#if only my uncle had given me ten dollars so i could talk to him LOL | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

moonblssm · 5 years ago

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test your luck — k.sm.

“y/n, stop staring,” chan next to you says when he notices for the eighth time that night that you can’t keep your eyes off of the raffle ticket boy walking up and down the steps of the giants game.

“what?” you tear your gaze away in hopes to cover up the fact that you’re seriously growing a crush on a stranger you had never seen before. “staring? at who?”

your older cousin rummages through his pocket to get out a ten dollar bill, dropping it in your hand before trying to get the boy’s attention. “i’m not dumb.” chan fails to wave him over, and when you’re sure he’s about to leave the section, you’re pushed into the steps with an encouraging “go.”

never would you have thought you would be sprinting up to the raffle ticket vendor at a baseball game, adding money to the grand prize in a hopeless way to maybe find yourself a boyfriend. you take a deep breath in, allowing yourself to prepare for what might be total humiliation. as quickly as you can, you run up the stairs after the boy—a clear workout because cement stadium seats were not easy in skinny jeans—and tap him on the shoulder before he can get any further.

he spins around. turns out he’s even more charming from up close, large puppy dog eyes gazing into your own. you smile and breathe out, “hi,” momentarily forgetting what you had come to do in the first place.

the smile he returns nearly knocks you off your feet, backwards to tumble down the stairs you had just run so quickly, leading to your death cause by complete embarrassment. luckily, you aren’t that uncoordinated and decide instead to focus on the name tag on his chest. ‘seungmin,’ it says.

“hey,” he returns, bringing your gaze back to his face, but not before taking your heart completely at the sound of his voice. “um, where you interested in entering the 50/50 raffle?”

“oh, uh, yeah,” you reply, bringing up the ten dollar bill in your hand.

“perfect,” he smiles sincerely, and for a moment, a wave of doubt washes over you. it’s clearly an employee-customer relationship. you’re stupid for thinking that shy smile he gave you meant anything else. “we should head back to your seat so we don’t stand in the way though.”

“oh, yeah, right. sorry.”

chan passes by you on the way back with a wink and you realize that he’s probably going to wait in the bathroom, expecting you to text him when you finally take your shot. seungmin doesn’t miss it, and it’s nearly impossible to control the jealousy running through him right now.

when you sit down in your seat, he takes the empty chair in the row in front of you, tapping away on the ipad to print out the receipt. before he hands it to you, he writes down what you think is your raffle numbers. “so uh, are you having fun?” you ask to break the awkward silence that had fallen between you. then you realize that he’s working and he has but no other choice than to be here.

seungmin chuckles, relieving you, “actually yeah, i love baseball so it’s pretty fun to work at the games. plus, walking the stairs gives me a bit of a workout.”

your breathy laugh comes out small but genuine. “you’re lucky. i’ve always loved baseball too but i live too far away to get a part-time here. so i just opt-in for the occasional games i get to go to.”

the receipt feels heavy in your hand and so does your heart when you watch him ready himself to stand up. “well, if you ever want to get any extra tickets, just find your local raffle ticket guy in section 106. of course, you’ll only be able to get it if i’m there.”

and just like that, your heart flutters, feel a lot lighter, when you catch him sneak a small smirky smile as he types.

maybe you hadn’t won $19,680, but you felt a lot more lucky with the new number we wrote down for you to save in your phone.

𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐮𝐬

“you know, i think you’re wrong.”

seungmin doesn’t even react at the way you snuggle closer into his neck, only wrapping his arms tighter around you as you two are the last to watch the extended innings of the giants game in your house. it’s almost midnight, and besides your quiet chatting to each other and the game playing on the television, the house is silent with everyone already asleep. “about what?”

“how you say you’re a bad luck charm at giants games.”

“okay, come on, the day i met you they lost. and the game i went to before that they lost too. then they took the all star break and started winning. until i went to another game, which they lost. the next day, they started winning again.”

seungmin laces your hands together. “okay, so maybe that. but ever since we started going to games together, they won.”

“sir, that is a false statement,” you interupted, “shall i remind you of yester - ”

“okay, not counting yesterday.” small laughs are shared before he continues. “but either way, every game we’ve been to since then, something good has happened for us. i mean, your first kiss.”

“yes, my first kiss which i didn’t expect to happen on the scoreboard during kiss cam so i had already finished my garlic fries. and i was literally so nervous cause everyone was staring at us so i didn’t even kiss back!”

“and then i officially asked you to be mine the next game.”

“that doesn’t count, the game was over by then!”

“it does! we were still in the stadium and something good happened cause you agreed!l”

“am i your good luck charm?”

“yes, you’re my good luck charm.”

“i don’t believe you. you just want me to yourself.”

“maybe that just means i have to keep you with me all the time then.”

“you’re stupid, kim seungmin,” you pout, which your boyfriend kisses off your lips. he was never one to initiate such a casual kiss, but you weren’t complaining. he leans in to give you another kiss but you’re focused on the game. just as he’s about to press his lips to yours, the giants win with a walk-off.

though the moment’s gone, seungmin needs to make sure you don’t wake anyone up with your cheering.

so he kisses you anyway.

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queensoybean0724 · 4 years ago

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Succession Chapter 1 (Karl Heisenberg/female reader) Resident Evil Village fic

Here is chapter one of my new fanfic!

Title: Succession

Characters: Karl Heisenberg, female reader, OCs

Rating: PG-13 for language and intense scenes (for now, this is a slow burn, but it will get very hot and spicy in later chapters)

Summary: You discover a long lost relative from Moldova that you didn’t know existed has died and you are his sole beneficiary. You are on board a plane to collect your inheritance when your plane crashes in a village in Romania.

Author’s Notes: I do not own the characters from Resident Evil Village. This is a work of fiction. Anything remotely similar to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental.

Chapter 1

The music blasted from the car speakers as you drove down the main road towards the highway. You had your phone plugged into your car stereo, your favorite Spotify playlist on shuffle. Despite the A/C being on full blast, beads of sweat formed at your brow and rolled down your temple. You adjusted the vents on either side of you, making sure the cold air directly hit your body. The song that was playing had you tapping your fingers on the steering wheel, your head bopping to the beat.

The fridge at home was close to empty and it was beyond time for you to go grocery shopping. The grocery list was secure in your purse and you were determined to stick to the items on the list and not make any frivolous purchases. Money was tight and you only had so much money left before payday next week.

The song shut off suddenly followed by your ringtone. Looking at the screen of your phone, UNKNOWN stared back at you. Probably a spam call, you thought to yourself, reaching to press the red Ignore button. Unfortunately, your finger slid at the last minute and mistakenly tapped the Accept button. You watched as the call came through and the seconds ticked off. FUCK!

“Hello?” you greeted with a hint of exasperation in your voice.

“Hello, am I speaking with Miss Y/N?” a heavily accented male voice responded.

“Yeah, this is she,” you muttered, rolling your eyes. You tried your best to avoid these calls, ignoring them and letting them go straight to voicemail. Very rarely was it followed with an actual message, which was more than fine with you.

“Miss Y/N, my name is Ron M. Dathermi. I am a lawyer residing in Chisinau, Moldova in Eastern Europe…”

You raised your eyebrows at that. Moldova? Who the hell was calling you from Moldova? Chalking it up to a scam, you were about to interrupt the man when he continued.

“...I wish I was calling under better circumstances, but I’m afraid I have some bad news. Your great uncle, Serghei Popa, has passed away from a short illness and has named you his sole beneficiary…”

You couldn’t help the amused huff that came out of your mouth. This must be some very elaborate scam.

“Umm...sorry, but I think you have the wrong person. I don’t have family from Moldova and I have never heard of this man in my whole life.” You were about to hit the End button when Mr. Dathermi continued.

“Am I speaking with Y/N, born on (your birthday) to (your father and mother’s full names) and the granddaughter of (your grandfather and grandmother on both sides of your family)?”

Your eyes widened at that. “Yeah, that’s me…” you answered.

“I know this may sound unusual, but Mr. Popa was the brother of your grandmother on your mother’s side. He was given up for adoption at birth and taken in by a Moldovan family. He did not have a spouse and had no children, and according to the genealogy report I have before me, your grandmother and your mother are both deceased. Your mother was an only child, yes? It appears to me that you are the last of his living relatives.”

You pulled off the road and into an empty parking lot. The information you were being given was a lot to handle. You didn’t have that large of a family. You were an only child and raised by your parents and both sets of grandparents. Both of your grandfathers had died before you turned 10. Both grandmothers died within 5 years of each other and your father and mother died of illnesses, cancer and pneumonia respectively, in the last year. Grief was a feeling that you knew better than anyone. You kept to yourself mostly and you didn’t have any close friends or a significant other.

“Listen,” you began, “you are correct about all of your information, but how do I know this is not some kind of scam?”

The man on the other end of the phone cleared his throat and the sound of shuffling papers met your ears. “I can imagine that this information is sudden and unusual. What I will do is send a copy of his will and a copy of the genealogy papers to your address. I encourage you to take this to your lawyer and have them look over the information. The reason I am calling is because I need you to fly to Moldova, sign these papers, and accept the monetary inheritance that he has left you.”

Your jaw dropped as you looked down at your phone. Fly to Moldova? Is this true? The only thing you knew about the country was that a foreign exchange student from high school was born and raised in Moldova. That about sums up your knowledge of the country. This seemed incredibly asinine and ridiculous. But the word that settled in your train of thought was “inheritance.” What inheritance?

“Mr...what was your name again?” you asked.

“Mr. Dathermi, but you can call me Ron,” the lawyer responded.

“Ron...umm, how much monetary inheritance are we talking about?”

More shuffling of papers was on the other side of the phone, Ron clicking his tongue as he looked through the information. “He has left you 53,806,746 Moldovan Leu...which translates to $3,000,000 in American currency.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?!?!” you exclaimed before clamping your lips shut. You heard Ron chuckle. “I’m sorry, pardon my language. It’s just...wow...this sounds insane…”

“I can imagine it does,” Ron replied, “which is why I want to mail this information to you and have your attorney take a look at it so you know this is a legitimate will and testament. If you would like, I can mail the information straight to your attorney if you are still leery.”

“No, no, that’s okay,” you said, shaking your head. Your mind was whirling. None of this sounded remotely true. You felt as if you were dreaming. This felt like something that only happened in books and fairy tales...a girl who had nothing and nobody suddenly inheriting millions of dollars from an unknown distant relative. What are the odds of something like this happening in real life? You gave Ron Dathermi your home address.

“Thank you very much, Miss Y/N. I will send this as soon as possible. I’ll also include my business card so your attorney can contact me and we can iron out the details. Thank you very much, Y/N...I’ll be in touch.”

You thanked him as well and ended the call. All alone in your car in the empty parking lot, you let out an excited squeal and started hopping up and down.

You adjusted the messenger bag that was slung across your shoulder as you heard the overhead speaker call for the boarding of your flight. Taking a deep breath, you got in line, extended your ticket to the airport employee, and walked down the tarmac and into the plane.

Butterflies were fluttering in your stomach. Your hands gripped your bag tightly as the flight attendant looked at your boarding pass and pointed down the aisle to where you were to be seated. You had never flown before and your nerves were on alert. Scenes from Final Destination flashed in your head as you walked down the aisle towards your seat. Taking a deep breath and willing your body to relax, you located your seat next to the window and sat down, plopping your bag onto your lap.

The small window was close to the wing of the plane and looking beyond that was a long expanse of grass that met a vast forest. You were thankful that you had the window seat and your headphones so you could tune everything out and relax in your own little world.

Once the papers from Mr. Dathermi arrived a week prior, you immediately called the attorney that helped you with the probate and will from your parents’ deaths several months back. He was more than happy to help, knowing that you were all alone in the world after your parents had passed. Two days later, he called to inform you that all of the paperwork was, in fact, legitimate and that Mr. Serghei Popa was the brother of your grandmother. He showed you the adoption papers, confirming that your great uncle had been put up for adoption and the family that took him in had relocated to Moldova when he was two years old. He had remained in the country until his death. Your attorney contacted Mr. Dathermi, who in turn secured a round trip plane ticket in order for you to come to Moldova to finalize the paperwork and collect the inheritance.

At the thought of the money you were about to acquire, another surge of excitement flowed through you. Your parents hadn’t left you much after their death and you worked at a dead-end job that had no room for advancement and no possibility for raises. All of these recent events sounded like something out of a fairy tale.

“This is your captain speaking,” the voice sounded from the speaker above your head, “we will be departing in the next ten minutes. Please make sure your seatbelts are secured, your tray tables are up, and all electronics are off until we are at the appropriate cruising altitude. I will inform everyone as soon as the coast is clear. Thank you for flying with us and enjoy the ride.”

You fastened your seatbelt and laid your head back, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath.

“Don’t be nervous…” a voice sounded next to you. You opened your eyes and looked over to see an older gentleman with wide rimmed glasses and a nice smile.

“Is it that obvious?” you asked, returning his smile.

“It’s pretty obvious,” he chuckled, “my name is Bruce Williams. I’m the air marshal on board this flight.” You told him your name and shook his hand. “Just relax,” he assured, “we’ll be flying for the next 10 hours. There are lots of movies and tv shows to watch on the screen in front of you, or you can listen to your music and read a book if you brought one.”

You patted your messenger bag. “Yeah, I have a few books to choose from. Thanks,” you smiled.

Within minutes, the plane had backed away from the tarmac, turned towards the long expanse of runway, and increased speed before leaving the ground and soaring up into the clouds.

The steady hum of the plane’s engines provided a relaxed soundtrack as you slept. It was close to early morning, according to the clock on the tv screen, but your watch was still on your regular time zone. It read early afternoon and that threw you through a loop. You had heard that jet lag could be a bitch and you wondered how bad yours would be once you landed. Bruce had passed you a pillow and blanket once you were ready to sleep and he assured you that your bag and belongings would be safe while you slept.

You were so thankful to be seated next to him. Not only was he the air marshal, but he was a really cool person as well. You two talked about movies and actually watched a couple of them on the tv screen in front of you. Bruce was kind and nice to talk to. The crinkle of crow’s feet around his eyes, his laugh, and his hair color mixed with hints of gray reminded you of your father...maybe that’s why you liked him so much.

You shifted in your seat and let out a soft yawn. Stretching your arms above your head and arching your back, you wondered how much longer it would be until you touched down in Moldova.

“You weren’t asleep that long,” Bruce murmured. You looked over to see a book in his hand and his glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose.

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom and then go back to sleep,” you replied, standing from your seat. Bruce stood up and allowed you out into the aisle. You made your way to the bathroom towards the back of the plane. The cabin was dark with little lights dotting either side of the aisle on the floor. Soft lights were shining here and there from people reading, watching the tv screen, or messing with their phones while most of the passengers were asleep.

Once in the bathroom, you did your business, flushed the toilet, and began washing your hands. The mirror in front of you showed a tired and weary version of yourself. Some of your eye makeup was smudged. You told yourself once you returned back to your seat, you’d retrieve the makeup remover wipes in your bag and do away with the dirt and oil.

Just then the plane hit an air pocket and dropped several feet, throwing you forward towards the sink and mirror. You let out a shriek as the plane quieted and went still. “God dammit,” you muttered, putting your hand over your heart, “that scared the shit out of me!”

Once out of the bathroom, you slammed the door shut and walked back to your seat. You tapped Bruce on the shoulder and he moved aside.

You lifted the window shade and looked outside. Natural light from the start of the day began to show. The plane was amongst the clouds so it was fairly cloudy and hard to see.

“How much farther do we have?” you asked Bruce. He shifted the book to his left hand and looked down at his wristwatch. “We should be there in three hours. I think we are flying over Romania right now…”

You nodded your head and thanked him, turning back to the window. The clouds gave way momentarily and provided the opportunity to see the ground below. Tall, snowy mountains came into view. You smiled and marveled at their beauty, wondering what mountain range this was. You cursed yourself for forgetting the basics from your World Geography class in high school. Hell, all you knew about Romania was that it was the setting for Dracula and the real life territory that was once owned by Elizabeth Bathory, who allegedly killed upwards of 650 maidens and bathed in their blood. You shook your head and smiled to yourself. You really did enjoy some morbid and fucked up stories.

Your train of thought stopped short when a large and spacious castle came into view. Your eyes widened and your jaw dropped. It looked like something out of a Disney movie or from ancient castles that still sat throughout Europe. The place looked like it stood on several acres of land and who knows how many square feet. What a gorgeous and breathtaking place it was. You wondered just what was inside a monstrosity like that and who was lucky enough to inhabit such a place. Maybe there were castles in Moldova that you could explore and visit while you’re conducting your business.

The castle fell out of view and not far from it stood what looked like a village. You were too high up to see any people or any traces of lights or torches. You took everything in with total awe and appreciation. It looked like a small and sleepy storybook town.

A sudden movement close to the village caught your attention. You squinted your eyes and tried to look closer, pressing your forehead to the window. What the fuck is that, you wondered. It looked like a black tree, naked of leaves or any type of growth...and it was moving. It looked to be swaying in the breeze, but the size of it looked way too sturdy for any kind of gust to move it with such fluidity. As you focused on the tree, it appeared to be growing...getting closer to the plane. Was the plane descending? Were you getting closer to Moldova?

One of the branches of the tree slowly drifted to the ground before extending long and rigid, slinging itself up into the air like a bullwhip, hitting the wing of the plane. The plane suddenly tilted as the slithering limb wrapped around the wing and broke it off. You let out a loud scream as the plane turned on its side, Bruce falling against you, squishing you to the wall. “WHAT THE FUCK??” Bruce screamed as yelps, shrieks, and screams echoed in the cabin of the plane. Dozens of people were knocked from their seats, flight attendants falling into the aisle and rolling towards the cockpit. The plane shook and quaked as it dropped several feet in a matter of seconds.

“OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!” you screamed, grabbing hold of Bruce’s arm. The air masks dropped from overhead and Bruce grabbed yours, making quick work of putting it over your face. “HOLD ON TO IT! HOLD IT OVER YOUR MOUTH, Y/N!!” he commanded, reaching for his own mask.

“THE WING OF THE PLANE HAS BEEN DAMAGED!” the pilot yelled from over the speakers, “WE ARE LOSING ALTITUDE! BRACE FOR IMPACT!” People screamed and panicked, holding on to whatever it was they could. Panic surged through your body as your fingers dug into Bruce’s arm. The plane shook as it fell. Your stomach dropped and it felt as if you were seconds from impact. You looked out the window one last time before the ground came into view and everything went black.

He leaned over the body on the metal table in the lab of his factory. He fastened the bolts with a wrench and tested the strength of the metal against the rotting flesh. A soft horn sounded in the distance along with the various turns of chains and clangs of steel against steel. He wiped the sweat off his brow and walked to his desk, looking over the blueprints and sketches he had devised the previous day.

Despite the different array of sounds, nothing could mask the loud crash that sounded off in the distance. He lifted his head, silently trying to figure out what the fuck made that noise. Leaving the body laying on the table, he exited his lab and made his way down the stairs and to the factory doors.

With a grunt, he slid the doors aside and looked off into the distance. Black smoke billowed from an area that looked to be close to the village. Other than the crows squawking and flapping their wings in retreat, everything was dead quiet. He looked off to the right just in time to see the long, spindly limbs of mold retreating back towards the earth. Karl Heisenberg’s face tightened in a disgusted grimace.

“Mother Miranda...what have you done?”

#resident evil village #resident evil village fanfic #karl heisenberg #karl heisenburg x reader #daddy heisenberg #house heisenberg #heisenberg #karl heisenberg fanfic

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qqueenofhades · 5 years ago

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Re: the post you reblogged about Bush. I'm 21 and tbh feel like I can only vote for Bernie, can you explain if/why I shouldn't? Thanks and sorry if this is dumb or anything.

Oh boy. Okay, I’ll do my best here. Note that a) this will get long, and b) I’m old, Tired, and I‘m pretty sure my brain tried to kill me last night. Since by nature I am sure I will say something Controversial ™, if anyone reads this and feels a deep urge to inform me that I am Wrong, just… mark it down as me being Wrong and move on with your life. But also, really, you should read this and hopefully think about it. Because while I’m glad you asked this question, it feels like there’s a lot in your cohort who won’t, and that worries me. A lot.

First, not to sound utterly old-woman-in-a-rocking-chair ancient, people who came of age/are only old enough to have Obama be the first president that they really remember have no idea how good they had it. The world was falling the fuck apart in 2008 (not coincidentally, after 8 years of Bush). We came within a flicker of the permanent collapse of the global economy. The War on Terror was in full roar, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan were at their height, we had Dick Cheney as the cartoon supervillain before we had any of Trump’s cohort, and this was before Chelsea Manning or Edward Snowden had exposed the extent of NSA/CIA intelligence-gathering/American excesses or there was any kind of public debate around the fact that we were all surveilled all the time. And the fact that a brown guy named Barack Hussein Obama was elected in this climate seems, and still seems tbh, kind of amazing. And Obama was certainly not a Perfect President ™. He had to scale back a lot of planned initiatives, he is notorious for expanding the drone strike/extrajudicial assassination program, he still subscribed to the overall principles of neoliberalism and American exceptionalism, etc etc. There is valid criticism to be made as to how the hopey-changey optimistic rhetoric stacked up against the hard realities of political office. And yet…. at this point, given what we’re seeing from the White House on a daily basis, the depth of the parallel universe/double standards is absurd.

Because here’s the thing. Obama, his entire family, and his entire administration had to be personally/ethically flawless the whole time (and they managed that – not one scandal or arrest in eight years, against the legions of Trumpistas now being convicted) because of the absolute frothing depths of Republican hatred, racial conspiracy theories, and obstruction against him. (Remember Merrick Garland and how Mitch McConnell got away with that, and now we have Gorsuch and Kavanaugh on the Supreme Court? Because I remember that). If Obama had pulled one-tenth of the shit, one-twentieth of the shit that the Trump administration does every day, he would be gone. It also meant that people who only remember Obama think he was typical for an American president, and he wasn’t. Since about… Jimmy Carter, and definitely since Ronald Reagan, the American people have gone for the Trump model a lot more than the Obama model. Whatever your opinion on his politics or character, Obama was a constitutional law professor, a community activist, a neighborhood organizer and brilliant Ivy League intellectual who used to randomly lie awake at night thinking about income inequality. Americans don’t value intellectualism in their politicians; they just don’t. They don’t like thinking that “the elites” are smarter than them. They like the folksy populist who seems fun to have a beer with, and Reagan/Bush Senior/Clinton/Bush Junior sold this persona as hard as they possibly could. As noted in said post, Bush Junior (or Shrub as the late, great Molly Ivins memorably dubbed him) was Trump Lite but from a long-established political family who could operate like an outwardly civilized human.

The point is: when you think Obama was relatively normal (which, again, he wasn’t, for any number of reasons) and not the outlier in a much larger pattern of catastrophic damage that has been accelerated since, again, the 1980s (oh Ronnie Raygun, how you lastingly fucked us!), you miss the overall context in which this, and which Trump, happened. Like most left-wingers, I don’t agree with Obama’s recent and baffling decision to insert himself into the 2020 race and warn the Democratic candidates against being too progressive or whatever he was on about. I think he was giving into the same fear that appears to be motivating the remaining chunk of Joe Biden’s support: that middle/working-class white America won’t go for anything too wild or that might sniff of Socialism, and that Uncle Joe, recalled fondly as said folksy populist and the internet’s favorite meme grandfather from his time as VP, could pick up the votes that went to Trump last time. And that by nature, no one else can.

The underlying belief is that these white voters just can’t support anything too “un-American,” and that by pushing too hard left, Democratic candidates risk handing Trump a second term. Again: I don’t agree and I think he was mistaken in saying it. But I also can’t say that Obama of all people doesn’t know exactly the strength of the political machine operating against the Democratic Party and the progressive agenda as a whole, because he ran headfirst into it for eight years. The fact that he managed to pass any of his legislative agenda, usually before the Tea Party became a thing in 2010, is because Democrats controlled the House and Senate for the first two years of his first term. He was not perfect, but it was clear that he really did care (just look up the pictures of him with kids). He installed smart, efficient, and scandal-free people to do jobs they were qualified for. He gave us Elena Kagan and Sonia Sotomayor to join RBG on the Supreme Court. All of this seems… like a dream.

That said: here we are in a place where Biden, Bernie Sanders, and Elizabeth Warren are the front-runners for the Democratic nomination (and apparently Pete Buttigieg is getting some airplay as a dark horse candidate, which… whatever). The appeal of Biden is discussed above, and he sure as hell is not my favored candidate (frankly, I wish he’d just quit). But Sanders and Warren are 85% - 95% similar in their policy platforms. The fact that Michael “50 Billion Dollar Fortune” Bloomberg started rattling his chains about running for president is because either a Sanders or Warren presidency terrifies the outrageously exploitative billionaire capitalist oligarchy that runs this country and has been allowed to proceed essentially however the fuck they like since… you guessed it, the 1980s, the era of voodoo economics, deregulation, and the free market above all. Warren just happens to be ten years younger than Sanders and female, and Sanders’ age is not insignificant. He’s 80 years old and just had a heart attack, and there’s still a year to go to the election. It’s also more than a little eye-rolling to describe him as the only progressive candidate in the race, when he’s an old white man (however much we like and approve of his policy positions). And here’s the thing, which I think is a big part of the reason why this polarized ideological purity internet leftist culture mistrusts Warren:

She may have changed her mind on things in the past.

Scary, right? I sound like I’m being facetious, but I’m not. An argument I had to read with my own two eyes on this godforsaken hellsite was that since Warren became a Democrat around the time Clinton signed Don’t Ask Don’t Tell, she sekritly hated gay people and might still be a corporate sellout, so on and etcetera. (And don’t even get me STARTED on the fact that DADT, coming a few years after the height of the AIDS crisis which was considered God’s Judgment of the Icky Gays, was the best Clinton could realistically hope to achieve, but this smacks of White Gay Syndrome anyway and that is a whole other kettle of fish.) Bernie has always demonstrably been a democratic socialist, and: good for him. I’m serious. But because there’s the chance that Warren might not have thought exactly as she does now at any point in her life, the hysterical and paranoid left-wing elements don’t trust that she might not still secretly do so. (Zomgz!) It’s the same element that’s feeding cancel culture and “wokeness.” Nobody can be allowed to have shifted or grown in their opinions or, like a functional, thoughtful, non-insane adult, changed their beliefs when presented with compelling evidence to the contrary. To the ideological hordes, any hint of uncertainty or past failure to completely toe the line is tantamount to heresy. Any evidence of any other belief except The Correct One means that this person is functionally as bad as Trump. And frankly, it’s only the Sanders supporters who, just as in 2016, are threatening to withhold their vote in the general election if their preferred candidate doesn’t win the primary, and indeed seem weirdly proud about it.

OK, boomer Bernie or Buster.

Here’s the thing, the thing, the thing: there is never going to be an American president free of the deeply toxic elements of American ideology. There just won’t be. This country has been built how it has for 250 years, and it’s not gonna change. You are never going to have, at least not in the current system, some dream candidate who gets up there and parrots the left-wing talking points and attacks American imperialism, exceptionalism, ravaging global capitalism, military and oil addiction, etc. They want to be elected as leader of a country that has deeply internalized and taken these things to heart for its entire existence, and most of them believe it to some degree themselves. So this groupthink white liberal mentality where the only acceptable candidate is this Perfect Non-Problematic robot who has only ever had one belief their entire lives and has never ever wavered in their devotion to doctrine has really gotten bad. The Democratic Party would be considered… maybe center/mild left in most other developed countries. It’s not even really left-wing by general standards, and Sanders and Warren are the only two candidates for the nomination who are even willing to go there and explicitly put out policy proposals that challenge the systematic structure of power, oppression, and exploitation of the late-stage capitalist 21st century. Warren has the billionaires fussed, and instead of backing down, she’s doubling down. That’s part of why they’re so scared of her. (And also misogyny, because the world is depressing like that.) She is going head-on after picking a fight with some of the worst people on the planet, who are actively killing the rest of us, and I don’t know about you, but I like that.

Of course: none of this will mean squat if she (or the eventual Democratic winner, who I will vote for regardless of who it is, but as you can probably tell, she’s my ride or die) don’t a) win the White House and then do as they promised on the campaign trail, and b) don’t have a Democratic House and Senate willing to have a backbone and pass the laws. Even Nancy Pelosi, much as she’s otherwise a badass, held off on opening a formal impeachment inquiry into Trump for months out of fear it would benefit him, until the Ukraine thing fell into everyone’s laps. The Democrats are really horrible at sticking together and voting the party line the way Republicans do consistently, because Democrats are big-tent people who like to think of themselves as accepting and tolerant of other views and unwilling to force their members’ hands. The Republicans have no such qualms (and indeed, judging by their enabling of Trump, have no qualms at all).

The modern American Republican party has become a vehicle for no-holds-barred power for rich white men at the expense of absolutely everything and everyone else, and if your rationale is that you can’t vote for the person opposing Donald Goddamn Trump is that you’re just not vibing with them on the language of that one policy proposal… well, I’m glad that you, White Middle Class Liberal, feel relatively safe that the consequences of that decision won’t affect you personally. Even if we’re due to be out of the Paris Climate Accords one day after the 2020 election, and the issue of climate change now has the most visibility it’s ever had after years of big-business, Republican-led efforts to deny and discredit the science, hey, Secret Corporate Shill, am I right? Can’t trust ‘er. Let’s go have a craft beer.

As has been said before: vote as far left as you want in the primary. Vote your ideology, vote whatever candidate you want, because the only way to make actual, real-world change is to do that. The huge, embedded, all-consuming and horrible system in which we operate is not just going to suddenly be run by fairy dust and happy thoughts overnight. Select candidates that reflect your values exactly, be as picky and ideologically militant as you want. That’s the time to do that! Then when it comes to the general election:

America is a two-party system. It sucks, but that’s the case. Third-party votes, or refraining from voting because “it doesn’t matter” are functionally useless at best and actively harmful at worst.

Either the Democratic candidate or Donald Trump will win the 2020 election.

There is absolutely no length that the Republican/GOP machine, and its malevolent allies elsewhere, will not go to in order to secure a Trump victory. None.

Any talk whatsoever about “progressive values” or any kind of liberal activism, coupled with a course of action that increases the possibility of a Trump victory, is hypocritical at best and actively malicious at worst.

This is why I found the Democratic response to Obama’s “don’t go too wild” comments interesting. Bernie doubled down on the fact that his plans have widespread public support, and he’s right. (Frankly, the fact that Sanders and Warren are polling at the top, and the fact that they’re politicians and would not be crafting these campaign messages if they didn’t know that they were being positively received, says plenty on its own). Warren cleverly highlighted and praised Obama’s accomplishments in office (i.e. the Affordable Care Act) and didn’t say squat about whether she agreed or disagreed with him, then went right back to campaigning about why billionaires suck. And some guy named Julian Castro basically blew Obama off and claimed that “any Democrat” could beat Trump in 2020, just by nature of existing and being non-insane.

This is very dangerous! Do not be Julian Castro!

As I said in my tags on the Bush post: everyone assumed that sensible people would vote for Kerry in 2004. Guess what happened? Yeah, he got Swift Boated. The race between Obama and McCain in 2008, even after those said nightmare years of Bush, was very close until the global crash broke it open in Obama’s favor, and Sarah Palin was an actual disqualifier for a politician being brazenly incompetent and unprepared. (Then again, she was a woman from a remote backwater state, not a billionaire businessman.) In 2012, we thought Corporate MormonBot Mitt Fuggin’ Romney was somehow the worst and most dangerous candidate the Republicans could offer. In 2016, up until Election Day itself, everyone assumed that HRC was a badly flawed candidate but would win anyway. And… we saw how that worked out. Complacency is literally deadly.

I was born when Reagan was still president. I’m just old enough to remember the efforts to impeach Clinton over forcing an intern to give him a BJ in the Oval Office (This led by the same Republicans making Donald Trump into a darling of the evangelical Christian right wing.) I’m definitely old enough to remember 9/11 and how America lost its mind after that, and I remember the Bush years. And, obviously, the contrast with Obama, the swing back toward Trump, and everything that has happened since. We can’t afford to do this again. We’re hanging by a thread as it is, and not just America, but the entire planet.

So yes. By all means, vote for Sanders in the primary. Then when November 3, 2020 rolls around, if you care about literally any of this at all, hold your nose if necessary and vote straight-ticket Democrat, from the president, to the House and Senate, to the state and local offices. I cannot put it more strongly than that.

#politics for ts #long post #anonymous #ask

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jamespotterthefirst · 4 years ago

Note

Hi Bree! I enjoyed reading your headcannon of L&E's children! It was such a fun read, I'm hooked with their family life 🥰 Because of this, I got inspired to come up with a Q&A for the kiddos. The interview is set 12 years after Lilac & Ethan became new parents. You will be answering as the AllenSey kids (with special appearances of Lilac & Ethan, as well). Hope you enjoy 'em! x

—

For Jonah, Dolores, Jasmine & Violet:

• If someone gave you $100 what would you do with it?

• If you could change any rule, which one would it be?

• Where is your favorite place to go on vacation?

• Most likely to hide a stray pet?

• Most likely to tell a lie to get out of trouble?

• Most likely to steal their sibling's secret stash (food/toys/new stuff/etc.)?

• What do your mum & dad do in their free time?

• What is the one thing mum & dad is not good at?

• What do you admire most about mummy & daddy?

🧡

For Lilac & Ethan:

• What made you laugh today?

• Did someone get in trouble recently? If so, what happened?

• What are the hardest & easiest parts about parenting?

• What are the unexpected perks of parenthood?

• What advice would you give to younger versions of yourselves when you've just became new parents?

THIS IS THE BEST THING EVER THOUGH? I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU THANK YOU

For context, Jonah is 12, Dolores 9, and Violet and Jasmine are 6

For Jonah, Dolores, Jasmine & Violet:

• If someone gave you $100 what would you do with it?

Jasmine: Squishies!

Dolores: Yeah, so you'll stop stealing mine.

Jasmine: That was Violet.

Violet: I gave them back.

Dolores: After Minnie destroyed them.

Jonah: I would invest it.

Jasmine: What's ingest?

Jonah: Invest, like how Dad told us? That's why we have the beach house in Cape Cod?

Jasmine: I thought we had that because Dad owns the hospital?

Violet: Or because Mom is famous?

Jonah: *sighs* No, they double their money through compound interest when they invest.

Sisters: *stare blankly*

Jonah: Remember? When he sat us down that one time and explained the Rule of 72? If we take 72 and divide it by the annual interest rate, then we get the amount of years those $100 will double. So if I invest it at a rate of 5%, it will take 14 years to double.

Violet: ...

Jasmine: ...

Dolores: ... So you will be *counts with her fingers* 26 and have $200?

Jonah: Exactly.

Jasmine: *horrified* No, thank you. I want my money right now.

Jonah: If you invest--

Jasmine: I'm here for a good time, not a long time, big bro.

• If you could change any rule, which one would it be?

Dolores: The "no electronics after dinner" rule. I want to play Roblox with my friends before bed.

Jonah: I would change the "if you don't know how to operate it, leave it alone." Sometimes I want to break things apart and put them back together but Mom won't let me.

Violet: Leaving Jenner out in the yard during dinner is cruel. He's part of the family. He should be inside with us.

Dolores: Dad only made up that rule because you feed him half of your dinner.

Violet: Because he's a growing boy! He needs food.

Jasmine: I would change the "treat people and property with kindness or respect" rule. Sometimes I just want to kick a toy of my way after a long day--

Lilac: *throws her "the look" from the distance*

Jasmine: *falls silent*

• Where is your favorite place to go on vacation?

Jonah: Providence with Grandpa Alan. He always takes us to the zoo or WaterFire. It's so much fun.

Dolores: California with abuelitos and tia Laurel. They take us to Disneyland every time!

Jasmine: Not fair! Last time we went, we couldn't get on any rides.

Dolores: Because you two are literal babies?

Jasmine: At least I don't sound like one.

Violet: Or smell like one.

• Most likely to hide a stray pet?

*All of the siblings point at Dolores in unison*

Jasmine: She hid Minnie from Mom and Dad last year for a good week before they found out.

Jonah: And convinced them to let us keep her.

Violet: Dad isn't convinced yet.

Dolores: They're becoming friends! Minnie let him pet her for like two seconds the other day. Before she bit him. It was so funny.

• Most likely to tell a lie to get out of trouble?

*All of them point at Jasmine*

Jasmine: What? Dad said it reminds him of mom. He said she can talk her way out of getting arrested.

Jonah: Out of getting a ticket. They're different.

Dolores: Oh yeah, because the Policeman liked mom. Liked liked her.

Jasmine: Dad was not happy about that.

• Most likely to steal their sibling's secret stash (food/toys/new stuff/etc.)?

*They all point at Violet*

Violet: I give it back!

Jonah: After Mom makes you.

Jasmine: Or after Jenner, Minnie, or you break them.

Dolores: Yeah, Violent doesn't know her own strength.

• What do your mum & dad do in their free time?

Dolores: They love to drop us off at Aunt Sienna's and disappear all night.

Jasmine: We don't mind though because she always makes us the best chocolate chip cookies ever.

Violet: I like going to Uncle Elijah's. His video games are so cool.

Jonah: I like it at Uncle Bryce's. One time, he let me break their toaster apart and showed me how to put it back together.

Dolores: Yeah, Mom was not a fan of that.

• What is the one thing mum & dad is not good at?

Dolores: Dad is not a good liar.

*They all agree*

Jonah: I remember the time Jenner ripped the boots Tia Laurel had given Mom. He told us not to say anything.

Jasmine: Oh yeah, he said Mom wouldn't even notice.

Dolores: But then as soon as she got home, he panicked and asked her what size shoe she was. Then told her he was going to the store to buy something really quick.

Jonah: Mom figured it out right away.

• What do you admire most about mummy & daddy?

Dolores: That they're doctors.

Jonah: That they save lives.

Jasmine: That they own the hospital.

Violet: That they're famous.

🧡

For Lilac & Ethan:

• What made you laugh today?

Lilac: Probably Jonah explaining the Rule of 72 to his sisters.

Ethan: *proudly* Definitely. And the girls having none of it.

Lilac: Imagine what they'll say when they find out you once drew a one dollar salary.

Ethan: I will never live it down. I already get enough taunting from you. I'd never survive it if all four of them join in.

• Did someone get in trouble recently? If so, what happened?

Lilac: *nods solemnly* The usual suspects.

Ethan: Dolores and Jasmine.

Lilac: Jasmine somehow hacked into her Roblox account and deleted all her friends. It was a bloodbath.

• What are the hardest & easiest parts about parenting?

Ethan: Figuring out what the hell is Roblox?

Ethan: It's a delicate balance that is achieved through fairness and consistency.

Lilac: *laughing* This is why I had to take care of that incident.

Lilac: The hardest part of parenting is finding a balance between being a disciplinarian but also someone they can approach and trust. It's terrifying to think that in holding them accountable when they make a mistake, you risk them resenting you.

Lilac: The best part is definitely watching them become their own person, with distinct interests and personalities.

Ethan: Absolutely.

• What are the unexpected perks of parenthood?

Ethan: Having four extra pairs of hands to do chores around the house.

Lilac: *laughs and smacks his arm*

Ethan: *raising his brows at her* Don't tell me you don't enjoy not having to worry about dishes for the next 12 years?

Lilac: *scrunches nose* You're right. I don't miss those. It's no wonder you finally listened to my argument that the dishwasher wasn't the best way to get them clean.

Ethan: That's because we've acquired four little dish washers since.

• What advice would you give to younger versions of yourselves when you've just became new parents?

Lilac: Just try your best.

Ethan: Don't say "and have fun."

Lilac: What? It's true!

Ethan: My advice to our younger selves would be: "However scared or anxious you are feeling right now, I promise you... It's ten times worse."

Dr. Ramsey is just being overdramatic with the last one. He loves being a dad. OMG this was so fun! Thank you so much, my love!

#Allensey Family #ethan ramsey #Ethan x MC #Ethan x Lilac #Lilac Allende #You guys I will answer the rest in the coming days! I'm so slow with these #Long post

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longitudinalwaveme · 3 years ago

Text

Arkham Files: The Flash (Wally West)

Hugo Strange: From the patient files of Dr. Hugo Strange, director of Arkham Asylum. Patient: Wallace “Wally” West, also known as the Flash. Session One. So, Mr. West, how are you?

Wally: Let’s go over the situation I’m in, shall we? My wife and I visit your creepy, Gothic asylum-perfectly legally, by the way- to make sure that Bruce Wayne is okay, and you get us arrested on bogus charges of trespassing. Then you pull strings to get me stuck in Arkham Asylum while I’m awaiting trial, and now you’re trying to have me declared legally insane so that you can lock me up in here for good. How the heck do you THINK I’m feeling?

Hugo Strange: Your hostility is unnecessary, Mr. West. I am trying to help you.

Wally: If this is your definition of ‘helping’ me, I’d hate to see what you do to people you want to hurt. Seriously, did you go to the Zoom Academy of Making Things “Beeetttteerrrr”?

Hugo Strange: I am nothing like Mr. Zolomon, Mr. West.

Wally: I’ll say you’re not. Hunter...he’s sick. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. But you? What’s your excuse?

Hugo Strange: I do not need an excuse, Mr. West. You may not realize it yet, but you-and all the other costumed vigilantes-are doing more harm than good.

Wally: What do you mean, more harm than good? I’ve had my powers since I was ten years old, and since then I’ve done my best to hold to the promise that I made to Uncle Barry: to use my speed only to help those in need, to combat evil-and never for my own personal gain. I haven’t been perfect at it-I’m not as selfless as Uncle Barry, and I’ve got quite a temper-but I’ve tried. I’ve really, really tried.

Hugo Strange: Let’s talk about your Uncle Barry, shall we, Mr. West?

Wally: Why? So you can twist my words and use them to make him out to be some sort of misguided lunatic? Not gonna happen.

Hugo Strange: Mr. West, I assure you I bear no ill will towards Mr. Allen. Obviously, you bear a great deal of affection for him. I simply wish to know why that is.

Wally: Because he’s a hero! He’s brave and loyal and honest and kind and good. He cares about everybody. He uses his powers to protect the weak and help the poor and defend the helpless. He became friends with Albert Desmond when nobody else would’ve given him a chance and got him his job at S.T.A.R. Labs, and he’s tried to help Mick Rory get the treatment he needs for his pyromania, too. He’s raised billions of dollars for charities, and he’s helped to save the world more times than I can count. (Pause) And he does all that while also working for justice as a police scientist!

Hugo Strange: Mr. West, the exploits of Mr. Allen are well-known. I was asking you why you, in particular, are so fond of him.

Wally: Well, he did marry my favorite aunt. (Pause) More importantly, though...as a kid, I really needed a hero, and he….he was my hero. My parents barely knew I was alive, except when I did something that inconvenienced them. When that happened, my dad would call me names or hit me, and my mom would wail and cry and guilt-trip….and then they’d go right back to obsessing over their own problems or arguing with each other. I...I felt like I was all alone, except for Aunt Iris. She was the one person in my family who really seemed interested in me, and she also had this awesome job as a reporter in a big city. She was really cool, but because I lived two hours away from her, I didn’t get to see her very much. (Pause) When Uncle Barry first became the Flash, I didn’t know who he was...but I idolized him. I was his biggest fan! I was even the President of the Blue Valley Flash Fan Club. (Pause, laughs) President and only member. The other kids thought he was cool, but they weren’t as invested in him as I was. To me, he represented freedom.

Hugo Strange: It sounds as though you were a rather lonely little boy, Mr. West.

Wally: Yeah, I guess I was. (Pause) That’s why I was so excited when my folks sent me to live with Aunt Iris in Central City during the summer when I was ten. And that’s when I first met Uncle Barry. Like I said, I didn’t know he was the Flash yet, so at first I thought he was...well, honestly? Kind of a dweeb. But then he told me that he knew the Flash and could introduce me to him. I was so excited, I probably could’ve inhaled an entire shoe. Anyway, Uncle Barry used his super speed to change into the Flash and act like he’d been waiting for me to arrive, and that’s when I met the Flash. He was everything I’d dreamed he would be. Even though I had been a little bit of a brat to him as Barry Allen, he treated me with respect; like he was happy to meet me and have me around, and it put me over the moon. Eventually, he started to explain how he’d gotten his powers, and that’s when it happened: lightning struck twice. I was doused in the same chemicals he’d gotten his super speed from, and I gained access to the speed force. It was the best day of my entire life. Besides the day I married Linda, of course. I became his sidekick, and from that point on, he was like a second father to me. He laughed at my stupid jokes, got me ice cream, took me on field trips, played games with me….all the things I dreamed of having my dad do with me. Eventually, he told me his secret identity. It was shortly before he and Aunt Iris got married, and I was ecstatic to learn that my favorite aunt was going to marry my hero. I was the ring bearer at their wedding, and from that point on, Uncle Barry and Aunt Iris basically raised me. They helped me through my parents’ divorce. Uncle Barry taught me how to balance a checkbook and apply for college scholarships; Aunt Iris helped me get my driver’s license and taught me how to really notice when other people were in need. (Pause) If it hadn’t been for them, I...I don’t know what would’ve happened to me. Maybe I’d be one of Captain Cold’s strays right now.

Hugo Strange: Mr. West, let me posit a question to you. If your uncle loved you so much, why did he put you in a costume and allow you to fight dangerous criminals? You became the so-called Kid Flash at ten years old, and by the time you were eleven, you had already faced the Weather Wizard, Captain Cold, and the first Mirror Master-to say nothing of your garden-variety gangsters and thugs. Surely, a responsible adult would have ensured that you stayed far away from such violence...and yet Mr. Allen seemed to almost thrust you towards it.

Wally: (Annoyed) Thrust me toward it? Are you kidding? If Uncle Barry hadn’t allowed me to be his sidekick, I’d have struck out and done superhero work on my own. I wanted to be just like him, remember? If anything, I thrust him into letting me fight criminals. (Pause) Besides, it wasn’t like he was just letting some random kid fight crime. I had super speed, remember? The chances of my getting shot were virtually nil. And the Rogues have a thing about not hurting kids. I wasn’t in any particular danger, especially not with Uncle Barry watching out for me.

Hugo Strange: Mr. West, you obviously are unaware of this, but your uncle is a very sick man.

Wally: Have you been listening to anything I said? Uncle Barry is the best man in the world. If that makes him crazy...well, I don’t want to be sane!

Hugo Strange: Mr. West, I understand that this is difficult for you, but you must face reality. Your uncle was a very eccentric, very lonely man. He had few friends; most of his life was absorbed in his work. He always wanted to be someone special, but he knew that slow, lazy Barry Allen was no one important. Like you, he idolized a superhero-in his case, the Mystery Man known as Jay Garrick, and, like you, he wished that he, like his hero, was special. When his metahuman powers were activated by the lightning strike, his mind, already fragile from years of being mocked and looked down upon by his peers, shattered. He decided to use his powers to emulate the hero he had read about and idolized as a child, so that he could finally be special. Eventually, his antics drew the attention of other, even more damaged individuals, thereby indirectly inspiring the debut of all the costumed oddities that both you and your uncle spend so much time playing cops and robbers with. And then he met you. Another lonely little boy who wanted to be special. When you got your powers, he saw a chance to expand his fantasy world; recklessly endangering you. He may have been deluded enough to call you a sidekick, but what you really were was a child soldier. No wonder your life was sent into such a tailspin when he was temporarily lost in the speed force five years ago. Without him around to help maintain the fantasy that he had indoctrinated you into, you were lost, and the only solution you could think of was to take up the role that he had once filled. You are not a hero, Mr. West. You are a sad, deluded child; just as your uncle is a sad, deluded man. But I will see that you get the help you need.

Wally: (Furious) That’s a load of bunk, and you know it! I don’t know what your game is, Dr. Strange, but you’re not going to get away with dragging my uncle’s name through the mud!

Hugo Strange: Mr. West, your loyalty to your uncle is misguided. He is a dangerous vigilante, one who took advantage of your innocence and loneliness to turn you into yet another costumed freak. What he did to you was wrong, and it is my duty to make sure that you, and the rest of the world, realizes that fact.

Wally: (Very loudly) Don’t you talk about Uncle Barry that way, you filthy liar! (Stands up rapidly; knocks over the chair he was sitting in)

Hugo Strange: Mr. West, I would advise you to refrain from such open displays of hostility. Otherwise, I will have to recommend that your children not be allowed to visit you, for the sake of their own mental health.

Wally: And how do you think it affected their mental health to have their parents locked up on phony charges, huh?

Hugo Strange: Neither of you were fit guardians for them, Mr. West. I understand that having them separated from you was upsetting, but it is for their own good. You and your wife obviously love them, but you are too ill to properly care for them, and your wife was only enabling your behavior. It was simply not a safe environment for the children, so they have been removed from your home until such time as you have been cured and can properly care for them. Two generations of costumed vigilantes is quite….(Hugo Strange is frozen solid)

Capt. Cold: And he’s got the nerve to call us crazy. Really, accusin’ you an’ your missus of being bad parents? I seen how you dote on those kids, West. Only a nutjob could think you were unsafe for ‘em.

Wally: Captain Cold?

Capt. Cold: The one and only. You ready to bust outta this joint, kid?

Wally: Are you seriously asking me to help you escape prison?

Capt. Cold: Sam got Lisa and all the guys out already, and I’ve pretty much already escaped, kid. Just figured I’d be nice and get you outta here, too-before the Doc decides to give you a lobotomy. (Freezes and breaks Wally’s metahuman power dampener) Besides, Central City is furious over what happened to you and your missus. They ain’t exactly gonna expedite you back here.

Wally: All right...but as soon as Iron Heights gets rebuilt, I’m taking all of you Rogues straight back there.

Capt. Cold: I wouldn’t have it any other way. (Pause) C’mon, kid. Let’s blow this popsicle stand.

#the flash #dr. hugo strange #wally west #captain cold #flash comics #dc comics #fanfic

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writefinch · 4 years ago

Text

Family-Owned Small Business

(CN: incest, sex work, mentions of sexual assault & suicidal ideation)

The worst part of my job is administration. Last-minute rescheduling when a client flakes on us. Chasing up payments. Booking accommodation at short notice. Answering messages! Jesus, every time in the last year when I've slumped, sighed, and thought to myself "fuck working, I need a break from all this" it's been when I've opened my messages and seen thirty different texts that need a reply. Some people are fine with it I guess, but for me it's boring, time consuming, and stressful.

Big deal though, right, I mean nobody loves doing admin, why even bring it up? Well, if I tell someone that for work last night I ate a client's cum out of my mom's pussy, I'd expect that they'd get fixated on the sex work and the incest. I'd expect them to freak out and not pay attention to the specifics of what I'm saying. So, first, I'd like that person to know that the thing I hate about my job is probably the same thing that *they* hate about *their* job. I would rather lick my mom's asshole for five minutes than answer emails for five minutes, and I answer a lot of emails.

Do we have to worry about violence, danger, cops, and legal trouble? Yeah, we do. Am I scared of these things? Yeah, sometimes, but I had to worry about all of those things before I started doing sex work. At least now we've got the money to buy our way out of the worst of it.

I'm not saying that what I do with mom is an objectively healthy relationship, let alone a perfect one. If you took me back in time and told me I could pick a completely different life for me and my mom, I'm sure there's a bunch of choices I'd pick over this one. But I never had that choice. I got hurt a lot growing up. I feel like I've finally escaped the things that hurt me, but I know that I've barely started to recover from them.

That's why I'm writing this. We've saved enough money to afford some therapy and my first session is next week. I want help with the fear, the nightmares, the mood swings and insomnia, I want to stop the rush of rage and terror that flows through me every time I see the word 'dad,' I want help untangling the stuff that came out of being told I was a pansy when I was growing up, then figuring out I'm gay, then figuring out I'm a girl, then figuring out I'm all three of those things while I was living in a place that kept trying to kill me for it. What I don't want is for the psych to pin it all on the two least harmful and least fucked-up things about my life, and worse, I don't want them to make me believe it. This journal is a prophylactic, an assessment of my job, my relationships and my life that I can refer back to if and when someone sticks their fingers in my brain and swirls them around.

I'll start with a problem statement: my dad. The memories that hurt the most are the ones where he almost appeared human, the flickers of joy, curiosity and humor that stood out from the bland cruelty that made up the rest of his personality. I'll remember him buying me ice cream or talking about a book or a movie with me, I'll doubt myself and wonder if I just went crazy and cut him out of my life for no reason, and then my brain will hook onto a random act of sadism he inflicted on me.

The physical abuse was bad all on its own, real psycho shit like driving me out into the woods and making me pick through the brush for a switch he could hit me with and a whole lot more I won't go into, but the emotional abuse was worse. When I was eleven, I forgot to feed my cat one day. He gave her away to my uncle, but told me that she'd developed malnutrition and had to be put down. I didn't find out the truth for another two years, when he just let it slip at Easter. He bragged about it, even, like he'd invented a really smart child-rearing technique. I don't want to write too much down here because I don't need to, if anything I want therapy to *stop* everything he did from running through my head. He's a punishment-obsessed sadist, a Baptist, and he works as a judge. Did he ever sexually abuse me? No. Parent of the year, right? He kicked me out for being a fag the day I turned eighteen, so it's ironic that my biggest fear is that he comes looking for me. He doesn't even know I'm a girl.

On the other hand, my mom has had an interesting life. She's kind of a fuck up. When I was one year old, mom and dad split and dad got full custody--being a judge helped with that--while mom left the state. She spent a decade trying to kick a heroin habit and a year and a half in prison for related stuff, got banned from even entering the state I lived in on account of her parole--again, dad being a judge helped with that--illegally emigrated to Canada for a while, and went to Oregon by mistake, doing a mixture of bartending, delivery driving, MDMA dealing and whoring to stay afloat.

The only reason we met again is that I was in the same city staying with friends, also whoring. I don't remember the first time I saw her, but the first time we talked was in a mutual friend's tiny studio apartment with a few other hooker friends. We ended up comparing our Pest Lists, shared a few drinks, and swapped numbers. A week later we fucked, and a month after *that* we realized that we'd Oedipus'd ourselves. It seems funnier now than it did at the time.

That was an emotional time. We cried with joy that we'd found each other, we started tip-toeing around the ideas of rebuilding our lives together, and we agreed to pretend that the sex had never happened. Of course, we got drunk together a week later and fucked again. She's hot! I have a thing for older women, I have a thing for breaking taboos, and I have a thing for being mommied in bed. Blame dad for raising me like this, I dunno.

We started doing sex work as a team after she got a dental abscess. The bill for the hospital stay and the tooth removal was insane, and the dentist straight-up told her that she'd end up with another in a different tooth within a year if she didn't get two root canals. Even when she was recovering, we could only afford fish antibiotics off of Amazon. We crunched some numbers and made some inquiries, and figured out that we could pull in two week's worth of our combined income with one night of mother-daughter stuff.

Our first joint session was with a real estate pervert I'll call Stan, a chubby balding powerlifter in his fifties who we'd both had as a client before. Mom took me over her knees and switched between spanking me and fingering me while he watched. I sucked him off while mom made out with him, made out with my mom with his cock between our lips, licked his balls as mom licked my ass, then let him fuck my ass while mom sat on my face. That was the first half hour. He came six more times before we passed out in the early hours of the morning, and I drifted off nursing his finally-limp cock in my mouth. He paid us the price of a used Volkswagen for our trouble, and I blew him one last time before we left as a thank-you.

Six months later, mom's teeth were fixed, I was on spiro, and we had just under a dozen clients for our "doubles sessions." Only a few of our appointments are ones with me and mom together, three or four a month, we mostly work alone. That's not out of a deliberate choice, it's just that we've got a strict criteria for who we'll double up on.

Trust is one thing: depending on the lawyers we can afford, what we're doing is either kinda illegal or extremely illegal. Since my dad is presumably still a judge, I don't want him to ever find out about this. He'd put us in a prison or a mental institution. We won't do a double session with a client unless we've both had individual sessions with them.

Money is the other thing. Getting your dick sucked by a hot mom while her daughter sucks your balls costs a week's wages for the average person. Hiring us for the night is more like a month's wages. Even in a city like this, there's only a few thousand people that can drop that kind of money on hookers. Then, they've got to *want* to fuck a trans girl and her mom together. Don't get me wrong, more people are into mother-daughter incest than you'd expect, but it's not a universal thing.

Clients are, on average, annoying. It's a fact of life. The thing that all clients have in common is a ton of disposable income and a fondness for fucking hookers. They're not necessarily bad people, but there’s a heavy ‘What can a banana cost, ten dollars?’ vibe to them. It’s not that they’re adrenochrome-drinkers who don’t see regular people as human, it’s more that they don’t have an intuitive awareness that other people don’t have savings accounts, health insurance, an investment property, and four figures of walking-around money at any given time. I guess I'd feel differently if I was like, a concierge or a PA, but there's a lot more pillow talk in my job.

I've had bad and dangerous clients before, there's been at least two occasions where I was pretty sure I was going to die--one where the hospital afterwards stay wiped out four months of income, not counting the month where I couldn’t work--but they were all before I met mom, when I couldn't be so careful about screening prospective clients and dropping them if they threw up red flags. I'm sure we'll get bad clients in the future, but we're in a better place to deal with them safely.

I also wanna write down what a "normal day" is like. Friday was a good example. I woke up early at 9am and cooked breakfast for mom. She was up already doing the laundry. We entertain some clients in our apartment, so we go through a lot of clothes and a lot of sheets. You can't fuck a guy on top of another guy's cum stains, that's rude. Some of the job is Housework But More. We don't really use the main bedroom or the sitting room because we treat them like bed and breakfast guest rooms. It's annoying but every time we have a session without getting an actual hotel or motel room we save like $50 minimum.

After breakfast I epilated, showered, and went for a run. Personal grooming isn't that big a deal in terms of time, I'm not saying I don't spend a lot of time on it, I do, but I'd be spending that time even if I worked in a bar or an office or something. Look: I'm hot. I might have been a weird-looking spotty nerd when I thought I was a boy, but as a girl I'm a fucking dime. I could get like, 25% uglier before it had any impact on my earnings. The only part of personal grooming that's necessary for sex work and I wouldn't do all the time anyway is power-washing my guts an hour before every session.

After lunch, mom went to see some friends and I played Magic for a few hours. At two pm, the actual work started. I picked up the work phone for the first time that day and began answering texts. An hour later I'd cancelled the 6pm appointment, blocked out all of Sunday evening, checked in with a few regulars, and provisionally moved three guys to the 'Time Wasters' list.

I spent a while sexting with a good prospect. He was a good prospect because he paid up-front for the sexting instead of treating it like a free samples platter at Costco. We scheduled a tentative appointment for next Tuesday, when his wife would be out of town on a business trip. Most of the guys I fuck have kinks, and I swear that 'cheating on your wife with a sex worker' is the most common one there is. Do I feel bad about it? At my hourly rate, absolutely not.

Mom got back at half four, so I took a break. We made tacos for lunch together and ate while watching Billions. She nudged me and told me that I need to do my injection, and, well, we have a little ritual for that. I'm scatterbrained and I'm not great with needles, but mom has been incredibly supportive with my HRT, and when I told her I was having problems taking them on time, she came up with a way to make me as comfortable as possible. As soon as the needle is ready, I laid down in her lap and she cradled my head in her arms, pressing her bare chest against my face. I took a nipple into my mouth and nursed it softly while she stroked my hair. She called me a good girl, telling me how proud she is of her daughter, how much she loves me, and asked if I was going to take my medicine like a big girl. On good days I inject myself while she pets me and coos over me, and on bad days she takes the needle and does it for me. As soon as I dropped the needle in the sharps container, mom pressed a Hitachi against my cock and took one of my nipples into her mouth, called me her big brave girl, and asked if I was gonna cum for mommy.

As usual, the answer was yes.

Late afternoon and early evening is when the messages start flowing in, especially on Fridays, when the kinds of people with hooker money have either left work early and thinking about getting laid, or are still held up at work and are desperately thinking about getting laid. This kind of messaging gets trickier, because it comes down to what I'm providing. Like, setting up a session is the kind of normal administrative stuff that's baked into the price of a session. It's also partly a sales job, so I'm naturally flirty and solicitous, and because I do sex work I talk openly about sex.

However, *sexting* is not normal administrative stuff. If I'm sending you messages for jerking-off purposes, I can charge by the hour or by the text but I will insist on charging for it. Also, it's not just sex that me and mom provide. There's a reason that 'companionship' is an old euphemism for whoring, it's because whores are good company. I'm a good listener and I don't judge, which means I'm like the fun parts of a therapist but without all the homework and self-improvement. I'm (unsurprisingly) friendly with all of my clients, and I have more than a few clients and former clients who I'd consider good friends and vice versa. I talk to a bunch of them outside of a business context, especially the ones I met outside of my job, and that's a normal part of maintaining a pool of clients for any sales job, but on the other hand... it's a demand on my time and it's a part of my services. I can and have bluntly told guys that they're wasting my time when it comes to uncompensated sexting, but the platonic stuff requires a lighter touch.

One of my regulars, Fintech Pete, sent me a message. Two messages later, he sent me $100, and we're off. Describing in gratuitous detail exactly how I'm going to suck his cock, begging him to fuck me until my clit is drooling all over the sheets, sending him feet pics, things of that nature. Pete is great for sexting because he barely jerks off while he's doing it, he saves all the messages and pictures and jerks off to them later, because he's got some biohacking routine where he only cums once a week. He said once that part of the reason he hires sex workers is that he takes each nut a lot more seriously if he's paying three digits minimum for the privilege. He does this teleconferencing report with the board of directors at his company four times a year, and every time he hires me to kneel under the desk in his home office and suck him off while he makes his presentation.

Anyway, while we were going back and forth like that, he mentioned that I'd made a joke one time about doing a joint session with my mom. I told him it wasn't a joke, and to cut a long story short, half an hour later I was asking mom if she was up for an overnight session starting at 9pm. She agreed, Pete confirmed, so we both got ready--think getting dolled up for a night out but with a more thorough enema--and drove to his place. He lived outside of town in a two-bedroom suburban home, alone with his two dogs.

As soon as we were parked in his garage I did the safety call in front of him: I rang a friend of mine, told her we were visiting a friend, told her it was at the address I sent her earlier, and told her we'd call her again tomorrow morning. Was it really necessary to do that with someone like Fintech Pete? No, but practice makes permanent. If you let these things slip when there's no danger, eventually they'll slip when there is danger.

Now, I don't want to imply that I'm in a lot of danger! There's a reason that most of the faces you'll see on the Trans Day of Remembrance are of poor black and brown women, because real danger comes when you can't turn skeevy jobs, when you can't afford to take precautions, when you have to make the choice over and over between maybe starving and maybe getting murdered. I'm white, I've got a good support network, and I've been relatively lucky in that I can do all these things to minimize my risks. I've still got to do them, though! Things like safety calls are a good habit to get into and it helps all sex workers if there's an expectation that they've all got someone looking out for them.

...I get that there is some bravado creeping into this journal. I start off saying that admin is the worst part of the job and a page later I flippantly mention that the job has put me in the hospital. On a day to day basis yeah, the admin is the bit that sucks the most, but if you offered me a deal where the admin is twice as bad but I never took that session, I’d take it in a heartbeat. This job has left me with some scars. Any time something cold touches my wrist I get a vivid flash of the first time I had my hands zip-tied behind my back in a cop car. I've had nightmares all my life, and more than a few of my nightmares are about stuff that's happened since I got into sex work.

If it seems like I’m downplaying it, it’s because the harrowing stuff is where the job has gone wrong, it’s not baked into the everyday stuff, and most importantly it has nothing to do with my mom. The work I've done with her is some of the least stressful and dangerous I've had since I started this job, and whatever wounds I have, she's not the one who caused them.

On a more positive note, a cool thing about doing sessions with my mom is that we can dress pretty conservatively and still have it come off as insanely lewd. Mom wore a black cocktail dress with an imitation pearl necklace and her hair up in a bun, I was in a white blouse under a lambswool sweater, a pleated short skirt, cheap dark tights--Pete has a thing for tearing them--and patent leather shoes. When you're going to suck a guy's world entirely off alongside your mom, the more modestly you're dressed, the more perverted it looks. Out in the suburbs it also means you get to avoid the microskirts and fishnets look which screams to the neighbors 'I've just hired a pair of hookers' or the mid-range raincoat over microskirts and fishnets look which screams 'I've just hired a pair of pricey hookers."

Pete's living room looks like the back room of a Radio Shack, computer guts everywhere, every surface turned into a makeshift workbench. It's not a suitable place for lovemaking; I don't want to have to pull shards of a soundcard out of my perineum. His bedroom is a lot neater, with a king-sized bed to sit on, a ton of pillows to lounge up against, and a TV mounted on the wall. Mom poured out some wine, a mid-range red zinfandel that we'd picked up on the way, Pete brought out some imported dark chocolate that costs like $40/kg, and I swung my legs over his lap and turned on the Food Network. I took a bite of chocolate, mom took a sip of wine, and before either of us swallowed she pulled me into a deep kiss, mixing the wine and the chocolate. It's a good combination, and Pete enjoyed the show.

The night started off with chatting. None of us were in any rush, not with an overnight session, and since Pete has been a client for each of us for a while it was a pretty relaxed atmosphere. Pete's fingers danced over my thighs, absent-mindedly plucking ladders into the fabric as we talked baseball, business, sex work, the difference between the gentrified fag bar downtown and the really gentrified fag bar downtown, programming and other nerd shit, local politics, the contestants on Cutthroat Kitchen, just normal stuff. Mom and Pete started talking about fancy cooking stuff so I started annoying them both by claiming that sardines are just fully-grown anchovies, that DOP labels are all fake, and that instant grits are better than the regular ones until mom jabbed me with a finger and told me that my mouth should be put to better use elsewhere.

You know how some people say "Cilantro tastes like soap, that's why it's good?" Same thing for how weird it feels to go down on my mom. The first time I ever jerked off, watching a 144p clip of Rocco Sifreddi fucking a girl in the ass while flushing her head down a toilet bowl, knowing that this meant I was going to go to Hell unless I begged God for forgiveness and never did it again, I came so hard I passed out. It feels good, it feels wrong that it feels so good, and it feels even better because it feels so wrong.

She was already wet when I got between her legs. I kissed her clit and started licking, her bush tickling my nose and her thighs squeezing my ears. Fabric rasped over my head as she hiked her dress up to run her hand through my hair. Everything was muffled but I could hear kissing and clinking, and I knew that mom was undoing Pete's belt and jeans to give him a Catholic-quality handjob.

I got mom worked up, bucking her hips and getting all breathy, until she asked me to get up here and give her some help. I crawled up to his groin and winked up at him. He blushed and grinned back. Pete's not a bad-looking guy. I mean, I don't care about looks in general, I guess I can look at someone and say that objectively they're ugly, and if someone is beautiful it adds something to the experience, but like... it doesn't really figure into it. Obviously most johns don't look like supermodels but they're not uniformly ugly, as I said before the thing that johns have in common is being horny guys with a lot of disposable income. Still, Pete is towards the better-looking side of that scale.

...Okay there is one thing about him that's weirdly common for my clients, I call it 'John Balding:' where a guy is losing his hair but in a slow, uneven, and kinda weird pattern, so that even when they cross into being more bald than not, they never bite the bullet and shave it all off. Pete is only like 30% of the way through that process so it doesn't look terrible yet, but he's on that track.

Anyway, back to the sex. A fun thing about double blowjobs is that you can take them a whole lot slower than solo blowjobs. Me and mom have had a lot of practice so we go at about 1/4th speed and it feels twice as good. She started off by wrapping her hand around the shaft, slowly stroking it while she softly kissed the tip, and I licked his balls, gently lapping at one, then the other, cleaning away the day's sweat and musk, carefully taking both of them into my mouth at once. Mom swallowed half his length, and I started kissing my way up his shaft as she pulled back up, my lips touching the head as hers reached the very tip. She grabbed me by my hair and pulled me into a deep French kiss with his cock in the middle, precum mixing with spit, moaning as we felt him twitch and grunt, mom's hand on his balls and my hand on his shaft. We broke the kiss and repeated it in reverse, taking his cock in my throat as mom kissed her way down to his balls. He came after five minutes of gentle little schoolgirl kisses on each side of his cock from the pair of us. The first rope caught mom on her cheek, the second hit her hair, but I wrapped my lips tight around the head and sucked him dry before he could spill another drop.

You can't give a client a mother-daughter blowjob and not snowball the cum back and forth in front of him. We've done it enough times to get the timing down: wait until he sits up straight, because if you don't he'll be too dazed from nutting in your mouth to really appreciate it. Make sure he's looking at you, move your hair out of the way so it doesn't obstruct his view, open your lips so that a trickle of jizz almost sloshes out, move in close to your mom so that your noses are touching and it's clear that you're about to kiss, sink a palm into her tits as she grabs your ass, and then you gotta really go for it: wide-mouthed, feral, energetic, like you're trying to reach each other's sinuses. If a little bit of cum spills out because you're being so sloppy, that's a sign that you're doing it right. You're going to lick it up afterwards anyway.

We broke the kiss, I licked mom's face clean, and we took a break. We drank some more wine, he offered us cigarettes--the coolest clients are the ones that let you smoke indoors--and we cuddled and relaxed for a while with Guy's Grocery Games playing on the TV. Pete went to get some water, and returned with three bottles and a strip of Cialis. He downed two pills, we both stripped off--it was sweltering by that point--and got ready for the next round.

Mom played with his nipples and I got between his legs again, this time going lower than his balls to eat his ass out. Rimming is a trusted client privilege like the mom-daughter stuff is, except it's less about trusting them in the legal sense and more about trusting that it won't be grainy down there. I like it when a client is clean enough to rim, because I'm extremely good at it. Mom says she's better, she claims she once made a guy no-touch cum with a rimjob, but I don't fucking believe her.

He got hard after a minute of digging my tongue into his ass, but his cock was still super-sensitive so we figured we'd tease him for a while longer. We swapped places, mom ate his ass while he made out with me, squeezing my tits and playing with my cock. I like it when guys touch my tits, my cock is... fine, I guess? I don't viscerally dislike people touching it but it doesn't do much for me. After a minute of that he reaches around and works a finger into my asshole, which is much more my speed.

By the time he was two knuckles deep I looked down and saw his cock twitching, leaking precum onto his stomach. He seemed pretty worked up. I kissed his neck, nipped at his ear, and whispered, "Do you wanna breed me, Mister?"

He sure did.

I use condoms unless I've got an extremely compelling reason not to, and mom has a cool trick for getting them on. She grasped Pete's cock around the base, placed her lips around the tip, deepthroated the entire thing in a single stroke, and as she slowly lifted her head back up, his cock was neatly fitted with a condom.

As soon as I lubed up he put me on my back, pushed my ankles up to my ears, pressed his cock against my hole and sunk into me inch by inch. He muffled my moans with a kiss and rutted me into the bed. I gotta give it to him, all that biohacking and cardio is doing something right because he railed me at a fast, steady pace until my dick was leaking all over my tummy and I couldn't form sentences in my head any more. Mom made out with him as he finished, and at that point I was just babbling nonsense. He was gentle and cautious as he pulled out of me, stroking my hair as I reached down to take off his condom. I poured the contents out over my tits, slumping back against the headboard as mom licked them clean.

It wasn't yet midnight by then, and we went on like that through the night. Licking his feet, mom-daughter 69, him sucking my cock while mom rode his dick like a Sorority cowgirl champion, more wine, more double-blowjobs, tacking an extra $200 onto the fee for the privilege of pissing in my mouth instead of having to get up to go to the bathroom, a whole buffet of fun whore stuff.

We woke up at around ten in the morning, stayed for breakfast, then said our goodbyes. Me and mom thanked him for his custom, and he thanked us for a good time. By midday we were at home, we both showered, checked our calendars, messaged our evening clients to confirm that they were still on, and then... well, the rest of the day kinda evaporated. I played Demons' Souls until I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer, passed out in bed, and woke up when my alarm went off in the evening.

That's one of the things I don't like about overnight sessions: you're technically only spending like, ten to twelve hours with a client, and for some of that time you're either not fucking or actively asleep, but it kinda feels like it destroys two days. By the time it's scheduled, everything in the rest of the day is either preparing for it or doing it, and when you get back it takes the rest of the day just to recover. I don't like that part of my job, and if I sit down I can probably go through a whole bunch of things I don't like about my job. I still know that my job isn't a *bad* job, because the last time I had a bad job it was at a chicken processing plant. Know how I know that the chicken job was bad? Because I excused myself for a bathroom break four hours into the shift, walked off site, and never came back.

You know what, there's another reason I know that this isn't a bad job and that mom isn't a bad mom, and I guess it's part of the reason I've written all this down in the first place. I was seven years old when I first wanted to die. By the time I got to high school, suicidal thoughts were just the radio static in my brain. I can't remember any point after like, grade school where I didn't daydream about suicide every single day.

Now? I sometimes go for weeks without thinking about killing myself. It hasn't gone away completely, it still pops up when I'm upset or stressed out or tired or really hungry, but what I do is I talk to mom about it, and she talks me out of it. I feel guilty sometimes about putting that pressure on her, and taking that pressure off is part of the reason I'm going to therapy I guess.

I hope it works out.

I really think it will.

#story #stories

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lovelyirony · 4 years ago

Note

if you’re taking prompts uhh “the darkness encroaches (you keep it at bay)” idk for who maybe tony?

Tony, for one thing, did not like the fact he was apparently part of a long line of magic-users.

His mom had always been tight-lipped about her own family history, even after she left dad and they moved back to New York.

Tony had asked one time about her family. They had to talk about family history in one of his classes, and there was no way in hell that he wanted to talk about Howard in any capacity that was even neutral. (After all for his debate class, he was talking about how much he sucked in terms of universal weaponry policy.)

Mom had given him a sharp look from the kitchen counter, and even though she was wearing rubber gloves and her hair was pushed back by a bandana that had little Mickey Mouse print on it, she still looked terrifying.

“They’re not worth mentioning, Tony. Make something up.”

“Geez, okay. Touchy subject...”

“Not touchy. Just not worth the time.”

Tony didn’t make a comment after that, because in all honesty he and his mom have never been excellent liars to each other, and this time is no exception.

He does make up his family history. He knows his family is probably from Italy somewhere, they moved in...1923? Yeah, that sounds good. And he’s named after an uncle.

(He isn’t.)

Tony doesn’t ask his mom again because he knows that she won’t give in or break down to answer his questions, and there’s probably good reason why he doesn’t know.

Oh, there’s a reason alright.

He likes science. He likes understanding things. In his (correct) opinion, magic is just science that no one understands yet. Everything has an explanation.

Well.

He accidentally set an asshole’s Mustang on fire.

To be fair, he was an asshole. He had been talking over the professor during every single slide in the lecture presentation for his lecture, and Tony had just about yelled in frustration.

So instead as he saw the guy rev his engine for his stupid fucking car and make a whole big scene about how he had a Mustang, how fucking cool is that you absolute shit-heel of a person-

Fire.

Nothing serious, but Tony knows he did it.

He could feel how his hands twitched, how something came to him and from him. Something not normal.

Or at least if it was normal, health class never came close to covering it.

But it’s a one-time thing, he thinks. He’s not really doing anything else, so maybe it only happens when he’s really mad? That’s probably it. That has to be it.

Except the ramen that he likes at the grocery store is on the top shelf, and Rhodey wandered off to get actual food, and so he can’t reach it because he’s not a freak who is like 6′4″.

It floats.

It fucking floats.

The sweet-chili-ramen floats into his cart and Rhodey sees it, and he stares.

"Either I took an edible and it finally kicked in, or you just did something that definitely isn’t supposed to happen.”

“Maybe the latter,” Tony says faintly.

“Oh,” Rhodey says. “Do you think we have time to get that queso you wanted, or do we have to pay for the groceries and go to the car to process?”

“Queso over my mental state,” Tony responds automatically. “Let’s go.”

They eat in silence when they get to their apartment, and they don’t say anything for about ten minutes.

“So. Do you think you can fly on a broomstick?”

“What? No!” Tony exclaimed, but pausing. “Well, I’ve never tried before, so...”

“Then we have to try. For science reasons,” Rhodey says. “Where the fuck do we get a broomstick?”

So...

As it turns out, you can’t really get a traditional broomstick, so they went to the store and bought a mop.

“They have a mop, but not a broomstick?”

“To be fair, it is April.”

“Why does that matter?”

“Well,” Rhodey starts to explain, “April showers bring May flowers, but also wet boots into the hallway. Also, it’s not your holiday yet.”

“Well yeah, it’s not May yet.”

“I didn’t mean your birthday, dipshit. I meant your holiday.”

“What the fuck is my holiday?” Tony demands. “No one has a ‘celebrate Tony Stark’ day in their calendars, as far as I or my ego knows, so-”

He stops.

“Oh, you little shit.”

“I’m not little,” Rhodey brags. “I’m taller than you.”

“For now.”

“For permanence!”

“I’ll make you pay for this broomstick with the last ten dollars in your checking account.”

“Then I’ll tell Jarvis!”

“Damn your need to know my family,” Tony curses. “Fine.”

Tony can’t fucking fly on a fucking mop.

One broken arm later and a phone call to his mother later, Maria Carbonell is sitting on her son’s dormitory mattress and wondering just why the hell he lied to her about how he broke his arm.

Here was her son’s lie:

“Um. I broke my arm because dinner sucked.”

A.) There was no follow up.

B.) Her son is bad at lying as she is.

Unfortunately, she did not announce her arrival, and so she gets Tony’s roommate opening the door and screaming that the liquor is in the second cabinet from the left.

Maria raises one eyebrow.

“Did Tony at least pick out good wine?”

“Uh...you’re Tony’s mom?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t think you were coming to visit until move-out.”

“I...we had an interesting conversation. You wouldn’t happen to know why Tony actually broke his arm, would you?”

“Um...no.”

(Rhodey is also a bad liar.)

Tony gets home about ten minutes later and promptly says:

“Oh fuck.”

“Is that any way to greet your mother?” Mom asks, already sipping delicately on her glass of water.

“Um...move-out isn’t for another month.”

“I know. But you lied to your dear mother.”

“How did you know?”

“You can never hide anything from your mom, and your excuse needed work, honey,” Maria answers. “So. How did you break your arm?”

Tony sighs.

“Promise me you won’t laugh. And don’t tell Jarvis.”

“What did you....what?”

The mop.

Maria doesn’t laugh at first, at least until she sees the pictures that Rhodey took and chuckles.

“You promised me you wouldn’t laugh!”

“What were you doing? And why?” she asks, laughing. Tony rubs the back of his neck nervously.

“Um, well...funny story...”

Maria should have known that her son would have her...abilities. But she had hoped that if he had never known the family, had never known what she could do, that maybe...maybe they wouldn’t come.

“So what you’re telling me,” Tony says, nostrils flaring, “is that there’s magic?”

“Yes,” Maria says. “And what we deal with specifically is good magic.”

“Oh, so I could’ve put Glinda the Good Witch on my family tree project,” Tony says sarcastically.

Maria scowls.

“Don’t sass me, Tony. I did it for your own good.”

“I set a car on fire!”

“Well, what kind of car was it?!”

“A Mustang!”

“Then that makes sense!” Maria says. “Your father drove one, and we all know how that turned out!”

Tony blinks for a moment.

And then laughs.

Maria starts laughing too, until they’re both giggling in the apartment, and Tony tells her about the grocery store incident.

Mom tells him, essentially, that they have a job: defend from the darkness. She doesn’t say if the darkness is someone or a group or a concept. She just says that she’ll send him some of the spell-books (fucking spell-books!) over and talk about how emotions and different hand motions can affect how spells go.

“So, why never the family? I mean, you could’ve told me about them and then just not mentioned the magic portion,” Tony asks when he’s moved back into their house, and has grilled Mom on just about every single page in the book.

“Because as much as your father is a terrible person, you’re still like him in some aspects,” Maria says. “And you are stubborn and don’t let information go. You want to know how everything works, and that includes family. You would’ve been wreaking havoc since you were eight.”

“I was already wreaking havoc when I was eight,” Tony whines. “But, this also raises the question of when are we doing a family reunion?”

She stops, looking at him.

“They weren’t exactly pleased when I married a millionaire.”

“Not even when he became a billionaire and you got half his fortune?” Tony teases.

“Not even then,” she answers. “I have a...complicated relationship with magic.”

“As in, you don’t use it.”

“Correct,” she answers. “You don’t need magic in your life, and quite often, it gets you in more trouble than you anticipate.”

“Are you going to give me a ‘magic has consequences’ speech?”

Maria laughs.

“No. Magic, as far as I know, doesn’t really have consequences. The actions you do have consequences. You could blast up an entire country and as long as you don’t get caught, no consequences other than what you do to yourself.”

“Like having guilt?”

“Like having guilt. But enough about that, it’ll make you feel weird for a week if you keep thinking about it. I want you to light candles from two feet away.”

“Of course I can do that,” Tony scoffs.

“Sure you can.”

Tony also sets the curtains on fire!

Maria realizes that her son is perhaps just a tad (okay, a lot) more powerful than she was (and is).

So, she regrettably calls her mother.

Nonna Carbonell is a very imposing figure. A woman who is four-foot-eight and about seven-feet-tall in terms of personality, and dresses only in questionable 1970s-print dresses.

“Ah, so you finally come back home, Maria. And you brought your boy! Who I only see twice in the magazines!”

“You know exactly why I didn’t come back, Mama,” Maria says, rolling her eyes. “But enough about that. You need to teach Tony.”

“Antonio,” Mama says, grinning at him and pinching his cheeks. “Ah, so good to see you have the Carbonell nose, your father was ugly as a mule.”

Tony pointedly does not say that everyone else seems to think that he is the spitting image of his father, but...

His mom and Nonna do not get along, if family dinner is anything to go by. Tony’s lucky that his mom got him at least some Italian lessons so he’s not completely lost with all of his aunts, uncles, and cousins.

He sees pots and pans coming off the shelves themselves. Ladles and knifes dance out of the drawers.

His baby cousin-Geraldine, who is only two-is waving her fingers lackadaisically, and in what seems to be no effort, her bottle of juice is off of the counter.

Great. A two year old is better at magic than he is.

Nonna is a great teacher, who also happens to terrify Tony with how much she can do.

“You’re important,” she grins. “You have more power than your mother, thank God.”

“Why thank god?” Tony asks.

“You always thank God, Tonio,” Nonna says, waving the curtains shut. “Now, let’s see you get the flour off the shelf.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to get, like, a salt shaker?”

“If you spill the salt shaker we get the devil!” Nonna declares. “Flour is better.”

It is not better. It turns Nonna into a ghost, and Tony has to spend ages dusting it off his black jeans.

“Maybe pepper shaker next time,” she says weakly.

Tony does call Rhodey. He was supposed to go on a road trip to see him, and now he’s in Italy learning how to fling flour sacks across the kitchen at his idiot Uncle Theo.

“How goes your magic training you fucking nerd?”

“Literally I call you, and that’s how you greet me?”

“I told my DnD group that you moved to Italy to play on a campaign for a worldwide championship.”

“You are quite literally the worst friend ever.”

“False, because when I moved out I found your favorite Black Sabbath shirt and am saving it for when you move back. Please tell me you’re moving back so I can plan friendships accordingly.”

“I’ll be back. Who knows, I might be able to help with some lifting.”

“I still don’t trust your noodle arms, no matter how much ‘magic’ you have now.”

“Hey! They’re not noodles!”

“Says you, noodle-arm boy.”

“I’m going to curse you into a toad.”

“There’s no way you can do that,” Rhodey says, laughing. “I guarantee you that you wouldn’t be able to turn me back.”

“And then we’d have so much more space in the apartment, darling.”

“But then I wouldn’t have to pay rent! Huzzah! And I wouldn’t have to do my stupid business classes!”

Tony laughs.

“I’ve missed talking to you, Rhodey. I can’t wait until I get to come home again.”

“Me too,” he responds. Tony can practically feel his smile through the phone.

There’s yelling that Rhodey can hear, something about “come back here you American bastard and learn how to knit with magic!” and a hurried “goodbye, love you” from Tony.

Tony does get good at magic. He gets very good.

It’s terrifying to Maria, really.

Darkness has always existed, and it will always exist. Their family exists as a way to keep it balanced, and Tony...

He plays with magic as if he’s always known it, now. He can do things that not even the older family can do. He has meshed magic with mechanics, and he’s started on ideas that Maria was quite sure no one had thought of.

And then, of course, family does what family does best:

They tell you things you should’ve known about three months earlier.

With most families, the thing that they don’t tell you is something like “oh, Aunt Margaret made a terrible choice in husbands again.” Or perhaps “did you see his tattoo? Who in their right mind gets a Sonic the Hedgehog tattoo on their chest?”

With this family, it is the fact that darkness is coming within the next four years, and Tony is probably their only chance.

“Why didn’t you tell me?!” Maria hisses at her sister.

“Because you moved to America!” Gia hisses right back. “We can’t afford to collect call every single time we had trouble.”

“You couldn’t tell me that the darkness is approaching way sooner than we expected?! Because what, you didn’t want to pay for a phone call!”

“To be fair, Nonna made that decision,” Enzo says. “She thought we could handle it. And we can! We can!”

“Oh sure, that’s why Nonna told me that my son is your only chance,” Maria says, dry tone to her voice. “God, I need wine...”

“Everyone needs wine, it’s practically a requirement,” Gia says. “Don’t worry. Things will work themselves out.”

“But will it work out for us?” Maria asks. “I don’t want to be the modern model for the next pietà someone wants to make...”

Tony, unfortunately, is his mother’s son and has listened in on every single conversation that’s ever been had in their house. Here are three things that he has learned:

1.) Apparently, his mother used to bake the best bread, and they forgot to write and ask her for the recipe, and they also didn’t call her.

2.) He’s the last hope for everyone of existing with good things, and no one’s sure how to beat the darkness and he has no clue how to.

3.) Apparently his grandfather (named Basil, of all names) could out-drink anyone and had publicly threatened at least six government officials just because he wanted to see if he could.

You will notice that one of these facts is most likely important than the others.

Who the hell names their kid Basil?

(Just kidding.)

Tony gets back to the US, promises his mom that he won’t tell anyone, and then immediately tells Rhodey when mom goes to the grocery store.

“Wait, so...they’re trusting you?”

“I know! What a terrible idea!”

“God, I know. You can’t even clean a microwave.”

“That was one time!”

Rhodey laughs, tackling Tony in a hug.

“I know, I know. Welcome back, Tones.”

He feels safe. Protected.

He has to learn how to fucking throw knives. Mom has decided that she is going to call in a favor from Howard, and it involves dragging Tony to a most-likely-illegal-pseudo-government-set-up and training under a guy who goes by Hawkeye and a lady who goes by “Black Widow” and expects Tony to be fine with it.

Rhodey also attends, because Tony appreciates misery with company.

Plus, they can complain together as they’re getting their asses kicked.

“Do you ever think about taking a vacation?” Rhodey asks, panting as Natasha once again slams him down on the mat. “I’m sure that Florida or the Philippines would appreciate you. Tourism or the economy, or something like that.”

“You’re not getting out of your fighting lessons by bribing me with a nice vacation,” Natasha says simply. “Tony, adjust your left arm. You’ll break it when Clint comes into contact.”

“Maybe I want to break my arm!” Tony declares.

“Do you want to have to wrap your cast in plastic every single time you shower?” Clint asks. “Because that’s what’ll happen.”

“Why don’t you just spray the cast with some sort of waterproofing spray?”

“Would that even work?” Clint asks. “Because you might have just blown my mind.”

“It might work, I don’t know,” Tony says, panting.

It is eight months when Tony first brushes with darkness.

It’s the morning, which is...odd. He wouldn’t think that darkness would show up in the morning, but here he is on his morning walk trying desperately hard to fight it off and also not grab attention.

He manages to slam it down on the road and have a car run it over, and for the most part, the darkness retreats. He sends it off with a curse, and he runs all the way back to the apartment.

Rhodey frowns.

“We probably need other people, right?”

“A regular family reunion and then some.”

So as it turns out, they’re not getting a family reunion. At least, not any time soon.

Apparently, Nonna is demanding that they have to be there from October 31st through December 7th, according to Holy Days of Obligation and Holidays (specifically, Christian holidays.)

“Nonna, isn’t witchcraft considered illegal or something?” Tony asks. “Like, I thought the church didn’t like that.”

“Too bad, too late. We stay. Talk to your mama, Tonio. She will have answers.”

Maria has absolutely no answers!

“I didn’t seek out witches who live here, baby,” she says, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Why don’t you email people? Ask around?”

“You can’t just ask people if they’re a witch!” Tony cries.

“Why not?”

“Because you get people who think you’re insane, or they’re insane!”

“So?”

“...good point.”

Pepper Potts is not sure why she answers the post. It is probably something else not related to what she does. Maybe she’ll be meeting with weirdos. But when you get an ad that’s about “stopping darkness from engulfing the world in two-to-four-years: you wanna help?” you listen to that.

So she answers, and she walks in her business-casual outfit, and she meets two guys who are sitting at a shitty folding table at the park.

One of them is wearing cargo pants.

“Are you here about the darkness?” one of the boys says, blinking up at her behind gigantic glasses.

“Um. Yes?”

“Good. My name is Tony, this is Rhodey in the terrible pants. And you are?”

“Um. Pepper?”

“Oh, cool name.”

“Thanks, picked it out myself.”

Rhodey laughs.

“Good. Now, what kind of magic stuff can you do?”

“I’d hardly call it stuff.”

“Tony uses his to make us ramen while we marathon a crime show, I’m calling it stuff,” Rhodey defends.

Pepper watches around her, and satisfied with the lack of people around, lifts Rhodey out of his chair and floats him about thirty feet over.

When he jogs back over, he’s grinning.

“Very cool. What else?”

Pepper is well-versed in technique, spells, and a few tricks that Tony doesn’t know about involving manipulation of light.

“How can you do that?”

“Practice,” Pepper says. “And a late-night conspiracy theory documentary.”

“Cool,” Tony and Rhodey say at the same time.

Pepper actually doesn’t live that far away, and she goes to the same college. They see a lot more of her and become friends.

She helps them update the spell-book, get it organized online, and focus on finding out where the darkness is going to appear next.

Tony is trying very hard not to break down from stress. He’s barely twenty, ate ramen for lunch and dinner yesterday, and is not very sure that he can do this.

People keep telling him that he’s the only hope they have, and he doesn’t want to be that.

He just wants to have a regular summer and make fun of Rhodey’s questionable fashion choices.

He doesn’t even know how to defeat this. At all. And he just wants to graduate college, and get a job somewhere and annoy his mom into teaching him how to make homemade pasta.

Not...not this.

But you don’t get to choose what you have to do for others. You have to do what they need.

Rhodey, at least, understands this.

That is why he is outside of Tony’s door with a half-cold burrito of questionable origins, a smile, and no knowledge of personal boundary space.

(Not that Tony minds.)

“Hey,” he says. “So, you have to save the world and I still remember the fact that you forget to get your shit out of the microwave.”

Tony laughs at that, taking the proffered burrito and biting into it.

“You still have shitty taste in burritos. Where is this even from?”

“A badly-painted truck two blocks from here. I think I was their first customer of the day.”

“No shit,” Tony says, taking another bite of the burrito. “You want to watch a movie or play a video game?”

“Movie. Something light.”

This is how they get to watch a movie that honestly doesn’t mean anything to either of them, but it is mindless and it allows Rhodey to sneak his hand over Tony’s, and it allows Tony some sort of happiness that at least Rhodey is still by his side.

“Hey Tony?”

“Yeah?”

“You think if I managed to find an actual broomstick, you could fly it?”

“Oh, fuck you!” Tony laughs, tossing a pillow over Rhodey’s face.

“I’m serious. You managed to charm the coffeepot into being sentient, so...”

“That was a mistake, and now we’re stuck with Maggie, don’t bother her.”

But it does have him thinking.

If he can charm a coffeepot, what else could he charm?

A suit of armor.

That’s what he charms. He was originally shooting for a broomstick, but then Pepper surprised him and now he has a charmed suit of armor that stands in the hallway of his mom’s old house. (Their base of operations.)

It gives him an idea.

Why not combine the old with the new?

After all, it’s not like darkness hasn’t adapted to hundreds of years of battles. Why not throw a curveball?

“I don’t like using my major,” Rhodey whines as Tony makes him lift one of the arms for his own suit.

“Too bad,” Tony teases. “I’ll get you pizza after.”

“Promise?”

“Mostly.”

“Good enough for me.”

Pepper thinks they’re both idiots, at least until she gets her own suit and is positively thrilled when she looks like she’s a superhero from a television show.

“Yeah, yeah, we look cool.” Tony says. “Now, who’s ready to learn how to conduct magic and electricity at the same time?”

It works out better than anticipated, all things considered.

“You ruined the couch, Anthony Edward Stark-Carbonell!” Mom fumes. “The couch! Where I sit!”

“To be fair, it’s a really ugly couch,” Tony says weakly. “And it’s, um, for the betterment of...magical society?”

“Don’t you dare quote your Aunt Gia at me!” Mom goes on muttering in Italian, and it sounds suspiciously like “why did I have to have a son who blows up couches” to Tony.

The darkness comes in full-force on a Saturday night, which is really inconvenient for a lot of reasons:

1.) A Saturday? Really? It couldn’t come on, like, a Thursday?

2.) They’ve been celebrating Rhodey’s birthday and perhaps Tony has enjoyed two or three drinks and gotten a pleasant buzz out of it, all things considered.

3.) It’s midnight. Why midnight? That’s late, Pepper wanted to get to bed.

4.) Mom is going to kill them, because technically they weren’t supposed to be out on the town.

So here they are, panicking and throwing shitty restaurant chairs around in order to main some sort of ahead-of-the-game mentality.

“Do you think if we called your mom, she would help?”

“She would probably kill me first!” Tony wails.

“Before darkness can?”

“Probably!”

Maria won’t kill her son yet.

Yet.

But god she’s going to come close.

“You could’ve just asked me to buy you wine!” she says. “You could’ve had a movie in!”

“Well sorry, I didn’t think that the darkness was going to come on Rhodey’s birthday!”

“Oh when would you have thought it would come? Next Thursday? Or something more convenient for your year?”

“I mean, when I have to visit Howard over the summer, that would be beneficial.”

“I’ll make up a different excuse,” Mom hisses, deflecting a tendril of darkness from the window and wincing as it smashes a painting down from the wall.

The fight is a hard one. All good fights are. (Although the best fights are ones that are over in five minutes, give or take.)

It’s been hours, Tony is tired, and honestly he really is debating calling a break and going to get a shitty fast-food burger.

Rhodey says “no” even though his stomach is growling.

Pepper has been having fun finding new ways to animate cars, but she’s getting tired.

And then it gets all of his family that he’s made.

He can see Rhodey writhing in it, can see his mom fight it off, and watches Pepper scream.

Tony is not sure if he can do it.

But he has to. He has to beat this fucking terrible thing back because if he doesn’t, everyone else dies. And they don’t get families, they don’t know what will happen.

(And he also really wants to plan a vacation with Rhodey and Pepper next year.)

So he takes himself and all of what he knows, and launches himself directly into it.

By all accounts, he wasn’t supposed to do that. But he hasn’t been able to cut it down into a more manageable size, so he figures that maybe it’s time to try something that has never been advisable by anyone on either hemisphere of the world, or anyone who has ever been rational.

Going into darkness is a very difficult thing, because for one, you can’t see shit.

For a second thing, he can hear everything.

Darkness is not just absence of light. It can be absence of every single damned good thing on the earth, in your head, or anywhere around you. Some people have described it as hell.

Tony is alone, and he is not sure what to do.

There’s a table, and there is someone sitting there.

“So.”

The woman is stirring an olive around her martini, and she looks impeccably dressed. A fitted skirt and suit, manicured black nails, and eyeliner that looks impossibly intricate.

“You are...?”

“The person you’re supposed to destroy.”

“But you’re not exactly a person, are you?”

“Smart guy. No, I’m just the personification of what you’re fighting. You intrigue me, Tony Stark.”

“Just Tony.”

“Fine then. Tony.”

“Why do I intrigue you?”

“Most heroes are alone,” darkness says. (Does he capitalize her name? He’s not sure. “They go alone, they don’t involve people in their struggle. You have involved your family, put them in danger.”

“They would’ve been in greater danger if I had gone by myself,” Tony says. “People have a nasty habit of sticking together, you know.”

“Do they now?”

“Yeah,” Tony says. “And now, I have to make sure we stick together anyways.”

“And what do you mean by-”

He’s already lunging at her.

She wasn’t expecting him to lunge, he guessed.

She goes down, and yells.

Tony scrabbles to fight again as she sends out a blast his way, and he ducks.

“You can’t hide from me!” she yells.

“I’m not trying to!” he yells back. “I’m just trying to kill you!”

The fight goes on, and she plays dirty. Her nails tear into his armor, and he tears his fingers through her hair.

“You can’t beat me,” she howls, triumphant as she manages to pin one of his legs down, and trying to claw at his face. “Darkness always exists! You would be nothing without me!”

Tony pauses for a second.

“So what you’re saying is...as long as you exist, so does everything else?”

“Yes!”

Tony grins.

“Aw, you shouldn’t have told me that honey.”

With darkness being the beginning, everything else comes forth. Tony summons his cousins, his family, Rhodey, Pepper.

And eventually, her physical form gets smaller and smaller.

Darkness is not something that can be eradicated from your life. But you can beat the shit out of it with help. Tony learned that.

He also learned that Rhodey has a phenomenal flying kick.

They spend the following day laying on the couch or adjacent chairs and staring at the decorations that they need to replace.

They also learn that Nonna has learned how to call, and is not quite sure if she can be heard or not.

“TONIO? TONIO! WHERE ARE YOU?!”

“Nonna, quiet,” Tony groans. “I literally just saved the world yesterday, please don’t yell.”

“I HAVE FOOD FOR YOU. COME TO ITALY. NEXT WEEK?”

Tony groans.

“Sure, Nonna. I will come.”

“BRING FRIENDS. HAVE GIFTS FROM POPE FOR YOU.”

“You...when did you have time to get gifts...the pope?”

“HAVE FRIENDS. COME!”

Tony looks at Mom, Rhodey, and Pepper.

“So. When should we leave for next week?”

#HI THIS IS VERY VERY LONG #VERY VERY LONG #pepper potts #tony stark #rhodey #tony's family from italy !!! is somehow witch and catholic simply because i wanted to make it funny #maria carbonell #lovelyirony writes #tony stark is a fucking badass #yes he is a witch yes he is a badass #darkness can also be representative of uhhh anxiety or how bad things will alwyas be there #but it has to be to point out the good #just my take on that #also yeah rhodey and tony???? together but not mentioned #pepper saying she chose her name was something i meant to delve into but i didn't so #magic au

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mosylufanfic · 4 years ago

Text

Holding Out for a Hero

I’m so proud of myself, I finished a 12 Days of Killervibe prompt at the last minute!

Holding Out for a Hero

Caitlin pinched the bridge of her nose, breathing out against the burn in her eyes. No matter how she juggled the numbers, they always came out red in the end.

"Dammit, Daddy," she muttered.

The bell over the door jingled, and she jerked her head up, pasting a bright retail smile on her face. "Welcome to Jack Frost Toys!" she called out, quickly minimizing the accounting software. "Are you looking for anything specific?"

Usually they weren't. Usually, they came in, wandered around a little bit, and left. If she was lucky, they bought something before they left.

But the man standing just inside the door, snow dusting his hat and shoulders, said, "Yeah, please, I'm begging you. You're my only hope."

She cocked her head and guessed, "A . . . Star Wars toy?" There wasn't any particularly hot Star Wars toy this year that she was aware of, and she followed every toy blog and website she could find.

He laughed, tugging his gloves off and shoving them in his pocket. "No, just a desperate nerd looking for a Puffy Penguin. My niece is three and she watches the show on repeat. I know Leo Lion is like the hot toy this year, but Maya knows what she wants. For her it's Puffy or nothin', and I couldn't tell if you had any from your website so I came down here just in case and please?" He widened his eyes at her. "Please."

Her heart melted. One of the best things about this store was seeing children find their new best friend. Second on that list was adults who cared enough about the children in their life that they moved heaven and earth to find, not just the latest hottest toy, but the toy that was just right.

She slid off her stool. "I've got some ZooFriends toys right over here. We're sold out of Leo, of course -" Everywhere was sold out of Leo. "But I've got Puffy in a variety of styles."

"Oh my god," he breathed, snatching a Puffy Penguin stuffie off the shelf and holding it as if it were the Holy Grail. "You've got them all. Elly and Slowpoke and Skyhigh - " He stared at the elephant, sloth, and giraffe toys lined up next to the penguins.

She smiled brightly. "Now this one says phrases from the show, but this one is a lot huggier if you ask me -"

"I'll take them both," he said, grabbing the talking Puffy. "Holy shit. Nowhere has ZooFriends anymore. How do you?"

She bit her lip. "Lucky, I guess." She stepped away and grabbed one of the plastic hand baskets printed with the store logo. "Would you like a basket?"

He took it. "Really? Because it's three in the afternoon on the first Saturday of December. A toy store should be wall-to-wall. Where is everybody?"

She turned away. "Amazon," she said. "Walmart. Websites, chain stores -" She shrugged and tried to laugh. "The plight of the modern small business owner. Is there anything else I can help you find?"

"I'll keep looking around," he said, studying the shelf. "So you're the owner?"

She nodded. "This store has been in my family for five generations."

He almost dropped the basket. "Five - Did they even have toys that long ago?"

"Oh, toys have been around as long as humans have had childhood! Did you know they've found marbles in Egyptian tombs? And dolls in archaeological digs. Toys are how children learn about the world, and how they start to decide their identities and practice interactions with others! They . . ." She trailed off, blushing. "Sorry, my major was psychology and I did my senior thesis on the role of play in early childhood development."

He held up a hand. "Hey, I'm the last person to shame anybody for nerding out. That's pretty awesome. You're in the right business."

"For right now, anyway," she murmured.

"What?"

She smiled brightly. "I don't suppose you have any more nieces or nephews that need Christmas presents?"

He studied her for a moment. "Do you have any action figures?"

"Collectible or to play with?"

"Collectible?" he said hopefully.

She led him down the aisle and to the back wall. His eyes went wide. "Oh my god, you've got Max Mercury, black series." He grabbed it off the wall. "And Brainiac? This is a great section!"

She smiled. "My dad invested in these because he was hoping to bring in the collectors."

"Well, he made good choices." He picked the Braniac from its spot and turned it over in his hands, studying it closely.

She left him to it and went back to the counter. She didn't feel like agonizing over the accounts when he was still here, so she cleaned the counter, dusted the book corner, and rearranged the ZooFriends shelf to fill in the empty spots he'd left when he took the two Puffy toys.

After half an hour, he came up to the counter with an overflowing basket, most of it action figures. With her heart singing the song of small business owners, she scanned them briskly. His purchases came out to well over two hundred dollars. It was a drop in the bucket of her costs, of course, but it was a bigger drop than most.

He handed her his credit card without a wince. When she ran it, his name popped up on her screen. She handed it back with the receipt. "Here you go, Mr. Ramon."

"Cisco," he said. "Please. Mr. Ramon is my pop."

"Cisco," she said. "I can wrap these if you want."

"Just the Puffys," he said. "The action figures are for me."

She grinned at him and selected a print of happy reindeer to wrap the stuffed animals. "Naturally."

He laughed self-consciously. "I'm not sure whether to be insulted or not. I promise I'm a grown-up man."

"Of course you are," she said, hands busily folding and taping. A really nicely grown-up man, too. She battled back her blush and hoped he hadn't noticed. "But I'll never look down on any adult who still likes toys."

"Well, sure, that's a good hundred and fifty dollars of my total."

"There's that," she acknowledged, setting aside the first perfectly wrapped box and picking up the second. "But toys are important to children's imaginations. And children grow into adults, who still need their imaginations." She nodded at the Max Mercury he held. "I don't think any of us ever really outgrow the desire to be someone's hero."

"Well," he said, "you're my hero today."

She met his eyes and felt the blush rise again. "Thank you."

He grinned and accepted the bag with the two wrapped presents inside. "And come Christmas morning, I'll be Maya's hero."

She smiled. "She's lucky to have an uncle doing his best to find her the perfect present. I'm glad you came by today."

"Yeah, well, it was coming out here or spending a hundred and seventy-five dollars on eBay and hoping like hell it made it here in time." He fiddled with his wallet. "I really don't mean to be that guy, but your website is . . ."

Her face went hot and she made a business of putting away the scissors and the tape and rolling up the rest of the wrapping paper. "Archaic?"

"I was going to say behind the times," he said tactfully. "If you had web ordering, you'd be sold out of ZooFriends and a whole bunch of other stuff."

"I know," she said. "But I really haven't had the time to get a good system set up since I took over the store. I need inventory software that integrates with ecommerce and for that I need technical skills, money, and time, and I don't have any of those."

He leaned on the counter. "You don't have to tell me, but how did it get this bad? You clearly love this place and I really don't feel like you would have let it fall behind like this if you had a choice."

She chewed her lip. "My dad died in September."

Sympathy spread over his features. Not the plastic, practiced sympathy she'd seen so often, but real compassion. "I'm sorry. Was he sick?"

"He had MS," she said. "He'd had it since I was ten, and he'd always kept on top of his medication and his therapy and everything. So - " She looked down at the perfectly clean counter and wiped it off again. "So when I was away at school and he told me he was doing fine, I believed him."

"He wasn't doing fine," Cisco guessed.

She shook her head. Tears burned in her eyes again. "It probably started small. Just little things falling through the cracks. Then the cracks got bigger, more things fell through. . . ."

He nodded. "They tend to do that."

"Mhm. Then last spring, he had an assistant manager who embezzled a lot of money - "

"What!"

"They caught him!" Caitlin assured him. "But most of the money was gone, and the stress of that just sent my dad's health into a tailspin. I'd just graduated so I moved back home to take care of him."

"And I'm gonna guess you were so wrapped up in that, you didn't even realize what was going on with the store until you took over."

She sighed. "Got it in one." She mustered up a smile. "I didn’t mean to dump that on you. It's bad now, but things will come around. They always do. The holidays are the best time of year to be a toy seller."

"Yeah," he said. "They sure are." He smiled back and gathered his purchases. "I'll tell people about this place."

"Great," she said. "Here's my card, by the way."

"Caitlin Snow," he read off the little rectangle of cardstock.

"That's me. Let me know if you have any particular collectibles you'd like me to obtain."

"Hmm?" He was looking at his phone. "Uh, yeah, if I think of any, I'll give you a shout. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," she echoed, watching him leave. The jingle of the bell over the door echoed in the toy store's emptiness.

Walking back around the building to his car, Cisco snapped a pic of the business card Caitlin Snow had given him. Then he dialed a number on his phone and wedged it between his shoulder and his ear as he pulled on his gloves. "Hey, Iris? Got a moment?"

"Hi, Cisco. Half a moment. My editor's breathing down my neck again about finding some heartwarming story to fill up Sunday space."

"Yeah, I remember you mentioning that. What would you say to a struggling fifth-generation local toy store owner who just took over the business after her dad's death, carries everything from ZooFriends stuffies to high-end collectibles, and knows toys backwards and forwards?"

Iris paused and he could practically hear the gears clicking. "Tell me more."

A week before Christmas, Cisco finally found a good excuse to drop by Jack Frost Toys again. With the name of a rare collectible action figure in his pocket, he turned into the parking lot and found it jam packed. He finally managed to wedge his little car into a space half on the gravel and climb out.

This was a good sign, right?

When he walked in the front door, the girl behind the counter wasn't Caitlin. "Welcome to Jack Frost Toys!" she called out before returning her attention to the grandma-looking lady at her counter. "We absolutely do gift certificates. How much would you like that for?"

The place was transformed. There was no other word for it.

When he'd come in the last time, it had been neat and bright and colorful, but empty and somehow sad. Now there were people in every aisle, voices ringing off the rafters. He cut down the doll aisle and almost stepped on a kid sprawled out on his belly, leafing through a colorful picture book. A little girl was staring at the Barbies as if she were deciding the fate of nations. A couple of moms were talking to each other over the Lego sets.

"It's just such a cute little place! It was getting so run-down there for awhile, but this new owner’s really spruced it up."

"I used to come here when I was Mandy's age and it always seemed like the most magical place to me. I'd forgotten all about it, honestly, but we're coming back."

Cisco smiled to himself and edged around them to the collectibles wall.

The door to the stock room opened and Caitlin came out, arms loaded down with what seemed to be flat-folded gift boxes. She stopped short when she saw Cisco. "Hi!"

"Hey," he said, smiling at her. She was wearing reindeer antlers and her hair was up in a bouncy ponytail. "You're busy."

"We are! I'm sorry, I've got to -"

"Yeah, go ahead."

She went to the front counter and stashed the gift boxes underneath. "Allegra," she said to the girl who'd greeted Cisco as he came in. "I just got off the phone with our supplier and they'll have more wrap here tomorrow. Can we hold out?"

"It'll be tight, but we should be okay."

"Great. I'll be back to cover your break in a few minutes, okay?"

"Take your time, I'm good."

Caitlin edged back around the counter and paused to check in with the moms. She considered their questions, looked around, and plucked a few sturdy wooden toys from a lower shelf. "I really like this designer for the textures they incorporate," she explained. "Babies enjoy being able to experience different kinds of material as they explore the toy, and it stimulates their brain development. Have a look at these. I'll be right here if you have any questions."

"Thanks so much."

She beamed and moved on.

Cisco watched her consult with the little Barbie lover and pick out a second book for the reader, as well as four or five other small interactions. It was like watching Michelangelo paint the Sistine Chapel or Einstein doing calculations on a chalkboard. She was in her element.

She came around the end of the aisle and spotted him again. Her face lit up. "I'm so glad you came by again." She threw her arms around him.

"Uh," he said. "Hi again to you too." He gave her a quick hug back.

She pulled away, blushing. "Sorry. I - I just wanted to thank you. I know the article in the paper was your doing."

"Oh," he said. "No, that was nothing. I just called up a friend. She's the one who did the interview and that great photo - "

Iris had been savvy enough to pose Caitlin by her display of the coveted ZooFriends toys. Cisco had noticed how bare the shelf looked now.

" - and you were the one who made this shop so amazing that once people knew it was still here, they came."

"But none of it would have happened if you hadn't put it in motion. You said I was your hero that day for having the Puffys, but you’re my hero now.

“Pshaw,” he said. “Like you said, nobody grows out of that.”

“But not everybody does something. So. Thank you."

"Well, you're welcome." He looked around. "So you're doing pretty good, it looks like."

She nodded, beaming. "People started coming in after that article, and PalmerTech asked me to purchase toys in bulk for the families at their company holiday party. All my part-time workers are doing as many hours as they can, and I'll be able to pay the rent for January and February, and if it keeps going like this, I can hire somebody to revamp the inventory system for ecommerce."

She ran out of breath and panted for a moment, her eyes bright.

Cisco had to smile back at her. "That's amazing."

She nodded. "I mean, we're still competing with Walmart and Amazon, and we still took a real hit from what Jay did. So we're not out of the woods, but this - " She looked around, eyes still bright. "This is going to give us some breathing room.

"I'm really glad."

She turned her smile back on him and stole his breath. "Sorry, I'm just chattering away, and - did you come by looking for something else? Another collectible?"

"Ah - well, I was planning to ask about the limited edition Star Wars figures they're talking about for next year."

"I don't think I'm going to be able to order any of those until March, but I can definitely get your contact information."

"Oh. Okay, sure. But actually it was an excuse."

Her brows crinkled. "An excuse?"

"I really wanted to come by and see if you wanted to go get coffee or something. Sometime." He looked around. "I mean, maybe not right now because it's still December and you're slammed, which is great, but - "

"I'd like that."

His stomach filled up with warmth, like drinking an entire mug of hot chocolate. "You would?"

"Very much."

They smiled shyly at each other until Allegra called out, "Caitlin? A little help?" She had a line that stretched halfway down the doll aisle.

"Oh!" Caitlin said. "Uh, I should - "

"Yeah! Go. I'll hang around until you're free, and then I'll get your phone number."

"Okay." She gave him one last smile before rushing up to the counter and opening up a register. "I can help who's next over here! Oh, sweetheart, that's a great choice. Your best friend is going to love it."

Cisco watched her for a moment, smiling to himself, and then turned to browse the collectibles. She'd been right, he mused. The holidays really were the best time of year to be a toy seller.

FINIS

#Cisco Ramon #Caitlin Snow #killervibe #12daysofkv20 #mosylufanfic lives up to her damn name #fluff #toy store AU #I know December is retail hell #allow me this fluff okay #the flash

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lenawin4 · 4 years ago

Text

an offer you can’t refuse

HOW WE DOIN ELLICK FANS?

I had this fic in my drafts halfway done, but after I watched that promo, I finished it in like, two hours. hope y’all enjoy. (also, may or may not contribute to the wave of 18x05/18x06 speculation fics. EXCITED)

summary:

“It’ll be fun,” Nick said on Day Four, then looked at them incredulously. “What? You’ve never taken down the mafia before?” ft. the whole gang, some blink-and-you’ll-miss-it mentions of Tiva, and prank wars.

Or: Nick’s jealous, Ellie’s clueless, and the team dismantles a crime family.

rating: gen, k+

length: 3.4k

genres: fluff, minor angst, romance

read on ffn | ao3

So Ellie’s in her corner of the bullpen, and Nick can’t stop looking at her. That’s how it all starts.

She’s wearing one of her cashmere sweaters, and they’ve been working this case for so long that her outfit is three days old. The bags under her eyes can’t be hidden by makeup and the curls in her hair have started to flatten. She has that crease in between her eyebrows that warns him not to bother her with a stupid joke, but that’s never stopped him before.

Ellie’s phone rings, so he freezes in the middle of sauntering over to her, halfway through the bullpen. It’s magic: her eyes widen slightly; the crease disappears; a slow smile spreads, then a grin.

The corners of his mouth start to slip upward, but he fights it down because McGee is at his desk. He’s talking to the local PDs, spelling out one of the long Italian names they’re trying to pin on something, and Tim is eyeing him like a hawk.

“Mark?” Ellie shouts into the phone.

Who?

“Gimme a sec,” Ellie points to her phone and mouths, I have to take this, sorry, and Nick is left gaping at the back of her head as she runs to the break room.

That happens on Day Six. A recap:

Dead sailor in a drive-by shooting in Bethesda. Grab your gear.

There was cocaine underneath the bed and piles of cash in the closet in the sailor’s apartment.

McGee traced a bank account in the Caymans to a Joey DiGiorno, as in, It’s-not-delivery-it’s-DiGiorno’s.

“Do you think he has a cousin named Domino’s?” Ellie asked; and —

For the fifth time this month, Nick realizes that he’s in love with Ellie Bishop.

Joey does not have a cousin, but he does have a criminal record and an uncle who happens to be the DC/Virginia/Maryland leader of the DiGiorno Family.

“Wow, two states and the capital city,” said McGee. “Impressive.”

On top of Nick’s To Do List - Get Gibbs everything on this guy: records, cars, girlfriends, other nieces and nephews, etc., etc.

“It’ll be fun,” Nick said on Day Four, then looked at them incredulously. “What? You've never taken down the mafia before?”

McGee follows the money to a nightclub in DC (“Do they serve pizza?”; “Nick, please.”), but there’s no way to know when or how the drugs are smuggled into the building, which can only mean one thing: stakeout time.

Stakeouts are the worst. Stakeouts mean unlimited time in a confined place with nothing better to do, the uncomfortable silence of Nick and his thoughts and the little place in his head that teeters between sixteen different names and a glass jar of lake water that hides on the shelf of his apartment.

Right now, a stakeout is the best thing that could ever happen to him.

So, Mark. He can’t exactly Boyle his way into this, not after Bishop nearly chewed his head off because he cancelled her date.

It’s not helping that Bishop keeps smiling at her phone every two hours, and semi-aggressively types out a text in all caps and extra exclamation marks. (He watches the way her fingers move. He knows those are exclamation marks. Like, at least ten of them.)

“Didn’t know dates liked it when you yelled at them all the time.”

“What?” Ellie says, not looking up from her phone.

He puts his feet up on the desk a little too harshly. Ellie wrinkles her nose.

“What could possibly be more important than this very, very interesting stakeout right now? Don’t you see there’s a hooker in front of the club and it’s barely noon? We should report it to Gibbs.”

There’s that sarcastic laugh that’s reserved for him, a quip about not being able to afford her, then back to the invisible Mark he’s heard nothing about.

To: ninja lady, 11:59

hey on a stakeout w El. what should i do

To: big wuss, 12:05

prank war. worked for us.

To: ninja lady, 12:06

i’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not

He tells her he’s buying fast food and chips a few blocks away. He asks the cashier for an extra paper bag and places a spring-loaded glitter bomb from the Dollar Tree at the bottom.

To: ninja lady, 14:05

success

To: big wuss, 14:07

ha! watch your six. revenge is tasty, no?

To: ninja lady, 14:09

i think you mean vengeance is sweet, but check with your husband

Nick returns from a bathroom break and peers left and right. Nothing in the room has changed: Ellie is still finishing the bag of fries. Her head is turned towards the window, and she’s glancing at her phone every few seconds. Maybe that’s an exaggeration, but he sort of doesn’t care. His chair hasn’t moved from the computer desk, and there are no booby traps outside the bathroom door or in the hallway.

Okay. The coast is clear.

“Hey, maybe you should check your face one more time, I think you still have glitter — ”

Splat.

His chair explodes in a tidal wave of green and red paint, splattering all over his jeans — gross, it feels so cold — and his leather jacket.

When he looks up, Ellie’s beaming at him from behind her phone, fry stuck in her mouth like a cigarette, green paint smeared across her cheek like evidence. Mercilessly, she sends the video to McGee, Kasie, and Tony.

To: big wuss, 17:25

I’m disappointed.

To: ninja lady, 17:29

yeah, yeah, laugh all you want

this sucks

To: big wuss, 17:30

Not just the stakeout, I presume?

To: ninja lady, 17:32

who the hell is Mark

she keeps texting him

it’s distracting me

To: ninja lady, 17:35

you know, from work

To: big wuss, 17:40

Oh, Nicholas.

(Across the Atlantic, in a small apartment in Paris, a married couple compares recent messages.

Ziva clicks her tongue. “I think he might be a bigger wuss than you, Tony.”

“I had better pranks than this guy, okay, at least give me that.”)

There’s a crowd of seamen lounging around the club. Their voices send pinpricks into his brain, and he can smell the alcohol from the second floor of this building. The bouts of laughter and shouts are interrupted by crunching. Next to him, the foul smell of artificial cheese surrounds Eleanor Bishop. Her fingers are coated with orange dust. Her eyes are laser-focused on the group of men, arms around each other, starting to sing the first bars of “Piano Man”. She licks her lips, and a bit of orange dust is left over at the edge of her mouth. She brings her fingers to her lips to lick them clean.

Nick’s mouth is suddenly dry.

Okay, okay, he needs to focus. Focus. It’ll be easy.

When he finally turns away, the hooker is grabbing one of the men by his tie, who tries to pull away. He rolls his eyes, but before Nick can say, “Playing hard to get, are we?”, the sailor is handing her a thick wad of cash. It’s exchanged for something thickly wrapped in saran plastic wrap, and he jolts out of his seat.

“It was the hooker!”

Nick did not know running that quickly in high heels was possible.

Ellie’s phone dings three times past his limit on the way to the interrogation room. The sound grates against his ears and his eyes can’t roll further up his socket. She doesn’t even notice.

They’re behind the glass, waiting for McGee to question her, when Gibbs walks in. He takes one look at the green paint on Ellie’s cheek and sees the same paint on Nick’s jeans.

Before Ellie can try to explain, Nick announces, “Gibbs, I told Ellie to call you about the hooker hours ago and she didn’t listen to me!”

“That is not true!”

“Yes, it is!”

“Wait, so we’re just going to give up?” Ellie’s hair is still slightly frazzled from tackling the suspect down, strands loose on her forehead and around her ears. She ran up and down four flights of stairs to catch her, but they’ve been given an order to push the case to another day with another lead. “What about Sugar Honey?”

“We can’t catch anyone higher up the food chain if she doesn’t consent to wearing a wire.”

“So sneak one on her!” The Director raises his eyebrows.

“Bishop.” She snaps around, eagerly awaiting Gibbs’s cowboy orders. “Go home. Get some sleep.”

“What? I can’t believe you’re actually agreeing with this.”

“Ellie,” Nick says, coming to her supposed rescue. There’s a flicker of hope in her eyes, and he hesitates to kill it. But he has to. He stands up, and immediately yelps and whines. Guiltily, he savors the look of concern she gives him. “Actually, could you drive me home? I think I twisted my ankle when we were chasing down Sugar Honey.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Ellie pouts. It maybe makes his stomach flutter, which is stupid, because Nick doesn’t feel things like that.

“You know me. Stoic face and all. I could get stabbed and none of you would know.”

“You know, that’s not a good thing.” She grabs his car keys from his jacket and puts his arm around her shoulders.

Bishop throws a stern look to the Director and Gibbs. Their bosses look half-confused, half-amused; Nick avoids Gibbs’s knowing look. “Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She walks him to his car. He feels warm and lonely all at once, because her phone rings two more times.

Nick plops down on the passenger seat, and Ellie wrenches the car into ignition, and says with no small amount of strife, “I know you’re lying and I’m either taking you to your apartment or back to the club. Your choice.”

Um. “Hey, let’s not do anything dangerously impulsive here.”

“Me? Impulsive? What about you?”

“What? When have I ever done anything dangerous or impulsive?”

“You stole a truck and totaled it when you were chasing down a suspect last month. Gibbs was already waiting on another block to cut him off.”

“Well, at least I didn’t get hurt.”

“You had a concussion and I had to wake you up every hour that night.”

They’re already out of the Navy Yard, almost ten over the speed limit, and going in the opposite direction of his apartment.

“Okay, I’m sorry I lied about my ankle. But Bishop.” He’s not sure how to say it, so what leaves his mouth is a sound of frustration. “You can’t dismantle the mafia with just this one case. These things take time. One Sugar Honey confession was the best we could do today. And that’s okay. But we’ll catch another one tomorrow, or maybe next week, and the week after that.”

The car slows down; Ellie’s pout becomes more pronounced. The sudden U-turn makes him clutch at the dashboard and pray for his life.

“Fine,” Ellie says. “But — ”

“Tomorrow, I will help you possibly arrest a drug dealer, that will lead us to the drug supplier, that will lead us to the boss.”

She nods, hands tightly holding the steering wheel. There’s glitter in her hair and streaks of paint on her jeans. They’ve barely slept in the past two days, driving each other insane.

“I can take the couch for a few hours and then we’ll be on our way. We both need to rest.”

Ellie doesn’t reply.

“If you don’t crash at my place, I’ll call Gibbs and tell him you’re going back to the club.”

Ellie protests for the rest of the car ride, but Nick doesn’t budge an inch.

The stakeout resumes peacefully. Gibbs and Vance were right: the dealers are spooked and no deals occur for the next week.

Bishop doesn’t spend every single moment on her phone, so at least there’s that. He can’t deny the twinge of longing every time he sees her eyes brighten at the sound of another text.

Still, even that is nothing compared to the ache he feels when she yawns and rubs her eyes. It’s the type of case that makes her want to prove herself, to risk everything to accomplish her ambitions, to run after something without a thought of the consequences. He knows the feeling. He has that feeling every time a kid is involved.

So he triples the bags of junk food on the floor of the moldy apartment. He lets her rest a little more when it’s his watch. She curls up in the blanket she stole from his apartment and sighs in her sleep.

They’re both exhausted, so their prank war grinds to a halt. Nick’s exasperated, and he doesn’t reply to any of Ziva’s requests for updates. Ellie’s smile is something admirably distracting and infuriating, especially when it’s not directed to him.

Here’s the thing, though: Nick can’t imagine when Ellie had time to go on a date with a Mark that he’s never met or heard of in the past few weeks. Before Operation Take DiGiorno’s to Prison, they had back-to-back murders that took a total of two weeks out of their lives. Before those, Nick went to pilates with her for three consecutive weekends. So whoever this Mark is, might be special to her. Someone she wants to keep to herself. Someone she wants to talk to all day, someone she wants to smile and laugh with, someone she wants to be with. It’s that simple.

It’s just not Nick.

The seaman in Interrogation still isn’t talking, but at least there’s something in the cocaine.

“Local PD’s been digging up everything they can about the drug ring for months, and this little sample here matches their signature packaging and purity. But I’m telling you, whoever hired their chemists needs to do a better job, cause this stuff ain’t pure at all.”

“Can we connect it to Joey or the uncle?”

“I’m so glad you asked. We, in fact, do have a way to arrest them, thanks to Kasie — ”

“Don’t talk about yourself in the third person.”

“Okay, someone’s grumpy! DiGiorno’s olive oil company bought bulk chemicals, which are being delivered to this address. We’ve got dimethyl sulfoxide, tetrahydrofuran — ”

“English, Kasie.”

“Coke. They’re making coke. Trust me, those materials are not extra virgin.”

He grunts out a thanks and swirls around, ready to leave.

“Woooaaahhh there, son.” Kasie holds her hands out in front of her to tame him. “What’s going on with you, Nicholas?”

“What? Nothing!”

“Okay. Then I guess it has nothing to do with you and your feelings.”

“What? Nothing’s up with Bishop and me!”

“I didn’t say anything about Bishop.”

“Okay,” Nick chuckles, searching for an exit route that may or may not involve rolling past Kasie in a very ninja-like manner before booking it out of the building. “You said something, I said something, now we’re both confused, and I gotta go now, bye!”

McGee’s hawk eyes peer at him when Bishop retreats to the break room again. It makes Nick squirm in his seat and try to pry his gaze away from her empty desk.

“Is something going on between you and Bishop?”

“Uh, no, why, did she say something?” He crosses his arms to quell the sound of his heart.

McGee scoffs. “I mean. You guys have barely talked since you came back from the stakeout.”

“Well. I don’t need to talk to her. All the time.”

“But you do.”

Nick makes a face. Bishop strolls back into the bullpen, carefree and light, and he shuts his mouth.

“What do we got?” Gibbs says, and McGee has no choice but to brush this under the rug.

It’s Day Ten, more accurately Night Ten, and they’re sitting in the car, driving to the warehouse where they’ll arrest Joey and his uncle. She’s wearing a vest and he has the urge to clean his gun before a shootout. But they’ll be fine.

He glances at her tied-up hair and the clench of her jaw. His hands tighten on the steering wheel, because he wants to hold her face in his hands and tangle his fingers in her hair. He wants to tell her something he can barely admit to himself.

She says nothing. The phone doesn’t ring. He keeps driving.

He forgets she has a vest on. He forgets everything, really, when he sees Ellie go down in the middle of the raid, and Joey starts running away. Gibbs yells at him to call an ambulance before he and McGee chase after the idiot who shot his partner.

Nick scrambles to her side, vision blurring, and he has more trouble breathing than she does when he reaches her. “Bishop, El, you’re gonna be okay, alright?”

Ellie groans as he slices her vest open. The bullet clatters off the Kevlar.

“Nick,” Ellie’s saying. “Nick, I’m fine.” His hands hover, barely brushing over her arms, neck, head — I have to check for concussion — and it does nothing to reassure him, until her hands fold into his. “Nick.”

She looks at him, mouth parted, cheeks flushed. Her ribs are probably bruised, if not broken. Her hands are the only source of stability; every other part of him is shaking.

“You’re alright.”

Ellie breathes out a heavy sigh; it shakes like his legs quiver, and he has to kneel next to her. “I’m alright.”

Along with the DEA, they confiscate every last bit of cocaine from the warehouse, effectively crippling the crime family’s major source of money. Joey rats on every aspect of his uncle’s business for a shorter sentence. As the EMTs are wrapping her ribs up, Nick holds his hand up for Ellie to slap and says, “We took DiGiorno’s to prison!”

He offers her his arm and a ride home. She graciously accepts, and the smile is his, again, for now.

But he can’t not say anything now. She almost — she almost. There’s nothing else to say about that.

So Nick says, “So, you’re going home to Mark today? You got a hot date?”

He’ll get over that lump in his throat, that spike in his pulse eventually. She’s alive, and he’ll be fine.

He doesn’t expect her to start laughing, only to be interrupted by a wince and a tender hand on her left side. “Nick, who do you think Mark is?”

“Uh.” There’s a dark hole of miscalculation, the feeling of falling down the cliff of Being Wrong. “Your hot new date you kept texting over the past, like, five days?”

Nick rolls his eyes. “Stop laughing, you’ll make your ribs worse.”

“It’s — ” Ellie takes a deep breath and pulls out her phone. She scrolls, and Nick’s about to say something about not wanting to read her love letters to Mark when:

Auntie Ellie, thanks for my birthday gifts! I miss you so much.

The voice can’t be older than five, with a light stammer and a lisp. Nick takes his eyes off the road to gape at a boy with two missing front teeth, and his heart both soars and sinks. Someone honks behind them, and he steps on the gas pedal, startled that he’s stopped at a green light.

“Well.”

“He turned four last week, and my brother’s been letting him call or text me videos every day. They’re stuck in Oklahoma and they miss me.” He can hear her shrug, the fabric of her jacket rustling against the car’s leather seat, but he keeps his eyes on the road. “I haven’t been home in almost two years.”

“I’m sorry.” It punctuates the silence that follows, leaving them both speechless, wondering, wishing.

“Were you jealous?” Ellie whispers.

“Yes.” He can’t stop himself. Not anymore. Nick floors the brake and looks at his passenger’s seat, red light shining on her, everything else dark and unimaginably lonely. “Yes.”

Ellie nods, then smiles. “Okay.”

They arrive the next morning together. McGee smirks at his phone. Kasie’s eyes switch between them, back and forth, before she raises an eyebrow and glares at Nick, threatening and protective. Gibbs says nothing. Nick smiles the whole morning, because he still tastes her lipstick on his teeth and feels her hair in his fingers.

To: big wuss, 10:20

Congratulations. You aren’t a bigger wuss than Tony.

To: ninja lady, 10:25

ha. thanks

for everything, i mean, i guess.

To: big wuss, 10:26

You’re very welcome, Nicholas.

fin.

#ellick #ellick fanfiction #ncis #ncis fanfiction #a very small bit of tiva #just enough to satisfy my own needs

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sequackquack · 4 years ago

Text

Late night visit

After being home for a few days and getting settled in you finally got friends and family over. The twins have been home for a week now and are starting to show a bit of their personalities. After being exhausted from visiting family and friends for a week on top of taking care of not one but two babies. You are so ready to just get some sleep. But something tells you otherwise that isn't happening tonight.

"Keigo, I'm worried what if something happens?"

"Lovebird I am one of the top heros, we have the highest security, and we are at the top of the building."

"I know but-"

"You need to sleep! It has been a good few weeks since you got your last through the night sleep. You need this… We need this."

"Okay" but there was still an uncertain feeling in your stomach.

The first night all of you get a good night's sleep something unexpected happens.

You hear crying and sit up to see your worst nightmare you see he's holding your son.

"So Keigo it's been a while? You had a kid and I wasn't even invited to the baby shower or anything? You actually had two and said nothing? Huh what a shame I thought we were closer than this."

"Put my son down Dabi. NOW."

"Oh we must not wake them now. You know it is important for babies to sleep. And how frail and fragile they are." He tightens his grip on Soarin. And he continues to cry. Hawks flies across the room in a flash. He's a foot away from Dabi. His wings puffed out and the shadow looming over them both making him appear larger.

"Hm your funny Keigo you think this scares me? I know all your little secrets, your weakness, your strengths. All of it." He smirks

Hawks lowers his wings and takes a step forward looking straight into dabis ice cold blue eyes.

"Why are you here and what do you want with my children?"

"Well I would be a bad uncle if I were to not visit my newest niece and nephew."

"What do you really want with them?"

"It looks like only one of your kids has wings? Do you prefer one child over the other? I know you've always wanted to have kids that have wings. So is this one insignificant to you seeing the one thing you wanted he doesn't have?" Dabi responded ignoring hawks question

"DABI WHAT DO YOU WANT WITH MY CHILDREN!?"

"You know how much kids sell for? Let alone a hero's kid. He might even develop a quirk later on and make him worth more. And you are one of the top ten heros. Man the more I talk about it the more dollar signs I'm seeing. But that little munchkin over there is worth almost double seeing that she was born with her quirk. And selling her feathers could stack up fast. But I figured you wanted to keep that one cause she has your wings." He shrugged

"You are a disgusting piece of-"

"Ah I heard somewhere that talking negatively to someone with another person in-between. That person actually feels your emotions and thinks it's directed at them. So watch your mouth while I'm holding your baby." Dabi cocks an eyebrow.

Tears begin forming prickling hawks eyes blurring his vision. His chest rising and falling rapidly with his hitched breath.

"I don't know why the fuck your here now. Or Why you want to hurt my children. But I never had a family. I never thought I would. And I've told you this Dabi... When we were kids. I looked up to your dad as a figure."

"Don't bring my old man into this Keigo. This about you, me, and your kids. "

"Dabi please, why are you doing this. Why now? Why my children of all things." He says crying

"You know why Keigo. It's not just them. You left me to train intensively all alone. With that piece of shit father of mine. You promised me that you wouldn't leave... And you did anyway. I waited for you to come home. To see me, visit,call me, anything. I missed you and you never reached out.

"Dabs I-"

"Keigo no it's too late for that it's not just one thing. Not just you didn't tell me you were a top hero. Not just that you were working for my dad. Not just that you got married. Had kids, bought a house... Keigo our dream house that we built as kids."

"Excuse me is there something that I missed? Why a villain is in my house holding my baby and talking to you like he knows you?"you ask

Keigo turns to look at you.

"So me and Dabi grew up together. My parents sold me to the hero commission and his dad is a hero training him to be the best. We lived in a room together, trained, played, grew up together..."

"Ok so your childhood best friend is a villain?"

"The training we endured at such young developmental stages was horrific. So we grew and talked through our trauma together."

"That doesn't explain why he is as batshit crazy as an ex girlfriend"

"The hero commission decided we spent too much time together and spit us up but continued training. We would sneak out to talk to each other. By the time we were 16 and had our provisional license they let us go. So the first thing we did was go live in this cheap little beat down apartment together. Sharing such a small space.meant we had to share a bed. Which wasn't unusual to us because when one person had a bad dream as kids the other would get into bed with the other. We kept having nightmares after nightmares and reliving the trauma. One night we both woke up and talked about what happened and how we feel and something just clicked and it lead to both of our first kiss. After that things felt weird. So Dabs decided to move out with some of his friends from work. We started hanging out less and less and one time we were getting coffee he brings up this girl(toga) he was introduced to by a roommate and she was super weird into dead things and stuff like that she invited him hang with this group she's with all the time(lov) so dabi hung out with them. I got jealous and left the coffee shop. Once I got over it I texted dabs I want to meet these new people he's hanging out with. And he said why not hang out and meet them at my new place. I'm staying with them now. So I go over and see these super weird people. I meet them and hang out a bit and me and dabi go to his room and pits on some of our favorite songs. We kissed again that night and I left him immediately after. Once again I get over myself and we start talking again like old times except he isn't into the same things. I'm going and seeing him whenever I'm not at work. I'm working a ton! Then one night exactly like when I first went over he put on our old favorite and we are laying in bed. As a kid I would trace over his burns to show him it didn't have to hurt. So I started to mindlessly draw shapes all over him but I noticed he was way more scared than ever but it might be because he's working now rather than training. And that night we slept together in a different sense. So in a way yes Dabi is my ex… We were a lot of each other's firsts."

"That still doesn't explain why he is holding our son. He is still one of the top villains Keigo!"

"Oh so I'm famous huh? Didn't know I had a following."

"Dabi I understand that you could sell my son for money but what is your real motive?"

"Alright alright it's because I am jealous"

"Of a baby?"

"No you dipshit of y/n… this was supposed to be our life. This is our dream house that has a balcony for you and a fireproof bedroom for me. As broken kids we wanted to adopt so we could change their lives. Have the family we could never have."

"BUT YOU LEFT!"

"ONLY CAUSE I DIDN'T WANT TO RUIN WHAT WE ALREADY HAD!"

Soarin starts to squirm and hiccup. And they both lower their voices.

"what about toga hmm? Did you have a thing? That's why when we got coffee you talked about her.

"I was telling you how weird she was and all those new people I was around. And how they couldn't compare to you Kei. I hung around them cause they were so different not cause I was interested but to see if you were paying attention. But you were too busy focusing that I was with another person. Also that coffee date was to ask you if we could love together again. And try this thing out."

"Touya… I. I'm so sorry I didn't know and I'm sorry I treated you like that."

"Too late for apologies now hot wings."

"Well what now? I'm married and have kids. And of all that I'm a top hero and your a top villain."

"You really think I would sell your kid? I am hurt and broken and all these other things because you didn't even mention to tell me that you were having a baby let alone two. But I'm here to see if we can start over. After all there are two new lives literally."

"Touya." He says with tears smiling

"Excuse me do I not get a say in this? After all I did make,carry, and birth the babies. He just put his dick in me and came. And I also had to deal with the shit he went through with you Dabi. He was such a wreck when we first got together I couldn't believe all of that was from one person!"

"Heh you definitely picked a good one Birdy."

"I know but She actually picked me. I was still so hung up over you that it took me and y/n 3 months of dating to realize we were together." Rubbing the back of his neck

" Look I'm really here to see you again Keigo these kids just gave me an excuse. I want to help you guys with them. I don't think your partner is up to it."

"Like a polyamorous relationship?"

"Yeah that's why I said y/n probably won't be thrilled at the idea. But It could still be a polyamorous relationship just between us Kei. But at the least, I want to be in these guys' lives. You have to check in with your wife about that though."

"We will definitely discuss it."

"Thanks. Sorry to give you such a scare for just that but I really don't think like a normal person anymore. Here is your son. I promise my hands were clean before I picked him up." Said with a smirk

"Soarin."

"What?"

"His name is Soarin."

"Are you fucking kidding me. You name your kid Soarin. Jesus Christ poor kid. You let him name him that?"

Dabi points at you rolling his wrist backwards

"Look I was tired. I had already given birth once already and only cared that he was healthy at the time."

"Huh. Well alright. What about baby girl over here"

"Don't say it like that it's gross and now your chances of being involved have lowered. But it's Phoenix."

"Not bad but again you guys really? These poor kids already have daddy as a number 2 hero and mommy is also a pro hero."

"Watch it I picked that one patchwork."

"Ok ok just ribbin ya"

"They already did enough of that. I don't think I need anymore in my life."

"Ooh okay momma got it."

"Yeah their full names are Phoenix Sage Takami and Soarin Percy Takami."

"They have your family name?"

"Yeah the Takami name is a strong one and should be known and used in more than just in vain."

"Good choice. They will be strong I can already tell. Just like you."

"Hey I'm the one who's squirting milk out my tits and tore almost to my ass."

"Damn that's hot. Maybe sometime we can both fuck your wife birdbrain."

"Ah dabi not around the kids."

"Sorry. I'll work on it."

"Alright say goodbye to uncle dabi guys." He says taking back his baby

"Huh? Uncle dabi what do yo-"

"Me and y/n still need to talk about the whole situation. But you can still be uncle dabi at the least."

"Really? Wow I didn't think you would say that… thank you." Smiling

"Ya ya don't get to hung up on it."

"Psh shut up your the one to talk mr I didn't know we were dating till 3 months later."

All three of them sit in silence watching the two babies sleep peacefully.

" Well I'll be back in a few days to see them again. Don't be afraid to text me k?"

Keigo nods smirk

He stands in the window a second longer to look at them both and jumps down. He walks down an alleyway and says out loud to himself.

"Uncle Dabi oh please" shaking his head.

#kiego-takami #baby #hawks x y/n #dabi #dabi is a todoroki #baby with wings #twins #hawks

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sanderssidesfanfiction · 4 years ago

Text

If There’s a Place I Could Be - Chapter Sixty Two

If There’s a Place I Could Be Tag

October 5th, 1992

“So...what exactly is a trust fund?” Emile asked, cocking his head to the side.

“It’s a bank account where your money can stay safe and sound until you can spend it as an adult,” his grandfather said. “When you’re twenty one, you’ll be able to use it for whatever you want.”

“That’s ten years from now!” Emile groaned. “That’s gonna take forever!”

“It will creep up on you faster than you think,” his grandfather said. “But your grandmother wanted to make sure you’d be responsible with the money, so that’s why you have to wait.”

Emile sighed. He understood, but he didn’t like it. “Does this mean Mom and Dad aren’t gonna give me an allowance any more?”

“I don’t think so!” his grandfather laughed. “After all, the money is of no use if you can’t exactly use it yet! They should still give you money you can use for whatever you want as an allowance.”

“Oh! That’s okay then,” and Emile ran off to finish the book he had been reading before his grandfather called him in to talk about Grandma’s will.

May 3rd, 2002

Emile could hardly believe it. Today was his twenty first birthday, and he had driven out to the nearest branch of the bank his grandmother used to set up his trust fund all those years ago. He had never been told the exact amount of money that was put in the fund, just given an estimate of somewhere around one hundred fifty thousand dollars.

Grandma definitely knew how to invest, and because his great-grandfather had been a self-starter and had gotten a modest alcohol business off the ground, his grandmother had inherited half of that money, the other half going to his great uncle, her brother. And Emile was the only grandchild she had when she died, so all the money she didn’t leave with his grandfather, she decided to save away for him.

Still, though, Emile’s breath was blown away when he talked to the bank manager and saw the number for himself. Two hundred fifteen thousand dollars. If he wasn’t already sitting down, his legs would have given out from underneath him. He had wondered how his grandparents could afford the house they had, but this number cleared up any questions he might have had.

“God,” Emile breathed, still staring at the number on the screen.

The bank manager looked him over. “You look like you’re about to pass out, do you need some water?”

“I’ll...” Emile choked on his words. “I’ll be okay,” he breathed.

“Your grandmother was a very lucky woman,” the bank manager said.

“Luck was her being born into the family she was. Smarts are what made her be able to get everything she needed and have this much money left over,” Emile said.

The bank manager looked pleased. “You’re rather insightful yourself,” he said. “I know this seems like a lot of money to you, but I hope I don’t have to explain to you how fast that money can go away if you’re not careful.”

“No, believe me, I know,” Emile said, sucking in a breath. “Oh, God. I was planning on investing most, if not all, of the money I inherited, but this is a much larger number than I anticipated.”

The bank manager sniffed a laugh. “Son, this is hardly the largest trust fund this bank has seen.”

“This alone could pay off my college debts,” Emile said, deathly serious. “It’s a lot of money to a broke college kid who’s been working retail to make ends meet with his partner working two jobs just to stay afloat.”

“I see your point,” the manager conceded. “But don’t spend it all in one place, you understand? This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

“Oh, believe me, I know,” Emile said, swallowing. “I could buy a house, or pay off my debts, or any number of things. But I’ll probably be investing it for the time being, watching it grow a little before I decide exactly what I’m going to do with it.”

“You’re smarter than most of the college-aged kids who get these sorts of funds,” the manager said, leading Emile out. “We’ll have the money ready for withdrawal in a couple days. Until then, think wisely on what you’re going to invest in, all right?”

Emile mutely nodded as the manager left him to walk into the front of the bank, and Remy stood up from where he was waiting on a bench. “Hey, there, stranger!” he teased. “What did they say?”

“Oh, God, let’s get to the car first, okay?” Emile said. “You’re going to freak.”

“That much?” Remy laughed. They left and got into the car, Remy looking over at Emile. “So what was it? One hundred fifty thousand, like your parents said?”

“Apparently...my parents low-balled the estimate,” Emile said, sounding slightly hysterical. “I have over two hundred fifteen thousand dollars in that account.”

“What?!” Remy asked, incredulous. “Emile, you’re rich!”

Emile laughed. “Apparently the bank has had much higher trust funds than even that, but yeah, I’m...I don’t understand how I got to be that lucky.”

“What are you going to do with it?” Remy asked.

“Honestly? I think I’m going to be boring and invest most of it,” Emile said.

“Get more money? Hey, no complaints from me,” Remy said. “You could quit your job and we’d be fine.”

“I’m going to keep working,” Emile said. “That money isn’t going to last forever, and if I use it towards what I want to use it for...well, that’s going to take a huge chunk of change.”

Remy looked over. “What are you thinking of using it for?”

“Possibly a house?” Emile said, driving away, slightly sheepish. “Like. Property and stuff. Health insurance. Boring things that I can suddenly afford. But I want to invest most of it first.”

“Makes sense,” Remy said with a nod.

“Would you want to quit one of your jobs?” Emile asked. “Because I can afford to pay a little more rent now, you only need one job...”

“I mean...” Remy sighed. “It would be nice to only have one job, but I don’t want you to spend any more money on me than you have to.”

“Remy, you’re my boyfriend, of course I’m going to spend money on you now that I have money to spend!” Emile insisted. “You’d better get used to it, because now that we can afford to not go to thrift shops when we wear something through, you’d better believe I’m going to offer to go to retail stores!”

Remy laughed. “Oh, we’re really rolling in it!” he crowed. “We can afford new shirts!”

“You’d better believe it!” Emile exclaimed with a laugh. When his laughter died down, he glanced at Remy. “So, did you apply for the manager position opening up?”

“Yeah, I did,” Remy sighed. “But the manager told me, point-blank, that he didn’t expect me to get it. Nothing against my work ethic, but they wanted someone who had credentials. Like, degree-in-business credentials.” Remy pulled a disgusted face. “As if I didn’t know anything that goes into managing a coffee shop.”

Emile wrinkled his nose. “That sucks.” He considered, and figured now was as good a time to poke the bear as any. “Would you want to start your own shop? In all honesty?”

“I mean, honestly? At this point? Yes,” Remy said. “Neither store is going to promote me, and I don’t want to work two jobs for the rest of my life. I don’t have the funds to buy a property, but if I saved up enough to rent, then maybe I could do my own thing.”

“Rem, you realize that I have enough money to help you on the property front?” Emile asked.

“Emile, no, I would never ask that of you,” Remy said. “I can save money on my own, I’ve been doing that for two months now. And it’s not a lot, but it can add up. If your investments are working out, maybe I can invest in the same things. I could get enough money to start up on my own. Might take a couple years, but I would get the money for the property, as well as the food and the staff and everything needed inside. I could get enough for the first few months of the shop just by saving until December, if I played my cards right.”

“Really?” Emile asked. He had been considering December for checking his funds, checking the market, and getting property for Remy to start the coffee shop. But if this lined up that perfectly, there was no way he could turn it down.

“Really,” Remy confirmed. “You don’t need impossibly huge amounts of money to start up a business if you know what you’re doing, and some of our friends are social butterflies, which means free advertising, and if I come up with my own unique recipes for the shop, and come up with coffee blends that by and large our friends like but the shops I currently work for wouldn’t be caught dead selling, well! I’d be officially in business!”

Emile laughed. “So, that’s something you want to try? You want to try to start your own shop?”

Remy deflated a little. “I want it...but can I actually do it? I mean, I could definitely run a shop, but there’s so many factors I don’t know about. I want to try, to see if I can do it, but if it fails...that’s so much money gone to waste. The biggest hurdle would be the space, and if I can afford the space to give it a try, but I can’t keep the shop afloat, that’s easily thousands of dollars down the drain.”

“Remy, if you think you can do it, I say you save up to give it a try,” Emile said. “You have the confidence and the culinary skill to keep a shop afloat. All it would take is the right advertising and the right people to find you, and you’d have business in no time at all. Go for it. We both invest our money, get the rewards and use them to fund whatever dreams both of us have.”

Remy still seemed uncertain. “I want to, Emile...I really want to. But I can’t stop thinking about the possibility of it going under.”

“If it goes under, it goes under. You get a different job so no one says ‘I told you so’ and we continue on. If you get a good enough property, we might be able to use it as an apartment of sorts,” Remy laughed at that, and Emile smiled as he continued, “It’s not the end of the world if something you try doesn’t succeed, Rem. But I think that this has a really good chance at succeeding.”

Remy nodded. “All right. I’ll save up the money and give it a try for you,” he said. “Do you know what you’re going to do with your money outside investing it?”

“I have a couple ideas, but nothing solid,” Emile said. He didn’t mention that Dice had agreed to take Emile’s job offer and was going to look for Toby. He didn’t want Remy to get his hopes up, and he definitely didn’t want Remy to demand he save the money because he thought it was a fruitless venture.

“Well, when you get some solid plans, let me know, okay?” Remy asked. “Because I want to know if we can get strawberries and blueberries for pancakes for breakfast.”

Emile laughed. “Of course, we can get more fruit. And better ingredients that aren’t just on discount. If you want, we can go shopping right now as a little celebration?”

“Sure! When do you get the money?” Remy asked.

“Couple of days,” Emile laughed. “They couldn’t afford to give me that much money all at once, because it’s a small branch and I’d be taking all of their hundred-dollar bills.”

Remy shook his head. “You’re Mister Rich Kid, now, you realize,” he said. “And you’re never living that title down, not once I let our friends know.”

“Oh, God, I hadn’t even thought about that!” Emile laughed. “Our friends could hardly believe I had a trust fund at all, let alone one that potentially had over a hundred thousand dollars! They’re all going to freak!”

“Even more than I will when this whole day finally sinks in,” Remy said sagely. “It’s going to take some getting used to, having wiggle room in case we screw up.”

Emile turned the car on the road they took to the supermarket. “It’s going to be nice, though,” Emile said. “We buy some food we don’t like, we’re not, y’know, obligated to eat all of it because that’s the only food we have for that night.”

“We can buy stupid things like movies that we don’t know if we like because we didn’t get the chance to see it in theatres,” Remy pointed out.

“We can go to see those movies in the theatre in the first place,” Emile pointed out.

“True!” Remy exclaimed. “Emile. This is. The best!”

Emile laughed.

#if there's a place i could be #sanders sides fanfiction #remile #emile picani #ts sleep

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deanstop13billyjoeltraxx · 4 years ago

Text

Superposition

a deancas college roommate-AU

Chapter 7 is up on AO3! Chapter-by-chapter masterlist here.

The Gift of Memory’s an Awful Curse

Dean woke up to the sound of his phone ringing. He didn’t even bother to check the caller ID before answering with a groggy “Hello?”

“Dean.” It was Bobby’s voice on the other line. “How you feelin’?”

“Fan-friggin’-tastic.”

“Don’t be a baby,” Bobby chastised. “The guy who drove you to the hospital came by the shop yesterday, told me what the doctor said.” Dean groaned. “You’re not comin’ back in until Thursday, you hear?”

“Come on, Bobby,” Dean protested, rubbing his eyes with a free hand. “Honestly, I’m already feelin’ loads better.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” Bobby deadpanned. “No, you stay at home and get some rest. I can hold the fort for a week.”

“Whatever you say, old man. Hey, have you looked at Ca- at the guy’s car?”

“Barely. But, seein’ as it’s an old Honda, my best guess is valves are bent.” Bobby was quiet for a moment, then, “Dean, the guy told me his name was Cas Novak.”

Dean closed his eyes, silently begging the powers that be to grant him strength. “Weird name.”

Bobby snorted. “So you’re tellin’ me that’s not the same Cas Novak you met at WSU? The same one you brought home for Christmas? Well, that’s mighty strange, considerin’ he looks exactly like —”

“All right, all right,” Dean said. “Yes, it’s him. Why are we talking about this, anyway?”

“Just wonderin’.”

“Is Ellen still comin’ down for Christmas?” Dean asked, hoping to steer the conversation away from Castiel.

“She called this mornin’, said she and Jo’d be here on the 23rd.”

Ellen and Jo were family, mutual friends of John and Bobby. Since Dean could remember, John had been sending him and Sam back home to Lawrence to spend Christmas with Bobby. He didn’t realize until he was older that it was less “go have fun with your Uncle Bobby,” and more “I can’t stand the holidays and would like to be unconscious for most of them.” A few years before his dad died, when Dean was maybe fifteen, the Harvelle’s started joining them. It became a tradition, the Harvelle-Singer-Winchester Christmas affair.

“I can’t wait to see ‘em,” Dean said, smiling up at the ceiling.

“Yeah, well. When’s Sam gettin’ in?”

“Tonight,” Dean replied. He looked at his watch. Was it really already noon? “‘Round eight, I think.”

“Damn, am I excited to see that boy,” Bobby said. “Well, you two head down here when he’s done gettin’ settled. He’s finally old enough to have a few beers.”

Dean rubbed his mouth for a moment. “Bobby,” he said, “he’s not even gonna be here. Well, he is, but he’s hangin’ out with some girl in friggin’ Kansas City after Christmas.”

“Good for him. ‘Bout damn time, too, he hasn’t even mentioned a girl since that Ruby broke his heart when he was sixteen.”

Dean thought he was going to explode. Was he the only one who saw how cosmically wrong this whole thing was?

“Right,” he grumbled. “Well, I gotta go to the store, get some actual food in the house.” Dean pretty much lived off of ham sandwiches and the occasional fast food burger. “I’ll see you later.”

Dean stood up, testing the waters of movement. He didn’t immediately feel like vomiting, and the room didn’t start spinning, both good signs. Turning on the light in the kitchen, he noticed he still had a mild light-sensitivity, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. Satisfied, he grabbed his keys and the sunglasses Cas had given him, and headed out the door.

As he drove to the Wal-Mart at the edge of town, he wondered idly if he would see Cas again. Dean supposed, at the very least, he might see Cas when he and Bobby had his car fixed. Unless Bobby fixed it before Dean got back to work. He snorted at the thought. That was unlikely.

Thinking about Cas led Dean to thinking about his final days in Wichita, as it always did. He didn’t remember most of that May, or the rest of the year, for that matter. He’d spent the nights drunk and the days endlessly hungover. Dean couldn’t remember going to a single class after his father died in January.

What Dean could remember, what he always remembered, was Cas. Cas waiting for him to return from whatever dorm party he had found, Cas forcing him to drink water, Cas taking his vomit-stained clothes to the laundromat. Cas bandaging his hand after he punched the brick wall of their dorm room one too many times. Cas holding him as he cried.

A honk startled Dean from his thoughts, and he realized he was sitting at a light that had obviously been green for far too long. He sped forward. Maybe he wasn’t okay to drive.

Dean groaned as he pulled into the parking lot. It was packed. He wasn’t sure what he expected — Christmas was little more than a week away. Shit. He had been so busy in the shop that he had forgotten to buy a single gift. Bobby was easy — a fifth of Maker’s Mark and new trucker cap would be enough to bring tears to his eyes. Sam was more difficult; he lived in a different world. Dean thought he remembered that Sam liked Lord of the Rings in high school…

The year before, Dean had written him a check for ten thousand dollars, with “college” written in the memo. Sam had tried to give it back after realizing that was essentially Dean’s entire savings account, built up from working at Singer Auto Repair during the day and bartending the college joints at night. Two years straight. When Dean refused to take it back, saying, “You go and you get a damn degree, all right?”, Sam hugged him until he couldn’t breathe. Dean smiled at the memory. No way he was outdoing himself this year.

Dean picked up the basics from Wal-Mart — eggs, milk, some salad kits for Sam, a couple bags of coffee, some orange juice. He felt like a douchebag, wearing the sunglasses inside, but the fluorescents were unbearable. He grabbed two six-packs of beer to bring to Bobby’s, then surreptitiously added a pack of hard seltzers for his apartment, because, hey, he liked to switch it up.

Dean paid for his groceries and headed to the liquor store to pick up the whiskey for Bobby. Upon seeing a case of boozy eggnog, he couldn’t help remembering his first and only Thanksgiving in Wichita. They downed two pints of the stuff while watching It’s a Wonderful Life. Dean teased that maybe Cas, with his angelic namesake, was his Clarence. Then he fashioned a halo out of toilet paper and they laughed until their ribs hurt.

Dean grabbed a pint at the last second. For good measure.

Sam arrived at Dean’s apartment just after eight, and, Kansas City be damned, Dean was beyond happy to see him. Sam coughed out a laugh as Dean whacked him on the back in the midst of a hug.

“‘S good to see you, Sammy,” Dean said, radiating warmth. “Let’s go, Bobby’s itchin’ to give you a beer.”

Dean let Sam drive the Impala to Bobby’s, peppering him with questions about UT the whole time. Sam gushed about his pre-law classes, which Dean tolerated only because he had just gotten home.

“How’s your head?” Sam asked when he had finished nerding out.

“Fine,” Dean replied. “Fluorescents still make it hurt like a bitch, but honestly, I’m fine.”

Sam turned into the shop parking lot, the windows of Bobby’s apartment above providing the only light against the dark. “Hey, you never really answered my question yesterday.”

“What question?”

“That guy, who drove you to the hospital,” Sam said, carefully. “Was it Cas?”

Dean shut his eyes, willing himself against getting out and slamming the door behind him. He was not looking forward to this conversation. “Yeah. It was Cas.”

“He’s back?”

“No. I don’t know, man, he’s on his way to Kansas City for some big boy job.”

“Did you guys… You know…”

Dean gave him an incredulous look. “What, did we kiss and make up like some Hallmark movie?”

“Dean —”

“Sam, just leave it,” he growled. “Come on. Bobby’s waitin’.” The kid had been home for thirty minutes, and he was already giving Dean a headache.

Bobby greeted them with the biggest smile Dean had ever seen him wear. He pulled Sam into a tearful hug and clapped Dean on the shoulder. The three made their way to the kitchen.

Dean was driving, and still concussed, so he contented himself with a diet Coke and a few slices of the pizza Bobby had ordered while Bobby got beers for Sam and himself. Sam asked how the shop was going, earning about ten minutes of Bobby begrudgingly praising Dean for all his hard work. Dean fidgeted in his seat, face flamed from the compliments, doing his best to insist that it was a team effort, really. Sam beamed at him.

Dean changed the subject, prompting Sam to tell them both about college, despite having already heard the spiel on the drive over. Dean let his mind wander while Sam talked.

Bobby had been the one to call when Dean’s father had died. Dean remembered, it was the Monday after his nineteenth birthday, a snowy January morning. Classes had been cancelled, so he and Cas were watching Dead Poets Society in their room to celebrate.

“Wait, pause it, I gotta take this. Hey, Bobby! How’s it goin’?”

“Dean, I hate to be the one to tell you this. John…”

“Dad? What’s wrong?”

“He’s dead, son. I’m sorry.”

Dean had dropped his cell phone on the floor. It shattered.

Dean remembered emptying his school backpack and filling it with clothes, his toothbrush, some shampoo. He walked straight to the Impala, his hands shaking, tears clouding his vision.

“Dean. Dean! What happened?”

“I gotta go, Cas. I’ll explain everything later.”

“Dean, the roads — we have class!”

“Screw the roads and screw class. Family emergency.”

He’d made it to Lawrence in record time.

He hadn’t even told Bobby he was coming, but he was waiting for Dean anyway. He found out that John had had one too many at the bar that night, but insisted on driving home, anyway. He ran into a tree going sixty, died on impact. Sam had been spending the night with a friend. Bobby drove him down to Amarillo, where John had been working one of his odd-jobs that was sure to dead-end when he started leaving beer bottles on site. Dean didn’t speak the whole way there, not until they picked Sammy up. Sam was crying. Dean wished he could cry, too. He felt like he was going to fracture into a million pieces. But he’d felt that before. Not this bad, never this bad, but broken all the same. He did what he always did. He hugged Sammy tight and told him it was going to be okay, everything is going to be okay.

The next thirty-six hours were spotty. A small funeral, just the three of them. Dean telling Bobby he wasn’t going back to school, he had to take care of Sam. Bobby staring daggers. He’d take care of Sam, Dean would finish that degree if it was the last thing he did. An argument, the only time Bobby had ever yelled at him. Dean and Sam sitting on the couch, sharing headphones and listening to Black Sabbath. Bobby pushing him out the door. Driving back to Wichita, numb.

The painful memory was interrupted when Bobby said his name.

“...We’d love to meet her, right Dean?”

Dean shook his head and blinked. “What?”

“Sam’s girl,” Bobby supplied. Sam blushed, looking at Dean.

“What about her?” Dean grumbled.

“I was gonna bring her around,” Sam said.

Dean wanted to be righteously angry with Sam for not telling him sooner, and for dipping out on him at the first sight of something better. But the kid just looked so damn hopeful.

He let out a long-suffering sigh. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s a good idea. I’d love to meet her.”

They stayed at Bobby’s until midnight, reminiscing about past Christmases, the years Sam and Dean spent under Bobby’s roof. Eventually, Bobby whined about being too old to stay up so late, and that was their cue. Sam was properly tipsy, and Dean was exhausted. They bade each other good night, and Dean and Sam headed home.

Dean didn’t bother putting on music for the fifteen-minute drive. The Impala was silent as Dean drove, watching the yellow streetlights pass.

“Dean,” Sam said, “What’s up with you today?”

He was talking with the level of verve only achievable through alcohol. Dean gripped the steering wheel a little harder. Drunk people always asked too many questions.

“Nothing.”

“No, no, no, man.” Sam waved his hand for emphasis. “You’re messed up. You’ve been messed up. You know what —” he shifted upright in his seat “—you gotta talk to Cas.”

“I’m not gonna do that,” Dean said shortly.

“Why not?” Sam demanded.

“I’m just not, okay? Jesus. You need to go to sleep.”

“Not true,” Sam argued. “Listen, I know that he left or whatever, but I’m sure he had a good reason, you know, and you loved him, Dean —”

Dean slammed on the brakes. The Impala screeched to a halt as the light in front of them turned red.

“What?” He asked in a low voice. “What did you say?”

Sam scoffed at him. “I mean, you weren’t trying to hide it or anything.”

“Sam,” Dean warned. “Stop talking. I mean it.”

“I’m just saying, the way you talked about him, the way you two were at Christmas, I’m pretty sure nothing he could have done —”

Dean punched the steering wheel. The Impala’s horn sounded. Sam looked at him in shock. The light was green. Dean took a deep breath and hit the gas, both hands gripping the wheel for dear life, now.

“We’re done talking about this,” Dean said.

He felt like he was having deja vu. After Cas left school, just after spring break, Bobby had called Dean to see how he was getting on. He’d put Sam on the phone. Sam was only fourteen, but already smart as hell, sometimes able to see through Dean’s bullshit.

“How’s Cas?”

“He’s a shithead, that’s how he is.”

“Dean, what? I thought —”

“Yeah, well, stop thinking. Fucker is gone. Guess he found someplace better to be.”

“What happened?”

“Fuck if I know. But this is the last time I’m talking about that son of a bitch.”

Dean pulled up to his apartment, anger and regret swirling in his head. He shouldn’t have yelled at Sam. He knew that. But Sam — well, sober Sam — knew better than to bring up Cas in any capacity.

Sam exited the Impala silently. Dean’s outburst must have been enough to shatter the alcoholic haze. Dean locked the doors and led Sam up to his door.

“What’s that?” Sam asked.

Dean looked up from fumbling with his keys. There was a brown paper bag taped to his door, his name written on the front in clean, capital letters.

“No clue,” Dean replied, ripping the bag off the door. He unlocked the door and headed straight for the bedroom.

“Dean, come on,” Sam started, but Dean interrupted him.

“We can talk about it in the morning. Get some rest,” he grumbled.

Dean closed the bedroom door and set the bag down on his bed. He took off his jacket. Shed his t-shirt. Unlaced his boots. Splashed some water on his face. Brushed his teeth. Traded his jeans for sweatpants.

Finally, when he could avoid it no longer, he opened the bag.

Inside was… the Tombstone DVD. Dean picked it up, brow furrowed. He opened it, and the disk was there, along with a Starbucks napkin, tucked into the left side. This, too, had his name in that same, clean script. He unfolded the napkin, and read:

DEAN—

I WAS IN THE AREA THIS EVENING, SO I STOPPED BY TO SEE HOW YOU WERE FEELING, BUT YOU WERE OUT. YOU GAVE THIS TO ME IN COLLEGE. IT’S ABOUT TIME I RETURNED IT TO YOU.

IF YOU NEED ANYTHING, FEEL FREE TO CALL.

—CAS

Cas had written his phone number below the note. Dean frowned as he looked at the DVD once more. That dumbass. Dean had given it to him, it had been a gift. If this was some sort of peace offering, it was crap. He grabbed his phone and punched in the number.

DW (12:52 am)

movie was a gift, u keep those

DW (12:53 am)

but i guess u don’t want shit from me anymore

He knew he was being a dick, but, well, Cas had been a dick first. And it was late, anyway. Cas was probably already asleep. He didn’t expect a response tonight. Actually, he didn’t expect any response, at any time. He threw his phone on the pillow and got up to turn out the lights.

Dean flopped into bed, but was surprised to feel his phone buzz.

CN (12:55 am)

Apologies. I did not intend to upset you.

Dean squinted in consternation. Why was Cas even awake — wasn’t he some capital-A-adult, now? He was an accountant, with a job at an honest-to-god accounting firm. Shouldn’t he eat his BLT for dinner and be in bed by eight p.m.? Dean snorted at his own mental image.

He didn’t bother to respond, finding nothing more to say. He laid back down in bed, but his thoughts were too loud for sleep. He stared at the ceiling fan. It offered no advice.

Dean sighed. He was pissed. At Sam, at Cas, at himself. Still at his dad, always at his dad. So he did what he always did when he had nowhere to direct the anger.

“You motherfucker,” he whispered to the fan. “You waltz in here, with your college degree and your cushy office job. You drive me to the hospital and pretend you care. Well, guess what, you’re not allowed to care. You left, okay? We were friends, we were… We were family. I needed you, but you didn’t care then. So you can’t care now. You don’t get to come back here and remind me of everything I almost had. Fuck you. In every possible language, fuck you, man.”

The pressure behind his eyes lessened. The anger was still there, still burning beneath the surface, but this was enough for now. A temporary catharsis. A way to keep his sanity. He didn’t believe in God — couldn’t, really, after everything — but this was the closest thing he had to a prayer. He’d started after John died, after he’d realized that burying the guilt and the sadness in alcohol was killing him. When Sam got the scholarship to UT, he’d done it again, voicing the jealousy and fear that he’d never allow himself in the daylight. He didn’t know if it was healthy, but he also didn’t care. It kept him going. He could walk into work every day with a smirk on his face, call Sammy and crack jokes, flirt with female customers after he changed their oil. Screaming into the void kept the “passed-out drunk” nights to a minimum. It kept him from becoming his father.

His only lifeline. He was not, would never be, John Winchester.

-----

tagging @nguyenxtrang :)))

#destiel #supernatural #destiel fanfic #superposition

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starrynite7114 · 5 years ago

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two sides of reality: one

A/N: My lovely readers, how are you all?! Some states are reopening, please stay safe and practice social distancing! I come to you now with a new story. Absolutely no worries, my other stories will not be abandoned. Also, the next drabble will be posted later tonight, just wanted to post this first. This is a bit different from my usual stories, I’m nervous, but I hope you all will enjoy it!

Thank you for continuing to like my writing, I truly do appreciate all the love you’ve given me and I hope you continue to like my stories!

Snapshots should also be updated by the end of the weekend!

If you would like to be added on the tag list for this story, any other stories or for all my works, please let me know!

Love you all!

tagged list: @justahopelessssromantic ; @iambabyharry ; @thegirlwhowritesfics

Rhian was making her way towards the office her brother occupied. He had summoned her for some reason and it was the last thing she wanted to do. Her whole morning consisted of changing oil, car after car, it was tedious work. Tying up her burgundy colored hair that she recently got colored once again, she tightened her ponytail, hating how the heat just stuck to her skin. Her hair wasn’t too long, a little past her shoulders. Tugging at her baggy shirt, she regretted wearing such a baggy T-shirt on a day such as this, but she forgot to do laundry and it was one of the clean shirts she had. She dressed with baggy clothing for pure comfort. The joggers she was currently wearing made it flexible for her to work under the hood of a car and not worry about showing her ass crack.

She should wear a jumpsuit, but again, it was too fucking hot.

At times she wondered why she stayed in Santo Padre with her brother, Daniel instead of moving to Los Angeles with her sister, Erica. She would have more opportunities in Los Angeles, but she couldn’t leave her older brother. Besides that, Erica was much more controlling than Daniel and she really appreciated the freedom she had. Though, there were other factors on why she decided to stay in Santo Padre, but the main reason was the side gig she had with Daniel.

“Dan, honestly, you know I can do more than change oil right?” Rhian immediately commented when she arrived in his office. She raised an eyebrow when her eyes landed on her brother’s best friend, Sergio. “I thought you were still in LA?”

“Just got back squirt, come join us for lunch.” Her eyes landed on Daniel’s desk which had various boxes of Chinese food. “You have her just changing oil again? This is why I can’t leave her with you.”

Sergio was her pseudo older brother that at times she preferred more than her own brother. He trusted her and Daniel, well, he did, but you were also his younger sister. Overprotective tendencies was his niche.

“Look, there was nothing that interesting and she needs to do scut work every once in a while.” Daniel made a plate for Rhian, handing it over to her. “Are you going up to LA this weekend?”

Rhian looked over at Sergio before shaking her head. “Not LA, I have something to do in Seattle, I’ll be gone for a few days.”

“Seattle? You got some secret boyfriend there?” Daniel wasn’t exactly sure why his younger sister traveled to Seattle often, but he figured whatever it was, she would let him know in due time, even though it’s been three years. His sister has always been secretive and he’s never forced her to disclose information unless she truly wanted to. It’s not that they weren’t close, they were, he just let his sister come out of her own shell.

It’s always been this way.

Erica and Daniel were outgoing. They had plenty of friends, loved going out to enjoy the town and loved being the center of attention. Rhian was not the same way. She wasn’t a loner, she had her fair share of friends, but high school was a breeze for Rhian. She never made too much noise and kept to her group of friends, especially after sophomore year.

Boys could be cruel, especially teenagers.

“A secret boyfriend,” Rhian scoffed. “I wish, but you know, Clouie moved there a few years back, I just like visiting her.” That wasn’t a lie, one of her closest friends did live in Seattle. She visited Clouie every once in a while, but the reality of her situation was much more complicated than that.

“No, I get it.” Daniel held his hands up. “I’m just saying it wouldn’t be so bad if you put yourself out there.”

“Right, with you two doing chastity patrol? No way.” She appreciated their protective ways, but it was hard to meet anyone in Santo Padre. Besides being a person non-grata due to her pesky older brothers, she also didn’t entertain guys. She didn’t exactly know when they were talking to talk or talking to hit on her. Regardless, she didn’t want to make any ties in Santo Padre. Once her deal was done, she was going to either Seattle or Los Angeles. She would get the fuck out of Santo Padre, a place that was never kind to her.

“Chastity patrol?” Sergio scoffed. “Cockblocks are so much better.”

Rhian just rolled her eyes and sat beside Sergio. “I can’t wait to get out of here.” She mumbled under her breath.

“You know you’ll never leave,” Daniel never wanted to part with his sister. Their mother lives in Chino with their aunt and uncle, while Erica was in Los Angeles. She was the only one who decided to stay with him and he couldn’t let her go. Besides, she was better off in Santo Padre. They established their livelihood there, she wouldn’t want to leave.

Sergio looked at Rhian and just gave her a knowing look. He wanted to get her out of Santo Padre. There was no future for Rhian in Santo Padre and the further away she was from here, the safer she was.

“What did you need to talk about?” Rhian asked once she was done with her food, throwing her plate in the trash can beside her brother’s desk.

“I need a racer tonight, you up for it?”

And in some Fast and The Furious reality, Rhian, Sergio and Daniel were part of the racing world of the Inland Empire of California. Stephanie, Aaron and Sean were also part of their little crew who also worked at the garage. Daniel built a reputation, encompassing neighboring cities that had people coming to Santo Padre to just get their cars modified by him. It was thanks to his part in the racing community, which he now has retired from. It was mostly Rhian, Stephanie and Sean who partook in the racing, while the other three took care of the cars and set up their races.

“Not tonight, I have an exam tomorrow morning.” Rhian was currently finishing up her Bachelor’s Degree, which took her some time, but a few personal issues kept her from finishing.

“Come on, you know you’re going to ace that exam, which you have been studying for since last week. Take a break,” Daniel was always such a terrible influence on her. While he encouraged her to study, if the opportunity presented itself, he also encouraged her to do other activities instead of studying. She knew it was due to his immense faith in her, but at times, she felt that it was that immense faith that kept her rooted in Santo Padre.

“Wow, you’re such a great influence.” Sergio shook his head, handing Rhian his plate so she could throw it. “Rhi, if you don’t want to go, it’s fine. I can have Sean race.”

“No, it’s okay, I need the money.” And she did, she’s been saving up so that when she finally got out of here, she didn’t have to look back.

“What are you saving up for? You’ve won at least ten thousand dollars the last few months.” Daniel wished that she opened up to him more. The only plan he knew she had was that she wanted to become a doctor, but then again, that was her dream when she was younger. He wasn’t exactly sure what she wanted to do now. Every time he asked her, she just avoided the question. “You still trying to be a doctor?”

“No, not anymore. Too much work,” Rhian sat back, looking up at the ceiling. “I’m majoring in graphic design, how do you not know this?”

“Cause you don’t talk to me Rhi.”

She glanced over at her brother and smirked. “I do, you just don’t listen. Sergio, when do I graduate?”

“In a few months.”

Daniel was somewhat envious of Sergio and Rhian’s relationship. She seemed to run to him for everything. He began to question if he ignored his sister and it was the reason she ran to his best friend instead. But he always gave Rhian her time to speak to him. He didn’t want to force her, but he might have to actively try and get his sister to talk. Contrary to what she may believe, he did care about her and he wanted to know about her.

“I knew that too.”

“Did you?” Rhian chuckled. “Look, I’m not trying to give you a hard time. You have a lot of things going on, the last thing you need to worry about is me.” In a few months time, her deal with the cartel would be over and Santo Padre could be a distant memory after that.

“You know I love you, right?”

“I do.”

Daniel nodded his head. “I need you to give this to Uncle Taza, before he comes here trying to come for my head.” Daniel handed her an envelope. The MC had issued him a loan for the shop, he was almost done with the payments, which he was thankful for. They didn’t charge him interest, which definitely helped out some.

Rhian laughed, shaking her head. “Using me as protection again.”

“You’re his favorite, he doesn’t give you grief whenever you go over there.”

“I’m not his favorite, you’re just an asshole who doesn’t like criticism.” Rhian pointed out. Taza was their father’s younger brother. Ever since their father passed, Taza helped out their mother to take care of them. Rhian was quite close to Taza and she agreed, she was his favorite. And being his favorite, Taza frowned upon Rhian being part of this crew her brother had, but he knew that when Rhian put her mind to something, there was little to nothing that could stop her.

“Look at her, trying to play off she ain’t the favorite,” Sergio teased, trying to ease the tension in the room.

“Whatever,” Rhian stood up, rolling her eyes at the two. “I just want to let you both know, you’re the bane of my existence.”

“We love you too!’ The two men said in unison.

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

Rhian waved at Riz, thanking him for opening the gate for her. Parking behind the motorcycles, she turned off her car and opened the door. The Santo Padre heat immediately hit her, causing her to groan.

Riz laughed, giving her a hug once she was out of the car. “You know, it still surprises me that you’re not used to the heat.” Riz swatted her ponytail. “Nice hair, did you get new glasses too?”

“Maybe because no normal human being could actually get used to this.” Rhian quickly made her way to the shade the clubhouse porch provided. “Thanks Riz, and yes I did, I stupidly stepped on my previous ones and I could have just taped it together, but my brother insisted we get new glasses.”

“Can’t have you working on cars if you can’t see.” He teased her.

“I’m not that blind, douche,” Rhian stuck her tongue out towards him. “Is my uncle here?”

“Yep, templo, just wait inside, the AC is on.”

“This is why you’re my favorite!”

“Lies, but I’ll take it,” Riz called out after her as she opened the door.

Rhian found Angel and Coco sitting at the table, with Gilly sitting by the bar talking to EZ. The four men looked over at her. Coco and Gilly immediately stood up to greet her, while Angel stayed rooted at his seat. She wasn’t sure why Angel was so awkward around her, but she didn’t question it. She knew it had something to do with what occurred in high school, but she’s moved on, she’s spoken to him a handful of times.

“Rhi, what are you doing here?” Coco questioned as he pulled away from her.

“Money drop off,” she waved the envelope in her hand. “Daniel is just too chicken shit to come here cause my uncle always gives him grief.” Looking at EZ, she waved at him and then at Angel. The Reyes brothers were always so awkward with her and she wasn’t exactly sure why.

“Your brother is such a little shit,” Gilly laughed. “Heard through the grapevine there’s a race tonight, you racing?”

“Why? You guys are going to come?”

“You want us to?” Coco didn’t have anything planned and they already handled their Rebels business earlier in the day.

“Where’s Creeper?”

“Across the border,” Angel answered. “He got injured.”

Rhian nodded. “To answer your question,” she turned to Coco, “sure, but don’t come in your motorcycles, it makes people antsy.”

“Fuck them, we don’t give a fuck,” Coco scoffed. “You’ve been racing often lately, something going on?”

“No,” she gave him an odd look. They didn’t have to know she was saving for her escape from Santo Padre. It wouldn’t really bode well with Coco and Gilly. They’ve become quite close and she knew the Mayans men had a hard time letting go of people who become constants in their life. They would eventually be happy for her, they’ll understand. “My brother asked me the same thing.”

Coco and Gilly were the two she was closest with at the MC. It surprised her since Angel was their third musketeer, hell, he was their leader in this little group, yet, she still didn’t become close to Angel. It wasn’t on purpose, but they seem to always just avoid one another. Angel kept to his corner, was civil towards her, but he always kept her at two arms length.

Angel turned towards them, intrigued by their conversation. Rhian Ayala was an anomaly for him. She spoke to him every once in a while, but unlike other women, she just never gravitated towards him. Her sister, Angel used to have something there, but Rhian just avoided him. Or that’s what he liked to believe. After high school, she avoided him like the plague, but her sister always assured him that it wasn’t him. That Rhian was just like that and in some ways he agreed, but she also didn’t give EZ the time of day, which if he was honest, was a fucking breath of fresh air.

“Is there?” Gilly asked.

“No,” she shook her head. “I just like having money since you two are a pain to feed.”

Coco and Gilly laughed, nodding their heads. “That’s true, but you love us.”

“Well, it’s either you two or my brother and Sergio, the lesser of the pair of evils.”

“Damn, why aren’t we invited?” EZ spoke up. He was surprised he did since he hasn’t really spoken to Rhian since Sophomore year of high school.

Rhian chuckled. “You’re more than welcome to come Ezekiel.”

EZ slightly cringed. She was one of the few who called him by his full name and he felt it was to keep the distance between them. He used to be close to Rhian, they were best friends till sophomore year. Things just changed and he couldn’t stop it even if he wanted to do so.

“Is the invite extended towards me as well?” Angel joined in.

The silence was much longer than any of them would have liked, but Rhian wasn’t exactly sure what to say.

“Of course, the more the merrier.”

Before anyone else could say anything, the temple door opened with Taza, Hank, and Bishop walking out.

“Tio Taza!” She enthusiastically greeted him.

“Conejo, what are you doing here?” Taza fondly called her the nickname he had bestowed on her when she was younger. He gave her a hug, wrapping an arm around her shoulder once he pulled away.

Rhian waved the envelope. “Just my brother’s monthly contribution.”

“Your brother has no time to bring it in?” Bishop always found it amusing that it was Rhian that dropped off the money Daniel owed them. He knew it was only due to Daniel not wanting an earful from his uncle.

“My brother doesn’t want to hear Tio’s nagging.”

The Mayans laughed at her comment. She handed the envelope to Bishop.

“Have you eaten?” Taza questioned.

“Yes, you do know who my brother is right?” Rhian playfully elbowed Taza. “He’s like a human garbage disposal, there’s always food in the garage.”

“School good?”

“Yes tio, it’s good.” Rhian’s phone began to ring. She slipped it out of her pocket, checked the name, and slipped it back inside. “I’m gonna go, nice seeing you all during our monthly drop off.”

The members laughed once again. Rhian left the clubhouse then, with everyone going about their business.

“She’s racing tonight,” Coco informed Taza.

“You know the drill,” Taza sighed. “Make sure she’s safe.” He never tried to control Rhian. She was a big girl, she could make her own mistakes, it was part of life. But that didn’t mean he didn’t protect her.

“Always.” Coco picked up his pack of cigarettes, making his way out of the clubhouse.

“Hey Coco,” Angel called after Coco who had walked out of the clubhouse.

“What’s up?”

“Let Gilly stay behind and I’ll come with.”

“You?” Coco chuckled, taking out a cigarette and lighting it up. “Why? You’ve never been interested in Rhian’s activities.”

“You won’t let me be interested.”

“I’m not the one that avoids her like the plague.”

“The fuck you mean?” Angel’s eyebrows furrowed at Coco’s suggestion. He didn’t avoid her, he just didn’t have anything to say to her. More like he didn’t know what to say to her. After high school, there was just this unseen wall between them and as much as Angel wanted to break them down, he didn’t know how.

“Come on Angel, you know you do. Ever since I’ve known Rhian, you never really gave her the time of day.” Coco always found it odd that Rhian never spoke to the Reyes brothers, but he never pushed her. Rhian was very cordial towards them, but he never questioned why EZ and Angel just seemed to become awkward around her. The two men he knew that could charm a wall could not even look her in the eye. He wondered what occurred, but he never tried to ask Rhian. So he asked Taza and it all made sense. He thought it was childish that Angel and EZ avoided her, but it must be shame that truly did it for them.

“I can’t give her the time of day even if I wanted to, she won’t even talk to me.”

“Have you tried? Answering her questions every once in a while isn’t really trying Angel, did you do something to her?” Coco always found it amusing when he observed Angel while Rhian was around. He could tell his friend was having a difficult time talking to her. He could just tell how perplexed Angel became, thinking of how to approach her.

It was amusing to say the least.

“This might be my opportunity to open the gates.” Angel knew he did her wrong, and he’s been trying. Well, he believed he was, but every time he would make a joke, she would just crack a smile and nod her head. Nothing else. He was a funny guy, there was no way his jokes were not working on her. She was suppressing it and he wished she wouldn’t. He refused to believe that she didn’t find his jokes amusing.

“Are you interested in her? You know Sergio and Daniel would never let you near her.”

Angel smirked. “They can go fuck themselves, they’re the least of my concerns.” He wasn’t the biggest fan of Sergio. Daniel, he could handle, but Sergio, he just rubbed him the wrong way, always did, even while he was dating Erica.

“So you are interested in her?”

“No, I’m not. She’s just frustrating. Every time I try to speak to her, she just keeps it very short and professional.” Angel took a cigarette out as well, sitting on the porch stairs. “It’s been years since high school and it’s like she still hasn’t forgiven me for what happened.”

“What did you do?” He was wondering if Angel would admit to him why they stopped talking, but he doubted it.

“Just some childish shit.”

“Then it shouldn’t be a problem, Rhian wouldn’t hold it against you. She’s far too mature for that shit.”

“What time is that race tonight?”

“Eleven, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go.”

Angel scoffed. “When has that ever stopped me?”

#angelreyes #angel reyes fanfiction #angel reyes fic #angel reyes fanfic #mayans mc fanfic #tsor #angel reyes

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werezmastarbucks · 5 years ago

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Whitmore Guy - the ghost

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Kai Parker x fem!Reader slowburn

whatever gifs I’m going to use on this one, I hope the creators are okay with that

word count: 2044

warnings: none

“Have you seen the new IT guy yet?”

“The uh- what?” Ric was trying to consume a chocolate bar without taking his eyes or hands off the paper he was grading. Y/N sighed patiently – or, rather, to gain some patience. Every time she felt like yelling at Saltzman she took a deep breath and travelled down the memory lane back to the times when he was just a history teacher at school. Back when they were all teens with awkwardly round faces and acne, trying really hard to impress each other, and survive ‘animal attacks’ that just started happening in the town. She recalled thinking the new teacher was actually a vampire. The sheer stupidity of her, while Stefan Salvatore was literally sitting next to her.

Back then, Ric was still youthful, energetic, even handsome, as some girls claimed. Y/N always perceived him as a parent figure, the uncle you may bump into in a bar you go to with your mates to pretend you’re old enough. To think that this grumpy, scruffy grandpa thirty-hundred years old used to be that energetic, bopping teacher they could all trust…

“I’m saying, have-you-met-Mal-yet?”

“Huh?” Ric looked up to her, and his hand inserted the bar into his mouth quickly, so that he could start chewing.

“Are you doing okay, mister Saltzman?”

Y/N called him that when she was trying to be ironic.

“We got a new IT guy? Where the hell is he? I’ve been struggling with this thing for ages”, Alaric pointed at his laptop, safely shut, after it had vomited a siren-like crackling earlier that morning. God only knows what kind of websites Ric has been visiting.

“He’s been in for like, couple of days”.

“Yeah, that’s when the password changed, I saw that”, Saltzman frowned, “that note on the first floor, on the notice board, said that there was a treasure map or crap like this. The whole place has been running on mobile since Monday. Is he toying with us? Who hired him?”

“It’s ‘revenant94’.

“What?”

“The password”.

Y/N settled her coffee mug on the desk and stretched her back, checking the room for people simultaneously. They were alone in the teacher’s space; Y/N liked sneaking in here for lunch breaks or when she just felt overwhelmed, to socialize, bizarrely.

“Anyway, I’ve met him the other day. And he’s weird”.

There it is. The magical spot to hit, to light that hunting spark in Alaric Saltzman’s light green eyes. He has always been an adventurer first and everything else second. Vampire hunting was just a necessary measure in the dire conditions given to him at the point of his life.

“Bad-weird?”

“Weird-weird”, she still wasn’t sure they were completely safe chatting about this in here. She got up and closed the door gently. Then Y/N started pacing lazily between the unevenly placed desks, standing checkers to chess, in a mysterious pattern.

“He looks too good, and he acts too friendly. He is…” she tried to find the word, it was on the tip of her tongue, and yet, it escaped.

“Weird”.

“Your notoriously inaccurate gut feeling once placed an innocent man among monsters”, Ric reminded her.

She recalled that. That one time she was completely sure her neighbor Bruce killed her father, for reasons she wouldn’t be able to awaken anymore. In reality, they still didn’t know who did it, but it wasn’t Bruce as the man was away from the town the night it happened.

“Don ‘t you allow that maybe you think he’s weird because he’s cute? Sometimes you say weird when you mean adorable. Or angry. Or upset. You just generally like labeling people freaks”.

“Okay, you’re not taking it seriously”.

Ric threw himself back in the chair and sighed noisily. He studied the ceiling for some time.

“In our life, Y/N, we have every right to be paranoid about good things. After everything that’s happened every nice thing comes across as a warning. That’s a normal reaction. But if you think he’s off, I’ll check on him, sure. I mean, I will meet him inevitably, right?”

They looked at each other. Y/N shrugged.

______________________________________________________________

Ric wasn’t able to get ahold of Mal for the whole of next week, in fact, and it was strange how for the first seven days of Mal’s working Y/N was the only person who’s been talking to him. The guy even complained once that he felt like a ghost, which sparkled the whole new package of fiery theories in her. Then, the next day, she saw Mal chat with the English major student. In a rather flirtatious way, mind you; but it at least proved he was real.

Alaric was left a little puzzled after Mal had fixed his barely breathing laptop; but mostly annoyed.

‘How fast is this guy talking? Does he ever breathe or something?’

To her question, whether he was able to place Mal among any species of supernatural creatures, Saltzman replied something along the lines of yeah, a sickeningly energetic young man with ego, which in his language usually meant abnormal, but not alarming. Y/N was more than sure that Ric gave up on life and just tried to get away from the IT guy as far as possible. What happened to the previous one anyway? Some people said he’d left. Others claimed he just disappeared after Friday’s party at the Craze, a new bar opened almost on the border with Mystic Falls. Nobody really cared. Mal managed to charm just about everybody – that is, when people finally started seeing him – except a few very exhausted individuals who refused to enjoy life.

The feeling Y/N was getting about Mal was inexplicable, good, too good, in fact. She was torn between enthusiastic and careful; one feels that way when a person calls you in the middle of the night and tells you that you have won a billion dollars. How come you don’t remember buying the lottery ticket?

The fact that he had a girlfriend wasn’t all that important – Y/N craved companionship, not romance; her friends were enough but they were all carrying weight of, well, ten years of fighting this damn town. Mal didn’t have all that. He blasted music in the basement where he had built himself a mancave using old boxes and discarded cupboards from the science floors. He always smiled. He was smart. He didn’t take any shit from anybody. And for some uneven reason, he treated Y/N like she was his partner in crime. Maybe that was the most suspicious thing. Y/N always wanted an older brother, and all male figures she chose to act in that character, pushed back.

_____________________________________________________________

Damon weighed the glass in his hand lazily.

“Caroline’s been livid with you about the dance party?”

Y/N sighed, rubbing her knee. Ever since Caroline graduated, she’s been delegating her tasks to Y/N, who apparently had nothing better to do than organize two celebrations every month. No wonder she completely forgot about the selection of music for that one party that was supposed to happen at the end of the month, vaguely described as a nostalgia flick. Many times Y/N got ready to say, hey, Caroline. I have my own shit to do. If you want these events, come back to the college, get a job and do it yourself. I have tons of crying young adults every day whimpering over their dead dogs and burnt deadlines, and frankly, I deserve four holidays a year.

But she never said it, somehow.

“I am turning into a pusharound”, she realized, as she stood up, walking to the Damon’s sacred alcohol table. She took a glass which burst in a welcoming ringing, and poured herself a little of smelly golden liquid.

“I thought you liked organizing things. Whatever happened to ‘I’ll make them all dance to Stevie Nicks until their butts fall off?”

“It faded, Damon, it went down into my shit storm of a work. I am drained. I’ve been feeling completely lost for the last six months”.

The vampire’s sharp eyebrows made a gracious swing. Every time Damon did his trademark face of an Italian statue Y/N couldn’t help but remember the years when she’d been helplessly in love with him. She and her knee-length socks, and lots of jewellery, and bravery of a suicidal teenager, she thought that was enough to win his love. The disappointment was bitter.

“Why’s that?”

“Eh”, she brushed it off, relaxing deep in the sofa, outstretching her feet, “autumn was nasty, you know that kind of seasonal decline, and then, no snow in winter, and bang, it’s cold spring, and you gotta not eat again because nervous… and it felt like it’s been two days since Matt died, but when I look at the clock, it’s already mid May, and I can’t believe it. I feel like I haven’t processed his death properly, and it’s tugging on me. But I don’t really know what to do at this point. Everybody’s moved on”.

Damon drowned his face into his glass with that preoccupied look he wore when he couldn’t cope with what he started. Sometimes, he could only listen. That was the least he could do for the girl. Listen to her babbling away, and remember that it could have been much worse, she could have been much further away from him.

“Thank God I have my buddy now and I even almost figured out what to do with this shit faced party. No more parties after this one… I’ll tell her I won’t organize stuff people don’t appreciate, I mean…”

“What buddy?” Damon intervened passively.

Y/N jumped up, balancing the glass in her hand, and decided it would be best to down it until she poured it all on Damon’s couch, and he tore all her hair out. She gulped whiskey in two breaths, trying to clench her teeth so that she doesn’t puke it all back. As soon as the drink flows down and reaches whatever cells there are, it will soothe her, and clear her head. She sat on her legs, piercing Damon with a concerned look.

“There’s this new IT guy at Whitmore. He’s too cool to be true, and everybody loves him, except for Ric, and I’m sure you’ll absolutely hate him, too”.

“Why’s that?”

“He’s very chatty and charming, like a complete psychopath. He’s got dead eyes but he’s incredibly funny, and we listen to the same music. He’s always up for anything. He’s too…”

The look on Salvatore’s face said he understood exactly the type of person this guy was. Damon met many a folk like that; take Kol, that idiotic creature that was draining life of every party of people. Or early version of Jeremy, depressed yet too loud, craving attention. Or even Forbes herself; now she’s a friend, but back in the times, she was unbearable. Damon still had vague nightmares in which Caroline was trying to get him to go on a picnic in her usual commanding squeaky voice.

“So, steer his energy in doing this dance for you. And go easy on yourself, little one”.

When Damon called her that, Y/N felt like she was sixteen again, laying at the den of a tiger, if tigers dug caves or, like, very complicated dungeons, with skulls of their enemies scattered and the suggestive fires blazing along the walls. She shivered internally, asking herself, how she had managed to finally escape Damon’s glamor. She remembered being completely heartbroken, and then suddenly, she wasn’t. Good for her.

“Yeah, I’ll get him to help me. But I would be stoked if you could examine him. Ric couldn’t take him, the guy’s too colorful. I have a weird feeling about him”.

“What kind?”

She was tired of shrugging with confusion.

“Just do it. You’ll see. There’s something wrong about him”.

“Do you always hang out with people you deem suspicious?” Damon sounded painfully familiar. Ric and him, they became almost like a married couple over the years. Same old narrative, sung in slightly different tempos.

“Okay”, he gave up. “I’ll come to your nostalgia flick dance thing, and I’ll take a look at him. Will that make you happy?”

She looked at the alcohol sanctuary again.

#kai parker #kai parker imagine #kai parker x reader #damon salvatore #vampire diaries #whitmore guy

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reginacooks · 4 years ago

Text

Day 365. The End.

I’ve decided to make cheesecake as a send-off to this blog. I cannot think of any good reason why cheesecake should not be the cake-of-celebration for having reached my goal of creating something delicious every day for one year. Cheesecake was my sister’s favorite, and she died a year ago in March, bypassing a global pandemic by one week. Every memory I have of the countless celebrations in her home include a cheesecake. Cheesecake was my father’s favorite. He grew up on New York-style cheesecake, and he made sure my mother had a Lindy’s Cheesecake recipe when they married in 1963. My mother made good on her promise to feed him with love, and cheesecake. My mother’s birthday was in March. She taught me how to make a cheesecake using her large, ceramic mixing bowl in our kitchen in Ohio. I cannot think of cheesecake without thinking of my mother. The pandemic started in March and brought us to another March. All roads lead us to cheesecake.

One week into the pandemic and toilet-paper humor, I decided I would use the next 365 days to cook and bake, and write about it. Aside from a few months when yeast was sparse, we lacked for nothing, including toilet paper. Unbelievably, and faster than I thought one year could pass, I have reached the end of my goal. I needed a thing to grab on to at the start of this pandemic, something separate from teaching. True, I was tired at the end of some days and faced this goal reluctantly. Or worse, there was a day when I’d already gone to bed. I closed my eyes then moments later remembered my blog. But I dragged myself to the couch and sitting position anyway. Not long ago, after watching a family movie, it was close to midnight and I said to my kids, “My blog!” Ethan sat nearby. “Quick mom! It’s ten minutes to midnight. You can do it!” I shared some pictures and words of the food I’d made that day and at 11:57, clicked on “Post.” Mostly I felt like I was writing into a black void, then unexpectedly a friend would email or text indicating they were reading these posts. I was glad someone was reading, but I guess that wasn’t the point. All along I knew I was doing this for me, to brighten my days and bring on a spot of joy.

The cooking, baking, recipe searches, taking pictures, and writing helped to define my life this year. I’ve thought a lot about why the act of cooking and baking is important to me, too. Once, many years ago, a couple of friends were on a road trip and they stopped at our home for dinner. That night I happened to be making pasta with cauliflower and tomato sauce, garlic and cheddar cheese, a pretty standard week-night meal in our house. They dug into that food like it was their last drop of sustenance on the long journey ahead, even though they were only traveling by minivan from one state to the next. They exclaimed and wanted the recipe and so thoroughly enjoyed that simple fare, it seemed as if it had been many moons since they’d eaten a homemade meal. Making dinner that night, I would never have anticipated their reaction to it.

I think about the times I’ve been fed by others. A long time ago, for one year, I worked in a school in Highwood, Illinois, an old town with a large Italian population. The secretary of my school was a short, slight-framed, older Italian woman with whom I had a special connection. She had worked at the school for maybe her entire career. I complained to Vera once about the reading curriculum in first grade that didn’t use real children’s literature. Same old story. I hinted that I was going to talk to the principal about it. This was my first teaching job and she warned me against that. I’ll never forget her words. “You don’t talk about books to someone who doesn’t read.” She came into my room once as I was reading a story aloud to my students, and she paused to listen. Later she told me I was “the real deal.” Ah, to be seen by another person. Even if only briefly.

Vera and her husband were making pasta dumplings, she told me one day, and she’d like to have me over for lunch. When I went across the street and knocked on their side door, I entered their kitchen where they were filling dumplings with cheese and meat, trays of fresh pasta, dough, and flour spread out on the small kitchen table. The scene was intimate and homey, as traditional as any holy ritual, and I was invited to pull up a chair. It was the first time I’d eaten homemade pasta and I remember it still.

I have put a permanent place card next to my heart of the people who have fed me in my life. Homemade food is worth marveling at. And for me it brings back memories of the people I’ve enjoyed it with, and of other ways they’ve fed me. Vera fed me fresh pasta and there have been times over the years when my confidence suffered and I would go back to that one-liner she also fed me. “You are the real deal.” For years I hung my hat on those words. I am the real deal. And I thought they must be so because a wise woman who read books, whose name meant truth, and who had feather-light Italian dumplings at her fingertips spoke them.

We just never know how feeding others can have an impact, how words or deeds can take hold in our psyche, like a fortune cookie message we keep in our wallet forever. A long time ago a friend was visiting me in a house I lived in near the ocean. I packed us a picnic lunch and off we went. Years later she referenced those tuna fish sandwiches as being the best ones she’d ever had. Say what? She was a new mom and had her baby with her at the time. She was probably desperate for someone to care for her for a few moments and maybe that came in the form of my preparing a simple lunch, which she never forgot. I doubt it was just because of the sandwiches.

I enjoy sifting through the recipe box of my food memories. Sometimes when I’m searching for a soothing thought to put me in a state of calm, I’ll think about something wonderful that I’ve eaten with a person whom I love. Often, we’re outdoors. A memory comes of pausing for a break on a hike in Ireland with new found friends, eating a sandwich and an apple, leaning against a fence and looking out at a wet, green field speckled with sheep. Or enjoying pizza and a cold beer on a sunny hilltop in Belgrade at a cafe on the edge of the forest. A giant swing on the property served to entertain our children while my husband and I grabbed a few moments of peace. Once, my family and I were staying the night at a simple hut during a trek in Ethiopia. We sat on the roof of the hut and watched as baboons scrambled toward their caves on the slope of a cliff, and we held hot tea and bread given to us as a sign of welcome by our hosts. Clasping that tea, we knew we would be taken care of during the night in that foreign spot.

A chocolate eclair always reminds me of my father. I can hear him saying, “Oh boy,” smiling and looking down at the pastry display inside the food hall at Harrods of London, wide-eyed like a kid again in New York City. He bought us both a picnic that day and we enjoyed it in St. James Park. A few years later he was left five thousand dollars in the will of an uncle and used that to send me to cooking school in New York. He wanted me to have a skill and set me up for life. I learned many skills at cooking school, but none as valuable as the ones I learned in my parents’ kitchen. Love and food are intermingled. There was hardly a joyful, happy occasion in our home growing up without it involving something delicious. The memories I have of the food enhance the memories of my father’s laugh, my mother’s smile, my older siblings arriving for the holidays and the love that we all shared.

My mother delighted in simple, good things. When I was a teen I remember her sneaking up to her bedroom for a little solitude, a glass of brandy and a little dish of peanuts in hand, a book tucked under her arm. She’d say she was going upstairs to have her party before bed. On weekend mornings she’d make pancakes. She had a knack for turning the ordinary into something special. She would make a pancake shaped out of the first letter of our name, large and covering the whole plate and recognizable as my very own. Neighborhood kids would wait by the backdoor for their pancake, too. An L for Lenny, a J for Jimmy. I’ve stored away hundreds of food memories of my mother, and I pull them up often. Her cheesecake, her smile, her sly grin when she sneaks another piece.

Before my sister, Raissa, died a year ago, I flew out to stay with her in her home. It was the last weekend that I ever stayed in her house, the house that was a foundation for me—for all of our family—for so many years. This was the last weekend that I would ever see her home as it was, her home crowded with the beloved artifacts of her life. And beloved to us, too. We all knew every nook and cranny of that home so well. The family photos, the hundreds of books that lined the shelves, the afghans and dishes and vases and fireplace mantel and coffee mugs. I cried openly and loudly the night before I left, knowing that this would be the last time I would be in this space that was my second home. “My home is your home,” my sister always said to me. But the house would be sold and I would never have this as my second home again, and the next time I visited this town, my sister would be gone. I looked around feeling the shock, like a rug was being pulled out from under me, but it wasn’t just a rug. It was every precious thing in sight.

One morning during my last weekend with her she was sitting up in her chair reading her newspaper, as she did every day, and I asked her if she wanted some breakfast. She had hardly been eating, so I didn’t expect her to say yes, but she put the paper down in her lap and looked up at me and smiled and said yes. Feeling hungry made her look so healthy. So I went into her kitchen and made her toast and scrambled eggs, simple comfort food. Our father was the Scrambled Eggs King. He cooked them slow and steady, all throughout our growing up. It was his specialty, we all knew. So I made them the way Daddy made them, no recipe needed for the dashes of good humor and love. She ate them with such pleasure, like she had not eaten in a long time, smiling up at me in thanks. I was feeding her, like she had fed me for years and years. We fed each other. I know I added joy to her life—she told me how much she loved me every time we were together—and she was my personal cheerleader, cheering for me every single step of every single way. I will live the rest of my days with the gifts she gave, and the memory that I made her comfort food before her own long journey home.

#goals #cheesecake #baking from scratch #bakingathome #bakingforfamily #bakingforjoy #bakingforlove

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