#Kane fan fiction

[gothamite-rambler]

Cass: Oh, Mother, I wanted to tell you—I’m pretty positive that I’m a lesbian. Just wanted to inform you of that.

Lady Shiva: What?

Cass: Yep. I’m sexually attracted to women, and there’s a specific woman I’m hoping to date in two years.

Lady Shiva (dropping her ninja star): You’re coming out to me?

Cass: Yeah, I know you’re a villain, but not the kind of evil that David is. I brought my aunt Batwoman; she wanted to be a shoulder to cry on if you disowned me, and the bat is there in case you reject me harshly.

Batwoman (holding a bat): And I’d have a private chat with you if you did.

Lady Shiva (stoic): I oddly respect that decision… Oh my word, a lesbian? I didn’t expect to hear you say that, and now that I have… what is this feeling?

Cass: I’m not sure; your body language suggests either anger or shock.

Lady Shiva nodded, gulping nervously, then stepped in and gave Cass a slightly awkward, but genuine, hug. She patted her daughter on the back. Batwoman sighed in relief as Shiva pulled away.

Cass: Hm, this is new.

Lady Shiva: You came out of the closet and told me! I feel this strange warmth in my chest. I’m so happy, especially since you won’t waste your life on… men!

Cass (surprised by the hug): I appreciate your acceptance.

Lady Shiva: Cassandra, I’m a villain, not a psycho. Some of my associates are lesbians, pansexual, and there’s one who has no sexual attraction at all. Quite fascinating. Now, who is this woman you see yourself being with in two years?

Cass: You know her well… Spoiler.

Lady Shiva (reluctant): Oh… She’ll grow on me. I can handle strange ones like her.

[misskattylashes]

It's been so long since I saw Alex or Miles, I'm beginning to think I am writing about two mythical creatures....

[fierro-chase]

The lack of Kane Chronicles fanfics kills me everyday 😣💔

[wolfies-writings]

A little drabble

Also no Grandest Game spoilers in the comments or reblogs please, I haven’t finished it yet

Warnings: none, just a simple interaction scenario that popped into my mind, mild fluff but nothing too much

Grayson said with his leveled steely gaze pinned on Rohan, “You are aware I still distrust you and your intentions with my sister, yes?”

Rohan looked up from his conversation with Savanah and cocked an eyebrow with a slight smirk. “Oh, so I’m the target now, I see. No longer plotting Mr. Slater’s death and trained your sights on me?” Savanah sighed as Grayson rolled his eyes.

“Tell me, how is it that I ended up with a brother like Jameson and then a potential future brother-in-law who is the English carbon copy of him? What deity did I so grievously offend?” Lyra, on his arm, patted his back soothingly. She’d seen first hand the drama he had to put up with and had some sympathy for him along with her amusement.

Jameson, sitting on a nearby love seat with his arm lovingly draped around Avery’s shoulder, burst out laughing at the comparison, clearly amused at the reaction he figured Rohan would have. Rohan simply narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you compare me to that masochistic twat,” he warned. Jameson sent him a scowl. “See? He doesn’t even deny it,” Rohan sneered with a smirk.

“Play nice, Rohan,” the serious blonde girl on his arm chided, with a soft warning smack to his chest. He looked to her and sighed softly in resignation.

“As you wish, love.”

“Ha, and you’re talking like I’m the only one who’s both sacred of and whipped for his girl,” Jameson mocked, never one to miss an opportunity to clap back at the Englishman.

Rohan rolled his eyes. “At least I’m not the one who gets turned on when his girl shows the slightest hint of assertiveness,” he drawled mockingly, earning a yank on the sliver chain around his neck from Savannah, diverting his attention back to her admonition.

“Rohan.” She simply said, her message clear. He sighed, slightly irritated by his witty comeback getting shut down. He lowered his eyes slightly.

“Sorry, darling.” He said quietly, catering to her orders. He was by no means a submissive, but people like Savannah were not ones you wanted to argue with. Jameson chuckled again, shooting an ‘oh really?’ look his way. Rohan scowled back but then trained his focus back on his girlfriend, wrapped an arm around her waist and keeping her warm body close to his. These families were going to be the death of him, he could already tell. But her presence made such an outcome much more pleasing; he could live with that.

[rainbows-fanfics]

Just Like His Father

Summary:

Kane's inner turmoil, and how Queen is his only absolution. Human!AU of the Armada from Pirate101. Pairing: Kane/Queen

Kane was hunched over the bathroom sink, gripping the edges of the marble counter with white knuckles. His stare was focused on the reflection that gazed back at him. His golden mask lay absently on the counter in the corner of his vision, having been long forgotten by its owner. 

His blue eyes scrutinized every singular pore, intent on memorizing the details of his visage. He kept all the mirrors in his home pristine, free from any singular smear or imperfection. So what he saw was the truth. The beginnings of crow’s feet and forehead lines, the stray hair in-between his eyebrows, and the long hidden graying threads in his hair. It repulsed him. It was a feeling that was greater than his hatred of pirates and rebels. 

He had a routine he followed every day involving cleansers, toners, exfoliates, and moisturizers. It was a habit he’d formed in his youth, when he first began his career in the military. He remembered the tough process of reviving himself after those wars - God, how he hated those days. Blood soaked into his skin, mixing with the dirt and grit of his daily exercise. Looking like he'd been through hell and back. He’d gotten rid of all the photos of his days as a soldier out of pure vanity. 

He was young then. As early as eighteen when he first signed up, and into his twenties during the Napoleguinic wars. What he’d give to have more normal photos from that time…he dreaded aging more than anything else in his life. He vividly recalled the day he returned home and took his first look into a mirror. It hadn’t been the lost look in his eyes that phased him, nor the blood and cuts he’d suffered. 

It had been the fact that he looked like his father . 

He inherited Gazpaccio’s eyes and brown hair. Not his nose - he would ( gratefully ) credit that to a woman he’d never met. But in that second, he was a splitting image of what his father looked like at his age - and it had tipped him over the edge. What happened that next day was a blur to remember, but he had bleached his hair and vowed to grow it out, to never have it as short as Gazpaccio had. He could do nothing about his eyes except separate it from his identity - letting them be the one thing seen through his mask beyond his lips and sculpted chin. 

If he were any smarter of a man, he would’ve pursued a different path in life that did not expose him to daily stress and loss. Having four incompetent sons while simultaneously being the Supreme Commander of the Armada was enough to age any man twice his age - but Kane did everything in his power to maintain his youth. It was one of the few things he had left, and he did not want to part with it so soon. His fiftieth birthday was in sight and he did not know if he could live to see that day. 

Time . Time was his undoing - his loathed, his constant enemy. Balding was inevitable and coded in his genetics. The more men he lost , the more he aged , and he could find strands of his own hair fallen on the epaulets of his uniform. On his chair. In his home. It felt like he was losing a piece of his mind each time he came across one. His hair was white, so there was no perceptible way to confirm any of them were gray. 

But he knew . And it drove him mad. 

He had a vision quickly pass across his eyes - the day he would turn old and look exactly as Gazpaccio did now. Most of his hair gone, his face composed of wrinkles, his bones so brittle that he could barely walk. His muscles no longer toned, his memory faded, his genius intellect boiled down after decades of use…

He breathed so deeply his back arched, and there was an intense itching in his hand. His eyes widened as he gaped at his reflection, which was now an image of an old man, helpless and unidentifiable to him. He slowly drew back his arm, preparing to smash him out of his sight, this stranger who hid within the confines of the mirror - 

“Darling, come and join me.” 

Kane froze where he stood. His eyes finally tore away to see the womanly silhouette of his wife in the bathtub. The water sloshed around her bare breasts as she carefully held the stem of her wine glass just outside the water’s reach. When his gaze returned to his reflection, he was still young. Strong. Incredibly smart. The most admired man in all of Valencia. 

That’s right. Queen was taking a bath. He’d stepped in here to grab something, but…he caught his reflection in the mirror, and noticed the bags under his eyes from a prolonged day. He must’ve gotten lost in his thoughts. How long had he been standing here? 

“The water’s still warm,” her voice was as sweet as honey, smooth as silk. Deliciously inviting. “You know there’s enough room for two.” 

He swiped his mask from the sink. “I’m sorry, amore mio . I was just about to leave-”

“-I’m afraid you’re mistaken. You were about to join me.” 

How could he refuse her anything? Kane had no argument and abandoned his second face yet again. He slipped off his gloves and chucked his combat boots aside. The soreness returned to his body as he bent down, reminding him of the demanding day he’d just had. A bath would do wonders right now. She was so resourceful, his Queen. 

He folded his clothes and set them aside, baring his body and lowering himself into the hot water. His wife enjoyed her bubble baths and scented salts, so the smell of lavender greeted his senses as he allowed himself to relax. He closed his eyes for just a second - attempting to calm his mind and focus on the present. 

“You seem tense, dearest. Something on your mind?” 

The glass of wine was smoothly exchanged into his hand. He didn’t think twice before taking a hefty sip and gently setting it aside. 

“I’m looking like my father again,” he lamented sadly. 

He lifted his head to gaze into her brown eyes. It was the most gorgeous pair he had the privilege to peer into. And her skin, glistening teasingly under the bubbles that obscured her cleavage. He could recall the dozens of times his bare hands had roamed about her body - memorizing the feel of pure perfection, the ecstasy it brought to his needful fingertips… 

“Your father made a handsome man,” she insisted, her fingers sliding through his. “I do not see the problem.” 

A scoff left his lips before he could help it. She looked at him sideways. Despite how badly he wanted to argue, to insist he did not want to look like that god-forsaken man, he did not find any pleasure in disagreeing with his Queen. She thought him handsome - therefore, he was the luckiest man in the world. 

“I am aging ,” he corrected. His wedding band reflected the warm glow from a nearby candle, pulling his attention away momentarily. It never crossed his mind to take it off. “And it is something I fear.” 

She sighed with melancholy. “I fear it as well. The day I start getting wrinkles is when you’ll find me repulsive.” 

He sat up so quickly that it startled her. “What makes you say such a thing?” 

Her brown eyes met his, twinkling with something knowing in them. Something that challenged him. “You find it such a deplorable thing.”

“For myself, cara . I could never find you anything but exquisite.” 

“Then do you find it so surprising I think the same of you?” 

He fell back into the water with a groan. How difficult this conversation was. How… messy his mind felt. Torn between two ideas, not knowing exactly what to think. He rarely ever felt this way. His brain presented facts and knew what was absolute. Queen, no matter how she appeared, was always going to be the woman he worshipped. That was undeniable. 

But he … 

“Is it perhaps that you are afraid of dying?” she asked. He kept his stare trained on the ceiling. What an amusing question. 

“No.” 

“You are afraid of changing.” 

“Partly,” he drew in a deep breath and stretched out his fingers. “I am afraid of losing my perfection. With age comes weakness, comes forgetfulness, comes mistakes-”  

“-And along comes wisdom, experience, and knowledge,” she added helpfully. 

It made him smile. She had a habit of painting his perfectionism in another perspective. The small things that bothered him - a portrait tilted just off-center, a spot of dirt on his boots, a stray hair that had fallen from his bow…it was all so benign in her presence. Because it was her that truly captured his attention, she took his focus away from anything that was amiss. All was right in the world when Queen was around, because she was the center of it. Nothing else mattered. 

Something else flashed across his eyes - a memory from this morning. Of every morning of his life for the past years. The two of them over the bathroom sink, applying creams and moisturizes to the other’s face. Assisting with hair, tying and braiding it for the other. Knowing so intimately what the other needed and how to accomplish it. He hadn’t touched his own skin in… so long …it was taken care of in her hands, now. 

“ Mia regina, ” he breathed. 

“Yes?”

He didn’t know what to say. He just wanted to hear her voice. His eyes flitted to hers and she smiled brightly in return, glowing under the lights of candles. He was so enamored with her that he forgot where he was again. He sat up slowly and reached over to cup her cheek in his hand, the contrasting colors of their skin looking so beautiful together. She batted her eyes as his thumb swiped across her face, relishing in the softness. He accomplished that for her. 

“I love you,” he told her, his heart bared to her yet again. 

“And I will love you when you’re old, mio re ,” she moved her hand to caress his cheek, gifting him with her touch. He shuddered under the intensity of it. “Wrinkles or not, you will always be mine.” 

‘Her King’ ? That was new. It was…it was a compliment to what he called her . The King to her Queen. The rightful rulers of the chess board, always placed next to each other. Protecting one another. Never winning the game without the other. It was so poetic that he leaned over to capture her lips in his, the two of them fitting together so naturally. 

His perfection only existed when he was melded to her.

[infin1ty-garden]

KANE (ANNIHILATION) FIC RECS

Annihilation is a 2018 British-American science fiction psychological cosmic horror film written and directed by Alex Garland, loosely based on the 2014 novel of the same name by Jeff VanderMeer. The story follows a group of scientists who enter "The Shimmer", a mysterious quarantined zone of mutating plants and animals caused by an alien presence. Kane joins an expedition to investigate a strange alien field known as Shimmer.

other fic recs.

IRREGULAR LOVE

Kane writes you a letter before his next mission and makes peace with the fact he probably won't return

by @spider-starry | angst, swearing & slight spoilers

FALLING LEAVES

Kane embraces the change of season but not without a little help

by @alwritey-aphrodite | fluff

TWO GHOSTS

You and Kane come to terms that he's changed after leaving Area X

by @alwritey-aphrodite | fluff & angst

SOULMATE

You get flowered tattoos wherever your soulmate receives a scar and meet your soulmate in an unexpected way

by @freelancearsonist | fluff

NOSTALGIA

Kane begins to remember something. (Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind Fusion + soulmates)

part 2 | part 3

by @onevolon | fluff & angst

FRIDAY THE 13TH

Kane being the superstitious person that he is decided to stay in for the day and makes you accompany him

by @alwritey-aphrodite | fluff

HOW KANE RE-FALLS IN LOVE

Kane falls in love with you once again

by @redeyerhaenyra | fluff

FALSE ALARM

Taking the dog out in the middle of the night isn't necessarily uncommon, but at the first sign of trouble, Kane jumps into action

by @the-butterfly-blues | fluff

Thanks for reading!

[putalabelonit]

Men's Hockey (RPF) fanfiction recs:

Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews [Part 2]

"I'm beyond your peripheral vision (so you might want to turn your head)" 🔒 (E) by anonymous | 3,418 | It takes the combination of prospect camp, training camp, and their first week on the road together for Johnny to realize Patrick is his soulmate. The first person he calls is Dan.

"red lips, so kissable" 🔒 (E) by anonymous | 3,569 | When Pat had finally come to him with this after six months of dating without things imploding, he'd been hesitant. "I just.... I think about making myself pretty sometimes," he had said, blushing. "Like a girl."

"crash into me" (E) by fadeastride | 3,403 | And that’s not some chick. That’s fucking Pat.

"Make The Moves Up As I Go" 🔒 (E) by agirlnamedfia | 30,354 | Patrick has his first Econ 202 class on the second day of the spring semester. It doesn’t exactly go well.

"Sommeil" (M) by MJBadger | 1,622 | Jonny being weird about public bathrooms and lots of sleepiness.

"let it all unfurl" 🔒 (M) by poeelektra | 2,545 | "Brooklyn is not Bumfuck, Tazer. And, you know, irony noted, seeing as you're from Winnipeg." "Whatever," Jon says darkly, punching fists into his jacket pockets like there’s some satisfaction to be had in stressing the seams of their linings. He doesn't care where Brooklyn is—if it belongs to this city, he's already made up his mind about it. "You're paying for the cab ride. There and back." Sharpy just laughs like Jon has told a good joke. "Sure thing, Tazer."

"and it's over, and i'm goin' under" (E) by mockturtletale | 15,011 | And that’s the story of how Kaner finds himself slumping down to the floor against his best friend’s front door, shaking a little and half covered in goosebumps. Sporting a semi and fighting the urge to cry.

"kiss and tell" 🔒 (T) by sloom | 2,169 | “Trust me,” Sharpy says, “this will be good for you.” And then, he shoves Jonny into what appears to be a mostly empty coat closet and slams the door shut behind him. “What the fuck, Sharp!” Jonny calls, pounding at the door which is, of course, locked. “Enjoy your seven minutes in heaven, Tazer,” Sharpy singsongs. Then, the bare bulb mounted on the ceiling flares to life, illuminating one Patrick Kane. Fuck.

"i don't play hard to get (i play to get you hard)" 🔒 (E) by sloom | 4,666 | Jonny starts out in twink porn - of course he does, he’s nineteen, all big dark eyes and delicate features. He never planned on being a porn star, it just sort of happened. He got injured and lost his hockey scholarship and, well, everyone has their story about how they got into porn. Jonny needed the money. Simple as that.

"left standing in the wilderness downtown" 🔒 (M) by poeelektra | 4,051 | They’re friends, though that’s always felt like a watered-down word for what they are, teammates and halves of a whole and things that are too big for language. Jonny’s his person, is all.

"anxious like the ocean in a storm" 🔒 (M) by poeelektra | 4,169 | “Did you know Savvy and Larmer combined for 220 pts in ’87-’88? Last week I watched them pummel the North Stars, a 6-point night for Savvy, with a hat trick.” He leaves off how his eyes were glued to the screen watching the two of them, because Jonny has no poetry in his soul. It just made Patrick wonder—about their futures, if what everyone’s saying is true, what it’ll be like to go all the way like he thinks him and Jonny can do—and the wondering gave him goosebumps.

"Okay, So Now You're a Vegetarian" 🔒 (M) by anonymous | 33,854 | Patrick Kane secretly decides to go vegetarian. Jonathan Toews draws the wrong conclusions.

"Good Times Never Seemed So Good" (E) by juliusschmidt | 21,171 | Johnny is a miserable bastard. Kaner is a needy fuck. They are meant for each other and also for summer on Mackinac Island, fratbro paradise.

"Media Vita In Morte Sumus" 🔒 (T) by jezziejay | 2,556 | Life is standing on the observation deck of the surgical theatre when Death finds him. “Nobody called for the grim reaper,” Jon says without turning around. There’s a soft snicker from behind him. “I’m omnipresent, I don’t need to be called.”

"I Could Dream of Ways to See You, I Could Close My Eyes to Dream" (M) by Frosting50 | 2,686 | Jonny’s head falls back against the metal stall divider with a resounding thud. He keeps making these small punched out grunts, even as he bites his lips in an effort to keep quiet. He has zero desire to get caught by some homophobic Jets fan while he’s getting his dick sucked in the men’s room at the MTS Centre, but -- Jesus Christ -- this kid has a mouth on him.

"Go, Johnny, Go" (E) by juliusschmidt | 4,387 | Jonny gives Kaner a ticket. To the courthouse. Kaner gives Jonny a ticket. To the love shack hockey game.

"don't look up, down, or to the side" 🔒 (M) by hazel | 8,282 | His mom had told him not to fall in love with houses; so had his dad, made some crack about them being worse than women, son, while his mom fake-punched him in the arm and then added, "and like people, it's what's underneath that matters, Johnny." But this is the first house he's looked at that he's liked, though he doesn't know why: it's got narrow, pointy windows with stone pieces on the tops like eyebrows, and it sits between its larger, tidier, neighbours like a poor cousin. Johnny thinks it maybe just needs someone to love it; and then he thinks: fuck.

"Let It Be" (E) by juliusschmidt | 60,127 | There’s one person who knows more about Pat than Brisson, one person who’s closer to discovering Pat’s secrets than his mom, one person who always, always, calls bullshit on him: Jonathan Fucking Toews. And following the launch of the Sun-Times article, which runs with the unfortunate headline “Patrick Kane Admits He’s Not God,” Jonny does not disappoint.

"Power Balance" (E) by thisissirius | 13,476 | The body of the email just says, “don’t fuck seguin” because Jonny doesn’t know what capital letters are and he’s a controlling asshole even when he’s miles away, and attached to it is a spreadsheet that Patrick reluctantly opens. It’s color-coded with tabs and he’s not sure whether he wants to punch Jonny in the mouth or laugh in his face. Calling him in the middle of the airport is a really bad fucking idea and Patrick knows something about those, so he settles for sending Jonny a message. YOU SENT ME A JERK-OFF SCHEDULE FOR SWITZERLAND?!

"break me in" (E) by thundersquall | 5,386 | Today Patrick comes into the locker room, shrugs off his coat, and underneath he's wearing a fucking tight tee that clings to every dip and curve of his musculature. It looks fucking painted on, and the sight of it slams Jonathan like a puck to his face, stunning and somehow primal and just bordering on the edge of obscene, how good Patrick looks in that.

"the high road is hard to find" (M) by anonymous | 11,304 | Patrick guesses this is his “third strike, you’re out” in the Jonathan Toews friendship book and he doesn’t know how to remedy that. He doesn't think he deserves the chance, to be honest.

"you look so perfect" 🔒 (E) by tarcanza | 4,270 | His eyes land on Jonny, and his rage chokes in his throat. Dries right up and flips on a dime like a fucking chemical reaction. Jonny’s lying on his stomach in the middle of his bed, reading a book. He’s in nothing but those stupid, tiny black boxer-briefs, stretched tight over the swell of his ass. One side’s jacked, fabric pushed up so that his cheek’s just hanging out all casual, fucking taunting Patrick.

"easy does it" (E) by robokittens | 2,137 | Jonny tips his head forward, rests it against Patrick's shoulder. "You got this, baby," he whispers. "You can take this; you were made for it. Made for me." It doesn't even feel like dirty talk, just like the truth.

"The Scars That Words Have Carved" 🔒 (E) by Linsky | 15,694 | “Forgive me for asking, Peeks,” Sharpy says, slowly. “But did you just kiss our illustrious captain, here?” “Um.” Patrick’s not sure what this captain business is about, but: “Yes?” Jonny’s still staring at him like he’s grown four or five extra heads, and, okay. Patrick definitely read this wrong.

"Wide Eyes" (E) by Tedda | 44,832 | When he starts hooking up with Patrick, Jonny slowly begins to realize a few things about himself.

"a hot summer night" (E) by Tedda | 5,267 | Patrick arrives in Arizona on a hot summer night. He hasn't talked to Jonny in five years, and it would have felt weird to do it over the phone for the first time.

"Dress Well, Test Well" 🔒 (M) by Kerfluffle | 9,649 | A liberal arts college AU.

"Streets of Chicago" 🔒 (E) by TheNorthRemembers | 79,749 | Patrick is 29 years old when he finds out he is HIV positive. Patrick is 29 years old when he realizes that despite giving up everything for hockey, he still might lose it over one stupid mistake, one careless, reckless night.

"a hot summer night" (E) by Tedda | 5,267 | Patrick arrives in Arizona on a hot summer night. He hasn't talked to Jonny in five years, and it would have felt weird to do it over the phone for the first time.

"blue eyes, velvet lips" (E) by Tedda | 10,356 | Prince Jonathan finds a runaway slave. Clearly, the only solution is taking the boy home.

"Wide Eyes" (E) by Tedda | 44,832 | When he starts hooking up with Patrick, Jonny slowly begins to realize a few things about himself.

"The Scars That Words Have Carved" 🔒 (E) by Linsky | 15,694 | “Forgive me for asking, Peeks,” Sharpy says, slowly. “But did you just kiss our illustrious captain, here?” “Um.” Patrick’s not sure what this captain business is about, but: “Yes?” Jonny’s still staring at him like he’s grown four or five extra heads, and, okay. Patrick definitely read this wrong.

"It Must Be Something in the Water" 🔒 (E) by allthebros | 40,228 | After five years away, living on the west coast, coming to terms with his sexuality, Patrick comes back to his coastal hometown to be with his family again and to start working at his dad's dealership, determined to get his life back on track, to leave behind all emotional messes and complications. But on the first morning of his return he meets Jonny, his sister's new boyfriend, and falls hard in lust with him, throwing an enormous wrench in his plan.

"Sleepless in Chicago" 🔒 (E) by sahiya | 4,894 | “Babe,” Jonny said, “how long has it been since you slept?” “Three nights,” Patrick said.

"Muscle Stim" 🔒 (E) by sahiya | 7,672 | The last thing Patrick needed was a stupid crush on the dude whose job it was to get him back out on the ice as quickly as possible.

"Didn't Know That Was a Thing" 🔒 (T) by AnythingThrice | 1,303 | Patrick notices it as he's searching the shelves in Jonny's bedroom for Madden 08: a weird glass sculpture, glossy black with bands of a trippy, swirling white pattern that seem to sit just under the surface. He figures it for a knickknack at first, some art piece his decorator suggested or—more likely—one of those locally-and-sustainably crafted souvenirs Jonny tends to bring back from his vacations.

"Not Something You Rub in (Just) Anyone's Face" 🔒 (E) by AnythingThrice | 6,736 | "Don’t wanna talk about it," Patrick cuts in, voice firmer now. As far as he's concerned they'd done all the necessary talking back in April. Offseason rules – offseason lives – set and followed and fucking done. World Cup over. Summer gone. Long past time to get back to the good stuff: friendly ice, Blackhawks hockey and being first star in Jonny's eyes.

"Shitshow" 🔒 (E) by AnythingThrice | 19,989 | Jonathan thought they'd outgrown this. Or no, if he's being honest with himself, he thought Pat had outgrown it while he'd merely shoved it aside, banished it to the realm of things it didn't help to dwell on.

"Fill Up Your Mouth with Something Sweet" 🔒 (E) by Linsky | 3,904 | The amazing thing, Jonny reflects after a couple of months with the Blackhawks, is how Patrick Kane manages to be such a good hockey player and yet so wrong about everything.

"the whole of him" 🔒 (E) by allthebros | 2,258 | Patrick did nothing else for this moment but live with inconvenient erections since they talked about doing it, only showing up at Jonny’s door in sweats and a t-shirt and his morning-long semi he’d made sure to trap in the kind of tight underwear that would make Jonny proud. Well fine, Patrick also did some video research. Watching review tapes is important. But Jonny--fucking Jonathan Toews--he got ready for this.

"What It Means" 🔒 (T) by allthebros | 1,312 | They’ve never been like this with each other before. He doesn’t know if it’s the sun, being away from Chicago and their lives, or just them finally being able to have this, but it catches inside Jonny’s chest. Little swoops in his stomach that surprise him every time, make it hard to breathe.

"Tell the Stars I'm Coming Home" 🔒 (E) by allthebros | 15k WIP | Jonny and Patrick have three weeks left to live. Three weeks to find their way back to each other.

"La Piscine" 🔒 (E) by allthebros | 2,484 | Pat didn’t think it was possible, but if anything, Jonathan Toews has gotten hotter since Pat saw him last summer. It’s kind of a bummer that they don’t go to the same college, but Pat appreciates the surprise. He doesn’t know what’s in the water up there in Montreal, but God Bless Canada.

"S(t)ick" 🔒 (E) by allthebros | 2,842 | “What’s gotten into you, man,” Jonny says, softly. The ‘you’ is on Patrick's lips before he can realize he’s thought it, hysterical laugh bubbling into his throat at the cheesiness of it, the disgusting idiocy, but instead he says, “it’s this heat, man, I can’t—” Think. Sleep. Fucking drink a beer like normal. Look at Jonny and see what he used to see.

"Shawty With You" 🔒 (E) by allthebros | 6,764 | 5 times Pat and Jonny needed mistletoe to kiss, and one time they didn't.

"134 Days" 🔒 (E) by allthebros | 3,406 | It's been a long winter without him.

"Nothin' But Blue Skies" 🔒 (T) by allthebros | 2,708 | Perhaps the middle of Wisconsin wasn't the right place to tell Jonny.

"Sonoran" 🔒 (T) by allthebros | 2,177 | Somewhat newly retired, Patrick makes his way to Arizona where Jonny's ostensibly getting his own shit together. It's summer in the desert, and it's been too long since they've seen each other.

"Just to Break My Own Fall" 🔒 (M) by Linsky | 9,092 | Patrick used to play a game with himself, when he was younger and considerably dumber: see how close he could get to Jonny, for how long, and not do anything to give himself away.

"trouble when you walked in" (T) by tourdefierce | 2,253 | The only thing more confusing than Twitter is Patrick Kane. Thankfully, Pat keeps Jonny busy enough that the former doesn't even matter.

"farmer au" (E) by anonymous | 13,940 | “No offense, man, but who steals a bunch of corn? It’s not really in short supply around here?” “It’s or-gan-ic,” Jonny says, pointedly drawing out each syllable. Deputy Kane clearly doesn’t fucking get it. His corn is probably full of pesticides and fertilizers.

"Loosen Up My Buttons (Babe)" (E) by tourdefierce | 4,848 | Tazer is always pushing him to be better—little psycho that he is—so it doesn't surprise Pat when he finds himself looking at a too tense, wound up Jonny and saying to himself, "Someone needs to fuck that douchebag silly". And then obviously high-fiving himself because heyoh, that's totally his job.

"High and Tight" (E) by tourdefierce | 2,609 | Jonny Toews gets a hair cut.

"the quiet between us" 🔒 (M) by tarcanza | 13,852 | There are screams. Thousands of them. Thousands of people. Claps, chants, cheers of victory. It should be loud. But it’s not. Here with his face hidden in the curve of Kaner’s neck, it’s not. There’s only Kaner. And Jonny wrapped around him, never letting go.

"(All My Life I've Been) Burdened by the Dreams" 🔒 (E) by Linsky | 30,170 | Patrick has two goals for himself when he comes to Chicago: Win the Stanley Cup. And don’t let anyone find out he’s a wolf.

••••••

This list is ongoing.

[thewaysomesciencefictiondoes505]

Kalopsia - part 1 / short story

I wrote this story nearly two years ago, but I didn't know where to post it. I figured some arctic monkeys fans might enjoy it. I wrote it with the song nº1 party anthem in mind. Please tell me if you like it, and if I should continue this story!

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Kalopsia, part 1

What is the secret to finding your passion? College taught me that some people discover their raison d’être without much deliberation. Those lucky ones share the same glint in their eyes, catching glimpses of their future at the turn of a page. This gentle self-reflection remains an incomprehensible concept to me, and their apparent success is a constant reminder of the monotony I live in. Asking questions became predictable, followed always by silence. I’m haunted by a plethora of unpursued passions. The answers seem to exist near me, in every footstep from my bed to the kitchen, waiting for me to notice. If I could only stretch my arm a little more, perhaps I would be able to faintly touch that confident explanation. But the night is starting to greet us earlier, and no matter how tightly I grasp the memories of summer, the echoes of those voices aren’t enough to keep me warm. The year is coming to an end, and nothing has changed. What appears to be obvious to others remains a mystery to me. Staring at the night sky gives comfort to some people, not because of the beauty intrinsic to it, but because of the contradiction it conveys. It’s the known and unknown coexisting, the nothingness shaking hands with significance. Your doubts dissolve into the void, painting the late hours of dawn like a dream. 

This feeling arose stronger than before as a consequence of my decision to spend the evening in a different place. The tedium persuaded me to change the scenery. A lonely pub doesn’t quite sound like the greatest setting for self-reflection, but the unlikelihood of being seen there made it the perfect location. It also allowed my thoughts to wander, instead of focusing on my current overwhelming uncertainty, hindering my chances of change. 

I wish I could bring home that atmosphere, or at least melt into it and become one with the air. 

It’s quite hidden, barely visible during the day, let alone at night. The passersby could easily fail to notice the entrance. The door itself is plain and uninteresting, only displaying a sign with the word ‘kalopsia’ without any other information. It doesn’t have bright, flashy lights pointing at the door, asking you to come in. The color of the letters faded, leaving only a touch of what once was red and gold. The exterior blends in with the city, old and outdated. When night arrives, the pub succeeds in disappearing completely. 

I saw that sign for the first time on my way to work some weeks ago. I took an alternative route, hoping to listen to more people living their lives, walking their dogs, spilling coffee, bumping into each other by accident, or criticizing a badly parked car. Kalopsia is the delusion of things appearing more beautiful than they are. The word itself made me intrigued. After thinking about the pub for weeks, I researched it online. The website didn’t show any pictures of the interior, only the menu, as well as the address. I admit there was a feeling of anticipation, like a strange enthusiasm for the unknown. The mysterious nature of the pub was impossible to deny, and that only made me more interested in it. The unpredictable atmosphere drew me in, but the need to forget my reality was the principal factor for my decision. A few people were walking directly toward the entrance, but their footsteps sounded confident. Their shoes hit the ground with certainty, each step filled with purpose, echoing and signaling their arrival. Mine were more cautious, afraid of feeling out of place.

The door opened softly. There were mirrors on every wall and golden lamps on every round table. It was still fairly empty and quiet, or at least it appeared that way. The reflections on the mirrors made the pub look bigger than it truly was. The dark wooden tables and golden decorations made it look like an elegant and sophisticated place, a huge contrast with the view from the outside. The few customers inside were focused, and no one batted an eye as I closed the door and walked nervously to the furthest table I saw. It was obvious that the regular customers would simply aim for a specific table, and despite no words being exchanged, a drink would be put in their hands. The lamps didn’t offer much light, illuminating only the drinks in front of them. Not even a minute had passed when a tall man approached me with the question I hadn’t thought about all evening. It’s rare to visit such places, and the knowledge of drinks was nonexistent. I muttered what came to mind: whiskey. The glass landed in my hands before I could change my mind. The shadows hide my face. The glass in my hands looks more alive than I do. I swirled the whiskey and listened to the ice cubes hitting the glass. All I have is a temporary job and an overwhelming feeling of uncertainty. Instead of focusing on changing it, I'm at an unknown pub during the evening without a plan. The endless questions decided to walk into my mind uninvited, an annoying “guest” that doesn't quite understand when it’s time to go. I was unaware of how tightly my fingers were grasping the glass until a door cracking open shifted my attention entirely. 

He felt like a ghost hidden inside the walls, waiting for the perfect moment to make his appearance. An intimidating demeanor that doesn’t quite fit with the mood. A juxtaposition. Yet, he waltzed in unnoticed by the others. Light painted his movements as he walked across the wooden floor, sunglasses dangling in his hand with each step. He was wearing black denim jeans, a black v-neck shirt, and a slim-fitted leather jacket. Every detail of his clashed with the atmosphere of this place. Nevertheless, his small mannerisms were, somehow, captivating. Unbothered. Calm. I could hear someone hurriedly making a drink, so his presence must be usual. 

The glass slipped from my fingers, hitting the table with a loud thud. I hastily tried to find a napkin to clean up the spilled whiskey. His steps sounded closer, each step counting the seconds it took me to pretend I wasn’t embarrassed. As he walked past me, a slight wind hit my face, intoxicating me with his presence. The glass never touched my lips, and the embarrassment didn’t let me ask for another drink. I slumped back onto my chair, doubtful of my decision to visit this place, but at the same time intrigued by the man who had lazily sat near me. 

We were separated only by an empty table, allowing us to face each other. As much as I hated to admit it, I was mesmerized by his presence. His eyes were merely fixed on the wooden table. He was thinking about something else entirely. I wasn’t sure if he planned to come here or if it was a last-minute decision. Does he come here often? I shouldn’t care about him at all, but I found myself wondering who he was. I spent so much time asking myself unanswerable questions that directing those interrogations to someone else reassured me, even if I would never know the answers.

As I wondered what could have led him here this evening, he lazily lifted his hand and grabbed the glass, occasionally tapping it with his fingers. I tried to ignore his existence, but something as simple as looking away seemed impossible. Everything about him was the antithesis of my reflection. Calm, confident, relaxed. All of him was a mystery, and I couldn’t help but wonder what he sounded like. My thoughts must have been loud because the silence surrounding us changed almost immediately. 

“You’ll be able to see me in your dreams by now,” he said, smirking.

His voice, deep and velvety, traveled in the air with ease. The words rolled off his tongue like poetry. How long did my internal monologue last? 

“Staring won’t do you any good.” He straightened his back, still looking at the drink in his hand. “If you want to talk, then join me.” 

He shifted his attention to me, observing my reaction in detail. 

“Sorry, I didn’t notice I was staring,” I said, in a foolish attempt to sound confident. I was indeed looking at him, who knows how long, and I couldn’t come up with a better lie. Even if I did, he would see through me, certainly.

“It’s alright,” he said, reassuring me. He dragged the glass closer to him and gestured to the chair in front of him. I almost instinctively got up, but something in the back of my mind begged me to take a moment. Why did I decide to walk through that door? Was it the simple need to change the scenery or a silent hope that my questions would meet their answers? Before I could truly ponder my options, I stood up quickly. I caught his eyes following my steps. 

A smug grin appeared momentarily as he watched me sit on the chair, finally close to him. I heard his foot scrape the floor under the table, to avoid touching my legs. His eyes were dark brown, matching his short hair falling on his face. He swiftly moved the strands that were bothering him away from his eyes. The weak light coming from the lamp cast small shadows on his face, making him seem more like a sculpture than a person. I feared that if I looked at him for too long, he would turn into a puff of smoke and dissipate in the air. However, my eyes were fixed on his, and the way he observed me made it seem like he knew exactly what I was thinking, a defeat I would never truly recover from. 

The silence was broken by his smoky tone.

“I’ve never seen you here before.” He said calmly, a hint of curiosity leaving his lips.

“So I’m guessing you come here often?” I asked, this time in a more successful, confident tone.

“Whenever I need to,” he answered, without a care in the world, as if it was the most obvious fact about that evening.

Many people must walk past this place every day, yet it was fairly empty. You could count the number of people inside with your fingers, but all of them were regular customers. That was obvious. The drinks being put in their hands seconds after their arrival made it obvious, and all of them spent the evening alone. I felt out of place, unaware of this pub’s existence until a few weeks ago. 

“Did someone recommend this pub to you? Or did you know about it before?” I asked, suddenly curious about what his answer would be. Besides, the silence between us felt too natural, almost as if no words needed to be said to be understood. I could be imagining things, allowing the atmosphere to change the outcome of our meeting. Now I understand the name of the pub.

“You either look for it, or it finds you,” he replied. “I have a feeling this place found you,” he paused. “Am I right?”

He looked at me, attentive and careful, patiently waiting for a revelation. The glass of whiskey was forgotten. With his eyes staring at mine, my thoughts were no longer hidden. I was left with no words to explain them, much to his amusement. 

“I saw the sign, kalopsia. It sounded interesting, so I walked inside.”

“As simple as that?” he asked, exaggerating a shocked reaction.

“Yes, as simple as that.”

He knew. That sign wasn’t the only reason. To be honest, I couldn’t truly explain the reason why I left my apartment on such a cold, lonely evening. His facial expression was mocking how bad of a liar I was at that moment. 

“You didn’t just stumble into this pub; that’s obvious.” He laid his elbows on the table, leaning closer to me. His fingers intertwined under his chin. “You’re like everybody else in here, looking for answers.”

A strand of hair fell to his eyes again, but he didn’t push it away this time. He smelled like cigarette smoke. He was looking at me like he knew me. I couldn’t help but lean closer too, the distance between us disappearing with each sentence. We don’t even know each other's names.

“So I guess you’re exactly like me?”

I figured, why should I stop myself from knowing more about him?

“No doubt about that.” He answered, smiling. 

A simple answer to a simple question. Still, I hoped he would say more. Despite clashing with the atmosphere of the pub, he looked the most at home. Comfortable in conversation, calm yet mysterious, saying only enough details to keep me guessing. I wonder what else he could deduce just by looking at me. I noticed one of his eyebrows raised now and then, his eyes searching for meaning in every movement. The most obvious detail in that conversation was how words could say less than seconds of silence. That place, the faint lighting surrounding us, the mirror’s images of infinity, and his presence in front of me, everything felt like a dream, a story meant to live only in books.

Afraid to disrupt the quiet moment, my shaky voice was barely audible.

“Have you found the answers you’ve been looking for?” 

“Not yet, but I’m hopeful.” 

Another vague explanation. He simply took a sip of whiskey and waited patiently for me to continue. I was determined to know more, and he was aware of it.

“So… Do you think you’ll get your answers this evening?” I scoffed, “Like some sort of epiphany?” 

“You sound doubtful,” he grinned. “Did I just sense some annoyance in your voice?” That smile. I knew he wasn’t over it yet, pausing for just enough time to look me in the eyes.

“Or incredulity?” he finished, allowing me a minute to think about it.

I couldn’t help but sound more annoyed than I truly was. Perhaps his vagueness was starting to rile me up. Or perhaps he was right. I was truly in disbelief at the idea that hope could lead us to an epiphany on a normal autumn evening. Just the simplicity of it was like a mock to the countless months of searching and failing to find the final answer.

I had to sound more confident, and the sudden anger, or incredulity as he put it, would certainly help.

“It just doesn’t make sense that someone like you, or me, could simply hold on to hope,” I said. “It’s like believing in love at first sight; it’s a waste of time and—”

“Why would that be a waste of time?” He asked instantly, curiosity taking over his voice.

“How could it not?” 

“Well, someone could meet a stranger and feel an immediate connection, right?” He said, pronouncing each word clearly, never letting his smile fade, “Don’t act like you don’t know what that feels like.”

I didn’t allow myself to think about that final comment. He could’ve omitted that from the discussion, but being right was more important to him. 

“Okay, but the concept itself? It doesn't happen in real life, only in fairytales or something similar,” I paused. ”It's fiction.”

That word came out like poison. Nothing ends blissfully in real life; happy endings exist only in stories. That was a conclusion I reached without the help of hopeful epiphanies.

He was deep in thought. His mask fell for a moment, trying to find the right words. In the meantime, the waiter brought another glass of whiskey to our table despite none of us asking for it. I couldn’t tell if it was meant for him or me. With two glasses between us, he finally decided to speak.

“If you refuse to believe that good things can happen, you won’t even notice when they knock on your door.” He talked slower, staring intensely at me, letting his low voice capture my full attention. Every word sounded important, like a key to unlock a steel door. “You’d be running away from a possibility of happiness,” he paused, turning almost into a whisper, “a serendipity.”

I was struck with a feeling I haven't recognized in a long time. He finished what was left of his drink in a second, making me suddenly aware of the rings on his fingers, hitting the glass as he laid it back on the table. The ice cubes had practically melted. A pointless detail I noticed, yet another one to add to the list of things I would remember about this night.

He was right, though. If we immediately push back the possibility of serendipity, it can easily disappear as suddenly as it arrived. Hope is a funny thing, meant to ease our pain and bring comfort. I have always disregarded it and continuously considered it a waste of time. 

I don’t know how long I was quiet, holding the glass in front of me without ever thinking about bringing it to my lips. It was his hand touching mine that made me focus on him again. His eyes looked different from what they looked like before, softer and calmer, just like his voice.

“You walked through that door for a reason. Everyone that comes in here has something to face, or an answer to find,” he said, “You don’t walk through that door unless you still feel hopeful… Who knows, you might even find that epiphany.” 

Maybe that was the reason I decided to come to this pub. A silly thought that a mysterious place hidden in plain sight could somehow change my perspective and offer me something new and interesting. Perhaps it wasn’t silly at all, having met someone that helped me reach a conclusion. Well, not necessarily a conclusion, but more like a step towards the right path that will lead to one. Then, walking through that door was truly worth it. And perhaps it was worth it for the other people that found this place and were intrigued by the name. Kalopsia is truly the correct word to define this place.

Yet, something still lingered in the back of my mind.

“Are you implying that there’s like a magical force that tempts you to come inside?” I asked, “It’s just a pub, like any other.”

“We both know that’s not what you really think.”

His small, kind smile turned into a smirk once again. Lost in thought, the glass in his hand moved slowly in circles, and what was left of the ice cubes melted completely. 

He was right about many things tonight, starting with our instant connection, drawing us closer with each word. The conversation made me acutely aware of how I saw myself and my life and how the concept of hope shouldn’t be dismissed. I was still looking for answers, but this moment we shared was enough to make me more interested in what the future could offer. The decision to leave my apartment led me to meet him, serendipity. 

While glancing back at his empty drink, I noticed my reflection in the mirror next to us. He wasn’t the only one smirking. I was smiling too, subconsciously copying his demeanor. We both shared a look through the mirror’s reflection, and I noticed his confidence slip away for just a moment, struggling to find the final sentence to end this conversation.

It was getting late, so I helped him find the words.

“Why did you walk inside…” I said, catching him stealing a look at my lips. “What answer were you hoping to find?”

A chuckle echoed in my ears. He was back to his confident self, and the final sentence was everything I could have wished to hear, leaving enough mystery for another conversation.

“That’s up to you to find out.” 

His voice resonated in my chest, a low, smooth sound I would never forget. I knew that was the end of this conversation. At least for today. He took some money out of his wallet and put it on the table. I knew he had paid for my drink as well. The chair in front of me was suddenly empty, and I knew this was the right time to say goodbye for now.

“I hope I’ll see you again someday,” he said, resting his hand on my shoulder for a second longer. The conversation was about to end. I felt it, and so did he. Yet, I couldn’t let him leave without a final sentence on my part.

“I don’t even know your name,” I said, curious about his reaction. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

“As you said, we’ll see each other again, so why rush?”

He didn’t say goodbye definitely, and neither did I. I watched him walk towards the door, memorizing every detail. 

I was suddenly alone again, with two glasses in front of me, one untouched and the other one empty. The door closed, but it didn’t feel like an ending. It definitely didn’t feel like an ending. And that was enough.

[str8-jack-it]

Folks, I need some fanfics to read. Gimme the nitty gritty and the smutty. Idgaf how sick and twisted it is either. Like me some Karl Urban, Christian Kane, James Marsters, Jay Ryan, Hugh Jackman... oh Jensen Ackles. How tf could I forget him?! Anywho, I got AO3, Elysian Fields, Sunnydale After Dark, and willing to create account on other sites if need be. Preciate it.

[gothamite-rambler]

Honestly this looks really cool and I could see Kate Kane rocking this with no worries unlike the rainbow batsuit.

Kate Kane sipped on her smoothie, comfortably clad in her lesbian-inspired Batwoman suit. Across the room, her cousin Bruce Wayne, also known as Batman, crossed his arms, clearly annoyed but unable to hide a hint of admiration.

Batman: I hate… that you made stripes work. You look fantastic, don’t get me wrong, but why did you have to be the one that makes stripes work?

Batwoman shrugged, a relaxed smile playing on her lips.

Batwoman: Maybe the lesbian flag looks better as a suit, maybe I have a legitimate reason for making it that doesn't involve a lie about crime-fighting or maybe, I’m just that family member who can make anything work. Yeah… yeah, it's all of the above. Oh, that and I'm Batwoman!

She crossed her legs, satisfied as she reveled in her own charm. Batman sighed, shaking his head in exasperation.

Batman: You being Batwoman is not an explanation. Shut the hell up, everyone else. I'm serious!

That last part was directed at his sons, who were chuckling at the whole scene, but the laughter merely bubbled up even more as Batman exited the room. The room echoed with their amusement over his embarrassment and the fantastic colors in Batwoman's rainbow-themed suit.

[misskattylashes]

Devotion to your art is preparing to write a 350 page novel about how a sexually repressed teenage musician from the North West of England, finds this person so desirable it makes him question his sexuality and changes his life forever...

[perfectly-clear-from-here]

inhaler chapter 4 is up now!!

Chapter 4. anticipation has a habit Fandom: The Last Shadow Puppets, Arctic Monkeys Rating: Mature Relationships: Miles Kane/Alex Turner Additional Tags: Friends to Lovers, pre-TAOTU, miles has insomnia, Slow Burn, Lots of denial, Light Angst, Fluff, Eventual Smut, Mutual Pining, Drunkenness

Snippet:

“Mate, could those jeans get any tighter?” A lad in the crowd hollers at Miles's skin-tight white denims.

“Course you’d like to know, wouldn’t ya?” Miles jests, followed by the chorus of girly giggles and rough whistles. The frisson of the party starts to settle into his bones.

“Ah don’t worry ‘bout that, ‘m sure they’ll be off before the end of t’night,” Matt assures them with a grin. “Ain’t that right Alex?” Alex forces an elbow into Matt’s ribs, but he might as well just be adding a bathtub worth of fuel to the fire. "Aye don't think your bloody oglings going unnoticed, 'nd I've only been here five seconds!"

[fangirlmary]

"Returns"

Summary: The Undertaker returns to the WWF. Ashley returns to being a professional wrestling manager, this time for Kane. 38th installment of Two Brothers, One Friend, Many Stories series. Kayfabe details used only.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the pro wrestling gimmicks/characters used here. I only own my original characters.

After Kane had gotten a broken arm, Ashley had expressed sympathy and encouraged him to take off whatever time he needed to recover. As a result, he was not at Judgement Day on May 21st, 2000. Ashley, Lucas, Colin, and Meredith had still been watching it a few days after a meeting with Mr. McMahon to arrange for her to go back to work at the WWF on June 1st as Kane's manager. To say that the McCormick family were shocked by the Undertaker showing up dressed normally and riding a motorcycle during the main event of an iron man match between Triple H and the Rock was an understatement.

"He's really back!?" Colin shouted.

"I didn't think he would ever return." Lucas added.

"I had no idea he was going to do this." Ashley admitted. "I think he can still handle himself well without supernatural powers."

"I hope you're right, Mom." Meredith said softly.

"Since when has Mom been wrong about anything?" Lucas asked in a condescending tone of voice as the PPV ended and he turned the TV off. This was a sign that he was definitely a typical teenager who got annoyed by his still kid siblings.

"Lucas Andrew McCormick, do not be mean to your sister." Ashley scolded him firmly. "Let's all get ready for bed now since you all have school tomorrow and I have work. You only have a little over a week until school gets out for summer vacation."

None of the kids argued as they went upstairs. Ashley turned off the downstairs lights after making sure that the doors were locked and then went upstairs. She made sure that the lights up there were turned off as well after she got on her purple pajamas, brushed her teeth, and got out clothes for the next day. Then she got into bed and fell asleep.

The very next evening, May 22nd, 2000, the McCormick family had been watching Raw after having supper. When the show was over, Ashley got a phone call from the Undertaker as she turned the TV off. She immediately answered the house phone, which was in the kitchen on one wall. "Hello, this is the McCormick household."

"Good evening, Ashley. You're sounding a bit too formal for my liking." The Undertaker replied jokingly.

"Mark, I am not going to be rude to anyone ever. You know that. What made you decide to come back to the WWF?" She asked, genuinely curious.

"I missed it and I wanted to show that I am still the toughest guy there even without supernatural powers." He was blunt but honest while saying this; he had lost said supernatural powers after quitting several months ago and was unlikely to regain them as far as anyone knew. "Are you really going back and being my brother's manager?"

"I am; like Kane said, it's only fair that he gets a turn having me as a manager to himself for a while." Ashley answered, trying not to sound nervous. "I think I'll be able to handle it since he's likely to listen to me if I make any suggestions regarding future matches."

"He probably will; just remember if you break Kane's heart, we are not going to be friends anymore. Got it?" The Phenom reminded her of the same warning he had given her a few days before her first date with Kane.

"Got it, Mark. The kids are going to be with Quentin and Julia all summer hence why I am also returning to the WWF. I'll see you soon. Tell Sara I said hello. Good night." Ashley said before yawning.

"Good night, old friend." The Undertaker hung up the phone in his hotel room after saying this. It was needless to say that things would be very interesting this summer.

On June 1st, 2000, Ashley McCormick had left home and arrived at a WWF house show to start her next stint as a manager. Stanley and Pamela were once again house sitting, making sure that Colin's blackberry bushes were watered and weeded, and keeping the front and back lawns mowed while the McCormicks were gone; the couple would also pick the ripe blackberries and freeze them to give back to Colin once he, his siblings, and his mother had returned home on September 1st. It was an arrangement that everyone was happy with and would work out smoothly.

Ashley's mind was on other things though. She had arrived in the hotel lobby with Kane after he had picked her up from the airport in his rental car. Smackdown and Sunday Night Heat had been taped 2 nights ago which meant Ashley would be back on TV on the June 5th episode of Raw. They got checked in and then got key cards before going up to put their luggage in their room. Then they would head to tonight's house show and eat something while backstage.

"I'm glad you're back." Kane admitted as he put some Gatorade in the fridge, keeping a few bottles for himself and the single mom in his bag of wrestling gear.

"I'm glad to be back too. Whatever happens next on this often crazy job, we'll get through it together." Ashley assured him gently.

Underneath his mask, Kane was smiling once again. He knew Ashley was speaking the truth as they finished putting away what they didn't need and then got what they did need together before heading to the location of the night's house show. After it was over, they would discuss budget related things and figure out who would spend how much time driving each day before switching drivers among other considerations. While he was not sure if he ever would unmask for her or anyone else, the Big Red Machine knew that it didn't matter to Ashley what he opted to look like. It was rare to find anyone like that in this world and he hoped that spending more time together like this would help them decide whether they could consider themselves a couple one day. For now, he was focused on the present as he and Ashley got into the dressing room he would use tonight and he let her brush his hair gently; she was much gentler with a hairbrush than most of the staff at the asylum had been.

Kane shoved this brief thought of his past aside as Ashley put the hairbrush away in her blue backpack after pulling the strands of hair off of it and throwing them in a waste basket. "You ready? Your match is first tonight after we cut a brief promo."

"I'm ready." Kane took the single mom's hand and they walked out into the gorilla position, any nervousness melting away. It was anyone's guess as to how the audience would react to Ashley returning tonight and on her next appearance on Raw on Monday, but that was not something either she or Kane was worried about. Not at that moment.

[femme-foucault]

Award Season Guesses - late December 2024

Alright, well I still haven't seen The Brutalist (or Nickel Boys) because it's not releasing outside NYC and LA until sometime in January and I have no intention of seeing A Complete Unknown precisely because I am a Bob Dylan fan. So I haven't really updated my list of predictions from about a month ago or so. I am tempted to include The Substance but it is a sliiiiiim possibility given how the Oscars snubs work in horror. So here are my predictions as of late December 2024.

Above the Line Awards:

Alphabetical order as usual. My suspected winners in bold and runner-ups/potential "upsets in italics.

Best Picture:

Anora*

The Brutalist

A Complete Unknown

Conclave

Dune Pt 2

Emilia Perez

Nickel Boys

A Real Pain

Sing Sing

The Substance (????)

Wicked Pt 1

I am going on a limb and guessing The Substance does get in even though I think it is reeeeally a stretch. The Academy snubs horror films all the time, especially in acting (see Toni Collette in Hereditary and Mia Goth in Pearl). But the GG noms made me reconsider even though the GG is a critics/journalism awards show and the Oscars are an industry awards show and like any "election," demographic patterns vary. But actually if anything I think critics are snobbier about horror than industry people so that's a good sign. No idea what will win -- which is fun! 2024 was not nearly as good as 2023, which was an unusually packed year for great movies. But in a way, that makes Awards Season more fun because there isn't a clear front runner. I am leaning Anora right now for BP like I have been all year, but I would NOT underestimate either Wicked or Emilia Perez. I don't like the latter movie very much and while I did really enjoy Wicked I wouldn't say it was the best of the year. But don't underestimate the Oscars leaning populist because all three of the last BP winners in awards season were very much "crowd pleasers" over more "artsy" choices like Power of the Dog or Poor Things. (It feels odd to call Oppenheimer a "crowd pleaser" as that movie is so bleak, but technically, it counts in the sense that many people saw it and both general audiences and industry people liked it. So I'd put it next to EEAO and CODA as a "crowd-pleaser" Best Picture winner and a "populist" choice due to it making so much money because of Barbeheimer despite being, technically, a kinda weird movie when you dissect it. So don't underestimate Wicked!).

Best Director: Sean Baker (Anora), Edward Berger (Conclave), Brady Corbet (The Brutalist), maaaaybe Coralie Fargeat, but ONLY if The Substance gets into Best Picture. I have taken Denis Villeneuve (Dune Pt 2) out of my predictions even though he deserves it because Dune Pt 2 was better than the first one. But until I see The Brutalist, I can't evaluate it. I wouldn't be surprised if we got a rare Best Picture and Best Director split.

Best Actress in A Lead Role: Cynthia Erivo (Wicked), Karla Sofía Gascón (Emilia Perez), Angelina Jolie (Maria), Mikkey Madison (Anora).....and if and only if The Substance The Substance gets into picture, maaaaaybe Demi Moore. She probably deserves it (I haven't seen The Substance because I'm squeamish), but the Academy is awful about nominating horror performances (see Toni Collette for Hereditary). The alternative might be Nicole Kidman for Babygirl.

Best Actor in a Lead Role: Adrian Brody (The Brutalist), Timothee Chalamet (A Complete Unknown), Daniel Craig (Queer), Colman Domingo (Sing Sing), Ralph Fiennes (Conclave).

I am leaning Brody based on trailers alone (the Academy loves an accent and a WWII-post Holcaust drama) but even if Chalamet is mid -- and apparently he is quite good -- the Academy isn't above rewarding lame music biopics. See Austin Butler's nomination for Elvis and Rami Malek winning for Bohemian Rhapsody. ACU is apparently good -- I really hate that kind of biopic so I am not there for it -- so all Chalamet has to do to be decent for the boomer crowd who likes Dylan to vote for him.

Best Supporting Actress: Ariana Grande (Wicked), Felicity Jones (The Brutalist), Isabella Rossellini (Conclave), Zoe Saldana (Emilia Perez), Margaret Qualley (The Substance).

Still leaning Saldana but Grande is not to be underestimated (the Academy are more likely to award comedic performances in supporting -- see Ryan Gosling's nom last year. He might have won if RDJ didn't have The Narrative). I am putting Rosselini in there now that she got into GG and if I am going to lean towards The Substance, maybe Qualley. Felicity Jones isn't doing well in critics circles but I think if The Brutlaist is popular, she could be the Emily Blunt of the season (the person who gets nominated for being in a popular movie and tags along but doesn't win anything, which is what happened with Emily Blunt last year because Oppenheimer was so popular with the industry and critics that she got a lot of "tag along" noms but no real wins).

Best Supporting Actor: Kieran Culkin (A Real Pain), Clarence Maclin (Sing Sing), Guy Pearce (The Brutalist), Denzel Washington (Gladiator II)...and someone else. Idk maybe one of the Anora guys (Yura Borisov (Igor?). I don't see the supporting performances from Conclave aside from Rosselini getting in because while everyone was good...that is part of the problem. No one but her really stood out because everyone in the supporting cast was so solid and I think Anora is a bit similar in that regard except that Borisov's character sticks out as having a sliver of decency. It's weird to think that the sentence "Oscar winner Kieran Culkin" might be a thing. As much as I like Culkin from Succession, my actual vote would be Maclin. But no one saw that movie :( I am including Washington even though Gladiator II got poor to mixed reviews because he's Denzel. He is such a great actor who was snubbed for his best performances that now they nominate him all the time to make up for it, and it's such a weak year in this category that I'm not complaining.

Original Screenplay: Idk what is original and adapted, but I think Anora wins Screenplay, especially if it doesn't win Best Picture. The recent trend is sometimes to throw a movie that won't be awarded anywhere else a screenplay award (see last year with both American Fiction and Anatomy of A Fall). The other possibility might be A Real Pain if they decide to award it.

Other than Anora, I think: The Brutalist, A Real Pain, The Substance, and maybe September 5 if they follow the Globes (which they don't always do because the Golden Globes are a press/critics award and the Oscars are industry so different voting demographics).

Adapted Screenplay: No idea what is even in this category. The distinction between Original and Adapted is pretty arbitrary at times (see: Barbie in Adapted last year). My guesses are A Complete Unknown (based on a specific Dylan bio apparently), Conclave (based on a novel), Emilia Perez (I think inspired by something?), Sing Sing (loosely based on a true story) and idk what the fifth slot is.

Who I think will win in the tech categories:

Best Production Design: Wicked. Dune Pt 2 might be an upset.

Costume: Obviously Wicked.

Special Effects: Probably Dune Pt 2 but it could be something I haven't heard of that the effects branch likes, because that happens often.

Hair and Make Up: If The Substance gets in, maaaybe. This is the one category that horror is recognized so I wouldn't be surprised if The Substance and maybe even Nosferatu gets in. But it might be Wicked if the Academy does what it often does and people outside the nominating branches just vote for the movie they like more, in which case it would be Wicked. Dune Pt 2 should get at least a nomination for Rebecca Ferguson's possessed henna.

Cinematography: Either Conclave or Anora. It really depends how 1) Anora does in general and 2) if it does well, if there is a "share the love" vibe. The Academy doesn't do the massive Titanic/Lord of the Rings sweeps anymore (and I'm fine with that) -- see last year giving Zone of Interest the Sound award and American Fiction got Adapted Screenplay when a lot of people thought Oppenheimer was a lock for both because it was the BP frontrunner and, if this was the 2000s, probably would have taken them by default. In the EEAAO year, an Edward Berger film (All Quiet on the Western Front) won cinematography over EEAAO in an upset, so it wouldn't be unprecedented if that happened again with Conclave.I hope it's not Emilia Perez. That movie is very flashy but I don't like the cinematography much. It's all flash no style. Dune Pt 2 will definitely be nominated but I feel like its spring release hurt it.

Score: It'd be cool if Challengers got nominated but I don't see it, unfortunately. The score branch is not that cool and prefers instrumental scores over tech/synth music, even though Trent has been nominated before. I don't know what will win, since Dune 2 is not even eligible.

Sound Design: It better be Dune Pt 2. I think Wicked and probably A Complete Unknown will get nominated because of the music mixing (which, in Wicked, was very subtle and well done and apparently ACU sounds great too). But I really don't like biopics about musicians so I'd rather it not. I wouldn't mind a Wicked nom here, but Dune Pt 2 is so inventive in its sound design that I am rooting for it.

[archerarchives]

Winner Takes it All

Slater x Fem Reader x Sterling Archer

Your ex-husband isn't thrilled to hear about your latest romantic connection.

(It's more about Slater than Archer.)

Drama, Smut, Comedy, Story-Driven.

TWs: !!Smut!! And maybe a lil angst, jealousy, physical violence, drunk sex, long read, not proofread, this is not a 3-way fic, sorry! They're just both gettin' bounced on!

You've just moved cities for a new, low-profile job with a well-known spy agency, ISIS. It's a change of scenery where you can still use the specialized skills you've honed over the years at your old job. The CIA was a prolific time in your career, but with your divorce newly finalized after a long, messy process, you're ready to uproot your life and start over somewhere.

Finding this job was something of fate in itself. You were drinking your thoughts away in a shabby pub on a mission in Ireland when a man, just as wasted as you, came crashing through the door, spouting off at the mouth about "top secret agent" this, "classified mission" that. Even at your drunkest, you've never compromised yourself in such a way. All's well, though, as it ended with a job offer and a very interesting hook-up.

Try as you may, you can't escape the memories of that first sexual rendezvous after a lengthy legal battle. Your cheeks redden with warmth as you remember the way he bent you over, sliding his hands up your spine as he guided your hips against his waist.

You giggle to yourself as your stomach flips. All this time seeing him in a professional setting feels silly, considering his drunken personality when you first met him. You're certainly not in love, nor are you looking for it. It's just nice to explore without moral compromise.

Working with ISIS is a dream, not to mention getting to step out with Archer to fuck in a supply closet nearly hourly. The scandal of sneaking around only adds to the fun.

Your marriage was just as passionate for years, but with that came an explosiveness that working together at the CIA ultimately killed. No time apart, you smothered each other until it felt like there weren't any feelings to save.

Keeping things light with Archer has been easy, considering if he's not fucking you, then he's definitely off fucking someone else. Often other members of the agency. It is vehemently not love, and you love that.

One day, after months of casual hookups, Archer mentions something about taking you to dinner. An awkward silence falls over the two of you as you lie naked in his bed. "It's not that I don't want to, I just," you search hard for your next words.

"Oh, no. It's fine. I just figured I owed you after, you know, all this." He gestures to your whole body.

"You don't owe me anything, handsome. It's a pretty equal exchange if you ask me." You wink at him, slipping away from his possessive grip so you can get dressed.

"By the way, don't tell Mother I told you, but we've got some CIA agents coming in on Monday. I'm not sure what for. Apparently, none of us are supposed to know." Archer's clearly looking for any way to change the subject after his invite went wrong.

"CIA? Did you happen to get their names?" You ask, with a lump in your throat.

"No, but they can't be much worse than those other two dick heads." Archer settles back against his headboard, covered by nothing but blankets up to his waist. His chiseled body shines in the sunlight like a painting. You almost hesitate to leave, but after that awkward date denial, you want to get far, far away. It's not all his fault, he has no idea about your situation.

"Sounds like fun. I'll see you there, princess." You chuckle, lingering in the doorway.

"For the last time, it's Duchess. And we don't get to choose our code names!" His spiral makes you laugh as you wave goodbye and head out his bedroom door. His valet, an elderly man called Woodhouse, always meets you at the door to send you off. You smile warmly at him as you make your way to your car.

~~~Monday Morning

"Good morning, Pam," you yawn, stepping off the elevator. She waves a tired hello to you and you make your way toward your office. After a small window of time, Archer knocks at your door, right on schedule. You both slip down the hall and meet up in one of your trusty 'spots.' You've opted for the supply closet yet again.

Archer pulls you inside with him, hungrily grabbing at your breasts and roughly fidgeting with your buttoned-up blouse. You let out a giggle, a bit louder than you mean to, but you quickly quiet back down. He grins at the sight of your breasts pressed firmly against his chest.

"Oh, my God," he breathes into your neck, positioning himself right against you. "I'll never get tired of this." He slips inside of you with ease. A low, breathy moan escapes his lips as he reaches his hilt. From there, he's thrusting into you rhythmically, gripping your hips while you prop yourself against the shelves of dusty cleaning products.

Archer's fingertips dig into your skin as he lifts you off the ground for a better angle. Each delicate moan that escapes your lips is met with a sensual sound of his own or a passionate kiss on your lips to silence you. He places a firm, but gentle hand around your neck as he picks up his pace.

"Harder," you whisper against his broad chest and he's happy to oblige. At this point, you hardly care what can and can't be heard outside the closet. "Harder." And he complies, slamming into you with a force that'd tell a stranger he must hate you.

A knot begins to form in your stomach, growing tighter as you near your orgasm. He's moaning your name into your ear, sending your eyes rolling back every time he opens his mouth. You're doing all you can to keep it together, and just when you finally give, he pulls out and finishes on your chest, careful to keep aim on your exposed skin.

Your blue-eyed hookup helps you clean up and you realize there's yet another awkward silence as he lingers for a little longer than usual in the closet, just looking at you. "Wow," he sighs.

"You weren't too bad yourself, handsome," you wink, playfully tapping his chest with your palm. Once you've both steadied your breathing, he leaves first, scoping out the hallway, careful to give a cough or some sort of signal if someone's around. It's silent. You give it a few minutes and then you step out as well.

"Y/N!" A painfully familiar voice calls your name from the opposite end of the otherwise empty hallway. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Slater?" You knew it, you just wanted to believe it could've been anyone else. "Are you asking what I'm doing or what I'm doing here?"

"Well," he's stumped. "Both, I guess. Did you just fuck Archer in that closet?" He sounds equal parts disturbed and livid.

"I work here now. And that's really none of your business anymore." You cross your arms defensively.

"Trust me, Y/N, you don't want-"

"Stop telling me what I do and don't want. Don't we have a meeting or something?" You stomp off, not allowing his ability to set you off cost you this new job.

Archer and the other agents have already been in the meeting. You're late and if you weren't on Malory's good side, you know she'd have something to say about it. Instead, she just gives you a sharp look, and you take the warning for the golden ticket it is. You take a quiet seat near the group and tune into whatever the other CIA agent is explaining.

It's tedious, tiresome, and boring. Some of the staff are falling asleep while others are zoning out altogether. Archer's distracted and his disruption goes unchecked as he messes around with an Operation game.

Suddenly, the door slings open and Slater angrily crosses the floor. Most of the room falls silent, besides Archer, who is still playing with the toy. Slater reaches his desk and slaps the game out of his hands, causing others around them to gasp in surprise.

"Are you fucking my wife?" Slater yells lividly through gritted teeth, placing one hand on the desk surface to stop himself from swinging at the ISIS agent.

"What?" Archer's surprise quickly turns to amusement. "No, I'm screwing-"

"I'm not your wife anymore, Slater!" You scold from across the way. The room fills with sounds of confused shock, but no one's as wide-eyed as Archer.

"You're married to this douchebag?" Your dark-haired situationship points to Slater.

"Not anymore!" You toss your hands up defensively. "Our divorce is finalized. What Sterling and I do-" you're cut off.

"Sterling?" Slater erupts at the intimate comfortability between you and Archer. Unhinged, Slater grabs the front of Archer's suit and lands a solid punch to the face. His biceps flex intensely under his casual T-shirt as he tightens his grip for another swing.

Now Slater and Archer are in an all-out brawl. The desks of the lecture room are knocked into disarray as the two men toss each other around. Cyril and Ray both try to intervene, but it's pointless. Archer, as usual, takes nothing seriously. He's almost laughing and probably would be if he wasn't ever so slightly losing the fight.

"Enough!" Malory throws a glass of cognac so hard, it slams against the wall right between both men's heads.

"Mother!" Archer looks distressed by her close quarters warning.

"If you two don't stop this childish nonsense this very minute I'll have you both sent wherever the hell I want for treason." Her threat is grand, but it's clear she means it.

"Look, fuck you, but she'll actually do that," Archer speaks with his eyes narrowed at his rival. Slater sighs, glaring at Archer for just a moment more before finally releasing his suit jacket.

"Good," Malory relaxes, somehow already equipped with another freshly poured glass of cognac. She redirects everyone's attention back to the boring speaker from before. "Now, you were saying?"

~~~After Work, at Your House

"That's not what I'm saying!" Slater yells, an all too familiar sound. One you thought you'd gotten rid of.

"Then what are you saying?" You toss your arms up in frustration. "Because from here, it's sounding like you're telling me who I can and can't be with. We aren't married anymore!" That last sentence seems to piss him off, or at least hurt him. He closes his eyes and furrows his brows, trying to find it in himself to calm down. Something he's never tried to do before.

"I know we're not married anymore, but seriously? Him?" He shakes his head. "And why move? Why leave the CIA?"

"Are you kidding me?" You ask, utterly shocked by the question. "This is why! This tantrum you're throwing as if you haven't been enjoying your own freedoms even before the divorce was finalized!" The truth causes Slater to avert his eyes. It's true, he was living his own bachelor lifestyle quite early on in the process.

"It's just," he takes a deep breath. "Could it be anyone else?"

"You act like I'm in love with the guy." You laugh. "I'm just trying to feel something."

"Oh yeah? Does he know that?"

"Of course he does!" You knit your brows. "Have you met the guy? I'm not exactly at the top of his roster."

"His people said he hasn't strayed outside your little meetings for at least two weeks. That's like a year for him." Slater crosses his arms.

"Two weeks, huh?" You take a seat at your table. Slater sits right across from you. You do the math and realize you've only been working at ISIS for about a month.

"Two weeks. Not even Agent Kane had him down that long."

"Agent Kane? Lana? Do they have that kind of history?" You ask. It's clear to anyone that they've fucked, but you had no idea what their history entailed until Slater filled you in.

"You have no idea what this guy's about, huh?" He asks, smugly.

"I don't. And I don't care. I'm not stepping on any toes and I certainly don't owe you anything." You wrangle any corner of your face that may show discomfort, adamant to not let him know he got into your head. "I think you should go. I have work in the morning."

"Oh, I know. You and I will be working very closely for a while. Just like old times." He sounds sickly sweet as he heads for your door, like you asked. Just before he leaves, he hesitates, almost like he intends to speak, but he doesn't. He doesn't look back at you or anything. He just finally exits and a cold silence follows in his place.

"Fuck," you huff.

~~~The Next Day, in The Lecture Room

"Psst," Archer garners your attention.

"What?" You whisper and he passes you a note like you're two kids in school. It reads: 'My office, 2 PM.' You stifle the smirk blossoming on your lips. Then, before you have time to blink, the note is snatched from your hand by Slater, playing the role of the bitch teacher. After that, there are suddenly mandatory training exercises being held for certain agents at certain times. You've been lovingly gifted the time slot of 1:50 PM to 2:50 PM with Archer going right after you.

While each agent waits, you spend time at Cheryl's desk with her and Pam. A little gossip to speed things along. Pam doesn't hold back in the slightest, diving right in as soon as you sit down.

"So were you Y/N Slater or...?" Cheryl wrinkles her nose, asking a question far less invasive than Pam's.

"I kept my last name. I didn't know how to navigate that either." You shrug.

"Okay, but this divorce is recent, right?" Pam redirects the conversation.

"Recent for a divorce, sure. But we've been separated for over a year."

"A whole year of working with your ex-husband at the CIA?" The round-faced blonde raises her eyebrows.

"There's a reason I jumped at this opportunity, Pam." You tilt your head forward, widening your eyes at her. A look that says, 'Don't even ask.'

"Mrs. Slater..." Cheryl repeats to herself. "Nope, doesn't have a good ring to it."

"Sure doesn't!" You exclaim, holding up your left hand and wiggling your bare ring finger. Right on cue, Slater approaches you where you sit in front of Cheryl's desk. She and Pam both excuse themselves to eavesdrop from a few feet away.

"Ready for some assistance training Agent Y/L/N?" He asks, a bitterness already biting in his voice.

"Absolutely, Agent Slater." You give a false sense of enthusiasm. "Anything to get you out of here faster."

"Then right this way," he gestures for the elevator. The firing range is on an entirely different level, and something about the usually short lift ride is excruciatingly long today. You stand next to each other uncomfortably for a while before you finally glance over at him. He doesn't look at you, but you get a good look at his chest and crossed arms. His seemingly permanent angry expression etched lightly into his features. "Like what you see?" He asks, smirking smugly.

"Shut up," you snap, facing forward and silently scolding yourself for being so quick to nearly forget why you left him in the first place. Finally, the elevator doors open to the shooting range lobby. It's empty until you and Slater step out of the elevator. After checking your weapons and loading up on ammunition, it's time to start shooting.

You've always been a pretty solid shot. These exercises don't meet your skill. You'd do better to practice with a course, but that's not an option right now. "Two in the head, one in the chest," Slater says, and you don't think twice about what he's talking about. You fire the three bullets you were instructed to fire. This goes on for a while and you begin to think an hour of this might not be so bad.

"Oh, hey. I was thinking, why not make this a group effort and save some time?" Archer, seemingly drunk, appears in the soundproofed doorway of the shooting range.

"Agent Archer, I'm gonna have to ask you to leave." Slater smiles deviously as he shoves him back and slams the door. Once it's locked, he turns his attention to you. You missed the whole ordeal due to the quality of your ear protection. You didn't see or hear Archer's impromptu class suggestion or it's brutal rejection.

"Are we done?" You ask, assuming that's what he's come to tell you when he lifts the earmuff off your head.

"No," he shakes his head. "Your form is a little off." His comment makes you arch your brows.

"No it's not."

"Yes, it is. Here." Slater takes your arms and guides them up to point your gun at the target. With his body pressed against yours, he wraps your hands around the firearm and "shows" you the proper form. It's no different from how you were just standing, and you know that, but that's not the point. The point is, now he's flush against your body and you can feel his heartbeat in the heat radiating off his chest.

"Slater, come on. What are you doing?" You try your best to sound serious, but you fail. He takes the gun from your hand and places it on the counter before slipping off your ear protection and setting it to the side as well. You're still standing with your back to him, and he leans in to whisper.

"Why don't you show me how good your form is?" He slips his hands into your hair, pulling it back gently like a ponytail before suddenly wrapping one hand up and roughly pulling your head back so he can plant a heinous love bite on your neck. You let out a breathy moan as your eyes slip back into your head. This is why it took so long to get away. If it wasn't an argument that had you nearly throwing chairs, then it was this.

"I can't... Or rather, I don't want to."

"You don't owe him anything. He's drunk right now, probably already fucking someone else in a different tiny, filthy closet." His grip on your hair tightens. "Haven't you missed me? Just a little?" The raspy nature of his voice vibrates into his chest that's pressed up against your back. Your skin erupts into chill bumps as his grip loosens and then tightens back up again when he doesn't get an answer fast enough.

"Slater," you pull away, finally. Much to your disappointment. Listen. Regardless of Archer, you know this isn't a good idea." You straighten up your appearance and calm your reddened cheeks. "Training's over," you say as you speed walk out the door.

At the end of the day, you're back at your place, freshly walking through the door after a stressful day at the office. Who'd have guessed Slater would make an appearance so soon in your journey to figuring out the single life? Who'd have known how absolutely unprepared you were for it?

After a few drinks, at-home vodka cranberries with far too much vodka to cran, you stare at your cellphone. All of you wants to call Slater and cave as quickly as you turned him down earlier. You shake the thought from your mind, scanning through your contacts for Archer. You stare at the number for a moment, recalling his dinner invitation.

You wonder if it was really meant to be a "repayment" of your promiscuous meetings. It felt far too personal, though. So personal, you sit with his number pulled up for another twenty minutes before ultimately hitting the red button, and clearing out all the information. Slater's presence has thrown your entire dynamic through a loop and it's pissing you off. Defiantly, you dial Archer's number.

Your stomach ties in knots as imagine what kind of mental strain this may put on him. To know you don't want anything more than an orgasm to get your mind off of the divorce. Surely he understands, right? It's not like he's the sentimental type.

"Hello?" A voice on the other end of the phone doesn't match the contact dialed. It's a woman and she's clearly wasted.

"Um, Archer?"

"Oh, he's kind of-" The next part of the sentence is clouded with laughter and the scuffling sound of a phone being dropped. Finally the call ends. An intense wave of relief washes over you. Thank God, you think to yourself. The relief is short-lived as you realize you've lost your lover for the night. You consider a trip to the bar, but it feels too desperate. That's when your phone begins to ring.

You stare at the screen. Slater's name flashes on the small device and you roll your eyes, sighing heavily. Already preparing for the mental toll this is about to take on you.

"Hello?" You answer on the last ring.

"Hey," he starts. "I just wanted to call and um, apologize." He sounds agonized by his own words. An ego check he never asked for.

"Apologize? For what?" You ask with a giggle.

"My behavior today was... Less than professional. I shouldn't have put you in a situation like that." It's as if this apology is being forced out of him at gunpoint, but you're appreciative of the effort.

"Thanks, Slater." You roll your eyes, still chucking.

"Are you uh- You alone tonight?" He asks, hesitantly.

"Yes, but not by choice. It seems someone else has made their way to my benefit's bed." You laugh. "I'm having wine and watching that show I like."

"What kind of wine?" Slater asks. You roll your eyes. He's always done this when he wants attention. Just sparking up a conversation about any and everything.

"Oh, you know, the cheap stuff." You shrug. Slater's unmistakable laughter crackles through the line.

"You love cheap thrills," he sighs with a smile. Silence falls over the conversation for just a moment before his voice rings through the phone one more time. "I'll talk to you soon."

"Slater, I-" but you're cut off by the telltale sign of being hung up on. You groan, tossing your phone across the room and letting it softly land on a fainting couch on the other side of the room. You rub your temples, silently venting about the man you've spent all this time trying to escape. Not due to any kind of fear, but simply because you know it's not ever meant to work.

An hour or so passes since you've changed into a sill nightgown and settled in for the night. You even consider digging out your weed stash and rolling a joint in the peace and quiet. You're halfway through the process (didn't have to twist your arm) when there's a knock at the door. Three soft knocks. Instinctively, you dismiss your buzz with sheer willpower. You glance at the clock. It's late, too late for visitors. Gripping the neck of your wine bottle, you stealthily make your way to the door.

Knock, knock, knock. Again. You don't jump, you hardly react at all. Nothing but a blink. Taking your place tactfully, standing right next to the door, you begin to slowly lean in toward the peephole. Just before you catch a glance, you hear a sound outside. A sigh. "Oh, Jesus Christ," you nearly melt with relief.

You open the door, pale in the face. All you could imagine was the CIA taking back their word and sending someone to take you out in the middle of the night in your own home.

"What the hell?" Your ex-husband stands before you with something in his hand.

"God damn it, Slater," you sigh. "What's up?"

"You said you were drinking the cheap stuff, so brought you a bottle of Château Calon-Ségur," he says, eyeballing the bottle in your hand meant to be a weapon. "But I'm now realizing this is the cheap stuff."

"The pay at ISIS isn't too shabby." You shrug. A second of silence passes between you two before you finally step out of the way and invite him inside. He nods a thanks at you and takes a hard look around your home. His eyes narrow at the lack of evidence of ever having a life with him. It's just a staged house of anything that isn't from or about him.

"Nice place you got," he says, stifling any other comments he wants to make.

"Thank you. I figured you'd have something shitty to say." You laugh, raising your eyebrows in surprise at his lack of insult.

"Not a lot of pictures," he tosses.

"I don't have any to hang yet," you arch an eyebrow at him.

"Right," he says, recalling the endless amount of photographs of you two he still has in his attic. "You seem happy. You look," he leans back, shaking his head with a sly smile. "Great."

"Yeah?" You smile politely. You know you look great. You've done nothing but glow since the papers were very first served. It's then that you notice the scent of his cologne. A decade of forgotten feelings comes flooding back, and as aware as you are that it's the wine, you can't help the redness flushing your face. And that's all it takes, just like that, he knows he's in.

Slater crosses the living room and takes a place on the couch next to you. "What's all this?" He asks, gesturing to your half-rolled joint. "I thought pot was illegal around here," he chuckles, finishing the joint and lighting it.

"It's decriminalized, but I still usually step outside before lighting it."

"Whoops," he responds flatly, bringing the joint to his lips as he lies back on the couch, sinking into the soft cushions. You pass the joint back and forth until you're both in a haze, surrounded by lingering clouds of smoke. The TV plays a Western, and though you're both staring at the screen, it feels like you're focused on each other. Each stealing eye glances at the other.

"Wine?" You ask, breaking the comfortable silence. He nods and you disappear to grab another glass. In the kitchen, you can feel the moment of his hands running through your hair, pulling it back, and whispering in your ear the other day. Chills run up your spine. Quickly, you return to your ex in the living room. He's sitting up a bit straighter now. After pouring him a glass, you join him on the couch.

He'd be a piss-poor agent if he didn't notice how much closer you sat to him upon your return. He can't help himself. "You know, your little friend with benefits was getting pretty friendly with some escorts in a casino tonight." You roll your eyes.

"My God, Slater. Are you just stalking everybody now?" You laugh, shifting a bit away from him. "Besides, I already know. He was supposed to come over tonight, but he seemed a little busy." Slater's eyebrows narrow.

"So sorry you had to settle for me," he smirks.

"I didn't. You just showed up." You eyeball him as you sip your wine. "And that begs the question; What do you think would've happened if you showed up while I was reaping the benefits?"

"Ugh," Slater shakes his head. "I don't want to think about it." He's laughing, but the boiling in his blood is as present as ever when he thinks about you with that secret agent idiot. His "casual" grip on the back cushions of the couch ignites his knuckles white. "God, do you live to get a rise out of me?"

"What do you mean? I didn't even invite you here." You look around the room as if to look for who might've invited him, sending the message that there is, in fact, no one. He invited himself.

"Y/N, look. I know the divorce is finalized. I understand I don't really have a leg to stand on."

"Oh, god. No, please stop."

"Will you just hear me out?"

"I really don't want to." You look at him, eyebrows turned up. "That sounds like some really heavy stuff and I'm really high." Slater sighs with defeat.

"Fair enough."

"Why'd you come over tonight?" You ask, curious and figuring it can't hurt seeing as he already made things tense.

"Ya' know, I don't really know."

"Really? No cheesy monologue about missing me?" You laugh. He used to try too hard. Always phoning it in. No substance.

"Oh, please." His eyes narrow. "Like you haven't been thinking of my hands in your hair all evening." His bold statement causes you to nearly choke on your sip of wine. Slater's chuckling at you, looking pleased with himself.

"You're insufferable," you scoff and his giggle erupts into laughter.

"You're so much easier to read off the clock." Slater leans forward and toys with his glass for a moment before downing its contents in one swallow. The tension between you is palpable as you refill his glass, not once spilling a drop and maintaining eye contact the entire time.

You hardly realize how close you are to him when you return the glass to his hand. Your palm flattens against his broad, solid chest. You've unintentionally pushed the two of you into a lounging position where you lie on top of him, staring down into his eyes as they scan your face.

You want to tear his clothes off and climb him like a tree, but you're preoccupied by the possible repercussions. You ball up your fist on his chest and release a frustrated sigh before creating a gap between you once again. You're sitting up, but Slater is still lying down, looking confused.

"Whoa, what happened?" He holds his empty arms out like he doesn't understand how you got away.

"I don't want to be shitty to you, but," you swallow the awkwardness down. "I don't want to create a dialogue that isn't there."

"What the fuck are you talkin' about?"

"I'm not interested in fixing things, Slater."

"Fixing things? Y/N, sweetheart, we had a good run." He sits up. "But I'm not trying to marry you again. I hardly like you."

"Bitch."

"But if you're gonna be sleeping around anyways, you might as well give me a call sometime."

"Jesus Christ. I'm not just handing it out like a prayer pamphlet," you say, crossing your arms.

"Never said you were," he arches his brows, annoyed that his own words aren't landing correctly.

"You very much implied it."

"Of course, you're gonna do this. You always do this." He begins to shift like he's planning to stand and leave. You can't tell if that's what you want or not.

"Do what? You just came over and told me if I'm gonna be a whore, I might as well include you in my whoring."

"No one called you a whore, Y/N!" He runs a hand through his pushed-back hair and groans with impatience. Finally, he stands and so do you. "Look, I'll just let you get back to smoking pot and drinking while your Mama's boy boyfriend has sex with a bunch of hookers."

"What the fuck is your problem?" You raise your voice. "And that's not what they're called anymore. They're sex workers." He rubs his temples.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, Y/N."

"Oh, fuck you. You're the reason this is so hard to navigate. You made that divorce as difficult as possible at every turn!" You shove a finger into his chest.

"Because years ago, when I was fucking stupid, I didn't want to lose you!" The confession is too heavy. Too sweet. Too real. You hate it.

"Lower your God damn eye brows when you're talking to me." You push away the sentimental nonsense and Slater notices right away.

"I don't love you anymore, Y/N. We're both over it."

"Then why the hell did Archer make you so angry? You beat him up in front of his own mother."

"I don't know. Still a little protective, I guess." He begins to cool down. After a criminally short moment of silence, Slater sighs and rolls his eyes before closing the gap between you and crashing his lips into yours.

Everything in you screams fucking finally! But instead, you wrap your arms around him and deepen the kiss. He starts to lead you to your bedroom, but once he realizes he has no idea where it is, he picks you up, wrapping your legs around him. It's an easy stroll to the couch where he drops you onto the cushions and makes quick work of removing your nightgown.

You glow beneath him. His eyes study your exposed form like he couldn't see until he saw you. One hand grips at the curves of your waist, and the other squeezes your breast through your bra. A breathy moan slips from your lips like a sigh. All feelings aside, it's as if your flesh missed each other.

Slater's breathing is heavy as he drinks in the image of you beneath him. All those years together, but neither of you has felt like this since the very beginning. Back when it was just harmless fun in an empty office at work.

You tug his shirt up and over his head before resuming the sloppy kiss. After unfastening his belt, you begin to unhook your bra, but his hands stop you. You erupt into chill bumps as his fingers trail up your back and effortlessly flick the clasps undone. It's one part the alcohol and one part the history, but you're nearly breathless with anticipation.

"God damn," he huffs.

"I know, right?" You smirk. He shakes his head with a chuckle, burying his face in your neck and biting down softly, but firmly. You gasp as his teeth drag over your skin. He strokes himself a few times, looming over you with sparkling, dark eyes. His free hand pushes a stray piece of hair back from his face. You wait with bated breath as he slowly pushes himself against your sensitive clit.

"I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss this," Slater sighs before slowly sliding into you. You release a low, sultry moan as he grinds himself against you. He pulls your legs up so that they're hooked up over his shoulders, giving him all the angles he needs to thrust himself entirely into you. His movements are rhythmic and steady as he savors every inch of you he can reach.

"Oh, my God!" You gasp, earning a pussy-throbbing smirk from the man inside you.

"Don't get the cops called again," he chuckles, still thrusting. He's speaking about a time during your marriage when he fucked you so well that your moans and screams not only woke but concerned the neighbors.

"Fuck you," you huff, speaking between the slamming of your pelvises against each other.

"It's what you needed," he winks, picking up his pace. He's broad, strong, and well-endowed. It's hard to compare anyone to the feeling of being with him. It's like fucking a really sexy brick wall.

After an eternity of him slamming into you, legs tossed over his shoulders like a ragdoll, he pulls out. You gasp at the sudden absence. "Why don't you show me that ass, sweetheart?" He says, his voice is taunting and dominant. You do exactly as he says, turning over and arching your back to put on a bit of a show. Nothing he's never seen before, but you'd hardly be able to tell by his reaction.

Slater grips both your hips with his open palms, hooking his fingertips into your soft flesh as he pulls you back against him with each thrust. He tosses his head back in ecstasy. "Oh, fuck," he sighs with heavy breaths. You wrap your arms around the throw pillows, hoping for some sort of leverage against the harsh bucking. He raises a hand and playfully slaps your ass, earning a light squeal of excitement from you.

Just when you don't think you can process anything else, he slides a hand up your spine and wraps it in your hair. With each desperate slam into you, he pulls tighter. At some point, he releases your hips and your hair is the only handle for leverage he has, using it to pull your body to meet his as he thrusts as far as possible inside you. It just happens to be pretty goddamn far.

"Have your fun, Y/N," he huffs, voice raspier than usual. "Fuck whoever you want. I don't care." The sound of him sliding in and out of you has evolved to loud, wet echoes. "You're always gonna be mine." He picks up his pace yet again, slowly losing his rhythm as his flesh slaps against yours.

You can't argue. You know he's not wrong. Sure, neither of you cares so much for the marriage aspect, but you know you'll be right back in this situation a million more times before you're ever truly done. For the last time, you're working toward another orgasm when he quickens his thrusts and with one final slam against you, he withdraws and finishes on your displayed ass.

Breathless, Slater slinks backward into the couch and you collapse where you are, flattening out on the other end of the couch. You flinch as he cleans you up, leaving you with a playful smack.

"God damn, Slater," you sigh, eyes still threatening to roll backward.

"Better than your Mama's boy?" He asks between breaths.

"I don't know. I think I need to run a few experiments first." You grin, flushed in the face.

"Fuck you."

*****

Author's Note:

I wrote this entire story based on one glance at that GIF and I can't even remember what episode that is or what's actually happening there.

Update: I watched the episode and I love the handsome cartoon men. That's all. (I love the women too, but I objectify men.)

[alannacouture]

Guess who decided “Christmas in July” is an actual holiday just for an excuse to write a Bellarke Christmas fic? … Yeah, I have a Bellarke Holiday fic problem, I know. Aaaanyway, you should totally come read it! It’s part 3 of my Bellarke Parenthood series, inspired by a comment from the amazingly fantastic @kateschechterxthorwasmyfirstotp to finally see Bellamy & Clarke confront Abby & Kane over the type of holidays they want for their daughter. It’s a little more angsty than the Mother’s Day & Father’s Day fics, but still full of fluffy Bellarke family goodness! So…please come read (& comment, because nothing makes me happier & I’m not ashamed to beg) ❄️🎄☃️🎁