalteens​ @songforhema​ @spidey-pal​ @mickmoon​ @buckybarneshairpullingkink​ @marvelismylifffe​ @baebee35​

The assignment was clear. It was stupid, but it was clear. A fluff piece for the Indianapolis Tribune, reviewing local Indiana bands for state pride or some shit. It felt totally out of your element. You should be reviewing the latest new wave flash in the pan or whatever Michael Jackson single had been dropped and hit high enough on the top one hundred to pay attention to, which was almost every single. Much more important work than some garage bands going to open mic nights on the weekend and would break up in a month over a girl who everyone else would call their Yoko Ono.

This wasn’t worth your time.

But what Chris said go. Chris, your editor, was working under the assumption that fluff pieces about local work get more local readers. A sort of self-flagellation for a crappy state. So, you did as little research as possible to find three up and coming acts from around greater Indianapolis, finding three of the most boring seeming hair metal bands that might get successful, and found gigs to watch.

You promised yourself that you weren’t going farther than Gary, but Chris insisted on you going down to Carmel, apparently the band there was really popular and missing them would get too many letters to the editor. You begrudgingly agreed, but only because Carmel was just far enough from Hawkins to keep your mind at bay. You found solace knowing that the band would probably be the worst. Amateur bands with really good names always failed, it was the rule. Good bands got good names later.

And Crown of Thorns was a really good band name.

You’d found a slew of fans to interview in Carmel, according to them they were like Guns n’ Roses had a baby with Madonna’s Like a Prayer video-all religious imagery and hard rock sensibility. Sounded too good to be true. No garage band was that good. You wondered what they actually liked. Usually, the intense fans were either friends with or fucking the band members; groupies don’t just appear they start as girlfriends and boyfriends and buddies from high school looking for free booze. You don’t how many ex-girlfriends, boyfriends, and friends you’d talk to for your interviews for the dumb piece.

You wondered how many ex-girlfriends you’d interviewed for the preamble for Crown of Thorns. All their fans seemed to be women, at least the ones who wanted to be interviewed were. It was strange, usually there was a couple beer bros wandering around looking to talk about how some band so fucking awesome or whatever.

Still, you didn’t bother to question it. There was one perk of this assignment and that was not having to work the awful nine to five in stuffy professional attire. Well worn jeans and a baggy tee shirt beat blazers and heels any day of the damn week. You wandered into the venue late that night, the bar called The Muddy Duck which looked as terrible as its name was; you made a note to describe the place as kindly as you could.

The bar was dim and awful. It stunk of beer spilled hours ago and puke. So much puke. The place smelt so bad you wondered if they filled the walls with the stuff instead of insulation. The floor was sticky under your boots and people kept bumping against you. The band hadn’t even come onstage and someone had already spilt a drink on you, sticky liquid trailing down your back and making your skin crawling involuntarily. Some sloppy girl muttered “Sorry…” dropping her sugar crusted martini glass on the counter before stumbling off. You pulled the drenched material off your back before pushing your way to the front. The crappy lights above the milk crates the place was calling a stage had flashed on and the entire room fell into a hush. You pulled out your notepad, jabbing your pencil behind your ear.

Three hulking men took the stage, each scruffier than the last, most hunched over with their instruments strung around their backs; bass guitar and guitar and drumsticks shoved as far away from their person as possible. They all looked as if they didn’t want to be seen, you wrote that down, noting their homemade band merchandise and stringy unkempt hair.

Then, the crowd cheered. The forth member was climbing the steps, fluffy mullet bouncing with each of his steps. He turned to the audience, throwing up the horns in a dramatic pose, hands held in a ‘v’ over his head and head tipped back up at the ceiling. The ring of feminine screams washed over your ears, causing you to throw your hands over your ears, trying to save your ear drums from their squeals.

An elbow jabbed into your ribs, bringing your attention to a spiky looking Siouxie Sioux knockoff who was smirking down at you “If you can’t handle that, you aren’t going to be able to handle this show.” She said, her voice carrying over the sound of the crowd.

“Thanks for the tip.” You called back, writing down the quote, making a note to find her before you left, to get one good interview out of this mess.

The drummer had taken his seat, the guitarists pulling their instruments to the front of them. The singer took the microphone in his hands like it was his lover, his eyes scanning the scene. They met yours for the briefest of moments and recognition hit you like a freight train.

Billy god damn Hargrove. You wanted to die.

Of course you had to interview Hargrove. Of course he had his own shitty hair metal band even though it was 19 god damn 91 and hair metal was dying off like flies on fly paper. Of course he was trying to fuck the audience with his eyes. You prayed he didn’t recognize you. You prayed you could get through this interview without any spill ups. You just wanted to disappear from Hawkins bullshit and the people who made it awful. Billy Hargrove made it awful.

Billy Hargrove destroyed your family.

Heather was your little sister, your bratty baby sister who stole your clothes and destroyed your makeup and followed you around helplessly. She was your stuck up, immature, callus, popularity obsessed sister. She was a kid. You left Hawkins to go to college, to get away from your fighting parents and your mother’s slow descent into alcoholism. You went into journalism because it was the only thing you could relate to your father about and you wanted that praise. You stayed away from your family when you could, the mess growing too big for you to tackle. You tried to keep up with Heather, but she didn’t want check in from her older sister. She was too old for a babysitter, to be babied by her older sibling. She stopped answering your calls, so you stopped calling.

And then, she was gone. They were gone. Lost to some stupid fire in a stupid mall. Your whole family, just gone. There were a handful of survivors, and you didn’t blame them, but in your heart one person shouldn’t have been saved. And that was Hargrove. Why did the universe save a philandering womanizer with a penchant for bullying get to live when your baby sister had to die? How was that fair? If you’d ever fully believed in God, you lost your faith in them the day you found out about your sister.

And you never forgave Hawkins. You turned your back on the place, sold your family home and the newspaper, packed up what was important and gave the rest to Goodwill. Life wasn’t in Hawkins anymore, it was anywhere else. Indianapolis didn’t feel far enough yet, but it held a decent paying job and a life away from what hurt you.  A small change did more than enough to feel free of the ghosts chasing you from a joint grave plot.

The intro to their first song blared from the lead guitarist’s amp, filling the room with screeching metallic notes, far too fast to be the start of a song. You waited for the crash of cymbals or the mellow sound of the bass or even a note from Hargrove. The song opened with a minute long solo. You absolutely hated that, it stunk of the seventies psychedelic rock your older cousins would blast in the basement during Christmas parties, all claiming to be Satanists and against the holiday until their parents let them each have a beer. The sound left a sour taste in your mouth.

What didn’t help was the pure, wordless wail Hargrove let out as the guitar cut out. The audience was deathly silent, on the edge of their seats waiting for something. What it was, you weren’t sure, but you watched his hands as he adjusted his grip and pulled himself in close, his lips almost touching its centre, his icy blue eyes lowering to meet the gaze of the room again.

“I watched the blood pour from your eyes…” he crooned out, his eyelashes fluttering as if he’d sung something romantic. His voice wasn’t strong, but the way he held the microphone. There was a phrase for it; a term…it was on the tip of your tongue. It found you by the end of the song, which seemed to solely about watching the one you love fall out of love with you, which dark imagery.

As the room applauded, you found your mind again, his stupid stare and the way he held the audience in the palm of his hand. Frank Sinatra syndrome. You might have made up the term, but it made too much sense. Sinatra was a dreamboat in the forties and an emotional singer who owned a room and the hearts of his fan base, a majority of which were women. It said that in the cramped, warm venues of his early career of the late twenties and early thirties that you could smell the pheromones coming off the girls in the room. It seemed Billy Hargrove had found a way to do the same. He had the whole room wrapped around his little finger.

Now it made sense why you’d only been able to find women who were interested in the band, no straight man would ever be interested in them. And no gay man would get caught by reporters looking for a story, too dangerous. Now it made sense why the bar was so shit and the girls here were so hot-straight girls would go anywhere for a peak at a hottie like Hargrove, you remembered how the girls chased him in high school, how desperate they were for just a peak at him in his gym clothes or shirtless at the pool.

Billy Hargrove still had a way with the girls.

They managed four more songs, only one a cover, which impressed you a fair bit. The amount of kids you’d listen to play AC/DC and Metallica and Motley Crue in the week alone was enough to make you hate any song with an electric guitar in it. Hearing original songs, albeit trite drivel about love and losing girls and sex under God’s eye, was almost a breath of fresh air. Almost. If it hadn’t been Hargrove, it would’ve been completely worth the trip down.

But you had to deal with Hargrove.

His performance ended and the crowd erupted into uproarious applause as the group shuffled off the stage, save Hargrove who jumped off the front of the stage, landing directly in front of you.

“You the chick from the Indianapolis Tribune?” he asked, looking you over with a lazy look, half-hearted in both its intention and its purpose.

You tucked your pencil behind your ear, looking at him in pure annoyance “You see anyone else taking notes?” you asked. Billy chuckled drily, running a hand through his sweaty looking hair, pulling a black hair elastic off his right wrist, right above the black leather cuff he had on both his wrists, and pulling his tangled curls off the back of his neck.

“The boys are at the bar, come over when you want an actual interview instead of bitching.” He replied shortly, stalking off as a small hoard of girls followed behind him. He already had groupies. Oh my fucking god.

You took a deep breath, swallowed your pride, and walked over to the bar, ordering yourself a beer before pulling up a stool. Billy smirked slightly as he saw you turn to the group. He slung an arm over a girl in a tight leather skirt, causing the other girls to walk off; apparently, Hargrove had made his choice for the night and the other girls accepted it without verbal complaint to him.

“Guys, this is the chick from the newspaper.” He grabbed his brown bottle off the sticky rail and pulled it to his lips, taking a long sip, his eyes never leaving you.

“Hi, Y/N Holloway, I just have a couple of questions for you guys and then I’ll get out of your way.” You smiled. You watched out of the corner of your eye as your last name caused recognition flashed in his baby blues. In that moment, he knew you. Well, he knew your family. And he became a wallflower. You asked your simple questions, which were mostly about how they met and what their goals were, which the drummer declared to be ‘world domination’ while elbowing Billy in the abs, as if he would’ve laughed. He didn’t. In fact he didn’t speak at all; he just sort of stared at you, mouth open just a little, just enough to show the shock he felt. That was a confidence boost, knowing you could still shock.

You finished the interview with a sweet smile, tucking your notepad into your heavy black bag and hopped off your stool, grabbing your beer as you went. “Alright, best of look boys, see you in the papers.” You said with a wave, walking into the crowd. You had to find that spiky goth, she seemed to know more than anyone else in that room.

You found her in the corner of the room at a tiny table, fingers laced with a tiny mousy looking girl with short ash brown hair and a lazy looking smile. When you walked up, she dropped her hand out of the spiky girl’s, who simply smiled at you.

“What’s up, Holloway?” she asked, turning to fully look at you.

You furrowed your brow “You know me?”

She chuckled “Fellow Hawkins escapees don’t show up so close to hell that often, although I know you don’t recognize me. Samantha Baker.” She held out her hand for you to shake. After hearing her name, you did recognize her as the school’s only sullen goth.  

“Hey,” you shook her hand, turning to address the little mouse. She seemed oddly familiar “Aren’t you Neil Buckley’s little sister? Robin right?” you asked with a grin. Neil Buckley was your first boyfriend; you spent most of your afternoons in freshman year at his house. Robin nodded, choosing to pull the cherry off her mixed drink and popped it in her mouth, pulling the red stem off and knotted it with fingers.

You turned your attention back to Samantha with a genuine grin “Look, I’m here doing a piece on local bands, specifically Hargrove’s group. You seem to know a bit about these crowds, can I get a couple quotes from you?” you asked, pulling your pad from your back pocket.

“Grab a seat, I’ll tell you anything you want.” Samantha chuckled once again.

“Sammy, what’s she want?” a strong, angry voice asked from behind you as you pulled out the high stool. You knew it was Hargrove, but you didn’t turn around.

“A couple quotes about the crazy girls who stalk you around.” She replied “You care?”

“I wanna listen and make sure you don’t say shit about me.” He muttered, grabbing an empty chair from a nearby table and pulling it close to yours. The blonde he’d been with before was gone now, to your surprise, and he was pouting in the chair next to you.

“The only thing I have to say about you is that you don’t write your own music.” Samantha replied with a shrug that made Robin roll her eyes.

“Who does?” you asked, pulling your pencil out from behind your ear.

Samantha’s chest puffed out proudly “I do. I’m their lyricist and composer.” You jotted that down fast, making a mental note to credit her for anything you liked in their music.

“Why don’t you just perform this stuff yourself then? There’s an open market for angry, gothic girl rock, much wider than the boy’s market.” You asked.

“Yeah, I can’t do what Hargrove can do to a crowd.” Samantha replied, watching as Hargrove puffed up with pride again.

“Specifically to the girls, that man can turn even the most devoted wife or girlfriend to cheat on their husbands.” Robin added with a smirk. There was clearly a story there, but you didn’t try to pull it out of them, letting sit on the surface of their knowing smiles.

“You gotta understand, these girls-they aren’t here for the music, they’re here for him. They can’t get enough.” Samantha explained, smacking him in the chest as she gestured to him. Samantha might have had too many drinks.

“So it’s just like high school again?” you chuckled, leaning your elbows on the table. You smiled at him, against your initial thinking. Sure, he was still a cocky fuck, but he wasn’t being an absolute ass now that he knew who were.

“Except, now all his songs are apologies to like three girls,” Samantha said “Instead of sex songs about whoever he’s with that week.”

You furrowed your brow “And who are these three girls?”

“Oh, that’s easy: the first one is me, his truest love thus far, a gold star lesbian,” Samantha held up fingers as she counted them off “His mom, gone but never forgotten, and Heather Holloway.”

Your mouth went dry as you between the trio. Robin looked to you apologetically as she took the martini glass from her hand. “You’ve had enough, sweetie.” She muttered.

You didn’t feel like you knew what to say, but words came tumbling out of your mouth. “What gives you the right to use my baby sister as your fucking muse? Her death isn’t something to write fucking songs about.” You snapped. Your whole body felt like it was vibrating, you were so upset.

“I didn’t know you didn’t-Hargrove you told me that she knew that she was the only one who knew.” Samantha sobered up fast, looking at Hargrove with blown out brown eyes.

“Of course you’re still a liar, Hargrove.” You scoffed, pushing yourself off the stool. You were done with this interview, screw this town and the band and any of the other ‘Hawkins escapees’ out there looking to market off your family’s pain. You pushed your way out of the awful bar and into the dark night. It had begun to rain and the air was humid. Well, there goes your hair, the rain and humidity would ruin it. You crossed your arms over your chest, protecting your bare skin from the cold rain giving you goose bumps.

“Y/N, wait a second, alright?” You turned to see Hargrove running up behind you. You wiped your face, ready to blame rain for your running mascara.

“What do you have to say now?” you bit out, slicking your wet hair back from your face.

“Look I thought Heather had told you…” he muttered.

“How the hell was she supposed to tell me about your band? She’s fucking dead.” You wiped your nose angrily, rolling your eyes at your own tears.

“No, not about the band, about…us.” He tried again and you raised an eyebrow at him. Billy sighed, his hand coming to rub the back of his neck. He looked away from you into the dark streets. There wasn’t a cab in sight. “I loved your sister. We were…seeing each other. Sort of. We weren’t official, but we were going to be. I was gonna ask her and then so much shit went down, you don’t even know the half of it. And then…she was gone.”

You didn’t know that. Heather hadn’t told you any of that. You wondered if it was in the diary from that summer. You had all her diaries bundled together in your apartment, you’d never read them; it felt too invasive to her privacy, even from beyond the grave.

“I lost my whole family, I lost my baby sister…” you muttered to yourself, unsure what else to say.

“I know and I’m sorry. But I lost her too.” Billy replied, placing firm hands on your shoulders, forcing you to look at him. For the first time, he looked like a man, not a teenage boy imitating adulthood. He looked strong and as if he knew who he was. He looked handsome, although that be the beer and raw emotion talking.

“I’m sorry…I didn’t know.” You muttered “You must miss her…”

“Yeah, sometimes…when something reminds me of her.” He replied “Like you, you remind me so much of her. Can I show you one song? It’s the one that means the most to me.” You nodded at his request and let him drag you back into the bar. He put you near the front of the stage and grabbed his guitarist, taking the microphone back into his hands.

“Hey, sorry everyone, I’m gonna do one last song. We’ve got a reporter here from the Indiana Tribune, gotta show off our best stuff, ya know?” the audience laughed at his week attempt at a joke as his bassist brought up two chairs for Billy and the guitar guy, whose name you’d forgotten.

The song itself was sweet enough, about a girl with big doe eyes and hair that always smelt like chlorine. It was totally your sister; if they’d played that first you would’ve been just as furious as you were outside, except you wouldn’t have finished the interview. This time around, you listened. You smiled at the line about her lavender perfume and how it was so strong it made you dizzy and held your breath at every chorus as he wailed “You’re all gone, you’re all gone…” with his hands holding the microphone for death life. It didn’t feel like a love song, but a dirge to a long gone muse, never forgotten and screaming from the depths of one’s soul, begging to be remembered, to be put into art. You never liked to think about your sister that way, but deep within your heart you knew this was how she wanted to be remembered. She wanted to be a model, a soap star and spokesperson. She wanted to be remembered for her beauty, to be admired. Being the muse of a budding artist would be good enough for her, she would’ve loved that.

You clapped when it was done. You let Billy pull you away from the crowd. You let him kiss you like he would’ve your sister, the lingering smell of lavender and vanilla on your skin a reminder to both of you of her. You let him hold you. It was nice to be held. It was nice for him to get to say goodbye.

You knew you looked strange to the groupies and bar goers, but he needed this. And in a way, so did you. You held him like he was your father, like you were hugging him for the last time. You didn’t like that your mind associated the two men, but you let it. You both said goodbye to your ghosts.

And were left with strangers in their places.  

[chaoskirin]

The Seven Seas--Chapter Three

Fandom: Queen Genre: Sci-fi/Gen Rating: PG Chapter 3 Word Count: 1720

Freddie spent the next several hours (and hours and hours) pacing the barn and outlining a plan. For the sake of suspense, said plan will not be described here, although, wonderful readers, it might be described as amazing and daring! Filled with intricate precisiveness and wild creativity! Genius! And most importantly, incredibly unlikely to succeed!

Somewhere around the five o'clock mark, Roger ordered a pizza which never arrived due to the rather remote location of the farm. He spent the next excruciating hour complaining about his insatiable hunger, until John raided the chicken coop and fried some eggs.

Brian was torn between being appalled and relieved. After all, the chickens ought to be allowed to keep their eggs... since they made them, after all. Roger asked Brian what he thought cakes were made of, so Brian swore off cakes for at least the next couple days, at least until he could scrub the vision of affronted chickens out of his mind.

John said "at least they aren't being vaporized," which was quite sobering and put everyone directly back on task.

It should be said that the appearance of aliens on earth had a rather profound effect on Brian, who, up until that point, only hoped aliens existed. Ever the pragmatist, though, he never believed earth would make contact with the various other denizens of the universe until far after he was dead and buried. After all, relative physics still reigned supreme as the dominating theory of everything in the universe. And with no way to travel faster than the speed of light, aliens simply couldn't reach it from wherever they made their home.

Except they had. And they'd dropped by like a very undesirable relative during Christmas celebrations--everyone wanted them gone, but they had to be appeased and placated first. Perhaps even force-fed copious alcohol until they passed out in a peaceful stupor, while the kids drew fake marker mustaches under their noses.

"Do you think," Brian said to John after the four of them split into two groups. "Do you think they'd let me question them about the stars? How they got here? Where they're from?"

John blinked slowly.

"It's not a stupid idea to ask!" Brian insisted. "Just because they want to raze the planet doesn't mean I have to stop learning. And if they really think I'll spill all their secrets then they must not want to destroy me very much. I can't tattle if I'm dead. Don't you think?"

"If I say yes, will you get back to work?" John asked, flicking the end of a soldering iron at him.

Brian grunted and went back to poring over the star map Glasses left behind. He vastly preferred absolutes, whereas Freddie's "plan" just happened to be chock full of conjecture and dumb luck and a good measure of stupidity. Absolute stupidity, which Brian supposed counted as an absolute, just not the kind he wanted. That made him nervous, and therefore talkative.

"It's just..." he said as he tried to figure out Denmark's location in relation to an earth star chart. Thankfully, he never left home without one, just in case. "They could have the secrets of the whole universe stowed away on that little ship of theirs."

"And if they did, and you end up dead?" John asked. "What would you do with them?"

"Well, I'd know."

John rolled his eyes. He'd set aside the soldering gun in favor of a welding torch, and so he was able to dramatically flip the black welding mask down over his eyes to signal the end of conversation. The git. Brian looked away as John ignited the flame.

"I don't even know if it's in the right bloody hemisphere," Brian muttered to himself, returning to the star map. He couldn't read the alien language scrawled out across it, plus it appeared the aliens preferred some odd derivation of base-8 math... which meant he couldn't even parse their coordinates. He was sure it made sense to them, but in the moment, it was infuriating.

That meant he had to manually study every sector of the alien map, then line it up to the earth map. If he could figure out the first sector, he might be able to proceed. The problem was parallax. After all, why would the aliens make a map meant to be viewed from earth?

Damn parallax. Why couldn't all the species in the galaxy just decide on a standard map!

Meanwhile, John got to build... Well. Brian wasn't entirely convinced it wasn't just another cat tree for Freddie's cats.  Freddie assured everyone this little bit of the plan was critical, though. And it was up to Brian to find the proper angle of whatever it was so he could--

Ah. Wait a minute.

I'm sure you're all very bored by now, and I wouldn't blame you. After all, this is just filler really, since one can't just go from aliens arriving to aliens being defeated. The point is, all the great writers in history somehow universally decided that a story can't be told without costing its readers vast amounts of time when they should be doing other things. Say, filling their washing machine with lemonade, or ironing their socks, or stacking teacups on a sleeping cat. Or watching egg whites dry as they drip down the siding of your irritating neighbor's house. Not that the author has ever done that.

In order to create suspense and drama, most writers masterfully fill their stories with plot dynamics. However, this plot is fairly cut and dry as far as stories go, and the author is not masterful in any sense of the word, so she's just decided to waste your time with this rather pointless filler text.

However, as you've been reading this, Brian May--brilliant scientist that he is--has been using his time with all the wisdom and efficiency one would expect from a future astrophysicist. As John continued to weld his rather confusing scaffolding, Brian chanced upon the exact miniscule plot detail he could utilize to make sense of the alien map. Thusly did he shout "Eureka!" ending this particular section of the story.

You're welcome.

---

"You can't just write a whole song in one day," Roger said.

"Well, I don't intend to. We have five days," Freddie returned, straightening a bit in his seat and looking down his nose in haughty confidence. Into the phone, he said "No, I won't hold. I'm Freddie-Fucking-Mercury--What do you mean who??"

The line went dead. Not because the other side had hung up on him, but because rats had chewed clean through the phone line again. Bother of all bothers. If only he had his cats here, the damnable rats wouldn't be such an issue!

"Roger, be a dear and chase the rats off again, would you?" Freddie asked. When cats weren't an option, Rogers did just fine, and as a bonus, they didn't leave rodent corpses on your pillow in the morning. At least Freddie hoped they didn't. He probably should have asked.

"Five days or no," Roger said, returning from his chase, "the pressure must be intense. I mean, if it's going to work, it has to be perfect, doesn't it? No room for error. And you have to trust not only yourself to remember the lyrics, but you also have to have absolute faith in your bass player, and your guitar player, and your drummer who's a bit of a flake."

"Just a bit?"

"Last I checked."

Freddie tut-tutted. "It'll work. Look, it's a short story, and the author always writes happy endings. What makes you think it won't work?"

"Well, I have to be disagreeable, don't I?" Roger asked, flopping down on the couch next to Freddie. "Let's see what you've got so far."

Freddie handed over the notepad.

After a dozen quiet minutes of earnest contemplation, Roger said, "All you've written is the title."

"The Seven Seas of Rhye," Freddie declared. "It's a good title! I was thinking a sort of... Bar song, I guess. Maybe a--"

Roger was shaking his head.

"Oh, what. We've been bleeding out all our creativity lately." Freddie stood, hands on his hips. "There's none left, is there? You're right. Five days to put together a song and get people here so they can bear witness to my amazing plan? It's not long enough. We'll just have to cancel! There shouldn't be consequences for that."

"There probably won't be," Roger agreed. "Just the annihilation of humanity, I guess. Nothing major."

Freddie pursed his lips. Yes, that was a problem. He'd have to power through. As always.

"Look," Roger said, pulling a comic book out of his back pocket. He always carried one, just in case. We've got aliens on earth.

"Rhye."

"Whatever. We've got aliens. Make it epic."

Freddie paged through the comic book. Although the cover seemed to hint at an epic space battle far into the future with high-tech space suits and murderous monsters, the inner pages had been replaced by porn. Porn Freddie didn't even particularly like. "Roger," he said, holding up the least scandalous image he could find.

"Well, you weren't supposed to open it." Roger at least had the wherewithal to appear sheepish as he snatched the magazine out of Freddie's grasp. "If it gets boring in the barn, do you think I'm going to want to read comics?"

"I'd hope that you'd be writing like we're supposed to be," Freddie said, curling his nose up as Roger tossed the magazine on the end table. "Not--"

He paused as inspiration struck, and a single phrase popped into his mind.

I Stand Before You Naked to the Eye.

The basis of the song began to form around it. "Listen," Freddie said, handing Roger the phone, which was still not connected to anything. "First, I need you to take over securing the advertising to get us a proper audience. Make some calls. Get the people here. Can you do that?"

Roger nodded. "And?"

"Yes. Second, I need you to never, ever tell anyone that I got the idea for this song after looking at your raunchy porn."

Roger smiled. Narrowed his eyes. "Put I'm In Love With My Car on the B-Side to Bohemian Rhapsody and you've got yourself a deal."

[starlitshores]

Harry Potter & the Death of the Author.

First, and most importantly: I stand in solidarity with trans women and trans men. I hope you know that you are an integral part of our community, that you are loved and welcomed and needed, and that so many of us see and celebrate you. I hope you are safe and happy and loved at home, but if home is a tough situation for you, know that there will be a time when a found family will embrace you. We’re waiting for you. You matter and you belong.

tl;dr beneath the cut: HP fandom oldbie good memories. Queer adolescence. JKR = evil TERF. Emma Watson and Daniel Radcliffe are great. Death of the Author.

There has been so much going on this month, and this may seem trivial in comparison to all of that, but J.K. Rowling continuing her TERFy nonsense during Pride Month really hit me in the gut.

Harry Potter has been an overwhelmingly positive force in my life.

I am Fandom Old. I have been extremely invested in Harry Potter since early 2000. I was given a paperback of Philosopher’s Stone for Christmas when I was 12, right before getting Mono and reading PS, CoS and PoA 5 times each while stuck at home. Goblet of Fire was my first queer reading. (Harry was rapidly becoming obsessed with Draco Malfoy!) I joined FictionAlley in 2001 and still remember the old SCUSA ship names and why H/D was “SS Guns ‘n’ Handcuffs” because I beta’d chapters of Irresistible Poison for Rhysenn. I made my first LJ account in February 2003, back when you needed an invitation. Hell, a fandom friend gave me the invitation for my first Gmail account when it was still in beta and everyone had Hotmail accounts with 1MB of space.

I wrote fics with my best and now oldest friend who I met in Armchair Chat on a Sunday afternoon. We later became Armchair mods and people recognised us for the first time at a meetup at Woody’s on Church Street. In my second year Romantics lecture I made a friend because of Harry Potter who ended up being a light in my life and whose wedding I was meant to attend this summer. She introduced me to two of my best friends in London, who I consider family. I was in the room in Toronto when we all found out (and panicked) about Strikethrough. I was there on the sidelines when the idea for AO3 was formed, when it was created, when we were forced to migrate away from LJ and it fractured our community.

I’ve participated in and moderated con panels. I had a kickass time with some kickass ladies in hotel rooms in Chicago and Orlando (you know who you are!). That time I crossed the border at Sarnia and was directed to a Tim’s down the road? Car full of HP girls and luggage (and alcohol). I did drunk karaoke with Libba Bray and almost threw up on Veronica Roth’s amazing yellow leather jacket after that hell ride at Universal. Chris Rankin and I enjoyed Starbucks and a post-con pre-flight chat in the Orlando airport lounge. I attended the press preview of HP7:P1 in London and my students were super jealous.

I have original Sherant and reallycorking pencil sketches. I have SO MANY BUTTONS and a baseball T that is now 16 years old which says “Because every hero needs a dragon.” There are handwritten beta edits on paper printouts of Beautiful World by Cinnamon in a box in my parents’ basement. I am still friends or friendly with people on both sides of That Wank. Yeah You Know Which Wank I’m Talking About.

Over those many years I made a lot of friends, several of whom I’ve kept in touch with even though we’ve all grown up and are well into our 30′s or 40′s and have real jobs and partners and kids and stuff these days. I’ve chatted with a few of them in the last few days and yeah, we’re feeling fucked up.

At 11, at 14, at 18, at 21, at 25, JKR’s pen was all over my life. Her stories very literally shaped me as a person. And though as an adult I have grown to understand that her stories are deeply problematic, they -- along with Buffy and Lord of the Rings, and Queer As Folk, and The L Word -- were my gateway into queerness. So yes, her TERFy bullshit felt like betrayal the first time around. Now she’s attacking us AGAIN during PRIDE month? WHY?

JKR is a grown fucking adult who got rich off of writing stories for and about vulnerable adolescents, and then should have stopped talking.

Adolescence is the time when kids are learning about and starting to accept who they are and it’s fucking scary for a lot of them when they realise they’re queer. Back before she was opening her big mouth on the regular, her books gave me a safe space to figure myself out when I didn’t fit in anywhere else. But now she won’t stop opening her mouth. And for what? To tell every trans kid who ever read her books that they don’t matter to her and that she doesn’t believe in them.

Those kids are us. Our friends. Our family. Our students. Our colleagues. Our teammates. Our partners.

And that, J.K. Rowling, makes you evil. Evil for using your platform to hurt those kids. Evil for doing it during the time of year they’re meant to feel supported and celebrated. Evil for deciding that you’re somehow a member of our community and somehow a more pure member of our community who is allowed to pass judgement on us because “I have a lesbian friend [who is also a TERF]”. Evil for crying victim when someone calls you out, claiming TERF is a slur and aligning that with misogyny in one of the most hypocritical white liberal woman temper tantrums I’ve seen all week. And that? That is saying something because there’s been a whole lot of that shit this week.

The support of Emma Watson and Daniel Radcliffe means a lot to me. Hearing them affirm wholeheartedly that trans women are women (and trans men are men) and that they stand in solidarity with the queer community in clear opposition to the TERF who gave them their careers? I can’t speak to how trans fans feel right now, but yeah, that means a lot to me.

So. What to do. Well, I was there when the last book was released and we collectively agreed to ignore the epilogue. (Epilogue? What Epilogue?) In our little corner of the fandom the last line of the series was: “I’ve had enough trouble for a lifetime.” I think that’s quite fitting. I’m advocating for us to embrace the Death of the Author.

She may have put it out into the world but we made it ours.

It is ours. We don’t need her anymore.

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @shysterek!

Read on AO3

*****

found you when i wasn't looking

Snow is falling in merry little drifts onto the soft twinkling lights of Beacon Hills. A charming town, filled with well-wishers and warmth for the holidays.

Derek scowls, watching the picture-perfect postcard outside his childhood bedroom window. He was originally going to be on a beach in Hawaii, except Boyd had just proposed to Erica and then suddenly a fun vacation with his friends seemed like the perfect recipe to be third-wheeling for two weeks, and Derek didn’t want anything to do with that.

So here he is, back in Beacon Hills with his dad insisting he fold his socks instead of downing drinks with colorful umbrellas. It’s only the first week of winter break, but the house is already filled with Hales. Too many of them.  Laura’s twins are in their terrible twos, Uncle Peter and Aunt Danielle keep sneaking off like teenagers, when in fact they have three of them, most of whom keep looming in the family room. There are cousins and their partners or dates and extra children and of course, Mom is reveling in all of it, with the tree and the decorations and the cookie baking and the filming and the asking and the hounding him about if he’s happy.

Derek is tired. He loves them. But he’s tired.

He throws the haphazard tied-together sheet out the window. Movies always made this look so easy, but the clumsy-looking rope doesn’t even make it halfway down the side of the house, dangling precariously. It doesn’t look all that stable either, and he eyes how it’s tied to his squeaky twin bedframe. Maybe he should tie it to the cot, too. Honestly. Expecting him to share a room with twelve-year-old Nicky is the worst.

Derek is thirty-three and runs his own successful business. He doesn’t need to be babied, certainly not from Mom, or to hear about her friend’s children in town or to be set up with anyone.

He’s had enough of these blind dates. It’s just too much. He’s just going to sneak out of his house and go get some coffee or something.

“Really?”

Derek spins around. Laura eyes him from the doorway, her eyebrows cocked high.

“You know she actually had a resume and headshot for the last one?” Derek asks, shaking his head. “I gotta get out of here. Please. I can’t take anymore of what’s next. Help me sneak out.”

“I mean, you could use the front door.”

“Mom’s entertaining the mayor and his wife and three kids.”

“Back door?”

“Peter and Danielle are hanging the mistletoe, and are, ahem, getting really into it. I’d really rather not.”

Laura makes a gagging noise. Derek agrees. “Well, I guess you should leave now rather than later; there’s going to be even more people arriving. You know how Mom is.”

Talia Hale only recently “retired” from being the mayor of Beacon Hills, but it doesn’t stop her from continuing her longstanding relationships with all the pillars of the community and backseat driving the new mayor.

“You think this will hold?”

Laura smirks. “I’m not going to tell you that because I want to see you try. Don’t worry, I’ll give you a good eulogy at your funeral.”

Derek rolls his eyes at her and grasps the sheet-rope, gripping it tight. He clambers out the window, holding it taut, and gingerly makes his way down the side of the house, mostly using the trellis and its leafy vines for footing and holding onto the rope for support. At about ten feet left to go he just makes a jump for it, flopping ungracefully onto the ground.

Laura is barely visible from the window as she’s buckled over in laughter. Derek gives her the finger.

A slow clap begins.

“Wow. Eleven out of ten.”

Derek whirls around.

There’s a cute guy standing in his backyard, his eyes twinkling with mischief. His soft-looking hair is windswept and dusted with snow,  and he’s wearing a knitted sweater emblazoned with “MAKE THE YULETIDE GAY.”

Suddenly Derek is hyperaware that he’s wearing an old sweater with coffee stains and ripped jeans. He stands up and attempts to dust himself off, but there’s no going back from having an attractive person witness you do something incredibly stupid.

“You didn’t see me,” Derek says.

The guy throws his hands up, grinning broadly. “Great. Excellent. Yes. No one saw anything.”

“Seriously, I just need to get out of here. My mom’s having folks come over all day, and it’s going to be like the baker’s wife’s niece’s cousin’s former roommate or something next.”

“Sheriff and his son, actually.”

Derek raises an eyebrow. “You’re Stiles?”

Stiles clutches his hand to his chest. “Guilty as charged.”

Derek has heard stories about Stiles for years, but has never met him in person. He hears about him all the time, courtesy of being in a small town; the Sheriff’s boy got stuck in a tree, oh did you hear young Stiles got into Berkeley? He’s one of Cora’s classmates, and for that matter Derek always somehow always thought of him, like Cora, as a baby, even though she’s only four years younger than he is. Stiles has just existed on the periphery of Derek’s life, even though he interned for Laura’s law office for one whole summer and somehow managed to impress her, and Mom adores him because he once debated her for a whole hour about economics at her last holiday party.

Derek didn’t exactly have a picture of him in his head, but he was in no way prepared for hot.

“Right,” Derek says, stepping back.

Stiles finger-guns points at him. “Nice Space Balls reference, by the way.”

“Thanks. Happy to supply you with out-of-date movie references at any time.”

“Is that a promise?” And then Stiles fucking winks.

Derek stares at him for a long moment, as he tries to process. Was that a flirtation?

“Sorry, I just spaced out. I think I’m having a…” Derek makes a general wavey gesture that could probably mean quarter life crisis.

“It’s okay,” Stiles says. “I mean, I’m the one who tried to escape community politics and cocktails by trying to hop your fence. I failed, by the way.”

“Oh. There’s a stepladder in the shed.”

“Excellent. I’m right behind you.”

Suddenly Derek’s escape plan has a co-pilot. Stiles follows close behind as Derek yanks for the shed door and turns on the light. He feels around, but he can’t find the ladder anywhere.

“Need a hand?”

“Yeah, can you—”

Suddenly Stiles is pressed up right behind him in the tight space, and Derek is aware of the warmth emanating from his body. He tries to turn around, but only ends up face to face with him, their noses an inch apart.

“Hi,” Stiles breathes.

“Hi.” Derek doesn’t want to say anything else to break the spell. He spots the ladder right behind Stiles but doesn’t move.

Up close, Stiles’ eyes are warm hazel, flecked with gold.

Stiles coughs. “So, I know why I was escaping, but where were you going?”

“Oh. Um. I just wasn’t in the mood for a blind date. I have no idea who my mom is going to set me up with next.”

“Oof, yeah, I feel you.” Stiles blushes. “I mean, I actually am feeling— sorry, I can back up—”

“It’s fine,” Derek says, feeling his face heat up. “Here, the ladder is right behind you, I can grab it—”

Stiles shifts, letting Derek pass behind him, but there’s a tight squeeze and he trips over a rake, tumbling forward, falling right into Stiles—

They collapse into a heap on the floor, sending up dust, and Derek is right on top of Stiles. He scrambles for purchase on the floor to get up, but only manages to slip and mash his face right into Stiles’ firm chest.

Stiles bursts out laughing. “Sorry, your face— you’re so concerned! I don’t mind. You can lay on top of me all you like.”

“At least let me take you out for coffee,” Derek blurts out.

“Done and done,” Stiles says merrily.

There’s a long moment where they’re just looking at each other, and Derek can’t help smiling.

The shed door opens.

“Derek! Whatever are you doing in the shed, come meet the Sheriff’s son— oh.”  Talia Hale grins at them from the doorway.

“Oh. Hi, Mom. Uh— this isn’t—”

Stiles just waves from where he is on the floor.

Behind his mom, he can see the Sheriff, Laura, and a whole slew of cousins laughing their asses off. Derek just wants to disappear.

“I’ll let you get better acquainted then,” she says with a proud grin, closing the door.

Outside, Derek can hear everyone laughing. He’s never going to live this down.

“So. How about that coffee?”  

[gmariam321]

Christmas Kitsch

I finished my holiday story! And I’m posting it here since I shared so many excerpts. And so I can work up the courage to put it on AO3, although it won’t be my worst holiday story there. Still, it’s not what I envisioned when I started, as the dark twist (and two half chapters) were tabled for another story. I do hope someone enjoys a laugh or two. Happy Holidays!

Christmas Kitsch

Jack was tired of running.

Once, it had been fun. That had been with the Doctor, always running from danger. It had been adventurous, exciting—even back when the possibility of death had been very real. He hadn't been scared because he'd been with the Doctor, and somehow the Doctor always made things right. "Everybody lives!" he'd exclaim, and they were off on the next adventure.

Jack knew better now. After over a hundred years, he knew that not everybody lived, and he was tired of it. Running wasn't fun, or exciting. It was endless and terrifying and Jack was tired of running.

Especially running after alien elves stealing every Santa Claus in the city.

Ridiculous.

Jack had lived through some tough holidays: wars, epidemics, that one year with his in-laws. He'd watched London experience some strange Christmases, even sat back and laughed a few times. But this one…this was just absurd. If it hadn't been Christmas and he hadn't had plans with Ianto, it might have been somewhat funny, but even Owen was sick of trying to make elf jokes after spending twelve hours chasing the damn things around town on Christmas Eve.

Who stole Santa Claus? Only aliens. And they looked like something straight out of a Marks and Spencer catalog from Mars. Smartly dressed right down to the shiny boots and matching hats, they were more high society teenaged sprites than overworked elves from the North Pole. Jack wanted them gone.

They were fast, and sneaky, and they had a mischievous streak a mile long. They were obsessed with Santa Claus, and every statue, doll, picture or light-up monstrosity in the city had been targeted, with dozens gone missing. Even a few real-life Santas had been harassed. But they were finally closing in, and Jack hoped that within an hour the elves be in the cells so he could finally put on his holiday jumper, take it off, and start celebrating properly with Ianto.

Then again, things never went as hoped in Torchwood.

Tosh was the first to go down. They were tracking the elves through the first floor of Queen's Arcade. It was dark and silent aside from the sad notes of a music box playing Wham from somewhere in Argos. They walked with weapons drawn, constantly scanning for elves, until something came flying at them from above and hit Tosh hard on the head; she fell immediately, landing awkwardly on her arm and hitting her head again. Owen called out and they immediately surrounded their downed teammate while he examined her.

"She's out cold," Owen announced. "And she fell on her arm, wrist looks broken or sprained. I should get her back to the Hub."

"What happened?" asked Gwen.

"This," Owen replied, and he held up a large ceramic St Nicholas with a crack in it. "It's a bloody Christmas ornament."

"Ornaments don't usually knock people out," said Jack.

"Apparently solid ones thrown with enough force can," Owen replied, tossing it up to Jack; it was hideous and heavy. "These buggers must be strong. Where the hell did it come from?"

"John Lewis," said Ianto, shrugging when everyone looked at him. "Saw them there last week."

"Who were you shopping for in John Lewis?" Gwen asked with a teasing smile. Jack rolled his eyes before Ianto could even start to reply.

"Later, Gwen. We need to focus." He glanced around the arcade, checking the upper level. He didn't want to abandon the chase, but he didn't want to leave Tosh unconscious and alone either.

"Let's head to the SUV, and you can take her back to the Hub," Jack decided, and he picked her up. "Cover me from more Santa bombs."

Gwen took point while Ianto followed behind, walking backward to cover them. Owen walked beside Jack, protecting Tosh, until something wet and sticky exploded nearby with a squelching sound. Once more the team closed in, protecting Jack and Tosh. But it was Owen who was hit this time.

"Bloody hell, it's a pudding," he said. "I'm covered in a fucking Christmas pudding."

"Probably got that at Waitrose," Ianto said, his weapon trained on the upper level once more. An evil sounding giggle echoed around them.

"They're shit, Rhys's mum got one last year," Gwen said.

"Would you two stop it with the shopping tips?" Jack snapped. "Let's move, before we're all Christmas casualties."

Ianto and Gwen remained thankfully quiet, and they made it out to the SUV without any more attacks. Tosh came to as Jack laid her down in the back seat. She saw Owen, covered in sticky fruit, and frowned. "Why are you covered in pudding?"

"Same reason you've got a sore head," he said. "Which is also why we get a break from elf wrangling."

Though he didn't see him, Jack could feel Ianto rolling his eyes somewhere behind him. "They're not actually elves, Owen. "

"Whatever, shop boy. They look like elves and are obsessed with Santa. Good enough for me."

Ianto gave an overdramatic sigh laced with long suffering impatience. "They're called Dryadalis. They're from the planet Aquilo, and they worship an ancient deity dressed in red furs known as Paternivei.  They're not stealing Santa, they're releasing the icons of their god from bondage."

Jack and Gwen turned and stared at him in disbelief. "You're joking," said Gwen.

"I don't joke about aliens." Jack suspected he was making it all up, but while Ianto had an impressive poker face, he did know everything, so it could be completely true.

"How do you know all that?" demanded Owen. "And why didn't you tell us sooner?"

"Haven't had a chance 'till now," Ianto replied. "And it was in a Torchwood One file. Always interesting in London at Christmas."

"You're taking the piss," Owen insisted.

"Maybe," said Ianto. "And maybe they shit marshmellows."

Once again Jack stepped in; apparently his team was feeling the holiday stress, if Ianto's sky high sass was anything to go by. "Whatever they are, let's finish this. Owen, you and Tosh go back to the Hub, get fixed up, and meet us wherever we tell you to meet us."

"Will do, boss," said Owen, and he threw the SUV into reverse and sped away. Gwen turned to Ianto.

"Are they really called Dryadalis?" she asked. "Or were you trying to get one over on Owen?"

"I wasn't trying," Ianto replied, and left it at that. Jack was still not sure whether the other man was pulling one over on them all. He shook his head; he'd have to pry it out of Ianto later, preferably under some mistletoe.

"Back to chasing elves, kids," he said. "Before Christmas is ruined for all of Cardiff."

"If they've moved on to stealing puddings, I think we're better off," Ianto murmured.

"Not if we're all wearing one. Let's move out."

"Good plan," said Ianto. "Where to?"

Jack checked his wrist strap; he could track the elves unique energy signature, and it was heading toward Cardiff Castle. They started with a fast walk, and then a slow run.  As they dashed across Castle Street, they saw that the main entrance had been broken open.

Jack tapped his earpiece. "Tosh, Owen," he snapped. "They've got onto the castle grounds. Tell the authorities we're on it and to keep the area clear."

"I'll call them right now, Jack," Tosh said. "Be careful."

"Watch out for fruitcakes," added Owen.

They burst through the tunnel entrance and stopped as something hit Jack in the chest and exploded in a cloud of dust. Looking down, he saw glitter everywhere—his coat, his pants, his shoes. He even spit some out of his mouth.

"Very Elton John," said Ianto.

"To the left!" said Gwen, and she took off toward the castle apartments. As she ran past the trees, one of the aliens leapt out and tackled her. Jack skidded to a stop, Ianto beside him, their weapons drawn as Gwen wrestled with an alien elf.

"Shoot it!" she shouted as they rolled across the pavement and into the cold, wet and unusually muddy grass.

"I can't!" Jack shouted. It latched onto her ankle and bit down hard; she kicked it off with her other foot, but it pounced on her back and they rolled around some more. "Stop moving!"

A shot rang out and the elf collapsed on top of Gwen, both of them covered in mud. Jack turned to Ianto, who met his gaze and raised an eyebrow; Jack half expected him to blow smoke off the tip of his gun.

"Sorted," said Ianto.

Jack frowned, opened his mouth, then shut it with another shake of his head and ran over to Gwen, putting the incredibly sexy image of Ianto and his smoking gun from his head. He heaved the alien off Gwen and grinned.

"People would pay good money to watch mud wrestling like that," he said. She glared at him as he helped her stand, only for her to stumble against him, her leg clearly giving out where the elf had got her.

"Shit, my ankle," she said. "Go, get the bastards."

Ianto was already running toward the keep. Jack sprinted to catch up with him, glitter trailing behind him, and they skidded to a halt as a small spacecraft materialized at the base of the hill. Ianto swore under his breath as a hatch opened on the bottom. Jack agreed with him, as spaceships in the city were a never a good thing. They raised their weapons and waited.

A black boot appeared, and another, followed by red trousers trimmed in white fur.

"I have a bad feeling about this," said Jack.

"Welcome to the Twilight Zone," murmured Ianto.

Several elves sprinted down from the castle, crowding around the figure standing before them. He appeared human, with a truly frightening tangle of white beard. He was large, at least seven feet tall, and exceptionally rotund. Beneath a red cap, a pair of startling green eyes pierced the night as the elves chittered at him.

The figure—alien? human? Father Christmas? – spoke in a language Jack did not recognize. Ianto, however, cocked his head.

"It's Paternivei," he murmured. Jack turned to him in surprise.

"I thought you were making it up," he said.

"You think I could make this up?" Ianto gestured at the site before them as the elves emptied their bags of stolen goods: dozens, if not hundreds, of statues, dolls, and pictures of Santa Claus. They chittered at the large figure in red some more, and he smiled benevolently down upon them, until two more appeared with the body of the elf Ianto had shot off Gwen. The alien frowned, and sent the elves back into the ship with their comrade. With a wave of his hand, the stolen goods disappeared. He took two steps closer.

"You have wronged my children," he said. "They only wished to remedy the sacrilege done to my image. None should have died."

"They attacked us!" Jack protested. "They hurt three of my team." He was counting Owen's pride among the injuries. "They stole from my people."

"My child is dead," the alien said. "You must pay the honor price."

"We hold no such debt," Ianto told him, his voice strong and stubborn. "We were defending our own. You have no right to come here and tarnish our traditions."

"Your traditions make a mockery of our world!" the alien hissed. "And for that you deserve to be punished."

He raised his arms and flung his hands down, and two projectiles flew from his wrists. One impaled itself in Jack's left shoulder; the other buried itself in Ianto's right. Both were large, glass candy canes.

"The honor debt is paid," said the alien. "We will not return to your world. You are crude and ignorant savages." He turned and returned to the ship. The hatch closed, hundreds of multi-colored lights came on, and without warning it ascended into the sky, leaving behind a burned ring of grass in the shape of a wreath.

Ianto grimaced at the candy cane sticking out from his shoulder. "Bollocks," he said. He tapped his earpiece. "Owen, Gwen's down and Jack and I got hit by candy canes. We need you at the castle." He didn't even bother to listen for a response.

"They're on their way," Ianto said. He watched in disgust as Jack pulled the glass from his shoulder. "You're going to bleed out, you know."

"It's not that bad," Jack said, but his coat was quickly soaking through with blood. "I'm sorry we didn't get to celebrate Christmas," Jack said. "At least, in the normal way."

"This is normal," Ianto replied. "For Torchwood."

"Most people don't get impaled on Christmas."

"Well, last year you were asphyxiated," he pointed out. "Less fumes, more blood."

"And already healing," Jack said, feeling the hole in his shoulder knit together. It burned like hell, but he rolled his arm a few times and stretched it out. "How about you?"

"Stitches and a sore shoulder from Santa, just what I always wanted," Ianto replied. He was even more sarcastic when he was in pain. "Maybe I'll get a fashionable sling for Christmas."

"Not from me," said Jack. "I got you a real gift."

"Then I guess I'll have to return the fake one I bought you."

Jack laughed for the first time that night. "I'll take what I can get. Come on, let's go check on Gwen."

"What about that ring?" Ianto motioned toward the burnt grass before turning away. "And the lights? Usual story?"

"We can come up with something," Jack told him. Ianto stumbled and Jack put an arm around Ianto's other shoulder to help him.

"How about Santa and his elves running around Cardiff, throwing glitter, puddings, and candy canes around? No one would ever believe it." Jack laughed again as they found Gwen sitting on a nearby bench, covered in mud and talking on her mobile. Jack guided Ianto to sit down beside her, then glanced around the castle grounds.

"Definitely a Christmas to remember," he said.

"Better than almost jumping off a roof," Ianto murmured, and Jack nodded in agreement even though he hadn't been in London for that one.

"Rhys says he'll meet us at the Hub with pizza and beer," Gwen announced. "And clean clothes." "Owen's on his way," Jack told her. "Are you two doing all right?"

"I got stabbed by Father Christmas," said Ianto, the sarcasm so dry it was combustible.

"I got bit by an elf," said Gwen

"Tie?" Ianto suggested. She nodded and they exchanged a high five.

"This would make a good story," said Jack. "Or maybe a comic book."

Gwen and Ianto burst out laughing, but Jack decided it was their injuries. It would certainly make a good write up for the captain's log. He'd call it Christmas Kitsch and put it in a card to the queen with a picture of the team. Torchwood - for Queen and Country and Christmas.

* * *

Author's Note:

Well thank gosh it's done! So this started out as something quite different: Ianto got hit by the candy cane and died! What! I wrote half the second chapter and half the third chapter before deciding it was utterly ridiculous and let him live. So you're welcome, although it feels slightly more ridiculous now. And if you're disappointed in Ianto's fate here, I'm sure I'll kill him at some point as I have some decent deleted material to rework. Thanks for reading and happy holidays!

[teffyjeffy]

(Most of) JoJo’s Bizzare Adventure: Stardust Crusaders but almost everybody are kids having fun at recess.

Want a random JoJo post out of nowhere? No? Okay well here you go anyway!

A lot of the time when I was watching JJBA I felt like I was watching a very dramatic retelling of what was actually two kids playfighting.

“My guy punches super fast!” “Oh yeah? Well my guy can stop Time!” “Oh yeah?! Well, mine can too! I just discovered it!” “WELL MINE CAN DROP A ROADROLLER ON YOU” “THATS CHEATING”

Anyway, the idea started to snowball, so please enjoy my masterpost of (most of) JJBA Part 3 where the Stardust Crusaders are a group of 9 year old rascals who met up one day during recess. This is just for fun ^_^ also these are all copied and pasted from discord so the structure is a little jumbled. Enjoy!

Oh, and Spoilers are ahead.

“I can punch super fast!”

“Well I can use cameras and TVs as crystal balls, but I need to break them!”

“Mine can shoot flames, ooo ooo and-and I can control them at will!”

“Mine has a sword that can stab anything”

“MINE HAS AN ATTACK THAT IS UNBLOCKABLE AND ITS AREA EFFECT IS THE WHOLE PLAYGROUND-“

“No Kakyoin that’s not how we play. Youre not allowed to have an invincible attack”

Kakyoin’s introduction:

“I have an invincible attack”

“That’s not how it works Kakyoin but you’re cool, so you can keep playing with us”

The insect stand “Tower of Gray” was when the group was bothered by a fly on the school bus and they got a little too rowdy in their attempts to kill it, which pissed off the elderly bus driver. Thus the kids agreed that he was responsible for bringing the fly onto the bus in the first place. They got detention.

Jean Polnareff’s introduction:

“I have a sword that can pierce through anything!”

“Okay Jean, you can play with us, but you have to promise to stop pushing Avdol into the wood chips, he doesn’t like it.”

The stowaway girl is actually a 5 year old girl who wants to play with them and they hate it at first but they eventually warm up to her. The monkey with a ship stand was actually a retelling of the groups trip to the town’s public swimming pool. The boat was just an inflatable tube and the monkey was a chipmunk. And the original boat that blew up? That was the group’s original inflatable tube that got popped because the 5 year old wouldn’t stop gnawing at it

Later, the kids SOMEHOW convinced their parents to let them stay in the same hotel while the parents all hate business trips to go to. They “promised” not to pillow fight, then everyone except for Jean went to go get snacks while Jean went to explore the new room.  Unbeknownst to them, the previous guests of the room accidentally left their daughter’s doll behind. Jean HATES dolls. He accidentally stumbled upon Child’s Play when he was surfing channels way too late at night without his parents knowing. Fear turns into aggression and someone from the hotel staff goes to check on him. He finds Jean and realizes it’s the same kid who shot him with a water gun earlier. Jean is kicked out and the parents have to pick their kids up. Jotaro and everyone else weren’t happy. 

Rubber Soul is actually just that one bratty kid who thinks it’s sooooooooo funny to mimic other people while also making fun of the person they’re mimicking. It makes them feel “powerful.” Jotaro encounters Rubber Soul when the latter is mocking Kakyoin one day, while Jotaro is playing with the 5 year old; he then chases Rubber Soul all around the playground, and when he finally gets him, he busts his teeth in. They were only baby teeth though, they grew right back, which saved Jotaro from a brutal punishment. He was still forced to go without dessert for a month. He didn’t complain though because his mother was dealing with the flu at the time. He would give all his desserts to Kakyoin, which his how Jotaro discovered Kakyoin’s creepy habit of juggling maraschino cherries in his mouth.

J. Geil was somebody who used to play games with Jean’s sister. When she found out he sucked at party cake and teased him for having “Two left hands”, J pushes her into the mud and never plays with her again. Jean has held a grudge ever since.

Hol Horse is Geil’s “New friend” which pisses off Jean. Hol Horse, being a member of the wrong crowd, beats up Avdol and J. Geil just goes along with it. Jean is all “Avdol why are you even here, you had nothing to do with this!” And Kakyoin’s like “Should we call 911?” And Jean responds “Not yet, I need to beat up these guys first!” And Kakyoin calls 911 anyway.

The Mirror stand is just J. Geil going “Made you look” and punching your shoulder.

And Hol Horse’s stand is just a nerf gun. The reason it hurts is because he likes to get right up in your face before firing it. It’s ineffective if you’re too far away from him, because the dart bullet loses momentum and hits the ground harmlessly.

Jean eventually gets back at J. Geil by chasing him into the middle of a group of kids, then pointing up at nothing, shouting “Made you look,” and poking J. Geil in the eyes, which causes him to cry like a baby. And later, Jean is like “Oh yeah, I totally stabbed him with my sword!” when Jotaro asks him what happened.

Then Hol horse runs away because he realized J. Geil was a total loser.

The Empress stand was just Joseph’s retelling of his parents taking him to the doctor’s office so they could deal with a wart on his arm. He hated how boring the actual process was, so he pretended that he bested the wart in a game of wits and tore it asunder. Jotaro was grossed out. 

(Btw in this AU Joseph is only a grade older than Jotaro, instead of being his grandpappy)

Wheel of Fortune is just the result of a very nasty game of tag with a brat who wouldn’t leave the group alone.

Enya is the crazy cat lady at the end of the street whose house the kids were forced to pass one day when they missed the school bus.

Steely Dan is the snobby “Cool Kid” of the playground, and a sore loser when the kids don’t play the way he wants them to. So Jotaro gives him a black eye.

The Sun is a kid who likes to fry ants with a magnifying glass. But Joseph likes bugs, and seeing this made him cry. So Jotaro, Kakyoin and Avdol plot to destroy the magnifying glass, which they thought was really funny. But at that point, the magnifying glass had to be returned to the science lab, so the kid was spared. 

Or, in another interpretation:

“Hey guys, I wanna play! My guy’s power is that he’s literally the sun!!! ” 

Joseph: “Wow, that’s pretty powerful-“ 

J,K,&A: “YOUR POWER IS STUPID, GET LOST”

Death Thirteen was the result of the kids being forced to deal with a baby who was throwing a tantrum while they all waited to get on the giant slide at the County Fair. Kakyoin was especially pissed. 

I have nothing for the Judgement stand.

I don’t have anything for High Priestess either.

And Iggy is still a dog, but I’m getting rid of his tendency to fart because I just HATE IT

N’Doul isn’t blind, he wears glasses and can’t see shit without them. And he has a water pistol. And he hoards the playground’s sandbox.

Oingo and Boingo are a 6 year old and his 1 year old brother and they’re just the cutest little demon spawns.

Anubis is a dog that snatched Jean’s toy sword in its mouth, and the sword’s power to transfer souls was just Jean fearing that the dog had rabies. Jotaro rolled his eyes but convinced Joseph to help him buy a new toy sword to shut Jean up.

Mariah... I dunno man, I didn’t really care for her arc and it definitely doesn’t fit the “kids playground” scenario I’m going for.

ALESSI IS WRITTEN OUT COMPLETELY. HE IS NOT ALLOWED ON THE PLAYGROUND.

The D’Arby brothers are known for being the cheaters of the playground. So Jotaro scares the eldest brother in a game of Go Fish, and it messes D’Arby up so much that it triggers his Asthma and he he has an Asthma attack. 

Pet Shop went down as the day when Iggy had a fight with a seagull and got pecked the ever loving SHIT out of. Jotaro tells the story at every Christmas party.

The younger D’Arby battle happened on a day when he and Jotaro were playing video games together. They accused each other of cheating, which resulted in Jotaro insulting him for liking dolls before pummeling him and consequently getting kicked out of the house. Joseph gave him a high five though, so it was worth it.

Vanilla Ice was the toddler who didn’t bother to move out of the way if you got in his path while he was driving his toy mini jeep. But if you asked Jean or Avdol, they’ll tell you that the toddler deliberately puts people in his path to run them over. And the occasional dog.

And finally, DIO.

DIO was a kid who got transferred to Jotaro’s school after being expelled because the principal of DIO’s previous school couldn’t get him to leave two of the students alone, by the names of Johnathan and Erina. He was pen pals with Johnathan, but that was the only connection DIO bothered to maintain.

Jotaro thought DIO didn’t even deserve the title of “School Bully.” He thought DIO was just a weird freaking kid. Despite that, most of the kids were scared of him, Jotaro’s friends included.

DIO loved to utilize the classic “Time Out!” whenever he played with the kids, and if they didn’t abide to the time out, they got a knuckle sandwich.

Jotaro was the first kid in a long time to just say “Nope.”

That’s when he learned that DIO was a kid who liked to screech like a banshee when things didn’t go his way. As well as throw a whole bunch of pencils (seemingly from out of nowhere) at any person that he upset with.

The road roller in this AU is the closest thing to a lethal heavy weapon that you can get on the playground: a frickin BIKE. 

And DIO is like “TIME OUT SO I CAN SLAM THIS BIKE ON YOU” And Jotaro goes “Nope, your time out is cancelled because you’re a freak and also you tried to bite Joseph which was just gross, anyway-“ and he punched DIO in the leg, pushed him to the ground, and kicked woodchips in his face.

They both got expelled.

A few years later, on his way to middle school, Jotaro bumps into a kid named Josuke...

<============ TO BE CONTINUED

BONUS JJBA BATTLE TENDENCY

The Pillar Men are a reflection of the infamous day when three highschool bullies showed up to the playground. One of them beat a kid named Ceasar in a Rock Paper Scissors match; in responce, Joseph (who at the time was only 4) went apeshit. He kicked the first highschooler off of the carousel at the County Fair. Then he located the second highschooler, tied up his shoelaces, then lit them with a match. Finally, during the school’s annual science fair, he tracked down the third highschooler, who had just finished rigging a student’s baking soda volcano to blow up in his face. Joseph threw a bunch of rocks that he found outside at the highschooler, and then proceeded to lock him up in the school’s astral observatory. The first two highschoolers fled town after that, but rumor has it that the third one is still stuck in the abandoned observatory.