#every second of the day she is Making Noise and extraneous noise is one of my biggest pet peeves

[atouchofshadow]

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[angelofrainfrogs]

Spend the Night: Ch. 13

~Coauthored by @zeitghest~

Fandom(s): Five Nights At Freddy’s: Security Breach

Description: The familiar melody of Grandfather’s Clock chimes through the echoing halls of the Pizzaplex…

Charlie wakes up in her Puppet’s vessel yet again with one goal in mind: to stop William Afton’s reign of terror for good. She enlists the help of Glamrock Freddy, the emphatic leader of the newest iteration of the Fazbear Band. But there seems to be more to this bear than meets the eye—and the same goes for the mysteriously familiar kid the duo find tinkering with animatronics down in Parts & Service.

With some help from friends new and old, Charlie’s journey into the bowels of the Pizzaplex will unravel mysteries none of them ever expected. 

Rating: T

Read on Ao3

Now this is your fault Everything is a problem There was a poison in the air, despair is an eternal blight You're losing it all You've been blinded by stardom You think that you're alone, but we are waiting for you every night You're mine

~This Comes From Inside by The Living Tombstone~

“So, Gregory…,” Michael began as they walked through Rockstar Row. He kept his voice low, though from the camera feeds they’d just checked there were no enemies around. Still, he reasoned it was better safe than sorry. “I appreciate you saving us from the spooky places, but I have to admit: I have no idea what Fazer Blast or Mazercise are...”

“So...” Gregory followed suit, pitching his voice equally low. He'd spent a while plotting out their course in detail as he learned from Freddy. It was the reason why they hadn't been ambushed by now with Freddy's AI wired into the system. This route should be quiet.

Then again, Gregory was human. Humans tend to err.

“You're gonna love Fazer Blast. On Tuesday, I crashed this rich kid's party; everyone got a gift basket and a ticket to Fazer Blast, so I got to play it a little. Those guns aren't a joke and I saw some kid hit a girl in the eye,” Gregory mentioned, peeking around a darkened corridor that headed for the backrooms. “Also... That's how I learned what a corneal laceration was. So I guess everyone learned something that day.”

“Guns…?” Michael tilted his head as he listened to Gregory explain, keeping watch for extraneous bots and rabbits as they moved. He then let out an excited gasp, eyes twinkling as he realized what this attraction might entail. “Wait—is this laser tag?!”

Michael loved laser tag—it was a fun activity that appeared in the world during one of the worst times in his life. On the rare occasion he was able to escape extraneous work at the pizzeria, he’d rush off to the fancy new arena not far from his dad’s restaurant and get out his frustration at life by shooting neon lights at other kids. He’d always wanted to play one, final game someday…

“Yeah! Plus... I figured ‘cause this whole attraction is always making noise—” Gregory began, pulling his flashlight out to shine light on their path as he revealed the secret second part to his plan. “—we could play laser tag. They have S.T.A.F.F. bots in the attraction set up for you to shoot.”

Was it exactly what Gregory said he'd be doing? No, but Freddy would be fine with it if he knew it was for a purpose anyway. They needed those Fazblasters. Gregory used to be confident with the camera's flash, but then Monty's sunglasses proved to be too tinted for the shining lights.

“And Mazercise? That's—”

“Hello?” squawked a feminine noise, too-high energy to be Charlie.

Gregory turned off his light and jumped back behind a set of employee lockers. Speak of the devil! Why did he even bother talking about the homicidal robots when they just seemed to have their ears ringing at every mention of them? The bird had seen the light, followed it, but stood confused when she saw Foxy the Pirate in the halls.

“...No. Flipping. Way! Foxy?! How did you get here?” Chica gasped, running towards him and looking like she had no clue what to do with her hands at the strange surprise. “You look amazing; did they do something to your hair?”

Michael was thankful the boy had such quick-thinking reflexes. Before he could even blink, Gregory disappeared into a locker and was out of sight just as Chica rounded the corner. Mike flinched as she ran towards him, instinctively holding his arms up to shield his face as images of lunging robots and gnashing teeth flashed though his mind.

However… this was not Chica he used to know. The closest iteration to this Glamrock version had been the Toy line, which was absolutely terrifying in its own right. But even though the bird in front of him was virus-ridden and currently bloodthirsty for human children, she was like Freddy at her core—meaning that, deep down, she should be nice. Whether Michael could access this part of her remained to be seen, although she was clearly excited to see her old friend Foxy.

“Argh, hello, lass!” Michael exclaimed, lowering his arms. He flashed Chica a grin and really hoped they hadn’t changed Foxy’s voice too much from the original one he was copying. “I’ve been brought back from the depths of Parts & Service! It’s great to see ya!”

Chica had her hands pressed expressively against her dirty pizza-grease-stained cheeks. There were so many surprises tonight! Freddy turned out to be a traitor. Bonnie was back! And now Foxy the famous Pirate Fox had returned from the dead?!

Chica could almost die from happiness.

“Wait until Roxy hears about this! Oooh! You're, like, her idol or her muse or something!” She laughed, acting just like her usual self at the sight of an old friend. Obviously, she had to fill Foxy in on what was happening.

“I can't wait to rock out with you! Ugh, I just wish I could find everyone—plus that rabid kid is still on the loose. You should put a hook in his brain when you see him...,” Chica remarked in a disgusted tone, like even mentioning the boy put her in a sour mood. “You should also visit Bonnie; he's hanging out in Fazer Blast with Vanny. I'm gonna go try and find Roxanne...”

Chica walked past Michael, smoothly at first until it became more of a zombified shuffle. Sadly, no self-awareness had come to her during their conversation—nothing that rubbed herself the wrong way and no self-reflection. Just blind hatred for Gregory.

Michael was frozen for a moment as he recovered from the whiplash of that short but very informative interaction. He’d been trying to think of excuses to get Chica away, but she’d rambled on, had an entire one-sided conversation, and then promptly walked off before he could get another word out. He wondered if this Glamrock model was always so chatty, or if this feature had been amped up by the virus, too. He’d have to ask Freddy when they met up again.

Gregory opened his locker, slow as to not alert the turned-around chicken. The last thing he wanted to do was for some sweaty employee's locker to be his coffin.

When Gregory emerged Michael quickly ushered him to his side, wrapping the long pirate coat around the boy protectively. His legs and tiny red shoes could still be seen, but it gave Mike and Gregory a mutual sense of comfort nonetheless as Chica shambled out of sight. After hearing her heavy footsteps retreat a little longer, Michael pressed a finger to his mouth as a signal to be quiet and led Gregory into a nearby janitors’ closet that had thankfully been unlocked.

“If we’re quiet, we should be able to talk here for a bit until we’re sure she’s gone,” Michael whispered, not worrying that Gregory would hear him in the tiny space. The poor boy was practically sandwiched between Mike’s leg and a shelf full of cleaning supplies, but at least they were both out of the open now. “Can you use that handy watch of yours and check the cameras? We’ll move when she’s far enough away.”

Chica really didn't shut up, Gregory concluded. She ate and regurgitated pizza grease and talked about nothing. Or at least, her worst traits were amplified when under William's viral influence. As Michael was kind and courteous enough to wrap him in the soft, long coat, Gregory felt okay walking alongside him. Although he did sort of feel like one of those dogs being put inside one of those thunder blankets, it certainly helped with keeping him calm. Plus the smell of motor oil and dust reminded him of home...

Inside the cramped closet, Gregory felt somewhat dizzy. Not just because it was small and he’d been squished against Foxy's leopard tights, but the cleaning chemicals inside didn't seem to be capped right. So, Gregory tried to make this swift.

“Totally—I'd hate to be trapped in a conversation like that again,” he said, sympathizing for his friend as the camera feeds for this level loaded. Together they watched the pink bird move along the halls, momentarily spooked by her own shadow before angrily storming into the auxiliary café entrance.

Once the coast was clear, Mike quickly opened the door and freed Gregory from the confines of the tiny space. The boy’s face was starting to look a little pale from the chemical fumes, but he seemed to perk up alright in the open air of the hallway.

“Alright, so—” Michael began, crouching down and resting his arms on his knees to be more on Gregory’s level. “—clearly, those damn rabbits are hiding out in Fazer Blast. That’s why Chica mentioned Bonnie, since the bastard still insists on using a Bonnie model after everything that’s happened…” Suddenly, Michael’s eyes widened as a realization hit him.

“Oh. Oh no… Freddy doesn’t know what William looks like right now—he’s probably just going off of whatever picture is in his memory banks.” The fox groaned in annoyance. “Shit—we should’ve told Freddy in case they run into him; I don’t think he’s going to react well… Maybe we should call and tell Charlie to let him know. But they might be busy with upgrades, so I wouldn’t want to distract her; she’ll probably remember on her own, anyway…”

Michael’s thoughts were spiraling again, and this time Gregory was able to hear it out loud. Through his muttering, Mike neglected to actually give Gregory an explanation of how or why William was in a Bonnie animatronic, leaving the boy to speculate. The fox seemed more worried about Freddy’s reaction to seeing his old, virus-infected friend than anything else at the moment.

William was a bunny. Okay...

“Wait—is your dad just Bonnie? Or is he a ghost, too?” Gregory asked.

It made sense, he thought. William Afton was either going to be an incredibly old man—possibly 100 years old—or he was going to be a murderous ghost. "Ghost" began to connect a few dots, even if they didn’t have all the pieces.

To keep Michael from going totally off-kilter, Gregory stepped in front of the man and tried to garner his attention.

“Mike. Charlie and Freddy are probably talking about it right now. Don't sweat it,” he would attempt to ease down.

Though Gregory was far from a crisis-preventer, he did make some good points. If William was hiding in Fazer Blast, they could corner him! Maybe keep him stalled, or preferably wait until Freddy was done with his upgrade. It might not be the time to get the drop on him, but to figure out what exactly his plan was this entire time.

Michael seemed to refocus as Gregory called his name. Glassy eyes brightened once again and he realized that an open hallway with crazed robots running around really wasn’t the place for his anxiety to get the better of him. He stood up, holding out his hand for Gregory to take.

“You’re right; I’m sure they’ll be fine,” Michael agreed with a grateful smile. He gave a resolute nod, his mind following a similar thought process as Gregory’s. “Let’s head to Fazer Blast; we can at least grab a gun and then book it back to Freddy and Charlie.” He started walking, then quickly realized he had absolutely no idea where they were going. With a chuckle, he gestured with his hook for Gregory to take the lead.

“As for my Father… I’m honestly not sure what he is at this point,” Michael admitted slowly. He didn’t want to freak the kid out more than he already was, but Gregory needed to know what they were up against—or he at least deserved to know that Michael didn’t. “William is… unique, I’ll put it that way. It would make sense if he was a ghost like Charlie and I, but he’s never made sense.”

The ghost theory was only plausible on a surface-level. The most glaring issue was that, if he was simply a ghost, how in the world had he infected Vanessa? Obviously she did his bidding and was likely the one to spread the virus while William was getting used to his new body… but how had she become influenced in the first place? Michael didn’t think ghosts could possess living people—and even if they could, wouldn’t William’s influence have left Vanessa the moment he went into Glamrock Bonnie? There were too many questions and not nearly enough answers for Michael’s liking.

It would help if the old fuck actually said anything worthwhile. It seemed he showed himself just to gloat, followed by him punching Michael and kicking Charlie only to fuck off back into obscurity. The only predictable thing about William was that he glided through life on impulse—and that impulsive lifestyle came back karmatically in a big way by taking his family apart, one by one.

“What if he's haunting the... the operating system? It would explain why Freddy doesn't have the virus, being on Safe Mode...,” Gregory thought, but that still didn't explain his control over Vanessa. “It can't explain why your dad wants me dead. I've never even met the chump!”

Gregory griped as he took Michael's hand and begun to pull him towards Fazer Blast. They could do a little reconnaissance while Freddy was getting repaired.

“The operating system?” Michael echoed, frowning as best as the fox face would allow. Now that was an intriguing thought… And a surprisingly plausible one, too.

Still, the big question remained: how?

“I don’t think it has anything to do with you personally, Gregory,” Michael assured, giving his hand a squeeze. “You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time and he set his sights on you, like all the others…” His tone shifted into one of aged bitterness on these last few words. How many kids had been taken for William’s deluded plans? Michael wasn’t sure he even wanted to know.

“Right...” Gregory's whole perspective on it did seem to shift. It didn't so much matter why William was doing the things he was doing. All that mattered was getting as far from this guy as possible while preventing him from hurting others.

Bunnies were supposed to be cute and unassuming. Gregory figured this is why he managed to find so many child victims. Who’d ever suspect the sweet ol’ rabbit?

Gregory spied through the camera function on his Fazwatch, glancing around the Fazer Blast attraction. In one of those, he could see a security tower that overlooked the laser tag course.

As he squinted at the movement inside the tower and showed his wrist to Michael, Gregory asked: “Is he just insane? What does he get out of killing kids?”

Gregory just couldn't fathom going out of your way to hurt anyone without reason, especially someone so vulnerable. Just one day, you're sitting in a ball pit thinking about how you're going to get ice cream afterward. Then some guy with a weird thing for rabbits kills you and hides your body inside an arcade machine... It was morbid. And if Gregory didn't want to join the others, he had to figure out anything he could from Michael to avoid that.

“He is insane—that’s not a question.” Michael watched the movement on the tiny screen. It was impossible to make out any details, although the stark flash of white confirmed that Vanny was definitely up there… and William likely wasn’t going to leave her side now that he could use her for both his original plan and leverage against the others.

“I don’t know what he wants, though—not now, after all this time,” Michael continued, then he paused a moment, gearing up for the explanation ahead. “I think he was originally trying to… to bring back my brother.” Michael’s voice slowed as he pushed through the emotion that came with reliving Evan’s death. “He… Evan… E-Evan was the only one in this horrible situation that didn’t die by William’s hand. And once that happened, my father… changed. I don’t understand everything behind his actions and I doubt anyone but him ever will, but… I think he started out with what he believed were good intentions.”

At least, this is what Michael presumed from the scattered notes he’d found when raiding William’s office. Not to mention hints the crazed killer gave whenever he and his estranged son interacted. Though few and far between, these pieces of information allowed Michael to hazard a guess that in William’s sick fantasy, he thought he was bringing his family back together… but he only ended up killing the rest of his own children, himself, and innocent kids that had nothing to do with anything in the process. And he was apparently still going.

Maybe that was how he justified those actions. Charlie may have been an accident that led to the discovery of life eternal, but the others? William didn't know them. He could justify it by placing himself aside the others. Their lives didn't affect him as the lives of his children had. What was a few decades of hard work in comparison to forever? If William even could articulate that at the time, how could he now?

Gregory gave Michael a sympathetic ear, saddened by the tale. Mike just wanted his brother back, but not at the expense of other people’s lives. He was going through grief naturally, but it seemed like that process had been stunted—and he’d never gotten over the death of Evan either.

“That's... Really messed up. I'm sorry he put you through that, Mike,” Gregory said. Michael had been a good friend to him, and the heartache of hearing your friend’s inner turmoil had Gregory resting his head against the fox's leg as they watched the security tower together.

Inside, a taller, unfamiliar rabbit figure was gesturing with his hands. It looked like he was making shadow puppets across a projector screen. Either that, or Gregory just couldn’t see what he had showing on the projector. It was hard to tell, but Gregory was almost positive it was the former. Since William came across as strange in all of Michael's depictions of him, he wouldn't put it past the man.

“Thanks, Gregory; you’re a good kid.” Michael couldn’t help but feel a twinge of brotherly affection at the boy’s words. Despite the obviously tough life he’d been though, Gregory still had the wherewithal to care about others. Michael gently ruffled his hair, allowing Gregory to rest against him for a moment before letting out a small sigh.

“Alright—time for another plan,” the fox announced. “I’m not too fond of us going to Fazer Blast if William and Vanny are there, but… I think we need that gun. Maybe we can grab it and get out, then come back with Freddy and Charlie?”

“Yeah. They're not even doing anything...” With no audio enabled in this thing, there was no telling what they were talking about over there. There wasn't any point sitting and speculating in the hallway. It wouldn't get either of them any closer to the answers they craved.

“We could also hit up Mazercise? I don't know if I left anything in there. Or maybe we could just go back and see how the others are doing. What time is it?” Gregory asked, switching the screens on his watch briefly to observe how much time they wasted scouting the area.

“Let’s get the gun first, then if we have time we can check out Mazercise—if not, we’ll regroup in the security office.” As Michael talked through the plan, he became more confident that things might just work in their favor this time. Yes, they were technically going to be in the same area as William, but they were going to stay as far away as possible. Michael held up his paw for a high-five, flashing the most confident grin he could manage. “Ready?”

It'll be easy, Gregory figured as he raised his hand and met the other's with a hearty smack. "Ready!"

Though it would be tempting to stay and play a round of laser tag, Gregory doubted it wouldn't go unnoticed by Vanny or William in the tower above.

Gregory could feel Michael's contagious smile spread to pull at his own lips. With the fierce pirate fox at his side, there was nothing they couldn't accomplish. Even if that old man and the bunny with no peripheral vision in her mask saw them, it's not like they could catch them!

Probably.

Michael followed Gregory into Fazer Blast, speeding past the first room where a S.T.A.F.F. bot ran through a set of instructions and warnings. The next room held the prize: a set of Fazblasters all lined up nicely on a table next to a bunch of helmets. Gregory was quick to pick up a gun, and as he turned it over in his hands Michael went back to the door they’d just entered. He tried to open it so they could go back the way they came—but the heavy metal wouldn’t budge.

“No…” Michael muttered under his breath, not wanting to alarm Gregory until he was sure he had to. “No, please… not now!”

He tried the door frantically, even attempting to leverage the handle with his hook, but it was stuck fast. He didn’t need to breathe, but it sounded like he was starting to hyperventilate. Turning to Gregory with wide eyes, Michael spelled out their current situation: “The door auto-locked behind us. I… I think we have to go through the arena to get out of here.”

Gregory's eyebrows flew up towards his hairline, and to the door he went in an attempt to throw it up alongside Michael. He hit the door twice with his fist, even shot the card reader with his gun. Nothing would get the auto locks to pry. Sad to say they couldn't use the same technology for their security offices...

“If your dad doesn't kill us, mine will,” Gregory muttered. This had been a serious lapse in judgement on both their parts. But how were either to know that there was no way to exit the Fazer Blast unless a S.T.A.F.F. bot was witnessing an emergency?

A long corridor that lead into the laser tag obstacle course was illuminated by standard, uniform neon tubing. The ominous red that lit their path wasn't exactly soothing.

“Okay... Just don't panic. Maybe they won't even notice up there.” Gregory squared his shoulders as he began to shuffle for the exit.

“Just stay by my side and keep that blaster handy,” Michael instructed, as they cautiously approached an elevator that would deposit them directly into the arena. Not for the first time, Michael wondered what the hell this place’s obsession with unnecessarily long elevator rides was about. He thought back to Gregory’s comment about their dads and sighed.

“…You should also probably try to call Freddy before that elevator door opens,” the fox added with a grimace. “I know he’s going to freak out depending on how much you say, but at least he deserves to know that we’ve found their hideout.”

Michael’s tail swished slowly back and forth to get out some nervous tension. He’d leave it up to Gregory as to how much detail he wanted to provide on the call—the boy knew Freddy better than him at this point and could do a much better job at predicting what might set the bear off. If it were up to Mike, he figured the less information the better…

That was a good idea. Maybe the universe was giving Gregory this long elevator ride to give him time to say goodbye to Freddy—to apologize for calling him Dad and getting attached to him before dying. There were many scenarios running through his mind as he took a deep, steadying breath. His wrist was poised in front of his mouth, and Gregory pressed the talking button at the side to speak with Freddy.

“Hey, Dad? Uh—we got locked inside Fazer Blast. I don't know if you can hear me but... I love you and stuff. I-I'm going to try and hold out with Michael. I just wanted to let you know I'm sorry.”

It would be a miracle if Freddy was in position to answer—or if Charlie heard them and decided to come to their aid. But for some reason Gregory felt like their luck was running out.

Oh… that hurt to listen to. Michael’s chest tightened as Gregory spoke shakily into his watch. The kid had acted so confident and comforting towards Michael recently, he’d almost forgotten Gregory was just that: a kid. One that was about to try and sneak past an entity that had made an entire building of robots hungry for his blood specifically. Of course he’d be absolutely terrified…

Unfortunately, any words of encouragement Michael had to offer were stilted as the doors opened to reveal the arena. A thin layer of fog obscured the neon glow of the laser tag attraction. So far, all was quiet.

***

Charlie had just finished the last test of Freddy’s new claws when Gregory’s small, scared voice echoed from his internal speakers.

“Gregory?!” Freddy exclaimed, and when the boy didn’t respond he jumped out of the chair and rushed to the door of the protective cylinder, trying to force it open when it didn’t move fast enough. Once out in the main area, Freddy grabbed Charlie’s hand and immediately pulled her towards Roxy’s elevator, explaining frantically as he ran: “Gregory and Michael are stuck in Fazer Blast—I am not sure what is happening, but I think they are in trouble! We must try and help them!”

Charlie had become a limp noodle in Freddy's hold. How and why those boys couldn't stay out of trouble was not the question that could be answered right now. Charlie put up no fight as her legs started their fast pace alongside Freddy's.

Charlie had thought that Michael moved on from his rebellious phase—perhaps Gregory brought it out unintentionally in her friend when they were alone. Charlie knew when she had her turn in watching the kid, all she wanted to do was arts and crafts and play with toys. Gregory brought their inner child out—yet, sadly, they were trapped inside this place with a child murderer. They'd be as good as double-dead without help.

Gripping onto Freddy's arm, Charlie swung up to rest weightlessly on his back, hitching a ride as they rushed into the elevator.

***

Gregory was timid, clearly shaken as he glanced to his friend. He looked past him now, peering into the dense fog. The mist only seemed to amp up the further they passed the into it's shroud. Gregory thankfully could still see Michael, as the giant looming fox wasn't exactly inconspicuous. As they circled around to capture one of the checkpoints, Gregory wondered if they could get through this without incident. When the flag was retrieved, a prerecorded message swiftly ruined their entire guise.

“CHECKPOINT B CAPTURED! TWO MORE CHECKPOINTS REMAIN!” reminded the two, and set off cause for alarm inside the tower.

“SHIT!” Michael yelled, his voice almost completely drowned out by the message blasting through the arena. Why the hell did it have to be so loud and announce their exact position?! He ushered Gregory along as fast as they could, not even sure what direction they were headed. All he knew was that one or more rabbits were about to appear at Checkpoint B, and they needed to be as far away from there as possible.

Inside the tower, Vanny rushed to the window and peered out to see a vague, bulky shape moving through the fog. Though the features weren’t clear, the hobbling steps were unmistakable. Vanny turned around to William with an excited gasp.

“Your son is here!” she announced, giddy and bright. She pressed a paw over the grinning mouth of her mask as she let out a giggle. “Seems like he wanted to play a game~”

Above, William came from behind Vanny, placing his hands on the girl's shoulders as he peered over her and into the maze.

“Of course. He could never resist a bout of laser tag.” William said as if reminiscing on the good times. It appeared Michael had a little friend. The child he had heard about. Good; maybe his son had finally come to his senses and decided to give up the chase.

It’d be useless anyway—William would get what he wanted in the end.

“We should meet with them, don't you think, my dear?” he remarked, giving his murderous protégé’s shoulders a rough pat before turning around and heading for the office doors. “Last one there's a rotten Easter egg!”

“The other flags! Damn it where are they—” Gregory gasped through the artificial fog in the air. He nearly fainted when Michael patted the cut along his back, the self-preserving part of his brain figuring he should just relax before death to make it easier on his tiny body. When he realized it was Michael with him in the fog, Gregory figured he should let Mike lead the way. After all, he shared those special eyes that Roxy had. This obscure fog wasn't anything to him, and it showed.

“There! To your left!” Michael exclaimed, pointing to a poll with a tiny flag set up in a nearly-hidden corner. He squinted as he looked around for danger while Gregory ran for the goal.

Now that his eyes had time to adjust to the sensory overload of fog and flashing lights, Michael realized he could see through the haze pretty well. Thank god for whatever special features they’d installed in these animatronic eyes… He just hoped they hadn’t been spotted by those in the tower yet, although he knew the chances of that were slim.

Vanny shrieked with laughter as she rushed to follow William out into the arena. She was so happy he had a body now so they could play all sorts of fun games! And the fact that Michael was joining them as well was even more fantastic—not to mention he’d brought them a gift of the sneaky child they’d been trying to catch all night! It warmed Vanny’s heart to see her friend's old family reunited again!

No longer was William just a nagging voice sitting idle in the back of her head. He could sing and dance before her, and do all the things that he said he would. His plan was so close to being achieved now.

As his metal feet clanged after each impact with the steps on the tower, William let out a disturbed chuckle. “I can see them! Can you see them?”

Checkpoint A was close, all they had to do was snatch the flag away and get to C. As Gregory skidded across the floor, riding the momentum after running for so long, he figured Michael was behind him. He craned his neck to look for him, and found himself sliding right into someone new...

Those strong arms snatched him up, holding him with a grip that caused Gregory to shriek. It was him! The child murderer who’d been waiting for Gregory to slip up and get turned around inside the fog.

Gregory begun to cry now as his feet were pulled from the safety of the ground. In sheer panic, he dropped his gun and hit at the thick, purple arms holding him aloft.

“Evan..?” the rabbit questioned in a voice not unlike Michael’s, tone soft and vulnerable. He didn’t wait for an answer, but knocked Gregory's hands away to get a better look.

It was him, without a shadow of a doubt—Evan Afton, William’s youngest and favorite son. But how? Michael wasn't smart enough to figure out something as complex as resurrection!

…Did it matter? What act of providence after all of William’s labor, to have his first lost child return to him.

Gregory had been scared into muteness as William tucked him against his chest, gently kissing the crown of his head. “No, no, don't cry. No tears. You're safe again. I'm not going to let him hurt you. Not anymore.”

William had officially gone and confused Gregory now. The boy continued to sob silently into the front of “Bonnie’s” torso, which did nothing to help curb his resemblance to Evan. 

“You let go of him RIGHT. NOW.” Michael appeared out of the swirling fog, coat flared out from running before it settled around him. He looked like a sort of fox-pirate-vigilante, seething and out for blood—but not Gregory’s, unlike nearly all the other robots in this damned place.

No, Michael was only after that purple rabbit… The purple rabbit who currently had Gregory clutched in his arms.

“Father… let him go,” Michael tried again, knowing full-well his pleas would fall on deaf ears.

However, there was something odd about this situation—more than the obvious, sheer lunacy of this entire thing. It was in the way William held the child, not like someone about to end Gregory’s life, but like someone who wanted to protect it. It was shocking in its familiarity, and Michael had the sudden, impossible urge to vomit as he understood why: William thought this boy was his son. Gregory’s genes had cursed him with a face like Evan’s, and just like Michael on the outset, their father thought the tortured, long-lost soul of his youngest boy had come back to him.

Michael clenched his fist, remaining stock still as he watched William cuddle the obviously petrified boy. He wanted to snatch Gregory and run, but Mike knew he was at a disadvantage right then—especially when he noticed Vanny lingering near William’s side.

Will's jaw was twitching as he kept it pressed against the top of Gregory's head. When his eyes flicked upwards to Michael, he took a shaky, simulated breath inward. Gregory flinched, thinking that when he least expected it, William would crunch right into the top of his skull.

“Michael... You did it. You found him... I'm so proud of you, son,” the Afton patriarch murmured.

Were these words genuine? Hard to say—he didn't listen to Michael's pleas, only distracted when seeing Vanny come to rest at his side.

“Vanny—look, this is my youngest. Evan, say hello!” William instructed, introducing them as if tonight had been normal. As if Gregory had any clue what the fuck he was talking about.

Honestly, Gregory wasn't sure what was worse. The forced familial bonding or having his life threatened. If Michael corrected Will on who he was, Gregory was going to have his neck snapped. If he stayed, he would have to be the son to a deluded murderer.

William straightened, his crushing hug relaxed while his hands remained tightly clamped under Gregory's arms. “Why don't you come over here, Michael. I'll tell you everything... We can be a family again. The one you always wanted...”

William saw it as a second chance, unable to realize he used all the chances anyone would ever give him long, long ago.

Vanny gasped, pressing oversized paws to her cheeks in excitement. “Hi, Evan! Aww, you’re such a cutie!”

She said this as if she hadn’t been trying to capture him for an entire night and released a virus that made once-friendly animatronics turn on a child they were originally designed to protect. But hey—how was she supposed to know this was William’s son reincarnated?! The man had only been a voice in Vanny’s head until an hour ago—they hadn’t had time to look through the family photo albums yet.

Michael’s teeth ground together until he heard something crack. Great, they were in for another trip to Parts & Service if they made it out if this situation in any semblance of intact. William’s words of praise were sickening. Michael had wanted to hear them for so long, to know his father loved and appreciated him… But not like this. Not now, from his deluded mind that thought a terrified, innocent boy was his own.

And that was just it—this wasn’t the time for Michael to focus on himself. He’d had decades of loneliness and self-reflection to do that. Now was the time to save Gregory—whatever it took.

“Y-Yes, Father, I… I brought him back for you,” the fox said, his voice stumbling at the beginning but gaining confidence as Michael did. He took a slow, cautious step forward. He had to do this very carefully—one wrong move and Gregory would be dead in an instant. Another child lost to William’s madness. “I wanted us to be together again. I… we missed you.”

A shudder went through William like a wave in a pool.

“Finally, the truth comes out.” He just knew Michael couldn't possibly hate him! He was angry over the circumstances, surely. But now they could be a family again!

Gregory had lightly pushed against William's chest, though there was no budging. He wasn't even sure Will noticed his futile attempts at escaping. When Michael had revealed that he brought Gregory to him, the boy’s head whipped around, eyes burning from the stinging tears of betrayal.

“I-I thought I could trust you!” Gregory yelled, anger overtaking him as William gave a gentle squeeze.

“Shh. Shhhhh...,” he soothed, gaze now lingering on Michael. “Come, Michael; Evan's scared. We can find a rerun of Fazbear and Friends on the YouTube and watch it together. How does that sound, Evan?”

While the cartoon was a timeless classic, Gregory didn't want to watch it with this creep.

“Get bent,” he snapped, glaring up at the bunny who stared back with shocked eyes.

“Michael? I told you to stop teaching Evan swears. You know he wants to be just like you,” William griped, rolling his eyes at his “son's” act of wayward rebellion.

“I’ll cue up some videos upstairs~” Vanny chimed in, her static grin eerier than ever as she skipped off without waiting for an answer. She wanted to make herself useful, and she knew William would appreciate the bonding time with his sons! Besides, she’d be just a skip and a hop away if he needed anything.

That look of absolute betrayal on Gregory’s face, like Michael was the most horrendous being on the planet… It was the same look Charlie had given him the night Evan died. She hated him in that moment—and now Gregory hated him, too. Michael desperately wished he could take back his words, reassuring the boy that it was all a ruse to keep him safe in the long run. The more Michael played into his father’s delusion, the better chance they had of escaping him eventually. How exactly they’d do this is what Michael was furiously trying to figure out, but at the moment all he wanted to do was get Gregory away from the purple rabbit’s grasp.

“I’m sorry, Father,” Michael apologized, hanging his head in mock shame, though it was also an excuse not to look at the rabbit for a few seconds. This was so much, his anxiety was screaming nonsensical thoughts of simply grabbing the kid and running, but Michael had to push through.

As William started to follow Vanny to the tower, Michael instinctively reached out to grasp a purple arm. His metaphorical skin crawled at the contact, and he resisted the urge to simply crush the murderer’s limb right then and there. He could do it—he had the strength to, and William would certainly be taken by surprise. But Will might break Gregory’s entire body in a second once he realized the betrayal.

“Wait!” Michael said as his father paused, releasing him once he had his attention. He tried his best to offer a grin from the fox’s mouth. “Before we go upstairs, can we just… talk? Just the three of us? I-I think we need some quality time together; we’ve been apart for so long…”

If he could at least keep Vanny out of the picture, Michael would only have to focus his attention on the pair in front of him.

“Oh Michael...,” William sighed. He supposed that he’d punished his son enough for what he had done. Those years of isolation couldn't hold a candle to the week of suffering Evan had in that hospital bed. Though it was all water under the bridge now! Evan was back, and clearly nothing had changed between him and his brother.

“Anything you want, sport,” William replied amiably, feeling generous now that they had all the time in the world. William looked to Vanny on the steps, calling up to her. “Vanny, dear, we're going to have a talk. Be up shortly!” He arranged Gregory in his arms as he sat onto a foam barricade, the weight of his body smushing it to half its size as he decided to bounce the boy in his lap.

Gregory was praying for death in that moment. This robot wasn't his dad, damn it! Mike had sold him out for what?! Approval from his gross father?!

The kid glared ahead, merely coming off as grumpy to William, perhaps because their game of laser tag was cut short.

“Evan, please stop pouting. We'll watch Fazbear’s in a second. What was it you wanted to say, Michael?” William had a smile on his face, easygoing and content as he finally made progress with locating his missing family.

Ah… Michael hadn’t quite thought that far ahead. He was a person to make overarching goals, but when it came to the smaller details he worked on impulse. Still, at least William was sort of listening to him at the moment.

“I… wanted to say how happy I am that we’re back together,” Mike started, eyes shifting to the floor where the Fazerblaster lay prone. If Gregory could somehow get his hands on the gun, maybe they could shoot William in the eyes and escape while he was temporarily blinded? But the question was: how to get William to let go of the son he’d been missing for so many years?

Suddenly, Michael had an idea. It was half-baked and certainly came with its risks, but it was the best he could think of in that moment.

“Father… may I hold Evan for a moment?” Michael asked, putting as much false sweetness into his words as possible. “It’s just—I only recently saved him from that Freddy he’s been hanging around all night… You know, I think that bear was actually trying to scare him? I mean, you could see how he was crying when you first picked him up…”

Michael let out a huge sigh and shook his head, playing into his father’s love of dramatics. “Since it took me this long to free him, I wanted to bring him straight to you once I realized you were awake. So now that we’re together again… may I please hold him? Just for a moment?”

Would the puppy-dog eyes work on Michael’s real father? He’d just have to try and find out.

Gregory hated being jostled on this strange dude's knee. It may have gotten him to stop crying, but Gregory just looked perpetually uncomfortable. He loathed being touched by people he didn't know, and William was right at the top of the list of nope. He was infuriated that everyone obsessed about him, either seeing him as someone he wasn't or a means to an end.

“That's up to Evan, isn't it? Evan—” William's hypnotic voice cooed, ceasing the infernal bouncing of his knee long enough for Gregory to realize he was addressing him. “—would you like to spend some quality time with your bother?”

“...I don't wanna be touched,” Gregory decided, concerned that any choice he made could be a trap.

William supposed that was reasonable. He didn't quite like that whole deal either, though his fraternal instincts kicking in again after fifty-odd years were making him do some strange things. He laughed quietly, lifting Gregory off his lap to stand instead by the barrier.

“I think that there's some explaining in order. I'm sure you and Evan are terribly confused—I can't blame you for that. In my absence I left you to find life eternal. Now that I've found it, we'll use it to bring Lizzie back, too,” William half-explained. After taking two fingers and pressing them against what would be his sternum, he tapped the metal there before Bonnie's surprise hatch opened.

Reaching inside his chest cavity, he produced a syringe. Its contents were a vivid purple that gleamed magenta from the red neon hitting it at just the right angle.

The sight of the medical instrument had Gregory frozen, his features equally scared and hopeless. He couldn't outrun both him and Michael in a maze that he barely knew, especially with all this fog!

But besides him, on the ground by the flagpole was the Fazerblaster—

As William produced this instrument of torture, Gregory started a slow and precise shuffle towards the weapon.

He put Gregory down.

The thought sent a spike of hesitant relief through Michael’s body. And even better, Gregory had already caught sight of the Fazblaster and was moving towards it. Hopefully he wouldn’t turn against Michael too, though the fox wouldn’t blame him if he got shot between the eyes. The kid still thought Mike was on his father’s side, after all.

“Lizzie…?” Michael asked, stepping closer so he could examine the syringe in William’s hand. He also might have blocked William’s direct line of sight from Gregory in the process so the boy could sneak to the gun.

The substance in the syringe gave Michael another one of those queasy feelings. He’d come across something in William’s notes that talked about this, he was sure of it… though unfortunately Mike’s memory was a bit fuzzy on the details. Even so, whatever that thing was clearly played a major role in William’s twisted plans.

“I have enough right here for everyone. The problem is, once the body is completely gone—” William's voice was calm and easy as he leaned over to pull Evan back closer to his side. In his peripheral, it was easy to see what Gregory was doing. His sons were stubborn, like their dad. William thought Evan was just determined to grasp the Fazerblaster to finish their little game.

“Don't wander, Evan,” William said over Gregory's frightened gasp as his shoes slid helplessly over the smooth floors. Looking to Michael, the Afton patriarch offered him a smile.

“We'll have to trade secrets. How you brought Evan back fully... And I'll tell you what's in this hypodermic.” William brought Gregory in front of him, a firm grasp on his shoulder. “I like to think of it as a rapid cure-all. When you have a child that falls and scrapes their knees, you carry bandages. Death-prone children? They need something stronger.”

Slowly, a clawed, purple paw raised the needle to Gregory's neck.

***

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[charlie-boio]

Care For You

Pairing: Mitch Rapp x Reader

Summary: y/n is kidnapped by terrorists looking for Mitch

Requested: nope

Warnings: some angst, abuse, torture, kidnapping fluff don't read if any of these trigger you (also if I miss any lmk)

A/N: so this is my first fic...ever. Ive written before but I've never published anything before so hope yall like it :)

Y/n's head was pounding. She groaned as she turned her head to the side, feeling something sticky on the side of her face. Her arms were bound above her head with ropes digging into the flesh of her wrists as she hung there, duck tape strapped across her mouth. She had no idea how she got here, only remembering falling asleep soundly in her hotel room.

...this definitely wasn't the hotel room where she was staying. She pried her eyes open, blinking furiously. Her vision was blurred for a few moments as she tried to take in her new surroundings.

The room itself wasn't impressive. It looked like she was in a basement of some sort. It was cold and damp, with cement surrounding the wall and floor. She could see in the corner a circular table with a group of men sitting around it, laughing as they played poker, she guessed. One of men caught her eye and nudged the fatter man beside him. The fat man got up from the table with a sinister grin on his face. The rest of the men paid no mind to her, for now.

"Ah, look who's finally awake," he mused, coming up to her and ripping the tape off rather forcefully. He chuckled as her noise of discomfort as he pulled out a small photograph and shoved it in her face. "Know this man?"

"No," y/n lied. Of course she knew who it was: Mitch Rapp, the man she loved. The fat man knew this as well, earning her a slap across the face.

"Of course you do, you've been sharing a room together for the past week now," he said, slipping the photograph back into his jacket pocket.

"I don't have any idea what you're talking about,"

"Aw, come on doll, don't be like that!" he reached up to cup her face, but she flinched and turned her face away. The fat man exhaled through his nose, his lighthearted demeanor fading.

He turned his head and whistled, flicking his wrist forward. Two more men who were taller and muscular stood up from the table and walked over.

"Here's what's gonna happen doll: you're gonna tell us everything you know about you're little boyfriend Mitch Rapp, all the cases he's been working on, and where he is right now. You can either tell us all this the easy way, or the hard way. Your choice."

Y/n knew her answer right then. She leaned forwarded and spit right in the fat man's face. One of the muscular men immediately punched her the in ribs.

"Where's Mitch Rapp?"

"I don't know." Another punch to the ribs.

"What case is he currently working on? Is it us?"

"No idea." That time, the punch hit her across her cheekbone.

It continued like this all day, the fat man asking questions while she refused to give answers. Y/n knew she'd rather die then give up the love of her life. She tried to stay strong for him, but she couldn't help the tears or the cries of pain she let out every time one of the men hit her. Once they were finished for the day, they slapped new duck tape on her and shoved a box under her feet and left her in the dark. Y/n tried to untie herself, but to no avail.

The next two day was a repeat of the first day, the cycle of torture starting anew. However, towards the end of the day, one of the men had pulled out a knife and had nicked cuts all over her, with a long but shallow one across her chest. At night, once again she'd tried to untie herself, but it worse because the rope had burned into her skin so bad that even shifting her wrist caused them to scream with pain.

The fourth day had started the same as the others, only y/n could see the fat man becoming increasingly agitated. He was hoping she'd crack by now, and he was tired of her snarky remarks.

"Enough!" he shouted as one of the men delivered a particularly hard punch to her face, instantly blackening her eye. "This ends right now! You tell us the information we want-"

"That I don't have," y/n said.

"-or I'll do something that I'm really gonna enjoy," he smirked as he began to unbuckle his belt. Y/n's eyes widened, silently begging.

BOOM! A shot rang out through the room. The next time y/n looked the fat man was on the floor, with a bullet through his head. She looked up across the room, smiling widely at her savior.

"Mitch..." she breathed.

Suddenly, a slew of CIA men came running in behind Mitch as they began to take down all the men in the room. Mitch took down one with two swift motions as he made his way over to her.

"y/n..." his facade of an emotionless machine momentarily broke as he looked at her, beaten with cuts and bruises all over her, eyes swimming with concern. He immediately began to untie the ropes on your wrists as you collapsed into him.

"I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry that this happened y/n, but I've got you now, you're safe. We're gonna get you out of here, okay?"

She nodded, tears slipping down her face as he carried her out of the room. Once outside, she squinted at the sun as Mitch and her entered the black SUV.

"Drive sir, we're good," Mitch said. Y/n looked to the driver seat to see Stan Hurley as he drove them off, mentioning the new hotel they'd be staying in indefinitely, forbidding either her or Mitch from leaving during that time.

"Now y/n, don't take this the wrong way, but we need to know any information you told them. No one will hold it against you for-"

"I didn't," y/n mumbled. Stan looked at her through the rear view mirror with his eyebrows raised.

"I can confirm, sir. They're ringleader mentioned how frustrated he was at her for not giving information just as we were about to enter," Mitch said, glancing over at y/n briefly. She silently thanked him.

Stan pulled into their relocated hotel, telling him he'd be in touch in a few days. Mitch thanked him as he pulled her out of the car and carried her once again to their new hotel room.

He walked into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. He placed her gently onto to the bed.

"y/n..." Mitch said, placing his hands on the side of her face. He leaned in and kissed her softly. She sighed into the kiss, overjoyed to finally be safe with him by her side. He pulled back, eyes filled with concern again as he wiped the fresh tears from her face. "Arms up, baby." y/n complied, lift her arms in the arm as he removed the tattered shirt from her. He immediately winced as he took in her beaten form. "I'm guessing you'll want to shower. I only have my clothes with me for now, but I'm guessing Stan'll bring yours when he comes back again. I'll bandage you up afterwards okay?"

Y/n nodded, standing up and walking toward the bathroom when she stopped. She turned back to Mitch, who was already looking at her.

"Um...could you-I mean I don't want to-but-"

"Yes, I'll shower with you," Mitch stood up and lifted his shirt over his head. They both enter the bathroom and stripped off they're clothes. Mitch turned on the water, checking to make sure it was a comfortable temperature before stepping in. He extended his hand, which y/n gladly took. She stepped under the water, hissing at the stinging sensation across her cuts. Mitch immediately took her into his arms, whispering apologies and soft words over and over as his friends danced patterns onto her back.

They stayed there like that for what felt like hours to y/n, swaying back forth slightly, both of them overjoyed to be in each other's arms. Eventually, Mitch took the soap and began washing the dirt and grim off of y/n's skin, being extremely careful around her cuts. Once finished, he turned off the water and grabbed the towels from the rack. They dried themselves off, then Mitch guided y/n out of the bathroom and sat her on the bed. After seeing no extraneous injuries on her legs, he handed her a fresh pair of sweatpants that she gladly slipped over her legs.

Her chest, unfortunately, was a different story. Large bruises covered her ribs and tops of her shoulders. They're were little cuts all over with a long one cut diagonally across her chest. While her one eye wasn't swollen anymore, it was still bruised along with her cheekbone. Mitch's heart shattered into a million pieces at the sight of her, instantly blaming himself.

"Okay, I'm gonna grab the first aid kit, okay?" he said, standing up.

"Wait!" y/n cried, grabbing his hand. Panic flooded through her chest. Mitch's eyes widened and he kneeled down back in front of her, shush her quietly.

"I'll be five seconds, even less if you want. I'm not leaving the room at all. You're safe here..." he ran his fingers through her hair a few times to settle her down. She took a deep breath a nodded, flashing a quick smile to seem brave. He got up and ran quickly to the bathroom again, rummaging through until he found the first aid kit. He ran back, y/n looking at him expectedly.

Mitch kneeled, opening the kit and removing the gauze and rubbing alcohol. He took the towel from the bathroom and dipped some of the alcohol onto it.

"Luckily, I don't need to stitch this big one, it's too shallow so it'll heal on it's own, but I need to clean it so it won't infect. It's gonna hurt..." he trailed off, looking at her sadly.

"...can I hold your hand?" she whispered. Mitch nodded quickly and held out the opposing hand for. He took a deep breath and began cleaning the wound. Y/n cried out and grasped his hand tightly as he worked as quick as he could. Once finished, he took the gauze and wrapped it around her chest. Mitch grabbed a sweatshirt and handed it to her, which she accepted gratefully.

Y/n laid back on the bed and Mitch followed, laying on the bed and opening his arm out for her. She snuggled closely into his side, breathing in deeply.

"I'm sorry baby, I am so so sorry this shouldn't of happened. Its my fault it happened I should've been here I-"

"Shhhhh my love it's okay," y/n looked at her through her lashes. "You saved me. You saved my life Mitch, just like I knew you would." She smile at him.

"I love you, y/n," he whispered.

"I love you too."

He placed a long kiss to her forehead as they settled in closer together. Soon, they're breaths evened out as they fell into a peaceful sleep.

[veloxaraptor]

Long Time Coming

I’ve kept my mouth shut on this for a very long time. 

Last year I cut ties with an incredibly toxic player in the FFXIV community. Most of you know them as either Yosei Ittetsu or Vincent Arius.

Sometime around the end of September/beginning of October I ended a long running RP Ship with the player and quit his FC. This came after months of gas lighting, lying, manipulation, and just down right being used.

I’d spent some time getting to know them and their RL Partner so as to get the blessing to ship our characters together as Koa’s (the name the player goes by) partner didn’t feel comfortable with them shipping with anyone but themselves. 

I later learned that once I got the approval to ship with Koa, that they then went behind my back and their partner’s back and attempted to ship with other people under the guise of “I’ve been allowed to multi ship”. The timeline for that was around Mayish of 2019.

Throughout the tenure of our friendship and RP, Koa insisted OOCly that their partner was abusive and controlling. Something I have come to doubt. A partner feeling uncomfortable with their SO shipping/ERPing with other people isn’t all that uncommon or unreasonable. 

That being said, Koa would share screenshots with myself and others of fights they would have with their partner, carefully cropped to show certain parts of the fight that would cast their partner in the worst light. So naturally, we believed him.

So other friends and I agreed to help Koa ship/ERP in secret because we wanted to find a way to give them autonomy over themself. I regret this. Not only because it was incredibly disrespectful to a RL relationship, but because of the hurt it eventually caused other people later on.

This is going to get wordy, so please bear with me as I place the rest under a read me.

Koa and I agreed to a poly ship. One that would include myself, their RL partner’s character, and a third--my friend Noise. The agreement with the ship was that Tegah, Gan, and Noise would all be a “Table�� poly setting and each could have extraneous partners if--and only if--we were comfortable with it OOC and our characters were comfortable with it IC. Meaning, there needed to be communication. This agreement extended only to the three as Koa stressed that they were only shipping with their RL partner to keep OOC peace and because they felt obligated to.

Very quickly things became very odd. I say that because often times Koa would wait until I needed to go to bed, and/or their RL partner would be at work (they worked nights) to initiate ship or ERP related RP. And if I was around for any of that RP, I was always shoved to the side and made to feel more like an accessory than an actual RP partner.

I tried several times to address this with Koa only to be gaslit and told that he was the one always feeling left out because he had to work around the confines of his “Abusive” RL partner and because Gan and Noise had a more in-depth story driven background with one another and knew each other better than Yosei and Noise knew each other.

My complaints would be invalidated and I’d always end up trying to help Koa find ways to solve their issues. Only for the circle to repeat itself.

Twice my character Gan found external partners. Both times I made sure going forward that both Koa and Noise were okay with it. And I was given their blessings. Both times, Koa attempted to insert their character into the relationship and sleep with the partner. The first one was successful. The second time not so much.

As time progressed, it became more and more clear that Koa’s main focus was drawing attention to themself and ERP. Mostly the latter if I’m being honest. Every time I turned around, I was learning of a new character that Yosei was gunning for and trying to sleep with. And it was always played off as a joke until it actually happened.

At some point one of the infatuations turned into another possible ship partner for the group. This is where Batu, one of my dearest friends comes in to the story. Koa had been selling Batu to Noise and I under the understanding that Batu was happy to simply be a fling/fuck buddy for the group. Meanwhile, he was selling to Batu the story that the group was looking for a 4th member. All the while neglecting to explain the truth to Batu as to how the ship worked despite him asking IC and OOC.

One very awkward night of RP where Gan brought over her side partner and Koa made many pointed comments about how we should all have an Orgy. (Which their RL partner asked about and Koa flat out lied to them). Batu learned how the ship worked on and IC and OOC level and had revealed that he’d been lied to the entire time. Or at the very least, misled.

So Batu decided to leave the group on an IC basis. Naturally, feelings were hurt OOC. And very much so IC as Gan and Batu had begun to fall for one another, and Noise and Batu were starting to grow close.

During this period of time, Batu ICly went to the Steppes to deal with the loss. Tegah/Yosei’s solution was to “fuck away the sad”. Because... yeah. 

At this time an FC member had their character go check on Batu and inform him of some RP stuff that had left Gan unwell. Batu returned and relationships were able to be repaired between Batu, Gan, and Noise. Batu expressed OOC that there was no desire to attempt with Koa again as he’d left feeling very used IC and OOC.

Naturally the characters did run into one another and it ended in conflict at which point Koa decided to metagame. He chose that moment to decide that it was his character that sent our FC member after Batu. There’d been no discussion over the course of the two weeks that all this had happened. Koa had just decided on the spot, something that was verified by the FC member.

When called out, Koa lied about meta-gaming. We even offered up logs to which he still lied and denied, saying they’d been talking about it for a while. Our FC member firmly refutes this and gave us logs to support. 

At that point, after months of being pushed to the side for other RP’s, gaslit regarding my issues, lied to, etc, I decided to end my RP partnership with Koa. I offered to stay around for the FC as I was the one running events and pushing for things to happen. But the day after that decision, Koa decided that we’d been leading the FC in the wrong direction (Despite being the one to tell us to go in that RP route) and that he wasn’t happy with how things were going.

Admittedly, I took this as a stab at me. Because I was the one running events, the one trying to keep things active for our FC members, and had suggested stepping back from Suisei Ramen the first time as there would be no way to balance it, FC RP, and personal RP all at once. It was then that I closed the book on all ties with Koa. I wanted nothing to do with them IC or OOC. He was immediately blocked from all my social media accounts and all websites I’d hosted on behalf of him and his FC were handed over.

This is where things become most important. Months after the fact, Koa openly admitted in a google doc he was spreading around in an attempt to defame me, that he’d been stalking my accounts either personally or through mutuals looking for anything he could use against me. 

I--in my naivety--had kept my mouth shut for the most part in the hopes that we could end things amicably and just move on. Almost a year later and I’m making this post because I’m still being harassed by Koa.

Since October of 2019, Koa has attempted to stir the pot time and again. Trying to oust me from RP communities. defame me, accuse me of plagiarism. (Most of this was while knowing I was heavily pregnant IRL and under a lot of stress) As recently as July 5, 2020, this person has been trying to cause issues. On the date mentioned, he attempted to insert himself into RP with Noise and I. Both of us have expressly stated we want nothing to do with him and want him to leave us alone and knowing that, still tried to put himself in our small group of RP.

Since leaving Koa, a lot of things have come to light. First and foremost, he was badmouthing me to my closest friends. Insisting I had an OOC affair going with a ship partner of mine. I’m married IRL. Koa knew this. And knowing this, attempted to spread that lie to push people away from me. Specifically, my friend Batu who was the one he told this to.

He blamed Batu’s IC/OOC departure on me, because I was uncomfortable with a concept he was trying to push for the second time. The concept being to have his character Yosei/Tegah gender swap to a woman and sleep with Gan’s partner. The first time it occurred was with a side relationship Gan had with another player. Koa wanted to have their character gender swap, sleep with Gan’s partner without the character knowing and possibly get pregnant. When asked about my opinion, I expressed that I wasn’t all that thrilled with it and that Gan would be angry/jealous. To which he insisted I was wrong and that Gan would find it funny.

The second instance was because Batu had more interest in Gan than Tegah/Yosei. At which point Koa decided it would be fun to try and force a race between his character and Gan as to who would have our ship partner Noise’s children first, knowing that there was a plot point set up for when that would inevitably happen. Again he adamantly stated that Gan wouldn’t be upset and find it funny, and that if she didn’t want it to happen she should just get pregnant back to back with each partner’s children. (At this time she was supposed to be pregnant with Yosei/Tegah’s baby. A fact that I later retconned.)

Koa continually went behind mine and all our ship partners backs to ERP with other characters. Ship with other characters. Shit talk me, and other people. When he’d be denied ERP, he’d turn and try to convince people that the person in question was actually after HIM for ERP and not the other way around.

Many people have come forward to me with information regarding his behavior. Unfortunately I don’t have permission to share their stories as they’ve asked to be left out of any public call outs. 

All I can safely share are these logs here

Koa/Yosei/Tegah/Vincent Arius is nothing more than a toxic individual obsessed with ERP, Attention, and playing victim as much as possible. Almost a year later and he is still harassing me, blaming me when things go wrong, defaming, and causing me drama. I’ve had enough. If even ONE person finds comfort in knowing they aren’t the only one he’s caused problems for, then it’ll be worth it.

And as always, I’m more than happy to answer any questions regarding this post that people might have. I’d love to share more logs and screencaps, but I do respect people’s privacy and I still don’t want to shit on their RL relationship any more than revealing this stuff will do.

[chefjarredjarred]

Anxiety. (excerpt)

People. “They're the worst,” Jerry once concurred with Elaine. And they are.

So I didn't really want a job as a verification specialist for a background check company,  making a hundred phone calls a day to anywhere in the country, but there was a time when it was a job I needed; it was remote so I could do it from my living room, it supplemented my main income from cooking and barbacking, and I was allowed to adjust my own schedule around that other work and my Tuesday morning therapy sessions.

But Jesus Christ, the people: the combative, the confused, the cavalier, the crotchety; the mousy, the crazy, the stupid, the lazy; the disgruntled, the bitter, the hateful, the bossy; the scammers, the liars, the paranoid; the unintelligible, or, through no fault of their own, the foreign; the mouth breathers, the assholes; the fast food workers, who are always a grab bag. I got them all, every day. And just one nice old lady from Florida, Ms. Charlene.

I got the job in part by cherry-picking some of my old chef experience and molding it all up into a wad of passable bullshit in the interview. Not lies, you know, just bullshit. I sold the personal importance of always speaking concisely and effectively, and of remaining cool and courteous and logical even when being angrily berated by the most ignorant, disrespectful know-nothings. Okay, so that one tiny lie. I made no mention of smashing saucers, slinging sheet pans, or every chef's favorite, smiting servers. (But come on, FOH, y'all know when you're asking for it.) I gave no indication that my rage, anxiety, and feelings of undeserved victimhood and exhaustion were a nest of coiled snakes, something every person who has ever worked in a kitchen around me could sense. Do your job, leave the attitude outside the kitchen doors, and speak only of pith and pertinence during service. Don't fuck with me, don't get fanged.

A bartender I worked with for years once called me unapproachable. It was in the same breath that she called me a dick, proving that the robotic personality of feigned professionalism and phony positivity (every company has their Stepford Wives, don't they?) on which she prided herself—loathed by so many in the restaurant—could be cracked, and I loved that I had been the one to do it. But the part about being a dick wasn't a bold quotable. My being unapproachable became a favorite running joke for years, perverted and perpetuated by me. Y'all think I'm unapproachable? I am. Fuck off.

But that's truncated, for effect and time. Fuck off, I have a job to do, is the real, full statement, and a linchpin tenet of my style of cheffing. I don't need loud voices, loud noises, disrespect, emotional clouding, confusion, excuses, etc., or that irritable anxiety snake could be disturbed. “Just the facts, ma'am.” There's just no time for the extraneous.

Don't disrupt the flow of food.

That's the principle I emphasized in the interview, just folded into the bullshit wad that made it applicable to phoning idiotic, ornery strangers—and Ms. Charlene. Obviously, I had to omit the venom, violence, viciousness, the vitriol. There was already a tiny stumble in there when the interviewer asked if I would describe myself as an introvert, and I, being honest to a fault at the most inappropriate moments, confessed that I would.

“You do know what this job is, right?”

I actually didn't, right up until about two seconds before that question, but I recovered gracefully, explaining some crap about being able to turn on the smiles and pleasantries when I meant business, something like that.

Fake smiles. Ugh. God dammit. I actively campaign against them. A fake smile is the opposite of Fuck off, of the pith and pertinence, the order and efficiency I expected, of just the facts. It's a capitulation, a white flag.

You know what I absolutely hate more than people? The expectation that I'm obligated to give them a fake smile. It's a banner that says you're willing to accept the extraneous, the unexpected, that whatever they are about to say and the way they will say it has some compelling power over you, and that you have all the time in the world to stand there and graciously let it be unloaded onto you. That your anxiety is not there and not real.

That you are approachable.

Fake smiles are blood in the water. That's right, when it goes from snakes to sharks.

“What we always say here is 'Smile and dial!'”

It was a virtual interview, and he couldn't see or hear my feet double-kick-drumming the floor. But what he did hear and what I couldn't believe was the fake laugh I forced through my fake smile. Jesus, Jarred, you're escalating? Allowance is support. “Sure, sure,” I said, as if I were a lifelong brown-noser. You're a disgrace.

“If you can run a kitchen, I have no doubt that you can do this.”

I didn't either. That's misinformation, that anxiety is simply fear. I wasn't afraid I would fail (literally anyone, barring anxiety, can be a verification “specialist”). In fact, I was totally confident I could succeed...theoretically. He said it: If I could run a kitchen, I could do this. The things that worried me were the scheduling, sleeping, caffeinating, eating, speaking, putting on my fake personality with my fake smile, and juggling and maintaining it all every day without falter, without letting on that there was any internal difficulty. I worried not about my actual job performance, but how I might struggle to simultaneously perform and hide my character flaws, i.e. the stuff that I left hanging out in the open when I was a chef. Does that make any sense?

Anxiety, not fear.

So the job was simple, but not easy, and there was a lot to make an anxious person anxious: the people, of course; the never-ending flood of calls; the quick navigating of the system when someone backpedaled or said something inaccurate or swung their mood in an instant; the software glitches; the hold music. Every second of the workday, even your coffee-caused poop break, was timed and factored in to your production average. You were judged and graded by making a ton of calls and/or closing as many cases as you could, which sounds fine, but is actually decided by chance more than some mathematical guarantee. That angered me the most, watching my closes and “touches” tabulated throughout the day, working against each other, my percentage of success being stretched thinner and thinner as I piled up calls that became mere touches rather than closes. It was the opposite of what we really wanted, and the secret little opposite of what we were trained to believe. The pessimist in me knew that the given goals were just out of reach, of course, so we would unknowingly meet the real goals and feel worthless at the end of the day, like we hadn't done enough. The realist in me hated the pretending that we had any control over it. The fatalist in me knew that it didn't matter, but could not force the crippled, anxious existentialist in me to just shut the fuck up.

...Oh, there is no optimist in here, if you were waiting for it.

I knew the fatalist was right after a sweet, timid childcare worker put me on hold to find something useful for me, which would only be a different number or a different person or, if life were easy, the name of a recognized third party verification website. This was 10:40 in the morning, in my first hour of the workday that was already a little too unfruitful. I watched the timer tick away, and when she returned, she had found...an unrecognized third party verification website. That meant I had to type a message into our Teams chat to request a supervisor's review and approval to put the name of the website in the little box and move to the next call.

Eight minutes had now passed as I waited for an answer. I had let the worker, Taylor, hang up already so she could get her eyes back on what wild heathens she may have had under her watch. It was a personal rule of mine to never hold restaurant workers or childcare workers hostage on the phone, because their work was more important than mine. I thought about the time my mom came to pick me up from one of these daycare facilities, walking in at the same time as another little boy's father, together to catch the perfect and precise moment that I socked that boy right across his jaw with full force, superhero super-spinning into that punch in defiance of his superior strength and grip of my head as he had tried to slam my skull into a wooden shelf for a second time. We were bloody, snotty, and sweaty in the throes of killer instinct, but I still caught the looks of horror on our parents' faces. Why the fistfight happened, I don't remember, but how? Well, because someone who was supposed to be paying attention, wasn't. Kids will go feral and push the boulder on Piggy as soon as your back is turned. I let Taylor off the phone for that reason. I waited for a supervisor's response in the chat, watching the seconds count on and that first hour, and thus the rest of my day and any hope of average achievement, drift away from me. They told me the site was no good and I needed to call poor Taylor back and try again. I sighed, copied the number and clicked the button, explained to her what was happening, and with real politeness she placed me, again, on hold. She came back with a phone number but the same uncertainty.

But in the chat, a supervisor had offered another phone number, different from what I was now taking down on the call. I was urged to try that one instead, so I let Taylor go back to the children a final time, and made my third phone call of the case. An automated message finally pointed me to a recognized third party verification website, and gave the particular employer code needed to access it. The anxiety snake and the rage snake were waking and knotted. I clicked the Other Automated Method button...and the system skipped on to complete the case, without letting me input the website or the code. “No, hell no.” I backed up and tried again. Same result, the skip. I went back to the chat and explained, and typed “Can someone please help me before my head explodes” with no punctuation.

A supervisor called me, and I shared my screen with her. “Let's see what happ—Oh, the client put it on hold, so just exit. It doesn't matter.”

It doesn't matter.

11:01. One close, 13 touches. I was white hot.

The anxiety, the rage, the pessimism, realism, fatalism, the whole nest of snakes was awake and wiggling, tossing, tangling themselves up like a... Well, you know. Like a rubber-band ball. I violently ripped the headset off of me, pushing breath through my teeth like the snarling little Jarred who punched that stupid kid in the mouth in the daycare brawl. I thought about that famed image of the snake eating its tail, whatever it's called. I thought about quitting. I thought about how two days before, my therapist and I had tried to come up with a suitable and available grounding technique I could try to prevent this exact, inevitable moment, this kind of anxiety attack. I thought about telling her how I thought that I was failing at everything. You're a disappoi— Shut the fuck up, Jarred—

It doesn't matter? I thought about that, that every moment of the day was part of the calculation of my performance grade for something ultimately shrugged off. That I spent 20 fucking minutes wasting my fucking time to get something that doesn't fucking matter but earns for me a judgment as if it does fucking matter.

But I thought about how I needed that little bit of extra money, and the other reasons for seeking and taking the job. Breathe, Jarred.

And that was not an isolated incident. Every day I fought for the energy and will to tether myself with the headset, log in, and hear the first ring. It came immediately, every single morning. I'd close my eyes and siiiigh through that first ring, just before being snatched along and pummeled by the frenzy.

I tried earnestly the smile-and-dial one time. I felt like Nicolas Cage in one of those especially wacky scenes of Face/Off. A total psycho, unhinged.

The calls were recorded and scrutinized, for quality and legality, and a handful a month were sent back to me to review whatever I had done wrong, or what I could do better.

Ah, yes. So there was another itchy, irritating thread of anxiety even on the less violent days.

Do you ever hear your own recorded voice and you hate yourself and wish you had never been born? Yeah, me too. So I only ever listened to one call and that was enough of that. I didn't want to hear myself. That voice wasn't mine, it was some cartoon-like, nasally Billy Bob Thornton's voice, reverberating somewhere way up high in the sinuses.

A hundred calls a day is a lot of talking. I began obsessing over how I pronounce—among many other things—the number four. There were fours everywhere, embedded, like chocolate chips in cookie dough, throughout almost every case number, and in our callback number I had to recite on dozens of voicemails per day. I wondered if I could trust my own ears in hearing the way I would say it, or if in reality I sounded like I was four. Fohwuh. Every day I ran this mental gamut of self-critique and insult, concentrating insanely on the most minute and deliberate flicks and curls of my tongue and lips. Any word becomes weirdly unnatural when you pay such specific attention to it. But I put so much (too much) effort into working on a competent phone voice not only so I wouldn't sound like a jackass, but so I could be efficient in my work and thus keep up with the production quota. I needed 20 touches an hour, not 13, so I needed people to understand me so I could get in, get out, and get on the next call. My strategy was to try and emulate the radio voice of Christopher Kimball—polite, proper, pronounced, professional. In my dirty pajamas, sitting on a lumpy pillow on a hand-me-down office chair as it was clawed to pieces by my screaming cats, I wanted to sound like I was wearing a bow tie. Like I was in a real office without cats, with a real college degree framed proudly on the wall. Polished and prepared.

It's hard work, if you can imagine. I'm not a talker. I don't like strangers. They're unpredictable. Any unexpected wrench in the routine could prove how fragile the facade is, that I'm actually a wobbly stack of quivering, anxious gremlins pretending to be a presentable person in, I guess, an imaginary bow tie.

It's hard work, if you'll let me say that again. But I thought I was doing pretty well. I hadn't cussed anyone out and I hadn't hurled the computer through the window, at least.

Then one day I called an office in Shelby, North Carolina. A woman answered, lazily, and I stated my reason for calling. She just said, “Hold on,” dismissively, with no practiced professionalism whatsoever. There's a lot of that out there. A rare treat then it was when I spoke with anyone trying to exude the same level of maturity as I, during business hours. My Kimball voice was for your benefit, lady. You didn't care. I know this because instead of really putting me on hold, instead of pressing a button to leave me in that telephonic waiting area listening to one of those overused cheap songs, like the one with the incessant MIDI claps that makes my toes tense and my teeth clench and jarringly reminds me that the anxiety is always bang-bang-banging at the door of the closet I locked it in, instead of just conducting two seconds of mundane business like a normal goddamn person, this woman just set the phone down on her desk and, evidently sickened beyond composure, blurted to her coworker, “God, I hate when someone clears their throat while I'm on the phone with them.” I did?

There I was, exposed, a bunch of phlegmy gremlins, collapsing and scrambling. Instantly I remembered the time my dad and stepmom asked me if I was on some kind of drug, because I cleared my throat “a lot.” Yeah, I don't know what they were talking about either, but apparently this involuntary habit is remarkably frequent. And a hundred calls a day I was doing this. How many of these people find me disgusting, inhuman, or think I'm on drugs? How about people in everyday life? Do my friends mock me? Who taught you how to function, Jarred? My mind spiraled, the snakes squirmed and seethed.

The rest of the phone call was stiff and clumsy, tears welling like a porn star's while I silently packed down the coughs and chokes congesting behind whatever ball of bile bottlenecking at the back of my throat, because I should die right on the living room carpet, sacrificial and blue, lest I irk this absolute cuntbag's social sensitivities, gurgling grotesque and oozing disease.

But am I crazy or...ahem...is that just trivially fucking inoffensive? If I had frog squatted on my desk and—“Verify this, bitch!”—farted into a metal basin full of Cracker Barrel gravy, then sure, be mad. Slam the phone down. Say to the guy by the copier, “Why me?!” and vow to get me fired. But if a natural, nonchalant throat-clearing infuriates you enough to comment on it, you're honestly just an asshole. It's not a frog squat gravy fart, it's not a rude personal affront. It's somewhere way below open mouth chewing, there around unfortunate but necessary nose blowing. I'm gross, you're gross, we're all gross. Get over it, and then, Fuck off, I have a job to do.

I did briefly wonder if maybe she's an anxious person too, a gremlin, maybe her facade is as fragile as mine, but I don't think so, because her attitude when she answered my call had already indicated to me that she never dressed up in a fake bow tie. She thinks she's a normal person: reckless, careless, unprofessional. No phone tone, no Kimball timbre. And because of that, she gave me another thing to worry about, to nag at me, something uncontrollable that I'd be trying to temper, something unconsciously mechanical now made noticeable and manual and clumsy. Thanks.

I was just worried about my goofy voice.

If you're thinking that it's all just a little silly and ridiculously minuscule, then congratulations, you're one of those “normal” people, like Ms. Shelby North Carolina. You make our lives worse.

[ereyelin]

Learning Curves - Part 1

Oliver was woken up by the polite-but-insistent knocking on the door that sounded hollow and distant when it drove through his swollen skull. There was gritty, thick crud at the edges of his mouth and a distinct pain at the base of his neck when he moved his arm in a wild flail toward the noise. He had mostly given up begging for a few more minutes of sleep when he started high school but now and again, when he felt like he was dying, he was known to whine, “just five more minutes.”

There was a metallic clank-and-grate and then footsteps that stopped not too far from his left. A woman was standing there wearing a suit jacket with red detailing that looked remarkably unlike anything his mother had ever worn. There was a slight, pronounced, sympathy in her face as she said, “I’m sorry sir, check out was at eleven.”

Opening his eyes completely drove stakes through his skull that rattled in loose, broken pieces in the space where his brain had apparently fled. He shot upright - wished he hadn’t - and then doubled over as a surge of vomit rose in his throat. The woman, still unnamed, was quick with a black wastebasket. He grabbed it out of her hands and heaved the entire contents of his stomach - a terrible smelling liquid mess. After she was standing a polite distance away looking at the state of the room around them. At his pants thrown across the TV, at the empty bottle of - was that Vodka? - and an assortment of empty wrappers thrown carelessly around the room. The sheets and blankets of the second bed in the room were torn back and left on the floor and the remains of what looked like a pizza were smeared across the sheet and pillows.

“Sir,” she said again. And she plucked his shirt down from the curtains and held it out toward him. “I need you to gather your things.” Oliver clutched at his vomit-filled wastebasket with one arm and reached out to accept his shirt from her. His face had to have been a violent purple-red colour because her look of careful disinterest got a little green at the edges as she said very softly, “are you okay? Do you remember what happened?”

Oh, she thought he’d been roofied.

He nodded his head but he didn’t remember and tried to summon up enough of his scattered brains to work out a thank-you and failed.

Her sympathy was maternal and brief before she said, “do not make this a habit in your life.” Then she was leaving with a smart click of her heels.

Oliver sat there numb with shock for a span of several minutes, realized he was holding a basket full of puke and set it down on the floor as he fell out of bed in an attempt to disentangle himself from the blankets. His head was throbbing and his mouth tasted like bile and his legs were protesting wildly with a twinge in the back of his thigh that knocked his stride off balance. He made it to the bathroom, squinting at the overwhelming lights and found his socks floating in the toilet. He gave them up for lost but removed them before he flushed. Every towel in the little bathroom was in the tub, bloated with water and there was a slice of pizza - most disintegrated - resting on top of it with a long blue ribbon floating in the puddle still caught in the tub. Oliver pulled at it, dislodged the washcloth keeping the tub from draining and had to fight with a towel that was wrapped around the ribbon before discovering it was a medal. One of the medals that the prom committee had come up with as extraneous awards separate from King-and-Queen.

Oliver stood in front of the massive mirror, looking at the medal and his aching body. Suddenly aware of the bruised-in-hickey at his throat, the little marks and scratches at his hips and the damning slickness all but literally coating his ass and thighs.

“Oh fuck,” he said to the mirror, to the stupid medal, to himself. And then reality hit like a punch to his gut because it was after eleven, the day after he was supposed to be home. He had gotten drunk, followed someone to this stupid hotel and gotten fucked. His mother, his patient-and- kind-and-devout-mother was going to murder him in the name of honour and mercy.

Oliver left the stupid ribbon on the floor where he dropped it, grabbed what he could find of his clothes and yanked them on with a fumble-fingered-carelessness. His head was throbbing freshly every single time the sunlight stabbed into his eyes. His stomach was curling up with fresh threats at every movement of his body. He had to crawl on the floor to find his second shoe and his suit jacket was in the closet hanging on a hanger next to his belt. His phone was in one of the dresser drawers along with an open box of condoms and a shamefully empty bottle of lube. There was that much, at least, to be thankful for.

He grabbed his phone and ran. The woman who invaded his room was behind the desk when he darted through the lobby and her voice wished him well as he ran out into the parking lot and kept going. He didn’t stop running until he’d found himself on the corner of Parke and Hills and couldn’t contain the urge to puke another second.

When he’d finished defiling a bush, he checked the messages on his phone and found a steadily increasing stream of worry from his baby brother that reached a fever point at one AM the night before. At this point if you’re not dead, you might want to wait until after eight to come home.

His Mother called-didn’t-text and she had only called once at two AM and left no message. Oliver’s hands were shaking as he tucked the phone back into his pocket and took in a deep enough breath to figure out how to get home from where he was.

[brattywriters-anonymous]

A Night Off..

Erik x OC

Part three of “I’m Never Wrong” Series

Mini playlist: Moments Of Love x Art of Noise

It’s You x Kem

Share my Life x Kem

Night Off x Drake ft. Lloyd

You’ve been busy. Hella busy. Erik and you had Leanna September after that fateful Christmas, you married the following April, and two years later (before Leanna’s Moana Luau birthday celebration) you found out you were pregnant again. You gave birth to N’Juma That following summer and after being cleared to return to work you were swamped.  

You received the promotion for Managing Partner at your firm and you played the role of the Partner’s keepers. Even though you were glad about not having to see courtrooms unless deemed necessary, you now have to track their time at work and expenses on business cards, their vacation and sick time; Along with sitting in extraneous meetings with board members with their bottom line being the only thing they ever care about. You know you could quit at anytime. Your husband reminds you time and time again that he can take care of you, Lee, JuJu, and any other kids you plan on having single-handedly. 

Him being a prince and all, you were certain that he could. Momma just didn’t raise you to be nobody’s housewife. You love your children more than anything, and to a certain extent, you love your job, but after two months of going between Mommy and Senior Partner, F/N M/N Udaku, esq. needed a BREAK.

You came home on a Friday evening to find two ladies from the Dora Milaje on your front porch, you knew either Queen Mother, Shuri, or T’challa was behind the door. To your surprise, it was Shuri. You often used to joke to her that Leanna took a piece of Shuri’s personality because she always had a witty come back to her daddy’s sly comments, and they were as thick as thieves from the day she was born.

“Y/N! Hello!” Shuri stands up with your almost four year old in her arms. “Mommyyy!” Leanna yells out in glee. “Hey Lee Lee! Good evening Shuri! To what do we owe this pleasure your highness?” You suspiciously look at her and your daughter like they were up to no good, as you lay down your briefcase. Leanna looks around pursing her lips and says, “Mommy, I d-du-dunno what you talking about!” as she shakes her head. You grin at her adorable yet horrible attempt of lying, “Where’s Juju? Where’s daddy?” Speak of the killer prince..he shall appear. He emerges from the hallway, “Juju is knocked for the night. I gave him his bath fed him, and he went down for the count about fifteen minutes ago.” 

The first thing that catches your attention is his cologne. That Dolce & Gabana light blue for men gets you in trouble every single time. You slip out of your work shoes as you apprehensively question, “N’jadaka, What do you have up your sleeve?” Then you travel to your awake child, placing her on your hip, “What is daddy up to LeeLee?” She starts playing with her nails, “Daddy says he wants you to go with him!” Erik scoops you into his embrace, “Daddy needs you to shower up and get dressed. I got everything all laid out for you on the bed, and after we go where we go, I got a room reserved.” His cologne engulfs you into a hypnotized state as he briefly kisses you. You open your eyes to see Leanna covering hers. Shuri retrieves her, “I got some improvements I need to make on T’s suit, I need a little helper so we’re gonna go to the Stark Enterprises lab to do that..” You look back and forth between your husband, your cousin-in-law, and your child, “Well what about JuJu?” T’challa bends the corner from your guest bathroom, “It seems like I am on diaper and bottle duty tonight.”

You lay your arms lazily around Erik’s neck, “So daddy’s got it all figured out, hm?” N’jadaka nods, “Now go get dressed. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

You get to your shared master room to see this two piece outfit with a pair of white pasties, and a white thong to match your husband’s two piece linen button up and matching pants. “Where does this nigga think I’m going looking like somebody’s stripper?” before you can go back in the foyer to protest, he’s already standing at the doorway, “You going with daddy tonight. Lookin’ like daddy’s personal stripper.” He stealth-like footsteps cruises his way over to you to give you a forceful smack on the ass, which got bigger thanks to carrying Juju.

 --

You hopped out of the shower, reluctantly put on the two piece and as you were buckling your shoes, your husband comes in to check on--sorry, rush you. “C’mon Y/N we need to get go--daaaaaammmn. Here baby, lemme help you with that.” He brushes down your calf with his fingertips, slipping on your shoe. “That’s too tight?” You shake your head, “Good.” He counts the hole in order to buckle the other shoe in the same manner, “I’m doing this for you because you need a night off.. Not being mommy, not being a lawyer, not being a home maker, nurse, none of that.” He finishes buckling the second shoe before kissing your foot, “The only thing you gotta be tonight is mine.” your breathing stops at his statement, then you nod. Letting him know you understand.

The drive to your destination was tranquil. Erik played the compilation of Moments of Love by Art of Noise, Kem’s It’s you, and Share my Life, Maxwell’s Lifetime.. it all put you in a mellow mood. He drove the entire way with his hand cascading your thigh, occasionally tapping it to whichever beat was playing. He puts the car in park in front of the club you first met at. When he ran you down, begging to take you on a date that he had to rob a museum in order to take you on.

You giggled and sank into the seat, “N’jadaka, really?” He nods, “Yeah baby. I figured i’d take you to where it all began.” This nostalgic feeling fell over you, remembering how he followed you around the lounge like a sick puppy, his dreads barely touching his neck back then. You give him a second glance, his dreads are now almost to the middle of his back, his nape; tapered. You lean into him, making out with your husband like you’re seventeen. The valet worker tapped on the window to snap you out of it.

--

Erik really planned that night out. He got a VIP section, got him a bottle of Hennessy prestige, and you a white bottle of Belaire Rose. The waitresses gave you both your appropriate glasses to drink your alcohol out of with a bucket of ice. Your husband kept attempting to roleplay, asking who you were with, “I’m with you, fool!” He then asked where your man was at, you pointed at him. You finally caught on when he asked for your name and number. You put on a corrupt grin, “Heaven. and I don’t think my man would like you asking for my number.” You were good and toasted by the time N’jadaka and you were playing a good game of back and forth, “Oh.. Well your man shouldn’t have left you alone.” The slow tempo of Drake’s A Night off sounds off in the club, “This is my jam!” Your man whispers to you, “See, why would your man leave you along while your song is playing? C’mon. At least dance with me.” You gulped down your fourth glass before taking the last sip out of your bottle, “Let’s go.”

Know you hate explaining how you want it done Just be quiet I'll do fine without your help girl Can you work without a second for some fun? Now you finally got a moment to yourself girl And I know what to do with it

You whine your lower half to his, your ass giggling at the end of every loop. He poured you one more drink for the night, some of his Hennessy, which you both took your glasses onto the dance floor. His free hand is alternating, between gripping your inner thigh, to grasping on both of your cheeks as your mirrored each break down of the beat. His eyes narrow as he bites down on his trembling lip, never letting his hand leave your body. As you feel his erection growing you grind against him even harder. He reaches underneath you to grip your breast, tweaking the skin underneath your pastie. You’re drunk at this point, so all you do in reaction is keep dancing and sticking your tongue out. He has you exactly how he wants you. Relaxed, drunk, and worked up.

So, baby, I'm a lock my door and disconnect my phone Cause I wanna make one thing clear 

I want you on top, so let your hair down I took the night off for you Girl, I'm gonna turn the lights off But keep your heels on They're fittin' for what we're about to do

He has a look on his face that you love to see, pure lust and astonishment. Just at you dancing for him.You look down at his hand with the vibranium wedding band you placed on it three years prior is shining even in the almost nonexistent club lighting. His thick fingers grabbing on you like you’ll dissolve at any moment.The Dj switches the song to Keith Sweat’s Nobody, N’jadaka gives you a shock, pressing his fingers against your abdomen, standing you straight up. Then he presses your lower back down so you can still arch against him, as you continue your slow whine.

I wanna tease you I wanna please you I wanna show you baby, that I need you I want your body 'til the very last drop I want you to holler when you want me to stop

N’jadaka’s hands are still roaming your frame. His lips are now brushing past and behind your ear, “So tell me baby, can I get a taste of Heaven?” His growl at the end of his statement mixed with the drinks and that damn cologne were all working against your self control. You literally leaked down your leg. You took your iced out left ring finger and placed it where your nectar was racing down and fed it to him, “Is that good enough?” He moaned as the liquid hit his tongue. He licked a strip behind your ear which makes you tremble against him, “Nah babygirl. Daddy wants more.” He presses down your back even more so you can bend back over. He gently smacks your ass, letting it jiggle back he looks to the Ancestral Plane as if he’s thanking Bast herself for that ass of yours.

You throw back what’s in your glass like it’s a shot and grab him by the collar, giving him the look that he’s been waiting on since you got out the house, “Let’s go...Now.”

Erik made a reserved a room at the Fairmont across the bay. There’s a jam on the Oakland Bay Bridge. That and the tented windows on your Cayenne which gives you the opportune moment to unbuckle your seat belt and jump on the man that’s been tempting you the entire night. His sex playlist going through the speakers didn’t make it any better.

I wanna touch you Right now, right now, right now, right now, right now, right now We ain't gotta waste time going out on dates We ain't gotta count down till you come to my place We ain't gotta, (you ain't gotta), we ain't gotta, (you ain't gotta) We ain't gotta, (you ain't gotta) we ain't gotta, (you ain't gotta) You ain't gotta waste time sending me roses They gon' die anyway, man that's just boring You ain't gotta, (you ain't gotta), you ain't gotta, (you ain't gotta) You ain't gotta, (you ain't gotta) you ain't gotta, (you ain't gotta) 'Cause I want you right now

Your lips are fighting with his for dominance as you climb over to the drivers seat to straddle him. You rip about half of the buttons off of his shirt as your liquor tasting tongues tango. His hands smack against your ass over and over and over again, making you moan into him. Between kisses, while you’re trying to unbuckle his seat belt and his pants he mumbles two octaves lower than his normal voice, “Mmm.. So it’s like that?” You moan out over the music, “Yeah daddy, it’s like that.”  He finally shimmies out of his pants and simultaneously rips your thong and the crotch area of those fishnet pants. His primal side and the air hitting your center brings a shiver to your body and it continues as your lover submerges into you. 

You cry out, slightly in pain. You and N’jadaka have only made love a handful of times since your six week appointment after having N’Juma. Partially because he went on a two month wardog mission. He’d only came home a couple days ago, and you were so busy in mom mode when you weren’t in work mode and vice versa..you only snuck in a quickie when he first came home. So your healed body is still getting used to his girth again. What feels like a overwhelming pressure eventually morphs into the pleasure you remembered oh so well. You crouch your body to tuck in between his neck and chest as you ride him in the stop and go traffic. He’s basking in the spontaneity of it all, the suburban behind him is occasionally honking their horn at his delayed movement as traffic moves up. If they only knew what was distracting him.

The first of your many orgasms of the night surprises you. You didn’t feel it coming, until it came. Your body is convulsing on his and he holds you right where you are. You screamed his name as best as you could through it. He put the car in park and hoisted his hips to meet your bottom until you could move again. You slam down on him, “Mm mm. You don’t gotta do that. Let Heaven take care of you, daddy.” He smirks while looking at the creamy mess y��all created, “You sure?” You nod, “Yeah. I gotchu. That one caught me off guard.” You laugh together as you grind on him. You love when he’s deep in you, he knows it too. N’jadaka grips your hips as he bites down on your neck, coaching your movements. You move your head back, giving him more access as you feel the second orgasm arise. The head of his phallic member collided with that spot that makes you weak every time he hits it.

He huffs, “My baby cumming again huh?” You cry out yes, “I’m cumming too baby. Daddy gon make Heaven cum to him? Hmm?!” He rotates his hips around to tap it again.. and again... as he hits it the third time, your essence falls, in a trickling waterfall motion. You shriek in bliss as his motions don’t stop, neither does your orgasm.

The car behind you beeps again. Erik being the superman that he is, he put the car back in drive and moved up while still stroking you through what’s probably the longest orgasm you’ve ever had. You rest on him as he presses on the break, his leg slightly shook as he gritted his teeth. You looked at him, “I came. That asshole ruined it. But wait till I get ‘cho ass in that room. I’m really gon get a taste of heaven.” 

--

@chaneajoyyy @theunsweetenedtruth @hidden-treasures21

[chokefriends]

Pit-town Strays, Ch.5

Kidlaw softness and redneck shenanigans in a northern mining town. Everything’s fucked but whatever.

Rated T, no warnings. Ch 5: Law explores his escape routes but knows he isn’t going anywhere.

Ch. 1 - Ch. 2 - Ch. 3 - Ch. 4 - [Ch. 5]

Read on Ao3 too, I’m Ossicle

Law was still staring at the same channel when Bellamy and Dellinger returned an hour later. Law heard them rumble up, and muted the sound to signal the all-clear.

“Fish tacos for Bellamy, gross curry for Law,” Dellinger unpacked their takeout onto the coffee table and dug into his own.

“Thanks,” Law muttered, but didn't get up from the armchair.

“Uh,” Bellamy pointed furtively to Law's arm. The wrist was purpling.

“Shit…” Law pulled his sleeve down over it and hooked his thumb through a hole in the hem. “Whatever. Whacked it on a thing.”

Bellamy stayed standing for a minute, scuffing a toe into the carpet. “Dad’s been worried a lot, is all,” he tried eventually.

“Yeah I know,” Law answered in the same tone.

“Y’know, cuz of this one,” Bellamy jabbed his thumb at the smallest of the three and shook his head.

“...”

The blunt face creased irritably at Law's silence, and Bellamy gave up. He sat down with a grunt to tear into his own takeout box.

“Dellinger,” he grouched at the only other target in the room, “Stop tryna reconstruct the squid, just eat it. God, can you not be such a psychopath? You're making everyone upset—”

“Bellamy.” Law cut him off with a warning look. “He's right here, don't say that.”

Dellinger seemed unperturbed, but very little ever seemed to bother him. “Actually, ‘psychopath’ is not even a thing anymore? And I don't fit the criteria according to this online test I took.”

“Psycho,” Bellamy accused.

“Not!”

Law rose with a sigh and went to sit between them on the couch. “What’d you get, Del.”

“Tentacles,” Dellinger showed him his seafood, with all the squid pieces collected in a little squidlike arrangement.

“Huh. Looks better than the frog leg thing, I guess.”

“That was just an experiment. I wasn't gonna eat it,” Dellinger rolled his eyes. “I saw online that the legs move by themselves if you put em in a saltwater solution. I just wanted to try.”

“That's pretty cool,” Law reassured him.

Bellamy scoffed. “That he's killing off all the pondlife around here? Yeah it's great.”

“I’m not even killing em, just snipping off their extra legs! Most of the frogs here have like three legs and four eyes anyway. Or more, closer you get to the Pit. It's the runoff.”

“Huh… Wonder if it'll start morphing humans too,” Law mused.

“Prolly just gives humans cancer.” Dellinger gave it some thought. “You think human legs could move by themselves?”

“Only one way to find out,” Law joked.

Bellamy gave a sudden snort of disgust, picked up his dinner, and disappeared off to his room. The door thunked shut and Nickelback started blaring through it.

Law ignored all this, but Dellinger looked at the closed door in confusion, then went back to stirring his food and fidgeting. They ate in silence for a while.

“I don't wanna make people upset,” the skinny kid spoke up eventually.

Law nodded, still chewing, but didn't respond right away.

Dellinger speared a tentacle and frowned at it. “I don't think it hurts them for real. And it's not like Dad or anyone even cares about frogs. Bellamy thinks it's funny to run them over…”

“I think they're worried about how it'll look to other people,” Law explained.

“Other people are stupid.”

“Yeah,” Law agreed. “Anyway, just stick to animals with extraneous appendages. And don't take any more experiments to school.”

“It’s not like I'm gonna take the legs off people's pets or whatever. Geez. It's just frogs…” Dellinger sighed and got up to go to bed as well. His room was way upstairs on the second floor, where Bellamy and Law used to sleep when they were younger.

“Take your plate,” Law reminded him automatically.

“Why does everybody always tell me what do do… I hate it.” He started to go upstairs.

“Dellinger, take your fucking plate.”

“You take it.”

“You wanna get in trouble with Dad?” Law warned him, “You're not a baby anymore, just clean up your shit.”

“You're supposed to do all that.” Dellinger shot back, hanging off the bannister and pouting.

“I'm supposed to fucking what now?”

“Well, I'm not the one who gets in trouble when stuff's not clean. You're here to take care of us, or you have to go back to the reservation, right?”

Law's eyebrows flew up in disbelief, and then creased in anger. “I'm not fucking ‘on loan’ from wherever; I'm your fucking brother!”

Bellamy shouted from behind his closed door, “Dellinger! Take your plate upstairs or I swear to god your psycho ass is getting shipped to foster care!!”

Dellinger stomped his way upstairs instead, leaving his dinner behind.

Law snorted and sat back with arms crossed. He was going to storm off to his own room too, but he kept looking back at the leftover tentacles sticking up obscenely from the styrofoam container. He made a noise of muffled rage and threw the entire thing in the trash. There. Jesus... Now at least he wouldn't get any bruises that he hadn't fucking earned himself.

His phone buzzed.

Kidd: Where the fuk r the bandaids, u let nami use em all?

Law stared at the screen for a moment, head starting to pound, then fired back:

You: I don't fyckig know where the band-aids are im not your fucking housekeeper and I don't got any control over your shitass kid for CHRIDT SAKE

The phone buzzed again but Law flicked the notification away.

He brought up Baby's number instead and escaped outside into the darkness and silence. She didn't pick up at first and he had to call back a few times, as usual. By the time she picked up, he'd gotten himself hidden away in the passenger side of the Volvo with the seat leaned all the way back.

Baby sounded cogent but irritable. “Geez, you got Buff thinking I got another man,” she complained.

“‘Buff’ is a stupid name.” Law massaged the bridge of his nose.

“Not as stupid as ‘Buffalo,’” she sighed.

“Jesus, his parents actually named him that?”

“Yeah, they hippies.”

Law snorted. “Native hippies?”

“It's a thing.”

Law licked his lips and tried to think of what to say next, but his throat felt tight.

Baby prompted him, “Well, what up, big brother. You want a ride somewhere?”

“That's not the only reason I ever call you.”

“Haha… little bit.”

Law swallowed a surge of guilt. “Sorry. I’ve been kinda stretched thin these days—”

“Yeah I know. Big man, you. Important stuff to do.”

“I wanna see you more, though. You ever think about that thing we were talking about before? Getting mom and dad's old place back? Where we all lived before they got sick…”

Baby took a moment to answer. “Heh… I see it sometimes, when I'm driving around here.”

Law smiled. “Yeah? So how's rez life treating ya.”

“It's chill. I dunno, small. It's weird sometimes, even jus trying to like, hang with people. You know? They think I'm after something, I guess…”

“Probably just takes time.” Law reassured her. “Probably once we're both living there again and people get used to us—”

She interrupted, “Law, you don't actually think you'll end up here, right?”

“Why not?”

Baby always did that little huff thing when she had something to say. She did it twice and then put on her stern voice. “Like, what would you even do on the rez. There's no sushi, no fancy little coffee shops, and the first time you get too smart you'll get your perfect teeth all knocked down.”

“‘Knocked out,’” he corrected under his breath. “And what, you think I can't handle myself?”

“You don't wanna be here, is what I'm saying. You're too used to that whole life.”

“What whole life.”

“You know what I mean,” Baby sniffed. “Suburbia. Sunday brunch. Sunscreen…”

“That stuff’s not…! I’m not… You think I wanted to get adopted white??” Law challenged.

“Least you got adopted.”

Law had had enough. “Well, it's been a super load off my chest talking to ya, baby sister.”

“Don't get sarcastic with me,” she snapped.

“Give Buffy my bestest,” he continued.

“It’s ‘Buffalo.’”

He scoffed. “Sure. Also, he's our first cousin on mom's side.”

“He's wh—?!!”

Law hung up with a petty little burst of triumph. The feeling didn't last long, though.

“Shit…”  

He sat there kicking at the glove box and letting his anger ebb away into shame. There was a black marker in the center console, and he took up his little dot-decorations again, this time on the sleeve of his hoodie. He circled and filled in wandering patches until his foggy head had cleared and he could look at his phone again.

I do wanna see you more, he texted to Baby, who didn't reply.

Law sighed and moved on to the results of the outburst just before that one. He clicked back into the convo with Kidd, expecting harsh words.

That bad eh, Kidd had replied simply to Law's rant.

Law snorted. He tapped the phone icon and waited.

“G’day,” came the wry answer.

“The fuck you need band-aids for now?” Law questioned him.

Kidd put on a tragic tone. “I got a boo-boo, man. I need that animal sticker magic.”

“Oh? What'd you do.”

“Punched a goose.”

Law laughed out loud, unexpectedly. “You fucking did not,” he put his feet up on the dash and tried not to sound like he was smiling.

“Yeah… well, it was beating up on this one poor dog chained up in a yard. Only dog on a leash in the whole place, seriously.”

“Your yard has a dog post in it too, right? Where'd that one go?” Law remembered the lonely post with the deep path tread around it.

“Oh… yeah, dad took her with him when he left last year—this German shepherd he got us as a present because he was always gone. She was supposed to keep us out of trouble, I guess, but she kept taking off and like, trying to herd coyotes or whatever, haha… He eventually chained her up in the yard and she just wore that circle into the ground every day.”

“That's so shitty,” Law shook his head.

“Yeah. I hope he took her somewhere she can run… anyway, whatever.” Kidd coughed, seeming to not wanna talk about it further.

“Yeah. Uh… So you defeated the goose, eh.”

“Hah! Not even—I had to get back on the bike and run for it! At least I drew it away from the dog.”

Law let himself laugh. “Yeah, aw, you saved it!”

Kidd laughed too. “I should've just let it off the leash. It probably would've fucked that goose up itself.”

“Well, I'll bring you animal band-aids next time I come.”

“Thanks. Uh.” Kidd paused. “So you're gonna come back?”

Law's lightened mood abruptly darkened again. He examined the purple patterns trailing from sleeve to skin—vivid and unbearably obvious. “Yeah, uh. Maybe not tomorrow, though...”

“No?”

“I got school stuff.”

“Oh, yeah. Day after?”

“Maybe the day after that…” Law evaded. He tried coloring in the dark blotches with marker, casting around for a topic to get away from this one. But Kidd seemed to read his silence anyway.

“Hey uh. You know you can just stay here? Whenever? However long,” Kidd offered.

“Uh.”

“And I don't mean as like, a live-in nanny thing either. You don't have to do anything. I don't think of you as a housekeeper.”

Law wanted to cringe away under the seat. “Nono, I don't actually think you think that! I was just lashing out about other stuff.”

“All the cleaning is kinda weird, tee-bee-aych.”

“I know. It's compulsive.”

“But you could just… stay,” Kidd emphasized again, like all this was simple.

Law stared off into the darkness beyond the windshield. He could imagine what it'd be like, sleeping with his head on a strong shoulder, breathing warmth, in a tiny house like a shoebox-nest full of other scuffed-up odds and ends. It sounded worlds better than fucking sunday brunch and sportscars…

“I don't think I can right now.”

“No, eh.”

“Anyway, I gotta get to sleep,” Law mumbled apologetically. “School tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” Kidd switched back to whatever-mode.

“I'll text you, eh? When I'm thinking of coming over.”

“Yeah, sounds good, you got my number.”

“Yeah.”

Law hung up and sat there, chewing his lip and breathing the stuffy air of the Volvo. He could just drive to Kidd's right now. Just go. But then what, wear gloves? Invent some goose story of his own? No… he couldn't leave like this, at least not yet.

But he couldn't make himself go out of the car and back to the house either.

He let his mind wander through its worries and his hands perform their restless tasks, until his phone died and the marker ran out. Then he curled up in the passenger seat to sleep.

[thedesignateddriver]

Rain - Chapter 7 - (Ava/Odin)

Start reading here. As always, dedicated to @emissary-architect​.

(If you are coming back to this story, I recommend going back and rereading if you have time before reading the new chapter, to get back in the mood of things! This chapter is shorter but I promise the next and rest of them are normal length.)

This story has not been abandoned, and I will finish it! Also, the formatting is better on AO3, I encourage you to read it there, but feel free to reblog and like this post!

Breathe - Chapter 7

Ava could not remember what she had said to him, or if she had said anything after that, nor could she remember how long how they had remained outside. They had mutually dissolved the conversation and wandered back to bed. The warmth of the inside slowly drew out the chill that had seeped into the skin of her feet, and that had drawn into her clothes as she returned. She felt the cold slip away, and then breathe back into her, as her pendulum steps, heavy and quiet and blurry, brought her back to the attic, to the big beautiful bed she so badly wanted to sleep in.

She laid down, and listened to herself breathing.

—

When Ava was ten she remembered sitting in on one of the armchairs, holding a book in her lap from school and trying to read it. She had turned the chair to face the wall, away from the television and the light that watered the room from its screen. She told herself that it was so she would not be distracted. In truth, she could have gone to her room to read, but she had realized earlier that week how much of her time she spent there, alone. Something about that scared her out into the rest of the apartment.

—

In spite of the weight that had slid away from her chest, she didn’t fool herself into thinking her dreams weren’t going to come back, that they weren’t still mired in the back of her head and waiting to slide back over her eyes like a cancerous, nocturnal tide.

She wanted to stop thinking about her dreams. There were enough problems in her life, real problems she was going to have to deal with. She felt herself getting angry at how much time her subconscious hell bled into when she was awake. Why did she have to waste so much of her time not only dreaming about it, but being afraid of dreaming about it?

She thought about the real thing instead.

It wasn’t as if she didn’t think about that night. She did, all the time—how could she not? It was scary. It had happened so fast. It had taken thirty minutes to get to the bridge, but it would have only taken her a minute to walk across and off. A split second of her whole life. It seemed so small, that moment, in perspective of all the years leading of up to then, and of the last several weeks she had spent here, in this house. And what was even scarier, in a way that she could not avoid when she went to sleep and lost control over her thoughts, was that it could have ended so differently.

—

From where she faced the wall, she could not see Wrathia, but she could smell her, the smoke and perfume finding Ava’s mouth and nose, and sitting in her lungs and not coming all the way out even when tried exhaling hard. Every few minutes there would be a pause and a long drag of a cigarette, and an extraneous hum slipped out of the woman, and a little bit more of Wrathia would be in the room, until Ava became so aware of her in the air that she could not move from the chair. The back of her neck was stiff and her hands were shaking, holding the pages before her. She had been staring at the same page for twenty minutes without looking away.

—

It occurred to her how selfish it was for a suicide attempt to be the moment her brain tortured her with. She had done worse things. She had hurt people, people who didn’t deserve it and people she cared about. Why wasn’t she agonizing over that, over and over and over?

she did feel bad, she did, but not always, sometimes she liked it, she did didn’t she, why  

Wouldn’t a good person try and move on? A good person wouldn’t keep letting those thoughts stop everything in her life, stop her from doing something, anything with her life—

you enjoyed it didn’t you you’re not sorry you never were

—she didn’t do anything to move on because she was letting them make her feel bad, and she was letting herself burn out into nothing. She was the one who wouldn’t stop feeling bad about—fuck, wasn’t that what she was doing now?! Just lying there and not doing anything and just feeling horrible about herself and—

this hell is self-inflicted and it always has been

And the frustration bubbled up and down her arms, summering at her wrists in a way that screamed at her to hit something, because she didn’t know what to be mad at. She wanted to stop thinking about it. She wanted to cry. She had emptied herself out, but she was just filling herself back up. She was alone in this room and there was nothing she could do. Breathe, she thought.

this isn’t going to stop is it you can’t it’s you it’s always been you

Breathe.

I want to stop I want

You have to breathe you have to

 Wrathia had said something to her in the morning that made her so ashamed and sad that she could not focus on anything else. She had gone to school and barely wrote anything down at all, trying to figure out how to reign in the swelling in her eyes and the hollow in her stomach.

And sitting in that chair, Ava realized nothing had been able to distract her from her feelings because what Wraithia had said to her in the morning was the only time anyone had spoken to her that day. No one had said a word, no one had touched her.

Ava tried very hard to stop herself but as she looked down at the pages and the tears started sliding into her nose, and salting the cracks in her lips, she sniffed.

And without even seeing her, Ava could tell how Wrathia turned her head, her long hair shifting around her, and she saw in her mind the expression on the woman’s face, clear as Ava could hear her voice.

“Why do you have to be like this?”

  It was over for now.

She could talk to him about it, if she wanted.

Not tonight—not any night this late again, despite his reassurance. He had a job and family to take care of, and she was not about to destroy his rest to help herself.

Ava wasn’t sure how much she could keep imparting to him before he became exasperated, before he began to think there was something wrong with her, or that she wasn’t trying to move on. But he hadn’t started thinking that yet, despite everything.

She wanted to stop thinking about that night, which by all counts she had been hell-bent on ending so differently.

But she had met Odin that night, too. And she was still Ava Ire.

She shivered.

What was it that she had said to him, after she had agreed to come home with him? She said she was doing it for herself, not for him, not because she owed him. She was doing it for herself.

—

Ava slept.

—

The house was quiet.

 Pale blue light was washed over the curtains, and she stared up at the canopy, running her gaze along the tangled embroidery as it ebbed in and out of shadows. She became aware of each of her legs and the way the sheets felt on her skin, and how the pillow under her neck had sunk beneath her.

The images in her head slid from the blankets, the pillows, and her body, away from her, down the curves of the bed posters and onto the floor, tracing around the edge of the room before seeping through the floor. Just below her, the Arrows would be asleep, in their own small spaces, each person tethering entire universes of thought right beneath where she was laying. In the stillness, it was easy to imagine each of the siblings in their own environments, structured or designed by each their own temperament. And around them, and on the floor below, the house was filled with them, their things—books, papers, keepsakes, clothing, heirlooms—ornaments of existence that bled life into this house. The walls, and floors, and things, around Ava were laden with memories that she would never be able see. They were the physical shells of the experiences that made the Arrow’s entire lives, and she was there, laying among them.

She was alone in the room, the only one filling up the space, and it was quiet.

 She put her bare feet down on the floor.

A shock from the chilled wood ran up her legs as she pulled off the sweatshirt to let the cold air wash down her back, through her white night shirt.

The hinges on the door chirped as she opened it and walked down the stairs, each foot making a small padding noise as she walked down each step. Her sight went in and out of clarity as the light came in the stair well from the bottom hallway and the above attic. Ava slid her hand along the wall for stability, her fingers running over the tiny spaces between the panels and askew to the woodgrain.

The hallway was empty, and there were no sounds downstairs. Perhaps the brothers had left early, or weren’t awake, but in the absence of noise from the others, Ava felt momentarily like she was by herself in the house again. This time, she didn’t stray around the halls. She glided over the bathroom, just beside the stairway, toeing along the wall to keep from raising sharp crackling noises in the middle floorboards.

She slipped in and shut the door behind her. Ava kept the water lukewarm and to a thin stream when she turned the handle to the sink. The skin on the back of her hands wished for more heat as the water pooled in between her palms, and it trickled from behind her fingers as she brought it over her face, over and over again. She drew it slowly around her eyes, then pushed it to her hairline, dampening it. When she look up, drips had shimmered down her neck and into her nightie, and darkened a crown of hair around her face.

She finished her other rituals, brushing her teeth and spitting out pangs of blood as the mint twine around her fingers grew curled and pink. The waves in her hair lifted as she brushed it through.

Ava slid out of the bathroom and made her way back to the third floor, the room just a touch lighter than it was when she woke up. Shivers overcame her as she knelt on the hardwood, sifting through her suitcase, considering each piece and pulling out a few other articles, and finally, a dress. Its creases gave beneath the run of her palms, and she lay it on the floor beside her as she slowly pulled off her nightclothes and changed her underthings.

Ava buttoned the front of the dress, fumbling with the top clasp, glossy and white, slipping it between the red fabric.

She pulled open a loose, open sweater on, the fabric slack around the bend of her arms.

And finally, she pulled herself onto the bed, and slid white stockings up her bare legs, one at a time, watching the loops in the knit yawn as she tugged them.

Righting herself, she glanced over at the mirror briefly, then exhaled and looked at her lap, her hands, then letting her attention wander over the blankets around her. She stared at them briefly before running her hands under the sheets and feeling the fleeting warmth from where she had slept. Her hands swept back and forth over the fabric, until she pulled them away and had them make up the bed. She folded the sweatshirt she’d disrobed and tucked it under a pillow, where she could find it later.

She slid from the bed and found herself in front of vanity, looking herself up and down, turning around and watching the skirt of the dress gasp upward at the movement. Ava looked at the crisp reflection of her own face. Big red eyes.

 And then she was in front of one of the windows, the panes whisked into lacy gothic curls where the glass met the wall, and she looked out. It was this side of the house that stood watch over the property, extending far past view beyond the pine trees. The light was pale, barely morning yet. Her reflection was here in the glass, too, but was shimmery and distant.

There were a lot of things that she wasn’t going to be able to fix today. But she had gotten dressed.

Before leaving the attic, Ava did two things, on impulse.

She slipped from one side of the room to the other and opened her luggage, and once more pulled out her phone, as she had a week before. She had hardly used it since then, and even more now than before it felt as if it didn’t belong—not in her hand, nor in this place, this house which felt so separate and had let Ava rest away from everything else.

She opened her contacts and pressed one name, and stared at the dips and coils of the letters and numerals until she felt nothing, and then she blocked the number.

She then pressed another name, and left a message.

[lady-divine-writes]

Kurtbastian one-shot - “Common Courtesy” (Rated PG)

In order to combat a common problem down at their rink, Sebastian institutes a new rule. (1731 words)

Notes: In case anyone's wondering, yes, this happens a lot at my rink, and I've wanted to tell parents to do just this literally every single day.

Part 38 of Outside Edge

Read on AO3

“Higher, Melanie! Higher! I want to see that leg in the air! And point your toe more! Madison, dear! Tell Melanie to point her toe more!”

An exasperated Madison looks at her young student, who had been doing her spiral perfectly before her mom began to bellow, and sighs.

“Point your toe, Melanie,” Madison deadpans, then crosses her eyes, which makes Melanie giggle. But Melanie laughing at the faces Madison pulls out of her mother’s line of sight makes the woman furious.

“Melanie! Show your coach some respect! I don’t pay her $50 a lesson so you can disrespect her!”

Madison rolls her eyes at the mention of her fee, which Mrs. Dickerson has tried to re-negotiate multiple times without success. Compared to other coaches, what Madison charges per half hour is a steal. But not every parent sees it that way.

Definitely not Mrs. Dickerson.

“Y-yes, mom,” Melanie replies, shrinking into herself. Madison puts an arm around her shoulders and leads her away, trying to find a spot where Melanie’s mother can’t bother them. But the rink is basically a fish bowl. There’s nowhere they can go that her mother won’t see.

“Respect your coach. Why doesn’t she try respecting her kid,” Kurt grumbles, occupying himself by writing in his skating journal, planning out the choreography for his next competition routine. He’s been doing his best to ignore Mrs. Dickerson, the way he tries to ignore all of the moms and dads who sit on the sidelines and bark criticisms at their kids as if they have been coaching figure skaters their entire lives. Most parents sitting in the hockey boxes have never set foot on the ice competitively a day in their lives. But the second their kids show some interest, suddenly they’re Marina Zoueva.

“Most parents don’t think they have to,” Sebastian says, just as irritated as his boyfriend. “Not when the kids want to be here and they’re signing the checks.”

“Except yesterday, Melanie didn’t want to be here. She twisted her ankle in practice the day before, and it’s still acting up on her. She told her mom over and over that she wanted to go home until she was in tears. And you know what her mom said? Deal with it. Yeah. It’s easy to tell your poor ten-year-old kid to deal with it when they’re the ones with pain in their legs, exhausted, afraid of twisting an ankle and falling on their heads, while you sit in the hockey box wrapped in a warm coat and blanket, doing nothing but yelling nonsense.” Kurt shakes his head, trembling with anger. “You know, my mom was a competitive skater for years and she rarely criticized me. And she sure as hell never yelled across the rink at me.”

“Come on, Melanie!” Mrs. Dickerson yells, snapping at her daughter as if she were a dog. “Get your butt moving! I want to see you land at least one double Axel before we leave.”

Melanie’s eyes pop. She looks at Madison, who puts her hands protectively on her shoulders.

“With all due respect, Mrs. Dickerson,” Madison says, “we just learned the single Axel. I’m not sure Melanie’s quite ready to land a double just yet. Give her a few months, and when she’s had a little more practice, we can …”

“With all due respect, Madison,” Mrs. Dickerson interjects, mockingly, “I think I know better than you what my daughter is capable of. I’ve been watching her practice that single for the better part of this week. Now, I want to see her land a double, or we’ll be here till this place closes.”

“That’s only six hours from now,” Sebastian says, seething. “And she’ll probably duck out for an hour in the middle to go to Starbucks.”

“Poor Melanie.” Kurt hugs his journal to his chest. “She doesn’t deserve this. She doesn’t want to compete. She’s not looking to go to the Olympics or anything like that. She just wants to perform, wear a sparkly dress, do some spins and jumps. You know, I think it should be a rule that if parents want to criticize their kids’ skating, they need to do it on the ice with skates on. Then maybe they’d see that it’s not so simple as pointing your toe more or lifting your leg higher.”

“Yeah,” Sebastian agrees, chewing that thought over in his head. He has an idea, but he’s debating exactly how much trouble he’d get in for doing it. In the end, he decides what the heck. Is the Westerville Ice-plex really going to kick him – a national champion – out of their rink for trying to get a mom off their kid’s back? Probably not. “Hey, babe. You’re into all that fashion stuff. What size shoe do you think Mrs. Dickerson wears?”

“Uh … I don’t know. A six, maybe a six-and-a-half. Why do you ask?”

“I think you came up with a way to get Melanie’s mom off her case.” Sebastian gives Kurt a quick kiss on the cheek. “Start practicing. I’ll be right back.”

***

“Melanie! What the heck are you doing with your arms? Hold them out straight! Straight!!”

“Hello, Mrs. Dickerson,” Sebastian says, then waits a moment for acknowledgement. When he doesn’t get it, he continues. “I came to give you these.” He puts a pair of beat up old grey-and-black rental skates on the bench beside her. The woman barely glances at them before she scoffs and says, “What’re those for? There’s nothing wrong with Melanie’s skates. Besides, she can’t skate in rentals.”

“They’re not for her. They’re for you.”

Mrs. Dickerson jerks as if Sebastian spat in her face. “What in the world …? Look, I know you’re a national champion and whatnot so they pretty much let you do whatever you want around here. But I don’t appreciate being fun of, young man.”

“No, what you don’t seem to appreciate is how difficult what Melanie does is. The physical exertion, the skill, the dedication. And we’re all sick and tired of listening to you berate her over something you know nothing about! So, from now on, if you want to comment on her skating – her posture, her arm position, anything at all – you’re going to put on those skates, and you’re going to go out there and tell her personally! $5 says you fall on your ass after two seconds.”

That’s what Sebastian wants to say. He’d also wanted to throw those rental skates right in Mrs. Dickerson’s pinched, mutant, bull terrier-looking face. But he didn’t because, regardless of how much of a jerk Melanie’s mom is, she’s a customer. So what he does say is: “It’s a new policy the coaches have come up with to cut down on the amount of extraneous noise in here while our skaters concentrate on their routines. Competition season is coming up, you know. So we’re asking parents to skate over to their kids if they need to talk to them … as a courtesy.”

“You must be joking.”

“Nope. It’s actually not a new concept. A lot of other rinks have started doing it all across the country.”

“Well, I’ve never heard of it.”

“It’s not the kind of thing a lot of rinks advertise,” Sebastian says with a commiserate chuckle, “but it’s been proven to work wonders in helping skaters maintain their focus.”

Mrs. Dickerson crosses her arms, glaring at Sebastian skeptically. “Has it now?”

“Yup. If our skaters are going to perform at their best, they need to concentrate on their coaches and their choreography. We’re just doing everything we can to make sure our skaters turn into champions. Make sure you get your money’s worth.” Sebastian winks and flashes her a smile. It’s forced, but he’s gotten better at faking it. Still, Mrs. Dickerson doesn’t look completely convinced. Melanie skates by, preparing to perform a single Axel – single loop combination (an attempt on Madison’s part to appease Melanie’s mother). But right before she sets up, she drops her shoulder. Sebastian sees her mother begin to stand, mouth open, and he knocks on the wall of the hockey box to get her attention. Her eyes snap to him, annoyed at being interrupted, but he simply shakes his head and points at the skates.

“I’m sorry,” he says sweetly. “But if you want to talk to her, you’ll need to put those on.” He turns on his blade and skates away, leaving her simmering on the bench with the pair of rental skates by her side. Melanie lands a second single Axel. It’s more or less technically accurate except for her hand position, which, of course, will improve over time.

Nathan Chen didn’t land a quad in a day.

Melanie’s mother is itching to comment on it. Kurt can see it in her eyes, the way they widen; her lips twitching at the corners. But she hesitates. Her mouth drops open, but nothing comes out. Her gaze finds Sebastian on the ice where he’s joining up with his boyfriend to go over his routine. Then she looks down at her side, like she’s considering putting the skates on. But eventually she relents. She was right about the Westerville Ice-plex basically letting Sebastian do what he wants. He and his boyfriend are like rock stars there. Even if Sebastian is playing her for a fool, the management would probably take his side.

He brings them money, after all.

She slides down the bench and away from those ludicrous skates. She sticks her earbuds in her ears and reluctantly starts watching videos on her iPhone. Huddled inside her coat, she ignores Melanie and Madison, as if that’s some sort of punishment. Madison sighs, gives Sebastian a grateful smile, then goes back to helping Melanie with her routine.

Sebastian doesn’t turn around to see the fruits of his handiwork, but he can tell by the expression on his boyfriend’s face that his bluff had the desired effect. It may not end the criticism altogether, but it might give Melanie a much needed break for a while.

“You are so bad,” Kurt says, giggling behind his hand as he pretends to scratch his cheek.

“You said it yourself,” Sebastian says, wrapping his arms around Kurt’s waist. “If parents want to talk down to their kids about what they do on the ice, let them do it in skates.”

[miss-terra-incognita]

Angus McDonald and the Seven Birds

Part 4

Enjoying this story? Find it on Ao3!

Angus knows Barry Bluejeans. Or, more accurately, he knows of Barry Bluejeans. When he'd first set foot in the Ravenclaw common room earlier that year, the Head Boy had given them a cursory tour of the space.

"There's the fireplace," he'd said with a bored gesture. "The stairs to the dormitories. And there's Barry. As always."

He'd pointed to the corner farthest from the fire, where an overstuffed chair had been dragged up to the edge of a table covered inches deep with parchment and books. The shape hunched over it, almost completely obscured by a large stack of volumes, hadn't looked up.

"I don't know," one of the third-years snaps when he asks her. "He's always there, unless he's in class. I think he sleeps in the common room. Why are you talking to me?"

Sloane, the captain of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team, is a little more informative. "He's in my year," she explains, watching a halfling girl in Hufflepuff robes wander across the courtyard with a handful of friends. "Kind of a loner. Smart, though. HEY HURLEY!"

This last is shouted at a deafening volume, and the halfling girl comes to a startled halt.

"WE'RE GONNA DRAG YOUR ASS ALL OVER THE PITCH ON FRIDAY!"

For a moment Angus wonders if the girl will cry. Angus knows he would, if someone shouted at him like that. But she just plants her hands on her hips and shouts back, "YOU'LL HAVE TO CATCH ME FIRST, SLOANE!"

This devolves into a series of very creative insults with a strong undercurrent of sexual tension, and Angus takes it as his cue to disappear before he hears something above his maturity level.

Ultimately, he decides that the best approach is a direct one.

"Hi!"

Barry doesn't look up, making a brief note at the bottom of a sheet of parchment covered in similar scribbles.

"…Hello?"

Still no answer.

"Um. Mister Bluejeans?"

The pen stills, and then Barry is blinking at him over a pair of glasses that look prepared to slip right off the end of his nose.

Angus smiles winningly. Barry clears his throat. "Oh. Uh, sorry. People don't usually… I mean, what can I do for you?"

Angus leans over to peer more closely at the papers scattered across the table. "It's just that I've been awfully curious. I see you in the common room every day, and you're clearly working very hard on something. Do you mind if I ask what it is?"

Barry stares at him as though he's grown a second head. Angus turns his smile up a few notches.

"Well, I mean… I mean it's not really that interesting. Not to anyone else, anyway. It's just, it's some theoretical stuff."

Angus brightens. "I love theory! Practical application only gets you so far, you know? I wish they'd teach us more about why spells work the way they do, I think that's much more interesting than wand movements and pronunciation. Though that's important too, obviously."

As he speaks, Angus watches the apprehension in Barry's expression melt into tentative hope, and then a cautious smile.

"Well," he says, "If you look here--" he pulls out what looks like an old grimoire. "--you'll see that the arrangements of most spells were discovered purely by accident. A lot of the wand movements are extraneous really, they're just whatever happened to work. But I'm trying to break down the casting of spells to its purely necessary elements. Really, I think the wizarding world relies too heavily on tradition and not enough on research and development."

Angus nods, pulling up a chair and tugging the grimoire into his lap to peer at the page Barry has indicated. "Right! Just because we've done something one way for a really long time, doesn't mean it's the best way. Wandless and wordless magic are both proof of that. There have to be more efficient ways to channel spells.

Barry grabs a sheaf of notes, tapping a specific section. "Exactly. Here, I've broken down a list of spells syllable number and movement complexity…"

By the time Angus is yawning more than he's speaking, it's well past midnight and they're both nodding into their books. Barry chuckles when Angus' forehead lands on the pages again, and suggests they call it a night.

"What about you?" Angus asks when Barry doesn't get up, remembering what the third-year said about sleeping in the common room. "Aren't you going to bed?"

"Oh, I'll probably stay up a little longer." Barry stretches, and his spine performs a little symphony of cracking noises. "I don't like to go up until I know for sure everyone else is asleep."

Angus glances toward the sixth-year dormitory. Sure enough, the telltale glow of candlelight is still flickering under the door. He thinks, as he bids Barry a quiet goodnight, that the two of them have a lot in common.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | | Part 5

[charetfriarsclub-blog]

How To Produce Excellent Comedy For Your Business Vacation Party (From an Expert Comedian)

A vacation party is normally a time for event and a good funny show can be a terrific method to thank your staff members for a task well done. However there are some rules to think about if you want to ensure that you get the best outcomes for your company and from your talent Bruce Charet.

 DISCOVERING YOUR TALENT.

 There are a great deal of methods to look for comedians, and whether you go through a lecture agent, speaker bureau, funny agent, or check out your regional funny club, here are a few things to think about.

 First, business funny is various. If you see somebody at a local club and they're funny and reasonably tidy, there's absolutely nothing wrong with putting them on your list. However make certain that they understand the rules, since a bar comic is typically comfortable utilizing raw language and material that may not fit your crowd.

 So have a look at their websites, or much better still, see them live if possible, and call among their referrals. When you view their video, attempt to glance the whole program to get a sense of how everything circulations, rather than just presume that everything will resemble what they place on their emphasize reel.

 Some comics, including myself, work all kinds of different places, and we are able to change our product from show to reveal depending on the forum. But I've also been doing this for over 3 years and know what's right for each crowd. The danger with a young inexperienced comic is that he or she may share great intents, however utilize unsuitable product if they feel they're not getting enough laughs, so keep that in mind.

 As soon as you have actually chosen your talent, ensure that they consent to your guidelines. More than likely this suggests no cursing, no potty humour and avoiding material that is politically incorrect. It assists to review some of their jokes in advance to offer specific examples of what's fine and what would be considered crossing the line.

 Now, it's true some smaller sized business have looser cultures. My partner operates in a workplace wherein charges shout and curse all day long, so if they hired a comedian for a celebration, the limits would most likely be a lot looser, but even then, an excellent business comic understands to err on the side of safety. Whatever you decide, use due diligence and do your research.

 AGREEMENTS.

 When you've chosen your acts, make sure all celebrations have a signed contract and a deposit. I usually get 50% which secures the date for the business, so they're guaranteed I'm not going to take an eleventh-hour deal for better money (not that I would), but it likewise ensures that I won't lose cash if I have actually refused work and the boss all of a sudden chooses to employ his second cousin's nephew.

 COST.

 It's hard for me to give specifics due to the fact that it really depends upon the size of group and venue for your celebration. If your company is small, the budget plan is clearly going to be rather different then it would be for a Fortune 500. The bottom line is, provide yourself a variety to patronize and be prepared to be versatile if you find a specific act that you simply need to have.

 Keep in mind, the better acts are in higher need, so they generally do charge more, but there are lots of fairly priced comics who may not be family names, however will still do an excellent task for your group. But take care about hiring a comic that is available in at a price that's too low. They might be just starting or may not have much experience in the corporate market.

 Keep in mind that the comedy program is probably going to be the important things your co-workers keep in mind most about the party, so be careful not to be cent wise and dollar foolish.

 DEVELOPING A GOOD COMEDY ENVIRONMENT AT THE VENUE.

 I have actually done comedy in all sort of scenarios and absolutely nothing is harder for a comedian than to enter front of a rowdy crowd who wants to drink, talk and mingle, and could not care less that there's a show. So the number 1 rule is to deal with the program with due regard. If the party coordinators behave as if it's background sound, the audience will usually respond in kind and the comics will be difficult-pressed to overcome that. But if you set it upright, it can be golden.

 Wherever you hold the occasion, try to be sure your group has its own separate space so you prevent the opportunity of a loud bar or too much noise from other clients.

 Let your group understand that there's a show ahead of time and stress that if anyone just absolutely has to be talking for whatever factor, that they need to take it outside. Then make sure cell-phones are all off and have somebody from the business present the comedian so that everybody focuses.

 It's also crucial that everybody is seated, due to the fact that when too many people are standing, they're agitated, and it's harder for even the very best comic to hold their attention. And finally, do not start the program during the meal because no one actually chuckles too much when they're chewing. So try to do the comedy either after the meal, get the wait-staff to stop moving and provide everyone a 5-minute heads-up right prior to so they can use the centres.

 NOISE AND LIGHTS.

 Sound and lights are more vital then you may believe, so it's constantly an excellent concept to have your entertainer test both before the program when the room is empty.

 A lot of hotel meeting room have tiny little round speakers developed into the ceiling. Utilize these only as a last hope. Bad noise can really injure a comedy show, due to the fact that if the audience can't plainly understand what the comic is saying, the humour isn't going to fly.

 Lots of comedians have their own noise devices. I have a portable stereo that's good for about 250 individuals. If I'm doing a local show and I'm not exactly sure of the venue conditions, I throw it in the car simply in case. However bear in mind, if you require the comic to bring their own equipment, there is typically an extra charge.

 Among the trickiest parts about setting the best tone for comedy is the lighting.

 Basically, the total goal is to get the comedian well lit (however not blinded), and have the audience dim however not dark, which increases the intimacy element and makes it more comfortable for everyone to laugh. It likewise helps since the comic can still see the faces and body movement of the audience throughout the show.

 AUDIENCE POSITIONING.

 If you've ever been to a funny club you understand that everyone is usually packed in like sardines. There are 2 factors for this. First, the more individuals the club suits their room, the more money they're clearly making, but second, is that it greatly increases laughter.

 While, you might not want to squeeze your workers quite that securely, do attempt to keep the tables fairly close together and near the comedian. Laughter truly is contagious and this is among the most important elements to an effective show.

 LENGTH OF SHOW.

 If you want a full funny show with 3 comics, about 90 minutes has to do with right, with the emcee normally doing 15-20, the middle about 30, and the headliner about 45. If you employ just 1 or 2 acts, anything from 30-75 minutes is fairly typical, however it really depends on whether you desire comedy to be a spice component for your celebration, or to work as the main course.

 TIME OF DAY.

 The very best time for a comic is normally in the evening, but I have actually worked corporate functions at every possible time of day. Almost whenever can work, however if your celebration remains in the morning, I recommend that you try not to start off with funny as the very first course, because your crowd merely will not be all that alert. I've performed at conventions as early as 8 am, and I have actually succeeded, however it's a really different response at 8 AM then it is even an hour later on.

 MAKE THE COMIC( S) COMFORTABLE - IT ACTUALLY DOES HELP THE SHOW.

 Attempt to make your comic( s) be as comfy as possible. If there's food, and it's not prohibitively costly, we always appreciate a great meal.

 It's likewise handy to have a place in the back of the space, or much better still, in another space, for your comics to hang out before the show.

 Many comics are quite low maintenance. We perform in many different circumstances that we're normally quite flexible, however the more you make us feel welcome, the much easier it is for us to concentrate on our job - which is to offer you a terrific show.

 In my own profession, I've entertained at the NY Stock Exchange, opened for leading name acts at major theatres in front of thousands of individuals, been on national TV shows, and appeared at some truly mindboggling corporate events. I've also been at bars, clubs, coffee homes, libraries and drug rehabilitation. No matter what the location or occasion, the less extraneous stuff we have to fret about, the better it is for everything.

 OTHER FUNNY CHOICES - ROASTS AND PUT-ONS.

 Roasts are a fun method to let off some steam about workplace politics and business policies, however again, make certain you get someone who understands what they're doing.

 This is one of the important things I concentrate on and I love doing it, but it's a lot of composing so I do charge more. However what you're getting in return is a lot more customized show.

 When a comic is doing jokes about the business policies and some of your coworkers and officers, the audience is basically constantly riveted. If you do choose a roast, I recommend you examine ALL the comedian's material so there are not a surprises.

 You may also consider the business put-on, where the comedian is presented as a new vice president who's signing up with the company after the holidays with some "fresh new ideas" for enhancing organisation. This gives it an added element of surprise, however again, this isn't something that every comic can manage.

[thesearchforbluejello]

10 stories’ first lines I’m coming to this party uninvited, because I really want to hear what people have to say. My last ten works were all Rogue One (and all rebelcaptain because I'm trash for that right now), but I'm hoping my Voyager peeps will be willing to weigh in even if you haven't read them! I'm including the first few lines of each, since that seems to be what everyone is doing... Also these are in order of newest first, so really the series starts with #10...   Rules: list the first lines of your last 10 published stories. See if there are any patterns yourself, or have other people say what they notice. Tag up to 10 friends!

1) From my upcoming fic,Collateral Silence: (even thogh the prompt said "published")

"Cassian hauls Jyn to her feet with a hand fisted in her jacket. She stumbles beside him as she regains her footing, throwing an arm up over her head as another secondary blast sounds behind them, muted and seemingly distant through the hazy ringing in their ears. Sheets of ash and dust slant down towards them from the billowing pillar clawing at the sky above the compound. The smell of the fire burns caustic in his nose."

2) Crumbling

"They're waiting for him in the hangar bay.

He assumes they must know enough about how totally fucked the mission ended up, even if they don't know the details, because there's no other reason they'd all be here.

Baze and Chirrut are sitting on a crate, watching him silently. Bodhi is beside them, rocking from heel to toe, toe to heel, expending nervous energy in a steady rhythym. K is next to him, standing taller, more stiffly than he does when at rest. And Jyn-- Jyn is in front of them, standing at an angle that places her directly in the path he needs to take to return to his quarters."

3) Fever Fear

"When the guard opens the door, Cassian is ready. He's on the floor, limp, looking for all the world like he's unconscious, but as soon as the guard is close enough he strikes. One kick to the back of the man's legs takes him to the ground. Once the guard on the floor, it's over quickly. A sharp punch to the throat renders him incapable of crying out; Cassian chokes him into unconsciousness before he has a chance to free himself.

Cassian snags the guard's blaster, staggering to the door as the effort of subduing the man grips him, clutching and pulling at his already exhausted muscles. He's burning up, has been for hours, and the sweat that's dampening his clothes is making him shiver in the cool hallway. His head continues to pound even though the lights are mercifully dim. Whatever that was they'd given him, he feels like shit."

4) Firelight

The village is absolutely wild with sound.

Cassian feels like he's suffocating in it, pulled under by a tidal wave of music and shouts and laughter and noise. The kyber crystal is hot against his skin, a constant beneath the undulating, uproarious din of the rebel celebration.

He'd barely noticed it was there most days since Jyn left, since his life had stop-started like a suffering heart back into what it had been before her. It was for the best, he'd thought, to be able to throw himself into the war again without a constant reminder that he had something to lose. He only felt the warmth sometimes, when he wanted to let the war chew him up without caring if it spit him back out. It made him believe that she was still alive even when his own sense of rationality whispered dark things in the night.

It's night now, as he wanders along the edges of the celebration, under a sky violent with stars obscured with the light and smoke of bonfires.

5) Sound and Silence

"He thinks he hears his name.

It's a distant, distorted, half-suffocated sound, and for a moment he assumes he must have imagined it.

He's weightless and comfortably disoriented, floating in liminality. There's no sound in space, he thinks belatedly, so it must just be a trick of his imagination. If he opens his eyes he sees hazy pinpricks of light through the darkness, little stars shining in the night, but he shuts his eyes again because they're too bright.

He thinks he hears his name, again, the saddest song he's ever heard.

6) Infinite Sea

"The sea is bleeding into the sky.

The water is gold, the surface fractured like a shattered mirror, the waves brushing the sand with a whispered sibilance.

She watches the horizon burn away.

Cassian's hair is soft against her cheek, his hand gripping her neck so tightly it aches. She can feel every breath he takes, the fine tremor of his battered body, their grief and relief dissolving into a single emotion without name. She holds him tightly, desperately, clutching him to herself as though he's not fragile, brittle, ready to fade from her grasp like the horizon.

7) The Gravity of Water

"Cassian has had a headache since they left the hangar bay on Echo Base, and the argument that's been stewing between K and Jyn as they prep to leave the ship is the last thing he wants to listen to.

"I'm merely trying to point out--" K begins.

"I already said no," Jyn snaps, not even looking up from her bag.

"Why won't you listen to me?" K says, crossing his arms in a petulant move that Cassian has noted is occurring with far greater frequency since Jyn joined their team just a few months ago. K would never admit it, of course; Cassian knows he'd sooner rip out his own circuitry.

8) Breath

"There are civilians running in a screaming, frantic hoard, shoulders bumping and pushing and shoving as Cassian tries to get past them. The comms are frighteningly silent.

There's rubble on the ground even this far down the street, angled sheets of ash and dust wafting towards him as he runs. The tie fighters come again, but they scream overhead without firing a shot, rising into the atmosphere until they dissolve into the distance.

"Cassian-- Cassian do you copy?" He recognizes the fast words and clipped syllables for what they are: concern.

"K, I'm here. I'm here." Breathing through the dust is becoming difficult; he holds the sleeve of his jacket over his nose and mouth as best he can.

9) In the Space Between

"By the second hour of snoring, Jyn is ready to slip a vibroblade between his ribs just to make it stop. She's freezing in her bunk, the cold of Hoth seeping through the poorly heated infrastructure of Echo Base, creeping between the fibers of her blankets to curl around her. Her bruised hip aches fiercely in the cold.

Her bunkmate snores again-- which one it is, she's not even sure-- and she bites back the urge to shout. She tears her blanket off her bunk and rolls to the edge as best she can without jostling her hip.

10) To Return

"When K finally manages to open the door, Cassian slips through as soon as it's wide enough for his body. In the dark of the cell, he can barely distinguish the shape on the floor from the shadows cloying around her.

"Jyn," he breathes, because it must be her, he knows it's her, small and fragile and entirely unmoving on the duracrete floor. He hesitates for a moment, just a moment, something frightened and wary clawing at his stomach before he rushes forward, hand still tight on the grip of his blaster. The slice of light burning its way across the cold floor glints in her half lidded eyes for a moment as he drops to one knee beside her. "Jyn," he says again, because words are failing him in the wake of his immense relief that she's even still alive. "We came back; we came to get you," he says, the words rushing out, not at all what he wants to say, but what he must say.

As far as my own observations go, I can definitely see that I much prefer to open with narrative rather than dialogue. I don't spend a lot of time setting the scene, as it were, but open with statements contextualizing the rest of the story rather than describing extraneous details of the surroundings or situation. The Gravity of Water and To Return are the only two out of this ten that include dialogue so early in the story. I'm pretty sparce with my dialogue in general, expecially here because these two aren't particularly chatty, and I enjoy digging into the emotion rather than the words they share, which is partially why they're so interesting to write. When I do write a lot of dialogue, it's sparce in its tags and narration because I try to let the dialogue speak for itself (pun intended). I was surprised to find in these that I start off with the same things that really typify my writing: the metaphors, the strings of adjectives, the two-clause sentences that are dominated by the independent clause preceding the dependent clause. I didn't expect to see those things right off the bat, but they're definitely there.There are several first lines that are single-clause sentences, though, but I find that I don't necessarily prefer them as better hooks. I should point out the exception of Infinite Sea because I love that opening line. I also love that whole fic, but it's the fic with the least kudos and reviews out of my rebelcaptain fics, and I personally think there are several fics in there that are much weaker. Infinite Sea is also the one that really starts off with the angst that I usually try to build up to over the course of the fic. Instead of plot, it dives straight into the angst, which seems to me to be a bit atypical. I wrote this instead of sleeping so Tell me what you think!

[maskedinstructor]

The Secondary Years-A Crack In The Halls of Academia

As I close out the secondary years, I am reminded of gifted instructors who make 'Honorable Mention ' in the Pantheon of formidable teachers and mentors which were Boys High. Mrs. Gordony was as sweet as 'Karo' syrup, cute as a gray-haired doll, the girl next door, that one you take home to meet your Mama. Her words were so soft they caressed my face. Every utterance that proceeded from her mouth was uplifting, inspiring, motivating and heartfelt. She cherished the opportunity to mother us. In her classroom, there was  an essence of spirituality. I felt that she was an angel from heaven. It was she who told me it was possible. I believed her.

Mr. Kaplowitzsky taught trigonometry and chewed gum incessantly. About the second week in his class, I began to vicariously taste the gum. That transference made trigonometry very palatable. Chew, chew, chew...difficult concept. That was not so difficult. In fact, it was downright delectable. I did extremely well in the class. I still here the slap of the gum on the roof of his mouth and remember the salivating that occurred. By the way, he never shared any gum with us.

Theoretical Framework: Character is revealed under pressure. 

Imagine being the star of your sports team. Imagine being the headline performer at a concert of 40,000 fans. Imagine being the emperor of a foreign land and all within your sight was under your control and power. Imagine being at the top of Mount Everest and having the strong wind tickle your testicles.  Thus it was for me when I entered that intermediate Algebra class taught by Mr. Freeman. He was more than a scholar. He was wisdom personified. He dissected each problem and left the dead carcass at the feet of my intellect for comprehension and application. I felt invincible. Quadractic equations were mere mortals in my sight. I was crushing it. Near the end of that term, Mr. Freeman informed us that a Regents exam was an integral part of the course. i had no idea what that meant. However, I did have the NYU Latin experience as a painful memory of these tangential examinations. The preparations began in earnest during the next 3 weeks and I was enthralled with the skills I was acquiring. Boom, Exam Day! Mr. Free man was the proctor and he explained that the exam would be given in two parts. The first part was worth 75 points and the second part given on day 2 was worth the final 25 points which added up to 100. The exam was not very difficult, but tricky. I really had to pay attention to the false indicators. I traversed the jungle very gingerly, avoided the UED's and completed the exam at the bell. The next day, Mr. Freeman said to the class that one person had a perfect paper for day 1. When he called my name, my heart jumped to my penis. It got hard as a boulder.

Mr. Freeman explained that if I proceeded with great care, I could get 100 on the test for the first time in his teaching of the subject. Boom, Second Day ! I was scared. There were 4 problems. I had to choose 3 and work them in a manner that would reveal the process used. I finished the 2 I knew. I had a Hobson choice in the remaining 2. I could attempt to figure the one that was suspect or select the one with a specific formula. I did the one with the formula I had mastered. I was going for the 'gold'. The next day, I sneaked as quietly into classroom as possible and waited. Mr. Freeman who was a prankster by trade, walked in and began teaching some extraneous lesson. Soon noise erupted . " Oh , yes, the Regents.. Every body passed. There were.... and he listed the scores in the 80's, 85's and 90's. And.... there was one student with a perfect score...And that was' masked instructor'." He started to applaud me. But, there was not another person in the class who would recognize my work. Mr. Freeman halted his applause. It was then I witnessed a crack in the halls of academia that was Boys High. Superior academic achievement was to be saluted for only a certain group of students in this class. Mr. Freeman compounded the sin by offering profuse excuses for my success. It was not my scholarship, but  luck which attributed to my achievement. That the examination did provide choice was his explanation. However, word of the perfect score quickly permeated the school. I was a hero in the minds of so many. I was greeted by students I did not know. All were so proud that I had beaten the Algebra Regents, that evil enemy. What did I learn that day in class?  " Character is revealed in a crisis and under pressure." Mr. Freeman's humanity and integrity were compromised by the students in class who were his countrymen. He was not strong enough nor man enough to overcome that peer ethnic pressure. He took no pleasure in the fact that my accomplishment was the result of his instruction. He threw my academic achievement under the proverbial bus. However, I had the mental fortitude to never let him or those classmates steal my joy. I did that.  I go the 100.       DAMN THAT FELT GOOD