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sit-down-and-shut-up · 4 years ago

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time- a. hotchner

SUMMARY: you get kidnapped lol

WARNINGS: kidnapping (duh), some injuries but everyone lives, aaron being m a d, and reader being a freaking baddie

WORDS: too many 6604

A/N: sorry that it’s been a hot minute since i posted, im lazy

Aaron glanced up as the workday finally drew to a close, watching you wave goodbye to the team and stroll towards the unit chief’s office, just in time to see JJ as she ascended the steps on her way to the room as well. You started to wave, but JJ murmured something you couldn’t make out and you stopped. Aaron’s blood ran cold, and he mentally cursed himself for being naive enough to believe that things would work out for once. He turned to look at Emily and Morgan through the blinds, who’d been talking near Emily’s desk, and saw their eyes trained on you and JJ. Emily swore under her breath, then headed to the conference room with Spencer and Derek not far behind.

+++++

Aaron sat down next to you in the conference room, meeting your eyes and giving you a halfhearted smile. You returned the gesture and went back to scanning the grisly photos before you. He zoned out as JJ spoke, giving the rundown on each of the girls that had been abducted, then murdered mere hours later. The murders seemed somewhat random, with the exception that the victims were all girls in their upper 20’s. In fact, they were all 29, just like you were.

Something clicked in your mind, but you didn’t want to jump to conclusions. You could feel Aaron’s steely gaze on you, and you wondered briefly if he could tell what you were thinking. You were lost in your thoughts, to the point where you didn’t hear Aaron’s deep “Wheels up in 30.” After everyone had left the conference room, Aaron turned back to see you still staring at the photos, searching for something you couldn’t quite name among the blood spatters and empty faces. He walked over to you and gently tapped your shoulder, causing your head to whip up to face him. Realization washed over your eyes, and you mumbled an apology.

Aaron shook his head in response, saying “I’m sorry. I was hoping we’d actually get to go out tonight.” You sighed, then replied.

“Who knows? Maybe the unsub will be caught by the time we get there and we can go get dinner or something.” You laughed as you said it, but your laughter was tinged with a resigned sadness Aaron despised, wishing he could take you somewhere you’d never be forced to feel this way again. Aaron watched you for a few seconds longer, as your face darkened and you grabbed your files and left the room, heading to his office, where both of your go-bags were. He wanted to tell you so much, but wasn’t sure how to start. He wanted to tell you that he’d been planning to propose this evening, that he wanted to be with you forever. But he couldn’t.

+++++

Aaron noticed you lost in your thoughts again on the plane ride while the rest of the team went over the case. The sheer amount of bodies was enough to give someone pause. In addition, the unsub took a girl each Thursday, but never kept them for more than a few hours. Why?

The plane ride felt fairly short. You were hit with a wave of nostalgia as the plane touched down in New York, where you’d gone to college years earlier, and worked before you were transferred to the Behavioral Analysis Unit and moved to Quantico. As you walked into the FBI field office with the rest of the BAU, you couldn’t stop your mind from remembering the last time you’d been in the building, when working a terrorism case alongside Agent Joyner four years earlier.

She’d been killed immediately by a bomb in your SUV, and metal had been lodged in your left leg, cutting the femoral artery and nearly causing you to bleed out. If not for your Aaron, you would’ve died there, on the cold pavement. When Aaron came to visit you while you recovered from surgery, you managed to slur out that you loved him. At the time, he blamed it on the drugs you were on, until he showed up at your hospital room again a few hours later, to drive you home. You’d suffered hearing loss as well, and coupled with your leg injury, you couldn’t go in the field or on the plane for a while. As he helped you up and handed you the crutches you’d be relying on for nearly a year, you met his eyes and said confidently, “I meant what I said earlier.”

He’d paused for a second, before his lips spread into a rare smile, and he said, “I love you too.” You’d always known the relationship wouldn’t be easy, considering his recent divorce and your unconventional jobs, but you were fine with it. Being with Aaron was good enough.

Present-day Aaron subtly placed a hand on the small of your back, a sign of encouragement he’d adopted over the years. You glanced up at him and nodded, silently letting him know you were okay. He dropped his hand, and held it out to the new director of the New York field office: Agent Milenka, an enthusiastic but imposing woman you’d met at the Academy when you were younger. You caught Morgan glaring at her for a second, reminding you that Morgan almost got that job. Still, you knew that Morgan loved you all too much to leave the BAU for a job directing the New York field office. The team was his rock, the weight that tethered him to reality when he was at his lowest. Aaron introduced Milenka to the rest of your team, until she cut him off when he got to you.

“I know her,” she declared loudly, “I was her firearms trainer at the Academy, but she had to show me up and be better with a gun than I am.” Spite dripped from her words, but the mischievous smile on her face told you she wasn’t really upset. Aaron nodded slightly, caught off-guard by her remark, then interjected to ask where his team could set up.

Agent Milenka led all of you to an empty conference room, with the case files already arranged neatly and a blank evidence board at the front of the room. She turned on her heel and stared firmly at the team. If you hadn’t known her for years, you’d assume she was going to attempt to assert control over the case, but instead she said, “My agents have come to see this office as a family, and probably won’t take too well to the fact that I’ve called you in. If any of them give you hell, tell me, and I’ll make the devil look like a cuddly teddy bear.” She pivoted on her heel to leave, then turned back around. “Agent L/N, my office.”

+++++

You were shocked, to be honest. This woman could bring grown men to their knees, and now she sat in front of you, spinning in a swivel chair, teasing you over your obvious infatuation with Aaron Hotchner.

“Really, Milenka, I gotta get back to the team,” you sighed, rubbing your temples.

“Fine”, she grunted, making a shooing motion with her hand. “But here’s what I meant to tell you. I’m guessing you and your team want to know why it took this many bodies for me to call you in. I mean, I’d be wondering that, too. The bodies were all dumped two days ago, even though they’d all been dead for various amounts of time, so I’m guessing the unsub wanted to make sure I had to call you guys. Keep that in mind. He knows how this works.” The humor and mischief was gone from the agent’s voice, and in that moment you knew how she’d risen through the ranks of the FBI so quickly. Something about her made you want to do everything you could to solve the case as quickly as possible. She wasn’t someone you could let down.

You grimaced, then nodded, unable to say anything, and left her office, getting coffee from the espresso machine for you and your teammates as you walked back to the conference room. As you passed around the cups, Aaron watched you expectantly, obviously waiting for you to relay whatever information Agent Milenka had told you, and so you did. The reactions among the team members were the same, set jaws and darkening eyes. You didn’t know where to start with the case, until you remembered the idea you’d gotten back in D.C. You leapt from the black desk chair you’d just sat down in and practically ran to the evidence board, grabbing a red dry-erase marker and organizing the victim’s pictures from the first to the last to be abducted. You circled the eyes on some of the pictures, the hair on others, the widow’s peaks on some, and other various defining features.

“He’s working up to someone specific,” Spencer muttered as you worked. You whipped around, pointing a finger at him and downing the last of your coffee.

“Yes! Okay, so, look at this: The first and last girl are wildly different, but when you look at the chronological order of the victims, each one gains another characteristic that the next one didn’t have, like he’s working up to getting one specific girl, and kept killing those that looked increasingly similar to his real target!” You blurted the words, and watched as your teammates looked on in a mix of awe and horror, at both the board and a piece of paper Spencer had messily written on. Aaron, who was usually so emotionless, looked especially horrified, and scared. You shot Spencer a questioning look, and he held up the paper he’d shown the rest of the team. He’d taken the first letter of each woman’s name, and when lined up, they spelled out a message.

Your name.

+++++

“You’re off the case.” Aaron said, crossing his arms over his chest as you paced around the empty office he’d practically dragged you to.

“What? If some psycho is after me, I want to be the one to catch him!” You spoke firmly, almost yelling but not quite.

“If some psycho is after you,” Aaron started, sounding much calmer than you had, “I want you to be safe. Sending you out to hunt him down isn’t keeping you safe.”

You scoffed, then yelled, “As long as he’s out there, I’m not safe! If you let me help, we’ll find him faster. I can’t- no, I won’t- just sit here doing nothing while this man kills women just because he’s got some sort of vendetta against me!”

Aaron’s resolve broke down. You could tell from the way his back slumped and he pulled you into his chest. You wrapped your arms around him, basking in the feeling of calm it brought. Your anger dissipated when he held you like that, and he knew it.

He murmured, “I can’t lose you,” into your ear, and your heart broke from the way his voice cracked from fear and sadness. Aaron pulled away far too soon, and gave you a look that you knew meant to stay put, and pulled out his phone to call Penelope Garcia.

A few moments later, Spencer walked in, hands in his pockets. He looked unsure of himself, and you couldn’t figure out why until he said, “Hotch wants me to drive you to the hotel.”

You stared at him silently for a second, then mumbled curses under your breath and stormed out of the room to find your bag. Spencer put an arm out to stop you, then said, “He said he’d bring it for you tonight.”

You glared at him for a moment, before averting your gaze to the suddenly interesting polished linoleum beneath you. “I’m sorry. This isn’t your fault. I shouldn’t be mad at you.”

Spencer gave you a small smile, and replied, “It’s okay. You’re stressed. We all are. Hotch just wants you to be safe.”

You nodded, and he led you from the building to the shiny, black SUV parked outside. Aaron jogged out of the building towards you, and grabbed the handle of the vehicle before you could. You met his eyes, and he murmured, “I know you’re mad at me, but I need you to stay in the hotel room, okay? Lock the door, and I’ll be there tonight with your go-bag.” You nodded, and he paused a second before saying, “I love you.”

Your pride got the best of you, and you simply muttered, “I know.”

+++++

You’d been sure that the SUV’s tires were full when you’d arrived in New York, but the flat passenger tire begged to differ. Spencer pulled into a nearby gas station to fill up the tire, something you were fairly sure he’d never done before. You couldn’t help but laugh when he called Morgan to ask what to do, who responded that it would be easier for him to come fill up the tire himself. You mouthed that you had to go to the bathroom, and Spencer nodded as Morgan’s laughter came through the phone. You stifled laughter as you walked into the gas station, grimacing at the smell of sweat and cheap hot dogs.

+++++

Aaron wasn’t sure if he’d ever been so mad. No, mad wasn’t the word. Was there a word that could encapsulate the unadulterated fury coursing through his veins? He paced the conference room like a caged lion, practically screaming at Spencer and Derek through the phone.

“What the hell happened?”

Spencer was crying, he could tell that much from the muffled sobs, and Aaron couldn’t help but think that he might never see you again. He slammed the phone onto the table with nearly enough force to break it, and looked up to see Emily, Rossi, and JJ already halfway out the conference room, before he’d told them what happened. The four of them slid into the two remaining SUVs. Aaron screeched out of the parking lot, gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. Rossi kept shooting him worried glances he pretended not to notice.

“We’ll find her,” Rossi said, “But you need to stay calm for us to do it.”

Aaron nodded. He didn’t trust his voice to work right now. If he tried to speak, he knew he’d probably cry. He pulled into the gas station just before Emily and JJ, and a voice in his head reminded him that this might be the last place you’d ever see. Rossi hopped out of the car, giving Aaron a sympathetic look as he did so.

+++++

The team had been at the gas station for almost three hours, interviewing customers, collecting evidence, and talking to workers. Multiple people reported seeing a woman similar to who Aaron described enter the bathroom, but no one saw her leave.There was a window in the girl’s bathroom that had been broken from the inside, with blood on both the window and the glass. The forensics team ran the blood, and it was all from the same person.

Aaron didn’t need to hear the results to know whose blood it was. Spencer tried to help, informing him that she hadn’t bled out because women had approximately 4.5 pints of blood and that was at most half a pint, but Aaron cut him off. He couldn’t hear it, couldn’t listen to everyone talking about his girlfriend, the love of his life, as though she was already dead. He knew the odds, knew that she was almost certainly going to be dead within the first 72 hours, considering how the unsub had killed the other women.

He was going to find you alive. He knew it.

Because he wasn’t sure what he’d do if he didn’t.

+++++

Everything was fuzzy and painful and oh my god what is that stuff coming out of your side and out of your hand and holy crap you can’t move you’re tied up what are you tied to what’s going on and-

“You’re even prettier than I remember.” The voice sounded familiar, but the only thing your brain could fully focus on at the moment was the excruciating pain. You felt a hand on your side, and then a searing pain that was somehow worse than the pain you’d already been feeling.

“You got a piece of glass in your side. I’m getting it out.”

You felt pressure on the spot, and forced your head to move so you could see what was going on.

He was wrapping your waist in some sort of bandage to staunch the bleeding. You forced yourself to look around the musty room you were in. You were seated in a chair, with your arms tied to the back of the chair by a coarse brown rope and a metal chain and heavy shackle attached to your left ankle. Your eyes followed the chain, to where it connected to a silver hook jutting from the wooden floor, which was coated in a layer of dirt.

Dirt.

You must be in a barn, or shed, or something. You definitely weren’t in New York City anymore.

You vaguely remembered what had happened in the gas station bathroom. There’d been a man waiting in the first stall, who jumped on you, shoving your head against the mirror hard enough to crack your skull. You figured that you’d blacked out, and he’d jumped the window with you in tow.

Then another memory washes over you like a tsunami, flooding you with regret.

Aaron said he loved you, and you didn’t say it back. Now, you might never get to tell him that you love him again.

+++++

Aaron removed himself from the case, leaving Rossi in charge. He knew he’d only slow everyone else down with the torrent of emotions dancing inside his skull. So now, he’s resorted to sitting in your hotel room alone, wishing he hadn’t told you to go to the hotel. He’d been crying for the first time in years.

Aaron had no clue what to do, and it gives him newfound respect for the families of abducted victims that he speaks to. He pulled the sparkling diamond ring he planned on giving you tonight out of his bag, staring at it and imagining it on your ring finger. It doesn’t make him happier, instead it just turns the steady stream of tears into a storm.

+++++

Morgan, Rossi, JJ, and Emily, seated at the silver table in the conference room, were going over every last piece of evidence they have, while Spencer made a map of the abduction sites as Agent Milenka told him the addresses. They already established that the victims were high-risk due to their above-average athleticism, and each victim was taken from a high-risk location. Spencer looked for any sense of a pattern in abduction sites, but couldn’t find one. Eventually, he sat down next to Morgan and Emily, defeated.

“So all we know is that he’s obsessed with Y/N, and that he wasn’t remorseful about the murders of the other women.” Derek sighed, leaning back in his chair.

“Well, if he was able to subdue her, he most likely had the element of surprise. So, he probably isn’t physically strong, and needed that advantage to knock her out.” Rossi added, and Derek nodded.

Spencer looked up from the crime scene photos. “There’s no ligature marks.”

Derek nodded. “Yeah, we went over that. So?”

“Why knock the women out and transport them if you’re just going to kill them immediately instead of holding them somewhere? Why not just kill them wherever they already are?”

Emily’s mouth fell open. “Practice. So that when he had Y/N, he knew exactly what was going to happen. But he didn’t want to ruin the rest of the fantasy by taking someone else where he’s planned to keep Y/N. He wants that to be special.”

“So we know he’s going to be holding her somewhere secluded, then,” Milenka chimed in.

After a few moments of silence, the phone rang in the center of the table, and the team members all stared at it for a few moments before Derek turned to the computer next to him, where Garcia was currently on a video call with the team.

“Can you trace this call, babygirl?”

Garcia nodded. “I don’t have a trap and trace set up yet, but I can get one, honey. Just gimme one second.”

Derek’s hand hovered over the button on the receiver to answer the call, and when Garcia affirmed that she was ready, Derek pressed the button. Instantly, a somewhat timid male voice filled the room.

“Where’s Agent Hotchner? I want to speak to him, not any of you.”

The team shared a perplexed look, and Emily asked, “How do you know who is here and who isn’t?”

“The window’s open.”

JJ ran to the window, then turned. “He’s there,” she said, pointing to a man directly underneath where the conference window was with a phone to his ear.

The rest of the team sprinted down the stairs and out of the field office, with JJ not far behind. By the time they got to where the man had been, he was long gone. No one near the area said they’d seen him, either.

Derek turned and punched the wall out of rage, while Emily cursed loudly. The rapid darkening of the sky didn’t help with trying to catch an unsub, either.

Dejectedly, the team returned to the conference room, where Garcia excitedly said, “Your man forgot to hang up for a few minutes! I don’t know entirely where he went, but I know the direction he was headed!”

“Where, Garcia?” Spencer asked, desperate for a lead.

“Straight west.”

Spencer looked to Emily, who said, “Let’s go.”

+++++

The team knew the unsub needed somewhere secluded to keep you, but couldn’t figure out where. He’d been on foot when they’d seen him, so it had to be somewhat close. Or maybe he’d had a car in a parking lot somewhere? There were too many variables. They needed Hotch.

+++++

“Drink.”

The man held a cup to your lips, but you kept them closed tight. After trying to force you for a while, he gave up. Sighing, the man ran a hand through your hair, forcing your head upright. For a serial killer, he was surprisingly gentle.

“You need your strength,” the man murmured, but you looked away when he picked up the cup again. He set it down, shaking his head, then pulled a knife out of the back pocket of his blue jeans. You knew better than to scream. It was likely that he craved your pain, so allowing him that satisfaction would coax him to continue. He walked behind you, to where you wouldn’t see him. You closed your eyes, praying for a quick death, praying Aaron would find you, praying you could see your team one last time.

But you didn’t need to.

The man cut through the rope binding your wrists, then left the room. He was rarely in the room with you, and you wondered what he was doing outside of it. For the first time, however, he came back within a few minutes of leaving. You could theoretically move if you wanted to now that the rope was gone considering how long the chain attached to your leg was, but you were weak and hurting. The last thing you saw before your vision went black yet again was the man standing above you with a syringe.

+++++

Aaron was with the rest of the team, visiting each abduction site for something, anything to help the profile, when the unsub called him.

“This is Hotchner.”

“I have her, Agent Hotchner, and I treat her better than you ever could. You think what she needs is a big strong man to control her,” he mocked, “But you don’t truly love her. No one could, except me.” Although the man’s words were confident, he sputtered out the words like an old truck engine. It sounded like he was reading a script, as though he’d had to plan out what he was going to say beforehand. As soon as the unsub finished speaking, the tell-tale click of the phone hanging up sounded.

Emily, who’d been walking next to him, stopped, pulling out her phone to contact Penelope.

“Can you get the rest of the team on the line? I think Morgan and Reid are at the Central Park crime scene, and JJ and Rossi are probably still by Times Square.”

Emily could practically hear Penelope’s smile as she responded, “Can do, gorgeous.”

A few keyboard clicks later, Penelope stated, “You’ve got me, Morgan, Rossi, Reid,and JJ.”

Emily took a shaky breath before saying, “We think Y/N knew the unsub.”

“What do you mean, knew?” Reid’s voice sounded.

“He claimed that he loves her more than Aaron ever could. He thinks he knows her better than us, so he probably knew her when she used to live in New York.”

“She went to college here, didn’t she?” JJ responded.

Penelope chimed in, exclaiming, “She went to John Jay College of Criminal Justice. Graduated top of her class.”

Morgan cleared his throat, then added: “Maybe the unsub didn’t know her, but thought he did. He could’ve been stalking her when she lived here, then kept tabs on her when she transferred to the BAU years ago.”

“He probably found out about Y/N’s relationship with Aaron recently, and that’s his stressor.” Rossi added.

Emily stared into the distance. There was something off about this. The theory made sense, but at the same time, it felt, well, wrong.

Agent Milenka, who’d been surveying the crime scene Emily and Aaron were at, sauntered over.

“I know who did this.”

Aaron met her firm gaze, confused and intrigued.

“Who?”

“There was this guy she met at John Jay, didn’t talk much, but he ended up applying to the FBI just because she did. He made it in a few months after her and got a job as a forensic analyst at our field office here. They worked together pretty often, and he was never too strange, but you got the feeling there was something off. He started acting weird after Y/N’s transfer to the BAU. I ordered another psych eval for him a few months ago, and he failed. I fired him, and I haven’t seen him since.”

Aaron and Emily shared a look, both hopeful and sad.

“What’s his name?”

“Ian Foster.”

Aaron nodded, murmuring a quick thank you, then turned back to Emily.

“Call Garcia. We need all the information we can find on Ian Foster.”

+++++

Your head hurt. You were somewhere different now; the dirty brown floor had been replaced with plush white carpet, and the chair you’d gotten used to was gone. Your left leg was still shackled, but this time it was attached to a shiny metal spike in the center of the room. You surveyed your surroundings, noting the vast difference between your current location and your past one. The chain attached to your ankle was long, probably meant to give you full access to the room you were in but keep you from leaving. The walls were white and spotless, along with the queen-sized bed behind you and the dresser and vanity along the far wall. You knew you must look out of place compared to the neatness of your surroundings, with your frizzy, dirty hair and torn, wrinkled, and stained clothes. You realized that you’d never checked your holster for your gun, and in doing so, found it empty.

Great.

Sun shone through the window on your right, and birds chirped happily, as if mocking you. They were telling you that they’re free, while you’re locked in this stupid white room.

Your captor walked in soon after you woke up, and you knew he must be watching you through a camera hidden somewhere.

“Drink.”

Your eyes searched his face, trying to understand who he was, now that you had enough light to see.

“Foster?” You managed to croak out through your parched throat.

Ian nodded, then grabbed your face with one calloused hand, forcing you to open your mouth so he could pour water in, which you promptly spat into his eyes. Instead of causing him to stumble, all it did was make him laugh.

“I see you’re still as fiery as ever.”

You clamped your mouth shut, pursing your lips and staring him in the eyes until he left. After he was gone, you tried to move your arms as much as possible. Your limbs felt heavy, like you were attached to weights, but moving was somewhat possible, a little bit at a time.

For now, that would be enough. You just had to pray that Aaron could find you.

+++++

Ian Foster’s paper trail was a series of dead ends, but Penelope Garcia, being the lovely omnipotent being she is, was able to find two properties owned by his dead uncle in upstate New York that he was likely using to hold you.

Aaron couldn’t describe the relief that wrapped itself around him, like a soft blanket, when Garcia chirped that she’d found where he was. He’d refused to allow himself to think that you might be dead, and the knowledge that now he had your location was sweeter than any candy could ever be.

He wiped a tear from his eye that threatened to fall, and cleared his throat, nodding at Emily and Agent Milenka, wordlessly signaling her to join him as he ran towards the SUV they’d been using. Emily followed, calling JJ and Rossi to give them the address as she ran. The first property, an old farmhouse, was about 40 minutes away from their current location, while the second one, a pretty two-story house, was about three hours away. Hotch, Emily, and Milenka, being farthest from both locations, were driving to the house, while the rest of the team would check out the farmhouse first then meet them there.

+++++

There was this feeling, blossoming in your chest, comforting you, whispering that Aaron was on his way. You’d learned over the years that your instincts rarely lied to you, and you hoped to whatever God there was or wasn't, that this wasn’t one of the times they misled you.

So you knew what you had to do.

You acted nice every time Ian came to visit, roughly every half hour.

Then, after five visits, you drank the water he offered willingly. Gently, Ian helped you up off the ground, a gesture that would’ve been comforting had he not been a serial killer. He moved his hands until they were lightly situated on your waist, and gazed into your eyes with the crazed fanaticism of a deranged man. He leaned in for a kiss, and the second he closed his eyes, you drove your right knee directly into his crotch.

Serves him right for being dumb enough not to fully restrain you. While he doubled over in pain, stepping back, you set up for a roundhouse kick that you placed to the back of his knee, knocking him onto the ground in an ungraceful heap. While he was on the ground, you punched him in the throat with enough force to knock the wind out of him, leaving him gasping for air on the ground like a fish out of water. Sending another kick to his temple for good measure, rendering him unconscious, you searched his pockets for anything that could remove the shackle from your leg. Eventually, you settled for a wire cutter that you used to cut off the attaching chain, but your clumsiness left an angry gash in your leg in the process. Limping from exhaustion, you ran from the room as fast as you could with the pain in your side from the glass that had been lodged there and the blood from the cut in your skull dripping down your face and neck. Your head felt fuzzy and faint, and you knew you were likely to pass out from blood loss any second. You repeated Aaron’s name in your head like a mantra, telling yourself that you needed to get back to him first, then you could pass out from pain. Every part of your body ached, screaming at you to give up as you stumbled down the creaky carpeted stairs, leaving a trail of blood in your wake.

As you neared the foyer, you heard the engine of a car, along with footsteps. The door flew open, with Aaron directly behind it, followed by Morgan, Emily, Spencer, Rossu, and a few agents from the New York office. Aaron’s eyes scanned the room before settling on you, bloodied and bruised, and he ran to you, gathering you in his arms while you whimpered like a child. He whispered things in your ear that you couldn’t make out as you let the blackness at the edge of your vision take over.

+++++

Lights. Murmuring voices. Were you still in that house?

You opened your eyes to see two people, one man and one woman, leaving the room you were in. There was a pressure on your hand that scared you, and slowly, you turned your head to see the source of the sensation, and you were greeted with what was quite possibly the best view you’d ever laid eyes on: Aaron Hotchner asleep at your side, desperately clutching your hand.

“Aaron?” You murmured. He was a light sleeper, so you knew the sound would most likely wake him up. When it didn’t, you squeezed his hand while murmuring his hand again. His head jerked up, and his tired eyes met yours.

“Y/N.” His voice was filled with so much anxiety, grief, and regret that your heart shattered, as he reached up to ever-so-gently caress your face, then kissed you softly.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.” His words took the broken pieces of your heart and smashed them again with a hammer, until you were sobbing against Aaron’s chest. He held you, and let you cry, becoming painfully aware of his inability to help in times like this. His specialty was catching criminals, not helping people through the trauma, and he entertained the thought of asking JJ to talk to you for a fleeting moment, before deciding that he couldn’t let you out of his sight for the time being.

After a few minutes, you sniffed and lifted your head to wipe away your tears, but Aaron did it before you could. You stared down at your side for a moment, watching the blood that seeped through the bandage every time you took a breath, while you gathered enough courage to speak without your voice wavering.

“I’m sorry. You told me you loved me, and I didn’t say it back, and that could’ve been the last-”

Aaron cut you off with a kiss, murmuring against your lips, “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

You sat in silence with him for a while, leaning your head against his shoulder as he stroked your hair. Eventually, Aaron broke the silence.

“I saw what you did to Ian.”

You choked out a laugh despite the pain that ripped through you while doing so. “Yeah, I left him in pretty bad shape, didn’t I?”

Aaron nodded, smiling. “I’m proud of you. Most people wouldn't be able to escape a serial killer.”

“Well, I’m not most people, Hotchner.”

“That’s for sure.”

+++++

The rest of the team left for D.C. the next morning, but Aaron stayed to drive you home once you were discharged from the hospital. First, however, he dropped you off at the FBI field office to talk with Agent Milenka while he called Jessica to ask if she’d mind watching Jack for a few more days, explaining what happened to you. She practically viewed you as a sister, and after recovering from the initial horror, was happy to agree.

“Hey, Y/N! You’re alive!” Agent MIlenka called brightly as you limped into her office, bumping your crutched on the doorframe.

You chuckled. “Sadly, I am. Aaron told me it was you who figured out Foster had taken me. How’d you know?”

Milenka shrugged. “I may not be a profiler, but I sure as hell can tell when someone’s not right. The guy went almost crazy when you left New York. It just made sense.”

“But if that was his stressor, he would’ve started murdering earlier.”

“We thought at first that finding out about you and Agent Hotchner might’ve been the stressor, but it was impossible to tell when he’d found out, so we switched gears. I fired Ian a few months ago because he’d just been getting worse and worse, and eventually was a liability on cases. The last straw was him failing his psych evaluation. Maybe he felt that losing his FBI job meant he lost his last chance to be with you if he’d been hoping to transfer to your unit someday.”

You nodded slowly. “That’s around the time the kidnappings started, isn’t it?”

Milenka nodded. The two of you stood in her office in comfortable silence for a bit, until she stood up from her desk, crossing the distance between you and engulfing you in a nervous hug. She pulled away fairly quickly, most likely out of fear of hurting you, and awkwardly patted you twice on the shoulder. “Take care, Agent.”

“You too, Milenka.”

You turned to go, but stopped when you heard Milenka call, “One more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Hotchner’s a good guy. Don’t let that one get away.”

You merely offered her a smile, then strode out of her office as elegantly as one can with a limp.

+++++

The ride home was nice, full of easy discussion, laughter, and a few guilty looks that Aaron snuck at your stitched-up side, wishing he’d listened to you.

You made a joke he didn’t hear, and leaned over in your seat so you could wave a hand in front of his face, calling his name in a sing-song voice.

“Aaron, you good?”

Aaron shook his head slightly, rubbed his eyes, then turned towards you. “Yes?”

“Is something wrong?”

“No, I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

You hummed in affirmation, then turned towards the window. The rest of the drive was spent in comfortable silence, until you arrived at Aaron’s house. You spent practically all of your time there. Honestly, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d stepped foot into your apartment. Aaron helped you into the house and to your shared bed, where you passed out immediately. You vaguely heard a soft whisper of “sleep well” before you were out cold.

Aaron watched you for what felt like hours, feeling pent-up stress and anger roll off of him in waves as he silently stroked your hair, grateful beyond words that you’d lived. You murmured something in your sleep that sounded suspiciously like “I love you,” before rolling over to curl against his chest, nuzzling your head against the crook of his neck. And for the first time in days, he allowed himself a smile. Aaron basked in the rare feeling of relaxation, thinking about how nice it would be to bottle up this feeling and keep it forever, until sleep finally pulled him into its soft clutches. And for once, with you safely nestled into him, he slept easily. He still hadn’t proposed, but that was okay. Now that you were safe, you two had all the time in the world.

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner x reader #crimnal minds #criminal minds fluff #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner smut #Penelope Garcia #spencer reid #emily prentiss #derek morgan

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grimm-the-tiger · 3 years ago

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Has anyone ever noticed that My Head is an Animal can actually make for a pretty cohesive story if you rearrange the songs a bit? Let me explain.

So take “From Finner”, “Numb Bears” and “Lakehouse”. You could go two ways here, the fantastical and the non-fantastical; I’m going with fantastical because that’s more interesting. I’m also playing fast and loose with who’s actually narrating the song.

So “From Finner” is about a whale with a house on its back which, even for Of Monsters and Men, is kind of a strange concept, but note the lines “I knew I was safe from then on out” and the way the whale is (possibly?) characterized as being a protective figure.

“Numb Bears” is weird and kind of stands out, so I initially didn’t know where to put it; I eventually put it early on because of its cheerful tone, so I assume this is probably the protagonist’s childhood and them letting their imagination get to them.

“Lakehouse” has an almost nostalgic tone to it, like the protagonist is reminiscing on this childhood. I imagine that’s when they meet the subject of “Love Love Love”, who they likely grew up with but never felt the same way towards them that they felt towards the protagonist.

“Love Love Love” is...”Love Love Love”. If you’ve heard the song, it’s probably the least lyrically weird of all of Of Monsters and Men’s song, seemingly just being a simple song about unrequited love.

“Sloom” comes next. Just because the protagonist doesn’t love this person the way they love the protagonist doesn’t mean they can’t still be close, so she starts narrating her earlier life with seemingly an abusive parent (most people normally cite the line ”The carpet on my cheek feels like a forest” for evidence on this). Their friend does the same, hence the line “so love me mother, so love me father, and love my sister/brother as well”. This implies that the protagonist and possibly her friend ran away to Finner because of their parents, or were otherwise abandoned by them (”the sea said goodbye to the shore so the sun/son wouldn’t notice”). Presumably, this song also describes their first meeting (”I met a man today, and he smiled back at me”).

Then there’s “Mountain Sound”. Not sure where to put this one either; I assume they’ve run into trouble, so the protagonist and her friend are on the run. This is also, presumably, why they’ve left their childhood behind, and why the slower, calmer nostalgia of these songs has faded into “Mountain Sound”’s frantic, energetic pace. This is also where they’re first introduced to the darkness of the world (”Some had scars and some had scratches/that made me wonder about their past/and as I looked around/I began to notice/that we were nothing like the rest”), which draws them into...

“Six Weeks”. While this song was actually apparently written about this Frontier guy who survived for like a month in the woods after he got mauled by a bear, it could still be fit into the story. It’s likely the protagonist and her friend have been traveling for a while at this point (”Let go/lay to rest/we fall, we fall, we fall to the ground”, “So get up/shake the rust/we crawl, we crawl, we crawl on the ground”). They also seem to have decided to return home (”coming back/I’m coming back”, “she follows me into the woods/takes me home”).

“Dirty Paws” is next. Technically, going by the way the story’s told, it could just as easily be set in the early parts, but a), the music’s pacing doesn’t fit, and b), I really want to tie it into “King and Lionheart”, because it could just as easily be the dragonfly’s son being a friend of theirs and telling them that their home is in ruins because of a war (“The forest that once was green was colored black by their killing machines”). Given that the first song is about a whale with a house on its back, we can dismiss the animal thing as just being part of the story.

This moves into “King and Lionheart”, when the protagonist and her friend decide to join in the fight for their home (”Taking over this town/they should worry”). By this point, they’ve become extremely close, as close as siblings or lovers, and fear nothing as long as the other’s by their side (”And as the world comes to an end/I’ll be here to hold your hand/cause you’re my king and I’m your lionheart”).

Then we get to “Your Bones”. The war is over, but the protagonist is alone. She’s lost her closest friend (”the birds all left, my tall friend/as your body hit the sand”), seemingly having either been abandoned by their allies or their allies having come too late (”a million stars up in the sky/formed a tiger’s eye/that looked down on my face/out of time and out of place”). We get to the supernatural aspect of the whole thing that comes into play in “Little Talks”, with the dead friend trying to tell the protagonist to keep going (”so hold on/hold on to what we are/hold on to your heart”), as well as more reminiscing or otherwise describing the funeral (”In the spring we made a boat/out of feathers out of bones/we set fire to our homes/walking backwards in the snow”).

Then, of course, there’s the one you’ve been waiting for, the magnum opus, “Little Talks”. The protagonist is grieving her friend. She’s returned to the nostalgic, contemplative style of before, but with the same frantic tone as the other songs after “Sloom”. Her friend, meanwhile, is begging her to hold on and keep going, reminding her of their childhood (”We used to play outside when we were young/and full of life and full of love”) to keep her sanity from further slipping (”Some days I don’t know if I am wrong or right/your mind is playing tricks on you my dear”). The boat thing from “Your Bones” comes back (”Cause though the truth may vary/this ship will carry our bodies safe to shore”). The friend also seems to realize that their communication is just making things worse, reminding her of what she’s lost (”Don’t listen to a word I say/the screams all sound the same”).

But this isn’t the end, no. Now we move on to “Slow and Steady”. With her friend no longer speaking to her, she’s alone and feels forsaken, cut off from the world. (”The lights go out/I am all alone/all the trees outside are buried in the snow”). She reminisces on their past, hence the song’s slower pace. But she’s...calmer now. She’s accepted it and moved on, even if it still hurts inside her, because she’ll see her friend again someday (”And I move slow and steady/but I feel like a waterfall/and I move slow and steady/past the ones that we used to know”).

Finally, the grand finale, “Yellow Light”. We go back to the same tone and pacing as “Love Love Love”. The protagonist has died and reunited with her friend in the afterlife (”I’m looking for a place to start/but everything feels so different now” “Just grab ahold of my hand/I will lead you through this wonderland”). But the afterlife is kind of terrible (”Just follow my yellow light/and ignore all those big warning signs”, “Somewhere deep in the dark/a howling beast hears us talk”). The latter lyric is followed by describing colors and a blinding light, and “soft walls eat[ing] us alive”, which can be interpreted many different ways, but I interpret it as them being reborn; the soft walls are the womb, and the light is that of the living world as they’re born once more to start the cycle over again.

#of monsters and men #analysis #song interpretation #album interpretation #my head is an animal

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pinkja · 4 years ago

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We Are We: The Wrath of a Protector

The Frye Twins are a weird pair, in tuned to each other’s feelings in a way that no one has seen before. Therefore, when you cross with one twin, you cross them both.

Tw for violence. Younger Frye Twins again.

—

It is not often that the Frye Twins would go somewhere without the other. Usually one would stay behind, waiting for the other’s training to end, or for the other to finish a book, or chore, or assignment. Then, after everything was settled, they would go off to do whatever it was that they did, always returning as a pair.

It is something that people thought they would stop doing once they got older, once they grew into themselves and gained different interests and ran in different social circles. They were proven wrong, even at the age of ten, an age where they were old enough for their closeness to not be considered as cute as it was before, but as a thing to raise an eyebrow at. No one dared comment on it, lest they face the wrath of their father, Ethan Frye, who became strangely overprotective of his children, more than any other parent of his time.

People chalked it up to him only being a true father for four years, and had no idea of the true nature of the twins, never bore witness to the air of strangeness that the twins have, how that strangeness could affect other people.

Hand-in-hand The Twins walk, Evie’s gloved hand in Jacob’s. They‘re at the market, finally old enough to be trusted with money, and far along in their training to be able to defend themselves if need be. The early summer air has made them sweat a little, Evie’s shawl and gloves and Jacob’s coat and boots a bit much for the weather. The two had bought some fruit from an old lady that reminded them of their Grandmother, a woman whose appearance had burned themselves in Their memories, never to be forgotten.

They still have some money left, enough to buy one thing for the both of them. One look at each other and The Twins came to an agreement to keep it, and walk around town a bit longer.

Jacob, her Twin, is humming a tune beside her, one Evie remembers them listening to some Time before. Soon she joins him, joy filling her heart, and therefore his, at a memory almost lost to Time.

Their good mood is dampened a bit as they are stopped in the street. It’s a man, his clothes tattered and his hair disheveled. He smiles down at the twins, a smile that almost reaches his eyes, a smile that is so familiar. His skin’s a bit tanned from the sun, and dirty as well.

Jacob pushes Evie, his Twin, behind him a bit, always the protective one. His shoulders tense up and his eyebrows furrow as he frowns. Evie places a hand on the small of his back, but never moves her eyes away from the stranger.

“Hello, children,” the stranger starts, and Jacob can feel Evie become disgusted at the sound of his voice, and so Jacob is as well. “I’m terribly sorry to bother you two, but I’m a bit down on my luck and was wondering if you had any change to spare.” He was not a beggar, that much The Twins could tell, despite the lie. Whatever that man, this reminder, needs the money for, they would not help him get it.

Jacob speaks for them both. “I apologize sir, but we do not have any money on us.” Jacob, and therefore Evie, could not sense a weapon, but he, and therefore she, could smell the slight stench of alcohol, a few days old, but there none the less. No, They would not help him. “Excuse us.” He says curtly, grabbing Evie’s hand in his and walking around the stranger, pulling Evie in front of him, away from the watchful eyes of the man. Only when they turn a couple of streets and pass a few dozen people, did the tension leave his shoulders, and Evie let out a breath. Jacob gives her hand a squeeze, going back to hum that tune from a Time ago. Evie soon joins along, singing a few words under her breath, just for the Two to hear, in a speech long gone, a sound foreign and forgotten.

Joy fills their hearts again, run-in with the stranger long forgotten as they walk through an abandoned warehouse. Dust settles on every surface, and sunlight barely makes it way through, but it is quiet, undisturbed, and that is enough for The Twins.

In a corner The Twins sit, Evie to the left and Jacob to the right. Out of his inside coat pocket, Jacob pulls a small brown leather-bound book, placing it in his Twin’s hand. She grabs it and lets her Twin rest his head on her lap, hand running through his hair as she opens the book with the other. Together they eat the fruit they acquired earlier, stored safely in Evie’s pouch.

She reads to her brother, tells him of tales from long ago, of memories almost lost to Time had they not been written down so quickly. Her recount fills the Twins with nostalgia and melancholy, for Time lost and revisited and remembered so rarely.

They stay in that bubble for a while, until Jacob sits up, rubbing his right eye with a yawn.

“Loo.” He simply says before standing up and walking out to the back of the warehouse to relieve himself. Evie waits patiently, putting her pouch away, standing up and stretching before humming that tune that was not complete without her Twin there to sing along with her.

Evie pauses, blinks once, twice, before turning to the entrance of the warehouse. There stands the stranger, the same stranger who made the grand achievement of making the Twins tense up, who made the Twins take a silent breath and move even quieter, actions that the Twins have not genuinely done in many Times. He stares at Evie, who straightened herself out and stared at him right back. She would not look weak, not in front of a stranger, an old Reminder.

“I am terribly sorry to bother you, miss,” he starts again, taking a few steps towards her. Evie doesn’t move, doesn’t want to show fear. She blinks instead, never breaking eye contact for long. He continues, “but I was just wondering if I could–” he pauses, stopping his approach. He clasps his hand in front of him before giving her a warm smile; a smile that makes her skin crawl as she is reminded of Memories long passed. “��ask you to spare a few coins.”

Evie doesn’t answer him.

He continues.

“I noticed that your male companion didn’t give you a chance to speak earlier, so I thought you would be able to offer me something that he can’t…”

Evie still doesn’t answer, only watches as the stranger takes a few more steps.

“Is he your betrothed? A family member?” The stranger asks, now only a couple of feet away from Evie.

The man frowns at Evie’s lack of response before getting down on one knee, making them eye-to-eye.

“Listen, little one,” Evie goes numb at the name, mind unconsciously going far to reach for the comfort of her Twin, “I’m sorry if I have come off a little… aggressive. Can we try again?” He reaches his hand out. For Evie to shake, she assumes. But Evie does not take it, does not want to feel that familiar skin of the Reminder on hers once more. Not in this Time or any Time ever again.

Slowly, the Reminder’s facade slips the more Evie stays silent. His smile fades, his eyebrows furrow, and through the cracks, Evie can see the growing malice, the mirror image of a man from another Time. It makes Evie nervous, makes her remember something They had longed to forget.

In a blink of an eye, the Reminder hits her. Hits her because she was too caught up in fear to react, too caught up in Memories to act on instinct. She stumbles, clutching her cheek as rough hands grab her forearms in an all too familiar gesture.

Evie’s ears ring, the feeling of his skin on hers something that she had not felt in years. It makes her tense, mind crying out for a Twin, her Twin, her protector.

He comes before she could finish calling for Him, the loud cry of His Bird piercing through the ringing of her ears before she saw Him.

The room becomes dark, so dark, so quickly that she feels the Reminder startle at the complete loss of one of his senses.

He doesn’t find light again, not until he is ripped away from Evie and meets the blinding light of her Twin’s eyes, burning and full of rage.

Because of the ringing in her ears, Evie doesn’t hear it at first, the chilling screams of the Reminder, the blood rumbling, splattering on the floor, the angry cry of His Bird as her Twin rips and tears him apart, destroys him, bloodies him in a blind rage caused by hurt.

The Reminder is alive through all of it, each limb shattered, each piece of skin burned and bruised and pulled apart, each part of his body disintegrated.

They would not give him the satisfaction of dying.

It is Evie, a Twin, His Twin, who stops Him. It is Evie who calls out His name, His true name, in a language long gone, long forgotten. It is Evie who grabs Him, and pulls Him off of the Reminder, making Him face her and look her in those bright, blinding eyes. It is Evie who places His hand, His bloodied, soiled hand over her heart, connects their foreheads, and speaks to Him in a manner that she has not spoken in a long time, giving Him three pathways to feel what she feels, to make them Them again, to place Them back together.

“It is fine,” She whispers, now She instead of she, voice beyond her years, beyond many Times, “We are fine. We are still We, and We are still breathing, Our Heart is still beating. We are We.” She doesn’t look away, keeps unwavering eye contact in the pitch black darkness and listens to His harsh breathing, His slow expulsion of rage.

“We are We.” He repeats, feeling Their heartbeat through Her chest.

She, and therefore He, is scared. He, and therefore She, is angry, but They are They, and They are One.

Through her coaxing, the light slowly comes back, revealing the utter destruction that occurred in those long moments. The blood splattered on every surface, covering Jacob from head to toe, the bits and pieces left of the Reminder that serves as sustinace for his Bird, who gathers the broken man into its beak before flying, circling around Evie for good measure. Some of his blood stained her dress and shoes, collateral damage, They say, a small price to pay.

“Jacob.” Evie, now a she, says his, no longer a He, given name, reminding him Where he is, what his purpose is right now.

The Twins can feel the soul of the Reminder, still bound to this place of carnage, still screaming in agony.

“Let him rot here.” He says, free hand going to the cheek that the Reminder dared to touch. There is no mark there, not anymore, never was to the unassuming eye.

“We cannot, you know that as well as I.” Little Evie, always the voice of reason.

“He needs to suffer.” Evie wipes the tear that falls from his eye, smearing blood on her thumb.

“He has, and he will, but We cannot leave it like this, please.” Evie begs, eyes still shining in the dull light.

With a reluctant nod and a cry from Colin up above, the place is seen how it was before, dust floating in the air and not a single drop of blood in sight. The Twins are also in their prime state, free of the Reminder’s blood, free of the evidence of blind rage. The only thing that would indicate something occurring in that abandoned warehouse are their clothes, the rich red color of Jacob’s coat and Evie’s dress a stark difference from the colors worn when they had left their home. It drew attention, and if anyone could remember what they had looked like before, they would’ve raised an eyebrow, or asked a few questions in hushed voices.

Jacob embraces Evie with all he has, and she does the same.

“We are We.” He says, voice cracking in a way that only Evie has ever heard before.

“We are We, my protector.” Evie repeats, rubbing his hair with her gloved hand. Too soon do they pull apart, but they remain hand-in-hand. “Come, let’s go to the field. We will cleanse and let Colin roam around for a while, ok?” At the sound of its name, Colin cries again, giving a few large flaps of its wings.

Jacob nods, and lets Evie, his Twin, lead him out the warehouse and away from the Reminder, away from the rage. His Bird follows, and They are safe.

They are One.

#assassin’s creed #assassin's creed #evie frye #ac syndicate #Jacob Frye #assassin's creed syndicate #violence Tw #vague descriptions of violence #more eldritch Frye Twins #ac fanfic #ac fanfiction #assassinscreedsyndicate #syndicate #angst #just a little

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n3rdybird · 4 years ago

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Blue Blood is No Guarantee

Hey guys, man this idea has been percolating in my mind for like two years. And I finally got some written. Hope you enjoy! Please comment, reblog, give kudos! Also if you’d like to be tagged, just let me know in a comment/ask/message! :D

Taglist!

@sofiao12

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WWE Shield!Bodyguard AU fanfic

Dean Ambrose x FMcMahon!Heiress

Rating: M (for safety)

Warnings: Nothing too graphic, but someone is beaten, predatory behavior towards women, main character has anxiety/panic etc. (But again, nothing too graphic)

The midmorning sun was hiding behind gloomy clouds, which reflected Dean’s mood at having to be awake. He was definitely more of a night owl and wasn’t excited at the prospect of being up and about before noon. Mornings were for sleeping in. But when he got a call from a blast from his past, he was intrigued enough to leave his bed instead of catching a few extra z’s.

Dean jogged across the street, flinging his hand up when a car honked at him. When he reached his destination, he felt a wave of nostalgia wash over him. Police Precinct number 11. It had been years since he’d been inside, but it looked and felt exactly the same. Cops chatting over shitty coffee, belligerent yelling coming from the holding cells.

A voice cut through the din and drew his attention.

“Ambrose, I didn’t think you got my message,” a large man with tan skin called out, waving him over. Detective Dave Bautista, while up in years, still looked formidable. When he raised his hand, his wrinkled button-up looked like it was straining to stay in one piece.

“Detective, you look like shit,” Dean responded, taking in his disheveled attire and dark circles under his eyes.

The detective rolled his eyes and muttered a curse under his breath.

“And here I thought you might have grown up, follow me.”

Dean gave his old friend a ‘who me?’ look before following the man to his office.

The office was cluttered, filled with boxes and papers strewn about. Dean peeked into one of the boxes, seeing a framed photo of Bautista accepting a commendation from the police chief and the mayor.

“Are ya feng shui’ing in here?” Dean asked, using the framed photo to gesture to the half-full boxes.

“It’s what I called you here for,” Bautista said, shutting the door and closing the blinds. He walked back over to his desk and pulled a thick folder from his desk. Dean put the frame back in the box and crossed his arms. He sauntered over to the desk and stared at the folder on the desk. The folder looked like it had been through a war, creased and taped to hell and back.

“Is that what I think it is?”

The detective sighed and sat in his chair.

“It is. Also the reason for the boxes. I’ve been put on suspension to ‘get with the program and leave ghosts in the past,” he muttered.

Dean sucked air through his teeth and shook his head. For as long as he knew him, Detective Dave Bautista had a lifelong mission. Bring down the McMahon family. On the surface, the family seemed normal, aside from the millions of dollars in the bank. The family ran several businesses, did the requisite charities and ribbon-cutting ceremonies. But there was a dark layer underneath the gilt facade. There were rumors of backroom deals, protection rackets, drug running, fraud, embezzlement, bought cops, the whole nine yards. The family was untouchable though, brushing off the suspicion and accusations like water off a duck.

“Damn man, that’s gotta sting. But why am I here?”

Bautista leaned forward to flip open the folder and slide it across the desk. The top paper was a full-page photo of the McMahon family. Patriarch Vince McMahon in the center flanked by his family; Stephanie McMahon-Helmsley, Shane McMahon, and the youngest Elizabeth McMahon. Elizabeth’s face was circled in red ink.

“Elizabeth McMahon, the youngest of Vince’s kids.”

Dean nodded.

“Yeah, I know. She’s been in the news a lot this year, for charity events.”

“She’s become the new face of the McMahon family, fresh out of grad school. She’s the key Ambrose. I think I can flip her,” Bautista informed the younger man. Dean’s eyes widened.

“That’s ambitious,” the younger man muttered, flipping through the top photos, all of Elizabeth at various events.

“I was getting so close, and bam! I had upstairs up my ass, telling me to leave it alone. Before I knew it, I got hit with a suspension.”

Dean tossed the photo of the pretty brunette back into the pile.

“Still not hearing why I’m here though.”

Bautista rifled through his papers, pulling a photo of Elizabeth with a large suited man following at her elbow. Dean whistled.

“That is a big man.”

“This was Elizabeth McMahon’s bodyguard, Paul Wight aka Big Show.”

“Was?”

Another photo was tossed across the desk, this time showing an autopsy photo of said man, beaten to a pulp.

“Jesus, what the hell happened to him?”

“A week ago, I think Elizabeth tried to make a run for it. Mr. Wight may have tried to help her. When she was recovered by some of her father’s men, he said he lost track of her temporarily,” he added when Dean’s eyebrow rose.

“Something tells me Mr. McMahon wasn’t pleased,” he said, tapping the photo.

“No, he wasn’t. Which brings me to you. I’ve been keeping my ear to the ground, and Elizabeth still hasn’t been assigned a new bodyguard.”

Dean froze, knowing exactly where he was going.

“Oh no no no. I’m out.”

“Dean, come on. I’m so close to putting that family away for good. You’ve got the credentials. Elizabeth wants out and even though she’s Vince’s daughter, I don’t think he’s gonna let her go. Not if she talks.”

The blonde ran his hand through his hair. He felt guilty. Detective Dave Bautista might have been a hard-ass when he was younger, but he helped Dean, bailed him out too many times to count. It was thanks to him that Dean was able to be where he was now. The best friends, no brothers, he could ask for and a career he loved. He looked around the office, and at the detective at his desk.

Bautista looked tired but he still had hope. Hope that he’d be able to take down the family that caused so much death in his city. Dean picked up a photo of Elizabeth, she was smiling and talking to a young patient in a hospital. Her smile was genuine and he felt a pang of guilt when he realized she wouldn’t be able to leave her family without help. She’d either be beaten down until she has no willpower left, becoming a cog in the bloody McMahon machine, or she would be killed.

Dean groaned.

“If I agree to this, what makes you think they’d hire me anyway?”

Bautista smiled a grin that seemed to take years off the older man’s face.

“I have a plan.”

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A crowd applauded as Elizabeth McMahon presented an oversized check to an after-school program. She shook hands with some of the kids, giving a few high fives or hugs. She made her way back to the podium.

“This is just one of the many charities that my family believes in, and we appreciate all the support you’ve given us. Together we can help make a difference for our community. Thank you again and please enjoy yourselves,” she concluded to another round of applause.

The crowd dispersed to mingle and get drinks. Elizabeth chatted with the charity directors before stepping off the stage. She made small talk with some of the attendees when a manicured hand gripped her elbow.

“I’m gonna borrow my sister for a moment, please excuse us,” Stephanie apologized. The group released Elizabeth from their chatter, complementing the older sister on their family’s success and generosity. Stephanie smiled wide and nodded her thanks before ushering her sister to the side.

Elizabeth kept up her smile, even though her sister’s nails dug into her skin. She racked her mind, trying to figure out why Stephanie might be angry with her. The duo ducked into an unused room.

The younger sister pulled her arm away, flexing her muscles.

“Good thing I brought a cardigan. I’m sure the interview this evening will go well with bruises on my arm,” she snapped, staring at the redness of her skin.

Stephanie rolled her eyes at her sister’s dramatics.

“Change of plans, Father dearest wants you to meet him. I’ll be speaking on your behalf.”

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes.

“It’s an interview I’ve been preparing for weeks. You aren’t even a part of the board for the charity.”

The elder sister smirked and waved her hand dismissively.

“Please, as if I couldn’t handle some local news junket. Blah blah blah money for the less fortunate, blah blah we are so blessed to be able to help, blah blah blah, the children are our future. Finish with a big smile and handshake. See, not too hard,” she mimed with a schooled professional face.

“So what does Dad need me for?” Elizabeth sighed, knowing she didn’t have a leg to stand on against her older sister.

“You need a new bodyguard after the last one ‘left’.” The smile on Stephanie’s face caused her sister to internally shudder.

Elizabeth liked her old bodyguard, Paul aka Big Show. He was a gentle giant with her, and his massive size proved to be a formidable deterrent to anyone who would do her wrong. And her father had him killed for one mistake. Her mistake. But this could be her chance. Stephanie would be busy with the interview, and her husband, Hunter, would stay by her side. That left her driver, she could persuade him to stop somewhere, and she’d make a break for it.

“Orton will be escorting you,” her sister said, breaking her reverie.

“Oh, surely that isn’t necessary. My driver can take me. Mr. Orton should be here, keeping an eye on you two. He is after all assigned to you,” Elizabeth protested.

“He’s going with you. No discussion.” Stephanie raised a brow at her sister’s refusal. “This defiance lately needs to stop. Remember, all this-” she said, motioning to the event down the hall, “Is for the family. Not you.”

Elizabeth bit her tongue. It was the truth. All the charities, all the speeches, all the donations. It was just a way for her family to mask their crimes. And she was the smiling face, the front. And she’d never get out.

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Elizabeth hated being alone with Randy Orton. Known as the Viper, he had worked for her family for almost twenty years, longer than most. Ever since she was a child, the Viper was always around, watching, waiting. Her older brother had used stories of Orton to frighten her into compliance when she was younger. They had frightened her and when she grew up, she realized they weren’t exaggerated tales to keep her in bed at night. Randy Orton was a dangerous man, a fact she learned when she saw him standing over one of her father’s business partners, covered in blood.

It was late, and an 8-year-old Elizabeth McMahon was tired of her father’s party. They were never fun, just a bunch of her father’s friends. There were rarely any children her age, and her siblings were much older than her. However, her father instructed the two older McMahon children to keep an eye on their sister, no matter how much they complained. Elizabeth was hovering around her older brother Shane when he grew annoyed at her presence. She didn’t remember what she had done but he told her that Father had gotten her a special present and it was in one of the unused rooms in the basement. (To keep her from finding it, Shane explained when she looked skeptical.) After all, the basement was off-limits to Elizabeth, citing it was only for the adults. But Shane cajoled and spun an elaborate tale of the fantastic present waiting for her, that he couldn’t believe his little sister wouldn’t want to go find it.

Feeling emboldened by the attention she was receiving from her older brother and his friends, she agreed to his plan. With Shane leading the way, Elizabeth followed. Looking back, she should have noticed the way Shane’s friends were holding in their laughter, but she was so excited at the prospect of a gift and wondering what it could be, she didn’t see the signs until it was too late.

The dark room was mostly empty, with a few tables and some chairs stacked in the corner. By the time she had realized there was no present, Shane had shut the door and locked her in. Far away from the party and anyone that could hear her, Elizabeth was alone and trapped. She pulled on the doorknob, shaking it relentlessly, banging on the solid door to no avail. What felt like hours later, but probably only 15 minutes later, she was exhausted from panic. The child curled up in a pile of unused tablecloths, the musty smell tickling her nose. She didn’t remember falling asleep, but only waking up when she heard a voice. Instead of being relieved, she immediately panicked. Rather than the stern voice of her father, it was the Viper. She hid under a pile of heavy fabric, rearranging the folds of the fabric to disguise her form.

The door opened with a bang, and fluorescent light exploded throughout the room. Through a gap in the fabric, Elizabeth watched as Randy pushed one of her father’s associates into the room. His hands were bound behind his back, and he already sported a wicked bruise on his face. The man was pleading, begging the Viper to let him go. But the man was silent, and just shook his head, leading the man to the chair in the center of the room.

With practiced ease, the Viper hooked his leg behind the man’s leg, forcing him to sit in the bolted chair. He was restrained quickly as he watched the Viper circle him. If there were questions asked, Elizabeth didn’t remember them. After the first muffled thud of flesh hitting flesh and the grunt of pain that followed, Elizabeth ducked her head, burrowing deeper into the pile of fabric. Mouth pressed closed, not even wanting to breathe deeply, she could hear each blow as it landed. The cries of pain reverberated around the empty room, but could not be heard beyond the door.

Eventually, the screams lessened to subdued gasps and groans. Elizabeth brought her eyes up and dared to look into the room once more. The man’s back was to her, but his body was limp, sagging forward. Randy was in front of him, surveying the damage he did. His hands were dripping with blood, his crisp white shirt spattered with red. He paused, as if feeling her eyes on him, and he slowly surveyed the room before coming to a stop on the pile of drop cloths. Elizabeth let out a raspy breath, which came out like a squeak. She clamped her hands over her mouth. At that moment, the Viper smiled, his blue eyes like ice as he lifted a bloodstained finger to his lips in a shushing motion.

“Be quiet Little Mouse.”

The rest of that night was a blur. All Elizabeth remembered was one of her father’s men, William Regal, picking her up and carrying her to her room. His accented voice lulled her to sleep as she refused to let go of his hand. The next few days drifted in a haze of nightmares, panic attacks, and a battery of medical tests. The aftermath of that night included a prescription for anti-anxiety medicine for Elizabeth and Shane received the harshest tongue-lashing that ever came out of the McMahon family patriarch. He was kicked out of the main house and demoted in the family business.

And the Viper? Well, he was kept out of sight until Elizabeth was old enough to understand the world she lived in. And now he was sitting less than a foot away. He wore black button-ups under his crisp suit now. Less visible bloodstains, she mused internally. She tapped her nails against her clutch. Being this close to the Viper made her skin crawl. Stephanie did this on purpose, she was sure of it. Punishment for her behavior as of late, or just because she wanted her sister to squirm.

“Still quiet as ever,” Randy observed, his voice tinted with smugness.

Elizabeth pointedly looked out the window, ignoring him.

“Aw Mouse, you don’t want to talk to me?”

She stiffened at the nickname.

He reached out and trailed his hand down her bare arm. Elizabeth darted her eyes to the front of the car. The driver caught her eye in the window and looked away. Coward. She tried to wrench her arm away, but he grabbed her upper arm where Stephanie had earlier, making her hiss.

He slid across the bench seat, invading her space. Elizabeth’s heart started to pound. Too close, too close. He reached toward her face and she closed her eyes, unwilling to see his cold blue gaze. One beat, two beats, three. She opened her eyes at the sound of the door opening. He had reached across her to open the door. She hadn’t even realized the car was stopped. They were at one of her father’s properties in the industrial district.

Elizabeth steeled herself, she had only been here once before and had no desire to be here again. Regal waited on the sidewalk for her, guiding her with a hand on her back. He turned back to Orton, who had a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Go back to your charges, I’ll take over,” he ordered in a clipped tone. Regal ushered Elizabeth inside the nondescript warehouse. As soon as she was away from the gaze of Orton, she sagged against the British man’s side, breathing heavily.

“Are you alright my dear?” He saw the beginning of a bruise blooming on her fair skin. Elizabeth took in deep lungfuls of air, trying to calm herself, anchoring her mind to the firm touch of Regal’s hand on her back. Calming her nerves, she straightened, patting the older man’s arm in reassurance.

“I’m fine, thank you, William.”

When he went to retort, she shook her head.

“I’m fine. Let’s get this over with.”

He nodded albeit reluctantly.

“Of course, this way please.”

She allowed Regal to guide her through a labyrinth of pallets, all filled to the brim with ill-gotten goods. She heard shouting jeers and the sounds of fighting she paused to steady herself.

“Deep breaths,” William murmured against her hair and she nodded. The door ahead of them was flanked by two guards, who opened the door for the pair.

Her father, the patriarch of the McMahon crime family, stood next to a railing. Vince McMahon, millionaire, businessman, philanthropist, and criminal. Although up in years, he still had a commanding aura. Whatever Vince says, goes. No discussions. No mistakes. No forgiveness.

Down below, men were bare-knuckle fighting. Elizabeth stood to the side as Regal announced her arrival to her father. She glanced down at the fighters and immediately wished she hadn’t. Several men were off to the side, having lost their respective fights. Most if not all sustained several wounds, black eyes, gashes to the forehead, broken noses. Some looked scarcely older than eighteen, throwing themselves in the meat grinder for her ‘family’. Others were older, gruff, the weight of the world showing on the lines of their faces.

William motioned for Elizabeth to join him and her father at the railing.

“How did the event go?” her father asked, not taking his eyes off the fights below.

“The charity event went well, though I wish I could have stayed to do the interview,” Elizabeth said, keeping her tone even. It would do no good to start a fight with her father.

Vince barely registered what his daughter said, waving it off like a piece of lint on his expensive suits.

“Stephanie can handle it. I wanted you here,” he said. The current fight ended, yells and jeers reverberating through the metal warehouse. Though all Elizabeth could hear was the dull thud as one of the fighters hit the ground. She swallowed the revulsion, schooling her face into one of cool indifference.

“In order for you to understand the severity of your previous bodyguard’s mistake, I invited you here.”

He gestured for his daughter to join him at the railing, as the next fight took place. Elizabeth chanced a look at Regal, who nodded. She made her way to the railing, standing next to her father.

“I will do anything to protect this family, my legacy,” he started. Elizabeth nodded along with his words.

“When Mr. Wight grew lax in his responsibilities, he became a liability to you, to this family, and to me.”

Elizabeth almost jumped when her father’s hand dropped on top of hers. It was rare for the McMahon patriarch to show any sort of affection, especially when not in front of the cameras.

“I don’t like liabilities Elizabeth,” he said, turning his gaze from the men downstairs to her eyes. “Liabilities cause chaos.”

The youngest McMahon could only nod, as his hand tightened on hers, facing the carnage below.

#wwe fanfiction #dean ambrose x oc #wwe shield #wwe au #dean ambrose x ofc #wwe fic #dean ambrose fanfiction

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nerianasims · 4 years ago

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Billboard #1s 1977

Under the cut.

Marilyn McCoo & Billy Davis, Jr. – “You Don’t Have To Be A Star (To Be In My Show)” -- January 8, 1977

They will be happy with each other as they are, not needing a "star." It sounds literal, like they think most people only want to have relationships with celebrities. It's got some bounce and a beat, but it's very light and not poetic at all. Meh.

Leo Sayer – “You Make Me Feel Like Dancing” -- January 15, 1977

Shouty falsetto. It might be disco if it were faster. I am not listening to this whole thing, because it will give me a headache.

Stevie Wonder – “I Wish” -- January 22, 1977

One of the greatest musical intros. It's a funk song about nostalgia, wishing for childhood again, and I normally hate that. But the music is amazing.

Rose Royce – “Car Wash” -- January 29, 1977

This was an intro song for a movie of the same name. I had no idea. I just thought someone decided to sing about working at a car wash randomly. The song is a little bit Motown, a little bit disco. It's fun.

Mary MacGregor – “Torn Between Two Lovers” -- February 5, 1977

It's slow, it's soppy, and it's about how she's cheating on "you" with someone else. She truly loves you, but she's not gonna stop seeing the other guy, whom she loves too. It sounds like she wants to try this whole poly thing she's heard about. But is the guy she's singing to gonna be okay with that? Probably not. Most people aren't. Maybe though. I don't care. For being about a subject that should be heartrending, this song sure is boring.

Manfred Mann’s Earth Band – “Blinded By The Light” -- February 19, 1977

This version made it to #1. Bruce Springsteen's original didn't even make it to the charts. This version is really bad -- it sounds like a recitation surrounded by goop, not a song. Bruce Springsteen's version is one of my favorite songs. I am going to sulk now.

Eagles – “New Kid In Town” -- February 26, 1977

Huh, an Eagles hit I've never heard before. This is about fame, how everyone loves you at first, then forgets you when the next big thing comes along. They try to shoehorn some stuff about romance in -- "Will she still love you when you're not around?" -- but it doesn't really flow. Also the song sounds like it should be playing in the background of a cabana. Fittingly for a song worried people will forget them, I have already forgotten this song.

Barbra Streisand – “Love Theme From A Star Is Born (Evergreen)” -- March 5, 1977

I listened to this song for 30 seconds. No more. I cannot stand Barbra Streisand. I don't think I'd like this song anyway, as it's glop, but maybe a different singer could have made it tolerable.

Daryl Hall & John Oates – “Rich Girl” -- March 26, 1977

Rich girls get picked on while rich boys are the ones who usually get away with everything. This song was actually originally about a rich guy, too. It would have been better. It's still good musically, but it misses the mark. Not that rich girls don't also get away with plenty, but compare and contrast what happened to Paris Hilton for her venial sins, versus the entire existence of Donald Trump.

ABBA – “Dancing Queen” -- April 9, 1977

ABBA was a good group. They were hated on, and now they're more likely to be exalted. They didn't deserve the hate (save it for the Bee Gees), but they're not the second coming or anything either. They were just a good, fun group. This song can be danced to, but it's a song more about dance than a dancing song. It's a rare song observing a young woman dancing while identifying with her, rather than lusting after her. "You can dance/ You can jive/ Having the time of your life." It's good.

David Soul – “Don’t Give Up On Us” -- April 16, 1977

The narrator did something really bad last night. Cheating? Worse? Now he's telling his lover not to "give up on us." As soft as the song is, "tell" is the word, not "ask." And he doesn't apologize once. Also, David Soul was a professional actor, but there's no worry in his voice; he's nothing but smooth and assured here. Blech.

Thelma Houston – “Don’t Leave Me This Way” -- April 23, 1977

It's disco with a large dose of Motown, or Motown with a large dose of disco. Either way, it works. Everything lines up with precision, and then Thelma Houston comes in over all of it with huge emotion. The contrast is sort of fascinating. Oh, and her huge emotion is that she wants sex. "Then come on, satisfy the need in me/ 'Cause only your good loving can set me free." She's not begging, but she's not exactly commanding either. It's really good.

Glen Campbell – “Southern Nights” -- April 30, 1977

It's Kidz Bop honky tonk. That's probably not fair; Glen Campbell grew up in a family of poor sharecroppers in Arkansas. But it's what I hear. It's happy clappy, and scrubbed clean of anything real.

Eagles – “Hotel California” -- May 7, 1977

Whatever you think this song is about, it's not about that. The Eagles wrote it with a mish-mash of stuff in mind, but mostly trying to be ambiguous. What that means is that whatever you think this song is about, it is about that. It's a choose your own adventure psychological horror song. I love it. It makes me happy in that way that good poetry and good music do -- and this is both.

Leo Sayer – “When I Need You” -- May 14, 1977

This song is cheese. Absolute, unadulterated cheese. But it's not bad cheese. It's a good solid cheddar. It's slow but not too slow, soft but not too soft, and it manages some interesting percussion. And Sayer sings like he means it. It's about missing his lover while he's on the road, and he imagines she's with him to get by. "When I need you/ I just close my eyes and I'm with you." It sounds kind of like a Broadway ballad. It's enjoyable.

Stevie Wonder – “Sir Duke” -- May 21, 1977

A song about Duke Ellington, which is a subject I approve of. Stevie Wonder also lists a few more legends, including one of my favorites: "And with a voice like Ella's ringing out/ There's no way the band can lose." It's a love song to music itself. It's sort of big band, sort of funk, and sort of Motown, and it works. The lyrics do get too repetitive for me near the end, though.

KC & The Sunshine Band – “I’m Your Boogie Man” -- June 11, 1977

It's a wordplay on the "bogie man" monster. But the boogie man wants to show up and give you whatever you want whenever you want however you want. Sexually. The song actually has more lyrics than most KC & The Sunshine Band songs, but it's still a song to dance to. Not to have sex to. But for dancing? Yep, it's good.

Fleetwood Mac – “Dreams” -- June 18, 1977

YAY! Okay so I have no interest in Fleetwood Mac without Lindsay Buckingham and Stevie Nicks. But when they joined in 1975, Fleetwood Mac became truly great. And this song is from Rumours, which is their best album (forged out of a hell of a lot of intragroup pain), and written and sung by Stevie Nicks, who was their best artist. My parents played this record and their previous self-titled one all the time. I didn't fully understand the songs when I was a kid, but I loved them. As I grew old enough to understand them, I loved them more. And now I love them more than that. I can't analyze this song. I love it too much.

Marvin Gaye – “Got To Give It Up (Part 1)” -- June 25, 1977

At first, he was uncomfortable at parties and didn't want to dance. But then he loosened up enough to dance, pretty obviously as a way to pick up chicks. There's the horrible line "Let me step into your erotic zone." The music is experimental. Marvin Gaye's falsetto is fine, but it's still a falsetto the whole damn song. And there are people making party noises in the background the whole time. I find this song painful.

Bill Conti – “Gonna Fly Now (Theme From Rocky) -- July 2, 1977

You know this instrumental, you've heard it tons. It's a good movie theme -- I think. It's hard to say, when it's something that's been so often present in so many different contexts in my life.

Alan O’Day – “Undercover Angel” -- July 9, 1977

The undercover angel is a make believe woman from a sex dream. At the end of the song, he's telling "you" that you remind him of the undercover angel, so you must be meant to be with him. It's an extended "I've seen you in my dreams" pickup line. It's so dumb.

Shaun Cassidy – “Da Doo Ron Ron” -- July 16, 1977

This is an excruciatingly boring cover of The Crystals' classic 60s girl group song.

Barry Manilow – “Looks Like We Made It” -- July 23, 1977

He's singing to an ex. They both "made it" because they found other people. Until "Looks like we made it/ Or I thought so till today/ Until you were there everywhere." If they get back together it's not going to be easy, because they'll be leaving relationships that seem happy. I don't think they'll get back together -- besides, she may not feel anything for him any more. It's a more complex song than it sounds. And Barry Manilow sure can sing. I wish he'd gone with the jazz songs he preferred, but then he wouldn't have been hugely successful. He decided to pull the rhinestone cowboy trick, and I can't blame him. He did make the soppy 70s charts more tolerable than they would have otherwise been.

Andy Gibb – “I Just Want To Be Your Everything” -- July 30, 1977

For instance, without Barry Manilow, Andy Gibb would probably have had more hits. Gibb's voice is thin. If you're going to sing a line like "Oh, if I, if I stay here without you darlin' I will die," you need some power and drama behind it. This guy sounds like he's trying to sell kitchen tile. It's a relatively fast song, but the beat is somehow irritating too. Blech.

The Emotions – “Best Of My Love” -- August 20, 1977

It starts with a blast of horns, and then a blast of singing. Then the chorus is quieter than the rest, which is weird to me. I can't put my finger on why this song bores me, but it does.

Meco – “Star Wars Theme/Cantina Band” -- October 1, 1977

A disco mashup of the Star Wars theme with the cantina band theme. That happened. I love John Williams' music and I think he deserves credit for at least half of Star Wars' success. But I think this remix sounds extremely dumb. Someone slowed down the cantina band theme a couple years ago and that sounds very noir and cool. This doesn't.

Debby Boone – “You Light Up My Life” -- October 15, 1977

The person who wrote this song was completely and absolutely terrible. But Debby Boone isn't. She's a Christian singer, but seems to be one of the nice ones, not the wingnut fundie ones. Anyway, she wasn't a Christian singer in 1977 (though she was Christian). And she had a good voice. But she sings this song painfully slowly. It sounds like she comes in after where she's supposed to come in and then draws out the notes longer than she's supposed to. I don't know if that's her or the song itself. I sped up the song to 1.25 and it's a little more palatable, but it's still bad. It's a trudge. I don't feel lit up after this.

The Bee Gees – “How Deep Is Your Love” -- December 24, 1977

It's not falsetto, though Barry Gibb does go uncomfortably high some. But it's still very bad. It's a string of bland cliches over bland music. And the weird 70s male romance song entitlement: "And it's me you need to show/ How deep is your love?" Shut up.

BEST OF 1977 -- "Dreams" by Fleetwood Mac WORST OF 1977 -- "Star Wars Theme/Cantina Band" by Meco. People really would disco to anything, huh?

#billboard number ones

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wild-aloof-rebel · 5 years ago

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Some Favorite Fics from 2019

Before I dive into my list, let me send out some love to ALL of the authors who have contributed fic to this fandom this year. There are well over 300 people who wrote Schitt’s Creek fic this year, and you’ve brought joy to so many people and should be super proud of what you’ve written, whether it was only 100 words or 100k. I’ve personally read more than 6.5 million words of fic in this fandom this year, and I want to thank you all for every single one of them. <3

Now, in continuing this year-end love fest we’ve had going on the last few days, I also want to highlight some of my favorite fics from this year. I decided to cut myself off at twenty fics or we’d end up with a list too big to be allowed, lol. I also decided to limit myself to one fic per author in order to spread the love around as much as possible; there would definitely be some repeat authors on this list otherwise.

And now with all that in mind, I’ll shut up and get on with it.

Here are twenty of my favorite fics from this year and what I love about them...

this roof is a blanket by withkissesfour • rated M • 3k+ I love Patrick-centric fics. He’s such a beautiful character, but because he isn’t one of the four Roses, we miss out on a lot of his pov in the show, so I’m always here for fics that try to capture that. And this one does it beautifully, focusing on four different but thematically-connected moments in Patrick’s life.

We’re Getting Something for Free by MoreHuman • rated G • 1k+ This is one of those fics where you can see how much Patrick KNOWS David and loves him for exactly who he is. His refusal to let David villainize himself for just being who he is makes my heart so very happy.

Heart of Gold by barelypink • rated M • 40k+ I love love LOVE a good AU, but AUs based on other media can be really tricky to get right. The best ones take elements from both sources and elevate them into something fresh and new, and this fic does exactly that.

now you see me by grapehyasynth • rated T • 4k+ Did I mention that I love AUs? I never get tired of seeing them meet in new ways, and their New York-set blind date in this one just makes me smile a whole hell of a lot.

I’m All Lost (in the supermarket) by sullymygoodname • rated G • 9k+ This fic combines David “Good Person” Rose, headless mannequins, tiny cardboard houses, karaoke, ugly sweaters, and all the friendship and shenanigans you can possibly stand. What’s not to love?

I know, I’m strange, too much light makes me nervous by another_Hero • rated T • 4k+ I’m so in love with the entire premise for this soulmate AU and everything that it says about love and the choices that we make because of it.

Pizza Night by smoulderandbraids • rated M • 4k+ Sometimes you just need to read about them making pizza and making out. Thank goodness this fic exists for those times. It’s a straightforward concept executed perfectly.

cinnamon sugar... by startswithhope • rated T • 1k+ All of startswithhope’s fics have a lovely softness to them that almost seems nostalgic, like you can feel yourself missing them before you’re even done reading them. This one I think captures that feeling best and most explicitly--David’s mood here is exactly that kind of nostalgia. And his thoughts about Stevie near the beginning are something that I’ve found myself thinking about over and over again since I first read this.

On My Way by Distractivate • rated M • 11k+ As much as I love the happy place that is this show, I also really love fic that acknowledges that sometimes relationships are hard, that things aren’t always perfect, that love is a CHOICE which has to be actively made again and again and again. This fic showcases exactly that. Love isn’t always easy, but choosing to love each other anyway is always worth it.

around us by lamphouse • rated G • 1k+ This one is a simple idea, written with a soft touch, and every time I re-read it, I’m crying by the time David says “I want to stand still.”

of all the riches. by falconeggs • rated T • 9k+ Who doesn’t love a good celebrity AU? This one is as cute as you could possibly want it to be, from their first meeting to taking their relationship public. It’s just a little slice of joy.

Overreacting by codswallop • rated M • 17k+ Fics dealing with hospital visits and illnesses and things of that sort can easily tip over into whumpy territory (which is totally fine if that’s what you’re looking for), but this fic goes a different direction and manages to be funny and sweet and charming while balancing the anxiety of waiting for news. David and Patrick’s dynamic here is so good; they’re both sharp and funny and vulnerable and messy in turn, joking like normal when they can, lifting each other up when they can’t.

101 by Hth • rated E • 8k+ Like I said, I love fics that acknowledge that things aren’t always perfect, and there’s nothing more rife for imperfection than a first night spent together. Their night at Stevie’s is the perfect setting for starting to navigate some difficult conversations, especially in the wake of Jake’s unexpected appearance, and this fic does a great job of getting them through the nerves and the talking and the the stops and starts of that night. And their last two lines of dialogue are perfection.

The Sidelines by wildhoneypie • rated T • 5k+ Comedy is so much harder to write than you might expect, and I am constantly awed by how well this fic does it. It feels effortless and in-character and in line with the kind of humor that beats at the heart of the show, all while still capturing that instant, playful attraction between David and Patrick. It’s just such a fun read.

holy sick divine by earlylight • rated T • 36k+ If the tags “Strangers who Met in a Field to Coworkers to Friends to Lovers” and “Paperwork - But Make It Sexy” don’t endear you to this fic before you even start it, I don’t know what to tell you. My favorite part of this story is actually the role reversal of Patrick being Stevie’s best friend, Patrick having dated Jake, etc. That’s just one way that this fic takes everything we know and turns it on its head, and it does it with good humor and such a strange sweetness. It’s utterly unique, and the final scene just burrows down into your heart and sets up house there.

A Fair Return by thingswithwings • rated E • 237k+ This is probably the most insanely well-crafted canon retelling I’ve seen in my life. It adds so much backstory to the show and makes you rethink scenes you know intimately, which is what any good canon retelling should do. The OCs and the ways they’re carved into the structure of the story we know are where this fic particularly shines; it’s so, so well done.

my heart was broke, my head was sore by blueink3• rated M • 31k+ I think the only thing better than fake dating might be the exact reverse: having to pretend you’re not dating when you are. Even though they’re technically together, there’s just so much opportunity for pining and angst (both of which blueink3 always does SO fucking well), and this fic takes that to another level by adding in the fragile newness of their relationship and the anxiety of a family medical scare. David is so, so careful with Patrick here, and I love every single word of it.

let’s go dancing in the light by goingmywaydoll • rated G • 2k+ It was so difficult to narrow this down to one fic by goingmywaydoll because I absolutely love everything she does, but ultimately I went with her first one for this fandom. I’m SUCH a sucker for David and Patrick seeing each other before the wedding, and David having anxiety about not having anxiety is pretty much the most David thing possible. The characterization, the dialogue, the whole entire mood of the fic--it’s all absolutely spot-on. This one is everything I could ever want from wedding fic.

for feelings unbound by wardo_wedidit • rated E • 20k+ Picking one single fic by wardo_wedidit was also a near-impossible task, but ultimately I had to go with this one because it’s honestly perfect. David’s empath abilities add SO much to his characterization and the trajectory of his relationship with Patrick, and it fills this fic with so many gorgeous moments that leave you feeling like maybe there really is magic in the world--and this fic has plenty of it.

Watching Through Windows by helvetica_upstart • rated E • 38k+ Every single moment of this fic is heartbreaking in the best possible way. Reading it is like cracking yourself open and then putting yourself back together a little stronger. Watching David learn about the man he’d grown into and have to decide if he wants to (or even can) become that man all over again is simultaneously gut-wrenching and soul-healing. And Patrick in this fic--god, what can I even say about him? He’s so understanding and GOOD, even when he’s terrified and heartbroken. He is absolutely everything. Everything. This story is 100% perfection from start to finish, and the bench scene in particular is hands down the best scene in any fic I’ve read this year.

#thank you to all the amazing authors in this fandom #you've kept me plenty busy and wonderfully entertained this year #here's to even more fic in 2020!#fic recs #long post

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mysterious-prophetess · 4 years ago

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4 AM thoughts on the Star Wars Sequel Trilogy-A Rant

So, firstly I’ll say this: If you like them-More power to you. You do you.

My thoughts are mine and I will not claim that they are the only opinion to have because that’s a wrong way to be.

Secondly: It is literally 4 AM as I write this. So, I will probably go off on tangents and there won’t be a lot of structure to this.

So, approx eight and a half months since I was dragged to The Rise of Skywalker and I go back to a trilogy and a franchise for that matter that I was kind of DONE with.

Yeah. Disney Star Wars ruined my love of Star Wars in general and I even liked the Prequel trilogy!

I liked The Force Awakens when I first saw it, but I think it was my nostalgia goggles blinding me to its issues.

One of which it was almost a beat-for-beat remake of Episode 4. Being that 4 is my favorite of all the Star Wars films, this also worked in its favor as it was just fresh enough for the nostalgia and partiality to its predecessor to work in its favor.

Also, the new trio--Finn, Rey, and Poe-- had a lot of great potential. Especially Finn. Former Stormtrooper & taken from his home to be raised as a soldier to find he no longer could stay with the First Order, but terrified of them. Yet, despite that fear deciding to go save Rey--who was one of his first real friends. That was a character’s journey with so much potential and the marketing made it seem like he’d be a jedi.

Yet, I wasn’t too upset when it was Rey.

In retrospective, Rey winning against Kylo Ren was dumb. She should have been decent at the weapon since she was able to protect herself and Kylo was injured but, the planet falling apart could have happened sooner to prevent her from going on a ass-kicking spree of Kylo Ren.

Then we get to 8 which had an opening crawl it didn’t need since it was literally just after 7.

I hated that btw

Then we get Poe who was shown as a smart ass in 7 but talked up as this great pilot but shown to be an IDIOT in 8. Rose’s whole storyline was badly handled.

People were shitty to Kelly Marie Tran over shit out of her control. Rose Tico was a terribly written character and the actress did what she could with what they gave her.

What they did to Finn was undid ALL of his character development from 7 and turn him into a joke for the rest of 8 and nothing in 9. I’ve recently learned that this was done to appeal to a certain market that has never liked Star Wars anyway. Way to go, Disney. You fucked up your new character with the most compelling backstory to appease a market that hates this product in the first place. Bra-fucking-vo.

The Light Speed tracking thing was bullshit. Canto Bite was a pointless side quest. Cut that stupid shit out of the movie and you lose nothing of value. You could cut from them landing on that pointless planet to them ending up in jail for parking illegally and saved the audience around 20 minutes of wasted time.

It didn’t advance the plot. It didn’t make Rose any more sympathetic. It just felt preachy. Also, Rose x Finn was so fucking forced. Kelly Marie Tran tried to sell it but again, she was given shit to work with.

I recently found out that who Rey was kept changing and It’s SOOO fucking stupid to not have a solid plan for a fucking trilogy. (and to find out my favorite idea of Rey as a Kenobi was the first one before Johnson came in and she was No One also is irksome)

Idk what Abrams planned but by not having it implemented over all and letting Johnson piss all over it with his ideas for a subversive mould-breaking story ruined any flow the films had.

Yeah, I am aware 4 was all but stand alone, but it was set up so it could connect to 5 & 6 just in case it was successful enough for 5 & 6 to be made. It was very stand alone because there was a chance nothing would come after 4.

7, 8, & 9 however, could be planned for there to be three because it was fucking STAR WARS. Which meant, they should have had people fucking plan out what they were doing. Instead, they didn’t, it shows, and it also seems to take an almost savage glee at pissing on the past.

Ruining Luke I-see-the-good-in-my-Father-who-committed-genocide Skywalker by having him give up on Ben/Kylo was one of the biggest betrayals of character I’ve ever fucking seen.

Trying their best to get all the other OT characters out of the way so their new shiny replacements can take center stage without any nuance was also irritating. And this is at the parks too. It’s apparently all Sequel shit now with no legacy characters.

Killing off Luke in 8 in a stupid way in how the force does not work. Continuing the force bullshit in 9. Wasting our time on a redemption arc for Kylo Ren/Ben only to KILL HIM AT THE END.

No. Make him face what he’s done and atone as a living person. No more redemption=death. Death is too easy.

And I hate that they brought Palpatine back in a corporal form. Nice way to piss on the BEST moments of the OT where Anakin, finally throwing off the ties of bondage to Palpatine and the dark side and destroying the man to save his son, sacrificing himself in the process, dying at peace. Nope. That now means NOTHING. Palpatine survived.

Force Ghosts fucking exist. Sith Ghosts FUCKING EXIST TOO. Just make him a force ghost possessing some fucker and I might not have been as pissed off.

That force diad shit? Either play it up more or cut it out.

Snoke being a Palpatine puppet was fucking dumb. If he’d been Darth Plageius’s creation then that might have been better than “it was palpatine all along.”

It’s just such a waste. Star Wars was a film series about hope. The first film was retitled to have its subtitle be “A New Hope.” These films? Are not about hope at all. They’re about cynical cash grabs and trying to signal the right virtues to try to exploit the movie going public of their money and attempt a moral high ground.

One more thing that bugs me: the fact they shunted a lot of shit per film to the novelizations. Fuck that shit. If your medium is FILM, you tell all your shit in that damn film. I shouldn’t have to read your tie in materials to understand your fucking film. e.g. Palpatine’s son is really his clone is in the last film’s novelization. That stupid casino world allegedly has a full explanation too.

No. It’s a sign of really poor planning and command of storytelling that you shunted this information into your peripheral materials. Then agian, we know the planning was shit because they couldn’t even fucking settle on who Rey was WHILE FILMING THE DAMNED TRILOGY AND EVEN DURING 9 THEY WERE CHANGING THEIR MINDS.

And there are lots of other things but better minds than mine have talked about them-like everything wrong with Poe’s backstory. That can of worms I won’t touch because I don’t have the expertise beyond wondering if Disney has a single person with any sort of common sense or any awareness of optics on staff.

Final mini-rant:

I fucking hate the way they’re trying to push their oh-so-special OC’s as better than the original cast at times. Luke and Leia were presumed to have been born the same day the empire was founded because THAT’S THE FILM’S APPARENT TIMELINE. But now. Now, somehow that took 2 days and now their new special snowflake character from Rebels Ezra Bridger has that Empire Day birthday and is force sensitive too and has a jedi teacher.

Like, I’m sure that the character isn’t as Gary Stu-ish as I just bitched about there, but from the outside looking in, it pisses me the fuck off because of all the other shit Disney’s been pulling with Star Wars to distance themselves from legacy characters and push the new characters at all costs.

It’s just I hate what they’ve done in their corporate greed.

#rant #anti-disney star wars

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pkmntrainergreyze · 6 years ago

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April 27th (Patrick Stump Imagine)

For mah boi Patrick, happy April 27.

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

This particular concert popped Patrick's bubble of personal tranquility. Not because it was timed exactly at his date of birth, rather, it's the guests who came.

Concerts usually put Patrick into a calm state. First, people wondered how he managed to do so, but the longer fans watch his shows, the more they realized how he seems to pretend the crowd's an unanimated flower meadow.

It wasn't a shocker. He admitted to having a twinge of stage fright at the beginning which best explains why Pete's the frontman. He rarely let the crowd sing for themselves, entertain their requests and most importantly he never once prolonged a two-second eye contact. Of course, the critics weren't pleased but there was only little the band could do to help since improvement depends on the person himself. So the three allowed the blonde to perform interaction-less for three albums.

April 27th is a date for one of their shows. Everyone on stage was splotched with heavy sweat, most of which glossed their faces and pricked their eyes. Good thing they considered it not a hindrance for the fifth song on the setlist: Sugar, We're Going Down...

Andy initiated the song using his beats, soon followed Pete then Joe. While they busied hyping the crowd Patrick stomped his feet and clapped his hands.

"...Am I more than you bargained for yet?"

His voice resonated inside the venue like it was his for the taking. The crowd cheered and flopped their arms up in the air, allowing themselves to be conquered by the music, but the blue-eyed man dared not to stare at the wondrous effects of his actions. Strange how the voice of the king belonged to a shy guy.

The opposite was said for one of the audience, (Y/n) (L/n). She only discovered them a month ago after her best friend handpicked a record. The cover only depicted four men sitting down but she opted it had an ineffable aura and bought it.

Although she's a recent fan, that didn't stop her from screeching and flailing around nonstop. When she heard the transition for Sugar she immediately shook her friend Brendon's shoulder into a smoothie. Fortunately, before the brunette could mutter a glimpse of a complaint, Patrick sang the first line and began seizing like her.

If it wasn't obvious, (Y/n) couldn't take her eyes off the lead singer, and it's not because singers are placed in the middle. She's scared to admit, but the reason she bought the record is that his seafoam eyes drowned her in.

Sadly, those ocean orbs never stared back to anyone.

As the song reached its last chorus, the crowd got predominantly louder. At first (Y/n) thought it was because Pete licked his bass, but it was for a different reason.

Let's be honest, it wasn't her fault she didn't know. But it sure felt embarrassing as hell, seeing banners and face cutouts for Patrick's birthday.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY PATRICK!!" The front row yelled spontaneously, then the lower box, upper, until it reached gen ad. The masses displayed all their love and affection, so Patrick couldn't help but smile and shrug sheepishly. He appreciates the gesture, unlike Pete however, he doesn't know how to act in this situation.

On the other hand, (Y/n) looked at her friend in disappointment, as if saying they could've made something for him like the others. It's a good thing that instead of moping, they'd rather scream their love from the top of their lungs in unison, and they decided it was the right time to do so when the noise was about to settle down.

"I LOVE YOU!!"

Patrick flinched so hard it nearly cost him a neck fracture. That voice was so familiar it blocked out all others. When he found what might be the source of the yell, time halted.

The stunning hair and soul-penetrating eyes definitely brought more life to such an exquisite sound. She flooded Patrick with both pleasure and sadness at once. He was almost sure it'll leave a bitter aftertaste.

She looks much like (N/n).

(N/n) was Patrick's biggest love whom he admired at school. She had his heart ever since she helped him create a sand castle back in kindergarten and nurtured his feelings as time flew by. Everyone knew this except the girl herself, which made things a bit more complicated. His feelings were so strong to the point it's used for blackmail. It's a shameful example but when he was at the age of nine he still drank milk from a sippy cup. He wouldn't budge and none of his parent's attempts worked until they threatened him that they'll snitch and tell (N/n). He stopped in fear of lowering the way she thought of him after. When he told the story, the band laughed. Even Andy, who's usually empathetic, wheezed and labeled him a lovesick idiot.

Fate, however, made things worse as he had to move places and leave both Chicago and her alone. But his feelings for her never faltered, in fact, it proved the saying absence makes the heart grow fonder. His devotion earned him some snarky remark and failed blind dates. He just couldn't help but compare them to the one everytime. Good thing his bandmates respected his decision to take a break from dating.

Now, nearly a decade later they locked eyes, making (Y/n) the first audience Patrick truly acknowledged and wished to impress.

His breath hitched and hers did too. Holy Smokes he was nervous.

A strange aura connected them the minute she got a clear picture of his face. She was puzzled instantly, she couldn't differentiate whether it's oh nostalgia or she's just starstruck-ed.

It didn't matter at the moment, because they've been snared by each other's eyes.

Oh God Patrick! Breathe in, breathe out!

Joe was the first one who caught up, having to nudge him back to reality and Brendon had to check (Y/n) if she needed water.

"Hey (Y/n), dude you okay?" He asked causing her to cackle "I-I literally made eye contact with Patrick Stump how am I fine??"

He chuckled "Good point"

He looked back on stage and caught a glimpse of Patrick staring at his friend before quickly turning away "Man, this guy gets the best surprise parties. Meanwhile I didn't even got a fanfic written for my birthday"

(a/n: sorry bren)

For the rest of the concert, the lead couldn't take his eyes off of her, at least he tried for three songs before he completely lost control. She's simply irresistible. And, breathtaking. Literally

But she's also accompanied by an equally handsome boy. The fact tempered his spirits, especially when the stranger wrapped his arm around her. Why wasn't it him instead?

Oh, because he had to move out.

By the end of the show, Patrick had been dead set on finding the "(N/n) lookalike" and dashed to the exit before anyone else.

He coasted through the group of fans. Once he was in an acceptable distance to yell her name, he was dogged tired.

Brendon inserted his car keys and (Y/n) placed her head against the Chevrolet's window with both eyes closed.

"(N/n)!!"

She looked up and the two gawked as they saw Patrick Stumph waltz towards them.

She furrowed her eyebrows, tired and dazed. His speaking voice is as angelic as his singing voice.

"How did you know my name?" She asked sedately, unlike on the inside, she's screaming questions like the aforementioned and some about how unpredictably calm she is 4ft away from him.

He smiled sadly.

"I... just heard it from when you were talking earlier— not that I eavesdropped I just happen to walk by!... Umm, God, I sound like a creep"

She giggled and his heart surged up his throat. She didn't expect a conversation with one of the band members would be so calm, especially seeing how wild they perform, and he didn't expect her not to "remember" him either. So in his logic, it's kind of a tie.

"Happy birthday by the way" She greeted. Patrick grinned and tipped his hat "Thanks"

"Is there anything we can help you with?" Her friend asked.

"Yeah" The blonde nodded his head "D-Do you guys wanna come with us in (restaurant name)? We're celebrating my birthday there since it's been a while since I been in Chicago and thought the more the merrier..."

'Really Patrick? That's your excuse?' He shrugged off his internal monologue

Although (Y/n) is sick of eating pizza daily in that place she couldn't help but accept the second he invited her.

He glanced up "Your boyfriend can come too if you'd like"

The boy laughs "Sure, but I'm not her boyfriend. My name's Brendon,"

He shook his hand and gave a genuine smile. Patrick wanted to do a victory dance on the spot so bad

"Great!" Patrick clapped. "Not great as in you're-not-in-a-relationship great. The I'm-glad-you-guys are coming great, I mean" he flushed

Brendon raised an eyebrow but laughed anyway.

"We'll pick you guys at 7" Patrick muttered and left. The time was 6:44 so they have to wait for about 6 minutes.

The two friends leaned on the van, left alone. It was silent for a while before her friend began to talk.

"When was the last time people called you (N/n)? I haven't heard anyone called you that at all..."

"They use to back in high school, but only people who are super close to me get to say that without getting kicked where the sun don't shine"

"So that means...?"

She sighed and finger combed her hair.

"He was the one that got away"

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rqgnarok · 6 years ago

Text

in search of redemption; part iv – loki laufeyson

part i / part ii / part iii

fandom: the avengers ft. xmen (marvel)

words: 2456

warnings: y’all know the drill, talk about death, wars, infinity war spoilers, the whole deal, MUTANT!IMMORTAL!XAVIER!READER

summary: some old lovers meet again.

author's note below.

She wheels into the room with the mentality that she has nothing to lose, and as the door closes swiftly behind her, she can’t help but stare at Loki’s back as the muscles tense, alert that there are now two people in the room. He’s waiting, she knows, for her to talk or to figure out who it is that comes to try and get into his head, after Fury and Romanoff and his brother. Neither of those things happen, and (Y/N) knows him well enough to know he’s hiding his curiosity behind a skilled mask of boredom, the one that looks back at her when their eyes finally meet.

“Well, alright.”

It’s not the words, or the roll of his tongue while a malicious smirk creeps at his lips, but the mere sound of his voice what throws (Y/N) off. Besides the aching throbs she’s learned to recognize as her body keeping her alive, she knows that the uncomfortable feeling rising at her throat is the nostalgia of seeing Loki again.

She remains silent, though, not trusting herself at her current state to answer Loki’s mischievous taunts and hopes that her posture resembles some kind of calm facade real enough to fool the God of Lies himself.

Loki’s not looking his best, either. (Y/N) remembers all of the God’s stages before and after New York and she knows that the battle had drained him more than he’d liked to admit. The thinning hair, dark shadows underneath his eyes, scraped knuckles and paler, sharper than usual features tells her she’s correct about her assumptions, having in front of her a much weaker version of the God she has grown so fond of.

Right now, he looks younger, sure, but there’s a darkness in his eyes (Y/N) hadn’t gotten to know personally. There are burdens that seem to heavy his posture, being lied to his whole life about who he really is and his father’s hatred still haunting his character in a way (Y/N) can’t imagine. All scars, all choices that had taken him to right here, right now. Him, in a cage and the fate of the world in his hands while (Y/N), from the outside looking in, suffering still from future consequences of what this oncoming battle means for both of them and for the rest of humanity.

They watch each other, like prey and hunted, though (Y/N) isn’t sure who is which. Mutant and God, wondering who will lose the staring match first. To Loki, it makes no sense why the Avengers would send the weakest, most pathetic member of their team to talk him down from the inevitable.

Or so he thought. He has no idea how stubborn a time traveling mutant on the verge of death can be. (Y/N) herself is still amazed by how far this plan has actually gone, even with her body begging her to let go and accept the fate she’s been aching for almost since she first got the gift of immortality in the first place.

“Cat got your tongue?” he teases with the exact amount of malice to make someone flinch, eyes sharp and voice cold with a twinge of mean amusement. This detachment makes (Y/N) remind herself that this isn’t the man she knows and loves, rather a previous version of him that doesn’t know better. She keeps on staring, silently, mostly just to annoy him. “Is your Earth really so defenseless that they’d thought to bring the weakest looking mortal they could find and try to soften my heart?”

“Mutant,” is all (Y/N) answers, voice sure and almost bored, seemingly unaffected by Loki’s taunts. His face blanks for a second, almost unnoticeable, and (Y/N) enjoys the temporary feeling of having the upper hand.

“I beg your pardon?” Loki composes himself quickly enough, managing to look as cool as nonchalant as the Norse God of Mischief can be when trapped in a cage that’s supposed to hold a man five times his size.

“The weakest looking mutant they could find. If you know me, I’m anything but mortal,” she hesitates for a second, rolls her eyes at the irony as she leans back against the wheelchair’s backseat and breathes in harshly. It’s as if her body tried to embarrass her just by doing otherwise of what (Y/N) just stated. Somewhat sheepishly, she adds. “Well, usually. I’ve had better days.”

“Clearly,” he scoffs, looking her over and easily remaining unamused at what he sees. (Y/N) would dare to feel self-conscious if she had no knowledge of the previous days full of hectic fighting and slaughter. She’s about to die, she can look however the hell she pleases. “I’ve heard great things about your kind. I’m afraid I don’t see any on you, yet.”

“You’re not exactly famous yourself, Reindeer Games,” her fondness for Loki gets the best of her and the nickname slips past her mouth accidentally, but she makes sure not to react at her mistake, and the god doesn’t seem to care about it either. “At least not for the right reasons, anyway.”

“I will be, soon enough,” his eyes shine with the false promise of better days that was wrongly forced into his mind. Xavier pities him yet knows how it is the desperation of belonging somewhere what brought him down this path. His kingdom and people, his own family rejected him, so he has no option but to build one of his own, no matter what it takes.

That’s his brilliant idea, ignorant of what his actions could do to the rest of the universe. Loki continues, with the same old argument (Y/N) could swear he has either memorized or written down somewhere. “All I’ve seen from the moment I arrived on Earth is your desperate need of a better ruler. Mutants, as well.” He adds somewhat hastily, slightly smirking at himself at the reference of what they had talked about less than a few minutes ago.

“You?” (Y/N) questions, scoffs with an eyebrow raised in what she feels is such a Stark like way, the billionaire genius would be proud of having such an influence on the time traveler. Loki’s jaw tightens in what (Y/N) recognizes as clear annoyance. She doesn’t need to know him well enough to realize that the conversation is starting to get into his nerves. The cool, tranquil version of Loki is long gone in just the blink of an eye. “You’re the one who’s gonna raise us from perdition?”

“If not me, then who? One of you mutants?” It’s the insult to her people what makes (Y/N) show another emotion rather than indifference or mean amusement, but just as Loki smirks, thinking he has some, if any sort of leverage against her, the mutant finds the need of rushing the team’s plan to the point.

“Thanos,” the name hurts to say, is as uncomfortable on the mutant’s tongue as she knows it’ll be in the future. Loki stills, either thrown off at the lack of knowledge or surprised at (Y/N)’s abundance of it, she can’t tell. Her frown deepens in search of a reaction, any kind of tell she’s already familiar with that can help her figure him out, but Loki gives nothing else away. “The Mad Titan? The Dark Lord? The most powerful being in the universe. Your employer?”

“I am my own-” he flares with an anger so harsh, (Y/N)’s afraid he’ll let his bluish skin show in the heat of the moment, but he stills and hesitates when it comes to describing himself. (Y/N) momentarily wishes, not for the first time in her life, that she had her father’s powers to know whatever’s going through his mind. My own person. God, monster, traitor. I am alone-

“Are you really so oblivious of who you’re doing this for?” (Y/N) wonders, soft and concerned as a wave of pain, which she had managed to avoid ever since she stepped into Loki’s cage, crashes over her and forces her to stand down momentarily as she pulls herself together with incredible difficulty. She feels herself losing the composure of the mighty Avenger coming in to talk down Earth’s current biggest threat, and starts engaging with him as if she were talking to the man she already loves instead of the one she’ll learn to.

Meanwhile, there’s something about her Loki can’t decipher. The way she holds herself together, even if she just admitted is not her best moment, makes him infer that there’s something she knows that he doesn’t. He’s not used to not being the smartest guy in the room. Also, there’s something about her eyes, wise and warm that reminds him of his own mother. Except the usual memory of her is tainted now, and he’s left with a bitterness planted in him that makes him unable to rest easy.

“You’re so blinded by own endgame, do you honestly believe that’ll make you a good ruler?”

“You sound just like my dear father,” Loki sneers with fake affection towards his adoptive family, and (Y/N) herself can’t help but flinch. After enduring all his taunts, this is what breaks her. She’s not here to patronize him, let alone indulge him even further to try and conquer the world, and somehow, she had forgotten that in the span of time since this conversation first began.

Loki, who had been keeping a certain distance all through their discussion, nears the edge of the cage in slow, threatening steps, and leans one of his hands against the glass. His head is tipped down so he can glare back at (Y/N) comfortably enough. “Well, let me tell you something about my father, you weak excuse of a mutant, the moment I am out of this cage your fate will be the same as his. It’ll be hard to be this brash from six feet underground.”

“Don’t get so cocky, God of Lies,” she glares back, all of the sudden losing her gentle exterior and tightening her grip on the chair, with an expression so intense mastered specifically like her uncle Erik’s. The resemblance between the old family friend and herself, after all this war and death and destruction, scares her more than she’d like to admit. “Even in my weakest form, I will outlive you.”

“You sound awfully sure of yourself,” he scoffs, but aware of how her muscles tensed at the mention of the future, her voice dropped a few octaves and the presence of some sort of energy tingling from her fingers, but not enough of it so it might really concern him. Her sureness of the inevitable end, though, that does catch his attention. “I think you might underestimate me when I go for what I want. What I deserve-”

“Half the universe will be dead within less than 5 years, so you’d understand why what you deserve isn’t much of a concern of mine at the moment,” the phrase seems to have the wished effect on the Asgardian God, at least momentarily, who stills and swallows in a way (Y/N) has learned to recognize as the universal, silent way of saying: I am afraid.

“What, cat got your tongue?” she throws Loki’s own words back at him when he fails to answer, or to react, at all. Loki breaks from his trance and shakes his head, as if silently scolding himself for allowing her to throw him so far off his rhythm. He remains mute, though. The fist that’s resting against the glass, tightens. “I sound sure of myself because I know what I’ve seen. The beginning of the end, the Battle of New York. Your neck, at Thanos’ hand, moments before he crushes you to the ground. I’ve seen it all.”

And somehow, Loki believes her. There’s this crazed, desperate look in her eye that tells him more truth than her words can. Hands are gripping the sides of the wheelchair so tightly, with more force than the one she’s supposed to have, all cause of the memories of a few days before flashing through her head. He doesn’t want to believe her, his gut tells him that he should try to snap her neck in half as soon as he gets out of the cage, but he also recognizes this despair oh, so well.

“Is that what they expect me to believe?” he asks, scoffing and as condescending as always, but with an undertone of worry and a smallness that was not there when he had threatened (Y/N) to death a few moments before. The mutant follows with her eyes the movement of his pale hand to caress the skin of his neck, the same one she’d cried on after Thanos had taken the life out of her lover. “Is that your power, mutant, do you see the future?”

“I am the future, Lokes,” and there’s this moment of fond she can’t keep to herself, the nickname that had been only spoken in the privacy of their relationship emerges from her lips without her consent, and to Loki’s surprise, it sends a shiver down his spine. He retreats the slightest bit from the glass, but (Y/N), who’s searching for anything that might count as a reaction, notices. “I am the aftermath of this war, the result of what you do here, now. You can’t do this.”

“Of all the strategies to stop me, this one is certainly the weakest,” Loki laughs, still somehow blinded by the reality that was promised to him and refusing to see further than his own goal. (Y/N) feels exhausted all the sudden, her side aching in wishes for her body to give up. “Begging for mercy? I thought the Avengers were smarter than this.”

“We’re actually not,” (Y/N) scoffs, and the truth in her statement throws Loki off, but not more than when he watches her wobble out of the wheelchair and reach for the button that opens his cage. His mean smirk is wiped off his features, even if this might mean something positive for him; the weak mutant opening the doors of the new world for him, all he has to do is break her neck and he’ll be ready to go. “This is why we’re kinda doing it in the first place. Suicidal tendencies and all that, my uncle Erik would say. But then again, we are too far gone, this is really the only option we’ve got left.”

The cage is open in the blink of an eye and Loki’s out and reaching to hold (Y/N) against the wall even quicker, snarling up at her as he holds her so highly up in the air, she’s barely able to breathe. Still, (Y/N) allows must of her weight to depend on the Asgardian God and he takes it in gladly, trusting that these are the mutant’s last moments living and breathing.

“You really are a disgrace to your kind,” he sneers, his fingers crawling higher up her throat carefully, sharp green eyes watchful as always. The words that slip past his lips make (Y/N) feel so sick she almost forgets why she opened the cage and let him out in the first place. “I hope they remember you.”

(Y/N) grins, exhausted and just a little bit beyond madness.

Her trembling hand reaches for the side of Loki’s face, with whatever little strength she has left, brings him in and allows both their worlds to go black.

taglist: @angelofchaos @fandoms-pizza-wifi-ym13 @far-off-dream @toews-a-peek @kenziepayne33 @oneforsofteyes @emyhonny @markusstraya @the-marvelous-mcu @broken-laptop-tags @justmesadgirl @klanceiscannon14 @iwontdance-dontaskme @happyskywhale @sexyvixen7 @two-eleven-thirty-four @sherlocked2306 @rizamendoza808 @totobyafricaa @onlystylesangels @daniellajocelyn @waves-and-sunflowers @flopmalum @me-you–me-and-you–whatever @greenishloki @sarahivi @lalalahahahablahblahblah

Y’ALL I FINISHED WRITING SOMETHING, CAN U BELIEVE IT??????????

i feel like this is kind of a filler chapter, but i promise promise promise, it’s the last one before something actually interesting happens. it was supposed to happen here but i thought that if i wrote everything in here it would become too saturated and just annoy me to infinity.

so, i hope you’re still sticking w/ me throughout this project! i recently reread a draft i had for this part and kinda fell in love with it all over again. tell me what you think! i'm eager to listen to what you guys have to say.

as always, i'm not sure of when the next part will come out but i can assure you it will. in the meantime, my requests are always open and i'm always happy to keep writing.

love, as always,

- e.

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coffeetoxication · 6 years ago

Note

the link to ch 9 of without hesitation doesnt work :( btw love your fanfic so far!! i adore the characterization that youve put in

With the witching hour rolling in and Ren being wide awake due to the number of naps that he’s had today, he was playing around on his phone while Stimpy is fast asleep. After their little fun that they’ve had in the bath including having a long make out session in the shower, Ren couldn’t really get Johnathan out of his mind. He hasn’t really texted him ever since this morning and he was starting to worry if he was making Johnathan feel left out. With a sigh, he got out from the bed quietly as he could and went downstairs towards the kitchen. He was debating if he should make some coffee or not. Though he didn’t want to be too wired, he pulls out his messages to see if Johnathan messaged him yet.

Of course, nothing.

Putting his phone down on the kitchen counter, he peeked through the blinds of the window to look to see if there was anything going on. To his surprise, nothing. However, he did notice …. something just across the street. No, it was someone. Someone leaning against their car with what seems to be a cigarette in his hand. Considering that the guy was right under the street light, his hat had completely overshadowed his face. This was creepy beyond Ren’s comfort levels. The fact that this guy was just …. standing there and possibly staring right at him made his skin crawl. The guy probably knew that he was in there. Ren thanked himself that he didn’t turn on the living room lamp on. Though making sure that all windows and doors are locked is a must.

“Creepy fucker.” Ren mumbled to himself as he quickly went to make sure that all doors and windows were absolutely shut and locked.

God only knows of what this guy wants. Frankly, Ren didn’t WANT to know.

Kitchen, bathroom, living room, guest room, … everything seemed locked and untouched from the first floor. Now, the last room to check was upstairs bedroom and bathroom. Looking up, he suddenly hated on how the stairs looked. Dark and ominous. Letting his imagination get the best of him like a scared child. Thinking such irrational silly things like hands coming out of the walls and underneath the stairs and drag him away.

“ … run up the stairs you fuckin’ pussy …” Ren tells himself, taking a deep breath and closes his eyes tightly.

Just like that, Ren ran up as quickly as he could, almost tripping a couple of times.

Reaching upstairs, Ren felt the relief overcome him. Knowing that Stimpy was in the bedroom practically snoring made him feel calm for once. Tip-toeing around the remaining rooms, Ren felt something that was rather … off. He really couldn’t put his finger on it, but it felt as if he was being watched. He didn’t dare to think that there were more of them out there. God, he had hoped and prayed that the one by the street light is just the one.

Making sure, and very much sure that he was going to regret it, he goes by the bedroom blinds and goes to check outside carefully. The worst part of it was that it was completely dark. Not even the street lights were bright enough to pierce the darkness of their backyard. In a way, it kind of relieved him. If it was too dark to see outside, it would be too dark for anybody to see anything from the inside. It was possibly his own paranoia that was making him feel this way. He was contemplating about calling the cops, but the guy would’ve been far from gone by the time they get here. What would he tell them? That some creepy fuck was outside his house and he had no idea of what he looked like? Yeah. Sure.

With an exhausted sigh, he got into bed slowly and crawled inside the covers. It was hard to believe, but Ren was scared. Very scared to the point where he began to shiver.

Feeling Stimpy’s warmth radiating from him, Ren scooted himself closer to him. Even tightly wrapping both of his arms around Stimpy’s. Closing his eyes tightly. Ears picking up the clanks and creaks of the house resting making him think it was someone lurking around.

“S-stimpy …?” Ren whimpered, “S …… stimpy?”

With a few shakes and even a good harsh nudges with his knees, he finally got him to wake up and to cease his obnoxious snoring.

“Mmmmm, hmmm?” Stimpy groaned, one eye peeking at Ren.

“I … I can’t sleep …….” Ren whispered.

“Oh? …..” Stimpy rubs his eyes, almost on the verge of falling asleep again. “How come?”

Ren wanted to tell Stimpy about the man he had seen. However, it would probably turn out to be one of those cliche scenes where he would say something and then the man would be long gone by now. Ren didn’t really know of what to say. He was conflicted if he should tell another lie or tell Stimpy of what’s really going on for a change. Did he really need to worry about it? Would he really understand? Probably not.

“N-Nevermind, … I’ll tell ya in the mornin’.” Ren mumbled, pulling the covers over him.

“Mmmm, …. okaaayyy …” Stimpy yawns as he wraps an arm around him.

From there, Ren felt an immediate sense of security. Stimpy pulling him into a sleepy embrace made him feel so stupidly warm and fluttery inside. Letting Stimpy do whatever he wants, he closes his eyes to drift into a calm sleep.

*~*~*~*~

With the remaining hours left before sunrise, Johnathan remained awake in the home of Mr. Horse. The environment around him was … overwhelming. He wasn’t used to being in homes that were filled with expensive furniture, antiques, and bookcases larger than himself. All he’s ever known was cheap hotels, trailer parks, and beat down apartments. Everything was a struggle. To do what he had to do to keep a roof over himself along with his father, it didn’t matter how filth-ridden the place was, it was home.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t envious. To be in a high-class house like this, it was like a dream. A dream that was his a long time ago back in college. How all of his hard work studying and working long-shifts would pay off. How life would owe him in the end.

But life has it’s own set of rules. How cruel and unfair it can be. Johnathan understood that reality. If only his father would. If he knew then of what he knows now, none of this would’ve happened.

However, …. there’s no point dwelling on it now. Johnathan was far too tired to really cause his body anymore stress. He didn’t want to bother to look at his phone either.

Maybe a book would help. It’s been a while since he’s really picked up a book. Not that he wanted to. Just never found the time.

Getting up from his bed in the guest room, he makes his way towards the living room as he turns a lamp on. The hardwood floor cold beneath his feet, it was oddly comforting. The room itself had a cozy atmosphere. An unlit fireplace with a widescreen t.v above it, two leather reading chairs, a couch that looks to be soft to the touch, a mahogany book case that was filled with a variety of books it seems, and finally … a simple rug in the middle of the room. Letting out a content sigh, Johnathan begins to scan through the book case with the tip of his index finger. Psychology, sociology, psychopathology, neuropsychology, philosophy, some written by independent authors about their experiences as therapists, and … even some poetry. H.P Lovecraft, Tennessee Williams, Sylvia Plath, and even Edgar Allan Poe. Haven’t heard that name since high school, he thought. Feeling nostalgic, he pulled out the book of which contained all of Poe’s notorious writings and poems.

Johnathan remembered how he had to do a report about Poe and what writing of his influenced him the most while Ren had Emily Dickinson. The echoing voice of Ren’s complaining ringed in his ears.

“Seriously, how am I supposed to understand this poetic shit? If I really wanted to be THIS depressed I would’ve gone through my ol’ man’s ‘secret’ stash.”

“The whole point of understanding these poets, Ren, is that they’ve used this type of writing to expel their anguishes even if may seem out of the norm. Not a lot of people back in those times really understood depression or how to properly deal with it.”

“Okay there, Mr. Analysis, no need to go all out on me. Ya might choke. Who you workin’ on?”

“Edgar Allan Poe.”

“Hmm, never heard of ‘im. Is he just as depressing as dickson or whatever the fuck her name is?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that, but he has a unique style of writing. He kind of adds a little bit of horror in his works which gives it an extra edge to it, but I guess if I had to pick any of his works that I can relate to in a sense, is ‘Alone’.”

Alone.

Flipping the pages of the book, Johnathan had found it.

From childhood’s hour I have not beenAs others were–I have not seenAs others saw–I could not bringMy passions from a common spring–From the same source I have not takenMy sorrow–I could not awakenMy heart to joy at the same tone–And all I lov’d–I lov’d alone–

“And all I loved … I loved alone …” Johnathan whispered to himself, frowning as he did.

The nostalgia he felt now were tugged heart strings. Feeling the repressed pain that he had felt all those years were now swarming like a dropped wasps nest. This was not how he wanted to spend the rest of the night. Being all melancholy in a home that wasn’t his.

Deciding to put the book away, he started to look for something less depressing.

While searching, his ear caught the sound of the floor creaking only to realize that someone was stepping inside of the living room. It startled him as he swiftly turned his head to find Mr. Horse by the entrance way. With his heart racing he stepped back from the bookcase as if to say “I wasn’t touching anything!”. However, seeing a small smile on Mr. Horse’s face made him relax.

“I see that you have taking a liking to my collection here …” He said, his voice hoarse as if he had just woken up.

“Y-Yeah, … I c-couldn’t really sleep, so I thought that reading would help. I … didn’t wake you up, did I?” Johnathan looked down, rubbing his arm in embarrassment.

“Of course not. I suppose you can call it an intuition. I always know when one is restless, so my body acts accordingly.” Mr. Horse shakes his had, placing a hand on Johnathan’s shoulder.

Johnathan can’t really have himself to forget on how gentle Mr. Horse with. The way he talks, how soft his touch is, and the welcoming aura around him makes Johnathan wish that he knew more people like him.

“So, … may I ask of what is troubling you?” Mr. Horse took a seat on the couch, patting the spot right next to him.

With a deep sigh, Johnathan sat right next to him as he drooped his head. Elbows resting on his thighs with his fingers holding his chin, he wasn’t sure on where to start.

“Just …. everything. Me questioning of my own sanity, my … fucking dad, the thought of the mafia looking to serve my ol’ mans head on a silver platter to the head honcho, and ya know … asking myself of what the fuck I’m doing here.” Johnathan said, “Why ….. did I have to come here ….?”

Lowering his head even more, Johnathan felt as if he was tearing apart inside. He felt so lost into everything that it was hard to really try to tackle all of these problems at once. Johnathan had always had this sense of pride that he could try to outcome any situation even if it meant life and death. However, one could only handle the same situation multiple times to where they have come to the end of their rope. Johnathan, … was very much at the end of his …

“My dear boy, ….” Mr. Horse starts, “It doesn’t take a therapist to know on how much you’re currently going through. How emotionally and mentally straining everything is on you.”

Johnathan could only scoff at the obvious, not that Mr. Horse was wrong but just how true his words are.

“If I may be so bold as to give you suggestions to make it easier not only for you, but for your father as well. In return, you have to do something for me.”

“ …. Suggestions?”

“Yes. Now, listen carefully …”

#ren and stimpy #Anonymous

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pernatius · 6 years ago

Text

Sober Corner

My nails pierce into my palms. Annoyance causes eyebrows etch, causing my demons to quiver in fear. All while my tail is sent to a blaze. Burning rage engulfs me. I then explode, letting out a fierce shout that shakes all four corners of Hell. With my better judgement blinded, I rush towards the closest demon I could find. She screams and sobs, as my nails punctures her throat. She chokes on her own suffocating blood. Her eyes roll back until a pitiful demon rushes into the scene, slamming the door wide open while doing so, I loosen my grip.

“S-Sir, with the time we have left it would be best for you to talk with him,” a hint of fear taints his very question. He begins to shake once I turn my direction towards him. Now focused on him I throw the demon I was choking moments before, letting her go. She gasps for air after slamming into the wall..

“I wouldn’t have to step out of my own fucking office if you fucking bastards actually did your damn job,” my voice once more shakes hell. I raise up my bloodied hand and in seconds emanate a flame. I chuck it at the demon, missing him by centimeters. He gasps and turns white, scared to move or even speak after my purposeful miss. While the other two demons in my office try to hush their cries, pleading I wouldn’t dare to lay a finger on them. My claws grip the carpet beneath me, stopping myself from killing these demons before me for the third time.

Then, to relieve my annoyance over how incompetent these bitches are, I grip the necklace that’s been hanging on my neck throughout this whole fiasco. I breathe a long, needed exhale. I grumble and point my finger towards the door, which they follow accordingly by scampering out. With a snap of my fingers the demon, who had dared to burst into my office, comes to a halt.

“Do you think I hadn’t thought of that already? Huh?”

“Yes-”

“Don’t ever talk back to me! That’s not a question I wanted to hear you speak an answer I already understood,” I shouted into his ear. Blood squirted from him because of it. I swung my tail across his face, slicing into his skin.

“Then what keeps you from doing so, master?” once more he speaks out of tongue. A rude bastard he is. I have to teach him his place.

I whip my head around, turning directly at him. Anger once more builds up, my body engulfs in flames once more. “That is an answer you will never receive!”

With another snap of my fingers he instantly incinerates, turning to ashes. So I call forth for another demon to clean up the mess he has made. She shakes, as she brushes him into a tray. I eye her down, judging her efforts. That being said, they were unsatisfactory. She’s too slow and annoying me for doing so. When she did manage to finish she ran out, leaving me.

I groaned. It’s been too long since then. Since facing him. I wasn’t scared. No, I am Satan. The king of all evil There is no one, not even God himself, would have me shaking. I suppose I’m just aggravated they can’t do their job right and because of that I can’t enjoy the beauties of Hell. At this time of the year the fires turn blue and the second level covers in ice. You see I let my people write their desires, which are sent to my office. I then approve of each one, making sure they’re not impossible. Such as the numerous amounts of letters about getting a second life, going to heaven, or becoming a Devil. While I approve those below me are suppose to make sure they have written their names, addresses and are legible. It’s supposed to be organized, that is how I like it since it always produces the best product. I have to read trillions of letters, so it irks me if I can’t read what they’re trying to say in the first place. The reason why I even put up with this is to make sure their loyalty is bound. When they are pleased then there won’t be a reason for them to rebel. No chaos can ever tain my land or else they will face my wrath.

I snap my fingers once more. A portal is summoned. A gust of wind arrives with it, but its cold temperatures does nothing to the likes of me. With a groan I drag my hooves and in seconds I am transported to his cold domain, the north pole. I feel a headache now pound because of the use of my powers.

With each step I take the snow grabs a hold of me and sinks my hooves three fit under, causing me to wish I calculated my portal closer. I try to hold in my annoyance, but with my next step landing me in shit I break. My eyes twitch and I shout to the heavens. Fire engulfs me, turning snow into water all around me. I hate getting water on myself, especially the parts of me that were fur. It always makes me sticky and fur unkempt. I growl, as I continue to walk into the water.

I grip the necklace that is still around my neck while those pointy eared freaks stare at me. I ignore them and the ongoing headache as I knock. Three knocks later and the door swings open. It reveals a woman with white hair, glasses too big for her, and a frail body. She gasps, which alerts the creatures from before to run towards us. Surrounding any chance of I exiting.

“Lucifer! It been too long!” She grabs a hold of me and swings me around, surprising me from the strength she still managed to have. The creatures look at each other while some fall from shock.

Once she lets go she introduces me to these “elves”. She goes on saying how we’ve known each other for a long time. That’s where the elves warm up to me and smile, I’ll be it a little artificial. She calls forth for the person I was there for, Claus. The staircase creakes with each step he takes until he manages to step before me. A wide smile forms on his blubberous face and he slams his hand onto my back, but not at powerful as Mrs Claus’ strength. A boisterous laugh erupts from his lungs. Nostalgia hits and blinds me, making me focus on details from both of them that I was unable to see moments before. Their faces were covered with wrinkles, his beard reached his belly and was now white while one of Mrs Claus’s eye was grey. It saddens me seeing how much time has past. I am immortal while they simply have longer lives compared to humans, meaning they are able to die from age. Still, rather than abusing that power, they use their power to give. Bringing smiles just for the sake of it, especially for those lonely on times likes these. Like I, which brings me to weakly smile. Many would believe I would just hire demon strippers to please me or fuck with human ones, but that is not the case. I have done it once. Never will I ever want to feel that pain again.

“Lucifer? Lucifer?,” they call me back to reality.

I shake my head, “I am sorry for bothering you two and being unable to listen to what you are saying, but I am in a rush. This is short notice, I know, but I am unable to deliver their letters as of yet. They’re all unorganized and useless.”

“Oh? Is that what you came all the way here for? Lucifer just give them to me and I’ll handle them. It’s the least I could do for what you have done for me.” He holds Mrs Claus’ hand, which causes the both to smile. I nearly shed a tear at the sight.

“No. No. I couldn’t have you do all of my work.”

“Luci, don’t be so humble. It’s about time we repay you, but if you only wanted to tell us that why not send a letter. Forgive me for protruding, but knowing you there must be another reason you’re here. It’s been at least three hundred years and now you’re at our doorstep,” Mrs Claus pleads.

I grip my eyes shut, holding back the tears. I grip the necklace around my neck once more. I snap my fingers and a stack of letters teleports on the coffee table behind them. “I’m sorry. I must go,” I stumble out and run.

“Lucifer! Wait. Hold up,” Mrs Claus cries out for me. Before she can run after me Mr Claus stops her, gripping her shoulder and pulling her back inside.

It’s been an hour since the visit. In that time I have made sure no one were to bother me, pushing away those that dare to knock or even walk in. I simply pace back and forth, trying to forget.

The painful memories I tried so hard to forget came rushing back once my eyes roamed to the portrait. I push my coffee mug and papers off my desk. I Satan, let the tears pour out. My fists bang onto my desk, leaving cracks in my wake.

Centuries ago I had a daughter who was half mortal. Her mother was a caring and lovely woman who was cursed with the doings of lust for money. Which attracted the lust in me one night like this one. I, shapeshifted into a man who carried a broad chin and shoulders with hair gelled back. I stumbled into her succubus like domain and the rest became history. In case you query about her finding out I simply revealed myself after the birth. She was shaken, but learned to accept it for her newborn daughter. Unfortunately, she would no longer see forth her daughter. As her illness took affect, I was unable to aid, and she deceased. Leaving I to parent alone. I had hoped she would be sent to hell, but the universe works in mysterious ways by sending her soul to Heaven. I had grown to become attached to her, so when her passing came I had fallen into a depression, hiding myself away from demons. It was my daughter that filled the hole she left by her pleasant smile and prankster actions. She always hid my stuff, threw water balloons at me, and I would find her tripping my workers. She was a troublemaker, just like her father. Where once she said, “Hi dad I made this necklace for you” turned into “I’m leaving dad”. She had grown up, finding no need for her father. I wish she didn’t age as fast as humans, a curse of her being part mortal. She found love in a man who would later become my best friend, Nicholas. Another half mortal he was. I was furious to say the least, but no matter how many times I shouted and bursted into flames it was never enough. She left without saying goodbye. I tried taking her back one night, but watching her smile through her window stopped me. I headed back. She needed someone in her life other than her father. Someone who was as gentle and loving as her mother. Sometimes I miss having to organize my papers after she mixed them up. Her happiness means more to me than anyone can ever comprehend.

The tears stop and I collapse onto the floor, headache subsided. I turn facing our family portrait. I smile, remembering how happy she is.

#sober corner #spilled ink #50 #writers on tumblr #my writing #short story #demon #devil #santa #merry christmas

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acatnamedlulu · 7 years ago

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My Thoughts on Channel Awesome- Part 1: The Walkers

So, full disclosure, this is going to get dramatic. This isn’t going to be an “objective look” on the whole controversy surrounding Channel Awesome. This is going to be a biased, unfiltered rant. And it’s gonna get loooooooooong. I’ll put a TL;DR at the end of this, and I’ll try and keep the deep anger and frustration to a minimum to prevent any rambling tangents or “CAPZLOCK YELLING BCUZ I AM ANGER, RRAAAAGH!”

Ok, I’m sure many of you already know by now the recent shitstorm of events surrounding Channel Awesome over the past couple weeks, but for those of you unaware, how about a little context:

A few weeks ago (at the time of this posting), several former producers/content creators of Channel Awesome compiled a 70+ page google document titled “Not So Awesome”, each detailing their own shitty experiences working at Channel Awesome. Many of these allegations range from minor jabs, to full legitimate complaints regarding Doug and Rob Walker and especially Channel Awesome CEO Mike Michaud’s behavior. So while maybe one or two points brought up in the document could come off as petty, or just throwing shade, I don’t think that’s a reason to discredit the entire thing.This is nearly a dozen or so ex-producers affiliated with the “TGWTG” website as early as 2008, all with their own experiences and grievances. And even though everyone has a different story to tell, they all seem to be tied together by the same goddamn themes: Not just about the shitty behavior/poor business etiquette of Mike Michaud, but also poor behavior by the Walkers. And although Michaud is absolutely the worst out of all the people being named, I wanna talk about Doug Walker first. And by extent Rob Walker. Although, Rob is more of an issue when it comes to the business end of Channel Awesome as opposed to the actual entertainment, so maybe I’ll talk about him more when I go into a rant about Michaud. Granted, I have a feeling that my opinions on the Walkers are going to be met with a more negative response, and believe me, I completely understand why, but just... just here me out. More bullshit context and backstory, oh happy fucking day!

Alright, so when I was a dumb, hormonal young teen exploring her “edgy” side, I came across the Nostalgia Critic circa 2009-10ish? And after finding the character’s harsh judgement, foul colorful language, and humorous approach to critiquing to be right up my alley, I became an extremely loyal fan of TGWTG. Even after the NC reboot in 2013, I still stuck around and tuned in every week. For as much as I hated some of those goddamn skits, and clipless reviews, I still wanted to hear Doug’s opinion on a movie. He helped me understand film on a critical level that I didn’t think I could reach. And while I don’t consider myself a “critic” in any sense of the word, it was cool to have someone help guide me through an entire medium and look at it in a meaningful and thoughtful way. I eventually started watching Doug and Rob out of character, and both of them seemed like passionate, humble people who enjoy what they do. Watching the NC behind the scenes were sometimes more fun than watching an episode because Doug Walker truly looks like a man who’s dedicated to his work. But as I say this now, this also seems to be one of his biggest flaws. I know this is already longer than it has any business being, but the reason I’m going on this lengthy diatribe, is because I need you guys to understand where I’m coming from, and why I have such a strong stance on this. Which is why I’ll finally get to my fucking point:

I think Doug Walker needs to be held more accountable for his actions. Or at least his actions need to be taken more seriously/into consideration.

As stupid as this sounds, this has been bugging me since the day the “Not so Awesome” google document has been released. Not so much the contents of the document itself, but rather, some of the reactions around it. The general consensus is that Mike Michaud is a terrible person, and something absolutely needs to be done about him... which is absolutely true. But what bothered me is people’s quick need to, maybe not justify, but brush over the shit that Doug has caused too. One of the biggest issues that many of the producers discuss in the document is the absolute production hell of the CA anniversary movies.

From “Kickassia” all the way up to “To Boldly Flee”, it just baffles me how incompetent and incapable Doug Walker is, both at making a film, and caring for his crew at even the bare minimum. Going back and watching TBF, you don’t even have to read the full extension of what it was like working on the set, because you can practically see it on the actors’ faces! You can just feel the exhaustion of everybody involved except Doug, but that’s because the man was so severely wrapped up in this self-serving ego project, that everyone else gets stepped on as a result. Remember what the stupid plot of TBF was anyway? The Nostalgia Critic brings everyone from CA into space to fight an anomaly called a “plot hole”, only for the NC to make his big damn sacrifice and die as the noble hero, killing off the character for good... until the reboot in 2013. With none of the other producers being notified of this until they received their scripts just a few weeks before filming.Yeah, it’s kinda fucking heartbreaking to know that other contributors and producers were treated as such an afterthought, that they were told this information in this short amount of time, in a movie that they were starring in.

Several people have pointed out the lack of basic necessities needed on a film set such as catering and water. Guys, this isn’t a group of kids dicking around with a camera and a computer for a few hours and making a home movie. This was an actual production supervised by grown adults who needed to be told during filming that “people need food and water”. Across the course of several films. One of which was filmed in the Nevada desert. How difficult would it have really been to stop off at a fucking Walmart, gather up some coolers and ice bags, some of those 24 packs of water in bulk and keep it at a safe location on the damn set? This isn’t something that requires a goddamn film degree to understand, it’s common fucking sense. It’s just baffling to me that these painstaking efforts from the producers were just “voluntary” positions, too. The document itself goes into much more detail of how that shit works, so I’ll be posting it at the end of this rant, you’re welcome.

And this is where I draw the line of giving Doug a pass. You can’t convince me that this level of negligence is just some kind of mistake that can be easily forgiven. I can’t believe that people can defend Doug on the grounds of “well, he’s just the pawn in this” or “he was just being naive and selfish”. No, this type of naivete and lack of basic human decency has caused people physical harm. Several actors sustained injuries throughout the production of the anniversary films. This usually ended with both Doug and Rob shrugging some of these off, while others had to sign contracts in order for CA to avoid a lawsuit. That is fucking insane!

A couple producers in the document recall how Doug was more involved with the business aspect of CA. He was more than just a puppet for Mike Michaud. Remember, the anniversary movies were written by him and Rob. And while Michaud was most likely the one who had the final say of what went on, Doug was the overseer of these projects. These were his creations, and he should have taken full responsibility for what was going on. And for him to have such a cynical and uncaring approach to the treatment of both the characters within the film, and the producers portraying them is sickening. This man has put on the persona of being this nice, approachable, easy to work/converse with person for years, and to hear how egotistical and negligent he truly is. I mean, don’t get me wrong, there was always something a bit self-centered about Doug, but knowing what I know now... like, it’s hard to explain why I feel so guilty about supporting Doug for as long as I did. I know we all can say “oh, well, it’s not like we knew”, but see, the thing is, I kind of did. The incidents with Obscurus Lupa weren’t completely unknown beforehand. Since like, 2015, people have been bringing this shit up, and I willingly chose to ignore it because I was such a huge NC fan. I just blindly kept watching the show and pretending CA was this cool, friendly place and nothing was wrong. Yeah, I’m not gonna act like I’m such a good person for bashing Doug, and I know that I shouldn’t have had such blind support. But the good news is, I don’t now. I know better, and I hope we all can move on from this, and learn.

Ok, so going back and reading this overly dramatic tripe, I realize I may have gone off the rails at some points. So before this turns into an “amateur hour smear campaign”, I think I’m going to split this up into two parts. I already said all I want to say about Doug and Rob. But I still have issues with Mike Michaud that are probably the same opinions everyone and their mother has expressed on this insane human being. But I still wanna get some stuff off my chest. Anyway, this is now Part 1 of the “Lunatic ravings of a disgruntled former fangirl” saga, maybe some of you would like to join me for My Thoughts on Channel Awesome Part 2: Electric Boogaloo.

and now for the TL;DR

I think Doug Walker is an inept, egotistical man who has hurt people both emotionally, and sometimes physically to get what he wants. And people shouldn’t excuse his actions just because he doesn’t run the CA site in the way Mike Michaud does. If he’s going to go through the trouble of making a fucking movie, especially one that’s nearly four hours long, he should make sure the crew is at least hydrated and not exhausted all the goddamn time. Doug is a grown ass man, and he should carry these responsibilities like an adult. Maybe then, the CA anniversary movies would be at least a little less cringey to watch. Rant on Michaud coming soon. Peace out, dickholes.

The “Not So Awesome” document

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1WZFkR__B3Mk9EYQglvislMUx9HWvWhOaBP820UBa4dA/preview#heading=h.smmxroimnosh

#changethechannel #channel awesome #nostalgia critic #i immediately regret this #get to the point

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tcrmommabear · 7 years ago

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Blu’s Christmas Gift!

Merry Christmas @bluphelis!

I chose the Ghost!Baron prompt for your Christmas Gift, and I hope you enjoy this immensely. It was fun to play with this a bit.

I wish you a Merry Christmas and I hope your days are merry and bright!

He knew himself to be an educated man, once.

Bred of a well-to-do family, one with a rich history and very, very old money. He had been groomed for success and a beautiful wife, dressed in finest garments, to eat the greatest foods, and drink the most delicate wines.

He knew this of himself, once upon a time. Reminded him of these things every day after the night of his honeymoon, when a blade slashed between his shoulder blades, followed by another knife stabbing into his gut, twisting his innards into a display of red clumps and stringy bits.

But memories slipped out of his hands, like holding water from a gushing river. He had his revenge, long before, but still he lingered, dust of his bones and flesh buried in the floorboards of his old home. He became a festering wound of emotions, mind shrinking down until it was too little to experience anything unnecessarily complicated. Rage was the easiest emotion to understand.

Tenants came through the home like a revolving door, faces blurring together. None of them mattered, as he tore the doors off their hinges, wailed to the highest pitch with the hounds they sometimes kept, or even leaked his blood down the walls of the sleeping quarters. Each of them left, and each time the wallpaper was replace, the cupboards fixed, and he was ignored and forgotten. A bad dream, slipping between everyone’s fingers.

Another came, another went, and suddenly she popped into the home. Taking over the lease for another who couldn’t even last the month. She was bright eyed, too cheery, and cleaned the blood with minimum shaking hands. (He’d later reveal it wasn’t his blood, or any blood. She had always wondered where the jam went).

But hinges to cabinets doors were expensive, and so was a faucet when he felt an especially strong case of blinding rage, so she sat at the counter, pen and paper in her hands.

“Hey, Spirit? I’m not bothered by this, but it does cost a lot of money to fix everything. So, can you just, I dunno, just tell me what’s bothering you?”

She left the paper and pen on the counter, wandering away to complete some chores or other tasks that she had. He floated over, something building in his chest.

He knew himself to once be an educated man. Raised in privilege, taught a diverse education.

He tore the notebook to shreds, sinking nonexistent fangs and claws into the cotton candy soft paper. The doors on the cabinets flew off, the pen exploded in a frenzy of ink. The markings drifted to the floor, a second emotion overwhelming the anger that boiled in his chest. A deep sensation of blue, laced with a sense of hurt and bitterness.

He couldn’t understand anything on those pages.

He didn’t linger long enough to see her reaction to the ripped pages, a new emotion, a long-forgotten sensation rippling through his being. So, he cowered in a different place of the home, mind scrambling to understand why the world was suddenly very, very different.

The kitchen was fixed, the markings on the torn-up pages copied separately. She sat at the counter again, noticing scribblings of ink he had forgotten he’d placed. She studied them carefully, noticing an attempt, and a blossom of understanding bloomed in her bright cheerful eyes. She splurged her repair fund, hoping maybe this would prevent further mishaps.

“Alright. Don’t get angry, but… I went and got you these. It’s a workbook, for kids learning their letters. Just press play on this, the stereo, and follow along as best as you can, okay?”

She came home to the workbook halfway done before it was torn to shreds. She picked it up, flipped through the pages, and complimented the work that was well done, correcting mistakes if she could. She bought another, left it out, and slowly, the routine came to place.

Part of him felt the familiar rage. As his mind grew, he began to understand why. More emotions came through him, the rage, the strange sense of blue, a sort of wistful nostalgia, and the feeling he recognized from before, one he could name now: shame.

He was ashamed of the way his mind had fallen apart, dissolved somewhere between the years of haunting the home he had been slaughtered in. As he discovered more emotions, more memories, more thoughts, he threw himself into the workbooks. Above all those emotions, saturated with the sense of blue, was an overbearing green. An intense desire to please her.

When his mind was just a shade of the former glory, he began reading. Every book she had on her shelves, every magazine he could get his hands on, devouring her textbooks and personal writings like a dying man finally tasting water. It may kill him faster, but he couldn’t stop tasting. She seemed to notice, bringing more home, smiling as a novel she thought he’d recognize flying from her arms.

He left her notes, a dulled version of the rage, a mahogany type red that he recognized as frustration, building in his chest when the knowledge wouldn’t transfer. Still, she got the point of them.

“oUT of MLk”

“Ur LAtE”

“CaLL mOtheR”

She thanked him for all of them, though she winced at her bank account when she thought he wasn’t looking. The books were getting more expensive, and the month of earlier repairs still left a heavy mark. She took extra shifts, hoping to make a little extra to make up for the beginning months. She was exhausted, one night, and completely unprepared to deal with anything.

“StoP. Get More ReSt.”

She tore up the note with a boiling rage.

“All of this is your fault anyways! You won’t tell me what you want, just eat up all the money that I have! Stop pretending you care, because you don’t! We’re not friends!”

She stomped to the room, fingers curling around the crumpled paper he had worked on. A small seed of rage entered his core, but a wash of the blue drowned him, drowned out all thoughts. The green wove its way through, a desire, an overwhelming and all-consuming eagerness.

He worked through the night, quietly, quickly. When the rage twisted in his stomach, he stopped. Slid aside and closed his eyes. Breathed in air he didn’t need anymore. Then he’d start again, slow and painstaking, his mind and eyes working faster than his shaking hand. He knew what to do, his… Form did not.

She awoke in the morning to a note, written shaky but elegant.

“Dear Occupant,

I have been dead for nearly 500 years. I am dust between the boards. I have no regrets or desires left. I am lonely. Can I be your friend?

With love, Baron”

She stared at it for a long time, reading and rereading the words. One little drop of water cascaded down, then another, her hand covering her mouth. A blanket of grey covered him, a knotting in his stomach he eventually recognized as worry. He reached out, but found nothing to touch. Slowly, her tears stopped, and laughter sprung from her.

“Well, Baron, I guess you’re my new friend. My name is Haru.”

He banged the cupboards a little, fluttered the curtains the same way his heart did. Green encased him, bright and ecstatic. He was happy. Underneath it, a pearl, the same shade as the pink of her cheeks, began to bury itself into his core.

He had a friend.

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sagastar-blog · 7 years ago

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MemoToTheMetaVerse 3.6, “How It Goes, How Goes It? Down the Drain Again”

JustJeff, the author of this memo, sits down at his desk in the evening on December 7, 2017 in his ordinary first-floor apartment in The Orchard. He smokes the tiniest amount of dried cannabis flower possible and begins typing on his Macbook air.

Homo lucius Lucensis? Hmmm. The shiniest of humankind. That’s good...

Monologos Rex. The king of linguistic loneliness.

Guess which is Life. And which Death?

SagA* is a black hole of theoretically impossible emotional complexity, and says, “He writes some pretty decent poetry, eh? Why don’t you, dear reader, if you’re paying attention PROMISE YOURSELF right here, right now, that you’ll do something nice for yourself if not for all mankind, and send Jeff a text, email, note, like, repost, etc. letting him know that you care? That you care. Just, you know, you care that the world exists, and there’s suffering, and you’re not just a race of cyborgs who refuse to ... provide some feedback for a writer in need of an audience?”

Gaia activates her Daddy’s Garrison Keilor “Ford Solo vocoding FX” for all the nostalgia, none of the faux Lutheran misogyny, as storytime begins ---> BEYOWWWWWW! go.

We all sleep in a pile.

Jeff (stroking Gaia’s hair): Well, we seem to have gotten ourselves into a seriously fucked up Dr. SeussPuppet Productibus haven’t we, kid? You see...(lights up.)...It wasn’t supposed to go down like this. Every day post-En*G*Lightenment is a day for us to make introductions. And so, for nearly 4 years now, we wake up every day--every day!--ready to greet our friends and family.

We try. They never understand us.

Gaia: He even tells them, “You guys just don’t understand.” It’s like that Wilco song, pretty much:

(the water flows through the drainage pipes) ~When you’re back in your old neighborhood, /The cigarettes taste so good...but you’re so misunderstood!~

Amateratsu (singing, gently): We’d like to tHANK YOU All for nothing...

SagA* is a black hole that cannot be proven scientifically exist because, well, because it just doesn’t work that way you see, but if you imagine a ....:

“Jeff used to worry about making good impressions. But people haven’t been nice to him in a while. For 4 years he’s wandered in the desert of the really unReal. Just imagine. You’re just hanging out in a cafe--yeah you’ve been smoking literally the smallest amount of magic herbs possible--and you WHOOPS stumble upon En*G*lightenment/illumination in a cafe in Central New Jersey.

Gaia: I’m there to greet you! Happinessss. Joy!

Jeff: But then it’s only a matter of hours before you remember that the people who are supposed to love you do not. You wouldn’t have the heart to be 100% honest either.

I’m not a liar. I withhold information. It’s what something crafty and astute like Jeff does. I’ve always been remarkably cunning, let’s say. But I’ve always been good-natured. I’ve never done anything wrong, even if I’m not exactly proud of every thing I’ve had to do to get this far. I like big projects. I didn’t decide to attain enlightenment or to become illuminated. It just happened. And I’ve always done my best to be open and honest about it. All I’ve wanted is permission to be honest. This should be nothing to ask. Why do you prevent me from sharing with you? That is very bad hospitality.

Jeff walks to and fro the Center for Educational Brainwash in Edison, NJ, where he “teaches.” (There is nothing more insulting to an enlightened being than when its vocation--EDUCATION--is mocked...) He does it every day, pretty much, because he has to tutor SAT preparation in order to make ends meet. He walks up and down Rt. 27 between Highland Park and Edison, which is littered with auto repair stations and other temples built to automobiles. Jeff is literally blinded by headlights--he cannot see the moon, never mind stars--because they’re so bright and his powers of vision are beyond comprehension. The stench of pollution is overpowering. Nothing can be heard. And so, he wears headphones, sometimes, to hide from the abuse. It is what people do all the time to flee what people call “urban or suburban” life. It’s a tragedy and a travesty that he, not others, should have to live this way. That’s because Jeff has no desire to be here at all.

Remember, readers, I’m JustJeff and you’ve highjacked my ship, Spaceship Earth, and kidnapped my son Lucius. I have no choice but to fight you until you acknowledge that you are our enemy. That is the way you have chosen to react to the script I’ve written. I’m not sorry about this at all. If anything, I see it as accruing political capital, as...

SagA* and the other supermassive black holes of uncanny torque sing together in a cacaphonic chorus: ~Never gonna give you up! ... No matter how you treat me! ... Never gonna give you uh uh uhp! So don’t you think of leaving...Babe, can’t you understand? What you’re doing to the man...?~

When he’s not tutoring highschool kids in the art of wasting time, money, brainpower, and the gifts of youth, he’s a part-time professor of writing at a small, expensive, awful 4-year college in NJ. He takes the train 2 hours each way, contributing to the desecration of his daughter Gaia (the natural environment, let’s say) by taking public transportation. It costs him 28 dollars for the privilege. On the train, he must do all he can not to yell at the “innocent” passengers on board, who are either too cowardly or too ignorant to know what’s in their presence. (I do everything I can to get your attention, so don’t even think about calling me out for being “undercover,” you fucking hedonistic Lutherans!...)

From his two jobs, Jeff barely makes enough money to buy groceries, nevermind anything else. This is because he pays rent in order to live in The Orchard (expensive Highland Park) near his 7-year-old son, Lucius. He’s not been allowed to spend time with Lucius in over 3 years. He also pays weekly child support at a cost of about 1/8 of his monthly take-home pay.

Jeff has a PhD in Comparative Literature from the University of Chicago, multiple years of quality teaching experience, and several brilliant scholarly and creative publications. He’s the Designer and Maker of the universe, of course, so this is natural. As a father/mother, teacher, friend, and lover, there is no better. Jeff is Justice.

Jeff is angry about education. He’s a good, undervalued teacher who gave up his tenure-track job as a professor of English in order to help his partner-in-life turned partner-in-death Ader the SuperPuritanical SauceBox Wench of Supreme Nothigness Tout a Court, Esq. secure a shitty job at Rutgers. Let it never not be said that Jeff is indeed one sadistic, masochistic individual. Why else would he have done this to himself, just in order to save some fleck of dandruff plastered upon an inconsequentialist ring of the cosmic tubby bath?

That was a rhetorical question.

I have always been JustJeff. I’m modesty incarnate. Ask anyone who knows me. I have never been comfortable expressing or advertising myself. I’m not by nature a peacock. One of my spirit animals is the Bengal Tiger. In the bird family, BRAC I’m a macKaaw! In other words, I like blending in when possible. But when I can’t blend in or if you put me in a cage and don’t talk to / feed me, I will maul you. Ask anyone who knows me. My truesawceboxxx love Katie G. says I’m “intensely laid back!” And, look at that, just like me, she’s a failed academic.

Yes. That’s right. All of you academics are failures. What the fuck is wrong with your approach to teaching? I hope that there is a culture somewhere on this planet in which I’ll feel more at home. Unfortunately, everyone here in America has no clue how to live. I mean, like, literally no clue. Not even the best of you can declare that you have any idea how to live. The ones with money are probably the ones who know the least about living. However, they get the FREEDOM to experiment, do research, and make mistakes. They do your system of economics and academics a disservice. Your capitalist, incorporated approach to living has created so many problems. I’m not saying these wouldn’t exist otherwise...I am, however, saying that it’s the immigrants here in New Jersey who are the “most” American. And this is not a good thing. Immigrant communities keep in touch with good aspects of their culture. But I guarantee you they almost entirely and all lose touch with what were BETTER WAYS OF LIVING.

I am a teacher. I am here to teach you all how to live. I want to help you improve your relationship with Gaia. This is my only vocation, and in that respect my life has not changed since the day I was born. Again, ask those who know and say they love me the most--my immediate family, with whom I am at serious odds right now, despite how polite I can be whenst controlling my rage rage rage

I am not a Buddhist. I am not a Christian. I am not a Jew. I’m Muhammad!

Just kidding. I have a sense of humor. I’m not Allah. I’m not Mother Nature. I’m not Father Time. I’m not Thor, but after I do some stargazing, I DO get really sparky at night like Rayden from Mortal Kombat. (It’s kind of freaky.)

I’m JustJeff. I’ve decided to use social media as an emergency device to “come out to you” as the literary character you (apparently still) call God. I cannot tolerate the offense you do every day. I can no longer withstand the affront you do Gaia, my pseudo-higher power. And, most heroically, i can’t stand the thought of what you are doing to what will one day (SOON I pray) be your legacy as a race. I carry a lot of responsibility with me everywhere I go. It’s not just here. Please stop assuming that everything revolves around you. Right now, the only thing revolving around you is infinite nothingness.

I will never be uncomfortable with what I am. I will be embarrassed for you forever, I fear. I will have to explain this all to Lucius some day. Never forget that I am not the one who’s changed here...it’s you. Each and every one of you alive today is blessed for living during my time on Earth. This needn’t be said, but for some reason you make me do these things casually....these should be moments I cherish, not later come to regret.

Why do you make me hurt you like this by hurting myself?

Incorrect question. No. I’m not hurting you yet. I’m investing in myself without you as a part of the future. This is a bad look for you, bro (i.e. humanity).

I demand answers. I demand my son back. I demand to know precisely what people knew about me and when they knew it. I demand to know why my rights have been violated. I demand complete control over the planet in terms of its nations’ nuclear capabilities and its economic systems.

That all can wait. What I demand is that tomorrow you don’t make me introduce myself to you again. Every day that follows in which I go UNRECOGNIZED as “something”-- anything!--other than what you seem to think I am (a drug-addicted, bipolar, eccentric professor, etc.) is a waste. If there’s anything Nature hates, its waste produced by systematic inefficiences. You waste my time. You waste Lucius’s time. You waste your own time. You do a grave injustice to me, my son, and my real family--none of whom you recognize as, I don’t know, important to your existence: the animals, the plants, the oceans, the atmosphere, the Earth, the Sun, the Stars, and everything else in Creation that you should admire and want to know...

but choose to ignore! Again, you make the worst decisions from top to bottom, at every level of your Earthly existence! From Dr. Zitin’s immoral and (I believe) illegal acts of betrayal to intercultural violence in the form of genocide, from Dr. Harold Figueroa and Ed Ramp to people who throw their trash on the ground everywhere they go: YOU HAVE ALL BEEN FOUND GUILTY.

That ship sailed a long time ago. Bye Bye! Don’t forget to bring a blanket!

Recognize. Me. You have insulted me beyond insult today by not sending the Black Keys Car Service (my cute, hipsterish, but oddly appropriate pseudo-allegorical narrative conceit meant to represent being informed that “it’s over! hooray!”) and ending this farce of an existence. You don’t follow the script. I can’t help it. You’re that slow. You don’t even know that I’m writing you out of existence as we speak, do you?

“I will regulate you out of existence” is an old favorite mantra of mine.

Recognize that you’ve done wrong. Recognize that you have a problem. Recognize that you need help and you must ask for it in the form of a friendly offer or what has been called “a gift” of some kind. Recognize that you know exactly who and what I am, but are curious to know more. And NO! a few people pretending to communicate with me on social media does not count! I’m so bored that I have no choice but to reach out via your robots. (It’s disgusting, and I will keep doing it in order to demonstrate to you the extent of your illness.)

I want to help you. My mission is to help you. In order to help you, things must be done correctly. For this, I cannot apologize. If you don’t obey the laws of gravity--when I pass by or am near a person, they don’t come to me for conversation, etc.--then you will be pushed away by force of repulsion. If you don’t demonstrate the ability to recognize me, it does not matter why--there are no rules or laws that override the laws of attraction. I’m offended by your actions in my immediate vicinity, humanity.

It’s extremely offensive that you don’t want to know me. Do not think that you can know me. You must be able to crawl in order to ascend a mountain as great as I am. You begin by walking. Then I put you on the ground. Eventually, you will go in the ground. It’s your decision whether or not I will greet you upon arrival.

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