#broken coffeepot

[duskstargazer]

[1925]

To call Mildred entirely unappreciative of the new engine would be somewhat unfair. That said, she couldn't not resent him to some extent. He'd come in out of basically nowhere, and had obliterated their timetables. The new ones that had been swiftly organized were beyond what the coffee pots were capable of.

All four knew the railway board had hoped that Topham would have them scrapped. Topham's refusal must have been met with baffled fury. They could tell, because the workload had at least doubled, if not tripled since Thomas had arrived. A copious amount more trucks had been sent to the branch, many being sold to the industries the line served. The coffeepots had to run double-header on a near daily basis, and sometimes even triple-header or quadruple-header just to have a shot of keeping up.

Eventually, the unspoken stalemate was broken. The coffeepots were all taken up to the quarry at the Northern end of the line, and most unceremoniously, near the back of one of Thomas's goods trains.

“But sir!” Mildred had asked. “Who will run the goods traffic? Surely Thomas can't do that all on his own!”

Sir Topham Hatt had told her that other engines would be borrowed to assist with additional responsibilities that Thomas could not cover alone.

That was it, then. Their services were no longer needed.

The other engines looked wistfully on as the scenery, both familiar and foreign to them, passed by them all for the last time. Mildred didn't. She just stared down at the tracks below with a noxious glare.

[hakirachan]

*MC and the brothers standing around a broken coffeepot*

Lucifer: So. Who broke it?

Lucifer: I’m not mad, I just wanna know.

Beel:

Beel: I did. I broke it.

Lucifer: No. No, you didn’t.

Lucifer: Mammon?

Mammon: Don’t look at me.

Mammon: Look at Levi.

Levi: What? I didn’t break it.

Mammon: Huh, that’s weird.

Mammon: How’d you even know it was broken?

Levi: Because it’s sitting right in front of us…

Levi: And it’s broken.

Mammon: Suspicious.

Levi: No, it’s not!

Satan: If it matters - probably not, but - Asmo was the last one to use it.

Asmo: Liar! I don’t even drink that crap!

Satan: Oh really?

Satan: Then what were you doing by the coffee cart earlier?

Asmo: I use the wooden stirrers to push back my cuticles!

Asmo: Everyone knows that, Satan!

Beel: Okay, let’s not fight! I broke it, let me pay for it!

Lucifer: No! Who broke it?!

Levi:

Levi: Lucifer, Belphie’s been awfully quiet.

Belphie: OH REALLY?!

*inaudible arguing*

Lucifer, speaking to MC in the background: I broke it.

Lucifer: It burned my hand, so I punched it.

Lucifer: I predict 10 minutes from now they’ll be at eachother’s throats with warpaint on their faces and a pig head on a stick.

MC:

MC: Good.

MC: It was getting a little chummy around here.

[zmediaoutlet]

murder in the city

for @wincestwednesdays - blood

They've started dimming the bunker lights at night. More like a real place, that way, a motel or a house to squat in. The concrete floors are cold on Sam's bare feet. Still doesn't totally know his way around, but that's all right. There are plenty of long nights ahead to figure out the layout. Or maybe not that many. He's been trying not to think about it, but. Lot of long nights.

The infirmary, the gun range, the library. The kitchen, and the coffeepot, and the newspaper left on the island with a couple of obits circled in thick sharpie, and it's probably meant to be a distraction for him but it's probably a real job, too. Sam leans over to check it out but his eyes blur and he sinks to his elbows, and then puts his forehead down to his clenched fists. His mouth tastes like pennies. All the time now, practically. In his throat the urge to cough rises and he breathes very carefully through his nose because he just—doesn't want to. He doesn't want to have to.

A box of black Lipton appeared on the shelves, when he kept coughing and hasn't stopped. He heats water in the old-school steel kettle, leaning against the stovetop, his fingers shoved in to the soft part of his throat next to his windpipe. Like if he strangles himself maybe that horrible tickling urge won't creep in. He keeps his eyes closed and feels his pulse thump against his fingertips, slow and steady. Imagines a day sometime soon when that'll change. Either staggering and erratic or all-too-fast—like years ago, in those worse days, when there was no unexplained tea as a clumsy attempt at care, when the iron-taste riming his teeth was all his own fault.

If all this goes the way he expects, it'll be yet another broken promise. His ears ring. It takes a second to swim past that to realize that, no, it's the kettle, whistling. God, he's tired.

"You gonna make your tea or do I gotta do it for you, Miss Marple?"

He jerks, turns. "I—sorry. Didn't mean to wake you up."

"Unless you made me have to pee I think you're innocent, this time," Dean says, but not really smiling. He's wearing the robe he claimed, hands deep in the pockets. Squinting at Sam across the kitchen like there's something to see.

Sam turns and busies himself with the kettle. Splashing over the tea bag, pouring too fast so that it judders out of the spout, spattering the back of his hand. He hisses, and for the hissing he's punished with not being able to keep the cough down, and it stings, god—stings so bad, not that deep down-in-the-lungs coughing that feels like it's actually doing something, like the one time he got the flu and thought he'd turn inside out, but just—scratching, shredding, making his eyes water and his mouth fill with—

"Jeez, you're a safety hazard," Dean says, and he's right there, at Sam's side, taking the kettle away, a clatter of the steel somewhere, and then his hand heavy between Sam's shoulderblades. Warm, patient, while Sam hacks and shudders and tries to remember how to take breaths that feel clean. "Yeah, okay. Get it out."

There's no getting it out. Sam inhales very cautiously through his nose and doesn't say it, because that would be cruel, and it's too late or maybe early to get into that kind of fight. Especially when Dean's warm against him, and soft in that robe. His arm slides down around Sam's back, and Sam doesn't need help walking but he lets Dean take him over to the sink, and he leans down with his elbows on the porcelain rim and washes his mouth clean, spitting. With the lights low he hopes Dean can't see the color.

He sits with his back to the table and watches Dean move around the kitchen. His space, like the library's Sam's. Dean wipes up the spilled water and puts the kettle back in its place and glances at Sam, and then goes to the pantry shelf where he's got a bottle of bourbon stashed and pours a healthy glug into Sam's mug. "Seriously?" Sam says, and Dean shrugs and then pours another mug full of bourbon for himself, and brings both of them over to the table. He holds Sam's out to him handle-first and says, "It's medicine," and Sam smiles at him, too tired to do otherwise. Dean clunks his mug against Sam's, very carefully, and Sam winds the trailing string of the teabag over his knuckles and takes a sip, cautious. Hot, both temperature and alcohol, but sweet too. Might not really help but it feels good, and that's something, at least.

Dean waits for him to swallow, and then drinks his own mug down in a single shot. Grimaces into it, when it's empty. He looks as tired as Sam feels. Maybe more. Sam sits forward and sets his hand on Dean's hip, sorry in this—thin, entirely inadequate way. Knowing he'd make the same choice all the same. Dean licks his lips and sets his mug on the table by Sam's shoulder and then steps between Sam's knees, and Sam puts his forehead to Dean's sternum and holds Dean around the waist. Warm dark. His mouth tastes like bourbon now, at least.

Fingers through Sam's hair, carding it off the back of his neck. "You slept through the night once, this week?"

He takes a deep, careful breath. Raw over his raw throat. He's not supposed to lie, anymore. He promised. Dean's always asking Sam to make promises he'll be forced to break. "Once, I think," he says.

Dean sighs but doesn't call him out. Maybe he doesn't want to fight, either. Ever since they moved in here it's been—good. Better. Dean happy to have a home and Sam just—well, it doesn't matter. He leaves his forehead against Dean's chest and feels his breath rise and fall, his fingers tucked just barely inside the elastic of his boxers, holding on. Dean has a place, here, the safest place either of them has ever seen, and all this knowledge at his fingertips, and if Sam manages not to screw up these trials then it'll be—worth it. The world safer and Dean… he'll be okay, Sam thinks. In this bunker their family gave them. It's worth it, for that.

"Can't believe I got up for this sappy crap," Dean says, very quiet.

"Thought you said you had to pee," Sam says, muffled, and Dean says, "I can multitask," and then tugs on Sam's hair at the back so he's forced to tip his head and look up, and before he can say anything Dean dips down and kisses him, soft with a closed mouth, just—pressing close. When their lips part with barely a sound he holds there, his forehead against Sam's and their noses brushing and his breath coming slow against Sam's mouth. Steady rhythm, like a heartbeat. Sam's anchored his whole life to it more than once. He touches Dean's throat and then drags his fingertips down, hooking the collar of his t-shirt, feeling that empty space where he used to wear—but that doesn't matter, now. Dean's here. Nothing matters more than that.

"You're wearing my shirt," Sam says, fingers caught in the v-neck.

"Finders keepers," Dean says, and then lifts up, and tucks Sam's hair behind both of his ears, and looks at him, eyes low and tender in the dim. "Man," he says, soft, and Sam doesn't know why, but then Dean touches his chin with one thumb and says, in a more normal voice, "Finish your tea, princess, and then come back to bed, huh? Cold down there without the human space heater."

"Not exactly selling it with your icicle feet," Sam says, and Dean shrugs, smiling at him kinda one-sided, but then he leaves the kitchen, and Sam's left there, listening to him scuff along the hall until he can't. He sits with his mug in both hands, looking at nothing across the empty kitchen. Since the first red spot he's been composing a note, mentally. Trying to figure how he could say everything that's worth saying. He never ends up writing anything down. Nothing he can think of comes close.

He drinks his tea. Leaves the mug by the sink knowing it'll make Dean bitch at him in the morning. His mouth still tastes like metal. But then—when he goes to Dean's room, he gets into bed and puts his arm around Dean's waist and puts his nose to the soft buzz of hair at the top of Dean's spine, and Dean sighs and pushes back against him, and he's warm against Sam's whole body except for his toes that tuck in behind Sam's ankle, freezing, like he's done since Sam's earliest memories. His skin like ice and then warming slowly against Sam's. What more could Sam ask for.

[apuckishwit]

Pining!Eddie and Wingman!Gareth

A preview of chapter 25 of Rolled a 1 on the Check, Rolled a 20 on the Save by APuckish_Wit on AO3

Eddie is awoken by sharp rapping on his front door, at an hour that is entirely too early to be conscious when he has nothing scheduled for the day.

He groans as he rolls over in bed, dislodging Gandalf from his back with a grumpy mrrow. He runs his hand over the cat’s head in apology, grabbing his phone from his nightstand and squinting at the screen. “The fuck?” he mumbles.

“Eddie! Eddie I know you’re in there! Open up!”

Gareth.

“The fuck,” he mumbles again, with more feeling this time, rolling out of the bed and not bothering to throw on a shirt over the boxers he slept in last night. If Gareth wants to bother him at ass o’clock in the morning, he can damn well deal with Eddie not feeling like getting dressed just yet. Smacking his lips and grimacing at the sticky crust of drool at the corners, he pads out to his living room and opens the door, scooping Gandalf off the floor with practiced ease when he makes his predictable break for the freedom of the hallway.

Why he wants to get out into the hallway is anyone’s guess, as he always immediately starts scratching and yowling to be let back in if Eddie closes the door behind him, but he tries every time.

“Dude, seriously? You couldn’t put some clothes on?” Gareth scoffs as he shoves past Eddie, not waiting for an invitation.

“You have literally seen me naked,” Eddie says, shutting the door and letting Gandalf slip from his arms.

“Not willingly!”

Yeah, it was kind of hard to get privacy in a studio apartment with a postage-stamp sized bathroom…but Gareth had been letting him couch surf there for free, so he hadn’t exactly been able to complain.

“So, not that I’m not happy to see you, but what errand is so momentous that it requires you to come knocking on my door at this obscene hour?” He shuffles into the kitchen and hits the switch on the coffeepot, before pulling the fridge open and examining the contents. “You want a bagel?” he asks after a moment, digging a bag of poppyseed bagels, some cream cheese, and strawberry jam out.

“Nah, I ate on the way over,” Gareth says. He’s making himself at home at Eddie’s small kitchen table, pulling notebooks, pens, and highlighters out of his messenger bag. Eddie raises an eyebrow, propping his hip against the counter while he waits for his bagel to toast.

“Are we doing homework?”

Gareth spins a pencil in his fingers the way he used to spin his drumsticks, stabbing it towards Eddie with a determined glint in his eye. “Yes. We are coming up with a gameplan to figure out if you have a shot with Steve.”

Eddie blinks. “We’re doing what now?”

“You heard me. You’re pining, Munson. Like, I haven’t seen you down this bad for someone since Jackson.”

Eddie winces at the mention of his ex—his longest relationship to date, the man he’d been considering introducing to Wayne. He’d been ready to talk about moving in together, maybe even getting engaged, when Jackson had blindsided him by taking a job overseas. Hadn’t even talked to him, first, hadn’t even told Eddie he was considering it. He’d tried to spin it as not wanting to be influenced on such a big decision about his future. His future, not their future.

Yeah, they hadn’t lasted long after that.

Gareth’s face softens a little. “Sorry,” he says, voice sincere and contrite. “But the point stands.”

“Gar,” Eddie sighs, raking a hand back through the tangles of his hair. “We’ve talked about this. He had a long-term girlfriend—like, high school sweethearts shit. He hasn’t said anything, but I’m pretty sure he’d have married her if she hadn’t broken it off with him.”

“Valid data, but not conclusive,” Gareth counters. “Jeff had a couple long-term girlfriends too, and he and Aidan are going strong. Also bi people exist, Eddie.”

“I know that! And Jeff was so far in the closet before he met us, he was having tea with Mr. Tumnus,” Eddie says with an affectionate laugh. “Steve does not give me that vibe. The closet vibe or the bi vibe.” He fixes a couple of coffees to his and Gareth’s liking, and then sits down across from Gareth with his breakfast. He takes a couple morose bites of his bagel. “Dude, look. I appreciate it. I really do. But I did the whole ‘falling for straight boys’ thing in high school and it never brought me anything good. Steve’s a really great friend. I’m fine with that.”

Gareth tilts his head, staring at Eddie with narrowed eyes. “Uh huh. Anyway, so Jeff, Aidan, and I went back and watched all your streams with him. Side note, Aidan thinks he sounds hot, is he hot? I don’t care, but Jeff and Aidan really wanted to know.”

“So hot,” Eddie sighs, though he doesn’t mention how he knows. That video was public knowledge, but he doesn’t feel like getting teased for cyberstalking. “Like…he’s beautiful, man.”

“Mmhmm,” Gareth hums, making a notation on his notebook. Eddie huffs, reaching across the table to grab the top of his pencil.

“Gareth, seriously. I love you so much for what you’re trying to do, but there’s no point. I’ll get over him, eventually.”

“Ah, but you haven’t heard my rationale, yet.”

“Oh, there’s a rationale? Do tell.”

“I will. And that rationale is…we think he’s flirting with you, too.” It’s not quite a record-scratch moment, but it comes pretty close. Eddie freezes, staring at his best friend. Gareth smirks at him, leaning back in his chair. “Yup. All three of us. We watched all the streams you’ve put up, and we each wrote down any time we thought Steve was doing something we’d interpret as flirty and when we compared notes, they were almost identical. And that’s not even counting all the people in your views who think there’s something going on between you two.”

“You…you guys ran an experiment about this?” Eddie asks slowly, unsure if he’s grateful or horrified that his friends care so much about his (non-existent) love life.

Gareth waves him off. “Sort of. Point is, as two men in a committed relationship and one man who spent a not-insignificant amount of time in high school trying to sus out if people were serious or just messing with you when they were making eyes at you—we think this bears further investigation.”

Gandalf curls around Eddie’s legs, meowing pitifully until Eddie picks him up and swipes a smear of cream cheese onto his thumb for Gandalf to lick. “I don’t know,” he says, voice wavering even to his own ears. “I feel like I would have noticed if Steve was flirting with me.”

Gareth snorts into his coffee. “You absolutely would not. You put the moves on anything with a pulse, but you’re always shocked as fuck when anyone reciprocates.”

And that’s…okay, yeah, that’s a fair point. Still, Gareth doesn’t have to say it out loud and shit. “Rude,” he mutters, taking a drink of his coffee.

“But accurate. So, how ‘bout it?” Gareth hovers his pencil over the notebook, waggling his eyebrows. “Even if we’re wrong, at least you’ll know.”

Eddie gnaws on his lip a moment, scratching behind Gandalf’s ears. There are a myriad of reasons not to rock the boat—not least of which is the fact that he’s still not convinced Steve is anything but straight. That—that would’ve come up in their conversations at some point by now, wouldn’t it? And even if he’s not, how compatible are there lives, really? They live on opposite sides of the country, and Steve seems pretty set on building a life in Chicago.

Not that—not that Eddie’s, like, super invested in Seattle. He can do the work he does anywhere, really, and Chicago is a hell of a lot closer to Wayne. Not that…whoa, not that he needs to be thinking in those terms right now. Or ever, really.

Just…

He thinks of how easy it is to talk to Steve. How much he likes reading to him, listening to him ramble about how his favorite teams are doing in their playoffs as he putters around in his kitchen. How much Steve seems to like listening to him go off on any of the subjects that have caught his attention, asking thoughtful questions and remembering important points weeks later. They are so, so different, but they just mesh, making room for each other in their lives and being happy with the space they each take up, and all without ever having met face to face.

He shouldn’t encourage Gareth. He is rapidly realizing that Steve is pretty much everything he’s ever wanted in a man, but he is not lucky enough for life to have just dropped someone like that in his lap and have an actual chance with them. Life only works that way in his stories and games.

Still…would it hurt to know for sure? If—if there is a chance that Steve would reciprocate his feelings.

Oh holy fuck, if he did reciprocate…

“What do you have in mind?” he asks, leaning forward as Gareth’s grin turns as pleased as a cat who’s caught the canary.

[oh-no-another-idea]

Find the word tag

Tagged by @chauceryfairytales way back when--thank you! These are from Invisible Girl.

Pot:

The cook nearest pointed to a tray with a stack of tin cups and a small coffeepot. Intrigued, Velia followed the porter around the outside corridor of the car and through the first freight car. At the far door, the porter apologized and stepped back to let someone pass. “Sorry sir, didn’t see you there.” “Don’t let it bother you another moment,” said the man in the fedora.

Coat:

“Wonderful,” Paris muttered, and bent to drag Antonio away. Velia focused on the figure climbing through the window—they were wearing a long black overcoat and a scarf wrapped around their head so only their eyes were visible. Well, Velia still had the upper hand, since none of her was.

Mark:

Sighing, she left her latest mark to go hunt down a handkerchief. Bloody hands left her slightly handicapped—handprints could be traced, sticky fingers got stuck to fabrics. Luckily, most gentlemen carried handkerchiefs in their outer breast pockets, and Velia took two before she remembered there was a reason beyond entertainment behind those steals. She slumped down in the backseat of a cable car to staunch her nosebleed.

Outside:

The train’s departure from Chicago found Velia on the caboose, standing outside with the scenery shrinking before her. Two crew men resided inside, talking amongst themselves; if they’d been able to see her, all they would’ve spotted was a respectable young girl in a faded maroon coat, enjoying the view. Occasionally people would spot the train and wave. A man driving a wagon down the road parallel to the tracks. A pair of siblings, no older than twelve, running until they couldn’t keep up anymore and were left behind.

Context for those who might want it: Velia is invisible to anyone who doesn't care for her :)

@mrbexwrites @hd-literature @inkovert @thewritingcoroner @dogmomwrites and anyone else who'd like to search for the words blade, broken, bargain, and brave.

[muldxr]

2023 Fic Masterpost

18 fics, 36k words, 10 fandoms. all of the fics i wrote during the year are linked under the cut to read and re-read!

honorable mentions ↓ most kudos: la petit mort most comments: for your eyes only author’s favorite: choke

📍 for your eyes only (9.3k, M, James Bond and 1D fusion. main fic post)

While on a dangerous mission, 007 reunites with an old flame.

📍 weak hands, sore feet (1.5k, T, hockey rpf)

Sore from a Game 7 loss, Carson and Will decide to shave their playoff beards together.

📍 collide (1.1k, T, ER 1994)

The IV - her first real IV - is almost in the patient's limp arm. Lucy stills her nervous hand to guide the needle in further towards the correct vein, notes the dip in the arm as she attempts to break it past the first layer of skin. It slips out, goes to the right.

📍 man down (777, M, 9-1-1)

Buck didn't see it coming.

He didn't see the cracks in the beams. Didn't use caution in where he stepped, didn't run away fast enough when the freeway came crumbling down and took him with it.

📍 pawns (1.7k, T, the x files)

“Decided to show up late this time, huh?” Mulder asks the man, bristling as he shoves his hands into his coat pockets.

📍 rescue me (3.1k, M, ER 1994)

A five-car pileup in the middle of winter means that County General is at capacity. A short-staffed hospital means that Kerry Weaver isn’t having a good day.

📍 outlast (841, T, survivor)

The humidity on the Fiji island gets to you, and you can't sleep.

📍 let faith oust fact (1.2k, M, the x files)

Big Blue attacks their boat. Instead of finding a rock, the agents nearly drown.

📍 sanguis (1k, M, buffy the vampire slayer)

Gasping, Buffy spins around quickly, raising her stake, and she doesn't even move an inch when the stake meets an undead body, too close to her.

📍 headlights on dark roads (3.4k, M, the west wing)

"You didn't save me a seat? Come on," she whines, hanging on the frame of the car as her shoulders slump, growing desperate to get away from Danny's curiosity.

Toby says, "Sorry. All full."

📍 dearly departed (1.7k, M, the leftovers)

Not too long after Laurie joins the Remnant, she shows up at Kevin's house.

📍 midnight oil (2.3k, T, west wing)

Donna's eyes traveled down to her hands, holding a steaming mug with the presidential seal on it. It was one of Josh's favorites despite it being widely available at the White House gift shop. "I was making you coffee." She squinted at him, speaking slowly. "You know, like you asked me to do five minutes ago. By the way, our coffeepot is a pain in the neck, and we really should-"

📍 choke (2.7k, E, shallow grave)

Juliet leaves Alex and David for dead. Little does she know...

📍 paper bag (1.1k, T, the x files)

Mulder and Scully travel for a case, and the airline loses Scully's bag.

📍 know your number (100, G, ER 1994)

Post-'Union Station,' Mark considers calling Susan.

📍 the oven was broken. (825, T, hrpf)

Matty and Will attempt to bake birthday cookies.

📍 la petit mort (1.6k, E, the x files)

Intimately aware of her mortality, she's asked you to prove your worth to her.

📍 the cold moon (1.3k, T, the x files)

Scully shifts when the moon is full, and Mulder follows. That's how it always is.

[tempportal]

@theseancekid​​ said: “I’ve made a huge mistake.”

“Klaus,” the noise that pushes its way out of his mouth can’t really be called a groan in the absolute strictest sense of the term, but it’s definitely not a whine, and he’ll stand by that even as he (very reluctantly, and very resentfully) lifts his head up off the pillow to level a dark glare at his brother. “It’s three in the goddamn morning. Unless you’ve just kickstarted another apocalypse or broken the coffeepot, the only ‘huge mistake’ you have to worry about is waking me up.”

 And that should be the end of it, really — hell, that would be the end of it if he had anything to say about it, because it’s three in the goddamn morning and he’s finally beginning to establish that “normal sleep schedule” that Allison and Luther are always nagging him about, and he wasn’t even having one of his terrifyingly vivid Apocalypse Dreams or anything, so he probably could have maintained that peaceful slumber until sunrise, honestly, fuck you, Klaus — but it’s not.

Because he is such a disgustingly sentimental sucker for his stupid family that it only takes a single look at his brother (little Number Four who’d sneak into his room in the middle of the night when the ghosts got too loud and scary, little Number Four who never really grew up) before he softens, all his frustration melting away like a lump of sugar in the rain.

Five huffs out a deep sigh and pushes himself up on his elbows, rubbing blearily at his eyes with his knuckles, before he refocuses on Klaus. “Okay, okay, just—just tell me what’s going on. What did you do?”

[fakesurprise]

I walk into the hotel with a cup from starbucks, have a sip of it. It’s almost nine in the morning, the wandering magician is out wandering. Jay would be with him, except Jay is currently hiding inside the hotel coffeepot. It’s one of those cheap industrial Braun units, but those tend not to gleam silvery-gold and hum audibly as you get closer to them.

I set my half-finished coffee down on the counter and walk over.

Jay used my phone to ask if I would want polls on tumblr. I have nothing to poll anyone about. Unlike Jay. Who polled people to ask where to hide from me.

It could have been far worse. Jay could have thought of other options.

In the case of dangerous things, tumblr dropping a new feature is technically not high on that list.

I get out a filter, pour in water, add the cheap hotel coffee, turn it on. It takes less than five minutes to make a cup of coffee that steams gloriously and smells sweet and dark chocolatey at at the same time, with hints of smoky herbs. Not bitter, of course. I’m not sure Jay gets how to do bitter.

“So. What happens if I dump this fabulous coffee down the sink because I’m despondant that Jay isn’t here?” I say aloud.

The coffee vibrates. The machine ripples.

Jay appears beside me, all eleven and contrite, eyes wide. Today he’s wearing jeans, a skirt and a dress along with an actual bonnet.

“I’m here but! I’m hiding,” he says.

“You’re still hiding even if I can see you?”

Jay vanishes from view.

“Kiddo.”

He appears to my left with a huge grin, and slams into me for a hug. “It’s hard to hide from you cuz you’re the bestest, Charlie!”

I hug him back. The coffee does not spill. I am not certain it can, because Jay helped make it.

I have a sip. The world is filled with music notes I’ve never heard, every sound and colour sharp and vibrant.

I set it down. My hands are shaking with the effort of not drinking more.

The aroma is taking root inside me. I close my eyes. I’m not a magician. I’m not Jay. I have some tricks, and the aroma is eaten a moment later by the aromas of cheap gas-station coffee from earlier this week.

“Jay.”

“I didn’t mean to use your phone but! I was worried you hadn’t done a poll,” he wails.

“... Yes. I gathered that. You could have asked me why.”

“Oh!”

“In general it is better to ask people before you help them.”

“Oh, I totally know that but you’re Charlie!”

There are many questions I could ask to that; I am not certain I want any of the answers.

“Next time you want to hide from me, try not hiding and face me. Hiding just makes me cross.”

Jay thinks that over, then nods. “I’m not hiding from you right now!”

I rub the bridge of my nose. Some battles you don’t win. Some I should know better than to never fight.

“You are being very jaysome at that, yes. Tell you what: see if Honcho wants the coffee, while I get finish packing my things for the next town we’re going to?” “I can do that!” Jay vanishes along with the coffee.

The wandering magician will have words with me later, but the coffee might help him. I am pretty certain it can’t not help, given it was made with jaysome and with love.

I call reception and tell them the coffee machine is broken, but we got Starbucks so we’re fine, brushing off any apology as I hang up. Anyone else using this machine could have problems. I reach out with a hand, focus, and ‘eat’ several vital chips until they don’t work.

There are very few god-eaters in the world; I am not certain any other can do most of what I can, but you learn to broaden your power and understanding when travelling with a Jay.

I leave a good tip for the cleaning staff, get our clothing and stuff into the three duffel bags we use and head down to our RV. I’m just glad Jay didn’t decide to hide in it.

[vitactree]

Firestarter headcanon: In the "Coffeepot Mystery" Parks and Rec scene, he's the one who would've broken the coffee machine.

It was an accident, so they started the whole thing to cover it up. They'd even feel guilty about it up until things start spiraling out of control.

The sheer chaos of the drama that followed would've made it all worth it. So he never told anyone (except Pacesetter probably) and no one ever found out.

[pastelgrungewrecker]

Hypnagogic Hallucination || Sg

I can wait for you at the bottom I can stay away if you want me to I can wait for years if I gotta

[”I’ve always been business before pleasure. Not sure what you think you’re gonna get out of me.”, says the madman machinist as he lifts a champagne glass to his lips.

“Maybe I’m suggesting they can exist as an intersection instead of a parallel?”

Brainstorm pauses, locking eyes with his conversation mate in the dim yellow light of a bar that looked like something out of a golden age movie.

“...And what did you say your name was, again.”

“Call me Skids. I’ll leave you my... contact info, QS Brainstorm. Drop me a line sometime.”]

Whirl didn’t like him. Part of it was, no doubt, jealousy- he and his ang- Boss had been getting closer, coming to a more even and equal keel since the rewrite of his contract and then this.... Usurper had decided to waltz in and now everything felt wrong.

Whirl swallowed the growl in his throat as this Skids person had the audacity to waltz into the kitchenette like he owned the place- neck smeared in marks and bites and chest not faring much better.

“Good mornin’.”

“Wow, you spoke to me! Progress.”, laughed Skids as he reached by Whirl for the coffeepot. The intruder in Whirl’s space froze, feeling the the silent rattle of prosthetic hands that wanted nothing more than to cinch shut.

“Allow me sir. I insist.”

“Uh- sure. Not a problem.”

The silence was palpable and broken only by the clink of a mug boasting all the signs of handmade and expensive.

“So.”, began Whirl, his voice low, “Who, exactly, did you say you were under the employ of?”

“Ah, hm. Well, I am... an agent of the New Institute of course.”, was the answer, and Whirl felt the sly tone wrapping around the words like serpentine hypnosis, “An academic, like your... boss. Shared interests, you see. I’d heard about his work, become fascinated by it really, and now here we are.”

“Heard of his work, hm?”, asked Whirl, his voice unnervingly calm.

“Yes, why?”

Whirl handed a mug of steaming coffee to Skids, his smile not reaching his eyes as he tilted his head.

“Well, I would like to have a list of your sources, Skids- it’s concerning you’ve heard talk of his work given how every project he heads or takes on is immediately classified unto redacted from official and unofficial record. If there’s a leak, I should plug it.”

“I’ll, uh, I’ll get back to you on that.”

Whirl watched Skids retreat, noting the way his steps were silent, the way his body was tense yet fluid at the same time. He squinted, unsure. Against his preference, he reached up to tap his comm and called a line-number he’d pinged twice a day since his Boss’s relationship started almost a month ago.

[Commlink Identifier Perceptor Reached. Commlink Currently Unavailable. Please Leave Return Ping PIN. Thank You.]

“Damn.”

 The pinged scientist in question sat in dark silence. A wineglass in a twitchy grip and glaring at the wall.

He hadn’t left his hab in days. Hadn’t spoken in a week. He tongued a fang, and glared through the darkness with an eye mutated to see near perfectly in the absence of light at the vent at the top of his wall, as he had done many nights.

Many nights since Brainstorm had found a new... interest.

Waking up from fitful naps to the muffled call of a voice he recognized making sounds he had caused many times- the wine and blood staining the wall he stared at spoke volumes of when his temper would overtake him; normally so rare an occurrence and yet here he sits and grinds his teeth like ancient millstones and swears he taste saltpeter between sharpened incisors.

His commpiece on the coffee table goes off, and he frowns like a sneering predator knowing who it was.

“Oh piss off, punching bag bitch.”, he hisses into the darkness, “Go handle your little ANGEW you pathetic little. Ugh.”

He drains his glass, getting to his feet- bare, dotted with blood from broken glass he walked over by the wall without a care- and he walked with the sway of a serpent’s head to his own kitchenette to pour himself another glass.

His nails dig into the counter as he thinks. Remembers. Had it already been an entire month...?

[”What did you say his name was.”, asks Perceptor, frozen for a moment as he cocks his head.

“Skids.”, answers Brainstorm with an almost fond chuckle. Perceptor hates the sound, “Said he was with the main planet R&D department under Optimus himself.”

“...He’s not.”, says Perceptor flatly, turning and concerned and enraged alla t once, “He’s with the ADJ- Brainstorm, you need to chase him off immediately, it’s not safe to have him around you-”

“Oh please. I’ve handled YOU all these years haven’t I?”

“I’m the evil you know, but even I don’t dally with Prowl’s lackeys! You know the blind Zealot himself is beyond unhinged and dangerous and Skids is one of his favorites-”

“Oh shut the fuck up!”, snaps Brainstorm, “I can handle myself, you think some woowoo soldier-preacher can outsmart ME? Much less one of his underlings IF that is even true.”

There’s a beat of quiet in the conversation, before Brainstorm smiles smugly and crosses his arms.

“...You’re jealous, aren’t you Percy. Cause I don’t want you anymore.”]

“So what if I am.”, hisses the sniper to the empty hab, “At least I’m a devil you’re used to; you beautiful, brilliant dumbfuck.”

It would be another week before finally, FINALLY- Whirl got an answer.

::What is it.::

::Took you long enough, sniper.::, grumbles Whirl quietly, ::I don’t trust this Skids that ang- Boss is gettin’ with.::

::Come off it you sappy dumbass, we all know you call him angel. Own it. And you shouldn’t trust him- he’s ADJ. Prowl’s pet rats.::

::...He told me he was with New Institute.::

::That sector shut down years ago. He told Brainstorm he was part of Optimus’s planetside R&D sector.::

::This is fishy.::

::It’s not my problem. I’m just jealous, according to him- that’s why I get the most delightful symphonies at night.::

::...Shit, I didn’t even-::

::Don’t call me to save him anymore. I’ve paid my debts Whirl of Polyhex.::

Whirl flinched at the sharpness with which the connection died. He looked up, ,leaning slightly to peek through the ajar door to his boss’s personal quarters and felt something bitter in his throat at the way he could see Skids draping over the industrialist’s back.

Whirl looked away when he noticed the shine to their skin; busying himself with something, anything to keep his focus away and tame the frigid curling sensation in his chest.

The months pass like molasses, like syruped strychnine the days drizzle by and Whirl feels himself once more icing over in his old permafrost- no longer meeting Brainstorm’s eyes and feeling a peculiar sting at the realization that Brainstorm either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care. He’s not sure which is worse.

Perceptor isolates in the biolab- arms burning from self-samples taken with little care for himself beyond protocol and sterile handling; throwing himself into understanding and controlling the mycomutagen rushing through his system and swallowing his soul. At least something needs him, anymore.

And Brainstorm... feels like he’s floating. His mornings are soft- soft in a way they hadn’t been with Perceptor in years, soft in ways he hadn’t yet really considered with Whirl; be it from insecurity or frustration. Skids was... easy to read. Easy to predict. Curious and gentle-voiced; body soft and unmodified and real and warm in ways Brainstorm wasn’t used to.

Skids’ teeth were blunt. Human, really human- like his eyes, like his hands. Like his expressions telegraphed like neon signs and so easy to read.

It would have been easy for Brainstorm to love him only for that.

But beyond that; flying under Brainstorm’s radar using the scientist’s ego as a shade- Skids was so very...curious. Asking questions, innocent and smooth and kind in that gentle voice of his like liquid gold, like warm honey. Eyes wide in awe and praise and his compliments sounding so earnest and eager and feeding into the forgefire of a god complex still blossoming.

However... there is a rule of the universe that is best to remember:

If it sounds too good to be true, it is.

The servers shut down all at once. Brainstorm jerks out of his work trance, blinking in the white light at his reflection in the screens and there is the sound of security guard’s boots and protection drone wheels up and down the halls. Doors automatically lock and seal and there is nothing in or out on the commlines for hours.

Brainstorm, curious and concerned, feels no qualms about overriding the lockdown and skulking down halls to security elevators- rolling his eyes and muttering something about handing control of security to him given the false alarms that had been popping up over and over-

He stands in front of his door, and hears it- a gunshot. Silenced, but audible to his modified ears; he shields with one hand and fires into the unlock panel for his hab to activate the emergency opening mechanism to see Whirl crumpled on the floor and the flash of a server case from near the glass door that led out to a balcony where many a night was spent looking up at false stars.

“...Skids?”

“Shit.”, is the sigh in the darkness as Brainstorm creeps in from the always muted entry hallway. 

“Lights full- what the- THAT’S MY-”

“Aht, don’t yell now. I’d really hate to have to kill you too Stormy.”, says Skids with a mockery of pity on his face, “Not to bothered by your bodyguard- it was getting annoying watching him pine over you and give me the stink eye every fucking morning.”

“What is the MEANING of this Skids, why do you have my transport case, what the hell is this!”, snarls the industrialist as he kicks briefly back at the half open door before stomping forward, “Put your fucking gun DOWN, you know I won’t fucking die.”

“Theoretically, you won’t die.”, says Skids too sweetly, “Unless someone knew how to set up something useful, like say a mini-EMP. And knew how your failsafe worked.”

Brainstorm stopped- his coat shifted slightly against his legs like the exhale of a bitter god laughed at his back.

“Don’t take this personally babe. You really are a sweet guy- not too bad in bed either, even if your snoring is atrocious. But... you’re easy.”

“Wha-”

“To convince, babe, keep up.”, said Skids impatiently, “You really gotta work on that. And hey, maybe getting your servers jacked by what your old fuckbuddy calls a Prowl Lackey will learn you a thing or two. Consider it a free lesson from the best.”

“But. But you, and I-”

“Brainstorm, don’t make this harder than it has to be. Handle your dying bodyguard there, don’t do anything stupid. Leave cockiness to the ones who can back it up, yeah?”

“Oh precious, big words!”

Brainstorm knows the smell of burnt hair. He felt the heat of plasmafire cruise next to his ear and scorch a few stray curls as it passed and saw Skids shriek and dive to the side. A pistol clatters to the floor and Brainstorm stumbles and falls when he’s shoved out of the way and Perceptor is there.

His hair slicked down, like the old days. His face severe and cold and vicious and in stark contrast to the deep gemstone tones of his cosmetics.

“Leave the case, jackal-pup.”, hisses the sniper with a rasp like cheap wine and expensive whiskey, “Leave the case and warn your precious little master that a notice has been sent up the chain. Some cookie jars don’t need bloody fingers fondling the rim.”

Skids raises his gun and Perceptor’s free hand has a pistol in it and firing before the ADJ agent can pull his own trigger- Skids swears again as his weapon is pinged out of his grip and Brainstorm can see the sizzle and smoke of burns on the agent’s hand.

And then Skids is gone- kicking the sliding back door and vanishing into the false night of an enclosed planetary colony.

Brainstorm looks up to Perceptor, feeling his chest clench at the nonacknowledgement as the sniper turns to the groaning Whirl.

“Come off it, you aren’t dead yet darling. Stop flopping about like an old roach.”

“Fuck...hyooo.”, wheezes Whirl as he eases himself into a sitting position. He taps fingertips over the hole in his shirts before pulling it off to reveal bulletproof armor with a heavy plasma burn.

“Good. Plan went off without a hitch.”, said Perceptor as he holstered his pistol and stood with hip cocked. Finally, then, he looked down to Brainstorm with something other than emptiness in his good eye.

“Next time, maybe you’ll listen when someone cares enough to warn you, asshole.”

And Brainstorm watched him stalk out of the hab, vanishing down the hall with a hand to his commpiece with a “Hello, Xaaron” as two medics rushed the room in a flurry of white and red and clinical concern.

Brainstorm sat on the floor, overcoat puddled around him like a wedding dress left at an empty altar- he looked up, he reached for Whirl with a plea he couldn’t manage to voice on his lips and felt his heart creak as Whirl flinched away, looking to the side like a scorned spouse.

For all Brainstorm had bragged of his intelligence, his wit, his perfection- he had been fooled with nothing more than kisses and smiles.

He takes his vigil around the empty space where Whirl should be- flitting about his bodyguard’s shadow like a brokenhearted ghost and desperately trying to build his anger back up- fuel himself on rage arrogance like he had before but the fire simply refused to burn. The tinder spent and wood dampened by the frost all around him until he did the only thing left for him to do-

He sat up, sleepless and hurting in his empty bed and hiccupped softly. The tears came easy, they always had to his eternal annoyance but the mourning- oh, that was hard to come by. And he dressed quickly; his coat abandoned on the form in the corner and he ghosted out of his hab and over to the next door in the line- so familiar a route.

He forewent knocking, entering a code long since memorized and choking on the twisting sensation in his chest when the code spat back NOT RECOGNIZED in a digital font.

He curled his titanium hand into a fist... and knocked. Once. Twice. Three times.

Nothing.

He knocked again. And again. And again and he hated the weakness, the need he felt and he all but crumpled in front of of Perceptor’s door and his breathing hitched and-

“P-Percy, please I. I messed up, okay I messed up I just. I just wanted. I wanted someone who, who...”

‘Who was like you. Who was like the you who never came home. Who never said goodbye.’

The door opened. The smell of menthol smoke and liquor. A cool hand reaches down to brush knuckles over Brainstorm’s cheek and catch under his jaw to tilt his face up to see the deadpan and hurting expression of one Perceptor of Altihex.

“...Oh darling. You’re a mess.”

“Y-Yes.”

Brainstorm stands, shaky and filled to overflowing with emotion, and Perceptor leads him into his lair, his home, with an exhale of smoke and a smile like the action hurts.

The door hisses shut behind the industrialist.

“....Love, this isn’t healthy for us. Especially not now.”

“I know.”

“...We can’t keep doing this, can we. This is... This is proof.”

“...Yes.”

“The jealousy, the goading... It isn’t good for either of us. I’m chasing a dream that died back when I had custody and you’re chasing a feeling that died when I got shot all those years back.”

“I. I know, Percy but- But please. Just.”

“Just one more hit, and then farewell.”

Brainstorm’s hands go to Percy’s hips and he buries his face into the sniper’s neck.

“I. I can’t promise that. I can’t, Perce, sweetheart, don’t make me lie to you.”

“We can’t keep hurting each other, love. It will only escalate.”

“Then let it, let it, let it-”

Perceptor’s back is against the wall, ash drifts away from the end of a cygarette and the chemicals turn their kisses tart and desperate.

‘Let it burn us both alive, maybe dying really would be easier.’

“How long, darling, before I abandon you for the good Doctor again.”, whispers the sniper as he nuzzles Brainstorm’s throat, “How long before you fade away from me to flutter your moth’s wings around the artisan bodyguard.”

“I don’t know, I don’t know anymore-....”

“Oh precious, you are easy to love based on your honesty alone when you allow it to show.”, coos the sniper before he licks a dribble of blood from the corner of his slyly upturned smile and looks down at the sprawled industrialist, “You are beautiful in your craving for punishment, in your demand for your own perfection but oh- oh you beautiful and brilliant fool.”

And Perceptor leans down and kisses Brainstorm’s already bitten lips before whispering, “I will give you your penance, because I know that’s what you want from me- to earn forgiveness. But this... this is the last time I allow myself to hurt you, my darling. Savor it, and then let yourself have the softness you need so very badly.”

It was unspoken. It was secret, and something their own and it never left Perceptor’s door.

Even when Brainstorm caught the eye of the curious who no doubt heard the whole night’s commotion and he glared at them with brass and blood eyes and a spine like iron; he silenced them without words and slunk back to his own hab to snatch his coat from it’s form and pull it over him like armor; fastening the front closed and sliding his feet into familiar boots that he laced with the cold practice of a madman binding his butcher’s heels.

And he stalked free into the halls, letting the grief and anger and sadness and hatred suffuse him.

Whirl awoke with a yawn when he heard footsteps, expecting a medic to be holding out a datapad with the discharge forms on the screen.

Brainstorm stood stock still, back towards the silently closing door.

“...I ignored your advice.”, said Brainstorm softly, “...That was fucking stupid of me to do, when you know better than I do. When it comes to people.”

Whirl was quiet.

“...I. I’m. I’m sorry, Whirl.”, he said quietly, “I was... needlessly...”

“You were an asshole, sir. All due respect.”, said Whirl quietly, “You are good at that, however. I don’t necessarily make a habit of pointing it out, you do that fine on your own, but I digress.”

“...That’s a bit harsh-”

“You made your ex listen to you get laid with your new piece every night for how long, again? That is not exactly the picture of professional grace.”

Brainstorm winced, “...You’re right. Unfortunately.”

“I’ll keep the admission between us, sir.”

“Thank you- please stop calling me that.”

“What.”

“Stop calling me sir.”

“You didn’t seem to be bothered by my silence or concern, so forgive me for going back to old habits.”

“Can. Can we try all this business again?”, said Brainstorm with a voice small, and quiet, and soft.

Whirl looked at him, an eyebrow raised, “This business?”

“...Being the way we were. Or were going to be.”

“...Maybe- but you’ll have to work for it-”

Brainstorm winced again, “Fair enough.”

“And we’ll see how you do... Angel.”

Brainstorm’s shoulders relaxed, and the corner of Whirl’s mouth quirked up into a smile.

[abellinthecupboard]

Of Course She Looked Back

You would have, too. From that distance the shivering city fit in the palm of her hand like she owned it. She could've blown the whole thing— markets, dance halls, hookah bars— sent the city and its hundred harems tumbling across the desert like a kiss. She had to look back. When she did she saw pgeons glinting like debris above ruined rooftops. Towers swaying. Women in broken skirts strewn along burned-out streets like busted red bells. The noise was something else— dogs wept, roosters howled, children and guitars popped like kernels of corn feeding the twisting blaze. She wondered had she unplugged the coffeepot? The iron? Was the oven off? Her husband uttered, Keep going. Whispered, Stay the course, or Baby, forget about it. She couldn't. Now a bursting garden of fire the city bloomed to flame after flame like hot fruit in a persimmon orchard. Someone thirsty asked for water. Someone scared asked to pray. Her daughters or the crooked-legged angel, maybe. Dark thighs of smoke opened to the sky. She meant to look away, but the sting in her eyes, the taste devouring her tongue, and the neighbors begging her name.

— Natalie Diaz, When My Brother Was an Aztec (2012)

[slashingdisneypasta]

M.I. again :) Thanks for the turtle gif it was very sweet. Enemies to lovers is totally my jam, so I'm glad you like it. Though, if you ask Blackie it's just a friendly rivalry where people's souls hang in the balance...harmless fun

(BTW, read the thing you wrote about Wayne and lmao..."It's not cake, only Wayne. Disappointing" is such a sick burn. And good luck on your future wedding to breeding kink grandpa lol)

1972

The woman is shaking when she comes in, tucking herself into the booth furthest from the door. Keeping a watchful, wary eye on it as she does. She's fashionably dressed. Obviously comes from money, and you doubt she's ever let a hair slip out of place until now. The gray-streaked brown strands look like they haven't been brushed today.

"What can I get you," you chirp, maintaining a cheerful air even as you notice the gun shoved haphazardly under the jumble in her partially-zipped purse.

She keeps the purse in her lap, clutching it closed as best she can. But the gun is simply too large to be entirely hidden by the small bag.

"Just coffee," she says, never once looking at you.

All the same, you notice her eyes are glassy. She's been crying.

You hurry away, breathing a silent prayer that The Cafe had flickered into view before she could do whatever it was she'd meant to do. Adding a mental note to the freshly-brewed pot that she needs decaf. The sight of the weapon has made you uneasy, bringing to mind memories of a night filled with pain and hopelessness, but if you don't get back to her before Blackie shows up...

The amount of victories to failures has finally started to skew in your favor. Not that it stops him from trying. Though you've got to admit he helps as much as he hinders, the latter is practically a compulsion for him. He's forever trying to convince you or Tommy to make a bet with him on something. Or ignore a customer in need. Just let him handle it.

"Comfort food," you whisper hastily through the kitchen window to Tommy. "Tomato soup or something light."

He nods, then tilts his chin in a warning way. Look behind you. For a moment, you freeze in fear but upon forcing yourself to turn around it's replaced by irritation.

There's Blackie. Right on time. Sauntering in through the entrance. Making a beeline for the woman as she takes out a cigarette, smoothly offering a light as he sits down. She looks startled, but thanks him without protest.

Grabbing up the coffeepot and an empty cup, you nearly sprint back to her table. Narrowly avoiding sloshing the hot liquid all over the place with how quickly you pour.

"Is he bothering you?"

Not waiting for ana answer, you fix him with a stern expression.

"Go away," you order.

He holds up his hands in surrender, vacating the booth. The ease of it makes you trust him even less.

"Blackie, I swear-" you hiss in warning, grabbing his arm with your free hand.

"I know. At me. All the time."

He looks down at your hand, then back up to meet your eyes. Giving one of those grins that leaves you feeling violent. There are worse things than a disappearing dishtowel. Like thumbtacks appearing every time you sit down, waiting until after you've given the seat a thorough, paranoid once over. Or flopping into bed to find that your pillow is actually a rock. If you go past angry words into actions, he's definitely going to retaliate. While smugly acting as if he's got the moral highground for not physically touching you.

He's practically daring you to fall back into the habit he's broken you of. Maybe even do worse than swat him with the towel. And you know exactly why. There's a nervous, would-be murderer sitting at the table. If you give in, you don't have the right to tell her violence is never the answer.

You're not losing this one.

You let go of him, wrinkling your nose in disgust when he winks at you before walking away.

"I'm sorry," you say to her, loud enough for him to hear. "He's kind of a terrible person."

"Worse than someone who gives his mistress his wife's grandmother's engagement ring?"

Spinning around, you gape at him. Blackie's behind the counter, now, leaning forward; chin resting in his hands. He flutters his lashes like some wide-eyed ingenue as you give an outraged exclamation of his name. You'd been working up to gently asking her what the not-so-secret weapon was for..

"How did you-" the woman asks faintly at the same time, the words nearly drowned out by your cry.

"What," he asks. "I'm just saying. Guy like that should be shot. Don't you think?"

He looks past you at the last question, directing the remark toward the shocked woman. Pushing off from the counter, he turns toward the kitchen window with a languid grace that makes you incredibly angry. Swanning around all nonchalant, as if he didn't just detonate a conversational bomb.

"Soup ready? I'm starving."

Tommy's glaring as hard as you are, dipping and passing a bowl through the window. Blackie takes the booth right behind your customer, in the seat facing her. Sighing, you take the empty spot he left at her table. Apologizing again for his very existence and giving her the rundown of her situation.

She's at a crossroads. The Cafe came to her because she needed help. And for the love of God, please ignore Blackie and his thousand little interjections because he's a complete dick!

"Look, it's not an easy thing, taking someone's life-"

"-Is with a gun," he interrupts, tone absent. "Just pull the trigger, keep your distance and it's almost not even your fault."

"Shut up and eat," you snap, not giving him the satisfaction of looking behind. Keeping your eyes solely focused on the woman.

You try talking her around by pointing out that killing even one of the people who'd wronged her means they'll win. She'll be the one punished. But she's fully-prepared for jail, not caring as long as they aren't breathing. It's the only way either of them will know how much this hurts.

But wouldn't it be better, you ask, to get grandma's ring back the legal way and take her husband to the cleaners in the divorce? Imagine how much he'll hate signing the alimony check every month instead of spending more on that homewrecker.

Plus, you just happen to know a guy who can recommend some absolutely ruthless lawyers. (You know he'll do that much for her, even if he is likely the one who sold her the gun. He likes to amuse himself by handing out what he deems poetic justice.)

"Could I have some of that soup," the woman asks with a watery laugh.

"Sure thing. Tommy, soup," you call, raising your voice to carry into the kitchen.

You're a little peeved that he took Blackie's obvious hint and kept his distance from the lady with the gun. As if you aren't also afraid of them.

You immediately forgive him when the woman takes the gun from her purse, freezing Tommy in his tracks and making a chill crawl up your spine. Then you sag in relief when she only slides it across the table. He finishes bringing over the soup with an air of extreme caution.

"Here. I won't need this," she says.

You pick it up gingerly, unsure what you're meant to do with it beyond passing it along to Tommy.

"Get rid of it," you say and receive a confused, helpless glance in response.

He's not sure, either. Just carries it off to the kitchen. Who knows where it'll wind up from there.

The woman eats her soup and goes on her way with a different sort of determination than the one that brought her in.

Later, the three of you gather to watch the divorce hearing of Sarah and Jonathan Berkowitz. Blackie's perched on a stool, cigar in hand. You're standing directly across from him, arms folded and one hip jutted against the counter. Tommy's just behind, his taller form meaning he has no trouble seeing over you. His hand rests on your shoulder and you're okay with that.

You've slowly come to realize that you didn't love him anymore by the time your lives ended, only clinging to the words as a point of comfort. But since you've been here, he's started to become someone you could almost like. Introspective. Thinking before he acts.

You're even glad, now, that he hid from the gun. A little sad, too, because you remember a time when the only thing that scared him was your rightful anger. Still, his lack of involvement means that when Sarah hits the jackpot in court, it only compounds your already stunning victory. Yours.

Turning your head, you throw Blackie a triumphant smirk of your own.

He touches his index finger to his forehead and nods slightly, the tiniest salute but still an amazing acknowledgement of your latest win. Your first encounter with a would-be killer (sort of, but you're not counting the one who got you) and you've managed to stop her all by yourself.

Nice of him to admit that's a pretty big deal.

Your smile turns a little more sincere. This time his answering grin -stretched too wide around the cigar- feels more like a friendly challenge than condescension.

MMMMMMMMM I AM LOVING THIS SO SO MUCH YOU'RE A GENIUS WRITER XD

I can f e e l the chemistry! Ughh. I need her to compare Tommy and Blackie so b a d-

And thank you- wedding is set for the 31st of February ^^ XD

[forestryfae]

i literally just need a real dresser and ill be completely set and i can properly clean in here. like. i havent washed the floors or really finished unpacking or been done tidying or moving in here in a week and staff are wholly unhelpful

the dressers they have are just too small and i need a bigger one so i can actually fit everything without filling it to the brim but somehow the only answer i get is "well how will you bring it with you when you move" and "we have dressers you can have one from us" like no? just buy me a bigger one or fucking. help me buy one. the ones they have are not big enough at all if you own anything made from thicker materials than jeans and tshirts.

also would help if they could get rid of the MASSIVE dining table i will 100% not use and do not need, the gaming chair i have absolutely no need for, or the extra chair in my room that im using to store some of my clothes. its taped on the armrests cus its old and used. get rid of it??

will be trying to move a shelf thingy and put it somewhere though so ill have real space to store clothes that isnt just on top of the desk ive been using a storage space. if only theyd get rid of the dining table so i can move the desk and have somewhere to draw

i have a couch area w like 4 seats, 5 if you count one of the chairs, along with the kitchen which has two chairs and a table. its a one/two person apartment and theres a table in the kitchen that fits two people just fine along w two couches. come on.

like its just a short period of time ill be living here, maybe a year ish since ill eventually be done w the program here and stuff. but itd still be nice if i could like. be comfortable and not need to deal with a million dumb things that should be neccessary to deal with

like there genuinely isnt enough space in here for this bullshit. the bedrooms are too small to fit the shit they put in them. my bedroom had a bed, tiny dresser, chair, actual livingroom table, one of those dumb fucking Aesthetic Hang Your Clothes Up As Decoration thingies, and a lamp. where the FUCK am i gonna fit my stuff?? why is it SO full???? i dont have a closet or dresser or desk in there wtf. the other bedroom is being used as a laundry and drying room and there isnt even enough space in there. the closet is full of clothinghangers, blankets, various lamps ive removed from places they didnt fit, pillows, and a mattress, theres a vacuum and two norwegian flags?? a board for steaming and unwrinkling your clothes, and i moved the dumb fucking aesthetic clothinghanger bullshit.

staff ofc are protesting my every request for some kind of cooperation where they remove stuff and put it in storage so i can actually use the apartment and livingroom like a normal person. like. the massive dining table, four dining chairs, old taped chair, gamer chair, fuckton of plates and glasses and cups that match w absolutely nothing, two waterboilers, two kitchenmachines??are they old breadmachines?? the addons to the breadmachines, like 17 pot and pan tops with NO matching pot or pan, the broken footrest, coffeeboiler i wont be using, coffe bullshit i wont be using, extra coffeepot w no machine? the aesthetic clothinghanger and the norwegian flag none of these are neccessary in here. literally none of them. they SHOULD go into storage

anyways im gonna see if i cant move the shelf out of the other bathroom soon so i can atleast store my clothes SOMEWHERE. it doesnt even fit in the bathroom its in, its in the way for the only space where laundry could go that isnt the hallway in to the bathroom.

[spiderweb-wine]

Look the film industry has specific requirements about how it reports what's in a film. Currently it ties that to age ratings. David Cronenberg made a whole film in 2009 called "A History of Violence" in which he definitely pushed the envelope juuuuuuuust to the edge of the 18A rating (that's the Canadian system, I think in American it's technically NC17). The special features are titled:

1. "Violence's History: United States version vs International version"

2. "Too Commercial for Cannes" and

3. "The Unmaking of Scene 44" in which a coffeepot is broken over a character's face and the nuances of which violent details led to which rating and why is discussed in depth

It's fascinating and I recommend it. (Also it stars Viggo Mortensen). Honestly though the ratings are tied to specific actions - how many swear words? Which swear words? How much blood? Blood from which body part? A few seconds change to a scene can change the entire final rating. To the film industry, "thematic elements" absolutely means something specific, so go find out what it is and then you'll have a framework to hold films up against.

Would you support abolishing age ratings?

I think they should be replaced with actual useful information. age ratings are kind of like trigger warnings that just say "trigger warning". it's like, okay? for what? how much of it? how serious? if I'm trying to help a kid navigate challenging media (or if I'm a kid trying to choose a movie to watch) I don't need to know if some random panel of 50-year-olds think a movie is suitable for 8-year-olds or 10-year-olds, I need to know something concrete about the content.

[eddis-not-eeddis]

Sister: Excuse me, what happened to the coffeepot? 

Mum: (slightly panicked) What’s wrong with it?

Sister: IT’S EMPTY! 

[frozenfries]

Second Nature (Omen x Reader)

Prompt: Omen gets caught being wholesome.

Word Count: 914

• Unlike most of the agents, Omen did not relieve his stress by getting physical in the gym or by venting out his frustrations.

• To help him focus, he knits. But to zone out, he enjoys braiding your hair; he finds the two activities comparable.

• He discovered this pastime by mistake.

• He totally hasn’t looked up different braid styles when no one else is around. Nope, not this guy.

• Besides you, only Skye and Sage know his secret.

• Skye supplies him with little bags full of brightly coloured hair elastics so he can practice.

• Sage sometimes ties the ears of his hood with elastics to make it look as though he has mini ponytails, Neon-style.

• His secret is safe until he accidentally zones out while Brimstone plays the coffeepot mystery prank on Jett and Phoenix.

Another day, another headache.

Omen sighed, his fingers twitching under the meeting room table. Oh, how he wished he’d brought his knitting needles.

“So. Who broke it? I’m not mad. I just want to know.” Brimstone crossed his arms and examined the agents gathered around. In front of them sat a coffee machine.

“I did. I broke it…” Sova bowed his head, clasping his hands in front of him.

“No.” Brimstone shook his head definitively. “No, you didn’t. Phoenix?”

“Don’t look at me, fam!” The Duelist exclaimed, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Look at Jett.”

“What?! I didn’t break it.” The petite Korean glared at him with a huff.

“Huh. That’s weird,” Phoenix’s voice oozed with mockery. “How did you even know it was broken?”

“Because it’s sitting right in front of us and it’s broken!” Wisps of air danced around Jett’s form, a telltale sign that she was trying her darnedest not to lose her cool.

“Suspicious...” The fiery Brit put a hand to his chin, pretending to be deep in thought.

Jett slammed her hands on the table, pushing herself up from her chair. “No, it isn’t!”

You watched the scene before you unfold in surprise and slight humour, unsure of what to do now that the meeting had become the Phoenix and Jett show. Then you felt Omen’s hands carefully separating sections of your hair from behind and smiled. You still remembered the first time you discovered this particularity of his.

You were both sitting by the fireplace after dinner one night, the click of Omen’s knitting needles resounding steadily between the crackles of flame. You had just returned from grabbing a hot chocolate, and settled into the armchair next to him. Leaning down to pick up your book from the floor happened to be the moment the shadow lost his grip on a needle. Bending down together, a clawed hand accidentally got stuck in your hair when he tried to reach for it. He quickly apologized, but you assured him he hadn’t hurt you.

Carefully this time, his hand came up to casually play with your hair, causing him to hum as he ran his fingers through your silky strands. “It’s so soft,” he murmured, causing you to giggle bashfully.

“You can play with it all you like.”

What you hadn’t been expecting was for him to have mastered a braided fishtail ‘do ten minutes later. Gazing in the mirror, you gawped at how intricate it was, every piece tucked in without flyaways and both sides even. “How are you so good at this?”

He rested his chin gently atop your shoulder, gazing at his handiwork along with you. “I saw Skye and Sage braiding each other’s hair the other day and they asked if I wanted to learn. It’s not too different from knitting…” He drifted off rather awkwardly, producing a clear plastic bag filled with colourful hair elastics. “Skye gave me these to use with you.” You sensed a blush in his voice. Your heart expanded in your chest as you hugged him.

“It’s perfect, Omen.”

Ever since then, he would braid your hair after missions or whenever he wanted to check out for a bit, though it was always when you were alone – but it seemed like there was a first for everything.

You two were so relaxed that you hadn’t even realized the commotion had died down. It was only with a prominent throat clearing that you were brought back down to reality.

Looking up, you noticed every last agent gaping at the sight before them. Phoenix and Jett bickering was a regular occurrence but Omen, the gruffest, scariest-looking agent, French braiding someone’s hair was enough to shock them all into silence.

You could feel your cheeks reddening under the weight of their stares, fidgeting where you sat. Omen was acutely aware of your discomfort, his protective side rising to the surface as a result. His dark aura swept around you like a blanket, tucking you safely into his shadow. The glowing blue slits in his mask seemed to pulse menacingly, and the temperature in the room seemed to have dropped significantly in a matter of moments. “What are you all staring at? Don’t you have a culprit to find?” He growled, causing them to snap out of their stupor, sending them scrambling back to business.

You grinned at his temporary mood shift. “I love it,” you whispered to him, gesturing at the immaculate French braid. The atmosphere slowly returned to normal, your warm presence putting Omen completely at ease now.

“I’ll make you another… whenever you’d like.”