#but the point is he dropped a lot of money on new threads

[clove-pinks]

Lieutenant Henry T.D. Le Vesconte, from the so-called lost set of Franklin Expedition daguerreotype photographs, now at auction at Sotheby's.

I really, really thought that I had made a complete transcription of a letter that Henry wrote to his father dated October 17th 1844—but I did not. He penned this letter once he was back in Portsmouth from HMS Clio, and it is seared into my brain where he mentions sending £30 to the tailor—approximately $4462.74 in current USD according to a historical currency converter.

Almost certainly, that smart-looking uniform in his 1845 photograph aboard HMS Erebus was purchased at this time. It has the slim cut of early 1840s men's fashion, and like all Royal Navy uniforms of the time it was bespoke and the fit reflects Le Vesconte's taste.

[pinkie-quinns]

(posting some old twitter threads here for posterity's sake)

rocker eddie actor steve fame au p1 | p2 p3 p4 p5 interlude p6

Steve follows Eddie out to LA. Indiana’s home, sure, but Eddie’s got dreams bigger than the both of them. And Steve loves him, wants to be there with him the whole way through.

He does odd jobs to pass the time, nannies a lot, works on sets. Extra work pays the best, quick easy cash, so he dances to click tracks in cut scenes of teen shows and pays for their groceries. 

A producer on one of the bigger jobs picks him out on set, tells him he has a good screen presence. He gives him a contact for a proper agent. Steve books the third thing he tries out for.

It's a small role on a pilot that hasn't been picked up yet. He's excited but doesn't think much of it. Mostly he’s just happy for the paycheck. Corroded Coffin's really struggling to break through. They just got dropped from their tiny indie label and Eddie's really bummed.

And Steve uses some of the money from his big, SAG-approved paycheck to try to cheer Eddie up. Make him feel better about the whole thing. But it does the opposite. Eddie keeps acting resentful. 

It only gets worse when Steve's show does get picked up.

Turns out he tested really well with audiences. So the writers rewrote him into the main cast, extended his two episode arc into the whole season. And Steve's really grateful for it, figures they both should be. Eddie's not really working and they need the money.

Corroded coffin is still labelless and basically broken up by the time the show comes out. 

It's a smash hit. Steve's character is a fan favourite. Overnight, he finds himself within the throes of fame. He gets a manager and a PR team and a personal assistant.

He's away from home a lot, doing the media circuit to promote the show. People start prodding into his personal life. His manager, his team, and the network all advise him to appear single and available. 

Eddie makes it easy for him. He leaves without saying a word.

Years down the road, Steve is settled into his fame. He's done a couple movies (some hits, most misses). His show is heading into its final season. He's dated a lot, mostly other celebrities.

Then he walks into a CVS on Venice & sees a name he's been trying to forget for 7 years.

Right on the cover of NME. Eddie had gone to London, apparently. Finally broke through there. Was releasing his debut album later this month. 

At least that's what Steve could tell from looking at it. He doesn’t buy the magazine. He hops into his car and drives til he’s out of gas.

He used to do that back in Indiana. When everything got too loud. Used to do that with Eddie, once they finally got their shit together. Just drive until the tank is near empty & then pull up to some blinking gas station. Head home.

Steve strands himself in Santa Barbara instead.

He sleepwalks through the next few months. The town is buzzing around the impending arrival of Eddie Munson. His album, Penitence, debuted to solid numbers & has only been gaining traction since. He's promoted it in London, New York, done Glastonbury & the late festival circuit.

It's gotten to the point where it's big enough that its hit single is even terrorizing Steve's local grocery store. He knows the first three notes really well. Knows cause that's his cue to leave. 

He hasn't listened to the album. He hasn't read any of the interviews.

In his head it's a good kind of revenge. Eddie left without a trace. Steve should respect his wishes, right? That's what Eddie wanted so badly that he couldn't even call. 

He should respect that too, be staying dead instead of haunting every busboard like a poltergeist.

But he's Eddie so of course he doesn't. So instead Steve spends all his free time thinking about when he'll inevitably run into him. Will it be the VMA afterparty? Will it be the CBS lot? Will it be the whole foods he keeps running into Michelle Pfeiffer at? (Probably not that)

In the end, it's a knock at his door.

Eddie came straight from the airport. Big duffel at his feet. He looks a decade older but his eyes are the same. He doesn't say I'm sorry, or I fucked up. Doesn't get down on his knees & beg. He just asks:

"Did you listen to the album?"

There's a part of Steve that wants to throw a fit. Be big and loud and start lobbing things at Eddie. He'd seen a movie star do that on set once. Over a PA bringing him the wrong brand of flavored water. But he's not Wahlberg, so he invites Eddie inside. 

And they sit and listen to Penitence.

It's an apology. A long one. Fifteen tracks though Eddie always used to be a real asshole about albums that were longer than twelve. 

And it covers everything. All the regret and resentment and the ego that clouded him when fame happened for Steve and not for him. When Steve didn't even want it. It's sorry over and over and over again. It's I fucked up and please take me back. It's ego death. It's disgust and guilt and self-flagellation. 

And when it's over, it dawns on Steve, who feels just as heartbroken as ever, that it's not enough.

[richeeduvie]

So, there's this scene in Pretty Woman where Vivian goes to a clothing store alone and the saleswomen are rude to her, implying she doesn't have money to buy anything there. Then later she comes back with her boyfriend (?) and he buys everything in the store for her. I would love to see something like that with Princesa and Lalo!

Big Mistake.

Lalo Salamanca x Reader - Madman!AU

I just watched Pretty Woman a month ago! I wanna watch it again to see how I feel about it but I thought it was pretty good!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.

Ignacio's at another store, something for expensive knives and cigars across the street. He doesn't care for when you insist that he doesn't have to be bored following you around dress shops. But you can't handle feeling like a burden, especially when you want to enjoy yourself. You wave at him through the glass. Lalo's coming soon to meet you here, he said.

"Just let us know if you need help with anything."

It's a voice at your ear that startles you, but you smile at the sight of a woman. She's dressed well, she's smiley.

"Okay, thank you."

Throughout your time in customer service, the anxiety of talking to strangers still get at you.

It's a fancily-dressed store, as most of the places you go are. Now, with Lalo, you don't think you're allowed to frequent places that are...less-then. In his words - but the less-then places you would have loved to go to in your earlier life, if you were able to afford it.

You're not allowed to be alone in public, not like this. So, you don't think you'll break another rule by going to a thrift store.

You quietly shift through the racks of clothing, thick and well-threaded coats. You have no need to wears coats in Mexico, and you didn't really in New Mexico. But your eyes can't come off one.

A cashmere hooded coat, lined in a dark red. It's so beautiful - soft.

You wish your tastes didn't grow with the sudden amount you can afford with Lalo because as much as he tells you his money is yours...you look at the price tag - and it's a lot.

But you can afford it, and you can, with guilt, afford that parfum that smells like vanilla and lavender. Expensive vanilla and lavender.

You don't think places like these have shopping carts.

"Do you need help with something?"

"No, I'm alright."

You run your fingers over the coat. You know you're imagining the way the saleswoman stares at you because you think too much and it gets to the point where you can believe everything is wrong and everything is out to get you. She's just trying to be helpful.

"That one is a bit costly. You have an eye."

You smile shyly. "I know, this one is beautiful."

The saleswoman returns your smile with her own.

"Using this store to dream?"

You blink, still trying to keep your smile warm. You couldn't know what she means.

"I'm sorry? I-I don't...yeah, maybe."

But then, you do. You've worked a job like this before and somehow, you must be an annoying customer - she's slipping up in her customer service, you must look as if you're going to put on the coat and make a run for it. For that, you're sorry. Your face burns and nerves come easy.

...But why would she think you might be stealing it? Or that it's too much for you?

Your smile drops.

"Just...be careful with the fur. Premium quality and threading."

"I can pay for it right now, if you'd like."

The woman's smile grows thin.

"Sure you can."

It's instant, the way your fingers press together. You let your nail dig into your thumb. You sniffle and lick the corner of your lips.

"...I can. If you want too, I love it-"

You look down in your inability to make eye contact with her, it's where you realize what you're wearing. Your old clothes.

From before. You pack a few items for your new life with Lalo in Mexico. You never noticed the difference in quality ever - not until you met him, but now...it's too obvious in a place like this. It's where you came from up against a beautiful coat you never thought you'd be able to afford in your life.

And you don't know why, or maybe you're just feeling all the reasons instead, but it gets at your heart the way tears get at your waterline.

"I'm sorry - I have to go."

You put the coat back on the rack in a nerved hurry. You rush out, trying not to gasp in air and wipe away the salt of your face, because you remember Ignacio.

But then, it's only more embarrassment as you cry in front of him. He quickens his walk in a hard-eyed stare of confusion as he comes up to you. You feel your eyes go small.

"What happened?"

"I don't - I thought...I think I'm being crazy?"

"Well...what happened? Why are you crying - hey."

Ignacio's spine bends slightly as he grasps on your biceps. Somehow, you think his eyes are softer.

"I don't-"

"How about you...breathe? Breathe. And then you can tell me."

His voice, warm and knowing, something so like him and entirely different, it's something that helps you a little. You don't think he should be helping you - that friends shouldn't have to do this, you don't really know if that's true.

But you breathe easier at his order. Only until you get a glimpse at the most handsome man you've ever seen coming behind him.

Lalo's hair is gelled, grey streak shining in the sun. He's smiling until he's not. It's a slow, black-eyed realization at what he's seeing.

You only grow more burned as you blink fast. His quickening in pace isn't noticeable like Ignacio's. Lalo's simply there right before you and you don't know how.

He grabs Ignacio's shoulder.

"What's going on?"

"I don't know-"

"Princesa."

You guess he's able to see Ignacio's telling the truth, because he takes his hands and eyes to you, focus and care on his friend gone with the question.

Lalo's hands take your face and jaw. His eyes become darker in the lean forward of his head.

"How did the world make you cry already, huh?" His hold tightens.

You don't know why you do this.

"And you like going out? Look what happens. What's going on?"

"I-I...I never realized how I looked before."

You think it's the last actual cry in you. Lalo wipes your tears with his thumb. He licks. You and Ignacio choose to ignore it, only for you because right now, his hands are the only thing keeping you from giving out another cry.

"What are you talking about, huh? How you looked before?" Lalo scoffs and wipes his thumb on his lip. "You got this guy cause of how you looked before? What's making you think like this?"

"I mean my clothes. My...I didn't think they were so bad from before, when they were just..."

Yours.

"Mine."

Lalo blinks. He lets go of your biceps fully as he takes a look at what you're. "Princesa...your clothes from before, they're - yeah...nice. You made do!"

Your heart twists. More tears leak.

"I tried-"

Lalo coos and shushes before pulling you into his chest. His black eyes are confusion. Regret, maybe? Not possible, maybe.

"What's wrong with your clothes from before? You came from hard work and now, I take care of you! That's what I do. I didn't mean nothing from what I said." Lalo peppers your head with kisses. "I didn't mean nothing, sweet girl. Just a tease."

You sniffle, rubbing your cheek on his chest before your eyes shift away from Ignacio's eyes shifting away.

The rubs on your back stomach.

"Why? Did someone else say something?"

The simple question strikes a chill in you. It's the way Lalo asks it. Sternly, but not unkindly. There's not throat in it, just smooth. Low.

It's fear that comes immediately. You don't want conflict.

"A shop person - a lady, I wanted a coat and I guess she saw the way I looked to and she didn-she didn't think I could afford it. I don't know. It's stupid. I don't mean to cry over it-"

Lalo's not blinking. Not reacting. It's him thinking, or absorbing.

"What did she say?"

"She just didn't believe me, that's all."

"What store?"

"Lalo-"

Lalo takes your face in his hands again.

"You're not gonna cry in front of me and get away with it." He kisses your temple. "You should know that by now."

There is not getting away.

"Just the second store after the one we're in front of now."

He sighs.

He pulls out his wallet.

"Let's go buy you that coat, Princesa."

Lalo's never been one for too much public displays of affection, but you're hoping his need to make you feel better is the reason why that's not true today. He holds your hand, Ignacio shakes his head behind. You're sorry.

Ding!

"Hola...oh. Hell-"

"Princesa," Lalo doesn't make a bit of eye contact with the shopkeeper. You burn.

You wish it wasn't more than embarrassment in your heart - that you're not satisfied by this moment. So, you try to make it so.

"Lalo-"

"Where's the coat you wanted?"

"You don't have to-"

"You don't like it anymore?" He skims the room and somehow, his eyes find the red of the coat. You realize it's the only one not placed nicely on the rack. "It's gotta be this one. This is exactly what you go for."

Lalo licks his fingers and presses it to the coat as if he's turning the page of a book.

"Sir-"

Lalo puts his hand up.

"Go find something else you like. Or, ay - this dress, Princesa. I know this dress caught your eye. Hell, Nachito! Pick something else for yourself - a hat to cover the shine of your head."

Lalo passes you to the next rack after he pulls the coat and dress off, hangers clash to the floor.

You to the shopkeeper. The money part...the showing off of it all, that's as far as your indulging can go. The littering, not so much.

"I'm so sorry-"

"Ah! Don't apologize. Not here. Now," Lalo pulls you by the small of your back. "Help me pick out some things for you."

The lady's just...wide-eyed. Red. You sigh. You believe it in your heart that you don't want to smile.

You scratch the corner of your lips. There's no possible way to get out of this, so...you pick dress after dress. Ignacio's off in the corner, arms crossed.

At least it's easy to believe you'll always be taken care of.

"Sir...do you need help with anything. Ma'am, I can take-"

"Mm. Did the senorita say she wanted your help?"

"I-"

"I didn't hear anything from her. So...go. We'll meet you at the counter."

You close your eyes when Lalo shoos her like a fly. It's only ten minutes of him shifting you through the store with piles of clothes and nose kisses until you get to the counter.

"Come here."

It's an order for every kiss. Lalo throws everything on the counter, leans to scratch his lip before he smiles at you. It takes too long to scan every one and although you cannot face her eyes, you cannot help to stare at her complete nervousness - the red on her face.

You didn't think you could be even more horrible than you are.

"2,500 even."

"Alright, thank you, Ms."

And there. That's the worst part. The delicious part. No, the worst. It has to be the worst. It's what makes you look to Ignacio.

It's Lalo taking long, obvious moments of counting every bill. Too slowly. The shopkeeper stares.

"Obviously a Ms. and not Mrs...she don't got a guy to be familiar with this type of money, even though-" Lalo sniffs as he gives her the last bill. "You go ahead and make customers feel unwelcome as if you got the money to afford what they can't. But today,"

Lalo rubs your shoulders.

"Today's a lesson for everybody. Also, pack good. Are the bags free?"

The lady's jaw is nearly locked. You hear her fingers crack. Lalo comes close to your ear.

"The coat is gonna look so pretty on you, sweet girl." He tickles the side of your neck. "You gonna try it on for me at home, hm?"

It's the least you can do.

[myveryownfanfiction]

18+ MINORS AND THOSE WITHOUT AGE IN BIO DNI

tags: @illiana-mystery, @iobsessoverfictionalmen, @cassieuncaged, @salemwitch96

warnings: swearing

"Where did you get all these boxes?" Norman asked as he stared at the boxes I had piled up in the corner of the main entrance. "I don't remember having this many decorations."

"You inherited them when you married me you dork." I groaned as I lugged another box over to the corner. Norman rushed over to take it from me, grunting as the weight of the box hit him. "Most of these are mine."

"No offense but how could you afford all this?" He asked, sighing as the box was put on the stack.

"Shut the fuck up asshole." I laughed. Norman smiled at me. "Its called money management and collecting over the course of years."

"Well that explains none of the designs matching." Norman said, opening a box and digging through it. "Some of this is neon. Some is gothic. And some is just covered in glitter."

"Yeah. We honestly can probably get rid of a lot of the glitter bombed decorations. There's a few I want to keep though. So don't make any decisions without me." I pointed at Norman and he held up his hands.

"Wouldn't dream of it." He chuckled. Walking over to me, Norman looked into the storage space. "Is that all of it?" I nodded as I grabbed a bag.

"Lucky for you it is." I said. "This is just various window clings. We don't have to use them but it might be fun to split them up and not tell the other where we put any of them."

"Knowing you, I'll wake up to go to the bathroom one night and find one stuck to the mirror in my office." Norman laughed, wrapping his arms around me as I walked past. I laughed as he pulled me to him.

"I make no promises!" I looked at Norman over my shoulder and smiled as his eyes softened. "There's a lot there to get through." I said. He nodded. "And we're going to be spring cleaning as we go." Norman nodded again. "Are you sure you want to do this with me? Last chance to back out." Norman kissed me softly and squeezed my waist.

"I wouldn't dream of it." He breathed out. "I signed up for this. I'm going to see it through dammit." I laughed as I cupped the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair. Norman closed his eyes and hummed as he leaned further into me.

"My adorable little cat." Norman's eyes flew open and he growled at me before kissing me forcefully. "Down kitty." I laughed as he started to dip me. Norman chuckled darkly.

"You know, I have half a mind to drop you right now." He teased. I rolled my eyes as he pulled me back up.

"No you wouldn't." I said, stepping away from him to grab the decorations. "You love me too much to do that. Besides, I'd get hurt and you would treat yourself like shit if that happened so I know you're only making false threats." Norman grumbled as he came over to pull a box down. We both sat on the ground as the box was opened and emptied.

"I hate it when you're right." He mumbled. I smiled sweetly at him as we started sorting through the decorations. "What about this one?" Norman held up a pumpkin that was more glitter than anything.

"You can toss that one." I said. "I feel like if you move it you and where ever you put it will just be a pile of glitter." Norman nodded and tossed it in the empty box.

"I'll just dump this after each box. Bernard will probably be confused as hell but probably the easiest way to do this." He shrugged. I nodded as I tossed a beat up plastic door cover into the box. "I liked that one though. Your door was always so cute with it."

"First off Norman. It's torn to hell. It's time to let it go." I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. "Second off. Cute?! Blood and guts and keep out in big bloody letters is not cute!" I shoved him and Norman fell to the floor with a laugh.

"I thought it was." Norman said, lifting his head to look at me. "I'll buy you a new one. I know you liked it a lot." I smiled softly at him as I tossed another glitter pumpkin bomb in the discard box.

"You don't have to do that. We can pick one out together." I said. Norman smiled at me and I shook my head. "And no matter what I say will make you change your mind. Fine."

"Glad to see you're finally learning." Norman joked. I rolled my eyes at him.

"Shut up Osborn." I grumbled. "We've got at least ten more boxes to go through before we can start decorating so get to work." Norman rolled his eyes and continued going through the box.

[sashaisready]

Chapter Three - Call me Bucky

Bucky Barnes Mob AU x Femme Reader

You're hard at work in Pepper's Bakery when notorious mob boss James 'Bucky' Barnes darkens your doorway one typical afternoon, and life is never the same again.

18+ - please see Masterlist for full list of warnings

Series Masterlist

Chapter 4

A few days had passed and everything seemed to be bumbling along as normal. No more surprise visits from mobsters, no more outlandish tips. The bakery had its steady buzz of happy customers and business was good.

You'd been trying out a new carrot cake recipe during a late afternoon lull the following Monday. Wanda was out sick so it was just you, but that was okay because Mondays were always quiet and you could handle things alone. You hadn't had a customer in over an hour so were in the back mixing when you heard the bell going.

"Be right there!" You called to the front of the shop.

You wiped your hands on your apron, cursing at what a mess you'd made. Your forehead was sweaty and you had butter and flour over your clothes in spite of the apron. Oh well. Hopefully you wouldn't scare the customer off...

You wandered back to the front of the store to find a tall gentleman in a fancy suit with his back to you, engrossed in his phone. Probably a business type popping in for a late afternoon sugar hit. You got a lot of those.

"Hi sir, how can I help today?" You ask as you take your place at the counter.

The man spins to face you and you can't help but gasp in surprise when you see who it is. James Barnes. He's back. He looks as slick as he did last time, immaculate in his tailored suit. His hair is carefully coiffed with a hint of gel, not a single strand out of place. Still gorgeous, too.

He smirks at your reaction.

"Surprised to see me, Doll?" He asks playfully.

"Sorry Mr Barnes, I didn't realise it was you" you explain. You try to ignore how his nickname for you sends shivers down your back.

"Well, I just enjoyed your merchandise so much last week I had to drop by again".

You smile at him warmly, dropping his gaze because it's so intense that it almost feels wrong to look at him directly.

"Great to hear that. So what would you like today?" Your professional veneer is hanging on by a thread.

He ignores your question and his eyes drop to your messy apron.

"What are you making?" He asks.

You fumble with the apron, embarrassed by your dishevelled appearance in contrast to his well-groomed figure. You must look like such a messy slob to him.

"Oh...just some carrot cake. I'm tweaking the recipe. Had a bit of a quiet period so thought I'd get a jump start" you chuckle nervously.

Why are you nervous?

You know why you're nervous.

He nods and smiles, scrutinising your appearance briefly before he looks back to the counter.

He begins to pick out cakes and pastries again, meticulously studying each section of the display case as he points out what he wants with a gloved finger. He asks for specific choices too. 'That doughnut third from the back' or 'that cookie second from the front'. You begin to understand that James Barnes is a man who likes things just so. And you would bet good money that he's like that in his day job, too.

You pack up his selections and ring him up, it's harder to keep up this time without Wanda. You take his credit card once again and he tries to pass you another obscenely high bill from his wallet.

"Oh I can't accept that" you explain, waving your hand at it.

He laughs. "Why not?"

"You already over tipped me last week. Honestly, Mr Barnes, you don't need to do that. Thank you, but really. You already spend so much here". You smile awkwardly at him, knowing full well he's going to fight you on this.

James chuckles. "I hope you're not telling me what I can or can't do with my own money, Doll..."

"Oh, no, of course not. It's just..." but you have no words for him. No excuses. Not without telling him that you feel uncomfortable taking cash from a mob boss, anyway.

He nods. "That's what I thought" he tells your firmly. In a single fluid motion he rolls the note up and leans over the counter, placing it inside your apron pocket.

You laugh. "Ass" you mutter quietly as you smile to yourself.

The word slips out before you can stop it. You clasp your hand over your mouth in surprise as if you can put it back in, but that horse has already bolted.

James' brows furrow. "What did you say?" He asks you accusingly. His eyes narrow and you see a brief glimpse of the scary man you'd seen on the news.

"Nothing. Nothing. I'm sorry...nothing" you reply casually, busying yourself with stacking up his boxes. You feel sick suddenly.

How could you forget yourself so carelessly?

He leans forward, the beginnings of a smirk on his lips. "Did you just call me an ass?" he asks as his eyes burn into you.

You try to think of a lie but his smirk is contagious and suddenly you're giggling.

"Oh, this is funny is it?" He asks. But his voice is soft, his face amused. It's clear this has tickled him.

"God, I genuinely am sorry" you tell him as you compose yourself. "That was so unprofessional. Really - I'm sorry".

"Why did you call me that?" He asks, watching you.

"Just...." You motion with your hand and copy the gesture he did of putting the money in your pocket. "I don't know. It just came out. The money thing was so smooth" you try to explain.

James stares at you like you're insane for a moment before chuckling earnestly. It stops you in your tracks briefly because it sounds like an authentic laugh, not the hollow snigger he seems to try to and undermine you with.

"Okay. You get that one for free, but only because nobody else is here" he advises as he shoots you a wink.

You laugh but part of you is shaken by his warning. You know full well it might have been a different story if you'd done that in front of his men.

As he begins to pick up the boxes you realise he's outnumbered - metal arm or not.

"Do you want help carrying those?" You ask.

James shakes his head and curls his lip like you've offended him. But then he tries to balance them all in his arms with one under his chin and it's clear it's not a one man job. Even a notorious man.

"Let me just take some. Are you parked up out front? C'mon, let me earn my tip. It'll make me feel better about taking all your money" you smile at him.

James smirks back at you. "Fine. But only for your sake, not mine".

You nod, grabbing a few boxes and opening the door. You follow him to his car parked on the street, a slick black SUV with windows so heavily tinted you don't think they can be legal. The trunk flies open despite James' full hands and for a second you think it's got motion detectors or something equally clever before you notice the man in the front seat.

"Hi again" the bearded blond turns and waves to you.

You smile back at him. Thor? No. Steve. Steve was his name.

"Hi" you reply shyly.

James begins packing the boxes up in the trunk and you follow with yours, ensuring they're secure and that the contents aren't likely to fly out if Steve makes a particularly sharp turn.

"There you go" you tell James sweetly as he slams the trunk down.

"Five star service" James says with a wink. "Thank-you, Doll".

"You're welcome Mr. Barnes" you nod as you wave and walk back to the bakery.

"Doll..." he calls to you.

You turn to face him once more.

"Call me Bucky" he grins.

"Bucky" you repeat back to him, feeling the name on your tongue, rolling it around in your mouth, trying it on for size.

[kyliafanfiction]

There's at least one fic out there where Amy's biomom is Annette Hebert's sister (Nothing Succeeds like Success. Unfinished, and the author is passed, so it never will be). It's not explicitly stated, but it is very strongly implied and IIRC the author even says that's the case in a comment in the thread, though I could be remembering wrong.

Either way, I have now like five different fic ideas using that premise, but one that just came to mind is this one:

On the night the Brockton Bay Brigade attacks Marquis's home, little Amelia is spending the night at her Aunt Annette's house (also Uncle Danny's house, of course), having a sleepover with her younger cousin Taylor or something. So Marquis isn't left defending that closet, doesn't take a hit from Brandish, and manages to drive the Brigade into retreating, like he obviously had before.

But the Brigade knows his address, his face, his name - and from there, it wouldn't be too hard to connect that to the daughter he has, etc. They could give that info to the PRT and Protectorate (who don't hold to the so-called 'unwritten rules' anywhere near as much as other capes, and in 2000ish they might have been in a more infant form anyway) So Marquis has to leave. But instead of doing what a lot of fics do, where he leaves with Amelia and dons a new identity, etc (Not that this is unbelievable), Marquis instead leaves Amelia with the Heberts, because he can't take her with him while he goes on the run for... some reason (if I wrote this fic I'd have to come up with a reason, but a reason could easily exist).

He trusts Annette with Amelia, obviously, and he's not going to drop out of contact entirely. (Letters, phone calls, the occasional visit perhaps?) Probably gives Annette access to one of his accounts to cover the cost of raising Amelia or something? I feel like Danny might be too proud to accept the money without a fight, but Annette might not (what she's actually like is of course an open question because we really don't know much about her), and so they don't go crazy with the money or anything, but still.

But anyway, the Brigade at least can take credit for driving Marquis out of the city, but they didn't actually catch him, and they did attack him in his home. In canon they got away with that because it worked. In this fic... it didn't work. So maybe they don't become open capes (Maybe they get a nice big win later on and do it then, but let's assume the Brigade stays masked, for the sake of argument).

Amelia probably has to change her surname, if Lavere was Marquis's last name (I don't know if that's actually confirmed, but every fic I've read has it be his last name if it comes up) and not Amy's biomom's last name or something. (I can't imagine Marquis wouldn't give Amelia his last name once he found out about her, etc) so let's say she becomes Amelia Hebert, or something. Or goes back to using Annette's maiden name (that Annette's sister would have had). Either way, she's raised by her Aunt Annette and Uncle Danny primarily now, with contact with her dad, etc.

I don't know exactly where this story would go from here - having an older cousin/adoptive sister would change things for Taylor if the Trio still happens - and who knows if Annette even still dies or dies in the same way or at the same time in this AU. Annette might still have a car accident and Amelia triggers to save her, as happened in the snippet series Adoption where Amelia gets adopted by the Heberts from an orphanage. (Giving Amy some sort of Altpower would also be interesting - some kind of self-biokinetic changer power is something I've seen in a few fics that might be interesting to explore)

BUT, I do have this amusing mental image of a scene where Victoria Dallon - secretly the cape Glory Girl - brings her friend (or even girlfriend) Amelia Hebert to her house at some point, and Carol sees Amelia and she sees how similar to Marquis she looks or something to that effect.

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

Tidbit Tuesdays: And We're Back

*slides in with a coffee and sunglasses to hide the dark circles under my eyes*

It hasn't been two weeks since I posted, I don't know what you're talking about.

Anyway, an emergency root canal, a crown, and quite a lot of money later, I'm back on my LaDs grind. Truth be told on top of everything else, I'm going through writer's block, so WIPs is just about all I've got.

Can't commit to anything, like my teeth can't commit to my mouth.

If you've survived this rambling, bless. This week's WIPs are just a random assortment of things. And if you're new here, this is where I post things I'm proud of, just generally like, or am currently working on.

If you enjoy this (or just generally appreciate people) please leave a like or a reblog! It lets me know people like what I'm doing, and encourages me to keep writing!

---

Notes: first up is Zayne and Kiri, my MC. I recently finished catching up on the new (!!!) main storyline additions, so this is your spoiler warning before I continue.

I loved where the story went, and so decided to do a "what if" in which Kiri temporarily has her memory restructured by the Protofield and the Myst, dropped into a dreamscape that reflects Dreamwalker's world.

It's fun. It's SUPER fun. I should get back to it soon.

❄️❄️❄️

Kiri’s day ended like this:

Akso hospital had strict regimented shifts to combat the constant wave of abominations. At the end of hers, she got scanned, tested, and questioned before she was allowed to leave. A pair of military men in uniforms escorted her down out of the hospital campus, waiting with her until someone could come pick her up.

They never needed to wait long.

Zayne was almost always perfectly on time.

The black silhouette appeared silently through the thick mist, her escorts tensing before realizing who it was. She patted one on the shoulder, saying her goodbyes before stepping forward.

Her hand found Zayne's before she'd even said a word.

“How was work?” He murmured. In his other hand were groceries, the plastic sack sagging with the weight.

Kiri sighed, pulling her hair loose from its bun. “Long,” she replied. “Three more cases today. The ACU ward is overflowing already, and Chansia hospital can't take anymore. They're bursting at the seams.” She leaned into him, her pink scrubs brushing against the wool of his coat.

He frowned at her. “You took your jacket this morning. Where is it?”

“Hm?” Kiri blinked in surprise. “Oh. Someone needed it more than I did.” She smiled at his exasperated sigh, tugging on his sleeve. “Come on. I have you to keep me warm, don't I?”

Zayne shook his head, a slight smile forcing its way through his irritation. “Still. The nurse can't help people if she gets sick, can she? Your health has to come first.”

She hummed, neither agreeing nor denying it. He huffed in response. “Let's go home, my moon.”

Kiri had worked at Akso hospital as long as she could remember. She'd graduated top of her class, with perfect marks, and settled easily into her new life. Work in the Abominations Containment Unit was intense, and it seemed her coworkers were on a revolving door roster. Few people stayed as long as she did, with cases increasing every day.

It was at some point during that that she met Zayne.

A former patient of hers had cornered her in an alley, begging for help before turning into an awful, monstrous thing.

A sudden explosion of black ice had been her saving grace.

The man in black had vanished as quickly as he'd appeared, and, well…

As if following a thread of fate itself, she chased after him.

It was unconscionable for a nurse and someone like him to fall in together. Kiri was well aware she was breaking the code of ethics, not to mention the oaths she'd taken.

Yet here they were.

It felt like it had been forever since they'd gotten together.

It felt like it had been no time at all.

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Notes: This one's been in the mental WIP for a while. I usually let ideas ferment in my head for a while before I bake them into fics, like a good sourdough.

This one focuses on Kit and Sylus, Kit being his second in command and NOT the MC. If you've been here a while, you know her. Anyway, I wanted to do a "what if Kit got hurt" thing, and as usual, they can't help bantering even when she's been stabbed. Go figure.

Fair warning, this one does feature some gruesome imagery. Not a lot though.

🐦‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐈‍⬛

The remains of the building shuddered, dust and sheetrock crumbling down. Sylus ran his flashlight over the rubble, keeping an ear out for any voices.

“Keep a low profile,” he murmured to the twins. “It's not just Kit that might be down here.”

The twins nodded firmly.

The building was a winding, gray mess, shadowed corners scurrying away at each sweep of the flashlights. Every once in a while, they would have to make a wide berth around slowly seeping pools of red, checking the remains for identification.

So far, there were only strangers.

“Fan out,” Sylus murmured. “We'll get more coverage that way.”

The twins and the other men he brought along nodded, splitting up into groups of two. All of them had radios, but it was a shot in the dark whether they would keep working in the lingering metaflux.

It was eerily quiet down here.

The rubble blocked all outside noises, leaving nothing but the occasional whisper of dust or the clatter of stone.

At last, he came to a room that was nearly intact.

It appeared to be a lab, the viewing windows completely shattered. A single threadbare bulb struggled to stay lit, swinging to and fro as it flickered dangerously.

Sylus carefully stepped inside, his feet crunching softly on the broken glass.

A body lay inside, the head twisted unnaturally. A badge on the lab coat proclaimed this to be someone who worked in the building.

The position of their hand was odd, and he leaned closer to examine it. There were faint marks to indicate they'd tightly gripped something before they died.

A second later, his instincts screamed for him to move, and he rolled out of the way, just as someone dropped down from a ceiling panel.

He swiftly got to his feet, ducking left as a shot fired, cutting through his jacket. With a lunge forward, he slammed his hand down, disarming his opponent.

A blade kissed his throat from their other hand, and he looked down into the cold, wild eyes of Kit.

“It's me, sweetie,” he said breathlessly.

Kit blinked. Her hair was messy and dusty, falling out of its usual braid. She held herself strangely, almost curling forward as she gripped the blade.

“Prove it,” she snapped.

Red mist yanked the blade from her grasp, pulling her into his arms. Sylus let just enough power through to make his eye glow without invading her thoughts. “How's that?”

She hissed in pain, grabbing his jacket to steady herself. “That works,” she grit out. “Someone had a doppelganger evol here. They looked like Evan, our diagnostics head.”

Sylus swore, thinking of the nervous man he'd spoken to before. “He might have made it out. I just spoke to Evan before we entered. Are you alright?”

Kit shook her head. “Took a piece of rebar to the side. I didn't have the luxury of keeping it stuck in there, there were people trying to kill me. How did you of all people not notice Evan?”

He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Occasionally things do escape me, kitten. It's harder to tell when the man in question is always sweating like he's in a sauna.” He glanced at her sidelong. “Speaking of, you bring up a good point. What's to say you aren't a doppelganger? A good one, but one nonetheless.”

She reared back, offended. “Excuse you! Are you implying my fighting is on the level of any average person?”

Sylus smirked. “Your ability with firearms does leave something to be desired.”

“You motherfu- eep!” Kit squeaked as Sylus picked her up, his arm settling neatly under her bottom. She clung to his shoulders as a scarlet flush swept across her skin.

He chuckled. “There's that beautiful full-body blush. No imposter after all.”

“If I survive this,” Kit snapped, “I'm going to do my best to choke you out.”

“I look forward to it.” He stepped out of the room, grabbing his radio. “Twins, can you read me?”

The radio crackled for a moment before a reply came through. “Loud and clear, boss. Has mama bird been located?”

“I take it back,” Kit muttered. “I'm killing them first, and then you.”

Sylus smiled at that. “Mama bird is with me, yes,” he replied, his eyes crinkling at the murderous glare she shot his direction. “We're exiting the building now. Withdraw and rendezvous at South Tower.”

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Note: Ahahaha. Our last one is Omegaverse. That's flustering and fun. This one's less suggestive, mostly due to the fact that I was jotting down headcanons for Omegaverse AU and it turned into mini fics. So this one is Zayne and Kiri.

❄️❄️❄️

For some reason, the universe decides to bless Kiri with the worst possible heat to go along with her myriad of health problems.

In the week leading up to it, she feels exhausted and sick, throwing up food easily and sleeping poorly.

Previous doctors have told her that it's because she has an extremely high hormone production rate, and it means she's extra fertile.

That she should be grateful.

She had to hold herself back from strangling them.

It also means she can't take suppressants.

Zayne, at least, is sympathetic. Even long before they begin a relationship, he reaches out through his connections to find her hormone specialists, people who can help her manage her symptoms.

And after they start dating, well.

He spoils her rotten.

Zayne can only really take the week of her heat off, with how vital he is to operations in Akso Hospital. However, the clean house, fresh linens, and hot food he gets for her goes a long way towards helping.

She always tries to protest his help after his shift is over, stating that he already works enough.

He just does it anyway. All her plushies get scented, her favorite pastries are bought, and her extra expensive jar of tea is left out by a new mug on the kitchen island.

She could just cry from how sweet he is.

When her heat strikes, it's similar.

Kiri becomes very particular about her nest, only choosing the most recent articles of clothing he's worn. She gets exhausted very quickly, and Zayne purchases scent blocking candles to light throughout the entire apartment.

(He's seriously considering how much it would be to get a house outside of the city. If he catches another Alpha lingering at his doorstep or below his balcony window, he's going to break his doctor's oaths on purpose)

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Thanks for reading, and have a good Tuesday!

[youzicha]

If you correctly believe that a $10 stock will be valued at $100 five years from now, you can make a killing. If you correctly believe that a $100 stock will be valued at $10 five years from now - but you don't know when it'll drop, or whether it'll rise before then - you probably can't make money off of that.

Both buying and short-selling are in some sense predictions about what other market participants will believe, yes, but successful short-selling requires a lot more knowledge about the market and when its opinions will change, in addition to predicting the fate of the company itself.

This brings us back to the original issue of the original thread: the asymmetry between buying and short-selling means that people with optimistic views of a company can drive its stock up without people with pessimistic views of the company being able to bring its stock back down, even if the pessimists have as much money as the optimists, and even if they're much more grounded in reality. Smart money can't drive out dumb.

lol, I guess this discussion devolved because the original thread contains all kind of issues and it's unclear what kind of point I was trying to make.

I think the very original thing was @raginrayguns obliquely saying that he doesn't think Tesla is overpriced, or at least, that there is no obvious reason why it would be. I have no opinion about that.

In the middle of the thread @raginrayguns comments that "dumb money" is a good explanation for why Tesla was heavily shorted in 2022. I guess that makes some sense? and in fact the price then did go down in 2023, so shorting it back then probably was a smart move.

Then @centrally-unplanned said that "shorts can't mechanically drive down the price of stocks". I disagree with this! I claim that if the SEC made a new rule that "you can't short Tesla" the share price would go up, and if they abolished the rule the price would go down again. Since Elon's wealth is in Tesla stocks, and directly proportional to the share price, it seems fair enough for him to be obsessively angry about short selling. And like @unreliabledragon said, you can get this effect just from the "effective supply": even if nobody changes their mind about the long-term prospects of Tesla in (say) the weeks after the rule change, the price should still move just because of supply and demand. That's what the example I posted is meant to illustrate.

[warrior-cats-rewritten]

With Thunder released, I think it is almost time to finalize some plans for WCR!A Starless Clan.

Needless to say, MASSIVE spoilers for A Starless Clan, especially book 4, Thunder.

Under the cut are some IDEAS. NOTHING HERR IS FINAL YET AND ALL IS SUBJECT TO CHANGE. Behold, my chaotic note-taking in its raw, unfiltered form.

So. First concept: All leaders are at one point either deposed or killed.

Mistystar dies the same awkward way, but with more emotion this time. She is the leader most of Riverclan has known either all their lives, or most of their lives. However, and I cannot emphasize this enough, Mistystar had dementia. She was holding on by threads before she dropped dead.

Leafstar dies suddenly as well due to a massive heart attack, falling off of Highbranch and breaking her neck. The problem here is, ex-deputy Waspwhisker JUST SHOWED UP. This leads to the release of Waspwhisker's Adventure, where he and the other kidnapped Skyclan cats come home.

'so what'd I miss?'.mp3 moment

Tigerheartstar is dethroned. Berryheart's group is too powerful, and Puddleshine does agree. At least, with staying out of Riverclan. Shadowclan just had a major Greencough epidemic and Birchkit is dead due to it, they needed his support. Shadowsight is also missing.

Cloverfoot, however, picks Berryheart as deputy (Berryheart will have also had an apprentice by this point) and goes off to the Moonpool, only for a larger than normal gray fox to kill her. It leaves Berryheart alone, and, much to Sunbeam's horror, allows her to go to the Moonpool.

Splashtail also races up behind her, and the 2 earn their names.

Enter Splashstar and Berrystar. Frostpaw was too late.

Frostpaw also now time travels with Nightheart, Shadowsight, and Whistlepaw. Nightheart is an idiot who never studied history (though he did study Camp Keeping and Glyphs), but the other 3 (especially Whistlepaw) know to take on differently styled names, referencing heroes they heard of in stories.

Shadow Eyes, Whistle, Frosty Paws, and... The other guy who inspired Night Heart, first deputy of Riverclan.

"Stop laughing at me I PREFERRED LEARNING GLYPHS"

Harestar passes after a long, brutal battle with Blackcough. His Deputy, Breezepelt, is about to go to the Moonpool with his new Deputy Heathertail and Kestralflight, when the dog pack attacks AGAIN. I'm not sure if it kills Breezepelt, but it sure as hell leaves him out of commission. He will, tragically, not become leader. In wake of the events, Heathertail turns to the one cat she has always been able to vent to. Lionblaze. Not as a lover, just friends.

Since Squilf steps down in Squirrelflight's Freedom, she... also won't become leader. I love her so much, but her not becoming leader means Leafpool lives longer, and she actually gets the rest she deserves with her sister and new husband Shrewfeather. Hey, at least she gets to keep being Squilf. I love Squirrelstar but I don't like that name very much, doesn't feel right. I want some canon cats to get caught up on it too because Squirrelflight is such a good name, and she's good humored enough I don't think it would bother her. ANYWAY

Hollyleaf is deputy, and Bramblestar does not want to give up his position, he isn't happy that his Clan now fears him, and that makes him lash out because he 'always knew they were suspicious of me'. Self fulfilling prophecy, my boy. Maybe stop using your huge size and BOOMING voice to get what you want.

When the Clan uses their votes to vote him out, the vote starts with... Dandeliontuft. She completes her arc. She was the first to know that Bramblestar was replaced when he started paying more attention to her, and now she is going to take down the real one.

Is Bramblestar had a nickel for every time he has been snapped at by golden tabby mollies he was related to, he would have 3 nickels. Not a lot, but he doesn't have a concept of money, so that's okay.

They vote against him because his leadership has been nothing but disaster. Which....

Fair enough. Ashfur wasn't his fault but there's a reason no one thought he'd been replaced for a WHILE, longer than in canon. Bramblestar was not liked, most cats were gunning for Hollyleaf to be made leader.

He tries to fight back against this, that he was blessed by Starclan, this is unfair, they were only doing this because of his father, what would Firestar think?

For the second time in Clan history, in broad daylight, a lightning bolt strikes. It is taken as a very clear sign. Starclan has made its approval of Hollyleaf QUITE clear!

But! Boom! A wild Lionblaze and Heathertail appeared!

Lionblaze used Announcement!

"THE MOONPOOL IS CURSED"

it's super effective...

Well, that sucks. But Hollyleaf is smart. She knows that something will be done about it, but in the meantime, take leader names, pick new deputies, and build yourselves up. Skyclan is about to break into civil war, Splashstar and Berrystar are coming down on the other Clans to purge 'outsider blood' and make them "pure" again.

Hollystar names Lilyheart or Rosepetal her deputy. Haven't decided yet.

I know Frostpaw is gonna stay in Windclan for a while, trying to unravel the mystery behind Curlfeather and her group, because there needs to be more to it than what she has been told.

Sunbeam is done with Nightheart's whiny crap, and will probably end up with Myrtlebloom or Finchlight, or back with Lightleap. He is told to get over himself.

Lightleap is now a POV and is struggling with being enough, throwing herself into more and more reckless situations and overworking herself. She needs to prove herself, in her own eyes.

Frostpaw has an epic escape from an animal hospital, also Smoky died of pneumonia between arcs. The three new barn cats are Rosey (tortoiseshell molly with green eyes), Whiskers (black tom with long white whiskers), and Muffin (white tom with blue eyes, deaf in one ear). They had no idea what would happen, but they are young and panicked at the sight of Frostpaw's wounds, calling for the Twolegs, who rush Frostpaw to the vet. She trusts them through her fear, as is her nature.

Jury's out on if she still gets spayed.

Fringewhisker loses her back leg to Berryheart's trials, before she and Spireclaw flee Shadowclan, heading for Skyclan. It may be a shitstorm over there, but at least they will be safe.

Frostpaw is determined to know what is causing the curse, and to get to the bottom of it.

The arc ends with the villains winning, leading to the next arc, Dark Times, because we need to take it easy on how disconnected the arcs are.

Arcs 9 and 10 are Homebrew.

Dark Times and Beyond The Stars.

Also, the book names for A Starless Clan have begun to shuffle, I know the first one is River and the last WILL be Star.

[sillyname30]

I just listened to the latest episode of and that's what you really missed on Glee. Guests were two of the session/background singers. It was interesting to hear about that side of the work.

Nikki Leonti on how she ended up on Glee: „I signed a record deal when I was thirteen years old, and I was in the gospel world, touring all over the world. I was a Christian singer who got pregnant as a teenager. And you can't really do that. They took my songs off the radio and my records off the shelfs. That's how I got into session singing, because I lost all my work and I didn't know what I was going to do.“ Later she got a new record deal with Warner Brothers and booked gigs on late night shows, but then Warner Brothers got a new management and they dropped half the rooster. After that Tim Davis called and offered her a job as a session singer on Glee.

Nikki: Glee music was ever changing. You had a basic sound, a thread that went through all of the songs. That was the Glee sound, but stylistically it changed a lot. That's what made it so fun, and that's why they hired singers who could have diversity of sound, because you needed to.

What is the feeling that Glee leaves you with? It was such a special time for me. We had our own group of people and friendships that were happening behind the scenes. That was just such a big deal. Seeing the show take off. It changed TV at the time. It changed everything. We were a part of this growing, expanding, exploding situation that made us all excited of these opportunities and the possibilities and what that was like. We got to experience some of that excitement and it's something I'll never forget. It changed us. It was special. And you know, even though we were a little distanced from you guys, all of what you guys went through affected us, and all of the things during the show affected us behind the scenes and our hearts. Our hearts were always interconnected with the process, even though we were all doing it in separate spaces. It was a real like family experience.

Luke Edgemon started as a Warbler, but he wasn't happy in the spotlight. When they needed a guide vocal he was happy to do that and stayed with this line of work. He became the demo singer for Kevin at some point.

What is the feeling Glee leaves you with? Glee leaves me feeling happy because of things like this. I got so attached to being a moving part of a machine that often I took for granted what was happening in the moment, whether it be you know, twenty four hour sessions or just seeing people walk in like Sarah Jessica Parker to sing a lead vocal. And so I just have the happiest, warmest feelings about those times, even the times that we're filled with struggle or no sleep, because a family is often dysfunctional, and so I just always think of it as family. And I still talk to those singers even though we don't sing together much anymore on a daily basis. You know a lot of people just assume that you remember the money, and that's honestly, like the last thing that I think about, whether these relationships are lifelong or not. I know that those memories will always be there.

[unpopularly-opinionated]

So I finished watching WeCrashed today, which is the dramatized reenactment of the whole WeWork fiasco, and to get this out of the way early: It was a pretty good show. 9/10

I am biased because I love Anne Hathaway, I think she's wildly underrated by a lot of people. Jared Leto is an enigma of a human being. I am under the impression he is kind of a piece of shit IRL, and I don't entirely disagree. My one and only personal experience impression is the one time my parents took me to Vegas to go see a 30 Seconds to Mars concert, and I kid you not, but this mother fucker showed up sick and basically had the audience sing 90% of the maybe like 5-6 songs he actually performed. Would've ruined the night if it weren't for that also coincidentally being my first Panic! At The Disco concert who opened for him. Went there to see 30 Seconds to Mars, left seeing Panic! At The Disco and wasn't too disappointed, granted I was maybe 14-15 at the time I think, I don't know. Time is an illusion.

Anyways, despite all of that, I shit you not but I think this role was kind of made for him. I've heard Jared Leto has started an actual cult IRL, and from what the show told me about Adam Neumann, he's the type of guy who would probably create a cult himself. And to be honest, he kind of did if the show is to be believed. The entire time I'm watching the show, this man is spinning bullshit like it's golden thread and I kept waiting for the acknowledgement of that; I kept waiting for the behind closed doors scene where he tells his wife, Rebekah (Anne Hathaway), that he's fooled some more cash cows into giving him a shit ton of milk but it never happens and that's because I think this man legitimately believed in every fucking word he said.

The analogy they use in the show is that he's selling people unicorns when unicorns don't even exist, but this man legitimately believes unicorns fucking exist and he's going to make you believe it too. He's simultaneously full of shit, but not at the same time. It was so wild to watch because I just couldn't wrap my head around it. You hear about cult leaders, or shitty CEOs raking in billions of dollars, and you just keep waiting for the other shoe to drop; you keep waiting for the realization that he's actually just this huge piece of shit scamming people out of their money. But I don't know that I feel comfortable calling it a scam when he truly, honestly, and genuinely believes in the bullshit he is selling. It wasn't a bid for money, or power, or control. This man just bought into his own bullshit the same way he sold it to everyone else. He was a drug dealer who partook in his own supply.

The whole time I watched the show, I asked myself if the show was funded in any way by the Neumann's because of just how good it showed them to be. Yes, they were insane. Yes, they wound up financially ruining a lot of people. But at no point did I ever think that was genuinely intentional. If it wasn't obvious already, I went into this show with zero knowledge of WeWork. Literally none. I had only just heard of its existence recently, and I'm actually kind of dumbfounded that a scandal of this magnitude has somehow completely escaped my notice. It took me until I believe episode four before I even understood what it was WeWork even sold. To be honest with you, I'm still not even sure I'm sure what they sold. From my perspective, they sound like glorified landlords but for office jobs, mainly tech companies.

I pride myself on not being as influenced by individuals as others are. I don't do the whole "so-and-so is my hero" nonsense. But I have to admit that if I had met Adam Neumann in person, and he was even half as magnetic as he is portrayed in the show, I'm not entirely sure I wouldn't also be drawn to him. I don't know, man. It's to the point where at the end of the show, when he eventually steps down as CEO and the new CEO is giving his speech, I had this gut feeling of "the bad guys won in the end", even if the "bad guy" in this scenario was the completely rational business expert who actually wanted the company to make a profit. The show sold me the idea that the Neumann's, while fucking insane, were the good guys in this scenario. Which is why I can't help but wonder if this show was somehow funded by them.

Overall, the show was really good. I will say, there was this slight disconnect at the very end though. During the credits, they show a clip from an interview with the real Adam Neumann and Rebekah, and for the most part he seems like a totally normal dude. He's portrayed as kind of manic and psychotic during the show, so it was a major contrast to see him be kind of normal, albeit very passionate in the end.

If there's one type of media drama that I fucking love more, it's all this corporate drama nonsense. It's why Social Network is one of my favorite movies. I just love hearing about the behind the scenes drama of all of these big companies.

TL;DR: I felt so bad for Miguel, the true MVP of WeWork. Fuck me did that man need to grow a spine, but nevertheless I felt bad for him but respected his loyalty to the end all the same.

[distopea]

WISHLIST DROP✨

to be updated whenever I have new popping ideas!

A few dynamics, stories and other stuff I'd love to explore one day. Plotted threads needed for all of this! Open to any of my mutuals!

Astra:

Boss x Boss dynamic, but makes it spicy 🌶, there's nothing better than business getting a bit dirty 👀 (and a lot of mindfuck, yum)

You're my favorite enemy: who's the cat and who's the mouse, when police work become a bit too much obsessive for one mafia leader

Boss x Fake boss, you're both under fake identity and you try to manipulate the other one

Alessandro:

Rivals building a world of hate, you both seek revenge but you're not sure the other one is trustworthy

Hunt me if you can, someone put a contract on his head but you're either the assassin or the protector

Under our name, or two people trying to build their new legacy, whether it's through trust or betrayal

Diego:

Enemies in the streets, complicated in the sheets... I know there's a rival for him in this world, a challenge to take in MANY ways

Dropped like a tissue, you come to his rescue? Let him claws his way out of the Cleaners to find someone (or an organization) to serve and avoid prison

Gabriele:

Legacy journey, or when it's time to face his demons and come back to Sicily

I know your face... Haunts him from his past, whether you were affiliated to the organization he destroyed or an innocent that was caught in the damages

So I have this weird coworker... Grumpy man x young recrue, it's time to bond in the police line and let him teach your character a bit of his experience

Gambit:

Bad calculation... Ah shit, he's kidnapped and there will be trouble... Do you want to jump in?

Murder party. Truly he's not only into excel sheets, and it's time to show it!

So, how's the money work here? Travelling for the Cleaners, he needs your guidance in this unknown country

Bastet/Minju:

Who thought I could ever betray them? Oh yes, she can. She doesn't know yet... Perhaps show her the way?

That's not how you hold a knife... And she can teach you. But she doesn't like having you in her feet during missions.

Let's hunt this motherfucker. She has a revenge to follow and you're going to help, and you're going to love it.

You're okay, I've got you... She has mothering instincts yes, she's independent yes... But can she be vulnerable with someone for once?

Mads:

Pointing spiderman meme but it's two thieves... always getting in each other's business and for different reasons...

Broken mind calling for help... A therapist is always needed, bonding with them, well, it can be a good bonus

I know things about you... Aka someone blackmails him or knows he's bribed

Mika:

I lost a very important bag full of money and I don't know what to do... but maybe YOU do?

Spare mates! Spare mates! Survivors of the underground! True friends (and more? eh! we never know), a bond of life

Oliver:

You're a hell of a shitty clients but you love to pester him. And weirdly, he likes when you come over as well. Weird. Very toxic. Intense. Addictive.

DANCING RIVALS. He wants the first role, you want it too. Nothing good can happen from that.

I thought you were a friend to me... But it was only another bad trap. Yes I don't deserve to RP with Oliver, I'm a monster.

Requiem:

Two killers machines... one specific contract. It's not Mr. and Mrs Smith but it can as hot as the movie 👀

Golden years... Tales of two mercenary people. Whether it's good or bad, you're back in each other's life.

Santino:

Bless me father 'cause I have sinned, let him lead you to a world of redemption

God's way, or when Santino is not sure to have faith in his own religion when he meets someone like you

Sybille:

Yes, I'm not that shallow girl. And perhaps I can show you. But I won't be happy about it...

Petty fights, rivals, escort life... Why would she be the queen of mean girls if there's no one take that crown off her head?

Oh shit, is he dead?! Partners in crime out of circumstances, sharing a dark secret, blackmail, manipulation but there's a link you can't get rid of...

Vex:

I'm a little bit obsessed with you... For no reasons, but you're a fun toy. Someone he gets overly obsessed with and it's quite ugly.

I'll show there's no good in me. Failing quest of redemption, tortured emotions, bittersweet with almost no sweet, intense bond...

Let's cook, or when two drug deals are trying to create their new brand of pills for the streets

Zodiac:

Friends don't need to get along... Fucked up bond of need, emotions, intensity, anger. You are toxic for one another but you can't live without each other.

He's a dead man. He means his brother. And you're hired to help him for that.

Zeffy:

I don't trust you. But we're teammates. She's secretive about her past, but the shield is cracking...

I know what you are, let a cop trying to figure out that you're not such a good person, but she can't do much against you

[youngestrunningleek]

Stuart Little

I just recently read Stuart Little, written in 1945 by E.B. White, so I'll review it here as my first review.

Beware! I will be talking about plot details, including the end. And a big part of the experience for me was that I didn't know where the story would go next.

Overview

    It's about a boy(?) named Stuart Little. It's hard to say much more than that, because there's no central thread. I can pitch Charlotte's Web to you: there is a pig and the barn animals, especially the spider Charlotte, are trying to keep him from getting eaten. This book, though? It's just... about Stuart Little.

    It has a really great opening line: "When Mrs. Frederick C. Little's second son arrived, everybody noticed that he was not much bigger than a mouse." In the first edition, the line is that he "was born". The book isn't very specific about whether he's a mouse, or a boy who just looks like a mouse.

 My Thoughts

I loved it, and I don't know what to make of it. I am glad such a strange book is considered a classic, even if I don't understand why. It's hilariously matter-of-fact, almost deadpan. Yeah, he could walk as soon as he was born. He's in love with a bird. There's an invisible car. Deal with it.

I really, really loved the bits about how Stuart lives. Early chapters explain how he gets clothes, how he gets around, and the challenges of raising a mouse-boy. It's actually a great message. People don't question his different needs, they just accommodate him. I could read an entire book about the challenges of being the size of a mouse in a world built for human-sized people. And I did! And I want more!

There's a great deal of attention paid to his clothes. From the first chapter: "Before he was many days old he was not only looking like a mouse but acting like one, too-- wearing a gray hat and carrying a small cane." Does E. B. White know what a mouse is? Is that the problem? A few sentences later, Mrs. Little makes Stuart "a fine little blue worsted suit with patch pockets in which he could keep his handkerchief, his money, and his keys." At another point he wears "a pepper-and-salt jacket, old striped trousers, a Windsor tie, and spectacles." And the whole book is like that. Stuart is a little gentleman. The world's smallest dandy.

     It kind of reads like E. B. White wasn't editing, at all. Pure 'yes and', no revisions. Or, it's like a group storytelling game, where everybody contributes one sentence at a time.

    After a few chapters of little adventures, he decides to run away from home to find the bird Margalo. And we never see her, or Stuart's family, again.

    There's a non sequitur chapter where he becomes a schoolteacher for a day, and I don't think it relates to anything that comes before or after.

    There's an invisible car, like I mentioned. Unironically, halfway through the book, Stuart's doctor friend gives him a miniature car that can turn invisible. What? That wasn't part of the premise!

    There's also a human girl, the same size as Stuart, in the later part of the book. Where did that come from? She's small like him, but she doesn't look like a mouse.

    It's like the reverse of Chekov's gun. Something new could be introduced at any moment, and something could be dropped at any moment.     To be crystal clear, I enjoy this. I like the unpredictability. And, it must be well-written somehow, because even with how odd it gets, I never lost my suspension of disbelief.     This would be an excellent exercise in storytelling. I'd ask children what they think will happen in the next chapter.     Even the ending is a kind of curveball: a telephone repairman talks for a long time about how great North is, as a direction. And then Stuart keeps driving.      Overall, I liked it, even if I don't know if it's well-written. It seemingly breaks a lot of rules about writing. It's profoundly weird from a storytelling perspective, so I'm glad it's somehow a popular book. I give it a 3/5 overall, and a 4/5 for me, personally. For further reading: https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2008/07/21/the-lion-and-the-mouse This article talks about children's books and how Stuart Little was part of a fight over what children's book should be. Anne Carroll Moore is a fascinating historical figure. Sorry, I have no scanner, so here's some pictures of Garth Williams' illustrations.

Stuart is on a branch with the human-shaped girl, Harriet. He's dressed like a human, but he has a tail and a face like a mouse.

In the second, she's watching him swim and his furry body is on display as he looks at her. P.S.: Since my specific focus is on rats, I feel like I should bring up the one major time they're mentioned in the book. During the schoolteacher chapter, Stuart gets very mad at being compared to a rat. He's very distinctly not a rat, and doesn't want to be mistaken for one.

[mywifeleftme]

147: Ghostface Killah // Fishscale

Fishscale Ghostface Killah 2006, Def Jam

A.I. & Hip-Hop (& Art &): A Lengthy Digression

Back in April of this year, a bunch of A.I.-abetted fake Drake tracks dropped, generating millions of streams and twice as many takes. I’ve had this little quote-tweet exchange open in a tab for months now, not because either take is the worst of its kind but because they’re a good representation of the two biggest camps.

One side, you’ve got tech-evangelists like this guy:

And on the other you’ve got humanists like this one:

The tech-evangelist take is self-evidently repellant in its vision of a fully memefied, de-personalized future for artistic expression,* but our humanist friend @images_ai chooses to focus on the least viable argument against it. They argue that, for a discerning listener, A.I.-generated music is now and always will be instantly identifiable as such. That’s a total cope, absolute sucker shit. When you take into consideration where A.I.-generated content was only a few years ago, the fact that it can now produce something that sounds convincingly enough like a leak of a Drake-on-cruise-control demo that we’re having this conversation at all, means that we will have soon reached an inflection point. When it comes to the most commercially popular forms of music, it will one day no longer be possible to be certain whether a given new release is of human or mechanical origin.

Let’s go with that as claim number one.

There may be some musicological reasons Drake and his fellow streaming royalty are more vulnerable to replication by today’s A.I. than like, Os Mutantes would be, (e.g. reliance on digital instrumentation; formulaic structures) but the main reason A.I. creators came for them first is because they are popular. In a parallel universe where Robert Pollard was the biggest pop star in the world, then Tik Tok would be awash in shitty Alien Lanes knockoffs right now because the machines would’ve been trained on the several thousand hours of Guided By Voices music that is readily available. Maybe that’s an axiom with renewed force in the current environment: If there is sufficient demand to rip off an artist, someone will figure out how.

That’s claim two.

I happen to like Drake and, when he’s in the mood to be, he’s an original and idiosyncratic artist. There isn’t yet an A.I. tool that can spit out something as good as “Nice for What” or “Tuscan Leather” on-demand. It’s entirely possible that A.I. may not be capable of doing so without significant handholding from a human collaborator. But the potential of these tools may make it so that it becomes more profitable for an aspiring producer (or A&R man) to slap a fake Drake over a promising new beat than to find a new voice to spit on it. (Grimes’s notion of licensing out her voice as a sample pack is cunning, but she ceased to be a significant enough pop music figure to truly capitalize on it as a revenue stream around the time Azealia Banks said she smelled “like a roll of nickels.”) And that sounds a lot like death to the organic development of significant new popular artists, at least as we’ve heretofore understood it.

Summing up claim three, we can say: The recording industry will take the path of least resistance to making more money, and artificially reusing the voices and likenesses of existing stars is more cost-effective than developing new ones.

@images_ai’s argument that the A.I. Drake tracks are clearly fake and therefore that they do not augur a paradigm shift in art production is absolute troll-bait, because it makes the larger debate contingent on one question: can I fool you? @images_ai goes on in their tweet thread to argue that art is about communicating something of substance: but if that argument is hinged on an ability to discern the “substance” in a “real” Drake song then all you have to do to topple it is make a simulated Drake song that passes a blind listening test. This kind of thing is aesthetic philosophy 101 shit, old old old questions that now have a sufficiently actualized hypothetical, and I don’t have a bold satisfying solution to any of it.

As a self-styled facts-and-logic type, I’ve been unbearable to argue with about like spirituality or astrology or whatever, but I also know that over the course of one’s life there are only so many cultural and technological sea changes the average person can experience before the world becomes a fundamentally unrecognizable place to them. I think the coming shift in our notions of what constitutes art and artistic production will ultimately be a bridge I will be unable to cross—or, more accurately, that I will be unwilling to cross. The only way to go on with a personal system of aesthetics which has been undermined at its foundation, is to accept that part of the system which is irrational. At present, art produced by talented human minds remains self-evidently superior to what a machine can generate, but I will still hold that it is more worthwhile even when and if that gap closes.

Whatever comes along, I will continue to seek out human art according to the faculties at my disposal. It’s the stories of music, and musicians that activate me; the peculiarities of artists too weird or hopeless for anyone to want to simulate. And if from time to time I’m fooled by some supposedly lost Big Star demo cooked up in Ableton or whatever, so I’m fooled; I’ll keep to my ways. There is so much richness in what has already been, and in what artists using familiar methods of creation will make in the future. If I deny myself the unimagined pleasures of sublimely optimized future pop, alright. Less, but deeper; some lines are helpful to draw.

To Build a Better Ghostface

Anyway, the reason I wrote all that is because if there’s one rapper an A.I. would be pressed to rip-off, it’s Ghostface Killah. To do so, it would need to snort a lot of Fishscale bars. Here’s a small selection of what you’d need to feed the machine:

"I muffle motherfuckers up like Meineke And write a thousand bar verse that all rhymes with 'E'"

"I took notice, SpongeBob in the Bentley Coupe Bangin' the Isleys, he slow backed up Then he passed me swoop, seen his chick eyein’ me hard He got vexed and smacked his boo" "And this one bitch called me Fat Albert The way my pockets had the mumps, you know that Ghost is 'bout it Then I asked these young ladies do they buff helmets They said "fuck you", took a sniff and then they didn't tell me"

"Made my usual gun check, safety off, come on Frank The moment is here, take your fuckin' hood off And tell the driver to stay put Fuck them niggas on the block they shook, most of them won't look They frontin', they no crooks they fuck up they own jux"

"AHH! Didn't I tell you don't touch the sides? I'm goin bald on top! You lucky you cool, I'mma let it ride Slide, you played me so you can't get paid How you gon' fuck up a Don and cold dog his fade? I look like UTFO one of them dudes from back in the days"

"Had a 2 o'clock appointment with this girl name Dawn She ain't the Avon lady but her beauty was strong"

"We hold the weight of four Synagogues Jelly'd uptown in them beat down rented cars"

"But then came Darryl Mack lightin' all the reefer up Baby caught a contact I'm trying to tie my sneaker up I'm missing all the loops strings going in the wrong holes It feels like I'm wobbling, look at all these afros Soon as I thought I was good the joke's on me"

"Jaws is hanging, frauds is left in they drawers on the floor complaining Bird ass nigga resemble Keenan Ivory Wayans"

"Whip smelling like fish from 125th Throwin' ketchup on my fries, hitting baseball spliffs Back seat with my leg all stiff Push the fuckin' seat up, tartar sauce on my S Dot kicks"

"Got a safe that hold more notes than Cortex singers"

"The Bag Lady will murk you and let off in the next town! She struck two times, get caught, good luck blood, it ain't no Heinz Blow a hockey puck hole in the back of your spine She put two cut up mirrors in the place of your eyes So when the cops look they see theyselves, they all gonna die"

A Fishscale Review

“Shakey Dog” is the greatest rap song of all time, and the standard I will follow into our war against Lil SkyNet and whatnot.

147/365

-----------------

* A further digression: The glee on the tech-evangelist side of the aisle is fueled by the prospect that, 1. A lack of ability will seemingly no longer be a barrier to making “professional” quality art, and 2. Producing art will no longer require dealing with artists. I envision these people as an army of small business owners absolutely over the moon about the prospect of putting all the smug freelance graphic designers and copywriters they’ve had to deal with on the dole, the “creatives” who had to condescendingly explain why the marketing concept they had in mind was impracticable, offensive, illegal, or all three. Just as selling handwoven baskets is now a bespoke industry, now creative work can be automated with variable degrees of competence, and those who insist on the “real thing” will largely be those who have enough money to be particular or to stand on the principle.

[babybatscreationsv2]

can you imagine tony telling peter to dress up for an event or something or like peter shows up to the lab with a half torn bag or sOMETHING and tony’s like wtf

so he buys stuff for peter and peter’s kinda uncomf at first but leans into it more n more and then at some point peter just asks for stuff that he wants and it gets bETTER and better like from a sensible jacket to designer bags or something

and thEN, if you wanna write smut, tony’s like hey dont you think i deserve a thank you? WINK WINK

-still not h

Oh did you mean your personal fantasy?

Peter's stomach dropped at the way Tony stood, blinking like he was trying to clear dust from his eyes. It was a long minute, or maybe it was only a second, either way it felt like forever before Tony's mouth curled into a fond smile.

"Is it that bad?" He'd tried to replicate a look he'd seen on the cover of one of Tony's fashion magazines, but he didn't have a lot of money and he'd gotten a lot of it at the thrift store. He'd thought he looked good but now he wasn't so sure.

"You look great, Pete. I swear." Tony crossed the floor and gave him a reassuring kiss. Peter felt himself calm a bit. Tony grabbed the faux leather bag on his shoulder. "Would you mind if I replaced this?"

"What? I just got it!"

"It's just that it's not very in season." He twisted it in his hand and Peter could see a tear along the bottom that he hadn't noticed before.

"Maybe I'll just forget the bag. I didn't realize how bad it was." He grimaced.

"No, no. We've got time, sweetheart."

"We needed to leave like ten minutes ago."

Tony waved his hand. "The party starts when we arrive, baby. They'll wait for us."

Peter rolled his eyes as Tony grabbed his wallet and jacket. He didn't resist as Tony linked their arms together and lead him to the elevator.

Back in car with a new Prada bag in his lap, Peter felt guilty. He never wanted Tony to think he was in it for the money. He loved him dearly. But he also really liked the bag.

He tried a little harder the next time. He found a nice cream colored sweater and the slacks were only a little loose... Yet, when they got in the car Tony turned in the opposite direction of the venue. Peter sighed.

"Tony..."

Tony picked up his hand and kissed the back of it. "Only the best for my baby."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Just replace my whole wardrobe while you're at it."

"We can do that."

"What? I was joking!"

Tony smiled. "You look gorgeous, but the jacket and the pants..."

Peter crossed his arms. "Fine."

He didn't know how Tony did it. He barked orders at the shop workers and had them running around grabbing specific items that he knew all by name. They all looked like things that shouldn't go together but when Tony put him in front of the mirror he looked really good. Felt good too. In fact he couldn't keep the smile off of his face.

He left in a new outfit with a second in the bag that Tony carried. Peter was still a little overwhelmed by the total. Over 3 grand? For two outfits? Were they threaded in gold? Okay... maybe he liked the sound of that more that he should have...

Then Peter noticed one day that his shoes were looking rough. Tony was going to end up replacing them anyway, right? So it was okay if he just asked him, wasn't it?

He stood in front of the man, blushing and nervous. Tony knew what he wanted, he could tell he did.

"Something you want, sweetheart?"

Peter chewed his lip and twisted his fingers together. "I don't want to be a bother..."

"You're never a bother, Peter."

"Well... Since you don't mind buying me things... I thought maybe you might want to get me some new shoes?" He stared straight at his chest, only daring to look at his eyes after a moment.

"I would love to."

Peter couldn't say he wasn't excited as they passed through the glass doors at the entrance. A woman hurried over to greet them, but Peter ignored her, drawn to a display off to the side. They had new watches with real silver bands and little diamonds around the face. He didn't even wear a watch.

Tony's arm wrapped around his waist.

"Which one?"

"What? No, I can't. They're way too much."

Tony scoffed. He pointed at the one Peter was looking at and the woman ran around the cabinet to take it from the case. Tony took it from her and Peter obediently held out his wrist.

"There. It's gorgeous on you." He smiled. Peter couldn't help but smile back. He really liked it, but those were real diamonds. "We'll take it. Anything else you want to look at?"

"We just came for shoes..." Peter blushed again. He twisted the watch on his wrist. It felt so heavy, but it didn't exactly feel bad either.

He ended up in front of the mirror again, decked out from head to toe. He looked really good. He felt really good too. And he swore Tony only looked more excited the longer they browsed. The shop lady had started a pile at the counter for them and Peter couldn't help how exciting it was. Tony never said no even though he asked again and again if he really really sure. But he let Tony coax him into leaving with another three outfits, two pairs of shoes, and the watch.

He kept fiddling with it on the drive home. It was so pretty.

Tony carried his things into the house for him. He hadn't been planning on staying the night, but he certainly had clothes for tomorrow now. Sheesh.

"We spent quite a lot, huh?" Tony said as he placed the bags on the coffee table.

"I hope that's okay."

"Of course it is. I take care of you, you take care of me, right?"

"I-" Peter froze, unsure what to say or if Tony was implying what it sounded like he was. He looked... excited. He came into Peter's space, hands on his hips, and backed him into the wall while Peter scrambled to figure out what the hell was happening.

"Tony?"

"Are you happy with your gifts, baby?"

"Of course I am. They're really nice."

"Why don't you show me how happy you are? I was so good to you after all."

It took another second before it clicked. Oh, you like buying me stuff. "You're right. I should make it up to you." He gave him a coy smile. He sunk down to the floor. His hands slid up his thighs to reach his belt.

"That's a good boy," Tony encouraged.

Peter was surprised at just how hard he was. And how impatient. He must have been thinking about this all day. As soon as Peter's mouth was open, Tony pushed his way inside. Peter gagged, unprepared, but he settled with his hands on Tony's thighs. His new diamond watch glittered on his wrist. He looked up at him and found dark, almost cruel, eyes looking back. He didn't want Peter sucking him off, he wanted to use him. He was more than happy to give the man whatever he wanted.

"Let me see how grateful you are," Tony purred. "You love being spoiled don't you?"

Tony pulled out so he could answer. "Yes, sir," he said. He let his mouth hang open, tongue out, inviting him back in. Tony pushed in until he choked, grinning as he gagged and fought with himself not to push him away. When Peter pulled back, Tony followed until his head was against the wall with nowhere to to. He was drowning in spit and suffocating around the cock that forced open his throat and he felt his mind slipping into something soft and warm and hazy.

Tony took his cock from Peter's mouth, spit hanging from the tip of his cock to his lips. Peter only moaned as he smeared spit on his cheek before stuffing his mouth again. Tony fucked his mouth, right there on the edge of his throat and felt like a fucking g-spot, making him tingly and his cock throb and every time he lost it and gagged it just made him want to cum.

Tony pulled out, leaving just the tip of his cock resting heavy on his tongue. "You with me, Pete?" Peter made noise in answer. Tony lightly slapped his cheek. "Wake up, sweetheart."

Peter blinked away the haze and smiled up at him. "I'm okay." He licked his lips.

Tony smiled. "You're fucking incredible." He stuffed his cock in Peter's mouth again, fucking the perfect O of his lips and over the soft heat of his tongue.

He pushed in as deep as his throat would allow and this time, Peter couldn't help the reflex to push him off, but Tony just grabbed his wrists and pinned them above his head. He kept fucking his throat and all Peter could do was squirm when it was too much and he couldn't breathe, but Tony didn't let him pass out and Peter never stopped opening his mouth for more.

"Fuck, such a good boy. You're gonna make me cum, sweetheart."

Peter was buzzing waiting for it, ready for Tony to cum right down his throat. And he did, pinning Peter hard against the wall and moaning deep in his chest. He let him go and Peter sucked the last of it from the end of his cock. He didn't know what to do now, too hazy and still kneeling on the floor, but Tony bent down and hauled him up for a kiss.

"You okay? I didn't hurt you?"

"Only in a good way," Peter laughed. He held onto Tony's arms.

"Good." Tony kissed him again.

"You know you bought me like a lot of stuff." Peter could stop himself from grinning even as he talked in his broken raspy voice. "I think I'd better keep showing you how much I like it."

Tony nodded solemnly. "I wouldn't want to think you're ungrateful."

He picked Peter up off of the floor and tossed him over his shoulder as Peter giggled, "We've got a long night ahead of us."

[zepskies]

And So It Goes - Part 11

Summary: As Madelyn Stillwell’s personal assistant, Helena Flores finds herself caught between protecting her job — and more importantly her life — or helping Billy Butcher bring down the supe who killed her best friend, Becca. 

Pairing: Butcher/OFC (Latina!OC)

ASIG Series Masterlist

Word Count: 4,700 Warnings: Language, angst

11: In Every Heart There is a Room

“You fed the stray,” Mother’s Milk grumbled. He had the surliness of a ninety-year-old man with the body of a Greek god, but Helena would not be fooled. Even through the phone, she recognized the thread of worry underneath his mild bitching.

Rolling her eyes, she sighed and opened a new package of double-stuffed Oreos to go along with the pint of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream she got at the store that morning.

Perhaps she was stress eating, but it was only fair, considering the very restless night she’d had. Knowing Butcher was under her roof had destroyed six months of trying (and mostly succeeding) to put him out of her mind.

“What was I supposed to do?” she said. “He showed up at my door, looking like a sad, scruffy-ass bum who lost his booze money…and he had the most bullshit excuse! Couldn’t even admit how he found out where I was.”

“Mallory’s always had a soft spot for him,” M.M. said, sounding bemused. While that point was interesting, Helena tried not to be too annoyed that Mallory had probably betrayed her confidence, even if it was for Butcher.

She supposed that’s what she got for trusting a government spy. But what Helena would fucking give to know why Butcher went to such lengths to find her…if he was just going to leave without saying goodbye.

“Yeah well, Mr. Soft Spot fled the vicinity early this morning,” she groused. “Little bitch didn’t even have the decency to leave a note.”

Or at least his new phone number…

“Decency.” M.M. let out a short laugh. “Hel, trust me. Just let the man be.” 

Helena wandered out of her kitchen with an obscenely large bowl of dessert, phone pressed to her ear with her shoulder, and somehow made it to her couch without incident. She kicked her feet up on the coffee table before she dove in. Balancing the bowl in her lap, she grabbed her phone and put her exasperated friend on speaker.

“You didn’t see him, M.M.,” she finally replied, albeit around a mouthful of ice cream. “I don’t know where his head’s at. Thinking about what he might be getting into now, it makes my fucking skin crawl.” 

She heard him sigh heavily on the line, then pause to turn away to answer a muffled question his daughter asked him. Helena felt bad for taking him away from his family, even for a five-minute chat about her own personal hell. 

“Listen,” M.M. said, “If you’re smart, you’d see this for the pure gift it is, and let that motherfucker drop the hell out of your life.”

Helena frowned. Her spoon clattered a bit too loudly on the ceramic bowl in her lap.

“That’s a hell of a thing to say,” she said. “He just lost Becca…for the second time. You all got your happy endings, and meanwhile, he’s twisting in the wind again doing God knows what.”

She knew M.M. wasn’t that heartless. There was a lot left unsaid in the brief silence that followed, but despite everything Billy Butcher had put them all through in the past, she had a feeling M.M. had more sympathy for the ill-tempered Brit than he could readily admit.

M.M.’s wife and daughter were forced to go into hiding because of his own choices. She was sure he knew the fear of losing them forever.

“I’m tellin’ you this for your sake,” he said eventually. “Where Butcher goes, shit follows. And he knows it.”

He was edging towards something. She thought she knew what he was implying, but her stomach was already in knots and she was entirely too fucking tired to play these games anymore.

“What are you saying?” she said sharply.

“I’m saying he’s never gunna let Homelander go,” M.M. said. “He’s never gunna let Becca go. So if you want to keep your sanity, and your life, then let him go.”

That was probably good advice. In fact, Helena knew it was, and she made the decision that day to continue protecting herself. After all, wasn’t that the reason she had left the city behind, along with what was left of her old life?

…Unfortunately, she also had a long, sad history of making ill-advised decisions.

That very night, she saw (caught) him in the bowels of her local pub. His third glass of dark liquor was in his hand and a cigarette in his mouth.

To date, she had never seen him smoke, and she was just irritated enough (and bold enough) to grab the cancer stick out of his mouth and diffuse it in the ashtray on the counter.

She knew he had noticed her the moment she came into the bar, and she could feel him watching her now as she slid into the seat next to him.

Her lips were set in a tight frown. Helena sighed, because not even her revered place of day-drinking was safe anymore, and this man was surely raising her blood pressure. She dumped her purse on the counter and ordered her usual beer with a shot of tequila. Lacing her fingers on the counter surface, she finally turned her gaze to Butcher. He offered her his usual smirk.  

“I thought you’d be long gone by now,” she said, “considering your aversion to goodbyes, and common courtesy.”

He eventually answered, “Found this crusty lil’ spot last night. Decided to stay one more.”

But why? she wondered. Butcher didn’t do anything without a reason, so why was he sticking around in upstate suburbia? Was he just…bored? Was he keeping an eye on her, or was it Vought-related somehow? And if it was the latter, why the fuck would he come to her? All the valuable information she might have had, she gave to Mallory.

Whatever the reason, she thought as she sipped her beer, there was only one thing she could think to say—even though M.M.’s advice rattled around in the back of her mind like red-hot warning bells.

“Look, I don’t know why you’re really here,” she started, pausing to lick the brine of tequila from her lips. “But if you need a safe place to crash, you’ve got one. You don’t have to sleep in your car or drink here all night, or whatever the fuck you do to pass the time. Got it?”

Butcher didn’t quite look at her now, but his mouth quirked wryly before he finished off his whiskey.

“Not goin’ soft now are ya, love?” he asked. She shook her head and busied herself with the beer in her hand.

“Whatever. Do what you want.” You always do.

It was a terrible fucking idea.

Bad enough to come here the first time around, worse not to roll out of town like he planned to, worst of all to fuck his better judgment and go back home with her that night.

Butcher could blame the booze, but it was hard to complain when she cooked dinner, especially when it was some bonafide Cuban shit he could barely pronounce. Some beef stew and rice, but the name, ropa vieja she said, meant old clothes, and tasted anything but.

He stayed the night and left in the morning, working some odd jobs around town while he bided his time. The truth was, he was waiting on some information to come in. He wasn’t going to Mallory again. Not until he had something concrete, something he could use.

The strange thing was, he hadn’t noticed anyone trailing him since he left the city; hadn’t felt the back of his neck burning or sensed the ever-present target on the back of his head.

It was part of the reason why he was sticking around, out here in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. Whether it was truly safe or not (it probably wasn’t—just because he couldn’t feel prying eyes didn’t mean jack shit), he knew he was gambling, and not just with his own life. As always.

Over the next few weeks, she allowed him to come and go as he pleased. He learned, with a very rude awakening one morning, that she played salsa music loud as shit while she cleaned up the whole house—before birds, the sun, and even God were awake.

A weekly ritual, she told him, and his only entertainment was in teasing her about fitting a certain stereotype, like some Maid in Manhattan type shit.

“And you? Where the fuck is my entire stash of Earl Gray, Billy?” she demanded, hand on her hip. “I pegged you as more of a liquor in your coffee kind of Brit, not pinky raising, crumpets and afternoon tea."

"Why can't I like tea?"

"You drank it all! And my shortbread cookies, you ass." 

Granted, the mop in her hand slightly took away from her annoyed stance, but Butcher couldn’t help cracking up a bit. He liked winding her up, because she was fucking funny when she was pissed off. Like a kitten fluffing up its fur to look intimidating.

Still, while sat at the breakfast bar of her kitchen his gaze was drawn to the cupboards between the oven and the pantry, where he knew she kept her booze.  

“Yeah well, you locked the liquor cabinet so I got no choice, do I?” he said.

Helena looked at him more shrewdly then, and with some sympathy. He knew what she was doing, or rather what she was trying to do. Trying to stop him from drinking so much. He couldn’t decide if it made him angry, or if it made him respect her that much more.

She surprised him by putting down the mop and taking his hand, getting him up from the bar.

“I’ve got a better way to take the edge off,” she said with a smirk. His lips curved and his brow rose all too lasciviously. But the moment he opened his mouth, she slapped his cheek firmly enough to force a wince and a chuckle out of him.  

“Finally inviting me up to the bedroom, are we?”

“Shut up,” she snapped, “just come on.”

Helena’s smoke came out in shallow huffs with her laughter at Butcher nearly coughing up a lung. The difference was, it wasn’t with the black tar of cigarette smoke, but with the…herby aftertaste of a more organic alternative.

They played dominoes on her bedroom floor while she learned, despite his rock and roll exterior, that he was not as experienced as Becca had been in this area.

“My family owns a little café in Miami,” she admitted. “When I was little, I’d sit with my dad and my uncle on slow days while they played cards, dominoes, smoke cigars and alternated between coffee and bourbon. Every now and then, Mom would bring a new round of pastries, sandwiches, a slice of cake…”

She could feel Butcher’s eyes on her again as she flipped a domino between her fingers and considered her next move in the game.

“Sounds like a heart attack waiting to happen,” Butcher said.

“It’s no surprise that half my family’s got a Molotov cocktail of diabetes, heart disease, and hypertension.”

He smirked. “Yeah well, mine’s full of drunks and manic depressives, so you’re in good company.”   

Helena’s embarrassing snort turned into a giggle, because she couldn’t exactly help it at the moment, and Butcher’s grin was broader in response.

“When did you and Becca start with this?” he asked, passing back the blunt. Helena took another small hit and thought back. She was surprised to hear him bring her up so casually, but when she looked into his eyes, it wasn’t completely without weight.

“High school junior prom,” she said, still with a bubble of laughter. “We had no idea what the hell we were doing, but both our dates were ass, so…”

Memory seemed to dawn in Butcher’s eyes, and his smirk deepened.

“Aw yeah, Mr. Star Trek briefs,” he recalled, to Helena’s mortification. She nearly dropped the smoking blunt in her lap as her mouth hung open.  

“How the fuck—who told you about that?!”

“I have my ways,” he magnanimously replied, waggling his brow. Helena tossed her domino at his head, then another when he blocked the first one with his hand and protested.

“Heard he was a gamer, something about his fancy fingers,” Butcher hedged. His smirk took on a new edge, his body curving towards her while he braced himself with a hand on the floor, by her knee. “Bet I could beat his high score.”

Helena’s mouth suddenly felt as dry as her face felt undeniably warm. Even her brain momentarily short-circuited at the depths in his voice making her insides tremble a bit. She stared at his bearded face while her addled thoughts fought furiously to connect. Was he fucking serious right now?

“Ha. You are high as shit,” she forced herself to laugh and play her move in the game, so she wouldn’t have to stare into his eyes any longer.

But he was still watching her, closely.

Butcher didn’t come back for a few days after that. He knew that she didn’t understand what he was doing, that she was frustrated with him, but when he showed up at her door, soaked through from the pouring spring rain, she only chastised him for the first few minutes while she let him in and all but pushed him into the guest bathroom to shower.

Even with the rain it was brutally chilly out, and she was already making soup. As much as Butcher hated the word, she looked fucking adorable, all bundled up in a purple cable-knit sweater and fuzzy white socks.

Her hair was wet, rolled up in a bun like she’d just come out of the shower. He could smell the cocoa butter and wondered if it was her soap, or her shampoo. The sweet smell of her skin, or her hair? A tantalizing thought.

“Where do you go when you leave this house?” she finally asked while she rummaged the linen closet for a fresh towel. Butcher rolled his eyes.

“Does it matter?”

“Are you getting into trouble?” she pressed, her hands moving like clockwork to rest on her lovely hips. He smirked, but even fake good humor didn’t exactly reach his eyes.

“Why do I fucking bother. It’s not like you give a shit about things like respect or human decency,” she snapped. Shutting the closet door a little too hard, she all but shoved the towel at him. Her hand was briefly warm against his chest, even through his cold wet shirt.

“All right, Mum.”

“Shut up!”

Helena silently fumed in the living room while the shower ran. But she was angrier at herself than anything—that M.M. had warned her and she dug this hole for herself anyway. When the bathroom door finally opened, she wandered over and crossed her arms impatiently.

Her lips pursed, and she hoped the heat rushing at her face would cover up her blush at the sight of his naked torso with the fluffy towel around his waist. A man wrapped in hot fog and almost little else.  

He caught her stare and smirked at her. “Enjoying the show, are we?”

“I need my hairdryer,” she lied, knowing she was blushing more fiercely. He probably saw through her, but didn’t call her out on it as much as he baited her.

“Come get it then, love. I’m all done,” he replied. He had one of her small combs in his hand and started nonchalantly pulling it through his hair at the mirror.

Helena eyed him warily, but she ignored the fluttering in her stomach and entered the bathroom.

Butcher pretended to be immersed in his task while she crouched down to rummage in the cabinet below the bathroom sink. It wasn’t often that she had her hair up, and her sweater hung lower on her back. He spotted the outline of an interesting tattoo, just below her neck, heading down the curve of her spine.

“‘Ullo, that a spider on your back?” he teased.

Helena gasped. “What!”

Before Butcher could blink, her head banged up on the edge of the cabinet, hard, and suddenly there was blood.

“Shit!” she hissed, but he stopped her hands from flying to grab her head, and guided her with a hand on her neck, away from the small and now bloody nail protruding from the cabinet.

“A shoddy job they did on this place,” he remarked.

Helena winced as she touched the area around the wound in her scalp. She teared up when her fingers came back bloody.

“Shit,” she repeated, and stared up at him with pathetic doe eyes. “That really fucking hurt. Is it bad?”   

“Brilliant,” he muttered. “All right. Just get up here.”

He led her up by the elbows and sat her down on the covered toilet seat. He determined it wasn’t bleeding too badly.

“Was there a spider for real?” she asked tearfully.

Butcher covered up the sting of guilt with a short chuckle.

“Nah, but...you got a tattoo, eh?”

Anger flashing in her eyes, she sat up and slapped his bare shoulder. “You asshole!”

“Oi, oi! You want my help or not?”

She sniffed in response, her gaze reflexively roaming over his bare chest and firm-looking sternum, and the smattering of dark hair covering most of it, and she quickly skipped over the towel-covered portion before returning her gaze to the floor. “Can’t you put some pants on first?”

He smirked deeply, but he decided not to push it. Yet.

“Aye, I can do that.”

He soon returned dressed in jeans and for once a less glaring Hawaiian shirt, to find her dabbing at her scalp with toilet paper.

“Don’t use that one-ply shit, for Christ’s sake.” He pulled her hand away from the wound.

“That’s all that’s in here!” she said defensively. 

“Don’t you have any fuckin’ tissue paper, some gauze?”

“Maybe in the first aid kit. Check my bathroom’s medicine cabinet.”

“Oh, shall I, princess?”

She stared at him incredulously.

“Fine, I’ll get it myself!” she said. “Fucking excuse me, I thought you were helping.”

Again, he rolled his eyes. “All right, enough. Sit down if you���re gunna make a fuss about it.”

“No! Don’t bother,” she said. Perhaps she knew she was being irrationally emotional as she scrubbed fresh tears from her eyes. He stopped her from getting up with a slightly gentler hand. 

“Hey. Hey. Enough of that,” he snapped. “Sit down there.”

Helena felt like a child when he eventually came back with the first aid kit. She stayed grumpily quiet when he parted her hair and swabbed at the back of her head. He held it there until the slow oozing stopped. For a while, the silence in the bathroom was deafening.

“Am I gunna live, doc?” she quipped.

She knew it worked in breaking the tension when she spotted Butcher’s smirk in the mirror. 

“It’s not deep,” he said. “Should be okay.”  

“Thanks,” she said quietly.

“Come again?” he hedged. Her lips pursed, even though they still threatened at a smile.

“I said thank you.” Though she did mutter some choice words in Spanish. 

For once, he chose to ignore it. 

“Clumsier than usual,” he teased. “What’re you gunna do if I do leave?”

“I was doing just fine before you showed up,” she tossed back. Maybe that was a little too close to the truth, because they both felt the mood shift into something more serious, and a little awkward.

“Yeah well, far as I can see you’re doing fuck all out here. What do you even do all day?” he said, more gruffly. More critical.

“At least I know for sure that I’m not hurting anyone! Can you say the same?” she said. When he didn’t answer, just as she expected, she stood up and took the gauze out of his hand before she moved past him out of the bathroom.

“When you take off again, do me a favor and make your fucking bed before you go. This isn’t an Airbnb.”

He lay awake in the guest bedroom that night, itching to leave. He wanted to, and it wasn’t often that he didn’t do what he wanted to, but there were things about the woman sleeping upstairs that he couldn’t ignore.

She woke up in the night almost as often as he did, from what he could hear through the thin walls. Sometimes he saw her walk past the cracked open door of his room, not in the sweatpants and oversized shirts she let him see, but in the little satin nighties that gleamed under the hallway nightlight. By his count, she had at least three of them.

He liked the red one best. It reminded him of the dress she wore the night he went kamikaze over to Stillwell’s house, and tried to trap Homelander. 

He’d known that he wouldn’t be walking out of there alive. He would’ve either avenged his wife, or not. But before that, he’d almost kissed Helena in a supply closet—the last idiot whim of a soon-to-be dead man. He hadn’t known then that Becca was alive. 

Perhaps if he’d stopped for half a second and let Helena tell him that, things would be a lot different now.

Butcher could hear her at this very moment, puttering around in the kitchen. She must’ve been more restless than usual. She’d probably make tea or grab a snack, then return to her room like a thief in the night with the entire pack of Oreos or a family-size bag of chips. Honestly, for how healthy she cooked, she had a bad snacking habit. Not that he should judge anyone about bad habits.

Even so, he couldn’t help but think there was something they could do to make sure both of them got a good night’s sleep.

He almost shook his head then, inwardly smirking. Now there was a thought to try and fall asleep on…

Until he was startled awake by a sharp crash that sounded a bit like metal breaking. His body jerked into alertness; he sat up and grabbed his gun from under his pillow before tossing on some pants, not bothering with a shirt. He stayed tense for action while creeping towards the kitchen…and eventually let out the breath he was holding.

It was just Helena, setting a couple of pans back on the kitchen counter. She looked back at him apologetically and he stowed his gun in the band of his pants.

“Sorry!” she stage whispered.

“What the hell’s going on here?”

“I’m making snickerdoodles.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “Fucking why?”

“It helps me…not think, okay?”

“What’re you ‘not thinking’ about so loud that bloody cookies can’t wait ‘til the morning, huh?”

She sighed and put the pan down. Her hands found purchase on the counter and she stared down between them. He didn’t think she realized what she was doing to him, showing him the curve of her ass in a satin nightgown that barely reached mid-thigh. The black lacy hem, the thin straps clinging to her shoulders, the hint of nipple—

“How long do you think I have left?” she asked him. Admittedly, it took him a moment to hear, and then finally process that she was speaking.

“Eh?” he said coherently. She turned to him with a hand on her waist, gathering her mane of hair at the nape of her neck and nervously letting it pass through her other hand.   

“It’s so damn quiet here, I kind of hate it,” she said. “Because it feels like it’s not real. Any minute they’re going to knock on my door, or more likely, bust through the window like last time.”

“Still not following, love.”

“When I gave the CIA that footage of Becca, Vought found out in a matter of days. I’ve been kidding myself, Billy. Sooner or later, they’re going to figure out the rest. That their last Senior VP was a mole for six months, that I was working with you and the guys, and Mallory. Then they’re going to kill me.”

He didn’t know what to tell her. Regardless of whatever he felt about it, her fear was real, and he didn’t see the point in lying to her. He couldn’t promise her that she’d be fine, just like he didn’t know if he’d turn a corner and get a bullet to the back of his brain tomorrow. Or Homelander's lasers between his eyes.

“You’ve got Mallory lookin’ out for ya,” he pointed out.

“Is that enough?” Helena asked. "You tell me." 

She looked up at him with those eyes. Again, they were filling up with tears. When she inevitably broke down, he didn’t think he should be the one to catch her if he fell. But if he didn’t, was he okay with the alternative?

“Hey,” he said, just as she looked away from him to hide her face. He laid a heavy hand on her shoulder, but she refused to stop hiding. He grasped her arms and playfully jostled her a little. “Eh, don’t get all soft on me again. Look at me.”

Helena bit her lip to try and stop her own sobs, her breath coming out in shallow gasps the more that the panic and stress took over. She shook her head stubbornly.

“He’s going to find me,” she said.

Butcher knew she didn’t mean Stan Edgar, or even Black Noir. A dark thought, a tendril of rage rolled beneath his skin. It was a familiar feeling. Vengeful, protective, and dangerous. He tampered it down enough, holding her just a fraction tighter.

“Helena. Look at me,” Butcher demanded. He was firm enough that she finally obliged him with a sniffle. “You wanna cry, or you wanna make these fuckin’ cookies?”

She stared at him for exactly one beat before a giggle bubbled over. Tears still streamed down her cheeks, but she was smiling again, even laughing when she let her forehead fall against his bare chest.

“You’ll really help me?” she hedged. Raising her head, she tapped her fist lightly against his chest. “Some hard-ass you are.”

A laugh threatened the integrity of his smirk, but he held it down.

“Will it shut you up?” he snarked. She laughed, despite shoving hard at his shoulder.

“You ass. For that, you get to roll the dough balls in sugar.”

“I ain’t fondling no balls, love. That’s your department.”

“Excuse me?!”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Grace Mallory muttered. She returned the phone to her ear and took a breath, so that when she spoke, her inept assistant would hear the thinly repressed rage in her voice.

“Natalie, if you don’t get me the indexed files on Soldier Boy in the next five minutes, you’ll be handing my next assistant my order from Starbucks, because you’ll be behind the counter frothing the shit yourself. With a little green apron and everything.”

The mousy voice on the line shook, but she squeaked her understanding and Mallory hung up. She tapped her pen against one many files gathered across her office desk, a single table lamp illuminating her struggle.

In sorting through the rest of Vought's archives that Helena had provided, Mallory found that someone had accessed Soldier Boy's file just a few weeks ago.

The record hadn't been touched in nearly a decade...so why now? An uneasy feeling crept up Mallory's spine, but she took a steadying breath. It might very well be nothing, but she was never a woman to leave anything to chance. 

She was almost single-handedly running this surveillance unit that technically didn’t exist, not even on the official documents that legitimized Supe Affairs.

Handing off that project to Victoria Neuman was proving to be a Godsend, as it freed Mallory up for even more important tasks, like keeping Ryan safe. He was due to be moved to the next safe house in three weeks, and she was in the midst of scouting locations.

But her current headache had nothing to do with that, and entirely with her side project: keeping tabs on Homelander. And her side-side project: keepings tabs on Billy Butcher, as well as keeping them from keeping tabs on each other.

The former task was relatively easy. So far it seemed Homelander was too preoccupied with saving face at Vought and to the world to try and find Ryan, or Butcher, and by extension, Helena Flores. And Mallory was on that too.

The girl had been helpful, giving them information that violated her NDA a million times over. Mallory was the only one Helena had trusted with that information, and that was smart of her. Vought had their eyes everywhere, especially on former employees.

But to their frustration, Mallory was sure, they did not yet have eyes on Helena Flores. And because Mallory was good at her job, she knew that not even this CIA classified building could be trusted with the information she held.

How long she could keep it up, God only knew.

Read on: PART 12

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