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greenninjagal-blog · 3 years ago

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The Rumor Mill Game (pt4)

I swear I didn’t forget about this au. This chapter is just....long.

Welcome back to this mess of an au :) If you need a refresher, you can find Part Three [here!] Or if you’re new check out the first part [here!]

Summary: Logan is...dealing with the fallout of him and his coworker, Remus, having created a rumor about them being married and now apparently having a kid except not because Logan screamed at the top of his lungs that Virgil wasn’t his kid. His boss has a different definition for what “dealing” actually means.

Words: 8292 (Holy shit remember when this au was 2k words)

Read on Ao3 || My General Writing Masterlist

When Logan had seen his boss after he made Virgil cry, he hadn’t expected it to end up like this.

Granted when he hadn’t exactly been expecting anything. He hadn’t been looking ahead, hadn’t been making plans, hadn’t been thinking at all. Which was most likely how he ended up outside the bar in the first place.

Logan could, of course, count the number of times he had been drunk on one hand. College had been a time for experimenting, and of course for his twenty-first birthday his friends at the time had been insistent that he needed to imbibe an unholy amount of alcohol in one night. They had turned it into an experiment, where Logan documented exactly what he was feeling after each drink and he still had the notes in his desk at home, despite the fact that his handwriting had become illegible after the fifth drink and someone had spilled an orange soda based tonic on the third page. The notes themselves were worthless, but they served as a memoir to people who he no longer associated with and a younger version of himself who had still been learning.

And Logan did have a soft spot for that imbecile: Twenty-one-year-old Logan Ackroyd who still believed in the goodness of people and who wanted to change the world and who could fall in lov--

Logan pitied him-- that kid he used to be-- which he was certain that his younger self would be indignant about. Logan always did hate when people pitied him. Those emotions had rarely ever been genuine, rarely ever been helpful, rarely been productive. What was he to do about people feeling bad for him? About others being disappointed? About others making assumptions about him and how he felt?

He didn’t need pity, and he didn’t want it. Not when he got rejected to his first three colleges, not when flunked that English class and had to pay to retake it the next year, not when he had bought that ring and gotten down on one knee and made a whole carefully edited speech and--

And he’s not nearly drunk enough to deal with these types of thoughts. Or any thoughts for that matter. Wouldn’t it just be great to stop thinking?

Then he wouldn’t have to remember the looks on his coworkers faces when he storming into the office less than fifteen minutes after initially leaving for lunch and demanded that Beatrice turn in her overdue spreadsheets in twenty minutes or he’d have her fired before slamming his office door hard enough to crack that frosted glass, or the look on Remus- fucking- Prince’s face when he tried to act like everything that had happened was not his fault and that Logan had taken the game to far by himself without any sort of prompting from Remus, or the look on Virgil’s face when Logan lost his self control.

Like an idiot. Like an asshole. Like someone who doesn’t think before he acts.

Like someone who should be alone for the rest of his life, because he can’t seem to get a hold of those useless emotions of his.

And Logan wanted so very badly to blame Remus Prince for this whole endeavor, the whole production, the whole catastrophe. He wanted to say that without Remus he never would have gotten that angry, wouldn’t have had that conversation, wouldn’t have even gotten Thai today.

Logan wanted to say that, but really it's his own fault. If he had just dismissed Remus’s rumor in the beginning, if he had just told Jen and Quin that his personal business was his own, if he had just ignored the urge to get coffee and finished the spreadsheets without getting up that last night.

His fourth finger itched around the base, the area where that little silver ring had been sitting for less than a day. It was ridiculous, utterly ridiculous, because Logan had never worn a ring before and now suddenly the absence of it caused his skin to crawl in a most unpleasant, unproductive way.

Distantly Logan realized that by gifting Remus such a wonderful present, he had also thrown away four hundred dollars. And perhaps ironically Logan noted that he feels annoyed about it-- four hundred dollars had been sitting in a pocket of a dress jacket in the corner of his office for over nine months and he had tossed it aside in a fit of impulsive anger.

Logan had not been hurting for money recently, with how decently he was paid, and the amount of overtime he worked, and how little time he had taken off since that disastrous night.

But perhaps he might have been able to return it to the jewelers and weathered the terrible, awful pitying looks they would give him when he requested about their refund policy or a location where he might be able to sell it himself. It was a ring that was worth four hundred dollars and he had given it to Remus, and isn’t it funny that that’s farther than he got with the one for whom the ring had been originally intended?

And as Logan downed his next rum and coke of the night, he hoped that Remus found a better use for it. Newton knows it hadn't done any good for Logan.

(Its stupid, Logan knew, to blame a ring for the way that he had screeched “He’s not and never will be our son!” Its stupid, Logan knew, to blame a ring for the way that Remus had hummed mischievously “I think I enjoy being fake-married to you, Logan." Its stupid, Logan knew, to blame a ring for the the way his last partner had said “We should see other people”. Its stupid, stupid, stupid--)

“Hmmm,” A voice behind him said, “I thought I would find you here!”

Logan didn’t realize he had closed his eyes until he heard the voice and felt every atom in his body figuratively threaten to combust. He wasn’t drunk enough to be thinking about him, and he most certainly wasn’t drunk enough to turn and look at the incessantly, perky man that had decided to sit down next to him.

Logan waved at the bartender and ordered another rum and coke and watched his freshly emptied glass disappear like the handful of others he didn’t bother to keep count of.

“And I’ll have two waters, please!” Patton Hart added with one of his peppy, happy, insufferable laughs, before turning to face Logan. “Hiya, Lo! It's been so long since we’ve seen each other!”

“Not long enough,” Logan disagreed, with a rueful smile that should very clearly, very precisely detail how much he does not want company at the current moment. “Don’t you have things to be doing tonight, Mr. Hart?”

Patton hummed, pressing his lips together as he thought-- a monumental task for someone like him, surely. Logan was partially convinced that if he removed his glasses he might be able to see the squirrels beginning to run on that rusted wheel in the other man’s brain. If Logan was of a less logical mind he might even be brazen enough to call this the first time Patton had used his brain all week.

“Well,” Patton said, carefully settling himself on the stool next to Logan. “I was graciously informed by my son that he would be enjoying the perks of being a teenager with no bedtime tonight and along with where exactly I could shove my homemade lasagna.” He laughed lightly, “Kids, these days! He really does keep me on my toes!”

Logan did his best not to roll his eyes. “I do not know the whereabouts of your son, Mr. Hart.”

“Patton,” He said easily, “And I’m not here for my son. I’m here for you, Logan.”

“If this is about the glass in my door, you are very capable of taking that out of my paycheck.” Logan told him.

The bartender placed Logan’s new rum and coke in front of him and he reached for it almost immediately, only stopping when Patton’s hand landed on his forearm.

“Mr. Hart--”

“Patton,” Patton corrected with that smile that Logan suspected was the worst thing in the world. Worse than Virgil’s blank expression when he told them to get out, worse than Remus’s smug one when he suggested that Logan did indeed enjoy the ability to manipulate his coworkers, worse than Beatrice faulty excel sheets, than broken glass of his door, than a ring he never wanted to see again and yet he still felt like it was missing from his finger.

“Mr. Hart,” Logan said again, “I am going to get horrifically drunk tonight, and I will be calling out sick tomorrow, regardless of what you say. So my advice to you is, say anything of importance now, before I am too incoherent to register and respond accordingly.”

“That doesn’t sound too smart there, kiddo!” Patton said, like he was any older than Logan was.

“I do not feel like being smart right now,” Logan said snippily. Because being smart involved thinking, and Logan had done quite enough thinking for the day. He was tired of thinking, tired of memories, tired of the lump in his chest that had formed during his lunch break and hadn’t dissolved in the eight hours since. He was tired.

“Would you like me to be smart for you?” Patton asked.

Ah.

Yes, Logan remembered suddenly with just a few words why he hated Patton Hart so much. Why he hated those too-wide brown eyes, those stupid freckles, that soft smile. Why he hated the way that Patton had tracked him down despite the fact that he had turned off his phone, the way that Patton had ordered two waters, the way that he hadn’t taken off his jacket. The way that he had taken out his keys and put them on the bar counter between them and Logan could pick out his own house key from the jumbled mess of bits and bobs.

“I heard something pretty interesting today,” Patton said, when Logan didn’t reply because he was too busy remembering why he hated Patton so much.

“Please don’t pretend like you didn’t know about my so-called affair before I did.” Logan snapped. “Honestly, Patton!” Logan dropped his arm from the glass and instead pressed his knuckles to his forehead. “Playing dumb about your own company is my least favroite thing about you.”

“I thought you hated my laugh the most.” Patton looked at him, letting the smile slip into something more serious.

“I hate everything about you.”

“Pay for the drinks, Lo.” Patton told him, “And I’ll take you home. We can have some of my lasagna and watch a space documentary, like we’re twenty years old again.”

Logan hated Patton and hated the way his chest ached at the offer. His knuckles bore into the side of his head, jabbing the frame of his own glasses into this temple. He hated the way that Patton was looking at him, soft and sweet and naive.

He hated the way his fingers itched to take Patton’s hand and go home.

“And after all that,” Patton continued so lightly, “You can tell me all about how Remus Prince got under your skin.”

Logan’s hand slammed on the counter, so suddenly he surprised himself. Patton, however, didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink, didn’t react other than to hold that smile.

“I am not drunk enough to be talking about Remus Prince,” Logan spat. “Especially not to you, Patton.”

Patton was quiet and at first, Logan really had thought that he had won something-- he thought that perhaps Patton would grant him mercy and let him drown his sorrows alone and miserable in a bar until he forgot his own name. But Patton was too good of a friend and Logan really should hate him less for that.

“You know,” Patton said with a cold type of humor that doused Logan with awareness. Bad awareness. The type of awareness that sunk it’s metaphorical claws into Logan’s chest and pierced straight through his heart before Patton finished what he was saying. “I think….yeah that does sound familiar. Do you remember the last time you said you weren’t drunk enough to tell me something?”

Logan did.

Logan couldn’t forget if he tried.

And he had tried so very hard for so very long-- except that Remus Prince had waltzed into Logan’s life, had called him a Robot, had smirked at him and run their coworkers around like cattle with pretty little words. Except that Remus Prince had gotten bored and decided that the only logical next course of action was to mess with Logan’s personal life.

Except that Remus Prince had played along with the rumor game, and smiled at him, and kissed him, and---

And Logan had started thinking---

And Logan’s mouth had started moving--

And Virgil face had--

Logan reached for the glass in front of him, reaching for the cool ice and the spritzy carbonation and the burn of the rum.

Patton watched him, blinking in the long, slow, dumb way of his that had fooled just about every person that he had come in contact with. With the goofy smile and the habit of deliberately misunderstanding key phrases and making puns and jokes when things were tense, it was hard to see him as anything other than a rich son who became CEO via thinly veiled nepotism.

Logan knocked back the drink, blinking back the burn behind his eyes that were from the alcohol and definitely not from the lump in his throat that had started dissolving.

He didn’t want to close his eyes, because he knew what he would see when he did: a nice suit, a fancy dinner, a walk to the bridge dotted with fairy lights of all things. He’d see that stupid ring, that stupid face, that stupid end of the night that everyone had told him would be nice, and perfect, and everything he would ever want!

And he didn’t want to think about how it had not been nice or perfect or anything either of them had ever wanted!

He didn’t want to think about how years ago he had come to a bar just like this, and tried to get so drunk he could pretend that it hadn’t happened, and Patton had shown up then and offered him a job and--

“He wants to go by Janus now,” Patton said, picking up one of the waters and taking a sip.

Logan squinted at him and tried not to be happy about the distraction from his own thoughts, “Who?”

“My son,” Patton said, like it was obvious he had switched back to a neutral topic. “He told me earlier during our phone call he wants to go by Janus, now. He said he’s hated the name Dante for forever. Can you believe it, Lo?”

Logan couldn’t actually. Because he had known Patton since they themselves were teenagers, since before Patton had brought up how empty being a CEO was without anyone to come home too, since Patton had first invited him to Sunday brunch and introduced him to the child he called “son”. Logan had babysat Dante when Patton had business trips and Dante had always been proud of himself, of his better-than-the-status-quo lifestyle, of his name that held power and prestige and weight.

Dante had been practicing saying his name in the mirror since before his voice cracked. Dante Hart, future CEO. Dante Hart, son of Patton Hart. Dante Hart.

“He’s a teenager,” Logan said, “He’s rebelling.”

“Maybe so!” Patton laughed, and it dwindled down to something that was easier felt in the air than definable in terms Logan was familiar with, “Gosh, I love him so much, Lo. My baby! He’s growing up so fast now! The other day he told me he had a boyfriend. He’s at that stage where he doesn’t want me to help him anymore!”

And despite the buffoon having not had a single drop of alcohol, Patton was tearing up. Logan gritted his teeth at the implications of a weepy, teary, so-full-of-emotions Patton. He had spent enough time in college trying to console him as he figured out the whole “Why does it always have to be about sex? Why can’t I just love hugging someone, Lo? Why does everyone make me feel so broken?” Logan hadn’t been any good back then, and he definitely hadn’t gotten better with time.

After that disaster with the last guy, Logan had decided that feeling things, frivolous things, emotion-like things, were not something he was into anymore.

Logan learned from his mistakes, after all.

Even the mistakes that started with “R” and ended in a $400 ring being thrown away.

“Is that why you’re here, Mr. Hart?” Logan asked, in that way of his that told even Patton with his squirrel run brain that it wasn’t actually a question at all. “You can’t baby your son anymore so you’ve moved on to the next best thing?”

Patton stuck his tongue in his cheek and set his water back down. “Patton.” He stressed. “And I’m not here to baby you, Logan. I’m here to be your friend.”

He said “friend” like it was a word in the dictionary Logan didn’t know. It was infuriating: the insinuation that Logan had never cracked open a dictionary before, that he was so unknowledgeable about the concept of a friend that Patton was about to show him the online Oxford dictionary definition, like someone who played dumb all day and peppered his windows with sticky notes in the shape of a game of Frogger knew more about something than Logan who had clawed his way up from nothing and was constantly needing to prove how he earned his position.

Patton nudged the second water in Logan’s direction.

Logan stared at it, at the condensation on the glass, at the ice cubes, at the refraction of the low lights from the bar counter. He stared at it like it was a portal back through time that would allow him to slam some sense into poor, pitiful twenty-one-years-old Logan before he let himself fall in Love.

Before he bought a ring or stopped taking days off unless Patton tromped down to his office himself. Before Remus Prince borrowed his cup and before Logan got it in his head that he was serving revenge rather than idiocracy. Before he let himself think too little and say too much and hurt a kid that had never deserved to be upset before in his life.

“If my son wants to be called Janus, I’ll call him that,” Patton says softly. “Because even if it doesn’t make sense to me, it means something to him. And even if my friend is struggling with emotions that don’t make sense to me, I’m still gonna try to help him, Lo.”

Patton ducked his head just a little, just enough that he managed to catch Logan’s strategically averted gaze and make something out of it: a swell of guilt, a sense of hope, a pinch of safety and unadulterated kindness.

His throat was dry, but it was the type of dry that couldn’t be fixed with a glass of water.

“I made a kid cry,” Logan said, because self loathing is a coat he had thought he’d outgrown but he can still fit his arms in the sleeves.

Patton nodded. “Yeah, I heard about that.” He sipped his water. “I think we all have at one point or another.”

“See, the distinct difference that you are missing here, Patton, is that you are a father.” Logan snapped, “And your son will cry at the drop of a hat if he thinks he can get something out of it. And you would never harm a child! Not for any reason in the entire world!”

“And you would?”

“I did.” Logan felt himself sink into the chair, sink like an anchor in the ocean, sink like the floor below him had turned into a blackhole. “I did, I did it. What type of person does that make me?”

“I hate to break it to you, Lo,” Patton said, as kindly as he could, which Logan knew was truly, sickenly nice. He wanted to choke on the sentiment but he found that he couldn’t quite make his chest hurt the way he wanted it too when it came to Patton’s pity.

“But that just means you’re a normal person.” Patton smiled dumbly, tilting his head and shrugging. “Everyone says things they don’t mean sometimes.”

“You don’t.”

“I do,” Patton countered gently, “Like when I hired Beatrice before realizing that she had lied about knowing how to use Excel.”

“Fuck, Beatrice,” Logan agreed, because if he closed his eyes too hard he thought he might still see grid patterns as much as he might see Virgil’s hurt expression and he hated it so much. So much.

“I also told-- Janus once that I would get him anything he wanted for his birthday, and he asked for a snake.” Patton shuddered, almost comically, “And you saw how that turned out.”

“I’ve always been impressed with his ability to sneak things into the school buildings,” Logan sighed. “I doubt anyone has ever forgotten that Show-and-Tell.”

Patton chuckled quietly. It was almost lost in the buzz of the other patrons in the bar. He drew a smiley face in the condensation on his glass and Logan reached over to wipe it away, like he had done a hundred seventeen times since college.

“So….Lasagna?” Patton offered. “We can make some garlic bread too.”

“I regret ever meeting you,” Logan said, even as he picked up the keys on the counter between them. He wished that Patton didn’t look so self satisfied, so pleased, so smug when the words tumbled from his lips, but Patton had never been one to pertain to the wishes and whims of Logan like that.

Settling his tab was quick; a pile of bills from his wallet that he didn’t actually check, but decided the bartender deserved anyway and then Patton linked their elbows together so that Logan couldn’t walk off the way that he used to when he would agree with Patton just to get him to shut up. Logan snagged Patton’s glasses from his head and fogged them up with his breath, before taking on the tedious task of cleaning the fingerprints off the lens meticulously while walking in a wobbling straight line.

Patton laughed like silver bells and it alone brightened the entire street with a type of magic that Logan had long since given up on trying to scientifically explain. The poet in him that Logan had buried under Calculus classes and Statistics courses and a Business degree and only let out when the alcohol out weighed the blood in his system, whispered that it was because it was Patton and his aloofness, and his kindness, and his generosity that never made any sense, and wasn’t that reason enough for the universe to lighten up?

It was drizzling outside, scattered raindrops and dark heavy clouds that whispered of a thunderstorm later. Patton skipped, Logan rolled his eyes and let himself be dragged towards the familiar pale blue punch buggy. It was the same exact car from their college time together, if one ignored the frankenstein replacements of just about every single component in it. Patton clung to the car the same way he had clung to the delusion of Logan being a good friend; sticking close through every breakdown, excusing every letdown, and spending far too much money on it when economically it would have been more beneficial to just let them go.

A wave of self loathing wrapped over Logan again when he pulled on the car door. Patton was genuinely a good person, a good friend. He was stupid at times and he made decisions that made Logan was to strangle him, but he cared so much more than other people. He offered fourth and fifth chances when Logan would have stone-walled his offender at one.

Not to mention, he had come out in the rain to find Logan specifically, probably traversing through three other bars to find the one that Logan had chosen to be his misery echo chamber.

By some sort of lucky happenstance, Logan had originally walked far enough to hail a taxi to get to this bar, leaving his car in the safety of the parking garage where Patton’s company paid a nice sum for security. Logan had tried to argue about that expense with him back in the day, but Patton had pulled out a picture of his toothy grinning son-- Janus-- and said “Lo!! What if my son comes to visit when he learns to drive?! I don’t want to worry about him getting attacked in the parking garage!”

Logan had brutally pointed out that his son would never visit him during work, and so far he had been correct in that assessment, but that didn’t stop him from feeling the slightest bit guilty about his bluntness even so much time later.

Patton had always looked for the best in people, had more strength than most of humanity, had more hope in happy endings that Logan had trust in fact and numbers.

“Is your son okay with me calling him Janus? I’m unsure of etiquette on this. Should I wait until he tells me his preference or should I just make the switch and not bring it up to him?” Logan asked with a sigh as Patton pulled out of the parking spot and set them towards Patton’s house on the other side of town. Unobstructed and following the driving laws, it would only take them about fifteen minutes, and yet Logan wondered about the possibility of Patton having Advil in the car.

The back of his head was already aching from the days events: banging his head on the keyboard all morning leading up to his disastrous lunch date, Remus, Virgil, squinting at spreadsheets until he couldn’t make out the numbers anymore, and the of course stumbling his way to the bar and dealing with Patton.

Patton giggled. “Oh yeah! I asked him earlier if it was okay to tell you. He said he wanted you to call him Janus now. He also said to tell you, you can take a hike.”

Knowing Janus, it was probably something more volatile than “taking a hike”. Most likely it had been something that might have required him to put a full five dollars in the swear jar that they kept on the counter next to the cookie jar. Not that it would matter much. Logan had stayed over at their house dozens of times and every single time he had come across Janus taking that money back out of that swear jar.

As far as Logan was aware, the swear jar had never actually been full. Patton must have noticed at some point-- probably that very first time Janus had taken the money back out-- but he was irritating insistent that he play dumb about it. Thus, Janus continued to swear in excess, Patton continued to make him put money in a swear jar for no real reason, and Logan continued to never understand either of them.

The radio in Patton’s car had been broken fifteen times since Patton had gotten it, but Logan assumed from the silence of the drive that it was now sixteen. He rested his elbow on the window and watched the drizzle turn into a steady rain and the windshield wipers flutter across their vision to occasionally bring them clarity.

The night life was somewhat dreary. The driving pace was slow, and they hit every single stop light in the city because that was just Logan’s luck. There were a few people running around in the rain: a family with a small child who was jumping in every slowly forming puddle on the sidewalk, a couple sharing an umbrella walking so close together they appeared as if to be one misshapen form, a group of friends chatting outside a 24 hour dinner in raincoats, and a few smokers huddled under an alcove with embers burning just enough for Logan to make out their forms through the downpour.

Logan realized almost immediately that the pit in his stomach was much more bearable if he instead focused on the raindrops on the window that are much easier to look at, much less representing something that Logan had always expected he might one day have, much less accusatory in wondering what is wrong with him that he can’t act like a normal human being, this isn’t working, who wants to marry a robot like you--

That was the reason why he wasn’t expecting the sudden jerk of the car coming to a hard stop at a yellow light that they absolutely could have made.

“PATTON!” Logan yelled.

The car behind them blared it’s horn and Logan rubbed his neck and reset his glasses from the sudden movement, ready to question what exactly Patton thought he was doing, because truly of all the things Logan was not in the mood for, this was one of them.

Except that before Logan could get any words out, Patton had put the car in park and whipped off his seatbelt to kick open his door. A wave of rain came pouring into the car as the man threw himself from the driver's seat like there was something wrong with the car, and for a second Logan entertained the absurd idea that they were going to blow up.

Which truly, would have just been a fitting end to his horrific day.

“Patton!” Logan hissed, grabbing after the other’s coat to pull him back inside before the rain soaked into the seats. “Get back in th--”

The other man ignored him, frantically waving to someone in the rain. “REMUS!! MR. PRINCE!! OVER HERE!!”

If Logan knew slightly less about human biology he might have been inclined to say that his heart jumped straight to his throat and climbed its way up his esophagus to strangle him. He wouldn’t have recognized the figure on the street corner on his own: Remus Prince was wearing a black leather jacket and jeans with holes in the knees. He was soaked to the bone, without an umbrella, and his usual bouncy brown curls were matted to his head, as if he had been walking out in the rain for much longer than the rain had been sweeping through the city.

He was standing with the smokers under their minimal tarp, although he, himself, was without a cigarette at all. When he turned at the call of his name, there was only confusion and exhaustion in his face. None of the smugness, or the ego, or the energy that he usually had.

Logan didn’t know why that bothered him. He was hurting from earlier; that was good.

After all, it was Remus’s ridiculous game that he had dragged everyone else into.

((Logan’s finger itched and he dug his nails into his skin so deeply he was afraid to glance down in case there was blood pouring off hands.))

Remus ventured out to meet them, dodging across the lanes of traffic without a care in the world, or perhaps with a death wish. Remus didn’t seem particularly like he would mind getting run over by the way that he opened the back door, climbed in, and shook the excess water out in the interior of the car like some type of undomesticated dog.

“Is this a kidnapping?” He asked, rain dripping down his face. “A murder? Do I get to know your name before you dismember me, cutie?”

Patton laughed joyfully, even as Logan felt his face screw up at the sound of Remus calling their boss “cutie”. It was beyond unprofessional, even if Remus was apparently unaware that his career hinged entirely on not insulting Patton. It took a lot to make Patton angry enough to fire someone-- his patience was the best and worst thing about him, as Logan had been reminded every time they interacted-- but once Remus crossed that line, not even a cockroach like him would be able to drag himself out of the metaphorical wasteland Patton would make out of his life.

Cutie, honestly. Who calls anyone they’ve just met cutie. Logan could understand Remus having called him Lovebug and Lolo, but cutie?

For Patton?

Patton climbed back into the car, snapping on his seatbelt and managed to get out of park at the very same moment as the light turned green. He wiped his sleeve along his glasses, and brightly said, “I’m Patton! And you already know Logie here!”

“Logie?” Remus repeated, sitting back against the seat taking in Logan for the first time. “Oh shi--”

“Do not call me that,” Logan said. “Patton, you can drop me off at the next corner. I will walk home.”

“Don’t be silly!” Patton said, in the same tone that he had used during their college days to coax Logan into driving him to the nearest grocery store after he had successfully managed to pull two all nighters in a row. Logan hated that tone, and Patton knew that well.

“If you do not stop the car, I will throw myself from it while it is still moving.”

“I can get out, actually!” Remus said far too loud for the small car. Logan resisted the urge to turn around and scowl at him. Surely, his pea-sized brain had managed to figure out that he was the point of contention here and that his best move would be to shut up, so why had he decided to open his mouth? “I need to get home anyway. Big day tomorrow and everything.”

“Oh?” Patton said delightedly because Logan would not ever play into subject changes willingly. “What’s tomorrow?”

“I’m getting fired,” Remus said with a nonchalant shrug.

Patton blinked for a moment-- his squirrel-run brain jamming at the sudden twist of the words because whatever he was expecting from his visitor it was not that. Logan resisted the urge to reach over and give him a shake at the shoulders: of course he wouldn’t be able to expect anything with Remus Prince. The man was insufferable and illogical and he wrought chaos for fun.

With everything that had happened, did Patton really think that there was an exaggeration in there?

Remus wanted attention. And he said whatever he needed to in order to get it: a fake affair, a fake divorce, a fake child-- Of course he would say he was getting fired tomorrow if it got Patton to have to use all of his meager brain cells to figure out how serious he was.

“Is that something to celebrate, Mr. Prince?” Logan cut in coldly. “Getting fired?”

“And here I thought that you would be happy, Ackroyd,” Remus said. “Unless you think you’re going to miss me.”

“If only I would be so lucky,” Logan said, digging his phone from his pocket, and turning it back on. The screen was blindingly bright and Logan’s eyes ached just glancing at it in the corner of his vision. “Patton, pull over. I am not doing this tonight. Or tomorrow. Or ever again.”

“I’m not going to let you walk home after however many rum and cokes you had, Logan.”

“Patton,” Logan snarled. “If you continue to treat me like you treat your son, I will tender my resignation tonight. Pull over now.”

Patton opened his mouth, but whatever he was going to say was swallowed up in Remus’s empty voice speaking.

“You went drinking?”

“Do not talk to me, Mr. Prince.”

“You’re not even yelling.”

Logan wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean, which may have irritated him more than the fact that he was so insistent about continuing to talk when Logan was liable to push the car to crash and kill all three of them. Remus was already staring at him, his expression dark and serious in the passing car lights and somehow Logan thought that he looked vulnerable.

Logan gritted his teeth as his headache pulsed behind his eyes.

“Shut up,” he said. “And put on your seat belt.”

“Or what? You’ll divorce me?” Remus pushed forward between the seats until he was just a few inches from Logan’s own face, grinning with all his teeth. It was at once the same smile that Logan had catalogued through every week of working with him and also something completely foreign.

Remus had pulled him into a kiss earlier that morning, and Logan remembered the taste of pickles on his lips just as well as the smirk he kept as Logan walked away. But this expression is somehow inverted, somehow shifted, somehow a weapon more than a challenge.

“Boys,” Patton said. “Please don’t fight in my car!”

“If you did not want us to fight, why did you invite him in this car?” Logan asked. “You, of all people, know my opinions on--”

“Logan, you’re drunk.”

“What does that have to do with this?!” Logan bit out. He glared at his phone: there were three missed calls from Patton and a handful of text messages from him that Logan couldn’t actually read in the combination of the bright phone light and darkness around them. His eyes were blurry even with his glasses on and the frustration of not being able to read only heightened as he made out the notification for his email which meant that Beatrice had managed to finish her work (allowing Logan to be able to go fix it) or that news of him yelling at a child made it around the office and now he was going to harassed by them as well.

All because of Remus Prince’s inability to shut up.

Patton threw a hand out and grabbed Logan’s phone from his hand and carelessly tossed it over both their shoulders to Remus.

“Patton!” Logan hissed, rubbing the irritated tears from his eyes. “Remus, give it back!”

Remus, however, was just staring at the phone in his lap like it was some type of bomb. Logan’s phone locked itself and the screen went dark, and still Remus sat inhumanely still in the seat, staring at it, with a type of blank expression that Logan oftentimes related to their coworkers when Logan asked them to perform any sort of math without a calculator.

“Remus,” Logan said again.

Remus jerked at the sound of his voice, snapping out of whatever fit the phone had put him in almost meekly-- if Logan could describe anything Remus did as meekly without it being a blatant falsehood. “Meekly” itself had never seemed to be a word in Remus’s vocabulary which was another irritating fact about him that made Logan break out in figurative hives.

Logan knew how Remus was.

He knew Remus.

It didn’t matter that he had never talked to Remus before today, that his thinly veiled contempt for his coworkers kept him from being willing to stand in their presence more than he was being paid to, that this fake affair was the first stupid relationship of any kind he had gotten outside of Patton and his son since his last boyfriend had dumped him on the night he was going to propose and hadn’t he thought he’d known him too? Isn’t that what led to all this?

It didn’t matter.

Logan was smarter, now. Logan was better now. Logan was--

“I don’t…” Remus said, trailing off as he stared at the messages popping up on Logan’s phone and Logan wondered why it felt like his lungs had shrunk right in his chest. “I don’t think you should be reading these right now.”

“He definitely should not!” Patton said, with a very convincing amount of forced happiness. “Hold that for him will you, Remus? Oh and why do you think you’re going to get fired tomorrow?”

Remus looked up at Logan and then at Patton and then back at Logan, like Logan was supposed to know what that meant in addition to every other stupid look he’d given Logan all evening. Logan shoved his glasses up to his hairline and rubbed his aching eyes, and yet somehow that still didn’t fix the pounding in his head or the exhaustion hollowing out his bones. It also didn’t make Remus disappear from the backseat, which was equally annoying, even though Logan hadn’t truly thought he was a shared apparition for him and Patton.

“You didn’t mention anything about today to your… what are you a fuck buddy?” Remus said.

And Patton laughed.

Logan grabbed the door handle and yanked on it, but of course the ridiculous safety locks were engaged, and Logan had spent far too many sober years getting locked in this car to try to puzzle out the broken locking system in order to drunkenly throw himself out of the car. He was not in the habit of wishing for miracles, or even believing in deities, but he imagined that some powerful entity was finding ruining Logan’s life to be semi enjoyable.

“See this is why I can’t fire him!” Patton said through giggles and Logan thought maybe he was being addressed for this. Patton met Remus’s gaze through the rearview mirror and shook the last bit of water from his damp hair. “You make everything so entertaining!”

“What?”

Logan grit his teeth and yanked on the door handle again. “Remus, meet Mr. Hart, the CEO and your boss. Also put on your seatbelt.”

Remus blinked at them both, leaning between the seats and definitely not putting on his seatbelt. Logan counted backward from ten, reminding himself that one of the hiring requirements for Patton’s company has always been must be the stupid beyond belief. He’d known for a while that his coworkers were idiots on a good day, hazards to his health on bad ones, and yet somehow in the whirlwind of the day he’s had, Logan had forgotten that Remus counted as a coworker still.

“I’m not… getting fired?” Remus said, acting much like a computer after being turned on. “Why do you know my name then?”

Patton shrugged, flicking on his blinker to change lanes before the next light. “You have interesting ideas for your advertising strategy! Of course I would know your name! I’m sorry about vetoing that last one. I know Logan liked it, but I wanted to stick to the family-as-a-whole angle.”

“Patton,” Logan warned with an edge.

“Logan liked…?” Remus echoed, before turning towards Logan with a look of bewilderment that annoyed Logan far more than it had any right to. “You actually look at my shit?”

“Put on your seatbelt, Remus,” he said, because wasn’t it obvious that Logan looked at his things? Before the whole Robot incident Logan hadn’t had a problem with Remus at all: he was effective and efficient and the rumors were irritating but below him to indulge in. Before Remus had dragged him figuratively kicking and screaming into this mess, Logan approved the budgets that came with the projects Remus created.

He still did that, just with more anger than before. Petty feelings for Remus himself aside, his work was objectively good.

Logan knew that about him.

“So!” Patton said over both of them, with his signature grin that Logan suspected he would still be wearing even if Logan decided to kill him right now. It must be the by-product of being controlled by rodents running on a wheel. “How was your volunteer work Remus?”

Remus froze in the back seat, going unnaturally still again. “Are you some kind of stalker-- uh sir?”

“Will you knock that off?” Logan snapped, which only made Remus’s shoulders jump straight to his ears. “And put on your seatbelt.”

“Just curious!” Patton said, ignoring Logan entirely. “Darlene is a good friend of mine! I make sure to send monthly donations to the organization since I don’t have a lot of free time to jump over and help.”

Remus didn’t say anything to that. He swallowed audibly and leaned back against the seat, dragging fingers through his wet hair and then tucked his arms in his own armpits. Logan pressed a palm to his forehead watching the street lights bend from behind his eyelids because that was easier than staring at Remus act like Patton was trying to pull his teeth out.

“You actually do volunteer work?” Logan said. “You don’t seem like the type.”

“Ha,” Remus said without any inflection. Logan thought that was the quietest that he had ever been. Where was that stupid ass smirk? Where was the stubbornness that pushed back against everything? Where was that loud voice and that confidence?

“Put on your seatbelt,” Logan said again.

“Why do you care if I wear the belt or not?”

“Remus put on your seatbelt or, so help me Newton, I will climb back there and put it on for you, myself!”

The air simmered from the acid in his tone, making the silence figurative chafe against his ribs. Remus stared at him, blinking slowly, with the street lights casting roving shadows on his face. His dark eyes were just so-- so--

Logan dug his nails into his palm. Why was it Remus Prince could make him feel like this? What gave him the right?

“It’s okay!” Patton said, setting the car to park. “We’re here anyway!”

Logan reached up and pulled his glasses back onto his face properly, but it still took him a moment to realize that they were near a bunch of townhouses, double parked outside one that Logan had considered moving into all those years ago when he had first been looking for an apartment for after college.

Remus too, apparently needed a moment to recognize the area. “We… are at my apartment? Holy shit, you are a stalker.”

Patton giggled, flashing Remus with his blinding smile and reached back to pick up Logan’s phone from his hands. “Thank you so much, kiddo! We’ll wait until you get inside all safe and sound, and I’ll see you tomorrow!”

“You will not,” Logan said. “Tomorrow you have a business deal two hours away to complete and if you miss it--”

Patton stretched back in his seat and let out a hugely exaggerated yawn. “But they’re so boring! Maybe I should bring Janus with me. He always makes my business deals entertaining. I love when he sets his snake on people. He looks so happy and he laughs and--”

Logan squeezed his eyes closed and recited the first twenty digits of pi in his head to keep from grabbing Patton’s squirrel run brain and slamming it into the steering wheel.

“Homicide is wrong,” Logan said.

“I’ll help you vouch for insanity,” Remus said. “I mean, tied together through a murder, and possibly hiding a body is much more juicy than a fake marriage that’s falling apart. We’d be the talk of the office.”

“They would not find any body that I hid,” Logan said. “Nobody would.”

Remus opened his mouth to say something more, but whatever it is he decided against it. Instead he slid over the seats and kicked open the door right behind Logan and stepped out into the night air.

“Thanks for the ride, Mr. Hart, sir,” he said, strangely formal, then squinted and added, “Daddy?”

“I’m not firing you, Remus,” Patton said. “No matter what you call me!”

Logan ran his tongue over his teeth counting each and every one. Remus looked at him but ultimately finally adhered to that whole shutting up thing. He closed the door to Patton’s blue punch buggy and started towards the door to the apartments.

“Oh,” Remus said, and turned back at the last second. He knocked his knuckles on Logan’s window a few inches from where Logan’s gaze fixed itself on a light. Patton apparently knew more about what to do than Logan because he pressed the window lowering button and Remus reached his entire arm into the window to drop a small object right into Logan’s lap.

Logan caught it mainly due to reaction rather than skill and his skin tingled at the familiar item. Even in the dark, Logan’s fingers roll over the shape of the ring that had always reminded him of the worst day of his life. It was still warm from being in Remus’s pocket.

“I think that should stay with you,” Remus said, like it wasn’t a big deal at all. “You know… for the next boytoy you take to your sex dungeon or whatever nerds like you do on weekends.”

And then he turned around and fled towards the apartment building. Patton turned off the hazard lights and slipped back into traffic and Logan wondered if he would be polite enough to not comment if Logan started crying right then and there.

His throat felt swollen, his tongue too big for his mouth, and the headache thrummmmmmed painfully.

Logan knew Remus Prince.

“You know that Remus Prince isn’t gonna be like him,” Patton said to fill the silence.

“Remus Prince isn’t like anyone.” Logan didn’t whine. To whine would be unbecoming. And childish. And embarrassing.

So Logan didn’t whine and Patton mercifully didn't call him out on his not-whining.

And neither of them mention the choked tone that Logan had for the rest of the night.

When Logan had seen his boss after he made Virgil cry, he hadn’t expected it to end up with him clutching that ring like a lifeline, but as he ran his fingers around the rim, he wondered if it had fit on Remus’s finger at all.

(Part Five)

#intrulogical #sanders sides #logan sanders #remus sanders #patton sanders #Far too many OCs gross #Rumor Mill Au #rumors #well fake marriage #sympathetic remus #Logan is bad at feelings #so bad #now with more logan angst #Patton is a good friend #This au is so old that I called Janus Dante and I decided to fix that #alcohol #drunk logan

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starfirette · 4 years ago

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Hello! Can u please write Helena Bertinelli with a Fem!reader tomboy that's a muay thai fighter and look like super cool and cold,but in the apartment its a very soft and lovely girlfriend with Helena? (And how the birds will react when them met her) Thank you,I Love you writing and HELENA IS SUCH A BAE!!! THIS GAL NEED MORE LOVE AND SUPPORT!❤

masterlist | word count: who fucking knows | 🏷 @kurreapormaranet @emofairygay | a/n: ;0 There are some things you might want to look up on youtube so you have a general idea of what’s happening. Clinch positions, tactical stand ups, thips

The rink’s seats filled massively, stretching to every wall that bounced the cheering back and forth.

The overall mission seemed simple, but it had Helena dreading this moment since Harleen explained what needed to happen.

The trust fund brat of the devilish Rossini family kidnapped the Rossini’s pride and joy: their little baby girl, Ayala. Ayala Rossini, four years old, is the Brat’s younger half sister and the new written in heir of the Rossini fortune. The Brat, Carmen, had been written out of the will after she kidnapped the new little bird Batman was keeping under his wing. She’d been sloppy and left behind all marks of her family’s (unbeknownst) involvement. She made serval costly mistakes which included Batman’s uncovering of the Rossini family’s plans of Gotham, Star, and Jump city. Half the family became arrested.

Carmen was all but disowned by her father, whom she already resented for marrying another woman so quick after the death of her mother. To get her revenge, she kidnapped Ayala.

So, Mr and Mrs Rossini employed Harley and her rag tag team of anti-hero thugs.

To get Ayala back, the girls would have to go undercover.

Their heroic deed would get them 30k each, so that was good enough. The Rossinis are precise and focuses; they’d been willing to pay as much as they had to in order to ensure the safety of their little crime lord baby.

Now Harley had her connections. She knew a guy who knew a guy who saw a friend with a girl outside of the 31 Flavors ice cream shoppe, and this girl just happened to know that Carmen spends her free time hosting epic fights in the secret tunnels of Smallville.

It’s a long ways away from Gotham, but is a perfect place to host such gatherings. The fights are frightfully violent and brutal. Also very illegal. No one would ever know that beneath the wheat and corn fields of Lil’ Ol’ Smallville county lays an intricate mafia maze.

Carmen Rossini is notorious for entertaining the winners to a “fine dinner with wine”. The rumors go that she runs an entire harem of Thai Fighting women, using them for sexual favors and personal security.

The entire mission is actually depending on that rumor.

The plan was to send in Dinah as a participant in the rink and hope she would win and earn the attention of Carmen.

But then Dinah got bronchitis. It was a nasty case, too, in which she wouldn’t stop coughing and hacking up green stuff into tissues.

The entire thing would have been called off if you hadn’t admitted that you are, in fact, trained in Muay Thai.

You’re positive that Helena would have rather kept this a secret, because she doesn’t like putting you in harms way. It’s a nuisance to have the world’s most protective girlfriend. Heaven forbid you even get a paper cut, else she’d make you wear rubber gloves while you read a book.

The entire group (save Helena) jumped for the chance to replace Dinah with you. You’d do perfect, Harley said, sounding so confident.

You intended to be flawless in the ring.

You’d not competed since high school, when Muay Thai was still just a recreational hobby. You’d had your wins and losses, but that was before you grew up to spend majority of your time fighting mafia crime lords.

Once Dinah officially relinquished her role of the mission, you took to the heavy bags. The repetitions became intense and harsh in the following weeks. You spent every night limping into bed.

Your sweet whispers that begged Helena for a soothing massage fell onto her deaf ears. She is stubborn, and she had been attempting to force you out of this competition since the day you’d agreed to it.

You were not afraid of Carmen, or anyone else she’d make you fight against. For the sake of the little Ayala, you would do this. Besides, you tell yourself, what’s the worst that could happen? With the Birds and their abilities, there isn’t much that could happen.

Nothing would slide through the cracks.

Hopefully.

The day did come faster than you’d imagined, though. The drive to Smallville was tense, especially in the backseat where Helena was frostily ignoring you.

Harleen was road raging, passing every trucker on the two way road that didn’t exceed 65 miles an hour.

“You know the speed limit is 45, right?” Montoya asked after she had taken a long drag of a cigarette. She had her legs propped up on the dash. Between her and Harley sat Cass, who was oblivious to the chaos around her as she sang along to a pop Spanish song. “Yeah, and?” Harley quipped. She cast her bright eyes towards Montoya, a wicked smile playing on her lips.“You gonna arrest me?”

Montoya couldn’t do much but sigh in defeat. If Harley didn’t mind crashing, then she didn’t either.

Between the bickering and the loud singing of the three front passengers, you and Helena were sitting silently in the very back seats. Your head was leaned up against the window which rattled as the tires of Harley’s ‘64 Starfire rolled across the gravely road.

Helena had been refusing to speak to you since the fight you got into last night. It was a real fight. She’s made it clear that she’s against you fighting in Carmen’s ring, and is especially against you joining her harem.

You’d first thought she was afraid of disloyalty; you had promised her that you wouldn’t ever cheat on her, even if it was for a mission. But it became revealed that’s not what Helena was worried about.

She feared for your life. She fears for your life every single day. No matter how small of a task, she can’t help but worry. She lost her mother, father, brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles; everyone. She’d been so helpless. She could only watch as she became the sole Bertinelli.

Helena couldn’t live on if something happened to you.

The fight ended on a confusing note. It didn’t end, per say, and you two did sleep in the same bed. However, neither of you has said a word to each other. You tried this morning, but she’d given you the snippy, cold shoulder.

As much as you hate putting her through so much anxiety, you know that you can’t back down. A girl’s life is at stake; it’s not the money you care about. Not to mention Carmen Rossini is about to make the top 50 worst criminals in Gotham County.

Harley rolled the car to a stop around a patch of gravel and dust. Everyone climbs out, rocks crunching under their shoes as they stretch and look around.

“Where is it?” Cass asks, shoving her hands in the pockets of her loose denim jacket. Her chapped lips are stained blue from the tootsy pop that she’d crunched on in the car. The soggy stick now hung from her lips, as if she had been imitating Montoya’s cigarette.

Harley locked, double checked, then re locked, then triple checked her car. She turned around, using her hands to shield her vision as she scanned the open wheat fields. “Dunno,” she admitted. “I guess I supposed someone woulda been here to meet us.”

You shifted on your feet. You wanted to try and make Helena happy before you’d at least go inside and get in the ring. The only issue is, she’ll only be happy if your forfeit now.

You would not.

Across the way, by a few yards at most, a rustling came through the wheat that came at least up to your hips.

A young man emerged; he approached the Birds with a guarded look that furrowed his thick, blond eyebrows. “You are Carmen’s guests, yes?”

He spoke with a thick accent. His honey blond hair contrasted his coffee brown features. He had a handsome face with a strong jaw, but something about him seemed off. He seemed intimidated despite being taller and broader than most.

“We are,” you answered for the Birds. “I am Y/n. I am the contestant.”

The man beckons you all forward. Helena glared at him, her hand steadily tapping the outside of her thigh. She was prepared to draw her gun and shoot anyone that could get in her way. In your way.

You tasted a bitter foam in your mouth as you attempted to stop Helena without raising too much attention.

“We––I––am here for the Carmen’s...event.”

The honey blond man tallied the Birds on his fingers, visibly distressed. “I do not thinka’ Miss Rossini expected so many of you...”

After a brief, strangled silence, the man shook his head and waved his arm along to escort you. “The bunker is just this way,” he explained. Harley and Cass walked after him.

Helena meets your eyes. Her gaze is firm, and maybe even angry. No way could you defuse that situation while still heading into the rink.

The wheat and grass crunched under your boots as you marched across the pace-by-pace clearing. A trap door in the ground lifted up swiftly, silently, as if they grease the hinges every damn day.

You remembered how this turned out for Suzie Salmon; casting one more look over your shoulder, you assured yourself with the presence of Helena.

Down the hatch, under the ground, you, Harley, Cass, Helena, and Mr Cannoli over here shuffled down the hall to a big dressing room. The entire layout felt more like a stadium then an underground crime rink. The dressing room has lush sofas and fur blankets; in the corner a SodaStream is mounted on an Ikea book table.

“Miss Rossini will join you shortly,” Cannoli-guy told you, nodding his head regally. He bowed out of the room, shutting the heavy oak door after him.

Cass jumped on the sofa. She sprawled out over the furs, kicking her muddy Chuck Taylors up. “Luxury.”

Harley snipped to Cass to get her dirty little feet off the merchandise.

You took a seat in the swivel chair in front of the large mirror. It looked like pure Broadway with the heavy lightbulbs that wreathed the glass.

“Can’t say they don’t know how to entertain a guest,” Harley squealed as she migrated to the SodaStream. “They got homemade cream soda!”

Cass jumped off the sofa to run after Harley.

Instead of facing you, Helena took a heavy seat on the couch. Her legs spread out, looking spectacularly muscular in her tight, black pants.

Unfortunately, you’re too annoyed with her to go lounge in her lap.

As much as you’d like to make amends, you know the only way to do that would be to back down. You’re going into that rink.

The door flew open at the second Harley had poured herself and Cassie a drink.

Carmen Rossini strutted in and you stared in awe. You tried not to let your jaw drop. Tall, voluptuous. Her hair is wavy auburn, her eyes deepest green.

She looked at you immediately. Reaching out for you as if you were the messiah, she chuckled. “You’re even cuter in person! Oh, sweetie, you––you do know how to drive a hard bargain. Your agent Harleen contacted me, where is she?”

Harley waved her hand from the corner. “That would be me. Ain’t Y/n a real figure?”

Scowling, Helena crossed her legs. She glared up at Carmen, and you remembered that Carmen is doing what Helena hates the most; complimenting you.

It’s not so much that Helena doesn’t like that you receive compliments; it’s just that she prefers giving them to you.

“I’m so happy to see you all here tonight,” Carmen said, clapping her hands loudly. “There’s nothing more exciting than tonight’s event. Did you know,” she cooed as she ‘boop’ed your nose, “that I’ve got people betting about two million dollars that you’ll win? I am so, so pleased that you’ve chosen to make your debut in my arena.”

You nod, your neck stiff. “I guess I’m excited?” you mumbled.

Carmen snapped her fingers. She signaled to one of her lackies to come forward. A box Is presented at your feet.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I brought you a little something. A uniform of your own, courtesy of moi. Don’t you love it? I had your photos analyzed by a fashion expert, and they designed your shorts to compliment you perfectly.”

The high waisted, Thai shorts are a deep ivory shade, with black flowers sewn into the design. They’re the most beautiful Thai shorts you’d ever seen! Your own were cute, but simple, considering that you didn’t usually think to be a fashionista while working out.

“They’re amazing,” you admitted. Over the top? Definitely. Did you expect anything else? Honestly, you’re not sure. You weren’t sure what to expect.

“Oh! I almost forgot.” Carmen, as she smiled, reached into the deep pocket of her red silk kimono-blouse. In her hands is a thickly wound prajoud, made of fine threads and paracord. The black and red jumped out at you like an old friend.

“I hope I got the rank right?”

“You did,” you say as you took the prajad from Carmen. “I could have brought my own if you’d asked.”

“It’s really not a big deal, my darling,” Carmen purred. She ran her hand through your hair, taking note of the silky feeling of each strand. “I will be watching. There will be people outside the door waiting to escort you to the arena when you’re done dressing.”

Her fingers are heavy with her bejeweled rings. The heavy tear shaped gems get tangled in your hair.

“You have ten minutes,” Carmen adds.

Helena glowered after her as she flitted out of the room. Her heels clacked down the hallway following the click of the door shutting in place.

Montoya took a long drag of her cigarette before she chortled.“You just gonna let her mark her territory like that?”

Helena didn’t say anything.

“Oi, Katniss,” Harley said loudly.

Helena’s cloudy eyes finally look to her friend. “What?”

“Carmen Rossini basically stole Y/n from you, and you let her!”

As you pulled out of your jeans, you sent Harley a little glare. “No one owned me to begin with,” you snapped.

“Hey, I’m all for women’s rights,” Harley exclaimed. “But it just seemed like—,”

“I know what it seemed like,” you snapped. “That’s the entire goddamn point, isn’t it? Get in her good graces?”

Case choked back her soda. “If that’s your idea of getting in Carmen’s creepy ‘good graces’ you gotta do better than that. You didn’t act sexy or flirt back at all!”

Helena stood to her feet. She brushed down the front of her black zip-up sweater. “I’m waiting outside,” she declares before stomping out with a frown wrung on her mouth.

Harley grimaced as the door slammed shut.

“Kid, come on,” Montoya sighed.

“I’m right,” Cass scowled. “You know that I am. We knew from the start that in order to get the little girl back, sexual favors would probably have to be granted.”

You pulled up your shorts. “Can everyone shut up?” You asked.

“What’s that?” Cass proceeded to ask, given she couldn’t talk about Carmen anymore. She pointed at the arm band that lay over the counter.

“Prajoud,” you tell her. Thank you pulled out of tour shirt. The heavy duty sports bra was already in place, but it gave you major uniboob.

“What does it do?” Cass asked again. Unable to contain her curiosity, she grabbed it off the vanity and fiddled with it.

“It’s like a belt,” you explained. “Instead of wearing a black belt, I wear a black prajad.”

“Who come up with that?” Cass asked.

“Uhm, Thai people?” Harley said as though it should be obvious. She snorted and jerked her thumb towards Cass. “Get a load of this guy.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s alright to ask questions, guys, just try not to be annoying. ‘M a little stressed out already.”

Harley took a final gulp of her soda. “Well, I guess we know who’s not getting action tonight. And that’s Y/n!”

“Why is Helena so upset anyways? Because Carmen was flirting?”

“No,” Harley explained. “See, she’s angry because Y/n’s going out and doing this fight, one, without asking her to begin with, two, for some other little kid, and three, with a evil Italian mafia tigress. She’s projecting her childhood fear that she’ll never be able to protect anyone she loves. She’s also rash, irritable, and possessive, so it’s just a cherry on top that the plan includes Y/n using her charms to sway Carmen.”

“Bravo,” you plainly say. “It’s almost like you’re a doctor or something.”

“Yeah,” Harley grinned. “Or something.”

You pulled the prajad over your forearm. You pulled the band tight, holding the laces in your mouth so you could knot it tight with one hand. You looked in the mirror, unsure of what to think of yourself.

You kicked your boots off next.

In socks, you turned to look at Harley and Cass. “Let’s do this,” you sighed.

Helena had been waiting loyally outside, leaned up against the jamb. Her eyes flitted up and down your figure, before rolling up towards the ceiling. “Let’s do this,” you said, sounding as if you’d already lost.

Marching down the hall in tow of the honey blond Italian, you tried to make eye contact with Helena. She was good at ignoring you. You’re not sure if it’s because she’s angry, stressed, or both.

Riddled with anxiety, you wish that she would look at you, or hold your hand at the very least.

At the entrance of the arena, you could see it was filled massively to the brim of its walls. You hadn’t realized how far underground you really are until you looked at the expansive seating. The rink’s seats filled massively, stretching to every wall that bounced the cheering back and forth.

You stepped to the stairs that wound up to the cage. You could smell the sweat and the matts; above the sound of the crowd cheering, you could hear your blood rushing fast in your ears.

“Find Ayala,” you muttered in Harley’s ears. “I don’t want to be here longer than we have to be.”

Her blue eyes sparkled with mischief, but they were momentairly dulled by a silent question. “I thought...?”

“No,” you said firmly. “We shouldn’t be here any longer than we have to be,” you tell her. “I’ll stay here, I’ll do my thing; you take everyone and look for that girl. If you’re not done by the time the match is over, I’ll distract Carmen.”

Harley couldn’t respond by the time you were dragged up the stairs. Outside the cage’s gate, you were given a little table at which you could rest at. It had a pitcher of ice water, some glasses, a washcloth, and a bottle of brandy. You took a large drink of the brandy first. You peeled off your socks.

It felt like a blur as you stepped into the cage.

Your opponent was your size; she looked your weight, too. You suppose that’s fair, at least. It’s not like in the movies. The real competitions are done by weight and height.

You turned your head to give one last glance to your friends.

Helena stood beyond the cage, her hand resting over the gun holster. Her eyes were fixated on you.

You had to look away.

Tying your hair up in a tight bun, you walked out onto the mat. Your opponent did the same; meeting you half way, you two shook hands.

You didn’t exchange names; that would only make it harder.

“The rules,” a voice boomed around the stadium, “are there are no weapons to be permitted in the arena. Please watch as the fighters return to their corners then begin the match on the sound of the bell. The match will consist of two rounds, each lasting seven minutes.”

You hovered in the corner of the cage. You stretched and jogged in place. You have enough training for this. You do. You know that you can do it; hopefully, you will.

The bell rang. You take a massive sprint out into the middle of the ring where your opponent had already paced out.

You wound up a punch. Your feet lifted off the mat as you leap into the air, and you delivered the blow to the side of her face.

Her teeth crunched under the impact. It was such a hit that you saw it spew out of her mouth, and hit the cage.

The crowd exploded into a frenzy.

Hovering at your face your hands remained in constant motion. Her kicks were well calculated and her movements tactical. She gave away all of her tricks, though, by looking twice at the target she would next go for. If she looked at your side once too many times, you would crouch and use your arms to block your ribcage.

The sweat that built up made the more precise attacks difficult. Your punch began sliding off her face, keeping you staggering forward, and in her wide open range.

You were struck once, twice, then thrice on your left cheek. It sent blood and saliva dribbling down your chin.

Your prajad began to slip as you struggled to regain your balance.

The girl’s long leg extended forward. Her foot jabbed a strong thip into the center of your stomach, practically digging against your bladder.

The bell rang, then, marking the end of the first round.

You fell into your corner with a wheezing gasp. You crawled for the little table. You drank directly from the pitcher.

You looked back to the crowd, half expecting to see a flash of unfamiliar faces.

Helena still remained at the ringside. Her hands are clenched through the cage, and her eyes are desperate to meet yours. You were confused. Why hadn’t she left with Harley? Did Harley not need her? Or did she want to stay and watch?

You felt stronger with her just a few yards away.

You staggered to your legs, where your knees wobbled like jello on a plate.

The two minutes of rest time had ended, and the bell rang once more. You slid back rather than go for her first.

She sauntered to you like a bear, her shoulders hunched and her fists close to her face. She swung hooks and uppercuts that you could just barely dodge. You were close to slipping backwards a few times.

“Y/n, watch out!” Helena shouted suddenly.

You couldn’t see the girl racing towards you like a battering ram through your blurry vision. Her fist slammed over your temple. You swore you could feel your brain tumbling around your skull as you fell to the floor.

You clutched your ear with your bare hands. Pain gushed out of you like water. You thought you could see it, visibly, as it poured down bright green and crystalline.

It wasn’t there; it was the spots dancing in front of you. Disorientation is a real bitch.

One tactical standup later, you’re back up on your feet. You pushed yourself forward, forcing the remaining energy you had out of your hands. You grabbed the girl by her long pony tail and dragged her into a tight clinch. She attempted to swim out of it; the friction of her wrists against your neck burned.

You tugged her down, driving a sharp knee into her stomach. She stayed in your clinch for a long time, gasping for air as she couldn’t evade the knees. You finally released her. She staggers back. She falls onto her ass, visibly shaken up and at a loss for breath.

The crowd began to scream at you. Some did a countdown, others urged the other girl to get back up.

It was too late for her.

The bell rang, marking the end of the seven minutes, as well as the second round. She had lost, and you had won.

You limped towards her. Despite your own pain, you lifted the girl onto her feet.

“Good game?” she rasped.

“Hell yeah,” you wheezed.

It felt like the ultimate orgasm to go back and gulp down the water. The cold, damp washcloth made a good compress for your busted lip. You judged by the twitching of your left eyelid that you had a pretty sizable welt there.

Helena ran to meet you as you limped down the stairs out of the cage. She threw her arms around you tightly. “You’re alright,” she gasped.

You tried to hug her back. Your arm hung loosely over her lower back as you tried to laugh. “Did you doubt that I would be?” you asked her. “Where’s Harley and Cass? Montoya?”

“They went to find the girl,” Helena said in your ear. “I couldn’t leave you...I had to stay and watch. I had to make sure.”

She pressed a kiss into the crook of your neck. “Let’s go,” you said firmly, “before Carmen comes for us.”

Helena helped you leave the arena. By the time you vanished, the stadium was already announcing it’s second match, featuring a woman named Selina. The people went into a hectic frenzy of excitement when Selina’s name was announced over the speakers. You knew as you were walking out she would never be able to escape this place.

Honey-blond-haired Italian guy jogged to keep up with you. “Miss Carmen asks that you wait in the dressing room,” he called out. “Yeah, yeah,” Helena called out. “We’ll be there.”

He followed you down the hallway, keeping several paces back to maintain a steady watching distance. He paused as he watched you and Helena head straight into the dressing room.

Sitting on the sofa inside is Harley, Cass, and a little girl sleeping in Harley’s arms. You were shocked. For a four year old girl, Ayala was incredibly small and fragile looking. Her olive skin and auburn hair is just like her elder sister’s. The hollows beneath her eyes are dark and colored by her greenish veins.

“Let’s scadadle,” Harley hissed as she rose to her feet, though struggling to keep Ayala in her arms.

You all rushed out of the hallway, quickly as to make it before Carmen could come back from the arena.

“Where’s the exit?” Cass asked.

“It’s this way,” Helena says. She pointed straight down the hallway. “The car’s waiting for us above the trap door.”

“Yeah, unless someone stole it,” Cass mocked. “What if we get locked in? Like in Hotel California?”

You could hardly begin to understand what Cass was saying. Her words were jumbles of sounds and her figure a blur of her dark hair and red jacket.

“We’re not getting locked in,” Harley exclaimed. “Let’s just get outta here!”

Helena climbed up the ladder first. She punched the door up, then open. “Give me the kid,” she said quietly.

Harley struggled to lift Ayala up.

Helena scooped her easily into her strong arms. Ayala stirred awake and whined as she became more and more aware. “I want to go home,” she mumbled, her voice quiet and empty.

“We’re taking you home, pumpkin,” Helena assured the little girl. “I’ve got you.”

As Cass was going up the ladder, a loud clatter arose down the tunnel. “Uh oh, spaghetti-os,” Harley whistled. She pushed you up the ladder next. “I’ll meet you guys up there,” she promised, sounding entirely confident. “Montoya,” she whistled between her teeth. “Feel like doing some target practice?”

It was the first time all day that Montoya smiled.

As you climbed up, you heard Harley’s shrill laugh between the shots of two, little handguns.

“Into the car,” you wheezed to Cassie. She looped her arms around your waist to help you limp into your seat. “Buckled in?” you heard Helena ask the little girl. She looked so shy despite all that’s going on. The curls of her hair were brushed behind her ear as Helena held her tightly. “You’re going back to your parents.”

Harley came running out seconds later. “Let’s get this show on the road,” she exclaimed.

“You have the keys!” Cassie shouted back.

Harley jumped into the drivers seat. She honked the horn loudly. “Renee, let’s move it!”

Montoya was limping a few feet away, struggling to keep up Harley’s pace. She crawled inside and as soon as she did, Harley pressed the gas, and sped away.

“Smoking is so bad for you, you know that, right?” Harley chastised. “Maybe if you just used the nicotine patches I bought you for Christmas, then you wouldn’t have so much trouble keeping up with us.”

“Take the patches,” Montoya huffed, “and shove them up your ass.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. You leaned back into the headrest of the rear seats. Helena held Ayala beside you, stroking her hair gently as she held her cellphone to Ayala’s ear. Her parents were on the other end, and you could hear the cries of relief.

You met Helena’s gaze, and you managed a smile on your busted mouth.

“I love you,” you mouth to her.

“I love you, too,” she replied.

#helena bertinelli x reader #helena bertinelli imagine #my helena babes #crossbow killer #crossbow killer x reader #huntress x reader #huntress imagine #dceu imagine #dceu x reader #birds of prey x reader #birds of prey imagine #birds of prey #mary elizabeth winstead #starfirette writes

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lovemesomesurveys · 4 years ago

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Snow or sand? I love the beach, but hate the sand. It literally gets everywhere. I love the snow, though. I wish it snowed where I live. I’ll have to go with snow.

Do you like sour candy? No. I don’t like the sourness and it irritates my mouth.

If anyone, who did you sit with at lunch today? It’s only 5AM. I’m also not in school nor do I have a job, so I just have lunch at home either by myself in my room or with my mom in the living room or her room. That’s if I have lunch at all.

What is the last letter of your favorite song? I couldn’t choose just one favorite song ya’ll know this.

Have you gotten any injuries lately? If so, what & how? No.

Are you a clumsy person? I bang my hand and elbow a lot.

How about disorganized? My room is a bit disorganized. I never used to let it get like that, but it’s a reflection of how I feel and have felt for the past few years. I’m a mess.

Have you ever thought about being a pirate? No.

If you text, who were the last three people you texted? My dad, mom, and brother.

Does today’s date mean anything to you? Nope.

How are you currently feeling? Tired and kinda cold.

Last male you talked to in person? My brother.

Have you ever had a sunburn? Yeah, many times. I got them a lot as a kid cause I actually used to play outside and spent a lot of time out there. Shocking, I know. I get them when I go to the beach as well. I’ve had some really painful ones. However, they always end up turning into a tan so that’s nice.

Do you use Firefox or Internet Explorer? Neither, I use Chrome.

Are you thinking about asking anyone out? No.

Pink lemonade or regular lemonade? I’m not a fan of lemonade.

Chocolate or strawberry milk? Strawberry.

Does it annoy you when people answer surveys with “idk”? I know I say “I don’t know” a lot. I try to answer the questions and in more detail, but sometimes I really just don’t know.

What is the current time? 5:08AM.

Should you be doing something other than this? Probably try to go to sleep, but that just wouldn’t be me now would it.

When is the last time you did laundry? My laundry just got gone last night.

What volume is the ringer on your phone? It’s all the way up.

Have you ever won a contest on the radio? No.

What shirt did you wear to bed last night? It was my Mario Bros shirt.

Where did you get that shirt? I got it from Hot Topic a couple years ago.

Do you hear any music right now? No, but I hear the ASMR video I’m watching.

Are you a fan of the band Gym Class Heroes? I like some of their songs.

Overall, how was your day today? Like I said, it’s only 5 in the morning so it’s too soon to say.

Silver or gold jewelry? I like both.

In one word, how would you describe your best friend? Fabulous.

Is there a song that reminds you of your best friend? There’s many.

Do you have an alarm clock? Yeah, on my phone.

What was the weather like today? It’s supposed to rain today. We haven’t had much rain this winter, in fact it’s been awhile, so I hope it does. Do you often write on yourself? I don’t do that anymore, but I did when I was younger. For some reason that was like a thing a lot of people did to themselves in middle and high school. *shrug*

Is there writing on the shirt you are currently wearing? Yes. It’s a shirt from a place I vacationed at.

Would you rather be cold or hot? Cold, most definitely. I love wrapping up in a blanket, wearing a sweatshirt or hoodie, drinking hot coffee, or sitting by the fireplace. I love the coziness. Being hot is just absolutely miserable, there’s nothing I enjoy about that.

Frosted flakes or frosted mini wheats? I like both.

Do mushrooms really add flavor to food? I don’t eat mushrooms.

What about onions? Yeah. I don’t mind if there’s some chopped up pieces in some foods and I like onion rings, but I don’t like onions on my burgers or in my burritos or anything like that.

Are you a fan of Thai food? I’ve never had it.

How about Indian food? I had chicken curry once, which I did like. I couldn’t have it now though cause I can’t eat spicy food anymore. :/

Have you ever tried sushi? Yes, and it was absolutely disgusting. I feel like everyone loves sushi but me.

What is the weirdest food you have eaten? I’m super picky, so I don’t think I’ve had anything all that weird. I’m so particular about my food.

Do you know who LL Cool J is? Yes.

You have a pocket full of change - what do you do with it? Put it in my bag.

Guitarists or lead singers? Lead singers.

What does your mom say about the pictures on your Facebook? She’ll like them and leave a nice comment.

Where are you? In my room on my chair.

do you know your mother’s birthday? Of course.

do you like texting? Over talking on the phone, yeah. I don’t do much texting, though.

would you run down the street naked if it meant earning $15,000? Could it be pitch black and not a single soul in sight??

how do you feel about the person who texted you last? I love him, he’s my dad.

do you own a pair of skinny jeans? All my jeans are skinny jeans.

what do the majority of people in your life call you? Steph or Sis.

will your next kiss be a mistake? I hope not? Who knows when my next kiss will even be or who it will be with.

has a book ever made you cry? Yes.

do you like to cuddle? Sure. I don’t have much cuddling experience, though.

do you automatically check your phone when you wake up? I check the time on it.

are your parents still together? Yes.

Are you missing anyone? I’ll always miss my loved ones who have passed away.

What do you currently hear? An ASMR video.

Plans for tomorrow? No. I’m so sick of this question, it’s like in every survey and my answer is always the same. My life is very routine. I spend all my time at home doing the same things, especially since the pandemic. My plans now just consist of my once a month doctor appointment that I have to go to in order to get my prescription refills.

What did you eat for lunch today? Like I mentioned a couple times now it’s only 5 in the morning.

Sex ruins relationships, right? No? It can, but that’s not a general statement.

Where do you want to live when you’re older? My dream would be to live near the beach.

Is your life falling apart or coming together? It’s been falling apart for the past few years.

Did you wake up in the middle of the night last night? No, I didn’t even go to bed until like 6ish.

What color is your hair? It’s dark brown naturally, but I dye it red. Currently, it is a lot of my natural hair cause my roots are quite overgrown as it’s been almost a year since I last got it done. Sigh.

Are you spending the weekend with the last person you texted? Yeah, we live together.

Do you trip a lot? No.

If someone paid you $100 would you dance in the middle of times square? No.

Do you have anyone you fully trust? Yes.

What kind of pants did you wear today? I live in leggings, that’s all I wear.

How old is your television? About two years old.

Do you have a laptop or desktop? I have a laptop.

When did you last talk on the phone with someone? A couple days ago.

Are you currently sleepy? Yes.

Have you ever deleted Facebook friends for a significant other? No. I’ve never even been in the situation where a significant other asked or wanted me to do that.

Have you ever had bad trust issues with someone? Yes.

What accent do you think is the most attractive? British and southern accents.

Are you hot or cold natured? Hot, unfortunately.

Do you own any television series box sets? I have I Love Lucy and The Dick Van Dyke Show boxsets.

Have you ever been in a fight with your best friend? Yes.

When did you last receive a hug and who was it from? A couple days ago from my mom.

Do you take any advanced classes? I’m done with school.

What is your lucky number? I don’t believe in luck, but my favorite number is 8.

Do you own a book bag? If so, what color is it? No.

Was the last movie you watched a horror film? Nope.

Do you own a lot of tee shirts? Yes. My wardrobe consists of a shit ton of graphic tees.

Do you plan your outfits ahead of time? No.

Have you ever spent the night in jail? No.

Are you a colorful person or quite bland? Bland. Well, except for my hair that I dye like a cherry red.

List one word to describe your significant other? Nonexistent.

Have you ever been so nervous you threw up? No, but definitely felt nauseous and sick and like I could throw up.

Do you remember the first survey you took? Uh, definitely not. I’ve been taking surveys since like 2004/2005.

How many friends do you have on Facebook? 100 and something. *shrug*

Have you ever watched fight videos for amusement? No. I don’t find stuff like that amusing or entertaining at all.

In high school, were you in trouble a lot? I was never in trouble in school.

Do you enjoy your hairstyle? No. I don’t have the energy or motivation to do anything with it besides throw it up in a messy bun all the time.

Do you have long hair or short hair? My hair is long, it goes past my butt. Such a waste that I do nothing with it.

How much make up do you wear on a daily basis? None anymore. I haven’t worn makeup in almost 4 years.

What is your favorite television show? I have many.

Do you have a leather jacket? *Pleather, but yes.

Do you think anyone dislikes you for no reason? They probably have reason.

Do you have any children? Nooo.

Have you ever been interviewed on television before? No.

Do you have weak upper body strength? I used to have really great upper body strength as a paraplegic who only had upper body mobility and uses a manual wheelchair. When I was in school and had a social life, I was active. I didn’t spend all day, everyday in bed or at home all day doing nothing. I had toned arms before. I lost my muscle mass and now I’m weak cause I’m not active at all anymore.

What is the worst insult someone can call you? I don’t know. I say mean, hurtful things to myself all the damn time. My brain plays ‘em on a loop.

Are you good at sketching? No. I don’t have any artistic abilities, sadly.

Do you think hugs are awkward? Yeah, they can be.

Do you think facial hair is gross? No. I’m not a big fan of a lot of facial hair, though.

Would you ever dye your hair an unnatural color? I dye it red?

What color was the last cup you drank from? It’s a clear glass.

Ever play Angry Birds? Nah, I never got into that.

Did you think it was annoying, like I did? It just didn’t look like my kind of game.

Have you ever been to the zoo before? Yeah, many times.

What instruments do you know how to play? None anymore, but I used to play some piano back in the day. I wish I took it more seriously back then. I wish I had practiced more and kept up with it because I did enjoy it.

How late did you stay up last night? I went to bed around 6ish. And that’s AM if you’re new here.

How late do you plan on staying up tonight? Well, it’s 5:46AM now...

Whose wall did you post on last? I share stuff to my mom’s wall sometimes.

Have you ever done hard drugs before? No. All I’ve done is weed.

Has anyone ever been weirdly obsessed with you? No.

Do you own a Snuggie? I do.

What is your favorite band of all time? Linkin Park will always be one of them.

Would you consider getting a tattoo any time soon? Nah.

Are you afraid someone might steal your identity someday? It’s not something I’ve actively thought or worried about.

Are there any paintings on your wall? Yeah, a few giraffe ones and a couple beach ones.

Speaking of which, what color are your walls painted? White.

Do you have any talents that come naturally? No. :( I’m lame.

Do you have any piercings? Just my earlobes.

What is your favorite piece of jewelry? The ones I have with my birthstone on it.

Is there a place you'd rather live right now? Somewhere with colder weather.

Do you change your bed sheets often? Usually just like twice a month.

Do you go out often? lol.

Have you ever had plastic surgery before? No.

Are you afraid of airplane rides? I get super anxious beforehand, but once up in the air I start to relax a bit and I’m okay. Well, unless there’s a lot of turbulence.

How many times a day do you brush your teeth? At least once a day.

Do you consider yourself a sensitive person? Very.

What's the best Valentine's Day gift you've gotten? My mom is so sweet and has always gotten me something like candy and a stuffed animal or something, but I’ve never received anything from a guy.

If you're reading a book, what page are you currently on? I don’t feel like checking.

Do you think people are intimidated by you? Uh, no. I can’t imagine anyone being intimidated by me.

Do you have a job you like? I don’t have a job.

Do you know how to do your own laundry? I have to have help with that.

Have you ever lived with a roommate before? No.

Do you like candles? There’s a lot of nice smelling ones, but I’m just not a candle person. Give me a room spray instead.

Would you prefer internet or television? Internet.

What is something you lose often? Patience.

Do you have any classes with friends? I’m done with school.

Do you enter a lot of sweepstakes? No. I haven’t entered any kind of contest in a really long time.

What is your favorite possession in your room? I couldn’t possibly choose one thing. I love all my stuff. What will you be doing in the next ten minutes? Finishing this survey, maybe start another, and listen to ASMR.

How old is your oldest sibling? 37.

Do you consider yourself physically active? Not at all. I explained all that in another question.

How many scarves do you own, if any at all? Zero.

Do you have any cuts or scratches as of now? Not that I know of.

Where did you last sleep? My bed, like I always do.

Do you have Netflix? Yep.

Are you colorblind? No.

Do you know anyone personally who is colorblind? Yeah, my high school chem teacher.

Favorite salad dressing? Ranch. Unless I’m eating a Caesar salad, of course. A vinaigrette is good, too.

Do you enjoy dancing? I don’t do much dancing.

Have you ever considered writing a novel? I actually have thought about it before.

#personal #text #survey #surveys

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sylvies-chen · 6 years ago

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My farewell to the Avengers... (CONTAINS SPOILERS)

I needed to write this because I felt so emotional after watching Endgame and I felt like I could express my thoughts and feelings better in writing, so here I go. Wish me luck, you can damn well bet I’m going to cry while writing this. (Sidenote: I’m very dramatic in this lol)

In 2011, I downloaded and watched the first Thor movie on my iPod 4 (just to paint thay picture for you), and I instantly fell in love with superheroes. I had mainly watched it because I was bored, but by the time Mjölnir flew out of the ground into Thor’s hands and he regained his powers, I found myself cheering. Maybe the younger version of me somehow knew that Marvel would end up impacting my life forever, or maybe I just had a really big celebrity crush on Chris Hemsworth. Or both. Either way, I wanted more. I wanted to experience what I felt when I watched that movie again. So I asked my dad, and he set up Iron Man on my TV and played it. The next week, I requested Iron Man 2. He put it on an watched me watch it. I wanted the third one and was disappointed to find out that I would have to wait for another two years until the next Iron Man movie was released. In the meantime, I was introduced to all of the other movies as well as comic books by my father and my brother, and eventually became even bigger of a diehard fan than they were. I watched all of the movies that came out in theatres: The Avengers, Guardians of the Galaxy, Thor: Dark Worlds Avengers Age of Ultron, Ant-Man, all versions of Spiderman, etc.

On April 27th, 2018, I watched Avengers Infinity War. Did it break me? Yes. Did I walk out of the movie theatre staring into space not talking to anyone and being in denial while my parents looked at me very worriedly? Hell yes. But to me, it wasn’t so bad. It was painful, especially the part where Peter faded away (I cried obviously), but I knew they would fix it. They were making Avengers Endgame. It would be okay. Peter would come back and so would Gamora and Dr. Strange and T’Challa and Groot and Bucky and Loki, and everything would be okay.

I go into Endgame today expecting to cry the same amount that I did during Infinity War. Which was a fair amount. Within the first ten minutes of the movie, I was already emotional with Tony and Steve’s tension and Tony having to grieve Peter’s death, but I generally was able to keep it together. I even laughed and smiled when Tony checked out Steve’s ass made that joke about Steve’s ass.

We’re well into the movie. The battle against Thanos isn’t going so well, but then something happens. Steve is able to pick up Mjölnir. Thor says “I knew it”. It’s EPIC and amazing. The very same thing that had happened to Thor in 2011 had happened to Captain America now. Especially since they teased it in AOU with the game of “Who can pick up Thor’s hammer”, I was even more stoked. But what happened next was something I never could have prepared for. The moment where everyone comes through the portals and unites. We see Wanda, Peter, T’Challa, Okoye, Valkyrie, Dr. Strange, Quill, Drax, Mantis, thousands and thousands of others ready to fight. Captain America is at the front. Steve, is at the front. As humanity is ready to fight for their lives, he says the words: “Avengers... assemble.”

I lost it. I mean, right then and there in the theatre, I started bawling bittersweetly because holy shit. This is it. I had become so used to having another movie to look forward to, another show to watch or a book to read, So comfortable with the absurd notion that the Avengers arc would continue for years and years to come. It had gone on for years, but it only felt like seconds to me. And now the final fight had come. That was the moment I had realized it was the end, and I couldn’t help but cry and cry and cry. I was with my friends and we held eachother’s hands as we sobbed, and squealed, and smiled, and cried some more, all at once. Tony and Peter reunite. That sent me crying again. Wanda, Valkyrie, Captain Marvel, Okoye, and all the other badass women surrounding Peter and protecting the glove, beautiful, badass, empowering. Crying again. Peter and Pepper losing Tony and little Morgan Stark having no father to love x 3000. Sobbing. It was the end. It was moving, perfectly imperfect, joyful, heartbreaking, and it was beautiful.

It was really bittersweet, because these characters meant so much to me. I grew up with them, they matured and developed along with me, and the more layers I saw in each superhero, the more beautiful I found them. I love finding the beauty in things, and there was never a shortage of things to see beauty in when it came to Marvel and the Avengers. Stan Lee’s geniality and creativity. Steve’s unwavering need to put others before himself. Carol Danvers ability to get back up every damn time after being put down. Peter’s young heart yearning so badly to help make a difference in the world. Thor’s strength to accept his losses and let his grief make him stronger. The entirety of Tony Stark’s character. Beauty. Not just because of their indestructable moments, the ones where they send the bad guys flying into the wall without breaking a sweat. They were beautiful because of their moments of vulnerability. Peter showing that he’s afraid. Natasha recognizing how much the family that she’s made with the Avengers means to her. Tony letting Steve know how hurt and angry he felt after the events of Civil War. They aren’t perfect, they’re vulnerable and human, and that was the most beautiful part about them. So naturally, when it all came to an end, I was inconsolable and filled with tears. I know now though that this is not the end. Because Marvel isn’t just a story, it isn’t just one person (although I’d like to think Tony Stark is the king of Marvel lmao). Marvel, the Avengers, whatever you want to call it, it is a concept. The same can apply to anything you really love. It lives in you forever. Marvel is me in my uncle’s basement browsing through the giant wooden chest filled with comics. It is whenever I go on Netflix and rewatch Thor: Ragnarok to cheer myself up after a shitty day. It’s hearing something on TV, or seeing something on the street that reminds me of the heroes that changed my life. It’s rewatching DVDs of the first Iron Man movie on a rainy day after soccer practice gets cancelled. Marvel was, and is, a way for me to escape reality sometimes and let myself believe there are grown ass people in costumes who will protect me from the evil forces out there. It is a safe place for those who are willing to give the characters a chance.

If there were any way for any cast members lf the movie to read this, I hope they do. I hope they find joy and satisfaction in the many ways Marvel’s Avengers has made my world better. These characters, these stories, they were my childhood. They will forever hold the most special place in my heart. I am so sad and happy at the same time, but most of all, I am extremely thankful that I had the opportunity to grow up in this era. To grow up in a generation as lucky as this one. Other generations will never know the feeling of anticipation for the Avengers: Endgame to come out, or the excitement of finding out that Loki is getting his own show. Thank you Marvel, thank you Avengers, thank you villains, even, for over ten years of love, patience, pain, and superhero action sequences. I am a better person for it. So farewell to you all, and as your beloved creator said...

Excelsior.

#the avengers #marvel #mcu #marvel mcu #avengers endgame #avengers endame spoilers #spoilers #avengers spoilers #endgame spoilers #my farewell to the avengers #the russo brothers #rdj #marvel studios

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philomenalaguerr-blog · 5 years ago

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Merge Activities

The Report Merge utility consolidates the contents of a "source" report right into a "target" file to create a single, merged document. Every a kind of Merge bands is hand-picked by Ballance and McCaughan, who still run their enterprise out of North Carolina without any investment from a major label. They say the exposure that comes with a launch by The Arcade Fire brings new listeners inside their reach. NB: do not ‘open' the information as it will create a new window for each. Do not ‘export' without staggering them first in any other case it is going to merge the recordsdata on high of each other fairly than finish to finish and will simply sound like white noise. On the risk of being apparent, one thing to remember: While you merge information, they need to be of the identical sort. For example, you'll be able to merge Accounts with Accounts, but not Accounts with Leads. With the intention to create a surprising audio recordsdata, you want to extract MP3 from YouTube video information first. Merge MP3 is an utility that permits clients to affix MP3 recordsdata collectively. A number of packages can share the identical merge file, but when these applications are uninstalled or modified, sometimes "orphaned" (invalid) EXE registry entries are left behind. We use Podio as a CRM and it would be a real assist to us to be able to merge contacts and merge mp3s other records in other apps. Optionally write ID3v1 and ID3v2 tags into the merged MP3 file. In case of battle, you have to manually resolve the conflict to instruct CRM on which records needs to be taken as the master document and merge them. Make Preparation: free obtain and install this highly effective MP3 Merger on your Windows, and then observe the step by step guide to combine audio information within minutes. Right here we take merge mp3 as example.

Typically, working with merged clips is much like working with another clip. There are some workflow differences worth noting, nonetheless. Duplicates aren't detected if you merge records, convert a lead, save an activity as accomplished, or change the standing of a document, such as activating or reactivating a file. ➜ Easily entry your music creations. Music output record is properly organized, saved in different tabs like Trimmed Audio has the lower mp3 information, Merged files, Metadata change files & Format Converter files. You may browse your music and search. You possibly can play a selected file, set as default ringtone. You can even use ringtone cutter for a selected contact. Merge multiple audio recordsdata into an unlimited file for non-cease playback no matter their codecs like MP3, WAV, WMA, OGG and plenty of others. Utilizing Audacity, mp3DirectCut or Merge MP3-all of that are free and open-supply audio enhancing packages-you presumably can manipulate digital audio and blend two MP3 songs collectively into one seamless MP3 tune. If you might have a number of audio monitor that you just simply must splice together, take a look at this tutorial. In case you merging mp3 have a complete album as a single audio file, Mp3Splt can auto-break up using CUE recordsdata that mark the place each monitor begins and ends. Does precisely the one factor it needs to do perfectly. My undertaking involved making an attempt to merge 4 dozen or so tracks, in order, from each folder so every folder constituted one observe, with every folder representing about an hours price of fabric. I anticipated to have the ability to do this simply in Audacity and was very, very incorrect; it would've taken a half hour every in Audacity. With this software, I solely had to Choose All in each folder and drag & drop them. They landed in the identical order and took less than 20 seconds to finish every. Only 20 seconds. I used to be expecting flaws at such pace and located none; it labored completely on my telephone. Once the files are dragged & dropped into the device, you just Select All once more and choose Merge from the file choices. You can even enter metadata to boot. Merge MP3 cho phép người dùng có thể thay đổi thứ tự các file Mp3 được ghép nối để có bản nhạc hoàn chỉnh theo ý muốn của mình. Người dùng cũng được hỗ trợ công cụ để nghe trước những file Mp3 này trước khi được ghép lại với nhau. Also to reverse would be nice, to slit mp3s into multiple recordsdata (ideally with silence detection). Choose to play the brand new output file that features the 2 MP3s you merged together. When the Merge Information dialog field opens, fastidiously evaluation the changes that will probably be made to the goal report. Is the quickest and best choice to convert audio to video on-line. Nonetheless, it isn't very easy to pick out the right time to put the merged clip because the software program would not assist to enter the time manually. Select Edit > Be a part of > Areas per Tracks (or use please click the following post Merge Areas per Tracks key command). For audio and video recordsdata, we advise usingmp3 andmp4 data, as these are acceptable with the Media Participant. You may as well can break up, crop, rotate and flip the videos. This app enables you to merge movies as effectively. In case you are questioning concerning the vary, YouCut additionally works in milliseconds.

Okay, despite providing up 5 nice permutations of catchy, dissonant pop, Cathode Gumshoe in all probability is not the best document Merge put out in 1991. How a lot Superchunk does one checklist need, although? Plus it could be probably the most consultant of Merge's early days. Erectus Monotone was a North Carolina outfit who launched a handful of singles on Merge and a single album. They're simply adequate to flee the buddy rock zone, and an ideal example of Merge's history of hometown boosterism.It could possibly create cue sheet for the merged mp3 files and generate M3U playlist for the cutted mp3 information. For every strategies below, we're going to assume there are three MP3 recordsdata within the present listing of the Terminal immediate. This is without doubt one of the common and widely used utility to join various mp3 recordsdata into one large file. Data might be merged within the order displayed - use the up or down arrows within the toolbar to maneuver tracks up or down the checklist if you wish to change this order.

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regrettablewritings · 6 years ago

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Technically he wasn't included in the list of one's you could write for but I know you've written for him before, would you be willing to do a Matt Murdock x Reader for the ship meme? Either way, thank you. Your the best.

Crap, I knew I was forgetting something! Sure thing, though! Apologies beforehand if it’s not up to par – I did my best with all the crap going on today.

How differently do they think of each other now compared to when they first met?: When you first met Matt, you were just like everybody else and bought the schtick where he acts unassuming due to his disability. Nobody could blame you, that was the point of it. However, what stood out to you most was his apparently big heart: After all, most forms would turn you down upon hearing what little (yet all) you had to offer regarding the inhospitable conditions at your place of work.

But according to the Nelson part of Nelson & Murdock, any price was perfectly fine (“Feel free to throw in a blueberry pie,” he joked). And the Murdock half flashed a smile in your general direction, assuring you that they would get to the bottom of this. To your surprise, they not only did but also did so while treating you like an actual goddamn human being.

As for Matt, the first thing he thought of when he met you was, “She’s innocent.” Of course, he meant this in reference to your heartbeat when discussing your situation, as he always did when concerning a potential client. But the more he talked to you about the case, the subsequent things regarding your personal life he learned. And the more vivid of a picture he had in his head.Due to his reliance on sound and the things he could hear, as well as how secretive he actually was, Matt managed to develop a newfound opinion of you before you could of him.By the time the two of you accepted yourselves as a couple, Matt knew you as a resourceful type of person who wanted to make sure that the ones she cared about were comfortable and taken care of. However, if shit went down, you were absolutely not afraid to take a stand and call bullshit.You, on the other hand, still held your belief that Matt had a big heart. The problem was, it took a very long while before you also realized how self-destructive he could be. And it makes you worry tremendously. You still admire him, but you really wish he’d quit playing the martyr.

What do their friends/family think of their relationship?: Foggy’s beyond glad that you’ve entered Matt’s life because he foolishly believes that with a healthy love life, it’ll force Matt to have to reconsider his actions. He’s always been foolhardy, using the stigma of a docile blindman to convince others not in the know that he was careful with his decisions and actions. Perhaps having you and something to strive for besides the safety of Hell’s Kitchen might give him a reason to not be such a martyr and quit volunteering to jump in front of the swinging fist of some thug.Karen, similarly, is glad that there’s somebody who can look out for Matt potentially more because you’re more likely to be in a more intimate setting than she and Foggy would as just friends.Matt nearly won your friends and family over by the mere mention of him being a lawyer. Of course, it did come up that his particular firm was notorious for accepting cases with payments of pies, bananas, and IOUs. You really tried to hype up that this was due to Matt’s good hearted nature, but it was still accepted with some hesitancy.Otherwise, they don’t find him unpleasant and as long as you’re both happy and he treats you well, they can’t find too much to gripe about. (Though your folks still make occasional jabs at the question of his ability to provide for you in terms of a long-term relationship…)

How do their personalities/skills complement or contrast with each other?: Matt’s protectiveness works well with your need to assure the comfort of others. Additionally, you both have a sense of justice. The difference is that his involves dressing up like a devil and doing parkour around ten blocks of New York nearly every night and beating the shit out of people.

What is their favorite aspect of each other?: You enjoy Matt’s wit, and he enjoys how you can make a person feel comfortable. He keeps you laughing with his dry humor, and your thing for hospitality meant you helped repay Nelson & Murdock by redecorating the office to feel less sterile and unprofessional.

Do either of them have pet peeves about each other?: Technically speaking, Matt’s secretiveness and martyr complex isn’t a pet peeve. Nevertheless, drives you insane the most and really tests your relationship. He takes way too much upon himself with little regard for the effects; he’s certainly not a scale, because he constantly proves he can’t balance everything as well as he thinks he can.The thing that annoys him about you is arguably and comparatively chill: Sometimes you just do things too loudly. Cutting up food, slamming cabinets — the usual. You try to keep it quieter, you really do, but what’s normal to most others is loud to the man.

How would each reconcile with each other after a fight?: Matt’s lawyer mode unfortunately shines during arguments with you, and sometimes it results with him saying things that pierce you to the bone. The moment he hears you inhale sharply, smell the salt of the tears welling in your eyes, and hears a change in your breathing pattern, he knows he’s gone too far and regrets it. If you need space away from him, he doesn’t blame you and will probably hate himself: He made uncomfortable the one person who tries her best to make others feel happy and safe.If you’ll hear him out, he’ll likely give an apology riddled with self-deprecation until you’ve had enough. Unfortunately, his typical go-to is makeup sex as a result of him being used to doing that with Elektra. Given that you’re the first healthy relationship he’s ever had, he isn’t entirely sure of what else to do if this doesn’t suit your fancy; but Matt’s no quitter.He’ll try and do to you the things you do to him when you make him feel comfortable: Cuddle you, read stories (though, given that most of his literature is law books in Braille, you may want to skip this), order food from the Thai place down the street, and so on.On your end, usually all you have to do is apologize and Matt will hear it in your heart how truly honest you’re being and how much it’s hurting you to keep being angry with him. Once he hugs you close and whispers that the apology was accepted, you know all is better. Maybe not well, but better.

What would be their ideal vacation getaway together?: Matt’s never really ventured out of New York or gone on vacation for that matter. Wasn’t the entire point of vacation to see new sites? Of course, you’re not buying that crap for a minute. With Luke Cage and Jessica Jones and god knows who else is running about, you promised him it’d be okay if he took a break and went elsewhere for a week or two. Somewhere nice and fresh, away from the pollution of an urban area would be ideal. A nice, small town perhaps. Rural. Where you can both sleep in under linen sheets and breathe in the cleaner, country air…

Think of a new way (AU, different situation, etc.) they could have met for the first time: Matt was quite aware of how odd it was for a blind man to be wandering around such a shady area of the Kitchen. At best, people would scoff at him and try to bring him back to “a nicer area”; but at worst, they might attempt to mug him. He made sure to put extra focus on his awareness, praying that the noises and smells of the jazz club wouldn’t distract him for too long.Go in, eavesdrop, get out. Go in, eavesdrop, get out.He repeated this mantra over and over in his head as he recited the password to the doorman. He didn’t need to see to be aware of the quirked brow the guard wore when they heard the clicking of his walking stick, having realized that the red-tinted shades weren’t for fashion.Immediately, he could smelling the choking stench of cigars and alcohol and cheap perfumes and expensive colognes alike. With the rustle of his fingers, he could feel the fabrics of the bar patrons, hear the chattering and obnoxious guffaws of overly flirtatious women as men slapped their palms on the wooden tables, making their glasses rattle.Matt tried not to appear uncomfortable, pretending to feel around for a seat he could “see” quite clearly. He was beginning to wonder if it was worth coming down here to get a lead on a self-directed investigation. Surely there was another way…“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage the lovely (Y/N) (L/N); she’s a little shy so be sure to give her a nice warm welcome.”Crap.If he tried to leave now, it might draw more attention than what he’d already gained as a visually impaired patron. Matt bit back a grimace as he slid into his seat, courteously joining the small crowd in light applause. No choice now but to go along with it, pretend he was enjoying the music when really his ears were scrambling to focus on a particular voice of the one suspect he was tailing.But, oh, was the attempt in vain.“There’s a saying old, says that love is bliiiiind… Still, we’re often told, ‘Seek and ye shall fiiiinndd.’ So I’m going to seek a certain lad I’ve had…in miiiiiiindd…”Matt had heard many voices in his life — possibly more than the average person, given his hypersensitive hearing.He could not say even years from that moment precisely what it was about your voice that made him lose focus in record time from his initial mission.Maybe it was that you sounded like Ella, only somehow sweeter than Ella. Or how your handling of the words made each syllable slink the the air with honey-like grace. If he allowed himself to indulge in a very rare instance of sappiness, however, Matt would have probably secretly humored that God blesses your voice to be particularly wondrous that evening.In fact, he very much did think so.“I’d like to add his initials to my monograamm. Wheeeere is the shepherd for thiiiiisss looooossst laaammbb?”Cross that: Your voice was bewitching more than anything to him. (And had his vision been available, his sight of you would only encourage such: A red, curve-caressing dress; hair styled to display softness even at a distance; devilish, red lips that one wouldn’t expect to produce such sweet sounds.)“There’s someone I’m longing to seeeee I hope that heeee turns out to beeeee… someoonne who’ll waaaatch… oooover meeeee…”Matthew Michael Murdock had only ever heard of love at first sight – and he already didn’t believe in such rubbish. But as he heard you on that stage, his focus now completely on you, he couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps love at first song might’ve been a thing. At the very least, infatuation at first song.He no longer cared how unusual it was for a blind man to be in a club in the seedier part of the Kitchen. Nor did he care with how much enthusiasm he applauded your performance. Hell, he barely cared about the reason he came here in the first place.He heard you thanking the audience with gleeful yet shy appreciation, followed by the sounds of you hopping down from the stage … and walking towards him! Matt felt like an imbecilic college student again, flustered at the realization that a pretty-sounding girl was coming for him! … And passed him. His heart calmed with a gut-jolting thud, only to pick up as he caught a whiff of your perfume. Wait … Lotion, he corrected himself. How unusual for a club singer to bathe her scent in lotion and not perfume. But to Matt, it was a tiny yet wonderful thing. It made him want to get to know you more.She might have something to say about our guy, he told himself as he listened for your movements. He could hear the sway of your hips as you waltzed on over and took a seat at the bar. He heard you talk to the bartender an a highly amicable manner and order your drink. He could hear the parting of your rich lips as you took a sip, a sigh of relief as your parched throat was finally aided. You noticed that this copper-brown-haired man was headed towards you before he did – the click-clacking of his cane cued him in to you in spite of his own personal use of the item.He could hear you producing a confused smile. He didn’t mind. “Good evening, Miss,” he uttered, turning on the Murdock Men’s charm, whatever that was. Whatever it was, indeed – because even years from that moment, you wouldn’t be able to explain precisely what it was about Matt Murdock’s voice that stood out from the many others you had heard up to that point in your life.Maybe it was because it was deep yet encased with warmth. Or maybe it was how even among the chatter of the bar patrons, his voice seemed to caress your ears as gentle hands would. Or maybe it was because the words flowed from such a lovely-looking man, of whom proved himself to be quite the conversational partner as the evening wore on.

Whatever the case, by the time the both of you had left, you were both questioning the same thing: Was love or infatuation at first sound a thing?

Send me a character ship

#good lord this came out terribly #i'm sorry boo i'm tired af and trying my best #i have a matt murdock thing in my wips so hopefully that'll make up for this when i finally finish it #character ship #character ship meme #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock imagines #matt murdock imagine #daredevil x reader #daredevil imagine #daredevil imagines #regrettablewritings

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easyfoodnetwork · 4 years ago

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‘It Was a Losing Fight to Write Anything That Wasn’t “Ethnic”’

White food writers are often allowed to be generalists, while BIPOC creators are limited to their personal histories, their cultures, and the foods their grandmothers made

In this age of the cook-turned-influencer, Bon Appétit’s video content found astonishing success by capitalizing on the colorful world of the quirky characters featured in its test kitchen. In many cases, the employees’ personalities were turned into their personal brands. This strategy, actively pursued by now-former editor-in-chief Adam Rapoport, piggybacked off an evolving relationship between audiences and celebrity chefs like Alison Roman, whose “authentic” lazy-girl cooking hacks jolted her into almost instant fame. Branding oneself as the creator of a viral dish (“the stew,” “the pasta”) or crafting an identity around a quirk or personality trait, all but eliminates the need for bona fide experts, allowing the internet-friendly celebrity chef to take their place.

But as the casual viewer noticed — and as stories about Bon Appétit’s corporate culture have revealed in recent weeks — it is almost always only white food writers, chefs, and recipe developers who get to adopt personas that go beyond their ethnicity. For every Brad Leone, who gets to be goofy and charming, for every Claire Saffitz, who becomes a sensation for being hyper-competitive and neurotically orderly, you have a Priya Krishna or a Rick Martinez, whose ethnicity, and the “expertise” in a certain cuisine that comes with it, is often framed as their most useful contribution to the team.

Martinez, former senior food editor and current BA contributor, was branded the “resident taco maestro” in the pages of the magazine, yet, as he recounted to Business Insider, then-deputy editor Andrew Knowlton asked if he was “a one-trick pony” for focusing on Mexican cuisine. Argentinian test kitchen manager Gaby Melian’s only solo video on YouTube is of her making her family’s empanada recipe. Fan favorite Sohla El-Waylly, who managed to veer out into more generalist territory with beloved recipes for dumplings, cinnamon buns, and even a carbonara dessert, started her career at BA talking about her riff on a family biryani recipe on the Bon Appétit Foodcast podcast and made an “updated” version of a Bengali snack, piyaju, for her first solo video. Even after expanding out of her “niche” and producing some of the channel’s most creative recipes, El-Waylly’s expertise was considered external to her identity, and — as she revealed in an Instagram story on June 8 — she was compensated as such. Other BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, and people of color) at BA, including contributing editor Priya Krishna and research director Joseph Hernandez, also spoke out against BA’s pay disparities and its pervasive racist culture that, as Business Insider wrote, “does not provide nonwhite employees the same opportunities on the brand’s video side that white employees enjoy.”

The feeling of being slotted into a niche is all too familiar for Martinez. “There’s this idea in food media that it’s somehow easier to cook the food of your culture because you grew up with it or that it’s a part of you,” Martinez tells me. “It completely discounts the skills that it takes to build a recipe for an American audience. To recreate or even create an homage to the original dish requires a lot of creativity, skill, and work.”

The recent changes at BA — Rapoport’s resignation, white BA staffers’ refusal to put out content until their BIPOC colleagues are paid fairly — are a start. Yet the simultaneous compartmentalizing and marginalization of BIPOC in food media goes far beyond one organization or one editor-in-chief. Allowing BIPOC to have more agency within the food media system will require reimagining the relationship white America has both to “other cuisines” and to the people who grew up on them.

There’s this perception in food media, which publications like Bon Appétit subscribe to and perpetuate, that all that nonwhite writers really want is to have their cultures represented “authentically.” But the premise of authenticity is rooted in a white gaze that selectively acquires aspects of nonwhite cultures to package as just exotic enough to remain accessible. In late June, the New York Times published a story about “Thai fruit” that frames common fruit in Thailand as foreign and difficult to understand. The week before, tofu was labeled “white, chewy, and bland” in a since-deleted tweet by Bloomberg Asia. And who can forget the infamous Bon Appétit pho fiasco, which called the Vietnamese dish “the new ramen” and enlisted a white chef to give a “PSA: This Is How You Should Be Eating Pho”? Stories like these serve as reminders that foods outside of whiteness are at odds with an imagined “American” readership, for whom these foods remain distant and other.

“Our white colleagues think that we are speaking out about representation or appropriation because we want to be seen as experts on the subject,” says travel and food writer Dan Q. Dao. “[But] what we are [really] fighting is a long battle for inclusivity and equity in our workplaces.”

“I’m often asked to add a cultural slant even when one does not exist.”

Those workplaces, it should be noted, are overwhelmingly white. In June, Leah Bhabha noted in a Grubstreet piece, citing a 2019 Diversity Baseline study, that 76 percent of all publishing industry professionals are white. “In my own experience, as a biracial Indian writer, I’ve never had more than one coworker of color on my team,” she wrote, “and frequently it’s just been me.” The social media age — and the branding pressures inherent within — exacerbates that experience. Social media allows for real-time feedback that makes creators accountable to an audience that often acts as ad hoc sensitivity readers for people writing about their own cultural backgrounds. Writer and chef Samin Nosrat recently tweeted her frustrations with that pressure: “Instead of criticizing the systems that refuse to allow for greater diversity and inclusion, desis, Iranians, whoever, just pile on individual cooks for our perceived failure to represent their ideal versions of their entire cuisines. (Or even more frustratingly, for failing to cook something *exactly* like maman did it back home. I am not your maman!)”

But as media writer Allegra Hobbs pointed out in October 2019, “in the age of Twitter and Instagram, an online presence, which is necessarily public and necessarily consumable, seems all but mandatory for a writer who reaches (or hopes to reach) a certain level of renown.” In curating this online presence, writers and other creators are often pushed to flatten themselves into an easily legible extension of their identity.

Like many, food writer and chef Lesley Téllez has struggled with the expectations that come with being Mexican in food media. “There’s more pressure on BIPOC to find a niche that makes us stand out,” she says. “Over and over, the faces who look like us are people who specialize in food from their particular countries or backgrounds. It sends an overt message that stepping out as a generalist is hard, and that you will not be hired as such. I have definitely felt pressure to keep non-Mexican-cooking stuff off of my social media, and my old blog.”

For all the claims organizations in food media have made of diversifying their rosters and cleaning up the more egregious offenses in their treatment of nonwhite writers, there is still an association between nonwhite writers and their ethnicity, which is treated as tantamount to other aspects of their identities. BIPOC in food media are routinely not considered for assignments about things that don’t directly relate to their ethnicity or race. “I became a food writer 20 years ago when it was not really a profession,” says Ramin Ganeshram. “Yet, despite my qualifications as a reporter, editor, and chef, it was a losing fight to write anything that wasn’t ‘ethnic.’... I was discouraged and prevented from writing about generalized food technique or profiles, despite French culinary training.”

These assignments are often handed off to white writers, who are seen as “generalists” with the ability to stick their hands into any cuisine and turn it into something palatable (or, more importantly, into pageviews). Ganeshram says, “I was directly told regarding a job I didn’t receive at a New England-based national cooking magazine that they thought of me as more of an ‘ethnic’ writer.”

Instead, BIPOC get stuck with work directly related to their ethnicities. “I’m often asked to add a cultural slant even when one does not exist,” says food writer Su-Jit Lin, “or frame things from a point of greater expertise than I actually have. It’s assumed I’m fully indoctrinated into the culture and more Chinese than American (not true — my lane is actually Southern, Italian, and kind of Irish food).” Even when chefs push back against this compartmentalization, they are turned into caricatured ambassadors for their backgrounds. Chef (and Eater contributor) Jenny Dorsey wrote on Twitter that even though she demonstrated a dish on video that had nothing to do with her heritage, the result was ultimately titled “Jenny Dorsey talks about how her Chinese-American heritage influences her cooking.”

Often, the addition of a “cultural slant” to stories leads to one of the more egregious ways that nonwhite food is pigeonholed and othered — through what writer Isabel Quintero calls a lust for “Abuelita longing.” The term speaks to the way immigrant and diasporic writers (both within and outside food media) are frequently expected to add a dash of trauma or ancestral belonging to anything they write. As a Trinidadian-Iranian chef, Ganeshram finds this association particularly limiting. “When I’ve tried to write stories about my Iranian heritage, not being a recent Iranian immigrant or the child of a post-revolution immigrant has been an issue,” she says. “The editors I dealt with only wanted a refugee/escaping the Islamic Republic story. They decided what constituted an ‘authentic’ Iranian story, and that story was based in strife and hardship only.” These markers of authenticity can only come from the wholesome domesticity presumed of the ethnic other.

The extreme whiteness of the food industry, and of food media, places undue pressure on nonwhite writers and chefs. As food writer and founder of Whetstone Magazine, Stephen Satterfield wrote for Chefsfeed in 2017: “In mostly-white communities, you become an ambassador for your race. The stakes are high, and you try hard not to screw it up for the ones behind you…. Black chefs know this well: we must validate our presence, where others exist unquestioned. And what does it mean to be a black food writer? It means that you’ll never just be a food writer, you’ll be a black food writer.”

In other words, being designated as “ethnic” chefs put far too many BIPOC working in food media in a bind. Either they work against being pigeonholed by pitching stories that mark them as generalists, but lose out on assignments as a consequence, or they double down and tell stories of their culture and cuisine, but risk being limited both career- and compensation-wise.

Martinez was aware of this predicament while signing on to write a regional Mexican cookbook. “Writing a love letter to Mexico is so important in these times, but I had to seriously consider whether it would be a career-limiting move,” he says. He chose to write the book, but others, like Caroline Shin, food journalist and founder of the Cooking with Granny video and workshop series, have had to push against the expectation that anything they publish will be about their ethnic cuisine. “Last year, literary agents told me that I couldn’t sell diversity,” she says. “[I]f I wanted a cookbook, I should focus on my Korean culture.” While Shin chose to start her own program as what she calls an “‘I’ll show you’ to white-dominated institutions,” it raises the question of whether BIPOC in food media can taste mainstream success without operating as spokespeople for their ethnic cuisines.

But if you continue to pigeonhole and tokenize your BIPOC employees, seeing them primarily as products of trauma or perpetuating their marginalization by refusing them fair pay and workplace equity, then your calls to diversify the workplace mean very little, if anything at all.

Mallika Khanna is a graduate student in media who writes about film and digital culture, diaspora and immigrant experiences and the environment through a feminist, anti-capitalist lens. Nicole Medina is a Philly based illustrator who loves capturing adventure through her art using bold colors and patterns.

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/39Jaxcc https://ift.tt/3ffOn2G

White food writers are often allowed to be generalists, while BIPOC creators are limited to their personal histories, their cultures, and the foods their grandmothers made

“I’m often asked to add a cultural slant even when one does not exist.”

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/39Jaxcc via Blogger https://ift.tt/3jV5hXH

#Blogger #cooking #Eater #food #recipes

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northwest-cryptid · 7 years ago

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Get to know me tag thing that I’ve not gotten a tag for in a real long time so I’ve sorta forgot how they work but I’m just gonna wing it and hope it’s okay in the end. I have been tagged by @kaiachu to do the “get to know me tag” thing, I normally don’t get tagged for this sort of thing so I’m happy to give it a shot :D (Thanks by the way!)

This got way longer than I thought it’d be so, here’s a read more for the people who follow me and don’t have any kind of xkit thing to blacklist “#long post”

1ST RULE: tag 10 people you want to get to know better (I’m horrible with that sort of thing so I probably won’t have 10 people but I’ll try to at least tag some people in this (and yet I’ll fail, trust me.))

2ND RULE: bold the statements that are true (Personally this format sorta confuses me so I’m just going off what was already listed and just gonna swap out details to be facts about me hope that’s alright, rules are weird, I’m not really a rebel but sometimes it’s easier to make your own rules :P)

APPEARANCE: -I’m nearly 6 foot but I genuinely forget the exact, though I know I’m rounding up so that’s a thing. -I have black hair and brown eyes -My hair doesn’t know what it wants to do, some days it’s super curly other days it’s straighter than the most cliche straight white boy. -I’m tall and skinny which is honestly a little annoying -I’m not super pale but I’m what I’d call “white” if my Native American heritage and culture didn’t make me salty about everyone calling me white :P -Imagine Akira from Persona 5, except I can’t summon demons and also I’m not anime, and also I’m not as attractive as him, and also I remember to turn off the light when I go to sleep (there’s a joke for anyone out there who’s played Persona 5 and got annoyed when Akira continuously left the damn lights on every night, no wonder he needs glasses!) Basically I’ve got that same general tall skinny guy build with curly poofy hair and right now it’s actually pretty short so I could actually style it like that if I wanted.

PERSONALITY: -I’m an unintentionally sassy/sarcastic friend if you know me well enough to know I’m joking. -I am always up to help someone however I can, be that listening to their problems or taking direct action to help solve said problems. Though I dislike the idea of being the therapist friend who is only ever spoken to when someone has a problem. -I have more social anxiety in casual settings, however during important/formal social events I find that I already know my role and I’m relatively calm so I’d not say I’m anxious in every social situation. I just need to know my role. -I really try to be a chill person, however I feel like a lot of our culture says “chill” and means “has no opinions on anything and won’t take a stand against something they don’t believe in.” I say that mostly because I find that people will often talk about how chill I am right up until something strikes a nerve with me and I stand up for my morals or beliefs and suddenly it’s “wow you’re so dramatic!” For the record no I’m not talking about the MANY times I’ve actually been way too god damn dramatic (believe me I’m all too aware of those times). -I love all animals, I’ve volunteered at cat shelters quite a lot in my early life because we had a no-kill shelter near my house that needed someone to work with the unadoptable cats. However I’ve been part of a family who has rescued anything from squirrels to snakes to bearded dragons to dogs, to one legged parrots, at one point we had a tarantula and weirdly enough I wasn’t quite as scared of it as I am with most spiders... still didn’t want it anywhere near me. However yeah in general I’ve helped treat tons of animals in my life and I’ve learned to appreciate them all.

ABILITY: -I’d say I can’t draw to save my life but Bob Ross basically dedicated his life to explaining that anyone can make art so yea I’ll respect that. I’m not exactly good at it though. -I’m reasonably athletic but it depends on the activity. I’m a fine sprinter but a bad jogger, I’m good at fencing, I can bike for quite a while, I work out fairly often when I get the chance and according to the numbers the machines give me I’m healthily athletic? I’m not some sports person though. -I personally hate sleeping, it feels like a waste of my time. -I love to play/write music. Music is such a beautiful form of art that can make people feel so many different emotions. Music means a lot to me and I love to sit down and play an instrument with friends or write a new song.

HOBBIES: -I play a LOT of games, anything from video games to tabletop D&D to dice games and casino style gambling games with friends :P -I tend to draw, write, or make music for fun whenever I have an artistic itch to scratch. -I previously mentioned that I work out, I don’t say that to brag or anything I just genuinely find it fun to run around a gym listening to motivational music and having an outlet for all my energy. -It may sound silly but a legitimate hobby of mine is to listen to music, I will sometimes just sit down and put on music I like, this is often something I’ll do at night, I like to just sit down with some tea and relax with good music. -I also enjoy driving, mostly night driving but I’m not going to be picky. Getting lost out in the middle of nowhere and admiring the scenery around me is always really fun, it’s part of why I love night-driving I really enjoy getting away from the light pollution and looking up at the stars. I drive a convertible so it makes it really easy to see everything around me while I drive, but it’s sort of a death trap if I get in an accident so I tend to take in the sights when I’m at a stop and not in the middle of a drive :P

EXPERIENCES: I’m prefixing this with the fact my life is boring and the more interesting experiences of my life are things I don’t much care to just share with the internet -I’ve flown out to New York numerous times to visit my ex (who I was dating at the time) and that was always fun, it was always weirdly freeing to know that I had saved the money and independently flown myself out there. -I once stabbed my foot with my own pocket knife by somehow flipping it open as it fell off my desk it hit a vein in my foot and I was squirting blood down the hallways at like 2 AM. It didn’t hurt nearly as much as you’d think but it wasn’t fun to say the least. -Meryl and I used to often go night driving and actually managed to get out of the car and go hiking a few times at like 2 - 3 AM it was fun, except one time we managed to get a flat tire out in Washington and didn’t have a spare tire so it was exciting to find a way of getting home at midnight when we were a whole state away.

RELATIONSHIPS: -I’m not gonna list my previous relationships or anything I don’t really feel like that’s respectful to the people I was in the relationships with, even if they weren’t all the best people (though most of them were/are fine people) I don’t want to disrespect other people’s privacy. -However I will say that I’m currently single as fuck.

MY LIFE: -My life has been sorta interesting lately. -I’ve recently really connected with my local friends, I’m part of a D&D group which helped me make a new friend, and an old childhood friend of mine recently texted me saying he lives in the area and wants to hang out sometime. I love all my friends, and I care so much about my internet friends don’t get me wrong but it is also nice to be able to get out of the house and hang with a friend every now and then. -My family is pretty small, I’ve got 1 older brother (I know I have some siblings from my dad’s previous wife but outside of my half brother I sadly don’t know them well). -I live in Oregon but I can be found driving throughout the west coast at night, you’ll know if you find me because I’m the asshole in the red convertible playing music at like 3 AM but really quietly because I want to respect people who might be sleeping but also just loud enough that you can kinda hear it in the distance because it’s a fucking convertible and road noise makes it hard to hear... oh and also I’ll have the top down even if it’s like 10 degrees out because I like the cold and I’m probably wearing like literally a tank-top and leather jacket to balance the temperature. -I’ve literally had over 50 animals in this house at the same time. Currently however we have 1 Rhea, we just got another few chickens I think we have 3 - 4 now? We have 2 cats, 1 dog, 1 ball python, and... I think that’s it right now?

RANDOM SHIT: -I’m currently 22 -I love talking to people but I’m bad at starting conversations... -I’ve currently been playing Warframe, Guild Wars 2, FFXIV, and PSO2, though to be honest I’ll play just about anything if a friend asks me to :P -Personal favorite food is Cheesecake unless you don’t count that, then it’s Pad Thai, then Sushi, then Shrimp in general. -In person I can hold a conversation for hours, on the internet I’m awful at it. -I often feel like I’m overbearing to new friends because I am easily excited at the concept of making new friends. -I will start writing 20 D&D campaigns knowing full well I’ll never actually get to DM them for anyone, it’s a weird obsession I have with the concept of storytelling through experiences.

I mentioned this at the start, I’m bad at tagging people so the only thing I can really say here is that if you’re someone who (like myself) likes listing off random stuff about yourself, feel free to take it upon yourself and consider yourself tagged. If you’re not the type to be comfortable with this sorta thing that’s cool too, no pressure. If you DO write up one of these after seeing mine, feel free to tag me in the post so I know :P

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