#but i think maxwell deserves to go feral

[bow-of-aros]

Bring Him Back

What if Jacobi had died instead of Maxwell? How would SI-5's resident computer genius handle the loss of her best friend? By putting Kepler in a Saw trap, apparently.

Hey folks!! I've been chipping away at this one for a while and I'm pretty proud of it. It's inspired by that one tumblr post saying that Maxwell would've put Kepler in a saw trap if she'd been the one who survived and I took that and ran with it. It ended a little softer than I expected but I'm not complaining. Hope that y'all enjoy!! <33

The door slams shut behind Kepler with an air of aggressiveness that is… unusual for the Hephaestus. Kepler’s first instinct is to brush it off, chalk it up to the culmination of the ship’s ragged edges and the AI that has made no effort to hide her disdain for him.

But something tugs at him, and Kepler’s never been one to question his gut instinct.

Not until recently, at least.

“Hera?” He keeps his tone neutral. Curious. He prides himself on maintaining careful control of his emotions, of exuding a calm yet powerful air to those around him. A man who is always in charge.

Or, a man who was always in charge seems more appropriate now.

The speakers crackle to life, “Sorry, Hera’s not here at the moment. I asked her to give us some privacy for our little chat.”

Ah. “Doctor Maxwell.”

“Ding ding ding! We have a winner!”

Her voice was dry, tired. And still she managed to sound so much like Jacobi. Kepler supposes that that’s what happens when you really only interact with two other people. He’d always tried to maintain his distance, but Jacobi and Maxwell had picked up mannerisms from each other until you could barely tell where one ended and the other began.

Of course, Kepler had always been able to tell, but that was no longer relevant.

He looks around, taking in the room. Nothing seems amiss but, knowing Maxwell, he wouldn’t be able to tell she was killing him until he was already dead.

It wasn’t the sort of thing he was used to worrying about.

“You didn’t have to go through all this just to have a conversation with me,” Kepler’s eyes flick up to the lone security camera in the corner of the room. “What would you like to talk about?”

A short, humourless laugh echoes throughout the room. “That’s such a good question. What on Earth could I want to talk about with you?”

Kepler can picture the wry twist of her mouth, the way she taps her finger mockingly against her chin.

“Well, sir,” Maxwell bites out the word, all respect that might have been there replaced by a venomous derision, “I was thinking that we could talk about Daniel. You know, my best friend? Your good right hand? The man who died because he trusted you? Because we trusted you? This ringing any bells?”

The name hits him like a punch to the gut, but he refuses to flinch. He can’t show weakness. Especially not now, not while he can feel Maxwell scrutinizing him like a bug under a magnifying glass, trying to find the perfect angle between the sun and his body to burn him to ash. Instead, he composes himself by letting out a long, steady breath.

“Jacobi knew what he was getting into, he—”

“No, he didn’t.” On any other occasion, Kepler wouldn’t allow this kind of insubordination, but the longer he stays in here the more lightheaded he becomes.

And he has a sneaking suspicion that his oxygen supply currently rests in Maxwell’s hands.

Kepler focuses on limiting his air intake as Maxwell continues, “He didn’t know what he was getting into because you didn’t tell him. And now he’s dead.”

“What would you like me to do about that, Doctor?” Kepler gestures at the room around him, “I’m stuck in here and, even if I wasn’t, it’s not like I have the power to bring him back.”

That laugh again. Kepler can’t remember the last time he heard her genuinely laugh, but he can guarantee that Jacobi had been the cause of it. They had their own language, their own convoluted sense of humour that Kepler had always considered himself above.

What he wouldn’t give to hear them laughing together again.

There was no use dwelling on it. The past was done, and holding onto it would only serve to get in the way of the bigger picture. There was only moving forward.

“You know, back on Earth, if I heard you say that you didn’t have the power to do something I would’ve laughed in your face. And then I’d have probably shot you because obviously something had taken the place of my commanding officer. You were invincible, so we were invincible by extension.”

She sighs, the speaker crackles, Kepler tries to breathe.

“Turns out that we’re not invincible. Daniel’s dead because of you and I feel like I owe him one last science experiment, for old times' sake.”

Something clanks in the air vents and a rush of oxygen pours in. The abrupt shift sends Kepler into a coughing fit and he can barely hear what Maxwell says next:

“We’re going to see if Daniel’s death triggers your own. A cause-and-effect of sorts. My working research question is ‘Does Warren Kepler deserve to breathe while Daniel Jacobi doesn’t, or are we going to prove once and for all that he’s not as invincible as he seems?’” A panel in the wall opens, “It’s a bit wordy, but I feel like it gets the point across.”

Kepler ignores the tendril of fear that curls within him, pushing it deep down and as out of sight as possible.

There’s a box sitting in the opening, a simple wire cutter resting next to it. Wires poke out and twist around each other, all connecting to a panel. There’s no timer, though, just a simple engraving.

Delta. Alpha. November. India. Echo. Lima.

“Look familiar?” Maxwell’s voice startles Kepler, a truly impressive feat. “That’s the bomb—”

“The bomb I had Jacobi dismantle on our first field mission together. Yes, I remember.” The words escape him without his consent, floating amidst the onslaught of memories that threatened to crash into him.

“Good.” An alarm blares, “You can leave when you diffuse it.”

Kepler’s eyes are glued to the bomb, “Maxwell, you know I can’t—”

“Meanwhile,” She cuts him off sharply, “Let’s talk about Daniel. What do you remember about him?”

And what could he say? Maxwell and Jacobi may have been close, but Kepler and Jacobi had been Goddard’s best team for years before she’d joined and made them unstoppable. They’d shared shitty motel rooms and dined in some of the world’s finest restauraunts. Kepler had been there for Jacobi’s first intentional kill and he hadn’t even flinched, just turning to Kepler for approval when it was done.

Jacobi somehow knew him better than anyone else, and it wasn’t for lack of trying on Kepler’s part.

“He was an invaluable member of our team—AH!”

A bolt of electricity fires through him, singeing his shoulder and sending the acrid tang of burnt flesh wafting through the air.

Kepler looks around for what shocked him and comes up empty.

“Now, Colonel, let’s try that again,” Maxwell’s voice sounded distantly pleased, like she’d been hoping that Kepler would give the wrong answer, “But this time, try to respond how you think a human being might. I’d say there’s no rush, but, well, there is a bomb in the room with you.”

He briefly considered calling Maxwell’s bluff. Kepler isn’t confident when it comes to his life resting in her hands, but she wouldn’t risk damaging Hera at the very least.

Probably.

There was a chance, however small, that if Kepler played this right, he could potentially win back enough of Maxwell’s favour that he wouldn’t be in imminent danger. It shouldn’t be too difficult to separate his emotions from his words, it’s what he’s done his entire life.

“Well,” He started slowly, “I remember that his favourite colour was orange. He told me that most people thought it was odd, but that he liked it because it reminded him that fire could be warm, comforting, and not just used in the name of destruction.”

A round of applause sounded through the speaker.

“Good job, Kepler. I could almost detect some real emotion in there, I’m impressed.” She didn’t sound impressed, but Kepler wasn’t going to mention that, “My turn. I remember that, after my first close-range kill, Jacobi stayed up all night with me because I couldn’t stop shaking. We didn’t know each other very well back then, but he didn’t leave me alone. He didn’t make me feel weak, either.”

A noise sounded from the bomb.

Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep.

“Maxwell.” Kepler eyed the bomb, taking it in, trying to remember what Jacobi had done to get them out of the room that he’d locked them in all those years ago.

“Oh fine, how about I make you a deal?” He had a feeling that he was not going to enjoy this, “I know how to disarm the bomb, obviously. So, for every genuine memory you can recount about Daniel, I’ll tell you the next step in the process.”

He was right. But there was something in Maxwell’s voice, a tinge of desperation that she couldn’t quite hide and that Kepler couldn’t quite place. “Fine. I think I’m already owed the first step, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Silence drones on for an uncomfortable length, even for Kepler. With every second, he’s made more and more aware of the very literal ticking time bomb he’s trapped on a space station with.

And he can’t help but think about how this situation wouldn’t be any trouble at all if Jacobi were here. Not only would Kepler not be in this situation, but Da—Jacobi had diffused this exact model before. He shouldn’t be in any danger.

But Jacobi isn’t here and Maxwell is, and Kepler feels the lack of balance keenly.

“There’s a bundle of wires adjacent to the engraving. Two white, a blue, and a green. Cut the green wire.”

He grabs the wire cutter from beside the bomb and doesn’t hesitate before cutting the green wire. There’s no room for doubt here, but an inkling of anxiety worms its way through.

But he doesn’t blow up, so that’s something.

Maxwell barely gives him the time to register this before she pushes him along, “I’d suggest that you start talking, sir. We’re on a time limit, after all.”

Alright, Kepler can play this game.

He sets his shoulders, trying to reclaim some sort of control over the situation. “Do you remember that mission last year in Budapest?”

“The one where Jacobi killed that politician and almost got us all fired?”

“Yes, the very same.” They both knew which mission he was talking about. And fired was certainly a generous term for what Cutter had threatened to do to them. “Did he ever tell you why he killed that man?”

There’s some static, an exhaled breath, “No. He didn’t.”

“He’d seen you in your suit since you refused to wear the dress Cutter had sent for you.” Kepler could see it. It had certainly suited Maxwell better than any dress, and her hair had been pulled back into what some might consider an acceptable fashion. One could have called her beautiful. Striking is the word Kepler considered most apt. “He made some joke about getting you into his bedroom and teaching you how a ‘real woman’ should behave. I watched Jacobi take aim and fire within less than a second. A perfect shot.”

“And you didn’t stop him.”

“I didn’t.”

A pause. “Why not?”

Because Kepler had seen red, and the moment that man had laid eyes on his team was the moment he deserved to die. Because if Jacobi hadn’t taken that shot, Kepler very well might have.

“I don’t think I could have even if I’d wanted to. When Jacobi makes a decision, it’s nearly impossible to dissuade him unless he’s faced with a direct order. I learned a long time ago to choose my battles carefully, and that’s not one I wanted to fight.”

Maxwell hums like she’s considering it. Like they both aren’t playing different versions of the same game, looking for any crack in the other’s defenses to exploit.

“There’s only one orange wire. Cut it.”

He does, and remains intact.

“Maxwell—” No, that’s not right, “Alana.”

Kepler, on principle, doesn’t use first names. The SI-5 are a team, one that relies on efficiency, ruthlessness, and the ability to keep working towards their goal even if someone takes a bullet to the brain. Emotional attachments are not conducive to their work and Kepler has made sure to keep a very clear, professional distance.

“Sir?” Her guard slips, just a bit, but enough to hint that maybe Kepler hasn’t fully lost control of the only other person on this station worthy of a sliver of his trust.

What he said next would determine not only his chances of survival, but also whether or not he could complete his mission.

Whether or not Jacobi’s death had been in vain.

“Jacobi’s death was— He didn’t—” Kepler paused, collecting his thoughts, “I… miscalculated.”

Colonel Warren Kepler does not make mistakes. What’s more, Colonel Warren Kepler certainly does not admit to making mistakes. This position that he has clawed his way into requires nothing less than perfection from both him and his subordinates.

Colonel Warren Kepler does, in fact, take risks. Sometimes a gamble is the difference between success and failure.

When Maxwell didn’t respond, Kepler took that as his cue to keep going. “I made a call that I thought was best, and Jacobi died because of it. That is an indisputable fact, and something that I will have to carry for the rest of my life.” Too personal, switch tact, “It has cost us dearly, and I know that you cared very much for Jacobi—”

“You did too.” Maxwell’s voice was soft, but her words cut through him nonetheless.

Kepler ensured that his tone was perfectly steady, even a little threatening, as he replied, “Excuse me?”

“You cared about him too.” With every word, Maxwell’s voice grew stronger, “He wasn’t just my best friend, he was your second-in-command. You two knew each other for years before you hired me.”

“Doctor—” Kepler tried to warn her off, but was interrupted by her incredulous laugh, piercing through the static.

“I mean, the number of times you could’ve fired him, even killed him, for some mistake or another. And all those times you complained about insubordination without ever doing anything about it. Even the way he talked about you!”

His breath caught in his throat, and, against his better intentions, he waited to hear what Maxwell would say next.

And, of course, she didn't disappoint.

Kepler’s team never did.

Her voice rang out like a gong, sure and with a sense of finality appropriate for the occasion, “I thought he was delusional. He was in love with you!”

There it was. Kepler had always known. Relied on it in the way you relied on the sun rising in the morning, or the way you relied on the tides rising and falling in accordance with the moon.

Actually, that wasn’t quite right.

It was more the way you relied on a loaded gun to fire when you pulled the trigger or a bomb to explode when you lit the fuse. A prized weapon that remains at your side, willing and able to tear through anything in its path with brutal efficiency the moment you give the word.

Kepler’s finger twitches in the empty air, searching for a bullet that has long since been fired and is now embedded within the walls of the Hephaestus. No longer his to wield.

“—ler? Kepler are you even listening to me?” The question was an unwelcome reminder of the reality of his situation, plunging him back into a world where Jacobi was dead, and it seemed that Kepler would be following him sooner than he’d prefer.

His eyes flick back up to the camera, keenly aware of the eyes watching him, cataloguing his every breath.

“Yes, Maxwell,” He sighs, “What would you have me do? Even if he did love me, he’s gone now, and love never saved anyone.”

The temperature in the room dropped. “You’d better hope that’s not true, Colonel. Because love might be the only thing that gets you out of here alive.”

A chill crept up Kepler’s spine and he wasn’t entirely sure whether it was of Maxwell’s doing, or entirely his own.

“Doctor, I would much appreciate it if you would just tell me what you want me to do instead of dancing around while I am trapped in a room with an active bomb.”

He heard a scoff and, “That’s rich coming from you.”

Fair enough.

“But fine, you want to know what I want from you? It’s simple, really, even you could pull this off.” She paused, took a breath, “I want you to say that you cared about Daniel Jacobi.”

Oh. “Maxwell, I—”

“I’m not finished.” And, miraculously, the words vanished from the tip of Kepler’s tongue, “I don’t just want you to say that you cared about him. I want you to mean it. And not just as a part of the team, but as a person. I want you to mean it so much that you manage to convince me that you’re even the slightest bit upset about the fact that you sent him to his death.”

This… certainly wasn’t what he’d been expecting.

“Maxwell, I won’t—”

“You will, or I’m going to let that bomb go off. Cosmic justice and all that. I feel like it would make Daniel proud.”

Kepler eyed the bomb apprehensively. Alana Maxwell didn’t bluff, she made promises and she kept them.

All of a sudden, it hit him: Kepler didn’t have anyone on his side. He was alone in a room on a space station 7.8 light years away from Earth. There was no good right hand to rely on; the only remnant of him was the bomb just a few feet away, mocking him. There was no computer genius in his ear, watching his back and making sure they all got out of there alive.

When he lost Jacobi, he lost them both, leaving Kepler to pick through the wreckage in an attempt to salvage what remained of his team.

This might be his best shot. “Alright, Doctor. You win. I cared about Jacobi.”

The words felt like razor blades tearing through his throat, which is likely why Maxwell’s response was so horrible.

“No. I don’t believe you, say it again.”

But he kept his composure. “I cared about Jacobi.”

“Again.”

And he didn’t let anything slip. “I cared about Daniel Jacobi.”

“Interesting. Again.”

Or, at least, he tried not to let anything slip. “I cared about Daniel. Isn’t that what you want to hear? I cared about him.”

“Ooh, there was certainly something there. Maybe even something believable. Again.”

Kepler took a deep breath.

And then he snapped, throwing the wire cutters in his hands with deadly accuracy. It shattered the camera into a million glittering pieces, blinding Maxwell.

“I loved him.” He heard Maxwell suck in a sharp breath, but the dam inside of Kepler had broken and there was no stopping the flood, “I loved him, and then I killed him. There should’ve been no room for love on this team. Love slows you down, it makes you look over your shoulder. Love gets you killed.”

He looked at his hands, the hands that had curled around a glass of whiskey, clinking it against another. The hands that had clapped Jacobi on the back for a job well done too many times to count. The hands that were drenched in so much blood, and yet Jacobi had been willing to take them in his own.

The hands that now felt so empty. “I couldn’t afford that. One shred of weakness and Cutter would’ve killed Jacobi before either of us could blink, so I never told him, and I let him love me as long as it meant he would still get the job done. His love meant loyalty, mine meant a slow and gruesome death.” A short laugh escaped him, sharp as a dagger through the heart, “If you could even call it love.”

“We’re monsters, Maxwell,” Kepler looked up at the shattered camera, “What we call love is more like some twisted form of need. Of loyalty and obsession and dependency that warps and binds us together. We just call it love so that we can trick ourselves into feeling a little more human.”

All the rage that had swirled inside him dissipated, leaving him empty once more. “But I did love him, in the only way that I knew how, and then I ordered him to his death. I wanted all of us to make it out of this assignment alive and intact, but now we’re more broken than ever. And that’s something I will carry with me until my dying day, and perhaps a little longer.”

Silence rang. Kepler took the opportunity to scrub a hand over his face, to straighten out his clothes in order to look even mildly presentable if this was how he was going to die.

Then the door slid open.

“I loved him too.” Alana stood in the hall, slightly hunched over and eyes downcast, “You too, actually. We were supposed to be a family.”

And against all his training, all his better instincts, something inside of Kepler’s impenetrable exterior softened.

“We were.” He opened his arms just slightly, an invitation that was eagerly accepted as Maxwell sank into him. They held on tight, away from prying eyes and clinging to the only tangible evidence of what they used to have.

After a moment, they separated. Kepler pretended not to see the way Maxwell tried to subtly wipe at her eyes, the same way she pretended not to notice the way he cleared his throat before speaking.

“I’m going to go spend some time in my quarters, and I think you should too. We still have lots of work to do, and I want you energized and ready come morning.”

The smile she sent him was tentative, a bridge in the process of being rebuilt, “Yes, sir. I’ll see you then.”

They went their separate ways and Kepler made sure that his strides were sure and his head was held high until he got to his assigned room. The moment the door closed behind him, he sank to the floor, rubbing a thumb over the badge that he kept in his pocket at all times.

It was burnt and slightly bloodied, but you could still read the D. Jacobi that had been printed on it for this mission.

And finally, for the first time since they lost Special Officer Daniel Jacobi, ballistics expert and classified sarcastic ray of sunshine, Kepler let himself mourn.

[livfastdieyoung69]

Im so feral and its almost my birthday so ykkkk i deserve this

Mjf x Reader

Lowkey been thinking about reader being related to punk and mjf wanting them so bad and the feud fueling that and reader being like “yk…hes kinda” and they have like a secret little relationship and mjf drops that fact when hes like PISSED at punk and wants to get under his skin and readers like “😦ohmygoodness” ykyk? You can have free reign with everything else tho 🤭🤭

Star-Crossed Lovers

Maxwell Jacob Friedman was an asshole. Everyone knew it, there was no way around it. Your older brother, famously known as CM Punk, seemed to be pretty fond of the fact. You however, had a bit of a different…perspective of the man. Considering this perspective, you just so happened to be waiting around the corner he would have to walk by to get to his locker room (of which he left to go mess with Phil, of course).

“Hey.” You spoke, interrupting his stride through the hall. He gave you no answer, only cocking his eyebrows at you before starting to continue, only to stop once more and turn back with confusion written on his face.

“Aren’t you Punk’s-“ He started to question.

”Yeah.” You interrupted with a bit of a scowl. “I’m also, y’know, a world renowned wrestler, but yeah. He’s my brother.” His well known smirk returns as it had been before.

“Well, if you’re looking for your bastard of a brother, he's bleeding out in the ring. Courtesy of yours truly.” You give him a shrug, a smirk finding its way onto your face as well.

“I’m sure he can handle himself. But in the meantime, need any blackmail or somethin’?” And with those few sentences, you had slithered your way into his evil, bitchy, withering heart. Not that yours was very different.

Much similar to many other weeks, your brother and…lover(?) were out shit-talking each other in the ring. Gearing up to their next and possibly last match, of course they were. This time though, you had the pleasure of sitting ringside thanks to doing commentary the match prior and having nothing better to do than stick around. As interesting as it was, it was also quite boring considering how often it happened, so you sat next to Tony Schiavone in one of the commentator chairs, which were actually quite comfortable, picking at your nails and talking to the fans behind you.

Tony tried to call for you but stuck in a conversation with the very nice lady behind you, you waved him off and continued talking about your own rivals (who had been the match prior). He called for you once more, making you roll your eyes and apologize to the nice lady before turning your attention to Tony and placing the commentator headset back on.

“Yes, Tony?” You asked through a couple of huffs and puffs.

“Your brother, CM Punk,” You’re quick to interrupt with a mutter of how you’re aware of this fact. “seems to be getting quite, uh, heated with MJF in there, what’re your thoughts of the young man?” With a sigh you think for a second, leaning your head onto your hand held up by the chair arm.

“Well,-“ you start, swiveling the chair back and forth with your feet, but the center of the question himself interrupts you from inside the ring.

“Y’know Punk, for as much as you hate me,” He turns from his position facing away from you, now leaning against the ropes closest to commentary with the smuggest face you’ve ever seen him hold (if that’s even possible). You’re eyes shift to look behind him, at your brother who seems very confused, and back to MJF who starts speaking again, starting with your name. “Seems to like me very, very much.” Phil seemed to think he was just joking around, his expression quickly turning annoyed as he moves to speak, but just like he had done to you, Max interrupts him while turning his back to you to face your brother. “I mean, just ask where they were last night.” He turns back to you, asking for Phil. “Where were you last night, sweetheart?”

The crowd oohs and ahs as your widened eyes shift back and forth some more, your back straightening. Tony made a remark from beside you with a laugh.

“Uhm…”

Come to think of it, you wouldn’t answer your phone last night. Phil raises the mic to his lips with a warning of your name.

“Uhh…” You try to hide your growing smile with pursing lips as he says your name again, this time with a bit of disbelief. A smirk forces its way onto your face as you shrug up at him coyly. “Oops?”

Punks eyes widen, scoffing at your admission as the mic tumbles from his hands. He looks over to Max, who had moved to lie against the turnbuckles in the corner, with no care in the world and a huge smile. Watching as he advances to Max in his anger, you're quick to jump to your feet and pull the headset off, putting yourself in between the two.

“Are you seriously only gonna put the blame on him? I mean, cmon Phil! I was the one who made the first move!” You yelled at him, giving him a little push. He looks at you with what seemed to be a little bit of disgust and a whole lot of hopelessness, so much it hurt just a little bit, even if you’ve seen that look before many times.

“I wish I could say I couldn’t believe you, but this is so terribly in character for you.” He tells you with the shake of the head before he starts to leave the ring.

“Phil.” You start after him, quite annoyed. “Phil, cmon!” You yell at him some more as he jumps down from the ring, refusing to look back at you leaning against the ropes closest to the ramp. “You can’t blame me for this, he’s cute!” He continues shaking his head at you, finishing his walk up the ramp. With a roll of your eyes you turn back to Max with a sly smile. “Did you really have to do that?”

With a shrug, he meets you in the middle of the ring. “Oops.” He repeats your earlier statement of guilt.

Your smile grows as his hands meet your lower back and your own meet his chest. “It’s whatever. He’ll get over it in a couple weeks, I went after this guy he despised in high school so…” You give him another shrug, moving your hands up to the collar of his suit.

“Gotta type there, huh?” He brings you in closer moving one of his hands from your back and instead to grace across your face, landing on your jaw.

“Oh, absolutely, I do.” You speak, giving the thumb that had landed under your lips a teasing bite. Not a very soft one either, it was a habit Max wasn’t too fond of (except for right now. Right now it was really fucking hot.). “Let's get the hell out of here and, uh, continue last night, yeah?” The look he gives you tells you enough, but so does him physically turning you and leading you out of the ring.

You always just loved the assholes, didn’t you?

BOOOOMMM LOOK AT ME GO!! Don't expect anymore my breaks over 😒 but this was a very fun one and reader is a bitch it was so so so fun to write and it's totally giving Romeo and Juliet hence the title

ALSO HAPPY EARLY BDAY!!!!!

[pettyprocrastination]

Hi darling, I’m so sorry about your zuzu. Ollie got a new blanket today and he would like to show you :

If you feel like answering - which Pedro boys would have dogs? 😘😘😘

Thank you laura, and hello lovely lovely ollie! He looks so cozy!! I think

frankie is absolutely a dog guy. Like through and through that man talks to his dog he takes him for drives in his truck he gives him table scraps and lets him lay on the couch. his dog is the epitome of mans best friend cause He loves him so much

I like to imagine Dave york with a dog, but it's a little fluffy white dog (like zuzu :') because his daughters wanted a cute little puppy instead of a big trained guard dog and now he has some little yippy thing he has to talk on a walk every morning before work because he can't say no to his wife and daughters.

idk if dogs exist in starwars but yall saw when Din called to the massiff in season two and it trotted right on over? and he gave him some scritches? he deserves a big massiff that watches over him and grogu like a scaly Labrador.

I think Joel would love a dog. Goes in with the thing of him wanting a ranch, he deserves a pup he can train to protect his flock and herd the sheep in at his side <3 Sarah probably begged him for a dog growing up and he said that she could walk the neighbor's as training to see if she could handle the responsibility of taking care of one.

So I know climate-wise it's unrealistic to think of there being dogs in dorne- but (and ive talked about this with @thesadvampire ) I like the idea of dorne being home to a type of hyena type animal called a "dornish laughing hound" that are seen as scavengers and NOT pets but then oberyn's baratheon wifey is gifted a pup as a wedding day gift and she loves him so very much. He gets a jewled collar and is eating sweet meats and fruit from her hand every day but will bite anybody else. Oberyn is not happy about this arrangement in any way but can't say anything cause that's his wife's dog so he just has to live with the fact that this feral puppy that will grow into a giant hound is now chewing his shoes and sleeping in his spot in the bed.

I think marcus pike is just a companionship guy. I can see him with cats and/or dogs. Both of them fit into his fantasy of having a family to come home to so he loves them both very much :)

If Maxwell lord has a dog it's going to be a very fancy high breed he has professionally trained (or maybe it's the pitbull of the seamstress he and his wife are in love with hehe)

[droughtofapathy]

rank every production of: company and follies, then rank every performance of

- not getting married today

- ladies who lunch

- being alive

- losing my mind

- could i leave you

- (anything else.)

What do you *mean* every performance? There's unhinged and there's batshit unstable because fuck's sake, how is this even possible? I'm putting it all under a cut. We're going to be here a while.

Okay, so given that I've only ever seen the recent Broadway revival of Company live, and otherwise only have a passing familiarity with the original and the two other subsequent revivals, I'll say that the real answer is Elaine Stritch best Joanne, Katie Finneran best Amy, Jennifer Simard best Sarah, and objectively Raul Esparza best Bobby. And that's all I have to say about that.

Follies: 1. Encores! 2007 for that sublime trio of Donna Murphy as Phyllis, Vicki Clark as Sally, and Christine Baranski as Carlotta. However, points off for not being a full maximalist design (y'know, being an Encores! and all). 2. Original 1971. Yes, there have been more talented performers, yes there have been better sets, yes it was kind of a nightmare to put together. But I've read Everything was Possible and I am deeply besotted by what was. 3. NT 2017. For the design and some of the background direction, full honors. That set is everything I have ever wanted from a Follies set. Gorgeous costumes. Love the execution of the ghosts. The actual performers...? Well...let's just say I can count on one hand how many West End performers I actually respect. 4. 2011 Broadway revival. Jan Maxwell, my beloved. The design may not have been as grand as it should have been, the casting of Bernadette might have been a little underwhelming, the drama backstage might have been harrowing, but Jan Maxwell may well be the best Phyllis we've ever had in a full production. 5. 1998 Papermill Play House. There were rumors of this transferring to Broadway but that got axed, alas. Instead, we got the 2001 production (starring neither rumored Donna Murphy nor Jean Smart, so what was the point?). But Dee Hoty is one of the great Phyllis performers. She did "Ah, But Underneath" instead of "The Story of Lucy and Jessie" and you know, I'm not mad about it. Honorable Mention: the Follies concert this past June at Carnegie Hall. It's been enough time that I can make up a laundry list of what I didn't like. But what I did like made for a magical night.

As for ranking the songs, you're getting my top three-to-five and you'll be happy about it:

"Getting Married Today" 1. Madeline Kahn Hands down, no question, zero contest, everyone else pack it up. This is it. The pinnacle of the song. She is everything and her "I'm not well" runs on constant loop in my head. 2. Katie Finneran Truly an ideal role for her, and this rendition is as nerve-wracking as it should be. Extra points for being post-partum and leaking breastmilk into that white dress. 3. Veanne Cox I've seen her do this live, and it's an impressive feat. She's got the neurotic panic down to a science. 4. Julie Andrews Do I think it's anywhere near the best rendition ever? No. But am I endlessly entertained? Absolutely. Julie Andrews, my beloved. 5. Marin Mazzie (technically) You never said it had to be the Amy part of the song. Marin Mazzie as the soprano Wedding Singer deserves a spot on this list, and while the video I'm thinking of seems to have vanished into the aether, there are a few clips of her doing it at different concerts, and I think of them fondly.

"The Ladies Who Lunch" 1. Patti LuPone But not the one she did for the recent Broadway revival. It was fine and all, but not her best. I do like the 2011 concert version, but I'm going with the Ladies in Red version specifically here. 2. Elaine Stritch The original. The blueprint. The ideal. 3. Christine Baranski, Meryl Streep, Audra McDonald It's iconic and feral and I don't think anyone's going to argue. 4. Debra Monk and/or Barbra Walsh I don't listen to them often, but solid takes either way.

"Being Alive" 1. Marquee Five I've said it before, and I'll say it again, but this song was only ever just kind of there for me until I heard an alto woman sing it. Now I get it. Obscure choice, yes, but argue with the wall. 2. Raul Esparza Okay, so I did hear him do this live during an unexpected appearance at a 24 Hour Plays event, and okay yeah, I get it. I understand the hype. It was incredible. Other than that, I don't really listen to others aside from Marquee Five.

"Losing My Mind" 1. Marin Mazzie This is everything to me. The gown, the silhouette, the sheer size of her mouth. And the little gasp at the end? I am in a puddle on the floor. 2. Kate Baldwin The pause at the climax of the song is one of the singular most transcendent moments of live theatre I have ever experienced. Total silence as nearly three-thousand people witnessed utter perfection. I am haunted by this performance. 3. Victoria Clark The best Sally, and I'll die on that hill. She gets it. And her costume, hair, and makeup for the 2007 Encores! concert has me so in love. Almost enough to make me overlook how delusional she is and propose marriage. 4. Liza Minnelli Yes, in case you didn't know, there's a Liza Minnelli disco version of this song, and I just... I... yeah, you're going to have to see for yourself.

"Could I Leave You?" 1. Donna Murphy Shocker. Who would have guessed that DroughtofApathy would put Donna Murphy's definitive rendition of this song at the top slot? She goes somewhere during this number, and I haven't seen a performance come close to touching what she does yet. 2. Jan Maxwell My beloved.

But let's be honest here. I'm not listening to any other version aside from Donna's. So here's just a few I think are very good, but given the choice, I'd never voluntarily listen to any of them if Donna is also an option: Julie Andrews, Dee Hoty, Emily Skinner, Alexis Smith, Janie Dee, Lucia Spina, Bonnie Milligan. Basically any woman. (Though I'll be honest, I didn't really care for Beth Leavel's during the Follies concert.) No man ever. Every time a man does this number at a cabaret, just know that beneath my mask, I am hissing and spitting in disgust.

And that's all she wrote.

[charlesemersonwinchesteriii]

For dating game: Donna Noble for a non Mash option from something I'm pretty sure I've seen you reblog stuff from, BJ, and Klinger

I can't believe I got 2 Donnas for this game and neither were the MASH one haha. And yes I AM a Doctor Who fan but like with Twin Peaks I'm only a shallow fake one because I only feel really passionate about RTD era :( sowwy again. I'm 0 for 2 today. But at least I didn't skip MASH s1-3 AND I didn't skip the 9th Doctor AND I read Laura's diary + Dale Cooper's tapes. So now everyone has to give me a little headpat and forgive me and say they're not mad at me thank you <3

Donna Noble

I couldn’t handle Donna QwQ I couldn’t match her energy it’s very sad :( I feel like I would do the exact opposite of what the Doctor did for her in terms of bringing out her most amazing qualities. And I do really try to highlight and praise the qualities of people in my life!! I just don’t know if I could help her reach her full potential. Which sounds like one of those weird therapy-talk approaches to relationships but unfortunately sometimes when you really admire someone you actually do start thinking about things like “am I supporting her journey effectively” and all that. But this is just a date right so it can just be a casual thing. I feel like Donna is someone with whom I could straight up be like Hey so I was never socialized properly and your last relationship ended comically terribly so do you want to like try practicing dating with each other? I think it could be fun! And then eventually she could move on to find happiness with Mr. Temple :)  

Wait actually sorry quick tangent if Donna doesn’t remember the Doctor what does she think happened to her fiance from way back when. Does she. Does she remember the giant alien spider or. Hang on--

BJ Hunnicutt

BJ Hunnicutt is the human equivalent of Disneyland. Everybody in the entire nation is absolutely obsessively feral over it it’s sooo beautiful it’s sooo fun you just HAVE to experience it it’s a quintessential expression of the American dream blah blah blah. But I will never attend this overpriced (constantly borrowing money) and overcrowded (too much competition from the rest of Mashblr) theme park. I do not care for its fastpass system (willingness to cheat on his partner) or its uninspiring coaster design (anger issues), and I am further offended to hear of the constant introduction of cost-cutting measures that harm visitor experience (growth of mustache). Not even the prospect of purchasing a fully functioning Cogsworth clock (chance to join the Punnihawk polycule) is enough to tempt me. It’s not happening. I am going to Dollywood (Maxwell Klinger).

Maxie my beautiful girl Maxie whomst is so very adored by me

My wife my kitten my sweet snuggly wuggly good time gal. My Dollywood. Know that I love and adore Maxwell for eternity <3

BUT. I must love her from afar because I couldn’t in good conscience waste her time when I figure there must be a more compatible match out there, ya know? Like, I know hardly anything about baseball and I wear the same clothes every day and I don’t eat red meat so I can’t even share those beloved hotdogs. Max deserves the Best as I’m sure we all agree, and we know he wants a serious long term partnership. I want the same thing, so I know that such a lifelong, committed relationship should be with someone who finds themself more easily compatible with Max’s tastes and interests.  

On an unrelated note, Charles sure seemed to get super into baseball in War For All Seasons, huh? :) And we know he cares a lot about his clothes, as we see him hiring a personal tailor at least once! :) And he was surprisingly eager to get to share in Max’s hotdog delivery in The Grim Reaper, too! :) So many random fun facts in this world \^w^/

[after-hour-writings]

I am writing again. 😂😂 can I ask for all the dads x a dadsona who has 2 chihuahuas? What was the first meeting with the dogs like? Do the dogs help choose who is going to stay in dadsona's life? And does Amanda try to play up the dogs, like they're some big great dane until some of the kids come over and they're 2 small puppies? (By the way you are my new favorite scenario writer please don't stop 🤣🤣😅)

That’s so kind of you to say. I don’t plan on stopping, but my ask box is still kinda empty so it might take a while to post a new imagine. Also, I made it so Hugo gets Duchess even if you don’t romance Damien. 

Dadsona with two chihuahuas 

Robert:Before you met Betsy you were hesitant to bring up your dogs. Robert seemed like the kind of guy who would scoff at the mere mention of a chihuahua,but your doubts about introducing Robert to your dogs would be smothered when you saw how he reacted to small dogs you would encounter while on a date. He always got a tender look on his face and even though he would deny it always, you knew this man has a soft spot for dogs. When he finally gets to meet them, you bet those two are getting scooped up real fast. He starts to bring Betsy over and luckily for both of you the three dogs love each other. He starts to carry around a picture of two rottweilers to go along with the pitbull one he already has. 

Damien:It’s no secret that this man loves dogs, big and small, so he would be thrilled when you mention that you have two. Of course he would be very strict bout not letting the dogs near Lucien and would start to carry around a small lint roller so he wouldn’t bring any stray hairs to his home. He does mostly wear dark colors so he would very likely miss some spots. He loves to pamper them and the dogs seem to calm down around him and would become attention hogs when ever he’s around. He doesn’t mind of course, but it gets very difficult to show you any sort of affection when the dogs decide they deserve that affection more than you. 

Mat:He was one of the few people Amanda didn’t lie to about the dogs size or feral nature. Still, he was nervous about meeting your dogs. He knew you loved those dogs and your relationship was still new and he was afraid that if the dogs didn’t like him it would affect your relationship. He decided to make some home-made dog treats to make them warm up to him. It turned out it really didn’t matter, because the dogs only took a single look at him and decided that Mat would now be their new favorite napping spot and would start to growl at people who got too close to him in their opinion. The only person they might like more than Mat was Carmensita who loves to dress them up and luckily for her these two survived Amanda and are Halloween costume veterans.  

Craig: He would joke about that you should get a third dog so you could name it Carl Jr (He isn’t kidding). He would occasionally hope that the dogs would be as big as how Amanda described them so he could take them with him on his runs. Though the dad side of him was very glad that the dogs were smaller ones and couldn’t accidentally hurt River or the twins. River gets very attached to the dogs who have taken on the job of being her personal bodyguards when ever she’s close to them. You guys would joke about the effectiveness of it, but soon would shut up when the older dog starts barking up a storm when one of the moms would try to pinch her cheeks. Hazel uses this as proof when she takes on the job of playing up the dogs when Amanda goes to college. 

Joseph: At first he would be very worried due to Amanda, but would slightly relax when he sees the two. The kids absolutely love the dogs and they get even Chris to open up to you. The dogs love the kids even more and grow quite attached to the four when Amanda leaves for college. They’re favorite seems to be Chris to his confusion, but the dogs will not leave him alone until his given them both sufficient  amount of pets. Amanda gets Chris to send her pictures of the dogs and tells him ways to get the dogs to do tricks. Joseph couldn’t be happier with the dogs and how they help the kids with dealing with the new familiar arrangement, but that doesn’t mean the dogs were quick to like him.  

Hugo: At first he was neutral towards the dogs, but would soon grow to love them.He was worried about how Duchess and them would get along, but it turns out that their age gets Duchess to actually respect them. She starts copying them and tries to follow them wherever their going. He almost cries tears of joy when he realizes for the first time that your dogs can keep her in line. It’s not that he doesn’t love Duchess, but she’s a very big puppy who doesn’t seem to realize that she isn’t the same size as your dogs anymore. Ernest warms up to you faster due to your dogs and likes to get tips on dog care from you.  ��

Brian: He was so exited that Maxwell would have a new buddy to play with that he started accidentally bragging about Maxwell when he wanted to make sure you’d think he was nice enough to let play with your dogs. Amanda couldn’t even tell him horror stories about what happened to the last dog they let near them before you were showing him pictures and praising them for their intelligence. The dogs end up using Maxwell as a pillow most of the time and decided that he was their new baby brother who must be protected at all costs. Daisy loves the two and gets them matching handkerchief that goes with the one Maxwell has. Brian likes taking pictures of the three dogs and Daisy when they all fall asleep on the couch and even toyed with the idea of developing them so he could put them up on the wall.  

[7r0773r]

The Hundred Brothers by Donald Antrim

Elsewhere people came and went, played card games and chess, tended to one another’s injuries, chased the bats. These men’s lives seemed, for the moment, untouched by fear. But I did not envy them. I felt the way humans must have felt in earlier times, at the dawn of our history, when the world was alive with primitive dangers and life depended for its preservation on the graces and fancies of hateful gods. 

“Go ahead, kill me,” I commanded the dog. He held on to his bone. What was he thinking? There was no way of knowing. He was just a dog. 

Winds blew and the music played. Snow piled up. People talked but I was not paying attention to their conversations. I felt the cold air. Gunner’s eyes shimmered and I held my book close to me. It was easy, looking into the dog’s mouth, at those white teeth and black gums, to imagine the power and authority our ancestors must have felt with companions like Gunner at their sides. 

What an animal. What was he doing with an alcoholic like Chuck for a master? “You understand about death, don’t you?” I said to him. He growled quietly then readjusted the bone, expertly, in his teeth. Snap snap. I regarded this as an answer of sorts. I confided to the Doberman, “Once upon a time men celebrated the seasons of death and rebirth with sacrifices and burnt offerings. The world was cold and forbidding, and if you didn’t watch out, your enemies would come up behind you and kill you with a spear or a club. A single night’s foul weather could destroy your crops, and then you might starve. Each day brought terror. Angry spirits unleashed thunder and lightning, diseases and pestilences, every species of ferocious beast. Men developed language to communicate their terror to one another. People were in pain all the time. They believed they would be rewarded for their pain. This is what is known as the human condition.”

 It seemed to me that the dog was paying attention. What a fierce nose Gunner had. Perhaps he knew, from my serious tone of voice, that I was speaking on weighty matters. I told him, “Over the years mankind has devised many ways to alleviate the pain of living, and much of human history can be understood as a death march toward this goal. Although suffering in life can sometimes be postponed, it can never be avoided. This is the central lesson of the world’s religions. Please don’t drool on the book. All right, Gunner? Good boy. This is the central lesson of the world’s religions. Where was I? The pain of existence is ours to bear. In order to bear it we must make sacrifices. We must offer ourselves up before God and our fellow man. That is the function of the Corn King.” 

The dog really did appear to be listening. It was as if he knew—was letting me know that he knew—what I was talking about. Of course I realize it would be going too far to suggest that animals comprehend the symbolic realm. But I gave Gunner the benefit of the doubt. “The Corn King is an archetypal harvest spirit. His story is as old as recorded time. In rude societies, before the dawn of civilization, when it was believed that spirits resided in all things, in the mountains and lakes, trees and grasses, cats and dogs” —I gave Gunner a smile; his ears pricked up and I went on —”no spirit was regarded with greater awe than the spirit of the corn. From corn came food and grain alcohol. Life depended on the harvest, and so human beings were routinely sacrificed to ensure the fertility of the crop. These were martyrs. While alive—and death was painful, very painful, Gunner—the Corn King’s human representatives were worshiped as gods. It was their blood that enriched the earth, their tears that brought the rains, their flesh that fatted the land. They died so that others might live. Today, mimicry of this ancient practice is common in many popular religions.” At this point the dog began to lose interest. He made a yawning sound and fiddled with the bone in his mouth. I quickly said, “In some instances, the Corn King’s still-beating heart was cut out and devoured!"

I felt nervous telling Gunner this. That blood on my shirtfront was a perfect target. We’ve all heard the frightening stories of domesticated animals regressing into feral states and tearing their owners limb from limb. Gunner had made short work of that pork chop. The dog’s nose twitched. Perhaps he had eaten enough. I explained to him that modern men had lost touch with ancient rhythms of death and regeneration, but that it was possible—if you took intoxicants and wore the right mask and costume—to regain connection with the primeval aspects of the Self, and to enact, in ritualized form, the important celebrations of sacrifice and abasement; that this was, in some respects, what family get-togethers were all about. I wrapped up, “You see, Gunner, the Corn King is my gift to my brothers. Every year I have a few drinks, then get in costume, and they try to catch me. Luckily, most of those guys are out of shape. Ultimately, the Corn King must die. In this way the family of man can prosper and thrive.” 

This ended my talk with the dog. But Gunner did not back off right away. First he allowed me to pet his head. What a pleasant creature. He only wanted what we all want from time to time, to submit and feel love. “Gunner, how would you like to be my dog?” 

My fear of him was gone. In fear’s place was a new self-possession; I understood why people keep animals. I rose from my chair—carefully holding A Complete Guide to Heraldry in front of my body, just to be safe—and I didn’t even bother pretending to have a hurt foot. So what if Lester said something? It was late and the time had come at last to go over to the African masks, choose a colorful headdress from the wall, put it on my head, then run around and shout the kinds of obscenities that get people mad. 

“Come on, Gunner.” (pp. 166-70)

***

There is nothing quite like the primitive ecstasy of pissing somewhere besides the bathroom. I rate the act very highly. Pissing in nature or in some dark corner, as I was, captures and brings into consciousness certain archaic versions of a man’s most secret Self—those aspects of character and identity that remain, in civilized daily life, veiled, disguised, sealed away: the messy, narcissistic, bodily Self of infancy; the wild, magnificent, feral Self of mankind’s prehistoric beginnings; that communal, loving Self expressed in each man’s deep bond with his fellow men; and of course the sovereign, assertive, fiercely territorial Self that announces, Get out of my way! I’m taking a leak! 

Feeling such emotions, it was impossible not to elevate the stream and hose down, as they say, a few literary masterpieces. 

I may as well point out that I was able to hit titles all the way up on the third and fourth shelves. When you get into your middle years, as I have, these things matter. 

I shook and put it away. Since I’m being frank, I ought to say that I went through the mature man’s generic process of shaking: several rapid shakes followed by a brief rest followed by more jiggling, and the whole ordeal repeated until everything feels comfortably dry and secure. As I grow longer in the tooth, I find myself shaking off for greater and greater stretches of time, and I always use this time to fret morosely about my health in general, and about the likelihood that a grave illness, conceivably located in the bladder region, will overtake me in the future, maybe imminently. In this way a pleasurable, natural act becomes the catalyst for somber reflections and an unnatural, incipient depression. So much of life follows this pattern exactly, I think. We begin to lose ourselves in a joyful or gratifying act—it can be a creature comfort or something complicatedly emotional like stimulating conversation or the solitary immersion in a poem, a beautiful landscape, or a work of art—and we forget, in the moment of serenity, all the pain and trouble of life. Until, quite suddenly and, as a rule, shockingly, this very forgetfulness, our fleeting holiday from care, becomes nothing more than another occasion to remember how truly infrequently happiness comes to us, and how likely we are to die in some horrible way. Then, disgusted with ourselves over our inability to enjoy life, we halt the pleasurable activity and move on, as speedily as we can, to other business. It was precisely this kind of dispirited self-loathing that led me to give myself only a few cursory shakes, so that when I replaced myself in my trousers, I felt urine dribbling down my leg. As always when this happens, I became enraged. I became angry and irrational. The night was cold, and I struggled against despair. 

The struggle, however, was unavailing. 

I wept. 

At first I wept for myself—for my incontinence, obviously—and then for my entire, ridiculous existence, and for the loneliness I felt, not only there in the literature section in the late hours on that snowy night, but all the time, constantly, ever since I could remember feeling anything at all. As I wept, I felt lonelier and lonelier and lonelier. I envisioned, one after another, my brothers, the bloated, red faces of my brothers, all my beloved brothers but in particular Hiram and Virgil and Maxwell. These three I loved best. And also George. Would we ever see George again? After a while I was weeping for the rose garden and the former grandeur of our trees and lawns, those green fields where we played as children. We had always hurt one another in our games; hurting was the object of our games; and this made me cry more, and I held the blue pillow to my breast. I wrapped my arms around the blue pillow, hugged it to me, and let the tears come. I was standing in water up to my ankles, and this for some reason became another pressing sadness. I suppose it was because the water was rising that I felt so affected. Before long I was crying for, it seemed, everything. Everything in the red library was deserving of tears. Those eyeless, emaciated, deaf and dead animals on their barren squares of wall always reminded me of past Dougs, the Dougs who perished as youths; and, as I wept, they reminded me, the animals, of myself and of what would surely become of me one day, maybe soon. I was nothing but another Doug. Hiram was the oldest. Father I know really, only from his occasional, shadowy appearances above the lights, his intermittent manifestations as a damp stain. Actually, this is not, strictly speaking, the whole truth. It is true in the sense that it describes the way I have felt for as long as I have known my feelings. I remember, I think, our father's face and his voice. I remember his mustache. I remember our father in his underwear at night. I remember the hair on his legs. I remember the smell in the bathroom after he left it. I remember his unhappiness and his dread of our happiness, and I remember him saying, “How's my Doug?” I remember his body’s smells, his smells of tobacco, of course, and of alcohol and cologne, a cologne like lavender you never smell anymore. I remember the pleasure of seeing him enter the room. I remember certain stories and jokes. Actually, I forget the stories and the jokes, though I remember that these existed. I remember his conviction that he was hated, and I remember the thunder his footsteps made crossing the floor. Time after time my brothers and I have joined together to eat, drink, and bury that man. All we ever did was eat, drink, and injure each other. The sadness of our cruelty was more than I could bear. Tears rose in waves that washed up from the center of my body. The muscles in my sides felt as if they would tear from the strain of that sobbing. The water around my feet was steadily rising. I knew it was prideful to overinterpret broken pipes and a leaking roof, but on the other hand it did seem that I was not completely alone in my crying, that the red library was dripping and pouring out its own tears, its own remorse. 

I thought these things because I had failed to shake off after urinating. What a degenerate I was. What sadness, to come to such a point in life, this point at which the simplest acts, acts that promise pleasure, give access only to terrors and an overriding impression of loss. (pp. 183-87)

***

There is an impression, held true in our society, that the father is surpassed, overtaken, outlived, and in these and other respects, killed by the son.

But this is, I think, actually not the case. In truth, I think, it is always the son who is killed by the father. Couldn’t it be argued that each man dies the death made for him by his father? (p. 205)

[nux-morbid-art]

fallout oc questionnaire

in case anyone wanted a metric assload of info abt max mostly doing this for my benefit

Which Fallout game are they from? fallout 4

Which faction(s) did they join and which did they destroy? Why? Max initially joins the brotherhood and becomes a dedicated railroad heavy post blind betrayal. He cant stomach the thought of destroying the brotherhood, bc of the squires on board and a fair amount of allies within their ranks. Instead he enlists the help of the minutemen to maintain peace btw the 3 factions, eventually the brotherhood leave as the minutemen grow stronger

What is their S.P.E.C.I.A.L.? S: 4 P:5 C:8 I:10 A:7 L: 1

Give us a summary of their backstory.  a rowdy teenager always in trouble, comes from a large extended family, low-middle class, pulled into the high school-to-military pipe. Spent his military career just trying to survive, trained field medic. Eldest of 3 siblings, has one younger brother and sister. 

What’s their full name and does it have a meaning? Do they have any nicknames and how did they get em? Maxwell Ortiz, named after his grandfather who he was very close to. Called Vulture in high school for his looks and morbid sense of humor, earns “Mad Dog Max” in the military

What’s their sexual, romantic, and gender orientation? Do they feel comfortable telling other people? Bisexual, Biromantic, Transgender male He doesnt try to hide who he is, but he doesn’t volunteer the information either. 

Do they have any mental illnesses? How do they cope? Max has bipolar depression and PTSD pre-war, and it doesnt exaclty get better after he thaws out Moslty he tries to keep busy. He deals w sensory overload by finding a small, quiet place to curl up and rest, favorite sensory stims for staying calm and focused are soft textures. he carries a small keychain stuffed animal he found in his pocket, and collects scraps of nice fabric and teddy bears. he’ll also run his hands thru his hair. he has an oral fixation and if he’s not occupied w a cigarrette he finds something to chew on, bites his nails, chews his fingers, picks at his skin too. 

Do they have any medical conditions? Is medicine/ treatment available for them? Max loathes doctors, his only regular visit is to refill testosterone. 

How much do they care about their outer appearance? What’s their “beauty routine”? How often do they shower/ bathe? Max neglects his appearance and hygiene and needs to be reminded to take care of himself. He loses weight and muscle mass quickly, noticing it can trigger dysphoria. 

What do they fear the most? He will tell you hes already lived through his worst fear, losing Maria and his entire family, but ultimately, he fears being alone and becoming a bad person. 

Their biggest flaw? Do they recognize it as a flaw? --ill get back to this one

What are they most insecure about? relationships w other people. he feels like trouble follows him and hurts the people he cares about, like hes the source of their misery and he cant figure out why they let him stay. 

What Wasteland threat do they fear the most? (ex. Deathclaws, super mutants, raiders) Max fears nothing. Bring it on

What’s their zodiac sign or which one do you think they relate to the most? What are their placements (if you know them)? (ex. Aries sun, Taurus moon, Aquarius Venus) Scorpio

What’s their Myers–Briggs Type? (ex. ENTP, ISFJ) ---ill get back to this one

What Harry Potter house would they be in? (ex. Gryffindor, Ravenclaw) probably slytherin

Which Pokemon Go team would they choose? (ex. Instinct, Valor, Mystic) instinct, he would love taking care of eggs and raising baby pokemon

Out of the nine forms of intelligence (rhythmic, spatial, linguistic, mathematical, kinesthetic, interpersonal, intrapersonal, naturalistic, and existential) which one(s) are they really good at and which one(s) is(are) their weakest? best: rhythmic, spatial, naturalistic worst: intrapersonal, linguistic

What natural alignment are they? (ex. Lawful Good, Chaotic Evil) chaotic good

Do they have any hobbies? What are they? Max likes to play music, he’s decent w quitar, keyboard, and drums other than that he enjoys taking things apart and tinkering. 

Do they have a favorite holiday? How do they celebrate it? He used to be rather fond of Easter, for family traditions. Food, family, kids running around and playing. 

What’s their favorite season? Spring for sure, it brings relief from the worst of his depression

Do they have a temper or are they level headed? Hairpin temper, ready to fight at any trespass 

Do they express their emotions freely or hide their true feelings? express freely but it takes him a while to figure out what they are.

Are they a leader or a follower? He will say hes no leader but takes the role naturally when he has to work in a group. 

How do they come off to others? What first impression do they usually make? comes off as rather cold and aloof. 

Do they prefer to travel alone or with company? Who have they traveled with if any? Current companion if any? prefers company by alot. he’s usually w danse, the two are joined at the hip. he also enjoys being w deacon, preston, and maccready. he gets along well w piper and curie. i’m not sure if he’d ever find cait, but he’d fall ass over teakettle for her. i’m not sure if he’d ever travel w most of the other companions. 

Would you describe them as selfless or selfish? Does it depend on the situation? He’s pretty selfless, he cant stand suffering and will do his best to correct it. High empathy. 

What do they find most attractive in others? Name at least one psychological and physical trait. (doesn’t have to be romantic attraction) Kindness, honesty, and humor.  Physically, he has a weakness for full, round asses and nice thighs, hands that reveal secrets about their owners

Do they flirt often? How easily do they fall in love? its rare for him to be comfortable enough to be flirty, but when he is he’s damn good at it. he does fall quickly but takes a long time to understand the feelings for what they are. 

What’s their love life like? Are they interested in anyone or in a relationship? Mostly monogamous relationship w Danse

Do they prefer to solve things diplomatically or using violence? He gives diplomacy a chance, but he’s not good at it. breaking noses is easier. 

What is their combat style? What range do they prefer? Do they sneak? medium-close range, horrible at stealth. uses explosives and fire to confuse enemies and funnel them to his longer range combat partner, good at making a lane for snipers

What weapon(s) do they always carry with them? laser rifle, small pistol and a sidearm, and several combat knives kept razor sharp

Their most prized possession? a small collection of photos and holotapes codsworth preserved. he has a family photo of him, maria, his parents, and siblings w their children all together the tapes are mixes of pre-war rock n roll made by maria. 

Their thoughts on power armor? ugh, if i really have to. 

Favorite armor/ outfit? light, armored jackets, t-shirt, and jeans

How’s their aim? Do their hands shake while pointing a gun? he’s a pretty decent shot, but not spectacular. steady hands. 

What are their thoughts on having to kill on a daily bases in order to survive? Does it take a toll on them? Or do they shake it off rather easily? He becomes numb to it. it comes creeping up on him on Bad nights, and thats where the fear of becoming an evil person comes in. 

Thoughts on death if any? (ex. Fear it, accept it) “I am not allowed to die. I have people that need help.” He is very tired, lots of thoughts wishing for death, to rest. Tries to survive, but. He doesn’t really want to. 

Do they move around a lot or prefer to have a place to call home? Both, eventually calls Railroad HQ and Diamond City home, but never stays in one place for long. 

What’s their favorite location? gonna be cheesy: in Danse’s arms

Their opinions on ghouls, feral and not feral? Not feral: theyre just people. they didnt choose this. they’ve survived unknowable pain, and deserve respect and understanding.  feral: killing them is mercy. he feels that they must have suffered greatly in becoming feral, and their bodies are probably still incredibly painful to live in, resulting in their aggression. 

Do they scavenge for their supplies or simply buy them? both, also a big fan of trading.  “whos fuckin idea was it to use bottlecaps of all the goddam-”

Are they the type to get distracted and go off to an unknown nearby location or do they stay on track? Stay on track, but very curious and enjoys exploring. will note locations to scavenge later if he cant get to them right away

How do they sleep? Are they picky about where and how or can they sleep basically anywhere? Max likes a tight, secure place to sleep. he’s usually between and wall and danse. if he feels like he’s in a fairly safe location, getting to sleep is easy, tho he startles awake rather easily and has night terrors. if someone tries to wake him suddenly, like with a loud noise or grabbing and shaking him, they are very likely to get hurt. 

What’s their favorite radio station and song? (post-apocalypse) Atom bomb baby, uranium fever, and rocket 69

What’s their favorite post-apocalyptic food? Are they a picky eater? Do they know how to cook? favorite: sweets, candy, and mutfruit Not a picky eater, but he usually doesnt have much of an appetite either. He eats what hes given, usually without thinking about it or really tasting it He has a fair amount of knowledge and skill in the kitchen, being always at his mothers’ heels in everything domestic. he loves his parents and was always eager to help.

What’s their favorite beverage? Do they drink alcohol? he’s rather fond of quantum for the nastalgia and energy-drink buzz,  enjoys alcohol, likes beer, will drink whatever hes handed, if given a choice he likes whisky and nuka cola. 

Do they have any tag skills? --ill come back to this

Anything they like to collect? (ex. Unique weapons, Bobbleheads) comic books, magazines, any printed media toys and stuffed animals, fabric that feels nice. 

Are they good at disarming traps or do they constantly miss them? always walking into them. if he does notice one before hand he’s pretty bad at disarming them, he usually just tries to set them off from a safe distance.

[rudderless-in-an-ocean-of-stars]

of almond milk and extra mocha

In which a teenage Kara has a job working at the local coffee shop, Java Machine, and a certain green-eyed girl quickly becomes her favorite regular.

Basically SuperCorp Coffee Shop AU adorableness.

Find it on Ao3 here:

http://archiveofourown.org/works/11215203

The espresso machine sputters out a steady stream of pure caffeine under Kara’s watchful gaze even as the sound of the steam wand deafens her ears to almost everything else in the background.

Years of experience working with the aging, temperamental machine lets her time everything perfectly- the milk finishes steaming at the exact moment the drip of espresso comes to a halt, and she finishes the latte off with a drizzle of caramel atop the fluffy foam before slipping a lid on and cheerfully handing it to the waiting customer.

Careful not to touch anything other than the handle of the still-hot pitcher, she gingerly takes it over the sink for a quick rinse with cold water before washing it thoroughly, setting it back on the rack to dry, and heading back to clean the machine.

She takes her time with this, mainly because it’s past sunset, and the flow of customers has dropped off to the point where she doesn’t have to rush around at light speed. Aside from customer with the caramel latte, who’d long since left, the store is empty except for her.

A quick glance at the clock across the room as she heads back to perch on the stool behind the register tells her she’s got about ten minutes until her favorite customer pops in for her usual drink. It’s more than enough time for her to rest her aching feet before getting back up to prep Lena’s order so that it’s ready and waiting by the time she walks in.

The green-eyed girl orders the same thing every time- a hot chocolate made with almond milk and two pumps of mocha.

She comes here regularly enough to have purchased a for-here mug that she leaves at the shop for her daily visits. Kara keeps it on a mostly empty shelf so that it’s never disturbed or in danger of being knocked to the ground by even the clumsiest of her co-workers.

At three minutes to six, Kara spoons cocoa powder into the bottom of the mug as she fills a pitcher with almond milk and sets it to steam. Afterwards, she strains the foam with a spoon and she pours hot milk into the cup, stirring in mocha syrup to finish it off.

The clock strikes six mere seconds before the bell above the door chimes, signaling Lena’s entrance just as Kara makes her way back to the register, hot chocolate in hand.

The transaction is, as always ever since the baristas got used to the girl and her order, a silent one. Kara slides the mug over the counter as Lena hands her a shiny credit card with a soft, grateful smile. She never wants a receipt.

Lena takes her usual seat in the back, in a booth tucked away from the windows and most of the light. It’s not a seat that people usually sit in unless there aren’t any more seats to be taken, but Lena favors it.

It’s been two years of this, and yet Lena remains as much a stranger to the workers as any of the one-time tourists stopping over in the town on their bus route to some other, bigger city.

The only thing Kara knows for sure about the girl is what she’s managed to glean off of her appearance and her credit card. A quick glance at the bottom of the card revealed her name- Lena Luthor- and the uniform she occasionally wore during the school year was from the uptown prep school that only the wealthiest from the other side of town could afford.

The rest of Midvale wasn’t poor, not by any standards. Downtown Midvale was a quiet, pleasant place to live, with a bustling population and some of the best public schools in the state. But the other side of town was another story altogether, filled with mansions spaced far apart from each other, stables, fancy restaurants, and a country club to boot.

It was obvious from the shiny, black credit card that had much more heft than the regular flimsy squares of plastic that Kara’s usually handed and Lena’s always-immaculate appearance that the girl comes from money- and lots of it.

Other than that, Kara can count the number of things she knew about Lena on one hand.

She likes mocha syrup in her hot chocolate and prefers almond milk over regular. She wears her hair up whenever she’s in uniform and only leaves it down if she’s dressed casually. And she never, ever wears makeup.

Not that she needs it, though.

Lena Luthor has the kind of porcelain complexion that most people spend hundreds of dollars trying to achieve and sparkling eyes that glow a rich, pure green. Her features were the kind you’d expect to see gracing magazine covers- sculpted cheekbones and a jawline that looked like it was cut from marble.

Kara’s been caught by various coworkers gaping at Lena’s stunningly attractive expression whenever she was focused on something- perfect brow creased and bottom lip caught between her teeth. It had been the source of repeated bouts of teasing from everyone to the old woman who only worked Sunday afternoons just because she ‘wanted to see the young people’ to her typically no-nonsense boss, Cat Grant.

The bell above the door chimes again, signaling the arrival of a new customer and pulling Kara out of her usual, Lena-induced trance.

It’s a boy who looks like he belongs in the same tax bracket as Lena- dressed in a polo shirt, designer jeans, and doused in some expensive, painfully strong cologne.

Unfortunately for Kara, she recognizes him.

It’s Maxwell Lord, whose father owns the country club and the stables- the latter of which Alex used to hold a job at. Used to, because she’d been forced to quit after enduring repeated, unwanted advances from the jerkwad now currently stinking up her coffee shop.

The scowl that pulls down the corners of Kara’s mouth is a furious one.

An oil-slick grin splits his lips as he approaches Lena’s corner booth.

“Hey there, Luthor. I thought I saw you duck in here.”

Lena peers up from the pages of her book with a faint mixture of dismay and disdain flickering in her eyes.

Kara resists the urge to leap over the counter and smash him over the head with the freshly washed pitcher in her hands.

Alex had come home in tears on more than one occasion after a run-in with the Lord boy during her shifts at the stables. Even her devotion to the horses hadn’t been enough incentive for her to continue working under Maxwell’s leery gaze.

“Maxwell,” she says, voice laced with a soft accent that Kara’s come to love hearing on the rare occasions when she does speak, “What a surprise.”

The way she lingers on the last word betrays how she feels about this encounter. Kara almost laughs.

“Come on, Luthor, don’t be like that.” He laughs, running his fingers through his hair in a way that suggests he thinks the move is highly attractive.

It really isn’t.

The smile Lena levels at him is downright icy. “Don’t be like what, Maxwell?” Her voice is measuredly polite, with as much of a challenging edge as the rules of propriety would allow.

Kara slips out from behind the counter to intervene before things can escalate even further.

As much as she’d love to see Lena tear Maxwell down a few pegs, she really doesn’t want to have to clean up the mess that a thrown cup of hot chocolate would make, and judging by the way the other girl’s grip on her mug has tightened, that moment isn’t too far off.

“If you aren’t going to make a purchase,” she says, forcing herself to sound professional through gritted teeth, “I’m afraid that I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Recognition spreads across his features at the sight of her.

His self-assured smirk returns in full force, and Kara mentally gags.

“Little Danvers. How’s your sister? Still a frigid bitch?”

Every molecule of her body is now nearly vibrating with the force of her rage.

Kara can’t help it-

She snarls, teeth bared in a feral grimace as her fingers curl into fists at her sides.

“Get. Out.”

There’s a building pressure behind her eyes, one she struggles to control.

Turning Maxwell Lord into a pile of ashes on the spot was becoming a more and more tempting course of action by the second.

It would be so easy to incinerate him, sweep up the remains with a dustpan, and dump them in the garbage where he belonged.

So easy.

But still- this is Earth, and Kara couldn’t just go around using her powers on people, no matter how much they deserved to be obliterated into little more than dust.

She clamps her eyes shut before they can burn red with the force of her heat vision.

“Leave, Max. Before I call the police.” It’s a valid threat, and they both know it. The chief of police has a soft spot for the Danvers sisters, and has hated Maxwell Lord with a passion since he learned of how he’d harassed Alex.

Chief J’onzz might be Kara’s only contender in terms of the depth of their grudges against him.

He complies, slinking off towards the door, grumbling under his breath the entire time.

She doesn’t open her eyes until she’s sure that he’s gone.

“Thanks for the assist.”

Kara spins around just in time to catch sight of the wry smile that tilts the corners of Lena’s mouth upwards.

She grins back.

“Not a problem.” She nods down toward the mug on the table between them. “I just really didn’t want to have to pull out the mop if you threw it at him.”

“Am I that easy to read?” A spark of mischief makes her eyes gleam even brighter, if possible.

Kara fidgets under her curious gaze. “It’s what I would have done.”

“I like the way you think.” She sets her book down and holds out a slender hand. “Lena Luthor.”

Kara takes it without hesitation. Their joined hands fit together perfectly, and she finds that Lena’s skin is soft and pleasantly warm to the touch. She doesn’t think she ever wants to let go.

“Kara Danvers.”

Lena’s fingers tighten around hers, and the Kryptonian’s heart stutters to a stop in her chest.

“I know we’ve seen each other pretty regularly for the past couple of years, but, uh…” A rosy flush begins to spread across her cheeks, and Kara commits the sight of it to memory almost immediately. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Kara.”

Something warm begins to blossom in the achingly empty spaces between her bones, melting the ice that Kara thought she’d never find herself without after her time in the hollow, bitterly cold void of the Phantom Zone.

She smiles.

“Likewise.”

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