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alwaysmarveling · 3 years

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When You Try Your Best but You Don’t Succeed...

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Warnings: Mentions of death

Word Count: 2k

Summary: When your mission goes wrong, Nat’s there to help

“What’s up, Rogers? How’s my girl?” Nat smirked, talking to her friend and coworker through the phone. The heavy sigh she heard on the other end caused her face to drop and her spine to straighten.

“We’re coming back, Nat.”

“Is everything okay? You weren’t supposed to be coming back for another week. Is Y/N okay? Is she hurt?”

“Physically, she’s fine. Just the normal cuts and bruises. Mentally… Nat, there were kids.”

“How many?” Natasha asked, her voice now unreadable.

“Ten. Eight of them made it, but… we couldn’t get to the last two. She tried, but the damage to the building was bad, and… she tried. I had to physically pull her out before she could get herself killed.” Natasha’s arm trembled slightly as she lowered herself down on the sofa in her room, listening carefully to every word coming through the phone’s speaker.

“When will you guys be back?”

“We’ll be back in about an hour. I think Y/N’s sleeping right now, but I’m not sure.”

“Okay,” the redhead nodded. “Thanks for letting me know. Steve,” Natasha paused, “how are you doing?”

“I’ll be okay. It hit her the hardest.” The woman nodded to no one in particular as she played with the end of her hair, her glance not quite meeting the floor.

“Alright. Take care of yourself.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Steve teased. Natasha smirked as she hung up before returning her thoughts to your predicament. Your relationship with the spy was relatively new. The two of you had been together for just about three months now. Before that, you had been close friends, but emotions had never really been a huge part of your relationship. Nat knew you needed her now, though, and she’d do her best to be there for you.

---

“Hi, Steve.” Nat waved at the super soldier as he entered the compound’s living room. Steve gave her a small smile before retreating to his own room to freshen up.

“Hey, ba...” She took in your weary, blood-covered form, the smile she had put on for Steve quickly vanishing. Steve had told her you weren’t hurt, but she was not expecting you to be that bloody or that dirty.

“I’m fine, Nat,” you reassured her, giving her a weak smile. By the time you had finished speaking, she was already there, holding your hands.

“You don’t look fine,” she murmured, brushing a hand over your face before stopping to cup your cheek.

“One shower and I’ll be as good as new,” you tried again, your voice cracking on the last word. “I should go,” you whispered, dropping her hands and rushing out of the room before she could stop you.

---

“Y/N?” Natasha knocked at the door tentatively. “Are you okay?” You sniffed, wiping the tears that were making their way down your face.

“I’m fine,” you called out, turning off the water. How long had you been in the shower for?

“I, uh, I got dinner ready. If you’re hungry.”

“Sounds good, I’ll be out in 5 minutes,” you replied, towelling yourself off. You wanted nothing more than to stay in bed for the rest of the night, but your shower had already been suspiciously long, and you needed to prove to Natasha that you were okay. Well, you needed to make Natasha think that you were okay.

It wasn’t that you didn’t trust Natasha. You were just very aware of how new your relationship was. An invisible force was pushing—or more like shoving—you to let her hold you in her arms and tell you that everything would be okay, but you didn’t want to overstep any boundaries in your relationship. Taking a deep breath, you threw on a light t-shirt and shorts before meeting Natasha in the kitchen.

“Hey, I made your favorite,” Natasha announced as you padded into the room.

“Thanks, you’re the best.” You winced slightly at your response, not sounding quite as convincing as you would’ve liked.

“You sure you’re okay?” Natasha asked gently. You didn’t know about the phone call she’d had with Steve, and she wanted to give you the chance to tell her yourself.

“I’m fine. The mission was just tiring.” Natasha rubbed your arm comfortingly.

“I’m sorry. Maybe we can just watch a movie tonight and cuddle?”

“Nat, I...” you didn’t know how to tell her that you wanted to be alone without sounding off; you never said no to cuddling with her. She tilted her head slightly when you didn’t continue. “Yeah,” you sighed, “that sounds great,” you agreed, spooning some of the food into your mouth.

“I’m glad you came back early, love. I missed-” You dropped the spoon at her first sentence.

“I’m sorry, I can’t do this, Nat.”

“Babe, wait-” You didn’t turn around as you fled the room, not wanting her to see the tears that were streaming down your face.

---

“Y/N,” Natasha sighed. “Please let me in.” Natasha had waited 15 minutes before following you to your room. She put away the food she was sure you’d be asking for later, threw on some pajamas, took two bottles of water from the kitchen, and grabbed her laptop and one of the oversized sweatshirts in her closet for you. All she needed was for you to let her in.

“I’m sorry, Nat, I- I’m really tired, and I think I’m just going to go to bed,” you called through the door. You mentally smacked your forehead at how unconvincing that sounded, your sniffles obviously heard through the door.

“Y/N, please,” she responded softly. “We don’t even have to talk, just… please, let me in?” You sighed, wiping your eyes and smoothing back your hair, trying to make yourself at least a little more presentable. Since she was definitely aware that you were upset, the least you could do was not show her just how upset you were. But when you slowly opened the door and met Natasha’s worried gaze, you couldn’t help but break down. “It’s okay,” she murmured, closing the door softly behind her and wrapping her arms tightly around you. “I got you.” The two of you stayed like that for a while as you just enjoyed the feeling of being in her arms. Her scent and warmth kept you grounded, reminders of all the beauty in the world when you could only see the ugly. When your sobs quieted down, Natasha pushed you away slightly to get a good look at your face.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” she asked softly.

“I- I don’t know,” you hiccuped. Your throat was dry and your voice cracked, but you weren’t focused on that. Nat was, though.

“That’s okay,” Natasha reassured you, squeezing your shoulders. “Here, put this on. And drink some water, okay? And I brought my laptop so we can watch your favorite movie.” You couldn’t tell if your heart warmed or sunk at her actions, and you stared at the sweatshirt and water bottle that she offered you. “Y/N?”

“I don’t deserve this,” you whispered, tears filling your eyes yet again. The redhead sighed, placing her things on the bed before taking your hands up in hers. She pressed her forehead against yours, forcing your eyes to meet her emerald orbs.

“Sweetheart, please listen to me. I know that you want to save everyone, we all do. None of us would be here if we didn’t. But the reality is that we can’t. No matter how perfect we are, how trained we are, or what powers we may or may not have, there’s always going to be people that we can’t save. We’ve known each other for quite some time, yeah?” You nodded slowly, still not meeting her eyes. “Then trust me when I tell you that you deserve this. Hell, you deserve so much more than this. You put 110% into everything that you do, and nobody doubts that for even a second. I wish everything that you did would work out perfectly, but it can’t. You have to forgive yourself for this. Please, believe me, love.” You didn’t respond for a moment, taking the time to wrangle up the billions of thoughts swirled around your head but vanished the second you tried to focus on any of them.

“They were kids, Nat. I tried so hard, I-” At that, you began to sob once more and allowed Natasha to pull you into her.

“I know,” your girlfriend shushed you, her heart breaking at the cracks in your voice. “You always try your hardest, and that’s something I admire so much about you. But listen to me. You saved eight of those kids. Because of you, that’s eight little girls and boys who get to go back home to their families and grow up to become amazing adults. You may feel like you failed now, but without you, none of those kids would get that opportunity. Not one of them. Okay?”

“Okay,” you said softly. “Thank you,” you mumbled, giving her one last squeeze before you let her go.

“You’re welcome,” your girlfriend smiled. “Now, put this on,” Natasha ordered, throwing the sweatshirt at you. When you cocked your head to the side, she smirked. “You didn’t think I was leaving you alone, did you? I said we were going to snuggle and watch a movie, and I meant it. Unless you don’t want to.” The crinkles around the corners of her eyes began to recede, her smirk faltering.

“I’d love to,” you responded, giving her a peck on the cheek. “You’re very sweet,” you complimented her as the two of you climbed into your bed.

“Only for you,” she whispered, winking at you. The spy pulled you in close to her side, pressing her lips to the top of your head before pulling the blankets tightly over the both of you. “That’s a nice goose egg you’ve got there,” she murmured, referencing the growing lump on your head. “Do you want me to get some ice for it?”

“I’m fine, Nat. Everything’s just superficial.” Natasha hummed, running her fingers gently over it.

“If you say so,” she said reluctantly. “I guess you’re still somewhat attractive with it.”

“Hey!” You smacked her across the stomach. “You’re supposed to be supportive.”

“I’m just kidding, babe. Very attractive. Makes you look less like a dork and more like a badass.”

“Oh, shut up and watch the movie,” you grumbled, pushing yourself further into your girlfriend’s torso.

“Nat?” you spoke up, the movie now halfway over.

“Yeah, hon?”

“Steve told you about the mission, didn’t he?” The redhead pulled her eyes away from the screen to look at you.

“Yeah, he did. Is that okay?” Her voice was steady, but her face was unsure and vulnerable. You paused, considering your answer.

“Yeah, I guess it is,” you finally responded. “Although I need to tell that old man to get his wrinkly ass out of my business,” you said, your lips curving up slightly at the corners.

“He’s just looking out for you, babe. He loves you,” she teased, squeezing your cheek. The two of you fell silent for a moment, neither of you really paying attention to the various images flashing across the screen.

“Do you?” you asked softly, looking into Natasha’s green eyes.

“Always,” she whispered, leaning down to meet your lips.

“I love you, too,” you giggled, breaking the kiss.

“I love you more, you dork.”

“I thought I was a badass!” you whined, turning away as Natasha pecked your lips again.

“Mm, you are. My badass.” The two of you smiled at that, and you pulled Natasha’s head down to meet you in another kiss. The pain of losing those two kids was still there, and it would take some time before you were able to truly forgive yourself, but having Natasha with you made things a little bit easier.

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff #avengers x reader #marvel #mcu #I wrote something #alwaysmarveling

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joshjacksons · 3 years

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Joshua Jackson interview with "Mr Porter" (2021)

Minutes before Mr Joshua Jackson joins me in a booth for a Friday afternoon drink at a vibey hotel bar in Santa Monica, he’s confronted by his past. Or rather, a woman in her early twenties who is binge-watching Dawson’s Creek, the teen show about a close-knit group of high-school friends coming of age in a sleepy American town, which made Jackson incredibly famous between 1998 and 2003. The series, which also made household names of Ms Michelle Williams and Ms Katie Holmes, went off air 18 years ago, but is now streaming on Netflix, to the bemusement of Jackson, who played lovable rogue Pacey Witter. “This girl was like, ‘Are you...?’ And I’m like, ‘Yes, I am. He got old. I’m sorry to break it to you,’” he says, before ordering an iced tea and a charcuterie board to tide him over until dinner time. “It always surprises me when young people say they’ve just got into Dawson’s Creek. I’m like, ‘Is it a costume drama to you? Do you feel like you’re watching a historical documentary?’”

The idea of a Friends-style reunion episode or a Sex And The City revival feels equally far-fetched to Canadian-born Jackson, now 43 and wearing it well in a pale green linen shirt and tailored linen trousers by Oliver Spencer that complement his fading brown hair and Cali-tanned skin.

“I don’t know why you’d want to [bring it back],” he says. “Nobody needs to know what those characters are doing in middle age. We left them in a nice place. Nobody needs to see that Pacey’s back hurts. I don’t think we need that update.”

And Jackson doesn’t need Dawson’s Creek. From Mr JJ Abrams’ sci-fi series Fringe (2008-2013) to the Golden Globe award-winning The Affair (2014-2019), from Ms Ava DuVernay’s ground-breaking true-crime drama When They See Us (2019) to the recent Ms Reese Witherspoon and Ms Kerry Washington-produced Little Fires Everywhere (2020), he has commanded the small screen – with a collection of dynamic and diverse work – ever since.

His latest role as Mr Christopher Duntsch, the Texas surgeon convicted of gross malpractice when 33 of his patients were left seriously injured after he operated on them and two of them died, in chilling Peacock crime drama Dr Death, is only stepping his career up another gear.

“I’ve never played anyone irredeemable before,” says Jackson, who is joined in the eight-part series (based on the 2018 Wondery podcast of the same name) by Messrs Christian Slater and Alec Baldwin. “He is charming, gregarious and has a high-level intellect, but he’s also a misogynist, probably a sociopath, certainly a narcissist and a complete incompetent who is incapable of seeing himself.”

If Duntsch is terrifying, then Jackson’s portrayal is even more so. The artist formerly known as Pacey is virtually unrecognisable (thanks to prosthetics) in the opening scene, but the real challenge for Jackson was allowing himself to view someone who is so “spectacularly evil” as a human being in order to walk in his shoes. “It’s a more damning portrayal of the man to make him into a human being, rather than just make him the bad guy,” he says. “He really believes he’s the hero, he’s the genius and that he’s the victim, so once I got past my own judgment, all the other things fell into place.”

Jackson might have his pick of stellar roles – and challenges – now, but it has not happened by accident. Take it from someone who has been in the business since landing his first job aged 14 in Disney’s live-action movie series The Mighty Ducks, opposite Brat Pack alumnus Mr Emilio Estevez.

“You try to make it look like it happens accidentally,” he says, “but there is no way to do this and not be ambitious. I’d say I’m extremely ambitious because I’ve been doing this cutthroat job for nearly 30 years. I’m in the pay-off phase of my career now. One of the benefits of surviving for as long as I have is you get to learn from your own mistakes.”

Such as? “I wouldn’t say, ‘I wish I hadn’t done that,’ because it all becomes bricks in a path, but [after Dawson’s Creek] I was not choosy enough about the things I was doing. You get stuck. You start trying to perform the performance you think people are hoping to see you do. I was so used to working all the time that I just worked all the time. There was definitely a conscious moment in my mid-twenties when I realised I wasn’t really enjoying the work that I was doing. My manager at the time just said, ‘Take a breath. You’re burnt out.’”

The turning point came in 2005, when Jackson was offered a role in the two-hander Mr David Mamet play A Life In The Theatre, opposite Sir Patrick Stewart. “God bless him, Patrick could have made my life miserable because I had no idea what I was doing, ” he says. “I hadn’t been on stage since I was a kid and now I was in the West End in over my head. But it reminded me that I actually enjoyed being an actor, that it’s not about the red carpet or travelling around the world. What I really enjoy is working on good material with good people.”

It’s no surprise Jackson’s time on Dawson’s Creek led to a career crisis. From the ages of 19 to 24, he lived with his fellow cast mates in Wilmington, North Carolina, filming day in, day out, in an arrangement he likens to college. “You get to the end and they’re like, ‘Here’s your degree. Go live now. You’re an adult. Go out into the world,’” he says.

But most graduates don’t have to deal with global fame. “It’s transitory. You’re only ever cool for a moment and then you become much less cool. I was always pretty dubious about flatterers,” he says, recalling a time he was stung in London in the mid-2000s. “I went on a date in Hyde Park with a woman whose name I will not use – she was socialite-famous – and she was acting completely bizarre, looking over her shoulder the whole time. I came to find out that she had hired a photographer to follow us through the park and gave a whole story to the tabloids about how I was going to meet her family.”

It was his growing fortune, rather than fame, that caused Jackson the most anxiety. “Suddenly, at 19 years old, I was making more in a week than most of my friends’ parents would make in a year,” he says. “It was lovely to have the money, but it was that feeling of nobody is worth that kind of money. You feel like a fraud and it took me a long time to forgive myself for not being the thing that I was perceived as.”

Born in Vancouver, but raised in Topanga, California, until he was eight (before moving back to Vancouver following his parents’ divorce), Jackson bought his childhood home in 2001 and lives in it today with his wife, British Queen & Slim actor Ms Jodie Turner-Smith, and their 15-month-old daughter.

“My father unfortunately was not a good father or a husband and exited the scene, but that house in Topanga was where everything felt simple, so it was a very healing thing for me to do,” he says. Fast-forward to 2021 and his baby daughter now sleeps in her father’s childhood bedroom. “There was a mural of a dragon on the wall in that room that I couldn’t believe was still there, years later. The owner [who sold him the house] said, ‘I knew it meant a lot to somebody and that they were going to come back for it some day.’”

Becoming a first-time parent during a pandemic sounds stressful, but it afforded Jackson months at home with his wife and child that his normal work schedule wouldn’t have allowed.

“I now recognise how perverse the way that we have set up our society is,” he says. “There is not a father I know who works a regular job who didn’t go back to the office a week later. It’s robbing that man of the opportunity to bond with his child and spend time with his partner.”

Despite his obvious career ambitions, fatherhood has changed Jackson’s priorities in “every possible way”, he says. “It’s 100 per cent changed how I approach my work and my life. That has been made so clear to me in this past year. For me to feel good about what I’m doing day to day, my family has to be the central focus.

“There are plenty of things left for me to do, but now the thing that gets me excited is experiencing the world through my daughter’s eyes. I can’t wait to take her scuba diving. I can’t wait to take her skiing. I can’t wait to read a great book with her. I’m not worried at all she’ll be a wallflower. She’s been a character from the word go.”

Jackson met Turner-Smith, 34, two days after his 40th birthday. He had been single since his 10-year relationship with German actress Ms Diane Kruger ended in 2016. “I was not looking to fall in love again or meet the mother of my child, but life has other plans for you,” he says.

The couple met at a party. Turner-Smith was wearing the same The Future Is Female Ejaculation T-shirt Ms Tessa Thompson’s character, Detroit, wears in the 2018 film Sorry To Bother You. “That’s what I used to break the ice. I shouted, ‘Detroit!’ across the room. Not the smoothest thing I’ve ever done, but it worked. We were pretty much inseparable from the word go. It was a whirlwind romance and I can tell my daughter I literally saw her mother across a room and thought, ‘I have to be next to this woman.’”

A self-confessed “useless” shopper, Jackson gives his wife full credit for his current wardrobe. He is jewellery-free, apart from a wedding band and a gold signet “JJ” ring on his little finger (a present from his wife), and discovered tailored sweatsuits (by Stampd and Reigning Champ) in the pandemic.

“Jodie has influence in the way that a wonderful wife encourages you, through love, to dress well. She was like, ‘We’re going to throw away all the sweatpants from your past and I’m going to get you some that actually make you look like an adult male and you will still feel comfortable around the house,’ and I’m like, ‘What an amazing idea!’ Who knew you could get sweatsuits that actually look good on your body?”

Jackson’s style has evolved, he says, “from slovenly teen to it’s-nice-when-your-clothes-actually-fit-you”. The penny dropped after he auditioned for his former co-star Estevez, who was directing the 2006 Mr Robert Kennedy biopic Bobby. He said to me, ‘You only got this job because I know you. You came in here to play a very well-put together 1960s political operative and you’re wearing jeans and a hoodie.’

“I had to grow up a little bit. We are very much raised in Canada to never, ever show off, so it took me a while to recognise it’s OK to look good when you go out.”

Still, when you’ve grown up in front of the camera, “every pimple literally documented”, and lived (very successfully) to tell the tale, you can probably be forgiven for the odd fashion faux pas.

“I wore a silk Ascot to an event once in Paris and I still have nightmares about it,” he says. “I looked like Fred from Scooby Doo, but you live and learn.”

#joshua jackson #interviews #jodie turner smith #dawson's creek #dr death #fringe #emilio estevez #mr porter #patrick stewart #michelle williams #katie holmes

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natromanxoff · 3 years

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Queen live at Elland Road in Leeds, UK - May 29, 1982 (Part-2)

Fan Stories

“We got a coach from my home town (about 2 hours from memory) and drank an ocean of lager on the way, by the time we got there we needed the toilet so badly we could have exploded! We got into the stadium and waited for the first band of the day. Soon enough a not very well known (to me) American band came on called Heart. They weren't bad but did nothing for me. Then came The Teardrop Explodes who tried and who I reckoned did quite well despite the flying bottles of liquid being hurled at them from the crowd. After them was Joan Jett complete with Blackhearts who got the crowd going with "I Love Rock'n'Roll" mainly because Brian appeared at the side of the stage with his daughter to have a look. Eventually after a long wait the stage lights dimmed and a strange cranking sound started up and then you were suddenly aware of the drum beat to Flash thumping out and spotlights chasing around the stadium. This went on for a minute or so and the excitement was unbearable. All of a sudden in an explosion of smoke, lights, guitars, drums... Brian, John and Roger are there blasting out the opening part of The Hero. Seconds later in a gleaming white leather jacket out runs Freddie and it begins... A moment I will never forget along with many others from Queen shows since and before it. I can't say which show was my favourite as I loved them all but that moment WAS Queen, the sheer power, the anticipation, the fantastic musical ability and above all else the way they gave people what they crave more than anything... wonderful memories.” - whiteman

“29th May 1982 - a really nice warm day. We only lived a few miles away so walked down to Elland Road - I can't believe it - Queen live in my home town at the home of the greatest football team in the country (well maybe not now!). Got to the ground early and were allowed in by security, such a relaxed atmosphere. Saw band's soundcheck - great! So hot sun, never went behind stadium roofs. Got best suntan I have ever had! Heard Teardrop Explodes - not bad. Then you are aware of the beat of flash thumping out around the stadium, the smoke rises and bang - they are on! The greatest gig I have ever seen from the greatest live band in history. God bless you, Brian, Roger and John. Rest in peace, Freddie - we will never forget.” - Michael Quine

“This was my second ever gig, the first being Rory Gallagher the year before (I am sure I once read that Rory was one of Brian May's favourite guitarists). Anyway, being only 14 and not yet in the habit of getting off my face at gigs,I can remember that day very clearly. I am convinced I saw someone throw a hamburger at Julian Cope (Teardrop Explodes were going down like a lead balloon), and just as Julian was opening his gob to sing, he CAUGHT IT IN HIS MOUTH. A huge cheer went up, then they stomped off. Somebody, possibly Queen's manager, came on and told everbody to behave. I also remember a fan getting on stage and Freddie expertly rolling him off the stage. I didnt like the Hot Space album much but was chuffed they were still a hard rock band. I bought the next edition of Kerrang mag and the write up of the gig said STUNNING. Great memory.” - Edwin

“I was 15 years old in 1982 when I attended my first ever concert. Fortunately for me, it was QUEEN's show at Leeds AFC ground in the North of England. I remember when my ticket arrived in the post, possibly 2-3 months before the concert, as was often the case in those days. I stuck my ticket on a cork notice board in my bedroom and could barely contain my excitement over the coming weeks. Every morning, I would wake up and look at the yellow ticket, wishing the days away. I imagined everything that could go wrong would. Queen would cancel the gig, I would break my leg, the family pet would die on the morning of the concert and it would be too insensitive of me to go, the transport wouldn't turn up or would break down, there would be a pile up on the motorway, I'd lose my ticket en route, etc, etc. As it turned out, May 29th 1982 was a hot and sunny day, perfect weather for an outdoor gig. I was CRAZY about Queen and had been since the age of 9 but I really didn't know what to expect on that day. Myself and three friends took a coach organised by my Dad's company from Lancashire across the M62 motorway to Leeds. Our excitement began to really take a hold when we arrived at the football ground and we followed the droves of people towards the turnstiles. To me, this was something on a really big scale and I could already hear the hum of the crowd inside. Not really believing that we were actually about to witness a Queen concert, we found our seats on the West Stand, offering a great view of the stage. I remember marvelling at Queen's new lighting rig and the equipment that adorned the stage, shining in the afternoon sunshine. The ground was almost full at this point and the pitch was heaving with people. The atmosphere was relaxed as people bathed in the sunshine. I remember two guys climbing the fence from the stand and attempting to get a better spot by running into the crowd and losing themselves on the pitch. Their efforts were in vain however as they were quickly located and ejected back into the stand by two security guards. We bought some black Hot Space tour shirts (I wore mine with pride until it literally fell apart) and a programme from a vendor inside the ground and waited for the first band to take the stage. A guy near us shouted and punched his way through Heart's set and then left just as they vacated the stage. Obviously not a Queen fan! The Teardrop Explodes suffered at the hands of the Queen congregation and found themselves battling against a shower of bottles and assorted missiles. Other than that, I don't really remember much about the support bands. I think that Bow Wow Wow were billed to play (an odd choice) but I can't recall if they actually turned up. No matter, we were about to witness what is still one of the best gigs I have ever attended.

As the dusk descended upon us, the giant floodlights were extinguished one by one and the memory of the roar that followed still sends shivers down my spine. Dry ice drifted across the heads of the crowd on the pitch as the intro tape of Flash thumped out of the PA and the strange 'grating' noises added to the recording created a foreboding atmosphere. Two of our party were on the pitch and to this day remember their chests thumping in unison to the powerful rhythm. A sea of hands clapped in perfect time to the beat. To me, this was already an amazing experience. And then the big moment. Freddie, resplendent in dazzling white made his entrance to The Hero and the blaze of the lights. An apt number to start with. Before he had even sung a note, the audience were locked tightly in the palm of his hand. Such an entrance, such a showman. "You're a F***in amazing crowd", he exclaimed after the first rush. The beginning of the gig is, in truth, my strongest memory of the show itself. In particular, the "Flash!!!" vocals cutting through the night air with so much volume. I recall being shocked at the sheer power of Queen's performance and the clarity of the huge sound they harnessed. Morgan Fisher's keyboards during 'Action This Day' sounded bright and hypnotic. Freddie's intro to Fat Bottomed Girls caused quite a response too; "the bigger the t*t the better it is!". I also remember the follow spots darting wildly over the crowd during 'Tie Your Mother Down' and everybody going crazy. Oddly enough (and this is something I still swear by to this day), I was in a Maths lesson at school the following Monday and I swear I had a flashback of this and could actually 'hear' the music being re-played in my head. It was a weird moment and life was never quite the same again. We talked endlessly about our experience for months to come and one of my biggest regrets is not jumping on a train to attend the filmed Milton Keynes show a week later. Having been to so many gigs since, I can honestly say that there is nobody who has been able to top Queen live; I was lucky enough to see the band five times between 1982 and 1986, including Wembley Stadium and their last show at Knebworth. I think that my personal favourite was their performance at the NEC in Birmingham on 'The Works' tour in 1984. People were literally stood there with open mouths, unable to believe how good they were. Leeds is definitely up there too. I recall Brian May stating that he thought it was one of their best performances ever. I can't argue with that Mr May. I've often wondered if an audience shot cine film or even just photographs exist from the Leeds gig. It would be a dream come true to see my memories come to life again.” - Keith Lambert

“I can't believe it was 30 years ago that I attended my first ever gig at Elland Rd Leeds in 1982. I was 17 years old at the time, I was into Queen when I first heard seven seas of rhye, which was so different to all the other stuff around at the time. I'd heard them live on tv, and had Live Killers. Also I used to buy bootleg cassettes of all of their tours from 74 onwards. But nothing could prepare me for that day. They should have played this gig at Old Trafford Manchester, my home town, so I was gutted when the residents opposed it. Tickets were very easy to come by, believe it or not, cos Queen were not seen as a relevant band at that time. Also touring the Hot Space album didn't seem to excite anybody. So, Billy no mates had to go on his own, haha. My memory is a bit hazy, but I will try my best. I got to the ground about 1pm, and was lucky enough to have a pitch ticket. I got right to the front, well about 10 yards from the stage, slightly off centre and to the right. If I told you I never moved from that spot all day and never spoke to anyone, would you believe me? One of the reasons for this is the rivalry between Manchester and Leeds, also I was only a kid, haha. Not sure who was first on, probably Teardrop Explodes, Julian Cope, I remember while they were throwing bottles at him, picked one up and started hitting himself with it and stretching his arms out saying he was an Argentinian bomber or something. It was during the Falklands war, remember. Then Heart came on, not really my cup of tea, and I had a lie down on the tarpaulin and tried to go to sleep. Then Joan Jett, who was better than the rest, but not really exciting. During the band changes, I remember the roadies polishing Roger's drum kit and climbing up ropes and those threepronged lights, which before I saw them move I thought they were cameras. Queen took ages to come on. From my recollection and I might be wrong, they didn't come on until 10pm and went off around Midnight. I heard later that they got fined so much per minute for being late on stage but they wanted to wait until it was dark for the lighting rig to take effect. If you watch the Bowl DVD you will notice it was light when they came on stage there. But that was being filmed by Channel 4. But it was absolutely pitch black when they came on stage at Leeds. Then the floodlights went off, smoke started to appear and strange noises started, which I can't describe, sorry. Then Flash's Theme started, it was loud, very, very loud. I knew they were supposed to be loud and this was the part that scared me. The ground was thumping, the bass just pumping away. The these 'cameras' flicked into life, with men on them. The intro seemed to last for a very long time. Then BANG Brian appears with the first chord of The Hero and a flash of the biggest white light I've ever seen and will never forget and the absolute loudest noise I have ever heard just hit me. The intro was quite in comparrision to this. When I play Live at the Bowl, I tend to repeat the intro and The Hero, virtually every time, because it was definitely a life changing experience for me at that moment, just incredible. Then Freddie appeared in brilliant white again, I was that close, I swear His hair seemed blue because of the mass of white lights. His voice, so loud, so clear, honestly, I can't describe that moment properly. I heard Freddie swear, saw Roger spitting, quite a lot, over his drum kit and onto the stage, I was bewildered.

When they did Play The Game and also Somebody To Love, when Freddie was doing the intros for them and it will sound strange to those that weren't there, but I didn't know what the songs were. I thought they was new unreleased songs. The reason was they was so loud, It kind of deafened you and then kind of sunk in what they were about to play. Then the rest of the gig flew by and I was singing my head off. Everyone was, but you could only hear Queen. Again my memory may be wrong, but I read afterwards that Queen had paid for residents to move out of their homes for the day. These houses were monitored and they said that the sound was like Concorde flying 10 feet over your head... Yep I will buy that. For all that and for all the bad things said about it, The Works tour, which I went to all the 4 origional England gigs they had planned, was the best tour they ever did. The set list was fantastic and the lighting rig was incredible. Not as loud, I also add. I also saw them in Manchester, 86. They had to be off stage by 10pm and noise levels had to be adhered to. I was too far awy to see them and the screens didn't come on because it was too light. Also I couldn't here them properly. I've watched the mMagic Tour gigs on DVD etc, but for me, that was the poorest tour they ever did. So that's it, hopefully some of you can confirm my bad memory, or say I'm wrong. Hopefully not bored you all. But it was the greatest musical experience I ever witnessed and I am proud I was there.” - Paul Wakefield

Part-1

(x)

#queen #queen band #roger taylor #freddie mercury #brian may #john deacon #queen concerts

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davidobitch · 4 years

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Traditions | Timothee Chalamet

okay so I’m well aware I don’t ever write for Timothee Chalamet but I really wanted to write this and it didn’t seem fitting for anyone else I usually write about?? I hope you like it even though the timing is like...18 days late...oops

I didn’t proof read this so my apologies if it sounds like a 5th grader wrote it.

anything written in italics is the past! enjoy xx

3 years. 156 weeks. 1,095 days.

That’s how long you’ve spent with Timothee. You love him with everything you have inside you but things haven’t been okay lately, not for the past year almost. Neither of you wanted this to be ‘right person, wrong time’. You both tried to fight for your relationship to work out and go back to how things used to be...but that was up until last month.

Timothee has been busy with his movies and you’ve been busy with your business. With the year coming to an end, you both and to get everything done before the new year. You tried not to think that this was the end. You kept telling yourself that it was only for this month then you and Timothee could go back to working everything out. But part of you knew that maybe this really was the end.

You were just getting home from a launch party when Timothee was getting ready to leave.

“Hi,” you said quietly, dropping your purse on the table, “Another shoot?” you kept your eyes on your boyfriend, watching him go over his mental checklist of everything he needed.

Timothee nodded his head, turning in circles looking for what was probably his keys. You glanced behind him, seeing them in the other room on the coffee table.

Passing by him, Timothee followed you with his eyes hoping you weren’t walking away from him without a goodbye. He heard his keys jingle in your shot and let out a sigh of relief.

“Thank you,” he breathed out, standing in front of you. His hand lingered on yours, letting his fingers trace your bones.

“Promise me you’ll be back tonight?” your stare was fixed on your intertwined hands, not wanting him to let go.

Timothee squeezed your hand before pulling away, “Of course. You know I’ll be here.”

You and Timothee always threw a New Years Eve party, it was something both of you looked forward to each year.

He gave you a quick kiss before leaving the house, letting silence seep through the walls. It hasn’t been long since you started staying at Timothee’s daily. It’s only been a year, if that, which ironically is when everything started going wrong in the relationship. Coincidence? Probably, but you refused to believe that. Most nights you couldn’t help but wonder if you moving in was the reason you guys started fighting almost weekly.

Shaking yourself from your thoughts, you started picking up around the place, wanting the house to be spotless by tonight.

You have sent Timothee countless texts reminding him what time people will be over and last minute things he needed to buy. It’s been three hours and you haven’t heard back from him. You assumed he was just getting caught up in shooting or discussing work stuff, but when another three hours passed by with no call or texts, you had a bad feeling he was bailing out tonight.

You texted Timmy again, another reminder of what time to be home and asking him to pick up the rest of the party stuff for you. You begged him not to be late tonight, or even just not show up at all. Time was slowly running out and you decided to just run out and buy everything yourself. On the verge of tears, you called Timothee and to your dismay...it went straight to voicemail. You tried holding in your cries as you left him yet another message, telling him tonight was make or break the relationship. It was either he shows up by midnight or you pack your bags tomorrow morning and move out. You didn’t care anymore as you let your feelings out fully for the first time in months.

You needed the drive home to clear your head and gather yourself before having to pretend your relationship is perfect.

It was just barely 9pm and you still had to hurry up and be ready by 10. You called a couple friends to come over early to help finish setting up so you can shower and look presentable.

“Thank you guys so much,” you said as you entered the kitchen where your friends were arranging the cups and drinks, “T’s been so caught up at work today. I just- I love you guys.”

“We love you of course,” your friend, Ashley says as she grabs a bottle of tequila and 3 glasses, “To a new year,” she says, raising her glass.

“To a new year,” you and your other friend say in unison.

The liquid burns as it travels down your throat, warming your entire body. You took another shot before going back to finish getting ready.

You picked out your best little black dress, wanting Timothee to see what he’s losing if he decides to not show up tonight. Your hair was curled, your face was glammed up, and you were ready to black out everything tonight.

You finished just in time for all your’s and Timothee’s friends to show up, letting the night begin.

You were about 5 tequila shots and 3 drinks in when the clock hit 11:45. You checked your phone seeing you had no calls or texts from your boyfriend. You were losing hope with every passing second and you didn’t care to hide it anymore.

You were on the balcony with your friends when your mouth started to ramble. “T isn’t coming tonight. Or at least I don’t think he is. He’s been gone for the past 15 hours and I’m pretty sure we’re breaking up tonight. Fuck we should’ve broken up a year ago. You know nothing has been the same since I moved in?” You took another drink before continuing, silently hoping your friends would cut you off any second now, “We haven’t had sex in god knows how long. I don’t get to see him for longer than 4 minutes a day. We tried so hard to make things work which was such a bullshit move.” You let out a shaky breath, knowing you were a couple words away from crying and that was the last thing you wanted to do tonight. Finishing off your drink, you closed your eyes and let the night breeze calm you down.

“We see more than you think, y/n,” Ashley says, pouring half of her cup into yours, “We just don’t say anything. You know we love you and we will continue to support you no matter what you choose to do.”

“And don’t give up on Timmy not coming just yet. He still has 5 minutes!” you sip on your drink, trying to remain optimistic. Olivia’s right, he still has time..but if he hasn’t showed up in the past 5 hours, he’s not going to in the next 5 minutes.

“I really thought he was the one, y’know?” you mutter into your cup, watching the liquid swish from side to side.

Your friends wrap their arms around you, pulling you in for a group hug. “Come on, let’s do a couple shots before the ball drops.” Olivia pulls you back inside and to the kitchen, placing 2 shot glasses in front of each of you.

“Cheers to 2021. A year of new beginnings and more memories than we will remember!” Ashley yells, bringing her glass up.

11:58. You knocked one of the shots back, allowing it to fog your brain.

“Cheers to y/n, for being the toughest bitch we know,” Olivia shouts as she raises her glass, you and Ashlet following her actions.

11:59. Another shot down.

You glanced around the room as there was 30 seconds left in the year. No tall, lanky, brown haired boy in sight. You wanted to cry and scream and run out of the house but instead, you grabbed the bottle of vodka and made your way to the balcony.

You caught your friends attention, shaking your head as if to tell them you’re fine but not to follow you. The glass door slid shut behind you as everyone started counting down.

“10!”

“Kiss me tonight,” you boldly said to Timothee, “None of our friends are single. We’re the only losers who have nobody. So be my new year’s kiss.” The first new year’s eve you and Timmy spent together. Your first year of being friends.

“9!”

“Are you going to force me into kissing you again?” Timothee jokes as he comes up behind you, almost causing you to spill your drink from scaring you.

“First of all, you can’t creep up on a girl like that!” you swatted at his chest before taking a sip of your drink, “Second of all, I didn’t force you to do anything.” Everyone around you was counting down, “Third of all,” just as the clock hit 12:00, you pulled Tim’s face to your level, gently pressing your lips to his, “absolutely.”

“8!”

You had spent the entire night by Timothee’s side. This was your first year spending New Years with just him and his hometown friends. You felt lost without your usual crew bullying you into kissing Timmy for another year. “What do you say we do this every year,” Timothee nuzzled his head into the crook of your neck, placing light kisses on your skin.

You let out a giggle, confused at his choice of words, “T we do this every year already,” you turned around to face him, your hands playing with the bottom of his shirt.

“No I mean as a couple. I want you to be my girlfriend,”

“7!”

“I love you,” Timothee drunkenly yelled in your ear, causing a bright smile to spread across your face.

“You’re drunk, baby,” you rolled your eyes. Neither of you have said the L word before and this wasn’t the way you expected it to happen.

“Maybe, but I don’t want to spend another year not telling you every day.”

“6!”

“Timmy!” you yelled over the music, wrapping your arms around his waist, “You have 5 seconds to kiss me or I’m finding another boy!” you giggled as Timothee turned around in your arms, grabbing your face and pulling you into him just as the new year hit.

“5!”

You were crowded into a small corner of your friends kitchen, having been forced to spend the night with them instead of your boyfriend. Timothee was out in New York for a photoshoot and couldn’t make it home in time for your “tradition”.

“I wish you were here,” you mumbled, making a pouty face at your phone screen, “Now I have to kiss Ashley this year and that’s not fun!” You yelled, hoping she would hear you from across the way. You changed your camera to face here, showing Timothee her middle finger in the air, “See, she’s mean. And so are you for not being here.”

Your eyes wandered to the time on the stove clock, seeing as it just hit midnight.

“Happy new year, baby,” Timothee says. You look down at your phone screen to see the facetime was over. Confused as to how the call ended but you could still hear his voice, you glanced up at your friends to see them all staring at you with giddy smiles.

“Can you turn around and kiss me already?” Tears blurred your vision as you quickly spun around and jumped into your boyfriend’s arms.

“4!”

“Please please please don’t hate me,” Timothee says as he wraps his arms around you. “I didn’t realize the time and I know I fucked up, but you know I wouldn’t miss this for the world, y/n” This was the first year he almost missed being your new year’s kiss and as much as you wanted to kill him for it, you knew it wasn’t his fault.

“You’re so fucking lucky you’re cute,” you said, shaking your head and pulling on his shirt, bringing his body into yours.

“3!”

Another shot in your system, trying to rid the memories of the past 7 New Year’s Eve nights. Your mind started playing games with you. Timothee’s voice was echoing all around you, like he was actually with you.

“2!”

“Baby,” you could hear Timmy say, but you tried to push it out of your thoughts. “Please don’t ignore me. I’m so fucking sorry,” You could smell his cologne behind you as a warm touch could be felt on your wrist. Your breath was shaky as you turned to face the man behind you, hoping this was reality and you weren’t drunkenly imagining this.

“1!”

“I’m here. I’m always going to be here. For the next whatever years, I’m 100% here. No more long days without you. No more missing date nights. This is my promise to you, y/n.” Timothee says, his eyes filled with liquid.

“Happy new year!”

You threw your arms around his neck, almost falling backwards as you crashed your lips into his. “I love you, forever.” you muttered against his lips, “Thank you, T.”

*****

“Why can’t we just spend this year at home with our friends like we always do?” you asked Timothee as he pulled you out onto the balcony with him. This year he took you to Paris for New Years Eve and as grateful as you were for this mini trip, you didn’t want to break tradition.

“Because like you said, we spend every year at home with our friends. It’s never been just us.”

Ever since he promised to put more time into the relationship, everything has been almost perfect. Of course you still had your occasional fight, but that’s to be expected and it was never over anything stupid. Well...most of the time.

“I guess it would be nice to spend it alone,” you leaned your head against Timothee’s chest as you took in the site in front of you.

The hotel room had a perfect view of the Eiffel Tower, dead center in front of you. You’ve seen the structure many times in the past but it was never this beautiful.

“I love you, you know that?” he whispers against your neck, his hands gently squeezing your hips.

You nodded but stayed silent, letting the music from inside fill the space around you. Timothee started to sway with you as your favorite song started to play in the background.

“I would love to assume it’s such a coincidence that Robbers is playing right now,” you smiled, teasing your boyfriend, “But I guess I should give you credit for planning this.”

Timothee takes your hand in his and spins you around into him as his other hand settles on your hip.

The two of you danced around the balcony together as your song went on and all of Paris could be heard counting down the end of the year.

“Last year I made you a promise to put more effort in. We had a hard year and I know I put you through a lot and I can’t apologize enough for that, baby. But here we are 365 days later, getting to have another new year’s kiss together. I thank you every day for forcing me to kiss you all those years ago ‘cause we both know I would have never had the balls to make the move.” Timothee’s voice was soft, barely even audible with all the other noise happening around you. “But a lot has changed since that first kiss. A lot between us but also with us separately. I never want to spend New Years, let alone any day, without you.” Timothee abruptly stopped moving and pulled away from you as fireworks were being set off all around the city. You pulled your eyes from him for a split second to watch the sky light up with different colors.

What you didn’t expect to see when you brought your attention back to him, was Timmy on one knee, with a ring being held up towards you.

“I’m making another promise to you, to love you forever, to always put you first. You’ve been my life for the past 6 years and even though we were together for only 4 of those years, I still couldn’t imagine you not being in my life. You’re my best friend. Mon amour. I want to spend every waking moment with you. I want you to yell at me when my socks are in random parts of the house. I want to have little mini versions of us running around and drawing on walls. When all my dreams come true, you’re the one I want next to me. It’s you, baby. It’s always been you. Marry me, y/n.”

Your hand flew to your mouth as you vigorously nodded your head. You didn’t give Timothee the chance to stand up before you fell to your knees in front of him, falling into his arms. “Of course I’ll marry you, T. You’re the only person I ever want to spend my life with. I love you so so much, mon amour.” You cried as you placed kisses all over his face.

#Timothy chalamet #Timothee chalamet imagine #tchal #tc #masterlist #prompt #imagine #timmy chalamet #timothee fanfic

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ohitshoneybee · 3 years

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Sleepover

Loki (2021) Self Insert AU

Summary: An odd group of friends has a movie night in one of the Time Theaters, and shenanigans ensue.

Word Count: 1384

Warnings: Tooth rotting fluff, that's it

A/N: You guys. My first ever fic here on tumblr?? I'm so hyped, y'all have no idea! Special thanks to @nebulousfishgills for being my motivation and helping co-create this funky AU and for creating this *incredible* mood board! Enjoy.

The sight of a mountain of blankets, pillows, and other soft items sitting in Time Theater 27, along with a buffet of cookies, chips, and drinks, wasn't unusual. The appearance of the Time Door, precisely at half-past eight wasn't odd either. In fact, it had become a sort of routine for a handful of TVA employees. Ravonna always showed up early to set things up, Casey and Hunter B-15 not far behind. Mobius strolling in at around ten till, with Loki, Olivia, and Sylvie showing up at nine on the dot.

Now, you may have asked yourself, 'What relevance does the time door have? Are we missing someone? And why all the blankets and everything?' Well dear reader, at approximately eight-forty, Oliver walks through the door for the final time that night, the last armful of blankets and tray of brownies in hand.

A cheery "Hey B-15! I made your favorite brownies again!" heard from across the room piques the hunter’s interest, as well as Mobius'.

"Oliver! You made it! I mean of course you made it, what am I even saying? Whatever, come sit down!" Mobius jumps up to accept the platter of brownies, sneaking a couple before anyone else could get to them. Olivia and Loki, arm in arm, saunter over to greet Oliver.

"Hey, you're here! And just in time too, we were about to pick tonight’s genre!” Olivia snatches the tray from Mobius’ hand, setting it on the buffet table. “Yeah? What are the options? And for the love of the Gods, don’t tell me there’s horror on the list, I’m not playing ‘Snakes and Ladders’ in the corner with Miss Minutes again. No offense, but I’d rather hang out with everyone, rather than sit in the corner for almost two hours.” Oliver smiles and elbows Olivia in the arm, dropping their pile of blankets next to the table.

“I am pleased to inform you that we have comedy or adventure as our picks tonight! Votes starting with Ravonna, as always,” B-15 chimes in, cutting Olivia off before she could retort.

“Comedy,” Ravonna starts.

“I think I’d like adventure,” says Casey.

“Ditto, on the adventure,” from Mobius.

“Comedy,” Sylvie and Loki respond, in unison.

“Adventure!” Olivia exclaims, striking a rather piratey pose.

“Adventure for me too, hon,” Miss Minutes nods to the hunter.

“And comedy for me,” B-15 notes.

“Oliver, that leaves you as the tiebreaker. Chose carefully,” Mobius teases.

“Well... I think I’ll pick… adventure?” Oliver answers, earning groans from half of the group and cheers from the other half.

Olivia, quite literally jumping with joy, just about tackles Oliver with a hug. “I knew I could count on you! Unlike those weirdos over there,” Olivia sticks her tongue out at Loki and Sylvie, earning an amused chuckle from Loki.

Mobius waves Ravonna over, talking to her in hushed tones, as to not disrupt the rest of the group. “Ravonna, I still think we should get one of those popcorn machines for these movie night sleepover things.. It isn’t fair to Oliver that they have to run back and forth whenever we want popcorn.”

“Mobius… it’s already hard enough to hide all of these blankets and the table and, well… everything. I just don’t know where we would put the popcorn maker. On top of that, none of us would even know how to use it!”

“Well, it can’t be that hard to figure out, I’ve seen kids on Earth use them and it’s gone fine for them!” Mobius argues.

“I’ll… I’ll think about it, okay? Just.. Don’t get your hopes up,” Ravonna sighs, waving Mobius off.

The projector boots up, and with a flicker of golden hues, the title screen for ‘The Mummy’ appears, earning a cheer from Oliver, who is wrapped up in a white comforter with a plate of various snacks in their lap.

“What? This movie was my bisexual awakening, it holds a special place in my heart because of it,” they defend, albeit through a mouthful of brownie.

“Nobody was judging you, Oliver, we were just a little...surprised,” Sylvie responds, snuggling closer to Olivia.

“You know what else is surprising? The fact that you three haven’t run off to a broom closet yet,” B-15 interrupts.

“Yeah, well, at least Oliver isn’t climbing over me yet,” Mobius teases.

“Wait, has nobody told you? Yeah, when you’re asleep, you end up snuggled with Mobius, no matter where in the room you are,” Olivia adds, rather suggestively.

“W-Well, there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation! Uh.. yeah.. an explanation…” Oliver mutters, flustered and embarrassed.

“Hey, nobody said they were bothered. I’m certainly not. There’s no need to stress over it,” Mobius adds, trying his best to be comforting.

B-15 shushes the group as the opening scene starts, the room bathed in golden hues.

Halfway through the movie, Oliver is already asleep, curled up with three or four pillows and a mountain of blankets, as well as a green cactus plushie. Ravonna is the only thing between Loki and Sylvie staking piles of Cheez-Its on their face, and Casey and B-15 are quietly chatting about the movie so far. Olivia is laying on her stomach, the blanket over her slightly askew, and Mobius is up getting more snacks.

“You really are a bottomless pit, aren’t you Moby Dick?” Olivia jokes. The nickname ‘Moby Dick’ caught on when Olivia showed up to the TVA and used it to poke fun at the analyst. After that, it stuck and is just a bit of fun.

“Yeah, well you kinda eat whatever you can when you live off the food here. Ollie’s baking is a real treat, so I’m enjoying it while I can,” Mobius retorts, stacking his plate with chips and the last of the brownies.

“Loki, Sylvie, stop it. Oliver isn’t gonna be happy when they go home and their cat is licking their face when they smell like Cheez-Its,” Ravonna whisper-yells at the pair as she throws a pillow and nails Sylvie in the face.

“Oh, I see how it is, old lady. It’s on!” Sylvie grabs the pillow and climbs over Oliver, running for Ravonna. “Pillow fiiiiiight!”

Oliver sits up and rubs the sleep from their eyes, almost immediately getting hit in the face with a pillow thrown by Mobius. “Oh so suddenly I’m not your favorite, Moby? I’ll just take those brownies back!” They grab their cactus plush and chuck it at the analyst, ducking with a squeal of surprise as another pillow flies past their head.

“Nobody decks Mobius like that except for me!” B-15 shouts, standing over a mountain of pillows.

“Hey, that’s not cool! You can’t hog the pillows!” Casey protests, ducking behind the food table.

“Well neither is teaming up, but us three already have!” Olivia announces, using Loki and Sylvie as shields to avoid getting hit with a pillow from Ravonna.

“Oh come on! That would’ve hit you!”

“Moby! Catch!” as Oliver chucks a couple of pillows in rapid succession. “You’ll never win! Not against me!”

“That’s where you’re wrong, hon,” Miss Minutes pops up next to Oliver and whacks them in the arm with a decorative pillow, a distinct rip heard through the room as stuffing flies.

“Oh. My. Gods. You’re so dead!” Sylvie shouts with a smile, and suddenly, alarms are blaring. Ravonna fishes through the pockets in her pajamas for her TemPad.

With a sigh of relief, she announces to the group, “It’s not an emergency, but I’m going to need to borrow you two for a bit,” she says, nodding to Mobius and B-15.

“Let’s make it a group trip since it isn’t an emergency!” Olivia proposes, earning a groan of disapproval from Ravonna and B-15, almost in unison.

“Olivia, we’ve been over this. Oliver isn’t allowed anywhere else in the TVA, other than here and the bathroom. If anything were to happen to them, I’d be the one to blame, and I’m not taking that risk.”

“Ravonna’s right, it’s a miracle that having Ollie here hasn’t created a Nexus event yet. Who knows what would happen if something went wrong,” Mobius reasons.

With a reluctant sigh, Oliver, Olivia, Loki, Sylvie, and Casey settle back into their respective blanket piles and finish the movie while B-15, Ravonna, and Mobius run off to handle the cause of the alarms.

#mobius #loki 2021 #loki #sylvie #ravonna renslayer #b-15 #loki x oc x sylvie #self insert #queer #lgbtq

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introvertguide · 4 years

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Saving Private Ryan (1998); AFI #71

The next film on the list is one of the best films of any genre, Saving Private Ryan (1998). This is what I consider the best war film of all time despite how overwhelming it is to watch. Maybe it is because it is so difficult to watch, since the movie was nominated for 11 Academy Awards and received five trophies. Because of the ensemble cast and almost complete lack of women, the film was never going to garner much in the way of acting awards. Like the soldiers who they hoped to portray, these actors shouldn’t have expected much individual recognition. This movie affected me greatly, and I would like to delve into that after going through the story line.

MAJOR SPOILER WARNING!!! BECAUSE OF THE NATURE OF THE FILM, EVERYTHING THAT COULD POSSIBLY BE REVEALED AS FAR AS PLOT IS GIVEN AWAY BELOW!!!

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In the present day, an elderly man visits the Normandy Cemetery with his family. At a tombstone, he falls to his knees in anguish. The establishing shots showing the mass of grave stones is overwhelming from the get-go. The movie transitions from the graveyard to a landing boat at the battle of Normandy. Be prepared because it is about to get rough.

On the morning of June 6, 1944, American soldiers land at Omaha Beach as part of the Normandy invasion. Everything goes bad immediately as machine guns and mortars literally tear the landing soldiers to shreds. Soldiers are screaming for their mothers as they die on the beach. There is no going back into the ocean so the soldiers have run into the machine gun fire. Captain John H. Miller (Tom Hanks) of the 2nd Ranger Battalion leads a breakout from the beach that makes it through to the German encampment. It is about 15 minutes of carnage and nobody will blame you if you want to forward through this until the action cools down. Elsewhere on the beach, a dead soldier lies face-down in the bloody surf; his pack is stenciled Ryan, S. It is at this point I would recommend taking a breather if you need one.

Continuing on, we are shifted to Washington, D.C., at the War Department (keep an eye out for Bryan Cranston with one arm), where General George C. Marshall learns that three of the four sons of the Ryan family were killed in action within a short time of one another. Daniel Ryan in New Guinea shortly before D-Day, Sean Ryan at Omaha Beach, and Peter Ryan at Utah Beach: all dead with letters arriving the same day for their mother. The fourth son, James Francis Ryan, is with the 101st Airborne Division somewhere in Normandy. After reading Abraham Lincoln's Bixby letter, which is meant to comfort grieving parents, aloud, Marshall orders Ryan found and brought home.

Three days after D-Day, Miller receives orders to find Ryan and bring him back. He chooses seven men from his company for the job—T/Sgt. Mike Horvath (Tom Sizemore), Privates First Class Richard Reiben (Edward Burns) and Adrian Caparzo (Vin Diesel), Privates Stanley Mellish (Adam Goldberg) and Daniel Jackson (Barry Pepper), T/4 medic Irwin Wade (Giovanni Ribisi) and T/5 Timothy Upham (Jeremy Davies), an interpreter from the 29th Infantry Division. The group moves out to Neuville where they meet a squad of the 101st engaged against the enemy and both Ted Danson and Paul Giamatti show up. THe group searching for Ryan bump into a stranded French family who try to give over their children but a German sniper breaks up the party. Caparzo is killed by a German sniper, who is then killed by Jackson (who makes the most amazing shot that legends are made of). They locate a Private James Ryan (Nathan Fillion), only to learn that he is James Frederick Ryan. On the point of giving up, the Captain starts asking random passing soldiers and learns that Ryan is defending an important bridge in Ramelle.

Near Ramelle, Miller decides to neutralize a German machine gun position at a derelict radar station, despite his men's misgivings. It does not go well and the medic, Wade, is killed in the process. They take a German soldier that they name Steamboat Willie (Joerg Stadler) who gives up willingly and pleads for his life. The men are angry and want to kill the soldier since they can’t take any extras, so, at Upham's urging, Miller frees the surviving German soldier. Losing confidence in Miller's leadership, Reiben declares his intention to desert, prompting a confrontation with Horvath, who threatens to shoot him. Miller defuses the standoff by disclosing his civilian career as a high school English teacher in a small Pennsylvania town.

At Ramelle, they find Ryan (Matt Damon) among a small group of paratroopers preparing to defend the key bridge against an imminent German attack. Miller tells Ryan that his brothers are dead, and that he was ordered to bring him home. Ryan is distressed about his brothers, but is unwilling to leave his post. Miller combines his unit with the paratroopers in defense of the bridge. He devises a plan to ambush the enemy with two .30-caliber machine guns, Molotov cocktails, anti-tank mines, and improvised satchel charges made from socks. It is basically suicide so the bridge is wired to explode in case it can’t be held.

Now is a time to take a breather if you need one because it is about to get bad again. Elements of the 2nd SS Panzer Division arrive with two Tiger tanks and two Marder tank destroyers, all protected by infantry. The small American group holds off the force the best they can, Although they inflict heavy damage on the Germans, nearly all of the paratroopers, along with Jackson, Mellish and Horvath, are killed. It turns out that Steamboat Willie joined the group and he personally kills Mellish with a Nazi youth knife (it is horrible) and shoots Miller Captain Miller as he attempts to blow up the bridge. Miller crawls to retrieve the bridge detonator, and fires ineffectually but defiantly with his pistol at an oncoming tank. As the tank reaches the bridge, an American P-51 Mustang flies overhead and destroys the tank, after which American armored units arrive to rout the remaining Germans. With the Germans in full retreat, Upham emerges from hiding and shoots Steamboat Willie dead, having witnessed him shooting Miller, but allows his fellow soldiers to flee.

Miller tells Ryan to “earn this” before dying from his injuries. As the scene transitions to the present, Ryan is revealed to be the veteran from the beginning of the film, and is standing in front of Miller's grave expressing his gratitude for the sacrifices Miller and his unit made in the past. Ryan asks his wife if he was worthy of such sacrifice, to which she replies that he is. The final scene shows Ryan saluting Miller's grave and fades to the American flag gently waving in the breeze.

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I really have a hard time getting through this film without pausing and taking a breather. I saw the film in the theater when I was 18, so my friends and I were all around the age that these soldiers would have been that rushed that beach and retook France. It was truly terrifying. Now I am old and have back issues, so I wouldn’t be put on a front line, but the kids that I work with and care for would be the exact age to be caught in a draft and that scares me even more. The creative ways in which man finds to kill one another is the greatest threat to humanity.

The first two times I saw the film, I did not realize that it was the same German soldier that the group had captured who eventually killed many of the group we were following. It really changes the message in the end. I had thought that Captain Miller had showed his humanity showing mercy, but it turns out that this mercy is misplaced. Now it seems like Spielberg is saying that neither humanity, nor religion, nor innocence, nor skill, nor even intelligence can save a man in the heat of battle. The only way to live is to watch the back of your group and protect each other like family.

There was a little bit of a travesty that occurred at the Academy in early 1999, because this film lost out in the Best Picture category to Shakespeare in Love. This is the same year that also saw Saving Private Ryan, The Truman Show, Life is Beautiful, Elizabeth, and The Thin Red Line. There had to be something behind that because I wouldn’t consider the winner even in the top 5. Shakespeare in Love is considered one of the worst Best Picture winners along with Crash and The Artist. Oscars are not everything and this movie is one of the best examples of this.

When I say that some of the scenes from this movie are difficult, I really do mean it. There was a hotline set up for people who have PTSD that was triggered by the film. One of the actual members of the 101st Airborne, Major Richard Winters, was consulted about the occurrences surrounding the attack. He said that it brought up many memories that he had worked hard to suppress because he had been taught that war veterans couldn’t express the psychological pain of battle. He also said that it was an important film that revealed what war was really like.

On Veteran’s Day in 2001 and 2004, ABC aired the film uncut with limited commercial interruptions. Living in California, I was able to watch the film on both of those occasions and remember getting my girlfriend at the time to watch in 2004. The film has become like a memorial to Americans lost in the European Campaign during WW2, so I treat viewing as a badge of honor and understanding, no matter how difficult it is to watch.

This film is a pretty easy answer when it comes to the standard questions for the most part. Does this film belong on the AFI top 100? Of course. It is the new benchmark for which all American war films will be judged. It is historically accurate, it is beautifully shot and directed, and it leaves a lasting impression far longer than just about any movie I have seen. Would I recommend it? This one has an age warning. It is not appropriate for young children because the first and last battle scenes are nightmare fuel. Even worse, they are apparently very realistic. It is hard to recommend something that is so scarring, but it will keep people for glorifying battle. It is horrific and should be avoided as much as possible. And that is a lesson that I believe this movie teaches better than any other. So please give this movie a watch and feel free to take a break if you need it.

#tom hanks #saving private ryan #d-day #veterans #best director #1998 #war films #steven spielberg #normandy #introvert #introverts #matt damon #vin diesel #bryan cranston

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trivialoveclub · 4 years

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2020 Year in Review!

hey! i was tagged by the absolute angel that is ⚘ @unefleurofferte ⚘(tysm my love! 💞) for this 2020 tag! first off (even tho it's the middle of january already 🤡) i wanted to wish everyone a happy new year! not to get sappy 💀 but even tho i don't rlly talk/interact that much, it brings me a lot of happiness seeing u guys on my dash 🥺💗 i genuinely am supporting and rooting for you all and i wish u guys all the love and kindness in this new year bc you deserve it babes 💖

Rules: answer the questions about 2020 and tag some people to pass it on!

5 Fav Films You Watched in 2020

🎬 Soul (2020) "Your spark isn't your purpose. That last box fills in when you're ready to come live."

🎬 Onward (2020) "I never had a dad, but I always had you."

🎬 Klaus (2019) "A true selfless act always sparks another."

🎬 Diecisiete (2019) "You think I'd be doing all of this if I had no heart?

Maybe you're trying to get it back."

🎬 East Side Sushi (2014) "You know behind every great restaurant here, there are great latinos, in the back, in the kitchen, hidden. Prepping the food and making you all look good. Well, I don't want to be in the back anymore."

5 Fav TV Shows You Watched In 2020

📺 Like in The Movies (2020) "Do you ever feel like you're not the protagonist of your own story?"

📺 Given (2019) "Do you have anyone you like, Haruki-san? If that person suddenly disappeared from this world, what would you say?"

📺 Banana Fish (2018) "My soul is always with you."

📺 Masterchef Junior (2013-) Not a quote but Gordon Ramsay always says the dishes has "finesse" and now i can't stop saying it in everything 😭

📺 Next in Fashion (2020)

5 Fav Songs You Listened To In 2020

🎶 UGH! : BTS 🎶 "You're allowed to be angry, but bothering someone else's life, I don't like"

🎶 Fuyu No Hanashi : Given 🎶 "Just like the snow that hasn't completely melted in the shade I continue on with these feelings inside of me."

🎶 So Beautiful : DPR Ian 🎶 "My love is turning kinda gray / My heart is looking the other way."

🎶 PSYCHE : Joohoney 🎶 "All of the world pay attention"

🎶 Stay Tonight : Chungha 🎶 "Tell me what you wanna do, run away or stay tonight"

Top 5 Albums of 2020

💿 Map of The Soul 7 : BTS

UGH! ⏯ Black Swan ⏯ Inner Child

💿 Fatal Love : Monsta X

Sorry I'm Not Sorry ⏯ Nobody Else ⏯ Guess Who

💿 Ungodly Hour : Chloe x Halle

ROYL ⏯ Forgive Me ⏯ Lonely

💿 Mixtape [ PSYCHE ] : Joohoney

PSYCHE ⏯ Intro (Ambition) ⏯ DIA

💿 Chromatica : Lady Gaga

Replay ⏯ Sour Candy ⏯ Alice

Top 5 Books You Read in 2020

🤡 🤡 🤡

...i haven't read for fun in years 😔 i used to read a book every single day :(( but! i already have a list of ones i want to read so this year for sure im gonna be that girl again 🤧💅🏼

💌 How did you spend your birthday this year? 💌

uh hahaha 🤡 suddenly i can't read 🤡

well...i had to take my drivers test but i had no idea how to park so i mean obvs i was gonna fail 💀 so i got super anxious and then had a breakdown in the back seat when it was getting closer to my turn 😭 my parents had to reschedule it and take me home. i felt like such a disappointment. so it started off absolutely horrible, fortunately the rest of the day was a lot better but oof 🤪

💌 What was your most memorable day? 💌

i honestly cannot remember anything 😭 it's like one big blur but ummm...probably finishing high school! i felt like i could finally breathe 🥲

💌 What was your most memorable meal you had this year? 💌

hmm...ooo probably when my abuelita made us a bunch of paches de papa 🥺 i ate them for a whole week and i loved it entirely...my heart is pache shaped 🤧💘

💌 Did you find any new hobbies or interests in quarantine? 💌

hmm i don't think i got any new ones but i did get to be reminded again on how much i genuinely enjoy making food and like decorating/personalizing things! ☺💖

💌 What was the last big event/thing you remember doing before covid? 💌

uhhh i honestly can't think of anything? i literally don't go out 🤡 like im in chilling in this quarantine lifestyle bc nothing has changed for me 🤪

💌 5 good/positive things that happened to you in 2020? 💌

🌱 i finally escaped high school! 🎓🎉

🌱 i decided to take a gap year and the burnt out student inside me feels like she can finally exhale

🌱 i can't remember if it was in early 2020 or late 2019 but anyways I GOT MY DRIVERS LICENSE 😝😝 i honestly...do not know how i got it...i took 15+ minutes to park (as u can see your girl didn't learn her lesson) but bless that man for passing me i hope u have a beautiful life sir 😭💖 however i have not stepped in the driver's seat since then 💋 i refuse 💋

🌱 i honestly would say watching Soul 🥲💗 i've always been obsessed w my meaning and purpose in life and that movie rlly just hit home for me...i think about it everyday and im literally starting to tear up right now so let me just stop 🤪

🌱 hmm honestly just being home 💗 i now have an excuse to stay in all time and that brings me so much peace in my heart 🤧

💌 Biggest messages or lessons learnt from this year? 💌

that there's a lot to live for. and i rlly want to enjoy it? and like w the gap year i still feel guilty and still feel like im wasting time and not being productive (love being a capricorn 🤪) but im trying to not think like that...and the fact that Soul came out and it's whole message is literally like life is beautiful and it's meant to be lived 🥺 it rlly like...set that for me u know...there's so many little things that truly make me excited about life and i want to enjoy it and after those 4 years in high school of constant work and stress and losing my entire mind maybe i actually deserve it 🥲 so um yeah..sjdkajd

💌 And what are you most looking forward to in 2021? 💌

a lot ☺ everything honestly...wow omg that's so weird asjakjd ahhh 😭😭💘 [insert that paul rudd who would have thought not me meme] but i wanna do sm much!! bake and cook and learn to knit! and personalize my clothes and READ! and watch movies and shows! and i'll also be going back to school so i rlllllllllyyyyyyyy want to learn how to manage my time bc my procrastination truly fucked me in the ass in hs 🤡 but yeah im excited ahh! ☺

And We're Done!

oof my memory is so awful i feel like i can't remember anything that happened in 2020 🤡 this ended up being a bit long 💀 so if u made it to the end...thank u for reading...ily 😚💌 besitos for you! 💞

tagging these cuties 💘: @moonlattae @fluorescente @glossierjoon @ardores @star99 @jooniephoria @ahearthrob @catboyjm @yoongidisease @violetmoonlits @koyan @stardustyoongi @7blueside @m1amor @sobsyub @m8nstruck @souheii @1okyos @virgomoon @alevchaan @jihyoist

#i wanted to tag a lot of people ☺ but of course if u don't want to do it u don't have to! 💌#thank u again dear for tagging me! i honestly rlly enjoyed it! 💖#and if anyone checks out the music/shows/movies i hope u like it! 💌#oh and i added the spotify link to the album if u click on the title! 💃🏻💃🏻#tagged 🥰

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champagne-bucky · 4 years

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The Undoing: Five

Summary: The truth about a past life is unveiled.

Warnings: THIS IS A DARK STORY!! dark! Steve Rogers x reader, kidnapping, non con and dub con (or at least mentions of), dark! Bucky Barnes, Stockholm syndrome, grooming, mentions of pregnancy termination and suicide mentions (for one chapter), possibly more tags to be added!

Notes: Hey, hey!! enjoy Chapter 5 and let me know what you guys think!! Enjoy :)

Please Read Warnings!!

Ahh, first day of senior year. The last year before Sasha heads off into college, one step closer to the real world. Sasha has been dreaming of this day for so long.

As a child, she was always an ambitious little genius (as her father would refer to her as). Always got good grades, never missed a day of school (one time she threw a tantrum over a head cold that her mother insisted she stayed home for), and never once skipped a class. Her homework was never late and she was well over prepared when it came to tests in class. She even did well on the PSATs! Needless to say her father and mother were both proud of the little genius.

“You remember the rules right?” Her father said.

“Yes, dad,” Sasha rolled her eyes which produced a scolding from her father.

“I’ll be outside at 3:15 to pick you up. Don’t take the bus, don’t go home with anyone, don’t walk home-”

“Dad, I know, you’ve been telling me these rules for, like, 100 years now. I think I understand,” Sasha grabbed her bag and got out of the car.

“I know, honey. I just want to make sure you're safe. This world has gotten too crazy and I just want to protect you,” Steve put his hand on her shoulder.

“I get it, dad, you’re doing all you can to make sure nothing happens to us, but I promise you I’ll be okay here. It’s my last year here anyways, what are you gonna do when I go away to college?” Steve gulped. He isn’t ready for that conversation yet.

“Remember 3:15 and not a minute late,” Steve ushers Sasha out of the car.

“Okay, by love you,” Sasha jumps out of the car.

“Love you too.”

Sasha took a deep breath as she exited the bathroom at school. She needed a way to calm herself down before she had an anxiety attack. Yeah, she was a smart girl, almost top of her class, but she was very lonely. Every high school has a “clique” like she’d seen on TV, but television never thought to teach her about the lonely outcast who had no friends.

That was her. Sasha didn’t have friends here. She tried to make them, but what was the point if she was only allowed to see them in school. Her father didn’t trust anybody he hadn’t met first.

“Friends” came and went and overtime Sasha earned the reputation of “the nobody”. She was just a forgettable face to the other kids here. No one really bothered to talk with her and she didn’t bother to talk to them. However, she often found herself daydreaming what it would be like to have a group of friends… or just one friend she wasn’t picky.

“Hey, hey, Rogers!”

Oh God

“Hello, Ned,” Sasha held back her groan as the cheery student made his way to her.

“So just thought I’d let you know that Decathlon is meeting every Wednesday after school for meetings. You gonna join this year?”

Every. Fucking. Year.

It’s either Ned or Mr. Garber that’s been on Sasha’s ass since the freshman PSATs results came back and she scored extremely high. Both were too persistent and Sasha always ended up telling them no. She would always make up some lie or promise to join and just never show up. Secretly she wanted to join, but she knew her father. Steve would say no before she even thought about asking him.

“Ned, what has my answer been for the last three years?”

“No, but-”

“And what do you think my answer will be for this year?”

Ned looked at Sasha for a moment. He knew the answer, but he made a promise to Mr. Garber that this year would finally be the year they get her to join the team. If Sasha joined then that meant they could finally win the National Decathlon for the first time in the school’s history.

“Okay, okay, I know it’ll be a no, but can’t you just come to one meeting. If you just got to know us and know the club I'm sure you’d really like it.”

“Ned, I’m sorry but I can’t! I-uh I work now. Gotta save up some money for college,” Sasha bit her lip.

“You’re lying,” Ned pointed at her lip, “you always bite your lip when you’re trying to lie!”

“How can you-”

“I’m very observant,” Ned’s eyes went wide.

The bell rang and Sasha let out a breath and relief. At least she got a break from him now.

“I’ll see you in AP Physics! Don’t forget we meet every Wednesday after school!” How did he know they had class together?

The day had droned on as Sasha made her way to all her classes. She had a majority with Ned, who wouldn’t stop badgering her about decathlon, and she had a few alone. Physics was her last class of the day and she couldn’t have been more relieved. This day was so boring considering they were just going over the syllabi for each class.

For lunch, Sasha went to her usual spot which was located behind the curtains of the auditorium. No one ever came back there and there was no one that would ever look for her. It was a nice getaway from all the students. The auditorium was quiet and dark, she felt almost at peace in her little safe space.

“Ms. Rogers, how was your summer?” Sasha groaned internally as Mr. Garber greeted her. He was already drumming up a pitch to sell her on decathlon.

“It was good Mr. Garber, got a job that keeps me pretty busy,” she tried to emphasize, but she knew it would go right over his head.

“Well that’s nice, please take your seat behind Mr. Parker and we can get started.”

Sasha made her way to her seat and sat down. She was surprised that Peter, Ned’s friend, didn’t abruptly turn around and talk to her. He had also been an instigator alongside Ned, just not as annoying though.

The bell rang and class had begun. Of course, Mr. Garber wanted to do icebreakers which resulted in Sasha getting paired with this girl, MJ. MJ was just like Sasha, but only a little more brazen. MJ got involved in decathlon and had a small group of friends as a result of it, but before she joined MJ was an outcast just like her.

As soon as class began it ended. Mr. Garber liked to let his students go a little earlier so that they could beat the hallway traffic. However, before Sasha could make her way out the door she was stopped by the call of her name. She turned around and approached Mr. Garber’s desk.

“Sash, I really would like it if you thought decathlon through,” he began.

“Listen Mr. Garber, I appreciate your reaching out to me over these past couple of years, but I just can’t join.”

“Sasha, you have one of the best test scores at this school. You are so close to being Valedictorian for graduation too. Every teacher that I’ve talked to that you’ve had in the past says that you are so bright. Why won’t you just consider it,” he pleaded with her.

“Mr. Garber, I’m sorry but it’s not up to me. If I could join I would, but I can’t! I have a lot on my plate with stuff at home and a job to help me out for college. The timing just isn’t right,” Sasha blurted is all out to Mr. Garber. Both were in shock at Sasha’s tone, but before Mr. Garber could respond, Sasha ran out.

Sasha walked out of the building and past her locker towards the front of the school where her dad was parked. He always showed up early to beat out the traffic coming into the school. Steve was surprised to see his daughter outside before 3:15, but didn’t question her as she got in the car.

“How was the first day back?” Steve asked as he drove off.

“It went great. Um, I’m in all AP and honors classes again this year, I have a good lunch break, I like all my teachers. So, things at school are pretty much how they always are,” Sasha told him.

The ride home was just a bunch of school related conversations. Steve and Sasha didn’t really talk about anything else besides education. Steve was proud of Sasha and how great she was doing academically. His daughter would make a great addition to the world with her brain, but he knew that he couldn’t risk letting her go.

Back at home Sasha’s mother was already putting dinner on the table. Since Sasha went off the school, Gwenyd stepped up to help out. She didn’t mind being homeschooled because she actually liked to cook, clean, and help out around the house. However, she often did wish she could've followed in her older sister's footsteps.

“Sasha, Sasha! How was school? You have to tell me all about it,” Gweynd left her mother’s side and came up to her sister.

“You girls can talk about it while you help your mother out with setting the table,” Steve said to them as he went to greet his wife.

Dinner was always early and followed by a delicious dessert. Sasha’s mother didn’t go out that much so she prepped dinner early and then helped the other children with homework. Sasha admired her mother and all the hard work that she does for the family. Sasha feels guilty sometimes though, she wishes that she could also help her out, but her father insisted that she stopped playing house and go to school. She never understood that.

During dinner, Steve kept getting an annoying amount of phone calls. They weren’t from Bucky seeing as he would be at work until later, so Steve was just letting them go to voicemail. Around the 5th time however, Steve decided to answer the phone.

“Who is this?” He said annoyed.

“Hi, um, Mr. Rogers I presume? This is Philip Garber from Fair County High School. I wanted to talk to you privately with regards to your daughter, Sasha?” Steve was confused and quickly excused himself to his office.

“I was wondering if we could-”

“Why have you called me?” Steve cut him off.

“Oh, well you see I was wondering if you could help me in convincing Sasha to join one of our most prestigious clubs at the high school,” Steve was confused. Sasha knew the rules, why did she think he would even make an exception.

“I’m sorry but-” Mr. Garber cut him off.

“I understand that Sasha has a lot on her plate, but you don’t understand how much academic decathlon could help her! Sasha is one of the most brightest children we have at the school and we would be so honored if she joined the team,” Mr. Garber was noticeably nervous on the other end of the line. He was trying his best to convince Steve.

“I really don’t appreciate you calling me while I’m in the middle of a family dinner,” Mr. Garber stuttered out his next words as Steve’s voice cut through the line.

“I apologize, Mr. Rogers.”

“Sasha will have no time for after school clubs. She has to focus her attention on more important things,” Steve spoke.

“Yes,” Mr. Garber cleared his throat, “I too was in a predicament as well as your daughter. I was working two jobs in high school so that I could save up for college. I feel her pain, I really do. However, if you could convince her to join the club think of the amazing opportunities she’d have! Colleges from all across the country watch these decathlon competitions. This could mean scholarships, recruitments-,” Mr. Garber was abruptly cut off.

“Sasha isn’t going to college,” Steve had to think of his next words very carefully.

“That’s not-,” Mr. Garber was cut off again.

“Sasha and I had made an agreement that she would take a year off of school and accept a well paying job with a family friend of ours. It would be a waste of time for her to join a team that could promise her something that she won’t need to use. Thank you for your time, Philip was it? But I need to go now,” Steve hung up the phone before Mr. Garber could get another word out.

Mr. Garber didn’t want to say anything, but Sasha had mentioned not only to him, but to Ned as well that she had a job for college. Was that all a lie? Did she not want to join because she didn’t want to get her hopes up? Does her father not know that she has a job?

So many unanswered thoughts popped into the teacher’s head as he rubbed his temples. He needed Sasha for this team. Mr. Garber wanted her to join more than anything. Even if they didn’t win Nationals, at least Sasha would have the opportunity to make some friends. Mr. Garber knew that she didn’t talk to many people. He also knew she ate lunch alone, but wouldn’t tell anybody. He knew how hard it was to be alone.

He had to do something. Something that could help Sasha out. He could leave her out to dry.

The next day Sasha was called into the main office. She’s never gotten into any trouble before so she was confused as to why she needed to be in the office.

“Here,” the secretary handed her a piece of paper.

“What’s this?”

“Your new schedule,” the secretary went back to popping her gum and typing on her keyboard.

“I didn’t request a change,” Sasha looked down and saw that her one class had dropped and turned into a free period.

“I know you didn’t, but this was a special request.”

“By who?”

“Mr. Garber, he has requested you and other students for something during free period,” Sasha was beginning to seeth. How did this man not take no for an answer?

“Is there any way I can change my schedule back?” The secretary shook her head and Sasha stomped off.

She couldn’t believe that her teacher had the audacity to change her schedule without her permission. This man was nuts, Sasha was convinced. She’d probably freak out on someone if this schedule change had anything to do with decathlon.

“Hey, hey, Sasha Rogers,” Ned pointed finger guns her way as he and Peter walked up to her.

“Did you do this,” Sasha took her anger out on the poor kid.

“I assume you’re talking about our new schedules. Nah, I didn’t have the skills to hack into the new system. I had chemistry homework to do so I couldn’t. Don’t worry though, Peter and I will be seeing you in class shortly,” Ned did a weird diabolical laugh as he walked away.

Peter remained and decided to speak to you. “I’m sure Mr. Garber isn’t gonna waste our time with whatever he needs our help for. He did the same thing to me one year too. Don’t worry it’ll be fine,” he gave Sasha a reassuring smile as he walked away.

A few periods had gone by and it was time for Mr. Garber’s free period. Sasha had entered the room and saw Peter, Ned, and MJ along with a few other faces. Flash Thompson was one of the few who picked out Sasha’s presence.

“Holy shit, never thought I’d see the way when Miss-too-smart-for-anybody decided to join us. I gotta say I was questioning why Garber did this, but now I think I know why. What, did princess not like staying after hours? Afraid that the big bad kids would rough you up?” Flash taunted Sasha as she turned red with embarrassment. Mr. Garber did all this for her?

“Fuck off, Flash. You only pick on Sasha cause you know she’ll be Valedictorian by the end of the year. What, did “big bad” Flash’s masculinity get compromised now that a woman might overthrow you?” MJ got up and right into Flash’s face.

Flash quickly backed off and sat himself down again. Sasha and him have been in an unspoken (and one sided) competition. He always got mad when Sasha got higher grades on tests than him. One time, after the freshman PSATs he had to be sent to anger management because Sasha got the highest grade in the class.

“Don’t let him bother you, he's a dick,” MJ shot Sasha a smile.

“Sasha, right? We have English and Physics together?”

“Yeah, how are you?” Sasha always had some trouble making conversation with people.

The girls chatted for a moment before they sat with Ned and Peter. To say Ned was more than happy was an understatement. There wasn’t a word in the English language that could describe how thrilled he was that Sasha had joined.

“Welcome to the dark side, Sasha Rogers,” Ned said in a kind of creepy way. Sasha laughed as Peter elbowed him.

“Really, welcome Sasha, I really hope you’ll like decathlon,” Peter smiled as he hooked his arm around MJ.

“Did Mr. Garber really do this for me?” The three shrugged their shoulders and Sasha’s question. As far as everybody knew, Mr. Garber didn’t have time anymore after school to host decathlon meetings. So, instead of handing it over to someone else he just asked the school to do a schedule change.

“Alright everybody,” My. Garber walked in, a smile on his face as he saw Sasha with Peter, Ned, and MJ. “Let’s get started!”

Two weeks had gone by since Sasha joined decathlon. Even though she would never admit it to Ned and Mr. Garber, she was so happy she got to be a part of it. She never ended up telling her father anything. Her father always tried to keep her sheltered and she did understand why, but these people that she’s met, they make her so happy.

“Now I know I usually wait until after our first competition, but I have some exciting news!” Mr. Garber announced. “I would like to tell you all where Nationals are being held this year!” The class began to stomp their feet in a drumroll-esque way.

“Pack your bags, kids, because we are heading to….. Washington D.C.!” The kids cheered as Sasha joined in.

“Now, I’m passing out permission slips and I need them back ASAP. There’s a long weekend this time around so we will leave Thursday after school and be back Sunday evening,” Sasha frowned and raised her hand.

“Mr. Garber, I don’t think I’ll be able to make it,” the kids started to groan.

“Of course you can’t. I figured as much that you wouldn’t. What’s this excuse now? Daddy needs to get a new leash for you,” Flash snapped and MJ whacked him on the back of the head.

“Flash, don’t make me suspend you like Sophomore year,” Mr. Garber snapped.

“Sash, let’s talk more about that after shall we?”

Sasha explained that her father wouldn’t approve of her going away for such a long time. Steve never really let any of the kids go anywhere. God forbid it he found out Sasha wanted to sleep out somewhere.

“Do you want me to talk to your dad? I can tell him they’ll be a female teacher coming along with us. You can also bunk with MJ if that makes you feel comfortable,” Sasha appreciated the sentiment, but it didn’t matter.

“Mr. Garber, I really don’t want to let you or this team down, but I know my dad, he’ll say no,” Sasha was sad and Mr. Garber really felt bad for her.

“How about this, why don’t you talk to your father first. Try and butter him up to the idea, then we can worry about later,” Sasha walked out of the room and tried not to cry. She really wanted to go.

Her phone began to buzz a few times on her way to her next class. Since she’s gotten it, Sasha figured out how to silence it and stop it from vibrating. However, she liked to keep it on during school for emergencies.

Hey, dad can’t get you today so I’ll pick you up. xBucky

Sounds good. xSasha

“Hey, there’s my favorite girl,” Sasha smiled as she saw Bucky’s car parked out front.

“Hey, Buck,” Sasha was still sad as she got into the car.

“What’s got you all glum,” Bucky started the car, but did not move.

“It’s nothing, just school.”

“Well, it can’t be “just school” that’s got you so sad. What’s the real problem,” he knew her like a book.

“My class is holding this weekend trip, Thursday night to Sunday night to Washington D.C. and I really want to go,” Bucky sighed.

“And you want to go, but you know dad won’t let you,” he finished and Sasha shook her head.

“I have to think of a way to convince him, but I know he’ll say no. God, I just wish for once he would let me do my own thing. I’m 18 for crying out loud!” Sasha got upset again.

“Hey, there’s no need to get upset. I got an idea,” Bucky knew this plan probably would take a lot of convincing to Steve, but he had to do whatever he could to keep Sasha happy. “I tell dad you’ll be staying over to help out with work and things around the house, but really you’ll be in Washington,” Sasha’s ears perked up at this.

“It’ll never work.”

“Trust me, it will,” Bucky would damn sure make it work.

“He needs to sign my permission slip,” she held out the folded paper.

“Oh give me that,” Bucky took the paper and grabbed a pen and scribbled Steve’s name on it, “See, problem solved. You get your trip and all I have to do is convince daddio you’ll be with me for the weekend.

Sasha couldn’t believe it. Could this actually work? It would take a miracle for her father to agree with Bucky, but she could only hold on for hope. She quickly prayed on the ride back home. Steve has to believe them. Bucky has to make sure of it.

Bucky will make sure of it, he thought. Bucky can’t let her down, they still have so far to go. He’ll be damned if Steve says no. He trusts Bucky enough to have all his children go with him for the summer, so it has to work.

Sasha needed this, she needed to experience a little bit of freedom before graduation. She needs to experience a little bit of life before Steve takes another one’s away.

Tags to be added in comments!!

#dark avengers #dark captain america #dark steve rogers #dark steve rogers x reader #dark Steve rogers fic #dark marvel #dark!marvel #mcudarklibrary #dark!bucky #dark! bucky barnes #dark james barnes #dark! winter soldier

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goldenraeofsun · 4 years

Text

the best day with you

Part of this verse!

Dean taps Claire on the shoulder. “You got plans for this weekend?”

Claire twists on their couch to see him and sets aside her laptop. With narrowed eyes full of suspicion, she grabs the remote and mutes Dr. Sexy. “Why?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

Dean rolls his eyes. This is why he became a teacher. To help teenagers. Not to strangle them for sassing him to his face. Sure, Claire might be a sophomore in college now, and she’s not really a teenager anymore, but Dean’s never going to see her as anything but an angsty junior in high school. Especially if she keeps up the this attitude. Dean says, as evenly as he can, “Because I want to do something with you.”

Claire grimaces. “Really? Don’t you have other boring old man friends to do things with? Like, for instance, your boyfriend?”

“No,” Dean says. “Cas is going to visit Gabriel in LA this week.”

“And you chose to stay behind with me instead?” Claire says, her eyebrows rising to her hairline.

“Yes.”

“Are you dying?”

“What?” Dean gapes. “No!”

Claire squints at him. “Are you hoping I can score drugs for you?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “I can get my own drugs, thanks. It’s one of the perks of being a real live adult.”

“Do you need money?”

“If I did,” Dean starts incredulously, “why would I ask a broke college student?”

“I don’t know,” Claire says with a shrug. “Dementia? That kicks in about now for you, right?”

Dean’s mouth falls open. “I’m barely thirty-four!”

Claire shrugs. “Alzheimers?”

“That’s a kind of dementia,” Dean tells her flatly. He runs a hand down his face. “Look, are you free or not, kid?”

Dean is pretty sure she doesn’t have plans, judging by the way she’s religiously camped out on their couch for the past two weeks straight. She's abandoned her spot only to go to the bathroom, eat meals, and, on one memorable occasion, visit her parents for Sunday dinner. The living room her space now - which is fine with him, Dean’s been doing his summer school grading at the kitchen table. Along with her computer, Claire’s got the coding handbook Charlie Frankenstien-ed for her out of a bunch of different documents, probably all downloaded and printed illegally. On the television, she cycles through daytime soaps and CW evening dramas.

Claire grins. “On Saturday or something? Yeah.”

He rolls his eyes. “Was that so hard?”

“No, but it was fun.”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a handful?” Dean says as he turns to head back into the kitchen. Lunch wasn’t going to make itself, and Cas was due back any minute from his errands.

“Just my parents, every day from age thirteen to eighteen,” Claire says casually as she reaches for the remote to resume Dr. Sexy.

Dean freezes. “Hey,” he starts, not really sure where he’s going with this.

“What?” Claire snaps as if annoyed, but her face is guarded.

“Your parents were asshats, you know that?” Dean says. “They shouldn’t have done that to you.”

“Yeah, well, you know what they say about family,” Claire mutters as she turns up Dr. Sexy.

In the middle of her junior year of high school, Claire moved in with Cas for about six months.

Early in the year, she had an explosive argument with her parents about transferring from their preferred private school to Edlund High. She also came out to them.

Dean has the sneaking suspicion Claire doesn’t think she had it that bad. Her parents didn’t hit her. They didn’t kick her out. They didn’t even stop giving her her allowance. But they didn’t talk to her for days on end. They ignored her until she needed something from them, or the other way around. By Christmas, Claire had had enough. She left.

Back then, Dean told Claire her parents were in the wrong as many times as she would let him - which wasn’t many.

Cas took the lead with her, instead. She was his family. He found her a therapist and encouraged her to make friends at Edlund. Dean didn’t really feel like it was his place. She was Cas’s niece, and Dean was the guy who stayed over a couple times a week when she was crashing there too. And then he became her teacher when the transfer to Edlund became official. Still, she wouldn’t consider him family.

“My uncle always said, ‘family don’t end in blood,’” Dean tells her seriously.

Claire slumps back on the couch. “Right,” she says dully.

Dean takes a step back, rubbing his neck as he swallows down his next few words. He’s not about to give a heartfelt lecture on family and healthy boundaries to someone who’s going to grumble and groan through it. He jerks his head towards the kitchen. “I’ll get started on-”

Claire interrupts, “But that’s not grammatically correct. Aren’t you an English teacher? Who gave you a license to teach?”

Dean snorts. “Just think about it, will you?”

“Uh huh,” Claire waves him off. “If you’re going to the kitchen, can you make me a sandwich?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yes, Your Majesty. Cas finished off the strawberry jelly while he was grading essays last night, so you’re gonna have to settle for grape.”

Claire makes a face but nods. Dean’s almost at the kitchen door when she asks, “Your uncle, was he really your uncle?”

Dean shakes his head. “Not by blood. He was a good friend of my dad’s. But he was as good as family - better than, sometimes.” He swallows. Bobby’s been gone two years now. Dean had thought the grief when his dad passed was bad, but it was a whole other beast with Bobby.

Claire squints at him, looking so much like Cas Dean can’t help the warm feeling in his chest. “This is your show, right?” she asks out of the blue, gesturing to the television.

Dean blinks. “Yeah?”

And that’s how Cas finds them ten minutes later, eating PB&Js on the couch, watching Dr. Sexy - with Claire skewering every characterization and costume choice, and Dean defending Dr. Sexy’s cowboy boots with his life.

* * *

“Minigolf, really?” Claire asks as they pull into the parking lot on a bright Saturday afternoon. The early-summer temperatures are already high enough to make Dean sweat in the Impala, and Claire’s shorts could double as bikini bottoms, they’re so small.

She adds, “You realize I have a fake ID and we could probably go to a bar or something.”

“One,” Dean says as he slams the car door shut, “minigolf is a classic American pastime. Much better for your liver than drinking. And B, don’t ever tell Cas about that fake.”

Claire clambers out of the car. “I’m not an idiot.”

“Just making sure,” Dean says airily as he starts walking. He holds out his hand as she jobs to catch up to him. “Lemme see it.”

“Why?” she asks suspiciously as she digs for her wallet in her purse and fishes the ID out.

“Nice job,” Dean says as he holds it up to the sunlight shining overhead. “Ash?”

Claire stops short, surprised. “What?”

“Did Ash do this one?” Dean asks. “Come on,” he tells her as he nudges her shoulder to keep her moving out of the middle of the parking lot. “Nobody else does ‘em this good.”

“How do you know that?” Claire demands.

Dean laughs. “I told you I can get my own drugs.”

“Ash deals too?” Claire asks, looking hopeful.

Dean leans over to ruffle her hair. “His dope is a little out of your price range, squirt.”

“Hey!” Claire squawks as she tries to smooth everything back into place. “And nobody calls it ‘dope’ any more, you doof.”

Dean grins. “Yeah, I know.”

They enter the main building and get in line to rent the putters. It smells strongly of sunblock and worn down parental patience. A few parents wait ahead of them, all older than Dean with kids younger than Claire. A group of high schoolers are inspecting a row of putters on display on the far wall. Through the windows to the back, Dean can see a splendid display of mostly-intact astroturf and course obstacles with sun-faded paint.

The guy behind the counter is wearing an obnoxiously bright shirt and smile. “Hiya,” he says cheerily as they step up to the counter, “I’m Garth, welcome!”

“Two adults please,” Claire says quickly, like she knows Dean was going to ask for a kid’s ticket to mess with her.

“You got it,” Garth says as he bends down to grab two putters. “The bathrooms are by Hole 7, and if you want to grab lunch across the way at Fenris’s Diner, show them your receipt and you’ll get 15% off.”

Dean steps forward with his wallet. “Do you know if they have pie?”

Garth smiles wider, showing even more teeth, which Dean didn’t think was possible. “You bet! The best darn cherry pie I’ve ever tasted.”

“Awesome,” he says. “Thanks, man.”

“Thank you!” Garth says as he rings them up. “And good luck on the course!”

* * *

Dean is uncomfortably sweaty by Hole 2, and Claire piles her hair on top of her head in a messy bun to cool off her neck halfway through Hole 4.

“Swing batter, batter, swing!” Dean shouts from right behind her as she hits the ball at Hole 6.

Claire glares at him as her ball knocks against the windmill blade and skips off to the side. “That’s for baseball, idiot.”

“But you still missed,” Dean points out as he sidles up to tee. “So does it really matter? Hey!” She kicks him in the ankle as he strikes at the ball. “You cheater,” he gasps dramatically.

“So what?” Claire asks, putter swinging ominously at her side, “You gonna tell on me?”

Dean frowns. “No, but I won't buy you any pie when this is all over.” He keeps his eyes peeled for an opportunity to mess with her as she takes another stab at the windmill.

“Fine with me. I like cake better.”

Dean raises his head to gape at her. “Seriously?”

Claire throws him a funny look. “Does it matter?”

Dean’s mouth works furiously. “You ate the last slice of pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving two years ago.”

Claire’s eyebrows climb to her hairline as she leans against the windmill and watches him take another stab at it. “You remember that?”

Dean hardly watches where his ball goes. “Of course I do.”

Jimmy and Amelia had elected to have Thanksgiving at Cas’s mother’s place. Cas, whose frosty relationship with his mother wasn’t helped by her dismissive attitude towards Claire, hosted a separate Thanksgiving at the (then) new house he shared with Dean. Sam and Jess flew in from California, and Claire was, of course, invited too. They were having a fucking blast, until Claire stole the last slice of pie right out from under Dean’s nose.

Claire snickers under her breath. “You’re so weird.”

Dean glares. “I called dibs.”

“I seriously have no idea what you’re talking about, McMurphy,” Claire says, the liar. She crouches to get a better look at the windmill.

Dean tries to suppress his smile. “Was that a One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest reference?”

Claire rolls her eyes. “I paid attention in your class, you know. Even if you gave me an A-minus.”

Dean grins. “But you got a 5 on the AP Exam.”

Claire does a little jig as her ball falls into the hole.

* * *

“What the fuck?” Dean howls as his ball stops just short of Hole 9. Parents chaperoning a group of five kids at Hole 10 glare daggers at him.

Claire laughs uproariously. “Sucks to suck, old man.”

“Hey!” Dean glowers as she sinks a hole in one.

“What’s that?” Claire holds her putter up in victory. “Did you see that? Did that go in the hole? I wasn’t watching. Did the ball go in the hole?”

“Shut up, kid,” Dean grumbles as Claire smirks. “It wasn’t funny the first time.” He concentrates on his next shot. God help him if he fucks up with his ball barely half a foot from the hole.

One of the toddlers at Hole 10 lets out an ear-splitting shriek, and Dean’s ball skips off in the direction of Hole 13.

Claire doubles over laughing.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean grumbles as he sidesteps her to go fetch it, “Like you would’ve done any better.”

“I just did. Or did you miss my hole in one?” Claire asks from right behind him.

“I’m hungry,” Dean declares.

“Okay…?” Claire squints at him.

Dean nods to a hotdog stand by Hole 14. “Whaddya say to a dog?”

“Mystery meat at a roadside attraction that hasn’t been renovated since ‘97? Sign me up,” Claire says sarcastically.

Dean claps her on the back, just a shade too hard. “That’s the spirit.”

She stumbles but doesn't fall - exactly Dean’s plan - and glares at him. “If I get E. coli, it’s your fault.”

Once hotdogs are in hand, they sit and eat on a worn bench that’s more chipped paint than bench, facing a dinky little fountain. A few pennies glint dully from at bottom, almost obscured by the bright midday sunlight reflecting off the surface of the water.

“So,” Claire says after she takes her first bite. “You wanna tell me what this is all about?”

“What?”

“This whole distant dad trying to reconnect with his kid routine,” Claire says.

“I - I’m not your dad,” Dean stutters, face heating.

“Duh. Dad was more of Church retreat guy.” She leans back on the bench, stretching out her legs, and tilts her face up to catch more sun. “I would’ve had a better time if there was no singing and 100% more hitting things.”

Dean asks haltingly, “So you don’t think this is weird?”

“What hanging out with you?” Claire asks, her smile guileless. “I heard elder enrichment is important to prevent cognitive decline, so I’m just doing my duty.” She laughs at his disappointed frown. “Relax. This has been… great.”

“Really?”

Claire finishes off her hotdog and balls up the aluminum foil wrapper. “Yeah. Don’t let it go to your head.”

Dean gets up to put her trash and his in the garbage and manages to stow his broad smile before he gets back.

* * *

“Hole in one!” Dean crows at Hole 15.

“Do you want a gold star?” Claire snarks as she tees up.

“Shut up.”

Claire swings, and they both watch as her ball deftly navigates around the bumps and turns to sink neatly into the hole.

Dean’s smile falls off his face as Claire jumps around in victory. “Lucky shot,” he tells her as they troop to Hole 16.

“Uh huh,” Claire says. “And that makes, what seven lucky shots for me? And how many holes in one have you had?”

At the next hole, they have to wait for the large family ahead of them to finish up.

“Oh my god,” Claire mutters as one of the parents demonstrates how to properly swing the putter for the youngest child, “it’s minigolf. Not the Olympics.”

“I know, right?” Dean says in an undertone. “Who cares how she hits the ball? If she wants to bowl it down the course, let her.”

“Seriously, who gives a fuck?”

“I bet she’s gonna scream before they’re done with the lesson.”

“What?”

“Water works in 5… 4… 3…”

They wait with bated breath as, sure enough, the child sits down in the middle of the course and wails. She refuses to even touch the putter.

“How did you know that was gonna happen?” Claire asks as the family moves on. She eyes him critically. “High schoolers aren’t the tantrum type.”

“Shows what you know,” Dean snorts. No matter the point of spending today with Claire, he wasn’t about to tell her how he became an expert in toddler care. Christ, he can still remember the sticky feeling of Sammy’s vomit all over his front when he cried so hard he puked. Dean’s crime? Telling Sammy his favorite blanket needed to be washed. Dean hadn’t even taken it away yet.

Dean tells Claire instead, “I’ve seen more meltdowns over bad essay grades than I’d like. And it’s not like I can say, well, you should have read the damn book, Ava.”

“You wouldn’t say something like that,” Claire says as she bends down to set up her ball.

“Of course not,” Dean rolls his eyes, “that makes it worse.”

Claire straightens. “No, I’m saying, you would probably ask her why she didn’t have the time to read the book; if she’s tried the audiobook instead; if you should talk to Mr. Lafitte for her since she spent too long on Algebra and didn’t get to your homework.” She shrugs, meeting his eyes briefly. “You would do something like that.”

Dean blinks because she’s got him exactly right. He’s a firm believer that there’s no such thing as a lazy student. There are unmotivated students; there are students with undiagnosed ADHD or dyslexia; and there are anxious and/or depressed students. Hell, there are students with side-jobs, bills to pay, and little brothers to look after.

“Yeah,” he agrees, discomfited. Claire was his student for one year, but her presence in class was kind of eclipsed by her rocky home life. In senior year, she was back with her parents, but she also caught up regularly with Cas. In class, she faded into the background - Kaia’s blonde shadow. Cas’s stories provided Dean with more insight than any discussion on The Plot Against America ever did.

“All the seniors loved you,” Claire says. “Max Banes would’ve slept with you if he could.”

Dean hits his ball right into the mini sand pit. “What?”

Claire smirks. “You didn’t know?”

“No!”

“Uncle Cas was right, you are oblivious,” Claire says as she whacks her ball straight into the hole.

“Hey,” Dean says, but the protest is weak. “Cas wasn’t much better.”

Claire grins. “No one’s arguing that.” She waits until Dean’s mid-swing to say, “Max would’ve slept with Uncle Cas too - which, gross.”

“Dammit, Claire!”

* * *

“Okay,” Claire says as they walk away from Hole 18. “I’m gonna need to sit in AC for at least forty-five minutes.”

They’ve been out in the sun for nearly two hours now. Dean pulls his damp shirt away from his stomach with a grimace. “You down for pie?”

“Sure,” Claire says gratefully as they leave minigolf behind them.

In the diner, the air conditioning hits them like a bucket of cold water to the face. Claire throws herself into the first both they see as Dean troops off to relieve himself in the bathroom. He checks his phone - one grumpy text from Cas about Gabriel’s inappropriate choice of swimwear for a hotel pool - and exits with a smile on his face.

Back at the booth, Claire is twirling a lock of blonde hair around her finger, smiling coyly up at the waitress from lowered lashes. But Claire's inviting expression flips off like a switch as Dean drops down into the opposite seat.

The waitress’ own sunny smile takes on a distinctly plastic sheen at his arrival. “Hello!” she chirps as Dean picks up the menu. “Is there anything I can get you besides water?”

“Can I get a coke?” Dean asks the waitress - Maggie, according to her nametag. She’s tall, probably taller than Claire, and dark-haired. She seems around Claire's own age, so Dean would bet she’s only working here as a summer job.

Claire is still glaring daggers at him, so Dean asks, partly to be a dick, “And what’re you getting, Claire?”

“Water,” she says through gritted teeth.

“A coke and a water, please,” Dean says cheerfully to Maggie.

She bobs a nod and casts a lingering look at Claire. “I’ll be right back to take your order.”

Claire kicks him under the table as she disappears into the kitchen. “You couldn’t have waited another five minutes?” she hisses “I was just about to get her number.”

Dean grins. “My bad.”

“Now she thinks I’m here with my dad or something.” Claire crosses her arms across her chest.

Dean rolls his eyes. “You call me an old man, but I’m, what, twelve years older than you? We’re more likely to be on a date.”

Claire’s flat-out horrified face is enough to make Dean’s week. He’s still laughing as Maggie makes a return, one water and one Coca Cola in tow.

“So what can I get you both?” Maggie asks as she reaches for her pad and pen.

“One slice of cherry pie, thanks,” Dean says brightly.

“Nothing for me,” Claire mumbles.

Maggie looks from Claire to Dean and back again. “One cherry pie,” she confirms slowly. “Should I bring out two forks?”

Over Dean’s fresh bout of laughter, Claire says loudly, “We’re not together!”

Maggie blinks a few times, and Dean can’t tell if she’s more shocked by his reaction or Claire’s. “Okay.”

As she leaves, Claire buries her head in her hands. Her voice is muffled by her hands and hair, but Dean can make out, “This is all your fault.”

“How?” Dean asks as he sucks on his straw. “It’s not my fault if you’ve got no game, kid.”

Claire slumps onto the table. “I used to.”

“Stalking doesn't count as ‘game’ or else Cas and me would have gotten together way before we did,” Dean says sagely.

Still face-down on the table, Claire flips him the bird.

“Have you spoken to Kaia lately?”

Claire doesn’t move for a long moment. When she finally raises her head, her expression is pinched. “Not since Spring Break last year. She was doing good, I guess.”

Awkwardly, Dean says, “It’s okay if you’re still hung up on her.”

Claire waves his assurances away. “It’s been a whole fucking year."

Dean sighs. “These things can take time. You were with her while a lot was going on in your life, and she was there for you through all of it. Just ’cause you're young doesn’t mean it meant less. But if you want to move on, sometimes you don’t have to wait until you’re 100% ready.”

“Thanks, Senpai.”

Maggie approaches carrying a large slice of cherry pie.

“Here you go,” Maggie says as she sets the plate down. “Anything else I can get you?”

“Nothing for me,” Dean butts in before Claire can get a word in edgewise, “But Claire, here, would like your number.”

Maggie goes bright red.

“Dean,” Claire hisses, completely mortified. “What the fuck?” She turns to Maggie. “Forget what he said. He’s a moron who doesn't know what he’s talking about.”

Maggie glances to Dean before settling back on Claire. “So… you don’t want it?”

Claire splutters, “I - no - yes, but not if-” She takes a breath, clearly trying to compose herself. “Yes, I would like your number. But not because he said so.”

“You don’t have to decide now.” Dean fishes out his wallet and takes out a five. “It won’t affect your tip,” he says with a wink as he shoves the bill under the napkin dispenser.

Maggie bites her lip. “I’ll think about it.”

Once Maggie’s left, Claire leans over the table and punches Dean, hard, in the arm. “Oh my god, are you actually braindead?”

“Hey, watch the pie!” Dean yanks his plate closer, out of Claire’s line of fire.

“What on earth possessed you to do that?” Claire demands.

Dean eyes his pie, planning his perfect plan of attack. “You needed a push in the right direction.”

Claire’s eyes flash. “I don’t need your help.”

“Tough luck, because you got it anyway,” Dean says with a shrug as portions off his first bite. “You’re only here for the summer. You don’t have the time to pine from across the softball field for a whole season.”

Claire frowns, saying warily, “I know Maggie isn’t Kaia.”

Dean points his fork, dripping with pie filling at her face. “So you gotta try a new strategy.”

“How?”

“Well, get yourself a capable wingman, for starters,” Dean says around his next bite of pie.

“Who? You?” Claire asks incredulously.

“Probably not,” Dean says, shuddering at the thought. He’d intervened with Maggie because was fucking funny as hell to see Claire get Cas-levels of awkward, but scoping out any more romantic prospects for Claire makes him feel sleazy. “I’m more of a pinch hitter.”

“What?”

“You really didn’t pay attention to a single softball game, did you?” Dean says, almost impressed.

Claire glares.

“They’re the guys called in last minute to fill in for a batter,” Dean says. He shovels the last bit of pie into his mouth, saying, “Did you keep in touch with Krissy?”

Claire shakes her head. “They were all Kaia’s friends first, so…”

“She got them in the divorce?” Dean says sympathetically.

Claire nods, her expression darkening.

“I know she’s back home for the summer too, taking care of her dad,” Dean says. “I bet she could use someone to hang with - if you ever get bored coding from our couch. Data entry for Charlie can’t be that exciting. Don’t tell her I said that.”

Claire rolls her eyes. “You don’t need to set up playdates for me, Dean.”

Dean shrugs. “Suit yourself. But none of Krissy’s other friends are back home - Josephine’s abroad, and the rest of ‘em are staying in their college towns.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Dean nods. That’s probably as good as he’ll ever get with Claire - she’s not the type to gratefully accept help. She’s more likely to complain to his face while going behind his back and doing it anyway. Which, fine, if it gets Claire out of their apartment and out of her funk.

On their way out, Maggie leaves her number on their receipt.

* * *

Claire slams the Impala door shut and relaxes in the passenger seat. “Well that was fun,” she says sarcastically as Dean twists around to pull out of the parking lot without mowing down an unfortunate 1999 Toyota Camry. “Let’s do that again soon.”

“Really?” Dean asks. At her blank stare, he adds, “I never know with you. Did you really have a good time?”

She fiddles with her seatbelt, biting her lip. “I won’t say this again, so cherish this moment: today was not the worst day I’ve ever had.” She huffs out a long breath. “It was almost fun, if you forget that shit in the diner.”

Dean laughs. “I’ll take it, I guess.” He taps his fingers against the wheel as he waits for an opening in traffic to merge onto the highway. “I’m glad.”

“Me too,” Claire mutters, so low he can barely hear her.

Dean lets the noise of the road take over for a few minutes: the reassuring rattling of the toy soldiers in the back air vent; his baby’s engine purring like a dream; the low ambient hum of her tires carrying them across miles of pavement.

Once he’s as calm as he’s gonna get, he says, “I have a question for you.”

Claire shoots him a look. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

Dean shouldn’t have bothered asking. She really is incapable of being anything other than a teenager.

“I’m thinking of asking Cas to marry me,” Dean says quickly. As Claire absorbs his words, his heart kicks up to double-time, hammering away in his chest. “Would you be okay with that?”

“Why are you asking me?” Her eyebrows are drawn together in that same furrow that Cas always has whenever a student stumps him with a question.

“Because you’re his family.” He’s honestly surprised he has to say this part out loud.

“Shouldn’t you be asking Grandmother instead?” Claire asks.

Dean shakes his head. “Cas doesn’t care about her opinion - or Jimmy’s.”

Claire takes another long moment to think that over. “So… are you, what, asking my permission?”

“Yep.”

“To marry my uncle.”

Dean shoots her a look. “I really don’t think the concept is that hard to understand.” Claire’s a smart kid. She’s probably drawing it out on purpose.

“Yeah, but -” Claire breaks off, “It’s weird, though.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “You literally called me a weird old man yesterday.”

“But… not this weird.”

“It’s a yes or no question, Claire,” Dean reminds her testily.

Claire waves him off. “I mean, yes, obviously, but what the hell?” Her eyes narrow, accusatory. “Is this why you made me do this weird bonding thing with you today?”

“I -” Dean stutters. “I didn’t make you-”

“It is!” Claire crows. “Were you thinking about it for all 18 holes?”

“No,” Dean says shortly.

“I don’t believe you.” Claire grins. “Were you nervous?”

“No.”

“Yeah, I’m calling BS again. You gotta work on that poker face.” She sits back in her seat, her smugness practically radiating off her in waves.

Dean has the strangest urge to hug her.

Claire lets her hair fall over her face as she picks at her nails. “Just so you know,” she starts in an undertone, “I know it was you who convinced Uncle Cas to take me in. Back in high school.”

“Cas wanted to be there for you,” Dean says quickly, “He just didn’t know how. Honestly,” he says with a laugh, “Cas was scared he’d piss you off more, and then where would you go?”

“Really?” Claire asks, surprised.

Dean nods. “The guy is a great teacher, but he’s not great with kids if there isn’t a desk between them, you know? He's been working on it, though. Having you around taught him a lot.”

“That makes sense,” Claire says, almost to herself. “Anyway, I’ve only really known Uncle Cas while you were together. It’d be more weird if you didn’t get married.”

Dean doesn’t bother turning on the turn signal as he pulls over to the side of the road.

“What the-?” Claire starts, twisting in her seat to look out the window. “Why’d you - oof.”

Dean wraps his arms around her, squeezing tightly.

“Ugh,” she groans, “You smell.” But she hugs him back anyway.

#fanfic #supernatural fanfic #profoundnet #offscreen destiel #established destiel #claire novak #dean winchester #snark #banter #so much snark and banter #destiel fanfic #destiel #the story of us verse #rae writes fic

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slasherholic · 5 years

Text

(psst... did someone say Mikey whump? guys I think someone said Mikey whump…)

Frisky February Prompt: Electricity~ (yes it’s 15 days too early shush) @slashthedice

synopsis: Michael gets served up some nasty, nasty revenge by someone who really, really has it out for him.

warnings: torture in a medical setting, sexual assault, mikey has a bad time ok

foreword: the opinions expressed here by the POV character about certain sensitive topics in no way reflect my own beliefs <3

No Faith in Medicine | Michael Myers x Reader | NSFW

The hospital corridor is long and grey and stretches onward toward a single bolted door, labeled by the rectangular sign hanging above it as Therapy Theater No. 5.

This deep within the bowels of the sanitarium, below the patient wards and the enrichment centers and the checkered courtyard, there is hardly any of the familiar clamour; so as you stride closer to the door the clack of your bootheels over the beige linoleum carries like thunder.

Smith’s Grove was never the sort of place you had pictured yourself ending up during all those sleepless nights studying for your Ph.D, and truthfully, you can’t stand it here. The deliberate blandness of the hospital, with its color palettes limited to inoffensive whites and blues and greys—meticulously designed so as not to provoke its residents—wears on you more than anything else.

You feel like you’re suffocating here; but it doesn’t matter.

This job was never about you to begin with. It was never about some commendable interest in the healing of troubled minds, either; oh-no. There are two-hundred-and-forty-nine permanent patients living inside these sound-proof walls, and while it may not be a very doctorly thing to admit, you don’t give a rat’s ass about two-hundred-and-forty-eight of them.

...and as for that last “troubled mind,” well…

The breezy summer afternoon that Michael Myers was sentenced to life imprisonment exists in your head as vividly as a snapshot picture.

Almost as vivid is your memory of the Halloween that a policeman had come knocking at your front door to inform you in a strictly-business-voice that your sister was found dead in her kitchen, her throat slit open from ear to ear.

You remember watching from your couch as the gavel came down and the judge ruled the man who had taken your sister’s life away as criminally insane—and not responsible for his actions on that fateful October night—and therefor not legally a candidate for the death penalty.

You remember the burning, frustrated tears streaming down your face, the shatter of glass as you hurled the remote at the television screen, and then sinking down in a heap on the floor and screaming until your lungs were raw and your voice was in tatters, because it wasn’t fair, wasn’t fair, wasn’t fair.

So when the news came out that Myers was to be transferred back to Smith’s Grove—hardly a forty minute commute from your own house—you had been out the door that very same day, speeding in your car down the highway, ready to accept any available position the Sanitarium would offer you for your credentials.

It had been your one shot at revenge on the sick, evil fucker who had ruined your happiness; and you were prepared to move heaven and earth just to bring Myers hell.

It had taken eight months before you even laid eyes on the man for the first time.

You’d landed yourself a patient therapy position, but only had the clearance to treat patients who fell under the “medium” and “high-risk” categories. In the entire hospital there were only two patients who fell under the third and final category: a spitting lunatic of a man, who couldn’t be safely approached without first being drugged half-asleep with antipsychotics...

...and Myers.

You had possessed the patience of a saint, climbing through promotion after promotion.

And the very minute that you were handed back a fresh copy of your I.D, now with a little red stamp at the bottom, the stamp that meant you were cleared to work with Myers, you had raced down to the front desk to file your recommendation for treatment.

Three days later, after hours of debriefing by Dr. Ashton, Myers’ new court-assigned psychiatrist, you came face to face with the worst criminal the sanitarium had ever known.

You had seen Myers’ face pictured in black and white on newspaper articles and in fuzzy low-definition on T.V.

And absolutely none of that could have prepared you for witnessing him in the flesh.

The thing that had startled you most when you were led by Dr. Ashton into Michael’s barren, cramped room—the thing that practically had you reeling when your eyes fell on the motionless figure sitting on the cot in the corner, chained at the wrists and ankles by a metal link fastened to the floor—the thing you still despise yourself for thinking—

—is that Myers was jaw-droppingly, stunningly handsome.

His were the kind of ethereal good looks that you might expect to find in some renaissance painting, or a Grecian statue, or a fantasy book.

You had stood staring across the room at the motionless young man, drinking in all the features of his vacant, pretty face; overcome by complete and total disbelief that this was actually the person responsible for all your grief.

And the very next second, that disbelief was shattered like a dropped vase; when you looked into Myers’ stare.

It brought down the temperature in the room like a cold-snap. It was not directed at you, only at the floor, yet it had you shuddering anyway, had all the hairs on your arms standing straight up. It was not a lights-on-but-nobody-home sort of gaze, the kind you were expecting from how Myers had been described by his former psychiatrist. His face was blank, yes; that was accurate enough.

But his eyes, they were the furthest thing from it.

Michael Myers had the eyes of a ruthless, calculating, viciously deliberate predator.

The longer you had stood there, gawking at Myers as if he were a tiger in a cage, hardly listening to Dr. Ashton’s rambling about his admiration of your interest in his patient’s treatment, the more you became aware of the charge crackling in the air; like the moment in a thunderstorm just before lightning rips through the sky. It was as if every fiber in your body could sense the danger radiating from this man; you could all but see and smell the invisible blood staining his hands.

It had turned your vision into a seething cloud of red.

Here was a murderer—the worst kind of murderer, who was perfectly, undoubtedly aware of his crimes, a fact you could tell from just his eyes��who carried in his heart not a single shred of remorse for the lives he’d ripped away. Who, when he was unable to kill, had resigned himself to sitting and anticipating the day when he might once again have his hands around a warm throat, the day when he would pick right back up where he left off and take another life as carelessly and thoughtlessly as one snuffing out a candle.

And this man had been allowed to keep breathing.

You think of all these things as you reach the end of the corridor and swipe your I.D card on the door to Therapy Theater No.5. Hidden locking mechanisms whirr and click open.

You place your hand around the cool metal handle. For a moment, you just stand there. Feeling your pounding heart in your chest.

It pounds not because you are fearful; you don’t care if you get caught because of what you are about to do. You don’t care if you get fired, or if you get your license taken away, or even if you go to jail. Those are the most trivial, unimportant things in the world. No. Your heart does not pound for those reasons.

It pounds because, finally, there will be justice.

Finally, the evil son-of-a-bitch who slaughtered your sister is getting what he deserved all along.

And you get to be the one to flip the switch.

You turn the door handle and step into the room.

Therapy Theater No.5 is bathed in bright fluorescent light and smells strongly of antiseptic and sterilization. Three people are already in the room: two armed guards, who nod in acknowledgment at you when you enter.

And laid out at the center across a white padded table, dressed in a pale blue hospital gown, strapped tightly down at the wrists and ankles by hospital-grade cuffs, looking up at the ceiling as if utterly uncaring, motionless save for the rise and fall of his ribs—Myers.

A nurse had come in before you to prepare the room for treatment. The therapy you’re meant to be administering is simple and painless: electrodes are fixed to the patient’s body and a weak electrical current is passed through, stimulating choice muscle groups—and in more recent cases, even parts of the brain.

You had emphasized that part specifically in your pitch of the therapy to Dr. Ashton, referencing a study which showed how violent tendencies could be soothed in patients who underwent the treatment.

And no, you’d reassured him, it was nothing like electroconvulsive therapy.

The electrical current used in E.S.T is never strong enough to induce seizures. The only thing the subject feels is a mild, if not pleasant, buzz...

·…or at least that’s how it’s meant to be administered.

Tampering with the wattage of the machine had turned out to be laughably easy. A few snipped wires here, a few crunched numbers there, and now the bulky device sitting atop the roll-around table beside your “patient” can deliver a shock nastier than a taser with every throw of the switch.

It’s not strong enough to stop a human heart (god, you wish.) But it is enough to make Myers hurt.

Enough to make him writhe on that table.

Maybe even enough to make the heartless bastard feel something for a change.

You thank the guards before dismissing them. They leave the room but you know they won’t go far; no further than right outside in the hall, waiting through the entire session with their hands on their batons in case Myers gets out of hand.

Their security would be a welcome thing, if you were actually about to /treat/ Myers instead of torturing the living daylights out of him. But now, the guards are just another problem in need of a solution.

Though you are almost confident that Myers will retain his silence throughout the ordeal—that he’ll uphold his veil of distance and aloofness and total lack of care with the stubbornness of an ass—you’re not about to bet your shot at justice on it.

That’s what the ball gag in your coat pocket is for.

Reaching down to check that it is still there, excitement swells in your belly as your fingers graze the black silicone.

On the table, Myers is still motionless. He doesn’t tilt his head to regard you. He pays you no attention at all, in fact, as if you aren’t even there to begin with. Never do his steely eyes move from their fixed place on the ceiling light hanging above him.

As you walk up to the roll-around table, plucking a pair of latex gloves from a box stashed on the shelf beneath before snapping them curtly on, for a reason that you can’t put into words, you find yourself hesitating to look Myers in the face.

It doesn’t matter that he’s restrained; it doesn’t matter that there are two armed and capable guards standing watch right outside. Despite both these things, that vitriolic, charged aura you had felt in his cell still surrounds him now, polluting the room, hanging like a storm cloud over your head.

It’s as if some submissive animal instinct has gripped your brain and now screams warnings at you: Predator. Danger. Don’t look it in the eye. Don’t provoke it.

You do your damndest to dismiss the feeling as nerves.

In a little white tray next to the E.S.T machine sits a filled syringe; a sedative. Dr. Ashton has insisted on it to better ensure your safety, as well as Myers’ cooperation. In the psychiatrist’s exact words:

“These days Michael is, ah, fussier about this kind of treatment—you know, the kind they gotta bring in the guards for, the needles, the cuffs, the whole nine-yards.

It’s a theory of mine that, after living with the sort of power Michael did, the loss of his own control doesn’t sit as nicely anymore. He doesn’t like it. And he’s not afraid to let us know just how much he doesn’t like it.”

Fussy. That was the word Ashton had used to describe Myers.

It had taken every shred of self-control you possessed not to scoff in the Doctor’s face at that; as if the man laid out before you now were some sort of stubborn, overgrown toddler, and not a remorseless, murderous psychopath.

You don’t spare the sedative a second glance as you unravel the bundle of wires and nodes connected to the E.S.T machine; Myers is going to be awake to feel every goddamned second of what you do to him.

Only after you’re finished with him will you finally send him under.

You can picture the conversation with Ashton now: Yes sir, the sedative worked like a charm, he was out like a light the entire time; no sir, no complications at all.

You take your time setting up the machine because you’re still hesitant to even look at Myers, let alone touch him. But when the wires are all connected, the red power button flashing idly in standby, there is nothing left to do except attach the electrodes.

You force yourself to look him in the face as you approach. You should not be afraid of this man; you should resent him, should despise him, but should not fear him. He doesn’t deserve to hold that sort of power over you, or anyone else, ever again.

So you look.

Michael is still watching the ceiling. According to his eyes, he does not acknowledge you.

But just from how the hair on your nape stands on end you know you’re being watched.

Myers is regarding you coolly in his periphery with the curiosity of a feline, feigning detachment and disinterest; but the weight and pressure of that penetrating gaze could not be more obvious if it were a ton of bricks coming right down on your head.

With a deep breath to rein in your resolve, you reach down, your fingers working to undo the first knot on Myers’ hospital gown.

Quickly, you discover that it is one thing to look at Myers; to feel for yourself his ruthless awareness, the raw intensity of his presence.

But to touch him is another thing altogether.

He draws a breath of his own as you fidget with his gown, his strong rib cage expanding beneath your fingers. You shudder at the sudden pressure of his body; whether out of disgust, or anger, or some fucked up fascination, you aren’t sure.

After undoing the ties on both sides, you lift the front of his gown up and off—

—and find that Myers is totally naked underneath.

Standard hospital procedure for a therapy like this one. Nothing new.

But it’s different when the patient looks like this.

You hate yourself for ogling him. You detest the way your eyes rove across Myers’ body, lingering on all the features that your lizard-brain decides it likes; from the stark tendons in his neck to his sharp and angular collarbones, from his broad, rounded shoulders to the beautiful definition in his abdomen, and down even further than that before you can stop yourself.

To the V of his obliques—to the trail of curly brown pubic hair on his pelvis—and all the way down to his flaccid penis.

You snatch a towel from the roll-around and drape it hurriedly over his hips. Not for the sake of his modesty; just so you don’t have to worry about your eyes straying down to the cock of the man who murdered your sister.

As far as the placement of the electrodes on his body, you honestly haven’t given it much thought. It seemed like the sort of thing that would come to you like an epiphany, as if suddenly, in the moment, you would know exactly where to hit Myers to really make him suffer.

But no such epiphany comes. Oh well; you have an hour to experiment.

Grabbing the two nodes off their holders, you run the wires across his chest and press the little round circles down flat against his pectorals.

When your gloved fingers graze Myers’ skin you nearly jerk back your hand, startled. The man is hot like a stove.

Your medical fascination is instantly piqued—Myers must have the hottest resting body temperature you’ve ever encountered. You have to force away intrusive thoughts of sticking a thermometer in his mouth to see that number for yourself.

Focus.

Tugging up on the wires, you test the integrity of the node’s suction. They don’t budge from his chest, lifting his skin with them as you pull. Perfect; It’s nearly time.

Now for the gag.

You just have to cross your fingers and pray that you can actually get it in his mouth.

Looking Myers in the face a third time proves to be no less jarring than it had been the second or the first. You’re just relieved that even after all your poking and prodding he is still pretending not to be interested in you, or in the things you’re doing to his body.

You clear your throat before speaking to him because you don’t trust it enough not to crack.

“Open up,” you command him, mustering every authoritative bone in your body and sounding very official even to your own ears.

Removing the gag from your pocket, you hold it up as if to show him, taking care to conceal the black silicone ball with your hand.

“Mouthguard.”

You doubt that Myers has seen this sort of gag before. Or that he even knows what a gag is. Still, you’re not taking that risk. If this doesn’t work then you’re going to have to drug him just to get the damn thing in place, then wait for him to sober up again—a colossal waste of time.

For a tense second, Myers does not respond to your command. He just lays there on the table, inhaling and exhaling, looking incredibly bored with you, with his nakedness, with the electrodes strapped to his chest.

Your jaw goes tense. You nearly repeat yourself.

But then, he opens up his mouth.

Beneath the harsh overhead lighting his teeth gleam wetly. You suspect immediately that he’s going to try and bite your fingers off the second you get too close.

Game on, fucker.

From the shelf below the roll-around you snatch up a small blotting rag. Walking around to stand at the head of the table, you gaze down at Myers again.

“The strap goes underneath.” You inform him. “I need you to lift your head up.”

He does.

And you strike. Faster than you had thought yourself capable.

You drape the rag over his eyes so that he can’t see what’s coming. Thrusting the gag hard into his open mouth, you wedge it firmly between his teeth. In the corner of the room, Myers’ heart monitor spikes suddenly, the electronic beeping speeding up momentarily—a sound that has you beaming with pride.

You’ve actually managed to startle him.

As you clip the strap into place around the back of his head, a strange sense of accomplishment floods your body—you’ve done it. You’ve actually done it. Everything is ready.

Every sacrifice you’ve made in these past eight months, every hour spent in this godforsaken hellhole, it was all worth it just to bring about this single moment.

The moment is made only sweeter when you rip the rag away from Myers’ face.

Oh. Now you have his attention.

Those pale eyes are looking straight up at you. Considering you with the cutting gaze of a hawk. Working out the situation.

You glare right back down at him. You stare deep into his eyes, the triumphant fire now raging in your chest burning hotter than the ice in his stare, more furiously than all the danger—and you find that you are not afraid of him anymore. Like this, Myers is nothing. He’s not a boogeyman. Not a phantom. He’s just a man—stripped of all his mysticism. Strapped to a table. Naked. Gagged.

Powerless.

Just as powerless to stop what you’re about to do to him as each and every one of the people whose lives he took away.

“Hello, Michael.” You hold his fierce eye-contact as you speak. “Ten months ago you broke into my sister’s house and murdered her.”

Myers doesn’t blink. But neither do you.

“When they tried you, you were supposed to leave that courtroom a dead man walking; you were supposed to die. That's how our justice system works—when you do the things you did, you don’t get to keep on living.”

Nothing changes on Myers’ face as you speak. Nothing changes in his eyes. Not one molecule in his body has an atom of care to give about the words you’re saying. He breathes around the gag, his heart monitor beeping slow and steady.

“I don’t give a single fuck about what that judge said,” You continue. “And I don’t care how sick in the head you really are. You knew exactly what you were doing that night. I can see it in your eyes, Myers—you loved every fucking second of it. And that’s the only thing that matters.”

You draw a long breath. One that you hold in your lungs before letting slowly out again.

“You’re the evilest son-of-a-bitch on this entire fucking planet; and you deserve to die.”

Walking over to the E.S.T machine, fighting back with tooth and claw against furious tears now threatening your eyes, you place your finger over the power switch.

Myers watches you; and you notice something flicker to life in his glacial eyes. Not an emotion. Just a realization.

Good. He understands now. He understands what you’re about to do to him.

“Someone has to make you pay. Someone has to.”

Michael just stares. Watching you. Watching your finger on the switch. His pulse on the monitor ticks as leisurely as if he were about to fall asleep.

“And guess what, you sick fuck?”

Still staring—not blinking—breaths coming slowly.

“I’m so fucking happy that it’s me.”

You throw the switch—

—the wires crackle with live electricity—

—and all of Myers’ deliberate, calculated control is shattered like a dropped glass.

His body seizes. His eyes snap shut. His fingers curl into fists that turn his knuckles whiter than the table beneath him. The tendons in his neck and forearms jump out, straining beneath his skin. His heart monitor beats erratically, the little green line on the screen spiking sharply, racing out of control.

Your eyes are glued to the grisly scene. You devour each and every involuntary reaction, relishing in the complete and utter breakdown of his control.

Fifteen gorgeous seconds pass before you remember that you were supposed to be counting to ten. Whoops. You might be frying his brain into an unfeeling stupor at this point. You flip the switch off in an instant because you need him awake, aware.

Myers’ back falls flat against the table, the current cutting off as abruptly as it began. The muscles in his chest continue to contract and seize beneath his skin long after the electricity is gone; you count the spasms as they tear through his pectorals like sets of waves.

When the spasming stops, his chest heaves up and down, winded. His breaths around the gag come heavily. His eyes are still shut; but no longer are they /squeezed/ shut.

For a moment, you really think that he’s passed out.

Then his eyes twitch beneath their lids and flutter open again. Blinking. Focusing—

—flitting right back on your face. Right back to the spot where he had left them before the current forced them shut.

Myers’ eyes are devoid of care. He is entirely unperturbed by what has just happened to him; entirely unthreatened. But now, that murderous intent—the charge which until now you’d only felt in the air around him—is written in his stare as plain as day.

I am going to kill you, says Michael’s gaze, as nonchalant as if he were stating some trivial fact about the universe, like water is wet, or the sky is blue.

It makes your blood boil.

Adding insult to injury, the speed at which Myers regains control of his body is nothing short of infuriating. You fume as you watch the way his breaths level out again, the beeping from his heart monitor falling back into the former slow, rhythmic pace.

You feel as though you should say something to him; like you should retaliate to this defiance in some way that isn’t staring, because you’ve already lost that battle; you cannot possibly hope to match the severity of Myers’ gaze.

But you don’t.

In your heart of hearts you know that your words will go right through his skull, unheard. There is only one language that Myers understands; only one language that he can comprehend down to his marrow. So you’ll speak it to him.

Without wasting another breath, your fingers find the power switch again. And those defiant eyes of his snap shut a second time.

When you shut the current off the results are the same as before; Myers is heaving on the table. But he takes back his control just as quickly, his stoicism prevailing.

By the third time however, his breaths have begun to linger in their heaviness—

—by the fourth he draws them as shallow as a winded sprinter running a race—

—by the fifth, the intervals between the violent seizing-up of his body are too brief for him to catch his breath—

—and the way he now gasps around the obstructing gag, fighting and failing to suck in air past its silicone, his nostrils flaring rapidly to compensate, is the most beautiful display of desperation that you have ever witnessed.

The sixth time you throw the switch, Myers actually does pass out.

When the current stops his body loses its tension with the abruptness of a cut wire. You wait impatiently for him to open his eyes again with your finger lingering over the switch, preparing to meet that steely gaze with another brutal jolt of electricity.

You wait; and Myers’ heart monitor chugs away like a freight train going up a hill.

Still waiting… waiting...

...and nothing happens. Myers is out cold.

The contentment now pulsing through your veins is what you imagine a shot of heroin feels like. Snapping on a fresh pair of gloves, you walk up to the side of the table to admire your work.

The first thing you notice is the sweat. Myers’ body is drenched in it. It beads up on his chest and clavicle, on his biceps and shoulders, on his brow and cheeks, the skin there flushing a shade of stark, exhausted pink. Gorgeous.

Your eyes travel down his body to continue the examination; you stop at his hands.

Myers’ hands are bloody.

Crescent-shaped cuts litter the skin of his palms, marking the place where his own blunt fingernails had dug in uncontrollably, over and over and over again. The fresh blood streaks in little rivulets down his hands and pools on the white padding of the table beneath.

You chew the inside of your lip as you stare at the mess; these cuts might be tricky to explain away. You’ll have to gauze them and tell Dr. Ashton that his patient did it to himself; maybe recommend that he be switched to a higher Thorazine dosage to really sell the lie.

Luckily, that’s a problem for the future. As for right now, you’re rather enjoying the irony of Myers’ own blood staining his hands for a change.

The inspection continues. Further down his body, you finally notice it; the bulge beneath the towel strewn across his pelvis.

Oh my god, he isn’t. You think, lifting the side of the towel for a peek.

And oh my god, he is.

Rather frustratingly, just like the rest of him, Myers is pretty down here, too. Pretty and big. Which is not a compliment, you reassure yourself. Just a medical observation. You let yourself stare this time, because you’re not ashamed anymore. You’re not threatened by the notion of admiring Myers’ physiology anymore.

Not when he’s so completely at your mercy.

Somehow, Myers doesn’t seem to be the masochistic type, so you highly doubt that actual arousal is responsible for this. Sheer adrenaline coupled with his frantically pumping heart are probably to blame, his brain mixing and misinterpreting the signals, resulting in this little accident.

The longer you stare down at the “accident,” the more you find yourself wondering what Myers would look like fully-erect.

You cannot rip the electrodes off his chest fast enough. Plucking the towel from waist and discarding it on the floor, you stick the two nodes down flat against his obliques, then hurry to rig up a third. That one you plant just above his penis; as close to its base as the curly dark hair will allow.

You stand with your finger ready on the go-button again, opting to let Myers’ still-racing pulse dip out of the red before you pull the trigger and plunge him back into hell. Bloodied hands you can explain away, but cardiac arrest? Not so much.

The beeping slows. The green lines on the monitor settle. You throw the switch.

Myers’ pelvis bucks uncontrollably up from the table—

—and he grunts.

The sound makes your heart sing. It is muffled by the gag, low and reverberating, not very loud to begin with. Most definitely not on purpose; just a reaction that’s managed to slip through while his barriers are down.

Myers’ groin is still quivering when you cut the current off. His cock stands upright, stiff and swollen, totally erect. A line of saliva now dribbles down the side of his mouth, trickling between the gag, collecting in a shimmering mess on his shoulder. He blinks sluggishly up at the ceiling light as if transfixed; still dazed, you would guess.

Something twisted occurs to you as you drink in the scene. Something that you can’t deny.

Seeing Myers like this—fighting for his very consciousness, struggling to retain some sliver of control—is the single most arousing thing you have ever witnessed. You want nothing more in the entire world than to climb onto this dangerous, wounded man’s hips and claim him.

You want nothing more than to give him a taste of what true powerlessness feels like.

It’s a lovely fantasy, a beautiful temptation, and a real shame that it can’t happen. You don’t feel like getting knocked up with the child of your sister’s murderer today; or ever, for that matter. Instead, you think you’ll make a game out of guessing how many more shocks will have Myers coming on his own thighs.

Striding up to the head of the table again, you plant your arms on either side of his shoulders, leaning over him, hardly ten inches from his face.

“Looks painful Myers.” You jest. “How about I make you a deal?”

Michael looks up at you. Unfocused. Blinking slowly.

“I flip the switch,” you continue,

“—and I keep it flipped until you’re covered in your own semen, and after that I jam a needle in your arm, pump you full of drugs, and you get to live out your next eight hours as an unfeeling fucking vegetable. Fair?”

You wait for Myers to do something. For your words to register in his brain. For some flicker of a response to let you know that he’s even still in there.

To your immense disappointment, Myers does nothing. Absolutely nothing. He just...

...well, you can’t even call it staring anymore.

He doesn’t seem able to manage that sort of focus, you realize, inspecting his face closer. His eyes are alarmingly barren; there really isn’t much of anything there, now. None of the ruthlessness, none of that predatory awareness, none of the murder.

You’ve actually shocked the bastard totally, one-hundred-percent out of it.

Whoops.

Back at the roll-around, you snatch up a hand light. Returning to the table, you shine it in his eyes, assessing the damage. His functioning pupil is slow to dilate. Worryingly slow. You click the light off with a contemplative frown.

Half of your mind begs whatever force might be listening that this isn’t a passing affliction, that whatever damage that’s done is done. If the courts insist on keeping Myers alive, then maybe reducing his brains to soup is what it takes to keep him docile. To keep him from hurting another living thing ever again. You can only hope.

As much as you’d love to do so, electrocuting the living daylights out of him some more isn’t likely to bring Myers back to awareness; and the session is supposed to be over soon.

You glance at the clock on the wall—

—Shit. Very soon.

You need to find out right the fuck now if you’ve just rendered Dr. Ashton’s patient catatonic.

Walking around the side of the table, you take Myers’ swollen cock in your gloved hand—trying not to think about the fact that you’re jacking off a condemned murderer—and pump hard, stroking him all the way from the shaft to the swollen tip, squeezing the head, massaging your thumb over it, rubbing all the way back down again.

“Come on, asshole,” you spit. “That can’t be all the fight you’ve got.”

Myers’ hips jerk slightly up from the table as you touch him. Probably just an involuntary reaction. You’ll need him to do better than that. Stroking him faster, squeezing even harder, you pray that the friction of your latex glove against his cock feels just about as pleasant as a rug burn.

As you watch his vacant face like a hawk you see him begin to blink harder, his eyes squeezing shut, twitching beneath their lids, staying closed for a beat before opening up again, like he’s struggling to wake from a deep sleep. A much more deliberate motion; he’s coming back to it.

“Can you feel that? Hurts like a bitch, doesn’t it?”

He breathes hard around the gag. His knees lurch up from the table, the cuffs around his ankles straining, holding him in place.

You give his cock another hard squeeze.

“Forget where you are Myers?”

His jaw goes absolutely rigid with tension.

Ah. He heard you that time. He’s back.

How unfortunate that his brain isn’t fried after all.

You can see it all coming back now as his eyes flit down, locking on your face, rebooting within him like a program on a script; the chilling intensity, the sharpness, all the things that had made your skin crawl in the days past. Despite the torture, nothing at all about Myers’ demeanor has changed.

“Welcome back.” You state dryly. “We aren’t done yet.”

As if to make your blood boil on purpose—as if the battered state of his body means less to him than dirt, as if he hasn’t spent the better part of the hour being brutally, mercilessly tortured by you—

—Myers just watches you. Damning you with his eyes alone to the same grisly demise as before.

An odd sense of something, not quite admiration, sparks in your gut. Looking into Myers’ eyes, there is one single thing that you are willing to give this monster credit for:

What sits before you is a creature that cannot be broken. One that will never be dissuaded from its primal, violent nature. To try it is an impossible task. You suspect that you could stand in this room for days, flipping the same switch, delivering the same current, knocking him to and from consciousness, and into all the states in-between.

And the result would never change. Not ever.

He’d still be looking at you with that same deadly stare. A stare as cold and sharp as the blade of a carving knife.

And it would only get more piercing.

And what a relief it is that your goal in the first place was never to break Myers,

just to bring the gates of hell down on his pretty, curly head.

And you have. You can hear it in every breath he takes; he’s struggling. Although he draws his inhales slowly, with mechanical control, the ragged wheezing in his chest is no longer possible for him to hide. Myers is hurting—he’s hurting bad.

As much as you would love to stay and twist the knife in even deeper, it's time to wrap things up. You’re all out of time.

Pulling the electrodes from his groin and thighs with one hand, you let two of the nodes dangle freely off the side of the table.

The third you stick against his cock.

“Count your lucky fucking stars that not everyone in the world is as heartless as you are.” You tell him, walking back around to the E.S.T machine.

Myers follows you with eyes the entire way, stone-faced, impassive. Like the fact that you’ve just fastened a live wire to his dick is about as boring to him as watching paint dry.

Flick goes the switch.

His back arches off the table like a bent bow. He scrunches his eyes shut, breathing hard around the gag, tugging furiously at the cuffs, the muscles in his calves and biceps straining dangerously, pulling upwards with a brutish force that has table whining beneath him.

You’re transfixed as Michael comes. His mess shoots out in thick ropes, reaching further than you thought possible, coating the table, getting on his legs. The sheer power of his body is a stunning thing to witness. You keep the current running to milk him down to the very last drop.

When he stops coming, you power off the machine.

The node comes away from Michael’s skin in a “pop” that is all-too satisfying. Bundling all the wires and electrodes back into place on the machine you listen to the only measurable signs of the man’s distress; the tortured intake of his breaths, the elevated beeping of his heart monitor.

Then, picking up the needle from the little white tray, you cross back to Myers’ side.

The vein in his forearm is thick and pronounced and the needle slips in beautifully. You press slowly down on the plunger, grateful when he doesn’t try to yank his arm away, relieved when he accepts the drug without a struggle. He must be exhausted.

The sedative works its magic quickly. You pull up a stool and sit down beside him to watch.

The vitriol in his eyes begins to melt and soften. One by one his strained muscles are allowed to relax again, the tension ebbing away; from his jaw, his shoulders, his abdomen, his legs. The electronic beeping on the monitor slows and slows until its powerful rhythm beats steadily again.

Evidently, Michael has decided he isn’t ready to go under just yet. Though sleep pools in his eyelids he blinks it away, clinging in a death grip to his consciousness.

Just to leer at you. Just to picture in his mind the day he will have his hands around your throat; as if it is already set in stone. As if it is just a matter of when.

Then, Michael’s eyelids flutter—

—fighting to stay open, still staring—

—closing, for just a beat too long—

—lingering shut—

—staying shut.

You move to clean him up quickly. The gag comes out first. Lifting his head to unbuckle the strap, you tug out the black ball, letting his strained jaw fall shut again for the first time in an hour; then carelessly drop his head. It thunks satisfyingly as it comes down hard against the table. Glancing at the gag’s silicone, you notice the deep markings worn into it, perfect impressions of Myers’ top and bottom teeth. You almost shudder; a bite from him would have been nasty.

You blot away the drool dribbling down his chin and shoulder with a rag, and then move on.

The last thing you expect as you begin to clean Michael’s bloodied hands is the tears that spring to your eyes. Even with your fear of the man gone and buried, you wish that you didn’t have to touch these awful hands; let alone treat them, bandage them, heal them.

You wipe away the tears on your sleeve as you gather your supplies together on the roll-around.

Grabbing each of his wrists just above the restraint cuffs and turning them so that his palm is facing upward on the table, you hastily swab him down with alcohol pads, wiping up the clotting blood from his skin, squeezing out a blob of antiseptic from a tube to smear across his cuts. As you wrap Michael’s palms tightly in gauze you try your hardest to snuff out that invasive thought when it comes searing like a bullet through your skull—

—these are the hands that killed my sister.

You simply can’t afford to linger on those thoughts right now. Maybe when you’re at home tonight, alone in your bed, you will let yourself cry; but not now. Not while you still need to clean up after Myers’ unfortunate mishap.

Toweling him down from his forehead to his calves, you soak away the sweat. And the semen. Then, you fasten back up the front of his hospital gown, knotting each and every tie.

And just like that, the job is done.

You knock on the door. The guards come in and wheel Myers’ unconscious body out of the room.

The next day, you have a debriefing session with Dr. Ashton. You feed him your meticulously rehearsed lie: that the therapy went without a hiccup, that you firmly believe this treatment could be the key to alleviating Michael’s tendencies for violence.

The moron laps up your every word.

Ashton ends the session with a delightful little surprise; he’s pulled some strings to allow for Michael’s therapy to be carried out bi-weekly. He is so impressed by your drive to treat his patient that he’s offering you a position as Michael’s secondary caretaker. He only hopes that you’ll accept.

The smile you give him is bright and sincere, one that beams from ear to ear.

“Doctor, believe me when I say that nothing in the world would make me happier.”

#Michael Myers #Halloween #Slashers #michael myers x reader #writing

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aion-rsa · 3 years

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Josie and The Pussycats is the Spinoff Riverdale Deserves

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This RIVERDALE review contains spoilers.

Riverdale Season 5 Episode 15

“Our story is about three young women bursting with talent.”

When last we saw Josie McCoy (Ashleigh Murray), she was in New York City trying to make her dreams come true on the ill-fated (and gone-too-soon) Riverdale spin-off Katy Keene. Often when characters are spun-off and their subsequent shows fail, they vanish into the pop culture ether — The Ropers from Three’s Company being the textbook case of this phenomenon. But not so for Josie. This latest episode debuts a new iteration of the character, one who has achieved her dreams but still finds herself wanting more. It is a decidedly more mature take on the previously underwritten character, and one that allows Murray’s considerable acting and musical abilities to shine.

In short, it is the Josie that fans have always wanted to see.

But what good is the character without the backing of her Pussycats? Drummer Melody Valentine (Asha Bromfield) and multi-instrumentalist Valerie Brown (Hayley Law) have been estranged from Josie since she blew off the Pussycats for a solo career when they were in high school. Seven years later and the wounds are still raw, even though Melody has since become a renowned author with movie rights optioned by Tyler Perry, and Valerie is a talented artist and actress.

When Josie returns to Riverdale to take stock following the sudden death of her father, she finds herself coming to terms with her past. More than that though, she has found her voice in every sense of the word. She dismisses Mr. Lodge, the show’s big bad in a hilarious kiss off that sums up many viewers’ opinions on the often irksome character. Better still, the episode allows her to get meta to discuss how Riverdale often sidelined the Josie character in her previous iteration on the series. “I didn’t have much to say in old times,” she plaintively declares, commenting on the problem that Riverdale had with diversity in its early seasons. She then accurately dismisses Archie, Betty, Veronica and Jughead not as old friends but as acquaintances. It’s a bold and surprising scene that takes responsibility for past sins that the series committed, further illustrating that it is aware that it can do better and has been attempting to do so.

After a steamy reunion with old flame Sweet Pea (Jordan Connor), Josie begins the work of reaching out to Valerie and Melody. It is here that the episode goes from great to an all-timer. The chemistry that Murray, Bromfield and Law possess is lightning in a bottle. As old injustices are aired and attempts to repair wounded hearts and egos are undertaken, these actresses embody the old friends they portray fully. But this backdoor pilot, fortunately, has zero interest in having its women of color tear each other down. The characters candidly discuss their shared past, and begin to repair the rift that will — if The Pussycats goes to series — lead them to becoming the global superstars they are destined to be.

Josie, Melody and Valerie are icons. They know it, and the world will soon follow.

Inspired by her renewed friendship with her once and future bandmates, Josie decides to do a concert with the Pussycats that will raise money to help reincorporate the town of Riverdale. It is a performance that highlights each of the women’s musical strengths, even if Josie does steal the spotlight for an emotional rendition of Nina Simone’s “Stars.” Despite being cut short when Toni goes into labor, the concert is enough of a success for The Pussycats to agree to go on the road together — playing in towns where Josie’s late father wanted his ashes scattered. The women consider themselves to be equals now, thus the “Josie and” is jettisoned from the band name. This still being Riverdale, a friend of Josie’s dad appears moments before she leaves town to tell her that her father may have been murdered in New Orleans, and that voodoo might be involved.

With this incredible/ridiculous plot development thrown at us, the full image of what The Pussycats will be as a series comes into view: A mixture of Fame and 13 Ghosts of Scooby-Doo that celebrates these characters and their comic/cartoon legacy in an unexpected way. (As an Archie comics historian even I was taken off guard by the last-minute introduction of the potential show’s mystery angle, and my mind reels at the possibilities).

Hopefully sooner rather than later a series order for The Pussycats will be announced. There is so much potential here to tell exciting, fun, music-packed stories featuring strong women of color that it feels like a surefire hit. “The Return of the Pussycats” is not only the best episode of Riverdale this season, but a perfect pilot episode. There desperately needs to be lots more long tails and ears for hats in our future, for these are the Pussycats we’ve been waiting for.

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Riverdale Rundown

While nothing has been officially announced as of yet, it feels ridiculous for The CW to not do a full series of The Pussycats, yes? This logo appearing at the end of the episode instead of the usual Riverdale bumper bodes well for things to come. Fingers crossed…

My guess is that this episode didn’t have Alexandra and Josie cross paths due to their Katy Keene past, which had the characters begin as enemies who were slowly forming a friendship before that series was cancelled. By not having them interact, the writers didn’t have to figure out where their relationship currently is — making this a narrative thread that The Pussycats could potentially pull on down the line.

The character of Alan M. briefly appears as Melody’s love interest, which indeed he is in the comics and fondly remembered 2001 movie.

Speaking of the Josie and the Pussycats movie, that film’s ever-growing cult continues to delight me. Thanks to multiverses, there’s no reason why that version of these characters and the ones of The Pussycats can’t co-exist in the same pop culture landscape.

Let’s give a special shoutout to Robin Givens, who not only reprises her role as Sierra McCoy here but also did a terrific job directing this installment.

Melody narrates this episode a la Jughead, except that her writing is bright and full of hope, a sharp and intentional contrast to her brooding counterpoint.

If you didn’t cheer when Josie and the Pussycats took the stage to their cartoon theme song, you are dead inside.

“Entertainment Tomorrow” enters the Riverdale fake product lexicon in this episode (which also includes the returning chestnut “Vanity Flair”).

Toni gives birth to a boy, Anthony.

Expect to see more about the franchising of Pop’s in upcoming restaurants, and Tabitha’s speech about the importance of the Chok’lit Shoppe being a black-owned restaurant in a time when Riverdale had no other such establishments was one of the most powerful scenes this series has ever done.

It’s worth noting that a franchise for real-life Archie restaurants did exist in the early 1970s. However the idea never really took off, and pictures of the three diners that were opened have never surfaced online.

What the hell was up with the Old Navy product placement in this episode, which felt like it was ripped from the Josie and the Pussycats movie, minus the irony.

Kevin’s dancing during the Little Shop of Horrors musical number was, unsurprisingly, everything.

Melody’s book being named Summer Storm is a sly reference to actress Asha Bromfield having a newly released novel called Hurricane Summer that was released in May.

Josie uses the alias Ms. Newmar to check into hotels. Julie Newmar famously portrayed Catwoman on the Batman TV series, which not only plays into Josie’s feline motif, but also is yet another of the show’s near-constant DC Comics references of late.

Mr. Lodge being called a “little bitch” was so unbelievably pleasing to watch. Josie is just SO OVER Riverdale’s bullshit.

In a nice character moment, Cheryl immediately leaps into action to help deliver ex-lover Toni’s baby.

Dr. Curdle Jr. being a Josie and the Pussycats superfan is comedic brilliance (as is the fact that nobody trusts him enough to have him anywhere near Toni’s delivery.

The post Josie and The Pussycats is the Spinoff Riverdale Deserves appeared first on Den of Geek.

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#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

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imbeccablee · 4 years

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HAPPY BIRTH TO OUR LITTLE GREEN FERAL BOI-HC about how his birthday were when he was younger compared to now? (bonus points for Mama Inko being the only constant and for steadily more and more people being at his parties and deku having no idea how to deal with so many people who love him)

oh you KNOW I'm here for that Izuku angst!!! (sorry this is late, I didnt see this until yesterday night lmao)

before Izuku was diagnosed, he would invite katsuki and those other boys over after daycare. it would always be a little awkward bc technically those other boys are more katsuki's friends than Izuku's but their parents made them go anyway bc it was the nice thing to do

oftentimes the rest of the party would end up with the boys playing with Izuku's new toys (which made him a lil upset but his mom says he should share and not be selfish and besides, these are his friends, he wants them to like him, so its whatever. it is) and also playing Heroes (this is the one of the few times Izuku is allowed to play a hero with katsuki (bc theres no way in heck katsuki would play a villain) and Izuku LIVES for it)

usually the other boys will leave and katsuki will spend the night. this is always the best part for Izuku because, while katsuki does keep showing off, it's almost softer in a way, like the fact that it's just the two of them, alone, with the rest of the world shut out makes katsuki relax and unwind. izuku doesnt understand why katsuki isnt like this all the time. he doesnt know how to ask, either.

this of course ends with his fifth birthday. the months following his fourth, he eagerly awaits the arrival of his quirk, but it never shows. a week after his fifth birthday (which had been even more awkward and embarrassing since his quirk still hadn't manifested), he is diagnosed. and, well, nobody wanted to go to his party after that.

the kids thought he was weird and lame and the parents were afraid their own kids would hurt him somehow if they were to come over, because they all believed the quirkless to be weak and fragile. this of course also meant that none of the kids were allowed to invite him over to their parties, the only exception being katsuki's. and then katsuki fell off a log into a shallow river and izuku tried to help him up and, well.

he still invites people, oh yes. the first few years, he makes little invitation cards drawn in all might colors and an enthusiastic "you're invited!" on the front. inko, the sweetheart, helps put them in envelopes and carefully stored them in Izuku's backpack and Izuku passes them out. the first time no one shows, izuku is devastated. the second time, after yet another year of being downgraded and belittled and beaten and ignored, he is still devastated, but he is not surprised. the third time, it aches and aches and aches, and he decides he's not going to make cards anymore. it's just a waste of time and paper.

inko tried so very hard. those first few birthdays After were completely unsalvageable, but after the third (when Izuku accepted no one would come) they got better. izuku was still sad and inko was still guilty, but they always had a lovely time with katsudon and cake and all might specials. sometimes, his dad would even remember to call and wish him a happy birthday. izuku was- well, not happy, but content. he had his mother. he had his conviction, his dream. what else could he need?

(he steadfastly ignored the longing, the ache. nothing he could do would fix it so there was no point in dwelling on it. it was stupid to feel that way anyway. his birthday was just another day of the week, the month, the year. it didnt matter. he shouldnt feel so bad about it. it didnt matter)

he didn't even think about telling all might his birthday. by the time he was 14 going on 15, he didnt really care about it. it had just been a day he got a gift or two from his mother, his favorite dinner, and a night spent rewatching all might documentaries or movies or interviews. you know, like basically every night, but like, older this time. so he doesnt mention it and all might never brought it up, so his 15th birthday comes and goes like every other birthday did after his 8th.

the truth of the matter was all might figured Izuku would mention it at some point during his training, like offhandedly saying he had to get home early so he could have a celebration, or make small talk about what he'd gotten, or even ask for the day off. but Izuku never did and all might felt too awkward to ask when it was (he didnt want to seem too eager to shower young Izuku with presents like something deep inside him begged for with a vengeance, even though he very much wanted to give Izuku literally anything he asked for. it is a troubling feeling), so all might just assumed his birthday hadn't come up yet.

then all might finally gets a look at Izuku's file, since all might is now a teacher, and sees 07/15/XXXX written and probably breaks the speed of sound with how quickly he calls izuku

"why didnt you tell me about your birthday!!" "wh- I mean- it's just not that big of a deal, I didnt think it was-" "NOT THAT BIG OF A DEAL???"

he takes Izuku out to a very belated and nice birthday dinner and has to force an incredibly rare piece of decommissioned all might merch from his early days into Izuku's hands. despite his embarrassment and initial reluctance, that day is ranked in the top ten of his favorite days.

izuku doesnt learn his lesson, however, and neglects to tell his newly acquired friends about his date of birth. the only reason they find out is because all might, having been passing them by at the end of the school day, wished him a happy birthday.

"IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY????" "uraraka please its not a big deal-" "I have to disagree midoriya, today should be special!" "I mean, I dont think birthdays are all that important either" "THANK YOU todoroki"

(and then Izuku thinks for 2 seconds WHY Todoroki thinks birthdays are unimportant and gets sad again but we're not focusing on that rn)

ochako DEMANDS that they celebrate bc theres no way in hell she's allowing her best friend to go without a birthday celebration with friends, but Izuku insists that they at least wait until summer vacation starts in less than a week, especially since he cant just come home with three friends without telling his mom

ochakos like >:( for a second, but concedes bc that's fair and then she launches herself at Izuku and gives him a big ole hug and says "happy birthday!!!" izuku's all sputtering and blushing, and then he feels a hand on either arm and Iida and Todoroki give him warm smiles and wish the same and it takes a good five minutes for his face to calm down and for him to come out from behind his arms once Ochako releases him.

so he tells his mom that his friends want to come over to celebrate soon and inko is just like 😭😭😭😭😭 because FINALLY her boy has GOOD FRIENDS who want to CELEBRATE HIM and Izuku freaks out cuz his mom is crying but she waves him off and tells him to tell the dekusquad that they can come over on saturday and that they can spend the night and that they'll have a wonderful time!!!

izuku relays two-thirds of that information in their group chat and they all agree and then basically Izuku is dreading the weekend bc the few birthday parties he's had with his "friends" before hadn't been all that great (besides the sleepover part with katsuki, though their current animosity kinda makes the memories bittersweet), and like, while he knows objectively Ochako, iida, and Todoroki are Much Better than those boys from his childhood, he just doesnt have a good frame of reference for how these things go.

anyway, so Saturday comes around and Izuku is just listlessly lazing around while his mother finishes cooking ("let me help you mom-" "nuh uh, this is for YOUR celebration mister, you arent doing a THING today), and then theres an enthusiastic knock on his door, and when he goes and opens it his friends greet him with yet another cheer of "happy birthday deku/midoriya!!"

izuku smiles because its sweet even if he doesnt particularly care about birthdays, and invites them in. they set their presents on the table and Izuku's like "you didnt have to!!" and Ochako's like "NONSENSE" and Iida is like "how could we show up at your birthday celebration without presents???" and todoroki's like "any chance to spend endeavour's money on things he wouldnt like is a chance I will never not take" and Izuku is just like akdjajdhajsb when his mom finally comes and greets them

and like. it's nice. it's really really REALLY freaking nice. Izuku didnt realize how much he was actually missing having people with him in his home besides his mom until they were there. there's a wonderful warmth filling his chest as they all eat his mother's homemade katsudon and talk about school and how excited they are for the upcoming summer trip. and when heroes come up, they ask him about different quirks and how they work and what he thinks of this hero and that hero and the only time he's interrupted from his tangents is when he stops himself because he's embarrassed for talking for so long. and then they smile and prompt him some more, saying they love hearing him talk about the stuff that interests him, and can anyone really blame him for bursting into tears?

his friends are alarmed but his mom just smiles, tearing up herself, and she asks if he'd like a big hug, and he nods, face burning bright, and then they all gather him in a warm, enveloping embrace, and he wonders how in the hell he survived without this for so long?

he's so warm and loved and for the first time in forever he feels happy during his birthday celebration.

his 16th birthday party is so incredibly different from the parties he held before he was diagnosed and from the birthdays he spent with only his mother. he'd forgotten that feeling of being cared for by people who didnt need to, or rather he'd never really known it. there's a slight twinge that it took so long for him to learn this feeling, but it's completely overshadowed by the pure elation he feels at finally being able to breathe and relax and let himself be loved.

his friends still look concerned and they obviously have questions, but they dont pry as they all continue with the party. he opens their presents and cries again and then they watch a ton of hero movies and he cries a little more. iida worries he'll dehydrate himself and Ochako fuckin loses it and Todoroki has such a soft look on his face and GOD how has Izuku lived without friends? without THEM?

it's late when they turn in, with futons and mountains of pillows and blankets surrounding them on the living room floor. izuku is nestled between Ochako and Todoroki, and he stares at the ceiling as his friends doze around him. he can feel his heart beating in his chest and, with amusement, he feels his eyes watering again, but he blinks the tears away and whispers thickly, "hey guys?" once he gets sleepy questioning murmurs, he breathes in deeply and says, "thank you." in response Ochako and Todoroki schooch closer until they're cuddled on either arm and Izuku can see Iida doing the same on the other end of ochako. then Ochako mumbles, "anything for you, deku" to which the other two boys agree. and Izuku tries to not get choked up and fails again, but its okay, because its safe here and his friends are surrounding him with warmth and love and Izuku falls asleep happy.

(their second year they have another party, of course, but this one is bigger, with the whole class. it's in the dorm, which is fine bc he doesnt think his mom's apartment could hold all of them. it's just as wonderful as his 16th birthday. he managed to hold his tears back during nearly the entire thing, and the only reason he broke was because katsuki came up to him with a perfectly wrapped box, because everything katsuki does is perfect, and shoved it into his hands with a growled well wishes. katsuki yells at him and the class laughs good heartedly as he weeps, but Izuku is just focused on katsuki, who looks soft and relaxed and nearly identical to the version of him that Izuku saw so, so long ago. and as Izuku thanks him for the present and katsuki berates him cuz "you dont even know what it is yet you idiot open it already", izuku feels a new happiness bubbling up in him, because he's so incredibly glad katsuki has been able to heal as well)

#boku on hero academia #my hero academia #bnha #mha #midoriya izuku #deku #bakugou katsuki #uraraka ochako #iida tenya #todoroki shouto #happy birthday to my beloved son #whom i love with all my heart

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a-day-in-the-life-of-a-brotha · 3 years

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4-27-21 The end of a 12 day shift

4:22 a.m. I woke up at 4 a.m. but I stayed laid down thinking about all the things I needed to do. Pack a bag (I’m going to spend the night with Dani...well nights) cut my hair, and, manicure myself. I also have to prepare myself for work. “Shit, what am I packing” I exclaimed to the still air. Sometimes it’s weird when nobody is there ie; my children my mother. Dani sent a text “Good Morning my Love”...Ditto.

5:21 a.m. I leave the house...too late to go to McDonald’s to get 2 round egg and cheese biscuits and a large sweet tea with a little bit of ice. But my addiction to cigarettes does lead me to 7-11 to get a pack, even though I’m running late for work.

Frustration #1 So the cashier that’s normally there, ain’t there, thank goodness, however it’s a new guy...not new but not the normal early shift guy. He’s slow, I’m late, and there are many amigos in line. “Newport 100 box brother”....quick exchange and we are done. So in this instance it’s truly not an outside frustration...it’s me that’s frustrated that I am compelled to go to this job, just to make money, so I can maintain food, shelter and clothing for my loved ones. I’m a slave, all of these things should be free. I’m getting under compensated and overpaying for living....yes...just for living.

5:50 a.m. Work. It’s Tuesday...my Friday. I’m exhausted already, pained to be at this workhouse/plantation, anticipating the days end (I’m going to meet Dani). As I walk up and get settled in my work station, the jones (talking shit) begins..”You on the phone?” says my short bus patron co-worker...I head nod to confirm his thought. He still finds a way to come over to me to draw my energy which sooo many people seem to do as of late. “You be proper as shit when you’re on the phone...then gangsta as shit when you get off”...says the man that just two weeks ago hurled words that would provoke me to smack him with the bricks I call my hands on the street...but we was at work, so it’s a bunch of bullshit he’s spewing. I laughed, “It’s true brother, I am proper on the phone with my lady!” What he doesn’t know is that when I’m relaxed, I’m proper, shit I’ve studied this language so much, I’ve mastered it...so I use it. You can only go as far as your thoughts take you...so if you have a limited vocabulary that’s how far you’re going. I know I know, it’s the white mans language, but I’m from here, and it’s the only language I’m well versed in. Espanol...un pocito!!

7:00 a.m. The arrival of Omar. My friend. We are almost 30 years in as friends. “What’s up big guy” he says...”What’s up O” says me. We are both strong headed men, and about the only two people at this job that are not afraid to lose it. That characteristic trait sets us apart from the sheep at this place that are scared to speak up for themselves, instead for some of them, we will speak up. Do me and O bump heads...hell yeah. But we’ve come to a point where we can gauge each other...and we now know when and how to stay away from each other, with no hard feelings. One time we were arguing at work, a dude came to try to calm us down, we simultaneously shut that nigga down...and retired outside to squash it. Work ensues...

12:00 p.m. After Lunch. I was called in the office. Ok I fudged some numbers on the diesel gas pump for the buses I service...a couple of buses mileage was off. Who cares right? The supervisor does...Dave. He’s an older white guy that is accustomed to talking to black men any way he wants. Not me though...our first run in was our last. “LARRY to the office” on the loud speaker he says. I go... and he starts to raise his voice as if I were a child.

Frustration #2 Although this instance didn’t happen on this day, I’m getting frustrated by merely thinking about it. When Dave gets to yelling (mind you this is the 2nd of two caucasian supervisors I’ve ever had, I’m 45) all I hear is the “Blah Blah Blah...aggression aggression aggression”...I meet aggression with aggression...I don’t fight fire fire with fire...I fight fire with water. “Dave, when you raise your voice at me, I can’t hear you, AND all I get is angry.” He quickly stopped, apologized and let me calmly know what the ailment was. Nonetheless on this day, I got called in the office, informed about the challenge and I said I would fix it. He went on this soliloquy as to how and why it needs to fixed. I’m smarter than him, but I get paid less...I already knew how to solve the problem. It gives me hives, listening to idiots...

2:30 p.m. The Anticipation of Dani. I’m off work...my anxiety is on 100...I’m not having a good day, but I’m going straight to Dani...I miss her, but I’m anxious about sex...we haven’t done that yet. I rush to her, she gets off at 2:45, but she’s 45 mins away in Baltimore, and I don’t want her to be waiting too long. “What’s up babe...how was your day” says she, whilst on the speakerphone in my car. I’m completely honest with her “I’m not having a good day.” Now I don’t want to not have a good day, shit I’m about to see her, my love, my buxom enchantress, but I must be real and honest...it’s the basis of our relationship. I get there.

3:30 p.m. Dani and the food reviewer “Big Schlim.” I arrive, a hug and kiss ensued, we are both exhausted but glad to be in each other’s presence. “How was your day Dani?” “It was ok” she said and then goes in on the length of her time at work and how she was amped to get out of there (anytime you feels this way about employment, it’s definitely slave work). Normally I already have a spot that I want to go review, today I didn’t. Soooo off to MyMammasVegan to get them delicious ass honey ol bay fried cauliflower bites. In the intern I’ll figure out what we will be eating. As we rode, my guard was let down, I don’t have to defend myself with her, she is a part of my solace. We got the bites, we went to the spot, we people watched and joned on folks...laughter and her...got me through. Let’s go home...

I forgot to mention Friends...how many of us have them. Malika...well..here’s the text I sent... Good Day Malika. I truly hope that you are in a harmonious space to receive and wholeheartedly digest this message. I’ll start by saying that I love you, and I am honored to truly call you and think of you as a real friend.

I’m sending this message to set up some boundaries for me, with you. I will no longer accept you yelling at me out of frustration. I will no longer accept you hanging up the phone abruptly out of frustration. As a long time friend I expect support for my endeavors. A like, a share, a comment on the new ventures I have, are simple but effective gestures to show support and cost nothing. I noticed, a while back, that the things I was posting on my IG pages were getting no support from you. That was truly disappointing. Even the IKEA post that you called me about wasn’t liked by you, and if you truly read it, you would’ve known what that “Pink Shit” was. That call you made to me also showed a complete disregard for my schedule. I’ve relayed to you several times that I work the early morning hours...and you seem to “forget” or you just simply don’t care. Also...for the last 4 years I’ve noticed a pattern amongst my “friends”....none of you know my children. Initially I was riddled with guilt behind this, thinking that was on ME to bring them around more often. But wait a minute...you know where I live, I’ve had the same number for years, at ANY time you could’ve called and came by to chill with them...do ANYTHING with them (pre Covid). They’ve received nothing from you...nothing....your occasional presence is free. They are almost 15 and if they see you on the street...they won’t know you...and that’s not on me. I sat back and waited to see what was going to happen...nothing. So Malika, I must set up some healthy boundaries with you, these behaviors for you hurt me, and I will no longer allow that to happen, especially to my children who don’t know you for real. Ian remaining your lifelong friend...period....I ask you to respect me in the aforementioned manner going forward, and this text is not meant for you to rebuttal, it’s for you to know, and for me to release. Thank you for being around for 30.

6:30’ish Home. Dani’s House. We finally arrived. This is where I end. Me and her at home are private...I just know that I’m meant to be with her...my wife.

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blackfemmecharacterdependency · 4 years

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09. That’s How Hope Died

My apologies friends and familiars, but I absolutely don’t think that I can continue to do this story as standalone pieces anymore and to add on to the possibly not great news, there’s more chapters of story to be told here. But, those who can stay, I’m glad to have you here. 2721 Words, Trigger Warnings: Mental health issues, abuse, child death, grief

The key to having a successful “challenge” video or a hot “remix” was to have a plan proactively. Grace would have about a dozen different new choreos in mind at any given time, and she worked on beats a lot when she probably should be doing other things. She had various number outfits in mind. She had remix beats in mind and the clips of videos that she might want to add to such remixes. This was her happy getaway. The hours that she put into all of her dance training, her classical music instruments, and her academics made her feel like she earned a few to just create things that she enjoyed. And she had an outpouring of creativity from 14-16.

Whenever a new hot song would come out, she would hear it and wonder how it might sound if she remixed it with the R747 (she named all of her creations with “stock numbers” until they became associated with a released song). She might think to herself, the choreography C929 will be perfect for this! Even her performance outfits, “And if I wear the W23… well… This is gonna be fire!”

So, she might hear, for example, a new song by Ghairrisahn ft Fr8-Tre/in (for the old folks, that’s pronounced Garrison, ft Freight Train… See, Garrison is how it’s pronounced, but she spells it that way to stand out and well, Fr8-Tre/in’s name is Treyvon, they called him Tre growing up and you know, Freight TRE and add the “N,” sound like a play on words?) Her parents absolutely wouldn’t have listened to her explain. The hired help often had to, though, especially if they happened to be around while she was creating or putting together creations for presentation…

She would hear the song, decide and type into her phone’s notes: Shucky Ducky by Ghairrisahn ft Fr8-Tre/in. R747. C929. W23. As soon as she got home, she would check to see if any challenges or remixes of the song were released yet, because the Internet was fast and she was at school all day and sometimes, rehearsals well into the night. If it wasn’t already a thing, or if it was a thing, but the thing was null, she would make the remix of the song with her remix beat, then play it as she wore the outfit she prepped and performed the choreography she created. Then, she would post it, atting the artist, and hashtagging the song, TheApex, ApexChoreo, ApexBeauty,ShesBeautyShesGrace,Gracecore, (song title)remix and challenge, among others.

All of those would always skyrocket. Her favorite artists would always eventually see them, sometimes soon. Ghairrisahn even said that she wanted her to be in one of her videos. (Her mother was attentive to that bit of information when she shared it).

When she called Simon to tell him, he already knew. Of course he did. That dude was always on his computer. He always had hella tabs open. He was working on maybe 4 assignments for school, at least 2 of his stories, keeping up with his favorite fandoms, and checking social media - which he hardly ever got on to talk to people that he knew in real life, but he still was entertained by many of them and usually kept watch of all of her pages, whether or not it dawned on her.

When they were 15, she was invited on a summer tour with Ghairrisahn, to dance. It was a dream come true for her, even though her parents were very reluctant to agree to this. Filming a music video was one thing, but gallivanting across the country all summer was another thing entirely. “Mom, this would be just like if I had gotten the ballet spot in Germany!”

“No it isn’t. THAT was a world renown dance troupe and you BLEW it. THIS is some girl who sounds like she’s singing underwater, never wears a full sized blouse and almost unquestionably engages in recreational smoking.” Simon was typing on his phone. He didn’t get involved.

“She is a Grammy award winning icon! Everybody knows her. You know who knows that dance troupe? Ballet heads. That’s who. Mom, to be successful, in this day in age isn’t just about money and high standing. It is about fame and visibility! AND, if I’m on tour, I have that many places to use my products and promote the brand and bring in revenue to the company!”

Mrs. Monroe sighed, “Alright. That sounds like a good idea. But, I’m sending you with your team. You’re not to be in the same vehicle as that marijuana girl. You’re to only interact with her and her team for business purposes and you will adhere to the schedule that your team provides.”

She clenched her fists and jumped up and down, excitedly. Simon’s eyes looked up from his phone to watch her, but he didn’t react in any other ways until she rushed over and hugged him, “We’re going on the road with Ghairrisahn!” She squealed.

He sighed and wiped a hand down his face, “Grace, I can’t go on the road with you this summer. You know I have like 6 different major things that I need to do this year.” Her face fell. “I wish I could. I love Ghairrisahn. She’s my top five celebrities whose hair I wanna smell…” Grace and her mother both made disgusted and confused faces that he ignored and kept talking, “But I literally have a major engineering program, a science camp to prepare for this upcoming school year, the journalism workshop, orientation for the early college courses path, the Dean’s meet and greet, and I’m heading some things for the scouts that I signed on to before I realized that I’d have to do some of the other things. I can’t go right now. Junior year is the most important year of my high school career. Not to mention, you know that I’m being emancipated next year. I just… I don’t have time to tag along this time, Grace.”

She nodded her head, sadly. “Well, that’s cool. But, I mean, I’ll be able to fly you out to a show or two, right?”

He shrugged, “Send me the tour schedule when you get it, and I’ll let you know.”

“What’s your mom gonna do while you’re doing all of that?” She asked. He frowned and stared at her. She was concerned. He knew that she didn’t mean any harm. But, asking about his mother while her mother was still around was pretty inconsiderate, even for her. She must’ve realized from her face that it wasn’t something he wanted to discuss. Because she fell back and clasped her hands together, “Well, since we’re both still around, let’s go do something in town together. You do have a little free time right now, right?”

“Yeah,” he said defeatedly.

“Yeah,” she imitated and reached out for him with her hand to pull him up off of his favorite cushioned lounging chair. “Mom, we’re going!” Grace called. Her mother had stopped paying attention to them several minutes ago, pretty much whenever the conversation no longer concerned her. She didn’t even hear Grace excuse herself.

“It’s hot! Why do you ALWAYS have on a hoodie?” Grace asked.

“I don’t have one at school.”

“Because they aren’t allowed.”

“Exactly. We’re not at school. Nobody can tell me what I can and can’t wear,” he said.

They were quiet for a moment. She didn’t know what was wrong with him, but she knew that something was. “Hey, do you wanna record ourselves doing skateboard tricks?” She asked.

“Is that your way of asking me to record you doing some skateboard tricks, Grace?”

“You can do yours too!” She laughed.

“I just wanna walk right now,” he said. She bit her lip and danced alongside of him, singing Shucky Ducky. Simon looked over at her and the smile of his features returned. She was good for that. Making him feel better about things that really just didn’t feel good. After a while, some thought, letting it rush around in his head, he said, “She’s going to go live with my grandmother.” Grace stopped dancing and stared at him with wide eyes. “She refuses to go to a hospital. I can’t get dad to come home right now and I just… don’t have the time to care for her. I was gonna be gone in a few months, anyway. Leave it to her, I never did anything to even help her over these years. The story that my grandmother believes is actually quite different from the events that my mind has collected.” Grace rubbed his back, but didn’t say anything. Simon had tears welling up in his eyes. “Do you know how many times she’s taken a swing at me, and I’ve had to restrain her to keep her from connecting? How many times she’s yelled at me, berated me for innocent missteps and mistakes that children simply make? All of the times that I wanted to just put that pillow over her face and not let go until she stopped moving?” He was shaking. “Now, apparently she has bruises all over her that I supposedly put there and my grandmother just believes that I’m capable of it, because I killed my sister, why not try my mom too?” He roared at the sky and covered his face with both hands.

Grace looked around for some place to sit, and just decided on the grass under a tree. She led him over, sat him down and rested on her knees, looking at him, but not knowing what to say. He didn’t really talk much about his sister. What she knew about it was what she had looked up on news sources on the Internet (only to understand more, not to be sneaky or harm him in any way), and she never brought up what she learned, because she knew it would be very painful for him.

According to every source that she had found, the little girl’s death was an accident. She and her brother had been playing, they got into an argument, she ran off, he gave chase, she climbed up a ladder to try to hide in the attic, he pulled her leg and she fell and hit her head. It was an accident. A freak accident. She shouldn’t have been able to die from the fall. There were a few reports that the boy had possibly “thrown her hard” to the floor, but even knowing how angry Simon could get and not actually putting it past him to accidentally get that angry, she rationalized that even still, at 10, he wouldn’t have had the strength to cause reasonable damage to a 4 year old. She wanted to tell him that right now, but he didn’t know that she knew that much about it and it seemed like it might only upset him more to find out that she looked into it.

He was red in the face, hot, breathing hard, and crying, and he didn’t want her near him or looking at him at the moment. But, there she was. Where else would she be?

“Simon, I’m so sorry that your mom… is the way that she is. But, on the bright side, she’s not gonna be your problem anymore. She’ll be your grandmother’s and I mean… that’s her daughter. Who knows what she might have done to contribute to the person that she became…”

He looked up suddenly and stared at her in horror, “Do you think I’ll be like that? Do you think… I mean… I get so angry and I get violent, and I lash out… Do you think I’m like her? Am I gonna treat my family that way? My kid?”

Grace leaned forward to place her hands on Simon’s shoulders and said, “I think that you’re the best person I’m ever going to meet, that is of course until you have kids, because then they’ll be the best people, because you’re not going to make the same mistakes your parents did. I think for what you’ve been given, your anger and violence and lashing out is totally justified. And it isn’t like you just go around beating up the defenseless. I mean, yes, sometimes… we’re a little quick on the draw and maybe hurt somebody that probably didn’t deserve it that much, but there are actual school shooters and like… pedos and stuff out there. A kid who beats on people who deserve it every now and then, destroys some stupid property or whatever is like nothing compared to like… those types.”

“So… I’m not a good person, just not the worst,” he said.

“You’re the best person I KNOW.”

“You know like 3 people.”

“I know plenty of people!”

“Outside of your immediate family and me, name ONE.”

She stammered and he laughed a little. She was grateful for that, even if she was flustered. “The red… um… shirt… Cameron!”

“Cameron… The… guy who works at the Target right outside of the gated community?”

“Yes! See… I know people.” Now, he laughed heartily and threw his head back.

She knew kids at school who gave her presents’ names. She would always thank them and say something nice to them about their presents, whether or not they liked them. It was a trend to give her things and IF someone noticed her using or having the thing later, they had bragging rights, though no matter what anybody gave her, she preferred anything that Simon gave her over all of them. They never understood why, but she did. She knew that their presents came from wanting her to love them. His presents came from already loving her.

“Hey… do you want to go visit her?” She asked.

“Visit who?” he wondered.

“Hope,” she said. He looked startled. He knew that he never told her his sister’s name, but now that he was calm, she was testing the waters to see how he felt about her having at least some portion of knowledge.

He whispered, “I never go there.”

“I won’t try to force you,” she said.

After a moment, he said, “I want to…”

His hands were shaky until Grace took them in hers and smiled up at him, “Then let’s do it. We’ll stop by a shop and get her a nice bouquet.” She let go of one of his hands and pulled the other to follow her. He still didn’t want to say more about his sister, but some part of him wished that the visit would change something inside of him. He didn’t want to think about the word “Hope,” to describe his desires. It felt wrong.

He cried a lot. Grace smoothed her hand across his back and remained quiet. After a long while, and he was seemingly out of tears, she said, “Maybe I should skip the tour. I’ll probably have opportunities like this in the future. I’m pretty hot right now.”

“You always are.” He wanted to tell her not to do that. That she deserved to go on the tour and that she should have fun, but just like when she wanted to tell him that he didn’t have to write about his family to get into the academy, he didn’t have the nerve to openly oppose what was best for him.

What was best for him was that the one person that he could cry in front of was there for all of the summer nights that he was already certain that he would cry from stress alone. But it was up to her, just like it had been up to him to decide that he wanted to be at school with her, even if he was going to have to hurt a little to get there.

The difference was she ultimately decided that it was best that she went. He didn’t like it, but they had been apart before in the past and even if she had been in town, he was going to be constantly busy anyway. Still… he emotionally logged it as a time that she was not there for him when he needed her to be. Was it fair? Maybe not. But… it was simply how he felt about it.

#If They Didn't Get on the Train #AU Infinity Train #Infinity Train #Nesha Fanfiction #Infinity Train Fanfiction #fics

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