#his hair looks like dishwateer <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[plum-pudding-everywhere]

im not gonna finish these

[hiskillingjar]

Hey! I hope you're having a nice day. I'm the anon that asked about the inside names a while ago, I really appreciate you getting out of your way to answer me! <3. I was thinking, could you please write Ren x Strade where Ren gets jealous of one of the new victims and Strade "consoles" him by letting him watch TV with him in the sofa and *maybe* having some fun only the two of them? I firmly believe that Strade canonically did those kind of things (even if we didn't see it) to keep Ren closer and not make him want to escape. You're free to decline the request btw, no pressure intended! Hope you have a great day (:

huh…the poison really DOES drip through (that's a succession reference because i enjoy quality television)

1700+ words, she/her for a fem mc

Ren had grown accustomed to his new routine in Strade’s domain, for lack of a better word.

In the mornings (or early afternoons), he’d wake up, make breakfast, clean up after himself, then maybe, occupy his time with a new show or his filtered internet access. Mid-day, he’d eat lunch, take a nap, and, of course, try not to get himself killed (an important task!) In the evenings, if he made it that long, he’d make dinner, clean up, and maybe have a bath to balm his new wounds, before going to bed.

Then the cycle would start all over again, day after day.

It was easy, despite the danger, and it was stable, and though he was smart enough to know that this wasn't what a life should be, living like a captive animal, too scared to make even one mistake lest he be punished for it, there was a certain comfort to knowing exactly what he was going to do, every day for the rest of his life.

Hence, his irritation when a new pet had come in and fucked all that up.

And hence why now he was cleaning up after a dinner he hadn't even made (or enjoyed enough to warrant his exchange of chores. She was a vegetarian, for god's sake.)

He seethed silently to himself, dragging the metal scouring sponge up and down a greasy frying pan, sticky with brown sauce and burnt tofu, turning the dishwater a muddy brown colour.

This was just about the chores, he told himself, this was about the disruption to his routine throwing him out of wack and disorientating him, it was just that.

His anger surely had nothing to do with the beaming smile Strade gave her when she presented dinner, reminding the young man of a husband and a new (inexperienced) wife, or the way he pet her hair all the while as he ate, or even the way he complimented the meal, commenting that she should make dinner more often, because "Ren's got a routine about his cooking" and he’d grown bored of it.

It was nothing to do with that, surely.

No way. 

“God, I can see that scowl from the other room.”

Ren let out a surprised yip when he heard Strade’s voice, dropping the pan in the soapy water and soaking the front of his tank top.

He always had a way of sneaking up on him.

“S-Strade,” Ren replied, looking over his shoulder to the older man, who was idling in the doorway of the kitchen, picking his teeth. “Sorry, I, um…I’m just doing the dishes.”

“I can see that,” Strade replied as if it was obvious (and it was) before he crossed the threshold of the kitchen and paced towards the younger man. "You're looking pretty dour, Ren. Why the long face, hm?" He then asked, raising a brow and leaning against the kitchen island, his hip slightly cocked.

"It's…it’s nothing," Ren murmured softly, his gaze going back and switching between his shaking hands, bunched up in the front of his murky grey tank top, and the dirty dishwater where the pan was still waiting to be cleaned.

"It's not nothing, otherwise you wouldn't be in such a mood," Strade retorted with a huffed chuckle. "Come on, tell me what's on your mind. I can’t deal with you acting bitchy for the rest of the evening."

"I just..." Ren sighed, forcing himself to relax. He had a tendency to be on edge around Strade, though. 

“Just?” Strade drawled out. “Don’t lie to me, Ren. You know how bad you are at it.”

"I…” Ren’s voice was barely a whisper as he glanced off to the side, his face heating up and feeling hot. “I miss you, I suppose."

"You…miss me?" Strade sounded genuinely surprised as he took a step closer, encroaching on the younger man’s space, as he so often did. "Well, that’s pretty silly. We live in the same house, buddy. I see you every day."

"You know what I mean," Ren replied quietly, biting his lip, his sharp, little fangs hooking over his lips and marking them with stark indentations, about to bleed. "It’s like….since you picked up the new girl, it's just been...different, ya know. Like, with everything and not just…mm, between us."

Strade was quiet for a good while, his golden eyes drifting upwards with thought, before he let out a good-humoured chuckle (low and pleasant and rumbling), shaking his head fondly as he stepped even closer to the young man and slid his big palm along the exposed skin of his back. 

"Are you jealous, Ren?" Strade murmured, his voice low and almost teasing.

"Of course, I'm fucking jealous," Ren replied openly (he was never good at lying anyway), his voice an irritated rasp as his extremities bristled with nervous (quietly delighted) energy at being touched so intimately. "I’m all alone and you've got a new...thing to play with. She's even doing all my chores, like...like you're husband and wife or something"

"Mm," Strade hummed with subdued amusement, resting his stubbly chin on Ren's shoulder and rubbing at the space where his skin and tail met. It was incredibly sensitive. "See, I always thought you didn't like my games...you fought back hard enough that I thought that way, anyway..."

"I-I don't," Ren said, his fingers curling into tight fists, trying to ignore the little jolts of pleasure that shot through his back as Strade pressed his thumb against the nub of flesh at the base of his tail. "But I, ah...i-it was worth it when you were nice to me, you know. Now, you just...ignore me. I hate it."

"Hmph," Strade huffed out a chuckle, so effortlessly charming, so easily likeable, no wonder he had no trouble picking up new prey. "Come now, there's no reason to be jealous. You know you're my first, don't you, fuchs?"

Ren said nothing but shivered as he felt Strade lean in even closer, felt his hot breath on his skin, the warmth and lowness of his accent when he said his pet name for the younger man enough to make every part of his body throb with desperate, needing want. 

He was a sucker, that was for damn sure. 

"You'll always be my first. Having someone new here doesn't get rid of that." Strade's hand ran further down, stroking over his tail before landing on his backside, giving it a firm grope. "There really is no reason at all to be jealous of someone new...though I have to admit, it's incredibly cute."

"Strade-" Ren whimpered, shaking hands gripping the edge of the marble counter (expensive, bespoke, how much blood had been spilt for him to afford this kitchen, this house, this life?)

"If I were a worse person, I'd use that to my advantage, you know." He continued, his fingers greedily palming Ren's ass before slipping beneath his shorts and reaching to the front. cupping and squeezing his slowly hardening cock as he pressed his cheek to Ren's, stubble-dotted skin against his, smooth and youthful and ripe for the taking. "Take this opportunity to see you really rip into my new pet, tear her apart, just for you to prove how loyal you are to me."

Ren bit his lip hard enough that he felt the slow trickle of blood bead down his chin, but the pain didn't deter him from shifting his hips forward and seeking more of Strade's warm grip.

"But, well..." The older man mused. "I'm pretty bad, but I'm not that bad."

"Mm," Ren moaned, bringing his fist to his lips to keep himself quiet (and to wipe away the blood) as Strade worked his cock to full hardness, his knot swelling with blood. "You're awful..."

"Ah, I don't think you mind," He quipped with another low chuckle, pressing his lips to Ren's cheek and squeezing him a little tighter. "Otherwise you wouldn't be jealous."

"Ngh-" Ren's hands went down to Strade's, his weak grip pulling at his wrist and his hips shifting forward even more, desperate for any degree of attention that the older man would give him, no matter the cost.

"You're my boy, Ren," Strade reminded him, his lips trailing down his trembling jaw, in a gesture as close to a kiss that someone like Strade could manage. "My number one. I'll never be able to replace that. You do know that, don’t you?"

"Mmhmm, yeah," Ren stammered, his voice weak and quiet and so utterly submissive that it made his legs (and cock) twitch. "I'm...mm, I'm your boy..."

"Yeah, you are," Strade growled indulgently, pushing his own hips forward and letting Ren feel the growing hardness of his cock through his khakis. "I hope you don't forget that, fuchs...I'd hate to have to remind you."

"Mm...n-no, sir," Ren replied quickly with a jerked nod of his head. "I won't forget, promise."

"Good boy," Strade praised, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head (right next to his twitching ear) and prying himself away, idly groping his cock as he did so but looking as casual and easy and so fucking untouchable, like he always did. "Hey, how about we have a night together, just us two?"

"H-Huh?" Ren looked towards the older man with a confused look (apparently unaware or uncaring just how much his cock was tenting his loose shorts).

"Yeah, I've got one of those, ah…those nature shows you like recorded." He beamed, just as he had with the girl when she'd made dinner, and it was enough to make Ren’s heart hurt. "How about it? Boy's night?"

Ren didn't care about nature shows. 

But Strade did, and it was one of the few things they actually did together, before the girl had interrupted their peace. 

So, Ren smiled back, his tail wagging and his ears perked up high on his head.

"Y-Yeah! That sounds...really great." He nodded eagerly. "Um, let me just finish the dishes and then we can...yeah, watch it."

"Wunderschon," Strade laughed handsomely and crossed his thick arms over his chest. "That’s great, I'll get it queued up.” He turned to leave the kitchen. “But don't take long, buddy, or I'll start without you."

"Sure, won't take long." Ren smiled to himself again, turning back to the dishes.

"Oh, and Ren?"

"Hm?"

"You really should warm up to our new guest already, hm? I never said I minded sharing her with you...and she's a better fuck than you probably give her credit for~"

[poppitron360]

Sharing a snippet of all my main WIPs to help me remember why I love them and motivate me to keep writing part 8-

Part 1/Part 2/Part 3/Part 4/Part 5/Part 6/Part 7/Part 8/Part 9/Part 10/Part 11/Part 12

This fic is called “Never go to bed angry”

Jason’s dreams were weird.

He was washing the dishes in a dirty sink. That was strange. At Camp Jupiter, the dishes always washed themselves. So did the ones on the Argo II. Jason wasn’t sure if he’d ever even washed dishes before. But still, his hands scrubbed the plate, working tirelessly over the surface until it gleamed. His skin was wrinkled from the water and his arms were covered in suds. He wiped his forehead with the back of his arm, leaving it wet with dirty, soapy dishwater. Then he realised something. His hands were not his hands. They were smaller, more nimble, and covered with little cuts and scratches. His fingers were long and bony. His skin was darker. He looked up and saw his reflection in the grimy window in front of him. Looking back at him was the face of a boy, no older than ten with dark, curly hair. He had cheerful, elfish features with bright brown eyes and a gap-toothed grin. It took a second for Jason to recognise who that boy was. Leo looked so different now. Older, for one thing. Thinner too, although it didn’t look like this kid was exactly living off of pheasant and grouse. But those busy eyes still held that hardened sadness that lay weighted in the eyes that he knew.

[askaalaska-vdeppressed]

I Cannot Breath (So I Must Sing) Ch. 2

Alastor X Fem Opera Singer Reader

Masterlist

Please be warned this chapter does touch on some period accurate racism. Proceed with caution.

 Most people assume that being a performer is all about the audience. That if the audience leaves happy, with excitement in their voices and smiles on their faces, that the performance was a good one.  

Your father had instilled in you from a young age that most people -- were wrong. You could see him now, his dark hair styled neatly, gray bits beginning to sprout on the sides. His hair line high, pushed up after years of his mask irritating it. His shirts were always cotton and the warm leather of his sheep skin gloves was always a comfort. The smell of damp that permeated the house on the lake never bothered you. Nor did the eerie silence that stained the air, only ever broken by the odd squeak of Rodentia or hard splash from the waves.  

Or the sounds of a poor lost fool being drowned. 

Father was always pleased on those days.  

 "Ma fée” he would beckon you over to the piano. You always preferred it when he taught you on piano. ”Remember when you sing, you sing only for yourself and for me. If you sing for others you will become complacent, and a complacent artist is a dull one.”  

The memory of damp and sheep skin gloves faded as you approached the radio station. Walking in, the doors’ hinges squeaked alerting the receptionist to your presence. 

“Can I help you miss?” An excessively thin and dainty woman called out to you. You glanced over, spying the clock above her head. 2:15 p.m. Perfect. Just like you planned.  

“I‘m here for an interview. I‘m early a little. My name is Y/n Leroux” Your accent was back on in full swing, though you’d been toning down the breaks in your English since your bluff had been called by the radio show host. Doing it had been getting tedious anyway.  

“Oh wow, it’s a pleasure to meet you miss, the station’s been very excited to hear from such a seasoned performer.” It was hard to tell if the woman was genuinely excited to see you there or if she was just very good at her job. Perhaps a mix of both. You ultimately decided her earnestness wasn’t of import.  

“Thank you”  

“Don’t thank me yet” the woman’s eyes were tense as she read over a planner on her desk. “You’re more than a bit early honey. I don’t think anyone was expecting you here till 3 at the earliest” She peered up, trying to gauge your reaction to the news. “But you’re more than welcome to wait up here, or you could go take a walk and come back” She gestured to a very well-worn couch that sat in front of the station’s front picture window. The fabric was aged and stained, several patches covered it in varying colors and materials.  

It looked like they'd dragged it out of the trash.  

You assessed the current worth of the dress you had on before deciding to sit on the remnants of a couch. This little scheme of yours was worth more.  

The plan was simple really. Alastor Altruist was clearly a man that like being in control of the situation. He liked knowing what would happen, how things would go.  

You were going to throw him off his rhythm.  

Simple as a sonnet.  

If you were being honest, you didn’t hate Alastor- quite the contrary. From what little you had interacted with him he seemed sweet, terribly intellectual and keen to rise to the challenge. That’s what made him so fun to fluster. He was the first source of stimulating entertainment you’d had since coming to the country. He’d captured your attention in such a vivacious way, you were eager to do more mental sparring with him.  

“Who you chatting with Sandy?” A dishwater blonde gentleman stuck his head out of the door cattycorner to the reception desk. He looked to be in his 40’s, white, strong jawline, pouty lower lip, conventionally attractive by most metrics. Though some deep subconscious instinct in you couldn’t help but think- snake.  

“Oh this is Miss Leroux, the opera singer Al is interviewing.” The man’s eyebrows raised as he stepped into the atrium proper.  

“Well I'll be damned, here I though he was fibbing on us just to get a rise.” The man walked over his hand outstretched. “Gary Whitaker I do the morning run from 4 to 9, it’s a pleasure to meet you ma’am”  

“Indeed a pleasure, sir.” You stood and shook his hand. ”I’m afraid my apartment lacks a radio so I’m ehh ’no knowing’ most of your shows.” That one wasn’t even a lie, you didn’t own a radio, it would only serve as a distraction from the music you were already creating.  

“Well with as big as this opening is shaping up to be, I’d imagine affording one will be no problem afterwards” He gave a modest chuckle. His comment was telling. He knew you were a big deal but didn’t know why. If he did he’d have known you had no issue affording one now, you just lacked the motivation to do so.  

“Say Al’s show doesn’t start for some time, how about I introduce you to the boys in the back” His posture was nonchalant, one arm in his pants pocket, the other pointing his thumb at the door he’d appeared out of.  

The plan was to throw Alastor off his rhythm, you never specified how.  

“I’d be delighted”  

~  

Alastor’s day had not been a bad one. Nothing totally earth-shattering had happened. He didn’t almost lose a limb or get mugged. He didn't forget anything or stain his shirt. He didn’t even step in a puddle or receive an untoward glance.  

Alastor’s day had not been bad.  

So why did every mild inconvenience he encountered today spark within him an indignant rage? The laces on his shoes were too tight and he wanted to throw them into the bayou. His skin itched from the allergen invested air and he wanted to peal it off. The temperature wasn’t quite right in his coffee, and he wanted to strangle the poor sod that served it to him. Alastor was many things but blindly angry was not one of them. Neither was he prone to reckless acts of violence. Violence yes but reckless no. He was poised and planned. He knew his targets and he picked them meticulously. He knew how each and every stroke of the knife would enter them.  

That’s why he had become so annoyed with Y/n. She made him second guess himself. An error he was loath to make twice in front of her.  

‘Oh yes that’s almost certainly it’ he thought, his stride almost automatic as he made his way to the station. The interview with Y/n was the culprit for his hair trigger mood swings. The looming threat of having to possibly defend himself, or decipher her, while live on air hung over him. The fog it produced affecting his senses. If the games Miss. Leroux played weren’t directed at him, he’d probably enjoy watching them. But they weren’t so he didn’t  

 “What’s shaking Sandy?” He entered, cheery demeanor in place as he greeted the receptionist.  

“Nothing but the trees Al.” She replied, pausing what she was writing to properly acknowledge him. “Your interviewee came early.”  

Al stopped his stride abruptly, glancing at the clock. 3:15, he supposed she did mention coming at 3 to ensure punctuality in the airing of the broadcast. He appreciated her consideration in that regard. “How long has she been waiting?” he asked smoothly, bending to one knee as he did so to tie his shoelaces.  

“An hour”  

Alastor whipped his head up. 

“An hour?” His eyes were wide.  

“Yes sir” Sandy replied sheepishly  

“Good God why?” He stood once more, his arms making vague gestures as he tried to fathom if this woman really had nothing better to do this afternoon, then wait for him. Sandy’s only reply was a display of throwing her hands and eyebrows up in confusion. Alastor twisted around, noticing the lack of opera singer on the parlor couch.  

“Well, where is she then?” he asked.  

“Gary took her back to meet everyone. She hadn’t been sitting here five minutes before he swooped in here and snatched her and-” Alastor made his way to the back, the sound of Sandy quickly fading. His eyebrows furrowed in frustration and anxiety.  

Alastor’s day had not been a bad one, but it had just gotten much much worse. 

~ 

So, you’re telling me the only reason Al snagged you was because of a buddy of his? Ha! Just goes to show you how far having the right friends will get ya!” The salt and pepper haired radio host—whom you had learned was named Ernie—laughed animatedly as he spoke. His assistant and wife--whom you had learned was named Sara-- was hanging on his shoulder.  You were sat with the two of them on a couch— in much better shape— that sat off to the side of several desks.  

You liked Ernie well enough. The whole lot that Mr. Whitaker had introduced you too, you liked well enough. Though you could sense down in your core that they were all business people at heart- Ernie perhaps the only exception. The cordial nature they put on only a front in order to network. They were fine for a day, but you wouldn’t want to see them every day.   

No wonder Alastor seemed exacerbated.  

As it had been explained to you, the station ran regular content Monday, Wednesday and Friday, with different specials interspersed on other days. There were four main hosts at the station that worked these days from what you could gather. Gary Whitaker, and his assistant Kim Parsons had early mornings. They also did broadcasts Tuesday nights, usually episodic radio dramas. When talking about it Gary had proudly stated that he had started the trend at the station and others such as Alastor followed in his footsteps. Though when he said this, Kim had rolled her eyes and fixed him with a ‘sure you did’ look.  

 Ernie Welch and his wife Sara took mid mornings to early afternoon. Ernie was the oldest at the station at 56. He was also one of the owners, the station was owned by him and two of his brothers. Ernie didn’t do any other specialty programming, probably spending most of his free time running the place or dealing with the metaphorical fires his son was starting. You only knew about the latter because a call had interrupted your initial meeting with Ernie and Sara. A police officer on the other end of the line.  

Franklin Marks and his assistant Stacie Quick had afternoons to evenings. It was clear to you from the onset that Stacie was the one really running the show and Frank was just her mouthpiece. It was also clear to you that Franklin had a raging and obvious crush on the onyx haired woman. You could tell just from the way he looked at her, though it became glaringly obvious when he mentioned he came in at the ass crack of dawn on Tuesdays and Thursdays to do broadcasts because Stacie liked doing the morning shows.  

Alastor had evenings into the night, no assistant that you had seen. His and Franklin’s normal spots were the cream of the crop so to speak, since people were at home relaxing from a hard day at work and were more likely to sit and just enjoy some radio. Alastor also did evening broadcasts Thursday and Saturday. From what you had heard he was the only one to work on Saturdays. For as cocky as he was, he at least had the work ethic to back it up.  

“So Cal Al lucked into success once again, what a surprise.” Gary said, frustration evident in his voice, he had turned and walked away before you could question him further on the comment.  

“Cal Al?” You asked confused.  

“Callous-er Alastor, an unfortunate nickname he’s earned himself with a lot of the staff, though I wish they wouldn’t call him that in public.” Ernie huffed and shook his head. The two of you were now alone. You spied the retreating form of Sara behind him, looking like she was headed to the front to speak to Sandy.  “He does it to himself though. I keep telling him to just keep the peace, but he lets that mouth of his run. And it certainly hasn’t made him any friends” 

Ernie grabbed his ever cooling coffee from the table and leaned back, letting the mug rest against his lips in contemplation. “He’s a grown man though, I can’t make that decision for him.” He took a sip. “I used to though. He came in here when I first started, begging to work for me. He was just a kid, tall as a pole and looking like he’d be all of 50 pounds soaking wet. Heh, we used to use him to get shit out from between walls or in the crawl space.”  

You laughed at the image; a young Alastor being held by his ankles being used to grab things. Ernie was off in his own world though. “Yet for all the hard work he’s put in, he does nothing to keep it. He’d rather work harder, not smarter. I keep telling him he needs to open up, talk to people, get in the good graces of the right folks.... I’d given anything just to get him to listen. Just to get him to succeed the way I know he can.”  

You stared at Ernie, sentiment saturating your gaze. The stare seemed to wake Ernie out of his trance. “Oh, you don’t wanna hear the troubles of some silly studio head”  

“No” you interrupted. “It's nice, reminds me of someone I know”. The memory of sheep skin gloves resurfaced once more. The hard look of determination in your father’s eyes as he was adamant to ignore every good piece of advice your adoptive uncle tried to give him.  

The loud clunk of the front door shutting caught both Ernies and your attention. You assumed it was Sara, returning from wherever she had darted off too. Instead, you saw the quickly approaching form of Alastor. One side of your mouth perked up.  

“Ready to start” Alastor quipped curtly. His smile was strained, and his gloved finger tapped incessantly on his crossed arms. Your smile grew into a full grin.  

Y/N: 2, Alastor:0 

~ 

The interview had gone swimmingly. Though Alastor by the end of it looked like he never wanted to see you again. A shame really, he had been quite fun. Though you suppose you could understand his frustrations. Considering his lack of wanting your attention, receiving a letter from his station delivered to your dressing room came as quite a surprise. The paper was crisp and heavy, making such satisfying noises as you opened it.  

Miss. Leroux, I must say it was quite a delight meeting you yesterday. I was not able to catch your interview with Al, but I’m told it was quite an intriguing listen. Though I think there may have been better hosts available for you to speak with. Forgive me if this seems odd, but I will be clearing up some paperwork at the station today, and I would like to see you there. I have some business propositions that I think you may find interesting.  

Regards,  

Gary Whitaker  

You set the letter down, thinking. Mr. Whitaker had been a bit brash, but he seemed fine. It seemed a little tacky trying to book you so soon after his coworker, but he seemed the type. You rose, grabbing your bag.  

There was no harm in hearing him out, you supposed.  

~ 

The skies had decided it was high time for them to open up as you walked to the station to meet Gary. The rain not dropping down in streams but rather falling from the sky in sheets. Your outfit was soaked as you entered, water dripping onto the worn carpet of the reception area. You tried opening the door to the back you’d gone in the day prior, only to find it locked. Three hard resounding knocks were given in your frustration. After a moment you decided whatever, he was trying to sell you wasn’t worth it, searching in your purse for your apartment keys. As your hand feebly searched you saw the distinct picture of them sitting on your dressing room vanity. You’d had them in your dress pocket, and had set them there when you were changing.  

Great, perfect! Now you were going to have to go back in the storm to retrieve your keys from the theatre. You only prayed someone was still there to let you in, or you’d be picking a lock with your hairpin again.  

That was only fun the first 40 or so times you’d done it.  

Just as a dramatic huff was on the precipice of exiting your lips, Gary opened the door.  

“There you are, sorry I wasn’t sure if there was knocking or if it was the storm.” Gary’s mood was light and joking, which right now, was mixing with your frustrated one like oil and water. He at least seemed to read the room quickly, letting out a crisp “Right” before leading you back. As you walked you couldn’t help but think the small space seemed so much bigger. The noise of typewriters and movement of bodies had taken up so much space before. Gary led you to an office, keeping the door open much to your delight.  

You didn’t fear being alone in a room with Gary. You didn’t fear being alone in a room with any man, or woman for the matter. All people breathed the same, and the expertly tied piece of rope that sat in the trick pocket of your dress stopped that breathing the same. But still, it was nice to have the escape route as a precaution.  

The hard polished wood of the chair in front of Gary’s desk was slick, combined with your soaked attire it was a chore to stay upright and not slide. You prayed to whatever deity could hear you that this wouldn't be long.  

“Well, I know you’re a very busy woman Miss, Leroux, so I won’t waste your time.” 

So, God was merciful after all.  

“I want you to be a voice on my radio drama”  

“Radio drama?” You raised an eyebrow. This was what he had dragged you out in the rain for? 

“Yes, I have this darling little dive character I’ve been wanting to introduce for a while, and you’d be perfect. You see the plot we have now is-” You tuned Gary out. You were already playing two characters here in America, one on the stage and one on the streets. You didn’t need to add a third in the studio. You tried your best to wait for a break in his pitch before stopping him.  

“Mr. Whitaker?” You said.  

“Please call me Gary.” You really didn’t want to, but you acquiesced none the nonetheless.  

“Gary, while I'm flattered you would choose me for this...” You gestured at him with your hand to give you the word he used, as if you didn’t remember it.  

“Radio drama” 

“Radio drama, right. While I’m flattered you would want me for this radio drama you have, it’s just not something I’m in the business of. I did the interview to promote the show, nothing more.” and for your own entertainment in flustering the host, but that wasn’t important.  

“Yes, you did it to promote the show.” Gary’s arms flailed as he spoke.  “This is to promote you. Your talents, your skills. This is for you.” His bid for goodwill was a facade you saw through immediately. He was doing this to use your name for his own advantage, not the other way around.  

“It’s just not something I can see myself doing Mr. Whitaker.” You reinforced the no, you’d dealt with this type of man before, if you gave them any lead, they’d never leave you be.  

Gary pushed himself away from the desk with a huff. “Figures. You’ll show up two hours early for Cal Al but won’t even hear me out when I’m trying to help you.”  

“Radio is just not something I’m interested in seriously branching out into” You crossed your legs, hand resting on your abdomen, inching ever closer to the trick pocket. Just in case.  

“Heh I wouldn’t be either if my first experiences with it were from Alastor blooming Altruist. Blast it all, I can't believe he lucked into success once again. He’s got Ernie in his pocket, and he walks around here like he’s invincible. Acting like some better than us big shot, when he’s the reason we have to keep the door locked! We can’t do photography with the press, have to do limited live events, all because he had to go and get famous as someone with his ’heritage’. We all have to suffer and be lesser just because Ernie still sees him as 13. Somebody outta tell him that he shouldn’t be running a business if he doesn’t see his employees as men. And somebody outta tell Alastor that he shouldn’t have gone into public broadcasting if all it takes is a second glance at him to tell that there is definitely one in the woo-” 

“Enough!” The chair slammed onto the floor, as you shot up. Your eyebrows furrowed and nose scrunched in disgust. This little tantrum of Gary’s had gone on long enough. And someone outta tell him what he needed to hear.  

~ 

Alastor reveled in the peace that came with broadcasting on Saturdays. The air was clean of noise, just him, the booth and radio waves. His co-workers all made digs at him, choosing to come in on a day they didn’t typically broadcast, but Alastor adored it. That’s what set him apart from his peers, he didn’t do this for the money, he did it for the love of the art. To hell with what those fools thought, outside of when he was feeling the life draining from someone's body, when it was just him and the mic was when he felt most alive.  

So, he was disappointed and surprised to find that he was not the only one at the studio today. Sitting in his office alone, it was easy to make out the noises of someone else mucking about the place. No matter, they probably didn’t even know he was there. He was a good few hours early for the show.  

Having Y/n in his space had made him realize just how disorganized it was. And how self-conscious Y/n pointing that fact out to him had made him feel. Now was as good a time as any to remedy that situation so it never happened again. Not that he planned on inviting Y/n back again but still.  

He wasn’t taking any more chances with that woman.  

Three loud knocks gave Alastor a jolt. He got his bearing once more and rose. Perhaps the other person did notice that he was there and had locked themselves out. Just as he made his way to open the office door, he heard a male voice speak. He couldn’t quite make out who it was. He then heard two sets of feet walking into the building. One in shoes, one in heels. A man and a woman.   

Alastor waited as the sound of footsteps passed his office. He waited till the sounds of clicking stopped completely before cracking open the door and peering out. He could hear voices coming from down the hall. Intrigued, he crept his way out slowly, silencing himself much like he did on hunts. As he neared, he made out the male voice to be Gary’s. The rhythm of his speech familiar. He was pitching his radio drama to someone.  

Boring. 

Alastor turned on his heel making his way back, still being cautious to be quiet. The last thing he needed was Gary to find him here. He was just about back when a long, rough squeak of a chair being pushed back caught his attention. Gary’s voice had risen in pitch and sounded upset.  

No longer boring. Alastor made his way over again, quicker this time, using the raised voices as a cover for his footfall. He knelt down outside of Gary’s door, hearing him in the midst of an angry rant.  

“- We all have to suffer and be lesser just because Ernie still sees him as 13. Somebody outta tell him that he shouldn’t be running a business if he doesn’t see his employees as men. And somebody outta tell Alastor that he shouldn’t have gone into public broadcasting if all it takes is a second glance at him to tell that there is definitely one in the woo-” 

“Enough!” The unexpected sound of the chair hitting the floor nearly knocked Alastor off his balance, thankful he was flush against the wall.  

“Mr. Whitaker, I’m not sure if you conduct all business meetings this way but I must say I do not find it in the least bit amusing.”  

Alastor knew that voice. That was Y/n. That sneaky son of a bitch was trying to recruit less than 48 hours after his interview.  

Tasteless tactless hack.  

“Now since you have thoroughly wasted my time here and ruined my shoes, I’d advise you to listen up, so at least someone gets something from this evening. “Alastor could hear her take in a harsh breath.  

“If you were half the radio host you say you are, you wouldn’t need to put your coworkers down to lift yourself up. I say if you're as grand and good as you say you are why don’t you leave? Certainly, another station would love to have such a fine gentleman on their staff. And then you wouldn’t be bogged down by such supposed restrictions. But something tells me that you tried that. And no one would have you, so you just have to suck it up and stew in your pity party here. Because you're not good enough, and you can’t stand that someone else is.”  

Alastor’s mind was racing. Was Y/n... defending him? He felt a small twinge in his heart. Of all the things he’d have expected her to do in this scenario, that was not one of them.  

This woman just kept throwing him for a loop.  

“And” Alastor could hear the clipping of heels on the floor. “If I catch even a whiff of you continuing to tout this Alastor’s heritage blame game bullshit, I think I may just find myself becoming quite loose lipped about the nature of yours and Mrs. Welch’s relationship.”  

Alastor’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. His mind to stunned in the moment to comprehend Y/n’s defense of his being mixed race--Ernie’s wife and Gary? No, it... Y/n couldn’t be implying what he thought she was implying.  

“How could you-” Y/n cut Gary off. 

“Oh please it wasn't that hard. You leave off yesterday all in a tizzy and suddenly she’s taking off without a word in the same direction? Then you both come back together looking quite pleased with yourselves? And Sara’s lipstick is gone off her face? You might as well slap her ass in front of the whole office. It'd be subtler. "  

Alastor was right, he did like Y/n’s games a lot better when they weren’t directed at him.  

~ 

The door to your dressing room slammed shut as you entered, stopping furiously as you snatched your keys off the vanity table. Someone was still here, or they forgot to lock up. No matter, that was the furthest thing from your mind. Steam was still rolling off you from your encounter with Gary. You took no joy in feeding him his lunch so to speak. It only angered you, because whatever joy you could derive from seeing him knocked down a peg, was quickly cancelled out by the realization that the world was being run by buffoons like him. At least when things like this happened in Paris, your father and you had outlets to let it out. Both savory and unsavory. Now you were wound up, a spring coiled with no release switch. A jack-in-the-box on its penultimate note.  

“Oh Miss Leroux, you’re still here. I could have sworn it was just me here” A middle aged costume woman called from the hallway. She was curt, fine if not a bit of a bitch. Then again, most customers were to some degree. 

As the rage festered and boiled within you, your hand instinctively rested over the trick pocket of your dress.  

Perhaps there was at least one outlet you could utilize.  

[lovelyladyabsinthewrites]

From the Ashes Pt. 23

Pairing(s): Pairing(s): Rhaegar Targaryen x Lannister!Reader, one-sided!Jaime Lannister x Lannister!Reader, Jaime Lannister x Cersei Lannister

Warnings: slow burn fic, changing povs, Selmy&Tyrion POV

Words: 2959

Part 1  Part 2  Part 3  Part 3.5  Part 4  Part 5  Part 6  Part 7  Part 8  Part 9  Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 24 Part 25 Part 26 Part 27 Part 28 Part 29 Part 30 Part 31 Part 32 Part 33 Part 34 Part 35 Part 36 Part 37 Part 38

Book Two of Dārilaros hen ōrbar se perzys (Heir of Ash and Fire)

Her nimble fingers were gentle as Ashara weaved them through Tyrion’s tangled hair. “Your hair grows longer. Would you like me to give it a trim dear Vaiko?”

Dishwater blonde hair hangs over his mismatched eyes, Tyrion moves his hand to swipe them away. The boy didn’t even remember when the last time he got his hair trimmed. Those days in Casterly Rock seemed so far behind him. He hadn’t thought once of what should have been considered his home. If he had more happier memories, Tyrion might have been able to shed a tear.

“No.” Tyrion twists a stray curl between his fingers. “I think I like it long.”

Ashara bobs her head in agreement. “Yes it does suit you.”

The salt air did wonders for Tyrion. Nothing pleased him more than to just lean his head back on a warm day and listen to the screeching of the sea birds above. Clashing of waves was better than any kind of bard that had visited the Rock. Only the open sea around him. Training even became easier too. While he wasn’t fast, Tyrion was low to the ground and could adapt to dodge and roll in order to get away from a counter-attack. Selmy realized that instead of seeing Tyrion’s body as a disadvantage, think of them as advantages instead. Both were learning from the other and despite certain shipmates poking fun at a dwarf trying to learn how to sword fight, Tyrion didn’t care. The blisters and calluses on his hands were proof that he was getting stronger. All this training wasn’t for nothing. He may never be as good as Jaime or even Barristan, but at least he’d be able to defend himself if the need called for it. Thinking about his father’s condescending sneer gave Tyrion extra energy to continue on with his training.

Ahead in the distance was a giant blur that was slowly getting closer. Tyrion had to squint his eyes to see what it was.

“Ah, we are arriving to Lys.” Ashara muses. The beautiful Dornish woman smiles on, her journey with them was almost ending. He liked her, she had a dry sense of humor much like himself and her eyes were the most vivacious shade of violet; much like those of a Targaryen. But Tyrion had noticed that he didn’t like Ashara as much as Ser Barristan did. Young in age, Tyrion knew when adults liked each other. Barristan was a man in love every time he laid eyes on Ashara. Sad blue eyes came to life once Ashara would chirp in on a discussion.

“Too bad we’re not porting in Braavos. A book I read said the Titan lets out a loud roar whenever a ship approaches its entrance, to warn the Arsenal of Braavos. That’s so cool!”

Chuckling, she leans over the side and gazes at the young boy. “I’m going to miss you, Young Vaiko.” There was a lingering undertone of melancholy when she said so.

A bitter knot chokes him when he regards Ashara Dayne. “Will you not come with us for the rest of the journey? I hear from Lys it’s not that far from Volantis. That way Barristan and I won’t have to look for another ship to sail on. We could just stay on this one. Just the three of us.”

“I am expected back home. Now that I know Ser Barristan isn’t up to something that would put my brother and Rhaegar at risk, I will be going back to Starfall after we get more supplies for the journey back.”

Pursing his lips, Tyrion looks back out to the water. “Did he tell you who the recipient is? He hasn’t told me anything.”

“I’m afraid not. The recipient is as mysterious as that box that he doesn’t let out of his sight.” In a lower voice she admits “I tried to open it, but the darn thing doesn’t even have a lock!”

Yes, it was an infuriating question on how the chest opened. One Tyrion mulled over every so often when he was bored. Many times when Selmy was asleep, Tyrion would grab the box and spend hours tinkering with it. Every night proved useless and Tyrion ended up going to bed utterly frustrated and cursing that damn box.

“It must be of utmost importance if he hasn’t told either of us.” Tyrion assumes and catches sight of said knight coming up on deck, box securely underneath his arm.

Pretending that they hadn’t just been talking about him, Ashara flashes him a stunning smile that made her dimples more pronounced. “Do you see, Ser? Lys is up ahead. We should be there within the hour.”

Barristan Selmy seemed all too aware that his time with Ashara was dwindling as well.

Ashara removes herself from Tyrion who returns his attention back to the upcoming land. As she walks the length of the deck to Selmy, he couldn’t help but notice the obvious sway of her full hips, the clicking of her heeled boots approaching him. Although Selmy did quite like seeing Ashara in her beautiful dresses, her attire suited her body’s wonderful curves.

Her smile is almost teasing, sidling up to the older knight. In a secretive manner, she presses herself closely to him. “Will you finally tell me who it is you’re delivering-” she taps at the chest that he was carrying “-this to? They must be important if a knight of the Kingguard leaves his charge.” Ashara whispers, intent lilac eyes staring him down. Her full lashes cast a shadow over an otherwise vibrant hue.

This was a delicate matter. Varys made that certain. The truth of (y/n) Lannister was not to be revealed unless it ruin whatever the Spider had planned. Being dishonest was not a trait that Selmy had, but in order to fulfill this odd request, he had to.

The fear that was in Varys’ voice made Selmy realize just how important this mission was. Varys was a confident man of much power in Westeros; there wasn’t much for him to naturally fear.

Plus, it would be unwise to give away information to someone who was technically his enemy. The House of Dayne sided with Rhaegar in this war. If possible she would do anything to protect her brother Arthur and help with the success of Rhaegar’s campaign. “I’m sorry, my lady. I made a vow that I wouldn’t tell a soul. The recipient must remain a secret.”

Even from Tyrion who had no idea that his sister was actually alive and well in Volantis.

A slither in her voice put fear into his chest. “Is it the same vow you gave to Aerys when you promised to protect him and never leave his side?”

Barristan didn’t want his last interaction with Ashara to be about the Mad King. That heavy accusation in her eyes and the disapproval that made her lips curl downward. He didn’t want to be her enemy. Damn his vow. Damn the king.

“It must be more important than protecting the king.” She continues ruthlessly. Satisfied enough that she was able to make Barristan flinch, Ashara backs off. “Do not make me regret helping you. You’re a good man, Ser Barristan. But that goodness will not save you if you are in fact trying to sabotage my brother and Rhaegar.”

He manages a smile. “I understand. You are a force to be reckoned with, my lady.”

Her smile returns as she bumps against him playfully. “And don’t you forget it.”

While the tension between them lifted, Tyrion had been listening intently. Many at Casterly Rock always underestimated Tyrion. They didn’t realize how good of a listener he was. He knew secrets he shouldn’t. Knew strategies that would crush any army.

Nerves ate away at Tyrion when he heard Ashara bring up Aerys. Tyrion could never forget that Ser Barristan was alleged to Aerys. He had grown close to Barristan during their travels. Barristan provided Tyrion a proper father figure which the young boy had been craving for. A patient teacher who was willing to work around Tyrion’s disadvantages, Tyrion wanted to trust him. So desperately Tyrion wanted Barristan to truly be a good guy.

What if Aerys had sent Selmy to hire the Golden Company to aid their armies? The chest could contain gold in order to buy their swords. If Aerys was desperate enough to win, then the Golden Company could easily do just that and destroy Rhaegar. The last thing Tyrion wanted to take part in was helping the Mad King win.

It felt good to stretch on actual land. While Tyrion had grown his sea legs, he much preferred the stable ground. The harbor was busy with stalls of vendors and people minding their own business; going about their everyday lives on their beautiful island. Tyrion had always heard that the people of Lys were one of the most gorgeous people in the entire world. He wondered who could possibly be more good looking than Ashara or Cersei. Well, Tyrion knew it to be the truth now. They had the attractive traits that those of Old Valyria had centuries ago. With their olive skin, it made the pale blonde hair and purple eyes more bright.

Bastardize Valyrian fills the air as bargains are made and vendors shout out the daily catch. All of it was enthralling that it made Tyrion’s neck hurt from swiveling his head in every direction. There was so much to see, but unfortunately they would only be staying in Lys for a short amount of time. Lady Ashara had to get back to Starfall, so Tyrion and Barristan would have to find another vessel to take them the rest of the way to Volantis.

Ashara exchanged a few short words with the captain before joining the two on the cobbled streets. “My captain will find you another ship. In the meantime, how about a drink? There are many quality taverns around the harbor. And you can taste the delicious cuisine of Lys.” She smiled at Tyrion and twirls one of his dirty curls in her fingers. He liked the affections she had given him. And she didn’t seem bothered by his deformity. Tyrion would miss her.

“If you insist.” Barristan chuckled which made Ashara twirl in front of them and lead the way.

“Yes I do! I want just a little bit longer with the both of you.” She admits. Quite easily, Ashara is weaving her way through the crowds making Selmy and Tyrion struggle to keep up with her, especially Tyrion who only stood at three feet. Barristan kept his hand clasped around Tyrion’s to make sure the young boy didn’t get lost. It was an odd feeling for Tyrion, the only people who had ever held his hand in a protective way was his sister.

For it being midday, the tavern that Ashara led them to was fairly packed with many different kinds of faces. Gruff faces, pleasant faces, sunburnt and pretty all alike. At the sight of some pleasure slaves that were skulking about, Barristan made sure to cover Tyrion’s eyes. They showed a little too much skin for a young boy to be around.

They took a table in a lone corner, letting Ashara order the drinks before sitting down. “What do you think Vaiko?”

“I haven’t seen much of Lys, but the bits that I’ve seen are amazing!” He couldn’t keep the excitement out of his voice. How could he though? Whenever Tywin allowed Tyrion to accompany him on his travels, he often kept Tyrion hidden and forbid him from going out. This was different. This was freedom. Freedom and acceptance.

Barristan grinned to himself as Tyrion and Ashara conversed with one another. The boy was beaming and chatting away happily.

From his periphery, he met the gaze of a young boy. A scrawny boy with sullen eyes and hair that stuck out in various directions. He didn’t look out of place, but it was clear from the amount of eye contact that he was there for him. Perhaps one of Varys’ little birds.

Excusing himself, he wonders over to the boy near the door. Immediately he hands Selmy a slip of paper. “Lord Varys instructs that you hand this note to any high priest or guard you may encounter when entering the Red Temple. This is your key inside.”

“Thank you.” He murmurs and puts the paper away safely. In a blink of an eye, the boy had fled. As if never there.

When he returned to the table, food and drinks were already there as Ashara spoke of her skepticism of their destination. “Just be wary of the Red Temple. All there is there are religious fanatics who worship fire.”

“Not necessarily.” Tyrion interjects in a smart manner that makes Ashara raise her eyebrow quizzically. “They revere fire as holy. They worship the Lord of Light.”

Placing her chin on her palm, Ashara says “You know quite a bit. Are you a secret scholar?”

Blushing, Tyrion picks up his fork. “I just like to read.”

“Even more curious. Only little lords know how to read.”

A moment of silence before Tyrion replies “That’s because I’m the bastard son of one.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend.”

“You didn’t.” he takes a bite and immediately forgets what they had been talking about. “This is the most delicious thing I had ever tasted!!”

Thankfully Ashara just chuckles and drops the subject, much to Barristan’s relief. Even though Ashara was no friend to Lord Tywin, it wouldn’t be good if anyone were to find out that Vaiko was in fact Tyrion Lannister of the rich Casterly Rock. Anyone else of a lower pedigree might contemplate kidnapping the young boy for ransom. Not that Tywin would pay it. Ser Barristan didn’t want to risk it either way.

The parting from Ashara Dayne was difficult for the both of them. Tyrion tried his best not to look back at the tavern where Ashara still enjoyed drinks with her other shipmates who had arrived to join her. They returned to the dock where the captain eagerly let them know that there was a spice ship that would be willing to allow them on board. Everything was moving quickly that Tyrion didn’t have much of an opportunity to miss Ashara. Ser Barristan hustled him on the spice ship as it was due to depart in a few minutes. Back to the sea life for the duo. Tyrion wished he could have explored Lys more, but it wasn’t to be. Perhaps coming back, Barristan would allow a stay.

Eying the knight, Tyrion’s gaze trickles down to the chest that was permanently attached to him. He always seemed to keep one hand on the top, protecting it subconsciously.

“May I ask you a question Ser?”

“You may.”

“We’ve been traveling together for quite a while. I think I deserve to know who we’re delivering that box to. I can’t follow you blindly anymore. If this is all in the name of Aerys, then I might as well have returned to Starfall with Lady Ashara.”

Those watery blue eyes that often looked sad regard Tyrion silently. He waited with baited breath, wondering if the knight would be truthful. “If I tell you, you must not tell a soul.”

That made Tyrion snort. “Who am I going to tell?”

The corner of Selmy’s mouth twitched into a smile. Reluctantly, Barristan drops to one knee in order to whisper the truth into Tyrion’s ear. “The recipient is your sister, (y/n). Tyrion, she lives. She didn’t die in the fire. Somehow she made her way to the Red Temple in Volantis where she is safe.”

Abruptly, Tyrion jumps away from Barristan. Eyes wide in disbelief, for once the well versed boy was at a loss for words. Lips parted many times with questions that were hastily forgotten. Small hands curl into balled up fists. “Truly? (y/n). . . She’s alive?”

He nods in confirmation.

Tyrion sharply looks away, trying to process everything that had been revealed. For a year he had mourned his beloved sister. A sister who loved him when no one else did. Someone who had always been happy to see him when others grimaced at his presence. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“It’s a delicate situation.” Selmy admitted and looked out to the docks of Lys that were growing smaller and smaller. “I don’t know all the details exactly, but this needs to be treated with the utmost care. (y/n) being alive needs to be kept between the two of us.”

There was a sharp pang of fear. “Does Aerys know? Is that why you’re delivering. . . whatever that is to her? Is it meant to kill her??” His questions were growing frantic and Barristan had to calm him.

“Aerys knows nothing of her survival.” Quickly reassuring him, Selmy draws him closer. “He is too focused on the war with Prince Rhaegar. As for the chest. . . I have no idea what it may contain. There is no latch nor lock. Try as I may, I don’t know how to open it. Or if it can even be open.”

“(y/n) is alive.”

“Yes.”

“We’re going to go see her.”

“Yes.”

Barristan Selmy was reminded how young Tyrion was as he started to cry softly. “My sister. . . she’s alive.” **

“My lady! Has Ser Barristan left Lys?”

Goblet in hand, Ashara lowers it partially. “Yes. The captain directed them to someone who can get them the rest of the way. Sit. What’s the matter?”

The young man takes a deep breath. “I’ve heard some urgent news. From Westeros.”

Intrigued, she leans in. “What news?”

Taglist:

@boywivlove

@esposadomd

@domoron

@yentroucnagol

@enchantingcupcakecollectionfan

[my-shields-are-down]

Chenford + Tim has a secret admirer 👀

Well this one just flew right out of me in 15 minutes flat. Boom.

=============

Angela calls Lucy the second she hears her phone alarm go off with the Empire’s Death March.

“Bradford”

“Lucy - she’s out. Where’s Tim?”

————

Lucy refuses to panic, she and Tim have made plans for this. She pulls up her “find me now” app and sees that her husband of just over 3 years is at the park with the kids, 2 blocks from their home with the reinforced steel walled safety bunker.

They’d had the bunker installed after that horrible day Oscar Hutchinson had been found in their pool on Lucy’s unicorn floaty - the place she spent most afternoons giving her back a break from lugging around all the extra pregnancy weight. She couldn’t run and hide and she had no protection when the shots went off, so Tim had dived in front of her getting shot twice - effectively ending his police career and starting his stay-at-home Dad career.

“I’m on my way. Call Grey to sound the alarm and head home. I’ll meet you there. Code still the same?”

“Yes, - 0515- first kiss.”

Angela next called Tim, who answered like his wife, “Bradford.”

“Tim! She’s out! I repeat, she’s out! Get yourself and my god babies home ASAP.”

———-

Tim was glad he had his sunglasses on- so he could scan the park looking for HER - Susan Johnson.

The last time he had seen her was at her parole hearing 2 years ago, where she had been claiming to be mentally sound enough to enter a work program - so Wesley had played his Trump card - bringing Tim to the hearing. Tim being the only one to have survived her ministrations. Susan had seen Tim and started screaming that their love was timeless, that she’d never stop working her way back to him.

He had been kidnapped and tortured much like Lucy had been- but not to kill him, not right away. But to love him. Susan Johnson, the most notorious serial killer after Rosalind Dyer, had been released from the psychiatric hospital that had recently been her home.

There was nothing remarkable about Susan. Dishwater blond hair, dull brown eyes, heavyset, average height, she blended into the background. No one ever noticed or suspected her.

Not until she set her sights on Tim, not until Lucy and Angela got involved.

Susan’s MO - which she had been following since middle school - was to send 4 unsigned cards, then reveal herself as that person’s secret admirer and kill them slowly if they didn’t reciprocate- Tim was the first and only victim ever to do so, to buy time for Lucy to find him.

Unfortunately, Susan believed him and refused to reset herself back to sanity - which she had done after her previous kills. She still thought Tim was in love with her and she was obsessed with “making him hers again.” Hence the outburst in court and her continued incarceration. Well until now anyway.

——

Tim was grateful swing time was over and that he had already placed his 2 year old twin girls (his mini Lucys) back in their stroller. Their seats faced each other so they could do their secret twin speak while eating their snacks.

While they were chatting away, Tim quickly gathered up their belongings and began to run/walk home. The extra speed made the stroller bounce more than usual, triggering peals of laughter from his girls.

He loved them so much, he memorized the sound, committing it to memory and prayed he’d live to hear it again.

As he walked up his driveway, a gray Toyota Camry pulled up to his house.

Tim ignored the car, realizing who was in it, and focused on getting his girls to the garage chute.

Their safety bunker had been custom designed by Nolan and two of Tim’s Army buddies. They basically built a bomb shelter/command center/family sized safe house in their basement with a full kitchen, a full wall of cctv, satellite phones, etc which was accessible via slides throughout the house for Lucy and the kids. Hidden behind everyday objects were slides to safety - inside the kitchen island, behind the refrigerator in the garage, the upstairs laundry chute. The back deck even slid to the side creating a space just wide enough for a full sized adult to gain entrance, but you’d have to know where to look and how to trigger its movement to get it to open.

Gigi and Mimi were only just over 2, but they knew the slides were for safety and how to call 9-1-1 once they got to their playroom and locked it down. Once in lockdown, you needed a bypass code after a scanner read your thumbprint to get in.

————

Tim leaned down to his girls, kissed each of them on the forehead and said it was slide time. Gigi nodded and climbed onto the slide and zipped down to the bunker. Mimi whispered, “Mama?” Tim nods and says, “or Aunt Angela.” Mimi then climbs in behind her sister, turns to look at her dad and says, “safety Dada” while touching her little palm to his cheek before sliding to safety herself. Tim shuts the panel, says a prayer of gratitude for the life he’s been lucky enough to live with Lucy and his precious girls. While he’s sad that he’ll likely miss out on prom and weddings and those grandkids Lucy promised, he wouldn’t change a second of the time he had with them. They were his happily ever after.

———

He stands up while grabbing the wrench they had planted in the fridge for this exact purpose. To give him a chance.

Tim turns around and sure enough, there stands Susan Johnson in his garage with a knife in her hand. He can hear the sirens in the distance getting louder and coming closer, but he doubts they will get there in time. All he can do now is do everything possible to keep his babies safe. Even if that means sacrificing himself.

“Hi” she says shyly. “Do you remember me? I’m Susan, your secret admirer.”

++++++

[motleyquixotes]

Motley Quixotes #10: First Week Montage

[Image ID:

a comic with four panels with a narration box saying "The 1st Week of Freshman year."

Panel 1 is labeled "Monday" and is tinged purple. A college dorm room has a loft bed and a TST baphomet bi flag on the left side, and a plain bed and posters (Gyibaaw, Frost Like Ashes, Drottnar, "The Blood of the Martyrs is the Seed of the Church") on the right side. A leather jacket with a "Die so to Live" back patch lies on the floor on the right side, along with a phone playing music (Lyrics: "Gotas ardientes cayeron en tierra sangre de pacto"). On the left, Renee (a college freshman with light brown skin, black hair in a ponytail, a belly button piercing, and black diamond-shaped pupils, wearing a black crop top, black athletic pants, studded belt with chains, black combat boots, and a moon choker) looks at a sheet of paper on a plain desk and says, "Oh, hey, you're in Intro to Art History, too." On the right, Indigo (a college freshman with warm medium brown skin, short black hair with a half-shaved cut and dark blue streaks, and black pupils shaped like a cross and an ichthus, wearing a black shirt, bullet belt, cargo pants, and black boots) puts a poster on the wall and responds, "Uh-huh. Thinking about it as a major, actually." Renee answers, "Ah, I'm going for anthropology."

Panel 2 is labeled "Tuesday" and is tinged gray-gold. Renee and Indigo sit in class, Renee looking towards the front and Indigo doodling. Parzival (a college freshman with light skin and short curly brown hair, wearing a black shirt and a green and gold jester hat with a feather, a gold cross, and a gold ichthus attatched to the bells) sits in the back sleeping; a thought bubble coming from her head shows (from left to right) three brightly colored prehistoric animals, a human in furs carving cup-shaped hollows into a rock, red handprints coming from the human's hand, a stone cup with blood in it, a mass of eyes with different-colored irises, an eye with a red iris embedded in a hand. Feirefiz (a college freshman with medium brown skin with vitilago and dark brown river-shaped pupils, wearing a purple hijab, a pink long-sleeved sweater, and a maroon maxi skirt) raises her hand and says, "Professor Withers! Wouldn't you say that the fact that the earliest artwork is non-representational disrupts the popular narratives of how art developed? And of what makes good art?" A speech bubble comes from off-panel, answering, "Well, we don't know that cupules were intended as art…"

Panel 3 is labeled "Wednesday" and is tinged orange-red and split into three subpanels. Panel 3.1: Maranatha (a college freshman with pale skin, long wild blond hair, and green pupils shaped like flames, wearing a long-sleeved long blue dress), Kai (a college freshman with light tan freckled skin, short wavy brown hair, and teal pupils shaped like concentric squares, wearing square glasses, one earring, a plaid shirt, a red ascot, and red checked pants), and Indigo sit in a student lounge with red semi-circular couches and windows. Renee has just come in with her arms partially around Jack (a college junior with light skin, dishwater blonde hair styled in a short undercut, and blue star-shaped pupils) and she blushes and says, "Hey guys, this is Jack; he lives on the floor..". Maranatha says "Hi Jack!!!" and Indigo says "H'lo." Panel 3.2: Closeup, Kai says "Oh, he's the RA--" and Renee interrupts, saying "Shhh" while blushing fiercely with a drop of sweat on her cheek. Panel 3.3: Jack pulls Renee towards him, smiling while biting his lip, while one pupil turns black. Renee sticks her tongue out flirtatiously. A tiny chibi version of Indigo meets eyes with Jack, puzzled. From off-panel, Maranatha says "But they said we should make friends with the RAs…." Kai responds, "Uh, Maranatha…" Maranatha says, "What?" and Kai says, "Heh…nothing."

Panel 4 is labeled "Friday" and is tinged seafoam green. Kai, Indigo, Jack, and Maranatha sit at a table in a dining hall while Renee, smiling, is coming up to the table carrying a tray of food. Kai and Indigo are debating excitedly, with Indigo saying, "But the one reason you can trust your senses at all is because of God! He is the axiom!" Kai says, "Within that framework you can't know anything at all, except by divine revelation…" and Indigo responds, "Exactly!" Maranatha says to Jack, "Do you believe in God, Jack?" Jack responds, "Maybe. I'm not really religious." Maranatha says, "Oh! Me neither! I'm just a Christian who loves Jesus!" Jack says, "Haha..yeah I'm spiritual. … I believe in magic." /end ID]

[womanofwords]

High School (Part 2)

Previously:

Part 1

Neither Hero nor Villain were expecting how . . . different the other one would look now that they were fifteen again.

Villain looked less intimidating and almost cleaner now that the scars and tattoos were gone. (Well, most of them, anyway.) She had also decreased in size, all her muscle now gone as her once form-fitting clothes now hung off her like a washing line. She was now just another a lanky, dark-haired teenager, something that she didn’t like one bit.

Hero had also sacrificed some muscle and a bit of height, but the most jarring change was his hair. The mane of hair that was once a glossy dark brown with volume and shine was now a dull, dishwater blonde that hung limply in depressingly straight tresses down to his shoulders.

“I’ve given you both fake names and as far as the school is concerned, you are a normal set of adopted siblings and I’m your dad,” Superhero briefed, as if nothing had happened.

“You’re OUR DAD?!” they shrieked.

“Yes. All for the sake of your own development of course. Two fifteen-year-olds cannot be trusted to look after themselves, so you will be living with me in a safe house. Anyway, your first day is tomorrow.”

Hero smirked at Villain. “I’m going to be fine. I wish you all the best luck, though.”

“What do you mean by that?” Villain said, already willing to square up.

“High school was a cakewalk for me before. Why would it be any different for me now? It’s the kids that study hard and do well and act as a good example that are beloved, not . . . goth kids. And I bet that nothing has changed a bit.”

Villain squinted at him. “What makes you think that?”

“Just a hunch,” Hero smirked. “Now, I’m going to get myself ready. You can do whatever.” And then Hero walked away to his stuff, albeit rather ungracefully, since his once skintight spandex onesie that he had called a uniform was a lot bigger on his teenage frame. His uniform was now baggy enough to actually pose as a tripping hazard as it swallowed their feet in a pool of fabric.

“I’m fine with what I’ve got, thanks. I don’t need your help with-”

“Now, now, Villain,” Superhero said, appearing out of nowhere. “You are a teenager now, and it is my responsibility to look after you. Although Hero will be only doing this for a semester, you will be getting a proper degree. This is a fresh start.”

“This feels embarrassing! Why would I want to stay in this?” Villain snapped, her voice coming off as being far more whiny than she meant it to be. In another room, she heard Hero fall to the floor with a thud.

“OW!” Hero yelled, unseen. Villain grinned.

“On second thought, I guess it won’t be too bad.”

“That’s my girl,” Superhero grinned.

After this

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

[the-meme-monarch]

I fucking wayned it, as the kids would say.

[futurebird]

Writing is hard. I've tried it before and I'm trying it again now. I really want to stick to it and complete this story. I'm trying to write a story tailored to sooth those of us troubled by the horrible political climate in the USA right now. I will post more as I write it. If you choose to read, thank you, seriously.

In Between - Chapter 1

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

Can one woman fix the political disaster this country is careening towards? Obviously, no�� but you have to take into consideration that this particular “one woman” is imbued with the power of, well, a kind of magic I suppose. Not unlimited magic, not movie magic— more like a very limited superpower.

Basically? I can freeze time. It used to happen accidentally, if I was frightened, or if I started to have a panic attack— the lights all around me would grow brighter, blue-white, and blinding for just an instant, and then everyone around me would be frozen like statues!

I remember my parents, mid-argument. Dad’s mouth open, his beard motionless, Mom with dishwater clinging to her arms, a transparent glass sculpture laced with frozen bubbles.

I remember my heart racing before a dance recital as I waited in the wings. Then the lights grew bright and my good friend Case was frozen mid-twirl. Her hair suspended impossibly in space, a swirl of dark curls framing her face, so peaceful, so beautiful, lost in concentration.

For the longest time, I thought this was some kind of panic response, a retreat into my imagination. My desire for a moment to just stop and think, manifesting as a kind of wish-fulfillment hallucination. I thought I was going a little crazy. For the longest time, my only goal when a freeze occurred was to get everyone and everything moving again.

To do this I had to relax. I had to breathe.

And then my ears would pop as the pressure changed; the lights would dim ever so briefly. Time (and sound, which somehow always managed to surprise me, as I never noticed its absence when in between) everything, noise, motion, and life-- would resume.

It was at the dance recital that I first tried moving around the frozen world. That’s how I was able to see Case’s face; she had her back to me when the freeze occurred. I had the most horrible crush on her. Without really thinking about it, I moved for the first time into the still soundless air.

My feet, in their soft dance shoes, made no noise on the stage as I walked around her, careful not to touch the swirl of her hair suspended in space. I looked at her, in that candid moment— and started to feel a bit guilty. She was on stage. This wasn’t a private moment, but that didn’t make it feel any less like an invasion.

I looked out at the audience; my eyes adjusting to see beyond the stage lights. Case and I were both in our ballet costumes, but only I was animate. The audience of loving supportive parents in their tweed jackets and sensible shoes were totally motionless. At first, this seemed unremarkable, that’s how they were in life as well— but, this stillness was too deep. It was eerie.

What would they think, I thought, with sudden panic, if time started back-- right now—!

I didn’t have the best control of my ability at that age. So, of course, this is exactly what happened.

The audience gasped at my sudden appearance in the middle of the stage. Case, now reanimated, completed her twirl running into me with considerable force. We both fell, grabbing at each other for balance. Even though the world didn’t freeze again I can still see Case’s shocked, confused, and slightly angry eyes glaring at me.

The audience was so polite. Which somehow made it worse. They didn’t laugh. (Although I could hear a murmur of hurried adult voices.) Quickly, I stood and ran off stage. I ran out of the back entrance of the auditorium not caring that they might all hear the door. I ran into the mostly empty teacher’s parking lot. There was no way I could perform. There was no way I could face any of what had just happened.

To my surprise, there were no news stories about a “teleporting girl” — everyone simply convinced themselves that they didn’t see what they had obviously seen. I didn’t “appear” on the stage. I rushed out. I was a silly nervous girl who’d thought I’d missed my cue. Everyone assumed they blinked and missed something.

Everyone but Case. “I still don’t know how you did that.” She would say for years to come. I insisted her obsessive dieting was catching up with her brain. (I hated how she thought she needed to diet.) At the same time, I felt guilty for trying to gaslight her.

I resolved to be more careful when exploring the frozen world in the future. I didn’t want the questions that would come with attention. I didn’t want questions I couldn’t even answer myself.

I had not yet realized just how powerful this ability could be, or the feeling of responsibility that would come with that power.

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

[incorrectbatfam]

batbros shenanigans? im talkin the OG four guy robins and being chaotic

you got anything?

(For those who don't know, they're talking about Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian)

Dick's good at cooking and Jason's not too bad himself, but Tim and Damian are kitchen gremlins who are banned from being within ten feet of the stove

But human nature dictates that we gravitate towards things when they're forbidden

So when nobody else is home, Tim and Damian make a temporary truce so they can try cooking

Keyword: try

They decide to go with a simple vanilla cupcake recipe that Tim found online, because how can you mess up vanilla cupcakes

Well, for starters, Damian got flour everywhere while attempting to sift the dry ingredients, so they wound up with 3 cups in the bowl and 13 cups all over the counters

Tim uses half-and-half instead of milk and parmesan cheese instead of butter

Damian dumps in a whole bottle of vanilla

While that's burning baking in the oven, Tim and Damian do the frosting—which, for them, somehow involved whipping ice cream together with cream cheese, cocoa powder, and an entire tube of red food dye

Dick and Jason come home as Tim and Damian are staring at their burnt tray trying to figure out what went wrong (hint: it's everything)

Jason opens all the windows to air out the smoke while Dick puts Tim and Damian on dish duty

Tim accidentally sprays Damian with the nozzle

Damian tries to chuck the sponge at Tim but hits Jason in the back of the head

Damian blames Dick

Jason fills his arms with suds and pours it down Dick's shirt

Cue a full-blown water fight that involves Dick and Jason teaming up to dunk Damian in the sink

Tim's still got the nozzle by the way

So he's making it rain on everyone

Damian has a bunch of bubbles in his hair and looks like a snow pixie so Tim stops to snap a photo

Which gives Jason an opportunity to dump a bucket of dishwater on him

Tim turns around and gets a picture of Jason's nostrils

Damian gets wedged in the sink

And he alerts the others to that by whacking Dick with a spoon

It's a three-person effort to pull Damian out

They land on the floor (which is flooded with an inch of water at this point) in a giant heap, with Dick breaking everyone's fall

They get a text from Bruce then saying he'll be home in ten minutes

So it's Extreme Cleaning™ time

Jason uses every towel in the house to mop up the floor

Tim crams all the dishes into the dishwasher

Damian walks around with an electric fan in each hand, making sure the burnt smell gets out of the house

Dick drains the sink, wipes the counters, puts the ingredients away

They see Bruce's car in the driveway so they all scramble upstairs to change out of their wet clothes

And in their hurry, they all wind up in Tim's room borrowing his clothes

They're a little baggy on Damian and way too small for Dick and Jason

Jason keeps a t-shirt as a crop top

Lucky for them, Bruce doesn't suspect a thing

Alfred, on the other hand...

[kaydeefalls]

🛒 ✨ 🏆 🤩 🤲 ? <33

aw yeah procrastination here we go <3

🛒 What are some common things you incorporate in your fics? Themes, feels, scenes, imagery, etc.

Boring answer, but honestly, just love. I write fic because I love these characters and I love the love they share with each other (romantic or otherwise), and that's what it all comes down to for me. UGH I need to say something sarcastic now to cut the sappiness of that answer. But it's true!

✨ Give you and your writing a compliment. Go on now. You know you deserve it. 😉

I always enjoy rereading my own fics. So. I am excellent at writing exactly the fics I want to read myself. :P

🏆 What’s your most popular fic?

Define "popular". By AO3 kudos, a very old and silly Remus/Sirius fic (Logical Deduction), but I'm pretty sure that's just because HP is far and away the biggest fandom on AO3 that I've ever written for, so the odds are in your favor in that sense. Why THAT R/S fic, of all the ones I wrote back in the day, I have no idea. The claw, it chooses. Popularity is a weird measure.

(Like - the very first TOG fic I wrote has insanely more kudos/hits than anything I've written since, but that's just because I literally posted it a week after the movie hit and everyone and their mother was looking for Joe/Nicky fic for five whole minutes. There's no way to recreate that now. It has nothing to do with quality, just luck of the timing.)

🤩 Who is your favorite character to write?

Different in each fandom, but for TOG, Nicky. His voice comes easiest for me. I try to push against that, because I kinda hate that the generic white dude is my answer to this question, but here we are. But it's a close call - I love writing Joe and Quynh and Nile as well. (Andy and Booker are my least faves to write. Not because I dislike them! Just the hardest to wrap my brain around for whatever reason.)

🤲 Would you please share a snippet of a wip?

oh god i HAVE to finish my big bang. i have to. it is getting dire. so here you go, a rare Booker POV snippet from the BB fic i will finish if it fucking kills me:

"—thought you were more of Kodos's goons following me," someone was saying. His voice was flat, almost expressionless, in a way no child's voice should sound. "You wanna kill me as payback, fine, just let me get this—"

"No one's going to hurt you," Joe said, low and calm. "I don't blame you for being scared. Neither will my friend."

"Uh, he's kind of dead."

"No, he's not," Booker said, pulling himself upright with a groan. He didn't really hurt, but it usually helped to play it up a little. Less suspicious. "Shit. Nice to meet you, kid."

Joe grinned down at him, teeth flashing white in the darkness. "Congrats, Book, you just let a twelve-year-old get a jump on you."

"I'm fourteen," the kid snapped. He didn't look it. Scrawny, too skinny, unsettlingly blue eyes gleaming almost feverishly in his pale face. Dishwater-blond hair fell past his ears, badly in need of a haircut, and his clothes looked like someone else's hand-me-downs. He still had his battered old phaser in one hand, currently pointed harmlessly down at the ground. "How the fuck are you not dead?"

"Sorry to disappoint," Booker drawled. He nodded at the phaser. "Given how out of date that model is, I'm honestly surprised you managed to get enough charge out of it to stun, let alone kill anyone."

The kid scowled down at it. "Always worked fine before. Fuck. One more thing to deal with."

[nakedmossy]

Golden Hour ☼

A Triple Frontier Story - Part 1/?

Word Count: 3.1k

Summary: Molly [reader] has been living on the beaches of Mexico for the last 3 years since being honourably discharged from the army and leaving her fiance back in Texas. Riddled with PTSD, she went on a bender, ending up in a small coastal farming town in the Yucatan. Forced into early retirement despite being the best sniper in her company and all the trauma that came with that responsibility, she has worked hard to obtain peace in her new life. She was closer than ever to fully achieving it, that is, until her ex-crew member and lifelong friend, Will Miller, showed up with a proposition to bring her out of retirement for one last job with the boys. -----------------------------

The sun was hovering around the horizon, beating down on the beach as the water lapped the shore. You rolled the dirty cup around in the dishwater absentmindedly, scrubbing the dried coffee off the sides, letting your hands soak. It had been an easy day, a 5am rise for a morning surf, a bike ride to the market to pick up some fruit, and a mid day Dive to a wreck site with some tourists. All-in you had pocketed around $50, including tips, and a complimentary phone number from the bachelor who had tried to frisk you while you filled the tanks on the dock. It would get you enough food to last through to the weekend, and if it didn't, well, you could always call the bachelor tourist for dinner.

You were caught up in a daydream when you heard something rolling in through the bush, the sounds of the studded tires reverberating off of the rock and palm trees, the sand and jungle brush cracking and moving, the dull hum of the engine. You tipped your head closer to the window over the sink to see a slick black motorbike come to a stop near your hitch, a large muscular figure hooking his helmet on the handlebar before jumping off and walking towards your trailer door. Your hand hovered over the sidearm you kept loaded on your kitchen counter.

“Hey Sweet Cheeks” The voice shouted, the silhouette keeping its arms and hands visible.

Your stomach dropped. No way. The voice belonged to the boy who had pinched your ass as a kid, annoyed your ass as a teen, saved your ass as a new recruit in the army, and more than once grabbed your ass at the bar while you squeezed your ass into a tight dress. You froze for a moment before you looked out your window and saw him standing at your trailer door, waiting.

You opened it abruptly, swinging it hard enough that it hit the side of the trailer with a loud clank. You kept your arm out to keep it wide, surveying the sight in front of you with a shocked expression, your chest rising and falling in shallow, tight breaths of disbelief. He did the same, his eyes travelling up from your bare feet, along your tanned legs, to your jean shorts and your braless tank top, all the way to your shaded eyes.

“Will Miller” You spoke, his name like a muscle memory in your mouth. “What the fuck are you doing here.”

You took three long seconds before you smiled, then you practically jumped out of your trailer and into his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist, laughing uncontrollably in surprise and excitement. He squeezed you tight, one hand around your hips, the other on the back of your head, compressing you into his muscular frame. He let out a low growl of contentment while he nuzzled his head into your hair.

“Good to see you Molly” He mumbled.

You squeezed him with as much strength as you could muster before he let you slide down, your feet hitting the sand below. You brought a hand up to shade your eyes, the sun beaming directly in your eyes from behind his shoulder. You knew his face like the back of your hand, you had grown up with it chasing after you with spiders and nerf guns, then spent 10 years in active service being chased by cockroaches and real guns. You hadn’t seen him since you moved to Mexico.

“What are you doing here, man!” You laughed, you couldn’t stop smiling. He hadn’t changed at all, aside from a few new laugh lines around his mouth. His smile was reserved as usual, but unabashed.

“Oh, you know….I was in the area” He winked and looked around, snickering. Your end of the beach was cut off to tourists and hardly even accessible to locals. You weren’t even sure how they got a trailer there in the first place. It was as visibly remote as you could get in the Yucatan these days.

“How did you…find me here?” You watched him watching you closely, like he was looking for something.

“A local kid working at the market. I asked for directions to the little local Turkey with yellow hair and he practically drove me here himself.” He grinned with mischief and dodged my hand as I smacked him. “He seemed to know who I was, too.” He looked at you expectantly, which made you giggle to yourself.

Your friends son, Erik, was one of the few kids who spoke clean English and visited often. You had helped him with his math tests last year and he had agreed to cut you firewood for a year. He had seen the picture of you and your crew in your trailer and demanded stories around the fire every time he came by. He asked about Will the most.

“I can’t believe you’re here right now.” You said, stricken with shock again and unable to gather yourself. “Whats it been…2, 3 years?”

“2 years and 5 months” Will said quietly, smiling at you. “You look younger somehow”

“Yeah, well, that’s the tequila and the saltwater for ya. Stick me back in Iraq and strap a rifle on my chest, ill age 10 years in front of your very eyes”

Will nodded with a knowing smile and looked around, checking out your decaying trailer and old truck, his eyes settling on the boat overturned on the beach, which you were in the midst of patching and doing engine maintenance on.

You shared a quiet moment together, taking each other in, before he smiled again and open his arms for another hug. “Come’ere kid”

He squeezed you again and this time found your butt, pinching it.

“Fucki-OUCH” You wailed, pulling away and smacking his chest. He laughed like a little boy and bounced away a step, stretching his arms and sighing, relaxed.

“So,” You said after a few moments of silence, before stepping back and pacing in a half circle once. “You want a drink?”

He smiled at you and you felt your head spin. It was the same familiar smile he used to give you when you were kids and you couldn’t reach something or you needed his help lifting something. Not patronizing, just…pleasantly amused.

“Yeah, a drink would be nice.”

“Grab a chair, i’ll be right back” You motioned to the seats surrounding the fire pit that was on the edge of the sand. He turned and walked towards them and you felt your chest tighten. You could never calm down when he was around, staring at you, his physical presence was overwhelming. Even still, after all this time. After everything that had happened in the war, your breath caught when he smiled.

When you came back out with two glasses of bourbon, neat, he had his feet perched toe to heel and was leaning back, enjoying the view of the ocean.

“Pretty okay view to wake up to” You said, handing him his drink. You saluted each others glasses and he smiled, looking back out at the water.

“Unreal. I wouldn’t leave.”

“I don’t” You winked.

“So how did you end up here anyways” He took a drink and savoured it, balancing the glass on the armrest.

You took a long, deep breath and leaned back in your chair before exhaling quickly and looking around.

“I came down after Pete and I.…after I left. He took the house, I took…my shit, and I split.” You laughed bitterly, rubbing your eyebrow. “I don’t know. I went rogue for a bit and woke up here one morning after a bender, just never left.”

Will was quiet for a few moments, considering what you said, before speaking.

“Did things end badly - with Pete?” He was watching you intently.

You held his gaze boldly, amidst your discomfort regarding the topic, your face a blank canvas.

“No” You lied, forcing a smile.

His eyes narrowed slightly but he looked back at the water and took another drink.

“What’re you doing to make money?”

“Lots. Pole dancing, escorting. Selling drugs.”

You were mostly kidding about the last part, but you had sold a couple bags of weed to some of the local teenagers after you found out they were buying it from the cartel - trying to keep their names out of the streets as long as you could before they inevitably got recruited.

He was looking at you again, his face dark now, a shadow of the light hearted kid you had gone to prom with.

“Seriously, Mol. What are you doing down here.”

“Getting interrogated apparently. Calm down, Ironhead. Nothing illegal.” But when he didn’t budge you continued “Im a Dive Master, I take tourists out to some of the reefs every couple of days to pay the rent, and I help out at some of the farms on the off season.”

Half satisfied by your half answers he swirled his drink and took a sip.

“Enough about me, care to explain what you’re doing down here? Turning up at sundown like an old friend?” You watched him closely, observing his posture, noticing the hilt of his sidearm poking out the side of his t-shirt.

“Working” He said bluntly, returning your snarky smile with an equally shaded answer. “Recruiting.”

Your breath caught in your throat and you sat deeper in your chair, unbelieving how crassly he was owning up.

“Unbelievable. Just right down to business eh? You turn up here after 2 years, sorry, 2 years and 5 months and you don’t have the courtesy to wait 10 minutes before you pull this shit? No.” You said firmly. “No. Im retired."

He nodded, then leaned forward and downed the rest of his drink, placing the glass at his feet and resting his elbows on his knees. He watched you with such an intensity that you shifted in your seat and looked away.

“Mol, look at me.”

You sneered and looked at him, your hat shading your eyes from the setting sun, but barely.

“Its a 2 day job at most. 1 day and a single shot if we’re clean-”

“No” You cut him off, leaning forward to stand up.

“Its 5 million USD” He said quickly, stopping you from walking away. “Each.”

You took a deep breath and waited, considering sitting back down. You stayed standing. You tilted your head to the side and lifted your hand to your mouth.

“Who” You said quietly, not wanting to give him the impression you were seriously considering it.

“Juarez.”

You choked you had laughed so hard and so quick. You sat down abruptly on the edge of your chair, looking at him like he had two heads.

“No way. Not a chance. Are you kidding?”

He said nothing, just watched you and raised his eyebrows, the words ‘5 million’ written across his forehead like a banner. When it was clear he wasn’t joking you leaned forward, matching his posture, ducking your head down until you had his eyes squared with yours.

“Listen to me. There’s dangerous, there’s what we did in the army, and then there’s that.” You waited for a reaction that never came. You pressed on. “Will, I have been down here for 3 years. Living, working, fucking with these people. Juarez isn’t just a cartel boss who cuts fingers off and mails them to the victims kids on their birthdays. He systematically brings down monarchies. He beheads children. That man is a fucking monster.”

Will sat firm, his jaw set, not breaking eye contact. He was challenging you, as he had a million times before, only this time neither of you were in uniform and both of you had level playing ground. He wasn’t your superior officer, and you weren’t his sniper.

“We’ve dealt with worse.” He said finally.

You broke eye contact and looked at your bare feet planted in the sand, your tanned skin smooth and warm. No scars, no combat boots, no dust. Freedom. What you had worked for your whole life.

“Its 5 million, Mol. One target, one shot. Nothing more. Freedom for the rest of your life.”

“I already have that. Look around” You put your arms out, the whole of the beach and your paradise encapsulated in them, rage tickling under your skin. “5 million aint worth giving this up, 5 billion wouldn’t even be.”

He looked around and back at your trailer, at the rusting metal and the fraying tarps, before setting his gaze on your arm, on the scar that ran up it, and finally back to your eyes.

“Hows the Physio down here.” He said darkly. “Your off season farm job’s health insurance covering it?”

You flinched like he had hit you, your eye flickering as the memory of the bullet cutting through your arm and shattering the bone blazed like fire in your peripheries.

“Fuck you, Will.” You said finally, your voice cracking when you said his name. You stood up and pushed past him, walking towards your trailer. Subconsciously you held your arm and rubbed it, the phantom pain lingering. The deep and permanent damage had bothered you every day since you obtained the injury 6 years ago, on one of the last missions you had done with Will and the crew before they retired.

“Molly” Will grabbed your arm from behind, pulling you to a stop, and you winced. Not from pain, more from recognition. “Im sorry” He said intently, his eyes searching yours.

“I can’t” You said finally, your posture strong and your eyes set. You were still muscular and built like you were in active duty, but so was Will. “Even if I wanted to - I can’t.”

Will took a step closer, his breath almost on your face now.

“Why not” He pushed.

“Because” You spit back at him “I can’t use a scope. Or Binoculars. My heads fucked up.”

Wills eyebrows knit together and he looked over your head with his gaze, face taught with confusion.

“What’you mean?”

You shrugged and licked your bottom lip, looking away from his prying eyes.

“I had an accident a few years ago. I got a concussion that fucked with my equilibrium, haven’t been able to use binoculars or a scope properly since.”

You took a breath and straightened your back, setting your jaw. If he was going to play hard ass, then so were you. Fuck his intimidation tactics, you had learned how to deal with those in elementary school. He would have to try harder.

“Service?”

You shook your head, your lips pursed.

“After I left”

“What happened?”

Your eye flickered again, the memory of Pete attacking you and knocking you down a flight of stairs, your head cracking off the banister, still as fresh as if it happened yesterday.

“I fell.”

Will, visibly agitated now, shifted his weight to his other foot. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I don’t know, probably because I didn’t expect you to come down here and try to recruit me to whack the leader of my neighbourhoods biggest cartel?”

“Mol, im your friend, you shou-“ He started, but you backed up, shaking your head.

“Oh yeah? And where have you been? Last time I checked a prerequisite for friendship was checking in once in a fucking blue moon.”

Will bared his teeth in frustration and took a deep breath, looking down at his feet with his hands on his hips.

“Was it Pete?”

You didn’t answer, which was answer enough. Will’s hands covered his face and he groaned audibly, rubbing them into his hair in frustration.

“Molly. I have like 5 minutes left in me before I pull the fuse line to your propane, light a match, and drag your ass out of here on the back of my fucking bike. Come for drinks. Hear us out. Please.”

“Us?”

“They’re all here, waiting at the bar.”

You shook your head, smiling bitterly. Of course they were.

“There are better soldiers out there. Better snipers out there. Go recruit one of them.”

“Not true. You never missed a shot.”

“I missed once” You started, your voice lowering reflexively. “And you know what shot I missed.”

He held your eyes as the memory lingered in the air between you, the sound of the bullet hitting the body of the child behind your target would be something you took to your grave. It haunted every minute of every day.

“Molly, come on. Look at you. You’re living in a dump trailer with a half broke boat and a fucking peddle bike. You’re better than this and you know it.”

“Im not better than shit. Don't feed me that 'we were warriors' crap. I was a girl who was good with a gun, and I killed people. And now i'm broken. Thats the truth."

“MOL, I NEED YOU-” He yelled now, his hand shaking. The outburst took you off guard and you stepped back, your face slack. Will grabbed his hand and rubbed it, turning around and sighing deeply before facing you again. “Molly, I need you to hear us out. Come have a drink in town, listen to Pope’s plan. Please.”

You were still on guard from his outburst but you closed your mouth, your eyes dropping to his hand, which still shook lightly. PTSD was a tricky motherfucker.

You blinked silently a few times before raising your eyes to his again, a silent moment of recognition passing between you. He wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t seriously asking for help, and the rest of the crew wouldn’t be waiting if there wasn’t already a good plan in place.

“They’re all here? Redfly?”

Will nodded, his jaw tight.

“Fine” You said then, swallowing your pride and knowing you would regret it. “One drink.”

“One drink” Will repeated, his shoulders relaxing slightly.

“But Will,” You interrupted his budding smile and took a step so your faces were close again. “I wasn’t joking. Im not the shot I used to be. If we do the Recon and I tell you I can’t do it, that’s it. Im out. Full stop.”

Will blinked a few times as his eyes drifted down your face to your mouth and back up, his eyebrow twitching.

“I understand, Mol” was all he replied.

----

[buildoblivion]

Velveteen

1031 Words - Fluff - Scottish Safehouse Era - Jmart

I just wrote a thing thinking about my favourite children’s book because I am still very soft and sad about jmart okay <3 

His boyfriend is beautiful. 

Jon always scoffs when he says it, rolling his eyes and tucking his nose back into his thick knit jumper, and Martin wishes he didn’t understand why. As much as it hurts, it’s hard to remember that stern, spectacled man looking up through his eyebrows that he met those years ago, with his smooth skin and steady breath, with unblemished hands and just the slightest hint of silver sitting at his temples.

The years since haven’t been kind to him, that short but solid academic. A little plain but certainly handsome, wrapped head to toe in tweed (and who Martin seriously thought was going to chuck a stapler at his head). When he catches sight of Jon’s old ID peering out of his wallet, it’s difficult to reconcile them both as one and the same. 

But god, he thinks, staring across piled up duvets and mismatched bedsheets, just look at him. 

Martin is a poet, and he spent enough of his youth up to his arse in the sappiest and most pretentious verse to know there’s a thousand ways to describe how Person A looks like Pretty Thing B. 

Summers days, starry nights, dewdrops on fresh grass and a hundred other things that make human beings stop and stare and sigh. But as he lies there, head cradled in the crook of his elbow on a winter’s morning, Martin doesn’t think that’s right for them. Not for the mop of greying curls and dark, pitted skin peeking through the fleece, face slack and lips parted in the lull of sleep. 

In his heart, Jonathan Sims sure does make him think of those things. He’s a sappy sort okay, and not afraid of the odd cliche. Martin would quite like tell the man whose feet freeze against his thighs that he is like a moonlit garden, a sunlit meadow, and a hundred other saccharine metaphors, even if those sentiments would make the other snort and flick dishwater in his face. 

But it’s more than that. Deeper than that, and as he watches Jon snuffle, frowning a little so he draws the pale line of circular marks long and tight across his forehead, a sharp heat of affection makes him reach across, resting his other hand under the covers against his waist. There, he feels thick, knotted burns, rough but warm against his palm and rising with every breath. Instinctively, Jon draws closer and Martin smiles as his boyfriend grunts, but presses his face against Martin’s chest.  

It’s a shame, because now that lovely face is hidden from him, but as two skinny arms wrap around his stomach, and he delights in that shining diamond of a fact that prickly, stiff old Jonathan Sims is a shameless, aggressive little cuddler, Martin’s point takes shape. 

Jon wasn’t painted in oils. Wasn’t carved from marble, or cast in bronze, though he’s been so strong under heat and chisel for so very long now. Jon wasn’t shiny or smooth, masterfully crafted and perfectly preserved to be held behind glass for the rest of time. 

No. 

To Martin, he thinks, resting one hand against his boyfriend’s neck and stroking against the baby hairs dusting the bottom of his hairline, Jon looks like ...

Well, Martin had a teddy bear once.

Look, it’s not the stuff of Shakespeare, he knows, but hear him out. 

Old Ted was his name. He was a smart little thing, pressed into chubby hands on a long forgotten birthday between sheets of overtaped wrapping paper. He was nothing special, no one in his family had the budget for plush velvet or glass buttons, but he had bright brown eyes and soft black fur, the perfect size to tuck under a little arm or peek out of a preschool backpack.

Martin loved him to pieces.

Even years later, after hundreds of flat moves and endless nightshifts and early starts, his little friend sat first on his bed, then on his bookshelf, dutifully watching his charge grow taller and broader while the little thing grew thinner and greyer. It’s nose stitches loved off and lustre long gone from one too many trips in the washing machine, old Ted bore the dust with grace, and even now, Martin absurdly feels a stab of guilt that he didn’t think to grab him in their rush to Kings Cross those weeks ago.

He was shabby and grey, probably in need of a good shake and long deserving the soft place in another’s arms for a good long while.

Loyal, after all this time. In one piece, despite everything.

As the warm body latched around his belly huffs into Martin’s shoulder, the soft brush of stubble scritching pleasantly along his chest, the picture only becomes clearer in his bleary eyed mind.

Sure, next to any found in a shop, glossy and bright with their tags still on, bears like old Ted would always look a bit sad, a bit tatty with all their stuffing wrung out. But weren’t those ones, a little threadbare and struggling to sit up by themselves, weren’t they the best kind? The ones that have been there as long as you can remember, a little battered but still waiting for you in the warmest, darkest places to keep you close? 

They’re something precious. Cherished.  Something to keep safe and nearby, years after most would expect you to give them up.

To give up on them. 

But of course, the wear and tear he sees on Jon’s skin wasn’t kind. The marks across his face and spaces in his rib cage weren’t from too many nights pressed close to soft cheeks or gentle hands, from sweet excursions in simpler times; the odd misadventure in a high street puddle or many mornings found and rescued from the bedroom floor. 

Jon looks like Jon does because he was hurt. People hurt him, and they hurt him because they could and he was afraid. Jon was absolutely fucking terrified, every time, and each skipped stitch on his skin can’t be written off as anything but cruel. Mornings like this, with even breaths and sunlight still streaming through the curtains, are rarer than they’d like, simply because those scars run deeper than the edges of Jon’s skin, are are keen to keep him up long into the early hours.

But god, Martin wants to fix it. He knows he can’t undo the past, and Jon would never ask him too. Try as he might, they’re not his wounds to heal. But if he could, he’d buff the edges just a little, at least. Sew him up and brush him out, patch him with something patterned and bright. Not to hide it, never, it’s not his to choose, but make it hurt just a little less. Keep what he has left inside to pad him out, give him a steady base on which to stand. 

No, actually, he wants more than that. If he could, and maybe he can now, with Jon loose and languid over his chest, Martin would leave some wear of his own.

He would kiss the stubble from his cheeks, paint grey in his hair, wear the lines into his eyes deeper and deeper with every touch, every smile. Yes Martin would love him stitchless, right down to the last button, if it proved to the whole world that Jonathan Sims was precious to him. He would show the places his fingertips were gentle but insistent, a constant reminder that shows on every part of him it could. 

Jon might be grey and worn, but he’d be kept soft and dear in his hands, swinging in his grip along crowded pavements and tucked under his chin at night, so anyone could look and know that, if nothing else, at least one person on this planet chose him, kept him and loves him for all his frayed seams and faded threads. 

And perhaps, and Martin feels surer of this everyday, maybe Jon will loosen some of his stitches too.

So Martin stares down at the mess of silvering hair and twisted skin, and lets himself smile as Jon makes a soft, sleepy noise against his collar. He presses a light kiss to his forehead, and is rewarded with a tight squeeze, a gentle hum, and a nose rubbing closer against the curve of his chin.

Buds of May and Pilgrim’s lips were great and all, but this, Martin thinks, as he draws the blankets back over them both and wraps his hands across the small of Jon’s back, this is better. 

This is real.

[creativewritingpracticestudio]

Tour Life, Baby(Joey Jordison x Reader)

@fateblood I’m so, so, so sorry for the long wait! I watched as many interviews as I could to try and get a feel for Joey’s personality, sorry if it isn’t exactly right! This is younger Joey.

Description: Just a sweet fluffy fic about tour life on the road with Joey.

Warnings: Cursing

Permanent Taggers: @smokeandmirrorz @holyjunkie @overlyobsessedfangirl @slashevilsister

“Rise and shine, sleeping beauties.”

You awoke with a start as you felt the blankets being pulled off of you, and opened a bleary eye to see Corey, the lead singer of your boyfriend’s band, standing over you with a smirk on his face. Joey, who had fallen asleep while he was spooning you from behind, reached down and pulled the covers back over the two of you, shooting Corey a quick death glare. “Go away.”

Corey laughed, pulled the covers back down again, and walked off towards the opposite end of the tour bus. “You’ll have to get up anyway, Joey, we gotta do sound check. Come on, princess, get up and go change.” Corey left, dodging a pillow that Joey threw at him, and Joey groaned loudly as he burrowed his face into your neck. “I don’t wanna get up.”

You giggled, sitting up to rub the sleep from your eyes. “I know, Joey, but you gotta get up. You can sleep more after the concert.” He sighed, begrudgingly climbing out of the bunk. “Okay, okay. Kiss me first, though.” You leaned over and gave him a quick kiss, and he walked off towards the bathroom to change. You watched him go, smiling to yourself.

Even though you technically could have just stayed in bed and caught up on sleep, since you weren’t a band member and therefore didn’t have to go to sound check, you decided to get up and get ready too, just to be fair to Joey. When he came back from the bathroom, you were fixing yourself breakfast in the makeshift kitchen. He came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist as you cooked.

“Save me some for when I get back?” You smiled. “Sure, baby. Now get going before Corey comes in here and kicks your ass.” He groaned again, but kissed your cheek and walked out the door. You laughed as you watched him go. He really needs to start going to bed earlier. Of course, it wasn’t his fault entirely. The two of you had stayed up watching various children’s cartoons on the tour bus’s TV set until about 4 in the morning.

You spent the next two hours doing basically nothing except watching TV and eating snacks. At about 10:00AM, Joey walked back in, looking slightly less tired than he had earlier. “How was soundcheck?” He shrugged, but smiled. “Some fans came up to us on the way back, so we talked to them for a while and took some photos and signed some stuff.” You smiled. Joey absolutely loved meeting fans. “See? Bet that made soundcheck worth it!”

He laughed, sitting next to you and pulling you into his lap. “Missed you.” You smiled and kissed his cheek. “I missed you too, baby. Here, saved you some bacon and pancakes.” As he ate, he talked about the fans he’d met, including one who’d told him that he was their biggest inspiration for wanting to make music. Joey’s face lit up as he talked about it, and you couldn’t help but grin the whole time he spoke. You knew those kinds of things stuck with him.

You went to put the plates in the tiny kitchen sink, and turned to Joey with a smile. “Bet you’re excited to see all those other fans in VIP tonight.” He nodded. “Yeah. Speaking of which, the rest of the band and I won’t be back til at least 2 or 3 in the morning. Will you be okay here by yourself?” You shrugged. “I should be. I usually am, anyway.” Joey frowned. “That’s what I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.”

You looked up, concerned. “What do you mean, baby?” Joey stared at you seriously. “Do you want me to fly you back home?” You raised your eyebrows, alarmed. Where was this coming from. “Do you want me to go back home?” He shook his head. “No, but I know it can’t be easy having to stay cooped up in this tour bus for so long. You can be honest. I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to go home. I’ll pay for your ticket.”

You set down the plates and walked over to your boyfriend, wrapping your arms around him in a hug. You then pulled away and looked him in the eyes. “Baby. Listen to me. I don’t want to go home. I’ll admit, it’s a little cramped on here sometimes, but there’s nowhere I’d rather be than with you. Hell, I’ll go on a million tours with you if it means we can be together. I love you, okay?” You kissed him on the forehead.

Joey looked relieved. “Thank fucking God. I was trying to be caring or whatever but I really didn’t want you to go. I’ll go insane if I have to do this without you. I love you too.” You laughed and gently ruffled his hair as you went back to washing dishes. “Good thing I’m not leaving anytime soon. You can’t get rid of me, Joey, I’m like a plague.” You flicked dishwater at him, and he fake-complained. “Babe, watch the shirt!”

Things were quiet for a few minutes as you washed the dishes and Joey looked over the letters he’d been given by fans, and then after about 15 minutes, Joey spoke up. “You know, you could come with me to the concerts if you wanted to. I know they get really loud, but you could stand on the side of the stage and you could wear earplugs or headphones or whatever.” You thought it over for a moment.

“You know what? That sounds like fun. I’ll go!” Joey perked up and smiled. “Okay, sounds good. You can be like my cheerleader. Ew, why did I say that? Ignore me. Don’t be a fucking cheerleader. Just be you.” You giggled. “Aw, no, why can’t I be a cheerleader? I’ll wear a mini skirt and do a cute little chant for you!” Joey playfully rolled his eyes. “I love you, but I’ll call security on you if you do that, baby.”

You smirked. “They can’t catch me. Anyway, maybe I can hang out during the VIP meet and greet and meet some of your fans!” Joey grimaced. “I don’t know about that. One of the fans I met earlier said something about trying to steal you from me if they ever met you.” You grinned. “Really? Were they cute?” Joey threw a napkin at you, which you dodged as you burst out laughing. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding!”

——————————-

“Fuck, that was epic!” You followed Joey onto the tour bus, the both of you sweaty as hell and extremely tired. It was about 1 in the morning, and the two of you had just gotten back from the concert. Joey’s hair was wild, and his mask was pushed up on his head. He tiredly sat down on one of the couches and grinned. “Yeah?” The rest of the band had decided to go out and party at a bar for a little bit, so it was just the two of you. “Yeah! You guys rocked!”

He rested his head against the wall. “My bones hurt.” You pouted. “Aw, poor baby.” He good-naturedly flipped you off, and you laughed as you plopped down next to him, letting him rest his head on your shoulder. “Ew, baby, you’re sweaty.” He rolled his eyes. “Love you too. And you’re not exactly one to talk. I don’t even know how you managed to sweat at all, considering all you did was watch us perform.”

You shrugged. “Who knows? Either way, we need to shower and go to sleep so you don’t wake up in the morning cranky again.” Joey glared. “I’m not cranky in the morning.” You walked towards the tour bus’s shower and smirked. “Whatever you say, Jordison. Come on, I’m tired and my shirt is practically glued to my body.” He begrudgingly got up and followed you to the bathroom. “I’m using your shampoo this time. It smells better than mine.”

Within an hour, the two of you were showered and in bed, you in one of his tshirts and a pair of his boxers. “Why the hell aren’t they back yet? Assholes.” You laughed. “They probably just got arrested for vandalism or something, don’t worry. Now go to bed before I knock you out myself.” Joey cuddled up to you and laid his head against your shoulder, closing his eyes. “Night, baby. I love you.” You smiled and kissed his forehead. “Love you too.”

Joey quickly fell asleep, and you stared up at the ceiling, feeling happier than you’d ever been. Life on tour could be crazy, and cramped, and sometimes even a little boring, but being with Joey was better than anything else. You’d put up with a thousand nights of craziness and drunk bandmates and being sweaty if it meant he’d always be with you. No matter what happened, it was you and him, putting up with the tour life together. That’s tour life, baby.

[chaotictommy]

What would be your dream superpower?

What would you do with it?

If you and Tommy were friends what sort of mischief would you get into?

Great questions! Thank you! <3

What Would be Your Dream Superpower • Lemme see, growing up I probably would have said something like Invisibility, breathing underwater, becoming a human torch, Spiderwebs (yeah, lol, the first Spider-Man’s had a big influence on my childhood) or Super Fast speed, though there was once where I said I’d want to have the power to create a never ending supply of food so that I could end world hunger... having grown up in a very conscious mind set. But I guess now I would want the power to understand people, just general ideas of what they mean, understanding facial movements and cues, that sort of thing, it gets hard for me since I have an Autism Spectrum Disorder, and I very often, almost daily actually, don’t understand people... I don’t always get social cues or anything like that, so I’d have to say the power to understand basic human psychology and day to day things such as facial expressions and what they mean, since I still seem to get them wrong... so that and ehhhh (not gonna say the food thing wouldn’t be bad as a side power, since it would help people) but yeah, I think that. Though it would still be cool to have super speed XD

What Would You Do With It • If I had a power, I’d definitely use it to the benefit of others, I like helping people, and if I could do that with my power, even though I’d always have in mind that ‘with great power, comes great responsibility,’ but I think I could manage that ‘great responsibility’ since I would be getting to help people each day. I’d also want to work behind the scenes and not be so much in the spotlight, just helping when I am needed and doing the right thing for the people I can help... honestly I would want to do that even without a super power

If You and Tommy were friends, what sort of mischief would you get into •

Hmmmm, that’s a really good question... I definitely think that if Tommy and I were friends, he wouldn’t be drinking that dishwater alone, since I thought beer tasted like dishwater anyway when I was a kid and well into my teens, that or I’d have told him that that was not beer. 😂 we’d probably always be swapping jokes and sarcastic comments to the point where Bobby or one of the other boys would comment that it’s just gotten pretty annoying. Telling secrets to each other, maybe I’d have known about his crush on Ali, and I would have definitely been supportive of him, possibly trying to get them both together, possibly I’d tell him about my crush on Bobby. Having a secret crush on him that goes away when he becomes my really good friend. I’d also probably have been in or around the Cobra Kai dojo, so probably there’d be sparring that turns into wrestling maybe with tickling involved, since I’m not immune to tickling and if he was my friend he’d know that. Lot’s of fun pranks on the other guys, like the Caramel Onion prank, The cheesy ‘orange juice’ prank, placing googley eyes on all the refrigerator products so they look like they’re watching you whenever you open the fridge, just harmless pranks, mostly on the other boys. Going to movies and possibly sneaking in once or twice while fighting about it (If I’m going to watch a movie or go to a concert, I’m paying) but Tommy probably would get me to sneak in a few times, I’d make him buy the popcorn and milk duds... definitely trying to catch popcorn in our mouths and probably making it a competition, lots of loud talking and me trying to shush him, but I start accidentally talking loudly too, definitely trying to land popcorn in the other’s hair. Riding on his motorbike and him riding on mine and probably complaining that ‘chicks only ride on the back,’ but not really caring. Helping each other through rough times. Tommy probably rioting because I wouldn’t be allowed to try out for the boys soccer team and there were still restrictions on women’s sports. Friendly funny rivalry’s. Tinsel fights and fun Competitive Christmas decorating, singing Carols together at Christmas even though we both might be off tune, racing each other back to grab mugs of steaming hot cocoa, little marshmallows just for fun, throwing those at each other. Both joking about mistletoe. Long trips to the beach where we get caught in a riptide together, since we had a swimming competition and swam right into it... Bobby would probably have to save us. Both of us patching the other up after getting into trouble. I definitely think that there’d be a break in the friendship once Daniel LaRusso came along though, since I wouldn’t bully him with the others and I would try to dissuade Tommy from doing it as well. Missing the other like hell during that time, trying to stare at each other during class to make the other uncomfortable. Apologizing after a while. General chaos and rowdiness, both getting excited about something and losing our inside voices. There’s more, but I can’t think of it right now, but I think Tommy and I could get into a lot of trouble 😈😂💞