#i have to do a smokey eye for the next six weeks to balance it out

[glossykris]

i finally got braces in the front and they asked me to choose the color of the rubber bands and ofc i went with black because it felt like the safe choice but oh my god i am regretting so much

[fenheart87]

Tall Cappuccino

Felt good to finish something and it started the ball rolling on other WIPs that I've been neglecting. Enjoy this humorous one shot based off my mom and her best friend creating a "coffee code" to talk to about cute guys and it backfiring. Did not work as well as it does for these two though.

“Girl, you need to get over Greg-” Alya started, opening the door to the coffee shop and holding it for Marinette and a few other customers.

“His name was Fillippe.”

“Or whatever his name was and get back out there! You are so sweet and beautiful and your parents have the best pastries in Paris-”

“Are you proposing marriage to me or my family?” Marinette frowned playfully when Alya reached out to pull her ponytail.

“Hush you, my point is we need to scout for potential dates for you. We can treat it like undercover research, a much better version than those schemes from our lycee days. Oh, we can have a codename for the hot guys we see so we’re not obvious about it. So where do we want to start looking?” The reporter stepped in line, glancing at the menu with half hearted interest.

“My dreams?” Marinette scooted forward so a barista could pass through, the balance of that many drinks was an amazing feat.

“I’m just saying you need to open your horizons and take a chance. You could get any guy’s number you so much as smile at and while I’m glad you don’t use your powers for evil, you need to use them to snag a boyfriend.” “All lies, do you think the caramel mocha will have caramel or just be a poor imitation?” Marinette pondered aloud, scanning the drink specials but not impressed by anything.

“You’re so coffee obsessed… Hold on a minute, what if we made a code using coffee to scope out some guys? Then maybe you obsession for coffee will lead you to true love instead of just a heart attack!” Alya grinned at her suggestion, not in the slightest put off by the dark glare coming from the shorter woman.

“Fine, since you’re so adamant about it, you buy me coffee every time we meet up to find my ‘perfect cup of coffee’ and you have a deal.”

“See, you’re already getting into it!”

The agreement took a couple weeks before they could actually start looking as both women had jobs that kept them busy and spare time didn’t match up often. A couple weeks later saw Marinette walking into the coffee shop named The Brew and savoring the rich smells of freshly crushed coffee beans. Alya had texted her that she made it first and had ordered a large cup of the newest creation for her and to not be late if she didn’t want cold coffee. Spotting her friend’s red hair, Marinette made her way over to the table and dropped herself into her chair.

“You are a zombie before coffee, it’s kind of creepy.” Her best friend pushed forward the cappuccino topped with whipped cream and sprinkles. “Drink up, I need your brain working to remember our code or we’ll never get anywhere.”

“I told you not to over plan it and you did anyways didn’t you?” Alya nudged the drink closer until she had to pick it up to keep it from falling in her lap. “Fine, three minutes.”

“I know girl, now you enjoy that and I’m going to get you a muffin and I want a scone.”

Marinette eyed the drink in suspicion but took a sip anyway, it was mocha with chocolate chips. Sighing in relief that the sprinkles were harmless decoration, until she would get to the part where she risked inhaling them with her coffee, the designer took a few more drinks. Slowly she could feel the warm feeling spread, her mind finally kicking in gear and half of it planning out her work for the day and the other half worrying about what insanity her best friend cooked up.

“Okay, so you like cappuccinos the best and you like chocolate chip muffins. Cappuccino is like an 8-10 and muffin is 5-8, hot chocolate can be a 3-5 and water is anything less. That’s how we can judge the drinks and get a better idea on what your perfect drink is.”

“You are terrible but okay, free coffee is hard to say no to.”

The first day was a total bust, no Alya I’m sure I’m not interested in girls, and they tried two coffee shops before they had to get back to their lives. Meeting up whenever they could was nice because it brought them closer instead of being too busy to talk longer than a few short calls or messages here and there. Although Alya enjoyed sending pictures and asking for a coffee rating of random guys, to which Marinette would reply with the matching emoji and sometimes even send some artfully taken pictures back.

A random Tuesday found them back at The Brew and for once Marinette beat Alya to the coffee shop. Deciding as it was midday and not early morning, she could wait for her coffee supplier to get there before ordering, Marinette found a table. Pulling out her phone to check for any updates from her best friend, and seeing none, she pulled out her current draft sketches and set to fixing or modifying the parts that didn’t blend with the look she was going for. Every so often the bell would ding and draw her attention, even going so far as to take a picture and send it with an emoji to Alya who was still stuck at work.

“Okay, this isn’t working but why?” The designer mumbled to herself, attention broken easily as she needed a distraction and turned her gaze to the door. A mistake because the man that walked in was stunning in the subtle smokey way, ripped jeans and well loved hoodie complete with steel toed boots. After her designer side was satisfied she skipped to his face and lost her breath. Blue, blue eyes brought out by the blue tipped hair and easy smile as he waved to the baristas in greeting. Quickly she opened her phone and texted Alya a hastily typed CAPPUCCINO. In perfect but dramatic timing her best friend loved so much, Alya walked in right as she sent that text.

“Hey girl, sorry to keep you waiting. There was an issue with the main story and printing and it was a nightmare! You didn’t have to wait to get a coffee, I would’ve paid you back.” She took off her jacket and hung it on the back of the chair along with her reporter messenger bag. “Oh well, I’m here now so what do you want today?”

“That tall cappuccino.”

“You and your obsession girl I swear. Should I surprise you with the flavor?”

“Nope, I want that tall blueberry cappuccino.” Marinette tried to hint towards the cute guy who was giving his order at the counter.

“Tall blueberry cappuccio?” Alya studied her for a moment, following her eyes to the blue haired stranger. “Oh, oh, got it! Good taste girl, you sure want the blueberry cappuccino? Different from your usual tastes.”

“Were you not the one who said I need to broaden my horizons and try new things with an open mind?”

“True, well then I’m hungry so I’ll be back.” Alya joined the line and left Marinette waiting anxiously. To distract herself, she focused on her sketch that was being stubborn. A ding from her phone had her admitting defeat and putting away her sketches in the folder she carried. Turning on her phone, the designer saw a picture message from Alya titled hot cappuccino. Clicking on it, the picture loaded to show a very fine rear encased in well loved black denim which happened to be the exact same pants her tall cappuccino happened to be wearing. She was going to kill her best friend.

"They don't have any muffins but you can share my scone if you want." Alya returned to her seat, offering the scone to Marinette who declined.

“Excuse me, I overheard you mention that you were interested in the tall cappuccino with blueberry so I thought I would bring you one.” Said tall blueberry cappuccino had stopped by Marinette’s side of the table and waited with a smile, with drink in hand. Alya pursed her lips in amusement, hiding her laughter by taking a sip of coffee. The designer’s desperate look of ‘oh god why me, help!’ was missed by the stranger as his name was called for the rest of his order.

“One scone and croissant roll for Luka, who had the order for the blue caps!”

“Ah, that’s me,” He smiled at the dazed woman, setting the drink down. “I hope you enjoy the drink. It’s a favorite of mine and Joel makes it the best if you want to order it again. Have a good day ladies.”

“Alya!”

“Mm, very nice cappuccino.”

“Alya, no! You just can’t leave me like that!”

“Babe,” Alya looked around and lifted her feet to look under them, “where exactly did I go?”

“You know what I mean!” Marinette groaned and hid her face behind her hands. “I totally had no response and I was not expecting that at all. He must think I’m lame.”

“There’s always the next cappuccino or you can always reorder the blueberry.” The reporter relished in the drawn out groan from her best friend, finishing off her scone.

The pair ran into Mr. Blueberry Cappuccino a few more times over their next several outings to scope out possible dates or let Marinette vent about her failed ones. The Brew was becoming a second home and the employees were starting to remember the woman and their orders. Today they even had their favorites prepared only to find out it all had been paid for.

"What?"

"Already paid for honey, someone must think you're cute." Joel winked in a flirty way, making Marinette laugh as his boyfriend smacked his shoulder on the way by.

"Uh-huh, what makes you say that exactly?"

"Well honey, not just any man buys a pretty lady a drink. And not just any man continues to do so when his lady of interest is missing a very big clue." Joel smiled and waved to an elderly couple as they left, turning to grab some muffins for the table of six for the kids. "He's not being very subtle and I feel like you don't know when someone is into you versus just likes what he sees. So, pay attention to your drink this time and please make or break his heart."

"Whatever you say Joel, whatever you say." The designer finally took her drink back to the table where Alya was already working.

"Sorry girl, I have to edit these and figure out the order by tomorrow. Any good drinks lately?"

"Bunch of water, glad to finally get a taste of my cappuccino again. Can you believe they won't let us have anything but water? Like I get it around the fabric and materials but not even in the break room." Marinette ranted waving her hands slightly until she knocked over her cup. "Oh! Geez I am such a klutz."

"Girl, when are you going to find a good luck charm to counter all that bad luck?"

"You know that's not it!" She hurried to clean up her mess, a barista dropped a rag on the table as they passed by with a tray full of muffins. Carefully she cleaned up her minor spill and waited off her cup only to notice there was a blue smudge on the outside. Taking a closer look, it seems like smeared numbers. A ten digit number. "I think it's good luck disguised as bad luck because I need to be more creative and get out of my own head. I'll be right back!"

"What? Marinette, what the heck?" The reporter watched in concern as her best friend went up to the counter and waved Joel down to ask him a question. Said barista laughed loudly and patted a disappointed Marinette on the head and gave her a refill.

"Someone has been trying to get my attention but since you always buy my drink per our agreement, he can't pay for it so he asks Joel to leave his number on the cup. Which I've been throwing away without noticing. And he won't tell me who it is!"

"Oh? Mysterious admirer vying for your attention using the thing you love the most in this world? Well do go on." The tanner of the duo teased, smiling at the half hearted smack to her arm.

"This just means I need to come here as much as I can and catch him. Or make Joel tell me."

"Marinette?" The new voice caused her to turn around to see Juleka whom she was partnering with for her latest project.

"Hey Juleka, did everything fit okay?"

"Yeah, just like always. I thought your coffee addiction was only an early morning thing?"

"Oh no, this girl could drink twice her weight in coffee and still accept another cup." Alya butted in, laughing as Marinette turned a bright shade of red.

"Why don't you go get us refills, you're not working on your project anyway."

"Fine." The reporter sighed playfully before heading to the counter.

"Sorry, best friends are always crazy."

"No worries… So what's your favorite drink so far?"

"Blueberry cappuccino, haven't really given it a fair try though since I only got a couple loo- sips before I had to leave."

"Uh-huh, a tall blueberry cappuccino huh?" Juleka glanced towards the counter where her brother was ordering, his stupid hat covering his signature hair and shot a quick text to change their order. "Ever going to try again?"

"Maybe? I seem to have attached an admirer, Joel has been writing his number on my coffee cups."

"Yeah he likes to play cupid. Kind of like how he helped me find my strawberry frappe." The dawning look of surprise turned to embarrassment very quickly. "Also, if he doesn't man up and give you his number directly, ask me and I'll straighten him out."

"Okay?" Marinette squeaked out but she was very confused as the up and coming model sashayed to the counter. A tall man moved to let her reach for a couple cups and left him with a stern glare.

"So any idea on how you're going to grill Joel as to who your mystery guy is?" Alya inquired, resting her hip against the table.

"I have no idea. I guess il just wait until my tall blueberry cappuccino shows up again." With a sigh, Marinette began packing up her papers only to be stopped by a cup sitting directly in the middle of her papers. A large drink, the blue swirls and aroma of their dark roast cappuccino tickled her senses.

"Hey so Joel told me I should uh man up so to speak and introduce myself." The designer's gaze followed the cup to the hand holding the cup, up an arm and right into the mystery guy's eyes. Who happened to be her tall cappuccino. "I uh must confess I knew about the whole code thing from the first day and I tried to have Joel help me out by putting my number on your cups but since I never got a text or call, I figured either you weren't interested or hadn't realized."

"Do you know how small he writes? It's impossible to read tiny alien chicken scratch."

"Yeah he did that on purpose. Sorry about that but I'd still like to get to know you, if you're still interested in a certain tall blueberry cappuccino?"

"Cappuccino is my favorite."

"Well Luka is your top favorite then."

"Good, Marinette is yours."

[atmilliways]

On the 4th day of Dethmas this writer gives to thee…

Dec 16 - Taking photos for the holiday cards!

Charles has perfected his Dethklok management techniques: it's all about compromises.

And equal distribution of kisses.

Cute holiday Polyklok time!

Five Middle Fingers & A Manager In A Pear Tree

They’d ganged up on him. They always did, of course, but this time there was a lot less “do it or we’ll grumble and call you a robot and maybe talk about pummeling you with absolutely no follow-through” and surprisingly more “pleeeeeeeease Charles?” It was hard to say no to all five of his boyfriends at once while trapped in the center of a group hug getting puppy dog eyes from all directions. 

And anyway, it was Christmas. 

“Fine,” Charles sighed. “I’ll pose in the holiday card photo with you this year.” 

A near deafening cheer went up all around, and Toki leaned in to give him a kiss on the cheek. 

“And you’ll get really sloppy with us before the picture, right?” Nathan asked excitedly by his ear. 

“No. Sorry, Nathan, I will, ah, not be doing that. I’ll still have work to do that afternoon.”

This produced a quieter chorus of boos, but he could tell they weren’t particularly surprised or annoyed from the lack of actual complaints. One of the benefits of entering into this relationship, it had turned out, was that these gruff, brutal men didn’t whine about being told no quite as much as long as they knew that, at the end of the day, they would still get his attention. It was sweet, actually, but Charles would never risk telling any of them so. 

Skwisgaar rested his chin on Charles’ hair from behind with a sigh. “I guess that ams all the Christmas vacations we can gets out of Mr. Works All The Times Guy.”

“Workaholic,” Murderface corrected. “The word you’re looking for isch workaholic.”

Charles repressed a smile. “Yes, William, thank you.” Murderface beamed proudly at the morsel of praise. 

“I know what words I am wants to using,” Skwisgaar mumbled, but Charles leaned back slightly against him and he declined to press the issue. 

“One little hit before the picture?” Pickles wheedled.

“. . . Fine, one hit. But nothing over twenty percent THC and don’t mix anything else in.”

Pickles’ eyes lit up. Charles almost never agreed to get any amount of high. “You got yerself a deal there, chief!”

“Okay,” Nathan announced, “now we all gotta go and let Charles get his stupid work done in time for tomorrow. One goodbye kiss each. Except for Toki, he already did his.”

“Hey!” the rhythm guitarist protested. “That’s no fairs, that was just a cheek kiss but now you guys wills alls do the tongue kiss!!”

Pickles nudged him. “Dood, how ‘bout we each get one cheek kiss and one tongue kiss?” 

“Good idea, Pickles,” Charles said, and saw the drummer light up even more at the compliment. Almost immediately, four kisses from four different directions landed on his cheeks almost in unison. 

At the beginning of this . . . understanding between the six of them, things like this had made him flush bright red every time. The mortifying ordeal of being known, he supposed—of suddenly being aware that the people around him cared for and wanted him. Now that he’d had some time to get used to it, there was a warm glow in his chest whenever he thought about how surprisingly in sync they’d all become, even when they were trying to talk him into ridiculous things. 

Murderface lingered the longest; as the others pulled away, he angled Charles towards him and went for it. He was definitely getting better at kissing. The thing he was doing with his tongue, for example, Charles knew he had learned from Skwisgaar and it was . . . very effective. When he pulled away, Charles’ first impulse was to try and follow him, which earned a gratified chuckle. 

Next, Toki leaned in, and he liked to nip playfully. Charles met him on the same terms, enjoying the back and forth of it, and then Pickles joined them for a brief threeway kiss before Toki was done and Pickles was pulling him down like a whirlpool, arms thrown lazily around his neck. He tested warm and smokey, like an aged whiskey

Charles was expecting Nathan next, if they were going in clockwise order . . . but Skwisgaar tapped him on the far shoulder and suddenly Pickles was spinning him to hand him off to the lead guitarist. Skwisgaar dug his long, agile fingers into Charles’ neatly combed back hair, and kissed him so thoroughly that by the time Charles was released his glasses were askew. 

Not to be outdone by his bandmates, Nathan spun him around again with an impatient growl and dipped him like they were in a goddamned ballroom, albeit not actually dancing. Although his grip seemed secure, Charles automatically grabbed fistfuls of the front man’s t-shirt to keep his balance, and when Nathan pulled him back up his fists were pressed hard between their chests. Charles was, at that point, slightly weak in the knees from all the attention, and glad to have thought ahead to find handholds so he wouldn’t embarrass himself. 

“Mm,” Nathan grunted, licking his lips. “Okay, band hug’s over. We’ll see you later tonight, right?”

“I’ll do my best to clear the schedule,” Charles managed to say in a level voice. He unclenched his fingers and began to smooth the black cloth down where he’d pulled at it. “But I get the impression that you boys wanted me to, ah, prioritize that photo shoot.”

“Oh well, yeah, that. Obviously.”

“Ja, obsvkiouslies”

“Is a very important picture times!”

“Yeah, we gotta schpread all the holiday cheer to our regular jackoff fansch becausche their livesch are scho bleak and empty without us!”

“Yeeah, and there wouldn’t be no Dethklok cheer without you, dood!”

Charles felt a smile creeping across his face. It was an unfamiliar sensation after too many years of being married to his work, but he was starting to find that he liked it. “Okay, so I’ll, ah, try for tonight. Which room will you be sleeping in?”

“Probably nots ours,” Toki said, indicating himself and Skwisgaar since their bedrooms were in the same wing of the haus. “It’s always colder there, gives Pickle the shivers this times of years.”

“My bed frame is schtill broken from lascht week,” Murderface admitted. Charles made a mental note to speak to a Klokateer about having that fixed for him ASAP. 

Pickles shrugged. “Nathan’s bed’s the biggest, that’s got my vote.”

“Cool, we can listen to my choice of music while we’re going to sleep,” Nathan said with a grin, as brightly as his deep, gravely voice was capable of. 

They wandered off, already taken up in casual argument about other metal bands and the relative merits of listening to them—but as they went, each took the time to touch or bump or brush past Charles on their way. Just a little physical reminder that while they might be going elsewhere for now, he was still part of the group. The door to his office closed, and Charles circled back around his desk to sit and get back to work with a new lightness to his step. If he buckled down, he saw no reason he couldn’t be done for the night and able to join them by midnight at the latest. . . .

Twenty-four hours later, Charles looked over the holiday card proofs with a wry smile. On the count of one, two, three, say ‘metal!’ the guys had all reached suddenly behind him to grab his ass with one hand and flip the camera off with the other. Seems there had been a secret theme that they’d forgotten to fill him in about. 

But they all looked so genuinely delighted in the resulting pictures—a series in which Charles himself reddened steadily while the band practically collapsed from the hilarity of it. They were good shots. He would just . . . have someone in the graphic design department photoshop a more composed image of himself into the center of it all. 

Yeah. 

And he would keep the originals, obviously.

[gt-fluffy-vore]

SandersSides: Into the Spiderverse — Chapter one: Greetings

Hey everyone! New SandersSides fanfic and this one’s a crossover(I’m pretty sure all you marvel fans out there can tell exactly with what)! For those of you who don’t know about or haven’t watched the movie this is a crossover with Marvel’s animated movie Spiderman: Into the Spiderverse. Which is one of my absolute favorites! I rewatched said movie recently and this is what came out of the new rush of inspiration! Hope you all enjoy, and please let me know if you’d like to see more of this one in the future!

Sandersides au crossover fanfiction

2476 words

“Okay, let’s do this one last time. My name is Virgil Sanders. I was bitten by a radioactive spider and for the past week, I have been struggling to keep the pieces left of my life together. I guess I should tell you the rest. I… lost my family three years ago. Started living on the streets. Finally had it all figured out when I applied for some one-in-a-million chance for a free scholarship to some boarding school and… actually won. So I moved into my new room, which thank-goodness they let me have to myself for now, and failed miserably at half the classes. But I had a good enough grade they let me stay. And eight days ago this… thing found it’s way onto my desk. It looked like a spider, but it was covered in this smokey, shadowy, black stuff I couldn’t make sense of. And it bit me. And since then I haven’t been able to control… anything. So to avoid causing any more trouble than I already do I’ve been spending all my free time on the roof. Alone. Trying to figure out what the hell any of this means... Man, sometimes I hate being me. Of all the people to get stuck as… why do I have to be me?”

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Virgil sighed, turning to the stairs to head back inside. It was starting to get too cold at night to stay on the roof too long. He was halfway to his dorm when he was stopped by one of his teachers, Mr. Everling. “Ah, Virgil! Er, Mr. Sanders. I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

“My grades?”

“Sort of. Come with me to my office and I can explain to you what I mean.” So Virgil followed him to his office and sat down in front of his desk. “I’m sure you are aware that your grades are beginning to present quite an issue. If you can’t improve them soon, I’m afraid to say you may be expelled from school.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m working on it.”

“And that’s exactly what I want to talk about. I’ve noticed you’ve been acting… very tired lately, and I can tell the extra work you’re putting into this is not doing you well. You’ve been acting more stressed than usual. So I wanted to propose a way for you to get your grades up without having to push yourself so much. Would you consider doing a personal essay for me? I have been talking to the other teachers about this and to the principle and we have agreed that if you get full grades on this essay it will count towards twenty-percent of your grades. But that means if you don’t do very well… it will almost definitely lower your grades enough to have to be expelled… so there is a huge risk…”

“And if I don’t do the essay at all?”

“Then you can simply move on as you are now. Which is a very slow decline in your grades, likely caused by physical inability due to how you’ve been pushing yourself so hard. It’s completely your choice, but I just want you to know if you decide not to do this essay you will have to work even harder if you want to continue attending this school…”

Virgil hung his head. If he got kicked out, he’d be back on the streets again. He knew this fix would be temporary, but… he wasn’t ready for it to end yet. So he couldn’t not take the essay, because if he didn’t take it at all then his grades would just keep going down faster the worse he got. But with all these new powers to figure out, to learn to control, there was no way he could do the essay and be able to concentrate enough to even remotely get a good grade on it. So if he didn’t do the essay, he’d be too stressed and get kicked out, but if he did do the essay, he’d be too distracted and still get kicked out! “Uh, what’s the essay about?”

“Well, I noticed you’ve never written anything about fiction in any of your creative writing essays, so… I wanted to challenge you to write a short story about the everyday life of a superhero.”

“A… a superhero?”

“Yes. A superhero. I chose this particular theme because I’m pretty sure it’s not something you’ve ever written about before.”

“It’s not.”

“Good! Then it’s perfect. It’s perfect because that means it will be a concept entirely new to you. It will be a challenge. Something you have to learn from scratch.”

“Oh.” Virgil didn’t know what else to say to that. The very idea of writing in a style he’s completely unfamiliar with made him feel sick.

“So, Mr. Sanders. Will you do the essay?”

“Um…”

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Virgil looked up at the clock. Eleven-twenty-six. It had been an hour and a half since he’d started brainstorming and he had gotten nowhere. Maybe he should take a break. He stood up from his chair and tried to pull back from it, but found it dragging along with him. He looked down to see his hand stuck to it. Of course. Great. He balanced his foot against it and pulled. And pulled. And pulled. Crash! He picked himself up off the floor and stormed straight up to the roof. This was useless! He was getting nowhere whatsoever with this story, and he wasn’t getting anywhere in the way of controlling these powers, or whatever they are. He was halfway to the edge when he noticed a figure staring blankly over the city. Before he could backtrack the figure heard him and turned around. He froze. They locked eyes. And they both shuddered at once. He was frozen silent, but the other man spoke. “Ah. You are genetically altered as well.”

“Uh, genetically altered?” He shook his head and blinked out of his daze. “Is that what this is? A genetic alteration?”

“I believe so, yes.”

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“Let me begin for the last time. My name is Logan Sanders. Exactly eight days, nineteen hours, and thirty-seven minutes ago I was bitten by a radioactive bio-technological arachnid. I am from the year twenty-four-sixty-seven. Bio-technological humanoids are heavily discriminated against. Because of this, I was excused from my relatives, or family if you prefer a looser term, when the arachnid’s bite changed my species from entirely human to a bio-technological humanoid. As I had no other place of residence I was forced to move into a Homeless Shelter. On the morning of my eighth day in the aforementioned shelter, I awoke to a dimensional rift presenting itself in place of the wall beside my bed. Of course, it was stupid of me to attempt to touch it… Ridiculously stupid of me. But there is no way to change the past, so it is useless to dwell on the matter. After touching the dimension rift I found myself deposited onto a rooftop in an alternate dimension.”

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He blinked at the young man standing before him. Oh. He didn’t know there were any others like him. Of course, the chance of him being the only one in all of existence that had experienced such a phenomenon was microscopic. Still, somehow he was surprised to meet another going through a similar dilemma. He wasn’t sure he hadn’t expected to find any others, but he simply… hadn’t. “Ah. You are genetically altered as well.”

“Uh, genetically altered?” The boy shook his head and blinked a few times, then finally seemed to process the information. “Is that what this is? A genetic alteration?”

He had thought it was obvious. “Yes, I believe so.” Unless… “Have you not experienced alterations in your body’s abilities?”

“Uh, yeah, I have, but... “ The boy shrugged. “Just hadn’t thought of like, genetic modifications. Are you saying someone did this to us on purpose?”

“Of course not. I am stating simply that our bodies have experienced genetic alterations.”

“So you’re just saying we were both bitten by freaky spiders and now we’re different and you don’t actually know why.”

“Precisely, yes.”

The boy groaned. “Ooookay, great. Just great. Well then if you can’t actually help me I’m going back to my room and I suggest you do the same if you don’t wanna sleep through classes tomorrow.”

“Ah, no, you misunderstand. I do not attend this school. I am from an alternate dimension.”

The boy glared. “Sure you are. Goodnight.”

“Sir, wait!” The boy stopped and turned to look back at him. “What year are we currently in?”

“Seriously? Wait year are you in?” He muttered something about crazy people under his breath.

“If you are inquiring as to my home dimension I had been residing in the year twenty-four-sixty-seven. What year are we currently in, in this dimension?”

The boy sighed. “Twenty-nineteen. Now if you’re done playing games with me, can I go back to bed?”

“I was not indulging in any sort of entertainment, I was simply conversing with you. But if you wish so, then consider the conversation finished.”

“Finally.” The boy left immediately.

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Virgil was heading back to his room after his day’s classes the next day when he was once again stopped by the same teacher as the day before. “Mr. Sanders! I have good news for you!”

“Oh?”

“We’ve found you a roommate!”

“A… a roommate?”

“Yes, isn’t that exciting?! Funny thing is the two of you have the same surname. Weird, huh? I actually just directed him to your dorm a minute ago.”

“Okay. Uh, thanks I guess? I-I gotta go.” He raced back to his dorm and threw the door open. Just like he had said, there was a teenage boy standing in the middle of the room, who turned around to look at him. He was wearing a long-sleeved jacket with a large hood that hid his face from view.

“Roman Sanders. Nice to meet you.”

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“Listen up everyone, I’m gonna do this one more time from the beginning. My name is Roman Sanders, and last week my parents sold me off to government testing, where they infused a tarantula with radiation and tried to mash my DNA with that spider’s. I’m sure you know the rest. The experiment went wrong, so they locked me up. I broke out of the facility. Couldn’t bring myself to go back home… So I tried to find other ways to survive on my own. And then this… portal-ish thing showed up, and before I knew it, I’d been dropped into an entirely different world! I’m not sure how to describe it, but I had a really strong feeling I should be going to this school, so now here we are.”

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Virgil froze as he stared at the boy in front of him. That same feeling as last night overwhelmed him. “You’re like me.”

“And you’re like me. Ha! This is incredible! You look entirely normal!”

“Yeah? Why wouldn’t I look normal?”

He flipped off his hood and pulled off his jacket and the pair of gloves he had been wearing, revealing skin covered entirely in thick brown fur. Then he took off the beanie hat he’d been wearing under his jacket hood and revealed a second pair of eyes right above the first. “Because you’re like me, and I’m…” He threw his arms up. “I’m this. So what’d the testing do to you?”

“Testing?”

“Yeah? The testing? That made you… like what you are?”

“I didn’t go through any testing! I was just bitten by some freaky smoke-spider!”

“Oh. Well… that’s awkward. Uh, did I introduce myself yet? My name is Roman.”

“Yeah. You did.”

“Aaaaalright. I didn’t catch what your name was, actually.”

“Good. I didn’t throw it.”

Roman held back a groan. “Okay, fine! Which bed is yours?”

“Bottom. You get the top bunk.” Virgil took a deep breath and sat at the desk, directing his gaze back to his essay.

“So…” He glared at Roman, who was perched on the top bunk swinging his legs off the front. “What would I have to do to get that name?”

Virgil sighed. “If I tell you, will you shut up?” He nodded. “Fine. It’s Virgil. Ya happy?” Roman grinned and nodded, and Virgil sighed in response and looked back at his work. 

Ten minutes later Virgil heard a voice. “What are you workin’ on?” He spun around and glared. “Oh, right, sorry. Shutting up…” The next time Virgil looked back his new roommate was asleep.

Virgil woke to a pair of hands roughly shaking him. “Hey, you’re gonna be late. Virgil, right? Virgil?”

Virgil groaned and smacked his hands away. “Leave me alone, I’m going.”

“Alright, alright. Next time I’ll let you miss class.”

“Whatever.” His new roommate grumbled something under his breath and left, and he finally pulled himself off his desk and trudged over to his dresser.

On his way to his first class, he thought he saw a dog out of the corner of his eye running through the hallway. Well, actually it was a puppy — it looked really young. But when he looked back again it was gone. Funny, he’d felt really weird for a second. The same kinda twisting,. He’d thought he’d been seeing things. But then he could have sworn he saw it again during his second class, curled up in the corner behind the door. And he knew he saw it in the cafeteria because it was under his own table sniffing for scraps and had bumped into his leg. Had no one else noticed it? It was still young, but it looked like a golden retriever, so it wasn’t exactly a toy breed. It was a fairly big dog. And he was sure pets weren’t allowed in the building… He had slipped the dog a scrap from his tray then, and it turned out to be a terrible decision because the puppy followed him like a shadow the entire rest of the day. Once his last class was over he and the dog went back to his dorm room, where he he flopped down in his desk chair and looked down at the fluffy creature angrily. “Why are you still here?! Go away!”

The puppy cocked its head to one side and suddenly it was covered in a small cloud of light blue glitter. Next thing he knew, standing before him was a teenage boy with curly, golden-brown hair, freckles spotting only his cheeks, and a pair of rectangle frames. “I can leave if ya want, but I’m here because… I’m from another dimension, and when I saw you… I got this weird kinda feeling that… maybe you’re… like me?”

“Y-You just… you were… and then… oh, forget it. So you’re from another dimension too?”

“Too? There’re others?”

Virgil sighed dramatically. “Yeah, there are others…”

[slashthedice]

Had this prompt in my head. Normal girl from Dallas, living her best life. One day, she finds herself in a bar, people listening to country music, drinking, dancing, having fun... the sound of a chainsaw catches her attention. The door of the bar is swiftly destroyed, a hunky man swinging a chainsaw around. Another man comes in, talking about revenge on the bar owner, laughing maniacally... the hunky man notices you, and your heart starts beating faster. Maybe Bubba Sawyer x reader NSFW? :3

Yes please! ♥(ﾉ´∀`)  I am so here for this.This one ended up being quite a bit longer than originally intended so uhhh I’m splitting it up. Second part will ideally be finished and posted later this week and will contain the NSFW bits. Might end up crossposting this one to ao3 as well. Soundtrack for this one is this which I was introduced to by @slashers-hell (＾ω＾)

It had been a wild night. None of your friends had been available to go out, but that hadn’t stopped you. You were young and looking for action, excitement, something to spice up the humdrum of everyday life. You found yourself at a small bar that you didn’t typically visit.

It was late, certainly later than you had planned to be out by yourself. Last call was breathing down your neck, and you could tell that the cantankerous proprietor and acting bartender was chomping at the bit to kick those of you still finishing your drinks out. Any minute he would tell you to settle your tabs and clear out.

You looked around the small bar, better able to take it in now that your inebriation had dulled to a slight buzz. It was all old wood panelling and aged furniture. A haze of cigarette smoke seemed to hang in the dimly lit space despite the numerous No Smoking signs posted on the walls and doors. A single light above the jukebox flickered on and off as the machine spun out the mellowed jazzy sound of a guitar that hung in the air thicker than the smoke.

The remaining patrons of the establishment were a motley crew, each varying levels of drunken and haggard, and each sure to be sporting a fierce hangover in the coming hours. You found that you were the youngest person left in the bar, and the one that fit in the least. You were a young woman looking for a good time and rounding out her night of bar crawling, not a hardened alcoholic looking for an escape amongst strangers.

The space had gone through quite the shift over the course of only a couple hours. When you had rolled up to the bar, the gravel parking lot had been packed with cars. Those populating the building were a mix of regulars and people drawn in by the flickering of the near ancient sign illuminated by neon letters. You recalled thinking that they had to be breaking some sort of fire code when you had forced your way into the middle of the mass of bodies dancing to the twangy notes of some southern songstress on the dancefloor. You had danced and laughed and drank, making new friends for the night with the girls exchanging drunken compliments in the bathroom as they did more harm than good while trying to fix their makeup in the tarnished, cracked mirror.

Your fleeting friends had long since disappeared into the night, and now you sat alone at one end of the dingy bar with one hand propping up your chin and the other wrapped around the once cold glass of a half-finished beer mug. Your arms and legs felt heavy, and your skin was coated in a layer of dust and dirt adhered by your own cooled sweat. You didn’t dare even glance towards any reflective surface, sure that what had once been an alluring smokey eye now gave you the appearance of a raccoon and that your hair was a tangled mess. You knew that you should settle up and head home, the softness and warmth of your bed calling to your exhausted body, but you couldn’t bring yourself to motion the barkeep over.

The relative quiet stillness of the bar was shattered by what sounded like a chainsaw revving outside the door. Around you, the barflies all looked up. You weren’t familiar with the area, but you had a feeling that chainsaws weren’t an average occurrence at this time of night.

“What the hell is all that racket?” The gruffness of the bartender’s voice cut through the roar of the unexpected saw.

He rounded the bar, brushing by you and making a beeline for the door. The thump of his boots covered both the din of the mechanical growl and the already drowned out lilt of music. All the patrons were silent, watching with curiosity and confusion as the old man went to confront whoever was disturbing the tenuous peace that can only be found at the end of a long night. The chainsaw had only gotten louder as the moments rolled on, and as the proprietor drew closer to the door it sounded like whoever was wielding the dangerous implement was basically already inside.

You watched the old man’s sure steps falter as he neared the door. The initial rage he had felt must have died when he realized the implications of facing an unknown person with a potentially deadly weapon. He hesitated, hand reaching for the knob but frozen mid air. The bar itself seemed to hold its breath with anxious anticipation of what would happen next.

Then the door exploded.

A shower of wood and splinters flew through the air, pelting the old man and startling everyone. Someone dropped a glass, but the sound of it shattering was masked by the roaring buzz of a chainsaw that echoed through your head and vibrated through your body. Everything seemed to be in slow motion as you watched him fall to the ground and debris fly through the air.

The man that stepped through the ruins of the door was massive, easily nearing six and a half feet tall. He loomed over the now terrified old bartender with the chainsaw you had heard prior raised above his head. He appeared to be wearing some kind of mask. There was little time to consider him further before a smaller man scampered in behind him. This new man seemed jittery, twitchy and somehow scared you more than the one with the literal chainsaw.

The chainsaw ground to a halt, and the bar was suddenly almost unnervingly quiet. You, along with the other patrons, were frozen with shock as this all played out before you. The small man stood over the old man, tittering excitedly and pointing what appeared to be a bent metal coat hanger at the prone male.

“Do you remember me?” He seemed to struggle with the words, stuttering slightly. “You kicked me out after taking my money. I was just trying to listen to music, man!”

The bartender seemed to remember his prior rage, though he seemed much less intimidating on the floor. “Yeah, I remember you! You almost broke my damn jukebox!”

“Music is my life, man, and you were disrespecting it!”

The old man began to attempt to struggle to his feet. “I’ll kick you out again! You and whatever the hell that is,” he growled, jerking his chin in the direction of the mountain of a man that now cradled the chainsaw with a surprising amount of delicacy.

Faster than your eye could follow, the jittery man pulled a ball-peen hammer out of thin air and with a loud crack! he brought it down hard on the other man’s balding head. With this single violent action, the entire bar erupted with activity. You sucked in a harsh gasp, hardly able to grasp what exactly you bore witness to. The men a little ways down the bar from you shot to their feet, moving to assist the man that was now under attack. This prompted the grinding growl of whirring teeth as the chainsaw was coaxed back to life.

“Get ‘em, Leatherface!” The rat-like man howled, shaking the bloodied hammer in the direction of the bar.

You were on your feet and running for the back before your mind could catch up with your instincts. You sprinted towards the cramped hallway that housed the bathrooms and what you had assumed was a back door. It was mere seconds before you heard screaming and the horrible wet sound of flesh being carved through. You whimpered as you threw yourself at the back entrance, becoming more and more desperate as you realized that it wasn’t budging.

To your horror, as you examined the door, you found a thick padlock sealing it shut. You pulled uselessly on it, knowing that it was futile but not knowing what else you could hope to do. The screaming quieted to moaning, which died into silence in the main bar room. Your struggles with the lock grew more desperate, but were still just as ineffective.

“Where’s the girl? Go get the girl!”

Your heart was in your throat when you heard those words from the strange man. An affirmative noise came from the other man. You were crying then, though you tried to quiet your sobs. The lock was going nowhere and your only option was to hide.

You ducked into the bathroom, cursing the way your boots slipped against the smooth tile. You ran to the last stall in the row, closing the door behind you, locking it, and balancing on the edge of the toilet seat with your knees pulled up to your chest. You knew it was silly, that the large man with the chainsaw would find you easily and hack you to bits, but you were scared, still slightly intoxicated, and completely out of ideas.

You heard the bathroom door slam open and had to stifle a whimper with your trembling hands. The chainsaw was turned off, and the only sound was his heavy footsteps on the dirty tile. There was a loud bang! as the door to the first stall was thrown open. The same happened with the second, then the third, and then you could see his boots underneath the door in front of you.

He pushed lightly on the door, probably expecting it to swing open as easily as the others had. When it didn’t budge, he pounded against it with a single meaty fist. The flimsy lock did not stand a chance. You yelped and tried to push yourself even further back, coming dangerously close to tumbling into the toilet bowl.

As the stall door slammed against the wall, you got a good look at the large man for the first time that night. The fluorescent bathroom lights haloed his bulky form. He was dressed up in a nice black suit, white button up shirt soaked with sweat and dust from his destruction of the front door. You realized with a sick jolt that what you had thought was a halloween mask of some sort appeared to be a second face worn over top of his own, a human face.

He pulled back on the cord of the chainsaw and it made a grinding sound but did not start. You knew that you had reached the end of the line. If he could get the mechanical tool going, you would become quickly and intimately acquainted with the acute pain that the whirring metal teeth of the saw could cause. As a last ditch effort, you did the only thing you could think of.

“Stop that!” You said as sternly as you could, trying to look as confident as a person cowering on a toilet was capable of.

He looked at you with more than a little confusion, but he didn’t pull the ripcord again. You took this as a good sign. You swallowed thickly, adrenaline still buzzing through your veins and fear tingling across your nerves.

“What’s your name?” Your voice sounded tremulous in your ears.

He looked around in a way that almost seemed nervous. He half shrugged and fiddled with the chainsaw. It seemed like he wanted to answer your question, but that he couldn’t find the words.

“You don’t have to tell me. I’m [Y/N],” you continued, not wanting him to get upset.

He lowered the bloodied chainsaw a little further, and hope swelled in your chest. He babbled something that was near incomprehensible, but the more optimistic part of your brain translated it as a repetition of your name. You smiled and nodded with more force than was necessary.

He seemed conflicted, shifting his weight and glancing back and forth between you and the door. When he was looking at you, you could feel his deep walnut colored eyes travel over you. He seemed particularly appreciative of your bare legs beneath your denim shorts when you slowly lowered them to the ground to steady yourself, as that was where his hesitant gaze lingered the longest.

Finally, he seemed to decide what to do with you. He dropped to his knees in front of you, motioning for you to stay where you were with one upheld hand. He yammered and babbled at you, and while you couldn’t understand what exactly he was trying to say, you could surmise his general intent and stayed put. Even kneeling, he was nearly eye-level with you as you sat on the edge of the toilet seat.

Maybe it was the alcohol still left in your system or maybe you were finally losing your mind, but at this proximity you could make out some of his features beneath the stolen face and you found yourself admiring what you saw. He had wide, dark eyes that followed your every move and searched your face. You could just see the shape of his mouth through the hole in the mask. Every time he babbled at you, you were granted a glimpse of misshapen and misaligned teeth. However, his lips were full and plump, glistening where his pink tongue darted out to lick nervously.

You watched him peel off his black gloves. His hands were much like the rest of him, meaty and strong. His fingers were short and stubby, but nearly as thick as two of your own. You nearly slapped yourself when you caught your mind wandering to how those fingers would feel against and inside you. All you could hope was that he wouldn’t notice the way your face suddenly reddened. You needn’t have worried, as he was focused on his new task. He dragged those same fingers you were admiring across the bloodied guide bar, collecting the cooling red substance on their tips.

When he reached towards you with his now blood-soaked hands you fought against all of your instincts that screamed for you to recoil. You could not suppress, however, the shuddering breath that left you when you felt the odd sticky warmth of blood smeared across your face. You wanted to grasp his wrist, to stop him, but he looked at you with such focus and intensity that you did not. Once your cheeks, forehead, and chin were sufficiently covered, he collected more of the macabre paint and spread it over your neck and chest. You whined in protest when he smeared the crimson over your shirt, surely ruining it, but he cut off your complaints with a huffed noise of warning.

Once he was done, he took a moment to sit back on his heels and admire his work. You were sure that you were now just a bloodied mess of gore and viscera. He nodded slightly before standing and lifting the chainsaw once more. You watched with confusion as he fumbled with it for a moment before yanking on the ripcord. You screamed then, sure that after all the hope and whatever had just happened, he was going to kill you anyway. He yelled too, waving the tool above his head before swinging it back and forth.

The whirring teeth never found you. He destroyed the wooden stall doors and broke the porcelain tiles. Your screams quieted as you watched the swathe of destruction he cleaved through the space. You realized he had no intention of hurting you, but that he was making a show of it for someone, probably the other man out front. Finally, when he was content with the scope of his demolition, he let the motor sputter and die. Then there was silence with the exception of his labored breathing.

He made a series of hurried motions which you somehow understood to mean “play dead”. Your intention was to slump back against the back of the toilet and go limp, but before you could do that one of his muscled arms found your waist and he was hoisting you over his shoulder. You nearly shrieked at the sudden motion, but remembered just in time that you were supposed to be dead. You let yourself go slack, arms dangling down his back as your knees pressed into his chest and his shoulder dug into your midsection.

He carried you from the bathroom and back into the bar. If he bumped your pliant form into a doorway or two, or if the steadying hand on your thigh was just a bit higher than you suspected was necessary, you didn’t say anything. You squeezed your eyes shut so that you would not have to see the carnage that you were sure was spread across the dancefloor. Your willful blindness did little to prevent the assault of the scent of copper from invading your senses, you could all but taste the blood on your tongue.

“Bubba!” So that was his name. “You got her?”

You felt the man– Bubba– nod.

“I got mine too! Let’s get ‘em in the truck.”

You kept your eyes clamped shut and your extremities limp for the entirety of the process. You were laid gently on the hard surface of what you surmised was the bed of a truck, followed quickly by a number of heavy thuds and disgusting squishing noises. You felt the vehicle shift under the added weight. Idly you wondered how they planned to dispose of the bodies. That was what you assumed they were planning, to hide the evidence of their crimes.

Blood pooled as it spilled from the multitude of wounds on the corpses, spreading to where Bubba had placed you. The warmth of it seeped into your clothing and hair, you fought the urge to gag. Someone patted your leg comfortingly before a tarp was thrown over the grizzly scene in the back of the truck, trapping you in with the smell of death. You were too afraid to open your eyes even when the engine started and two doors slammed shut.

The vehicle jolted forward, across the gravel of the parking lot and out onto the open road. You did not think to pay attention to the direction you were travelling or the number of times the truck turned. For the most part, your mind was blank. There was only one thought repeating itself in your head:

This was not the kind of excitement you had been looking for when you left your home earlier that evening.

Part 2

[camisolecutey-archived]

LAYER ONE: THE OUTSIDE.

name: Camie

eye color: Black

hair style/color: Messy,  shoulder length lavender hair

height: 5′5

clothing style: Casual, revealing.

best physical feature: Hair. 

LAYER TWO: THE INSIDE

your fears: A good chunk of insect species, salamanders, and the ever present dread of never living up to your family’s legacy.

your guilty pleasure: Knives. They’re just neat, although no one in my family wants me to have one. 

your biggest pet peeve: Creepy people, as well as being manipulated into doing stuff.

your ambitions for the future: Take over Capsule Corp (the third female president in a row), and hopefully live up to my potential.

LAYER THREE: THOUGHTS

your first thoughts waking up: My back hurts. Must have twisted weirdly in my sleep.

what you think about most: School, social life, and going back to training. 

what you think about before bed: Gosho’s making his racket again. Wonder how long it would take for Mom to yell at him to go to bed?

you think your best quality is: Hair? Possibly personality?

WHAT’S BETTER?

single or group dates: Single.

to be loved or respected: Respected. My grandparents and my mother managed to gain respect easily, so I must be able to do so as well. 

beauty or brains: Brains.

dogs or cats: Dogs. Speaking of which, where’s Honey and Smokey?

LAYER FIVE: DO YOU…

lie: Been doing this for my entire teenage years. Grown used to it at this point.

believe in yourself:  Why should I? The heights they want me to reach...they’re unobtainable!

believe in love: Yes.

want someone: No. Nobody has gotten my attention and kept it. 

LAYER SIX: EVER BEEN…

been on stage: Yes. My entire life is a stage, considering I’ve had a camera or two shoved into my face every few weeks or so. 

done drugs: No.

changed who you were to fit in: Yes. When I quit training, I went to pursue more girly interests. Now, it’s just finding a balance between being a fighter and being a girl. 

LAYER SEVEN: FAVORITES

favorite color: Orange. Grandpa Vegeta hates that I’ve “adopted the clown’s coloring”.

favorite animal: Dogs. They’re just so cute!

favorite movie: Freaky Friday. Can you imagine my mom and I switching bodies? It would be a disaster!

favorite game: Pokemon. I still have White 2 in my old DSi. 

LAYER EIGHT: AGE

day your next birthday will be: In nine more months, yeah. 

how old will you be: 19. I have to start being an adult soon...

age you lost your virginity: Still haven’t lost it. Nobody’s earned that right with me yet.

does age matter: Not too old and not too young. There’s a lot of creepos going after someone my age.

LAYER NINE: IN A PERSON

best personality: Someone able to match up to my personality and my family’s. Sorry but if you can’t handle the fire inside me and everyone else, you’re not it. 

best eye color: Blue/grey? If we have a kid together, there’s a good chance they’ll be blue eyed like Mom, Auntie and Grandma...

best hair color: Black? Or maybe a dark brown or a russet red?

best thing to do with a partner: Hanging out inside the car with the radio turned on, with bags of snacks and talking about stupid things. 

LAYER TEN: FINISH THE SENTENCE

i love: to go on an adventure.

i feel: exhausted and fucked up. 

i hide: so much about myself now.

i miss: fighting.

i wish: I could be my old self. 

Tagged by: nicked it from @hoflichkeit Tagging: nick it from me if you want.

[yaelathewordsmith]

One Moment In A Lifetime

hhhhh okay, first BNHA fic ever, hooray! No clue what the point of this is supposed to be, though, it’s just . . . words. Just ran away from me entirely. Exploring relationship dynamics, I guess? I don’t even know. Hope you enjoy anyway!

Summary: A battle goes wrong in a way it shouldn’t have, and Shouto is not happy. What he ends up receiving, though, is something precious he never expected.

Includes hurt, regret, friendship, and platonic love and care.

(reposted)

*

Shouto usually isn’t one to lose his temper. On rare occasions, yes, when he’s been pushed way over the edge or been offered insufferable provocation or has found himself in situations he can see no clear way out of. It had turned out, amazingly, that Midoriya Izuku (face like a blushing puppy, body like a Greek statue, voice reminiscent of nothing more than a shy deer, personality of an enthusiastically fanatic nerd) was one person who could actually get him furious and throw him off balance (the determination of a piranha that’s just tasted blood, too). Apart from him, though, no single person from 1-A gets him rattled. Bakugou tries - oh, does he try - but Shouto can easily deal with such overt displays of aggressiveness.

Any tendency to back down, to waver, show weakness, has been beaten out of him long ago. Now, he looks in the mirror and is reminded of a mountain lake - still and undisturbed. That’s not a bad thing, he thinks. If nothing else, it’s certainly a safe way to go through life; unaffected by little upsets, little irritations, reserving all focus and discipline for the things that really matter.

So it comes as a surprise, to put it lightly, to find that this - this - has upset him.

“You,” he snaps, whirling around, “are a reckless idiot. What the hell did you think you were doing?”

Fire sparks in his left palm - not the best idea when facing Bakugou, but he pays that thought no mind. He won’t extinguish it. If he has to, he’ll beat Bakugou with his own element. He’d prefer to do so, in fact.

Bakugou backs down, though, looks down and away with a sullen scowl. It isn’t much of a surprise - Bakugou may be many things, but he’s not an idiot, and he never refuses to face any mistake he makes head on - but it exacerbates the itch inside Shouto, the itch to break something, burn something, create some outward manifestation of the frustration and lingering shock (not fear, he tells himself, not fear at all - and hates that he knows he’s lying) that’s burning somewhere deep in his chest.

Midoriya is crouched on the ground, wide eyes, anxious, tattered hood pushed back to hang limply down his back. “Uraraka-san, can - can you rate the pain on a scale of one to ten for me, please?”

Uraraka’s helmet is lying on the ground, pink visor smokey and splintered. One of her bracers is cracked, her belt is missing, and her boots are a maze of dirty scratches. The defect that draws the most attention, though, is the large, ragged hole in her costume on her left waist, where the skin is horribly red and blistered.

Still she smiles, as much as she is able, still she offers Bakugou no hint of resentment or anger in her clear eyes.

“M-maybe six?”

Bakugou snorts irritably, edging around Shouto with a defiant glare to crouch by Uraraka, a little away from Midoriya. He’s keeping his distance from her, Shouto realizes, aware of what he’s just done and ashamed of it, and understanding that makes him grudgingly extinguish the fire that was beginning to burn steadily in his palm.

“My explosions aren’t that weak, girl,” Bakugou growls. “They don’t burn me, but that don’t mean I ain’t aware of how much they hurt. I - “

He hesitates, glances up at Shouto, who stares back unforgivingly, and sideways at Midoriya, who still looks antsy and anxious.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, glaring at the dirt. “I should’ve been more careful.”

“You should have looked,” Shouto says, the words clipped, “to see who exactly was in your line of fire instead of blasting away because one villain pissed you off. Both Midoriya and Uraraka were already taking care of him. Do you know what his quirk is?”

Bakugou grimaces. “No, damn you, I don’t!”

“Any object, any tool, anything remotely useful will have an effect opposite to the one intended. Since you tried to roast that guy alive when Uraraka was in the way, and she used her quirk to move him, he had the opportunity to touch her and activate his own quirk. And that means no medicine, no cooling pack, not even my ice will help with the massive second degree burn you just gave her!”

Shouto doesn’t even realize how loud his voice has become until Bakugou gets to his feet, snarling.

“I already apologized, you bastard, what the hell else do you want?! Want me to go back in time and fix it? Hah?!”

“I want you to understand exactly what you - !”

“Kacchan!”

Uraraka’s soft voice cuts through the crackling air like a knife. Both Shouto and Bakugou turn instantly, watching as Midoriya helps her struggle into a sitting position.

She smiles again, weak and painful. “It’s fine, Kacchan, it really is, I swear. I know you didn’t mean to. Thank you for apologizing. And Todoroki-kun, I appreciate your concern very much, but please don’t yell at Kacchan. It’s not -” She sucks in a breath, wincing as Midoriya’s gently probing fingers touch a particularly painful spot. She dismisses his hasty apology with a slight shake of her head, and continues, “- it’s not necessary at all.”

Shouto huffs shortly, and Bakugou jerks his head away, scowling at the ground. “Whatever. I’m going to go check that the last of the fires are out.”

Midoriya looks up at that. “Kacchan, don’t forget to check on the guy with the knife quirk! I don’t think he’ll be able to cut through the rope, I don’t think they can reach his wrists from his fingers, but just make sure - “

“Shut the fuck up, Deku, I know!” Bakugou gets to his feet, hand brushing across Uraraka’s shoulder for a brief, hesitant moment, cheeks dusted light red as he does so. “I’ll check on all those assholes, you don’t have to nag me.”

He gives Shouto a glare, and Shouto gives him a cool look in return, but steps aside to make way for him. Bakugou understands, and he regrets it, and that’s enough for Shouto. For now, at least. Later, he will talk to Bakugou and demand to know what had him distracted, what had him riled up, because it’s not the first time he’s been careless like this. It’s been happening for more than a week now, and if he doesn’t get it together, they may not be permitted to work together anymore, as rookie heroes. He needs to tell Shouto what’s wrong, or he can tell Midoriya, or just anyone, but it needs to be worked out before anyone gets hurt again - including Bakugou himself.

That it’s I’ll-Crush-You-And-Any-Dreams-You-Ever-Had-Bakugou that this is happening to, of all people, is, of course, a minor consideration, no matter how worrying it is. Shouto is good at leaving personal desires out of the picture, focusing only on the final goal to be achieved.

He learned that a long time ago, too.

Freezing Bakugou into the world’s most bizarre popsicle until he agrees to talk to (to confide in) Shouto can wait until later, though. Right now -

He kneels where Bakugou had crouched, not sure if Uraraka will be uncomfortable with the idea of being around him, his fire, especially when it’s the reason that the buildings around them, in this part of the abandoned town, are scorched and soot-streaked.

“We need to get you help,” Midoriya says, all wide and earnest eyes. “Will you be okay while one of us goes, Uraraka-san?”

The corner of her mouth quirks up vaguely - it’s all she can summon of her earlier smile.

“Of course, Deku, I’ll be fine. It’s really not - as bad as it -”

Shouto reaches out without thinking, to steady her as she sways, but his touch is, of course, unneeded. Midoriya already has one strong arm around her shoulders, keeping her upright, silently urging her to lean back against the rough block of concrete that is part of a fallen pillar. Shouto doesn’t remove his hand from her arm, though. Useless as the gesture may be, it makes him feel like he’s helping somehow, providing her with some modicum of support and comfort, that he’s not entirely useless in the situation. And it - gives him some small measure of comfort.

“You’re exhausted,” he says. “You were fighting longer than we were, and using your quirk almost constantly. The burn is the worst of it, but that’s not all that needs attention. We need medical professionals, or at least transport to a medical facility.”

Uraraka makes a soft sound that’s something between a snort and a laugh, one hand brushing against her useless phone. “And we just had to run into someone with a quirk that disables electrical devices today, didn’t we . . .”

“I could carry you,” Midoriya offers. “We could be at the next town in ten minutes.”

Uraraka shakes her head weakly, brown hair limp over her eyes. “Already - nauseous from Zero Gravity. I - thank you for offering but - bounding up and down like that - “

“Right, of course,” Midoriya says instantly, forehead creasing with worry. “Then, Todoroki-kun? Is your quirk - ?”

“It’s possible, yes, I can do it. But it would be slower, it would also exacerbate the nausea, and I don’t want to take the risk of my ice worsening your injury. If even the slightest bit comes into contact, I think it would feel like - like fire, probably - “

Uraraka shrinks back at that, just a little bit.

Shouto forces himself not to clench his fist, and continues, “And anyway you’re not supposed to apply ice to burns.”

Midoriya exhales, short and sharp. “Okay. Okay, okay, then I’ll go, I’ll get them, since I’ll be faster. I’ll be back as soon as I can, okay? Todoroki-kun, you’ll stay with - ?”

“Of course,” Shouto says before he even finishes the sentence. Of course, because where the hell else would he be?

Midoriya nods and is in the air almost before Shouto can blink. The thuds of his jumps are loud, concussive, and fading rapidly. They only hear three before he’s outside their range of hearing.*

Uraaka slowly lets her head fall back, her breathing going shallow and her features scrunching up in a way that implies that she’s been trying far too hard for far too long to seem calm and composed, and has just allowed herself to break. To stop.

It hurts, in a dull kind of way, because this is someone bright and kind and good, someone Shouto has fought beside too many times to count, has trusted with his life and been trusted with hers in return, someone who is comrade and friend and just - just dear to him, he realizes, she is dear to him in a way few people are. A bond forged in battle is no easy thing to replicate. And so seeing her like this, in pain, and being unable to help feels like something is squeezing his heart, compressing it until every heartbeat is a subdued ache.

But there’s nothing he can do, so he keeps his hand on her shoulder and resigns himself to feeling jittery and uncomfortable as he waits for Midoriya to return.

There are flakes of ash floating by, the air horribly still. Stifling. The only sounds are distant crashes of rubble that’s decided to fall only now, and the faint grunts of the trussed up villains. Bakugou, Shouto can’t hear at all (for once). He’s executing his mission in unnatural silence. Shouto hopes, vaguely, tiredly, as exhaustion sweeps over him in a wave, that he hasn’t run into any trouble - or killed the guy who’d irritated him so much in the first place. That’s an odd quirk, to be sure . . . it seems ridiculous, frustrating, but are there . . . possible uses?

Shouto’s eyes snap open.

“Uraraka,” he says, softly, urgently.

She levers her own eyes open and blinks at him blearily.

“If my ice would burn you - would my fire cool you?”

Her mouth opens a little, shock sharpening the features of her face.

“I - it - it might? But . . .” She frowns a bit, getting that look of furious focus that only appears when she’s trying desperately to think. “But ice isn’t good for burns, so would it - how would it - ”

“I don’t know,” he tells her, left hand already itching to be set ablaze. “Would you - like to try?”

Her eyes flick up to meet his, and he catches a glimpse of dark fear in them before she forces it back, swallowing.

“If you don’t want to -” he says immediately. He doesn’t want to pressure her in any way.

But she shakes her head weakly, biting her lip. “I think - m-maybe we should. It- “ Her voice breaks on a rising sob. “It really hurts, Todoroki-kun.”

“Okay,” he murmurs, trying to sound as soothing as he can. “We’ll do that, then. If you feel the slightest pain, anything at all, tell me immediately and we’ll stop, yes? We’re going to take this slow.”

Uraraka nods, pushing herself upright. Shouto allows one small flame to kindle at the tip of one finger, holding it like it’s a baby bird.

“Ready?”

She nods again, eyes screwed shut. He moves it towards her side carefully, the sight of the red-gold light against her burned, angry-looking skin making him wince. But he presses on, moving closer, closer, until he’s less than an inch away, and she should definitely be feeling some heat now, even if nerves have been damaged. But she says nothing.

“Feel anything?”

She shakes her head, relaxing a little. “No heat, but there’s like - a cool breeze?” Her eyes fall open. “I think you were right, Todoroki-kun.”

He moves closer, gingerly, until it’s almost licking at her side. “Now? Is it too cold?”

“N-no, it’s - good. It’s - ohh -” She almost shudders in relief when he allows it to press against her entirely. “It’s like cool water, it’s perfect.”

Shouto sighs quietly. “Good.”

He allows the flames to envelop his hand entirely and, very carefully, lays it flat against the burn. He can feel her skin even through the fire licking at the underside of his palm, rough and puckered and blistered, and his mouth twists without him meaning to.

“Todoroki-kun, could you - here?” She points, and he moves his hand accordingly, thinking about how if he had Kendo’s quirk in addition to his own he could just enlarge his hand to cool the entire affected area. But he doesn’t, and he can’t, and so he ends up absently stroking the entire burn in controlled sweeps, taking care not to get too close to the cloth of her costume because he has no clue as to whether the villain’s quirk extends to the clothes of the affected person as well.

It’s - weird. Once the buzz of his shock and anger has worn off, now that he’s doing something useful, helpful, it’s just odd. The whole situation is odd, kneeling on ashy ground in the middle of a ruined town, stroking a teammate’s burn with a hand on fire. And it’s even weirder that he’s doing this for Uraraka, of all people, because he might not be the most attentive person when it comes to social relationships, but everyone who had been in their class knows that there’s something between Midoriya and Uraraka, something tentative and nebulous and undefined that the two of them are too embarrassed to address; something that lasted through all the years since UA till now. And so if anyone should be - uh, touching (petting, Shouto thinks, and shudders slightly, shaking the uncomfortable thought out of his head) - Uraraka’s waist like this, it should most definitely not be Shouto.

But . . . it’s Uraraka. And since it’s Uraraka (as adept at defusing uncomfortable situations, with soothing words and just the right gestures, as she sometimes is at creating them, with nervous chatter and flustered hands) the smile she gives him and the way she relaxes, peacefully, ensures that he settles down to his task soon enough, the repetitive motion soothing away the chaos of battle still churning in his mind surprisingly effectively.

It’s one moment in a lifetime, one incident among hundreds that Shouto will experience in a lifetime as a pro hero. Yet later, when he’s older and more battle-scarred, when the white has started encroaching onto the red half of his hair, it’s that moment he thinks of when he thinks of tranquility, stillness, peace - Uraraka with her eyes closed, head tipped back against cracked concrete, the rise and fall of her chest gentle and steady (when before it had been harsh, stuttering) because his hand on her waist, his flames, are washing her pain away, keeping it at bay. It’s that atmosphere that he remembers, smokey and heavy and silent but - quiet, and comforting, as the adrenaline in his blood slows to a halt and his whirling thoughts slow and settle around a centre of silence.

It’s a feeling he will only be privileged to experience a few times in his life, that feeling of true peace. And he will never tell anyone, but to himself, Shouto can admit that the reason he watches Uraraka’s back more carefully in fights after that, the reason he listens to her worry about how Midoriya might never like her back, the reason he helps her make horrible Valentine’s Day chocolate and trains with her more and reads the books she recommends and -

- and becomes something of a best friend -

- is that he’s grateful to her for giving him that, that single, precious period of peace.

Even if is just - one moment in a lifetime.

[gotta-livethislife-blog]

Jax Teller Imagine

Request for anon -

Jax imagine, were the reader used to go to school with Opie and Tara but only ever spoke to Opie because of shared classes. Years later you meet up with Jax only to discover he has always liked you. This is my first request, so hope this is okay! :)

It was just gone six when you finished work for the day and headed to the grocery store. You were tired from being on your feet all day but you decided to do your shopping now, so tomorrow you could enjoy your only day off. You worked as a make up artist at the Mac store at the local mall in the town next to Charming. You loved your job, but man sometimes it could be stressful!

You were just about finished as you crossed the parking lot to your car when one of your several bags snapped, sending your groceries rolling in all different directions. “Shit”’ you muttered as you bent down, trying to locate everything as you balanced your shopping in your arms. “Need some help with that darlin?” You heard, as you turned to see where the voice had come from. Behind you, now bending to pick the last of your tomatoes up was Jax Teller. You smiled gratefully as he handed them back to you. You were just about the thank him as Opie Winston caught up with his friend. “Oh hey Y/N!” Opie exclaimed as he tried to give you a hug, dropping more of your shopping in the process. “Opie, how are you?” You laughed as both guys now helped you put your shopping in the trunk. You hadn’t seen Opie in years, you’d heard he’d done time but that was about it. You knew Opie from way back in high school, during your last year most of your classes had been the same, over that year you’d become good friends. After graduation you never really saw him again properly. You certainly weren’t in his social group so the friendship just fizzled out. But you were always fond of him as he was of you.

Charming was only a small town, growing up here all your life you knew exactly who Jax Tellor was without ever having spoken a word to him in your life. Despite being Opie’s best friend and being in your year in school you doubt he ever knew you existed. You weren’t clever like Tara who you’d known in passing and you weren’t exactly cool back then like the rest of the girls they used to hang out with. But that was then and this is now. You were happy and confident in yourself now you’d grown into an adult and you sure as hell thought you were a lot more attractive than you were back in your spotty teenage years. You stood talking to Opie for a good 20 minutes catching up on each other’s news, him telling you all about Donna and the kids, you telling him all about work when you realised the time. “Shit, is that the time” Opie muttered “Talking of Donna, I’d better get back soon!” He said “But why don’t you come the the club house tomorrow night, we’re having a party. It’d be great to catch up some more!” He suggested “Yeah, sure” you replied, it had been so nice talking to him again, and tomorrow was your day off anyway. “7pm, I’ll see you then!” He said with a smile as you climbed into your car.

As you started the engine you watched them in your rear view mirror as they walked away, well more specifically you watched Jax. You’d always had a bit of a crush on him. But as you’d stood there talking to Opie, he hardly said a thing. Maybe some people don’t change that much from high school after all you thought, as you reversed the car and headed home.

You spent the next day, literally doing nothing. It was so nice to finally feel like you could relax and not worry about work! Until tomorrow anyway. At about 5pm you started to get ready for the party at Tellor Morrow. You’d never been to a party there, and you didn’t really know anyone apart from Opie. But you thought you’d go along and catch up with Opie some more. You were working tomorrow anyway so you probably wouldn’t stay late.

Two hours later you were ready to go. You had decided on a pair of ripped blue jeans, an off the shoulder white Bardot top along with your favourite white wedges. You still had a tan from the nice weather a few weeks back so you felt good. You kept your make up simple with a slight smokey eye and nude lip. You swept your hair up off your face in a loose bun on top of your head leaving a few dark curls falling down to frame your face. You grabbed your bag as you shut the door and set off for the club house. It was about 7.30pm when you arrived. You parked up and walked inside. As you walked inside you were greeted by Opie who was talking to an older guy with a scar on his face near the door. “Y/N you made it!” He said before crushing you in another bear hug and passing you a bottle. You spent most of the night chatting with Opie, he introduced you to some of the guys and you actually started to enjoy yourself. By about 10pm you were just finishing up a game of pool with a funny guy called Juice. When you finally spotted Jax at the bar talking to Opie. You hadn’t seen Jax all night, despite the fact you’d secretly been searching the room for him. A few moments later Opie approached you and said he had to go, something about a baby sitter, anyway you didn’t mind, you would probably leave soon yourself. You hugged your friend goodbye and headed to the bar to get one last drink. “What can I get ya darlin?” Jax asked from behind the bar as I sat down. “Just a beer please” you said as you sat down watching Jax flick the top off another one. He handed it across the bar and came to sit next to you. “You enjoying yourself?” He asked as he took a sip from his bottle. “Yeah” you replied “it’s been so good to catch up with Op, I haven’t seen him in forever.” You said as you leaned forward onto the bar. “Mm he mentioned that” Jax said as he leaned forward too. You were now quite close. You could smell the smoke and leather. Up close Jax was even better looking than you had remembered, you could definitely see why you had a crush on him all those years ago. “You know Y/N back in high school, I used to see you with Opie” he said while pushing a strand of blonde hair out of his face. “I used to wonder if you’d ever speak to me.” He said with a twinkle in his eyes. You laughed “You didn’t even know who i was until yesterday” you joked while taking another sip from your bottle. Jax then put his bottle down on the bar as he pulled his stool even close to yours “Are you kidding?!” He exclaimed “I’ve always known who you are!” He said while pointing at you. At this point you started to think he’d probably had one too many. You looked at him, suspicion in your eyes. “I wanted to talk to you for years.” He continued “But I just always thought someone like you would never be interested in someone like me.” He laughed but the smile didn’t really reach his eyes. You started to think maybe he was telling the truth. “So what, you actually liked me all those years ago?” You asked looking at him with surprise. “I liked you back then, I like you even more now darlin.” He whispered, holding your gaze. As his hand reached up to hold you chin. “I like you too.” You breathed as he pulled you into a gentle kiss. You broke away when a strange man with no hands started asking Jax about the vodka or something, you weren’t really paying attention. Your head was still spinning. Jax Teller actually liked you. Jax Teller had just kissed you. By the time Jax had gotten rid of the strange guy it was time for you to leave. Jax walked you out to your car. As you were about to leave he grabbed your arm and pulled you back into another kiss. This one was different from before, it was a lot more urgent from the last. You moaned into his mouth as he bite your bottom lip gently. Pulling away you both tried to control your breathing before he started to laugh. “You have no idea how many times I wanted to do that over the years.” He said with a mischievous grin spreading across his face. You grinned back as you got into your car, giving him a wink. Maybe some things do change after all you thought as you drove away. Something told you that wouldn’t be the last you saw of Jax Teller.

[lyndsaybones]

In Dreams 19

Chapter 1...Chapter 2…Chapter 3…Chapter 4…Chapter 5 …Chapter 6…Chapter 7…Chapter 8 …Chapter 9...Chapter10�� Chapter 11…Chapter 12…Chapter 13…Chapter 14…Chapter 15…Chapter 16…Chapter 17...Chapter 18

HEGEL PLACE

WASHINGTON, DC

“I can’t believe you’re even considering this,” she says, arms crossed defensively.

“I can’t believe you’re not,” he says as arranges the slides into a case.

“Mulder, wait,” she says firmly. “Are we even going to talk about this?” she asks.

“What’s there to talk about, Scully?” he says as he slips a lid over the top.

“What’s there to talk about?” she echoes, incredulous that she would even have to ask. “He’s lying Mulder, saying whatever he has to to get what he wants.”

He stops, looking at her head on for the first time since they got back to his apartment. His eyes dart, gray green flashes searching her face.

“None of this matters if I don’t have you. Do you understand that?”

“If you do this and what Diana said is true…” she draws in a long, shaky breath, tears brimming. “We can’t let the whole world die for a little temporary bliss.”

He sees her internal struggle, the way she has taken up his mantle and carried it just as steadfastly as he. He reaches out and pulls her into his arms, pressing her flush against the strong planes of his chest. His heart feels like a bass drum against her cheek.

“We’ll find another way, you and I. But right now, you, you and this baby are the only ones I care about.”

His words vibrate through her. 

Another way. Another way. Another way.

“Promise me, Mulder,” she whispers against his heather gray t-shirt. “We talk before anything is done.”

“Okay,” he says as he palms the back of her head, her hair slipping through his fingers. “Okay, I promise. I promise you.”

Weeks pass without a word from Old Smokey, but the silence is anything but easy. The tension and Scully’s belly both seem to grow exponentially. He is a satellite, circling her at all times, following, trailing, sending silent signals through the air and hoping they are not lost.

GEORGETOWN WASHINGTON, DC

He paces her living room, phone to his ear. His footfalls are muffled by the carpet. He stays in motion, always in motion.

“No, that won’t be possible,” he says simply. “Agent Scully is pregnant and too close to her due date to fly.”

She cocks her head to one side, slightly miffed that he is speaking for her without so much as a sideways glance.

“Yes, I can testify.”

The baby stretches and rolls, movement that feels like too much for her small frame. Sometimes it steals her breath, makes her eyes water, startles her. The idea that she has another six weeks to go and that the baby is only going to get bigger, it scares her a little. She closes her eyes and breathes through the discomfort.

“You okay?” he asks as he sets the phone down.

She palms the swell of her belly and shakes her head. “I’m fine. Where is it I’m not going?”

“Topeka, the Seel case is finally going to trial.”

“Wow, I figured she’d plead out,” she says as she slowly lowers herself onto the couch.

The baby pushes a limb into her diaphragm and she has to arch her back and shift to be able to draw in even half of a breath.

“Going for not guilty by reason of insanity,” he says as he sits down next to her.

“I’m still okay to fly, you know,” she says, annoyance coloring her words.

“Maybe I’m not okay with it,” he says.

“It’s not for you to decide,” she says.

“Believe me, I know that,” he says, his eyes soft and pleading. “But you didn’t really want to schlep all the way to Topeka to testify on an airtight case, did you?”

Her shoulders drop and she sighs. When she thinks of spending hours in a rigid airline seat, her back preemptively tightens.

“Not especially, no.”

“So I’ll go, submit our case notes, and be back in 48 hours.”

2 DAYS LATER

SHAWNEE COUNTY COURTHOUSE

TOPEKA, KS

Summer is still clinging tight even though the calendar reads mid-September. His shirt is sticking to him under the wool of his jacket and the dense heat makes taking a deep breath feel like being underwater.  

He glances at his watch and sighs. He was meant to be on the stand first thing that morning, but there had been delays and now, nearing noon, he is tapping his toes against the white marble floors of the courthouse hallway.

A distant wail, something akin to an air raid siren begins to sound outside. No one seems to take notice, going about their business as if there is no sound at all. He stands, looking around for someone, anyone to react.

A kind faced woman pauses, seeming to sense his distress.

“It’s Monday,” she says simply.

He shakes his head. “I don’t know what that means.”

“The tornado sirens go off every Monday at noon, gotta make sure they’re working!”

He smiles and chuckles. “I thought the world was ending and no one noticed.”

“Agent Mulder?” a tentative voice calls.

He turns to find Ted and Noelle Seel. Ted’s suit is ill fitting, he looks thinner than the last time they saw one another. Noelle looks as bright eyed as ever in her yellow cotton dress. He extends a hand and greets the little girl with a smile.

“Hello Noelle. You’ve gotten taller I think,” he says.

“Really?” Noelle asks with a broad smile.

“Yes, definitely,” he says.

“Is Dana here?” she asks, looking about.

“No, Dana had to stay home in Washington,” he tells her as he hunches down a bit.

“But I wanted to see the baby,” Noelle says woefully.

He passes a surprised glance to Ted who shrugs a little.

“How did you know about Dana’s baby?” he asks.

“Did she have her yet?”

“No, not yet, the baby needs a few more weeks to grow, but it’ll be born soon.”

“I didn’t realize she was actually pregnant. She started mentioning Dana’s baby months ago, but I didn’t think much of it I guess,” Mr. Seel chimes in.

“She is, due in late October,” he says as he stands.

“Oh she’ll be borned before that,” Noelle says. “I keep hearing Dana say ‘it’s too soon.’”

He feels a chill in the thick heat of the hallway, his heart beginning to stutter and then pound.

“When did you hear that?” he asks.

“I dream it sometimes, she cries and says it’s too soon for the baby to come. But then she just comes anyway,” she says. “Babies do what they want.”

“I suppose they do,” he says, feeling a knot winding itself tight in his gut.

“I’m glad you’re all better,” Noelle says with a smile. “I told Dana you just needed your rest.”

“Was that all I needed?” he asks, trying not to let the dread seep out for everyone to see.

“Don’t worry,” Noelle says. “Dana and the baby will be fine. But you can’t stay here too long.”

GEORGETOWN

WASHINGTON, DC

She managed to whittle away an entire day in the lab. Quantico had requested some extra coverage and she was happy to oblige. The elevator had been on the fritz in the Hoover and the prospect of negotiating all of those stairs was daunting at best. With Mulder in Topeka, there wasn’t much for her to do at the moment anyway. The reporting was all caught up and she hadn’t been in the field in a good long while. She thought that she was miss it, the thrill of a chase, the utter joy of closing out a tough case. But lately, all she really wants is to get to October and start her leave.

Exhaustion hangs around the edges of even the most simple tasks. Stopping, just stopping everything sounds so, so good.

She ambles to her apartment door, balancing a bag of groceries on what’s left of her hip as she fumbles for her key. The smell hits her and her gut immediately begins to churn. The nausea had come roaring back in the third trimester and it takes next to nothing to set her off.

The smell, she recognizes immediately as cigarette smoke. It smells like Saturday morning in her mother’s kitchen. Maggie used to smoke a cigarette and blow it out the window over the sink before she started breakfast. Of course, she associated it with other things now. Cold metal tables and even colder eyes staring at her paralyzed body. She swallows hard, pushing the fear down with the knot in her throat.

Since the fire, the landlord had strictly enforced the no smoking policy, she even heard that someone got evicted. She glances side to side, trying to suss out the source of it. She takes a deep breath at her door and sets the groceries down gently as she pulls her weapon from the holster at the small of her back.

Her hands do not shake, her breath does not quicken. If that bastard is in her living room, she’s going to unload her clip into his chest and walk away feeling light as a feather. She slides the key into the lock and simultaneously pushes off the safety on her .22. She shoulders the door open with one swift push and readies herself in a shooter’s stance so practiced that she can do it in her sleep. The doors whaps against the wall and begins to swing back as she enters.

She silently sweeps the room, pointing the barrel of her gun ahead of her like a beacon.

Nothing.

Nothing but the smell of hours old stale smoke.

She moves from room to room, quietly, efficiently, actions drilled into her so thoroughly as a trainee that she doesn’t even have the presence of mind to be scared. In every room, she is met only with silence, her things staring back at her. One of Mulder’s ties is hanging over the arm of a chair in her bedroom, his running shoes are tucked under the bed, his toothbrush is in the holder next to hers in the bathroom. It dawns on her that he actually lives there now.  

Clear the every room. Secure the location. Don’t get dead. 

The three commandments of her simulation instructor play over and over in her head as she reconciles herself to the fact that no one is there. She walks to the front door, closing it and locking it tight. She slides the safety back on her gun and re-holsters it.

She lets her eyes fall shut as she presses her back up against the door. The nausea roils up and she can barely get to the bathroom fast enough. Her knees hit the floor with a jarring crack. As she opens the lid, she sees a cigarette butt floating in the water.

Her hands shake, her breath quickens.

SHAWNEE COUNTY COURTHOUSE TOPEKA, KS

Mrs. Seel looks like she hasn’t seen the sun in months. Her skin is sallow and nearly transparent. Her hair hangs limply, heavy with oil and jailhouse dust. She doesn’t look up as he testifies about the night he and Scully saved her and Noelle’s lives.

“What brought you to Topeka in the first place, Agent Mulder?” her attorney asks.

Ah, that old chestnut. Attorneys love to trot out his work like a macabre sideshow to invalidate his testimony.

Her lawyer is a broad shouldered man with a neat gray goatee and glasses perched on the end of his bulbous nose. He seems like the type who would have several animal heads mounted in his office. A salt of the earth kind of guy. One who certainly would scoff at government dollars being spent on paranormal investigations.

There is sudden long, low groan from the defense table.

“He KNOWS!” Lydia Seel howls. “He’s with THEM!”

The gavel slaps angrily, the sound echoing through the room. Feet shuffle, voices murmur. Lydia’s face has gone ruddy red and there is a vein throbbing on her forehead as she seethes through clenched teeth.

“The world is ending and none of you are even paying attention!” she screams.

“Mr. Johnston, please get your client under control,” the judge barks.

“You!” she screams, pointing an angry finger at Mulder. “You know what they did to Noelle!”

The gavel smacks down again and again and again. “Order! Order! Order!”

The courtroom buzz and disarray reaches a fever pitch as the bailiff clutches onto a flailing Lydia Seel.

“Remove the defendant! Counsel, in my chambers right now!” the judge hollers.

GEORGETOWN

WASHINGTON, DC

Her ribs are achy, her throat raw. She managed to swallow back her anti-nausea pills and crawl into bed. When the phone starts ringing, her first instinct is to ignore and go the hell to sleep. But Mulder will worry if she doesn’t answer and then he’ll just keep calling or worse, call her mother and send her over.

“Hey,” she answers, her voice rough.

“Oh no,” he says. “Have you been sick?”

“Yeah,” she croaks.

“Do you need to go to the ER?” he asks.

“No, I’m okay. My meds stayed down.”

“Have you eaten anything yet?” he asks.

She burrows deeper into the blankets, curling up as much as her belly will allow.

“Hmm, not yet. Maybe in a couple hours. How’s it going there? Are you flying back tomorrow?”

“It was kind of wild, actually. Lydia Seel had a massive outburst in court and I heard she suffered a seizure in her holding cell. They may postpone the rest of the trial.”

“A seizure? Due to what?” she asks.

“I don’t know, but I did get a look at some of the bloodwork from the night we pulled her out of the garage.”

“And?”

“And it looks like the same stuff that was in my blood when I went demolition derby on my rental car,” he says. “When she was asked what it was, she said that it was Noelle’s medicine.”

“Noelle’s? Why would a little girl be taking something like that? And who on earth was prescribing it?”

“Lydia’s statement isn’t clear on that, just that it was for Noelle.”

“What about Noelle’s bloodwork from that night? Does it show the same thing?”

“It does, but only in trace amounts. Maybe she stopped giving it to her. Maybe she realized what it really was.”

“Are you still subscribing to the theory that it’s meant to enhance psychic ability?” she asks, although she already knows the answer.

“At the moment, it seems to fit,” he says. He pauses a long moment. “Are you okay? Besides the nausea I mean. Is everything alright?”

“I’m okay, tired. But it looks like we had a visitor while I was at work,” she says. “I found a cigarette butt in the toilet when I got home.”

She realizes that telling him this while he’s half a continent away may not be the most prudent thing to do and she can practically hear the fuse sizzling on the other end of the line.

“He took the slides,” she adds, trying to keep the nerves out of her voice.

“I want you to go to your mother’s house,” he says simply.

“I’m not going to do that, Mulder. He got what he came for. If he was going to do something to me, I probably wouldn’t be talking to you right now, would I?” she reasons.

“That’s very comforting,” he grouses.

“I’m armed. Nothing is going to happen. Not tonight anyway,” she says. “He left it there to scare me. I’m not scared.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he says. “Maybe take the day off and stay in?” he requests.

“I’ve got a check up in the morning,” she reminds him.

“Right, I forgot. I’m sorry,” he says.

“S’okay,” she says, barely stifling a yawn.

“Try to eat something before you go to sleep, okay?” he asks.

“I’ll try,” she sighs.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Yeah?”

“I love you, Scully.”

She sighs softly and smiles. Much as she is avoids sentimentality, his naked adoration has an unexpected way of softening her.

“I love you, too,” she says.

WOMEN’S HEALTHCARE ASSOCIATES

She likes her doctor, a lot. Dr. Hemenway’s got a good head on her shoulders and unlike most other doctors, doesn’t talk to her like she’s an idiot.

“Dana?” she asks as she sweeps into the room. “You look awful,” she says simply.

“I didn’t sleep much,” she admits. 

She caught only a brief glimpse of herself in the mirror on the way out, but even when standing still, she feels like a blur. Her hair is wild and pulled up into a loose ponytail. She didn’t bother with makeup, not even a sweep of chapstick for her cracked lips. Everything just felt like entirely too much work.

“Have you been vomiting?” she asks as she applies a blood pressure cuff.

“Not since last night,” she says softly. The bones in her skull feel like shifting tectonic plates if she raises her voice above a gravelly whisper.

“BP is pretty low,” she remarks. “Open,” she requests as she clicks the end of her pen light.

She complies, sticking out her tongue and closing her eyes.

“Bone dry,” Dr. Hemenway says. “Okay, let’s check on little one and then you’re going over to the hospital,” she says.

“What? Why?”

“You’re dehydrated, you need fluids and rest. I’m putting in the order, go straight up to L&D. The OB on call will get you started and I’ll be in later to check on you.”

She grimaces as she lays back and pulls up her shirt. Dr. Hemenway palpates her belly and pulls out a measuring tape.

“Right on target,” she remarks.

She works the doppler probe over a spot just to the right of her belly button, eliciting the mechanical whoosh whoosh of the baby’s heartbeat.

“Is Fox in the waiting room?” she asks.

“No, he had to go testify on a case. He’ll be back in a few hours.”

“Maybe you should take a cab,” she suggests.

“You think I’m that bad off?”

“I think if the wind blows the right way you could hit the deck,” she says as she wipes the gel off of her belly and offers her hand.

She grunts softly as she gets upright again, a little headrush chasing her as she settles herself.

“I’ll call a cab. Straight over to GW,” she says with an authoritative wag of her finger. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

The ride is a short one and she shuffles out of the elevator and into the Labor and Delivery wing less than 20 minutes after leaving the doctor’s office.

“Ms. Scully?” a cheery nurse pushing a wheelchair greets.

She nods, although it makes her head hurt.

“I really don’t need that,” she says.

“You might as well enjoy the ride, right?” she says.

She lets out a mirthless chuckle and takes a seat.

“I’m Casey,” the nurse says as she pushes the wheelchair down the hall. “Dr. Kurtzweil will be in shortly to check on you.”

“Kurtzweil?”

[adriennescomingbacktolife]

(I)

“So what do you do?” 

The bartender kept trying. After all, Adrienne Levi had been nursing the same glass of Jameson’s he had poured her an hour ago. His question didn’t prompt a response immediately. She was lost in what led her to break the routine in the first place. Maybe this was celebratory. After all, she had just FedEx’d her signed contract to a small independent company in Maryland. It was a culmination of thirteen months of hard work and intense training.  On the other hand, her cat died yesterday so maybe this was in remembrance to Jimmy - a former stray that had just showed up at her front door like a day after … well, she wasn’t really sure.

Her face was illuminated in the low lighting of the bar by her iPhone. She stared intently at a text conversation that hadn’t been replied to since last summer.

u want anything?

She looked up finally. He was attractive, sure. Blonde hair neatly combed over. Blue piercing eyes. Nice smile. He hadn’t shaved in a few days. His Rumba Island Bar & Grill polo complimented his broad shoulders …

Adrienne looked back down. It was checked Read. 

“Kind of hard to explain, Charles.”

After all, it was on his shiny gold name tag.

“Charlie works.”

“Does it?” 

Charlie laughed nervously as he served another customer a few stools down from her. Meanwhile, Adrienne considered the answer.  What does she do? For the past decade, she’d been a mannequin modeling something picked out for her to wear. Usually a shiny vibrant number that rode up her thighs every time she climbed up into that ring to open the ropes. She had been a diversion. The reason why things went well or especially when they didn’t. 

But that had dried up. 

Adrienne brushed a lock of her dark hair from her face. She finally took a second sip, it went down smooth. And there Charlie was, still expecting an answer. So - she did. 

“I call people who don’t pay their bills.”

Then Charlie got real brave. 

“Those bruises on your arm from that?”

That would be a funny story. Easier to explain than it being the result of steel cords cutting in her flesh as she willingly ran into them for momentum. Her Led Zeppelin t-shirt, the one for a concert she was never at because she wasn’t even alive, covered up the matching ones on her upper back.

“What do you think?”

He shrugged his shoulders. There were plenty of other people he could dote on. She could settle up with the coins in her wallet and be on her way.  She was morbidly curious however.

“You by yourself?”

There we go. She stifled a chuckle as the third sip wasn’t a sip at all. She emptied the glass and clinked it down on the bar. He was quick with the bottle but Adrienne’s hand over the glass was quicker.

“On me.”

“I’m good.”

“Fair enough. You waiting for someone?”

This close Levi could smell the contents of this very bottle on his breath. 

“Nah, Danny’s overseas.”

She lifted up from the stool to retrieve her wallet from the back pocket of her jeans. The bartender, he really was easy on the eyes if one didn’t think about the type of person he seemed to be. Small sample size, sure. But that’s all it took for Daniel Levi. Danny was…

She bit her tongue.

Danny always has a way with words and Adrienne believed him. Always at the cusp of greatness. Just one more hurdle. Sometimes he got in his own way but she’d never say that outloud. It was always something else. It was the management here in Clearwater.  Out west, it was the nagging injuries, she supposed. But in Japan? The sky’s the limit. Magnificent Danny Levi…

“Hey, that’s alright. My shift is over in twenty, how about we grab dinner?”

“Charlie.”

She palmed a fiver on the counter, her gold wedding band clear and present. Adrienne cast a glance over to the platinum blonde trying to balance a shot glass between her ginormous breasts.

“She’s more your speed.”

Adrienne left, popping in a pair of earbuds as she walked. His playlist came on immediately. After some of Pink Floyd’s usual ambience, Gilmour asked almost defiantly, “Where were you when I was burned and broken…”

She was a lightweight these days so after two ounces, she felt a little levity in this whole situation. A few more and Charlie and his whiskey dick could have made her forget about all of this for a little while. After all, fair's fair. However, the Levi apartment was only a few blocks away and the night air was cool against her skin. As Adrienne opened the front door, she nudged the bag of cat food just inside. She should probably cancel that subscription. She tossed the keys onto a table with an answering machine. One new message. 

“Hey Ade, it’s your mother. Look, I don’t know how to say this but I’m gonna try again. Daniel. Danny, he’s--”

She deleted the message. Adrienne smiled flippantly. Everytime her mother talked like this, it was like being fifteen again. And Danny was seventeen but he was the only boy that got her. No, mommy, I love him, he’s perfect. But mommy and daddy didn’t like Danny. 

The lights turned on automatically as she stepped into the living room. She flopped on the patch work couch and kicked her feet up on the coffee table, the sneakers sailing off her feet like a pair of awkward birds before landing on the carpet. She flipped through her social media feed. And while she tried to focus on her new employment status in Carnage Wrestling, a small part of her wished she listened.

For her entire adult life, Adrienne had stood in Danny’s shadow. But it was the twilight of his career - or maybe he’d come to the terms that he never reached the summit in the first place. And now Adrienne had a chance to show that she was more than what others assumed. What Danny assumed. 

You don’t need that, he’d say. Why fix what isn’t broken? 

Her fists clenched at that notion. The paydays had dried up. Six days a week, Adrienne was harassing folks about debts that had been purchased for pennies on the dollar with the intent to collect.  In the bouts of being screamed at, some would like her supposedly sultry voice and … whatever. She had wiped away a joint savings account in the hopes of staking claim to just who she was. One of Danny’s friends said he’d train her but three grand didn’t amount to much more than the basics. Or how to work the stick. He emphasized those words as if she didn’t know what he meant. 

And yet, CW reached out. Next month, she had her first opportunity to step out in front of a paying audience against an opponent that wasn’t sparring with her. Starburst, or Regina Del Gato, was intriguing to say the least. A multi-disciplined martial artist with uncanny aerial abilities. And yet, it hadn’t translated into much success. 

Loser.

Adrienne scoffed. Danny had a terrible habit of deriding his competition. He never had anything positive to say about them so when he inevitably lost, he was absolutely enraged. She tried as much as she could with those soft suggestions. She sat back and closed her eyes.

And there they were. She’d get a private dressing room usually but Danny and Adrienne Levi were a package deal.

She knelt beside him, threading pink laces through the eyelets of his white boots.

“Who am I facing?”

“You aren’t facing anyone.”

He ignored that, snatching a match card from his bag.

“Look at the tits on this one, A. She must have terrible back problems.”

“Don’t take her lightly.”

“Gonna motorboat her.”

Danny’s skin was glistening with baby oil. It was for the lighting he claimed but he always thought it was clever to be slippery. Eventually, though, he was caught. She didn’t care. These moments of confidence were peaceful, though. And she’d be remiss if she didn’t find his toothy grin to be attractive as he ran people down to an audience of one. Not only that, when you thought of a professional wrestler, Danny Levi was typecast into the role. He looked the part. Strong frame, musculature fitting of a Greek god, and that damn mustache. She didn’t care that it belonged to a bygone era. 

“No, really, it’s my turn.”

He laughed, causing her to miss the last hole. 

“Not tonight. This could be it. This could be my big chance and I need you in my corner.”

That spotlight burned on him the brightest, glimmering off another relic of the past - a gaudy white and pink sequined robe. He’d spin around, reveling in whatever reaction he garnered and then … and only then, she would join him. With arms linked, they sauntered down to the ring. Up the steps, she stood on the apron as he reprised his braggadocious posing. 

“Come on, open the ropes for me already.”

Her eyes shot open, she had dozed off.

“...no.” 

That robe was hanging in the corner of the room, surrounded by other artifacts of his storied career. Some Orlando based championship he won in his rookie year. And lots of pictures of him. Some had her in them, too. She looked like a clown with smokey eyes and blood red lipstick. But anyway, that robe, he’d left it behind. Danny claimed that he could reinvent himself. That these Japanese crowds appreciate guys like him. Guys that put the work in. 

That was a stretch, she admitted. Danny took shortcuts and sometimes they worked but most times, they amounted to little more than inspiring whoever he was fighting. 

That’s a promise she made to herself. She wouldn’t overlook anyone. Who was Adrienne to do that anyway? There was no doubt that Regina was more than ready to get her first victory in CW. A brief glimpse into what she’s said and what she’s done would reveal the indiscretions of youth. There was a fine line between arrogance and confidence. Del Gato made bold proclamations. Her first of many great achievements was to not be the one pinned. Followed up by a middle of the pack elimination. Moral victories, Danny called them. Didn’t fail, but didn’t get it done either.

Adrienne suddenly felt overwhelmed. Up until now, Regina stood across long time veterans and this Starburst stood her ground. First ever professional match, that must feel like chum in the water for this young competitor. 

Danny loved those matchups. It was always some rube that hadn’t seen through his tricks. He would grin and say that he was making a statement. The mark would have a long night and he’d celebrate by drinking a little too much and passing out in the hotel room. What always irked her is that he was always so complimentary to their faces. We’re going to put on a show, he’d claim. And that smile, she knew that smile. It never reached his eyes. There was one real smile he had and she saw it rarely. Maybe when she was reciting the wedding vows that he curated. 

She was wandering around the point and that was what? It can’t be that. Just think of it as that boundless youthful exuberance. Or maybe it was insincerity.

Scrolling through Regina’s wall, she dismissed that. Adrienne Levi was not raised to think the worst of people. Twitter minimized and she started to record. The angle and lighting was unflattering and honestly, she didn’t know what to say. The camera framed her face as she looked down into the lens. 

“So, hello, I guess.”

Her free hand waved at the camera.

“I’m Adrienne. First and foremost, I want to thank Carnage Wrestling for this monumental opportunity.”

Levi sighed, that same hand involuntarily twirling a lock of her thick dark hair. There was an extended silence as she carefully considered her words.

“So I’ve … been in this business since I was nineteen but never once as the performer. So thirteen years, right? Anyway, it’s a tremendous honor for me to be facing such a vibrant and dedicated talent as Starburst in my very first match.”

Another prolonged silence.

“What else?”

At first there was a positive lilt to her tone but her next words were solemn and deliberate.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment for a very long time. And I don’t know what my future holds. I don’t know if I have many great achievements in store for me.”

She shook her head. Adrienne knew that sort of sentiment was self-defeating but she didn’t want to start building this on a lie.

“I’m ready. Yeah, I’m ready to defy that destiny preordained to me so long ago. So Regina, I can’t promise much more than my best. Just what that is?”

Shrugging her shoulders, the seemingly lonely woman pondered that.

“You know, I admire your outlook. You could have easily let a few mishaps define you. But you didn’t…”

Adrienne trailed off, but reaffirmed her stance.

“You didn’t. I wish … I could say the same. But think of it like this: this is sort of a fresh start for you. So if you don’t mind, a free bit of advice. Something I’ve had to level with myself. Heard it somewhere in the industry. Sometimes, you just need to step back and reevaluate your expectations.”

She clicked off the recording. For a moment, she considered deleting the video.

What the hell? Where’s the bravado? Where’s the big takedown?

Adrienne wanted to hear his voice, longed to even. She considered pressing that green button when she remembered that he never had his phone on him on show days anyway. The thirteen hour difference was havoc on their marriage and it felt like he was in a different realm altogether. 

Summoned all of the courage she could muster, she uploaded the promo piece for the denizens of Carnage Wrestling.

Too late to stop now.

[getseriouser]

20 THOUGHTS: Mid-season shaft

GEE it’s getting cold in Melbourne.

Left my half-finished Farmers Union iced coffee for just a second, came back and it had become a Masterchef-esque espresso semifreddo. Ridiculous.

But it still ain’t as cold as what we witnessed between B.Scott and D.King at Marvel Stadium on Saturday arvo.

Their relationship, or lack thereof, would give you a full, frozen ice cream in seconds.

Bit to unpack with that, and lots more happening too.

 1.       Let’s go all Brad Scott stuff up front. On the David King stuff firstly, let’s not forget, he is ‘a Scott brother’, who was coached by Leigh Matthews, and then tutored as a coach-in-waiting by Mick Malthouse. This ain’t a man brought up to make the romance with arachnids, so to speak. Therefore nothing to see here, Kingy ain’t exactly a precious flower either, so the idea Scott should be reprimanded, please, whoever’s saying that wasn’t hugged enough by their mother growing up, clearly.

2.       Where to for now for Scott? Don’t know. When you’re a bourgeoning assistant, any jobs a good job. When you’ve done ten years, and impressed, you can afford to take your chances. I don’t think he is any certainty to coach anywhere next year, in fact the idea he does some media next year and ends up following paths similar to say Rodney Eade or Neil Balme sounds pretty plausible.

3.       Here’s one thing though, and where one must be careful – a handful of Giants players knew about Brad Scott’s departure before any Kangaroos players. Obviously Rhyce Shaw knew really early on, let slip to the younger brother playing up in Sydney, next thing Heath is smashing up WhatsApp with the latest scoop before anyone at Arden St, or Brad’s wife, were aware. Two words – classic Heater.

4.       So, John Longmire. Two schools of thought and I favour the second – first, is that after such a long time away from Melbourne he’d like to return to where he spent 12 years as a player and lead his old club into its next chapter, fully resourced, starting afresh given Sydney’s impending plight. Or secondly, if he wasn’t entertaining the idea of leaving his home state (born and bred Corowa on the banks of the Murray), why all of a sudden does the North job persuade him, might as well stay the course he was on before Brad Scott’s decision.

5.       So my shortlist for the North job next year, chuck Rhyce Shaw in that group as he’ll have enough of a go to make a fist of it, chuck Longmire in too, why not, then also Brett Ratten is the incumbent senior coach for anyone who is looking (Clarko’s 2IC, dare I say more), plus Michael Voss I think too would be a chance after his good work at Port. My smokey would be Blake Caracella at Richmond, master tactician; he came to the club after 2016, and look what happened thereupon.

6.       Mid-season draft, don’t mind for the minutiae of it all, its either kids who you’ll never see play or Marlion Pickett who ends up being in Richmond’s best 22 by year’s end. But, SANFL CEO Jake Parkinson released a statement last night I have to empathise with, where aside the positive yarns you’ll read about in most of the press, his view was rather different.

 "We will continue to stand firm in our opposition to a mid-season draft," he said, “(it) will have a significantly detrimental impact on SANFL clubs who work hard to develop their players and teams lists and position themselves for success”. He continued “it will not be possible for ... [the] clubs to find replacements for their players taken," and “affected SANFL clubs now face the remainder of their 2019 season without key players”.

 Very hard to not agree with Parkinson – if we’re going to do this again it needs a re-think and a more respectful approach the lower leagues affected.

7.       People having a go about seeing the injection by the Brisbane doctor down in the race Sunday. Please. Firstly, why would you have a go at the doctor, he did the right thing and did it away from spectators, but secondly, whilst it’s not exactly what you tune in to watch footy for, I don’t see it as being offensive, or indeed inappropriate to small children who face the reality of needles from an early age. Unless this is part of that whole ‘anti-vaccination’ thing which in that case I’m moving on…

8.       Great piece of commentary on that final play in the Dockers-Lions balltearer on the weekend by a caller you mightn’t know – Adam Paplia gets the odd Perth game or the dud games in the Fox Footy roster, but delivered “he has made every post a winner” in the immediate aftermath of Michael Walters winning behind. Thought it was very sharp.

9.       Earlier Sunday the Giants eroded their MCG hoodoo. No they didn’t – it never existed. Last year they played two preliminary finalists over three games for one win and two losses, year before that played only two MCG games, against Richmond, who ended up winning the flag. If losing games to good teams interstate is a hoodoo then maybe those anti-vaxxers might have a thing after all, not sure…

10.   What’s Christian Petracca doing? Went pick two almost five years ago, and is lumbering around the half forward line looking muscly but doing seven-eighths of stuff all. Hasn’t got a tank, or a defensively-minded bone in his body. Oh, but he has strengths that could work as an effective mid-sized forward you say? Well three picks after him was Jordan De Goey, whose had enough time to be a pest off-field, do penance and announce himself as a gun forward six months ago. Time to get serious Christian, we’re bored.

11.   And whilst we’re on those who need to get serious, Mitch McGovern, stolen a moustache from one of those Debra does American cities doco’s and has seemingly taken it upon himself to skip training to in order to smash carbs. That boy needs to not play away games, that figure in a slim-fitting white jersey would be a sight no-one needs to see in 4K.

12.   And another one – Jesse Hogan. Has reputation and presence like Clint Eastwood walking into a country town in ‘insert Western film here’, but seemingly hasn’t got any bullets, to keep the metaphor going, nor do I think he even has a gun in either holster. Jaryd Roughead can’t get a game, nor can Josh Jenkins, but eight goals in nine games, four in his last five, Hogan’s getting a sweet ride.

13.   Brissy, gee, bless them, look almost assured of an elimination final even before we leave Autumn, its an impressive season to date. They were super stiff not to take the chocolates on Sunday and be nudging top four. Impressive stuff from the Lions.

14.   Carlton though, I tell you what, you wouldn’t want to be Brendan Bolton, but you do want to coach them in 2020, which is a bizarre scenario. This is a team teetering on the edge of clicking into a winning, finals-bound unit, but Bolton ain’t doing himself any favours. Damien Hardwick’s winning without his best half-dozen players, Nathan Buckley has his team idling but doing enough when it matters, even John Longmire’s coached a really competitive outfit for three weeks now for two wins and a narrow loss, Bolton needs one if not two of the next three to survive probably.

15.   Chris Judd, another balancing a serious footy role in club land with media gigs, has always deflected pretty well the Bolton stuff on Footy Classified, but on Monday he was different. His body language suggested decisions or conversations with impending outcomes had been now had, and recently, and it was less defensive of his senior coach and more ‘what will be will be’. My view, if not reading too much into it, Scott’s departure or otherwise, is that the Blues board see the time as now to make a call on Bolton, and to support Damien Barrett just this once, a sacking around the bye should those two or so wins not realise is increasingly likely.

16.   Sad about Paddy McCartin ey? Lots was reported with him hitting media street on Sunday, but my main takeaway was Billy Brownless, his pseudo father-in-law, talking on the Sunday Footy Show. Billy spoke really sombrely about how his daughter’s boyfriend struggles with headaches constantly, and whilst usually a very enthusiastic and jovial media performer, to have Brownless so forlorn talking about someone he cares about really struggling, it really struck a chord. Wish you well Paddy.

17.   Gotta call out the Doggies, I’m a fan but surprised they’re not copping more heat. 13th, four and six, a decent percentage, sure, but have now lost to Gold Coast, North and Carlton. That Richmond win in Round Seven is counting for a lot right now.

18.   Daniel Wells, probably a career-ending injury in what now seems decided is his last year. But he has opted to go for one last crack, looking for the moons to align where the Pies make the finals and go deep, he gets himself fit to be considered, and the makeup of the team at the time warrants his selection. He might be able to kick two or three in a winning final if all those moons align, but otherwise this knee injury has drawn curtains on a great career.

19.   West Coast, I’m a critic and not just because of Dom Sheed’s annoyingly accurate set shot last September, but I wasn’t buying what they were selling thus far in 2019. And aside from Luke Shuey’s genius, who along with Elliott Yeo are carrying that midfield right now, in the last quarter they lose to a plodding Adelaide whose captain has gone missing. So how’s their form then, six and three, looking good? I’m still subscribing to a ‘gift of a run’, where off the back of two bad losses to Port and Geelong, they have starred down the barrel of a bad loss in each of the four games since but have just managed. That all said, they’ll win at least four of their next five looking ahead so a top four finish, despite all of their shortcomings, looks on.

20.   Gaz and his punch, who cares whether he deserved it or not, whether it’s karma for the two elbows he got off, or whether he is playing angry. Its perfect management of a 34-year-old who was already scheduled to stay up in the Gold Coast longer than the team for a mini-break, so his forced week off actually just makes those plans even tastier and freshens him up a couple weeks before the bye. Seriously, Geelong are just crunching this season so far, it’s a right laugh.

[miamibeerscene]

Young Brewery Finds Success by Keeping It Simple

Mill Creek Founder Chris Going says they focus on approachable styles. (Credit: Mill Creek Brewing)

June 1, 2017

The craft beer world is ever evolving; new breweries, new beers and new customers are the exciting aspects of the overall beer industry.

How can craft brewers plan to succeed in a crowded landscape? Chris Going, owner of Mill Creek Brewing in Nolensville, Tennessee, is keeping it simple by focusing on approachable styles.

The idea on the types of beers he wanted to brew struck him during a family vacation to the Smokey Mountains, where he converted his brother (who usually drank American light lagers) into a craft beer fan.

(READ: Maui Brewing Owners Named 2017 National Small Business Persons of the Year)

“My thought process was to dial down recipes I had already been brewing for a while — dropping the ABV on a saison, making a helles instead of a bock,” he tells us. “That experience was eye opening for me and really shaped my thought process on what type of brewery I wanted to open.”

Mill Creek just celebrated its first anniversary. Going talks to CraftBeer.com about his approach to running a successful small business, as well as more on that family trip that led to him opening the brewery.

Full Pour with Mill Creek Founder Chris Going

CraftBeer.com: What made you want to open a brewery?

Going: Honestly, I was at a point in my life at the time that I just wanted a career change. I had spent six years teaching guitar and was burned out. I started homebrewing about the same time I had begun teaching and it had become a creative outlet that I was really passionate about. When it came to thinking about what I wanted to move into next, it was a natural fit. The craft brewing industry at the time was also very “new” in Tennessee so there was a lot of excitement surrounding new breweries. I got really caught up by that wave … which was good because that fuel is what kept me going.

CraftBeer.com: Tell us more about the Smokey Mountain story and how it strengthened your resolve to start Mill Creek.

Going: In 2014, my extended family decided to go on a family trip to the Smokey Mountains in East Tennessee. It’s the kind of thing where we were renting a cabin for a week, spending way too much time together but ultimately relaxing, having fun, etc. At the time, my brother-in-law was mainly a Bud Light guy. As kind of an experiment, I told him I was gonna brew all the beer for the trip. How do you feel about him mentioning Bud Light by name? I promised him it would be stuff he’d like and went to work.

As we drank through them that week he fell in love with one beer in particular, “Silo,” which is now our year round farmhouse ale. I’d already decided I wanted to open a brewery, but this gave me a focus.

We like to call ourselves an “approachable craft beer company” and I think two words in that statement really were awakened from that experience in the mountains. We’re inherently craft in the fact that we use high-quality ingredients, don’t cut corners on quality in any way, and focus a lot on making flavorful beers. But we always balance those philosophies with an intentional focus on drinkability whether that’s through lower ABVs, subtle and restrained ingredient choices, and recipe design that creates a beer overall that just drinks really well and, hopefully, makes you crave a second.

(MORE: Craft Beer Newbie? 5 Activities to Take You from Beer Beginner to In-the-Know)

CraftBeer.com:  Now with your first year in the books, what is the one thing you wish you had known in 2014 when you started the brewery?

Going: In 2014 when I started the brewery on paper, I was pretty wide-eyed and a dreamer. Obviously, along the way, I’ve learned a lot of stuff the way many entrepreneurs do: the hard way.

The thing that stands out to me as my biggest lesson is something I consistently talk about with our team. Running a brewery is a manufacturing business on one hand, and is a B2B and CPG business on the other. To be successful in this business, you have to treat it that way. Focus on quality, process, efficiency on the manufacturing side, while recognizing you are also running a business that focuses on sales relationships with both your wholesalers and accounts in addition to presenting your brand to consumers. You have to have your hand in all three.

Realizing that at some point in our first year of operating was huge for me. I think initially we probably didn’t have time to focus on all those aspects or didn’t have the people in place to deploy it properly, but I’d say that’s where the biggest learning and pivot in our business has come. The more we continue to invest in all three aspects of those foundations, the house we’re building together is getting stronger.

CraftBeer.com: You made a focus, from the start, to be in grocery stores and other off-premise markets. Why was that important to Mill Creek?

Going: When we first opened, we went straight into cans and draft with our four year-round beers. We worked really hard with our local distributor to gain access into a lot of off-premise retailers both big and small. We felt — and still do to this day — that our focus on approachability is something that matched well with the off-premise/retail world.

I think the hard thing our industry is facing right now is with the market getting crowded by lots of different breweries there is a lot of choice for consumers. We felt we could set ourselves apart a bit by making everyday craft beers at an everyday price point and selling them in places where everybody could access them.

(READ: Why Can’t I Buy that Special Release Beer Year-Round?)

CraftBeer.com: You mentioned your Mill Creek team members were huge craft beer fans. What are the beers from your fellow breweries you’re drinking?

Going: We are big fans of our friends Blackstone and Yazoo as well as some of the newer guys like Southern Grist —  those guys make some ultra-creative stuff that we all just totally dig.

Outside of Nashville, the guys at Casey in Colorado put out some of the best sours in the country. We all had a mind blowing experience the first time we popped the cork on one of their bottles. Always big fans of the guys at Prost and whenever anyone asks for a brewery recommendation in Denver that’s always top on the list.

Last Sips

While the craft beer game might be changing, small, independent brewers are finding ways to stand out. Mill Creek looks poised to carve out new territory.

Thanks to Chris Going for taking the time to talk with CraftBeer.com and congrats to Mill Creek Brewing on their one-year anniversary.

Andy Sparhawk

Andy Sparhawk, the Brewers Association’s craft beer web manager, is a Certified Cicerone® and BJCP Beer Judge. He lives in Arvada, Colorado where he is a homebrewer and avid craft beer enthusiast. On occasion, Andy is inspired to write on his experiences with craft beer, and if they are not too ridiculous, you might see the results here on CraftBeer.com. Read more by this author

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