#and then late this evening I went over to the H's who are so chummy and sweet and kept me for an hour

[considerad]

💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗 you know that post about creating community if that's what you crave?

I made an enormous pile of choc chip cookies and I batched it out for our upstairs and downstairs neighbours, my ma and my great-uncle across town, and my granddad's old pal and his family, and I just got done delivering them and I feel like 🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽

so alight and alive with it all!!!! I love people! I love them!!! I am so full of fruit and phone numbers I probably won't ever call!

Life can be so unbearably sweet ❤️

[mothwingwritings]

H and T for Hanayama pretty please <3

(it can be either of those two, it doesn’t have to be both thx 😅)

Thank you bb, I hope you enjoy and that I did our darling Yakuza boy some justice. <3

Warnings: Isolation, mentions of abuse, crying, and sex.

Hell: What would be their darling’s worst experience with them?

The whole courting process was an absolute nightmare.

It began with the stalking, his overbearing presence following your every movie. If it wasn’t him, it was one of the men in his family, his influence as a Yakuza boss vast enough that there was always someone available to keep tabs on your movements. When you went to work, someone was following closely behind you. When you were sitting at home, there would be men stationed outside your door keeping watch. It was as maddening as it was terrifying, knowing the ease with which he had acquired access to every aspect of your life. You wanted your privacy and autonomy back, but had no way of achieving it.

Hanayama had told you the 24hr watch was for your own protection, but you knew better.  He couldn’t stand the thought of not knowing where you were, what you were doing, who you were with. He wanted total control over you, much like he did the men he commanded. However your loyalty was expected to be that of a romantic partner-his hungry eyes, roving hands, and forced kisses making that excruciatingly apparent.

After the stalking came the thinly veiled threats of what may occur to your friends and family should you not comply. You would try and tell yourself he didn’t mean what he was saying, that if anything he should want to make a good impression on your loved ones, as your family and friends would someday become his own by virtue of being close with you. But when you were out with your buddies just a little too late, or your parents/sibling kept you on the phone too long, or a particular friend was getting a bit too chummy for his liking, you couldn’t help but shudder at the look of displeasure that would flash across Kaoru’s face.  The fury that bubbled beneath the surface was just a terrible precursor of what was to come, a warning to not leave his annoyance unchecked.

Your family, your friends, your coworkers, essentially everyone you knew, all of their safety hinged on your interactions and reactions to Kaoru. Though you were fairly certain he would never turn his wrath your way, everyone else was fair game. Thoughts of what brutality Hanayama could and would inflict upon the people closest to you at any given time left you a distressed mess. Even if they could fend for themselves against some of his men, what was the likelihood that they would survive going against Hanayama? You shuddered thinking of the blood you’d occasionally see flecked against Kaoru’s white suits, consumed with the fear it may belong to someone you know.

And that brought you to the final horrid stage of this courtship, the isolation. Hanayama had successfully muscled his way into your life, rooting himself until his presence was unshakeable. He never flat out told you that you couldn’t see of speak to your loved ones, making it seem as if your detachment was all of your own volition. In truth, you were just so fucking scared of what may become of them, run ragged by the thought that their livelihoods and happiness all depended on how good of a lover you were to a man you wanted nothing to do with, that you eventually had to yield for your own sanity. You slowly weaned yourself from any interaction with them, visits and phone calls coming few and far between. You stopped using your social media and messaging apps, and always had an excuse at your disposal when someone asked to see you. Eventually even your closest friends stopped reaching out, your social network dwindling daily as more and more contacts gave up on you. It killed you inside. It destroyed you that now your entire life was nothing but Hanayama and the people he deemed worthy of surrounding you. You had lost yourself, your heart shattered by the knowledge that you would most likely never have the life you once had back.  

Tears: How do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves?

It depends on the tears. He cannot stand seeing you cry or scream in pain or out of fear. Godspeed to the person who made you cry, as the moment that first tear falls from your eye it marks that person for death (after a long bout of brutal torture and suffering, of course). He’s obsessed with making sure you are safe and protected, and if you ever have a moment where you feel even a moment of agitation he wants to quell it as quickly as possible (which is another reason why he quickly decided he was not keen on your friends and family. From what he gathered they were all wild cards with sketchy intentions towards you, and that is not something that sits well with him at. all.).

Now if HE is the cause of your tears (which is usually the case), he takes it very personally. He always seems to misinterpret them, choosing to believe that the reason you are crying and making such a scene is because he isn’t around as much as he should be and you feel neglected and abandoned (when in reality it’s basically the exact opposite). Your frustrated bawling only grows worse because of this, which in turn makes him extremely suffocating with his affection in an attempt to make you ‘feel better’. Whether his dense-ness is intentional or not, you are not entirely sure.

Now on the other hand, tears and screaming that come as a result of him fucking you? Music to his ears. It doesn’t even matter if it’s from pain, he knows you will get used to him soon and all the fuss is just a precursor to the immense pleasure you will be feeling momentarily. Your pained cries will soon turn into squeals of satisfaction, so the wailing does little to slow him down when he’s making love to you. Instead it fuels him to go harder so that the discomfort will subside quickly, wanting nothing more than for you to feel just as good as he does.

As for isolation, he actually kind of likes it. If you isolate yourself, even from him, at least he knows you are safe and no one else is bothering you, causing you harm, or encroaching on his territory. He would be downtrodden if you hole yourself away for too long, but accepts it because he believes this is just you giving him the cold shoulder for spending so much time away doing work related things instead of sticking by your side. Eventually you will come around, even if he has to be the one to forcefully coax you out of your seclusion. You’re an understanding person, and he’ll make sure to shower you in love to help alleviate any lingering loneliness that may still be plaguing you.

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

Blighted

For my precious Sunshine, @5-secondsofcolor's birthday!! Which is technically now, because it is 1 AM on the 20th of May and I am a mad woman. Love you and I hope you have an amazing day, when you see this of course.

Here is your fic, FBI/Behavior Analyst!Calum. Female OC.

Ivy says she's cursed after taking the same career path that took her father's life. Calum's new on the team, a liaison and media specialist, but he's looking to get his toes wet.

AKA your regular old jaded pessimist veteran and bright eyed rookie buddy cop story. Please enjoy!

CW: In depth descriptions of death/crime scenes. Depictions of violence, gore, and blood.

Enjoy my masterlist (on a haitus)

Search for more writing in the h writes tag

________________________

The whiteboard never leaves. It glows behind her closed eyelids. When staring down at the neck of a bottle, she sees it floating just as the bottom of her drink. She’s cursed. But she knew that the moment she tried out for the academy. The second the thought floated across her mind, she would be doomed just like her father. Ivy tried her best to reroute herself--she got into the arts, was first chair flute in her highschool’s orchestra. She was president of the Homecoming committees her junior and senior year, and worked during the summers at her church's camp.

And yet when she went into school for her degree, she gravitated towards psychology and criminal justice. She saw her mother’s fear. The closer it came to graduation and the more the two of them talked about what she would do after graduating, the more the thought lingered, I want to get into the Bureau like Dad. But she couldn’t utter that. She couldn’t say those words without tears welling up in her mother’s eyes.

Ivy suspected her mother always knew about the desires. Ivy didn’t remember all the nights clearly, but sometimes she’d peek out her bedroom door and see the glow of the light downstairs. Ivy followed it, side stepping the creaky fourth step from the top and from between the banister’s she’d find her dad sitting at the dining room table. The kitchen light glowed from behind him and his tie would barely hang on around his neck.

“Boo,” he’d say quietly, knowing the slight shuffle of Ivy’s feet.

“How’d you know I was there, Daddy?” she’d ask, carrying herself the rest of the way down the stairs and make her way through the living room to climb into his lap.

“I can hear your feet above me,” he’d respond, pointing above them.

And they’d spend an hour, sitting at the dining room table. Ivy asked about her dad’s latest trip. He only ever told her when she was young that they were helping save people, putting bad people away. Ivy wonders if this is where it started. If this was where her father casted the spell, leaving Ivy somehow starry eyed about what it really was he did. Ivy would always look at this job with a little bit of that hope that her younger self had, and she’d always be fucked to never be able to walk away from this line of work.

It would kill her--much like it had killed her dad. But unlike him, she’d see the bullet spiral out of the barrel. Her dad had her and her mother to get back too. It wasn’t a weakness. Ivy admired her father for sticking with his dreams and also making the hard calls to make sure his family knew he cared too. But the need to decide would always be a slight hindrance, would always be the key to living or dying in this line of work.

All that’s left of her father, besides the memories and a few of his old t-shirts that got remade into pillows, is the whiteboard she keeps at her desk. There’s a whiteboard for the entire team to use of course. But this whiteboard is the one that her father used in his office. The one where he made his notes, scribbles. The one she’d write notes to him in the bottom left corner that never disappeared until she wanted to replace the note with something new.

“Thomas, look alive, and enjoy.” The manilla folder hits her desk with a quiet thwack. Ivy blinks from the whiteboard up to her senior officer. Kennedy carries on, dropping folders on every desk and each one of them stands without needing any further prompting.

Kennedy’s been in the field for years. It was all over his face with the deep frown lines. His brow seemed permanently furrowed, as if he questioned every waking second. Ivy liked to tease he worried even about sleep. But no one could sink a decade and a half into this line of work and not come out on the other side with a healthy amount of suspicion.

“And where’s this new guy?” Kennedy asks, glancing over the office.

Ivy looks up from her copy of the file. She heard rumors of someone else coming by the office, assisting them occasionally on cases. But those rumors floated around weeks ago, long enough that she chalked it up to just that--rumors. It doesn’t shock her though. Things start at rumors often, and sometimes they come to fruition and sometimes they don’t. Ivy follows Kennedy’s eyeline and doesn’t spy any new faces.

“Want me to keep an eye out for any lost souls?” Ivy offers, glancing back up to Kennedy.

“Nah, I need your eyes on this one. Head up to the conference room and I’ll be there once he shows up.”

With a nod, Ivy closes the file. She swipes the whiteboard from her desk with a couple markers and heads up to the conference room. The rest of the team sat flipping through their files too, Jenkins sitting right near the front but moved down one seat. They’re not new, having been around for a couple years. But Ivy can tell their type--getting in chummy with the boss, trying too hard. They’re a good addition, but Ivy’s waiting for the day they take a hunch and it doesn’t lead to the results they want. A loss will show their true colors, how well they can handle being wrong sometimes. No one on the team is perfect, they’re all hedging bets. Ivy’s taken her lumps of hunches being made too late, or the wrong bets placed. They’re not often. No one likes them. But they happen.

Diaz, Russell, and Burke and scattered throughout the rest of the table. The three of them have been there longer than Ivy. But they all accepted her with open arms. Diaz and Burke were more muscular. They had the brains to match, but they came up the pipeline from their local PD departments and aren’t afraid to get into a tussle. More often than not, Ivy winds up pulling Burke from fights than she’d care to admit. Diaz’s much too big for Ivy to attempt physically restraining, so she referee’s those fights that he gets into.

Russell’s their man behind the screen. He was good at getting through the internet loops, figuring out how to sort databases for the information they need without so much red tape and delay. He preferred to stay behind the lines, but could handle a tussle. Ivy doesn’t count herself as the brains. But her gut had some sort of true north needle that, more often than not, was right. She could see patterns faster than most, could sniff the air after someone and assess how much she could and wanted to trust. Kennedy consulted her often. Whenever she felt like she had something, he’d hush the crowd for her to formulate the full thought. Kennedy didn’t always agree with her assessment, but had to listen to it. He needed to listen to it.

“Nope,” Russell huffs, shutting the folder. “Fucking hell. Kennedy told me it was rough, but I didn’t--I didn’t think it was this rough.”

Ivy settles in next to him sliding him a marker. She draws roughly a tic-tac-toe board. “It not getting easier for you is a good sign.”

Russell makes his first move, the marker squeaking just a little. Ivy follows up with hers. She knows if she makes it too obvious, too easy, Russell will forfeit the game. So she tries to play along, like she’s vying to win.

Russell places his second X though his hands shake just a hair. “Yeah, but compared to you guys, I feel like if someone took a gnarly enough shit it would make me queasy.”

“A bad enough shit could do that to anyone,” Diaz pipes in, his own folder still open but his forearms pressed down over the photographs. Russell’s been around the block, definitely seem some rough things, but has always had a softer view of the world. Still wants it to be good despite all the bad he’s seen.

Ivy places down her second O, noticing the pretty obvious wide open spot she left Russell but looks up to Diaz. “I think I heard through the grapevine you were on the losing end of one of those shits yesterday,” she teases.

Diaz reclines into his seat, his chest bouncing with his laughter. “All because of your cooking Thomas.”

“My cooking is not that bad,” she defends, the cap of her black marker pointing him out.

Burke snickers too with a shake of her head and opens her mouth to speak but the room fills with the voice of Kennedy. “Aren’t y’all old enough to be left alone not to talk about shit for five minutes?”

“Never too old to talk shit, sir,” Diaz returns, his smile lifting only half his face up. He’s a charmer, whenever they go out to bars out manage to get a moment’s peace not hounded by work, he never seems to be at a lack of folks coming up to him. He’s already got a girl, but with the hair that cascades always neatly placed and the dazzling bright grin, anyone could fall for it.

Kennedy huffs his laughter quickly and then shuffles deeper into the room. “We’ve got a new friend, so let’s play nice.” As Kennedy makes head way, Ivy notices the man behind him. He’s tall. The black dress pants and black dress shirt don’t hide everything beneath them, but Ivy’s not too shocked to see people who work in the field like that with some sort of muscular physique. There’s something about his face though--something about the way his brown eyes dart around the room and his smile never shows any teeth that something familiar tugs at her.

Kennedy goes around the table introducing Ivy first, then going to Russell, coming down to Jenkins, Diaz, and then Burke. Each one of them lifts a hand or nods at their name. “This here is Hood, Calum Hood. Joining us as a new liaison.”

Ivy’s no good with faces sometimes. But names she hardly ever forgets. Hood, she met him once a few years back at a lecture. Not that she did them often, but Kennedy got more face time. But he made sure to spread the love between the team. He asked her to tag along. Calum must’ve been in the crowd, had to be, and had to have asked a question because Kennedy told her to remember that name. And she had.

Kennedy continues on with something. Ivy suspects he’s warning Diaz to keep any hazy tactics to a minimum considering how much of a mess they’re walking into. Ivy nods once more at him, and then faces back to the whiteboard, the tap on her arm prompting her too. I’m a scaredy cat sure, but not dumb, it reads in Russell’s handwriting. She spies his X in the bottom corner, opposite of where he would’ve won.

“Pull up a seat, Hood. We’ll have more time for pleasantries once we’re up in the air. But I want everyone to at least be familiar with this case.”

“Yes, sir.” His voice is smooth, Ivy notes. A soft volume and accented but smoother than she would’ve pegged.

The team breaks down the file, recapping mostly what they’ve already read but Kennedy’s old fashioned this way, needing to make sure people have done their homework. It’s an extra step than completely necessary, but having the quick meetings has always made this team feel more like a second family. There’s always a common goal in mind for them and they’re always reminded of it. No matter what happens out in the field, they all want the same thing.

“We soar in forty-five minutes. So let’s hope wheels can turn in the air. Hood, I need you to keep in mind the local PD’s been taking a lot of heat for the last couple of months. So we don’t want to take too much star power, we’re only here to assist and whatever we can do to put the local’s good grace back onto that PD we need to.”

Not quite what she expected, though with his demeanor and looks, he’s sure to work a crowd or newsroom well. She’s sure he’ll be on the ground with them too.

“Understood,” he replies and with that, all of them push away from the table. “Agent Thomas,” Hood says, reaching out almost as if to touch her elbow but never actually do it. He continues to speak once she looks over to him. “I-I don’t know if you remember. But we met at a lecture a couple years back that you held with Agent Kennedy. And I just wanted to say that I’m excited to be here, working with you all.”

“Thomas, here, does not respond well to flattery. Trust, we’ve all tried,” Diaz laughs, clamping down on Hood’s shoulders.

“I appreciate it,” Ivy responds. “Glad to have a fresh mind on the team.” There’s no smile, at least, not one she’d give Russell, Burke, Diaz, or even Jenkins. But Calum watches her give another curt nod with a quick quirk of her lips, and then leave, stacking her file on top of the whiteboard.

“Don’t sweat it. She’s in work mode,” Diaz assures. “We get off the clock and she’s a hoot. But on the clock, it’s strictly business. I will warn you, Thomas will burn you.”

Calum’s left, watching Diaz, Burke, and Russell leave. Jenkins turned tail the second Kennedy got done. It’s not that he wants to mix business with pleasure. He’s just been studying Thomas, attending as many lectures that she gives as he can. She didn’t always go directly by the book, there was something about her method that used the evidence, used science, but also had some sort of intuition. Thomas just knew things and when attempting to quantify it, she didn’t always have the words for it. Calum just wants to see that in action, understand what it is about knowing that isn’t always present in the facts.

The plane ride is comfortable. Plenty of seats even though they squeak just a little. Calum watches Thomas sit and everyone seems to sit spread out from there, keeping her at some sort of center. “Mobile. They don’t mind the hustle,” Ivy starts.

“Crossing state lines is risky, especially after the escalation,” Burke interjects.

“But wouldn’t that be a reason for it? If all the crimes look different, enough crossing state lines might make the unsub feel confident, like they’re getting away with something.” The entire plane turns to look at him. Calum freezes for a moment. He knows better. He knows so much better than that. Fuck.

“Valid. But we shouldn’t settle. Travel might be part of their job. We’ve got a good cluster to possibly estimate a home base. Get comfortable, perfect the craft here and then spread out. But why come back? Local PD's hadn't quite connected anything, until the return. More families, found exactly the same. Even when they cross state lines, all points wind back to a specific geographical location,” Burke returns.

“Hood, you got the inside of the media. What does it look like?”

Thirty minutes of his forty five was making sure that he could at least nail down this run through. And it’s easy, even with the squeak of Ivy’s dry erase marker, to run down the media reports, what information has been released and what hasn’t been released. He makes note of what the team doesn’t want to get out and what they do want to keep available to the public.

All the while, Calum watches the way Ivy writes over her board, the squeak over and over on specific strokes. He wonders for a moment what she’s writing, what it is that she needs to keep written track of. But he doesn’t get a chance to fully flesh out that thought before he finishes his spill and Diaz cuts in. They’re fast, not quite settling on any one theory. More like compiling the possibilities, not wanting to eliminate things but ranking how plausible they all could be until the pieces click.

The first thing after the flight lands, they head for the precinct. The lead investigator greets them, and there’s no pause. They’re pulled into the frenzy, looking at boards. Calum tries to keep his head in the game, but he is watching Ivy. The way she settles in her chair, her marker always moving. He’s not even sure it’s words anymore, just a constant circular movement. Sure he’s here to help regulate media outlets, and he can do that in his sleep if local PD and media follow his instructions to a T.

But he needs an in, to show he’s more than just the new meat on the chopping block. He’s worth something. “Is the last crime scene still available?” Calum asks.

The room turns to him, well most of the room does. Ivy keeps circling, but she speaks. “The plan’s to go in ten minutes. Whatever’s got you preoccupied, leave it in your go bag.”

Kennedy chuckles, tapping at her foot. “Give the kid a break. He was buried in news coverage the second we got into the door. But Hood, shake the cobwebs. This isn’t your small town’s rodeo anymore. If you need to be caught up, ask. But if you’re going to be in the room, keep those ears open.”

A task easier said than done, but he nods, resting his elbows on his knees. God, they’re going to think I’m an idiot. The room goes back to its normal buzz, but Calum keeps his head buried in his hands.

“Talk to me. What are your theories?”

Calum lifts his head. Ivy’s closer now. He can see the black marks on her hand from where she’s held it up against the swirls and lettering. “Clearly I’m barely treading water here.”

“First day nerves, but you can shake it. You wanted to see the crime scene. Why?”

“Why there? We have indications that the unsub spent a lot of time there, even with the interruptions they've seemed to caused. They're still meticulous. I want to follow their steps. What did they do first? And why? What do they need from a crime scene before it’s done?”

“Good. But what else?”

“What-what do you mean what else?”

She smiles, much different than the first one. It shows her teeth, a bit of a twinkle in her eyes. “What else?”

He goes quiet, reclines back into the seat and closes his eyes for a second. What else? There’s a lot else. “I mean, the next obvious thing is why these victims? But besides that, how comfortable is this person? Do they feel a need to be rushed, fast, get-in-get-out or can they blend in? I have a hunch they can blend in. Maybe people even trust them. They are perfectly ordinary and in essence, they have to be in order for the fantasy to work. Detection means they have to get sloppy. Being sloppy’s not an option, so blending in it is.”

“Bring that to the crime scene.” Something taps his knee and Calum cracks open his eyes to see her, standing. Her whiteboard still gently rests against his knee. She’s not looking at him though. Her gaze is locked onto the board next to him, displaying the crime scene photos.

“What’s your secret?” Calum asks. He’s almost positive she didn’t hear him due to Ivy’s lack of prompt response. But then she turns to him.

“Secret?”

“Thomas, Hood, you comin’ or what?” Kennedy calls. “I can deal without Diaz, but I need you, Thomas.”

“I’ll remember that,” Diaz laughs as they walk through the glass doors of the precinct.

It’s not Calum’s first time at a crime scene. But the second Calum steps through the door a chill runs through him. The carpet and walls are still bloodstained. Everything about it the scene just feels wrong, makes Calum want to immediately step back out of the house.

“You feel that?” Burke asks. She continues on deeper into the house, slipping into her gloves.

“This is when Thomas says she’s too Black for all this and gets the hell out of dodge,” Diaz barks. He squats down to the blood on the carpet. Ivy’s already deep into the house, seemingly guided by a force unwillingly to let her go. She doesn’t respond verbally, just lifts her hand, the middle finger extended out in the general direction of Diaz.

And Calum is standing near the threshold of the door, trying to pinpoint why it feels so cold in a house in Texas in the middle of the summer. His hands feel sticky even inside the latex gloves. His first step is shaky but he stops next to Diaz. “There are drag marks from the blood,” Calum notes. “This isn’t where they were killed, just staged.”

“The unsub staged all the victims here in the living room. We know that. Pictures show the parents at the ends of the sofa, children in the middle, dog on the floor.”

“But there’s blood on the walls. We know the Dad’s 6’1,” Calum returns.

“And we don’t have forced entry. So, whoever is wreaking havoc isn’t threatening enough for someone not to answer the door.”

Calum turns to the sofa where the family was found. “It’s picturesque, poetic even. You’ve got a whole family right here, at your will. They knock on the door. It’s dusk, sun’s just starting to set.”

“They have a ruse that gets them inside. We already know they have to blend in with the community. So what can you use to get into a house? Who gets into a house without a problem?”

Diaz goes into the kitchen where in the case file it mentions when the family was finally discovered food was still out on the table. “The window doesn’t have to last long. But it has to be just right. All three families were either eating dinner, or just done with dinner. So why dinner time?” Diaz turns from the stove to face Calum.

“It’s when everyone is together. They’re not just going after a family, but very specific family dynamics. Which means both parents need to present, two kids seems to be a minimum.”

“What’s the average dinner time you’d say? With this job, I eat whenever I fucking can. But before this, excluding people like us, when is the average person sitting down to eat?”

“6, 6:30 I’d guess. That’s assuming the average person is working a job that calls it at 5PM. A town like this is either on the verge of collapsing or being bought out. So I assume a lot of people are traveling outside to the city for work, so the commute might be even later. But I wouldn’t hazard any guesses that our unsub’s just haphazardly picking houses.”

“No, no, you’re right, Hood,” Diaz states, walking over to the table. “I guess what I’m saying is the timing. No one hears anything. But our unsub’s using a gun. That’s not quiet. And there’s not a lot of city noise this far out. They’re spending hours in the house and somehow getting out undetected. But striking at dinner time, with the setting sun, means this person’s around outside the house. But no one’s noticed anything out of the ordinary.”

“Hunting seasons,” Calum returns. “No one really flinches at the sound of a gun shot because people are hunting year ‘round here.”

“And it seems like humans are on the menu.”

“An appetizing thought.”

******

Ivy’s not sure when the chill finally left over the course of the day but it returns when she walks into the precinct and sees the entire room in a frenzy. Kennedy spies her and it’s just a look. Not much different than his resting face, but somehow she knows with that slight arch in his eyebrow. Another family--while they were proding over photos the killer was already moving on, already in the midst of their attack.

And it shouldn’t shock her. Well, to be more accurate, it doesn’t shock her and maybe that’s the thing that scares her. “I’ve been doing this too damned long,” she mutters to herself. “Hood, you’re with me. Get the address and let’s see what that gut of yours cooks up.”

“How’d--Is Kennedy going to be okay with that? The call just came in a few minutes ago.”

“Get the address and tell me how you like your coffee,” Ivy says. Kennedy’s going to come to the scene anyway, but she doesn’t tell Calum that.

There’s not another word before Calum passes in front of her. “Cream and two sugars,” he answers as he goes.

“So Black, got it.”

Paused at the desk of a detective, he looks over his shoulder. “Cream and two sugars,” he re-emphasizes with a tiny smile and holding up two fingers. Police station coffee’s never the best, but it’s better than nothing. When on a case, time is also imperative and they take what they can. Ivy fixes Calum’s cup first, slipping a lid on and keeping the stirrer through the hole. She pours her cup with no additions.

“Not even creamer? Not one?” Calum questions.

“Takes too much time,” she returns. “Burke, you staying?”

“Yeah, Russell got those files over just before the call came in. Besides that crime scene’s bound to be crowded as all hell and I swear if I walk into another house and catch a chill after seven years of doing this job, I just might quit.”

The two ladies laugh. Ivy recovering first to respond, “I need you to keep me sane even though you’re just as much trouble as Diaz.”

“Which is why I’m going to say here, work with Russell. We’re going to need Hood back before the 5’oclock news. Whatever you find at the scene will help solidify our profile and we need it soon. We need the hands on this clock, because it’s ticking ahead of us.”

Ivy nods. It’s no fun being behind. “Kennedy, we’re moving or we’re dying.”

“I trust you. There’s something off about that last one that I want to walk through again.”

“Let’s rock and roll,” she says to Calum, handing him his cup of coffee. “Mr. Cream-and-Two-Sugars.”

The drive is relatively short, all thanks to Ivy’s lead foot. But they need to get there fast, while things are still fresh.

“Did you always want to do this?” Calum asks in the silence of their drive. The radio doesn’t even play. Ivy knew he had questions. He wore them on his face, brows furrowing anytime he was the slightest bit hesitant about something.

“I don’t think I had a choice.”

“What do you mean you didn’t have a choice? We’ve all got choices.”

“My dad worked with the FBI until it killed him. And I think about how he used to tell me it was his job to help put bad people in jail. And I believed him.”

“The bug bit you before you even had a fighting chance.”

Ivy nods, taking a quick glance to Calum. “But if I had a prettier face, I’d stick with liaison too.”

Calum huffs out his laughter. “I went the journalism route first, sue me. Besides, that’s you admitting you think I have a pretty face.”

“I forget faces—so don’t think too highly of it. And I’m probably old enough to be your mother. You attended some lectures, I remembered your name. How’d you convert?”

It’s silent for a moment and Calum contemplates her statement, old enough to be his mother. “Given that my mother has shared her fountain of youth with my sister and I, you might be shocked to know I’m nearing 30. And I converted because of you and your work under Kennedy and his old superior Rogers.”

“All the greats,” Ivy teases, but she doesn't sound impressed. More like tired, used to it.

“But you’re different.”

“Yeah, because somehow the Bureau hasn’t realized their mistake.”

“Mistake?” Calum asks around his sip of coffee.

“Kennedy’s going to retire soon. He's done 15 with our unit. Another ten prior to that climbing through the ranks. Then they’re going to have to find a replacement.”

“You say that like it won’t be you.”

“Because it won’t.”

“You’ve been with Kennedy for so long. He’s obviously going to recommend you, Ivy.”

“He can recommend but people higher up get the final word.”

The truck stops just in front of the house, and Calum knows the most logical thing to do is just focus on the case, walk the scene. Do his job. But he reaches across the console and wraps his fingers around hers for a second with a squeeze. “You’ll get it. They’d be dumb not to bring you to the head of this team.”

“There’s an altar or a shrine. It’s small.”

Calum pauses with his hand on the door. Ivy continues beside him. “Go to the eldest child’s bedroom. In a corner you’ll see the small shrine. Our unsub left one at the last house. And the house before, I’d bet. And this house too. That’s what Kennedy missed. What other cops missed too. Make sure you get it photographed. Besides, I’ve been doing this job too long and don’t know if I’d even want the added responsibility if they promoted me.”

“How’d we miss that?”

“We didn’t miss shit. We saw it when we needed to see it. We see things when we need them.” It's the way she says it, like she has to believe that makes Calum believe too.

The sight rocks Calum--he knew it wouldn’t be easy. But he didn’t know it’d hit him like this. The room spins, just a little. And his heart racing. Mostly because he can’t stand the thought that this could be someone he knows. These people weren’t anticipating their would be like this. And what does that even mean for him? What does his end look like?

“Hey, whoa. Whoa.” An arm comes around his waist and he follows the lead of whomever’s grabbed him.

“I’m okay,” he breathes out. “I’m okay.”

“Yeah, I’m a fudge brownie. It’s okay to not be alright in there.”

Calum rests against the side of the house and squats down just a little. His elbows hit his knees. His breath is heavy, falls from his open mouth almost like he’s going to vomit. But his stomach’s not churning anymore. Not with the fresh morning air hitting his lungs. “Fuck,” he breathes out again, eyes blurring just a little.

“But you’re okay. Take a breather.” Ivy’s shoes turn up in the dirt. "Get him a water, will ya? Hood, take a minute. It's alright. I'll be inside when you're ready." Calum just watches her go. It takes a moment for him to lift his head. It has to get easier. Or least he hopes it does. It takes him a minute, inhaling deeply before he stands up straight.

The rest of them processing the scene goes by in relative silence. Occasionally, Calum pipes in with an addition to their theory. Ivy hums in agreement. And it’s not until they step out and slip out of their gloves that Ivy says anything. “This is why I drink my coffee black.”

“I’m sorry. I really--I don’t know why this one got me.”

“It’s the kids. Kids are the worst.”

Calum looks up to the sky. There’s a few clouds, but not many. “The photos are bad, but in person is way different.”

Ivy watches Calum, the way it takes him a second to come back to earth it seems. “Don’t ask yourself if it gets easier.” When his gaze lands hers, she can see the furrowed brow again. The question drips off his face. “You’ll only disappoint yourself. And this job’s not for the weak of heart. For the people that can’t take some losses with the wins.”

“You said it yourself. You wanted to put the bad people away.”

“Eight year old me wants to believe it’s as easy as putting the monsters away. Thirty-one year old me knows for a fact what the losses are, who gets caught in the cross-fire. It’s not easy, not in the slightest.”

“Innocent lives do add up.”

“Which is why I try not to do math on the job. They all slip up. They all reach a point where their methods don’t satiate the need. They all make a fatal flaw and counting the unfortunate lives on the way to that will have you walking from the Bureau faster than you can blink.”

“So what makes you stay? If it’s all so fucking bad, what keeps you going?”

Ivy nods to the car, pulling the keys from her pocket. “We need to solidify our profile and you need to run press ASAP. But to answer your question, the thing that keeps me going is that fact that they do get caught eventually.”

******

Eventually seems to come up faster than Calum anticipates. He was sure it would take weeks. After getting back to the precinct more information in Russell’s digging found a connection between all the families, a Venn diagram that overlapped to their X on the map. Another couple of days and it all unravelled. It’s a blur, when he tries to think back to it, on the plane. The only grounding thing is when one of the children, a little girl about 6, pointed out the tattoos on his hands. In all this time, he was sure the tattoos would be a barrier to entry--they’d somehow put him in a place that others would think he was nothing but trouble. But somehow, despite the terror she had done through, that little girl liked his tattoos, found some sort of comfort in them.

When he told her they were for his parents, she smiled at him. She said she wanted one for her parents too and then asked if he had anymore and how old he was when he got them. All of which Calum was more than happy to answer while the medic checked over her. Her older brother came soon after, asking a few questions, but overall he was much quieter than his sister. Understandable for what was endured. In the end, Calum’s just glad he didn’t see them staged on a couch, bleeding out onto the cushions.

There’s a small bit of turbulence and the shakes cause Calum to open his eyes for a moment. Ivy’s seated across from him, whiteboard on her lap, headphones in her ears. A tic-tac-toe grid drawn across it in the middle, but in the corners are some swirls, a crude drawing of the shrine from the case. Calum leans forward and tugs on the board just a little. She lets it go without a fight and hands over the marker.

Calum makes an ‘X’ in the top left. “You said this job doesn’t get easier.” He looks up to see if Ivy can hear him and is relieved when she pops out one her headphones. She raises her brows like she wants him to continue with the thought. And Calum’s not even sure he should. Instead, he hands over the board back to her. If seeing death doesn’t get easier, then maybe it just means he gets better at it. Maybe it means that not being okay with death is a good motivator to keep down this path.

“The job doesn’t get easier. You’re still human. You still want a spouse and a kid. You might want two dogs and a cat. You might want that white picket fence one day. You’ll want to close your eyes and not see death. You’ll want to walk down the street and see humans as humans again. You’ll have nightmares. Don’t hide from it. Nothing’s wrong with you for wanting that. But we’re in a world now where we see the horrors--what’s on the other side of everything you wanted. It’s a liminal space and it’s heavy to wade through.”

“I just want to not freak like I did the other day. It’s not easy. But sometimes I fear that maybe I bit off more than I could chew.”

Their game of tic-tac-toe has been forgotten, placed in the seat next to Ivy as she leans forward in her seat. “You said you were converted because of me. What exactly about me was it?”

“You just know things. When you walk onto a scene, you have an air of knowing. How can you just pick up on it in a snap?”

“Well,” Ivy laughs, “if that’s the only reason you want in, I warn you to get out.”

“I want to help. I want to save people,” Calum adds on. But then it hits him. Maybe this wasn’t the business of saving people as much as it was stopping people. Sure, they prevent future murders, but that didn’t always negate for all the lives lost. But they did save that family today. He saved that little girl that wants tattoos like his. “I want to save people and I want to stop people as well,” he finally adds on.

“There will always be monsters in this world,” Ivy warns.

“And there will always be heroes.”

“Make no mistake, Calum. We don’t have capes. We don’t swoop in all the time at just the right moment. Sometimes we are late. Sometimes we’re reacting more than we are being proactive. Sometimes we fuck up.”

His heart stops for just a moment at the mention of his first name. He’s always Hood, or at least has always been Hood. Just like she’s always Thomas to the team. But she said his first name. Unmistakably so. “Did-did you just use my first name?”

“You used my first name, first.”

When had he done that? He didn’t recall, but he couldn’t combat it either.

“Look,” Ivy continues, “the fact remains. We will fail. We will make the wrong call, or the right call just by the skin of our teeth. We will walk down the wrong direction only to figure out, we know it’s the wrong one. We get it right. A lot more often, we get it right and we minimize the death count. But we’re human--you don’t have to take it on if you don’t want. You don’t have to suffer.”

“If I don’t suffer and win, then that little girl suffers and loses. Then the next person loses. And the next. Their suffering or mine--the choice is clear.”

Ivy studies Calum for a moment. She sees the resolve on his face. Just how much sacrificing himself is a no brainer for him. It was a no brainer for her too. But admittedly, she was cursed. Maybe Calum wasn’t. Maybe she could save him, even if she couldn’t save herself. But she wasn’t in the business of saving people, only stopping them.

“I can’t stop you, can I?” she asks.

“Stop me from what?”

“Stop you from killing yourself with this job.”

“If it’s killing you, then why don’t you leave?” His head cocks to the side, now intrigued by her honesty.

“It’s like you said, I got bit before I could escape. I’m cursed. Are you?”

The little girl flashes through his vision again, and his chest tightens for a second before the relief kicks in. He could chase that feeling, the knowledge that he saved someone, one person. And that he helped put away one more person causing harm. “I am now. Ruined--because even though I can’t save them all. I can save some. I can help keep some people safe. I don’t think there’s a better reward than that.”

With a nod, Ivy looks back to their game on the whiteboard. They would’ve tied, she can see it after where she placed her ‘O’. But she hands it back over to Calum. “Kennedy’s going to shit himself when he realizes he’s got too hard heads on his team.”

“You’ll shit yourself when you realize you’re inheriting the second hard-head on the team after Kennedy leaves.”

Ivy scoffs. Of course, Calum still believes in the shiny idea that hard work yields rewards. “And this is where I can still tell you’re new to this--the dreams are still shiny and ideal.”

“All the work you’ve invested, they’d be--”

Ivy interrupts him. “I know, they’d be dumb not to.”

“Then why do you keep saying it won’t happen?”

“I’d call my pessimism a curse. But at this point, I think it’s a personality trait and the truth.”

“And let me guess, this is why you take your coffee black too.”

Ivy winks at him before her smile takes over her face. “You know it.”

[shoichee]

Hello!❤️ Checking your blog is the first thing I do, and so today I woke up to yours updates😍 in short, you made my day🙆🏼‍♀️

Idk if you do that kind of requests, but can you do a scenario with Aomine based on “Cool” by Gwen Stefani? The song popped into my head a few days ago and is on repeat😂

YOU ASK, I DELIVER~ I sincerely apologize for taking so long;; YOU MAKE MY DAY WHEN YOU REBLOG <33 but without further ado… this one is a bittersweet one // EDIT: I forgot to add in this banner done by @mihangry PLEASE CHECK EM OUT there might be a new side blog for new knb writings👀

Aomine x Reader

Word Count: 1410

»»—————　☼　—————««

It’s hard to remember how it felt before…

Now I found the love of my life…

You hummed to accompany the soft bustling of the local market as you tried to rummage through the shelf for the perfect box of baking soda for tonight’s dinner. You were amused to see Aomine standing there awkwardly, sticking out like a sore thumb as he always did. It seems that nothing had really changed after the two of you graduated.

“Daiki,” you smile fondly. “You do know you’re blocking the aisle, right?”

“Sh-Shit.” After mumbling an apology to a curious passerby shopper, he turns to you again before he scratches his neck. “So… whatcha doin’?”

Passes, things get more comfortable…

Everything is going right…

“What do you think?” you stifle a chuckle. “I’m shopping here. My question is, what are you doing here? You’ve been standing there like a dunce.”

“Uh, well…” he haphazardly pulled out a wrinkled list from his usual navy puffer jacket to squint at the scribbles. “Shopping for groceries.”

“Let me guess, you were trying to look for banana milk here. But you do know that this is the baking aisle?”

“Wha—?! Tch, that’s not it, (y/n). I’m looking for—”

“Daiki! There you are!”

The two of you turned to an unfamiliar woman, bundled up in scarves and fleece while looking out of breath. You shot a curious look when Aomine approached her to flick her forehead before burying her head into his chest.

“Geez, how many times do I have to tell you to pay attention to where you’re going? How do you always manage to get separated from me?”

“O-Ow! You didn’t have to flick that hard…” she mumbles into his jacket. “I was trying to scour the store for banana milk because I felt bad for dragging you here with me…”

“Okay, okay, sheesh,” he sighs before flashing her a rare gentle smile, the one you used to have the privilege to lay eyes on so often long ago. “You can stop frowning now.”

And after all the obstacles,

It’s good to see you now with someone else…

She finally noticed you standing behind Aomine from a distance before she asked with sparkling eyes, “Daiki, who’s this?”

He widened his eyes in remembering that there was an audience in the first place, and he glanced back at you before turning to her.

“Oh, yeah… (y/n)’s a—”

“I’m an old friend.” You smoothly answer for him, and you hold up a friendly wave to introduce yourself. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, and you are…?”

“I’m his girlfriend,” she giggles shyly, tugging her hands behind her back with a faint blush. “I don’t know if we look like a proper couple, but anyways, I hope we get along together!” You turn back to the selection of baking sodas before plucking the “best” one and gingerly putting it into your shopping basket, hanging from your arm. You return your gaze back to her with a gentle smile.

“If you’re looking for banana milk,” you instruct, shooting a teasing look to Aomine on the side. “It’s located 4 aisles down, though it’s in a pretty obscured corner on the shelves. Not many people would find it at first glance.”

“I-I see!” she exclaims, frantically taking note on a scrap of paper.

“Are you two shopping for ingredients to make teriyaki burgers?”

“H-How’d you know?!”

“Damn, y’all talk so much, it’s annoying,” Aomine grumbles, clearly embarrassed about the ordeal. “I’m gonna be waiting over there.”

And it’s such a miracle that you and me are still good friends…

“Hey, wait—! Ugh, sheesh, I’m sorry about him… he can be a bit childish sometimes, and…” she trails off, thinking of ways to apologize for his roundabout behavior. You merely laugh before you wave a hand off to signal her to think nothing of it.

“I know.”

We have changed, but we’re still the same…

After all that we’ve been through…

“Then…” she gulps before hesitantly continuing, “would it be too much to ask for you to show us the way around the store? I mean, well, it’s our first time here in the area, and the store is so jam-packed…”

“I don’t mind. Shall we go? Aomine is never the patient one, after all.”

“Right?! Sometimes, he gets all pouty and grumbly like a kid!”

“Yes,” you laugh, walking with her side-by-side towards where Aomine was standing. “He can be difficult sometimes.”

“You two look like you’re having way too much fun,” Aomine comments, sighing before he straightens his posture from leaning against the fruit stand for a while. “How did you even get chummy with each other that quickly?”

“It’s all thanks to you Daiki,” you tease, purposely phrasing it in such a vague way to keep him guessing.

“O-Oh! You call him by his first name too! You did say you’ve known him for a long time, right? What was he even like back then?”

“Jeez…” Aomine roughly ruffles her hair to stop her from saying anything more. “(Y/n), don’t answer that.”

And now we’re hangin’ out with your new girlfriend…

So far from where we’ve been…

“Hmmm…” you ponder, remembering the times when you used to spend your free time on the rooftops with him… the times you both went to Maji Burger together… the times you were dragged to the street courts with him to watch his new tricks…

… the kisses you two used to share.

“He wasn’t… so different, actually,” you fondly recall. “Always impulsive, stubborn, childish… but he’s also dependable and straightforward.”

“Huh… come on, I wanted to hear stories of him crying like an actual baby,” she playfully whines, but then her eyes shine when she sees that sign for the aisle that the banana milk was in. “Stay right here! I’ll get the pack quick!” Once she disappears into the aisle, both of you stand there in comfortable silence before he speaks up.

“Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Was that why you were staring at me earlier?” You tilted your head to wait for his response, and he turned his head to the side before looking at you again.

“… Yeah.”

“How have you been, Daiki?”

“Doin’ good, more or less. What are you even doing here?”

“My college is right around the corner, so I recently moved here to make things easier to access and travel. My internship won’t be lenient on me being late, even if I live far, so I had to make arrangements. You?”

“That’s good, right? Having an internship will get you work easier,” he replies. “But naw, I’m just here because she dragged me over. We live pretty far, but she wanted to make a stop here to make something for me before I go on a plane to America.”

“You’re going overseas?! C-Congratulations…! It’s about your dream to make it to the NBA, right?”

“It’s not a big deal, yet,” he mumbles. “I still gotta practice if I wanna get scouted.”

“Practice, huh…” you trail off, and silence envelops the two of you again.

And I’ll be happy for you,

If you can be happy for me.

“I’m back!~” Daiki’s girlfriend huffs out of the aisle with a triumphant grin. “I found the last one! Shall we move to find the rest of the ingredients?”

“Of course,” you cheerfully say, making a mental note for yourself to also grab the rest of the items on your own grocery list. “Let’s go.”

Before you finish your sentence, however, she’s already bouncing meters ahead, eagerly keeping her eyes peeled for any ingredients for the burgers, leaving you two behind again.

“She’s quite an energetic one, hm?”

“Yeah, yeah.” While he sounded quite flippant, his narrowed eyes showed nothing but affection for her.

“It’s really good to talk to you again,” you whisper. “It feels like everything is falling into place again, and everything would be okay.”

“I get ya,” he says, slightly stretching before nudging his chin ahead. “Come on, let’s get moving before she ends up getting lost again.”

“Right behind you.”

And just so naturally, both of you raised your fists simultaneously to give a resounding fist bump before you two started walking to catch up to her. No further words needed to be said when the two of you had always been so in tuned with each other.

I know we’re cool,

I know we’re cool…

… Me and you.

[retvenkos]

“you realize you have enough late fees to pay for this book twice over, right?”

requested

A MODERN! LIBRARY! AU WITH THE PEVENSIES? UMM... YES. THAT HAS TO GO LIKE THIS...

the pevensies first started frequenting the library after they came back from narnia

it was susan’s idea - none of them really knew this world anymore and so, maybe, if they read about it, things would come back to them and they’ll feel more comfortable in this place

edmund teased her, saying she just wanted to quiz him on the dictionary, again. 

but, really, he liked the idea. he felt comfortable amongst the endless shelves, it was like he was in the libraries in cair paravel, again, and he was home

and even when they had adjusted to england and had no reason to go back, anymore, they kept going

it was routine at this point - the only time all of them were really together, talking about their lives and all that had happened

and as the years passed by, it felt like a home away from home - a place in england that was  t h e i r s 

they weren’t sure where they belonged, anymore, but the library was a good a place as any

peter found himself again in the stories of king arthur and the histories of battles and sacrifices - those things that lie heavy on the chests of anyone else.

he loves audio books and documentaries - things he can listen to. he loves to hear it - the interest in people’s voices, the sympathy, the words they use.

he has his headphones in 99.99% of the time, and lucy will sneak up on him to scare him. 

he has been kicked out of the library several times, thanks lucy

and edmund? love of mysteries

he went through a sherlock holmes phase. susan watched sherlock with him and they would argue over theories

lucy told him once that he looked like benedict cumberbatch and it was single handedly the best compliment he had ever received (for the time, anyway).

he also got into a few of the classics

he read don quixote and loved it, don’t lie to yourself

he is also constantly checking out rosetta stones - edmund loves languages and you can pry that concept from my cold, dead hands

susan was able to distract herself with love stories, magazines, and other classics

jane austen? yep. susan loved her.

she would browse a lot, taking her time before deciding on anything

she also loved using the computers

she always has some passion to look up or another, and it was easier to use the computers to look something up than to search for a book.

when she knew what she wanted, susan went after it. when she wasn’t sure, she browsed.

lucy, on the other hand, loved ya fiction

the action? the romantic subplots? they were her obsession.

and sometimes susan would read one with lucy and they would talk about it, but no one ever found out. susan would rather die than tell edmund she was team edward

and no, i never read twilight but i have seen the films and susan was team edward i don’t make the rules

lucy also chronically checks out movies at the library and then forgets to take them back until a week after they’re due

and edmund will tell her it’s on netflix, she doesn’t need to check it out, but she says she likes a hard copy, sue her.

she eventually gets into comics, and she and edmund read them together

oh, i guess i should address when you come into the picture

so you work at the library and it doesn’t take you long until you have met the pevensies and have chatted with this chaotic but surprisingly functional family

they’re only in their mid twenties, but they have the dynamic of 40-50 year old siblings?

clearly i’m ignoring their fatal end because we only want fluff, here

all of your coworkers agree that they have those very specific vibes.

and you find these frequents odd and amusing - no one in their age bracket really comes to the library frequently, but this family is constantly here.

i mean, it’s great because their traction is much needed, but it’s just confusing.

the easiest pevensie to talk to is peter, if you ever catch him without his headphones in

he’s just super chummy with everyone he meets and when you first talk to him, he feels like an older brother

he has the  c h a r i s m a 

“you and your siblings come here, a lot.”

“yeah, there’s a lot of sentimental value, here. this place... it helped us find ourselves, once.”

“well, there’s not better way to know yourself than between pages. books have a way of changing your perspective.”

“but they can also help you erase who you once were.”

and you notice him looking at susan

so you not-so masterfully change the subject

“do you realize how many fines you have?”

but it works

“they’re edmund’s, trust me.”

the second easiest to talk to is lucy - peter may have a natural charisma, but lucy is just kind and pleasant to chat with

she’ll talk to you about anything and everything, even if she has zero idea what you’re talking about

but that’s kind of hard because the amount of collective knowledge the pevensie’s have is insane.

and lucy is definitely the sibling you can befriend the quickest, the gateway to the rest of the pevensies because you just feels so comfortable around her

she introduces you to susan and edmund, and you’re actually able to hit it off with them, too?

the pevensies are great at talking to strangers and i just,,, can they pLEASE teach me their ways???

it’s all those years of being kings and queen, talking to other diplomats, being generally sociable

anyway, you start to hang out with them outside of the library, too, after you’ve formed a bit of a friendship

and maybe you have a particular soft spot for edmund...

and the pevensies start to tell you more of their stories - those that happened to them when they were young, when they were kind of odd - like adults in a child’s body

and you can see susan stiffen with each subsequent story, and you think back to what peter said to you, once...

“but they can also help you erase who you once were”

and so you decide to talk about those stories with edmund, when the two of you are hanging out alone

and you not-so masterfully change the subject

“have any of you watched harry potter, recently? i get big harry potter vibes from all of your stories.”

and lucy and peter are vvv excited, because they used to read harry potter with each other and love it a whole lot

and later, edmund tells you about narnia, about susan not believing, and about where they are, now

coping

all of them

and you nod your head understandingly

“if you ever need me, you know where to find me.”

“yeah.”

“but wouldn’t it be wonderful if they were stories?”

“for others to read?”

“yeah - like story books.”

“yeah... that would be nice.”

and one night, when all of the pevensies are together and susan has gone to the bathroom, edmund tells his siblings about your idea. about writing about narnia... as though it were a story.

and susan hears through the door.

and maybe she puts her english major to use, writing down a story she tries desperately to believe isn’t real

AND FLUFF ENSUES.

-- taglist: @musicallisto, @babyplutoszx2, @locke-writes, @brokenandheadoverheels // message me if you want to be added to the taglist!

[bibliocratic]

Only a little late!

Written for the prompts: AU and Touch for AspecMartinWeek

Ace Jon / Ace Martin, AU – Daemons, post 159.

They are lying dozy and lazing on the settee when Jon clears his throat and apologises.

Martin's thoughts have been like the unheeded tumbling of water through a brook. He hasn't spoken, he's sure, for a long while, not confident that he's fully awake. Jon's tucked neatly against Martin's graceless outstretch of limbs, mumbling whatever comes to mind against his throat. His breath is hot, mildly damp, condensing Martin's skin like he's fogging up a window.

There is the curiously new, near-dazed feeling that Martin is basking in like the shallow waters of some island beach. Every tension unhooked from him like an unburdened yoke, of having said everything that he has always wanted to say. Digging out the gristle of small deceits from his stumbling mouth was a stop-judder-start of a conversation, and it's been a painful, physical release to bring them up. Martin's held his hands over his mouth and the words have spilled out anyway, scraping his throat on the way up, and Jon had rubbed his back and listened as every emotion he forced down came back in nauseous waves.

It's been exhausting, feeling so much all at once. Martin's snapped and snarled and sobbed and slept a lot. And now he has the blessed relief to lie, feeling like he's dug up all the weeds of his fears, the soil of him loosened enough to allow something better to bloom.

Jon knows Martin loves him. Vast-welled, bone-down-deep. Jon knows that love will never be physical, and had still cradled him and declared him beloved, confessed that it was a form of expression he'd never sought either. Jon reframed question after question so they barely resembled enquiries at all, and Martin laid down all the cards of himself with a trustfulness he is having to practise again.

“Hm?” Martin questions sluggish. He opens a squinting, disgruntled eye, discomforted by the radiance of the room, and sees Jon gnawing on his bottom lip. He is managing to give off the impression of both staring intensely at Martin and attempting to avoid his gaze entirely.

“I'm sorry,” Jon repeats. His words are steady enough, but Emer is fluttering hither-and-thither over his head like an anxious coronet. Landing on his shoulder, antennae bobbing, crawling flustered over to his other shoulder before returning airborne in an overactive bluster of motion.

Martin has always liked watching Emer. The flash of gossamer-white wings circling Jon's head or sat on his wrist like an overly-extravagant watch while he read statements.

“Stop looking,” he used to hiss at the moving lump under his shirt, poking many orb-like eyes over his collar to stare even when Martin stopped. “It's rude.”

“What're you sorry for?” Martin asks. The question comes out squashed, half-sighed. His arm encircling Jon's shoulder, he strokes the skin of his upper arm in a light reassurance.

Jon's forehead is establishing trenches as he deepens the lines on his brow. Emer lands and whispers harsh, insistent words into his ear, but he shakes his head like shedding water, and she goes back to hovering.

“I should have asked,” Jon says finally. “I'd never.... you were always so private about him, so I mean, at first I wasn't sure he was even yours, but then – when you, when you went with Peter, and I – he was so small, and I thought he was h-half-dead and Emer wouldn't leave him. S-so I picked him up and I carried him. And I'm sorry.”

It takes a few moments for Jon's garbling to reach understanding.

“I'd kind of assumed you must have,” Martin replies slowly. “I'm the – I'm the one who left him behind.”

At the hollow of Martin's throat, he can feel the crouched and scratchy weight, still unfamiliar to him. He brings up his hand, uses a finger to stroke the short, bristling fur down his rounded abdomen. He stops, leaving his hand nearby, close but undemanding. A second later, delayed, two probing legs tap affectionately and tiredly onto the back of Martin's hand, before withdrawing again.

He was never so steady before. He used to crawl, scramble, quiver and jump, always in motion under the cover of Martin's shirts, the camouflage of his bramble-coiled hair. If he got excited, he'd jump from Martin's shoulder to ear to get his attention, chatter and chirp animatedly. Most of Martin's life, he's rarely strayed a foot from his side.

Martin doesn't feel him now. Not like it was before. There's no solid anchoring when he concentrates. Like a weak signal, a light seen through fog, a previously taut string scraped threadbare.

Peter had suggested a knife. Had even held one out to Martin with a chummy, encouraging smile. Telling him how clean it could be to slice through.

“It won't even kill you,” he had said. “Best part of it.”

“It'll hurt though,” Martin had replied dully, jaw set, as the spider quivered against his throat.

“Oh, certainly,” Peter had replied, admiring the sheen of the blade. “But you've already given away so much, Martin, what's a little more in the grand scheme of things, hm?”

Martin had refused, and Peter had sighed, pocketing the knife again, responded:

“Pity. You'll have to leave him anyway. It would be so much easier to make the separation quicker for the both of you.”

Aron hadn't said anything when Martin scooped him off his neck, setting him down on top of the tape recorder. He'd stared, resigned but with still enough expectation in him to feel betrayed.

It hadn't made the rending, punch-breathed stretching of their distance hurt less.

It had stopped hurting after a while, like everything else had.

Jon must have carried him all the way into the Lonely and out, Martin thinks, stroking Aron again. Maybe longer. The days, they've not been as clear as Martin would like. It's been as treading through murky water a lot of the time. He's not even sure when he woke up blearily, cosseted by the tight bundle of blankets Jon had barricaded him with, and felt Aron nestled in his hair like the old days.

“You couldn't have asked anyway,” Martin continues. “It's not like, well, not like I was around to say it was ok, was I?”

Jon makes a grunt of agreement, but it's one of those distracted sounds he makes when he's taken something in but not really listened.

“When you got out though,” he says, seeming, if anything, even more shame-faced. “When we got here, you didn't – you didn't even ask about him. He'd be at the other side of the house and you didn't blink at how far that was, he-he'd climb onto you and try and get your attention and you wouldn't flinch. I don't think you even knew he was there. And then Emer talked to him, wouldn't move from his side, and then – it-it was the second night, guess you don't remember but you were – you were struggling to come back to yourself. And he – he crawled onto me, and I didn't – I didn't push him away.”

“I'm not mad at you, Jon,” Martin says. “'s like you said. I wasn't – I wasn't in the right place. You kept him safe, how could I be mad?”

Jon nods stiffly. Looks at Aron. Martin likes the way Jon looks at him, carefully, like something might have changed while he wasn't looking.

“I just... thought I should apologise,” he says, more lamely than before. “It's not right, to go around touching other people's.... Anyway. I won't – won't do it again.”

Aron's chelicerae twitch against Martin's adam's apple.

“What's your thoughts on all this then?” Martin says, directing it lowly at Aron.

He's not expecting a response. Their conversations have been stilted, working through the gap Martin ripped between them. Those last few months, they'd mostly fought. Peter Lukas' arrival had found Aron sullen and petty, argumentative and frightened, and Martin had ignored him or snapped back in kind. Aron had stopped speaking to him long before Lukas dragged him into the Lonely, and it's a slow cautious revival, to find out how to talk to each other again.

Aron unfolds his legs carefully, creeps unobtrusively up to the side of Martin's face to lurk near his ear. Even as a bigger example of his species, he's still about the length of Martin's thumb. He flexes the stubby pedipalps under his eyes like he's kneading something.

“He's the best decision you've made in a long time,” he says resolutely to Martin. “He loved me even when you thought you couldn't.”

Martin's mouth is raw from saying sorry but he murmurs it again. Aron's front legs tap him like a reassurance.

“Would you like to?” Martin turns to Jon, who is militantly trying not to listen to their conversation. Emer is circling the ceiling as though to further compound the gesture of privacy. “Touch him, mean – intentionally this time?”

When Martin was younger and working everything out, he'd diligently done his research on the ways he thought he was failing. He'd watched a lot of films, read a lot of books. Romantic stuff, filled with swelling, stirring scores, or purple-prose dramatic declarations of passion. It's quite a common trope in a lot of these; the couples confessing their tormented adoration, their daemons touching, tail in tail or rough-housing in play. Then one half of the couple will reach out, suddenly tender, tangle their fingers in the fur of the other's daemon or scrape along their scales. The other will gasp like they've been shocked, their body rocking with the aftermath of it, before they follow with shaking hands. Martin would replay those moments of intimate connection, fantasising about how someone might hold his own bristled and secretive soul.

It inevitably leads to sex. And Martin would switch it off, then, feeling nonplussed and uncomfortable and wondering if that part was necessary.

It doesn't matter to Martin if Jon doesn't want to, if he never touches Aron again. Jon's already carried his soul so many miles.

It's important to him that Jon knows he can. That Martin wants him to, that Martin trusts him with Aron more than he trusts himself.

Jon's face goes a dark spasm of oxblood red.

“It's – I mean – I'd – course I'd – that's a lot though, are you sure – ?”

Emer chooses that moment to make some quick fed-up comment to Jon before decisively fluttering down and landing on Martin's nose.

Jon gives a squeaking, mildly scandalised gasp. So does Martin, more at the shock.

It doesn't feel like how he expected it might.

There's no rush, no swelling violins or heightened poetry.

“Hey,” he whispers to the white-winged moth. Emer preens, giving a show-off little flap before closing her wings against her back.

“She's beautiful,” he says to Jon sincerely.

Jon's holding his breath like he's trying not to disturb the moment.

“How – how do you feel?” He asks tentatively, his words slightly strangled.

“Warm,” Martin says. There's a steady coil of heat in his chest that matches the warmth of their close-knit afternoon. He feels beheld in the surest of light, cherished and reverential, the same feeling he gets whenever Jon says he loves him.

“Like you expected?”

Martin told Jon about the films he'd watched, the books he'd read, the expressions and sensations he'd thought would make him happier. Jon had listened in the blanketing dark of the evening, and admitted the same in kind.

“I mean, I still don't feel much of an urge to suddenly rip your clothes off, if that's what you're asking.”

Jon's lips hook up in a smile, releasing some of his nervous tension.

“How disappointing,” he intones, and Martin, going a little cross-eyed staring at the speckling spots of black over the fuzz coating Emer's body, laughs.

He reaches up, his hands gone a little shivery, glances over at Jon.

“Can I...?” he asks.

Jon gives a jerking motion, looking like a rather demented nodding dog in his poorly disguised eagerness.

“Er – y-eah – that would be – I-I'd like that.”

Martin strokes a blunt nail from her thorax down.

“Oh,” Jon says, sounding more than a little awestruck. If possible, he sinks even more limbless against Martin. “That's.... that's lovely.”

Martin strokes Emer for a while, rhythmically rubbing the fur with a precise concentrated effort. Jon hums, looking dazed and pleased.

He wonders if it'll feel the same with Jon touching Aron. If Martin will be able to tell, if the sensation will be muted or altered in some way.

Aron, impatient and with apparently less decorum about the whole thing, gives a restless huff and decides to find out himself by jumping onto Jon.

Jon, jolted from his near-soporific state, rather valiantly does not shriek or flail the way he might if an actual spider flung itself onto him. He jerks but makes a serious effort to hold himself ramrod still.

“Stop it,” Martin warns.

“You are absolutely no fun,” Aron answers back playfully as he skitters down to where Jon's hands are. Jon if anything holds himself even more still.

Aron reaches his wrist and taps the skin there, waiting. Slowly, Jon cups his hands together, and Aron clambers delicately onto his palms. Jon's face is making another one of those wowed expressions. Martin feels another pulse of that settling warmth, not as dulled as before, strengthening as Jon rubs a self-conscious finger down Aron's abdomen.

Martin feels Emer flutter up and settle against his hair as he hums and closes his eyes, his soul held in the safest hands he knows.

[bucky-of-the-opera]

Roll With the Changes (2/?)

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

Summary:  He lost his friends, his reputation, and his first love. Will Steve be able to pick up the broken pieces of his life, or will he need someone else to help him?

Warnings: angst, language

Word Count: 2,135

A/N: It took longer than expected to upload, but without further ado, here’s part two! 

Masterlist // Part 1

That damned planner. You almost decided to cut your losses and let Steve keep the thing to avoid further embarrassment. But it was brand new and decorated with the pack of stickers that Robin had bought you. So, after first period ended, you ended up waiting for Steve in front of his locker. 

He came strolling down the hallway with your polka dot and sticker covered planner in hand, earning more than a few amused stares and giggles from the other students. Steve smirked at you as he approached, extending his arm. 

“I believe this adorable thing belongs to you.”

“My hero! Whatever would I do without you?” you said sarcastically.

“Well, for one, you would have forgotten to do that reflection paper for your English class that’s due tomorrow,” he answered.

Your eyes widened. “You read my planner?” you said, tugging it out of his hand. 

He shrugged in response. “It’s not like it’s a diary.”

“But it’s my personal property! You can’t just open it!”

“How else would I have known it belonged to you?”

You scoffed. “Because you found it in my driveway.”

“Sure, but that still doesn’t mean that it’s yours.” Steve leaned his shoulder against the lockers and folded his arms. “What if another person dropped their planner in your driveway? And then I just gave it to you because I assumed it was yours, but never actually opened it to check?”

You stared at him, dumbfounded, while he looked back at you with an amused grin plastered on his face.

“You’re incredibly frustrating. You know that, right?”

He chuckled. “So I’ve been told.” Steve glanced over your shoulder, his smile fading a bit but still present. “Nancy‘s at her locker, I gotta go. I’ll see you around, Y/N.” He placed his hand on your shoulder. “Don’t forget to use that backpack of yours; I might not be there to heroically return your stuff again.” He winked at you before heading over towards Nancy.

Steve was a man of his word. After that first week of classes, he basically disappeared. Sure, you saw each other in the hallways from time to time; you would smile at him, and he would give you a polite nod. But he never stayed at his locker long enough to have another short, meaningless conversation. Instead, he almost exclusively stuck by Nancy. It wasn’t too unusual since they were dating, but even when Nancy was talking to Jonathan Byers, Steve would suddenly appear by her side. It was like he was completely dependent on her.

Robin said that he was always late to Mrs. Click’s class. But you saw him pick Nancy up every morning before you left your house, and you knew that she was the type of student who always went to her classes on time. Was he hanging around her until her class started and he was forced to leave?

Whatever was happening with Steve, it really wasn’t any of your concern. He’s his own person who’s perfectly capable of making decisions for himself. And as of lately, it seemed like he had no interest in being around you. So why couldn’t you just get him out of your head?

Eventually, the week of Halloween arrived. You picked up Robin like you normally did and drove to school. As you started walking towards the front doors of the building, the screech of tires and a revved engine grabbed your attention. You turned around to see a young redheaded girl skate away from a Camaro. On the driver’s side of the car stood a guy sporting a mullet and decked out in denim.

“Who’s that?” you asked Robin.

“No idea,” she answered without giving him so much as a second glance. She opened the door and called out to you. “Are you coming?”

You stared at the stranger as he flicked a cigarette out of his hand and strutted towards the school. As he came closer, his eyes met yours. He slowly dragged his tongue across his lower lip, making your cheeks flush. You averted your eyes and turned back to Robin.

“Yeah, let’s go.”

The two of you entered the school, stopping at Robin’s locker so she could grab her history textbook. When you reached her classroom, you both went your separate ways; she stayed behind in Mrs. Click’s room, while you headed towards your own locker.

You put a few of your books away just as someone suddenly appeared on your left. Their shoulder was leaning against the other lockers. When you turned your head, you saw that it was the stranger from outside.

He grinned at you. “Looks like we’re neighbors.”

“Yeah, looks like it.” You shut your locker and slung your backpack on.

He looked you up and down, before his eyes finally landed on your face. “Do you think you could help me with my combination? I can never get them right.” He held a small piece of paper out to you. 

You glanced down at it and then back up at him. You hadn’t noticed outside since he wasn’t this close before, but he had crazy-long eyelashes and almost hypnotic bright blue eyes. As you took the paper from his hand, he moved out of the way so you could enter the combination. You pulled the small door open and gave the paper back to him.

“There you go.”

“Thanks…”

“Y/N,” you said.

He gave you another toothy grin. “Thank you, Y/N.”

“No problem, um,”

“You can call me Billy,” he replied, looking directly into your eyes.

You gripped the handles of your backpack and cleared your throat. “I should get to class. I’ll, um, see you around I guess.”

“I’m sure you will, neighbor.”

You turned and started walking away, making it several feet until Steve appeared and lightly grabbed your arm to stop you.

“Who’s that guy?” he asked.

You pulled your arm out of his grasp. “Hello to you too.”

Steve ignored your remark, waiting for your answer.

You rolled your eyes. “His name is Billy.”

“You two looked pretty chummy over there,” he stated.

A flash of anger ran through you. “What’s it to you?” 

Steve shook his head. “Just be careful around him. He seems like trouble.”

Your blood was boiling now. “Do you actually think you can ignore me for weeks and then all of a sudden reappear just to tell me who I can and can’t talk to?”

“I’m not telling you that you can’t talk to him; I’m just telling you to keep your guard up around him.”

You scoffed. “Screw you, Harrington.”

Steve’s eyes widened; he opened his mouth to respond just as a hand landed on your shoulder.

“Is this guy bothering you, Y/N?” Billy asked from beside you. He stared at Steve, obviously amused by the situation, while Steve glared back at Billy with disdain.

“No, it’s fine,” you said. “Steve has a sophomore class that he has to get to anyway.” As soon as the words left your mouth, you wished you could take them back; the hurt look on Steve’s face made you feel like absolute shit. “Wait, Steve, I didn’t mean tha—”

“You’re right,” he said before you could finish your sentence. “I’m a senior who’s stuck in a sophomore class because I couldn’t pass a test if my life depended on it. Might as well tell the new kid, I’m sure he would’ve found out eventually.” His voice grew louder as he continued, attracting the attention of the other students in the hallway. “Why don’t you fill him in on the rest,  since you know so much about me?”

You stayed quiet as you stared at him, unsure of what to say.

“Go on, Y/N. Tell him how I used to run this damn school. Tell him how everyone used to call me King Steve. And what about the story of how the great King fell? Or do you not know that one? I don’t think anyone knows what actually happened. Do you want me to tell you?”

Your eyes were watering, tears threatening to spill over. You looked to Billy for help, but the sadistic asshole seemed to be enjoying this.

Steve suddenly became aware of the crowd that had gathered. He looked between the two of you and scoffed. “Whatever, screw this.” He pushed past you both and marched down hall, disappearing in the sea of people.

Billy burst into laughter. “That guy used to run this school? Seriously?”

You ignored him and practically ran to the bathroom, shutting yourself in a stall and finally let the tears fall freely down your face. About halfway through first period, you finally emerged from the stall. You splashed some cold water onto your face and took a few deep breaths before deciding to finally head to class.

You quietly snuck into the back of the room, and kept your head down for the next few classes. It worked for the most part, until Robin found you when you left your last class before lunch.

“Y/N! I heard what happened, are you okay?”

You shrugged and starting walking mindlessly down the hall.

Robin followed you closely. “Steve never even came to class today,” she told you.

“Thanks. That makes me feel much better.”

“Sorry,” she said, rubbing the back of her neck. “Hey, I have an idea; let’s go get milkshakes.”

“Right now?” you asked.

“Yes, right now! Screw the cafeteria food. You need some good shit.” 

“...Okay.”

“Great! I’ll drive,” Robin said as the two of you walked towards the exit.

“I wouldn’t let you drive my car even if you had your driver’s license.”

“Oh well, it was worth a shot.”

Fifteen minutes later you were both sitting in a booth, sipping on milkshakes. The sugar rush was already making you feel better.

“So, let me get this straight.” Robin said, swirling her straw in her glass. “This new guy is here for all of two minutes, and you’ve already got him and Steve Harrington fighting over you in the hallway?”

You stared down at your drink. “They weren’t fighting over me; it was more like they were fighting through me. And then I basically called Steve an idiot in front of Billy, and it all spiraled from there.” You sighed. “I should go apologize.”

“For what? Steve yelled at you in front of all those people because you said something that everyone already knew. He owes you an apology.”

You rested your head in your hand. “If he had just continued to ignore me, then this wouldn’t have even happened.”

Robin tilted her glass back as she finished the rest of her milkshake. “Is that what you want? For him to keep ignoring you?”

“Well, no. But I don’t want this either.”

“What do you want?”

You ran your fingers through your hair. “I don’t know, Robin. To forget about this day I guess.”

A grin appeared on her face. “I think I know how to make that happen.”

You tilted your head. “How?”

Robin dug through her bag and pulled out an orange flyer, slamming it down on the table.

“Come and get sheet faced,” you read from the paper.

“Tina’s throwing a Halloween party tomorrow night. We should go! You can forget all about your troubles.”

“I don’t know; it’s a weeknight.”

“Are you serious?” Robin asked.  “I will drag you to this party if I have to.”

You groaned. “But I don’t even have a costume, and it’ll take me forever to decide who to go as.”

Robin stared at you. “Y/N. What movie did we sneak into at least a dozen times last year?”

“Return of the Jedi,” you answered. 

“Right,” she said. “And I’ve already got my Leia costume; it’s the outfit she wears on Endor, the one with the green poncho. Why don’t you go as Han? You’ve basically got the whole outfit already: black vest, boots, and a white, long sleeve shirt. It’s perfect!”

You hummed. “I guess I could put something together by tomorrow night. 

“Great!” Robin tossed a few dollar bills onto the table and stood. “Now, let’s head back. I’ve got a math test next period.”

***

The next day was a little better. You got through all of your classes, and no one even brought up the incident with Steve; they were all too busy talking about Tina’s Halloween party. It seemed like everyone was going to be there, including Steve and Nancy.

After your last class ended, Robin went home with you, bringing everything she needed for her costume later that night. The two of you watched whatever Halloween movies were playing on the TV for a few hours, and then you both changed into your costumes and left for the party. 

Part 3

[swearronchanel]

9.05

 🎶Do re mi fa so time for me to talk my nonsense..🎶

THE HILLS ARE ALIVE TONIGHT AND SO AM I I!! even tho it’s actually 3pm here LMAO *SINGS* LETSSS START FROM THE VERY BEGININNGGGGG

I’m so ready for the sound of music content LESS GOO

wow just kidding it’s starting off so sad😭

“there are moments when life seems to pause” felt that

I’m glad to see Sister MJ is there with Sister J tho 😭

“They gave all they had, all that they were.”

Tim!! He’s so grown omg

really Patrick? eat a damn pancake

“I love Julie Andrews” WHO DOESNT?? QUEEN!

LMAO Phyllis 😂 but even Phyllis stans!

OMG Sister Mj skipping, so pure I love her 😂

Violet should just rig the raffle we know Sister Mj deserves to go ! She wants it so badly

LMAOO “I’ll pin an I.O.U”

SISTER MONICA JOAN ILL TAKE YOU TO THE MOVIES DAMN IT!

We better hear what Sister Frances has to say about the movie

“I demand that you acknowledge it” me to the ctm writers about the sound of music for the last 4 years 😂😂 tbh me to the writers about EVERYTHING

“Frivolous and inappropriate” ugh Sister J pull the stick out your ass you know God purposely blessed the world with Dame Julie Andrews, also how can you hurt Sister MJ like that?

Aww no words from Cyril

“Have I told you lately that I love you?” STOP I WILL CRY

Judy Parfait is literally a gem, I want to hug her

Oof Cheryl that hurt

“You’re taking them to see an escalator?” LMFAO MS HIGGINS IS A SUBTLE SAVAGE

oh no what’s wrong with mrs calthorpe

Sister Hilda giving a class to fathers? Love to see it😂 give her more screen time though

LOOK AT YOUNG JULIE ON THE COVER😭😍 bow down to the TRUE queen of england

A DR SPOCK BOOK! WHERE’S SHELAGH ? 😂 also remember the Rugrats version? Dr Lipshitz LMAO

“The jungle drum’s been banging” 😂😂 word travels fast on the mean streets of poplar

Why is she bleeding??

This guy is so nervous 😂 it’s cute though

Sister Hilda can’t stand crying in public? She obviously didn’t go to university bc my bitch ass can cry ANYWHERE now LMAO 😅🔫

Val’s dress? Cute

A NONNATUS HOUSE TRIP PLS

Trixie looks great as always! Also can’t believe they mentioned her God mother in Portofino! You know how people disappear from their lives *cough cough Trixie’s brother for example*

Aye the Den is my favorite bar too 😂😂

Phyllis is annoyed but still giving him a chance, what a brick

Sister Frances is such a recycled Sister Winnifred and it’s a shame, make her more unique

Val knows how tough ladies had to be/still are

Aww the dad is crying, how sweet🥺

Tickety boo and marvelous! WHERE in the world is MRS CHUMMY NOAKES?! I Miss her rip, Miranda Hart is funny af

ugh this so so heartbreaking😭

“Nurse Turner” 🥺 that was cute

SISTER MJ WANTS THIS SO BAD LMAO GIVE IT TO HER VIOLET!!

Now Sister Frances will take over and they’ll warm up to her, like one of the earlier Jenny storylines I remember from season 1 right?

Is it the strawberry or angel mark? whatever people call it

omg grace’s mom, I’m legit gonna cry this one hurts

poor grace is going to wear herself thin, sister Frances help out

get out omg she better not stick her head in the oven

“How you’re invisible...” 😭 damn that hurt

backstory unlocked for sister Hilda ✅  give us more now

“Doris day as another, que sera, sera” LOVE TO HEAR THAT FROM PHYLLIS UGH give me lessons only through pop culture lol

SISTER J and SISTER B PARALLELS

HOLY SHIT SHE TOOK OFF THE HABIT AND WHIMPLE I DIDNT EXPECT THIS?!

SISTER MJ NOTICED HER

SISTER JULIENNE WENT TO SEE THE MOVIE I CAN NOT RIGHT NOW THIS IS AMAZING

“Have you lost May and Angela?” I LOVE MS HIGGINS LMAO

Tim is only back just to play babysitter again LMAO

But Shelagh and Patrick are going to see their counter parts soon MARIA AND GEORG WE LOVE

SHelagh just tell him COME HOME!

Oh no Grace!! 😭

The Turners having a TV dinner who would’ve thought LMAO lean cuisine baby

Angela speaks AGAIN wheww that’s still shocking. The girls are so adorable though

Trixie’s right don’t dismiss some vanity! But shes so much more that though UGH

Sister MJ found a new owl😭

Sister Hilda is for sure underrated

Even though Trixie is my fav and was hardly in this episode: dare I say this has been the best ep this season??  

“What makes night within us may leave stars” wow

OF COURSE THE FILM RESONATED WITH YOU GUYS !!! DUHHH

“Your voice touched my soul” GET TF OUT THE TURNERS ARE NEVER ROMANTIC THIS IS SWEET AS FUCK

NO BUT SERIOUSLY THEY ARE SEXLESS?!

“We’ll always have Columbia road” STOP OMG

that literally made me love the Turners again, TBH I was over them for the last few seasons but as of right now I’m back on the damn bandwagon beep beep bitches

SISTER J IS GONNA USE THAT MONEY AND TAKE THE WHOLE HOUSE TO SEE THE SOUND OF MUSIC

“Closest thing to edelweiss” Patrick should’ve broke out into song but no offense he was right he isn’t Christopher Plummer 😂😛

THIS IS THE PUREST THING

ALSO THE GIRLS LOOK GREAT

“The world shifts around us and we shape ourselves to fit. Imperfect and beautiful...” 💖

[alwaysaslutforbakugang]

feb. 15th

Summary: Bakugou Katsuki is forever alone and blames Deku

Pairing: Bakugou x Reader

Song: https://youtu.be/vyAH9fHb5FY

Warnings: Angst/Heavy Feels. And a bit of descriptive violence, so be cautious.

First ever story posted. Please let me know if you want more. 

The butterflies in my stomach have died Now there's lowly caterpillars that are waiting for the night to strike And they've been dying to escape The pit of my stomach's a real dark fuckin' place

He was doing it again.

Staring directly at the back of your head. The class had slowly trudged into the last twenty minutes and the studious etiquette had already been dropped. Students bunched together in small groups to chat, sitting on top of desks, loudly talking, or discussing plans. He noticed how that Deku and his friends seemed to congregate to you, circling your desk as you smiled along to whatever Round Face was spewing. He watched as you pulled your bottom lip in between your teeth to suppress your wide smile.

He frowned deeper. Just who the fuck did you think you were? Having that big and nice of a smile just to try and hide it? He never understood and had deemed the action to be asinine and vexing.

Bakugou watched as you chatted away, your hands occasionally being thrown around for emphasizes as you all spoke over each other. Whatever had been said must’ve been fucking hilarious because the next thing Bakugou knew, your laugh had erupted and his heart stalled and sputtered.

Your laugh. Its warmth and liveliness seemed to stir his insides, making his stomach flutter and knot. He could feel the heat begin to crawl up his neck and nip at his ears. He swallowed thickly, discovering just how dry his throat was. Deciding that he was tired of feeling like some damn lovesick dog he turns back to his own desk, his own group of friends surrounding him. However, he hadn’t expected to look and find eyes staring at him so intently.

“What the fuck are you fuckers lookin’ at?” Scowl present and brows furrowed, he hoped to scare them back to their own devices. Instead, the complete opposite is what happened.

Smiles. Big, cocky, sardonic smiles.

“Well Bakugou, I gotta say. You’ve been real interested in (Y/N). What do you guys think?” Kaminari taunted, smirking in Bakugou’s direction while nudging Sero to egg on the explosive boy. And he did just that. Leaning forward, Sero’s smile never faltered, in fact, it only seemed to have gotten more wide and smug.

“Yea, I think so too,” Sero tossed his head in your direction. “You’ve been staring for, like, an hour dude. Just admit it.” Bakugou could feel the embarrassment balloon in his chest and he had fought back the blush that so desperately wanted to rise. He hadn’t noticed his friends watching him, shit, now they were gonna make jokes.

Bakugou swallows his nerves and extinguished the heat that seemed to claw up his belly and his chest. He sneered at his friends, splitting his glare among the four of them. “Fuck you, Shithead. I don’t have shit to admit,” Bakugou stands, making sure to scratch his seat loudly against the floor for punctuation, catching a certain pair of (E/C) eyes in the process. He tosses his bag over his shoulder with ease just as the bell rang and his peers began to file out. “Now leave me the hell alone.”

My new friends are starting to know Why my old ones don't talk to me anymore My ex knows why my last one's my last one Hey, guess why It's 'cause my fuckin' actions

Bakugou chest heaved and fell with heavy breaths, fingers curling in on themselves till his knuckles turned white. Sweat spilled off of him but his glare never faltered. His veins ran hot and he could taste the blood that swished in his mouth, he licks his teeth clean and spits out the bloody glob in the green haired boy’s direction.

Their training had fallen into a lull, both boys using this time to reevaluate their next moves while resting their battered bodies. Despite the seriousness of the situation, Bakugou had noticed Deku’s eyes briefly dart to the stands. Class 1-A watched with either pure awe or unmasked worrisome, but Bakugou had followed Midoriya’s eyes and didn’t like what he saw. You both had shared a look, one he couldn’t quite chart, but he could make out the small sparkle of assurance.

Your eyes told him your support. They told him that you believed in him, and as Bakugou whipped his head back to Deku, he could see the small smile crawl up his face. His eyes seemed to only sparkle to you in a reply.

That pissed him off.

His whole body shook with anger and his breathing labored. Without so much as a second thought, Bakugou dug his shoes into the ground and threw his hands behind him, shooting off with a deafening explosion. Midoriya had no time to react as Bakugou slammed into him, successfully knocking the wind out of his chest. The smoke began to clear and Bakugou had stood over Midoriya, his knee digging into his chest, scowl present and deep. Bakugou watched as Deku try to push his knee off of him, boring his nails into the fabric of his uniform. But to no avail, Bakugou ground deeper into him till he heard him cough and wheeze, his breathing coming out in strangled gasps.

This is what you wanted? A weak piece of shit? Bakugou grabbed Midoriya’s neck with his left hand and cocked back his right far before slamming his fist hard into Midoriya’s cheek. The boy’s head snapped to the left sharply on impact. He glowered.

Pathetic. Punch

Useless! Punch

Fucking worthless! CRUNCH

Bakugou went for another punch but found his arm fighting against him. It wasn’t until his arm was wrapped up from palm to elbow had he noticed Aizawa had intervened, his eyes harsh and red. Bakugou was yanked away from the bleeding boy just as Recovery Girl quickly shuffled her way onto the scene. The blonde’s breathing was ragged and his fist hurt but his eyes went searching towards the stands until they landed on you, and his breathing only seemed to have gotten harder.

Your eyes. They looked so wide and afraid. Your entire face resembled that of a person in a horror movie, you had just seen something so horrifying that you were frozen with fear. You both lock eyes for a moment, and for the first time, Bakugou wishes to disappear, to not have your attention. But there he sat, fist covered in his ex-friend’s blood and staring you down.

I'm gonna be alone forever I'm gonna be alone forever But I'm getting used to the thought Except late at night, so maybe I'm not I'm gonna be alone forever I'm gonna be alone forever But I'm getting used to the thought Except-

It had been about a month since his little incident with Deku and Bakugou had noticed just how chummy you two were. It had been at lunch today when Bakugou had found out through his chatty friends that you and Deku had started dating. When his friends continued to talk about the two of you being a cute couple, he got up and left. You had been avoiding him like the plague, you no longer ate at his table, or sat next to him in English, or even walk past him in the hall. But today, today your guard was down and he had seen you at the water fountain, he froze.

You were still as beautiful as ever, your hand held back your (H/C) locks while your lips kissed at the water. For a second he is envious of the fountain. His eyes lingered on your lips longer than they should and his prolonged staring had caught the corner of your eye, you stood straight and faced him, glare present. He fought the embarrassing blush that warmed his ears and steeled his nerves. He looked past you and kept walking, but not before forcibly bumping his shoulder into yours. He kissed at his teeth and spoke with fake malice.

“Get the fuck outta my way, you extra.”

That night sleep eluded him and the darkness brought no kind of comfort. He tossed and turned, tucked and untucked his blanket but nothing could fix this. Sighing and accepting defeat, Bakugou laid flat on his back and stared up at the ceiling. You crept into his blank thoughts and he could only think about the interaction you shared today. He called you an extra and you hated him. He bumped into you and you hated him. He loved you and you hated him.

He didn’t know when the tears started, but they were hot and they stung. He hiccuped and sobbed into downy pillows to muffle the cry. He loved you. . .

And you hated him.

She went to Columbia and I went to jail I just wanted another apple when she really wanted Yale And that is the problem where all of this lies I'm emotionally unstable—crazy fuckin' guy! Who's-

Six years had past and Bakugou had found the hero lifestyle to be rather lonely. Many of his friends had settled into relationships and seemed to be happy with their lives, and he was happy for them, don’t get him wrong. But he wanted that happiness, he wanted that love, he wanted you. Recently, he had heard that you and Deku were engaged and emigrating to North America and as much as he wanted to deny this, the proof stared back at him. In his hands was the invitation to your wedding. The crisp letter written in curly words only seemed to mock him while he read.

‘You are cordially invited to the marriage ceremony of Midoriya Izuku and (L/N) (F/N). Come join us in uniting these two souls into one.’ Bakugou scoffed and crumpled the paper under his large hands. He wasn’t going to torture himself by showing up to your wedding and seeing you marry his rival. In all honesty, Bakugou he had no clue why he even got an invitation in the first place. It was probably that Deku’s idea, probably trying to show off the woman of his dreams and rub it in his face.

Bakugou's actions had came to a complete stop. As that thought festered over in his mind, it all seemed to become more clear to him. His fists clenched at his sides and his jaw tensed shut. That was it, this was just a way for Deku to brag, to show him that he’s won. His blood boiled in his veins and his vision began to blur. He was just going to invite him over to watch as the woman that he loved be taken away from him, just so that Deku could show him just how much better he was than him!

The sound of ceramic glass shattering had pulled him momentarily out of his blind rage, he hadn’t even noticed grabbing the vase from its place on the table. His breathing - that had sounded heavy and angry all at once - was the only sound that resonated through his empty home. Soon after, his heavy breathing was followed by the sounds of shattering glass and splintering wood. He broke whatever he could get his hands on and whatever didn’t move, he blew up. His throat was raw from the screaming and his eyes burned from the tears as he continued his tantrum, demolishing everything.

I'm gonna be alone forever I'm gonna be alone forever But I'm getting used to the thought And in a couple years, I fuckin' hope that this stops

Bakugou sat in the remains of what was once his sleek and modern living room, surrounded by bits of broken coffee table and fragments of large portraits. Pieces of glass stuck out in awkward angles in his hands and the blood trickled slowly down his fingers, but he didn't care. Finally, he lets the tears flow freely and the choked out cries fall from his mouth with no resistance. He was broken, a broken man who was in love with someone he couldn’t have. He wanted so badly to let these feelings go, to forget you and all the heartache that came with you, but he was scared. All that he knew was you, how was he suppose to learn to love someone else when you were all he wanted to know?

                                                                                                                                 I really hope that you guys like it. You can read it on my AO3!

https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendlyNeighborhoodTacoCat

Also, don’t be afraid to send in requests for headcanons/Imagines! It’ll give me something to do. 

[tgwltw]

I don’t like your boyfriend.

request: Could you do a fic where Peter has the biggest crush on you but you have a boyfriend? And somehow they get together in the end? Thank you!!

I think I might have gotten a tad bit too carried away when I wrote this. Thank you for sending in this prompt and sorry it took me a while to get this posted. There are probably a lot of mistakes here and there but regardless, I hope you will still enjoy reading this! 2.2k words of hopefully something good lol

p/s: AU (you’ll see it when you see it).

“What can go wrong, Peter? You should go for it, Peter.” Peter grumbles under his breath as he stuffs his books in to his locker as he continues to grumble under his breath. “This will be the last time I ever listen to your genius idea, Ned.”

“You called me?”

Peter slams his locker door shut in surprise, turning to face his best friend. “You scared me!” He hisses and Ned shrugs his shoulders.

“Thought you heard me coming up.” Ned points out as he opens his own locker, putting away the books that he doesn’t need to bring home. Peter furrows his eyebrows and leans against his locker. As much as he really wants to just leave Ned be, Peter knows Ned will follow him to the end of the world.

Peter waits for Ned and once Ned is done putting his books away, he closes his locker and looks at Peter expectantly. “So? How did it go? Did you tell Y/N?” Ned inquires, leaning close to Peter.

Peter steps back slightly, the frown on his face deepening as he remembers what had happened earlier. “You told me Y/N is interested in me!” Peter whispers when he spies a few students chattering about and Ned nods his head: most of the time he is never wrong in his calculated assumptions.

“Y/N should be! I mean, Y/N is always, you know, blushing whenever you’re around and all that.” Ned tells Peter weakly but winces when he realizes that he doesn’t sound convincing enough and judging by the look Peter shot at him, Ned knows he must have done Peter wrong. “No?”

Peter huffs, shaking his head, pulling the straps of his bag tightly. “No.” He had gone out of his way to look for you during lunch with the hopes that he can confess his feelings to you. Peter has had this crush on you for the longest time and he never thought it would be possible for him to have a crush on someone else after the whole debacle with Liz Allen but that was before you came into his life. “Saw Y/N with that lanky blonde guy and they were looking extremely chummy.”

Ned furrows his eyebrows. “Lanky blonde guy?” Ned ponders for a bit before snapping his fingers. “Oh, him. Huh, that’s… well…”

Peter groans, running a hand through his hair, ruffling it. “Yeah. Ned, can we just stop talking about this? I don’t want to talk about it. Forget about my feelings for Y/N.” He grumbles and Ned opens his mouth to refute but when Peter sends him another look, Ned quietly shuts his mouth.

“So… how about some legos? I got these new one last night and...”

Of course, just as Peter thinks he should try to forget his ever-growing feelings for you, lady luck decides to pair the two of you up for some project. If it had been a few days ago, Peter probably would have been extremely excited at the prospect of working on something with you but now that he has to be with you for the next couple of days to complete the project, he feels all sorts of emotions: unreadiness, nervousness, pain and even longing.

Peter approaches you and lightly taps on your table, causing you to look up from the notes you were currently doing. He gives you an awry smile, one that you return with a warm, charming smile. “Hi, Peter!”

Peter blinks a couple of times. He was slightly taken aback by how you knew his name - most just refered to him as whatever nickname Flash came up with but hearing his actual name coming from your mouth made him smile genuinely. “Hi, Y/N - um, you weren’t here earlier? So Ms. Ho paired the two of us together for a project? I - I wanted to let you know I can make time for this project on top of my internship?” Peter is thankful he didn’t stumble over his words too much and he looks at everything but you, missing the big smile on your face.

“Oh! That’s really great. I had something important to do earlier unfortunately but that’s cool!” You brush your hair over your ear, still smiling at Peter. You always like seeing Peter smile; there was just something about his smile that makes you feel assured and calm. “So, do you know what the project is about and when we are to submit this?”

Peter nods his head, pulling the chair in front of you and sits down. “So, um, Ms. Ho gave us free reign over the topic so long as it shows the language and gender differences in media and by the end of next week so that’s more or less than two weeks.” Peter murmurs and you nod your head.

“Do you mind if we come up with a topic quickly? Or do you already have something in mind?” You ask him, slightly taken aback by how handsome Peter is upfront. You have always thought Peter to be good-looking but now that he is actually sitting right in front of you, you can see just how devilishly good-looking he is. “I mean, I am open to any though. Language and gender in media isn’t exactly my forte but I can definitely do my part so that we can ace this.” You add quickly.

Peter shakes his head. “Nothing that stands out so far; how about we brainstorm a few ideas and then we can eliminate it from there?” He takes out his notebook, flushing slightly when you compliment the doodles he had drawn on the cover. “Thanks,” He murmurs shyly.

You smile at him, nodding your head. “Okay, let’s get to it!”

After that fateful day, Peter’s resolve in trying to move on went out the window especially when he found out that his reasons of liking has gone from superficial ones to genuine ones: Peter especially likes it whenever you laugh at his terrible science jokes and puns and the way you would always look at him with that beautiful smile on your face.

Things were going pretty well: the project is coming along fine and Peter likes to think that the relationship the two of you shared is different too. You have been texting with him frequently and sometimes, at nights, the two of you would end up Skyping but you were always the one to fall asleep (mostly because Peter is often home very late due to keeping the neighbour safe and clear of any villains) and Peter wouldn’t openly admit but those nights when you fall asleep first, that’s one of the moments he absolutely cherishes.

Unfortunately, all good things come to an end especially when he sees you with the lanky blonde guy once more but this time around, the two of you are hugging so tightly and the only thing that went through his mind at that time is how he had fooled himself entirely. It was bad enough that he had gotten carried away with his feelings for you especially when you already have someone. He shakes his head, putting the rose he had gotten for you in his bag. He had actually gathered enough courage to confess to you today but once is a happenstance, twice is a coincidence and three times is enemy action.

The frown on your face deepens when Peter turns away quickly, walking away the moment you headed into his direction and you cannot help but feel slightly down in the dumps. You approach Ned, tapping him on his shoulder. He jumps slightly, startled by you and turns around. His jaw drops the slightest bit and he waves his hand at you awkwardly.

“H- Hi, Y/N!” Ned smoothes his hand over his shirt. “What - what brings you here?” He tries to lean against the locker but since he miscalculated the distance, he almost fell sideways before Ned righted himself and cleared his throat.

You bite your lower lip, wondering if this is really the right thing to do before you gathered your courage. “Why is Peter avoiding me, Ned?” You ask him frankly. Ned blanches, wincing a bit and you can see the gears turning in his head as he tries to come up with an excuse. “I thought we were doing well, Ned. I really like Peter and I thought we were hitting it off so good and suddenly he just - “

Ned stops you from talking by placing his hand on your mouth, muffling the rest of your words and he stares at you, eyes wide in surprise. “You like Peter?” He asks incredulously and when you tried to answer, Ned’s hand is still over your mouth so you tap his hand and he drops it like hot potato, mumbling his apology.

“Yes, I do.” You answer him truthfully. You aren’t really sure what this has got to do with anything. “Does Peter not like me and finds my feelings burdensome?” Your cousin often tells you how much of a mother hen you are - although, you know deep down inside, he likes it whenever you pamper him, the brat.

Ned shakes his head furiously. “No, Y/N!” He stops himself and then continues talking. “Peter thinks you already have a boyfriend so? Do you already have one?”

You frown and shake your head. “I mean, last time I checked, I am still single. I think I would know if I got myself a boyfriend, Ned.” You tell him flatly. He sighs in relief and grabs you by the shoulders, surprising you when he leans in close.

“Then who’s this lanky blonde guy that Peter thinks is your boyfriend and why is he always with you and hugging you?” Ned asks seriously, trying his hardest to stare you down and you could not help the laughter that bursts from your mouth.

“Stevie?” You pull away from Ned’s grip and shake your head, feeling incredulous over his words. “Steve’s my cousin; the brat gets sick a lot and this semester’s his first time back in school and I love my cousin like my little brother, Ned but he is definitely not my boyfriend.” You tell him and he sighs in relief once more.

“Your words are wasted on me, Y/N. You ought to tell Peter because I think he misunderstood everything.” Ned points out before telling you where Peter had most likely ran off to and you give Ned a quick hug, thanking him and rushed to where Peter is supposedly at.

Peter sighs as he kicks a pebble. Maybe this is his luck? Always liking the right girls at the wrong time? He glances at his phone - it’s still too early for him to go around the neighborhood as Spiderman - and Peter is about to get off the bench when a pair of arms wrapped themselves around him from behind, causing Peter to let out a small yelp in surprise.

He turns to his right, the tips of his ears turning red when he realizes it is you. You have an unreadable look on your face as you stared at him. “Y- Y/N, what, what are you doing?” He asks, flustered by how close you are - he can literally feel you pressed against him and he flushes as he tries to slowly pull himself out of your hold but you tightened the hold you have around him, pressing yourself on his back.

“I like you a lot, Peter.” Your words caused Peter to freeze and it takes a few seconds for the words to fully sink in. “Will you give me a chance to explain myself?” You ask him and Peter nods his head dumbly, frowning when you drop your arms from him and move around to sit beside him. You turn to face Peter, grabbing his hand. “Stevie is my cousin - he’s the lanky blonde guy you always see around me. Steve’s an only child and for as long as I can remember, he has always been sickly and he’s like a little brother to me.” You explain, studying Peter’s face and a smile appears on your face when it finally dawns on Peter that he had misunderstood the situation and jumped to conclusion.

Peter groans, covering his face with his free hand, embarrassed at himself. He peeks at you through his fingers and drops his hand from his face. “Sorry about that, Y/N.” He mumbles but since the two of you are sitting close, you heard him loud and clear. “I just… I’m… Can we start over?”

You nod your head, smiling at him. “Of course!”

Peter sighs, smiling at your words. He swallows the lump in his throat. “Hi, my name is Peter Parker and I can be silly at times and I am sorry for jumping into conclusions. I, uh, I really like you, Y/N and I was wondering if you, if you would like, to go on a date - with me, that is. Yeah, with me.” Peter rubs the back of his neck sheepishly and you could feel your cheeks hurting from how big your smile is.

“Hi, Peter Parker. I like that you are silly at times and I really like you too.” You confess and Peter stares at you with adoration. “I would love to go on a date with you, Peter.” You flush slightly and Peter grins at you, pulling you in for a hug. You giggle as you wrap your arms around his torso. “You’re so silly, Peter but I think that’s one of the things I like the most about you.”

[bryancroidragon]

Dance at Club Lavender

Alright, it is here. It doesn’t fit with the canon but I was writing this before tonight’s stream so I have a justification. The characters featured in this that are of my creation can be used in Artventure, Leon was created by @missvulpix212 and his name has become canon as of tonight’s stream as everyone who has been present for that knows. I’m not going to lie, this story sucks. I keep forgetting that Maggie is the police chief. Is she? I can’t remember if she is or not. Thank you to the people at @internetremix for giving me something else to write while I write stories that are not Noir inspired. Also on one minor note here, I’m definitely going to need to figure out a way to reconcile this with what is now canon. That seems difficult to me. Also another minor note, the posthumous character of Charles was not actually insane, that is just Edwin’s opinion of him.

District Attorney Richard Capp sat opposite of both Detective Sam McSams and Officer Maggie O’Hera in his office. A man of sixty-five years with a white mustache, Capp wore round eyeglasses, kept his hair slicked back and had a cigarette holder with him at all times. He did not look happy with either of them.

“Neither of you had a warrant for Mr. Carthach’s arrest.” Said Capp, his voice a deep baritone.

“He shot me in the shoulder!” protested Sam.

“You and Officer O’Hera attacked a guest of his, one Lawrence McGee, I am told. It seems that you are both in the wrong… As a candidate for mayor I cannot allow arrests to be made without a warrant, thus have I let him go.”

“McGee was a murderer!” exclaimed Maggie. She could not believe what she was hearing. “Edwin Carthach was harboring him in his house!”

Capp shook his head. He took his cigarettes holder from his mouth and tapped the cigarette’s ash into the ashtray on his desk. “And so you killed Mr. Carthach’s guest? Officer O’Hera, no matter how many murderers you send to Beelzebub it will never bring your partner back… Perhaps if you were fully competent he’d still be alive.”

Maggie clenched her fists and glared at Capp. Her reaction only caused Capp to smile.

Standing outside the office, Edwin Carthach listened and shook his head. Capp was such an asshole. The man might have gotten him out of jail but that didn’t mean Edwin had to like the old bastard.  

Edwin had served in the war and an old war buddy of his was now a criminal. Edwin was an associate of that criminal and that criminal had killed Maggie’s partner. How often had he heard that story? Ten times probably. Edwin didn’t really like hearing it but the criminal had saved his life during the war. On the other hand the man was on the opposite side of the law and being an associate of a gangster was not a good thing. How long until he became targeted by a rival? Would they target his wife?

Upon Maggie’s exit from Capp’s office, Edwin quickly whispered in her ear “You’ll find him at Club Lavender.” And with that Edwin made his own exit, heading for the door only for Maggie to run after him.

“Wait a minute, who are you talking about?”

“The gangster who killed your partner. I wish I could give you a bit more information but he’s got a lethal temper and his right-hand man, to quote others, is meaner than diarrhea.”

Instantly Maggie knew whom Edwin meant. The right-hand man was non-other than Charles “Beret” Cliff, formerly a freelance hit man who had been involved in a massacre a few cities over. So he was working for someone was he? That gave Maggie some idea of who to look for.

Maggie made her way to Club Lavender immediately. It was the only place in Internet City that was the color lavender, hence the name. Even the neon was lavender colored. The founder of the club had been a gangster known as Hackman and he had founded it back during the days of the war. Hackman had been missing for weeks, some said he had left town others said he had been murdered. Maggie didn’t know who now owned the place and upon arrival she made an inquiry to someone who worked there.

Club Lavender did not open until after sunset, that was how it had always been. At this time it was just practice for the dancing girls, dance sing, the piano player would play his piano, if the owner would be in this early was anyone’s guess. It was the piano player that Maggie asked. He was a tall, thin black man by name of Henderson. His answer was: “Vincenzo Nitto.” 

Vincenzo Nitto? That was the gangster that was known as “the Cleaver.” Vincenzo “the Cleaver” Nitto owned the Club Lavender? From one gangster to another… Maggie was finding the belief that Hackman had been murdered very likely. Had the Cleaver been the one to kill her partner? Hackman was unlikely, as Edwin had said she’d find her partner’s killer at the Club Lavender and with Hackman having been missing for weeks he was out of the question.

But what if it was not the Cleaver? All Edwin had said was that Maggie would find her partner’s killer at the Club Lavender. Suppose it was someone who frequented the place. If the killer’s right hand was “Beret” Cliff then what if it was an allied gang leader to the Cleaver and not the Cleaver himself?

How was Maggie supposed to know? She would have to come back later when the Club Lavender was full of people.

Returning to her work, one thing kept going through her mind that day: the night her partner died. The two had decided to take in a movie: “Oliver Twist.” When it was all over, the two went their separate ways but it had not been long until after Maggie’s partner had turned a corner that she heard four gunshots. Maggie ran to the around the corner and found her partner with three bullet wounds in his chest and one in his neck, he was lying beneath a street lamp and his blue cap was lying not far from his head. The killer was gone but her partner… He had not been gone in the metaphorical sense, he still lived but not for long. Maggie fell to her knees and cradled her partner in her arms. He opened his mouth to speak and then life left his body.

Maggie never did find the killer but now with Edwin’s clue maybe she would. “You’ll find him at club Lavender” he had said. He had also stated that the right hand of the guy was “Beret” Cliff so she if she found Beret then she would find the gangster who killed her partner.

Going undercover was what she would have to do and as much as she hated to do it, Maggie would have to wear that dress again.

When night came, Maggie put on that sexy dress in addition to a black wig. She could not risk herself being recognized. After that she drove on down to the Club Lavender.

Entering the club, she listened to the jazz music and the chatter of the patrons. Her eyes darting back and forth, looking for “Beret” Cliff she felt a hand fall upon her shoulder and then heard a familiar voice whisper into her ear: “Wearing the sexy dress again I see. Love the wig, toots.”

It was Sam.

 Maggie tensed and whispered to him: “What are you doing here?”

“I saw you and Carthach getting chummy. I followed him and asked him what you two had been talking about.”

Maggie turned to look at Sam. He was wearing glasses. “Those aren’t Edwin Carthach’s glasses are they?”

“No, no, of course not!”

They were. Maggie knew that Sam had taken Edwin’s glasses, taken them right off his face. His glasses had a particular design to them in that the lenses were shaped like the Double Crown of Egypt. It was an unfortunate part of a will that dictated the owner of the estate had to wear the glasses that Edwin’s grandfather Charles Carthach had thought up. Edwin had been perfectly happy with his round glasses but was thankful that he, his father and grandfather were all nearsighted. Charles Carthach had been a very strange man, right down to his will stating being that he be buried upside down beneath the police station in a baseball bat shaped coffin. His son Irving’s will dictated that he should be cremated and his ashes placed in the base of a statue in the family manor. The night Irving died, Maggie had been there to investigate possible foul play and one of the first questions she had asked Edwin was: “Your dad’s will doesn’t say he has to be buried beneath the station in a bat shaped coffin does it?”

To say that no one noticed someone who was not Edwin Carthach wearing the Carthach family glasses would be untrue. For some, Edwin Carthach was just a name. To one person in the club however, it was the name of an old war buddy but there was someone at Club Lavender who only knew Edwin Carthach as a name but knew the face of Sam McSams.

The band started up a slow song and a singer started singing. There was something terribly familiar about her voice but Maggie and Sam did not have the time to see who it was, to blend in they joined the dancing couples.

Maggie and her partner had once danced together like that. Her heart had been all a flutter when she had danced with him she had been as giddy as a schoolgirl. In fact, she had been a schoolgirl. Those were the days before she had become a cop. Those had been happier days. Those days were long gone and Maggie never knew if she would ever know those days again.

Her eyes searching the crowd, Maggie finally spied “Beret” Cliff sitting with a man that everyone had either heard of or seen: Vincenzo “The Cleaver” Nitto.

Vincenzo “The Cleaver” Nitto was in his mid to late twenties. He was a man of average height with enlarged hands and cheekbones and an enlarged nose. He was wearing a tuxedo like many another male patron of the Club Lavender except he wasn’t just any patron. He was the owner.

 Maggie’s eyes and the Cleaver’s eyes met and immediately their eyes narrowed. The former now knew that the Cleaver had killed her partner and the latter had seen straight through the flimsy disguise of a black wig. The Cleaver’s eyes had always been narrowed having recognized Sam as wearing his old war buddy’s glasses but upon recognizing Maggie his eyes narrowed even more.

Maggie and her partner had been investigating a rising hood. He kept getting higher and higher in the underworld’s hierarchy every month it seemed. A massacre in a garage had been attributed to him, the rubbing out of William Karloff had also been attributed to him and this hood was the person they now knew as the Cleaver, a criminal who had a reputation for carrying out murders himself.

There was one feeling in Maggie’s eyes upon seeing the man who had killed her partner. There was a number of ways of describing it: hate, hatred, loathing, detestation, dislike, distaste, abhorrence, execration, aversion, hostility, enmity, animosity, antipathy, revulsion, disgust, contempt and odium. Whichever word one chose that was the feeling that Maggie felt upon seeing the Cleaver and knowing that he had killed her partner.

The Cleaver pointed at Maggie and Sam while whispering to Beret. The hate in Maggie’s eyes then turned to something else. Call it fear, call it terror, call it fright, call it fearfulness, call it horror, call it alarm, call it panic, call it agitation, call it trepidation, call it dread, call it consternation, call it dismay, call is distress, anxiety, worry, angst, unease, uneasiness, apprehension, nervousness, nerves, perturbation or even foreboding but that was what had replaced the hate in Maggie’s eyes. She and Sam were two and no doubt the Cleaver had many henchmen here in Club Lavender.

“It’s the Cleaver.” Whispered Sam. 

“I know and he recognizes me!” Returned Maggie.

“I can summon the sax gremlins.”

“Times New Roman was one, here we are surrounded. We need to try and avoid a bloodbath for them.”

A tap on Maggie’s shoulder then caused the dancing between her and Sam to end. It was Henderson. “Mr. Nitto would like to see you.” He then looked at Sam and said: “You too.” 

The office of Vincenzo Nitto was, like the rest of the club, lavender colored. On his desk was a picture of him and his infantry during the war. Edwin could be seen, lacking the family glasses but he was unmistakable. His head brought a crescent moon to mind and the only people who had heads that brought crescent moon’s to mind was his family. The Cleaver himself both sat behind his lavender colored desk on a lavender colored chair with his on Maggie. Several henchmen were in the room with him with Beret standing at the Cleaver’s right. Sam and Maggie were both standing before the desk.

“Officer O’Hera…” said the Cleaver in his volcanic tirade, smoked-burnished voice. “I’ve been expecting you for a while. What took you? Had I known you were coming I would have got a party started in your honor…”

“You killed Leon!” exclaimed Maggie pulling a gun and pointing it at Maggie. Immediately, Beret and the henchmen pulled out their own guns and pointed it at Maggie.

The Cleaver could only laugh. “Go ahead, pull the trigger. You shoot me, they shoot you and your little avenging for your dead partner ends up being for nothing.” He then looked at Sam. “Now who the hell are you?”

“He’s Sam McSams!” exclaimed a voice with a Boston accent. Sam and Maggie both turned to see a skeleton in the doorway. It was none other than Times New Roman.

“Oh, him.” The Cleaver lit a cigarette and began to smoke it. “I heard that Edwin shot you in the shoulder. I’d say I wished you had been shot in the heart or the head but even during the war Edwin was never really much of one for killing. He was a bit reluctant to be an officer in the trenches. He always tried to avoid battle and never carried his sidearm unless he had to and never kept it loaded. Guess becoming involved with me has made him better.”

Maggie put her gun away and took a breath before speaking again. “If I can’t kill you I will take you to justice and I will see you hang.”

The Cleaver smiled as he blew some smoke. “Keep telling yourself that, O’Hera. I’ve got some people who would prevent me from ever ending up in such a situation. Do you think you coppers are perfect? Do you think anyone on the side of the law is perfect? Here are the facts, I’ve got police, I’ve got judges, attorneys, I am in more of a position of power than you are right now. So here is some advice, go chase after someone else, you’ll either end up dead or with me free. Now either walk away or die.” He then looked at Sam and said: “And for God’s sake get Edwin’s glasses back to him or I’ll return them to him myself after I’ve had you fitted for a Chicago overcoat.”

Leave Maggie did but silently did she swear. She swore she would see the Cleaver hang one day. She did not care how many times it took. She would see the rope around the Cleaver’s neck and would be there when he either died by a broken neck or by suffocating.

Once more at Carthach Manor, Maggie and Sam with the Sax Gremlin sat opposite of Edwin, looking at his glasses, in his office. Maggie was the first to speak and her words were: “Thank you for telling me who it was even if you didn’t tell me the name.”

“Always knew you’d figure it out.” Edwin got out of his chair and opened the office window. He then hurled the glasses out the window. “Good riddance to my certifiable grandfather’s rubbish, I am changing my family’s name back to what it originally was, I am sending in the order for my grandfather’s body to be reburied here, I am doing so much to wipe his insanity from everything here.” He then turned and said to Sam: “Sorry about the shoulder.”

“Don’t worry about it. Happens all the time.” Sam cracked a smile.

Edwin then looked at the Saxophone Gremlin. “I apologize for kicking you.” The Saxophone Gremlin responded but because Edwin did not understand what she said he was left standing there with a confused look on his face before saying: “And the same to you.”

“Do you know the names of anyone aligned with the law that the Cleaver has on his payroll?” asked Maggie.

“Just one: Richard Capp.”

[ehentha]

Maldives twitter last week #1

Here are some interesting things Maldivians talked about on twitter last week. A long term collection could be very useful for reflection and analysis. 

 1. @reallynattu creates satirical voting app 

Since this has leaked and people got a glimpse of this super duper top secret extremely sensitive totally legit app we've been working on. So releasing #VoteApp for public use. Tweet your features to add to this. iOS: https://t.co/yZYEepIJ3i Android: https://t.co/8W1jtkTwpz pic.twitter.com/EGbczx12rw

— Nattu (@reallynattu) March 7, 2018

An English translation: 

The top text reads "Voteapp". Next to it is a drop down menu that says "Presidential election". 

Below that the title says "Candidates". Below this the same portrait of current president Abdulla Yameen is displayed five times in a row, giving the voter a wide range of candidates to vote for. 

Below this is the presidents full name, "Yameen Abdul Gayoom". The president doesn't use this version in his campaigning or current activities perhaps to distant himself from his brother Maumoon. Next to this the text reads "The driving force behind the progress that the Maldives is experiencing". 

After this is a section where the voter decides what kind of reward they want for voting. They are given a choice of money (from well wishers), employment (a coordinator position), or a flat from Hulhumale'. In the mockup the voter has chosen money, and the options for collecting it (deposit, cheque, or a letter delivered to your residence) are below. As the voter has selected the first option, a field to enter their account number and reward amount sits next to the Bank of Maldives and Maldives Islamic Bank logos. 

At the very bottom the text reads "press to vote", with the subtext "I swear to god that I won't change my vote". The word used for "my" is "alhugandu", a relic of the Maldivian caste system, which is the self depreciating word one must use for oneself when talking to someone who demands respect; whether it be your elders, a teacher, or certain dictators. The literal translation of "alhu" is slave. 

 2. @paperclippenny and @legacyofpain attend mandatory marriage classes 

Marriage class: https://twitter.com/legacyofpain/status/971438002890203136

"no anal!!" - Marie #marriageclass

— Executive Hobo 🎈 (@legacyofpain) March 7, 2018

Marie seems to be one of their tutors. 

Marie just called genitals "shameful organs". Wow, I call them fun parts. This is bleak. #marriageclass

— Executive Hobo 🎈 (@legacyofpain) March 7, 2018

A word for genitals in Dhivehi is "ladhuvethi gunavan", literally "shameful organ". 

I'm pretending I'm watching a play. This is a haunting one man show about a man who has given up on life and is clutching on to religion because otherwise his life has no meaning. #marriageclass

— Executive Hobo 🎈 (@legacyofpain) March 7, 2018

Fucking hell! He just called us factories #marriageclass

— penny 🎈❓ (@paperclippenny) March 7, 2018

Oh my God so many diseased ladhuvethi gunavan!!! My eyes!!! My beautiful eyes!!!! #marriageclass

— Executive Hobo 🎈 (@legacyofpain) March 7, 2018

This man's wife tried to leave him... Several times #marriageclass

— penny 🎈❓ (@paperclippenny) March 7, 2018

All financial responsibilities on men. No pressure. Eyrun mimeehun gengulheveynee. #marriageclass Seriously dude 😠

— penny 🎈❓ (@paperclippenny) March 7, 2018

I don't think this guy thinks that women have a brain. To me it sounds like this guy thinks that women are just walking wombs. #marriageclass

— Executive Hobo 🎈 (@legacyofpain) March 7, 2018

Please ladies, stay in your marriage. Your guy invested a lot in this venture - marriage teacher #marriageclass

— penny 🎈❓ (@paperclippenny) March 7, 2018

3. Women of Maldives begin campaign to make male dominated tea houses more gender inclusive with #OccupySaiHotaa

It’s happening!!!! #OccupySaiHotaa https://t.co/tn51rHPT5q

— Hamy (@ashahamy) March 8, 2018

What we are trying to is eliminate gender segregated spaces and normalize eating at Sai Hotaa for women. Ultimate goal is for women to be able to do this without the need for ‘gatu’. #OccupySaiHotaa @KeevveMV

— Aryj (@Arrryj) March 8, 2018

"gatu" is the Maldivian slang version of "having the guts". 

Occupy Sai Hotaa https://t.co/njXP4KMwfs

— Aryj (@Arrryj) March 8, 2018

We are at aibalhey #OccupySaiHotaa Our team will be here until 1400PM. So come and join us! pic.twitter.com/9qaPrdNsjo

— Keevve! (@KeevveMV) March 8, 2018

Occupysaihotaa: Anhenverin hotaa thakah! https://t.co/FkTrgatlRz

— Mihaaru (@Mihaarunews) March 8, 2018

The headline reads: Occupysaihotaa: Women (go) to the tea houses! (sai = tea, hotaa = hotel). 

Hi @Mihaarunews, The article states that I was leading the movement, which is inaccurate. The #Keevve movement and #OccupySaiHotaa are both lead by @NihayaAhmed, @ashahamy and me as explained over the phone. Please amend the article to reflect this.

— Aryj (@Arrryj) March 8, 2018

.#TimeIsNow to break the gender stereotypes. Today, on #womensday our team at UNDP joined #OccupySaiHotaa. #IWD2018 pic.twitter.com/HYO9f2c2SB

— UNDP Maldives (@UNDPMaldives) March 8, 2018

Okay, this wins! I think it was @shaari that suggested Dhivehi Keun at Moon Cafe’. Varah salhi. #OccupySaiHotaa #keevve nudhaanvee! pic.twitter.com/oScpQhaRB7

— Hamy (@ashahamy) March 10, 2018

Bill for 8 people!!!!! #OccupySaiHotaa #Keevve @KeevveMV pic.twitter.com/nQK9hCQvDQ

— Hamy (@ashahamy) March 8, 2018

At Moon Café for dinner. #OccupySaiHotaa pic.twitter.com/LZUlxQQma0

— Aryj (@Arrryj) March 10, 2018

Late Nasira was the bravest among us, she initiated #OccupySaiHotaa A true inspiration. May god bless her 💞✨ pic.twitter.com/lr5tdPaZYM

— Yuha Mauroof (@YuhaMauroof) March 9, 2018

We came for lunch to memorial saihotaa & also ordered a Rukuraa as a drink. A man approached to my friend and said "RAAKOLHEH dheebala." Anheneh saiboan ananee raa boan thoa? #keevenaananvee #OccupySaiHotaa #teammemorial #happyWomensDay2018 #InternationalWomensDay @safaathahmed pic.twitter.com/1sNzwPp7tR

— Anthi (@shafaafahmed) March 8, 2018

Seeing #OccupySaiHotaa photos is so heartwarming. The times are a changing indeed. :’) Shoutout to all the men being supportive as well.

— 🎈Nora Nazeer ✨ (@NoraNazeer) March 8, 2018

Me and @rushdhar today occupying a sai hotaa #OccupySaiHotaa #InternationalWomenDay #KeeveNudhaanvee @KeevveMV pic.twitter.com/XULcBtNihB

— Sajidha Mufeed 🇲🇻 (@SaajiMV) March 8, 2018

Ok update: I can feel the stares, hear tiny squeaks here and there. The service however is really nice. Just the testosterone I feel discriminated by. Anhenunnah Sai Hotalehgai fenun dhathi kamakah vany #Keevve #OccupySaiHotaa #IWD2018

— Nihaya 🎈 (@NihayaAhmed) March 8, 2018

If you use the #OccupySaiHotaa and search here you will notice it’s becoming the norm and people are going to Sai Hotaa’s on a daily basis, I myself went tonight with my sisters tonight itself to participate in it and to show my support. It’s already their 2nd time

— Adam Isham (@adamisham) March 11, 2018

4. Some men aren't too happy about it 

Feminism is beautiful. But why occupy sai hotaa? Why not propose separate sai hotas for women? Men need the privacy to talk the "men talk" at saihota. Likewise, women. Issue-based agendas would facilitate women empowerment instead of trying to create a resemblance of men & women

— I l h a m (@ilhaamnil) March 8, 2018

Noannaanu salaamatheh , vaki varakah dho sai hotaa thah hingaa meehun ah keiy vaanee. Miadhu ekani chummi ziyaaratheh kolli kamahtakaa mas dhuvahuge supply huss vejje eh burun!!

— Manih Rasheed (@m3ndu3) March 8, 2018

English translation: "There is no escape, there is only so much that tea house managers will take. (We've?) run out of a months supply just because of one visit!

#SaiHotaOccupied pic.twitter.com/yyLqmcdo2B

— Manih Rasheed (@m3ndu3) March 8, 2018

#OccupySaiHotaa wahhabees ge lagondi akah ketheh nuvi. Keep breaking these rulez. 💪👧❤@KeevveMV @JCIKaafu @Arrryj @siruarts pic.twitter.com/ukYk543QcL

— Aydh (@janavaar) March 9, 2018

Peeing in a bottle: Man’s greatest achievement? This is the best that Salafi propagandist Siru “Arts” could come up with to mock the #OccupySaiHotaa movement.

The black text on top reads:  "This year the women's groups went to the tea houses next year (they'll go) fishing"

The red bottom text reads: “Next year - trying to pee into a thola bottle far away without utilising any devices”

On the bottom left the silhouette peeing is labeled "men" and the female rage comic face is lablled "women". 

Today I've learned a lot. Thanks all who opposed nicely. This needs to move forward. At the same, time addressing other related issues are important. I've already decided to join the #OccupySaiHotaa movement. #twitterlessons

— I l h a m (@ilhaamnil) March 9, 2018

 5. Maldives celebrates International Women's Day 2018

When I first started out as a design student, some of my first design idols were female Maldivian designers. Fast forward to 3+ years of working and I've met more female designers than male. Here's an attempt at documenting our female designers. Feel free to add on.#IWD2018

— Immi Saleem (@immisalym) March 8, 2018

#IWD2018 pic.twitter.com/wsObiM9kg0

— Benefit (@Benefitmv) March 6, 2018

Celebrating the courageous women who stepped up for justice. Aisha @mysticaish is fighting for justice for her brother @yaamyn. Bravo! #WomenStepUp #PressForProgess #IWD2018 #WeAreYaamyn pic.twitter.com/lwFdBcMJ5B

— Mv Democracy Network (@MDN_mv) March 8, 2018

This brave lady Shameema, has an injured spine from being hit by water at high pressure, by @PoliceMv Pepper sprayed daily, she was brutally kicked by a policeman during a peaceful protest even last week & yet she’s on the roads everyday fighting 4 #Democracy#PressforProgress pic.twitter.com/fFDYVtMPan

— MP Rozaina Adam 🎈 (@Roxeyna) March 8, 2018

For @moyameehaa ‘s mum, a woman who’s been asking where her son is for 1307 days, despite inhumane obstructions from the state. #IWD2018

— Shaff Hameed 🎈❔ (@shoffot) March 8, 2018

I want to talk about polygamy, child brides, criminalization of relations outside wedlock, ban on women marrying non-muslims, restrictions on wives to initiate divorce, & lax child maintenance laws. But idiots might come after my head, shouting "dheenatakaa,gaumatakaa"! So happu

— HawwaLubna 🎈❓ (@HawwaLubna) March 8, 2018

The Police raised our home today. They took with them my mother’s old iPad. They can expect to find a lot of pretty crochet designs. #MaldivesInCrisis

— Eva Abdulla 🎈❓ (@evattey) March 8, 2018

These women are my heroes. I hope for the day Maldives will give answers. Their strength in the face of brutality is the best of our humanity. #IWD2018 #FindMoyaMeehaa #WeAreYaamyn pic.twitter.com/bsqd9ZupQU

— Ish 🎈 (@bananatarts) March 8, 2018

We did #OccupySaiHotaa . Adhives dhaanvaane, #Keevve nudhaanvy? @safaathahmed couldn't tag you pic.twitter.com/MVs3icrmUf

— Luj 🌹 (@lujainshujau) March 8, 2018

Just got called a "feminazi". Because I've this weird belief that women's bodies are their own business. It's radical, I know. That's why they liken me & my kind to nazis, because believing in female self-determination is roughly equivalent to genocide. 🙄

— F 🎈❓ (@_faz_) March 8, 2018

This #InternationalWomensDay let’s not forget LGBTIQA Dhivehi women who do not have the privilege of being visible, let alone freedom to be. We exist. Claims of intersectional allegiance fall short of true solidarity when our existence is not acknowledged. #ALLWomen

— Kanbaafaanu ❓🎈 (@Kanbaafaanu) March 8, 2018

6. Maldives telecom company Dhiraagu gives police full access to opposition activist @Thayyib's SIM

Dhiraagu finally admits they gave police access to @Thayyib’s SIM. Even if it was to honour a court order, why did @Dhiraagu not have the basic courtesy to inform the service recipient of this action? Why did it keep issuing vague statements denying the accusation? https://t.co/G5PfGFW1rV

— Mickail Naseem 🎈 (@MickailNaseem) March 8, 2018

Attn: I am going to move my Viber, WhatsApp, Telegram and other communication platforms to my SriLanka number. I am using @Dhiraagu services from 1997 (started from pager) & many times they have violated my privacy. records must be there.

— Thayyib #PN2018 (@thayyib) March 8, 2018

thank you @Google @gmail @Twitter @TwitterSupport @verified @facebook those who wants stop me, may attempt again and more, please protect my accounts.

— Thayyib #PN2018 (@thayyib) March 8, 2018

There was no lawful purpose. Since @Dhiraagu gave @PoliceMv the means to impersonate @thayyib they aided in the commission of a crime: identity fraud. A cloned SIM's real use is not to intercept messages, but to appear to others as the real one, i.e. to commit identity fraud. pic.twitter.com/PF06AOeNLO

— Maumoon Hameed (@maanhameed) March 8, 2018

A sad day, but I see NO other option than to quit @Dhiraagu after 19 years. I wonder why @dhiraagu did NOT appeal like @Apple did on maintaining customers’ trust & their integrity.. Especially knowing the Corruption Index Level of our State.@Mirshan :(@OoredooMaldives :)

— Ashraf Ayu (@Ashraf_Ayu) March 8, 2018

What @Dhiraagu did was a crime of the same magnitude as issuing an ID Card/Passport bearing @thayyib‘s photo & particulars for someone else to impersonate him. What an institutionalized criminal activity!#SIMcloningCompany pic.twitter.com/1fWj6GyEh6

— Imthiyaz Fahmy (@Imthiyazfahmy) March 8, 2018

More next week!

[hollywoodjuliorivas]

L.A.’s singular voice Plácido Domingo built an opera town 50 years in the making, and he’s not done yet “I HAVE the enthusiasm. I have the passion,” says Los Angeles Opera General Director Plácido Domingo of the busy schedule he keeps 60 years into his career. (Gary Friedman Los Angeles Times) By Mark Swed music critic >>> Plácido Domingo clearly has a pretty good memory. He’s sung 148 roles — mostly tenor throughout his 60-year career, although now at 76, he’s an active baritone — a record that has no chance of being broken in the foreseeable future, if ever. He’s conducted numerous more operas. He’s been responsible for presenting and also commissioning a bunch more works as an opera administrator. He’s accomplished impossibly too much and is far too busy to possibly remember it all. ¶ He necessarily looks ahead, not back. “I rest, I rust” is the motto he loves to repeat. ¶ Sitting in his Dorothy Chandler Pavilion office at Los Angeles Opera, the company he helped found 31 years ago and now heads, Domingo agreeably makes an effort to reflect on his past, although he can’t resist readily transitioning to the present. Friday marks the 50th anniversary of his Los Angeles debut, and L.A. Opera is throwing a gala Friday to celebrate. “It’s late of life,” Domingo cheerfully announces before allowing himself a brief indulgence in reverie. He will be 77 in January, so, he says, “it’s a must” to continue on as he still can rather than rest on a warehouse full of rusting laurels. “I have the enthusiasm. I have the passion,” he says. “I always say, when I hear, ‘the years are passing,’ I want them to pass. I don’t want them to stay.” All of a sudden a date pops out of his memory: Feb. 22, 1966. That night New York City Opera moved into the recently built State Theatre (now named for David H. Koch) at Lincoln Center. The feisty company promoted young singers, boasted low ticket prices and was dubbed the People’s Opera to distinguish it from the glitzy Metropolitan Opera. This was a big deal for New York, a big deal for American opera and, it turned out, a very big deal for Los Angeles. City Opera went daringly all out, presenting the U.S. premiere of modernist Argentinian composer Alberto Ginastera’s “Don Rodrigo” in what was the most ambitious and spectacular production of the company’s 22-year history. Yet for all the news of the evening, seemingly all anyone could talk about afterward was the young, unknown tenor making his New York debut in the title role. A year later City Opera chose that production and that tenor to open the first of what would be 17 seasons for opera-starved L.A. at the Music Center. The next night, Domingo was back onstage in “La Traviata” and praised in these pages for being “manly, temperamental … and blessed with a big well-focused, well-rounded tenor.” What was Domingo’s impression of L.A. on his first trip here? He liked it, especially the weather, he says. He had a good time. He was impressed by the 3-year-old, state-of-the-1960s-art Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. But he was a young singer on the fast path to the top, ready to conquer the opera world, and L.A. couldn’t have meant that much to Domingo then. In 1967, it wasn’t the opera world. Domingo left City Opera soon afterward, but he returned to the Music Center as a guest singer in 1970 and ’72. The year in between he appeared at the Hollywood Bowl in “La Traviata” with Beverly Sills and a just-starting-out James Levine conducting the Los Angeles Philharmonic. By then San Francisco Opera, the Metropolitan Opera in New York, La Scala in Milan, Vienna State Opera and Covent Garden in London were calling. In the meantime, City Opera would soon begin to lose its luster in L.A. “I had first thought that City Opera was a great solution, that it was really going to pave the way for creating an opera company in L.A.,” Domingo says. “But it didn’t happen. The Music Center didn’t want it to happen.” Nor did the L.A. Phil, which began to put on opera itself. Between 1972 and 1984, Domingo visited L.A. only for special occasions — appearing on Johnny Carson’s “The Tonight Show” or performing a benefit concert with Carlo Maria Giulini and the L.A Phil. But he sensed something stirring in the atmosphere. The 1984 Olympics changed everything. London’s Royal Opera headlined the Olympic Arts Festival with three operas performed in the Dorothy Chandler, including the premiere of a new production of Puccini’s “Turandot” with Domingo. The tenor and L.A. finally clicked. He appeared as a soloist in the “Ode to Joy” finale of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony the night before the Olympics opening ceremony in a special L.A. Phil Hollywood Bowl program. He sang for 100 disabled children at an Italian restaurant in Santa Monica. He appeared in a solo concert at the Pacific Amphitheatre in Costa Mesa. He also got chummy with L.A. opera activists, particularly three local attorneys — Don Franzen, Peter Funsten and Bernard A. Greenberg — who were fundamental in founding what would become Music Center Opera (later to be called Los Angeles Opera). “I was always saying to them, ‘The people are hungry for opera,’ ” Domingo reminisces. “It was then, during the Olympics, that it was decided to form an opera company.” The British manager Peter Hemmings was hired as director. Domingo became an artistic advisor. Just as important, he became the face of the company. He radiated celebrity, and it would be hard to imagine such a company having been formed at the time it was and the way it was without the benefit of that. To get a sense of just the kind of local — and international — presence Domingo had become, in August 1986 the singer organized a concert, “Plácido Domingo & Friends,” at Universal Amphitheatre to raise money for the victims of a devastating earthquake in Mexico City. His friends were Frank Sinatra, John Denver, Julie Andrews and Kirk Douglas. His itinerary for the next two weeks was: Mexico City to Berlin to Salzburg to Vienna to Berlin to Madrid to Paris to New York to Barcelona to L.A. to Denver to London to Madrid to Jerusalem to Tel Aviv to New York. A month later, Music Center Opera opened with a celebrated production of Verdi’s “Otello” starring — who else? “The rest,” Domingo says with a knowing smile, “is history.” That is his perfect segue to the present. Thirty-one years later, when Domingo is not singing onstage or conducting in the pit, he’s running the show. One of his first projects, having become general director of the company in 2003, was to create the post of music director, which went to Kent Nagano and, since 2006, James Conlon. “I still have one thing to do, though,” Domingo insists. “I want to convince some of the big names to come and conduct,” three of them past and present L.A. Phil music directors. “We were lucky finally that Gustavo [Dudamel] came [for two performances of “La Boheme” last year], and we are trying to find a way for him to return. It would be great if we could bring back [Esa-Pekka] Salonen. And, of course, Zubin [Mehta].” In fact, Domingo’s to-do list is large. There is the renovation of the Chandler, something that’s been talked about for years. Domingo says he still loves the theater. “I think it works, but it will be better if we have fewer seats and improve the acoustics. And make it more beautiful. The other solution is if someone comes along and says, ‘I want to build a new theater.’ ” “But my first dream,” Domingo says, “is that by the turn of the decade we can do more productions now that we’ve balanced the budget. I’ll be happy if we can add one more. I’ll be thrilled if we can do two more. “As you know, opera is not a business, and my really big dream is that someone out of the blue gives us a huge donation. Many opera companies have had that. I would love to read in the Los Angeles Times that someone has given the company $40 million or $50 million.” Until that time comes along, Domingo has ideas for stretching the dollars that are, he quickly adds, being generously donated by the L.A. Opera board. He’s fine with sharing productions with other companies to reduce the expense. The current lavish and quirkily inventive “Nabucco,” which Domingo dominates in the title role, is a co-production with three other American companies. But Domingo is even more bullish on the use of technology in staging. Instead of bulky and expensive physical productions, he suggests projections. “Many productions today don’t mean anything,” he complains. “They might be staged in two boxes of different colors, one orange, one purple. You don’t know where you are, and audiences want to know where they are when they see ‘Aida’ [set in Egypt] or ‘Turandot’ [set in China].” More plans for growth? Domingo notes that the company hosted a citywide Wagner festival when the budget-busting “Ring Cycle” was staged seven years ago but has done no Wagner since. That is about to change, he promises. (A Wagnerian, himself, Domingo will conduct “Die Walküre” at the Bayreuth Festival this summer.) He wants more new work, and, without naming them, hints that commissions are on the way. “I feel really proud that Gustavo at the L.A. Phil and I are Hispanic or Latino,” he says while adding yet another challenge, “but I think we have to do more for the Latino community.” Domingo remains active running Operalia, the contest he founded that funnels young singers into opera companies all over the world. You might say he remains active running and leave it at that. He mentions having just gone to New York on a free day between performances at L.A. Opera to see his grandchildren. He filled another short break opening a theater complex in Guadalajara. He likes nothing better, he says, than opening theaters because of all the promise they hold. Then there is the quick trip to Prague to conduct a special performance of “Don Giovanni” to mark the 230th anniversary of the Estates Theater, where Mozart’s opera had its premiere. “I have time as long as I have life,” Domingo sums up his philosophy. “If I am in good health and if the planet exists.” Once more, Domingo refuses rest when there is a pressing challenge, and he’s off on a new tangent: the recent profusion of natural disasters. After Domingo announced that he would donate a portion of the ticket sales from a concert at San Antonio’s Alamodome to American Red Cross disaster relief, the event was postponed lest it compete with basketball in Houston that night. He’s a huge sports fan and attended the seventh game of the World Series in Dodger Stadium, yet Domingo nonetheless laments that “of course, sports wins over the arts. I was sorry because we wanted to do it very much to help Houston, Puerto Rico and Mexico.” Even so, “impossible” is not a word associated with Domingo and his storied career. Opera as it is in L.A., and particularly at the Music Center, for instance, would have seemed impossible 50 years ago. The last week alone it was possible to hear six operas — from the 17th century through this minute — on and around the campus, with a pair of Baroque operas brought by Les Arts Florissants, a pair of operas presented by the L.A. Phil (Ravel’s “L’Heure Espagnole” and the premiere of Annie Gosfield’s “War of the Worlds”), and L.A. Opera’s productions of “Nabucco” and Keeril Makan’s recent work based on the Bergman film “Persona.” In most other places, that would be called a festival. In L.A. what was once unthinkable pre-Domingo is almost becoming normal. mark.swed@latimes.com