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subpar-ghoulfriend · 3 years ago

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yandere!EraserMic x Reader

Mic skips a couple of steps and brings their darling home earlier than planned.

18+ only

tw: mention of blood, kidnapping, restraints

Hizashi felt panic bubble up his throat as he aggressively ran his fingers through his hair. This wasn't good, he wasn't good. He fumbled around trying to pull out his phone so he could message Shota.

-Sho, when are you getting home???

Probably in a few hours...-

why-

Shaking, the blonde continued:

-I brought her home

Hizashi was convinced he'd burn a whole in the rug with his pacing. Staring at his phone screen it looked like Shota was responding, then it stopped, started, stopped, and started. Finally after what felt like forever he got a simple reply:

I'll be home in 15 -

---

"Mic, what did you do?" Aizawa sighed. The grumpy man intended to scold his partner but he couldn't bring himself to do so when Mic was so close to a full on panic attack.

"She agreed to meet up with her ex, he was talking about getting back together and I panicked."

Aizawa sighed; he understood where his partner was coming from. Even though Hazashi had abandoned their plan to wait, he was no longer surprised by Mic's actions. There was an understanding between the pair as the atmosphere softened.

Mic lead him down the basement stairs, instead of using the overhead light there was already a dull glow from nightlight that allowed the Pro Heroes to see well enough. On the bed in front of them the comforter rose and fell along with the breath of their darling.

"She should be asleep for another hour or two," Mic whispered. "I only cuffed one wrist to the bed, I figured without her quirk she won't be too troublesome."

Aizawa lovingly rolled his eyes. His partner was such a softy. Nodding in agreement he moved the blanket aside to see the clunky metal quirk-cancelling cuff encircling her ankle. The two had plenty of equipment from their jobs that allowed them to make a "safe" space for their girl.

The couple had stumbled across you on accident; you worked at the new cat cafe that opened near their home. The two quickly became regulars and you snagged their hearts when you recognized them as cafe regulars. They went every Sunday, you had their orders memorized and even told them which cats seemed to miss them the most. Hizashi fell hard and fast. It wasn't until Aizawa found you crying in the ally after one of your shifts that your fate was sealed. You told him that one of the cats ran out of the cafe earlier that day got hit by a car. Learning about the death of a cat wasn't the only thing breaking his heart.

When he got home that evening he told Hizashi. They both agreed that you needed to be protected, shielded from the pain of reality, and never subjected to cat-death-by-car ever again. Essentially they baby proofed their home for you. Anything dangerous (from silverware to chemicals) was locked away. Eraserhead installed cameras throughout the house that streamed to both of their phones. The windows were locked and shatter resistant and they even installed a top of the line security system.

Then came the stalking, both kept tabs on you - in their minds they both casual about it. Aizawa even visited you (broke in) one night to bug your phone. This was how the learned about your ex. The breakup was amicable enough that you two occasionally checked in on each other. After all, you had been together from middle school all the way through your teens. The two of you just wanted and were ready for different things.

---

Sure enough, two hours later they could hear your faint scream travel up from the basement. Mic had taken care of the acoustics, of course. He made sure that not a peep could be heard from outside of the house; even before you were in the picture this was in place for his quirk. Between each floor of their house he also added sound minimizing flooring and installation. They needed to be able to hear you but also maintain their sanity.

"M-mr. Yamada? Mr Aizawa?"

Your wide eyes were filled to the brim with tears. As Mic sat on the edge of the bed you withdrew as far as you could from him.

Aizawa seemed more conscientious of your space; instead he knelt in front of the bed so he was at least on your level.

He was the first to speak, "There's no need to scream, y/n, you're safe here. It's just Zashi and I."

The tears finally spilled over. You tried asking them to let you go, that you wouldn't say anything. You told them you had work this evening (even if you didn't) and that they'd know something was wrong if you didn't show up. What made it worse was that the men just kept nodding, taking in every plea you made.

Finally Mic cut you off, "You don't have to worry about work anymore, me and Sho are gonna take care of you, it'll be great. We won't have to wait a whole week to spend time together."

"You can't," You hiccupped, "this is illegal. Once they find out you'll be in trouble."

It was as if they didn't hear you. Mic just kept rambling about what you three could do together and how perfect everything was and how you'd love living with them.

Aizawa on the other hand sighed and indicated to Mic that he should get off the bed. "It's a lot to take in right now, new environments can be scary. You should get some more rest, Zashi gave you a pretty strong sedative."

That explained the pounding in your head. You didn't bother to keep yelling as the ascended the stairs. Instead you focused on not crying. You kept telling yourself that now wasn't the time for tears. You needed to get away from your abductors. You had never been in handcuffs before, you tried pulling against the bed frame in hopes that something would give way. As you expected, nothing really happened. The cuff was secured tightly around your wrist and with every pull came a dull pain in your hand. There wasn't anything useful within your reach.

After crying on the bed for what felt like an eternity you were all out of tears. You thought back to a movie you saw last summer, this detective was cuffed to a furnace and he pulled his hand free. However, that guy definitely lost the flesh on his hand and probably broke something. Your stomach churned at the thought. Then your mind wandered to terrible things the men could do to you. What if they were cannibals? Or wanted to sell your organs on the black market? Weighing the pros and cons you began to pull violently away from the bedpost. The metal dug into your skin and you couldn't help but scream. Hopefully your captors wouldn't come until you were free. There was a small window at the very top of the adjacent wall maybe you could squeeze through.

The searing pain became too much and you stopped to collect yourself. There were already gashes along the base of your wrist and blood coated the handcuffs. You stifled a cry as you resumed your work. You let out a blood-curdling scream when you felt a pop. Instead of freedom, you felt even more trapped. Your thumb looks wrong and looked like it was caught half way in the handcuff and halfway out. Movies make everything seem so much easier.

Light poured in as the door to the basement opened. Panicking you concealed the evidence under the blanket. Both of your hands and parts of your clothes were painted with blood.

"Hey kitten," Aizawa cooed. "We brought you some water. Are you feeling any better."

It was Mic who noticed first. You flinched as his hands cupped your face, his thumb ran along your cheek and you felt something slick.

His voice was rushed and panicked, "Sweet girl, this is blood. Shota come here, y/n is bleeding."

The blonde man handles your face and neck trying to find the source of the bleeding.

You pulled the blanket tighter, "I'm okay, please let me go."

Then Aizawa noticed the specks of blood on the sheets. He tugged at the blankets until you couldn't hold on any more. You were really only holding on with one good hand. You couldn't recall seeing that much emotion on his face in the past.

"Mic go get the first aid kit, now," Eraser's voice was strained and quiet but it sent the other man scattering up the stairs. He pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked the cuff. Instinctively your cradled the hand to your chest, crying for the umph-teenth time that day. The scruffy man pulled you on to his lap, cradling your head to his chest like you would a child.

"You're okay, Mic's gonna get the first aid kit and we're gonna get you all taken care of."

When it came to flight or fight involving direct confrontation, you chose the third option: freeze. You focus on your breathing as the man continued to soothe you. You could hear Mic nearly throw himself down the stairs as he made his was back to your side.

Mic was gentle with your wound, after cleaning the blood off the cuts were visibly deep but not as bad as it seemed. Aizawa told him that it looked like your thumb was dislocated and that he would fix it once the bleeding stopped.

As Hizashi continued to apply pressure you were able to hear him sniffling as he held back tears of his own. Aizawa reached over to comfort Mic as he continued his fawning over you, "You're safe, everything's okay now. We should've known that you would get scared, all by yourself down here. We won't leave you alone again, especially while you're adjusting to your new home."

#yandere erasermic #yandere eraserhead #yandere present mic #yandere aizawa #yandere hizashi yamada #yanderes x reader #yandere erasermic x reader

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thecreaturecodex · 3 years ago

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Foulspawn Hulk

“Foulspawn” by Dave Allsop, © Wizards of the Coast

[Is there a hulk in the house? As I mentioned previously, the foulspawn didn’t get art in 5e when they were initially converted into starspawn. Some unused art has been posted, and some of the art that’s set to appear in Mordenkainen Presents Monsters of the Multiverse has already made it online before that book’s “official” release date in May, but the starspawn hulk is not among them. So I’m using the 4e pic, which like much of the art in 4e’s Monster Manual is a group shot. Notice the berserker in front, some of the abilities of which I am moving onto the hulk. I like this image; it makes me think that I’ve wandered into a particularly bad neighborhood in Halloween Town.]

Foulspawn Hulk CR 10 NE Aberration This giant humanoid is apparently skinless, its body a seething mass of muscle and tendons. It has no nose and far too many teeth, and does not seem to blink.

Foulspawn hulks are the largest and strongest of the common foulspawn. In Aklo, they are known as turlemoi. Hulks act as brute force and bodyguards for ushemoi incursions, and are fanatically devoted to the foulspawn seers under their care. They are favorably disposed to other foulspawn primarily from a culinary perspective. Without a fowlspawn seer to rein them in, a hulk will happily eat its fellows. Under guidance from a seer, the hulks limit themselves to scavenging carcasses, and help clean up sites of battles and make evidence of the foulspawn difficult to find.

A foulspawn hulk can disrupt tactics with its mere presence. Creatures fighting in melee near a turlemoi start attacking unintended targets. Otherwise, a foulspawn hulk is too dim to have much tactical acumen besides “hit the biggest enemy the hardest”. They prefer to fight in melee, but pitch boulders at foes that keep their distance. Opponents trying to turn a foulspawn hulk’s strength to their advantage are in for a rude surprise. Any attempt to charm or control a foulspawn hulk creates a deadly psychic feedback between the hulk and the caster.

Foulspawn Hulk CR 10 XP 9,600 NE Large aberration (foulspawn) Init +6; Senses darkvision 60 ft., Perception +9 Aura random violence (20 ft., Will DC 19) Defense AC 24, touch 11, flat-footed 22 (-1 size, +2 Dex, +13 natural) hp 126 (12d8+72) Fort +12, Ref +6, Will +11 DR 10/magic; Immune confusion and insanity effects, divination, mind-influencing effects; Resist cold 10 Defensive Abilities psychic mirror Offense Speed 40 ft. Melee 2 slams +16 (2d8+7/19-20x2) Ranged rock +11 (2d8+10) Space 10 ft.; Reach 10 ft. Special Attacks rend (2 slams, 2d8+10 plus tripping rend), rock throwing (80 ft.) Statistics Str 24, Dex 14, Con 23, Int 7, Wis 7, Cha 16 Base Atk +9; CMB +17; CMD 29 Feats Combat Reflexes, Great Fortitude, Improved Initiative, Point Blank Shot, Power Attack, Precise Shot, Weapon Focus (slam) Skills Acrobatics +9 (+13 when jumping), Climb +14, Intimidate +10, Perception +9, Swim +14 Languages Aklo, telepathy 60 ft. SQ madness, no breath Ecology Environment any land or underground Organization solitary, pair, guard (1-4 plus 1 starspawn seer) or envoy (1-4 plus 1-8 mixed foulspawn) Treasure incidental Special Abilities Aura of Random Violence (Su) All creatures within 20 feet of a foulspawn hulk must succeed a DC 19 Will save whenever they make a melee attack (including natural weapons and touch attacks). If they fail, they attack a random creature within their reach instead of their intended target. This is a mind-influencing confusion effect, and the save DC is Charisma based. Madness (Ex) Foulspawn use their Charisma modifier on Will saves instead of their Wisdom modifier, and are immune to insanity and confusion effects. Only a miracle or wish can remove a foulspawn's madness. If this occurs, the foulspawn gains 6 points of Wisdom and loses 6 points of Charisma. Psychic Mirror (Su) Foulspawn hulks are immune to mind-influencing effects. Whenever the foulspawn hulk is targeted by a mind-influencing effect, the creature casting or originating that effect must succeed a DC 19 Will save or take 6d6 points of damage. This is a mind-influencing effect, and the save DC is Charisma based. Tripping Rend (Ex) A foulspawn hulk may make a combat maneuver to trip an opponent as a free action without provoking an attack of opportunity whenever it uses its rend special attack.

#foulspawn #foulspawn hulk #starspawn #ushemoi #pathfinder 1e #D&D #body horror

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delaber · 4 years ago

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Can’t Have Your Cake and Another Cake Too

Rafael Casal x Reader

Note: Okay, I’ll stop breaking Rafa’s heart now... Last time, I swear! Thanks for the prompts to these lovely anons. Alhough this is not a prequel to Poetic Justice (Rafa x ER Nurse), poor Rafa’s facing some of the same issues. I very loosely based this story on J. Cole’s Kevin’s Heart (don’t know why I’m always incorporating J. Cole into my fics, but apparently he’s always lurking in the back of my mind) and Phlake’s So Faded. Let me know what you think!

Words: 4.7K

Warnings: Cocaine addiction! Does not have a happy ending (nobody ODs and nobody’s dying ...Only on the inside lol)

Tagging: No one! This might not be for everybody and I don’t want anybody to feel forced to read it 😌

It was supposed to be a great night out. The entire gang was there, and at the instigation of Diggs, Rafa was supposed to be on the prowl to get laid so he could take his mind off of his broken heart.

From his seat in the booth, Rafa had a fairly good view of the dance floor and he had already spotted a few honeys who likewise had acknowledged him by smiling and sending him a couple of long looks. One of them had even twirled her hair between her fingers while blowing him a kiss. He had the green light, all systems were go!

However, of all the things that could've thrown him off his game, Rafa would not have placed a single bet on a phone call. But the minute he pulled out his vibrating phone and checked the caller ID, both the group of honeys on the dance floor and his friends occupying the seats all around him were completely forgotten. Nothing else mattered anymore.

He stared at the screen for a while, reading the name over and over again. What the fuck was Morris calling him for? Rafa had told him to stop. Morris knew he was too weak to say no even though he had promised his girl that he'd stop for good.

...Or, you weren't his girl. Not anymore.

But Rafa was still determined to win you back no matter if you had stopped answering his phone calls or not, so he took a tough decision and pressed the decline button beneath Morris' name. He even contemplated putting his phone on flight-mode to remove all unwelcome temptations - he knew you'd never take him back if he fell back in - yet, for some reason taking himself off the grid was easier said than done, and before he had pulled himself together to actually press the little airplane button, a text from Morris had ticked in. It only consisted of two words but Rafa understood perfectly.

'New candy.'

Fuck... Rafa considered the pros and cons of accepting for a few milliseconds before he came to his senses. No, no, no. The only way he'd ever win you back would be by showing you that he could stay sober even after your break-up. Morris could fuck off! As if awaking from a trance, Rafa hurriedly put his phone back in his pocket and desperately tried to forget about Morris' enticing offer by telling himself that he was strong enough to shake it.

...although deep down, he was aware that it was already too late. That no matter what, he wouldn't be able to stop thinking about it now. And no matter how hard he tried to re-focus on the honeys on the dance floor and tell himself how stupid it was to hit Morris up, it was no use, the damage was done; he was desperate to get high!

Deeply, horribly ashamed of himself, Rafa texted Morris the address of the club and impatiently waited a couple of minutes before he walked outside with heavy footsteps. It felt as if he was walking to the gallows, the shame eating him up from the inside. You'd be so disappointed in him!

However, in order to make himself accept what he was about to do, he reminded himself that apparently, you didn't care if he was high or not. If you did, you would've returned his phone calls, and you would've reacted to the fact that he had been sober for three weeks now - but you hadn't. And with that in mind, Rafa managed to push away most of the shame as he laid eyes on Morris' sketchy Subaru parked by the curb on the other side of the road. He walked across the street with determined footsteps, carefully looking over his shoulder to check if anybody he knew were watching him approach what was clearly a dealer's car.

"What's up, bruh!" Morris called as he rolled down his window. He was wearing sunglasses, looking like an absolute turd in the dark night.

Rafa put his arms on the car's beltline and shot Morris a bro handshake through the open window, "what the fuck are you wearing sunglasses at night for? You look like a dick."

"Nah, man, it looks cool," Morris laughed, "do you like them? Hell, you should like them - you paid for them."

"What do you mean I paid for them?"

"With the amount of money you spend in my shop, I think it's safe to assume that you paid for these sunglasses and the rims on the ride too," Morris snorted.

"Yeah, about that," Rafa looked away, the embarrassment slowly creeping up his spine again, "you gotta stop calling me."

"You said that last time as well but look at you now," Morris laughed.

"Come on man, it's important that I stop."

"You don't wanna stop though."

Rafa let out a sigh, "look, I'm trying to prove something to my girlf- ...ex-girlfriend."

"A'ight, I respect that," Morris nodded slowly but then he quickly continued, "so did you just call me here to pin your lady troubles on me? Cause I have a customer waiting up on Seventh Ave."

Rafa blew out some air, embarrassed by the decision he was about to make.

"...Or do you wanna buy?" Morris continued as he read Rafa's body language.

"...you're not gonna tell Diggs are you?"

"Do I look like a fucking snitch?" Morris looked offended, "and you know me and Diggs don't talk no more."

"Yeah, alright. This stays between us, okay? If word gets out, I'm fucked."

"A'ight bruh," Morris laughed, "Now, how much do you need?"

"Just... just give me an eightball," Rafa mumbled.

Morris let out a small laugh, "an eightball? Man, you're not about to quit," he chuckled and handed Rafa a zip-lock bag with white powder in it.

"Shut up," Rafa mumbled and pocketed the baggie, "how much?"

"Rafa, you're my man, so I'mma give you a discount because I feel bad for you and your girl. Three hundo."

"Three hundred?! Last time it was two-eighty without the discount."

"Times are changing. I haven't seen you in three weeks, man. Plus, this is a good batch," Morris poked Rafa in the chest, "my contact got it shipped in directly from Medellín. Look, it got fish scale and everything!"

"You better not fuck me over," Rafa muttered and threw Morris three hundred-dollar bills before he turned away from him with an annoyed huff.

"Pleasure doing business as always, Casal! See you next weekend!" Morris yelled after Rafa with a small laugh, apparently not a care in the world for who knew about their illegal transaction.

"Fucking idiot," Rafa muttered to himself without turning around. He had more important things to do than to scold Morris about his indiscretion.

Rafa hurried to the restroom and carefully locked the door behind him before he frantically pulled out the zip-lock bag. He examined its contents and saw the pearl-like surface that Morris had talked about - Fuck it looked good! He opened the bag carefully but froze when he caught his own reflection in the bathroom mirror; the loving look he was sending the bag of coke was sickening. It made his stomach plummet. Had he really been reduced to snorting coke alone in a dirty bathroom of a sketchy club? He remembered when it had been a group activity. Before he couldn't control it.

Shake it off! He told himself. He had every intention of stopping after tonight. This would be the last time.

You said that last time as well, a small voice rang in the back of his head, but he ignored his guilty conscience and instead poured out a small pile of the pearl-like coke on top of the hand dryer. Quickly, he pulled out a random card from his wallet and used it to form two heavy lines. Before his guilty conscience could interfere again, he also grabbed a one-dollar bill that he neatly rolled into a small tube and put between his right nostril and one of the white lines, ready for the rush. His gaze, however, lingered on the random card he had used to break the coke into lines; it was his fucking rewards card for the small organic, artisan shit coffee house that you liked. What wouldn't you say if you knew what he was doing? In his mind's eye, he could see the disappointed look you always sent him whenever he'd come home all hyped up, rambling his mouth off. You never got angry with him and his love of coke, but somehow your disappointed demeanour was way worse. He would've taken screaming and yelling over the disappointed stare and the slow shake of your head any day.

Slowly, he removed the dollar-bill from his nostril, stood up straight and met his own eyes in the mirror again - and for a moment, he could truly see how pathetic he was. What the hell was he doing? He was throwing away his last shot at getting you back - and for what? A few hours of euphoria and confidence?

But she doesn't want you back, a small voice rang inside his head, you called, and you called, and you called. You declared yourself clean to her voicemail and she still didn't reach out. Fuck her!

"Yeah, fuck her," Rafa mumbled before he put the dollar-bill back to his nostril. Quickly, he snorted both lines of coke, shooting his head back afterwards, sniffling a bit as he cleaned his nose with the back of his hand. He knew he only had a couple of minutes before the euphoria kicked in, so he quickly brushed off the dollar-bill and the rewards card and tugged them both back in his wallet. The remainder of the coke was stowed away in his shirt's breast pocket for safe keeping.

Ready for the rush, Rafa was impatiently staring at himself in the mirror. He was thinking about how to avoid Diggs and his condescending looks for the duration of his high, when he was finally overwhelmed by the familiar fuzzy feeling. It came out of nowhere and started behind his eyeballs and continued all the way down to his toenails. It felt as if someone had pulled a large, fluffy blanket down over him, and it was slowly heating up his body, making him feel safe and secure. His pulse quickened in time with his breathing, and he had to close his eyes to get himself under control. He felt fucking powerful! Morris had not lied about this coming from a good batch. "Shit, Morris," he laughed.

There was a knock on the door, and Rafa remembered that he had occupied the men's room for a good five minutes now. He took a last look at his suddenly hazed eyes, aware that no matter how hard he tried to hide it, anyone could see that he was high as a kite. He contemplated riding out his high alone in the bathroom but also knew that with the amount of energy present in his body, he couldn't stay in the small restroom all night. He had to dance! To fuck! To fight!

With a suddenly confident bounce in his step, he opened the door, and sent the guy in line what he hoped was an apologetic nod before he confidently strode towards the honeys on the dance floor.

"Hey Rafa!" he heard someone yell behind him.

Hoping it was someone who wanted to fight, Rafa quickly turned around but was slightly disappointed to see Diggs coming towards him with a huge grin on his face. Shit! Rafa realised that he had to act nonchalant around his best friend. Diggs absolutely couldn't know about the coke in his breast pocket, or he'd be all up in Rafa's face about it.

"Diiiiiggs! My man!" Rafa yelled overly excited, clearly very, very high.

Diggs shot him a look at his weird behaviour before he continued, "where've you been, man? I've been looking for you everywhere."

"R-r-r-r-r-r-r-rrrrrrrestroom," Rafa laughed, he was too happy to pretend otherwise.

"Why are you saying it like th-" the huge grin was slowly slipping from Diggs' face, "...hey, Rafa - look at me," Diggs suddenly sounded all serious as he took Rafa's face in his hands, carefully examining his features, "Rafa, look at me."

Rafa let out a low chuckle, "Diggs, you know I think you're handsome and all that, but I don't like you that way," he joked.

"You're being weird," Diggs furrowed his eyebrows, "- and your pupils are huge. Have you been doing lines in the bathroom?"

"Maybe," Rafa laughed, unable to stop himself from revealing his dirty little secret, "why? You want some? I still have a few hits left," he padded his breast pocket.

"You know I don't do that shit anymore..." Diggs let go of Rafa with a sigh and looked away from him.

"Oh yeah, I forgot you're a fucking saint now," Rafa said a bit more harshly than he had intended to. Ever since Diggs had met Emmy, he had been boring as hell.

Diggs chose not to comment on Rafa's low blow, and managed to keep his calm, "I thought you'd stopped, bruh."

"Morris made me an offer I couldn't refuse," Rafa laughed in an accent halfway between Tony Montana and Vito Corleone.

"Yeah well, I'm not the only one who thought you were done fucking around," Diggs said seriously. He was having none of Rafa's jokes, "I just saw your girl downstairs. She wants to talk to you."

It took a few seconds before Rafa understood, but when he finally grasped Diggs' words, he felt the blood drain from his face and his mouth run dry, "what? No, you're kidding me..."

"Nope," Diggs sighed, "I've been running around trying to find you for fifteen minutes..."

"Shit! What the fuck do I do?" Rafa said in a panicked voice, licking his lips frantically, "I told her I was sober! If she sees me like this, she'll never take me back."

"Yeah, well you better pray that you don't run into her."

Rafa ran his hand through his hair, "fuck I'm screwed. She's downstairs?"

"Was fifteen minutes ago."

"Alright, I'm jumping out this window. You stall her, tell her that I got sick or something."

"You can't jump out this window?" Diggs said incredulously, "we're 50 feet up, if you do that, you die! Just walk out the doo- ...oh shit, dude, we're blown. She's here. She's coming over."

"Fuck! Can I still bolt?"

"Of course not!"

"Well how do I look? Alright?"

"You look-" Diggs cut himself off, "...maybe just try and avoid her looking into your eyes, okay?"

"How the fuck am I supposed to do that?"

"The light in here's paying you a favour but apart from that you're gonna have to pull yourself together. You brought this upon yourself," Diggs said harshly before his demeanour changed completely as his eyes interlocked with yours over Rafa's shoulder, "heeeeey," he smiled broadly, "look who I found."

Rafa slowly turned around and met you. Your stunning beauty - as always - immediately knocking him to the ground. He couldn't believe that it had been four weeks since the last time he'd seen you. He'd do anything to get you back!

"Rafa," you nodded formally with a stiff face. Rafa couldn't help but make a mental note on how weird it was to see you without a smile on your lips. You were normally always so happy. He had done this, he reminded himself.

"Hey baby," he whispered, the words weirdly familiar in his throat.

You briefly raised your eyebrows while looking away from him, clearly uncomfortable by the sound of your old pet name.

"Sorry," he continued, "force of habit. ...I'm just happy to see you."

Your gaze slowly found his face, and Rafa prayed that you couldn't see his coke-eyes from where you were standing.

"Well..." you said and clicked your tongue, "I'd like to talk to you."

"I'd like to talk to you too," Rafa said quietly.

"And you're sober? Like you said on my voicemail?"

"Yes," Rafa breathed, "completely sober," he lied thickly, hyper-aware of how awkward it was with Diggs shuffling nervously beside him. He was uncomfortably rolling back and forth on the balls of his feet.

"Good," you finally let out a small smile, "do you want to sit down?"

"Yeah," Rafa nodded.

"Yeah, I'll - uh - I'll leave you to it," Diggs cleared his throat and padded Rafa between the shoulder blades as a way of wishing him good luck.

"Thanks man," Rafa muttered before he followed you down to a vacant booth in the corner of the room. Instead of sitting down opposite you, he made sure to occupy the seat next to you, hoping that it would minimise the risk of you looking into his eyes. He just had to pretend that he was sober until the high quieted down. Fourty-five more minutes - Less if he was lucky.

"So, how've you been?" You said quietly as you were both overlooking the dance floor, avoiding looking directly at each other.

"Not good," Rafa said quietly, "like shit, actually... how about you?"

"Yeah, well I guess 'shit' sums it up neatly... How's sober life?"

"Oh, it's - yeah - it's - it's great!" He said, the lie thick in his throat, "I feel so much better now." He knew how much he had hurt you, and he knew how difficult it must be for you to face him after you'd said that you never wanted to see him again - which just really only made his lying so much worse. Fuck, how he hated himself for what he had done. What he was still doing.

Your eyes darted across his face before your gaze settled on a spot just below his chin. He was relieved that you weren't staring him square in the eyes. "I was so happy to hear your voicemail," you whispered, "you really flushed your stash?"

"Yes," he croaked.

"I'm glad that you're finally taking care of yourself," he couldn't make out your face in the dark but he could hear a hint of happiness to your voice that you were clearly trying to suppress. It made him feel horrible.

"Yeah, I want to stay sober for you," he said slowly. At least that wasn't a lie.

"You have no idea how happy that makes me," you said quietly, the happiness definitely shining through now.

Rafa's heart was fluttering in his chest, and he felt the coke-induced euphoria run amok in his brain, "...does that mean you'll forgive me?" All his senses were heightened.

"It's a step in the right direction" you said quietly, still not looking directly at him, "I've missed you."

"I've missed you too baby," Rafa said quietly and boldly took your hand in his.

Finally, you looked up at him, and to avoid you noticing his bloodshot eyes with the dilated pupils, he took a quick decision, leaned in and crashed his lips against yours.

Luckily, you mistook his desperation for passion and fiercely kissed him back, your hand releasing itself from his, and instead caressing his neck. In-between kisses you managed to mumble, "I'm still... mad... at you."

"I know," Rafa mumbled, enjoying the familiar feeling of your lips against his. Your hands switched to caressing his torso, and your small fingers travelled over his stomach and up his chest, coming to a halt over his heart. It was racing against his ribcage and he had no idea whether it was due to the coke or due to the heap of emotions he felt in his chest. He couldn't believe he was kissing you again. He had completely written it off no more than half an hour ago.

Your right hand moved away from his heart but came to a sudden halt when you felt a small bump in Rafa's breast pocket. Still kissing him, you ran your fingers over the bump a few times before you remembered that it was where he always kept his coke. Quickly, you pulled your lips away from his.

"Wait, no, don't take kissing away from me," he hummed, completely unaware of the discovery you'd just done.

You were looking at his euphoric face with the closed eyes and the swollen lips as you moved your hand over his breast pocket once more.

When Rafa realised what was going on his eyes flew open and he spluttered, "it isn't what you think!"

But he was too slow to react, and before he had had the chance to move away, your fingers went inside his breast pocket and grabbed the small bag from there. "You've got to be kidding me!" You said angrily as you held his coke between your fingertips.

"Baby, I can explain," Rafa said quickly while desperately grabbing your wrist.

"Rafa, you fucking idiot! Don't touch me!" You wrestled yourself out of his grip, got up from your seat, and fast-paced towards the door.

"Baby! Baby!" Rafa yelled out as he ran after you.

"Don't touch me!" You cried, attracting the attention of everyone in your path.

You stormed out the door, Rafa at your heel desperately clinging to every inch of you that he could reach. When you reached the curb outside, he finally managed to run up in front of you, stopping you in your tracks, "baby, I can explain!" He said desperately.

"You said you'd flushed it all!" You were screaming at him now, the tears running down your face.

"It was a mistake, baby, I swear I didn't mean to. I flushed it all, I promise. It's just a setback."

"When did you buy this, Rafa?" You said through gritted teeth, "how long did you manage to stay sober before you decided you wanted to throw it all away?"

Rafa looked away from you, he was so embarrassed by himself, "Morris called and I tried to say no, I really did! Baby, I tried so hard to resist it. But he was persistent."

"Well, did he force you to buy?" You hissed. You were having none of his excuses.

"...No." Rafa admitted.

"When did you buy it?" You emphasised every word, "before or after you called me last weekend?"

"After..."

"When? How long after? When did you have your setback?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes! I need to know if you did it because you were physically craving it, because you just felt like getting high, or if you did it because you’d thrown the thought of us away when I didn’t answer you.”

"I tried to fight it, I swear I tried to fight it," he was getting choked up.

"Rafa, tell me when you bought it."

He considered shooting you a lie but he didn't want to fuck up any more. "I bought it tonight..." he finally muttered under his breath, avoiding your gaze.

"You're not serious!! You bought it tonight?" You bellowed, "are you trying to tell me that you planned on throwing away your soberness tonight? That if I hadn't shown up, you'd be high as balls right now?"

Rafa didn't say anything, he just looked at you with huge eyes, the embarrassment evident on his face - and first then did you notice his blood-shot eyeballs with the abnormally large pupils that had taken over most of the green that was normally present.

"No..." you whispered when you realised, "no, no, no..." you groaned quietly, clutching your chest, "you're high right now?" The heartbreak was evident in your voice.

Rafa sent you a pained look. He fucking hated himself.

"You're high..." You stated in a whisper, the tears were streaming down your face, "you lied."

He had broken your heart. Again.

"I - I didn't mean to," he croaked, "I was just so happy to see you. I knew you wouldn't want to talk to me if I told you the truth."

"So you planned on telling me when?"

"I don't know," he croaked, "I didn't think it through. I've been sober for three weeks. Tonight's just a small setback. Baby, I swear, I'll block Morris and I'll flush this baggie right now if I can just get you back," Rafa was begging, “I’ll stop if you tell me to!”

"Rafa, how many times do I have to tell you," you cried, "You have to stop because you want to. Not because I tell you to stop! I don't care about the snorting! I don't care that you party and get high! You've done lines of my tits several times for God's sake! But I can't live with the constant lying that has become part of it!"

Fuck, Rafa knew what you were building to. His life's biggest mistake. He had it coming, he knew it. He deserved it. He was a fucking cheating coke-head and he hated it. "Please don't bring it up," he sobbed.

You didn't listen to him. You had to confront him with it because he clearly hadn't understood. "Rafa, you fucked another girl! And you were so high that you didn't even realise it! And when you woke up the next day and saw what you'd done, you lied about your whereabouts and the fact that you'd been high as fuck! I had to learn about it through her!" You were sobbing, "...and instead of staying home and comforting me, you lied about having to go to the studio, and you met up with Morris and you got high! Again! If knowing that you're breaking my heart with your constant lies doesn't make you want to quit, I'm not sure what will."

"I want to stop!" he sobbed. He had never felt so horrible before, "I love you, I want to be with you," he sniffled and took your hand, "please give me another chance! I'll stop snorting. I'll stop lying. I'll do anything for you."

It looked as if you were contemplating his words but the look in your eyes darkened suddenly and you let out a whisper, "no Rafa!" as you pulled your hand away from his.

"Baby, please!" He pleaded desperately, "I love you."

"You love coke more," you whispered.

"I have a problem," Rafa tried desperately, "I know. I can't stop. But I'll get help. I'll do whatever you want me to do!"

"Rafa, if you stop snorting because I tell you to stop, it will never last! You love getting high!"

"That's not true... it's pathetic," he cried.

"Rafa, honey,” you said quietly, “- ask yourself this; would you be throwing away this baggie and deleting Morris' number if I wasn't leaving you because of it?"

"Yes," he croaked immediately.

You took a deep breath of air, hurt written all over your face, "Love," you sighed desperately as a fresh wave of tears started streaming down your face, "you're lying again..." you sobbed, and put the baggie in the palm of his hand and folded his fingers around it.

"I'm flushing it," he croaked.

"Do whatever you want," you whispered and looked him in the eye, "We're not together anymore. I'm done - it's over,” you said as you slowly turned around and started walking away from him.

“No, no, no! Please come back!”

“No Rafa… This time I'm serious,” you said before you started walking again.

This time, Rafa didn't run after you. He just watched you walk further and further away from him as your hands dried the tears off of your face every two seconds. He imagined you stopping, imagined the hurt look you'd send him. How he'd run over to you and take you in his arms. Imagined how he'd apologise and you'd both hug and cry and kiss it out. But you didn't stop. You didn't send him any look at all. And he didn’t run to you, he was glued to the pavement.

He stood as if frozen in time and looked after you even long after you'd disappeared around the corner. Suddenly, however, he noticed that he was still clutching the baggie in his closed fist. Slowly, he opened the palm to reveal the beautiful mother-of-pearl-coloured powder. He contemplated dropping it down the gutter next to him. It would all be so easy.

But instead, he closed his fingers around it and pocketed it right above his broken heart. It would help relieve the terrible thunder that he felt rolling over him. It brought along a storm of emotions. A hurricane of regrets. And he was desperate to get high.

#rafael casal x reader #rafael casal #daveed diggs #blindspotting #rafael casal imagine #rafael casal fanfiction #bay boys #heartbreak #drug addiction #please don't hate me lol

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screechingfromthevoid · 5 years ago

Text

Ok so french bakery/cafe au because I need to cope

Jon is a trainer. Not because he knows how to get people to stay on the job or anything. He just knows everything in the case backwards and forwards. He can spew off macaron flavors in order of color (that's how he organizes it when he's working. It must be in rainbow order or he can't work. He will stop and not help people if the macarons are not in order) he will make sure everyone knows what's gluten free because it's important to him that they give people their options and keep them safe. He also trains bar but what's really interesting is the air bubbles in the macaron that give it it's signature-

Melanie is that seasonal worker who always comes back even though every time she's like "idk why I do this to myself I cannot stand the managers or the staff or jon-" but there's something about the pastries and the comradery that always keeps her coming back. She knows the pastry case fine but no she doesn't know each ingredient in the pastry cream in the cream puffs and she will not go look it up. It's vanilla.

Georgie is the front of house employee who will, in fact, look it up. She wants to make sure there's nothing unexpected in there. She also knows first hand how everything tastes, she's tried them all. She's the type of employee who can recommend things to people catering to their exact tastes. There's also a rule that they can't sell "ugly" product so it just so happens that her gloves get stuck in Jon's favorite flavor cake or Martin's favorite cookie just crumbles in half in her hand if they're having a bad day. Her and Melanie started folding boxes next to each other one day and never stopped.

Tim is the barista that all the moms and office workers love to go to because "he makes it the best '' while also wearing extremely tight band t-shirts Jesus man please wear something other than your ratty mcr shirt you got in middle school. He is hands down the best at latte art solely because he gets bored between rushes and will make 8 drinks just to perfect his llama design. He already perfected a middle finger in Jon's almond milk quad shot dirty chai.

Sasha is the bar manager who is waiting on that general manager position to open up and rather spend her time here than any other dead end job while she works on her PhD. She makes the schedule for the bar and front of house because their GM now can't be bothered. She's almost quit so many times and then she remembers she gets free coffee and pastries and thinks "yeah, few more months should be fine."

Martin is a baker. Martin did not go to culinary school. Martin did work at the British version of Publix in their bakery section and liked making the custom cakes. So he said "why the hell not?" When he applied for this real bakery. He didn't /mean/ to get the job. He just thought this was more money. And he was right. He sometimes let's Jon fill the macarons on days where he's the only baker. Jon is terrible at filling them, he just likes to hear Jon's fun facts about the feet rising under the film, again.

Basira is the head baker who takes all the cake orders and is in charge of the back of house. She makes the very expensive orders. She went through years of training to make beautiful cakes and she ended up baby sitting. Which. Is fine. She gets free creative reign over seasonal goods and any other thing left to interpretation. The free coffee also doesn't hurt.

Daisy is a chef who works in the back. She has a troubled past but the company prides themselves on hiring ex cons. She really likes the work, especially when she gets to make stuff for the other employees who enjoy her cooking outside of the ten sandwiches on the board. Basira drives her to the train station every night whenever she needs to go home. Recently, they've been driving past the train station together.

Gerry is another chef who is there to make enough money to move out of his mom's house, hey, btw, do you need a roommate? He didn't want to be FOH because he doesn't think he's good at talking to people but whenever a note comes through the machine with "GF NO CONTAM!!!" He personally makes sure he cleans the tray it's going on, changes his gloves, makes sure to grab the gluten free bread. Sometimes he even brings it out if he sees a worker not changing their gloves. When Daisy's in one of her quiet moods he talks about old books by default. Hes explained the entire plot of The Count of Monte Cristo to her just to make sure she can make it through the day.

Gertrude is a manager who picked up this job for something to do after retirement. Employees love to work with her not because shes nice but she will tell every customer with a dumb complaint exactly where they can shove it. She does not have time for their complaint and will make that clear. No she will not apologize because they can't make an almond free macaron that's not how they work. No you will not be yelling at her baristas because they won't make your cappuccino hotter. It's as hot as it legally can be and your milks not burnt what more do you fucking want.

Peter Lukas is the general manager. Does he do anything he's supposed to? No. Gertrude can order supplies. Sasha can make the schedule. No he doesn't care if they ran out of napkins, what do you mean we're out of take out menus, we do that? Martin saw him once leaving out the side door in the locker room/supply closet and not come back.

Elias is the corporate head that makes some final decisions. What are his qualifications? He was a weed smoking barista when the first shop opened and just climbed the ladder blazed out of his mind. Now he's older and has responsibilities that he's not qualified for and of course he doesn't still smoke weed Basira that is not at all what you saw him and Peter doing in the back parking lot. He wears tailored suits Sasha he doesn't need pot anymore. He doesn't do diddly shit and the only reason he is still around is because the no-name no-faced owners like him and he's been there so long.

#sleep drunk musical #tma #the magnus archives #tma au #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #basira hussian #daisy tonner #gertrude robinson #gerry delano #elias bouchard #feel free to add guys #also this is all based on my experience at a bakery #so like #its accurate

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merrysithmas · 5 years ago

Note

i would give my left foot to just hear SOME of the hcs you have about the member's of boris' gang's relations/interactions to & with theo PLEASE

-Myriam and Theo became BFFS bc of Art and Class and Taste, this makes Boris so mad bc all they do is text and WHAT ARE THEY TALKING ABOUT but also happy at the same time

-Myriam is part Mongolian by way of Russia, part Polish. She's bi. Boris helped her drag away the body of a man that she blunt punched with brass knuckles in an alleyway for harrassing her and another woman at a club in Warsaw. Boris saw it happen and ran over to help but was startled to a stop when she defended herself so viciously. The man died. Myriam was an up and coming wedding planner in Berlin before that -- now she works for Boris, stony mien and organizational skills on steroids handling mass illegal imports/exports and fielding his contacts under the guise of wedding organization.

-Dima is always having some kind of emotional issue with his girlfriend Milena who isn't super domineering or anything, but Dima is just like this sensitive puppydog of a man (he does yoga and likes working the ceramics) (he's also an expert in martial arts and can snap a man's spine -ex Ukrainian military - in one move) so he's always coming to Theo's apartment in NY or to the house in Antwerp unannounced while Theo is still in his pajamas, and he's crying and asking for advice about Milena who says he's "never there for her" and THEO totally out of his ballpark with women is like holyshit i dont KNOW dude, but is so used to it at this point he just wordlessly pulls out the kitchen chair and starts to put on the coffee, listening to Dima's 2.5 hour story about their latest argument like the group therapist and occasionally offers him tissues

-Shirley T (hacker wunderkind) still lives with his (single) mom who gets VERY UPSET if he is out all night long and Boris often has to go over to the house and charm his mother into not having a meltdown (which always works because he always brings money like a latter day Slavic Robin Hood) and is then is also always invited to say for dinner. Shirley T's mom actually likes Theo even better than Boris and asks Boris about Theo every dinner. But she exclusively speaks Polish and whenever she sees Theo he is totally lost but nods along politely anyways, she loves his shiny American clothes and is shocked at how tall he is, insists on asking him things and Theo has no idea what to say except a few broken Polish words which delights her. And somehow Theo always ends up being dragged to Orthodox Polish Church mass with her and Shirley T (which he doesn't totally mind if its very few and far between as he gets to observe the art and architecture). And he and Shirley exchange bored glances at key moments of irony.

-Cherry, a Bulgarian, is like the Wolverine of the group. Stoic, smart, gets shit done. Boris cheerily teaches him Americanisms and English turns of phrase. He not-so-secretly loves trash American television reality shows and like the Bachelor and takes them DEAD seriously and often references them in every day life in the vein of wise proverbs. He frequently asks Theo for his input on these cultural milestones and Theo is like at a loss because to him its so low-brow but honestly Cherry's seriousness and blunt culturally-removed nonjudgement helps Theo lighten up and he's collapsed exhaustedly beside Cherry on the couch at the gang's HQ to watch Ice Road Truckers and Say Yes To The Dress several times. Cherry is also best friends with Anatoly since they were kids. Cherry is their information guy. He rarely talks so people say anything to him.

-Anatoly is the slinkiest and seemingly outwardly most untrustworthy of them all. He and Cherry got in big trouble as kids when they stole what they thought was some weed they could resell from a local dealer (who happened to be an associate of Bobo Silver). What they stole was actually a kilo of coke. Boris, hearing the two of them were fellow Slavic kids, took it upon himself to find them, reason with them, wrangle the coke back, offer them protection if they worked for him and learned the business, and returned the coke to Bobo's guys, putting his own neck on the line in a bid to get them off the hook so he could start his own side hustle. They were the first members of his gang. Anatoly is Lithuanian and spoke little English at first, he quickly took to Boris for essentially saving their lives (and eventually making them fucking rich) and considers himself to have a life-debt to Boris. Boris can always trust Anatoly to run an errand without question or use harsh immoral tactics. He's a bit of a livewire. Anatoly feels a kinship with Boris because he once had a favorite cousin when he was a kid who was brutally injured (and died from those injuries) because he was gay, a hatecrime -- an event which sickened Anatoly but he could do little about as a child and feels immense guilt over. Seeing Boris dominate the eastern crime scene makes him feel proud and cools some of that aching spite. Anatoly is Anarchist ally of the year and throws tear gas cannisters at Anti-Gay protestors while wearing a balaklava on on the weekends. He keeps telling Theo to marry Boris.

-GYURI! loveable cook, Boris' stalwart driver, tea-maker, ex-con, likes to knit (good for his neuropathy from a prison nerve injury), sometimes mans the bar at the HQ, always there to pick up dry cleaning if Theo is running late ("it is no problem i said"), drives Theo around at night if he's having panic episodes or can't sleep or is depressed, and talks to him quietly from the front seat -- just enough. A big loveable uncle. Always brings nicely cooked dinners at Christmas -- gets along well with Hobie the one time Hobie comes to visit Belgium and exchanges recipes for poached pears. Could break a man in half with one hand. Babysits everyone else's kids.

-Nina (aka pseudonym Katya) a childhood friend of Boris', his only childhood friend from "home". She was a Russian living in the Ukraine under a somewhat official capacity, who at a young age was accused of a crime she committed (but only bc she had to at the threat of her own life) and was given a harsh sentence -- essentially made an example of and torn from Boris as a child. She is about ten years older than Boris and had a sisterly dynamic with him. Years later, released from custody on condition, she hears of his crime syndicate and tries to find him, she feels guilty for associating her tarnished name with him -- but Boris will have none of it, happy to see her, a tearful reunion. He sees to it that she obtains a new name, new birth certificate, and can be free of her past. He considers Katya his family, the only person who understands the harshness of that time in his home country. She loves Theo and dotes on Boris like a little brother. Katya is the first person Boris ever comes out to in an accouncement type-way (not like with his gang - all of their open secrets, unjudged, a party of misfits). She accepts and loves him like he accepted and loved her - and gave her a home when the world abandoned her. She works as a barmaid at the HQ.

just some!

#novabyers #ask #the goldfinch #boris pavlikovsky

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triad9462 · 4 years ago

Text

Sanders Sides TFP AU

Since @graedari has shown interest in this( at least I think they have), I’m gonna go ahead and post this.

EDIT, because I can’t BELIEVE I forgot this: Sanders Sides, Cartoon Therapy, the associated characters, and Remy(is that his official name? idk) belong to @thatsthat24.

Cybertronians: Logan, Patton, Roman, Virgil, Janus, Remus, Remy( not a side, but lots of people see him as such so...)

Humans: Thomas( and his family and friends, of course), Emile Picani( from Cartoon Therapy, also not a side, but again...)

Other Characters: Flambe, Digit, Buzz

Logan:

-Autobot

-Self-appointed leader of the group

-“It was a very logical conclusion, really: Patton is too childish. The twins too wild, especially when combined. Virgil is a habitual worrier. And Janus really doesn’t like responsibility.”

-“Childish” is a word he picked up while on Earth

-Rarely listened to

-Alt mode is a pickup truck, both on Cybertron and Earth

-Is basically a walking archive of all things science

-Loves to learn everything he can, and when he can’t he gets moody

-Does not like having emotions, but at the same time doesn’t want to be like Shockwave so instead of getting rid of them altogether, he merely hides them

-Can and will call you out on your bullshit

Patton:

-Autobot

-You’d think he’s the medic of the group, but he’s actually the muscle

-Doesn’t like hurting others, but doesn’t like others hurting his kiddos more

-On the topic, “Kiddo” and its variants are terms he picked up during his time on Earth

-If you hurt anyone on his team, he will hunt you down, protocols be damned

-Cybertronian alt mode was a tanker truck, Earth alt mode is a food truck

-Designated dad friend

-Has two minicons, whom he adopted

-Has a whole kitchen setup, no idea how to use any of it

-Thomas: “You have all these neat appliances, but you don’t know how any of it works?” Patton: “You have all those organs inside you, do you know how they work?” Logan: “I should certainly hope so! Unless I imagined him attending that medical class last year?”

-Yes, is afraid of spiders

Roman:

-Autobot

-Team tactician

-Not willingly trusting of others who aren’t Autobot from formation

-Once he gets to know them, though, he feels a little more at ease

-He and his brother were abducted my Decepticon spies who pretended to be converts and this is why he’s not so trusting of non-Autobots seeking asylum

-“You can’t be serious, Logan! He’s... Decepticon!”

-He does not like to talk about what happened behind enemy lines

-Alt mode is a sports car, similar to Wheeljack’s

-Has only one sword though

-However can create a shield

-Is ambidextrous, whatever hand his sword isn’t in becomes the shield

-Introduced to Disney movies by Thomas, immediately loved them

-Thomas’ guardian

Remus(No, I’m not doing this in order of name reveal and for good reason):

-Autobot

-Team demolistionist

-Became a Decepticon for a bit, but is now an Autobot for good

-Had to execute an Autobot prisoner to become a Decepticon

-They chose his brother

-Obviously he couldn’t bring himself to.

-“Our relationship’s weird like that. I hate him with all my being, but I’d also hate for him to come to harm. Especially by my hand!”

-Actually a lot more mature in behavior than canon Remus

-Alt mode is a muscle car, modified for competition in a demolition derby

-Along with his morning-star, also has a sword, a broadsword as opposed to Roman’s katana

-Also ambidextrous, whichever hand isn’t holding the morning-star holds the sword

-Neither weapon is designed for one-handed wielding, but Remus makes it work

Virgil:

-Arachnicon, Autobot aligned

-Basically a cybertronian with a spider-like mode

-He doesn’t like taking this form around Patton because he knows he’s afraid of them

-The actual medic

-Has a welding torch along with his regular kit

-Puts webs over freshly welded wounds to function the same way gauze wrapping would

-“Venom” is actually an antitoxin that cleans wounds and flushes most venoms and poisons from the body

-This also works on humans, but antitoxin can’t be left in the body after flushing, unlike with Cybertronians

-Stowed away on the ship the rest of them were on and did his best to keep hidden

-Patton caught him trying to get some energon from their supplies

-Logan lost a battle of will to let Virgil stay

-Roman was reluctant, but just could not bring himself to say no

-Remus happily welcomed the ex-con

-Alt mode is a hearse, mainly for the aesthetic

-Got confused for an on-duty hearse once, had to carry someone’s coffin to the cemetery without any humans noticing anything off

-He succeeded, and peeled out soon as he was out of there

-Also a Disney fan, thanks to Thomas

-And similar to canon, he notices the more subtle messages better than Roman does

-“It’s context, Princey! It’s not supposed to be obvious!”

Janus:

-Predacon, Autobot aligned

-Cloned from the remains of his ancestors long before the evacuation of Cybertron

-Thought the ship the others had taken off on was a cave and went inside to rest before it took off

-He was more than freaked out when he woke up and found he was no longer alone

-Learned about his ancestors and how to transform thanks to Logan

-Default mode is a two headed wyvern, alt mode is his humanoid mode

-Both heads are able to shoot fire, but niether is dominant, as they are both controlled by one processor

-Has a unique transformation due to his physiology

-Heads and necks become legs, legs become arms, wings become cape and tail becomes staff

-The gatherer for the team

-Can locate energon deposits from anywhere on the planet

-Sometimes these are untouched

-Not that Great at lying~!

-Damnit Janus, don’t edit my bullet list for you!

-[REDACTED INFORMATION]

-ffs, Janus why are you so worried about people seeing that?

-I see how it is: You have no problem with me talking about the other guys, but when I get to you, you want my followers to as little about you as possible.

-Well, I’m done with yours anyway.

-What’s that? A quote? Um...

-“I must say, Remus, you must take very good care of yourself.”

-How’s that? Good? Good.

Remy:

-Microcon, Autobot aligned

-Somehow able to safely drink coffee without it getting everywhere

-Do not get between him and his coffee

-You will end up with a new intake where it isn’t supposed to be

-Alt mode is an alarm clock

-Mainly stays at Thomas’ house, unless he somehow wanders off

-Logan had to put a tracker on him so he can be found again and returned home

-“C’mon, Logan! I didn’t go too far from home this time!”

-He did, in fact go too far from home

-<_<

->_>

-(Patton convinced the others to let Janus stay not long after finding him)

-Will only accept Starbucks coffee, for some reason

Flambe:

-Altered minicon, Autobot aligned

-One of Patton’s minicons

-Alt mode is an electric stove

-Is helping Patton learn how to cook

-“And then you whisk it like that, there you go!”

Buzz:

-Altered minicon, Autobot aligned

-Patton’s other minicon

-Loves pranks

-Alt mode is a microwave

-“AHH! WHAT HAVE YOU DON- Now what did I tell you about waiting for the beep?”

Digit:

-Microcon, Autobot aligned

-Alt mode is a calculator

-Offers help to Thomas if he needs it, but berates him if it’s a problem he should’ve been able to solve himself

-Very insistent if Thomas hides the face he’s struggling

-“1+2? Really? Eveyone knows what that equals, Sanders!”

Thomas:

-Pretty much Character Thomas from Sanders Sides

-Came across the bots while filming for one of his vines

-It may have been a Disney Prank

-I will reveal no more info regarding that

-Became fast friends with the lot

-Even Virgil

-Introduced him and Roman to Disney movies

-“Virgil, I know you’re worried about me, but I’ll be fine! Really.”

Dr. Picani:

-Thomas’ Therapist

-Loves cartoons of all kinds

-Thomas introduced him to the bots after they had been on earth for a year

-“When you said you had some ‘big changing factors’ enter your life, Thomas, I didn’t expect it to be taken so... Literally.”

And that’s all I got at the moment. If you think of anything you’d like to see added or changed, let me know!

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godkilller · 5 years ago

Text

There had been several talks throughout his stay within Soul Society following Aizen’s defeat------multiple mentions of exile, imprisonment, and even the vague threat of execution lingered into the conversations made in private with the old man. Fair points. Yet Gin behaved, he showed up each time he was summoned despite desiring nothing more than to simply vanish from everyone’s thoughts. Though he abhorred the spotlight, the ex-captain still ventured out past sneering glares, muttered fears, and strong disdain. Whispers of grief surrounded Tousen’s name, particularly in mentioning that the deceased deserved this second chance more than the serpent------if only he had survived instead.

Gin felt not even a hint of disagreement.

The traitor was subjected to regular monitoring, check-ups ( as if prolonged feigned loyalty to Aizen were a disease... and actually... Gin wouldn’t dispute that concept ) as well as other regulations upon his reiatsu, where he was allowed to go, what he was able to do------Shinso had been taken immediately until further notice, and the First Division grounds were entirely OFF-LIMITS, for example. Perhaps Yamamoto saw it best that Gin was given no length of proximity to the residence below of which housed Aizen Sousuke himself. Whether or not this was out of interest for Gin’s personal safety, the security of Aizen less he felt some pang of subordination left in him to release the man, or something else entirely was left unsaid.

The vacancies left in the wake of Aizen’s betrayal ached to be accommodated, fulfilled in case yet another threat presented itself to the now considerably weakened Soul Society. The loss of a single captain was monumental; three had shaken the very foundation. Though a few Shinigami showed promise, strength, in order to fill the respective wounds of the Gotei 13, none were anywhere near experienced enough with their capabilities, leadership, and especially Bankais to confidently receive ample genuine recommendations for the assessment. They seemed more content to continue serving as lieutenants, third seats.

Gin had overheard the Visored were all candidates, as well as the rumor of Urahara, Yoruichi, becoming potentially welcomed back... though it was ultimately gossip. The thought of Shinji’s company returning to the very organization that shunned and attempted to execute them in their time of need seemed also unlikely. His first captain seemed far too uninterested, bitter even, about the past grievances to so readily step back into line among the comrades that he was forcibly antagonized against. Especially considering Yamamoto’s own prejudice towards hybrids murking the waters of their return, Gin was still presented as an understandably last option for the Gotei 13 to weigh the pros and cons of reinstating. They decided, not him. The traitor had relinquished his choice on the matter of his continued existence the moment the Fourth Division decided to save his life. Leashed by that debt, repayment and reparation expected, he was called upon. Word traveled fast.

Tasked to pass the captain’s assessments, particularly of his ability to wield his Zanpakuto with stability, strength, and confidence deemed exceedingly acceptable by all onlookers, Gin tackled the unforeseen difficulty of his lack of ambidexterity. Performing the desired test under raised scrutiny, his reiatsu sealed near half, and with his non-dominant hand... all left Gin reeling with potent uncertainty thick in his throat. However, he had no other goal to pursue------the concept of achieving something for himself was then fixated upon not so much for himself, but for the sake of Rangiku’s worried glance as he retreated in their home, in her presence, for months prior. It’d do him no good to so visibly rot in front of her. So he took the haori.

He still did not advocate his reinstatement.

The feelings were strongly mutual among the more mouthy Shinigami left outraged, incredulous, by Gin’s acceptance. A persimmon tree stood withered, burnt bare, outside of the building----and he dared to make a more vulnerable display of mourning as he knelt to inspect the trampled garden, sinking to touch the base of his old work and risking a sullied new haori for the trouble. Gone now were a few decades devoted to his tree’s growth----an unfortunately easy target for the fire of anger in drunkness, his previous villainy fresh as the ashes swiped across his palm. He stayed lowered for a moment, empty right sleeve pooled upon dead roots, and hummed softly to himself, then straightened with a sigh.

When Izuru arrived shortly afterward, in the early morning, dark circles and quiet disposition overwhelmingly present... Gin sent him home before he could enter. Their first encounter following the Winter War could start perhaps on a better foot than this, he figured, and Gin knew a mere ruined garden couldn’t have absorbed the entirety of his vandals’ wrath. A broken window was enough of an indicator from the outside, crisp morning air whispering through the jutting hole. He spent his first day on official duty cleaning a freshly ransacked office. Shattered glass, a discarded empty sake bottle served as an indication of an enabler, resided alongside garbage. The words ‘traitor’ and ‘scum’ were among other emotive, explicit kanji and scribbled markings across the Third Division’s office inner walls, papers scattered and torn, chairs overturned with legs mangled, the base of his desk’s front had been kicked in with wood snapped, and there were black ink smears in trails, footprints, across the room’s floor panels. Quietly, Gin closed the door behind him and stood within the destruction. A strong sense of loyalty, honor even, was not seen as worth seeking to punish------

GIN KNEW HE DESERVED IT.

The captain withheld the experience----he thought better than to dwell, have Rangiku dwell, upon the negativity that desperately wished to join their existing stack of struggles.

Among other issues, his squad needed recruitment. Currently the Third stood thinned of bodies as a result of its decaying status as a deserters division as well as lackluster attempts to maintain its manpower. The Fifth and Ninth Divisions both suffered this stagnation, too, and Gin found himself surrounded by perhaps a dozen, maybe a little more, lingering loyal subordinates who recalled him with fondness still----somehow. Thoughts of inviting them out for drinks, dinner, in a nostalgic sense of routine grazed his mind whilst he finished gathering shards of glass. Though he appreciated their endurance of judgment by their peers and felt genuine pride in having managed to positively impact even just a few of his original subordinates ( the mere idea that his comrades saw in him something to value... ) Gin found he was incapable of mingling among them just yet. They hadn’t come to the grounds that day, taking continued leave to instead wait upon their captain and lieutenant to prepare their tasks for the following day. Gin hadn’t spoken of anything with Izuru, they were both horribly avoidant of what matters they could possibly discuss. Gin didn’t know where to start, but he knew that he didn’t want to begin like this.

He was still moving in slow motion, sluggish and empty, and heavy shoulders carried the Third’s sigil upon his slouched back with no ounce of pride. Cloudy cleaning, single-handed restoration soaked away hours, daylight dimming, and his body ached painfully. He managed to fix the desk, smoothed over rough edges with careful carving, stripping away all protruding pieces, and most of the ink had washed away with persistent scrubbing. Papers were either thrown away due to damages or organized into piles, and his window was for the moment patched up to avoid a destructive draft from undoing his amends. The walls were harder to clean, still faintly inscribed with messages of hate if one squinted just right. Gin was exhausted when he returned home later in the evening. Funny how their once scandalous shared inhabitance paled now in comparison to his loathed return to rank.

Maybe Rangiku knew to dial down her excitement, thankfully not daring to treat his homecoming as a childish ‘first day of work!’ ceremony. Instead, she embraced him warmly upon entry, and he succumbed with ease into her arms. Had she been waiting for him? Gin thought he made his return at a fairly reasonable time to avoid the sins of his past, but then again his perception wasn’t quite as sharp as it used to be. Either way, gratitude at Rangiku’s presence surged whilst he bowed his head and turned to burrow his face into wavy strands and that signature scarf of hers. They stood in the doorway together, lingering, as she smoothed her fingers across his back, up the base of his neck, in slow motions. How she soothed him without saying a word. Gin fought the unfitting desire to at last speak, to say something silly, or something vague and typical------or to resound off yet another unworthy expectation, one more forbidden topic, of her; DON’T ASK HOW HIS DAY WAS.

At last, he whispered against the curve of her collarbone exposed, eyes shut, remaining hand finally raising to softly return her embrace with tired strength.

❝ ------------------I'M HOME. ❞

#[ verse: redemption ] i am healing by mistake; rome is also built on ruins #[ ginran ] will you grow from the sorrow in me; the winter in us?#dokuhai #[ drabble ] his silver tongue weaves words; but he doesn’t lie

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loadboxes950 · 3 years ago

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Texe Marrs Exposed

Texe Marrs has discovered that a number of left-wing, liberal websites are claiming the falsehood that he is a member of the Ku Klux Klan, is a white supremacist, and is an Alt-Right Identity preacher who is saying that God chose Donald Trump to punish and exterminate the Jews. Texe Marrs Exposed Sherlock Season 3 Episode 4 Encarta Kids 2009 Download Open Source Display Software Download Wallhack Cs 1.6 F1 Sony Vaio Care Windows 10 64 Bit Itunes Download File Penguin Catapult Game Minecraft Full Download Mediafire.

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Texe Marrs

Mormonism is a Judaic cult that has robbed millions of victims of their money and their souls

The founder of the Mormon Church, Joseph Smith, was a practicing occultist as well as a serial adulterer whose own mother said often told “tall tales.” His tallest tale was that an angel named Moroni gave him golden plates and that the Father and His Son, Jesus, personally appeared to him.

Mormonism’s most famous leader was Brigham Young, a polygamist and cunning religious manipulator who secretly ordered the savage murder of dozens of innocent men, women, and children.

Now, today, the Mormon Church, which prefers to be called the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, is proud to present as its candidate for the high office of President of the United States one Mittens Romney, a smiling, flip-flopping con man whose sole claim to fame is having been a sock puppet and figurehead leader of an Israeli Zionist proprietary organization known as Bain and Co.

The Chairman of the Board of Bain is Orit Gadiesh, a former Mossad agent and spy queen whose father was an Israeli army general. Bain was set up in business by elitist Masonic chieftains, the same corrupt group that hired now Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu. Netanyahu and Romney were Boston pals and Masons chosen as young men by the Zionist elite for big things solely because of their bloodline and wealthy families.

Former Bain CEO Mitt Romney fits perfectly in the mold of satanist Mormons Joseph Smith and Brigham Young who went before him. All three are proven liars and criminals. The Mormon Church is itself built on a shaky foundation of lies, slanders, heresies, sex deviate conduct and murders. Its entire history is stained with blood and crime.

So, of course, is the history of Israel and the Jews loaded to the brim with monstrous criminality. It is not surprising, then, that the Mormon sect is, in fact, nothing more than a Judaic cult. It is, moreover, a dangerous cult that can never be washed clean of its mire and grime. Therefore, if Mitt Romney, whose own testimony is that of a dedicated and faithful priest and servant of the Mormon Church, is elected President of the United States and is duly sworn into office on January 20, 2013, that event will mark the incredible rise of an occultic antichrist religion built on a mountain of outrageous and absurd lies.

Mormonism, a pagan Judaic cult of Masonic origins, will have placed its representative in the White House in the person of President Mitt Romney. As such, he will be controller and master over much of the earth. In this high position, he will be director of the world’s greatest military force and overseer of a money printing combine, the Federal Reserve System, primed to facilitate the most massive financial crash and economic catastrophe in the annals of humanity.

I say, if a man or woman votes for Mitt Romney, why not be honest and simply write-in on the ballot the name of the one who, as Romney’s superior and Lord, will really be in charge? That would be Lucifer, also known as Satan the devil.

Under Mormon priest Romney and his vice president, the Roman Catholic Paul Ryan, America will descend into the very depths of a Leviathan Zionist hell. What’s more, we will have fallen into a serpents’ pit in which the serpents—the combined world crime factory of some 30 million Zionist Mormons and Jews—prescribe for our nation a demonic overdose of psychopathic inducing steroids.

The tragedy, of course, is that some forty million other Americans, those of the Baptist, Pentecostal, Assembly of God, and other denominations and groups who say they are “evangelicals”—erroneously believe that the Jews and Israel are “God’s Chosen People.” This in spite of the fact that Judaism and its rabbis teach that Jesus is a blasphemer and occultist burning forever in fiery excrement in hell (Talmud, Gitten 57a ) and that his mother, Mary, was a slut and a whore who bore Jesus out of wedlock, thanks to her supposed affair with a Roman Centurion.

Long-time associates Mitt Romney and Israeli Prime Minister Netanyahu were initiated as Masonic brothers. After college, they worked side-by-side for a Zionist firm in Boston. If Romney becomes President, together the two will immerse America into a fiery, boiling Leviathan pit.(At right) Like many other young Mormon males, Mitt Romney (left) is a draft dodger who used his stint as a young Mormon missionary to avoid serving in the Army during the Vietnam War era.

Sadly, very few evangelicals are even remotely aware of these vicious teachings by the Jews and their rabbis and so they continue to exalt the Jews as a holy and wonderful people whom God has chosen to dominate and rule the world.

Now come the Mormons. Thanks to a clever, ongoing propaganda campaign by Romney and his Salt Lake City, Utah, theocratic cronies, the evangelicals, as well as tens of millions of other deluded American citizens, have been fed the stupid and ignorant deception that Mormonism is simply another “Christian” faith and that Mormons are dedicated to their Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

Brigham Young was a tyrant, a con man, a polygamist, and a murderer. Today’s Mormons honor him as a saint.

Unbelievable! Folks, the Mormon Church is a Luciferian New Age Church. More, it is a Judaic cult which actually teaches in its doctrinal books and texts the notion that God the Father is an exalted man of flesh, bones and blood who came to earth and had physical sex with Mary. (According to the Mormons, there was no virgin birth.) From this sexual coupling, Jesus was born in the flesh. Mormonism says that Jesus’ brother is Lucifer (yes, Lucifer, the devil!), and that Jesus is only one of millions of gods in the universe. Does that sound like a Christian faith to you?

Brigham Young (the Utah-based university is named after this swindler) even claimed that Adam (you know, of Adam and Eve fame) is the real “God” whom we must worship. Many Mormons today hold to the view that, “Adam, not Jesus, is coming again.”

There’s more heresy too—boat loads of it. Like the Mormon teaching that Jesus did not die on the cross for our sins. Then there is the Mormon belief that Jesus had three wives he slept with while here on earth—Mary Magdalene and the two sisters of Lazarus. Jesus, the Mormons hold, has sex these days with countless other wives added to his marital collection.

Since the Mormons were founded by a Mason, Joseph Smith, naturally, the Mormon male is initiated by ceremonies originating from Masonic philosophies and using Masonic handshakes, symbols, language and signals. Mitt Romney, like all high-level Mormon priests, is required to wear his white “union” underwear with the Masonic square and compass embroidered or printed on the breast and other devilish Masonic symbols on the knees. (Ask Mitt about that at his next campaign stop).

Mormonism’s criminal founder Joseph Smith was well known as a con artist who ripped people off by claiming he could magically discover the location of gold mines and hidden treasure by using an occultic divining “peepstone.” He was arrested for this and put in jail for a short spell. Later, in jail once again, Joseph Smith was murdered by an angry lynch mob that accused the Mormon founder of stealing other mens’ land and wives. A “Jupiter” magic lucky charm was found on his possession, in his pocket. Its alleged miraculous powers obviously failed the slain “Prophet of Mormonism.”

Joseph Smith was a handsome and charismatic fellow who had a grand total of twenty-seven wives. His successor, Brigham Young, continued the practice of polygamy. After Smith’s death, Brigham Young and the “church” fled the increasingly hostile Midwest and brought thousands of Mormon faithful to the desert “oasis” of Utah. There he ruled as a tyrant and created the “Danites,” a vigilante group that tormented and murdered ex-Mormons and other designated enemies.

Mormon gunmen murdered innocents of a wagon train and seized their gold and belongings. Called the Mountain Meadows Massacre (1857), it was ordered by Mormon leader Brigham Young.

When the Mormon hierarchy heard of a wagon train passing by on its way to California, Brigham Young sent out a murderous bunch to massacre the innocent passersby. History books today refer to it as the “Mountain Meadows Massacre.” It seems that the Mormons had advance knowledge of some gold the wagon train settlers had in their possession. Old Brigham Young, like his predecessor in crime, Joseph Smith, was a scheming crook, and so he determined to seize it. The men, women, and most of the children were savagely killed. Some were scalped.

Sounds a lot like what today’s Israeli Zionists have done to the innocent Palestinians, doesn’t it?

Today, Mitt Romney believes Joseph Smith to be a true prophet of God and Brigham Young to be a saint. Thus, Romney follows in the tradition of these past Mormon devils in human clothing. “And no marvel, for Satan himself is transformed into an angel of light. Therefore it is no great thing if his ministers also be transformed as the ministers of righteousness; whose end shall be according to their works” (II Corinthians 11:14,15).

Most Americans have been duped into believing that Mormons are a wholesome, clean-living religious group. Not so. Mormonism infects all who profess it. Would you believe me if I told you that the violent crime rate (murders, rapes, armed robberies, etc.) for Salt Lake City and most other Utah cities is among the highest in the nation? Most people have heard different, but those are the facts.

Tex Marrs Teaches Replacement Theology

Mormon businessmen, like their Jewish counterparts, favor each other and many do not hesitate to rip off and defraud “Gentiles.” Gentiles, that’s what the Mormons call you and me. Meanwhile, they fancy themselves to be “Israelites” of the tribes of Ephraim and Manassas. Their goal is a Zionist Kingdom on earth. Mormonism, I stress once again, is a Judaic (Jewish) cult.

Texe Marrs Exposed Concrete

Mitt Romney is personally well known as a dishonest “flip-flopper” who can’t be trusted. One day he’s pro-life and anti-gay. The next day he’s just the opposite. In my opinion that’s the mark of Jews and Mormons: doublemindedness. That’s why Masons (Freemasonry is also a Judaic cult) have, as their 33rd degree logo, the Eagle with two heads!

Texe Marrs Articles

In the Scriptures we are told that, “A doubleminded man is unstable in all his ways” (James 1:8). There you have it.

Jews, Masons, Mormons are all doubleminded. They pretend to be holy and pure. But just as Jesus warned, these doubleminded characters are devious, Judas-like backstabbers whose infamy will eventually come out.

Texe Marrs First Wife

This being so, for whom, then, should we vote for the high office of President of the United States? Obama is a socialist, even a closet communist, but his evil pales in comparison to that of the duplicitous Romney. Frankly, I prefer four more years under Obama than eight years under Romney. But I do not intend to vote for either Romney or Obama. Why give either man your support and endorsement? Better to spend your time and energy equipping and preparing yourself for hard times surely to come. And pray, yes, especially pray for yourself, your loved ones, and for America. Whoever wins, Obama or Romney, we, the people, will lose.

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lollercakesff · 7 years ago

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the hole we’re in

Fandom: Stranger Things

Characters: Joyce Byers x Jim Hopper

Warnings: Reference to past non-con.

Word Count: 2,348

AO3

This is a parallel to ‘the breathing triangle’. Though they don’t share content, it’s the same idea from the other perspective. I wanted to incorporate the other side but wasn’t quite sure how, so I broke it into two.

This guy's walking down the street when he falls in a hole. The walls are so steep he can't get out.

A doctor passes by and the guy shouts up, 'Hey you. Can you help me out?' The doctor writes a prescription, throws it down in the hole and moves on.

Then a priest comes along and the guy shouts up, 'Father, I'm down in this hole can you help me out?' The priest writes out a prayer, throws it down in the hole and moves on

Then a friend walks by, ‘Hey, Joe, it's me can you help me out?' And the friend jumps in the hole. Our guy says, 'Are you stupid? Now we're both down here.' The friend says, 'Yeah, but I've been down here before and I know the way out.'

He loves her, he loves her, he loves her.

“Are you sure these are the right notes?” He asks again, just to be sure that his homework is flawless. He needs this, badly, to not flunk out of his last English class ever.

“Hopper, would I ever give you substandard notes?” Joyce responds before turning back to her locker.

“I could kiss you right now,” he adds lowly as he sneaks a glance at her. Truer words. Never spoken. All that jazz.

“Just make sure your car starts tonight so we can actually get to Meredith’s party, okay?”

He’d rather they ditched the party. He’d rather she look at him and actually see him this time. But he keeps those damn thoughts to himself.

She isn’t his Joyce. Not today. Hasn’t been for over a month. He tries not to think about it. Maybe she really is sick, the splatters on his shoes would confirm it. But this was more than that - there was a light out in her eyes, the small one that twinkled when she finished a good book or made the perfect dick joke. It was gone and he didn’t know why.

At first he thought it was because she was pissed about him missing Meredith’s party, getting stuck at home with his tyrannical father. But it had gone on too long and didn’t feel like her grudges - those were tense and focused - this felt cold and empty.

He needed to know what was going on but he wouldn’t push it - that wasn’t his place. If he knew anything, he knew that forcing Joyce into a corner would only result in them both getting burned, his cheek still searing from the last time they argued and she outright slapped him. They’d both recognized it then, the heat that spiked like sparks between them, and it had scared them both into submission, apologies and silent oaths left unsaid.

But he had to figure out what was going on. Whatever it was it was eating away at her, radiating off of her like smoke, and he couldn’t help but worry that it would drag her under and away from him, somewhere she wouldn’t come back from. Somewhere he couldn’t go. Somewhere without him and her, together.

“Joyce, come back to the car,” he barked as she stumbled onto the shoulder of the road from the passenger seat.

He’d never seen her like this, disjointed and torn apart. It was freaking him the fuck out.

The weeks had started to blur into one another as Joyce pulled further and further away from her friends, segregating herself from their lunch conversations, hiding out at the back of class and giving up the secret smoke breaks that they used to share. He’d been determined not to give up on her though, remaining steadfast at her side as best he could even when she pushed back at him.

But now she was crying and he couldn’t let her walk away, not like this, that wasn’t the friendship they had.

“Joyce, hey, talk to me,” he added as he came around the side of the car, his own tears burning up inside of him as he pulled her against his chest, her tears soaking into his shirt.

This had gone on long enough. It wasn’t right. Something wasn’t right.

“You have to tell me what’s going on. I’ll help you. Whatever it is, we’ll fix it,” he promised, arms holding her too tightly. He could feel her shudder, her body forcing space between them. He remembered shouting:

“Don’t leave it like this.”

“Don’t leave me like this.”

And he knew it was too much then. A weight that would crush her. The thing that was wedged between them that was forcing her to quicken her pace into the treeline leaving him rejected, shattered, as she disappeared from view and the love he so badly wanted her to return.

Vietnam. Fuck Vietnam.

Look at where he was now, married, cutest kid on the planet and a mind that only assaulted him with memories when he had one too many beers to drink. Those were the nights that a country and a person dug into his skin and pulled at him until he couldn’t close his eyes.

He didn’t do that anymore, Diane hated it, so he gave it up and threw himself into his new life as a city beat cop and a family man.

It was what he wanted to get lost in. What he’d wanted all those years ago before Joyce up and left him to figure out his shit on his own. No word of goodbye, no explanation. He’d tried so hard not to be bitter and Vietnam had wiped it clean leaving him only with imaginings of what could have been.

But he was happy now. Or he was. The jury was still out.

Sara was sick again.

He was one drink away from that awful edge.

Everything collapsed in a big, bright, beautiful explosion. It dragged him under, drowned him and ran a crack through all he held dear.

Sara was gone. That was true.

Diane was gone. That was also true.

Hawkins had welcomed him back with a cold beer and easy prescriptions, the kind he found himself getting lost in as he started as the Chief of Police. He had to hide it - or at least pretend to hide the resemblance that he was a wreck - in order to stay employed but nights like these were too much and he couldn’t stop the way he tried to drown himself on solid land with round after round that the bartender didn’t question.

Sometime over the course of the night Joyce had appeared, all bad memories and sadness, her small frame still a shadow of his as she sat beside him and downed her drinks in time with him.

When they made it back to his trailer he’d pulled her to him, all instinct and messy history clouding into the press of his lips to her neck. But then she was standing and his joke was falling flat and she just stared at him. Mouth agape and torture scraped into her features.

And then she was talking. And he was hearing her. And everything raked over him like hot coals.

“I don’t remember how I got there. I don’t remember who I slept with. I don’t remember saying yes. I certainly didn’t want to get pregnant with a child I couldn’t look after. It was stolen from me, Hop. Someone stole my life from me. Stole… This.”

His training told him to say something, anything, to give her something to hold onto. He’d heard these situations before. They were fuzzy, but he’d heard them.

But a part of him - the shitty part where he stuffed down the thoughts of the soldiers’ crimes - didn’t want to believe was she was saying. Refused to put the pieces together and believe her. She would have told him then. She would have come to him. He’d been there for her.

So he sat there frozen as she wrapped her arms protectively around herself, watched her let herself out as the realization of what she’d said, what she might have experienced, flooded into him and ended with his fist embedded in his wall.

The vanishing of Will Byers was the catalyst to the careful life he’d built after returning to Hawkins. The one where he stayed away from Joyce Byers. The one where he couldn’t face her in the daylight for fear of his failures as her friend. As a man. As a cop.

He’d let her down and he couldn’t deal with it. So instead he added it to the laundry list of shit that gave him reason to drink every time he didn’t have to work. Put it down next to the reasons he checked with his one-night-stands before he took them home.

The vanishing of Will Byers forced him back into the land of the living and made him work and work and work until the body floated to the surface of the quarry.

Loss. It had pushed into him until there was no space left for him to breathe, no room to move or run or escape. Will Byers was dead and now he was the doctor telling this boy’s mother that there was nothing they could do. That there was nothing that they could do to save his daughter.

It choked him.

The look on Joyce’s face when he informed her. The look that tore every shred of small hope that he had pieced together with tape a glue over the last year. It destroyed him.

“He spoke to me Hopper, in the lights,” she insisted after a brief shake of her head. The look had disappeared and she was steadfast, determined, strong.

“Try to get some rest, Joyce,” he bid as he closed the door on her. Returning to his truck he stared at the small house that he’d worked so hard to avoid. The place that was home to one of his biggest regrets.

She was still his Joyce. Somewhere in there. The smart girl who’d been victimized three times by men - the hidden one, the ex one, and him. Maybe he needed to believe her this time. Maybe he’d spent too much time not believing her and that’s why they were here, estranged and in a constant state of conflict.

He decided to look then. To really look and see what she was seeing, through her eyes. Suspending his disbelief he followed the loose threads that pricked at the back of his mind until he was sliding his swiss army knife into rubber, his fingers pulling out stuffing instead of organs.

When he kneeled over the real body of Will Byers and forced his hands to compress his chest over and over again until the coughing brought him back to life - the same act that hadn’t saved his Sara - he knew then as Joyce clutched her boy that there was hope, even in all this shit they were wading through.

He made a deal with the devil then to give her back her son, to try to repay some of the unspoken debts he believed he owed to her. Disappearing into the agency he relived the worst moments of his missions in Vietnam until one day they let him go, gave him a free pass to keep the town under control and closed their active unit.

That’s when El finally came out of the woods - the girl having been a fighter who had seen too much, felt too much, suffered too much. He saw the parallels between them and refused to let her fall through the cracks like he’d done since coming back to Hawkins.

So he got himself clean. Started accompanying Joyce and Will to the doctor’s, even as he stood by and watched her fall for Bob Newby. Hid El away. Found himself in the process and when the monster’s came back he was strong enough to face them. Strong enough to be there for those who needed him.

Strong enough to feel human again.

She’s laying here, next to him, her dark eyes focused on his.

It hadn’t been what he expected when he dropped El off at the Snow Ball, not by a long shot. But somehow Joyce and him had found their way back to each other, even if just for this moment.

After their kiss - the one that had breathed new life into him as she forgave his trespasses - he’d offered up a warmer locale in the form of his trailer. She’d followed him in her own car, assured that she could leave whenever she’d wanted.

But she hadn’t yet. The dance would be ending soon and they would both have to go, but neither of them seemed willing to break the truce they’d forged in these stolen hours.

No. He just wanted to keep laying here. Watching her watching him. He could get lost in this.

“We can’t go back to when we were teenagers. But we can start again,” she whispered as he ran his hand across her cheek, letting it drift to the swoop of her t-shirt where it caught in his finger.

He didn’t want to say the wrong thing so he said nothing, scooting his knees until they pressed into hers. She mimicked the movements of his hand, tracing across his beard until her palm grazed the curve of his neck, exploring, trailing flames.

They’d never had this. Not ever. And it felt like they’d been robbed all these years - of this feeling and of each other. He had to seize it now. Had to believe that this time it would stick.

Time slows and rebuilds the bridges they’d shattered. It heals and grows the space between them and he feels like he’s climbed out of the hole, like his friend has finally shown him the way.

The pills didn’t save him. Jesus didn’t save him. But his friend, the one who’d been down a rabbit hole of her own and had somehow found her way out, was tugging him back into the world, one touch at a time, and goddammit he was going to follow her this time.

#trigger warning #reference to non-con #jopper #jopper fanfic #stranger things fanfic #hopper x joyce #joyce x hopper #jopperfic

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nomorelonelydays · 7 years ago

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WOOOOOOO OKAY 2.2k sidgeno beauty vlogger au for @honeycombhenry because i got e M O t i o n a l thinking about her art

“A lot of you have been asking me about how and why I started a makeup and beauty vlog,” video-Sidney says, his voice a little scratchy. Zhenya had been listening to the new update on the accidentally-stumbled upon channel, which had quickly become one of his entertainment go-to for the charmingly shy and genuine personality (Crosbeauty, he thinks fondly, what an adorable little nickname) and lovely face behind the camera, in the locker room as he changed sluggishly, when video-Sidney admits, “I’ve been really putting off answering that question, but I hope that my answer will help encouraging some younger people who may be in a similar situation.”

At 8.7 million subscribers, Crosbeauty is one of the most-followed and loved YouTube channels, featuring a Canadian man who talks about his love for hockey while testing various makeup brands to see if they really live up to the hype. Zhenya’s favorite thing, he thinks, is watching Sidney tuck back a stray curl behind his ear as Sidney gazes off-camera, talking about the team’s stats, his day, visiting in parents in Cole Harbour and, as always, thanking his audience with his usual ending catchphrase and thumbs up, “Thanks, everyone, see you next time. Remember to get up every morning and do something that you love. Wouldn’t that be amazing?”

What would really be amazing is if Zhenya worked up the guts to contact Crosbeauty and thank him for lifting his spirits with that peculiar giggle whenever a game goes poorly, for shocking a laugh out of him when Sidney says something snarky about the Flyers while applying his contour and, for once, when Zhenya had been knocked out of several games with a concussion scare, wearing a Malkin jersey and wishing the Pens and Zhenya well, along with “We all believe in you, Geno. I know I do. Can’t wait to see you back on the ice. Take care, buddy.”

He’d replayed that one video, again and again, until they’d cleared him for playing. He’d scored a hat trick that night, and for every goal, he pointed at the cameras and gave a thumbs up, just like Sidney. In a vlog that posted a week later, Sidney seemed to be trying to contain his smile as he raved about how amazing Malkin was and his celly, which jokingly, he mentioned, “I hope that was for me. It’s probably not. Let me dream.”

(It was for you, Zhenya wanted to say. He considered writing an email, maybe offering some tickets to their next home game, too, but he pauses. Is this too much? Would Sidney get put off by him? He doesn’t want to pressure Sidney into saying yes just because he’s the captain of the Pens. But Sidney liked the Pens, so would that be so bad?

He thinks about this at his kitchen island as he swirls jam into his tea for approximately 30 minutes, until Sasha texts him with a, “HEY!!! Let’s go out before our game, maybe find you someone hot. You poor, lonely thing, you))))))” There had been multiple kissy face emojis following that.

Zhenya rolls his eyes and debates the pros and cons of hanging out with Sasha—one, he gets really, really drunk, and then listen to Sasha incoherently proclaim himself as Mr. Alexander Backstrom for two hours before going home alone and passing out; or he can stay home and stare at the Crosbeauty channel, at Sidney’s unfairly attractive face, until he passes out.

Well, if he’s destined to pass out either way, might as well do it with a friend.

He goes out with Sasha. Sasha tells him how wonderful his Nicky is—both in regards to his face and his blowjob abilities—for two hours exactly. Zhenya drinks a lot. Probably too much for a Monday night. And he forgets about his internal moral struggle of sending hockey tickets to Sidney.)

The last video had been with Taylor, Sidney’s sister, where the two tried to investigate the difference between BB and CC creams, while they chatted.

“I can use this for formal,” video-Taylor says, patting her face. “You know what? I really like it. Can I take it?”

“Pay me twenty dollars,” Sidney deadpans.

Taylor laughs and ignores Sidney before continuing, “So, Sid. Back to the list of questions from your followers. Amy-UnicornHeartXoXO54 wants to know if there’s a special person in your life right now.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “Well, Sid? Do you?”

Zhenya hadn’t even noticed he’d been holding his breath, until Sidney answered, “No, Taylor. You know I don’t.”

“I know some nice guys from school,” she says. “They’d love to go on a date with Crosbeaut—”

“I’m not going out with guys your age, Taylor,” Sidney laughs, then accidentally squirts and entire blob of foundation all over his hand. “Oh, God—”

She’d beat Sidney to the punch before the catchphrase and went up real close to the camera, snorting out, “Remember to wake up and do something—or someone—that you love! Wouldn’t that be amazing? Wouldn’t it? Answer me and my brother in the comments or I’ll sit outside your house and watch you through your windows—” as Sidney laughed and tried to pry Taylor away.

That had been a few months ago.

Today, Zhenya listens to Sidney, bare-faced (but still, so, so lovely, with a quiet dignity and confidence), say into the camera, “I turned to makeup because it was something to do after someone purposely broke my leg in peewee hockey. Taylor knows this. My parents and most of my followers know this. But I didn’t tell anyone why I started to vlog. Until now, I guess.” Sidney’s eyes are downcast, staring at an invisible spot on the ground. He licks his lips anxiously. “I went into beauty vlogging, um, probably a few months after I started to use concealers to cover up bruises from my ex.”

Zhenya’s blood runs cold. Sidney doesn’t stop talking. The bickering from his teammates in the locker still ramble on, but the only thing important is hearing Sidney’s voice, sometimes getting thicker before he clears it, in his ear, telling his story. His routines. His one (and only) relationship that ended in abuse. The loneliness and plain emptiness that came after.

The video is short, only three and a half minutes long, but by the end of it, Sidney seems visibly rattled. He still puts on a smile. “You know, I’ve been thinking about sharing this story a lot. I know I’m still recovering, and it’s difficult, but I know I can do it, and to those of you who may be feeling this way, I believe in you. And um, here I am, still waking up and doing something I love. Every morning. It’s not the NHL, it’s—it’s not hockey, I don’t know if I can skate professionally ever, but you know, this is something I’m passionate about. So isn’t that amazing, too?”

Sidney grins, his lips turning up crookedly, even as his eyes are still a little wet, as the video cuts to black.

Zhenya sits there for a while.

“G, you okay?” Phil asks.

Zhenya looks up.

“I’m…” He blinks. “Want to talk to manager.”

He knows what he wants to do.

For Sidney.

The Pens host a slew of charity nights and fundraisers that summer, all profits going towards a variety of local domestic abuse shelters, along with a family skate benefiting You Can Play. There’s teens from the nearby high school stepping on the ice for the first time, sliding their way through like baby deer as their friends pull them across enthusiastically. Parents are waddling along with their babies like penguins, and Zhenya thinks he sees a couple of toddlers trying to climb onto Olli’s legs in the corner.

He’s so busy looking behind him that he doesn’t realize he’s about to run into someone, until he does.

“Oh, shi—oot,” Zhenya says, helping the guy up. “I’m so—” His mouth falls open. “—orry.”

Sidney Crosby, from Crosbeauty, is currently holding onto his hand as he rights himself, using his other hand to brush his thighs clean of ice. Zhenya had nearly run over Crosbeauty on the ice.

“It’s okay,” Sidney says kindly. His smile is just as breathtaking as it is over the Internet, and he looks a little starstruck himself. “I didn’t expect the Pens to actually be here. Well. I mean. I know it’s your event, but I didn’t—”

“Not expect YouTube star be here, either,” Zhenya says, then immediately wishes he can sew his mouth shut.

Sidney looks pleasantly surprised, though, and his cheeks go pink. “You know me?”

“You famous,” Zhenya counters.

“Not really,” Sidney says. “You’re famous. And I, uh, I guess I didn’t think that hockey players, um.” He cuts off, worrying at his lip. “You know.”

Zhenya wants to hold his cheek and smooth out his expression until Sidney doesn’t look so scared. “Hear from players’ wives,” he fibs. It’s not a complete lie—one of the rookies’ girlfriend had caught him watching a video in the corner of the kitchen during a potluck/movie-night, when Zhenya had been pretending to refill the chip bowl, and she’d said conspiratorially, ‘Is that the new Crosbeauty vlog? Can I watch it with you?’ “‘Sidney Crosby know best makeup, you watch new video?’ Sidney this, Sidney that. You bigger celebrity than me.”

Sidney laughs then. “I see,” he says. “And pretty good timing, too, you almost running me over.”

“I’m not run over, just little bump,” Zhenya says, delighted that Sidney’s teasing him. “Barely check.”

“Yeah, for you maybe. It’s like skiing into a tree for me.” He sobers up. “I just wanted to tell you what an incredible thing the Pens organization has been doing lately. It’s great to see hockey changing for the better. And I know that doesn’t mean the entire NHL is gonna change overnight, but it really means a lot to me that, you know, my team is doing this.”

Zhenya feels his throat close up as Sidney beams up at him, so close and so earnest. He really wants to give the whole world to him.

Instead, his dumb mouth opens again and garbles out, “You skate me?”

Sidney blinks. “Sorry?”

Fuck. Fuckity. “I—English not so good—I’m—”

“Your English is fine,” Sidney assures.

Oh no, oh no. He’s going to ramble and then end up spraying Sidney in the face with spit, he knows it. Not good. Not good. “Is embarrassing for me, you know?” he tries. “Talking to you.”

“To me?” Sidney asks, backing away and looking extremely hurt and stunned. “I don’t—”

“No!” Zhenya yells, then lowers his voice. “I’m sorry. I just—is embarrassing because I’m stand in front you. And you so pretty.” There. There, he’s fucking said it. Sidney doesn’t budge an inch. “And nice.” Nice? Fuck that. Surely he can do better than that. “I—I watch your videos, too, to say truth. A lot of videos. You sort of…perfect.”

“Oh,” Sidney says quietly, his expression morphing from hurt, to astonishment, to—shyness? “That’s really sweet of you.”

“I, um.” Zhenya laughs, scratching at an itch that doesn’t exist in the back of his neck. “Sorry, nervous.”

Sidney takes his hands gently, folding his over Zhenya’s clenched fist. “I’m kind of nervous, too,” Sidney says, his eyes a little wild, but that smile, oh, that smile. So wide and exuberant like it can split his face open. “You’re Evgeni Malkin. You won the Stanley Cup three times.”

“And you Sidney Crosby,” Zhenya says. Strong, beautiful, brave Sidney Crosby, he doesn’t say. For now. “You remember, hit my head last year, scared having concussion?”

“I remember.”

“I watched your video, you tell me to get better soon. Watch it until I get better. Again and again.” Sidney’s face, changing into pure shock, fuels him with more confidence. “First game I play, I get hat trick for you. And I’m think, Sidney Crosby most lucky.”

Sidney ducks his head, laughing that ridiculous noise, and Zhenya has never heard anything more wonderful.

“You want skate together?” Zhenya tries again. He doesn’t let go of Sidney’s hand.

Sidney doesn’t let go, either. “Yes,” he says.

They go.

A select few notifications on Zhenya’s alternative email he used to subscribe to Crosbeauty—which he eventually forgets the password to—after this incident:

NEW Crosbeauty update – ‘Boyfriend Does My Makeup Challenge!’

NEW Crosbeauty update – ‘Geno tried to make breakfast…tried’

NEW Crosbeauty update – ‘PENS WIN THE CUP AGAIN!’

NEW Crosbeauty update – ‘Backstrom-Ovechkin Wedding Fun!! + Tips for a Summer Look!’

NEW Crosbeauty update – ‘Boyfriend Challenge…again?!’

NEW Crosbeauty update – ‘Big News! My Own Lip Kit Line and…💍’

NEW Crosbeauty update – ‘Fiance tries to make breakfast…again’

NEW Crosbeauty update – ‘Requests: Lipstick Longevity’

NEW Crosbeauty update – ‘Wedding+honeymoon highlights’

NEW Crosbeauty update – ‘Family life vlog: Bringing the twins home’

NEW Crosbeauty update – ‘Babies’ first hockey game!’

And, a few years later:

Crosbeauty notification: Hi, everyone! Just a reminder that I will be away for a few weeks to go on a much-needed family vacation with my husband, Riley, and Sophie, now that the hockey season is over, and there won’t be any vlogs for this month. As usual, please direct all business inquiries and proposals to [email protected]. We hope you have a lovely rest of the week and I hope you can wake up every morning doing something you love, with someone you love!

- Sidney Crosby-Malkin

#past abuse mention tw #sidgeno #beauty vlogger au #of course i would finish and post this at 1 in the morning #why am i like this #screams softly #i M SORRY i havent written anything legit in a long time #THIS IS PROBABLY REALLY BAD BUT #i got emo about makeup sidney #its like getting hit in the face with a TRUCK

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hireimage · 5 years ago

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Protecting yourself from unscrupulous in-home workers

Whether you own a house or rent a living space, it’s inevitable that you will have an installation, handyman, or repair contractor come into your home. From cable TV, computer wiring, and phone installation to heating or plumbing service personnel, these people need access to the interior of your home in order to get the job done. Most consumers do not fear for their personal safety and don’t give this situation a second thought. Allowing strangers into your home should, however, because for concern, for good reason. Hire Image Company to provide best home workers with background checking.

People have been robbed, assaulted, even murdered at the hands of in-home workers. In February 2001, Sue Weaver hired a well-known department store service to clean the air ducts in her Florida home. Two men were subcontracted by the store to perform the cleaning; both were ex-cons with known criminal backgrounds. One of the men returned six months later to rape and murder her, and then set fire to the home to destroy the evidence. Despite having admitted during the job application process that he served 14 years in prison, a background check was never done.

In September 2010, a 49-year-old Las Vegas man was arrested on child molestation charges for an incident that occurred while he was in the child’s home to repair an air conditioner- he was the owner of the business! In July of 2013, a 22-year-old Missouri cable repairman was sentenced to 75 years in prison for burglary, forcible sodomy, felonious restraint, and armed criminal action for terrorizing, tying up, and sexually assaulting a 24-year-old victim at her apartment where he had been assigned to connect her television.

What can you do to protect yourself and your loved ones?

Sue Weaver’s sister, Lucia Bone, founded the Sue Weaver C.A.U.S.E., a nonprofit organization dedicated to promoting Consumer Awareness of Unsafe Service Employment to require proper annual criminal background checks on all workers sent to peoples’ homes. Hire Image company aware people to your safety own your hand. Here are five helpful safety suggestions:

1. Ask the company if they do pre-hiring criminal background checks. If not, don’t use them and tell them why.

2. Perform your own due diligence to research the company and the person coming into your home.

3. Have another adult in the house when any kind of service is being done in or around the home. Invite a friend over for coffee, and remember that your children are not protected. You are more vulnerable if alone with small children because an attacker may threaten you with the life of your child if you don’t do what he wants.

4. Don’t hesitate to say “no” if you don’t feel safe when the worker arrives. Trust your instincts and turn them away or don’t open the door.

5. Beware of leading questions from the service worker who may actually be accumulating intelligence, such as, “You look like you work out at a gym, where do you go?” or “My wife and I have small children and are always looking for new parks to go to. Do you have a favorite?”

Unfortunately, stories about in-home workers committing crimes are not uncommon. A local homeowner read a recent news story about an attic insulation subcontractor in Massachusetts who had brutally murdered a retired schoolteacher in her home. “Influenced by the story, I told the owner of a heating repair company that I was worried I’d be killed by the person he was sending over” states Betty Galligan, who needed emergency repair work done to her heating system. “I needed the work done fast because we had no heat, yet found out they don’t do background checks on their employees. The owner gave me a lot of information about the person who was assigned to come to my home, including his full name and that he was not a subcontractor and had worked for him for 20 years. That set me at ease, but I didn’t hesitate to tell the owner that if I were harmed in any way, he’d have to live with that on his conscience. I was desperate for the service and accepted his explanation. In the future, I will only use service companies who perform background checks. How can companies today NOT want to do background checks on people they’re sending into homes?”

It’s important not to judge a person by their “official-looking” truck, uniform, or paperwork. Don’t rely on whether a company is bonded and insured, since that only protects the company from the behavior of their workers.

Hire Image company gave the best is to find out what you can about whom you are allowing into your home for any reason. A little knowledge can go a long way and just may keep you and those you live with safe.

Originally Posted:- https://hireimageblog.wordpress.com/

2019/09/23/protecting-yourself-unscrupulous-home-workers/

#galligan #Hire Image #knowledge #explanation #background #employement

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honestgrins · 7 years ago

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Bad Idea || Klaroline

So, this was a mix of a bunch of ideas that I just couldn't let go. Initially, it started with American Gods and the scene where Laura and Shadow first met, then it spiraled from there.

Caroline knows trouble when she sees it in the casino, and Klaus is nothing but trouble for her.

She knew he was trouble the second he sat at her table, with that cocky smirk on an unfairly attractive smile. He had come in on his own, eyes immediately latching on her blonde hair and sauntering over. Having worked at the casino for a good eight months, Caroline had learned to recognize bad news when she saw it, the kind that drew attention from the eyes in the sky. The owner was a slick son of a bitch who didn't hesitate to have his goons beat someone to a pulp.

Sometimes, they didn't even bother to accuse the sucker of cheating; if the win was big enough, it was far cheaper to bribe the hospital to quietly treat the bloody mess they dropped off with a warning not to mess with Damon Salvatore's profit margins.

With an easy charm and sharp eyes, though, Caroline would bet anything that the guy sitting across from her wasn't one to care for rules. He probably wouldn't cheat outright, male pride and all. Counting cards was more likely his game; stacking the odds in his favor without technically breaking the law.

Her lip curled at the thought of Damon breaking such a pretty face. "Are you sure this is the way to spend a Friday night?" she asked quietly while shuffling her cards. "D.C. has some better entertainment options than a seedy, underground casino."

He arched an eyebrow, taking a sip of his bourbon. "I've never met a dealer warning away a willing pile of chips," he noted with a shrewd once-over of her gaudy, gold-sequined vest. She tried not to react to the attention or the smooth British accent. "Caroline, is it?"

"You can put the flirt away." Giving an icy smile, Caroline winked at the plainclothes security sitting at the next table. "There are at least three men watching your every move right now, praying you give them the slightest excuse for violence if only to liven up their incredibly dull lives. One's right over your shoulder, examining my face for any sign of distress or suspicion."

Shrugging, the guy tossed back the rest of his drink. "That sounds more like a problem for me than for you. I'm touched you're so concerned."

"Right," she scoffed, making sure to keep her voice low, "like I won't be next on their hit list if you don't manage to lose half your chips." Dealing the cards quickly with her practiced hand, Caroline pinned him with an unimpressed glare. "Trust me, you don't want to cause trouble tonight. You're going to play this hand, maybe the next if you win, but then you're leaving."

His wicked smile cut dimples deep into his cheeks, and his tongue peeked out to wet his lips. "I do like a woman who takes charge," he murmured. "And you're beautiful, which means the house expects men to linger at the expense of their pockets. If I promise to lose, may I stay and keep you company?"

Rolling her eyes, Caroline flipped the cards with more force than necessary. "Be still, my heart," she deadpanned. "Look, buddy-

"Klaus," he offered.

"Look, Klaus," she snapped, "do what you want, but don't say I didn't warn you."

Coyly glancing at his cards, Klaus smirked. "So caring. What's a nice girl like you working in a place like this? Damon Salvatore's a bloody wanker on his best day."

"So are student loans. Hit or stay?"

He met her eyes with a playful glint. "Stay."

Straightening her posture, Caroline swallowed down a small grin. "And people think I'm stubborn. Dealer stays at nineteen, show your hand."

"Eighteen," he answered with a mournful cluck of the tongue. "I suppose I should try to recoup my loss."

Caroline just collected the cards to reshuffle. Never one to bear a silence, she couldn't stop her natural curiosity. "You know Damon, then? I always wonder how people find this place."

"Friends with his brother, actually," Klaus replied. He signaled to the passing waitress for another drink, a sure sign of his intent to get comfortable. "Stefan and I both did a semester at Oxford years back."

"Ex-boyfriend?"

"Nothing as official as all that," he winked. "Anyway, I'm in town for a few weeks, thought I should look up an old friend. We came together, but his brother stopped him for some urgent business, whatever that means."

Focusing on her shuffle tricks, Caroline's eyes narrowed. "It surprises me he mentioned this place," she said. "I thought he was the squeaky clean government worker. State Department, right?"

"I'd rather talk about you," he countered. "Your hopes, your dreams. Everything you want in life."

She let out a disbelieving laugh as she started the next deal. "God, does that line ever work on anyone?"

Klaus shrugged. "You tell me."

"I'm too smart to be seduced by you," she retorted. "Dealer has sixteen. Hit or stay?"

"Hit." His smile widened at the face card.

"Twenty-one," Caroline announced, moving his chips toward him. Her eyes darted over his shoulder, sweeping the rest of the floor. "Congratulations, sir. I suggest you cash out and enjoy your winnings elsewhere."

Looking at his meager pile of chips, Klaus's eyebrows fell in confusion. "I doubt the Salvatores care about losing fifty dollars."

"You're probably right," she said, "but they're not your biggest concern right now. You seem like a nice guy, if a little arrogant. It's a bad idea for you to stay much longer."

"I'm not that nice, love."

She let a dramatic shudder wrack her shoulders. "Ugh, that's just gross. Can you please just crawl back under whatever rock you came from? I don't want the extra paperwork."

"Paperwo-"

"Everybody FREEZE! FBI!"

Both their heads whipped to the crash of the front doors opening, people with guns and police badges barging into the casino. A waitress screamed as a tray dropped to the floor, and the security guys all drew their weapons on high alert.

Sighing, Caroline reached for his hand and pulled him around the table. "I'm sorry about this," she muttered before slipping a pair of handcuffs from her back pocket. "My name is Caroline Forbes, an agent with the FBI. You're not under arrest, the cuffs are just to make getting out a little easier. I'll take you in as a material witness, my bosses will especially want to hear about how involved Stefan Salvatore is in his brother's dealings."

To her surprise, Klaus chuckled in amusement. "Fair enough, sweetheart, I find I don't mind the idea of you restraining me. However, I should ask that you remove them before we step outside. For your sake more than mine."

"I've been deep undercover in a ruthless criminal organization to uncover ties to human trafficking," she explained with a snort. "My colleagues are everywhere, I'm the safest I've been in months. Why are you worried for my sake?"

As they reached the front doors of the casino, Klaus looked over his shoulder to smirk. "Because I have diplomatic immunity, and you'll likely cause an international incident by tying my name to this until and unless my status is revoked as a result. And it won't be, as a matter of experience."

Rearing back, Caroline turned him to face her fully. "What are you talking about?"

Klaus shrugged, somehow able to look nonchalant while in handcuffs. "It's notoriously difficult to charge a foreign prince with a crime of circumstance, love. If it makes you feel better, my brother has only gotten more insufferable since assuming the throne. He'll be sure to lecture me quite severely."

She was torn between disbelief and utter horror that her biggest case would be tainted if Klaus was telling the truth. "Trust," Caroline relented, releasing the cuffs. Still, she held a hand toward him. "But verify."

Clearly understanding her demand, he reached for his identification. "Klaus Mikaelson, heir in waiting until King Elijah can beget another. There are a few other titles in there, but that's the one people seem to care about."

Caroline squeezed her eyes shut, sheepishly handing it back. "Thanks for the warning, your highness. I guess I should apo-"

"No apologies, please," he said warmly. "But I'll let you make it up to me, with dinner."

Her mouth fell open in shock. "I- What?"

"I wasn't kidding about finding you beautiful." Klaus reached forward, brushing a blonde curl behind her ear. "And I was having fun before this excitement started. I'd like to continue our conversation, perhaps with new explanations, considering."

Shaking her head, Caroline couldn't tell if he was kidding. "This is a joke, right? You're just a con artist with a really good source for fake passports?"

"Would you like to talk to His Majesty?" he asked, pulling out his phone. "Maybe he'll save the lecture for skipping yet another meeting with your state officials if you convince him I'm an innocent bystander."

"No," she answered automatically. "Um, okay, I should get my boss. He'll want to handle your situation directly, and I really have to get back to work anyway."

Before she could leave, though, Klaus wrapped a hand around her wrist. "I'm happy to cooperate, Agent Forbes, and I'd very much like to see you again. Maybe after your boss is finished with his questions?"

"You just met me, and I arrested you," she pointed out.

He smirked. "Think of the story it makes."

Rolling her eyes, she turned away to find Agent Saltzman. Hopefully, her blush would lessen by the time she explained the freaking prince she left in the lobby. She would undoubtedly be too busy to watch his conversation with the boss, but she might be able to finish her initial debrief in time to take him up on his offer.

It wasn't every day a real life fairytale dropped at her feet, even if it's beginnings were less than magical.

#klaroline drabbles #klaroline #elsewhere #my writing #this was a plot bunny i couldn't get out of my head #i hope you like it!

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marcjampole · 7 years ago

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A new Contract with America: economic equity, health care for all, integrated quality public schools, reduced military

During the heat of the 1994 mid-term elections some 23 years ago, Republican Congressional Representatives Newt Gingrich and Dick Armey rolled out their Contract with America, a pledge to pursue a conservative legislative agenda once the Republicans regained control of the House of Representatives. The Contract listed eight reforms the Republicans promised to enact and ten bills they promised to bring to the floor. The proposed legislation was typical conservative claptrap: require balanced budgets; institute harsher criminal sentences; end welfare; cut payments to the United Nations; and, as always, cut taxes on the wealthy. Interestingly enough, social conservatives did not seem to have a hand in the making of the contract, which was free of any anti-choice or other divisive social issues. After the Republicans wiped out the Democrats in November of 1994, they were able to pass some of the Contract’s proposal, but not all of it.

Despite its mixed success, the Contract with America was a significant symbolic victory for conservatives in their thirty-year war to install an economic and political regime that benefits the wealthy. The Contract set the stage for all political discussion until well into the Great Recession. Conservatives still espouse many of its false notions, such as the idea that tax breaks on the wealthy create more jobs. But most importantly, it has served as a proud and palpable symbol of conservative principles. Not so much anymore, but for years, Republicans would pledge to the Contract as a means to demonstrate their sincerity and commitment to the movement. The Contract became conservatism, as Marshall McLuhan predicted might occur when he said in the 1960’s that the medium was the message.

Since the election, I have been thinking a lot about the Contract with America. The Democrats should revive the idea and present a 21st Century Contract. By becoming a touchstone for Democratic candidates, a new Contract could establish the terms of public debate looking forward, especially in light of Trump’s splintering of Republican solidarity and the emergence of economic equity as an issue.

I’ve taken a hand at creating a first draft of a 21st century contract. It aggressively advances the idea of European democratic socialism, but it takes into account the views of all contemporary Democrats, except for those with heavy ties to the financial industry or who have forgotten the central importance of trade unions in creating a fair, just and equitable society. My contract addresses just about every issue facing Americans except the spiraling cost of higher education, although putting this contract into law will mitigate that problem to a large extent.

Here is the contract. I intend to send it to my Senators and Congressional representative and demand they make the pledge. I ask my gentle readers to follow suit.

THE NEW CONTRACT WITH AMERICA

If elected to office, I pledge aggressively to support legislation to:

Create a more equitable distribution of wealth and income.

Ensure that all Americans have the basics that all humans deserve, including education, health care and a secure retirement.

Create real opportunity for all people, regardless of race, religion, sex, beliefs or economic class by creating a level playing field.

Protect the environment for our children by mitigating the effects of climate change and transitioning to a sustainable economy and society.

To achieve these objectives, I will support the following specific legislative actions:

Raise the minimum wage to $15/hour and remove all current exemptions, including for farm workers and interns.

Remove the cap on income assessed the Social Security tax.

Reform the federal income tax system to raise more revenue from the wealthy, who have gotten a free ride for three decades, as follows:

Increase the number of individual tax brackets and tax the highest bracket—income over $1.0 million—at 70%

End the lower capital gains tax except for investment in initial public offerings of stocks.

End the carried interest deduction.

Increase the federal tax on gasoline by one dollar and earmark 75% of it to the development of rail-based mass transit within and between cities and the rest to maintenance of highways, bridges and sewers.

Replace the exchanges for individual health insurance with Medicare coverage (the so-called public option) for anyone lacking health insurance coverage through work or Medicaid.

Replace district public school funding with statewide funding that provides all public schools with the same amount per student and redistrict schools to promote integration.

Pass a new omnibus Civil Rights law which explicitly protects the rights of LGBTQ people; gives ex-cons the right to vote; ends Jim Crow sentencing laws; directs all states wishing to receive any federal funds to extend voting hours and end voter ID laws; and mandates equal pay for women and minorities for the same job with the same experience.

Outlaw state right-to-work laws and all charter schools run by for-profit organizations or that hire non-union staff when the local public school is unionized.

Give legal citizenship to all “dreamers” immediately and create a path to citizenship that takes no longer than five years to any undocumented immigrant who can prove residency before 2016.

End all federal and state subsidies for oil & gas exploration and production and nuclear electricity generation and redirect the funds to supporting the development of wind and solar energy and technologies for cleaning up the environment.

Cut the military budget to $400 billion a year and end all funds for the development of newer nuclear weapons or automated (robot) weapons.

#social justice #publicschools #economic equality

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pantysleep64-blog · 5 years ago

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The Lost Elvira Brokaw McNair Mansion - 5-7 East 79th Street

The Architectural Record May 1917 (copyright expired)

Named after her mother, Elvira Brokaw lived amid sumptuous surroundings with brothers George, Howard and Irving in their family's French Renaissance style chateau on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 79th Street. The children of the massively wealthy Isaac Vail Brokaw, their home was among the most impressive in the city. The mansion was the scene of Elvira's marriage on June 10, 1896. It was a lavish affair, with a full choir and a throng of "fashionables" present. The Sun noted "Among the guests were Mr. and Mrs. Russell Sage, Mr. and Mrs. William Rockefeller, Mr. and Mrs. George J. Gould, and a host of others almost if not equally as well know." The New York Times described the groom, attorney Carl Aage Vilhelm Fischer-Hansen, as a member of "an ancient and noble Danish family." Fischer-Hansen "delighted in trying criminal cases for poor defendants," said The Sun later. So his father-in-law supported the newlyweds. "The Brokaw family, it was understood, arranged his finances so that he did not have to worry much about fees," explained the newspaper. But Elvira, reared in a family of spotless reputation, would soon suffer unfamiliar humiliation. "It was not long before suits were brought against him by poor persons who alleged fraud," reported The Sun. He weathered those suits, but in 1908 he was arrested, charged with bribing a witness, and extortion. As the high-profile trial was underway, Fisher-Hansen "signed some papers in the presence of his father-in-law and then pleaded guilty," said The Sun. "It was said the papers consisted of evidence on which Mrs. Fischer-Hansen could get a divorce." But Elvira, perhaps not wanting even more bad publicity brought about by a society divorce, gave her husband a second chance. He opened a string of bakery shops in Harlem upon his release, and went bankrupt within the year. It was apparently the final straw and in 1911 Elvira traveled to Tonopah, Nevada where she obtained a divorce. It came with an incentive for Fisher-Hansen, who told a reporter that "he had a written agreement with the Brokaw family by which they were to give him $15,000 in cash and $2,500 a year for life." Three years later, on May 17, 1914, The Sun reported that Elvira "was married yesterday at her summer residence, Hawkaway House, Locust Valley, L. I., to William McNair, vice-president of the Unadilia Valley Railway Company." The wedding came as a surprise even to the couple's friends. "A desire to avoid publicity caused the wedding to be celebrated quietly, but announcements were sent out after it was over." Isaac Vail Brokaw had died eight months earlier. Among his bequests to Elvira were the vacant plots abutting the family mansion and $250,000 "to be used to erect her own residence." Almost immediately after the wedding she hired architect Harold Van Buren Magonigle to design her new home. He was perhaps best known to New Yorkers at the time for his designs of the Firemen's Memorial on Riverside Drive and the Maine Monument at the entrance to Central Park. Elvira spent every dime of the allotted inheritance on the project. The Real Estate Record & Builders' Guide reported on July 18, 1914 "The building will be six stories in height, with a facade of Indiana limestone and marble. Construction will be fireproof throughout. The house will cost more than $250,000 to build." That amount would be close to $6.5 million today.

photo by Philip G. Bartlett from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York

Magonigle's design could hardly have been more different that the ebullient Brokaw mansion next door. Rather than six, as the Record & Guide had predicted, the house was five stories tall. It was soberly restrained and sparsely decorated. The arched second floor openings opened onto dainty Juliette balconies and a stone balustrade fronted the fifth floor set-back. Otherwise the massive home was austerely somber. The Architectural Record approved. "It shows all the remarkable handling of proportion, the fine taste and the highest standards in draughtsmanship and in modeling of details that Mr. Magonigle has always insisted upon in his work. The more one studies it, the more interest becomes apparent beneath the veil of its simple classic proportions."

The McNairs had directed Magonigle to make a surprising change in the accepted arrangement of interiors. The top floor, routinely given over to the domestic staff, held the family's living quarters. An elevator eliminated any inconvenience. A living room, paneled in dark oak, opened onto the commodious private balcony. Elvira's suite looked to the west and William's "apartment" at the rear consisted of "a bedroom, a bath and a study, well lighted by a large bay window," said The Architectural Record.

The living room faced the front of the top floor. The Architectural Record May 1917 (copyright expired)

The bathrooms were clad in wainscot of Argentine glass about seven feet high. The master bath boasted a vaulted ceiling with frescoed panels. The suite of room for Elvira's daughter from her previous marriage, Elvira Juliane McNair, fronted the fourth floor. Also on that floor were guest suites. Architectural critic John Taylor Boyd, Jr. was impressed with the innovative arrangement, noting "These two top floors are rare, indeed, in their aspect of cheerfulness, homelike comfort and intimacy, which is due as much as anything to the isolation from the more public parts of the house near the ground floors."

He also appreciated the logic of the unconventional arrangement. "But one of the chief advantages that results from placing the family apartments on the top floors lies in the situation of the maids' rooms, most of which are located on the third floor, midway in the structure." That meant that the servants were always relatively nearby. And Boyd found the attention to the servants' comforts had been well thought out, as well. He said that McNair need not worry about discontented staff, "for the rooms of his servants are unusually comfortable, well lighted and accessible by service stairs, thus eliminating the frequent passing and repassing through the living or entertainment portions of the house, which would be necessary were the located on the top floor of the house."

Both the dining room (above) and the formal reception room featured painted panels. The Architectural Record May 1917 (copyright expired)

Boyd was pleased with the lower floors as well. "From the vestibule of Mr. McNair's house one enters a spacious hall, which forms a stair hall for the great winding stair that rises to the top floor." On the first floor were the reception room, and "dressing rooms," where guests would stash their hats, muffs, canes, and coats. The second floor held a larger reception room, "decorated with large wall paintings set in panels." Magonigle had not only designed the interiors, but some of the furniture. There was a breakfast room which served as an anteroom to the dining room. "Its chief interest," according to Boyd, was the teakwood floor "of an unusual rich reddish color" trimmed with a six-inch boarder of black and gold marble. In the breakfast room was a gray marble fountain and the gilded organ pipes. The dining room was much more formal, "old paintings" filling the areas of the walls between fluted pilasters. The mansion was completed in time for Elvira Juliane's debut. She was known in society, possibly to avoid confusion, as Vera. On December 30, 1916 the New York Herald announced "Mrs. William McNair gave an afternoon dance yesterday at her home, No. 5 East Seventy-ninth street, for her daughter Miss Vera McNair, who will be introduced to society next year. The guests were her girl friends and the younger college men."

A tasseled tapestry fringe with a trailing drapery frames the marble staircase. Magonigle was responsible for designing the iron and bronzework, like the railing and unusual standing lighting fixture. The Architectural Record May 1917 (copyright expired)

The McNairs continued to summer at Elvira's 22-acre Long Island estate, Northway House, where they had married. (As an interesting side note, its 23-room house was the focal point of the 1986 motion picture The Money Pit.) Additionally they maintained a summer residence, Leeward, in Bar Harbor. Cleaning the windows of the mansion required professional workers. On March 22, 1917 a window-washer and his new helper arrived at the 79th Street house to begin the full-day project. The New York Tribune reported that the head window washer was a trusted employee who "knew little" of his assistant. Unknown to him or to his employer, the assistant, Harry Schumacher was an ex-con whose alias was Braun. A few months earlier Schumacher had served time for a $500 robbery. While in jail he met Henry von Kulik, sentenced for robbing a young girl. When Von Kulik learned that Schumacher had once worked as a window cleaner, he came up with a plan. He convinced Schumacher to return to that trade. It would give him access to houses and their contents. And so that March morning when Schumacher peered into Elvira Brokaw's bedroom window, he saw jewelry. Raising the pane, he climbed in and removed $40,000 in jewels--nearly $785,000 today. One item alone, a pearl necklace, was valued at $30,000. When a maid spotted Schumacher in the rear yard he explained he had gone "to recover his cleaning cloth." She directed him through the basement to the street." Almost immediately he disappeared. "When Mrs. McNair entered the house a few minutes later the maid told her of discovering the cleaner in the yard and of his sudden departure. Mrs. McNair went straight to her boudoir. Her gems were gone," said the Tribune. In the end Elvira got her jewelry back and the thieves went to jail. On April 3 The Sun reported that Schumacher, who had received only $300 from Henry Von Kulik, had been arrested. Von Kulik was already in jail. The article said "All except $6,000 of the jewels have been recovered and the police have learned from Schumacher where the rest are and will recover them before morning."

The second floor staircase hall. The Architectural Record May 1917 (copyright expired)

As the year drew to a close Vera's debutante entertainments began. On December 18 the New York Herald reported "Mrs. William McNair had a reception yesterday afternoon at her home, No. 5 East Seventy-ninth street, for her debutante daughter, Miss Vera McNair." And on April 3, 1918 The New York Sun named her "Debutante of the Season."

Vera McNair was the Debutante of the 1918 Season - The New York Sun, April 3, 1918 (copyright expired)

Vera met Reginald Lovett Hutchinson in Bar Harbor on a holiday in 1918. The Philadelphia Inquirer described him as being "well known as a football player at Yale." The meeting blossomed into romance; however, according to that newspaper "Society had it rumored that Mrs. McNair did not look with favor on the young athlete." Nonetheless, on February 1, 1919 the McNairs announced Vera's engagement to Huchinson at a luncheon in the 79th Street mansion. With a month plans had been put together for a society wedding in St Thomas's Church on Fifth Avenue. Vera chose her cousins, Barbara and Julia Brokaw, as two of her six bridesmaids. The best man, Reginald's brother Daniel L. Hutchinson 3d, and his ushers, were all still deployed in Europe, but, said the New-York Tribune on March 19, "are expected to arrive in time for the wedding." The article added "The ceremony will be followed by a reception at the home of the bride's parents, 5 East Seventy-ninth Street." The last entertainment for Vera in her parents home was held on April 19. The New York Herald reported "Mr. and Mrs. William McNair, parents of the bride, will give a supper and dance in their home, No 5 East Seventy-ninth street, for members of the bridal party and a few additional friends." The New-York Tribune described the Easter Monday wedding on April 22 noting "the edifice was filled with prominent members of society." The important military members of the party, however, were still in Europe. As last minute replacements A. J. Drexel Biddle, Jr. stood in as best man, and Vera's uncle, George T. Brokaw, and Robert Newton filled in for the other two. Elvira McNair's misgivings about the marriage proved to have substance. On June 16, 1925 The Philadelphia Inquirer ran the headline "Divorce Is Granted to Mrs. Hutchinson." Although it seems it was Vera, not Reginald, who caused the breakup.

The architect's deft handling of metal design is seen here in the entrance door grills and another free-standing floor fixture. The Architectural Record May 1917 (copyright expired)

Two months later, on August 12, Vera married William S. Fairchild in Bar Harbor. While they sailed for Europe on the S. S. Leviathan for their honeymoon, Vera's daughter, also named Elvira, moved into the 79th Street mansion with her grandparents. Upon their return Vera and William, too, moved in. Over the years the society columns followed the McNairs and the Fairchilds on their dizzying movements to resorts like Virginia Hot Springs, Atlantic City, Palm Beach, and their country estates. Vera and William were sometimes a bit more exotic in their travels than the McNairs, it seems. On June 12, 1929 the New York Evening Post reported "Mr. and Mrs. William McNair, of 5 East Seventy-ninth Street, have returned from a motor trip through Morocco and Algeria. They will leave next week for Leeward, their place in Bar Harbor. The year 1939 was Elvira Fairchild's debutante season. Like her mother and grandmother had been, she was feted with luncheons, receptions and dances. Her term as an eligible bachelorette heiress would be short-lived. Although her father had died only a few months before, on December 27, 1940 The New York Sun reported that her wedding to Jessie Spaulding 3d would take place in the East 79th Street mansion. The East Hampton Star noted that only a few close friends and the immediate family were present "owing to mourning." The Sun added that "On their return from a wedding trip the couple will live at 5 East Seventy-ninth street."

The increase in population from one family to three may have prompted the addition of a sixth floor. photo

William S. McNair died of a heart attack during his sleep while at Leeward on July 2, 1947. The New York Times, in reporting his death, called him a "retired railroad and mine operator." Two years later, on February 10, 1949, the 79th Street mansion would be the scene of another family wedding. Vera married the recently-divorced Vicomte Jacques de Sibour. Her daughter was in the wedding party, now with a new married name, herself. The Times reported "The bride was escorted by her stepson, de Lancy Fairchild, and attended by her daughter, Mrs. C. Whitney Carpenter 2d." The article noted "The couple will reside in Mexico City after a wedding trip." Three years earlier the Institute of Electrical and Electronics Engineers had purchased the Isaac Vail Brokaw mansion on the corner. In 1954 it added Nos. 5-7 to its holdings, and in 1961 purchased the mansion of Elvira's brother, Howard, at No. 984 Fifth Avenue, abutting the Brokaw chateau. The combined properties were deliciously attractive to developer Anthony Campagna and his son in 1964. Although the fledgling Landmarks Preservation Commission had given the corner Brokaw mansion landmark status, the group was impotent in defending landmarked structures. On September 17 that year Thomas W. Ennis, writing in The New York Times announced that "A chateau at Fifth Avenue and 79th Street that had been designated by the city as a landmark is to be torn down along with two other mansions adjoining it to make way for a new commercial building." The Landmarks Preservation Commission promised to protest, while admitting "it lacked the legal power to stop it." The Institute of Electrical and Electronics Engineers had sold the Campagnas all the three of the mansions. Pickets marched along Fifth Avenue and 79th Street protesting the ruthless demolition, but they were as unsuccessful as they had been a year earlier attempting to stop the destruction of Pennsylvania Station. The Campagna Construction Corporation was as resolute as the preservationists and the three structures fell to be replaced by an apartment building known as 980 Fifth Avenue.

photo via observer.com

Source: http://daytoninmanhattan.blogspot.com/2019/06/the-lost-elvira-brokaw-mcnair-mansion-5.html

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