#and if hes getting a cushy office job hes gonna get one where he sits in a cubicle with 30 other people in the same room

[krotiation]

one thing about katagawa redemption arc aus that i dont see anyone talking about is the fact that if he left maliwan he would be dirt broke. no inherited wealth. no cash whatsoever. and i think it would be very poetic if rhys REFUSES to hire him

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Great Escape

Warnings: allusions to non con/dubcon, kidnapping, drugging and other possible dark elements. Proceed with caution.

Note: Here is another wish! This one with Lloyd.

Please leave some feedback so I know you want me to do more of the wishes I got. Otherwise, I find it hard to keep my motivation.

Wish Corrupted: I wish Steve or Lloyd (dealers choice - I'm feeling indecisive today) would save me from my crazy, stress-filled job and give me more free time to enjoy my hobbies (reading, crocheting, quilting, or baking).

You hit the bar on the door. It doesn’t budge. You look up frantically at the beaming red EXIT sign above. You hit it again, again. You throw your body against the metal barrier, the calm footsteps closing in beneath the rampant puff of your breath.

“Real cute to see ya try, princess, but I’m doing you a goddamn favour,” his voice rolls down the hallways towards you.

You turn, pressing yourself to the door, pushing your elbows back as you continue your struggle to find some give. His shadow is skewed by the emergency lights, the stale office made sinister by the outage. You whimper. Who is this man?

“Aw, you don’t gotta be scared,” he silhouette reaches up with his pistol, scratching his head nonchalantly with the barrel, “but I can’t say it doesn’t fill my balls with joy.”

“Who are you?” You breath, choking on a sob as he struts closer, steps slow but startling. He doesn’t hurry, he knows you have nowhere to go. “Please, I… I didn’t do anything. Don’t hurt me.”

“I told you, kitten, you don’t needa be scared,” he coos, “I’m not gonna hurt you… much.” He snickers, the hall darkening the closer he gets, “I’m gonna do you a real big favour.”

You sink down to your knees. The door isn’t opening. You’re trapped. You put and arm up as you slump against the metal, waiting for the end. This psycho is going to murder you.

“Just don’t move,” he slithers as he stops before you.

He crouches and brings the silencer under your chin forcing it up. You bat your lashes and peer up at him. His face is lost in the dark. He tuts as pushes the barrel firm against you.

“Such a pretty face,” he purrs, “all you gotta do is hold still.”

There is no sudden explosion of gunpowder, no bang, just a prick. You slap your neck and he pulls away, chuckling as he holds up the long syringe. You brace the door with your other arm and whine.

“What was that?” You croak.

“Shhh,” he says, “deep breaths.”

Your muscles slacken, your lungs grow heavy, and your head wobbles. You lean into the door as the strength drains from you, eyelids drooping as the world tilts dangerously. The blackness of your subconscious swallows you up before you collapse.

💉

You come to slowly. Your body is stiff and your head is muddy. Your eyes open bit by bit, taking in the expanse of the strange room. The unfamiliarity fills you with dread. What is this place? How did you get here?

You can’t remember. You groan and touch your head, your hand clumsy, seeming almost detached from the rest of you. It takes all your effort to sit up. You gape at the pink skirt across your lap, the scalloped hem, and the tight cinch of the belt around your waist. You never wore anything like that.

You plant your hand on the cushy mattress beneath you and lean on your arm as you steady yourself. You let your eyes explore. The wooden bedframe, the frilly edge of the sheets poking out from beneath the duvet, the round rug beneath the bed, the matching night table; every piece pristine and exact. Like the replica of a fifties sitcom.

You turn your head. There’s a double-wide dresser with a mirror over it. Your reflection gives you a start. You shift your body to face yourself. You watch as you stand, as if you’re looking at someone else. The pink dress buttons up the bodice, cap sleeves top your shoulders, and a round collar frames your neck. 

You lean forward, hands on the dresser as you gape at yourself. This can’t be. Where are you? Who are you? No more stiff-cut blazer, no tucked blouse, no tailored pants. It’s a twisted joke.

The door opens but you can’t bring yourself to move. You glance at it from the mirror. A man enters but you can only see to his shoulders. He stops just inside the door.

“You’re awake,” he says flatly, “nice to have you back in the land of the living, buttercup.”

The voice sends a shiver through you. You know it. You close your eyes and see the flashing emergency lights, the nearing shadows, feel the cold barrel on your chin. You spin to face the man and look at him head-on.

His hair is slicked back, his sides buzzed, a trim of bristly hair across his lip, a singular flaw in an otherwise handsome face. A stranger, like the woman in the mirror. You grip the edge of the dresser and stare at him.

He laughs and reaches for you. You cower as he caresses your cheek.

“I couldn’t figure out the makeup so you’ll have to do all that,” he says.

“What– what is this?”

He snorts and tilts his head, letting his hand fall down your throat. He inhales as his eyes follow his touch and he plays with your collar.

“Not much of a thanks,” he hooks his finger under the top of your dress and draws you away from the dress. He keeps you close as he watches you placidly, “you’re free, sunshine.”

“What? Free?”

“That corporate wheel was grinding you down,” he intones, “it’s your turn to do the grinding.”

You shake your head. You don’t understand. He sweeps his other arm around you, groping your ass as he pulls you flush to him.

“Keep me happy, and I’ll do the same,” he rocks you with him, “eight hours at a desk or a couple minutes on your knees, I know what I’d choose.”

You blink at him in horror.

“Don’t worry, you’ll have more than enough time to catch up on that book,” he affirms.

“Book?”

He nods towards the bed and you notice the familiar curled corner. The same book you’ve kept on your coffee table for months, the one you never had the time or energy to finish. You gulp and look back at him.

“No more spreadsheets, cupcake,” he winks, “but you’ll damn sure be spreading those legs.”

[btssunnyboy]

Unbelievable - Choi San

He was always rude to you, embarrassing you in front of everyone. So why is he mad that someone better made you an offer?

Warning - Profanity, mention of caffeine, San is mean as fuck, Yandere towards the end, He makes a threat.

Word Count - 3,362 idk if they will be a part 2!

BTS , NCT , ATEEZ — request open.

__________________________________________

Good god, your blood was boiling the moment you saw his door crack open. You could feel your fingernails digging into your palms as you tried to remain calm. The last thing you needed to do was lose your temper and give this man another opportunity to ridicule in front of your co-workers. But judging by that horrendous look on his face you already have a gut feeling that all taht hard work to keep your anger in check is going to fly right through the window. Taking the deepest breath you could take and plastering on that fake smile, you gladly greeted the man that makes your life a living hell.

“These numbers are definitely not to my liking and I refused to be the laughing stock at the board meeting tomorrow.” He huffed heavily as he practically threw the binder down onto your desk. The heavy plastic slamming against the steel desk with a loud thud that echoed through the big hallway. The wind from the fall making papers that previously occupied your desk go flying in every single direction. You could feel your anger bubble up in your chest at the mere disrespect that this man was giving you, and it was driving you insane.

“With all do respect sir, it’s already twelve thirty, and I highly doubt I’ll be able to go over all of these documents by seven thirty in the morning.” You resisted their urge to grit your teeth as you wanted to appear somehow considerate of his complications. Truth be told you didn’t want to do another all nighter when you barely pulled through from the other night. “Besides, I looked over the revenue and margin growths three times before I sent them to your office.”

He scoffed loudly as he licked one of his fingers and then continued to rummage through the papers that were bonded together. His long finger skimmed over the lines multiple times and he flipped each page within a minute. Those piercing eyes stayed locked in on every single number that crossed the page. “Ah, right here it states that we made a profit revenue of fifty million last year, but then it states that this year we’ve only grossed sixty five million. And that’s definitely less than the fifty percent revenue growth that we expected.”

“So, sixty five is not as bad as you’re making it out to be, besides multiple people double checked.” You spoke tiredly as you started packing up your briefcase. Different papers getting stacked together and even crumpled because of the rapid pace that you were going. No matter what happens tonight you were leaving before the clock strikes one in the morning. As you were packing up your eyes met his furious ones and it felt like your world was crumbling down. “Mr. Choi, I’m being honest, your accounting department checked all of these numbers multiple times and I looked over them as much as I could.”

“I know for a fact that we had a fifty percent increase in revenue, now look over these damn numbers again. Or you’ll be kissing this cushy office job goodbye in the morning.” He harshly slammed the binder closed and stalked over to his office door. The audacity of that stupid man, how dare he even threaten you with this job. But as much as you wanted to spit in his face and tell him to shove it you really needed this job, this really well paying job.

You poked your cheek with your tongue out of agitation and roughly grabbed your purse. The bottle of caffeine pills made a clicking sound as you unscrewed the cap within a second. Without a drink of water you downed the pill and grabbed the ugly binder. This was going to be a long night, and these numbers were not going to supposedly fix themselves.

Your fingers tapped the keys on the keyboard rapidly as you searched each collaboration revenue. All of these numbers were lining up, no matter what you searched. Out of the six collaborations Choi enterprise only grossed sixty five million, but for some reason he just won’t listen. All you wanted to do at this point was slump forward and go to sleep, but with that anger that Mr.Choi has you’re scared he might kill you in your sleep. But as the long hours went on and on, you could feel yourself slipping. Your eyelids felt like a ton, and your head was suddenly too heavy for your neck to hold. Before you knew you were out like a light.

—

You’d shoot the person who was jabbing their finger into side if you could. Their bony finger feeling a knife stabbing your rib cage with immense pressure. “Please wake up, y/n, if he notices you’re asleep, who knows what he’ll do!” The jabbing didn’t cease one bit, in fact they just jabbed even harder.

“Okay! I’m up!” You groggily scoffed as your vision was trying to focus on the object in front of you. The figure was simply a mush of different colors all moving in different directions. The harsh lights in the office are in no way making the situation any better. You could make out their hand moving from left to right to try and grab your attention. “Hongjoong?”

“What are you, blind? Of course it’s me, but please I’m begging you get up and go freshen up in the bathroom.” He sighed sadly as he helped your wobbly stance straighten up. His soft hands wrapping around your waist and pulling you close. The soft scent of his cologne filling your nose as you clung to him. “Do you still carry extra clothes in your car?”

“Thankfully yes, but what time is it?” You question as you rubbed your eyes, trying to make all the colors of the world blend back together to form one coherent thing. “Oh god, is it past seven thirty, oh shit! He’s gonna kill me!”

“Calm down, it's only six thirty, but he always gets here at seven. So please go wipe that old makeup off and I’ll get your other clothes.” Hongjoong smiled slightly at you before his eyes shifted towards the oh so famous brown binder. “Did that dick make you go over more numbers the whole night?”

“God yes and it was terrible, but I looked over all six collaborations and I kid you not it all equals sixty five.” You could hear a pin drop on the silence that coated the room. It was beginning to feel suffocating and you physically felt your chest growing heavy with dread. “There were only six right, because that’s all the forms I received.”

“Maybe i'm just thinking of something else, because maybe just maybe -“

“Stop wasting time! Is there more than six?” You panicked as you shoved him away and pulled the rolling chair back to your side. Before your fingers could even reach the keys, Hongjoong’s were there in a second. They tapped rapidly and skimmed through all your emails at a neck breaking pace. “Oh my god I never refreshed the email.”

“We don’t have time to sit here and panic, we have three pages of numbers to go through.” Hongjoong tried to make the situation less tense by offering a helping hand, but he knew that if these numbers weren’t corrected all hell would break loose. And no one wanted to see what Choi San was like when he more than ticked off. He’d probably be past the point of furious if ever saw these unfinished numbers.

—

San’s eyes were narrowed as he eyed the unfamiliar man at your desk. Where the hell were you? He didn’t pay a shit ton of money for you to be everywhere and not in that chair looking pretty. But at this moment he couldn’t control himself as the words flew from his mouth. “What the hell is this?”

That look, that gorgeous look of fear that made his blood rush and his heart pound. Was etched across the unknown man's face and he was basking in the glory of it. San cocked his eyebrow slightly as he leaned forwards on his palms. “Did I suddenly grow two heads or some shit, no? Then answer my question, what the hell is this.”

“I’m so sorry Mr.Choi, but I didn’t notice that there were seven collaborations. I only had six in my email. And Mr.Kim was only helping me scrunch the numbers.”

“You mean to tell me that these numbers aren’t finished! And this meeting is in less than an hour?” His demeanor was calm but the sheer venom in his voice was enough to bring you to your knees. He poked his cheek with his tongue and gave a mean smile in your direction. “I mean it, l/n you’re on thin ice. But if those numbers aren’t corrected then you’re fired.”

“Yes sir.” You gulped as you watched him take heavy steps towards his office. You were in deep shit now. San rubbed his chin as he tried to remain calm and not fire you on the spot. Out of all the times you could have missed up, you decided now was the perfect time. Messing up these numbers would make other investors think that this company cannot handle the responsibility of simply matching numbers. This mistake could completely tank the company and put everyone here out of a job.

Fifty five minutes have passed and investors from other companies are already showing up at the doors. And here he was sitting at the head of the table empty handed, and it was all your fault. It was your fault for not refreshing that damn email, for not paying closer attention to the numbers, for simply not giving it your all. And now it’s going to be your fault that the entire company crumbles and falls straight into the depths below.

“So San, when is this meeting going to officially begin?” Questioned one of the many associates as he leaned back against the velvet chair. A smile bright on his face as if he didn’t care to wait a moment or two for it to begin. But, on the other hand, the leader of the meeting was so furious he could start foaming at the mouth. Because guess what crucial piece of information still wasn’t on his desk.

“We will begin momentarily if my secretary would get her head out of her ass and bring them those god damn numbers.” San spoke with a soft smile on his face. The look he gave the men was a completely different tone from the words he just spoke. Those words help fury and degradation but his smile was so bright it could light up a room or cause someone’s heart to flutter out of their chest. But at this moment all of those men knew at this moment San was anything, but happy.

The sound of the doorknob being yanked on caught everyone’s attention. Their heads jolted towards the cause of the noise as they watched you fiddled with the dozens of papers in her hand. Your smile was uneasy as you tried to reorganize them on your way towards the head of the table. They watched your clammy hands shake with fear as San ripped the paper from your hands. Judging by the way you quickly held your pointed and middle finger they could only guess what happened.

“Why the hell are you still standing here? Do I need to draw you a picture and make it clear that you’re done here?” San scolded as he shoved you a bit and forced you to walk to the door. Fumbling over your own two feet and almost hitting the floor head on at one point. But he didn’t care, because all he wanted to do right now was get this meeting over with. With a final shove and a quick slam of the glass door, he swiftly turned back around to be met with very difficult to decipher expressions.

“Well now that all distractions are gone, let’s get down to business.”

—

Your face was flushed and you could feel your hands start to shake. From the mere interaction with the stupid CEO. The vivid picture of his icy eyes and cold stare were burned into your brain, as his words pounded in your skull without mercy. The man practically belittled you, in a room full of successful CEOs who now probably think you’re a joke.

“Hey, don't worry yourself sick. It was an honest mistake.” Hongjoong consoled you as he eyed your shaken form. The tearful eyes and the constant bouncing of your leg was a dead giveaway of the way you felt at this moment. And he wanted nothing more than to just say everything will be okay, that everything is going to be just fine. But he can’t, because who knows what the jerk will do you do considering your almost costed him a deal.

“Do you think he’ll fire me?” The question hung in the air with such heaviness that it was almost hard to breathe. The thought of losing this job was sending you into a whirlwind of erratic emotions. If this job is gone, there goes the ability to afford your car, hell there goes the ability to afford the damn apartment you’re living in at this moment. You’ll lose eveything, if you’re cut off.

“He better not, and trust me if he ever does, I would be more than happy to have you on my team.” A new man smiled brightly in your direction as he made his way over to your desk. He wasn’t an unfamiliar face around the office as he and Mr.Choi have done business deals of many kinds in the past. “It would truly be an honor to have someone like you working at Jeon Marketing.”

A small smile took over your face as you eyed the man in front of you. Mr.Jeon was an extremely well known CEO in this business, and he’s not too much older than Mr.Choi. You’re genuinely surprised these men are allies in this type of business, if anything you thought they’d be enemies. “Thank you for such kind words, but trust me your opinion on me may change soon.”

“Nonsense, I’ve seen the way you handle situations at this company, especially time crunched ones. I can tell just by looking at your face you stayed up hours just to make sure his numbers were perfect.” Mr Jeon stated as he leaned forward on the desk and clapped his hand together. “And truth be told I wouldn’t mind having such a beautiful face be the face of my company.”

His compliment left you stumped as you eyed his face. The tone he held was lighthearted because he knew this stressful situation needed a little laughter, but you knew from the look on his face he was being serious. About both of his statements. Before you could form a response, he long fingers were reaching into his jacket pocket. “I promise, if you ever need anything. I’m just a call away.”

“His top rival and best friend just offered you a sweet ass deal, are you gonna take it?”

You truly didn’t know the answer to that. I mean on one hand you have your secretary job here, and it pays well. The boss may be a pain in the ass, but it’s the only thing keeping you afloat. And you know that these two companies are neck and neck right now for the top spot, so it’s hard to decipher just how much he’s willing to pay you. But would there be any harm in simply asking the man?

“I’m not gonna lie and say it doesn’t intrigue me, but at the same time I don’t wanna leave you all alone.” You mumbled as you tapped away at the computer keys. Just trying to find any small amount of information about his company. But only mere surface information popped up in the search box. “Would it be a bad thing if I did leave?”

“Sometimes trying something new is good thing, but it really all depends on how you feel. And I have a friend that works there and she told me she makes over 250k a year.” Hongjoong shrugged his shoulders as he stood up to leave. His soft eyes giving a sense of comfort as he started to walk away. “I promise whatever option you pick, you’ll be fine.”

A heavy huff of air passed through your lips as you tried to think of the right answer. If he was right you’d make just a little bit more working for him and he genuinely seems like a nicer boss in general. So the real question is what’s keeping you tied to this job? The only perk about this job is working with Hongjoong and he’s the main reason why you’ve stuck around this long. The men from before were now exiting San’s offer with bright smiles on their faces, and you could only conclude that those numbers truly were the right ones. But just as your eyes leave their smiles you’re met with someone who has the complete opposite expression.

He briskly walked towards you and hastily cleared his throat. The stone cold expression he was supporting made a shiver go down your spine. Without a second thought he grabbed your hand and hauled you off in the direction of his office, with his nails piercing the skin of your wrist. Within a second he shoved you into his office and slammed the door behind him.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” His stern voice echoed in the office. Bouncing off the walls left and right and continuing to bounce inside your skull. The fingernails that were pressing into your skin felt like sharp needles protruding into you. You could have sworn you saw blood pass through his fingers. “Answer me!”

“I’m sorry! But I don’t understand what you’re talking about.” You panicked as you tried to yank your arm away from his hardened grasp. Those eyes of his start to terrify you the longer you stay in his touch. But he wasn’t letting you get away if anything the more you struggled against him the tighter his hold got.

“I saw that dumb fucker hand you his card, and for some unknown reason you took it. So what that’s it, you’re just gonna fucking leave after everything I’ve done for you?” He spat words at you left and right. Not bothering to back up any of his claims. He speaks as if he’s given you pure gold to walk but in reality all he’s given you is eggshells. You have to be careful around you, you’re never treated well, and he wants to sit up on his throne and act as if he’s treated you like royalty?

“If anything you’ve given me shit! You’re treating me like crap any chance you get, I made one mistake and your response to that is belittling me in front of other people!” You shouted back with just as much venom as he has done to you. With a final yank from your arm, you relaxed yourself from his grip. Tired of his antics you looked him dead in the eyes and spoke. “And so what if I take his offer, he’d be a better boss than you ever were!”

“I mean it, L/n, you take that deal and I’ll make your life a living hell.” He threatened as he got closer and closer. His minty breath fanned your face slightly as he harshly grabbed your chin. “Trust me, this is one bet you’ll regret taking if you leave.”

“I’ll take that damn bet any day.” You tried to push his chest back but he was stronger than you. What surprised you the most was the cackle-like laugh that passed through his lips. A wide smile taking over his face and that somehow made the situation more sinister.

“I warned you, Y/n.”

[trillian-anders]

the assistant

pairing: ransom drysdale x reader

warnings: violence, angst, fluff, smut && SPOILERS

word count: 6.8k

description: part 1 of 5. CONTAINS MAJOR SPOILERS, PLEASE DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVE NOT WATCHED THE FILM. you’ve been working for the thrombeys for four years now, the last three years of your service being a glorified babysitter to the most annoying, self-absorbed, dickhead hugh ransom drysdale.

You wanted to smack that dumb smirk off his stupid dumb face. 

Hugh Ransom Drysdale. The bane of your fucking existence. Standing there with that stupid fucking smirk on his face, he fucking loved this. Watching as you cleaned up his mess. A crying girl on his doorstep and you, his assistant (aka babysitter), trying to calm her down enough to get her to leave his house. This dumb contemporary floor to ceiling windowed, minimalist, empty souled house. The girl had been picked up at a bar last night. Charmed by his handsome face, the money he was careless to spend, the way he spoke to you like you were the most beautiful thing in the world. 

It was a fucking joke. A trick. You’ve seen it a million times and you’d be willing you bet that you’d see it a million more. 

The door blocked her view of him, your clear view of him from the side, sipping on a mug of coffee in his hands and fucking smirking. 

“He won't even see me?” You hated when they cried. Like each of them had this idea that they’d go home with Ransom Drysdale and fuck him so good that he’d tie them to his bed and never let them leave or something. 

You sighed heavily before replying, “Mr. Drysdale has business to attend to, he’s unavailable at the moment, but I can leave him a message if you’d like?” You did this maybe five or six times a week. In the early morning hours, after his sexual escapade and some rest, Ransom would wake early and leave for the gym. In that time you were supposed to ‘take out the trash’ as he described it. This morning, the girl left dazed and confused in the fog taking an uber back to her home, but returning an hour later trying to plead her case. It was giving you a migraine. 

The girl stepped back from the porch, shoes crunching against the gravel as she searched the windows for his face. “FUCK YOU RANSOM.” She shouted, flipping the bird into the air. The man hiding to your right, choked on his coffee in laughter as you watched the girl get back into her car and disappear from sight. 

“What's on the agenda today Ransom,” You shut the door quietly, turning to face him, “Because if I have to do that again tomorrow I’ll quit.” He scoffed in indignation. 

“You’re not gonna quit,” He drained the rest of his mug, “You can’t even leave the house long as you got that.” He gestured towards your leg. Sitting firmly on your right ankle was a house arrest bracelet. One meant for him, but carefully bribed into being put on your own leg. The stupid son of a bitch got away with murder, after the death of his late Grandfather’s housekeeper by his own hand and the attempted murder of the girl that got the entire Thrombey fortune, he stayed the lucky son of a bitch he had been his entire life. 

Evidence was mishandled, not enough proof. That whole, ‘beyond reasonable doubt’ thing. The rich asshole got fucking house arrest and court mandated therapy. Even after there were three fucking witnesses to him attempting to murder Marta Cabrera. 

Money oiled the gears of the justice system, letting the trust fund baby slip through without consequence. That’s where you come in. 

You worked for the Thrombey’s before. As a tutor to Meg when she began to fail her english class. For whatever reason, Lynda and Richard Drysdale liked you, assigned you a new task. Their sweet baby boy Hugh, called Ransom by everyone but the Help. You’ve worked for Ransom for three years now. The first year before the death of his Grandfather and Thrombey patriarch, and now two years after his death and wouldn’t you know it. Hugh Ransom Drysdale wrote a fucking bestseller. 

Everyone wanted an insight into this family. Harlan Thrombey always said there was so much of him in Ransom. He wasn’t lying. 

Ransom wrote the first of what you knew would be many new Thrombey family murder mystery novels. And he was reaping in the cash. He was two months away from his next big release. Something you’re sure would fly off the shelves just as quickly as the first. 

“Don’t worry,” He said, “I’ve got a deadline to meet.” His coffee mug abandoned by the front door for you to clean up, he left you to officially start your day. He retreated into the study he created for himself to crank out the last four chapters he needed for his book, maybe. 

Due to circumstances beyond your control, you were the one placed on house arrest. As long as no one was notified that Ransom left the perimeter of the house you were being paid well, and you being paid well meant your younger sister gets taken care of. You were able to send her money every month to help with the fact that she was staying with an estranged aunt. It hadn’t been easy once your mother died, but the Thrombey’s lighten the load so to say. 

That’s why you were washing Ransom’s sheets that reeked of sex, picking up and disposing of torn panties and tossing used condoms the fucking dick couldn’t be bothered enough to toss two more feet into the trash can in his on-suite. You’d invested in rubber gloves. 

On days that Ransom had to meet with his probation officer he would wear a dummy bracelet. It got him by and soon the fucker would be over and done with house arrest all together. You’d be able to move back home then. Hopefully. 

“Ransom, you ever gonna eat today?” You knocked on the open door of his study, bringing his attention from his computer to you, who held a bowl of pasta in your one hand. He sighed, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his eyes. There were multicolored post-its surrounding his computer. Your mind made the connection with how similar it was to his Grandfather’s own workspace. You gently placed the bowl on his desk, turning to pour him a tumbler of whiskey from the small bar in the corner of the room. 

“I don’t know how the old bastard ever cranked out two books a year,” His neck cracked. “How is that even possible?” He took a large bite of the pasta, squinting at the screen. His eyes quickly shifted to yours, watching you set down the glass of whiskey in front of him. He grabbed your wrist. “Stay.” It was an order. “Sit.” You took your place in a chair across from him. 

“Harlan wrote every day,” You told him, “You write whenever you’re not off sticking your dick into anything that breathes.” He laughed at that. 

“Not everything that breathes,” He typed a few more words into the word document, “I haven’t fucked you yet.” Your core pulsed, he said yet. 

Audibly you scoffed, “I would never willingly fuck you Ransom.” You pulled your legs up onto the chair to make yourself comfortable. He smirked at that, eyes not leaving the computer screen. 

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” That stupid smirk. You hated that fucking smirk. So condescending. 

When you first met Ransom you were probably very much like the girls that you now pry out of his bed at 8 am. You had been tutoring Meg at the family home, sitting at the kitchen table going over Othello when he sauntered in, digging through the cabinets for snacks. You could feel Meg tense up next to you and that’s when he turned. He was so fucking pretty. Blue eyes, well kept hair, cashmere sweater, those broad fucking shoulders, and on his face, stretching that full bottom lip you wanted to tug between your teeth, was a smirk. 

That pulsing throb between your thighs soon was quickly forgotten as he opened his mouth and began to speak, “How’s it going Meg, trouble reading? Or do they not teach you how to read when you’re a liberal? Lord knows you guys never fucking understand anything anyway.” Meg snapped back at him, but you were stunned. You could tell he said that on purpose, knowing it would make her go off on the tangent he was now, finding a sick pleasure in it. That was the first time you’d seen the smirk. You’d lost count of how many times you’ve seen it since then. 

“I really hate you Ransom.” You sighed, sinking further into your chair. He had almost finished off the bowl of pasta by now, whiskey long since emptied. He thinks it’s funny, you hating him because he responds looking you in your eyes, maintaining his smirk, 

“I know you do baby.” He liked to do that. Call you pet names. Once he had even pretended you were his wife when you accidentally walked in on him and a girl he had been balls deep in, bent over the back of the couch. He fucking LOVED that one. The girl had cried, embarrassed, apologizing as she picked her bra up from the floor and slunk out the front door behind you. That was a while ago. Pre-Murder. You should have seen it then. How insane he actually was. 

Ransom was incredibly smart and was a quick thinker. It was part of the reason that he had gotten away with murder in the first place. You knew that. It showed in his novel. He would have you read chapters, give him your opinion, before writing and rewriting. Showing you again. He’d ask you if you could figure out who was the murderer, a sinister glint in his eyes, arms crossed, standing above you waiting. He could only be satisfied if you didn’t have a clue. 

It was a gift, you supposed, the ease in which he wrote to make every character a possible suspect in completely new and incredible scenarios. He had three books in various states of completion that he was chipping away at, the one he was currently working on seemingly better than the previous published. 

His Mother, the one who gave him the silver spoon and cursed him for having it his whole life, was suddenly proud of him. His Father, now divorced from his Mother, would come by weekly asking for money. Ransom loved that too. His Dad got nothing due to the prenup, leaving him penniless. The cushy job he had at Lynda’s real estate empire was gone, and now Dad was working at local agency scraping by on low commission. Last week his Father came to the door while Ransom was writing and muscled his way not too kindly past you into the house. 

“Ransom!” He called, finding his way into his son’s study. You quietly shut the door, returning to folding laundry. The door shut tightly behind him and sounds had been muffled. It’s only when their voices went from calm to a screaming match did the door wretch open and Ransom followed his Dad out, both red faced. 

“We’ve given you everything in your fucking life and you can’t even give one iota back.” Ransom opened the front door, gesturing to the porch. 

“Get the fuck out, and don’t come back.” His voice stern and commanding.

“Fuck you Ransom.” With that he was gone. The silence that had settled over the house was thick, Ransom’s hand still resting against the closed door before he took a breath and, without taking a glance in your direction, returned to his study. Closing the door. 

The echo of that argument sat in the house for the rest of the day, Ransom leaving soon after to find a body to lose himself in. If the murder trial did anything, it made Ransom into a bad boy and girls fucking loved it. He wasn’t, technically, guilty after all. 

You attempted to clear the bowl in front of him, but was stopped by his hand. His eyes never left the screen as he brought your hand to his lips, placing a kiss in your palm, before dragging your arm to his other shoulder, hugging himself with it awkwardly until you gave in and wrapped your other arm around him, holding him tightly for a moment. 

He was soft sometimes. His Mom never held him when he was a kid. He was left alone a lot while she was building her empire. Babysitters never stayed long, nannies came and went. Sometimes you truly felt bad for him, other times you remember that he was a dick and that he loved to play tricks and torment anyone and everyone that was supposed to take care of him, including you. The only difference was you weren’t able to leave. 

He let you go soon after that, letting you clean up the mess from dinner and stoke the fire place warming the house that always seemed too cold. As you stood by the fire, arms wrapped around yourself you could feel him behind you, coming to wrap his arms around your waist, leaning his head on your shoulder as you stared into the flames. There was a moment or two of silence as you both stood there. 

If this were any other situation, if Ransom loved you, if this was someone who loved you, if this someone cared enough to care about the things you care about, this would be kind of romantic. But it’s Ransom, and he didn’t care about anyone but himself, he definitely didn’t care about you, and he one hundred percent didn’t care about anything you care about. “I’m going out.” 

His arms left your waist and his chest left your back leaving you cold. “For fucks sake Ransom, I don’t feel like throwing out a girl tomorrow morning.” You turned to watch him throwing his coat on. He smirked. He fucking smirked. 

“I’ll give you a break and throw her out myself then.” And he was gone. 

Hours later you’re woken by the sound of Ransom coming home, sure enough he wasn’t alone. Soft giggles and a bang, he’s shoved her against the wall beside your room. There were muffled groans as you assumed she found her knees right there in the hallway. He got off on this shit, you knew. Often stopping somewhere outside your door to start his sexual escapades. Knowing you were mere feet away, like some half-assed exhibitionism. It wasn’t long after that the girl squealed and there was more muffled talking before they moved to his bedroom. To which you shared a wall. 

Your bedroom, before you were a live-in, housed a bunch of items you believed graced a teen boy’s bedroom walls at one point. And still, shoved in the corner, were playboy model cardboard cutouts, “They’re vintage, mint condition, and worth a lot.” Sure, Ransom, sure they are. Arcade games, framed patriots jerseys, a lacrosse set from his high school days. You were shoved in the middle of it all, a single bed shoved against the wall surrounded by what once was a room full of teenage boy memorabilia. A shrine to his youth. 

The headboard soon came knocking and hope for sleep was lost. The girl’s moans escalating to shrieks. Either he was as good as he says, or these girls really care about his ego. Either could be true when there’s more than one comma in your bank account. 

The kitchen was much quieter. A steady rocking still came from upstairs, but thankfully it was muffled by the floor. As you made a cup of tea you figured you would see if he had printed off a new chapter ready for you to read. You hope he wouldn’t have gone out without finishing it anyway. 

You were not sure why you cared to be honest. You had this love/hate for Ransom. He was an annoying prick who did something really fucking horrible, but he also made it very clear to everyone involved that you had nothing to do with it. There was a scary moment there, after his arrest, when you were brought to the station for interrogation. You hadn’t known he had even gotten up to any of these crimes. He kept you completely in the dark and he was sure to let his arresting officers know that. You hadn’t even seen him since the night Harlan died when he left the party stranding you at the estate. 

Money does crazy things to people. The threat of his steady income leaving was enough to push him to do something crazy. He was lucky enough that the recorded confession magically was erased. He was lucky for dirty cops. He was lucky that even though his mother despised his lifestyle she didn’t want him to go to prison. He was so lucky. Now with his first novel sitting highly on the bestseller list, he seemed even more lucky than he did before. 

His study was on the opposite side of the house from his bedroom, muffling the sounds enough for you to flip through the packet left on top of his keyboard. Three chapters away from completion you were following the detective through paces where things felt more confusing than ever, the clues were unclear and there was not much to go on, but the tension between the eldest son of the victim and his ex-wife were mounting and it was hard to believe that maybe this guy had nothing to do with it despite what was described as an ‘air-tight’ alibi. You read through the chapter twice, scribbling your thoughts in red pen along the margins. 

“What do you think?” You jumped in your chair, looking up to see Ransom in the doorway. 

“You scared the shit out of me,” Your hand still clutching your chest. He had a glass of water in his hand, chest bare, solid navy pajama pants slung low on his hips. His chest hair always got you, just a little bit. He tugged his bottom lip between his teeth and pushed off the door jam to walk into the room, taking a seat in the chair you occupied hours ago. “It’s good,” you cleared your throat, “I’m not sure how much longer I can wait for you to finish to be honest.” He chuckled softly. 

“Let me see.” You handed him the packet and his eyes scanned the margins, reading your comments. They were mostly reactions, that’s what he liked. He wanted to know how you reacted to everything he put in front of you, did you like the romance, the tension, the lust he was trying to write between the ex-husband and wife? Or was it too distracting from the plot? Is the detective too unbelievable? He’s a character for sure. Can you figure out whodunnit yet?

“What are you doing out of bed?” You asked, spinning the chair side to side, waiting for him to put the packet down. 

“I told you I was going to kick her out.” He took another sip from his water. You scoffed, 

“And you couldn’t start doing this sooner?” A smile stretched his lips,

“I like how much it bothers you.” 

“It’s annoying,” you said, “Worst way to start my day.” He laughed. 

“That’s the only reason?” He asked, throwing the packet back on the desk, leaning back in his chair. Smirking. 

“You’re such an asshole, you know that?” You pushed back from the desk, moving to exit the room. He quickly grabbed your wrist, tugging you over to his side where he looked up at you, 

“If you wanna take their place, just let me know.” Your other hand came up to smack him on his shoulder, causing him to laugh as he released you, letting you take your exit. 

“Dick.” 

You found him the next morning at his desk, looking as though he had very little sleep. “Babe could you get me some coffee?” You yawned in the doorway, 

“Sure.” It didn’t take long before you were setting the cup in front of him. “Your therapist is coming by at one.” He nodded, not looking up from his computer. “I’ll come get you when it’s time for you to get ready.” 

He was focused. You weren’t sure where this focus came from. It was every once in a while that he would find this stroke of inspiration and write for a whole day straight. Hopefully he will be finished his book before schedule and be able to get ahead for the next one. 

Soon he was washed, dressed, and ready for the one person he dreads the most. He hated therapy sessions. There were only ten more he needed to do before the court mandate was over. Ten more weeks until you were able to get this lovely ankle bracelet off when you would hopefully be able to go back to the routine you had with him before. Where you’d sleep in your own shitty apartment and show up to work a 9 to 9 five days a week. 

After sessions he was always moody, quiet, and tended to need his favorite single malt restocked the next day. Not exactly in line with how he should be tending to whatever revelation the therapist has been streamlining him to, but that wasn’t any of your business. You could say though that during the last 42 weeks of sessions this refractory period was shortening to less and less time, maybe tonight you won't be peeling him off the floor of the study and dragging him up to his room drunk off his ass. 

While in the session you were trying not to listen in on, you were sunk heavily on the living room couch, drinking coffee and reading the latest chapter he had slapped into your hands before entering back into his study. The book was so close to being finished, the last two chapters leading you to the big reveal and aftermath. The climax was steady taking hold and you were more sure than ever that the eldest son had something to do with it. You didn’t know what he did, but it was something. 

He looked mad enough to kill as the Doctor left. Slamming the door, barely missing the Doctor’s jacket sleeve as he made his hasty retreat. Ransom stood seething for a moment by the front door, a chill running down your spine. He had murdered someone before, something you try to forget seeing as you are forced to spend so much time with him. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. It felt like an hour before he moved. 

“I’m going out.” The words spoken sternly as he stomped his way up the stairs like a petulant child, returning moments later, cleaned up, eyes blank, before grabbing his coat and slamming the door loud enough to make you jump. 

Aside from Ransom’s Mother never being around and aside from his Father’s string of extramarital affairs and aside from his Grandfather’s need to push him in every direction but close, you wish you could say that Ransom had a good childhood. But he didn’t. When he was little the kids picked on him for being rich, and when he was bigger they only became friends with him because he was rich. He was such a bully. At least, that’s what his Mother told you once drunk off chardonnay at his birthday dinner last year. 

Disappointment. 

That was a clear sentiment for the small family get together, and by small family get together you meant the dinner you cooked and Ransom looking like he’d rather be in prison than listen to his parents bicker over his Father’s new (Not so new seeing as he’d been caught kissing her by a PI before Harlan’s death) girlfriend. She was smart enough not to come. 

This night was looking a lot like that one. Ransom, after his parents left and you began to tidy up, began to scream at you. 

“What gave you the fucking right you dumb bitch?” He was spitting, face red as you cleared the dishes. “You’re only here for the money. The fucking money. How much is she paying you huh?” The bottle of expensive whiskey he had been drinking throughout the night was in his hand, swinging it around and taking pulls straight from the bottle. “Not enough obviously because you would have let me fuck you a long time ago.” 

Your face flushed red as your own anger began to rise. He continued, “Never, ever, fucking again will you allow my parents in this house, do you understand me?” His unoccupied hand grabbed your arm tight enough to bruise, turning you to face him. His eyes wild and unfocused. “I said do you understand me?” You not so gently wretched your arm from his. 

“Don’t touch me.” He always fucking did this. Blamed you for things you had no control over. Lynda approached you about a dinner for Ransom’s birthday. It was her name in your paystubs. You can’t say no. 

“How dare you-” He began, but was cut short.

“No Ransom. No.” Like scolding a fucking dog who put his paws on the table. You threw the bowl you currently had in your hands into the sink, turning to fully face him. “I am only here for the money and I am only here because your Mother pays me a lot to be here.” His jaw clenched. “But I’m also here because I’m the only fucking person who even remotely cares about your ungrateful prissy spoiled ass and if it wasn’t for me you’d be sitting in this fucking glass house, alone, with only your own self-righteous attitude to keep you company. So don’t you ever touch me like that again. Do you understand?” 

He loudly clunked the bottle onto the kitchen island, stumbling in your direction as you backed yourself into the sink. His trial had just concluded two weeks ago, Fran’s murder fresh on your mind and you wondered if you just made a terrible mistake. Over the course of this rant, the alcohol was sinking into his bloodstream, it turned his anger into a crippling depression. One that resulted in his hands softly grasping your shoulders, and tugging you into his body. His face found your neck and slowly started to grow damp with what you realized were his tears. 

Your heart broke a bit, too much empathy, even for this asshole. Your arms came to wrap around his shoulders, letting him cry it out. 

That was the first and only time you saw Ransom cry over anything. If he hadn’t been as drunk as he was you knew that moment would never have happened. The sweet little moment that made your heart ache was quickly gone the next morning when Ransom made you coffee and thought it would be hilarious that after you thanked him for being so sweet he joked that he poisoned it. You could still recall the cackles of laughter as you spit your coffee into the sink. 

That was the day he began writing his first novel. 

He came home alone tonight which was strange. And far earlier than normal. You usually were in bed, or holed up in his study by the time he arrived him after a night out. Staying out of his way as he drug a bubbly hopeful girl up to his bed to satisfy his own needs for the night. He found you tonight, sitting outside, watching Netflix on your tablet by the firepit you had decided to light, a hot cup of tea sitting on the end table next to you. Cozy and wrapped in a blanket. 

You could feel his eyes on you from the doorway. You tapped the screen, pausing your show and turned to look at him. His hair was slightly mussed, face flushed, and socked toes curling from the chill. He was looking at you strangely. 

“You’re home early.” You placed the tablet down on the end table, turning to face him. He nodded, crossing his arms and leaning against the door jam. 

“I just needed a drive.” There was a soft smile on his face, well that’s new. 

“Is everything okay?” He never tells you anything, but the sentiment matters. He looked to his feet, nodding. 

“I’m probably going to try to stay up and finish the book tonight.” He shifted himself back into the house, your voice calling out to him, 

“Come sit out here for a bit. It’s calming, just take a break from thinking for a minute.” He sighed and looked at you again, debating something in his head. 

“I need to be alone.” You tried anyway. He disappeared from sight. And that was that. 

The next day Ransom began acting even more strangely. The book was finished, the last two chapters handed wordlessly to you as he left for the gym on what you’re assuming was no sleep. That wasn’t the strange part. The strange part was when he returned three hours later bearing a box of donuts from your favorite bakery and two lattes, on his face was a smile. 

“What did you do?” You accused, “Did you poison this?” You gestured towards the latte he placed in your hand. 

“No.” He laughed, sliding the box of donuts to you. You stared at him skeptically before taking a sip. Tastes normal. 

“Are you sick?” Your wrist coming to lay across his forehead, temperature feels fine. 

“No.” He laughed again, pulling your wrist from his forehead and kissing your palm before opening the box of donuts, pulling a cinnamon sugar donut to his lips. “You just told me the other day how you missed these and I figured since I passed the shop on the way back it wouldn’t hurt to go pick some up.” It was suspicious. You continued to look at him skeptically. He sighed, placing the donut on the counter, grabbing the latte from your hand he took a large sip of it. “I didn’t fucking poison you Y/N.” 

Okay.

Okay. You examined the box of donuts, pulling out the bear claw that was begging to be eaten. Still warm. You moaned in delight as soon as the warm pastry hit your taste buds. You really had missed these. Opening your eyes, you saw Ransom staring blankly at you before his eyes shifted to the packet by your side. 

“All finished?” You swallowed and nodded, sliding the packet marked with red over to him and as he began to study your notes you tried to think about what could have possibly gotten him in such a good mood. The Doctor’s visit was odd enough. Yes he was angry when the Doctor left, but then just a drive? Not a blackout drunk, bringing two girls home to pleasure himself with and accidentally falling into a line or two of coke night, but a drive? 

Maybe therapy had been working? Maybe he had a breakthrough? He finished the novel. The eldest son had something to do with it, his airtight alibi just that, a cover for the crime having been committed at a different time than the coroner’s estimated time frame due to him freezing the body and allowing it to thaw in the house. 

You had asked Harlan how he came up with such incredible stories once. He said they just popped into his head fully formed, his brain moving faster than his fingers. He kept a little notebook with good ideas and would simmer in them as long as it took for a stroke of inspiration. The rest was just typing. 

He smirked at some of your comments, ‘what a fucking joke’ you wrote next to the eldest son’s monologue about being passed over, his whining, annoying, self centered crying about how life wasn’t fair. 

“What’s the smirk for?” You asked, removing the lid of your latte and dipping part of the bear claw in it. 

“The lack of sympathy for Greg.” You scoffed and rolled your eyes. 

“He’s a fucking loser.” Ransom’s eyes met yours, “I bet you see a lot of yourself in him.” That made him laugh. 

“What? You don’t like spoiled rich men?” He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms in front of his chest. You rolled your eyes, taking another sip from the milky sweet latte you didn’t know would feel like your life’s blood right now. 

“I think you know the answer to that.” 

“I think you find me endearing.” Ransom smirked. Your neck flushed. 

“I find you annoying,” You admitted. “I only put up with you because of my paycheck.” He licked his lips.

“Sure,” He closed the packet, pushing it aside to take another bite of the donut, cinnamon sugar dusting his lips. “You put up with me because you’re secretly in love with me, but you know that I would never get with The Help.” This made you laugh. 

“If you want me to be the Help I’ll gladly call you Hugh if it means you leave me alone.” He placed his paper cup on the counter, circling around to you. 

“I like when you call me Hugh.” His hands came to rest on your upper arms, grinning. 

“You’re disgusting.” He laughed at the clear displeasure on your face, spinning your stool around to him, and you leaned back, creating some distance as he came to stand between your legs. 

“You don’t mean that do you baby?” His fingers toying with the ends of your hair. You could feel your nipples harden in excitement, body betraying you. A wet growing between your legs. 

“Ransom what are you doing?” You said in exasperation. You weren’t blind. Ransom was gorgeous. You’d maybe, possibly, gotten off to the thought of him once or twice or maybe more than that in the four years you’ve known him. But he was also a scumbag who fucks and then throws girls out hours later. His moods were hot and cold. He had major Mommy issues and he’s not technically guilty of murder, but he’s a fucking murderer. But also… he’s been going to therapy and after that fight on his birthday last year he’s never laid a hand on you in anger again, there’s been some arguments sure, but he’s mostly nice to you. Caring even. 

“Why don’t you love me Y/N?” His voice almost came out as a whine. He was playing with you. 

“Ransom stop.” You pushed him away gently. He was fucking smirking. 

“Usually there’s a ‘don’t’ in front of that.” Cocky bastard. 

“You’re the worst person I know. And I hate that fucking smirk.” You picked at your now cold bear claw, trying to turn from him. 

“Why don’t you wipe it off my face then?” Your eyes met his and you glared. 

“What’s gotten into you today? Maybe you should go out early. Find some girl to satisfy whatever you’re going through right now.” His hands met your hips, spinning your stool back around to face him. 

“What if I want you to satisfy whatever I’m going through right now.” His groin fit right up against your core and you could feel his throbbing heat between your legs. Fuck. 

“Don’t make this mistake Ransom.” You placed one hand gently on his chest, attempting (but not really) to push him back. His forehead coming to rest against yours. “You don’t want this.”

“This is the only thing I’ve ever really wanted.” His breath mingled with yours, sweet, cinnamon and coffee. 

“You’re not thinking straight.” His lips brushed against yours, tongue coming out to wet his lips, his eyes locked with yours. Why weren’t you pushing him away? Your breath hitched as his tongue accidentally grazed your bottom lip. 

“The only clarity I’ve ever had in my life has been when I’m with you.”

His lips pressed heavily against yours, pushing you back against your bedroom door as his hand came to tangle in your hair. He was all consuming, body hot and heavy against yours. Your core was thrumming with want, moisture pooling in the crotch of your yoga pants. His hips were rolling into yours and you could feel the hard length of him against your belly. His lips quickly moved across your jaw to your neck and you could hear yourself moaning softly as he licked, sucked, and nibbled on the sensitive skin below your ear. Your hands clenching the soft material of the t-shirt by his hips, dipping your fingers slowly into the waistband of his shorts. 

His lips parted from your neck, hand tilting your head back so he could look into your eyes before taking your mouth once more. His mouth moved down this time to the tops of your breasts, hands leaving to shift the thick wool cardigan off your shoulders and onto the floor before dropping the straps of your camisole and exposing them to the air, nipples already pebbled in excitement. 

You hadn’t dated in a while, unable to because of your paid house arrest and before that the way Ransom had worked you to the bone picking up after him. And the touch from someone else always felt better than your own. His hands felt huge on you, protecting. 

Your head met the door as he enveloped your right nipple in his mouth, rolling the sensitive bud on his tongue until he felt the left neglected, and switched, beginning to toy with your right nipple between his finger tips. Moans and heavy breaths were the only sounds in the hallway as Ransom made his way down your body, slipping your yoga pants and panties off your hips as he found his knees before you. 

“Ransom-” 

“Shhhhh,” He pressed his lips against your naval, working his way to your trembling core. His hand lifted your right thigh, draping it over his shoulder as his eyes focused in on your, what you knew must be soaking, wet pussy. His eyes met yours from his knees, your legs trembling with anticipation, eyes locked as his pink tongue came to meet your pussy for the first time, a shuddering breath being released from you urged him on further. 

His thick fingers spread your lips open, exposing your clit to his gentle assault. A building pleasure in your core as his tongue began to skillfully work, pulling moans from your mouth. How was he so good at this? Experimenting with different strokes, different pressure, finding what you like. 

“Just like that, oh my god.” He rolled his tongue against your clit, eyes finding yours once more, keeping pace. You could see the corner of his mouth pull up in a smirk as he began to work you up to climax. “You’re such a fucking asshole, I hate that fucking smirk.” Head hitting back against the door as he used his fingers to tease your opening. “Oh my god.” Your hips bucked against his face, causing him to use the arm currently wrapped around your thigh to splay open on your abdomen, holding your hips still. The wet noises and soft grunts from the man between your thighs only caused you to grow closer to your release. 

“You taste so fucking good baby,” moaned between your thighs. 

“Don’t fucking stop.” You scolded. So close. So fucking close. He obeyed, continuing his assault on your dripping pussy, fingers entering your tight channel to stroke against your sensitive walls. He buried his face further into your pussy, nose coming to rest in the soft curls there as he watched you come undone. Your moans escalating in volume as you felt your body tighten with pleasure, hips begging to buck against his face as he rode you through it. He continued to lick and suck on your clit until your hands found his head, pushing him away, legs shaking as you dropped against the door, knees coming to rest around his body. 

That fucking smirk, “How was that?” He asked, face glistening with your cum. 

“Fuck you Ransom.” And he fucking laughed the bastard. What a fucking dick. He brought his face back to yours, gently claiming your lips. The tang of your pussy ever present as you felt him consume you. Your heart was still racing as he picked you up from the floor, bringing you into his bedroom and ever so gently laying you down on the sheets you had just changed two hours ago. 

His eyes were shifting between yours, a strange expression on his face. 

“You can’t kick me out tomorrow Ransom,” Your breathing was heavy as he began to work at your neck, his hands going to remove his gym shorts. “I can’t leave.” He pressed his lips back to yours as you felt him rub the tip of his dick against your clit, your body shaking with over-stimulation. It felt so intimate. Before, his eyes on yours as he brought you over with his tongue and now as he slowly enters you, stretching your walls with his thick cock, eyes not breaking contact he sighs,

“I think you’re the only person I’ve ever loved.” 

[everamazingfe]

The Kumbaya Approach

Fic Summary: Trevor is the captain of his own ship and is in need of a new pilot when his old one abandons the crew. Fortunately, his trusty engineer Gavin knows of a good one. Unfortunately, the cargo he brings along with him is a little more dangerous than they anticipated. 

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

Words: 15113 Pairings: Michael/Jeremy, Trevor/Alfredo Warnings: Mild descriptions of violence and blood

Notes: This was written for the Secret Springfairy fic exchange in the @rtwritingcommunity discord for @doolray! This was a ton of fun to write, I hope you enjoy, and big thanks to @fornhaus for proofreading/editing! Check the source for a link to read it on A 0 3!

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

“What do you mean you quit?” 

“I mean I quit. I’m done with this bucket of bolts. Every day there’s a new problem, a new critical failure, a new busted part, and I’m sick of it! What kind of commander can’t get a handle on his own ship?”

“Hey! Those problems aren’t my fault, it’s the-”

“-The ship’s AI, right. Heard that one a thousand times. But they’re part of the crew, too. Which means they’re your responsibility. And if you can’t keep them under control and keep your ship in shape, I’m out of here at the next port.” 

The arguments had gone on like this for several days, nearly a week now, and it was the same thing every time. Jeremy would yell about how he was sick of being on the ship and lay down blame for its problems, and Trevor would defend himself against the barrage of insults instead of trying to change the other’s mind. He knew that was a futile effort, and he knew better than to fight losing battles.

The pair were silent for a long time, staring each other down. Jeremy was looking for a reason to get more wound up, to start yelling all over again. Telling off his commander for mistakes that everyone had seemingly let slide for far too long felt really good, and he wanted to keep going. Meanwhile, Trevor was calming down and calculating his next move very carefully. It was fine if his crew wanted to question his authority, they did it plenty and he never took it personally. But as far as he was concerned, Jeremy was no longer crew and no longer privy to that same mercy. After all, he’d quit.

“Fine. You can empty your quarters out and sleep in the observation deck, then. You’re no longer a member of this crew, so you no longer get to stay in crew cabins,” he stated after a few long moments, his tone cold. 

Jeremy blinked in surprise, not expecting Trevor to actually do anything about it. “Wait, what?”

“You heard me. You don’t get a room anymore, those are reserved for the crew. If you’re unhappy with that arrangement, I can tell Lindsay to get the airlock open for you.” 

“You know... If I leave, Michael’s gonna go with me. He goes where I go,” he reminded, though he was no longer yelling confidently. He was stumbling and faltering. Trevor had called his bluff effectively, and it was hard to keep up steam. 

“Then you can help each other clean out your quarters and keep each other warm on the deck,” he responded, shrugging casually. “Finding a new science officer will be just as easy as finding a new pilot.”

“And just how do you expect to get to the next port safely?”

Trevor chuckled softly, smiling. “Lindsay is more than equipped with satisfactory navigational skills, isn’t that right Linds?”

The comms system beeped to life, and a cheerful voice was heard over the speakers. “That’s right, Commander! Jack’s charting us a course as we speak. We’ll be on our way shortly.”

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

There was some truth to Lindsay’s words. They were equipped with the best-in-the-market autopilot functionality, but Jack was not charting a course. The entirety of the crew was gathered around a large monitor in the communications bay, watching the whole ordeal unfold through Lindsay’s eyes. There were bets on how it would end. Most of the money was on it ending in blows at this point. 

“Like hell I’m going with him!” Michael shouted, waving his hands and scoffing in disbelief as he looked at the screen. “I’m not idiot enough to throw away a good job when I’ve got it. I mean, sure the place is a shithole, no offense Linds-” 

“None taken.”

“-But like… It’s not like we have to do anything. If I try and find another crew, they may make me do actual work! Can you imagine? I am not going anywhere.”

“I don’t think he’s going to give you a choice,” Jack said from beside him, the others all nodding in agreement. “I think you’re gonna have to go with him.” 

Michael huffed, rolling his eyes and turning up the volume on the terminal. “If there’s one thing you fuckers should’ve learned about me right now, it’s this: I don’t have to do shit. Especially not for my boyfriend.” 

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

Jeremy grumbled to himself as he packed up his things. Michael was, of course, no help. He just stood in the doorway and spectated, making snide remarks when he saw fit. 

“You know, I’d really appreciate it if you could be on my side with this,” Jeremy said, balling up a shirt and throwing it at him. “Or at the very least, help me pack.”

Michael laughed, knocking away the shirt before it hit him in the face. “Fuck no, you dug this hole yourself. I’m not the moron who quit.”

“This place is a shithole and you know it.”

“Yeah, but you never have to fix any of it! You just have to sit there in your comfy pilot chair and wait for Gavin to do it.” Had Michael always been a little jealous of his boyfriend’s job? A little bit. The med bay was cold and unwelcoming, but the cockpit was cushy and warm. Plus, with Lindsay on board, the pilot didn’t really have to do much at all unless their systems went down. Which, to be fair, did happen a lot. “You pilots are always so snooty. You knew what you were getting into when you took this gig, you can’t expect it to be like the Ritz now.”

“Just fucking go,” Jeremy muttered, swiping up the last of his clothes from the floor. “Don’t even bother visiting, either.” The comment hurt them both, but that didn’t make him mean it any less. He didn’t want Michael to visit, he wanted him to stay at the port with him. 

The other just laughed heartily and shook his head, turning on his heel to leave. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

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

The observation deck was, as it always was, cold and lonely. The warm blankets and fluffy pillows that were on his bed were technically part of the quarters he had previously taken residence in, so all Jeremy had to sleep on was the metal floor, cushioned by his clothing and a few other soft belongings. The things that he owned that were unfit for laying on were stacked around him. The observation deck’s window was huge, and as he laid there unable to sleep, the vastness of space no longer brought him the same comfort it had when he was in the pilot’s seat. 

“Hey, Lindsay?”

The comms beeped to life once more. “Yes, Jeremy?”

“Am I making a mistake?” He asked, sitting up and leaning back against the stack. 

There were a few long seconds of contemplative silence before they spoke again. “Yeah, you are. A huge one, I’d say.”

“That’s not really comforting... I don’t suppose Trevor would be willing to… Reconsider?”

“No, I don’t think so. You insulted the ship. The commander takes that personally.” Lindsay did too, but they figured that Jeremy already felt guilty enough without them piling on as well. 

“C’mon, you know I didn’t mean it.” 

“Do I, though? Because I really don’t think I do,” they stated. Maybe Jeremy didn’t feel as guilty as they had hoped, so their politeness parameters were temporarily suspended. “This is a ship made from stolen parts, what do you expect? For everything to run perfectly all the time? If you wanted that, you should’ve signed up for one of the legal spacefarers out there,” they quipped. If they had eyes, they would have rolled them. 

Jeremy sighed heavily, sinking down the wall and burying his face in his hands. Maybe it wasn’t too late to take Trevor up on that airlock offer, he was sure he’d be happy to oblige.

“Is Michael going with you?” Lindsay asked after a few minutes, breaking the silence and sounding innocent enough. Jeremy couldn’t tell whether they wanted a yes or a no, but there was no use lying to them. They’d seen Jeremy packing alone, his quarters empty while Michael’s were still very much full. 

“No,” he responded, shaking his head, “No, he’s not. He’s gonna be staying on board.”

“Oh, good. I like him. I’d be sad if he left.”

“But you’re not sad that I’m leaving?” There was no response to his words, just the comms beeping to signal that Lindsay wouldn’t be answering more of his questions. Jeremy sighed again and lowered his hands, staring back out at the stars. “I don’t even think that Michael’s sad that I’m leaving,” he muttered to himself, laying back down in his pile of clothes and shoving an old jacket under his head for a makeshift pillow.

He couldn’t exactly blame him for it, either. Maybe he could’ve been a better boyfriend, maybe he should’ve just bitten his tongue and held back whatever criticisms he had of Trevor and the ship. But part of this felt like it was inevitable, like he was always going to blow up like this. The worst part was that he didn’t even feel guilty about any of it, he was only sorry that speaking up had the consequences that it had. It was hard to have any regrets about it when he fully believed he was doing the right thing, though.

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

It only took them another week to reach the nearest spaceport, some podunk trading and tourist hub located pretty centrally to all the bigger colonies. Trevor liked it because they’d be able to stock up on supplies without having to scrounge or overpay. That was something that desperately needed doing, the last few ports had single rations sold for thousands of credits or reasonably priced ones that were nearly a century past date. Plus, they’d have pretty good odds at finding a replacement pilot there too. Jeremy liked it because it didn’t seem like the worst place to be booted onto, he could find work with another crew or in the port pretty easily. Everyone else liked it because being at port meant a few days of rest. Lindsay didn’t have to worry about some of the more power-hungry systems that came with flying a ship, which meant that Gavin didn’t have to run around making patchwork repairs at every hour of the day. But for some, their work didn’t stop. Matt always had to keep his ear to the radio for any incoming transmissions, and Michael and Fiona could only leave their experiments and samples unattended for so long before there were catastrophic results.

Reaching port this time was different this time around, though. They’d never had to say goodbye to one of their own before. Jeremy had been permitted one last night on the ship, but in the morning he’d have to go. To honor that last night, Gavin and Michael decided to organize a going away party for their fellow lad, complete with drinks and proper food (not just freeze-dried rations that pretended to be edible) and parting gifts. 

It made Jeremy feel better about going when he saw how sad everyone seemed to be, how sincere they were in expressing how much they would miss him. He’d convinced himself that they all hated him for speaking out the way that he had, no one had come to speak to him in the observation deck and the only time he saw anyone was when he was brought his rations, but the party was a good indication that they didn’t hate him: they just pitied him. 

Michael was certainly the most upset, despite the fact that he’d pretended to be unbothered only a week prior. Even if they had to do it from lightyears away, they promised each other they’d find a way to make things work. The communication technology was there, they’d still be able to talk. Michael was just glad that he wouldn’t have to worry too much about Jeremy while he was gone. It was a busy port, there’d be plenty of people around looking to hire a skilled pilot. And even if he couldn’t find work right away, it was safe enough that he could stay there for a while without running into any trouble unless he went looking. 

Despite all the fun of the festivities, Trevor’s absence was hard to miss. Jeremy had to admit that he’d been foolish for expecting it, but not getting a final goodbye from his former commander stung. 

However, Trevor had decided that his day was best spent working instead of partying, arranging for fresh shipments of supplies to be loaded into the cargo bay and beginning his search for a new pilot. The first task was successful, the latter one… Not so much. No one was really giving him the time of day, not believing him when he told them he captained his own ship and could afford to pay handsomely for work. Or they simply weren’t interested in the cargo that would need to be transported. After he was fed a lot of bullshit from people who clearly didn’t know anything trying to weasel their way onto his ship, he reached his limit and returned to the ship, thoroughly disheartened by the end of the night.

Trevor spent the evening in his quarters, agonizing over the situation for a few hours. There were a few solid candidates when he looked past all their unfavorable qualities, but he still wasn’t thrilled about any of them. Everyone was busy partying with Jeremy, he was grateful for the peace while he tried to work something out. The only thing that pulled him out of his thoughts was Lindsay’s chime. Usually that signaled that he’d been working for too long and it was time to get some rest, so he began to stand up, stretching his arms out over his head to ease away the stiffness.

“Commander, Gavin’s outside the door. Should I let him in?” They asked, sending a feed to his terminal of the lad standing outside the doors. He sat back down slowly, squinting as he looked at the grainy footage on the screen. 

“Does he look like he’s carrying any stink bombs? I can’t tell.” 

There were a few moments of silent examination before the comms beeped to life again. “Nope, he’s clear.” 

Trevor waved in approval then, twisting around in his chair to face the door. “Let him in, then.” 

The doors slid open to reveal Gavin standing there, fortunately empty-handed, with a smile on his face. “Commander! Missed you at the party, you should’ve been there! I saved you a bev, if you want it.” 

“No thanks. Some of us had actual work to do, y’know.” He paused, looking the other up and down. It was always hard to read Gavin, he was always brimming with so much energy, it was hard to tell if his fidgeting was excited stimming or covering up for anxious nerves. There was no telling what he wanted to share. “I really hope you didn’t come here just to chastise me for not going to a party for someone who couldn’t stop insulting the ship every chance he got.”

“Nah, I get it. No one insults our Lindsay and gets away with it. But… I do think I can help with some of your problems.” Trevor arched an eyebrow at him, waiting for him to continue. “I know a pilot at this port. He’s one of the best. Well, actually, he is the best. And! He owes me a favor! So he’ll definitely be taking the job.”

“If he’s the best, how can you be sure he’s not currently in a crew?”

Gavin laughed at that, and Trevor’s face turned to one of confusion. “He’s rather picky about the jobs he takes. And, like I said: He owes me.”

He was quiet for a few moments, biting his lip as he thought it over. Gavin hadn’t led him astray before, it was how they’d ended up with Michael and Fiona on the crew, but it all felt a little too good to be true. Coincidences made him uneasy, but what choice did he have? “How soon can I meet him?”

“Tomorrow, if you’d like.”

“I’d like to, yeah. After breakfast. Lindsay, set an alarm for the engineering bay to make sure Gavin wakes up in time.”

“Yes, commander.”

“Hey!”

Trevor grinned as the other pouted. “Anything else, Gav?”

Gavin flipped him off before breaking out into a grin of his own. “Nope! That’s it. I should get back to the engines ‘case they bust again, but I’m happy to be of service. See you tomorrow, Trev.”

“See you tomorrow, Gavin. Get some rest, don’t stay up too late pestering Matt.”

“Will do, won’t do, goodnight!”

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

The next morning came soon enough, the crew having breakfast together for a change since Michael had been kind enough to grab some fresh ingredients and cook them a nice meal. It was refreshing to have real food, not just the usual freeze-dried rations or nutrient slurries they normally relied on. And real coffee was always a treat, though no one would dare insult Fiona’s synthesized seaweed coffee replacement for fear of losing the one caffeine source they had between stops. 

After the meal, Gavin and Trevor set out as planned. They had a pilot to search for, and the lad wouldn’t stop ranting and raving about how great this guy was supposed to be. Trevor just hoped that he was going to live up to all the hype.

“When you said this guy is picky about the jobs he takes, just how picky did you mean?” He asked as they searched through the first hotspot. There were a few places this mysterious pilot liked to hang out in apparently, and there was no telling which one he’d be at. 

Gavin chuckled softly, glancing over at Trevor with a smile until he realized he was being serious. Then, he just shrugged a shoulder. “I dunno. He won’t complain about the ship, if that’s what you mean.”

“Kind of. I just want to make sure he’s not too high class to run the sort of jobs we run.”

“Oh, trust me. He’s not. He is exactly low class enough to run these sort of jobs. But, y’know, like everyone else he wants to make sure the money’s real, and that he’s not gonna end up space dust.” 

“Fair enough.” Those were reasonable requests, and ones that were easy enough for Trevor to guarantee. No one on his crew ever ran out of credits, and no one had gotten seriously injured on a job. The ‘on the job’ part was the most important part of that sentence, because injuries did still happen around the ship, despite everyone’s best efforts. 

Spots two and three were as equally bust as the first one, but Gavin was just as determined as he’d been at breakfast. Trevor, not so much. It was well past mid-day by the time they reached the fifth spot, some sort of hotel and lounge for people to catch their breath and put their feet up. 

The moment they stepped in the door, there was a big beaming grin on Gavin’s face. “Fredo!” He shouted, raising his arms as he cheered. “Took us long enough to find you!”

The man in question was seated casually on a sofa, nose buried in a magazine, though his attention was broken by Gavin’s shouting cutting through the ambiance. “Gavin?” He asked, raising an eyebrow in confusion as he set his magazine aside and stood. “What the hell are you doing so far out?”

“Ah, well, that’s a bit of a long story,” he said, waving a hand to dismiss the question as he walked up to the man and wrapped an arm around him. He dragged him over to Trevor, still beaming. “Trevor, this is Alfredo. Best pilot on this side of the universe. On both sides, probably, but he doesn’t like to brag. And Alfredo, this is Trevor. He’s the big boss of the Morrigan.”

“I, uh… Yeah, that’s me. I’m the cap- The commander.”

“Cat got your tongue, Commander?” Alfredo asked, smirking as the other’s face tinted red. “C’mon, let’s go somewhere else and chat. There’s way too many people listening in out here.”

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

They ended up in Alfredo’s room, crowded around the small table underneath a dim light. However, Trevor didn’t need a lot of light to get a read on someone, and he noticed a lot of things about their potential new pilot in a short time. He didn’t fidget like Gavin did, each movement seemed like it was with purpose, but sometimes he’d flex his fingers and roll his wrists. It told him that he was as experienced as Gavin said, because Jeremy had started to do the same thing after a long time behind the helm. His jacket was well worn, the red still bright in some spots but faded in others, and patched in places where it’d been damaged. That told him that Alfredo wasn’t afraid of a fight, and he was resourceful enough to not let good things go to waste. All good things, in his book. 

“So, what’s your offer?” Alfredo asked, breaking the silence once they’d all gotten settled around the table. 

“My… Offer?” 

“Yeah. If I work for you, what do I get?”

Trevor and Gavin looked at each other for a moment, the latter stunned by the bluntness of the question, but the former was used to unprofessionalism like that. In fact, he preferred it. “Well, for starters, a spot on the ship. You get your own private quarters. However, you really are there as a backup to our ship’s computer in case things get extra… Challenging. They’re good, but there’s limits to every AI.”

Alfredo’s eyebrows raised at that. He’d never been on a ship that had a computer like that on it before. “Sounds like a fancy ship.”

Gavin snorted out a laugh, shaking his head quickly. “Trust me, it’s not. It’s all cobbled together, and the only reason we ended up with Lindsay was because their system was gonna be salvage otherwise.” 

“Right…” He cleared his throat, looking back to Trevor. “What about money?”

“We all get an equal cut of the credits. We’re all important on the Morrigan, no one gets more or less than anyone else.” Everyone put in a lot of work to keep the ship running smoothly, sometimes Trevor felt like he wasn’t doing enough in comparison. Every now and then, he’d take less from his own cut to give everyone else a little more. It felt fair. “And we kind of just go wherever when we’re not running jobs.”

Alfredo was quiet for a few moments, thinking things over. He knew he owed Gavin a favor, but at the same time this whole deal seemed too good to be true. No commander was ever this reasonable, this good to his crew. “Can you go wait outside for a minute? I’d like to talk to Gavin,” he said finally, and Trevor was happy to oblige. He didn’t take his eyes off the other man until the door closing forced him too, then they were fixed on Gavin. “This smells like bullshit.”

“I’m telling you Fredy, it’s not. We all get an equal cut, the rooms are pretty damn lush, and the jobs are alright. I don’t do much but patch up the ship after them, but we haven’t had any major hull breaches yet.” He seemed quite proud of himself for that, but deflated when Alfredo didn’t respond in kind. 

“Yeah, but what about your last pilot? What happened to them? No one just leaves a gig this good.”

“Ah, well… Actually, some do. There were a few… Disagreements. He wasn’t happy on the ship, and Trevor doesn’t like when people insult the Morrigan, or Lindsay,” he explained, choosing his words carefully. He wasn’t sure either of the men involved would be happy if the story started to get spread. “But it’s a good ship, a good crew, and Trevor’s a good man. Plus, you owe me.”

“I know, and that’s the worst part!” He groaned, slumping forward with his face in his hands. “I hate owing you, you always make people pay you back in the worst possible ways!”

“Oi! I’m getting you a job!”

“Yeah, and it all sounds shady as shit! I know you’re smugglers, but damn. Trevor’s cold.”

Gavin just chuckled softly, because he couldn’t exactly disagree with him. The commander had his moments, but didn’t everyone? “Look, Fredo. You need this, and we need you. So just… Take the job, would you?” 

Alfredo chewed the inside his lip as he thought it over, letting out a long sigh after a minute. “Alright, I’ll do it.”

“Now that’s what I like to hear,” Gavin said with a grin, clapping Alfredo on the shoulder before yelling for Trevor to come back inside. 

He genuinely couldn’t guess what they had been talking about in there, but judging by the look on Gavin’s face it was something good. “You’ve decided, then?” He asked Alfredo as he took his seat again.

“He has! He said that he’d joi-“

“-Gavin, dude. Let me talk,” he said, swatting at the other man to get him to shut up. “I’ll join your crew, on one condition…” He trailed off, wanting to gauge the other’s response before he continued.

“And that is?” Trevor asked, arching an eyebrow and waiting for him to go on. 

“I have some cargo I need to get off this asteroid. It’ll be a win/win for the both of us: You get to see how good I fly, I get this job off my back, and you, me, and your crew get to split the money.”

It’d be a good reason to get out of the spaceport faster too. Trevor wasn’t planning on leaving until they had a job anyway and now one had fallen right into their laps with a new pilot in hand. “Sounds like a deal to me,” he said, reaching a hand out for Alfredo to shake and smiling across the table at him. It was a genuine smile, the facade of the stern negotiator falling away. 

Alfredo grinned right back at him, taking his hand and giving it a firm shake. “Hell yes.”

“We can get into the details of the job back on the ship, but I wanna introduce you to your new crew first.”

“Oh, you’re gonna love them, Fredo. They’re all brilliant.” 

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

The Morrigan welcomed its commander back onto the ship with a cheerful musical tone, the doors sliding open as he approached with Gavin and Alfredo in tow. 

“Oh, now who’s this?” Lindsay asked, curious about the new arrival. If they were being honest, they hadn’t expected Gavin to be telling the truth about knowing a pilot, or for Trevor to be convincing enough to get him to join. Their expectations weren’t pessimistic, just realistic. They knew their crew.

“Lindsay! Hey there, perfect timing,” Trevor said with a grin as Gavin scurried off to go gather the rest of the crew. “This is Alfredo, he’s gonna be our new pilot! And Alfredo, this is Lindsay, our ship's computer, and your co-pilot. If you have any questions about the ship, they’ll be the one to ask.”

“That’s right!” They chirped, “Not to brag or anything, but I know more about this ship than anyone, except maybe Gavin. We’re about equal, but don’t tell him I said that!”

Alfredo chuckled, amused by just how much personality this supposed AI had. “Are you sure there’s not a person on the other side of those comms, commander?”

Trevor simply shook his head. “Nope, just a Lindsay!” He answered, motioning for Alfredo to follow him as he led him further into the ship. Doors opened and shut behind them automatically as they went, which meant that Lindsay was keeping a close eye on them. They’d really taken Jeremy’s comments about the ship to heart, and they had to make sure the new guy wasn’t going to say the same thing. 

“No offense, but… How does a ship like this afford a computer like that? I know how much these jobs make, and how much those things cost, and… The math just isn’t adding up.”

The speakers beeped to life with a gentle tone, and Lindsay spoke up for themselves. “I was a rejected version of an even more advanced system, but because of how advanced I still was, they couldn’t just shut me down and wipe out all my data. So, they put me up for sale instead.”

“We got a pretty good deal on them, actually. No one really wants a buggy AI, too much of a risk or whatever, but for a smuggling crew who doesn’t care about perfection, they’re perfect.” The bugs that the programmers had rejected Lindsay for were hardly even bugs in Trevor’s eyes, they were just things that made them too hard to control. There was no speech filter, no way to control them or make them do whatever you wanted, which is why they’d been rejected. You had to treat them like a person, and their programmers had hated that. 

Alfredo was genuinely impressed by the state of the ship, and how smoothly things seemed to run on the surface. Lindsay gave him a quick brief on the engine the ship was powered by and some tips for when he was at the controls to help work around some of its quirks. By the time their spiel was done, they’d reached the bridge where everyone had been gathered so they could get introductions out of the way all at once instead of hunting people down one by one.

The Morrigan was no small ship, and its crew matched it. It was, by far, the largest smuggling ship that Alfredo had ever stepped foot in. Probably the happiest as well. Every role had a person to fill it, and none of them seemed to have many complaints either. 

The first person to speak up and introduce herself was Jack, the ship’s navigations officer. She worked with Lindsay to chart their courses, keeping in mind everything that they’d have to avoid ranging from rogue space debris to the ever annoying authorities. The three of them would be working very closely together, so Alfredo was glad that she spoke up first. 

Michael and Fiona introduced themselves next, the former being the ship’s medical officer and physician while the latter was a scientist. She had her own experiments to run, but she also spent a lot of time helping Michael keep everyone on board the ship healthy. It was a much more difficult task than one would expect, apparently. Alfredo asked Fiona what she was doing on the ship, but she refused to say anything more than “nunya business,” and Trevor insisted that it was better if he didn’t know, so he dropped the subject. 

The communications officer introduced himself after that. Matt was more quiet and reserved than everyone else seemed to be, but he still seemed quite content in his role. It seemed like there wasn’t much to do - there were no aliens trying to make contact, or even that many other ships for that matter - so he spent a lot of his time misusing the comms to catch up on radio shows from Earth or the other space outposts. 

“Alright! Well, feel free to hang out with everyone for a bit,” Trevor said, noticeably relieved that everyone seemed to like Alfredo, and vice-versa. It was a good first step. Gavin was usually a pretty good judge of character, but one could never be too careful. 

“You’re not gonna stick around?” Alfredo asked, frowning a little. “You can’t just leave me alone with these guys.” That comment was hushed, he didn’t want anyone else to hear. 

“Sure I can. I’ve got some work to do, and besides, they don’t bite.” He looked pointedly at Michael. “Usually.” Alfredo whirled around to follow Trevor’s gaze, eyes going wide as Michael snarled at him. The pair broke out into laughter, making Alfredo huff in displeasure.

“That’s not funny, man.”

“Sorry, sorry, couldn’t resist. Just… Relax.” He put his hands on the other’s shoulders, giving him a little shake. “Everyone here is great, they’re the nicest people on this side of the galaxy. You’re gonna have to get to know them eventually, so you might as well start now. I got some work I gotta do to get us loaded up, but come up to my quarters later. We need to hammer out the details of that job so we can get outta here soon.”

Alfredo nodded slowly, mumbling a confirmation and watching as Trevor turned on his heel and walked out of the room. Michael and Gavin slammed a hand down onto each of his shoulders, snapping him out of his trance as they whirled him around. 

“C’mon, Alfredo! We’ve still got some booze leftover from Jeremy’s going away party,” Michael told him with a wicked grin, “Jack makes the best drinks, you gotta try one.”

“I dunno... I just joined, is that really smart?”

“Is what smart?” 

“Drinking.”

“Nah,” Gavin scoffed, shaking his head quickly. “Drinking’s always smart, trust me.”

Alfredo rolled his eyes. He knew firsthand that trusting Gavin was a bad idea when it came to alcohol, but on the other hand… Maybe it’d be a good way to get more comfortable around everyone. He was still a little wary, and a little overwhelmed by the sheer size of the crew, some help feeling more at ease was definitely welcome. It was called liquid courage for a reason. 

And after a few drinks, he certainly felt more at ease. At the same time, it was weird being accepted so quickly. Sometimes he was stuck on his own, even when he was on a crew. Space had a tendency to be a very lonely and isolating place, it seemed like these people were well aware of the fact, and worked hard to make sure no one fell victim to its clutches. Fiona saw him standing off to the side, trying to edge away from all the excitement, and dragged him right into it. Jack gave him drinks when she spotted an empty cup, alternating between alcoholic and not to make sure he didn’t end up too far gone. And Michael and Gavin were something else entirely, wasting no time in filling him in on the latest ship gossip and ongoing pranks. Ultimately, he decided that he’d made a good choice in trusting Gavin and joining the Morrigan. 

When the festivities died down and everyone began to clean up and retreat to their quarters, Alfredo took it as his sign to go and find Trevor and discuss the job with him. Finding his quarters was easy enough, but he hesitated outside. 

“He already knows you’re there, you know,” Lindsay piped up, giggling when they saw Alfredo jump and search around for the source of their voice. It was all around them, coming through every speaker in that part of the hall. “He’s got a video feed that shows the hall outside of his door. Put it in after Gavin pranked him a few too many times,” they added, this time only speaking from the nearest speaker. 

“Yeah, Gavin’s always been one for pranks.” He stepped closer to the door, but still didn’t go in.

They hummed softly, some sensors whirring in a far off room of the Morrigan. “Why are you hesitating?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“Because!” Alfredo gestured in exasperation, activating the door’s motion sensor. He jumped again as it slid open, staring through it and making eye contact with Trevor, who was seated at his desk and smiling knowingly. 

“Thank you, Lindsay.”

“Any time, commander! That trick never fails.”

Alfredo looked at Trevor with wide eyes, stammering out an excuse that was immediately waved off. “Just come on in, there’s no use putting it off,” he told him. “The sooner we get things sorted, the sooner we can get out of the port.”

“Why the rush?” He asked as he stepped inside, the door sliding shut behind him with a loud thunk. “It’s pretty nice, as far as spaceports go.”

“Yeah, but I’ve got a disgruntled former pilot hanging around here now, and I really don’t want him deciding that he wants to get revenge.”

“Fair enough.” Alfredo sat down in the chair across from Trevor, watching him from across the desk. When the other didn’t speak right away, he took it as an opportunity to do so instead. “So, the job. It’s several crates of cargo, will you have enough space in the hold for all of that?”

“How many is several, exactly?”

“About ten, all pretty decently sized. A yard or two each way, at least.”

Trevor chuckled, nodding as he made a note. “Oh yeah, we’ll have plenty of room. I’ve got some supplies getting loaded up tomorrow, if you talk to a man named Geoff at the mercantile he’ll be sure to slip ‘em in, make sure no one suspects anything.”

Alfredo raised his eyebrows, impressed. “That’s it? No questions about the cargo?”

Trevor let out a long sigh at that, lifting his eyes from his notebook to look at him. “Usually, I don’t want to know. It’s not my business to know. I’m not paid to know,” he explained, waiting until the other nodded in understanding to carry on. “But, since you brought it up, I feel like I should ask… Is it alive?”

“Uh… Yeah, it is.”

“Is it people? Cause I don’t do that shit.”

“What? No. No! It’s… Well, it’s-“

“Is it gonna break out of the crates and kill us in our sleep?”

Alfredo didn’t have an immediate answer to that one. Trevor didn’t find that comforting. 

“Probably not?”

They stared at each other for a few moments, gauging each other’s reactions until Trevor broke the silence. “Works for me! Like I said, talk to Geoff at the mercantile, let him know where you keep everything, he’ll get it all worked out.” He extended his hand, offering it to Alfredo for him to shake. “I’m looking forward to working with you, Alfredo.”

“Likewise,” the other man said, reaching out and giving Trevor’s hand a firm shake. “The Morrigan seems like a real nice ship, I can’t wait to see how they fly.”

With that, Alfredo took his leave, but Trevor kept his eyes on the door long after he walked out. 

The comms beeped to life, and Lindsay spoke from a speaker on Trevor’s desk. “I like him already.”

“Yeah, I do too,” he said whimsically before shaking his head to clear the thoughts from his mind and pointing a finger at the speaker. “I never said that. You didn’t hear that.”

“Of course, Commander. I heard nothing.”

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

The cargo was loaded up without issue the following day. All Alfredo had to do was give the boxes a small mark once they were in the hold, that way they’d know what was the smuggled cargo, but that was an easy enough task. They spent a few more hours at the port, letting everyone do a small tour around for some shopping and giving Michael a chance to say some goodbyes to Jeremy before they set out. 

“Alright, let’s see how this baby flies,” Alfredo said with a grin once he was in the pilot’s seat, cracking his knuckles. This was the one place where he truly felt confident and in his element, and it was so good to be back where he belonged. “Jack, we got a course set?”

“Yup, Lindsay’s got all the info, and there should be a copy of it there on your terminal,” Jack said from her station, turning in her seat to look at Alfredo and give him a thumbs up. She grinned as she got one in return. 

“Sweet. Lindsay, you ready to take off?” 

A few melodic beeps came through the speakers as they checked in with Gavin to make sure the engines were all in working order, then they spoke. “I am! Gavin’s on standby in case anything goes wrong, too.”

“Perfect, start the launch sequence for me, please?”

“Ooh, how polite! I like this one,” they hummed, and Jack laughed softly from her station at the way Alfredo’s cheeks tinged pink. “Sure thing, Fredo. One launch sequence, coming right up!”

The Morrigan shook and creaked as the engines fired up, groaning with effort as the sound roared through the engineering bay and echoed around the spaceport. It was a big ship that required a lot of power to get going, even more so to break away from the gravitational field surrounding the port, and every time they took the crew was terrified that it would come apart at the seams under the pressure. But, like it did every time before, it pulled through, and it wasn’t long until they were up in the atmosphere and out into space. 

“Wow,” Alfredo breathed, slumping back in his chair once things had stabilized. He hadn’t even realized he’d been holding his breath. “Is it always like that?”

Trevor chuckled from behind him, smiling and nodding. “Yeah, pretty much.” He walked up and patted Alfredo on the shoulder, making eye contact with him in the window’s reflection before looking past it at the stars. “Get used to it, buddy.” The clanking of the ship he’d long since learned to tune out, but seeing the stars? It never got old to him. They were just as beautiful every time he saw them, and it was easy to get lost looking at them as they went by. 

“Guess I’m gonna have to.” It was clear that Trevor was lost in thought, so Alfredo just nudged his hand from his shoulder and leaned to look around him at Jack. “How we lookin’? Smooth sailing?”

“Smooth sailing. No asteroids, no authorities, no other ships if we’re lucky. I’ll let you know if that changes, though. It’ll take us a while to get to our next stop, few days at the most.”

“Can this thing handle lightspeed?”

Jack and Lindsay both broke out into laughter, and even Trevor snapped out of his trance to join in. 

“Absolutely not,” Lindsay told him, laughing brightly. They took great pride in the Morrigan, but even they knew its limits. “We’ve been trying to get our hands on a new warp drive for a while now, but no such luck. We’re stuck inside this solar system for the time being, unfortunately.”

“Put my cut from the job towards one, then.” Trevor’s eyebrows shot up, and he met Alfredo’s eyes through the reflection once more. “I’m serious. The further you can travel, the better jobs you can get.” And even for short distances, Alfredo wasn’t really one for travelling at a space snail’s pace. “The better jobs you get, the more money you make.” 

Trevor couldn’t disagree with that logic, so he simply just nodded in approval. “I’ll start putting my cut towards one too, then.” 

“Seriously?” Jack piped up, “like Gavin doesn’t have enough to fix around here?”

The commander turned towards her, arching an eyebrow. “Everyone’s free to spend their cut on whatever they like, and that’s how Alfredo and I are choosing to use ours. Do I say anything when you spend it on baseball cards just cause Geoff and Gav talked about ‘em?”

“No…”

“No, I don’t. So, you mind your business, and I’ll mind mine.” Trevor could take a ribbing as good as the rest of the ship’s crew, but there were some things he just wouldn’t take. The ship was still a very sore subject for him. Jack let out a long sigh but nodded, knowing that there was no use in pushing the matter further. “So, Alfredo. You don’t have to stay here all the time, Lindsay’ll put an alarm out if there’s any immediate threats you’re needed for. I don’t expect you to be sitting here all day, every day. That’d just be mean.”

Alfredo nodded in understanding, spinning around in the chair to get a look at Trevor. “I’ll probably hang out here most of the day, though. Nice view, y’know? Plus I wouldn’t want Lindsay and Jack to get bored,” he joked, cracking a smile. 

“Good plan.” Trevor nodded in approval before he spun around to leave, though he lingered just out of sight. Alfredo was agreeable, almost too agreeable. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the guy, or that he cared if he was a troublemaker, but it was certainly an oddity to have a crewmember that actually wanted to do their job. There had to be a catch. There was always a catch. 

Jack scoffed from her seat once she thought Trevor was gone, glancing over at Alfredo from her terminal. “You let him walk all over you, dude.”

“He’s the boss, I’m gonna listen to him,” he responded simply, looking to her for barely a second before his eyes were back on the stars. 

“Yeah, but you can push back a little, he’s not gonna bite your head off for it.”

“He gets enough of that from the rest of you assholes.”

“Whoa, okay. Just trying to help.” 

Alfredo turned in his chair then, meeting Jack’s eyes. “I don’t need your help. Did you hear what Trevor said? ‘You mind your business, I’ll mind mine?’ That goes for me too.” He’d put up with enough bullshit from the other crews he’d been a part of and jobs he’d taken, and he wasn’t going to let this be like the rest of them. He knew the difference between letting himself get pushed over and keeping his head below the fenceline so he didn’t end up losing it. 

They stared each other down for a few long moments, sizing each other up. Jack realized then that she’d misjudged Alfredo. He wasn’t some rookie pilot pulled off the streets, he was the real deal, and he wasn’t going to take any shit from anyone. On the other hand, Alfredo realized that he’d judged Jack correctly, and he didn’t like antagonists much. He knew he’d warm up to her eventually, he had to if he didn’t want this whole thing to fall through, but that was an awfully bad start. 

Lindsay couldn’t stand the tension that was building in the room, making the air so thick that the vent system was having a hard time sucking it up for purification. So they did the only thing they could to break it: Sound a station-wide alarm. Trevor had to come out of his hiding spot then, running up to the main console to check the system. 

“Lindsay, what the hell’s going on?!” He asked, having to shout over the blaring alarm. 

“I don’t know, the alarm just started going off!” They shouted back, sounding panicked, although it was all an act. They pretended to flounder for a moment, making sure that there was enough time for the tension to fade entirely and that Alfredo and Jack had forgotten about their spat before they killed the alarm. “There! All sorted, I think it was just a crossed wire or something. Crazy, huh?” They could tell that Trevor didn’t quite believe them, but at least Jack and Alfredo had gotten back to work. “Maybe you should stick around for a bit, commander. Just to make sure nothing like that happens again.”

“Hm.” He hummed as he took a seat in the commander’s chair, kicking his feet up onto the console in front of him. There was no way to tell what they were playing at, but keeping an eye on the new recruit wasn’t exactly a bad idea, especially if Jack was going to be giving him trouble. “I think you’re right, Lindsay. Can’t be having any trouble on the bridge now, can we? Good call.”

“No commander, we can’t. And thank you.”

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

Things were quiet for a few days. Too quiet. There were the usual pranks and fights and other nonsense, but there were no large scale problems. Any commander would be happy about that and proud of their crew for avoiding disaster, but not Trevor. On the Morrigan, that meant there was a ticking time bomb hidden somewhere on the ship, and it was only a matter of time until it blew. He allowed himself to sleep, but only for a few hours at a time, and when he was awake he was on constant patrol. The previous longest record for going without a major incident was about three days, and it was now encroaching on a week. He wasn’t counting the detour they’d had to make to avoid some random authorities patrolling the system as a major incident, just a minor setback, so they were still due for something. 

When it hit a week since their last incident, he was almost convinced that he could relax, that he could let his guard down and accept that there was nothing waiting just around the bend for him. Almost. Barely a second after that thought crossed his mind, he heard footsteps quickly approaching from behind him.

“Hey, Trevor-boy!” Gavin called out for him, making him spin on his heels. “So, got a bit of a problem for you.” It was weird seeing someone relieved to learn there was a problem, but Trevor certainly looked that way. “There’s a lot of uh… Banging, coming from the storage deck.”

“Have you gone down there to check it out?” He asked, already knowing the answer before he even asked. 

“Absolutely not! Are you insane? Michael won’t go either, before you ask, you’re gonna have to go down there and look,” he informed him, and Trevor pinched the bridge of his nose. “Hey, don’t give me that! We don’t know what Alfredo brought on board, and I’m not trying to get eaten.”

“He promised me it wouldn’t kill us in our sleep.”

“That doesn’t mean it won’t kill us when we’re awake, though.”

Trevor sucked in a breath, holding it for a moment as he thought his next words over carefully. “Lindsay?” He called, his attention no longer on Gavin as he began to walk

The speaker system chimed to life, and Lindsay greeted the two of them cheerfully. “Yes, commander?”

“Where’s Alfredo?” 

There was a beat of silence as they checked all of their ocular systems. “He’s in the bridge, why?”

“Have him meet me down by the storage bay, would you? And have Michael bring down a few weapons, I don’t know what we’re dealing with. Can you tell if anything’s started moving down there?”

“There is a lot of movement down there, but I think whatever it is, it’s still in the crates.” The comms system buzzed as they went quiet, searching the cargo bay to make sure they weren’t sending their crew down into certain death. “Yeah, no, it’s definitely still contained.” There was a beat of silence before they whispered, “for now.”

That brought some relief, at least. Still, he didn’t want to go in there with nothing, just in case. At least they managed to hit a new record. He’d have to mark it on his calendar when he got back up to his quarters. 

He let Gavin get back to work somewhere along the way down to the bottom of the ship, waiting outside the door to the hold and tapping his foot as he waited for Alfredo and Michael to join him. As he opened his mouth to ask Lindsay to let them know he was waiting, he heard the telltale sound of yelling that signalled Michael’s approach. Alfredo was much quieter, but he had no doubt that he was in tow.

Still, he was impatient. Trevor always was when it came to the safety of his crew. If there was anything that had the potential to harm them, he wanted it dealt with as quickly and efficiently as possible. There was no room for wasting time. He already had his hand out as Michael rounded the corner, and he didn’t lower it until he felt the weight of a gun settled in it. 

“Gave you your usual rifle, boss. Figured you’d want something reliable,” he explained, watching as Trevor inspected the rifle to make sure it was up to his standards. “Gave Fredo the harpoon gun, figured it might be handy and he said he’s used one of those before. Plus pistols for the both of you. Try not to miss your shots, though. Gavin’ll be pissed if he has to do a hull repair.” 

“Thank you, Michael. We’ll take it from here, but…” He trailed off, noticing that Michael himself was also armed with a variety of weapons. “Standby out here, just in case. Lindsay’ll let you know if we run into trouble.” They nodded at each other in understanding, the doors to the cargo bay sliding open in front of them. “Let’s go.”

Alfredo could only give a tiny nod himself, following behind the commander as they stepped into the hold. It was bright, the lights at full blast to make sure there weren’t any shadows to hide in. But that wasn’t enough to stop him from being nervous. His hands didn’t shake, but he was chewing on his bottom lip so much that it was starting to bleed, and every little noise made him raise the harpoon gun and aim. 

“You wanna tell me what’s in those crates?” Trevor asked as they worked their way towards the center of the hold, checking every nook and cranny as Lindsay kept them updated on any movement around them that was out of the ordinary. “I was fine with not knowing before, but-“ He was cut off by the sound of wood scraping against metal, dull thuds as whatever was inside of them grew restless. “But because of things like that, I can’t let things slide anymore.”

The other man hesitated, continuing to bite at his lip, but Trevor’s gaze was piercing and it made his blood run cold against his tongue. Nothing got past the commander, even the smallest of lies. “Plants. It’s plants.”

“Plants don’t move like that,” Trevor pointed out, and Alfredo couldn’t exactly refute his claim. “Now, what the hell is actually in these crates?”

“I’m being serious. It’s plants.” A beat of silence, more piercing stares, before he continued. “Mutant plants that were definitely overfed a ton of fertilizer and who only knows what else, but… Yeah. Plants.”

“Mutant… Plants?” The words fell slowly off of Trevor’s tongue, processing what they meant at the same time they left his mouth. “Just how mutant, exactly?”

“Depends. Some of ‘em are still pretty plant-like, but… Others are getting pretty close to Audrey II territory.” 

“As much as I appreciate the comparison, I’d appreciate a little more seriousness even more.” Alfredo murmured an apology, but Trevor’s silence made it clear that the time for talking was over. 

After a few more paces they reached the crates, specially marked to make it stand out from all of the other similar crates, but only to the trained eye. Sure enough, there was some banging coming from inside the crate, as well as some angry hissing, but it wasn’t exactly loud enough to be heard from the engineering deck, especially not over the roar of the engines either. If Gavin was able to hear it, it had to be something much bigger, much louder. 

They began to inspect the crates one by one, making sure each one was intact and tightening whatever screws had started to get knocked loose by the thrashing within. All the noise and movement had Trevor on edge, his heart racing and normally steady hands shaking each time he had to touch one of the boxes. 

“That’s all of them. Nine crates, all secure.”

Alfredo frowned, eyebrows furrowed together as his eyes flicked from crate to crate. “There should be ten here.” They both counted, and re-counted, and counted one last time for good measure. Sure enough, there were only nine crates with no sign of a tenth. 

“Lindsay, double-check the manifest for me?” They did, which only confirmed that there was a crate missing. Trevor’s face mirrored the pilot’s then, concern etched deep into their features. “Alfredo? Any explanations?” 

“Alright, this isn’t my fault.”

“I’m not saying it is, but I would still like an explanation. Or at least some way to make sense of… This.”

Alfredo shifted, uncomfortable under Trevor’s gaze. “Well… Best guess is that… Either Geoff miscounted or left one off the ship, or-“

“-Which is pretty likely-“

“-Or one of the plants escaped. Which is also pretty likely. Maybe even more likely.”

“Well. Shit.” They both hoisted up their weapons simultaneously, knowing that they couldn’t afford to get caught off guard by anything. “Lindsay, lock down the cargo bay! Nothing gets in or out of here, not even the two of us. If anything starts moving other than us or those crates, you tell us immediately, got it?”

“Sure thing, commander. There’s just… One teensy-tiny problem.”

Trevor groaned loudly, looking up at the speaker. “And that is what, exactly?”

“Well, you see… There’s so much movement in those crates that… I kinda can’t see any movement anywhere else in the ship, and especially not in the cargo bay. It throws my whole system off, I can’t see anything.”

He whirled around to look at Alfredo upon hearing that, rifle still raised, and for a second he thought that the commander was going to shoot him right where he stood. The thought crossed Trevor’s mind, he wasn’t going to lie about that, but he decided that it would be unwise. He needed someone to watch his back, even if that someone was the one who got him into this mess. Turning back around and marching on, he let out a very slow, very shaky breath as he tried to control his anger. 

“Alfredo?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You and I are going to stay in here and keep watch on the rest of these crates to make sure no more of these…” He trailed off, glaring back at the crates before his gaze was back on Alfredo. “Things escape before we reach our destination. Michael and Jack are going to be patrolling the rest of the ship to keep everyone else safe. I don’t know what the hell these things are capable of, and I’m assuming you don’t either, so we need to be on high alert. Got it?” 

Alfredo nodded quickly. “Yes sir.”

“Good. Now… Lindsay, how far away are we?”

“We’re about a day out. I’ll try and push the engines so we can get there faster but-”

“Don’t bother, I’d rather not blow the ship. Alfredo and I are just going to have to find some way to keep ourselves occupied.” 

A day stuck in the cargo hold with the commander, who was very armed and very angry, really wasn’t ideal for Alfredo, but he acknowledged that there were worse punishments he could be given. He was just glad that he’d already opted to put his cut towards the ship, because there was no way he’d be given all of it after this. 

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

“Got any sevens?”

“No, go fish. Got any threes?”

“Nope, go fishin’! Got any… Got any aces?”

There was a long moment of silence, and then: “This would be easier with cards. I don’t remember what I have or don’t have anymore.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

It had been several hours since the start of the cargo bay lockdown, and they were already running out of things to do. They’d searched the hold over and over until they found scrapes in the floor that lead to a splintered crate at the far end, but nothing that told them where the plant monster had run off to. Then, they reinforced all the remaining crates, doing what they could to make sure nothing else would try to escape and end up succeeding in their attempt. After that, they’d sort of run out of things to do to keep busy. “Imaginary Go Fish” was only entertaining the first time (though Trevor would disagree), and Lindsay had shut off all their sensors in the hold in an attempt to get everything else back in working order so they could help Michael and Jack. Not only were they cut off from the rest of the crew, but they were alone for the next twenty or so hours. 

“At least we’re down here with the supplies so we don’t starve,” Alfredo muttered, trying to find any possible brightside to the situation. 

Trevor hummed in agreement, standing up and shaking out his arms. “Yeah, at least we won’t starve,” he agreed, the slightest hint of mockery in his tone. He had yet to outright voice his displeasure, but he was sure Alfredo could put the pieces together. After stretching, he checked his watch. “Time for another walk around. You stay put.” 

Slumping against a crate, Alfredo nodded, making sure he had his own weapon in hand as Trevor readied his own and walked off. They did this every half hour or so. Trevor made him do the first few, but he must’ve gotten tired of sitting around because it was the first time he’d offered to go. 

His footsteps echoed off the thick metal walls of the hold, and Alfredo listened intently to them. The only other sounds were the dull thuds of the contained plant monsters and the usual creaks and groans of the Morrigan itself, but those were easy to tune out once they droned on long enough. When the footsteps stopped, it was like the hold went completely silent. 

He was immediately on edge, standing up quickly and hoisting the harpoon gun up as he went. “Trevor?” he called, taking a few hesitant steps forward. When there wasn’t an immediate response, he took a few more, heading towards where he’d last heard the other’s footsteps come from. 

“I’m fine,” Trevor called back after a minute, “Just stay there, everything’s fine!”

“You don’t sound too sure,” was the response he got, and he just let out a huff. 

It was true, he wasn’t too sure, because in a corner Alfredo had surely overlooked on his previous patrols, the plant had taken over. Its thorny vines stretched across the floors and up the walls, writhing and squirming as it supported the weight of what looked like a giant flower bud but… Flowers weren’t supposed to have teeth. That was the one thing that had been consistent across the planets he’d been to. Plants didn’t have teeth. “I’m not,” he muttered to himself, wondering why the hell he’d agreed to take this job in the first place. You needed a pilot, he reminded himself as he took slow, careful steps back in an effort not to startle the thing. But I don’t think we needed one this badly.

“What’s going on? I’m coming over there.”

Trevor turned around slowly, carefully, just in time to see Alfredo running up. “No, don’t!” he shouted, putting a hand up to stop him, but something stopped him instead. 

A vine wrapped itself tight around his arm, the thorns digging in deep and latching on. It had been resting peacefully before, able to slumber without being disturbed by the occasional movement and noise from the two men, but Trevor’s sudden shouting had woken it up. And it was not pleased. 

He cried out in pain, instinctively trying to pull his arm free, but it only made the vine hold on even tighter. It reminded him of those finger traps Jeremy had brought on board one time: the more he pulled, the more it constricted his arm. But unlike those finger traps, it had no intentions of letting go once Trevor relaxed. 

Alfredo stood there in shock, eyes wide and frozen in place until the commander barked out an order. He didn’t even register the words, just that he needed to move, and he needed to move now. Gavin was going to kill him for the damage later, but there was no time to aim the harpoon gun properly before he was pulling the trigger. Though it missed the bud by a few feet, the harpoon did manage to sever a few of its tendrils. The plant monster let out an ear-piercing shriek, untangling itself from Trevor in order to start scaling the wall and worming its way into an air vent. The metal of the grate covering it bent and snapped from the force, and the ends of several vines hung out through the remaining slats. 

“Nice work,” Trevor managed through gritted teeth, trying to pretend like his arm wasn’t bleeding as badly as it was and didn’t hurt nearly as much as it did. Alfredo saw through the act in less than a second, retrieving the harpoon before dropping the gun and approaching Trevor. 

“That looks… Bad. I should’ve given you my jacket,” he muttered, pushing his sleeve up to get a better look at the damage. Bruises were already starting to form where the vine itself had been, and there were several grisly cuts from the thorns, all bleeding pretty badly. “Fuck… Lindsay! We need Michael down here, now!”

Trevor pushed Alfredo’s hands off him before sinking to his knees and gripping his arm, trying to cover at least one of the cuts in an effort to stop the flow of blood. Whatever wasn’t soaked up by his shirt dripped down to the floor, creating a pretty sizable puddle beneath him that began to soak into the knees of his pants as well. “They can’t hear you… They shut down all their sensors for this room, remember?” There were a lot of flaws in their plan, he saw that now. But at least he knew that the beast was for sure in the cargo bay, not that there was anything that could be done about that right then. “There’s… There may be some emergency supplies by the door, Michael makes sure there’s some in every room.” Accidents happened everywhere, and the lad hated having to run all the way back to the medbay for a bandage every time someone got hurt. 

Once Alfredo had retrieved the medkit, he helped Trevor to his feet and guided him back to their makeshift campsite. The further they were from that vent, the better off they were, though the plant monster would easily be able to follow the trail of blood Trevor left behind right to them. They sat down together there, Trevor still clutching his arm as he leaned back against the crates with a soft groan. He was feeling a bit woozy, 

“I’m gonna… I’m gonna bandage this up for now, hopefully that stops the bleeding, or at least slows it,” Alfredo murmured, popping the kit open and breathing out an audible sigh of relief when he saw that it was fully stocked. “Thank the stars,” he breathed, almost smiling as he grabbed a roll of gauze and began to wrap up Trevor’s arm. He was silent as he worked, faltering when the other spoke up. 

“Can we please talk?” he asked softly, eyes meeting Alfredo’s when he looked up. “I’d really like something else to focus on other than the pain.” 

“I thought you were mad at me?”

“I was… I am, but… I’d still rather talk than sit in silence.”

“Oh.” He continued to wrap his arm, securing it with some tape once he was done. “What would you like to talk about?”

“Anything. Something. I really don’t care.” He held his arm to his chest, cradling it in an effort to soothe the pain. 

“Well, how’d you become in charge of your own ship?” Alfredo asked, settling in beside him and leaning against the crate as he began to rummage through the medkit. 

Trevor chuckled quietly, turning his head to look over at the other. “Now that is a very long story, but… I guess we’ve got the time.” He checked his watch, taking a deep breath. “I worked on a lot of ships that treated their crews like shit. Treated their ships like shit too, honestly. I bailed on one before my contract was up once I had enough credits saved up, hid at one of the starports until they stopped searching for me, and then… I bought a ship of my own. It was small at first, real small. Couldn’t do much with it, couldn’t really go anywhere with it either, but I managed to swing a few small jobs.” He stared off into the distance as he spoke, looking out the small port windows at the stars outside the ship. It had been a while since he’d thought about any of this, even longer since he’d talked about it, but there was a fond smile as he did. “I don’t miss any of the bullshit at the start.”

Alfredo listened intently, a small stack of things from the kit forming in front of him. More gauze, disinfectant, rags, a suture and thread. He wasn’t really thrilled about the prospect of stitching up Trevor, but those wounds were so deep that something more needed to be done. “I don’t think anyone here misses the bullshit at the start. I sure had my fair share.” 

“How did you get started, then?”

“I used to be a pilot back on Earth. I was good at my job, really good, so they bumped me up to piloting shuttles between the colonies. After a while, I guess I got sick of seeing the same places over and over again,” he explained, letting out a soft ‘a ha!’ as he pulled a bottle of painkillers from the bottom of the kit. “Lotta ships need good pilots, and they paid better than the other gig, so I jumped ship, so to speak.” Shaking out a few pills, he passed them to Trevor who swallowed them down dry with a grimace. Anything to help the pain. “Never really wanted to own my ship, seemed like too much work, but… I was cool with piloting them. I get paid to see space, how cool is that?”

“It is a lot of work,” he agreed, still trying to get the pills down. “Sometimes, it’s too much work. But at the end of the day, it’s all worth it.” 

Alfredo was quiet for a few long moments, the silence hanging heavy between them. “Will this be worth it?” 

“Yes.” Trevor didn’t need to think about his answer as much as Alfredo had needed to think about his question. “Absolutely. You seem surprised.”

“But you got hurt. That thing could have killed you!”

“But it’s still in the cargo bay, and it didn’t hurt anyone in my crew. Better me than anyone else.” His crew was his family, and if he had to get hurt to keep them safe, so be it. It was a small price he was willing to pay. 

Alfredo scoffed and shook his head. “I don’t get you.”

“What?”

“No commander gives this much of a shit about their crew.” No captain gave their crew an equal cut, they always took more for themselves. No captain would sacrifice themself for their crew, they always forced their crew to do the sacrificing for them. No captain would adopt a broken AI like one would a stray cat. It just didn’t happen. “Not a single one. I’ve been trying to figure out your game from the start, and I just… I can’t.” The laughing only added to his confusion. 

“I know. No other commander does, but I do. And you’re gonna have to get used to it, Alfredo. All those assholes on the other side of the door are my family, and I’d sooner die for them than let anything bad happen to them,” he stated firmly, making sure the other was looking at him and meeting his eyes as he spoke. “There’s no game, no ulterior motive. You’re part of that family now too, so you’re just gonna have to learn to live with it.”

It had been a long time since Alfredo had been a part of any family, since anyone had accepted him so completely so quickly. While he didn’t fully trust Trevor just yet, he trusted him more than he had a few minutes ago. “Alright. I’ll learn to live with it.”

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

Alfredo was silent as he worked to stitch up Trevor’s arm, hands steady as he did so. He’d spent some time cleaning up the now dried blood, disinfecting the wounds and getting a better look at them. Some of the cuts were only surface wounds, already scabbed over and barely noticeable, but others were pretty gruesome. He didn’t say anything because he didn’t want to freak Trevor out, but he was pretty sure that he could see bone in a few of them. “Michael’s gonna have to redo these, but they’ll hold for now,” he murmured, tying off the last one and bandaging him up again before things got too bloody again. 

“How bad am I, doc? Am I gonna make it?” Trevor asked, really glad that he’d taken some more painkillers because he couldn’t imagine all of those stitches would feel great in a few minutes. 

“Yeah,” Alfredo said with a soft smile, taping down the end of the gauze. “You’ll make it.” I hope. 

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

As hour six rolled around, the comms hissed with static and a few musical beeps, surprising Alfredo and making him lift his head. He and Trevor had decided that sleeping was a pretty good way to kill time, so the commander had ended up fast asleep and slumped with his head on Alfredo’s shoulder. The other man hadn’t been so lucky, wide awake and checking every few minutes to make sure that he hadn’t gone and died on him. 

“Lindsay?” he asked softly, hoping they’d see the situation and match his tone. 

“Alfredo! What the hell happened?” They could see everything the second their cameras were back online: The broken vent grate, the vines coming out of the grate, the severed tendrils on the floor, the puddle and trail of brown dried blood leading to Alfredo and a very injured Trevor. “Is he… He’s not dead, is he?”

“No, he’s alive. We found the plant, and it… It got him good,” he explained, tipping his head forward to make sure Trevor was still asleep. “I patched him up, but… He’s gonna need a lot more than some stitches.”

“I’ll get Michael to come down-”

“No,” he stated, and Lindsay let out a soft scoff of indignation. “No one else comes down here. If you lift the lockdown, that thing’ll get free run of the station through the vents. We’ll be fine… We’ve got food and water, this kit’s got enough supplies to last us, and… I think as long as we leave it alone, it’ll leave us alone.” 

Lindsay hummed as they scanned the room. The plants in the crates had calmed down a little bit, and as far as they could tell the one in the vents was perfectly still, only shifting every now and then but not making any grand movements. “What should we do, then?”

“Make sure everyone else evacuates the ship the second we touch down and send Michael down here with a flamethrower. We’ll take a bit of a hit to our pay because we’ll be short a crate, but I don’t care. I want that thing dead.” 

“I’m sure the commander feels the same way… Are you sure he’s gonna be okay?” They asked, dimming the lights a little. If it was dark, the plants would probably stay calmer. It would make sleeping a little easier for the pair as well. 

Alfredo bit his lip, shrugging a shoulder before shaking his head. “No, but I’m trying to be optimistic.” He leaned his head back against the crate and closed his eyes, letting out a sigh of relief he’d been holding for far too long. With Lindsay back, it meant he wasn’t alone. There was a buffer between him and the commander, someone to help fill the silence. 

They were quiet for a few minutes as they relayed information to the rest of the crew, before the comms crackled in the hold once more. “You should try and sleep too, ‘Fredo. Now that we know where it is, I can keep an eye on it.” 

“No, I gotta make sure he’s still breathing.”

“I can keep an eye on him too. The crates are quiet, so all my sensors are in working order. His heart rate is normal, if a bit weak, but he’s breathing fine. You should rest.”

He didn’t really have the energy to argue with them further, so he relented. “Wake us in a few hours. I’m gonna have to change his bandages and clean those wounds. Michael’ll kill me if I let those get infected.”

“Yes, he will.”

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

As hour twelve rolled around, Lindsay brightened the lights slowly and chimed softly to wake the pilot and the commander. They hoped that the plants wouldn’t be disturbed as well, but considering how long it took the pair to wake up, they weren’t really too concerned. 

“Trevor,” Alfredo said softly, jostling him gently with his shoulder. His ass and his neck ached from sleeping on the hard metal floor in such an awkward position, and he was sure that the other man would need another round of painkillers too. “Trevor, c’mon man. Wake up.” 

He did so with great reluctance, groaning softly as he registered several different aches and pains. “Was this really necessary?”

“Yeah, it was. Gotta change your bandages so Michael won’t have to cut off your arm,” he said, encouraging him to sit up before reaching for the supplies in front of him. “Or my head.”

Trevor laughed softly, starting to stretch his arms out over his head before he stopped short, wincing and clutching his bandaged arm to his chest. “Fuck… I thought that was a dream,” he muttered, eyes squeezed shut. 

“I wish it was,” Alfredo sighed, “But while you were sleeping, we got Lindsay back. So that’s good, at least. Told them everything. They wanted to send Michael down here, but I told them not to.”

“And why the hell did you do that?” Trevor winced as Alfredo started to unwrap the gauze. Despite how careful he was being, it still pulled at the cuts uncomfortably. 

“Because,” he started, murmuring an apology when he saw him wince and trying to go slower. “If the lockdown gets lifted, that thing can go through the vents and go anywhere it wants, which is bad.”

Trevor hummed in agreement, but it was reluctant. He didn’t like knowing Alfredo had been giving orders while he’d been asleep, even if they were the same ones he would’ve given. “What’d you tell them to do, then?”

“Keep the lockdown going, evacuate everyone once we land, and then send Michael down here. With a flamethrower.”

“Good thinking.”

“Why, thank you.” 

They fell into a comfortable silence then, Alfredo removing the last of the gauze and cleaning up his arm. The bleeding had stopped, thankfully, so now it was just a focus on preventing infection, which he hoped would be easy enough. It would be even easier once they got back on solid ground, when Michael could actually get in here and kill the thing. Bullets probably wouldn’t do the trick, they’d just piss Gavin off by causing damage to the ship, but fire was pretty damn effective in every circumstance. 

“Lindsay?” Trevor called softly, feeling instantly comforted when he heard their voice over the speakers. “Where is the thing? Still in the vent?”

“Yep. Still in the vent. It’s almost cute like this, even if it did try to eat you.”

“It didn’t… It didn’t try to eat me.”

“Sure, sure. Whatever you say, commander. Oh, and Matt would like me to tell you that he thinks it’s hilarious you got your ass kicked by a plant.”

Trevor huffed, rolling his eyes and sinking back against the crates. Even when he was isolated from his crew, they still found a way to pester him. 

Beside him, Alfredo shrugged off his jacket, flipping it inside out so the soft lining was visible before balling it up. “You should get some more rest,” he said as he held it out to Trevor. “It’s not much, but it’ll be better for your neck than the crate.”

He hesitated a moment before taking it, sinking right down to the floor to lay flat since he had a pillow now. “It’s weird seeing you without your jacket on.” Alfredo had been wearing it from the moment he’d met him until now, he hadn’t seen him with it off once. 

“He even wears it to bed,” Lindsay piped up, laughing as Alfredo’s face went as red as the leather. 

“I do not!” He shouted defensively, glaring up at the ceiling.  “It’s just part of my style, that’s all.” 

“Relax,” Trevor chuckled, reaching out blindly to pat Alfredo’s arm. He missed and hit leg instead, but neither of them said anything. “I wasn’t making fun of you. It’s a good style, I like it.” He turned his head, looking up at Alfredo with a small smile. 

The other couldn’t help but smile back, getting comfortable against the box behind him. He didn’t know why that compliment made him feel so warm, but he was lucky that his face was already red from Lindsay’s teasing so it didn’t give him away. “Thanks, Trev.”

“Anytime, Fredo.” 

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

The hours rolled by easily, the pair spending most of them asleep because there wasn’t much else to do. They woke up a few times so Alfredo could change the bandages, munching on some rations at one point since the last meal they’d had was breakfast that morning. Chatting with Lindsay was another good way to pass the time, too. They were able to keep the crew updated on the situation down in the hold, and keep the commander updated on things going on on the other side of the door. There wasn’t much going on, just a lot of worry, but Trevor still didn’t want to be out of the loop. 

Once they’d slept as much as they could and talked to Lindsay until there was nothing more to talk about, they decided to do the only thing they could to pass the final few hours before the ship landed: Talk to each other. 

“You said you used to work on Earth. What was that like?” Trevor asked, looking down at Alfredo. They swapped who got to use the jacket-pillow every couple of hours, and since they weren’t going to be sleeping anymore Trevor had decided to surrender it back to its original owner (even though it was still technically his turn for another thirty minutes). 

“You’ve never been?” he asked, sticking an arm beneath his head to prop himself up as he looked back at the commander, who shook his head. “I mean, it was fine? I guess? Kinda boring compared to space. The sky was always the same, and there were way too many people. Have you seriously never been to Earth?”

“No, I grew up out in the Terra 2 colony. Then I got sucked up into a spacer crew, and that was it. Never saw any reason to go once I got the Morrigan, and now without a warp drive we’re too far out.”

“I’m shocked a job hasn’t taken you there, people there are always looking for stuff smuggled in from the far reaches,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. Customs was a bitch to get by, but he still had a few buddies down there who’d be willing to let them through. He was sure of it. “Once we get that drive, we’ll pick up a few jobs that’ll take us there.”

“Whatever you say, man. But you didn’t exactly make it sound worth the hype.”

“Oh, it’s absolutely not, but still. I can’t believe you’ve never been!” 

Talking to Trevor was a lot easier than it had been before. He wasn’t as scared of him, and a lot of the distrust had faded. The feeling was mutual, as well. The commander wasn’t angry at Alfredo anymore, because ultimately, none of this was his fault. He was the one who hadn’t checked in on the cargo sooner, he was the one who’d startled the monster, all of this fell on his shoulders because it was his ship and he was responsible for everything that happened on it.

“I’m sorry,” Trevor said out of nowhere, almost startling Alfredo with the suddenness of it. “I’m sorry I blamed all this on you.”

“It’s fine.” He hadn’t been expecting an apology from the commander. Maybe a month or two on bathroom cleaning duty, sure, but not an apology. “We both had our fuckups in this mess.”

“We did, but it’s unfair to blame the whole thing on you. Most of it, sure?” Alfredo cut him a look, and he just laughed. “Kidding. I’m kidding! Don’t give me that. It’s really more like… Fifty/fifty.”

“Sixty/forty. You’re the sixty.”

“Yeah, okay. Fair enough.” 

They grinned at each other, oblivious to the way the ship began to creak and groan around them as Lindsay initiated the landing sequence. The plants in the crates kicked up again, but the one in the vents was still. 

“You know what? You’re alright, Fredo. Gavin was right about you.” 

Alfredo’s face matched his jacket all over again, and he had to fight hard to get the words out despite how flustered he was. Trevor hadn’t called him by any sort of nickname until now, it made him feel good to know that the commander was finally warming up to him. “What… What did he say about me, exactly?”

“That you were the best of the best. And he was right. Normally he’s not right about these things, but… He nailed it with you.”

“You sure you’re not still woozy from blood loss?” Alfredo asked, arching an eyebrow as he sat up, meeting Trevor’s eyes. “Because I know we just did that whole heartfelt apology thing, but… I definitely almost got you killed.”

He shook his head fervently. “No, you didn’t. You saved my life.” 

“Well, I wasn’t going to let you die.” 

“And I owe you big time for that.”

The ship jostled as it landed on uneven earth, and Alfredo grabbed onto Trevor quickly to prevent him from sliding around with the crates around them. Even as things settled, he didn’t let go, hearing something hiss in annoyance from the far end of the cargo hold. 

“Lindsay… Please tell us Michael’s on his way,” Trevor said, sinking back into the pilot in an effort to hide as he scrambled to grab the harpoon gun. 

“He’s outside the door, we’re just waiting for everyone to be off the ship so I can lift the lockdown. I suggest staying out of his way… He’s been wanting to use that thing for the last eighteen hours, and I don’t think anything’s gonna get in his way.”

“If he dies, Alfredo’s the new medical officer.”

“Noted.”

Using a flamethrower while they were in flight was unwise because of the oxygen rich environment, but back on terra firma it was the perfect weapon for dealing with unruly plant monsters. Michael’s cackles of delight echoed off the walls, mixing with the roar of the weapon and the shrieks of the plant as it burned. The noises kicked off another escape attempt in the other crates, but the reinforcements they’d made held firm. Only a few crates of supplies got caught up in the crossfire, and Michael was relatively unharmed aside from the ash staining his lab coat. 

Alfredo let the harpoon drop from his hands once he realized he wouldn’t be needing it, instead helping Trevor to his feet and keeping him steady as they made their way to the bay doors. “Michael,” he said, watching as the man kept scorching the charred remains. “Michael!” He stopped firing quickly, whirling around with wide eyes. “Stop dicking around, Trevor needs help.” 

“A thank you would’ve been nice,” Michael muttered as he dropped the weapon, knowing he’d need his hands free to help Trevor. 

“Thank you, Michael. Now help him, please?”

“Yeah, yeah. Lindsay told me that you were trying to steal my job, I just hope you didn’t make things worse,” he said as he swapped places with Alfredo, supporting Trevor’s weight to make sure he wouldn’t fall. “Alright, Trevor-boy, let’s get you to the infirmary.” He started to lead him out of the cargo hold, and Alfredo watched them go for a second before turning to start cleaning the mess they’d left behind up. 

Trevor stopped after a few paces, glancing over his shoulder. “You’re not coming?” he asked, the smallest hint of a frown etched into his features. 

“Uh.” Alfredo blinked, not sure how to answer. “No?”

“Yes, you are. C’mon.”

“Why?”

“I need someone there for moral support. Michael’s not as gentle as you are and I need someone’s hand to hold while he patches me up.” Trevor cracked a grin despite the fact that he wasn’t telling a joke, and Alfredo mirrored the expression after a moment to process exactly what he’d said. “Come on, I don’t have all day,” he insisted, holding out his hand towards him as Michael began to pull him along. 

Alfredo jogged to catch up to them, abandoning the task at hand in favor of taking Trevor’s hand. He was happy to have escaped the cargo bay alive, and even happier to know that he was back in the commander’s good graces. Their relationship was different, stronger and a lot friendlier than it had been now that they were no longer wary of each other. Trevor couldn’t think of a single member of the crew that he would’ve rather gone through that ordeal with, either. 

“Thanks for not letting the boss die, Fredo,” Michael said, cutting into the silence once they reached the infirmary. 

“Yeah, thanks for not letting me die, Fredo,” Trevor agreed, smiling kindly at him and giving his hand a squeeze. 

“I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

[phoebehalliwell]

I bet elise and Dency have the best relationship! Like I can imagine people being shocked at seeing her hug Elise lol

yes i really just love like what they’d be like together i think elise would be so so honored to be dency’s godmother which i think would be a situation around season 7 or 8 where like. you know the girls faked their death all that and it kinda brings into perspective oh my god who’s gonna guide my kids after i die because bless victor but um. kinda failed on the dad front the first time. and also he’s pretty old too you know noah fence. but i feel like you know s7/8 where it’s kinda like. ever present threat of death over the sisters, phoebe would realize she would want dency to have a godmother, and that she would want that godmother to be elise and elise definitely cried so so much when phoebe asked her to be her godmother like oh my goodness and then like. about three four weeks later phoebe and elise are planning some other function for the newspaper but something magical comes up and phoebe’s like oh well um hmm. okay so i have to go because it’s a family emergency but um. since you’re kind of part of my family now so to speak (elise is already getting choked up) i’m gonna tell you what it is but i need you to sit down first and elise kinda leans against her deck and phoebe’s like nope like i need you sitting down nice cushy chair please and elise is like ??? and phoebe’s like i’ve had one too many people pass out on me so just yep there you go okay i... am a witch. and elise is like okay? i always knew you were spiritual so like??? and phoebe’s like mmm nope not quite i’m a witch like a magic cast spells fights demons witch. and elise is like excuse me? and phoebe’s like yep so piper actually just found the demon we’re looking for and we need the power of three to vanquish it - that’s me; that’s me and my sisters - so i’m gonna do that and i’ll be right back! and elise is like. like her brain is like okay so phoebe is actually bonkers but at the same time she’s thinking of all the objectively weird stuff that happens around phoebe like hell how she landed this job so like maybe???? and phoebe’s like okay paige you can come get me now no it’s fine come get me paige and paige orbs in and elise is like !!!! and paige is like ?? was that intentional?? and phoebe’s like yep elise you’ve already met paige she is also a witch and elise is like so you’re all? and phoebe’s like yep! and elise is like and dency too? and phoebe’s like uh-huh! and paige is like okay we gotta run! and phoebe’s like okay okay we gotta go but i promise i will answer all your questions when we get back! and elise. hard hitting journalist. deadass prepares a list of questions for phoebe. phoebe’s like okay i’m back and elise is like sit and puts on her reading glasses and a pad and pen. and is like. the bachelor auction. when you showed up as a blonde and those men spent 18k on you. was that magic? and phoebe’s like mm yes. and elise is like okay. [writes notes] and was that a love spell? and phoebe’s like well technically uh during that point i was actually the goddess of love i was turned into a god, briefly, so i’d say yeah. and elise is like okay [writes down] does that open us up to any lawsuits? and phoebe’s like elise it’s magic i don’t think we really have any laws about it. and elise is like okay [writes down] okay so that time where you- and it goes on for about two hours. elise is actually pretty accepting of it all because she’s like. very rational like she rationalizes a lot so it’s like. if it has an answer, she can kind of accept that. i also think elise is kind of a big pusher in phoebe/coop i think she really encourages phoebe to go for that relationship. when she learns he’s a cupid she’s like !! this whole time!!!! i practically had to force you to go out with him and he’s literally an embodiment of love???? phoebe!! and phoebe’s like hey hey okay i’d been burned before remember and elise is like oh yeah. that time when you encouraged a woman who thought her husband might be cheating to beat the mistress to death with a stapler. was that magic? and phoebe’s like oh ooh yeah um. that was kind of i was kind of queen of hell at that point. and elise is like queen of hell? and phoebe’s like yeah 😬 and elise is like so that no good husband of yours; he was- and phoebe’s like yeah he was the source of all evil at that point yeah. and elise is like !! at that point? so he wasn’t always and phoebe’s like yeah no so he was a demon and then he was actually human for a couple weeks and then he was the source and then he was dead and then he was immortal and then he was just a demon again and i vanquished him. again. and elise is like alright. that’s dency’s father? and phoebe’s like yes. and elise is like okay. because like. asked and answered, you know? everything has an explanation. and quite frankly it just makes everything so much easier because phoebe can now just say what she’s up to what’s going on and elise is literally like okay. have your column in by nine still tho! good luck saving the world. also circling back to when phoebe was queen of hell and did advice murdering someone via stapler. elise opens that conversation like haha that was funny can i have the real column tho. this was an excellent little chuckle got a good chortle out of it can i have the real column tho. Implying!! that elise found that really funny. so i think dency and elise would really have kind of the same fucked up dark sense of humor which only makes them like kickin it in the office even weirder to outside viewers because like you never see elise laugh and yet there she is laughing with someone who looked like they just walked off the set of the lost boys what are they laughing about? well some douchebag is threatening to sue the newspaper for posting some like. defamatory content you now libel slander whatever i think libel’s the one in text. for like. the bay mirror being like hey this company practices illegal dumping they’re like. killing baby deer and poisoning the water supply. so what’s so funny? elise and dency keep pitching back and forth worse and worse ways to just like. murder the guy. they’re laughing so hard they’re almost crying.

[exploring-in-space]

WIP Wednesday

For everyone who is quarantined or need some little pick me up, here is a snippet of a fic I’m working on right now.

Summary: Aaron has weekly brunch with his family. Robert just wants to be the nice boy Aaron introduces them to 

Aaron meets Robert at some party Vic is throwing to celebrate her promotion to head chef at the restaurant she and Aaron work. She had been talking Robert up for weeks to Aaron, excited that her big brother was moving back to Leeds after some years abroad. She’s buzzing with excitement when she pulls Aaron out of the crowd to introduce him to Robert 

He’s sitting on the couch, hand holding a bottle of beer. When Vic makes the introductions, he stands up - towering slightly above Aaron. He’s fit, something Vic hadn’t mentioned but he supposes that’s not something someone would say about their sibling.

“Nice to meet you, Aaron.” Robert says, and his voice is befitting to a man like him. It’s rich and it makes Aaron nod and shake his hand dumbly. Vic is saying something to the right of him, but he doesn’t hear it, just takes in Robert’s appearance. Eventually, Vic gets distracted by another guest, and Aaron doesn’t really hang about after she leaves.

Aaron wanders out to the balcony of Vic’s flat to smoke a cigarette. It’s a habit he’s been trying to break, but social events where alcohol is liberal always breaks his resolve. He’s almost through his smoke when Robert sidles next to him, silent but gives a friendly nod towards Aaron.

“Alright?” Aaron asks after a few moments of silence, flicking the burnt out cigarette off the balcony and onto the snowy ground. The smoke had warmed him momentarily but the wisps of the winter air is enough to keep most party goers off the balcony.

“Yeah, needed some fresh air.” Robert says with a smile, breath puffs out of his mouth when he talks.

“So you came to stand next to the smoker?” Aaron deadpans, causing Robert to laugh ruefully in slight embarrassment, but he says nothing to defend himself. The combined warmth between the pair allows them to stay out here longer, alone.

They make idle inane conversation, just the two of them. Robert asks about Aaron’s job, who is a chef alongside Vic. They’ve worked at the same restaurant together for over a year after Aaron finally decided to put his skills to use in a professional kitchen. Aaron, in turn, learns that Robert’s an investment banker, which sounds like utter hell. He’s never seen the appeal of working day in and day out in some cushy office, preferring to use his hands.

Robert talks about his time abroad in Spain as the night continues; funny anecdotes that has Aaron chuckling softly and placing his hand on Robert’s forearm. The cold temperature dives lower as the last vestiges of the sun’s rays disappear into the horizon. No amount of shared body heat is enough to allow themselves to continue their quiet chatting on the balcony.

They walk back into the flat side by side, and Robert nicks one of the bottles of champagne Vic had out and they find a corner to continue talking. They pass the bottle between the two of them, and the champagne bubbles inside Aaron, as he presses closer to Robert, who seems to welcome Aaron’s proximity. It’s mad, but them curled around each other in their corner is all Aaron can focus on. The rest of the party could fuck right off and Aaron wouldn’t notice nor care.

When Robert finally leans down towards and gives Aaron a kiss, Aaron takes advantage and surges up towards Robert. They exchange a few champagne tinged kisses, before Robert is pulling Aaron out of the flat and into a cab to Robert’s flat, Aaron grinning the entire time.

Aaron doesn’t even have a second to look at Robert’s flat before Robert is pushing him into his bedroom, and tugging clothes off. Aaron thinks the party was quite the success before Robert is kissing him again and he abandons all thought for the night.

*

The sun’s rays on Aaron’s face is what wakes him up the next morning. He’s in a room he doesn’t at first recognize, until he feels Robert’s body next to him. He can hear Robert’s irregular breathing behind him, indicating he’s awake. 

“What time is it?” Aaron hoarsely asks, closing his eyes, hoping he can sleep a little longer before having to leave.

He hears rustling from Robert, shifting in the bed. “Half past-ten,” comes Robert’s sleepy voice. 

Aaron’s eyes immediately open, “Shit!” He jumps out of bed, suddenly more energetic than he had been only a short while ago. 

“Something wrong?” Robert’s voice is still sleep addled, no urgency to wake him up like it did Aaron. 

“Gotta be in Hotten in half an hour.” Aaron says, trying to pull on his clothes from last night. He has a weekly Sunday brunch with his family and extended family. If he’s late or doesn’t show up, a hoard of Dingles will be at his door demanding a reason for his absence.

It’s not like going to Hotten every Sunday is really much of a chore, or even being with his family. But at a time like this, where he’s having to leave the bed of someone like Robert, it makes him wish he could just tell his family to fuck off. 

Robert laughs, “What’s in Hotten that’s better than this?” He stretches languidly on the bed, sheets slipping from his waist. He knows what he’s doing, the cheeky bastard.

“Family brunch, innit?” Aaron tugs his shirt on and picks up his hoodie that had been carelessly thrown on the floor. 

“Am I gonna see you again?” Robert asks as he watches Aaron dress.

“You know where I work.” Aaron shrugs with a smile, but pulls out his phone and hands it towards Robert anyway.

Robert stands up from the bed, completely unashamed of his nakedness and walks towards Aaron. He takes Aaron’s phone out from his hand and types in his contact information, all the while with the smuggest of smiles on his face. When he hands it back to Aaron, he deliberately touches Aaron’s fingers and leans into Aaron’s space. “Better hurry, don’t want to miss your family brunch.” He says against Aaron’s lips.

Aaron doesn’t even seem to register what Robert’s talking about. Decides it’s worth the earache from his family if he’s late, and lets himself get pushed back onto Robert’s bed.

[fauveshumankaiju]

Jet Jaguar stops a crime

Nothing - no sound - except for the rumble of the patrol car's engine and the crunch of tires on gravel, as the station wagon headed down the street that demarcated downtown Monsuta from the beachfront. Gigan's head was pounding, and he squeezed his eyes shut as the wedge of pain pressed against the inside of his temple. He leaned his head against the window, cool from the night air.  There was hair in his mouth, and blood in his mouth, too.

The cop sitting behind the metal net hadn't spoken to him since he'd cuffed him and gallantly invited him into the back seat to take him down to the station. Gigan joked that he needed his frequent flier card stamped, since it would be the third time he'd spend the night in the closet-sized holding cell for getting into a fight during which Jet Jaguar appeared, like magic, to intervene in other people's business yet again. The cop couldn't take a hit worth a damn, but he had a wicked left hook and a police baton that really left a mark. Gigan used to mock him about it before they started grappling - buy me a drink first before you pull out the toys, big boy - but tonight they'd just gotten right down to it. Fights were always fast with Jet Jaguar, he didn't showboat like Goji and Gigan. All business, no play.

Do you ever take a night off? Iron your underwear? Darn your dickies? Gigan'd sneered. Then he'd gotten knocked out for, like, five seconds, with a club upside the head. He didn't even remember that Megalon'd been there when he came to.  He’d been left alone against fucking Goji, the human grain thresher. Megalon was a big guy, he'd grown up in Monsuta and he knew how to protect himself, Gigan knew, but still, it was always the two of them against Goji until Gigan had let himself get distracted by his favorite new toy.  And Megalon? he'd do whatever Gigan told him to. As usual. 

Gigan looked over at the seat next to him, empty, flashing as they passed by streetlamp outside.

"Did you see where Megalon went?"  He asked.  His mouth was flooded with thin coppery blood and stinging pain again. He'd bitten his cheek. "After you arrested me, you know."  Silence from the front seat.  Gigan exhaled through pursed lips. 

"Hey, it wasn't his fault. I dragged him into this shit. I just hope he didn't get piledrived back there. Do you ever get bothered knowing that Goji's better at keeping the peace round here than you ever will be? Huh?"

More silence. Oh, this was the game he was playing. Gigan was in a mood, though, and he was pretty good at getting what he wanted.

"What are you even here for, man? We never had any cops here when we needed them, now as soon as we're cleaning up our act they stick the most useless pig in the bunch here to slap us around. And you can't even do your job! You got taken out by fucking Megalon! If you meant business, you could have cleaned up this whole city by now! How many times have you taken me in then let me out with fucking community service? Jesus christ, when are you gonna suck it up and do something about all of us monsters, the villains, the ghetto, illiterate unworthy - the scum that you were sent here to put in jail so that you all can lead your perfect little bougie lives and forget about the people that got beaten down and left behind? But you're not gonna do that, are you?"

Still no comment. The heater in the front seat hissed quietly.

Gigan continued, leaning back into the chair vituperously. "You're too nice. No, you're too weak, Jaguar. You wanna get kittens down from trees and shit, eat donuts and get fat, get a nice cushy job where you can forget the guns and tasers and batons that keep you guys in power, but god forbid you actually have to get off your ass and use them. You're just going to keep letting Goji do your dirty work because you're too precious to do it yourself. You're never gonna get our town's respect. You're never gonna get her respect. You don't deserve it. But thank god, you can die alone and useless knowing that you got to be nice."

He let that hang in the air. His cheek was bleeding again, staining his gums with the taste of salt. Jet Jaguar moved, behind the metal screen, and Gigan saw him slowly adjust the mirror above him, fidgeting with it so that he and Gigan could see each other's eyes.  Gigan still had his visor on, glowing faintly in the night-time darkness, and he could just barely see the cop's face.  He shifted back into his seat, feeling anger and bitterness clawing at the inside of his chest.

"What?" He spat.

A moment.  Then, "Do you feel any better now?"

"No. I think you concussed me. I need to get medical attention."

Jet Jaguar's eyes flicked forward and he continued driving. Gigan licked the front of his teeth. "Did you hear me?"

"... Megalon's okay. Goji doesn't have a problem with him, she'll leave him alone."

"Don't fucking talk about Megalon."

"You asked, Gigan."

Gigan rolled his head back. The leather headrest was cool and tacky against his bare scalp. ".. Yeah."

"If you want, I'll call him and have him pick you up at the station if you can make bail."

"Doubt it."

They stopped at an intersection. The rest of the street was completely deserted, illuminated by the ghostly red glow from the streetlight. The adrenaline was wearing off, and as it slipped out of his veins it took that inchoate anger with him, too. He was tired, now, aching all over. His head rang, his meat-arm was bruised, his prosthetic arm needed to be sanded down. 

"He must really care about you."

Gigan blinked. "Megalon?"

"Yeah."

"Mm."

"Good friend."

Gigan closed his eyes. "Don't talk about him."

"Why?"

"Because!" he snapped. "You don't - ugh!"

"I don't deserve too?" Jet Jaguar asked, softly and with no accusatory inflection. Like it was a normal thing to say.

Gigan pursed his lips. "You don't know how it is, man."

Silence from the front seat.

"You just don't. I don't either." Another moment, more rasping breaths. "He's good. He's a good person."

"Yeah?"

"Not like, not like - nice, you know. You're nice. He's good.  There's a difference." Gigan gesticulated, rattling the handcuffs. "The main difference being that he doesn't piss me off nearly as much as you do."

Jet Jaguar huffed in what Gigan thought might possibly be amusement. 

Gigan looked out the window, watching the telephone poles roll slowly past. The cop sure wasn't burning rubber on the way to the station tonight, was he? "I mean, he gets on my fucking nerves sometimes. He's not the brightest, book-wise - or street-wise, either, really. I dunno how he's survived this long with nothing going on up in the old skull. I guess he always found assholes like me to hang out with and keep him safe."

"It doesn't seem to me like you're keeping him safe."

"Hey, don't start with me," Gigan grumbled. "You're the one who beat us up."  

No response. "Sure, we were committing a crime, but come on."

Jet Jaguar didn't respond.

"Okay, yeah. I don't always keep him safe. But this is Monsuta, nobody's safe. Even the people that are supposed to keep us safe -" he gestured to Jet Jaguar, clinking his cuffs together "-are more worried about knocking us down than helping us up. You've got to be smart and tough and he's only kind of tough."

"He's good."

"N-yeah, I mean, he's a good person. I think he wants to do the right thing, he wants to help people, but that's not really possible here.  Not that I make it easy for him."  He thought for a moment, looking out the window at the streets he'd stalked through so many evenings. "I don't think I'm a good person, you know. Megalon, he wants to help people. He wants to do his thing at Seatopia and keep all his animals safe, I don't know, teach people about aquariums and shit and keep to himself. He doesn't want to hurt people. I just-" he sighed. "I'm not like that. I like hurting people. I'm a bad person. I don't always wanna be, even though it keeps me safe here it makes me feel like shit when I get him into trouble."  He tried to say it in a matter-of-fact tone, but it came out a little warbled, a little raw. He'd thought it plenty of times before; it was a mantra in his head, you're a bad person, you're a bad person, but he'd never said it out loud like he meant it.

"You don't sound happy about that," Jet Jaguar said conversationally after an awkward amount of time had passed.  Gigan blinked.

"What, should I be proud of the fact that I'm a monster that ruins everything in my life?"  He wiggled his prosthetic fingers weakly. "I can't even keep myself in one piece, man. I don't know why I keep trying to hold onto things, hold on to people, when I'm just going to destroy them eventually. Useless."

"Seems to me like a bad person wouldn't be worrying about whether or not they're a bad person, right?"

"Oh, fuck off it," Gigan sneered. 

"Just saying."

Gigan picked at one of the scratches across his prosthetic arm, worrying at the edge of a tear in the plastic. "I want." He took a breath, then started again. "I wish I could be better. I don't care about being nice, niceness never did anything for anyone. But I wish I could've been born a good person. A better one."

The car rolled to a stop. Gigan was still looking at the ceiling, wondering why the hell he was having a heart-to-heart with the police officer that knocked him out and arrested him (again) at three in the morning.  He looked out when he heard rustling. Time to get out and head to the cell for the night. Ah, he could already feel the metal bars of the cot there digging into his shoulders from under the wafer-thin mattress. Thank god there was only one cop in town, who only had enough time to arrest one person per night.

Jet Jaguar was looking at him, framed by the heavy metal mesh, barely visible in the low light. He looked tired, a little resigned.

They weren't at the police station, Gigan noted.

"Did you take me out here to kill me?" he asked, annoyed. They were by the beach; the concession stand was only a few yards away.

"You aren't born a good person, Gigan," Jet Jaguar said, with the tone of voice that an exhausted parent would use for their inconsolable baby. "It's not genetic, and it has nothing to do with where you grew up. Megalon grew up here - Mothra grew up here - and they're good people, Gigan, right down to the very core. And it's not because they were born that way."

Gigan wanted to interrupt, but something about the cop's tone - how it was sad and a little desperate instead of how preachy it usually was - quieted him.

"You make choices every day, little choices, big, life-changing choices, and you have two options. You can to the good thing, or the less good thing. You get to decide what rules you use to tell which one's good and which one's less good, the golden rule, some kind of religious scripture, but you get a choice, and the good one's almost always harder. Good people are just the people that look at that choice and decide to do the thing that's a little more good and a little less easy, or less pleasant, or less remunerative. And you keep doing that over and over until you don't have any more choices. Most of those choices aren't ever going to count for anything, but if you practice with the little things - recycling your coffee cup, that kind of thing - then the big hard good choices are easier. That's all it is. Choices. Making the good choice as much as you can."

He turned back to the steering wheel. "Birth doesn't have anything to do with it, thank god. You've got your choices, Gigan, you can choose the better thing whenever you want. Any time you're ready to start.

Gigan rubbed his eye. His hand came away with a streak of motor oil.  "Hate that, chief."

"It's the truth." The cop turned back around and undid the latch to the door of the screen separating the two of them and leaned into the back seat, grunting with exertion.

"Seriously, are you gonna kill me?"

"Nope." He held up his little key so that Gigan could see it glinting red in the light from his visor. "Hands."  Gigan presented his handcuffs, holding them up so that Jet Jaguar could fumble for the keyhole in the darkness and unlock them with a deafening click.

"What's this?" Gigan asked. Everyone in Monsuta knew that gifts like this didn't come without a price, especially from cops. Jet Jaguar took the handcuffs and maneuvered himself back into the front seat, still facing Gigan like he was peering through a little window.

"This would be your third felony physical assault on a police officer. You'll be tried in the state court instead of the local one this time, and I can tell you, they don't look very kind at all on violence against the force. You're looking down the barrel of 10 to 15, more, if they decide to make an example out of you for your preexisting record. There's nothing any of us could do to stop it if you got booked for it tonight."

Gigan looked out the window. He vaguely remembered being warned about the three strikes policy last time he was brought in, but he was too worked up about Megalon leaving his precious Suzuki in the middle of the road when he'd gotten arrested that he didn't pay much attention to it.

"... Yeah, that sounds about right."

Jet Jaguar sighed. "See, this is my choice. Jail's not going to do anything good for you. It'll make me feel a hell of a lot better, but really, you didn't do 10 to 15 years' worth of damage to me. You might hurt other people in the future, but.. I don't know." He shook his head. "It'd be a lot easier to put you in jail and forget about you. It's what I'm supposed to do. But I don't know if it's a good thing to do. I think - and I'm not trying to be your youth pastor or anything - I think you could give the whole being a good person thing one more real, good try. It'd be a lot better for the world to have you out here trying than in jail, failing."

There was a click as Jet Jaguar unlocked the cars' doors.

"So go on, get out. I need to go home and ice my head."

Gigan gave him a long look, clenching his sore jaw, torn between spitting this aching, condescending pity back in his face, and taking what scraps of decency he'd been thrown and running with it. He deserved to go down. He'd committed enough crimes to warrant jail, definitely. It'd be an honorable way to go, in Monsuta, put in jail for the rest of your life for punching too many cops. But that would be the easy choice. Easy to give up, because bad people could never change and it wasn't worth the extra few weeks he'd scrape by with before he got his third strike. Easy to accept that petty thievery and violence was the best that his life was going to come to; honestly, who expected any better from him? Not Gigan, that's for sure. 

Would it be the good choice to make, though?

Oh, for fuck's sake, he was already starting to think like Jet Jaguar. You beat a guy up a couple of times...

He leaned over and snapped the car handle defiantly, heaving up a leg to kick the door open and lurching out into the cool night air. Jet Jaguar had driven them up to the curb on the beach - Gigan could see Goji's house from here, the lights inside flickering in the distance, Monsuta spread out beyond Jet Jaguar's patrol car. He slammed the door closed after himself.

"Hey," Jet Jaguar said collegially, rolling down the window an inch and peering out. He was smiling. "Have a good night. And don't do anything Megalon wouldn't."

The cop rolled up the window and started the car, rolling off down the driveway and back onto the street. Gigan watched him go, not entirely willing to believe that he wasn't going to turn  right around and pick him back up again once Jet Jaguar realized what he'd done. But he didn't, and Gigan was left out on the beach next to the darkened concession stand, listening to the waves lapping at the shore.

Megalon would be making his way back to his apartment now, if he wasn't back already, Gigan thought. Probably waiting for Gigan to call him from the holding cell asking for bail again. He thought of his open, eager face and his soft broad shoulders, his soft broad decency, and suddenly wanted to bury himself in the fuzzy lining of his oversized jacket.  Don't do anything Megalon wouldn't.

Okay, he thought. I think I can do that.  Okay.

[365daysofsasuhina]

[ 365 Days of SasuHina || Day Three Hundred Thirty-Six: A Yellow Cloth ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hōzuki Suigetsu, Hōzuki Mangetsu ] [ SasuHina, gun, alcohol ] [ Verse: Stockades and Stagecoaches ] [ AO3 Link ]

The rain just starts to pour as he walks in.

Given the weather (and the fact no one wants to be out in it), the saloon is actually fairly full despite it only being early afternoon. Patrons sit at tables and mull about on their feet, several gathered around the bar itself. Despite the glum atmosphere of dreary clouds and downpours, the spirits inside seem rather high. Talk is boisterous, and only emboldened further by drink...which seems to flow rather freely.

Part of Sasuke wants to indulge, but...he wants his wits about him. He’s not here to make merry and put his feet up. No...he’s here to work.

There’s only a slight pause in the room as he steps in. Otherwise, most are quick to get back to their business. He’s rather unremarkable, after all. Just a darkly-dressed man of no real note. He could be anyone: farmhand, ranchhand, cattle rustler, outlaw...but so long as he isn’t here to cause trouble, most people won’t mind what precisely he is. Even citizens who do things a bit outside the box have thirsts, after all.

...which is why Sasuke came here first.

Sasuke isn’t an outlaw himself. Far from it. The son of a man who struck oil on their land, he’s actually set to be rather well off. But as cushy as his life has been since the day they found the so-called ‘black gold’ as those in their industry call it, Sasuke has found it rather...boring. Unrewarding.

So he’s taken up a different means of employment.

He’s a bounty hunter.

Keeping his air mostly unassuming (and yet a touch unapproachable), he does indeed call for a bottle of whiskey...but he’s barely going to sip it. He needs to look like he belongs here. If he’s in any way out of place...they’ll likely bolt.

Of course, that’s assuming that the pair of men he’s after are even here. But the sheriff of the county did his best to offer clues, and suggested that this be the place Sasuke started.

“They’re a pair of slippery devils, but they have the vice of making time for drinks. Wait around long enough, and you’re sure to spot them sooner or later.”

These two - the Hōzuki brothers - are worth a pretty penny...so Sasuke doesn’t mind paying the waiting game. Sure, he doesn’t need the money...but the price upon a man’s head - dead or alive - typically indicates how dangerous he is to go after.

And that is what Sasuke is after. Adventure! Danger! Excitement! Anything but sitting and listening to his father talk about exports and accounts and...whatever other drivel Itachi has been instead soaking up like a sponge.

His brother can do what he wants. But Sasuke can’t tolerate it. After growing up with his comfortable lot in life, he’s eager to dive into the more questionable parts.

So far? He’s done fairly well. But this is his first double contract. Time to see what he’s capable of.

Clearing a shot glass with a yellow cloth, the barkeep eyes him a bit curiously. “Getting an early start, are we?”

“Nothing better to do until the weather clears up,” Sasuke replies blithely, accepting the bottle and cup the man hands him and exchanging it for the proper coin. Retreating to a solitary corner table, he uncorks the bottle and pours his first (and last) cup. Making to nurse it slowly, he barely takes a few drops before roving dark eyes over the crowds.

His initial sweep didn’t reveal anyone of interest. Seems they’re not here...not yet, at any rate. In the meantime, he keeps up his charade. It’s enough to convince anyone who gives him a glance. No one looks close enough to notice his cup never empties...nor does his bottle.

The afternoon crawls by, the weather eventually lightening a bit. Watching the storm lessen to a few trickles of water, Sasuke glances up as a pair of men enter the tavern.

...it’s them.

They immediately make a beeline for the bar, stocking up on several bottles before settling at a table not too far off from his own. Around them, the other patrons seem to hiccup slightly, giving them wary glances. It seems most either know - or at least suspect - who and what they are.

Keeping to his reclusive expression, Sasuke doesn’t make to pay them much mind...but he listens keenly as they speak.

“So how long until we’re gettin’ paid, anyway?”

“When the job’s done!”

“You mean it ain’t?”

“Not yet, little brother.”

“But we got the girl, didn’t we?”

“Yeah, we did. But we ain’t got the ransom yet! The girl isn’t what we’re after, it’s her papa’s money, numbskull!”

“I know that! But what’s the ransom got t’do with us? We’re just the muscle to rob the coach she was on and bring her in to t’boss!”

“We can’t get paid until Kisame arranges the deal. Honestly, Suigetsu...pay attention, would ya? We get a cut of the ransom, which means we can’t leave town until it’s over. I wanna make sure he don’t screw us out of our fair share, after all…”

The younger brother sulks over his beer. “Why couldn’t we just rob a coach with money in it ‘stead of some girl…”

“Her papa owns the biggest herd a’ sheep in the state. What with all them...textiles or whatever, he makes big money. More than they put on any plain ol’ coach. It’s a little extra work for a hell of a lot more cash. That’s why we took this job.”

“Enough to pay off our bounties?”

“And then some.”

“Sorry, gentlemen…”

Glancing up, the pair eye Sasuke as he stands with a cocked hip at their table. “...the hell do you want?”

“Ideally, for the two of you to surrender yourselves to the law quietly and without any fuss. But I’ve been doing this long enough to know that ain’t likely.”

After a beat, they both break out into laughter. “What’re you, some kinda...deputy?” the elder brother scoffs with a grin. “I don’t see no badge, officer.”

Drawing twin pistols and aiming each square at the men’s faces as the tavern goes silent, Sasuke smirks. “Technically I’m known as a bounty hunter. And I don’t make arrests...I bring in bodies. Alive...or dead. Whatever’s easier. Now...you have two options. Make a scene, and I shoot you both. Or you surrender, and I take you in alive. Either way, I get paid. I suppose I’d just rather this go the easy way, if I had a choice. And don’t both with funny business - I’ve got reflexes that’ll see you both dead before you can try to flip any tables or throw any smoke. Least if you cooperate, you’ll get a few more days before they hang you.”

Expressions no longer amused, the brothers exchange a glance. “...what if we offer you a third option, pardner?”

“...and what would that be?”

“Information on a fish a lot bigger than us,” the younger pipes up, clearly catching on. “You ever heard a’ Kisame Hoshigaki?”

Guns still trained on their brows, Sasuke perks his own. “...I have.”

“We just ran a job for him! Kidnapped some bigwig’s daughter for ransom - Hyūga! Listen - you let us tell you where he is, and you’ll get better than our two measly bounties. Kisame’s worth five thousand last I heard! And - and I bet the father’ll reward you real nice for bringing his little girl home! Kisame’s bounty and her reward...we give you the intel, and you let us walk. How ‘bout it?”

Sasuke considers that. Kisame is, indeed, a big name in the bounty world. Several other hunters he’s known have been killed trying to bring him down. But if he had insider info, the element of surprise… “...tell you what. You give me the information...I take you in, and tell the sheriff you assisted the law. Surely they’ll knock your bounties down for your civil service...maybe to something you can afford. I can likely do that much for you. But a paid bounty don’t mean you go rackin’ up another, y’hear?”

“Sounds fair to me, boss,” the elder agrees. “You, uh...mind lowerin’ your gun and shakin’ on it?”

“Does the word of a criminal have any weight to it?”

“I might be a lawbreaker, but that don’t mean I ain’t honorable to my word. Every man’s got a code. I follow mine.”

“...done.” Twirling one pistol back to its holster to free his hand, Sasuke shakes his new companion’s. “Now...you two and me’ll take a stroll to the sheriff’s. They’ll take record of your help, and I’ll go see about this Kisame feller. You can wait there until I confirm you told me the truth. Then we’ll see about getting your bounties paid.”

“Deal.”

Keeping his gun aloft, Sasuke nods them to the door before giving a salute to the bewildered barmen as they take their leave.

The station, thankfully, is just down the street of the small town. Sasuke explains their arrangement, earning a scowl from a deputy.

“We don’t like makin’ deals with criminals.”

“And I don’t like passing up a chance to bring someone far worse to justice and letting two small fry go once their bounties are paid. It’s a fair trade, and you know it.”

“Enough,” the sheriff cuts in wearily with a wave of a hand. “We’ll make the trade...but only once you bring Hoshigaki in. Until then, we’ll keep these fellers right here...where there’s no stagecoaches to hold up.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bringing out a map, the brothers point out Kisame’s location. “He’s holed up here, in this ol’ mine. Got the lady there, and he’s gonna arrange a meetin’ with her father for her ransom. He won’t be expecting trouble until then, and that’s a few days out at least.”

“Anyone with him?”

“Four or five men. Didn’t want to draw attention movin’ as a group. Just stay low and quiet. If you can get your hands on him first, the rest’ll roll over.”

Sasuke eyes the map carefully. “...all right. You two hold tight...I’ll be back in two days. See you sit here and think over your past decisions, hm?”

Looking resigned, they sit in the holding cell and watch as Sasuke makes his way back outside.

The day is aging, and the sky still dark with rainclouds. Best he wait until morning to get started. That way he’ll get there just as night falls...and that’ll give him an advantage. Mind whirling with plans...he rents a room in the local inn, and does his best to get some sleep.

                                                             .oOo.

     This is so darn random, but for some reason it was the only thing I could think of xD The image of the barman popped into my head, and the rest just kinda...happened, lol - I know it's a cliffie, but it's already super long as is for one of these entries, so...another time!      I've only written a western AU once before for another ship, but it's more fun than I thought it would be! I live pretty darn rural myself, so a lot of it's actually pretty familiar x3 And Sasuke as a bounty hunter is a neat idea. And ofc heiress Hinata!      Anywho, I've got lots to do tomorrow, so I better head off for the night~ Thanks for reading!

[pawsitivevibe]

My lazy af coworker spent his entire 4 hour shift doing the dishes, then left without putting them away.

In this house we do THREE TO EIGHT TASKS and we don't FUCK OFF AND LEAVE EVERYTHING FOR THE 10 O CLOCK PERSON. Now I have to do half this guy's single task for him, plus all my other closing work, in one hour.

Anyway if this keeps up the guy is super new so he's not union and he's gonna get fired.

Shit like this is why I basically won't listen to some of my friends complain about their cushy office jobs where they make tons of money and spend 80% of their time sitting waiting for something to do, or on "staff lunches" at fancy restaurants, and "team building exercises."

[badchoosey]

LoveHacks, Book One. Chapter 1: This Story Will Change Your Life

You make your way to the counter at a San Francisco cafe before the first day of work at your new job. The barista hands you a latte, complete with a recycled paper sleeve and your name written on the side.

Dad: Thank you! That’s… not how you spell Dad. Is Dadthaq even a name?

A guy in a plaid shirt over by the milk and sweeteners flashes you a smile.

Evan: They never spell my name right either. I’m Evan. Or ‘Effin’, according to my coffee.

Dad: I’m Dad.

Evan: So, Dad, do you take sugar in your coffee? Because I’m pretty sure you’re sweet enough as it is.

Dad: You were cuter before you started talking.

Evan: Ouch! … But you do think I’m cute, right?

Dad: Maybe.... But you definitely need to work on your flirting skills.

Evan: And I suppose you’re on expert on flirting?

Dad: It’s kinda my job, so… yeah. It’s my first day at ClickIt. You know, viral posts, life hacks, listicles?

Evan: I’ve heard of it. ‘20 Things Only 90s Kids Will Understand’... That kinda stuff?

Dad: Exactly. I’m the newest writer for their love and dating section.

Evan: Love and dating, huh? In that case… how am I doing?

Dad: Honestly? Your game is weak, son. Your body language is all wrong. You’re trying to look confident, but you have a tenseness that gives away how nervous you are. And you used a pick up line, which can come off as unoriginal, or even fake. You should be yourself.

Evan: Wow. Anything else?

Dad: Actually… you’ve had something in your teeth this whole time.

Evan immediately covers his mouth.

Dad: Kidding! You’ve done well enough that if you gave me your number, I wouldn’t immediately delete it. I might even let you show me around the city sometime…

Evan: It’d be my pleasure.

You exchange numbers with Evan, who smiles the whole time.

Evan: Wow, you really are good at this. How is someone like you still single?

Dad: I’m single because I have high standards. No one has managed to meet all my requirements.

Evan: Oh, it’s like that, huh?

Dad: It’s like that. You’re free to try to be the first, though.

Evan: Any chance you’re walking my way? I’m headed to the Zamble offices.

Dad: Cushy tech job, huh? I’m actually heading the other way. Can’t be late for my first day on the job!

You walk into the ClickIt office for the first time…

Dad: Whoa. What is this place…?

Martin: You must be Dad. I’m Martin, editor-in-chief here at ClickIt. This way. We’re about to start our daily stand-up.

Dad: Daily what?

Martin: I don’t know how they do things on the East Coast, but out here, we host a meeting each morning so all the writers can sync up.

Martin leads you to a brightly decorated lounge area where several men are already sitting on bean bag chairs.

Martin: Not the sort of vibe you’re a used to, huh?

Dad:This place looks like something out of Sesame Street.

Coworker: Really? You have a problem with our comfortable, creative environment? Maybe we could get you a wooden rocking chair, or a butter churn.

Dad: The bean bag is fine.

Coworker: See, Marty? A chick on the staff for one minute, and she’s already trying to redecorate. Total buzzkill.

Dad: Excuse me?!

Coworker 2: Hey, TJ, can you turn down the ‘douche’? She just got here…

TJ: I don’t take advice from junior writers, Felix.

Martin: Behave now, boys. Everyone, meet our newest Clicker, Dad. She’s the head of the new LoveHacks page. She’ll be our resident expert in all things fashion and romance.

TJ: So, the girly stuff?

Martin: Dad knows what she’s doing. Her personal blog post, ‘The Worst Date Ever’, went legit viral! Two million likes, five hundred shares, and more retweets than Kendall Jenner’s latest selfie. And I’m sure she has plenty more ideas up her sleeve!

Martin looks at you expectantly.

Dad: Oh, right! Actually, I’m glad you brought that up, Martin, because I’ve done a lot of brainstorming lately… How’s this for a headline? ‘Table for One: How to be Happy and Single.’

TJ: Ha! What are we, a website for ugly people?

Dad: Ugly people? You mean single women?

TJ: That article would get, like, negative clicks. But if you insist on catering to the uggos, you gotta at least make it snappy. Something like… ‘Five Ways to Replace Your BF With a Body Pillow!’ That sorta thing.

Dad: That’s… that’s actually not bad.

TJ: You know, I’d be happy to help you with some field research, if you want. Teach you a thing or two about love.

Martin: Field research! That’s a great idea!

TJ: … It is?

Martin: Dad can go on dates and write… ‘The 10 Guys You Date in Your Twenties!’ What do you think?

Dad: I’m gonna need a company card to do this right.

TJ: What, you can’t even get a guy to pay for you?

Dad: It’s the 21st century, TJ. Women can pay for things too.

Martin: Dad’s right. I’ll talk to the finance department and see what I can do. One month should be more than enough time for the article. I expect to see your progress and notes each week.

Dad: Yes, sir.

Soon after, you settled into your new workspace, a desk clustered together with others in the big, open space of the ClickIt office. Suddenly, a kind face leans into view from the workspace next to you.

Felix: Hey! I’m Felix. Looks like we’re desk-neighbours. Sorry about Tj back there. He can be a jerk sometimes. And by that I mean all the time.

Dad: I know the type. How and why do people put up with him?

Felix: Despite being a human poop emoji, he’s actually one of the most clicked writers on our site… and he’s Martin’s favorite.

Dad: That’s not fair, someone needs to call Martin out! No one should get special treatment for being buddy-buddy with the boss!

Felix: Hey, people have tried, but what’re you gonna do? Martin signs the checks, and we all tryin’ to get dat paper! … I immediately regret saying ‘get dat paper’. Let’s pretend I didn’t.

Dad: Stricken from the record.

Just then, a woman strides over, glaring at Felix.

Coworker: Felix, did you eat all our horseradish for your stupid video?

Felix: Isabel! Yes, I, uh, did! But I also got ‘Horseradish Challenge Fail’ trending! And the doctor says my sinuses will heal in no time.

Isabel sighs and turns to you.

Isabel: It’s Dad right? I’m Isabel. Don’t let Felix rope you into any of his videos, especially anything that involves wasabi.

Dad: Duly noted.

Isabel turns and walks away, and you notice Felix watching as she leaves.

Dad: I see what’s going on here… you totally HATE Isabel. You guys get on each other’s last nerve.

Felix: No! I mean, we kinda do… but I don’t hate her! I would never…

Dad: Oh, I got this all wrong… This tension isn’t anger… You like her, don’t you?

Felix: Well… maybe? Alright, fine, yes… But it’s not my dating life we should be discussing. What are you gonna do for your first date?

Dad: Good question. I kinda got caught off guard.

Felix: There’s no one in town you could call up? Word is you’re originally from the Bay, right?

Dad: Well… there is one guy. A good friend from college, Mark…

(Now Playing as Mark Collins.)

You’re walking down a bustling San Francisco street on your way to the Muni bus station.

Mark: There is not enough caffeine in the world for me right now.

You finish your energy drink before tossing the empty can into a bin. Your roommate, Cole, looks up from his phone.

Cole: You alright? You’ve been acting weird all morning.

Mark: I… didn’t sleep well last night. I’ve got a lot on my mind.

Cole: Wait… Is this because your college friend is back in town? The one who got away?

Mark: She’s not ‘the one who got away’.

Cole: Riiiight. You only talk about her all the time. And not in the ‘have you seen the latest episode of The Walking Dead’ way. In the ‘Dear Diary, I love her sooooo much’ kinda way.

Mark: I’m not the type to get lovesick. Sure, we were close in college, but that’s all.

Cole: Please. I’ve been your roommate for years now. I know when you have a crush on someone. I saw it when you first discovered Zooey Deschanel, and I see it when you talk about your long-lost BFF.

Mark: Fine. You wanna know the truth? The real, one hundred percent truth?

You lean towards Cole, and he leans forward to meet you…

Mark: Go to hell, Cole.

Cole: Aw, come on. I thought we were having a bonding moment!

Mark: You’re the worst.

Cole: Love you too, roomie. Anyway, you should call her up. Invite her to The Double Tap for drinks. Meet the gang.

Mark: I dunno. I have that work thing tonight…

Cole: Whatever you say, man. But she’s probably wondering about you as we speak…

(Now Playing as Dad).

Felix: Soooo… you gonna call this Mark guy, or what?

Dad: Oh! It’s uh… It’s just been so long, and…

Felix: … It’s complicated. Say no more. In that case, can’t you just go to a bar or something and get a guy’s number? You’re an expert, right?

Dad: Oh! Actually… I picked up a phone number at the coffee shop before work!

Felix: Okay, now you’re making this look too easy.

Later, you and Felix go to a small boutique just off Market Street.

Dad: Thanks for coming with me to pick out an outfit for my date tonight! I didn’t think you’d want to come shopping.

Felix: Hey. I’m helping you with research. Any time I can get out of the office and still get paid, I’m down. So, where’s Evan taking you tonight?

Dad: Some new club… Mystique, I think it was.

Felix: Mystique? Seriously?! That club is impossible to get into! Rumor has it the VIP lounge has an ice luge for vodka shots and its own taco bar. And last year, DJ Khaled played!

Dad: You listen to DJ Khaled?

Felix: No. I’m more of a Lumineers guy… but I recognise how big DJ Khaled is. Mystique is very exclusive, but you never know who you’ll run into there…

Dad: In that case, I’d better look my best.

Just then, a little black dress catches your eye. You run your fingers over the bright sequins.

Felix: Wow. If you wear that dress, Evan will fall all over himself trying to impress you.

Dad: I definitely have to try this on! … Actually I think I’ll go with this mustard dress instead. The other one is very… sparkly.

Felix: Are you sure? I mean, I know I’m not very stylish but..

Dad: You don’t like this one?

Felix: No, that’s not what I meant! I’ll, uh, just defer to your judgement…

Dad: I’m ready for my first big date in San Francisco!

That night, you’re waiting for Evan outside Mystique…

Evan: Dad! Over here!

Dad: Hey, Evan.

You make your way over to your date, weaving through the crowd of typical Silicon Valley tech workers.

Dad: Whoa. It’s like a sea of plaid button-up shirts out here.

Evan: Yeah, a lot of the guys came directly from work.

Dad: You know them?

Evan: Oh, yeah. Zamble rented out the whole place for the night.

Dad: Really? You brought me to a work party?! For our first date?

Evan: I just, uh, couldn’t wait to see you again! And I had to come here tonight, so I thought, you know, two birds? Plus, Zamble parties are always epic. Trust me, when we get inside, you won’t believe it’s a work party.

Dad: … Fine. But just FYI, next time, you should really tell a girl beforehand. No one likes to be blindsided.

Evan: You got it.

In the club, Evan pulls you close so you can hear him over the pulsing music…

Evan: Let’s grab a drink at the bar.

Dad: Okay!

You follow Evan through the dance floor to the back. Suddenly, you hear a familiar voice calling your name.

Dad: Wait, is that…?

The crowd parts, and a handsome guy you haven’t seen in years steps into the light.

Mark: Dad?

Dad: Mark?!

[qqueenofhades]

alone, i fight these animals [alone, until i get home]: ii

I.... have no clue if this qualifies as a proper multichapter, but I discovered myself wanting to do a second part to this, so that is what I did. It was mostly an excuse to write some Frank/Madani and Frank/Matt frenemy BROTP, because I have a need for that.

If this turns into a real fic, I will post it on AO3. I have no idea at this point, and have not actually done something sensible like plotting it out, but yes.

The engine dies with a rumble, as Frank switches it off and leans back in the driver’s seat, watching the docklands with a wary eye. The car is an old beater of a Chevy, outwardly indistinguishable from any other low-slung growler that might be cruising around here, but he doesn’t go to meetings like this without enough horsepower to make a fast getaway. Frank modified it himself and keeps it in the garage with the battle van, which luckily he hasn’t had to bust out for a while, and it’s a little less eye-catching than that big black beast. Serves the same purpose, though. He tends to change up the paint job, add or remove accessories. Doesn’t want to get distinctive, identifiable.

He’s said that he’ll be here for ten minutes exactly and then he’ll leave, so Madani, if she’s coming, better be fuckin’ punctual. He doesn’t know that he trusts her to look like anything other than a federal agent rolling up to a clandestine meet with a confidential informant, but she must have climbed the ladder by not being an idiot. There’s still the chance that she’s going to spring handcuffs on him for that scene the other night, but Frank doesn’t think so. She needs his help with catching the rest of the ring, whether or not she’ll admit it. That’s the reason for this. Everything else is brass tacks and haggling.

It’s minute seven and forty-three seconds when Madani, having apparently decided that she doesn’t want to time their arrivals to coincide exactly, but conscious of the deadline, turns in. Frank can’t tell it’s her at first, which is a good sign, but does make him reach momentarily for his gun. Then the other car parks with a crunch of gravel, a slight figure in a jacket, hooded grey sweatshirt, and jeans gets out, and strolls across the icy pavement to his. He clicks the door to unlock it, and Madani ducks into the passenger seat, wrinkling her nose. “You ever heard of Febreze, Castle?”

“Don’t think you came here to complain that my shit stinks, huh?” Frank glances at her, trying to judge her temperament for being difficult. Her dark curls wave out of the hood, she probably has her badge clipped right under her sweatshirt, and he can just feel her longing to brandish it in his face. “Or if that’s your opening line, you already know you’re backed into a corner, and you need to act like you can throw your weight around before you ask for a favor.”

Madani gives him a searing look. “I have no idea why I came here.”

“You asked for it.” Frank leans back in the seat, hands behind his head. “And I think we’re past you pullin’ rank on me, acting all fuckin’ superior, aren’t we?”

Madani chews that over for several moments, which means she can’t dispute it. “Fine,” she says at last. “I still don’t necessarily think you’re a good man, Frank, but you don’t give a rat’s ass whether I think that or not, and in this job, you don’t get the luxury of working with Mother Teresa all the time. You were, admittedly, effective with breaking the pedophile ring. We did run some diagnostics on their computers, and we have more names.”

Frank snorts – breaking the pedophile ring is the most goddamn government-jargony way he has ever heard to say blew their fucking brains out, and he used to work for an actual black-ops hit squad. “You’re welcome,” he says, since she’d probably choke on it. “Told you.”

“Yeah, all right, fine.” Madani waves an irritated hand. “Anyway, there has been a lot of red tape in the office recently, bullshit with the budget, obsession with going after softer targets. You know this administration and the kind of people it thinks are a threat. So – ”

“And you, as Special Agent in Charge, don’t always agree with the strings they pull to make you dance?” Frank could gloat over this a little more, but there will be time for that later. “Going rogue? You want to talk to me because you know I get results, when those dickheads just sit there with their thumbs up their ass and do jackshit to actually help?”

“Something like that.” It’s clear that Madani has plenty of frustrations, whether or not she’s going to let on to him. “I still believe in our institutions, no matter who’s running them, but it’s true that things are taking a… turn right now, and I’m under a lot of scrutiny. If I can’t even push through an operation to take a bunch of child abusers off the street, then…” She trails off. “I still don’t know whether to thank you for that or not, by the way. They’re dead, but it looks like I blew it and once again, a vigilante had to wipe the U.S. government’s ass. They want an excuse to fire me, Frank. I’m asking you to help not give them one.”

Frank takes that in without answering, He can guess that Madani is too female and too ethnic to make the douchebags of record very comfortable; as the daughter of Iranian immigrants, even a thoroughly Americanized one, these chickenshits are constantly going to be looking for an excuse to pull the trigger, so to speak. And if Madani goes, whatever tenuous protection he has from DHS reopening his case goes as well. There are plenty of assholes jockeying to take over her chair, and all of them would love to make a big splash by catching the Punisher. Normally, Frank thinks, they bend over fuckin’ backwards to defend white men with guns, but not when he won’t play ball with you. That’s different.

“Fine,” he says. “And to save your ass, you’re the one here asking for more help from me. What do you think I’m going to do?”

“I can transmit the intelligence to you,” Madani says. “Names, aliases, assets, last known whereabouts, everything the analysts have managed to piece together. These guys are nasty, Frank, they aren’t just making kiddie videos on the Deep Web. They’ve got a lot of other interests, and all of them are equally bad. I need you to track them down.”

“And?” Frank stares at her, one eyebrow cocked. “What do you think I’m gonna do next? Give them fuckin’ milk and cookies?”

“Of course not.” Madani sounds exasperated. “You really think I don’t know what you do, Frank? But as it happens, yes, I’m asking you not to kill them. Track them down, capture them, hurt them if you have to, but don’t kill them. I need them, I need them physically to show the brass and to prove that I succeeded. After that, all the stuff they’re in, the prosecutors can probably push for the death penalty. They’ll die one way or another, if that’s what you want. But if I don’t get them alive, it all falls apart.”

“I’m not a goddamn bounty hunter,” Frank snaps. “I’m a killer. I don’t take prisoners, Madani. I’m supposed to – what, get on a plane with these assholes tied up in a line behind me? If you’re asking me to go outside the rules and get them, you want them dead.”

“It’s not like I’m defending them!” Madani barks back. “I know they’re terrible! But if they just die mysteriously, I have pretty much no shot at keeping my job, and then there are going to be people looking for you, Frank. Looking for you and Karen. How much do you want to risk that? It seems like you’re a little more settled these days. Have something to lose.”

“You threatening me?” Frank whirls on her. “You threatening me, huh?”

“No.” Madani, to her credit, keeps her composure, though her nostrils flare. “I’m warning you. If I’m not in charge of DHS, it’ll look for you. Whoever you’re with is going to come into the firing line too. I’m sure you don’t want anything to happen to her.”

Frank doesn’t answer, though his finger twitches so violently that his entire hand jumps on his thigh. Goddamn it, Madani. She has his balls in a fuckin’ vise, has him bent over a barrel, and the worst thing is that she probably knows it. He can’t play games with Karen’s safety, even if every one of his natural instincts is to just cap the bastards in the head and call it a day. Madani needs them alive for her little stage play, and Frank – whether or not he wants to admit it – needs Madani where she is right now. It’s at least in some part due to her that he can walk around New York as a free man, even one ostensibly called Pete Castiglione. That’s a flimsy alias, and any digging, or anyone even looking too long at his face and a newspaper front page, would be able to piece it together. If he wants to keep this life, whatever it is, he can’t just charge in, blow shit up, and charge out. He needs to be strategic about this. Long-term. Fuck.

“So what?” he growls at last. “You give me the intel, I track down these bastards, I give them to you for a Christmas present? You do Christmas?”

“Yeah.” Madani rubs under her eyes with both fingers. “My parents thought it was an important part of an American upbringing. Any other questions?”

“And after you show them to the bosses, you check whatever godforsaken boxes you have to check, you prove you’ve run the operation, they die.” Frank is willing to help her, if it contributes to keeping Karen safe, but he isn’t going to budge on that point. “They don’t get some cushy life in protected custody. You’re going to arrange it somehow that they die, and I don’t mean waiting ten years on death row. Got it?”

Madani’s cheeks flush a dull red. “I really don’t want to be an accomplice to extrajudicial murder, Frank. No matter how terrible they are.”

“Well, that’s what makes you and me different.” Frank grins mirthlessly. “Besides, you play your cards right, it doesn’t stick to you. You know you’re taking a hell of a chance here, don’t you? All these under-the-table arrangements with me come out, you’re finished one way or the other. But you think you can do it on your own, you’re welcome to run back to your department and sign all your paperwork and follow procedure. Have fun.”

The silence is briefly and overpoweringly enormous. Then Madani says, “Fuck you, Frank.”

“Take that as a no?” It’s starting to get chilly in the car, with the engine off and the temperature below freezing, and Frank blows on his hands. “No, you can’t do it alone?”

“I obviously would not be here if I thought things were going well on my end.” Madani sounds like she would prefer to have her fingernails ripped out rather than admit it, but she doesn’t have a lot to lose now. “Obviously, I’m sure I can trust you to total discretion. If you need money or something else, I can arrange it. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I can handle money.” They’re obviously not living on Karen’s newspaper/paralegal salary alone, and David gave him a nice chunk of change a while ago, which is kept in a bank in the Caymans. “But last time one of us sent the other some kind of sensitive information – when David sent you the Zubair video – we know what fuckin’ happened next. If anything, if any bit of this, catches up to Karen in any way, we’re done, Madani. We’re done. I will rip anyone who comes after her to fucking pieces, and I don’t give a shit if they’ve got a government badge or not. I’ll help you stay in DHS if DHS is going to mind its goddamn business. But if you get some other kind of conspiracy going, anything like Rollins, I’m warning you right now. I will kill all of you. I am not fucking joking.”

Madani takes that without answering, though her lips tighten. “I’m aware,” she says at last. “You’re a loose cannon, Frank, but we want the same things, the same people taken down. Let’s start there. You let me handle my end of the BS, I let you handle yours. Sound good?”

“Yeah,” Frank grumbles, even though he still has plenty of misgivings. Maybe he should leave, should move out and get his own place somewhere, even if he doesn’t want to move back into that goddamn basement with David again. It feels like it’s too unforgivably dangerous to keep living with Karen, but letting her alone is even worse. Jesus. “Send me the information and be careful with it. I’ll maybe talk to Lieberman, see if he wants to help, but he’s got his family back. I’m also telling you now, nothing happens to Sarah and those kids. They’ve been through enough. See to it.”

Madani pauses, then nods. They reach out, shake hard enough as if trying to break each other’s fingers, and then she jerks the door open and climbs out, striding back to her car. Frank scans to see if anyone’s parked on a rooftop or has been loitering too long by the underpass, but their meeting looks to have been unobserved. He swears again under his breath and switches back on the engine, firing up the heater, and waits until Madani’s car has vanished down the alley before he throws the Chevy into reverse and peels out in the other direction. Well, that was a whole bunch of shit, and he doesn’t even know how far he’s already dug himself into it. Maybe if he had just left it alone to start with and never went after the ring, but that’s more than he was prepared to countenance. Makes him see red every time he thinks about it. Frank doesn’t see himself as some kind of sainted protector of the city. Far from it. But he was born in Long Island, he grew up here, he left for the first time at age eighteen on his first deployment, and while he’s been plenty of places since, there’s still something about New York that has a hold on him, broken and blackened and painful as it’s become. He loves this place, even if it hates him. He wasn’t letting them live in it.

Frank guns it down the service road back to the main thoroughfare, turns out, and drives back to the out-of-the-way garage where he keeps this car and the battle van. He pulls in, unlocks the chain link fence, rolls through, and parks, then can’t help searching for any signs of intrusion or forced entry. He has no idea who he would expect to be here, if anyone, but that long-ingrained urge to look over your shoulder, to check your six, that never goes away. Madani said the pedos had plenty more nasty friends. Could be any one of them.

Everything, however, looks ordinary. Frank makes a note to ask David for some more cameras, keep more of an eye on this place from afar, and wonders if he can really ask him to strap back on and wade into the shit again. David isn’t a soldier, and he got involved in this to start with to clear his name and be reunited with his family. He got that. Not much incentive to risk them all over again, much as he might personally want to help Frank out or feel indebted to him. Frank has some tech know-how, but he’s probably overall comparable to David trying to fire an AK-47. In other words, totally fucked.

Frank thinks that the lack of a partner has never bothered him before, the fewer people he can involve in this low-level shitstorm the better, and he’ll work out what he needs to. Having finished his sweep, he locks up, battens down, and catches a bus into midtown, briefly tempted to stop by Nelson, Murdock, and Page just to make Foggy choke on his tongue. Stroll in and bring Karen lunch, just because. But now, he wants to be cautious about going straight from a meetup with Madani to the office. He hasn’t told Karen about this new wrinkle yet, and he still doesn’t know whether he should. Probably. They just had a fight about it, and he can’t just disappear for days or weeks without an explanation. It’s always easier to do this work when you have no one to account yourself to, but he can’t lose her.

Still coming up with no apparent solution to his dilemma, Frank buys a hot dog from a sidewalk cart and sits on a park bench to eat it, scattering the remains of his bun to a flock of ravenous pigeons when he’s done. It’s cold but clear, New York running around and getting ready for Christmas, and he once more feels that impulse, that wish that he could kick back and enjoy it. But who knows. Who fuckin’ knows.

Frank sits there a moment more, then growls, “Shit.” This doesn’t do anything, it doesn’t even really make him feel better, but it’s an acceptable reaction to what he has to do. David is a glib son of a bitch who’s great with a keyboard – and has admittedly saved Frank’s ass a couple times – but if this is going to come down to brass-knuckle diplomacy, which it almost assuredly will, Frank needs someone who can fight, who is just as annoyingly dedicated to getting bad guys off the street and out of New York, and is equally insane enough to keep running full speed into punches. Yeah, they have some pretty major philosophical oppositions, but still. This looks like a two-vigilante job, at fuckin’ least, and besides. Maybe they should be, you know. Friends. For Karen’s sake.

Frank swears again, then pulls out his phone, scrolls through it to “R,” and hits the number. He swiped it from Karen’s, and the recipient doesn’t know he has it, so this is going to be a surprise, and could of course horribly backfire. But he waits a few more moments until it’s answered. “Murdock.”

“Uh.” Frank blows out a breath. “Hey, Red.”

There is a very long silence on the other end, as Frank realizes that they’ve never had an actual conversation where he’s made it clear he knows the deal. But come on. He ain’t fuckin’ stupid. (Plenty of people would disagree, but nearly all of them are dead.) He sat up there on that rooftop with Red yammering at him, then he sat in court with Murdock going on just as annoyingly, he put two and two together. He’s always acted like he didn’t know, just because Red has a bug up his ass about the secret identity shit, and besides, Karen knows, Karen told him anyway. Not that Frank would say that, because he figured it out himself, and he’s not gonna throw her under the bus if Murdock gets pissy. Well, this is already fun.

“Frank,” Matt says at last, sounding… well, let’s just say, not goddamn thrilled. “Why are you calling me?”

This is a fair question, and Frank hunts for some kind of explanation that won’t immediately make him hang up. “Karen’s fine, Karen’s fine,” he says, in case that’s what Matt thinks would be the only reason to make him get in touch. “Not any of that. I actually had a suggestion. For some work. If you were interested.”

“Work?” Matt sounds leery. “What the hell kind of work, exactly?”

“The kind you and me both do, Red. Take some bad people off the streets.”

“I didn’t realize you – ” Matt starts, then stops. “I didn’t know you… knew.”

“Yeah, well, we already established you were a dense motherfucker.” Frank switches the phone to the other shoulder, even as it belatedly occurs to him that maybe he shouldn’t be insulting the guy whose help he is, regrettably, asking for. “You were my goddamn lawyer, think I don’t know how you talk?”

There is another mulish silence as he can hear Matt chewing over that, wanting to ask how long he’s known, if he’s told anyone else, all that. Murdock might be tangentially aware that Frank and Karen are knocking boots, but does not want to have to actually refer to it in any capacity, and Frank is tempted to make a smart remark on that topic, just cuz. But he’s not going to be a dick to Karen, even in absentia, to score a couple cheap macho asshole points on a blind lawyer in a Halloween costume. Instead he says, “You want to know more or not?”

“Does this involve murdering the bad people? Because if so, you know I can’t agree to that.”

“Jesus, Red. They’re about as bad as you can get, even you don’t want to hand-hold these bastards and take them to Sunday school. I can send you the details once I get ‘em, but either way, they need to be stopped. Doing some fucked-up shit, a lot of fucked-up shit, actually. So?”

“Fine,” Matt growls, as Frank figured he eventually would. “Let me know the intel whenever you get it.”

“You need some Braille shit or something?” Frank asks. “Or you have something that reads your email for you?”

“I got through Columbia Law, you know I’m not actually an idiot. Just send it, I’ll work on it from there.” Matt pauses. “You told Karen about this?”

Frank feels like Matt Murdock is the least qualified individual to give anyone advice on this subject whatsoever, especially about this woman, and it’s only with difficulty that he bites himself back from something designed to cut. “No,” he says. “Not yet.”

It’s hard to tell what Matt thinks of that, especially over the phone. Then he says, “Obviously, I think the one thing we can agree on is that we don’t want this to spill over onto her. So whatever we’re chasing here, we need to keep her safe.”

Frank knows that wanting to keep Karen out of this has worked exactly like jackshit in the past, and he knows too that she’s strong and capable and no wilting hothouse flower, would probably shoot some of the dicks herself if she had half a chance. But he understands what Matt’s saying, given that he just outright threatened Madani to be sure none of this touched Karen, and doesn’t want to torpedo their alliance at this preliminary stage. “Yeah,” he grunts. “She stays out of it, much as we can. That’s not a problem. Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Matt says. “You’re still a total asshole.”

“Get that a lot.” It is not, Frank feels, entirely inaccurate, even as he rolls his eyes, because Christ, it’s rich coming from this prick. “Talk to you later, Red.”

With that, feeling as if it’s better to get out of there before things go any more south, he hangs up and stares at the phone, not sure he feels a whole lot better. He’ll go to the safe house tonight, where David still keeps his computers and surveillance setups, since that’s where Madani will be transmitting the information, and Frank likes to periodically check for signs of interference anyway. He gets up, chucks the hot dog paper tray away, and heads out. Takes a different route than he did in. Gets off a stop too early, and doubles back a few times. Once he’s finally satisfied that nobody followed him, he reaches the safe house, unlocks the chains, and heads inside. They’re not actually living in this shithole anymore, thank God, but it still gives him a momentary shudder.

Frank switches on the monitors, scans his retina, and waits until everything has booted up. There are about five passwords he has to enter before he can access the message that there’s a new file waiting for him, and he approves; Micro doesn’t fuck around with cyber security, especially given that there’s gotta be a lot of fishing for this. It’s a plaintext ASCII file, scrubbed of all identifiable electronic traces, and Frank pauses, then clicks to open it. It’s a list of names, social security numbers, addresses, email and phone numbers, known aliases and associations, everything that DHS has pulled from the servers on the remaining members of the pedophile ring. A separate file contains any mugshots on record, grainy jpegs, or driver’s license photos or anything else on public record.

Frank plugs in an encrypted flash drive, types more passwords to unlock it, and transfers everything onto it. He considers sending some kind of acknowledgement back to Madani that he got the information, but she can probably fuckin’ guess, and he doesn’t want to leave too many digital fingerprints. He checks that the files have copied over correctly and haven’t glitched, then deletes all the originals and clears every kind of cache he can think of. Obviously, he doesn’t think anyone is going to be in here working over these machines, and good luck getting through David’s firewalls, but better safe than sorry.

Having finished the retrieval, Frank figures the best way to hand the information over to Matt is probably in person – maybe he can drop by tonight after dark, see if Red wants to slap on that stupid fuckin’ horned helmet and they can go right away. Some of these bastards still have to be in town, right? They can’t all have made it out of New York. They’ll have guessed it’s too dangerous to travel under their real names, with an APB out for them, and fake identities take at least a little time to process, even if they have a good hookup. Try to stay hidden and wait for the smoke to blow over, feel like moving’s more dangerous. Frank’s counting on that, anyway, but if they’re backed into a corner, this won’t be pretty.

Frank pauses, then ejects the flash drive, puts it into a zippered pocket on his jacket, and powers everything down. He locks up, leaves everything as he found it, and heads out. It’s getting on in the afternoon by now, the day short and chill, and he wonders if Karen’s heading back to the Liebermans’ place tonight. At least it will keep her distracted from wondering where he is, but it admittedly feels a little like cheating. He should tell her, right? They’re trying to do that now. Not everything, maybe, but more.

Dusk is falling over the city by the time Frank makes it back to central Manhattan, a few stops more on the subway, and steps out into Hell’s Kitchen, which looks beautiful at this hour, all the lights coming on and Christmas trees glowing in windows and people hurrying by eager to be somewhere warm. Frank’s breath steams in the chill as he walks up to the apartment, lets himself in, and heads upstairs. Karen should be home by now. He’ll do it, he promises, he will maybe even ask her help. She’s a goddamn good journalist, she’s like a dog with a fuckin’ bone. She’ll gnaw and gnaw until she finds out whatever she needs to. But if he does that, he makes her a legitimate target, and when he’s promised himself this is the last one, the last mission, before he really settles down and tries to make a new life with her, he can’t quite shake the fear. Everyone knows what happens to the cop who takes this one last job before he’s supposed to retire, or whatever. He always gets killed.

The apartment, however, is dark and quiet, and it doesn’t look like Karen’s there. Frank wonders if he should call, just in case, but he doesn’t want to act like her goddamn babysitter; she’s a grown woman, she can look out for herself. Still, the ever-present prickle of anxiety whenever he doesn’t 100% know that she’s safe is difficult to dispel, he has often had reason to pay attention to this instinct, and he groans, pulls out his phone, and hits her number. Just pick up, Karen, Jesus Christ. Don’t give me a fuckin’ heart attack.

She doesn’t; it goes over to voicemail.  Frank hangs up, reminds himself there are plenty of non-nefarious reasons for this, and struggles not to immediately jump to the conclusion that she’s been kidnapped by a lot of angry perverts and they’re holding her for ransom – or worse – against the death of their fellows. He rubs both hands over his face. It’s not that far to Red’s place from here. Ten-minute walk, less if he runs.

Frank gets together a decent selection of guns, throws them into his bag with extra boxes of ammo, straps a nine-millimeter to his ankle holster, and shoves his Ka-Bar into its sheath at his hip. Then, with a final look around, and wondering if he should just get David to install a tracking device on Karen’s phone (he did once tell David that Sarah would cut his nuts off if she discovered the Lieberman house spy cameras, but still), he heads back out. He jogs down the stairwell, and emerges into the chilly evening, glancing around once more just in case the subway was late or something and Karen’s getting home now. Jesus, this relationship shit is stressful. Can’t deal with his heart always walking around somewhere else again. Especially when that heart is as feisty and independent and fuckin’ reckless as Karen. He isn’t the right man to tell anyone to take a goddamn chill pill, but jeez.

It’s eight minutes later when Frank reaches Matt’s street, turns in, and leaps up the steps two or three at a time, reaching the hallway and banging on the door of his apartment. He better be in, or Frank’s really gonna have a problem, and indeed, Matt jerks it open a moment later.  “Frank? What the hell? I thought you were going to send an email.”

“Plans changed.” Frank shifts tensely from foot to foot. “Look, throw on your pajamas and your fuckin’ hat with the horns, huh, Red? Let’s go, yeah?”

Matt raises both eyebrows. After a moment he says, “Your heart rate’s off the charts. What’s wrong? Are you sure Karen’s okay? Frank, Jesus, you know I don’t like this, whatever it is, with you two, but if you can’t even look after her – ”

“Yeah, because what we really needed was your goddamn opinion.” Frank clenches both fists, reminds himself that he has no solid evidence that anything is awry at all, and takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. A soldier who runs into the middle of a fight frantic and haywire and not focused usually gets shot in the first few seconds, and he’s definitely not letting Matt see (or whatever, echolocate, he doesn’t know exactly how all that works) him at less than his best. “We can probably get to some of these assholes tonight, that’s all. Checked the addresses, a dozen of ‘em live in a ten-block radius in Queens. I take one half, you take the other, we could close the book. You up for it or no?”

Matt hesitates. It’s clear that his first instinct is also to rush in and take on the baddies, even if he is leery about doing it with Frank. At last he says, “If you’re putting Karen in danger, you know the right thing to do would be to walk away.”

Frank starts to say something, then stops. It’s worse that he’s had that idea himself, that he keeps having the impulse to bail out and disappear and never be seen again, but if that’s what Matt thinks he should do, well, it’s clearly wrong. Same guy who lied to Karen for months and months, keeps dropping out of her life and then reappearing and expecting that things will just be the goddamn same between them, jerking her around and causing her heartache and worry and still too unable to realize that there’s a cost to living this way, there’s a cost. Frank isn’t gonna judge Matt on the vigilante thing, though for goddamn sure he judges him on a lot of others. He knows that compulsion to do what you know is right, no matter if anyone else understands it that way or not. But he’s never been under any illusions that it’s compatible with a normal life, with keeping people in it, with thinking they’ll see it the same way and you can just split into two halves, two halves that will always stay separate from the other. He called Matt on it before. Was it you that did those things, or was it the mask?

“Yeah,” Frank says. “I didn’t come here for your bullshit romantic advice, Red. You can help me or not, but either way, I’m going.”

Matt once more starts to respond, then stops. “Still not sure when you worked out it was me.”

“Come on. First thing I ever said to you, when you walked into my hospital room, was that I knew who you were. You think I only meant your shitty fuckin’ law firm?”

Matt chews over that, and (wisely) decides not to rebut.  Finally he says, “Meet me in the alley. Five minutes.”

Frank rolls his eyes, guesses that there’s some mystique that has to be preserved, can’t see Murdock shimmying bare ass into his fancy long johns or whatever, and takes his leave. Five minutes later, he’s in the back alley as instructed, when Red leaps down in full devil glory and jerks his head. “Let’s go.”

They wend their way through the shadows, across some rooftops, then get a cab part of the way. Frank imagines that even this is not the weirdest thing the driver has seen in his life, waiting at a red light like everything’s normal with goddamn Daredevil and the Punisher sitting side by side in the backseat and determinedly not looking at each other, but it’s probably close. He does keep trying not to steal glances at them in the rearview mirror, though. Finally says, “You boys out for the evening?”

“Just drive,” Frank orders him. “Yeah?”

Wisely, the guy does so, reaches Queens in another fifteen minutes, and as they get out of the cab, Frank shucks out a big tip and hands it over with the fare. “Don’t need to tell you that you saw nothin’,” he reminds him. “So you keep your trap shut.”

“Yes, sir. Got it.” The driver takes the money and nods awkwardly. “Have a – good night.”

With that, he lays rubber getting out of there, Frank watches him go with a sardonic expression, and then hefts his bag of guns with a clunk. “This way,” he informs Matt. “Stay sharp. One of them had a .38 last time, and I’m guessing they’re waiting for someone to turn up and try to sic ‘em. Feds or otherwise.”

He can feel Matt wanting to say something about the guns, wanting to ask how they’re going to deal with this, exactly, or maybe sensing that if they’re going to split this half and half and make any success of it, they’re just going to have to turn a blind eye (literally) to what the other’s doing. Frank snaps the stock on his carbine into place, and glances ahead. There’s a light on, in the first floor of the somewhat seedy office park. That matches the intel, where they had another meet-up spot. If the pedos are in there now, Red better not get in his way.

He glances sidelong at his – for the moment – ally. Matt raises a hand, listens, then – whatever he hears, Frank can’t tell, but he’s deciding to trust it – nods once.

Time to go.

[everlarkingjoshifer]

Trump signed an executive order to abolish what he did....

I don’t normally come in here to post long political pieces. However, after the disgusting comments that I’ve read on social media as Democrats held a press conference to speak about children being ripped apart from their parents at the border, is more than I can take. So, because I am pretty fucking annoyed with all the baseless accusations, and major misinformation I would like to dispel erroneous conclusions along with the comments I have been seeing on social media.

Immigrants are taking our jobs!

No Becky, they’re not. Immigrants are bringing in jobs and taking the low wage, often dangerous and non-union jobs that YOU don’t want to take. How about you go pick those strawberries in the blazing heat for as little as 6$ an hour, doesn’t sound very appealing right? So if it’s not good enough for you because you want a cushy job, what makes you think Immigrants want to do it too? They don’t, but they’re so desperate to make a living that they’re willing to do anything so long as they can provide a better future for their own families, something you can easily understand. As a matter of fact, while you enjoy your burrito know that none of it would be possible if it wasn’t for an immigrant who brought in their culture and food to enrich our country. Yeah, that big old Mexican franchised fast food joint? Would not have existed for your high school kids to work at, so while your sitting on your ass enjoying someone else’s culture, know that none of it 

would be possible without an immigrant.

Immigrants are taking our resources and our taxes pay for them to live here!

 Noooo, Immigrant individuals cannot ever receive federal based help such as SSI. They can’t even get health insurance. Some states do hand out some help to aid immigrants but it would only be something as small as being able to use the WIC program which is very limited. (I’ve used it when I had just given birth). As a matter of fact, white citizens are amongst the highest percentage who receive federal assistance and immigrant people pay INTO our social security and taxes without hope of ever getting that money back. If you want to talk about needlessly spending your money on immigrants then you should definitely be against the barbaric procedures that are happening right the hell now. There are companies profiting from your taxpayer money in order to house children that didn’t need to be housed in the first place. It’s all a big scam and those 1 % who don’t really need the money are making millions that you’re paying into JUST because you want to be a paranoid idiot. It’s a pretty simple concept actually, it’s called security theater. Except this theater is of the Third Reich.

They’re bringing in disease!

See, now you just sound like a Nazi, and come on, we’re not exactly one to speak about diseases when you’re refusing to vaccinate your fucking kid because of “big pharma, unfounded conspiracies, and autism”. Cry me a fucking river, Shania. The whole notion of disease comes out of fear of the unknown but we cannot throw a stone at someone else knowing we do the same. We won’t vaccinate and now measles, chicken pox, whooping cough, and many other diseases are on the rise because you’d rather let your kid die than have autism, which by the way has been dispelled at every turn by various scientists.

Obama/ Bush administration were the ones who implemented the law of child separation. 

Oh Brandon, you xenophobic dick. First of all the Obama and Bush administration NEVER placed an order of removal between the parents and their children. What is true is that there is no law saying these current atrocities have to be carried out. Crossing the border illegally is a misdemeanor that can get you jailed for up to 20 days or so and then you’re automatically sent to your country of origin. The immigrant parents who are caught with their children are never separated from them and there are no real lasting repercussions. If I was to take your reasoning into account then that would mean people who have had a DUI, or those who have been arrested for public disturbance should have their children taken away as well? Secondly, when the Obama administration implemented certain facilities to house kids it was due to an immense influx of unaccompanied minors who were immigrating to the USA by their damn selves. Most, of these children, were from Central America and were not deemed a threat to the nation after very careful vetting. These kids ranged between the ages of 12-17 years old and they were TEMPORARILY housed or often placed in foster homes with other immigrant adults till the Government could get a hold of their parent. Of course, everything wasn’t always handled perfectly as there were a ton of problems because sometimes the foster parents would refuse to answer their phones to various federally appointed counselors or even gave the Government the wrong information. Some of the facilities in which the children were housed were not as top notch as we expected and there were abuses happening at the time. But by that point, the children were really alone. They didn’t come in with their parents to protect them and sadly things didn’t always go the right way. The few kids who were separated from the adult were either trafficked here or were in deep danger of those adults that surrounded them

They should come here legally if they want to enter the country!

Kathy, you sad simpleton. Looking for Asylum is not against the law. Actually, the ports of entry for refugees are being blocked by ICE agents to deter them from reaching the United States legally. Usually, when an immigrant came to the port of entry looking for asylum they would have to bring proof which then they would be taken to a holding facility where their case was carefully reviewed and then after about a month or so they would either be allowed to stay or leave depending on the severity of their situation. Now, Looking for a way to come to the united states legally especially in countries that are extremely corrupt is very difficult. I myself applied for a visa in order to come to the united states twice and both times it was denied even though I was a 4-year-old child who was about to die of a severe heart condition. If it hadn’t been for a charitable company that had put their name behind me and petitioned for me to travel I would never have even set a foot in the United States and I would never be able to write this because I’d be dead by now. That’s how difficult everything is. The immigration system is so broken and instead of looking for a solution you shining citizens can only proclaim your distaste for a president that hasn’t been in office for over 2 years. Obama, Bush, or Clinton are no longer running the country. Take responsibility for the mistakes YOUR amoral president is making.

But MS-13! 

Ms-13 is a Mexican terrorist group that has been used as a cop out to paint innocent people who are Latino and Hispanic in an unflattering light. Gang members don’t really want to come here, their profit is not here. They are already immensely powerful in Mexico, why leave if things are good for them? It makes no sense and if again I were to take your reasoning into consideration I would say that other countries should never allow an American entry because they could be from the KKK. What makes sense is to have a racist, xenophobic, sexist president using something like gang violence in order to disenfranchise a group of people who don’t match his ideas for the perfect immigrant. Case in point, he very clearly said he would like Europeans (meaning Caucasians) to immigrate here (They wouldn’t. Europe is not perfect but at least it has universal health care among other things.) Mexicans, meaning all Latino because that how you all like to categorize us not realizing that Latinos are very diverse but those of us who are brown in complexion are rapists, killers, we’re infesting the country, we’re bringing disease, we’re animals among other ludicrous things Trump has said about the Latino community and for the record, not all immigrants are Mexican. Most at this point are from Central America. It's the same as not all Asians are Chinese, not all black people are thugs and not all white men who wear penny loafers are entitled pricks who call on their daddies to fix their problems. You see how stereotypes work? Those of you who applaud him while desecrating the flag by wearing it as a shirt or bandana and eating off of flag emblazoned paper plates like to think you’re somehow better and patriotic because you won the lottery by being born here. It’s as simple as that and if you want the immigrants to fix their problems back home maybe tell your government not to meddle in their democratic systems. It’s a cop-out to make yourselves feel better about the atrocities that are happening.  

Build the WALL! 

Yes Brayden, because a wall is gonna stop a bunch of plane riding immigrants to come to the United States. Newsflash, most people who end up here illegally came here legally through a visa but overstayed their welcome. Most of the people who came here otherwise, seek asylum, which is not illegal. There are actually very few people who cross the border illegally and stay here. No one wants to leave their life, culture, and language behind unless it’s absolutely necessary. The wall will stop nothing. Separating kids and now babies from their parents have not deterred the parents from continuing their long arduous trips to the United States. The wall only serves as a trophy for the GOP to pat themselves on the back and say what good little legislators they are. It’s a sign of oppression and a sign of unwelcoming. It’s as if I had a picture of Jesus in my living room but a satanic altar in the next room. It’s counterproductive and we’re the ones who are gonna pay for it. Mexico will pay for nothing even if Trump is holding these children hostages. The procedures are very eerily being carried out in much the same way the Nazi's carried out their atrocities. First, they block all potential legal ways for the marginalized group to carry out their mission legally.  Then, they used false rhetoric and fear monger civilians so that the marginalized group can be dehumanized and therefore easier for the government to carry out whatever it is they are planning without dissent. Then they sanitize the living conditions in which the immigrant group are living in. Finally, they discredit or all accounts that are cited by reputable resources in order to keep the masses confused and ignorant. It's exactly what happened when the Japanese were placed in internment camps.  

Immigrants will never assimilate to our way of life!

Say the people whose grandpappy’s and Nanas never learned English and continued to live their lives the way they did in Poland. English is not a designated American language. No language has been designated to the USA, you morons.

Immigrants should look for a way to legalize their situation.

Ok, how about you fork over $20,000 while working a minimum wage job that you can’t quit from no matter how bad it is because if you do there’s nowhere else for you to work at without breaking the Law. Immigration lawyers are some of the worst wolves in sheep’s clothing I have ever met. I spend about $10,000 just to get a green card while having nowhere else to live but at my Mother in law’s tiny ass house in the middle of the ghetto while pregnant. I slept on the floor with my husband because the place was so small we couldn���t even put a bed in there, much less afford one. When I was about to apply for citizenship my Lawyer up and left after I had paid her the money to file in the citizenship paperwork. She disappeared and I have no way of recuperating my paperwork from her. Thankfully no everything was lost but I am not an isolated incident, there are countless stories of people who have been duped by lawyers and there are more fast food joint in the USA than immigration courthouses. So you guys do the fucking math. It takes so much of you and so long for you to even reach the tip of what American citizens expect from you. 

They broke the law, therefore they should pay the consequences.

We break the law every single day Khayyley, it's not an exaggeration or even something that I'm making up. I live in Connecticut and lord do we have some ridiculous laws like, husbands who cannot kiss their wives on any Sunday. If a cyclist goes above 65 MPH they have be stopped by a police officer and we're not allowed to educate dogs. (lol, what?) Anyway, the point is we don't get citations, incarcerated or even have enforcement carried out for the most menial lawlessness so why should we punish these kids who have done nothing wrong? This used to be the country that was known for checks and balances, the country of separation of church and state. Somewhere along the way, we've lost ourselves and we've become the country of checks and cherry picking. The country that puts babies in cages and we don't allow the staff to offer any comfort. These are not "summer camps" and we shouldn't find a way to sanitize the word cage but we have gone so far off the deep end and our expectations for our leaders are so low that we may as well be licking the ground. These are kids who are screaming for their mothers and fathers who may never see them again just for committing the sin of being born brown, something that they obviously have no control over. It's a harrowing reality but their voices are falling on deaf ears as politicians use the bible to excuse their horrid laws as they smile because they're the ones all cozy with big fat paychecks provided by their citizens. We're duped into thinking that these current politicians have our best interest at heart when in actuality they don't. Just because an abusive parent says they care about you doesn't mean they actually do. The GOP is a cesspool of corrupt, self-serving, amoral group of people with Trump at the head.

 Our Lawmakers are making due with what they were handed.

How, exactly how have we been improving the country? The rich are getting richer while the poor still have to rely on governmental help that is slowly dwindling while those very same poor people have to deal with being called moochers. Our children are dying off at alarming rates because our government wants to continue catering to the NRA's demands as they go about spreading baseless lies and flimsy excuses for mass shootings. Our healthcare system is a fucking joke and we sit idly by as Men in power oppress our women because they don't want to bring a child into a world full of problems that cannot be easily fixed. We cater to our very own terrorists who use the bible in order to justify themselves and call it "freedom of speech" yet we call people color sons of bitches for simply daring to protest peacefully for the flagrant disenfranchisement of his fellow people. We slap the, what about isms and point fingers to others without realizing we're the ones putting them in those positions while simultaneously squashing the education system in order to keep future voters ignorant. Republicans can't be voted in if we have intellectuals willing to question their agendas. It's much easier to have dumb, compliant, narrow-minded morons in order for them to make that money. Can't you see what it is they're doing? They are dehumanizing these people and saying that they're all criminals and or will become criminals in the future so that the white elitists can feel alleviated of all culpability in order for them to be able to sell their soul to the administration that is quietly pocketing civilian's money. Money, that they say will go to charities but never do. It doesn't matter if these kids have television, air conditioners, or even a meal because they have been so traumatized by being ripped apart from their parents that even if they were being housed at the Ritz Carlton the practices would still be inhumane.  

But Trump signed the executive order, stop complaining already.

Wow Tammy, first of all, he didn't need to. Separating children from their parents is not a law, never has been. The separation of children who were accompanied by an adult usually happened if the child was found to have been a product of human trafficking, which by the way, has a very low percentage. Instead, the manner in which these kids are being handled now is more cause for worry because they can fall prey to actual human traffickers. Case in point, the over 1,000 children that were mysteriously lost and haven't been found yet and no one has any clue where or how they might have disappeared. It's insane for you to think that just because these kids are in these prison camps they're somehow being treated correctly. These children only see the light of day for 2 hours and the rest they spend it inside and security measures have been implemented to keep the child from escaping as if they were high-security inmates. They're being treated like prisoners and now they're being forcefully injected with psychiatric drugs in order to keep them from crying. I don't think I need to tell you about the long-term repercussions these drugs can have but I will anyway. It can cause obesity, adult onset diabetes, dizziness, listlessness, and are left incapacitated. Easy prey for any trafficker. it's callously barbaric. These kids are set up for a plethora of mental health problem that will never go away. This new executive order was unnecessary and Trump just needed to feel like a dictator because that's what he truly wants. He doesn't believe in a democracy. He values people like Stalin and Kim Jung Un and insults our allies (sorry Canada!). The paper he signed keeps families together yes, but at the cost of their freedom because they are to be kept in what I would guess to be newly built facilities that will most definitely be paid by us for an indefinite period of time as opposed to deporting them back to their countries after about 20 days. It'll be a real concentration camp and I wouldn't be surprised if gas chambers and fire pits begin to appear all over the United States and all Latino immigrants are rounded up regardless of whether they are legally here or not.

We should worry about our own citizens instead of immigrants who are only a distraction to our own problems. 

You're right up to a point. We should definitely worry about our citizens and maybe worry about our very own problems that plague our nation, yet we don't. We should be working towards implementing Gun control and worrying about human rights abuses towards people of color, but we don't. Instead, we blame those very people that are being needlessly maligned because we'd rather think it's their fault as opposed to us saying that we fucked up, that we cannot do enough to help our own people. Immigrants aren't looking to distract us from our own problems but the GOP sure is using that scapegoat in order to confuse us and turn us into megalomaniacs who claim to care for this country while rationalizing the heinous laws that this administration is implementing. Understand that just because I sympathize with the plight of immigration it doesn't negate my love or even my worries for the problems that are in my country. I love this country and I'm thankful to this country for all its wonderful opportunities. I believe we can be better and I don't think we're perfect but we're definitely capable of being great indeed. It was before and I'm sure we can be now and in the future.

   Listen, all I’m trying to really say is that the things that are happening are beyond horrible and at such an alarming speed that I am scared for the future of my country. This president is giving a pathway for all the fascists to wave their flag and complain about how they suffer at the cost of people they refuse to understand or even get to know. It's giving way for racists to be open about their disgusting assumptions by calling it honesty, and "well I'm just telling it like it is, and everyone else was thinking it, anyway". 

Just like President Snow from the Hunger Games, Trump is using children to shield himself and get what he wants. This is no longer a, “I wonder what a dystopian future would be like.” situation we are there already. This is the Handmaid’s Tale. This the Hunger Games. This is Nazi Germany, and the trail of tears coming to fruition all over again and we’re allowing it. So, come November if you do not vote blue and later regret not doing so then it will be entirely your fault that this once great country will crumble and burn to the ground with only the ashes to left as a reminder of what it once was. Our founding fathers would ashamed of us and we should too. Have a little humanity and compassion but if you're not capable of that, at least know that your stance will follow not just you but your entire lineage till the end of time just like the Nazi regime was because you are most definitely on the wrong side of history.

[stardusttkachuk-main]

Pre-Christmas Catastrophe

Title: Pre-Christmas Catastrophe

Pairing: Ambulance Officer!Sam x Reader

Word Count: 2,093

Warnings: angst, graphic descriptions of car accident, fluff, mentions of pregnancy

Square Filled: Ambulance Officer!Sam

Prompt: White Christmas

Summary: AU Y/N is out finishing her Christmas shopping on one particularly snowy day. It’s smooth sailing until she’s coming home when her car slips on black ice. Luckily for her, she’s got an ambulance officer as a fiance who just so happens to be working that night.

A/N: Written for @spnaubingo

This is Day 21 of 25 Days of Christmas. Check out the full masterlist here!

A winter wonderland was the only way you could describe the view outside the window. You wanted nothing more than to run around in it, like you were a kid again, or fall down into the tufts of white and make snow angels, soaking your jeans and mittens without a care in the world. It was beautiful.

You had just a few errands to run before Christmas day, and it was fast approaching. You needed a few more gifts for Sam, and Sam insisted you get a gift for Harley, your two-year-old black lab. It was off to the mall for you.

The snow was thick as it came down, but it was still light out. You weren’t worried in the slightest, having driven in the snow every winter when it came. You slipped a little getting down the street, but caught yourself quickly, the four-wheel drive of your car making it easier to get down the snow packed road.

Pretty soon, you were on the highway, cautious but still reaching speeds of nearly 60 in some areas. The snow wasn’t sticking yet, and with all the cars passing, it kept the roads fairly clear. There were some cars that had to have been going 80, just flying down the fast lane and past everyone in their sights.

You took your exit, the mall crowded but not like it normally was on a weekend. You at least found a parking spot relatively easy, one that wasn’t far from the entrance. Your phone buzzed in your pocket and you opened the text, a smile on your face as you read through Sam’s words. “Thinkin’ bout you. Boys down here want to see that ring.” You looked down at your finger, the three white sapphire stones locked in a gold band staring back at you. Just two weeks ago Sam was on his knee, asking to spend a lifetime with you.

“Miss you,” you sent back. “Christmas is just around the corner, and we’ll have it all to ourselves.” You tucked your phone away again as you got out of your car and headed for the doors.

The snow had picked up. It was wetter now, and the sun had set, meaning it was colder. It was still thick but came down faster, like a miniature blizzard, still so beautiful though. Winter was your favorite season, for the reason that it snowed and the snow always made everything so sparkly and bright.

You were a bit more cautious as you took the freeway this time. Afternoon traffic had begun to start, and with the snow, things were a lot tighter and slower. Of course, there were always those people who just swerved in and out of traffic to be the first ones home.

White Christmas played through your radio. A smile drew over your lips as you realized you’d have a white Christmas this year, just like every year before. It was probably one of your favorite Christmas songs, for the sole reason that you grew up with snow on Christmas day and you always waited around by a window to watch the snow fall.

You moved into the left lane to go around a delivery truck, speeding up just a bit to make sure you got around him in time. Around a bend, your wheels gave out and you fishtailed, swerving into a barrier. You corrected, went full 360 and hit the other side, now sitting the complete opposite way, but your car didn’t stop.

Your feet were pushing on the brakes as your hands tried to maneuver the wheel around to get yourself the right way. Another car came straight at you, hitting your front end and pushing you into the wall again. The airbags went off, your head flung back into your seat and then into the not-so-cushy white balloon. You could hear your horn and the other cars horn, but when you tried to move to assess the situation, pain shot throughout your entire body. You couldn’t move your hand to get your phone and silently prayed that someone would call 911 and come save you.

The end of White Christmas was still playing through your speakers as you began to scream and cry. Each bellow for help was cut off by a long gut-wrenching sob. Everything hurt now. You couldn’t move your head left or right, you could barely move your jaw to speak. A middle-aged woman opened your car door, frantically asking if you were okay. You weren’t even sure you responded, just listened as she assured you someone was on their way.

You never expected that someone to be Sam. You never expected to see him jump out of the ambulance and race for your car, completely dismissing everything he had learned in training.

“Y/N! Baby, it’s okay!” He assured. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” His voice was anything but calm, but you were conscious and crying. Hurt and bleeding but awake and talking, well, screaming. It was comforting to know that you didn’t get knocked out in the crash.

“I hit ice,” you mumbled, trying to move but being unable to. “Sam.” Tears brimmed in your eyes, wanting to turn your head to look at him and see his comforting face, but not being able to.

“You’re gonna be fine, Y/N. We’re gonna get you out of here.”

He started to move and you yelled. “Please don’t go, Sam. Please, stay here. Stay with me. Please.”

“It’s okay, baby. I’m right here.” He placed his hand on your hair and you flinched.

“It hurts,”

“I know.”

“Sam! What we got?” His partner called. You assumed he had checked out the other car. God, you hoped whoever was in there was alright.

“Uh.. female, 30’s, conscious. Possible concussion. Lacerations to head and chest. She says she can’t move and she’s in a lot of pain,” he responded. “You?”

“Female, early 20’s if not teen. Unresponsive. Pulse is slowing.”

You froze at his words, not having the heart to tell Sam to stay when he moved away. “I will be right back,” he assured, kissing your temple as gently as he could. You weren’t alone for long and just minutes later you could hear another set of sirens. “Alright, Y/N, we’re going to get you out now.”

“I can’t move,” you said.

“I know. I’m gonna help you okay? So is officer Taylor, but you have to cooperate. I need you to try, even if it hurts you need to try.” His voice was stern but shaking. He didn’t want to see you in any more pain than you already were. There were two sets of hands on your body, pulling you up. You screamed, begging for them to stop, but Sam continued to whisper praises and words of comfort to you as they got you onto a gurney. You saw that another ambulance had arrived and watched as two other EMT’s lifted a smaller woman onto their gurney. They had an oxygen mask on her and were working on a brace around her neck when a woman stood above you, asking you if you could move your head.

“I can’t,” you whimpered.

“That’s okay. I’m going to put a brace on you now. I need you to look straight up at me and I will try not to move you too much.”

Sam passed her the brace and held your head as still as possible as they fixated it around your neck. “Her pulse is dropping,” he informed, a waver in his voice and you knew he was scared.

“She’s still conscious,” the woman said. “We’ll get her on some oxygen in the van and keep her vitals in check until we get to the hospital. Sam, I need you to focus, you know how to do this and it’s no different with her, okay?”

“She’s my-”

“I know,” She cut Sam off. “But you have to focus until we get to the hospital.”

Sam drove. He was too much of a wreck to keep his eyes on you and make sure you were breathing or your pulse was where it needed to be. He wanted to be your fiance right now, not the ambulance officer who came to rescue you.

Sam never left your side as they got you into a room and nurses began checking your vitals once again. He stayed out of the way, watching as they hooked you up to an IV and started a pain reliever. Tears were still rolling down his cheeks, but everyone assured him you’d be okay.

“Hey, Y/N, we’re going to take you back for an X-ray and make sure you don’t have any fractures or something similar. You feelin’ okay?” A nurse asked, pulling up the sides of your bed and making sure everything was unlocked and ready to go.

“I think th-the morphine blocks most of the pain,” you gave a slight chuckle, watching as Sam smiled.

“Good,” she grinned. “Then it’s doing its job.”

When you got to the room, a technician set you up on the bed, throwing a leaded apron over you. “Any chance you’re pregnant, miss?”

“Um, I-I am. I don’t know how far along, I f-found out a couple days ago.”

“No worries. We’ll get you an ultrasound for that today, make sure everything is okay. We’re going to do an image of your legs and your neck okay? No damage to the baby at all.

It took about ten minutes to get everything done, and when you had gotten back onto the bed, they wheeled you down to another exam room, complete with ultrasound equipment.

You heard the heartbeat first, tearing up because you were so sure the little thing hadn’t made it.

“Strong heartbeat,” the ultrasound technician said, calming your fears even more. “So you’re measuring about 7 and a half weeks. Does that seem about right?”

“Y-Yeah.”

“Congratulations. I’ll print out some of these images for you. It kind of looks like a blob right now, but I’ll point out some key features,” she teased, watching as the images printed out one by one in a long train. “So, this is the heartbeat.” There were lines going up and down, just like on an adult EKG. “And, this would be the head and the little body. You can’t really see much of the arms or legs but they’re there. They’re little buds at this point.” She moved the picture down again. “And this is the spine. So, I’ll give these to you and you can go break the news to hubby, sound good?”

You laughed, your chest a little sore when you did, but nothing too bad. The pain was mild to what you were feeling just after the crash.

You made it back to your room just as the doctor had stepped in. “Went over your images. Everything looks just fine. There’s no breaks, fractures, nothing. We will send it over for a little extra examining, but if there is anything it’s minor and would probably be something that could heal on its own. You probably do have whiplash so you are going to be sore, but we’ll send you home with some pain medication for that. Take it easy for the next couple weeks, alright? Don’t go on any crazy roller coasters, or do acrobatics until everything clears up. And, of course, follow up with your regular doctor. They’ll be able to keep you in check and let you know when you’re good to get back to your daily life. Sound good?”

You nodded. “Sounds good. Thank you.”

“You take care. You’ve got an excuse to laze around for about nine months too,” he chuckled. “I’ll send a nurse in to get you all signed out and unhooked from all this, and then you two can be on your way.”

“Thank you,” Sam added as the doctor left. He looked over at you, one eyebrow raised. “Did he say nine months of laying around?”

A shy smile crossed your features. “Congratulations daddy.” His eyes got big as you pulled out the thread of pictures. Sam let out a deep breath, pulling you into a soft hug.

“Thank god I didn’t know about this beforehand or there is no way I would’ve stayed calm out there.”

You laughed, pursing your lips and waiting for Sam to kiss them. “I was going to tell you on Christmas. I already wrapped the pregnancy test and onesie so just act surprised when you unwrap it, okay?”

“Deal.”

Forever Tags: @iwantthedean @a-fan-fighting-for-equality @smoothdogsgirl @jayankles @faegal04 @feelmyroarrrr @27bmm @maddieburcham1 @melonshino @sayukoi @impalaimagining @riversong-sam @atc74 @goldenolaf25 @plaidstiel-wormstache @thegrouchiestunicorn @thebitterbookeater @growningupgeek @sandle44 @rda1989 @weasleywinchester @fightmenegan @itsmyeffingstory @angelblazon @mrswhozeewhatsis @meeshw777 @jotink78 @poukothenerd @mogaruke @devilgirlsarah @queencflair @hexparker @ruprecht0420 @summer-binging-spn @holychuckitsthewinchesters @super100012 @jerk-bitch-and-an-angel @supernatural-jackles @taste-of-dean @casownsmyass @danradislife @holyfuckloueh @hsjolie @winchester-negan @emoryhemsworth @i-am-enough-always @samisimportant @brooke-supernatural16 @there-must-be-a-lock @greys-anatomy839 @babytheimpalaimagines @obsessivecompulsivespn @superapplepie @esoltis280 @mirandaaustin93

Sam Tags: @wildfirewinchester @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @katie-the-writer @lenawiinchester @bambinovak @lavieenlex @legend-o-zelda @20secspnfam4 @barbedwireandbubblegum @lipstickandwhiskey @bemyqueenofdarkness @waiting4thedoctor @snarkpunsandsarcasm @itssierramcquade @xinyourdreamsx @blue-heaven-winchestergirl83 @alwaysbummedout @born-to-be-his-baby88

25 Days of Christmas Tags: @alex-zeppelin @imagineplotfulcharacters @alwaysbummedout

My tag list is still open! Add yourself here!

If there’s a strikethrough on your name, it means I can’t tag you! Go here to fix it!

[trillian-anders]

first blood

pairing: ransom drysdale x reader

warnings:  angst, general asshole-ness.

word count: 4.6k  

description: part 3 of 5. how did you become ransom’s glorified babysitter? and why the fuck are you keeping this job? who knows. you hate it, you hate him, but... the money. 

note: tumblr is being super shitty rn so I can only post on mobile, but I really wanted to get this off my desk! will add a read more and properly link later 💕

prequel to the assistant && four christmases, spoiler free loves. 

You have to do this.

You have to do this.

You have to do this.

You don’t think your eyes will ever feel normal again. They were dry and scratchy. There were no more tears to shed. You’d buried your Mom two months ago, but you didn’t know how it would ever feel okay. She did everything for you and Julia. Everything. She worked hard, made pretty good money, allowed you to have a part time job and just focus on school. Julia was in this really nice private school, she played the cello now for fucks sake. She had friends and was talking about maybe starting soccer soon, but after funeral costs and your sister’s tuition the life insurance money was running out.

You had to sell the house.

You’d moved the two of you into a small apartment right outside of Chinatown. Not the safest area, but not the most unsafe either. You’d be fine. You had each other, and she needed you to do this. You had to do this.

For her.

You sat uncomfortably in the cheap office chair, sitting across from a woman with too many papers on her desk, everything sloppily arranged around a couple of potted succulents and a framed picture of her and her three kids, no spouse.

“So your last job was in tutoring?” She asked you. You shifted nervously in your seat, nodding your head,

“Yeah, I tutored a high school student in English and Math.” You needed some water. The cheap pencil skirt and blouse you were wearing made your skin itch. She types into her computer some more.

“So why are you here?” She asked, “Why not continue tutoring?” A few more clicks and then more typing.

“The family I worked for paid me pretty well,” You admitted, “But she’s graduating this year and they didn’t need me anymore, I don’t really,” You cleared your throat, “I don’t really have much job experience outside of that and I need to start making money now… I’ve put out job applications but haven’t really gotten any luck.” Not with the income you needed anyway. The woman nodded. The plaque on her desk said her name is Stacy Chandler.

“Alright, here you are.” A printed page, address, date, and time. A job. Clerical work. Data entry. You have to do this...

-

“How was your last day of school?” Julia sat heavily at the kitchen table, backpack slumped on the floor next to her. She buried her face in her arms.

“I’m never going again.” Came muffled from her mouth. She lifted her head to look at you. The beginnings of puberty. You’d recently gone bra shopping for the first time. Real ones, no more training bras. You’d recently taken her to the dermatologist for her acne, but she’s not good at remembering to put on the expensive creams you bought. What a hard time. You don’t envy her.

“Luckily for you,” You smiled, placing a fudgy brownie in front of her, “You don’t have to go back for three whole months!” She rolled her eyes heavily, taking the brownie and disappearing into her room presumably to sit on her computer until dinner.

She was feeling the absence of your Mother just as you were. You weren’t sure what to do here. You loved your sister and you know she loves you too, but in the last few months it’s just been closed doors and a few parting sentences. Only because you had to work so much. Only because she spent a lot of time at friend’s houses where you’d think she would feel normal for a while. It would help ease the burden of being in your mid-twenties and suddenly feeling like a single mother. Of course you can sleep over at Mila’s house, her family is going to their cabin for the weekend of course you can go!

You didn’t know what to do other than keeping her in school and alive. You weren’t ready for this. But the only other option was your estranged aunt who reeked of mothballs and was constantly asking you if you were married, or dating, or ‘You’re Mother wouldn’t have wanted this’. No. It was very clear that your Mom wanted the two of you to stay together, and that’s how it’s going to be.

This summer she was going to spend with her friend Mila at their family’s lake house. Mila’s mother was a stay at home mom with six kids under the age of 12 and would be planning to spend the summer pintresting activities and projects with them while simultaneously getting out of her stuffy-old 10 bedroom, 8 bathroom mansion. Lucky her. Lucky Julia.

The apartment would be empty without the 12-year-old pre-teen for three months, but Julia has really been looking forward to it. Her bags were packed and ready by the door.

You hugged her tightly in front of Mila’s house, burying your face in her hair, partially not wanting her to go, but otherwise knowing that she’s going to have a better time than you could ever provide her. “Okay, you can let me go now.” She shifted in your arms, trying to pull away.

“Just another minute.” You mumbled, pulling her in tighter. “I’m gonna miss you.” She laughed,

“I’m gonna miss you too.” The two of you pulled apart and you tucked her hair behind her ears, cupping her sweet face.

“I love you,” You said very seriously, “If you ever want to come home just-”

“I’ll let you know.” She was getting impatient, the car Mila’s mom was taking to the lake house, a beautifully large black Range Rover sat packed next to you, they were waiting. “I love you too.” She slowly backed away towards the car.

“If she gets homesick, my husband still comes back every week for work so he can bring her home if need be,” Andrea was her name, Mila’s Mom. “She’ll be fine.” Andy was really nice. She made a lot of the food the two of you had eaten in the early days after your Mom’s death. Her gentle reassurance soothed you slightly. It made driving away a little easier, but it didn’t stop the tears that fell as you entered your apartment, alone. For the first time in a while. You didn’t have to hold it in anymore.

You sunk down against your front door, staring out into your living room, tears rolling down your cheeks in the silence of the home. Dirty shoes lined up against the wall, throw blanket hanging halfway off the couch, dirty dishes from breakfast still in the sink, and somewhere you’re sure under all of it was the will to pick yourself back up.

You just didn’t know if you were ready for that quite yet.

But you did it anyway.

More clerical work. More data entry. More bills going half paid and others being ignored all together. Student loans you didn’t even want to think about from a school where you hadn’t even graduated. Medical bills you didn’t even know where to begin paying back, itchy stockings, and uncomfortable shoes. With every day that passed you reexamined your life. How did you get here?

A new job, a new office. Temp assigned, but you knew who worked here. The building that housed it stood tall against the Boston skyline. Contemporary. You sat comfortably in a cushy office chair. The plaque on the desk read Linda Drysdale, CEO. And you waited.

You hadn’t seen the Thrombey’s, let alone the Drysdale branch of the family, for five months. Zero contact. Joni had talked to you last, thanking you for helping Meg, but also trying to sell you eye cream. “You really should invest in taking better care of yourself.” Which was her kind way of trying to tell you that you look old. Thanks.

You couldn’t imagine what Linda would want you for. You’d been doing some filing, they were transferring all of their documents to digital and hired extra help to do so, you were one of three hired from your particular temp agency, but yesterday she had called you personally and asked you to come in for an appointment today at 3 pm. And here you are.

Waiting.

There was a portrait of her family on the wall. Linda herself sitting in a high backed intricate chair, her husband Richard standing to her right, and to her left was her son, Hugh. He went by his middle name Ransom. They were stone faced, serious looking. This painting seemed ridiculous. If you didn’t know the Thrombey’s you’d think it was there to be ironic, as a joke, a play on what rich families were like.

But they were a rich family, and this is what they were like.

Linda was self-serving. She only ever talked to you when it suited her own interests and as soon as she was satisfied she would quickly direct her attention somewhere else, to someone more important. She used you to get what she wanted and when you served her purpose you were gone. She had no time for anyone, only her father. Anything for Harlan.

Richard was a predator. He was always making an uncomfortable comment about either your body or your face. He stood uncomfortably close at times and liked to settle a hand on the small of your back. He was a well kept man, throwing his wife’s money around like it was his own. He kept a money clip of hundreds in his pocket.

Ransom was a piece of shit. He was a self-centered egotistical asshole who was sure to make your life a living hell every time he saw you. There was always a comment, a jab at your clothes, your hair, the fact that you are poor. He once ‘accidentally’ threw your cardigan away because, “I thought it was one of those fucking rags you dust with, I didn’t want it touching my burberry.” He, like his father, felt predatory. Something about being a rich white man just really got them going, and the money clip with the hundreds… a learned habit.

“Alright,” Linda’s voice came from the doorway, you turned slightly in your seat. She was on the phone, “Well we will send Michael out to show them the properties instead, I’m sure we’ll find something they like.” She gave you a finger, hold on, even though you’d been sitting here patiently waiting for her for close to twenty minutes now. “Okay,” She continued, “Sounds good.” Sitting down in her chair, tapping a few keys to illuminate her computer screen. “Alright now, bye-bye.” She took her phone from her ear, looking down at the screen before placing it face down on the desk and smiling at you.

You knew that smile. She wanted something.

“So, Y/N right?” You nodded, “I see you’re looking for work.”

“Well, I’m with a temp agency right now but-”

“Would you like something a little more permanent?” A permanent job? The Thrombey’s had paid you very well to tutor Meg, better than you were making now. Granted you had only worked 15 hours a week when you were tutoring her, so $20 an hour didn’t seem like that big of a deal, but if they were looking for something, anything full time…

“Absolutely,” You smiled, shifting in your seat, “I’ve had trouble being hired because my-”

“Okay so you’re going to need Ransom’s number, and you’ll start tomorrow.” Your smile dropped.

“Ransom needs a tutor?” You asked skeptically. She laughed.

“No, he needs an assistant.” She gestured towards herself, “I can’t keep telling him when or where to be for family events and he has a fairly active social life so I’m gifting him an assistant for his birthday.” Oh.

“I uhm,” You really didn’t want to work for Ransom. You REALLY didn’t want to work for Ransom. “How much would it…?” You trailed off nervously.

“My father paid you $20 an hour to tutor Meg, yes?” She asked, typing something into her computer, no longer looking at you.

“Yes, he did.” You moved trying to see what she was typing without bringing too much attention to it. She was drafting an email.

“So I’ll pay you the same. Ransom will set hours for you and decide what days of the week he’ll need you and what else he wants you to do,” She waved her hand dismissively, “Cleaning, cooking, whatever.” She scribbled on a post-it before peeling and handing it to you. “Here’s his number and address, you can go over the particulars of your job tomorrow morning.” You opened your mouth to speak again, ask her the million and one questions you have but before you could say anything she dismissed you, “That is all.” She said. And she was done with you.

She got what she wanted. And now she wanted you to leave.

So you did.

“Well,” He grinned, “Linda really scooped you up from the bottom of the barrel, huh?” You stood on Ransom’s front porch. The only texts you sent and received last night were ‘What time do you need me to be there?’ and an hour later the reply of ‘11’. The scumbag was standing in the doorway, leant against the frame, looking down on you. In more than one way.

“Can I come in?” You asked. You really didn’t want to do this. But a $12 an hour temp job versus $20 hour stability… hard to beat. He smirked, pushing off the frame before looking you up and down, turning to disappear into the house.

“Take off your shoes.” What a fucking joke. His house was a mess. Clothes thrown haphazardly around, a pile of dishes not in the sink, but on the counter. Abandoned cups, tv was rolling on in the background, some political documentary. The house, while contemporary and clean, well kept on the outside. The inside looked like a frat house during rush week. You didn’t want to take off your shoes in fear that you’d step in vomit or something worse.

He grinned off to the side, “Had some people over last night.” He explained, drinking what looked like orange juice from a coffee mug. The vodka bottle that was capless on the counter led you to believe that orange juice wasn’t the only thing in the cup. “You can start by cleaning up.” He gestured around, sinking back down into the sofa. “I’m sure I’ll think of something else you can do when you’re done.” The fucking prick.

You shut the door a little heavier than intended, slipping your sneakers off and placing them by the door. “You’ve got a laundry room?” You asked, he didn’t look away from the television,

“Basement.” And he was done with you too. The tone was very, don’t talk to me. Which honestly you were grateful for.

You cleaned up his messes, the red solo cups that littered almost every surface in every room, laundry was running in the basement, dishwasher working hard to sanitize the first round of plates and cups that could fit, the others waiting patiently in the sink as you wipe counters and dusted picture frames, the thick film of unappreciation. He didn’t care about his house, his furniture, the art that cost more than your apartment that lined his walls. His clothes, while having an extensive closet, some were threadbare and with holes.

He didn’t care.

And it made you angry.

You thought of the furniture you were able to keep from your Mother’s house, well oiled and kept. No scratches. The fabrics of the couches and chairs carefully cleaned and maintained.

His sheets were stained and you were unsure when the last time he had washed them actually was. The dampness made you gag. It wasn’t long before you were cleaning under his feet. His ankles crossed and feet resting on the coffee table as you straightened the area around him. You felt his eyes on you, briefly, but ignored it.

“Do you have any real clothes?” He asked suddenly. He stood from the sofa, rounding it to pull the vodka bottle back out from the cabinet you’d placed it in, pouring heavily into the coffee mug before leaving the bottle and the orange juice carton he followed with next to it.

“These are real clothes.” You stated, coming behind him to put the items away. He scoffed,

“I’m important,” He claimed, “I go to parties, events.” He took a large mouthful of the screwdriver he’d just made, “You can’t wear clothes like that if you’re gonna be babysitting me the whole time.” You rolled your eyes,

“I don’t have to go. You set my hours, I don’t-”

“As much as I love the whole, ‘I’m poor and don’t care what I look like’, thing you have going on,” Ransom laughed, “You’re gonna be around me, and as a reflection of me, you need to look presentable.” He gestured to the demin shorts a t-shirt you were currently wearing, mismatched socks on your feet. You felt your face flush. “And slap a little makeup on.” You rolled your eyes at that. Fucking dick. He smirked when you didn’t reply, turning back around to leave you and disappeared upstairs.

He didn’t come down for a while. In that time you’d finished cleaning the living area, the house looking a complete 180 from where it had been when you’d originally entered, it was nearing dinner time. Your stomach was growling and you’d realized you had been cleaning for five hours without stopping.

You didn’t get to enjoy the sense of accomplishment because Ransom came down the stairs not a moment later, dressed for his evening. If you didn’t hate him so much you’d drool. He looked good. Patterned slacks, chelsea boots, a lightweight white button down, blazer over one arm. “Let’s go.” He said, not stopping on his way towards the front door.

“Where are we going?” You felt gross, covered in grime from cleaning, sweat dried on your skin you knew you probably didn’t smell amazing, hair frizzed up in a bun. He didn’t answer you, continuing outside. You sighed heavily, throwing the pair of socks you’d just matched back into the laundry basket before slipping your shoes on and following him outside.

“C’mon!” He yelled from the front seat of his beamer, sunglasses on his nose, he was annoyed with you. Whatever. You sat heavily in his passenger seat, the dickwad not even giving you time to close the door before he was speeding down the driveway.

“Where are we going?” You asked again. One hand on the wheel, the other’s fingertips brushing against his lower lip he looked at you from behind his sunglasses.

“To dinner.” He smirked, looking back towards the road as you merged onto the interstate.

He was a fucking asshole. If you hadn’t thought he was before you definitely knew now. You were surprised the hostess even let you into this place. It was expensive, and you were very, very underdressed. Point taken Ransom. Thank you. Fucking prick.

He took glances at you ever so often, seated a few feet away from him at the long banquet style table that housed all of his ‘friends.’ Gorgeous women and equally as gorgeous men who had money to burn. You weren’t sure any of these people have ever worked a day in their life, much like Ransom himself. You’d met a few of them before, briefly, when Ransom would show up and ask Harlan for money before disappearing for a week, one or two of them would be in tow bragging about going on some guy’s yacht or flying out to some private island.

Regardless, they weren’t talking to you. You were a strange interloper, easily ignored, but only after a few poked fun at the stray dog at Ransom’s heels. It only stung a little bit when he laughed with them. You were wildly uncomfortable. You poked at your deconstructed salad, the little bits lined neatly up on the plate, a smear of salad dressing beside it. This menu was ridiculous. Why were you here again? You were so hungry and this was not your speed at all. Ransom’s booming laugh met your ears and you could feel the anger rising in your chest.

Fucking asshole. You hoped he would choke on one of the olives in his martini. His eyes met yours momentarily and he smirked. He fucking smirked, cheersing you with his martini before it met his lips again. You could kill him right now.

The money.

The money.

Technically you were still working. As the sun set behind the horizon. You’d been at work, technically, for about 10 hours. That’s $200. Okay, you can do this. You can do this.

You know he did this to embarass you. He made it clear when you’d pull up to the restaurant to give you a taunting look. Whether the dinner was already planned or he had planned it after the conversation about clothes and makeup earlier was anyone’s guess. You had the feeling it was the latter.

He’d paid the bill after all.

The entirety of it.

You’d wished you’d ordered more.

Afterward a giggling girl took your place in the front seat, you glared at the back of her head from the back seat,

“Ransom.” She whined, leaning over in her seat to press her lips to his neck, “I want you to fuck me.” Lips around his ear, sucking the lobe into her mouth. You shifted your gaze to the window, the city landscape passing your eyes as you’d pulled into another valet parking, a bar this time. A nice one.

Ransom and the bubbly girl from the car ride over slipped hastily into the bathroom, he’d sent you a dark look before leaving you to your own devices. Looking over the cocktail list while sitting uncomfortably on a bar stool while your boss was fucking a girl who’d laughed at you for being a ‘dog’ earlier in the bathroom of a bar that had a $20 old fashioned and their most expensive wine came with a thousand dollar price tag.

“You lost?” Another smirking asshole, sidled up next to you at the bar as you took a sip from the beautifully balanced old fashioned you’d tacked onto Ransom’s tab. He was handsome, the guy bothering you, almost everyone in this room was handsome. The lights low and romantic, candles on every table and across the bar, soft music played from the piano across the room where a man sat gently stroking the melodies to create the ambiance of the room. Close, cozy, romantic, and dark enough to forget yourself in.

“Oh c’mon honey.” The man slipped onto the barstool, thighs spread wide around you as you face away from him, his hand meeting your back. “I can help you find what you’re looking for.” His breath reeked of alcohol. You glanced over at him,

“I’m fine thank you.” Another sip, damn this drink was good. He chuckled, moving in closer, drifting a hand down to your thigh.

“Don’t be like that.” He laughed, “You obviously don’t belong here honey.” His hand traced your bare thigh, “You’ve gotta be wanting some company.”

Ransom had returned face flushed and you could almost see a tiny bit of white on his nose, but it was quickly rubbed away. He sat on the opposite end of the bar, the girl from earlier taking his lap. He looked down at you briefly, he had to have seen how uncomfortable you were, how this guy was breathing down your neck. He ignored it, ordering a drink from the bartender.

“I don’t want any company,” You shoved the man’s hand away, “Have a great night.” He leaned back in his seat, downing his drink before leaning back over to put his face in yours.

“Fucking ugly bitch.” He spat, standing from the stool, “Tryna give you a little charity here, you could've at least been grateful.” You wanted to leave. He shoved your shoulder slightly as he walked away from you, no doubt going to bother some other unsuspecting woman in his radius.

You needed some air, taking the last sip of your drink you’d scooted back from the bar, walking by Ransom to take your exit, walking out into the summer night. It was early summer. It was still only 60 at night. A chill went through you. You hadn’t expected to be out so late, the comfortable denim shorts and old ratty t shirt you’d chosen to wear had obviously been a mistake for this day. Ransom made sure to make you see that.

The bar was on the harbor, and it brought in a breeze that caused goosebumps to rise on your skin. You checked your phone, the battery almost dead. Julia had been texting you periodically, but not as much as you would have liked. You scrolled through the most recent messages, you asking how her trip was going and what she was up to and her stilted replies. She was busy you supposed. She didn’t need you, but right now you really needed her.

This night has been a massive blow to your self-esteem. You’d never felt more ugly and unwanted in your life. You just wanted to go home, but Ransom wasn’t done yet. You looked at him from the window, his fingers were gone between that girl’s thighs, they were both drinking expensive cocktails, completely oblivious to you.

He’d watched you exit, not giving it much thought it seemed, because he hadn’t made any motion to bring the night to a close, but you weren’t really expecting him to. It was Ransom’s world and you were just living in it. You worked for him. And you wondered if this is how every day is going to be from here on out. You really don’t know if you could do this forever, but you knew you didn’t want to go back inside.

So you didn’t.

Thankfully Ransom stumbled out about thirty minutes later, girl from earlier on his arm. “Let’s go.” He said. Valet pulling the beamer around he threw you the keys, “Take me home.”

He sunk down in the back seat, high and drunk. His words almost incoherent. Her’s were no better. They sloppily attacked each other in the back seat, indecently. And you were pointedly looking anywhere but in the rearview. Soft grunts and moans made you uncomfortable for the fourth time that night. Your skin crawling in unease as the girl’s giggles turned into breathy moans. Your foot sunk against the gas pedal in hopes you’d get back to his home faster, tears welling up in your eyes. The cry on the way home was going to be so good. So cathartic.

The gravel crunching against the wheels of the car was a sweet relief, so was the haste in which you left the keys in the car, running and skipped to your own car. His eyes met yours through the darkness as he was leant up against his car door, slacks loose around his hips, the girl’s lips attached to his neck as her hand worked quickly between his thighs. He smirked, waving a sarcastic ‘good-bye’. You turned your eyes to the road, cranking up the radio as you began to cry.

You didn’t want to do this anymore.

A text came through right as you finally laid down in your own bed, snuggling into the covers, ready to forget the night.

See you at 9.

.

.

.

taglist // @littlechillies @hellizhelusive2 @notbexmader @marvelouspottering @whitequeenasitbgan @Thegraylaway @readermia @i-believe-in-unicorns-and-you @princess-evans-addict @perplexed3001 @Diedrashouseofpain @hailmary-yramliah @sleepycvpid @joannaliceevans-fanficblog @starlywars @gifsbysimplysonia @rocknbasil @imnotelasticheart @wannabegonnie @d1sconnect3d @heyguyz13 @unimomajo @this-is-serenaa @steviemae @bemysugarbean @truefangirlheart @babiiface95 @mydarlingharry @elzzin​ @bookish-shristi​ @saturnki​ @jennmurawski13​ @geeksareunique​

[seaweedsoup]

Garbage Language. Why Do Corporations Speak The Way They Do.

I worked at various start-ups for eight years beginning in 2010, when I was in my early 20s. Then I quit and went freelance for a while. A year later, I returned to office life, this time at a different start-up. During my gap year, I had missed and yearned for a bunch of things, like health care and free knockoff Post-its and luxurious people-watching opportunities. (In 2016, I saw a co-worker pour herself a bowl of cornflakes, add milk, and microwave it for 90 seconds. I’ll think about this until the day I die.) One thing I did not miss about office life was the language. The language warped and mutated at a dizzying rate, so it was no surprise that a new term of art had emerged during the year I spent between jobs. The term was parallel path, and I first heard it in this sentence: “We’re waiting on specs for the San Francisco installation. Can you parallel-path two versions?”

Translated, this means: “We’re waiting on specs for the San Francisco installation. Can you make two versions?” In other words, to “parallel-path” is to do two things at once. That’s all. I thought there was something gorgeously and inadvertently candid about the phrase’s assumption that a person would ever not be doing more than one thing at a time in an office — its denial that the whole point of having an office job is to multitask ineffectively instead of single-tasking effectively. Why invent a term for what people were already forced to do? It was, in its fakery and puffery and lack of a reason to exist, the perfect corporate neologism.

The expected response to the above question would be something like “Great, I’ll go ahead and parallel-path that and route it back to you.” An equally acceptable response would be “Yes” or a simple nod. But the point of these phrases is to fill space. No matter where I’ve worked, it has always been obvious that if everyone agreed to use language in the way that it is normally used, which is to communicate, the workday would be two hours shorter.

In theory, a person could have fun with the system by introducing random terms and insisting on their validity (“We’re gonna have to banana-boat the marketing budget”). But in fact the only beauty, if you could call it that, of terms like parallel path is their arrival from nowhere and their seemingly immediate adoption by all. If workplaces are full of communal irritation and communal pride, they are less often considered to be places of communal mysticism. Yet when I started that job and began picking up on the new vocabulary, I felt like a Mayan circa 1600 BCE surrounded by other Mayans in the face of an unstoppable weather event that we didn’t understand and had no choice but to survive, yielding our lives and verbal expressions to a higher authority.

Get unlimited access to Vulture and everything else New York

LEARN MORE »

Anyhow, I left the parallel-path job after six months — unrelated to the standard operating language, although I used a wad of it in my resignation.

Photo: Sam Edwards/Getty Images

In January, a very good memoir called Uncanny Valley was published. The author, Anna Wiener, moved to San Francisco from Brooklyn around 2014 to work at a mobile-analytics start-up, and one of the book’s many pleasures is how neatly it bottles the scent of moneyed Bay Area in the mid-2010s: kombucha, office dog, freshly unwrapped USB cable. Wiener talks about the lofty ambitions of her company, its cushy amenities, the casual misogyny that surrounds her like a cloud of gnats. The book hit me in two places. One of them was a tender, heart-adjacent place that remembered growing up in San Francisco, with its fog-ladled neighborhoods and football fields of fleece. The other was closer to my liver, where bile is manufactured. This was the part of me that remembered working at places much like the one Wiener describes — jobs that provided money to pay rent in a major urban area while I freelanced for magazines and websites that did not. Writing, it turns out, is an economically awkward skill. Despite the fact that it can’t yet be outsourced or performed cheaply by robots, it isn’t worth much. In the case of Anna Wiener (and maybe only Anna Wiener), this is a good thing, because it forced her to embed in a landscape that cried out for narration and commentary.

The status pyramid at most start-ups is roughly this: The C-suite sits at the pinnacle, followed by senior data and tech people, followed by non-senior data and tech people, followed by everyone else except customer service, and then, at the very bottom, customer service. Which, by the way, has been rechristened “customer support” or “customer experience” at most companies — as though the word service might remind the college graduates recruited for these roles that they will in fact spend their days pacifying irritable consumers over phone, chat, text, and email. Wiener worked in customer support.

Being the lowliest worm at a company offers observational advantages in that it renders a person invisible. Wiener describes watching her peers attend silent-meditation retreats, take LSD, discuss Stoicism, and practice Reiki at parties. She tries ecstatic dance, gulps nootropics, and accepts a “cautious, fully-clothed back massage” from her company’s in-house masseuse. She encounters a man who self-identifies as a Japanese raccoon dog. She’s a participant and an ethnologist; she’s impressed and revulsed.

Wiener writes especially well — with both fluency and astonishment — about the verbal habits of her peers: “People used a sort of nonlanguage, which was neither beautiful nor especially efficient: a mash-up of business-speak with athletic and wartime metaphors, inflated with self-importance. Calls to action; front lines and trenches; blitzscaling. Companies didn’t fail, they died.” She describes a man who wheels around her office on a scooter barking into a wireless headset about growth hacking, proactive technology, parallelization, and the first-mover advantage. “It was garbage language,” Wiener writes, “but customers loved him.”

I know that man, except he didn’t ride a scooter and was actually a woman named Megan at yet another of my former jobs. What did Megan do? Mostly she set meetings, or “syncs,” as she called them. They were the worst kind of meeting — the kind where attendees circle the concept of work without wading into the substance of it. Megan’s syncs were filled with discussions of cadences and connectivity and upleveling as well as the necessity to refine and iterate moving forward. The primary unit of meaning was the abstract metaphor. I don’t think anyone knew what anyone was saying, but I also think we were all convinced that we were the only ones who didn’t know while everyone else was on the same page. (A common reference, this elusive page.)

The hideous nature of these words — their facility to warp and impede communication — is also their purpose.

In Megan’s syncs, I found myself becoming almost psychedelically disembodied, floating above the conference room and gazing at the dozen or so people within as we slumped, bit and chewed extremities, furtively manipulated phones, cracked knuckles, examined split ends, scratched elbows, jiggled feet, palpated stomach rolls, disemboweled pens, and gnawed on shirt collars. The sheer volume of apathy formed an energy of its own, like a mudslide. At the half-hour mark of each hour-long meeting, our bodies began to list perceptibly toward the door. It was like the whole room had to pee. When I tried to translate Megan’s monologues in real time, I could feel my brain aching in a physical manner, the way it does when I attempt to understand blockchain technology or do my taxes.

I like Anna Wiener’s term for this kind of talk: garbage language. It’s more descriptive than corporatespeak or buzzwords or jargon. Corporatespeak is dated; buzzword is autological, since it is arguably an example of what it describes; and jargon conflates stupid usages with specialist languages that are actually purposeful, like those of law or science or medicine. Wiener’s garbage language works because garbage is what we produce mindlessly in the course of our days and because it smells horrible and looks ugly and we don’t think about it except when we’re saying that it’s bad, as I am right now.

But unlike garbage, which we contain in wastebaskets and landfills, the hideous nature of these words — their facility to warp and impede communication — is also their purpose. Garbage language permeates the ways we think of our jobs and shapes our identities as workers. It is obvious that the point is concealment; it is less obvious what so many of us are trying to hide.

Another thing this language has in common with garbage is that we can’t stop generating it. Garbage language isn’t unique to start-ups; it’s endemic to business itself, and the form it takes tends to reflect the operating economic metaphors of its day. A 1911 book by Frederick Winslow Taylor called The Principles of Scientific Management borrows its language from manufacturing; men, like machines, are useful for their output and productive capacity. The conglomeration of companies in the 1950s and ’60s required organizations to address alienated employees who felt faceless amid a sea of identical gray-suited toilers, and managers were encouraged to create a climate conducive to human growth and to focus on the self-actualization needs of their employees. In the 1980s, garbage language smelled strongly of Wall Street: leverage, stakeholder, value-add. The rise of big tech brought us computing and gaming metaphors: bandwidth, hack, the concept of double-clicking on something, the concept of talking off-line, the concept of leveling up.

Empowerment language is a self-marketing asset as much as anything else: a way of selling our jobs back to ourselves.

One of the most influential business books of the 1990s was Clayton Christensen’s The Innovator’s Dilemma. Christensen is responsible for the popularity of the word disruptive. (The term has since been diluted and tortured, but his initial definition was narrow: Disruption happens when a small company, such as a start-up, targets a limited segment of an incumbent’s audience and then uses that foothold to attract a bigger segment, by which point it’s too late for the incumbent to catch up.) The metaphors in that book had a militaristic strain: Firms won or lost battles. Business units were killed. A disk drive was revolutionary. The market was a radar screen. The missilelike attack of the desktop computer wounded minicomputer-makers. Over the next decade and a half, the language fully migrated from combative to New Agey: “I am now a true believer in bringing our whole selves to work,” wrote Sheryl Sandberg in Lean In, urging readers to seek their truth and find personal fulfillment. In Delivering Happiness, Zappos CEO Tony Hsieh described making conscious choices and evolving organically. In The Lean Startup, Eric Ries pitched his method as a movement to unlock a vast storehouse of human potential. You can always track the assimilation of garbage language by its shedding of scare quotes; in 1911, “initiative” and “incentive” were still cloaked in speculative punctuation.

At my own workplaces, the New Age–speak mingled recklessly with aviation metaphors (holding pattern, the concept of discussing something at the 30,000-foot level), verbs and adjectives shoved into nounhood (ask, win, fail, refresh, regroup, creative, sync, touchbase), nouns shoved into verbhood (whiteboard, bucket), and a heap of nonwords that, through force of repetition, became wordlike (complexify, co-execute, replatform, shareability, directionality). There were acronyms like RACI, which I learned about in this way:

CO-WORKER: Going forward, we’ll be using a RACI for all projects.

MOLLY: What’s a RACI?

CO-WORKER: RACI stands for “Responsible, Accountable, Consulted, and Informed.” The RACI will be distributed around so that we’re all aligned and on the same page.

ME: But what is this thing, like, physically? Is it a chart?

CO-WORKER: It’s hard to explain.

I never found out what a RACI was because we never ended up using one, but according to its Wikipedia page, it’s a “matrix” with over a dozen popular variations, including RATSI. I can imagine a world in which all these competing references might combine into a jaggedly interesting verbal landscape, but instead they only negated each other, the way 20 songs would if you played them at the same time.

And yet it should be possible to gaze into this alphabet soup and divine patterns. Our attraction to certain words surely reflects an inner yearning. Computer metaphors appeal to us because they imply futurism and hyperefficiency, while the language of self-empowerment hides a deeper anxiety about our relationship to work — a sense that what we’re doing may actually be trivial, that the reward of “free” snacks for cultural fealty is not an exchange that benefits us, that none of this was worth going into student debt for, and that we could be fired instantly for complaining on Slack about it. When we adopt words that connect us to a larger project — that simultaneously fold us into an institutional organism and insist on that institution’s worthiness — it is easier to pretend that our jobs are more interesting than they seem. Empowerment language is a self-marketing asset as much as anything else: a way of selling our jobs back to ourselves.

In August, WeWork — recently rebranded as the We Company — submitted its prospectus to the Securities and Exchange Commission. The document is just under 200,000 words long, or nearly the length of Moby-Dick, and it reads like something a person wrote in the middle of an Adderall overdose with a gun to his head. Here’s how the company describes itself on page one:

We are a community company committed to maximum global impact. Our mission is to elevate the world’s consciousness. We have built a worldwide platform that supports growth, shared experiences and true success.

You can probably imagine the rest. In the words of a lecturer at Harvard Business School, the prospectus “reads like a Marianne Williamson self-help book,” which might be insulting to Marianne Williamson. As with any public-facing statement issued by a company, the prospectus maps the distance between what the company is and how it sees itself. What is beautiful — almost spiritual in its grandeur! — about WeWork is not the vastness of the distance but how easy it is to measure. WeWork’s real-estate arbitrage can be summarized in plain English, yet the prospectus is so baroquely worded that it requires a kind of medieval exegesis — a willingness to pore over the text, assess its truth claims, elaborate on its explanations, and unmask its hidden values. In its fidelity to incoherence, WeWork’s majestic PDF revealed a now-obvious truth about the organization, which is that its ratio of ingenuity to bullshit — a ratio present in every organization and, indeed, every human — was tipped too far in the wrong direction.

The collision of corporate self-actualization with business realities was at the center of a story about the luggage company Away that came out in December. (Disclosure: I worked with both of the Away founders in the early 2010s, before the company existed, at a different company. They seemed nice.) A piece in The Verge by Zoe Schiffer reported on Away’s work environment, which looked like a mixture of punishing hours, dangled career opportunities, and an “until morale improves, the beatings will continue” theory of management cloaked in wretchedly obtuse language. A 9 a.m. message from the company’s CEO, Steph Korey, to customer-experience employees went like this:

I know this group is hungry for career development opportunities, and in an effort to support you in developing your skills, I am going to help you learn the career skill of accountability … To hold you accountable — which is a very important business skill that is translatable to many different work settings — no new [paid time off] or [work from home] requests will be considered from the 6 of you … I hope everyone in this group appreciates the thoughtfulness I’ve put into creating this career development opportunity and that you’re all excited to operate consistently with our core values to solve this problem and pave the way for the [customer experience] team being best-in-class when it comes to being Customer Obsessed. Thank you!

You could run down Korey’s leaked messages — this and others — with a checklist. Did she revert to the passive voice in a way that seemed to divest herself of responsibility? Yes. Did she Capitalize words Arbitrarily? Yes. Did she type phrases like “utilize your empowerment”? She did.

The internet went nuts. Here, finally, was proof of a maddening experience that many people had undergone: the weaponization of language by a person in power that bewildered, embarrassed, and penalized the people beneath her. Did Korey really believe that withholding paid time off from lower-level employees counted as a career opportunity? Was her mind a ticker tape of sentences like this, or had she run it through an internal executive-translation plug-in?

There’s an early Edith Wharton story where a character observes the constraints of speaking a foreign tongue: “Don’t you know how, in talking a foreign language, even fluently, one says half the time, not what one wants to, but what one can?” To put it another way: Do CEOs act like jerks because they are jerks, or because the language of management will create a jerk of anyone eventually? If garbage language is a form of self-marketing, then a CEO must find it especially tempting to conceal the unpleasant parts of his or her job — the necessary whip-cracking — in a pile of verbal fluff. Korey wouldn’t have sounded any nicer if she’d said exactly what she likely meant (“I am disappointed in your work, and there will be consequences, fair or not”), but I doubt she would have gotten in trouble for saying it. Meanness doesn’t inflame people as much as hypocrisy does.

As the leaked Slacks make clear, Korey, as well as her employees, were working under the new conditions of surveillance-state capitalism (or, from the company’s perspective, a culture of “inclusion and transparency”). One reason for the uptick in garbage language is exactly this sense of nonstop supervision. Employers can read emails and track keystrokes and monitor locations and clock the amount of time their employees spend noodling on Twitter. In an environment of constant auditing, it’s safer to use words that signify nothing and can be stretched to mean anything, just in case you’re caught and required to defend yourself.

And so Korey’s problem was less her strategy than her execution. Away was founded by two women who saw, in a climate where Glossier was thriving and a book called #GIRLBOSS was a best-seller, that the language of empowerment could be a terrific brand asset for, of all things, a suitcase manufacturer. It made sense that Korey spoke to her employees in terms of opportunity and growth. Her mistake was in trying to extract their gratitude for it. I hope everyone in this group appreciates the thoughtfulness I’ve put into creating this career-development opportunity.

Language had gotten other people in trouble at Away, too. About a year earlier, a handful of employees started a private Slack channel to talk candidly about being marginalized at the company — using, presumably, indefensible non–garbage language. The channel was reported, and six people were fired. For Korey’s misdeeds, she resigned as CEO, suffered a few weeks of embarrassment, then changed her mind and reclaimed her old job. Nobody observing the two outcomes could mistake the lesson here.

In 2011, I was dropping printouts on a co-worker’s desk when I spotted something colorful near his laptop. It was a small foil packet with a fetching plaid design.

My co-worker’s assistant was sitting nearby. “Caroline,” I said, “do you know what this is?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Jim belongs to some kind of runners’ club that sends him a box of competitive running gear every month.”

The front of the plaid packet said UPTAPPED: ALL NATURAL ENERGY. The marketing copy said, “For too long athletic nutrition has been sweetened with cheap synthetic sugars. The simplicity of endurance sports deserves a simple ingredient — 100% pure, unadulterated, organic Vermont maple syrup, the all-natural, low glycemic-index sports fuel.”

It was a packet of maple syrup. Nothing more. Whenever I hear a word like operationalize or touchpoint, I think of that packet — of some anonymous individual, probably with a Stanford degree and a net worth many multiples of my own, funneling maple syrup into tubelets and calling it low-glycemic-index sports fuel. It’s not a crime to try to convince people that their favorite pancake accessory is a viable biohack, but the words have a scammy flavor. And that’s the closest I can come to a definition of garbage language that accounts for its eternal mutability: words with a scammy flavor. As with any scam, the effectiveness lies in the delivery. Thousands of companies have tricked us into believing that a mattress or lip-gloss order is an ideological position.

In 2016, Jessica Helfand, an author and a founder of the website Design Observer, was invited to teach at Yale School of Management. The idea was that Helfand could instruct grad students in the art of creative thinking, which they could then use to start companies and make money. She immediately developed a contact allergy to the way her students spoke. “It started the first week I was there. After the lecture, a student said, ‘Well, my takeaway is …,’ and I thought, ‘Takeaway’ is what you do with food in London. Maybe instead of a takeaway, you could sit with the ideas for a while and just … think.” Helfand compiled a list of commonly bandied-about words and divided them into categories like Hyphenated Mash-ups (omni-channel, level-setting, business-critical), Compound Phrases (email blast, integrated deck, pain point, deep dive) and Conceptual Hybrids (“shooting” someone an email, “looping” someone in). All of these were phrases with “aspirational authority,” she told me. “If you’re in a meeting and you’re a 20-something and you want to sound in the know, you’re going to use those words.” It drove Helfand nuts. This wasn’t a teaching position; it was a deprogramming job. She left before the contract was up.

The problem with these words isn’t only their floating capacity to enrage but their contaminating quality. Once you hear a word, it’s “in” you. It has penetrated your ears and entered your brain, from which it can’t be selectively removed. Sometimes a phrase will pop into my head that I haven’t heard in years — holistic road map — and I will feel as if someone just told me that in July 2016, I ate a bowl of soup that contained a booger. I’m overcome with aversion; I’m too late to do anything.

This hints at the futility of writing about irritating words. Usage peeves are always arbitrary and often depend as much on who is saying something as on what is being said. When Megan spoke about “business-critical asks” and “high-level integrated decks,” I heard “I am using meaningless words and forcing you to act like you understand them.” When an intern said the same thing, I heard someone heroically struggling to communicate in the local dialect. I hate certain words partly because of the people who use them; I can’t help but equate linguistic misdemeanors with crimes of the soul. Nietzsche’s On Truth and Lie in an Extra-Moral Sense makes swift, excoriating work of language as a whole, but it exactly predicts the extravagant inanity of garbage language:

A mobile army of metaphors, metonyms, and anthropomorphisms — in short, a sum of human relations which have been enhanced, transposed, and embellished poetically and rhetorically, and which after long use seem firm, canonical, and obligatory to a people: truths are illusions about which one has forgotten that this is what they are; metaphors which are worn out and without sensuous power; coins which have lost their pictures and now matter only as metal, no longer as coins.

He proposed (I’d argue) that we just give up on functional speech altogether — drop the charade that our personal realities share a common language. Choosing to speak poetically (by which he meant intentionally calling things what they are not) was his ironic solution. Language is always a matter of intention. No two people could have less in common than when they are saying the same thing, one sincerely and one with snark. And so with every exchange, you have to acknowledge a reality where words like optionality and deliverable could be just as solid as blimp and pretzel. What happens if you ask a Megan or a Steph Korey or an Adam Neumann what they mean? I imagine a box with a series of false bottoms; you just keep falling deeper and deeper into gibberish. The meaningful threat of garbage language — the reason it is not just annoying but malevolent — is that it confirms delusion as an asset in the workplace.

By Molly Young at Vulture