#but that bar is SO low since last time I was in the ER twice with one time being an overnight stay

[chittychittyyangyang]

Hey everyone! I know I've been quiet for a while now, but since it's now December, I wanted to express how grateful I am for all the support I have been given this year. This year has been uniquely hard for me, recovering from poor surgery last Dec, finishing grad school (and student loan payments looming), moving to a new state, Fiddlesticks becoming sick and passing, having a revision surgery to try and fix the one from last year (and still recovering from the revision). I've felt like I've lost so much this year, and it's just been really rough. Still, I am so happy to still have the people I do here and the handful of good friends I have made through running this blog! It means more to me than I could ever say!

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart! 💜 I want nothing more than for everyone to have a better 2024, and we hear news about V10. ;)

[voiceless-terror]

Perchance to Dream

@aspecarchivesweek Day Three: Drinks

Characters: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood, Tim Stoker, Sasha James

Jon comes out to Martin. Twice.

(Ft. Kiss-Averse Jonathan Sims and Hamlet References)

__________

“Ugh, no thank you.”

Martin pauses. Sasha and Tim titter behind their hands.

And Jon, well. He’s got a look of vehement disgust written across his features, not unlike when he’s laying into what he claims is a fabricated statement. Martin can feel his face turning red at the words.

Getting Jon to come out for drinks had been the hard part. It’s one month into his tenure as Head Archivist, and everyone’s starting to feel the scope of the task ahead of them. Tim thought a ‘monthiversary’ drink was in order, and the only way to get Jon to come out was to threaten him with some sort of ill begotten information, the likes of which Martin couldn’t hear behind the closed door. Ten minutes later, Jon emerged, looking grumpier than usual (and very dashing) with a scarf around his neck. And now he sat next to him in the cozy pub booth, Martin trying very hard to remain stock-still because Jon’s leaning into his side. Perhaps he’s cold? Either way, Martin isn’t going to discourage it. 

But then he’d had a few drinks and they all loosened up; even Jon’s laugh came easier. And Martin- well, Martin’s opening up a bit more than usual, chattering about his time in the library and bolstered by the smiles he receives in turn. Tim changed track to the personal, regaling them with his latest outdoor adventure while Sasha and Jon gave witty, sarcastic commentary. But then Tim directed the conversation towards him, and they seemed relatively interested in his poetry. He even felt comfortable enough to rattle out a few lines from his phone in a desperate hope to impress, and he stupidly chose one that referenced ‘lips like a rosebud’ and Jon reacts like he’s read a particularly saucy bit of a smut novel aloud. How embarrassing. 

“Whew,” Tim whistles lowly, folding his arms behind his neck with an exaggerated wince. “Harsh, boss.”

“No, that’s not it,” Jon says, shaking his head and putting a hand on Martin’s arm. Putting a hand on Martin’s arm. Putting a hand- “Martin, your poetry is fine, if a bit derivative.” Jon thinks his poetry is fine and he’s got his small, fine-boned hand on Martin’s arm and god, he’s got a poem about that too, somewhere in his phone-

Tim guffaws, slamming a hand on the table and startling Sasha. “What a compliment!”

“It’s just…kissing. Lips. Ugh.” Jon smashes his fork rather violently into a dumpling, sending bits of food flying across the table, one of which hit Tim directly above his eye. “I eat with my mouth.”

“Wise observation.”

“Very astute of you.”

Martin would join in on the banter but Jon’s hand is still on his arm and his warm weight is pressing into his side. Honestly, what’s Jon playing at? He could rip the poetry to shreds in front of him but as long as that hand remains on his arm he’d just sit there, not saying a word. Hell, he’d probably even agree.

“So the bossman doesn’t like kisses,” Tim says, taking an obnoxiously loud sip of whatever fruity beverage he’d decided on. “Is that why you ripped down all of my mistletoe back in research?”

Jon. Mistletoe. Hand still on arm.

“I don’t like any of it,” Jon says, removing his hand from Martin’s arm to make a decisive gesture across the table which nearly sent his drink flying. He instantly misses the pressure but the warmth is still there, burning through his sleeve. Jon looks incredibly drunk, now that Martin’s got a better angle to view his flushed cheeks and bright eyes and lips- “All that touching. I don’t understand why everyone’s so hung up on it. No thank you, not for me.”

A brief flash of understanding lights Sasha’s eyes but Martin’s not in a place to decipher it. He’s not sure if it’s the drink or the Jon-of-it-all that’s impeding him. He’s never seen him so relaxed, so animated about something that’s not work. He can’t even focus on the words coming out of Jon’s mouth at the moment.

But Sasha leans forward- once she’s got an idea in her head, she won’t let go until she’s seen it through. Martin recognizes that look. “You’re asexual, then?”

“Mm,” Jon mumbles, his head tilting back dangerously as he puts on an affected, exaggerated voice. “Man delights not me, no, nor woman neither.”

And then Martin’s gone, suddenly struck by a vision of teenage Jon, silhouetted on a stage by a dramatic spotlight, reciting Shakespeare like a born thespian- look, Martin despises theater, but even he’s not immune to Hamlet. In a dream world he’d be Ophelia, no, not Ophelia, idiot- maybe he’s a stage hand, or no, he helps Jon with his quick changes, that’s a job, right? So caught up is he in this pseudo-high school fantasy that the words being said don’t actually dawn on him until a full minute later, when Tim’s laughter reaches a crescendo.

“Boss, did you seriously just come out via Shakespeare?”

Jon’s not even denying it, giving a lazy, good-natured smile in response. Fuck. Here he is, having some stupid fantasy over his boss who is very much right next to him and very much not interested. God, is he taking advantage? He jumps to the side, trying desperately to put a few more inches of space between them for Jon’s comfort when that small hand comes back to his arm, the sudden and strong grip stopping him in his tracks. 

“No!” Jon’s voice is low, those dark eyes so intense. Martin can feel his face go scarlet from his gaze alone. “This is nice. I like it.”

Tim and Sasha share an evil little smile and Martin’s out of commission, the night’s revelations and Jon’s insistent snuggling having taken their toll. He couldn’t tell you what happened after that, how many drinks were shared or how he got home. All he remembers is the feel of Jon’s hand on his arm, his insistent closeness, and the sound of his laugh whenever Tim teased him.

The next day Jon comes in late, looking about as bad as the rest of them felt. From the way he interacts with them, it’s likely that he doesn’t even remember last night, what he did or what he said. Martin tries not to let it sting, and goes back to work, knowing there’s a side of Jon that he’ll likely never see again.

__________

“Martin, we have to...talk, if that’s alright.” 

Martin pauses, a lump building in his throat. “Okay.”

He settles in on Daisy’s lumpy couch, trying not to let his apprehension show. It’s been a week since Jon got him out of the Lonely and they’re still adjusting, but Martin likes to think they’re settling into a nice routine. There’s such a natural ease to their domesticity; they had their differences, sure, but he’s never seen the man so soft and unguarded, puttering around the cottage, making sure everything’s nice and comfortable for the two of them. And of course, there’s the bed situation. Only one, like in all the cliché fanfiction Martin had taken to reading back when he lived in the Archives and his biggest problem was worms. Maybe Jon doesn’t want to share anymore? He’s been strangely distant the past day, keeping space between them and hovering about in a nervous manner. He goes back through their interactions, trying to think of what he could’ve done wrong.

Jon sits down next to him, his face showing his own apprehension. “I know we’ve been getting...close, this past week. But if we’re going to ah, have an, er- well, you know, relationship- there’s some things you need to know.” Relationship. Jon thinks they're in a relationship. Martin didn’t want to put a label to it, too afraid it would shatter the fragile trust they built. But to be in a relationship with Jon, well, that’s something he’s always dreamed of, right?

So he relaxes minutely, tries not to show the utter joy he feels at the words. “Alright. What’s up?”

Jon takes a steadying breath, looking so oddly grave that Martin immediately wants to take him into his arms. “I don’t...well, I’m asexual. So I’m not really interested…” he makes a vague gesture down towards Martin’s crotch and then freezes, clearly embarrassed by the crudeness of the action. “I’m not interested in all of...that. Or kissing, for that matter. It’s just a personal boundary for me, if that’s alright.”

Oh. Martin blinks, taking in Jon’s serious countenance and hopeful eyes and while he wants to match it, he can’t control the laughter that bubbles out of his throat. “Oh-oh Jon-”

Jon immediately blanches, his brow furrowing in confusion and probably hurt. “W-What? What’s so funny?”

“I’m sorry! Fuck-it’s, it’s not that, that’s fine, it’s just-” Martin tries desperately to keep his laughter under control and fails. Christ, he can’t breathe. “Man delights not me, no, nor woman neither!” 

“Why are you quoting Shakespeare?” Jon’s looking at him like he’s lost his mind. Perhaps he has.

“Because you did, you daft thing!” Martin’s shoulders shake with the effort of containing himself, and he wipes a tear from his eye. He immediately puts a hand on Jon’s arm, a mirror’s reflection of that night at the bar and yet it’s still his hand that burns. “Jon, it’s fine. I already know. You told us over drinks my first month in the Archives.”

Jon’s face takes on that peculiar look of confusion and concentration that Martin loves, as if he’s searching his mind or maybe even the Eye for information. “I-oh. Oh!” He puts his head in his hands with a groan, ignoring Martin’s comforting pats to the back. “How embarrassing.”

“It was adorable.”

“No it wasn’t,” Jon whines into his hands even as he leans into Martin’s touch.

“It was,” Martin assures him, drawing him close to his side and letting him lean his head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry I laughed- you were just so serious, I couldn’t help it-”

“Yes, well,” Jon sighed, settling into his arms, the beginnings of a smile on his face. “It’s fine. As long you’re alright with…”

“More than alright.” It’s Jon, of course it’s alright. Being here with him, in their little shabby oasis- well, it’s more than enough. They sit there in silence for some time, Martin enjoying the closeness of the man he’d fought so hard to protect finally in his arms. He’s starting to think they just might be alright. He smiles to himself, perching his chin on top of Jon’s head.

“To be or not to be-”

“Shut up, Martin.”

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28741983

[jamesbuchananxsteviegrant]

She Who Shan't Be Named - Part 1 | Sugar Lips (Tony x Reader, Clint x Reader, ??? x Reader)

Category: Smut (Mandatory) Age: 18+ Trigger Warnings: Explicit language, oral sex (male receiving), suggestive language, alcohol, drunk sexual actions, casual sexual actions, flirting with a lot of people Ship: Tony x Reader, Clint x Reader, ??? x Reader Summary: Tony lets his life-long friend crash at the Avengers HQ while she has nowhere else to go. What could go wrong with so many attractive individuals living in the same home? Word Count: 1.7k Masterlist: LINK

(hmu if you want adding to the tag-list for this series)

---

“I, unfortunately, have someone I want to introduce you all to.” Tony begins as he’s gathered everyone in the living quarters.

“Unfortunately? Well, that always sounds like a good start, Stark.” Natasha jokes, sitting alongside Bucky and Sam on one of the couches.

Tony rolls his eyes and shrugs.

“Yeah, well,” He trails off. “This is (Y/N) (L/N).” He gestures, pointing to the woman leaning against a pillar in the back corner of the room.

She makes an effort to stand upright and walk further into the room.

“Well, hello. It’s nice to finally meet you all in person.”

To say everyone in the room falls speechless with their eyes wide and jaws dropped is an understatement.

“Oh my God, you lot are insatiable.” Tony groans, rolling his eyes once more.

(Y/N) can only smirk and wink at just about everyone in the room.

“You’re welcome, Starky Boy.”

“Put a sock in it, sugar-lips.”

“Sugar-lips?” Rhodey quizzes, amusement dripping from his voice.

Tony and (Y/N) can only stare at one another and grin as they remember where that nickname came from.

*** flashback ***

“One more for the road?” Tony suggests to the very, very drunk (Y/N) beside him.

It’s three-thirty-AM, they’re both at their favourite bar in Manhattan, enjoying a belated birthday weekend of (Y/N)’s which he regretfully missed due to Avenger work.

“You know how to tempt me, Starky-boy.” She teases with a wink, waving her hand up to catch the attention of the bartender, Harrison, who they’ve grown acquainted with over the years of drinking at his bar.

Tony falls into a comfortable silence as he simply stares at the woman he’s been friends with since he was a teen at Phillips Academy.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” The woman’s sarcastic comment pushes him over the edge. Within a second, his hands are grabbing her head and pulling her in for a harsh, desperate, passion-fueled kiss.

Harrison smirks as he sits their drinks down, watching how the pair have had ridiculous amounts of sexual tension coursing through them since they first started coming to the bar over ten years ago.

“What, the fuck?” (Y/N) manages to breathe between kisses.

“Stop talking.” Tony murmurs in response, only intensifying the kiss more and more.

“Tony,” She attempts but makes no effort to stop the man. No. Absolutely not.

She’s gotten herself off to the thought of this man too many times for her to want to stop.

Her hands are grasping at the black shirt that adorns his torso, his own hands moving down to grab her hips, itching to have her closer and closer.

“Jesus Christ.” The woman gasps as best she can. “Anthony!”

The man pulls back at the use of his full name but doesn’t let go of her hips.

“Tell me you haven’t wanted to do that?” He asks, voice deep. Low. Husky.

“Of course I wanted to fucking do it, you imbecile!”

His hand jumps up to grasp at her throat, a gasp escaping her lips.

“Watch your mouth.”

“Guys, you’re gonna make my customers leave; the back lounge is empty.” Harrison interrupts. Tony continues to make no effort to stop his actions. They’re both too drunk to care.

Not that he’d care anymore so when he’s sober.

The billionaire practically drags the woman off of their barstools, (Y/N) frantically grabbing their drinks, spilling half of them on the floor - to which she gives Harrison an apologetic look but he simply rolls his eyes with a grin.

A small shriek escapes the woman’s lips as Tony throws her into the room, her hands managing to sit the, now half-empty, drinks on the coffee table.

“On your knees.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice.” She grins, obeying the man’s order whilst quickly throwing her hair into a messy ponytail.

“Always knew you were a slut.” The man growls, unbuckling his belt and zipper on his smart trousers.

“You know me best, Starky Boy.”

She wastes no time in taking the man’s solid cock into her mouth, moaning at the feeling and taste, Tony groaning in satisfaction.

“Look how desperate you are for it.” He condescends yet continues to thrust into her mouth, fucking the back of her throat.

No words can be formed to give the man a reply. She’s too busy focusing on taking his impressive shaft down her throat, making sure her lips are touching his pelvis.

“Christ!”

He can’t help himself. His hands are in her hair, grabbing it and yanking her closer to his body, not thinking about anything other than the noise of her gagging.

“FUCK! You filthy fucking slut.”

She moans at that, working his cock more and more.

It’s not too long later before the man is releasing all over the woman’s face, her sticking her tongue out and taking as much of it as she can.

“This was a brand new blouse, Stark.” She complains, jokingly, as she licks her white lips. “Ugh, salty.”

“Don’t lie, you know it’s sweeter than sugar.” Tony laughs, re-doing his trousers.

“It definitely fucking isn’t.” (Y/N) groans, standing up and licking the rest of the mess off of her mouth.

“Whatever you say, sugar-lips.”

“TONY!”

*** flashback end ***

“A nickname I gave her once upon a time.” Tony vaguely explains, (Y/N) chuckling.

“Okay. So why’s she here?” Bucky asks, not taking his eyes off the most attractive woman he’s ever seen in his life.

“She has a name.” (Y/N) comments, quirking a flirtatious brow at the man.

The super soldier raises his brows but smirks.

“Why’re you here, doll?”

Now, that does something to her core.

“Starky Boy told me that y’all need a babysitter, so here I am!” She boasts, evidently joking but it makes everyone grin and not ask anymore questions.

“I’ve known her since I was in my teens, she’s a family friend.” Tony adds, reassuring everyone that she’s not someone to be cautious of.

“Pft, family friend? Don’t compliment yourself, Stark.” (Y/N) jokes, everyone laughing with her. “Anyway, in all seriousness, hello, I’m (Y/N). I’m temporarily chilling here if you’re all alright with it since I got nowhere else to be.”

“A pleasure, (Y/N). Steve Rogers.” Captain America begins, stepping forward and shaking the woman’s hand.

“Pleasure’s all mine, Captain.” She winks, the man smirking at her antics which will be refreshing around the compound.

“Bucky.” The Winter Soldier greets, nodding his head at the woman from his seat on the couch.

“Romanoff.” Black Widow follows, (Y/N) biting her lip at the red-head. “Natasha Romanoff.”

“Alright, James Bond.” Sam jokes, everyone laughing.

“Tony, I can’t believe this is the first time you’ve given me the opportunity to meet the Natasha Romanoff.” (Y/N) beams, winking at the woman who returns the gesture with a smug smile.

“Christ.” Tony groans, face-palming harder than ever.

“Sam Wilson.” The man smirks, reaching out to shake the woman’s hand from his position on the couch.

“Bird Boy.”

He gives a hearty laugh at that.

“Sure.”

“James Rhodes, but call me Rhodey.”

“So you’re the Transformer’s identical twin, right?” The woman quizzes, rhetorically, shaking the man’s hand.

Another round of laughter.

“Something like that.”

“Bruce. Bruce Banner.”

“The guy I don’t wanna piss off; got it.” (Y/N) smiles, watching the brunet give her an anxious smile and chuckle. “Or maybe I do.” She adds with a wink, basking in the entertainment that comes from his embarrassed expression.

“(Y/N).” Tony groans, semi-threateningly.

“Yes, Anthony?” She asks, smiling at him like an innocent child who’s never done wrong.

“Good day to you, beautiful mortal. I am Thor of Asgard.”

“Wowee…” The woman widens her eyes as the God leans down to kiss her cheeks. “The one and only.”

“That would be I.” He smiles, throwing her a wink also. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Stop hogging the limelight already.” A voice complains from beside the God of Thunder.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the God of Mischief.”

“Well, well, well, a beautiful lady such as yourself knows who I am, huh?” Loki greets, taking her hand and leans down to press a kiss to her knuckles, Tony continuing to grunt and groan in the background.

“Hard not to when you get off on destroying New York.” (Y/N) grins, a chorus of laughter filling the room yet again.

“Stop hogging the limelight.” A female voice mimics Loki's previous words.

“Well if it isn’t the Scarlet Witch!”

“That is I.” Wanda grins. “Wanda.” She adds, holding her hand out for (Y/N) to shake, which she accepts graciously.

“Tony, do you know how pissed I am that you’ve not introduced me to these people until now?”

“Oh my God, I’m literally going to kick you out.” The billionaire responds, pouring himself a whisky from the bar at the back of the living quarters.

“Yeah, yeah.” (Y/N) retorts, winking at Wanda before turning to the couch beside her which a certain Archer is leisurely laid across. “Barton.”

“(L/N).”

“Long time no see.”

“Ya think?” Clint quirks a brow, jokingly.

“How’s Laura? How’re the kids?”

“Not bad, not bad. How’s Michael?”

“Dead if I had any say in the matter.” The woman casually threatens as the brunet mentions her ex-boyfriend.

He breathes out a laugh.

“Commitment issues as good as ever then?”

“You know me, Robin.” She jokes, using the nickname she gave me when he came on a night out with Tony and her many moons ago.

“You two know each other?” Wanda questions.

They both shrug.

“Somewhat.” Clint answers, (Y/N) giving him a playful slap on the shoulder.

“You love me!”

He grins and sits up before standing.

“You know I do, come ‘ere.” The man chuckles, pulling the woman in for a tight embrace.

“Missed you, Robin.”

“You too, Marian.” He responds, using the fairytale nicknames from Robin Hood.

“Those two have definitely banged.” Sam snarks from across the room, Natasha agreeing.

“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Wilson.” Clint teases, flashing a wink his way.

“Now, now, boys.” The woman settles, turning to the young gentleman on the other couch, staring at her with some much awe in his eyes. “Who’s the kid?” She asks, staring at him directly yet directing her question at Tony.

“Uh, hi, I’m Peter. Peter Parker.” He stumbles, standing upright and holding out his hand for her to shake.

She giggles.

“Corruptible.”

“(L/N)!” Tony yells, the woman only laughing as she shakes the young man’s hand.

“A pleasure, spider-boy.”

Peter’s eyes widen at her knowing.

“Right, are we done? That was exhausting.” Tony complains for the nth time.

“Oh, grow a pair, Stark.” (Y/N) retorts.

“I will literally kick you out of this building.”

“You ain’t got the nerve.”

Downing a swig of his whisky, Tony takes a deep breath but smiles at the woman.

“It’ll be nice to have you around, sugar-lips.”

“I bet.” She winks, everyone chuckling again.

And that’s just the beginning of her relationships with everyone at the Avengers HQ.

---

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[sunsetinmyvein]

You Pick a Fight - P2

Eyyyyy it’s prompt time. I have since forgotten what prompt’s @imagine-that-100​ gave me from the prompt list for this part two, but hopefully you enjoy it anyway. :P

And I was right, because it wasn’t over. The pool incident was just the start of much more bickering and fighting over nothing that was set to come during the months between Matty and I. We hadn’t known each other all that well prior to that day, but it definitely set the bar for future interactions. Being argumentative and stubborn was just a habit neither of us could break, much to all of our mutual friend’s annoyance. It might’ve been on the verge of immature, since we were both pushing thirty, but neither of us cared. And we never really meant it. Grudges about stolen floaties were not held for long. It was a rare occasion that we genuinely made up and said sorry, but typically by the end of the day we had either forgotten about it or played some prank on the other to feel avenged about our wrong doing. Over the course of many months of arguing and pranking, Matty and I inevitably became closer. Realistically, Matty was probably one of my best friends by this point in my life. We saw each other at least a couple of times a week for various reasons and I enjoyed his company (mostly). But that wasn’t going to stop me from trying to constantly one-up him and make sure I destroy him any time he challenges me to anything. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, right? You gotta know your opponent’s weaknesses to best exploit them.

 However, tonight was our regularly scheduled movie night. So, more than likely no arguing would be occurring tonight. The movie had already been picked by democratic vote by the group, which meant there would be no debates about that. Everyone was bringing their own snacks, nothing to fight over. And we rotated who hosted, so no arguments there either. This week it was Matty’s turn. Last week when it had been at my flat, we had picked a comedy movie to watch and ended up receiving a noise complaint from my neighbour about us being “too rambunctious”. I was hoping that we wouldn’t have the same issue to deal with this week given Matty’s much thicker walls. I was cutting up a tray of brownies that I was graciously bringing to share - one of which may or may not have been spiked with cayenne pepper just to spite Matty for last week when he mixed my bag of skittles with m+m’s - while I replayed the events of last week. The details of the movie were actually a bit of a blur, because after the few drinks that I had downed after a rough day at work, I recalled falling asleep. When I woke up, I found myself snoring on Matty’s shoulder. God, that was utterly embarrassing. Other than my snoring, to wake up cosying up to Matty? I’d rather be caught dead. But I must have been too distracted by these memories, because as I was cutting, I slipped and managed to slice open my thumb with my new knife.

  I felt the cut the instant it happened, bracing myself for what I might see before I looked down. Sure as shit, all I saw was a lot of red. The first thought to run through my head was that my brownie plan was ruined. I couldn’t serve brownies that had been doused in blood. The second was that I absolutely needed to seal this wound as soon as possible. I raced to the bathroom, grabbing a roll of gauze and wrapping it around my thumb as tightly as I could. Do I call an ambulance? No, this wasn’t an ambulance sort of emergency. Emergency, though. I should go to the emergency room. Now. But I had to let the guys know I wasn’t coming. I could see the gauze starting to turn red as I searched my phone for Matty’s contact. Fuck, I felt so bad for bailing on this movie night given it was our regular thing, but this was really not good. Really, really not good. The phone rang twice before he picked up.

  “Hey-”

“Look, I need to go to emergency.” I interrupted in a garbled rush.

“What?” He shouted down the line.

“I need to go to hospital, so I’m not gonna make it tonight.” I explained, slightly slower.

“What did you do?” He asked in an incredulous tone.

“I sliced my thumb open cutting brownies.” I just heard him laughing. “It’s not funny, Matty. I need stitches.” I frowned as I started to grab my essentials. What if they wanted to keep me in overnight? Oh my god, I was absolutely not prepared for something like this. I should have a go bag. Is that a thing normal people did? Have a go bag in case they accidentally injure themselves? Maybe smart people did.

“Do you need me to drive you?” He offered as I was contemplating what exactly I would put in a go bag.

“What? Uh, no. I’m okay. I think.” I rattled off.

“I’ll meet you there.” I heard him say. He what? Why would he want to come to the hospital?

“Wait. No, you don’t-” But he’d already hung up.

  Before I left the house, I slapped another few layers of bandage over the gauze on my thumb to try and put some pressure on this cut that was apparently bleeding like a tap by the rate it was turning things red. Driving to the hospital with a thumb as fat as mine was with all the bandages wrapped around it was not easy to say the least, but I managed to get there in one piece. Once I had gotten there, paid for my parking, and then managed to check myself into the ER, I was able to take a seat and decompress slightly. But, the peace and quiet didn’t last long, because not even five minutes after I sat down a familiar face entered through the sliding glass doors.

“Good job.” Matty said as he approached, with a slow clap for emphasis.

“Don’t patronise me.” I scoffed.

“Show me.” He said as he took a seat in the uncomfortable plastic chair next to my own.

“It’s okay-”

“Just show me what you did.” He dismissed.

“I mean, I can’t really take this stuff off-” I gestured to my half blood-soaked bandages, “-or it’ll bleed worse.”

He let out a low whistle as he raked a hand through his curls. “Bloody hell.” He muttered under his breath, before glancing up at me. “Pardon the pun.” He added with a smirk.

“Shut up. It’s really not as bad as it looks.” I lied. I was trying to play it down, to pretend like I hadn’t briefly seen how deep that knife went, but I knew that this was definitely very vital that I see a doctor very fucking soon.

He met my gaze, clearly seeing the stress I was trying to hide. “You’re not very convincing.” He chuckled.

  Despite my protests about him wanting to wait with me, Matty continued to ramble on about what he had done earlier in the day while we sat in the crowded waiting room. He also told me not to worry about cancelling on the movie night, and thanked me for trying to make brownies. If only he had known what his brownie was going to taste like. But at least he was distracting me from the weird sensation in my thumb. After about half an hour, I was called through to be seen by the nurse - which realistically just meant that I sat and waited in another room for a further ten minutes until I was finally seen by someone. When she walked in, she introduced herself and asked for a run down of the situation as she started gathering some supplies. After I had explained what I had done, she started moving towards my giant wad of bloody fabric.

“I’m gonna look away.” I warned the nurse, she just nodded in response. I felt her unravelling the bandages on my thumb, trying really hard to busy myself by studying the vision tester chart on the wall. She let out a quiet hum as she analysed the situation.

“All right. I am going to put some glue on this now to hold it, but we are going to need to anaesthetise you to properly sort this out. Is that okay?” She asked in a calm tone. They were going to knock me out? It was bad enough to need to be knocked out for?? Holy shit.

“Um, yep.” I nodded. “I suppose it’ll have to be.” I added with a nervous laugh. “When will that be?”

“As soon as they can get you in. Likely in the next few hours.” She answered.

  When I came back out of the nurse’s station, I sat back down and told Matty what they had said.

“They need to sedate you?” He asked in shock.

“I’ve apparently done quite a number on myself.” I could feel the stress building up as the realisation set in. Oh my god. I had cut off my thumb. I had cut off my thumb and now they needed to reattach it. Holy fuck. Holy fuck.

“Hey, calm down.” He reassured, placing his hand on my shoulder. “It’ll be all right.”

“But what if it’s too late? What if I cut too far? What if-”

Thankfully, Matty interrupted my downward spiral of anxiety. “They would’ve told you if that were the case. They’re going to operate, so it must be fine.” He moved to take my good hand in his, squeezing it reassuringly. I took a deep breath, trying to calm my racing mind as I nodded in agreement. At least one of us was the voice of reason right now. “When are you going in?” He questioned, seeming genuinely sympathetic.

“They said as soon as possible. I just have to wait here until a theatre frees up.” I replied. He just nodded thoughtfully. “You should go back to the movie night.” I said, eventually feeling guilty that he’d already been sat waiting here for an hour.

“No.” He shook his head as he rifled through his pocket. “You want some gum?” He asked, holding a packet out in my direction.

I looked down at them apprehensively. “They’re not some ridiculous flavour, are they?”

He laughed loudly. “No, I threw the wasabi ones out.”

  It was another hour before I was finally called through to get ready for theatre. Now I was genuinely feeling pretty awful that Matty had been here this whole time. We had well and truly pushed past dinner time, he’d missed the movie, our friends were all sat at his place without him. He can’t have been having a good time stuck here with me.

“Okay, I gotta go in.” I said as I stood up.

“I’ll be here when you wake up.” He smiled up at me from his seat.

“Just go home, I’ll be fine.” I said as I gestured to the door.

“No.” He grinned.

“Go.”

“No.” His dark brown eyes bore into mine, clearly challenging me to push him further on the subject.

“I hate you, so much.” I grumbled as I heard the nurse call my name again.

“I love you, too.” He said, blowing a kiss for emphasis as I walked off.

  The doctors all reassured me that the operation was going to be quick and easy. Knock me out, stitch me up, wake me up fifteen minutes later. Easy peasy. I had never had any issues with operations, being knocked out was easy. It was the stuff you had to be awake for that was hard. True to their word, when I saw the clock when I started coming to, it had been no more than half an hour than when I last checked the time. But my god I felt groggy. My brain felt like it had been replaced with a bunch of cotton balls and my eyelids might as well have been made of lead. I glanced down at my thumb, seeing a much smaller pile of bandages on there, that were now thankfully not soaked in blood. That was nice. I then caught sight of the man sat next to my bed.

“Hey, you’re up.” Matty said quietly as he stepped over. As soon as he leaned over the bed frame, the fluorescent lights above him just illuminated his dark, curly hair. Holy shit. It looked borderline angelic. “How’re you feeling?”

“Your hair…” I mumbled as I reached out my good hand to touch it.

He seemed surprised by my actions at first, before letting my run a hand through it. “What about it?” He asked with a quiet laugh.

“It’s really soft.” I answered, genuinely quite surprised by how nice it felt. “Has it always been that soft?” I felt like I had been missing out. I could’ve been touching this hair for nearly a year now and instead I had been swapping his shampoo for ranch dressing and perfume.

  Matty seemed keen to indulge my anaesthesia haze, letting me bother him with all of my weird questions about his hair. Maybe he wasn’t such a bad guy. I did a lot of mean shit to him and here he was, sat with me in emergency all evening instead of hanging out with his friends. After the pranks I’d pulled, I likely didn’t deserve a friend like him. But he’d pulled them on me too. We were a pretty good pair, I suppose. And I had no idea if it was this lighting or what, but dare I say, Matty was looking pretty attractive today. Had I really just been so focused on butting heads with him that I never noticed these things before?

“Are you sure you really look this good? I feel like I must still be dreaming.” I said, pretending to shield my eyes.

He frowned, before the realisation dawned on him and his eyebrows shot up in surprise, “Are you flirting with me?”

“Maybe.” I shrugged.

“Don’t use cheesy pickup lines on me.” He chuckled.

“How else am I meant to pick you up?” I scoffed as I rolled my eyes.

“Are you trying to?” He asked as a smile slowly made its way onto his face.

“Maaaaybe.” I said in an attempt to be non-committal, but then my curiosity got the better of me. “Is it working?”

“I’m gonna remind you of this when you’re properly out of the anaesthetic.” He just looked amused. Not the reaction I had hoped for. But I was too tired to keep trying to come up with clever lines.

“Okay.” I muttered, nodding softly. “Gon’ sleep now, though.” I added.

“Rest up.” He agreed. “You’re gonna need all the energy you can get to deal with me giving you shit for this tomorrow.”  

Part one

Part three

[hermannsthumb]

The prompt thing: Sailing and lemonade? :)

10. Sailing + 19. Lemonade

from (last year’s) summer prompts meme here

probably takes place in some line of continuity where they’re visiting newt’s childhood haunts or smthin post-movie

——————–

The worst part of it all is that Hermann wouldn’t have half as high expectations if Newton hadn’t spent all week talking the bloody thing up. Hermann’s not all that hard to please when it comes to being romanced, you know–a near complete lack of experience in the matter means his standards are not only low, but practically nonexistent. All Newton need do is brush his teeth and put on a shirt untainted by extraterrestrial gore and Hermann would go anywhere with him, frankly.

They landed in Boston a week ago, in the midst of a nasty thunderstorm that delayed them by at least two hours. Newton held Hermann’s arm and the umbrella while they waited for Newton’s father to pick them up. He was scowling at the sky. “I wanted to take you out on the boat tonight,” he said. “I had a whole thing planned.”

“Boat?” Hermann echoed curiously. He wasn’t aware Newton had a boat, nor that he even knew how to sail. Newton never struck him as much of an outdoorsy type. Or an athletic type. 

Newton grinned. “My dad and I used to go out on it all the time when I was a kid. It’s been tied up at the docks for years now, but it should still work.”

“Oh,” Hermann said. How perfectly New England of Newton. Barring a brief stint on the rowing team as an undergraduate, Hermann has been on precisely one boat in his life–a research rig in Hong Kong, on which he hitched a ride for a closer examination of the Breach. He imagined Newton’s ship to be of the more casual variety. “And you wanted to take me out on it?”

At this, Newton gave his arm a small squeeze. “Of course!”

The two of them, alone, on a sailboat together–or perhaps even a small yacht. Yes, a yacht, that was far more likely. How terribly romantic. Hermann squeezed his arm back. “I’d like that very much, Newton.”

The week leading up to their sailing excursion only cemented the romance of the idea for Hermann. Newton certainly provided enough hints between their guest lectures and Geiszler-led city tours: allusions to a romantic dinner by starlight, prepared by Newton himself; a gold foil-top bottle of what was clearly champagne tucked hastily out of sight when Hermann entered the room one night; references to how alone they’d be, how much privacy they’d have, how Newton couldn’t wait to spend that private, alone time with Hermann (and, here, Hermann could only assume Newton wanted to engage in the obvious with him–because they’ve been dancing around it since a rather heated night spent together following the collapse of the Breach–and on a sailboat-yacht at that, how romantic, how terrifically naughty).

Early this morning Newton roused him and told him, excitedly, they would be going out on the boat around noon, and Hermann put on his sailing best (white linen and an oversized sunhat) and sunblock and packed certain necessary supplies into a waist-bag and pretended not to notice Newton slip the champagne into his own bag, and they caught a train, and then a bus, and then walked out to the pier, where Hermann gazed from yacht to sailboat to yacht excitedly and tried to pinpoint the one he and Newton would take for a day of lounging, and sunning, and trysts at sea--

As it turns out, it’s none of them.

“A paddle boat,” Hermann says. “You–you have a paddle boat.”

It’s not a question. He already knows the answer: yes, Newton has a paddle boat. A small paddle boat, in fact. A small, rusted paddle boat, with a sun-faded awning, and barely enough space to fit the large cooler Newton’s brought along with them. Newton hefts it on anyway. “A paddle boat!” he exclaims happily. There’s a sea monster painted on the side.

“Newton,” Hermann says. He raps his cane on the dock. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly–”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Newton cuts in smoothly. “I’m doing all the work! You just need to sit back and relax.”

Hermann gives a loud, skeptical hum.

They get in the boat, Hermann with some assistance. It sways dangerously beneath them. “How long has it been since you’ve, ah, taken this out?” Hermann says. Both sets of pedals are also rusted. To avoid tangling himself up in the ones on his side, Hermann’s had to resort to sitting in a rather awkward splay of limbs, his cane tucked behind them with the cooler.

“I told you,” Newton says. “Years and years! Okay, hold on.”

He begins to pedal them out. The uneven bob of the boat on the waves, along with Newton’s grunts of effort, the squeaking of the gears, and the hot sun beating down on Hermann even through his sunhat and the awning, is not exactly what Hermann would call relaxing. The opposite, in fact. Closing his eyes just makes it worse. “Where are we going?” Hermann finally says.

“There’s a good fishing spot a little bit ahead,” Newton says.

A chill runs down Hermann’s spine. “We’re fishing?”

“There are some old rods stashed in the back compartment,” Newton says, grinning broadly. “Man, I can’t wait. This is going to be so great.”

The first warning sign–Hermann thinks–should’ve been that Newton wore a fishing vest over his Hawaiian shirt. The second should’ve been his ridiculous fish-patterned hat. Hermann debates diving overboard and paddling back to shore, but it’s a long bit away, and he ultimately decides the risk of drowning isn’t worth it. He’s never been the strongest swimmer.

They reach Newton’s quote-unquote good spot. Newton stops pedaling. “Okay, one second,” he says, and begins twisting and turning in his seat. Hermann gets a multicolored elbow to the face twice before Newton finally re-emerges with two fishing rods. He thrusts one at Hermann. “That’s for you. Lemme get the bait.”

Three elbow jabs to the face. “Newton,” Hermann snaps, finally shoving the man off of him. “Mind your bloody step.”

“Sorry, I couldn’t reach!” Newton says.

He drops the cooler between his legs, and, to Hermann’s distress, opens it to reveal not a lovely homemade dinner, but a very large container of worms. Live worms. “Marvelous,” Hermann sighs, as Newton pops the lid and tugs one out.

“Alright, dude,” Newton says, pulling up the end of his fishing line, “so it’s really easy, you just–”

Newton makes to jam the worm down onto his fishing hook. He stops. He tries again. He stops again. He does this two more times, then turns big, sad eyes on Hermann. The worm wriggles between his fingertips. “I can’t do it,” he says.

Hermann takes the worm from him and puts it back in the container. Newton has always had a soft spot for even the most insignificant of creatures, often to his own detriment: he kept a pet snake in the laboratory for a bit (before pawning it off on a somewhat unenthusiastic Mako Mori), and teared up every single time he fed it a mouse, and once cried for ten minutes when a rather pretty-looking moth fried itself to death on his desk lamp. “It’s alright, Newton,” he says. He pats Newton’s hand. “We can try another day, with lures instead. Yes?”

“Yeah,” Newton says, and nods. 

The dinner Hermann expected may be nonexistent, but he knows he wasn’t imagining the champagne, and–frankly–he thinks he could use some right about now. Even if it’s that horrid pink kind Newton is obsessed with. “You know,” he says, airily, “I’m a bit thirsty. I don’t suppose you, ah, brought anything I could have? Some water, or…?”

Newton’s face splits into a grin. “I did! I was going to save it for dinner, but we can have both now!”

He reaches into a pocket of his fishing vest and pulls out a plastic bag. Upon closer inspection, Hermann discovers it contains two badly-squished sandwiches leaking…something. “One has Nutella and the other has Fluff,” Newton says. “Take your pick. I forgot where I put–oh!”

The bottle with gold foil is produced from his tote bag beneath his seat. In the daylight, in proper view, it looks markedly less like champagne, and far more like the sparkling lemonade it is. “Lovely,” Hermann sighs, and selects the less squished sandwich of the two.

The lemonade is actually quite good, and the sandwich edible enough, and Hermann finds that if he closes his eyes just right, it sort of feels like they’re on a better boat. Not a yacht by any means, but–perhaps a sailboat. And he really is pleased to have alone time with Newton. Newton, who was so excited about taking Hermann out–who packed them sandwiches, and lemonade, and tried to teach Hermann how to fish–who’s been nothing but sweet and kind to Hermann all day.

“Are you having fun?” Newton says. He sounds anxious. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you it was a paddle boat, I just thought you–”

Hermann cups his jaw and kisses him gently. The tension sags from Newton’s shoulders. “It’s all perfect, Newton,” Hermann tells him, and he finds he actually means it. “Really, perfect.”

“That’s good,” Newton says. “That’s awesome. Ha!” 

They smile at each other.

“What did you bring a fanny pack for?” Newton says.

Hermann’s smile falters, only slightly. “Er. I’ll show you tonight.”

[himbowelsh]

your fics are amazing ❤️ can i have anything about baberoe but julian also appears in the fic🤣? thank you so much ❤️

This is probably way more than you wanted, doll, but here you go!!

It’s been a long time since Gene picked up a late shift at Smokey’s Bar. Longer than he’s proud of, really. Medical school don’t pay for itself, even on a scholarship, and it’s a stretch to think that changes on an intern’s salary. Just because his daily routine is filled with a lot more triages and tracheotomies now doesn’t mean he’s forgotten where he came from. 

Hell, Gene spent two years in this cozy backstreet establishment, serving drinks well into the midnight hours with his textbooks stashed just below the counter. The job at Smokey’s was the only reason he could afford an apartment at the time; without it, he might not‘ve even had a shirt on his back. The regular crowd was always great, the bar’s owner was a true gentilhomme, and there was no hard feelings when Gene left to start his internship. Smokey accepted it with grace, and everybody wished him well.

Of course, if he’d known he’d be back just a few months later, he’d have protested the going away party.

“You’re a real lifesaver,” Smokey declares as Gene steps back behind the familiar counter. “Skinny’s out tonight — something about helping his Granny with her pet cat, which I’d be glad to believe, if I didn’t know for a fact his Granny lives across the country — and we called Blithe about ten times, but no answer there.”

“It’s no problem.” Gene offers his old boss a thin-lipped smile, running hands hands lightly over the oiled bar top. It’s been a while; best to get the feel of the place before the night rush arrives.

“It is, though, Gene. Big favor you’re doing me. If you ever need anything —“

“Don’t worry about it.” Maybe in two years he and Smokey got past the point of “boss and employee”. Gene wouldn't call them friends, but they’re close enough. Helping out a friend is just what you do, and you don’t complain about it. “I’m happy to be here. Missed these old walls more than I realized.”

Smokey barks out a laugh. “Yeah! See it every night, and you get tired real fast.” The bar door rattles open without warning, ushering a familiar crew — half a dozen guys, all with the same swagger and grins on their faces. “Same old ugly mugs each night, too!” Smokey exclaims, brightening like the sun’s come out at midnight. “Not sure why we let you guys in at this point!”

“You’d go broke without us, Smoke!” Bill Guarnere’s voice is loud as ever, and as rowdy as Gene remembers it. “You know we pay half the bills ‘round here.”

“Lose us and you lose your nightlife too,” Floyd Talbert adds with a grin, already stripping off his heavy jacket. 

The atmosphere is familiar; every corner is known, and fondly remembered. Across the room, a 90s rock beat pulses from a pseudo-modern jukebox, all but rattling that side of the building. Smokey’s has got a dance floor, a pool table, a dartboard... everything a person could need for a rowdy night out. “Except the dancers,” Smokey said once. “We tried to put in these nice cages, but seems like you need permits and all that. Why waste the money when Luz gets up on the tables after a few drinks for free?”

It’s a respectable place, and a cozy one. The city will never feel like home — home to Gene is warm air, thick as honey against your skin, the symphony of the bayou floating around you like zydeco in the night air — but Smokey’s is close. The closest Gene feels anywhere in the city, and he’ll take what he can get.

Gene settles back behind the bar, and falls into the familiar dance; he still remembers all the steps, and hasn’t lost his touch yet. Smokey’s isn’t a cocktail place; Gene’s job is generally restricted to serving up beer and chips, with the occasional harder drink coming in. He can toss together a good whiskey sour, and his Dark and Stormy’s are excellent, so he’s been told. It shouldn’t be this easy to pick up the old rhythm again; his days since leaving Smokey’s have been filled with nonstop work. The nights he isn’t on shift, he spends studying, memorizing so many conditions and treatments that there shouldn’t be room for anything else. The brain works in mysterious ways, though. This old job carved grooves into his memory, and he slides back into them now without even having to try.

George Luz grins at him, loudly proclaiming how good it is to have Gene back. “Place just wasn’t the same without you, Doc,” he declares, and a round of cheers from Luz’s group echo their agreement. Muck and Malarkey team up on him, pestering him about how work at the hospital is going. Gene suspects they’re only in it to hear the stories every doctor acquired over time. He humors them with one about a man who’s ent swimming in the buff, ending up with a fish stuck where no fish should ever be. Offhandedly, he tacks on a mention about the frequent cases of alcohol poisoning they get in the ER. Plenty of gory detail to go into there. From the grimaces on the duo’s face, and the way Muck eyes his third beer of the night warily, they definitely get the message.

A ruckus near the dance floor rings out, distracting Gene from mixing a whiskey-and-lime. His hands fumble with the bottle; it nearly slips from his grip, but he catches it without looking. The commotion is much more interesting. some spaghetti-limbed kid, all deer-in-the-headlights, is squared off against Roy Cobb, who’s already had one drink too many. Flushed and surly-eyed, Cobb steps up into the kid’s face, rearing up like a pissed off moode.

“You think I can’t hear you? What, you think no one in here hears you running your mouth?”

“Christ, buddy, I didn’t say a word about you!” the kid replies, stumbling back a clumsy step. “Why don’t you siddown, huh?”

“Don’t need to sit down, don’t need you to tell me —“

Now, Smokey’s isn’t the sort of place where fights break out as a rule; sometimes men get a bit riled up, but it rarely turns ugly. When it does, they’ve got Bull on hand to break up any fight before it can start, and probably break some costly furniture in the process… but it’s Bull’s night off. By now, the rest of the bar’s taken notice of the fight. Tension thrums through the room like a live wire, sparking off and just itching to catch on something. Everyone’s watching them, and no one’s looking towards the other side of the room. Gene does, and he spots the kindling.

Bill Guarnere, fists clenched and face red, is slicing straight through the crowd. At his heels is another kid, gangly, with a mop of messy ginger hair; he looks twice as pissed off as Bill, but doesn’t wear it quite as threateningly.

Gene moves forward without a sound, setting his drink on the table. In a few seconds, the situation’s gonna get three times worse. Better snuff it out before they get the chance.

“Cobb.”

Gene’s the quiet sort by nature — but when he wants to, his voice can ring through a room, cutting over shouts and curses as clear as a roll of thunder. Before he spoke, he might as well’ve not even been in the room. Suddenly, every eye’s on him, and Smokey’s is silent. He braces himself against the bar, red-hot gaze trained on the troublemaker. “Come here.” One hand gestures Cobb over; it’s not a suggestion. “Free drink for your trouble. Sit down, we’ll talk.”

“Don’t need to talk,” Cobb replies, voice dropping low and rough. The kid takes the opportunity to remove himself from the situation, scurrying back to his friends’ side. Bill Guarnere claps him on the shoulder, and sends a glance towards Gene; his nod, short and grateful, is all it takes to finish the threat off. Reluctantly, with the tension broken, Cobb trudges towards the bar and accepts the beer Gene slides towards him.

“Now,” Gene says, strictly business. “What’s goin’ on with you? You tell me, I’m here to listen.”

Offering an ear to a drunk’s sorrows is always a shot in the dark. God forbid Cobb disappointed. Gene ends up spending the next forty minutes listening to Roy Cobb’s woes about his job, his girl, and everything in between — until his last drink’s done, and he’s vented enough that he no longer seems ready to snap. Gene calls the taxi for him, and sees him out.

It all goes smoothly after that. Not an interesting shift; for his first time back, and probably his last time, Gene’s a little let down. At least on his last night there was cake. Tonight, all he gets it a thank-you text from Smokey, complete with copious emojis, and a few “see ya, Gene!” and “thanks a lot, Gene!”s at last call. Once all the patrons have cleared out and the bar’s gone dark, Gene lingers in the doorway for just a minute before locking up. Just one more minute… and then he’ll say goodbye to the old place. For good, this time.

“Aw christ, Julian, my goddamn shoes!”

A shrill voice echoing from around the corner… kind of kills the moment.

Uncertain, Gene lets the door fall shut, and hastily turns his key in the lock. Something about that voice is familiar, but he can’t put a finger on it. There’s no one else in sight, not even any stragglers from closing time… but as he tucks his key in his pocket and rounds the corner, the source of the disturbance makes itself painfully clear.

Some idiot is sticking ass-first outta the dumpster.

“No!” The idiot’s friend exclaims, bouncing on his heels as he tries to grab hold of a thrashing, sneaker-capped leg. “Get out of the — get out — this ain’t my job! Do I look like your mother to you?”

“Ain't my kink, babe,” echoes a voice from within. One second later, and the set of legs vanished completely; the dumpster consumes its victim, leaving nothing behind but a loud rustling, and the clank of limbs against metal.

I don’t want to know, Gene acknowledges, weighing the situation like a detective at a crime scene. I don’t need to know. It’s late. I’m tired. I’ve got a shift in twelve hours.

“Everything alright here?” he blurts out, before god-given common sense can talk him out of it.

The friend turns on his heels, with a soft grunt of surprise. Immediately, Gene realizes why he sounded so familiar — the head of messy red hair is familiar, as are the lanky limbs and the telltale freckled Irish skin. Bill Guarnere’s buddy, in the flesh.

Since it’s definitely not Bill in the dumpster, Gene’s got a good clue who it is.

“Your buddy’s recovered well,” he observes, crossing his arms, “from the mess earlier.”

“Huh? Yeah! He, uhh — shit, he sure has. We don’t make a hobby outta this, you know.” The kid goes to run a tired hand over his face, then seems to think better of it. There’s a puddle of liquid near his feet, with the telltale sheen of half-digested liquor. His eyes are haggard, mouth twisted up like he’s not sure whether to laugh or scream. Maybe it wasn’t an awful night for Gene, but someone’s clearly taking the brunt of it.

“I hope not,” he observes, cocking his head slightly at another thud from inside the dumpster. “Strange sorta hobby.”

“It’s just that Julian — well, he’s an asshole, right, and he ain’t used to drinking like the rest of us — lightweight. You know how it is. He don’t have any rights.” As if to emphasize the point, the kid aims a kick at the side of the dumpster. From within, Julian yelps. “We try not to give ‘im too much, but he was real rattled from the whole thing, so we thought —“

“I remember.” Gene distinctly recalls Bill Guarnere’s unusual order, and the effort it took for him to remain stone-faced through it. “Vodka schnapps.”

“Yeah. A fuck-load of ‘em.” The kid offers up a smile, crooked and half-desperate. Whatever the hell his heart does in the moment, Gene isn’t prepared; it feels like a mini heart attack. To cover up, he hastily turns his gaze back on the dumpster again, making out like he’s more concerned than he really is. “I was gettin’ ready to call an Uber, but my phone — if some jackass hadn’t tried snatching it outta my hands, and then not let go ‘til it went flying —“

“Blamin’ me? Babe! Butterfingers!”

“Shut up, you!” Butterfingers Babe aims another kick at the dumpster’s side. This time, Julian shouts . His friend doesn’t seem a bit concerned. “Just find the damn thing!”

“You got an iPhone 6! ‘S right where it belongs!”

“You wanna buy me a new one?”

Julian has to pause, like he’s genuinely considering it. Butterfingers Babe taps his foot. Eugene crosses his arms and waits.

“Like hell,” Julian finally declares, and a new round of thunks echo from within the garbage can.

“Okay,” says Gene. That’s all it takes to get Butterfingers’s attention back on him, like for a moment he’d genuinely forgotten Gene was there. As soon as their eyes lock, though, the kid flashes him a smile like Gene’s never seen before — downright fluorescent, definitely lit up by liquor, but something more, too. Gene’s never smiled like that at a stranger; hell, he’s never smiled like that in his life, and definitely never had one sent his way.

It takes a minute for his thoughts to snap back on track again, still wavering dangerously, like the kid’s grin has shot the wheels right out from under him. “Okay,” he says again, clearing his throat. “Uhh, if you want, I can just call you a ride.”

“Nah, that ain’t your job. Thanks, but you don’t gotta —“

“I don’t mind.” Gene shrugs, tucking his hands in the pockets of his jeans to hide them from the biting cold. “Don’t actually work here anyways, so…”

Butterfingers Babe’s brows furrow. Slowly, he tilts his head.

“You mean, you… just walked in and started pouring drinks, then?”

It takes an inhuman amount of effort for Gene to hide a smirk. “Yeah. Call it a hobby.”

“You can do that? Holy shit.” The kid stamps his foot on the ground, turning to the trash can as if genuinely forgetting that his buddy can’t react back at him. “Did you hear that? Julian! We could take over a bar for real!”

“Always been your fantasy, babe, not m— ahh , god dammit, there’s a rat!”

As the eight circle of hell echoes from inside the dumpster, Butterfingers turns his wide grin back on Gene. “So, how do you even — like…” As his words trail off, his smile calcifies at the corners, before crumbling away. “Hey, you’re yanking my chain, arentcha?”

Now Gene really can’t help it — he smiles, quick and unashamed. “Sorry.”

“You really got my hopes up.” He doesn’t look too upset, though, even as he drags a hand through his struggle hair and shakes his head. “Damn. New plan, Jules.”

“Call,” shrieks Julian, “the police! The army! Satan!”

“Must be the name of the rat,” Gene observes sagely.

Butterfingers crosses both arms over his chest, and takes a step back, bracing against his heel. Gene mirrors the casual posture. The both watch for a few moments, enjoying the show, as Julian apparently wrestles with one of Philadelphia’s notorious cannibal street rats and emerges victorious from the fray. At last, he breaks into fresh air, exploding from between bags of garbage like the parasite in Alien . His black hair is a scruffy mess, there are scratches on his cheeks that he’ll definitely need some shots for, and when he thrusts his arm into the air, a banana peel dangles from it.

“I found it! I found your goddamn phone!”

“Amazing,” Butterfingers drawls. “Now can we get outta here before my nose freezes off my freakin’ face? All the booze in the world can’t make tonight warm.”

Julian makes a noncommittal noise, and suddenly vanishes back into the garbage bag abyss again, like someone’s grabbed his leg and pulled.

“For chrissakes , Julian!”

“He always like this?” Gene can’t help but ask. “I mean… has he done similar stuff, in the time you’ve been…” Butterfingers stares blankly at him. Gene gestures vaguely, as if that stands a chance of making his meaning any clearer. “I mean. Not to be rude.”

“You ain’t being rude. He’s an idiot.”

“Yeah, but…” Gene clears his throat, intensely uncomfortable. “Did he do this on your first date, too?”

“Dating?” The word escapes the kid’s mouth in a squawk loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood. Gene jumps, and scrambled to regain his composure; in that time, Butterfingers has already doubled over, wheezing. “Jesus, Julian, didja know we’re on a date?”

“No kidding,” Julian calls from inside the dumpster. “Y’gotts tell me these things, Babe.”

With two drunken strangers laughing in his face at three in the morning — one of them hanging out of a dumpster — Gene suddenly feels like the fool. To be fair, what else is he supposed to think — hearing Babe, Babe, over and over again?

“My name’s Babe,” the Babe in question clarifies. “I mean — it’s really Edward, but everyone calls me Babe, even my ma, though she says —“

“No one cares,” says Julian. “Now goddamn help me, huh? The rat’s comin’ back.”

Suddenly, ending this encounter as soon as possible— and saving whatever dignity he has left — is more tempting than a twelve-hour nap. Gene gestures towards the struggling Julian with renewed eagerness. “We should probably —“

“Yeah, we really should!” agrees Babe, spinning back around again. Only then does Gene feel comfortable getting closer. Somehow, with lots of trial and error, they each manage to seize hold of one of Julian’s gangly arms. With a great tug, they haul him out. He ends up sprawled on the pavement, a lot worse for wear, but with an iPhone in his hand.

“Ha ha,” he declares, and, victorious, flops backwards onto the filthy ground. “Ha ha ha, ha. I did it.”

“Sure did, buddy,” Babe agrees, snatching the phone out of his hand. His nose crinkles as soon as he’s holding it; too quickly, he tosses it back down onto Julian’s chest, wiping his hand off on the rear of his jeans. The alleyway isn’t that well-lit, but when he looks back up, Gene catches a spark of hope in his eyes.

“Hey, y’know, I don’t mean to ask —“

Gene’s already ordering the Uber. “It’s no problem.”

Grateful, Babe gives him his address, and tucks his thumbs in his pockets as Gene sends the order through. When Gene holds up the phone for his inspection, he huffs in relief. “Twelve dollars, huh? I’ll pay you back.” He goes pawing through his pants, urgency increasing when both pockets turn up empty. “Shit, I mean — when I come back again, some other night, I’ll —“

“I won’t be here.” In spite of himself, Gene feels a stab of regret. “Actually don’t work here, I was just filling in tonight. As a favor to Smokey.”

Babe huffs a laugh, and it inflates Gene’s chest, warming him in spite of the bitter January chill. “That’s real great of you.” Babe runs a hand through his hair again, almost awkward, though the way he bounces on his heels dulls any tension between them. “I mean, I still feel bad —“

“Uber’s coming in two minutes,” Gene observes.

“Right! Umm, umm, ya know what —“ Babe snaps his fingers, then suddenly lunges forward, gesturing towards the phone in Gene’s hand. “My number! Is that okay? I could give you, and then, we could just —“

“Sure,” Gene says, in the same second as Babe blurts out, “Yeah?” They blink at each other for a second before Gene echoes, “Yeah,” and Babe exclaims “Sorry”, still at the same time.

As Babe claps a hand over his mouth, he can’t seem to help snorting. “Jesus Christ, I’m a lot better at this when I’m less sober — swear to you, just gimme the chance to prove it. My number, it’s 215—“

Gene’s quick fingers tap the number into his contacts, despite the chill gradually creeping its way into each digit. He titles the contact “Edward”... and then, after a second thought, adds “Babe” in parentheses. Just to keep from mixing him up with Cousin Edward from Lafayette. 

A sleek grey car sidles up to the curb. Gene checks the license plate and nods towards it. 

“That’s your ride,” he says, and the weight of parting presses down against his chest until his ribs creak beneath it. “See you… around then, Edward.”

“Edward?” A squawk like that has no right to sound damn charming . “Aww, c’mon, what’d I just say —“

“Save ‘Babe’ for the second date,” Julian advises, still flat on the ground. His friend aims a precise kick to his ribs; grunting, Julian jolts upright, only to be hauled to his feet by Babe’s grip on the collar of his jacket. They lead each other forward, both stumbling over their own feet — though for Babe, that might be just the effort of leading his friend along. Or the vodka schnapps. Hard to be sure.

At the last moment, Babe looks up through the Uber’s brightly lit window and raises a hand to Gene. Gene waves back, half-smiling, until the car pulls away.

Left alone on a street corner at well past three in the morning, he sighs and tucks his phone back in his pocket. It’s an ungodly hour; he’s got work tomorrow; his schedule can barely accommodate his body’s inconvenient need for sleep, let alone falling in love.

But maybe, just maybe, Gene can fit in a few extra shifts at Smokey’s sometime soon.

[julietandcinderellavocaloid]

Determined Alice Chapter 9

The only thing more astonishing than Rei's betrayal was the sudden appearance of the legion Meiko and the others witnessed being blown from the sky. Nobody had died after all. The loss of the hovercraft was a frustrating inconvenience, but the other legion had no plans to abandon the mission.

Taking advantage of the lower numbers in the prison security and their advantage of surprise, they were able to break into the prison without issue and overwhelm the guards before they could regain enough sense to fight back. Their mission was simple – get in, get everyone out, and run away. They did just that.

However, the run away part of the plan wasn't as simple as it should have been. Meiko sat with Hio and Rinto in their resting room, all staring at each other with nobody having anything to say. Thanks to Rei's betraying them and everyone else, there was no going back to their previous hideout. They had to fly low. Tonio's team had to change course moments before they were supposed to arrive, leaving them to wander about until their new destination for arrival was determined.

Message was already sent to every corner of the rebel group to evacuate immediately. They got out just before their bars and libraries and other secret quarters were attacked – why Rei didn't give away that information sooner so those back at home would be ambushed while the rest were away, Meiko didn't understand. Rinto blamed Rei's shortsighted vision. Hio wanted to believe that deep down, Rei still cared about everyone and at least wanted to give them a chance to escape.

Meiko didn't care which was true. The next time she met Rei, his neck would become well acquainted with one of her knives. For all the stabbing she did, Meiko never killed anyone; she would make an exception just for Rei as retribution for all the pain and heartache he caused her teammates.

For now, she would not dwell too much on what had happened. She was alive. The others were alive. This mission having gone horribly wrong had proven one thing: nothing was promised. They all might have survived, but that didn't mean the next mission wouldn't have any casualties.

"Hio, Rinto," Meiko cautiously began, eyes locked on her fingers as she squeezed them. She didn't want to look at the guys as she talked to them. "I'm . . . I owe you both an apology. More than an apology, really. From day one, I've been a real jerk. I know now that in your own ways, you both have been nothing but nice to me, and I repaid that kindness with coldness. I'm really sorry. I hope moving forward, we can put all that behind us and learn to become proper teammates. If . . . if that's all right with you two, of course."

Silence lingered for a moment too long. Biting her lip, Meiko pondered feigning thirst to leave the room under the excuse of getting a drink. The longer the quiet stretched on, the more awkward she felt under the guys' gaze she didn't see but could still feel.

It was just before she was about to stand that Hio began, "Meiko—"

"We're your teammates whether we like it or not," Rinto interrupted. "Hells, it doesn't matter whether you like it or not. We're stuck together until Mikuo decides otherwise."

Meiko's fingers curled into fists so tight it hurt. It wasn't just what Rinto said, but the cold way he said it. However, Meiko was done arguing, especially since this was a lashing she deserved.

That was why it surprised her when Rinto continued, "With that said, don't worry about it. Everyone has majorly screwed up at least once or twice. We're all used to forgiving and forgetting. It's part of being part of a team. Though it would be kind of nice for you to stop glaring at us all the time, I'll admit."

Putting on her best smile, Meiko looked up at the boys to show them her sincerity and how grateful she was they weren't going to hold any of her previous actions against her. Rinto nodded his head, and Hio returned the smile. Perhaps some things were going to get better amidst all this chaos and terror. No matter how bad things got, it would be more bearable to have these guys on her side. Meiko didn't deny that it would be nice to be a part of a family again.

The thought made her smile fall. Standing to her feet, she told the guys, "I'll be right back. I need to speak with Big Al."

"All right," Rinto replied. "If he's still not briefing with the others, he might be helping to welcome our new guest on board."

"I figured as much. Thanks."

As Meiko turned to leave, Hio called her. Without a word, Meiko turned around to listen what he had to say. Hio kept it short. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," Meiko said before she walked out of the room, surprised to find that she told Hio the truth.

"I was just looking for you," Meiko told Big Al when she crossed paths with him in the hallway on her way to the briefing room. Big Al rose a brow but didn't say anything, choosing instead to let Meiko tell him whatever it was she wanted to say. Meiko took a deep breath and said, "I, er, I never really apologized. For stabbing you in the arm, I mean. Yeah, sorry about that. It won't happen again."

Big Al shrugged and motioned for Meiko to follow him as he walked. With her in step beside him, he replied, "Don't apologize. If anything, be grateful you did it. Nobody was going to respect you or take you seriously until you proved to them why we shouldn't turn you away."

"Wait," Meiko furrowed her brows, "you're glad I stabbed you?"

"Don't get me wrong, I would much prefer you never do that again," Big Al replied, grinning at her, "but at least you got the message across that you don't like to be touched without consent."

Although it was small, Meiko did smile back. She didn't go into detail what happened all those years ago, and Big Al didn't ask either. Instead, even without knowing everything, he looked at Meiko as if she was a soldier long before they met. Most people who knew treated Meiko as nothing more than a victim. Meiko wasn't a victim, but a survivor, and the way Big Al treated her indicated he knew as much.

"So," Meiko drawled, changing the subject, "when do I get to meet this super important operative we risked our lives for? I have to know if it was all worth it."

"He hasn't revealed everything yet, but he's already told us enough to confirm that yes, rescuing him was worth it. Come, he's in the back resting room right now. I'm sure he won't mind putting a pause to writing out his report to meet our newest recruit."

While they walked towards the room, Big Al kept his information to the point. "Believe it or not, but he's about your age. Came from the Hera District last year, from a village that isn't even on most Equinox Continent maps. He previously worked on a farm that filed for bankruptcy shortly after he left. It's through his sheer grit, intelligence, and determination he climbed the ranks faster than anyone would have ever expected. I'm sure you two will either get along as best friends or worse rivals."

"If it's the latter," Meiko said, smirking, "I won't be allowed to stab him, will I?"

"No," Big Al replied, only to lean in close and whisper, "unless he absolutely deserves it."

They came to the room, and Big Al knocked on the door. Instead of shouting who was it, the man inside called for the doors to automatically open. Seeing Big Al and Meiko walk into the room, he smiled and powered off his tablet.

"I wasn't expecting to see you again so soon," he told Big Al. Eyes shifting to Meiko, he added, "Or meet such a pretty girl so shortly after my rescue."

"My soldier is not up for debate," Big Al said, and Meiko interpreted this as "Flirting is not allowed."

This operative was, Meiko had to admit, really cute though. He had a rather round face for a guy, and skin so smooth it appeared silky. His baby blue eyes gave him an innocent look. His shaggy pink hair stuck out in multiple different directions. Honestly, Meiko wouldn't mind too much if he decided to flirt with her from time to time. He just needed to keep his hands off. Screw Big Al's permission. Meiko didn't want to have any reason to damage something so beautiful.

"My apologies," the operative said, a hand in the air in a "no worries" sort of gesture. "You're the new recruit, right? Welcome to the rebellion."

"Any excuse to raise hells is all I need," Meiko replied before showing the man a grin. He returned the gesture, and Meiko was sure Big Al was right to say the two of them would either be best friends or worst rivals. The question was which it would be. "I'm Sakine Meiko. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"The pleasure is all mine," the other guy replied. "I'm Luki. It'll be an honor to work alongside you."

[coridallasmultipass]

Tmi / personal / endometriosis and menstrual issues / surgery / long post / venting ... I finally had a laparoscopic surgery done yesterday and they were able to confirm for me that i have endometriosis and it feels like a huge weight has been lifted! All my fucking life ive dealt with excruciating cramps and heavy bleeding during menstruation and i just wish i could go back in time and give a big 'fuck you' to everyone who ever told me "cramps are like this for everyone!" Or "just exercise, it helps!" Or "orgasms help with cramping!" Like hooooooh boy I knew it and im so glad to have all the cysts out of me now. I had previously tried numerous birth control options to prevent cramping and bleeding and got excruciating cramps with literally All of them and constant bleeding with the depo shot. (I had a very painful internal ultrasound done, to hopefully diagnose endo by that route, but it was inconclusive - variations in the thickness of the endometrium, which could be endo or it could just be normal...) Most recent birth control was an iud and i had to go to the er the same evening because my body couldnt stand to have it in there causing so much pain, i couldnt stop screaming and it sucked. The iud was a few weeks ago ((and the proceedure to insert it was the worst pain ive ever felt in my life, and the same sharp pain continued through the following days until i got it removed) and i havent been able to sit straight since, i have to keep sitting to one side in order to not feel like having an ice pick jammed in me. Its gotten better since the iud was removed, but i still get a sharp pain when i have to sit on something hard. My doctor recommended me to have a diagnostic laparoscopy with cystectomy ASAP because of the iud problems and all my failed birth control attempts. Everyone in my family freaked out and kept pushing me to not go through with it, but I knew i needed to know what was causing me so much pain, like tbh, as a trans man, id prefer just a straight up hysterectomy, but yknow either way this is a step in that direction anyway. I have an aunt who had to have the same proceedure twice because of complications, and kept telling me her horror story about how painful recovery was and i was like 'trust me its not going to be worse than an iud because i thought i was dying' and she blew me off like 'its going to be wAY worse' like uh no bc an iud was 666/10 on the pain scale for me, i genuinely thought i was dying or would have a heart attack with how bad the pain was; plus ive had surgeries before and was completely fine after... Anyway fuck what my family said i went through with it anyway and it wasnt that bad of a proceedure to wake up from! My first thought was 'oh no, did they hospitalize me? I feel like ive been asleep for weeks!!' But it was just the recovery room. Ive usually done pretty well with recovery, and this was no different. The worst part of the recovery room was the sensation of needing to cough from where they had inserted the breathing tube for anesthesia. (Today my throat is still a bit sore, and my voice hoarse, but warm mint tea has been helping a lot for that.) I was also feeling cramps similar to mild-moderate menstrual cramping, (no where near the sharp shooting pain of the iud, and no where near my normal, unmedicated cramping which has had me doubled over screaming in pain until the medicine kicks in in the past), and of course a bit of soreness from the incision sites and the general soreness of having gas trapped in my body. (They have to pump a bit of gas inside you so its easier to look around, and some of it stays trapped in you after.) Its a pain similar to what ive felt before just from my fibromyalgia in general, so i was very relieved for the most part. I also felt myself bleeding a bit while i was still in the recovery room. (Gross and tmi, but im still having a spot of blood only when i wipe today, so thats a relief after having been bleeding a majority of the days over the past few months trying different BC options.) Strangely, when i got home i didnt feel groggy or in need of a nap like i have for surgeries in the past. I was also warned of having nausea from the anesthesia, but i had none at all!! And i was warned by multiple sources that i wouldnt have an appetite, but boy i ate almost Everything in the kitchen yesterday im pretty sure ive gone through a whole box of protein bars since yesterday too. Multiple sources (including my family member who had the same proceedure) warned of a sudden bad mood drop immediately after the proceedure, And i dont wanna jinx it, but I have been in such a good fucking mood since i got home yesterday, but maybe thats just the painkillers talking, but still I was at a total low point, like, cant-get-any-lower low point in terms of mood, but i just... feel so good (besides the aching and incision site pain lmao) On to the pain now... The worst of it was waking up this morning after the surgery day. I had quite a bit of the trapped gas pain when i first lied down at night (and when i tried to lie on my side) but the feeling doubled when i tried to get up. Im very bloated still. While the bloating itself isnt very painful, it feels like the stretching of my stomach is pulling at the medical tape covering my incisions which is making them hurt. Im not getting the trapped-gas-roaming-my-body feeling As Often, but its obviously still trying to dissipate. I feel it most while trying to take a deep breath like a bubble pressing against my ribs, but easing a deep breath slowly in and out moves it around and makes it less uncomfortable. Light exercise, like slow walking, is supposed to help your body absorb/dissolve/release the trapped gas. So i did 5 minutes on, 5 off for 3 times on the slowest treadmill setting earlier and im going to try again tomorrow for the same. (I feel like it made my bloating worse, so i had to go back to resting after, but ive been getting up and down to get food for my insatiable appetite lmao) Now the actual tmi and gross stuff: It is really fucking hard to pee. Straight up i have to concentrate so hard. Normally i lean over on my arm to help push it all out at once, but i cant do that with the incisions over my belly lmao. Shitting is just as hard, but the Shit Gods have blessed me with the Antibiotic Runs this morning so im all set for today lmao. Im really bummed tho they put a bandage over where my belly piercing is supposed to go, so i couldnt put it back in after the surgery. The whole, not being able to bend over thing, is reminding me of what its like to have a fresh belly piercing, and im groaning bc im gonna have to go thru with it again to get it back.... and i feel like i jUSt got it done... (it was summer last year) ughhhhhh.... oh well, like at least this time it should go in straight i hope? Also, obligatory vent that... having a fucking uterus does not make me a woman i wish doctors and nurses would use gender neutral language... TLDR; had a laparoscopic surgery to diagnose endometriosis and remove the uterine cysts caused by it, having a great recovery so far!! Still waiting on follow up from the doctor for my next step, but im feeling a lot better than when i was suffering cramps from every birth control i tried to get Rid of cramps

[haleighdennis]

The Trial of Megatron Part One: The End? Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Sari didn’t know where she was. One second, she was sightseeing with her friends, the next she was standing alone in an alleyway and she couldn’t find either of them for the life of her. They were probably worried sick, she thought. How could she help them find her? If only she hadn’t left her jetpack with Bumblebee. It was useful for zipping and zooming all over the place, but it was also heavy and Sari hadn’t felt like toting it then. Now she wish she had.

    As soon as she realized that she was lost, Sari had to dash around frantically to avoid getting stepped on by scads of big metal feet traipsing around downtown Iacon. She ducked into a dark corridor and tried to regain her bearings.

   “Where the heck did you guys go?” she moaned, running her eyes back and forth over the fast-moving Autobot civilians in vain.

    Sari heard movement further down the corridor she was standing in, causing her head to rotate around. She saw a robot and a few fembots duck into an open, empty street and creep into a dark building. Sari’s brow furrowed. She didn’t want to get tangled up with Iacon’s seedy underground world of smugglers and rioters that Bulkhead and Bumblebee had cautiously warned her about at the beginning of their outing, but maybe one of the bots on this slower-moving road would be willing stop long enough to direct her to a public place – like a quiet park or hospital – where she could hang low until the guys found her. Even better, maybe Cybertron had a police force of some kind that could help her find her friends. Without a clear plan of action, Sari started walking toward the quiet street at the end of the alley.

    Once there, she saw the building that the other Autobots had snuck into. An inconspicuous little hole-in-the-wall crowned with an assortment of fluorescent glyphs that were not lit. Sari couldn’t read Cybertronain, but while she was looking on, a few more bots scuttled in the front entrance, being careful not to be seen.

   “Hey.” A creaky whispering cockney voice behind her made Sari jump. “Are you here for Mcaddams?”

   Whipping around, Sari saw a 17-to-20-foot tall Autobot with a pointed chin looking at her wide-eyed. She straightened up. The Autobot seemed nervous, but not phased at the sight of a human. Why on earth, or Cybertron in this case, wasn’t he scared to death of her?

    Sari kept out of sight while with Bumblebee and Bulkhead. As Bulkhead had explained to her earlier that day: “Autobots aren’t used to humans running around, and we wouldn’t want to you scare anybot.”

    Even so, here one was asking her questions. The stranger wrung his hands nervously, “Well? So are you here for Mcaddams, or not?”

    Sari tried to shake off her surprise, “Mcaddams? No, I don’t think so…” The ‘bot looked suddenly distraught at this response. He looked over his shoulder watchfully.

   “Th-then you’re just passin’ through? Right?”

    Sari had wanted to say that she was actually looking for a police station, but this Autobot seemed to have enough problems of his own, most of which revolved around ‘Mcaddams,’ whatever that was. “Yes, just passing through. Sorry.” She said and tried to walk away.

    The bot appeared instantly relieved. “Oh! Oh, good. Y’know, we need more good folks like you on Cybertron. Heh, heh. Y’know, for a moment there, I thought you was gonna turn me in – Heh! – just for havin’ a sip or two a’ oil!”

    “No, not me.” Sari shrugged ignorantly.

   “Thanks a lot ‘shorty,’ I owe you one.” With that he was off, striding confidently now, into the mysterious building.

    Sari stayed behind in the road, totally confused by the exchange that had just taken place. She decided to wait for another Autobot to happen by, but no one else came near the mysterious building after that. She could still hear the noisy commuters at the other end of the corridor, though.

    Sari began to consider her options. She didn’t want to go back near the busy main street, and thinking back to her conversation, the ‘bot she talked to seemed unfazed by the fact that she was an organic. He and many other civilians had waltzed into that strange building. If anyone on this planet was going to help her find her way, maybe someone in there would. It was worth a shot. After all, what did she have to lose?

    Feeling as if she had no choice, Sari walked up to the oversized door and gave a loud series of knocks. Nothing. She tried again, making the biggest noise possible for a creature of her size. No one welcomed her in, but she began to hear movement behind the door. After a minute, it suddenly slid open to just a slit and a single glowing cyan Autobot optic hunted up and down for the source of the noise.  

    “Down here!” Sari shouted. She always had to shout to get the attention of Optimus and the others. It was a bit of a bad habit and had gotten to the point where she shouted at almost everyone – human and Autobot. She tried to make her shout sound friendly, but the bot behind the door jolted at the sound.

    Sari waved apprehensively, “Hi! I don’t mean to intrude, but I have a sorta general question I need to ask someone! Maybe you can help –“ The door slammed, tossing a blast of air onto Sari’s face. She stood stiffly outside for a moment, but then cupped her ear to the door. There was whispering on the inside of the building and then all fell silent. As suddenly as before the door swung fully open, nearly smacking Sari in the face in the process. The pointy-chinned bot from a few minutes ago was there along with another bot. “Yeah, let ‘er in!” The former confirmed gleefully at the sight of Sari, “She’s one of us!”

   Almost before she realized what was happening, Sari was ushered with warm remarks of welcome through a dark entryway and led down a small flight of four giant stairs that opened into a brilliantly lit room, which looked halfway like an old western bar and something like a gas station. Autobots of all shapes and sizes, goblets and glasses in-servo, cheered heartily as Sari jumped down the steps after her strange new acquaintance. To her shock she saw a couple of extra-large robots with massive wings on their backs and concluded that they were Decepticons. They cheered too when she bumped onto the floor before returning to their strong energon-infused drinks. Sari was amazed with how non-threatening they appeared compared to her previous impressions of Decepticons, but she still thought it best to keep her distance. After all, in her experience, Decepticons were destructive at best and malicious at worst.

    The ‘bot Sari followed shouted in the direction of the main serving counter, “Hey Cabernet!” A red and white Autobot with a smart black metallic bowtie popped up from behind the counter, “This here’s my friend! When was the last time we had an organic at Mcaddams Oil House?”

    The bartender wore a lazy smile as he leaned casually on the counter, sliding another glass of distilled oil down to a customer. His answer came slowly and thoughtfully, “Well, I suppose the last time I saw an organic here was two or three million stellar cycles ago, looked kinda like this one, but with waymore hair.”

   “Three million stellar cycles! How do you like that? Well, then, we had better show her some hospitality or they won’t be back for another three million! Isn’t that right, missy?” Sari’s new friend laughed heartily and crouched down to her level, “I’m Noir, by the way. Need a lift?”

    Sari was used to being asked that question in various forms. Noir stuck out an outstretched palm that Sari scrambled into. He lifted her up and let her hop onto the counter.

   “What’ll it be?” the bartender asked, leaning over to look at Sari face-to-face.

    “Oh, no.” She said, waving her hand to refuse, “I don’t drink – oil.” Sari didn’t want to sound rude, but frankly she didn’t drink oil or energon, and if that was all Macaddams served, it was no wonder it had been years since organic life had been there. Besides, if there was one thing Sari had learned from Bulkhead’s once-friends, Mixmaster and Scrapper, it was that bots who filled up too much on oil tended to act a little ditzy. She could already see some reckless little quarrels breaking out in the corner of the bar. In one particularly heated argument over a gambling game, the House’s bouncer – an Autobot triple-changer – ended up having to heft the two arguers out the back door by their tailpipes, one in each enormous servo.

    Noticing Sari’s apprehension, Noir shouted, “Nonsense! This one’s on me! Give her something for organics, Cabernet.”

   Cabernet never skipped a beat. He whipped out a grey, frothy mixture and filled an oversized shot glass to the brim. “Try this,” he winked at Sari, “It’s delicious!”

    Sari eyed the grey stuff suspiciously, picked it up with one hand and sniffed. It smelled sweet, like sugar.

   “Smile, everyone!” A bot with a holo-scanner jumped in front of Sari and Cabernet, startling her. Noir slid into position next to them and the two bots smiled merrily. Sari raised her drink, but couldn’t manage a smile. The holoscanner captured the image with a broad green laser that swept the threesome up and down before flashing brightly twice.

    Noir sidled up to the photographer, “Lemme see, lemme see!” A 3-D image projected from the holoscanner, “Ooh look at that! One for the data files!”

   Reminding herself that she needed to find her friends, Sari jumped to get Noir’s attention. “Hey, I have a question!”

    “Sure thing,” he took a swig of oil. “I have an answer. Whaddaya wanna know?”

    “I’m looking for someone, but I don’t know where to find them.“

    Noir scrunched up his face, “Who?”

    “You probably wouldn’t know them. I just need to –”

    “I know a lot of bots on Cybertron.” Noir slurred, “Try me.”

    Sari shrugged uncomfortably, “Just two guys called Bumblebee and Bulkhead.”

    The bar fell silent.

    Sari paused before continuing, “What? What is it? You don’t actuallyhappen to know them, do you?”

   “Wait,” a bot in the crowd said, “Are you that organic who came back with Optimus Prime’s crew?”

   Before Sari could respond, Noir stood up and faced the crowd of patrons, rubbing his servo across his forehead tensely. “A human? I-I had no idea.” Every head was turned towards him. Sari noticed that everone had become very uneasy. Cabernet stopped pouring drinks. Everyone’s glasses were frozen in their hands.

   “Sentinel Magnus warned us about this type.” Somebot said pointing a harsh finger at Noir, “and heinvited her in!”

   “Sentinel Magnus?” Sari repeated in confusion.

    “Hang on everyone, “ Noir stumbled to explain, “I didn’t know.”

    A fembot let out a single sarcastic laugh and stood up, “The humans tried to offline Ultra Magnus, and now they’ve come back to make sure the deed’s done!”

    The bouncer from earlier, fully recovered from the shock of a human presence in the room, cracked his knuckles and approached Noir.

    “Get ‘im outta here!” a once-congenial customer yelled angrily.

    “I can explain!” Noir flustered, but it was too late. Springer grabbed him by the collar and hurled him out the back door. As he did so, Sari made a quick jump from the high counter to the floor and sped across the cracked metal surface with her trusty energy skates. She was thankful for her durable Cybertronian half whenever she found herself having to make insane jumps or perform otherwise suicidal stunts in the heat of action. These outraged Cybertronians were helping her re-learn some of her cyber-ninja training as she frantically zoomed through legs and stomping feet and fell into an isolated back room with the determination of a baseball player sliding home. Returning to her feet, she rapidly aimed and threw a ball of electricity from her palms at a nearby control panel, causing a door to come sliding down over the alcove’s only entrance just in time. Bots in the main room shouted and slammed loudly on the closed door.

   Panting, she examined her surroundings. Her eyes glowed faintly in the dark, but it wasn’t enough to reveal the clutter, tools and mess that surrounded her in the tiny utility closet. She couldn’t see it, but hidden in the corner was a bot-sized trapdoor that no Cybertronian would have recognized had the room been lit. She took a few blind steps forward with her arms extended in front of her. Her human eyes wanted to squint to narrow her line of detail, but at the same time her Cybertronian optics peeled open to allow her as much visibility as possible with the glow they emitted. She turned her head left and right, up and down as she walked trying to find a light source somewhere. She could only see a few feet in front of her and eventually ran into what she thought was a wall. Feeling her way along, she inadvertently travelled back behind the building’s cooling unit. The wall became rough back here and Sari could just make out a small latch next to her waist. She took it in both hands and pulled upwards, half-expecting some ceiling lights to flutter on. Instead, the wall opened close to her feet. Curiously, Sari moved back with the latch until the trapdoor swung high above her head on springs. She emitted a small yelp as it hoisted her into the air. Hanging from the open door, Sari found herself looking down a tunnel with light at the end of it. Heaving a relieved sigh, she dropped to the ground and entered the corridor, hoping that she had found a hidden exit.

[wardencommanderrodimiss]

Witches, Chapter 14: the prelude to the one you’ve all been waiting for.

[Seelie of Kurain Chapter Masterlist] [ao3]

[Witches Chapter Masterlist] [ao3]

----

“Chief! Chief!”

“Phoenix, you can’t come screaming in here banging doors and - what if we had a client? That hardly looks professional.”

“Er, right, sorry, Chief. But, look! I got my badge! I passed the Bar!”

“You did? - You did! Phoenix, that’s incredible! You deserve to be proud - scream that to the world, show off that you have your attorney’s badge! I expected no less of you, of course. I knew you could!”

“Heh, really? I wasn’t so sure there, myself.”

“Would I lie to you?”

“Well, you couldn’t, so there’s that - seriously, Chief, I - I couldn’t have done this without you. I wouldn’t be here without you. I don’t know how I could ever thank you enough, or pay you back, or—”

“You don’t need to thank me, Phoenix, really. You don’t owe me anything. As long as I can help, I’ll be here.”

-

Was his badge always this light and this tiny in his palm? It should be heavier. It should be weightier. It’s supposed to be weightier after it’s saved lives and ruined them. Everything it means, and it’s just this little sliver of metal, as shiny as when he was a rookie. After he put three years of wear onto his first one, too, looked like he’d been around the block as a lawyer once or twice, and now he’s starting over from the bottom again.

Or worse than that, because when he started out he had no reputation but Mia’s, and now he has his own name, the highs and lows of it. Who is Phoenix Wright? The man who defended Will Powers, Max Galactica, Mask de Masque. (Scratch Matt Engarde.) The man who felled Manfred von Karma, Damon Gant. The man who defended Zak Gramarye. (Zak goddamn Gramarye.) The man who felled Kristoph Gavin.

(Though there’s some who still think he positioned Kristoph Gavin to take the fall for him.)

If it wasn’t for Edgeworth (again; first to save him, now to save someone else at his behest) he wouldn’t have bothered. Not with his name bitter on the tongues of half the legal system and this new little badge with its sheen dulled by tarnish and grime only Phoenix can see. But it’s Edgeworth, so Phoenix is here, and while he’s here, he supposes he can show Athena that all her admiration of him, all her faith in him, wasn’t hollow. That he can be who she thinks he is.

He can show Apollo that he’s more than the director hiding in the wings, the puppetmaster behind set. That he can be more than Apollo knows he is.

They won’t have to run his errands anymore. He won’t give them more reason to resent him.

But even thinking that - and even knowing that this accomplishment he wants to share stems inextricably from to all his failures that won’t be far from their minds - he’s still excited to tell them, to present this new badge to them.

-

Sometimes he’d swear he’s running a daycare.

He’ll freely admit he’s not an organized person and that his daughter has learned from him. She doesn’t put her magic props away because “I’ll just need them again soon anyway!” which is absolutely fair reasoning. But the playing cards and hula-hoops and plastic spaghetti don’t make the place look dignified, and it’s even less when he enters, ready to proudly show off his badge, to find the couches turned around to face the ancient TV that usually only plays the news, and Athena flinging herself up off the couch, a notebook raised as a weapon, at Apollo who has begun to walk away. 

“How can you suggest such a thing!” she demands, indignant and raring for a fight. “This show is therapeutic!”

“You’ve watched it five times already!” Apollo roars back. His loud voice is about the only thing that lets him keep up with Trucy and Athena, Phoenix is pretty sure. They have the energy, but he has the volume. “That inane pirate song getting stuck in my head is not therapeutic!”

“Uh, guys?” Phoenix interrupts. “Boss here, asking a question, y’know, what do you think?” He gestures at his lapel area where the new badge - he still has trouble thinking of it as his badge - is pinned. 

“But animal-assisted therapy is a real and valid thing and that’s why getting membership cards to the local aquariums here is paramount to my study of psychology—”

“Are you trying to justify it to write it off on your taxes?”

“Is there any work you should be doing?” Phoenix says, louder this time, and apparently the word work flips some switch in their brains, causing both to jump, and Athena to lower the notebook.

“We both already cleaned the toilet—” Apollo says.

“A couple times because he thinks I didn’t do good enough,” Athena adds.

“—and watered Charley.”

“But not with toilet water,” Athena adds, which instead of reassuring Phoenix makes him worry about a matter he had no reason to be concerned about a second ago. “So y’know.” She flashes a reflexive peace sign.

“And what if it was a potential client who walked in, instead of me? That hardly looks professional.”

“Er.” Athena’s eyes dart toward Apollo, searching for help.

“Sorry.”

Phoenix sighs. They barely respect him, but why should they? He’s given them space to work out of and left them alone enough that whatever unprofessional mess they make is their problems, not his. “Back to whatever you’re arguing about,” he says wearily.

They glance at each other again, obviously aware that he’s bothered, that it’s probably something about them - how many complexities must Athena hear in his voice right now? - but she’s also still passionately heated about whatever this aquarium argument is and can’t drop it yet. “And the orca pirate song is not any more inane than whatever tunes you hum while you do paperwork, Apollo!” 

She probably doesn’t know what tunes those are, but Phoenix can absolutely guess what they are by the way Apollo’s face flushes. Oh, to be in his twenties and just casually crushing on his courtroom rival instead of being thirty-something and pathetic about it.

He starts past them, back to his desk. Athena raises the notebook threateningly again, Apollo puts the couch between himself and her, and all the lights in the office burn out with a horrible burst of static. The blinds clatter heavily down over the windows. Athena shrieks - christ, has he told her about Mia? No, he didn’t. (“It’s all need-to-know with you,” Edgeworth grumbled, once, some or another time within a seven year span, “and you think no one else needs to know.” Apollo asked about the office, so Phoenix told him. Athena hasn’t asked.) 

Apollo, a little more used to her whims, still jumps, but silently. 

“Why?” Phoenix asks. The light directly above him hums back to life, a makeshift spotlight. “Okay, that’s a little much.”

But he only realizes what she’s doing when Apollo blurts, “Wait, Mr Wright, that badge—”

It’s extra shiny in this light. Mia knows her dramatics. 

“You passed the Bar! You got your badge back!” Athena drops the notebook and claps her hands together. “Congrats!”

It might just be a psychological trick of the light, the way it’s focused on him and nowhere else, or maybe it’s Athena beaming at him and Apollo’s astonished expression slowly opening up into a grin, or a combination thereof, but a warmth is gathering in his chest. It replaces the cold confusion that clung to him since he first took this new badge in hand. “Thanks, guys,” he says, and he finds he means it, even if it took Mia smacking them around the head. The rest of the lights spring back on, though the TV remains off. Mia never really cared for television, not even the news; Phoenix later found out, or realized, that she was looking for Redd White’s hand in every broadcast, every spin on a story, and she couldn’t concentrate on anything else if local news rumbled on in the background. 

“You look like a real lawyer,” Apollo says, with clear admiration. Almost the way he sounded when Phoenix first met him, though without the stammering and stumbling. “Like you’re capable!”

He is not going to ask if that means he didn’t look capable before. He knows the answer. 

“So!” Athena puts her hands on her hips. “When do we get to see the chief in action?”

“Huh?” he asks. The warmth of moments ago is a little too hot now, boiling him. “Who?”

“You, duh! Like Mr Edgeworth is the Chief Prosecutor, you’re the Chief Defense! Chief Anything Agency!”

“No thanks,” he says. Athena’s shoulders hike up slightly, her concentration increasing even as he fights to level his voice. “Just stick with ‘Boss’. Or my name, that works even better.” 

Athena isn’t subtle, turning to Apollo for help understanding, help she’s not going to get from him on this. 

“I don’t want that much responsibility,” Phoenix jokes, or he’s trying to joke, and it’s true but also not really the reason. “And anyway, ideally you’re not seeing me in action; ideally” - he’s allowed to dream - “we’ll actually have clients and you and Apollo will have your cases, and I’ve got mine, and you’re hopefully too busy to watch me go bungle my second attempt at a career.”

Self-deprecating humor is maybe not the only kind he has left, but it’s definitely that which he knows best how to wield. It started as another weapon in his arsenal against Kristoph: misdirection and diversion by confirming of all the worst that Kristoph thought of him. Phoenix Wright is a lawyer with only luck and no skill; Phoenix Wright has everything he does because some of the fae, and not just any but the royal fae, handed it to him. Phoenix Wright is so goddamn incompetent without them that he stumbled into an enchantment and lost everything he had been given. 

(The thing about that last statement was, looking back on the transcript of the trial, he knows even if there hadn’t been enchantments layered on the diary page - Kristoph’s clumsy attempt to fortify Vera’s beautifully-and-unknowingly-cast spell that made it convincing evidence despite its dubious source - he would have presented it anyway. He didn’t have another bluff left. He just had Mia’s advice, believing in his client - he had Mia and that day in court she couldn’t save him. The truth of it: Phoenix Wright, so goddamn incompetent that even with help of the fae he lost everything.)

“Man, all this preparation you do for cases,” Phoenix would say, leaning his elbow on Kristoph’s desk and lazily waving at all the paperwork that he had so carefully organized on his desk. “Ever thought about my tried-and-true wing-it-and-bluff?” he’d ask, and Kristoph would smile tightly and pretend that it was funny and that he didn’t hate Phoenix, and right back Phoenix would pretend that he didn’t hate Kristoph. 

(But the thing about carrying on like that was that, at some point, Phoenix came to hate Phoenix too.)

Neither Athena nor Apollo has this in common with Kristoph - because Phoenix is the man who gave Athena her faith that defense attorneys can save people, and because Apollo knows what it’s like to be the flailing, bluffing one, and that it’s not indicative of incompetence but more the kind of bullshit cases they end up saddled with. Neither of them expect the self-deprecation - neither of them agree. (Apollo’s reasons to hate him aren’t these.) And they’re both staring at him trying to figure out whether he believes his own joke, whether “I hope the agency is busy” is just a thin veneer for “I want neither of you around”. 

Which - to be fair to them for asking that question, he really doesn’t. Better for them not to find out what it’s like investigating alongside a man as cursed as he is, how those cases twist and turn worse and worse, more than what Apollo has already experienced. The way culprits shift: Redd White moving suspicion from Maya to Phoenix himself; SL-9 falling onto Ema’s shoulders because he tried to save Lana; Ron DeLite going from theft suspect to murder suspect; Godot letting the accusation fall on Maya once Iris was exonerated, just to see if Phoenix was capable of solving the case, whether he’d really been worth it for Mia to save. And then the weirder things: the amnesia, the doppelganger who tried to damn Maggey. Edgeworth escaping a guilty verdict only to make a confession, saved only to die. (“Die”, air quotes. Saving people is a funny thing. They’re only human. And even ones who aren’t human can only do so much.)

All Apollo’s had is a client he personally charged with smuggling, and that was moving a step up from murder. 

(Okay, yeah, there were both the Kristoph situations, Apollo exonerating his client by indicting his mentor, and Vera’s poisoning, but Phoenix was there for both of those so he can say those are his fault.)

“Yeah,” Apollo says finally, after he and Athena share a glance that says they’re probably going to be discussing this later, “based on precedent, that’s not happening.”

“Ah, but that’s before you’ve become the heroes of Nine-Tails Vale and Tenma Town, yes?” Phoenix asks with a grin. 

Apollo does not share his amusement. “I didn’t set out to be a yokai lawyer,” he says. 

Phoenix didn’t want to be a fae lawyer - or, Mia was a fae lawyer, and Phoenix is a lawyer for the fae - and it happened anyway. His career is not something that should be replicated, but it might already be too late for Apollo. “Making names for yourselves, however it happens, is a good start,” he says. “You probably won’t get stuck in a niche from two cases.”

“Y’know, Boss, I hope you’ll sound more confident encouraging your clients than you do with us,” Athena says.

“The clients won’t have your ears, though,” Phoenix says.

“No, you don’t sound at all confident to me either,” Apollo says. 

Go figure. Was he always bad at this, or over the years has he lost yet something else? “Noted,” he says. “Thanks for the advice, kids. I’m still gonna recommend you not yell at each other in the front room. Save that shit for after hours.”

Athena chuckles and Apollo sighs and that seems a quick summation of each of their relationships to him. He heads to his desk, finding it cleaner than he remembers it last night, which means either Apollo organized it while he and Athena have been rattling around their cage today, or Mia’s gift to him in honor of passing the Bar again is to give him one day that she’s not on his case for being a disorganized mess. 

She’d like Apollo. She does like Apollo, Phoenix sees that plainly, but they should have gotten the chance to work together. Stand in court together. He’s got a whole damn list of people he wishes Mia could have spoken with; all three of the kids are right at the top. It’s not fair, not in the least. It never is.

Athena’s voice drifts loudly in from the front room. “Hey,” Phoenix says, sticking his head back out. “What’d I just say?” he asks. They really don’t respect him at all do they. “If you really have to yell at each other, go back into the kitchen or somewhere.”

“We have a kitchen?” Athena asks.

“Only sometimes,” Apollo says. Right, he’d been taken by surprise by its existence, too. 

“Anyway that’s not important right now!” Athena is still yelling. Phoenix ventures further into the room. She points at the television screen. “Apollo! You heard me! We have to go investigate!”

“If we don’t have a client, we’re not gonna be allowed to run around a crime scene,” Apollo says slowly, like that will make the words sink in. “Not unless we were already on site when the crime was discovered, are friends with the detective, and the prosecution is neurotic and stressed enough that he doesn’t care that you’re there, and even then, witnesses aren’t going to talk to you because you aren’t anyone officially on the case.”

Based on how Trucy relayed it, that must be the Tobaye case, over at Sunshine Coliseum, that he’s talking about. “What is it that you want to investigate?” Phoenix asks.

“The aquarium we were just talking about!” Athena sounds frantic, and Widget can’t settle on shock or anger. “The owner was found dead, under suspicion of being murdered! And a suspect in custody! We’ve gotta do something!”

There’d be a lesson here about how she tries to stretch herself thin doing everything that isn’t her job if they had anything else they could possibly be doing, but they don’t.

And then it is their job, because a young woman who looks like she’s just come from a costume party at the beach, barrels in and asks which one of them is Phoenix Wright.

As far as coincidences go, this is one of the sort where Phoenix would worry that Maya had murdered a man and sent the suspect’s friend over to the office to request Phoenix’s help, as a celebration of him getting his badge back. Except Phoenix hasn’t told Maya, yet, and even if it was that, it still wouldn’t account for Athena chattering about the aquarium minutes ago. Chalk one up to the possibility of fate or destiny and move on.

The young woman’s name is Sasha Buckler, and she, as Athena guesses, works at Shipshape Aquarium, the site of one of Los Angeles’ latest murders. Her friend, the accused, is in custody down at the aquarium. And she needs the “Wright” man for the job to help her.

“Don’t tell me she’s here because of a bad pun,” Apollo mutters.

Surely not, and not just because it’s a pretty good pun, all considered. “I’ve been all over the city already, actually,” Sasha says, her mouth set in a hard line, “and all those lawyers said there’s no merit to the case, or they can’t help! Hearts colder than the depths of the Mariana Trench!”

“Ugh!” Now Widget has settled firmly in anger, and Athena once again ready to upend the entire legal establishment. “How awful! To have a friend in need, and no one else on your side…”

This far out of practice and diving in headfirst - he can’t not. It’s why he’s a defense attorney. “Okay, Sasha,” he says, taking a deep breath to steady his stomach, the resuming fear of fucking it all up, “I’ll take your case.”

“You - you will?” The words take a moment to settle, and Sasha lights up. “You will! That’s great! We’d better get to the aquarium right away so you can meet her!”

“All right!” Athena says. “Do you need a lift back? I can drive us!”

“Wait.” Phoenix turns to her. “Athena. You’re not—”

“Not coming? Of course I’m coming! You’ll need a co-counsel, right?” Because the last time he defended without one went so far wrong. “And I’ve been to the aquarium before, and I know a lot more about it, so I can help if Sasha isn’t around!”

That one is a good point, but the sick churning in his stomach resumes. It’s going to go wrong. She’s going to be disappointed in what she finds, what working with him is actually like. How his cases actually go. And she’s already invited herself out the door, taking Sasha with her, asking about the penguins and the puffins and all the other denizens of the sea. Helpless, Phoenix turns to Apollo, who is gesturing at the door with his eyebrows raised questioningly. “You’ve gotta hold down the fort, at least until Trucy gets back,” Phoenix says. 

“Right,” he says darkly, seeming to have expected that answer but not happy about it, either. “Got it.”

Phoenix catches up with the girls at Athena’s car, to find himself relegated to the back seat. 

-

The client, Sasha’s friend, the one accused of killing the aquarium owner, is an orca. 

Phoenix should have asked Sasha for more details about her friend while they drove over, but she and Athena spent most of their time in loud animated conversation and he hadn’t been sure he could get a word in edgewise. Athena is, apparently, with all her other interests, huge into marine biology, and she establishes her favorite animals practically immediately with Sasha. “I’m more of a dolphins and seals gal, myself,” Sasha said. “You like sea birds though, huh?”

“And dolphins!” Athena says. “They’re so cool - and so smart! I can’t believe you get to work with the orca in the Swashbuckler Spectacular! But birds, yeah, all of them - even sea gulls, ‘cause I hate to project human morality and personal awareness and personality onto animals, but those little bastards definitely know what they’re doing. I remember, way back when I was a little kid, the - the one day we went out to the pier, me and my friend and - my mom and, um, another family friend” - she trips over all the words about people from the past, and she doesn’t talk much about life before Europe, but Phoenix does know that her mother died years ago - “and we tried to get lunch and the gulls—”

After that ride, Phoenix is on the other side of the city, finding out that Sasha either forgot or - he suspects - deliberately didn’t mention the identity of her “friend”, who is a killer whale wearing a pirate hat and fake mustache. “See, when I was asking around for a lawyer for Orla here, I was told about you and your office, that you don’t discriminate against animals - that you’d questioned one as a witness and got your client off the hook that way!” Phoenix wouldn’t call that doesn’t discriminate, but rather fucking desperate, but Sasha is beaming and he doesn’t know how he’s going to turn her down. “And I just knew you were the person who could help me, and save her!”

Who told her about that? Either someone who thought there might be some merit to defending an orca but already had a full caseload on the platter, or someone who’s having a laugh at Phoenix’s expense. Or both. Put both of those thoughts together, and add that ten years after the fact, that someone who spoke with Sasha remembers Phoenix for the parrot stunt and not just the Gramarye debacle, and - oh hell, it was Raymond, wasn’t it.

“I am texting Apollo right now to remind him to tell me about that case,” Athena says, and true to her word she pulls her phone from her pocket. “Right now.”

“That was - that was a lot different.” Phoenix stares at the orca with its head poked up out of the pool. Its little tweets and chirps are cute, certainly, and the hat, but it’s also a fucking orca. It doesn’t talk, is the first of many problems. There’s also got to be a reason they’re called what they are. “So, uh, killer whales, y’know - they don’t eat people, do they?”

Said killer whale pops back out of the water and whistles angrily at him. Sasha glares. “Of course not!” she snaps. “And don’t say things like that in front of her! She’s got feelings, and you’re making her feel bad!”

“Yeah!” Athena chimes in, and Phoenix wonders if he had Apollo here, would Apollo be on his side or not. 

“Orla here only eats fish,” Sasha says. “In the wild orcas eat” - she shudders and her pirate jewelry loudly jingles - “seals, too, but we can’t exactly get those, so it’s just tons of fish!” She smiles fondly at the orca, and after several seconds of it making some more noises and smacking the water with its flippers, she says, “Orla says she forgives you for the question.”

Wouldn’t want a killer whale to hold a grudge against him, but either Sasha’s taking the piss out of him, or she actually—

A quick check confirms two things: that Orla the orca is indeed only an orca, which makes this entire situation both better and worse, but Sasha is not merely human. 

Shimmering whiskers brush out along her cheeks, and the hands she gestures with are gloved in translucent, grayish-tan flippers, complete with claws on the ends. Dark speckles, most almost star-shaped like the stage makeup around one of Sasha’s eyes, aren’t set against her skin but hover just above it, on the level of her flippers, a second skin invisible in some places but all encompassing. And her features are bold and apparent about her, more than a ghost of a transformation she’s never made - she’s more like Kay, whose feathers are bold along her arms and through her hair, than Lang, who even with the Sight has to be in a certain light for his eyes to glint yellow or a wolf’s ears to show up out of his hair. 

The killer whale trainer is a seal. Her other form ranks on the food chain directly below the creature she works with. He could almost laugh.

He doesn’t, of course. That really wouldn’t help shit; Athena would certainly yell at him for it. She’s heated as anything with the detective - a man built like a brick wall as much as Gumshoe is, but even louder and, really, just obnoxious. He introduced himself as “Fulbright” and Athena says they worked opposite him on Mayor Tenma’s case and from that one occasion, three months ago, she obviously has the read on him, and importantly, knows how to manipulate him. She’s ready to fight, teeth bared and fists up, and Phoenix is not going to get in her way.

And Sasha is looking at Phoenix with stars in her eyes, like he’s really the man who can put an end to this nightmare. She’s looking at him the way Athena did all those years ago when she told him she made him believe that it’s possible for a defense attorney to win. The way Apollo did in the courthouse lobby, before Phoenix sent him and the trial both straight to hell.

For someone who actually believes in him, however deserving or not he may be - he’ll do it. Athena’s cracked Fulbright open and provided a window of opportunity. “Detective Fulbright,” he says. “Sasha. I’ll defend Orla in court. Even an orca deserves a fair trial and a thorough investigation. If the aquarium’s owner is dead and can’t take responsibility for her, then I will.”

Sasha beams brighter. Fulbright, finally struck silent, gapes at them. “Oh, so we’re outdoing your last craziness now, huh, Boss?” Athena asks. She smacks her fist into her open palm. “What the helll-eck, what the heck, I’m on board with this! I’ll take responsibility for her too!”

First client with his badge back on his lapel, and it’s a selkie and her orca. The more things change, the more they stay just as goddamn weird as they always have been.

[geek-patient-zero]

Part 1, Chapter 3 (Pt. 1)

Or: Mage Chat at The Club Diabolique

Blood War: Masquerade of the Red Death Volume 1

This chapter features a scene most V:TM fans will be familiar with: important vampires meeting in a seedy nightclub to talk about vampire shit.

Thanks to some reckless driving, Dire McCann arrives at Club Diabolique’s front door at exactly midnight. We also learn that he has a late-model Chrysler, but since I’m not a car guy I don’t know if that means anything about him as a character.

Originally an abandoned warehouse, the building had been converted into a disco by several ambitious young capitalists ten years earlier.

There were still discos in 1984? Wait, when did Xanadu come out?

When that craze had died, so had the club. It passed through several hands and incarnations before being bought by the present owner, Oliver Pearson. After several months of extensive interior designing, the nightspot had reopened with a new name, The Club Diabolique, and a new attitude. Converted into a Gothic-Punk haven, with live music, a huge dance floor, and an exclusive “Members Only” upper level, the bar had quickly developed into the hottest place to be in town.

It wouldn’t be a Vampire: The Masquerade story without a shady nightclub in there somewhere. This one, despite its Gothic-Punk theme, has a mixed crowd of patrons. Most importantly are the vampires, as Alexander Vargoss holds court in that members only area, but obviously none of the mortals in the club know about them.

There were rich, middle-aged businessmen wearing expensive suits, accompanied by much younger women dressed to kill in skin-tight designer dresses and five-inch heels. Club Diabolique catered to mistresses and expensive ladies of the evening, not wives. Morals and inhibitions were checked at the door.

I have a hard time believing this club could remain the hottest nightspot in town for very long if they cater to creepy old stiffs cheating on their wives. It’d hurt the club’s image with the rebellious young goth generation the club’s theme is supposedly catering to. Speaking of, we of course have some goth kids. Most of page thirty-one is spent describing them.

They were punks with an attitude.

You can tell this was written in the 90′s because the word “attitude” here doesn’t really mean anything.

Generation X-ers without much money and without much hope, they felt cheated by a world spoiled by their elders.

The kind of subculture that doesn’t mind hanging out in the same club with creepy middle-aged businessmen and their mistresses, right?

This line could also be a good way to describe how many neonates, newly-Embraced vampires, might feel towards their sires and the older vampires. You can easily make a comparison between these fledgling vampires and the disaffected mortal youth they once were, and the connection could both say something about them and help them maintain their humanity when everything else about vampire life, nature, and society is pressuring them to be monsters. But Blood War is one of those V:TM stories that doesn’t focus on neonates.

Their quest for identity had led them down some strange paths.  Searching for meaning in a meaningless world, they turned to the 19th-century Gothic traditions for inspiration. Their look was a mix of black leather and Victorian finery.

A look that probably clashes with the “without much money” description. One disadvantage goths have when it comes to image, compared to punk and grunge, is that being able to afford their fancy outfits out them as suburban middle-class. There’s a whole paragraph describing their look, but I’m assuming you all know what goths look like.

McCann sympathized with the Goths. Most of them were bright, sensitive young men and women trying desperately to cope with a world of diminishing returns. Lonely and bored, they had created a whole new subculture based on a romanticized view of decadence and death.

After that “goths are punks with Attitude® “ line I was expecting the descriptions for goths to be Weinberg talking about how weird the youth of today is mixed with misconceptions like that they worship the devil or something. But this was pretty good. Their disaffection and feelings of hopelessness might be exaggerated, but that’s justified given the World of Darkness’s generally bleak setting. And there’s no mention of the music scene the subcuture came up around, but I don’t think McCann’s much of a modern music person, so it makes in-character sense. And if it’s not perfect, who are we to judge? How many of you on this hellhole of an internet know the goth subculture as anything other than a meme and a fetish?

The most relevant thing about the narration’s description of goths is their view on (the pop culture version of) vampires, and how that clashes with reality. It’s what you’d expect.

Many of them, not realizing the bitter truth behind the legends, fantasized about becoming vampires. Sometimes it happened, turning their dreams into nightmares.

[...]

Their view of the undead came from erotic novels and movies, not the Kindred. As he strolled past them, he uttered a silent prayer that they forever remain ignorant of the truth.

Aw, that’s sweet of McCann. Maybe under that master schemer detective persona beats the heart of a big old softie. Well, no, not at all, but despite being secretly really old he isn’t a dick about young people.

Club Diabolique has a doorman who’s described as “a giant of a man,” even compared to Dire McCann, who is merely big.

Dressed in undertaker’s garb, he exuded an air of restrained menace. This was Brutus, nicknamed the Arbitrator of Souls. In more mundane terms, the ex-wrestler worked as the doorman.

I wonder, does he have that nickname because goths are over-dramatic, or because vampires are over-dramatic?

Brutus is one of those unbribable club doormen who picked who can get in based on a certain criteria beyond “is the person old enough to be here” and “is this guy gonna start shit if he gets inside?” Thing is, no one knew how Brutus decided who gets in and why, and since he’s a huge scary motherfucker no one asks. Given some of the patrons, and the fact that Brutus is one of Vargoss’s ghouls, I’m guessing he judges based on who looks like they have the tastiest blood.

McCann doesn’t have to worry about Brutus, though, since they both know he has an appointment inside. There’s two paragraphs describing the club, but since the plot doesn’t spend any time here, just know that the music’s too loud to talk over and everyone’s there to dance, drink, and sin. And the band playing is called the Children of the Apocalypse, which McCann finds darkly amusing given the news he received last chapter.

Instead we’ll skip to upstairs, at the door to the member’s only area, guarded by a young “looks-eighteen-but-is-actually-a-hundred” vampire named “Fast Eddie” Sanchez, named so due to his skills with a knife. McCann asks him what’s up, and we learn that Vargoss’s guest is “some big shot Tremere sorcerer” and that “word on the street is that bad times are coming.” McCann says that it sound like a good reason for Eddie to keep his knives sharpened.

“I always keep my knives ready, McCann,” said Eddie, seriously, as the detective walked past him and into the next room.

You notice how that quote’s in italics? There’s several different instances in this chapter where lines are randomly written in italics and I have no idea why. The first thing I assumed is that it’s a subtle way of showing that a vampire is using a speech enhancing discipline, like maybe Eddie’s using a Presence power here to sound more intimidating? That’d explain lines of dialogue, but there are lines by the narration that’re randomly in italics too. You can see that here, since the description of McCann walking into the next room is also italicized along with the dialogue. I have no idea what the writer was doing here, and this is the only chapter where this happens.

McCann describes the members only vampire part of the club:

There were a dozen round cocktail tables scattered about the private chamber, with perhaps fifteen Kindred and twice that number of ghouls present. A small bar served whiskey for the ghouls and blood, both human and animal, for the Undead. Neonates, recently embraced vampires, worked as the waiters.

One criticism I’ve heard about the earlier versions of the Vampire: The Masquerade tabletop game is that players, despite being big tough vampires with cool powers, are usually railroaded into being neonates doing low-level schmuck work for the actually powerful Count Dracula level vampires, rarely in a position to do much politicking or even hunting. Superpowered errand boys instead of, you know, vampires. These poor waiters here reminded me of that, though in the tabletop’s defense I doubt you’re expected to work a minimum wage job instead of something more exciting and action packed. In the end, it depends on the storyteller. Also, as the book goes on, I think it unintentionally makes an argument for why campaigns about elders and methuselahs might not be the best idea.

To the rear of the room, on a small raised stage, an undead trio of jazz legends were playing some of their greatest hits for a small but appreciative crowd gathered nearby.

I hope those poor bastards aren’t Toreador, but given that they’re just playing their greatest hits about sixty years after their embrace...

Alexander Vargoss hated rock music and refused to have it in his domain.

Unlike McCann, Vargoss is not down with the youth of (about forty years ago up to) today and hates their “rock” “music.” I was also going to ask why Vargoss holds court in a room over a place he can’t stand, but I figure since he’s a Ventrue he’s compelled to follow the money regardless of where it leads. The member’s only area’s soundproofed, anyway.

They kept the noise outside, and, sometimes, held the screams inside. Humans other than McCann had entered the private chamber. But he was the only one who had ever left alive.

Kindred can drink from humans without killing them, so either the humans killed here are Masquerade threats being dealt with discreetly, Vargoss is a low Humanity bastard, or everyone in the club has bad luck with frenzy-stopping dice rolls.

A stunning redhead was singing with the band tonight. Wearing a green sequined dress that sharply delineated a near-perfect figure, she possessed a deep, syrupy voice that blended in perfect harmony with the three musicians.

Of course she’s hot.

McCann’s never seen the singer before, but she looks “vaguely familiar”, so he asks one of those vampire waiters who she is. Turns out she’s a ghoul belonging to a Toreador named Iverson, whose been visiting St. Louis on business for the last month and is sitting nearby watching her. We’re also reminded by the narration that Toreador are known for their “obsession with the arts.”

“He watches her real, real careful. Doesn’t like anyone else taking an interest in the lady. Can’t say I blame him. She’s good.”

“She’s terrific,” said McCann. “I’m surprised he’s left her mortal. Having her as his childe would really boost his prestige in the clan.”

“I think he’s worried she might lose her sultriness if Embraced,” replied the waiter.

See? Even the Toreador know their art sucks.

The waiter advises McCann to stop gawking and get over to Vargoss’s table. Vargoss is getting impatient and that flashy Around the World in Eighty Days style “arriving at your destination at the exact time” entrance only counts if you arrive in the exact room you’re supposed to meet in. So, somewhat unceremoniously given that this is the Prince of St. Louis, McCann walks over to Vargoss’s table, apologizes for being late, and that’s that. The Prince is there, sitting with his back against a brick wall because he’s paranoid about attacks from behind, along with his bodyguards, ~*~The Dark Angels~*~ Fawn and Flavia, at either side of him, and their guest, a little rat-faced Tremere wizard. We get more random italics.

“You delayed our conversation until this kine arrived?” the wizard snarled at Vargoss, making it quite clear he considered McCann a step below a monkey. The Tremere Clan were not noted for their social graces.

The Tremere guy’s an asshole. No surprise there.

Vargoss seems to ignore him and asks McCann what he thinks of the singer, who we learn is named Rachel Young, but his “icy tone” implies that the wizard’s bad manners have offended him as a host, and the wizard realizes this and shuts up. We also learn that a “closely trusted Tremere councilor” had tried to betray Vargoss a few months ago, but McCann uncovered the plot and stopped him, so Vargoss is especially pissed at he Tremere’s sudden dickishness and general presence.

After some banter about Rachel Young, during which she meets McCann’s gaze from the stage and smiles enigmatically at him, Vargoss chews the Tremere out, warning him to watch his manners or else. He also says that McCann is no ordinary human.

The Prince showing off his pet human, thought McCann sarcastically.

And now the random italics are showing up halfway through sentences. What’s with this? Was there no editor?

What makes McCann “no ordinary human” to Vargoss has nothing to do with his detective skills. Instead, McCann traces “a certain proscribed cabalistic phrase” on the table, presumably with his finger but I’m not ruling out a nearby spoon. The letters he made glow red for an instant before disappearing. It’s not very impressive given the vampire powers we’ll see elsewhere in the story, but it’s enough to prove that McCann is magic. And one of the biggest conversation derailers in the franchise.

“You’re a mage?” he whispered. “Of what tradition?”

“Euthanatos.” replied McCann, naming the infamous Death cult. Several of their number cooperated with the Kindred, lending credence to the detective’s lie.

Hoo boy, mages.

Mage: The Ascension is another game that’s part of the World of Darkness franchise. I can’t tell you much about it since I’d only ever been interested in V:TM. But from what I’d been able to understand from online chat, there’s one important thing to keep in mind when it comes to mages in relation to Vampire: The Masquerade.

You should NOT. TALK. ABOUT MAGES IN RELATION TO VAMPIRE: THE MASQUERADE.

Mages tend to be way, way more powerful than vampires thanks to having fantastic cosmic reality warping powers or some shit. They’ve also got technology. The Technocracy, which I’ve seen get brought up a lot, have orbital mirrors that can create sun-powered space lasers, and goddamn space travel. On top of the obvious power level arguments this’d cause, the nature of mages tend to lead to more “high-minded” concepts like the nature of reality and finding a way for all of humanity to “Ascend.” Compare that to the Kindred’s pettier goals like hiding their existence from the average mortal, manipulating each other, and seeking individual power. When there’re all these factions of magic mortals reshaping reality and burning things with sun lasers in space, it makes the Kindred and their petty earthly squabbles seem pretty damn stupid and unimportant.

So when you’re chatting about Vampire: The Masquerade, bring up mages at your own risk, unless you want to cause long derails about what the mages would do, how they could solve any big problem for vampires without even trying, why they wouldn’t get involved, how something contradicts the lore of one of the two franchises, why are the Antediluvians a threat in the first place when the Technolocracy can sun laser them from space (and they actually do this to one, read up on The Week of Nightmares), and of course, why someone’s pet vampire can totally beat a mage in a fight. And lore dumps. Pages of ‘em.

Hell, I’m derailing right now, and this post is long enough. Back to the story.

The rat-faced Tremere, shocked and more than little scared to have insulted a mage, apologizes, introduces himself as Tyrus Benedict, and assures that he meant no disrespect to McCann or his “order.” We also get this little bit.

Like most Kindred, he was extremely wary of mages. Those beings foolish enough to cross magicians usually ended up perishing in peculiar fashion. Including the Undead.

Also remember that the Tremere used to be mages, so that’s a another group of even more dangerous people who’d like to stick a foot up the Tremere’s asses.

McCann’s trying not to laugh at the easily fooled vampire. See, he’s lying about being Euthanatos. He isn’t even a mage. He just knows a few simple “parlor tricks” like creating glowing red runes with his finger/spoon to fool vamps like Vargoss and Benedict here into thinking he’s a mage.

The Kindred were masters of deceit and deception. Yet they much too easily accepted the unbelievable when confronted with the obvious. They saw complications where none existed. It was a basic character flaw that Dire McCann understood and exploited quite effectively. And had done so, in various guises, over the milennia.

So. He’s at least a thousand years old, but he’s mortal, not a Kindred. He knows some minor magic, but he’s not a mage...

Also, I’m not seeing how “I’m a Mage, I can do magic” is any more complicated than the truth here.

Vargoss and Benedict have some “blood cocktails” (the whiskey here’s too smooth for a big tough guy like Dire McCann, and the twins, edgelords that they are, prefer drinking from the source) and they finally get down to business. The Camarilla elders sent Tyrus to St. Louis to inform Vargoss of current events in the former Soviet Union. Why Vargoss is important enough to bother informing I don’t know, but McCann has to find out somehow, so here we are.

It all started about three years ago, a year before the prologue.

“...at the height of Boris Yeltsin’s unexpected rise to supreme authority in Moscow, all communications with the Kindred inside the former Soviet Union ceased. In the period of a few days, an Iron Curtain of silence descended across Russia. It was as if the Earth itself swallowed up our brethren.”

According to the wiki, this was called the Shadow Curtain.

The European Ventrue and Toreador clans sent some spies into Russia to find out what’s going on, but none returned. Vargoss doesn’t find this very mysterious.

Vargoss shrugged. “Obviously it was a Sabbat takeover. The Brujah elders in Moscow underestimated the discontent among their kine. Their puppet rulers spent too much money on weapons and not enough on food. Without a strong leader like Stalin to keep the commoners in line, discontent and anarchy flourished. The fall of the government, and the Brujah with it, was inevitable. No mystery there. We saw it take place on television.”

How topical for the early 90′s... I have some opinions about Vampire: The Masquerade’s use of historical and current events, and how vampires were involved with them, but that’ll wait until I get to a more offending example toward the end of the book.

Vargoss thinks that the Sabbat, experts at staging revolutions, caught the Brujah unaware and took over. Benedict says the Camarilla elders thought so too, but their spies within the Sabbat revealed that they lost a half dozen of their own people when the curtain fell. They sacrificed dozens of “packs” to break the “barrier of silence,” but they got nothing. Whatever’s causing the Shadow Curtain is stronger than both the Camarilla and the Sabbot. Vargoss asks what could be stronger than the Camarilla, and Benedict answers. Still in italics, of course.

“The Army of Night,’ said Tyrus Benedict, his voice rising in intensity. An unholy band of demonic Kindred belonging to no clan, they are allied with the forces of hell. The fiends belong to the brood of the most feared sorceress of all time—the Hag, Baba Yaga.”

No, not him.

“She awoke from torpor several years ago and has now reclaimed Russia as her own. Armageddon approaches. The Nictuku are rising!”

The legendary Baba Yaga’s a vampire in this setting, the one responsible for the Shadow Curtain, and yet another one of the Nictuku. When Benedict mentions Armageddon here, he doesn’t just mean because some old and cannabalistic methuselahs are waking up just to annoy them. The rising is said to be a sign that Gehenna, the end of the world for vampires and mankind, is starting.

Again, the Nictuku are 4th generation Nosferatu, completely loyal to their sire, the Antediluvian Absimiliard. And Absimiliard apparently hates his descendants, since he was a vain handsome bastard before Caine cursed him and the ugly little rat people living in the sewers remind him of his curse. It’s said that when the Nictuku rise, they’ll wipe out the later generations of Nosferatu, just as their sire wants. Except, funny enough, for Baba Yaga here. She’s apparently a rebel among the Nictuku, and is said to even be the direct vampiric ancestor of all modern Nosferatu, done just to piss Absimiliard off. Seems she just wants to gain power for herself, which is what she’s doing in Russia.

In short: If the Nictuku are rising, they’re probably going to do Absimiliard’s bidding. And if they’re rising, maybe Absimiliard is stirring too. And if he’s beginning to rise, so are the other Antediluvians. And if that’s happening, boom. Gehenna. Everyone’s fucked.

Going according to Camarilla policy, Vargoss angrily denies that the Nictuku (and what they represent, though that’s left unsaid) exist, that they’re just myths “invented by the Nosferatu elders to frighten their rebellious childer.” But turns out Benedict has photographic evidence. He hands over some photos, informing Vargoss that many bothans Tremere wizards met the Final Death getting them. The Sabbat and the rest of the Camarilla couldn’t figure out what was going on in Russia, but somehow the sneaky fuck blood magic clan managed to get pictures of the cause.

McCann doesn’t get to see them, and thus neither do we. But Vargoss tells us all we need to know.

Vargoss’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the photos. Raising up one particular picture, he showed it to Fawn and Flavia. “She has teeth of iron and six-inch claws,” he stated in hushed tones. “Just as the legends claim.”

It’s enough to shut down any more “Nictuku aren’t real” talk.

McCann, meanwhile, notices that Benedict hadn’t said anything since he revealed the photos, which, come on McCann, it’s not even been a minute. But this is supposed to hint that something’s off, because Benedict is staring at the stage with Young and the jazz trio. Who’ve stopped playing.

Suddenly, they hear Young scream.

McCann and the vamps at the table (except Benedict, the wimp) jump up and face the stage, forming a neat little group action pose that’d make for good promotion material if this were a visual media and not a book.

In one hand, he gripped his machine gun pistol, ready for action. At his side were the Dark Angels. Each of them held a pair of short swords they were capable of wielding with deadly efficiency. Right behind them stood Alexander Vargoss. The Prince of St. Louis was no coward.

Says the book after specifically describing him as standing behind the other three. But, alright, I know what Weinberg’s going for.

“Who in hell’s name is that?” whispered McCann ... “What in hell’s name is that?”

Time to meet the bad guy.

Tall and gaunt, a lone figure dominated the center of the chamber, a few feet in front of the stage. It had not been there a moment ago. Somehow, it had materialized out of thin air. That was what the Tremere wizard had seen. It was a magical feat that challenged even the most powerful of Kindred.

You sure he didn’t just reveal himself after deactivating Obfuscate? Or turn into an animal, sneak in, and change back at a dramatically appropriate time? Or-

The newcomer wore a single garment consisting of a ripped and tattered shroud held tightly in place about his body with moldering white bandages. His chalk-white face was that of a long dead corpse. Ancient, decaying skin stretched tightly across a hairless skull. Paper-thin lips, a beak-like nose, and hollow, gaunt cheeks combined in a look of utter malevolence. Huge unblinking eyes, like the black pits of hell, took in all those in the chamber.

A creature of blacks and whites, streaks of brilliant crimson marked his face, his hands, and his arms. Hands and fingers glowed ghostly red. The bright scarlet of fresh blood. There was no question in McCann’s mind that here stood the Red Death.

And his body seems to be generating great heat, and not in the fun wrestling terminology kind of way.

The floor surrounding the walking corpse sizzled. The vinyl bubbled like lava beneath the creature’s feet. Waves of superheated air rose around the figure, giving it an eerie, unearthly vagueness. The Red Death blazed, but did not burn.

Fire’s a fatal weakness for vampires, and that presumably goes for heat so intense it should make things burst into flame too. If you’re playing the tabletop game, you gotta roll to see if your character will freak out and run from fire or not. So this corpse-looking guy generating heat that can melt the floor with no harm to himself is a big deal. Benedict and McCann hype him up a bit more for good measure.

“In three hundred years I have never seen its like,’ muttered Benedict, still seated. ‘How can such a monster exist?”

McCann wondered the same thing. And he based his observation on a much greater span of time.

Vargoss speaks up, trying to live up to that “no coward” description from earlier.

“Who are you?” The Prince’s voice rang like a bell through the silent chamber. “And how dare you violate the traditions and enter my domain without permission?”

“This is how you face the devil straight up, McCann, you wuss.”

The figure raised its head until its eyes glared directly at Vargoss. “I am the Red Death,” the monster declared in slow, deliberate tones. “I go where I want. Your petty territorial claims mean nothing to me. My will is the only law.”

We’ll stop here for now, with McCann and the vampires about to take on the titular Red Death. He acts tough and yeah, he made quite an entrance, but in the end, who knows? Maybe McCann and the vamps’ll do alright.

[douxreviews]

Veronica Mars - ‘Spring Break Forever’ Review

"Neptune didn't need another private investigator. It needed an enema."

Veronica Mars is a grown-up, and she really wants you to know it.

It seems like just yesterday we were all waxing nostalgic over the return of Neptune High alums, past loves and other familiar faces. The Veronica Mars Kickstarter movie felt like one giant hug for the fans; a thank you for making its existence possible, and for sticking by the series for so long that Rob Thomas had to keep it alive. I loved it for what it was, but I understood that if Mars and co. were to continue past that, it would have to be in a different form. We had the novels in the interim - The Thousand Dollar Tan Line and Mr. Kiss and Tell - which were both good in their own way, but Veronica Mars was made for the screen.

This new iteration of the series is in the perfect format for a mystery orientated show; a heavily serialized burst of episodes on a platform that allows it to be the series it deserves to be. Both Thomas and Kristen Bell have told us this isn’t necessarily the series we want, but one that we need. Whether or not that's true remains up in the air by the close of ‘Spring Break Forever’, the first episode of Veronica Mars since May 2007, but it certainly made one hell of a statement. This isn’t the show we loved; it’s grown up along with its titular character, and the world around her has changed because of it. It’s seedier, darker, and even more complex than it used to be, much like Veronica herself. The episode wastes no time in proving this with quite a bit of cursing (but not too much) and some more R rated content than we're used to - a decapitated head, for instance. It's all a little jarring initially, but it fits so seamlessly into the world that Thomas built that it's difficult to contest any of it.

Our first glimpse of Veronica is a flash-forward to what turns out to be the episode’s final scene. Veronica watches law enforcement comb a ruined crime scene at a seaside motel in Neptune; a familiar sight, minus the wreckage. She laments on her decision to stay in Neptune because she thought it needed her, and she needed it. Somehow, she believes that theory to be proven wrong, and these next 8 episodes will tell us exactly why she's been so defeated.

Back in the present-day, Veronica helps a burned 90’er get revenge on her slimy ex by hitting him back twice as hard; getting even is also a very familiar sight where Veronica is concerned. Ronnie doesn’t exactly break through Karsyn’s entitled attitude, but she does dupe her into paying quite a bit more than her usual fee, which is useful considering Mars Investigations appears to be going through some cash-flow problems, even with two PIs now under the same roof.

Keith doesn’t seem to find it as easy to manipulate gullible clients as Veronica. He’s even taking on a supermarket case that’s paying next to nothing just because he feels like he has to. I felt bad for the Mars patriarch, here. He’s still in pain following the hit and run we saw in the movie, a fact made all the more obvious by the cane he needs to walk. He also seems to be suffering from memory loss, which isn’t an ideal situation for a PI whose job is reliant on remembering the most miniscule of details. Perhaps he should consider handing over the reins to his eagle-eyed daughter.

Whoever takes the lead, both members of the Mars family will need to be at the top of their game following an explosion at a seaside motel during spring break. There’s a whole sequence in the middle of the hour that introduces us to everyone who was there at the time. It’s clearly a pivotal scene, one that demands the viewer’s attention, but without an established character, it runs a bit too long.

Regardless, the impact of the explosion itself is even larger that it seemed initially, with all of the victims’ deaths causing a myriad of complications for those they’ve left behind. Aside from a douchebag frat boy, the blow claims the lives of the fiancée of a congressman’s brother; the son of a woman with ties to a major Mexican cartel leader by the name El Despiadado; and the owner of the motel itself, who is survived by his inquisitive teenage daughter. It’s caring for this young girl that seems to be the reason Veronica becomes so invested in the case, a fact that Veronica doesn’t hesitate to point out as a huge mistake. Time will tell how this bond forms, but it’s clear that Maddy isn’t a world away from another determined teen we met a decade ago.

I think it’ll be interesting to see if the series takes advantage of the parallels between the girl Veronica was, and the woman she is now. She’s still an inherently flawed individual, who has trouble letting people in. Given all the heartbreak and betrayal she’s witnessed in her years in the PI biz, she’s not interested in getting married. We should know that already since it’s one of the first things we heard her say in the pilot – “an absolute”. Sadly, Logan still believes in the idea, and Veronica rejecting his proposal may have some lasting consequences on their already fragile long-distance relationship.

Plus

We got a snazzy new title sequence with a cover of the classic theme song by Chrissie Hynde. I like it.

Big Dick Casablancas is still in town, and campaigning against the party scene that keeps the bars, motels and other low-level joints in business. Nicole, a local business owner played by The Good Place's Kirby Howell Baptiste, is very much against his plans. Veronica liked her instantly, and I think I did as well.

Another great character introduced was Alonzo, played by Clifton Collins Jr.. He works for El Despiadado and he wasn't fazed in the slightest by a head being thrown into his boss' backyard. His assignment to the bombing case can only spell trouble.

Wallace is an 09'er now, with a wife and an adorable son. I'm so happy that he seems happy. Our Wallace deserves the best.

Tina Majorino (Mac) is sitting this series out, which is a shame.

I was gagged at the amount of time Jason Dohring spent half-naked. For the record, if he got down on one knee looking like that, I'd say yes to anything he asked!

Cliff was the one to refer Veronica and Keith to the congressman Daniel Maloof. I forgot how much I adore him.

A few elements introduced in the novels carry over into the series: Marcia Langdon, the police chief who ran against Dan Lamb in Mr. Kiss and Tell is one. Veronica's new dog Pony is another. I'm glad these little developments weren't ignored so that they could remain canon.

He Said, She Said

Veronica: "I spent my first 19 years trying to escape my hometown of Neptune. Made it out, then, after a decade away, decided Neptune needed me, and I needed it. I was wrong on both counts."

Karsyn: "Tell me we're recording this." Veronica: ""We're recording this" is my middle name."

Veronica: "There is no George Bailey moment at the end of this story, Dad. When we go belly up, no one's taking up a collection for us." Keith: "There's always that law degree."

Veronica: "This Sea Sprite bombing. I like to think I would have walked away if we didn't need the money. Knowing what I know now I wish I had. But there was a girl and I started to care about the girl. And if you know anything about what I do that's never good."

Pacing issues aside, I enjoyed the hell out of this episode. It made a strong case for making another return to Neptune, one that’s shed a whole different light on how corrupt and dangerous it still is, and how fantastic a character Veronica remains five years later. It’s good to be back.

7 out of 10 engagement rings.

---

Panda

[whichstiel]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Supernatural Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester Characters: Dean Winchester, Castiel (Supernatural) Additional Tags: Spn 14x01, supernatural episode coda, episode coda, Episode: s14e01 Stranger in a Strange Land, musings on hope and humanity, demon dean flashback Series: Part 1 of Season 14 Codas Summary:

An episode coda for season 14, episode 1.

Dean and Castiel reflect on hope and humanity in the shadow of Michael’s possession. 

(Also included in its entirety below because it’s pretty short. But please tell me what you think on AO3 or Tumblr! Comments are always appreciated.)

They were whispering about him at the other end of the bar. Dean sipped his whiskey, savoring the burn against his tongue, and eavesdropped over the hum of twanging guitar playing on the bar’s speakers.

“How long do we have to stick around this dump of a town? I haven't killed anything in at least a week.”

The second demon’s voice was lower, as though she was afraid of being overheard. “Until Crowley says it’s time to move on.”

Dean rolled his eyes. Brent and Laura. They had been flexing their muscles all over town, painting a big target on the motley King’s court staying at the motel attached to the bar. Crowley really ought to do something about them. Kill ‘em, or send them away.

Brent snorted. “You mean, until Winchester says it’s time to move on. I’ll admit, I was on board with the whole Hell’s Knight thing when I thought we’d be rampaging the fucking countryside with, you know biblical flaming fucking swords. But so far we’ve just watched him and Crowley make…make fucking cow eyes at each other.”

Laura grumbled a disgusted reply.

“Did you know,” Brent lowered his voice and glanced around the bar. Dean prevented himself from reacting, staring at his whiskey glass like it was the only object that mattered in the world. “They set up another date? A date.” He spat out the word like it was a curse.

“No,” Laura sounded scandalized. “That’s so…so…civilized. I can’t believe we’re sticking around town so Winchester can have a…a fivesome.” She called across the room to the bartender for another drink and after she took a long swallow of beer she said, “Knight of Hell, my ass.”

“Fucking weak.”

Dean took another sip of whiskey. He let the glass linger on his lips, enjoying the fire against his skin. Dean heard a lot of imprecations against his character lately. That was a consequence of falling in with demons. If he acted against every insult he'd have perpetually bloody knuckles and a whole hell of a lot less fun.

The truth was, they weren’t sticking around for the triplets, though they were very fun. Instead, he and Crowley were sticking around because the bar’s nice. It had a good sound system and decent booze, and there was plenty of tail to chase in this transitory place. Crowley had suggested moving on, but Dean had stopped him. “When was the last time you ever had a chance to relax, man?” And Crowley had taken one good look at him and backed right down. That’s true. Never. Might as well.

It was a good situation, and Dean didn’t intend to screw it up any more than he had to. He’d just sit quietly, finish his drink, and maybe bamboozle the bachelorette party camped out in the corner out of some hard earned money. Or sleep with the bride-to-be. The night was young.

But of course that wasn’t the end of it. Of course there was more.

An elbow bumped into Dean a little while later, deliberate and sharp against his back. “Oops,” Brent said at his ear. “Sorry. ”

Dean turned in his seat slowly and let his gaze flick along Brent fleetingly, like he was a fly. He turned away again, only Brent cleared his throat and said, “How does it feel?”

Dean swiveled to Brent and raised his brows consideringly. “Excuse me?”

“How does it feel,” Brent said with a sneer, “to suck so miserably at being a demon? I swear to god, you’re the most white bread demon I ever—”

Dean smiled lazily and grabbed the demon’s arm. His fingers cut into Brent hard enough to elicit a wince and Dean’s smile grew into a grin. “You got a problem with me, Brent?” Fear flicked across Brent’s expression, but it quickly turned into disgust. Dean let him pluck his fingers from his arm and drop his hand away. “You’re drunk. Which is a real fucking accomplishment for a demon, so kudos to you.” Dean lifted his glass in a mock salute.

“Yeah? Well you’re a shitty demon. Shitty and boring and…” A knowing expression crossed his face. “Bet it was all the angel dick you were getting.” He thrust his hips once and hissed, “Oh yeah, that sweet fire of the lord! Diluting everything that should make you great. Making you a waste of…of everyone’s time. You’re not a real demon.”

The Mark hissed against Dean’s forearm. It bubbled like liquor in his blood and he found himself baring his teeth. He let go of his glass. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he warned.

Brent snorted. “Please, everyone knows. Crowley’s talked about it. Hell, everybody talks about it. I don’t know why we bother when it’s obvious you’ve been compro— urk”

A moment later, Dean pulled the knife out of the demon’s ribs, winking as the blade scraped against bone. He swiped Brent’s blood casually against his a paper bar napkin and tucked it back in the sheath hidden in his pocket. “Talk about Cas again,” he said pleasantly, balling up the bloodied paper and dropping it next to his glass on the bar top, “and I’ll turn you inside out.”

He fucking had limits, after all.

The thing about Michael, Dean learned quickly, was that he was not a people person. Er…angel. And Dean didn’t mean that the archangel was unfriendly, although he was without a doubt a complete dick. No, it was that Michael simply didn’t…get people. He didn’t understand their motivations, or their complexities. He would ask Dean, early on, about the proper things to say to a human to sway them to his side. Like there was a manual every human was born with, and he need only ask for a copy. He’d asked about the angel Anael as though he and Dean were two colleagues, still working side by side. He’d asked before he’d tortured. Before he’d taken.

He’d asked because Michael truly was baffled. That fundamental lack of understanding would be how they would win, Dean often thought. He stewed over the problem in the prison Michael had built for him in his own mind.

“You think in black and white,” he muttered as he leaned over the lock in his hands. By concentrating very hard, he was able to manifest a version of the lock Michael placed over his latest trap for Dean. With a physical representation in hand, it felt easier now to pick at it and worry at it like a mouse nibbling away at a wall.

Michael had ranted to him early on about “fallen things,” which Dean had come to realize encompassed all of creation - humans, demons, surviving angels - you name it. For Michael, there was a high state and a low state, and nothing in between. “You don’t understand want or need or…or love. Just words.” He pushed the pin in and heard a click. “Just weapons.”

Encouraged, he kept on with it. “We have dreams. Desires. Hopes. We care about each other. We want fucking peace, you asshole.” Another tumbler clicked and Dean smiled. “And I’m not gonna let you ruin that.”

He’d thought for a while that Michael would try to batter down the walls of Heaven and take dominion of the place. The archangel enjoyed worship, thrived on it even. Michael had been bitterly disappointed by the impressions of angels in Dean’s mind, however. He’d been even more disappointed by his meeting with Anael, the supposed rebel fighting against Heaven.

If there was any rebel against Heaven slumming it on Earth, it was Cas, though. But Dean kept Castiel wrapped up firmly in his mind. Ever since Michael had taken over, pushed Dean down, Dean had dragged as much as he could from his memories of his loved ones down with him and pushed it into the dark corners of his mind.

Dean chewed on his lip as he worked at the lock. There were a lot of dark corners in his mind. Corners filled with pain that kept Michael at bay, as effective as insect repellant. It was almost laughably easy to bury his heart away from Michael.

Dean remembered the last time he saw Cas, after Michael had entered his body. He’d been filled with power, with fire so heady it had taken all of his control to hold fast to the reigns and not slip away like a paper boat in a flood.

Castiel had stared at him, jaw clenched, and anguish painted across the lines of his face. Dean had noticed that first and then he’d seen him through Michael’s eyes. Power streamed off of Castiel like holy fire, constant and blue-hot. His wings hung from his shoulders in tattered pieces, mere fragments of what they once were before Metatron’s spell shredded them.

Dean had never seen any sight more beautiful. Castiel - glowing with his own glory. Castiel - broken once, twice, over and over again. Broken, but never giving up. Never. And he still looked at Dean like he believed in him.

Dean remembered how he had failed in Hell, so many years ago. How he’d cracked under torture, given up. Castiel had saved him then and the memory of him would save him now.

He would push back against the walls, the locks, the pain that burned him with every second of contact with Michael’s grace. Dean worked at the lock.

He vowed to fight, because he couldn’t stand the idea of backing down again. Of giving up. And most of all, he couldn’t stand the thought of letting Castiel down. Again.

The thing was, he felt like Cas was with him. Not just the memory of him, but him. There, and steady beside him. Inside him. Dean shook his head. It didn’t make sense, but he was tired of trying to sort things into real and fake in his mind, of all places. He wrapped himself around Cas, or Cas wrapped himself around Dean.

The lock clicked open and Dean gathered himself, pulled his heart around him like armor. He picked up the lock and watched it grow long and sharp in his hand. “Heeeeeere’s Johnny,” Dean shouted and felt Michael flinch like a tiger in the wild at the call of something wilder.

Leaping from his cell, Dean began to slice.

Castiel cleaned the blood from his face grimly with a sandpaper textured washrag. He wished somebody had told him just how rough he looked before he’d gone to speak to Jack. Telling Jack he would be okay without his grace to back him up would have been a shade better delivered if Castiel hadn’t looked like he’d just received the beating of a lifetime.

He sighed and scrubbed the blood from his skin, rinsing the rag under running water and watching the red blood swirl in the basin, then down the drain.

Even as a human, he’d never felt more mortal. He supposed that happened to everyone. The more people you cared about, the more you realized how tenuous everyone’s hold on life and happiness was. It was hard to keep up, some days, without feeling hopelessness crystalizing into something sharp and impenetrable.

The cut in his lip was beginning to heal, but Castiel still hissed involuntarily as he scrubbed at it. It stung.

The cut stung and Castiel was…he was…

Castiel pressed his hands to the sides of the sink and leaned against it for a moment. The porcelain was very cold. He watched the bloody water droplets run towards the drain. He stood there for a breath. Two. Three. Then he lifted his head again, resolutely.

Dean was out there.

Castiel finished washing his face. He wet one hand and combed it through his hair, pushing out the blood and laying it flat again. Dean was out there, burning within Michael. He would feel it if Dean were gone, wouldn’t he?

He would.

In his millennia of life, Castiel had watched many things die, and many more things cease to be entirely. He should be inured to it. But he wasn’t. And he wouldn’t let himself become that way. He’d keep the faith that Dean survived, that he cared to survive.

Castiel finished brushing his hand through his hair and let his grace shudder through his shattered wings, flicking the last of the fight’s grime from him. He was a fallen thing, more human than angel these days. But maybe that was a good thing. Maybe, that human side of him helped him to believe, when everything seemed stacked against him.

He was fallen, but he was not low.

In the end, Castiel believed Dean would be saved.

And so, he thought, flicking off the light in his room and heading back towards the library, he will.

[jixiani]

I’m Fat and that’s OK.

Several years ago I restricted my caloric intake to a point that I gave myself gallstones. I’ve had disordered eating since I was young, as happens when you grow up fat. I remember dieting when I was in middle school, joining gyms with my mom and aunt in sixth grade, eating nothing but a glass of milk and an apple until dinner in an attempt to be acceptable to the kids that teased me. I’ve dieted, tried exercise routines that I took too far because I’m super competitive and obsessive, counted calories and ended up memorizing caloric content of certain foods. I got helpful advice from people that cared about me: drink a glass of water before every meal (which turned into only drinking a glass of water instead of eating a meal), eat less, substitute celery for a snack, dance while standing in line to burn extra calories...I spent a good year as a middle schooler doing the Slimfast thing, or using the same concept but with milk when we couldn’t afford actual diet drinks. I spent my entire high school career never eating lunch, only occasionally snatching fries from my friends or skipping lunch to go to an elective with them followed by a few times a year staying after school for stage crew and conveniently not eating dinner either. I was always fat. I was nicknamed Miss Piggy in grade school, tormented by bullies, left out, beaten up a few times. Once one of the boys threw a bottle of glue at me so hard that I had a bruise the size of a melon on my hip for a month, coincidentally on the same side I get ovarian cysts, I’m sure it has nothing to do with that...When I almost died of Salmonella at ten I was happy not that I had survived but that I had lost thirty pounds. I alternated not eating anything with binging on junk food. Still to this day if I can’t bring myself to eat anything else I know I can eat ice cream or some sort of fried potato or chocolate. The summer before my senior year of high school I rode my bike eight miles every day it wasn’t raining. Sometimes I rode twice that. I rarely brought water with me, it was summer but I figured that it just meant I would lose weight faster. I did lose weight, I dropped five or six dress sizes and suddenly I was acceptable, I was cool, I was desirable. I was also terribly damaged and needy and threw myself into a series of really bad decisions and relationships because I had zero self esteem. I eventually gained all the weight back. In college I almost fainted during a theater rehearsal and was forced to eat a bag of pretzels, it was the only thing I had eaten that day because I had been busy. I learned that I could replace a meal with a candy bar, something to keep my sugar up. I can’t stand people seeing me eat, I would buy things out of the vending machines and hide in little used spaces and eat my candy bar or poptart. Under the stairs, in the garden, in the basement break room...I knew where all the vending machines were and would avoid them if there was someone else there. I kept dieting, I downloaded apps to help track calories and exercises. The machines at the gym gave read outs of how many calories burned. I was congratulated on every bit I lost, every hour spent at the gym, I fed on praise instead of food. My app said I could have 3000 calories, I barely ate 1200 on a regular basis and that was when I was actively trying. But then I’d look at that 1200 and think, I can do better. The hours of exercise built up and I competed with myself to see how little calories I could log. Each teaspoon of sugar is 15 calories (I didn’t have to look that up, I’ll probably remember it when I’ve forgotten my own name), milk is 125 but black coffee is almost nothing, celery is also almost nothing. 1000, 900, 800...the human body burns something like 800 calories just to keep you alive, so if I eat less than that I’m bound to lose weight, right? Well, yes, I did. After a few months of that I had lost a lot of muscle, my body burning itself up to keep me moving, out of breath walking up stairs, obviously I was out of shape despite the diet and exercise…See, when you’re skinny and you do this, people worry about you and you have an eating disorder, but when you’re fat every pound and inch lost is a victory. According to a doctor I was seeing around that time “Fat people don’t have eating disorders.” I was seeing them because I started having gallstone attacks, I had no insurance and couldn’t afford the surgery, they suggested that I “Just stop eating McDonalds” I insisted that I didn’t eat McDonalds, that I didn’t actually eat much of anything, that I had cut out junk food, that I was dieting, that I thought that maybe I was dieting too much and had a problem. This was met with skepticism and I was told that if that was true then I should keep up the good work. For the first time in all my turbulent history with food I was actually afraid of eating. The wrong food or food at the wrong time resulted in pain. Not eating had also resulted in pain. I had done this to myself, I gave myself permission to eat but I was terrified of putting food in my mouth. Finally after twenty one attacks, some lasting over 9 hours I went to the ER. I was developing jaundice, they gave me the option of surgery. It was elective, they were very clear on that, I could go home, of course I might need a new liver, but it was my choice.

After that I stopped dieting. I eat junk food, I eat good food, I eat because I enjoy it, I walk, again because I enjoy it. I gain weight, I lose weight, I have stretch marks, I still remember calories and I despise that everything has calories on the label now. I’ve gone to therapy, I found out why I am obsessive and restrictive (obsessive compulsive personality disorder) and have tools to help. I still sometimes survive on poptarts although that’s being poor/convenience/I genuinely like them not because I’m afraid that people will see me eat real food. I eat salad because I like vegetables almost as much as chocolate not because I’m supposed to in order to be seen as a “good” fat person. I eat fast food and chips and give zero fucks what someone might say about it and know that I’m allowed to eat what I want, just not to over do it. I am still self conscious, I still worry about whether someone will find me attractive, I still have days where nothing fits right and even my own skin feels wrong and I probably always will. To be fair, I had those days when I was a size 12 too. I found doctors that don’t harp on my BMI (which is a bullshit measure, how could I have the same BMI when I was a size 18 as when I was a size 12 and you could count every rib and take out an eye with my hip bone?), I’m not looking forward to finding new ones but hopefully I can find one that won’t try to make me lose weight before treating my strep throat (totally something that happened).

But the thing is, I work with a lot of women and they are always comparing diets. They eat their salads and talk about how much they hurt from the gym and how no, they can’t have that bread it’s all carbs. And I have a few girls (it’s always the girls) who come through my lunch line and ask for sandwiches without bread because they’re trying to lose weight (although I would have sold both my arms to be as skinny as them when I was their age) and I just want to shake them. I want to tell them about how I starved myself for most of my life, how I hid in my bedroom to eat and hated every moment that I ate with other people and never wanted to be the first in line for food, how I made myself sick and how I’m probably heavier because my body wants to hold on to every calorie I begrudgingly gave it. How those “Recommended daily calorie intake” things are low balled and growing kids should be getting more like 3000-3500 calories a day and the unknown damage I’ve done to myself by only getting half that for most of my life. I want to tear down the whole system that makes money off making us feel bad about ourselves and assure them that none of it matters, that you only have one body and one life and you can’t put off living until you reach some unattainable and unsustainable goal. I want to rip those little signs off everything that says how many calories are in things because it has taken me YEARS of purposefully ignoring them before I can eat things without thinking of how many hours I’d have to be on an elliptical to justify eating something. Because there are little girls looking at themselves in mirrors and hating themselves, because there are women that are painfully aware of how many calories are in those things and don’t need a little sign to remind them, because there are women that are still waiting to be thin enough to love themselves and do all the things they want to do but don’t think they can because they’re too fat. Because there are doctors that would rather we die while they treat our fat instead of our illness. Because fat is the worst thing you can be when there are so many worse things. Because you can’t hate yourself into someone you can love. Because the things we pick up from the world around us and the scars that are left from cruel classmates and behaviors that we develop are insidious and last a lifetime and I’m still self conscious about the way I look. No assurances that “a few hundred years ago, yours was the ideal body type” or “boys may not want to date you now, but someday men will want to marry you” or “Real girls have curves” (which excuse me, but all girls are real girls, curves or lack thereof notwithstanding), or encouraging words from lovers will ever change or erase that damage. I still have bad days. I read something in a story the other day about a chubby, older woman from the male character’s point of view and how he liked the way she looked and I realized that I had never considered that someone could be attracted to me. I always figured that people liked me despite my weight, or that they might like it but in a probably creepy, chubby chaser sort of way. It hadn’t occurred to me that my weight might not even be a factor, or that I might be beautiful (I’ve been told I was, but figured that people are just being nice or just saying that because they wanted something) I had honestly thought that everyone I have ever interacted with just put up with my weight or were willing to overlook it. I had to close my kindle app for a while, I couldn’t process anymore of the story because I had been struck momentarily dumb but the realization that people may well find me attractive. It’s incredibly hard to get past those hang ups but I’m getting better and I want everyone else to get better too.    

[thedeliverygod]

The Ship of Dreams

A Noragami Titanic AU Drabble Collection

2 & 3/?

I apparently forgot to put chapter 2 on here so you guys are getting a two for one deal lol. The links for AO3 and ff.net will lead to chapter 3 though.

AO3|ff.net

2

“Can’t believe he kicked me out of the room.” Yato muttered to himself as he stared up at the clear starry sky, chewing on his lip in annoyance, “After I was the one who got it for us in the first place. Ungrateful brat.” He shivered and pulled his jacket closer to his body, starting to think that maybe he should just find somewhere on the ship to lurk around until Yukine finally gave in and let him in again.

Just as he started to push his elbows into the bench to lift himself up, he heard the heavy clacking of heels on the wooden deck as well as loud sobs rushing past him. Keeping low, he peeked over the top of the bench to see the same girl he had been staring up at earlier that day, clinging on to the rail desperately and looking down into the ocean as her shoulders shook in time with her cries.

After a minute or two, the sounds grew quieter and she seemed to get a determined look on her face before stepping up onto the first bar of the railing.

At that, he snapped upward, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

The girl whirled her head around in shock, “W-what? Who are you?”

“That really isn’t important right now.” He got up from the bench and pushed his hands into his pockets, “’Again, what are you doing?”

Her mouth hung open in surprise, “I-I-I’m—” She turned back to look over the back of the ship, “Nothing. I’m just upset, alright?”

“So you’re not planning on flinging yourself off the side of the ship, then.”  Yato answered in somewhat of a mutter.

“What? No! I—” She had started to turn again to look at him before the heel of her shoe tangled in her dress and she started to dip forward, letting out a loud scream.

“Shit.” He dove forward and grabbed both sides of her waist, yanking her backwards with enough force to knock both of them over. They both hit the floor with a yelp, Yato panting and the girl sputtering out a few coughs. “Are you…okay?” He took a few breaths before he could finish his question.

She inhaled deeply, “Yes, I think so.” She sat up quickly and moved to the side of him, her face getting flushed, “E-excuse me, sorry.”

“Don’t need… to apologize.” He breathed out before coughing as well as he sat up, “Unless you were going to off yourself in front of me.”

“I told you—” She fired back at him angrily before he waved her hand to shush her.

“HOLD IT!” They were interrupted by the sound of pounding footsteps of a group of men rushing towards them.

Yato’s eyes widened, “Wha—” The girl’s eyes flashed to him, almost seeming apologetic, confusing him more until he found himself with his face pushed against the ground and his hands pulled behind his back, “The hell!?”

“Rabou-san—Kouto!” He heard her voice from above him as if she had stood up.

As whoever held him pushed him even harder against the deck, he heard another voice answer, “Hiyori!” The voice then turned into pure venom and he felt what felt like a shoe begin to press down into his back, “How dare you touch my fiancée—”

“Kouto, stop!” Her voice was shrill, “Rabou-san, you too. He was helping me!”

Yato was released only to find himself harshly shoved upward to meet two glares, Hiyori’s worried face just barely within his line of sight.

“Is that true?” The man with auburn hair lingered just a few inches from his face, his intense stare not faltering a bit.

Yato glared back out of sheer annoyance, “Yeah.”

Hiyori took a step in between them, explaining frantically, “I was trying to look at the… the, um…” she trailed off, waving her hands.

“The propeller…?” He questioned back, squinting his eyes.

“Y-yes.” She nodded sheepishly.

The white haired man gave a sharp laugh, commenting, “Goes to show you that women and machinery don’t mix.”

Yato didn’t miss Hiyori’s quick glare at his words, but he let out a sigh of relief as the grip holding his hands behind his back finally released him. He shook his wrists in front of him, trying to get rid of the numbing feeling that had started to creep in.

“So I guess we’ve got a hero on our hands.” Rabou looked at him smugly, suggesting, “Don’t you think he deserves some sort of award?”

He almost sounded sarcastic, but the other started to reach into his jacket, “I suppose you’re right—”

“Are you really going to put a price on saving my life, Kouto?” Hiyori asked in disbelief, her voice cracking.

His eyes widening as he realized his mistake, he withdrew his hand and hummed to himself, “Hiyori is displeased… Hm…” He looked up before turning back to Yato, “How about you join us for dinner tomorrow night so we can recount your tale of heroism?” He motioned towards him for his name.

Rabou looked on in disbelief and Hiyori seemed to be urging him to agree, so he did, “Uh… Yeah, sure. And it’s Yato.”

“We’ll see you then.” She took a step forward, lowering her voice, “And thank you.”

The three of them started to walk off before he cleared his throat, “Actually, would it be alright to bring along my kid—uh, kid brother?” He wasn’t really his brother, nor truly his child, but he wasn’t sure what else to call him, especially in front of this sort of audience.

Hiyori paused before smiling brightly, “Of course.”

3

Hiyori had spotted him on the lower deck that morning and attempted to subtly wave him up. After giving her a blank look in return, she waved more furiously, earning the looks from other passengers and causing both her and Yato to turn light shades of pink.

“What’s up?” He tried to ask as nonchalantly as possible as she let him through the gate, avoiding the harsh stares that were still very much present.

“Nothing, I just wanted the chance to speak to you in a… calmer setting.” She tugged the fabric at his arm before rushing forward, “Let’s move farther down the deck.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” He mumbled under his breath, glad to escape their audience.

Finding a good stopping point, she turned around to face him and looked him over for a minute before squinting, “If you have a little brother, why is it that I always find you without him? Are your parents on the ship?”

“Ah, no.” Yato swallowed and cleared his throat, “Yukine isn’t really my brother, but I didn’t really want to get into that during that moment, you know. There was enough going on. He’s a kid that I sort of take care of, but he does alright on his own as well. He’s short, but he’s a teenager.”

Her frown only seemed to deepen, “Well it doesn’t seem like you’re doing a very good job of taking care of him if you’re just letting him wander around a ship on his own.”

He laid his portfolio across his chest and crossed his arms over it, “Truth be told, he made friends with some kid named Suzuha shortly after boarding and he’d rather hang out with him than me. And for your information, Suzuha’s parents are aboard the ship, if it helps you feel any better. Not that that’s any of your business, really.”

Seeing Hiyori turn red again and part her lips with a lack of something to say, he smirked and added, “I’ve been on my own since I was fifteen. My old man was abusive so I got the hell out of there as soon as I could. My little sister came with me at first, but dad didn’t treat her nearly as bad as me, and she ended up going back to him despite everything. But anyway, I found Yukine who was pretty much in the same situation as me and I was already somewhat used to having a kid tag along by that point, so I just took him in myself.”

“O-oh…” She chewed on her lip, still at a loss for words and sympathy shining through her expression.

Yato leaned his back against the wall, “Don’t worry about it. We’ve struggled, but we’re making it okay. I mean, we’re on this ship.” He made a wide gesture with his arms before looking back at her, “Anyway, what’s your story? Why were you so worked up last night?”

Hiyori took a breath before laughing nervously, “I’m sure you’ll think I’m being over dramatic.”

He didn’t say anything, just waved his hand forward urging her to continue.

“It—it’s everything. I don’t even have room to breathe anymore. I’m constantly being asked a million questions or being watched even when I’m just trying to have some solitude. It’s a miracle I even managed to catch you like this. There’s just so many expectations, hundreds of invitations have been sent out, and I’ve been weighed down by literally everything ever since I got this.” She held out her hand to reveal an elaborate engagement ring, but she looked at it as if she wanted to do nothing more than rip it off of her finger and toss it into the sea.

Yato raised his eyebrows at the ring momentarily, thinking, ‘That thing’s probably worth more than anything I’ll ever make in my life.’ Looking up at her face, he asked, “Do you not love him, then?”

Hiyori dropped her hand and looked at him with wide eyes, “What?”

Rephrasing the question, he asked, “Do you love him?”

“T-that’s…” She coughed as if she had lost all the air in her body before she regained her composure, “That is a totally inappropriate question.”

“…It’s a really simple question, actually.” He put his hands on his hips and gave her a smug stare; sure that he already knew the answer.

“One that’s extremely rude and that I’m not obligated to answer.” She huffed in response, “Anyway, I invited you up here; this is my part of the ship. I think you should be heading back.”

Yato quirked an eyebrow, “Now look who’s being rude.”

Hiyori let out another huff before roughly grabbing his portfolio out of his arms, “What is this thing you’ve been carrying around all morning anyway?”

“It’s—” He reached out after it for a moment before letting his hand fall back to his side, “It’s my sketch book.”

The more she flipped through it, the more her mouth opened wide in awe. When she finally looked back up at him, she commented in a small voice, “These are really good.”

“Er, thanks.” He muttered sheepishly, looking down at his shoes.

“No, really. They’re very good.” She sounded awestruck.

Yato gave somewhat off a scoff, trying not to let her admiration go to his head, “Glad you think so, all the so called professional art critics don’t seem to agree.”

[the-expert-zone]

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Keto Cheat Sheet Magnets

The perfect gift for beginner’s of the ketogenic diet! These magnets take the guesswork out of one of the most common questions — “Is it Keto?”

Color coded and graphed by food type, use these visuals to help map your low carb meals.

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Beeswax Food Wrapper

How cute are these avocado patterned food wrappers? Better yet, they’re a good choice for the environment, too!

These reusable wraps are coated in beeswax and can be used multiple times to wrap and cover your foods.

You can get roughly 150 uses from each wrap, so these should last a while, too.

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Bacon Fat Strainer/Storage

This stainless steel oil strainer is a perfect gift for the Keto-er that is obsessed with bacon!

After preparing your bacon, simply pour the leftover fat through the mesh strainer and into the container. This will keep the delicious fat separated from any stray bits of bacon. The straining step is super important because the bits can go rancid and ruin all of your beloved bacon fat!

This is a high quality upgrade from the old Maxwell House coffee tin my mom used to keep in the kitchen, haha.

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Dash Egg Cooker

Eggs are a staple for many of us on the Keto diet. With this Dash Rapid Egg Cooker, you can easily prepare perfect poached, soft-boiled and hard-boiled eggs. You can also whip up scrambled eggs and omelets, as well!

When boiling eggs, the egg cooker does some sort of wizardry that makes the shell so easy to remove. I’ve never had eggs peel so effortlessly!

The egg cookers come in a variety of colors that will suit just about any kitchen!

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Insulated Shopping Bags

My mother-in-law bought us one of these insulated shopping bags last Christmas and I absolutely adore it!

First and foremost, they’re awesome for the environment. Instead of getting plastic bags, just pack up your items in these!

They also stand upright and stay put in the car while driving. Nothing is more cringe-worthy than when you’re rounding a corner and you hear the jar of Rao’s tomato sauce fly across your trunk.

These bags come in a two pack, making each one just $10! You can totally get two gifts out of one. If you want to take this a step further, you can fill the bag with some Keto staples like almond flour, erythritol, and maybe a few of Good Dee’s low carb dessert mixes!

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  Light & Phone Holder

If the Keto-er in your life is anything like me, they probably love taking photos of their food and sharing it across social media.

This contraption makes the process a lot easier and also provides a steady balance with minimal shaking. The lighting is also surprisingly good! This is perfect if you are just starting out as a blogger or social media influencer. It also makes a great stocking stuffer!

Life is too short for ugly food.

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Keto Krate

Keto Krate is available for $39.99 and shipping is free for both if you’re in the United States.

You can sign up for a monthly subscription or simply send a box as a one-time gift. It’s so simple and totally worth it!

I’ve been receiving a Keto Krate for years now, and it’s one of my absolute favorite things. Each month, I get a box of sugar free goodies shipped directly to my doorstep and it’s almost like having your birthday twelve times a year.

Keto Krate is also conscious of the ingredients in the products they send out. All contents are gluten free and you will never see ingredients like maltitol listed (it tends to give people explosive diarrhea).

Through Keto Krate, I’ve discovered some of my favorite products like Smart Cakes (Lemon is my personal favorite) and Keto Carne jerky.

You can save 25% on your Keto Krate order with Coupon Code: nobunplease

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Sweese Butter Dish

On the ketogenic diet, we tend to go through A LOT of butter. I like to keep a bar of Kerrygold on hand for when my dishes really need a boost of rich butter flavor (I can seriously eat it like cheese, too).

This butter dish is big enough to store an entire block of Kerrygold! If you are unfamiliar, Kerrygold is a butter produced from grassfed cows and the packages are about twice the width of a traditional stick of butter.

For those of us drinking bulletproof coffee (coffee + butter + coconut oil) or wanting spreadable butter, this is perfect. You can leave it out on the counter and use it whenever you need it. The cover also means that no bugs or pet hair will ever make it’s way into your butter!

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Cold Brew Pitcher

A cold brew pitcher is an excellent gift for the coffee lover in your life!

This pitcher makes it so easy to whip up a batch of cold brew at home. I use the 2 quart size, which means I only have to prepare one batch per week. The handle makes it super simple to pour straight from the fridge.

Ever since I’ve switched to cold brew, I find I can drink it black with nothing added. The result is a super smooth cold coffee at an affordable price! Score.

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Vava Electric Milk Frother

If a certain someone on your list is a coffee fan, you can’t go wrong with this milk frother as one of your Keto gifts! No need to go to a local shop when you can do it just as well in your own kitchen.

This electric milk frother produces A LOT of foam and you can use all sorts of bases like heavy whipping cream, coconut milk, and even almond milk. Pair it with a cute coffee mug and you’re set.

Now that’s the way to start the day!

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  Anova Sous Vide

Are you horrible at preparing meat? A sous vide might just be the perfect solution.

A sous vide is an electric device that gives you the ability to cook your food at a very precise temperature. Typically, you seal your food, submerge it in a container filled with water, and the device does all of the hard work.

This means that you can perfectly cook your steaks to ANY temperature and it will come out exactly how you like!

I’ve even seen some make a copycat version of the egg bites from Starbucks using a sous vide.

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  GoWISE Air Fryer

If you haven’t used an air fryer yet, you’re severely missing out! When I received one as a gift a couple years ago, I didn’t think much of it.

My first recipe was a small batch of chicken wings. This is all it took to convert me! Imagine the crispiest wings you could ever imagine, without the oily mess!

My air fryer has grown to be a staple in my kitchen and I legitimately use it every single day. Aside from wings, they’re great for reheating leftovers (the Blackened Tenders from Popeyes reheat beautifully), cooking burgers, making perfectly crispy bacon and tons more! According to the booklet that came with mine, you can even make a cake!

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Soda Stream

I use my Soda Stream every single day!

While marketed as an at-home soda machine, I actually use this almost exclusively for sparkling water.

This device makes it easy to control the amount of bubbles and you can even add your choice of your flavorings.

Soda Stream offer some sugar-free flavor concentrates (the Dr. Pepper alternative is quite yummy) and they’re so nice to have on hand.

Aside from the cost savings, it also means that I don’t have to carry or recycle a ton of plastic/glass from the grocery store.

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What are your favorite Keto gift ideas? Share them below!

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