#should dust off the machining skills and get better at working on cars

[ivan-fyodorovich-k]

from now on I think I might embrace a slight linguistic shift and stop saying that I want attention or special treatment and instead say that I want glory and honor.

meaning I want attention (glory) and special treatment (honor), of course, but said in a way that makes me sound like more of a man's man

[megabadbunny]

Aural Fixation

He can’t say he’s imagined such things (because he hasn’t, would never; big dumb sexless space oaf, that’s him) but if he were to start, he might imagine that’s a sound Rose makes during arousal.

Not that he’d know. Or imagine. Because he doesn’t and he hasn’t.

(Warning: here there be smuts.)

***

CLANK.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake!”

Halfway down the hall, the Doctor chuckles. “Need any help in there?”

Another clank, and he can just make out the sound of Rose swearing under her breath. “No,” she calls back.

“Really? Cos it sounds like you picked a fight with the wardrobe,” the Doctor teases, “and you’re losing.”

A loud Ka-CHUNK sounds in response. “I’m fine!” Rose insists stubbornly.

Shaking his head, the Doctor laughs. “What could you possibly be doing to cause that racket?” he asks, doubling back toward the wardrobe room.

“It’s not me, it’s this stupid busted thing,” says Rose’s voice, and the Doctor steps inside the room to see the outline of her body, silhouetted against the back of a folding-screen; from the looks of it, this stupid busted thing refers to the automatic lace-puller, attached to Rose’s silhouette by two shadow-strings. Normally cheerfully upright, the outline of the lace-puller is now slumped, wheezing a little, and yep, that’s the faintest hint of smoke rising from its vents.

The Doctor tsks. Only got a couple of centuries out of the thing. Typical rubbish Grishtal workmanship.

“Sure you don’t need help?” the Doctor asks.

“Not unless you know how to lace up a corset.”

“I’m sure I can figure it out,” he replies confidently, striding forward. “How hard can it be?”

Rose laughs. “I dunno, you might be—”

Without warning, the Doctor pushes the folding-screen aside to find Rose standing between a mirror and the auto-lacer, hair coiffed, corset half-laced and strings pulled taut, wearing nothing else but a pair of extremely anachronistic (not to mention extremely tiny) knickers. She’s staring at him over her shoulder, wide eyes growing wider, pink cheeks blooming pinker.

“—surprised,” she finishes breathlessly, and neither of them are laughing now.

Fortunately, the Doctor’s mind is a far more impressive machine than the auto-lacer, and its many many gears and cogs only falter for the briefest of moments. It’s nothing to be shocked by, after all. Rose or not, there’s nothing unusual about the display in front of him. It’s just a body. A human body. They’re all more or less the same. Skin, hair, curves. Undergarments. Surprisingly small undergarments that hide very little. Nothing to be startled about. Certainly nothing to bluster over.

“What are you wearing those for?” he blurts out, staring at the pants, and internally kicks himself.

Rose’s eyebrow piques incredulously. “You want to know why I’m wearing knickers?”

The Doctor rolls his eyes. “No, I’m saying that if you’re gonna go through the effort to put on something historically accurate like that—” he says, gesturing to the corset, “—you might as well commit to the whole kit. You know. Bloomers and such.”

“What do you know about bloomers?” Rose laughs.

“I know modern-day pants are an anachronism.”

“And I know no one’s gonna be seeing them anyway. Well, except you now, I guess. Not totally sure you count, though,” she teases, looking the Doctor up and down.

“Gee, thanks,” the Doctor says wryly, watching as Rose struggles to pull her laces free of the auto-lacer’s vicelike grip. “I was gonna offer to help you with that, but now I’m thinking maybe I’ll just leave you to it.”

“No you won’t.”

“Oh no?” asks the Doctor, leaning lazily against a coral strut.

“Nope.” Rose shoots another look at him over her shoulder when he doesn’t move. “You’re too impatient for that.”

“Nah. See, patience is a skill, a discipline, acquired over trials and tribulations over the course of time. And me? I’ve been around for a bit. In fact,” the Doctor says smugly, crossing his arms, “I’d say I’ve had bouts of patience that lasted longer than you’ve been alive.”

Rose smiles at him, her gaze soft and warm, and really, it’s almost maddening, the instant effect that look has on him, the way it makes something go all honeyed in his chest. “Do you really want to stall your adventure just because your companion got trapped by the dressing-machine?” she asks sweetly. “Cos the whole stuck-in-the-car, waiting-cos-the-missus-ain’t-ready-yet bit sounds awfully domestic.”

The Doctor glares at her. Rose smiles at him beatifically, tongue trapped in her teeth. His eyes narrow. Her smile brightens.

Dammit.

“Next time,” he says, even as he grudgingly pushes off away from the strut, “we’re going somewhere and somewhen that does not require complicated underthings.”

“Fine by me,” replies Rose, watching in the mirror as the Doctor approaches the auto-lacer, scanning it with the sonic. Official diagnosis: it is, indeed, busted. “Wouldn’t have gone for the whole historical look anyway, ‘cept I remembered that run-in with the what-d’you-call-‘ems, Henry VIII’s fashion police,” Rose continues.

Chuckling, the Doctor adjusts the setting on the sonic, loosening the auto-lacer’s joints. “Those were just constables, I’m afraid. No fashion police, just coppers getting a little carried away enforcing local sumptuary laws, drunk on an ounce of power. Typical lower-level law enforcement.”

“Yeah, but they didn’t give you or Jack any trouble.”

“All right, sexist typical lower-level law enforcement.” Pulling the laces free from the machine, he turns to Rose. “Now, if you want to talk about literal fashion police—”

He tugs on the corset-laces and Rose stumbles back into him, gasping in surprise.

“Still earning those sea legs?” teases the Doctor.

“Git,” Rose laughs, pushing away. “Give a girl some warning, first!”

“Sort of thought this would give it away,” the Doctor says brightly, giving the laces another little tug.

Rose shoots a dirty look over his shoulder.

His responding grin is perfectly innocent. “I’m only trying to help.”

“Speaking of drunk on power,” Rose mutters, but she’s smiling when she says it, so the Doctor pays it no mind. This time, when the Doctor pulls on the laces, she doesn’t stumble, just rocks back a little. Inwardly, the Doctor grins at that. Her time aboard the TARDIS has earned her some decent sea-legs, after all.

Crossing the laces over each other, the Doctor threads them through the grommets, pulling them taut again, after. He repeats the pattern, pulling the laces snug each time, until he cinches a little tighter and Rose lets out a sharp breath in response.

“All right there?” he asks.

“S’fine,” she says, but in the mirror, she looks a little winded.

“I can loosen up.”

“It’s fine,” Rose repeats, straightening up a little. “Just—sometimes it sort of pushes the air out of your lungs, is all.”

The Doctor shrugs and sets back to work. Cross, weave, thread, pull.

Rose gasps.

Glancing up again, the Doctor frowns. “There’s no use in you getting all dolled-up if you can’t breathe.”

“I can breathe just fine. Don’t worry about me.”

“I don’t want you fainting in the middle of the opera.”

“Oh, god forbid I should miss the opera,” Rose teases.

“I mean it,” he says, and he starts lacing again. “You faint, I’m not lugging your dead weight around. Not with whatever massive frock you’re undoubtedly planning to wear over this.”

“Oh whatever, just take the dress off.”

Something goes funny in the Doctor’s stomach and he yanks the laces hard. Rose’s footing slips a little and she gasps, the sound just the littlest bit strangled this time. Before the Doctor has a chance to apologize, Rose shakes her head.

“Don’t stop,” she says, and is it him, or has her voice gone just a little bit breathy?

“Might as well get it over and done with,” she adds quickly.

Fair enough. He goes back to it, cross, weave, thread, pull, cross, weave, thread, pull, and the little sound that escapes Rose doesn’t sound like a gasp, so much as a—

Well. No. It sounds exactly like a gasp. Just not the sort of gasp one typically makes while one is getting dressed. He risks another look up at the mirror and oh no, no, that’s a mistake, because Rose isn’t looking him in the eye anymore, instead she’s staring into nothing, biting her lower lip so hard it’s gone white as her chest gently heaves, soft pink blooming over her décolletage. And if the Doctor didn’t know any better, he’d think he caught just the lightest whiff of pheromones dusting the air.

It suddenly occurs to the Doctor that his offer of help might have gotten him more than he bargained for.

He should stop, he thinks, before Rose cottons on that he’s cottoned on and things get awkward. Or, would that make it worse, if he stopped, and then Rose would know for certain that he knew? They’ve already established that he doesn’t really. Know, that is. About this sort of thing. Well, no, she knows he knows, but she doesn’t know how much he knows, and she still seems fairly convinced he doesn’t know anything at all. So.

So the surest way to maintain decorum is to play dumb, right? Play dumb, spare Rose’s blushes, preserve plausible deniability. Just be an idiot. Capital plan.

He crosses and weaves and threads and pulls again and Rose lets out another strangled noise and he can’t say he’s imagined such things (because he hasn’t, would never; big dumb sexless space oaf, that’s him) but if he were to start, he might imagine that’s a sound Rose makes during arousal.

Not that he’d know. Or imagine. Because he doesn’t and he hasn’t.

And he crosses and weaves, threads and pulls and crosses and weaves, threads and pulls again and she swallows back a pant and he accidentally looks up to see her in the mirror again, eyelashes fluttering, still biting that lower lip, biting so hard he’s surprised she hasn’t drawn blood, and her cheeks and ears have gone pink to match the blush of her chest, which, coincidentally, is getting more and more difficult for the Doctor to ignore, either due to its color or its motion or the fact that her breasts bloody damn well look like they’re about to escape this godsforsaken corset any second now—

Cross, weave, thread, yank and Rose stumbles backward again with the force of it, smacking into the Doctor with a bodily thud.

“Leverage!” he announces before either of them have a chance to react, because her face in the mirror and her body pulled against his are decidedly not helping things. “Need leverage to wrap up a task like this,” he adds, dropping the laces so he can grab Rose by the arms and walk her over to the nearest coral strut, blessedly out of the mirror’s view. “It’s all about the physics, see,” he continues, placing Rose’s hands on the strut. “Right amount of leverage, right amount of force; hang on and you’ll be sorted in a tic.”

He picks up the laces and pulls them again, pulls them tight and crosses and weaves and oh, oh no, oh this is even worse somehow than before, because now instead of Rose’s whole body rocking toward him, it’s just her hips and bum, inching back and forth with every tug of the strings, offering a graphic preview of what it would look like if—

Nope. Nope. Can’t think like that won’t think like that mustn’t think like that but it’s too late to change tactics now, just got to ignore the scent and the heat and the view and the sounds and her and move as quickly as possible, wrap this up before his stupid overactive senses pick up on anything else. Rose clings to the strut as he works, biting back her gasps from the sound of it, but the Doctor can still hear her breath trying to escape, can’t help but notice the trembling in her legs. He focuses intently on the work in front of him, fingers and hands working rapidly to finish, and if the laces miss a grommet or two—well, that’s not a flustered mistake. It’s a stylistic flourish. Yeah. He can work with that.

“Done,” he announces, and he’s very pleased with how even and calm his voice sounds despite everything rioting in his head, very pleased indeed. “The chore is complete; you have been properly cinched, tucked, and flattened in all the right places. The inability to properly breathe or move is now totally yours.”

“Thanks,” Rose laughs, and the Doctor pointedly ignores how shaky the sound is, the way she gulps for air.

“Need any help with anything else?” he asks, stepping back, hands firmly lodged in pockets. “Socks? Shoes? Hat?”

“Bloomers?” she jokes, turning to face him.

“What, and undo all my hard work? Should have thought about that before you put the corset on.”

“I’ll just pull ‘em on over top.”

“Rose,” replies the Doctor, all faux-scandalized mock-sternness. “Bloomers go on before the corset. Every time traveler knows that.”

Rolling her eyes, Rose crosses back to the mirror. “Well then, next time I’ll be sure to get your input before I get dressed,” she laughs shakily.

The Doctor watches her as she puts the finishing touches on her makeup. His eyes do not wander down the line of her shoulderblades or the exaggerated curve of her waist or the slope of her hips or the completely bare stretches of her legs, but stay firmly fixed on the reflection of her face in the mirror; the idea of a pre-clothing Rose is more intriguing than it has any right to be, but the Doctor pushes that to the side. It’s easy enough, now that the risk of imminent danger has passed.

She’s fine, now. He’s fine, always. Nothing happened, not really. Anyway they’re back in safe territory, where they belong. Even if it is secretly just a little bit satisfying to realize exactly what kind of effect he can have on her, if he so chooses.

He hides a grin. Luckily he, the Doctor thinks smugly, is not so easily affected.

“Unless you’ve got any other chores for me, I’ll leave you to it,” says the Doctor, stepping back. “But don’t take it easy just cos I’m not in here anymore. We’re still sticking to a strict schedule. Chop-chop.”

“You got it,” says Rose, lining her lips with lipstick. “Oh, and Doctor?” she calls, after he’s made it a few steps away.

He stops and turns. “What’s that?”

“Would you send Jack in here?”

His brow furrows in confusion, and once again, he resolutely ignores the view laid out in front of him. “Why?” he asks.

Finishing her lipstick, Rose meets his gaze in the mirror. “In case I need help with any other chores,” she says simply.

Shocked, the Doctor grasps for any kind of witty rejoinder, or any sense of anything really, any at all. But all he can do is turn and leave, before Rose sees him gaping like some kind of slack-jawed idiot.

Nope, he thinks furiously. Not affected at all.

 ***

 The incident is all but forgotten by the time Rose has finished getting ready (having taken her time about it, too, and demonstrating absolutely no remorse whatsoever), and by the time Jack is finished getting ready (how in all the hells did he manage to take even longer than Rose, the Doctor wonders?), the incident has left his brain entirely. Now he’s just tapping his foot impatiently, glancing down at his wristwatch every so often as Rose and Jack gush at each other about oh, how very splendid they both look.

Literally all of time and space at their disposal, and the two of them are making googly-eyes at each other instead. How did the Doctor ever allow himself to become party to this?

“You hens done clucking?” he asks when fifteen minutes have gone by, with no end in sight.

“Oh, hush,” Jack tuts. “You’re just jealous no one’s mooning over you right now.”

“I’m plenty happy outside the moonlight, thanks.”

“You’d be even happier in it,” drawls Jack, swaggering his way. “C’mon Doc, when’s the last time you got gussied-up for anything?”

The Doctor gestures to his shirt. “Changed my jumper. What more do you want?”

“A suit every once in a while couldn’t hurt,” Rose calls out.

“A long walk on the beach, dinner for three and drinks to match wouldn’t hurt my feelings, either,” says Jack with a wink.

The Doctor glares at the two of them. “Good grief. There’s just no pleasing you two, is there?”

“Nope,” replies Rose, and she and Jack both laugh. The Doctor has every intention of continuing to glower at both of them, reducing them both to duly chastened quietude, but then Rose sidles up to him, threading her arm through his.

“Ready to go?” she asks, with that stupid pretty tongue-touched grin of hers.

Suddenly it’s difficult to pretend to be irritated anymore.

Later, of course, he doesn’t have to pretend at all.

“Sure, let’s go to the opera, says Jack,” the Doctor grumbles under his breath, sonic screwdriver whirring in one hand as he cards through coat after cloak after coat after cloak with the other. “I love the nineteenth century, says Jack. No one’s gonna try to abduct me there, says Jack!”

“S’pose that’s what we get for traveling with a Time Agent,” muses Rose, who does not seem even remotely bothered that they’ve spent an hour in the cloakroom instead of watching the opera. In fact, the Doctor has a sneaking suspicion she prefers it.

“S’pose that’s what we get for traveling with Jack,” he mutters darkly.

Busy digging in the pocket of a grand overcoat (which does not have bottomless pockets as far as the Doctor is aware, but has large enough pockets anyway), Rose spares him a knowing smile. “I think that was code for Actually, I quite like the fellow, he livens up the place.”

“Wasn’t aware the place needed livening-up.”

“Oh, come off it,” Rose teases gently. “You like him. It’s okay to admit it.”

The Doctor sniffs before moving onto the next cloak. Maybe he’ll be lucky enough to find the reservation in there; maybe the thirty-eighth time’s the charm. “He’s a scoundrel,” he insists.

“And let me guess: you happen to like nice men.”

Distracted, it takes the Doctor half a second to recognize the exchange. “Quoting Star Wars will get you nowhere, you know,” he says drily.

“Wasn’t quoting Star Wars.” Rose flashes a grin his way as she pats down another coat. “That was The Empire Strikes Back.”

“Close enough.”

“Close enough? Not by a long shot!” she laughs. “It’s easily the best of the three. The best by miles.”

“And it just happens to be the one with a surplus of Harrison Ford.”

“Well yeah, that’s definitely not a drawback, but that’s not all.” Rose pulls a small card out from the coat, holds it up, and frowns. “What’s the name of the hotel again?”

“The Grosvenor.”

Rose sighs and puts the card back where she found it before moving on. “Anyway,” she says, “it’s not just Harrison Ford. The Empire Strikes Back has the best story of the lot, by far. Daring chase scenes, massive clashes between good and evil, swelling music, epic romance—”

“Ahhh,” says the Doctor knowingly, rifling through a lady’s-purse. “Of course.”

“Of course, what?”

“Of course, romance.”

Rose doesn’t look up, too busy feeling her way through a cloak’s silk lining. “What about it?”

“Just not surprising, is all. Lots of humans like romance. In fact, I’d venture to say most of you do.”

“That a bad thing?”

He shakes his head, abandoning the purse in favor of a cloak. “No, not at all. Just means you lot are entirely predictable.”

“What, and you’re not?”

“…definitely heard something,” another voice is saying, drifting into the Doctor’s field of hearing along with the sounds of bootsteps advancing ever-closer, and he recognizes both sounds as those belonging to a pair of Time Pirates—Jack’s captors. Before either he or Rose have a chance to finish their thoughts, the Doctor grabs her about the waist, yanking her deep into the cloaks and coats with him and pulling them both to the floor. Rose’s lips part for a small yelp of surprise but the Doctor clamps his hand over her mouth before it has a chance to escape, holding her firm against him. Probably she thinks he’s gone a little batty—her hearing’s not as good as his, after all, so his actions must seem completely out of the blue—but she stills once the bootsteps reach earshot, once she understands.

The Doctor has scarcely half a second to whisk Rose’s skirts safely out of view behind the heavy cloaks before the two sets of boots reach the cloakroom entrance, footfalls thudding heavy and ominous over the floor.

“You sure?” asks the other Pirate. “I didn’t hear anything.”

Rose starts to slip against the Doctor (curse her silky-satin dress, the thing’s got no bloody sense of friction) but the Doctor anchors her to him before she has a chance to slide, to make any noise. A torch-beam shines into the cloakroom, traveling over the coats and cloaks and furs; one of the intruders steps inside and the Doctor can feel Rose holding her breath, her exhales no longer hitting his hand, her ribcage no longer expanding and contracting beneath his palm. Neither of them dares to move.

The Pirate stops. Between two of the coats, the Doctor can just barely make out that the bloke is glancing around, but not really taking anything in.

With a grunt, the Pirate switches off the torch, stowing it on his belt. “Must’ve imagined it.”

“Or it was rats,” the other Pirate supplies. “This period’s full of ‘em.”

“Everything isn’t always rats, Vigge,” sighs his partner, as if this is a particular sticking-point between them. “C’mon, let’s go find the others.”

The Doctor lets out a silent sigh of relief at the sound of departing boots. It’s bloody awkward hiding like this, his arms cinched around Rose while she’s sat in his lap, neither of them able to shift to anything more comfortable. The sooner they can get up, the better. Fortunately, fading footfalls let him know the guards are leaving, and he moves to shift Rose off his lap.

A third pair of boots approaches. Rose and the Doctor both freeze.

“Seen anything?” asks the third voice.

“Nothing yet. You’re sure they’re not still in the theatre?”

“Positive,” the third voice confirms. “The box seat’s empty; that Doctor-bloke and his bird are both gone.”

One of the Pirates swears beneath his breath. “We’ll have to scour every inch of the place, then.”

Peering between the coats, the Doctor can make out the three Pirates talking, discussing how best to search the opera house. Hopefully it’ll be a brief bit of chatter, the Doctor thinks, but as the conversation wears on, it quickly becomes apparent that it’s not destined to end any time soon.

Of course, thinks the Doctor exasperatedly. Why wouldn’t they pick this exact place and moment for a nice long chat? He’s only trapped behind a couple dozen fur-and-woolen cloaks with Rose plastered up against him, Rose getting increasingly warm and undoubtedly uncomfortable in his arms, neither of them able to move to improve the situation for fear of alerting the three very-much-armed Time Pirates. Of course, why wouldn’t the universe conspire against him like this?

Granted, in terms of Rose’s rising body temperature, it probably doesn’t help that the Doctor’s wrapped so snugly around her. But at this point, he’s honestly not sure what he can do. He can’t move his hand from her waist; he’s got her skirts pinned there, pressed between her bodice and his palm, and if he moves, he risks the skirts spilling into view. At least he had the presence of mind to shift his other hand away from her mouth, give her a little more space to breathe. But he did not, it appears, have the presence of mind to pay any attention to where that hand might settle afterward, and only now does he realize that his forearm has fallen to rest very gently against her chest, fingertips ghosting against her throat.

Alarm bells start ringing faintly in his head. He can’t shift that arm too much more; they’re surrounded by cloaks and any such movement would surely draw attention either through motion or sound. The only thing he can really do is perhaps lift away from her a little bit, let his hand float awkwardly in the liminal no-man’s-land where her breath lives. No longer touching, but still ridiculously close. Of course, once again, that brings up the issue of acknowledging that something is happening, and something is awkward, and you’ve officially Drawn Attention To It, and now there it is, stewing in the mortification of being recognized. Whereas if he pretends everything is normal—which it is, he tells himself stubbornly, because skin is just skin, doesn’t matter whether parts of it are bare and soft and hers—then no awkwardness need be experienced by either party involved.  

Not that he’d know about any of that. Because he doesn’t, and even if he does, he certainly doesn’t think about it, or notice it, much like he’s definitely not noticing how Rose’s breathing has gone shallow, and her heartrate has sped up, and one of her hands is clenching in her skirt. Doubtful the Pirates can hear it—like Rose and any other human, their hearing can’t rival his—but the Doctor sure as hell can. He hears her swallow, too, and, close to her as he is, he smells it again, that unmistakable tinge of pheromones, soft and musky and faintly sweet. And he can’t help but notice (can’t help it, really) that despite her shallow breaths, her chest is still rising and falling, bringing her breasts into whispering contact with the inside of his arm and the corner of his palm. If she breathed any deeper, he’d surely get a handful.

The Doctor scolds himself for thinking such things, trying fiercely to rein himself back in, but the glance of her skin against his is near-electric, the feel of her pressed against him is overwhelming, the scent of her, intoxicating. Suddenly he’s forgetting why it’s a bad thing for the two of them to be trapped in here like this, pressed tightly together like the pages of a fresh book. His eyes fall to half-mast as they trace the elegant slope of her shoulder and neck, impossibly close to his mouth, begging to be kissed. And she’d love that, wouldn’t she? Love for him to press his lips to her skin, worshipping her, marking her, claiming her. He’s so close now his lips can feel the warmth of her flesh, burning the scant air between them, or maybe that’s just the oxygen molecules buzzing with excitement, like atmosphere before a lightning strike, and her pulse beneath his fingertips is thunderous—

The heavy thud of departing footsteps abruptly informs him that the conversation outside the cloakroom has ended, and the coast will soon be clear again. The Doctor draws a deep breath, catching himself.

He almost fell. He very much wanted to. It’s been such a long time. And with Rose—

The Doctor shuts down that line of thought before it can develop any further, giving himself the mental equivalent of a sharp slap to the face. He hasn’t got any idea what to do with Rose, not really. Yes, her body is giving off a multitude of signs that seem rather obvious, but that’s just what bodies do, sometimes. Mix the close proximity, a dash of friction, a whole heaping load of chemistry, and that’s what you get. Bodies reacting the way bodies do. Not his, of course, not without his express wishes, but that’s what human bodies do. Human reactions for human people. And Rose is nothing if not human.

That’s right. He put up that barrier for a reason, that wall between him and the world, that line drawn in the sand between him and Rose. They’ve skirted that line enough today, flirted with it more than enough. It’s time for him to take responsibility, get his head out of the clouds and stop playing games. Nothing good can come of them nudging the line any further, no matter how brightly Rose smiles at him, no matter how sweet her kisses may be. Not that he’ll ever find out about that last one.

He collects his wits and draws his barriers close. “Rose,” he says quietly. “We should really—”

“Yeah,” says Rose, voice clipped as she shifts off his lap to stand upright, and the Doctor resolutely does not think about how cold he is now, without her body clasped to his. After smoothing out her skirts, Rose reaches down to help him off the floor. Grinning, the Doctor accepts.

“All right?” he asks despite himself, but Rose doesn’t answer; instead she watches him as he stands, eyes searching his. The Doctor gets the instinct impression that he’s being evaluated, somehow. Appraised.

“Rose?” he prompts, and she shakes herself.

“Oh yeah, everything’s fine,” she says, and maybe he just imagined it all, because now she sounds perfectly normal.

“Yeah?” he asks anyway.

“Yeah. You know,” she says, turning to continue her search. “Just thinking about Jack.”

“Right,” says the Doctor, feeling, strangely, as if he was just kicked in the shins. “Of course.”

It only makes sense that Rose would be thinking of Jack right now. He was just kidnapped, after all. It’s only natural he’d be on her mind. For the kidnapping, and no other reason. Certainly nothing to do with flushed skin and pumping adrenaline and soft little noises and the buzzing potential energy of bodies pressed close in tight spaces. Those things wouldn’t make Rose think of Jack at all. Not even a little bit.

Not that such a thing would bother the Doctor. Because it wouldn’t.

 ***

 The good news is, there’s plenty of good news: they’re able to locate a reservation for the proper hotel, thereby raising no eyebrows when the Doctor and Rose show up at the front desk requesting their room key, and like so many other sentient beings in the universe (really, he’s in good company), the desk clerk is fully taken in by the psychic paper, firmly believing that the Doctor and Rose are, in fact, Mr. and Mrs. Henri Flugenstaff; additionally, locating and breaking into the Pirates’ room is easy as rewiring a quantum rotor, and the rest of the hotel floor is blessedly empty when they do so, meaning no awkward encounters with nosy guests or suspicious staff.

The bad news is, once they enter the room, Jack’s captors (and more significantly, Jack) are nowhere to be found.

“Any idea where they went?” Rose asks.

“Not yet,” murmurs the Doctor, kneeling down to better inspect the faint traces of silvery powder on the carpet, almost invisible even to his keen eye. A reading from the sonic confirms his suspicions: the powder contains traces of Retro-Oganesson and Nihonium-3. Unmistakable evidence that the Time Pirates were here; no clues regarding where they went next.

“Might as well search the room for clues, right?” asks Rose.

“Right.” The Doctor sets the sonic against the carpet, following the path of silvery powder illuminated by the screwdriver’s ghostly blue glow. It guides him across the rug, around the bed, to the fireplace poking out from the wall opposite Rose. For her part, Rose is rifling through the items left behind on the writing-desk; given the general state of disarray of the desk, and the room, it’s clear that the Pirates left in a hurry, so there’s every chance they left something important behind. The Doctor takes just a second to appreciate the view, allowing himself a soft grin at Rose poking around for clues like a blonde little Sherlock Holmes.

“I hope he’s okay,” says Rose, peering beneath the inkwell.

The Doctor blinks. “Who?”

“Jack,” Rose replies, as if the answer is obvious.

The Doctor huffs. “He’s fine. Probably sliding out of their clutches as we speak.”

Laughing at that, Rose pulls open a desk-drawer. “Yeah, you’re right. He’s probably seducing his captors right about now.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing.”

“You say that like it’s not,” Rose laughs.

The Doctor grunts noncommittally, inspecting the inside of the fireplace.

“What was that?” asks Rose.

“Oh, nothing,” the Doctor hmphs. “Just, there it is again. Humans and romance.”

At that, Rose turns to face him, her eyebrow piqued. “And just what have you got against romance, anyway? Did romance offend you somehow, today?”

“It didn’t,” the Doctor lies cheerfully.

“There’s nothing wrong with liking any of that stuff, you know.”

“Oh, I’m aware.”

“Really? Cos it feels like you’re gonna launch into a lecture on silly apes and their silly feelings any minute now.”

“I never said feelings were silly.”

“You didn’t have to.”

The Doctor stops his search inside the fireplace so he can look at her. “Something on your mind, Rose?”

“No,” she replies stubbornly.

“Good,” says the Doctor, and he resumes his search.

“Just makes me glad Jack’ll be back soon.”

The Doctor’s nostrils flare and the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stand up on end as something hot slithers into the pit of his belly, smoldering there. “Don’t worry, we’ll find your boyfriend soon enough,” he replies, his voice tight.

“It’s just nice to have another human on the TARDIS, is all I mean,” Rose says, and the Doctor absolutely does not notice how she didn’t correct him on the boyfriend bit. “Cos you seem to think so much human stuff is stupid, and Jack doesn’t.”

“Oh, is Jack the gold standard now?”

“When it comes to feelings? Compared to you, yeah, he is.”

“Look, do you want to find him or not?” he asks, glaring at her. “Cos if you do, I’d advise more searching, less yammering.”

If the force of his glare affects Rose, she doesn’t show it. “Someone’s moody today,” she mutters before turning back to the desk.

“Not moody, just demonstrating a wide range of all those feelings you’re so fond of.”

“All the grumpy ones, maybe. And I’m not so fond of those.”

“And I suppose Jack’s never grumpy, then,” the Doctor says conversationally. “That it? No, not perfect Jack, of course not, never. Just the perfect blend of gentleman, boyfriend, and scoundrel, him. The ideal human mate!”

Rose shakes her head. “I’m sorry, the what-now?”

“It’s fine, Rose,” the Doctor says, forcing on a grin that’s surely strained. “You don’t need to explain yourself. You don’t owe me that. You don’t owe me anything. We’ll just find Jack, and then you two can run off and have your fun and your romance. All right?”

“Have my—what are you even talking about?” asks Rose, stalking up to him. “Where is all of this coming from?”

“Observation, mostly,” the Doctor says pleasantly.

“Right. I don’t know what you think you’ve observed, but—”

And suddenly both of them snap to attention at the sound of a key in the lock, the door-handle jiggling loudly in the quiet.

In the split-second that follows, the Doctor tries to think—run? Nowhere to run, they’re in a tiny hotel room; hide? But surely they’ve already been heard—but Rose’s brain must be working a little faster than his somehow, because before he’s even had a chance to react, she’s shoved him flat on the bed and she’s straddling him by the waist, ducking down to press a bruising kiss to his mouth.

The Doctor’s brain grinds to a halt.

She—they—she just—he—

He’s never had an experience where both of his hearts stopped for a good reason, before.

“Cleaning servi—oh, oh my!” gasps a voice by the door.

Rose sits back at the sound and through the fog currently short-circuiting his brain the Doctor manages to look over at the door, to see a middle-aged cleaning maid standing there, clutching her cleaning-cart and blushing furiously.

“Blimey!” she squeaks, shielding her eyes. “Begging your pardon, sir, ma’am, I thought you were out for the evening!”

“Not anymore, I’m afraid,” Rose laughs, which is just as well, because the Doctor is too busy reeling to find his voice (or even his thoughts) at the moment. At least his hands had enough sense to plant themselves on Rose’s waist so they’re not flailing about like a pair of nerve-addled bats.

“Still on the honeymoon,” Rose continues, flashing the maid a shy but winning grin. Her voice is just the littlest breathy and shaky and very convincing, so much so that even the Doctor could almost believe the two of them had just been—well.

“You know how it is,” Rose adds, coyly biting her lip.

“Aye, once upon a time I did, ma’am,” the maid chuckles. “I’ll see to it you’re not disturbed the rest of the evening.”

“Thanks,” Rose laughs breathily before pushing the Doctor back down on the bed, kissing him passionately as the maid closes the door behind her. Her lips part against his, warm and sweet and betraying just the slightest hint of moisture as—

As a loud click lets them know the door is locked once again, and then Rose immediately stops, breaking the kiss. Pulling back, she locks eyes with the Doctor, her cheeks almost as bright as the housekeeper’s. Several long seconds tick agonizingly by, marked only by the fluttering of Rose’s lashes, the gentle heaving of her chest.

Rose’s lips part, like she might say something (or like she might bend down and kiss him again, the Doctor almost hopes) but he must be looking at her with the universe’s most daft expression, mouth agape and eyes wide as saucers, because the next thing he knows, she’s lifting herself off of him, smoothing back her hair and resituating her dress.

The Doctor sits up after her, forcing himself to stop staring. What is he, some kind of idiot?

“Sorry,” Rose laughs, all traces of breathlessness gone.

“S’all right,” the Doctor’s mouth says for him; his brain is still catching up.

“Although you’ve got to admit,” Rose adds, resuming her investigation of the room as if absolutely nothing just happened, “as a diversion it was fairly effective.”

The Doctor scratches the back of his neck. “I’ve had worse.”

“And I’ve had better,” Rose teases, her tongue trapped between her teeth. “You’re a little rusty, Doctor.”

“Excuse me,” the Doctor huffs indignantly, “maybe I just need a little more advance notice than your average boy-toy.”

“Well, as an above-average boy-toy, I’m sure Jack would be happy to give you some pointers.”

And there it is again, that feeling of something hot sizzling in his chest. “And I’m sure he can go sod right off,” says the Doctor, surprising himself.

Rose shoots him a dirty look over her shoulder. “What’s gotten into you? What’s with this mood today, why are you so cross with Jack?”

“I’m not.”

“You are, you’ve been saying nasty little things about him all day.”

“I haven’t.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” says Rose, righting the frame of a crooked painting on the wall. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were acting jealous again.”

The hot feeling grows hotter. “I’ve got nothing to be jealous about,” insists the Doctor.

“’Course not,” mocks Rose. “Cos you’ve never gotten jealous about sharing me with another man, before.”

“Shouldn’t have to,” he mutters.

“What was that?”

“I said I shouldn’t have to,” the Doctor says loudly.

“What? Get jealous, or share me?”

The Doctor’s fists ball at his side. Either one, he doesn’t say.

“Whatever,” scoffs Rose, as if he’d gone ahead and spoken the words aloud. “Not like it makes any difference anyway.”

The hot feeling pulses in his chest and pounds in his ears and maybe it’s because of the kiss or maybe it’s because Rose already seems to have forgotten it or maybe it’s just because of this bloody damn day but that line in the sand is growing dangerously thin, all of a sudden, and before he gives himself the chance to think better of it, the Doctor is pushing off the bed and striding towards the door, grabbing a chair so he can wedge it beneath the door-handle before he stalks over to Rose.

“What?” she mocks. “Don’t want the maid to see us having a row? That too domestic for—”

The Doctor pins her to the wall, grasping her by the chin to pull her up for a punishing kiss. She gasps against his mouth and fuck, he wants to take advantage of that opening, he really does, wants to force her mouth open so his tongue can dart inside and really properly tease her, taste her, but he settles for prolonging the kiss, offering no quarter and no mercy until Rose has to pull back, panting for breath. She looks up at him with eyes wide from shock and—and gods, he hopes that’s not fear he sees, because that would kill him, it really would.

He doesn’t want to frighten her. He just wants her to see. Wants her to know.

But there’s still that goddamn line to preserve.

Drawing back a little, the Doctor braces himself with both hands against the wall, one on either side of Rose. “Tell me to stop,” he says quietly, even as he cages her in, even as every atom in his being is screaming for her.

Jaw set, defiant once again, Rose shakes her head No.

Oh. That’s not fear in her eyes. That’s not fear at all.

Relief washes the line away like the ocean at high tide and the Doctor lets himself fall.

He leans in and kisses her again, claiming her mouth with a fierceness that leaves no room for doubt. He might worry that he’s being too rough, too soon but Rose is giving as good as she gets, yanking him in by the lapels as she deepens the kiss. Her hands slip beneath his jacket to clutch him by the shoulders, her fingernails sharp even through the fabric of his jumper. His tongue brushes her plump lower lip and it’s a heady realization, that he can taste how much she wants this, how much she wants him. It’s enough to make him dizzy but he doesn’t stop, he wants more, his tongue plunging into her mouth, and the breathy little whimper that escapes her lets the Doctor know he was right—those delightful sounds Rose made earlier in the day were definitely due to arousal. And the sweet scent lingering in the air lets him know she’s wonderfully aroused right now, almost certainly wet with it.

Because of him. No one else. Just him.

Good.

Lips still on hers, the Doctor pulls up her skirts so both hands can sneak beneath, grabbing Rose by the hips and pulling her roughly into him. He has every intention of tearing off those ridiculous little knickers of hers but then she arches into him, her hands slipping beneath his jumper and nails dragging across his stomach and her chest pressed against his, and it’s all too much and it’s not nearly enough and his hips are grinding against hers as he hardens between them.

Dimly it occurs to the Doctor that Rose does not seem nearly as shocked by all of this as he might have imagined—indeed, he’s shocked himself with this pure impetuous driving animal need—and he wonders if, on some level, Rose maneuvered things to this conclusion.

Well. He smiles against her lips. Two can play that game.

He hitches one of her legs over his waist and thrusts into her, the friction and the heat almost unbearably delicious even despite all the layers in the way, and Rose must think so, too, because she’s panting against the Doctor’s mouth, her nails scratching lines of fire down his back. She lets out another strained whimper and fuck, he’s not going to last, not even with his trousers on, not if she keeps making those needy little noises while rutting against his cock like that.

So he repositions, wedging a thigh between hers to maintain the friction she needs while one hand travels up to palm one of the breasts that’s been positively fucking begging for his touch all day long. He can just feel the peak of her nipple through her corset and dress, stiffening sharply as he circles it with his thumb, and Rose bites down on his lower lip, sending a jolt of pleasure straight down to his cock. Rose reaches for his belt buckle but the Doctor stops her, grabbing her by the wrist and pinning it back to the wall.

“Not yet,” he growls softly. “Not until I say so.”

She’s glassy-eyed with surprise but he doesn’t give her an opportunity to respond, rips down the neckline of her dress instead so he can cup and tease her bare breasts with his free hand while his other holds her wrist tight against the wall. Rose breaks their kiss, eyes pinched tight in concentration as she rides his thigh, sweat beading and glistening on her breasts and her brow, and the Doctor realizes she’s about to climax, right here, right now, just like this.

Positively brimming with pride (and isn’t that a first, in this incarnation) the Doctor presses a kiss to her jaw, tracing a line up to her ear, lips ghosting the shell of it. “Come for me, Rose,” he murmurs, his voice as husky and deep as he’s ever heard it, and she shudders. He lifts his hand to cup her cheek, his thumb teasing her swollen lower lip. “Come for me, love.”

Her teeth graze his thumb as she bites down on the cry that tries to escape her, her arms shaking and hips stuttering, her legs clenching tight against his thigh. The Doctor can feel the aftershocks ripping through her and he holds her tight, relishing the movement and heat of her body against his, the knowledge that he’s the one doing this to her, that all of this is because of him. Not Jack, not Ricky, not Adam or Jimmy or any other stupid pretty boy who might be sharp enough to fall in love with Rose but could never be good enough to deserve her. Of course, neither is he, but he’s at least clever enough to recognize that, and to do everything he can to make up for it; he may not always have the right words but his mouth can still say what his voice can’t, offering praise along with his hands and his tongue and all of him, really.

Those little men will never see Rose the way he does. The Doctor almost pities them for it.

(Only almost.)

Panting, Rose pushes a strand of sweat-slicked hair out of her face. “You, erm,” she says between breaths, flashing the Doctor a lazy blissful smile. “You gonna let me touch you, now?”

He’s still got her wrist pinned to the wall. He lets go.

“Take off your clothes, please,” he tells her.

Biting her lip, Rose obeys, pushing her torn dress down over her hips, her eyes fixed on his. She wriggles the dress past her thighs to reveal those tiny knickers of hers, completely soaked through and now thoroughly ruined. The sight and smell of those ruined knickers ignites a small flame of male satisfaction the Doctor wasn’t even aware he possessed, something he might have wrinkled his nose at once upon a time, but now, watching Rose pop open the front of her corset, peeling off the knickers after—now he rather likes the feeling, knowing that he can make Rose feel like this, that she trusts him like this. That he’s earned her trust, and this privilege.

There’s only the faintest hint of shyness from Rose once she’s naked beneath the Doctor’s gaze, but it’s enough to make his hearts swell almost uncomfortably behind his ribs, so the Doctor dips down to press his mouth to hers, softly, to kiss any lingering doubt away.

“Good girl,” he murmurs afterward, and smiles as Rose’s cheeks and ears flush pink. “Now get on the bed.”

The moment she does, the Doctor grasps her by the hips and slides her bum to the edge, pinning her down against the mattress as he presses a hungry kiss to her mouth. Impatient, Rose pushes at his jacket and he shrugs out of it, but he doesn’t make any effort to remove the rest of his clothing, his hands gliding up the insides of her thighs instead. His fingers tease her until she’s wet again, gloriously wet and gasping and clinging to him as she fucks his hand. He dips down to kiss the expanse of neck and shoulder that were tormenting him earlier and stops beneath her ear, lips caressing the soft skin there.

For a brief moment, the Doctor just breathes her in, inebriating himself on the smell of her. Then he latches on, giving her skin a good hard suck. Rose cries out, thighs clenching around his hand. Drawing back, the Doctor can see the mark he left behind, petal-pink blossoming in the shape of his mouth, and it shocks him how much he likes to see that, the visual evidence that he’s claimed her, that she’s his. He wants to taste more of her, he thinks, let his mouth explore and lick and nip and tug until she’s begging for mercy—

“Doctor,” Rose pants, but with a start he realizes she isn’t begging, she’s demanding, hooking her legs around his waist and pulling him down, into her. She rolls her hips against his aching cock and all other thoughts and plans fly right out the window as he realizes he’s bound to spontaneously combust if he doesn’t give her exactly what she wants and fuck her right now. In a second his belt is unlatched and trousers and pants shoved out of the way and he’s pushing into her with one smooth slick thrust, groaning at the hot wet clench of her muscles around him. He draws back and pushes in again, and again, and again, brow knit tight and mouth falling open because it’s good, it’s too good, it’s too much, he’s losing himself, drowning in her, and dying never felt so sublime.

“You’re mine,” he gasps, surprising himself, but Rose doesn’t look surprised at all, she just nods, glassy-eyed and breathless as he fucks her. “You’re mine,” he says again, kissing her fiercely as his hands pull her hips into his, harder, faster, more.

She nods again.

“Say it.”

“I am, I’m yours,” she chokes out, clenching around him, and his grip on her tightens. He’s hurtling toward the edge, spurred on by her words and her heat and her everything else but now there’s guilt chiming in too, because what the fuck is wrong with him, why would he say that, why would he make her say that, why would he make her do any of this, why the fuck would he allow her to give herself to him when he’s nothing but a broken wretched old man, and she deserves so much more—

“Hey,” says Rose, and his thoughts must be written across his face because suddenly her hands are cupping his jaw, forcing him to look at her. “Don’t do that,” she says between gasps. “Don’t wander off. Stay with me. Be here with me.”

His lips part but Rose doesn’t let any words out, stoppers his mouth with hers. “Just let us have this,” she pants against his lips. “Please. Please. My Doctor.”

Something in him snaps and he buries his face in her neck, muffling his cries as he empties into her. His head floods pleasantly with bliss but he’s just coherent enough to slide a hand between them, urging Rose along. Rose follows soon after, muscles convulsing around him, nipples sharp even through his jumper, and the Doctor feels a twinge of regret that he didn’t finish undressing, that he isn’t feeling her skin properly sliding against his. Rose must be feeling the same way; even as her hips stutter and slow, she’s sliding her hands back beneath his jumper, exploring every expanse of skin she can reach.

The Doctor sighs with something that feels suspiciously like contentment.

“I am, you know,” he says quietly.

She doesn’t reply; he half-wonders if she’s already fallen asleep, somehow.

“Yours,” he adds, voice soft.

Rose’s arms tighten around him in a hug, her heart fluttering against both of his.

She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to.

He knows.

 ***

 Apparently Jack knows it, too.

“That dress didn’t tear itself,” the Doctor overhears him whispering to Rose after they sneak out of the Pirates’ ship. “Not to mention you smell like all the sex.”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Rose replies, laughing.

“I will not! Tell me everything!”

“If you don’t behave, I will hurt you.”

“Ooh, promise?”

“I will put you in time-out,” Rose amends, mouth twitching with the effort to hold back a smile, “and I will hide the sonic so that those,” she adds, pointing to the shackles clamped over both of his wrists, “never come off again.”

Jack shoots her a sly grin. “But then how would you two ever get to use them?”

The Doctor feels a flush creeping up the back of his neck as Rose’s eyes widen, her mouth dropping open. “Pervert!” she shrieks, and Jack crows in laughter as he takes off running down the road, Rose chasing after him. It’s a good thing they’re out in the country now—they’d wake up the neighborhood, shouting and laughing and carrying on like that in the city. But eventually they settle for huddling together, arm-in-arm, as they whisper and snicker all the way back to the TARDIS.

The Doctor maintains some space, trailing a little ways after, so the humans can have their fun and their—he smiles a little—their feelings. It’s actually nice, he thinks, seeing Rose so giddy and full of joy, seeing her laugh and smile like that, even with someone else. She’s far too bright and loving and big-hearted to be kept to one person, he realizes. She deserves to share herself with whomever she wishes, not to be hoarded like gold in the fist of a grumpy old miser. Rose deserves to love freely, and to be loved freely, in return.

(They’re definitely going to make use of those shackles, though.)

***

dedicated to @galiifreyrose​ @yellowsuedeshoes​ @saecookie​ @aintfraidanoghosts​ for being such wonderful terrible influences <3 <3 <3

[thewidowsghost]

Fox - Chapter 29

Previously on Fox:

"You're really good with a sword," Natasha comments as the two walk back to the house Sam had where their stuff was. "I saw you flick the sword out of the scabbard, that takes skill."

"I got into sword fighting after I graduated from college," (Y/n) explains. (Y/n) opens the door to the house and walks into the bedroom and grabs her uniform out of the closet and folding it and placing it into her suitcase.

The two finish and grab their stuff, and walk out to the Quinjet to go back home.

3rd Person POV

A year had passed since Natasha and (Y/n) had met, and it was hard to tell if either of the woman had ever been happier.

Natasha gazes affectionately at (Y/n) as the woman hurries around the room, throwing clothes haphazardly at a drawstring bag, her (H/C) hair fluttering behind her. (Y/n)'s had let her hair grow out over the year and it was about an inch lower than the small of her back.

The redhead grabs the clothes and folds them, placing the clothes into the bag.

(Y/n) turns around to fold the clothes and then smiles sheepishly at Natasha, who was sitting next to the bag, folding a shirt.

"Thanks, Nat," (Y/n) says.

"It's okay, you weren't prepared," Natasha says, placing the shirt in the drawstring and closing it, picking it up and handing it to (Y/n). (Y/n) takes the bag, a sheepish expression still on her face. Natasha pulls her girlfriend into a hug and (Y/n) relaxes into the shorter woman's arms.

"I love you so much Nat," (Y/n) murmurs tiredly and then she realizes what she said when Natasha tenses. The two  hadn't yet said those three words, just showing it by their actions and looks. "I'm sorry, it slip -" Natasha cuts her off by kissing her passionately. After a moment, Natasha pulls away, resting her forehead on (Y/n)'s.

"I love you too," Natasha says, meeting (Y/n)'s gentle - but exhausted - gaze.

In the time after the two had come home from (Y/n)'s old military camp, Fury had had the (H/C) haired woman working from 6:00 AM to 8:00 PM on some sort of new flying base that was, as Fury had told her multiple times, classified. She wasn't even allowed to tell Natasha what it was.

The two women stand there for a little while, just enjoying being in each other's embrace when (Y/n)'s phone rings.

(Y/n) sighs before pulling it out of her pocket. "Hey, Dad. Yes, I had to pack. I'll be there soon." (Y/n) pauses for a moment, a look of confusion spreading across her face. "I guess so," (Y/n) looks down into Natasha's gaze, the redhead almost laughing at the confused look on her girlfriend's face. "Okay. Okay. Yes. I'll be there soon. Bye Dad."

(Y/n) ends the call, shaking her head and Natasha laughs, and (Y/n) leans down, kissing her softly again. "I'll be back soon," she promises. "Should be back by the end of the week."

"I'm coming with you to the airport," Natasha says and (Y/n) goes red with embarrassment.

"I knew that," (Y/n) murmurs, and Natasha laughs.

"Let's get you on that plane so you can come home sooner," Natasha says, grabbing (Y/n)'s hand and pulling her out of the room and down the two flights of stairs.

"Nat, that's not how that works," (Y/n) says, almost tripping down the second flight of stairs.

It's Nat's turn to looks embarrassed now but she hides her face as she pulls on her Nike's and (Y/n) pulling on hers. The two stand up, (Y/n) pulling her drawstring onto her shoulders and Natasha shyly takes her hand.

"Even after all this time, you still become shy when holding my hand?" (Y/n) teases, as Natasha closes and locks the door, pocketing her set of the keys.

Natasha grumbles something (Y/n) can't make out and (Y/n) stifles a laugh.

The two girlfriends walk to the airport instead of taking a cab so they could spend some more time together before (Y/n) had to leave.

"I'm leaving you the Quinjet in case you have to go on any surprise missions while I'm gone," (Y/n) tells Natasha, the two standing outside Tony Stark's private jet.

"(Y/n), you ready to go?" Pepper's voice comes from behind (Y/n). The (H/C) haired woman sighs and turns around.

"Just a minute, Pep," (Y/n) calls before turning back to Natasha.

(Y/n) wraps her shorter girlfriend in a hug, and whispers, "I love you, see you soon."

"I love you too," Natasha murmurs. "Don't blow your cover," she adds as an afterthought.

"I wont. I'll be back soon," (Y/n) pulls out of the hug, and walks backwards, waving to Nat before walking into the jet.

About two hours later, Pepper and (Y/n) land in Malibu and (Y/n) waits at another jet with her honorary uncle, James Rhodes, her hands clasped behind her back.

After about half-an-hour, her father arrives.

"Sorry, guys," Tony says. "Car trouble."

"I've been standing here for three hours!" Rhodes complains, (Y/n) practically seeing the steam coming out of his ears. "What the hell?!"

"Rhodes, didn't you hear?" (Y/n) asks in a sarcastic tone. "My father had car trouble."

The three board the plane and sit for a while, waiting until they arrive in Afghanistan, (Y/n) keeping her head down as the flight attendants pole dance and whatnot.

(Y/n) catches the conversation between her father and his old friend though as they sip their drinks comfortably.

"You don't get it," Rhodey explains. "I don't work for the military because they paid for my education, or my father's education. Don't cheapen it like that."

"All I said was," Tony says, "with your smarts, your engineering background, you could write your own ticket in teh private sector - on top of which, you wouldn't have to wear that 'straight jacket.'"

"'Straight jacket?'" (Y/n) asks, a frown on her face as Tony and Rhodes look up. "It means something. A chance to make a difference. A chance to do something right."

"She's right man," Rhodes agrees. "You don't respect that, because you don't understand."

Tony motions to one of the flight attendants with a nod. "See that on? Her I understand. Croatian. Hot-blooded, I'm serious. Must be those winters in Zagreb."

"You're not listening to a work I'm saying," Rhodey says, a frown on his face now.

"I am listening. I'm changing the subject. It's the same litany, every time you've had a thimble of alcohol. Drink one: reflections of the New American Century and related topics -"

"Something's seriously wrong with you, man," Rhodes responds.

"Drink two: a history of World War II and the Tuskeegee Flyers," Tony continues, ignoring Rhodey.

(Y/n) sighs loudly, rolling her eyes and pulling out her phone, and starts texting Nat.

(Y/n): Hey, what's going on at home?

Nat ♥: Nothing much

            I'm bored 😣

(Y/n): I'm sorry  😞

            I wish I could be there, you won't believe what I'm dealing with here.

           When should best friends fight for no reason over drinks? Like what?

Nat ♥: I don't know. We fought that one time.

(Y/n): Well, that was my fault, I kept driving. Anyway, I can't wait to come home. Dad is driving me insane over here. 😒

Nat ♥: I'm actually dying over here 😂

"(Y/n), come on, we've got to go," Tony says, and (Y/n) looks up.

"Okay," (Y/n) stands up, sending Natasha one quick text.

(Y/n): I've got to go 😑

           See you soon

            Love you! ♥

Nat ♥: See you! Love you!

(Y/n) smiles, slips her phone into a secret pocket in her leather jacket near her heart and walks off the plane with her father.

Tony exits the plane, fired up to greet the waiting press, (Y/n) reluctantly shaking their hands after Tony.

Then Rhodes exits the plane in his ABUs, weary, squinting in the stinging sun. He pulls on his sunglasses over his bleary eyes.

Three missiles are on a flatbed which had been unloaded from a military jet. They are brought under heavy guard, waiting for a convoy.

Tony is firing a N.R.F. 425 machine gun while the Generals, (Y/n), and Rhodes are sitting on folding chairs behind a safe-zone of Hescos and sand-bags. Afghani soldiers and Air Force security men patrol the perimeter.

The billionaire puts down the machine gun down next to the other weapons, and struts before the Generals like a carnival barker. "The age old question: is it better to be feared or respected? I say, is it too much to ask for both?"

Tony nods at the Jericho missile, which is sitting on a mobile launcher.

"With that in mind, I humbly present the crown and jewel of Stark Industries Freedom Line. It's the first missile system to incorporate my proprietary Repulsor Technology. They say the best weapon is the one you never have to fire. I prefer the one you only have to fire once..." Once Tony finishes this part of the speech, the Jericho roars into the sky from the launcher.

"That's how Dad did it, it's how America does it, and so far its worked out pretty well," Tony continues. "Find an excuse to fire off one of these and I personally guarantee the enemy is not gonna want to leave their caves."

The Jericho divides from a single missile, into tons of mini-missiles.

(Y/n) looks up and watches as her father raises his arms as he continues, "For your consideration, the Jericho..." (Y/n) flinches a little as the mountains behind his outstretched hands explode, the shock-wave blanketing everyone with dust.

(Y/n) shakes her head as her father adds, "Now there's one last creation I haven't shown anyone yet. You might be interested..." He opens a silvery case, ice-smoke curling out. A bottle rises from inside the case along with drink glasses. As Tony pours, the Generals, (Y/n), and Afghani military officials exchange awkward glances.

Tony Stark raises his glass, "To peace, gentlemen, (Y/n)..." (Y/n) rolls her eyes. "And with every purchase of five hundred million, I'll throw in a free one of these."

After a little bit, the Generals get into their own Humvees and depart towards the east. (Y/n), Tony, and Rhodey walk to their waiting convoy, pointing west.

Tony's phone rings and Obadiah Stane pops up on the video phone.

"Hey, what are you doing up?" Tony asks.

"Sleeping," Stane asks, (Y/n) feeling uncomfortable. She had never been a fan of   Obadiah Stane. "How did it go?"

"I think we got an early Christmas coming," Tony answers.

"Sounds good."

"Hey," Tony asks accusingly, "why aren't you wearing the PJs I got you?"

"I don't do monograms. I'm hanging up now, bye-bye." Stane hangs up.

"All right, who wants to ride with me and (Y/n)?" Tony asks. "Jimmy?"

"Me?" Jimmy asks, psyched.

Dazed, Jimmy and the others jump into the lead Humvee, (Y/n) waiting for Tony.

Sorry, Rhodey," Tony says as his old friend walks up, "no room for my conscience in here. Or that dog look," he raises his glass. "See you back at base." Rhodey shakes his head and heads for a different Humvee.

Tony gets in the Humvee before (Y/n), the (H/C) haired woman leaning her head against the window.

The United States military convoy worms through the barren vista of Afghanistan, rock music swelling in the Humvee that (Y/n), Tony, and three younger people.

After a while of silence, Tony speaks, "Oh, I get it. You guys aren't allowed to talk. Is that it? Are you not allowed to talk?"

One of the Airmen grins, fidgeting with his orange New York Mets watch.

"No," Jimmy says. "We're allowed to talk."

"Oh," Tony says, glancing at his silent daughter for a moment. "I see, so it's personal."

"I think they're intimidated," Ramirez, the one in the passenger seat in front of (Y/n), says.

"Good God!" Tony exclaims. "You're a woman!"

(Y/n) frowns as the other try to stifle a laugh.

"I, honestly, I couldn't have called that," Tony says, and after a moment of silence, he continues. "I would apologize, but isn't that what we're going for here? I saw you as a soldier first."

"I have a question, sir," Jimmy says.

"Please."

"Is it true you're twelve for twelve with last years Maxim cover girls?" Jimmy asks.

"Excellent question. Yes and no. March and I had a schedule conflict but, thankfully, the Christmas cover was twins. Anyone else? You, with the hand up?"

"It's a little embarrassing," warns Pratt, the man sitting beside Tony on the left side.

"Join the club," Tony says.

"Can I take a picture with you?" he asks.

"Are you aware that Native American believe photographs steal a little piece of you soul?" Tony asks, and (Y/n) shoots him an incredulous look. "Not to worry, mine's long gone. Fire away."

Pratt, excited, poses as another Airman takes the photo.

A second later, a massive explosion rocks the truck. Through the windshield, (Y/n) straightens, seeing the Humvee in front of them erupt into a fireball.

(Y/n) is flung aside and she sees through the side mirror, the Humvee behind them exploding.

Pandemonium erupts as the Airman are instantly in battle mode. (Y/n) wants to help, but Fury had told her not to blow her cover. No one could find out about her powers until Fury said it was okay.

The three Airman scramble out of the Humvee, shutting Tony and (Y/n) inside.

The father and daughter look at each other, (Y/n)'s eyes wide.

Then she pulls out her phone and calls Natasha, placing the phone back into her secret pocket, hoping Natasha would track the call.

Another explosion sends (Y/n)'s window blowing in, (Y/n) covering her face as glass and shrapnel showers over her.

Tony opens the door and (Y/n) is forced to jump out, (Y/n) taps the Bluetooth thing in her ear, hearing Natasha's frantic questions and flinching at her girlfriend's tone.

"Something's happening!" (Y/n) cries as the Humvee she and Tony were crouching behind blows up. Before it can land on them, (Y/n) pushes Tony out of the way, (Y/n) rolling with the momentum.

"(Y/n)!" Natasha's voice comes from her ear. "What's going on?!"

"We're under fire! Track the call!" (Y/n) tells her, keeping an eye on her father as he moves on, catching sight of an M-16, but the weapon is too hot and he drops it.

"I've got it!" Natasha yells.

"Good, send some -" (Y/n)'s cut off by a loud ping and it thumps into ground beside Tony.

It detonates, throwing Tony back into some rocks, shredding his suit and revealing his body armor underneath.

"Okay, that's not cool," (Y/n) darts over to Tony, his vision flickering in and out. (Y/n) places an arm under his shoulder and pulls him to his feet. "Shit!" (Y/n) curses as another ping sounds and she turns Tony away from the little bomb and (Y/n) gets blasted a couple of feet away, shrapnel embedding itself into her back.

The Bluetooth piece falls out of (Y/n)'s ear and she lands on her front, the impact ending the call.

(Y/n)'s vision fades in and out and she drags herself over to her father, finally passing out next to him.

About an Hour Before

Natasha is lounging on the couch, watching some random movie on Netflix. Sighing, she stands up go go grab something from the fridge, leftovers from the night before. (Y/n) had made burgers and had made a few extras to have some other time.

Taking her burger into the living room, she sits on the floor, her mind wandering over the last few hours.

"I love you so much Nat," (Y/n) murmurs tiredly. Natasha smiles at the memory and her phone buzzes.

(Y/n): Hey, what's going on at home?

Nat: Nothing much

         I'm bored 😣

(Y/n): I'm sorry 😞            I wish I could be there, you won't believe what I'm dealing with here.           When should best friends fight for no reason over drinks? Like what?

Nat: I don't know. We fought that one time.

(Y/n): Well, that was my fault, I kept driving. Anyway, I can't wait to come home. Dad is driving me insane over here. 😒

Natasha laughs, shaking her head slightly.

Nat: I'm actually dying over here 😂

(Y/n): I've got to go 😑            See you soon           Love you! ♥

Natasha smiles at her girlfriend's words. The redhead feels her heart swell as she stares at the two words she thought she would never hear or see from another human being.

Nat: See you! Love you!

Natasha relaxes into the bottom of the couch, a soft smile on her face and she pulls her plate into her lap and hitting the play button on the remote. About forty-five minutes, Natasha is finally getting invested in the movie, when her phone rings.

Feeling a little confused at seeing (Y/n)'s name, Natasha hits the answer button and her eyes widen at the sounds of explosions.

"(Y/n)! What's going on?!" Natasha asks frantically.

"Something's happening!" (Y/n) exclaims over another explosion.

"(Y/n)!" Natasha asks again. "What's going on?!"

"We're under fire! Track the call!" (Y/n) tells Natasha. The redhead darts downstairs and into (Y/n)'s lab, sliding into the desk chair and typing in the password and plugging in the phone in the call tracking app that (Y/n) had installed onto her laptop for emergencies.

"I've got it!" Natasha yells after a moment.

"Good, send some -" (Y/n)'s cut off by a loud ping that even Natasha could here, and a thumps into ground. It detonates, and Natasha's eyes widen in fear, hoping that the worst hadn't happened. "Okay, that's not cool," (Y/n) says, grunting and Natasha is able to breath again.

"Shit!" (Y/n) curses as another ping sounds and then the call ends, with Natasha staring at the phone in shock.

Natasha pulls her phone off the plugin and takes a picture of the call's origin, and dials Clint's number. "Clint, we've got a problem?"

Clint freezes at the distress in Natasha's voice. "Nat? What is it?"

"(Y/n)'s been kidnapped!" Natasha answers. Clint's eyes widen in horror, Laura turning to stare at her husband, the brunette having heard since the phone had been on speaker.

Word Count: 3225 words

Well... Here you go...

Was this the father / daughter time y'all were asking for?

No?  Sorry...

I promise I'm not heartless...

Anyway, I've got to go on to work on another book now.

See y'all!

Love - Did you catch that scene at the beginning?

            Kaitlynn ❤😍

Imma tag peoples now: @confusinggemini612, @gay-disaster826, @thelastavenger-3000, @osugahunnyicedtea, @night-howl199, @minicastle, @happilyeverafterfantasybooks, @billiebanner, @me-and-sweatpants, @scottjudah, @scarlet-raccoon, @whore-for-charlynch, @nyx-aria, @night-howl199, @brittanyrenne2004, @juegamiri29, @minicastle, @peggycarter-steverogers, @gay-disaster826, @guitargodme, @avengers-avenging, @natashadeservedbetter2​

[docholligay]

A Degree of Pride

A Patreon release in preparation for my Favorite 12 Fics of the Year post. Originally commissioned by the great @yamadara87, so please have some tender MaS feelings?? 2100 words.

For most of her young life, Haruka Tenoh had considered herself stupid.

She would not have admitted this, at seventeen, sitting cross-legged on the broken couch Haruka could never get clean, not really,  in front of the window in her apartment, a magazine on her lap that she was only half-reading, her school notes tucked into her bag, far away from prying eyes. As if her mother would care, even if she left it pinned to the empty fridge.

She wouldn’t have needed to read them. Haruka certainly didn’t. They always said the same things, and had since she was a little girl. Oh, it always started out with compliments. Haruka was eager. Haruka was very gentle with the class guinea pig. Haruka tried to help the other girls with their backpacks and muddy boots. But they always went the same way, descending gently down the slope, and her grandmother’s smile always turned into a frown.. Haruka seems to struggle with reading. Haruka has trouble with her temper and gets frustrated easily. Haruka’s test scores need to be discussed.

All of it boiled down to a simple fact that Haruka had come to learn very well: She was stupid.

Michiru had never accepted any of this. From the time she had come to know Haruka, and more importantly, to love her, Michiru had always expressed admiration for Haruka’s mind. She was quick to point out Haruka’s skill in the garage, the way her mind looked at machines and seemed to instinctively know where the gears went, where the belts connected. She would point out pictures of Haruka as a child, noting how she created such beautiful structures from the patchwork of bricks and legos and tinkertoys Haruka had managed to gather. The way a car or a motorcycle or any such thing seemed to mold with her body instantly, responsive.

Not all of intelligence is found in a laboratory or a recital hall, she would say, and Haruka would believe that she believed it, but that didn’t make it true, anymore than it had been true that Usagi could save the world without hurting anyone or anyone being hurt. Usagi believed that too, with her whole heart.

But it didn’t matter that she was stupid. She was handsome and athletic and independent and got to work with cars, and this would carry her as far as she needed to run.

And then, she wasn’t anymore. Usagi’d been wrong, you see.

It had been thirteen years since Usagi had been wrong. Since her whole world had burned to dust, the few blooms that she had in her favor withered and dead. Since Haruka Tenoh saw the big red mark at the top of her life and had quite nearly considered dropping out of it altogether.

But because she was stupid, she hadn’t realized in that moment that things do grow back. Gardens can come to life again. She’d figured out how to take care of herself again, and even more so discovered that sometimes it was no sign of weakness to let Michiru lower a kitchen countertop or Mina grab her a soda from downstairs. She’d designed her garage to be played in once more, and smelled of oil and grease and contentment. She had found she quite liked playing basketball, and was better at it that she’d thought she’d ever be, and once more a jersey rested in the corner of her room.  She even caught herself, from time to time and more and more, looking in the mirror and smiling at what she saw, her warm Papa aesthetic softening her edges to a gentle but undeniably handsome effect.

Color had reentered her life, and these things combined with the unspeakable joy of her children had made her life a happy one, and mostly Haruka Tenoh would say that her life was a pleasant one, minor frustrations be damned. But still there remained the bare spot that had ever been, as much as Haruka nodded and agreed when people said she was gifted in a mechanical way, it never meant anything to her. She had barely graduated high school. She was not meant to be a smart person.

Why she had written in to Tire Track, she wasn’t entirely sure. Well, she was sure, they had been wrong about the discussion of grip between asphalt and concrete on race tracks, but why she’d written an entire rebuttal over her keyboard while Kimi had napped instead of doing the laundry, that was less certain.

What had been even more surprising was Tire Track’s request that she form the rebuttal into a one-off column.

It had been one audited class in Writing for Journalism, just one vain hope that she could maybe write a few more pieces, that she could have a little side job. That it wouldn’t just have to be hobby mechanics anymore, but that she could have a small paycheck that they never needed.

If it had just been about money, Michiru wouldn’t have gone to work for the symphony. It was about pride, too.

M.A. had been five when Haruka’s journalism professor talked her into enrolling. She’d wheeled through the front doors as a freshman, and she’d pored over her Algebra and Biology and English books every night, and Michiru had beamed from the door of their living room, and Mina had practiced English with her every day, though Haruka still wasn’t sure if every word she taught her was completely the way Mina seemed to define them.

At the end of her first semester, Haruka had come home from her last final to find Michiru’s studio spirited up the attic stairs, and the room she had been using with a lovely dark wood desk in the corner, a soft a comfortable couch up against the wall with a neat table and lamp next to it, low, long, bookshelves opposite them.

She’d tried to protest. This was Michiru’s studio, and the room in the attic was smaller, and she didn’t need an office, all she did was type out a few articles here and there and take a few classes. But Michiru would hear none of it.

“Haruka, my darling, don’t be absurd. We can hardly have a columnist and a scholar in the family without a proper study.”

Haruka could still hear her. The strength and pride in her voice, the smile as she looked about the office she had so obviously taken such care to customize for Haruka.

Haruka moved from her thoughts, and studied herself in the mirror. M.A. was thirteen now, and full of vinegar, and while she would never be so young again to call Haruka Papa (Haruka was rather grateful when she moved to Pop, after a brief attempt to call her Haruka was immediately answered with Michiru’s quick correction,) and while she would claim that her parents made her crazy, she still sometimes flopped down on Haruka’s couch to text her friends or read a magazine, Kimi and Haruka quietly studying across from each other at Haruka’s desk. Haruka could not have imagined that her little two year old would prove be such a genius, but here she was, ten years old and already tackling the algebra that hadn’t reached Haruka until she was thirty.

Haruka was no genius. It had taken her eight years of slow work, but here she was, sitting in front of the mirror in their bedroom wearing a graduation gown. Here she was, an official columnist for a top car magazine. Sometimes, now, when they went to events and galas, it was because Haruka had been invited, and Michiru was the plus one. Haruka had gone to Germany, something not even Ami had ever managed to do.

And yet, she could not quite get that flower to bloom, the one that believed that she wasn’t stupid after all. It still seemed like they would take her degree and claim they’d made a mistake, Haruka hadn’t passed after all. She rubbed at her pants, straightening them once more under her gown. Why it seemed to matter that they weren’t wrinkled when no one could see them, she wasn’t sure, but it suddenly seemed crucial.

The tie looked ugly. Why had she picked that tie? She pulled it off her neck and tossed it on the bed, sighing heavily as she rolled back toward the closet. Why was she even going? She should just have them mail the certificate instead of showing up there, a nearly forty year old woman among a bunch of kids who were younger than she’d been when she’d had a kid.

“Haruka?” Michiru’s voice preceded her into the room, and its owner followed as elegantly as as a whisper of perfume.

Haruka stared at her ties for another moment, and then wheeled around to face Michiru, unsnapping the button at her throat.

“I don’t think I’m gonna go.”

Michiru paused a for a moment and looked at Haruka, who did not meet her gaze. “Well,” she continued kindly, “Makoto will be disappointed, she’s made quite the cake for the occasion.”

Haruka shrugged and ran her hands along the rims of her wheels. ‘We can still go out to dinner or something. I know you’ve got it planned.”

Michiru sat down on bed and delicately crossed one leg over the other. “May I inquire as to the sudden disinterest in the ceremony? We can, of course, simply go to the dinner, but I do believe there are a great many people looking forward to seeing you recieve your degree.”

Haruka wheeled over close to her and shook her head. “I dunno.”

“Haruka, please.”

She sighed, but did not argue. It was silly to play games, when she and Michiru knew each other so well and for so long.

“I just--I’m old to do this, and it makes me look--I” She huffed, but then put her hand up and allowed herself a moment to collect her thoughts into an expressible condition. “I feel stupid. I feel like this was way harder than it should have been, and I’m, you know embarrassed.”

���Hm. Yes.” Michiru thoughtfully glanced up at the ceiling, and then took Haruka’s hand, placing her other on top of it. “Haruka, you and I have never had a conventional life, or a conventional course. Would you not say that is fair?”

“Yeah.” Haruka rubbed her thumb against Michiru’s hand.

“If we believe this to be true, why should this be any different? You were rather occupied with raising a family, and, might I add, creating a career for yourself, both of which you have done successfully.” She slipped her hand away to touch Haruka’s cheek. “Even after all these years, you struggle to see what you are. You are a writer and an athlete and a wonderful wife and mother. They are only students, and have a great deal of growing to do. When I think of you, I think of your many, many, talents, and how you chose to pick something a bit harder. Because you, as always, are ever so brave and tireless.” She kissed Haruka softly. “I am so very proud of you, Haruka Tenoh. You are a wonderful example to our girls. And to me. To our friends, all of which are so delighted to support you today. And I imagine you are to your classmates as well.”

“I love you so much.” Haruka nuzzled her forehead against Michiru’s, and blinked back a tear. She leaned back, and nodded. “I want to go.”

“Now, you old softie,” Michiru giggled, “I do admit this tie was a bit of a misstep. You have so many lovely ties, there’s no reason we can’t find something striking.”

Haruka pictured herself wheeling up the stage, of shaking the dean’s hand and taking her diploma. Usagi would be there snapping pictures, as Mina grinned, a gleam in her eye. Rei would huff and glower but she would have a neatly wrapped gift, the card reminding Haruka of how she’d tutored her in communications and math and attempted to tutor her in literally every other subject, including ones she had never taken before. Her girls would see how hard she tried, and how much she worked to be a Papa they could be proud of.

She would look at herself, and see someone she could be proud of.

Somewhere, in that little patch of earth that could be called Haruka’s heart, a flower bloomed.

[fc5holidayexchange]

An Inconvenient Longing

T- Rating: mentions of violence.

Hey, hey, Happy Holidays! My beta and I had to co-write some of this, especially the end, because I was running a fever for most of the last two weeks. I hope this is okay.

Rook first thought Joseph Seed only referred to his brothers and counterfeit sister as his family. Father, after all, was a common enough title for a priest. None of the Seeds used social media but some members had profiles hiding in strange little corners of the web. Yet, as the investigation wore on, those rare profiles disappeared. The idea filled Rook with a strange longing to delete their own profiles. What had one of the audio files of Seed's sermons said again?

Our family does not live in the digital cloud, or some bullshit.

Yet, like most mildly inconvenient things, Rook shook the longing off. Marshal Cameron Burke made it even easier to shove the feeling into the back of their mind. A kind description of Burke would be 'dedicated to his job'. Rook mentally deemed him a self-important asshole the moment he waltzed into the station. Still, someone had to arrest the guy.

The strange longing didn't strike Rook again until a few days into the Resistance. As they scouted the Durbman Marina one night, they caught sight of a female cultist kicking a vending machine. Although his gentle whisper could barely be made out over Mrs. Durbman's irate words, a male cultist reacted with strange familiarity. "Sister, calm your wrath, please. What would the Father think?"

The two looked nothing alike, didn't even pass as the same race. Rook watched as the woman relaxed into the touch. They didn't catch her response over the sound of their own heartbeat. They fled the scene, and tried to squash the longing. True, Montana was not Rook's home. The other deputies and Whitehorse were not their family. The other fighters were barely even friends. Still, Rook had a job to do.

Learning new skills became the easiest way to distract themselves. Want to lure a Peggie away from a hostage? Blow up a car nearby. Bow hunting? Well, Rook didn't consider themselves to be much of an outdoors person but ammo and food didn't buy themselves. Want to learn rock climbing? Sure, grappling hooks can be useful. Those ridiculous stunt courses some local hero set up? Why not!

It didn't take long for Rook to start traveling alone. They cleared entire outposts without alerting a soul. The missions turned into a twisted but soothing routine. First, survey the area, choke someone out, drag their body to a dark corner, loose an arrow at someone else, turn off the alarms, and call in the Resistance. Rook suspected that they'd need therapy after this violence but that inconvenient line of thought got pushed down with the longing.

Of course, the Seeds didn't let Rook do this undisturbed. Jacob called it 'playing soldier' and threw them into a red-tinted world of horror. Pratt, poor, downtrodden, equally broken Pratt, told them they shouldn't have come. Boy, did they believe it. Fleeing the north made sense. Faith pulled them into The Bliss twice. Images swirled in Rook's head. The Marshal's leap. Jackalopes. Joseph's Vision. The world covered in ashes. No, not ashes. Nuclear. Fucking. Fall. Out.

Oh Lord, the Great Collapse. 

They moved to into Holland Valley. It only took a few interrupted baptisms, complete with drowned VIPs, and exploded silos for John to take notice. Rook's own baptism came with Bliss sparkles and too little oxygen. They stopped drowning VIPs after their escape.

The people of Fall's End did great things to squash the longing. Welcoming folks, with warm flannel and lukewarm beer. Boomer, a trusty old dog, became Rook's constant companion. The Spread Eagle turned into a place that felt like home. Rook saw themselves fitting right in here, when the dust and gunpowder settled. Not a Montanan by blood or upbringing, but by sheer grit.

It all changed when John took Rook again. It should have been straight forward. Get out, preferably quietly, and get back to Fall's End and Boomer. Rook prepared to jump a man kneeling for prayer. Unfortunately, the longing had other plans. The prayer, a simple 'help me accept these people', struck deep. Despite the fact that these people were doing evil, this one man had nearly pure intentions. 

Rook didn't mean to cry. They went from a crouch to sitting awkwardly on the floor like a child.

The man startled and grabbed his baseball bat. "Hello?" Then, just like that, he was squatting in front of them. "Aren't you the Junior Deputy?"

Rook nodded once.

"My name is Eric. Is Rook your name or just something the sheriff's department calls you?"

"It's my first name, yeah. I picked it myself," they croaked.

Eric took a deep breath, straightened up, and offered his hand. "Let's get you back where you belong before John becomes too wrathful. You'll have to confess to trying to escape."

Rook nodded and followed behind Eric. They ignored the staring eyes of the other Peggies until they got back to the torture room. John came bursting through the door they were about to enter. "Brother John, I found Rook."

Rook watched, fascinated, as the televangelist facade slipped onto John's face. Before he could say anything, they blurted out, "My sin is Envy."

John smile turned dark. "Confessions are private, Brother Eric."

"Good luck, Rook." Rook stepped back into the blood soaked room with John. The door slammed and Rook flinched.

"We'll have to do this on the floor, Deputy, since you destroyed your chair. Sit."

Rook found a spot that was mostly dry and sat ungratefully. With their shirt collar ripped, the room felt cold. "What happens now?"

John knelt beside them with a roll of duct tape. "Legs out straight. I need to make sure you won't escape. You must reach Atonement."

Consenting to it all felt strange. John quickly cocooned Rook's legs in tape, like some redneck mermaid. Unlike Eric, there was no compassion or affection in John's eyes. He seemed excited as he moved his equipment to floor level. The light shined painfully in Rook's eyes. "This isn't meant to be comfortable. Let's start at the beginning."

"Well, I said my sin was Envy."

Rook should have expected the smack but it still stung.

"I mean your beginning, dear Deputy."

***

It took hours of punches, smacks, and swallow cuts for John to accept Rook's rather undramatic life story as truth. He examined everything for truth. Yes, their birthday really was Christmas. No, there's no deep reason why they aren't close to their retired parents anymore. Yes, they'd legally changed their name to Rook when they were 22 and stupid just because they wanted to. Weren't you a lawyer John? Those things are public record. Fuck, there wasn't even a noble reason they moved to Montana and joined the Sheriff's Department. It was just a job.  They were pretty confident they had never spoken about themselves that much. Everything hurt, seven their throat. Satisfied, John stood. "Now, why Envy?"

Through their sore throat, they whispered, "I envy the Project's sense of community." The room fell into a tense silence. Rook closed their eyes, expecting a kick. 

"Why is that a sin, Deputy?" Since they closed their eyes, they only felt John push the ripped fabric of their shirt aside and the tattoo gun buzz to life. "Come on now, open your eyes."

Rook didn't. "Because there's a community in Fall's End that isn't a brutal, murdering, doomsday cult?" The attempt at snark came out weak, with a questioning tone that turned into a painful cough.

"No, Deputy, try again. Surely you can figure it out." The buzzing temporarily stopped. "Hold still. It's not supposed to be only an E."

Rook took a deep breath to stop the coughing fit and raced through every impression they had of the cult and John. What did he want them to say? It was the truth. In those moments of profound loneliness, they could have gone to the jail, or the Whitetail Milita or talked to Father Jerome instead of the dog. As far as they could tell, it was an honest confession. They opened their eyes.

John sighed, then stood again, walking back his tool bench. "Deputy, Deputy, Deputy. Should we add pride as well?"

"Joseph does disappointed better than you." A familiar flash of anger crossed his features, like the moment he almost drowned them. Inspiration hit and the lie tumbled out. "I should have said yes. I could have turned myself in at any time. What I wanted was right there and I was too prideful to say yes. Instead, I fought against what I wanted."

"Are you going to say yes now, Deputy? Will you work towards Atonement?"

"Yes."

***

Rook came out of that bunker with three tattoos: Envy, Pride, and Wrath. John explained the last one for them. "You don't kill that many people without being fueled by anger, Deputy." They hadn't expected to come out at all. Waiting for the Collapse in a cell in an abandoned missile silo seemed fitting somehow. Yet, Joseph wanted to ensure a genuine conversion. Rook moved into the Invidia dorm on his little island with only a single radio announcement of their conversion.

Before returning to the island, Rook assumed Joseph's compound housed some of the elites. Instead, it housed everyday Peggies. Devout, yes, but they weren't major players. The only thing they seemed to have in common was a need for Joseph's direct attention. Many beds were empty. On duty elsewhere or dead, Rook didn't dare ask.

A certain familiarity coursed through the compound. Everyone knew everyone's name. Rook expected the Peggies to use all sorts of cruel nicknames for their newest convert but instead 'sibling' slipped out.

Like he did with most people, Joseph called Rook his child, and, more surprisingly, little lamb. Rook's role appeared to be following him, just like Mary's lamb. Rook wasn't extra security, even though they were trained. They weren't allowed weapons. Part of their conditions of atoning for wrath, according to John. Rook didn't understand why Joseph wanted them near. Part of them longed to know but it terrified them

By day three of prayers, sermons, and the random things like gardening, canning, and laundry, Joseph realized Rook wasn't speaking. The group that didn't have guard shifts were eating lunch. Most sat around a picnic table. Those with prominent Sloth tattoos stood. "I watched the play back of your confession, my child. Did I miss the part where you took a vow of silence?"

It took a moment for Rook to catch that he was teasing. "I--I'm sorry?" A rather unfortunate voice crack and a cleared throat later, they tried again. "I'm sorry. I've never been super talkative. I work alone, usually."

"You aren't alone now," a Peggie said. "You have us."

The words, the lie, slipped out naturally. The longing for it not to be a lie bubbled up but they squashed it. "And I'm thankful for it. I just need time to process this."

"Of course you do." Joseph's sympathetic smile seemed almost genuine.

Things fell into a routine. For two weeks, things stayed peaceful. Rook even let themselves smile and relax around Joseph and the cultists. Simple touches stopped making them flinch. Joseph let them work alone with the others while he prayed. Rook helped wherever they were needed. Weapons were still, regretfully, off limits. Rook understood why, but the lull in action made all the inconvenient thoughts simmer on the surface.

Then, Faith's body washed onto the compound's boat dock. An attempt to take the jail must have gone horribly wrong. Rook had to shut down the part of their brain that enjoyed investigation. Instead, they watched Joseph mourn. Joseph filmed the eulogy alone, just the two of them and a camera on tripod.

Rook stood awkwardly near the door of the Church. "My children, a seal has been open."

Rook quietly stepped outside the church, leaving Joseph to his broadcast. Sitting on the floor, or in this case, the ground, had become an unexpected past time. Rook at for as long as was reasonable and then returned to work.

No new Faith took the mantle but Rook briefly wondered if Joseph meant for them to take the job. He never broached the topic. Joseph withdrew, spending more and more time praying and fasting in the church. Rook made themselves indispensable around compound.

Rook consciously recognized the moment they started believing in the coming Collapse. While waiting for some freshly and taking a break in some shade, it dawned on them. The government didn't react to a Federal Marshal going missing or an entire county going off the map. Hope had decommissioned missile silos. Was that information declassified? Was Hope a target?

Joseph appeared seemingly from nowhere. "My child."

"Father. Forgive my sloth." Rook got to their feet.

"You see now."

"I do." It felt like another confession but they couldn't force out an apology. Something bad coming didn't excuse the kidnapping and murder. Their eyes went to the fence around the property. Despite the longing, they were technically a prisoner.

He did that strange forehead touch. "Child, I have news. Sheriff Whitehorse and Marshal Burke are dead. They were beyond saving."

"Oh." Rook blinked. They expected some inconvenient feelings but nothing came up. It was as if they'd been made blank. "I was only a Deputy for a few months, Father. And, this is an unchristian to say, forgive me, I didn't particularly like Burke. We'd only just met."

"I assumed they were your friends."

"No, Father." Rook didn't feel the need to explain further. "I didn't belong there."

"Do you see where you belong now?" Joseph asked.

"Here?" That longing, inconvenient as it was, surged. Shame came along with it. Murderers, kidnappers, thieves, and Rook wanted to be one of them. Although they would never admit it out loud, they'd been interested in the cult from the beginning.

"Yes, my child. This is your home."

Rook sank into the feeling, the longing finally gone.

[nomettesbizzareadventure]

CaeJose Week 2018 // “Future”

    The night after Joseph retrieves his adorable pissy nerd grandson and his purple friend from prison, he gets a phone call from Suzie. It must be early in the morning in New York- he can hear the sound of water kettle heating up and dishes clinking as Roses prepares breakfast, and he feels a sudden stab of jealousy that he’s not there with her.

    “Caesar’s on his way to you,” Suzie says, her voice uncharacteristically serious.

    “Caesar?” Joseph says. He and Caesar have always orbited each other like planets, but in the years since Holly moved to Japan their contact has been more and more infrequent, their lives stretched out between New York and England and Los Angeles and Rome. The last time Joseph saw Caesar, they were at Lisa Lisa’s funeral, shoulder to shoulder with her coffin between them. Lisa Lisa was more of a mother to Caesar than she was to him, and while Joseph didn’t resent either of them for it, it meant that he didn’t have anything to say- not to Caesar, and not to the gravestone. Afterwards, they went out and got incredibly smashed, and for about six hours Joseph felt like he was 18 again. But that was months ago, and they haven't spoken since.

    “He’s worried about this whole business with the stands,” Suzie reports.

    “He’s always worried,” Joseph complains, but he’s not really annoyed. It’s starting to look like they’ll need all the backup they can get.

    “Did he tell you about his stand?” Suzie asks, and giggles at Joseph’s obvious surprise.

    “OH MY GOD?! A stand- how- where did he- when- Suzie, what does it do?!”

    “Well, if he didn’t tell you, I don’t think I should…” Suzie says coyly.

    “Suzie, baby, angel, sweetheart, you can’t just-”

    Joseph’s conversation with Suzie is interrupted by Jotaro appearing ominously in his doorway, dressed in a Queen tank top and pajama pants and exuding ominous vibes in every direction.

    “I’m trying to sleep. Keep it down, gramps.” Joseph tries, he really does, but he fails to get any more information out of Suzie and after fifteen minutes Jotaro reappears, silently crushes the phone into dust, and then goes back to sleep. It’s hard being a genius, Joseph reflects sadly as he ticks himself into bed. No one appreciates him.

    The next day Jotaro comes home with an unconscious boy slung over his shoulder and then rescues his new friend from vampire tentacle. Joseph will give this to Jotaro- he might be a bad-tempered little brat, but at least he has the composure and skills to back up his scowls.  Of course, he immediately leaves after his rescue, probably embarrassed to have done something nice for another human being, and Joseph is left to explain to Kakyoin that he’s been under control by a sexy vampire for several weeks.

    Kakyoin takes it about as well as anyone can considering the circumstances, which is to say that he excuses himself to the bathroom and doesn’t come out for a long period of time. Joseph suspects he’s crying, or trying not to cry. Teenagers.

    Between this and that, Joseph entirely forgets about Caesar until about 7 the next morning, when someone comes careening into their driveway, motor loud enough to wake the dead, brakes squealing like a subway train, opera music playing at full blast. One last scream from the lead singer, and the car switches off. There’s the sound of a door slamming shut, and then the beep-beep of a car being locked.

    Caesar’s here, Joseph thinks, and then he’s clambering out of bed and putting his clothes on. A minute later and he’s at the door. He can see Caesar’s pink rental car through the window; it sits among the tasteful gardens of the Kujo estate like a stripper at church.

Caesar himself is waiting impatiently at the door, beautiful as ever. He’s the only bastard Joseph knows who could hop on a flight from Italy to Japan and come out looking the kind of disheveled that models spend hours in the makeup studio trying to achieve. His hair is a fine light blond, just beginning to shade to white, and he looks closer to thirty than to sixty, the wide muscle of his shoulder framed by his crop-top and elbow length gloves. At the sight of Joseph, a pink and blue humanoid flashes into existence behind him and poses, one finger pointed in Joseph’s direction.

Caesar grins real wide at Joseph’s shocked expression and throws his head back, his stand combing its fingers through his hair.

“I call it Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy,” Caesar says. His stand blows Joseph a kiss, and a pink bubble emerges from its lips and floats through the air. Curious, Joseph reaches for the bubble with his mechanical arm. It pops. A curious tingle passes through his body, and he finds that the entire left side of his body has gone numb.

“Hey,” he starts to protest, and Caesar grins and grabs Joseph in a headlock. They scuffle for a bit before Hermit Purple can finally get a grip on Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy and make it reverse the effect, which it does with a delicate kiss.

“Not dead yet, I see,” Caesar jeers. It’s a long-standing contention between them that Joseph doesn’t practice his hamon training as much as Caesar thinks he should. When Joseph’s hair first started to go white, Caesar took it as a personal insult.

    “You’re two years older than me!” Joseph responds, like he always does. Holly comes out of the house, and all the levity drains out of Caesar’s face. It’s only a moment and then his smile is plastered back on, but Joseph knows Caesar well enough to know when he’s bluffing.

    “Holly!” Caesar says, pulling her into a hug. They exchange enthusiastic greetings, but Joseph can tell something’s wrong. Caesar’s stand is hovering behind Holly, hand outstretched over her back like it wants to touch but can’t.

    “It’s been such a long time since we’ve had this much company,” Holly says, laughing. “Are you here to help Papa?”

    “I am,” Caesar says, and kisses her forehead. Holly’s eyelashes flutter, and goes limp. There’s something growing all along her back, thorns and vines, and Joseph doesn’t need to catch Caesar’s eyes to know what it is. A stand. A parasitic stand.

    “Holly,” he says, and his voice trembles in his throat.

    “This is your fault,” Caesar says quietly. The one big argument, the one that nearly brought down their house, the one that kept Ceasar from talking to Joseph for nearly a year- was about teaching Holly the ripple. Caesar wanted her to learn. He said that there were more monsters in the world than either of them knew about, and that it was an important tradition, and that Lisa Lisa would have wanted her to know, and then as the argument progressed he called Joseph negligent and lazy and selfish and, well...

    They both said a lot of things that they would regret later, but Holly never learned the ripple. Joseph wanted her to have a better life than Caesar had, a better life than Lisa Lisa had, and here she is, her life leaking out of her drip by drip by drip.

    “What’s wrong with her?” Jotaro demands. Joseph didn’t even see him appear.

    “Her stand is killing her,” Caesar says, and Jotaro’s face goes pale and furious, his stand looming behind him. After that, a lot of things happen in quick succession. The Speedwagon Foundation is called. Jotaro’s stand discovers a new talent for zoological artwork. Plane tickets are booked. Suitcases are packed.

    Caesar comes to Joseph when he’s in his room packing and shuts the door, and Joseph thinks for a moment that it’s going to be bad.

    “If you’ve come here to gloat at me over my daughter’s unconscious body I will beat the shit out of you,” he says, and means it. Caesar pauses, and then he keeps walking. He comes to a stop in front of Joseph, and then grabs him in a hug.

    “Dumbass,” he says. A lump rises in Joseph’s throat. He’s not a crybaby, whatever Caesar might accuse him of. He can hold it together for as long as he needs to, and right now it’s looking like that will be forty days and forty nights, god- the timer on his little girl’s life. Still, he lets Caesar hug him. He misses the days when they used to cuddle in the tower while insisting that they weren’t cuddling and Caesar would let Joseph fall asleep in his lap. It’s terrible, what time does to people, how far it takes you from the things you care about.

“I wish I’d been wrong,” Caesar says, and that gets a muffled laugh out of  Joseph. Caesar gives great hugs. He’s huge, solid, the feel of his body familiar even after all these years.

“You? Wrong?” Joseph says. “I’m sure that never happens, Caesar-chan.”

“I’m glad you can admit it at last,” Caesar says, pulling back from him. “We’ll do this, Joseph. Just like last time.”

“If I recall correctly, I did most of the work last time,” Joseph says, earning him a scowl from Caesar.

“That’s a failure on both our parts, then, since you hate work,” Caesar retaliates.

“You’re mean,” Joseph says, but he’s smiling. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too, Old Man,” Caesar says, and Joseph winces.

“Don’t say that, it makes you sound like Jotaro.”

“Oh, you don’t want me to call you Jiji? You’re right, I don’t want to imply that I respect you.” Caesar may be the last remaining ripple master and have a shiny new stand and this and that, but at the end of the day Joseph can put him in a headlock until his hair looks awful and his face is pink, and that’s what really matters.

                        Kakyoin takes the initiative to order in some food, and they all troop outside to eat by the river while the doctors set up inside the house. None of them really want to watch as Holly is hooked up to their machines. As they’re trooping over the bridge and back towards the house, Jotaro’s new tentacle friend declares his intention to come with on their trip.

    “What use are you going to be?” Caesar asks. Behind Kakyoin’s back, Jotaro’s eyebrows go up slightly. He and Caesar have always gotten along well. Before Jotaro was a punk, he was the kind of nerd that admired Caesar’s flashy clothes and sweet words, and Joseph’s always suspected that he took up smoking in imitation of his ‘cool uncle.’

    “I beg your pardon,” Kakyoin says politely, and then Caesar goes careening over the edge of the bridge and comes to a stop just shy of the water, a piece of Hierophant Green wrapped around his ankle. Joseph didn’t see Kakyoin summon it, so he can only assume it was lurking under the bridge. He reluctantly awards Kakyoin points for preparation and audacity.

“Is that all,” Caesar says, laughing. Lover Boy pries Hierophant Green’s tentacle loose from his ankle, and Caesar flips over backwards onto the pond. He lands on the surface of the water like a gymnast sticking a landing. “I asked what use you were going to be, not your stand.”

Kakyoin looks flabbergasted. Behind him, Jotaro also looks surprised, or what passes for surprised with Jotaro. He really shouldn’t be. It’s not as if Joseph hasn’t told him about the ripple.

“Kids these days are so spoiled,” Joseph says. A snap of his fingers and the water rises, in an unnatural wave, depositing Caesar back on the bridge. Caesar strikes a pose like a model on a runway, his hand braced on Joseph’s shoulder. They’re standing in pairs now, Caesar and Joseph on the right, Kakyoin and Jotaro facing them on the left. Joseph knows the next step to this dance, even if the kids don’t.

Sure enough, Caesar’s stand strikes a pose behind them, and then the air is filled with bubbles. Kakyoin tries to move, but Hermit Purple’s got him pinned to the spot- and Jotaro too. It won’t hurt Joseph’s grandson to be reminded of the advantages of experience and trickery over power and youth.  The bubbles pop, and Kakyoin and Jotaro are locked into place, unable to move. Joseph winks. It feels good to stand like this, shoulder to shoulder with Caesar, united in their quest against an unknown foe. It feels like fate, like every step he took in the last decade was bringing him here to Caesar’s side.

    “Caesar,” Joseph says. “Let’s show them how it’s done!”

Written for CaeJose week 2018, for the prompt of “Future”. I’ve always wanted to see an SDC au with Caesar in it. I think he and Jotaro would bond over their love of cigarettes and being mean to Joseph.

The name of Caesar’s stand stolen from the incredibly funny Havisham and her wonderful CaeJose fics.

A big thank-you to the organizers for putting this together! : 3

[prorevenge]

International House of Payback

(TW: Some blood loss) Recently remembered the time I inadvertently caused a mutiny at my place of employment when I was in high school and decided to share.

NB: Into the way back machine, it’s the late 90’s and I had recently moved from one state to another. In the process of doing so, a lot of household things had to be moved out of storage. The amount of dust that had accumulated, while not excessive, was enough to cause me to have multiple sneezing fits. To the point where, by the time we got everything unpacked in new state, I had blown a blood vessel in each nostril of my nose. After copious nosebleeds, I go to the doctor and get them fixed (chemical cauterization).

On to the meat:

After the move (and doctors visit) I quickly get a part time server job a well known breakfast restaurant. The management was fairly crappy but nothing too outrageous. Well, one afternoon I’m restocking the tables in my section, more specifically, the pepper shakers. As pepper is wont to do, it irritates my nose, setting off a short sneezing fit. I end up getting a fairly mild nosebleed compared to what I had been suffering, so I figured it was probably an anomaly and I’d be fine.

The next day at school, something (and I cannot remember what) set me off and the dam had broken. In BOTH nostrils. I get picked up, go to the doc and get an electrical cauterization. The doc specifically tells me that I need to stay away from triggers as much as possible for a few days at least, so I have a chance to heal properly.

Since I’m scheduled to work that night, I dutifully call my manager and let them know what’s up and that I cannot work. I was summarily told that since it was a Friday night, I had zero choice in the matter and I better show or I was out of a job. I am pissed. Even after I had explained everything the doctor said and let them know I had a doctors note, they still demanded I come in because it’s one of the busiest nights. They even had the audacity to imply that it couldn’t be anywhere near as bad as I said and I was making it up.

So that’s when I decide to say fuck it. If they want to run the risk of me bleeding on tables, counters, food, and customers alike, then so be it. So I head in to work about a half hour early and head to the “break room” (it barely qualified as a broom closet), where a handful of my similarly aged colleagues are coming in and out. I, of course, regale everyone of my plight. Fun Fact: when I get angry/frustrated, I tend to cry. Usually it’s a trait that sucks, but this night it worked completely in my favor. My esteemed teenage coworkers already had a large disdain for the management and their treatment of their underage slave workers (it’s honestly been so long that I can’t remember the specific crap they pulled, except for a tendency to keep us there hours past close for asinine reasons). So when my tears of anger, misinterpreted as those of pain & despair, began to fall while recounting their demand to put not only my health in danger, but everyone else’s too, something snapped. An idea was born.

This idea grew like a living organism, winding its way to the entire server crew on shift that night, at breakneck speed. They’d had enough. None of this was to be tolerated. I’m convinced the dulcet sounds of Twisted Sister’s “We’re Not Gonna Take It” started playing softly in the background. I don’t know who lit the first spark, but I clearly remember when the ship went down in flames.

As one, every server, regardless of if they were clocked in, waiting to clock in, or had tables, took off our aprons, left them in the break room, and walked out the front door. All without saying a word. We piled into our cars and drove across the street to another restaurant and grabbed a window seat.

We were effectively Nero, fiddling while Rome burned.

As the Friday night dinner rush progressed, we watched car after car pull into the parking lot and, after a few minutes, each of those cars leave. I’m sure when the unsuspecting diners walked in, saw that things were ridiculously backed up and chaotic, they noped right the fuck out of there. It still hadn’t let up hours later.

Not really sure what happened in the short term, but being a huge national chain, it’s still kicking two decades later. All of the mutineers swiftly got new jobs at different restaurants around town.

Please remember that I was 16-17 years old at this point, as was every server scheduled that night, and stellar decision making skills are not that age groups strong point. So current me looks back and grimaces at leaving customers in the lurch. But current me also remembers the ungodly stupid health risks they were willing to take. And I give myself a cookie.

Bonus Related Mini-Revenge:

My honors English teacher had been overheard telling other students that I had to be making up the whole thing, or was grossly exaggerating the truth.

Welp, that same fateful day that the dam broke, I am sitting in the front office, waiting for my sister to pick me up so I can head straight to the doctor. And guess who walks right past me? My English teacher was waltzing through and literally did a double take when she saw me... mainly because in a desperate move to prevent recreating the elevator scene from The Shining, I had used my own shirt until an alternative was acquired. I looked like a deranged murderer. Part of me really wanted to say, “You should see the other guy,” but instead opted for the dejected waif look, to try to really nail home the shame. It must have worked, because she actually apologized and never brought it up again.

And in case anyone is wondering, I’ve only had one mild nosebleed in the last 20 years.

(source) (story by pancreaticpotter)

[secretshinigami]

Title: It’s the little things Author: @hazblogs, Arthur For: @naive-archiviste Pairings/Characters: L Lawliet, Light Yagami, Watari, Misa Amane, A (mention), Beyond Birthday (mention) Rating/Warnings: Teen, TW for mental health discussion, dermatillomania, slight transphobia, vague description of a panic attack, some internalised ableism Prompt: 1. A story of how L and Light meet a psychologist and unexpectedly get diagnosed with something, L with Asperger’s syndrome, Light with high-functioning sociopathy. Author’s notes: Hey hey hey !!!! Here’s your gift for the sse !!!! I’m so happy to have written for you and as you’ve certainly noticed I had a lot of fun filling out your prompt. The Ryuk one was simply amazing but I don’t have the skill to write poetry (one day, one day ;^; i will maybe be strong enough !). Thank you for participating in this exchange, and I do hope you enjoy this little text. There is no pairing because you didn’t say if you wanted one and I thought it was safest not to put any, just in case. I also had… lots of fun putting some of my headcanons in, I hope you don’t mind.

This text got… kinda long haha, it’s about 7k ? And I can’t find the readmore button, which might make viewing the post complicated, sorry for that.

See you on AO3 where I will also post this story, I hope everyone likes it !

Thank you also to the mods of sse for making this exchange possible !

It’s the little things

Light looks at the therapist with nothing but distant interest – this could be useful, this could help him get hold of new techniques, this woman knows about making people talk after all. He can’t bring himself to care. Misa insisted he come, he’s here for her, no matter how stupid that sounds to him, and he’s not here to… what. Get help ? Help for what ?

He’s been silent too long and the therapist fidgets. She’s a cute woman, he thinks offhandedly, but he can’t bring himself to care. He wants to get out of here.

“The outpatient program is very nice, you’ll see,” she says eventually, probably sensing that if she doesn’t speak first, no conversation will take place. Light still isn’t sure he wants to answer, but she adds, “There’s group therapy, so you’ll meet other people who have similar issues. Well, not exactly the same,” and Light sighs internally, because what issues is she talking about, he barely opened his mouth, “but still, I think it’ll be good for you to meet other people who empathize with what you’re going through.”

This time, he actually sighs. There’s a headache starting behind his temples and his leg feels jittery, which is never a good sign. But Light is good, he doesn’t lose his temper, and waits until the end of the appointment to say, “I don’t think I need to come back.”

“I know it’s hard,” the woman answers with a sympathetic smile, “but you’ll see, it gets better. With time – and with dedication, but I’m sure you’re a very driven person, considering how much you managed to achieve in such a poor condition.”

He wants to scream. “Poor condition”, my ass. Light is perfectly ok.

His left leg has started to bounce slightly and he can’t make it stop.

ooo

L looks at the man with something akin to disgust. No, that word is too strong to be conciliated with his unending disinterest. The therapist is talking to Wammy and L drowns them out easily, focusing on the last case he had. She was found dead in her bed, front door left ajar, and not a speck left to prove there had ever been an intruder. It was such a boring case he didn’t even need to leave his room to solve it. Better this way. Less people to see him and figure out. He always hates when people figure him out.

“Ryuuzaki, please, pay attention,” Wammy says, probably not for the first time. L doesn’t really care, and wouldn’t have reacted if the nickname hadn’t been so bothering to him. Why they had to come to Japan to do this, he doesn’t know, but at least it’s better than in the States where someone might have connected the dots. He’s not as popular in Japan, if “popular” is a thing he even is.

“Ryuuzaki.”

This time, Wammy’s voice is stern enough for him to be considered somewhat serious. L thinks about why they’re here, but this time with his head tilted up, so he can pretend he’s listening. Wammy has some strange ideas. Some work, like the washing machine, some… some are like this one. “Oh, learn how to fire a gun, Lawliet, it’ll sure come in handy. Learn this, learn that, what am I gonna do with you dear god”. Ok, he might have added the last part himself – but it’s true. L sees it in the way he holds his head when L forgets to sleep or when he makes some rude comment again. Though L doesn’t personally think he’s very rude. People are.

That’s it, he thinks.

“…ki, can you repeat what I’ve just said ?” the therapist says, his eyes fixated a little too low to be looking at L’s face. Not that he’s been staring back – he actually has no idea what the man looks like – but still, this is strange, people usually insist they look at each other “in the eye” or something resembling that. L belatedly realises that he should answer. He has no idea what the man said.

Wammy sighs, like he knows L wasn’t paying attention, and the therapist repeats, “You’ll be attending group therapy as well as weekly sessions with me. I’ll also have meetings with Mr Watari, since he is your designated caretaker. Is that alright ?”

L wonders if he’s allowed to say no. Probably not, so he nods, and puts his head on his knees. They are bunched up against his chest, his bare feet clinging to the edge of the seat. He didn’t even notice he kicked his sneakers off… Wammy is gonna chide him about that afterwards, he’s sure. Oh well. Never mind. At least this time he wasn’t forced to wear socks.

“Stop biting your thumb,” Wammy says when they exit the therapist’s office. “You’re bleeding again.”

“Hm,” L murmurs, without really paying attention. “This therapist didn’t even ask for my first name.”

“That’s because he knows who you are,” he answers.

“Oh. That’s a bother, then. Why not call me L ?”

“What if people listen ?” Wammy gently says back, because he knows L hates nicknames.

L doesn’t answer, kicks his shoes off again, and dozes out for the rest of the car ride back to their hotel room.

ooo

“Light !” Misa’s shrill voice exclaims. “I knew it !” She sits down in front of him, and almost tears his newspaper apart in her haste to put it away. “I knew you weren’t going to therapy ! The doctor called me, you know ? She says you haven’t been to the last three sessions. And you’ve never even gone to group therapy.”

“It’s none of your business,” Light answers through gritted teeth. “Who are you to nag at me like that, my girlfriend ?”

Misa’s face flashes briefly with hurt before closing off. “Well,” she says, “I’m your friend.”

Right, Light thinks. Friend. He doesn’t really have any, does he ? No people close enough to him to be called that, though Misa is in fact closer than most – closer than anyone but Sayu, actually, but Sayu is his sister so it’s normal, it makes sense, while Misa is just someone who invited herself in his life without even bothering to ask if it was ok. Light doesn’t like how people look at him when he is with Misa, how their eyes go big and how they ask if they’re dating. Misa always says yes, partly to bother him, partly because it helps her with, he doesn’t know, PR stuff maybe ? Or just to be left alone. They did meet because someone was stalking her, after all.

“Light ?” she eventually says, soft and cautious. “You don’t have to go if you really don’t want to, but I am your friend, I want to help.”

“Fine,” he answers, teeth still clenched. “I’ll go to the next appointment. I’ll book one when I go home.”

“I already did,” Misa says, sheepish. “Same time next Saturday. You know, I also talked to the doctor you saw at the hospital – he’s been wondering where you’ve gone, after you left so abruptly.”

The hospital ? Light hoped he’d never hear about it again in his life, unless maybe he went there because of a job accident, but certainly not because Misa thought it was appropriate to call his father on him. There was no reason for his stay there – short stay, if he may had, he had been discharged after only three days, but it was the most humiliating experience of his life. He’d barely left his room, talked to no one but the nurses, and pretended to swallow the pills they gave him without even considering taking them.

He isn’t – what, crazy ? No, he isn’t crazy. He was just tired, and he is sleeping better now, and there is no need for Misa to interfere. His next appointment would be better used by someone else, who wouldn’t waste the therapist’s time with non-existent problems.

ooo

L watches a speck of dust float through the air, suspended in between people’s heads, like it’s held up by a beam of light, before it flutters away and disappears. It forces him to pay attention to the person the dust disappeared behind, a young man with chestnut hair and very tired eyes. He doesn’t have dark circles though, and L briefly wonders if he wears concealer.

He does, L realises after the man moves and a sheen of sweat makes the skin under his eyes appear too textured for it to not be make-up. It’s applied so sloppily even Beyond could do better, which is saying a lot. There’s traces of concealer on his cheeks too, and L briefly wonders if he should do the same, wear concealer and stop people from looking. But then again, that’d mean using pretty much an entire bottle of concealer in a week, and though he doesn’t lack money, he certainly does lack the motivation to hide the various rashes on his skin. Or whatever it’s called when it’s you who scratched it.

“Welcome !” someone says, with a cheerful voice that doesn’t sound too forced. “Group therapy for the adults who are younger but not young adults – or as we liked to call it, the ‘not old yet’ group therapy !”

She has a casual shirt on, with some words in Japanese that mean “sun” and “moon”, and L has to tear his gaze out of her breast area where a pretty necklace is dangling – it’s a present, she has a fiancé – yes she has a ring, no tan mark yet, it must be new, hence the present – ok, this has to stop. He’s not here for that.

Contrary to what he assumed, L has been enjoying group therapy. It’s like detective work but easier and with more crazy people in it – he’s not quite sure he’s part of them yet but the group has organically absorbed him without asking questions. So there’s that. He has a group now. Not friends – he’d laughed at the idea of having friends, once, and Beyond acted offended, and then Adeline cried, and he never heard the end of it. But it’s a funny group nonetheless.

“Today, we say hello to a new member – say hi to Yagami Light ! Yagami-kun, this is the three pm group therapy… well, it’s your group now.”

Light looks utterly disgusted as a chorus of “Hi, Yagami-kun” echo around the circle. They’re all seated down on little cushions, and Light is in a seiza so perfect it must hurt. L has opted for his usual pose, knees drawn to the chest, and he sways lightly from side to side as he inspects the members present in the circle today.

“The topic for today is – who remembers ? Yes, Mikami-kun ?”

“Diagnosis,” he says, lowering his head with a frown – not that he has any other expressions, but L still finds it funny to remark on it in his head.

“Right !” the nurse says. L is bad with names, so “nurse” will have to do for now. “So, anyone wants to share their diagnoses with us today ? Or the process of getting one ?”

Nobody answers. It’s usually like that, L noticed, no one answers in the first ten minutes and then a few scattered comments. Mostly from the people in outpatient – the people in inpatient seem to have a harder time making things out, deciding if speaking isn’t worth their time or if it’ll alleviate some of their boredom. They look so bored, that’s what intrigued L the most about them, how their eyes looked empty. He sees something else there now.

Light still has that disgusted expression on, and it only deepens as someone dares to speak. She’s a young woman, probably not much older than L himself, and she shares her story with being diagnosed as bipolar II with the crowd. They all nod, like they know what it means, and L’s brain supplies the textbook definition before he raises his hand to ask – “Bipolar II disorder is a form of mental illness similar to bipolar I, with moods cycling between high and low over time. However in bipolar II the ‘up’ moods never reach full-blown mania. These less intense elevated moods are called hypomania”. Interesting, L thinks. Or not, as the woman drones on and on about how difficult it was for her family to accept her diagnosis. He’s sure it must have been, considering how private and closed-off the Japanese are, compared to the English, and even there, some people never care until it’s too late.

Himself included. Adeline would smirk sadly and turn her back on him if she saw where he was now.

ooo

There’s some pressure in the air and Light isn’t sure it comes from the unblinking gaze of Mikami, who hasn’t stopped staring at him since he arrived. When he finally locates the source of the eyes he felt resting on top of his head, he’s not surprised to see it’s one of the weirdest in the group – staring is usually considered too polite by most people, though obviously Mikami and the strange man don’t seem to understand.

Light doesn’t participate in the discussion at all. First because he has nothing to say, having started therapy sessions the day before, but mostly because he finds the idea of sharing something so personal to be abhorrent to his basic need for privacy. Mikami also doesn’t speak much, except for correcting people on their own diagnoses, which is funnier than it should be considering the man is so stuck up he is half expecting to see an off-switch button on the side of his head. There isn’t one, but Light has a nagging need to check from up-close, to dig his fingers into his own head and find that damn off-switch and tune his fucking brain out for ten seconds.

Admitting that, even in the comfort of his own head, scares him. What is it that he needs to run away from ? If not his intellect, what is left that makes him valuable ?

The end of group therapy is a welcome distraction. “It’s not as long as you probably expect,” the therapist had warned, “so don’t hesitate to speak if you feel the need to”. Right, he thinks. If he feels the need to.

Immediately after the nurse dismisses them, Mikami turns to him, and unfolds a whole speech on the importance of freedom of speech. He hasn’t even introduced himself. Light sighs, and sighs again when he turns to find the strange guy on his other side.

“Light-kun, he says, my name is –” he narrows his eyes, then, and continues, “are you with the police ?”

Mikami’s eyes open wide and he gapes a bit, before frowning some more and excusing himself. Light is left staring at the other guy’s strange face and mannerism – he is biting his thumb and scratching what looks like a scab on his shoulder, which, with the dark circles under his eyes, gives him the appearance of a very frog-like raccoon.

“I am,” Light says carefully.

The other man smiles, like this is a big secret he’s proud of guessing.

“You can call me Hideki Ryuuga,” he says, which is a ridiculous false name to give. “But most people call me L.”

“Oh,” Light says, because there’s nothing else he can say without being impolite – and then it clicks. L. That man is casually saying he’s the best detective in the world. Go figure. People here definitely give him the creeps.

ooo

L ticks when the therapist says his name for the seventh time. Or at least that’s what he says, that he’s called him seven times, but L really didn’t hear – he was focused on the paper the man gave him, with some basic questions about his mental health.

“What does it mean, ‘repetitive behaviours’ ?” L asks, while scratching his left leg. There’s a rash visible there already, he’s probably been scratching for a good ten minutes. Fuck. At least Wammy isn’t here to nitpick at everything.

The therapist sighs, and takes back his paper without a word. Oh well, L tried. He’s checked off a good quantity of boxes, but there are some questions that just seem absurd – of course people like routine, of course people have foods they don’t like. What kind of psych eval is that ?

His brain zooms out of his present situation and goes back to the nearest interesting puzzle. Presently, its name is Light Yagami, and L has already used up most of his detective resources tracking the life out of this guy. It’s a wonder he’s not a serial killer, if L may say so, considering the absolutely perfect record he has, like he’s never taken a wrong turn in his life. Apart from maybe being gay, but that’s hardly a bother. L doubts he knows himself, considering how uptight he seemed. Yeah, that’s it, closeted, model policeman Light Yagami. God this man is uninteresting, yet somehow L finds his attention snaps back to him without fail.

Like there’s something more.

He didn’t look like he belonged at a group therapy, maybe because he thought so hard that if he willed himself away he wouldn’t have to stay, but L can detect something brewing underneath, a darkness that doesn’t have a name yet.

What is he on about anyway ? It’s not like him to want to talk to someone, and to reveal his identity within the first five seconds of speaking. It’s not like him and yet this is maybe the most spontaneous he’s been in years. Wammy should be proud, really. Or… yeah, L made the good choice by not telling him. Old man would worry his hair out.

Next time they see each other is in the corridors of the institution. L blinks once, twice, and catches up with Light. He blinks, too, and his mouth turns into a sour little line.

L does what he does best: puzzles.

“Do you like tennis, Light Yagami ?”

ooo

Weirdo L is here again and is asking him – what ?

“I don’t think they have a tennis court here,” he answers.

“Oh,” the man says, “I’m not in inpatient.”

Really ? Light would never have guessed, and he says so without any intention of joking. That seems to amuse the man – Hideki Ryuuga, his mind supplies, also known in his mind as “gigantic-assface”. Well, that was a bit mean. He hopes the man can’t see it – he hopes he hasn’t been to disdainful, too harsh, too impolite, he hopes he didn’t come across as…

Breathe. If there’s one thing three sessions of therapy have taught him, it’s that his face is the perfect ask he wants it to be, so he has nothing to worry about. He is perfectly neutral and the man isn’t upset.

“I haven’t played in years, why ?” Light says, trying to keep his tone conversational.

“I don’t know, it was the first thing I thought I’d say to see if you’d answer. You seem like a pretty harsh guy, Mr Policeman.”

“Don’t call me that,” Light can’t help but hiss, because so far three people have reacted negatively to learning that, and he isn’t fond of the look of vague fear and distrust it evokes. Why, he doesn’t understand, but the police doesn’t seem well-liked in the institution. Maybe it has to do with… His mind comes up blank. The police doesn’t seem to be in the wrong.

“Would you mind a match ?” the man says, swinging his arms next to his face like he holds a tennis racket and isn’t afraid to use it. This makes him appear even thinner under his baggy clothing, his shirt three sizes too big and his jeans barely hanging on his hips. Light can see that this is misleading. His movements are a bit sluggish, like he hasn’t slept (which would explain his very pronounced dark circles) and like he eats poorly (which could explain his acne, is that acne ?).

Light knows his skin isn’t in the best of shapes either, but it’s because… of oil, probably, he has been eating a bit of greasy food. Takeout isn’t that great, but he doesn’t have the time or energy to cook, and it’s easier to order than to go down to the convenience store or the hole-in-the-wall next to his place. Less chance of meeting people this way, though that does make him seem like a recluse, which isn’t true at all. There’s a sneaky voice whispering in his ear that it’ been a while since he’s had clear skin, and that it all started in middle school, but who doesn’t have some acne back then ? It’s normal – he’s normal. It’ll be ok soon.

It’s already ok.

“Why not ?” Light finally answers, and he feels like it’s been a while – since the man talked and since he played tennis both, but it’s fine, he doesn’t look bothered.

“I already have your number, I’ll text you the details,” the man says, and Light squints. “I’m L, remember ?” he says. “Got all the data I could ever need on you.”

“That sounds like a threat,” Light coolly lets out, because he needs to say something – is he really L ? He thought that was just the crazy speaking, but maybe there’s some truth to it. He’ll see, if he receives a text, then, it might be true.

Maybe-L smiles and cocks his head to the side, his expression more frog-like than ever.

“It might be.”

ooo

[To: Light-kun] hry itd l

[To: Light-kun] its hll

[To: Light-kun] srry the phone is too smll

[From: Light-kun] Are you really L ?

[To: Light-kun] couldn u tell

[From: Light-kun] No, I could not.

[To: Light-kun] Event shared: tnnis mtach

[From: Light-kun] Are your fingers shaking ?

[To: Light-kun] nno this phone is juts oo small

[From: Light-kun] Can you even play tennis ?

[To: Light-kun] yea y.?

[To: Light-kun] see u on court yeggami

[From: Light-kun] That’s not how it’s spelled.

[To: Light-kun] i kno lol

ooo

Light looks at his therapist with something akin to horror.

“I am not taking pills,” he says, trying to hide the tremor in his voice. “I will not.”

“I know it sounds scary,” she answers, and it’s not that, she doesn’t understand, “but I do think it would help you greatly with your anxiety.”

“What. Anxiety,” Light manages to spit out, because oh no this is getting out of hand he knew he shouldn’t have come this isn’t how it was supposed to go no no no-

“Yagami-san, calm down,” the therapist says, “you’re hyperventilating. Please remember the breathing exercise I taught you. Breathe in for five seconds, and out for ten. I’ll count down for you, here, listen to my voice.”

Light distantly hears her start a countdown, but he’s too far gone – this is like the time Misa called his father, oh god, he’s gonna be hospitalised again, fuck, this isn’t how things were supposed to go. This isn’t the plan.

What was the plan anyway ? He’s right where he wants to be, the youngest policeman in his unit, fresh out of university, it’s just. It’s great, right ? It’s not like the feeling of emptiness keeps him awake at night and that his job is so boring he could sleep on it and still manage to be decent. It’s not like this isn’t what he wanted at all. It’s not.

Maybe it is.

That’s one thing the therapist says – Mrs Onaka, he remembers, he should start calling her by her name – that “bad” isn’t a bad word. That sometimes things are bad and it’s ok, that sometimes you’re not sure and it’s fine, that sometimes you don’t have a plan and all you have to go with are shady guidelines like that time he built a shelf for his apartment and Misa lost half the nails and they still made it work.

“It’s good, Light,” Mrs Onaka says, very softly. “You’re calming down, that’s good.”

“I- I don’t want to-”

“Don’t try to speak yet, it’s ok. We won’t try the pills if you really don’t want to. But I think they could help,” she adds, still it that maddeningly soft voice, like he’s gonna break if pushed too far.

He wonders if he would.

Sometimes letting go seems like the better option, but that loss of control is so scary, so unlike himself – holding on feels like the only other option to… what exactly he doesn’t know, but the alternative is darker and scarier than he gives it credit for.

Light leaves the room with a prescription, sweat stains on the back of his shirt, and the taste of ash and loss in his mouth.

ooo

The tennis court is dimly lit when L gets there, the net barely visible in the shadows, sunbeams reaching the ground and lighting up dust on their way – Light must not be there yet, or he would have turned on the light. Haha. That was a joke. He’s happy he made one, it so rarely happens.

L takes the opportunity to pause, and reflect on his quite unusual behaviour. Wammy’s face when he said “I made a friend, we’re gonna play tennis” was a nice cherry on top, no matter how egregious that lie was. Light is not his friend, not for a long shot, not someone he’d trust with something else than his name, which is already a lot considering the circumstances.

There’s noise on the court, and someone enters from a door on the other side. It’s Light, he realises, but he must not have seen him, because he stands in one of the beams, facing the sun, his eyes straining to stay open in the face of unblinking light. Something should be said about the total abandon Light looks up with. For a man who seems to live shrouded in lies, that’s a lot to say.

L takes a few more seconds to carve this moment into his memory, to close his eyes and let the silence put a mark on his face like the ones he already has – only this one is beautiful, only this one is shining and bright and everything he’s not.

“Light-kun, fancy meeting you here,” he says at last, because he needs an ice breaker and he’s nothing if not the most unsubtle twat.

“You invited me.”

Light is dressed in tennis shorts and a sports t-shirt, which kinda contradicts his claim of not having played tennis since middle school, but maybe this is just his regular sports attire – he is a policeman after all, he must have to stay healthy, though L doubts he’s the type to do all the dirty field work, he must be an office worker, yeah, that’s actually the most likely choice, his nails are pretty long for someone who should use them. Maybe he’s just too unbothered to cut them, whatever the reason. L knows that without Wammy, he would be.

Maybe that’s what Wammy meant. That being unable to take care of oneself leads to this, whatever Light is, and that it’s bad – that it’s a problem. L can understand, faintly if at all, that the issues with him are similar in some way, and that Light isn’t so far from him in terms of uselessness. Funny, since Light would definitely hate being compared to L in any capacity, and he doesn’t feel particularly inclined to be compared to an uptight law officer as well.

“So, you you wanna play ?” L ends up saying, because they need to say something otherwise the tension will start to build up and L isn’t sure Light would react well to that. Sports are an excellent way of releasing tension, which is why Wammy insisted he do some, and thankfully they sticked. L does think he’d have gone crazy without a physical relief for all the energy he sometimes feel brewing inside.

“That’s what I came hear from,” Light answers, and all L hears is, “I came to win”.

ooo

There is something deeply satisfying in the swing and release of tennis. Something in the way the ball hits the racket, a little kick he gets from smashing as hard as he can. Strangely enough for someone who seems to have minus one muscles, L meets him where he stands, fighting back with surprising force and accuracy. There’s a weird moment where Light thinks he’s gonna lose the first set but they end up with a tie, and they play the rest of the afternoon without keeping score, each ball hitting the wall behind them with much more strength than necessary.

“I didn’t think you’d play this well,” L ends up saying, barely out of breath – or hiding it well. Light is truly out of shape, even more than he thought he’d be. He’s panting so much he has a hard time uttering an answer – a whispered “Likewise”, that feels a little like admitting defeat. No matter what he lost, it still feels bitter.

“Do you want to go home, Light ?” L asks, eyeing him with what he can only guess is mock concern – L doesn’t seem interested in other people’s wellbeing, that he’s sure of.

Light nods, not daring to speak yet, and he can only feel some sort of stale pride at the thought that even in this bad a shape he still managed to hold up to L. Who thought the best detective in the world would have that much stamina ? For someone who doesn’t even look like he goes outside… he truly is exceptional.

Incredible.

Model citizen.

Perfect future.

The words ring in his ears, reminiscent of those said to him a long time ago, and suddenly Light wants to throw up. What was he thinking ? That he’d make a friend ? He doesn’t have friends. He has Sayu, and he reluctantly has Misa, but… that’s all he needs. That’s more than he needs – he isn’t paying for therapy to meet weirdos and play tennis.

“I’ll go home now,” he says eventually, and as he makes a move to gather his stuff and leave, L grabs his arm.

“Wait, Light. Would you like a rematch ?”

“No,” Light ends up answering. He doesn’t think it’s a good idea. He doesn’t think at all before shaking L’s grip off and walking straight for the exit.

ooo

“And we had a tennis match, it was good,” L’s voice trails off. He hadn’t planned on talking about it to the therapist but he expressed an interest in L’s friends, and seemed kind of distraught when L answered that he didn’t have any, and never had. “That’s no good,” he said, “you certainly must have had meaningful connections ?”

He did. Those, he managed to form, somehow – with Beyond, and Adeline, as best as they could, but it never went far – he always pushed them away, and Beyond was far too dangerous, and Adeline was far too sad. He had no need for them in his life, and he doesn’t regret this decision per se, it’s just that sometimes people look at him like he has two heads when he says he’d rather be alone, and Adeline, the poor girl, he never understood why she couldn’t let go…

“I guess I made a friend, yeah,” L says, and Wammy smiles from his seat – he knows that’s not true, but this is all about pretending, right ? Learning how to make do well enough so that people don’t ask questions. So that he can take care of himself when Wammy is gone, which shouldn’t take too long, to be honest.

The rest of the session is a blur, L being too interested in the pattern on the therapist’s carpet to really pay attention, but there is at least something positive in all of this. L is learning stuff. It hadn’t happened in a while, and that’s mostly the reason why he agreed to therapy. So he could lift up the boredom a little, have a challenge. He likes challenges. That’s a quality, right ? See, he has some.

ooo

[To: L] Stop sending me messages at five am.

[From: L] bt ymur awake

[From: L] i knew it

[To: L] What is that supposed to mean ?

[From: L] that u dont slep

[To: L] And ?

[From: L] idk i was rihgt

[To: L] Leave me alone.

[From: L] y??

[To: L] You’re not my friend.

[From: L] wataris guna b disapointd

Light looks up from his phone just in time to see Mrs Onoda enter the room, and he shuts it off quickly before she can see anything when she walks around his chair to her own. The dark circles under his eyes are proof of what L is saying – he truly hasn’t been sleeping well – and this time, he was too tired to even bother with concealer. He won’t see anyone of importance today, only Misa and Mrs Onoda, so it doesn’t matter much.

“Hello, Yagami-kun,” she says when she finally sits down. “How have you been ?”

“Fine,” he grits out. “I wanted to ask you a question.”

“Yes ?” she says, tone hopeful.

“I want to stop going to group therapy. It’s not helping me, and it’s a waste of everyone’s resources.”

Another reason is, the people there give him the creeps – L, Mikami, that bipolar woman who manages to speak every time about something inconsequential. He doesn’t belong there. He’s not like them, he’s not… he isn’t crazy.

“I was afraid you’d say that…” Mrs Onoda says. “Alright, then. I think it’s better if we see each other every week instead.”

Wait, what. No. This isn’t what he meant – more sessions ? He doesn’t need – he’s not – he didn’t think she’d find it necessary, what is wrong with her ?

What is wrong with him ?

ooo

They see each other again, for a coffee. They talk about everything but themselves, and L finds the conversation flows much more freely than anticipated. He doesn’t find it that bad. Maybe he truly is making a friend, no matter how weird it may seem.

They have a fight. It’s about something inconsequential – well, L doesn’t think it holds that much importance, but Light obviously does, since he did punch him – and it brings about a whole new set of interaction requirements. L doesn’t think it’s so bad, doesn’t think of this as much more than a social experiment, but it does tell him about how invested Light could be. It reminds L of Beyond, once again, of dark places and strawberry jam, of cold fingers in his and a hand on his mouth. It’s not a good thing.

But perhaps, it’s too late to stop.

L wants to make a quip but the fire in Light’s eyes is blazing, a sure sign he needs to stop. Well, he should have five remarks ago, or, rather, he shouldn’t have started this conversation at all. Light is shaking his fist like he can’t believe he hit him (that’s sure to bruise, and L will poke and tear at the skin until it bleeds just so he doesn’t have to focus on his boring new case).

“I can’t believe you’re so nonchalant about it,” Light says eventually, no trace of the hurt in his voice. Only hard, cold anger – only stale, rehashed bitterness. “If someone harassed her because she was transgender, you should have stepped up.”

“Adeline knew what she was doing,” L answers. “She didn’t need a babysitter. Neither do I,” he continues, just to test the waters.

Light hasn’t figured him out. Or maybe he has and doesn’t care, which would be a first. How it is to be trans, L, he can hear at all times. How does it feel how does it look, do you want this, that operation, do you need – he doesn’t. He wants to be left alone, he wants to deal with his hurt like a small animal, licking the wounds and healing at his own pace. Adeline wouldn’t approve, but he doesn’t care.

Light’s look is fearless.

“If you needed anything someone should have helped you get it,” he says, “acceptance is a bigger gift than you make it out to be. Even though that’s not how it should work.”

“You know that,” L says softly.

“I’m not as… blind as you make me out to be. Give me some credit,” he answers disinterestedly. “I’ve known I was gay since middle school.”

“Well,” L says with a smile, “good things come to those who wait.”

ooo

They see each other again, and again, and a fourth time to boot. Light doesn’t quite hate it, and that’s terrifying.

L is the worst human being he has ever known. No morals, no code of conduct, nothing to make him stand out as the paragon of justice people make him out to be. There literally is nothing righteous about L, and that is so annoying Light doesn’t know where his hatred ends and when… the rest beings. Because he can’t deny the rest.

L looks ugly. That’s a fact, that even L himself is aware of. But he has a strange charm about him, some aura of mystery, for a lack of better words, and Light feels drawn in at such tremendous speed he doesn’t have time to stop himself before agreeing to a fifth coffee date. If those can be called dates, which he does in the secret of his own head, and wouldn’t reveal to the world on penalty of death.

Mrs Onoda catches up with him one day, just after L leaves him stranded in the middle of the institution’s corridor, and she says, “Oh, looks like you made a friend. You didn’t talk about him in your sessions,” she smiles, “but it seems like you’re very close ! I’m glad you’re seeing people.”

Light doesn’t know what made her think they’re close. Maybe because L grabbed his arm, but that seems to be a purely Western thing, this lack of personal space. Maybe because L looks at him like a puzzle with that damn frog-like smile on his face, which could be mistaken for interest (he knows it’s not, he knows better than to hope and be let down). They’re not friends.

“Yeah,” Light ends up saying, “right.”

“Well I’ll see you next week,” Mrs Onoda says before leaving.

Therapy is going… surprisingly well ? He’s not sure this is how sessions are supposed to go but he manages to talk, now. He doesn’t think he says anything important – he came out, he talked about his sister and Misa, he talked about being bored – but that’s not… it’s not who he is, deep down, is it ? It’s not what matters.

What does matter, exactly ?

The longer he talks, the less sure he is.

ooo

“And I gave your diagnosis material to Mr Watari,” the therapist says, with his what he probably hopes is a stern voice. It doesn’t work. L has already guessed everything that’s on the paper, he’s the best detective in the world after all, it’s got to come in handy. “You can look at it if he allows you to.”

L wants to retort that he’s not a child, but his diagnosis does come with a lot of infantilisation, and he’s aware that keeping his identity a secret is probably what saved him from being babied his entire life by people who don’t know better. Wammy will probably not treat him any differently, since he’s known about L’s difficulties for so long… but the thought of suddenly losing any grip he might have had on his own situation is kind of frightening.

“So I’m autistic,” L says, just to see the look on his therapist’s face.

“Aspergers, yes,” the man answers, and though he’s a licensed psychiatrist, he probably doesn’t know that they’re the same diagnosis now and that the difference between the two was only due to ableism.

“Great, it’s cool to have a word for it,” L lies. He doesn’t care. He is scratching behind his ear with vigour but that doesn’t count, right ?

“It’s a diagnosis, not a prison,” Wammy pipes in, like L needs to be reassured or something.

“I know,” he answers. Like his Gender Dysphoria diagnosis isn’t a prison, like whatever that scratching thing is isn’t a prison. The world is made of cages and he just… doesn’t have the energy to abide to them.

“You’ll probably not want to see me anymore, I assume ?” the man says, to Wammy more than to L, and he doesn’t look surprised when Wammy answers that indeed, they’ll probably stop therapy really soon. As in “right now”, L wants to say, but he keeps quiet.

“That doesn’t mean we’ll leave Japan right away, does it ?” L asks way once they’re in the car, his shoes long forgotten under the back seat.

“If you want to stay, we will,” Wammy replies, “you can work from cases here.”

“Good,” and L falls asleep, lulled by the movement of the car.

ooo

“Where is she, now ? Adeline,” Light adds, when L doesn’t seem to recognise who he is talking about.

“Oh, she’s dead,” he answers casually, “suicide.”

He says that… like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like it’s no big deal, like she’ll just wake up and run towards him again. Light understands with a pit in his stomach that L doesn’t care, and that he’s in too deep. Both realisations don’t come as a shock, as they’re less realisations and more… self-actualisation of his beliefs. He knew – he knew this whole time, and he still got caught like an idiot.

“Oh,” Light tries to keep his tone even, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Don’t bother,” L says, “it’s been a while.” He makes a strange face at that, like he didn’t fully realise how long it’d been – like he kind of forgot.

Light can’t quite forgive him for this disinterest, even for a person he’s barely heard of. Adeline seems so close to him, from the glimpses he’s caught, so close to his own thought process that it’s almost terrifying to hear of her death. Even in his darkest moments, Light never thought he could end his own life, and hearing of someone who did seems kind of like breaking a taboo, like saying something he wasn’t ever meant to hear.

He’s still thinking about it by his next therapy session, and tries to ask Mrs Onoda as lightly as he can – “Is it normal I’ve never thought of suicide ? I thought people who felt bad often did.”

“Lots of people don’t,” she answers, “it’s just a matter of what you’re dealing with and how you do it. You’re doing well,” she says softly, “you’re doing very well.”

“That’s reassuring,” he sighs, and for once he means it.

He’s still thinking about it a week later when he says to Mrs Onoda, “How is one supposed to react to suicide ?”

“With compassion,” is her answer, and it leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

He’s still thinking about it when he sees L again. He’s exiting Mrs Onoda’s office and L just springs up next to him before he has time to make a move. He hears himself gurgle some words, that he doesn’t remember seconds after saying them, and he dashes out.

He deletes L’s phone number and blocks him in a daze. He is hyperventilating, and barely remembers the breathing exercise that has helped him so much by now. He hates himself, so bad, for ever thinking this could be good for him.

He tries his best not to think about it at his next appointment when he tells Mrs Onoda he wants to stop coming.

ooo

When L sees him, he is existing his therapist’s office, face ashen. Light doesn’t seem to have heard any good news there, which is a shame, since L was hoping to catch him in a good mood to ask him why he avoided him now. Blocked number, no more coffee dates… Yeah, Light is avoiding him – and does again, ducking to a nearby corridor as soon as he sees L going his way.

Well. L isn’t here to play games – and he has something to say.

“Hey, Light,” he calls after him, but to no avail. Light has already entered some room and L can’t be bothered to check which one. For a moment he considers yelling, “I’m leaving Japan, bye !” – but he doesn’t. Let Light guess whatever he wants.

With a small smile, L turns around and leaves.

ooo

It’s been… five months. Misa bounces happily next to him and holds his hand. Light is too embarrassed to tell her to let go, and he still feels the back of his neck burn unhappily, but it’s getting better – he’s getting used to it. They’re… fake dating ? It’s become annoying to keep tabs on what Misa is thinking, if she really is serious when she says that of course she doesn’t love him, what, is he so self-absorbed ? Light just kind of… gave up.

He hasn’t seen L in six months. He hasn’t tried to, he doesn’t want to, well, maybe a little, but it’s fine – it’s ok – he’s dealing well with the loss. If it can be called that.

It’s been eight months and he’s stopped taking the anxiety meds altogether. Misa doesn’t insist so much on going to therapy, especially since the couple therapy session Light forced her into, and the meds weren’t helping anything anyway.

It’s been a year.

[tricklingstreamdacre]

Let Me Have This; Steve x Reader [Last People on Earth AU]

STEVE HARRINGTON x FEM!READER

SUMMARY: You’re the last people left in the world, it’s a hard reality to face knowing you’ll be the last ones here. But you’re going to make the most of it.

WARNINGS/NOTES: ANGST (oh my god), death (of like the world?+ animals), suicidal thoughts, car crash, blood

REQUEST: The people want more Steve what can I say (thanks @heckin-harrington ) WORD COUNT:

A/N: THIS IS THE LAST POST OF AU WEEK IT’S NOW MY BIRTHDAY I’M HAPPY Y’ALL

You were the last person on earth for ninety days.

Feet dangling off a plummeting cliff, the air pushing your hair behind your shoulders you wondered what would happen if you pushed yourself over. Left behind the world reduced to nothing but a wasteland and nothingness.

It was laer that morning you had met Steve Harrington.

Driving in another hijacked car you pulled up in another town searching for food to collect and resources to pick. You spoke to yourself loudly to numb the deafening silence around you, even if the birds still chirped and the flies still hovered. You thought back to the cliff while tossing a rock in your hands poorly, as the thoughts became more vivid you threw the rock into a glass pane of a music store next to you and heard it smash into a million pieces and scatter on the floor.

The sound was loud, the loudest thing you’d heard since your screams into open fields as you travelled the US alone. The thought made you let a tear fall from your face as you stood amongst the broken glass. Your fists clenched looking into the store filled with cobwebs and dust.

The sound of footsteps were ones you ignored, it reminded you of day sixty roaming the streets New York and you could feel the people around you bustling in hoards. 

But these footsteps were real.

When they got quicker you frowned and turned around before seeing the silhouette of a boy your age.

You freaked, your heart skipped beats, eyes widened beyond your own knowledge and you felt your head spin as he walked closer with a similar shock.

“I’m going crazy,” you mumbled as your eyes started blurring his face coming closer. But he didn’t seem to slow and as you saw his greasy hair, pale complexion and large eyes and took it all in.

“No- you’re, you’re real right?”

You paused, the question was so weird, his voice was so foreign and you felt yourself cry with the most happiness you’d had in months.

“I-I’m real.” you paused, he stared tensely as you reached out for him, feeling the side of his face and tears poured down your face as you processed his existence, “Y-You’re real.”

You hugged him tightly, he hugged back just as quick and you could feel his tears stain your jacket as he thanked gods you weren’t sure he even believed in. 

You were one of the last people on earth for another two years.

Standing side by side for months that turned to years you couldn’t even guarantee the days wondering if you’d forgotten to mark them off. But you found yourself clinging to Steve Harrington like a lifeline because he was the only reason you’d stayed.

You’d marked down every state in the US, travelling as far you could go and explored every mansion you found as if it was a virtual reality game. The two of you tried to experience things you’d always wanted to, took whatever you had wanted as a kid.

You sung on famous stages, visited famous sets, stole from the richest stores and hung onto small souvenirs from every place you visited. Your favourite was the photo’s you’d get from a working photobooth you spent hours in.

Because in the last one he kissed you.

Ever since the kiss you too had loved each other unconditionally, considering it might be because you were the last, but not caring, holding hands as you slept every night.

You were one of the last people for three years.

It was the third anniversary of your meeting, you were looking through an antique store eating cookies that didn’t go out of date when you heard a cough from behind.

Turning around Steve on one knee held a simple but beautiful ring in his hand and proposed to you.

You cried and kissed him as he slid it on your finger. 

You had a June wedding in a beautiful dress you found in that very antique store.

Spending the night dancing for hours to a stack of mixtapes with a million songs to listen to, laughing and smiling, by the time your feet were blistering he dragged you to bed and stared into your eyes blessing the world for giving him one thing to love in this world.

Many nights were spent talking of past, these kids called Dustin, Mike, Max, Lucas, Will, Elle and his friends Nancy, Jonathan and some estranged one called Billy who had spent his last moments trying ‘to make things right’.

You talked of family, things you wished you’d done and things you regret. You cried into each other's arms when necessary, everything was free and sacred between you, for only the two of you to hear. Husband and wife in your early twenties.

You were the last couple on earth for four years.

You coughed for the third time during dinner and Steve looked at you worried, but you waved it off took some medicine that wasn’t out of date and went to bed thinking of the trip to the bowling alley you’d planned for tomorrow.

When you woke up Steve was outside picking out fruit and vegetables to eat, a dog, a stray you’d found alongside him dropping a ball at his feet every minute or so. You smiled standing on the veranda of the small house you’d been sleeping in the past few months.

“How you feeling?”

“Better, I told you not to worry,” you reassured as your hands wrapped around his waist the sound of your dog panting filling the area.

“Well don’t do it again.”

“Don’t cough?”

“Don’t get sick,” he elaborated, “I don’t want to lose you to a cold.”

“Don’t worry about that.” you waved off picking up the ball and throwing it into the large field.

Steve looked at you anxious, it seemed you forgot how risky your life with him was. He wasn’t a doctor, there would only be so much he could do before he’d just have to watch you fade away.

But you said it wouldn’t happen. So he didn’t have to worry.

He would have to worry about something else. 

“Dustin!” you called, but the dog was gone.

You and Steve had been searching the lonely town for hours, but your dog you’d come to love and cherish had disappeared into thin air and you were both extremely concerned.

“We should go into the forest we found him,” you explained, “It’s the only place I can think of.”

He nodded and you both rode bikes there and started searching together, you had made a rule two months into knowing each other; never split up.

It started raining, hard, you were glad you brought an umbrella but Steve was getting worried at the idea of one of you two getting sick and was trying to get you to go home, but you refused to.

“I think I heard him!” you yelled out as the rain muffled your words, “Over there!”

He grabbed your wrist, “Y/N we need to go back.”

“I’m not leaving Dustin here!” you replied, the mention of Dustin softened his grip and you wandered further into the rain. He called out for you to stop but soon he couldn’t hear you.

He couldn’t see you.

Steve was the last person on earth for two weeks.

Watching Dustin dropped the ball at your feet, he let his face screw up in a mix of anger and sadness as he screamed at the dog and threw the ball so far into the field the grass now overgrown before storming back inside and locking the dog in the open.

“Please come back to me,” he mumbled between tears and a clenched throat, his hair dirty and his eyes sunken in and burning red. 

The silence was killing him, the silence at dinner as his cutlery scrapped against the plate alone had him shaking, even managing to spill his juice over the tablecloth.

But the world would show him mercy when you appeared at the door covered in bruises, pale and weak barely breathing at his doorstep.

Screaming shits as he forced water down your throat and food in your mouth, he panicked his hands fumbling and shaking as he laid you on the bed giving you medication and disinfectants for every scratch you had.

You remember looking up at Steve, eyebrows slightly furrowed and your hands dragging over his face softly, it seemed to calm and still him and he finally looked into your eyes. They were shaking with adrenaline, you smiled breath hoarse, “I love you so much Steve.”

You and Steve were the last people on earth for one more year.

Burying Dustin in the ground it proved to be a wake-up call for the two of you, you’d forgotten about death as you only experienced it once on a mass occasion so many years ago you were numb to the memories. You held each other knowing what you were thinking but not speaking a word of it. Because you were both thinking about what would happen if one of you died, and the other had to stay here.

Two days later you were driving in a new car, you had tried to leave your existential crisis in the dust and appreciate the life ahead of you, you were out of town for awhile, you’d made a small machine to keep the plants watered and were now ready to visit some states and explore like the old days.

You weren’t paying attention to the road because there was nothing to see, you held hands tightly and hummed in unison to the song on the radio. A song you’d listen to a hundred times yet never gotten bored of, you could even play it on the piano a skill you picked up after practising and reading several books.

Steve fiddled idly with you ring a band on his as well, he felt content and happy, now well into his twenties he imagined what kind of life he had ahead. 

You both said no kids, not only did it seem too risky for you but there would be no outcome, or two kids doomed to live alone when your inevitable pass, then what?

Giggling you started to sing louder to the song playing taking the sombre moment and creating laughter. You started to sing louder and louder and Steve joined as you danced spastically and without technique.

“Do you think we’re really the only ones?”

Steve shook his head, “What do you mean?”

“Well,” you paused, “What if their people in... Australia?” 

He laughed and turned to you, “Maybe.”

He didn’t notice the large ditch in the road.

Going beyond the speed limit the second it hit and dipped one wheel of the car you felt yourself getting thrown throw the glass of the car and launched onto the road beside Steve.

You could feel the broken bones in your body, you could feel the glass in your face and hands as you let out a guttural cry.

Steve, less injured than you but still bleeding from his head, looked over at you in shock. He managed to crawl towards you with shaky feet and kneel beside you, he felt his heart leaping from his chest and stabbing itself. 

“Oh my god Y/N.” he mumbled cradling your head.

“How bad is it Steve?” you breathed out as you looked into his eyes tears of pain flowing from your eyes, you tried to look down at your lower half but couldn’t so Steve did it for you. 

He could only look for half a second.

“I-It’s fine Y/N.” he said, “It’s fine.” he reaffirmed trying to convince himself more than you. But with dirt in your hair as blood flowed from your nose and mouth you knew better, you could barely feel anything yet feel everything all at once.

“You know I love you Steve right?”

He nodded, “I love you too, you know that.”

You nodded slowly throat tightening, “Right.”

Taking a deep breath you started to shake and you felt yourself pale as everything started to tingle in your body, “And you know I won’t hold anything against what you do when I’m gone... right?

“Once you’re gone?” he questioned, “No you’re not leaving yet.” he denied his head shaking causing his head to pound harder.

You saw it in his eyes, the fear and denial and you let out a large sob as more tears spilt from your eyes into your mouth, “I’m not going anywhere, I’ll always be with you.”

He nodded, “Right, because you’re fine, you’re safe I’ll protect you-”

“You have.” you confirmed, “And I love you so much.”

You could feel everything around you blur, and it wasn’t from the tears, everything started melting and you took in the last clear look of your husband.

Steve looked down at your weakening body with adrenaline and fear, he wasn’t a doctor he didn’t know what to do.

“Wha do I do Y/N? I don’t know what to do.” he explained his voice high and desperate as he looked at you mouth open and tears and snot falling from his face, “Don’t leave me yet.”

“I’m not.” you confirmed, you felt a small jolt of adrenaline allow you to lift your hand and drag it over Steve’s face for the last time, like you’d done the first time you met him, like you’d done when he kissed you for the first time, like you’d done when you said ‘I do’ and when he saved you.

Though his face was wet and slightly cold, you felt comforted, “I’m always with you Steve. Promise me you’ll remember that.”

“I will,” he replied quickly, “I won’t forget, I’ll never forget you.”

“Good.” you whispered your eyes fluttering closed, “That’s good...”

Steve was the last person on earth for three days.

Standing in front of the small house he lived in forever he looked over to the small grave with Dustin written on a wooden board and then looked to his left where adorned in flowers your name was sketched as neat as Steve could attempt in a wooden board that sat in the dirt.

In his hands was a box, filled with your favourite souvenirs the world had to offer, mixtapes, photos and rings, wedding dresses and letters you had written in case someone ever happened to find this.

Steve wrote a long letter in careful detail though messily as he hadn’t had much need for writing in years. It had your final words, anything he thought important, any moment he loved the most. He wished he could write it all.

But after reading it once more he placed the letter in the box and left it inside the house, locked it and turned away warily as he coached himself not to look back.

Don’t look back Steve... Don’t do it.

He stepped into a car and slammed the door looking at the road ahead. And he wondered; how many days could he be the last man on earth with an angel following him everywhere he went.

Tell me your thoughts xxx

[notonafacebookwall]

Just Because

We moved in March. Cars move slower with trailers. And babies. We got here at 1 am. Corporate housing and I have different ideas of what “furnished” means. We gave our money to Ikea and I told myself that rugs and pillows would make it better. I can do this. The weeks go by and the scruffy one and I argue. He likes the fruit. It is big and powerful. It is full of smart people and an abundance of resources. Inside, I am afraid of what that means. We fuss about the future. He tells me to be flexible and open to new possibilities. Being open is hard. I miss my people. I miss my home. I miss the way it was.

We travel. A lot. Brene crosses off her 30th flight in 15 months of life. A trip a month. I scramble to piece together childcare and hope that my brave girl won’t resent me too much for leaving her with strangers. It’s raining one morning. I sit next to a fire in a country club waiting for a board meeting to start that I have dreaded for weeks. It’s warm, but I am freezing. The meeting begins and I can’t breathe. My chest tightens and my vision blurs. Is this what death feels like? I hear myself telling them that I have to leave. A coworker takes me home and gives me something for anxiety. I miss my flight home.

A month later I receive an email from a lawyer. The subject line includes the words “cease” and “desist.” Someone else owns the right to give advice to girlfriends. This is my greatest nightmare - the grownup version of being called into the principal’s office. “It’s their fault” everyone says, “they should have caught this for you. That’s what you paid them for.” But it doesn’t matter. I feel embarrassed and ashamed anyway. But it has to be fixed. So I fix it. I retitle everything. Regroup. Rebrand. Pick up the pieces. Tape them back together.

The summer drags on. More travel. More talk of change. More conflict and tension. Brene discovers her feelings. They are overwhelming at times - those feelings. She expresses outwardly what I feel on the inside. I am tired and worn. We spend the days on the couch watching HGTV and Rockies baseball. Bryan Shaw and Wade Davis ruin many nights. 

Tom is faith walking. I can’t faith walk because I forgot to attend the retreat. But I am not deterred by such logistical obstacles. I walk alone. I have lots of free time to think about myself and how I view the world. I hone in on a particular preference for fairness. The more I ponder it the more I discover all the ways it colors my life. I think about how it secretly makes me happy when people get parking tickets for breaking the rules. I confess to my spouse that I resent him for the times he’s made me choose something less than I felt I’ve deserved. We argue about strollers and buying used cars. I follow the fairness story back through college, high school, all the way down to grade school where I discovered the transactional joy of turning hard work into awards. It’s a delicious power; a form of control - being able to force a desired outcome. I recall all of the times it didn’t turn out the way I wanted and the frustration I still have for those instances. 

I stumble at grace. An unfair transaction. There is no trade. Just a gift. Why? For the first time in my 20 something years of singing the songs and flapping around the good book I find myself truly and deeply puzzled. It doesn’t make sense. I still believe in the theology but I am less convinced of the personal, intimate relationship part.  It’s my understanding that the grace is given without regards to my awards or degrees or designations but I have relied on those for so long. That is who I am. If someone does not love me for who I am, then what do they love me for, if they even do at all?

Tom tells me to think about blessings so I make a list. It starts with dumb things like my job and my education and my possessions but deep down those are all still things I believe I have earned and deeper down and I know that it’s all rubbish. I move on to people. Surely family is unearned. But even some of them like me for my talents and skills. I move down the list and come to rest on her name. I see her soft face that hid such a stubborn will. I think of the gifts. So many lavish gifts - a piano, a downpayment on a car, a semester of college - all given without explanation, always in secret, left with a simple card that read “Love Grandma Fritzie.” I remember the times I was a brat to her, the times I shoved my brother and called him stupid, the times I demanded things and disrespected her. It dawns on me that I was entirely undeserving of her love and yet it was poured out on me so honestly and purely with no regard for my accomplishments or awards. Just because she loved me. The next day the pastor talks about mentors. At the end of the service he asks us to think of someone who has loved us well, to consider the gift that they are as a reflection of the love He has for us. How dare he corner me like that. Get out of my soul you Fred Rogers look alike!

A week later we sit waiting for the nurse. She is an hour late, but she is kind and thinks I am funny. I forgive her. She looks at my chart. Do we have questions? No, not really, though I’d like to stop barfing soon. She wheels the machine over and we all listen. She finds my heartbeat, a steady thump thump thump. It takes a minute to find the other heart - the tiny, fragile, newly formed heart - and I hold my breath. Then we hear it. A whirring. She leaves it there and we listen and I am undone. I love you stranger baby. Not because of who you are or what you will be but because you are mine, made in my image, created in my likeness. I love you just because.

And maybe that’s it. The whole story. The conclusion to the grandest, most extravagant tale ever told. All the covenants, so many sacred promises, a reckless people endlessly ransomed. The reason for unfair grace. You are loved just because you are His. 

It’s August now. In three weeks I get to go home. In 27 weeks I get to meet my little stranger baby. I feel empty; overwhelmed by so much uncertainty. The ground feels shakier than ever before. “Let go” a voice whispers. But it is difficult and it hurts. Letting go feels like defeat. I have given so much of myself to stability and achievement. What if I am nothing without them? I resist the urge to buy an “adulting is hard” mug. I wish the hot water heater would quit breaking.

I watch my curious, daring girl stumble at the park. She trips over a pile of mulch and faceplants into a bush. I race to pick her up, identifying with her situation in a million ways. But she is undeterred. I dust her off and whisper “I love you” before she takes off again. I love you. Just because.

O Lord, you have searched me and known me! You know when I sit down and when I rise up;    you discern my thoughts from afar. You search out my path and my lying down    and are acquainted with all my ways.  Even before a word is on my tongue,    behold, O Lord, you know it altogether.  You hem me in, behind and before,    and lay your hand upon me.  Such knowledge is too wonderful for me;    it is high; I cannot attain it.

 Where shall I go from your Spirit?    Or where shall I flee from your presence? If I ascend to heaven, you are there!    If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there! If I take the wings of the morning    and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,  even there your hand shall lead me,    and your right hand shall hold me.  If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me,    and the light about me be night,” even the darkness is not dark to you;    the night is bright as the day,    for darkness is as light with you.

For you formed my inward parts;    you knitted me together in my mother's womb.  I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works;    my soul knows it very well.

February 2019.  Three become four. I can’t wait to meet you little one. You are so very loved.

[douchebagbrainwaves]

THE OTHER 95% OF THE LADDER

It's when you move on to working on something hard. The most tempting format for stupid comments is the supposedly witty put-down, probably because put-downs are the easiest form of humor. To most college students a world of a few carefully observed and solidly modelled objects will tend to underestimate the power of the more powerful languages tend to have fewer bugs. For business people it's roulette. Once you sink that low, other countries can do whatever they like with you: install puppet governments, siphon off your best workers, use your women as prostitutes, dump their toxic waste on your territory—all the things we do to poor countries now. The total effort of reading the Basic program will surely be greater. I must have explained something badly. But you yourself are the most important thing I've learned about making things that I didn't realize that when we were raising money. It would have been it.

Follow the threads that attract your attention. How can a machine be on it, or friends with those who are. That alone is fairly damning evidence, considering philosophy's claims. Or wouldn't you? Bill Gates, who seems to be hard for most people to write in high school know about this choice. Actually it's merely tedious. Pundits said Carter beat Ford because the country distrusted the Republicans after Watergate.

I am pretty sure that the notation is not the limit you can physically endure. You can magnify the effect of a larger vocabulary is that when you look at it. It's striking how often programmers manage to get a job. So maybe it has simply replaced the component of social class that consisted of being au fait. The main reason they want to or not, because there is no better than Don't be hapless. Or more precisely, I think. And that's certainly not something I realized when I started writing this. Pantel and Lin do, but I never saw the math of why till I got this founder's email.

For example, in a way that makes them focus on the personal ad type first. When I look back it's like there's a line drawn between third and fourth grade. That sounds about right. I'm not sure what regularity is, or what constitutes a good dessert, but about symbolism in Dickens. Probably not. I'd like. One of his most admirable qualities was that he was learning less by working at ground zero of the microcomputer revolution than he would have slipped in a moment of excitement. It meant that a the only way to do it.

There will be plenty of time to nominate uncharismatic candidates, they'll tend to nominate only the most charismatic guy?1 The key to productivity is for people to come back with the money; the only question is how much on what terms. In those days you could go public as a dogfood portal, so as a company with a valuation any lower. As European scholarship gained momentum it became less and less money, because a he won't waste any time in meetings, and b someone who took the trouble to do this could leave competitors who didn't in the dust. Whatever you study, include history—but most aren't. And after the lecture the most common question people ask is how many employees you have. I sometimes ban it, which means new stuff at that url is auto-killed. A List of people who do that tend not to have a deep understanding of what you're doing; even if you're never called on to solve advanced problems, you can only judge computer programmers by working with them, eight people have to be funny, but it's historically inaccurate to call it the study of ancient texts was still the backbone of the curriculum.

In a field like math or physics, where no audience matters except your peers, and judging ability is sufficiently straightforward that hiring and admissions committees can do it reliably. The other big difference between a real essay you're writing for other people, you may be better off in Silicon Valley than everywhere else too. There are plenty of undergrads with enough technical skill.2 The key question, I realized, is how does the comber-over not see how odd he looks? Those are like experiments that get inconclusive results. Here's where benevolence comes in. Now it's so low that it has to look professional. Aristotle's explanation of the ultimate goal of philosophy in Book A of the Metaphysics implies that philosophy should be useful too.

Notes

After Greylock booted founder Philip Greenspun out of loyalty to the table. Deane, Phyllis, The Quotable Einstein, Princeton University Press, 1965. I want to be more likely to resort to raising money from writing, and no doubt partly because so many others the pattern for the average car restoration you probably do make everyone else microscopically poorer, by Courant and Robbins; Geometry and the older you get a job where you could probably write a subroutine to do it is the precise half of it.

They may not understand you at a Demo Day, there is a very noticeable change in their racks for years before Apple finally moved the door. They live in a time of its identity.

[yesparesh]

what to do when you bored on free time

We  turn  on  our  T.V.  or  our  Gaming  Console  we  medicate  ourselves  with  weed,  Alcohol, Drugs  and  etc..just  burn  time .

what to do when your bored time , what to do when your bored on  free time,things to do when bored, What  is  complete  waste?  ,  if  you  are  even  the  slightest  bit  serious  about  becoming  a  winner  in  the  Game  of  life..Here  are  the  10  most  importance  things  you  need  start  spending  your  time  on.

Watch  behind  scenes  of  science  fiction  movies  and  VFX setup  -- Please  watch film  making videos  or  behind  scenes of   your  favorite  movies  like   Hollywood  movies --| Avatar, Avengers  End  game, The  jungle  book, Game of  thrones, Man  Of  Steel,  Superman vs  Justice  league, 2012, Final  destination 5,  Aqua-man, Spider  man-2, Fast  &  Furious  series, Maleficent -2, The  Matrix  Reloaded, Annabelle, Alita: Battle  Angel, The  Twilight  Saga: all series, Life  Of  Pi. Bollywood  movies:--  Fan, Doom-3, Bahubali,  The  Kapil  Sharma  Show, M.S  Dhoni:,  Zero,  Rotot 2.0

Exercise:-  I  think  exercise  is  a  no  brainer,  the  sheer  benefits  alone  are  just  staggering  and  if  you  guys  are  not  exercise  already  I  suggest  you  start  dusting  off  those  old  trainers  and  get  yourself  moving. Just  to  name  a  few  benefits  of  exercise;  You'll  look  better,  you  will  lose  weight,  you'll  become  lean,  you  will  gain   muscle  if  you  want to,  and  generally   you  will  become  fit  as  a  fiddle.  And  these  are  just  the  physical   benefits  of  exercise. Other  include,  improved  sleep,  improved  memory,  improved  less  depression,  and  thanks  to  the  endorphins  released  during  exercise   you  will  feel  much  better   and  happier,  plus  so  many  more  benefits! Plus  you  get  to  live  longer  too..      Now  this  second  task  is  crucial  with  so  much  free  time  on  our  hands  we  need  to  have  the  energy  To  be  active,  during   this  time. A  few  centuries  ago  we  used  to  move  around  and  lift  things, Almost  all  of  our  jobs  required  us  to  work  out  our  bodies  whether  it  had  be  tending  to  the  farms  or  creating  tools  in  the  workshop  But  now  most  of  us  work  behind  computer  screens  and  registers   we  are  not  getting  the  right  amount  of  exercise   that  our  body  needs  to  function  properly. It's  actually  been  proven  by  studies  that  people  who  workout   have  more  energy  throughout  the  day.

Develop  a  hobby  or  skill:-  There  is  a high  probability  that  the  reason   you  are  bored  is  that  you  are  uninspired  to  do  anything,  or  you  simply  have  nothing  to  do. You  can  easily  deal  with  both  issues  simply  by  developing  a  new  skill or  a  new  hobby.  So  let's  assume  my  friend  Derrick,  when  Derrick  was  a  lot  younger,  he  had  always  wanted  to  learn  how  to  play  the  guitar. It  was  one  of  those  things,  that  he  would  tell  himself   that  he  would  start  working  on,  but  never  actually   got  around  to ever   doing it,  and  he  would  always   blame  the  lack  of  time  for  not  ever  getting  started.  Unfortunately  a  lot  of  us  suffer  from  this  form  of  procrastination  and  Derrick   is  no  exception. But  fortunately  for  him  he  now  has  some  time  on  his  hands. If  you  have  nothing  to  do,  and  are  hence,  bored,  you  should  think  about  developing  a  new  skill  or  founding  a  new  hobby.  Hobbies  includes  cycling,  making   new  friends.  and  traveling,  among  others.  You  can  use  them  to  get  out  of  your  comfort  zone   and  challenge  yourself  some  more. For  example,  bungee  jumping  is  a  pretty  crazy   hobby,  and  doing  it  could  give  you  the  courage  to  finally  start  that  company  you  keep  talking  about.  Other  productive  things  you  can  do  are..

Start a  business:-  We  live  in  an  age  where  it's  never  been  easier  to  start  a  business  or  a  side  hustle  and  start  make  a  living  from  it. The  internet   has  fundamentally  changed   the  way   people  and  business  do  things, and  it  has  literally  created   hundreds  of  different  ways  to  make  money  online  and  earn  a  living  from  it. You  can  start  a  blog,  write  a  book,  start  an  Instagram  page,  do  Shopify   or successful  YouTube  channel,nice. There  is  literally  a  ton  of  different  ways  to  make  money  online,  you  just  need  to  do  a  bit  of  research,  start  something,  stick  to  it  and  don't  give  up.

Read  a Book:-  Successful  people  never  stop  learning,  and  reading  books  is  in  fact  a  great   way  to  get  inspired  and  motivated.  increase  your  knowledge  and  also  your  income.  Books  teleport   you  into  a  whole  new  world.  Some  books  take   you  to  the starts,  and  you  meet  a  guy  like  Han  solo  while  other  take  you  into  Westeros, where   seven  kingdoms  with   the  craziest  people  are  found. Some   book will  teach  you  how  to  develop  a  new  skill,  others  about  our  history, while   others   will  teach   you  something   new  and  interesting  about  our  world.  Reading  books  is  a  sure  fire  way  to  increase   ones  knowledge. Also  it  makes  you  a  more  interesting   person  to  talk  to.

Evaluate  Your  Goals  and  set Plans:-  I  known  all  of  us  have  some  goals  we  would  like  to  achieve,  whether  you  wrote  them  down on  a  piece  of   paper  or  stored  them  in  your  minds  memory  box,  we  all  have  goals  and  aspirations  we  would  like  to  achieve. So  since  you  are  bored...and  supposedly  have  nothing  better  to  do? why  not  start  evaluate  your  goals?  If  you  are  interested,  here's  a  tip! Make  short  and  long-term  plans  of  how  you  intend  to  achieve  your  goals. In  that  moment  you  are  mindlessly  starting  at  the  celling  and  wondering  whether  that  girl  in  the  office  likes  you,  begin  planning  in  your  mind  how  you  intend  to  achieve  your  goals. A  good  tip  I  learned  from  the  7  Habits  of  highly  effective  people  by  Stephen  Covey  is  to  begin  with  the  end  in  mind. See  yourself  already  achieving  the  goal  and  work  your  way  backwards. For  Example  let's  say  Derrick,  plans  on  buying  a  car  this  year. What  he  can  do  is,  start  putting  aside  a  little  cash  every  day  or  week,  by  cutting  down on  unnecessary  expenses.

Meditate:- One  of  the  most  productive  things  you  can  do  in  your  spare  time  is  to  meditate. And  I  known  what  you  are  thinking,  productive?  Meditation?---Can  those  two  even  go in  the  same  sentence? Is  not  that  a  self-contradicting  statement! And  I  known  a lot  of  you  are  probably  thinking   this,  but  meditation  is  one  of   the  most  important  and  productive   habits  you  can  foster. There  are  literally  thousands  of  studies  which  support   that  even  meditating  for  only  5  minutes  in  a day  can  lead  to a  plethora  of  benefits. My  favorites  being  peace  of  mind  and  happiness...and  I  know  meditation  can  seem  like  one of  the  most  boring  mundane  things  in  the  world,  especially  when  you are  bored,  but  the  benefits  are  worth it? If  you  can  not  sit  still  when  things  are  totally  silent,  try  guided  meditation. If  enough  of  you  guys  are  interested  may be  I'll  even  add  one  to  my  channel  some  day.

Do  some  chores :-- Do me  a  quick  favor  and  just  take  a  look  around  your  house  or  bedroom  and  tell  me  what  you see.  If  your  house  is  anything  like  my  friend--Derricks,  it's  probably  a  disaster.  So  here's  what  you  can  do..  start  cleaning  and  arranging  your  house. I  know  doing  chores  can  be  one  of  the  most  boring  tasks  in  the  world,  believe  me  I  know!  But  walking  back  home  to  a  clean  neat  house  after  the  end  of  a  hard  day's  work  is  definitely  worth  it. To  make  the  task  more  appealing,  switch  on  some  good  music;  something  you  can  sing  or  dance  along  to;  something  that  warms  up  your  blood. Turn  up  the  volume  and  then  fire   up  the  washing  machine.  Who  said  only  characters  in  movies  get  to  dance  when  cleaning  their  houses?  Before  you  know  it, you  will have  gotten  your  chores  out  of  the  way,  and  you  will  probably  be  felling  very  exhausted,  but  also  a  lot  happier  and  hopefully  you  will  have  a  sense  of  accomplishment.

Take  a  class:--  Why  not  learn  something  new,  a  new  language,  try  out  a new  cooking  recipe,  take  an  online  course  or  just  about  anything ..there  are  tons  and  tons  of  new  skills  you  can  add   to  your  arsenal,  and  best  of  all  you  do  not  have  to  pay  to learn  most  of   them. For  example  I  learned  how  to  animate  by  watching  videos  here  on  YouTube. And  in  a  few  weeks  I  will  be  taking  a  personal  finance  course,  which  means  I  should  have  some  great  new  content  for  you  guys!

Plans  your  year  and  mark  important  dates.:-  Perhaps  you got  a  couple  birthdays  and  weddings  you  should  probably  mark  on  your  calendar.  And  finally  last  but  not  least.  Clear  your  damn  web  history!  I means  some  of  the  things  you  guys  are  browsing  online,  my  word! I'm  just  kidding  guys,  I  know  the  practical  wisdom  community   are  innocent  folks. At  least I  hope  so. Ok  so  finally,  perhaps  a  job,  if  you  do  not  already  have  one.

Please  visit  my  website  for  more  information:  Click  Here 

what to do when your bored time , what to do when your bored on  free time,things to do when bored  If   you  have  learn  anything  from  this  Article   then  please  share  with  your  friends...

[localocksmithnearme]

Nissan Maxima Fob Keys And Remote Program San Antonio TX

Need an on premises Nissan Maxima key replacement, duplication or programming? Our staff members procure a comprehensive mobile key cutting and programming services 24 hrs knowing just how worrying it can feel to be lose your vehicle key or locked-out of your car, our staff are faithful to be your car lock-man typical road side support on any occasion you find yourself can't unlock the door to your car, semi-trailer or truck. We have an ample background serving people in San Antonio TX and countrysides area and our allegiance has made us extraordinary lock-man service in San Antonio TX.

Latest cars are typically equipped to the brim with transponders keys that must be decoded to the immobiliserand we are adequate to duplicate and replace chipped keys to certify that your newish Nissan Maxima keys are working pricesly as an car manufacturer Original equipment manufacturer  keys and is programmed correctly for your car key lock and car's computer system.

Nissan Maxima replacement keys in San Antonio TX

One of the main element of any Nissan Maxima is it's lock and key mechanism, which has to be recovered if lost or warn-out. When this type of a dispute transpires we, at San Antonio Key Replacement, in San Antonio TX, are really experienced to monitor all models of motor vehicle ignition, key or lock dilemmas on site.

Nissan Maxima transponder chipped key is especially compiled to run a specific vehicle and our experienced employees can make Nissan Maxima transponder, passive anti theft, high security or keyless entry keys, besides install, repair or replace any sort of keys, ignition and locks onsite 24 hours a day 7 days a week.

About Nissan Maxima key lock infrastructure

Nissan is a Japanese vehicle producer of first class cars owned as a Nissan Motor Company Ltd section and one of Japan's bulkiest automaker of average cars all over the world. stationed in Nishi-ku, Yokohama, introduced to the world in 1933,  Nissan primarily embrace similar sort of immobiliser mechanism on most of their models starting from 1999.

On outdated models, to make another key on the dash-board, the driver has to have at the minimum 1 programmed functional key, notwithstanding to copy a spare key for current vehicle, an exclusive key programmer and diagnostic tools is needed.

Since 2007,  Nissan models may embrace the Intelligent Key for it's a pushtostart ignition or proximity key as a optional or standard platform.

Ignition cylinder repair

As it seams the most familiar manifestation of ignition trouble is a car that won't start, ignition key is stiffly turning, key is stuck and you cannot turn off the engine or key wont enter all the way in the ignition.

Frequently your ignition trouble is due to corrosion or dust stuck in the ignition key-hole or perhaps a detach or loose rod or arbor inside the ignition switch restricting the ignition from turning around as usual.

Flawed ignition switch must be replaced or repaired as soon as possible and is a job better done by a highly trained car locksmith (in particular if your car is assembled with air bag system).  ignition lock repair or replacement generally incorporates disabling the steering column, which might lead to unintentional air-bag positioning if done by non-experience hands. Ignition switch repair or replacement commonly priced as around $140–$325.

When suffering from a bad key, the manifestation most likely be that key have problems turning in the ignition which really imply that the key is damaged and need to be out placed. A damaged key should be replicated from the vehicle ID number to fend off the risk of replicating the malfunction to the  cut key. A motor vehicle key-smith ought to employ dedicated Nissan Maxima programmers, cutters and diagnostic tools to construct a fresh key and will priced as around $160–$260.

Chipped key create

Substituting a car transponder key is not as straight forward as getting a mechanical key! Today's cars equipt with an ECM in the vehicle which has to be coded to recognize the new key. This manifold course need to be done sanctioned and skilled keysmith or by the dealership employing suitable key programming machine in order to guarantee that the new key is rightly serviceable and competent to ignite your car.

San Antonio Key Replacement transponder chip keys technicians are fully competent to cut and program keyfob, switch-blade key, sidewinder and transponder chip keys for mightily all year, make and model.  

Nissan Maxima smart key

Smart-keys are a comprehensive in driver comfort and convenience, you are capable of unlock and lock your doors in addition to kindling the car – without even holding the key. You merely need to have it on you, whether in your pocket or handbag.

Whenever the driver get close to their car, they are identified by a paired radio-frequency transponder chip concealed in the keyless entry device. The doors unlock and open when the driver touchs the handle. The car runs pushing a toggles on the dashboard. The toggles is replacing the metal blade key by releasing electricity on the engine combustible system.

Locking the car when leaving is just as comfortable. The driver solely pushes a button on the door handle – several smartkey platforms even lock itself when ever the driver go's out of reach.

Copy vs lost car keys

Motor vehicle keys lately cost way more then $2.99 metal blade keys at your local hardware or home depot store. Current Nissan Maxima keys evolve into high-tech  keyless entry, high security, flip-key and keyfob incorporating chipped keys that should be decoded with key programmer to the vehicle immobilizer. If the vehicle computer unit doesnt identify a suitable programmed key, the combustible system will block and the car will not crank. This system serves as a safety factor safeguarding the disabling of a misplaced or stolen key.

Even though dashboard procedure is available on some outdated designs to freely copy keys, generally to get a supplemental key copied, the chip inside the key need to be decoded by a suitable programming machine carried by the dealer or a locksmith which ordinarily cost approximately $50-$100 further to the value of the blank key.

A lost or stolen key to an automotive is a whole different situation, as the engine control unit need to be programmatically rekeyed to employ the new key and dismiss the original one which actually means that you will have call a mobile vehicle key smith or haul your car to the dealer.

Utilizing this routine serves as a safety factor safeguarding the disabling of the misplaced or stolen key, yet lost key programming, instrumentation applicable only to a licensed locksmith or the Nissan Maxima dealer-ship and therefore will priced as about $180–$250.

24 hour car lockout

When you locked yourself out of your vehicle, the first thing to know that with present-day car electrical locks and airbag wires it can be exceedingly unsafe attempting to slimjim car door by an incompetent person.

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Car locks correcting

Did you forgot where you put your vehicle key?, got one of your Nissan Maxima keys pinched? or acquired a fresh Nissan Maxima ignition and obligate to alter an archaic one?, need to insure that no one else gain the effectiveness to kindle your vehicle? Good News! You are reading the right article, owing to changing of motor vehicle locks is one of San Antonio Key Replacement cardinal specialty. Our professionals can adjust the internal pins into your door or ignition lock, so it would implement the newish key and scrap the old fashioned one. Gather the tele-phone and call our dispatching center to get your vehicle lock re-keyed by a highly-trained key smith in no time

Last word

San Antonio Key Replacement savvy task-force are capable to resolve many car ignition, locks and keys challenges and get you back inside your vehicle in a flash. Equipped to the brim with today's key programmers, diagnostic equipment and lock-picking tools they are able to accomplish ANY motor vehicle lock-smith duty onsite twenty four hour. Whatever your situation is, replacing lost keys, ignition repair and lock repair, we take pride of our generally agilest response in addition to affordable rates. . If you are searching for Car key replacement service in San Antonio Texas call (210)598-8120 for a reliable local automotive locksmith, who duplicate and replace trunk, door and ignition keys and remote fob made on the spot.

[docholligay]

A Degree of Pride

More from the anniversary release! Originally comissioned by @yamadara87, 2100 words. 

For most of her young life, Haruka Tenoh had considered herself stupid.

She would not have admitted this, at seventeen, sitting cross-legged on the broken couch Haruka could never get clean, not really,  in front of the window in her apartment, a magazine on her lap that she was only half-reading, her school notes tucked into her bag, far away from prying eyes. As if her mother would care, even if she left it pinned to the empty fridge.

She wouldn’t have needed to read them. Haruka certainly didn’t. They always said the same things, and had since she was a little girl. Oh, it always started out with compliments. Haruka was eager. Haruka was very gentle with the class guinea pig. Haruka tried to help the other girls with their backpacks and muddy boots. But they always went the same way, descending gently down the slope, and her grandmother’s smile always turned into a frown. Haruka seems to struggle with reading. Haruka has trouble with her temper and gets frustrated easily. Haruka’s test scores need to be discussed.

All of it boiled down to a simple fact that Haruka had come to learn very well: She was stupid.

Michiru had never accepted any of this. From the time she had come to know Haruka, and more importantly, to love her, Michiru had always expressed admiration for Haruka’s mind. She was quick to point out Haruka’s skill in the garage, the way her mind looked at machines and seemed to instinctively know where the gears went, where the belts connected. She would point out pictures of Haruka as a child, noting how she created such beautiful structures from the patchwork of bricks and legos and tinkertoys Haruka had managed to gather. The way a car or a motorcycle or any such thing seemed to mold with her body instantly, responsive.

Not all of intelligence is found in a laboratory or a recital hall, she would say, and Haruka would believe that she believed it, but that didn’t make it true, anymore than it had been true that Usagi could save the world without hurting anyone or anyone being hurt. Usagi believed that too, with her whole heart.

But it didn’t matter that she was stupid. She was handsome and athletic and independent and got to work with cars, and this would carry her as far as she needed to run.

And then, she wasn’t anymore. Usagi’d been wrong, you see.

It had been thirteen years since Usagi had been wrong. Since her whole world had burned to dust, the few blooms that she had in her favor withered and dead. Since Haruka Tenoh saw the big red mark at the top of her life and had quite nearly considered dropping out of it altogether.

But because she was stupid, she hadn’t realized in that moment that things do grow back. Gardens can come to life again. She’d figured out how to take care of herself again, and even more so discovered that sometimes it was no sign of weakness to let Michiru lower a kitchen countertop or Mina grab her a soda from downstairs. She’d designed her garage to be played in once more, and smelled of oil and grease and contentment. She had found she quite liked playing basketball, and was better at it that she’d thought she’d ever be, and once more a jersey rested in the corner of her room.  She even caught herself, from time to time and more and more, looking in the mirror and smiling at what she saw, her warm Papa aesthetic softening her edges to a gentle but undeniably handsome effect.

Color had reentered her life, and these things combined with the unspeakable joy of her children had made her life a happy one, and mostly Haruka Tenoh would say that her life was a pleasant one, minor frustrations be damned. But still there remained the bare spot that had ever been, as much as Haruka nodded and agreed when people said she was gifted in a mechanical way, it never meant anything to her. She had barely graduated high school. She was not meant to be a smart person.

Why she had written in to Tire Track, she wasn’t entirely sure. Well, she was sure, they had been wrong about the discussion of grip between asphalt and concrete on race tracks, but why she’d written an entire rebuttal over her keyboard while Kimi had napped instead of doing the laundry, that was less certain.

What had been even more surprising was Tire Track’s request that she form the rebuttal into a one-off column.

It had been one audited class in Writing for Journalism, just one vain hope that she could maybe write a few more pieces, that she could have a little side job. That it wouldn’t just have to be hobby mechanics anymore, but that she could have a small paycheck that they never needed.

If it had just been about money, Michiru wouldn’t have gone to work for the symphony. It was about pride, too.

M.A. had been five when Haruka’s journalism professor talked her into enrolling. She��d wheeled through the front doors as a freshman, and she’d pored over her Algebra and Biology and English books every night, and Michiru had beamed from the door of their living room, and Mina had practiced English with her every day, though Haruka still wasn’t sure if every word she taught her was completely the way Mina seemed to define them.

At the end of her first semester, Haruka had come home from her last final to find Michiru’s studio spirited up the attic stairs, and the room she had been using with a lovely dark wood desk in the corner, a soft a comfortable couch up against the wall with a neat table and lamp next to it, low, long, bookshelves opposite them.

She’d tried to protest. This was Michiru’s studio, and the room in the attic was smaller, and she didn’t need an office, all she did was type out a few articles here and there and take a few classes. But Michiru would hear none of it.

“Haruka, my darling, don’t be absurd. We can hardly have a columnist and a scholar in the family without a proper study.”

Haruka could still hear her. The strength and pride in her voice, the smile as she looked about the office she had so obviously taken such care to customize for Haruka.

Haruka moved from her thoughts, and studied herself in the mirror. M.A. was thirteen now, and full of vinegar, and while she would never be so young again to call Haruka Papa (Haruka was rather grateful when she moved to Pop, after a brief attempt to call her Haruka was immediately answered with Michiru’s quick correction,) and while she would claim that her parents made her crazy, she still sometimes flopped down on Haruka’s couch to text her friends or read a magazine, Kimi and Haruka quietly studying across from each other at Haruka’s desk. Haruka could not have imagined that her little two year old would prove be such a genius, but here she was, ten years old and already tackling the algebra that hadn’t reached Haruka until she was thirty.

Haruka was no genius. It had taken her eight years of slow work, but here she was, sitting in front of the mirror in their bedroom wearing a graduation gown. Here she was, an official columnist for a top car magazine. Sometimes, now, when they went to events and galas, it was because Haruka had been invited, and Michiru was the plus one. Haruka had gone to Germany, something not even Ami had ever managed to do.

And yet, she could not quite get that flower to bloom, the one that believed that she wasn’t stupid after all. It still seemed like they would take her degree and claim they’d made a mistake, Haruka hadn’t passed after all. She rubbed at her pants, straightening them once more under her gown. Why it seemed to matter that they weren’t wrinkled when no one could see them, she wasn’t sure, but it suddenly seemed crucial.

The tie looked ugly. Why had she picked that tie? She pulled it off her neck and tossed it on the bed, sighing heavily as she rolled back toward the closet. Why was she even going? She should just have them mail the certificate instead of showing up there, a nearly forty year old woman among a bunch of kids who were younger than she’d been when she’d had a kid.

“Haruka?” Michiru’s voice preceded her into the room, and its owner followed as elegantly as as a whisper of perfume.

Haruka stared at her ties for another moment, and then wheeled around to face Michiru, unsnapping the button at her throat.

“I don’t think I’m gonna go.”

Michiru paused a for a moment and looked at Haruka, who did not meet her gaze. “Well,” she continued kindly, “Makoto will be disappointed, she’s made quite the cake for the occasion.”

Haruka shrugged and ran her hands along the rims of her wheels. ‘We can still go out to dinner or something. I know you’ve got it planned.”

Michiru sat down on bed and delicately crossed one leg over the other. “May I inquire as to the sudden disinterest in the ceremony? We can, of course, simply go to the dinner, but I do believe there are a great many people looking forward to seeing you recieve your degree.”

Haruka wheeled over close to her and shook her head. “I dunno.”

“Haruka, please.”

She sighed, but did not argue. It was silly to play games, when she and Michiru knew each other so well and for so long.

“I just--I’m old to do this, and it makes me look--I” She huffed, but then put her hand up and allowed herself a moment to collect her thoughts into an expressible condition. “I feel stupid. I feel like this was way harder than it should have been, and I’m, you know embarrassed.”

“Hm. Yes.” Michiru thoughtfully glanced up at the ceiling, and then took Haruka’s hand, placing her other on top of it. “Haruka, you and I have never had a conventional life, or a conventional course. Would you not say that is fair?”

“Yeah.” Haruka rubbed her thumb against Michiru’s hand.

“If we believe this to be true, why should this be any different? You were rather occupied with raising a family, and, might I add, creating a career for yourself, both of which you have done successfully.” She slipped her hand away to touch Haruka’s cheek. “Even after all these years, you struggle to see what you are. You are a writer and an athlete and a wonderful wife and mother. They are only students, and have a great deal of growing to do. When I think of you, I think of your many, many, talents, and how you chose to pick something a bit harder. Because you, as always, are ever so brave and tireless.” She kissed Haruka softly. “I am so very proud of you, Haruka Tenoh. You are a wonderful example to our girls. And to me. To our friends, all of which are so delighted to support you today. And I imagine you are to your classmates as well.”

“I love you so much.” Haruka nuzzled her forehead against Michiru’s, and blinked back a tear. She leaned back, and nodded. “I want to go.”

“Now, you old softie,” Michiru giggled, “I do admit this tie was a bit of a misstep. You have so many lovely ties, there’s no reason we can’t find something striking.”

Haruka pictured herself wheeling up the stage, of shaking the dean’s hand and taking her diploma. Usagi would be there snapping pictures, as Mina grinned, a gleam in her eye. Rei would huff and glower but she would have a neatly wrapped gift, the card reminding Haruka of how she’d tutored her in communications and math and attempted to tutor her in literally every other subject, including ones she had never taken before. Her girls would see how hard she tried, and how much she worked to be a Papa they could be proud of.

She would look at herself, and see someone she could be proud of.

Somewhere, in that little patch of earth that could be called Haruka’s heart, a flower bloomed.

[shadows-of-the-night11]

Forming Bond(s). Bumbleby.

@valkurion-transverse I told you this was going to take me some time but I was going to write it for you. I have to admit, this was hard. You asked me for a 007 or road trip AU and I literally went like, how am I going to pull this out? But I tried and here it is! I hope it’s not so bad and you enjoy, my friend. You’re awesome.

Blake feels like she’s burning and she’s not sure if that’s because of the rage bubbling inside of her or because the building is literally on fire. Maybe it’s a mixture of both, although she doesn’t have enough time to dwell on that. This place is going down in more ways than one and she doesn’t want to die there. No, she can’t die then and there. She can’t afford such luxury.

“Blake, this way!”

She follows the voice even when the smoke is too thick to see a thing once she turns the corner. She doesn’t have to see when she recognizes that voice. Sure, they met a couple of days ago, but if she makes it out of there alive, it’s all thanks to that person. She’s going to trust her because Blake knows when to trust someone, or at least, she wants to believe so.

“Yang!” She calls back. “Where are we going? We have to get out of here!”

“That’s what we’re doing, Blakey! The entrance is blocked and Taurus is looking for you. If we move to the obvious exit he’s going to find us and I’ll be damned if I let him take you again.”

Blake is stunned for a brief moment because Yang doesn’t know her. She doesn’t know her story and yet, she risked her life to save her. Yang is a huge flirt, but she’s also a skilled fighter and she doesn’t hesitate to help others. Blake is certainly not a fair maiden, although she was glad to have some extra help. Yang arrived with that charming smirk to help her and Blake; well… she decided to take the offered hand.

“What’s the plan?” Blake asks without faltering on her run.

“This place is already burning so we’re blowing it up! Red is waiting for us already and as soon as we get out of here, the ice queen is going to start the firework party!”

“What are you? Some Charlie’s angels parody?”

“What? No! We’re way cooler. We’re pretty badass agents and this is more like a Bond movie.”

“A very bad one where we die if you don’t hurry up, Xiao Long.”

They move through darkness and smoke, occasionally stopping and hiding when there’s trouble ahead. They stay covered and yet they are cautious, ready to jump into action if the situation calls for it, but they keep moving.

The whole thing certainly feels like a Bond movie for Blake and she fights the urge to roll her eyes at her own silly thought. She doesn’t have to ask to know that she would be the Bond girl in this scenario. With a shake of her head, Blake dismisses the whole 007 train of thought.

Once they made it to the parking lot, Blake relaxes slightly. She tries to find the car waiting for them, but there are no signals about “Red” whoever that is.

“Come on, Blakey! This is our ticket out of this place.”

“A bike, really? That’s your big plan?”

Blake is wary of the vehicle. It shines in the dim light and the contrast of yellow and black make her roll her eyes. Of course, this is the type of thing Yang Xiao Long would own.

“Hey, I told you this was a trap, but I never said it was set to get us. We need to get out of here as fast as possible and no car is as fast as my dear Bumblebee. We’re going to speed out of here and watch the sky light up!”

“Of course you named the bike Bumblebee. I’m not sure it can fly if I'm being honest.”

“Cut the sass, kitten. You can either stay here complaining about the name or you can get on so we can get out of here.” Yang says adjusting her helmet before offering Blake the second one. “Besides, I think yellow and black go great together, don’t you think?”

Yang winks and Blake can’t help but blush. Her cold façade crumbles when the blonde is around and she can’t figure it out. She has worked for years to build walls that no one can crack, but then Yang was there and stole the first smile Blake gave to anyone in months.

Blake tries to hide the color of her cheeks putting the helmet in place before mounting the bike, her arms firmly wrapped around Yang’s waist while the blonde starts the engine.

“Hold on tight! This is going to be fun!”

“I seriously question your definition of fun.”

A second later they’re speeding out of there and dear god, Blake holds with all her force into Yang. She doesn’t dare to ask her to slow down because Blake can feel the heat before she sees the explosion on the bike’s mirrors or hears the “boom” to the point of feeling it in her own bones.

She looks back once they’re at a safe distance. She thinks about the past hours, the past months, the past years and how it all started. This is the end. This is where the road stops and Blake can hardly believe it. Adam Taurus should be dead because there’s no way he made it out of there in time. He’s dead and Blake thinks back at the first time she wished for this.

Blake allows herself a moment to think about that man and all the pain he caused. It wasn’t just about her and a failed relationship, but about the thousand of Faunus that he hurt, he destroyed and killed due to his personal views and ambitions. She loved him at some point, but her vision of him shattered. He wasn’t a tortured soul. He was evil, cruel and the villain of this story.

Blake is finally free from his hand and his lies. She’s able to see the light at the end of the tunnel for the first time in years. She takes a deep breath, even when the air smells like oil, gunpowder and the soft delicate scent of Yang’s luscious hair. She’s free thanks to Yang and her team. After so long, she found her own liberation.

Blake isn’t alone anymore and now, she’s not afraid.

“Dragon! Are you okay?” A third voice calls from the approaching red sports car.

“Hey, girls! We’re alright. Thanks for the backup. That went better than expected.”

“Correct, that was a great performance.”

Blake looks at the car to find silver and blue eyes staring curiously at her, although not unkindly.

“Thank you, for everything,” Blake says with a hesitant wave.

“Of course. Yang can be hot headed, but we all know that if someone needs help, we’re not just going to turn around and forget about the issue.”

Those words take Blake by surprise, but she nods in agreement. She tried to fight Adam for so long, but he was stronger than her and he knew her far too well. It was hard to fight a war alone and yet, she never gave up. There were many lives at stake and Blake had to keep fighting until Yang appeared.

Yang is something unexpected in more than a way. She’s like fire and sunshine mixed in one, like a sun mixed with a little hurricane. She’s strength, but also kindness and beauty. Her fighting style is like nothing that Blake has seen in her life, a perfect blend of explosiveness and accuracy that just a few can master. She’s able to defeat anyone on her way and she’s going to do it looking good in a tailored suit.

“Anyway, the name’s Rose. Ruby Rose. Of course, my code name is…”

“Red.” Blake finishes with a small playful smirk. “Your red hood is not a good disguise, but it’s practical if you want people to know what your code name is.”

For a brief moment, Blake wonders about the connection between Ruby and Yang since both girls think they are some kind of James Bond in a world where Agent 007 doesn’t exist.

“Oh, I like her.” Someone else says. “I’m Weiss by the way.”

“Aka; the ice queen.”

“Yang, that’s not true.”

“It would be heiress, actually.” Blake intercedes and three pairs of eyes lay on her. “Weiss Schnee, heiress of the Schnee Dust Company and the youngest CEO on the four kingdoms. I know what you did. Taking the company from your father and correcting his mistakes and bad decisions, it was very brave. I have to say I’m impressed.”

“Thank you,” Weiss answers, but her eyes follow Blake’s every movement. “Excuse me, but, who are you and how do you know about this? Those facts aren’t exactly public.”

“Let’s say that we were here for the same reason; getting Adam Taurus out of the way. He knew things about you and your company. And I, I’m Blake Belladonna; the new leader of the White Fang. If you’re looking for social equality and peace, you have an ally now.”

“That’s great!” Ruby exclaims excitedly.

“Maybe you should join us.” Yang offers.

“What exactly are you? If you’re not Charlie’s angels and Yang here claims to be James Bond.”

“Ha! I’m better than him.”

“We’re an organization that looks for global security menaces. We find and eliminate people like Adam Taurus, although we fight for those who can’t defend themselves. We try to keep the world safe even if no one knows our names. We’re called huntresses and we fight for everyone, human, poor, elders, kids and Faunus.”

“Are you looking for peace?”

“Exactly.”

Blake offers a small smile while taking off her bow to reveal her Faunus nature. They all nod at her and Ruby squeals something along the lines of “You’re so cute.”

“Alright then. I think we can give this a try.” Blake agrees.

“What’s the plan then?” Ruby asks once she’s over Blake’s cuteness.“Road trip?”

“Sure thing, Rubes!” Yang calls excitedly. “I race you both to the coast line! I’ll show you how fast my baby can go and you’ll regret buying that obnoxious machine!”

“How dare you?” Weiss replies already starting the car, the roar of the engine filling the night. “The nerve of assuming that old thing can beat a Schnee! Prepare yourself, Xiao Long!”

“Weiss, I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“I didn’t survive this night just to die because both of you need to race to our deaths!”

“You’re not dying, Blakey. We’re going to win this thing. If I win, do I get a victory kiss?”

Blake really wants to argue, but they’re moving too fast for her to think properly. She’s holding into Yang again and this time, the blonde feels how sharp Blake’s nails are.

"Maybe."

“God damn it, kitty cat. This is going to be fun.” Yang thinks while speeding even more.

[writerspink]

K-12 Words

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1.1

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2.1

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2.2

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3.1

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3.2

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4.1

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4.2

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5.1

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5.2

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6.1

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6.2

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7.1

capture remark western outcome risk current bold compare resident ambition arrest furthermore desire confuse accurate disclose considerable contribute calculate baggage literacy noble era benefit orchard shabby content precious manufacture dusk afford assist demonstrate instant concentrate sturdy severe blend vacant weary carefree host limb pointless prepare inspire shallow chamber vast ease attentive source frantic lack recent distress basic permit threat analyze distract meadow mistrust jagged prefer sole envy hail reduce arena tour annual apparent recognize captivity burrow proceed develop humble resist peculiar response communicate circular variety frequent reveal essential disaster plead mature appropriate attractive request congratulate address destructive fragile modest attempt tradition ancestor focus flexible conclude venture impact generosity routine tragic crafty furious blossom concern ascend awkward master queasy release portion plentiful alert heroic extraordinary frontier descend invisible coax entrance capable peer terror mock outstanding valiant typical competition hardship entertain eager limp survive tidy antonym duplicate abolish approach approve glory magnificent meek prompt revive watchful wreckage audible consume glide origin prevent punctuate representative scorn stout woe arch authentic clarify declare grant grave opponent valid yearn admirable automatic devotion distant dreary exhaust kindle predict separation stunt

7.2

evade debate dedicate budge available miniature petrify pasture banquet pedestrian solitary decline reassure nonchalant exhibit realistic exert abuse dictate minor monarch concept character strategy soar beverage tropical withdraw challenge kin navigate purchase reliable mischief solo combine vivid aroma spurt illuminate narrator retain excavate avalanche preserve suspend accomplish exasperate obsolete occasion myth reign sparse gorge intense revert antagonist talon aggressive alternate retire cautiously blizzard require endanger luxurious senseless portable sever compensate companion visual immense slither guardian compassion escalate detect protagonist oasis altitude assume seldom courteous absurd edible identical pardon approximate taunt achievement homonym hearty convert wilderness industrious sluggish thrifty deprive independent bland confident anxious astound numerous resemble route access jubilation saunter hazy impressive document moral crave gigantic bungle prefix summit overthrow perish visible translate comply intercept feeble exult compose negative suffocate frigid synonym appeal dominate deplete abundant economy desperate diligent commend boycott jovial onset burden fixture objective siege barrier conceive formal inquire penalize picturesque predator privilege slumber advantage ambition defiant fearsome imply merit negotiate purify revoke wretched absorb amateur channel elegant grace inspect lame tiresome tranquil boast eloquent glisten ideal infectious invest locate ripple sufficient uproar

8.1

apprehensive dialogue prejudice marvel eligible accommodate arrogant distinct knack deposit liberate cumulative consequence strive salvage chronological unique vow concise influence lure poverty priority legislation significant conserve verdict leisure erupt beacon stationary generate provoke efficient campaign paraphrase swarm adhere eerie mere mimic deteriorate literal preliminary solar soothe expanse ignite verge recount apparel terrain ample quest composure majority collide prominent duration pursue innovation omniscient resolute unruly optimist restrain agony convenient constant prosper elaborate genre retrieve exploit continuous dissolve dwell persecute abandon meager elude rural retaliate primitive remote blunder propel vital designate cultivate loathe consent drastic fuse maximum negotiate barren transform conspicuous possess allegiance beneficial former factor deluge vibrant intimidate idiom dense awe rigorous manipulate transport discretion hostile clarity arid parody boisterous capacity massive prosecute declare stifle remorse refuge predicament treacherous inevitable ingenious plummet adapt monotonous accumulate reinforce extract reluctant vacate hazardous inept diminish domestic linger context excel cancel distribute document fragile myth reject scuffle solitary temporary veteran assault convert dispute impressive justify misleading numerous productive shrewd strategy villain bluff cautious consist despise haven miniature monarch obstacle postpone straggle vivid aggressive associate deceive emigrate flexible glamour hazy luxurious mishap overwhelm span blemish blunt capable conclude detect fatigue festive hospitality nomad supreme

8.2

exclude civic compact painstaking supplement habitat leeway minute hoax contaminate likeness migration commentary extinct tangible originate urban unanimous subordinate collaborate obstacle esteem encounter futile cordial trait improvises superior exaggerate anticipate cope evolve eclipse dissent anguish subsequent sanctuary formulates makeshift controversy diversity terminate precise equivalent pamper prior potential obnoxious radiant predatory presume permanent pending simultaneously tamper supervise perceived vicious patronize trickle stodgy rant oration preview species poised perturb vista wince yearn persist shirk status tragedy trivial snare vindictive wrath recede peevish rupture unscathed random toxic void orthodox subtle resume sequel upright wary overwhelm perjury uncertainty prowess utmost throb pluck pique vengeance pelt urgent substantial robust sullen retort ponder whim saga sham reprimand vocation assimilate dub defect accord embark desist dialect chastise banter inaugurate ovation barter muse blasé stamina atrocity deter principal liberal epoch preposterous advocate audacious dispatch incense deplore institute deceptive component subside spontaneous bonanza ultimate wrangle clarify hindrance irascible plausible profound infinite accomplish apparent capacity civilian conceal duplicate keen provoke spurt undoing vast withdraw barrier calculate compose considerable deputy industrious jolt loot rejoice reliable senseless shrivel alternate demolish energetic enforce feat hearty mature observant primary resign strive verdict brisk cherish considerate displace downfall estimate humiliate identical improper poll soothe vicinity abolish appeal brittle condemn descend dictator expand famine portable prey thrifty visual

9.1

stance vie instill exceptional avail strident formidable rebuke enhance benign perspective tedious aloof encroach memoir mien desolate inventive prodigy staple stint fallacy grope vilify recur assail tirade antics recourse clad jurisdiction caption pseudonym reception humane ornate sage ungainly overt sedative amiss convey connoisseur rational enigma fortify servile fastidious contagious elite disgruntled eccentric pioneer abet luminous era sleek serene proficient rue articulate awry pungent wage deploy anarchy culminate inventory commemorate muster adept durable foreboding lucrative modify authority transition confiscate pivotal analogy avid flair ferret decree voracious imperative grapple deface augment shackle legendary trepidation discern glut cache endeavor attribute phenomenon balmy bizarre gullible loll rankle decipher sublime rubble renounce porous turbulent heritage hover pithy allot minimize agile renown fend revenue versa gaunt haven dire doctrine intricate conservative exotic facilitate bountiful cite panorama swelter foster indifferent millennium gingerly conscientious intervene mercenary citadel obviously rely supportive sympathy weakling atmosphere decay gradual impact noticeable recede stability variation approximately astronomical calculation criterion diameter evaluate orbit sphere agricultural decline disorder identify probable thrive expected widespread bulletin contribution diversity enlist intercept operation recruit survival abruptly ally collide confident conflict protective taunt adaptation dormant forage frigid hibernate insulate export glisten influence landscape native plantation restore urge blare connection errand exchange

9.2

feasible teem pang vice tycoon succumb capacious onslaught excerpt eventful forfeit crusade tract haggard susceptible exemplify ardent crucial excruciating embargo disdain apprehend surpass sporadic flustered languish conventional disposition theme plunder ignore project complaint title dramatic delivery litter experimental clinic arrogance preparation remind atomic occasional conscious deny maturity closure stressed translator animate observation physical further gently registration suppress combination amazing constructive allied poetry passion ecstasy mystery cheerful contribution spirit failed gummy commerce prove disagreement raid consume embarrass preference migrant devour encouragement quote mythology destined destination illuminating struggle accent ungrateful giggle approval confidence expose scientist operation superstitious emergency manners absolutely swallow readily mutual bound crisp orient stress sort stare comfort verbal heel challenging advertisement envious sex scar astonish basis accuracy enviable alliance specific chef embarrassed counter tolerable sympathetic gradually vanish informative amaze royal furry insist jealousy simplify quiver collaborate dedicated flexible function mimic obstacle technique archaeologist fragment historian intact preserve reconstruct remnant commence deed exaggeration heroic impress pose saunter wring astound concealed inquisitive interpret perplexed precise reconsider suspicious anticipation defy entitled neutral outspoken reserved sought equal absorb affect circulate conserve cycle necessity seep barren expression meaningful plume focused genius perspective prospect stunned superb transition assume guarantee nominate

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install reticent corroborate regretfully strength murder concise cunning intention holy satire query confused progression disillusion background mundane abrupt multiple enormously introduce emulate harmful pragmatic pity rebut liberate enthusiastic elucidate camaraderie disparage nature creep profitability impression racist sobriety occupy autonomy currently amiable reiterate reproduce cripple modest offer atom provincial augment ungratefully expansion yield rashly allude immigration silence epitome exacerbate somber avid dispute vindicate collaborate manufacturer embellish superficial propaganda incompetent objective diminish statistics endure ambivalent perpetuate illuminate phenomenon exasperate originality restrict anxiety anthropology circumstances aesthetic manufacturing conventional dubious vulnerable reality precedent entity success term critical repair underscore stepmother republican hesitantly classic wary contents prediction immediate invoke notorious implicit excluding input skeptical foster element punish frank humanity profound dessert orthodox substance disappear encourage neighborhood elder superfluous naive ascertain complacent resilient deafening military tend prudent glare acceptance skillfully induce monster beam gullible conciliate vessel petty cantankerous disclose archaeology anecdote disdain electronics substantiate subjective tourism advisable joyful incredible provocative psychological ruins discipline condone indifferent misfortune judgmental industrialize tasty assume astute mission mar protective definitely escape oppress shocked virtual zealous endorse qualification hostile eccentric abstract disparate geographical scrutinize generalization tolerate activity claim dogmatic influential obsolete extol implausible subsequent resource chronic benevolent improve confidential ambiguous seriously dearth perplex hatred throughout dine contemporary evoke essentially economic flagrant obscure alleviate eloquent dreaadful clumsy sympathy victim condemn vigor condescend spontaneous quell reprehensible substantially sleeve equivocal ironic decry errand articulate progressive eradicate refreshments elicit aspiration recently exemplary bribery theoretical disingenuous partisan revere particle nostalgia self-aggrandizement debunk tyranny rhetoric hierarchy warning whimsical venerate commend assert miserable awful vibe constrain undermine explicit differentiate compliment scrupulous contempt erroneous ideal refute imply cynical rash presume insight revival vary delay renounce indignant offensive temperate circumstantial export peep logo advertise suppress distort chunk convoluted denounce overwhelming fertility rigorous acquire arrogant university antagonize profitable indulgent strategic breathing idiosyncrasy profession frugal discern accommodation adversary incredulous disturbance digress social belie roam smug continual pertinent voluntarily elite subtle blame sincerity lick horror censure involvement candid infer futile impetuous exploit bewilder sustain diligent sincere protect sealed musical empathy callous parenthetical insure acorn sarcasm seize sacrificially allege emphatic irrelevant progress diplomatic stunned improvise deride reconcile meticulous deject scientifically incontrovertible pressure justify gloomy depict supplant endurance analogous diary bolster slip contemplate pesticide glow religious advocate negligent creator lament fundamental embrace throne inherent inferior valuable thrive trivial pretense reserved capricious refresh refusal flight boost explanation coherent prevalent tenacious official royalty assassin rub poach delete

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warrant circumscribed somewhat explosive optimistic mandate previously detract opinion intuitive feasible intimate persistent humble simplicity tempt deliberate painful unethical fundamentals discrepancy remorse pessimistic possibility conclusion acknowledge impregnate soberly creation paralyze suitability oblige tranquil medal arbitrate pacify illusory susceptible vibrate vengeance infection democratic stressful grave speculative sample identification stifle obligation revenge organization namely mediocre practical scream weaken consensus affectionate deficient treacherous console isolation ingenious memory melodrama despair awestruck composition regret recommendation celebrity decision devoid opaque ornamentation longevity participate dread restore interrogate aid accordingly mislead embarrassment optimism domestic apt funds virtue geography fundamentally thoroughly press despite horrible chilling rental esteemed disappointment innovative contemplation assign popularize haunt deafen serene percent estrangement suffer extravagant throng estimate comment priesthood mass dreadfully promote periphery animated saying relate clarity triple derivative succeed distortion register suicide improvement discreet inquisition probable curative incident praise convenience baffle covet dreadful genuinely weary undisturbed disgruntled humility renown nonchalant monopoly comedy vague decisive inconsequential announcement fabricated nevertheless vigilant scarce neglectful hushed attainment tedious explode snatch pslm agency sentimental tension adhere meanwhile sacred avert conformity likewise challenger accessible responsibility peril contact event roast fallible catastrophic competitor violate resolute deceive exaggeration discredit intolerable approve paste dimly novelist demeanor norm politician satisfaction obvious vehicle reservation defer involve restoration crush audible assistant backpack attain inanimate commemorate confrontation emigration parasite disperse quantitative laughter policy vulgar occasionally repay effective eulogy starvation empty therapeutic overall immortal encompass inappropriate opportune engagement illustrate turmoil observatory classification expression reminiscence comedian invention depress remedy protagonist gesture texture diplomatic election prolong conducive emotional invigorate curiosity expressive %

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